Chapter Text
Looking back, Tom isn’t quite sure how everything has gone so wrong so quickly. One minute, he’s on top of the clouds, at the top of his game and, despite the best efforts of Maverick and Goose, at the top of the leaderboard. The next, he’s hyperventilating on the floor of TOPGUN’s bathroom, being comforted by Pete fucking Mitchell, of all people. He knows that life’s all about peaks and troughs, but this has to be a new low.
ONE HOUR EARLIER:
It has been a good hop. Wings skimming the sun-split clouds, it is the easiest flight that Ice can remember for ages; one of those times when the Tomcat seems to anticipate his every move, almost like the plane is an extension of him. They manage to lock onto Jester in a matter of minutes – their fastest time yet – and it is with broad grins that Ice and Slider land back on the asphalt runway.
They are still flushed with success as they make their way to get changed. Slider chatters animatedly about class rankings and the celebratory drinks they’ll have in the O Club later. Ice nods along, but in his mind’s eye, he’s replaying every manoeuvre, looking for any slight imperfection, any way to get their time down even further. His feet may be on solid ground, but his head is still up in the Californian sky.
It doesn’t take long before he comes crashing back down to earth.
Upon entering the changing room, it is obvious that something is amiss. Hollywood and Wolf stand at the far end of the lockers, talking to Maverick and Goose. As both pairs had completed their flights just before Ice and Slider, their presence is not unusual. What is unusual, however, are their grim faces and hushed tones, so unlike the cocksure aviators that Ice knows. Post-hop, the locker room is normally a hotbed of arrogance, one-upmanship and, if Hollywood has anything to do with it, coarse innuendo. This solemnity unnerves Ice. A sideways glance at Slider reveals that he is just as perplexed.
The four men are so engrossed in their conversation, they don’t notice Slider and Ice approach. Some conversation, Tom thinks. His bleached hair, if nothing else, commands attention and, as for Slider – well, there are lesser mountain ranges smaller than Slider. They’re hardly inconspicuous. Yet, today, they may as well be invisible. Ice is almost close enough to touch Wolf – certainly close enough to hear what is being said – and the other aviators have no idea that he’s there.
“I wonder what he’s done wrong?”, Hollywood is saying, still in that uncharacteristic whisper. “It can’t be about the hop – it’s Iceman. His flying’s textbook.”
At the sound of his name, Tom stops short, causing Slider to walk into the back of him. In any other circumstance, Ice would have rolled his eyes. He loves Slider, he really does - he’s one hell of an RIO – but the man needs to work on his coordination. Right now, though, Ice has more pressing concerns.
“If you’ve got something to say about me, say it to my face.”
Hollywood whirls around with the unmistakeable look of someone who’s been caught in the act. Behind him, the other three aviators shift uncomfortably, but no one moves to break the awkward silence that has descended. Even Maverick keeps quiet and, this, more than anything, confirms Ice’s suspicion that something is terribly wrong. The pint-sized pilot always has something to say for himself.
“Well?”, he spits out, trying hard to suppress the white-hot thrill of anger coursing through his veins, trying hard to maintain his icy composure. It’s not easy. Ice dislikes gossip at the best of times. He enjoys it even less when it's about him.
In the end, it is Goose that steps up. Of course it is - the man has more integrity than the rest of them put together. God knows how he got paired with Mitchell.
“Viper wants to see you in his office. He said to send you down as soon as you landed. It… it doesn’t look like good news, Ice.”
Bewildered, Tom considers the possible reasons that Viper might want to talk to him. For one heart-stopping moment, he thinks that he made a mistake during the hop after all. That’s the typical reason that people end up in Viper’s office. You’d only have to ask Maverick; he’s spent so much time in there, he can practically claim squatters’ rights.
But he’s not Maverick. He’s the Iceman. He doesn’t make mistakes – his flying is cool, clinical, technically accurate. It’s not just his own hubris telling him that. It’s the reason he got his callsign, for heaven’s sake. Besides, if he had made an error, Maverick would have let him know the minute that he saw him – payback for all the times that Ice had done the same to him. You’re dangerous, Mitchell.
Lost in his thoughts, it takes Slider’s hand on his shoulder to bring him back to his surroundings. He can feel everyone’s gaze on him and, although there are only five others in the room, it feels stifling.
“Haven’t you all got better things to do?”, he snaps, shrugging off Slider’s grip and striding towards the door. He is distantly aware of Ron calling after him; Ice ignores it. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. For as long as it takes for him to walk to Viper’s office, all he wants to do is pretend he’s still in the air. In the air, he has complete control. In the air, no one shoots him pitying glances or talks about him behind his back.
He wishes he had never touched down.