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His last thought was that he wanted to replace the bulb in the lamp on the nightstand.
It had gone out three days earlier, when Maverick had been reading the F-18 NATOPS to him before bed. They both knew it all by heart already, but Ice had settled back into the mountain of pillows Maverick had propped on his side of the bed. He complained that he was practically sitting up and that he'd never fall asleep, but Maverick hadn't listened.
He never listened to Ice, these days.
The bulb had flickered twice, and then all at once they'd been plunged into cold blue darkness, and Maverick had adamantly tossed the manual onto the nightstand. He wriggled into Ice's side, his warmth a welcome reprieve from the cold of the room. Ice was always cold these days, no matter what the thermostat was, but he could count on Maverick, who was practically a human furnace.
They hadn't touched it since, but now Ice was awake and acutely aware of the dead bulb. He kept on turning it over in his mind, one hazy train of thought circling back around. He felt like he was grasping at straws. The bulb needed to be replaced. There were spare ones in the closet in the hallway. Connecting those two ideas seemed to take forever.
He knew what was happening. He'd felt it before. In the cockpit, a long, long time ago, it used to be a familiar feeling, a ghost at his side. In the kitchen, more than half a decade ago. Had it been that long? It wasn't the kitchen in this house. It was at…it was in Hawaii, he thought. He couldn't remember.
He'd been reaching for a dish towel. He'd been wishing for Maverick. He'd been fumbling for his phone, sliding across the linoleum. It hurt, but he'd felt it, all the same.
And in the hospital, a week ago. That had really hurt. All he could remember was the static, blinding white ache encompassing every muscle in his body.
How could this be? Forty years ago, he'd been standing in a bar knocking back vodka. Girls flocked his side, but he couldn't keep his eyes off the man who had to be a whole head shorter than him. The man with piercing green eyes and that cocky, charming smile.
You can be my wingman anytime.
Bullshit, you can be mine.
Strange wedding vows, but vows all the same. You'll have my back, and I'll have yours.
Forty years ago, he'd been young and eager and yet he'd already felt so old. Maverick was three years his junior, and he'd already seen more MiGs than Ice could dream of. It shouldn't have been a competition, but it was. Everything was a competition between them.
He smiled, and even the simple movement made him cough. His lungs rattled, and he listened to them in the silence of the house. He knew what was happening, alright.
Maverick had urged him to stay at the hospital, but Ice didn't like it there anymore. He hadn't liked it for forty years, since he'd walked in to find Maverick sitting on a cot, curled in on himself and sobbing. He didn't know how Maverick felt about it. He'd never asked.
He should have asked, probably. He wished he'd asked. It didn't much matter, because Ice was still a higher rank than him. He didn't use that against Maverick often. Only when he meant it.
And he meant it, right now. Because he would not let it happen alone in a hospital, surrounded by flashing lights and beeping monitors.
He coughed again. Maverick shifted a little next to him. He had one of Ice's cold hands clasped in both his own. Ice tried to smile again, but he couldn't quite do it.
Maverick hadn't been very happy with him, and Ice supposed he deserved it. But there was nothing he could do. He had felt it coming on for a long time. He was sorry. He wanted Maverick to understand. And maybe he did. Maybe that was why he was angry.
Three nights ago, he'd propped that huge stack of pillows up by the headboard while Ice sat on the edge of the bed patiently. To his credit, he hadn't complained until he was situated and realized how much it really was like sitting up.
Maverick had scoffed at him, which wasn't a thing he did very much anymore. Ice enjoyed it. It always worried him, when Maverick stopped with the little quips and exasperated looks. It reminded him how serious this was.
God, but they'd done this once before. Ice wanted it to be over.
He was almost glad, but he couldn't be. Because the man forty years ago wouldn't have been. He would have been terrified to death. He would have done anything to save himself. Maybe he would have even gone to the hospital. Maybe, fuck but maybe, he would have quit smoking.
Probably not.
They'd gotten married at the courthouse the day Ice was declared cancer-free. Maverick had decided it in the car, and he'd still been crying then. He hadn't stopped crying the entire appointment, but Ice couldn't bring himself to tell him to quit it. So he'd ignored Maverick, because if he didn't, he would surely start crying, too.
Ice had wiped away his tears with his knuckles. The skin stretched thin over the bone there. His fingers were a lot thinner, too. Okay, he'd said. Okay, we'll do it. He wanted to do it. He'd never wanted to before. Even after it was legalized, it had crossed his mind only a handful of times. Life got in the way. Work got in the way. Maverick was still a pilot. He wasn't husband material. But neither was Ice. They got married anyway.
And it was all okay for a little while. For Maverick, it was okay.
Ice knew better.
He turned onto his side, which Maverick had specifically instructed him not to do. He pressed his nose into the crook of Maverick's neck. He smelled the same way he had in the eighties, sweat and jet fuel and flowery laundry detergent. They still made the same stuff, and Maverick still bought it.
He'd teased him about it for years, but now he realized he'd never smell it again, so he breathed and breathed until he started to cough again.
Please wake up, he thought. Please, I don't want to ask you.
Maverick stirred. His fingers tightened on Ice's, but he was still asleep. Ice kissed the side of his neck. He was sorry. He wanted to go, and he was sorry for that. But maybe Maverick would understand.
Ice pulled away, shuffling around in the pillows. He reached into the drawer on the nightstand and found a yellow legal pad and a pen. He couldn't see much but for a crack in the curtains. He gripped the pen with a little more force than necessary. It kept wanting to slip out of his hands.
He should have asked Bradley to come. He should have quit smoking. He should have done a lot of things.
He could only put the tip of the pen to paper and write four words.
I love you, Pete.
In the dark, it took a long time. His writing was no longer the flowing, respectable script that Maverick mocked him for. It looked like the pen of an old man. He hoped it made sense. He wasn't really sure what he was doing.
He'd always thought it would happen fast, like Goose, like the handful of pilots he'd lost at his wing in combat. Four in total. Goose made five. A whole handful, literally. A handful of gravestones, just for him. This was slow, but much too fast. All wrapped into one.
He put the pad on the nightstand, where Maverick would see it in the morning. Set the pen on top of it. His head was beginning to feel fuzzy from concentrating.
The pen rolled back and forth and Ice tracked its motion in the dark. Then he lied back down on his back. He slotted his hand in between Maverick's, trying his best to twine their fingers back together.
I love you, he thought. I want to tell you I love you. I haven't said that enough to you, and I want to say it again. I want you to know it.
Maverick was warm, and he was oh so cold. Ice pressed closer to him. The notches of his spine pressed against his arm through their clothes.
He needs to eat, he thought. He's so skinny.
Funny, Maverick had said the same to him years ago. So long. If he was telling the truth, he hadn't believed he could make it this far. Maverick told him he was a fighter, but Maverick was the real fighter. He hadn't let himself be shoved behind a desk.
Ice looked up at the ceiling. The shadows seemed to dance above his head. It was okay. He had done good. He had fought just as hard, even if the wounds didn't show on his skin.
I love you, he thought. He closed his eyes. He wanted Maverick to retire. He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to walk to the closet, feet near silent on the soft carpet. He'd spilled orange juice on it once and scrubbed the stain out for hours. There was still a faint orange blob right in between the closet and the bathroom. Maverick didn't know. He'd never noticed.
Ice wanted to tell him. He wanted to open the closet door and reach for the box of spare bulbs. He wanted to laugh at the orange spill and he wanted Maverick to offer to spill some motor oil on it to cover it up. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to keep holding Maverick's hand forever.
He wanted to replace the bulb in the lamp on the nightstand.