Chapter 1: i. the intro
Summary:
“Are you cheating on me, Iceman?” Maverick asks in that silky smooth way of his, and Ice inhales sharply at the unexpected flare of panic that creeps into his chest. Fuck. If he’s silent for a moment too long, nobody points it out.
or, the one where ice accidentally comes out, mav is an idiot, and slider keeps a conditioner bottle under his bed for emergencies
Notes:
thank you so so much to cy (doodlewrite) and stef (soronya) for the beta!!
i do have a "vibes" playlist for this baby. a solid half of it is jazz and the other half is just songs i think is so them LMAO
no content warnings for this chapter!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So,” Maverick smirks, “got your eye on anyone?”
They've been at the bar for a couple of hours now, each about three or four drinks in. It's not overly crowded, being a Thursday night, the sailors and aviators mingling with civilians and conventionally attractive young women hoping to score a man in uniform. Iceman sighs internally. C’mon Maverick, you do this every single time. Ice wonders if he ever gets tired of the response Ice recites like clockwork.
Maverick interrupts before he can even open his mouth to give his typical reply.
“Wait, don't tell me—I got it.” He scours the room for a few seconds before a mirthful expression crosses his face. “That one.” He points to a small brunette talking with a group of blonde girls, a lit cigarette in one hand and a G&T in the other. Ice watches her bring the cigarette to her lips and take a drag, pursing her lips with a puff of smoke.
The pilot taps his fingers on the table in anticipation, and Ice turns back to look at him, something like anxiety fluttering in his stomach. Maverick stands up and knocks back the rest of his drink, putting the glass down on the table with a touch more force than necessary. Ice flinches slightly at the sound, following Maverick’s movements with his eyes a little too desperately.
“Maverick, I—”
“C'mon Ice, I said I'd be your wingman anytime!”
“Mav—” Ice tries, but Maverick is already crossing the room. Shit. He lunges after him, grabbing his arm, and Maverick turns. “Don't,” he hisses, something like fear flickering in his eyes for just a split-second.
“Oh Ice, don't be nervous about a pretty girl. You'll score for sure. There's no way you won't, looking like th—”
“Maverick, I don't like girls.”
Ice doesn't know why he says it, maybe it's the alcohol, or the smell of smoke working its way into his lungs, or maybe it's the way Maverick is looking at him, or maybe it's something else. But whatever the reason, he blurts out those five words and suddenly the bar is too hot, too loud, too crowded, too much, and he needs to get out, get out, get out —
Then he's outside, leaning heavily on the railing. The scent of salt on the water tries to ground him as the breeze rustles through his hair and the panic rustles through his mind. Fuck. Ice is in danger. His secret’s out, and Maverick has the power to report him, to get him dishonorably discharged, to make sure he never sees the cockpit of a fighter jet again, and oh, he feels sick to his stomach.
The door swings open behind him, and Maverick comes to join him. Iceman casts his gaze downward, resisting the urge to vomit.
And isn’t that a thought? The ice-cold pilot with nerves of steel and an impressive lack of nausea in the cockpit, the man who’s never once felt his stomach turn in the air, feeling seasick with his feet firmly on the ground. C’mon Ice. Get a fucking grip. He’s been flying for a decade and has never vomited in a plane for fuck’s sake, so surely he can pull himself together.
“Alright then,” Maverick starts, resting his elbows on the railing, and Ice can only imagine this going one way. “What's your type of guys?”
What?
“What?”
“Your type,” Maverick shrugs, “of guys. Y'know. Since you don't like girls.”
“You're… you're cool with it?”
“I mean yeah,” he says nonchalantly. “I like them both. So we've got something else in common now.”
Ice stares in stunned silence. Maverick does nothing to disrupt it, looking straight ahead at the ocean. He’s backlit by the lights from inside the bar, a bluish tint reflecting onto the back of his head, turning his hair a couple shades lighter. There’s a glint in his eyes that seems to turn them from their regular green to a steely gray. Ice mentally traces the freckles sprinkled on his nose and spreading to his cheeks, almost trying to commit them to memory one by one. He thinks that if he looked into the sky, he could find them mirrored in the stars.
He breaks the silence then, heart pounding in his throat.
“Dark hair, green eyes, reckless, and spontaneous.”
“Huh?” Maverick glances at him, confusion etched into the lines on his face.
Ice offers a nervous smile. It's not even been five minutes, and he's exhibited two uncharacteristic acts of bravery. “My type.”
Maverick gives him a cocky grin, nudging his shoulder. “Sounds a bit like me, huh? Hey, I was right on the brunette part!”
And… okay. Maybe Ice should add “clueless idiot” to his list, he thinks, experiencing a rather wild range of emotions; something like relief… pain, maybe? Disappointment? A touch of warmth? The heat radiating off of Maverick’s body makes him realize just how close he is to the other man; the two are standing side-by-side, almost near enough to touch, but he makes no effort to increase the distance between them. He feels his grip loosen on his glass and he doesn’t even know why. Fuck, he's too drunk for this. Straight vodka on the rocks will do that to you.
“Well,” Maverick hums. “I can think of a few people that fit that description. There’s this guy I know who works at a restaurant in San Diego, but I’m not sure if he swings that way. I could stop by sometime and drop some hints if you’d like.”
“Maverick,” Ice warns, a fond edge to his voice. “I don’t need you to wingman me in… that way, okay?”
“Okay, Ice. I understand,” Maverick says, and he does. He drapes a comforting arm around Ice’s shoulders, the tension draining from Ice’s body at the touch. He wishes he could melt into it, the warm feeling in his chest almost overwhelming. The moment is stolen from them all too soon as Maverick’s head snaps towards the bar at the sound of someone calling his name.
“I gotta go. I’m sorry.” He offers a sympathetic smile and reaches out to pat him on the arm.
Ice wants to stop him with every fiber of his being. But Maverick is the life of every party he attends and Ice… Ice would much rather blend seamlessly into the background. He watches Mav elbow his way into the crowded bar, getting playfully slapped on the back by a stranger. Funny how Mav seems to have that sort of effect on people, nowadays.
So now Ice is left alone on the deck, for better or worse.
Someday the two of them might have this talk again. Maybe they’ll remember it. Maybe someday when neither of them is under the influence, and Ice hasn't just dropped a massive fucking bombshell out of nowhere. Someday, Ice figures, cracking a bittersweet expression towards the sand. For now, though, he takes another sip of his drink and lets his anxiety ebb with each crash of the waves.
Before he joined the Navy, Tom Kazansky played lead tenor sax in his high school jazz band. He spent hours listening to records of the greats; John Coltrane and Eddie Davis and Ray Abrams, trying his hardest to emulate their likeness. He studied Cannonball Adderley almost as hard as he studied his physics and math, receiving high praise from his band directors and taking solos every chance he got. He spent his Sunday nights playing gigs in local jazz bars, getting clapped on the back by the older musicians and strangers in the audience for his performance.
Tom vividly remembers the day he told his father that he wanted to be a musician and the successive backlash of the man shooting him down almost immediately.
“Musicians don’t make any money,” the elder Kazansky had barked. “They’re not worth anything to society. You’re going to be an Air Force pilot and amount to something for once in your life.” And Tom, never one to argue with his father, had nodded and said “ Yes, sir ,” and returned to his bedroom where he’d painstakingly slipped his Song For My Father record out of its sleeve and let the sultry tones of Horace Silver on piano calm his racing heart.
He burned his precious vinyl collection onto cassettes the following week, then boxed the records up and sold them.
When Tom moved to Annapolis, the cassettes moved with him.
The cassettes were there while he studied for exams into the early hours of the morning and while he reviewed material for the ASTB, syncopated rhythms floating from the ancient radio in the corner of his room.
They were there the nights he laid in bed and stared at his ceiling, unable to fall asleep, listening to Duke Ellington and Dizzy Gillespie and Count Basie. The discomfort of his cheap headphones was always worth it for the big-band sound playing from his walkman.
Somehow, Ice manages to forget about the bar conversation until a fateful Tuesday morning.
They're in the air on a hop, Iceman as the flight leader for the division and the other three aircraft following behind in fingertip formation; Chipper and Maverick behind and to his right, Hollywood behind and to his left.
The hop was outlined as a simple one; a quick patrol flight to check out a pair of bogeys spotted on the radar. If there wasn't anything to worry about, Ice was to send Hollywood and Chipper back to the boat while he and Maverick took the long way back.
“Slider, what’ve we got?” Ice asks, squinting at the two dark shapes in the distance.
“Tally two MiG-28s at 3 o’clock,” his RIO replies, “but they've turned tail.”
“Let's follow them for a bit, make sure they don't get into any trouble.” Ice pulls the throttle back, slowing the division just a touch to remain a non-threatening distance from the MiGs.
Sure enough, the MiGs increase their speed once they notice the division, returning themselves to enemy territory. It’s turning out to be another uneventful flight, and one that Ice is grateful for. It’s been a long few days.
“I think we’re all good here,” he radios.
“ Roger that,” the air boss confirms from the island. “Kiss off Hollywood and Chipper on your signal.”
Ice gives the signal and the two Tomcats break away from the division, turning to head back to the carrier.
There are a few beats of silence before Maverick’s voice comes clear over the radio. “I bet you wish you could kiss me off, huh, Ice?”
Ice wonders if he could eject right now and put himself out of his misery.
He spends a few moments reaching blindly for a response, but the static enveloping his brain makes it hard to focus. “Wh… huh?” he finally manages.
“Real eloquent, Ice.” He can practically hear the smirk in Slider’s voice. He glances at the mirror and yep, sure enough, his RIO is halfway to losing it. “He said he bets you wish you could kiss him off.”
Merlin barks a laugh. “Yeah, c’mon Ice, I thought y’all had something going on!”
“Are you cheating on me, Iceman?” Maverick asks in that silky smooth way of his, and Ice inhales sharply at the unexpected flare of panic that creeps into his chest. Fuck. If he’s silent for a moment too long, nobody points it out.
“Didn’t realize we were a thing in the first place,” he replies, hands shaking ever-so-slightly on the control stick. It’s a joke, it’s a joke, it’s a joke. The mantra plays on repeat in his mind.
“Hey guys, let’s not clog up the channel, huh?” someone on the island radios, and both pilots voice their apologies.
The radio is awkwardly silent the entire flight back.
“Hey,” Ice says after the division has landed. “What was that about?”
The jets are being refueled in the hangar deck, and the pilots and their RIOs are off to shower and change out of their flight suits. Maverick casts a glance over his shoulder and slows his pace so Ice can catch up. “What was what about?”
“Your comment,” Ice replies, not unkindly, “about kissing off.” He can feel his face reddening, though if anyone notices he can pass it off as the sun in his eyes or the sweat from his helmet, or one of the thousand other excuses he keeps stored in his pockets for moments like this.
“What, did I offend you?” Maverick stops, grabs Ice by his shoulders, and rotates him so that they’re face-to-face. He looks the other man over, green eyes searching blue, as he’s trying to read any disappointment he caused in the creases between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry if I did, I thought that—I mean, we make jokes like that all the time, or at least I do, but if you’re uncomfortable I can—”
“Maverick, shut up.”
Mav drops his hands to his side.
“Ice, I—”
“Stop talking.” Despite every bone in his body telling him not to, he shakes his head and smiles fondly. “Nevermind. Don’t worry about it. Just… I got nervous, is all.”
“Oh.” Maverick looks concerned. “Are you sure? Because seriously, I don’t want—”
“Yes,” Ice says, exasperated, cutting him off again before he can barrel through another few thousand apologies. “You’re fine.”
Maverick studies his face carefully; Ice can feel his cheeks warm at the intense stare. “What's changed?”
“Huh?”
“What's changed?” Maverick asks again. “Between now and the last time I said something like that?”
Ice is quiet. “Well now,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “you know about me.”
Understanding appears to dawn on the other man all at once. “Oh.” Maverick steps closer; the two of them are nearly toe-to-toe. “Hey, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt my wingman, yeah?”
Ice lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Okay,” he says earnestly, “I believe you.”
And he does.
When Ice met Maverick for the first time, he was thrown back to the time spent in his high school jazz band, and the one trumpet player who had been very talented, really, but desperately needed an attitude check. The student was loud and sharp and brash with an innate need to be the center of attention, always insisting on playing long-winded improv solos, even when they didn’t quite fit with the mood that had been established.
Mav was like that, Ice thought, an incredibly skilled pilot who showed off to the detriment of others. Yet despite his concern for others in Maverick’s vicinity, Ice found himself drawn to him, thinking about just how much he could excel and achieve if he learned to blend with the rest of the band.
Ice listened to Lee Morgan’s The Sidewinder on repeat the night after he’d called Maverick out for his actions (“I don’t like you because you’re dangerous”) . The trumpet and tenor saxophone play the introduction in tandem, their notes in tune and perfectly aligned. Both players breathe as one, effortlessly trading off solos, one finishing with a flourish and stepping aside to let the other take the spotlight. He’d hoped that he and Mav could be like that once he got the necessary ego check; flying side-by-side, finally having someone to match his talent, but he’d never wanted Goose to be the catalyst.
But he had been, and Ice had hated himself for weeks, blaming himself for the incident almost as much as Mav did, despite never even seeing the inside of a courtroom. And somehow, the two had been impossibly in sync ever since.
Slider is going to be the death of him, Ice thinks.
The two are eating dinner in the mess, and Ice is shoving half-cooked potatoes in his mouth and trying to ignore his RIO’s eyes boring holes into his skull.
Neither of them says a word to each other until about ten minutes in when Ice snaps.
“What.”
Slider only grins, and Ice’s face falls. It’s an evil grin, this one.
“Can I help you?” Ice presses, putting maybe a touch more snark into his voice than necessary.
“Oh, what? You’re ready to talk now?” Slider feigns ignorance, resting his elbows on the metal table and perching his chin in his hands, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously.
“Slider, if you’re gonna keep being a cryptic asshole, I’m turning in early.” He crumples up his dirty napkin and drops it on his tray, making a move to stand.
“So, Mav, huh?”
Ice sits back down.
When Ron Kerner was assigned as Tom’s RIO in VF-213, he was certain the pilot’s callsign was going to be Jazzman. In fact, some of the newer lieutenants had started calling him such once word got out that it wasn’t Fleetwood Mac or The Beatles or AC/DC playing in the headphones he always wore, but some guy wailing on the saxophone for seven minutes straight.
This continued unofficially until one night at the O-Club when a girl who was a little too drunk kept making advances on Tom. The pilot hadn’t even spared her a glance before shutting her down with a simple “No” and continuing his chat with Ron as if nothing had happened. A senior officer nearby had witnessed the event and let out a long, low whistle, followed by “Ice cold, man.”
Apparently, gossip
also
gets around quickly within the senior officer’s circles, as the next time he entered the ready room, the commanding officer met him with “Ah, here cometh the Iceman,” and the name stuck.
(Ron later tried to have Ice listen to Jerry Butler’s album of the same name under the guise that ‘it’s soul, which is basically jazz, right?’ This plan had immediately backfired, resulting in Ice animatedly giving him a two-hour rant on the origins of jazz as a genre and culture. Ice had then gone one step further by telling him not to expect any smooth landings until he’d produced a handwritten essay on what he’d learned.)
“How long?” Slider asks, and Ice feels his face redden.
“How long what?” Ice echoes; he knows that his RIO can see through his bullshit, but maybe he can stall just long enough to get his shit together.
Slider only raises an eyebrow.
“I’m gonna need a fucking drink if we’re gonna keep talking about my lack of a love life.”
“I have a bottle of Pantene conditioner that might be of assistance.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation right now, Sli.”
Slider grabs a fry off his tray and pops it in his mouth. “You don’t want to have this conversation ever,” he corrects. “Which is why I’m gonna drag it out of your emotionally repressed ass.”
“I’m not talking about this here ,” Ice hisses, voice low, gesturing around at the room around them. The mess hall is practically empty, with only a few seats at a few tables occupied; it’s later than most of the crew usually eat dinner.
“You’re paranoid,” Slider says, but tosses the last of his fries into his mouth and rises from his seat. “Let’s go,” he adds when Ice stares at him dumbly.
Soon the pair are settled in their stateroom, Ice sitting cross-legged on his bed and Slider on the floor, leaning against the wall. Slider passes him a white conditioner bottle. Ice looks at it suspiciously.
“Drink up,” Slider quotes in an awful British accent, “the world's about to end.”
Fucking nerd.
Ice swings the bottle side-to-side and feels a liquid that is decidedly not conditioner sloshing around inside. He unscrews the cap and takes a deep inhale—it’s bourbon. Now it’s Ice’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Slider only shrugs.
“For special occasions.”
Ice takes a swig and the oaky flavor hits the back of his throat, the warmth spreading through his chest as he swallows.
“Good?” Slider asks. Ice nods. “Great. Now talk.”
He takes another sip, savoring the flavor before passing it back. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start by answering my first question,” Slider suggests. “How long?”
Ice stares at his hands. He’s quiet for a long time.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. It feels like his heart is in his throat and trying to escape.
“What, you don’t have a moment when it just… Clicked?”
“I’ve always thought he was attractive ,” Ice confesses, “but you have to admit that he is a conventionally attractive man.”
“Debatable.”
Ice looks him dead in the eye. “You wanna talk about this or not.” It’s more of a statement than a question and it makes Slider laugh. Asshole.
“I thought if you kept brooding over this any longer, you might explode,” Slider explains and shrugs. “So this is your chance to get it out of your system.”
Ice stares at his friend, face stripped bare of any emotion.
“Also,” Slider adds, the corner of his mouth twitching into a shit-eating grin, “I’m nosy.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Maybe. So, Mav,” Slider inquires, handing the bourbon back, and Ice takes a deep breath. He holds onto that conditioner bottle for dear life and steels himself.
“I don’t know when… it … started. I don’t know what he makes me feel. I don’t know anything about this situation except for the fact that it sucks and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Does he know? That you’re…”
“Yeah. He was trying to wingman me when we were on shore leave. I sorta freaked out and told him.”
“And?”
“He just said ‘Cool, I like both,’ and asked my type.”
“And?”
“I described him.”
“Jesus Christ, Ice. You’ve got it bad .”
“Can it, Slider.” Ice swallows another mouthful of bourbon. He wonders if it tastes better as contraband, or if Slider just got his hands on a really fucking good brand. “Then he told me he knew some guy at a restaurant that fit the description and told me he’d set us up.”
Slider’s eyes widen. “I knew he was stupid, but not that stupid.”
Ice glares. “He’s not stupid.”
“He’s not,” Slider corrects, “but good
Lord
does he struggle with the world’s most obvious social cues.”
Silence falls between them for a moment and Ice’s lungs tighten with every second that passes. He wants to say something, make this moment less uncomfortable, but he doesn’t know how.
“And?” Ice inquires, needing Slider to do something about this whole fucked up situation.
“And what?”
“Aren’t you gonna tell me to move on? Give up? Where’s the judgment?”
“He’s good for you,” is all Slider says, and that’s… not what Ice was expecting at all. He feels like his entire worldview has been turned upside down.
“You think he’s good for me,” Ice echoes, voice hollow.
“I do. You’ve met your match.”
“So what do I do?”
“Just… be direct. Communicate.”
“Communicate. Okay. I can do that,” Ice says, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he can’t, because this is Mav they’re talking about and he’s not his right self whenever it comes to him. His hands tighten around the conditioner bottle before he remembers to wiggle his fingers to relax him, just as he does when flying a complicated maneuver. Fuck this, he can do it, he can talk to Mav. If Slider thinks he can, he’s damn well gonna do it. “Thanks, Sli. I’m gonna take a shower.”
“You do that,” Slider says, rising to his feet and patting the pilot on the shoulder. He grabs the bottle and Ice lets go. “I’ll take that.” Slider leans in close to Ice and takes a dramatic inhale. “Phew! Go wash up. You stink of pining.”
In Tom’s freshman year of high school, he had been volunteered to perform a solo at the first jazz concert of the year. A 16-bar solo to Duke Ellington’s Take The A Train hadn’t initially seemed so daunting, but as the concert drew nearer, Tom felt more and more like absolute shit, for lack of a better term.
He’d barely had any appetite in the days leading up to the concert, surviving on plain toast and trail mix, and he’d maybe gotten a cumulative 15 hours of sleep over the past five nights, and yeah, he was fucking terrified, but he wasn’t going to tell his band director that, was he? The man had been delighted when Tom had agreed to the solo after his friend jokingly tossed out the idea, and he truly supported Tom in everything he did. Besides, it was much too late for him to change his mind now (even though he knew deep down that if he’d voiced his concerns, Mr. Grayson would nod understandingly and oblige without hesitation).
Tom remembers standing before the full-length mirror in his bedroom the night of the concert, surveying his own reflection, hoping that the dark circles under his eyes wouldn’t be visible in the dim stage lighting. Not that the concert-black attire helped hide it at all.
“You look good,” his mother had said once she’d finished fiddling with his tie, stepping back to inspect her handiwork. Tom had managed a slight smile and a nod, shrugging his black blazer over his shoulders, then leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.
She’d left him alone then, and Tom tried to recognize the young man in the mirror that had his father’s eyes.
Before the band went on stage that night, Tom was kneeling on the floor in front of his instrument case, carefully putting his tenor saxophone together. Mr. Grayson had approached then, and Tom had stood up to face him.
“Give ‘em hell,” his band director had told him, squeezing his shoulder, giving an encouraging grin and a nod, and despite the past week of crippling anxiety and self-doubt, Tom felt like he could do anything.
Slider’s pep talk makes Ice feel the same way that Mr. Grayson had made him feel the night of his freshman-year jazz concert, and he marches down the familiar hallway to the showers with the same confidence that he’d strode onstage with over a decade ago. He only gets to savor this feeling for a moment, as it’s gone the second he hears Maverick’s sharp laugh echo through the boat. His stomach drops.
Ice pushes open the door and sees Merlin and Wolfman laughing with him, the trio of aviators in various stages of getting dressed; Wolf is pulling his shirt over his head, Merlin is at the mirror artfully combing his hair; and Mav, Ice can’t help but to notice, has nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Merlin’s head swivels towards him as he enters.
“Hey, Iceman! Thoughts on golf?”
Maverick and Wolfman snicker.
“Uh—it’s fine, I guess.” Stop looking at his abs, Ice.
“But is it a sport? ” Wolf asks, waggling his eyebrows.
“It’s not a fucking sport, ” Merlin shouts, getting red in the face. He’s obviously very opinionated about this topic.
“Why the hell not?”
“You don’t
do
anything! You hit a ball with a stick and get in your little putt-putt machine and putt-putt around to the next hole! The most excitement is when the ball gets stuck in a tree!”
“There’s more to it than that!”
“Fucking
prove it!”
The entire time this conversation is happening, Maverick is doubled over with laughter, and Ice’s eyes are ping-ponging between the three of them. Man, he just wanted to take a shower.
The banter continues as Merlin and Wolfman get more and more riled up, raising their voices until Wolf yells “If golf isn’t a sport, then how come it’s in the Olympics?” and exits the room in a huff, letting the door slam behind him.
Merlin just looks at the empty space where Wolfman had been, then grabs his towel and runs after him. “It hasn’t even been featured since 1924!”
Despite the fact that Maverick could easily have gotten himself fully dressed during the long-winded dispute, he is still shirtless, and Ice really , really wishes he would change that.
“That was fun.” Maverick grins that stupid crooked grin that inadvertently warms Ice’s heart. Fuck . Slider was right. He usually is , the unhelpful corner of his brain supplies.
“So,” Mav starts, grabbing a comb from his bag and running it through his dark, wet hair, making eye contact with Ice’s reflection in the mirror. “I talked to Antonio over the phone earlier, and I’ve got some good news and bad news.”
Ice stares at him blankly. “What?”
“Antonio! The guy I told you about? Who works in San Diego? The one who’s—” he lowers his voice, “—totally your type?”
Ice blinks.
“Anyways, I talked to him. Good news, he is like us. Bad news, he’s not looking.”
Ice blinks again. “Didn’t I—”
“Yeah, you told me you didn’t need a wingman. But I was curious, and he and I are friends, well, sort of, and I’ve been meaning to give him a call anyway.”
“...Okay?”
“So,” Maverick turns to face Ice and points the plastic comb at him, now finished with his hair, “figured I’d give you an update.”
Ice sees Maverick’s shirt sitting balled up on a bench. He picks it up and throws it at him, hoping Mav will get the hint.
“I’m curious.” He catches the shirt, looks at it as if wondering how it got in his hands, and then glances up at Ice. “I know you said no help finding a guy, but now I want to know.”
Ice holds up a hand to stop him. “For every question you ask, I get to ask one too.”
“Deal.” Of course, he’s game, how could Ice have thought Maverick would back out of his endless list of questions just by this stupid demand? He
finally
slips the shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to a still-damp spot on his chest. “So, you have any other type? Height preference, maybe?”
The response is almost immediate and Ice’s mouth speaks without his brain’s permission. “5’7.”
Maverick grins again, nodding. “Very specific!” He pauses. “Hey, I’m 5’7”!”
Ice bites back a groan. Maybe Slider was right on this, too.
As Maverick reaches for his pants, Ice turns around to give him privacy; mutual respect, and all that. There’s the sound of shuffling and a zipper being pulled up, and then silence. Mav strides back into Ice’s field of vision, leaning one shoulder against the wall he’s facing and flashing a brilliant smile.
“Y’know what, Ice? I’m exactly your type! Why don’t you like me?” His voice is light and joking, but Ice, taking advantage of his callsign, freezes.
He laughs nervously, trying to fill the awkward silence and figuring that if Mav is as bad at picking up social cues as he is at picking up flirting, he won’t notice the tremor.
“Alright, your turn for a question. Hit me,” Maverick says, crossing his arms, having in fact not noticed that anything was off.
Ice’s brain is still short-circuiting. He opens and closes his mouth a few times as if he’s trying to reboot it. “Uh,” he says eloquently, “what’s your ideal date?” Real slick, Kazansky.
Maverick thinks for a moment; Ice can see the gears turning in his head. “I dunno. Dinner and a movie, maybe? I guess I’m kind of boring.”
“What kind of food do you like?”
“Nuh-uh, Kazansky, only one question at a time!” There’s a mirthful expression on his face.
Ice takes a touch too long to respond. “Oh,” he eventually manages. He’s about to say something else, but the doors swing open and Chipper enters the room, hair sticking to his forehead and towel draped over his shoulder.
“Well, I’m gonna go steal cookies from the mess. Have a good shower!” Mav grabs his shower bag and heads toward the exit, nodding to Chipper as he passes.
Ice sinks to the bench and buries his head in his hands. He’s gonna need a lot more alcohol for this.
Sometimes, Tom thinks back to one particular night after Monday night jazz rehearsal had gone late. It was almost 10 PM by the time Grayson dismissed the band, and Tom recalls the distinctive sound of clacking and shuffling as the band began to pack up. He’d remained motionless though, staring at the floor as the world kept turning around him.
He’d detached his tenor sax from his neckstrap and stared blankly at the jazz charts perched on his music stand, only looking up when Grayson had stopped in front of him. The room was mostly empty, though there were a few stragglers on their way out after putting away their instruments.
“You wanna grab a glass of water?” Mr. Grayson asked quietly, pointing towards his office. Tom nodded, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, setting his tenor on the seat beside him and heading off in the direction Grayson had pointed, the band director following a few paces behind.
Tom quite liked Mr. Grayson’s office. It was small and cozy but not cramped, featuring a small couch against the wall, sandwiched between two tall bookshelves filled with sheet music packed neatly into boxes arranged alphabetically by composer. The brick walls were plastered with posters, framed photos, and awards, leaving hardly any section bare. A well-loved coffee machine sat on top of a mini-fridge, the glass pot stained with the traces of thousands of cups of coffee.
He’d taken a seat on the couch while Mr. Grayson searched his array of ceramic mugs for one that was clean, filling it with cold water from a pitcher in the fridge and handing it to Tom, then taking a seat at his desk.
“What’s the lowdown?” Grayson’s voice was soft, yet direct.
Tom looked down at his hands folded in his lap. He just stared at them for a few moments, silent.
“My dad wants me to quit,” he’d said at last, suddenly finding the skin around his fingernails very intriguing.
Mr. Grayson tilted his head. “I’d be sad to see you go, but I won’t fault you if you want t—”
“I don’t.”
Grayson didn’t speak, leaving space for Tom to continue.
“I love this. All of this. I’m not going to stop doing the one thing that’s actually made me happy recently. But he wants me to,” he deepened his voice to mimic his father’s, making air quotes with his fingers, “‘stop wasting time with hobbies that don’t contribute to society,’ or whatever.”
“So I take it your dad’s not one to turn on the radio?” Grayson asked, trying for a joke. Tom nodded, smiling like he always did at Grayson’s quips.
“Says it’s ‘distracting,’” he replied. “It’s stupid.”
“He sounds like a very boring man.”
“He's…” Tom hesitated, trying to find the right words. “Well, you know. You've met him.”
“Ah yes,” Mr. Grayson leaned back in his chair, “Lieutenant Colonel Kazansky, in all of his glory. I believe the last conversation we had was him telling me to ‘stop turning his son into a pussy.’”
Tom pulled a face; not a smile this time, something more closely resembling a grimace. “That sounds like him.”
“So you’re not going to quit?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom hesitated, fidgeting with his hands. “It’s gonna piss him off, though.”
Mr. Grayson’s face had softened. “If you ever—”
“I know.” Tom stood up. “I’m gonna… It’s late. I have a flight lesson early in the morning before school. I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”
“Alright, Tom. Be safe.”
“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” Ice’s voice is muffled by the pillow he’s currently lying facedown on. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sli, I’m gonna kill him.”
“Careful Iceman, you’re melting.”
“Die.”
There’s the sound of shuffling and then the sudden sensation of a warm hand patting his back, right between the shoulder blades. “There, there, buddy.”
“This feels patronizing.”
“You’re acting like a teenage girl.”
Ice sits up. “Have you been hanging out with teenage girls recently, Slider? That’s a whole new level of creep.”
“Touché.”
The two lapse into silence. Ice’s mind is supersonic. A thousand thoughts fly through his head at once; he tries to parse through them and sort them into little boxes that make sense.
“Do you think this is his way of letting me down gently? I don’t— he’s just— he’s absolutely incomprehensible , and I can’t read him for shit , and—”
Slider saves him from his own mind. “Let’s use our critical thinking skills, Ice. If he’s trying to let you down, why would he keep flirting with you?”
Ice bluescreens.
“This is way too fucking confusing. It’d be easier if I just gave up. Spare myself the trouble that we both know will happen.”
“Right,” Slider rolls his eyes, voice laced with sarcasm, “‘cause we all know you take the easy way out.”
Ice, predictably, does not take the easy way out.
In his defense, it’s not only because he doesn’t want to, but mostly because Maverick won’t let him.
The man has effectively thrown a wrench into all of his plans to keep himself sane, just like he’d lobbed a knife deep into Ice’s gut.
So now Ice is nodding along as the other pilot yaps away, the two of them walking side-by-side as they make their way to the flight deck.
“…and I just don’t understand why she couldn’t have just… sent a letter or something?” he’s saying, “Y’know, something like ‘I enjoyed the time we spent together but my career is more important,’ which I totally understand, by the way, and she was honestly out of my league, and it’s not like I deserve an explanation or anything, but I think the least she could do was send me a postcard or something instead of going radio silent for the past six months.”
Ice says something to the effect of “Uh-huh, that’s nice,” only half-tuned, eyes trained on the floor in front of him.
“Carole says it’s just something women do, but I honestly think that particular kind of ‘being bad at communication’ is strictly a men thing, but what do I know?” He pauses. Oh, the irony, Ice thinks. Mav barrels on. “Like, I guess I’d get that from a one-night stand, but I didn’t think that’s what that was. I dunno, Ice, what did it look like to you?”
“I wasn’t paying all that much attention to your romantic endeavors with our instructor,” Ice replies coolly, and isn’t that the biggest lie of the century.
Mav flashes a cocky grin and elbows Ice. “Well, why not, Kazansky? Didn’t like what you saw?”
“I was more concerned about winning that trophy.” The pair push the doors open onto the deck, and Ice zips his flight suit up a little higher. It’s December already, and 800 miles off the coast of Nova Scotia, everyone on the boat can feel the cold seep in through their bones.
Slider is talking with Merlin in front of the F-5-IIs they’ll be flying today, but he catches Ice’s eye and raises a brow as he and Maverick make their way over.
“The honorable Iceman, late,” he smirks, pointing at Mav. “You're a bad influence on him.”
Maverick flips him off as he goes to stand beside Merlin.
After preflighting, the section is airborne. Ice easily brings the pair to altitude, acclimating to the less familiar jet. Of course, he’s flown F-5s before, but the smaller aircraft is much more maneuverable and has a superior thrust-to-weight ratio compared to the Tomcats he’s used to.
The four of them are dogfight training today, acting as the opposing forces against a pair of newer pilots and their RIOs.
“So, Ice,” radios Maverick, guiding his jet so that it’s side-by-side with Ice’s, “how about we play a game?”
Ice glances to his left, making eye contact with the other pilot. “A game, huh? Everything’s a game to you, Mitchell.”
“Christ, Ice, stop flirting with him over comms.” Slider’s voice is laced with fond exasperation—at least, he hopes it’s fond. “You sound desperate.”
“Shut up, Slider.”
Maverick radios back. “First one to get a kill is the better pilot.”
“You sure you’re ready to lose that easily?” There’s a silver glint in the corner of his eye, and he turns his head to watch the first of two Tomcats get catapulted off the boat.
Maverick laughs, the sound transmitting staticky and broken over the comms, and Ice feels sick. “Well aren’t you arrogant,” Mav counters. “I like that in a pilot.” He’s referencing Viper’s quote to him the first time they met, sitting in the ready room back in Miramar. Oh how the tables have turned, Ice thinks.
“Holy shit, Ice,” Slider says. “He’s totally fucking flirting.”
“No,” Ice replies firmly, “he’s not.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
The second Tomcat is airborne. “Fight’s on,” Ice radios, for no reason but to change the subject. He breaks right to chase after the pair of F-14s, not bothering to check whether Maverick is following or not—he knows he is.
Notes:
thank you so much for reading; i hope you enjoyed! comments are lifeblood, i love to yap about these idiots, and stay tuned for the next update in (hopefully) mid-april!
Chapter 2: ii. the head
Summary:
Someone—Wolf, probably, but Ice doesn’t care enough to confirm that—lets out a whistle and yells “Damn Kazansky, look at that waist!” as Ice returns to a cross-legged position on the floor.
or, the one where ice is haunted by his demons, mav is still an idiot (said with utmost affection), a game of uno goes wrong, and an unexpected week of liberty leads to a series of bad ideas.
Notes:
phew! okay that took a bit! i thank each and every one of you for your patience <3
please turn a blind eye to any html formatting issues i will fix them at some point :sob:
many thanks as always to my wonderful beta stef (soronya); i couldn't have done it without you <33a few brief content warnings for this chapter:
- allusions to a not-so-great childhood & controlling parental figures (but no explicit abuse)
- secondhand embarrassment maybe (probably)a lot of jazz songs are mentioned throughout this chapter, and thus i have a link to not one but TWO!!! spotify playlists if you're interested:
- tape 1 (songs mentioned in tsw)
- tape 3 (songs ice has on the cassettes in his car (in order cause im a nerd))
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In his last semester of high school, Tom had a study hall conveniently scheduled for first period, right before band. He’d taken advantage of it for early-morning flight lessons once or twice a week (weather permitting), waking up at 5 AM just for a chance to watch the sunrise from 4000 feet in the air.
Those mornings were—well, he could never find the proper words to describe them. It was just him and his flight instructor, nothing but an open expanse of sky ahead of him, a mile and a metal box with wings separating him from the rest of the world. Tom loved those mornings.
He was a damn good pilot too, as Rollie always told him, the ex-Navy airman never sparse with his praise. Although Tom hesitated to take any compliments (mostly due to a nagging voice in his head convincing himself he didn’t deserve them), he found Rollie’s easy to accept. Granted, it helped that the older man was very no-nonsense and outright refused to hear Tom say anything negative about himself.
“Well I sure fucked that up,” Tom remembers himself saying after bringing the plane down too hard on a crosswind landing, and Rollie had shaken his head.
“Don’t talk about my kid like that,” he’d replied, looking right to ensure the taxiway was clear before they crossed it, completely missing the complex jumble of emotions painted on Tom’s face. Shock, pride, appreciation… In that moment, Tom had wondered if Rollie had children. He hoped he did, even if the thought made his gut churn with jealousy.
Tom also remembers making the decision to join the Navy, not the Air Force like his father had wanted him to. To this day, he still wonders if Rollie knew he was the reason for it—of course, Tom was going to keep flying into his adult years, and sure, he’d join the military for his father’s benefit, but there was no way in hell he’d be following in his footsteps (and, if he was honest, Rollie was a more present figure in his life anyway). So yeah, the Navy seemed like a decent choice.
“The Air Force doesn’t need another Kazansky,” he’d complained to his flight instructor during a long cross-country. “To be honest, I don’t really think they need the one they’ve got .”
“Hey. Your father has done good work for the Air Force,” Rollie had replied, calm and level the way he always was—Tom had never heard him raise his voice. “It’s okay that you want to forge your own path, but he still deserves respect, doesn’t he?”
Tom had gone quiet at that, thinking about that word. Respect.
“Respect goes both ways,” he’d said finally, adjusting his sunglasses to perch properly on his nose. It was a non-answer that still managed to show his cards, something they were both aware of.
“It does,” Rollie had agreed. “And it needs to be earned.”
Silence lapsed between the pair until the older pilot looked over at Tom. “For what it’s worth,” he’d said, “I think you’ve earned it.”
Tom’s blood ran cold, and to this day, he still doesn’t know why.
“Ice.”
“Slider.”
The two are back on the boat, Ice having reigned victorious as the “better pilot” ( this time, as Maverick was adamant he admit). Despite the cold, Ice’s hair is stuck to his sweat-slicked temples, and he can feel where his undershirt clings to his chest.
“Ice.”
“What, Slider?” he snaps and immediately regrets it; he feels gross and tired and can feel his patience running out by the second. “I’m sorry. I’m—”
“He basically professed his love to you.”
Ice stops in his tracks, Slider walking a few paces ahead before realizing his pilot isn’t beside him anymore.
“Slider. Ron. What in the everloving fuck are you talking about.”
“Maverick.”
“No shit, Ron, I fucking got that.” Ice proceeds towards their stateroom, quickening his pace. He’s pretty sure he can’t take any of Slider’s remarks right now, or he’ll explode. “Can we not talk about this now?”
Slider all but chases after him. “‘I like that in a pilot,’” he echoes, mimicking Viper’s southern drawl.
“That wasn’t flirting.”
“Denial is a river in Egypt.”
“Don’t make me tell you to die again.”
“Oh, please, go for it,” Slider prompts him, “because I’m not sure how much longer I can actually survive this.”
Ice rolls his eyes. “You’re not exactly helping.”
“Now look who’s talking,” Slider grins and pats Ice on the back. “You know what stupidity is?”
“No, but as an expert in that field, surely you do.”
“Why do I even put up with you?” Slider mumbles and proceeds to explain nonetheless. “Stupidity is when you do the same thing over and over again and expect a different outcome.”
Ice stops and turns to face Slider. “And that’s telling me what, exactly?”
“Instead of sulking like a teenager, how about you ask him out?”
“And where would we go?” Ice retorts. “The fucking mess? Eat some noodles with ketchup like the Lady and the Tramp ?” It’s at times like this that Ice wishes he’d never quit smoking.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Slider runs a hand over his face, covering his eyes for a long moment. “Not now, dipshit. We’re back to port in two months. Then you’ve got until, like, November to figure your shit out.”
“He’s not gonna want anything to do with me,” Ice argues. “He’ll want to stay with Carole. I’m going to New York.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Ice, what do you want?” Slider’s almost shouting now.
“I don’t know!” His mask is cracking; he can feel the fissures forming in the ice. “I don’t fucking know, okay, Slider? All I know is that right now I want to take a fucking shower and go the fuck to sleep and not think about any of this for a while.”
Slider has the courtesy to look sympathetic. “Alright.” He’s lowered his voice substantially and is now trying to sound placating, resting his hands on Ice’s shoulders. To give credit where it’s due, it’s working. “Here’s what we’re gonna do: you’re gonna get yourself cleaned up, calm down—use my conditioner if you have to—and then meet me in Wolf and Wood’s room; some of us are playing cards tonight.”
Ice shakes his head as if to reset himself. “Okay.” And again, under his breath, “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
Ice nods. Slider snakes an arm around Ice’s neck, bringing him in for a half-hug.
“Good. Let’s go.”
Feeling a little less gross, a little more calm, and a little more tipsy, Ice makes his way toward Hollywood and Wolfman’s stateroom half an hour later.
The radio sitting on a desk is playing some nothing radio show with the volume on low (Ice can tell it’s nothing by the way that nobody is paying particular attention to it). Merlin, Wolfman, Hollywood, Slider, Maverick, and Warlock—a newer addition to the squadron, a few years younger than the rest—are seated in a circle-like shape with a colorful deck of cards strewn out between the six of them. Wolf and Wood sit on the lower bunk bed while the other four are on the floor, making do with the cramped space.
Maverick perks up as Ice enters his view and waves him over with a blinding grin. He and Slider scoot over on the floor to make room for him to sit between them; he pointedly ignores the fact that Slider is staring a hole through his shoulder as he eases himself to a sitting position, all too aware of Maverick right beside him.
Merlin glances across at him. “We’re playing Uno, two decks, TOPGUN rules. This round’s almost over, I’ll deal you in the next one if you want.”
“Sure.” A quick scan around the circle tells him that Warlock is winning with only two cards, Maverick in close second with three. Wolf seems to be having the worst luck if the twenty-something cards in his hand have anything to say about it.
It’s Maverick’s turn, and he places down a yellow seven. Warlock smiles impossibly wide and plays a yellow reverse card, saying “Uno!” as he does, to which Maverick sighs and draws a few cards until he plays a yellow two. Slider plays another yellow reverse card with a shit-eating grin.
“Fuck you, man!” Maverick yells, pulling another handful of cards before slapping a yellow nine on top of the discard pile. Warlock places down a wild card with immense glee, punching the air as he does.
“Yeah!” he shouts. “ That’s how it’s done!”
There’s a chorus of mixed reactions, including but not limited to Wolf throwing his handful of cards on the floor, sending them skidding across the concrete. “Fuck this. I’m out.”
Hollywood reaches a hand out to stop him as he tries to stand, dragging him back down. “Come on,” he protests, “Ice just got here! One more round, man!” Wolf, after an apparent mental battle, obliges.
Ice finds himself cracking a slight smile at the group’s antics, having loosened up ever since he’d joined the lighter atmosphere. Warlock, as is the winner’s duty, is dealing out cards for the next round until each player has seven. Ice picks them up, takes a look, and starts organizing them by color, ascending in number, with the action cards at the end. Almost only normal cards, except for one. It’s one of those fucking fill-in-the-blank wild cards and when Ice reads what’s written on it, he wants to run out of the room, up to the flight deck, and dive head-first into the ocean.
Strip or share a secret .
Ice recognizes Slider’s godawful handwriting and glares daggers at him, hoping the force is enough to vaporize him then and there. The good news here is that it’s TOPGUN rules, meaning no full nudity, just to his boxers. Slider feels Ice’s scowl and turns, flashing a Cheshire grin at him as if he’s just found the secret to world peace and won't spill it for a million dollars.
Bastard.
Ice looks over to Maverick, who’s sorting his cards in whatever stupid system, smirking the whole time; with this reaction, it’s not unlikely that he got all “draw two” cards. Ice looks back at his own hand and considers simply losing on purpose. Or, he thinks, he can just draw a card when it’s his turn and not place the wild card, like, ever.
They all play their first card, and then it’s Ice’s turn. He can put his blue three onto the red three. Slider follows with a red zero, Wolf has to draw two, Merlin places a reverse card, Wolf draws another card, Hollywood makes Slider draw four, and Ice can easily lose his red six. Maverick slaps down one of his undoubtedly many “draw twos,” making Warlock grimace as he takes from the deck.
Another few rounds later, it looks like Ice is the only one with two cards left.
Reluctantly, he looks at the discard pile. It’s a green zero, and Ice’s last cards are the wild card and a yellow one. Well, shit. He hesitates, considering reaching for the draw pile with the intent to add another card to his hand, but Slider shakes his head almost imperceptibly.
He sighs, placing down the wild card. “Uno, uh, yellow.”
Six pairs of eyes are on him all at once. Ice feels his cheeks warm at the sudden attention. Slider’s self-satisfied expression falters at Ice’s hesitation—maybe he’s finally coming to his senses and realizing what a bad idea this was. Slider tilts his head, and Ice blinks, and between those two seemingly insignificant mannerisms, they’ve managed a whole conversation in under a second.
You suck.
I know.
I can’t strip.
Why?
Because that implies I have secrets in the first place. Ones that I don’t want the boys knowing.
Oh. You’re… like, really uncomfortable.
No shit, Sherlock.
Hey. I’ve got you.
Barely any time has elapsed, but it’s long enough that the suspense is keeping the rest of the group alert and expectant.
“Come on, Kazansky, strip!” Slider finally shouts, eliciting a similar reaction echoed across the room. It’s not long before they’re all chanting “Strip! Strip! Strip!” and Ice feels a wave of relief at the escape route he’s just been handed. Making a face that he hopes conveys more fond exasperation than the nervousness he feels, he pulls the heavy crewneck he’s wearing over his head and tries to telepathically convey his thanks to his RIO as he tosses it to the side. The group claps and cheers after the sweatshirt is discarded and continues to vocalize their enthusiasm as he kicks off his jeans until he’s down to just his socks and boxers—he pulls the latter down to cover as much of his thighs as possible.
Someone—Wolf, probably, but Ice doesn’t care enough to confirm that—lets out a whistle and yells “Damn Kazansky, look at that waist!” as Ice returns to a cross-legged position on the floor.
Slider plays a yellow plus two, and Hollywood plays a blue plus two right after, sending the aviators into an intense argument about whether or not stacking cards was ever legal in TOPGUN rules. Ice shivers, partially due to the cold seeping into his exposed skin and partially due to the eyes he knows are affixed to him, coming from his right.
The game is over all too soon, and Ice is reaching for his clothes immediately after placing down his last card, ending the round and stealing the win. There’s a chorus of protests as he zips up his jeans.
“C’mon Ice, you’ve got a nice ass—don’t hide it!” Hollywood’s voice is laced with mirth.
“Fuck no, it’s cold,” he replies, slipping his sweatshirt back over his head. “Plus, you only have to strip for the rest of the game, that’s the rule.”
By the time he’s fully dressed again, Maverick is shuffling to his feet and hurrying toward the door.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Merlin asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I, uh, lost track of time.” Maverick sounds almost guilty.
Warlock chips in. “That doesn’t answer his question.”
“It’s—I forgot that I had to respond to Carole’s most recent letter.”
Merlin shoots him a sympathetic look. “Tell her we say hi,” he calls as Maverick closes the door.
The stateroom gets a lot quieter once he leaves, Ice notices.
As he directs his attention back to the circle, now one person smaller and the room slightly less cramped, he feels the heat of the group’s scrutinizing gaze on him, all except for Warlock, who seems to be just as confused as he feels.
“He totally had a hard-on,” Hollywood jokes after a moment. Wolf laughs. Ice doesn’t.
Aside from when he was in the air, Tom never felt more alive than when he was on the stage.
In high school, he dreaded giving oral reports in front of his classmates but somehow felt comforted by the idea of performing for hundreds of strangers with only his tenor saxophone and a mic to shield him from the audience. If someone had asked him why, he would smile and say something about how “it’s just different.” He felt the same way he did in the cockpit, and for once, it didn’t matter who was watching, or what they thought, or what assignment he had due the next day. Nothing mattered.
Sure, people complimented his performances and praised his talent, and sure, that made him feel good, but he was never playing for them. And just the thought of having something that was his was exhilarating.
Tom didn’t just cherish that feeling; he chased it.
Maybe that was the beginning of his thrill-seeking behavior.
Because on stage, Tom could get that stimulating electric feeling while remaining fully in control, the one that made his arm hairs stand up as dextrous fingers flew effortlessly over brass keys. Because that was just the right amount of nerves that kept him going, pushing him further out of his comfort zone, and left him itching for more. That’s where he and Maverick were similar, he’d realized at one point after meeting the man, the main difference being how much self-restraint they had.
Thinking back, Tom could probably attribute most of his confidence to jazz band.
He’d always been a rather unflappable child, but that didn’t mean he was confident , no. Tom had grown up under the motto of “roll with the punches” and never particularly protested. Unfortunately, this lifestyle neglected to teach him that he was allowed to have his own thoughts, opinions, and preferences, so yeah, he’d grown up taking things as they’d come, but he’d never learned how to manage the constant anxiety that made its home in his chest.
Making the decision to join jazz band in middle and then high school was possibly the best thing Tom had ever done, and it may have been the first time he’d ever done something for himself . The idea had resulted in a lot of resistance, a lot of protest, but he’d stood his ground. That instance of steadfast defiance turned out to be the first of many, the thing that encouraged him to figure out what he wanted instead of adapting to the expectations of others.
His father was, as Tom had expected, not supportive of this decision and had only ever gone to two of his son’s concerts—the first and last of his senior year. Never one to give out compliments lightly, the Lieutenant Colonel had only ever uttered a “you did good, kid” at the prompting from his wife. But for the first time in his entire life, Tom didn’t give a damn what his father thought.
There’s no better time for an aircraft carrier to collide with a cargo ship than December 22nd. As the
USS Dwight D. Eisenhower
pulls into Norfolk for emergency repairs, the halls buzz with the nervous excitement of sailors and aviators alike. A depot-level maintenance incident involving considerable (though not hazardous) damage to the carrier’s exterior has warranted an immediate return to port, and the CO is a generous enough man to grant a week of liberty over the holidays. Men are preparing to spend the next few unexpected days off with their friends or families, or at the very least on solid ground.
Maverick has been chattering Ice’s ear off practically the whole morning, and he’s been bouncing on the balls of his feet while Ice packs up his stateroom, throwing clothes and various necessities in the duffel bag on his bed. Ice doesn't think he's stopped moving since he entered the room.
“Carole got me a room at the Holiday Inn, so I’m meeting her and Bradley at the front desk.” Ice nods, folding a sweatshirt carefully and placing it in his bag. “Apparently Bradley was so excited he didn't sleep at all last night. I don’t envy Carole having to deal with a sleep-deprived child, so hopefully, he took a nap or something.”
Ice slips a can of coconut-scented shaving cream—he doesn’t even like the smell of coconut, but it’s the only kind he’s ever used—into a side pocket.
“Yeah, she’s got this big dinner planned, and I told her ‘you don’t need to cook for me,’ but she said ‘there’s no way I’m letting you get used to the gruel they feed you on the boat’ and insisted I come over and eat her food, so I’m doing that, I guess. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I can tell,” Ice says pointedly as Maverick fidgets with the Rubik’s cube that had been on Ice’s desk. He sheepishly sets it down.
“What about you?”
Ice pauses. “Hmm?”
“Do you have last-minute Christmas plans?”
He stifles a smirk. “Probably going to a bar and pregaming for the entourage of shitty movies that will plague the TV for the next 48 hours.”
Maverick makes a face. “What, you don't have family coming out for you or anything? You're not going home?”
“Nope,” he replies, casual as ever, popping the P. “The only reason I’m even getting off the ship is ‘cause they’re making me.” He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself over the course of this next week, but Maverick doesn't need to know that.
He frowns. “Well, that doesn’t sound like a good way to spend Christmas. Y’know, I'm sure if I ask Carole, she’d love to have you over! I know you don't know her all that well, but she’s always going on about how she wants to see you again—” Ice tries his hardest not to think about the fact that this implies Maverick talks to Carole about him— “and Bradley would be so excited—”
Ice, in an attempt to keep Maverick from digging himself into an even deeper hole, cuts him off. “Maverick. Mav. Buddy, I’m Jewish.”
He can practically see the gears turning in Mav’s head, his eyes going wide as he processes this information.
“Oh,” is all that comes out of his mouth after a few seconds of shocked silence. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I go around yelling it from the rooftops. I haven’t really practiced since I was at Annapolis anyway. I mean, I observe Hanukkah and Rosh Hashanah and Passover and stuff, but I don’t think I’ve gone to a Shabbat service since I was, like, twenty.”
“Oh,” Maverick repeats. “When is Hanukkah?”
Ice closes his eyes and tries to recall the December 1986 calendar pinned to the wall on the other side of the stateroom. “Uh—it ended yesterday. So the 14th to the 22nd.” When he opens his eyes again, Maverick is grinning from ear to ear. Ice doesn’t like the look on his face.
“Huh. Happy Hanukkah, then. So you’re free on Christmas?”
“Mav,” Ice warns.
“I just don’t want you to be alone,” Maverick says, and Ice thinks that’s just about the most sincere thing anyone’s ever said to him.
“I’ll be fine.” He reaches for a dark blue hoodie draped over his desk chair and folds it neatly. “Seriously. Go enjoy your holiday with Carole and Bradley. I don’t want to intrude on that.” He’s not being entirely truthful; the company would be nice, and he knows he’ll be driving himself insane with the whole ‘lack of reliable routine’ thing, but that doesn’t mean he can make it Mav’s problem.
“You wouldn’t be—” Maverick starts, but is quickly silenced by an icy glare. “Okay.”
Ice zips up his duffel bag and throws it over his shoulder. “Great. You ready to go?”
“Your break.” The pool cue being pushed into his hands pulls Ice out of his thoughts.
Cap’n Ron’s Bar & Grill is bustling with energy despite the fact that it’s past 9 PM on Christmas evening, and Ice is feeling comfortably foggy after the drinks he’s been working on throughout the night. He tunes back into real life, shaking his head to clear some of the haze from his mind, and knocks back the last of his G&T.
The bar is playing a jazzy song with a heavy swing that Ice finds himself humming along to without realizing it at first; he tries to filter out the background chatter to focus on the tune. It’s something off of Duke Ellington’s Nutcracker Suite. He thinks he remembers playing a few charts from that album in high school. Ice moves toward the pool table, leaning over it to rest his wrist on the green fabric, positioning the cue for a clean break. Sugar Rum Cherry . The name pops into his mind as he hits the cue ball head-on, sending the colorful balls scattering in various directions with a satisfying clack . How festive.
The solid purple 4 rolls into the left corner pocket, and Ice surveys the table for his next victim, deciding on the blue 2 that’s sitting at roughly a 30-degree angle from the same hole. He lines himself up with the ball as a tenor saxophone plays a sultry solo over the speakers. Just as he’s about to make the shot, someone claps him on the shoulder, and he flinches, drawing himself back to his full height to face the attacker.
It’s Slider, because of course it is, and the man simply grins at Ice’s narrowed eyes. He jabs a thumb toward the girl who’s been flirting with him for the better part of two hours. “Tammy’s gonna get us some more drinks, you want anything?”
No, the logical part of his brain says, but the rest of his brain points out just how good this fuzzy, floaty feeling is, and wouldn’t it be great if you could have more?
“Another gin and tonic,” he replies, bending down and angling himself to hit the ball again. He hears Slider repeat this to the girl—Tammy—and watches her bound toward the counter out of the corner of his eye.
Slider leans against the rails of the pool table. “What’s that, three now?” Ice ignores him, hitting the cue ball with the right amount of backspin and shooting it toward its target. It makes contact with the blue 2, sending it in the direction of the left corner pocket, but bounces off the jaws and comes to rest just in front of the opening. “And you took a shot earlier. Are you trying to get wasted?”
“What if I am?” He moves aside to let Slider take his place. “You’re driving me back.”
“I don’t need you vomiting all over my dashboard.”
“Fuck off.”
Slider pockets the striped yellow 9 ball and aims for the solid red 3 in line with the striped orange 13. “You got the holiday blues?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
“Calm your tits.” The orange 13 drops into the pocket, followed by the red 3. “I’m just concerned.”
“Don’t be.” Ice crosses his arms. “We’re back on shore. It’s Christmas. I’m celebrating.”
“Right.” Slider steps back. Ice calculates what he’d need to do to pocket the green 6. It’s gonna be an awkward shot involving him either contorting his body in ways it shouldn’t bend or sitting on top of the table, neither of which he’s feeling particularly fond of. He decides to try to break up a cluster of balls in the middle instead; he won’t pocket anything, but maybe the cue ball will end up somewhere to his advantage. “And since when do you need this amount of alcohol to celebrate?”
The words distract Ice ever so slightly from his shot, lining the cue ball up perfectly for Slider’s next move. Great. He glares as Slider approaches the table. “Aren’t you always telling me to loosen up?”
“Yeah.” Slider leans over the table and makes the shot Ice expected him to. The striped maroon 15 ball falls into a pocket. He aims for the 14 sitting right next to the 8 ball and apparently decides to go for the risky move, which turns out in neither of their favor, as the striped green ball stops short of the pocket it had been headed for. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to be reckless.”
“I’m not being reckless.”
“Okay.” Slider’s voice is laced with heavy sarcasm. Tammy returns with three drinks precariously balanced in her hands, handing Ice his gin and tonic and presenting Slider with a glass of ice water.
Ice takes a sip, making eye contact with Slider as he does—the action feels rather childish, but the alcohol keeping him comfortable doesn’t seem to care. He sets the drink on a nearby table and targets the 6 once again, the cue ball in a much better location now. The green 6 is pocketed, the yellow 1 shortly after. He’s only got two balls left; the 5 and 7, neither of which are in a remarkably favorable position. Ice opts to bank the cue ball off one of the side cushions; it’s a throwaway shot, but he’s winning anyway.
“Don’t you think your relationship with Mr. Grayson is kinda… weird?” Tom remembers Connie, one of his few high school friends, asking at lunch one day.
Connie was a whip-smart girl who played the piano like nobody’s business, her fingers gliding up and down the ivory keys as if she had been born to do just that. They’d dated for a bit during the last part of their junior year, before Tom had realized he was a homosexual (or, more accurately, when he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t), then split amicably that summer, and she was now his closest friend.
Tom had paused his chewing abruptly and asked around a mouthful of PB&J: “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you go to his house and stuff. Normal students don’t get invited over to their teachers’ houses for dinner.”
“I go to his house for private lessons,” Tom countered. “And I stayed for dinner one time because there was a storm, and Rose insisted I didn’t drive home until it was over.”
“That’s another thing. Most students don't have that sort of a relationship with their teachers, let alone their teachers’ wives. ”
“He’s…” Tom had hesitated, trying to find the right words. “He’s sort of like a dad to me?” It was phrased like a question; something he said with uncertainty, something he wasn’t ready to fully admit yet.
“Is that how other people see it?”
Even ten years later, Tom still vividly remembers the immediate sickness and the lump that had formed in his throat as Connie said those words. He paled.
“Is it… not?” He’d set down his sandwich, hands shaking minutely. “How other people see it?”
“No, no,” Connie added quickly, realizing her mistake. “I want you to stay safe.” Again with the safety thing, he’d thought. Why do they care?
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Do you have reason to believe I'm not?”
“People talk. Not—not that I’ve heard them, but I know the thought’s been there.”
He pushed his half-eaten sandwich away; he wasn’t hungry anymore. An uncomfortable buzzing feeling stirred in his chest.
“Just… be careful, yeah?”
“When am I not?” he’d mumbled, all the energy sucked out of him, dreading that night’s jazz rehearsal for the first time in four years.
Fuck this.
And fuck Slider for being right about it—he should have stopped after the second drink.
The lukewarm water in the hotel shower threatens to turn cold in the same instance that his stomach flips. Ice bites back a wave of nausea and rests his forehead against the cool ceramic wall. The phone rings, and he has zero intention of picking it up; not while he’s in the shower, and probably not ever, if he’s being honest. It makes his head pound, and he closes his eyes and wills the noise away. Finally, he’s met with peace when the answering machine clicks and the phone returns to its dormant state.
Ice stays in this less-than-ideal position, waiting until the hot water has well and truly run out before he finally gives in to his fate and steps out of the tub, dripping on the hotel bathroom floor. He shucks on the sweatpants and T-shirt that wait for him on the toilet lid before he freezes to death, wiping the fog from the mirror and scowling at his reflection.
He looks just like he feels for once, and isn’t that cute?
Running a quick hand through his hair to tame it, Ice leaves the bathroom and makes a face at the microwave clock reading 11:49 as he passes. He can’t remember the last time he slept past 8.
The insistent red light on the landline taunts him as he crosses the room, making his way to the coffee machine, which he hopes will be his saving grace. He glares at the phone. It blinks innocently. Bitch.
After a few more goading flashes, Ice gives in and lets the message play, preparing to hear the voice of whatever unlucky bastard got transferred to the wrong hotel room. He’s in the process of pouring in the coffee grounds when Maverick’s distinct voice filters through all tinny.
“Hey, Ice,” he says, “sorry I missed your call.” Ice blinks. What?
“Actually,” Maverick continues, “no, I'm not, because I, like most people, was actually asleep at two in the morning.”
What the actual fuck is he talking about?
“Anyways. Yeah. Uh, I’d love to see a movie! Just—give me a call at a normal time when normal people are awake, and we can make plans or something. Not today, though; I’ve got plans with Bradley. We’re going to the new aquarium in Virginia Beach, it just opened over the summer. I dunno. Call me tonight, maybe. Um—I hope you got some sleep.”
There’s an awkward pause, and Ice’s blood runs cold. The coffee maker does nothing to help, only hissing at him judgementally, but it doesn’t offer any explanation. “Okay. Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Bye.” A click, and the call ends.
“If you’d like to delete this message—” Ice snaps himself out of his frozen stupor and jabs the “erase” button, staring daggers at the landline as if that’ll cause it to explode. He wishes it would, because what the fuck.
A booze-tainted memory enters his mind, and he recalls picking up the phone after getting home from the bar and asking for “Mitchell, Mav—uh, Pete . ” No matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember anything else. No. Oh God, fuck, this cannot be happening to him right now. He punches in the number Slider had given him, and the phone rings and rings and rings, mocking him with each second the call remains ignored.
How dare Slider have a life? It’s like he doesn’t even care about Ice. He probably went home with that girl—Tammy, or whatever. They’re probably off fucking around and doing whatever it is people do after a promising one-night stand; he wouldn’t know. Is it too late to un-request leave? Can he do that?
His head still hurts like a bitch and he knows he packed some Aspirin somewhere, but he should probably sit and stew with this feeling for a little bit. Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson. Like, listen to your best friend, and don’t drunk dial the guy you kind of might have feelings for. For fuck’s sake.
Coffee stops filtering into the glass pot, and Ice pours himself a cup, wincing when the scalding liquid splashes on the top of his hand. He brushes it off with a swipe of his finger and watches the subtle red mark form on his skin with a sigh. It’s not like this makes the situation any worse than it already is. The coffee is much too hot, something he knows by the way it burns his throat as he swallows, but the bitter taste grounds him, and he sits heavily on the edge of the hotel bed.
Fuck. Okay. What is he going to do about this? Let’s think logically, Kazansky.
The way he sees it, he has four options:
- Call Maverick back, explain he was drunk and wasn’t thinking clearly, risk hurting Maverick’s feelings, but save his own ass
- Call Maverick back, agree to go see a movie, get dinner afterward, and turn it into a great night that Mav will enjoy, all with the caveat that he’ll be severely uncomfortable for about five hours
- Don’t call Maverick back, pretend he never got the call in the first place, thus avoiding all possible awkward situations
- Leave the Navy, fake his death, change his name, move to Czechoslovakia, and become a humble sheep farmer somewhere north of Žatec
And from those options, option four is the most appealing, option one is the most reasonable, and option three is the easiest.
So, naturally, Ice does none of those.
He honestly can’t believe himself as he picks up the phone and dials the number he’d apparently called at two AM, cross-checking with the number in the phone book on the bedside table. The Holiday Inn answers and once again transfers him to Mitchell, Pete ’s room. His heart is in his throat as he listens to the phone ring, part of him hoping Maverick doesn’t pick up, and another part of him hoping he does.
“Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice, and Ice decides then and there that he should probably hang up and sacrifice a virgin to whatever god he’s accidentally spited.
“Um—hi, sorry, I think I have the wrong room. I’m looking for Pete Mitchell?”
“Oh, you just missed him, honey. May I ask who’s calling? I can take a message.”
The woman’s voice sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it. “Yeah, I’m a friend of his.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to clarify. “Tom Kazansky?”
Silence.
“Tom?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For the love of all that’s holy, Thomas, I took you for a smart man. It’s Carole Bradshaw.”
Well, now a lot of things are starting to make a lot of sense, and Ice does remember Maverick telling him that Carole got him a room.
“Carole! It’s so good to hear from you! Why… why are you… Where’s Maverick?”
She laughs, a bright sound, and it reminds Ice of the first time they’d met back at the Academy, Goose introducing his ‘ex-girlfriend’ to the group, and Carole swatting him playfully and telling him to knock it off. “I’m his wife,” she’d explained, “and he’s my embarrassment.”
There’s a pang in his chest at the reminder of how things Used To Be.
“Mav just left with Bradley for the aquarium. I’m putting away some groceries I brought because there’s no way that boy knows how to shop for himself.” Oh, right, the aquarium. Maverick had said that two minutes ago. God. Ice is way too hungover for this. “What did you need him for?”
“I, uh,” he stutters, composed as ever, then decides that there truly is no lying to Carole Bradshaw. “I guess I’m taking him to see a movie.”
“You
guess
?”
Carole echoes, and Ice can hear the humor lacing her voice.
“What, you’re not sure if you are or not?”
“I might have drunk-dialed him.”
“That bad, huh?”
What?
“What?”
“Oh, Tom.”
Ice pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “I’m so fucking hungover, Carole.”
“I bet you are.” There’s a pause on the other line, and Ice wonders if the Bermuda Triangle is nice this time of year. “I’ll have him call you when he gets back. Oh, and Tom?”
“Yeah.”
“He likes Mexican.”
The line clicks and goes dead.
“Fuck,” Ice says aloud, dropping the phone to bury his head in his hands. “Fuck.”
Maverick calls later that night, waking Ice up from his Aspirin-fuelled catnap. He answers with a groggy “Hello?”
“Jesus, Ice, did I wake you up?”
“No,” he lies, fighting a yawn, slowly easing out of bed. “How was the, uh, aquarium?”
He can practically hear the way Maverick lights up. “Oh, it was great! Bradley thought it was so cool. He really liked the horseshoe crabs; they had a little area where you could pet them, and he thought that was the coolest thing ever.”
“What was your favorite part?” Ice still must be half-asleep because he wouldn’t have asked that question under any other circumstances—unless maybe he was talking to his sister. He absently wonders how she’s doing.
“Oh!” He sounds about as shocked at the question as Ice is. “Um, I dunno. They had a part that talked about the coastal areas of Virginia. There were sharks. I liked that a lot.”
“That sounds fun.” Why the fuck is he making small talk?
“...It was.” It seems that Maverick doesn’t know either. “Hey, so we drove past the theater in Pembroke, and it looks like our options for this week would be the new Star Trek , a comedy called Three Amigos that came out like two weeks ago, or Crocodile Dundee . Any preferences?”
“Um… Not really.” That’s another blatant lie. He’d like to see Star Trek , has since he’d heard it was coming out, but he’s not ready to show Maverick how much of a fucking nerd he is. “You pick. I’ll pick dinner.”
“Didn’t know you were trying to wine and dine me too, Kazansky.”
“Fuck off,” Ice spits, because yes, that's exactly what he was trying to do. “Just pick a fucking film.”
“ Three Amigos it is!”
“Okay. I’ll—where are we meeting?”
Maverick laughs, and Ice’s chest constricts. “I doubt you’ll want to take my bike. You can pick me up at the Holiday Inn. There’s a showing at 7 on Saturday, I think? And it’s like a twenty-minute drive, so—”
“I’ll pick you up at 6:30.”
“Great. It’s a date.”
Ice wishes he wouldn’t say that, especially since he knows Maverick doesn’t mean it the way he wants it to.
This is a stupid movie, Ice decides about half an hour in. Yeah, Steve Martin isn't unpleasant to look at, but the whole film plays off of miscommunications that could easily have been avoided, which is one of his pet peeves when it comes to films like this. There are some parts he finds amusing and goes as far as to let out a chuckle, but overall, he really wishes he'd just picked Star Trek .
Maverick enjoys it, though. Really enjoys it. And damn, does seeing Maverick laugh make his whole world brighter. So maybe it’s not that bad after all, even if the secondhand embarrassment makes his jaw hurt from how hard he's clenching it.
“That was great ,” Maverick grins as the pair exit the theater, and he says it with such sincerity that Ice feels almost guilty he doesn’t feel the same. Almost. “What did you think?”
“It wasn’t my favorite,” Ice admits as they walk to his car, a black ‘74 MGB he’d bought when he was seventeen and had remained his pride and joy ever since. “I dunno. It was funny, though. I like Steve Martin.”
“Well,” Maverick says, opening the passenger side door and dropping into the red leather seat, “you can pick the movie next time.” Ice tries not to think about the implication that Maverick wants there to be a ‘next time.’ “So. What’s for dinner?”
Ah. Right. Ice had sort of been hoping he’d forgotten about that. He sits in the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. “Um, there’s this place called El Toro’s on Military Highway. I’ve heard good things about it.”
“How’d you know I like Mexican?”
“I didn’t.” He’s not gonna tell Maverick that his dead best friend’s wife told him that. Ice reaches into the center console and pulls out a handful of cassette tapes, picking one and sliding it into the car’s stereo. He cranks the volume up, and the first few notes of Clifford Brown’s Joy Spring play through the speakers. Humming along to the rhythm section, Ice puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking spot.
He can feel Maverick’s eyes on him, burning intently into his cheek as he turns onto the street. “I didn’t take you for a jazz guy.”
“It’s all I listen to.”
“Really?”
“No.” For the man’s excessive charisma, it’s really quite easy to take advantage of his gullibility.
To his credit, Maverick laughs. Ice wishes he would stop doing that.
“It’s most of what I listen to,” he clarifies somewhat sheepishly; he almost feels bad for the lie. Almost. “I played saxophone in my middle and high school jazz band. Tenor sax.”
Maverick seems like he doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, going quiet for a few moments, still studying Ice as if he’ll find childhood secrets in the way the passing street lights reflect off his face. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Ice is prepared to change the subject, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the drum set in the background, doing everything but air-conducting as he would usually do if he were alone in the car.
Maverick apparently has other ideas or just wants to make small talk or something. Ice can never figure out what’s going on behind those eyes. “Did you like it? Performing, I mean.”
“I loved it.” There’s a hint of wistful emotion in his voice that he knows he didn’t put there on purpose. “Most of my high school friends I met through jazz band. School, rehearsal, work, and the airport; that’s where I spent most of my junior and senior year.”
“You started flying in high school?”
“Yeah. Got my PPL before I graduated. Shaved a few months off flight school at the Academy.”
“Lucky.”
“I guess.” He turns left through a yellow light and taps the dashboard as he crosses the intersection, a habit he’d picked up from his mother—he’s not superstitious, but she certainly is. The music swells. “Jazz and flying were just about the only things I looked forward to that whole time. Everything else was a means to an end, even the Academy.”
“Well, some of us didn’t get to go to the Academy.” Maverick’s tone isn’t unkind or bitter, but Ice feels as if the underlying implications may be. The two lapse into a slightly uncomfortable silence.
“I’m sorry,” Ice says finally, and he doesn’t even know why he’s apologizing.
Maverick gives him a sidelong glance. “Don’t be.” He doesn’t say anything else, though Ice can tell he wants to. Instead of probing deeper, Ice hums along to the radio quietly, Joy Spring ending and turning into the opening piano riff to Herbie Hancock’s Watermelon Man (the original 1962 version, not the funk version released a decade later).
They’ve just gotten to the first solo section when Maverick pipes up again, more subdued. “Why saxophone?”
“Hm?” He sounds so decidedly un-Maverick-like that Ice almost doesn’t process the question the first time.
“Why’d you pick saxophone?” Maverick repeats, pulling one of his knees to his chest, resting the sole of his dirty boot on the car’s pristine red leather. Ice tenses.
“I liked the way it sounded,” he replies simply, and that really is the whole truth. “Started on alto with everyone else in sixth grade, switched to tenor in eighth when I decided it was a lot cooler.”
“Cooler, huh?”
“A hell of a lot cooler.” Ice leans across the center console and swats Maverick’s knee. “Do you mind not doing that?” Maverick returns his leg to its rightful place in the footwell. Ice hopes he keeps it there. “Did you ever play an instrument?”
Maverick grins, and Ice feels more at ease. That’s more like him. “Nope. I wanted to play the drums, though, but that went over about as well as you’d imagine.”
Ice pictures teenaged Maverick seated at a drum set, sticks in his hands, laying the groove to Watermelon Man . Mental-Maverick plays the same fill that broadcasts through the car’s speakers, moving fluidly across the drum heads as if they’re nothing more than an extension of himself.
“Yeah, I could see that.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Don’t think about it too hard,” Ice teases, but it’s very much a good thing in his mind. Perhaps in another lifetime.
“D’ya have a favorite song?”
And oh, Ice can barely contain his excitement. He manages, though, schooling his face into a neutral expression and willing his hands to still on the steering wheel. “It depends on the day. But right now—” he presses the 4 track on the stereo, “—it’s Spain, Chick Corea, released 1972. This is the cover by the US Air Force Airmen of Note that was released earlier this year.”
He watches Maverick settle back out of the corner of his eye as the car is filled with big-band sound. Neither of them speaks until the song ends, and Maverick doesn’t say anything about the way that Ice hums along to the samba-like rhythm, matching every pitch, even in the improvised solo sections.
“Oh fuck , this is good,” Maverick says around a mouthful of burrito. “And it’s right down the road from my hotel. Where’d you hear about this place again?”
“Uh, from a friend of mine.” Technically, it’s not a lie; he’s known Carole long enough that he supposes he could consider her a friend, even if she’s never referred to him as such.
“They have good taste.”
Ice nods, chewing his own enchilada carefully. “I’m glad you’re a fan.”
Maverick swallows, then glances up at the ceiling as if he’s considering something, hesitating before making eye contact with Ice again.
“He’s gonna love this,” he says eventually, a slight smile on his face. Ice blinks.
“Who?”
“The guy you’re gonna take out.”
Ice feels sick. “The… what?” The words get stuck in his throat, and all of a sudden, the enchilada that had tasted like heaven just moments before feels like lead in his stomach.
“You know. The guy you’re practicing for.”
“... Huh ?” He scours Maverick’s face for any sign that all of this is just a bad joke.
Unfortunately for him, Maverick appears completely serious. “Well, this
is
practice, right?”
“Wh—practice for
what
?”
“The date.”
“Maverick. What the fuck are you talking about.”
Maverick looks at him as if he’s the one who’s being fucking stupid. “You took me out on this date as practice for another guy, yeah?”
What.
“I d—I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“It’s fine,” Maverick starts, “you don’t h—”
“This isn’t fucking practice ,” Ice manages around the steadily-growing lump in his throat, “and this isn’t for ‘some other guy.’ This was for you .”
Maverick’s face softens, but the crease between his eyebrows indicates that he doesn’t fully believe him. “That’s so sweet!”
“You like it?” Ice asks, trying to sound very casual and unaffected, but the way he’s gripping his fork speaks volumes about how tense he still is. Maverick just doesn’t seem to get the broad hint that Ice is presenting him on a silver platter here, and it makes him want to scream.
“Of course,” Maverick nods eagerly and swallows the last of his burrito. “You know, you can definitely woo a guy with a movie he likes and some real good food. Carole always says the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and she’s right, you know?”
“Yeah?”
“So whatever you’ve got planned for your actual date in the future, dinner is always a great idea,” Mav continues, and Ice briefly considers leaning over and throttling him from across the table. “Since this was a friend’s night out, maybe get him some chocolate or flowers, too? So he knows it’s an actual date.”
Okay. Ice is just gonna skip over the fact that Maverick thinks this is practice again since apparently telling it to his face wasn’t enough.
“I have a feeling that wouldn’t work,” Ice says, mostly to himself. Maverick tilts his head.
“What do you mean? If he doesn’t pick up on it after all that, he’s gotta be a special kind of airhead.”
Yeah, Ice thinks, he really is.
Suddenly lacking an appetite, he flags down the waitress for a to-go box and a check. “You want dessert or anything?”
Maverick shakes his head, leaning back in his seat. “I’m stuffed. That was amazing, though.”
“Glad to hear it.” Ice glances over the check, pulling a 20 out of his wallet, only to look over and see Maverick reaching to do the same. “I got it, yeah? You paid for movie tickets. You can pick up the tip if you really want.”
Maverick seems to agree with this arrangement and places $5 on the table before sliding out of his seat. “So, you’re dropping me off, then?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve got plans tomorrow morning.” Ice can’t tell if Maverick’s face falls when he fails to suggest after-dinner drinks or what-have-you, or if it’s just a trick of the light.
“Ooh, Mr. Popular, eh?” Maverick elbows him playfully, the two brushing shoulders as they exit the building.
Ice unlocks the MGB; the car’s headlights flash across the dark parking lot. “If you must know, I’m getting brunch with Slider’s family, and then I’m contractually obligated to call my sister.”
“I forgot you have a sister. You never talk about her.”
Ice shrugs, turning the key in the ignition. A new cassette goes into the stereo, and a lively piano riff starts up as the intro to Joe Henderson’s Blue Bossa filters through the speakers. He remembers playing this one during his junior year. “You’ve never asked.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Hm?”
“Ask about her.”
Ice twists to look over his right shoulder as he backs out of the parking spot, uncomfortably aware of the way his right arm rests on the back of Maverick’s seat as he does. “Knock yourself out.”
“How old is she?”
He does some mental math. “Twenty-one. Twenty-two next month.”
“Where does she live?”
“New York City.”
“What does she do?”
“What is this, a fucking job interview?”
Maverick shoots him a smile. “I just want to get to know your family.”
Ice almost blushes. Almost. “She’s twenty-one, she’s a senior at NYU for pre-med, she has a cat named Kenneth, I don’t know what else you want from me.”
“What’s she like?”
Ice hesitates. What is she like? “Well, she’s—” much more than I deserve, “—snarky and has a tendency to be a dick and she’d trade me for a free meal but she’s also fiercely loyal and would drop everything to fly across the country for me if I’d asked. So, your typical younger sister, maybe slightly above average. I love her, though.”
“You’ll have to introduce us sometime.”
“Maybe I will.” Ice turns into the hotel lot a minute later and pulls up to the door, shifting the car into park. He faces Maverick as he unbuckles his seatbelt, hoping the heat he feels in his cheeks isn’t visible in the dim light. His fingers tap on the steering wheel, anxiety thrumming through his body. “Hey, uh… Thanks for going out with me today.”
Maverick flashes a blinding grin. “Thanks for inviting me, Iceman. I had a blast. Next time you choose the movie and I choose the dinner, yeah?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Ice hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strangled as it feels. “Have a good night, Mav.”
Maverick waves and Ice’s eyes trail after him as he disappears into the building. As soon as he’s out of sight, Ice advances to track three on the cassette and leans his head against the steering wheel, closing his eyes. The piano and drumset introduction to The Sidewinder begins to play, drowning out the white noise in his mind. He doesn’t move a muscle until the trumpet and tenor sax feature comes in, allowing the tension to drain from his body, the rhythm beating in time with his heart.
Growing up, Tom and his sister weren’t close. Familial, yes. Civil, most of the time. But close? He barely knew a thing about her until he started driving her to school his junior year. Though, in his defense, a five-year age gap makes any sort of sibling bonding rather difficult until you’re both old enough to develop a sense of self.
He remembers her twelfth birthday, and how on the way home from school, she’d looked at Tom and said “I don’t actually like chocolate cake. I just ask for it every year because I know Mom does and she never gets a cake on her birthday,” and Tom had fought back tears then and there.
So yeah, despite the typical teenage defiance and healthy sibling banter, Sarah was just about the most devoted figure in Tom’s life. She spent a lot of her free time in Tom’s room, sitting on his bed and doing her own thing while he worked at his desk, neither of them making conversation but simply relishing in the comfort of each other’s company.
He’d occasionally help her with her homework, and she’d practice oral reports in front of him, and as they got older, the two got closer.
Tom remembers coming home late one night, the last jazz rehearsal before his senior recital having gone long, to find her waiting up for him. “I got an A on my math test,” she’d said, shoving a packet into his hands. He’d been confused as to why she’d stayed up late to show him her grades, but later realized she’d harbored the same dawning realization as him: she knew he was leaving soon, and she had no idea how to live without him.
Sarah had only ever vocalized this to him the night before he left for Annapolis, standing shyly in the doorway of his bedroom, wringing her hands.
“So,” she’d begun, all of thirteen years old but sounding the same she had at seven, “you’re leaving tomorrow.” She doesn’t know what to do, he’d reminded himself; it’s not like either of us has done this before.
“I am,” Tom replied, swallowing thickly. He was trying to be strong for her, even though he wanted nothing more than to break down sobbing with his little sister in his arms. He’d never been a tactile person, but Sarah was, so he figured he owed her just that.
“You’re gonna call me every Sunday, okay? Sundays for Sarah, so it’s easy to remember.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Tom,” she’d said and moved to head down the hall toward her room, wet streaks visible on her cheek as she turned.
He wanted to tell her he loved her, but that was a sort of vulnerability he hadn’t shown anyone for many years. “Hey, Sarah?”
She’d paused, turned to face him. “Yeah?”
But Tom wasn’t a strong man, no matter how hard he tried to be. “I… sleep well.”
Notes:
i love mav so much <3 this guy absolutely cannot comprehend that ice actually Likes Him Back!!!!! and so to cope he's gaslighting himself into believing what he thinks is true 3 never fear! they will learn and grow together
definitely making use of my "naval inaccuracies" tag with this one. i needed a reason for them to be in port (but not shore leave) for a span of time, threw in an "emergency repair," and said "yep good enough." taking creative liberties to make things Work Out but i hope anyone who knows more than i do on this topic is not offended by the misinformation HAHA
also! for clarification, mr grayson absolutely has ZERO ulterior motives; he really is just trying to be a father figure. definitely don't want to paint him as a bad guy, but connie is mentioning that to outsiders, it might seem like that <3
uhhh anyways chapter three is totally kicking my ass (and so is university) so hopefully see you next month 🫡
Chapter 3: iii. the solo section
Summary:
Slider smirks, thumping him playfully on the shoulder. “How’s it feel to be old?”
Ice scowls. “Says you.” He uses his fork to push his bacon off his plate and onto Slider’s. “You’re fucking ancient.”
Maverick appears then, dropping his plate on the table next to Merlin and across from Ice. He sets his glass of orange juice down with slightly more care. “Who’s fucking ancient?”
or, the one where ice talks to his sister, celebrates his birthday, has a crisis, and gets a new roommate, in that order.
Notes:
ok this one is gonna be a little heavier gang sorry about that!! it gets worse before it gets better i fear
lots of great character development tho! and important plot points :)click for content warnings:
- references to childhood emotional abuse/manipulation
- period-typical homophobia
- in-depth description of a panic attackmany thanks, as always, to stef (soronya), and thank you to bingo (lightsabersandpens) for your love, support, and advice <3 couldn't have done it without you
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Merlin owes me a lot of money.”
“Fuck you.”
“Look, what if he’s not serious?”
Ice pauses in his frenzied pacing and throws his hands up in exasperation. turning to face the wall. “That’s what I'm worried about! I don't know, Slider! I've been dropping the most obvious hints and at this point, I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or if he’s really just that fucking stupid!”
Slider peers over at the pilot, cracking an apologetic smile. “He's neither. He’s Maverick.”
Breakfast with Slider’s family had gone well, full of good (free) food and friendly conversation, and the second the two had been left alone in Slider’s unit, Ice had broken and told him everything .
“I honestly don’t fucking know what to do anymore, Slider, ‘cause he is that fucking stupid. I’ve straight up been flirting to his fucking face and he can’t get the hint? For f—” he freezes, brain finally catching up to him. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘Merlin owes you money?’”
“He—”
“No, Ron, you fucking told him? ”
“Ice—Tom—calm down—”
“I will not fucking calm down.”
“Merlin brought it up first.” And that makes Ice stop.
“Fucking what?”
Slider raises his hands as if to calm a frightened horse. “He approached me and asked, ‘So when do you think Mav is gonna realize his thing for Ice?’ and I said, ‘Probably never,’ and he said, ‘I bet you $50 he’ll realize by the end of the year.’ And the year ends in three days, and he’s obviously nowhere close.”
Ice sinks to the floor, and he drops his head in his hands. “Jesus Christ. ”
“So, if it’s any consolation, he’s on your side.”
“Ron, another man now has information that could get me DD’d. How the fuck am I supposed to be consoled by this?”
“He doesn’t know about you ,” Slider assures, “just that his pilot’s a dumbass. And if his casual mention of Maverick’s love life, or lack thereof, has anything to say about it, I don’t think he’d care if he did know.”
Ice pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to remember how to breathe. “For someone who’s about to be responsible for another man’s heart attack, you’re awfully calm.”
“And you’re being awfully dramatic.”
“Eat shit and die.”
Slider gives him a look that Ice thinks is supposed to convey reassurance. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Ice doesn’t speak, instead opting to count rhythms in his head as he inhales. Hold-two-three-four, out-two-three-four. Once he’s deemed himself stable enough to answer without throwing up, he looks to Slider.
His voice is eerily calm, uncharacteristically steady for the whirlwind of emotions he’s currently experiencing. “I cannot believe the fucking situation I’m in.”
In his periphery, he can see Slider crouch to his level. He places a warm hand on Ice’s bicep. “Hey,” he starts, “you know Merlin. You’ve known him for years. You know what he’s like.”
“I know,” Ice sighs. “I just—I’m so fucking tired of always having to be on my toes.”
Slider’s head comes to rest on Ice’s shoulder. Ice isn’t a tactile person by any means, and the thought of initiating contact with a stranger makes his skin burn, but this… Slider’s okay. He doesn’t mind this. “I wish it wasn’t like this for you. There’s—I see nothing wrong with it, you know? There’s just a few dickheads thinking they can dictate someone’s love life for whatever fucking reason.”
This sort of validation, it feels good. For nearly two decades, Ice had hardly noticed how hard it was to keep everyone at arm’s length all the time. Having Slider right at his side makes breathing—living—easier again.
“Slider, I—” Ice trails off, unable to find the right words, and clenches his fists in frustration. He hates when he can’t be witty, can’t be eloquent, can’t carefully mask emotions he shouldn’t feel behind a sarcastic quip.
“You don’t need to say anything,” Slider replies, lifting his head. “But know that I’d kill for you, yeah? No matter how much of a nuisance you are.”
Ice nods, lets out a breath, and hates how it stutters. Slider rises to his feet, holding out a hand for him to take, which he accepts and lets himself be pulled upright, directly into a hug.
He allows himself to relax, lower his guard ever so slightly, and simply exist in his RIO’s—best friend’s—arms for a moment. Once he’s released, Ice tosses a cursory glance at the clock, tactically avoiding eye contact with Slider. It’s nearly 11:30. He should give his sister a call. It is Sunday, after all.
“Slider?” he starts, taking a step back and blinking to recalibrate himself before finally dragging his gaze back to warm brown eyes. “What do we do about The Maverick Problem?” He enunciates each word as if it’s a book title or lead-in to an acronym.
Slider raises an eyebrow, the douchebag. “What do we do? You’re on your own, chief.”
“That’s unfair, and you know it.”
“Well,” Slider thinks aloud, the smirk that had previously occupied his face now gone, “first you gotta decide if this is what you want. Then you gotta decide how you’re gonna go about it.”
“I didn’t know you could actually give good advice.”
“You pick up a thing or two when you’re stuck with a guy who can’t stop complaining about the state of affairs he gets himself into.”
Ice scowls. “Fuck off.” He reaches for his jacket, currently hanging off the back of the hotel desk chair. “I’m heading out. I should call Sarah, let her know I’m on shore. Thanks for breakfast, and for…” he gestures, knowing that Slider will pick up on the words he can’t properly express.
He does, as always. “No problem. Tell my favorite Kazansky I say hi.”
“I will definitely not be doing that.”
Before calling his sister, Ice does a lot of thinking about Maverick. He’s been doing that a lot recently, he’s realized, the man somehow able to worm his way into every crevice in his mind the same way he’d wormed his way into Ice’s life without permission.
This time, he’s thinking about Maverick and the Bradshaws and how if Ice can see their jet spiraling out to sea before he drifts off to sleep, feel the same ice-cold panic in his chest that he did in the moment, he can’t imagine what keeps Maverick awake at night. He wonders if Maverick sees that every time he looks at Bradley; the boy is all of four years old and he already bears a striking resemblance to his father. It makes Ice’s chest ache.
He wonders if Maverick stomachs it out of obligation; he left Carole a widow and Bradley without a father, so staying in their lives and trying to fill the hole he thinks he caused is the least he could do.
Ice is not as brave a man, something he’s long since accepted.
He sees a starry-eyed Nick Bradshaw, fresh Academy meat, in the way little Bradley gazes at the commercial jets that occupy the skies above, and he’s overcome with guilt.
He remembers going to Slider after the accident, anguished over the way he felt—the way he thought he shouldn’t feel—and recalls how Slider had reminded him they lost a friend, too. Grief isn’t a stranger to Ice, and he knows it’s not a stranger to Maverick either, even more so than himself, and the man seems to be handling it remarkably well.
Ice wonders what Maverick’s grief looks like behind closed doors.
Sarah picks up on the second ring. “Sarah Kazansky.”
“Hi.”
“Thomas Alexander,” she says, voice stern.
“Sarah Lynn,” Ice counters, matching her tone.
“You bastard. Why the fuck are you stateside? You’re not supposed to be home for another two months.”
Ice catches himself smiling the way he often does when engaged in their back-and-forth banter. “Boat’s broken,” he explains simply. “I’ve been here since Tuesday.”
“You’re such a dick. Why couldn’t you have called sooner?”
“I call on Sundays. Sarah Sundays. It’s the rule.”
“It doesn’t mean you can only call on Sundays.”
“I know you’re available Sundays, so I call Sundays. Stop arguing and give me the family drama. You sound like Mom.”
He hears Sarah hum over the phone.
“Speaking of Mom, she’s not happy that you never call.”
“I just got off the boat for the first time since August; this whole situation was completely unexpected, and I’m only here until the 30th anyway.” This isn’t the whole truth; Ice knows that his mother is a different woman from the one that he’d left, and talking to her ghost would only guilt him further. He tries to change the subject and switch the topic to her for a moment. “Did you go home for break?”
“My finals ended on the seventeenth, so I got a flight home on the eighteenth. I stayed until the twenty-fifth.” Sarah switches the topic right back. “Mom and Dad turned your room into a home office.”
Ice pauses to consider that. He’s not quite sure how he should feel about it. He tries for a lighthearted quip. “Then I guess they can’t be too upset that I don’t visit.”
“That, or they’ve finally given up trying to get you to come home.”
The comment drives a knife through his heart, though he knows Sarah didn’t intend to hurt him. There’s truth in the statement, he supposes, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting.
Sarah notices his silence on the other line. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
Ice feels a flash of anger. “What are you apologizing for?” Sarah’s not the one who decided to box up any memory of his childhood and store it in the basement.
“The circumstances.” And, yeah, that’s fair enough.
He shrugs despite the fact that Sarah’s three hundred miles northeast and certainly can’t see him. “It’s whatever. It was bound to happen at some point.”
“So you’re still off deployment in February, right?”
“Yeah. The fifteenth.”
“Are you still coming up to Manhattan?”
“That’s the plan.” He’s only had one true rotation of active-duty shore leave since graduating from the RAG and had spent it with Sarah, not very keen on moving back home for nine months. As his current rotation ended, she’d suggested he come live with her again. Her roommate had dropped out early in the semester, so she had a spare bed she wasn’t using, and, in her words, ‘she could use the company.’
“Actually, I changed my mind. You didn’t call sooner, so you can live out of a state-funded hotel room for the next nine months.”
Little shit.
“Better than living in a two-bedroom apartment funded by your father.”
“Better than sleeping next to a nuclear reactor.”
He neglects to correct her. “At least my job doesn’t involve me cutting open dead people.”
“At least my job doesn’t involve me sleeping next to a nuclear reactor.”
“Hey. You can’t use that twice. Be original.”
Ice can hear her laugh on the other end. “Are you driving up?”
“With the MG? Fuck no. I hold my breath every time I have to drive her off-base. And even if I had the M5, ‘s not worth it. Parking is expensive, and you don’t need a car in New York City anyway.”
He can envision her expression, raising an eyebrow with skepticism. “So you’re just leaving it in Norfolk?”
“Unless you want to pay for storage.”
“No thanks,” Sarah replies quickly. “Suit yourself.”
There’s a beat of silence as Ice considers his next possible options for conversation. It’s been months since he last spoke with his sister, and he has a thousand questions. Eventually, he settles on something safe. “How’s school? Last semester of pre-med, kind of a big deal.”
He can hear shuffling as Sarah switches the phone to her other shoulder. She’s probably making lunch. “It’s fine. I’m busy. I’m taking more ‘fun’ classes, but I’m also preparing for the MCAT.”
“What sort of classes?”
“I’m taking a physics class.”
Ice hums. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s really interesting. I’m good at it.”
“Why physics?”
“I don’t actually want to go into nursing. I mean, I enjoy it, and it’s what I’m gonna do, but I don’t feel like it’s my life’s calling, y’know? I like physics, though.”
Ice remembers that conversation from when Sarah was first applying to colleges. The agreement would be that her school and housing would be paid for if she studied medicine, and at the time, Sarah hadn’t been too keen on disappointing their father, especially if free education was on the line. Apparently, Father had told Sarah that he could only handle one ‘fuck-up child,’ and Ice supposes this was his way of making sure Sarah stayed on the right track.
Ice, for one, never outwardly minded being the ‘fuck-up child.’ He’d become at ease with it early on, deciding he would not only join the Navy instead of the Air Force but also rise higher in rank than his father ever did in some unorthodox act of rebellion.
Some selfish part of him wanted to piss off his father, redirect the man’s perpetual anger to something that made sense instead of yelling at his sister for forgetting to take out the trash, or raising a fist to the universe for making him stop at every red light between their home and downtown.
Their father was—still is—a very angry man, something Ice is reminded of every time he feels a spark of annoyance flickering in his gut. He is determined to keep that flame at bay. He will not end up the same.
“That’s good,” Ice replies, somewhat absently, as less-than-ideal memories flash through his mind. “I’m glad you’re branching out, finding things you enjoy.”
“Yeah.” A beat. “Are you doing something you enjoy?”
He hesitates a moment too long, and he knows Sarah picks up on it; they may not have spoken in months, but they’ve been perpetually tuned to the same wavelength ever since Ice left. “Yeah. Yeah, I like it a lot. Even the days I don’t fly. It’s hard work, but you meet great people, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Another lie. Or, at the very least, truth omitted.
“Have you made any friends?”
Ice pauses. Has he? What constitutes a friend these days? Someone he trusts, he supposes. Enjoys spending time with. “Well, you know Slider—”
“Slider doesn’t count. You’ve known him for years.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” He waits for Sarah to interrupt again. She doesn’t. “Do you remember Merlin? Cougar—Bill’s RIO?”
“Mm, yeah, I think you’ve mentioned him.”
“Yeah. We’re stationed together. He’s a fun guy. He’s flying with Maverick now. Like, for good.”
Ice can practically hear Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. “Really? And how’s Maverick?”
“He’s… good.” The first Sarah had heard of Maverick, it had been Ice complaining to no end about how he was unsafe, both in the air and on the ground. The last she’d heard, it was Ice telling her about how he felt responsible for Goose’s death and Maverick’s subsequent mental state.
“Is he a friend?”
“Yeah,” Ice says quietly, then with a touch more confidence, “yeah, he is. We, uh, saw a movie last night actually.”
“Did you?”
“It wasn’t—” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t even know why he feels the need to clarify himself. “Yeah. We saw Three Amigos . It was alright.”
“Sounds like you’re having fun on this unexpected week on shore.”
“I guess so. I know a lot of guys appreciated the Christmas off.”
“Too bad you’re not here for your birthday. If I’d have known, I would’ve sent you something.”
“What, like a fuckton of glitter in an unassuming enevlope? I’d rather not.”
Sarah laughs, a bright, familiar sound. “I would never.”
“You did on my twenty-second.”
“I was young and immature.”
“Whatever. Expect the same treatment next month.”
“Dickhead.”
“Dipshit.”
“Whatever. I — ” Ice can hear a distant knock from her side. “Hold on, there’s someone here.” Her voice fades, but she remains on the line; Ice can imagine the receiver resting on the kitchen counter while she goes to get the door. She returns a few moments later. “Hey, so my friend wants me to come with her to the library. I gotta go, is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Ice says sarcastically. “Leave your brother, who you haven’t talked to in months, for your friend, who you probably saw yesterday.” The words bite, but there’s no real heat behind them.
“I’m sorry, Tom, I—”
“It’s fine, Sarah. Go hang out with your friends. I’ll see you soon anyway, yeah?”
“Yeah. Gimme a call when you’re off for good.”
They trade goodbyes, and Sarah, as always, is the one to hang up. Ice isn’t a huge fan of how the unexpected silence makes his ears ring.
Tom remembers a late April morning in high school when his 5 AM flight lesson got weathered out, and he’d ended up in a practice room working through a particularly tricky part of the jazz chart the band would be performing for an upcoming competition in New York City. Mr. Grayson had knocked on the door and waited a beat before opening it.
“Thought that was you. You sound good.”
Tom had grinned. “What, do I not usually?”
“Very funny.” Grayson returned the smile. “Are you busy right now?”
Tom was already unclipping his saxophone from its neckstrap. “No, I’m finished. What do you need?”
“Would you be able to help me out in the office for a bit? I’m working on administrative stuff right now, and I still need copies for freshman band next period.”
“Always.” He twisted off the tenor’s mouthpiece and slipped the reed back into its protective case. “I’ll meet you there in a minute, yeah?”
Grayson nodded and left for his office, leaving the practice room door cracked behind him. Tom bit the inside of his cheek while running a cleaning cloth through the body of his sax, a motion he’d done thousands of times. He was always happy to help Grayson with whatever menial task and usually jumped at the opportunity each time it arose, but this time, a pinprick of anxiety manifested in his gut, like the feeling when you know you’re about to be yelled at. He racked his brain for any reason that this instance was different from the numerous others, a reason that could explain the unease he felt working its way into his chest, tightening his lungs.
Nothing.
Nothing had changed, and so nothing could justify it.
Tom met Grayson in the office a few minutes later, where Grayson gestured to a folder full of original music parts. “The class roster and part list are in the folder. Make one for each student on each part, and then three extras. Lord knows the freshmen are gonna lose them.”
The two fell into their typical routine, lapsing into a mostly comfortable silence interrupted only by the sound of the copier whirring and warm papers rustling as they fell into the tray. Tom was only halfway through the Clarinet 2 part when Grayson spoke up.
“How’s your sister?”
That damn unease fluttered again.
“Good.” He didn’t offer anything more.
“She’ll be a freshman next year, right?” Tom nodded. “Remind me, does she play an instrument?”
“She picked up clarinet over the summer. She’s pretty good at it. Fast learner.”
Grayson smiled, pleased with this information. “So I’ll see her around, then?”
Tom shrugged, feeding the Clarinet 3 part into the copier. “Maybe.” Truthfully, he didn’t know. He didn’t know if their father would discourage it the same he had for Tom or if things would be different for her. He hoped she got the chance to choose for herself.
“Would she join jazz? There’s a clarinet part waiting for her.”
Tom shrugged again. “I dunno. She likes listening to me practice. Enjoys the concerts. I want her to forge her own path, though. Not be known as ‘Kazansky’s sister,’ y’know?”
“That’s very honorable.” Grayson’s pen moved across the paper on the desk in front of him. He paused. “Have I asked about your plans after graduation?”
Oh.
His chest clenched. There it was, the underlying reason for Tom’s anxiety.
Tom had always hated change. He found comfort in familiarity and routine, and attributed that to growing up with a man who thought the same. He’d just spent four years settling into that new routine, had just recently found a place where he belonged , and now he had to throw that away.
Tom didn’t particularly love high school, but he certainly appreciated the structure it offered, the rigid schedule leaving little to no room for spontaneity.
“I’m going to Annapolis,” he’d replied, suddenly very interested in stacking all of the sheets of music just right. “Naval Academy.”
Grayson had thought about that for a moment, soft blue eyes inspecting Tom as if to uncover some deeper meaning to the words. Tom held back the urge to squirm under his gaze; the man was looking at him with some god-awful combination of pride and bittersweet sorrow. “You’ll do great.”
Tom felt the corner of his lips quirk upward in some sort of disbelieving smirk.
“No, really. You’re amazing.”
“I know,” he shot back, trying to move away from the touchy-feely shit and make some lighthearted banter. “You can say it again, though.”
To his utter dismay, Grayson did not take the bait. “You’re amazing,” he repeated, somehow more sincerely than the last time. Tom’s blood ran cold with panic. “Really. You are. I’m not ready for you to not be around anymore.”
“Don’t get attached,” he remembered his father saying once, after he’d made the decision to stick with jazz band. “It’s all just a stepping stone. You’ll leave soon enough, move on to bigger and better things.”
With a pang of fear, Tom had realized that he’d gone and broken that rule long ago.
“What, no glitter this year?”
Ice slides into one of the mess hall chairs next to his RIO, giving Merlin a nod of acknowledgement. “Nope, and hopefully never again.”
Slider smirks, thumping him playfully on the shoulder. “How’s it feel to be old?”
Ice scowls. “Says you.” He uses his fork to push his bacon off his plate and onto Slider’s. “You’re fucking ancient.”
Maverick appears then, dropping his plate on the table next to Merlin and across from Ice. He sets his glass of orange juice down with slightly more care. “Who’s fucking ancient?”
“Ice,” Slider says, at the same time that Ice says “Slider.” Maverick’s eyes flick between the two of them for a second before he slips into his seat.
“You’re three years older than me.”
“Not anymore,” Merlin points out.
Maverick tilts his head. “Is it your birthday?”
Ice shoves a forkful of pancake in his mouth to give himself an excuse not to respond. Unfortunately, Slider answers for him, the dickhead. “Sure is. Twenty-eight.”
An unreadable expression flickers across Maverick’s face, but Ice thinks he catches a glimpse of something like pain. “You didn’t say anything about it.”
“I don’t really care about it. It’s not that big a deal.”
And that’s the truth, honestly. It’s just another day, another trip around the sun, another tangible reminder that he’s spiralling closer and closer to death.
Maverick squints. “Not a big deal, huh?” He digs his fork into his scrambled eggs and chews stoically. Ice has never really aced reading emotions from other people’s facial expressions alone, and the rest of him is uncharacteristically still. If Ice didn’t know better, he’d say Maverick was actually upset. He just can’t understand why .
“What Mr. Ice-Cold-No-Fun is trying to say, despite the grumpy attitude that seems to come with age, is that we’ll have a small party on his behalf this evening,” Slider adds, and Ice wants to strangle him. “You should come, Mav.”
Ice sits up. “Wh—no, you’re not.” Slider’s mouth turns upward in a devilish grin, offering a sort of non-answer. “You’re not ,” Ice repeats, more firmly this time.
“Loosen up, Ice-Man.” Slider punctuates his callsign as if it’s two separate words. “You get to pick the movie. But only if it’s Grease or Smokey and the Bandit .”
“Hell of a choice,” Ice mumbles, but a slight grin has worked its way across his face. He’s seen Grease about a hundred times, so what harm is one more?
“Lieutenant Kazansky,” a gruff voice announces from behind him. He turns to see the CO and reflexively straightens his posture.
“Sir,” he replies, giving his wristwatch a subtle glance. It’s not even 0700, and he’s barely made a dent in his breakfast.
“You’re needed in my office at your earliest convenience.”
Ice has quite a bit of respect for their CO, a tall man with graying hair who is very fair and incredibly patient. But he’s been raised to instinctively mix a healthy amount of fear into that respect for his seniors, so naturally, to Ice, ‘your earliest convenience’ means ‘immediately.’ It doesn’t help that this early-morning request crosses the line from respect into a flutter of unwarranted unease.
“Of course, Sir.” He can shovel the rest of his bagel down his throat and bring his coffee mug with him, he supposes, and if he’s hungry later, the mess will be open. The CO nods an affirmative and steps away.
When Ice returns his attention to the table, there are three pairs of curious eyes on him.
Slider raises an eyebrow. “What’s that all about? It’s not like Commander Richgels to seek you out before 8.”
He shrugs, pushing himself away from the table and shuffling to his feet. “Probably just Legal-O stuff. I dunno. We’ll see.”
Ice knocks on the door to Commander Richgel’s office five minutes later and, upon entering, sees the man sitting at his desk, poring over various papers strewn across the table. He looks tired, Ice notes, and curiosity bites at the back of his mind.
“Sir?” he announces himself, and the CO waves him to sit down.
“A situation has been brought to my attention concerning a few members of my squadron.”
Ice doesn’t speak, instead waiting to see if the Commander will continue.
“We’re looking at punishment for two men allegedly caught engaged in… acts of homosexuality.”
Ice’s stomach drops. For a painful few seconds, the world stops spinning. The constant hum of the boat’s engines that he’s long since learned to tune out now roars in his ears, interrupted only by the sound of Commander Richgels flipping open the stapled packet on his desk to glance over the second page.
“This is something that would warrant an immediate discharge if there were substantial evidence.”
Ice has about a thousand questions, ranging from “who was involved” to “what evidence do you have” to “who made the report,” but a combination of vice-grip panic and understanding that the Commander isn’t finished talking ensures his jaw remains clenched tight. This is all information he’ll find out sooner rather than later, anyway, but the limbo of not knowing is always the worst part of waiting. He takes a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee, if for no other reason than to busy himself. It goes down his throat, tasting sharp and acrid like sulfur.
“Two men in maintenance control,” Commander Richgels begins, and Ice lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He barely processes the rest of the CO’s information after that, both relishing in the fact that they weren’t people he knew, and feeling guilty for the relief he feels all at once. No, he wasn’t close with the individuals, but they’re good men, homosexual or not, and they don’t deserve this. No one does. Not for being gay.
The CO gives instructions for the rest of the day that Ice absently acknowledges, still trying to remind himself how to breathe again, and then he’s left to his own devices. His shift goes by in a flash, partly assisted by the fact that he refuses to let himself process any of this newfound information—he has a job to do right now.
He silently thanks a God he doesn’t believe in for his ability to compartmentalize.
“Hey, Ice, you with us?” Wolfman snaps his fingers in Ice’s face and draws him back to their mortal realm. He’s been staring into his pasta for who knows how long, but it’s apparently been long enough that the others have noticed.
“Hm?” He glances upward, twirling a few noodles onto his fork. “Yeah.”
“What’s up?”
“Just thinking.” Before anyone can ask for clarification, he adds, “‘Bout work stuff.” He’s not going to be telling anyone about the day’s events.
“All work, no fun, huh?” Hollywood quips, grinning broadly. “Slider, you’re his RIO; why don’t you pull the stick from his ass?”
“He’s grown comfortable with it—I don’t think he’d let me,” Slider replies and pokes his elbow into Ice’s side. Normally, Ice would have told Slider that he envies everyone who doesn’t know him, but the frozen knot from the CO’s earlier words still sits tightly in his stomach, letting the answer die on his tongue.
“I’m not hungry,” Ice states abruptly, dropping his fork. It clatters acutely onto his plate. He stands, three pairs of eyes following his movements, literal question marks painted on all of their faces. Slider’s expression turns serious immediately, and he raises an eyebrow in concern.
They’re just worried.
Ice hates it.
He clears his throat, swallows, and puts the complacent and superior smile back on his lips.
“Enjoy your dinner,” Ice tells them, and picks up his plate, still half-full. “Don’t miss me too much.”
Wood laughs, and Ice is glad he can’t see beneath his carefully constructed façade of preeminence and indifference. He’s about to turn and leave when Wolf speaks up.
“Hey, your little party later is still up, Ice,” he grins. Fuck , Ice had almost successfully forgotten about it. He knows arguing against it will be a moot point, as it's the aviators’ little tradition to throw each other a celebration each time a birthday comes around, and has been ever since they’d been deployed together.
“ Grease starts at oh-seventeen-hundred,” Slider adds, “and if you’re late, I’ll drag you there myself.”
And, well, Ice can’t have that happen now, can he? And even though his mind is supersonic, the logical part of him reasons that the whole ordeal would be a nice distraction.
“Fine,” Ice replies, turning away from the table. “Let me take a shower.”
The lights in Ready Room 03 have been dimmed, and Grease is awaiting its moment on the TV, having been paused on the title screen. Ice enters the room, hair still damp from the earlier shower, and surveys its current inhabitants; it seems like he’s the last one to show up. Fashionably late, he supposes.
Maverick and Wolf are seated front and center, chattering animatedly and swapping jokes. Wolf throws his head back with a loud laugh, presumably at something Maverick had said. Warlock, ever-married to his self-imposed job as the squadron’s film operator, is kneeling down next to the TV stand and fiddling with the wires; his RIO, a sweet young kid fresh out of flight school with the callsign Dallas, stands to the side and observes. A few other seats are taken by various other aviators in their squadron, none of whom Ice is particularly close to.
Slider, Hollywood, and Merlin are waiting by the door; Slider attempts to creep up behind him and spook him, but he should know by now that Ice is too aware of his surroundings to succeed with that. He grabs Slider’s wrist just before it connects with his shoulder and twists it until he yelps, releasing it with a sharp grin. “Nice try.”
“Dickhead,” Slider swears, clutching his wrist.
“Yeah,” Ice agrees. “So. Movie time.”
Maverick pauses in his banter with Wolf at the sound of Ice’s voice and rises from his seat. “Wait, Ice,” he starts, leaning down to grab something off the floor. “I have something for you.”
He produces a blank white envelope and hands it over. “You didn’t have to.” Ice takes it and stares at it as if it holds the secrets of the universe within.
“I know. It’s nothing special, if that helps.”
Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, Ice says: “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Movie’s starting!” Warlock calls from the front of the room, pressing ‘play’ and settling back in the seat closest to the TV. Ice makes his way towards his usual spot, tucking the envelope under his thigh. As the intro credits roll, Maverick’s card is temporarily forgotten.
The film ends an hour and 45 minutes later, and the aviators begin the “real” birthday celebration, which involves Slider leaving and re-entering the room with a single brownie on a napkin, a lit cigarette stuck on top to act as a candle.
‘Happy Birthday’ is sung, and Ice suffers for a long twenty seconds before he gets the sweet, sweet release of crushing the cigarette under his boot.
“That’s a damn waste of a cigarette,” Hollywood muses, crossing his arms. Ice picks it up off the floor and offers it to him, one end flat and the other caked with brownie crumbs. Holly shoots him a glare.
A few rounds of cards are played before the group breaks for the night, and only after everyone but him and Slider has left does Ice remember Maverick’s letter.
“‘M gonna get some air,” he tells Slider, which isn’t a lie; the room is stuffy with sweat.
He’s met on the flight deck with crisp winter air, relishing in the way it feels sharp as it enters his lungs. The tarmac is in a rare period of inactivity, the next squadron likely prepping for a night flight. A few yellow- and green-shirts buzz between the sleeping Tomcats, paying him no mind, and Ice refrains from running his hand over the body of the jet he passes as he makes his way to the edge of the boat.
Maverick’s letter feels heavy in his hands. He slides his thumb under the envelope’s seal slowly, carefully, as if it contains something impossibly fragile. Easing the letter out from the envelope, he unfolds it and begins to read under the red-tinged light.
Ice, the letter starts in handwriting that’s so distinctly Maverick it makes Ice’s chest hurt.
Ice,
I know you said you don’t care about your birthday, but I write Bradley a letter for his birthday every year so I figured it’s nothing you wouldn’t be able to accept. Anyways, I know we got off to a rough start, but I really am glad I met you. We learned a lot from each other, I think, and I know you’re always my first choice when it comes to a wingman.
You know, Goose used to say that underneath that cold hard exterior, there was a really compassionate, caring guy and you just had to wait for him to melt a little bit before you really got to know him. And I’m lucky to get to know him. You’re always looking out for me for everyone and I enjoy our friendly banter and the time we spend together.
I always feel safe when you’re on my wing.
Always your wingman,
Mav
The words grow blurry as he reads the letter, and Ice blames the sharp wind from the sea as he blinks. There’s something else in the envelope, too, he realizes, pulling out a slightly blurry Polaroid of himself and Maverick mid-hug the day of the Layton rescue. He’s got no clue who took the photo, but it’s definitely one that’ll get hung up in his locker for the foreseeable future.
His heart and mind are going Mach 3, and he focuses on a distant spot on the horizon. Ice takes a deep breath, steeling himself as waves roll in his periphery, the scent of salt and jet fuel on his nose.
Fuck.
This is bad.
This is really fucking bad .
Ice knows what happens to men when they get found out. He just watched it happen .
This isn’t just bad , it’s outright dangerous.
Do you know what it’s like to have everything you’ve ever wanted?
In Tom’s senior year of high school, he had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
His school’s jazz band had been chosen to perform in New York City at an international competition, and Tom was elated.
Mr. Grayson had approached him after the announcement. “I want to play Goodbye Pork Pie Hat ,” he’d said, “featuring you on lead tenor.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
Grayson rested a hand on his shoulder, the solid weight warm and grounding. “There’s no one I’d rather choose. It’s gonna be a great experience; I know how much this trip means to you.”
Tom really wished he’d stop talking, because it was getting hard to keep his shit together.
“You’ve worked so hard for this,” Grayson continued, impervious to his silent pleas. “You’ve improved so much, and I’m damn proud of you, kid.”
He was going to New York City, somewhere he’d always wanted to visit, for an opportunity he was undoubtedly honored to have gotten, to listen to live jazz performed by internationally-acclaimed groups, and Mr. Grayson had chosen him ( him! ) for a feature.
The charts had been passed out at the next rehearsal, and for a few painfully short weeks, Tom was on top of the fucking world.
Then his mom ended up in the hospital.
Do you know what it’s like to have everything you’ve ever wanted?
Four days before the band left for New York, Tom’s mother had gotten real sick. She’d taken one dose too many of her pain medicine and was on dialysis for acute kidney failure. At the time, Tom had thought it was an accident.
For the next few days, Tom split his time between school, sitting by his mother’s bed in the hospital, and taking care of Sarah at home: making her food, driving her to school, and helping with her homework.
Three days before the band left for New York, Tom told Grayson he wasn’t going.
“I can’t leave my sister alone,” he’d said, “not right now.”
Two days before the band left for New York, Tom watched Allen Kelly play his ( his! ) feature in Goodbye Pork Pie Hat near-perfectly. Allen was the junior chosen to be the tenor sax alternate for the trip, just in case, and now he was getting his dream shot.
Now he was getting Tom ’s dream shot, as if just going to New York wasn’t enough.
One day before the band left for New York, Tom watched them rehearse.
If he closed his eyes, it sounded just like the Mingus band did on his vinyl record. And it was beautiful .
When the whole band came in after the three-minute-long tenor feature at the beginning, Tom turned away to scrub his eyes and blamed it on exhaustion.
The Friday that the band left for New York, the halls were emptier than they’d ever been.
When they returned, they were buzzing with energy and stories and experiences, and the envy made Tom’s heart ache.
The band didn’t win. They didn’t even place.
Would they have? If things had been different? Tom didn’t know.
Do you know what it’s like to have everything you’ve ever wanted?
No, but I was close once.
Ice decides that he is going to try his absolute hardest to keep Maverick at arm’s length. The recollection of yesterday’s events rolls in his head, but he manages to stave them off more or less successfully. He’s just starting to feel like himself again while on a flight with Hollywood and Wolfman, in perfect control of his jet and his emotions, until a godawful feeling flares in his chest.
All at once, Ice feels his blood run cold. He can feel his mouth going dry, his tongue like lead, and a sensation in his gut similar to being in a stall, even though he knows he’s not. Fuck. No. No. Not now.
He’s had panic attacks before, knows what they’re like, and, in theory, how to come down from them. He also knows, by the way his heart is beating in his throat and the cockpit suddenly seems 20 degrees colder, that this is gonna be a bad one. But for fuck’s sake, he’s got too much shit to do to be having one now .
Hollywood seems to have noticed his silence on the radio. “Hey, Ice, you doing alright?”
Ice swallows. “Peachy,” he replies, forcing the tremor out of his voice. “Just thinking.” His eyes roam over the instrument panel in an attempt to ground himself. Altimeters reading 45,000. Airspeed indicator reading Mach 0.7. AoA indicator optimal. Wing sweep at 20 degrees for cruise. Attitude level. This process is second nature to him, but he hopes that if he lingers on each instrument and repeats their readings in his mind, it’ll help to placate his racing pulse. Ice is known for his level head—he can’t lose that reputation now.
He can feel Slider staring at him in the mirrors as he takes a few deep breaths and chooses to ignore his RIO in favor of keeping the jet in the sky. The discomfort coils in his stomach, flaring throughout his insides, accompanied by an unwelcome nausea. He just has to push down the panic in his chest until they’re back on the boat. So Ice keeps making comments and cracking occasional jokes with Wood and Wolf and Slider and pretending that the uncomfortable unease making its way through his body is not that big a deal.
Solace comes roughly fifteen minutes later in the form of the LSO’s voice over the comms as he gets level with the boat. “Iceman, call the ball.”
“Roger,” he hears himself say, his own voice sounding foreign. “Two-oh-seven Tomcat, ball, 3.7.” He catches the third wire with an overall very smooth landing (as if anyone would expect anything different from him), and he feels himself go on autopilot through the post-landing checklist, following the yellow-shirt’s instructions until he gets the cut engine signal.
Hollywood is on short final as he and Slider climb out of the cockpit, and after post-flight, Ice turns immediately to head down to the Ready Room for debriefing. His shaky legs carry him quickly off the flight deck, and he can hear Slider’s footsteps accelerate to catch up.
Slider grabs his wrist as they reach the stairwell. “Tom.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, and something inside Ice just… breaks.
“Oh fuck ,” he gasps, crumpling to the floor. He barely notices as Slider follows him down, still holding on to his wrist like a lifeline, the firm pressure his only tether to this mortal plane.
Ice tries his hardest to take slow, deep breaths, filling his lungs until they burn and letting the air out slowly through pursed lips. The tremors in his hands have moved to his chest and throughout the rest of his torso, and he hates the way his body shakes without his permission. You’re in the middle of a fucking stairwell. Get your shit together.
“Hey, hey,” Slider protests as Ice works to regain control of his limbs, maneuvering himself into a standing position.
“‘M fine,” he mumbles, words heavy in his mouth, wiggling out of Slider’s grasp.
“Bullshit,” Slider huffs. “We both know that’s not true. What do you need?” His tone is authoritative, one that makes no room for protest.
“To not be doing this right now.” Ice grips the railing and begins to descend the stairs, legs trembling. He knows that Slider won't accept this answer, judging by the fact that he's currently staring holes into his back. “I need to sit down.”
“Okay,” Slider says, tone slightly more panicked than Ice would like to hear right now. “Okay,” he repeats. “You’re not going to debriefing.”
Ice can’t find it in himself to argue, which seems to concern Slider even more. “Tell them I’m in sickbay.”
“You should be in sickbay.”
Ice doesn’t reply; it’s not worth it. The potential risk of being deemed unfit to fly outweighs whatever reward. Slider knows his stance on medical procedures: he’ll avoid unnecessary ones at all costs. He automatically starts heading toward their stateroom, heart thumping in his chest and his throat. Slider trails just a few feet behind him like a distressed herding dog.
They enter the room, and as soon as the door is closed, Ice tosses himself rather unceremoniously into the furthest corner of his bed, leans his back against the wall, and pulls his knees up to his chest. “Gimme a smoke,” he breathes.
“What?”
“Give. Me. A. Smoke.” He holds a hand out impatiently, itching for the nicotine to calm the buzzing. It’s been almost a year since he quit, but it’s also been almost a year since he’s found himself in this state, so he figures there’s a god somewhere that would understand.
“Jesus.” Slider’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Okay, I—where…?” He’s almost frantic, and it makes the panic in Ice’s chest flare.
“Hey, Slider, buddy? I’m gonna need you to calm the fuck down for a moment, okay?” Slider returns a curt nod, and Ice watches him take a breath. “My desk. Side drawer, second down, in the very back left corner. There’s a black velvet bag.” It’s velvet because he hates the way it feels; an extra little failsafe to deter any initial cravings.
Slider follows his instructions, returning with a Marlboro Light and a cheap BIC lighter pinched between his fingers. Ice takes both, lighting the cigarette and bringing it to his lips, inhaling deeply. He feels tendrils of smoke work their way through his lungs, burning all the way down, and he resists the urge to cough. It’s not a nice feeling, not necessarily, but the nicotine wraps itself around the crippling panic and smothers it like a fire. Slider watches, somewhat wide-eyed, leaning awkwardly against the back of Ice’s desk chair.
Ice takes another drag, then blows smoke through his pursed lips in Slider’s direction. “What, never see a man smoke before?”
“Any other time I’d get on your ass for doing that in here, you know that, right?” Ice shrugs, taking a third pull. Slider taps his fingers on the chair’s backrest before pushing himself off of it. “I’m going to debrief. I’ll catch you up.”
They’re not gonna talk about it, because that’s not what they do.
Slider leaves the room, and Ice does a hell of a lot of thinking, until the cigarette is just a stub between his thumb and index finger, and it feels a little easier to breathe.
Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.
This isn’t… good, this whole thing with him and Maverick, whatever it is.
It’s not good. It’s not safe.
He knows this, both inside and out.
He doesn’t know if he cares anymore.
(He does.)
In the month leading up to liberty, Ice distances himself from Maverick as much as humanly possible, and the best way to achieve this seems to be closing himself off altogether. It doesn’t work well; Maverick is a magnet, and Ice is a piece of iron that keeps drawing him in, and Ice can’t help but feel a little better when he’s around.
He hates it.
He hates it because Ice does not seek unnecessary danger.
Seeking the occasional adrenaline rush and seeking danger are two very different things, and Ice may be audacious when the situation is right, but he is not negligent or foolish. Everything he does, he does safely , more or less, after a proper risk assessment and running through every possible outcome in his head multiple times over, and this is no exception.
Entertaining any… hedonistic fantasies would not be a Good Idea, and so Ice keeps his distance and tries to push Maverick away.
Ice can try as hard as he wants, but like many other men and women, he is not immune to Maverick’s charm, because Maverick either can’t tell that Ice is pushing him away, or he simply doesn’t care.
Some unwieldy part of Ice’s mind admires that, finds it endearing.
They return to port in three weeks, and Ice is in his office, finishing up paperwork, when there’s a knock at his door. It’s already past the time his shift is supposed to end, but Ice has never left anything half-finished in his life, and he’s only got a few pages left to process anyway.
“Yeah?” he calls, and Maverick pokes his head in.
“Hey,” Maverick says, looking a few shades paler than Ice is used to. He feels his heart sink. “Can we talk?”
“Um,” Ice replies eloquently, straightening the stack of papers and setting them aside. “Yeah. What’s up?”
Maverick closes the door behind him, and every fiber in Ice’s body is telling him to get out of whatever situation is about to arise. He doesn’t, though, instead forcing his hammering heartbeat to slow to a normal rate through sheer willpower as Maverick takes a seat on the edge of Ice’s desk.
Maverick fidgets with his hands. He’s quiet for a long few seconds, and Ice isn’t about to interrupt, letting him take his time to formulate his thoughts. The anticipation makes him nervous, and Ice feels like he’s about to be confronted for… something. Granted, that’s a worry without foundation, but that’s how anxiety works, right?
“I, uh,” Maverick eventually begins, “it’s my first liberty without Goose.”
Oh.
Oh fuck .
“I haven’t really let myself think about it. ‘Cause after TOPGUN we had the Layton mission, and then I went right to teaching, and then we found ourselves here so I haven’t really had a break since then, and normally I’d spend liberty with Goose and Carole, but Goose is… gone, and I don’t want Carole to…” he trails off, gesticulating. “Y’know.”
“No,” Ice replies, both patient and honest, “I don’t.” He reaches for one of the pens scattered across his desk just for something to do. He has no clue why Maverick is coming to him with this; it’s not like he’s ever really been the consoling type. No, that would be Goose, something inside him says, and his chest twinges with guilt.
Maverick huffs. “I don’t… I don’t want to make things worse by being there without him. I don’t want it to seem like I’m trying to… replace him?”
“Maverick.” Maverick looks up. “You know she won’t think that. She loves you like a brother.”
“I know, I know. I just… I don’t…”
“Maybe it’ll help her process the grief.”
“It won’t help me,” Maverick snaps, and the regret is immediately visible in his eyes. “Sorry.”
Ice waves off the apology. “‘S fine.”
There’s a mental battle happening in Maverick’s mind. Ice has known him long enough to know what it looks like when he’s parsing through information, figuring things out, or trying to rationalize a thought. He picks at his cuticles, and Ice resists the urge to swat his hands to keep him from making himself bleed, the way that Slider does to him sometimes.
“What are your plans for liberty?” Maverick eventually blurts out.
Okay. Shit. Ice thinks he sees where this is going, and his fingers close around the pen he’s been absently spinning under the table as his body tenses. The logical part of his brain doesn’t like it, and it’s sending off warning bells, but the warm feeling in his chest counteracts the rationale.
“Well,” he starts, “my sister has a two-bedroom apartment in New York. I usually stay with her. I’m getting a flight out as soon as I can get to the airport.”
Maverick nods, and Ice can tell there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but he’s hesitant to ask it. Ice knows how he feels; he’s been in that position many times over. He knows he’s going to regret this, but Maverick is pulling at his heartstrings, threatening to untie them, leaving him open and raw and bleeding.
“Sarah’s got a really comfortable couch,” he continues, against all of his better judgment, “and she’s always on about ‘wanting to meet my friends to prove they exist,’ or whatever.”
“Would she…”
“I can ask.”
Ice watches as relief floods Maverick’s body, tension visibly draining from his shoulders, and it makes him feel more at ease, too. Funny how Maverick has that effect on him.
“Two ground rules, though.”
“What’s that?”
Ice’s brain, running pitifully slowly, finally catches up with his mouth, and he clenches his jaw. Is he really about to do this? It’s not too late to back out.
Ice has never half-finished anything in his life. He’s in this deep. He takes a breath.
“We’re not allowed to throw ragers while she’s in class, and you’re legally obligated to come to a concert with me.”
The corner of Maverick’s mouth quirks up in a grin, the first real smile since he’d entered Ice’s office. “Sounds simple enough.” He gets to his feet, pushing himself off the desk, and hesitates, hand inches from the doorknob. “Are you sure?”
Ice’s breath catches imperceptibly in his throat. “About what?”
Maverick gestures. “This. Staying with you and your sister. At least for a little while.”
“Sure,” Ice says, feeling all but sure. “As long as you’re okay with the couch.”
“Can’t be worse than these beds.”
“Okay.” Maverick opens the door, gets halfway out, then stops again. “You’ll check with her, though, right?”
“Yeah. ‘Course I will.”
“Okay.” He tosses a soft smile over his shoulder. “Thanks, Tom.”
Once he’s out of sight and the door has closed behind him, Ice melts.
Ice drafts the letter, and it’s on the next COD out to New York City. He knows Sarah will almost definitely say yes, but the idea of getting approval first has been ingrained into his DNA, and he hadn’t even heard the phrase ‘it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission’ until his twenties, when Slider recited it after stealing one of Goose’s beers.
The next few weeks drone on in a sort of comfortable routine: wake up, eat, fly, eat, work, eat, socialize, sleep, repeat. Things with Maverick are… better, now that he’s not actively trying to avoid the man at every possible moment. Things are still a little awkward (Ice’s fault), and conversations are still a little stilted (also Ice’s fault), but the regimen they have going for them and the looming promise of liberty make their whole… whatever it is, easier.
Ice had two main goals in mind while putting distance between himself and Maverick: laying low after the threat of a dishonorable discharge on grounds of homosexuality, and trying to will this feeling of unsolicited fondness away through sheer force.
He thinks he successfully achieved one of them.
Having Maverick in his (sister’s) house will be fine, he reasons; it has a comfortable couch (something he can personally attest to), and it’s not like they haven’t lived in close quarters before. Plus, Ice has some experience strong-arming his way out of certain emotions, so he can definitely just gaslight himself into believing this is a shared trip between friends and exactly nothing more.
Sarah’s response comes a week before they return to port, and includes a very enthusiastic “yes, of course” and an acknowledgement that she’s even getting a new couch, one that’s even more comfortable and features a pull-out bed, so Maverick will have room to stretch out.
For the second (and final) time during that deployment, the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower pulls into Norfolk, and Ice lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He runs through the next few days in his mind, finding solace in the itinerary he’s created for himself, complete with estimated times.
They’ll drive to the airport right after their release and hopefully get a flight to JFK that departs before 1900, which will put them in New York around 2100 at the latest, then take the JFK Express to 57th, switch to the 1, and make it to Sarah’s apartment by 2200. It’s a trip he’s made before, one that doesn’t concern him, except for the aspect that he’s now travelling with another person, and that throws off his mental timetable and puts a flutter of anxiety deep in his stomach.
It’ll be fine, because it has to, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t.
Notes:
yeah baby! let those men be emotionally repressed!
anyways. sorry for how heavy this chapter is, really taking advantage of that "it gets worse before it gets better" tag. i promise the next one will be a hell of a lot lighter, and will round out the fic!
thanks so much for reading, see you next month!
xoxo,
v
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