Work Text:
Saturday morning begins the way most Saturday mornings do in the Mitchell-Kazansky household: with Maverick waking up to the smell of coffee wafting up the stairs. By the time Maverick arrives in the kitchen, Ice has started setting out the ingredients for pancakes, which he doesn’t make often, and Maverick wraps his arms around his husband’s waist and kisses the back of his neck. “Hi.”
Ice turns away from the batter he’s whisking to kiss Maverick properly. His bathrobe is loosely tied, revealing the same T-shirt and boxers he went to bed in, and his hair, as always, is unfairly perfect. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “You’re up late this morning.”
“Yeah, well, somebody kept me up late last night.”
Ice smirks. “Sounds like a scoundrel.”
“Mm, that’s for sure.”
Ice laughs, kissing Maverick on the nose before returning to the batter he’d been whisking. Maverick makes a beeline for the coffeemaker, pouring himself a cup and adding his usual amount of cream and sugar. The table’s set and SR-71’s lounging beneath it, keeping an eye on the MiGs as they play with each other in the structure Taylor got for them when they were born. Thankfully MiG-25’s grown out of her phase where she tries to climb the curtains every five seconds, and is now content to meow at her sisters while she uses the scratching post.
“Hey,” Ice says, and Maverick hums to show he’s listening. “You wanna go get the mail?”
“Why can’t you do it?”
Ice rolls his eyes. They’ve been having variations of this argument ever since they got married two years ago. “Because I’m making breakfast.”
“But it’s cold out.”
Ice sighs, just like Maverick knew he would, and shrugs off his bathrobe, handing it to Maverick. “There,” he says, and he looks like he’s trying hard not to smile. “Now you’re warm. Go get the mail.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Maverick says, grinning, and leans up on his tiptoes to kiss Ice before he heads outside.
It’s not as cold as he’d come to expect from Novembers in Nevada, but he pulls Ice’s bathrobe tighter around him anyway as he makes his way to the mailbox. The twin boys next door — the ones whose mother is the president of the PTA and has the world’s biggest crush on Ice — are playing soccer on the front lawn, and they wave to him. He waves back, mostly focused on the letters in his hand. There’s not a lot for them that morning: mostly junk, a couple of bills, the newspaper, and…something for him. Postmarked a few days prior, from Westport, Connecticut.
Dazed, he stumbles back inside and sits down at the table, staring at the envelope and the letter that had been within, feeling like his entire world had just been inverted. It’s been years since he’s even thought of his family, let alone spoken to them. And now…
“Mav?” He looks up, sees Ice standing in front of him, concerned. He’s got a feeling that this isn’t the first time Ice had tried to get his attention. “You okay?”
He hesitates, wanting to shrug off the question or evade it completely, but shakes his head. Ice is one of the few people he can’t make himself be dishonest with. “I got a letter,” he says. “From Connecticut.”
Ice doesn’t react outwardly, but Maverick knows Ice knows what that means, and who exactly this letter is from. “Can I see it?”
Maverick hands him the letter and sits back in his chair, watches his husband read through it. It’s a short, impersonal thing even by his family’s standards. Could probably be summed up in two sentences: Your aunt is sick. If you care, come and see her. “I didn’t even know she was still alive,” he says. “Though I guess she won’t be for much longer, anyway.”
Ice sits down, pulls his chair closer so he can take Maverick’s hand. “What do you think?” he says, carefully. “Do you want to go and see her?”
His answer should be an instant no. He should toss the letter in the trash and forget all about it, just like they’d tossed him aside and forgotten all about him. Besides, it’s clear that they’re only sending him this as a formality, that they don’t actually want him to show up.
But his aunt is dying. This could be the last chance he’ll ever have to see her again, to see what she really thinks of him. And he refuses to let his family continue to believe he’s still the arrogant punk he was at seventeen. They might not think he’ll show up, but he’s damn well going to prove them wrong.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”
Ice squeezes his hand. “Do you want me to come with you?”
Maverick lets out a shuddering breath. “No,” he says at last. “This is something I have to do myself.”
Their next session isn’t due to start until after Thanksgiving, so Maverick books a flight to New Haven, and then a train ticket from there to Westport. Ice drives him to the airport — after he makes sure to give SR-71 and the kittens each a hug goodbye — and Maverick stays quiet for most of the drive, folding and unfolding the letter until the ink starts smudging. He hadn’t called to say that he was coming, and he has no idea how his uncle and cousins will react when he shows up at the hospital. Jesus, his cousins. They must have children of their own by now, maybe even grandchildren. Annie (who’d deigned to write him) had wanted five or six; he remembers that.
Ice parks the car outside the American Airlines terminal, and hands Maverick his boarding pass and train ticket after Maverick gets his carry-on out of the trunk. “Don’t lose them,” he says. Maverick rolls his eyes, because that had only happened once about ten years ago, but Ice has never let him live it down. “Your hotel’s ten minutes from the train station, and you can take a taxi from there to the hospital.”
Maverick nods. Doesn’t really trust himself to speak.
Ice’s expression softens. “I can still come with you, you know,” he says.
“I know.” He appreciates the offer more than words can say — even after all these years, Ice is his wingman through and through — but he knows that this is something he has to handle on his own. “I’ll be alright.”
“I know you will,” Ice says. He kisses Maverick goodbye, and Maverick melts into it, ignoring the stares of the passerby. This is an airport. Romantic goodbyes happen here all the time. “Love you. Call me when you land.”
“I will,” Maverick promises, and leans up to kiss his husband on the corner of his mouth. Seriously, if that woman smoking outside the entrance doesn’t stop gaping at them, her face is going to freeze that way. “Love you too.”
Maverick flies commercial a few times a year, namely for work or whenever he and Ice go to visit Ice’s parents in California or Carole and Bradley in Texas, and he spends the vast majority of every flight gripping the armrests of his seat to prevent himself from running into the cockpit and wrestling the controls away from the pilot. This time is no different, though his jitters are more due to the nerves making his stomach roil than the pilot’s clumsy ineptitude.
He lands around seven in the evening Eastern Time, and as ordered, he calls Ice while he waits for his train to arrive. By the time he gets to his hotel, it’s past nine o’clock, far too late for visiting hours, and he takes a shower, orders something from the hotel room service, and does his best to fall asleep despite the lack of his husband’s steady breathing beside him.
The hospital’s twenty minutes away from the hotel, but it’s a moderately nice fall day — especially for Connecticut standards, since it had always been raining or hailing or snowing when it wasn’t too hot to go outside — so Maverick walks. Westport’s pretty much the same as he remembers it: same restaurants, same businesses, same streets, same small town mentality that has everybody staring and whispering at him as he passes by. Just get through today, he tells himself, his face heating up as a few women deliberately stare at him from a restaurant patio. And then you can go home and never have to think about this fucking place again.
Once he arrives, the hospital receptionist informs him that visiting hours aren’t until one, but he’s welcome to wait until then. He buys a coffee and a muffin from the cafeteria downstairs and sits down in the waiting room, in one of the scratchy upholstered chairs that all hospital waiting rooms seem to have. It’s around nine in the morning in Fallon, which means Ice is probably up and reading the newspaper with MiG-27 while SR-71 keeps an eye on the others.
Maverick: Morning handsome ❤️❤️❤️
The reply comes a few minutes later. Morning, it reads, and he can picture Ice’s smile. You at the hospital?
Maverick: Yeah just got here
Visiting hours not for another 30 min so I’m waiting
How’s life without me
You bored yet
Ice Ice Baby: Well, last night was quiet without your snoring to keep me company.
Maverick: Fuck you Kazansky I don’t snore
Ice Ice Baby: Yes you do.
Don’t worry, at this point it’s endearing.
Maverick: Goddamn right it is
I’m a treasure
He can practically hear Ice’s laugh, and it makes him smile in return. Yeah, says Ice’s next text. I know you are.
Maverick: ❤️❤️❤️
Got any fun plans for today?
Ice Ice Baby: Figured I’d do some shopping. Finish reading the paper. Maybe drive over to NAWDC to get the files for the next session’s pilots.
Maverick: I said FUN plans Ice not boring ones
Come on this is your chance to go wild
Ice Ice Baby: You go wild enough for the both of us, Mav.
I was planning to send you pictures from my dressing room, but if that’s too boring for you…
Maverick: Did I say boring
I meant exciting and amazing
Ice Ice Baby: That’s what I thought you meant.
How are you doing? And don’t lie.
Maverick huffs out a laugh. Ice knows him too well sometimes.
Maverick: Scared mostly
Haven’t seen my family in 30+ years
And I didn’t tell my cousins I was coming so
Bit worried how this is gonna go
Ice Ice Baby: It’ll be alright, Mav. You’re only here for the day and then you never have to see any of them again.
Focus on talking to your aunt. If your cousins give you shit, I’ll fly over and kick their asses.
Maverick: lol
I think David played rugby in college
You sure you can take him
Ice Ice Baby: I played lacrosse in college.
And I’m a pilot. Trust me, I can take him.
I believe you, Maverick types, but an argument across the room distracts him before he can hit send.
“—traffic from New Haven was terrible, otherwise I would have picked you up sooner—”
“You could have called to let me know you’d be twenty minutes late so I wouldn’t have to stand around my house like an idiot, David,” the woman snaps. Her hair is a dark, neat cap on her head, and she’s clutching her purse to her like she’s afraid somebody in the waiting room might steal it. The man next to her is shaking his head like he’s got the most difficult life; he’s a few inches taller than her, balding and green-eyed and stocky with a slight paunch at his stomach. “And before you ask, you don't have to drive me tomorrow; Wyatt and Joe’ll be back from their hunting trip by then and one of them can take me.”
“So you’d rather exploit your husband or son than your brother?”
“Yes I would. Because they’re better conversationalists than you.” Then she spots Maverick staring at her from across the room, and her eyes narrow. “Can I help you?”
Maverick stands up slowly. His heart’s in his throat, and he does his best to swallow around it. “Annie?”
Annie’s eyes narrow even further. “Do I know you?”
“Yeah,” he says. God, he never should have spoken up at all. “You do. It’s…it’s me. Pete Mitchell. Your cousin.”
“Pete?” Annie takes a hasty step back, her eyes now wide in shock. David’s jaw is roughly at his knees. “You…you’re here?”
Maverick shrugs, trying to play this like it’s no big deal even though he hadn’t set foot in Westport in more than thirty years and his hands are trembling a little. “I got your letter,” he says. “So I came.”
“I…I didn’t think you would.” The way she says it makes Maverick realize it had been an honest admission, not an attempt to be patronizing. She comes closer to him, looking him over. She’s an inch shorter than he is, and her fingers clutch convulsively at the strap of her purse (which probably cost more than what Maverick makes in a month) like she wants to touch him but can’t make herself do so. “When did you get here?”
“Last night.” The awkwardness of this strange, stilted politeness is making his skin crawl. “I…what about you? Do you still live here?”
She gives a strange, jerky nod. “In Bridgeport. David lives in New Haven.”
David’s still slack-jawed, but at Annie’s words he comes back to himself a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I live in New Haven. With my wife. My kids are there too.”
Jesus. David — whose physique has really taken a dive since Maverick last saw him — is married. And has kids. And judging by the ring on Annie’s hand (and the conversation he’d overheard), she’s married with kids too. “Robert and Michael?”
“Robert’s in France for work. He’s married too, lives in Ohio. His kids are in Indiana. And Michael’s…he still lives here.”
“And…” He knows his aunt and uncle had divorced not long after he’d left Westport for the NROTC, but his cousins had still been on decent terms with their father the last time he’d spoken to them. “Uncle Harry? Is…he here?”
Annie’s face goes red, and Maverick immediately realizes he’d fucked up even before David puts an arm around Annie’s shoulders and says, “He died, about ten years ago. Heart attack.”
Uncle Harry had always been an asshole to him — to everyone except his wife and children, really — so Maverick can’t drudge up much sadness at the news of his passing. Still, he figures he ought to do what’s polite and offer his condolences. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you,” says Annie. She takes a handkerchief out of her purse and wipes her eyes delicately — still adhering to her mother’s rule against ‘desecrating clothing with tears’, he sees. “So you’re…you’re married now?”
He’d have to be stupid to have missed all of the surreptitious glances she and David had been stealing at his wedding ring, and he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Two years.”
Annie nods again, trying for a smile that she probably thinks is genuine but comes off tight and strained. “That’s great, Pete,” she says. “I didn’t know that it was legal in Nevada.”
“It’s not.” He’s pretty sure she hadn’t mean anything bad by it, but considering what had happened the last time the topic of gay marriage had come up, Maverick feels himself go tense. “It’s legal in California, so we got married there.”
“That’s good,” David says, a little less convincing than his sister. “Good that you guys were able to find a priest who’d do it for you.”
From one great topic to the next. “We hired an officiant, not a priest,” Maverick says. “And if either of us were religious and wanted that kind of ceremony we would have hired a rabbi, since my husband’s Jewish.”
David’s eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair if he had any left. “You married a Jew?” Then, after seeing the look on Maverick’s face, hastily schools his expression and adds, “Not that I’ve got a problem with that. Or Jews in general. Hell, my dentist is a Jew.”
“Who’s a Jew?” a voice from behind says, and the three of them turn around to see a man in his mid-fifties approaching them, with green eyes and a narrow face and a mostly-full head of dark hair. Michael Williams, Maverick’s least favorite cousin.
Annie decides to take one for the team and answer that. “Pete’s husband,” she says, and the pause between the two words is almost imperceptible. “Michael,” and now her words are infused with the sort of be-nice vibe that teachers have while chaperoning middle school field trips, “Pete got my letter. He’s here to see Mom.”
Michael looks him up and down. “So you decided to show up,” he says, in a tone that signifies he’s not pleased about this turn of events. “And I guess you’re still a faggot.”
“Michael,” Annie hisses, and Maverick’s jaw clenches so hard that his teeth ache.
“That’s right,” he says, in a voice much cooler than he feels. “I’d ask if you’re still an asshole, but I see that that hasn’t changed.”
The last time he’d seen Michael, he’d been twenty-two and getting in trouble for doing more drinking than studying at UConn. He’d aged mostly gracefully, but his eyes are still the same: small and beady and mean, so unnecessarily mean. He’d made a habit out of tormenting Maverick the second that Maverick moved in, and Maverick had never understood why.
“Still as much of a punk as ever,” Michael says. The suit he’s wearing is disgustingly nice. Maverick hates it. Hates him. “Guess I should congratulate you on managing to find the one person on Earth who could tolerate your bullshit enough to marry you.”
Only his (admittedly tenuous) grip on his self-control keeps him from punching Michael’s lights out in the middle of the waiting room. Michael can make fun of Maverick all he wants, but Ice is off limits. “What about you?” he says. “Where’s your wife? I’d love to meet whatever poor woman agreed to tie the knot with you.”
Michael snorts, though his composure has some cracks in it now. “Can’t tie me down.”
“Divorced? That sucks. Good for her, though. I hope husband number two is significantly better.” Maverick’s smile is serrated. “And good for you, Mike. Now you’ve got even more time to hit on your secretary and frequent whatever liquor store is closest to your house.”
“Pete,” Annie snaps, sounding horrified, but Maverick can’t bring himself to give a shit.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, Mitchell?” Michael gets right into Maverick’s face, close enough that Maverick can smell the whiskey on his breath. “You think you’re better than me just because you’re some big shot in the Navy who likes to take it up the ass? You’re always going to be that ungrateful orphan punk that ran away from home because he hated what he had—”
“What the fuck was I supposed to be grateful for, Michael?” Now Maverick’s angry, well and truly pissed off. “Having to grow up in this hellhole with a family who treated me like shit and never respected any of my decisions? Having cousins like you?”
The blow doesn’t land. “How about having an aunt who took you in when nobody else would?” Michael retorts, and Maverick’s face goes hot. “Who put a roof over your head and clothes on your back? And after everything she did, you never thanked her once. Only word she got from you after you left Westport was when you called to tell her that you were a faggot.”
“Call me that one more time,” Maverick says, even though his insides feel like they’ve been frozen and then microwaved. How the hell did Michael know that his father’s parents and siblings hadn’t wanted anything to do with Maverick? Had Aunt Sarah told him that? Uncle Harry? “Call me that again and see what happens. I fucking dare you, Michael.”
Michael laughs. “Go ahead, Pete,” he says, inclining his chin. “Hit me. That’s why you showed up after all these years, isn’t it?”
Maverick steps forward, and David decides to pick his jaw up off the ground and do something for the first time in the last five minutes, stepping between them neatly. But Annie, as the oldest, is the one who starts raging at them. “That’s enough,” she snaps. “You’re grown men, and Mom deserves better than to hear the two of you fighting down the hall from her hospital room. Get it together.”
Maverick’s breathing heavily, glaring at Michael, but his anger is fading, slowly being replaced by exhaustion…and embarrassment. He’d come here to see Aunt Sarah, yeah, but also to see how much he’d grown — and it turns out he hadn’t grown up at all.
“I’m going to get some air,” Maverick says, not to anybody in particular. He shoves past Michael, who’s smirking at him like he hadn’t expected anything otherwise, right past a bewildered David and ignoring Annie’s cry of “Pete, wait!”
When he gets outside, he leans against a wall and drops his face into his hands. He stays that way for a long time.
“Kazansky.”
Just the sound of Ice’s voice makes something tight in Maverick’s chest unclench. God, he wishes his husband were here with him. “Hey, Ice.”
“Mav?” Ice’s worry is palpable even over the phone. He must sound like shit. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Oh, you know.” He sighs, sits down on an available bench. “Made an ass out of myself in front of my cousins. The usual.”
“Are you okay?”
Maverick knows Ice isn’t asking if he’d been able to handle himself; he’s asking how Maverick is feeling, and he can’t bring himself to lie. (Not to mention it’d be thoroughly unconvincing anyway.) “Been better,” he says. “Just embarrassed. Michael’s always been good at getting under my skin.”
“Is he the asshole who got all those underage drinking tickets at Yale?”
“At UConn,” Maverick says, impressed that Ice remembers, given he’s only talked about his cousins a handful of times in the entire time they’ve known each other. “But yeah, that’s him.”
“What’d he say to you?”
He lets out a breath. “He insulted our marriage. And me. Said — how’d he put it? — that I’m still the same ‘ungrateful orphan punk’ I was when I was seventeen. And we got into a fight.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I thought I moved past this, Ice,” he says quietly. “Letting shit like that get to me.”
Ice exhales, and Maverick waits for…Christ, he doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for. All he knows is that Ice is three thousand miles away from him and he needs something that can help him go back inside and face the music, and he wants Ice to be the one to give it to him. Because Ice is his husband, his wingman, and they always support each other, and Maverick really needs somebody to support him right now.
“No one’s immune to letting shit get to them, Mav,” Ice finally says. “It’s not something you can move past. And you shouldn’t feel guilty that you’re not grateful that they treated you like shit your entire childhood. You deserve better than them.”
The words are like a warm blanket being wrapped around his shoulders, and God, he hadn’t known how much he needed them until just now. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and wipes away the tears that have welled up. “Thanks, Ice.”
“Anytime.” There’s some rustling on the other end, and then, “I looked up your other cousin on Facebook. The one who played rugby in college.”
Maverick frowns. “David? You looked up David?”
“Yeah,” Ice says. “And trust me, if he gives you any trouble, I’ll be able to take him easily.”
That startles a smile out of him — his first genuine smile since he stepped off the plane at the New Haven airport. “He won’t give me any trouble,” he says, his smile widening at the image of Ice looking up David on Facebook to see if he really could take him in a fight. “I don’t think he’s got the brain cells to spare. I told him you were Jewish and he panicked and said he wasn’t an antisemite because his dentist was a Jew.”
“Jesus,” Ice says, like he’s torn between rolling his eyes and laughing. “See, this is why you shouldn’t play sports that don’t require helmets.” He sounds like he’s quoting one of the commentators on ESPN, and it makes Maverick start laughing. This. This is why he called his husband, who’s capable of supporting him and making him laugh in the same breath.
“I love you,” he says, once his laughter has mostly faded away. “So fucking much.”
“I love you too.” He can hear Ice’s smile, and every ounce of fondness in it. “So what’re you going to do? Are you still going to see your aunt?”
Maverick sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Came all this way, so I might as well.” And I do actually want to see her, if only to see what she really thinks of me. “I’m definitely not staying here any longer than I have to.”
“Don’t blame you there.”
He glances down, checks his watch. It’s half past two; visiting hours for that afternoon end at four o’clock. “I’ve got to go,” he says. “I’ll call you when I’m back at the hotel.”
They say their goodbyes, and when Maverick puts his phone back in his pocket, he actually feels better. He could’ve done without his confrontation with Michael, but now he feels like he can handle anything his cousins can throw his way (words, sneers, tight smiles) without losing his temper.
He takes a deep breath, and he heads back inside.
After he’d gotten Annie’s letter, he’d spent most of the day trying to picture his aunt, but all he could remember were bits and pieces. Brown hair swept into a severe bun. Pale green eyes. Sweaters and skirts, shoes polished to a shine. The same shade of red lipstick, day after day.
That woman isn’t there.
The hospital room is empty except for an old woman, sitting up in bed. Her hair is gray, cut into a long bob that hangs like two sharp wings under her chin. She’s not wearing any makeup; no lipstick or blush. But her eyes are still the same pale green that Maverick remembers, and there is no spark in them when she sees him standing in the doorway. She shows neither hatred nor welcome.
“Hello, Peter,” she says.
He forces himself to meet her eyes, even if all he wants to do is run. “Hello, Aunt Sarah.”
They stare at each other for a while, each sizing the other up. Then she says, “I didn’t think you’d come.” Almost surprised. Like she’d been expecting him to disappoint her.
(He’d done that a lot.)
“Yeah, well.” He’s still in the doorway, and he wonders for a moment if he should cross the room and sit down. Still, part of him is afraid that any sudden movement will shatter the strange polite truce that they have here, and he stays where he is. “I didn’t think you wanted me to come.”
“And yet, here you are,” Sarah says. No truer words have been spoken. “Come closer. Let me look at you.”
He’s not one to refuse a direct order, so he does as asked, stopping at the foot of her bed and standing at attention. Watches her take in his scuffed shoes, his faded jeans, his gray sweater, and tries not to flinch under her scrutiny.
“Are you still in the Navy?”
“Yes,” he says. The word comes out stiff and quiet. “I’m a commander now.”
“Hm.” That’s all she says, just ‘hm.’ He wonders if she even cares. And then he wonders why he cares whether she does or not. “And are you still with...that man?”
Every muscle in his body tenses, preparing for a fight, and suddenly he’s twenty years younger, calling his aunt to tell her that he was in a relationship with another man, that he’d asked Ice to marry him and Ice had said yes. And then he’d spent the next twenty minutes listening to his aunt ask what his poor mother would think of her only son liking men and if he was doing this out of spite. Things had escalated into a screaming match, and he’d told her if she didn’t support him she could go to hell for all he cared, and then she’d hung up on him. It had taken three days for his hands to stop shaking, and she’d never called him back. Neither had Annie, or David, or Robert, or Michael. None of them had.
“Yes,” he says, and watches her eyes flicker to the wedding ring on his left hand. “We’re married. Two years now.”
Maverick braces himself for her to smile tightly like Annie or say something rude like Michael, but what she does instead is ask, “What’s his name?”
That takes him aback. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. When had she picked that up? She used to tell him off for doing that, saying his face would freeze like that if he wasn’t careful. “His name, Peter. What is your husband’s name?”
“Ice — uh.” He stops. “Ice is...his callsign. His name’s Tom. Tom Kazansky.”
“Tom Kazansky,” she repeats, like she’s tasting the name on her tongue. “Do you love him, Peter?”
That, at least, he can answer without hesitation. “More than anything.”
She gestures for him to sit down in the chair next to her. Her hand is white and gnarled, like tissue paper stretched thin over bone. She looks smaller than he can ever remember her being; frailer, weaker. In some ways, he can hardly believe this is his aunt at all.
He sits.
“Peter.” She takes a breath. It strikes him then for the first time how old she is. The last time they’d spoken she’d been in her fifties, which means now she must be pushing eighty. “I don’t blame you for…keeping your distance all these years. Especially after what I said to you. But I want you to know…” She inhales again, weaker than the last. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
Maverick feels like the whole world has turned upside down. “Are you,” he says tightly. “Or do you just want to die with no regrets on your conscience? That why you’re trying to make amends?”
Her eyes darken and go sharp, like a set of storm clouds. “I want to make amends,” she snaps, “because you’re my sister’s son. You’re my family, and I regret pushing you away.”
At the word ‘family,’ he thinks of Ice, and Jess and Bill and Taylor, and Goose and Carole and Bradley. Even Viper and Corinne. How all of them have been his family in ways that his aunt and uncle and cousins had never been. “Good of you to wait until your deathbed to say so.”
She scoffs. “Don’t pretend you would have deigned to speak to me at any other time.”
“You don’t know that.” His hands are trembling and he clenches them, the metal of his wedding ring digging into his skin hard enough to hurt. “And don’t you dare try to make this my fault! I wanted you to — God, I wanted you to meet Ice, I wanted you and everyone to be a part of my life. A part of our life. It was your job to make amends, and you were the one who fucked up!”
His words echo in the room long after they have left his mouth. He’s back on his feet, breathing heavily, like he’d just run ten miles. Sarah has gone white as a sheet, but after a moment, the color starts to return to her face. “You’re right,” she says quietly. “I did fuck up, Peter. I should have tried to reach out to you. And…” Her eyes drop, but less than a second later she lifts her head up, meets Maverick’s gaze unflinchingly. “I’m sorry. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I’m sorry.”
The instinct to sneer and say good for you is so strong that the words are already on the tip of his tongue when Maverick bites them back, forcing himself to actually consider his aunt’s words this time. She’d apologized; sincerely, this time. If she hadn’t looked like she meant it, then maybe he’d have snapped at her again. But now...
“It’s not okay,” he says. She flinches like he’d raised a hand to her, and he sighs. “I don’t forgive you, Aunt Sarah. I think it’s too late for that. But I…” He hesitates. “But I do accept your apology.”
It’s as close to a compromise as they’ll ever get, and she seems to know it, because she manages a nod. “Thank you.”
He turns on his heel and heads for the door, satisfied now that he’s said his piece.
“Are you happy, Peter?”
Maverick stops.
Growing up, he’d been anything but happy. He’d acted out — stole from stores, skipped class, dated around, got into too many fights to name — and had hidden all of his pain behind a veneer of sarcasm and arrogance. His aunt and uncle and cousins had never bothered to get to really know him. It wasn’t until he met Goose that he thought he might actually be someone worth knowing, and it wasn’t until he fell in love with Ice that he realized happiness was more than just a far-off dream.
He has a husband, a husband who loves him and who he loves in return. A cat and four grandkittens. In-laws who treat him like a son. A sister. A nephew. A mentor who he views as the father he’d never had. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything.
“Yes,” he says hoarsely. “Yes, Aunt Sarah. I’m happy.”
He hears her inhale sharply behind him, and he’d turn around if he weren’t frightened of what he would see. “Good,” she whispers, and gives a watery laugh. “I’m glad.”
A moment of understanding passes between them, and Maverick leaves the room without looking back.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” The WiFi in the hotel isn’t the best, which makes the quality of the FaceTime video a little fuzzy, but his husband’s voice (and concern) comes through loud and clear. “How’d it go?”
Maverick leans back against the pillows. “Not as bad as I was expecting,” he says honestly. “We talked. Cleared the air. Still not going to come back anytime soon, but…it was good.”
Ice visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says softly. “That’s good.” Then, “I’m so proud of you, baby.”
Maverick’s throat closes up. “Thanks,” he manages, and tilts the phone away as he quickly swipes a hand under his eyes. “So, uh. What have I missed at home?”
“Not a lot,” Ice says. “Taylor called, she says hi. We’re getting new neighbors in a couple months. And Karen’s having some pre-Thanksgiving potluck that we’ve been invited to.”
“Is this Casserole Karen or the Karen from next door who’s in love with you?”
Ice laughs. “Casserole Karen.”
“Alright, then I’m in. Ooh, are you going to make pumpkin pie? Please tell me you’re going to make pumpkin pie.”
“I might,” Ice says, which Maverick knows means yes. “If you promise to actually let people have a slice and not keep it all for yourself.”
Maverick grins. “No promises,” he says, and Ice rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “How are the MiGs?”
“They’re fine. MiG-21’s mad at SR-71 because she stopped her from climbing into the dishwasher again. Just grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and put her back with her sisters. You should have seen her face.”
“Oh my God. Did you get a picture?”
“You mean for your Instagram page? No.”
“Come on, Ice.” Maverick pouts. “What good are you to me if you can’t take cute candid photos of the MiGs?”
“I’ve got other redeeming qualities.”
“Yeah?” There’s a knock on the door and Maverick stands up, taking his phone with him. The room service here’s a lot faster than he thought; he’d only placed the order a couple minutes before he called Ice. “Maybe when I get home you can show me some of these redeeming qualities of yours.”
Ice says something back, but Maverick is too stunned by the person standing awkwardly in the hallway to respond or hear him. Annie nods at him, shifting from foot to foot. “Hi, Pete.”
“Hi.” His mouth is very dry. To his husband, who’s looking up at him from the phone with concerned eyes, he says, “Ice, I have to go. I’ll call you back.”
“Alright.” Ice’s tone implies that he will be interrogating Maverick on all of the details later. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Bye.”
Maverick ends the call, and he and Annie stare at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Annie clears her throat. “So,” she says, nodding at the phone in Maverick’s hand. “Was that your…”
“My husband,” Maverick says, once the pause has stretched on for too long. “Yeah. That was him.”
“Right.” Annie bites her lip. “His name is Ice?”
“His callsign,” Maverick says. “His name’s Tom.” He puts his phone in his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest, because he knows Annie didn’t have someone drive her all the way across town for meaningless small talk. “What do you want, Annie?”
She flinches slightly, but stands her ground. They’d been close when he was younger, despite the ten year age gap; back then, he probably would’ve said she was his favorite cousin. That was probably the only reason he hadn’t gone back into his room and slammed the door in her face. “I just,” she begins, and then stops. “I wanted to apologize to you, Pete.”
“On Michael’s behalf?”
“Michael can apologize on his own behalf,” Annie says. “I wanted to apologize on my own. For everything.” She takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “I should have reached out to you after what Mom said all those years ago. We all should have. I just…I was just surprised. I didn’t think you were serious.”
“It’s a funny thing. Sometimes I pretend to fall in love with random men for kicks.”
“I can do without the sarcasm, Pete, thank you,” she says. Then her expression softens. “I just never knew you were...like that. I thought you liked women. We all thought that. You never gave us any reason to believe otherwise.”
“I still like women, Annie,” Maverick says, not unkindly. “It’s not mutually exclusive.” He takes a breath. “Besides. Didn’t exactly seem like the type of thing to advertise in an Irish Catholic household.”
“I suppose not,” Annie says. Her voice goes quiet. “I know Mom’s probably made her own apologies — that’s why she wanted to see you again, before…” Her lips tremble, and she presses them together in an effort to stay composed. “But I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry too. For not keeping in touch with you, for not reaching out to you after you came out to us. Really, I am. And…I’m glad that you found someone that makes you happy. You deserve it.”
Christ, this entire day is just one world-tilting shock after another. “Thank you.”
She nods. Puts her hands in the pockets of her coat, hesitates, and then pulls out her wallet and takes out a business card. “I know it’s years too late,” she says, tentative. “But if you ever want to…to talk, or keep in touch, my email is on here.”
He blinks, surprised. “You…want to keep in touch with me?”
“You were my favorite cousin once,” Annie says, with the ghost of a smile that flickers out before it can get far. “Like I said, I know it’s years too late, but…I really would like to get to know the man you are now.”
Maverick looks down at the business card in Annie’s hand, still held out to him. She isn’t asking for anything more than emails, the occasional correspondence. “Okay,” he says, and takes the card. “Hang on.” He goes back into the room and grabs a piece of stationary and a pen off the desk, scribbling his own email address on the paper before returning to the door. “My email’s on here too.”
Annie’s smile grows. “Alright,” she says. Then, “Does this say ‘mavmitchell’?”
His face heats up. “Short for Maverick,” he admits. “My callsign.”
“Ah. Of course.” She folds the paper up neatly and places it in her wallet, and Maverick puts her business card in his pocket. “I’ve got to go. David’s parked outside. But…it was good to see you, Pete.” She smiles at him, and for a moment, he remembers her as the sixteen year old girl that he’d looked up to, that had mussed his hair and protected him from Michael’s scathing words and babysat him after school. “I’m glad you came.”
“Yeah, well.” He doesn’t want to say he’s glad he came, as that’s not entirely true, so he says, “It was good to see you too. Even if I could’ve gone without seeing Michael.”
For a second he’s worried he’d gone too far, but Annie gives a laugh. “I don’t blame you there,” she says wryly. She adjusts the collar of her coat. “I hope you and your husband have a good Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks,” Maverick says. “You too.”
Annie nods one more time, and then sets off down the hall and into the elevator without looking back.
He goes back inside and closes the door behind him once he’s sure she’s gone, flopping down on the bed and calling Ice back. Ice picks up after two rings. “Hey,” he says. He’s in the kitchen now, and if Maverick listens closely, he can hear the distant meows of the MiGs. “So what was that all about?”
“My cousin showed up.”
“Which one?”
“Annie.”
“Did she give you trouble?”
“Nah, she didn’t.” Maverick leans back against the headboard. “She wanted to apologize. And she gave me her email; said she wanted to keep in touch with me.”
“Huh.” Ice raises his eyebrows, bemused. Maverick can relate. “What’re you going to do? Do you want to keep in touch with her?”
Maverick shrugs. He’ll wait for Annie to make the first move; if she wants to keep in touch with him, then she’ll have to reach out first. Then he’ll answer and see how things go — even though he’s pretty sure things won’t progress beyond well wishes on holidays and the occasional how are you. “All I want to do is come home to you,” he says.
Ice ducks his head, smiling a little, and the quality of the video might be bad, but he can tell his husband is blushing. “Start walking,” he says. “If you leave now you might make it in time for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Maverick laughs. “I’ll stick to flying commercial. Or I can steal a Tomcat, if you want me home faster.”
“I doubt there are any Tomcats within a hundred miles of you, so you’d better stick to flying commercial,” Ice says. “I’ll be at the airport around nine in case your flight gets there early.”
Maverick grins. “Just that eager to see me, Kazansky?”
Ice rolls his eyes, but Maverick would have to be blind to miss the fondness in his expression. “Yeah,” he says. “Only because it’s been too quiet around here for my liking.”
“And here I thought it was because you loved me.”
“You know I do,” Ice says. Now he’s grinning wickedly. “Not every day I find a wingman who’s great in the sack.”
“Hey.” Maverick points at him. “Keep it G-rated around the kittens, Commander Kazansky. They’re young and impressionable.”
“They’re in the living room, they can’t hear me from here.”
“Alright, but if they start behaving inappropriately I blame you.”
“Duly noted.” Ice looks like he’s trying hard not to laugh, and then his gaze flickers down to his watch. “Damn. I’ve got to go — I’m meeting Revlon for lunch at The Wok in an hour, and I still have to feed the cats and take a shower.”
“Just Revlon? Where’s Liv?”
“She’s at a business conference in Reno.”
“So this is a Lonely Hearts Club kind of get-together,” Maverick says, grinning at Ice’s eye roll. “Have fun. Tell Rev I say hi.”
“I will,” Ice says. “Did you eat yet?”
There’s a couple of knocks on the door, and Maverick laughs. “That’s my dinner now. Highest quality room service.” And the most expensive.
Ice laughs. “Enjoy.”
“I’ll do my best.” Maverick stands up, heading for the door. “Call me when you get back?”
“I will,” Ice says again, smiling. “Love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
His plane lands at the Reno-Tahoe Airport at half past nine the next morning, and true to his word, Ice is waiting for him in the main terminal, holding a to-go cup of coffee and grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, stranger,” he says. “Long time no see.”
Maverick kisses him, and it’s like all of the tension that had clung to him ever since he’d gotten Annie’s letter just melts away. They’d done this thousands of times — tens of thousands of times — and it never gets old. Just feels familiar, and wonderful, and lasting. “Hey,” he says once he pulls back, ignoring the stares of the passerby on his back. He nods at the cup in Ice’s hands. “You brought me coffee?”
“I did,” Ice says. “And I’ve been keeping it warm in my mouth.”
“I can tell. You taste like it.” Maverick takes the cup from Ice, taking a long sip. God. Eons better than the shit they’d served on the plane. “I knew I married you for a reason.”
Ice laughs. He picks up Maverick’s discarded carry-on and they walk toward the exit together, hand in hand. “You look good,” he says. “Happy.”
“Just happy to be home.”
“We’re an hour away from home.”
Maverick rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” Ice says, smiling, and kisses Maverick’s temple. “I do.”
Home is where the heart is, after all.