Archive of Our Own

Mav’s always been an early riser, waking with the sun. 

Spritely, energized by the fresh smell of the morning. Making breakfast. Sitting in the quiet hum with little besides the birds chirping.

Workouts out early in the morning, too. He loves it.

Tying up his tennis shoe laces, Mav starts off from his front porch. Since starting as an instructor at Top Gun, he’s taken to running to the base gym each morning, getting a workout in, and running back with enough time to get ready, eat, and ride his lovely Kawasaki into work. The slightly cushier instructor housing assignment he’s been given isn’t so far from the weight room, so it’s just enough for a solid warmup.

Added benefit of the early workout: Mav doesn’t run into any students, typically. They all like to work out in little cohorts at different hours, but they rarely grace the gym at the same time Mav does.

A secondary benefit is that when working out, Maverick doesn’t feel so out of place. The movement means that his chest isn’t being squeezed by the military tension, or social anxieties that plague him most other hours. He hasn’t been feeling right since … since Goose. 

Miramar isn’t so bad, but the whole town stinks of rising ambition. Once upon a time, that was Maverick’s prime environment, but with the lingering hand of Death on his shoulder, he can’t help but feel consumed by thought. Every person on base has the chance of losing someone they hold dear daily. Most people on base hear the Mitchell name and, suddenly, every conversation has an ulterior motive. Some want to hear the story of his father or RIO, some want to judge, and some want to get favors from him, test his limits. There’s no Nick Bradshaw to have his back without any need for reciprocity, even though he’d give his life twenty times over for the man. 

He’s utterly alone, and there’s nobody to trust. How is he supposed to go about a normal day, be the modern man balancing all of the typical shit when he should be living in the sky? He’s just some over-confident pilot with a death-wish and a lack of caring for others, according to the world.

The spiral is all too familiar, and almost always ends in some existential rut that keeps Maverick bedridden during the hours he doesn’t have to spend on base. 

Pulling himself from the shame isn’t easy, like climbing a rope to safety with third-degree burns on your hands. Pain is inevitable, but he needs to be reminded that peace lies in the skies.

It typically resolves with Maverick knowing himself. He settled into who he was long ago. There are a lot of strings attached, sure, but he’s not some traitor, he’s not careless, and he’s not a bad person.

He is fiercely loyal to those who earn it. He cares, perhaps too much, about his students and squadron. Maverick still hasn’t convinced himself of the third point. Maybe he doesn't know who he is. Another thought to keep him up at night.

However, the first step is getting out of bed, chugging a glass of water, and getting his body moving. Maverick spent the last few nights sulking in the confusion of what ‘normalcy’ is supposed to look like, if he deserves to have it, and he’s prepared to get over his slump.

Feet to pavement, wide strides, arms pumping. Dogtags bounce under his t-shirt, a ratty old one with a faded band logo. Muscle strain distracts from mental distress.

The weight room is awfully plain, but you can’t expect bright colors and inspiring decor from a military gym.

Mav shucks off his t-shirt at a bench, grabbing his usual dumbbells and getting to work. It’s not to the degree of flying, but working out, pushing his limits, is a thrill he easily loses himself in. With practiced confidence, weight moves as he wills it. Satisfaction settles in as he progresses. 

And then Iceman shows up, and Maverick is half-tempted to drop a weight onto his own skull.

They get along fine when they’re teaching. In the sky, they’re just as synchronized and reliant as they were during the Layton rescue, maybe even more so. But day-to-day? Iceman bitches about Maverick’s lack of enthusiasm for rules, Maverick teases relentlessly about the perpetual stick far up Kazansky’s ass, and they both go about their merry ways, claiming the title of ‘best pilot’. They make nice for the sake of the program, but Iceman has been closed off since declaring them wingmen. It makes Maverick wonder, on occasion, if he did anything to spur the lack of connection.

Iceman doesn’t look at him as he strolls to his own bench, not bothering to take off his crew neck, Navy emblem on the front, and KAZANSKY branded across the span on his shoulders.

Mav puts all of his effort into trying to focus on his own workout. He seldom sees Kazansky here, knowing the other man prefers to work out after classes, instead of before. Grabbing a heavier set of dumbbells, Pete wonders why he knows that little detail. He cycles through reps of different lifts.

The gym has a radio quietly singing out some Bruce Springsteen. Few others wander about, routinely lifting. Arizona, a young pilot, deadlifts in the corner. A commanding officer that Maverick vaguely recognizes is busying himself with a barbell.

The large mirrors on the wall in front of him allow his eyes to flit around the room, landing once more on Iceman, now devoid of his sweatshirt. He’s broad-shouldered, with a strong chest and biceps shifting under a light blue t-shirt. He may be an asshole, but he’s a good-looking guy. Mav’s got eyes.

He tears his gaze away, focusing once more on the weights resting on his knees. He’s sat upright, about to go into his last set of shoulder presses before the run back home.

Up and down, don’t lock elbows, the only place he’ll listen to slow and steady. The weights are ten pounds more than what he’s used to. It moves, but with some struggle and shake.

Pete Mitchell, do not drop this fucking weight with Iceman right there.

A bead of sweat rolls into his left eye in the middle of the set, and he desperately tries to blink it away. Next rep goes up with more effort than the last. It comes down trembling. He’s got two more, and Mav doesn’t think it’s gonna work.

A silhouette appears behind him, hands hovering under his elbows as if some invisible force was going to lift them up.

Mav looks away from his own red, scrunched face up to Iceman behind him. Kazansky’s reflection bears a determined look.

“Don’t stop, Mitchell. Come on.”

The words have just enough of an encouraging undertone to snap Maverick back into motion. The weight doesn’t want to go up, no matter how hard he forces it, but by some miracle, Kazanksy’s grounded presence makes it move. On the last rep, Kazansky lightly rests the edge of his index fingers on Maverick’s elbow to guide them upwards and slowly back down. 

Maverick drops the weights in front of him, uncaring of the noise they clatter to the ground with. He turns to face Iceman, huffing.

“Good stuff.” Ice says, indifferently.

“Thanks for the spot.” Mav rasps. He should’ve brought water.

Iceman hums in approval and gives Maverick’s shoulder a friendly pat. The spot, along with the joints of his elbows, burns where the contact was made.

The help from Kazansky was oddly kind, a rare olive branch for the man. Maverick decides he can meet him halfway.

“D’you need anything?”

“Nope. Just about to head out.”

Mav re-racks his dumbbells and grabs his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. The dry and itchy feeling that follows is hell on his skin, but nothing compared to the grimace Ice gives him.

“Well, I’m all done, too. Walk you out?”

Maverick starts walking before Kazansky can answer, but he can feel the other man follow him. A lot of heat radiates off of him for a guy called ‘Iceman’, or maybe Maverick is going insane - always a possibility.

“I didn’t see your bike out front.” Ice fills the silence behind him.

“Because I didn’t bring it.”

“You walked?” A hint of surprise shifts his voice.

Maverick turns to him, putting on his most smug grin, “Ran, actually.”

Ice scoffs at him in amusement, “You’re crazy.”

“It’s called dedication, Iceman,” Mav shifts from foot to foot, preparing to run. His knee decides to twinge in protest, the damn thing. “Good cardio, less lazy.”

“Or you could drive like a normal person,” Ice leans into his space, goading.

Letting his smirk grow, Maverick shoots back, “We both know I’m not normal.”

They reach Ice’s car, a black Plymouth Barracuda - 70’s, if Mav’s mind supplies correctly. It’s a sharp car, Maverick can’t lie. He lets himself ogle for a moment. Ice, unfortunately, catches the movement.

“Care to live normal, for once? I’ll give you a ride,” Ice holds up his near-barren keyring.

Reassessing the little pinch in his knee, Maverick groans, “Fine.”

Iceman’s shark-like winning smile is full of teeth and arrogance. Mav ushers to the passenger's side, opening and closing the door in sync with the driver. An idea strikes him as he leans into the leather seat.

“Since I’m doing you a great favor by giving you my lovely company on this drive,” Maverick turns and bats his eyes as innocently as he can manage, “You have to run to the gym with me tomorrow morning.”

Ice turns the key in the ignition, fixing him an unimpressed look, “Are you serious?”

“I’d never joke about tormenting you.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on! I run right by your housing - you could tag along, no problem!”

Maverick doesn’t quite know why he’s pushing this so hard. There’s that strange magnetism in Ice’s presence that’s telling him to stay close, which he usually ignores. But, Ice took the first step in offering to drive, so he allows the pull to draw him closer, lets himself want a friend again.

Ice starts driving, mouth pressed into a flat line, clearly pondering why on Earth he’d get up before sunrise to run.

“Just once?”

“Maybe you’ll love it.”

“I can guarantee I won’t, but,” Ice pauses with a sigh, grumbling, “Fine.”

To avoid hearing more gloating from the peanut gallery in his passenger seat, Ice jabs the play button on the small cassette player in the dash. Synthesizers lead in, and Maverick just barely recognizes the voice.

“Is this Billy Joel?”

“And?”

Iceman looks defensive, shoulders somehow set more rigidly than normal.

“Nothing, just never thought about what kind of music you like.”

“I’m apparently not known to like anything, or so I’m told.”

Yeah, okay, so Maverick may have perpetuated that idea. Not out of malice or anything, but he very rarely sees Iceman smile from anything other than victory. It’s more that some of the students began to joke around, as they were wont to do, and Maverick may have huffed his best teacherly laugh. The Iceman is a frosty bitch, and maybe Mav should have told Poker off for joking about a CO, but who is he to snuff the fun?

“I’m sure you like plenty. Like Billy Joel, right? I don’t know this song.”

“Newer album,” Ice bristles, still not fully relaxed.

“Ah, so you don’t just like him, you’re a fan.”

“What’s your point?” Ice shoots at him.

Maverick raises his hands in surrender, despite Ice’s eyes staying firmly on the road.

Shit, Mitchell, can’t make nice for once?

“Calm down, man. I’m trying to learn about you.”

Ice grips the wheel tighter, “You’re trying to make fun of me.”

Maverick lowers his voice to something he hopes comes across as sincere – he knows he struggles with that, “I swear I’m not, Kaz. You can tease me about my secret love of Kim Wilde’s music.”

A tiny involuntary smile fights its way onto Ice’s face, his eyes calculating.

“I’ll keep that one in mind.”

“I’m serious! She’s good!” Mav means it, “Teases & Dares was a good album.”

Ice finally sacrifices his steady gaze on the road to glance over, “Was it?”

“Oh, shut up. I liked it.”

The little smile rooted in Ice’s plush lips grows, and, with it, the heat in Maverick’s heart. Fuck, he’s lonely.

“So, Billy Joel?” Mav ventures, twisting his t-shirt in his hands. He’s slightly shocked that Ice is allowing his sweaty back to touch the car seat.

“He’s like a poet, I like his stuff,” Ice quietly admits with an uncharacteristic shyness.

Maverick simply hums and busies himself with staring out the window. Little neighborhoods pass, pretty houses where the brass families must live. They get through two and a half songs before Ice pulls into Maverick’s short driveway, careful not to hit the Kawasaki. Mav fights the smile at his consideration and tries to put on his poker face in fear of looking constipated.

Iceman puts the car in park, and it takes Maverick a questionably long time of staring at the other man to realize he’s supposed to be getting out of the car.

“Wanna come in for breakfast?” he blurts.

A little crease finds its home between Ice’s brow, “Two points: One, I don’t think I trust your cooking, no offense; and two, there’s only an hour before we have to get to base, and I’d like to shower.”

“Uh,” Mav stalls for a moment, the desperate tug in his chest aching to keep talking, because that’s better than thinking, “Go home and get ready, then come back for food?”

Ice raises an eyebrow, thumbs lightly patting out rhythm on the steering wheel, “That’s a lot of backtracking, and I still don’t trust your cooking.”

That point is easy for Maverick to argue. He spent years bouncing from foster homes, and cooking was more than a necessity – it was a commodity. He could make mouth-watering meals out of nothing, and as much as he had to feed himself in the more unfortunate placements, the skill of cooking made him useful enough to overlook his … behavioral issues, he prefers to call them. It encompassed everything from picking (and sometimes losing) fights after school to kissing Matthew Whats-His-Face in Junior year by the bleachers, under the cover of night. He turned out alright, and he’s a good cook, so thank you, ‘behavioral issues,’ Maverick can try to impress his maybe-friend.

“I swear on my life, Iceman, you’ll never want to leave once you’ve had a Mitchell meal.”

“Because I’ll be dead from food poisoning.”

The complete deadpan stuns Mav into a laugh, clapping Ice’s shoulder. He pushes open the car door.

“Be back here in twenty.”

Iceman rolls his eyes, but the amusement set in his jaw says that Maverick might win this one. He slams the car door a little harder than necessary, purely for shits and giggles.

He watches Ice back out of the driveway as he treks up to the front door, pushing it open with a full-bodied sigh. Exhaustion hits him like a brick wall with the first step into his housing.

Last night’s sleep must be fucking him up, leaving his motivation low and mood even lower. No, he reminds himself, you’ve got a Kazansky coming over for breakfast, get it together.

Mav takes a tried and true Navy shower and shuffles into his khakis before rummaging through the kitchen. Typically, he’d just make some eggs for himself, maybe toast, but he has to pull out all the stops if he’s got a guest. ‘The stops,’ however, have a fifty-fifty shot of being in his pantry. He manages to make some pancake batter and start a few to golden, alongside some eggs in one separate pan, and bacon in another. Bread in the toaster. The idea of doing the dishes makes him shudder.

Most of it is ready and being kept lightly warm by the time a knock sounds at the door. He quickly hopes it’s Ice, calling out, “Come in!”

The door creaks open and footsteps wander towards his voice. He’s still fussing with the last of the pancake batter when the footsteps stop.

“Doesn’t smell like anything’s burning.”

Depositing the last pancake onto a plate, Mav finally turns to see Kazansky, uniformed and perfect.

“Just you wait. I’m about to blow your mind.”

Pete knows he can be a little shithead, but he sure can cook. He sets the various plates of food around them, urging Ice to fill his plate. Mav doesn’t start eating until the other pilot has started in on a pancake.

“So?” Mav asks around a mouthful of egg.

Ice is silent for a moment, staring at his plate, then looks up to meet Maverick’s eyes.

“This is really fucking good.”

Triumphant laughter bubbles out from his chest as he pumps his fist in victory. An odd relief also sweeps through him, and he suddenly feels the most present he has in months.

Everything has been so fuzzy, so … off. But, like his ears popping at altitude, everything clicks into place for a moment.

He and Iceman eat in silence. It may not be the most comfortable, but it’s miles better than the tense pissing contest they were trapped in before.

The clarity falters when he notices Ice avoiding the bacon.

“Bacon’s not out of date, I swear. I can throw it on a little longer if you want it crispy, though.”

Mav likes it a little chewy, but he can manage to char some up for Ice, if that’s what he wants.

“No, ah,” Ice twirls his fork, “It’s not kosher.”

Maverick pauses, “Huh?”

“I’m Jewish, Mav. I’m not orthodox, but I try to follow what I can.”

He feels like he should’ve known this. Seems like an important fact to know about a friend, but then again, when have he and Iceman done more than bicker before today?

“So no bacon?”

“No pork, in general. Sorry.” Poor Iceman has the decency to look embarrassed.

Maverick responds by dumping the small mound of bacon onto his own plate with a grin. Ice’s concern turns back into relief, a comfortable air returning.

“Are you secretive by nature or are you too scary for anyone to ask?” Mav puts on his most lighthearted voice, grasping desperately at the relaxation between them.

“Both.”

He points a piece of bacon at his wingman, “You’re not that scary.”

Ice puts his fork down on an empty plate and leans forward, resting his chin on his palm, “Oh, yeah?”

Mav hums in agreement, mhm!

Ice pushes off the table to stand, checking his watch. Without having to glance at his own watch, Maverick can tell it’s time for work based purely on the steely set of Ice’s jaw.

“Duty calls, huh. Leave the plate, I’ll get it later.” Mav stands and puts a small stack of accumulated plates in the sink.

“You sure?”

“Yep, now get the fuck outta my house.”

He’s rewarded with the most beautiful, warm laugh. When was the last time someone laughed in this house?

Mav is about to shove Kazansky into motion, but Ice beats him to it, shuffling to the front door.

Ice sighs audibly, “See you tomorrow morning?”

Joy explodes through his chest, “Bright and early!”

A groan is followed by the sound of the door shutting. And then there was one. There’s no time to process the excitement, nor the sickening silence that seems more present than ever, because he also has work and would rather not get chewed out for being late.

The day goes by as expected: class, a few hops, and a small mountain of paperwork added to the impressive pile already on his desk. Maverick is proud of his pilots, sure, but sitting at this godforsaken desk and staring at ink on paper for hours on end is starting to not be entirely worth it. He needs the skies, fast living, alcohol, sex, something to make him feel fast enough to forget the slowness dragging him down. 

Despite flying today, he still feels the dread settled in his stomach.

Despite Iceman smugly grinning his way intermittently throughout the day, malaise curls around every part of his body.

He wants to curl up and never move again. He wants to fly down the highway with the wind in his hair. He wants to breathe without feeling a ghost pressing on his chest.

Maverick drives home faster than what would be considered ‘safe,’ but he is a dangerous man.

There’s no debate that his continued morning workouts and flying routines haven’t pulled him from whatever slump he’s in. It only makes Mav angrier, and the twist of his gut worse.

Another sleepless night, tossing and turning. Restless, yet exhausted, like anxiously running through molasses. Like trying to do jumping jacks at 5G's. 

Alone in bed. Dark room, little sound. It’s all too much - the feelings, that is. Maybe that’s what peeves him so, that everything is completely fine and normal, yet he can’t fucking be normal.

It’s infuriating to no end, being the one loose screw in an otherwise well-made machine. Iceman and Slider have their shit together. Viper’s not moments from throwing something across the room at any given time. Hell, Charlie may have left his ass in the dust, but she wasn’t the one breaking down every night, she wasn’t emotionally unavailable, she had her shit together and couldn’t be slowed down by a husk of a man.

The alarm clock on his bedside table beeps.

Rise and shine, turn and burn.

It’s all the same. It doesn’t matter that his mind is in a fog, the process is the same. Clothes, shoes, stretch, water, go.

Maverick nearly passes Ice’s base housing, remembering at the last glance of the near-identical building that they had plans. He swerves up to the porch and flicks his knuckles against the door once, then twice.

It takes less than five seconds for Iceman to open the door. The man looks absolutely miserable. Eyes squinted, hair slightly askew, and a grimace carved into the corners of his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Maverick realizes, “You’re not a morning person.”

Ice grunts at him. He interprets it as oh my god Mav you’re so smart and amazing and right all the time, you’re the best pilot ever!

“How’d you manage it yesterday?” 

Ice hadn’t looked this rough the morning prior.

“Coffee and extra sleep because I didn’t have to run.”

Maverick chuckles at him, a little thrill of pleasure at the untouchable Iceman’s perfection being squashed by the early hour. The more he thinks about it, the funnier it gets, but he doesn’t want to piss Ice off to the point of breaking their deal, so Mav restrains his laughter.

An unamused breath huffs through Ice’s nose. Mav claps his shoulder and sets off running from the porch.

The workout is typical and separate. Maverick spots Ice once, repaying the favor. They run back. Mav makes breakfast, again. Ice helps with the dishes this time, knowing he’s got enough time before work.

“This wasn’t awful.”

“And you get free breakfast.”

“I’ll take you to breakfast sometime to make up for it.”

The simple answer stuns Maverick for a moment. Willingness to hang out, implications of more time spent together. How long, his heart nags, how long until he’s gone, too?

“You hooked on sunrise workouts now?”

Iceman shoots him a sideways glare, soapy hands scrubbing away, “I’m not happy about it, but I see some benefits.”

Pete chooses not to poke the bear, smiling and nodding instead. He thinks it’s an unspoken plan: he’ll keep knocking on Iceman’s door until either the man stops answering or Maverick’s turned into a pile of dust.

They go to work separately. Maverick teaches, flies, and does paperwork, again.

He goes home alone, again. He skips dinner, strips, and lies in bed.

The sheets feel too delicate, the bed too plush to the point of consumption, like the bed is going to eat him alive. His body begins to feel like it’s swaying in the ocean, stomach turning. The phantom weight of a friend presses into his chest, and Maverick shoots upright. He tears the covers off and chucks a pillow off the bed.

Pete throws himself to the floor, finds the pillow, and settles in for the night. Lying flat-backed against the floor makes his lower back pop, and actually feels quite nice. The hard surface isn’t comfortable, but it’s a stark enough difference to clear the visions of bright red blood against the green marking dye in the water.

It’s just enough to knock him into fitful sleep.

Routine. Routine is good, to a point, but it’s making Mav go fucking crazy. The thrill of seeing Iceman every morning, snarky and miserable and funnier than Maverick ever would have guessed, is just enough to keep him sane for a little longer. They talk when they feel like it, and Maverick learns that Ice is Russian and Polish, has a younger sister, and has every Billy Joel album memorized down to the harmonies. He learns Ice’s idiosyncrasies, the clench of his jaw when he’s annoyed, the smug curl of his lip, the puff of his chest in pride.

So they run and workout and teach. Over and over. Almost a whole month. Maverick drinks on his days off, watches television, and passes out. It’s the longest sleep he gets, purely alcohol induced.

And then there’s a bird strike.

It’s not him, nor is it Ice and Slider. It’s worse: one of the students.

The hop was a 2v2, Mav and Ice against two paired pilots. The last hop of the day, after countless others. Nobody had managed to get both instructors. Then, Baby and Bull, and Crisco and Havoc. Baby and Crisco, both very ambitious pilots, were beginning to give them a run for their money, swerving into impressive maneuvers.

Baby’s left engine went up in flames out of nowhere, a chorus of panicked bird strike! calls rang through their headsets.

Maverick couldn’t find his voice. A much calmer Iceman directed Baby to climb and eject. Maverick had stayed while Ice escorted Crisco back, flying circles over the little parachutes in the water, until the helicopter arrived to airlift the pilot and RIO. Only then did he return, landing with his hands shaking on the yoke and brushing past everyone to rush into the locker room.

He sits in his sweaty flight suit, helmet at his feet. Running his hands over his face, up to his hair, and back down again, Mav tries to settle his breathing.

He needs to check on them, see that they’re alive, see that he didn’t get anyone killed. Pete knows this couldn’t be his fault in any capacity, but witnessing an accident like this is too fresh in his memory. He should have done more to help.

Two sets of cautious footsteps enter the locker room.

Another set of boots sits next to his, flight suit pantlegs tucked in.

“Maverick?”

Of course it’s Ice. The other steps are probably Slider. 

Maverick manages a weak hum, scolding himself for how pathetic he must look right now.

A large, warm hand lands on his shoulder, “Coast Guard said they’re alright. It was an accident.”

He shrugs the hand off as he stands, quickly pressing his knuckles into his eyes to stop any tears.

“I know, fuck, I don’t know why this is messing with me,” Mav shakily inhales, “We should go see them, right? That’s what good instructors do.”

“We can,” another voice gently says.

Christ, even Slider is tiptoeing around him. He must look unbelievably pitiful.

His vision clears to see Ice sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees and head tilted up, and Slider leaning on the edge of the lockers closest to the door.

Maverick nods twice, and the three instructors quietly set out. They all pile into Ice’s car, and Maverick ignores the way Ice keeps looking at him through the rearview mirror.

Baby and Bull are both completely fine. A little bruising here and there, including their egos, but they’re fine.

Mav has to keep telling himself that.

It’s just… the duo reminds Maverick of himself and Goose a little too much.

Baby is even shorter than he is, and the youngest in the class by far, having graduated from high school early, flying through the Academy, and impressing officers immediately into his career. Not quite like Maverick, but he has a bright-eyed ambition and a tall best friend of a RIO in Bull, who’s a bit quieter and far more clumsy on dry land than Goose, but no less beloved by this current Top Gun class.

The baby of the batch and the bull in a china shop perk up in hospital beds, insisting they’re okay to keep flying. It’s not a desperate plea to hide injury, Maverick can tell they’re really okay, if a little shaken.

Ice presses his shoulder into Mav’s as they leave. The motion almost knocks him off course, but the little pressure is a nice reassurance that everyone is alive and safe.

He gets dropped off at home with the promise that Ice will take him to base the next day, since he left the Kawasaki there. Maverick doesn’t sleep that night, lying on the floor and stagnantly staring up at the ceiling.

No feelings and few thoughts stray from the theme of dread. He’s wallowing, and it’s pathetic, but he’d rather die than get back up right now.

The next morning, Ice makes good on his promise from nearly a month ago. They detour to get Maverick's bike, which he rides home after Ice promises to pick him up. Iceman takes him to a sweet little diner around ten minutes away. They’re off work today, so there’s extra time.

Maverick orders a meat-lovers omelet, Ice gets pancakes and eggs.

“You’ve been quiet,” Ice notes.

Maverick sighs as well as he can with his last forkful of omelet in his mouth. He swallows quickly.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I’m fine.”

“I was just observing,” Ice raises his eyebrows, “I haven’t seen a silent Maverick in a while, and maybe I’m a little worried.”

The last time he was silent, they were both involved in the death of his best friend. The worry is suddenly very understandable.

“Well,” Mav starts, fixing his posture, “It’s all good. That ejection just rattled me.”

“They’re scheduled to get back in the air soon.”

“I know. I’m telling you, Kaz, everything is fine.”

Iceman hums at him dismissively and has the bill paid before Maverick can even reach for his wallet.

He complains as they’re walking to the car, “I could’ve paid for my own food.”

“You feed me every morning.”

“And I can pay to feed myself.”

“Too fucking bad.”

Maverick scowls at Iceman’s pompous grin and slams his car door shut harder.

“You don’t need to baby me, Kazansky.”

Ice climbs into the driver’s seat and flicks on the 52nd Street album.

“I am not babying you, Mitchell.”

Heated anger creeps into the tips of Mav’s ear.

“You are! You and Slider have been tiptoeing around me like I’m some delicate little flower! News flash, Kazansky, I don’t need you butting around in my life.”

Ice scoffs, “You’re really pissed at me for caring about you?”

“No,” Maverick uses a notable amount of self-control to not raise his voice, “I’m pissed that you’re being nosy. I’m pissed that you think you’re entitled to my business, just like everyone else does.”

A moment of silence passes before Ice steels his expression and looks towards the road, “I thought friends were supposed to help one another, so forgive me for assuming we were friends.”

The anger radiating his body is immediately flushed away by guilt. Maverick opens and closes his mouth a few times, unable to find the right words.

Honesty starts to play, and Iceman turns it off as fast as he can. The rest of the car ride is silent.

Pulling into the driveway, Maverick tries one last time to spit out literally any words.

Luckily, he says, “I’m sorry.”

Ice doesn’t look at him, exhaling through his nose.

“I am your friend, Ice,” the words are strained, “I’m just… I just haven’t been feeling right.”

“The ejection really messed you up, huh?”

Ice’s voice is low and soft, an uncharacteristic comfort - except, Ice has actually been a major comfort as of late, and Maverick is two inches from screwing it all up. He really doesn’t want to lose their friendship. He shouldn’t have let himself get close in the first place, but the selfish part of his heart is screaming to keep his wingman here.

“Since Goose, I can’t sit still. I don’t know who I am, and I can’t talk to Carole without feeling like an asshole, but I miss Bradley, and it all just… fucking sucks right now.”

There’s a small pause where Ice seems to be taking in the information, processing. Maverick presses on before the other man can begin.

“I’m completely fine - I don’t know why I’m all messed up,” he chuckles, “That was really contradictory, huh? I promise I won’t burn in and leave you stranded up there, okay? No need to worry.”

Ice just looks at him, green-grey eyes that shine almost blue in the morning sun. That stupid little crease between his eyebrows, the edges of his mouth tugged ever-so-slightly down.

“I trust you in the sky, Mav. I’m worried about you down here.”

He hadn’t really thought about it like that. Ice is actually worried about his well-being, and not about him fucking up in the sky and taking them both down. Everything in his life has been inherently tied to the Navy, so why would this be any different?

But with Ice’s full attention on him, he gets it. Ice isn’t Goose, but Ice wants to care about him if Maverick would only let him in.

Pete shoots him a sad smile, “Um, thank you, I think. Do you… want to come in for a drink?”

Ice’s expression crinkles, “It’s well before noon, Mitchell.”

“Shit,” Mav chuckles, “I think I forgot how to be a friend.”

Kazansky jams his finger into the ‘play’ button, and Billy Joel croons out “Hoooonesty!”

Pete nearly doubles over in laughter, as Ice huffs proudly.

“We’re good?” Ice asks once Mav’s laughter has ceased.

Maverick opens the door and hits Ice’s shoulder as he climbs out of the car. He leans down to peer inside, “Can’t get rid of me that easy, wingman.”

He’s momentarily stunned by the sweetness embedded in the smile Ice sends him. There’s no trace of his typical snark or hidden amusement. It’s all charming and tenderness rolled into an affectionate, toothy smile. He feels himself smile back, and in the blink of an eye, they’ve said goodbye, and Maverick is alone in his living room.

The usual numbness is offset by a small warmth in his chest.

Maverick can’t take much more, and he tells Viper so.

“I need to be out there again. Being here is just driving me crazy.”

Viper is sitting at his desk, chin resting on his fist. His mustache looks like bed curtains for his knuckles.

“You’re a good instructor, Mitchell, and I’d hate to see your experience gone from the curriculum here, but I can’t make you stay.”

Mav trains his eyes on the floor, “I like teaching, I do, but…”

“You need more, kid. The steady life isn’t for you, yet.”

Metcalf has always been in his corner, and he’s grateful the Commander understands him now. He needs ocean air on a carrier, where he's flying by the seat of his pants. He needs a change, and he needs time away from Miramar to get over Goose, to get back to himself.

He’d finally talked to Carole, who’s taken residence in a neighboring town, and she, in all her lovingness, encouraged him to do what he needed to feel better. Carole is a stronger person than half the damn Navy, and Maverick would bet his wings on it. He told her he’d be back to visit in no time, and to prepare to have to kick him out. Mav is happy to find he means it - he misses Baby Goose.

Viper sighs, “I can get you on a carrier for a six-month deployment, so long as you play nice with your COs.”

“I’ll try my best, sir.”

Metcalf fixes him with an unamused look, “Maverick.”

Mav straightens his spine, “Best behavior. Got it.”

Ice keeps taking him to breakfast on their days off, insisting fervently on paying. He knows the other man like the back of his own hand by now. They see each other every morning (Ice is no less grouchy), they fly in complete tandem, and they’re practically attached at the hip. Slider keeps elbowing him and asking when he gets his pilot back. Maverick typically smacks him upside the head.

One night, at a nice spot they’ve found that doesn’t get infested with young hotshot pilots like the O Club, Maverick sees Iceman incredibly drunk for the first time. He's very amused.

They like feeling a little more civilian on nights like these, and Ice seems to be taking it a bit far. Slider, the motherfucker, is heavily instigating by shoving more shots in his pilot’s direction.

Maverick, never one to be shown up, tries to follow the rounds, but he has to tap out when he crosses from warm into dizzy. He makes Slider get him a glass of water and prays that the also-drunk behemoth of a man doesn’t get lost on the way.

Ice’s head lolls onto Maverick’s shoulder. His half-lidded and fully dilated eyes flit across Maverick’s face, studying his eyes, down to his lips, up to his temples, and back to the mouth. The blonde smiles with all the warmth in the world, plus the alcohol-induced heat. Ice is a touchy drunk, noted.

Maybe it’s the hard liquor in his system, but Pete doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful as Tom Kazansky.

It should be a bigger revelation, with fireworks and an airshow, but he thinks he’s been feeling this way for a while. His affection for Ice may be the main thing tethering him to Miramar, and he can’t help but preemptively miss the beautiful eyes burning into his face, and the plush lips that now smile at him more than they sneer.

He’s a little in love, and it’s gonna hurt to go, but he needs some time to remember who he is.

Baby and Bull accept the Top Gun trophy, and Maverick slides a ten into Ice’s palm. He really thought Crisco would pull through. Slider forks over his share for betting on Arizona.

Officers and family alike mingle, and he gets an odd sense of deja vu as Viper approaches him. They’re all in dress whites, and Maverick is being handed an envelope with an assignment briefing. He doesn’t open it, he knows he’s got six months at sea in his near future. A little weight is released from his chest.

Ice catches his eye. The man looks great in his dress whites, clean lines and pristine grooming, but his face is disgruntled. Mav shoots him a confused look, and he swears he sees Iceman turn pink before engaging in conversation with Bull and his parents.

Maverick is not a party man - at least, not this kind of party - and the dress whites are beginning to itch his collar, but he’s got a cold drink in one hand, and nobody’s seeking him out on the outskirts of the gathering, so it’s not so bad.

He congratulates the winners, gives the other pilots his best, and Irish-goodbyes into the parking lot. Viper told him last week that he is leaving tonight. He asked Carole to swing by to drive his bags, so he can say his last goodbyes to little Bradley. He’s trying to be the godfather Brad deserves.

A hand on his shoulder stops him. He turns to see Ice, slightly disheveled.

“Can I come by for a celebratory drink?”

Maverick doesn’t really have the time, but a pang of guilt wracks his heart, because he hasn’t told Ice he’s leaving.

“Sure. Follow me to mine?”

Ice will likely put two and two together, seeing Maverick’s place bare bones and bags packed. He sadly doesn’t have any drinks, other than the little bit of whiskey in a shaving cream can he has stashed in a duffel, so Kazansky will have to do his goodbye, sans celebratory drink.

“Slider drove.”

“Ah,” Maverick smiles, “Does that mean you’re getting on my… what did you call it? ‘Death trap on two wheels?’ Are you riding my death trap?”

He nearly winces at the way it comes out, but he sees the way Ice hides his blush with a groan and a hand over his face in exasperation.

Ice mumbles, “Yes.”

So, Maverick swings himself over the Kawasaki, scooching up enough for another grown man to fit. Ice hesitantly gets on behind him, leaving a couple of inches of space.

“If you stay that far away, you’re gonna fall off!”

Maverick revs the engine to drown out any response from Ice and takes off. Ice doesn’t hesitate to clutch Maverick’s waist and plaster his chest to Mav’s back.

If Mav is leaving, he’s giving Ice the patented Maverick Experience.

He whips around turns, wind rushing by. With strong arms around him, a warm body pressing against his, and the feeling of speed in his face, Maverick feels like peace may be on the horizon. He’s almost there.

The satisfaction leaves when he and Ice stand in his living room, awkwardly.

Ice gets straight to the point, “When were you gonna tell me?”

Maverick can only shift his stance.

“You weren’t, were you?”

Ice crossed the room to stand in front of him.

“I was not.”

“Do you ever think?”

It’s a cruel and harsh tone, one Maverick does not appreciate.

“Excuse me?”

“Pete, why didn’t you tell me you were going to leave for six fucking months?”

Wait. How did Ice know he’d be gone for six months?

He quietly asks, “Did Viper tell you?”

Ice scoffs at him, “Well, obviously you weren’t going to. I figured it out ages ago. You can’t stand it here anymore, I know that, but I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell me.”

He sounds unexpectedly hurt. Maverick expected anger, maybe indifference, but not only is Ice’s voice laced with hurt, his face is destroyed with it.

“I,” Maverick looks for the words that don’t want to be found, “I didn’t think you’d care, Kaz.”

“So you are stupid.”

Maverick has never been so confused before. He scoffs in disbelief.

“How could you possibly think I wouldn’t care? Maverick, I willingly spend most of my time with you, and if I’m not with you, I’m thinking about you. You’re fucking infuriating.”

Maverick pauses, heart both aflutter and a steel ball in his stomach, “I’m not following.”

Kazansky sighs, “I don’t care that you’re leaving. I know you need to, but it… it fucking hurts that you didn’t tell me. I thought we were friends.”

“We are, Ice! Shit, I didn’t think.. I just thought that…”

Damn him and his emotional constipation.

“Maybe you’d spare yourself a hurtful goodbye by not telling me?”

Nobody knows Mav quite like his wingman. He nods.

“It doesn’t have to be hurtful, you know. I’ll write, and I’ll probably be back on deployment in no time.”

Ice wrings his hands together, fidgeting with his class ring. He looks nervous, unsure. It’s not a good look on the typically confident pilot.

Maverick smiles at him, “I’d love to hear from you.”

Ice smiles back, that beautiful, loving smile, “Then I’ll write.”

A car horn honks from out front. Carole.

Sighing, Maverick wipes his sweaty palms on his pants, “Shit, I wanted to change before I go.”

“I’ll tell her to wait, you go change.”

Maverick nods and follows his orders for once, quickly shoving his dress whites into the duffel on his bed and changing into his service khakis. He slings the bag over his shoulder, knowing the clothes are going to be wrinkled to hell, and leaves after doing a last pass of the empty room.

Ice is leaning against the little kitchen island they’ve eaten at for countless mornings, face unreadable, but leaning to the dreary side of emotion.

“All set?” Ice asks, arms crossed over his chest.

He has such nice forearms. Focus, Mav.

“Ready for takeoff,” Maverick responds. He notices Ice’s expression quickly falling, and feels his own eyes sting, “You okay, wingman?”

“I,” Iceman begins with an odd tone, “I don’t want you to go.”

Warmth and despair wrestle for a hand around his heart. Maverick blinks a few times, trying to stave off the tears he feels building.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” he whispers.

Through the front door, he hears Carole honk the horn again.

“I have to go.”

Intensity floods Ice’s features. The sight should be natural for a man so focused, but there’s a raw desperation peeking into the light reflecting in his green-grey eyes, the crinkle between his eyebrows, the firm set of his jaw.

Mav frowns at him, pangs of guilt quivering his bottom lip. Abandoning his wingman.

Ice’s hands shake as they rise, in hesitation and poorly-concealed want. They land on either side of Maverick’s face, gently, as if he’ll turn to dust. He can’t quite believe it, as Ice steps in close. The tips of their noses would touch if he took one more step, eyes locked onto one another.

“You…” Ice’s deep voice comes out ragged, welled with emotion Mav’s never heard from him before. “You come back to me, okay?”

His chest heaves. Neither man wants to cry, but the breaking point is steadily approaching. Hard deck in sight, pull up. Maverick’s always been a gambling man. He lifts his free hand to circle Ice’s wrist.

They stand and tremble together, just for a moment, looking at each other as if their irises alone communicate all of the unspoken developments of… whatever this has become.

“That an order, Kaz?” Maverick is shocked at the sad crack of his own voice, catching in his throat.

“You don’t follow orders.” Iceman sounds devastated.

Mav manages his best smile, knowing it’s tainted by the sorrow on his face. His thumb lightly traces the inside of Ice’s wrist.

“I follow the important ones.”

Ice stills, and his waterlines fill.

And then, Tom kisses him, hard. Tom pulls his face in and smashes their lips together, more a press of teeth behind flesh. Pete can feel the moment Tom begins to second-guess the impulse, and shoves his hands into that stupid, bleach-blonde hair to keep the other man close. The large hands on his face both cradle and clutch, bodies press together in a hot line.

It may be the least sexy kiss of Maverick’s life, all tears and spit and shaking hands, but he’s never wanted anyone so strongly. He thinks he’s definitely in love with Tom, probably has been for a long while now.

There’s no telling who pulls away first, but they’re both breathless and covered in each other's tears. Maverick can’t stay here. The stagnant life has been driving him insane, but the thought of leaving Ice carves a part of his soul out. That little piece has latched onto Ice, and he hopes his wingman takes care of it.

Pete smiles at him, full of teeth, and presses one last kiss to Ice’s plush lips. He pushes away soon after, trailing a hand down Ice’s strong chest. If he stays any longer, being held like something valuable, he’s not sure he could leave.

“I’ll think of you on my six.”

“I’ll always be there,” Ice responds.

Mav nods to him, once, and leaves with his bag slung over his shoulder.

He may never see Kazansky again. They could be deployed in opposite corners of the world, never to have shore leave lining up, never to grace the same town again. But, he got to have him. Maverick may be a greedy man - he still wants Ice all to himself for the foreseeable future, but satisfaction roots in his gut, right beside the longing, because at least he had Tom Kazansky for a little while.

Carole relentlessly teases him. He doesn’t say anything, but he thinks she knows anyway, and just cares that he’s happy.

Maverick spends his six months at sea. He only almost dies once. Pisses off an admiral and a half (Rear Admiral Callahan is a piece of work, enough of an asshole to not count as a full admiral, based on respect). Sorry, Viper.

Flying out here restores him. He feels Goose in the wind and it doesn’t chill his heart, it only ruffles his hair and lifts his wings.

He thinks about Iceman. A lot. At first, it’s just missing him. They used to talk every single day, multiple times a day, and now he only gets a letter or postcard every so often. He worried, for those first few weeks, that maybe the kiss was a fluke, and he really never would hear from Kazansky again, but he gets letters signed ‘Your wingman, Tom’ in pristine handwriting that he pretends to hate. His own letters back have his chicken scratched ‘PETE’ with increasingly absurd little doodles of the two of them or planes or whatever his mind creates. Being stupid is his love language.

He spends more than a few showers thinking of the glimpses of Iceman he’s gotten in the locker rooms. And maybe a few nights in bed. They all do it, okay? He makes sure nobody else is around, unlike some of his fellow sailors. He glares extra hard at Lt. Ransom some mornings.

Maverick surprises himself in his little late-night fantasies, though, when he finds himself thinking of going steady with Ice. Ice’s strong arms wrapped around him in the morning. Ice, groggy and miserable, face buried in Maverick’s neck. Ice helping make dinner - his grandmother’s pierogi recipe. Ice, holding his hand in a dark movie theater, running his thumb over Mav’s knuckles. Ice playing with Bradley is the one that seals the deal. He’s never trusted anyone with the sanctity of Baby Bradshaw until Ice.

He’s thrilled to dock in a couple of months.

Carole picks him up and drives him to get the Kawasaki. He sets up in the guest room and dials Iceman’s housing. Iceman is not the one who answers, and Maverick’s heart crumbles.

He puts it aside as Bradley tumbles into the room and jumps into Maverick’s arms. There is no being sad in the presence of Bradley Peter Bradshaw.

Later in the night, he asks Carole if she’s heard anything from Kazansky. With a knowing glimmer in her eye, she explains that she’s become good friends with Slider’s fiancée, Jenny. Ice and Slider are on a four-month mission on the East Coast, starting last month.

Maverick assumes Ice is getting back at him for the whole ‘not saying he’s leaving’ thing. Touché. He still bitches and moans in his next letter, and gets an equally bitchy response. He loves it.

Ice is coming back and has his own housing. Slider is moving in with his fiancée, so Ice obviously needs a roommate. For convenience. And bills. Duh.

Bradley is devastated that he’s moving out, but it’s less than ten minutes away, which the kid could probably run if he were so determined.

Mav moves in before Ice gets back, having been sent a key by their landlord. He’s not one for decorating, but that’s the least of Ice’s concerns when he returns.

The door clicks open, and Maverick shoots up from his spot on the couch. He’d been watching a football game and must have been too engrossed to notice the Plymouth pulling up.

Ice is all tanned skin and light hair, tall and handsome as all hell. He’s in his civvies, and Maverick nearly comes on the spot.

Ice kicks the door closed behind him and unceremoniously drops his bags to rush across the room. Maverick scrambles to meet him halfway and-

Now this? This is the sexiest kiss Maverick has ever had. It’s months of pure, pent-up want and, fuck, it’s good. Ice wraps an arm around the circumference of Maverick’s waist, drawing him in as close as possible. His other hand curls around the back of Mav’s neck, playing with the short hairs at his nape. Maverick, in turn, tucks his own arm under the one holding his face, clutching at Ice’s broad shoulder. He shoves his other hand deep into Ice’s hair, tugging with his grip.

It’s hot, and desperate, and everything Maverick imagined and more. He feels like himself again, but different, because some things are gone, but he’s more than he once was. Plus, he has a hot blonde he very much intends on taking to bed.

Ice pulls Maverick’s shirt up over his head, carelessly tossing it across the room. Maverick returns the favor.

They stand, breathless, for a moment.

Ice breaks the intense air, “This isn’t gonna be easy for us. A lot of hiding and secrets.”

Maverick smiles, “Since when were you scared?”

Ice moves in close again, tugging Mav against him, “I’m not scared of anything, Trouble.”

“Tom?”

Ice hums inquisitively. The man starts nipping at Maverick's neck, dragging his teeth along sensitive skin, making it hard to focus.

“Take me to bed, honey.”

“Only if you make breakfast in the morning, baby.”

Oh, Maverick really likes that.

He steals away Tom’s mouth and lets himself feel closer to bliss than he’s ever felt before.

Pete knows he won’t rise with the sun, but what he’ll awake to is far better.