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carlyinromeTITLE: Lightning Strikes Twice
RATING: NC-17
FANDOM: Top Gun
PAIRING: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell/Tom “Iceman” Kazansky
SUMMARY: Maverick and Iceman are facing a big decision, and Maverick wants to make it together, but he may be the only one who feels that way.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Takes place at TOPGUN in late 1995. A sequel to The Eye of the Storm and Hurricane Blues.
CHAPTER ONE
I loved you the same way
that I learned to ride a bike.
Scared, but reckless.
With no training wheels
or elbow pads so my scars
can tell the story of how
I fell for you.
- Rudy Francisco, “Helium”
Thick, dark clouds blanketed the sky, hiding the light from the moon and stars. It had been raining sheets for hours, and the only time the utter blackness of the night was broken was when lightning struck.
Thunder grumbled all around them. Maverick had turned on the lamp on the bedside table, its light butter yellow.
Ice was stretched out on Maverick’s bed on his back. Maverick sat up next to him, watching his lips tremble as he took in uneven breaths.
“Come on, Tom,” he said. “Talk to me. Tell me something you can see.”
Ice’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His voice came out overly controlled, like he was trying not to scream. “That weird water stain on your ceiling shaped like a horse.”
“I’m gonna get that fixed. Now something you can feel.”
“Your hand on my arm.”
“Good. You’re doing great, man. Something you can hear?”
“The rain.”
Maverick watched Ice’s chest rise and fall. His breathing was evening out. That was good. He sounded more like himself with every answer. They was good, too.
“Something you can smell?” Maverick prompted.
“The rain.”
“You said that already. Come on, something else.”
“I—the sheets. They smell like us.”
“Okay," Maverick said. “Last one. Tell me something you can taste.”
“I don’t… kiss me.”
Maverick leaned down, gently pressed his lips against Ice’s. Ice rested his fingers on the back of Maverick’s neck, the softest touch, not holding him in place, just asking him to stay. They kissed deeper, long and slow, and when they broke for air, Ice said, “You. I taste you.”
Maverick settled on his side next to Ice, ran his fingers through Ice’s hair. He was breathing normally, and he’d gotten his color back. The nightmare seemed like maybe it was… well, just a dream.
“You’re getting good at this,” Maverick said.
“You too.”
“I’m proud of you, Tom.”
Ice was quiet a moment. “And I’m grateful for you,” he said softly.
Not so long ago, one or both of them would have looked away, unable to bear the weight of the sentiment, but this time they both struggled through. Held it.
***
Iceman had been back at TOPGUN for coming up on a year and a half. He’d been back in Maverick’s life for coming up on a year and a half. The injuries that had grounded him, sent him back in the first place, were as healed as they were going to get. He’d always have pain; he’d always have a limp. He was working on his shell shock. Maverick was, too. He was doing some reading on the subject, had even gone with Ice to therapy a couple times. They were calling it post traumatic stress disorder now, and more people were talking about it in helpful ways, in ways that helped the people who had it.
Ice had gotten comfortable back at TOPGUN. Maverick had gotten complacent. Both situations had an expiration date that was not too far off. The Marines were taking over Miramar, and TOPGUN was moving to Fallon, Nevada, an isolated desert town on America’s loneliest highway with nothing but Navy and alfalfa fields for more than a hundred miles in any direction.
It was Monday morning, and they were getting ready for the last TOPGUN class Miramar would graduate. They had already begun packing some things up, and in other parts of the base, the Marines were moving things in. Maverick sat in his office with more paperwork than he’d seen in his life: the red tape of moving a military installation was no joke.
Hollywood poked his head in. “Hey, Mav, got a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Hollywood entered and approached the desk, a stack of papers in his hand.
“That your transfer paperwork?” Maverick asked. “What’s it gonna be, ’Wood?”
Hollywood sighed. He handed Maverick the papers. “It’s a no from me, Mav. I’m sorry. My wife’s pregnant again, and she doesn’t want to move. I’m going commercial, can you believe this shit?”
“We’ll sure miss you, ’Wood. Who you flying with?”
“Delta.”
“They’ll be lucky to have you,” Maverick said. He stood, and shook Hollywood’s hand.
“Thanks, Maverick. You sign your papers yet?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m going. I’m too involved now to let someone else take over TOPGUN. I’d be jealous.”
Hollywood laughed. “Sure, sure. What about Kazansky?”
Maverick frowned. “He hasn’t told me one way or the other.”
“He’s got some time until the deadline,” Hollywood said, almost gently.
“Not much,” Maverick said, and flinched at the bitterness in his voice.
“What do you think he’ll do?”
Maverick shook his head. “Honestly? I don’t have a goddamn clue.”
***
Maverick ordered in Thai and invited Ice over. He picked at his drunken noodle, watched Ice eat.
“I was wondering what your plans are,” he said.
Ice raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to finish eating. Then I thought we’d fool around on the couch for a while before taking it to the bedroom.”
Maverick stabbed irritably at his dinner. Fucking smug, slippery bastard. Why was this so hard?
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
Ice put his fork down. He put all his attention on Maverick, pale eyes glued to him, expression unreadable. “What did you mean?”
Maverick ground his molars together. Agonizingly, he pulled the words out. “I need to know whether you’re going to transfer to Fallon.”
The corner of Ice’s mouth quirked. “Who needs to know? You, Pete Mitchell, or TOPGUN?”
“I am TOPGUN,” Maverick said finally.
Ice rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right, Mav.”
“I’m serious.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“About Fallon, jackass. We need to have a conversation about this.”
Ice frowned. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s—that’s bullshit. That’s not good enough, Ice.”
Ice took his plate to the sink. He pushed uneaten curry into the disposal with more force than was necessary. “Well, it’ll have to do.”
***
Ice had stayed the night, even after their argument, and the night had gone exactly as Ice had predicted, but he’d left early to see his headshrinker, showered and gone before Maverick had even gotten out of bed. He thought he recalled, through the warped lens of hypnopompic stupor, Ice leaning down and kissing him before he took off, but that might have been a dream.
Maverick had paperwork, and Ice had classes to teach, so he didn’t see him on base until it was time to take the last class on their first hop. Maverick passed him on the tarmac, Ice already climbing up to the cockpit of his plane and Maverick on the ground below, on the way to his own. He gave a sharp whistle, and Ice turned around to look at him, pausing perched on the side of the plane, half in and half out of it.
“You ready for this?” Maverick asked.
“Why?” Ice asked with maddening nonchalance. “Are you going to do something I haven’t seen before?”
Maverick was too slow in coming up with a comeback. Ice bared his teeth at him, and pulled himself into the cockpit, literally removing himself from the conversation.
So, Ice didn’t want to talk, but it was clear something was on his mind. Maverick could see it in the way he flew. Not that Ice had bad days in the air, or if he did, Maverick had never seen it, but he was aggressively on point today, taking turns around the canyon with razor-sharp precision, bullying other planes into position like Maverick wasn’t even there. Normally they flew as a team, working together to outfly the students, but today Ice just moved around him, silent on comms, making target locks on the students one after another, like he was up there alone.
Maverick could deal with a lot of shit—okay, maybe not a lot, but some. Definitely some shit—but not being ignored.
Maverick waited for Ice on the ground, teeth gnashing. Ice took a while to come down, and when he did, he hopped out of his place and breezed by Maverick without pause.
“What the hell was that?” Maverick demanded, trailing after him.
“I’m going to miss this,” Ice said, and disappeared.
***
He lost Ice after the hop. He wasn’t in the showers, and he wasn’t in his office. Ice was free to go, of course; the hop was his last commitment of the day, but it was the fact that he had gone that was troubling. Maverick was not free to go. He had administrative responsibilities that Ice didn’t have, but he could not do them right now. He was easily susceptible to a one track mind, and right now—as it was, now, frustratingly often—that one track was all Ice.
Maverick left TOPGUN, drove to Ice’s house. His car wasn’t in the driveway, but Maverick banged on the door, anyway, even looked in some of the windows when he didn’t receive a response. He checked the O Club, the VA, and then drove back to his own house, which was less likely, but Ice was nowhere to be found.
Maverick decided to do something stupid. He knew it was stupid as he was doing it, but he was at a point where he couldn’t not do it. He had the number for Ice’s therapist, for emergencies and because, apparently, this was his life now: having Ice’s doctors’ numbers written in his address book. He called Dr. Fields, who was miraculously not with a patient and able to take his call. Maverick liked Dr. Fields. She had a very calming presence, but she wasn’t a pushover; she told Ice hard truths and made him work. And Ice was right: she had great legs.
“What can I do for you, Pete?” she asked. He was on a first name basis with another man’s therapist; that had to be wrong, didn’t it?
Maverick clutched the phone to his ear, and rested his head against the wall. “I, um, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m—I’m worried about Tom. I was wondering—I mean, he saw you this morning, and I was wondering if he said anything …?”
She sighed. “I can’t talk to you about Tom without his permission, Pete. You know that.”
He banged his head against the wall. Not much force to it, just enough for him to feel a different kind of pain for a moment. “I—yeah, I do. I’m sorry. I just—he’s being so weird, and he won’t talk to me, and frankly I’m—I’m freaking out, a little.”
“Are you worried he’s going to hurt himself?”
“I—no. No, it’s not that.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do to help you, Pete. I’m sorry. I know this is difficult. I know he can be difficult. But you’re going to have to do this with him.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry to bother you. I don’t—you don’t have to tell him I called you, do you?”
“No, Pete,” she said gently. “I won’t tell him unless he asks.”
“You don’t know where he is, do you? I mean, I can’t talk to him if I can’t find him, and right now I can’t find him.”
“I couldn’t tell you if I knew, which I don’t. Try the VA.”
“Yeah. Thanks, doc.”
Maverick hung up the phone. Banged his head against the wall a few times, harder now.
Fuck.
***
Maverick drove back to Ice’s house. He stayed there, sitting on the front porch, until Ice showed up. He stood as Ice got out of the car, taking his time with his cane and giving Maverick a look he couldn’t quite read.
It was getting dark, Maverick realized suddenly, and then he realized he had absolutely no idea how much time he’d spent looking for Ice, how much time he’d spent here waiting.
“Mitchell,” Ice said, moving past him to unlock the front door. “Can I help you?”
“I just—shit, Ice, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all over town.”
Ice frowned. “I just went for a drive, Mav.” He looked at him, brow raised slightly. “Were you worried?”
“I—no. Asshole. I know where to find plenty more stuck up Navy pilots with pornstar lips if you go missing for too long, Kazansky.”
Ice smiled, but it was humorless. “But how will you find one who can suck dick like I can, Maverick?”
Maverick blushed. Swore. He followed Ice inside without being invited. Ice didn’t say anything, just closed the door behind him and hung up his keys.
“I want to talk to you,” Maverick said.
“I said I didn’t want to.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Relationships are based on reciprocity and compromise, Peter,” Ice said in the stern, measured voice he used in the classroom.
It took every ounce of Maverick’s self control not to take a swing at him.
“Look,” Ice said, easing his tone. “You can stay, if you want, but I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk. We can order in, have a drink; I’ll even let you fuck me, if you want, but I’m not going to be interrogated. Okay?”
It wasn’t okay, not really. But Maverick forced himself to calm down. To listen. He looked at Ice. He looked like another sharp word might actually knock him off his feet. Maverick wondered if he was hurting, how much he was hurting, how therapy had gone, what he needed … a hundred questions about Ice that had nothing to do with Maverick or their future together.
He nodded. “Okay.”
***
Ice ordered a pizza, handed Maverick a beer, and then collapsed on the couch. Maverick took his beer to the living room and sat beside him. Ice had his bad leg propped up on the coffee table, and Maverick wanted to ask about the pain, but he’d promised not to, so he just found something dumb on TV to distract them. When the pizza came, Maverick paid for it so Ice wouldn’t have to get up, and they ate and drank and didn’t talk, watching the awful movie Maverick had picked out until Ice, without saying anything, turned the set off.
“Give me a hand, Mav,” he said, extending his. Maverick helped Ice to his feet, and they walked down the hall together.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Maverick said.
Ice paused before the bed. “I said we could. Do you want to?”
“Hell yeah, I do.”
Ice smiled. He stepped back until the backs of his calves hit the bed. He looked at Maverick from under his lashes, voice a fucking purr. “Well then, Maverick. Come and get me.”
Maverick still wanted to talk. They were bad at that, but this—they were great at this. They always had been. Maverick stepped forward, grabbed Ice’s shirt. Used his hold on it to pull him in, flush sternum to pelvis. Maverick threaded his fingers through Ice’s hair, not entirely gently, and pulled him down for a kiss. Urgent, needul, thorough. With his free hand, Maverick opened Ice’s jeans, grasping his cock, waiting until Ice panted out his name to move. Maverick stroked him for a minute, just long enough for Ice to get into it, and then he pulled his hand back. Spun Ice around, his back to him, yanking down his jeans and pushing him forward onto the bed.
“Tease,” Ice hissed.
“You said I could fuck you,” Maverick reminded him cheerfully.
“Get on with it, then.”
They lost their clothes quickly. Ice was being agreeable, laying on his belly hugging a pillow, waiting for Maverick. Maverick leaned over him to the bedside table for condoms and lube, and Ice sighed, enjoying the pressure of Maverick’s body pushing him into the mattress. Maverick liked it, too. He tried not to think of how much. How much he loved every part of this. Not just sex, but sex with Ice. The feel of his hot skin against his own; the way Ice looked at him with his spooky pale eyes, his cool, relaxed gaze. The way he looked at him like he trusted Maverick not to hurt him. The noises Ice made, the way his muscles moved while Maverick was moving inside him. How he closed his eyes when he came, shutting out every sensation except what Maverick had made him feel, and holding onto it as long as he could. Riding it like pushing past Mach II into supersonic.
So much for not thinking about it. Maverick’s brain had taken him from zero to sixty, and now he was too hard, too desperate to take his time and love Ice like he should.
Ice looked at him. “Mav?”
“Hold your horses,” Maverick said. “Anything this good takes time.”
Ice rolled his eyes, faced front.
Maverick positioned himself between Ice’s legs. He ran his fingers lightly over the inside of Ice’s thigh, feeling the smooth flesh goose pimple, and he smiled. He traced the curve of Ice’s ass, slid his finger into the crack, running lightly over Ice’s hole.
Ice tossed his head a little. Breathed out harshly. He didn’t want to talk, but right now he didn’t have to. After simmering in bewilderment over Ice’s behavior all day, knowing exactly how he was feeling and what he wanted felt like a goddamn miracle.
Maverick lubed up his fingers, began to work Ice open. There was still the problem of Maverick’s libido speeding ahead of Ice’s, and Ice squirming and whining the way he was wasn’t helping. Maverick took his time with Ice, and while Ice was getting worked up, Maverick did some drag coefficients in his head, and that took the edge off. Soon, they were on equal footing, so to speak.
“You ready?” Maverick asked. “You want it?”
Ice moaned. “Yes,” he panted.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Ice whined. “Maverick—”
“Come on,” Maverick urged. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything you want.”
Ice was breathing heavy. He was still for a moment, and Maverick sat in the oh so familiar feeling of wondering whether his gamble would pay off. But finally Ice gave, tossing his head, writhing against the mattress.
“Want you,” he said, half into the pillow, voice choked with need. “Want your cock, Maverick, please…”
Maverick ran his palms over Ice’s back, putting some real pressure behind it. Ice let out a breath he’d been holding, relaxing as much as he was able, which wasn’t far.
“Okay,” Maverick said. “I got you. I got you.”
Maverick pushed his cock into Ice with one firm stroke. A breathy, rent noise tore out of Ice’s throat, and his hands curled into fists around the pillow. Maverick took up a steady, strong tempo, thrusting into the delicious heat and tightness as Ice came undone. He was face down in the pillow, moaning without any attempt at composure, like maybe keeping all his words bottled up for days now was a thing under pressure, and if he didn’t vent it like this, it would explode and kill him. Maverick was, even in this moment, frustrated and confused and angry about Ice’s evasiveness, but seeing him like this, bare naked need, was worth it, almost.
It’s not like it had been long since they’d had sex, but Ice was acting like he hadn’t been touched in years. He was writhing beneath Maverick, desperate for friction, yes, but also almost physically unable to handle everything he was feeling. Talk to me, Maverick had been asking, hoping, begging, and now he was. He was.
Maverick slowed his strokes. He angled Ice’s hips, careful with his bad one, and thrust against his prostate. Held it. Pulled back, thrust against his prostate. Held it. A third time, and Ice lost it, bucking and crying out as he came, hard. Maverick let himself go, too, and before he knew it, they were laying together panting and oversensitized, sated and spent.
Maverick rested his palm against the joint of Ice’s jaw, his fingertips over his throbbing pulse point, his thumb gently stroking his cheek. Ice was watching him, pale eyes ghostly in the low light, gaze lidded but intense. Constant.
“You okay?” Maverick asked.
“Mm-hmm.” He scooted in, pulling Maverick against him with one arm, resting his forehead against Maverick’s. Ice closed his eyes. Maverick listened to his breathing deepen and slow, felt in his fingertips as his pulse beat back down to its normal rhythm.
He was probably asleep. Maverick held him.
“I need you, asshole,” he whispered. “Please don’t break this, Tom. Please don’t break it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ice was still asleep when Maverick woke up, curled up against him with one arm under the pillow and the other tucked between their chests, knuckles brushing over Maverick’s heart.
Maverick glanced at the clock. It was almost time for the alarm, but they had some time.
“Ice,” he said softly.
Ice’s fingers twitched, tickling Maverick’s chest, but he didn’t open his eyes.
“Ice,” Maverick said. “Come on.”
Ice hummed a short response, but didn’t open his eyes. Maverick huffed. He ran his palm across Ice’s ribs, leaned in, kissed his face.
“Come on,” Maverick said. “Wake up, Tommy.”
Ice opened his eyes. “Do not call me that.”
Maverick laughed. “I knew that would get you.”
Ice frowned. Stretched, sighing. He kept his pale eyes on Maverick, looking at him in that intense way he had, like he could read Maverick’s thoughts.
“Last night was really good, Mav,” he said.
Maverick smoothed an errant strand of Ice’s gold hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I liked it, too. Wanna go for Round Two?”
Ice glanced at the clock. “No time.”
“Some time,” Maverick urged. “I’ll suck your cock for you, Kazansky. How’s that sound?”
Ice turned onto his back. He stretched again. Looked at Maverick with lazy focus and a cocky smile. “Sounds like you better get busy, Mitchell. We’re on a time table, here.”
Maverick rolled his eyes, but he moved down the bed, pushing the covers off Ice. He was naked, and beautiful, and already a little hard. Maverick rubbed a hand over Ice’s stomach, then moved between his legs, leaning down to take Ice’s cock in his mouth.
Ice sighed. He ran his fingers through Maverick’s hair, palm settling on the back of his neck. Not pushy, not directing him, just holding on. He relaxed back, eyes drifting closed, as Maverick sucked him deep.
Sometimes Ice was pushy when Maverick was sucking him off, but usually he was like this: passive, receptive. He took what Maverick gave him, moaning quietly but not thrusting against him, eyes closed, sinking down into the sensation. Maverick worked him as well as he knew how, listening to the noises coming out of him, looking up occasionally at his blissed out face. That was enough to make Maverick hard, and he stroked himself a couple times just to stand it before using his hands on Ice, too, bringing him off just as the alarm trilled. Maverick swallowed Ice’s come, and he moved up over him, gripping his own cock, coming as Ice opened his eyes and looked at him, their gaze locked, Maverick’s come on Ice’s stomach, smearing between them as Maverick collapsed atop him.
Ice’s fingers trailed over the vertebrae of Maverick’s neck. “I hate to shoot my load and run, but if I’m late for work, my boss’ll be a real dick about it.”
Maverick growled. “You’re such a mouthy little shit sometimes, Iceman, Jesus Christ.”
“You like it,” Ice said lightly. He sat up, forcing Maverick to do the same. “I’d extend an invitation for you to shower with me, but you’ll have to control yourself. I just want you to wash my back.”
“What am I, your valet?”
“You should be so lucky.” Ice hauled himself off the bed. “Are you coming?”
Maverick held out a hand, let Ice pull him to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming, Your Highness. I’d hate for you to have to wash your own ass.”
“Any excuse for you to get your hands on me, Mitchell,” Ice said, and Maverick found he couldn’t keep himself from smiling.
***
Maverick had Trigger and Husky standing at attention before his desk. He had yelled himself hoarse, and frankly had run out of smart things to say, but he was still pulsing with rage. He wasn't sure it had done any good, if he had even gotten his point across.
Ice had been standing beside him the whole time, silent. Now he spoke. His tone was controlled but clearly dangerous, like a rattlesnake coiled and waiting.
“Lieutenants,” he said, “do you or do you not understand the concept of a direct order?”
The students looked at each other. Squirmed.
“Yes, sir,” they muttered.
“Do you understand that willful disregard of a lawful direct order from a superior officer is insubordination and can result in a dishonorable discharge from the service?”
“With all due respect, Commander—” Trigger said.
Ice's eyes flashed. "That was a yes or no question, Lieutenant, not an invitation for discourse."
Trigger shrank back. "Yes, sir," he managed. "I understand, sir."
Husky nodded. "Yes, sir, Commander."
"Then would you please explain to me why you disregarded Commander Mitchell's rules of engagement during this afternoon's exercise?"
The students looked at each other. Then the floor.
"That was not a rhetorical question, gentlemen," Ice said. "I am not standing here asking these questions because I enjoy hearing myself speak."
Trigger squirmed. "It's just that we thought that the objective of the exercise was more important than the… minutiae."
Ice clenched his jaw so hard Maverick thought he heard his teeth gnash together. "I see. Can either one of you tell me what it's called when you disregard the rules of engagement—the minutiae—on the field of battle?"
"I—no, sir," Husky said.
"It's called a war crime," Ice growled. "Your captains sent you here so you could learn to be better pilots, and I will be damned if I send them back war criminals. You two are forfeiting the next hop, and if you disregard a direct order again, no matter how minute, you'll be facing a court martial. Am I understood?"
They looked positively devastated, but they nodded." Yes, sir."
"Dismissed."
They shuffled out of the room. Ice rubbed his temple, looked over at Maverick.
"Glad you weren't my CO," Maverick said.
Ice smirked. "So am I," he said. He let his gaze linger a moment. "I wouldn't mind pretending sometime, though. You know, in a more intimate setting."
Maverick blushed. He thought of Ice standing over him, giving him orders in that rich, stern voice, insisting on yes, sir and no, sir, punishing him if he didn't comply… He felt his cock strain at the unyielding fabric of his flight suit, cursed when Ice grinned, lifting his brow. He knew, the smug fuck. He knew exactly what he was doing.
The power he had.
Maverick thought he should hate it, but he didn't. He didn't hate it at all.
***
Ice went home while Maverick waded through some of the administrative bullshit he'd been neglecting. He was a half hour into it when he found Ice had tucked a note into the breast pocket of the fatigues, though Maverick had no idea how he'd done it without him noticing. It said:
He found him in the pool. He was swimming laps, which was most of the exercise he did outside the VA these days, because of the injury to his hip. Maverick watched him cut through the water, graceful in his movements and beautiful, just so fucking beautiful.
After a few minutes, Ice spotted him. He swam up to the stairs, sat for a moment while he caught his breath.
"You got my note," he said.
Maverick walked over to him, crouched at the top of the stairs, as close as he could get without getting in the water.
"How did you get it in my pocket without me noticing?"
Ice laughed. He slicked back his hair, rivulets of water coursing down his brown chest, shoulders, back.
"You have any idea how good you look right now?" Maverick asked, and then flushed. He wasn't quite sure how those words had left his mouth.
Ice smiled, though, a genuine, guileless smile, and Maverick relaxed. "Thanks," he said. "Glad you're enjoying the view."
He held a hand out to Maverick, and Maverick helped him to his feet.
Ice dried his hair and threw some clothes on, then made fajitas while Maverick sat at the kitchen table and nursed a beer. Ice was a good cook, and Maverick enjoyed watching him do it: Ice's precision of movement, his dexterity. It wasn't as good as seeing him in a plane, but there was something beautiful and comforting about it.
Maverick worried sometimes that he was becoming domesticated.
They ate, and because Ice had cooked, Maverick did the dishes. Ice stood beside him while Maverick was at the sink, leaning back against the L-bend of the counter. He put his weight on his elbows, slightly behind him, which cocked out his hips, slim and easily attainable under thin sweats.
It would be obscene if he was doing it on purpose to get a rise out of Maverick, but he wasn't. His expression was relaxed, and he was standing so close to Maverick because he wanted the proximity, nothing else. They just stood together in easy silence while Maverick worked, and Maverick liked it. A lot.
Shit, maybe he was domesticated.
Maverick finished with the dishes, dried his hands on a dish towel. He turned to Ice, pressed closer, his hands slipping around Ice's waist. Ice watched him with quiet interest, expression calm.
"Can I ask you something?" Maverick asked. "Not an interrogation—one question, not about Fallon, I promise."
"Okay."
"How are you?"
Ice looked surprised, and it took him a moment to respond. "I'm okay, Pete. You don't have to worry about me."
"Yeah. But I do."
Ice bit his lip. He was quiet for a moment.
"I like that you do," he said finally, softly.
"Then why won't you let me?"
"One question, Pete. You promised."
Maverick sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I did."
They stood together in silence for a while, not as easy as before. Ice fingered Maverick's collar idly for a moment, then gave his shirt a little tug.
"Let's go to bed," he said.
Ice sloughed off his sweats and settled on the bed on his back, waiting for Maverick and watching him, his gaze weighty, significant in a way Maverick couldn't read.
"I thought you wanted to be on top," Maverick said.
"I changed my mind."
Maverick took him on his back, gently, slowly. Maverick wove their fingers together, and Ice held on to him like he was a life vest. Maverick watched Ice's face, open and bare, locked gaze with those pale eyes as he moved inside him.
When they were both spent, Maverick went to draw out, but Ice tensed. "No, I—stay. Please stay."
They fell asleep with Maverick still inside him, their fingers still intertwined.
CHAPTER THREE
Two weeks until the transfer window closed. Everyone on base had turned in their paperwork… everyone but Ice. Maverick wondered what he'd do if he turned down Fallon. Stay in San Diego, go commercial, like Hollywood? He was pretty sure that wasn't something Ice would ever consider. He loved the Navy, and he would be bored as hell shuttling tourists along predetermined routes in fat, slow airliners. It would have to be deployment, then. Back to living on a boat, back to conflict zones and all the things that woke Ice in the night terrified and lost, the things that made sirens and flashing lights send him into fight or flight, that made every Fourth of July hell. He'd get shore leave occasionally, and he could see Maverick then. If his plane wasn't shot down again. If he was alive to see. But even then, there'd be no one there when he woke from a nightmare, no one to bring him back to himself. There'd be no one to make sure he was keeping up with therapy and rehab, that he rested when his hip was hurting, that he took time to get things under control when his PTSD was triggered.
And Maverick. The things he would lose if Ice went away… maybe there was someone who could quantify them, but it wasn't math Maverick could do.
He just hoped he wouldn't have to.
***
Ice suggested the O Club after work, but Maverick didn't even want to think about TOPGUN right now, so they went to a bar downtown instead. It was busy when they got there, and they took their drinks to a booth in the back, a quiet spot amid the chaos of all the people talking and laughing, the '70s music with the bass turned way up vibrating the walls.
Ice sipped his vodka neat, watched Maverick swirl his rum and coke with a coffee stirrer.
"Something on your mind, Mav?"
Maverick looked at him. "I'm transferring to Fallon, Ice."
"I know that. You told me."
"I want you to come with me."
"For TOPGUN?" Ice asked. His tone was tightly controlled, his expression guarded.
"For me."
Ice bowed his head. His hands were on the table between them, and they were clenched into fists.
"Tom," Maverick said gently, "tell me what you're feeling. Please."
Ice looked at him. His expression was pained. "Everything, Maverick. I feel everything. And I feel it all too much, no filter; I feel like it's going to tear me apart." He shook his head. "I can't give you an answer yet. I'm sorry. I just … I don't know. I don't know what I'm going to do."
He started to leave the booth. Maverick grabbed his wrist, and Ice stopped, turned to look at him, eyes like a kicked dog.
"It's okay," Maverick said. "Don't leave, okay? I understand. I really do."
Ice hesitated.
"Tom," Maverick said. "Let's not … let's not fight, okay? You know, for a change."
The corner of Ice's mouth tugged up. He sat back down.
"For a change," he repeated.
Maverick picked up his glass. Clinked it against Ice's. "Cheers. Let's have some fun, huh? You and me."
"Yeah," Ice said softly. "You and me."
***
"Tom. Come on, man, focus. Tell me something you can see."
Ice was still lost in his nightmare. He shook his head like he could shake the images loose. Maverick had gotten him to sit up, but he curled up, head bowed, back bent, arms folded around himself. His breathing was short, labored, and his eyes were clenched shut.
"You want the meds?" Maverick asked. "Tom, please. Tell me what you need."
"Sometimes I see us a long time from now," Ice said. His voice was strained and small. "Together. Still together. And it's still good. I've never thought of growing old with anybody before."
"Tom…"
"Something I can feel now, right? The way I feel about you, sometimes I think I'm going to die from it. Like it's a sickness. An injury."
Maverick felt like he couldn't breathe. "Tom."
"Sometimes I hear your voice in my head when I can't even find my own."
Ice's shoulders shook. Maverick could hear him crying. I should touch him, Maverick thought. I should do something to help him. But it was like he was paralyzed.
Ice's voice was halting and choked, rough and rumbly with tears. "Sometimes, when you're not with me, I go into that drawer at the bottom of my dresser where I keep things you've left at my house, and I press your clothes to my face and smell your scent, and it's like the fucking Xanax, Pete. I can feel myself get calm, in my blood feel it."
Maverick couldn't move. He watched Ice shake, and listened to him cry, and he just sat there.
"Sometimes I wake up and I can still taste you. It's probably just shit my broken brain tricks me into believing, but I don't care. It's as real as the nightmares and the flashbacks, and some days, it's the only thing I have to hang onto."
Ice sobbed, a desperate, haunted wail, like his body was begging for something he couldn't put into words. It was naked and primal and it hurt Maverick in a way he'd never hurt before. It was enough to shock him out of his stupor, and he wrapped himself around Ice, pulling him against his chest and locking his arms around him, holding him as tight as he'd ever held anybody. He wanted to say something, something that would fix this, but he couldn't think of a single fucking word. So he stayed quiet, but he held on.
***
The next few days went by in a blur. They didn't talk about what Ice had said, but Maverick knew with a certainty that felt like a knife to his gut that it meant goodbye.
They went to work. They flew together. They spent the night together, and they didn't talk and they didn't have sex.
Every day felt like a minute, and every day felt like a hundred. Maverick looked at the calendar, and all he could see was the transfer deadline.
It took him several days, but finally he realized that he couldn't let it just taper off like this. If he didn't have Ice for very much longer, than he'd suck every last drop out of the time they did have left.
He stopped on the way to Ice's and picked up dinner and a bouquet of roses. He'd never even bought flowers for a woman, but fuck it. He wanted as few regrets as possible. Ice answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt and bare feet, looking at Maverick and the roses. Maverick couldn't read his expression, and for a moment expected a cutting remark, but instead Ice said softly, "Are those for me?"
"Yeah. I mean, of course."
Ice took the bouquet. He traced the contour of a velvety soft petal with his thumb, and some color came to his cheeks.
"No one's ever brought me flowers before, Mav."
"Well, I've never given anyone flowers before, either, so it's a first for me, too."
Ice's blush darkened. "Thank you. Come in."
Maverick put the takeout on the counter while Ice looked for a vase.
"I want us to enjoy the next few weeks," Maverick said. "Let's just do our best, okay?"
Ice set the vase with the roses on the table.
"Good idea," he said, and in seconds he had Maverick in his arms, pushed against the counter, and he was kissing him as hard as he'd ever been kissed. They fucked right there, quick and needful and so damn good, not a word between them but a lot getting said.
***
Time righted itself after that. Days lasted the regular twenty four hours. He and Ice were talking again, and they were having sex every chance they got, and things seemed normal again, better than, if Maverick could just forget about the transfer deadline, and he found that most of the time, he could.
He also forgot about the fireworks, but to be fair, they both did. They went out for dinner on Sunday, a seafood place on the beach. There were a lot of people out, but it was Labor Day weekend, which meant that there were a lot of people on long weekends, and the weather was still nice, though it always was in San Diego, as Ice was quick to point out. A crowded restaurant, a crowded boardwalk, meant that they had to be discreet, which was hardly novel, but Maverick felt more annoyed by it than usual.
Night was falling when they got back in Ice’s car to head home. Maybe if there had been fewer people out, they would have stayed on the beach, and all of this could have been avoided.
They were only a few miles from Ice’s place when the fireworks started. The noise, like gunshots, broke suddenly through the night, and Maverick was about to say something about townies and tourists when his belly flipped. Ice ran a stop sign, bouncing over a hill, and briefly swerved into the other lane—which was, miraculously, clear—before righting the car. He was panting and sweating and his hands were shaking, and Maverick kicked himself, because Ice was doing a lot better in therapy, but he still had triggers. Flashing lights; sirens; and abrupt, deep-bass noises like gunshots or fireworks.
Maverick put his hand on Ice’s shoulder. “You’re okay, man. It’s just fireworks.”
Ice’s pale eyes lighted on him briefly, and his taut muscles relaxed infinitesimally beneath Maverick’s hand. And then Ice went even stiffer, cursing, as red and blue lights came up behind them.
Ice pulled the car over. He was still breathing heavily, still sweating and shaking. He pinched his brow and rolled the window down for the police officer approaching on foot.
The cop shined his flashlight in Ice’s open window, and Ice flinched, turned his face away. The cop turned off the light, looked in the window.
“License and registration, please.”
“Ice—” Maverick said.
“Shut up,” Ice said quietly, dully, and leaned over Maverick to pull the registration out of the glove compartment.
He handed his papers to the cop, who examined them with his flashlight.
“Kazansky,” he said. “That Polish?”
“Russian,” Ice said.
The cop handed Ice’s papers back. "You been drinking tonight, Mr. Kazansky?"
"I had a beer with dinner. I’m not drunk—"
"You were driving erratically. Perhaps you’re more impaired than you realize."
Ice gripped the wheel, white knuckled, looking straight ahead. "It was the fireworks," he said softly. "I wasn’t expecting them, and they just… startled me."
"Uh huh," the cop said. "Fireworks. I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle."
Maverick watched a tendon in Ice’s jaw jerk, but he just set his papers on the dashboard and undid his seatbelt.
Fuck that. Maverick strained against his own seatbelt, leaning over Ice to talk to the cop. "This man is a decorated combat veteran—"
"Shut up, Maverick," Ice said. He pushed him back, got out of the car.
"He has PTSD!" Maverick said.
The cop glared at him. "Take your friend’s advice, son."
Maverick sat seething in the car, watching as the cop directed Ice through a sobriety test. He looked more miserable than Maverick had ever seen him, even when he’d been grounded by injury and unable to fly. He knew this was more than a blow to Ice’s pride; it signified a deeper wound, one that may never heal.
Ice passed the test, and the cop let him get back in the car, a piece of pink transfer paper clutched in his fist.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Maverick said. "You showed him you weren’t drunk, and he still wrote you a ticket?"
"Leave it, Maverick," Ice said. He sounded tired, dead tired. He put away his license and registration, buckled his seatbelt, and started the car.
Maverick forced himself to swallow his anger, and the rest of the drive was made in silence.
***
The silence ended when they got inside Ice’s house.
"What the fuck, Ice?" Maverick said. "Why didn’t you stand up for yourself? You’re the most self-righteous prick I’ve ever met, and you just—"
"Because it wasn’t worth the fight, Mitchell. That’s the difference between us: I know when it’s not worth the fight."
"I don’t get that."
Ice sighed. "I know you don’t."
Maverick was thinking of something to say, but then Ice sighed again, and he scrubbed his hand across his face.
"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he said.
“What wasn’t?”
“What—? My fucking life, Maverick. I was—I was supposed to be a pilot.”
“You are, Tom.”
Ice wasn’t listening. He shook his head, the way a horse shakes its head, just a restless twitch to expend energy. “I was supposed to—to fly, fly missions … I wasn’t supposed to—to get this fucking post traumatic stress bullshit—”
Maverick put his hands on Ice’s biceps, arresting his anxious movement, holding him in place. “Shit happens, Tom. You can’t control everything; that’s nuts.”
Ice winced. “Don’t call me that.”
Maverick sighed. He released Ice from his grip. “I’m not, Tom. I’m not. I didn’t say that, and I don’t think that. I think a lot of unflattering things about you, sure: Ice is a pain in the ass, Ice is stuck up, Ice needs to relax. But I’ve never once thought, 'Ice is crazy.' Because you’re not crazy. You’re not.”
Ice met his eyes, finally. “I feel like it. And I feel … I feel stunted, like I had all this potential, and I’ve … I’ve flown off course, and there’s no way to fix it. I wasn’t supposed to spend my life flying drills in a town known for its cantaloupe festival.”
Maverick sighed. “Yeah, that threw me for a loop, too.”
“And the fact that … that some part of me—maybe the biggest part of me—wants that because it means I can stay with you … that makes me feel crazy, too.”
Maverick felt lightheaded, like he couldn’t breathe. “Tom.”
Ice shook his head. “You don’t know how this feels.”
“Bullshit,” Maverick said. He might have been yelling; he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he couldn’t control it. “I know exactly how that feels. You think my big life plans included falling in love with some snobby, perfectionist, bottle blond guy? I had plans, too, asshole, and they didn’t include you. But you can’t control everything, like I said, and this happened, and maybe it wasn’t in the plans, but there’s no way I’m going to give it up now I’ve got it, do you understand?”
Ice was quiet. He was looking at Maverick like he’d just hit him. Finally: “You’re in love with me?”
Maverick flushed. “That would be the part you’d get stuck on.”
“Say it,” Ice said. “Say it, and I’ll sign the transfer papers. I’ll go to Fallon with you.”
Resistance burned in Maverick’s chest. Then he looked at Ice’s face, open and raw, waiting. This wasn’t a contest of wills. Ice didn’t want to dominate him; he didn’t want blackmail material, or to prove he was stronger or superior in some way. He didn’t want anything from Maverick, except this one small thing he actually owed him. Maverick took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly.
“Tom Kazansky, I’m in love with you.”
Ice didn’t smile, but his expression softened, the pain and anxiety melting away. He closed the distance between them, resting his forehead against Maverick’s, putting his hands on him with the gentlest touch.
“I’m in love with you, too,” he said softly. “I’ll go with you. To Fallon, to the Gulf, to the fucking moon; wherever you go, I’ll go.”
***
Maverick's office was packed and on the truck, and so was everything else from TOPGUN. Ice's transfer had been approved, and he was in the process of selling his house. His things were packed as well, and they were on a separate truck. The stuff from Maverick's house, too. Maverick looked at the office he'd occupied for almost ten years, ten good years. It hurt to leave it behind, but he had better things coming in the future.
The best of those things was leaning against the doorframe, watching Maverick say goodbye.
"Car's ready," Ice said. "Are you?"
Maverick smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Let's go."
He turned off the light, and followed Ice out, closing the door on Miramar for good.
"Can I drive?" he asked as they walked to the car.
Ice snorted. "Not on your life. No, wait. Not on my life, Mitchell."
"Come on, Ice. The government trusts me with a million dollar jet—"
"You've been trained to pilot a jet. You don't know how to drive a car."
"Uptight."
"Spoiled."
They got in the car, and Ice started the ignition. Maverick watched Miramar grow smaller in the rear view mirror, and then disappear altogether. He rested his hand on the back of Ice's neck, teasing the close-cropped hair at his hairline with his fingertips, feeling Ice's muscles relax beneath his palm. Maverick stopped looking behind them. He held on to Ice, and he looked ahead.
I loved you the same way
that I learned to ride a bike.
Scared, but reckless.
With no training wheels
or elbow pads so my scars
can tell the story of how
I fell for you.
- Rudy Francisco, “Helium”
Thick, dark clouds blanketed the sky, hiding the light from the moon and stars. It had been raining sheets for hours, and the only time the utter blackness of the night was broken was when lightning struck.
Thunder grumbled all around them. Maverick had turned on the lamp on the bedside table, its light butter yellow.
Ice was stretched out on Maverick’s bed on his back. Maverick sat up next to him, watching his lips tremble as he took in uneven breaths.
“Come on, Tom,” he said. “Talk to me. Tell me something you can see.”
Ice’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His voice came out overly controlled, like he was trying not to scream. “That weird water stain on your ceiling shaped like a horse.”
“I’m gonna get that fixed. Now something you can feel.”
“Your hand on my arm.”
“Good. You’re doing great, man. Something you can hear?”
“The rain.”
Maverick watched Ice’s chest rise and fall. His breathing was evening out. That was good. He sounded more like himself with every answer. They was good, too.
“Something you can smell?” Maverick prompted.
“The rain.”
“You said that already. Come on, something else.”
“I—the sheets. They smell like us.”
“Okay," Maverick said. “Last one. Tell me something you can taste.”
“I don’t… kiss me.”
Maverick leaned down, gently pressed his lips against Ice’s. Ice rested his fingers on the back of Maverick’s neck, the softest touch, not holding him in place, just asking him to stay. They kissed deeper, long and slow, and when they broke for air, Ice said, “You. I taste you.”
Maverick settled on his side next to Ice, ran his fingers through Ice’s hair. He was breathing normally, and he’d gotten his color back. The nightmare seemed like maybe it was… well, just a dream.
“You’re getting good at this,” Maverick said.
“You too.”
“I’m proud of you, Tom.”
Ice was quiet a moment. “And I’m grateful for you,” he said softly.
Not so long ago, one or both of them would have looked away, unable to bear the weight of the sentiment, but this time they both struggled through. Held it.
***
Iceman had been back at TOPGUN for coming up on a year and a half. He’d been back in Maverick’s life for coming up on a year and a half. The injuries that had grounded him, sent him back in the first place, were as healed as they were going to get. He’d always have pain; he’d always have a limp. He was working on his shell shock. Maverick was, too. He was doing some reading on the subject, had even gone with Ice to therapy a couple times. They were calling it post traumatic stress disorder now, and more people were talking about it in helpful ways, in ways that helped the people who had it.
Ice had gotten comfortable back at TOPGUN. Maverick had gotten complacent. Both situations had an expiration date that was not too far off. The Marines were taking over Miramar, and TOPGUN was moving to Fallon, Nevada, an isolated desert town on America’s loneliest highway with nothing but Navy and alfalfa fields for more than a hundred miles in any direction.
It was Monday morning, and they were getting ready for the last TOPGUN class Miramar would graduate. They had already begun packing some things up, and in other parts of the base, the Marines were moving things in. Maverick sat in his office with more paperwork than he’d seen in his life: the red tape of moving a military installation was no joke.
Hollywood poked his head in. “Hey, Mav, got a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Hollywood entered and approached the desk, a stack of papers in his hand.
“That your transfer paperwork?” Maverick asked. “What’s it gonna be, ’Wood?”
Hollywood sighed. He handed Maverick the papers. “It’s a no from me, Mav. I’m sorry. My wife’s pregnant again, and she doesn’t want to move. I’m going commercial, can you believe this shit?”
“We’ll sure miss you, ’Wood. Who you flying with?”
“Delta.”
“They’ll be lucky to have you,” Maverick said. He stood, and shook Hollywood’s hand.
“Thanks, Maverick. You sign your papers yet?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m going. I’m too involved now to let someone else take over TOPGUN. I’d be jealous.”
Hollywood laughed. “Sure, sure. What about Kazansky?”
Maverick frowned. “He hasn’t told me one way or the other.”
“He’s got some time until the deadline,” Hollywood said, almost gently.
“Not much,” Maverick said, and flinched at the bitterness in his voice.
“What do you think he’ll do?”
Maverick shook his head. “Honestly? I don’t have a goddamn clue.”
***
Maverick ordered in Thai and invited Ice over. He picked at his drunken noodle, watched Ice eat.
“I was wondering what your plans are,” he said.
Ice raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to finish eating. Then I thought we’d fool around on the couch for a while before taking it to the bedroom.”
Maverick stabbed irritably at his dinner. Fucking smug, slippery bastard. Why was this so hard?
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
Ice put his fork down. He put all his attention on Maverick, pale eyes glued to him, expression unreadable. “What did you mean?”
Maverick ground his molars together. Agonizingly, he pulled the words out. “I need to know whether you’re going to transfer to Fallon.”
The corner of Ice’s mouth quirked. “Who needs to know? You, Pete Mitchell, or TOPGUN?”
“I am TOPGUN,” Maverick said finally.
Ice rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right, Mav.”
“I’m serious.”
“I sincerely hope not.”
“About Fallon, jackass. We need to have a conversation about this.”
Ice frowned. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s—that’s bullshit. That’s not good enough, Ice.”
Ice took his plate to the sink. He pushed uneaten curry into the disposal with more force than was necessary. “Well, it’ll have to do.”
***
Ice had stayed the night, even after their argument, and the night had gone exactly as Ice had predicted, but he’d left early to see his headshrinker, showered and gone before Maverick had even gotten out of bed. He thought he recalled, through the warped lens of hypnopompic stupor, Ice leaning down and kissing him before he took off, but that might have been a dream.
Maverick had paperwork, and Ice had classes to teach, so he didn’t see him on base until it was time to take the last class on their first hop. Maverick passed him on the tarmac, Ice already climbing up to the cockpit of his plane and Maverick on the ground below, on the way to his own. He gave a sharp whistle, and Ice turned around to look at him, pausing perched on the side of the plane, half in and half out of it.
“You ready for this?” Maverick asked.
“Why?” Ice asked with maddening nonchalance. “Are you going to do something I haven’t seen before?”
Maverick was too slow in coming up with a comeback. Ice bared his teeth at him, and pulled himself into the cockpit, literally removing himself from the conversation.
So, Ice didn’t want to talk, but it was clear something was on his mind. Maverick could see it in the way he flew. Not that Ice had bad days in the air, or if he did, Maverick had never seen it, but he was aggressively on point today, taking turns around the canyon with razor-sharp precision, bullying other planes into position like Maverick wasn’t even there. Normally they flew as a team, working together to outfly the students, but today Ice just moved around him, silent on comms, making target locks on the students one after another, like he was up there alone.
Maverick could deal with a lot of shit—okay, maybe not a lot, but some. Definitely some shit—but not being ignored.
Maverick waited for Ice on the ground, teeth gnashing. Ice took a while to come down, and when he did, he hopped out of his place and breezed by Maverick without pause.
“What the hell was that?” Maverick demanded, trailing after him.
“I’m going to miss this,” Ice said, and disappeared.
***
He lost Ice after the hop. He wasn’t in the showers, and he wasn’t in his office. Ice was free to go, of course; the hop was his last commitment of the day, but it was the fact that he had gone that was troubling. Maverick was not free to go. He had administrative responsibilities that Ice didn’t have, but he could not do them right now. He was easily susceptible to a one track mind, and right now—as it was, now, frustratingly often—that one track was all Ice.
Maverick left TOPGUN, drove to Ice’s house. His car wasn’t in the driveway, but Maverick banged on the door, anyway, even looked in some of the windows when he didn’t receive a response. He checked the O Club, the VA, and then drove back to his own house, which was less likely, but Ice was nowhere to be found.
Maverick decided to do something stupid. He knew it was stupid as he was doing it, but he was at a point where he couldn’t not do it. He had the number for Ice’s therapist, for emergencies and because, apparently, this was his life now: having Ice’s doctors’ numbers written in his address book. He called Dr. Fields, who was miraculously not with a patient and able to take his call. Maverick liked Dr. Fields. She had a very calming presence, but she wasn’t a pushover; she told Ice hard truths and made him work. And Ice was right: she had great legs.
“What can I do for you, Pete?” she asked. He was on a first name basis with another man’s therapist; that had to be wrong, didn’t it?
Maverick clutched the phone to his ear, and rested his head against the wall. “I, um, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m—I’m worried about Tom. I was wondering—I mean, he saw you this morning, and I was wondering if he said anything …?”
She sighed. “I can’t talk to you about Tom without his permission, Pete. You know that.”
He banged his head against the wall. Not much force to it, just enough for him to feel a different kind of pain for a moment. “I—yeah, I do. I’m sorry. I just—he’s being so weird, and he won’t talk to me, and frankly I’m—I’m freaking out, a little.”
“Are you worried he’s going to hurt himself?”
“I—no. No, it’s not that.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do to help you, Pete. I’m sorry. I know this is difficult. I know he can be difficult. But you’re going to have to do this with him.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry to bother you. I don’t—you don’t have to tell him I called you, do you?”
“No, Pete,” she said gently. “I won’t tell him unless he asks.”
“You don’t know where he is, do you? I mean, I can’t talk to him if I can’t find him, and right now I can’t find him.”
“I couldn’t tell you if I knew, which I don’t. Try the VA.”
“Yeah. Thanks, doc.”
Maverick hung up the phone. Banged his head against the wall a few times, harder now.
Fuck.
***
Maverick drove back to Ice’s house. He stayed there, sitting on the front porch, until Ice showed up. He stood as Ice got out of the car, taking his time with his cane and giving Maverick a look he couldn’t quite read.
It was getting dark, Maverick realized suddenly, and then he realized he had absolutely no idea how much time he’d spent looking for Ice, how much time he’d spent here waiting.
“Mitchell,” Ice said, moving past him to unlock the front door. “Can I help you?”
“I just—shit, Ice, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all over town.”
Ice frowned. “I just went for a drive, Mav.” He looked at him, brow raised slightly. “Were you worried?”
“I—no. Asshole. I know where to find plenty more stuck up Navy pilots with pornstar lips if you go missing for too long, Kazansky.”
Ice smiled, but it was humorless. “But how will you find one who can suck dick like I can, Maverick?”
Maverick blushed. Swore. He followed Ice inside without being invited. Ice didn’t say anything, just closed the door behind him and hung up his keys.
“I want to talk to you,” Maverick said.
“I said I didn’t want to.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Relationships are based on reciprocity and compromise, Peter,” Ice said in the stern, measured voice he used in the classroom.
It took every ounce of Maverick’s self control not to take a swing at him.
“Look,” Ice said, easing his tone. “You can stay, if you want, but I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk. We can order in, have a drink; I’ll even let you fuck me, if you want, but I’m not going to be interrogated. Okay?”
It wasn’t okay, not really. But Maverick forced himself to calm down. To listen. He looked at Ice. He looked like another sharp word might actually knock him off his feet. Maverick wondered if he was hurting, how much he was hurting, how therapy had gone, what he needed … a hundred questions about Ice that had nothing to do with Maverick or their future together.
He nodded. “Okay.”
***
Ice ordered a pizza, handed Maverick a beer, and then collapsed on the couch. Maverick took his beer to the living room and sat beside him. Ice had his bad leg propped up on the coffee table, and Maverick wanted to ask about the pain, but he’d promised not to, so he just found something dumb on TV to distract them. When the pizza came, Maverick paid for it so Ice wouldn’t have to get up, and they ate and drank and didn’t talk, watching the awful movie Maverick had picked out until Ice, without saying anything, turned the set off.
“Give me a hand, Mav,” he said, extending his. Maverick helped Ice to his feet, and they walked down the hall together.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Maverick said.
Ice paused before the bed. “I said we could. Do you want to?”
“Hell yeah, I do.”
Ice smiled. He stepped back until the backs of his calves hit the bed. He looked at Maverick from under his lashes, voice a fucking purr. “Well then, Maverick. Come and get me.”
Maverick still wanted to talk. They were bad at that, but this—they were great at this. They always had been. Maverick stepped forward, grabbed Ice’s shirt. Used his hold on it to pull him in, flush sternum to pelvis. Maverick threaded his fingers through Ice’s hair, not entirely gently, and pulled him down for a kiss. Urgent, needul, thorough. With his free hand, Maverick opened Ice’s jeans, grasping his cock, waiting until Ice panted out his name to move. Maverick stroked him for a minute, just long enough for Ice to get into it, and then he pulled his hand back. Spun Ice around, his back to him, yanking down his jeans and pushing him forward onto the bed.
“Tease,” Ice hissed.
“You said I could fuck you,” Maverick reminded him cheerfully.
“Get on with it, then.”
They lost their clothes quickly. Ice was being agreeable, laying on his belly hugging a pillow, waiting for Maverick. Maverick leaned over him to the bedside table for condoms and lube, and Ice sighed, enjoying the pressure of Maverick’s body pushing him into the mattress. Maverick liked it, too. He tried not to think of how much. How much he loved every part of this. Not just sex, but sex with Ice. The feel of his hot skin against his own; the way Ice looked at him with his spooky pale eyes, his cool, relaxed gaze. The way he looked at him like he trusted Maverick not to hurt him. The noises Ice made, the way his muscles moved while Maverick was moving inside him. How he closed his eyes when he came, shutting out every sensation except what Maverick had made him feel, and holding onto it as long as he could. Riding it like pushing past Mach II into supersonic.
So much for not thinking about it. Maverick’s brain had taken him from zero to sixty, and now he was too hard, too desperate to take his time and love Ice like he should.
Ice looked at him. “Mav?”
“Hold your horses,” Maverick said. “Anything this good takes time.”
Ice rolled his eyes, faced front.
Maverick positioned himself between Ice’s legs. He ran his fingers lightly over the inside of Ice’s thigh, feeling the smooth flesh goose pimple, and he smiled. He traced the curve of Ice’s ass, slid his finger into the crack, running lightly over Ice’s hole.
Ice tossed his head a little. Breathed out harshly. He didn’t want to talk, but right now he didn’t have to. After simmering in bewilderment over Ice’s behavior all day, knowing exactly how he was feeling and what he wanted felt like a goddamn miracle.
Maverick lubed up his fingers, began to work Ice open. There was still the problem of Maverick’s libido speeding ahead of Ice’s, and Ice squirming and whining the way he was wasn’t helping. Maverick took his time with Ice, and while Ice was getting worked up, Maverick did some drag coefficients in his head, and that took the edge off. Soon, they were on equal footing, so to speak.
“You ready?” Maverick asked. “You want it?”
Ice moaned. “Yes,” he panted.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Ice whined. “Maverick—”
“Come on,” Maverick urged. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything you want.”
Ice was breathing heavy. He was still for a moment, and Maverick sat in the oh so familiar feeling of wondering whether his gamble would pay off. But finally Ice gave, tossing his head, writhing against the mattress.
“Want you,” he said, half into the pillow, voice choked with need. “Want your cock, Maverick, please…”
Maverick ran his palms over Ice’s back, putting some real pressure behind it. Ice let out a breath he’d been holding, relaxing as much as he was able, which wasn’t far.
“Okay,” Maverick said. “I got you. I got you.”
Maverick pushed his cock into Ice with one firm stroke. A breathy, rent noise tore out of Ice’s throat, and his hands curled into fists around the pillow. Maverick took up a steady, strong tempo, thrusting into the delicious heat and tightness as Ice came undone. He was face down in the pillow, moaning without any attempt at composure, like maybe keeping all his words bottled up for days now was a thing under pressure, and if he didn’t vent it like this, it would explode and kill him. Maverick was, even in this moment, frustrated and confused and angry about Ice’s evasiveness, but seeing him like this, bare naked need, was worth it, almost.
It’s not like it had been long since they’d had sex, but Ice was acting like he hadn’t been touched in years. He was writhing beneath Maverick, desperate for friction, yes, but also almost physically unable to handle everything he was feeling. Talk to me, Maverick had been asking, hoping, begging, and now he was. He was.
Maverick slowed his strokes. He angled Ice’s hips, careful with his bad one, and thrust against his prostate. Held it. Pulled back, thrust against his prostate. Held it. A third time, and Ice lost it, bucking and crying out as he came, hard. Maverick let himself go, too, and before he knew it, they were laying together panting and oversensitized, sated and spent.
Maverick rested his palm against the joint of Ice’s jaw, his fingertips over his throbbing pulse point, his thumb gently stroking his cheek. Ice was watching him, pale eyes ghostly in the low light, gaze lidded but intense. Constant.
“You okay?” Maverick asked.
“Mm-hmm.” He scooted in, pulling Maverick against him with one arm, resting his forehead against Maverick’s. Ice closed his eyes. Maverick listened to his breathing deepen and slow, felt in his fingertips as his pulse beat back down to its normal rhythm.
He was probably asleep. Maverick held him.
“I need you, asshole,” he whispered. “Please don’t break this, Tom. Please don’t break it.”
CHAPTER TWO
Ice was still asleep when Maverick woke up, curled up against him with one arm under the pillow and the other tucked between their chests, knuckles brushing over Maverick’s heart.
Maverick glanced at the clock. It was almost time for the alarm, but they had some time.
“Ice,” he said softly.
Ice’s fingers twitched, tickling Maverick’s chest, but he didn’t open his eyes.
“Ice,” Maverick said. “Come on.”
Ice hummed a short response, but didn’t open his eyes. Maverick huffed. He ran his palm across Ice’s ribs, leaned in, kissed his face.
“Come on,” Maverick said. “Wake up, Tommy.”
Ice opened his eyes. “Do not call me that.”
Maverick laughed. “I knew that would get you.”
Ice frowned. Stretched, sighing. He kept his pale eyes on Maverick, looking at him in that intense way he had, like he could read Maverick’s thoughts.
“Last night was really good, Mav,” he said.
Maverick smoothed an errant strand of Ice’s gold hair out of his eyes. “Yeah. I liked it, too. Wanna go for Round Two?”
Ice glanced at the clock. “No time.”
“Some time,” Maverick urged. “I’ll suck your cock for you, Kazansky. How’s that sound?”
Ice turned onto his back. He stretched again. Looked at Maverick with lazy focus and a cocky smile. “Sounds like you better get busy, Mitchell. We’re on a time table, here.”
Maverick rolled his eyes, but he moved down the bed, pushing the covers off Ice. He was naked, and beautiful, and already a little hard. Maverick rubbed a hand over Ice’s stomach, then moved between his legs, leaning down to take Ice’s cock in his mouth.
Ice sighed. He ran his fingers through Maverick’s hair, palm settling on the back of his neck. Not pushy, not directing him, just holding on. He relaxed back, eyes drifting closed, as Maverick sucked him deep.
Sometimes Ice was pushy when Maverick was sucking him off, but usually he was like this: passive, receptive. He took what Maverick gave him, moaning quietly but not thrusting against him, eyes closed, sinking down into the sensation. Maverick worked him as well as he knew how, listening to the noises coming out of him, looking up occasionally at his blissed out face. That was enough to make Maverick hard, and he stroked himself a couple times just to stand it before using his hands on Ice, too, bringing him off just as the alarm trilled. Maverick swallowed Ice’s come, and he moved up over him, gripping his own cock, coming as Ice opened his eyes and looked at him, their gaze locked, Maverick’s come on Ice’s stomach, smearing between them as Maverick collapsed atop him.
Ice’s fingers trailed over the vertebrae of Maverick’s neck. “I hate to shoot my load and run, but if I’m late for work, my boss’ll be a real dick about it.”
Maverick growled. “You’re such a mouthy little shit sometimes, Iceman, Jesus Christ.”
“You like it,” Ice said lightly. He sat up, forcing Maverick to do the same. “I’d extend an invitation for you to shower with me, but you’ll have to control yourself. I just want you to wash my back.”
“What am I, your valet?”
“You should be so lucky.” Ice hauled himself off the bed. “Are you coming?”
Maverick held out a hand, let Ice pull him to his feet. “Yeah, I’m coming, Your Highness. I’d hate for you to have to wash your own ass.”
“Any excuse for you to get your hands on me, Mitchell,” Ice said, and Maverick found he couldn’t keep himself from smiling.
***
Maverick had Trigger and Husky standing at attention before his desk. He had yelled himself hoarse, and frankly had run out of smart things to say, but he was still pulsing with rage. He wasn't sure it had done any good, if he had even gotten his point across.
Ice had been standing beside him the whole time, silent. Now he spoke. His tone was controlled but clearly dangerous, like a rattlesnake coiled and waiting.
“Lieutenants,” he said, “do you or do you not understand the concept of a direct order?”
The students looked at each other. Squirmed.
“Yes, sir,” they muttered.
“Do you understand that willful disregard of a lawful direct order from a superior officer is insubordination and can result in a dishonorable discharge from the service?”
“With all due respect, Commander—” Trigger said.
Ice's eyes flashed. "That was a yes or no question, Lieutenant, not an invitation for discourse."
Trigger shrank back. "Yes, sir," he managed. "I understand, sir."
Husky nodded. "Yes, sir, Commander."
"Then would you please explain to me why you disregarded Commander Mitchell's rules of engagement during this afternoon's exercise?"
The students looked at each other. Then the floor.
"That was not a rhetorical question, gentlemen," Ice said. "I am not standing here asking these questions because I enjoy hearing myself speak."
Trigger squirmed. "It's just that we thought that the objective of the exercise was more important than the… minutiae."
Ice clenched his jaw so hard Maverick thought he heard his teeth gnash together. "I see. Can either one of you tell me what it's called when you disregard the rules of engagement—the minutiae—on the field of battle?"
"I—no, sir," Husky said.
"It's called a war crime," Ice growled. "Your captains sent you here so you could learn to be better pilots, and I will be damned if I send them back war criminals. You two are forfeiting the next hop, and if you disregard a direct order again, no matter how minute, you'll be facing a court martial. Am I understood?"
They looked positively devastated, but they nodded." Yes, sir."
"Dismissed."
They shuffled out of the room. Ice rubbed his temple, looked over at Maverick.
"Glad you weren't my CO," Maverick said.
Ice smirked. "So am I," he said. He let his gaze linger a moment. "I wouldn't mind pretending sometime, though. You know, in a more intimate setting."
Maverick blushed. He thought of Ice standing over him, giving him orders in that rich, stern voice, insisting on yes, sir and no, sir, punishing him if he didn't comply… He felt his cock strain at the unyielding fabric of his flight suit, cursed when Ice grinned, lifting his brow. He knew, the smug fuck. He knew exactly what he was doing.
The power he had.
Maverick thought he should hate it, but he didn't. He didn't hate it at all.
***
Ice went home while Maverick waded through some of the administrative bullshit he'd been neglecting. He was a half hour into it when he found Ice had tucked a note into the breast pocket of the fatigues, though Maverick had no idea how he'd done it without him noticing. It said:
Come over when you're done. I'll cook for you.Maverick parked in Ice's driveway about an hour after finding the note. He used his key—because, yeah, Ice had given him a key—to get in, and walked through the house looking for Ice.
It's my turn to be on top.
Ice
He found him in the pool. He was swimming laps, which was most of the exercise he did outside the VA these days, because of the injury to his hip. Maverick watched him cut through the water, graceful in his movements and beautiful, just so fucking beautiful.
After a few minutes, Ice spotted him. He swam up to the stairs, sat for a moment while he caught his breath.
"You got my note," he said.
Maverick walked over to him, crouched at the top of the stairs, as close as he could get without getting in the water.
"How did you get it in my pocket without me noticing?"
Ice laughed. He slicked back his hair, rivulets of water coursing down his brown chest, shoulders, back.
"You have any idea how good you look right now?" Maverick asked, and then flushed. He wasn't quite sure how those words had left his mouth.
Ice smiled, though, a genuine, guileless smile, and Maverick relaxed. "Thanks," he said. "Glad you're enjoying the view."
He held a hand out to Maverick, and Maverick helped him to his feet.
Ice dried his hair and threw some clothes on, then made fajitas while Maverick sat at the kitchen table and nursed a beer. Ice was a good cook, and Maverick enjoyed watching him do it: Ice's precision of movement, his dexterity. It wasn't as good as seeing him in a plane, but there was something beautiful and comforting about it.
Maverick worried sometimes that he was becoming domesticated.
They ate, and because Ice had cooked, Maverick did the dishes. Ice stood beside him while Maverick was at the sink, leaning back against the L-bend of the counter. He put his weight on his elbows, slightly behind him, which cocked out his hips, slim and easily attainable under thin sweats.
It would be obscene if he was doing it on purpose to get a rise out of Maverick, but he wasn't. His expression was relaxed, and he was standing so close to Maverick because he wanted the proximity, nothing else. They just stood together in easy silence while Maverick worked, and Maverick liked it. A lot.
Shit, maybe he was domesticated.
Maverick finished with the dishes, dried his hands on a dish towel. He turned to Ice, pressed closer, his hands slipping around Ice's waist. Ice watched him with quiet interest, expression calm.
"Can I ask you something?" Maverick asked. "Not an interrogation—one question, not about Fallon, I promise."
"Okay."
"How are you?"
Ice looked surprised, and it took him a moment to respond. "I'm okay, Pete. You don't have to worry about me."
"Yeah. But I do."
Ice bit his lip. He was quiet for a moment.
"I like that you do," he said finally, softly.
"Then why won't you let me?"
"One question, Pete. You promised."
Maverick sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I did."
They stood together in silence for a while, not as easy as before. Ice fingered Maverick's collar idly for a moment, then gave his shirt a little tug.
"Let's go to bed," he said.
Ice sloughed off his sweats and settled on the bed on his back, waiting for Maverick and watching him, his gaze weighty, significant in a way Maverick couldn't read.
"I thought you wanted to be on top," Maverick said.
"I changed my mind."
Maverick took him on his back, gently, slowly. Maverick wove their fingers together, and Ice held on to him like he was a life vest. Maverick watched Ice's face, open and bare, locked gaze with those pale eyes as he moved inside him.
When they were both spent, Maverick went to draw out, but Ice tensed. "No, I—stay. Please stay."
They fell asleep with Maverick still inside him, their fingers still intertwined.
CHAPTER THREE
Two weeks until the transfer window closed. Everyone on base had turned in their paperwork… everyone but Ice. Maverick wondered what he'd do if he turned down Fallon. Stay in San Diego, go commercial, like Hollywood? He was pretty sure that wasn't something Ice would ever consider. He loved the Navy, and he would be bored as hell shuttling tourists along predetermined routes in fat, slow airliners. It would have to be deployment, then. Back to living on a boat, back to conflict zones and all the things that woke Ice in the night terrified and lost, the things that made sirens and flashing lights send him into fight or flight, that made every Fourth of July hell. He'd get shore leave occasionally, and he could see Maverick then. If his plane wasn't shot down again. If he was alive to see. But even then, there'd be no one there when he woke from a nightmare, no one to bring him back to himself. There'd be no one to make sure he was keeping up with therapy and rehab, that he rested when his hip was hurting, that he took time to get things under control when his PTSD was triggered.
And Maverick. The things he would lose if Ice went away… maybe there was someone who could quantify them, but it wasn't math Maverick could do.
He just hoped he wouldn't have to.
***
Ice suggested the O Club after work, but Maverick didn't even want to think about TOPGUN right now, so they went to a bar downtown instead. It was busy when they got there, and they took their drinks to a booth in the back, a quiet spot amid the chaos of all the people talking and laughing, the '70s music with the bass turned way up vibrating the walls.
Ice sipped his vodka neat, watched Maverick swirl his rum and coke with a coffee stirrer.
"Something on your mind, Mav?"
Maverick looked at him. "I'm transferring to Fallon, Ice."
"I know that. You told me."
"I want you to come with me."
"For TOPGUN?" Ice asked. His tone was tightly controlled, his expression guarded.
"For me."
Ice bowed his head. His hands were on the table between them, and they were clenched into fists.
"Tom," Maverick said gently, "tell me what you're feeling. Please."
Ice looked at him. His expression was pained. "Everything, Maverick. I feel everything. And I feel it all too much, no filter; I feel like it's going to tear me apart." He shook his head. "I can't give you an answer yet. I'm sorry. I just … I don't know. I don't know what I'm going to do."
He started to leave the booth. Maverick grabbed his wrist, and Ice stopped, turned to look at him, eyes like a kicked dog.
"It's okay," Maverick said. "Don't leave, okay? I understand. I really do."
Ice hesitated.
"Tom," Maverick said. "Let's not … let's not fight, okay? You know, for a change."
The corner of Ice's mouth tugged up. He sat back down.
"For a change," he repeated.
Maverick picked up his glass. Clinked it against Ice's. "Cheers. Let's have some fun, huh? You and me."
"Yeah," Ice said softly. "You and me."
***
"Tom. Come on, man, focus. Tell me something you can see."
Ice was still lost in his nightmare. He shook his head like he could shake the images loose. Maverick had gotten him to sit up, but he curled up, head bowed, back bent, arms folded around himself. His breathing was short, labored, and his eyes were clenched shut.
"You want the meds?" Maverick asked. "Tom, please. Tell me what you need."
"Sometimes I see us a long time from now," Ice said. His voice was strained and small. "Together. Still together. And it's still good. I've never thought of growing old with anybody before."
"Tom…"
"Something I can feel now, right? The way I feel about you, sometimes I think I'm going to die from it. Like it's a sickness. An injury."
Maverick felt like he couldn't breathe. "Tom."
"Sometimes I hear your voice in my head when I can't even find my own."
Ice's shoulders shook. Maverick could hear him crying. I should touch him, Maverick thought. I should do something to help him. But it was like he was paralyzed.
Ice's voice was halting and choked, rough and rumbly with tears. "Sometimes, when you're not with me, I go into that drawer at the bottom of my dresser where I keep things you've left at my house, and I press your clothes to my face and smell your scent, and it's like the fucking Xanax, Pete. I can feel myself get calm, in my blood feel it."
Maverick couldn't move. He watched Ice shake, and listened to him cry, and he just sat there.
"Sometimes I wake up and I can still taste you. It's probably just shit my broken brain tricks me into believing, but I don't care. It's as real as the nightmares and the flashbacks, and some days, it's the only thing I have to hang onto."
Ice sobbed, a desperate, haunted wail, like his body was begging for something he couldn't put into words. It was naked and primal and it hurt Maverick in a way he'd never hurt before. It was enough to shock him out of his stupor, and he wrapped himself around Ice, pulling him against his chest and locking his arms around him, holding him as tight as he'd ever held anybody. He wanted to say something, something that would fix this, but he couldn't think of a single fucking word. So he stayed quiet, but he held on.
***
The next few days went by in a blur. They didn't talk about what Ice had said, but Maverick knew with a certainty that felt like a knife to his gut that it meant goodbye.
They went to work. They flew together. They spent the night together, and they didn't talk and they didn't have sex.
Every day felt like a minute, and every day felt like a hundred. Maverick looked at the calendar, and all he could see was the transfer deadline.
It took him several days, but finally he realized that he couldn't let it just taper off like this. If he didn't have Ice for very much longer, than he'd suck every last drop out of the time they did have left.
He stopped on the way to Ice's and picked up dinner and a bouquet of roses. He'd never even bought flowers for a woman, but fuck it. He wanted as few regrets as possible. Ice answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt and bare feet, looking at Maverick and the roses. Maverick couldn't read his expression, and for a moment expected a cutting remark, but instead Ice said softly, "Are those for me?"
"Yeah. I mean, of course."
Ice took the bouquet. He traced the contour of a velvety soft petal with his thumb, and some color came to his cheeks.
"No one's ever brought me flowers before, Mav."
"Well, I've never given anyone flowers before, either, so it's a first for me, too."
Ice's blush darkened. "Thank you. Come in."
Maverick put the takeout on the counter while Ice looked for a vase.
"I want us to enjoy the next few weeks," Maverick said. "Let's just do our best, okay?"
Ice set the vase with the roses on the table.
"Good idea," he said, and in seconds he had Maverick in his arms, pushed against the counter, and he was kissing him as hard as he'd ever been kissed. They fucked right there, quick and needful and so damn good, not a word between them but a lot getting said.
***
Time righted itself after that. Days lasted the regular twenty four hours. He and Ice were talking again, and they were having sex every chance they got, and things seemed normal again, better than, if Maverick could just forget about the transfer deadline, and he found that most of the time, he could.
He also forgot about the fireworks, but to be fair, they both did. They went out for dinner on Sunday, a seafood place on the beach. There were a lot of people out, but it was Labor Day weekend, which meant that there were a lot of people on long weekends, and the weather was still nice, though it always was in San Diego, as Ice was quick to point out. A crowded restaurant, a crowded boardwalk, meant that they had to be discreet, which was hardly novel, but Maverick felt more annoyed by it than usual.
Night was falling when they got back in Ice’s car to head home. Maybe if there had been fewer people out, they would have stayed on the beach, and all of this could have been avoided.
They were only a few miles from Ice’s place when the fireworks started. The noise, like gunshots, broke suddenly through the night, and Maverick was about to say something about townies and tourists when his belly flipped. Ice ran a stop sign, bouncing over a hill, and briefly swerved into the other lane—which was, miraculously, clear—before righting the car. He was panting and sweating and his hands were shaking, and Maverick kicked himself, because Ice was doing a lot better in therapy, but he still had triggers. Flashing lights; sirens; and abrupt, deep-bass noises like gunshots or fireworks.
Maverick put his hand on Ice’s shoulder. “You’re okay, man. It’s just fireworks.”
Ice’s pale eyes lighted on him briefly, and his taut muscles relaxed infinitesimally beneath Maverick’s hand. And then Ice went even stiffer, cursing, as red and blue lights came up behind them.
Ice pulled the car over. He was still breathing heavily, still sweating and shaking. He pinched his brow and rolled the window down for the police officer approaching on foot.
The cop shined his flashlight in Ice’s open window, and Ice flinched, turned his face away. The cop turned off the light, looked in the window.
“License and registration, please.”
“Ice—” Maverick said.
“Shut up,” Ice said quietly, dully, and leaned over Maverick to pull the registration out of the glove compartment.
He handed his papers to the cop, who examined them with his flashlight.
“Kazansky,” he said. “That Polish?”
“Russian,” Ice said.
The cop handed Ice’s papers back. "You been drinking tonight, Mr. Kazansky?"
"I had a beer with dinner. I’m not drunk—"
"You were driving erratically. Perhaps you’re more impaired than you realize."
Ice gripped the wheel, white knuckled, looking straight ahead. "It was the fireworks," he said softly. "I wasn’t expecting them, and they just… startled me."
"Uh huh," the cop said. "Fireworks. I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle."
Maverick watched a tendon in Ice’s jaw jerk, but he just set his papers on the dashboard and undid his seatbelt.
Fuck that. Maverick strained against his own seatbelt, leaning over Ice to talk to the cop. "This man is a decorated combat veteran—"
"Shut up, Maverick," Ice said. He pushed him back, got out of the car.
"He has PTSD!" Maverick said.
The cop glared at him. "Take your friend’s advice, son."
Maverick sat seething in the car, watching as the cop directed Ice through a sobriety test. He looked more miserable than Maverick had ever seen him, even when he’d been grounded by injury and unable to fly. He knew this was more than a blow to Ice’s pride; it signified a deeper wound, one that may never heal.
Ice passed the test, and the cop let him get back in the car, a piece of pink transfer paper clutched in his fist.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Maverick said. "You showed him you weren’t drunk, and he still wrote you a ticket?"
"Leave it, Maverick," Ice said. He sounded tired, dead tired. He put away his license and registration, buckled his seatbelt, and started the car.
Maverick forced himself to swallow his anger, and the rest of the drive was made in silence.
***
The silence ended when they got inside Ice’s house.
"What the fuck, Ice?" Maverick said. "Why didn’t you stand up for yourself? You’re the most self-righteous prick I’ve ever met, and you just—"
"Because it wasn’t worth the fight, Mitchell. That’s the difference between us: I know when it’s not worth the fight."
"I don’t get that."
Ice sighed. "I know you don’t."
Maverick was thinking of something to say, but then Ice sighed again, and he scrubbed his hand across his face.
"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he said.
“What wasn’t?”
“What—? My fucking life, Maverick. I was—I was supposed to be a pilot.”
“You are, Tom.”
Ice wasn’t listening. He shook his head, the way a horse shakes its head, just a restless twitch to expend energy. “I was supposed to—to fly, fly missions … I wasn’t supposed to—to get this fucking post traumatic stress bullshit—”
Maverick put his hands on Ice’s biceps, arresting his anxious movement, holding him in place. “Shit happens, Tom. You can’t control everything; that’s nuts.”
Ice winced. “Don’t call me that.”
Maverick sighed. He released Ice from his grip. “I’m not, Tom. I’m not. I didn’t say that, and I don’t think that. I think a lot of unflattering things about you, sure: Ice is a pain in the ass, Ice is stuck up, Ice needs to relax. But I’ve never once thought, 'Ice is crazy.' Because you’re not crazy. You’re not.”
Ice met his eyes, finally. “I feel like it. And I feel … I feel stunted, like I had all this potential, and I’ve … I’ve flown off course, and there’s no way to fix it. I wasn’t supposed to spend my life flying drills in a town known for its cantaloupe festival.”
Maverick sighed. “Yeah, that threw me for a loop, too.”
“And the fact that … that some part of me—maybe the biggest part of me—wants that because it means I can stay with you … that makes me feel crazy, too.”
Maverick felt lightheaded, like he couldn’t breathe. “Tom.”
Ice shook his head. “You don’t know how this feels.”
“Bullshit,” Maverick said. He might have been yelling; he wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he couldn’t control it. “I know exactly how that feels. You think my big life plans included falling in love with some snobby, perfectionist, bottle blond guy? I had plans, too, asshole, and they didn’t include you. But you can’t control everything, like I said, and this happened, and maybe it wasn’t in the plans, but there’s no way I’m going to give it up now I’ve got it, do you understand?”
Ice was quiet. He was looking at Maverick like he’d just hit him. Finally: “You’re in love with me?”
Maverick flushed. “That would be the part you’d get stuck on.”
“Say it,” Ice said. “Say it, and I’ll sign the transfer papers. I’ll go to Fallon with you.”
Resistance burned in Maverick’s chest. Then he looked at Ice’s face, open and raw, waiting. This wasn’t a contest of wills. Ice didn’t want to dominate him; he didn’t want blackmail material, or to prove he was stronger or superior in some way. He didn’t want anything from Maverick, except this one small thing he actually owed him. Maverick took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly.
“Tom Kazansky, I’m in love with you.”
Ice didn’t smile, but his expression softened, the pain and anxiety melting away. He closed the distance between them, resting his forehead against Maverick’s, putting his hands on him with the gentlest touch.
“I’m in love with you, too,” he said softly. “I’ll go with you. To Fallon, to the Gulf, to the fucking moon; wherever you go, I’ll go.”
***
Maverick's office was packed and on the truck, and so was everything else from TOPGUN. Ice's transfer had been approved, and he was in the process of selling his house. His things were packed as well, and they were on a separate truck. The stuff from Maverick's house, too. Maverick looked at the office he'd occupied for almost ten years, ten good years. It hurt to leave it behind, but he had better things coming in the future.
The best of those things was leaning against the doorframe, watching Maverick say goodbye.
"Car's ready," Ice said. "Are you?"
Maverick smiled. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Let's go."
He turned off the light, and followed Ice out, closing the door on Miramar for good.
"Can I drive?" he asked as they walked to the car.
Ice snorted. "Not on your life. No, wait. Not on my life, Mitchell."
"Come on, Ice. The government trusts me with a million dollar jet—"
"You've been trained to pilot a jet. You don't know how to drive a car."
"Uptight."
"Spoiled."
They got in the car, and Ice started the ignition. Maverick watched Miramar grow smaller in the rear view mirror, and then disappear altogether. He rested his hand on the back of Ice's neck, teasing the close-cropped hair at his hairline with his fingertips, feeling Ice's muscles relax beneath his palm. Maverick stopped looking behind them. He held on to Ice, and he looked ahead.