Chapter Text
Ice's day starts with a routine, like it usually does. He gets up at 0600 sharp, brushes his teeth, washes his face, showers, does his hair. Precisely in that order. By 0630, he's downstairs making breakfast and taking his coffee: black, no sugar. He collects the papers from the front door, snaps them open and reads about the world he wakes up to. By 0730 he'll be out the door and out to do whatever it is that he needs to do for the day.
He likes his life predictable, controlled and orderly. Everything in its place, everything precisely at their time and not a second late. It's how his life is supposed to be, he thinks, and something deep in his soul calms down and relaxes, content in procedures and rules.
He likes his life predictable, but the problem is life doesn't want to make itself predictable.
A knock on his front door makes Ice put down his newspaper. He looks at the clock: oh-seven-hundred. Who would be knocking at his door at this hour? The vast majority of the population isn't even awake. A couple of impatient doorbell rings has him out of his seat with a sigh. Early, impatient, and mannerless. There's only one person who would do this. He strides to get the door, half expecting Maverick's mischievous face in front of him, framed by the morning sun.
Ice yanks the door open; the fearsome expression on his face melts right off when it's not a pair of green eyes that meets his.
He's right as much as he isn't. He's not sure in this case if it's better to be right or wrong, and he absolutely hates being wrong.
It's not one pair of green eyes that meets his, it's five pairs of green eyes that blink back at him. Some blinking up, some blinking down.
Oh hell no, Ice thinks, nausea creeping up on him and tilting his world a solid thirty degrees to the left. He doesn't even say anything- doesn't bother, not when he knows his brain isn't processing what he's seeing.
He takes a step back in his own home and slams the door shut and leans his back against the door for one second. Deep breaths, Ice, he thinks. Deep breaths, he thinks and tries to ignore the panic rising in his throat. Oh god there are five Mavericks pounding at his door, what the fuck?
The door bell starts ringing again, and he can hear the knocking start up again, this time with shouts. They're making a scene, Ice thinks. He spins back around, sucks in one more breath, and locks his door.
He's not dealing with this. Not today. It's just a dream. A terrible, no good dream. The bartender must have fucked with his vodka, gave him cheap alcohol, that's what this is, Ice thinks and stomps back upstairs to his bedroom. He leaves his breakfast and papers where they are; he'll wake up with it all gone, wake up at 0600 and start his day like it's supposed to go.
For fuck's sake, if his subconscious wants to flip him the bird, there are better ways to go about it. He grumbles and goes back to sleep. It'll be over when he wakes up, and he'll just bitch about it another day.
Ice's worlds fade in from black slowly, bright rays of the sun lighting his vision up to a pale grey. He can dimly hear the birds chirp outside his window, the mourning doves gone and fading to the skylarks.
Wait- birds? What time is it? Ice groans and shakes his find free from the last vestiges of sleep. Did he oversleep? Did his alarm not go off? He hasn't overslept since his high school days, and even then it was just the once after a night out.
He scrunches open his eyes, expecting to see the peeling white paint of his housing and the spinning wooden ceiling fan.
He doesn't see either. Instead, he scoots back on the bed so quickly his head hits the headboard with a loud bang, and he clutches his covers to his chest, pulling them over his dogtags. He carefully doesn't scream his head off when he sees two Mavericks kneeling on his bed, leaning forward on their hands and looking back at him, equally startled.
What the fuck are they surprised about? They're not the ones waking up with strangers hovering inches from their face, Ice mentally snarls.
On more thorough inspection- his mind taking in the details with the efficiency of a computer cataloging all threats and datapoints in order- the one on the left is young. Like really, really young, maybe only as old as Sarah or even younger.
He looks scared, Ice thinks, shoulders shrunk in on himself and defensive, eyes darting to the side. With a bit of misplaced guilt, Ice tries to relax his grip on his blankets, tries to take a deep breath and count backwards from ten. He can't quite change the expression on his face- it's the only one he's got- but he turns to the Maverick on the right instead.
This one looks to be at a more reasonable age, Ice thinks. He looks older, with the slightest smile lines starting to show around the crinkles of his eyes and around his mouth. He's in his dress uniform, with his top button undone. His breath hovers closes and stinks strongly of alcohol, his grin never leaving his face. Must be one hell of a celebration to get that sloshed, Ice thinks. Still sloshed at past seven AM.
"You- what are you doing here?" Either of them. Both. All of them. Ice tries to keep the irritation out of his voice. Great, a child and a drunk, he thinks sarcastically. Just which one is he supposed to deal with?
"Your Maverick jimmied the lock for us- popped right open," the older one says, jerking a thumb over towards the open door and has the audacity to wink at him.
"That Maverick knows very well he has his own house across the street," Ice says, biting back sharper words in the presence of a minor. Bought it around the same time Ice did- when they got longer assignments to teach at Top Gun.
"Yeah well, he ain't got a single clue what to do with us," Maverick snorts. "Why are you surprised? Of course he's going to find you instead."
Of course, Ice thinks, feeling his dizziness return. On one hand, a small shriveled up part of him deep inside his chest blooms with warmth at the thought that he's the first person Maverick runs to when he doesn't know what to do. As if he has all the answers in the world either, but at least he'll be able to make it alright. Make it feel safe for him, he thinks.
On the other hand, he brought five versions of him straight to his doorstep, caused a scene at seven in the morning, broke in, and now apparently has plans to squat in his house for the foreseeable future.
"I don't mean to be trouble, Mr. Kazansky," the younger one mutters quietly, refusing to meet his eyes.
Ice freezes. Mr. Kazansky. Mr. Kazansky. Jesus, he called him Mister Kazansky. Suddenly, he feels every year of his age. Just how old is this boy? His heart goes out to him- he's young and lost, a bother or not. Whatever else he wants to say, whatever he wants to get out of his system- it can wait. He wasn’t sure when he became a responsible adult in his own right- probably when he first met Maverick and saw how irresponsible he is and unwillingly took him under his wing- but there’s a part of him he didn’t know rearing up to take the reins.
Then, he dares to look up finally, wide green eyes still scared and the babyfat still clinging to his cheeks. He's in a frayed T shirt and shorts, the cartoon on there fading and the shirt almost slipping off a shoulder on one end. He should get better clothes, Ice think. At least a jacket or something. It’s still chilly this early in the morning; a kid like him shouldn't be out in summer clothes.
The older Maverick sees the exact moment when Ice caves to those wide green eyes and his demeanor melts down to a puddle. Global warming, he thinks and snickers. That didn't take much. Good job, junior, he thinks and mentally toasts the kid.
Ice turns and glares at the older one. He can't quite will away the blush high on the apples of his cheeks, but he doesn't tell the man to fuck off. Not in so many words and definitely not when the kid’s there.
Then, he deflates. "It's no trouble," he sighs and reassures the young Pete Mitchell. He runs a hand through his hair, wondering what he's going to do now. He misses the way the younger one's fear changes to something else, the way his eyes focus on the dancing frosted tips of his hair.
"Really?" Baby Maverick asks hopefully. How can anyone say no to that face? Damn, Ice thinks.
Well, the jury's still out on that one, but... Ice's mother raised him better than to let him leave a kid like that out on the streets, and the other four (yes, his own included) are tagging along.
"Yes, really. It's not your fault, Kid." What can a sixteen year old do to get himself propelled back to the future? Ice scoffs. Chances are his backpack is still downstairs with his schoolbooks, for fuck’s sake. “Come on, let's see what the rest of... You are doing." Priorities, Ice tells himself. Priorities. One should never leave a Maverick unsupervised, as much as it gives him the chills to consider Maverick in multiples. Let him deal with one crisis at a time. Baby steps. Baby steps, Kazansky.
It's not a dream? No really, it's not a dream?
No it is not, Ice thinks and sighs. He gets up- naked, refusing to feel self-conscious in his own goddamn home (he sleeps in shorts anyways- Sarah always shrieked at him when he forgets).
The younger Maverick turns away from him to preserve his modesty, but he can't quite hide the way his ears flame to a dull red. Ice almost snickers. The Navy’s gonna get rid of that modesty real quick. Especially with the way Hollywood likes to moon everyone right out of the showers.
Cute, a part of him absently registers. Who knew Pete Mitchell could be shy?
The older one doesn't other turning around, merely snickers at the baby's predicament and openly leers at Ice, his gaze scanning up and down his body.
"Are you done?" Ice asks, his voice dry, hands on his waist for an impromptu inspection.
"Not in the least," Maverick grins shamelessly and wriggles his eyebrows. “Do me a favor and turn around?”
Oh for fuck's sake- Ice rolls his eyes, snags his shirt from the back of his chair and walks down stairs. He checks to make sure the shirt covers his ass- if only spite the older one.
He doesn't bother to look and see if the other two are following; he can feel their gaze on his back all the way there.
"Jesus Christ," Ice whispers to himself and leans against the pillar of his living room, a hand pinching his brows hard. Is it too late to scream and run for the hills? Ice cold, he reminds himself. He could really use an ice pack to the head right about now.
"Oh my god, it's 1986! Fuck how long ago is this?"
"What? He wins the Top Gun trophy in your world? Like hell I'm gonna let him do that here!"
"There are things more important in life than a shiny trophy, Kid."
"Don't call me that, and what the fuck is with all the vodka in here- can't a guy get a beer-"
It's a circus in here- is he supposed to wrangle the lot of them?- absolute cacophony in his own domain, and he hasn't the faintest clue how to clean up this mess. And what a mess it is
There's a Maverick in camo gear staring intently at the papers on his table; he snags bits of Ice's breakfast and drip bacon grease on the table. Ice can see the dusty bootprints the man tracks in from the entrance and feels part of him twitch with irritation. Does he not have manners? He doesn't make an aborted grab towards the mop, but goddammit, take off your shoes when you enter someone's house, he thinks. Where did they pick up this one? In the middle of the Namib?
His Maverick (it's the only reasonable way to tell them apart, Ice tells himself) is arguing with what looks to be the oldest Maverick of the lot- Maverick's dad? Ice wonders. He has his face stuck in his refrigerator, pulling out all the bottles and contents in it one by one. He has his hand on the open bottle of vodka. He had better not drop it, or else he’s buying him a new one, Ice thinks.
The oldest one leans back on the counter near the stove, looking only amused at the chaos. There's no irritation on his face, no bravado or arrogance, only self-sure confidence that only the best can have. He's wearing his civvies- the only one of them to, with that same old bomber jacket (holy shit- how many patches does he even have on there, Ice thinks), a pair of worn jeans and a plain white T shirt underneath.
Miracles of miracles. Pete Maverick Mitchell mellows out in his old age. Ice thanks God and a couple other deities he doesn't believe in.
"Don't keep the fridge open like that, Kid. You're gonna spoil all of Ice's food," the older one berates gently.
Oh good, he grows a brain too, Ice thinks. Took him long enough.
He clears his throat. "Mitchell," he says- he needs answers, and he needs them now. He fully intends to grill his Maverick, and he's going to get him to fix this mess, goddammit.
"Ice!"
"Ice!"
"Ice!"
Iceman Kazansky takes a step back, eyes wide, the reality of the situation not quite having hit him yet.
"Yes, Ice?" the dress uniform one says by his side and joins in with a laugh. Ice elbows him.
I want to change my call sign, Ice thinks hysterically. I'm changing my call sign when all this is over. He looks at the three pairs of sea green eyes looking at him with expectation.
"Lieutenant Mitchell," he tries to clarify which one he's asking for.
"Yes?" The one next to him and his own Maverick answers back. Dammit the drunk knows it's not him he wants, Ice grits his teeth, cursing the Pete Mitchell of some years in the future.
"God, just-" Ice gives up and walks over, grabs his Maverick by the elbow and shoves that bottle of vodka back down into the fridge slot. He slams it shut with a kick of his foot that rattles the glass and holds down his Maverick by the elbows. He hog marches the man to the living room and plops him down.
"What the hell is going on here, Mav?" Ice just about hyperventilates.
Pete blinks at him, bewildered and confused. "I don't know, man. I just woke up today and that one (he jerks his head towards the Maverick in the bomber jacket) brought the other three to my doorstep."
"And you'd bring them here?" Ice gapes. Why?
"Of course," Maverick says, a statement as clear as the sky is blue.
Ice sighs deeply, pulls up a chair and sits down.
The oldest one is the one who has the answers- god, who knows Pete Mitchell of all people lives to sixty? He's gonna lose that bet to Slider; with flying like that, he bet Maverick wouldn't even make it to the next decade in one piece. Apparently he does and has plenty of extra years to spare. (He looks good at that age, Ice registers. All handsome charm and confidence but subtler, surer. Steady. Age lines that only add to his appeal and not subtract from it.)
"There's something of a global alien invasion going on in my end of multiverse. Some people are trying to undo it, and they must have glitched the multiverses somehow to land us all here," Maverick shrugs.
"Fuck, pull the other one, Mitchell," Ice barks a laugh. An alien invasion, please. This ain't the Twilight Zone, just a sleepy neighborhood in Miramir, just off the coast of California.
"I wish," a chorus of five voices say in unison, in the exact same cadence of annoyed.
Ice pales, the reality of his situation making him reconsider the explanation. Maybe the fact really is stranger than fiction this time. Just this once, he suspends his disbelief, shoves it deep down in a box that's about to explode from the sheer incredulity of his morning, and steels himself.
"This is going to be fixed, right?" Ice gestures to the lot of them loitering in his living room. Nothing's broken yet, but Ice isn't holding his breath.
The oldest one shrugs. "It will sooner or later. It's been happening for the better part of the year across the world. Usually takes a week or so for the multiverses to untangle themselves. Just this is the first time it’s happened to me."
"But five of you?" Ice can't help but ask. Who the fuck comes up with these numbers?
Maverick snorts. "Not the worst by far. Try fifty," he says. "Fifty and shrunk."
Ice wonders which unfortunate soul got stuck with that for a week- really puts a new spin on the possibility of fifty duck sized Mavericks or one Maverick sized duck.
(He'd take the Maverick sized duck, hands down. Fifty Mavericks- in whatever size- is an assault force, and making all the brass resign in unison isn't how he wants to climb his way to the top.)
"Seems like you're stuck with us for the week- now aren't you a lucky one," drunk Maverick grins and slings an arm over Ice casually, his side pressing tight against Ice's flank.
Ice wrinkles his nose at the scent of alcohol and sweat. "Shove off, Mitchell. Go sober up."
"In that big of a hurry to show me the way to your shower?" he grins.
Ice rolls his eyes. Great, he's stuck playing babysitter to a horny drunk for a week. "As if I want you christening my toilet with your barf," he says with a push. He's careful to avoid the baby Maverick, sticking close to him behind his back. He sees his own Maverick out of the corner of his eyes, tensed and his expression pinched, withdrawn. What suddenly crawled up his ass and died? He was fine just a second ago.
"Do you need to call in to work?" The oldest Maverick sounds even more amused, the wrinkles on his face only contouring his handsome face. He waves a hand towards the landline on the table next to the couch, looking almost nostalgic.
"Nah, it's Top Gun's off season," Ice sighs. That's one problem he doesn't need to take care of. Thank fuck for small miracles.
"You mean I still work at Top Gun?" the older man raises an eyebrow. He looks at his younger self with something like surprise on his face.
His Maverick shrugs in confirmation. "Yeah. Might've had a rough patch or two (or seven, Ice thinks) in the first couple o' weeks but it turned out alright. Viper sat me down and handed me back my transfer orders when I tried to quit."
Of course he had. Tom had beaten him to the punch that day, taking a short lunch break and a shortcut to Viper's office, all but begging with the man not to let Maveick go. He's needed here, he argues. He's what these pilots need. He's the best that they've got.
Surprisingly, Viper had listened. And here they are. Still at Miramir, still at Top Gun.
"Well what'd you know? I think I found our first multiverse difference," the oldest one says and rocks back on his heels.
"You didn't stay in Top Gun? In your... Multiverse?" Ice frowns. What happened to that Maverick's Ice then?
"Nah, I quit after my first two weeks there. Wasn't fit for teaching, clashed way too much with the students," he shrugged. Was he not there in that universe to convince Viper otherwise?
"Where did you go after?" Ice can't help but ask.
Maverick looks over to his dusty counterpart, decked out in war gear, blank faced and eyes so terrifyingly emotionless. "I went back to the boat. Took some missions here and there- wasn't a question of what I wanted to do or where I want to go but which admiral is least pissed off at me at any particular point in time."
Ice groans. Surely he didn't piss off an Admiral. Admirals. In multiple. "You didn't-"
"Too late to change that," Maverick grins, tilting his head. Clearly, his mischievous streak doesn't abate with age. He claps a hand over his Maverick's shoulder. "It's not even a glitch in the Matrix (what the fuck is the Matrix, Ice thinks) this time."
"Don't you dare-" his Maverick clues in on something.
"Why that time with Admiral Benjamin and his daughter-"
"That was a one time thing-"
"I took her up in a F-14 and he came knocking on my door at ass o'clock in the morning with a shotgun in hand-"
"Oh fuck, that was ages ago-" his Maverick's face is a flaming red at that point and steals a glance at the shocked Ice.
"But hey- Penny and I get along great now! We have dinner every Sunday before she opens up at the Hard Deck," the older one says and dodges a fist from his younger counterpart. He too, looks at Ice- what he reads in the expression, he's not sure.
"You stole an F-14 and an Admiral's daughter," Ice echoes. What the actual fuck? He swallows the lump in his throat - dinner every Sunday, what does that mean? (Maverick isn't his- whatever they have, in quiet nights and drunk early mornings- it isn't his to hold, isn't his to keep. He can't, won't bind his heart to something as ephemeral as a force of nature that is Maverick. Not when it'll get handed back to him in pieces.)
"Just for the one night," his one murmurs, still glaring petulantly at his older self. "It didn't mean anything. We- we didn't do anything after, I swear."
"A bit hard to do anything more when your CO's CO has a shotgun pointed at your face," wartorn Maverick snorts, crossing his arms and widening his stance, his lips twitching up a slight bit.
How does a guy like Maverick put on so much muscle? Where does it all go? Ice wonders. He can't help but let his gaze linger on the flex of his arms, bulging from the uniform, the wide slope of his shoulders. This Maverick's pulled from active combat, he's absolutely sure. He thinks he might have looked for a second too long; maybe it's not a coincidence that Maverick flexes that bit more, turns his head to the side and shows off his jawline. Ice tears his gaze away and clears his throat.
(They go to war in the next ten- twenty years? Is it the Soviets? The Chinese? He wants to desperately shake the man by his shoulders, shout him down and asks if they're all okay- if they live and make it out of it in one piece.)
Speaking of other people... "Have any of you told Goose?" Ice tries. If he's stuck with the dubious honor of looking after five Mavericks, the fuck is he not pulling Mother Goose into this. He'll need all the help he can get. Hell, he might give Goose a stroke on the spot, Ice considers and decides he'll take his chances.
If he gets lucky he might even manage to foist the lot of them off on him. After all, he's got no business looking after a- a flock of Maverick.
"Goose?"
"Goose!"
"Goose..."
"Oh yeah, Goose- damn he's gonna kill me for disappearing on him"
"What about Goose?"
Oh no, no no. No. Ice breathes when he sees the two older ones look downright gutted at the mention of Goose's name. He didn't- Goose- he didn't... Ice feels the the breath get punched out of him with that one word alone. The oldest one looks pained, putting hand over his chest and stepping back. The blood drains from his face, and he sways.
"Goose... He's alive?" he whispers, eyes wide. Ice holds his breath.
"Of course. Of- of course. What else would he be?" His Maverick breathes- eyes wide and starting to understand. The realization hits him hard, and he grabs the lapel of that worn olive green jacket. The man hits the counter with a bang and a grunt. "What happened- what happened to Goose?"
"He died in Hop 31 in Top Gun," War-torn Maverick says flatly from his spot by the wall, reciting it like an old fact. He closed his eyes, Ice noted. Can't even bother to look at the lot of them. (Is it Ice he can't bear to look at? Is he- did he have something to do with Goose's... Death?)
Ice takes a step back and coughs in unison with his own Maverick at the mention of that particular hop, and the oldest version doesn't bother tugging his jacket from the other man's grasp.
He's not blushing, Ice thinks. He is not blushing. He can’t be blushing. We’re talking about Goose here. Goose’s death. Focus, Kazansky, he thinks and gives himself a mental shake.
"Oh?" Finally, something other than blank stillness reaches Maverick's face. He raises a single eyebrow. It's something of a flicker, a bare shadow of the sunny grin that greets Ice at work every morning.
"Goose didn't die in Hop 31," Ice clears his throat. "Not here." He didn't die, but he did make himself scarce after showers the moment he heard Maverick's back hit the lockers... For the first time but not the last in those weeks of Top Gun. Slider too, learned to leave them well alone after the first time he got an eyeful.
"I see that," he edges, hinting and prodding at something more behind that reaction. Ice doesn't budge, won't crack under that unnerving stare, so he turns to his younger self.
His Maverick stands ramrod straight, face still tinged green with the idea of Goose not being there for the rest of his life. But he falls for the psy ops, falls for the casual interrogation when he looks away from the gaze first and tugs at his collar, the exact same place where Ice gave him the first of many bruises in the future.
"So that's how it is," Maverick snorts. "I'll take that over my Hop 31 any day."
"Hear hear," middle aged Maverick smiles and shakes his head at the follies of his youth.
"Carole's address is still here?" the old one asks. "I brought back my bike- I'll take them there to see her."
"You still have that goddamn death trap?" Ice grumbles- he can't believe that Maverick brought it back in time with him, of all things to bring- and snatches a pen and post it off the table. He hastily scribbles down where Goose is living. Carole's address, he had said. Not Goose's. As if Goose has ceased to exist anymore- as if he's... Disappeared completely.
"Just take my car- I'm not paying for your gas if you're taking multiple trips," Ice rolls his eyes and tosses him the keys to his Mustang.
"Yeah, well you still have your Mustang in the future too, so don't knock it. Keep dang good care of it too for a car that old," Maverick snorts. "I'm surprised you're letting me even touch that thing."
"Extenuating circumstances call for extenuating measures," Ice sighs. "And like hell am I letting the sixteen year old drive my car."
"Hey- I can drive!" the baby of the group pouts. "It's just to Goose's- I know my way there and back with my hands tied."
("You met Goose that early, Junior?" the drunk one wonders and blinks.
"Don't call me that- and of course I met him ages ago, his Ma and Pa took me in after Mom."
The drunk one whistles. Off tune at that. "Damn you're one lucky sonnovabitch."
"Do you mean you didn't...?")
Ice tries to ignore the added information, ignore the data he doesn't need right now and put it aside for analysis on a later date. "Don't crash it Mitchell, or you're paying me back one way or another. I'll make sure of it," Ice grins, all teeth and hidden threats.
"Wouldn't dream of it," the oldest Maverick grins at him back at him, waving away his concern.
He doesn't get a call from the hospital saying Goose has passed out dead. He also doesn't get an angry call from Carole asking him to pick up his Mavericks and never come back. He doesn't get a call from the police to bail the lot of them out (though he does dig out this cheque book from somewhere in his drawers- just in case).
Instead, Ice busies himself with making a meal. After his panic attack, that is. After his dread settles and he's resigned to his new world order.
Mitchell's lucky it was grocery day yesterday, Ice thinks. He's not above letting the lot of them starve (except the young one of course- at their age they need the food. The older ones can live off of cardboard MREs and live), especially since the money on them is from the future, and he doesn't want to try explaining his way out of money laundering and counterfeiting charges, multiverse or not.
And he's definitely not letting a sixteen year old drain his pockets for three solid meals and a roof over his head.
He crouches and digs through his freezer, looking for food that he can have to supplement what's fresh. Ice cold, no mistakes, he thinks with a snort. If this whole thing isn't a mistake he doesn't know what it is.
But his parents didn't raise him like that, didn't raise him to be military and be woefully underprepared in the event of an emergency. (Natural disaster preparedness, that's what this is, Ice thinks. Except how can he be prepared for five Mavericks when he can't even handle the one?)
He digs out some puff pastry- expired for a couple of months but perfectly serviceable, a can of cream of chicken soup from the pantry, and some old Rotissere chicken breasts and bones hidden in the back of his fridge. Carrots, onions, celery, milk, chicken stock, check.
Chicken pot pie it is, he shrugs and throws in a couple of potatoes in there for filler. There's a tub of ice cream, but he'll keep it for now- if there's one thing he has learned is that the way to Pete Mitchell's brain is through the stomach, so he'll keep it for a rainy day in case he needs that advantage. Just that edge to keep Mitchell on this side of alive and talk him out of whatever the fuck's going to kill him this time.
He'd be lying if he wasn't worried- god, they don't even have proper legal identification- wandering around a military town like that. They've been gone all day. He's on his own for now. All day by himself, just like how it was always meant to be.
He can't help but notice it's quiet in his two bedroom house. Too quiet on his own, as if the house itself is waiting on baited breath for that next laugh, for that next shout that wakes up the life of this place. Waiting in inertia for life to walk in through the front doors.
No matter. Iceman makes the best use of his time- possibly the last bit of productivity he'll have all week- and airs out the guest room, changes his sheets and digs through the closets for sleeping bags and futons, extra blankets and pillows, looks for extra toothbrushes and mugs. He'll have to ask his Maverick to move in some stuff- he doesn't have enough for five. Clothes too- there's no way anything of his will fit the shortstack, let one one that hasn't hit his growth spurt.
He sits down with a pile of paperwork and flips through manila folder after manila folder of names and faces, a rotating roster of who he'll be teaching in the upcoming weeks. He makes a note here and there, who's suited for each instructor to teach, who to keep a five foot distance from Maverick. Who to bet on, he snorts. Viper's got to get that gambling problem taken care of.
Time passes as it always does, and Ice can't help but wonder, his mind drifting to endlessly green eyes and a smile that lights up his house.
"You're back. Put the keys by the hooks on the door" Ice states. He looks up from his paperwork, twirling his pen around his fingers.
The twirling stops when he sees them walk in through the door, eyes red and faces in equal measures pale and tear stained. The oldest one's bent forward and shaking, his hands clanking the keys loudly before he manages to set them down. He's being supported by the Maverick who still hasn't changed out of his gear (he'll get stopped by the others in the streets like this, Ice thinks).
That one doesn't look any better, Ice thinks, shuttered and cold. Distant and far-gazed.
A part of him quietly observes that look with horror. Maverick shouldn't look like this- can't look like this- so broken, shattered to bits and standing there looking at the remnants of himself. What happened in the future for this to happen? (What happened? He'll prevent it, he'll stop it with every breath he has.)
"Shit- Jesus, sit down before you fall over, Mitchell," Ice scolds and immediately pulls up a chair. God, he's old- he's going to break his back walking like this.
"Thanks," the older man's smile wavers and his gaze drops to the floor.
"Don't think I didn't see you either," Ice warns and sets a barstool in front of the veteran.
He scoffs but takes the chair. There's something of a smile playing at his lips, as if he didn't think Ice would notice. (Who wouldn't, Ice thinks.)
"Maverick..." Ice says, glancing uneasily at his Maverick, who for once looks off kilter.
"I took them to see Goose- gods, their world is so fucked up," Maverick says, rubbing his face with a hand. A hand that's trembling ever so slightly.
"Be careful with how you fly, or our futures won't be looking that different," the oldest one warns. The other one doesn't disagree. And his Maverick didn't snap back like Ice expected, only nods.
Even the drunk one looks somber; he looks like Carole dunked him in a bucket, Ice thinks, eyeing the water droplets dripping from his hair. He wouldn't count it out; Goose's wife is a right firecracker- the perfect other half for someone like Goose.
"You too, huh?" Ice sighs and tosses the man the dishtowel to dry off. He doesn't need any better.
"Mhm," he says, getting a thousand-yard stare. Then he adds after a moment, "I need more alcohol."
The sixteen year-old snorts and rolls his eyes skyward. "God I never wanna grow up to be like you."
"I'll toast to that," Maverick quips.
"You'll get over that soon enough," the Maverick on the barstool says. "Ice makes you quit drinking after he bails you out after the turn of the millenium party."
"You mean the one you pulled me out of?" Maverick hiccups and raises an eyebrow.
"That depends- the only thing I really remember from that party was..."
"We didn't start the fire, right?" Maverick laughs and starts humming to the song off tune.
"Yup, that's the one," he says, somewhat less morose when he's lost in memories.
"You're not going to that party," Ice says firmly to his Maverick.
"Aww, Ice..."
They eat the pot pie over dinner, and Ice quietly gives himself a pat on the back for making comfort food. With a day like this, all of them could use a bit of comfort, he thinks. He didn't expect any leftovers. Between the five of them they can probably clear out at least three pies. At least. Not for the first time Ice wonders where all the calories go for a guy like Maverick. It's not like he has extra inches to hide the fat.
He piles up the dishes in the sink, collecting the two from the adults by the couch. So sue him he doesn't even have enough chairs for this. Two barstools, a chair, and a couch is all he has. What use does he have for a half dozen chairs and a long dinner table? Well, he stands corrected. (Though hopefully this isn't going to be a regular occurrence from now on- he thinks he might just have to throw himself off a cliff that's the case.)
"Damn, Ice, you can really cook," his Maverick says with a moan, his mouth full with pie and chicken.
Ice rolls his eyes and tries not to look too pleased at the compliment.
"Do you think my Ice will cook for me too?" Baby Maverick asks hopefully. He's even licking his fork clean.
"I didn't learn the recipe until I was sixteen," Ice says automatically.
"Kiddo, he doesn't even know you yet," now slightly less drunk Maverick says and ruffles his hair. "Hell, he's not even Iceman Kazansky yet... Just Tom." Always just Tom, his fond gaze says.
"It's okay, Tom can cook for me too," Maverick says matter-of-factedly.
"Eat your food," Ice sighs and silently apologizes to a version of his younger self somewhere in the yonder.
"Man I should bum food off of you more often if you're gonna cook like that," his Maverick says.
"You're paying for my groceries, Mitchell."
"That's not a no," he grins, that darned tooth sticking out just so slightly.
"I always pay for the groceries," the oldest Maverick chuckles. "I do the washing up too," he says and gets up to do just that.
It's a host's job to do the cleaning up, but well- with that many dishes he could use the help. "You're still mooching off my cooking in thirty years' time, Mitchell? God," Ice can't help but ask.
The older one quirks a smile. "You could call it that."
That gives the next oldest one a pause from where he's sitting on the couch, puts an odd look in his eyes as if he can't believe what the older one is saying.
"Go brush your teeth well after dinner, Junior. You're gonna get a cavity in that tooth by the time you're thirty if you don't," old Maverick reminds his younger self.
"Could've warned me a bit earlier," millenium party Maverick says, apparently already past that age.
"Yeah, well, you end up getting braces done and fixed your tooth afterwards, so it all works out," he shrugs.
"Ew, I get braces?" Baby Mitchell wrinkles his nose. It's not adorable, shouldn't be anymore at his age, but it is what it is. His Maverick nods along, clearly not so keen on braces himself.
"We all do," even the camo gear Maverick chimes in. "It's all good with the ladies, but at some point it becomes a professionalism issue..."
"Which Admiral got on your ass for that?" Old Maverick snorts.
"Jameson," he shrugs.
"Ah, it was Johnson for me," he laughs, his hands wet with soap suds. Ice carefully doesn't look at his muscled forearms, the bomber jacket abandoned and draped over the couch.
"Christ, it's like all you do in the next thirty years is piss off admirals, Mitchell. You got a list hidden somewhere?" Ice can't help but chuckle.
"No, but it's not too early to make one," his Maverick grins boyishly.
"That's not an idea, do not do that."
"I'll help you with the first draft- ow!"
The next day they weather breakfast alright; turns out all the Mavericks agree that scrambled is the best way to eat eggs. Ice shrugs and whips up an extra large pan of eggs- turns out he needed two pans to feed the lot of them. They blow through half a loaf of bread quickly, and Ice checks quickly that he's got yeast and flour in the pantry. He'll just have to make do; just mix it all together and let the dough rise by itself overnight. Easy enough.
"I can't believe all of you drink your coffee like that," Ice rolls his eyes, eyeing Maverick's pale white imitation of what real coffee's supposed to be.
"Hey don't knock it til you've tried it," His Maverick says, cupping one hand defensively over his mug.
"I have tried it. Multiple times," Ice wrinkles his nose. Who takes their coffee like that?
"Says the one who's gonna get a stomach ulcer from black jetfuel sludge," Maverick grumbles.
"He does not, in fact, get that stomach ulcer," sixty year old Maverick chimes in.
"You're my favorite Maverick," Ice says immediately, then feels like kicking himself because how did that get out past his brain mouth filter?
Instead of being offended, older Maverick only winks at him and grins around the rim of his coffee mug. Ice clears his throat and tries not to choke on his eggs. Maverick likes his eggs scrambled, his brain helpfully supplies. Unnecessary data, he tells himself and tries to tell himself his heart isn't beating too quickly for a casual breakfast chat.
"Hey, who's side are you on?" his Maverick glares. Get your own, he wants to grumble.
"My own, of course," they all say in unison. Must be a thing, Ice thinks with a snort. He's gonna need to get more milk, he thinks, mentally adding milk to the list of foods he'll have to replenish.
"Hey didn't we tell Carole we'd pick Bradley up from school today?" the now not-drunk Maverick recalls after breakfast. It's the military Maverick doing the washing up this time.
Ice saw the speed in which that Maverick shoveled down his pie the night before- as if his food's going to be taken away from him, or worse he'll be called out- and quietly slid him an extra helping of eggs on toast. He doesn't pick on that Maverick's choice of breakfast beverage; he's been on the receiving end of MRE freeze dried coffee. Instead, he pours him a cup of orange juice. With pulp- he could use the fiber.
He doesn't do anything but shrug when the man shoots him a grateful look. Even with just a day of home cooked food, he's beginning to look less gaunt, those cheekbones no longer jutting out so much.
God, who thought it was a good idea to put Maverick of all people on the front lines? Maverick's too good to be spared from the front lines, a part of Ice reasons, logical to the core.
That's why he looks like that, Ice snarls in his mind. Then get to the top, and get to it quick, he tells himself. Before this- whatever it is- happens.
"No, Carole specifically told us not to pick up Bradley," middle aged Maverick snorts. "What do you think he's going to do when he sees five of us?"
"I dunno- ask for piggy back rides?" the other Maverick says, his dress whites still miraculously unstained.
Older Maverick shakes his head and laughs. "Kid, he's gonna ask us to take him up. All five of us. Five times the promises."
"Oh shit, I forgot we promised him that- man Carole's gonna kill us," he groans and lays his head down on the table.
"Not if Goose gets to you first," Baby Maverick chimes in.
"No piggy back rides for you- you'd drop the kid," his Maverick says strictly. "You're not nearly built enough for that yet."
"Hey now no need to get old on me," the teenager crosses his arms. "I'm gonna get there one day."
"Sure you are, but that day ain't today." The Baby sticks out his tongue in reply.
"You're not stealing another F-14 and Goose's kid, Maverick. This time it won't be only a shotgun in your face," Ice snorts. He's sure Goose's missus can easily cook up something worse.
"What happened to Bradley anyways?" his Maverick muses. Then he thinks he wants to take back the question when the thought of Goose's death hits him like a looming specter.
"He grew up." Back to three word sentences, Ice notes. Something happened there.
Older Maverick glances at his counterpart, now dressed only in the inner layers of his camo gear.
"We... Had an argument."
The other one snorts. "That's one way to put it." Then, he sighs. "Carole died, that's what happened."
His Maverick's fork drops on his plate with a loud clang. "What?" he breathes.
"Breast cancer- summer of '94," he says, looking at each of them, quietly willing them to fix this. If the world's going to take away Bradley's father, damn if he's going to let them take his mother too.
"Shit," his Maverick gapes. "Where- where did he go? I deploy- I must have, so who's there to take care of Bradley?"
Ice knew there were very few things in life that Maverick treasured beyond all else, and Goose's kid was one of them. He nearly tackled a technician that one time when Goose took his kid to base and a technician yelled at the kid for getting too close to the planes.
"He grew up with Carole's parents, those miserable fucks," Camo Maverick sneers.
"Minor at the table," Ice says primly.
"Please, don't bother- that one's heard worse," sober Maverick snorts. The teenager doesn't disagree.
The oldest of them takes a deep breath though his nose, a soul draining sigh that ages him ten years in a blink of an eye. "Carole... On her death bed she made me promise to keep Bradley safe. She didn't want him to die young like Goose."
Understandable, Ice thinks with a frown. Unfair perhaps, to leave a conversation like that until the last possible moment, and to make Mav do it for her, but he can empathize on some degree.
"Okay, so...?" his Maverick says. "Just keep an eye on him. Get him to do something else."
"Fat chance of that, Kid," Camo Maverick snorts. "His first word was Ma, his second one wasn't Pa. It was plane, Kid."
Ice snorts and keeps that in his blackmail folder for a rainy day.
"True enough," his Maverick slumps. "But I mean- I'm sure I could at least keep an eye on him."
"In between a war and multiple depolyments?" Maverick raises an eyebrow.
"Carole didn't want him to fly at all," the middle aged one confesses. "I...-" he looks to his age-worn counterpart for support.
"You did so too, huh?" he signs and ruffles his hair, puts his head between his knees and steadies himself.
"What did you do?" Ice frowns.
"I pulled his application from the Naval Academy," Maverick confesses.
"Shit- no- you didn't!" his Maverick does a double take and a step back.
"I did. We did," deployed Maverick says, but his gaze wasn't on the older version of him. His gaze was on Ice. Fixed only on Ice with a resentment that burns down into his soul. The strength of it nearly knocks him back. He blinks, then it was gone. Merely an illusion he can't unsee.
What did he do in the future to deserve this, Ice thinks with an edge of hurt curling at the edges of his psyche. Did that multiverse's version of them crash and burn? He waits on baited breath but gets no answer.
"God- it was the worst mistake of my entire life," the teenaged version of him comes forward, lays his head on the older one's lap when he notices his counterpart shake and tremble. "Bradley- he- he kicked me out of his life. For fifteen years."
Jesus, Ice thinks and closes his eyes. That would do it. That would break Maverick; he loves that child with all his heart; anyone with eyes can see that.
"That long, huh," the other one sighs. "At least you get him back," he grimacing.
"Don't do this to yourself," Maverick warns himself, seeing a future unknown to anyone but him.
"Yeah well, what else am I supposed to do?" the one on the floor snorts. His dogtags jangles when he shakes his head. "What else can I do?"
"Stop taking those missions," he insists. "It's going to wreck you."
"You should know that I'm already wrecked enough. A little more won't hurt. And someone needs to run those missions- someone who's going to come home from them," he says, picking up his head from between his knees and looking Maverick straight in the eyes, dead-eyed.
He's running suicide missions, Ice realizes with a chill down his spine. He's doing it on purpose. Where was he in the middle of all this? Where was Thomas Kazansky?
"I'll live," the other one snorts and looks away. "I'll live," he says quietly and doesn't fight the hug Ice's Maverick gives him.
There's a difference between being alive and living, Ice thinks quietly to himself. And he has to want both, not just one or the other.
The cuddle pile- dogpile- of Mavericks don't get up from the floor until well past noon, and Ice makes himself scare. Even he can get a clue sometimes.
"The future not what you think it is?" The oldest one says, apparently having extricated himself from the center of the puppy pile.
"Where the fuck was I?" Ice asks, his frustration bubbling forth and spilling over. "You can't tell me that I didn't try to do something about this- I know myself. I wouldn't have just let all this- a war, Bradley- I wouldn't have let all this just lie." I'm your wingman, he thinks. To death and beyond.
Maverick sighs and his eyes turn fond. "You were there, even when I didn't want you to be. Even when you had no business to be. You were always more nosy than people give you credit for."
"I wouldn't have to be if you'd just tell me about these things," he says, frustrated.
That Maverick laughs. "You say that every time," he shakes his head. "Every time something happens and you call me and bail me right out."
He's still got Maverick's back, he thinks. Good, he reassures himself. That's good.
"You've got to excuse the other one," Maverick says. He doesn't have to elaborate on which one- they both know. "He's... In a rough patch with his Ice."
There's a part of him that doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to face the possibility- the what ifs and could haves in his mind.
"What did I do?" Ice asks, resigned and already sad for something that hasn't happened.
Maverick blinks at him. "Nothing- you didn't do anything. Look- I'll get my head out of my ass in a year or two."
"Mitchell," Ice says, unimpressed. One key doesn't make a sound- it takes two to argue.
"You didn't do anything you shouldn't have," Maverick says. "I understand that now, even if I didn't at his age. You can't solve the world's problems, Ice. You can't protect everyone," he smiles sadly.
I'll solve yours first, Ice thinks. Pick them apart at the seams and unravel them until there's no more hangups between the two of us. The world can wait- especially when it decides to fuck up phenomenally like this. I'll protect you even if I have to let the world burn, he wants to say. The words choke him, and he says nothing.
"Are you willing to take that leap, Iceman?" his Maverick breaks his musing. He stares at him with so much warmth and love in his eyes, it takes Ice's breath away. There's one version of him that gets to have this, he thinks. That's enough, he thinks. That's enough for him, he grasps desperately at the straws. Even if he himself can't, somewhere there's another Thomas Kazansky who gets this. It's enough.
"I don't know what you mean," he swallows and looks away. He knows exactly what the man means. Suddenly he feels young, too young. Like he was back in high school again, nervously trying to tell his father that he would like to join the military and awaiting his approval.
"He's worth it, you know," Maverick says softly, fondly. "He still has some growing up to do- that won't change. But he won't leave you."
Ice wants to ask him if he's sure, wants to ask him if he's seen himself in the mirror, but his gaze catches on the gold ring over the ring finger of Maverick's hand.
"Do I leave then?" he asks, nodding pointedly at the jewelry.
Maverick twists the ring on his finger, no guilt in his posture, no regrets. "No, you don't leave either. Not until death does us apart."
He leans down for a hug, and Ice- frozen to the spot- doesn't push him away. He smells the same, all jet fuel and a hint of sandalwood, of the leather and metal of his bike. He feels the same, solid and warm against his shoulder, his head only reaching up to rest on his collarbone. He can't fathom a world like his, even more than a multiverse, where he gets to have this. Gets to keep Maverick and declare him as his own, openly and proudly.
He can't imagine but he also can't keep the hope from blooming in his heart.
"Hey old man, what's the coolest thing you've done?" his Maverick says one day after dinner, making a face at the vodka on rocks that Ice poured for him.
"You're drinking paint thinner straight from the bottle... Pour me sone more," dress uniform Maverick comments but shamelessly holds out his cup for more. Ice rolls his eyes and pours him a measure. Everyone seems to have opinions on his alcohol.
Sixty year old Maverick scowls at being called old- rolls his eyes- and leans back against the counter. He swirls his drink- apparently too used to Ice's tastes to bother commenting on the vodka by now. "Anything worth telling is classified, you know that," he says pointedly.
"Aw, come on! It's not classified if it doesn't even exist yet," his Maverick insists.
The older one pauses, runs that statement through his brain, and shares a look with the Afghanistan Maverick.
"He's not wrong," that Maverick says. He smacks the teenage Maverick's hand when he makes an aborted attempt to steal his cup of vodka. Instead, he sets the carton of orange juice in front of his face. The kid pouts.
"Well," that Maverick sighs deeply and thinks. "If you've got to make me pick..." He quirks a smile fondly, his eyes lighting up with excitement. It's a good look on him, Ice thinks. He'd like to bottle it up and put it in the fridge. Possibly sell it and make himself rich. "It'd be the Darkstar project."
"Darkstar?" his Maverick blinks. "Sounds cool."
"It's a scramjet- a stealth aircraft designed to go so fast that it's undetectable," Maverick shrugs. "I was the test pilot for it."
"Interesting," Ice hums. "How fast did they let you go?"
"Let me go?" Maverick repeats. "They didn't let me go anywhere... They wanted me to get to Mach 10. That's the contract agreement."
Mach 10? Ice darn near drops his glass.
"What? No way! Tell me you didn't actually go Mach 10!" his Maverick jumps up. Ice can practically see his respect for his older counterpart skyrocket.
"Nah, I went Mach 10.4," Maverick grins. For once Ice sees how the two of them are the same person, how one turns into the other. They're practically one and the same even so far into the future, Ice rolls his eyes.
"10.4 is an odd number to stop; did you eject?" Astute- as active duty demands.
"Yeah, I ejected. The plane got totaled, but I almost gave Admiral Cain a stroke with how pissed off he got that I actually made it to Mach 10," Maverick snickers. "Totally worth it."
Ice shakes his head and can't help but smile the slightest bit. God, this man. What will the world do without him? (What will he do without him?)
(Shame Admiral Cain didn't actually keel over though- even Ice has heard about that one.)
"The Navy didn't kick you out for that?" Ice asks. He knows it's an undefined amount of time since the ejection, but still he can't help but look the older Maverick up and down, making sure that he's not visibly injured, not limping or burnt or missing a limb anywhere. He should be a bloody puff of dust, ejecting at that speed, Ice thinks. It's nothing short of a miracle that he's alive. But then again, he has a feeling that even Death himself doesn't want to deal with Maverick for all eternity.
"Nah, Ice- well, you in thirty years- bails me out. Ass put me on a suicide mission and sent me back to Top Gun to teach it. Please, as if I'm the teaching type," he shakes his head.
"He did what?" Ice says flatly, cold anger lighting up his nerves from his back all the way down. No way. He wouldn't do that- he can't.
"Yeah, I know right- I can't teach worth shit," Maverick rolls his eyes, still not quite understanding Ice's fury.
"No, not that. You teach just fine. Your Ice sent you on a suicide mission?" Ice reiterates. He shares a bewildered gaze with his Maverick.
"Damn, Ice. I didn't know you wanted me to die that bad," his Maverick jokes.
"Fuck, Maverick, don't joke about shit like this," Ice's lips press thin. "Of course I don't want you to die- are you crazy?"
"Ah, he does that... A lot," the two oldest Mavericks share a glance. Then, they shrug in unison; it's creepy that they're so in sync if they're not the same person, Ice thinks.
"No one else manages to come back alive. I'm the only one Ice trusts to fly it short of himself, and even the President himself can't pry him away from desk work."
Nevermind that Maverick is apparently on speaking terms with the freaking President- there goes the United States- but his future self dies from a life at desk work, Ice thinks, closing his eyes. It's nothing out of his calculations; the brass are too important to be spared to the frontlines, but to think it's Maverick who takes his place out there...
His plans ten years back didn't have Pete Mitchell in them.
"No seriously, it's alright" the oldest Maverick tries to tell him. "You can't wrap me- well, him- in wool and keep me tied to a desk forever. You know that's the real way I'd die. And with flight hours and combat experience like mine, there really isn't anyone else who would be able to do the things I can."
"It's not alright, Mitchell. None of this is even remotely close to alright." Ice says and closes his eyes.
"Ice, breathe," his Maverick says by his side. "I trust you."
God, this man trusts him with his life, he doesn't deserve even a fraction of it. He doesn't want to admit he's scared- the fear of signing someone's death warrant with a flick of his wrist. Who does he send out to die in the future? Slider? Wolf? Wood?
His thoughts shatter when he feels a warmth slide against his back, warm puffs of breath against his ear.
"Hey, it's okay, Ice. It's okay. It'll be okay. I'm here," his Maverick whispers to him, his words a prayer in Ice's mind. Ice leans back and closes his eyes, just lets his panic melt away. He's not sure what the Mavericks got up to- what they discuss between themselves in the times between meals- but since the arrival of the others, his Maverick has been... Weird. Clingy. Affectionate, almost. Warm, less prickly around the edges.
And his cigarettes have gone missing. All of them. He doesn't want to ask, but he also doesn't buy any more.
He's not complaining, odd as the change is. It's not unwelcome, and he'll have Maverick for however long he can (waiting on baited breath when the rug will be pulled from his under his feet, and he'll be right where he started, his ten year life plan with a Maverick-shaped hole in it).
The other Mavericks only look on, completely comfortable and relaxed; in the case of party Maverick, there's a flash of heat and lust written openly on his face. He looks about ready to pounce, Ice thinks. Good thing he sleeps downstairs in the guest room with the teenager, he thinks. Would it be too much for him to lock his door?
The teenager looks on, envious and curious in equal measures. He makes another swipe at Ice's alcohol.
"No," he says pointedly. "No alcohol at the table for minors."
"Awww, c'mon," Pete whines.
Test pilot Maverick chuckles and shakes his head. "Some things never change. No matter- everything worked out in the end, and I got to meet Rooster's- that's Bradley- friends."
"Really? What's his friends like?" his Maverick raises an eyebrow from where he's still draped over Ice's back like the world's heaviest housecat.
"Well... There's this one called Hangman, and let me tell you- you'd either get along with him like a house on fire or the two of you would end up blowing up the base. He's just like me when I was younger." Maverick chuckles.
Oh god, another one, Ice thinks with trepidation.
By ten pm- the young one's bed time- Ice has had to remind them more than half a dozen times that kidnapping is a crime, and the lot of them are four year old toddlers currently. The Navy isn't going to raise a bunch of four year olds to be pilots.
"Mitchell, you ended up adopting all of them, didn't you?" Ice asks after he's shooed the last of them to bed.
"I plead the fifth."
Ice sighs. Deeply.