This one comes with a bit of a twist! Because I've read Sansûkh once a year since 2023!
Once again, prompt comes from @imaginexhobbit.
Word Count: 1821 (which is crazy writing it I could swear it was longer, lol)
Also, apologies for the necessitation of the use of dialogue from Battle of the Five Armies. Alas, it's build into the geometry of the scene I chose to write.
Enjoy!
---
The air was heavy with despair and smoke. The latter lingered, even so many days after the dragon had vacated the premises. The despair, though, was new, had settled thickly over the Company as their king grew more and more sick, withdrawing into himself in a way that you hadn’t known was possible. You’d seen it on one face at a time, as each of your friends and traveling companions realized that there was nothing they could do.
Thorin was fading. Disappearing into a fog that none of the rest of you could see through, to guide him back to clear ground.
Which wasn’t great, given that everyone was loyal to him, and would follow his orders. If he wasn’t able to give orders, though… what was left, except to sit, and to listen to the sounds of war on the other side of the debris blocking the thirteen of you in?
Thirteen, where you’d once numbered fourteen, but the Hobbit was gone, disposed of. No matter what Thorin said, you refused to believe that Bilbo had acted out of his own self-interest. He’d wanted to try and save everyone, and had done so in the one way he’d thought might reach Thorin, speak to him past the gold sickness.
It hadn’t, though. If anything, it had only dragged Thorin deeper under its spell, even if, deep down, you honestly thought he knew the true intention behind Bilbo’s actions, too.
At the very least, you supposed if there was anything to be grateful for, it was the fact that Thorin hadn’t thrown himself from the wall to seek the Arkenstone where it had rested with Bard and Thranduil down below.
Although, to be fair, if he had fallen from the wall and met an untimely death, everyone would at least have had Fili to look to for clearheaded leadership.
Still, maybe the most clearheaded thing Thorin had done over the last twenty-four hours had been to order everyone to stay put. The shrieking and the metal clashing you all listened to from your sullen positions in the main hall seemed to indicate as much.
But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t itching to send your blade through the eye of an orc, noises of death be damned.
“I’m fed up,” you declared out loud, for anyone who was listening.
“We all are,” Dwalin grumbled back. He’d been silent since going to see Thorin a half-hour or so prior, and you could hear his disappointment in himself in his voice as he glared at the ground, tapping the butt of his axe against it. “Nothin’ we can do.”
“Talking about it will only make it worse,” Balin agreed, quietly. “Best to leave it alone.”
“Someone gives us a song, at least.” That was Bofur, kneading his poor hat between his hands, his face pale, eyes rounded with dark circles.
“Surely now’s not the time for singing,” Gloin huffed, raising and lowering his own axe rhythmically against the ground all the same.
Quiet fell again, as though everyone were in agreement about Gloin’s opinion. A thought, though, nagged at the base of your skull, reminding you of something that you and Bilbo had spoken about, along the journey.
“We hum as we walk, to pass the time,” the Hobbit had said. “I’d thought you lot would make more music along the way than you have so far, given all the singing you did back at Bag End.”
You’d chuckled. “We do, typically,” you’d replied. “Generally, though, it isn’t when we’re helplessly lost.”
“Ah, I see.” Bilbo had fallen quiet, and you’d glanced over at where he was riding his own pony, noticing the crease between his brow. He’d looked marginally distressed, as though wondering just how lost you all were. To alleviate his stress, you’d leaned over, nudged him.
“Teach me one of your Hobbit-y walking songs,” you’d suggested.
He’d been pleased to be asked, and it had taken his mind off the fact that your trip to the Misty Mountains had been delayed by an extra day, at the very least. Plus, the song he’d taught you had been a fairly good one, and in fact, it seemed to suit the mood that the Company now found itself in.
“I have a song,” you said, and a few of the others glanced your way, while some grumbled under their breaths, turning their backs. You decided to ignore those ones, and instead focused on Ori, given he looked the most interested, and Bofur, too, who’d first requested music. “Bilbo taught it to me. It’s a Hobbit walking song, but the words are a bit… well. Glum.”
“Glum sounds right,” Bofur said. “Not sure pretending otherwise would make any one of us feel better.”
“Right,” you agreed. “I can sing it, as best I can remember it.”
“Please do,” Ori encouraged, scooting closer. His interest, even given what was happening outside, was no surprise; he’d very much enjoyed learning all that he could from Bilbo about Hobbit culture. A lot of his walking time had been spent scribbling away on loose parchment that he’d brought along with him from Ered Luin. Hobbits, of course, were not nearly as tightlipped about their lifestyles as Dwarves.
“All right,” you said, and sat up a bit straighter, clearing your throat. You thought about it for a moment, trying your hardest to remember the words as Bilbo had taught them to you, as well as the rhythm in which he’d sung them. Most importantly, you did your best to remember the emotion he’d sung them with. As you began to sing them, too, invoking the Hobbit, your voice echoed off the walls, tumbling deeper into Erebor.
“Upon the hearth the fire is red,Beneath the roof there is a bed;But not yet weary are our feet,Still round the corner we may meetA sudden tree or standing stoneThat none have seen but we alone.
“Home is behind, the world ahead
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadow, to the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight
“Mist and shadow
Cloud and shade
All shall fade
All shall fade.”
Silence settled, and you blinked, bringing your gaze back into focus. You found yourself staring at Ori, whose own attention had been drawn by something else. You frowned, and turned, to see what he was seeing, and your eyebrows shot up.
Thorin stood below where you all were positioned on various pieces of rubble just inside the wall, backed by the lights from deeper in the mountain. He looked different, than when you’d last seen him. His shoulders were straight, his head raised. He held Orcrist at his side, but wore no crown on his head. That caught your attention, and you frowned a little to yourself, even as Kili stood up from where he’d been sitting nearby, his hands folded into fists.
“I will not hide behind a wall of stone while others fight our battles for us!” he shouted, approaching his uncle, who’d moved closer to the group, his jaw set. He studied Kili as his nephew stepped up to him, his voice shaky, now that he was staring at his king straight on, as though only just remembering that Thorin hadn't exactly been clear-headed: “It’s not in my blood, Thorin.”
The two of them met, and Thorin gazed at him for a moment longer, before he said, “No, it is not. We are sons of Durin. And Durin’s folk do not flee from a fight.”
You heard someone inhale a soft breath of relief, and you smiled a little as you watched Thorin set his hand on Kili’s shoulder, before uncle and nephew touched foreheads. After a moment, Thorin stepped around Kili, to address the rest of the Company. His expression was withdrawn, indicative of the fact that he knew what he’d done, how he’d behaved, and regretted it. His next words existed in a similar vein.
“I have no right to ask this of any of you,” he began, looking around at everyone, meeting each set of eyes individually. “But will you follow me, one last time?”
Immediately, there was stirring from the others, as each Dwarf rose, readying their weapon of choice. You glanced at them all, exhaling, and adjusted your grip on your own sword, resting in its scabbard at your waist.
Thorin smiled, then nodded towards the wall of rubble.
“Let’s get that out of our way,” he said, and immediately, the area filled with activity. Dori and Gloin quickly took charge in giving orders related to demolition, instructing Bombur and Dwalin towards the massive golden bell that sat waiting nearby. You moved to help as well, starting to follow Ori towards where coils of chain rested on the ground, but a hand on your wrist stopped you. You turned towards Thorin, drawing your eyebrows together.
“What is it?” you asked, and Thorin dropped his hand to his side.
“That song you sang,” he said, quietly. “It is familiar to me.”
“A Hobbit walking song, that… that Bilbo taught me,” you explained, and Thorin’s expression wilted. “You probably heard him singing it before.”
He forced a nod, then let out a breath, lowering his gaze to the ground. You studied him for a moment, before understanding brightened your thoughts, and you grinned, tilting your head.
“Thorin, he’ll come back. All you have to do is ask.”
Your king shook his head. “Not after all I did. To all of you. To him.”
“You won’t know for sure until you try,” you pointed out, gently.
Thorin looked up again, and searched your expression, as though the final piece to a puzzle he was trying to put together existed there. He wouldn’t find it with you, though. It lived somewhere else entirely, something you’d always known, even if you’d wanted to believe otherwise for many years.
Despite that, you were glad for him. You could only hope that Thorin figured it out, too, once he was able to interact with the one who held his final puzzle piece with a clear mind.
“I should help the others,” you said to him, and after a moment, Thorin nodded. You nodded back, then,
without giving yourself the chance to think about it, you reached for his hand, and squeezed it. “It’s good to have you back, melhekhel.”
Thankfully, he smiled, and dipped his head, squeezing your hand in return. “Âkminrûk zu, gamil bâhûn,” he said, quietly, and your heart lightened.
“Oi! We have a battle to join,” Dwalin called, from where he and a few of the others had finished dragging the giant bell into place beneath where Ori had hung the chain. Dwalin was red in the face from effort, and probably urgency. “In case you were interested in helping!”
“We are!” you called back, then let go of Thorin’s hand to cross the space towards them. You could feel Thorin following after you, and knew that, whatever happened once the wall came down, everything would be okay.
---
Khuzdul Translations:
Melhekhel – King of all Kings
Âkminrûk zu – Thank you
Gamil bâhûn - old friend
(Like I said, Sansûkh once a year for three years, almost four! Thank you, @determamfidd!)
Oh, also, some lines borrowed from The Lord of the Rings, for the sake of lengthening the walking song. Which is called A Walking Song, I think, and is technically a poem originally. It appears in full in the third chapter, "Three Is Company," although of course the sung, shorter version, and thus the melody it is sung with here, comes from Billy Boyd, courtesy of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.
There was a part two/prequel to “Brighter”, so I figured I'd bring it over here, too.
(also selfishly i just really enjoy going through the icemav tag looking for gifs lolol)
(if i could find myself a man that looks at me the way ice is lookin at mav in that first gif up above -)
Anyways!
Originally posted at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61561216
Word Count: ~6,500
ALSO THERE'S BANGIN' IN THIS ONE ICEMAV DOES BANG AND IF IT'S BAD IMSORRYYYY
TW: A little iffy in the consent realm, here, but I mean... Maverick was the one to initiate, and Ice did his best to make sure it was actually what he wanted!
Enjoy! Hopefully!
--
Tom Kazansky had been in love twice by the time he realized he was in love with Pete Mitchell.
The first time had been as a teenager, fourteen-years-old and it really wasn’t love, but it was the puppy love kind that so many children experienced. That had been with a boy named Paul (ironic for sure), but Paul hadn’t known about it, because it had been the seventies. Tom had pined after him through high school until the middle of junior year, when Paul’s family had moved away.
During that same time frame, Tom had met Sarah Smith, and she’d been very sweet, and a good friend, so he’d gone to homecomings and both junior and senior prom with her, but he hadn’t been in love with her. Over time, though, he had come to love her, in the same way he may have loved a sister, and he came to trust her as he would a sister, too. At an after party on the night of senior prom, Tom had gotten wasted on the nasty liquor that Wendy Thompson had provided (since it was her party), and he’d confessed through hitching, drunken sobs to Sarah that he did love her, but not like that. He confessed to her that he was worried he could only love boys like that, and he knew it was true because he’d been in love with Paul.
Sarah, because she was so sweet, had cradled him in her arms, and told him not to be sad, but Tom had heard the worry in her voice. She was right to be worried, because Tom was heading off to Annapolis that fall. He definitely couldn’t love boys in the Navy.
But then there’d been Bill, and Bill had been just as sweet as Sarah, and a boy. By the time he’d met Bill, Tom was nineteen and understood love a lot better, and he understood on some level that Bill didn’t love him, but that didn’t stop them from spending time together, in more ways than one.
Since Tom was older, it hadn’t hurt that much when, towards the end of Bill’s time at Annapolis, he shared with Tom that he’d be getting married later that year. Tom was older, and wiser, and he knew that realistically, Bill wouldn’t have waited around for him after Annapolis. He knew that getting married, starting a family, was really the only option that Bill had. That any of them had, really, especially if they wanted to keep up appearances.
So Tom finished up at Annapolis a year after Bill (earning his callsign along the way because of the way that he flew (but also probably because of how cold he’d taught himself to be emotionally (it was safer that way))), and he went on his first deployment. Throughout the years that followed, he thought about Paul, the boy he’d loved but never kissed, and he thought about Bill, the young man he’d loved and kissed and more. There were three others in the time between Bill and TOPGUN, but no one substantial, just quick fucks to help Tom reorient himself when he thought necessary.
Then, TOPGUN. Tom had heard rumors that Bill would be there, too, with his RIO from the Enterprise and his own callsign (Cougar, which Tom thought was ironic given the fact that Bill was older than him and that they’d done what they’d done). Instead of Bill, though, because Bill decided to turn in his wings, a different acquaintance from Annapolis was in the same room on the first day of the course, complete with the same honking laughter and overprotectiveness that had earned him his callsign. Nick had come along to TOPGUN with the pilot he’d been flying with for two years (unheard of for Nicholas Bradshaw, sticking with the same pilot for longer than a few flights at a time), and his pilot was some kid named Mitchell, as in Duke Mitchell.
Tom knew, maybe, that it was unfair to judge the kid based on the stories he’d heard about his old man, but Jesus Christ, Mitchell hadn’t really been anything other than what Tom expected him to be. Reckless. Unfiltered. Dangerous. But, there were qualities in him aside from those that were hard to ignore, too. Persistence. Determination. Bravery. Those were qualities that Tom noted, even as he and Mitchell (callsign Maverick, because of course) snapped at one another and went back and forth in terms of their points, dragging Goose and Slider along for the ride because they were faithful RIOs, the two of them.
Then, Maverick had flown through Tom’s jetwash, because Tom had hesitated, and he and Goose had gone down over the Pacific Ocean. Tom, not knowing what else to do but knowing he had to do something because it had all been his fault, had flown his jet over the spot where Maverick and Goose had gone down, marking the location in the hopes that it would mean Search and Rescue would get to them sooner rather than later. He’d run the risk of running out of fuel by doing so, but again, he’d had to do something. He’d also needed to visit Maverick and Goose in the hospital afterwards, but he chickened out of it at the last second, dragging Slider with him back to their on-base housing. His RIO had cursed and grumbled all the while, but he was loyal, so loyal, and Tom realized he loved Slider the same way he’d decided once before that he loved Sarah, the close, familial love that one felt towards a sibling.
When he told Slider that, once they’d gotten back to the house, Slider had looked at him like he was insane for a long moment, but then he’d said, “Love you too, man,” and that had been fine. Tom had felt a little bit better.
Two days later, when he saw Maverick again in class, he felt even better, until he realized just how withdrawn, sullen, and haunted Maverick was. By then, everyone knew that Goose would be okay, even with his broken neck, but it seemed to Tom that Maverick didn’t know it, or at least hadn’t accepted it. He’d wanted to speak to Maverick about it, but all he managed was a flat, “I’m sorry about the hop,” and that was useless, so he’d given up after that. He figured Maverick didn’t want to hear from him, anyway.
Maverick, though, somehow, figured it out for himself (maybe because of that persistence Tom had noted in him, or perhaps because Goose’s wife Carole had taken it into her own hands to knock some sense into him), and he’d gone to visit Goose for the first time in the hospital about a week before graduation. When he next returned to class, he’d outflown almost all of them (except for Tom and Slider), with Sundown behind him in his Tomcat. He already had enough points to graduate, but that week had been just for him, him proving to himself that he could still fly, and Tom was happy for him.
Goose, too, had enough points to graduate, but he was unable to attend the ceremony. Tom had no way of knowing if Maverick had a chance to speak to him before he, Tom, Slider, Hollywood, and Wolfman were on transport to the Enterprise, per the orders that came in the same day. All he knew was that he was terrified to possibly have Maverick on his wing, despite what he’d seen that last week, but then there had been MiGs, and ‘Wood and Wolf had gone down, and it had just been him and Slider with Maverick as their only chance.
And Maverick had come through, because he was brave. He’d maneuvered masterfully through the dogfight Tom and Slider had been fighting on their own, shooting down three MiGs with his weapons system. Tom, once Maverick was with him in the air, was able to get a handle on the situation enough to shoot down a fourth, but then the remaining two had bugged out, leaving only Tom and Maverick. Maverick had flown his jet side-by-side with Tom’s, and they’d maybe looked at one another through the windscreens, and Tom had felt lighter than he had in ages. They had survived, and Maverick had saved his ass, something he never would’ve expected.
They returned to the Enterprise. Tom went searching for Maverick immediately, after he’d taken a moment to appreciate he was back on solid surface, still in-tact. He’d told Maverick that he could be his wingman anytime, and when Maverick grinned at him and said, “Bullshit, you can be mine,” Tom had been relieved, because God, he knew he wanted to be.
So, when Maverick went missing at some point during the celebration in the mess that night, Tom went looking for him, because his wingman deserved to tell the story from his perspective, and to partake in the whiskey that someone had smuggled on-board. He’d found Maverick on the flight deck, staring out at the sinking sun, which had painted the ocean in deep hues of orange and purple. Maverick had turned to him, and he’d hurriedly wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, but Tom hadn’t missed the tears. He hadn’t asked about them, either, figuring that Maverick could tell him about it if he wanted to, and, after three minutes of silence, Maverick actually had.
“I shouldn’t have done all that without Goose,” he’d whispered. “He should have been up there with me, but he’s not, because I got his neck broken, and now he’ll probably never be able to go up there again.”
Tom had inhaled, despite having known that Maverick’s tears had to be based on something along those lines. Wanting to help, he’d told Maverick about all the pilots Goose had flown with, how he’d gone through them like tissues.
“But then we heard that he was with you,” he’d said, and Maverick had looked at Tom in surprise. Tom grinned, and shook his head. “I know, it shocked the hell out of me. Two years, with the same pilot? Unheard of for Nick Bradshaw.” He’d met Maverick’s eyes, then, wanting him to know that he meant everything he was about to say. “So he must’ve seen something special in you, Mitchell, and I think if he heard you still talking like this, he’d kick your ass, because Goose knows, and the rest of us know, that you’re meant to fly, regardless of who’s in the jet with you.” He’d then given Maverick some advice: “You should write Goose a letter. Tell him about what you did up there today. And I’m pretty sure the letter you get back will be boiled down to something like, “No shit, you’re a pilot, of course you kicked ass in the air,” and it won’t even mention the fact that Goose wasn’t up there with you.”
After that, Maverick had smiled a little, and he’d clapped Tom on the shoulder, then willingly followed him back to the mess. A month later, he’d shown Goose’s letter to Tom, and it said pretty much what Tom had thought it might. Maverick had then told Tom that he was going to go back to TOPGUN once their deployment was up, because Goose had suggested he reward himself with some non-combative flight for a bit.
Tom, hearing that, and despite his career goals, had been smacked with the sharp realization that he didn’t want to be parted from Maverick’s wing quite yet. As such, he’d filed his own paperwork for a transfer to Miramar after their deployment ended, too, and was relieved when the approval came through.
When they’d docked, six months later, Tom had given Slider a long hug in the privacy of their shared bunkroom. Slider was being transferred to Texas, to join up with a squadron there that would patrol the Gulf for the next eighteen months. Tom told him to write, and Slider said he would, and when they’d pulled back from the hug, there’d been a look in Slider’s eyes that Tom couldn’t read, which was strange given that Tom had thought he could read all of Ron Kerner’s facial expressions.
Instead of commenting on it, though, Ron had clasped Tom’s hand, grinned at him, and told him good luck handling the next batch of pissant aviators who were even bigger-in-their-britches than their own TOPGUN cohort had been. Tom had laughed, and told him thanks, and then they had headed up to deck together, and parted once they were on the ground.
From there, Tom gravitated to Maverick’s side, and Maverick beamed at him before saying, “I’m gonna visit Goose and Carole before heading to Miramar,” and Tom nodded, figuring he could be parted from Maverick for a week.
They, too, had gone separate ways, then. Tom had gone straight to Mirarmar, and Viper had been there to welcome him back, and Jester had overseen his training with the A-4s and F/A-18s he would be flying as an instructor. Tom settled into his new home, a one-bedroom bungalow that was only a little bit less shitty than what he and Slider had shared as students, and waited for Maverick to join him.
He did so, after a week, and Maverick went about settling into his own bungalow (down the street from Tom’s), and joined Tom and Jester in the training sessions. Tom wasn’t at all surprised by the ease with which Maverick took to the new aircraft; of course he did well with something even more maneuverable than their Tomcats.
After training through the weeks between TOPGUN sessions, the start of their first one as instructors almost arrived too quickly. Tom and Maverick were co-instructors, teaching the tactical maneuvers courses left open by Charlie’s departure to D.C. They also took students up on hops, and through simulations, and overall it was fine, but Tom knew that he and Maverick were butting heads a little too frequently on what to teach, and how to teach it, and which maneuvers in the air should earn students points. Eventually, Viper had had enough, and he dragged them both into his office to tell them on no uncertain terms that they needed to figure out how to actually work together, or they could both get ready to ship back out before either of them could say ‘Immelmann’.
So, Tom had made the adult decision to invite Maverick to lunch, and then to dinner, and over the meals, in the safety of public locations, they worked together to create lesson plans and hop outlines that they both put input into, and neither despised. After that, for the remainder of the session, the two of them managed to only get “killed” during hops by student teams twice, which maybe wasn’t the point, but sort of felt like the point. After the graduation ceremony for their first class, Viper had congratulated the two of them on a successful session, and had wished them both a good two-week break. That night, Maverick had said he’d be visiting Goose and Carole again, which surprised Tom very little. The surprise had come moments later, when Maverick asked Tom if he wanted to go to Texas, too.
Startled by the offer, Tom had said he’d planned on driving up to northern California to visit his parents. Maverick had nodded in understanding, but the look in his eyes had been disappointment, which was weird since the two of them had just spent two months together, including their training. But Tom hadn’t liked seeing Maverick disappointed, and so he’d said, “But maybe I can fly down after a few days after that,” and Maverick had beamed, and so that had been what happened.
Tom’s parents had been the same, his mother tall and thin, with her wire-frame glasses and crime novels, and his father still strong and straight-backed from his own years in the Navy. Tom had gotten to see Sarah, too, and she’d asked about Maverick, because Tom had told her about him through letters and phone calls. When Tom explained to her that he’d be joining Maverick in Texas for a couple days once he was done visiting his parents, Sarah smiled and hummed a little, and Tom hadn’t known what she meant by that, but hadn’t asked.
Really, though, what with Slider’s weird look, and Sarah’s smile and hum, and the way Goose’s eyes had moved between Tom and Maverick once Tom made it to Texas, as he and Maverick explained to Goose all that had occurred during the first session of TOPGUN that they’d help run, and with the way Tom and Maverick were basically joined at the hip throughout their continued tenure teaching…
Well. Maybe Tom should’ve figured it all out a little sooner, because Tom prided himself on being observant, but fuck, he’d been dense about what that all meant.
So, when he crowded Maverick against one of the sinks in the mens’ room of the O Club in early November, 1987, after having breathed in Maverick’s cologne all night and watched him laugh and drink and throw darts, to ask Maverick if he wanted to fuck, Tom was astonished by his own question.
He was even more astonished when Maverick responded by asking Tom to take him home.
They’d gone to Tom’s house. Maverick had kissed him as they both stood in the entryway, and Maverick kissed like he flew (fast, unpredictable, and incredibly well), and then Tom had jerked them both off with the same hand at the same time, still in the entryway. Maverick had come first, at Tom’s directive, but Tom had only held out for another twenty seconds. After, Tom had cleaned himself off with a dish towel in the kitchen, wondering what the fuck that had been, before bringing a different dish towel to Maverick so that he could clean up as well. After Maverick had done so, they’d both agreed it had to be a one-time thing, that it had only been to blow off some steam, and then Maverick had left.
But then the following Monday, after a particularly intense hop (that batch of students had been incredibly talented), Maverick had stepped into the same shower stall as Tom. Before Tom could think too much about what it would mean if they were caught, Maverick had dropped to his knees on the shower floor and swallowed him basically whole. All thoughts except for ones about how hot Maverick’s mouth was and how well he sucked Tom’s dick had vanished from Tom’s mind for about two hours after that, but later, when he’d been at home alone, he’d started thinking about other things again. Namely, he thought about what it was he and Maverick were meant to do about this thing, and how they were going to keep from getting caught if they kept doing it. Tom knew he wanted to keep doing it, though, because the other prevalent thought in his mind that night was his plan for cornering Maverick and sucking him off instead. Tom had zero intentions of letting Maverick think he could just do that and be so fantastic at it without finding out Tom’s own skill level in the same department.
By the end of March, it was happening regularly, at least three times a week, if not more. In the locker room showers, at one of their houses, at bars off-base where they’d be less likely to be discovered, and even one memorable time at Goose and Carole’s house in Texas. Tom had felt really bad about that one, because he and Maverick may or may not have put a hole in the wall with the headboard of the bed that only Tom should have been using, but that Maverick had snuck into with him at some point. When they’d told Goose about it, Tom apologetic and weary and Maverick nonplussed and proud, Goose had sighed and told them to be more careful. The double entendre there hadn’t escaped either Tom or Maverick’s notice, Tom knew, but neither one of them mentioned it later on.
Typically, Maverick let Tom fuck him. On his stomach, on their sides, and, more and more frequently as time passed, face-to-face. They tried it the other way, a couple of times, but Maverick had said after both that he wanted to go back to Tom on top the next time, and Tom was in no place to turn him down. After all, the expression on Maverick’s face whenever Tom was inside him, and particularly when Tom hit his prostate (which he got very good at doing), had become one of the most beautiful things Tom had ever seen almost immediately, and so he never turned down the chance to see it.
One night, though, things were different than normal, in the sense that Maverick, usually beneath Tom, decided to take charge instead. And, not-so-strangely, it was that night Tom realized he was in love for the third time.
-*-
April 2, 1988. Tom had just finished doing the dishes from dinner when someone knocked at the door of his bungalow. Confused, he glanced at his watch, noting it was almost 20:00. He could think of only one person who’d be knocking at his door at that time, on a Saturday night that Tom had decided to spend at home. Maverick, though, knew to cut through the backyard and knock on the rear door instead, especially at night.
Frowning, Tom exited the kitchen, and went to the front door. Pulling it open, his frown faded in favor of an exasperated sign when he saw Maverick standing on the other side, hands shoved into his pockets. A strong scent of whiskey rolled off him, and Tom wrinkled his nose. Before he could ask what the hell Maverick was thinking, or why he smelled like he’d taken a bath in his preferred alcohol, Maverick swayed forward, a petulant purse to his lips that drew Tom’s eye immediately.
“‘M feet hurt,” he said, overly loud, the way he got sometimes when he’d been drinking.
Tom blinked at him, and then down at his feet. He saw the problem at once; Maverick, somehow, had shoved his boots onto the wrong feet. The result was, indeed, his feet straining in what looked to be a painful way against the boot leather.
Despite the circumstances, Tom couldn’t fight back a laugh. “Maverick, do you not know your right from your left?” he asked, smiling.
Maverick’s scowl darkened. “My… feet… hurt,” he repeated, slower, and Tom nodded.
“Yeah, that’s not surprising. You have your boots on the wrong feet.”
Maverick tossed his head with a very dramatic groan, then, before Tom could stop him, he lurched past where Tom stood in the doorway into the house. Tom turned to watch him, closing the door again .Maverick paused at the edge of the tilted entryway, as though he’d remembered Tom hated shoes on the carpet despite his drunkenness. He stomped first his right foot, and then his left, and spread his arms, turning to glare at Tom as though the whole thing were Tom’s fault.
“My feet hurt!” he exclaimed.
“Maverick -”
“Shut the fuck up, and fix it,” Maverick demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.
Tom cocked his head to one side. Part of him was well-aware of the hilarity of the situation, but a quieter part wondered what in the world Maverick’s thought process had been. Surely, he’d gotten drunk, then maybe he’d decided to take a walk to clear his head, and had fucked up putting on his boots in the process. But why had he made his way to Tom’s house to order Tom to fix the problem for him? If he’d been aware enough to put the footwear on at all, surely he could just take them back off.
Still, Tom would do as Maverick asked, because Maverick was clearly very drunk, and since he’d made it all the way to Tom’s house anyway, he saw no real reason not to. He didn’t mind.
“All right,” he said, patiently. “Hold on.”
He went into the kitchen, and carried one of the chairs from the small table in there to the entryway. He set it down behind Maverick, then walked around to stand in front of him. He thought it would be easier to get Maverick back on his feet if he sat down on a chair, rather than on the ground. He definitely didn’t trust Maverick’s balance in that moment enough for Maverick to remain standing while Tom took off his boots for him.
“Sit,” Tom instructed, and, grumbling a little, Maverick did so, landing heavily on the chair. His legs flopped out in front of him. Tom bit back another laugh, and crouched down, taking Maverick’s left foot in-hand first. He yanked the right boot from it, and set it down carefully as Maverick wriggled his socked toes. Tom repeated the motion with the left boot on Maverick’s right foot, then went about tucking the boots against the wall by the front door while Maverick groaned again, luxuriously this time. Tom, amused, shook his head, and returned to the kitchen to get Maverick a glass of water.
Ten minutes later, they were seated on the lumpy Navy-provided couch in the living room. Maverick had drank the first glass of water, gone to the restroom, and then drank a second. He still smelled like liquor, but his eyes were clearer, now, and he seemed more aware of his circumstances. Tom, though, didn’t mention the boots, or the fact that Maverick hadn’t used the back door the way they’d agreed he should. Instead, he watched Maverick slowly sober up, and wondered what came next.
Maverick inhaled, and blinked a few times, before peering at Tom.
“I went to the front door,” he said, and Tom nodded. Maverick winced. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Tom said. “I’m a little more concerned about you and how you showed up here. How much did you drink?”
Maverick snorted. “A couple of doubles. I stink because I spilled the bottle on myself when I was trying to fill a fourth.”
Tom relaxed a little. Three double shots of whiskey was no joke, but it was a lot less than he had initially thought. “So, you’re okay?” he prompted.
“Yeah.” Maverick met Tom’s eyes, and his were glittering, the green of the hazel bright like sunlight off the ocean. “Maybe we can make use of the fact that I’m here.”
Tom probably should have said no, given that, even if Maverick wasn’t as drunk as he’d originally thought, he was still drunk. But his eyes were all Yes, and Tom -
Well. Tom had learned he didn’t like saying no to Maverick, especially if he didn’t have to.
So, they went to the bedroom. Maverick, unprompted, began to strip, shucking off his jacket, and then the t-shirt he’d worn beneath it, followed by his jeans and socks, until he only wore his briefs. He then looked at Tom with mild consternation, seeing that Tom had only peeled off his shirt, then had paused to watch Maverick.
“Ice?” Maverick asked.
“Are you sure?” Tom returned, still a little wary. The way that Maverick had taken his clothes off had been steady enough, but there was still a slight wobble to his balance that Tom didn’t like. The last thing he wanted was for Maverick to regret everything in the morning.
Maverick blinked at him, and then grinned, walking over. He took it upon himself to pull down the sweatpants Tom wore, humming appreciatively when he saw Tom had no underwear on beneath them. He leaned in, nipping the edge of Tom’s jaw, and murmured, “I’m sure.”
Tom, whose breath had caught, managed, “I think you might be too drunk, still,” and Maverick snorted. He pushed Tom to the edge of the bed, and then down onto the mattress.
“The hell I am,” he decided, and pulled down his own underwear, then crawled over Tom onto the bed as well, forcing the two of them up the mattress towards the wall. Maverick wasted no time at all, deftly reaching for the condoms and lube kept in the drawer on the nightstand. He tossed the condom down onto Tom’s chest as he straddled Tom’s hips, using the lube to slick up the fingers on his right hand. Tom watched in fascination as Maverick then reached his hand between his own legs, watched Maverick’s eyes flutter as he began preparing himself to take Tom’s cock. Tom could feel his own desire growing as he studied Maverick, his dick filling out. Tom couldn’t fight back a soft moan when Maverick’s hand brushed against it, and he reached up to grip Maverick’s hips.
“Not yet,” Maverick said, his own breathing heavy. He used his free hand to grab Tom’s wrist, an anchoring gesture to keep him from moving too much. “Almost.”
“Mav,” Tom gasped, the angle changing again as Maverick shifted on top of him. His dick brushed against Maverick a second time, and he cursed, softly, his grasp on Maverick’s hips tightening. There would be bruises in the shape of his fingers there in the morning.
Maverick exhaled sharply, then nodded to himself, pulling his right hand out into the open again. “Okay.”
Tom held onto him as he grabbed the condom, and ripped the packet open with his teeth. Maverick shifted back onto Tom’s thighs, so that he could roll the condom down over Tom’s cock, and Tom pressed his head back into the pillow, the direct contact almost overwhelming. How he’d gotten so hard just from watching Maverick fuck his own fingers, he had no idea, but he didn’t care either, not really.
Maverick changed position again, raising his hips up and adjusting so that his hole was centered over Tom’s dick. It required a little manhandling that had Tom gritting his teeth, but then Maverick sank down, and the head of his cock entered Maverick’s body. They both hissed out slow breaths, and their eyes met.
“Okay?” Tom managed, rubbing his thumb against Maverick’s hipbone. Maverick, rather than respond verbally, sank down onto Tom’s cock all the way, until his ass was flush with Tom’s hips. Tom grunted, and Maverick let out another patchy exhale.
“Move with me, Ice,” he murmured, and Tom did, as best as he could, matching the rhythm that Maverick set, rolling his hips up into him, and then back down to the mattress. Maverick panted above him, rising and falling on Tom’s cock like he’d trained to do such a thing, slowly increasing their speed. Tom reached for Maverick’s cock, pressed between the two of them, but Maverick stopped his hand before it could get too far, tangling their fingers and pressing it back down into the mattress. He leaned down and slotted his mouth against Tom’s for a kiss in the same motion, and the kiss was hot and wet and sloppy, their attention focused more on where their bodies were joined elsewhere. Maverick broke away from the kiss with a sharp gasp as he rolled his hips in one specific way, and Tom rolled his in another, and his eyes went dark as he gripped Tom’s hand tightly with his own.
“Again,” he whispered, and Tom did as requested, watching Maverick’s face as his dick brushed Maverick’s prostate. Maverick keened, and, before Tom really knew what was happening, having been distracted by the euphoric expression on Maverick’s face, Maverick had his hand closed around the chain that Tom’s dog tags hung from, wrapping it around his fist until Tom had no choice but to sit up or be strangled by it. The pressure changed, due to them both being upright, and Tom groaned softly into Maverick’s mouth as Maverick kissed him again, and again, before he pulled back enough to whisper something against Tom’s lips.
“You’re always fixing things for me.” His breath was warm and shaky against Tom’s face, exactly like the swooping sensation that overcame him as Maverick spoke, rocking down onto his cock with surety and determination. “Never stop,” he said, then caught Tom’s lips in another searing kiss that told Tom everything he needed to know about just how close Maverick was.
But that wasn’t going to work. Not now that Maverick had said those things, and Tom understood, at last, what the last year-and-a-half had led to. He understood that fixing things for Maverick was something that he liked to do, and something he wanted to never stop doing, either.
So, he wrapped an arm around Maverick’s waist, and slowly rolled them over, drawing one of Maverick’s legs up over his bicep as well so that the change in position wouldn’t be too much of a strain. Maverick’s eyes opened, once his back was against the mattress, and he blinked up at Tom as Tom changed their rhythm, slowing everything down, thrusting languidly and lovingly into him. He didn’t know if Maverick saw as much on his face, but Maverick was arching up off the bed towards him, making desperate little sounds, and so Tom leaned into him, pressing his forehead to Maverick’s and murmuring gentle encouragement. Moments later, Maverick came, completely untouched apart from the natural friction his dick had experienced being trapped between the two of them. Tom thrust into Maverick one last time, and held there as he came, too, his vision briefly going white, buried deep inside the man he now knew he loved.
Maverick’s hand cradled his jaw, then, and they kissed one more time, before Tom slipped from him and collapsed onto the mattress at his side. They stayed still for several moments, simply getting their breath back, and Tom realizing, again, that he loved Pete Mitchell, callsign ‘Maverick’.
Maverick hummed, softly, and Tom felt him turn towards his body, nuzzling into his shoulder. Tom shifted so that Maverick could lay on top of his arm instead, for once not immediately getting up to retrieve them something to clean off with. He instead tugged the top sheet free from where it had gotten tangled up beneath them, and wiped at Maverick’s chest, and then at his own. He then pulled off the condom, and tossed both it and the sheet onto the floor. After a few seconds of silence, he heard Maverick snicker, and Tom smiled a bit.
“What?”
“You thought I was too drunk for that?”
Tom laughed, too, and used his arm to draw Maverick’s head closer, so that he could press a kiss to the top of it. “Yeah, yeah, you proved me wrong,” he said. “Congratulations.”
Maverick sighed, and kissed Tom’s collarbone. Tom felt rather than saw Maverick’s hand settle on his abdomen, tracing a mindless pattern over the shape of the muscles. They lay quietly for a bit, Tom reflecting on his newfound information, and wondering when, or if, he would tell Maverick about it.
He was drawn from his thoughts when he heard Maverick inhale, softly, and then exhale on a sweet-sounding snore. Tom grinned, filing that information away for later, and decided he didn’t mind very much if Maverick stayed over for the first time. After all, he was in love with him.
-*-
The following morning, Tom woke in time to see Maverick sitting up at the edge of the bed, pushing his fingers through his hair with a yawn. He then glanced back at Tom, and Tom pretended to still be asleep, wondering what Maverick would do.
Whatever hopes he may have had fizzled out when the mattress shifted as Maverick stood. Tom heard him quietly collect his clothing, and then depart from the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Tom opened his eyes again, and stared at the ceiling, frowning to himself. Maverick had left. That wasn’t good, was it? Not for his newfound feelings for the man.
Perturbed, Tom got up as well. Not knowing what else to do, he went about his normal Sunday morning routine, getting dressed for a jog around the section of base he lived in, before returning to his bungalow for a shower and breakfast. He went to the on-base laundromat to do his laundry, and brought the clothes back home with him to put them away. He watched reruns of a sitcom his mother enjoyed, then called her on the phone because the sitcom had made him think of her. He’d then been drawn into conversation with his father, and the Admiral had asked Tom about his students, and Tom had said that they were all looking pretty promising.
When the phone call was done, he made himself a sandwich for lunch, and ate it quietly at his kitchen table, sitting in the same chair that Maverick had briefly occupied the night before during the shoe debacle. When he’d finished the sandwich, and put the plate in the dish drainer to dry, he glanced at the phone again, debating the merits of calling Maverick, or just going over to his house.
He was still trying to decide which option would be less awkward when there was a knock on the back door.
Tom took the two steps necessary to reach it, and pulled it open. Maverick stood on the back step, head bowed, staring at the toes of his cowboy boots. They were on the correct feet, this time. When the door opened, though, he glanced up at Tom, and smiled a bit.
“Hey,” he said. “Wanna get lunch?”
“I actually just ate,” Tom said, after a moment’s hesitation when he honestly considered just saying “Fuck it,” and eating a second meal.
“Oh.” For whatever reason, Maverick didn’t seem surprised by that, even though they did typically get lunch together on Sundays, but Tom hadn’t been sure he’d see Maverick again until Monday, given the way he had left that morning. His wingman shrugged one shoulder. “Okay. Never mind, then.”
“Did you want to come in?” Tom suggested, gesturing into the house. “We could go over tomorrow’s lesson.”
Maverick shook his head. “Nah, I’m - I actually told Goose I’d… I’d call him this afternoon, so I should probably go home and do that before I forget.”
It was Tom’s turn to say, “Oh,” and Maverick nodded. “Okay. Never mind, then.”
Maverick smiled a bit, at his repeated phrase, and it was on the tip of Tom’s tongue to bring up the night before, and to ask Maverick why he’d left without saying anything that morning. He didn’t, though, not sure what good it would do, given that Maverick had in fact left. That was probably all he needed to know about the situation, really.
So, he adjusted his weight. “Okay,” he said again. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah, sure,” Maverick agreed, still smiling. Tom couldn’t be sure if he was imagining the strain at the edges of it or not. Maverick took a step backwards, off of the stoop, and nodded to him. “See you tomorrow.”
Before Tom could convince himself to say more, or perhaps to go down to Maverick and yank him into a kiss, Maverick turned and walked off. Tom watched him climb over the fence separating the backyard of Tom’s bungalow and the one next door, before he retreated inside, closing the door with a quiet sigh. He rested his forehead against the splintery wood, and tried to convince himself that maybe it was for the best.
In which Maverick realizes he's in love with Iceman and it goes about as expected given that they're already having sex.
Word Count: ~5,124
Originally posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61441504
...
Maverick can remember realizing he was in love because of the imprint the sun shining off the ocean had left on his heart in the same moment. The sun was almost always shining off the ocean, but on that day, in that instant, he’d been startled to see the deep blue-green of the water beneath the powder blue sky, alarmed by the clarity, the brightness of the colors. He flew jets, planes, basically anything that could get up in the air except for fucking rocket ships (and he imagined he could fly one of those too if given the chance), was up in the air almost more than he was on the ground. The sun and the ocean weren’t new sights to him, and yet the colors in that moment felt new.
Approximately two seconds later, he understood why, because he remembered that he had Tom Kazansky in his life. He smiled behind his mask, the beauty of the landscape before and around him suddenly making sense.
And then he panicked, because holy shit everything is brighter because of Ice and how I feel about him oh shit fuck shit shit -
“Christ, Maverick, eyes up!”
“Shit!” Maverick jerked the stick to the right, and the F/A-18 jerked with it, lifting on the left. Exhaling harshly, Maverick chased the path of the other 18 that sped past with his eyes. Through the comms, he heard Ice release a breathless chuckle. Maverick, despite it all, despite his realization, scowled.
“Fuck you, Kazansky. The hell was that for?”
“You were drifting.” Ice’s own jet swooped, course-correcting. “Apparently, you needed to be woken up. Late night?”
Maverick clenched his teeth, fully aware of the response that Ice maybe hoped to provoke. Given that they weren’t in private, however, it wasn’t one that Maverick could give, just in case anyone else was listening in over the radio waves patching his jet to Ice’s. It was unlikely, but still not a risk Maverick wanted to take, given the newness of his awareness of his apparent love for Ice, and the fact that he would like to do something about it preferably before they were DD’d from the Navy for “conduct unbecoming” or whatever the fuck.
Instead of what he wanted to say, he said, “No, not really,” and knew he’d pay the price for it later, in Ice’s bed, since that was where they were supposed to spend the night per the agreement they’d made over the last six months since they’d started… well, whatever it was that they were doing. Neither of them had really defined it, yet, and Maverick figured they wouldn’t until one or the other of them spoke up about it. Given his realization, he supposed he’d be the one to do just that, and preferably sooner rather than later. It wasn’t necessarily something he wanted to bottle up, not when they were already halfway to being a thing anyway. And they were already sort of a thing, given they were fucking on a regular-enough basis. His realization would just be taking it to the next level.
If that was something Ice was interested in. If not, if he’d hoped to just keep it casual, unnamed, then… Maverick would deal with that when he knew for sure it was the case.
Ice, he knew, must have been bothered by Maverick’s chosen response. He liked knowing that he’d worn Maverick out; it had something to do with his arrogance, Maverick thought. Despite that, though, when he said, “Oh, so you just aren’t paying attention,” his tone was cool. His callsign was “Iceman” for more than just his flying, after all.
Maverick tightened his grip on the stick, suddenly desperate to see Ice, even if he was desperately scared to do so.
“We should head back,” he said, glancing at his control panel to reaffirm to himself that the F/A-18 he flew wasn’t flashing any lights at him, meaning it was ready to go for the next teaching session that started in a little less than a week. He and Ice had been tasked with taking jets out all morning on test flights, to make sure that there weren't any last-minute repairs that needed to be done before the students showed up. As such, they’d been in the air all morning. Maverick loved flying for no reason other than just to fly, but, in the face of his realization, the cockpit felt too hot around him, and his flight suit too tight.
For the first time since Goose, Maverick wanted out of the sky, wanted to be on the ground. And, he realized, he didn’t really want to see Ice, but knew he needed to. Because the last time he’d avoided seeing someone, if was because they’d almost died, and his last words to them had almost been, “Goddammit, Goose, eject!"
But Goose had been okay. Once Maverick had finally worked up the courage to go to him in the hospital, in the face of his guilt and his terror that Goose would be gone when he got there, instead of lying down in the morgue, his friend had instead been sitting up in a hospital bed, C-collar around his neck. Although he hadn’t been able to turn to look Maverick in the eye, he’d still said, “‘bout time you stopped by,” and Maverick had started to cry and said, “Sorry it took so long,” and Goose had said, “It’s no problem. Not like I had anywhere to be,” and then Maverick had laughed and he’d been able to tell Goose that he loved him, and Goose had said it back, and it had been okay.
Maverick knew he needed to say it to Ice, too, so that things would be okay.
As such, he needed out of the sky, so that he could look Ice in the eye when he said it, because even though he hadn’t been able to look Goose in the eye, it had been enough. Not looking in Ice’s when he said it wouldn’t be.
Ice, ever the observant one between the two of them, must have heard the nerves in Maverick’s voice, even if he’d wanted to disguise them. Some of the ice in his own voice had cracked when he said, “You sure? We’re getting paid to fly around without any real timeline, you know.”
“Yeah,” Maverick said. “You good to go?”
“Yeah,” Ice said, after a momentary pause. “On your wing.”
Taking that for the invitation it was, Maverick directed his 18 around, back towards base. Although he could no longer see Ice, he could feel the other presence in the air just behind him, to the right. He ignored the fact that there was no light ribbing between the two of them, as there normally would have been. A small voice in the back of Maverick’s mind suggested he at least try for some, so that Ice wouldn’t wonder, but he couldn't come up with anything to say. His brain seemed stuck between two thoughts: the colors of the sun and sky and ocean, and Ice. Ice’s smirk. His eyes. His voice, in all the various ways Maverick had heard it. Snide. Emotionless. Amused. Breathless with want -
Maverick took a breath, then another. He blinked hard. Maybe talking with Ice in the locker room once they were on the ground wasn’t the best option. Maybe it would be better to wait.
When he touched down, he didn’t stick around for Ice to do the same. Instead, after freeing himself from the overly-hot cockpit and the suffocating face-mask and helmet, he headed straight for the staff locker room within the TOPGUN facility. Stopping in front of his locker, one of only four that were occupied, he stripped, shucking off his flight gear and suit. The building’s air conditioner was cranked, due to the weather of early-August California, and the chill air bit at his sweaty skin. He shivered involuntarily, raking a hand through his hair, and winced at how damp it was with sweat. He shouldn’t have needed to shower, not with how casual his flights had been, but he did. He’d feel sticky and uncomfortable otherwise.
He cursed, softly, and grabbed the personal care products from his locker, as well as a towel, and slammed the door to it shut. He ignored the door to the locker room as it opened, heading straight for the showers instead. He marched to the one furthest back, and cranked the knob. Water flowed down onto the tile, loud in the otherwise silent space. Maverick peeled off the clothing he’d worn beneath his flight suit, focusing on breathing and calming down. There was no reason for him to be anxious, not really. He just needed to take things one step at a time. He would shower. He would change into his khakis, since he’d be remaining at TOPGUN for the next couple of hours to go through the student files for the next batch of kids coming to Miramar. He’d go to his office to do that, as best as he could given he knew where his focus would actually be. Then, he’d go home. At least, until he gave up putting it off, and knew he needed to talk to Ice. Until then, though, he didn’t need to be thinking about it. The fact that Ice made the colors of the world brighter and more beautiful.
Shower. Clothes. Office. Home.
“Maverick.”
Fucking shit.
Maverick turned his head away from the spray of water, which he’d only just stepped beneath. Ice stood before the shower stall, a vague shape behind the privacy curtain that instructors were afforded, but that students weren’t.
“What?” Maverick asked. “I’m a little busy, in case you couldn’t tell.”
It came out more waspishly than he’d intended, and Maverick bit back a curse at himself. He heard Ice let out a breath, which was probably remarkable given the noise from the shower. He watched the privacy curtain shift, the plastic rustling, and knew Ice had to be standing on the other side, debating with himself.
After a long moment, he must have made up his mind. Instead of the curtain being jerked to the side, and Ice joining him in the shower stall, Ice sighed again.
“You staying?”
Maverick hesitated for a second. “For a bit.”
“Okay.” Maverick stared at Ice’s shape beyond the curtain. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Ice to change his mind about moving it aside, or if he wanted Ice to go away. His chest tight, he cleared his throat. “You?”
“For a bit,” Ice said. “I’ll see you over there?”
“Guess so,” Maverick replied. He could hear his pulse, the warm thrum of blood like drums in his ears.
“Okay.”
Ice’s shape disappeared, and Maverick was able to exhale. He turned back into the water, closing his eyes, and kept breathing.
-*-
He knew he spent too much time in the shower, and in the locker room afterwards. He was lucky that the facility was mostly vacated for the break between TOPGUN sessions, because if Jester knew he’d spent close to twenty minutes alone with the water running, he’d never hear the end of it.
As it was, by the time he made it to the hallway where his and Ice’s shared office was, about forty-five minutes had passed since Ice had left him alone. Part of him wanted Ice to not be in said shared office, having given up waiting for Maverick and left. The other louder, hornier part of him begged the universe not to have let Ice leave. Of course, they would never do anything in the office, but Maverick knew he wanted to see him. Wanted to speak to him. About… the thing.
He rounded the corner, saw the door to their office was propped open, and his step faltered. Ice hadn’t left. Probably because he was doing work, but maybe because he wanted to see Maverick, too?
Maverick could hope.
He made himself keep walking, and stepped into the office with a false air of boredom. He didn’t glance over at Ice’s desk as he crossed to his own, groaning. He slumped into the chair behind it, leaning his head back to avoid Ice’s gaze.
He heard Ice huff a little. “Bit dramatic of you.”
God, his voice. Maverick adored it. It was the best sound in all ways, but hearing it clear, without the static of the radio or the running water layered over it…
Maverick was well and truly fucked. Which, of course, he'd already figured out.
“Dramatic is my middle name,” he said, aiming for levity, hoping Ice wouldn’t be able to hear the desire in his voice.
Ice snorted. “I thought it was 'caution,’” he said. “Or, wait, was it ‘shit head’?”
“Haha.” Maverick lifted his head, and his eyes met Ice’s. A hot spear of want dove straight through his stomach when he saw how Ice's twinkled with amusement, pale blue, almost gray, in the sunlight streaming into the office. Ice cocked his head to the side, and Maverick wouldn’t have been surprised to know it was because Ice had seen something telling on his face. Before Ice could say anything, though, Maverick broke their eye contact, looking down at the files stacked haphazardly on his desk.
“Have you glanced at any of these yet?” he asked, trying not to react bodily as Ice rose from his desk and walked to the door. The sound of it clicking shut echoed in Maverick’s chest.
“No,” Ice said. “Figured we would do that together, so we can start planning lessons. Same as always.”
“Right.” Duh. They’d done this four times already, had been co-instructors since returning to Miramar to teach at TOPGUN after the Layton rescue and their brief Enterprise deployment. They’d gotten better at working together through the sessions they’d taught. Maverick knew they read student files together. Viper had suggested it. He shook his head, clearing muddy thoughts from it. “Sorry.”
“You’re not here today, are you?” Ice asked, after a moment of silence.
Maverick tried on a smile. “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”
“You know what I mean." Maverick’s smile faded, and he lowered his gaze, shrugging. Ice sighed. “Maverick.”
“We don’t talk.” The words felt punched out of him, although by what fucking ghost or otherwise, Maverick had no clue. He grimaced down at the top of his desk as he listened to Ice breathe.
“Sorry?”
Maverick exhaled. “We don’t talk about things like that,” he clarified, his voice lowered. “So… we don’t need to talk about where my head is. Because that isn’t something we do, and there’s… there’s no real reason to start today.” He glanced up at Ice again. “Right?”
Ice’s eyebrows drew together, creating that crease between them that Maverick had noticed before, in the quiet moments. Ice studying hop results. Ice examining flight patterns and statistics. Concentration. Deep thinking. Ice was thinking hard about what Maverick had said. And Maverick wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
He waited, though, some piece of him wanting to know what conclusion Ice landed on.
Finally, Ice’s shoulders straightened. “We could talk about things like that.” Maverick blinked, and Ice tilted his head again. He had remained by the door during his quiet contemplation, but now he took a few steps towards Maverick’s desk. “You can talk to me,” he said, quietly.
Maverick frowned. “Since when?”
Ice frowned back. “What kind of question is that?”
“Don’t.”
Ice spread his hands. “What is it you want me to say, then?” he demanded. “Do you want me to be uninterested?”
“No,” Maverick snapped, anger rising, “but I don’t want you to pretend, either.”
“Pretend?” Ice stared at him. “You think I’m pretending to want to hear what it is you’re thinking?”
Well, yeah, until he’d said that. Now, though, hearing his tone, and seeing his expression, Maverick wasn’t sure. He figured the best option would be to state the facts.
“We fuck,” he began. “We fuck, and then one of us leaves and the next day we flirt, sort of, as best as we can without drawing attention, and then we fuck again, usually at the other’s house this time, and the one who doesn’t live there leaves when it’s over, and always before sun-up.” Maverick made himself meet Ice’s eyes again. “That doesn’t sound like the type of…” He trailed off, and huffed, annoyed. “That’s not the type of situation where you talk to the other person, is it?”
Ice seemed somewhere between taken aback and affronted. He blinked at Maverick for a moment, then said, carefully, “Mav, are you… are you pissed that we’re not doing more than fucking?”
“You know what? Yes.” Maverick slumped back in his chair, letting his eyes fall closed. Saying it out loud had lifted the ten-pound weight he’d felt settle onto his chest up in the F/A-18. Aware that Ice was still in the room with him, however, and knowing that that those four words weren’t enough, he felt twenty new pounds settle onto him instead, and he knew that there was more he needed to say if he wanted to get rid of them, too.
“You piss me off,” Maverick said, “but in the best way possible, I think. You - I want to do better because you push me. I want to know how you feel about things, about… about the way I teach, or the way I get a missile lock on a pair of students, or what we eat for dinner before we go back to one of our places and fuck. I want to… I want to talk to you. And I never want to stop talking to you.” He opened his eyes, and made himself look at Ice. “Today I realized that the colors in the world are brighter because of you, and I needed to say it out loud.”
During his rant, when he’d had his eyes closed, Ice had taken a few more steps towards his desk. Maverick, however, remained where he was, not trusting his body to cooperate with any directives given by his brain when Ice was standing there looking like that. And anyway, he still had more to say.
“Two years.”
Ice, who’d been taking another step, paused. The crease returned to between his brows. “What?”
Maverick glanced towards the wall calendar, to reaffirm the date in his mind. “Two years, fifty-four days -” A glance at the watch on his wrist let him know the time, and he did some mental math. “- five hours and twelve minutes? Maybe? I’m not sure what time it was when I actually saw you that day, but it was probably somewhere around 08:10.”
“Mav -”
“Anyway, that’s how long we’ve known each other,” Maverick continued, barreling past whatever Ice had wanted to say. “We’ve been doing whatever it is we’re doing for about six months. And… somewhere in that timeline is when I started feeling like this.” He gestured to himself, then looked at Ice again. “But it was only about an hour-and-a-half ago that I realized what it meant. So now what I need is for you to take whatever the next step is, now that you know, too.”
Ice said nothing, and Maverick took a second, squeezing his eyes shut again. “Because I could just live with it, you know that, but I’m tired of just living with things. And this is something I want to confront, so that’s what I’m doing. By telling you that colors are brighter because you’re around.” He opened his eyes again, but leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling instead. “I don’t - you can do whatever you want with that, Ice, but I needed to tell you, and I’m glad I did, regardless of what you do next.”
It took a moment, but then Ice said, “Yeah?” as though for clarification, and Maverick nodded, once.
“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes, then blinked, and made himself look at his wingman. He started, seeing Ice directly on the other side of his desk, having finished closing the space between them. He was within grabbing distance, now, a dreamy part of Maverick helpfully noted.
Ice had a strange expression on his face, complete with a little smirk, that Maverick had no clue how to read. He stared at Ice, confused and more than a little apprehensive, as Ice shifted slightly to the left. He looked at Maverick, an eyebrow cocked in question, and, after a moment, Maverick shifted his chair back, to make room. Ice stepped around the desk, and stopped in front of Maverick’s chair. Maverick, who’d learned that he didn’t mind being lorded over like this when it came to Tom Kazansky, peered up at him from beneath his eyelashes. In his mind, he looked just flirty and desirable enough that Ice would have no choice but ravage him, and, based on the way he heard Ice’s breathing pattern switch, he definitely did in real life, too.
But then Ice blinked, and his features softened. He squatted down before Maverick’s chair, hanging onto Maverick’s knees to help support his weight. He smirked again, just the slightest upwards quick to the left side of his mouth, the smirk Maverick had seen more frequently over the past few months.
“Brighter colors?” he asked.
Maverick nodded.
“And you want me to do something with that information."
“Yes.”
Ice squeezed his knee. “Okay. Well, I’m gonna be honest, then, since you were honest with me.” Maverick steeled himself, and Ice tapped his knee with one finger, as though he’d seen it on Maverick’s face and wanted him to relax. “What I’d like to do with the information can’t really be done here in the office. You get me?”
Maverick did relax, so much so that his mouth dropped open a little. He quickly snapped it shut, though, and managed another nod in response to Ice’s query. Ice nodded back.
“Great. So here’s what I suggest: we spend an hour looking over the files, maybe figure out what we're going to do with the students on the first day of TOPGUN, once Viper and Jester finish their welcome. After that, we’ll go get food somewhere. I’ll drive, because there’s no way I’m riding behind you on that deathtrap you call a motorcycle.”
“I’m a safe driver,” Maverick said, on instinct, even though his brain was stuck on " … can’t really be done here in the office."
“No, you’re not,” Ice said.
“Never gotten a ticket.”
Ice exhaled, and raised his eyebrows. “You’re getting off-topic.”
Maverick smiled a bit, relieved by the chance to be a smart-ass. “Then get me back on-topic, sir.”
That earned him a slap to the thigh. Not a hard one, necessarily, but hard enough that Maverick felt it in his whole leg, and in his cock, which twitched within his khakis. Maverick bit back a whimper, and Ice peered at him.
“Don’t be a brat, Mitchell,” he said, flatly. “I’m trying to explain to you what’s going to happen now that I know what you wanted me to know. I thought that was what you wanted.”
Maverick exhaled through his teeth. “I do,” he said, “but I also want to know specifically what it means for you.”
“That is not what you asked for.”
“I’m asking for it now.” Maverick stared at Ice, lifting his chin a little. A challenge. He knew Ice never backed down from one.
Ice sighed a little, adjusting his weight.
“For me, it means that I want to buy you dinner,” he began, quietly. Maverick watched his face as Ice lowered his gaze to the top button of Maverick’s shirt, which he’d left undone. Ice’s finger tapped against Maverick’s knee again, and he glanced back up, blue eyes warm. “It means I want to go home with you, and stay the whole night. It means I want to wake up with you tomorrow morning, and on as many morning as possible. Because I want to spend as much time with you as I can, even though you piss me off, too. In the best way. Because you make me want to be better.”
“Ice -”
“But I think, given what you told me, those things don’t need to be wants. They can just be.” Ice searched Maverick’s face. “Right?”
Without thinking about it, Maverick raised his hand, and carded it through Ice’s hair. The styled spikes, their bleach-blond having long faded, giving way to Ice’s darker natural color, were stubborn against Maverick’s fingers. His hand still found its way to the side of Ice’s head, though, and he nodded.
“Makes sense to me,” he said, and then smiled. “It’s kind of hard to just say what you mean, huh?”
Ice shook his head, then turned it so that he was nuzzling into Maverick’s palm. He even went so far as to press a kiss to it, before he returned his gaze to Maverick’s.
“I’ll say it as many times as you want me to, Mav,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming, “but since you couldn’t, I figured I wouldn’t make you feel bad by being outright about it.”
Maverick, forced into a laugh, dropped his hand. “Fuck you.”
“Later,” Ice said. “I told you that already.”
Maverick, his smile softening, glanced between Ice’s eyes. “Will you say it?” he asked.
Ice smiled back. “You first, hotshot,” he invited.
“All right.” Maverick also wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge, and definitely wouldn’t start with this one. “You’re my wingman, Ice, and at some point over the last two years, fifty-four days, five hours, and -” A glance at his watch. “- twenty minutes, I fell in love with you. I love you. And I doubt I’ll ever stop.”
Ice beamed, and despite his callsign, it was brighter than the sun. “See? Knew you could do it.”
Maverick resisted reaching out to pull his hair in retort. “Your turn.”
“Four months, six days,” Ice said, after taking a breath.
Maverick’s grin slipped from his face. “Sorry?”
“That’s how long I’ve known I love you,” Ice responded. He was smirking again, damn him. “I don’t know the exact time, though, because we were a little busy when I figured it out.”
Maverick was at a loss. “What -?”
“It was that night you showed up at my house, drunk as hell,” Ice said. “You had your boots on the wrong feet, and you wouldn’t stop complaining about how your feet hurt. When I tried to explain to you why that was, you told me to shut the fuck up and fix it, so… I did. Remember?”
Vaguely. Maverick had gotten drunk pretty frequently over the last six months, mostly after he’d already been dismissed from Ice’s home for the evening. He shook his head, and blinked at Ice. “You fell in love with me because I was a dick to you?”
“No, dumbass,” Ice said, with a roll of his eyes. He looked back at Maverick, and smiled. “I fell in love with you before that. I realized I was in love with you twenty minutes after you were a dick, when we ended up in bed. You, uh -” Maverick was astonished to see color rise in Ice’s cheeks, but to his credit, he didn’t look away or duck his head. “You grabbed the chain for my dog tags, wrapped it around your fist so that we’d be closer to one another. And you said, “You’re always fixing things for me. Never stop,” and I - I knew that I never wanted to stop. Which I figured meant I was in love with the drunk-ass naval aviator who’d put his shoes on the wrong feet and showed up at my house complaining about it because he knew I’d fix it for him.”
And Maverick knew what night Ice was talking about now, he'd simply chosen to repress it because even after how different it had been from all the nights before, Ice had acted like it hadn't been, and so Maverick had made the decision to do the same. But he remembered all of it, remember dragging Ice to his bedroom and pushing him down onto the bed. Remembered Ice insisting that Maverick was too drunk for this, and his own snappish response of, "The hell I am," and to prove it, he'd straddled Ice's hips and taken the lead in a way he typically didn't, given Ice's own tendency to. He recalled wanting to be closer, recalled grabbing the chain forever around Ice's neck, just like the one forever around his own, could remember wrapping it up in his fist and tugging, bringing Ice up to him. He could remember saying the words, whispering them against Ice's mouth, and could remember how things had been slower after that.
That was the first night they'd stopped fucking, and Maverick knew now that, in Ice's mind at least, that was the night they'd started making love instead.
And it was the next morning, the only morning that Maverick had woken up in Ice's bed with the sun, that Maverick had concluded he didn't want to keep leaving in the middle of the night, but that he would anyway, because it was the safer thing to do.
Maverick suddenly couldn't breathe. He did so, though, just so that he could gasp, “Jesus Christ, Ice,” and Ice offered him a shrug, casual as all get-out despite the revelation of the last thirty seconds.
“It’s not a competition, obviously, but I thought I’d share my data, since you had some, too.”
Maverick desperately wanted to kiss him. “Can we skip the extra hour here, and also dinner, and cut straight to the last part of your plan?”
Ice chuckled. “I really want to take you to dinner, though.”
“You have time for that,” Maverick told him.
Ice hummed. “I guess you have a point.” He got up from his crouched position, and held out his hands. Maverick took them. Ice helped Maverick stand as well, then grinned at him. “You know, if we leave now, we’re going to have a fuck-ton of work to do tomorrow.”
“I’m aware, and can accept that if you can,” Maverick responded, every part of him itching to get his hands on the man who made his world’s colors more bright.
Ice’s smile was just as bright, if not brighter. “Just this once.”
-*-
Later, as they lay in Ice's bed, sated and sleepy, Maverick lifted his head, chin on Ice's shoulder, and whispered, "Can you say it?"
Ice smiled, his eyes closed. "You know the drill."
Maverick smiled, too. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Mav. Go to sleep. We have files to read tomorrow."
“Uhm.” You peered up at the empty saddle of the pony positioned in front of you, which, ironically, looked to be about a mountain’s hike away.
Ironic, of course, because of the whole… quest to reobtain a lost mountain for the Dwarves.
That you’d somehow ended up roped in on, because, unfortunately, you’d decided to visit an old friend the night before, and had been identified by an impatient, grey old wizard as a “good backup plan”.
You still weren’t entirely certain what was going on, but to be fair, it had all happened very fast. You knew there was a mountain involved, and that you were going to be traveling with a party of twelve dwarves and said grey old wizard. You’d heard about the dragon, but had peacefully subsisted from the conversation as soon as you heard the word “incineration”, out of self-preservation.
As such, you really didn’t know much, but you knew for sure that you weren’t going to be riding the pony standing in front of you.
The pony, to its credit, tossed you an uninterested look, before lowering its head to nibble at the grass. Glad that it seemed to be in no hurry to receive a rider, you took a few steps back, rocking onto your heels, and then your toes. You most definitely were not tall enough to climb up onto the animal’s back, and probably wouldn’t be able to control the thing, even if you got up there.
“I think I’ll walk for this first bit,” you announced, positive that no one was listening anyway. “Could use the steps.”
“So that you can slow the whole Company down?” a gruff voice inquired from behind you, startling an “Eep!” from your throat as you spun to face the Dwarf it belonged to. He peered down at you, brow furrowed, tattooed head bright beneath the sun, and snorted. “Not a chance,” he decided, and shuffled you back towards the pony. “Up you get.”
“What if I don’t want to?” you asked, doing your best to wriggle out of Dwalin’s unfortunately firm grasp on your shoulders.
“Waiting for everyone to want to do things isn’t really something we have time for,” his brother pointed out, approaching a different pony that was standing close by, amidst the collection of them that had been rounded up by someone from the Company earlier that morning. Balin, because he was at least understanding, sent you a sympathetic look.
What he said next, though, was extremely unhelpful.
“Although, it might be best for you to share a saddle with one of us, to avoid any unnecessary struggles,” he mused.
“Ah -” you started, even as Dwalin gave a satisfied sound from behind you.
“Good idea,” he said.
“Wait, wait, wait!” you tried, although the last was more of a squeak as you were hefted up onto the pony, into the saddle, facing… backwards. You blinked in surprise at an equally-surprised Ori, before Dwalin hiked his way up into the saddle as well, effectively blocking your view. You blinked at him instead. “Hullo.”
He scowled. “Why are you backwards?”
You flapped your hands, overwhelmed. “You’re the one who put me here!”
He grunted, and, with some rather awkward maneuvering, faced you forward instead, so that you were staring over the pony’s ears towards Balin. He’d successfully mounted his own pony, not backwards. He did, however, look at you from over his shoulder, and offer a warm smile.
“Chin up!” he said, cheerfully. “A pony isn’t a harsh creature, after all. They’re actually rather docile, if you treat them well.” He winked. “And so’s my brother.”
Behind you, said brother grunted, again, and reached around you to take up the reins. “Speak for yourself,” he snarked to Balin, who grinned wider, and turned away, directing his pony forward towards where the leader of the Company was chatting with the wizard.
Your own pony nickered, and jerked its head against the reins, apparently just as ornery as the Dwarf behind you. Dwalin, of course, pulled back on them, and you found yourself caught between a pony and a Dwarf, arms crossed tightly, not wanting to move for fear of disturbing them further.
“Mister Dwalin,” you said, “if you’d rather ride alone, I’m sure I could sit with someone else.”
“No,” Dwalin replied, without leaving much room for argument.
Given your desire for comfort, you felt as though you had no choice but to argue.
“I really do think -”
“Are you going to talk this much the entire time?” he interrupted, and you fought the urge to bite your tongue, recognizing your way out from needing to sit with him and his irate creature, who’d seemed so kind up until now.
“Absolutely.”
Dwalin sighed heavily, and directed the pony around, so that it was facing the rest of the Company, all of whom were in the process of mounting up.
“Who wants the Hobbit?” he demanded.
When no immediate hands were raised, you pursed your lips, and sank further down into yourself, wanting nothing more than to disappear. It wasn’t as though you’d decided yourself to come along for this adventure. In fact, you hadn’t been given much of a choice, since Bilbo hadn’t signed the contract, and you’d been the only Hobbit awake that morning to tag along.
Damn you, Bilbo Baggins, you thought, as Dwalin urged his pony towards Bofur. The dismayed look on his face was anything but reassuring.
Two hours, four pony swaps, and a Bilbo-arrival later, you found yourself sitting in front of Kili on the back of his pony. This particular co-saddle situation had been the most pleasant, probably due to the sugar cubes that the young Dwarf kept sneaking into your hand to feed the pony. Each time the pony lipped up one of the cubes from your palm, tickling your hand and making you giggle, Kili would giggle, too.
Which, of course, had drawn the curiosity of his brother, and Ori, too, both of whom were riding just ahead. Fili kept glancing back over his shoulder, clearly wanting in on the joke, whatever it might have been. Ori, meanwhile, seemed to be trying to solve the puzzle of whatever it was that kept the two of you laughing, especially given the darkening sky overhead that had soured almost everyone’s mood.
Eventually, Kili sighed, and you looked back at him, confused.
“The sugar’s gone,” he confessed, and you chortled, facing forward again. “No, it’s not good,” Kili insisted.
“Why not?” you asked, still smiling.
“The pony’s going to be upset. We’ve been bribing it with sweets, and now that there’s none left…”
You let that sink in for a moment, before clearing your throat, looking ahead towards Fili and Ori.
“I’d like a new riding partner, please,” you called.
“Hey.” Kili sounded dismayed, and you shook your head.
“You’re on your own. I don’t want to be here when this one starts getting grumpy,” you told him, then happily accepted the hand Fili held out to you, to help you slip out of Kili’s saddle and onto his instead.
“Sorry, brother,” Fili said as you got comfortable, for once sitting behind one of the Dwarves instead of in front of them.
“Traitor,” Kili said, frowning at you, although there was no malice in his voice. You watched as he nudged his pony with his heels, and trotted off up the road towards the front of the column. Sitting with Fili instead, you tried to figure out what to do with your hands, not necessarily comfortable with the idea of holding onto him directly. You figured that, since you were behind him, had had no real interest in conversing with you, and so when he spoke, you were stunned.
“Tell me more about yourself.”
You studied the back of his head, his golden hair a mess of twists and tangles in the places he couldn’t reach. “Really?”
“Sure,” Fili responded. “We’re riding together, after all. Conversation could make the time pass faster.”
“Don’t fall for it,” Gloin called out, from where he was riding past, to catch up with his brother further ahead.
“Fall for what?” you shouted back, but Gloin did not respond. You frowned. “Fall for what?” you asked again, more quietly, directing it towards Fili instead.
“He’s just mad because I fell asleep during one of his stories one time,” Fili answered. “But he doesn’t give me enough credit for staying up as long as I did, given how boring of a story it was.”
“That’s a little cruel of you.”
“I know, but I was young,” Fili said. “It’s been close to thirty years now. He should let it go.”
“Thirty years?” You considered that information, then asked, “Exactly how old are you?”
“Eighty-two,” Fili answered, without hesitation. “So you must be… what, around seventy-five?”
You laughed. “A ripe old forty-five, actually. Not quite to my prime, but almost.”
“Forty-five?” Fili looked at you from over his shoulder, alarmed. “You’re still a child by Dwarven standards! What are you doing here with us?”
“Well, I don’t know if you recall last night, and also this morning, but I believe I was forced,” you pointed out, stretching your arms up over your head. Your back twinged, the cracking of your spine coinciding with the sounds of thunder from the distance. You and Fili both turned towards it, before Fili exhaled an unhappy sigh.
“That’s no good,” he murmured. “It’ll slow us down.”
On silent agreement, you set your arms around his waist, to hold on a bit tighter, so that Fili could pick up the pony’s pace.
Maybe sharing a saddle wasn’t so bad. At least, not when the Dwarf you were sharing with was willing to share, and in more ways than one.
Could be, perhaps, that the whole adventure wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
shout out to potc character Bootstrap Bill Turner because if he did not have the galaxy brain idea to hide a cursed piece of gold from a bloodthirsty, vicious, immortal pirate crew by sending it to his defenseless child, non of the movies would have taken place the way they did.
Literally father of all time no further notes no further comments
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
Every year I listen in horror as the McElroys inevitably decide upon the Year Name that is hardest to come up with a pleasing design for. And yet, here we are, with my drawing for Twenty Make It Stick, as well as some of my favorite rejected names.
Rest assured, I will be doing my best to cook up some heaters for the big boy in the year to come. Happy New Year, everybody
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