Chapter Text
Kazansky Residence – Late Morning
The Kazansky house sat tucked beneath towering oaks, neat and proud. Cyclone parked at the curb, killed the engine, and took a moment to look up at the window. The curtains were drawn.
He straightened his khaki short-sleeve uniform and stepped out of his car, walking up the path.
The front door opened before he could knock.
“Beau,” Sarah greeted him softly. She wore a simple sweater, no makeup. Her eyes were tired—but not broken.
“Afternoon, Sarah,” he replied with a respectful nod.
She stepped aside. “He’s in his office. Good day, all things considered.”
He didn’t miss the extra second it took her to say that.
The house was quiet—too quiet. A photo of Tom, Sarah, and all the kids sat by the hallway mirror. Cyclone’s eyes lingered on it as he passed. Cara stood on one side, small but smiling brightly. One hand rested on her youngest brother’s shoulder, the other tucked stiffly behind her back.
He found Ice in his office, seated in a leather armchair beside the window, bundled in a fleece jacket even though it was 72 degrees outside. A book lay open on his lap, though Cyclone knew he hadn’t been reading.
“Permission to enter, Admiral?” Beau said lightly.
Ice looked up, his smile thin but warm. Raising his hands, he signed:
Only if you brought bourbon.
Cyclone huffed a laugh, grateful once again that he’d taken the time to learn ASL.
“Too early for me. Too late for you.”
Ice stood slowly, made his way to the desk, and nodded to the chair beside him. Cyclone sat, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. Ice typed:
Let me guess. She emailed you?
Beau didn’t flinch. “She asked me to check in. Said you'd order me to lie.”
Ice nodded slowly, a ghost of a grin twitching at one corner of his mouth.
“Tom…” Beau hesitated. “How bad is it, really?”
Ice looked away, staring out the window. Then typed:
Bad. But stable, for now.
“That’s not the same as the ‘okay’ from two weeks ago.”
No. It’s not.
Silence settled between them. The kind shared between men who had worn the same weight of command—and consequence.
“From what I can tell, she’s holding it together,” Beau said. “But she’s not fine.”
Ice’s fingers paused on the keyboard. He didn’t look up, just typed:
She hides things well when her walls are up.
Cyclone leaned back. “I remember the first time I saw her in uniform. She had your ice-cold stare in her eyes. It would've been more terrifying if she wasn’t so damn short.”
Ice let out a short laugh and nodded.
Cyclone reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small folded printout—the email from Cara. Knowing Ice, like himself, appreciated real paper, something you could hold in your hands. He placed it on the desk beside him.
“She asked for the truth. I figured you’d want to know that.”
Cyclone stood. “I’ll be by next week. If you need anything, just send word. Sarah knows how to reach me.”
Tom gave him a look that said Thank you without a word.
At the door, Cyclone paused. “And Tom… I mean what I said. If you need someone to help carry the truth… I’m still here.”
Ice’s nod was slow—but firm.
The weight of silence clung to Cyclone as he left the house.
North Island Command Briefing
Vice Admiral Beau Simpson stood at the head of the long conference table, arms crossed over his crisp, short-sleeved khaki uniform. If he didn’t unclench his jaw soon, he was in danger of cracking a molar. He’d been up since 0430 and needed yet another coffee.
The briefing binder in front of him was still sealed. He didn’t need to open it. He already knew the file—forward and backward.
CAPT Pete “Maverick” Mitchell
Simpson had read the file so many times over the years he could quote the damn thing. The citations. The reprimands.
Still a captain.
Still flying.
Still somehow alive.
And now… here.
If it were anyone but Iceman who had dropped this walking maniac in his lap, he would’ve already had a stroke.
A knock at the door.
His only warning from Warlock that Maverick had arrived.
Cyclone’s Office — Minutes After Maverick Leaves
The door clicked shut behind Cyclone as he entered his office. He walked to the window, crossing his arms as he stared out at the flight line—at the sleek, deadly aircraft that were utterly indifferent to the lives that flew them skyward.
Ice wants him here.
The thought had echoed in his mind since the order crossed his desk. Ice hadn’t called. Hadn’t said a word when Beau visited yesterday. No—he’d sent an email. Short. Direct. Typical Iceman.
He’s the only one who can teach them.
Beau had stared at those words for nearly an hour before replying.
Are you sure, sir?
Yes.
That was all.
He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. His office was clean—folders aligned, pens stacked. Everything in order. But the air felt heavy. Personal.
Cyclone crossed the room to his desk and opened one of the drawers. Inside, tucked neatly, was a framed picture. Five men on the deck of a carrier. Tom Kazansky stood at the center. A younger Beau Simpson stood off to the right. He couldn’t remember the operation anymore, but he remembered the feeling—Ice had vouched for him that week. Pulled strings. Taken the heat when things got political.
He hadn’t forgotten. Never would.
Now Ice was sick again. Hiding it from almost everyone—except a trusted few. Beau was lucky enough to be one of them.
He sank into his chair and exhaled slowly. For the first time that morning, his posture eased slightly. His shoulders dropped, just a fraction.
Booting up his computer, he began to type.
From: Vice Admiral Beau Simpson
To: Admiral Tom Kazansky
Subject: Mitchell
He’s here. He reported in exactly as you said he would.
I don’t trust him.
But I trust you.
I’ll give him the rope.
You let me know when to pull it.
—Cyclone
He hit send, then opened a new message. This one took longer.