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Goddammit. He’s molting.
Normally, that isn’t a problem. Maverick can reach most of his feathers; everyone can, if they twist and turn and contort enough. It’s manageable, if uncomfortable. Fortunately, Maverick’s used to being uncomfortable.
But here’s the thing: humans are social animals. You’re expected to have someone to help you with your molt; it’s a no-brainer. You can preen on your own, but you’re bound to miss a couple of spots, and it’ll take forever. Like shaving in the dark. Why bother, when you can just turn on the lights?
But Maverick doesn’t have people. Not—not anyone he trusts. After his parents, after fledging, Goose was the only one.
So that’s it, then. Maverick is molting, and the only people he ever let help him are dead.
Maverick fluffs his wings, shakes them. He’s gotten most of them, the pinfeathers; no sheathes he can see in the mirror, just sleek black vanes, oily under the dim bathroom light. But it’s so itchy—especially in the spaces closest to his spine, and he knows new feathers must be coming in there, in the hardest place for him to reach.
He’ll manage. He used to, before Goose.
But when he returns to the bedroom, ready to ignore the discomfort for the next week and climb right back into bed, he finds Ice sat up, hair mussed, watching him.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” says Maverick, and tries to keep the crankiness out of his voice. He folds his wings tightly against his back and burrows facedown into the blankets. It’s Saturday morning, finally, and there’s absolutely no reason for him to be up earlier than he has to be.
The bed is still warm from trapped body heat. Ice is a reassuring line next to him, the curve of his knee digging into Maverick’s hip.
“You’re molting.”
“I know,” Maverick grumbles. He feels more than sees Ice hesitate, then peels open an eye when Ice doesn’t say anything else.
Ice is looking at his wings. Respectfully, quietly, from a distance that they still have yet to breach. Maverick’s caught him more than once, even before they became—what they are. Whatever they are. Caught him watching at TOPGUN, even, under the florid fluorescents of the locker room, under the blinding sun on the tarmac.
It still stops him short, sometimes. Ice’s own wings are massive, larger than Maverick’s, glossy and grand. They’d hooked Maverick’s eye that first day in orientation, in a room filled with giant wings: pristine, relaxed, always in natural rest, always brushing up against others in tight quarters, as easy and confident as Ice portrays himself.
But Maverick’s never asked to preen them, and Ice has never asked the same. Preening is usually done between family—close friends—mates. You don’t have that same luxury in the service, but it’s still up to you: you either allow it, or you don’t, as long as you don’t bitch about it. And before Goose, Maverick didn’t bitch about it.
Now, though…
This thing they have is so new. Fledgling, almost timid, two not-even-friends still learning to compromise, still learning to adapt to the intensity of their attraction. That’s the best part, by far: knowing with certainty that Ice wants him, that Ice wants this to work, that underneath all that implacable calm Ice is just as desperate for Maverick as Maverick is for Ice.
And it’s good, what they have. Maybe they haven’t talked about it, but Maverick doesn’t need to. Ice is observant—not a surprise. That Ice continues to respect Maverick’s boundaries, even after they've tumbled into bed together—less expected, but noticed.
The possibility stands before him. Maverick’s heart begins to race.
“Always with the staring,” he says.
“Are you complaining?” says Ice, without looking away.
Maverick unfolds his wings. They stretch out above him like an inky black shroud, baring the skin of his back and the dip of his spine. His primaries brush against Ice’s chest, the dangling tags there, and it’s only because Maverick’s paying attention that he sees the way Ice’s pupils swallow his irises.
“Come closer,” Maverick says.
Ice does. He’s got no problem listening. His palm lands on the small of Maverick’s back, textured with calluses but soft and warm. Maverick’s belly tenses beneath it, automatic, anticipatory.
Yes, he thinks. He wants this.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Are you sure?”
“Are you chickening out?”
“Never,” says Ice. Slowly, his hand travels up to where wing meets skin. Despite himself, Maverick shudders. Ice pauses immediately, but Maverick wriggles closer, urges him on with a short rustle of feathers.
“Go ahead,” he says again.
Ice doesn’t question him a second time. “Sit up, then,” he says, voice gone quiet. “It’ll be easier.”
This time Maverick is the one who obeys. The mattress springs creak beneath him as he re-situates himself, and he shivers again as the warmth of the bed slips off his bare skin—or maybe that’s just the way his body reacts to Ice, who radiates heat behind him, who waits patiently for Maverick to get comfortable. Then he finally slips his fingers into Maverick’s feathers.
Ice keeps his wings impeccably groomed, not a vane out of place. So fussy, considering the amount of rough and tumble flying they do on the daily. It takes him forever, Maverick knows from experience. Just like his stupid hair.
He’s not complaining now. Ice’s cautious touch quickly gains confidence when Maverick doesn’t pull away. It doesn’t hurt, because of course it doesn’t. Ice is patient, attentive, meticulous. His words have always been the sharpest part of him.
It’s… it’s nice. Really nice.
The minutes tick by. Deft fingers work through each feather, freeing the new ones ready to emerge, easily avoiding the slighter ones still flush with blood. The unbearable fucking itching begins to subside. Maverick would sigh in relief, if he weren’t so conscious of the silence. Only the barest tug against Maverick’s wings and the soft scrape of Ice’s thumb imparts Ice’s presence at all.
It’s odd. It chafes.
“Well?” says Maverick, when he can’t take it anymore. Ice never lets the opportunity for criticism pass him by. “How about it? Where’s the ‘Your feathers are a mess, Maverick. When’s the last time you did this? Take some responsibility—it might affect the mission?’”
“Mav,” Ice says, exasperated.
“Lay it on me, Kazansky. I know you want to.”
Ice doesn’t respond. He moves onto the primary feathers instead, which Maverick already worked through earlier—but like hell is Maverick going to tell him that. His strokes remain rhythmic and calming. He’s taking his time. The silence lengthens once more, but the tension, at least, is broken.
Goose used to be gentle, too. He never lingered for long, just offered Maverick an extra couple pats after cleaning everything up and straightening everything out, chatting all the while. But Ice lingers, and continues to linger, and gradually Maverick feels his shoulders falling, his hackles lowering. A somnolent calm seeps deep into that cramped space within him that’s always tight with unease, and slowly begins to unravel it.
When Ice speaks again, his voice is carefully steady. “Your wings are beautiful.”
Well, there goes the calm.
Maverick jerks to attention. “What?” he says. He must have misheard.
Remarkably, Ice’s movements don’t even stutter. “Your wings,” he says again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like them.”
“You’re joking,” says Maverick, even though Ice never jokes about things like this. “I mean—”
He turns around. Ice lets him, releasing the feather he’d been smoothing between thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t look much affected, the bastard. Just continues to watch him, his expression placid, if slightly guarded. His hair’s still unruly from sleep and his feathers clearly haven’t been groomed yet—a far cry from the prissiness Ice displays in public. Maverick’s whole body feels hot.
He turns back. His wings puff out briefly behind him, betraying his embarrassment. “A lot of people have black plumage.”
“Sure,” says Ice. “But not like yours.”
Maverick’s face burns. It’s not like he’s never gotten a compliment before, but— “You too, you know,” he says, before he can wimp out.
Ice’s wings are brown. Brown’s common—but Ice’s wings aren’t just brown. They’re washed in lustrous gradients, intense and earthy dark at the base, bronzing at the tips. They shimmer gold when the light hits them just right, like dewdrops. Eagle’s wings. Coupled with the size of them, they’re magnificent to behold.
“Yeah?” says Ice. “Don’t you always bitch about how much time I spend in the head?”
“I can still appreciate it,” Maverick mutters. He feels Ice resume preening, as if he didn’t just drop a bomb flat over Maverick’s head: that light, careful touch. It’s like a thread connected straight to his heart, the way it throbs.
Aw, jeez. Maverick wants to kiss him. Maverick always wants to kiss him, these days, and the fact that he can, is…
Ice finishes eventually, inevitably, but he doesn’t draw away just yet. The backs of his fingers caress the closely layered feathers at the base of Maverick’s wings; it’s Maverick’s only warning before he feels a soft press of lips against the nape of his neck, dry and tender.
Maverick’s words die in his throat. “Ice…”
“Thanks,” says Ice. His arms slink around Maverick’s waist; his breath gusts against sensitive skin. Maverick trembles. “For letting me help you.”
He must be able to feel the thundering of Maverick’s heartbeat. He must. “It wasn’t so bad,” Maverick says, breathless, dizzy with it. “I guess all that time spent on your own wings helped out, huh?”
Ice chuckles against his shoulder, and Maverick turns around fully this time, raises himself up on his knees so that they’re face-to-face, so that Maverick can cradle Ice’s jaw between his hands and draw him into a proper kiss. Funny, how shit happens. Maverick is absolutely stupid for this man. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have minded shoving him off the side of an aircraft carrier.
Ice’s wings unfurl, blocking out the morning sunlight slicing through the blinds. Maverick pulls away beneath their shadow, tilting his head as he admires them. Ice certainly doesn’t seem to mind; he flares them out even more, unabashed and proud.
“Very humble,” says Maverick.
“Yes,” Ice drawls. “I’m known for that, aren’t I?”
What a dickhead. Maverick can’t resist kissing him again. “Let me help you, too,” he says between breaths, and Ice laughs, even as Maverick continues kissing him like his life depends on it.
“Can’t do that if you don’t stop.”
“Hm.” Maverick nuzzles against his neck, then pushes him back down into the pillows. Ice lands with an oof, and Maverick crawls over him. “Alright. Maybe later.”
“Later,” Ice agrees, eyes crinkling.
Maverick grins back. He takes in the sight before him, deeply appreciative: Ice in repose, his feathers strewn in a curtain of rich umber across the sheets, every line of him relaxed and welcoming. Then he leans in, and lets his wings envelop them.