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Mav squashes down a grimace as the plane shudders with turbulence. Most of the Daggers are asleep, slumped against each other in contorted shapes that make his battered and bruised ribs ache just looking at them.
Hangman is one of the few still awake, absently tapping at his phone screen while playing pillow for Coyote on one side and Halo on the other. He glances up and catches Mav looking.
"My niece's birthday party," he explains, turning the phone around. The screen displays a picture of a small blond child, beaming up at the camera, hugging a giant stuffed dinosaur close to their body. The toy has been accessorised with a neon pink tiara, matching the one perched upon the child's head.
"That's a lot of sparkle," Mav comments, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Jake grins, turning his phone back as it beeps at him. "That's the idea, I think. Apparently she wanted a princess dinosaur party, and my sister is a fiend with a glue gun and access to Hobby Lobby."
Mav snorts. "Sounds about right. I remember when —" He cuts off as the plane gives a particularly violent shake, hissing out a breath through his teeth.
"You alright, sir?" Hangman asks, eyeing him carefully.
Mav gives him a wan smile. "I've never been a fan of being in a plane when I'm not the one flying it," he admits, glossing over the twinges of pain shooting up and down his spine.
Hangman doesn't look completely convinced. "Are you sure, sir? I've got Advil if you want some."
Mav's smile turns a little more genuine at the offer. "Thanks, but I'm still working through the stuff they gave me in medical."
Hangman nods at that. "You were saying that you remember when—?"
Mav blinks at him for a moment and then recalls.
"Oh! My friend's oldest turned six and decided she wanted a Hollywood movie star party. I was finding sequins and glitter around the house for months."
Hangman grins, a softer expression on his face compared to his typical smirk. "My brother has already sent me three messages about rainbow frosting all over the kitchen, but that might just be part and parcel of having kids."
Mav chuckles. "I think you might be on to something there."
"You have any yourself, sir?" Hangman tone is cautious - treading a line but willing to run up against it all the same.
It's an even more loaded question than Hangman thinks, but Mav has had several decades of practice with deflecting.
"None of my own, but I'm godfather and honorary uncle to a few. Ice's kids among them."
"Ice?"
"Iceman. You probably know him better as Admiral Kazansky, though."
Hangman looks at him in surprise. "As in — COMPACFLT Admiral Kazansky?
"That's him. We've known each other since TOP GUN. We were both lieutenant commanders when Sarah got pregnant for the first time."
"You must still be pretty close, then," Jake muses. "To be invited to their kid's birthday party."
It should be an easy question to field. Mav has been giving placating answers and half truths about his relationship with Ice and Sarah for as long as there has been a relationship. But this time it cuts deeper, the casual assumption of Tom and Sarah Kazansky as a combined unit, with Pete Mitchell always hovering on the outside.
Maybe it's because tired, and in pain, and the last time he'd seen Ice he'd still been unconscious, battling complications from pneumonia and working himself into the damn ground.
We've lived with together since the nineties, although not on paper.
We've shared each other's beds for longer.
I've got a ring on my dogtags that I'll probably never be able to wear.
"I've known them just about as long as anyone," he finally settles on, biting back all the other things that want to spill forth.
Hangman nods. "I get it — me and Coyote go back a long way too."
He probably doesn't, but Mav takes it in the spirit it's meant.
"You heading back to your family after this?" Mav asks.
"Sure am. Gonna make the most of the leave we've been given."
Mav smiles faintly. He hopes he might be able to do the same.
"I'm not a total invalid," Mav grouses, following Rooster down the gang plank onto the tarmac.
"Obviously," Rooster mutters, but still refuses to return Mav's seabag to him. "Tell me where this needs to go so you don't fuck up your ribs even worse."
Mav can't quite hide his smile — he's missed that stubborn streak. Bradley used to do the same thing at home when Carole went shopping, carting in the shopping bags with all the determined grace of a gangly pre-teen.
"I've got a ride," he promises, again. "They might be a little late, traffic was heavy on the way in."
Any further argument is halted by a piercing whistle. Mav turns instinctively towards the sound, familiar from decades of hearing it over crowds at dockside and arrival barriers at airports.
Sarah Kazansky breaks away from the huddle of family and friends reuniting with various members of the Daggers, striding confidently across hanger floor. Mav moves towards her on instinct, meeting her halfway.
He can't pick her up like he typically does — too battered and bruised, but he winds his arms around her and presses a kiss to the side of her head as they pull apart. Nothing too long, nothing too overt. Never where there are eyes watching.
Sarah cups a hand to the side of his face and strokes a thumb gently across his cheek bone.
"You look like shit," she informs him — dry, blunt, and to the point, as always.
Mav chokes out a laugh. "Jesus Christ, Sarah, no need to sugar coat it."
Sarah snorts. "I've been dealing with Tom at his most pissy for the past week. Tact flew out the window on day two."
Mav can believe it. Ice has never dealt well with forced inactivity. Not that Mav has a leg to stand on in that regard.
"It doesn't help that he woke up to find you gone and out of contact." The glare Sarah levels at him promises a reckoning.
"Sorry," Mav whispers. "I had to."
He glances back over his shoulder to where Rooster hovers awkwardly behind him. He looks back at Sarah. "You get why, right?"
Sarah sighs. "Doesn't mean I have to like it," she mutters, then moves around him to face Rooster directly.
"Hi, Aunt Sarah," Rooster says. It shouldn't be possible for a fully grown man to look that sheepish, but Sarah tends to have that effect on people.
"Bradley! You've certainly grown since I last saw you."
She's not wrong. Rooster has certainly grown into the length of his limbs in the last fifteen-odd years since any of them have seen him in person.
"You should swing by the house in a few days. I know that Tom would appreciate the visit."
Rooster blinks at her for a moment, his eyes growing suspiciously shiny. "He's alright, then? We heard he was in the hospital, but not much else."
Sarah nods firmly. "Our number hasn't changed — call us later this week."
Her eyes fix on the pair of duffle bags slung over Rooster's broad shoulders. "Is one of those Pete's? Would you be able bring it out to the car? I'm parked out in the general lot."
Sarah, as is her way, doesn't leave Rooster much room to wriggle out of what she's requested. She links arms with Mav and begins to steer him towards the building edge, Rooster trailing behind them like an overgrown puppy.
It only takes a couple of minutes to reach the car, parked in one of the endless rows of on-base parking. The afternoon sun has already turned the lot into a sweatbox, and Sarah quickly moves around to the driver's side to start the car's A/C.
Mav pulls Rooster in for another hug. "I'll call," he promises. "Give me a day or so to get my feet back under me."
"I'll pick up this time," Rooster agrees. "See you soon."
Mav awkwardly folds himself into the passenger seat, ribs and knees protesting yet again. He lifts a hand in farewell as Sarah pulls out of the parking space and holds on tight to the memory of Bradley waving back.
"How is he?" Mav asks. "He was replying to messages, but all he'd say was that he'd been released from the hospital."
Sarah exhales, hard. "Tom's spending half his days filing emails from the couch while on a portable oxygen tank, and the other half sitting in on meetings remotely from his office."
Mav's eyebrows shoot up. "That doesn't sound particularly like resting."
Sarah snorts. "You don't say," she grouses. "God knows his stubbornness is only matched by yours. Even though they were talking about having to put him on a ventilator less than a week ago —"
Sarah's voice breaks off. Even in side profile, Mav can see the sheen in her eyes. She sniffs once, twice, then exhales hard and composes herself, displaying the formidable control that has served her so well through her years as a divorce lawyer in Los Angeles.
Mav reaches out and puts his hand over Sarah's on the steering wheel. Sarah turns her hand over and links their fingers together, bringing them to rest in gap between their seats. They're hidden there, out of sight of prying eyes and unwanted questions.
They don't let go for the whole drive home.
Mav squints at the potted plant by the door. He could have sworn —
"Is that pot different?"
Sarah swats at him. "Don't start. The kids almost laughed themselves sick when I told them I'd reversed into the damn thing trying to manoeuvre Tom's stupid Bentley back into the garage."
Mav gawps. "You hit it with the Bentley?"
Sarah sniffs. "I only lightly scratched the paint job on the bumper, those parts are meant to be dented—"
Mav would continue this conversation, he really would, because he would love to know how Ice had reacted to Sarah's confession — but at that moment the front door swings open.
It's like everything goes out of focus, or maybe so in focus that everything else blurs into the background. Mav is moving before he has a chance to think, crossing the gleaming stone entrance steps in a blink.
Being held by Ice is a sensation Mav has been chasing ever since the first time they'd hugged each other, high on adrenaline on the flight deck of the Enterprise.
"Idiot," Ice rasps.
Mav just nods, his face buried in the soft cashmere of Ice's sweater. It's the one Mav had gotten him for his birthday the year before, spending far too much time browsing through a series of small boutiques out in San Francisco. Mav himself might be content in t-shirts and jeans, but Ice has always held an appreciation for quality when it came to clothing. The warm smile Ice had given him when he'd unwrapped it had sat curled around Mav's heart for weeks.
Ice's hand is a comforting weight on the back of Mav's neck, playing with the short hairs at the base of his skull. Mav doesn't want to let go, wants to keep basking in the warmth and solidity that Ice has always provided, but they also can't stay standing on the doorstep for the rest of the day.
Reluctantly he loosens his grip, pulls back enough to allow them all to move inside the front door. Ice slides one hand down his arm and holds onto his wrist, tethering the two of them together still.
A heavy thump draws their attention back to the door.
"What is it with people and not letting me carry my own damn bag?" Mav asks.
Sarah lifts her chin at him from where she'd just dropped his sea bag directly in the middle of the hallway. "And Bradley was carrying it for you just for show, hmm?"
Mav smiles winningly. "I did try to take it off him."
His protest is very much undermined when Ice interjects: "The bandages I felt underneath your shirt are purely decorative, then."
Mav glares at him, but it's half-hearted, at best. He could have carried his bag, honestly. He'd just be in considerably more pain if he had.
"At any rate," Sarah continues, making shooing motions in the direction of the living room, "You're both supposed to be resting."
There's a portable home oxygen canister set up next to the couch in the living room. The cannula trails over the armrest of the couch and disappears into a mound of blankets that look to be recently vacated.
"Are you supposed to be using that?" Mav asks dubiously.
Ice waves him off. "As necessary."
"Is it necessary?" Sarah asks, in a tone reminiscent of saltwater taffy. Tooth-achingly sweet, but difficult to ignore.
Ice, tellingly, doesn't reply.
"I'm just saying, you're the one who's going to have to deal with the disappointed look from your doctor at the next checkup."
"When's the next checkup?" Mav asks, anxious for any reassurance that Ice is improving. There's a longer conversation to be had at some point, but for now, he settles for catching up on the current state of affairs.
"Tomorrow," Ice grumbles, "I have a checkup every couple days for the next few weeks."
He does concede Sarah's point, settling himself back down on the couch and reaching around to position the cannula just underneath his nose.
Mav takes a moment to take in the sight of him — slightly rumpled clothes from a day spent at home, hair a little dishevelled from where he'd been running his hands through it. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that deepen when he smiles — Mav has a matching set from years in the cockpit of a fighter jet. The familiar crease in between his eyebrows as he looks right back at Mav.
Ice holds out a hand, beckoning.
Mav goes.
Sarah disappears briefly as he's sitting down, returning with a water glass to match the pair already sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch.
Sarah hands him the glass and then tucks herself in next to him. Mav sips at the water, enjoying the coolness on his tongue after the long final stint of travel. He drains the glass and deposits it on one of the novelty coasters Sarah had started collecting from their holidays years ago. Today's has a cartoon lobster on it that their oldest son, Oliver, found in a gift shop in Maine.
Mav closes his eyes and leans back into the warmth of his partners either side. Ice slides an arm around his shoulders and tugs him inwards, pressing the sides of their heads together. Mav wraps his arm around Sarah in return, relaxing as the familiar scent of their laundry detergent mixes with the scent of the citrus oil Sarah favours in the room diffuser.
They sit for a while. Once, a homecoming might have been filled with the general noise and activity that came with having a house full of children. Oliver and Katie always seemed to bring a certain element of mischief and good-natured chaos wherever they went, and many of Mav's previous returns had been heralded by a tackle hug at the doorway and an immediate request to help with the latest scheme the siblings had concocted.
Or it might have been a considerably more athletic welcoming. Mav distinctly remembers one shore leave, where Ice had barely closed the front door before Sarah had pinned him to the wall, kissing him silly, whilst Mav himself had worked on getting a hand down the front of Ice's khakis.
This time, they're all a bit too battered and bruised in one shape or another for anything more than this — the bone deep relief that all three of them are back together in one place.
"I think I'm done," Mav announces to the room at large, surprising himself with the words as much as anyone else.
The arm around his shoulders tightens. On the other side, Sarah presses closer, like she could glue herself to his side given the chance.
"I think — I think this mission was enough. I don't regret it, for the record."
Despite the aches and pains, despite the heart stopping moment of fear when Bradley's plane took a missile, he'd do it all again.
"Just, when I punched out — somehow, in amongst all of it, all I could think about was how much I wanted to make it home."
Mav gestures at his surroundings — at their living room, with the gold toned feature wall that Ice and Sarah had argued over for two weeks straight before giving him the deciding vote — at the pictures of them, and their kids through the years — at the three of them on the couch they'd picked out together.
He laces his fingers together with his partners — Sarah to his right and Ice to his left. He squeezes tight, knuckles turning white.
"I wanted to come home," he gasps, and finds that the tears come unbidden, breath hitching as he breaks down into sobs.
Sarah draws his head sideways, tucks his face into her shoulder and lets him bury his grief in her sweater. Ice presses in close behind him, running one hand in long, steady strokes up and down his back.
"You made it home," Sarah tells him fiercely. "You made it home, and Tom has kicked his stupid illness to the curb, and we should all go on a vacation when you're both cleared for travel."
For a while, that's all there is — Mav sobbing in the arms of the people who love him, expelling weeks worth of tension and fear in one fell swoop.
His tears slow eventually and subside to sniffles. Ice fishes a tissue out of the box conveniently perched on the coffee table. Mav accepts and uses it to blow his nose.
He then offers it back and smiles at the mildly disgusted look Ice offers him in return. Instead, Mav crumples it into a ball and lobs it at the nearly overflowing wastebasket tucked by the side of the table. It lands, but promptly bounces out again from the sheer mass of tissues already in the basket.
"Swish and miss," Sarah comments, just to needle him.
"Foul play," Mav counters. "Obstruction."
A pause.
"I bet you couldn't do any better."
Ice intervenes when Sarah looks set to do just that, reaching over place a restraining hand on Sarah's chest.
"I'm not having you wasting tissues just to prove a point," Ice says.
The movement results in Mav getting squashed in a sort-of-sideways hug, at which point he promptly shifts his weight to pin Ice back against the sofa. Sarah catches onto his plan immediately and leans further into him, and soon the three of them have wriggled around to form a three-way tangle of arms and legs with no intention of moving anywhere soon.
One of Ice's hands finds his hair again and Mav is soon lulled into a half doze by the steady, repetitive movement.
"About that vacation," Ice rumbles in his ear.
Mav snuggles closer. "Yeah? What are you thinking?"
"We could rent a place. Go somewhere quiet. My PA keeps sending me pointed email reminders about the leave I've accrued. She may have a point."
"Somewhere with a jacuzzi," Sarah chimes in. "And secluded enough that I can sunbathe with my top off without giving anyone an eyeful."
"Not," she adds smugly, "that they wouldn't be lucky to get one."
"Sarah!" Ice and Mav exclaim in unison. Ice sounds so outraged that it's no surprise Mav breaks down in a giggling fit.
"Do you have problems with my suggestion, Thomas?" Sarah asks, twisting around to face him and peering around Mav's head.
"Or maybe—" Sarah continues, a thoroughly wicked gleam in her eyes, "You like the idea a little too much."
Ice splutters unconvincingly and promptly launches into a fervent rebuttal.
As Ice and Sarah bicker over his head Mav smiles to himself and lets the familiar voices of his two dearest people lull him back to sleep. They'll wake him up if he's needed.