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The Navy doesn’t give a good goddamn that Maverick and Iceman are raising a child together.
Well, more accurately, the Navy doesn’t know that Ice is involved at all, and they’ll continue not to know as long as Ice has anything to say about it. The Navy doesn’t give a damn in the same sense that they don’t give a damn about any service member who’s also a parent. When the Navy tells you to do something, you do it, preferably yesterday, even if it means you’re scrambling to find someone to care for your kid.
Ice and Mav get lucky. They’re working together when Mav gets custody of Bradley, and then their deployments are so staggered that at least one of them is home with Bradley at all times.
This luck runs out when Brad’s 11. Ice is in his final month of a six-month carrier deployment in the Pacific. It’s the longest he’s been away from Bradley since Bradley started calling him Dad. Ice is still focused, clear-headed in the air and stern on deck, but his chest aches a little more with each earnest letter from Bradley.
I made the 12U team! / Abby and I went to Disneyland for her birthday, I took a bunch of pictures of Tomorrowland for you / Can I learn to surf this summer? Mav said it was up to you.
Ice is getting changed after a shower when one of the younger guys pokes his head into the locker room. “Hey, Iceman,” Cyclone says. “We got a, uh, radio comm from Maverick for you?”
Ice keeps his what the fuck, Maverick entirely internal. “Is he still on the line?” he says cooly, unhurriedly buttoning his shirt. If Mav’s going to abuse the comms, Mav can wait. How the hell is he within range anyway?
“He passed the message to Captain Kerner, who radioed it on to us.”
Ice stops buttoning his shirt right before the last button. He turns slowly to look at Cyclone, who’s shifting a little anxiously from foot to foot. Cyclone freezes under Ice’s stare. “Why didn’t you lead with that? Spit out the message.”
Cyclone stands up straight and recites, “‘Shipping out Monday the 15th. Wolf and Wood watching the kid.’”
Ice squares his jaw and forces himself to stay upright, though all he wants to do is sag against his locker. The 15th - that means there’ll be a three-week period where neither of Bradley’s parents are home with him. How the hell do Wolf and Wood even have enough PTO to stay with him? Where is Mav getting deployed to? Of course he’s not divulging that information, OPSEC, Ice knows, but his brain is spitting out all the most dangerous locations for Maverick to be flying.
Cyclone clears his throat. He’s shuffling his feet again under the weight of Ice’s gaze. “Thanks for relaying the message,” Ice says. “Now get out of here.”
“Yes, sir!” Cyclone scrambles to obey. As soon as he’s clear of the room, Ice rests his head on the cold metal locker. He balls his hand into a fist and, as quietly as possible, punches his locker.
Wolf and Wood are great with Bradley. They probably won’t stay on top of Brad’s homework, but he’s such a smart kid that his grades shouldn’t suffer too much. Bradley’s responsible for his own baseball schedule - he even wrote it down in his latest letter to Ice - so he shouldn’t miss any games.
Bradley’s safe.
Ice presses down on all his festering terror and rage until it condenses into something cold. He stands up and fixes his last button. He gets to work.
#
The 15th comes and goes.
Ice doesn’t think about Mav dropping Bradley off at school before heading to the airport. He doesn’t think about Mav getting sent to Bosnia, or Iraq, or anywhere else he might rack up more air-to-air kills. Ice has told him time and again that he’s not allowed to do that shit without his wingman.
Ice doesn’t care that Mav can’t realistically keep that promise. He needs him to be safe. Bradley needs him to be safe.
The lieutenants notice a change in Ice. Ice can tell from the way they whisper behind his back. Their consensus is that they must have collectively fucked up for The Iceman to suddenly be so exacting. Ice can’t tolerate any lazy flying on patrols. He demands perfection. These young bucks know better.
On the 30th, a week before their deployment ends, Ice gets sent up with Cyclone for a routine patrol. Cyclone’s uncharacteristically quiet on Ice’s wing. He usually has at least one question to ask Ice, sometimes a complicated one that requires more thought than Ice is willing to use in the air and sometimes one that Cyclone could answer himself by revisiting NATOPS. Ice knows it’s Cyclone’s nerves, that Cyclone hero-worships him, and he hopes the man will grow out of it by the next time they come across each other.
But Cyclone’s quiet today, only communicating as needed. Ice wonders if he’s sensed that Ice needs the silence. He hopes not. He doesn’t need these nosy lieutenants to pick up on any of his inner workings.
They’re almost back to the carrier when Ice catches a flash of feathers. “Bird strike,” Cyclone yells through the comms, but Ice already fucking knows because the damn thing blows his right engine.
“I’m hit,” Ice says, clear and sharp. He hauls the plane up. “Climbing - shutting off fuel to the right engine. Cyclone, continue course.”
“Sir -”
“Get the hell out of my way,” Ice snaps. Sweat makes his vision blurry. “I’m not taking you down with me. Extinguishing fire,” he says, flipping the switch, but the lead in his stomach knows it’s not going to matter. He can already feel the hydraulics going out. He rises a little more and catches a glimpse of the sun, orange against faint gray clouds.
“Sir, you’re still on fire,” Cyclone’s panicked voice says.
Ice’s nose starts to dip. The ocean glitters in the sun.
Altitude.
“Get back to the carrier,” Ice orders. The plane drops sharply. The bottom falls out of his stomach.
Ice has never been in freefall like this. He’s never had to eject before. That’s Maverick’s job, he jokes whenever they’re flying on each other’s wings.
He can’t eject yet. If he ejects too soon, the brass will say Ice didn’t do enough to salvage the plane. He’ll never fly again.
He tries to extinguish the fire again. The plane’s metal groans. Altitude. Left engine fire. Ice flips the switch to extinguish the left engine, but the switch jams. Ice slams his fist into it. He can hear the rush of smoke behind him. The plane shakes as the engines sputter.
Altitude. Altitude. Ice’s stomach is in his throat. He fruitlessly tries to haul the plane up. The hydraulics go out completely.
“I can’t save it,” Ice tells Cyclone. The ocean looms in front of him, deep blue and fathomless. “Ejecting - ”
Ice yanks on the loops. The canopy pops open, and Ice is launched into the sky. Air rushes past him. He lurches up as his parachute deploys. His plane screeches into the water. The waves that splash up from it remind him of a tsunami, enormous and inescapable.
I couldn’t save it, Ice is already reciting as he coasts down to the water. Bird strike, unavoidable, both engines on fire, hydraulics failed.
The water’s shockingly cold when Ice lands in it. He floats, coughing saltwater, breathing hard.
Cyclone should be back at the carrier by now. There’ll be a rescue helicopter soon.
Goose floated in water like this, limp and lifeless, face streaked with blood. Mav swam out to him and turned him onto his back. Goose should have spit out water the way Ice is doing. He should have made some kind of dumb joke that would have made Ice roll his eyes when Maverick repeated it to him later.
Mav’s going to kill Ice when he finds out.
Birds spiral above Ice. If he were Maverick, he might flip them off. Instead, all Ice can think about is Bradley’s school picture pinned to his cockpit. Every time he flew, Ice would tap Bradley’s grinning face for luck.
Ice’s head could have hit the canopy.
Ice’s seat could have gotten stuck.
Cyclone could have chosen not to listen and been right in Ice’s path. Ice might have crashed into him, tearing through his wings, sending them both spiraling into the water in a ball of flame and smoke.
Goose’s broken neck severed his spinal cord.
When the rescue helicopter finds Ice, he’s shaking. The medic on board tells him it’s normal - adrenaline, she says. His pupils are normal, his heart rate is elevated but not unsafe - you got lucky, she says.
Ice’s commander repeats the sentiment - you got lucky, he says gruffly as he takes down Ice’s report. Ice relays all the facts with no extra dressing. He keeps his hands folded behind his back so his commander can’t glimpse the tremor in them.
“I got lucky,” Ice says calmly when Cyclone creeps over to him after dinner. Medical’s released Ice to his bunk, though they’ve told all the other guys to keep an eye on him for signs of concussion. “Good work following orders. It could have been a lot worse.”
Cyclone nods. He swallows. “I’m glad it wasn’t, sir,” he says lowly.
“Call me Ice.”
“Okay.”
They sit in silence for a while. Maybe Cyclone’s replaying the patrol in his head, trying to solve the equation in such a way that Ice’s plane never goes down. Ice gets that. He’s worked on the unsolvable problem of Goose for years.
“At least we’ve only got a week left until we’re done here,” Cyclone offers. “So you don’t have to worry about being grounded.”
A week. Bradley has one more week without Ice or Mav. It could have been infinitely longer.
“Good point,” Ice says. “Hey, go steal some of Cajun’s candy for us. We deserve something sweet after that bullshit.”
#
Ice’s chest is pretty well mottled with bruises, and his neck aches for a day or two, but all things considered he’s fine. He isn’t technically allowed to do any work, but there’s so much that needs to be done to prepare the carrier for the end of this deployment that Ice is able to help without being told off for it. He organizes his commander’s paperwork and finds that he doesn’t mind it. He mans the radio for a while and wishes Slider’s voice would come on the line. The other guys discover that Ice can magically fit just about anything into a duffel, so he spends hours rolling shirts.
A few years ago, Ice would have thought all of this was below him. He doesn’t give a damn right now. He needs to do something, anything, or else he’ll be in the air again, glimpsing the sun’s glory before plummeting down.
He arrives back in San Diego on the 7th. He’s aching, exhausted, and starving; he wants to inhale two burgers from Hodad’s and lie flat on his face in bed for at least 18 hours. He wants to shower with real water pressure. He wants to check the mail for letters from Mav.
Ice knows Bradley’s baseball schedule by heart. It’s 4:45 right now. He won’t make it to the field by 5, but the game will go on for a while.
He pulls up at the field at 5:15. He’s still in his khakis. Ordinarily, Ice doesn’t like to wear his uniform into civilian situations, at least not when it’s wrinkled from a full day of travel. But he’s not wasting time changing, not when he can hear the crack of a bat and cheers from inside his car. He straightens himself up the best he can and walks for the stands.
Wolf and Wood are in the front row, predictably, just behind home base. Ice picks his way past siblings fighting over hot dogs and parents hollering their kids’ names. “Who’s winning?” he asks when he’s directly behind Wolf and Wood.
Wood lets out a string of expletives that make the mother behind him scowl. Wolf hauls Ice off his feet in a bone-crushing hug. Ice grits his teeth and makes himself hug back instead of wincing.
“Did he behave?” Ice asks once Wolf lets him stand on his own two feet.
Wolf waves a hand. Wood rolls his eyes. “Of course he did,” Wolf says. “Mostly,” Wood adds.
Ice nods. Everyone thinks their kids are good, of course, but Ice knows it. He’s got a million more specific questions for Wolf and Wood, starting with “where the hell is Maverick” and ending with “how much homework did you convince Bradley to do, exactly,” but he’s cut off by the sight of Bradley stepping up to bat.
He’s grown at least three inches since Ice left six months ago. He’s all gangly now, and his hands and feet are huge, puppyish, in a way that proves to Ice that Brad will be at least as tall as Goose was when he’s done growing. His white pants are already streaked with sandy dirt. He adjusts his grip on his bat. He’s absolutely focused on the pitcher. He doesn’t even turn when Wolf and Wood cheer.
Ice keeps his mouth shut. Like hell will he break Bradley’s concentration.
The pitcher throws a curveball. Strike one. “You got it, Brad,” Wolf calls. Bradley adjusts his stance.
Strike two. “It’s okay, buddy,” Wood says. Bradley squares his shoulders.
You got it, Ice thinks. Come on. Keep that bat up. Eye on the ball. Don’t bug out.
The pitcher winds up. Bradley swings.
His bat makes contact with an audible crack. Bradley flings his bat aside and runs full-out to first. The ball soars across the field.
“Keep going,” Ice yells. He cups his hands around his mouth to project his voice. “It’s going all the way, keep going, Brad, you got it!” Bradley stumbles, and Ice thinks he’s screwed him up, but then he’s running even faster, legs pumping as he flies past second. The ball’s over the fence. Wolf and Wood are cheering so loud that Ice can’t hear himself as he yells, but he can feel the words in his throat and chest: “Let’s go, Brad, you got it! All the way home, let’s go, let’s go!”
Bradley slides into home, all style. His helmet flies off his head. He scrambles to his feet and keeps running. His coach is yelling after him, baffled, but Ice knows where Brad’s going. He meets him at the entrance to the dugout.
Bradley launches into his arms. He clings to Ice, face buried in his neck. His whole body shakes.
Ice is painfully aware that all eyes are on them. He holds Bradley tight and safe, but he doesn’t rub his back. He doesn’t kiss his ruffled, sweaty hair. He’s not Bradley’s dad in public; he’s his uncle.
“You’re killing it out there,” Ice says in lieu of everything he really wants to say. He extracts himself from Bradley’s hold and sets him on his feet. He shakes him gently by the shoulder. “Go win your game.”
Bradley scuffs a hand under his eyes. It doesn’t do anything for the tears that keep coming. He nods sharply, though, and runs back onto the field.
“I love homecomings,” one parent in the stands says to another. Ice ignores them. He goes back to Wolf and Wood. Wood squeezes his shoulder. Wolf passes him a Coke.
Bradley isn’t as skilled in the outfield as he is at bat - they’ll have to practice fielding balls, Ice notes to himself when Bradley fumbles it. Still, he’s a solid player, obviously committed to the game, and more importantly he doesn’t let Ice distract him. He’ll glance at him occasionally, eyes wide and wondering, but that’s it. He gets in two more good hits before the end of the game.
Bradley’s team wins (of course, Ice thinks proudly). As soon as Bradley’s told the other team “good game,” he’s sprinting over to Ice again. He hugs him with one arm; sure, in part it’s because he’s holding his bat, ball, and glove, but Ice knows Bradley’s also picked up on the unspoken message that he needs to be circumspect in public.
“Attaboy, Bradley,” Wolf says, ruffling Bradley’s hair.
Bradley grins. His cheeks are pink from exertion and sunburn. “This means ice cream for dinner, right?”
Ice casts a sidelong look at Wolf and Wood. They both shrug at him. “Ice cream with dinner,” Ice corrects. Bradley groans. “Maybe you can survive on sugar alone, but I need protein and carbs before I hit the deck.”
“Heard,” Bradley sighs. “In-N-Out?”
Bradley vibrates with tension the whole way to the car. He climbs in shotgun and tosses his baseball stuff in the backseat. The moment Ice closes his door, Bradley says, “Dad?”
Ice hauls Bradley into his arms. He can’t find words for the emotions choking him, but he hopes Bradley knows, somehow. He kisses Bradley’s sweaty forehead. “Hey, kiddo,” he manages.
“Hi Dad,” Bradley says thickly. “I missed you a lot.” He smells like dirt and grass and sweat. His voice is a little raspy, as if it’s right on the cusp of starting to change. He’s here. Ice is here.
Ice clears his throat. He pulls back and wipes his face. Bradley cleans his nose with his sleeve. “So what’s the word on Mav?” he asks as he eases the car onto the road.
“I don’t know.” Bradley’s voice is mostly even, but Ice can see him fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. “I think he’s somewhere that gets cold at night. He said something about wearing thicker socks.”
Ice’s stomach turns. “Cold at night” could indeed mean Bosnia. Iraq seems less likely, though Ice can’t be sure. “How long?”
Bradley picks at his fraying shoelaces. “Six months like you.”
Ice’s jaw clenches. He fishes a piece of gum out of his pocket and chews it so he doesn’t grind his teeth. So it’ll be almost a full year before he sees Mav again. A full year of turbulence for Bradley. And if Ice gets deployed to a carrier again -
A plan begins to form in Ice’s mind. A path to the top, still, but one with fewer ejections. He’ll have to do some research, talk to some of the older guys - Viper comes to mind. He’ll have to move carefully. But maybe…it’s worth a shot.
At a red light, Ice reaches over and gently squeezes the back of Bradley’s neck. He ruffles his hair. He refuses to accept a version of his own story where he’s not here, driving his baseball star son to eat some greasy burgers after a good game.
“There’s my boy,” he says. Bradley ducks his head and sticks out his tongue. His nose crinkles up when he laughs.