FIC: What's the Problem? (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, PG-13)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: What's the Problem?
RATING: PG-13
FANDOMS: Top Gun
PAIRINGS: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Tom "Iceman" Kazansky
SUMMARY: “Please, don’t leave.”

It was raining, was the problem. Or the number of drinks he’d had at the O Club. That definitely could have been a contributing factor, but he was fine to drive, he felt fine.

Okay, the real problem was he was in the emergency room and the motorcycle was wrapped around a light pole, but a nice couple had stopped and picked him up, so there wouldn’t be police or breathalizers or the brass acting like this was any of their business.

He didn’t feel too bad, really. They’d done some kind of scan and said the knock to his head wasn’t too dangerous, just your run of the mill concussion, and it’s not like this was his first one. He had some road rash, and they’d scrubbed the debris out of it before patching it up, and that had really sucked, but now that it was over and they’d shot him full of morphine, he just felt uncomfortable and stiff and kind of swimmy in the head.

Okay, no, the real problem was that, because of the concussion and the morphine, they wouldn’t let him leave on his own. “We will release you when we can release you to someone,” the lady behind reception said, and her tone was getting a lot less sweet every time Maverick made her repeat herself.

Maverick considered the list of potentials, and grimaced. Charlie would not find this amusing. Any member of the brass was out; though they would definitely come for him, it would complicate his life. Goose was with Carole, and he’d already disappointed him enough for one trip.

Maverick realized that, for reasons beyond him, he had one other local number memorized. He gritted his teeth and gave the lady behind reception the digits.

It was late and it was raining, but Iceman arrived fairly quickly. He was in civvies except for his bomber, which was wet. His hair was wet, and he’d probably been in bed when Maverick called, because it looked a lot tamer than usual, like he’d just run a hand through it, slicking it back away from his face. It could have been that, or the hour, or maybe their location, but he didn’t look as objectionable as usual. As stiff. His expression was softer, no challenge, no icy exterior to drill through. He stopped by Maverick on the way to reception, eyeing the bandage on his forehead.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Just ready to get outta here,” Maverick said.

If Ice was annoyed by the edge in Maverick’s voice, he didn’t show it. He went up to reception, explained who he was. The lady had him sign some paperwork, and Maverick sat in his chair and listened to her explaining Maverick’s injuries and all the ways he should limit his activities in the coming days—fat chance, lady—and then he heard her tell Ice he was free to take Maverick home, and Maverick was on his feet and halfway to the exit before Ice even turned around.

“I have the keys,” Ice said, catching up to him easily with his longer stride and lack of concussion. “You can’t start the car without me.”

“I’ll get a cab.”

Ice frowned. “Why the fuck would I get out of bed at two in the morning and drive across town in the rain to watch you take a cab back to base? We’re going to the same place; I’ll drive you.”

Maverick huffed a sigh, but he followed Ice to his car. “Yes, mother.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Ice said as he started the engine, and smiled that humorless smile that made Maverick want to knock his perfect teeth in. But they were already in motion, and Maverick felt a little sick, actually, watching the scenery blur past, so he just rested his head against the cool window and kept his mouth shut.

He was almost asleep when Ice said something. He could hear the rich, strong tone of his voice, but not make out the words. “Huh?”

“Which one is it?” Ice repeated.

Maverick sat up. He rubbed his eyes. “Which one what?”

“Which house number, Maverick? Where’re you bunking?”

The world came into focus, and Maverick realized they were back on base. “Oh. Um, Number Six. Just turn left at the stop sign.”

Ice nodded, and made the turn. Maverick sunk back against the seat. “Which one’re you?”

“Number One.”

Maverick sneered. Of course he was.

Ice pulled into the driveway, but he didn’t shut off the car. They sat in silence for a moment, and then he asked, “Are you going to get out?”

Oh. Right. Maverick straightened, and his head swam. He exhaled harshly, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, and Ice shut the car off. He pocketed the keys, and got out of the car. Maverick watched him run around the car, the rain beating down on him, and wondered what the fuck he was doing now.

Suddenly, Maverick’s door opened. He squinted up and saw Ice crowding the space.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you in.”

Standing up was hard. Walking was harder. Ice didn’t say anything, just took his weight, his big hands steadying him, half carrying him up to the house. Maverick fumbled with his keys, and Ice plucked them from his hand and dealt with the lock. It was dark inside the house; Goose and his family were probably asleep.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Ice asked in a stage whisper.

Maverick pointed. “End of the hall.”

Ice got him there. Maverick had to admit that, at this point, Ice was doing most of the work. Maverick kicked off his boots and collapsed onto the bed, and Ice tugged off the quilt folded across the end of the bed and laid it over Maverick. It was soft, and it smelled sweetly of fabric softener, and Maverick sighed into his pillow. Nice. That was nice.

“You gonna be okay?” Ice asked.

“Sure,” Maverick mumbled.

“Okay,” Ice said. “I guess I’ll—guess I’ll see you Monday, then.”

He didn’t hear Ice’s feet on the floor, but he heard the door move. Through the blanket of sleep, and the throbbing of his head, Maverick remembered something.

“Wait,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I, um, I—please don’t leave.”

The next time Ice spoke, he was very close, maybe a foot from the bed. “What do you need?”

“I, um, a concussion. I have a concussion. I’m not supposed to be alone. Could you—could you maybe just stay? Please?”

Maybe it was Maverick’s imagination, but Ice’s voice sounded a little rough when he responded.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure, I’ll stay.”

Maverick heard the door again, but when he looked up, Ice was just shutting it. He walked back over to the bed, and he started clearing a space on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Maverick said. “I don’t need a maid.”

Ice frowned. “I’m just gonna lay down. You expect me to stand up all night?”

Maverick knew he was the one with the concussion, but it seemed to him that Ice was the slow one. “Get on the bed, dumbass.”

Ice just stared at him.

“There’s plenty of room,” Maverick said, and put his face back in the pillow. “Anyway, you need to wake me up if I stop breathing or whatever.”

There was a long pause, and Maverick wondered if Ice had ignored him and laid down on the floor, anyway. But then the other side of the bed dipped, and after a moment, he felt the warmth of Ice’s body against his side. He peeked up and saw Ice’s profile in silhouette; in a moment, his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he could see Ice’s pale eyes looking at him.

“Have you stopped breathing?” Ice asked coolly.

He’d taken off his bomber and his shoes. Reclined, in jeans and a dark t-shirt, in the dim light, he looked relaxed and open, and it was a little unnerving, like seeing a tiger roll over for a belly rub.

“I’m fine, dick,” Maverick said. “I’ll wake you up if I’m gonna die.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Ice said softly, and Maverick was glad it was dark, because he felt himself flush, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

He lay down again, his face in the pillow and his back to Ice. He could feel Ice’s warmth, and hear him breathing, slow and steady.

“G’night, Iceman,” he said. “And—and thanks.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ice said, and Maverick fell asleep listening to him breathing.

***

Maverick woke with a throbbing headache and limbs so stiff, he envied the Tin Man. Oil can? Shit, he would have taken anything that helped. He flailed onto his back, confused when his hand connected with something solid. Something that went oof.

“You just punched me in the chest, Jesus Christ. You’re like bedding down with the fucking Tazmanian devil.”

Maverick looked over and found Ice beside him, frowning.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“You asked me to stay.”

“And you did.”

“All night.”

Maverick’s thoughts felt jumbled, like a tangle of Christmas lights. The frown had relaxed from Ice’s face, and he just looked relaxed and a little sleepy. His hair was sticking up in about twenty different directions, and it was in that moment that Maverick realized that Iceman Kazansky was the most beautiful human being he’d ever seen up close.

“You said you’d die if I left you alone,” Ice said conversationally.

“Yeah,” Maverick said. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t.”

Maverick looked at him. Maybe it was his concussion, or the gratitude he felt for Ice staying when he’d asked, coming when he’d asked, and no questions about any of it, but he found himself reaching out, his palm cupping Ice’s cheek, his fingers running through his hair. It was much softer than he’d imagined.

Ice narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t draw back. “I think you’re still concussed.”

“Maybe I am,” Maverick said. “Maybe I want to kiss you.”

Ice colored a little, and he did draw back, now.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he said. “You do owe me that.”

Maverick frowned, and grabbed Ice before he could get off the bed, clumsily pulling himself overtop of him, his hands grasping Ice’s shoulders. Maverick was half in his lap, now, and their faces were inches apart.

“Just wait a minute, dammit,” Maverick said.

Ice was breathless. “For what?”

“This,” Maverick said, and he leaned in, and kissed him. The angle was wrong at first; Maverick went in too hot and knocked their teeth together, but Ice didn’t squirm away; he adjusted Maverick in his lap and let him try again. He went slower this time, one hand on Ice’s jaw to maneuver him into place, and then to hold him there. The kiss was smooth, slow, easy. Great. It was fucking great.

They broke off for air, but stayed there, close. Ice’s light eyes were on him, studying his face.

“Was that just because of the concussion?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Maverick said slowly. “I’m going to need to collect more evidence to be sure.”

He kissed him again, a little rougher, a little longer, a little deeper. Ice closed his eyes when he kissed, and he didn’t open them until after they’d been apart for a moment, like he was trying to hold onto it. Like he was afraid it would disappear.

“Well?” he asked. “Am I just a side effect?”

“No fucking way,” Maverick said, and he grinned. “Ice … you think you could stay with me? Just a little bit longer.”

“To keep you alive?” Ice asked.

“No,” Maverick said. “Because I want you here.”

Ice smiled. “Sure, Maverick. Sure. I can stay.”

Maverick kissed him again, pressing him back into the pillows.

Okay. So maybe the real problem was he hadn’t thought of doing this sooner.