Christmas Eve on an aircraft carrier is gloomy at best. They serve cold stuffing straight from a can in the mess hall, superior officers ease up a little, and that's the most you can expect.
"Should I call Carol?"
"Goose, you just called five minutes ago."
"It's been at least an hour."
"No."
"Maybe something happened in the last five minutes that I need to know about."
Maverick gives him a sideways look.
"It's just... hey, man, I've never missed Christmas before."
"Sorry," Maverick says. "Uh, we can do Christmas," he adds as he bumps open the doors of the mess hall with his shoulder. "I'll... steal something and wrap it in newspaper? I'll steal a MiG for you."
"Festive," says Goose.
They sit down at the nearest vacant table.
Maverick crosses his arms and buries his face in his elbows. "When do we get out of this shithole?"
"Two and a half months, if I remember right."
"Noooo," Maverick moans, lolling dramatically in his chair. "No... Goose."
"What's the problem?"
"No one," Maverick says. "I mean nothing. I'm gonna get something to eat." He gets up and walks away quickly before Goose could say anything.
Iceman was on the USS Kennedy with them. To be more specific, Iceman and Slider were both on the USS Kennedy with them, and ever since Maverick had figured this out, he'd been a wreck.
He'd almost escaped. He was so goddamn close. Iceman was Top Gun, he'd beaten them by one point and gotten his little trophy, and he was supposed to stay and teach so Maverick could run away and go be a fuck-up elsewhere and try forget about all of those looks they'd parried back and forth and the time they'd become completely incensed at each other and gotten way too close for comfort and Iceman had almost, almost put his lips on Maverick and then a distant door had slammed and they'd snapped out of it and gone back to avoiding eye contact.
But no, he'd run off to a tour of duty and here was Iceman trying to do the same thing and, irony of ironies, they were trapped together. For months.
So Maverick's a mess. His chest aches, he's up all night tossing and turning like a sweaty California roll in his bunk, and he walks around like a sick cat in heat trying not to rub his horny self all over the walls. He seems to run into Iceman everywhere - out on the tarmac, in the hallways, coming out of his bunk in the morning. Sometimes they speak. Sometimes it sounds even halfway normal, considering that even exchanging two words requires them to shovel subtext like manure.
Goose sidles up behind him as he picks up a tray. "Melodrama on the high seas?"
"You could say that," replies Maverick.
"Well, look who we have here," says a familiar voice.
Maverick and Goose turn in unison. Slider's behind them, leaning on his tray and smirking. Iceman flanks him, empty-handed. Maverick sucks in some air and flattens himself against Goose, his heart thumping wildly. "Yep," he says, a little nonsensically. Goose bumps him away with an elbow and Iceman moves forward, pushing Maverick gently down the line when the pilots behind them start in with the familiar raucous hey buddy what's the hold up here routine.
"You know, we haven't seen you two around much," Slider tosses out.
"Yeah, what's up, Mitchell?" Iceman murmurs, his mouth distressingly close to Maverick's ear.
"I've seen plenty of you, Kazansky," Maverick replies, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat. Iceman bumps Maverick's thigh as they move down the line. Maverick, nursing a semi now and panicking slightly because fuck man, they're surrounded by people, turns to catch Iceman's eye. Iceman gazes back at him, expressionless, eyes dark. Christ.
"'Ey, we got a problem ova there?" a pilot with a ridiculous Bostonian accent yells.
"Mav," Goose says, staring at the clump that the two of them and Slider had formed, blocking any forward progress.
"Yeah," Maverick says, ducking away from Iceman, who follows, only to mutter to him, "Enjoy the stuffing, I hear it's terrible."
"See you on the tarmac," he replies coolly. Iceman snorts before disappearing into the crowd, flanked by his RIO.
Once they're out of earshot, Goose turns. "Mav," he says suspiciously.
Maverick opens his mouth and chokes on what he was about to say, opting to shrug like he has no idea.
/
The bad thing about an aircraft carrier is that there's nowhere to go to escape, unless you're personally in a dire state or the whole thing is about to burst into flames. Maverick is in a dire boner state, but that's not exactly something you can go to a superior officer with, so he settles for leaning over the railing and staring at the ocean as it rushes by, letting his dog tags dangle from his neck. In the distance, he hears Jingle Bell Rock being sung drunkenly and off-tune, and then something crashes loudly.
Iceman is not going to do anything about it. Iceman is going to keep teasing him like this until the end of time. Either Iceman is a sadistic fucker, or he lacks the balls to do anything other than stare Maverick down in the showers and grab his ass like some horny hall monitor who claims to have abandoned all naughtiness for the sake of professionalism but, at the end of the day, is human and subsequently makes a hypocrite and an ass of himself.
Maybe Maverick should get some joy out of that, seeing as he's usually the one making an ass out of himself, but no, it's just frustrating. Because it was this way at TOPGUN and that's most of the reason that he ran away, and now he has to deal with it again, and neither of them have the common sense to either drop it and leave it alone or do something about it.
After some more pointless moping in the general direction of the sea, Maverick remembers that he won't be near another woman for almost three months, and suddenly the situation seems that much worse.
/
He makes the arduous walk back to his and Goose's quarters, dragging his feet, and as he's putting his key in the door he hears footsteps.
It's Iceman, with his fist around the neck of a bottle of whiskey.
They stare at each other.
"Didn't know you two slept here," Iceman says, smoothly and immediately, like Maverick's going to assume he's a stalker otherwise.
"Yeah," Maverick says evasively, fumbling with his key, trying not to surrender to the prickly sweats.
"There's a -"
"Christmas party? Yeah, I heard them, they're down... more that way." He gestures vaguely.
Iceman sets his mouth in an odd way and Maverick isn't sure why, but he blurts out, "You want to come in for a minute?"
Iceman spins the whiskey by its neck. "Sure."
Maverick opens the door and wanders in awkwardly. Iceman follows, hovering in the doorway, filling it.
"Little more room up here," Iceman says. Maverick knows what he means. The rooms are nicer topside, having gone a while without renovation to be made more efficient, with barracks that are more like bunk beds. And there's a desk, which has been lovingly bolted to the floor.
Maverick drags some chairs out of hiding and flips on a light. Iceman sets the vodka down on the desk while Maverick digs through the nightstand for shot glasses. He finds three and juggles them for a moment, looking for the two cleanest, before handing one to Iceman. Their fingers brush and Maverick accidentally sucks in some air in surprise because just last night he was whacking off thinking about all of the highly dirty things he wanted those fingers to do to him.
Instead of jerking away Iceman lingers for a moment, then takes the glass and steadies it on the desk.
"Where'd you get the whiskey?"
Iceman shakes his head. "Slider got it, I didn't ask." He gives Maverick a sanctimonious little smile.
They're close, way too close. The walls are closing in on them or something and Iceman is so... obviously present. He smells like aftershave and some cologne that stings Maverick's nose a little, and he's radiating warmth in the cold air. Maverick tries to take a steadying breath.
Iceman twists the cap on the whiskey and the seal breaks with a muted noise.
"So where is Slider?"
Iceman gestures downward and over. He's with the Jingle Bell Rock crew.
The civility of this conversation is giving Maverick the creeps. He's almost nostalgic for the easy, sexually tense banter of a month ago. Hell, of an hour ago. Why does Iceman turn into a gentleman when they're alone together? What the fuck?
Iceman pours himself a shot and then takes Maverick's glass from him and does the same.
"Merry Christmas, Mitchell," he says quietly, and hands it back to him. Maverick downs it and winces.
"Merry Christmas."
Maverick hovers, not wanting to sit. Iceman leans back against the desk, still tense, but more relaxed than Maverick has ever seen him.
He's right there. Jesus.
Maverick reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. "Ice," he says, nervous, his skin flooding with heat.
Iceman fixes his gaze on him.
"Let's stop -"
He slides out of Maverick's grip and grabs him by the shirt, pulling their bodies together as he steps back and flips the lock on the door.
"- with this bullshit -" Maverick breathes, frantically tugging at Iceman's belt. Iceman grabs Maverick's face and shoves his tongue in his mouth, then withdraws, sucking Maverick's bottom lip until he makes a keening noise and takes Iceman's thumb into his mouth, biting down. Iceman sucks in air and Maverick pulls his shirt up from where it's tucked (neatly, of course) in his pants, bumping aside his belt buckle with his hand and unzipping Iceman's fly before he shoves his hand into Iceman's boxers, curling his fingers around his dick. Iceman tilts his head back, fills his lungs, and Maverick pulls him as close in as possible so that Iceman's hard-on is pressed against his stomach.
"Fuck me," he hisses in Iceman's ear, unable to form anything more coherent than that. He wants Iceman's cock, now, he's been kept waiting way too long.
Iceman rolls his smoothly against him, like he's trying to contain himself from humping Maverick with reckless abandon. "Mitchell," he says, his voice cracking, and slides his hand into Maverick's pants, snapping the elastic of his briefs over his fingers and groping his ass. Maverick clutches him and moans into his neck, sucking gently at the freckled, slightly sweaty skin directly underneath his throat, moving his mouth to where Iceman's pulse is hammering away and making a small circle with his tongue. Iceman clasps his hand around Maverick's inner thigh and pushes him up against the desk. Maverick slings his arm around Ice's neck and thrusts against him, fingers buried in his hair, his forearm flexed and tense. Iceman breathes heavily against his ear, hands still on his ass, then suddenly he's pulling a chair forward and collapsing the weight of both of them into it. Maverick adjusts himself so that his thighs are squeezed firmly against Iceman's waist, and he moves in again to wrap his arm around Iceman's neck, gasping as the cock underneath him rubs against his the curve of his ass. Iceman, holding Maverick steady with one hand, digs a condom out of his pocket as he slides his khakis and boxers off - the fabric rubbing against Maverick's ass as he does - letting them drop to his ankles. Maverick takes it from him and tears the foil apart with his teeth as Iceman undoes his fly and his pants join Iceman's on the floor.
He spits the foil out and with his free hand fumbles to open the desk drawer, pulling out a little tube of Vaseline he uses to shine his motorcycle jacket and squeezing it onto Iceman's fingers. Ice meets his eyes and Maverick rocks forward against his dick in response, grasping his shoulders.
Iceman leans to the side so he can slide his hand underneath Maverick's thigh and Maverick grips Iceman harder, tensing his ab muscles, waiting.
The first finger goes in lightly, with the unique finesse of a fighter pilot, and Maverick gasps without meaning to. Iceman rubs him just the right way, like he knows exactly what he's doing (well of course he does) and Maverick almost can't handle it. The only thing keeping him from begging for Iceman's dick is good old Mitchell stubbornness. And he knows how this is going down. Iceman is going to torture him the way he does everyone.
Another finger. He squeezes harder, like he's trying to snap the tendons in Iceman's shoulders.
Iceman pauses and licks his lips, then begins to unbutton Maverick's shirt with his free hand, running his palm up and down the length of his torso. He leans in to suck on a nipple and Maverick drags in air, letting go of Ice's shirt to bury his fingers in Iceman's hair and hold on. Iceman bites him gently in response, moving the fingers inside him in a slow circular pattern.
"Asshole," Maverick hisses, "fuck me, fuck me, just do it -"
He yanks Iceman's head back by his hair. Iceman smirks at him lazily.
He's really hard, Maverick can feel it, but then again knowing Iceman he could probably go like this all day.
Fucker.
"Are you begging me?"
"Yes," Maverick says through his teeth.
"Well, you're going to have to do better than that, Mitchell."
He slides his ring finger in and Maverick almost chokes on his own tongue. Whoa. Jesus.
"Or are you going to come on me before you get the chance?"
He leans back and begins to ride Iceman's fingers. Iceman's face pinkens and Maverick grins.
"Nah, not if I can help it," he says, opening his palm to display the condom he's been clutching.
Iceman drops his hand down to Maverick's groin, drags his fingers in light circles near his balls, then takes the condom, sliding his hand under Maverick's thigh again to put it on himself. The sound of snapping latex is like music to his ears.
"Sit back a little," Iceman mutters, painfully casual. Maverick slides himself backward. The rub of skin on skin makes something low in his stomach twitch.
Iceman's fingers slide out abruptly and Maverick leans into him, still clutching him by the hair. Iceman bucks his hips up as he slides in, holding onto Maverick's thigh. Maverick moves his hands back to Iceman's shoulders and pushes himself down onto Iceman, groaning as he does, every muscle in his body tensing. He starts to ride him and Iceman responds with obscene and uncharacteristic eagerness, thrusting away, leaning back hard against his chair and digging his fingernails into Maverick's skin.
Maverick, slick with sweat, moves forward, pushing Iceman's cock against his own prostate. He gasps as it hits him: that unbearably sweet sensation of getting hit in a G-spot. Iceman ducks his head and rests his forehead against Maverick's chest, writhing underneath him, fucking him. Maverick slips his hand down to the back of Iceman's neck and he clutches him, enjoying the feeling of ropy muscles tensing and relaxing against his palm.
Iceman is completely inside him now. It hurts but it's fantastic. It's like doing Mach 4, that feeling of riding the edge. He's gotten hard flying before (at least when his blood's not all rushed to his head) and he's hard right now, pressed against Iceman's chest, practically bouncing on Iceman's lap, just kind of giving himself over to the rhythm of Iceman's hips
He shifts and gets hit right in the prostate again, and comes against Iceman's chest, bared where his shirt is unbuttoned. "Sorry," he pants, reeling, skin flushed pink.
Iceman's mouth falls open slightly and he gives two more thrusts, grabbing Maverick's ass as he does, holding him onto his lap. Then he comes too, with a soft noise of satisfaction. Maverick swallows. What a bizarre sensation that is.
He pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and starts to clean Iceman up.
"What are you doing?" Iceman mutters, grabbing his hand.
"Uh..."
"I figured you were going to run away screaming," he adds. "No crisis of sexuality?"
"Nope," Maverick says lightly. Come is trickling down his thigh, now. He places his palms on Iceman's chest. The desk is digging into his back.
Iceman looks at him appreciatively. He thinks he won, Maverick realizes. He thinks he had to wear me down. He doesn't get that I wanted all of this from day one. Hahahaha. Vain idiot.
There's a knock on the door. Maverick doesn't register it for a moment, then he panics.
"Fuck, fuck," he says. Iceman pulls out of him and slides the chair back, fumbling for his pants as Maverick slides off his lap and does the same. "Coming!" he yells.
"Mav, it's me! I left my key -"
"HOLD ON," Maverick screams at him, hopping around with one leg in his khakis.
"Okay," Goose replies, meekly.
"Can you hide?" Maverick stage whispers to Iceman, who just gives him one of those sassy-ass hand-on-hip looks as if to say, "where?"
"All right, who's in there with you? I won't judge," Goose calls out.
"No one," Maverick says. "I'm talking to myself. Could you like, go away for a few minutes and come back?"
"Fine," says Goose. There's the sound of departing footsteps.
"Go," Maverick snaps at Iceman.
"Hold on," Iceman mutters, doing up his watch.
"Go!" He tries to bodily push him out, but Iceman is bigger than he is. "Go, go." He flings the door open. Iceman takes a look both ways and heads out. Maverick sags against the wall.
A moment later, Goose appears, rounding the corner. "Really? Really?"
"What?"
"I ran into him on my way back. Really?"
Maverick shrugs.
"It's Christmas, could you give me the gift of sparing me from the knowledge that Tom Kazansky was just in here boffing you?"
"No one told you to knock on the door out of nowhere!"
"I hadn't seen you in forty-five minutes! I was worried!"
"Sorry," Maverick mutters.
They both stare at each other.
Goose jabs a thumb down and to the left. "Want to head over to that party?"
Maverick nods, then heads back in, grabs the bottle of whiskey Iceman abandoned and reappears.
"Hold on," he says, handing Goose the bottle, then heading off for the nearest bathroom.
Goose rolls his eyes. "Hurry up," he calls after him.
"Merry Christmas!" Maverick calls back.