FIC: airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, PG-13)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars
RATING: PG-13
FANDOMS: Top Gun
PAIRINGS: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Tom "Iceman" Kazansky
SUMMARY: Date night on the airstrip, courtesy Maverick Mitchell. From a prompt by Pink_and_Velvet. Title from "Airplanes" by B.o.B. and Hayley Williams.

After the O Club, Maverick convinces Iceman to join him at his spot on the landing strip. Every time Maverick calls it that, Ice rolls his eyes and asks how much rent he’s paying on it, like he doesn’t treat his plane like a fucking pet, or a woman, maybe. The way he touches it, the way he talks to it, in a way that … okay, in a way that he’s started touching and talking to Maverick, actually. He rides us the same, Maverick thinks, so maybe it makes sense, and then wishes there was an actual bleach he could use to burn that thought out of his brain.

They sit on the landing strip with a six pack of beer bottles, watching the planes taking off from other parts of the base. Maverick thinks, when they get there, that he probably should have brought a blanket or something, but without saying anything, Ice takes off his bomber jacket and spreads it out on the ground for Maverick to sit on, and Maverick kicks himself again, because normally Ice has the emotional intelligence of a tiger shark, but he always seems to think of things like this before Maverick does.

“Good looking F-16,” Maverick says, pointing at a silver streak at ten o’clock.

“That’s a Skyfox, Maverick, Jesus Christ. Aren’t you a pilot?”

The plane is long gone, so there’s no way for either of them to prove their point, but Maverick wants to fight about it, anyway.

“It had fucking missiles, Iceman. Point out the missiles on a Skyfox.”

Ice shakes his head, smiling in a way that is more about baring his teeth than anything. “Now, this makes me believe your story about the MiG. It was probably just a Cessna that got too far from shore that you flipped off.”

Maverick flushes. He feels rage flood his veins like a drug, and he kind of wants to take a swing at Ice, but then Ice is laughing, and it’s at Maverick’s expense, really, but it’s not a mean laugh. And Ice is really pretty when he opens up like that, his plush lips stretching into a smile and the corners of his eyes crinkling, and the rage in Maverick’s veins disappears as quickly as it came.

“You’re an asshole,” Maverick says, but there’s no real conviction behind it.

Ice hums a reply that could be agreement or dissent, or maybe just an acknowledgement that he heard Maverick speak. He twists off the cap of a beer, pulling the fabric of his shirt between his palm and the ridged cap to help with grip and protect his hand. This pulls his shirt off his belly, offering Maverick a peek at the flat, golden brown plane of Ice’s abdomen, his cute navel and the well-defined ridges of his hips, and the thin trail of soft, light hair that goes down below his waistband. It’s only for a moment, and then Ice is drinking his beer and his shirt, slightly damp now from the condensation on the bottle, is back in place and covering up all those secret inches, but fuck if that moment wasn’t enough.

“I’d like to take you home,” Maverick says.

“Is that right? What for?”

Ice is trying to rile him, but for once Maverick ignores the bait.

“You couldn’t see the missiles on that F-16,” he says, “but there’s one on me I’ll make sure you notice.”

Ice groans. “Dear God. Is this what it’s like dating Maverick Mitchell?”

“Come home with me,” Maverick urges, “and I’ll show you.”

Ice shakes his head, but he’s smiling, a real smile this time. He collects the rest of the beer, tucking their empty bottles, caps and all, into the six pack holder, and then comes to his feet, offering his free hand to Maverick to help him to his. Maverick takes Ice’s hand, the grip strong and comfortable, and he lets Ice pull him up. He grabs Ice’s bomber from the ground, and they walk through the airfield to Ice’s car, side by side.