Archive of Our Own

1986, July

He can’t make sense of it, can’t stop going over it in his head.

Every time he shuts his eyes, he’s back there.

Coming around in a tight left circle, he’s on Viper’s tail. He can’t line up the shot. He’s almost there. Just needs a few more seconds. Fingers twitching around the stick. Just needs a few more seconds.

Mav bitching in his ear over the comms.

The force of the harness on his ribs shifting as he pulls off, just to be replaced by a squeezing horror- something entirely unfamiliar- as he realizes what’s happening.

The door creaking open snaps him out of it.

“You gotta try to get some sleep, Tom. I can hear you thinking through the wall,” Slider murmurs, rubbing his eyes.

“I just don’t understand,” he says out loud, startled by the scratchiness of his voice.

Slider sends him a pitiful look, one Tom isn’t used to being on the receiving end of.

“There’s nothing to understand,” Ron sighs. “You heard the inquiry. Freak accident.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. He knows that, logically. Bad luck, was what Jester said, when he found Ice puking in the bushes afterwards.

Ron leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Tom shuts his eyes. I just don’t understand.

1986, August

It’s been one week since he almost died, one week since he and Slider shot down a MiG (and Maverick shot down three more, saving their asses), and they’re on the Enterprise, still. They’re sharing with Maverick, Merlin, Hollywood, and Wolfman. They’re getting close, the lot of them, no doubt thanks to last week’s mission. They’d been providing air support in the following days, just until the Layton was back safely within friendly waters. Tomorrow they’ll be on a transport back to North Island.

He thinks maybe he misunderstood Maverick, at first. He thought he was just another one of those pilots, he knew the type, the kind that got into it for the wrong reasons- something to prove. And sure, Mitchell sure flew like he had something to prove, but then he proved it, ten times over.

He looks across the room to where Maverick is lying down in his own bunk, on his back, hands clasped over his belly. From here, in the shadows, it looks like he’s frowning.

It’s the last thing Tom sees before sleep finally takes him.

1987, March

He wakes with a pounding headache.

Tom has never had trouble holding his liquor, so he’s caught off guard by the vice like pain at his temples, the nausea swirling low in his gut.

He longs to shut his eyes, go back to sleep for just a few more hours, but an incessant pressure in his bladder begs otherwise.

He rolls out of bed and addresses his body’s demands in reverse order- a piss, spitting bile into the toilet, popping an Ibuprofen as he flushes the night’s bad choices away. He splashes water on his face, trying to feel more human. He’s barely able to piece together last night’s events. They’d gone out to celebrate his impending promotion, him and Slider and…

A condom in the bathroom trashcan gets his attention. He stumbles out of the bathroom, looks at his bed, just to be sure. It’s empty, but mustn’t have been last night.

(And he’s aching in a sort-of familiar way.)

The sobering realization of who had been occupying it hits him like a Tomcat at Mach 2.

“Fuck me.”

1987, May

Mitchell’s rutting against him. The rough drag of his denim against Tom’s bare thigh is desperate, but Tom’s not faring much better himself, not where he’s tenting his shorts, so who is he to judge? It’s so late that it’s technically early, but they don’t have work in the morning, and even if they did, Tom has had so much to drink he’s not sure he’s in a place to care. He drags his mouth across Maverick’s collar bone, over the thin cotton of his t-shirt. It tastes like sweat.

“Shit, Ice, I need more,” Maverick pants against his ear. Tom screws his eyes shut, refuses to look as Maverick palms him.

He blindly searches for the fly of Maverick’s jeans, needs them on even ground. He grabs him maybe a little to roughly, but he doesn’t care. He needs this too.

It doesn’t last long, not when Tom wraps a spit-slick palm around the length of him.

Maverick comes first, with a long, drawn-out groan that reverberates in Tom’s skull. Tom follows with just a sharp inhale and tense muscles as he promises himself that this time is the last time, for real.

It has to be.

1987, July

He thinks he’s managed at least a few good hours before he wakes with a start. The sun hasn’t even crested over the horizon, but his heart is racing. Distantly he hears a helicopter passing overhead.

The sound of its rotor matches that from his nightmare.

He disentangles himself from where his legs are caught in the sheets. He pulls on a pair of running shorts. If he can’t sleep, he might as well start his day on the right foot.

He regrets it almost immediately. He’s dehydrated, and the San Diego heat is suffocating, even at this hour. He starts off too fast, immediately giving himself a horrible stomach cramp. Still, he doesn’t slow. He can’t. The pain is secondary.

When he crosses the neighborhood, another set of steps fall in line with his. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

They run for another half hour or so, footfalls falling in sync, before eventually slowing to a walk by the chain link fence running the perimeter of the airfield.

Tom knows he should say something, but he has no idea what. He and Maverick have formed an unsteady companionship, since they’d taken up their instructor slots. Half a year ago, Tom would have said they were friends, even. But then they started fucking. That had a tendency to… complicate things.

He glances at Maverick out of the corner of his eye, catches him looking back. He averts his gaze, looks back out onto the tarmac where a C-130 is taxiing for take-off.

“I miss him,” Maverick whispers.

Tom chews on the inside of his cheek. Everything feels too big or too small, too brash or too…

So instead, in the absence of words, he places a palm on Maverick’s back, between his shoulder blades against his sweat-soaked t-shirt, and hopes that’s enough.

1988, November

Bone tired, and back home, for Thanksgiving. His parents finally got around to replacing the mattress in his room, which now serves as a guest bedroom, and it’s softer, more comfortable. But still, he’d shifted in and out of consciousness for a while, never quite settling.

He can smell coffee and bacon wafting up from the kitchen, can hear his mother and sister’s rapid-fire conversation over the chirping birds outside the window.

He checks his watch. He’ll be called down any minute now, for breakfast. He wonders if he sleeps through it if he can avoid any more prodding about his love life.

He doesn’t get the big deal. He isn’t even thirty, yet. Sure, his parents had gotten married young- his father straight out of the Academy, his mother finishing nursing school. Two kids by the time she was twenty-three. I don’t want to be an old grandmother, his mother would say, ruffling his hair as she stepped around the kitchen table.

The thought makes him nauseous.

A knock on the door, in a familiar rhythm.

“I’m up!” He yells, but he doesn’t actually make a move to get out of bed.

Sarah opens the door, balancing two cups of coffee in her other hand.

“I thought you could use this,” she says, sitting at the foot of his bed, handing him one of the mugs.

He eyes her warily. Sarah is a great sister- she really is- but she’s only really nice like this when she wants something.

“What do you want?”

“What, I can’t bring my dear brother, who I haven’t seen in almost a year, mind you, a cup of coffee?”

“No, not really,” he says, sitting up a little taller against the headboard to accept her offering- in his favorite mug and everything. Must be something big.

“Okay, you caught me,” she sighs, and then, very seriously: “I want to go back to school.”

That’s not what he was expecting.

“That’s great,” he says. “For what?”

“Med school,” she says, a little grave. “Already took the MCAT. I got a thirty-four Tom. That’s pretty good, apparently. Ninetieth percentile or something.”

“That’s… Sarah. That’s amazing, congratulations,” he says, and means it, too. “You’re going to make a great doctor.”

“I think so too!” She says with a grin. Tom has always admired that about her, her self-assurance. “Small problem,” she continues, smile faltering. “I can’t afford tuition, not on top of rent. Even with a loan I’d be in the red. Unless…”

“Have you asked Mom and Dad?” He asks, even though the answer doesn’t really matter. They wouldn’t be interested in helping, probably. Sarah has a perfectly fine career as a nurse.

“Of course not,” she snaps. “I’m asking you.”

“Sarah,” he winces. “I really don’t make all that much.”

“Oh God, no, Tom,” she shakes her head, rolls her eyes. “I’m not asking for money.”

He blinks. “Then what?”

“I’m asking if you’ll cosign a loan with me,” she says. “The bank said if I get someone else’s name on it, someone with stable, full-time employment, they’ll double my line of credit.”

Huh.

“Well, um,” he tries to think of a downside, but he can’t. For all her faults, Sarah is committed and brilliant. He doesn’t doubt she’ll succeed. “Sure, I guess.”

“Thanks Tommy,” she says with a blinding smile. “We can drive there tomorrow. Or, actually, is the bank even open on Black Friday? I think so. I don’t think it’s really a holiday. Whatever. We’ll give it a shot, and if it’s closed, we can go on Monday.”

“Sure, Sarah,” Tom takes a long sip of coffee. He’s going to need it to keep up, today. Surrounded by the cockiest pilots in the Navy but the only person who could ever fly circles around him is his sister. Well, except maybe one. “Whatever you want.”

1989, July

The phone rings.

Tom frowns, the alarm clock on his bedside reading 0113. Far too early for anyone to be calling.

And Tom, frankly, considers ignoring it, but then it stops after only a few rings, which is, somehow, weirder.

Feeling curious and unsettled, he slips from his bed, padding down the hall to the living room, the old landline nailed to the wall.

He stares at it. Waits, expectantly, maybe a bit dumbly, for it to ring again.

It doesn’t, of course, and he’s not sure what exactly, but something compels him to pick it up and dial a number that he’s never called before, despite having memorized it months ago from where it’d been scribbled on a postcard he keeps carefully folded in his bedside table.

The phone rings three times before someone picks up.

“H-hello?”

“Maverick?”

“Ice?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Tom breathes, shifting on his feet. “Mav- did you… Did you call?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” he sounds tired, distant. His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming. Tom’s heart constricts in his chest. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep. Didn’t mean to bother you. I just thought, maybe…” he trails off. “Sorry.”

“Uh, wait, it’s okay,” Tom holds the receiver closer to his ear.

The silence extends between them, and if it wasn’t for Maverick’s breaths coming through rapid and unsteady, Tom would have thought he hung up.

“I get them too, you know,” he confesses, breaking it. He himself had been setting his sights on Viper when the phone woke him. “Nightmares.”

Maverick takes a shuddering breath.

“Tell me about it?” Tom asks.

“What?”

“Or don’t,” Tom winces. “Just- I find it helps.”

Another silence.

“Okay,” Maverick says, softly. “Um. It was the same as always. Started when I closed the canopy. We were shooting the shit, you know. Goose- Goose made this joke, about Slider…”

He listens, gripping the phone against his ear, as Maverick recounts his dream. It’s both familiar and foreign, hearing it from his perspective. As they get closer to the actual accident, his tone shifts. The way he describes it is almost passive. Impersonal.

Tom realizes at some point that he’s reciting the findings from the inquiry, rather than the dream itself.

It hurts like hell.

It’s also strangely comforting.

1990, April

This is crossing all sort of lines. He must have had more to drink than usual, because he doesn’t remember much past Maverick pushing another round of shots in his direction.

Tom’s right arm is trapped under his weight. He’s hot like a furnace, and he’s blowing warm puffs of air across Tom’s skin where his mouth is inches from his neck. It hardly looks comfortable, the way his body is contorted- one arm wrapped low around Tom’s waist, the other extended out behind him.

Tom should push him off, push him away. He should drag his own arm up and out from underneath his body. He can hardly feel his hand anymore, just tingling static in his fingertips.

But then Maverick shuffles impossibly closer, lips brushing against his throat, and Tom finds he doesn’t mind it much at all.

1991, February

He wakes on his thirty-first birthday curled around Maverick.

After the first night, it became the norm. They didn’t spend every night together- no, that would be… that would be too much. Maverick doesn’t snore, but he radiates an unbelievable amount of heat, and he’s always invading Tom’s personal space- an arm over Tom’s ribs, his face tucked into Tom’s throat. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s a lot.

But today he’s the one in Maverick’s personal space- one arm under his head like a pillow, the other looped over his waist. He’s spooning him, he realizes, which startles him, at first, but also makes him smile in amusement, in his half-asleep contentment. It’s still dark out, but this time of year that doesn’t mean much, so he chances a peek at his watch, even though he doesn’t really care to know, and is pleasantly surprised to find it’s still early, early enough that he can go back to sleep, if he wants.

Instead, he lets the hand that’s splayed over Maverick’s belly slip down a little lower. He pauses over the coarse hair there, scratches at it with his fingernails. Maverick pushes forward into his hand and Tom pauses, but then he settles, so Tom thinks he’s still asleep. He’s not sure why, but he wants Maverick asleep, just for a little longer. Tom shifts a little, just to relieve some of the pressure in his boxers, and then continues his ministrations. He traces the ridges and plains of his abdomen, counts the musculature there, all the while breathing in the smell of his shampoo on the back of his neck. His pinky finger traces the edge of his waistband and-

“Good morning,” Maverick murmurs.

“Morning,” Tom says, taking it as permission to finally slip his hand over the front of Maverick’s boxers, getting a hand around him, over the fabric. He’s only half-hard, but that’ll change, soon enough. Tom squeezes, once.

“Y’know,” Maverick says, voice deliciously low and rumbly, “It’s your birthday. I should be doing this for you.”

“You should,” Tom says, because that’s smoother than admitting that this is what he wants. “But then again I always was quicker than you.”

Maverick makes a sound of protest and tries to turn in his arms so Tom grabs him a little tighter. Maverick hisses.

“Behave,” Tom says into his ear, heart leaping in his chest. It’s a little dirty, not the kind of thing Tom normally says. Actually, come to think of it, he doesn’t say much at all, usually.

“Okay, birthday boy, show me what you’ve got,” Maverick says, a little breathless, fully awake, now, grinding back against him.

Tom takes his hand away, spits in it. They’ve got stuff in the bedside drawer, but there’s something sort of hot about doing it like this. He reaches into Maverick’s boxers, and he’s hard, now. 

They’ve been doing this for long enough, now, that Tom knows what he likes. But instead, he feels compelled to do what he would do for himself. Maybe it’s because of the angle. Behind him, like this, it’s sort of like they’re just one person- he might as well be getting himself off.

“Shit,” Maverick hisses, when Tom thumbs him incessantly right over the head. “What’s gotten into you?”

Tom bites Maverick’s shoulder, and apparently that does something for him, because then Maverick’s hips are making stuttered movements into Tom’s hand and-

“Are you-” Tom asks, frowning, shifting his palm up

“Shuttup,” Maverick gasps, a little embarrassed, after he’s worked himself through it.

Tom grins, removes his hand when Maverick squirms backwards away from the contact.

He wipes his palm on the sheets- he has to wash them today, anyway- and then rolls onto his back. He gets the very same hand, still a bit sticky, around himself, shutting his eyes at the relief. The mattress shifts next to him and he can hear Maverick rifling through the drawer for a second and then he’s straddling Tom, knees on either side of his hips. It’s quite a sight to behold.

“Now- I want you to know, this is only because it’s your birthday,” Maverick says, pushing a hand down on Tom’s chest, reaching behind himself, and oh, okay.

He watches as Maverick works himself open. They’d done this last night, so it doesn’t take him long to get ready, but his expression is tight. It mustn’t be pleasant, seeing as it’ll take him at least a half hour or so to be up for it, again. But still, he seems committed, because then he’s grabbing Tom’s cock, which is so hard against his own belly that he thinks he might come before they even get a chance, but then Maverick’s lining him up and sinking down, and okay.

“Mav-” Tom gasps, reaching out to grab his hips. “Wha-”

“Just gimme a second,” Maverick says, even though that’s not really the pressing matter here.

Because while they’d done this last night (and a few other times before), they’d never done it like this- bare. But they’d also never done it like this, Maverick above him. He can’t look away, entranced by the furrow between his brows as he adjusts to the stretch.

“Okay,” Maverick says, after a moment. And then he experimentally rises up, maybe an inch, and then sits back down. “Okay?”

“Jesus Christ, yeah,” Tom still feels like his whole world has been turned upside down and it’s not even 0600. “Are you-” But then Maverick is lifting up again, almost all the way off this time, and then back down, and Tom’s brain shuts off. “Pete.”

“Yeah, hold on,” Maverick shifts around a little, which only makes things worse (better) for Tom, who thinks he might die. “Just hold on for one more- okay, there.”

The new angle is smoother, and Maverick starts moving up and down in a steady rhythm. It’s stupid hot, and all Tom can do is hold on to his hips and resist the primal urge to flip them over, because then he’d be robbed of this sight- and what a sight it is…

“You close?” Maverick asks, a little desperate.

“Yeah,” Tom bites out through a clenched jaw.

“Okay, come on, then,” Maverick gasps, as he squeezes around him.

“Wha- in?” He asks, and it comes out a little strangled, because Maverick has really nailed the motion now, which is also why he doesn’t get a chance to wait for confirmation before his hips jerk up and he finishes inside.

Maverick lets him ride it out, staying still as Tom twitches through it, and then he’s pulling completely off, grimacing a little as he does, and flopping down on the bed next to him.

Yeah, definitely washing the sheets.

“That was pretty stupid,” Tom says, once he catches his breath, staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Maverick says sheepishly, maybe even actually feeling a bit guilty. “Sorry.”

“I- no, it’s okay. It was good,” Tom rolls his shoulders, takes a deep breath. They both read the news, he doesn’t need to explain why. “Really good. Just- stupid,” – dangerous, he doesn’t say – “Unless, you know…”

Tom trails off. The silence extends between them, for a moment. Tom feels his palms prick with sweat.

“I’m not seeing anyone else,” Maverick offers, voice low.

“You’re not?” Tom asks, failing to mask his surprise. He just sort of assumed that he was. They never really established the boundaries of this. And Tom isn’t either, but he knows Maverick likes women, too. Tom doesn’t exactly have as many options.

“No, not for a while,” Maverick admits, shifting to lie on his side. His ass must be killing him, after all of that.

Tom turns his head on the pillow, catches his eye. “Me neither.”

They’re not touching, but Tom is acutely aware of the inch of space between them.

“Yeah?” Maverick asks, lips quirking up a little.

“Yeah,” Tom nods.

“Well, then. Happy birthday, Tom,” Maverick grins, snaking a hand around the back of his neck to kiss him square on the mouth.

1991, November

It’s frigid, and though normally Tom likes it cold, to sleep, his shivering is keeping him awake. His first sea tour in nearly half a decade- first since Layton, first since Maverick became Pete.

He’s thankful to have Ron back in his back seat, and in the bunk above him, though he suspects he’ll be finding a quiet moment- not that they have much of those, these days- to tell him he’s leaving, now that he has a kid on the way.

Tom is happy for him, he really is, but as the carrier groans its way across the Pacific, he feels nostalgic for the years before Top Gun, when it was just the two of them in the skies, no real threat of combat.

Part of him is ashamed, but there’s no glory in this, either- dropping bombs at a distance.

He pulls the thin covers tighter around his body, shuts his eyes. Maybe he can convince himself the press of cotton along his body is the press of something warmer, but just as firm.

1991, December

The first thing that fully registers is the beeping. His fingers twitch instinctively at the steady metronome that sounds a bit like tone lock but also not at all.

The next thing he notices is the smell of antiseptic and alcohol, and something vaguely floral. The smell of sterility.

He blinks his eyes, which feel like they’ve been glued shut, open against the harsh light coming in from all around. He can’t make anything out except for vague shapes- an empty chair to his left, a rolling cart along the back wall. A figure to his right.

“Wha’ happened,” he mumbles, trying to push himself up with his right hand but- ow.

“Hey- hey. Don’t move,” someone says, pushing down on his chest, clear of his shoulder which is aching something awful, firm but gentle. “You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”

“What’s going on?” His voice comes to him more easily now, and his vision is clearing. The person speaking to him is Ron. And his arm is in a sling. Shit. Shit.

“I- I should go get the doc,” Ron says, making to stand. For all that they’ve been through together, he’s rarely seen Ron look like this- gaze distant, jaw firm. He looks scared.

“Ron, Slider,” Tom uses what strength he can muster to find a commanding voice. “What happened?”

Ron sits back down, albeit hesitantly, and meets Tom’s eye.

“We had to punch out,” he says, straight to the point. Tom always liked that about Slider. No bullshit. “Don’t worry, everyone’s okay. Mechanical failure, I’m still not sure exactly what happened. They’re going to try to recover what they can, see if they can’t get any info.”

That’s… not good. Normally, the Navy doesn’t really bother with fishing their jets out of the water- deems it a waste of resources, seeing as they’ll never be air-worthy again, anyway. But the F-18s they’re using are still relatively new in rotation, and if they have a tendency to fall out of the sky, they need to know.

Ron pauses, and then does something Tom doesn’t think he’s ever done before. He takes Tom’s hand.

“You took the worst of it,” he says, voice wavering. “You- you’ve been out for a few days.” – a shaky breath – “More than a few.”

Tom absorbs this information.

He tries to take stock of his body, but the edges of his consciousness are still fuzzy.

As though reading his mind, Ron continues, “You, uh. You needed surgery, on your back. Spinal compression. You also broke some ribs, and they had to reset your hip- it dislocated.” He pauses again, squeezes Tom’s hand. “And, uh, the swelling in your brain is still going down, but they say you’re in the clear. You’ve woken up a few times, since they extubated, but haven’t really been all that lucid. They’ll- they’ll have to do some tests, but, uh, they think you should be all there.”

Tom shuts his eyes. He better be. Spinal injury. He could be grounded for good. If he’s lost his mind, too- well, he’ll be looking at medical discharge.

“I’m going to go get the doctor,” Ron says again, but this time he leaves no room for argument. He squeezes Tom’s hand again. “Your sister is around here somewhere, and your parents were here earlier. I’ll let them know you’re awake. Is there… is there anyone else you want me to call?”

Tom starts at the question, heart leaping to his throat. Pete.

Pete is going to be pissed. He’d thrown up quite the stink when they got their orders- separate deployments. Pete is going to feel responsible, guilty, for not being there, even though it’s no one’s fault. Orders are orders.

Still, the thought alone makes him sick to his stomach.

At Ron’s expectant expression, he feels a wave of cold fear. Had he said something, when he was in a hazy in between state of consciousness? It reminds him of when he’d gotten his wisdom teeth out. He’d been terrified to go under, and of waking up after. A total loss of control.

“Um, no,” he shakes his head and then immediately regrets it, a metallic taste on his tongue. “Not right now.”

Ron gives him a sad smile, and then disappears out the door.

Tom closes his eyes, and the last thought he has before he drifts back off to sleep is that he hopes Pete isn’t too worried.

1992, January

The curtains are drawn tight over the window, preventing any light from seeping in, but still his head is pounding. The bleed might be under control, but they still have him on as little pain medication as possible. The doctor said it was important not to mask any neurological symptoms. That rules out any narcotics, and Ibuprofen elevates the risk of a rebleed, so basically, he can only take Tylenol. Great.

He experimentally rolls onto his side, but that’s worse, so he rolls onto his stomach, which mercifully relieves some of the pressure at the base of his skull.

He feels a dip in the mattress, a warm hand settling between his shoulder blades.

“I think you can take another dose, if you want,” Pete murmurs, fingers tracing down the knobs of his spine.

What’s the point? Tom thinks. Won’t make a difference.

He just groans into his pillow instead.

Pete runs his hand back up and settles it on the back of his neck, and squeezes, once.

“Mm,” Tom relaxes a bit. “That feels nice.”

“Oh yeah?” Pete asks, applying a gentle, steady pressure.

The pain dissipates.

Tom practically moans, and he’d be embarrassed, but it feels too good.

Pete doesn’t laugh, just shifts so that his knees are bracketing Tom’s narrow hips, and starts carefully massaging his neck and shoulders.

“Shit,” Tom swears, practically melting under his touch. There’s an obvious joke to make there with his callsign, but Pete seems to be taking the task at hand seriously. His thumbs press firm and sure into a spot right below his hairline on either side of his vertebrae and- “Oh, shit. Right there. Ah.”

“Feel good?”

“Hmmm,” Tom doesn’t dare nod, doesn’t dare move. It’s the first true relief he’s felt since he’s left the hospital and they took him off the sedatives. Something overwhelmingly warm and peaceful washes over him. He can feel it in his shoulders, his knees, down to his toes. “If I fall asleep…”

“I know, baby,” Pete murmurs, shifting ever so slightly to lean down and kiss his ear, his chest pushing against Tom’s back, blanketing him with a sure and firm heat. Tom’s stomach flips at the pet-name, one he only really tolerates during sex. It’s growing on him, maybe. “You just relax.”

He’s out pretty quick, after that.

1992, September

He wishes Pete were here. After almost nine months of physical therapy, Tom has been cleared by medical to resume normal responsibilities on base. He won’t be seeing the inside of a jet for at least another few months, but he’ll take it. Tom should be thrumming with excitement, but instead he’s just frowning at the empty expanse beside him.

He drags his fingers along cold sheets.

As if on cue, the phone starts to rings. He picks it up.

“Kazansky.”

“Hiya, Ice. It’s me.”

He jams his finger on the speaker button, which has been sticky for a few months now.

“Hi. Hi! Hey- where are you calling from? Thought it was a no contact.”

“You’re not the only one who’s owed favors.”

He doesn’t want to know, says as much.

“Well, long story short, I have five minutes. I just wanted to wish you luck on your first day.”

God. It never stopped surprising him how thoughtful Pete could be. For all that he earns his callsign, he cares more than anyone else Tom knows.

“It’s hardly my first day,” Tom argues, tangling the phone cord in his fingers. He’s going back to Top Gun as an instructor for the foreseeable future. It’ll mostly be a whole lot of paper pushing, but once he’s cleared, he’ll get to fly, sometimes, and that in itself feels like winning the lottery.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

He does.

“Anyway, you don’t need the luck, either, but I just-”

He cuts out.

“Mav- Maverick?”

Tom grabs the receiver, presses it against his ear. He jams his thumb against the speaker button, but still, nothing comes through.

“Pete?” He says, helplessly, into the silent room.

He hesitantly puts down the phone, picks it back up- dial tone, puts it back down.

He waits for a minute. Five. Ten.

But no one calls back.

He has to tell himself that it’s nothing, that he just lost the connection, because there’s nothing else he can do.

He rolls over onto his back and sighs.

It’s going to be a long six months.

1993, May

Frankly, he’s pissed.

He’s pissed at Maverick for being such a Goddamn pain in the ass that they extended his tour from six months to eleven.

He’s pissed at Maverick for being so Goddamn good at his job that they punish him by keeping him in the air instead of tying him down, because it would hurt them more than it would hurt him.

He’s pissed at Maverick for being so infuriatingly, devastatingly Maverick. For how he weaseled his way into Tom’s life, so that now Tom’s first waking thought and the last before he falls asleep every single day is Pete: Where is he? How is he? When will he be back?

It’s ridiculous.

He’s got his own shit to worry about: there are rumors that the Weapon’s School is going to get moved to fucking Nevada, which is, frankly, ridiculous. Sarah’s graduating from medical school, next month, and he forgot to arrange for the time off, which means he needs to talk to someone about that. The brass wants them to transition to the F-18, which makes sense on paper but is heartbreaking, for a number of reasons. And Viper let it slip that he’s up for Commander, so he thinks with all of this, it might be time to get his masters, before he ties himself to a desk for the rest of his life.

All of that, and there’s still only really one thing on his mind.

“Fuck you, Mitchell.”

Tom rolls out of bed.

1994, January

Pete had set a brutal pace from the get-go, but he’s thrusting into him in earnest now. The echoing slap of skin against skin in the under furnished room is filthy, but Tom can only focus on the feeling. It’s been so long- impossibly long- but even before, they rarely did it like this- face to face. Tom finds that while the angle is worse, it’s also better because he can see Pete’s expression, which is overwhelmingly satisfying.

He releases Pete’s biceps as he readjusts, straightening up and hitching one of Tom’s legs up onto his shoulder. His hip twinges, but it’s okay, the angle is a bit smoother, now, “Hmm, yes, there, right there.”

Tom’s eye is drawn to a new scar along Pete’s jawline. He wonders if there’s a story there, how he got it.

A year and a bit apart.

It’s a miracle they still fit together, after all that.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Pete kisses his ankle, “Hey, keep ‘em open. Wanna see you.”

So Tom opens his eyes, meets Pete’s gaze. Pete, who’s smiling down at him like he can’t believe he’s really here. Which is reasonable: it’s pretty unbelievable, really.

He takes his free hand and wraps it loosely around Tom, letting the rocking of their hips create the friction.

And that’s all it takes to send him over the edge, spilling over his stomach. A little earlier than he’d like, but fine. Pete lowers Tom’s leg so he can lean back over him and crash their mouths together in a messy collision of tongue and teeth. Hurts kinda, but whatever.

“Are you close?” He asks, once he regains control of his breathing. Pete is panting above him, sweat beading at his temple, dog tags grazing over Tom’s chest.

“Hmm, almost,” Pete says, his hips giving aborted twitches, where he has them stilled, not to overwhelm him in the aftershocks. Tom lifts a hand to stroke his flank appreciatively. So thoughtful.

“Okay, c’mon,” Tom taps his hip encouragingly.

“You sure?”

Tom nods, reaching his other hand up around the back of his neck to pull him in for kiss- this one softer, more coordinated. There we go, we still got it.

Pete gives an experimental a roll of his hips, and Tom hisses at the sensation. His cock, which is lying spent on his own belly, gives a valiant twitch, but there won’t be another round, not tonight- or is it morning? He doesn’t know anymore.

Pete hesitates, again, frowning down at him. So thoughtful.

“C’mon, Pete,” he encourages. The drag is uncomfortable, now, but he’s feeling charitable.

That seems to be enough to assure him that it’s fine, and then he’s back to fucking him in long, deep strokes, which, okay.

“Missed you so much, you don’t even know,” Pete says into his ear, biting gently at the shell of it. It’s the kind of thing they can only really say out loud in these moments, when they’re both made so vulnerable by circumstance that acknowledging it doesn’t feel so raw. “God, Ice. You feel so good. So fucking good.”

Tom grips his shoulders, his biceps, appreciates the muscles rippling under taught skin. He kisses him again, just to have something to do with his mouth that’s not just swallowing back sounds of discomfort.

(They never kissed that much, before, either, but Tom can’t say he minds!)

Pete comes with a muffled groan, body collapsing against Tom’s chest, not hard enough to knock the wind out of him but hard enough that he accidentally bites down a bit too hard on Pete’s bottom lip- which is his own damn fault, he thinks.

Still, he runs his tongue over it in apology.

“We should shower,” he says, after Pete pulls out and shifts so he’s laying along the side of Tom’s body.

“We should,” Pete agrees, pulling off the condom. Pete reaches across him for a tissue, but Tom bats his hand away, uses a corner of the sheet instead.

He shuts his eyes, setting aside thoughts of waking up sticky from sweat and other unsavory things in favor of the warm pull of sleep.

It’s fine.

They can shower in the morning.

1995, October

It’s voyeuristic, he knows, but he can’t help it.

He watches through half-open eyes from his pillow as Pete pulls down his underwear and riffles through the dresser for a pair of running shorts. Tom would join him, but he has to be on base early for a meeting with the Air Boss.

For now, he’ll settle for watching the muscles of Pete’s back flex under his skin as he pulls his shirt over his head, following the ripple down to the dip right above his ass.

When Pete turns, Tom is blessed by the sight of the deep vee of his hips disappearing behind the waistband of his shorts.

“Enjoying the show?” Pete teases, cocky grin playing on his lips.

Tom doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead shuts his eyes the rest of the way and pretends to go back to sleep.

It works, because next thing he knows a solid weight is settling over him, pushing him onto his back, kissing his eyebrows, eyelids, the ridge of his cheek, the underside of his jaw.

“I have some other ideas of how you can get your cardio in,” Tom murmurs against his lips, reaching for him.

But then Pete- the bastard- pulls away and hops off the bed with a youthful energy that he should have left behind in his twenties.

Tom does not pout.

“Sorry, baby,” Pete says- and that’s just not fair. “I won’t have time later, and I know you don’t want me going out of shape.”

True. But they can have both- Tom can make it quick. He says as much.

“Later, I promise,” Pete grins, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he disappears into the hallway.

And well- later sounds nice, too.

1996, July

Something wakes Tom up, but he isn’t sure exactly what until he registers the light creeping in through the crack in the door, the small hand gently pushing at his shoulder.

“Uncle Ice, wake up,” a voice- Bradley’s- whispers.

Tom turns his head in its direction, blinks blearily over his shoulder. He can barely make out the thirteen-year-old’s figure, just a shadow against the dim yellow-orange of the hallway.

“Bradley?” He croaks, voice hoarse from disuse. He rolls over to face the child.

“I think Uncle Mav is having a bad dream,” Bradley explains, raising his voice slightly, but still quiet. “I, um. Mom told me not to try to wake him up ‘cause it would scare him, but… it sounds bad.”

Tom’s heart constricts his chest.

Carole isn’t doing well. She’s at the hospital so they can monitor her overnight, so Bradley is staying with them.

(Well, he’s staying with Maverick. Tom, technically, lives in Monterey, but he finished his master’s last month, and in the interim he’s covering for Viper, who is still in D.C. debriefing the shit show that was RIMPAC, and, well, when asked if he needed housing…)

“Okay, Baby Goose,” Tom pushes himself up to sitting, finds the floor with his bare feet. As he stands, he puts a hand between the kid’s shoulders to gently guide him back toward his bedroom- the one he occupies when he stays the night, which is becoming more often than not. “You did the right thing. Try to go back to sleep, okay? I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

Bradley looks unconvinced, but he nods and disappears back into his room, which is between the guest room (which is nominally Tom’s, but he only really uses it when Bradley sleeps over) and Pete’s.

He pads over to the door of Pete’s room, which is ajar, and passes through the threshold.

The room is dark, save for the moonlight creeping in through the blinds.

Pete’s in the middle of the bed, legs tangled in the sheets.

He jerks left, and then right. His eyebrows are knotted in a deep frown, and his breaths are coming in quick and uneven. Something painful settles in Tom’s ribcage.

Tom gingerly steps around the mattress, tries to figure out the best approach.

When they’re in bed together, it’s surprisingly simple. He’ll wake to Pete twitching, maybe hear him mutter Goose’s name or Bradley’s or, sometimes, lately, Tom’s. He’ll reach out, tug him into his arms, tighten his hold until his breathing slows, before he can get to the worst of it.

“Pete,” Tom tries, voice louder than a whisper but still soft in the dark room. “Maverick. Wake up. You’re alright.”

Nothing.

He jerks hard to the left, curls in on himself. Goose, no Goose, please…

It’s ten years, this month.

He hesitates, and then, on instinct, he takes Pete’s hand.

Pete’s eyes fly open, and then he’s sitting up panting, all the while holding Tom’s fingers in a vice-like grip. Tom’s half-worried he’s going to break one.

“Shh, Pete, it’s okay,” Tom murmurs, shuffling on his feet to stand a bit closer to the mattress. “It’s fine. You’re okay.”

Pete finally meets his eye, and Tom can see the moment where he registers where he is, what’s happening.

“Ah, shit,” he lets out a shuddering breath, runs the hand not gripping Tom’s through his hair, which is dark with sweat. “Did the kid-?”

“He woke me up,” Tom offers, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “But no, I don’t think he saw anything.”

“Good,” Pete breathes a sigh- relief. “Good. That’s good.”

He seems to notice, then, the strong hold he has on Tom’s hand, because he loosens his fingers and averts his gaze. Tom doesn’t let him let go, though.

“Ice-”

“Hey, no,” Tom interrupts, because whatever excuse Pete has, he doesn’t want to hear it. “I’m going to stay until that crazy look in your eye is gone, then I’m going to go make sure Bradley’s alright, and then-” he pauses, bends down to catch Pete’s gaze “- and then I’m going to come back, and we’re going to get a couple more hours of sleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

His voice is uncharacteristically small- meek, even- and it makes Tom weak at the knees.

“Shit- don’t be,” he shrugs, turns Pete’s palm over in his own to kiss the top of his hand. “I wasn’t getting any sleep, either.”

1997, April

“Thanks again for being here,” Sarah says as she takes the baby back- his nephew, isn’t that something.

“No where else I’d rather be,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head, overwhelmed by affection. For all that he’s been helping Pete and Carole with Bradley, loves the kid like he’s his own, there’s something horrifyingly human about his reaction to seeing his features on an infant. The Kazansky nose, the shape of his eyes. Even the ridge of his brow, furrowed in sleep.

Sarah settles back onto her bed, and Tom, exhausted, lies down next to her. He’s so tired. It must be nine in the morning, but they’ve been up all night. Eric (the father- nice enough guy, Navy, too, but he’s a hydraulic mechanic) is out doing a much-needed grocery run.

“You ever think about it?” She asks, shifting to feed the baby.

He glances up at her, and then away, a little embarrassed.

“Think about what?” He asks, even though he knows what she means.

“Having kids.”

He considers the question, the possible answers. He’s practically raising Bradley, these days, but that’s not the question. The truth is complicated: yes, sometimes, but also, no, not really. The idea terrifies him. Not in the cards, is what he’d said to Ron, once. And let’s imagine for a second that he wanted that- because, sure, in a safer and better world- but how? For all they do together, he doesn’t think he could knock Pete up. In his delirious sleep-deprived state, the thought alone makes him laugh out loud.

At Sarah’s quirked eyebrow he gives the best answer he can.

“Maybe, sometimes,” he shrugs, shuts his eyes.

“Hey Tommy?”

“Hmm.” He’s half asleep. The mattress is nice. He should ask her where she got it, Pete’s needs replacing.

“How’s Pete doing?”

And that’s a non-sequitur he hadn’t been expecting.

“Pete? Do you mean Maverick?” He frowns, something like anxiety brewing in his gut. “Uh, good, I guess. Why? Want me to set you up? Is it already over with Eric?”

Sarah doesn’t humor him. Worth a shot, anyway.

“It’s okay, Tom,” she strokes his hair with her free hand. The scrape of her fingernails along his scalp is soothing. He feels like a child. He blinks and realizes he’s dangerously close to tears.

“How long have you known?” He squeezes his eyes shut, refuses to cry.

“Since Seattle,” she says, her fingers never stopping their gentle movement. She’s referring to the hospital, after the ejection. He’d been sent to Washington because they had a better spinal surgeon than Anchorage. “When you were first waking up, before you really gained consciousness, you kept saying his name.”

Five years later and his worst nightmare is confirmed.

“Who else knows?” He croaks.

“No one,” she assures. Her definite tone lets him know she understands the seriousness of this, which makes him feel marginally better. “Well, your friend Ron. But other than that, no one.”

He’ll have to worry about Slider later, because the fact that he’s apparently known for half a decade and hasn’t said anything about it is both frightening and comforting in equal measure.

“Mom and Dad?” He asks, just to be sure.

“They weren’t in the room.”

A shuddering sigh of relief.

“It’s okay, Tommy,” she repeats, and that’s all it takes for his walls to come down.

He cries silently, overwhelmed by it. He’s not sure he can remember the last time he’s cried like this. There were tears at friend’s funerals, over the years, pricks of pain during the worst of the rehabilitation after his injury. But this is something entirely different.

Sarah takes his hand, folds it in one of her own. She squeezes it three times. A silent communication they had used as children. Three squeezes for three words: I love you.

He recovers, after a few minutes. Regains control of his breath, reluctantly lets go of his sister’s hand.

“Does this mean we can talk about boys together?” She grins, nudging his calf with a socked foot. “Ron showed me a picture of him, once. He’s a catch.”

Tom lets out a surprised laugh, at that. There’s still a roiling discomfort under his skin, but he relaxes marginally, the teasing bringing them back to a familiar place.

But he has no idea what to say! He’s never commented on Pete, in that way, outside the privacy of their home- and even then, it didn’t come naturally to him. He’s never named it to anyone else- the way he makes him feel.

The sound of the front door opening downstairs snaps him out of it, and he rolls over, stands on shaky legs as he wipes at his tears with the back of his hand. He can’t be here like this when his potential future brother-in-law comes into the room.

Sarah understands, because of course she does, doesn’t say anything except- “It’s still early out west. You should give him a call.”

He glances at his watch. She’s right- if he calls now, he can probably catch Maverick before he needs to be heading to base.

He looks at her one last time. Tries to convey all that he feels- fondness, gratefulness, relief, exhaustion.

“Go,” she says, shooing him away. “It’s okay.”

1998, February

Tom pads back to their room, two mugs of coffee in hand. He sets one down on his bedside table before walking around the bed to put Pete’s on his.

He was twitchy, last night, when he came home. It was normal for him to be on edge, after a deployment, but it’d only gotten worse since Bradley started living with them. 

There was some time there, where Tom was half-worried that if it wasn’t for their jobs, their deeply entangled lives, that Pete would leave him. It still crept up on him, sometimes, on morning like these, where they haven’t seen each other in months, nothing more than phone calls exchanging brief pleasantries and logistics about the kid, for plausible deniability. It was easy to get Tom temporary guardianship, so that Maverick could keep flying. Tom couldn’t help but wonder if it was really worth it.

He goes back to his side of the bed, settles against the headboard, listens to the gentle rainfall- a rare occurrence in San Diego, even this time of year, but a pleasant change, nonetheless- as he takes a sip from his mug.

“It’s oh-six-hundred,” Pete grumbles. Tom jumps at the sound, nearly scalds himself when his coffee sloshes over the rim of his mug. “On a Sunday.”

Tom ignores him in favor of taking another sip, if only to bring the volume down to less-risky levels.

“Oh,” Pete murmurs, stirring. “Did you-”

“Sugar, no milk.”

Pete sits up slowly, one hand protectively clutched around his ribs. Tom feels a pang of guilt for not noticing the injury last night. In the daylight, the mottling of bruises is obvious.

Pete settles against the headboard himself, both hands wrapped around his own mug. He takes a sip, hums appreciatively.

He spares a glance towards Tom, who’s expression must tell on him, because he softens, slightly.

“I’m fine,” he lifts his elbow so that Tom can get a better look. “Rough landing- clipped it a little too quick.”

Tom’s frown deepens.

“You should’ve said something.”

Pete bristles again, sighs as he sets his coffee down.

“I was tired. Didn’t have the energy to do,” – he gestures emphatically between them – “this.”

“This?” Tom raises an eyebrow, sets his own mug aside.

“You get all- weird.” Pete explains. “Like you’re guilty. Which is odd, because this isn’t your fault. This,” he motions to his injured side, “has nothing to do with you.”

“I- I don’t feel guilty,” Tom laughs. When Pete grimaces, he course-corrects. “I feel… worried. I worry.”

The admission hangs in the air between them.

“You worry about me.”

“Mhm.”

“You care about me.” Pete smiles, finally, a little playful.

“Yup, that’s what I said,” Tom smiles back. “Is that really such a surprise?”

Pete’s grin fades, replaced by something more complicated. “It just would be nice to hear you say it every once in a while.”

Tom is taken aback. He thought it was rather obvious. Sure, they don’t say it much, but they’ve been doing… this… for nearly a decade now, living together for half of that. They split the bills and divide the chores. They take care of Bradley’s activities, appointments, and schooling, together.

He knows how Pete takes his coffee.

Tom reaches out and grips Pete’s wrist, tugs at it gently until Pete shifts over to lean against his shoulder. Tom rests one arm over his shoulder, careful to avoid the black and purple on his skin. He keeps a hold on Pete’s forearm with the other, fitting them together.

“Pete, I-” Tom cuts himself off, the words dying on his tongue. Suddenly, what he was going to say feels too big, too dangerous to name.

The silence hangs between them, for a moment.

“I know, Tom,” Pete knocks their feet together, over the twisted sheets. “Me too.”

1998, August

The hotel they put him up in is comfortable as can be, with a large king-size bed and a rattling air conditioning unit in the window. When they said they were sending him North he’d assumed Lemoore, maybe even Washington state. He certainly hadn’t been expecting British Columbia, but apparently they’re working on a deal with their allies in the Canadian Air Force and need a representative from the American military’s crown jewel of air defense, and who better to send than Commander Kazansky: previous Top Gun winner, previous Top Gun head instructor, current commander of Air Operations at NAS North Island, and one of two active-duty aviators with confirmed air-to-air kills. The other being, of course, Maverick, but Tom didn’t get the impression he was they’re top choice.

He hardly left Southern California these days, and it was showing. He hadn’t expected it to be so hot here, and the humidity is completely unfamiliar.

He rolls over, grabs the landline off the side table. He doesn’t know if international charges apply, with hotel landlines, but finds he doesn’t care.

“Mitchell, speaking. This better be important.”

Tom can’t help his grin. He stopped feeling guilty about waking up Pete long ago- delighted in the deep, gravelly sound of his voice first thing in the morning. Even through the tinny speakers of the cheap plastic receiver, his stomach flips at the sound.

“Hey, Maverick,” he glances at the alarm clock, which reads 0435. Not too bad, all things considered.

“Hey, Ice. Miss me already?”

Yes, horribly, embarrassingly so, Tom thinks.

But he doesn’t say that. Instead: “I was just thinking, what a shame, to have this big empty bed…”

He trails off, feeling suddenly a bit self-conscious. They haven’t done this before. He wonders if Pete will reject it, will find it gross and desperate. Then again, of the two of them, he thinks Pete’s always been the one who’s a little desperate, at least where these things are concerned.

“Oh yeah?”

He certainly sounds interested.

“Hmm,” Tom nods, even though Pete can’t see him, lifting his hips to shove his underwear off.

It’s oddly intimate, getting off on just the sound of his voice, phone cradled between his shoulder and his cheek as he works himself with his own hand. He gets shy, when Pete starts saying some truly filthy things: detailed descriptions of what he’d do with his hands, his mouth. Tom closes his eyes, pictures Pete straddling over him, surrounding him in all directions.

Tom can’t bring himself to say anything back, even though he is the one who started this, but he thinks he has a pretty good excuse, seeing that the rooms next to him are more than likely occupied by his colleagues.

Instead, he listens to Pete’s narration and pictures turning him over, pictures him on his hand and knees, pictures pushing him down between his shoulder blades until he lowers himself to his elbows, his dark hair falling over his forehead and brushing in a beautiful contrast against the stark white hotel sheets. He pictures holding his hip in one hand, using the other to guide himself in and-

Well, that was short lived.

He comes with a groan, stifled into the heel of his hand.

“That good for you?”

He takes a deep breath, but finds it doesn’t fill the hollow space where his heart should be.

“Yeah, thanks,” he chuckles, the mild embarrassment of his desperation returning. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, I already got there.”

He can hear Pete shy little grin, and that does something to tease the tension. He laughs despite himself, at that. It’s a bit absurd- they’re both solidly in their thirty’s now, Tom himself a senior officer, and yet even just the idea of touching each other is enough. It’s ridiculous.

“Sorry for waking you,” Tom says, using the corner of the sheet to clean himself off. He makes a mental note to try to take a bit better care of that before the staff come by to clean.

“Can’t complain, can I? Not a bad wake up call.”

“Ha- guess not,” he says, but comes it out flat.

There’s a pause. Tom concentrates on the sound of Pete’s breathing coming down the line. He imagines the rise and fall of his chest, ribcage expanding around his lungs, under his skin.

“Just three more days, Tom.”

Tom squeezes his eyes shut. It’s true. Just four days, three nights apart. He’s not sure why it’s hitting him so hard today. In the decade since they started this relationship, they’ve been separated for longer than that- will be for even longer in the future, probably, with how their career trajectories are looking. Somehow, it doesn’t make it any easier.

“Three more days.”

1999, March

“Hey, Ice?”

“Hm.” He frowns at the pan. It smells like smoke and caramel. That’s not right.

“What’s it like?” Bradley asks.

“What’s what like?” He flips the pancake. Raw batter splatters up the edges, and the newly exposed side is burnt. That’s certainly not right. He lowers the heat. He’ll get the next one.

It’s been a month since Carole passed, six since she’d told them there was no chance of remission, this time. She’d fought like hell, she deserved to rest. When they got the news, Tom pulled on every inch of goodwill he’d collected and managed to slot himself in line to take command at Coronado once his promotion to Captain goes through. The kid deserves some semblance of stability, even if that’s just having Ice to make burnt pancakes.

“The Academy.” He says it impatiently, like it’s obvious. Tom must have tuned him out. Bad habit.

“Oh, um,” Tom glances back at the kid, who isn’t really a kid anymore, at all- he’s taller than Tom, now. The spitting image of his father. “Well, it’s tough. It’s really tough. Hard work- physically and academically.”

“Right, you’ve said,” Bradley says, amused. “I just mean, what are the classes like? What’s the schedule? That kind of thing.”

“Well,” Tom tilts his head to the side. “Your first year, your Plebe year, you’ll take core courses in calculus and chemistry, and English and history. And then after that it’ll depend on your major.

“I’m sure the curriculum has changed a lot, since I was a student,” he continues, plating the failed pancake and setting it to the side for himself. He pours more batter onto the hot pan. “But if you want, I can reach out to an old buddy of mine who teaches in the engineering department.”

“Really? Thanks!”

“Anytime, kid.” Tom flips the pancake. It’s a perfect golden brown. “Here, grab the syrup and bring me a plate. I think it’ll be done in a minute.”

Bradley does, and the pancake slides easily onto the plate. Perfect golden brown on both sides.

Satisfied, Tom shuts off the element and brings his own burnt mess to the table.

“Are you really going to eat that?” Bradley asks, dubiously.

Tom shrugs. He hates wasting food. Should be fine, if he drowns it in enough syrup.

“And, uh,” Bradley starts again, a little nervously. “What was it like for you?”

“USNA?” Tom clarifies. Bradley nods. “I liked it. I did well. I know I’ve always told you to be humble but it’s okay to acknowledge your strengths. I did well in my classes, my instructors liked me. Well, except Richards, but man, he was a piece of work. And I think I still hold the freestyle record-”

“Oh, sorry, I meant more, like,” Bradley interrupts, eye intently locked on his breakfast. “I meant, like, personally.”

Tom frowns.

“Um, good?” It’s a strange question. “I made great friends- Goose, your dad, obviously, and you know Slider, and I don’t think you’ve met Bill, but-”

“No, I- that’s not what I meant,” Bradley lets out a frustrated breath. Normally Tom would reprimand him for interrupting him- twice, now- but there’s such a bizarre undercurrent to this conversation that he finds himself remiss to do anything but listen. “How was it as someone who’s- you know.”

Tom’s hand stills.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Never mind, forget it.” Bradley says, but his voice is tight.

Tom takes a deep breath.

He and Pete haven’t officially told Bradley about the true nature of their relationship, but Tom gets the impression that Carole must have said something to Bradley, before she died, because he never asks, never says anything, about the fact that he is now living with his two ‘single’ uncles. And even though they got progressively less careful, over the years, they mostly kept up the act: sitting at a careful distance when they watched the game (a socked foot pressed against a jean-clad thigh), sleeping in separate bedrooms (except, Tom would sneak back in, around midnight). It’s made easier by the fact that Pete is away, most of the time, but in many ways hiding it from Bradley is almost as hard as telling him would be.

(He doesn’t really think about Bradley’s dating life, beyond the occasional date at the movies or the diner he drives him to. That’s Maverick’s department. The idea makes Tom profoundly uncomfortable, and he hardly thinks he’s qualified to give any advice, anyhow. He can chat up a lady at a bar to keep up appearances, but all his dates with women ended at the door.)

It’d never really occurred to him that Bradley could be gay, or into men at all.

But the way Bradley is looking at him right now, he knows his instinct is right.

“It was hard,” he says, truly hoping that he understood the implication correctly. “It wasn’t a friendly environment for that kind of thing- still isn’t. But it didn’t- it’s not impossible.”

Bradley nods, still refusing eye contact.

“Especially when you’ve got people in your corner,” Tom continues, ducking down to try to catch Bradley’s gaze. “And you- you’ve got an army behind you, you know that?”

2000, January

“Happy New Year,” Maverick says, pulling away. “I think that’s the first time we’ve ever done that.”

“I assure you it’s not,” says Tom dryly. He’s getting tired, and he’s feeling a little depressed. He’s going to be forty this year. It’s a lot to wrap his head around.

“You know what I mean,” Pete laughs, leaning in for one more. He tastes like the Prosecco they’d brought with them. “I don’t think we’ve gotten to share the occasion before. Last year- well, last year none of us felt like celebrating. And the year before that I was away. And the year before that-”

“Okay, I get your point,” Tom says, sinking his toes into the sand.

There’s no one around them for miles. They found this place back in ’89. It’s a trek to get down to the shore from the pull-off, not strictly legal, but if you make the descent you are rewarded with what is essentially a private beach. It’s been a while since they made it out here, but when Bradley begged to attend a party, Tom agreed only if they could pick him up and drive him home themselves, just to make sure he made it back in one piece.

“Any resolutions?”

Tom quirks an eyebrow.

“I’m leaning in!” Pete says, tugging him down by the wrist so they’re sitting again. They’d started walking to stretch their legs after they finished the bottle to sober up before hitting the road. It’d be pretty hypocritical, even for him, to drive drunk so that Bradley wouldn’t.

“I didn’t have any in mind,” Tom shrugs. “I guess I’d like to make Captain, soon.”

“That’s- that’s not a resolution,” Pete protests, shifting them around until he’s leaning back against Tom’s chest. Tom wraps the arm that’s not bearing the brunt of their weight around his waist. It’s exhilarating doing this outside of the privacy of their home, even though in the dark solitude it’s not exactly public.

“Fine, what’s yours, then?”

“I’m thinking I’ll finally do my master’s,” Pete says softly.

And even though, Tom thinks, that’s hardly a resolution either, he ignores that in favor of the weight of what Pete is saying.

“Oh yeah?” He prods gently. Pete’s hair is tickling him as the breeze coming up from the pacific blows it into his nose. He turns his face so his cheek is pressing against the top of his head, instead.

“Mhm,” Pete nods, jostling him with it. “With the kid to worry about- I don’t know. I think it would be good, to be around more.”

And even though the kid will be grown by the time that happens, Tom likes the idea. “What would you go for?”

 “I figure I’d make a good test pilot,” Pete says, glancing up at him. “What do you think?”

Test pilot! It’s perfect. Test pilot means RDT&E which means China Lake. Test pilot means a four-hour commute from San Diego- which isn’t nothing, but it’s weekends, and holidays, and that- that’s enough.

Tom lifts a hand to Pete’s cheek and guides his jaw, craning his neck so that he can kiss him again. “I think that’s a great idea.”

2001, September

These mornings are the hardest. The ones where one of them has to leave suddenly, not giving the other time to adjust. (Not that the time to adjust makes it any easier, honestly). Waking up to an empty bed, for the first time in years, months, or weeks. Sometimes just days, when they’re particularly unlucky.

(And sure, right now, they’re in a fight. Tom blames Pete for sending their kid away, and Pete blames Tom for… well, he’s not sure for what, but the resentment is there. But it doesn’t mean he wants him to go, that he wants to leave.)

And Tom keeps telling himself once he makes Captain it will be easier. It’ll be soon, now. Especially given everything that’s going on. There’s going to be some shuffling around, they’ll need him on a ship, instead of the administrative bullshit he’s doing at North Island. It’s a good thing, he tells himself, when Pete gets orders the day after it happens. It’s a good thing, he tells Pete when he himself does not.

It’s not a good thing, though.

Because then Pete gets sent to war while Tom gets sent to a desk and he doesn’t even get to say goodbye.

2002, October

Tom has always been a light sleeper, has never been a good sleeper (not even as a baby, according to his mother, when embarrassing childhood stories would get tossed around over holiday dinners), so he nearly jumps out of his skin when he wakes to the mattress shifting behind him, a cold hand wrapping around his waist. He stays in his skin, but rolls clean off the bed, smacking the side of his head on the hardwood floor.

“Jesus Christ, Tom, what the hell,” Pete has the audacity to groan, as though it isn’t his own damn fault, reaching an arm down to help him up.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tom counters, letting himself get sat on the edge of the bed. Pete flicks the lamp on his bedside on, and Tom blinks against the warm yellow light as Pete gently lifts his chin with his fingers, inspecting the site of impact.

“Got sent home early,” Pete explains, tracing the edge of Tom’s hairline with his thumb. There’s a lingering sting at the point of contact, but otherwise he feels fine- or at least as well as a forty-two-year-old man who just fell off the bed, can. “Wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, it worked,” Tom says dryly. He lets Pete continue his careful examination for a few more seconds before asking: “What’s the verdict, doc?”

Pete laughs, a little, and then releases Tom’s jaw, seemingly satisfied.

“You’ll live,” he says, leaning down to kiss his temple. “Want a Tylenol, or something?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.” He does reach up to fist the front of Pete’s shirt and bring him down for a proper kiss. He tastes stale and a bit salty, like fast food and cheap beer. It makes Tom’s nose crinkle a little in disgust, despite the thrill of having Pete here, at home, a month earlier than expected.

He lets himself watch as Pete straightens up and takes his glass off the table into the attached bathroom to fill it. He looks okay, considering he’d been away for almost a year. He’s favoring is left leg, but only slightly, and even in the low light he can see that his skin has lost a little of its color.

When he gets back, Tom accepts the glass and takes a few sips, before setting it back aside and tugging Pete back into bed. He should send him away to brush his teeth, maybe take a shower, but a glance at the alarm clock on his side of the bed tells him that he himself has to be up in a couple hours, and he’d rather not waste that time.

He settles back down against the mattress, a safe distance from the edge, pulling Pete against his chest, wrapping their legs together under the soft sheets. He kisses the back of Pete’s neck once, twice.

He feels, more than hears, Pete’s shuddering breath.

“Bad one?” He murmurs, nosing Pete’s hairline, the impossibly soft hair there. He smells like sweat, and travel, but also something that’s just undeniably Maverick.

“Mhm,” Pete nods, pushing back further into Tom’s hold. Tom ghosts his fingers over Pete’s ribs, down to his hip, the one that’s been giving him trouble. Pete catches his hand, clasps it over his beating heart. “Don’t worry. Nothin’ broken.”

“Do you have to go back?” He whispers the question, as though that makes the answer, which he already knows, any less true. Tom himself has been spending more time at sea than he even had as a junior officer, but turnover in his squadron means they’re at home training for a few months. But wartime still takes its toll. Especially when its one like this.

“Yeah, but I have a month.”

And that’ll have to do.

2003, December

He’d only agreed because he couldn’t think of a satisfactory reason not to. He didn’t even get a chance to consider using Pete as an excuse before Sarah was assuring him that their parents would be staying in a hotel downtown, so they wouldn’t be there to be suspicious when Pete never leaves for his hotel and they instead share the guest room.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Pete asks, as they pack their bags side by side. “What about… what’s-his-face?”

“Eric?” Tom frowns. “He’s out of the picture. Has been, for a while.”

“Out of the-” Pete stills, looks at him bewildered. “They got divorced? You didn’t think to mention it?”

“Thought I did!” Tom protests, though he wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t. Not like they spoke much, these days, he and Pete. “And they didn’t get divorced. Weren’t married in the first place.”

“How did I not know this?” Maverick says, still gaping at him.

Tom shrugs, zips up his bag, returns to the original question. “He’s deployed, I think, anyway. Plus, I booked a room at the motel down the street, just in case.”

“Romantic.”

“Thought so,” Tom jokes back, scanning the room for anything they might have missed.

On a whim, they’d decided to drive up the coast to San Francisco instead of flying, making a point of stopping at all the best beach towns along the way.

They only ever book the hotels under Tom’s name, and Pete sneaks in later. It actually is a bit romantic, if you can look past the tragedy of it.

It’s been egregiously expensive, given the time of year, but they hardly spend their money these days, without the kid around.

They’re in Monterey, now. Familiar for Tom, a bit of a sore subject for Pete, who’d had to delay his master’s in favor of non-stop combat tours. They’re packing up their hotel room before beginning the last leg of their journey.

“Hey,” Pete says softly, grabbing him by the shoulders. “I’ll follow your lead, here, okay? I’m on your six.”

Tom nods appreciatively, leans down to kiss him in thanks.

“But, hey,” he says, as they slip on their shoes. “Is there any other big family news you’re keeping from me? Do you evenhave a sister? No- hey! I mean it- can’t be putting my foot in my mouth around your family because you thought you told me. What about the nephew? Is he real?”

2004, June

Tom wakes up pleasantly cool. He stretches languidly against the sheets, which are appreciatively dry instead of damp with sweat as they had been for the last several nights. It seems like the heatwave finally broke after all.

It was a bad one- unseasonable for June- and of course the air conditioning finally decided it was time to die for good, after half a decade of standing on its last legs. After the first night, he and Pete had purchased a bunch of fans from Walmart, which was a mission in itself, given the circumstances, and then when the rolling blackouts started, Tom decided he had enough and went to sleep in the guest room so that at least he wouldn’t have to contend with Pete’s radiating body heat- I’m keenly aware that we only have a week of leave, Mav, but it’ll hardly matter if I die from heatstroke, now, will it?

Still not fully awake, he stands and wanders down the hall, to their room. Pete is curled up on Tom’s side of the bed, which happens to be closer to the window, clearly also contented with the cooler temperatures. Tom slides in next to him, practically hanging off the edge of the mattress because he’s sure as shit not giving up his side, and reaches out to stroke his hair.

“Oh my god,” Pete hisses, eyes still shut. “It’s over.”

“It’s over,” Tom murmurs. “Now scooch.”

“Bossy,” Pete tsks, but he shifts backwards until he’s back on his own side. It’s sort of moot, seeing as now Tom is left to lie on the warm spot Pete left behind, but it smells like him, and the cool breeze is still coming in behind him through the window, and he’s out before he can feel too annoyed about it.

2005, October

“It’s the last one,” Pete promises, as he wipes the mess from the goodbye sex they had away from between his thighs with a washcloth. “I already worked it out with Warlock. After this, I’m going to TPS or NPS- whichever I need to do first- I mean it this time- and I’ll grow up like the rest of you.”

Tom keeps his that’s what you said last time to himself.

It’s been an endless cycle: Pete gets his orders, he promises when he comes back he’s going to apply for a position at the test pilot school, or spend a year in Monterey, and then he gets another set of orders, and he’s gone again.

He’s leaving again this morning, after only three months home and a week together. More than they usually get, less than they should.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Pete sighs, a little bit of genuine annoyance peeking through, disappearing into the ensuite to turn on the shower. He raises his voice, over the spray, “You think I want to go?”

Yeah, I think you do.

It’s hypocritical, he knows. He’s only home himself, now, because he’d traded Thanksgiving and Christmas to be here between Maverick’s own assignments.

“I didn’t say that,” Tom sighs, watching as Pete comes back into the room, towel slung low around his hips. Despite the conversation, he lets his eye track a drop of water trickling its way down the hard lines of Maverick’s body.

His ears redden at Pete’s amused look, when he’s caught.

Pete just saunters over, leans down to kiss him square on the mouth. “Let’s not fight, okay? Just makes it harder.”

Tom wants to protest, argue that he’s not fighting, but he has a feeling he won’t win this one.

And then, with his dazzling boyish grin that ruined Tom for anyone else on day one, Pete says, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

2006, December

It’s like deja-vu, in a way. The beeping that sounds a bit like tone lock but also not at all, the bright white room. He spreads his fingers out over starchy sheet, starts to wake up his senses.

Pete is in the chair to his right, head resting on crossed arms on the meager space on the hospital bed between Tom’s hip and the edge.

That’s no good. Pete hates hospitals.

Tom crawls his right hand along the bed until his fingers brush Pete’s forearm, which is bare and warm against his own frigid fingers.

Pete lifts his head, blinks his eyes open.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he says, voice gravelly and deep. But Tom doesn’t pleasure in it, not right now.

“What happened?” He asks, his own voice thin and tight, as it has been for the last few weeks.

Pete clears his throat, spares a glance toward the door leading into the hallway. It’s shut. He grabs Tom’s hand. It’s a risky move, but Tom’s too nervous to protest.

“You, uh, you collapsed in your office,” Pete explains, running his thumb over the ridge of Tom’s knuckles. “Exhaustion. Dehydration. Your assistant called nine-one-one.”

“That’s… that’s not great,” Tom rests his head back against the pillow. He’s embarrassed, but relieved. “Can I go home now?”

“Um, Tom,” Pete starts, voice thick. “Tom, Ice.”

Tom sits up a little again. He hasn’t heard Pete’s voice sound like this since-

“Pete, what’s wrong?”

“It’s- they still need to do some tests, but,” he pauses, looks away, then looks back. He brings their joint hands up to his lips and places one kiss there on the back of his hand. It takes everything Tom has not to jerk it away. “They found a mass.”

He leans back down again.

“Shit.”

He doesn’t need to ask where.

He’s been coughing, but not much more than he’d expect for a life-long smoker, and the soreness could be explained by the strain on his voice from the amount of briefings he had to deliver on any given day. He’s also been aware of the lump on his throat for a few weeks, but had been putting off getting it looked at. He’d convinced himself it was just some swelling in his lymph nodes from allergies or that bout of flu he suffered in the fall.

“I should go get the doctor,” says Pete, starting to stand, but Tom tightens his grip around Pete’s hand.

A glance at the wall clock tells him it’s still early, but he guesses morning rounds will start within the hour. He hasn’t seen Pete in six months, not since he left for this deployment. Tom should still be in Japan, himself, but he decided to finally use some of that leave he lets accumulate to be there to welcome him home. That’s part of why he’s been so tired. With his recent promotion to flag officer and no one to come home to, he’s thrown himself into his work.

“Let them come to me,” he says, tugging Pete back down into the chair- a hard plastic thing which must have been a bitch to sleep in, especially after the shitty mattress he was probably stuck with on the Eisenhower. “I missed you. Tell me about it.”

“Not exactly a Carnival Cruise, Kazansky,” Pete huffs, but he’s smiling a little, and that makes Tom happy. “It was fine, standard. Well, actually, you would have liked this. About a month in, this guy they call Fritz- young and bat-shit crazy, like you and I when we were on the Enterprise- well, anyway, he was on my wing for a recon run, just a fly-over, really, when out of nowhere…”

Tom shuts his eyes, listening to Pete animatedly tell his story, and drifts back off to sleep.

2007, April

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs into his pillow. He’s been sleeping on his stomach, lately, to relieve some of the pressure on his lungs.

Tom rolls up onto his side. Pete is crouching at the side of the bed, wearing a mask, like he’d been instructed by Tom’s immunologist. They were attacking the cancer as aggressively as they could: surgeries, radiation, chemotherapy. Tom’s immune system was shot, and he was practically radioactive himself, so he wasn’t supposed to have any visitors. They’d turned the whole upstairs of their house into an isolation zone, hired a nurse who would come for a few hours every morning and every night to help him with food and laundry and whatever else he might need.

“Just wanted to see you before I go,” The orders came in about a week ago. Spec Op, only one man for the job. Tom had used up a couple favors to keep him stateside through the worst of it, but any longer would draw suspicion. “Transport leaves in a couple hours.”

“You all set?” Tom asks, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s torture.

“Yup,” Pete nods resting his hand on Tom’s knee over the duvet. Not strictly advisable, but Tom doesn’t have it in him to tell him off. “I- Tom. Ice. I could… I could stay.”

“You can’t, Pete. You know that.” Tom sighs. “I’m in good hands, here.”

“I know, I know,” Pete rocks back and forth on his feet. His knees must be killing him, crouched like that. “Someone wise once told me you don’t leave your wingman.”

“Mm. Viper. He was wise, wasn’t he,” Tom jokes. Pete rewards him with a smile, behind the mask, evident by the creases deepening next to his eyes.

“No, you, you idiot.”

“You’re not leaving me, Mav, you’re doing your job,” Tom tries for a smile, adding: “Plus, you’ll be doing me a huge favor if you go prove why I haven’t let them take your wings.”

“Well, who am I to deny Admiral Kazansky.”

“Rear Admiral,” Tom corrects. The promotion had hardly been earned, in Tom’s opinion, but apparently the meager work he’d been able to do from bed was satisfactory enough. The pay raise certainly helped with the medical bills he’d been accruing. Part of him suspected that had more to do with it than his competence.

“Same difference.”

2008, January

One pleasant change, since he got sick, is that Tom sleeps, now. Full nights, all the way through to the morning. His body needs the rest, and a medicine cabinet full of prescription medication takes care of the rest.

He’s done with radiation, at least for the time being, so he’s surprised that Pete’s not pressed up against him, like he was last night.

Pete’s leaving, in a few days, for the test-pilot school. And based on the latest scans, Tom’s physicians are optimistic about his odds. Even though he hasn’t let the thought fully form, it looks like maybe things are heading in the right direction, for them both.

The mattress dips, and Tom smells coffee.

He shivers when a large, hot palm settles against the small of his back, which has been exposed to the cool air in the room.

He turns his head toward where Pete has returned to lie down next to him.

“Morning,” Pete says, hand shifting up to stroke at Tom’s hair. (Which, to his continued thanks, has started growing back as thick and full as it’d been before. Small mercies.) “How’d you sleep?”

“Mm, fine,” Tom shifts so he’s also on his side. “What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“Damn.” He thinks they went to bed at nine, last night.

“I know, eleven hours. Didn’t know you had that in you.”

“Me neither,” Tom admits. It’s Sunday, but still, he should make sure nothing came up overnight. “Can you check-”

“Already did. Nothing new in your inbox. Well- nothing flagged urgent. Wanna close your eyes a little longer?”

Tom nods, already blinking against his drowsiness. And then he’s asleep, Pete’s hand still in his hair.

2008, September

Tom drops his bag by the front door and creeps up the steps. The bedroom door is ajar, and Pete is in the middle of the bed, as he likes to do when Tom isn’t home. Tom lets himself just stare at him for a moment. It was looking like the next president was going to be a democrat, and Tom always has been popular with those that vote blue. He hasn’t really let himself hope, but now that he’s six months into full remission, he’s going to try to impress the new administration into giving him a third star (or maybe a fourth!).

He slips out of his uniform, taking the time to hang it in the closet but not much more, and then slips into bed.

“Hmm, how was it,” Pete mumbles, shifting around so they’re facing each other.

“Good, fine,” Tom sighs, “Happy to be home.”

Pete frowns at the window, where the sky is already lightening. “What time is it?”

“Five,” Tom says, moving closer. “But my next call isn’t until noon. When do you have to go?”

“Should probably hit the road at eight, but I’m already packed.”

Tom reaches out to clasp his hand in his. “Wake me up?”

Pete squeezes his fingers. "Always."

2009, June

“Thanks for the ride, I seriously owe you one,” Tom says, adjusting the seat to give himself a little more leg room, legs still stiff from the cross-country flight. In his haste, he hadn’t been able to secure business class. It’s just shy of one in the morning, and even though there were always plenty of taxis milling around, when Ron offered to wait at the airport after his last flight of the day to drive him home, Tom couldn’t refuse.

“Don’t mention it,” Ron pulls out of the lot in a smooth motion. Tom hasn’t gotten a chance to fly with him, yet, but he suspects that he’s a fantastic pilot. “Straight home? Or are you hungry.”

Tom’s stomach makes an embarrassing noise, and they both laugh.

“I- I could eat.”

“Honestly, it’s a fucking miracle you’ve made it this far in life,” Ron grins, and then it drops just as fast.

Tom laughs so hard he coughs, batting Ron’s worried hand away.

“It is, isn’t it.” He says, once he’s caught his breath.

He’d forgotten how easy it was, with Ron. They hardly saw each other, these days, but when they did, it was as natural as breathing. Something about it always made him feel like he was twenty-something, again- when the only thing he care about was getting in the sky. It’s been almost three years, now, since he’s been in a jet. He doesn’t even remember the last time; it wasn’t supposed to be. But then he got sick, and, well.

Ron takes them to a drive through, where they get burgers and fries that will have them feeling like crap the next day. Tom’s outgrown eating in the car, so he tucks the bag of food between his foot and the passenger door as they drive the rest of the way to Tom’s house- the one that’s technically in Pete’s name.

He catches Ron eyeing him through the rearview mirror.

“Out with it,” he sighs.

“Why, uh, why isn’t Maverick with you?” Ron asks, voice a little weary. They don’t talk about these things, even after Sarah told him that Ron knew. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was still a relatively new policy, at the time, but the effects were already devastating. And then even once Ron left, it was habit. “Three stars. Pretty big deal.”

His Senate confirmation hearing had taken place earlier that morning. It was the end of a long, drawn-out process, but he’d made it out unscathed. Afterwards, there’d been a small dinner with some of the other flag officers which went late into the night. Even then, unable to fathom one more night away from home, he caught the last flight out.

“He’s got his own shit,” Tom glances at Ron out of the corner of his eye. “No reason for him to be there.”

Ron’s jaw tightens.

“He’s your… you know,” Ron shrugs. “That’s a reason.”

“Ron- Slider. Please,” Tom begs. Why is he doing this, now? “You know it’s not… we can’t.”

“I still read the Navy Times, you know. I’ve heard the rumors about trying again for the repeal.”

“That- that doesn’t mean anything. Even if the repeal went through tomorrow it wouldn’t change anything, not for us, not for me.”

Because while three stars is pretty big, Tom wants four. Right to the top, baby, as Pete would say. But you don’t get to the top without managing politics, and even if the legislation changed tomorrow, the general sentiment wouldn’t.

“I, jeez. I’m not an idiot, I know that,” Ron huffs, impatient. “I just mean, he’s a Captain. I’m sure an excuse could’ve been made. I mean, didn’t you want him there?”

Anger burns in Tom’s chest.

“Of course I wanted him there,” he snaps, but it sounds like a confession. “But this is chess, not checkers. I can do the schmoozing without him.”

Tom holds on to those strings for bigger things- leave schedules, future assignments. He’s heard murmurs of a collaboration between RDT&E at NWC China Lake and Lockheed Martin on the development of a hypersonic scram jet. They’ll need someone to fly it. Tom can think of no one better. (And if he can get Maverick the gig, he’ll never have to go on another combat tour, he won’t have to give up his wings, and he’ll be home every weekend…)

“I know you can,” Ron says in apology. “I just-” he shakes his head. “It bums me out, man.”

Tom barks a surprised laugh, his annoyance fading. And maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t slept in twenty hours, but when he meets Ron’s eye in the rearview, they both dissolve into laughter again.

“Yeah, man. It bums me out too.”

2010, February

He wakes feeling pleasantly warm. Theres a heavy heat pooling low in his stomach, and when he shifts he can feel an answering pressure behind him.

Pete’s arms are wrapped around his body, keeping him from moving too much. One of his large, calloused hands is resting on Tom’s belly, and the other is splayed over his chest, under his shirt. Their legs are tangled together.

“Happy birthday,” Pete whispers against the back of his neck, pressing a kiss there.

“Hmm, thank you,” Tom murmurs, twisting his neck to capture his mouth. It’s a bit awkward, and Pete has to strain up to meet him there, but it’s nice.

Pete rocks his hips forward into him again, sending a pleasant heat down his spine straight to his groin. He hasn’t felt like this since they started the chemo. He can feel his skin flush. They haven’t even tried, not since last time.

“Pete- Pete, I,” he fumbles for where Pete’s hand is pressing on his abdomen, suddenly self-conscious. What if he can’t get hard? What if he can’t stay hard? “I’m not sure-”

“I’ve got you,” Pete murmurs into his ear, kissing the shell of it. “You just relax, let me take care of you.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath as Pete keeps rolling into him, his mouth working over every square-inch of skin he can reach- Tom’s hairline, his ear, his cheek, the back of his neck.

It’s lazy, but the easy affection helps settle some of Tom’s nerves. They’ve got time, it’s okay.

“What do you want?” Pete asks, as it becomes evident that this is going to have to speed up.

What does he want? He’s not sure. It’s been so long. It’s the morning of his fiftieth birthday and he has no idea.

"Just this," he decides. "Just you."

And that's what he gets.

2010, June

“Happy birthday,” Tom sing-songs as he pulls off the main road.

Pete stirs in the passenger seat. He frowns out the window, and then whips his head toward Tom. “You did not.”

“I sure did,” Tom says, a little smug. “It’s ours, baby.”

He slows into park outside the large metal structure. It’s a defunct Naval hangar that Pete had found on one of his commutes to China Lake. Afterwards, he’d pestered Tom about it endlessly. (Can you try to figure out who’s in charge of it? I mean, looks like I’ll be working out here for a while. How cool would it be to live in? / Live in? Well, now I’m definitely not looking into it. / You’re no fun! It wouldn’t replace home. Think of it as an apartment. / Its square footage is larger than our house! / Just think about it. / I won’t. (He did).)

“You bought me a hangar,” he says, eyes wide with wonder.

“I did not buy you a hanger,” Tom corrects. “I got you a ninety-nine year lease on a hangar- it’s still government land. But there’s something inside I think you’ll like quite a bit.”

Pete tilts his head to the side, but then he’s practically skipping toward the doors, which are still slightly ajar.

Tom fights the anxiety roiling in his gut. The transport guy said he’d successfully gotten it there in one piece but-

“Tom!” Pete yells.

Tom smiles down at his shoes fondly, and then makes to join him. Pete is standing in the middle of the hangar, gaping at the old World War Two era P-51 sitting in the far corner.

“It needs work- a lot of it- but I got a really good deal,” he snakes his arms around Pete’s waist, hooks his chin over his shoulder. “And she’s permanently yours- I’ve got the papers and everything. Unless you decide to sell it, of course.”

“I would never,” Pete says, still starry eyed. “Tom. You bought me a plane.”

“I bought you a plane,” he says. He hopes that Pete understands what he means by it: an apology, a thank you, and a promise, all rolled into one. Wingmen, anytime.

He kisses Pete’s cheek (which is a little scruffy after a week without shaving, as Pete like to do when he has leave), and then then lets him go, watches as Pete circles the Mustang.

“Ice. How much did this...?” Pete starts, carefully dragging his hand under her belly. “Actually, I don’t think I want to know.”

You really don’t, he thinks. “Don’t worry about that. I got a good deal. But, Pete,” Tom takes a breath, waits for Maverick to turn his attention to him. “After everything these past four years- no, wait, let me finish. I know how hard it was for you, after Carole. All the… appointments, and everything. I couldn’t have done it without you. So thank you for choosing to stick around. I mean it. After everything you’ve done for me these past few years, I just want you to know… I want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

Pete steps closer, tilts up as though for a kiss, and says, “Tom… yeah, it was hard. But it was hard because, well, I love you, and I was scared I- anyway. It wasn’t a hard choice because, well, it wasn’t a choice at all! You don’t need to thank me.”

Tom nods, kisses him so that he doesn’t have to say anything back. When he pulls away, they’re both a little teary.

“I’m also feeling a little upstaged, here,” Pete continues, pulling him closer by the beltloops. “It was your fiftieth this year and I didn’t get you anything.”

“I told you not to,” Tom reminds him. Then he smiles wryly, says, “This is as much a gift for you as for me. Plus, I do have one condition.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“I want her first flight.”

“Done.” Pete says, kissing him soundly.

2011, September

As he stares at the ceiling of his stateroom, Tom can’t help but wonder if he should feel different. Today, for the first time in his career, Tom is no longer, technically, breaking the law. The crime he has been committing for thirty-odd years is no longer that. He takes a deep breath, and doesn’t cough.

For seventeen years he’s been working under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

He still remembers when it was first implemented. He’d been relieved. He naively believed that he’d be safer, that the witch hunts would stop. Figured that he’d no longer have to worry that a lingering gaze would end with him in federal prison.

He and Pete had vicious arguments over it, at first. Don’t you understand? It’s exactly the same as it was before, Pete would say.

It’d been devastating, being proven wrong, and not just because he didn’t like to be. Watching as tens of thousands of service members across all three branches lost their careers over it, having to pretend like it didn’t scare the crap out of him when it came up at work. Haunted by it when he would come home.

Eventually, they stopped fighting about it. What was the use? It was out of their control.

So he supposes that means it is within their control now. It’s up to them. Now that Mav’s not strictly under Tom’s chain of command, it would be perfectly legal and within regulations for them to quietly (for all that Maverick is tired of hiding, he’s equally as uninterested as Tom in flaunting it) let people know of their relationship.

But he can’t very well do that! And on that note, what would they tell people, if they asked how long they’d been together? People wouldn’t exactly believe this was some new thing. He’d be admitting to lying about it for over two decades, which doesn’t reflect well on his service record. People talk. It's still far too controversial, politically. The wrong person gets a hold of the information and triggers a smear campaign. He would be kissing goodbye any chance at promoting to O-10, not to mention a future in politics.

He and Mav had the foresight of discussing it when the current President first put the repeal back on the table. They’d agreed (and Tom, for his sanity, has to believe that Pete meant it) that it would be best to still keep it under wraps, if with a little less anxiety about aligning their leave calendars and sharing addresses, investments, and assets.

His cellphone rings. He checks the caller ID.

So no, he can’t tell the world.

(Not that he particularly wants to.)

But there is something he can do:

“Hey, handsome,” he smiles into the phone. “I was just thinking about you.”

2012, March

Rumor has it that the current Commander of the Pacific Fleet is preparing for retirement, and with the election coming up later this year, Tom is angling for the post himself. He knows he’s being vetted, getting shipped around from base to base, country to country, countless meetings with other flag officers, cabinet members, the occasional diplomat.

The current Commander in Chief seems to like him well enough, something he reluctantly admits to Pete when he receives a request to attend a meeting at the White House, extending his stay.

He’s on the phone with Pete. They’re both on edge and taking it out on each other. But for some reason, neither of them wants to hang up.

“I feel like you should just sign a lease on an apartment there, at this point, with all the time you spend there” Pete laughs down the line, but it’s bitter.

“Absolutely not,” Tom argues, pulling his tie up to his throat. He’s meeting his parents for breakfast in half an hour, and is bracing himself for the onslaught of questions. “You should have seen the state of the roads yesterday. I know California has made me soft but I really thought we were going to end up dead-in-a-ditch. Kind of wish we had. Would spare me from this bullshit.”

“Don’t joke about that.” Pete snaps.

Which- fair.

“Sorry. I just- I don’t want to see them,” he sounds petulant- like a child- even to his own ears, but it’s true. Between his own assignments and his parents’ post-retirement travel plans, he managed to avoid seeing them for long stretches of times, these days, with the exception of the occasional holiday or significant milestone (including his nephew’s thirteenth birthday, just last year). Those were made tolerable by the revolving door of relatives, keeping the attention off of him. He knew he got odd looks from his cousins, aunts, and uncles- fifty and unmarried- but fortunately, his career was a point of pride.

The worst part of all- they pitied him. When he pressed Sarah about it, once, when they were in the car, just the two of them, she admitted that their parents thought it was the cancer, that kept him single. Maybe worse, though- he was relieved.

Pete has relatively little patience for Tom’s complaints about his family. He doesn’t blame him- it’s a sore subject. Orphaned before adulthood, no siblings. And after Bradley cut contact, he really didn’t have any left at all. So it’s not entirely surprising when all he has to say on the matter is:

“Say hi for me!”

“I won’t.” He takes the phone off of speaker, brings it back up to his ear. He shifts on his feet. He doesn’t say this often, finds the words big and clunky on his tongue, but he feels compelled to, now: “I love you, you know.”

He can hear Pete’s exasperated smile when he answers: “I do know, Tom.”  – and then, more genuine – “I love you too.”

---

2013, February

He startles when a hand closes around his shoulder, hadn’t even heard the door to the study open.

He turns his head, brushes his lips against Pete’s fingers, which are illuminated only by the screen of his computer and the moonlight coming in through the large window overlooking the yard.

“What’s going on?” Pete whispers, removing his hand, stepping around Tom’s desk chair to lean against the desk.

Tom half-wishes there was some international emergency he could blame his angst on.

“Ah nothing,” he glances at his computer, where the document he was reviewing sits. “Just thought I’d get a head start.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Pete crosses his arms in front of his chest, frowns down at him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, wincing when it comes out thin and scratchy. He reaches for his tea, though its long gone cold.

They’re at the house in Honolulu, the one that the Navy keeps for whatever lucky bastard lands this position. He’s been the Pacific Fleet Commander for a few months now, but he doesn’t feel adjusted, yet, and he can’t figure out why.

It’s only the second time he and Pete have been in the same house, this one, since his confirmation ceremony. Despite the fact that, usually, he forewent these things, this time he’d allowed the PACOM staff to organize a small after-party (not their term, but that’s what it was) at a hotel downtown, just for an excuse to see old friends. It quickly grew into an affair that was decidedly not small. His staff took care of the political invites: all of the current O-10s and O-9s, some of the retired ones. Heads of the other branches. A dizzying compliment of senators, congressmen. The Vice President had attended, which, okay. Tom was still getting used to it all. The attendees were rounded out by other current Flag Officers showing the most promise: Bates, Cain, Koehler, Lewis, Simpson, Tiang, to name a few. (He insisted on extending some to a few O-5s and O-6s, particularly, any women or other officers who had to fight particularly hard to make it there).

As the man of the hour, he was given a few dozen personal invitations. He invited everyone he could think of: Slider, some of the other guys from their Top Gun class, some guys from the Academy. He even invited Sarah, and his parents, despite the fact that the idea of introducing them to Maverick made him unsteady (they hadn’t met, in the end, that Christmas in 2003- a violent snowstorm out east grounded all flights, and his parents never even made it to San Francisco). He invited Bradley, who never responded to the RSVP, and of course, he invited Pete. He intentionally let him wait for the official stationary to make its way to his mailbox, just to hear him delight in it: Your presence is requested at the Renaissance in downtown Honolulu- Ice, this is… (a laugh) and a plus one!? Man, you must really like me. I know these upper brass things don’t hand those out easy. Oh my God. Tom. Will you be my plus one?

He’d pretended to be embarrassed, while he smiled into the phone, thinking, yes, always yes.

In the end, Pete didn’t bring a plus one, just himself, looking roguishly handsome in his dress blues. For all that he was a Maverick, Pete did know how to comport himself in these kinds of situations. He didn’t spend so much time near Tom as to arouse suspicion, instead made the rounds same as everybody else, shaking hands and flirting with wives- as was expected of him. When he did finally approach Tom, he was exceedingly professional, gripping his hand in a warm handshake, squeezing his bicep in a fleeting display of camaraderie. They’re friendship is no secret, after all.

Later that night, they’d gone their separate ways, and then past-midnight Pete had shown up at his door in his civvies, having taken a cab to a park a few blocks down and walking the rest of the way for good measure, and they finally slept in the same bed, for the first time in nearly half a year.

“What’s going on in there,” Pete says, gently tapping Tom’s temple, snapping him out of his reverie.

“I hate it here,” he confesses, a burning shame creeping up. Wasn’t it everything he ever dreamed of?

Pete frowns, glances out the window to the picturesque view of the pacific.

“I know I wanted this,” he continues, gesturing at the desk, “but I miss how it was before.”

“Tom,” Pete starts, tilting his head to the side. “I don’t really know what you mean. It’s not that different.”

He’s right. The only real difference is that now he’s stationed at Pearl instead of North Island. The work is similarly laborious, if with a broader reach, and he still only sees Pete when they eclipse in the same corner of the world. But, for some reason, he’s finding it harder, this time around.

“It’s not home,” he sighs.

Pete smiles softly down at him.

“And here I thought it was because you were missing me,” he says, feigning offense.

It is, Tom thinks. In San Diego, when he misses Pete, he can do embarrassing things like look through their photo albums, or take one of his shirts and smell it, just to feel close.

“Hey,” Pete says, more seriously. “What can I do?”

“Nothing to be done,” Tom sighs, reaching for his hand. “I’m thinking I’ll ask for a permanent office at North Island. Most of this shit can be done on the computer, anyway.”

“That’d be good,” Pete agrees. “But you know, I’m hardly home myself either, these days,” when Tom opens his mouth to protest Pete raises a placating hand. “I know, it’s not that long of a drive, but there’s no wireless at the hangar, and I work a lot of weekends, and I don’t want you twisting your whole schedule around on my account. If you want to be back in San Diego because that’s what you want, you should, but I want expectations managed, that’s all.”

It’s been gratifying, having Pete on a project he actually likes, but it also means that they aren’t only dealing with Tom’s work demands these days.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that it’s probably not worth the trouble if Pete’s not there to come home to, asks instead: “Remind me, when do you have to leave?”

He’s so turned around these days.

“Not till evening,” Pete says. Tugging on the hand that’s still in Tom’s until Tom stands. “Now come back to bed. You don’t have to sleep but I’m sure as hell not going to be able to if I know you’re down here moping.”

“I’m not moping,” Tom protests, even though he’s definitely moping, but he lets himself get guided by the wrist out of the study and up the stairs.

“Call it what you want, Kazansky, but I won’t have it.”

So he lets Maverick pull him into bed, lets him crowd up behind him and hold him tight around the waist, even though his hip is aching from the pressure, and falls back asleep.

2013, August

He refocuses on the laptop propped up on his lap. If he can finish this white paper by nine, he and Pete can enjoy the rest of their last day at the resort.

He shuts his eyes, pictures a scantily dressed Maverick, stretched out on a beach towel in the sun. His fingers curl tightly around the paper cup of coffee at the image.

A crack of lightning snaps him out of it. He glances out the large, glass sliding doors leading to the balcony, at the sudden down-pour of rain.

Just his luck.

Pete squirms beside him, blinks his eyes open, hums disapprovingly, glaring at Tom’s computer.

“We’re on vacation,” Pete reminds him, punctuated with a kiss on his hip.

“I’m aware,” Tom smiles, reaching one hand down to stroke his hair, which is growing in a bit grey at the edges, an observation he’s been keeping to himself so that maybe Pete won’t dye it again so soon. He likes it like this.

“You’re working,” Pete whines, his eyelids fluttering shut again as Tom rakes his fingernails over his scalp.

“You were asleep.” Tom takes a long, satisfying sip of coffee. The steam fogs up his glasses, and he pulls them off for a moment, clears them with a corner of the bedsheet. He drags his eyes across the page. He just needs to neaten up some of the recommendations at the end, and then he’ll send it over to his staff for review.

“Well, I’m not asleep anymore, am I,” Pete’s voice goes low and suggestive, fingers skirting the inside of Tom’s thigh, and Tom can’t help but grin. Maybe his luck isn’t so bad, after all.

“Just ten more minutes,” Tom trails his hand down, grips the back of Pete’s neck. “And then I’m all yours.”

2013, November

He likes these mornings best. The one’s where they’re both home, in San Diego, at the same time, and not because Tom is sick or Pete is hurt. The ones where he wakes first, but not because he has anywhere in particular to be. Where he can watch, through hooded eyes, as Pete drools a little on his own pillow, lips parted, dark hair inelegantly falling over his forehead. Tom will drift in and out of sleep, each time he wakes looking at the same sight but from a new angle, under different light. Sometimes, Pete will have turned, and instead of looking at his face he’ll be looking at the back of his neck, or the side of his jaw. Sometimes he’ll have shifted closer, and the smell of his shampoo will tickle Tom’s nose, or he’ll have moved away, and Tom will remedy it by claiming the warm space he left behind.

These mornings don’t happen often, and at the expense of sounding soft, every single one is a gift.

2014, June

Tom is tired of having this argument, Cain bitching in his earpiece about Maverick. He scrubs maybe a little too aggressively at the pot from last night’s dinner, which had been abandoned in favor of other more palatable activities.

(And he’s already a bit pissed off, because apparently the shower in their ensuite is still busted, so he had to use the crappy one in the spare bathroom that takes ages to pull hot water- old houses and their fucked-up plumbing- even though he’d told Maverick to take care of it last time he was in town.)

“I understand, Admiral Cain, by all means, if you can think of someone else with proper clearance half as qualified, who won’t, say, accidentally leak the schematics on social media…”

The front door clicks open.

Speak of the devil.

Through the white noise of Cain’s droning, Tom listens to the clatter of a pair of shoes being tossed into the coat closet (better than being left to trip over, he supposes) followed by the padding of socked feet down the hall.

He has half the mind to mute his cell before a warm hand wraps around his waist, rucking up his shirt to rest on the bare skin above his hip.

“Hey, you,” Pete murmurs, voice low, all sweet and innocent. Despite himself, Tom’s heart does something funny in his chest. Even after all these years, Pete has that effect on him.

He also manages to continuously elicit another emotion, too.

“What’s on the agenda for-”

Tom points to his ear, sparing a glance back in time to see Pete’s jaw snap shut with a click and his unimpressed expression. Tom lifts his finger, and Pete seems to take this as a sign to busy his mouth with working along what he can reach of Tom’s throat, instead.

Okay, fine.

As Cain finishes his thought, a more formal version of ‘you’re right, I just hate that S-O-B’, which, fair- Tom kind of hates Maverick too, sometimes. Like when he makes it so that Cain calls him at 0700 on a Saturday morning to discuss his latest antics. He unmutes his phone, flashing a warning look towards Pete, even though he can’t see it, not where he’s plastered himself, all sweaty, to Tom’s back.

“I’m glad we agree. If that’ll be all, I’m sure we both have more pressing matters to get to this morning. Goodbye, Admiral Cain.”

He hangs up, turns in Maverick’s arms.

“When were you gonna tell me?” Tom asks, feeling more than a bit sour.

“You know how Cain is,” Pete pouts, shifting his hands to the counter, effectively caging Tom up against it.

“And I know how you are, too,” Tom argues. He glances at his watch. He needs to be on another call in fifteen minutes, and preferably a change of shirt. “Look, Mav. I don’t like the guy, either. There’s only so much time I want to spend on the phone with him.”

“Sorry,” Pete says, sounding appropriately chastised. And well, Tom thinks maybe he deserves to be rewarded. He turns them around, so he has Pete pushed up against the counter. But then Pete continues: “I just- I don’t understand why the timeline is so damn long. She can clearly handle it just fine.”

“Patience is a virtue, I hear,” Tom notes, leaning in close, slowly trailing his hands from Pete’s shoulder down the front of his bare chest.

“Oh yeah?” Pete asks, trying and failing to mask his surprise.

“Mhm.” Tom hooks his fingers into the waistband of Pete shorts, drags his fingers along the elastic. He reeks of sweat, but Tom has long stopped being embarrassed by the fact it gets him going.

Yet, still, some things turn Tom on more.

Like being right.

He straightens up, pats Pete on the chest, and steps away.

“Hey- what?” Pete protests, voice getting a little whiny.

“Patience is a virtue,” Tom repeats, fighting a grin. He turns and starts towards his office. “Go shower, you stink.”

2015, December

“Wish you were here,” Pete sighs over the phone. “It’s raining. I know how much you love when it rains here.”

It’s the smell, the way the rain brings up the earthy aroma that gets packed down in the dry desert climate.

“Yeah, me too,” Tom agrees. He’s stuck in Pearl for Christmas this year. Not a surprise, but he was sort of optimistic for a second that he’d be able to slip away, just for the day. Pete couldn’t swing it, either, not with the ramp up with Darkstar.

He isn’t needed until nine- most of the staff live here, of course, so they’re spending the morning with their families. It’s almost seven, so it must be around ten, in San Diego. Pete’s probably in a similar boat- not needed until midday or the afternoon.

Tom has the phone on speaker, resting on the pillow next to his ear. His arms are wrapped around the one that Pete uses when he is here, the down compressing in his hold. It’s pleasantly cool in the room, and the sheets smell like detergent. He’s wearing one of Pete’s old sweatshirts- one he’d left behind on his last visit and Tom didn’t have the heart to give back.

“Well, before you called, I was working on the crossword,” Pete starts, and Tom’s heart does something funny in his chest because Pete doesn’t care for the crossword but it’s what Tom will do, sometimes, when they have the day off and Pete isn’t up yet, “And I was wondering if you could help me with some of these.”

“Oh yeah?” He hopes his delight isn’t too obvious. “Shoot.”

“Okay, first one- jeez, I don’t know how you do these- ‘Where Puccini's ‘Madama Butterfly’ premiered’. That’s an opera? Right?”

“Yes, Italian.” Tom confirms. “How many letters?”

“Seven.”

“Try La Scala.”

“L- A- S- C- A- L- A-,” Pete mutters. “Okay! Oh, hold on, I know this one- ‘General Pershing’s group’. That’s A- E- F. Okay. Next one- ‘Who said: history repeats itself the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.’ That seems like one you’d know.”

Tom thinks for a second. “I think that was Marx.”

“Jeez, Ice, you’ve read Marx? Gotta be careful. If the Navy finds out, they’ll boot your ass.” Pete laughs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom smiles, though. “C’mon. Gimme another.”

“Okay. This one’s tricky- a bunch of letters- ‘Middle of a three-part illustrated maxim’. What the hell does that even mean? Any ideas?”

2016, May

He’s asleep.

Well, that’s what he tells himself, at least, as his phone vibrates against the bedside table.

He is very much asleep.

He can’t answer the phone if he’s asleep!

“Ice, I swear to God, if you don’t pick up that damn phone-”

Not asleep.

He blindly searches for his cell, squints at the screen. Fucking Johanson.

He hits decline, fires off a curt text kindly reminding him of the time difference and that he will call back in a few hours, assuming it isn’t life or death.

(It isn’t. It’s about the last meeting’s minutes. Absurd.)

“Sorry,” he mumbles, voice muffled by his pillow, turning over to pull a very grouchy Maverick into his arms. He kisses his face, whatever he can reach, which turns out to be his left eyelid, and then settles back for another half-hour or so of sleep. It’s Sunday. He has the right, he thinks.

“You feeling okay?” Pete asks, reaching up to feel his forehead and his cheeks with the back of his hand.

“Mm, yeah, fine,” Tom says, kissing the back of Pete’s wrist when it lands in front of his mouth. “Why?”

“You’re sleeping in. Voluntarily,” Pete grins, tangling their legs together under the sheets. His tone is teasing but there’s an underlying worry that hasn’t subsided since Tom first got sick. Tom quickly learned it’s better not to fight it, to just let him fuss until he seems satisfied. “Ignoring work calls. It’s not like you, Admiral.”

Tom considers this. He really does feel fine, if a bit tired. His left knee hurts more than usual, come to think of it, but that could be because it’s wedged between Pete’s, and he feels a little foggy, but last night they’d cracked into a bottle of Malbec they’d been saving and red always did go straight to his head.

He also just really couldn’t be bothered with Johansen. It’s a bit unfortunate. The CWO is exceptionally good at his job, he’s just so annoying about it. Though Tom supposes it’s exactly that which makes him effective.

“Forgive me for not wanting to spend my morning placating Johansen,” Tom sighs, tugging at the sheets until his back is covered again, shivering against the cool morning breeze coming through the window. “Below my fucking paygrade, anyway. Minutes approval. What a joke. The DoD isn’t going to collapse because I didn’t approve them right away.”

(The funny thing is, according to his staff, his colleagues and his predecessors don’t even bother reading them. Just approve them blindly. The idea bewilders Tom. He can’t fathom trusting that whatever intern is in charge of records does an adequate job. Sure, they all sit through these meetings, know what is said and who says it, but what if the records get released under FOIA? Don’t they want to be sure anything they say is reflected accurately?

In short, Johansen is going to have to wait, because Tom has to read the damn thing first.)

“I don’t know, it might,” Pete teases, snaking a cold hand up Tom’s shirt to stroke at his chest.

This is nice, Tom thinks. Really nice.

“You’re right, it might,” Tom grouses. Sometimes, in moments like these, he lets himself feel a little proud about it, the power he apparently holds. A dozen of the country’s most powerful men and women are assigned to this project, a blacklisted-to-hell operative concerning some weird artifacts on the surveillance coming out of eastern Russia they’ve gotta keep their eyes on, but no one can move forward until Tom Kazansky approves the minutes. A worse man would let it get to his head. “Still, I don’t mind letting them sweat a little. Who the fuck calls someone at,” he lifts his head, checks the alarm clock over Pete’s shoulder, “six in the morning. On a Sunday!”

Pete grins at him in a way that lets Tom know he’s being made fun of, in his head.

Yeah, yeah. He’s a hypocrite. He knows.

“You know,” Pete starts, suddenly very serious. “A wise man told me something once. You may not like the guys working with you, they may not like you, but whose side are you on?”

Tom blinks.

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Yeah but,” he laughs, “when I said it, it made sense. In this context-”

Pete slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Fact: you don’t like Johansen,” Pete declares.

“Sure,” Tom agrees, though it’s muffled behind Pete’s palm.

“Fact: the DoD suffers when Admiral Kazansky ignores his calls,” Pete continues, removing his hand so that Tom can answer.

“I’m not ignoring his calls I’m simply-”

“Fact!” Pete interrupts. “You support the general intention and direction of the DoD.”

Not always, Tom thinks, but that’s semantics. “The general intention and direction, sure.”

“Ergo, even though you don’t like the guys you work with, you’re all on the same team,” Pete concludes, smiling victoriously. He points a finger into Tom’s chest. “You should play nice.”

“Ergo,” Tom wheezes. “What, have you been studying for your SATs?”

“Shuttup,” Pete kicks his shin gently. “Point stands.”

“What, do you want me to go sooth Johansen?” Tom asks, making a point of pulling back the sheets and shifting back, as though to get out of bed, even though he has no intentions to. Not for another twenty minutes, at least.

“I didn’t say that!” Pete protests, reeling him back in by the wrists. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying you’re a hypocrite, is all.”

And Tom thinks he’s okay with that.

2016, October

“I’m fine, Ice,” Pete huffs at him through the phone. From the looks of it, he’s in his office at China Lake.

Tom is not impressed. He wishes he had his voice so he could yell at him. Instead, he settles for furiously signing to the screen, hands moving so quickly he’s sure Pete isn’t understanding a word he’s saying, but he’s going for impact, here.

Tom thinks FaceTime is perhaps one of the best inventions of the modern age.

Do you know how fucking scared I was? He signs, a little slower, to ensure he’s understood, but still glaring into his cell’s camera. Hondo texts me: ‘good news, Mach 10! bad news, ejection’. That’s it. No elaboration.

“I’m pretty sure he started with ‘Mav’s fine’,” Pete tries, complete with his trademark boyish smile in an attempt to soften things.

Tom doesn’t fall for that, anymore. At least, not when he’s this fucking pissed.

You’re lucky I don’t just let them fucking ground you for good for this, he says, and half-means it. One last one. It’s what he keeps telling himself. He just needs Maverick to bring the kid home, and then it’ll be over.

“Yeah, what’s this about Top Gun? Special detachment of sorts?” Outwardly, Pete’s voice is excited, but Tom can see how tired he is, in the way his appeasing smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You’ll be briefed when you get there, Tom sighs, both unable and unwilling to have this conversation right now. It’ll have to be later. A knock at the door of his bedroom gets his attention, and he looks up to see Sarah hovering in the doorway, fully dressed. It’s almost time for them to drive to his appointment. He lifts a finger. She taps her wristwatch, but disappears back into the hall.

What did the doctors say? He signs.

Pete’s expression goes distant, a little guilty and a little pained.

You did get checked out, right?

“There wasn’t time!”

God, you’re going to be the death of me, he pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a steadying breath, before continuing. Promise me you’ll go to the base hospital, after your meeting with Simpson and Bates.

“Tom, I’m fine, really,” Pete assures. “They won’t be able to do anything for me, anyway. I think just bruised some ribs. They’ll just prescribe some drugs I can’t take.”

Tom just stares at him through the phone screen until-

“Fine. Fine!” He concedes. “I’ll go get checked out. I’ll even send you a copy of my x-ray. I know you get off on that shit, you sadist.”

You better, he glances at the time. I have to go, but fly safe, idiot.

“Love you, too,” Pete says, smile turning into something a little more genuine, and then adding, more seriously: “And good luck today. Let me know how it goes.”

Will do.

He hangs up the phone just in time for a hacking cough to take over. He looks down at his hand, relieved to see no blood.

2016, November

“We have got to stop meeting like this.”

The voice is muffled, and when Tom finally figures out where it’s coming from, he sees Pete, wearing a surgical mask, looking down at him, eyes sparkling.

“Don’t try to speak,” Pete says, quickly. “You, uh, they operated. I hope that’s okay. I know we haven’t really gotten a chance to talk about what… what you’d want.”

Tom frowns. This explains why he feels so weird. Like he’s still asleep, in a way. His right hand is trapped in Pete’s, so he lifts his left, wiggles his fingers.

“Oh- do you want to write?” Pete looks around, grabs a pen and a small pad of hospital stationary. “Does this work? I can go ask a nurse for a whiteboard.”

Tom shuts his eyes. God, he’s getting so fed up with this, needing help with everything. He sort of expected he’d adjust to his new reality.

He shakes his head, opens his palm.

Pete releases his hand to give him the pen, and helps him get it onto the paper, which is resting on the mattress by his hip. The angle is awkward, so he can only manage a few letters at a time. Fortunately for his sake, Pete doesn’t need much to understand what he’s getting at.

He scrawls: When

“It’s Wednesday, you went into surgery on Monday.”

That tracks, sort of. Last thing he remembers is getting off an interminable video call with the Joint Chiefs from his temporary office at North Island first thing Monday morning.

Mission, he writes.

“Moved up,” Pete frowns, apologetic. “I- I have to go. I have to fly it. I’m the only one who’s met the parameters.”

He’d been expecting this.

Given his current state, he imagines that his being incapacitated means some bullshit is going on, behind the scenes, and Maverick has very little tolerance for bullshit.

(Neither does Tom, but he’s always been better at pretending.)

He taps the tip of the pen against where he wrote the first question.

“Tomorrow.”

Tom shuts his eyes, sucks in a breath. He chokes a bit, on the rapid rush of air to his lungs. He rides out the cough, soothed by what he’s sure is a steady stream of supplemental oxygen in his canula. The morphine dripping though his IV doesn’t hurt, either.

He blinks them open when he feels Pete’s fingers in his hair, which mercifully is still all there, even after all the treatments he’s been through.

“I’ll come back to you,” Pete promises. Tom notices, for the first time, that he’s in his dress whites. He looks boyishly handsome, like he did the first time they spoke, thirty years ago almost to the day.

Tom nods, even though he doesn’t quite believe it.

Pete folds his hands around Tom’s. “You promise me that you’ll be here for me to come back to.”

Another promise he doesn’t think can be kept.

He nods again, anyway.

What else is there to do?

2016, November

“Admiral Kazansky, there’s a call for you.”

Tom blinks his eyes open to see Luke, his chief aide, standing in the doorway. Nice kid. Tom’s been trying to convince him to just call him Iceman for a while now, to no avail, apparently.

“Can’t it wait?” Sarah asks, a little punishing.

He tracks his eyes across the room. He thinks maybe he’s had another surgery. He’s not sure. Everything feels fuzzy, still.

“I- I think he’ll want to take this one.” Luke says, shifting from foot to foot.

Tom weakly beckons him over with his left hand, the one that’s not in Sarah’s.

Luke taps the screen, and Tom can make out static, distant voices.

“Okay, I’ve got him on the line,” Luke says, smiling a little.

“Ice? Tom?” – it’s Maverick, Pete. Tom’s heart jumps, Sarah squeezes his hand – “You gave us all quite the scare, there. Had me pretty worried, and I maybe did something pretty damn stupid,” – something pained in his voice – “well, you’ll hear all about it later, I’m sure.”

This has to be a dream, Tom thinks. He’s not making any sense.

“What I mean to say is: we did it, Tom. It’s over. I- I brought him back. We all made it back.”

Tom takes a shuddering breath of relief.

“Anyway, I’m sure you need your rest, and Bradley is giving me this look like I’m about to get my ass thrown overboard if I don’t let the doctor take a look at me- oh, but, don’t worry! I’m fine! All my insides are on my insides, and what not. Like I said- you’ll hear all about it later. I promise. And hey- sounds like if Cyclone’s got any say, they’re sticking me on transport to Anchorage first thing. You hear that, Tom? So you just hang in there. Let them take care of you, you stubborn bastard. I’ll be there soon.”

Tom wishes so badly he could say something back, but there’s a tube down his throat and he doubts this call is sanctioned, being that it’s come straight to Tom’s personal cell phone, so there certainly isn’t enough time or security to establish a video call. Instead, he looks desperately at Sarah, who, when he squeezes her hand three times in rapid succession, picks up the phone and says for him:

“He loves you, Pete.”

And well, Tom couldn’t have said it better himself.

“Oh, man.” – a breathless laugh – “I love you too, Ice. So much. I gotta go, but I’ll see you soon.”

2024, April

The apartment in D.C. is objectively nice, but neither of them have gotten used to the sound of traffic waking them in the early mornings, or the absence of the sea breeze coming in through the windows.

But it’s Sunday, and he doesn’t have to go into the office, and Pete is sated and happy after their dinner out and following activities last night, so life is pretty good.

They’re curled facing each other. Tom blinks his eyes open to see Pete looking at him with an easy smile. Tom reaches out to stroke his hair, which, to Tom’s continued delight, Pete has stopped dying.

“Will you,” he pauses to yawn, “help me draft that lecture for the postgrad school later?”

“Sure,” Pete nods, but his eyes are already shut again. “What’s it on again?”

“Artificial Intelligence and Aerial Warfare,” Tom sighs. “It’s all anyone wants to talk about, these days. Essentially a cost-benefit analysis of using AI to identify targets, and the ethical implications when a UAV hits the wrong ones.”

Pete opens his eyes, sarcastically raises his eyebrows. “Sexy.”

“Extremely so,” Tom jokes back. “Sure, it’s dry. But it’s important, and we’ll make it interesting, you and me.”

“The contractors are going to hate it,” Pete points out. “Did the SECNAV really okay it?”

“Mhm.” Tom got his approval with a few key instructions about how to angle it- less critique of our collaborators, more celebration of our aviators. “As long as I word it right.”

Pete smiles crookedly. “Not sure I’m the guy to help with that.”

“No, but you’ll help with the interesting part,” Tom grins back. “If not I’ll just be droning on and on, which would defeat the argument.”

Pete blinks, then laughs, delighted, “That’s a good one! How long did you have that one planned?”

Tom shrugs sheepishly. “Anyway, just wait until they declassify Darkstar. Now that will be lecture to remember.”

“Ugh, I hope not,” Pere grimaces. “I just mean- It’s already been eight years. I won’t even know what to say.”

“I’m sure we’ll think of something.” Tom rolls onto his back, stretches his legs out, hissing when his calf threatens to cramp.

Pete flexes his own muscles, wincing when he hears his spine crack. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

It’s Tom’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “What does that make me?”

“Oh, Jesus, not this again,” Pete groans. “We’re the same age.”

“Three years-”

“Is a rounding error,” Pete interrupts, crawling over Tom and pinning him into place. He leans down and kisses him slowly. Tom chases him as he pulls away. Pete grins. “So. Do you really want to spend your morning off arguing with me, or…?”

Tom smiles.

The thing is, Tom doesn’t mind arguing with Pete. He also doesn’t mind that his hip is aching, or that, somehow, at sixty-four, he still has to work weekends, or even that he’s not sure he’ll actually be able to have the morning sex that Pete is suggesting.

He doesn’t mind, because he knows how lucky he is to be here, in bed, with the man he loves.

He’s not sure how he got so lucky, but he’s damn glad he did.