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Sometimes, Goose had trouble remembering what life before Maverick was like. They’d both been outcasts when they’d met, both screw ups in a different way. Maybe the person who’d paired them up had thought that they’d straighten each other out, that Goose’s professionalism would rub off on Maverick and Maverick’s competence would rub off on Goose.
It had worked that way, to an extent. Maverick was serious about flying, always on time, always prepared, every detail seen to, and he demanded the same of everyone he flew with. And Goose, he didn’t like getting yelled at, and he could almost make Maverick feel guilty about it sometimes. But they’d also gelled in the worst way, Maverick’s sense of mischief perfectly matching Goose’s own, Goose’s attention only encouraging Maverick’s wild streak.
If anything, that streak only seemed to worsen as time went on. The more experience Maverick accumulated, the more trust he earned among his peers, the more he chafed against it. Goose wasn’t a fool, he knew that it had something to do with Maverick’s father, even if he didn’t like to talk about it, something to do with his mother, even though he hardly mentioned her, and maybe something to do with his attraction to other men, even though they’d never breathed a word about it between them.
Sometimes, guys would ask Goose why he still flew with Maverick, like Maverick was somehow dragging him down, like it was any kind of choice for him. By then they’d become a team, not just in the air, but in life. He had Carole and then Bradley at home and he had Maverick the rest of the time, his pilot, his best friend, his perfect complement. Even when he was home, he still had Maverick more often than not.
Sure, Maverick picked up women in bars, dated when he could manage it, but he’d never been in a relationship that had lasted longer than a few weeks, not as long as Goose had known him, so it had been easy to bring Maverick home with him, whenever they got leave. Carole had been charmed by Maverick all too easily, so it had been easy to just keep on bringing him home.
When Bradley came along, Goose had thought it might change things. In his experience, guys could understand you having a wife, but they often got weird about you having a kid, especially when they were young and unattached the way Maverick was
But Maverick had just taken it in stride, learning to feed Bradley and clean him up and change his diapers, learning to soothe him when he was crying. He’d never protested, never suggested he stay somewhere else, not even when all Bradley did was cry and none of them were getting any sleep.
Whatever life threw at Goose, Maverick was there. He just seemed to fit. Maybe that’s why the Iceman thing threw him for a loop.
At first, Goose didn’t think a lot of it. Maverick seemed a bit stunned when he first laid eyes on Iceman, but even Goose could admit that Kazansky was attractive, the kind of guy that girls always seemed to flock to, and he figured that if Maverick wanted to look a bit, that was fine. He could run some interference, like he always did. It wasn’t until after, after they’d flown into combat and landed, after the rush of adrenaline and thrill of victory had faded, that he realized that that Iceman was looking back.
The thing was, while he wouldn’t have said that he and Iceman were close, Goose knew him. They’d been at the Academy together, and they’d been friendly, if not friends, and they’d run into each other here and there in the intervening years. In all that time, he’d never once even suspected this about Iceman. Iceman’s façade had never been anything short of perfect, and here he was, breaking it, for a guy he’d never met, but whose reputation he almost had to be familiar with.
Even then, it still didn’t occur to Goose that it might be a problem. Maverick mostly didn’t do anything more than look, and when he did sneak off with some guy who’d caught his eye, it was never on the boat, never another pilot, and never more than once with the same guy. And even if that was what he was doing with Iceman, those times when they were alone—well, Iceman was shipping out soon and who knew when they’d even be in the same place again.
But then Iceman turned up at Top Gun, when Goose could have sworn that Slider had said they were both going back to Lemoore, and Maverick didn’t even have the grace to look surprised. Goose cracked a joke about being the other woman, but it didn’t feel like a joke, not entirely. Not when it had always been the two of them, when he’d been the most important person in Maverick’s life almost from the day they’d met.
That was selfish. Goose knew that. He had his wife and he had Maverick, and Maverick didn’t have anyone of his own. And Maverick was chasing after Iceman like he meant it, more so than he had with any girl he’d ever gone after. Iceman was right there with him, flirting so aggressively, Goose wasn’t sure how every single other person in their vicinity didn’t realize it too.
So he told himself that he’d have to adjust. He told himself that it was always bound to happen. He and Maverick wouldn’t be paired together forever. They’d be on shore eventually, or Maverick would move to a plane with a single seat, or Goose would put in his papers and settle down to raise his kid. Maverick would fall in love, and all his time would be taken up by whatever woman he’d chosen—or whatever man, and they’d never talk about it, because it might be worth their careers to let it out into the open, and that would be the wedge that separated them.
But then Maverick did talk to him about it, like he talked to Goose about everything else that was serious—occasionally, late at night, soft and vulnerable and aching for all the things in life that had been denied to him. And Goose was relieved as much as he worried, to know that he still owned that part of Maverick, that maybe he always would, no matter who else came into Maverick’s life, no matter who Iceman became to him.
He was just getting used to it, the Maverick and Iceman show taking over his life, taking over their classes, taking over their hops, when the accident happened. Even then, Goose had thought it was like a summer fling – a mutual attraction, maybe some feelings on the side, but nothing that would last. He should have known better. He did know Tom Kazansky, had known him for years, before he’d become the Iceman. Maverick might be wild and impulsive, but Tom was not.
He should have known better, but he still hadn’t thought it was anything serious. Then Iceman showed up at the hospital, pale and shaking, the fear in his eyes too raw to hide. Then he took Maverick home for the night, stoic mask firmly back in place, and left him with his car the next day. Then he showed up for dinner at their housing assignment that night and pulled Maverick to his side and kissed his temple and Maverick honest-to-God blushed.
Goose couldn’t stop watching it, the lovesick way Maverick mooned around Iceman, the way Iceman did it back, teasing Maverick gently as Maverick watched him cook like he couldn’t think of anything better to do, giving Maverick sidelong glances like he wanted to touch him, like he would if they were alone together.
Maverick was happy, it was easy to see that. Despite the accident, despite everything, he was happy just to be close to Iceman. And Goose would’ve said that Iceman was happy too, relaxed and at ease, until he walked out of the kitchen and sat down in the armchair near Goose almost mechanically.
When Goose looked over, Iceman’s expression was hard and closed off. Goose straightened up in his seat. “Everything okay in the kitchen?” he asked.
“Fine,” Iceman said in a strangled tone. A faint tremor ran through his hands and he clenched them into fists.
Goose looked towards the kitchen, but you couldn’t see inside from where they were sitting. “You want me to get Mav for you?” he asked. He and Iceman, they’d talked a bit recently, Goose trying to make an effort to know better him if Maverick was going to be so invested, but this was beyond the bounds of their relationship.
Iceman shook his head, and Goose realized that Maverick was still in the kitchen, the place Iceman had just fled from. “No,” Ice said, looking away. “It’s—the accident. He’s messed up about it. I can’t tell him that I’m messed up about it, too.”
That was the moment, looking at the Iceman in profile – ice-cold, no mistakes persona nowhere to be seen – that he realized Ice was in deep for Maverick, that this thing between them cut straight to the bone. And Maverick was his best friend, his family, but Tom was his friend too, had been his friend first.
“You don’t have anyone to talk to?” Goose asked gently.
Iceman frowned hard at that and stared at the ground like it was his job. “I can’t. Nobody knows.” He cast a sideling glance at Nick and his lips curled into a wry grin. “Well, nobody but you, I guess.”
God, that made his heart hurt. He couldn’t even imagine leaving Maverick alone. He couldn’t imagine being alone. “Hey, Tom. I’m here for you too, you know.”
Ice nodded, but Goose had the feeling that he didn’t believe it, or at least not fully. And Goose wanted him to, wanted to be the kind of friend to Ice that Maverick was to Carole.
“It’s just… he could have died” Ice man started. He looked up at Goose finally, and his blue eyes were haunted. “And I knew that, you know? Hell, we almost died together the day we met.”
Goose didn’t think of his own feelings about when the plane went down, his own worries, for Maverick, for his wife, for his son. They all knew the risks. It didn’t change anything. “But you didn’t know him then. You didn’t love him then.”
Iceman just nodded again, like it wasn’t any kind of revelation to him, and Goose wondered if he’d told Maverick yet, if Maverick knew. The one thing he didn’t doubt for a second was that Maverick felt the same way, whether he’d realized it yet or not.
They both looked up at the sound of someone entering the room. Maverick. He’d paused, mid-step, his mouth open, as if to say something that didn’t come once he noticed the atmosphere in the room.
“Am I interrupting something?” Maverick asked.
Goose looked at Iceman. Iceman looked at Maverick. Iceman shook his head finally. “No, you’re good.”
Iceman didn’t reach out, didn’t make any sign that Goose could read, but Maverick crossed the room like he’d been called to, stood next to Iceman, and wrapped his arms around Iceman’s shoulder. Iceman leaned into him.
“Carole wanted to know what drinks everyone wanted,” Maverick said to the room at general, carefully not looking down at Iceman.
Iceman slowly breathed out and turned his face into Maverick’s side, into Maverick’s too big Navy tee that was probably Iceman’s and Maverick rubbed Ice’s shoulders. “Vodka on the rocks,” Ice mumbled. “Make it a triple.”
Maverick just laughed softly. “Sorry, beer is the best I can do for you.”
It was strange to see them like this, both of them. Maverick may have been after Iceman from the moment they met, but this—soft, unguarded, affectionate. Goose rarely saw Maverick like that towards anyone other than Carole and Bradley, and he didn’t think he’d ever even seen a hint that Iceman was capable of it.
It was so intimate that Goose wondered if he should make himself scarce, but then Bradley started crying, and the moment was broken for all of them.
That night, when everyone else was gone and it was just him and Maverick again, Maverick turned to him confessed that he felt like he was being torn apart, torn between Iceman and his career, and Goose figured Maverick must be right there with Iceman, because Goose knew exactly what that felt like. He knew when they left Top Gun, they’d both be leaving people they loved behind.
Goose wanted to hold Maverick close and protect him from that feeling and protect him from the world, the same way he wanted to protect his son from everything that could hurt him. But as much as it could hurt, it was also the best feeling, when his wife and kid were there, when Maverick was there, and he had everything in the world he cared about right in front of him. He wouldn’t deny Maverick that, even if he could, no matter how much it hurt to be in love sometimes. No matter that it would hurt Maverick more because of who he was in love with.
It had been a long time since Goose had flown with another pilot, but going up with Iceman the next week was an easy decision. It was exactly the type of mischief he and Maverick loved to get into, the kind they usually got into together, and Iceman had cleared the way for it. Iceman had arranged it entirely for Maverick’s benefit, entirely to indulge Maverick’s obsession with the Skyhawk and to make him smile.
That was enough of a surprise, coming from the Iceman, who would’ve had to go to Viper to get it done, straight faced and convincing, not a hint of what was in it for him. Then they got up in the air, and Ice suggested inverting. Goose was learning that while Iceman was laced up straighter than Maverick could ever hope to be, he also had a sense of fun and a hell of a poker face. He was learning that Iceman was someone he could be friends with, someone he’d want to be close to, if Maverick was.
Of course Maverick followed the script and dove. Of course Iceman dove after him, inverted. They deserved each other entirely. Goose was glad they had each other, as much as he worried.
Whatever understanding Maverick and Iceman came to after that, Maverick didn’t let on, and Iceman didn’t either, though they all spent some time together in the week before graduation, in the couple days after, before they shipped out, Goose and Carole and Bradley and Maverick and Iceman.
Goose wouldn’t have pegged Iceman as someone who’d be good with kids, either, and he didn’t coo over Bradley or anything like that, but he was surprisingly patient, sitting in the sand and building sand castles over and over again, pushing Bradley on the swing set, letting Bradley climb up into his lap so he could reach the table. Goose watched Maverick watch Iceman with his kid, and his heart hurt a bit over that too, even if he didn’t know if Maverick’s did, if that was something he’d want.
It was over all too soon, and they were shipping out. Carole saw them off, Bradley with the Metcalfs again, and Iceman came too, let Mav drive them all to the airport in his Camaro, but there was no tearful goodbye for Maverick, only grimly stoic faces and tight jaws. Goose figured whatever they had to say to each other, they’d done it already, and this was just a kind of torture they couldn’t quite say no to, this one last glance of the person they loved and would miss.
Maverick had never been much of a letter writer before. He’d never really had anyone to write to, Goose knew, except for notes to Carole sometimes that he’d enclose in Goose’s envelope, a few letters here and there if there was a girl he was trying to date, maybe a postcard to some old buddy that popped into his mind. This time, he took to writing to Iceman religiously and received responses just as regularly.
Goose knew that neither of them could really write anything in them. Maverick let him read a couple of the letters, newsy updates about Miramar and Top Gun, detailed takedowns of the current group of students, layered in language specifically meant for Maverick to appreciate, updates on Slider when he drove down from Lemoore to visit. Now and then, there was something Maverick wouldn’t show him, or wouldn’t explain if he did. Or something he would explain, and it would tear Goose’s heart open, how little they got to share.
He'd think of his letters to Carole, the little intimacies they put onto paper, the things she could write down just for him, that they’d never have to be afraid of anyone else reading, and then he’d think about how Maverick could never have that. It would have to be cloaked in other language, like a paragraph from Iceman about looking for a rental house off base with a throwaway line about maybe becoming roommates when Maverick got back to shore, answered with a note that Carole was looking for a house too, and an offer to pass on her phone number so they could get together and talk about it.
Maverick avoided talking about his plans for after their tour ended, even though both of them would have to make decisions before long. Goose knew, broadly, that Maverick would want to fly if he could, and that none of Maverick’s options there would include him. He’d reconciled himself to that, even if he had trouble imagining a life where Maverick wasn’t right by his side. Maverick knew that Goose wasn’t real particular about what he did, as long as he got to live with his family and see them every day while he did it.
Goose wasn’t sure if Maverick had put any thought into it, though, or if he was avoiding thinking about it as much as he was avoiding talking about it. Not until he found Maverick hiding in their stateroom during some free time after mail call about six weeks in. It was empty for once, and Maverick was sitting on his bunk, staring moodily at the one across from his, the one that Iceman had used in the week he’d spent aboard the Enterprise, that had been Cougar’s before that and had been assigned to the pilot who’d replaced him, one of Iceman’s letters clutched loosely in his hand.
Goose sat down on the bunk next to Maverick gingerly, trying to figure out his approach – Maverick could get skittish when he was like this, and Goose wanted to talk, not scare him off—but Maverick just handed over the letter without comment. It was from Iceman, a new one, like he’d thought. Goose skimmed over it as Maverick watched until he got to the part to the middle of the first page, then he went back and started reading out loud.
“I still think you should go for the test pilot program. Maverick, whatever was true in the past, surely you know that it’s not the case now. You have three air-to-air kills to your name, and you won Top Gun. I believe both Viper and Jester would recommend you, and for what it’s worth, I would too. As for your other reservations – I haven’t forgotten, but you should also know that your career is important to me, and that I’m not going anywhere.”
Goose stopped reading and looked up at Maverick, who looked so wrecked that Goose couldn’t mistake the meaning of those words. That Iceman and Maverick had talked about this, Maverick becoming a test pilot, and that Ice had offered to wait for him while he did it. “Mav,” he said, choked up by it, even if it wasn’t for him.
“How can he—how can he just say that?” Maverick asked, voice small and broken. “That’s a fucking stupid thing to put in a letter.”
And Goose got it. He didn’t think anyone had ever put Maverick first in his life, and while Goose would go to bat for him any day of the week, he knew it would never have the same impact as Ice’s casual assurance that he would stake his entire career on Maverick, that he would sacrifice for him. “Mav,” he said softly.
Maverick snatched the letter back and frowned down at it intensely. “How can he just—he’s the golden child, not me. He has so much to offer the Navy. He could go all the way, you know? And he’s just—settling.”
“Settling for you?” Goose asked. “Maybe that’s what he wants, Mav. Have you asked him?” Maverick shrugged, his mouth drawn in a tense and unhappy line. Goose took that as a no. “He loves you, Maverick.”
Maverick didn’t have anything to say to that, either, but he didn’t debate it, didn’t deny it. Maybe they’d said the words, and maybe they hadn’t, but Maverick knew.
“It never felt real before,” Maverick said, looking down at the pages in his lap. “What I should do with my career. I guess I just always thought I’d flame out at some point and it wouldn’t be an issue.”
“You deserve good things, Mav. I’d give ‘em to you too, if I could.” He nudged Maverick with his shoulder, and Maverick nudged him back.
From the moment they’d met, Goose had known Maverick could be a difficult person. It was the whole reason they’d been paired together. In the time they’d known each other, he’d never seen Maverick give anyone any quarter. He’d never seen him yield. There was no doubt in his mind that that’s what Maverick was doing now, yielding to Iceman, thousands of miles away, to his insistence on putting Maverick first, to Ice’s belief in him, to Ice’s plans for his career.
And he thought, yeah, that was a good look on Maverick. Maturity, responsibility. Maverick had a lot to offer the Navy, too, if he stopped chasing ghosts. And if Iceman gave that to his best friend, then he’d be happy to share Maverick. He had trouble imagining what life without Maverick would be like, but maybe he never had to find out.