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Talk to me, Ice, He silently prayed. Begged, even.
At those five painful, succinct words, he stiffened. His fist balled. His breaths stuttered.
It’s time to let go.
Basking in the deep, murky black; the pure, yet haunting, white text contrasted greatly. Blinked constantly. Tormented him deeply. Despite the font being curved, oddly soft in places, it still stood with such an authority, silently screaming to be read. Heard. Consumed. Consumed by the endless bleakness of it all. The telling of the incoming missile lock; the inevitable splash out of the sky.
They were running out of time on a multitude of fronts. Suddenly, all thoughts of the incoming mission, of the pilots he was ordered to basically send to their death, of Rooster, all seemed to fly away.
Maverick fought with all his strength to not meet the tell in those sorrowful eyes, somehow only heightened through the thin pane of glass, to seek out more than the implied redemption. The given truth. Instead he chose to focus on falling into a haze, gaze honing in on a plaque on the wall. A haze in which distanced the Captain from sounds of playing children outside. A haze in which diminished the roar of jet after jet; that constant little rattle of the walls that, in turn, had become so minute, so easy to ignore after so many years.
Instead Maverick studied the plaque he couldn’t help but wallow in every time he was granted access to the Admiral’s private office. The silver inscription, the heartfelt words he had recited over and over, had memorised long ago. And every time, he smiled that much brighter. The further distorted the image of the two wingmen may now seem, the rush of that pinnacle dogfight long forgotten, it was the rush of the hug that remained. The acceptance of the bond they had created, the friendship they were yet to share. The frost melting in Iceman’s eyes; the genuine thanks for him still being alive.
The photograph bought a life to the office, to Maverick even now. The familiar, yet ever so distant, capture of such a different time of their lives filled him with longing. Dread. Longing for what could have been. Dread for how their partnership, their lifelong companionship, was set to come to an end. Any day now.
There was a blatant knock on the computer screen, and Maverick startled some. Coaxing his gaze to follow that authoritative finger, that impatient knuckle. That smile was soft, knowing. Knowing that Maverick had gathered his intel. Whether the renegade could obey it, believe it, however, would remain unknown, in hope, to the Admiral. Be it a lifetime ago, be it only last week, Maverick knew that never could he truly fool Iceman into the notion that he could and would obey him. Could grovel to him, would accept what had to be said. Be it a lifetime ago, be it that day, Iceman had always known better than to suspect as such.
The blinking white cursor was mocking him. Beckoning to be stared at, demanding he read and re-read those cruel, fully loaded five words over and over. That he find a new buried layer, that he delve deep into the Admiral’s own blunt, heartless way of thinking. Iceman had always had such a remarkable power, the mechanics to always say so much by voicing so little.
Sometimes, his statements shook Maverick to the core. Such as when he pulled rank, and demanded that Maverick stay in active duty. That he return - to NAWDC, this time. That the programme, the Navy still needed him, and that the superiors would be foolish to ground such a talented free-spirit of pure reckless abandon on the count of a multitude of citations, fly-by’s and admiral’s daughters.
Flying by the seat of his pants or no; Maverick would force himself to obey here. To at least try. Try to accept, and find solace in Iceman’s few, haunting words. He owed him, owed Iceman so very much.
The Admiral turned to face him and, before Maverick could stop himself, his green gaze had glossed over, and his face pinked with tears. Tasting salt, he found himself to be blabbering, likely back to talking about his students, aching eyes darting anywhere than from landing on the unwanted target of Iceman’s ghostly pale face.
Therefore, Maverick forbid himself from studying the ever deep wrinkles, the look of pure cold that he thought had long since left the other man. The glow that twinkled with once supple, tan skin. The light in those pale eyes - the ones that he could never decide on a single shade for - that would always brighten when Maverick was present; the ones that would always find a reason to glimmer at the Captain’s expense. Or focus on the turn down of that mouth, when Maverick instead prayed for Iceman to smile. Even the tiniest of quirks; the tiniest of hints that there was still something worth smiling about.
Promptly, Maverick decided against making a joke about the grey. The perfectly combed, routinely styled grey. Just for today.
Throughout his tears, his words a jumble; he really had lost track of why he was here. The students were one thing; they could be moulded to learn to let go. It would not be an easy feat, but it could be achieved at a later stage in their careers. A stage in which Maverick, on the other hand, thought he had reached long ago at the account of another more harrowing, close to home death.
With a shaky exhale, he turned towards Iceman, his wingman of thirty-six years.
He needed help to stand, heavy body contorting around Maverick’s much smaller, more muscular frame. And then Iceman was talking, his voice frail, hoarse, each passing breath tearing through him. Despite the obvious pain, the obvious pain Maverick felt watching him in such a state, Iceman continued to talk, knowing that even the slight rasp, the slightest traces of any insult, would return that smile to the Captain’s lips. Maverick knew this too, of course, and felt privileged, honoured that Iceman tried with him. He fought to find a voice, he fought to have Maverick hear him. Having fought for his respect, his trust, a lifetime ago; Maverick was above and beyond the complications of a breakdown. Holding Iceman deathly tight. Needing to shield him by cocooning himself in his wingman’s frail frame; needing to bite back all retorts, and cherish the stillness of their moment. Iceman wouldn’t mind, they had both come to learn as such.
Iceman had always given the best of hugs. He was so uncharacteristically warm, so giving in the most intimate of embraces. In another lifetime this confused Maverick greatly, and he would have had to ruin the moment with a snarky comment as such. In another lifetime Iceman would have slit his eyes and pouted, bitter, quick to reassume his frosty facade. However now, those days were long over. Frozen, lost in time. However now, those days were coming to a clear end.
With great difficulty, Maverick allowed for Iceman to have his body back. He clawed away at the other ghost of a man.
In spite of it all, he found himself almost cracking a smile at Iceman’s joke. There would forever be a whiff of rivalry between them, neither could they truly dampen such a poignant dynamic that had started it all way back when. It was true: Maverick did not want to ruin the moment. Their moment. The last moment they were ever to share with one another. He forbid himself in doing so knowing that he never, would never, permit himself to watch his wingman, his lifelong confidant, colleague and companion, be splashed from his skies.
Maverick would never be able to let go, but he didn’t need for Iceman to worry about that now.
***
The send off was immaculate, the best of the best. The finest of ceremony’s orchestrated to the perfect degree, prompt and of order. Just how the Iceman would have wanted. Premature, perhaps, not for the reasons either would have expected, but heartfelt and proper nonetheless.
Maverick crushed the wings, folded the flag. He gave his salute with a blank look of sheer disbelief. On some level, however, he cursed Iceman. Cursed that he had to be the one to reunite with Goose first. Cursed that they had so little time; that he had lost another wingman.
“Talk to me, Ice,” He whispered, voice broken.
Shaking his head, he began to walk away, paces sharp. He assumed position for the final salute, bleary eyes ignorant to the bugles, the fly-over. His brimming tears burned however, he didn’t dare let them fall, having taken that note from Iceman’s book. That sorrow was not what the Admiral would have wanted from him; he deserved better. Instead, Maverick’s weak gaze flickered upwards, searching for the right familiar face, not quite a stranger, in the crowd.
He loved flying with you.
And you, too.
Loved teaching with you, Slider, even more.
Ron’s nod was somber, curt, as was his faint smile.
Turning back to the portrait, he forbid himself to watch as the coffin was lowered. Turning back to the portrait, he saw the light in those eyes, the glistening medals; the pride. The achievement. The rank that had been so deserved, the authority only the Iceman could warrant. That was what needed to be remembered, cherished, Maverick decided.
Tom Kazansky would never be forgotten but Pete Mitchell knew that he would never forgive himself if he ever let him go . So, Maverick didn’t. He held his memory, his everything, close to his chest.