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August 1990 - Miramar, CA
Ice wakes before Maverick most mornings.
This morning is no different, but with the way Maverick’s arms and legs are curled around him, he doesn’t really have the option to get up. Ice doesn’t mind. He tugs him closer, and lets himself nuzzle Maverick’s hair with his nose. Just a little. It’s entirely self-indulgent; Maverick’s dark, soft hair brushing his cheeks, the smell of his shampoo plus a hint of just Maverick – sweet and warm, like a sunset. Maverick makes a small, sleepy noise in his arms. Ice closes his eyes and drifts back off.
A couple hours later, Ice is up and in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go to the gym. Maverick emerges from the bedroom as soon as the smell of coffee fills the air, eyes swollen from sleep, and pats Ice lightly on the ass by way of greeting before walking right by him and flopping down on the couch. Ice smiles to himself, and makes Mav a cup of coffee.
When he goes to deliver Maverick the cup, he finds him with his eyes closed again, lying on his stomach with his cheek against the couch cushion. Ice nudges his bare shoulder with his knee.
“Mav.”
Maverick makes an incoherent noise.
“Coffee, idiot.”
Maverick’s eyes peel open, blinking a few times as he focuses on the cup in Ice’s hand. Then he groans in appreciation, leaning up on his elbows and accepting the cup. “Oh my god, I love you.”
Ice crouches down and runs his fingers through Maverick’s hair a few times, attempting to tame his bedhead. “Love you. I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”
Maverick’s pleased expression morphs into a confused pout. “Where are you going?”
“The gym.”
“Gym?”
“Yes, Mav. Not everyone can get muscles like yours just from working on your motorcycle.”
Maverick’s lips curve into an evil smile. “You saying you like my muscles, Kazansky?”
Ice shrugs. “I guess they’re alright.”
“Yeah, okay,” Maverick rolls his eyes, but he’s still grinning. “Whatever you say.”
Ice kisses him on the temple, then stands and heads for the door. “Put some socks on while I’m gone,” he calls over his shoulder, grabbing his keys. “No one wants to see your grubby little feet.”
“Rude!”
—
Ice’s workout is unremarkable, and he’s glad to have it marked off his to-do list for the day. He stops to get breakfast burritos on his way home – something Maverick introduced him to a few months ago. He was skeptical of the idea at first, but now he and Maverick have them for breakfast almost every Saturday.
“Hey, Mitchell, you hungry?” Ice says once he’s home, slamming the door shut behind him and tossing his keys on the kitchen counter. Maverick’s still on the couch, now wearing a shirt but still no socks. He’s also scowling hard at the TV.
“Mav…what’s wrong?”
His eyes flicker to Ice briefly, then he raises a finger towards the TV. “Ice. Did you see this?”
Ice follows Maverick’s gaze to the newscaster sitting behind a big oak desk with a serious expression on her face. The headline reads: Iraq invades Kuwait .
“Oh, shit.”
—
Ice gets deployed immediately.
He expected it to happen, just not as quickly as it did. The orders come in the very next day, giving him only forty-eight hours to prepare. He’s going back to the Independence with his squadron, somewhere in the Gulf of Oman, and he just really hopes Slider will be there. He’s not sure where he’s ended up at this point.
Maverick has yet to receive anything, though, and Viper notified him that he’ll stay at TOPGUN until he does. He’s sitting on the foot of Ice’s bed with the same worried expression he’d had when they heard the news, bouncing his leg frantically as he watches Ice pack up his things. He can feel Maverick’s tension – it’s filling up the room and suffocating them both like steam. Ice tries not to sigh too hard.
“It’s gonna be okay, Mav.”
Maverick doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to look out the window instead.
Ice stands from where he’s crouched on the floor, tucking his boots into his seabag. “Maverick.”
Silence. Ice walks over and sits next to him, placing a hand firmly on his knee. Maverick stops bouncing and turns his head, looks down at Ice’s hand. “I’m fine,” he says, but the way it’s said doesn’t convince Ice for a second.
In their two and half years together, they’ve been extremely lucky in that they haven’t had to be apart from each other for more than a week at a time. Miramar – Ice’s house and Maverick’s – has become comfortable and safe for them. TOPGUN, too, is familiar, and will seldom throw anything too unexpected their way.
Deployments like this can never be predicted, though, and Ice doesn’t have a choice. They just have to get through it, and make the most of the time they have right now. Two more nights together, and then it’s who knows how long apart.
“Hey,” Ice says softly. “Why don’t you go take a shower? I’ll finish this, and when you’re done I’ll make you dinner.”
Maverick runs a hand through his own hair, tugging on it lightly near the crown of his head – a habit Ice knows he does when he’s stressed – but he nods. Ice herds him into the bathroom, then finishes packing quickly and sets his things by the front door. With that out of the way, Ice can focus on Maverick.
He makes stir fry – Maverick’s favorite – and does the dishes as he goes just to make cleanup easier. It’s a while before Maverick emerges from the bathroom, long enough that Ice almost goes in to check on him, but then he feels arms around his waist and Maverick’s warmth behind him.
“Hi.”
Maverick hums. “You’re making stir fry.”
“I am.”
Another hum. It sounds content.
Maverick hovers near Ice’s side while he cooks, sits close enough to him that their thighs touch while they eat on the couch, then promptly falls asleep on Ice’s chest in front of the TV. By midnight, Ice is able to nudge him awake enough to be guided to the bedroom with an arm around his waist.
The following day goes similarly. Maverick doesn’t leave his side, and Ice doesn’t want him too. It’s almost like when they first started dating – touching each other at every chance they get, showering together just to avoid being apart for more than five minutes, cuddling just for the sake of holding each other. They also have sex three times, which — Ice can’t even remember the last time they spent a day like that. But with the way Maverick’s hands are on him all day, it’s a little hard not to. Not that Ice is complaining. Maverick had requested that Ice fuck him like there’s no tomorrow, so that’s exactly what he did.
Ice has never, and will never, deny Maverick a single thing. He could never look into those blue-green eyes and even think about saying no.
And that’s why, the night before Ice leaves, and at the front door the following morning, Maverick doesn’t ask him to stay.
But as they both lie awake in bed before the sun comes up, waiting for Ice’s alarm to go off, Maverick turns in Ice’s arms and takes his face in his hands.
“Pinky promise me, Ice.”
Ice’s brows draw together. “What–”
“Pinky promise me that you’ll be safe, because I can’t–” his voice breaks. I can’t lose you , Ice hears anyway. Not you too .
Ice takes hold of his wrists. “I promise, Mav. I promise.”
“No,” he rasps, and holds his pinky finger out between their chests. “Pinky promise.”
Ice retracts his arm from where it’s pinned underneath Maverick’s body, and curls his pinky snug around his. “I pinky promise, Mav.”
To anyone else, it might seem juvenile. But Maverick doesn’t fuck around when it comes to significant gestures, or promises. Physical touch has always been his love language, he’s always used touch to ground himself to the people he loves. So Ice doesn’t even think twice about it, just takes Maverick’s pinky and holds it tight, then kisses Maverick deep.
Ice’s alarm goes off.
—
August 1990 - Gulf of Oman
They’re calling it Operation Desert Shield. For Ice, it’s a campaign for air superiority of the area, so he expects to spend the next few months mostly flying combat air patrols.
Slider isn’t on the Independence . Ice isn’t sure where he’s been deployed, if at all, but Ice’s new RIO assignment is fine. He’s not Slider, but he’ll do.
It turns out that Sundown and Chipper are there, though, and it’s nice to see a couple familiar faces around. Stinger is also on board — an equally familiar face but not as nice to see.
Time moves as slow as it always does on a carrier. Ice expected that. He barely sleeps, tosses and turns enough that eventually he hears his rack mates complain about it behind his back. But Ice doesn’t have the energy to snark at them about it, to tell them to say it to his face or mind their damn business. All his energy is spent flying, and when he’s not flying, he’s worrying about Maverick Mitchell.
He also dreams about Maverick nearly every night.
He dreams about lazy days around the house with Maverick. Flying with him. Having dinner with him. He dreams about the day Maverick came over to his house after work and had the audacity to stand on Ice’s porch with windswept hair, pink cheeks, a bouquet of red roses in hand and say hey, darlin’ .
And the night they had sex the first time, real sex, in a parking lot in downtown San Diego. They’d met up with a couple other instructors for drinks in some shitty bar, but ended up having barely two before making some lame excuse and escaping to Ice’s car. Maverick had wanted to make out in a dark alleyway instead, and Ice is glad now that he’d convinced him to walk all the way to the car.
Ice hasn’t heard from him. He doesn’t know where he is, if he’s been deployed or still at Miramar. It’s driving him crazy, no matter how hard he tries not to let it, no matter how many times he tells himself it’s very likely that Maverick is okay, that Maverick is staying safe.
He focuses hard on keeping himself safe, keeping his pinky promise. But Ice has always been extremely cautious when he flies, anyway. Breaking the rules and regulations that are put in place specifically to keep him and others safe — it just feels like blasphemy to him.
Before Maverick, he went by the book to avoid getting noticed, to avoid giving the Navy any more reason to get rid of him than the one they could already uncover. But now, Ice has even more reason to play things safe. To come home to Maverick.
—
January 1991 - Persian Gulf
“Iceman.”
It’s Stinger, from somewhere behind him. Ice turns and stands at attention. His aviators threaten to slip down his nose from sweat. “Yes, sir?”
There’s a toothpick between his teeth. “I hope you haven’t made leave plans, because they want you and that RIO of yours on the Ranger .”
“The Ranger , sir?”
“Operation Desert Storm,” he says, gruff voice booming even over the hubbub of the flight deck. “They want TOPGUN grads, and you’re a force to be reckoned with in an F-14. I’ll let you know more details as they arrive, but it’ll be soon. Ranger is already on her way to the Gulf as we speak.”
Ice swallows. “Yes, sir.”
As Stinger turns away, Ice calls after him before he can think twice. “Sir?”
He turns back around, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised. It’s intimidating despite the fact that Stinger’s even shorter than Maverick. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
Ice forces the words out. “Do you know which squadrons are on the Ranger ?”
He narrows his eyes slightly, but other than that, doesn’t seem phased by Ice’s question. “I can’t be sure, Lieutenant. That’d be a question to ask once you’ve arrived.”
“Right. Thank you, sir.”
He nods and stalks off without another word. Ice stands on the flight deck, almost shaking in his boots.
—
Ten days later, Ice steps foot onto the USS Ranger with little idea of what to expect. The aircraft carrier itself isn’t unfamiliar, even in the dead of night. But sitting smack dab in the middle of the Persian Gulf makes everything feel a little too real, especially as Ice considers the sheer amount of Tomahawks on board.
As he makes his way through the narrow internal passageways of the carrier, Ice hunts for his rack assignment. He shoulders his seabag higher, his back aching already, and squints down at the small piece of paper that was handed to him in a flourish not five minutes after he hit the flight deck. The tight corridor means he brushes shoulders with every person he passes by, but Ice pays them no mind – until a flash of blue and red catches his eye. Ice whips around, his bag catching on the wall and causing him to stagger as he watches the man that just passed him retreat down the passageway, oblivious to Ice’s staring. Ice could have sworn his squadron patch was–
Someone shoulders passed him from behind, nearly toppling him and his too-heavy bag over.
“Hey,” Ice starts, but quickly gives up, just frowns and moves on. He’s too exhausted to give anyone a what-for right now.
He finally locates his rack, half-hazardly unpacks his things. He carefully unclasps his watch, slides off his ring, climbs into his bunk without even bothering to shower. The familiar, comfortable darkness of the berthing compartment lulls him to sleep before he can think too much about a certain Naval aviator.
—
Ice wakes earlier than required, showers and heads to a mostly empty mess hall, having breakfast and drinking coffee in silence. He reports to his CO, then sits in on briefings all day, discussing patrol areas and what the next couple weeks will look like. He also learns that Slider should be arriving as Ice’s RIO within the next couple days, which makes his chest feel lighter than it has for months.
Mostly he just goes through the motions and tries to stay out of his own head. The sun sets on a largely uneventful day. Cutting through the hangar on his way back to third deck, Ice allows himself a moment to stop and look out at the waves, listening to them crash against the hull almost in time with his breaths. It brings him a little solace. Not much, but it’s enough.
Being here is as easy as breathing, Ice thinks, sometimes. The same goes with flying. If he can’t be where Maverick is, he supposes the Navy has provided him with a decent substitute, a distraction.
Ice shoves his hands into his pockets, tasting saltwater. He breathes in deep once more, and turns away. That’s when he hears footsteps, and someone yelling his name.
“Kazansky! Hey, Kazansky! That you, man?”
He whips around to see none other than Leonard “Wolfman” Wolfe approaching him. Running towards him, actually, his voice echoing through the hangar.
“Wolf? The hell are you doing here?”
Wolf finally reaches him, stopping in front of him and panting with his hands on his knees. “Dude! I thought that was you! I didn’t know you were on the Ranger .”
“Just got here yesterday. Black Knights are here?”
“Yes indeed. Those Iraqis aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em.” He wipes sweat from his brow. “Hey, listen,” Wolf says, his tone dropping to something more serious, more deliberate. “Wolfpack’s here, too.”
Ice’s heart drops into his stomach. His ears ring. He knows exactly what that means. But it can’t be…can it?
He croaks a small, dumbfounded, “What?”
Wolf nods quickly, eyes big and excited, but his voice is surprisingly soft. “Mess hall. C’mon.”
Ice follows Wolf with weak knees, the chatter of the mess growing louder and louder as they approach. Ice’s hands start to sweat, his heart pounding behind his eyes. The room is crowded, which is expected at the height of dinner time. Wolf halts abruptly just past the entrance, Ice almost running straight into his back as Wolf scans the room for–
A chair scrapes loudly somewhere to his right. He and Wolf turn to look in tandem, and that’s when Ice meets the blue-green eyes of his best friend in the world. The man he’s loved fiercely for the past five years. The man he was made to love.
Maverick is just standing there in all his five-foot-seven glory, messy black hair and dark circles and freshly tanned skin, his jaw slack with surprise. Ice’s eyes suddenly burn with tears.
“Mav?” he croaks, but he can’t even hear himself over the roar of conversation in the room. He takes a staggering step towards Maverick, resisting the urge to stride over to him, lift him off his feet and into his arms.
He makes it there at some point, Maverick still standing frozen in place, eyes never leaving Ice’s. Time seems to stop as they just look at each other. Ice still can’t believe his eyes, can’t get himself to speak.
“Ice,” Maverick says finally. The sound of his voice alone makes Ice want to sob with relief, and he doesn’t miss the way Maverick sways forward a little as he says it, like it’s all he can do to keep from collapsing forward into Ice’s arms.
“Hey,” Ice manages, then asks the question he’s been aching to for months: “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Maverick says. His eyes look shiny. “Are you?”
Ice nods. “Y-yeah.”
No one around seems to notice their reaction to one another’s presence, save for Wolf — although with the way he informed Ice that Maverick was on board the Ranger too, Ice thinks that Wolf may have expected a reaction like this. He also vaguely registers Hollywood and Merlin staring up at them from the table with wide eyes. He takes a half step forward and rests his hand on Maverick’s arm, just below his shoulder. His fingers curl slightly, barely a grip. Maverick’s eyes briefly flutter closed.
Ice drops his hand, and it’s the hardest thing he’s done since leaving Maverick back in August. Then he remembers something.
“I kept my pinky promise,” Ice says, quiet enough that he knows only Maverick will hear.
Maverick’s eyes curve up, looking like he can’t decide whether to cry or laugh. “I knew you would,” he replies, just as quiet.
Ice is too worked up to have an appetite, but he sits down across from Maverick—after Merlin scoots over without Ice even asking—and just looks at him. They both look at each other. Smiling like idiots.
Maverick eventually convinces Ice to eat some of his fries, sliding them across the table on a napkin. It reminds Ice of when Maverick used to always offer his food to him in the mess hall at TOPGUN, and how Ice could never say no. The thought comes with a pang of nostalgia, a longing for that part of their lives when it felt like it was just the two of them in the world; kicking ass in the air together every day, coming home to one another every night, falling in love so viciously that it was terrifying.
Ice’s heart rate is still far from normal, but his breathing is steadier and his limbs feel like his own again. Maverick’s smiling at him now, crooked teeth and crinkling eyes. The smile Ice has been dreaming about for months. It still lights up the whole room, still takes Ice’s breath away every time.
Dinner ends, and Ice and Maverick stand from the table as Hollywood, Wolf, and Merlin do the same. They file out of the mess; Merlin waves goodbye first, retreating down the passageway towards berthing. Hollywood and Wolfman hover momentarily, exchange a look with one another, then grin brightly at Ice and Maverick before they’re gone as well. Then it’s just Maverick, looking up at Ice, illuminated by the white lights above. Ice looks back.
“Ice, I…”
Ice nods. He knows. He knows what Maverick needs, because he needs it too, and he trusts Maverick’s judgment, trusts his ability to determine a safe space for them to go.
Maverick nods back, and Ice follows him.
Of course, the place Maverick takes him is a closet full of cleaning supplies, but Ice would lock himself in a bathroom stall with Maverick if it meant they could be alone together.
Five months is too fucking long.
Maverick clicks the door shut quietly, locks it by shoving a door stop backwards underneath it, then he doesn’t waste another second before falling into Ice’s arms. Ice catches him around the waist, pulls him in tight, and Maverick wraps his arms up around Ice’s neck.
Ice hears himself choke out a small sob of relief. Maverick makes a similar noise, burying his face into Ice’s neck. Ice does the same, pressing his nose into the skin below Maverick’s ear, breathing him in. Maverick’s cologne floods his nostrils, and it’s never smelled so damn good.
“Ice,” he mumbles against Ice’s skin, and Ice starts to run his hand up and down Maverick’s back. Maverick sighs with relief.
“I’m here, Mav,” Ice whispers, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Maverick sniffs. Ice feels wet hot tears against his neck. “You’re okay, baby. Hey,” Ice pulls back to look at him, reaches one hand up to wipe thick tears from Maverick’s cheeks. “Don’t cry. I’m here. I’m okay.”
Maverick squeezes his eyes shut and nods, then leans in and connects their lips. Ice kisses back instantly, cradling his jaw, his other arm tight around Maverick’s back. Maverick’s hands slide up into his hair.
The kiss doesn’t deepen — it’s a kiss to convince themselves that they’re both still alive, still in love, still the center of each other’s universe.
He doesn’t know how long he holds Maverick for, but it’ll never be enough time. Maverick calms down eventually, his breathing evening out against Ice’s chest, turning slow and tired. Ice brings them to the floor at some point, leaning back against the door, Maverick curled up in his lap. It reminds Ice of the night they first kissed — Maverick had crawled right into Ice’s lap not long after, and determinedly stayed there as long as Ice let him. Ice wanted to keep him there forever then, just like he does now.
He continues soothing his hand over Maverick’s body, feeling his muscles go lax underneath the touch. Maverick’s hand runs through Ice’s hair, along his jaw, down his neck to his chest, and back up again.
Ice whispers that he loves him, and Maverick whispers it back.
—
Slider shows up a couple days later, and Ice is more relieved to see him than he thought he’d be. Not having his usual RIO – and close friend – back on the Independence was unexpectedly anxiety-producing.
The evening he arrives, Slider bumps Ice’s shoulder as they head back to their rack after dinner. “Saw Mav’s here,” he says, “you must be happy, huh?”
Ice floods his veins for a split second until he sees the look on Slider’s face, and his heart starts beating again. He doesn’t look angry, or annoyed, or teasing. He looks…genuine. A rarity for Ron Kerner, but Ice accepts it nonetheless.
Slider must have noticed the blood drain from Ice’s face, though, because he adds: “Oh, relax. You know I don’t give a shit, man.”
Ice exhales a long breath. “Right,” he says, trying for a grin. “Thanks, Kerner.”
He isn’t sure when it happened – he’s honestly afraid to ask – but somehow everyone from their TOPGUN class has become magically aware of how much Ice and Maverick care about each other. Except for Slider, none of them have said anything about it – only made it obvious that they know, and have no problem with it.
—
In the air with Maverick, again. An idea that seemed so far away just weeks ago. But now, Ice strides across the deck of the Ranger, heading to their respective fighters with Maverick at his side.
Most of their patrols are at night. Ice doesn’t mind, but Maverick complains a little. Ice notices him yawning a few times during the day, and it’s all Ice can do to keep himself from wrapping his arms around Mav’s waist and taking him back to his rack for a nap.
Their three-year anniversary comes and goes. On the day, Hollywood happens to mention the date during breakfast, and Ice and Maverick immediately lock eyes across the table, and then it’s all there between them. They don’t talk about it, but they both know. He watches Maverick smile down at his plate like he’s trying to hide it. Ice bumps their feet together under the table. Whether or not they give each other quick and desperate handjobs that night in the supply closet is nobody’s business but their own.
They play it safe, safer than they would back home. The risk of being caught increases significantly on a carrier – thousands of people crammed into tight spaces and tiny passageways means being alone is rare. But every once and awhile, Ice and Maverick steal a moment – a glance, a touch, a kiss – in a dark corner or empty room.
One night after a long day of patrolling, Ice pulls Maverick into a vacant ready room, locks the door and kisses him until he’s breathless.
“Ice,” he whispers, head resting on Ice’s chest. Ice hums. “I dreamed about you, you know.”
“You did?”
“Mhm.” Maverick kisses his throat softly. “Every night.”
Ice grins, runs a hand through Maverick's hair, and closes his eyes.
—
The last week of February, they’re assigned to a rare day time mission. Maverick buzzes with anticipatory adrenaline at breakfast, and Ice just drinks his coffee and tries to keep calm. It’s just an escort mission, but Ice can’t ignore the sense of panic that comes at the thought of not having that extra layer of protection that darkness provides. He’ll have Maverick with him though, which simultaneously makes Ice feel better and worse.
“It’s gonna be fine, Ice,” Maverick says, piling his silverware onto his empty plate and standing from the table. “I’ll be there. What’re you worried about?”
Ice can’t help but quirk a smile. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
Maverick narrows his eyes at him, but his lips curve too. “Asshole.”
Pre-flight goes well, everything as expected. Ice suits up and climbs into his plane, Slider behind him, and Maverick does the same, Merlin behind him. Hollywood and Wolfman get suited up as spares, if needed.
Maverick takes off first, but not without shooting Ice a cheeky grin from across the deck. Ice just rolls his eyes and looks back at his flight controls before Maverick can see him grin. Slider reaches forward and pats him on the shoulder, and Ice relaxes a little. He hears the familiar boom of the catapult, then prepares for his own launch. Except—
There’s a loud clang from below, a sound that definitely isn’t familiar or expected.
Slider curses behind him. There’s unsure voices over the radio, then all Ice hears is, “Standby. Launch spare.”
Boom. Hollywood and Wolfman fly off the deck, taking off after Maverick, leaving Ice and Slider stranded on deck. Sweat trickles down the back of Ice’s neck and he clenches his fists in his gloves, trying to keep his rage from boiling over.
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Goddamn catapult fucked up,” Slider grumbles, and Ice can hear him angrily flipping switches and pushing buttons. “Piece of shit.”
“Fuck.” Ice peels his helmet off, running a hand through his hair and closing his eyes for a moment. How is he supposed to protect Maverick if he’s not out there with him?
“Wood and Wolf got him, man,” Slider says, and since when can Slider fucking read minds?
Ice nods, and lets out a breath. “Yeah. They’ll be fine.”
Maverick’s voice suddenly crackles over the radio. Ice perks up, reaching forward to crank the volume to max. Maverick’s talking to Hollywood, and he sounds normal. No screaming, or panicked yelling. So, he’s okay, and Ice can listen in and make sure things stay that way.
Twenty minutes later, Ice and Slider are up and ready on catapult one, ready to fly spare if needed. It’s not ideal, but Ice can still hear Maverick, and he’s okay. Everything’s going as planned, Hollywood has Maverick’s wing, and everything’s—
“Shit!” Merlin’s voice, jumping up an octave or two to his panicked voice that Ice remembers too well. “Radar’s out!”
“Shit,” Maverick echoes, but he sounds more irritated than worried, so—
“Bandit! Vector 210-36!” Wolf yells suddenly, and panic rises in Ice’s throat like vomit.
“Fuck! What the fuck is that?”
“Is that a…?”
“ Ranger ,” Maverick yells, “looks like we’ve got a, uh, Iraqi Mi-8 here!”
“Holy shit,” Slider says behind him, and Ice tugs at the hair on the back of his neck to distract himself from the lurching in his stomach.
“Wolfpack, engage bandit,” the Ranger controller orders, and Ice wants to scream. He hears Slider curse some more behind him, Maverick and Hollywood yelling, Merlin asking too many questions. It happens so fast, Ice’s heart pounding in his ears so loud that he can’t hear a fucking thing, all he can do is focus on Maverick’s voice, until—
“Uh, splash one, uh…helicopter!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Slider says, “he’s a moron, Kazansky,” but it’s more fondness than bite. Ice feels like he could melt into his seat as all the tension falls off him at once.
There’s cheers and sighs of relief from both sides of the radio. Maverick laughs, and Ice smiles so hard his face hurts.
“Nice one, Mav.”
—
Ice curls his fingers in the fabric of Maverick’s flight suit and shoves him into the closet, slamming the door shut with his foot and pressing Maverick up against it. They’re both breathing hard, eyes locked in the dark, lips inches apart. Ice tightens his grip. Mav’s lips curl up.
“What? Are you mad?”
Ice doesn’t say anything. He watches a drop of sweat drip down Maverick’s temple, then slams his lips against his. Maverick’s mouth drops open, letting Ice inside as he sags against the door, completely pliant.
—
It’s June by the time they’re back in Miramar.
Ice was given the option to go back to TOPGUN in February, but in no way was he leaving the Ranger with Maverick on it unless he was truly ordered to do so. So, he stayed until Maverick was asked to come back to TOPGUN, and then he followed him home.
They fall back into their routine like nothing happened, like Maverick didn't get the first recorded air-to-air helicopter kill in Desert Storm and make the newspaper. He sleeps at Ice’s house the first night back, like it’s his own home. Ice spends the next weekend at Maverick’s, helping him restock his fridge and dust shelves. They have proper sex for the first time in months, slow and sweaty skin on skin, limbs tangled in Maverick’s freshly washed blue sheets.
The first week back with a fresh cohort of TOPGUN students is more exhausting than Ice remembers. He hears Maverick click his locker shut at the end of the day, and a moment later he’s next to him, nudging his shoulder gently. “Ice?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we get Thai food tonight?”
Ice glances around momentarily, then leans in and says softly, “Sure, baby.”
Maverick smiles, curls an arm around Ice’s lower back, leaning into his side. Ice goes tense for a second, until Maverick whispers, “There’s no one here,” and he relaxes. Maverick tilts up on his tiptoes, kisses Ice softly on the jaw, trails lazy kisses downward, then drops his head to Ice’s shoulder, sighing. Ice kisses his forehead.
“Let’s go home, yeah?”
Maverick nods. “Yeah. I’m hungry.”
Ice grins. “I know. C’mon.”