FIC: Nothing Lost in Translation (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, PG-13)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: Nothing Lost in Translation
RATING: PG-13
FANDOMS: Top Gun
PAIRINGS: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Tom "Iceman" Kazansky
SUMMARY: Once you get the hang of it, Ice isn't too hard to read. Or: what happens when there's chocolate cake for breakfast.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Ice says, but Maverick knows what he means is, “You’re annoying the shit out of me; stop it.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing,” Maverick replies honestly, and sits down at the table with his breakfast.

Ice huffs out a long exhalation through his nose, which Maverick knows means he is In For It.

“First of all,” Ice says, “there is no scenario in which that is an appropriate breakfast.”

Maverick glances down at the thick slab of chocolate cake on the plate in front of him, and frowns. “What? People eat pastries for breakfast all the time—”

“Also,” Ice says, raising his voice to speak over Maverick, “it’s mine.”

Maverick has a golf ball-sized piece of the moist, gooey cake on the tines of his fork, en route to his open mouth, but now he pauses. “How do you figure that?”

Ice crosses the kitchen, leaning his hip against the table, looking down at Maverick with his arms crossed over his chest. “There were four pieces. I ate one. You ate two. This is not difficult math.”

Maverick shrugs. “Didn’t see your name on it. Also, Nevada is a community property state, so…”

He sticks the cake on his fork into his mouth, lets the rich, sweet taste of it flood his mouth. It’s so moist he barely has to chew. He swallows, licking icing off his lips. Ice is still looking at him, and he still looks pissed.

“Have some fucking Frosted Flakes or something, Ice, Jesus,” Maverick says, and poises his fork to skewer another bite.

Ice grabs the fork from his hand, and throws it across the kitchen. Maverick jumps out of his seat, gets in Ice’s face.

“Jesus Christ!” he says. “What’s your problem?”

“Do I have your attention now?” Ice asks with infuriating cool.

A slow grin spreads its way over Maverick’s face. “Yeah, Ice, you sure do. And you know, you’re right. I want you to have the cake.”

He grabs a big hunk of the moist, icing-heavy cake in his fist, and then smears it over Ice’s face, starting at his brow bone and dragging it down toward his mouth. Maverick is feeling so smug that it takes him a moment—and that moment is exactly the moment Ice wipes the frosting out of his eyes and levels a glare at Maverick that could melt paint, and not a second before—to realize he may be in trouble.

“Cute,” Ice says, and he dives for the cake. Maverick knows what happens next, so he starts running, but Ice, even with his bad leg, is faster, and in about three seconds he’s tackled Maverick around the middle, straddled him at the waist, and smashed a fistful of cake into his face.

“Fuck!” Maverick snarls, and squirms beneath Ice’s hold, but it’s competent. Ice is laughing, and Maverick wants to take a swing at him, but then he stops for a moment and notices the position they’re in.

“Come here,” Maverick rasps. Ice just frowns, not understanding, so Maverick grabs his collar—smearing it with chocolate icing—and pulls him down so they’re nose to nose, eye to eye, breaths apart.

“Maverick—” Ice starts, but then Maverick sucks the icing off his bottom lip with more teeth and suction than are necessary, and Ice shuts up. He’s so surprised that he lets Maverick slip out of the hold he has on him; he lets Maverick back him up against the wall, his hands traveling Maverick’s body while Maverick licks the icing off Ice’s neck. Ice moans against Maverick’s ear, and bucks against the hand opening his jeans, and he breathes, “You’re driving me crazy,” but Maverick knows what he means is, “I want you so badly I think it’s affecting my sanity; do it now,” and he’s happy to comply.