Chapter Text
Thomas Michael Kazansky had built a name for himself as someone who wasn’t easily rattled. He couldn’t be bribed, intimidated, outflown, harassed, or bullied. When he was a kid and the eldest of five siblings he’d figured out that patience was the most effective weapon of all and he excelled at turning it against his opponents.
Pilots were easy. Pilots were gung-ho, cocky, and impatient. Or at least, most of them were. It was easy as hell to just wait them out and stay rock-steady until they got bored and then did something reckless.
It worked every single time.
Every single time, that was, until Peter Motherfucking Mitchell.
/
During the TOPGUN class of ‘86, Ice had taken it upon himself to refer to Mav as Pete Motherfucking Mitchell in the privacy of his own head. No matter where he was he’d turn around and Mitchell would just… be there. Right there with Goose who had a hell of a knack for muttering quiet and hilarious commentary under his breath to those sitting around him during briefings.
Pete Mitchell was everywhere and Ice couldn’t get a fucking break from him.
Right there. In his face, in his space, in his way. It was fucking aggravating, was what it was. He knew Slider was getting a hell of a kick out of it but he ignored him and put everything he had into being better, faster, stronger, smarter.
Pete Mitchell pushed him to be better in a way nobody ever had before. It was the first time in his life he’d ever had legitimate competition in the air and goddamn it all, Mitchell knew it, too. It was thrilling, to be honest, as much as he despised the guy.
Ice wasn’t a fan of having his cage rattled. Pete Mitchell excelled at rattling it. In fact, he didn’t just rattle it; he fucking shook it like a dog and then jumped all over it. Worst of all he seemed to think it was fun.
It was fun. Not that Ice would ever admit that out loud, even upon pain of death, not even to his own mother.
Rivalry was good for the soul, at least in their profession. Mostly. Sometimes it got heated but for the most part they were neck-in-neck all the way through the competition.
And then… well.
July 29th was notorious.
He tried not to dwell on it.
/
Only, he did. He did dwell on it. Ice laid in his bunk at night staring up at the ceiling fan unable to sleep. In his ears he could hear the phantom echo of Maverick and Goose talking to each other. At the time he’d been focused on relaying information back to base with his heart in his throat, trying to help however he could and knowing there was nothing the other team could do but eject, but he hadn’t realized those would be Nick Bradshaw’s final words in this life.
And he'd sounded scared. Really scared. They both had.
Ice had never heard Mitchell sound scared before.
Goose, I’m pinned forward, I can’t reach the ejection handles —
I’m trying, Mav, I’m trying —
Eject! Eject, eject, eject — watch the canopy —
When the brass had told them Goose was dead the class had just sat there in stunned silence. Ice knew he’d never forget it. He’d been standing there still in his flight suit holding his helmet in a white knuckle grip and staring down at the cement floor of the hangar with tears burning in his eyes that he refused to let fall. Slider’s hand gripping his shoulder like a vice was the only thing that kept him from falling apart altogether.
His plane. His jet wash.
If he’d just — if he’d been faster, taken the shot, not been cocky and just let Maverick take the damn shot—
That was a line of thinking he knew wouldn’t get him anywhere so he’d shut it down ruthlessly. At night, though, it always resurfaced.
Pete Mitchell blamed himself for what had happened to Goose.
Trouble was, he’d never have been in that position in the first place if it wasn’t for Ice. If it wasn’t for him, standing in his way.
The TOPGUN competition seemed so fucking stupid, now. Goose was dead and the whole thing just seemed pointless. Logically Ice knew that Maverick couldn’t have seen his jet wash or predicted it, just as Ice knew it wasn’t his fault, either, not really; these things just happened, sometimes, and no matter how much training you had there wasn’t much you could do about it.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but somehow, it still felt like it was his.
Ice hung around the locker room of the medical building later having been grilled by the brass on what the fuck had just happened; had ignored the quiet intense looks Jester and Viper shot him when he insisted it hadn’t been Maverick’s fault, that there was absolutely nothing the pilot could have done to save that flat spin once the engines stalled; fuck, he’d watched them flame out himself, had pretty much got a front row seat to the whole fucking disaster and if he was honest with himself his hands were still shaking.
He stared hard at the closed door and knew Mitchell was in there. No matter how hard he tried for the first time in his life the words wouldn’t come. The cool and collected persona he’d perfected all these years was just… gone. Gone, and washed away by saltwater and jet wash and a flat spin out to sea.
No matter how hard he tried he couldn't get his feet to move. He was paralyzed just staring at the door like a fucking moron. Nothing he could say would ever, ever make it better for Maverick; nothing he or anyone else could do would ever change what happened, and no matter what anybody said, Ice understood Maverick the way nobody else seemed to.
Maverick would blame himself for this until the day he died. Ice knew it like he knew the sky was blue, his jet was gray, and the Navy was the best branch out of the five services.
So what would be the fucking point? Nothing he would say would matter. Not really.
He still felt like he had to say something.
“Go home and get some sleep, Kazansky,” a soft voice said and he jolted, nearly hitting the man beside him with the helmet he was still clutching in his left fist.
Viper was standing there watching him with quiet, sad eyes.
“Sir,” he stammered, and he realized his cheeks were damp. “I—”
“Tom,” Viper said, stepping closer and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t his, either. Let it go.”
Ice opened and closed his mouth a few times, took a deep breath, and said, “Sir… with respect, I don’t know if that’s something I’ll ever be able to do. Sir.”
Viper’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Try,” he advised. “These things happen. Fly long enough and you’ll see it again. Remember what happened today and try to prevent it from happening again, as much as you can.”
He nodded because what else could he say? Viper nodded back, squeezed his shoulder, and stepped through the door into the room.
Maverick was somewhere beyond.
Ice wondered if he knew Goose was dead, yet, and then realized he would have known. It took the Coasties an hour to fish them out of the drink and rumor on base was that Maverick hadn’t let go of Goose until forced and hadn’t said a goddamned word since.
A small, cowardly part of him was so fucking glad he didn’t have to be the one to break the news. He didn’t know what he would have done when he saw Mitchell’s face but it probably would have embarrassed them both.
Ice shoved his free hand through his sweaty hair, spun on his heel, and walked back the way he’d come.
/
Ice watched in the days after the accident. He watched closer than he probably should have, to be honest, but Maverick just wasn’t… Maverick. Goddamn it he was worried about the cocky little bastard.
The spark that had made Mav so fun to spar with was just… gone. He was like a hollowed out shell of a man and it was so unlike him it was freaking out the entire TOPGUN class. They’d had a hushed discussion over beers at the O Club the night before and tried to figure out what they could do to help him.
Fuck all, had been the consensus. None of them could help Mitchell but they’d collectively decided they would at least try.
Ice leaned back against his plane four days after the accident and watched as Maverick rounded on his RIO, screaming words in his face that he couldn’t hear, too far away and with jet engines muffing the words. The body language was clear enough and he glanced sidelong at Slider who just frowned and shook his head, shoving a frustrated hand through his own hair.
“Fuck,” Slider muttered, rubbing his forehead and watching as Mitchell stalked away. The instructors were watching him, too, and they looked just as grave as Ice felt.
They’d all tried to get Mav to engage. He just wouldn’t. He flat out fucking wouldn’t, or maybe he couldn’t, but did the difference even fucking matter?
“He’s going to quit,” Ice predicted softly as he leaned more heavily against the jet behind him.
“Maverick? Quit?”
“You didn’t see his face,” Ice told Slider softly, meaning the disciplinary hearing. He’d seen it; they’d been waiting outside sweating their asses off in the humid summer ocean air, hoping beyond hope that the Navy didn’t take flying away from Maverick so soon after he’d just lost nearly everything that mattered to him. It had been a goddamned accident and they all knew it to the last man.
Maverick had brushed right past him without seeing him, looking like he was moments away from vomiting all over his own shoes. He’d walked down the hall so quickly he hadn’t had time to call after him. “Can you blame him, Ron?” he added, quietly, as he stared hard at the back of Maverick’s sweat drenched head.
Slider looked at him for a long moment and then shook his head. He knew, like they all knew, that losing a teammate was like losing a limb and none of them would have been okay after. The kicker was less than half of them were as close to their teammate as Maverick had been to Goose, and if they’d be that fucked up over a friend, the level of fucked up Maverick felt over his family was pretty damn apparent.
/
Maverick was going to quit. He hadn’t said so, of course, not to any of them. But none of them got to where they were by being dumb.
Tom squared his shoulders because he needed to be Tom for this, not Iceman. He walked into the locker room with purpose and was aware that Wolfman was watching him with his eyebrows in his hairline but he shot him a glare and then pointedly ignored him.
(They’d set up a system, hours after the accident, that Maverick wasn’t to be alone on base. It rotated and they all took turns but if it had happened to them, none of them would have wanted to be alone, so they figured it was the least they could do to try and help Mav. Today was Wolfman’s turn).
Maverick was fiddling around in his locker with his back to the door. Tom took his chance to get closer and pretended to be doing something in his own locker before he decided, fuck it, and turned around.
“Mitchell,” he said, addressing Maverick’s back. He was in a white T-shirt and jeans, his customary after-work outfit. At the sound of his voice the shorter man stopped moving, one hand braced inside his locker, but he’d turned his head just slightly so he was at least listening.
That was more than he’d done to any of them for days so Tom plowed on. It was now or never.
“I’m sorry about Goose,” he said and he put every ounce of emotion into the words as he could. “Everyone liked him,” he added, mouth stumbling around the other words he wanted to say, the words that wouldn’t come— I know he was your family, I’m so sorry it was my fucking jet wash, you don’t have to blame yourself it was my fault not yours, don’t quit you’re a damn good pilot — and said instead, “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough; he knew it, Maverick knew it, but the other man didn’t turn around so he exhaled hard through his nose and left him in peace.
/
Maverick quit.
None of them were surprised.
/
At graduation Tom looked around even though he knew Maverick probably wasn’t coming. He'd scored more than enough points to be there even if he'd missed the last nine hops; hell, the next-closest person in the class (Hollywood) was still off by eleven points. Still, though, he hoped.
They all hoped. It hadn’t escaped the notice of the brass that they were looking around as if waiting for Mav to leap out of a nearby palm frond and join them in his seat.
In the row in front of him Chipper leaned to Sundown and said, “Where’s Maverick?”
That was the question of the hour and Ice ignored how Slider bumped his shoulder and looked pointedly at the entrance to the pavilion where Mav had yet to appear. It was their graduation. It was supposed to be happy . Their families and friends were there to cheer them on and clap for them but Ice knew he wasn’t the only one who felt like it was hollow.
Goose’s chair had been left open out of respect and Maverick’s sat empty next to it. Despite the air of celebration the pilots were struggling to muster happy feelings.
Ice was proud of the trophy, of course he was, it just… it wasn’t the same. Maverick hadn’t been there in the end and it had been too easy to win it.
Most things were too easy without Maverick around. Nobody was even close to being on his level and he’d actually been bored without the challenge. He’d usually felt guilty after realizing he was bored because Maverick was clearly struggling and it wasn’t fair to resent the guy for not being in their flight classes anymore.
Then, just as suddenly, Maverick was right in front of him and he almost dropped the trophy right on his goddamned foot.
“Congratulations,” Maverick told him and he actually sounded genuine. He even managed a handshake.
Ice was fucking floored. “Thank you,” he said back automatically and opened his mouth to say something more — what, he had no fucking idea, but he had to say something to keep him there—when they were interrupted by the brass.
A mission in the Indian Gulf.
How was that for timing?
/
Ice was sweating through his uniform. Hollywood had just gotten shot the fuck down and he was alone up here with Slider.
“Maverick is supersonic, I’ll be there in thirty seconds,” Mav told him over the radio.
“Move your ass,” he barked back. It was everything he could do just to evade. “Get up here I’m engaged with five repeat five I’m in deep shit!”
When Mav went through the jet wash he thought well fuck this is it then , but Mav surprised him. It was the most exhilarating and terrifying two and a half minutes of his life until they switched from defense to offense.
Merlin was yelling that Maverick needed to break, they needed to evade, but it was Maverick’s turn to be cold and steady.
“I can’t leave Ice,” Maverick was saying to Merlin, and Ice felt shame curl in his gut because mere moments ago, comparatively, he’d been telling Stinger he didn’t want him up here, didn’t want to fly with him; had implied in the ready room that he didn’t trust him and worst of all Maverick had heard every fucking word.
Merlin sounded desperate, now, “He’s coming around, he’s coming around—”
“I am not leaving my wingman,” Maverick said, firmly, and that was when Ice knew without a shadow of a doubt that he’d made a mistake and he’d never been happier to be wrong in his entire fucking life.
Ice’s heart was pounding but he’d never felt safer, or freer, than that moment high in the clouds with Maverick’s unshakable faith and determination on his wing.
/
MiGs shot down, legend made, Ice landed on the carrier and felt like he was having an out-of-body experience.
Completely drenched in sweat and surrounded by the cheering crew, Slider, Hollywood, Merlin, and Wolfman, he pointed at Maverick and bellowed, “You!”
Maverick looked at him and the spark was back in his eyes. Ice was so fucking relieved to see that cocksure grin back on his face he would have cried if he wasn’t, well, Iceman.
“You,” he told the dark-haired pilot, “Are still dangerous.”
Maverick opened his mouth to say something sassy, no doubt, but Ice beat him to it. He couldn’t help but grin, a real grin, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You can be my wingman anytime,” he laughed, shaking his hand, and Maverick smirked back.
“Bullshit,” Maverick called over the roar of the crowd, “You can be mine!”
Ice just laughed and pulled him into a hug, slamming his fist once on Maverick’s shoulder, and he was still grinning when Slider picked Maverick straight up off the ground and swung him around.
The crew cheered them off the deck and Ice slung his arm around Maverick’s neck. The shorter pilot grinned up at him, aviators back in place, as Hollywood ruffled his hair and Wolfman howled and jumped on all three of them.
Ice knew he’d been wrong about this man. So, so wrong. He could see now why Goose had had such constant, unwavering faith in him. Maverick was brave, fearless, loyal. He learned from his mistakes and yeah, sure, he was still a hothead and he flew like a madman, but as he watched Maverick cracking up at something Wolfman said (obscene, no doubt, knowing Wolf) he promised himself that Maverick would never be without a wingman ever, ever again.
/
Mav lasted as an instructor for one Top Gun class in ‘86 before he was back and was exhilarating to be his wingman again, however briefly, before he was reassigned back to the USS Roosevelt. They’d started up weekly phone calls and a ridiculous number of letters between them that Ice couldn’t find it in himself to be embarrassed about.
Maverick didn’t have any family. He’d had a family—Goose had been his family—and now he just had Bradley and Carole Bradshaw. If he didn’t have any family Ice would do his damndest to fill that gap and make sure he got mail just like everyone else. It didn’t seem like much, he knew, but he also knew Maverick would appreciate it.
Then, a few letters and a handful of months later, Ice sat up so quickly he nearly brained himself on the bunk. Mav had been back on the Enterprise for about a month but was headed back to dry land to settle a custody issue with the courts.
“What?” Slider murmured sleepily from the bunk beside him.
“Carole Bradshaw has cancer,” Ice told him numbly, eyes tracing over the shaky words Maverick had written. The words were barely legible and he swallowed, hard, when he realized the blotches weren’t water but tears. “It’s terminal. The docs give her less than six months to live. She’s making Mav Bradley’s legal guardian.”
It was Slider’s turn to nearly brain himself as he sat up quickly. “What?” he spluttered, because they’d seen Carole Bradshaw after their Top Gun graduation and again a few times in Miramar with Maverick and she’d been healthy, alive, full of life even if it had been tampered with sadness and grief over losing Goose.
It was March and this letter was from February. He dug through his pile of letters to check for any unopened ones but found none. Frustrated, he chewed on his pen cap and tried to decide what to do.
In the end, all he could do was write a letter and remind Mav he was his wingman and he’d be there for him no matter what. He tried not to take it personally when Maverick didn’t respond to that one and was relieved when he answered the phone for their weekly phone call.
/
Carole Bradshaw died in August of 1987, a year and a handful of days after Nick Bradshaw had died in the training accident, nearly five months after Maverick had officially transferred off the Enterprise and back to TOPGUN. Ice clenched his hands on the letter so hard he crumpled the edges and hurriedly smoothed them again, looking down at the hastily scribbled words in the short letter Maverick had written him.
She died on August 10th and I think I’m probably going to hate this stretch of days forever, Ice. Goose has been gone a year and then it’s the double whammy of Carole less than two weeks after him. Poor Bradley. His birthday is the eighth; he barely turned five right before Carole passed and he understands way too much about what’s going on. He just keeps asking me if I’m going to go with his mom and dad and I don’t know how to tell him I might; I fucking might, Ice, because I’m a fucking fighter pilot and it’s not a safe job.
Anyway, Carole’s with Goose, now; I put them together, and they’ve got a nice view of the sea. It just seemed right and it was what she wanted. Bradley isn’t doing super great but I guess that’s to be expected. Sleeping is hard for us both right now, and I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I’m trying to figure it out. I’m fine, Ice, I can feel you worrying all the way from Miramar. Jester and Viper have been great. Thanks for your last letter — tell Slider that last joke was really fucking lame and I’m embarrassed for him. Hope everything is good on the Enterprise and you’re giving any MiG’s you see hell.
Mav
He traced his finger over his wingman’s name and sighed heavily, wanting nothing more than to be on dry land with his wingman (his friend) and not on the Roosevelt .
“How’s Mav?” Slider asked as he braced himself on the wall next to Ice in the officer’s mess hall.
“Not great,” Ice murmured. “He doesn’t say so, but he’s a shit liar. Says you’re shitty at jokes, too.”
“I am shitty at jokes,” Slider snorted with a shrug of one beefy shoulder. “Sucks, what happened with Carole. Kind of a rough start to life for little Bradley, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Ice murmured, tracing his thumb absently over Mav’s scrawled signature.
/
Slider fucked up his shoulder and they were sending him back to Miramar. Ice was a little pissed because his replacement RIO was a fucking dumbass, but that was beside the point.
“Ronnie,” he said as he barged his way into sickbay, knowing the visiting hours were almost up and the transport helicopter would be there soon to get him. He needed minor surgery that they couldn’t give him here on the ship.
“What’s up, Tommy?” Slider grumbled from where he lay on a cot, half-drugged and sleepy from the looks of it.
“Give this to Mav,” Ice instructed, folding a letter into his hand. “And Sli, keep a close eye on him, will you? Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”
“Yeah, yeah, mother hen,” Slider rasped. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you, don’t worry.”
“He doesn’t have a wingman out there, Sli,” Ice reminded him with a huff. “Just—just make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Slider snorted hard enough to rattle his cot. “Maverick is stupid, Ice.”
“Blow me, Kerner. You knew what I meant.” Ice flicked Slider on the cheek and strode away, wondering what it was going to take to get a seat at Top Gun. He remembered the words Jester had said— Any of these men have an open invitation to come back and teach here, if they should so wish. He stopped walking abruptly, considered it, tilted his head to one side and chewed his lip in thought.
Maverick was teaching at Top Gun, so how hard could it be?
/
Slider got a hold of him relatively easily a week later, Ice making his way to the phone to answer the call. It was during his allotted window so he pressed it to his ear and said, “Ice.”
“Hey, Ice,” Slider said, and he sounded a little drunk but mostly normal. “You were right. Mav is fucked.”
“I fucking knew it,” he hissed, knuckling his eyes with a frustrated huff. “How bad is it?”
“‘S pretty bad,” Slider murmured. “Looks like he’s half dead, pale as shit, he’s lost weight. Jester says he’s not flying like himself, that he’s shaky and reckless and he zones out a lot because he’s so tired. They’re trying but they’re not getting through to him.”
Maverick’s hands were never shaky and he loved nothing more than flying. Ice clenched his hands into fists and exhaled a slow, long breath, because that had been him for a month after the Gulf, after he was split off from Mav, when the nightmares started.
Maverick never had been able to lie to him; if they couldn't get through to him, maybe he could.
It was time to go back to Miramar.
“I’ll put my transfer request in today,” he said to Slider with a note of finality. He knew the other sailors were looking at him in surprise; he was a legend, a fighter pilot, squadron leader, why would he want to leave?
His commanding officer asked him the same thing and he gave him some bullshit excuse about wanting to have a crack at training new pilots, passing on what he’d learned in combat, blah blah blah. Even mentioned that his old wingman, the other half the legend, was teaching there, and wouldn't that be such a treat for young, up-and-coming pilots?
The captain ate it up, signed the request and reminded him it was up to the instructors to choose his application, but Ice’s throat burned from the lie because that hadn’t been why at all.
Peter Motherfucking Mitchell, that was why.
/
Ice probably should have told Mav he’d put in for the transfer and he did mean to tell him. Really, he did; he’d meant to tell him as soon as he’d seen him, but then he’d opened the door to see Mav standing there, and all thoughts had fled from his mind because it had taken him over two weeks to get to this point and he’d forgotten, okay.
He’d forgotten in his distance from the other man how magnetic his presence was, how green and clear and bright his eyes were. It hadn’t been long at all but he’d apparently forgotten, too, the effect Maverick Mitchell had on him just by existing and swallowed in a suddenly dry throat as he thought oh no, oh fuck, because he’d just realized what this fucking was and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Maverick looked like absolute shit and he was a little pissed because Slider had been too casual about it. There were dark circles under his eyes; he was pale; his cheeks were hollow and he seemed to have lost his general shine. He looked like a hard breeze would blow him right over, like he’d been diminished or dimmed somehow.
“Christ, Mav, you look like hell,” he blurted, because it was true and very, very alarming as he privately wondered how in the fuck anyone had let it get to the point without interfering. Were they blind? Where the fuck were Viper, Jester, his supposed girlfriend, Charlie? It hadn’t escaped his notice that Mav had stopped mentioning her a few months before Carole died.
He reached out, unable to resist any longer, and was stalled when Maverick opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. His eyes were beginning to water and he realized with a dull sort of horror that clearly, nobody had been checking in on his wingman at all, because Maverick was two seconds away from a full-scale breakdown on his front porch in front of god and everyone and he had to get him inside right fucking now.
Snagging his shirt he did just that, tugging him inside to shut the door and demanding, “Hey, Mav, holy shit,” as his hands hovered over Maverick’s shoulders, unsure what to do or if he was allowed to touch. “Hey, what is it? Is it Bradley?”
Ice had a dull ping of horror over that sentence because if Maverick lost Bradley on top of everything else he knew he would never, ever recover; that Mav would sink into himself and cease to exist, to be.
Mav slapped his hands away clumsily and seemed to be pulling himself together, somewhat, as he rasped, “You said you were my wingman. Did you mean it?”
And that, see, that cut like a fucking knife and straightened his spine because of-fucking-course he’d meant it, and he icily pointed out, “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Maverick ,” unable to keep his frustration from his tone or his mocking scorn from the last syllable.
“Okay,” Maverick said then, and Ice realized that he was shaking and longed to reach out and hold him but wasn’t sure if he’d get laid out for it so he just stayed where he was with his hands twitching at his sides. “Okay,” he repeated, sounding shredded, his eyes filling with tears and spilling over as his breaths quickened, mouth opening and anguish spilling forth in the words, “Ice, I need need help,” cutting him straight to his core, just like that, and Ice swallowed, hard, and reached for him, “I can’t fucking do this, I can’t fuck up Goose’s kid, I need Carole but she’s not here, Goose isn’t here, I have no idea what I’m doing—”
Maverick was really sobbing now, his entire body shaking, so he tucked him tightly into his chest and held on; stroked hands up and down his back, across his shoulders, nuzzled the side of his head, rocked him from side to side, as Maverick let out all the grief and pain and fear he’d clearly kept bottled up since that fight over the Indian Ocean, maybe even before then, he didn’t fucking know. He just knew Mav felt right there, against his heart, and he was never going to let him go again if he could help it; knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d made the right choice asking to transfer because Mav clearly needed him.
He spoke to him, tried to be comforting, and led him to the bedroom because it was blatantly and clearly obvious that Maverick really needed to sleep.
Mav asked him what he was doing and he couldn’t help but snort.
“You’re really fucking stupid when you’re sleep deprived, has anyone ever told you that, Mitchell?” he drawled as he reached for his wrists, because why the fuck else would he lead him to his bedroom when he was in this state?
Mav just shrugged at him so he stripped him of his jacket and nudged him to sit on the edge of his bed, kneeling before him to tug off his ridiculous cowboy boots, peeling off his socks and seeing Pete’s delicate ankles, the arches of his feet. Rubbed his thumb across one before he could stop himself, shook himself out of it, motioned for Pete to stand so he could undo his belt because sleeping in jeans was uncomfortable as fuck.
Pete’s hand was like a brand on his shoulder as he lifted one foot and then the other and he was being eerily quiet, even as he kept saying his name, softly, over and over. Ice, Ice,Tom.
He curved his larger hands over the back of Pete’s knees, feeling the muscles flexing in his thighs and his hamstrings as he struggled to stay standing, his body swaying with obvious exhaustion and his blinks slowed as his eyes unfocused. With a gentle tug he pulled his knees forward to unbalance him, watched as Pete hit the bed with a soft oomph of surprise blinking up at his ceiling.
Pete didn’t seem to notice him sliding his arm gently under his shoulders, feeling the planes of his scapula against his fingers as he half-nudged, half-lifted Pete up to his pillow, clenching his jaw because Pete shouldn’t have been this light. He cupped his knees from beneath and lifted his legs onto the bed, tucking them under his comforter and pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.
“Ice,” Pete was saying, muzzily, blinking up at him slowly and with such bafflement on his face Ice couldn’t help but crouch and reach out, running his fingers through his hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. The urge to press a kiss to his forehead was so overwhelming he had to dig his fingers into his own thigh to stop himself.
His hair was softer than it looked, it turned out, and thick between his fingers. He ran his hands through it gently watching Pete’s eyelids flicker, grow heavy with sleep. This was how his mother got him to sleep and it had been a safe bet to assume it would work for Pete, too.
“Ice,” he said again, the edge of something in his voice.
“Just let someone take care of you for a change,” he said, keeping his tone level and calm. “Where’s Bradley?”
“Daycare,” Maverick responded promptly, voice slurring over the words. “I have to pick him up at five.”
Ice nodded and kept stroking his hands through Maverick’s hair, watching his eyelids droop lower and lower, wondering if Maverick was conscious of how he turned his head to press into the contact.
“Ice,” Maverick whispered, his eyes nearly closed now, the word more of a breath.
“Sleep, Pete,” he whispered back, stilling his hand to stroke one of Maverick’s eyebrows with a gentle thumb. “You need it.” You’re safe here, he left unsaid, watching as Maverick’s eyes finally closed and his breathing evened out almost immediately, face slackening with sleep. Nobody is going to hurt you, he also didn’t say, feeling a protective feeling crawling up his chest.
He watched Maverick sleep for a few moments, lifting his hand away. When he didn’t stir from a nightmare he stood and tucked his hands in his pockets.
It was time to make some pretty goddamned huge life decisions.
/
The first scream jarred him from his reading less than an hour later and he sprinted for the stairs. Maverick was twisted in the blankets, tossing and turning, face screwed up in agony.
“Goose,” he was rasping, hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets. “NO, no,” he moaned, trying to kick his feet out and failing.
“Mav,” he whispered, coming from the side and knowing to watch his fists closely as he reached out to settle a soothing hand on his head, slipping his fingers through Mav’s thick hair. “Mav, it’s okay, it’s just a nightmare,” he whispered, over and over again, stroking his fingers until Mav’s expression smoothed and his fists unclenched from the sheets, his breathing slowing and evening out.
Slider had done the same for him that first month, and Ice had only startled awake to hit him once. When he was sure Maverick was deeply sleeping again, he gently untangled the sheets and re-tucked them around his wingman’s shivering frame.
The second time was worse, leaving him with sweat on his brow but Ice smoothed the expression back to normal with soft murmurs and a softer touch. Even in his sleep Mav turned to him, into the contact, letting out a shaking sigh as the tension bled, and he had to blink his burning eyes because for Mav to be this touch starved he’d clearly been suffering longer than even he’d realized.
He didn’t wake again after that and Ice checked on him every hour or so, finding him sleeping peacefully on his stomach with his arms tucked up under Ice’s pillow. His mouth was partly open and he could only see his profile but his expression was smooth and impossibly young looking asleep.
Trust Mitchell to not even snore, the perfectly handsome bastard, he mused, and went back to his book.
The man himself came down the stairs six hours after he’d first fallen asleep, looking bleary-eyed but more alert than he’d been at the door this morning. Even sleep-rumpled with creases on his cheek he was beautiful and Ice watched him struggle to say thanks.
“I’m your wingman, Maverick, if you say a word I will kick your ass,” he warned, because honestly, he felt like he’d done the bare minimum.
When Pete had practically inhaled the lunch he’d made him, Ice had forced himself not to outwardly react, but if he was this excited about Pete eating he must have subconsciously known things were bad before he’d seen it for himself. He was already plotting ways to get some calories into Mav; the gauntness of his cheeks really was alarming, and when he moved his arms he could see the too-sharp lines of his collarbones through his shirt.
Their conversation went about as well as Ice expected. Pete dodged the questions about himself and focused on Bradley. He had a feeling this had been the pattern of Pete’s life since Carole’s death: focusing on Bradley and ignoring his own needs.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as Pete told him about the nightmares, leaving out his own (typical, really), and admitting, “I’m so fucking tired, Tom.”
Reaching across the table he curled his hand gently around Maverick’s too-thin and bony wrist, squeezing once. His skin was cool to the touch but his heartbeat was steady and strong. Unable to help himself, he stroked his thumb along that steady pulse, a reminder that Mav was still here, he was still with him. He hoped in turn that his presence reminded Mav he wasn’t alone in this and that he still had his wingman.
“It’s gonna be okay, Pete,” he whispered, watching as Mav’s shoulders slumped. I’m going to take care of you, he left unsaid, whether you like it or not.
Pete would figure it out for himself soon enough.
/
It took a week for Maverick to be back on his doorstep again. It was a Friday and he knew the next Top Gun class started on Monday. It was the end of August and Viper and Jester sure were taking their sweet goddamn time picking him as an instructor.
He couldn’t think of another reason for Mav to be here; he’d thought he was going back to the Roosevelt and Ice hadn’t corrected him because he’d been too busy renewing his lease on this house, ordering extra furniture, getting his car back from his parents in San Clemente, and getting his affairs mostly in order.
“Kazansky, you son of a bitch,” Maverick greeted him, and he was puffed up and angry, his eyes flashing, and Ice had a moment of sheer, knee-weakening relief.
Maverick looked alive. Tired yes, but, he looked like himself, like the Maverick of Before.
Their argument was a short one and Ice spent most of it biting his tongue to keep from asking the real questions—what the fuck happened with Charlie, how long have you been having nightmares, why did you wait so long to ask me for help—and instead butted heads with Maverick like old times, watched as Maverick’s eyes flashed and his mouth snarled and his fists clenched at his sides, the subdued exhausted Maverick gone for the time being to be replaced, at long last, by his wingman.
“Why didn’t you say something, you asshole?” Maverick growled at him, and from the look on his face he wanted to hit him.
Ice would have taken it, probably. Swayed towards him instead and just stared at him because asking that question had been an insult to more than just his intelligence. He kept on staring, watching as the gears turned in Maverick’s head, his eyes briefly going far away and eyes tracking to the spot slightly to Ice’s left where he’d cried all over his shoulder a week ago.
The flush in Mav’s cheeks a few heartbeats later meant he’d finally registered the words he’d babbled in his overly-exhausted delirium. Ice, I need help, he’d said; it had been a plea as much as a prayer. Maverick’s expression twisted, mouth curling downwards, breath stuttering in his chest as his fists clenched. His uniform was shoved up to his elbows and it made his forearms flex as he breathed deeply and finally, finally, looked at him.
Ice held his gaze patiently.
“I’m your wingman, dumbass,” he said matter-of-factly. You asked me to come, he left unsaid, left it unsaid too that he’d been coming anyway and that sentence had just cemented his plans into finality. They were wingmen and if Mav hadn’t figured out that he’d do anything for him he’d get it eventually. God willing, he had his whole life to prove it.
Mav predictably puffed up like an angry kitten, all growl and no bite. His words were equally meaningless and more knee-jerk than anything; his claims of I don’t need you rolled off Ice like water over rocks because he’d already said he did and it was too late to take it back. This was Maverick frustrated, embarrassed, trying to save face.
He didn’t have to be embarrassed and he’d figure that out soon enough, too.
Ice closed the distance between them because he needed to feel the other man’s warmth as a reminder that he was still alive. He stared into Maverick’s eyes and saw all his fears and regrets shining in them; saw his embarrassment, his exhaustion, his sheer unfiltered desperation.
“Tough shit,” he said, and he bared his teeth and pressed their noses together, breathed in Maverick’s scent as the words pulled from the bottom of his soul, “You have me.”
He just watched with quiet amusement as Maverick called him a dickwad and stomped out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the window panes rattle. Couldn’t help cracking a grin at getting under Maverick’s skin because it was something.
Tom didn’t want to go through life without Maverick, was the thing, and he figured Mav would figure that out soon enough, too.