Chapter Text
The intercom goes off in the somber silence like an unexpected firecracker; half of them jump nearly out of their service khakis, drinks sloshing and plates spilling, cursing the damn thing. Phoenix freezes with the other half, her ear immediately tuned into the voice over the comm, the message it's relaying—
She exchanges wide eyes with Bob, with Hangman and Coyote, who all drop their trays like hot potatoes before they scramble together for the hatch.
It’s dark out. It’s been hours—what feels like years, what feels like two minutes—since the mission debriefing; miles upon miles crossed in between. The night sky gleams with stars and the wispy shadows of clouds, melds with hardly a demarcation into the black abyss of the ocean below.
There’s no way. It’s not possible.
Around them, the flight crew explodes into action. Footsteps thunder down the deck, chains clatter, shouts rise up with the emergency net. An F-14, she hears, a Tomcat, no landing gear, no tailhook, heading their way. Found them in the limitless dark, made contact. A fucking—museum piece.
“Did they say an F-14?” she hears from Hangman over the cacophony.
“Could it be—” Coyote.
“Do you think—” Bob, tugging on Phoenix’s sleeve, his eyes wide behind his glasses, hair afly in the whipping wind.
“He had three kills in an F-14, didn’t he?” she replies, her heart beating violently in her throat, adrenaline roaring through the pall of murky gray. It has to be. Maverick, and if it was Maverick, then—
“There!” Bob points.
Phoenix cranes her neck. Catches visual of the barest impression of a black speck in the lightless sky, rapidly growing in size upon approach. Trailing smoke. “Holy shit,” she breathes.
One second, it’s a dot. The next, it’s a jet, crashing into the barrier net and screeching to a halt in a shower of brilliant white sparks. Bullseye. A night landing with no landing gear, a fucking thread through a needle, first try, barely a single light on nothing more than a postage stamp in the middle of a yawning black void.
The crew surges; Phoenix surges with them, running for the downed plane on shaky legs, her entire body suddenly like jelly, shivering, trembling, liable to collapse.
The canopy opens with a hiss, and then there’s Maverick, looking down at them all with flyaway, sweat-soaked hair and dirt-stained cheeks in the dim light, the smile on his face stretched so wide and so profoundly relieved it strikes her straight through the heart. And behind him, Rooster; thoughtful, kind Rooster, looking like he just had three strokes in the past twenty seconds, looking like he’s absolutely flabbergasted to be alive.
They climb down the side of the jet into the throng of people surrounding them, vanishing into a sea of flailing limbs and applause and ecstatic hollering. Phoenix pushes herself through, swiping aside her hair coming loose from its bun, ducking under an errant elbow until she’s up at the front. Then she pauses, and smiles to see that Hangman got there first.
The handshake they share is strong, firm. Rooster’s mouth curves, an echo of Hangman’s own. Maybe there’s some newfound respect there, after all this time, hidden behind all that gruff stoicism that everyone seems to think makes a good stand-in for actual conversation.
Phoenix resists the urge to roll her eyes. Hangman can cling to that composed, cool-boy front all he wants; three hours ago, he was milling about listlessly in the ready room with the rest of them, somber and silent, looking for all the world like someone shot a puppy in front of him.
Boys.
Then it’s her turn, and she gathers Rooster into a rough embrace. His flight suit reeks of sweat and smoke, but he’s warm, and alive, and he curls an arm around her back, still faintly trembling. “Holy shit,” she rasps, “you scared the shit out of all of us.”
“Even Hangman?” says Rooster, jerking his chin toward Hangman’s retreating form.
She laughs as she pulls away, punches him hard in the shoulder. “Even Hangman. Rooster, Jesus Christ. I can’t believe you pulled that shit. I can’t believe you pulled through.”
Rooster immediately goes serious, even as he rubs his shoulder. “I had to go back for him. You know I did.”
Phoenix softens. “Yeah, I know. I’m glad you did.” She jabs a finger into his chest. “But only because you survived. You got lucky, bud.”
“Not just lucky,” says Rooster. His gaze drifts over to Maverick, who’s speaking to Hondo, his expression bright with appreciation and his voice indiscinerable among the clamor. Hondo, for his part, shakes his head and scrubs his eyes furiously beneath his glasses. “He’s the best damn pilot alive.”
There’s something about the way he says it that make her look at him, really look. His face is damp with perspiration, red with adrenaline; but his eyes are red, too, and puffy, and her eyebrows raise before she knows it.
“Did you talk to him, then?”
“Yeah.” His voice is a mess of emotions, so many layered on top of each other that Phoenix chooses not to parse it. He’s smiling, though, even if it’s hesitant. “Yeah, we… we talked it out.”
“Good,” she says. Her cheeks hurt from grinning so much. “I’m happy for you.”
She’s interrupted by shouts of Rooster’s name among the crowd. Then the rest of the detachment is there, joy and relief radiant on their faces, Payback clapping Rooster on the arm and Coyote grabbing his hand to shake vigorously and Fanboy turning away to hide his wet eyes. Omaha, Fritz, and Halo whoop in the back, drowning out Harvard’s congratulations and Yale’s stream of incredulous questions. The tired, stressed lines on Rooster’s face fade away.
Up above, she can barely make out Cyclone and Warlock on the bridge, watching the celebration below. It may be the first time she’s seen Cyclone look anything other than constipated; beside him, Warlock is beaming, as if he would never choose to be anywhere else.
Then she looks past them, up again to the star-washed sky, and breathes in deep. Brine, wind, diesel, and smoke. Finally, she feels the weight of the day melt off her shoulders.
Mission success.
When she turns around, she finds Bob at her elbow. His hair is sticking out in all directions, glasses slightly askew, and despite his gleaming eyes and happy flush, he still manages to look concerned. “You good?”
“Hell yeah,” says Phoenix, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Leads him back into the fray. “Never been better.”
—
Maverick stands outside the door. He’s been here for twenty seconds already, but he thinks he might need an additional minute, or two, just long enough to have his lightning-quick heartbeat slow down to more sane levels. He laughs a little, quietly, to himself. After a couple of decades doing what he does, his body sure has a fucked up sense for when to be nervous.
Finally, he knocks.
The door pulls open. Ice stares at him from the doorway.
“Hey,” says Maverick. He gives a little wave. “I’m back.”
Ice exhales explosively, long and loud, full of long-suffering. “What, did you forget where you put your key again?”
“I resent that,” says Maverick, even though it’s true. “It’s probably sitting in my office, somewhere. If you can call it an office. More of a closet they cleared out—there’s no windows, you know.”
“Shut up, Mitchell,” says Ice, full of affection; and then Maverick’s being pulled into the house, into Ice’s arms, as warm and secure as they’ve always been.
Maverick laughs and returns the embrace. They stay there for a while, just standing there in the foyer with Maverick’s face tucked in Ice’s neck, and Maverick inhales the familiar fresh scent of laundry detergent and the cool, faint spice of Ice’s cologne. His exhale comes out shakier than he means it to.
“We’re not as young as we used to be,” Ice murmurs in his hair, after a long beat of silence. “I don’t think my heart can keep up anymore.”
Maverick pulls back just enough to consider him. “So you heard. Who was it? Cyclone? I swear that man jumps at any excuse to ring you up. If he’d just waited a couple more hours—”
“Maverick.”
Maverick’s jaw snaps shut. Ice’s gaze is patient, calm, but his grip is tight.
Eventually, Maverick’s shoulders slump. Then he gathers himself and meets Ice’s eyes. His hands slide to Ice’s elbows, squeezes. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just… it was Bradley.”
He falters. There’s so much he could say; the words overfill his mouth, fighting to break free. I’m sorry for making you worry? But he’s not sorry. It was Bradley, and there isn't a single universe that exists in which Maverick wouldn’t give his life for him.
Ice interrupts him before he can sort it out. “I don’t need you to explain yourself,” he says quietly. “You’re forgetting something: I know you.”
He does. Better than anyone else. Maverick manages a brief sound of amusement, even though it’s a bit hard to breathe. “That’s right,” he says. “I forgot.” He reaches his hands up to cup Ice’s neck. Strokes a thumb along the strong line of his jaw. Ice lowers his head, accedes to his touch. “But that means you already know. That… that afterward, I did everything I could to come back. To you.”
Ice’s eyes are pale and cool as he watches him. A single, silent moment of suspense. Then he turns his cheek, and presses a kiss into Maverick’s palm. “Alright. I accept that.”
“You better.”
At last, Ice’s face scrunches into a smile. Old, familiar, dear. Instantly, like some kind of Pavlovian response, Maverick’s chest brims with a sharp ache, so arrestingly tender that his throat threatens to close up entirely. “Thank you for coming back.”
“I’ve been doing it for thirty years,” says Maverick thickly. “Wasn’t going to stop now.”
“Still,” says Ice. He covers Maverick’s hand with his own, lowers it to thread their fingers tightly together. “It bears repeating.”
It’s something he does repeat, every time. Ice stopped flying years ago—his sacrifice for climbing so quickly up the ladder, for being so goddamn good at everything he touches. Now and then, Maverick wishes he could still have Ice on his wing. Could still have that steady, reliable presence that made him feel invincible, up there in the clouds. But this—this is good too. Ice, tethered to the ground, but always there where Maverick can find him, always there when he needs him. Always there when Maverick ultimately, inevitably, has to come back down to earth.
They resettle in the living room. Just like that, every iota of willpower that’s been keeping Maverick upright so far evaporates like mist; he sinks into the soft cushions of the couch, head thrown back like his neck can’t hold it up anymore. Son of a bitch. He swears even his bones hurt.
Ice pats him sympathetically and hands him a glass of water.
“So, then,” he says, lowering himself in the seat beside him, close enough that their knees press together. “I’ve already been sent at least three sets of slides and a ninety-page briefing on the operation, but none of it contains the information that I actually want to know.”
“Wow,” mumbles Maverick. “Sounds terrible. Whatever will you do, Admiral?” Then jerks back with a chuckle when Ice pinches his thigh. “Ow. Okay. What do you want to know?”
Ice’s features soften around the edges. “Tell me about Bradley.”
Bradley, who spent the days after their miraculous return glued to Maverick’s side. Bradley, who finally gave him his new number, who sent him a text not two hours ago wishing him a good morning. Who hugged Maverick tight before his transport, and promised he would come to dinner the moment he returned stateside.
The warmth inside him threatens to overflow. Maverick turns his face into Ice’s side, and smiles.