Maverick vs. The Cold: A Saga

by justcallmenibbs

Summary:

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold— and yet he found himself freezing in the sky, in the ocean with his best friend’s body, in the Siberean tundra.

No, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, and did everything he could do escape it.

Enter one Tom “Iceman” Kazansky.

Notes:

• For Achlys317.

This one’s for Alyssa, Delaney, Addie, Grace, Kiara, and Vivi, for dealing with the nuclear crashout I’ve been undergoing for the last month. Achlys I'm hoping my old men anger you enough for you to WRITE SOMETHING!!! or at the very least GET A SHIP!!!!

Happy easter to those who celebrate!

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold.

You could say it started back in his childhood in Texas— his dad died young enough that he didn’t remember living anywhere else, and his mother never talked about it, so it essentially never happened for him. Texas was where he grew up, where he had his first flight and his first kiss, his first time riding a bike and his first time getting kicked out of a foster home. Dallas never got too terribly cold in the winter. The summers were warm and dry.

And it was perfectly fine that way. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, as spending your entire childhood in the sunshine making dirt houses for the scorpions you found in the yard would do that to you.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, which was perhaps why he was so quick to react to Tom “Iceman” Kazansky’s remarks.

It was a strange role reversal, in many ways— normally, Maverick was the one starting shit, the one getting up in everyone’s face and tossing snide remarks from where he would be leant up against the wall. By God, he did try; he buzzed the tower after the first hop and mouthed off to Charlie in front of the whole class and flew recklessly (dangerously) to show that the rules of physics and the United States Navy didn’t apply to him.

(That was his first mistake.)

But instead, it was Iceman who was giving him unwarranted advice (later on, they talked it out, and he insisted he was only trying to help. Maverick, somehow, believed him.), Iceman who was snapping his gum in Maverick’s face, Iceman who was purposefully taking twenty seconds to take a shot that would’ve taken Maverick three, Iceman who was crowding him against the bar, hissing have you figured it out yet?

It was easy for Maverick to say he hated Ice. Hell, fine line between love and hate, and all that. He hated the way Ice had greeted Goose like an old friend, then turned and sized Maverick up like he was nothing more than a threat. He hated the way Ice always either smelled like vodka or cigarettes or jet fuel, each one nauseatingly intense. He hated the way Ice looked at the volleyball game, snickering as Slider lost his shit every time Goose or Maverick had scored on them. He hated the empty words Ice had offered in consolation after Goose’s death— and he hated how they were the most meaningful anyone but Carol had said to him regarding the whole ordeal. He hated the way he had noticed how, halfway through the eight weeks at Top Gun, Ice had run out of his usual cinnamon Trident and switched over to peppermint, since it was the only flavor offered at the NEX on base.

Yeah. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, and Tom “Iceman” Kazansky was no exception.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, and the Pacific Ocean was freezing.

One could argue that it was the adrenaline; that it was the sting of the salt and the wind as Maverick’s parachute snapped open above him, that it was all relative, but they would be wrong. Maverick knew what the cold felt like. It was the opposite of Goose’s body atop him, his blood staining Maverick’s palm and slipping out to sea, dribbling between his fingers as he pressed his forehead to Goose’s helmet and cried.

His tears were hot. Scalding, as a matter of fact.

The Pacific Ocean was freezing.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, especially when it was his sweat.

He couldn’t tell if it was warm or cold up in the cockpit— all he knew was that he was sweating his ass off, both Merlin and Iceman were shouting in his ears, C’mon, man, engage! Get your nose in there!, and Maverick was begging Goose to tell him something, anything.

Goose was quiet; he’d been quiet for two weeks, his body just as cold in the ground as Maverick was up there in the sky, right where his blood was meant to run the hottest.

Talk to me, Goose.

“Pull on the goddamn stick, man!” Merlin was screaming, and the MiGs were whizzing by, and Iceman was panicking and Slider was shouting out locations, and below them was the Pacific Ocean, and Hollywood and Wolfman may or may not have been dead, just like Goose. 

“Maverick’s engaged,” Maverick radioed before breaking a hard left, coming up behind Iceman and Slider and the MiG on their tail. He wondered if the Pacific Ocean was cold to Wolfman and Hollywood, like it was for him two weeks ago as he cradled Goose’s body.

A bead of cold sweat dribbled down Maverick’s temple, and he fired. Splash one.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, and between the wind on the flight deck of the carrier and the adrenaline crash he could feel the beginnings of, he was freezing.

He was sure Hollywood and Wolfman both agreed with him, as their flight suits were still damp and the rotor on the Coast Guard chopper was still spinning idly, the blades slicing through the breeze.

“What happened to you?” Maverick wondered, grinning through the tremors that were running down his spine. Wolfman bared his teeth— they were chattering, despite the warmth of the bodies pressed against them, regardless of the raucous cheering and the most definitely contraband alcohol that was being brought out and the warmth from the jet engines. It made Maverick feel a little better about being cold, himself, except he didn’t go down in the Pacific Ocean. Not this time.

“Nothing,” Wolf told him, “just hit the curb, man. Parking.”

Maverick grinned harder, sure he looked like was snarling, and made to reply, only to notice Ice staring at him out of the corner of his eye. Ice’s expression was inscrutible, causing Maverick’s smile to fade and Wolf to turn away to Hollywood. 

“You,” Ice said, stepping forward. Once again, all up in Maverick’s space, just no bar to crowd him against this time. “You are still dangerous.”

Then, out of the blue, he smiled. Iceman never smiled, not without some ulterior motive or mockery behind it. His smiles were always cold, except for now.

“You can be my wingman anytime.” And, well, Maverick had to match his grin at that. Wingman had a pretty nice ring to it, if he did say so himself.

“Bullshit,” Maverick replied, praying he wouldn’t mess it up, that he wouldn’t make Ice go cold again, he added, “you can be mine.” Then, they were hugging, limbs shaky from the adrenaline crash as they thumped each others’ backs with fists slick with sweat and grease from the cockpit.

Strangely, Tom “Iceman” Kazansky was warm.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, but in the summer of 1999, the hospital had its air conditioning on full blast. Bradley held Carole’s hand as the heart monitor beeped steadily, Carole’s chest rising and falling shakily in slumber. Her hair had gone patchy and gray, as a result from her headaches and the chemo and more headaches and sickness and the thinness in her limbs.

If Goose were still there, he would have been distraught. Maverick could think about that, now. It hurt, but thirteen years was a long time— hell, if he wasn’t looking at a photo, Nick’s face had grown blurry in his mind. His honking laugh had become distant, like every time Maverick tried to remember it, he could only hear it through a long, echoing tunnel.

He could only imagine how much worse it was for Bradley.

Carole’s last conversation with Maverick was still ringing in his ears, and he could only figure it was what contributed to the cold he felt down to his bones. Promise me. Promise me you’ll pull his papers. I can’t have him dying young and stupid like his— like Nick.

I promise, I promise. I’ll do it. He’ll hate me and both of us will be left with absolutely no one in the aftermath, but I’ll do it.

A knock at the doorframe startled both Maverick and Bradley, Maverick turning to find Ice standing in the doorway, clutching a small bouquet of sunflowers— Carole’s favorite.

“I thought you didn’t get back from Norfolk until August,” Maverick said dumbly.

“Hi,” Ice told them, placing a hand on Bradley’s shoulder as he reached over to set the bouquet on Carole’s bedside table. There weren’t any vases to place them in. (Carole would die before they wilted, anyways.) “I pulled a few strings.”

Later, they would talk. Maverick would tell Ice about Carole’s last wish, and both of them would hate it, by God they would hate it, but Ice would clench his jaw and recall a few favors with a few of the right people with those sweet, sweet O-5 benefits, and they would get it done.

Carole died later that night. And six months later, when Bradley recieved a too-thin envelope from Annapolis in the mail, he would know exactly what Maverick and Ice had done. 

His words would be infinitely colder than that hospital room.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, but he was starting to dislike the heat, too.

He’d clung on to his O-3 rank as long as possible, then O-4, and then O-5 until, kicking and screaming, he was promoted up to Captain. Ice would frown every time he complained about it— better pay grade, more respect, the like. Why complain? You’ve been in for over twenty years, he had said one night, during the rough years after 9/11 when neither of them were ever home in San Diego long enough to talk. Why not just retire, then, if you’re so scared?

“I’m not scared,” Maverick had scoffed, sitting down next to him with two beers in hand. Wordlessly, he’d handed one to Ice. The Padres-Cubs game had been playing on mute on the TV. Maverick had always been more of a football guy, but he’d gotten into baseball for Bradley, so he winced when he took note of the score. The Cubs were kicking their asses. “I just don’t want to spend more time behind a desk than in the sky.”

“The desk isn’t so bad,” Ice had replied, not even glancing up from his paperwork.

“Spoken like a true pencil-pusher,” Maverick had replied, sticking his feet under Ice’s thighs, just to get him to react to something. Ice glanced up to scowl at him, and Maverick had just grinned. Bingo.

That had been April, one of the rare moments when Ice wasn’t out kissing ass to become the youngest COMPACFLT in US Naval history and Maverick wasn’t being shipped to some new fresh hell in the Middle East or the Indian Ocean or wherever the hell they wanted him to play nice this time. When he wasn’t listening to some kid fifteen years his junior snore in the bunk above him on the USS Eisenhower. When he wasn’t sleeping in essentially a tent in Qatar, where it felt like he’d never be able to get the dirt from his throat or scrub it from his skin, listening to the officer’s Skype call as she tiredly greeted her kids and answered their questions of are you fighting the bad guys, Mom, are you, are you? When he wasn’t escorting an AWACS, piloted by some baby-faced Air Force captain Maverick thought was too young to be an O-3— Jesus Christ, he was getting old— over the skies of Iraq, bored because he had shot down three MiGs, okay, and this was what the Navy was having him do? 

So, no, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell didn’t like the cold, but he missed it, sometimes. Missed the childlike remarks and the cold eyes and getting crowded up against the bar, missed the smell of vodka and cigarettes and cinnamon/peppermint gum, missed coming home to a dusty house with a coffee mug in the sink that Ice had forgotten to wash before he had to head out to Pearl Harbor.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. Don’t come home, don’t talk about it— whatever this was. Even if it wasn’t federal law, he and Ice sure were masters at it.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, but he could have sworn his blood had frozen when Ice told him about the diagnosis.

It had been sudden. It had started with a cough, and then, from nowhere, Ice had lost his voice completely. Poof. Vanished.

Maverick had to admire Ice’s tenacity, at least. Four stars on each shoulder, the weight of COMPACFLT and the world atop them, and even without his voice, even with the chemo and the nights he woke both himself and Maverick up to go vomit, when he would cough seemingly endlessly into the night, he held on. The Navy was a little more lenient, although skeptical, but they allowed Ice to stay home in San Diego more often, even though Maverick was shipped off to China Lake and the Pacific Ocean and wherever else the Navy needed a test pilot or an instructor or someone just batshit insane enough to toe the edge of Russia or North Korea’s airspace.

Maverick’s blood continued to run cold every time Ice coughed or started a sentence, then remembered he couldn’t, and switched over to ASL or the computer to type.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, but he could feel it settle in the air, even in the bone-dry American Southwest, as October reared its ugly head.

It was cold inside the cockpit of the Darkstar, even as the flames roared outside, Mach 10 and counting, eject, eject, eject, and then he was over the Pacific Ocean all over again, and it was 1986, and Goose had just snapped his neck and was warm and bloody in the cold, cold ocean.

It was cold in the office of the new Top Gun— it had moved from Miramar a while ago, Maverick knew that, well after he had graduated the class of ‘86 and gone back to teach with Ice for a year or two before he inevitably pissed off some Admiral and got stuck on a ship where he would become somebody else’s problem.

It was cold when he came face-to-face with Bradley, now with the callsign “Rooster” and a moustache and horrible Hawaiian shirt and the spitting image of his long-dead father, for the first time since that explosive fight in 2000, the too-thin envelope from Annapolis lying on the table unopened, because Bradley had seen it and had known what it meant, even as Maverick tried to argue around Bradley’s shouting and Ice’s interjections before Bradley packed his bags and stormed out.

It was cold when Phoenix and Bob had the birdstrike, when they had to eject over the mountains and for a moment there was no confirmed chute, and Maverick’s blood went as cold as if Ice had started coughing until a buzzing voice on the radio confirmed.

It was cold when he went home to San Diego, when he was briefly warm in Ice’s embrace, and then Ice died not a few days later.

It was cold in Arlington, at the funeral. Maverick’s fingers were practically blue as he hammered Ice’s wings into his casket with his fist.

 

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell did not like the cold, and yet here he was, trudging through the Siberian tundra, followed by a ghost.

Orpheus and Eurydice, right? Are you behind me? Are you, are you? Do you trust me? Do you, do you?

No. The answer was unequivocally no— it had been that way since Maverick had pulled Rooster’s papers and forced him to go through NROTC and boot camp, had stolen years from the finite amount of time he was allowed to fly.

The kid’s silence was just as frigid as the air between them. When we get back, Maverick had promised, had said they would talk, but now look at him. Maverick breaking his promise, Orpheus looking over his shoulder, dying, dying, dying, ghosts fading in the wind, goose flesh pebbled with memories.

Rooster’s pace quickened ever so slightly, so that he was on Maverick’s right instead of his six. They still blatantly ignored each other, but it was a silence Maverick could deal with. A silence he could understand.

I’m here, you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’m sorry, I won’t let you down again. A hundred thousand meaningless word, a whole novel of them, and none of them Maverick could say.

Perhaps his lips had frozen shut.

And yet here he was, trudging through the Siberian tundra, walking with a ghost.

 

Arlington was cold, when he and Rooster went up to visit. After Siberia, after the mission, after the medals and speeches and war threats and Maverick’s one final promotion to Rear Admiral before retirement. One star to go on his shoulders. He would’ve needed another two—maybe three, because in all reality, he still hadn’t gotten Rooster back, not entirely— to account for everyone he’d lost while he was cold.

“Man, Ice, have we got a story for you,” Maverick said, sitting down on the grass and flicking off the cap of his beer. He really should watch how much he drank, because this shit went straight to your waistline as you aged, but Rooster was too young to know that, and just for tonight, Maverick figured he could indulge.

Ice’s headstone was silent. Rooster sat down beside Maverick and took a long drink from his own beer before he said, “He would be so mad at us.”

“He is mad at us,” Maverick corrected, contorting his expression into a scowl. Then, with his best impression of Ice before he lost his voice, he said, “You idiots both managed to get shot down, then attempted to outfly sixth-gen Russian fighters in a Tomcat? You’re both fuckin’ stupid.”

Rooster snorted into his beer as he shook his head. “That was a horrible impression of him. I think he’d be more mad about that than Siberia.”

“Nah,” Maverick disagreed, and for a while, they were both quiet. Maverick traced the years on Ice’s headstone with his eyes, wondering if he ever regretted giving the Navy his entire life. No retirement, no pension, no benefits. Just worked his way to the top and died. Didn’t even get a chance to enjoy it.

Finally, Maverick had an idea. “Why don’t you tell us about what’s going on between you and Seresin, huh? You got a crush on Hangman? ”

Rooster turned bright red and sputtered as Maverick grinned. You owe me twenty bucks, he told the headstone. He was sure Ice would understand. “I don’t like Jake! There is nothing going on there!”

Maverick tilted his head back and laughed, and for the first time in a long time (perhaps ever), he felt warm.

Notes:

I’m writing a whole story about the cold when it’s literally supposed to be 32 C today. I’m so fake nobody let me go in public jfc

also the padres game is from april 16, 2007. very proud of my research for that.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of this foolish lover's game