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Chapter Text

Maverick wasn't sure what he was doing here. Following orders, he supposed. For the first time in a long time, he was following orders.

He flipped down the kickstand of the Kawasaki and leaned back for a moment, studying the house. Nice blue colonial, the kind you saw in movies. White trim, shutters, big windows. The kind of house you could get lost in, he mused. The kind of house you wanted to put a family in.

And wasn't that a thought? Four-star Admiral Iceman, surrounded by a couple of kids and a dog and a gorgeous wife to top it all off. He let his lips curl up, even though the idea made him sick to his stomach. Good. He hoped Ice had found someone who made him happy. Maverick knew he'd never done that, that was for sure.

He slung a leg over the bike, trying his best to flatten his windblown hair. Maverick hesitated on the front walk when he saw a boy and a girl racing around the side of the house after a football, but they barely spared him a glance, instead scooping up the ball and going back the way they came. Maverick watched them for a moment, poised on his toes expectantly in case someone else came around the corner, but the high-pitched laughter was all he heard.

Okay. He'd spent enough time stalling. He was going to get this over with, and then he was going to get the mission over with. Then he was going to go back to the desert and…

And do what, exactly? Certainly not go back to the Darkstar; Cain had made it clear he wasn't welcome after that stunt he pulled. He was only here, he was only still flying, because of Ice. Always Ice. Even now, after all these years, he was still in control of Maverick's career.

I'll figure something out, he thought. Empty words. He might as well retire. At least Ice wouldn't have any hand in his life anymore.

The woman who answered the front door was middle-aged and pretty, her graying blonde hair tucked neatly behind her ears. So this was the wife. Maverick tried not to put her into a box and failed. She had no business in this, and yet, here she was.

"You must be Maverick," she said, not letting go of the smile on her face. Maverick wondered what Ice had told her. Nobody ever smiled when they said his name, certainly not like they meant it. "I'm Sarah. Come in, Tom's waiting for you."

"Nice to meet you." He was right; you could definitely get lost in this place. Sunlight spilled onto the hardwood floor, and the huge windows revealed a garden in the backyard where the kids were playing. It was picturesque and modern and so much like Ice, who had been a neat freak up until the very end, that Maverick could laugh. "Pretty house."

"Well, there are some perks to the job." Right about that, lady. "Here, he's down at the end of the hallway." Sarah knocked lightly, then twisted the knob.

"All yours." She smiled at him again. "I'm glad I could finally meet you. Tom's told me a lot about you, y'know."

All bad, I hope. And all true, probably. Maverick managed to smile back at her, resisting the urge to pry. What had Ice told her? About Goose, about the accident? About the O Club, about the Christmas of 2009? About Maverick, who had been needy and explosive to the end, always wanting more, wanting to be forced into oblivion, wanting to be understood—

You're okay. You're okay and everything is going to be okay. No, no, nothing was going to be okay. Ice still had him by the reins and Maverick was still chomping at the bit and dammit, he never should have come here at all. Except he'd been ordered to. And Maverick always listened to Ice's orders.

"That's, um…" He genuinely didn't know what to say. Sarah gave his arm a light squeeze. "No, I didn't know."

Ice probably just needed someone to complain to. That was it. That reassuring anger rose in him again, and he relaxed. Whatever. That was fine by him. For all he cared, Ice could share every last ditch of their relationship to his wife until he turned blue in the face. It was his funeral.

"I'm about to make tea," Sarah said brightly. "Swing by the kitchen if you want some. You can meet the kids, too."

"Sure," he replied, even though he had no intention to. Sarah was nice. Sarah was almost…normal. And she obviously didn't think Maverick was a threat, which was probably a bad judgment on her part, but she was nice.

It didn't pay to be nice, though.

Maverick waited until she disappeared down the hallway before turning toward the door again. He forced his shoulders up and back, slapped his hands to his sides, and resisted the urge to fidget with the lump of the keyring in his jeans pocket. Took a deep breath. Had it always been this hard to open the door? To cross the threshold between them— pilot and politic, taker and giver, lost and found?

No, he decided. He used to skip over that chasm without so much as a glance down. Because Ice— no, Tom— was waiting for him on the other side. Not Admiral Kazansky. Not even the Iceman. Tom. And Tom had understood him like nobody else ever would. He had been there; he had dreamed of it over and over. He'd seen the limp, lifeless body Maverick tried desperately to cling to even as the medevacs pulled them apart. He'd stood there in the locker room, searching for something to say, even though there was nothing.

Tom might have even cared about him, once.

But Maverick knew better now.

Ice was sitting behind a desk in what must have been his study, hands clasped over one knee. He was looking out the window into the garden, and Maverick stood there, drinking him in like a man dying of thirst. He couldn't stop himself. It was simply an involuntary response ingrained in him from years of showing up at Ice's door.

And here he was again.

The lines on his face were deeper. There were more crinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His skin had lost that golden color, and so had his hair. The last time Maverick had seen him, he was going gray at the temples and desperately trying to stave off any encroachment. It had been funny, once, because Maverick should have been the one going gray. Ice already had his life figured out; he was on track for two, three, four stars. He had nothing to worry about. Maverick was the one who worried, about this and that, about going to work, about coming home.

Now, only the tips showed any sign he'd ever been bleach blond. He looked good in gray; it made him older, wiser. Less like the dumb, cocky asshole at Top Gun that Maverick remembered.

His eyes were the same. The color of blue steel, narrowed against the sun, framed in reading glasses Maverick didn't remember. How had he gotten so old so fast?

He made himself close his mouth. Shoulders back. Hands flat. Deep breath.

"Sir," he said, focusing on a spot above Ice's head. A single framed photograph on the back wall, hanging above the bookshelf. Graduation day, 1986. Iceman and Slider in the middle, flanked by Viper and Jester, the Top Gun plaque gleaming between them.

Ice turned to him finally. He wasn't smiling. Maverick had almost expected him to be. But maybe there was no Tom left inside of him.

Just fine by me. He didn't think there was a scrap of Pete still around to reciprocate. His wife was lucky. She probably thought he had always been ice-cold and nothing else.

"You're in my home, Maverick. You don't have to pretend with the formalities."

Maverick clenched his jaw. "I was under the impression that this was a professional conversation. No matter the circumstances. Sir."

Ice exhaled after a long moment. Maverick had seen that expression before; it was usually reserved for when Maverick had said the wrong thing or done the wrong thing and Ice had put it upon himself to go pick up the pieces. And for what? Because he thought it was his duty to erase that black Mitchell stain on the world? Because he was embarrassed? Something else?

"If that's the way you want it," Ice said, lowering his eyes to the desk. Maverick followed his gaze. It was immaculate, not a pen out of place. Calm, cool, collected Iceman, even in the privacy of his own home. "At ease, Captain. Sit down."

He didn't really want to sit. He liked looking down at Ice like this, silly as it may be. Somewhere, somehow, Maverick had the upper hand, and he was going to hold onto it for as long as possible.

But he did anyway, because Ice was studying him now, eyes trailing from the tips of his dirty boots and upwards. Maverick was suddenly ashamed by his wrinkled instructor's jacket, the t-shirt smeared with motor oil. His jeans were the worst; the knees and cuffs were caked with old dirt, and the seat of his bike was starting to burn holes in the thighs. Not to mention his hair, which was permanently mussed and windblown from the countless detours he'd taken.

"I think we have a lot to talk about, don't you?"

"No," Maverick said flatly. Ice tipped his head, gaze fixed on what was probably a smudge of grease on the neck of his shirt. "No, I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"Really?"

Maverick nodded. He didn't trust himself to say anything else. Ice's eyes flicked up to meet his, narrowing curiously, then back down to his shirt.

"Okay," he said. And then, because he must have been feeling truly evil, "It's good to see you again."

Maverick's hands slammed down onto the armrests of the chair, gripping so hard he could hear the wood squeak. "You would say that, after you threw me out. Never got to thank you for that one, Admiral, but I'm glad to see that I was right after all." His fingers hurt. He wanted to leave. He wanted to spit in Ice's face and take the first plane out of here and forget all about this stupid mission, Rooster or no Rooster. But he wouldn't let Ice have the satisfaction of watching him run away with his tail between his legs. "Once I got out from under your thumb you decided I wasn't very useful anymore, did you?"

"You're going to do this here?" Ice cocked an eyebrow, and Maverick vibrated with fury. He leapt to his feet and planted his boots on the hardwood floor.

"I should have done it a long time ago," he hissed. "But no, I won't. Not in front of your family."

Ice's face smoothed out impassively. "Sit back down. I want to know how work's going. That's all."

Maverick eyed him. He sank back down into the chair. Deep breath, deep breath. "Shitty. That's how it's going."

"Well, if there's one pilot who can teach them, it's you." Ironic, considering how the last time had worked out. "Who's in the running?"

"Nobody," he deadpanned. "They all suck."

"Humor me, Captain." Oh. So they were going to play that game. Orders again. Ice couldn't make him say shit, but Admiral Kazansky had the weight of the entire Pacific Fleet on his shoulders, and right now, Maverick could feel it. Bastard. He ran his palms over the knees of his jeans, focusing on the rough material catching on the calluses of his hands.

"Coyote can't take the G's. Yale and Harvard think it's a game; even if they did hit the target on time, I wouldn't send them out there. Hangman doesn't care about anyone but himself. Fanboy isn't precise enough with his turns. Bob's a competent shot, but he keeps forgetting to watch his flanks. Phoenix is decent, I'll give her that. She needs to be faster. They all need to be faster."

"And Rooster?"

Maverick said nothing.

Ice waited. Maverick swallowed. It always came back to Rooster in the end, little Bradley, his baby bird. Rooster, who looked so much like his dad now that it hurt more than ever. Rooster, who had every reason to despise him from the very beginning.

There was no point in trying to lie. Ice would find out the truth one way or another.

"He's the only one who came close. He's a good flier, but he's too slow."

"Too slow to reach the target?"

"Too slow to survive," Maverick said, hating the edge in his voice. I can't stand back and watch him die. I can't. I think…I think it might kill me if I have to see somebody else die.

Ice nodded. "Do you think you can push him?"

Rooster could take most anything Maverick threw at him— probably better than half the daggers— but he knew that wasn't what Ice was really asking. He wanted to know if Maverick could do it. If Maverick could teach him the mission, inside and out, prime him for the fight of his life. If Maverick…if Maverick was brave enough to send his son off to die.

It hardly mattered.

"Whatever I have to offer him, he won't accept it. I know he won't." He forced himself to stay still, even though his chin kept tilting downwards. A sign of submission, of defeat. What a crap job he'd done at raising that kid. Ice knew it as much as he did. I hope you did a better job than me. I hope you learned some fucking lesson from that. "I almost got both of us killed up in the air. Tried to give him a nudge, and he just…"

A brief smile passed over Ice's face. "You've got a bad habit of giving nudges, Mav." And then, as quickly as it appeared, the smile was gone. "Seems you gave me my fair share when we were flying together."

And we all know how that ended.

"Sometimes you just have to rip the bandage off," Ice continued. "But I don't have to tell you that. If you don't send Rooster, you know what will happen."

And if I do send him? If I do send him, what will happen to me?

"Don't tell me what to do," Maverick said, his voice raw. His heart thudded in his chest. He's mine he's my son you don't get to tell me what to do with him please don't tell me, don't tell me Tom I'm trying to protect him, don't you see that?

"Do you remember when Bradley broke his leg?" Maverick started so badly that the chair legs squeaked against the floor. Ice inclined his head. "I guess you do."

How could he not? He'd been frantic; Carole had been at work and Ice was trying to quell Bradley's tears, and Maverick had actually pushed him, driven him all the way across the backyard to the fence, snarling at Ice through his sobs. Get the fuck away from him, you're going to hurt him even more! Get! Get out of here!

He'd knelt over Bradley in the grass, stroking his hair and glaring daggers at Ice, lunging like a caged animal when he got too close again, until the ambulance finally arrived. And even then he'd had to be dragged away by a paramedic, because the sight of another Bradshaw being carted away was too much. Thinking I should have been watching him I should have been there to catch him, never able to look again at the old oak tree in the backyard with nothing but disdain.

Yes, he remembered.

"Maverick," Ice said, and Maverick couldn't take it anymore.

"I bet you love doing this all day," he seethed. "Just ordering people around without a care in the world. How have the last few years been for you, Admiral? Have you gotten everything you wanted since we last spoke? Sure seems like it."

"Maverick—"

"You got your promotions and your fancy silver stars," Maverick cut him off. "You probably polish them every day, thinking about how great your life is. Do you talk to your wife like this? Your kids? Or am I the only one you treat like a piece of shit?"

"I do not treat you like a piece of shit." Ice straightened, looming over him. "I treat you like what you are, which is a pilot who has enough commendations to become an admiral, and enough violations to get discharged on the spot. I am doing my job, Maverick. I expect you to do yours. I didn't ask you to bitch about it. If I thought you couldn't handle it, I wouldn't have given you this post. Now show me that you can handle it."

I can't, Maverick thought. His head felt fuzzy. "I don't have to prove anything to you," he said breathlessly, the lie coming easily to his lips.

Ice sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I heard you crashed the Darkstar," he said casually, his shoulders relaxing again. Maverick thought Ice might tear into him for pushing Mach 10, but he didn't. "You're still dangerous. I'll give you that."

Was that supposed to be a compliment? Seriously? After all that?

"Cain sure wasn't happy about it, but then again, I don't think anyone was. Including myself," he added, looking out at the garden again. "This is your last chance, Maverick."

"To do what?" Maverick asked, his voice cautious.

"Show the Navy that you're not expendable. That you're worth something to them. I can't keep making allowances for you simply because we're friends."

Maverick scoffed. "Is that what you think we are?"

"It's what the Navy thinks we are," Ice said. Which is all that matters to you, Maverick thought sullenly.

"I didn't ask you to interfere with my life, y'know. Not back then, and certainly not now. I can take care of myself, I'm perfectly capable of—"

"You are not," Ice snapped, temper fraying again. "I'm the reason you are still in the air, Maverick Mitchell. You can't hold down a job. You can't play nice for the sake of your own career. You can't even fly a plane without pulling some fancy stunt and leaving the rest of us all assuming you've finally kicked off for good. You do whatever you want whenever you want. There is no room in the Navy for people like you."

"Why am I still here, then?" Maverick retorted. "If you hate my guts so much, why keep me around? Why not just let me kick off, Iceman?"

Ice's mouth flattened into a grim line. "Because I know flying is all you have left."

Maverick bit down hard on his tongue, trying to quench the shame rising in him again. "I'm glad you've got me all figured out," he choked out, ignoring the rasp in his throat. "It doesn't matter who I choose for the mission, does it? If you're not happy, you'll change it like you always do."

Ice opened his mouth, then closed it. He unfolded his hands and smoothed down the lines on his coat. "It's your decision," he said, almost tiredly. "I won't stand in your way anymore, Maverick. If that's what you want."

Dammit, I want you to fuck me again. Just one last time. I want to go back to the way things were. I want to keep flying. I want Goose to be alive. I want to apologize to Bradley. I want to show you that I can handle it, that I'm fine, that nothing's wrong, that you can trust me.

Why can't you trust me?

Maverick already knew the answer. He had no reason to be trusted. It was in his name, in his blood. He was a maverick, and he was a Mitchell, and after Goose, nobody in the Navy had given him a second thought except for Ice. But it had all been for show, and Ice was back at it again once he saw a way to wriggle back into Maverick's career again.

"Am I dismissed, sir?"

Ice didn't answer him for a full minute. Then, finally, he inclined his head. He rose, and Maverick followed suit on trembling legs. He didn't move. He couldn't. Couldn't walk away. Couldn't say goodbye. He was afraid this might be the last time, like the last time had been the last time, except he couldn't leave this way. No, no, no. He was so afraid.

Ice was watching him again, his beautiful lined face illuminated by the late afternoon sun, turning his hair back to gold like it was when Maverick knew him.

"Don't make me send him," he whispered, feeling all the walls of hatred and loathing that he'd constructed over the last decade start to crack. "Please don't make me send him. I can't, Ice, please don't make me—"

Shoulders up. Hands flat. Deep breath.

Except he couldn't breathe, because there was an Ice-shaped hole caving his chest right next to the Goose-shaped hole and the Rooster-shaped hole. And suddenly, he needed it so badly his mind wiped clear. Had to feel the rush, the hand between his legs, the hot breath on his face. The world was gone, nothing mattered. Just please, please touch me, make it feel good…

"Maverick," Ice said firmly. Maverick stumbled, catching himself just before his legs buckled. Everything was too bright. He was half-hard, embarrassingly, his whole body bristling with want. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the prickle of cold sweat on his hairline.

Slowly, carefully, Ice stepped around the desk, hesitating before closing the gap between them for good.

"No," Maverick said automatically. "Don't— don't touch me." If you touch me, I don't know what I'll do. He swallowed back the tears building in his throat. "I can't, sir."

Ice tucked his hands into his pockets, an action too juvenile for any admiral to be doing, least of all the COMPACFLT. Maverick wished he wouldn't. He looked caught between reaching out to Maverick— something that surely would have resulted in him getting punched in the face— and abandoning the situation altogether and letting Maverick have his way.

"The Navy needs Maverick," Ice said. His eyes were piercing. "The kid needs Maverick. That's why I lobbied for you. Every damn time."

There it is.

Maverick couldn't stop the words from flying out of his mouth. They were raw with emotion and scratched his throat, burning all the way up. "And what do you need?"

Ice's gaze never wavered, but his jaw clenched. "I need a pilot," he said simply.

I need a pilot.

Maverick blinked at him stupidly. I need a pilot. I don't need Maverick, I don't need Mitchell, I don't need Pete. Just someone to fill the cockpit. To man the classroom. A pilot. A pilot to teach martyrs. To send the brave off to die.

You don't need me. You never have. Who was he kidding? Ice had never come back to him. It was always Maverick showing up on his doorstep, Maverick knocking on his bedroom door, Maverick who couldn't take it. Ice had used him up for all he was worth and Maverick was none the wiser, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he still needed.

Look, I've got the best pilot in the Navy under my thumb! I know all of his dirty secrets, I know how he likes to be jerked off, I know he cries all night, I know he's addicted to Pepsi. He shot down three planes for me in '86 and now I control every fucking second of his life! He's in my debt forever, boys. And he's the best!

I need a pilot.

"Fuck you."

When Ice didn't say anything, Maverick clenched his teeth. How dare he stand there? "Fuck you!" he hissed. "Don't call me. Don’t ever fucking call me ever again. I don't want to talk to you. You're just like the rest of them. I thought you were different, goddammit! I thought you understood!"

"I—"

"No, you don't! Don't lie to me. I can't do this without you, Ice. I don't know how to live without you, okay? You were supposed to be the one, the one person who understood me, understood how it felt, and now you're just…you're this!" Maverick gestured to the room, to the photograph above Ice's head. The plaque leered down at him, reminding him of everything he'd ever lost.

If you understood, you would burn that photo. But all you ever care about is coming out on top.

"You never really gave a damn about me, did you?"

Ice's face went cold. "More than you'd ever know."

"Don't lie. Don't you fucking dare. If you did, you would have apologized, you would have called, you wouldn't have waited until you needed me. You can't use me anymore. I'll choose who I goddamn want, and if you lift a finger I swear I'll go straight to the brass and tell them who you were fucking for twenty years."

A muscle in Ice's jaw twitched, but his voice was still calm. Cool, collected Iceman, reporting for duty. Maverick wanted to slap the impassive look off his face. You can take it back, he pleaded. Please, please take it all back. Don't make me do this again.

"That's not a crime anymore, you know."

"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean your career won't tank. Interpersonal relations with a pilot? All that lobbying you've done for me? You'll get eaten up for breakfast, you fucker."

"And what about you?"

Maverick laughed. Ice was right. He was still dangerous, and right now he felt it, like he was a kid again with something desperate to prove. "I don't have anything to lose. Not anymore."

No family. No friends. No sprawling house with a garden and shutters on the windows. No rank, no title, not a single star.

He didn't bother with the formalities this time. And he made sure to slam the door behind him as he went.

Chapter Text

Ice woke with the urge to light a cigarette.

That was where this began, in his mind. His thing with Maverick hadn't begun, officially, until two years later, but this was where the flint had been struck. A warm night, mid-October, on the balcony of a hotel in Oakland.

Their relationship never really had the strongest of foundations. After all, it was built on a dead man, on the sight of a body being pulled out of the rescue chopper. But death was always going to bring people together more than life ever would, Ice thought. He'd learned that much during his time in the Navy. The idea of living didn't drive fear into the hearts of many. It was dying that did that.

But they were wingmen, and that was enough. Not enough for Maverick— nothing was ever enough for him, of course— but for Ice. He almost grew to like having Maverick at his six, a mostly reliable, occasionally idiotic, all-around one hundred percent spectacular pilot. If Goose hadn't died, Maverick would have nearly beaten him out for the trophy, and the two of them together were practically flawless. Up in the air, there was nothing that could touch them: they'd fought MiGs, taken bullets and dodged missiles and nearly died together.

But on the ground, it was a completely different story.

First, Maverick stopped filling out his paperwork. That was fine; Ice usually requested to review it anyway to make sure everything was appropriate— he didn't quite trust Maverick not to put in some nitpick about somebody or other that would get his ass canned, although with his handwriting, you could hardly tell the difference. Then he stopped showing up to classes altogether, but he would always be in the locker rooms suiting up for preflight.

Ice didn't really know what the hell was going on, and each morning with the dawn of a new absence, he told himself that they'd talk about it, which was mostly code for chewing Maverick's ass out. And he wanted to; he liked that feeling of superiority, and he thought that if he pushed, Maverick would push right back. Then things would get serious enough that Maverick would get it into his head that he could lose his job over something as simple as this, and he'd start showing up for class again.

But then Ice walked into the locker room one day to find Maverick sitting in his flight gear, hair a mess, face blotchy, eyes red and rimmed with dark shadows. He thought of Maverick disengaging over and over, the sight of his jet veering off into the distance a close memory. But mostly, he thought of Goose's bloody face, and Maverick trying desperately to cling to him.

And he knew he couldn't do it, couldn't push, because he might send Maverick off the cliff for good. And Ice couldn't do that. Maverick was too good a pilot to end up that way, like Cougar had. Maverick needed someone he could rely on, not someone who was going to run him into the ground. He definitely didn't need someone like Ice, but Ice was the only one there.

So he decided that he'd try to do whatever he could to keep Maverick afloat. He'd had a hand in killing his lifeline, after all. He couldn't just do nothing.

They weren't friends— although Ice had come a long way from despising him, that much was true— but Goose was dead, and Maverick felt responsible. Worse, Ice felt responsible, too. They were forever entwined together with that fact, and nothing could change that.

They were wingmen, in more ways than one. So Ice shut his mouth, and he didn't report Maverick's absences to Viper, even though he knew how big a risk he was taking.

Risk his career to watch the ass of some scrawny kid he'd known for barely two months? Ice would have never dreamed of it. But Maverick had guided Cougar to land. Ice would pull his weight. This wasn't a one-man show; this was a team, and he was no deserter. There were no rules when you were fighting for your life. There were no rules when you were watching someone else drown. No hard deck, no unauthorized flybys.

Maverick lasted two months before Viper found out. Ice determined it was probably one of their students, some snot-nosed kid who wanted to stir up trouble. Someone like Ice had been before he'd watched Goose's broken body being dragged from the chopper.

He knew he was still that person, deep inside, and that one day it would take him over again. But death was the shadow in the corner of his eye, and as long as he stayed at Top Gun— as long as he stayed around Maverick— it wouldn't be so quick to leave.

It occurred to him as he stood in Viper's office, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, trying to explain why he hadn't thought to mention Maverick going AWOL, of all things, that he couldn't name a single other person he'd do this for. Each excuse was worse than the last, and finally, Viper had sighed and told him to sit down and Ice all but slumped into the chair.

Viper asked him what was going on. Ice told him Maverick wasn't doing well, which was probably an understatement, but it was the truth regardless. Viper asked him if Ice wanted to get him in trouble. Ice told him no. Viper didn't believe him, he knew, but he didn't press the subject.

Viper asked him if he thought Maverick should be discharged. Ice told him no. Viper told him that might happen anyway, with Maverick's recent behavior. And Ice knew about that, too; the way Maverick would snap at everyone on base no matter their rank, his increasing frustration with the ground crews, the terror he became in the skies, pushing his students into positions that would make a grown man piss his pants. He had no respect for the hard deck and constantly disobeyed it, and when their students tried to bring up the issue, Maverick told them, in essence, to shove it.

But Ice had no time to deal with any of that. He was running a class on his own, basically, and that consisted of already having to do some Maverick damage control. Besides, he wasn't really sure how to deal with it, and he was under the impression that this was no different from the man Maverick had been when Goose was alive.

So he left it alone, and maybe that was an oversight on his part, but he wasn't Maverick's keeper. Not yet, anyway.

The next hour was the longest and possibly most frustrating of Ice's life as he fought to keep one of the most dangerous pilots in the sky. Maverick was still going up on hops; that had to account for something, and even Viper admitted he wasn't sure the guy was built for a classroom setting. Maverick had been an unruly student himself, prone to argumentative outbursts with Charlie or Viper or Jester, and always the last one to turn in his assignments. But Viper was adamant about releasing him on the unsuspecting world again, and he had good reason to be.

Ice insisted that Maverick was a good pilot. And he was; one of the best. He was dealing with a lot— true— and it probably didn't help that he was stuck here with the one pilot who rubbed his fur the wrong way— even truer— so sending him off for deployment was the best option, really. Maverick needed the brainless monotony of Navy life to put him back on his feet.

He didn't know how he got Viper to agree to that, but he did. Ice had a sneaking suspicion that Viper thought he wanted Maverick off the job so Ice could take over for good. But he didn't really care about that. Deployment was much more favorable than a discharge, in Ice's opinion, especially for Maverick. There would be time for rubbing elbows later.

Cougar had been his friend, a long time ago. Cougar had been a good man. But he'd always been a reactive pilot, and that was his one pitfall. And Ice saw Maverick slowly turning the same way each time they flew together. It scared him, in a way not many things did.

Goose had been his friend, too. Ice and Maverick may not have been anything close to companionable, but Goose would have wanted him to do this, Ice thought. Or maybe he wouldn't have. It hardly mattered. Goose was dead now.

So Maverick went back to sea, and Ice stayed at Top Gun. Three years went by, and the only word he heard from Maverick was a hasty postscript tacked onto the end of one of Slider's letters about one of the pair in their squad shipping off to be part of Ice's next batch of students. Hardly a conversational piece.

Then came the postcard, out of the blue. A pretty picture of the Oakland Coliseum at dusk, phosphor lights glowing brightly against the painted sky. On the back was Maverick's notable chicken scratch: Extra tix if you can make it. Bring your electrifying attitude.

So Ice went to the World Series. He wanted to see for himself that Maverick wasn't dead or discharged or worse. He told himself he was just checking up. That's what wingmen did.

But with Maverick, it was never just anything.

They watched Oakland wallop the shit out of the Giants and it was almost normal, which should have been fine, except Ice had never had a normal interaction with Maverick for as long as he could remember. They talked about anything under the sun except for work, which Ice thought was deliberate, but he wasn't complaining. He almost felt like a civilian, shooting the shit with a drinking buddy at a baseball game.

It was good to think about something other than the Navy, as much as it consumed his life these days, even though Ice knew it was a house of cards. He had no girlfriend, no social life to speak of, and while he at least had Slider back as his RIO, most days the man was shacked away with his own girlfriend. He was, by all accounts, dull.

Maverick didn't seem to mind. He made it a point to chat with Ice like they were old friends, which they definitely weren't, and Ice humored himself counting every time Maverick trailed off awkwardly like he finally remembered what the fuck he was doing. But it was nice. It was like living a different life, where they'd met under different circumstances. A life where Goose was still alive.

It would have been a welcome albeit strange Saturday, if not for the cigarettes.

Ice went to the glass door and was about to push it open when he saw Maverick sitting in one of the deck chairs. He was staring off into nothing, and in the half-dark, Ice could see the shine of tears on his face.

He thought, fuck, and made to move away from the glass, but Maverick tilted his head and looked at him, and the disappointment on his face was clear.

Ice counted to five and shoved at the door with one hand, striding over to the opposite railing with military efficiency. He lit a cigarette and stuck it between his teeth, pointedly not looking at Maverick, who was staring at him now. The smoke felt good in his throat, and his head was already going pleasantly fuzzy. One cigarette, and he'd go back to bed and they wouldn't talk about this. He'd let the grieving man have his private moment.

"Goddammit," Maverick said under his breath. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, drawing in a trembling breath. He pulled one foot up onto the chair and rested his head on his knee tiredly. "You have spectacular timing."

Ice didn't say anything. He sucked on his cigarette until it burned down to the filter, and then he dropped it onto the ground and stepped onto it.

"That's bad for the environment," Maverick commented dryly. Out of the corner of his eye, Ice saw him clench his teeth hard, and he realized Maverick was trying to fight back another sob. His shoulders shook, rattling the metal chair he was in.

Gingerly, Ice scraped the crushed cigarette up with his fingers and tossed it into the trash. Then, in a moment of conscience, he picked up the tiny can and set it down next to Maverick, who lifted his head in confusion. Fresh tears dripped down onto the leg of his jeans, darkening the fabric with tiny spots.

Ice nodded at the can, and Maverick looked down at it. Looked back up at Ice.

"Can I do anything?" Ice made himself ask, even though he would have really liked to run back into the room and hide under the covers.

Maverick blinked slowly, as if registering the question. "Who are you, and what have you done with the Iceman?"

It's been three years, Maverick. Has this been happening for three years? He tried to picture a life without Slider— he wouldn't go so far as to imagine watching Slider die, no, that was way too inappropriate. Ice would grieve, of course, but he would move on. He certainly wouldn't be sobbing about it three years later.

He'd only seen Maverick cry once before— Hop 31. It was sort of an ugly sight, if Ice was being honest. And a pitiful one at that.

"It was just a question," Ice replied, trying and failing not to get defensive about it. "I can go, if you want me to…to leave you alone."

Maverick stared at him again for a long moment. He didn't look any better than he had three years ago. He had definitely lost weight, and some of that summer tan that Ice remembered him by. But strangely, he didn't look any older. If anything, he still resembled a kid, even though he was closer to thirty. Like no time had passed at all.

"No," he said eventually, which surprised Ice. He was under the impression that Maverick was a person who liked to cry in solitude. And Ice sort of wanted it to stay that way. He hated it when people cried. It made him feel helpless. "You…can you sit?"

Ice sat in the opposite chair, very pointedly not facing Maverick. He stared out at the twinkling lights of downtown Oakland. It was a quiet night, and the only sound was the distant screech of tires on asphalt and Maverick's ragged breathing.

"I miss you," Maverick said, surprising him even more. Who are you and what have you done with Maverick Mitchell? "I know how that must sound, but I…I liked having you around, I guess."

You guess?

"Why?" Ice couldn't help but ask. He'd been nothing but venomous to Maverick during Top Gun, and they hadn't exactly been best friends while they were instructors.

"I dunno," Maverick replied, chuckling wetly as if he realized how insane it was. "It felt…like things were all moving too fast, and I was just getting dragged along for the ride, y'know? Graduation, and Layton, and then teaching…but you never changed. You were the one constant in my life. And then I went and blew it all up."

Ice swallowed. "I've never lost anyone before," he admitted, sparing a glance at Maverick. The other pilot had a sad, nearly sympathetic expression on his face as if to say, lucky. But it was true; he still had a family, still had his RIO. "I've never…never seen anyone die before. But Viper always said—"

"There will be others," Maverick finished for him, sinking into his chair. Ice realized the mistake he'd made immediately, bringing up Viper.

"I was going to say, you never forget your first." Ice looked at him again. "Is that what he told you? That there will be others?"

Maverick stared at the ground. "He's got personal experience in the subject. He's right, anyway."

"You really think that?" Sure, there would be others— other RIOs, other friends; it was the natural progression of life. But there were few people around like Goose, who could make even Ice crack a smile, as much as he detested it. He'd come to the conclusion during Top Gun that Maverick and Goose were a unit, heads always bent together in a secret, rarely seen apart. Brothers.

Maverick lifted his shoulder in a shrug. Clearly, not. "Doesn't much matter what I think," he said in a hollow voice. "That's what everyone says. Did you…know him well?"

"Not really." Another miss. "I know he must have had a pretty fun life, with you by his side. Unless you made up all of that stuff."

"Only some of it," Maverick mumbled absently. He pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself, burying his nose in the wool collar, even though it was a temperate night for October. Ice wondered what Maverick wanted out of him. Maybe he just needed some company.

"Is that why you invited me?"

"I invited you because going to a Series by yourself is the lamest thing ever. I was supposed to take the kid, but he's sick with the flu. He was super bummed, but Care didn't want him to get heatstroke, I guess."

The kid. Bradley Bradshaw. Goose's son.

"Oh," was all Ice could manage. Maverick exhaled.

"I had a better time with you, anyway. I'm not supposed to swear around him," he added, explanatorily.

"And…and I guess I did sorta want to see you again. You were…what you said in the locker room, you didn't have to. But, I mean, I appreciate it."

He wiped at his face again, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. "Sometimes I think it will never end."

It will, Ice wanted to say, but he didn't know, either.

"Are you still at Top Gun?"

He shook his head. Maverick let out a disappointed sort of sigh. "How long?"

"'Bout a year. You want to come back?"

"To Top Gun?" He looked surprised. "No, no. I'm not meant to be a teacher. You know that, obviously. I couldn't stomach it there, anyway. Just…I haven't seen anyone from there, since. I thought I would, but…maybe it's for the best."

"I liked having you around, too," Ice blurted. Maverick blinked at him, nose half-buried in his collar.

"You don't mean that."

"You're a good wingman. A good pilot. We have our differences, and we don't get along. But I know you would have my back if it came to that. And I want you to know that I have yours, Mitchell."

Maverick blinked again. He nodded. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with my life," he admitted. "I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't…didn't mean any of it. And now…I don’t see the point in living, Tom."

Wordlessly, Ice handed him the pack of cigarettes. Maverick took one out, lit it, and inhaled. He wondered how they had progressed from Kazansky to Tom so quickly. It must come with the territory of discussing suicide.

"I've never told anyone that." Maverick laughed. "It sounds really fucking stupid saying it out loud."

"You've thought about it?"

"Mhm." He went silent again, contemplative.

"So've I." Maverick didn't say anything, but his brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm an admiral's son. I'm expected to be the best at everything."

"You are the best at everything, Kazansky."

"Not everything."

"Like what?"

"Talking. Conversations."

"Oh, you're very good at talking. Especially when you're snapping heads off for no reason."

"That's different," Ice said. "That's not…that's not this. I keep saying the wrong thing. You're obviously hurt, and I should be trying to help you, or…doing something, at least." Not sitting here like a jackass, that was for sure. "I had to go to parties, when I was a kid. I was supposed to make friends. Talk about politics or other crap. But I ended up sitting in the corner half the time. It's easy, telling people what to do. You don't have to act like you care."

Maverick took another drag of his cigarette. "You're an interesting guy, y'know?"

Ice scrunched up his face. "I didn't mean that. About Cougar. What I said…I didn't mean that he wasn't…whatever." He rubbed at his temples in frustration. You see what I'm talking about, Mitchell? "I meant, he was a good pilot."

"You didn't say that."

"I know that."

"I caused as much trouble as you did," Ice said. "Maybe even more. I get irritated when things don't go my way. You ruined it all, and I got pissy about it. I was set on winning Top Gun, on…being the best."

"I don't get it." Maverick inhaled, coughed. Sniffled wetly a little. "You did win Top Gun."

Ice let the silence speak for itself. Maverick coughed into his arm again, pushing himself upright.

"No shit," he breathed. "You've really got guts."

"I thought it would get your mind off things."

Maverick's face fell, and he slouched again.

"I do mean it, though." Ice made himself look at Maverick until the other pilot met his gaze again. "I'm glad you came back, Maverick."

Maverick blinked furiously, his eyes filling with tears. He gripped the armrests of the chair tightly, and Ice saw his lower lip wobble.

"I think about him, too," Ice continued. "Not as much as I should, but…sometimes, when I'm walking across the deck, or climbing into the jet with Slider. It'll come to me, and I can't stop it. And it'll stick with me the rest of the day, even when I'm flying." Especially when I'm flying. "I'll never get that spin out of my mind, not for as long as I live."

Maverick swallowed hard. It must have hurt, because his eyes shut and the tears slipped down his face.

"But, Mav…at the end of the day, it's you I think about more. Because you have to deal with it all, and there's nothing I can do to help you."

Ice reached over, on a whim, and put his hand on Maverick's knee. The other man let out a strangled sob, reaching blindly for Ice's hand and holding it there firmly. Maverick's fingers dug into his skin uncomfortably, but Ice only rubbed his thumb against the leg of Maverick's jeans, back and forth.

"I t-thought you wanted to get my m-mind off things," Maverick stammered brokenly. His fingers squeezed Ice's hand again, like he was holding on for dear life.

"I also thought you should know," Ice replied softly. "It helps to have someone in your corner, even if it's only me."

"Only you?" The tears had stopped, but Maverick's breathing was becoming more and more labored. He alternated between gasping for air and clenching his teeth against the dry sobs. "F-fuck you, Iceman. I can take your shit…any f-fucking day of the week."

Ice very nearly rolled his eyes. Typical Maverick. He stood, maneuvering awkwardly because of the hand still planted on Maverick's knee, and put the other on the back of Maverick's neck. The effect was nearly instantaneous; Maverick's head dropped like a stone onto his thighs.

"That's it," he directed. "Take a deep breath."

"Ah—" Maverick gasped, and Ice pressed harder on his neck. He tried to twist his head, but Ice didn't ease up. "Tom—"

"Breathe," Ice told him. Maverick inhaled deeply and let it out. With each breath, his shoulders loosened, and eventually his grip on Ice's hand lapsed altogether. Ice could see the dark slash of his eyelashes fluttering against his jeans. "That feel better?"

Maverick let out a noisy exhale in response. Ice shifted his weight higher, moving to the curve of Maverick's skull, twisting so the heel of his hand pressed down on the dip of the bone there.

“Good job,” he murmured. “Just breathe. You're doing a good job.”

"Fuck," Maverick groaned, so deep and primal that Ice nearly startled and ruined the whole scene. And— Jesus, he'd never done this outside the bedroom, certainly not in a situation that wasn't fitted for the bedroom— but it all fell so naturally into place. He didn't even know why he'd started in the first place; Maverick was upset, Maverick needed to calm down, but Ice wasn't…they weren't even friends, for fuck's sake!

He eased off, hand sliding down Maverick's back to the damp neck of his t-shirt. His touch was light, but Maverick chased it nonetheless as he moved further down the notches in his spine, the other man uncurling himself as he went. He was still breathing hard, but it appeared to be under control now.

"Uh—" Ice nearly forgot his manners, checking Maverick's eyes for clarity. They were glossy and his pupils were completely blown, but they tracked Ice's every movement.

"Holy fucking shit," Maverick said. "Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

He shifted awkwardly in his chair, and Ice's eyes automatically drifted downwards. Maverick was hard. Ice's gaze snapped back up to his face, a fierce blush rising to his cheeks. Holy fucking shit is right. He realized his hand was still on Maverick's lower back and he yanked it away as if it were a hot stove.

"I'm sorry," he squeaked out. "I didn't mean to—"

Maverick's mouth fell open, and he crossed his arms over his lap strategically. He looked completely dumbfounded, and Ice couldn't really blame him.

He backed up until he hit the opposite railing, the metal digging into the small of his back painfully. Good, good. Better than thinking about whatever the fuck—

Maverick was blinking furiously. He tried to pull himself out of the chair, stopped, then sat back down and crossed his arms again in obvious embarrassment.

"You're…you…geez," he sputtered. "Woah."

"I shouldn't have done that." Ice desperately searched for something else to look at. Anything, even the fucking ground. He settled on the trash can near Maverick's boots, because he sort of felt like he belonged there right now. "I went too far. You just— you were hyperventilating, or you were going to, and you're supposed to put your head between your legs. I— I really shouldn't have done that. It was inappropriate."

"It was…good," Maverick choked out.

"I can tell." He wanted to smack himself, and again Maverick shifted, crossing one leg over the other quickly. "I'm gonna— I'm gonna leave you alone, now."

Before Maverick could open his mouth, Ice was yanking open the glass door and stepping into the air-conditioned hotel room. The cold was a relishing slap on his skin, and Ice rubbed at the fresh goosebumps that prickled on his arms, attributing it to the air ventilation.

He made a beeline for the door, only just managing to remember to grab his room key. And then he was out in the too-bright hallway, squinting, fumbling his way back to the wall closest to him and slumping against it.

That turned Maverick on. He'd turned Maverick on. Inadvertently, but still. It didn't really make sense; a man like Maverick got a buzz from doing loop-de-loops in a jet, from blasting down the highway at indescribable speeds. Ice would have never thought he liked to be dominated. Not that he'd ever thought about it before.

He hadn't. He definitely hadn't. It had never crossed his mind, ever.

Maybe one time. Or twice.

Ice let out a sigh and banged his head back against the wall. So much for trying to get a life.

Chapter Text

The fire pulsing through his veins still hadn't dissipated even after Maverick circled the city limits twice over, and his fuel gauge was starting to glare at him, so he went home. He slammed the kickstand of the Kawasaki down onto the cement, turning to face the slate gray sky. It was going to rain soon. Great.

Maverick stormed up the sidewalk and let himself in, tossing his keys onto the kitchen table. They skittered and nearly fell, but he wouldn't have cared either way. He shucked his jacket off, along with his sweat-damp shirt, and flopped down onto the bed, burying his head in the unmade sheets.

His whole body buzzed, and not for the first time he imagined Ice's lean fingers pressing him into the mattress, trailing down his spine, between his shoulder blades to the small of his back. His hips canted up automatically, chasing the nonexistent touch.

Maverick groaned, part reprieve and part shame, trying to work the tension out of his shoulders. He felt like a coil of wire, packed together tight enough to spring back if threatened. His thighs clenched, nearly painful, and Maverick let his hips fall, digging his toes into the loose sheets, scrambling for something he knew he'd never find. Not alone. Not without Ice.

Fucking bastard.

Maverick was just some plaything to him. Always had been. And that had been okay…until somewhere along the line, it wasn't. The years got fuzzy in his head, but Ice was always there, no matter what. And now, Ice couldn't even do him the courtesy of fucking him. All he'd ever wanted was control, and now, as COMPACFLT, he had it. He could do anything he wanted.

Meanwhile, Maverick was forced to let life drag him by the ass and try to keep his head out of the mud for as long as he could. That was the way it had always been, after Goose. He'd never quite managed to get back on his feet.

Until Ice had kicked him out. It had been hard, but he'd managed it. He'd been all alone, but that was okay. He was used to being alone. And, in a way, it was easier when there was nobody around. He could put his head down and get work done. He didn't have to pretend he was alright.

Now, he was fumbling again, trying to suck in air that wasn't there, imagining an admiral's hands holding him down. Falling through empty space with nothing to hold onto. Looking over and seeing a bloody face next to him, lolled to one side, motionless.

Maverick ground his hips into the bed, hissing at the painful drag of denim against his hard-on. He couldn't shake the sour taste in his mouth, the cloud around him that stank of misery and guilt and anger. He dug his toes in harder, working himself to the bitter end, knowing it wouldn't satisfy him, doing it anyway because his body demanded it.

Please don't make me send him.

I need a pilot.

"Fuck," he gasped as he came, and the world seemed to slam down on him. His whole body prickled horribly as if he'd been doused in a bucket of ice water, and Maverick pushed himself off the bed. It was utterly cold, the sheets too soft and slick against his bare skin.

His legs didn't quite work, and he fumbled down onto the carpet, putting his forehead to the floor. It was standard, easy-to-maintain carpeting that they used throughout the housing units and in the rec rooms at Top Gun, and it burned. Maverick had never been so glad to feel the scratch of it all over his face.

His arms were still tingling with that foreign sensation, so he rolled over onto his back and wriggled around. It was like bees humming under his skin, something that needed to get out, something that needed to be put down.

All in all, things were turning out mightily shitty for his second stint at Top Gun. A near unflyable course, Rooster and Hangman squabbling like children, Ice and Cyclone on him like vultures…he didn't have a damn clue why anyone wanted him on this mission in the first place. His solution to office politics was the middle finger, and he couldn't just teach anyone to fly the mission course. Either they could or they couldn't; it was as simple as that.

He didn't think anyone understood that, though. No, they were all believers, his students included. They thought that through the power of friendship, or teamwork, or some bullshit like that, Maverick could snap his fingers and bam, everyone was suddenly a flawless pilot.

Either you could do it or you couldn't. And right now, Maverick didn't know if anyone could, including himself.

I'm not meant for this job, and Ice knows it. But between letting Maverick retire and giving him the most impossible assignment of the century, Maverick knew which one the Iceman would pick, every single time.

He must have been keeping tabs on the Darkstar project, as quickly as Maverick had been reassigned. He probably read all about it, Maverick mused. Perused the details of each test run date, read each transcript as they were copied down from the comms. If he'd asked, Admiral Cain would have given him a king's throne to sit and listen to Maverick burn all the way to Mach 10 and beyond before evaporating into dust.

He wondered if Ice would have enjoyed it, if he would finally be glad to shake Maverick Mitchell off his bleeding conscience. He thought of the last time they'd spoken, before today. Probably not.

Then why the mission?

It's all you have left.

Maverick blinked up at the ceiling, folding his hands over his bare chest. It didn't really matter why. It didn't change anything. Maverick still had the leash around his throat. He was still helpless without Ice. Twelve years hadn't made him stronger. Thirty-six years hadn't been enough to erase the past.

The ugly heat in his stomach ignited again, muted through the fuzz of his orgasm. It had been so long without Goose, but he couldn't forget his RIO even if he wanted to. What was wrong with him? Everyone else had moved the fuck on a long time ago. Why couldn't Maverick?

I'm sorry, he thought guiltily. Was Goose so little to him now? A name on a gravestone, a decomposing body? You're my best friend. I shouldn't have let that happen to you. It's my fault.

I won't let the same thing happen to Rooster.

He remembered that hot sunny day, pushing Ice towards the fence, trying to push him through it as if it would simply disappear for him. This time, he wouldn't even be there. Neither of them would. Rooster would be all alone, with no one to look out for him. No one to even hold his body in the chopper.

Maverick shook his head, trying to clear all the painful images that it produced for him on command. No, he wouldn't let Rooster go. He'd put his own life, own career, own reputation, on the line if it came to that. He'd do whatever Ice wanted of him. But he wouldn't let Rooster go.

He turned back over onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto his knees. His jeans were sticky with come, and a cursory look showed there was a damp spot on the bed. Maverick hadn't even noticed. His head still felt full, and his muscles were still tense, but at least now he had one less problem to worry about.

He wriggled his jeans off and padded into the bathroom, dog tags jingling against his chest. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and winced; his hair stuck up in ragged tufts like he'd just rolled out of bed. It was more gray than black in the light now, another painful reminder of the past. Goose had never lived to see a gray hair or a wrinkle or a day when his back would ache from lying in a bed that was too firm.

Maverick rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes that had permanently made their home there for the last two decades. Muddy green eyes stared back at him, tired and disappointed. He turned away from the mirror, fighting back the sudden lump in his throat, and twisted the shower knob.

He sat down on the toilet, letting the spray bathe one side of him in tiny droplets. It changed from cold to tepid to finally what the Navy called hot— just a notch about lukewarm. Maverick stared at the water pouring down for a long time, toes clenching and unclenching on the tile floor. It had never really gotten easier. Somewhere along the line, it had just become a thing he had to do.

Finally he stood, knees cracking, and stepped into the tub, instinctively flinching away from the steady beat of the water until it wasn't so overwhelming anymore. His mussed hair flattened to his skull, sticking to his forehead, and Maverick pushed it away.

He stood in the shower for fifteen minutes, until the water turned back to cold, turning over those last few moments with Goose again and again, like he always did. Thinking of every single way he could have prevented it. Wondering if maybe he deserved all of this.

Every day he thought he would get over it.

It never happened.

~

Three days later, the sun had returned and it was hot on the back of his neck, reminding him how temperamental California summers could be sometimes.

Maverick planted the heels of his hands in the wet sand, keeping on his toes, listening for Hangman's signal. The other aviator was behind him on his left, playing what passed for quarterback in this game.

Not that it really mattered. There were no true positions in dogfight football, and there were only two objectives: win, and knock as many people down as you could in the process.

Across from him, Rooster crouched down, situating his huge frame between Fanboy and Phoenix. He was no longer the gangly, all elbows and knees kid that Maverick had last seen storming out of the house, fighting back both his and Ice's attempts at consolation. He had filled out with time and age, muscles rippling and skin freshly tanned under the brutal California sun.

Rooster pushed his aviators up his nose, staring straight at him. Maverick stared back, feeling his whole body tense up with anticipation.

Not today, kid. Preferably not ever, if he was being honest with himself. Maverick couldn't handle Rooster right now, not with the weight of the mission finally sinking into him. Not with Ice's words in his ear. The kid needs Maverick.

What he really thought was the kid needed an attitude check, and maybe someone to box him over the ears a couple of times. Rooster didn't need him. He needed a fucking father. He should have gotten a father. Instead, he'd gotten Maverick, who was about the shittiest replacement you could ask for.

Besides, it was clearly obvious that Rooster didn't want him, even after all this time.

Fine. Fine. But I'm not letting you die just so you can prove a point.

That cobra maneuver had been cruddy of him, he had to admit. There was a limit to even Maverick's madness, and he'd been shaking in the locker room afterward, drenched in a cold sweat, unable to get the image of Rooster crashing nose-first into the ground out of his head. But he couldn't help it; it had been two long decades since he'd seen Rooster, and he had just felt so much.

Hangman clapped his hands for the snap and the line formation broke apart, kicking up wet sand. Instantly, Rooster charged forward at him, and Maverick came up to meet him. Rooster caught him by the shoulders and bowled him over easily, and his head smacked against the sand, but he was already pushing himself back up.

Unfortunately for Rooster, he was a little too predictable. Maverick charged across the beach, head tipped up, waiting for the sun to black out. Then, finally—

The ball dropped neatly into his outstretched arms, and a second later, a hand clasped his ankle, and his entire body hit the sand.

"Sorry, Cap," Phoenix said from behind him, offering him a hand up. She didn't sound sorry at all, but Maverick smiled at her. His skin stung from the impact, and he shook himself.

Across the beach, Harvard was being dogpiled on. Phoenix glanced in the direction of the commotion, and Maverick saw her eyebrows lift at the sight of Rooster, who was watching them in disbelief.

Maverick tossed the football from hand to hand, ignoring him. Hangman emerged from the dogpile, aviators askew, hair flopping in his face. He held the opposing ball up in one hand, dancing on his toes.

"Turnover!" he crowed, as the pile of aviators fell apart, most of them glowering at him. "And the ball is picked off by number four, Jake Seresin—"

"Can it, Seresin," Fanboy muttered. "This isn't the Super Bowl."

"But if it was, you'd be the loser." Hangman grinned, dragging out the word comically long, and bounced away from him when Fanboy made a grab at the ball. "Okay, you want a do-over? Fine."

He finally glanced over at Phoenix and Maverick, giving them an energetic thumbs-up. "Nice catch, Pops!"

Maverick rolled his eyes, and Phoenix patted his arm in consolation. They settled back into position, and this time, Rooster purposefully lined up across from Maverick.

He couldn't even blame the kid, really. But what Rooster didn't understand was that Maverick was doing this for his own good. You'll thank me, one day. Or you won't. But at least you'll still be alive.

For fuck's sake, if Ice spent half the energy he wasted on Maverick looking after Rooster's career instead, maybe they wouldn't be here.

This time, Rooster didn't even wait for the snap. He went surging at Maverick a second before everyone else moved, knocking both teams out of sync and causing a few heads to pop up in surprise. The footballs flew through the air a few seconds later, and the other aviators turned their attention back to the game, but Rooster was still dragging him through the sand.

"Not going anywhere this time, huh?" Rooster growled, one hand yanking Maverick's head up by his hair. He didn't even try to fight back, all the air knocked out of him, startled out of his mind.

"I think that's a five-yard penalty," Maverick gasped between breaths. At that, Rooster kneed him in the ribs, and he winced, saliva flooding his mouth. "C'mon. What're you doing?"

"I could ask you the same thing. You just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"From what?"

"You damn well know what," Rooster snarled. "I'm going on this mission, Captain."

Maverick narrowed his eyes. "That's not your decision to make." Jesus, when the hell had Rooster gotten so big? He was resting nearly all of his weight on Maverick's chest; any more, and he would suffocate. But he couldn’t help but go completely limp at the feeling, endorphins flooding his veins. Hold me down, keep me there, don't let me go. Please don't let me go.

"It shouldn't be yours, either." Rooster pressing down on his sternum. Maverick felt something in him bend, and his heart knocked once against his ribs, but his head lolled automatically, vision graying out. "You're a real coward, y'know that?"

I know…I know…

He tried to reach for Rooster's arm and missed. Rooster shifted, confusion flickering across his face, and his elbow jammed right between Maverick's sore ribs. It hurt, badly enough to knock him out of his stupor, and Maverick gasped, floundering, head spinning. This wasn't Ice. Wasn't somebody who wanted to go easy on him. Wasn't somebody who would stop if he said the word. The sun was dizzying above Rooster's head, outlining his curls. Maverick focused on it, the light searing his eyes.

"Prove it," he said. "Prove to me you can handle it."

Rooster sprang up like he'd been shocked. His whole body rippled with anger, his face a mask of shock. "I don't have to prove anything to you!"

Then he stalked away, feet slapping on the sand. Maverick pushed himself onto his elbows, shaking his aviators off. Rooster was watching as Harvard and Payback wrestled over one of the footballs, hands on his hips. From a distance, he almost looked like Goose. Almost.

"Hurt yourself, Pops?" Hangman called over to him, grinning. Maverick scoffed, struggling to his feet. Spots danced across his vision, melting into the background.

I'm getting too old for this shit.

He gave Hangman a sarcastic thumbs up in reply, dusting his jeans off. Maverick crossed the beach and plopped down in one of the deck chairs outside the Hard Deck, still watching Rooster, who was now joking with the rest of the squadron as if he hadn't been interrogating Maverick a few minutes before. Always the life of the party, just like his father. What had happened to him?

I happened, Maverick thought, sinking lower into the chair. I ended one life and ruined two more.

He rummaged through the cooler next to the chairs, fishing for a can amidst all the beer bottles. There was one at the very bottom reserved for him, as if anyone would go for Pepsi when there was perfectly good beer just waiting to be drunk.

Maverick popped it open, and the hiss of carbonation escaping was what finally made his shoulders slump in relaxation. He got three long, blissful swallows in before a shadow fell across his face, blotting out the sun.

Maverick looked up, squinting against the clear blue sky. Cyclone was standing above him, arms crossed over his chest. Maverick watched him for a long moment, thumb rubbing absently against the rim of his soda can.

"Sir?"

Cyclone's eyes remained on the beach, but his lips pulled downward into a frown. Maverick was pretty sure Cyclone wasn't capable of smiling, but then again, when was the last time Maverick had anything to smile about?

"What is this?" Cyclone grunted, adjusting his aviators as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Dogfight football," Maverick said tiredly. He could almost hear Cyclone's incredulity, but he was running out of options. They were short on time, and he wasn't fit to scold a bunch of kids into submission. He couldn't even be a decent parent; how did Cyclone really expect him to teach a bunch of students who didn't trust each other?

Whose side are you on, Mitchell?

He shook off the chill that snaked up his spine and took a sip of his Pepsi, letting the carbonation burn his throat. Cyclone finally looked down at him, brows drawn. Behind his sunglasses, Maverick saw his eyes travel from the Pepsi can up to Maverick's face. He was waiting for clarification, Maverick realized.

"Offense and defense at the same time," he offered, trying not to let Cyclone's cold stare unnerve him. It didn't work. "You see, it—"

"Who's winning?" Cyclone asked, cutting him off. Maverick didn't know if he was trying to be funny in his own twisted way, or if it was some coded message for Get your ass back to the classroom, now.

He shot for the former, giving a halfhearted shrug. "They stopped keeping score a long time ago. But from the way Coyote's gloating over there, I'd say—"

"This detachment has training to do, Captain," Cyclone interrupted him again, and Maverick's nose scrunched up in irritation. "Every available minute counts."

"Yes, sir."

"Then what the hell am I looking at?"

"Well, right now, you're looking at me, but if you turn the other direction…" He saw pure anger flash over Cyclone's face, and Maverick took another drink of his Pepsi. C'mon, Mav, try not to get yourself discharged on the spot.

This wasn't Ice he was talking to. Cyclone may have had a lot less power than Ice did, but he still had power, and it was an important distinction compared to Maverick, lowly captain. He couldn't bullshit his way through the conversation just to piss Cyclone off. If he got kicked off this mission, he would have no control over what happened to Rooster. He couldn't let that happen.

Maverick took a deep breath. "You asked me to build a team, sir." He nodded out at where Rooster was hoisting Bob on his shoulders, both of them cackling. He tried not to let it piss him off. He tried even harder not to let it hurt so much. "There's your team."

"Playing football and flying into enemy territory are two very different things, Mitchell."

"Tell that to them. I'm not the one doing the flying. Look, right now I've got a bunch of students who don't know how to work together. A week ago, they would have been clawing each other's eyes out for that ball." Cyclone made a noise that might have been a snort. "They all want to be on this mission, but it's not about that."

"Pray tell, what is it about, then?"

"Surviving the mission," Maverick said. With Bob still clinging to him, Rooster turned, catching sight of them. His mustache bristled, and then he looked away. "They won't survive if they're all working independently."

"Wise words, coming from the original lone wolf himself."

Maverick had to fight from letting his lip curl. He hadn't asked for this. There was a good reason he'd never accepted any type of instructor role, despite multiple offers over the years. And if his teaching methods were a little unorthodox, well, that didn't mean they didn't work.

"It worked on me."

"Did it?"

"Yup." It hadn't really, but Cyclone didn't have to know that. Playing volleyball with Ice and Slider hadn't made them better friends or better wingmen, not in Maverick's opinion. It had only increased his hunger to win. But this wasn't a plaque on a wall. This was real, not a silly game.

Maverick knew that better than anybody, maybe even better than Cyclone. And by the end of the three weeks, he'd make sure everyone else knew it, just as well as he did.

Hell, just looking at that course route would be enough to wipe the smiles off their faces. Maverick hoped that was the case, because it would make his job a lot easier.

"Well, obviously for not very long," Cyclone said dryly. "Mitchell, I understand that it's not your…wish to be here, and it's most certainly not mine, either. But the rest of us have grown up. I suggest maybe it's time for you to do the same. This is serious business. The Navy has no time for impromptu football games."

Which is a major flaw, in my opinion.

"You think I don't know this is serious?" Maverick asked, not hiding the sharp edge to his voice.

"I think you're not taking it seriously," Cyclone replied coolly. "No, actually, now I know you're not taking it seriously. First that idiotic cobra you got yourself into with Lieutenant Bradshaw, and now this. Don't think I wouldn't find out about that, by the way."

Maverick said nothing.

"You're supposed to be the adult here, and yet you continue to act like you've just hit puberty and the world is your enemy," Cyclone continued. "Sooner or later, Admiral Kazansky is going to run out of excuses. You're lucky he finds some value in you."

"Screw you," Maverick muttered before he could help it. Cyclone's head whipped around so fast that Maverick heard his neck crack. He wanted to go drown himself in the ocean.

"What did you just say, Captain?"

Maverick shut his mouth and glared at the the ground.

Cyclone sniffed. "Have I finally touched a nerve with you? Got you to think about how you ended up here in the first place? You may be the best pilot this side of the States, but you will never be the Navy's first choice for anything. To be here, teaching this mission, it should mean something to you. You should be licking my boots."

"Want me to get on my knees, then?" Maverick asked sarcastically. Want your dick sucked too, while you're at it?

"Are you asking for a discharge, Maverick?"

His fingers clenched tightly around the can at the word. "This does mean something to me, y'know. It means you couldn't find anyone stupid enough to take this job, so you got stuck with me instead." Maverick smiled grimly. "You're lucky it's me, Admiral. I might hate this gig, but I'm the only one who cares about them."

Cyclone watched him for a long time, then turned his attention back to the shore. "I hope you're right about that," he said mildly, before walking away.

I am. I know I am.

Because if I'm not…they're doomed.

Chapter Text

It would be another two years before he saw Maverick again. Hardly a long time; hell, he'd spent longer away from his old friends at the Academy, the pilots he'd done shots and swapped dirty secrets with and confessed many an embarrassing secret to. The people he was supposed to be buddying up with— sons of admirals and respected war veterans, future politicians and lawmakers and brass members.

But Ice was beginning to learn that things never worked out the way they were supposed to, because he thought about Maverick a lot more than he thought about them.

He'd believed in earnest that they might go their separate ways for good after what happened in Oakland, the event that he refused to touch with a ten-foot pole in his mind. That Maverick would be too ashamed or uncomfortable to talk to him again. And Ice wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest, because he felt the same exact way.

Again, that was what was supposed to happen. It didn't, either because Maverick wasn't capable of feeling shame— Ice was still on the ledge about that one— or because he'd meant it when he missed Ice. He didn't know which option was worse, but he did know which one he preferred.

The next postcard came three months after the World Series. It was a picture of Pearl Harbor underneath a solid blue sky. In Maverick's jagged, near-illegible scrawl, read: Somewhere in Bay of Bengal, not Hawaii. Looks nice there, right? Going non-communicado until spring thaw, hope you're staying ice cold.

And in smaller, hasty script, as if Maverick had been debating whether or not to tell him at all: Goose's cards. Expect more.

All in all, Ice received seven more Pearl Harbor postcards over the course of the next two years, which he kept wrapped in a rubber band and tucked in the side pocket of his sea bag. He wouldn't have ever taken them out if the bag didn't smell like an old sock after deployment, but they always went right back in when it was clean again.

Ice couldn't bear to look at them for too long, and the thought of the postcards keeping up any sort of space in his apartment was almost too much. That would imply that he actually cared about them, that he cared about Maverick, and that was simply untrue. No, they stayed in the bag because most of the time he got them in the mail deliveries on ship, and then he simply forgot about them, and it wasn't worth the trouble.

But as much as he hated each one— he especially hated the one that showed up mid-August of '90, half the writing smeared and smudged with water spots that looked frighteningly like tears— he couldn't bring himself to throw them out. So there they stayed, flattened in the bag, edges rounded by all the jostling.

They were always short notes, and Ice could tell they weren't things that Maverick really wanted to say to him. He talked about Carole and Bradley— mostly little Bradley, who had finally lost all of his baby teeth and was old enough to play for the school's baseball team. He asked about Ice, how his squad was and how the weather was and if Slider was still a stick up the ass. Always things old friends would say, not frenemies turned some strange middle ground of toleration.

Ice didn't understand it much, and Slider understood it even less, so Ice started stuffing the cards under his mattress where he could read them later without such prying eyes. It wasn't like he was embarrassed about it. He just didn't know how to explain whatever the fuck had happened to Maverick to someone who hadn't looked him dead in the eye and seen that empty void inside of him.

It dawned on him that Slider didn't get it, whatever it was. Goose's death, maybe. Everything that Goose had meant, possibly. Somehow, Ice got it, and of course Maverick got it. But as for the rest of the Top Gun class of ‘86…it was just another sad tragedy.

And then it dawned on him that Maverick knew that Ice got it, and they were forever knotted by that fact. And that was why there were eight postcards in his sea bag, and why he had gone to the World Series. That was why Maverick missed him.

That was why Ice had saved Maverick from getting discharged.

Now, two years later, he sat in the O Club in Lemoore, thinking about what it meant to be a captain in the U.S. Navy. Lot of responsibility. He liked that. Liked being important. Liked being needed, being useful, being something.

Ice looked over at the bar, debating refilling his vodka tonic, and felt irony strike him right between the eyes. He immediately turned back toward the window, biting back a groan and a matching sigh of relief that somehow between now and the last postcard, dated March '91, that Maverick hadn't managed to find some new way to kill himself. No pun intended.

He dared a small peek from behind his hand, and fuck— Maverick was looking at him now. He was in his service khakis, black hair nearly blending in with the dim lighting of the room. Ice swallowed the remains of his drink for strength, pinching the bridge of his nose.

What the hell was he doing here, of all places? Please don't say he's been transferred please don’t say he's been transferred—

That would certainly make for an embarrassing time. Okay, so he was embarrassed. Quite a bit. He couldn't deny it to himself any longer, not after seeing Maverick again. But anyone would be, in his situation, he'd just taken advantage of a man clearly grieving, and—

It was…good.

No, he wasn't embarrassed about doing it. He was embarrassed about how it made him feel inside. All mushy, like the contents of his stomach had melted into sludge. And sort of…well, Maverick had hit the nail on the head with good.

C'mon, Kazansky, you're a fucking captain now, get your shit together.

Before he could think about the consequences, Ice slid out of the booth and walked his glass up to the bar, stopping a few feet away from Maverick, who was drinking a…Pepsi. Ice tried not to stare and failed. Who ordered Pepsi in a bar?

"I'll get his tab," Maverick said to the bartender, who handed Ice a fresh drink.

"That's not—"

Maverick shrugged him off, and Ice stared at him some more, holding his glass in one hand stupidly.
Maverick eyed him for a moment, then gestured to the empty seat next to him. "Gonna sit?"

No, I don't think I will. Ice sat, setting his glass down on the bar. He looked at his reflection in the glossy liquor bottles, trying to think of something normal to say. The only thing that came to mind was, What's with the Pepsi?

"Congratulations," Maverick said, pleating his already crinkled napkin with deft fingers. His tongue poked out of his mouth as he worked, brow furrowed in concentration as if he was diffusing a bomb.

"On what?" was all Ice could manage.

Maverick didn't look up at him, which he was grateful for. "Your promotion."

"So you're buying me a drink."

"Seemed like a nice thing to do," Maverick replied absently. "Otherwise I could send you flowers in the mail, if you want."

When Ice didn't reply, Maverick huffed out a breath. "That was a joke."

"Oh. Sure."

Neither one of them spoke for a long time. Ice kept Maverick in the corner of his eye, watching him fold and unfold the napkin over and over. He swirled his drink gently and took a sip, but the alcohol tasted sour on his tongue, so he put it back down.

He thought of Maverick going pliant under his hand, and sighed.

"What're you doing here?"

It took Maverick at least a minute to respond. His fingers worked faster, twisting the napkin into a little spiral. He hadn't touched his Pepsi once. "Boat was supposed to leave today. Got sidelined, something with the fuel gauges or whatever."

"So you're stuck here?"

"Only for a night. Not too bad."

Ice got the impression that they were right back to watching the A's kick ass, conversation-wise. "Gotcha."

"What about you?"

"I'm here for the next three months, give or take."

Maverick nodded slowly. "You're done flying, then." There was an odd, almost hollow note to his voice. It made Ice feel guilty for reasons he wasn't sure of. He didn't know why it mattered what he was doing to Maverick, but then again, maybe it did. You were the one constant in my life.

"It's not as bad as it seems," Ice hedged. "You still get to be around all the planes, you're just the one making the decisions." Some of the decisions, at least. "You'd probably like it."

Maverick didn't smile. "Flying's all I got," he murmured. "I was shit at the last ground job I got. Wouldn't do any good to dig that grave any deeper. It's a miracle I didn't get discharged."

Yeah, some miracle. A miracle with bleached hair, sitting next to him and staring into his rocks glass.

"Morbid tonight, aren't we?" Ice said under his breath, knocking back half of his drink. Maverick looked at him, green eyes muddy and tired. He sniffed. Ice thought he was smelling for bullshit.

"'S the truth. Look, Ice, I just wanted to congratulate you on your promotion. God knows you of all people deserve it." Was that actually a compliment? Another one? Ice wondered if Maverick had struck a permanent fever, or if maybe his brain had been jumbled a little too much by that spin. "I'm not really…I'm not having a great night, that's all."

"Well, I can see that." Ice nodded at his Pepsi. "Most people come into a bar to get drunk, y'know."

Maverick looked at the can, as if realizing it was there. "I've got to drive tonight," he explained, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. "Go find somewhere with a bed. Unless I want to sleep on the fuckin' curb."

Wouldn't be any worse than the cabins aboard ship, Ice thought.

"I've got a couch," he said, less of a genuine offer and more as someone trying to be nice. Maverick scoffed immediately and rolled his eyes, as if the thought of staying under Kazansky's roof was akin to contracting a terminal illness.

"No way."

"Hey, you let me bunk in your hotel room. I'm only returning the favor."

"You already did that," Maverick retorted.

"I did?"

"Yeah, you—" He broke off, dropping the napkin and flattening it out fully with his knuckles. "Never mind."

"What are you—" Oh. Oh. He meant that. As if in retaliation, Maverick's shoulders drew up. Ice closed his mouth, deciding it was for the best. They both stared at the bar top some more. Maverick picked up his can, inspected the label, then put it down.

"You ever wonder how they make this shit?"

"Nope."

"Me, neither," Maverick said glumly. "Look, I…"

"What?"

"I didn't mean to. Do that. Whatever that was." His face worked like he was sucking on a lemon. "I don't…you just…I mean…"

"I know."

"No, you don't," Maverick said, his voice sharp. "You don't, because I can't stop thinking about it, and— why?"

"Why what?" Ice asked, feeling more like the one digging himself a grave.

"Why'd you do it?"

"You were freaking out." He tried to control himself, keep the words from slipping out, but they became a flood, an endless torrent spilling from his mouth. Like he needed to say them, like Maverick needed to hear them. "You were about to have a panic attack, so I wanted you to breathe and put your head between your legs. And you were being so good for me that I didn't even think about all the other stuff when I did it."

Maverick flushed so hard Ice thought he saw sweat glistening on his brow. He chewed the inside of his cheek, swallowing the rest of the vodka to cover the heat that rose to his cheeks in response. Maverick swallowed audibly, his throat clicking.

"You asked," Ice bit out eventually, trying to sound casual. It didn't work.

Maverick took a hurried sip of his Pepsi as if trying to mirror Ice, choked on it, and coughed. Automatically, Ice reached out and thumped him on the back, and Maverick recoiled away from him, letting out a gagging sort of noise. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Let's change the subject," Ice decided, and Maverick nodded hurriedly, still coughing. "How've you been? Still flying with Merlin?"

"Yeah," Maverick croaked. He took another drink, and didn't choke. "Not like anyone else would want me."

"Well, you must be decent, if Merlin's still around."

Maverick glanced at him. Whatever tension between them seemed to have dissipated, but Ice saw that the other pilot still struggled to smile at the comment. "I bet all the guys under your command are just waiting for their turn up so they can fly straight into the ocean," he said.

"Probably," Ice agreed. "As long as I'm not the one who has to tell their wives."

"Haven't you got a personal assistant that can do that?"

Ice's eyes narrowed playfully. "Not yet, I don't." Maverick snorted, but he still wasn't smiling. "For the record, I didn't mean to do it, either."

"I thought we were changing the subject."

"I just wanted to tell you. In case you…it weirded you out, or whatever. I didn't mean it like that, is all. I'm not trying to…whatever."

"It didn't." Maverick scratched at the bar with his thumbnail. "Weird me out."

"Ah."

"I mean, it did, but it didn't. Actually, it—"

"Kazansky!" An arm wrapped around his neck and squeezed, and Merlin stuck his head between them. Maverick yanked himself away so fast he nearly fell off the barstool. "What're you doing in a dive like this?"

Ice carefully detached Merlin's hand. "I could ask you the same thing."

"I heard you made captain. How fancy are you, now?" Merlin glanced over at Maverick, who met his gaze evenly, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Mitchell."

"Wells," Maverick replied, snatching his napkin up and balling it in his fist. With his other hand, he fished a few bills out of his pocket and set them on the bar. "I'll, uh…I guess I'll see you, Ice."

Ice opened his mouth, but Maverick was already gone, slipping through the growing crowd of people behind them at the bar. Merlin took his place, flagging down the bartender. While he ordered, Ice swiveled around on his stool, trying to catch the dark shock of Maverick's hair, but he was nowhere to be seen.

When he turned back around, he was startled to find a shot glass sitting where his vodka had been. "What…"

"Figured we could have ourselves a little party," Merlin said, elbowing him. "Unless the Captain is too good for such things."

Ice blinked at him. Merlin was obviously a little tipsy already, and Ice hadn't come here with the intention of getting plastered. He was a captain now, for God's sake. He couldn't go barhopping with the other pilots wearing out every karaoke machine in the city limits.

He looked over his shoulder again, and Merlin clapped him on the arm. "C'mon. That slouch isn't worth your time, anyway."

It took Ice a moment to realize that Merlin was talking about Maverick. "He's not?"

Merlin shook his head vehemently, picking up his own shot and downing it. "He's halfway to gettin' himself kicked off the Oriskany already, and we haven't even set sail yet. Pissin' off every admiral from here to Hong Kong." He huffed. "God, that guy is a real piece of work."

Well, Ice knew that much, at least. But Merlin was supposed to be Maverick's RIO. He should be the one having Maverick's back, if nobody else would— and Ice seriously doubted they would. No matter what Maverick did, Merlin shouldn't be talking about him behind his back.

There will be others. Did Maverick still think that?

"Are you gonna drink, or just sit there with your mouth open attracting flies?" Merlin asked.

Hesitantly, Ice picked up his shot glass. He swallowed, grimacing at the burn of the whiskey. "Why don't you get a new pilot?" he asked curiously.

"Not much to choose from," Merlin said as the bartender refilled their glasses. "Most of the newbies are already tied up. Mitchell's a fine pilot, it's just when he's on the ground that his attitude kicks up a notch."

He knocked back his second shot. "No surprise he ditched the place. He's not much of a people person, in case you haven't noticed. Drink."

Ice drank. This time the burn was less noticeable; maybe the alcohol had singed off all of his taste buds. "I haven't seen him in a bit," he admitted, and Merlin chuckled.

"Consider yourself lucky. Now, tell me whose ass you had to kiss for that promotion."

Ice didn't get drunk. Merlin definitely did, and Ice was actually considering toeing the borderline before he realized that Merlin was already too shitfaced to care about whether he was drinking his shot or not, so he let the idea go. He figured someone should make sure Merlin got home if he wanted to catch the Oriskany the following morning, but really, he was too busy thinking about Maverick.

Merlin drank until last call and was giggling madly at some joke he was trying to tell when Ice finally managed to drag him outside. He got them both a cab, more for Merlin's sake than his own, and because his Jeep was at home— the evening had been nice enough to walk, and Ice had intended on being sober enough to make it back to his housing without collapsing into a gutter somewhere along the line.

The cab dropped Merlin off at his hotel first, and he stumbled so badly trying to get out that he had to grab the door to hold himself up. "Great night, Kazansky!" he slurred, grinning broadly. "Let's do it again sometime, huh?"

"Get out of here." Ice waved a hand at him and gave the cabbie directions back to his house. He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window. The ride nearly lulled him to sleep, and it felt like no time had passed at all before the car was slowing down again.

He handed a few bills over and stepped out into the street, glad to find that his head was a little fuzzy but everything else held up just fine. Although it hardly mattered, because a step later, he nearly tripped over Maverick.

The other pilot let out an oof, and Ice stumbled backward, throwing his arms out for balance. For a minute he thought he might be seeing things in the dark, that Maverick wasn't really sitting on the curb in front of his house, rubbing at his shoulder.

But no, it was real. Maverick was here, and so was his Kawasaki, duffel strapped to the back of it with bungee cords. He had a bottle in his free hand.

"Uh…" Ice began dumbly. Maverick looked up at him, still rubbing his shoulder. He was waiting for Ice to say something else— to finish his thought, maybe. "Hey?"

"Looks like you had a fun night," Maverick muttered, half to himself. He shook his head, then took a drink from the bottle and grimaced. "Fuck."

His tipsy brain finally caught up to the situation at hand. "What're you doing here?"

Maverick turned his head away at the question, staring out at the empty street. The cab's taillights glowed briefly at the intersection and then disappeared around the corner. "You said I could…if I needed…" His eyebrows tented with frustration. "Never mind."

"You want my couch? Really?" Ice didn't think that Maverick would actually take him up on that offer. In Ice's experience, he was as stubborn as they came to accepting favors; it was either Maverick's way or the highway.

"Doesn't matter," Maverick said, getting to his feet. And there it was. Ice was glad hell hadn't suddenly frozen over.

"Well, you're here now. You might as well stay."

Maverick's expression creased with doubt. "But—"

"No buts. You can pay me back some other time," Ice said. "I'm not drunk, and I'm not doing this out of the good of my heart, okay? I'm doing it because you're here, and you're gonna get picked up for having an open container." He nodded at the bottle.

"Like you give a shit," Maverick said, almost pleadingly. As if he really wanted to go. As if he was trying hard not to stay.

"Geez, Mav, I don't have cooties. Get your fucking shit and come on." Maverick's lips parted in surprise. "Before I change my mind, now."

Maverick only nodded and went to go unhook his bag. Ice waited for him, because he knew the second he turned his back, Maverick would be off like a shot. Wingmen were wingmen. Wingmen didn't let other wingmen get hauled to overnight jail. If Maverick wanted to get drunk on his couch, so be it.

He fumbled briefly with his keys, squinting hard in the darkness before getting the right one into the slot. Ice stepped aside, and Maverick only stared into the shadowy house before Ice gave him a gentle nudge forward. With that, he scrambled inside, throwing Ice a wary look over his shoulder.

Ice flipped on the light, and that was when he saw the bruise. His stomach dropped, and Maverick set the bottle down onto the kitchen table with a lot more force than necessary.

"For fuck's sake," Ice said. Maverick shrank away from him, hands balling into fists. "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not."

"Okay. Alright." He pressed his fingers to his temples. "Who was it?"

"You don't know him. Some other lieutenant."

Did you even know him? Ice thought, biting back a groan. He wished he could launch into a tirade, but he'd just invited Maverick into his home, and it seemed hypocritical to kick him out a minute later. Besides, whatever Ice had to say, Maverick had probably heard it tenfold from everybody else.

He's halfway to gettin' himself kicked off the Oriskany already. If Ice hadn't believed that before, he sure did now.

"Okay," he said again. Maverick didn't move. "Do you want some ice, at least?"

"No," Maverick said tersely. He rubbed at his shoulder again, and Ice wondered if it had already hurt before he'd knocked Maverick over. No matter. It wasn't his problem.

"Do you want anything?"

"No!" His voice pitched dangerously, and Ice frowned. "No, I don't want— I shouldn't even be here. I shouldn't—"

Maverick took a deep breath, dragging a hand through his hair. Ice realized he was blocking the exit. Maverick's way out. Slowly, he stepped aside, bracing himself against the back of the couch, but Maverick still didn't move.

"I should be any fucking place but here," he hissed, emotion bleeding through the tightness of his voice.

"But you're not," Ice said, almost too casually. "Why?"

"Because I need—" Maverick broke off again, shaking his head angrily. "I…I can't take it anymore, every day is such a fucking nightmare, everybody hates me and I hate them more, and I just can't help it and, and— and the only person I can think about is you."

The words hung between them like cigarette smoke, reminding Ice of their last conversation. He nodded, and Maverick looked away, putting his bruised knuckles to his mouth. "I don't know if I can do this anymore," he mumbled behind his hand.

Ice was becoming increasingly aware that this was a serious conversation, and that they should sit down and maybe talk about it, or at the very least contemplate the meaning of all of this. But he didn't even know where to begin. Worse, he didn't want to talk about it. Somehow, it was a lot easier to just accept things for the way they were.

Maverick needed him. Ice made a promise to himself. They were wingmen. If Goose hadn't died, things might have turned out differently— but Goose was dead, and now they were wingmen.

It's been five years, Mav. But it might as well be five days to Maverick.

"You still miss him." It wasn't a question, but a statement. Maverick's jaw clenched in response. "It's okay to miss him sometimes, Mav. He was your friend."

"It's all the time," Maverick said quietly. "Every second. It's not…Carole and Brad got over it, just like that. They— I hate going back to them. I hate it so much, because they're so normal, and they act like he was never even alive in the first place, but—"

"Woah," Ice cut him off, but Maverick didn't let him get another word out.

"—but I have to, 'cause I promised, and I've got to be a father and I don't even know the first thing about that, and Carole acts like it's the easiest thing in the world, like Goose never existed, like I'm supposed to be a dad instead of him, but I killed him, Ice, and now every second of my fucking life, it's just him, he's everywhere—"

"Hey, hey, just—" Ice's head was beginning to spin. "Quiet."

Maverick's mouth snapped shut. His huge eyes stared up at Ice as if waiting for him to do something again.

"I thought they were your family," Ice hedged. "I…have you ever talked to Carole about it? I mean, she'd understand, right?"

Maverick's mouth flattened into a thin line that was answer enough. Ice scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Okay, well…what do you expect me to do about it?" Maverick inhaled sharply, his eyelids fluttering. "You can talk, Mav. I didn't—"

The pieces clicked into place, and Ice sank his teeth into his tongue to stop himself from cursing. Maverick was listening to him. He was freaking out again, and he needed to be…needed to be.

Needed to be put down.

And he wanted Ice to do it?

"You want me to do it again?" Ice asked breathlessly, feeling a little like he'd stepped into a snake pit. Or a wet dream. Or both.

Maverick's eyes lit up. He bobbed his head energetically. "I want to be good."

And fuck, if that didn't go right to Ice's dick.

"You—" Ice stopped himself before he could say something stupid. "I— uh. Okay. You…what do you normally do?"

"Whatever you want," Maverick replied automatically.

"Right. Are…are you sure? Because, um…I'm not really like…and we're sorta…"

Maverick's face fell for a moment, and he chewed his thumbnail. "I don't know what else to do," he admitted. "I keep on seeing him, when I'm trying to sleep. It's like…it's like he knows— I just thought, with all that stuff you talked about earlier. That…"

"That I'd want to do it again?" Ice supplied.

Maverick nodded again, slower. Doubtfully. He was getting cold feet, and why shouldn't he? But if Ice was really his last resort…things must be pretty bad.

"Couch, now," Ice ordered. It was just a test, but Maverick didn't even hesitate, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. Ice crossed the kitchen to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. He drank the entire thing in one go, looking out the window over the sink at the pitch black night.

It didn't matter if Maverick hadn't killed Goose. It didn't matter if it wasn't Maverick's fault. He didn't need any of Ice's clumsy words or poor attempts at sympathy. It occurred to him that maybe nothing anyone said would help. Maverick needed something real.

Ice set his glass down in the sink, fingers ghosting over the cold porcelain. For once in his life, he didn't know what he was doing, only that somehow it was happening and he was immune to stopping it.

Well, he'd better get on with it.

He went over to the couch, where Maverick was sitting ramrod straight. His breathing came in shallow, anticipatory pants, and Ice looked down at the top of the head he was so familiar with. He gave Maverick a light cuff over the back of the head, not missing the way his breath hitched.

"Look at me." Maverick lifted his gaze. The light from the kitchen didn't stretch very far, and Maverick's face was in shadow, outlined in a ring of gold. "Attention."

Maverick's brow creased with confusion, and Ice let go of him and took a seat on the couch. "I have authority over you now, sailor. I want you at attention."

Maverick scrambled up and straightened out his khakis, snapping to a salute. His mouth worked with irritation, and as if he couldn't help it he mumbled, "Naval aviator."

"Did I say you could speak?" Maverick gave a minute shake of his head, silent. Ice smiled, pleased with himself. "How come you aren't this good all the time?"

He twitched at the word, but still didn't say anything. Lifted his shoulder in a shrug. His green eyes were fixed on Ice intently, almost pleading with him to get on with it.

"Okay, okay. You gonna listen to me?" A nod this time. "That's right. On your knees. Parade rest."

Maverick dropped to the floor so fast that Ice almost thought his legs had given out. He shuffled forward until he was sitting between Ice's legs before he could even be ordered to. Ice leaned toward him, dick twitching at Maverick's hot breath on his crotch.

"You can talk now."

"Tell me what to do," Maverick breathed. "Can you— yeah."

Ice gripped the back of his neck, hard enough it would surely bruise. But Maverick only sank into his touch, head tipping forward. "You comfortable?"

"Uh-huh."

"You hard?"

"After all that?" Maverick huffed out a laugh. "As a fucking rock."

"Good," Ice said. He shifted his legs, pressing one of his dress shoes to Maverick's knees. "Open your legs."

Maverick jerked against him in realization and spread his legs, hissing as his erection undoubtedly dragged against his khakis. It was too dark to see, but Ice could let his imagination do all the talking. He slid his foot under Maverick's crotch teasingly, pressing Maverick's forehead to his knee.

"You're going to sit here for me and be good, alright? Can you do that?"

"But—"

"Uh-uh." Ice tugged at his hair lightly. "You're going to be good, right?"

Maverick swallowed, looking up at him out of the corner of his eye. He nodded, throat clicking audibly again. His hips shifted minutely, obviously resisting the urge to grind down on Ice's shoe.

"Breathe with me, now." Ice waited until Maverick's breaths timed up with his own even ones before continuing. "If you move, I won't let you come."

Maverick gasped loudly, arms clenching behind his back./p>

"How long do you normally do this?"

"I don't…I…" He blinked rapidly, and Ice eased a little off his neck. Maverick let out another noisy breath. "I don't know," he managed to get out eventually after an internal struggle.

"Okay," Ice said. He stroked the short hair on the back of Maverick's neck. "It's okay, you don't have to talk anymore. Just relax. Focus on breathing."

Maverick nodded jerkily. Ice could feel the slight tremble of his body eventually subside as the minutes passed. His eyelids fluttered but didn't shut, focused on nothing.

"I want you to think about something good," Ice directed. "Something that makes you happy. I don't want you to think about Goose anymore. There's nothing more you can do for him." He rubbed his thumb over the soft skin behind Maverick's ear. The other pilot began to relax into Ice's touch, slumping further and further until he was leaning his entire weight on Ice's leg. "Can you do that for me?"

Maverick nodded again. "I want to be good," he mumbled, words slurring together.

"You are. If you do what I ask, you are."

Maverick drew his tongue over his bottom teeth, obviously absorbing this statement. He rubbed his cheek slowly against Ice's leg, adjusting his head into a more comfortable position.

Ice timed each movement with his watch: when Maverick's hands unclenched, when his shoulders slumped, when his eyes closed. But he kept his back straight and his hips precariously still where Ice's foot was pressed between his legs.

It got to the point where he thought Maverick had actually fallen asleep, and he began to worry. Ice carded a hand through Maverick's hair and received a small, bitten-off noise in response, assuring him that he was at least semi-conscious.

He'd only done this once before, honestly; if not, he'd probably have no fucking clue what to do. And it hadn't been this bad— the guy had gone down and less than fifteen minutes later started nosing at Ice's crotch expectantly, cool as a cucumber. He hadn't been as malleable as Maverick felt against him, limbs turned to jelly, face blank.

Ice could probably tell him to get up and start doing the fucking macarena, and Maverick probably would. And if that wasn't a thought that went straight to his dick. How was it this fucking easy to get Maverick to listen to him? If he'd known that earlier, maybe Maverick would have lasted longer as an instructor at Top Gun. Ice wouldn't have had to get on his knees and grovel to Viper.

He wondered how far Maverick's line stretched before it grew taught. He wondered if anyone knew the answer to that.

He wondered if he'd ever find out.

He heard the shift in Maverick's breathing and looked down. Maverick was blinking rapidly, shifting his body slowly. He made the mistake of dropping back on his heels and let out a strangled moan when Ice's shoe dug into his crotch. Maverick looked down, then back up, each movement sluggish and uncoordinated as a newborn kitten's. He seemed to recognize Ice above him finally and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Hey," Ice said, smoothing his hands over Maverick's shoulders. "Let me take care of you, huh? You did great for me. That's probably the quietest I've ever seen you. Bet it felt good, didn't it?"

Cautiously, Maverick nodded a little, still dumbstruck. Ice continued touching him.

"It's been about forty-five minutes. You've been here the entire time, and so have I. All I did was make you kneel and sit still. Do you understand me?"

"Uh-huh," Maverick said in a gravelly voice. "I…uh…"

"Don't worry about it, Pete."

Maverick blinked. He ducked his head toward Ice. "Do you, um…want me to…"

"What about you?"

"I…" He pressed his forehead to Ice's leg again. "Sorry, I can't…I can't think right now."

Ice shifted his foot, and Maverick bit down hard on his lip. "Go ahead," he said. "You deserve it."

"Fuck," was all Maverick said, and ground his hips immediately against the arch of Ice's shoe, as if all he'd been waiting for was permission. He let out a choked moan, rubbing his face against Ice's knee. Ice tugged at his hair again, gripping it between his fingers, twisting it this way and that just to hear the pretty noises he made.

"So good," he murmured, and Maverick moaned again at the praise, his thrusts stuttering. Sweat began to dampen the back of his neck, soaking into the collar of his khakis. Ice lifted his foot, bumping it up against his clothed dick with every pass. "That's right. Look at you now. You should see yourself. You look so fucking perfect."

"Yeah," Maverick panted. His teeth scraped against Ice's slacks. "For you. For you, just for you. God, I think I'm gonna—"

Ice's breath caught in his throat and spots bloomed in front of his eyes. Maverick lifted his head to stare up at him. His cheeks were blotchy with color, his lips slick where he'd bitten them.

"Touch me," he gasped. "Please, please touch me."

Oh, what the hell.

Ice hooked his hands under Maverick's armpits and hauled him up onto his lap. For a moment they were a tangle of limbs and then Maverick had one arm wrapped around Ice's neck and the other furiously working at his zipper. Ice helped him, and together they yanked his pants and boxers down past his thighs.

Maverick all but cried when Ice got a hand on him, working from root to tip without remorse. Maverick's dick was already sticky with precome, making the slide easy, and he humped frantically into Ice's fist, digging his fingers into the back of the couch.

"Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck—" Maverick's spine snapped as he came, spilling into Ice's hand with a few reckless bucks of his hips that threatened to throw him off balance. He gasped, hot breath steaming up Ice's cheek.

"Jesus Christ," Ice said, clutching at Maverick's shirt. He immediately became aware of his dick throbbing in his own pants, but right now all he could do was sit there, whole body buzzing like he was the one who had just come. He scruffed Maverick's neck again, and the other pilot moaned, his spent dick twitching in Ice's hand.

"Fuck," Maverick said again, absently. "You want—"

"Yeah," Ice replied before Maverick could get the rest of his sentence out. He wiped his sticky hand on Maverick's thigh, moving him around so he could get at his belt.

It was clumsy work, Maverick palming him through his boxers, wrapping around him without finesse. But he made up for it in enthusiasm, and when Ice wrapped his own hand around Maverick's, the other pilot hissed through his teeth. Somewhere along the line their mouths bumped, nothing more than tongue and teeth and spit, and then Ice's teeth were latched in Maverick's shoulder and he was coming ropes, harder than he ever had before.

His heart knocked against his ribs painfully, and it felt like every breath he took would never be enough. And Maverick was— fucking hell, Maverick was licking the come off his hand. Ice stared at him.

"You can take the couch," he managed to say once he'd caught his breath, suddenly coming very violently to terms with the fact that both of their dicks were still out.

"I—" Maverick stared back at him, obviously not expecting that. "Uh, right. Sure. Or I could—"

"I don't mind," Ice blurted, feeling his face heat up. "Just the night."

"Yeah. Just the night." Maverick actually smiled at him, crooked and uncertain and small but a smile nonetheless, and Ice sank back into the couch cushions. "Can I use your shower?"

Chapter Text

His first memory of Ice was at the funeral.

He didn't have a good first memory of anybody else from his childhood. Not his mom or his dad— although he certainly had last memories of both of them— or even Maverick. The three of them had simply been there from the beginning, since before he could remember, an ever constant presence in those first few fuzzy years of his life where everyone had been convinced things were going to work out just fine.

But he remembered the first time he saw Ice. Rooster had been wedged between his mother and Maverick, blinking in the dull sunlight like he'd just come awake. They were standing in the low-cut grass surrounded by dozens of white crosses— and he remembered that, too. The neat field of crosses, only about a mile wide on each side but much too large already. Rooster hadn't been old enough to understand the significance of the thought, only that he knew that there were too many crosses and that soon enough one of them would be planted on top of his father.

They were one of the first ones there, and Rooster was starting to fidget. He was tired, and it felt like it had been ages since anyone had talked. He missed his mom's soothing words and Maverick's raspy voice. It didn't occur to him to miss his father. It didn't feel like a thing that was important yet. He wanted the people who were here right now, the people who were still alive.

He didn't really care about Goose right then. He just wanted someone to pick him up and hold him and talk to him.

There was the soft swish of grass as Carole turned around, one hand falling onto Rooster's shoulder absently. "Hey, Tom," she said quietly, as if there was risk in disturbing the silence of the cemetery. "Glad you could make it."

And it was funny, because Rooster found out much later that the entire staff of Top Gun had come to the funeral, even the commanders and the air boss, as was customary. But it was only Ice he remembered.

Rooster turned around, wondering who this new person was. He'd never met a Tom before, but his parents had brought home lots of different people— they'd brought home Maverick, after all, and he'd never left— over the years, most of them Navy or Navy-adjacent.

And it was Ice he saw, tall and broad-shouldered and generally huge. Rooster figured one of his hands could probably block out the sun if he lifted it to the sky. He was wearing the same pristine white uniform Maverick was, the uniform Rooster had never seen before and wouldn't see again for a very long time, a row of colorful ribbons pinned to his chest.

Ice dipped his head in acknowledgement and then replaced his cap, smoothing his windblown fluff of bleached hair down. He glanced at Maverick briefly, who was looking somewhere between Carole and Ice, and then back at Carole. He still hadn't said anything.

"Do you want to meet Bradley?" Carole asked, and suddenly Rooster was being lifted up into her arms, finally. He curled one arm precariously around her neck, waiting for her to adjust him. Ice was tall enough that Rooster still had to tilt his head to meet his blue-gray gaze.

Carole hitched him up even further, and for a moment, Rooster sank into her happily. Ice's eyes stayed fixed on him, deep and intense but without any sort of malice. "This is Tom. Say hello."

"Hi," Rooster said shyly, giving Ice a tiny wave. Ice's lips twitched briefly, and he seemed to relax.

"Hey, Bradley," he replied. "It's nice to meet you."

Rooster bobbed his head and, gaining some confidence, asked, "Do you work with my dad?"

Ice nodded. "That's right."

"And Mav, too?"

"Maverick, too," Ice said, looking amused. "My callsign is Iceman."

"That's a lot cooler than Tom," Rooster chirped. Carole held back her snort and dug her fingers into Rooster's side.

"That's not very nice," she said in his ear. Ice looked a little mortified and rushed to arrange his face. "Don't mind him. He's always been chatty, like his dad."

"It's okay," Ice said. "He's right. It was…it was good to see you. Looks like that's Slider over there."

"Is he another pilot?" Rooster blurted, even though he knew that one more slip-up and his mother would put him back down and start ignoring him again.

"He flies with me, in the backseat. Like your dad and Maverick."

"Cool!"

"Bradley," Carole said, voice hardening. She looked up at Ice again. "It was good to see you, too. Tell Ron hello for me, alright?"

"Sure," Ice said, trying to smile. It looked like he had just swallowed a lemon, and he turned quickly away from Carole. "Maverick."

"Kazansky," Maverick replied, not looking up at him. Ice hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something else, and then lifted a hand to Rooster and Carole before jogging across the grass.

Carole turned back towards the sun, and Rooster squirmed in her arms. He wanted to see who this Slider was, too. His mom never let him talk to any of the pilots that came over, and he wanted to know what kind of fun stuff they did that Maverick and his dad were always talking about when they thought Rooster was fast asleep. Stuff like barrel rolls and flybys and inverted dives— whatever any of those were.

"Brad, sit still."

This came from Maverick, in a dry, tired sort of voice, and Rooster immediately stilled. He knew better than to misbehave when Maverick talked to him like that. It was different than his mom or dad scolding him, because they never did it quite right. It was almost like they were trying very hard to be mad at him but failing miserably.

But when Maverick got mad at him, Rooster always listened. Because Maverick didn't get mad very often, and when he did, it was a little scary.

Only one of those things had changed after Goose's death, Rooster supposed. And now, sitting here in the shittiest diner of all diners, Rooster decided he would have picked one big scary moment as opposed to thousands of little, less scarier ones. At least he could have called it a fluke and moved the fuck on.

But it was mostly Ice he remembered that day, the aloofness he seemed to radiate only when he wasn't doing his job. Like he had been bred for the Navy and he was still trying to figure out how to do everything else. It was funny, in a way; he was the Iceman, and he didn't know what to say at a funeral.

Well, he wouldn't be the first one.

Rooster sipped his beer and peered through the slats in the blinds. A new set of taillights had appeared next to the Bronco, illuminating the cracked asphalt lot. Why Ice had chosen here of all places to meet was beyond him. He knew Ice had a house here; Phoenix had pointed it out to him the night they'd shipped in. She'd told him there was a bet going around about how many mistresses the COMPACFLT had, but Rooster knew the answer was a disappointing one and only one.

And Maverick probably would have strangled him if Rooster called him that to his face, if he had the balls to do it. Rooster didn't think he did, but he would have liked to see Maverick try. It would have been ironic, at the very least.

The door jangled open and Ice stepped in. He didn't bother looking around, instead making a beeline toward Rooster's booth and sliding in. He was wearing an old sweatshirt that was frayed at the cuffs and jeans that had seen better days. Decidedly not admiral material, but Rooster figured that was the point.

"Hi, Bradley."

Rooster didn't say anything, choosing to study Ice a minute longer. His hair was almost fully gray now, soft and free of gel, a few strands drooping over his forehead. He had lost all of those hard edges and was now, remarkably, soft-looking. Old. But still sharp as ever, Rooster decided. There was no light lost behind those eyes.

"Do you want a refill?" Ice asked, gesturing to his bottle. Rooster glanced down at it.

"Sure," he said, and Ice took the bottle from him, walking up to the counter. Rooster scratched at a chip in the linoleum table, trying to decide what Ice was hoping to accomplish here. They could have met at his house, or at his office on base, or at the fucking Hard Deck, for all he cared. Instead, they were in an empty diner at the outskirts of town. Nowhereville, USA.

Ice came back with a bottle and a can, and Rooster barely suppressed a smirk. "Mav'll skin you," he said, taking the fresh beer bottle and twisting the cap off. Ice lifted one shoulder in a shrug, setting the Coke can down on the table.

"Mav's not here, is he?"

"Good thing," Rooster said. "What are we doing here?"

Ice leaned back in the booth, but his posture remained military-precise. Rooster wondered, not for the first time, what he'd been doing all these years. If he'd let himself get consumed in Navy life again, or if he'd never stopped in the first place.

Did he really care? He didn't know. It was like looking at a stranger, at the bleach-blond pilot who'd been larger than life to him so long ago. Except now, Rooster didn't have his mother or Maverick to hide behind. He couldn't duck his head or run away if things got to be too much. He didn't even want to.

"It's been a long time since we've talked," Ice said, as if that was a reason. It certainly wasn't a good one. Rooster had been here for long enough that if Ice had really wanted to talk to him, he would have done it sooner rather than later. He could have shown up on Rooster's fucking door, for God's sake.

"You're wrong. It's been a long time since you tried to talk to me."

Ice dipped his head. "Right."

"I didn't think you'd ever give up. I had lots of kindling for my fireplace; I guess I should thank you for that." Rooster took a small drink of his beer to soothe his nerves. "And I don't want to talk to you."

"You don't?"

"No," he said. "I don't."

"Then why did you come?"

"I had nothing better to do."

"Bradley," Ice said, and Rooster hated him suddenly. He didn't think he'd actually ever hated Ice before; Maverick, yes. But Ice was the man he could trust, the man who looked out for him but never dug his teeth in. Until. Ice was supposed to be on his side, not Maverick's.

Rooster should have known better, in hindsight. As long as sex was on the table, Ice was never going to be on his side. But he'd been hopeful. Sue him.

"Either you tell me why you dragged me out to this dump in the middle of the night, or I'm leaving. I have to fly tomorrow."

"Okay. You're right. How are you doing?"

Rooster barely managed not to roll his eyes. Hopeful. Yeah fucking right. "You want to know how my life's going? Awesome. Positively great. I'm living the dream."

"I meant at Top Gun," Ice said, not trying very hard to contain his exhaustion.

"It's fine."

Ice inclined his head, practically begging for more. He was worse than Maverick sometimes. Rooster searched for some interesting bone to throw him. He didn't want to cooperate, not with the half that had helped ruin his life, but the sooner they got all this talking over with, the sooner Rooster could go home.

"Nobody's very enthusiastic," he said. "They all want to fly, obviously. But they don't really want to die, either."

"You think it's a suicide mission?"

"You don't?"

"I think it's a very intense, very dangerous task. That's why only the best of the best are here, but I'm sure you know all that already. But it's survivable, if you treat it as such."

Rooster nodded. "Maybe if you were teaching us instead of Maverick, we'd be more optimistic about our chances."

"You shouldn't be optimistic, Bradley. You should be realistic. And if I taught you, nobody would hear a word of what I said."

Ice was probably right about that. Rooster could almost imagine Hangman's jaw dropping. It would be like Career Day at school, where everyone else had brought in parents who were nurses or accountants or engineers and Rooster had brought Maverick, a real, honest to God fighter pilot. Except no one would know it but Rooster and Ice. It would be their little secret again, like the good old days when Ice let Rooster have an extra scoop of ice cream straight from the carton.

And who cared if every single student was too busy ogling at the COMPACFLT to pay attention to the mission? So what if they all died? At least Rooster would die happy.

"Yeah, Maverick's real realistic. Yesterday he made us go outside and play football on the beach."

"I heard about that."

"And you haven't fired him yet?"

"I posted him here, Bradley, I can't just…" Ice steepled his fingers together and put his forehead against them. Rooster stared at him. "You would have found out about it eventually."

"It's great to see you haven't changed, Ice. Jesus. What, do you want to make my life as miserable as possible? What the fuck did I ever do to you, huh?"

"Nothing."

"Obviously, there's something, if you actually thought it was a good idea to put me and Maverick in a room together. Did you think I would just forgive him and get over it? Did you think we could be the happy family again, like we used to?"

"We were never happy," Ice seethed. "I don’t want to go back to that. Look, I had no choice. It was either that or Maverick was about to get canned for good. I figured that you were old enough that you could be an adult about it."

"I'm the one? He's in charge of this mission and he's playing games! Maverick hasn't acted like an adult one day in his goddamn life. I'm the one who has to deal with it, okay? Me and everyone else. He's going to get us all killed."

"No, he's not."

"He's no teacher, and he doesn't believe in us. He probably thinks the only one who can fly this is him, and until he finds three other duplicates of himself to fill the cockpits, we're all shit out of luck. Out of all the people, Ice. All the losers in the world. Why did it have to be him?"

Ice looked down at the table. "You didn't see him die," he said after a long time. "I know how this must sound, especially to you, but until you've been there, you won't ever know what it's like."

Rooster was silent.

"It's the most helpless feeling in the world," Ice continued. "In the military, you're trained…you're taught that there's an answer to everything. Maybe there's not always a right answer, or a wrong one, but at least there's something. You can do something, you can make a choice, and they tell you to make the right one, and that's what you already want to do, because you're still sitting in the chair. And maybe that's all crap. But when you see something like that…"

He trailed off, still staring at the table. "I've thought about it a long time. Why. I still lie awake in bed and think why. But there's no answer to watching someone die from your own jet. You can't do anything about it. Nobody can. You just have to watch it happen."

"Why didn't you tell me this back then?" Rooster couldn't help but ask. "When you— what you did. You told me it was for my own good. You didn't say any of this. Maybe if you had explained—"

"Would that have changed anything? Really?" Ice's brow creased sadly. And he was right; Rooster wouldn't have listened to a lick of it. "I had this friend, during flight school. Bill. One day he lost his cool completely while he was flying, and he handed in his wings. Maverick was the one who— who got him back on the ground, actually. I had to do something, Bradley."

"So you started screwing him," Rooster said flatly. "Most people would send flowers. Or alcohol."

"Mav doesn't drink." Pepsi, then. "It wasn't about that. It never was. Well…for Maverick, it probably was. But not for me. I needed him to keep flying, and I thought it was the only option."

"Why'd you care so much?" Ice was a politician— he hadn't gotten to be COMPACFLT by sitting around on his ass all day, after all. People like Maverick would only drag him down. It would be a lot wiser to cut all ties to the guy, seeing as he stood for everything Ice was against.

"Your father saved him, and I…maybe it wasn't my fault, but that doesn't mean I didn't have any part in it. It was my fault just as much as it was Maverick's, but he wouldn't tell you that. Without Goose, it was like…like he didn't have anything to live for anymore. He saved my life. He was my wingman. Sometimes, wingmen need to help each other out."

Ice finally cracked open his Coke and took a drink. "Do you understand?"

"No," Rooster said honestly. Would he do something like for Phoenix? He didn't think so, and Phoenix was his friend before she was his coworker. But then, they'd never watched anyone die together.

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

"Was it really that bad?"

Ice nodded a single time. "Yes," he said softly. "Yes, it was."

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, gaze distant. "I want to apologize, for what I did to you."

"A little late now."

"I always meant to, Bradley, but I just—" Ice's jaw clenched. "Maverick never would have, and it seemed pointless to try, because the three of us…and he couldn't live without me. It wouldn't have been the same; it wouldn't have even been alright. It was the easy way out, and I knew that, and I took it anyway. But I never want you to think that I stopped loving you, before that or after it."

Rooster bristled. "You loved me so much you pulled all the military strings you had. You loved me so much you let me walk out of my own fucking home. That's not love, Ice. That's not giving a fuck about anyone but yourself. You always have. That's why you're here. That's how everyone gets here. They stop caring about people and start caring about how to control them. And you hit the jackpot, didn't you?"

Ice stared at him. Rooster wanted him to deny it, even if he was lying. Wanted him to try. If Ice tried, maybe there was still some spark left in him. Some tiny bit of human Rooster could latch onto.

"I guess I did," was all he said, and Rooster's heart sank.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't walk out that door."

"You miss me."

Rooster, who had been rising from the booth, sat back down abruptly.

"That's why you're here, isn't it? You wouldn't have come if you didn't want to see me, just one more time. Unless you've come to tell me how great your life is now that you don't have any family left, but I doubt that. Tell me I'm wrong."

"I don't miss you," Rooster said. "I miss the person you used to be. Why did you do it?"

"Maverick asked me to."

"That's not an answer."

"It is," Ice replied evenly, but Rooster didn't think so. Just another excuse. "I was afraid that if I didn't, something awful might have happened between the three of us. Something that couldn't be fixed."

Rooster tried and failed not to let his temper flare again. "You thought this could be fixed? Seriously? You thought that I would just accept it and go choose to do something else with my life?"

"You're flying, aren't you?"

"If you and Maverick hadn't set me back, I could be promoted by now, I—"

"You're doing just fine, Rooster. Maverick got what he wanted, and you got what you wanted, eventually. You both won. I did it because I knew that nothing would stop you, least of all anything Maverick tried to do. And look at you now."

Rooster's mustache twitched irritably. "No thanks to you."

"Come on, Bradley."

"It's true. You— you were supposed to be my friend. I trusted you, Ice. And you chose him over me. I thought that out of everybody, I could count on you." Rooster bristled. He'd spent years trying to tamp down his emotions, focusing on making up for the lost years of his career, on being the best pilot he could. But now, looking Ice in the eye and seeing nothing he liked, it was hard to forget it all. "God, the sex must be really great."

Ice's eyes flicked away shamefully. "It's more complicated than that," he murmured. "Maverick needs help. He's always needed help."

"He needs to get over it," Rooster sneered. "The rest of us have."

"For God's sake, you can't get over a man dying in your arms. That changes you. I only hope you never have to go through that."

"Yeah, like you care about my feelings," he said, even though he knew that wasn't true. The mere fact that Ice was here, that he'd asked to talk to Rooster, meant more to Rooster than he would willingly admit. Even if it was all evasion and reasons that were supposed to go way over Rooster's head— for his own good, apparently.

Ice had cared about his feelings, once. Maybe he always had. But Maverick stood between them like an impenetrable obstacle from the very beginning.

Why couldn't you have been my dad's pilot instead?

"Good luck on the mission," Ice said. It felt like a finality, like he'd run out of philosophies to push. "You're going to need it."

"I'm going to need a lot more than luck. We all are."

"Realistic," Ice remarked. "You're learning already."

Chapter Text

The infirmary smelled the same way it did in his dreams. The smell was one of the few constants in Maverick's life, he supposed; somehow, it followed him everywhere. Soap, fresh sheets, starch, antiseptic. The smell of cleanliness. Of health.

Maverick hated it.

He stood while the others sat on the unoccupied beds, all crammed together like sardines. All of them were watching the sheets that had been drawn around Bob and Phoenix like hawks, faces drawn and tense. Maverick was looking in that direction, too, but his eyes were fixed on the glowing red Exit sign over the double doors.

He wondered if they all knew how serious this was. How serious flying was, even if it was just going up in a hop. It was only training, but he'd lost Goose in training.

He wondered if any of them had ever watched someone die. He wondered if it mattered either way.

"Sir…?" Coyote asked tentatively, and Maverick forced himself to look over. Coyote scratched his cheek, as if searching for the right words to say. Maverick didn't even know how to comfort him. "Are they going to be…"

Now all eyes turned to him, waiting. Expecting. Maverick licked his dry lips. I don't know. I don't know.

You have your team now, don't you? This is exactly what you wanted.

He saw Goose's bloody face, inches from his own. Sir, you've got to let him go. It was only training. It was only a bird strike. It was only a flat spin.

"They're going to be fine," Hangman snapped, bristling. His face was pale but defiant, and Maverick realized Hangman was doing his best to keep his shit together, same as he was. "Relax, Javy. They both walked in here right as rain."

Coyote nodded, his gaze still lingering on Maverick, who dipped his head in response. The rest of his students glanced at each other, contemplating such information from an unreliable source like Hangman.

"He's right," Maverick said. His voice scraped against his dry throat, and he cleared it. "Ejections always come with a couple of bruises, but it’s a good sign that they're both conscious."

As if confirming, Phoenix hissed "Son of a bitch!" from behind the sheet. A couple of the aviators chuckled, and Coyote cracked a small smile when Hangman nudged him.

"See?" The word wobbled coming out. He wanted something to drink. "They'll be just fine, Coyote."

"Told you," Hangman muttered under his breath, but after that he thankfully shut his mouth.

Maverick's legs were starting to feel like Jell-O, but he couldn't sit down. That would be admitting defeat in some way, however small. He was the captain here, he was in charge, he shouldn't be shaking like a newborn kitten…and yet.

He couldn't stop thinking of Bradley's white face, the awkward angle of his broken leg. The cry he'd let out that Maverick felt in his bones long before he'd even heard it. If he couldn't protect Phoenix and Bob from something as simple as a bird strike, how could he make sure that they survived the mission, hundreds of miles away from him?

How could he make sure Rooster survived?

And Rooster…Rooster wasn’t even here. He was the only one missing. Maverick loathed him for it, and yet, he didn't want Rooster to see the desperate, terrified look on his face. And maybe, he didn't want to see the look on Rooster's face, either.

The sheet was flung open dramatically, and the gaze the nurse gave the group of them bordered on disapproving. Maverick made no excuses. This was his team now, and if they wanted to ruffle the bedsheets a little, so be it. They would do it as a whole.

The nurse snapped a clipboard to Phoenix's bed and crossed the room over to them, heels clicking. "I don't suppose any of you are injured, too," she said tightly, looking pointedly at where Fanboy was sitting on a pillow.

"Nada," he said with a guilty smile.

The expression that crossed her face screamed, Then you should all leave, but she only folded her hands behind her back and turned to Maverick.

"We're going to keep the lieutenants for the night, but they appear to be in good health. Minor bruises around the ribcage due to the ejection, and no signs of head injuries. Lieutenant Trace has a light sprain in her shoulder from the impact, but otherwise they're only dusty and sore."

"So they can still fly?" Coyote cut in. The nurse glanced at him and nodded.

"Yes, with a couple days of rest in between to heal up those ribs. You confirmed a bird strike?" This was directed at Maverick.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I have to write it in the patient chart. Two visitors at a time, and then I want you out of here. The lieutenants need to rest right now." She paused, gaze sweeping over the aviators before pulling Maverick aside. "Does anyone need anything for shock?"

"They're all holding up," Maverick assured her. "I'll send them in if that changes, though."

The nurse nodded and then offered him a small smile as if she could see the concern written on his face. "Don't worry, Captain. They're both fine. Go see for yourself."

So Maverick did, taking each step as if he were walking to his own grave.

Phoenix propped herself up on one elbow immediately. "Sir," she said, meaning to salute, but Maverick waved her down.

"Hardly seems appropriate," he muttered. "How are you?"

"I hope I never see another bird again," Bob said sheepishly. "Is that Hangman over there?"

"Could be."

"Sure looks like it," Phoenix grumbled, but not with a lot of malice.

"Play nice," Maverick chastised. Phoenix frowned up at him, as if she heard the weariness in his voice. "You both have better things to think about right now. Like getting out of this place, for one. Your ribs hurt at all?"

Phoenix shrugged nonchalantly, and Bob glared at her. "You screamed like a girl, Nat. Don't lie to the captain."

"Shut up!" she hissed, cheeks flushing.

"You don't have to lie to me," Maverick said. Their bantering only managed to sicken him to his stomach. Phoenix and Bob could be dead right now. And then what would happen? Two less pilots to fly the mission, good pilots. People like…people like Goose. One less seat to put out at graduation. Two less seats to fill the cockpit. "I've been through it myself. It's a real bitch."

Phoenix looked a little scandalized at his language, but she finally eased back into the bed. "I suppose you don't fly the way you do without a few mishaps," she said with a chuckle.

A few mishaps. Or one, really big one.

"I suppose," he replied, trying to smile. "I'm glad to see you're both alright."

"Thank you," Bob mumbled sheepishly. "Sorry about the plane, Captain."

"It's okay, Floyd. Your life is more important than a piece of metal."

Phoenix chuffed. "An expensive piece of metal," she said, and Maverick felt a rush of affection for both of them so strong it made him dizzy.

I'm sorry, he thought. I'm so, so sorry.

"Make sure you exaggerate to the others," Maverick said, nodding at the other aviators who were still watching them. "Maybe they'll take it easy on you next time. And get some rest; that's an order."

"Yes, sir," Phoenix and Bob said in unison, both of them hiding their smiles.

He couldn't get out of the infirmary fast enough. The room seemed to stretch on forever, and each step he took felt like two steps back. Finally, Maverick made it through the double doors on the other side of the room. He rubbed his palms on his slacks, leaning back against the wall.

"Maverick?"

His eyes slid closed, and his nails dug into the palms of his hands. Maverick swallowed past his dry throat, then raised his arm in a pathetic salute. "Admiral, sir."

Please, please leave me alone.

When he opened his eyes, he realized Ice wasn't looking at him. Instead, he was staring down the hallway. "What brings you here?"

"Minor incident." His words came out clipped, like he was speaking to Cyclone or Warlock. Someone who wasn't as important as the COMPACFLT. Someone who didn't hold his life in their hands. "An accident during training, sir. No casualties."

"An accident?" Ice's eyebrows shot up, but he still didn't turn to Maverick. The stars on his shoulders gleamed like they were freshly polished; there must be big meetings today. Big, important meetings that required big, important people.

"Yes, sir," Maverick made himself say. He felt like he was going to throw up. "Lieutenants Trace and Floyd were in a bird strike, sir. They had to eject over the mountains. They're unharmed and being kept for observation."

"I see," Ice said in that same, neutral tone. Maverick thought they might stand here forever, and he would simply be kept on edge waiting for Ice's next words. But then Ice's hand lifted from his side, impossibly slow and much too fast at the same time, and caught hold of the side of Maverick's neck.

He felt his whole body slump against the wall so hard it made a thunk, too loud in the empty hallway. His knees locked, the only thing preventing him from sliding to the ground. His mind went completely, effortlessly blank.

"I told you…" Maverick tried to stammer out, but his vision was going steadily gray. Yes, this was what he wanted, no matter how much he tried to deny it. He craved it like a man dying of thirst in the desert. Ice's fingers squeezed around his throat so hard he thought they might bruise. Mark him up forever, remind everyone, here lies the property of Admiral Kazansky.

He'd never look in the mirror again without imagining those bruises.

Ice retracted his hand just as Maverick's teeth tried to snap at it. He gave his head a fierce shake, pulling himself back up to parade rest. Cold sweat popped out on his brow.

"Don't touch me," Maverick rasped. Everything was spinning. The light reflecting off Ice's stars hurt his eyes. His skin crawled where Ice's hand had been. "I'll tell them. Don't think I won't."

Ice still didn't look at him. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, tugging them down over both wrists. His expression hadn't changed a bit.

"I suggest you take a few minutes to recuperate, Captain," he said. "You look like you're going to fall over."

The moment he started walking, Maverick took off in the opposite direction, so quickly it was nearly a sprint. He turned each corner at lightning speed, not letting up until he burst into the instructor's locker room. Maverick ripped off his jacket and kicked off his boots, sending both of them flying across the tile and banging into the locker bays. He wasn't even out of his shirt and boxers before twisting the shower knob, sending a freezing cold spray blasting across his face.

He jumped back at it before sticking his head under again, waiting for his teeth to start chattering before pulling away. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck—"

Someone could have seen them. Someone like Cyclone or Warlock or Rooster or even fucking Hangman, for all he knew, someone someone someone—

He'd get kicked off the mission and there would be nobody to care, nobody to make sure they all came back alive. Someone to dig six new graves in the ground, someone to send six letters to six different houses, someone to—

"Fuck!" His voice rang off the tile walls, echoing back to him in a comical, high-pitched imitation. Maverick pushed himself up against the wall underneath the showerhead, out of the way of the water cascading down around his feet. It was hard and unforgiving and icy cold, and it reminded him of Ice, of Tom, of the way he didn't even care…

He wanted to punch something, but even he knew that he was risking his whole career taking his anger out on a wall, so he walked back over to the lockers and kicked both of his boots across the floor again. That made him feel a little better. Then he sat down on the bench and put his head in his hands.

His wet shirt clung to his skin, and after a while it became a little uncomfortable, and Maverick was aware the shower was still running. So he peeled off his shirt and shorts and stepped back under the water again for barely more than a second, just enough to get himself wet.

His eyes burned with tears that he desperately wanted to cry, but the day was barely half over. The less he thought about it, the better it would get. That's what everyone had told him about Goose. But what they didn't know was that he still thought about Goose all the time, even now.

It was easy to forget Ice and everything that had happened between them, like wiping away an embarrassing stain. But this was Top Gun. There were memories here that even he couldn't smudge.

Maverick dried himself off and dressed in clean clothes, fetching his boots from the floor and lacing them up tightly. He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking the damp strands out.

He wouldn't let Ice get to him again. He had a mission to focus on; he couldn't afford to have any distractions. Definitely not as one as large and complicated and infuriating as the Iceman.

He'd meant it about going to the brass, but Maverick had been wrong. He had six aviators to lose. Six lives he could save. Sixfold what he'd let happen to Goose.

Ice wouldn't stand in his way. Not this time.

~

It was just his luck that Rooster was in the briefing room when Maverick came in.

He didn't know who he'd pissed off up in the great big sky, but he doubted he was in anyone's good books lately, so it hardly mattered either way. Maverick dropped his stack of files on the table— the paperwork for Phoenix and Bob's lost F-18 sitting torturously on top. Rooster turned his head, caught a glimpse of him, and went back to looking out the window.

He wondered if Rooster had been here this entire time. Waiting for someone, maybe. Or waiting for no one. If he even cared about his wingmen at all.

I will, Maverick thought. I will if you don’t.

"They're going to keep Phoenix and Bob overnight for observation, but they're…they're alright." It was too easy to talk to Rooster's back, as if he didn't matter so much.

Rooster was silent for a long moment. "That's good," he finally replied, his voice flat.

Yeah, I guess it is. Much better than the other option, at least.

"Rooster—"

"Save it, old man."

Maverick shut his mouth, his shoulders sinking. Rooster sighed tightly.

"Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"You goddamn know what," he snapped. "Why did you pull my papers, sir?"

Maverick's throat clicked. "I don't want to do this, Bradley."

"Too bad, because I do." Rooster spun around, mustache bristling. "Why'd you do it, huh? Why'd you ruin my fucking life?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me!" Maverick closed his eyes. "Mav, you were supposed to…I thought you…how could you do that to me? How could you decide my whole life for me? All I've ever wanted to do is fly, you knew that! And you still did it!"

"You don't understand."

Rooster's eyes blazed. "Understand what? What your problem is? Why you never liked me? You've always treated me like a little kid, even now. I don't care if I don't understand. I want you to tell me."

"Never liked you?" Maverick's voice sounded funny to his own ears. "I— Bradley, I loved you, I don't know where you—"

"You sure have a funny way of showing it," Rooster said. "If you did, you would have told me a long time ago. You would tell me now."

If you did you would have apologized, you would have called, you wouldn't have waited until you needed me.

No. No. This was not like Ice. He was doing this for Rooster, to keep him safe, to keep him alive—

And what is Ice doing?

Thinking about himself. Like always.

"God, you're just as bad as Ice," Rooster hissed, as if he could read Maverick's mind. Maverick flinched visibly at the mention, and Rooster nearly smiled. "He wouldn't tell me, either. Said it was something I should ask you. What a load of bullshit that was. I knew you would never say it. You just don't have the balls."

"You talked to Ice," Maverick said weakly.

Rooster nodded furiously. "He told me what you made him do. He told me he was sorry, which was more than you've ever said to me."

"I didn't make him do anything." But of course that was a lie. Even Maverick knew it. First, he'd made Ice fuck him, then he'd made Ice come with him to birthday parties and barbecues and Sunday dinners. Then, for the cherry on top, he'd made Ice rescind Rooster's application from the Naval Academy.

But the thought of Rooster, Goose's little boy, getting up into a plane…climbing a tree…driving a freaking car. Anything that could get him killed, Maverick had to try to prevent.

"He actually cares about me, unlike some people," Rooster continued. "He wants me to go on the mission."

"I do care about you! I care about you more than anyone ever will, Bradley! I am your father, I'm the one who gets to decide whether you live or die!" At this, Rooster's eyes narrowed with disbelief. "Ice doesn't give a shit about you. He doesn't give a shit about anybody, the only thing he cares about are his fancy stars and all his medals, he doesn't give a fuck whether you live, not like I do!"

"At least he lets me do what I want!"

"Life isn't about doing what you want, it's about doing what you—"

"Don't be a hypocrite, Captain. You do what you want day in and day out, just like you've always done. You want me alive? For what? So you can make me miserable?"

"It's better than dead!"

"I don't think so!" Rooster roared. Maverick shrank back at the outburst, head pounding. He couldn't breathe. It felt like the world was closing in on him. Don't say that don't say that don't I can't I can't do it anymore please I think about it sometimes and I can't stop he's everywhere and he never leaves and he tells me it'll be alright just a little more Mav just take the knife swallow the pills finish the bottle and end it all because this life has lasted too long and you couldn’t even raise my son right Mav couldn't even be a real father what does that make you why should you get to live while I'm—

While I'm dead.

"I don't think so," Rooster repeated, softer now. "I'd rather die doing something I love than live like this."

"Don't say that," Maverick whispered. He was falling into the sea, the parachute wrapping around him. Suffocating. There was so much blood. He saw Rooster's head slinging to the side on a broken neck. The letter in the mail. The coffin in the ground, in between two others. "I won't let you. I can't let you."

"Then I'll find someone else who will," Rooster said evenly. He meant Ice. Maverick knew he meant Ice. His stomach lurched.

"I made a promise to your mother to protect you. And I promised your father, too. I won't let you, Rooster."

Rooster's expression flickered angrily at the mention of his parents. "They wouldn't have wanted this. They would have wanted me to be happy. They would have been proud of me."

You mean they would want you to die?

Why should you get to live Mav why should it be you—

"I don't have to prove anything to you," Rooster said. His mouth trembled. "You're not my father. You're never going to be my father, so don't pretend that you are. Dad wouldn't have pulled my papers. He would have wanted me to become a pilot, like he was. He would have— he would have loved it."

Maverick felt his focus break. Hot tears spilled down his cheeks, soaking into the neck of his shirt. Don't talk about him, you didn't even know him, I was his friend, I'm supposed to—

"Damn you," Rooster murmured. "Why did you let him die? Why couldn't you save him?"

"I tried, Bradley, you don't know how badly I tried, if I could do anything—"

"You could let me go on this mission." He set his jaw, eyes tracking the tears dripping down Maverick's face. "If you ever cared about me, if you cared about him, you wouldn't fucking look at me like I'm your burden. You would understand how much I want this."

I just wish you didn't. I wish you weren't so much like me.

"No." Maverick's voice cracked miserably. Rooster's face fell, and he looked away in obvious disappointment. "I'm sorry, Bradley. But I can't. I just can't. I can't do that again."

"Why can't you trust me? Why can't you— dammit, why can't you just be normal?" Rooster stalked past him towards the door. Their shoulders bumped, and Maverick spun around, choking down a painful sob. "You want me to prove it to you? Fine, I will. I swear to God I fucking will."

"Bradley, don't—" Maverick reached out to grab him, but Rooster darted away from him angrily. "Please, baby bird."

"Don't call me that," Rooster snarled. "You're going to regret this, Maverick. Like you've regretted every single fucking day of your existence."

He looked Maverick up and down, sneering. "He would have hated your guts."

It doesn't matter it doesn't matter I tried to save him I swear I tried—

Not hard enough.

"Captain." Maverick's back straightened immediately at the voice. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying hastily to wipe away his tears. They were cold. He wondered how long he'd been standing there, staring off into space. Trying to will Rooster back to him, as if wanting it hard enough could make it happen.

"Simpson," he replied, voice raw.

"I ran into Lieutenant Bradshaw outside," Cyclone said from behind him. "I take it he's on his way to the infirmary?"

"I wouldn't know." Cyclone was quiet for a moment, as if trying to figure out what Maverick was thinking. Fat chance, buddy. "Spit it out, whatever you want to say."

"I…" The comment seemed to catch him off guard. "The uranium plant is going into production faster than we anticipated. We only have one week to prepare the detachment before we need to move, and Admiral Kazansky and I have come to a conclusion. Based on your attitude lately, both toward your commanding officers and the mission itself, I've decided to remove you as instructor."

Cyclone hesitated, waiting for Maverick to retort. But he didn't have anything to say. He was too busy thinking about the rafters in the hangar all covered in bird shit, and the shower curtain hanging from the rod in the bathroom of the Airstream. Nothing I've ever done is enough. So why even try at all?

"So far, you haven't proven to me that any of your students are capable of even completing the mission course, let alone its objectives. And frankly, you don't seem inclined to try. After what happened today, I think it's best if we part ways."

Maverick blinked slowly. A headache was starting to pound between his temples. "Kazansky, huh?"

"I'm aware you two have a…tumultuous relationship."

He laughed. It was sharp and watery and so loud it hurt his ears. "You wouldn't even know the half of it, Admiral. Is that all?"

"Um…yes. Maverick—" Cyclone broke off. Maverick remembered Ice's words in the locker room, a million years ago. I'm— I'm sorry. About Goose. Everyone liked him.

Right. Everyone liked the dead man. That was how it always went, until the world was full of assholes who weren't good enough to kick off yet.

"Maverick," Cyclone said again, despondently. Ice, reaching out for him, in the reflection of the metal locker. Touch me, Maverick thought. Touch me and make it real. Cyclone's fingers brushed the back of his jacket, and then retreated. Or maybe he had imagined the whole thing.

Not real enough.

Chapter Text

Somehow, Ice ended up convincing himself to attend Bradley Bradshaw's tenth birthday party. The worst part was, it wasn't even as bad as he thought it would be.

Except for the elephant in the room, of course. But Bradley had been so enamored with Ice— from the stories he told about Goose during their time at the Academy to the scale model Tomcat kit he'd gotten as a birthday gift to the general excitement of someone new to talk to— that he'd barely had five seconds to even think about Maverick, let alone talk to him.

Which was just as well, because he didn't know what the hell he would even say.

Maverick was slouched on the back deck with a can of Pepsi in his hand, watching Bradley drag Ice around all his favorite spots in the yard. The hole in the fence that the rabbits had chewed. The garden that was full of worms. The giant oak tree that Bradley admitted— in confidence, of course— he'd tried to climb once when Uncle Mav was taking a nap, but was thus far unsuccessful. They went in circles so many times that Ice began to feel dizzy, but he let the kid tow him around regardless.

He'd never been much for children, but Bradley was too hard to resist. And he reminded Ice of Goose in such a sad, nearly bittersweet way that he couldn't help himself.

But he knew from the blank look on Maverick's face that his wingman could say the same, and that was why he was sitting on the deck.

Finally, Carole cajoled her son inside with the promise of leftover cake, and Bradley reluctantly let go of Ice's hand, bounding up the steps of the deck. Ice watched him disappear into the house after his mother, tucking his hands into his pockets. The sun was sinking low in the sky, casting long shadows across the yard, and Ice felt the long day tugging at him.

"That was a lot," he said, half to himself. Half a dozen other ten-year-olds for three hours was no joke. It was a little like being the commander of a squad, except everyone was half his height and twice as energetic. And no one listened to him.

Ice sat down next to Maverick on the step. To his surprise, the other man reached between his legs and pulled out a bottle of beer for him. "Thanks," he said, twisting the top off.

"Least I could do."

He supposed that was true. "Is that kid always a ball of fire, or did he just have too much sugar?"

Maverick lifted one shoulder. "Dunno," he said. "I guess."

It wasn't really an answer, so Ice took the cue and drank his beer. They sat there, the only sound the soft swishing of the wind through grass that needed to be cut desperately. Maverick took a small sip of his Pepsi, resting the can on his knees. Ice thought about doing a number of things: putting a hand on his leg, his arm, his neck; kissing him; apologizing; asking him why. He wondered if Maverick's mouth would taste like cake or Pepsi or both, if it would be so sweet that Ice would get sick to his stomach.

The next morning, Ice had woken up to an empty house. The only sign Maverick had ever been there at all was the bottle still sitting on the kitchen table. Ice had stared at it for a couple of minutes, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, before unscrewing the top and dumping its contents in the sink.

He'd only gotten a single letter since, a scrap of notebook paper smeared with the remains of a bad eraser. Something meaningless about one of Maverick's squad getting busted for Cuban cigars, and then at the very bottom, a date. Bradley's birthday. Maverick hadn't asked, hadn't requested, hadn't even begged. He'd just written the date and the time and the reasoning.

And now Ice was here.

The screen door banged open, and Ice heard the slap of Carole's bare feet on the deck. "Want to go start the dishes, honey?" she asked, one hand stroking through Maverick's hair. He actually tried to shrug her touch off, which surprised Ice, before getting to his feet slowly. The door shut again softly and Carole took his place, pulling her legs up to her chest.

"It's been a while," she said, smiling a little.

"Yeah," Ice said, finding that he could return that smile. Besides the funeral, it had been more than a decade since they'd last spoken. Carole and Goose had been freshly engaged then, as cheesy and disgusting as a pair of lovebirds could be. "A while."

"Are you still with Ron?"

"Actually, I'm…I'm not flying anymore." Somehow it was complicated to explain the void of time to her. His wingman's dead RIO's wife. "It's more like telling everyone else how to fly now."

"Ah," Carole said, her eyes twinkling. "Right, captain. Pete told me."

"He did?"

"Mhm. You're the only one he really talks about anymore." At this, Ice had no choice but to look down at his lap. "Well. I guess if you think about it, you're the only one he's ever talked about, period. Don't look so ashamed about it."

"I'm not, I'm—" Ice swallowed and took another drink of his beer. He set it down on the deck, resting his weight on his hands. "I'm sorry, Carole. About what happened. I was going to tell you, at…I know it doesn't mean much, but—"

"It means a lot, honey." Carole touched his arm gently. "I know you are. If you weren't, you wouldn't be here. And I'm not just talking about Brad. He's cute, but I reckon in another decade's time he wouldn't remember if the president himself was here."

"He is cute," Ice admitted. "You're right; I'm not…here for him. But I would like to be, if you don't mind."

"Now why would I mind?"

"I don't know…I guess…it's not weird?"

"Why, because we haven't had a real chat since we've been a lot younger and a lot dumber? Because coincidence struck at the wrong time? Tom, there wasn't a darn thing you could do about it, and I wish you wouldn't take a page out of Maverick's book that way. If you two both keep on walkin' around like chickens with your heads cut off, it doesn't mean much to Bradley who's sticking around."

Well, that was certainly a way to put it.

"Yeah," he repeated on a sigh. "I don't— no, I suppose it wouldn't be weird."

Carole snorted. "I appreciate it, Tom. But I don't need the charity of your heart. I know you wouldn't really want to."

"I don't." At least that part was true. "But I think I should. Maverick, he's— someone should do it, and if it can't be him, it should be me. Not because of what happened, but because…because I think I'll be there, anyway."

Carole looked at him. "You're a good man, you know?"

Not good enough.

"He doesn't talk to us, most of the time. It's like he's got nothing to say, like it doesn't even matter. It's like…sort of like he's trying not to let himself break, even though I can tell he wants to. I remember how he used to be, him and Nick. He was a completely different person. And now…"

She trailed off, shaking her head. "I wish I could do something to help him out. But I don't have a clue what. He hardly looks at Bradley. That's the worst part, I think. For me. He loved that kid like Brad was his own. Now he can't hardly…well, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Ice asked, although he knew perfectly well what the answer was. Carole's brows lifted in confirmation. "That's not why I'm here. That's why he invited me, but that's not why I'm here."

"Same difference." Carole gestured for the beer bottle, and Ice handed it to her. She took a quick, nearly guilty drink before passing it back. "Pete's had a really screwed up life. All the stuff that happened to his dad, and then his mother killed herself. They were both dead before he was ten, and he went into foster care. Goose was his only family for a long time. Before me and Bradley, he was all Pete ever had. I'm not telling you all this so you can take pity on him."

"Why are you telling it to me?"

"He's hurt. He needs help. Whatever he sees in you, it's enough to want you around when it gets too much." Ice remembered Maverick sitting on the curb in front of his house. What does he see in me? The remains of a better life? The memories of a dead man? The hop, the locker room, the blood, the parachute, the bar, the sea that bound them together?

"Don't screw it up," Carole said, her voice deathly serious. "Just because Pete tells me about you doesn't mean it's all good. I know you two have had your differences in the past. You know what you want in life. So does he. The years will pass and you'll be admiral sooner rather than later, maybe even further than that, and he'll still be flying."

Ice looked at her. "So?" he asked, voice wavering. He took a small sip of his beer. Carole met his gaze, her eyes eerily intelligent.

"Don't crash and burn, Tom. You can't put him on a leash like you do everyone else. He'll do what he wants like he always has, because life's taught him that anyone who says otherwise is an obstacle, and obstacles are meant to be dealt with."

"I'm not—" The look on Carole's face was enough to shut him up. "What does he see in me?"

"Someone he can rely on," she said simply. "Which is more than Bradley and I can say."

"Carole…" But he knew she was right. About everything. "He loves you. Both of you. I hope you know that."

She sighed. "I do. And I love him right back. But sometimes love isn't enough."

And sometimes, it's too much.

"Let's go in," Carole decided. "It's getting dark." She rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Ice wondered if Maverick had told her what had happened in Lemoore. Probably not. But she seemed to know anyway.

Maverick was methodically washing dishes in the sink, setting them down in the drying rack so lightly the only noise they made was a soft, nearly inaudible clink. Bradley sat at the table, legs swinging, ogling the pile of his opened gifts stacked in front of him. There was a smudge of blue frosting on his chin, and Carole licked her thumb to wipe it away.

"Ugh— gross!"

"Now, that's the price you pay for two pieces of cake," Carole chuckled, but adamantly let her son go. She looked Ice up and down, before her eyes flicked minutely to Maverick and then back. "Why don't we go carry these presents to your room?"

Bradley, not so stupid for a ten-year-old, considered this. "Can I say goodbye to Ice first?"

"And your Uncle Mav, too."

Bradley hopped off the chair and walked, almost nervously, up to Ice, who bent down to meet him. He held his hand out to shake, and Bradley took it, eyes widening first in confusion and then relief when he realized Ice wasn't about to hug him.

"Happy birthday," Ice said, and Bradley smiled shyly. "I hope you had a good one. Maybe sometime I could come back and help you put that plane together."

The kid thought hard for a moment, obviously weighing the benefits of having an adult try to do things for him. Ice changed directions. "Or I could tell you some more stories, if you want."

"Yeah!" Bradley's eyes brightened. "Do you really mean that?"

"As long as you don't give him nightmares," Carole chided, but she was smiling. Bradley vibrated with so much energy he forgo any previous bias against hugs and wrapped his arms around Ice's neck.

"I'm going to be a pilot one day, too," he whispered in Ice's ear. "Just like Dad and you and Uncle Mav. I'm going to be the best one."

I don't doubt that for a second, Ice thought, holding the little boy close.

"C'mon, baby bird," Maverick said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. "It's almost your bedtime."

"'Kay," Bradley grumbled, letting go of Ice and letting Maverick's arm catch him in a side-hug. "Night, Mav."

"Goodnight, Brad," Maverick replied. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then his eyes caught Ice's, and he nudged Bradley away from his leg. "Your mom's waiting."

"Sure." Bradley looked up at him— not so stupidly— and padded back to his mother. Maverick shoved his hands into the dishwater and Ice plucked the towel up from the refrigerator door. A minute later, Carole and Bradley and all signs that there had been a birthday party here were gone.

"You don't have to," Maverick said as Ice reached for a plate. "You're a guest. I didn't ask you to come so you could do the dishes."

"I know." He searched for something more substantial to say. "I don't mind."

Maverick said nothing, only continued setting dishes into the rack. Ice dared a look at him. Maverick looked back warily, then turned his head into the crook of his shoulder in dismissal.

"Pete…"

"Don't," Maverick said softly. "Please, don't."

Ice nodded. They finished the rest of the dishes with what could only be military efficiency, moving around each other like dancers, never quite touching. Maverick scrubbed at the kitchen table for what felt like an age, and Ice would be lying if he didn't think that was now the cleanest piece of furniture in all of San Diego.

"You want a beer?" he asked, finishing off the last of his and tossing it into the trash. Maverick shook his head. Ice retrieved a bottle of water and a can of Pepsi out of the fridge and put them on the counter.

"I said—" Maverick broke off when he saw the can. His shoulders slumped a little, and he twisted the washrag in both hands. Ice cracked the top open and slid it toward him.

"It's probably better for you than beer," he said, unscrewing the lid of his water bottle. "Drink. You deserve it."

"I haven't done anything," Maverick said flatly, but he swiped up the can as if he were afraid Ice would take it from him.

"I dunno. You managed not to rip any of those kids' heads off, that seems like something. And you did the dishes." And you're still alive and you're talking to me, and you haven't flown off into the burning sunset like your pal Goose yet. And you jerked me off nine months ago like you actually liked it. Yeah, you've done a whole lot.

"I always do the dishes," he muttered, looking at Ice over the rim of his can. "Thanks."

"For the dishes?" Ice decided the ruse was probably up by now. It was long since getting old. "You're welcome, Mav. Sorry about Merlin."

"'S okay."

"If it's any consolation, I didn't have that great of a time. Pretty horrible, actually. I thought he was going to vomit all over me." Maverick's mouth flattened into a thin line. "That guy who punched you—"

Now he pulled away from Ice, cradling the Pepsi against his chest. "I told you," Maverick said. "Don’t."

"I just wondered if you ever got the chance to punch him back," Ice said, trying to be casual. Maverick didn't buy it. He looked out the kitchen window at the darkening evening, the gray light reflecting in his eyes. "Okay, I won't."

"Just because I asked you to do that doesn't mean we're friends. And it doesn't mean you get to try and tell me how to live my life. Because we're not, and you can't. Okay?"

Ice nodded slowly. "Alright."

Maverick nodded back, still wary. Shadows flitted across his face. His fingers gripped the can so hard Ice heard the metal creak. "We're wingmen," he said slowly, as if trying to convince himself. "Wingmen help each other out sometimes."

"You were drunk," Ice hedged. "You don't need to—"

"I poured most of it out on the street. I don't get drunk." He dipped his head at the Pepsi can. Ice realized that in all the times their class had gone to the O Club together, he'd never actually seen Maverick get anywhere past tipsy. "I was going to, though. Honestly. It didn't make it any better."

"You don't have to explain," Ice said. "I don't care, I mean…I know, alright? I wouldn't have done it if I didn't want to."

"Really?" he asked cautiously.

"I think I made my feelings about the situation pretty clear," Ice said. Maverick's face went slack, flush creeping up his neck.

"There was this, um. This guy. After I got kicked out of Top Gun. He would— that's— well, whatever." His whole face was red now. "I went to…this club. That's how we— you can't tell anyone."

"What, that you like being dominated? That you're into guys?" The blush spread to his ears, and Maverick stammered out something nonsensical. "Why would I tell anyone?"

"Stupid question."

Yeah, he supposed it was. "I'm not going to incriminate the both of us. I've got my reputation to think about here, Mav. We're wingmen, okay? I'm not here to drag you down."

Maverick nodded again, looking a little more at ease. "You can't," he repeated. "Flying's all I got."

He's not worried about what he's doing in bed. He's worried about who he's doing it with.

And so am I, Ice thought miserably. One night did not a doomed career make…or maybe it did. But it was still completely normal to be single at this age, though. Ice was focused on his career; there was no time for any romantic endeavors. Once he made admiral— and wasn't that a thought that filled his head with cotton— it would be a different story, but it wasn't so hard to pick up women, not for him.

Besides, he wasn't the one waiting at another man's door half the night.

Did he like it? Of course he did. Liked the way reckless, energetic Maverick stilled under the weight of him, turning to pure mush. Like he had tamed a wild animal and could do anything he wanted with it. He had been completely, totally in charge of what Maverick did. He hadn't even cared if he got a handjob in return.

"I won't," Ice assured him. "This is between us, alright? Whatever happened that night, it's in the past now."

Maverick's face fell, but he managed to cover it up in the nick of time. Ice saw the desperate hurt in his eyes first, though, and dread churned in his stomach. He wants more, he thought. He needs more.

Can I give him more?

"Okay," Maverick said tightly, not sounding like it was okay.

"I had a good time tonight,” Ice said, attempting to change the subject.

"He likes you."

"I think he likes anyone who's willing to listen to him." Maverick gave a hesitant nod at that. "He's just a little kid, Mav. He needs…he should have someone looking out for him. Someone like you."

"I'm hardly even here."

"But when you are here," Ice reasoned. "Just because he doesn't have a father anymore doesn't mean—"

Maverick's eyes lit with fire. He advanced, and Ice took an uncertain step back across the kitchen. Okay, so Goose was still a big no-no. Figured. "Doesn't mean what? Doesn't mean that he should suffer? Doesn't mean that he has to go through life all alone?"

Ice bumped into the refrigerator, but Maverick kept going. "He won't suffer, I'll make sure of that. I am looking out for him, every single fucking day I'm here, I'm the one who makes sure he doesn't get hurt and turns in all his homework and finishes his supper. His father is dead now, so I have to do all that instead. And you won't ever be, so don't try to tell me how to do it."

Ice held his hands up in surrender. Maverick seemed to realize that he was practically stepping on Ice's toes, and shuffled backwards. He blinked rapidly, giving his head a tiny shake.

"Okay, okay. I didn't know that, alright? You're right; I'm the last person to try and give you advice. I just thought—"

"Well, you thought wrong!" Maverick hissed before Ice could finish his sentence, shoulders heaving. His mouth slackened as regret bloomed across his face. "I— I'm…"

"I just thought," Ice repeated, pausing in case Maverick wanted to interrupt him again, "maybe it wouldn't hurt to have somebody else around, too."

Maverick's expression went stony again. "Like you," he clarified. Ice nodded.

"You said it yourself. You're barely here, Mav. You don't…you didn't sign up for this. And, well, neither did I. But if you love Bradley, you'd know that the more people he has in his life right now, the better." He lowered his voice, angling his head toward Maverick. "He was my friend, too."

"Of course I love him," Maverick retorted. "Bradley's fine."

"But what about you?"

"I—" His face worked, and Ice saw he had caught him there. "His hair's going dark," Maverick admitted, his voice straining. "Every time I see him, he looks more like—"

He set his jaw, but his shoulders were still trembling. "I love him," he hissed. "I love him so much it hurts."

Ice nodded. Maverick looked away from him, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Look, I…just do whatever. Whatever you want. I don't care. If he likes you, you should hang around as much as you want. Doesn't make much of a difference to me."

"Do you want me to back off, Mav?"

"No," Maverick said vehemently, wetting his lips. "No, I want— I want someone else to do this damn job."

Carole came around the corner, arms wrapped around herself. Maverick looked at her, almost a glare, and then stalked over to the back door. "I'm going to go clean up outside."

Carole slumped against the wall, picking up Maverick's Pepsi to take a sip. Ice finished off his water and tossed it. "It's getting late," he said, in lieu of an explanation. Carole nodded, her lips twitching into a pathetic smile.

"Bradley thinks you're cool," she said as they walked to the door together.

"Really?"

"Mhm. It's mostly because of all the things you said about Nick."

Oh. Ice chewed the inside of his cheek. "If I overstepped, I—"

"No, no. It's good, that someone can…well, I guess it's different. Don't hold back just because of me. Or Pete," she added. "Nick was his dad, after all. Sooner or later, Bradley won't remember him at all, and he…he needs the memories."

Ice thought about going to the bar and getting plastered off his ass— it was a Saturday, after all, and seeing Maverick always made him feel like he had a solid reason to black out— but he couldn't muster up the energy. It didn't feel right, thinking about Maverick and Carole, and little Bradley between them, caught in a whirlwind he didn't understand. One he'd probably loathe if he did.

So instead he went back to his hotel room and sat by the window, watching the lights of San Diego spread across the horizon like a rising sun.

He'd never really liked kids, before. His younger cousins were whiny brats who got everything they wanted and complained about everything they didn't, and all the kids of his squad mates were either babies or timid enough to keep their distance. But Bradley was different. He was smart and funny, and he obviously didn't have trouble finding things to occupy his time. He only squirmed when he got fussed over by his mother and took everything in stride.

And he wanted to be a pilot. Because of course he did.

Ice thought, privately, that Maverick must not know. That maybe Bradley was smart enough to keep that particular fact from him. He had to give the kid some credit; he was more in tune to his parents' emotions than most ten-year-olds.

Takes after his father, there. Goose used to be able to read a room in the blink of an eye, a fact Ice had always loathed him for. He'd make a great politician, charming and persuasive and friendly. But he'd make an even better friend.

No wonder.

Ice went to bed early and dozed, lulled by the noise of traffic outside. He remembered the double beds in Oakland, staring at Maverick's back all night. He had a feeling neither one of them had slept well that night, but for entirely different reasons.

Do you want it as much as he needs it?

Probably not.

Ice sat up, the covers pooling in his lap, and reached for the phone. He notched the receiver in the crook of his shoulder and leaned against the headboard, listening to the phone ringing.

"Hello?"

"Are you still up?" Maverick didn't say anything for a long moment. Ice chewed the inside of his cheek. "That was a stupid question."

"A little," Maverick said dryly. He let out a small sigh. "What do you want?"

"Do you want to come over?"

~

Twenty minutes later, Ice opened the door, squinting in the bright light of the hallway. Maverick tilted his head uncertainly up at him, and Ice pulled the door open wider, stepping aside so Maverick could come in.

Maverick lifted up onto his toes, leaning towards Ice's face. "You're not drunk," he said softly.

"I wasn't drunk last time."

"Right." He gave a single, disbelieving nod. "I'm not drunk, either. For the record."

"Come on." Ice stroked a hand up his arm, and Maverick rubbed his knuckles against his skin where Ice had touched him, face scrunching up. "Tickles?"

"No, it…" Maverick dropped his hand. "Just feels weird."

"Good weird?"

"I don't know. No," he corrected. "Not really. Are we…actually?"

Maverick looked at him, equal parts hope and nerves, as if he expected Ice to turn him down. He'd taken his bike; his hair was mussed from the drive, sticking up in all different places. Ice felt his mouth water at the prospect of taking him apart and putting him back together again. He hadn't actually thought he'd get another chance.

But with Maverick looking up at him, practically begging to be ordered around, Ice thought maybe he would get all sorts of chances.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, if you want."

Maverick nodded tentatively, still looking uncertain. Ice gripped him by the back of his head, unable to resist finally getting a hand in his hair. Maverick blinked, eyes huge in the dark. He gave his shoulders a roll, as if he was getting used to Ice's hand on him.

"Take your coat and shoes off."

Maverick tugged off his leather jacket, folding it up and setting it down on the foot of the bed. Then he toed off his boots and lined them up on the floor.

"Now get a pillow, and put it on the ground. Right in front of you is fine."

"I…how come?" Maverick asked cautiously, as if he were afraid to get chastised for talking. He reached for one of the pillows on the bed anyway, probably without even realizing it.

"For your knees," Ice told him. "I want you to be comfortable. That's…that's the whole point of this, right?"

Maverick shrugged his shoulders. He dropped the pillow at his socked feet. Finally Ice sat down on the bed and Maverick's whole body seemed to jerk, but he stayed where he was, eyes locked on Ice's.

"Okay, sailor. Kneel for me."

Ice smiled as Maverick flew to his knees, half onto the pillow and half off of it. He adjusted himself, shifting his weight back and forth anxiously, folding his hands behind his back.

"Good," Ice said. "You remembered." Maverick nodded eagerly, jaw clenched. Ice caught him by the chin, tilting his head up. "There's one more thing I want you to do, before we start. I want you to tell me your word."

Maverick's brow furrowed, and he hesitated before answering. "My what?"

"Your safe word." Ice let him go, but Maverick didn't move. "If it gets too much for you. If you need me to stop."

"I don't…" He trailed off, arms flexing as his hands clenched behind him. With each second that passed, Ice felt a mounting sense of dread. Did Maverick seriously wing this, of all things? Something that could get him hurt or worse, without any sort of punch out? "I don't have a word."

Well, there was no time to argue about it. "Give me one, then."

"Is that really—"

"Give me one, Pete," Ice ordered, and Maverick's face slackened at the words. He wet his lips, finally gathering the courage to press his cheek to Ice's knee.

"Thirty-one," Maverick said, so low he could barely hear it. "Thirty-one. That's my word."

Ice nodded. "You're going to use it?"

"Yes."

"You promise me?"

"Yes," Maverick repeated. He raised his gaze to meet Ice's. "Yes, sir."

Ice quirked an eyebrow, barely managing to conceal his smirk as all the tension in the room seemed to dissipate. Maverick didn't look away from him, waiting to be challenged. He wasn't.

"Good," Ice said. "Now, I want you to think about something that makes you happy. Something that makes you feel good."

It took far less time for Maverick to relax tonight. He still sat up straight on his heels, his head cocked to rest against Ice's leg. But his eyes eventually shut and his muscles loosened up, his whole body sinking towards the floor. Ice watched him, completely mesmerized. He sifted his fingers through Maverick's hair again, listening to the soft sighs he made.

"Bradley loves you," Ice said quietly. "Do you know that?"

If Maverick heard him, he made no indication.

No safe word, that was definitely…interesting. Maybe not so much if Maverick didn't do this a lot, but Ice was sort of getting the impression that he did. Obviously Ice wasn't his first— and he didn't know how to feel about that, jealous or relieved or confused, or maybe all three. But he couldn't help the rush of possession that was strong enough to make him dizzy when he imagined some other guy manhandling Maverick around like he was some plaything.

I'll treat you better. I swear I will. I'll treat you better than anyone ever has.

Maverick came alive with a sharp breath, pushing his nose to the side of Ice's knee. He swallowed a couple of times, and Ice leaned over him.

"Do you want some water?" Maverick shook his head. "Use your words, Pete."

"Wh…what time is it?" he asked in a gravelly voice, still not opening his eyes.

"Just after twenty-three hundred. Are you okay?"

"Never better," Maverick said, and he sounded like he meant it, so Ice let it slide. "Uh…thanks."

"You don't have to thank me. I offered."

"Right." Gingerly, Maverick pulled back, working a crick out of his neck. He let his arms fall naturally down to his sides, flexing his fingers. He glanced down at himself and then jerked his head up.

"Problem?"

"No. No problem."

"Are you sure?" Maverick stalled just long enough to prove him right. "What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever you want," Maverick replied immediately, the same thing he'd said the last time. "I mean— nothing. You don't have to do anything."

"It's okay."

"What's okay?"

"If you get turned on by this."

"I never said that," Maverick gulped, raising up onto one knee. "Look, I should really just go, I appreciate it, but—"

"Pete," Ice said. "I didn't say you could move yet."

Maverick stared at him, his cheeks flooding with pink. He sank back down, looking faintly uncomfortable as he did so. Ice felt his stomach tighten up into excited knots.

"Yes, sir," Maverick mumbled under his breath.

"Good," Ice said, and Maverick flushed even darker, shifting again. He crossed one arm over his thighs in a bad attempt at modesty. "Now, what do you want me to do? And be honest this time."

Maverick chewed his lower lip. "Touch me," he rushed out. "F…fuck me. Give it to me. Make me feel it. Make me yours. Tell me who's in charge. I want to be good for you."

"You're going to say the word? If I do something you don't like?"

Maverick bobbed his head. "Yes, sir," he said again, reaching out and touching his nose to Ice's leg as if in confirmation.

"Okay. Strip, and get on the bed."

Ice stood and stretched, and as soon as he moved Maverick clumsily pulled himself to his feet. He turned his back, bending down to grab the bottle of lube and a condom from his bag, and heard Maverick rapidly shedding his clothes like he was working in a race against time. Ice smiled, setting the items down on the nightstand and pulling his own t-shirt and sweatpants off.

When he turned around, Maverick was lying on his back with a pillow propped under his hips, staring up at the ceiling determinedly. His dick jutted up from a tangle of dark curls between his legs, and Ice allowed himself a thorough look.

Ice sat down on the edge of the bed, and Maverick looked up at him. His pupils were completely blown. His dog tags rested on his sternum, glinting in the golden light of the lamp as he breathed.

"You want to feel it?" Ice asked, allowing his lips to tilt up teasingly. Maverick nodded.

"Yeah," he breathed. His eyelids fluttered. "Want to feel you. Just…fuck, need it."

"Okay. Have you done this before?"

"Uh-huh."

Ice reached over to grab the bottle. Maverick spread his legs, and Ice kneeled over him. "Light on or off?"

"On." Maverick exhaled. "Want to know it's you."

"It's always going to be me," Ice said, running a hand up his thigh. He stopped at the crease of his hip, holding him in place. "You want me to just get it over with?"

"Please," he said, straining. "Please just fuck me, alright?"

"Brat," Ice murmured. "You're not being very good. A good little sailor wouldn't talk back."

Maverick blushed so hard Ice thought his erection actually started to flag. He bit down hard on his lip, wiggling his hips a little. "Yes, sir. I guess you'll just have to punish me."

"I like positive reinforcement a lot better." Ice slicked up his hand and gave Maverick's dick a single hard stroke. Maverick wheezed, legs kicking reflexively. He gripped the sheets so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Jesus," he said between his teeth. Ice smirked, pouring more lube onto his fingers. "Ice— Tom— hurry the fuck up."

So he did. Ice worked Maverick open, ignoring his weeping dick all the while— even if his eyes kept on straying temptingly down to it. He had an equally enthralling picture to watch above, as Maverick's head thrashed from side to side while Ice hammered his prostate with two fingers. Finally he couldn't take it anymore, worked up with enough white-hot lust to explode.

Ice hooked Maverick's legs over his shoulders and rolled the condom on before sinking in fully. Maverick whined, his breath coming in shallow, rapid pants. When Ice moved he choked on a moan.

"Yeah, yeah, just like that, more—"

He grasped Maverick's dick again, and the other man jumped as if he'd been electrically shocked. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he kept on babbling. "More, more, more—"

Ice thrust into him hard, and Maverick moaned, the tears sliding down the corners of his eyes as they shut. His jaw clenched tightly, his shoulders drawing up by his ears. But Maverick had made his promise. He would say the word.

We need to talk about this, Ice thought vaguely. He felt as if he were watching this unfold from across the room, like someone else was doing this to Maverick. Tomorrow, we need to talk about this.

But then the feeling was gone, and the world dissolved until it was only him and Maverick, tied together, moving as one.

Chapter Text

The next morning, he still wasn't dead.

Maverick decided that must be some sort of sign. Or maybe it was only a testament to his cowardice. Either way, it didn't matter. He wasn't dead. Which meant there was still a chance he could fix all of this.

He had never been one to follow the rules before, but now that he was officially off the mission, there weren't really any rules he had to follow. And in Maverick's opinion, those were the best kind.

For the first time in a long time, he made himself breakfast. Microwave oatmeal in a little bowl that tasted too sweet and too stale. He choked through a couple of mouthfuls before the hunger finally took over his rolling stomach and he scarfed the rest of it down. He would throw it all up later, he was sure, but it felt like progress.

His face looked old in the mirror, too old for what he was made for. His eyes were rimmed red and scratchy when he blinked, but when he washed them out they felt a little better. He thought about shaving— the bristle on his face was days old— but the thought of picking up the razor, or even opening the cupboard, was too much. So all he did was comb through his hair with his fingers, trying not to stare at the flat spot on top where it had been crushed up against the side of the tub all night.

Getting dressed was easy. Same clothes every day, no problem. He had to search for a pair of socks out of the laundry hamper because he'd run out of clean ones. They didn't match, but it was better than blisters.

Laundry. Synonymous with exhaustion.

The air was humid outside with the promise of rain, the red rosy sun just barely peeking above the hills. It might have been a picture-perfect scene once, but now Maverick only felt like he had stepped too far into hell. He scrubbed at his face again, trying to wake himself up. He was so tired. Not even a rev of the Kawasaki's engine could perk him up, only agitated him more, reminded him of his too-quiet house with the kitchen faucet that had dripped all night. Maverick stuck his earplugs in and knocked the kickstand up. Then he was off.

It wasn't exactly early by Navy standards, but Maverick didn't run into anyone on his way to the locker room. He hadn't thought to check the time before he'd left, nor when he'd finally crawled out of the bathtub. His body had simply told him it was time, time to get his ass back in gear, time to stop feeling so sorry for himself, time to race out into the backyard to the sounds of Bradley's cries. Just like maybe his body had decided it wasn't time for him to die yet.

Maverick shucked off his jacket with trembling fingers and hung it up on the hook in his locker. All of his belongings were already packed up in a cardboard box on the top shelf, and now he removed the earplugs and dropped them amidst cans of shaving cream and deodorant. With his luck, he wouldn't drive out of here at all— he'd been thrown off at the base gates without so much as a good riddance.

And then what?

Don't think about that don't think—

No, he wouldn't think about that. He would think about the one thing that had kept him alive as long as he'd been, the one thing everyone kept on trying to take away from him. They didn't know what would happen if he didn't have it. They didn't know at all.

But why would anyone really care?

Maverick thought they might stop him— in the parking lot, at the gate, on the tarmac. He almost wished they would stop him, whoever they were…Cyclone, Warlock, Ice…but the ground crew only nodded at him in greeting. The simmering in his belly hadn't really ever subsided since he'd come back to Top Gun, and now he felt like a rubber band ready to snap.

"I need my jet," he said over the wind. "Something with the thrusters felt weird the other day."

"Sure thing."

Maverick glanced over his shoulder one last time, willing Cyclone to appear out of thin air. But he didn't. The sun was finally over the hills, turning the tarmac gold. Sooner or later, his students— well, Cyclone's now— would be filing in for the day, laughing and joking among themselves. He cast his eyes over the windows. He hoped they were watching.

He shoved his helmet over his ears and climbed into the jet, shoulders drawing at the hiss of air as the cockpit dropped down snugly. The ground crew gave him a thumbs-up, and Maverick returned it.

Two-thirty? I can do it in less. I will do it in less.

Part of him expected the weak, little voice in the back of his head to disagree, but it was silent.

Maverick's mind cleared as one hand curled around the throttle, the other around the stick. He felt the low thrum of the thrusters— nothing wrong with them, of course. He'd know if there was something wrong.

Just him and the stick and the throttle. Just like it should be. He was no fucking instructor.

The F-18 took off in a burst of sound and wind, sending Maverick's heart leaping. Once he was up in the sky, he fastened the oxygen mask to his helmet and took a deep breath of air. The sheen of sweat all over his body had dried and now his skin was cool with residual moisture.

The sun kept rising. Maverick leveled off, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. He kept breathing, gulping it in like a man dying of thirst in the desert.

And then he swerved, heading toward the mountains, and started the timer. Two minutes and fifteen seconds. He would do it in less.

The course was brutal; there was no doubt about that. Each turn seemed sharper than the last, squeezing the air from his lungs just as he got the chance to inhale again. This was supposed to be the easy part, Maverick thought as he yanked the stick back and forth between his legs, resisting the urge to overcorrect himself. This should be the easy part. No G-incline, no dogfighting, no target drops.

How are they going to make it if they can't even do this?

I don't know. I don't know.

He'd thought, after Goose's death, that he wouldn't be able to fly again. That it would be more than he could handle without his RIO— or worse, with some other RIO— and he'd simply fade into the shadows like Cougar had, one more hotshot who'd lost his cool.

And in some ways, it was different. Of course it was different; it would simply never be like it was when Goose was in his backseat, like it or not. Maverick was used to someone yanking him back, talking in his ear, telling him no no no stop stop not the tower please Mav not the— and without that, he was completely untethered. Suddenly, nobody was telling him to knock it off, and it left Maverick reeling, unsure of anything and everything, the weight of a dead man pressing down on him.

He'd learned. Over time, he'd grown used to bumping shoulders with the silence. It still unnerved him, there was no denying that. Even right now, when the only sound was his labored breathing. Quiet, too quiet.

Talk to me, Goose.

Why should it be you Mav why should—

Maverick swallowed hard. His throat clicked painfully, and the oatmeal sloshed in his stomach. Quiet, quiet. Quiet with the world on top of him, below him, thoughts racing, why should it be you…

I don't know.

"I promised," Maverick said around the mask. He angled the jet upward and then dropped down for the shot. His nose angled toward the ground, and for a minute, Maverick saw himself letting go of the stick entirely and plummeting straight down into the mountains. He imagined the spew of metal across the brown hills, the plume of fire lighting up the sparse brush.

And then it was gone, and his hand was wrapped around the stick so tight he felt the tips of his fingers go numb. He couldn't let go. He had lived too long, seen too many sleepless nights and awful days to give it all up now. If that was the only thing keeping him going, sheer perseverance, then so be it.

The jet twisted, the sky spinning around him, blue and brown and blue and brown, Ice's eyes and Rooster's eyes. The crosshairs stared back at him, wavering back and forth, daring him. He would be firing blind with no wingman to set the target.

But up here, in his plane, there was nothing Maverick couldn't do.

He took the shot and yanked the stick toward him. For a moment the jet wobbled, trying to turn up at an impossible angle, and then finally gave in and shot up into the sky.

He got a glimpse of the time— two-fifteen— before everything went white.

~

It was starting to rain as Maverick climbed down from the cockpit of the F-18. His whole body was trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, and his chest felt like a cinderblock was sitting on it, but he felt good, undeniably good. Great, even.

And, shit, he hadn't felt great in a long time. Even with his head hanging and his fingers cramping and his lungs squeezing, something hot and wonderful licked up his spine, warming his blood. Great, yeah. This was great.

"Captain Mitchell!"

God, it didn't even matter that he was about to get the beating of his life. Maverick thought he could take on anything at this moment.

One boot landed on the tarmac, and his leg buckled at the weight. Maverick clung to the side of the jet, dangling there in empty space for a moment, before his head stopped spinning. He set his other foot on the ground, still hanging onto the jet for balance.

"Captain Mitchell!"

Maverick turned. Cyclone was storming across the tarmac, hands balled into fists. The rain spotted his khakis as the ground crew trailed nervously after him, all glancing at each other as if they weren't sure what to do.

"I guess I didn't make myself clear yesterday," Cyclone said, his voice tight. "Or maybe you didn't hear me correctly." Maverick remembered the fleeting brush of fingers over his jacket, like a ghost. Everything was spinning again. Great, he felt great. Like he was still flying.

"Well? Have anything to say for yourself before I personally escort you off base?"

Maverick opened his mouth to reply, but all that came up was a gush of half-digested oatmeal. It splattered the toes of his boots, and he grimaced.

"For the love of…" Cyclone actually leapt back, his face wrinkling with disgust. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Come on. We're going."

He didn't move, though, and Maverick realized Cyclone was actually waiting for him. He took a stumbling step forward and then another, wobbling a little. His feet felt like he'd left them somewhere up in the atmosphere, and his legs trembled so badly he had to tense up the muscles in his thighs to walk straight.

"Do I need to admit you to the infirmary?"

Maverick wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his flight suit. Fortunately, this time he was able to talk without throwing up all over himself. He shook his head. "I didn't think you'd be so kind."

"I think it would be best for both of us if you didn't end up vomiting on my desk. Are you sure?"

"Don't pretend to care. It's a bad look for you." He stepped wrong and nearly lost his balance again. To his surprise, Cyclone grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up. The other man peered down at Maverick's ruined sleeve and gingerly released him with a frown.

"What you did was incredibly stupid," he said sourly.

"You were watching."

"Everyone was. You made quite an impression. Again," Cyclone added under his breath. "You should go to the infirmary. You can hardly walk."

Maverick snorted. "If you let me out of your sight, you might never find me again. I guess I probably didn't give you enough time to come up with a you're fired speech, did I?" He felt bile rise up in his throat and stopped, trying his best to swallow it back.

Cyclone looked like he might be sick next. "On the contrary. You've given me plenty of time." His voice dripped with scorn, and Maverick figured that Cyclone probably had the draft done Maverick's first day on the job.

"You really don't want to let me go, do you?"

"I haven't decided exactly what I want to do with you, Mitchell. But I expect we'll figure that out soon enough."

Well, Cyclone hadn't said he hoped Maverick took a nosedive into the sea, so he considered it a success. Or maybe he'd rather stick the job on Maverick so he didn't have to take the fall when something inevitably went wrong.

His legs started working properly somewhere between the tarmac and Cyclone's office. His stomach and head were still rolling in time with each other, but he could ignore those for now. He wasn't sure there was much left to throw up, if he was being honest.

But his teeth still tasted like regurgitated oatmeal and the back of his throat was uncomfortably slick with saliva. Not to mention the sweat that flattened his hair to his skull and prickled the back of his neck. His flight suit chafed up against all the wrong places, and Maverick rubbed at his arms, suddenly wishing for the scratchy carpet in his base housing.

And maybe some water to wash out his mouth.

"What are the kids doing?" Maverick asked, trying to distract himself from the buzzing under his skin. Once he was back on the ground, reality had started to sink in again, and that feeling of great was slowly dissipating with each step he took away from his jet. It was like being pulled away from Goose's body all over again.

"I sent them home for the day."

"They should be—"

"I don't think you have the right to tell me what they should be doing, Captain," Cyclone said. "Now, I advise you shut your mouth until you're given permission to speak."

Maverick considered, then nodded. He could do that.

Okay, he could try to do that.

Cyclone opened the door and ushered him inside. The blinds were open to let in what sparse gray light filtered in from outside, and Maverick paused to let his eyes adjust. His gaze trailed from the window to the far wall, clocking the medals and certificates hanging above the desk. They framed the man standing behind it, back to Maverick, hands clasped behind him.

He felt the air go out of him in one go, but Cyclone was already shutting the door, forcing him further into the room. Maverick dug his nails into his palms. Cyclone cleared his throat.

"Sir," he said, and if Maverick hadn't been so stupefied, he would have scoffed at the way Cyclone puffed out his chest as they both saluted the Iceman.

Ice turned around, and the moment his eyes landed on Maverick his lips turned down. Maverick looked quickly down at his boots, and then back up when the sight of vomit still clinging to the toes was too much to bear.

"I think there are some things we should discuss," Ice said.

"Of course, sir. Absolutely."

Ice still didn't look away from him. Maverick swallowed hard, knowing full well Ice was expecting him to retort. But he kept his mouth firmly shut. If Maverick wanted to keep this job, he would have to prove himself. He'd already done the hard part. This should be a piece of cake.

The niggle in his gut that told him to fill the silence didn't agree. Maverick ignored it. Be good, he told himself.

"Maverick," Ice said. And God, Maverick actually opened his mouth, before biting his tongue hard. "I was informed you were taken off the mission yesterday."

Maverick glanced at Cyclone, who nodded. He released his tongue, which throbbed with pain sympathetically. "T-that's correct, sir."

Damn the tremble in his voice. Ice lifted a brow, and Maverick felt his spine stiffen instinctively. He was enjoying this. He was actually enjoying this!

Of course he is, that's all he's ever cared about, getting you on your knees getting you to beg for it like a good little whore—

"So, I'm very interested as to what you're doing here today. Or did Cyclone not make his intentions clear?"

"No, sir." The words flew from his mouth, almost humiliatingly. "I was— sir, so far, no one has flown the mission course and accomplished the objectives. I was supposed to teach them how, and I don't think I was given a chance to do that. The fact is, it shouldn't matter how unorthodox my teaching methods are if the outcome is the same."

"Oh, you think that?"

"I know that," Maverick said, and then quickly added, "sir."

Something cold flashed over Ice's face briefly. Maverick shifted on the balls of his feet. "Sir, if you're not aware, I flew the course fifteen seconds shorter than the maximum time limit, successfully hit the target blind, and survived the ascent."

Cyclone made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. But Ice only scratched at his cheek, stringing Maverick along as far as he could go.

"That's certainly a word for it," he agreed. "What's your point?"

"I don't see Cyclone doing that," Maverick blurted, and cursed his big, stupid mouth. Cyclone whirled to glare at him, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

"Captain, that is—"

"Beau," Ice said lightly, and Cyclone's head shot up. Maverick stared at the flush blossoming up his throat. "Maverick, you know your place."

At this, Maverick's head lifted, too. He stared defiantly up at Ice, gritting his teeth to keep himself from saying something he'd regret later.

I know my place? I know my place? What about your place, you son of a—

"You are an instructor," Ice continued. "Not a pilot. It hardly matters if you can fly the mission, because the simple fact is, you won't be."

Maverick's mouth dropped open again indignantly. Even Cyclone looked a little stunned, although Maverick couldn't say why.

"Now, your flying skills may be impressive, but they mean little to the actual pilots, so I suggest you give me a good reason as to why I should keep you here. At least Cyclone understands the requirements of this job."

Maverick's jaw worked, but he couldn't come up with anything. Not a pilot? Not a…all you wanted was a pilot! That's what you asked for, that's what you need! What am I even doing here, if you don't even…if you don't…

If you don't need me at all.

"Admiral—" The word came out in a breathless gasp. A good reason? Because he had to be here, if he wasn't he didn't know what would happen, just one fucking day after the next, and Rooster would die, Rooster would die—

His vision blurred. No, he had to be here. He couldn't— Ice couldn't kick him out again. He couldn't, Maverick wouldn't let him, where would he go, in the middle of nowhere, he's telling me to go to go he's tired of me I'm not good enough for him he's done we're finished I'm never going to see him again please don't make me go I should I should I should—

"You bastard," he hissed through his teeth. "Don't think you can throw me aside like I'm dirt under your shoe that easily. I don't care if you send the damn cavalry, I won't leave unless it's in a box, you hear me? I'll glue my fucking feet to the tarmac if I have to!"

Cyclone stared at him, his eyes wide. Ice said nothing, face impassive, perfectly stone cold.

"You wanted me, Ice, so you got me! And you're fucking stuck with me, until the very end. I don't give a shit if it's me or the damn vice president up there flying, if they don't think it can be done then it can't! And right now, I just proved to your ass that it can be, so I think maybe you should take a look at the job requirements."

"I think someone should have glued your mouth a long time ago," Ice retorted icily. Maverick finally grinned, sharp and unkind. Finally, they were back on familiar ground.

"You'd be first in line, wouldn't you? Go back to your fucking desk, Ice. You've gotten way too soft."

Ice's expression finally broke. He looked as shocked as Cyclone, his lips parting and his eyebrows tenting together. It was the most Maverick had seen from him.

"I know my place. How could I not, you've been rubbing it in since the day we met! It's always been lower than you, and you've loved that, but now you can't admit that I'm going to come out on top. You can't even look me in the eye and tell me that you were wrong, that I am the better pilot, that I'm the only guy who can fly this mission, and that just kills you inside, I know it—"

"Get out."

"No fucking way. I told you, box or nothing." Maverick squared his shoulders, not missing the way Ice's eyes lit with fury. God, it's about time. But even still, he felt that tug in his gut, the itch in his feet to get moving. That was Ice's tell-me voice.

"Get the fuck out, Pete, I swear to God."

Maverick’s breath hitched. Right right right get out it sure looks that way doesn’t it you need to go just go just fucking get!

He stood there, torn between options, between being good and being Maverick. The last time, Maverick had won out in the end, because it was Maverick he could count on, Maverick who wouldn’t abandon him. But now…now he didn’t know what to do.

In the end, Cyclone made the decision for him. He gripped Maverick by the collar of his flight suit with one hand and opened the door with the other. Cyclone manhandled him into the hallway, giving him a shove heavy enough to knock him onto his knees. The door slammed shut behind him and the shade over the window abruptly shot down.

The sudden change in orientation made Maverick's stomach heave again, and he pushed himself back onto his knees, hissing. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, willing the last of his strength so he could pull himself back to his feet.

Inside, Ice and Cyclone were yelling at each other. Maverick sat back against the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him. He wiped at the sweat on his brow with his clean sleeve, digging his fingers into his temples in an attempt to stop the world from spinning.

Well, that hadn't exactly gone how he'd planned it. He was no stranger to being tossed out of places, but this was getting a little ridiculous.

I can't believe him. Where was the old Ice, the one who lived and let live? Who invited Maverick into his home in the middle of the night and chased after a dead man's son in the backyard? Where the hell had he gone?

Cyclone came out fuming. He must have been really pissed, because he closed the door, almost gently, with a soft click and jerked a finger at Maverick. "What's your problem?"

"My problem?" Maverick asked as he eased upright. Cyclone was already walking down the hallway, and Maverick took one glance at the door to his office, expecting Ice to burst out of it and try to throttle him. But it stayed firmly shut.

"With Admiral Kazansky."

"It's a long list."

Cyclone squeezed his eyes shut with irritation. Obviously, that wasn't the answer he'd wanted. "You understand that man in there has enough power to send us both to Alaska to shovel bear shit for the rest of our lives."

"He's not that stupid."

"This is not a game, Maverick. Not with him. You…you…how the hell are you still standing here right now?"

"Blackmail."

Cyclone's face went deathly white. He made a squeaky noise in his throat. "What?"

"It's none of your business," Maverick said, and he meant it. "He's a jerk. He's always been a jerk. God, his wife must hate him."

Always, yeah. Except for all the times when he hadn't been, when he'd listened, when he'd been so nice it made Maverick sick to his stomach with relief.

"It doesn't matter if he's— his wife? What wife?"

"What do you mean, what…" Maverick trailed off, blinking as the realization dawned on him. The way Sarah had never actually said how she was related to Ice. And he hadn't seen a ring on that finger, had he? He hadn't even fucking looked, too busy seething over Ice and his picture-perfect life. "See, this is what I'm talking about."

Cyclone ignored him. "Keep walking. That must be some blackmail."

Oh, it is.

"Don't worry about it," Maverick said, trying not to let the irritation show in his voice. Ice was still toying with him, just like usual. Why had he ever hoped something might change? "I guess he hasn't canned you."

"I haven't done anything," Cyclone said sternly. "Yet."

"Yet?"

"Just keep walking."

Maverick hurried to catch up to the brisk pace Cyclone set, as if he wanted to get as far from his office— or from Ice— as possible. "Am I fired?" he asked tentatively. "Are you going to give me your you're fired speech now?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No," Maverick said. "No, I…no."

"But you don't want this job."

"What I want is—" He let out a breathless laugh. "What does it matter what I want? No, I don't want this job."

Cyclone stopped in the middle of the hallway. Looked Maverick up and down, his mouth pulling slightly as he got another glimpse of his boots. He put his hands on his hips. "You're fired."

"I—"

Before Maverick could even get the syllable out, Cyclone was walking again. "Admiral Kazansky is right. He's right about most things, usually. You probably know that by now."

"Yeah, I'm well aware," Maverick said, unable to hold off on the sarcasm. "Are you going to join his fan club, too?"

Cyclone ignored him. "The fact is, you are an instructor. Actually, you were, before I fired you. That position has now miraculously opened. Funny how these things seem to go."

Hilarious, Maverick thought, feeling a bit like he was being run through the washing machine. Cyclone put a hand on one of the briefing room doors. His face was set, but there was an unmistakable light in his eyes. He used to be a pilot. Maybe he even used to be dangerous. Now that was a thought.

"There's nothing in the handbook that says an extra member can be added to the detachment so long as they are briefed on all the necessary information," Cyclone said. "You're a pilot now, Maverick. Don't make me regret this."

Say what now?

"Excuse me?" Maverick asked as they walked into the room. Cyclone gestured, and he gratefully sat down in one of the swivel chairs, huffing out a breath of relief. "You're…"

"You have proven to me time and time again that you are not cut out for this position," Cyclone said, not very kindly. "Kazansky wants you to teach, not fly. In my professional opinion, he has very good reasoning for that. In my personal opinion, he's dumber than a box of rocks."

Maverick blinked. "Now you're speaking my language."

Cyclone wagged a finger at him. "Don't think you can get away with this shit, Mitchell. As far as I'm concerned, this is a demotion. Well, a firing and then a demotion. I know why the brass does everything in their power to keep you on the ground now."

"I didn't do it for you," Maverick said, pretending to inspect his nails. "Or anyone else."

"Then what did you do it for?"

His eyes flicked up. "I'm the only one who cares about them, Admiral. If they die, because of me…" Sour emotion bled into his words, and Maverick clenched his jaw. "They're my team."

Cyclone nodded. "Will you lead them, then?"