"Still"

by MoonchildFlannelAndFandoms

Summary:

It’s about Maverick finally stopping. Not in the crash-and-burn way, not in the reckless way—but in the way where he lets himself just exist. He’s older, softer, and so, so tired, but when he’s around Ice, the world feels less like a punishment and more like a promise. Ice is sunlight through old windows—warm, too late, but still reaching him. Maverick has spent his whole life running headfirst into storms, and Ice is the stillness that says: you don’t have to fight everything, Pete. Just be here. With me.

The Daggers are in the background—laughing, living, reminding them both that life goes on. But at its core, it’s just Maverick learning that love isn’t the adrenaline of the fall, it’s the quiet after. It’s Ice’s steady gaze, a hand at his back, the weight of years that could’ve broken them but didn’t. It’s not about the sky anymore—it’s about surviving long enough to land, and realizing the best landing he’s ever had is right into Ice’s arms.

✨ Basically: aching softness, belated warmth, the long exhale after decades of holding breath. ✨

Notes:

This fic was originally written during my gremlin era™ (I'm still not out of it lol) when I was running on caffeine, zero sleep, and the questionable belief that “just one more paragraph” would fix my life. I loved this story very much… until my dear friend (aka chaotic bastard, gremlin, menace to society) decided to read it aloud in the world’s sultriest voice, completely derailing my emotional prose into something that sounded like bad late-night radio. Traumatizing? Yes. Hilarious? Also yes. So if Chapter 1 feels like it’s shaking nervously in the corner—that’s why.

Chapter 1: “In the Quiet, You Linger”

The house is quiet, save from the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the faint tapping of keys from the study. Ice sits where he usually does - by the window, sunlight pooling over the desk like spilled gold. His fingers move steadily across the keyboard, typing out reports with military precision, though the fire in his bones these days is more of a slow burn than a raging flame.

 

He hears the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine in the distance.

 

Ice pauses.

 

The door opens moments later, no knock, just the soft creak of old hinges and the heavier-than-usual footsteps of someone carrying something more than just weight in their boots.

 

“Hey, Ice,” comes Maverick’s voice - rougher now, old, but still warm. Still familiar.

 

Ice looks up. Smiles.

 

He gestures to the chair across from him with a tilts of his head. Maverick walks in, glancing around the office like it’s sacred ground - which, in a way, it is. The walls are lined with photos from Top Gun, commendations, and one faded picture of the two of them, laughing in some forgotten San Diego sun.

 

“You look good,” Mav says, settling in.

 

Ice types, then turns the screen toward him. You’re a terrible liar.

 

Maverick grins. “You caught me.”

 

They sit in the silence that only decades of knowing can afford. Ice’s breathing is measured, controlled. His voice isn’t what it used to be - ravaged by time and illness - but after a pause, he speaks anyway.

 

“You still… fly?”

 

Maverick nods. “When they let me. Which isn’t often.”

 

Ice chuckles, quiet and dry, but real. He coughs once, then reaches for water. Mav watches, gaze soft.

 

“I’m glad you came,” Ice says, voice gravel against silk.

 

“I always do.”

 

And it’s true. Every month, sometimes more. Maverick shows up with nothing but his leather jacket and unspoken promises. They sit, they talk, they don’t talk. They remember. They wait.

 

Sarah pokes her head in, dropping off tea and a knowing look at her brother, Ice, before disappearing again.

 

“Do you ever miss it?” Mav asks. “Flying. The way it used to be?”

 

Ice nods. Then types, I miss you more .

 

Mav swallows hard. The air shifts.

 

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “I never stopped waiting. For the right time. For you.”

 

Ice doesn’t respond right away. Just studies him, eyes soft and sharp all at once.

 

Then he speaks, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Still here.”

 

Maverick nods, eyes shining. “Yeah. Me too.”

 

And for the first time in a long while, Ice reaches out, fingers brushing against Mav’s hand. Just a touch. Just enough.

 

It’s not the roar of jets or the rush of adrenaline.

 

But it’s everything.

Chapter 2: “Between the Lines We Hurt”

Maverick smiles, slow and genuine, like it’s rising from somewhere deep inside him. He turns his hand palm up in invitation.

 

Ice’s grin is faint, but unmistakable - a flash of the old Iceman, cocky and serene - and he reaches out with the unsteady grace of someone who still knows exactly what he wants.

 

Their hands meet in the middle of the desk. Rough calluses brush, fingers twine. They sit like that for a long moment, holding on.

 

“I saw Rooster last week,” Maverick says after a beat, his thumb lightly brushing over Ice’s knuckles. “He’s got that look now, you know? Like he’s figuring out how to be a leader. Like you.”

 

Ice raises an eyebrow. He types, He has your stubbornness.

 

Maverick snorts, “God help us all.”

 

Ice coughs again - short, controlled - but doesn’t let go of Mav’s and. He types with his free one: You should be proud. I am.

 

“I am,” Mav says quietly. “Of all of them. Phoenix. Hangman. Even Bob.”

 

Ice types, smirking. Even Bob?

 

“Hey,” Mav chuckles, “He surprised me. Cool under pressure. Smart. Doesn’t flinch.”

 

Sounds familiar, Ice writes, his eyes catching Mav’s with a glint.

 

Maverick shakes his head with a small, fond sigh. “They’re something, huh? The Daggers. The way they work together… It's not just training. It’s trust. Family.”

 

Like we had.

 

Maverick nods. “Yeah. Like that. Maybe better. No egos clashing at Mach 2 .”

 

Ice gives a hoarse laugh, and types, Speak for yourself. I was perfect.

 

Maverick squeezes his hand. “You still are.”

 

For a moment, Ice just looks at him - something tender and amused in his expression. His voice, rough and quiet, finds the space between them again.

 

“I waited,” he says. “I’m still waiting.”

 

Mav swallows. “So am I.”

 

The air is thick with everything they never said in their youth. But now, they’re older. Softer. Wiser. And they have time.

 

Not forever, but enough.

 

Outside, Sarah’s laughter floats in from the garden, but in the office it’s just them. Hand in hand, heart to heart.

 

Ice leans back slightly, his grip still firm. “Tell me more,” he says. “About the Daggers.”

 

Maverick leans in, smile warm. 

 

And he begins.

Chapter 3: “What We Keep, What We Carry”

Summary:

This one is a day late, sorry to the early readers, didn't have time to post yesterday. Comments are loved.

The gate buzzed open late Saturday morning, and the quiet hum of suburban calm was quickly overtaken by the rumble of Maverick’s motorcycle and two black SUVs trailing behind.

 

From his seat at the window, Ice watched with his usual composed calm, though his fingers tightened slightly around his tea mug. Sarah caught the look and smirked. 

 

“Expecting a formal escort, Admiral ?” She teased her brother, handing him his reading glasses.

 

Ice just gave her a one-shouldered shrug, the hint of a smile curling his lips. He turned his laptop slightly toward her and typed: Maverick’s bringing company.

 

Sarah peered out of the window just in time to see a group of sharply dressed young aviators stepping out of the vehicles.

 

She blinked. In shock. And a hint of a blush. “ Those are the Daggers?”

 

Ice raised a brow, then typed: Try to be cool, Sarah.

 

 She gasped dramatically. “Oh please, I didn’t have your face, my brother, on my locker in 2015. Bet they did. “Silver Fox,” apparently.”

 

He chuckled, weak but warm, and gestured toward the front hallway.

 

“Go,” he rasped. “Let them in.”

 

By the time the group made it into the foyer, their voices were already echoing - laughter, nervous banter, and someone (Fanboy, probably) whispering “this is so cool” like they were walking into a shrine.

 

Maverick led the pack, sunglasses tucked in his jacket, expression relaxed. “This way,” he said, like he’d walked these halls a hundred times before. And he had.

 

They entered the study like kids visiting Santa’s house - and froze.

 

There, behind a sunlit desk, was Vice Admiral Tom Kazansky. Legendary Top Gun winner. Pacific Fleet Commander. Four-Star Admiral.

 

Iceman.

 

He sat straight, pale but composed, an aura of control around him that hadn’t faded with age or illness. His hands rested lightly on the keyboard in front of him. His blue eyes, still sharp, scanned each of them like a checklist of potential.

 

No one spoke for a beat.

 

Then Hangman blurted, “Holy shit-”

 

Phoenix elbowed him sharply, her expression dangerous.

 

Bob’s mouth was slightly open, but his expression was pure reverence.

 

Halo, she’s not doing okay, audibly whisper-screamed into Phoenix’s shoulder.

 

Coyote looks softly at his pilot, Hangman, and places a firm hand on Hangman’s shoulder, his eyes locked on Hangman’s wince as Phoenix elbows him.

 

Harvard and Yale held each other close by their jackets, swooning lightly. After all, Ice was still quite the silver fox.

 

Fanboy was staring in awe at Ice, as Payback hit him on the head lightly to smack him back to reality.

 

Omaha and Fritz were blinking harshly, like they were seeing things.

 

Rooster looked more serious, more composed - but his smirk showed an easiness, a quiet warmth, of knowing Ice all his life.

 

“Sir,” Phoenix said first, stepping forward. “It’s an honor. Truly.”

 

Ice inclined his head and began typing. Maverick stepped behind him and gently turned the laptop so they could read.

 

So these are the Daggers. You don’t look nearly as dangerous as he made you sound.

 

Rooster blinked. “He talks about us?”

 

Mav chuckled and squeezed Ice’s shoulder. “Constantly.”

 

Hangman stepped forward, trying for smooth confidence. “Sir, it’s honestly kind of unreal. You’re Iceman. Like, the Iceman.”

 

Ice arched a brow. You say that like I’m retired from mythology.

 

“He was nervous about meeting you,” Coyote said, smirking.

 

“Was not.” Hangman muttered.

 

“I was,” Bob admitted softly, adjusting his glasses.

 

Fanboy, already pulling out his phone like he wanted to ask for a picture but was too afraid to ask, finally found his voice. “Sir, I read your declassified mission report from ‘86. You’re basically the blueprint for an aviator.”

 

Not as cool as you think. Ice typed. But don’t tell anyone.

 

Maverick leaned in, wrapping his arms lightly around Ice from behind. His chin brushed Ice’s shoulder, and his voice dropped a note. “Too late. They’re already started carving your face into Mount Rushmore.”

 

And there it was - Ice’s blush.

 

It crept up slowly, from the collar of his button-down to the tips of his ears, and despite all his years of command, combat, and control, he looked suddenly, briefly, shy .

 

Sarah peeked in through the door just in time, and her laughter floated across the room. “Oh my God , Tom - you’re blushing! What did Maverick say this time?”

 

Phoenix looked back at her, still supporting Halo. “Is this normal?”

 

Sarah nodded, grinning. “He’s always been this way. Maverick shows up, and he turns into a high school senior getting his tie fixed.”

 

Maverick gave a mock gasp. “I do not fix his ties.”

 

“He lets you, though.” Sara shot back.

 

Ice typed: Traitors. All of you.

 

Hangman whispered to Rooster, “Are they… together?”

 

Rooster didn’t answer. He just watched his godfather standing behind Ice, arms wrapped around the man like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Like time has passed, but nothing has changed.

 

“Yeah,” Rooster said softly. “They are.”

 

The Daggers slowly sank into seats and leaned against the walls, the awe melting into something more casual. Ice types out responses to their questions, mainly about Top Gun, answering just enough to keep the mystery.

 

Maverick never let go of Ice.