"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
Click, click, click.
The sound of shoes against linoleum.
"... go in and talk to him, Lieutenant."
"Sir, with all due respect, I don't think it should be me."
"You've been at his bedside every chance you get, Kazansky."
"I feel responsible for what happened, sir. That's all."
"Then talk to him. The nurses said he's been stirring in his sleep. He's gonna wake up any minute and find himself in a hospital bed, no idea what's going on. Would you like me to put you in that position?"
"No... sir."
"Go."
Maverick opened his eyes.
All he saw was a white, sterile ceiling above him. He tried to sit up and his a stabbing pain went through his neck. A gasp caught in his throat. He felt something tugging at his forearm and saw a pattern of IV tubes braided into it.
He cried aloud and tried to sit up again. This time he managed.
A tall blonde figure was standing at the foot of his bed. He blinked a few times and his vision cleared.
Iceman.
"Calm down, Mitchell," he said.
Maverick opened his mouth to protest, to ask him what the hell was going on, but his mouth was so dry his words spilled out of his mouth in a rush of air. He grabbed a glass of water off of the table next to him, pain shooting through his arm as he did.
"Where am I?" he said when he could speak.
"You're in the hospital," Iceman said uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
"Where's Charlie?"
"She's not here. Do you remember what happened?"
"Remember... ?"
"The flat spin." Iceman's gaze dropped. "You and Goose lost control --"
A wave of nausea swept over Maverick. "Yeah," he whispered. "And then... oh God."
"Goose..."
"What?" Maverick demanded.
"He was -- he was paralyzed from the waist down. The doctors said... he'll never walk again. You've been unconcious for a week."
Maverick fell back against the pillows. "No, but..." he whispered. "We ejected."
"You'll be okay," Iceman talked over him. "You're just, uh, pretty beat up."
"No," Maverick said, raising his voice. "Whose fault was it?"
"Not yours," Iceman said quietly. "It was a freak accident, Maverick."
Maverick looked up at the ceiling. His eyes were hot and his fingers were trembling, but he wasn't going to cry in front of Iceman.
He waited until he heard him leave.
When he went to see Goose, Carol and his son Scott were there.
Maverick hovered in the doorway, suddenly wary of intruding.
"Mav, come in," Goose said brightly, waving him over. "I was just saying to Carol how I think I should have gotten a Purple Heart."
She chuckled and rubbed his arm. "I think that's only for men injured in combat, honey."
Maverick smiled but couldn't bring himself to laugh. There was a blanket draped over Goose's legs.
A lump formed in Maverick's throat.
"That was combat," Goose rebutted. "Maverick versus Iceman, the battle of the century! Better than Superman versus Batman!"
"He came to see me, apparently," Maverick said.
"Who, Batman?"
"Iceman."
Goose raised an eyebrow at him.
"Who knows," Maverick said bitterly. "Maybe he feels guilty. But, uh," he said, making an effort to brighten up, "you get discharged soon, right?"
"Yeah," Goose said, "and an honorable one from the Navy, too."
There was silence. Maverick cleared his throat.
"Could you give us a minute, Carol?"
"Sure," she said nervously, gathering Scott in her arms and leaving the room. "Sure."
As soon as she was gone, Goose turned to Maverick, his veil of cheerfulness dropped. "Mav, I'm so sorry," he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry?" Maverick exclaimed. "What for? Goose -- I..."
"Now is when you need me most, Mav --"
"Goose," Maverick said, fighting back tears. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault. It's not your fault. God, I'm so sorry." He bit his lip and looked at the wall. He had to stay composed for Goose, for his wife, for his son.
"I'll be okay, Pete," Goose said softly. "I've gotten through worse."
That was more than Maverick could take. He broke down, sinking into a chair beside the door, a hand over his eyes, sobbing helplessly.
Carol came back in and shepherded him out, saying kindly that maybe it would be best if Goose didn't see him crying right now. He apologized to her over and over again and she just patted his shoulder and hugged him. "Don't be sorry, hon. We'll pull through all right. Why don't you go home? You've been in this awful hospital, eating their terrible food... you can come see Goose tomorrow. After that we're going to go home, but you only have a month or so left of Top Gun, right?"
He nodded, tears streaming down his face, and pulled himself together. "I'm sorry," he said, for what must have been the twentieth time, but he couldn't seem to get the words off of his tongue no matter how many times he let them go.
"It's okay," she said, seeming a little touched herself. "It's okay."
Carol patted him on the arm one last time and disappeared back into Goose's room.
He no longer had a RIO.
The realization came to Maverick suddenly, like a slap across the face. He didn't know how it hadn't come across to him before, and maybe on some level it had.
Maverick didn't know how he could live with it. The guilt seemed to multiply and sprawl out in his chest, taking up as much room as possible.
In the first week or so after Goose went home, he kept waiting to wake up, kept waiting for everything to be a joke, for Goose to walk into the room with a big smile on his face and start making wisecracks.
But Goose would never walk again.
He went to the bar for the first time in a while, alone, with the sole intention of getting drunk. He didn't want to think anymore, didn't want to sit there stonily while all of the RIOs who might get assigned to him avoided him like the plague, calling him the harbringer behind his back.
It wasn't like he gave a shit anymore, anyway. He was alone. Fully, completely alone, and it scared him, but he didn't see how he could deal with anyone else.
Too soon. It was all too soon.
And there was no one to blame but himself, Maverick thought as he sat there, clutching his shot glass so tightly his knuckles were deathly white, and he couldn't even do that, couldn't even allow himself to linger on his guilt because every time he did self-righteous indignation sprang up, shouting it's not my fault!
But he was still sitting here in the officer's club. He was still one of them.
More than anything, he wanted retribution, he wanted absolution. He wanted punishment.
And the one person who could really give him what he needed happened to walk by at that moment.
There was a pause where they both tried not to acknowledge each other and then accidentally made eye contact and someone had to say something or Maverick's lungs were going to explode from not breathing so he cleared his throat and said, "Kazansky."
Iceman nodded, and then wrinkled his nose at himself as if embarrassed by his unsatisfactory response. "Mitchell."
Maverick took a sip of whatever he was drinking. He had forgotten. It was strong and burned his throat as it went down.
"What are you doing here?" he said, coughing.
"What? The club?" Iceman said, sounding affronted.
"Yeah," Maverick said bitterly. "Are you with Slider?"
"No," Iceman said. "Actually, I'm not."
"Yeah?" Maverick said acidly. "Because you two are pretty fucking inseparable."
"What would you know about it, Mitchell?" Iceman demanded, and then caught himself. "Look," he said quietly. "I'm sorry you lost your RIO. I'm sorry you're shook up. But I'm not going to take shit from you just because you're upset. You want a punching bag, find someone who isn't gonna punch back."
Maverick sat back against the bar and folded his arms. "You don't get it, Kazansky?" he said, hearing himself slur a little. "I got nothing else to lose. I'm done. I missed too much of the action to get back in the game, I don't have Goose, I'm done. If I want to use you as a punching bag I'll do it."
Iceman could have walked off then. They both knew it. But the reasons he stayed were as concrete as the floor beneath their feet.
"Fine," Iceman said, his voice steady as ever. He yanked Maverick off the bar stool and dragged him out of the bar, into the hallway, shoved him against a wall in a darkened corner.
"Why did you come and see me?" Maverick said, breathing in sharply. He was still bruised all over and it hurt being pushed around like this. "Why'd you come and see me at the hospital? Feel guilty, Iceman? Let your emotions get the better of you?"
"You think you know me, Mitchell," Iceman said. "You think you're in control. I can tell you right now that you're not, you never will be."
"Why?" Maverick repeated.
He saw himself reflected in the widening pupils of Iceman's hazel eyes.
Maverick's answer didn't come in a word or a phrase or a sentence. It was a knee between his legs, hands shoving him harder against the wall, a tongue in his mouth and hands groping for purchase.
It was stumbling in the moonlit parking lot to Iceman's car, desperate, fevered makeouts at stoplights all the way back to his house.
It was the lights in the bedroom that never went on, the scramble to the bed, the rabid tearing off of clothes.
It was Iceman's fingers hovering against the scar on Maverick's ribs.
It was as much of a question as an answer.
Maverick woke up slowly to the sun bleeding through his eyelids.
He only had a dim, groggy awareness of where he was. It was warm, and there was an arm around him.
The first thing thing he realized was that it wasn't Charlie's arm. It was too muscular to be Charlie's arm. It was too muscular to be any woman's arm.
Maverick closed his eyes again. Whoever it was, they were breathing softly behind him. They hadn't woken up yet.
He took in a deep breath and as he did, caught a trace of Iceman's cologne.
Shit.
It all came back to him, then.
He sat up. Iceman's arm slipped down Maverick's waist, and his lips curved, his sleeping face dappled with confusion. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and looked up at Maverick.
"Jesus," he muttered. "Uh..."
"Fuck," Maverick said, his voice quiet in the dawn.
"Good morning to you too," Iceman murmured, rubbing his eyes, sitting up. He hadn't taken his dog tags off the night before and they slid around his shoulder, clinking together.
"Oh, damnit," Maverick hissed, sliding off the bed and gathering up his clothes.
"What's your issue, Mitchell?"
"My issue?" Maverick bellowed, throwing his jacket at Iceman's head. He ducked deftly. "My issue is that my life is already unbelievably fucked up, Kazansky, and you only manage to fuck it up more!"
Iceman rolled his eyes. "Goddamn, you're dramatic." He stood up and padded on white carpet over to Maverick, stroking his cheek with one tanned finger.
Maverick slapped his hand away, drew himself up to his full height, and snarled, "Go to hell."
He turned to leave and Iceman grabbed him by the arm, his grip firm.
Maverick glared up at him. "What?"
"You want to ruin your life because you think you deserve it?" Iceman said quietly, his face suddenly austere. "Because something bad happened? Welcome to life, Maverick, welcome to our job. You think everyone gets as lucky as you? Walks away from something like that? Yeah, Goose got hurt. It could have been worse."
"You don't get it," Maverick whispered. "It was my fault."
"No it wasn't --"
"Yes it was --"
"No, it wasn't. It was mine."
Maverick stared at him.
"I should have taken the shot. I had the chance. I didn't. It was my fault. You think when I got back on the ground, the week after that, that I didn't feel exactly what you're feeling now? They wouldn't even tell me what happened when I first got to the hospital. Just if you were dead or not."
"Is that why you came?" Maverick said, voice barely audible.
"Yeah," Iceman said, hazel eyes flickering. "Although..."
He kissed the curve of Maverick's lips gently.
"Did Charlie come to see me?" Maverick said, pulling away.
Iceman hesitated. "Once... or twice..."
Maverick swore. "Once or twice," he echoed, and laughed bitterly.
He stepped away from Iceman and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. "I'm gonna go," he said.
"Mitchell --"
"No, I'm gonna go."
He dressed quickly. Iceman went into the bathroom and came out flossing.
They said nothing to each other as Maverick left, and both of them knew it was a mistake, knew they were going to regret not getting everything in the open here and now.
But it wasn't the time. Not yet.
"Hey," Maverick said.
Charlie looked up. Her dark blue eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. "Hey," she said, smiling wanly and pushing some papers aside, shivering in the air-conditioning.
"You cold?"
She nodded and Maverick tossed her his jacket, turning a chair to face her desk and straddling it backwards.
"What's up?" Charlie said, making a note.
"I think we need to talk," Maverick said seriously.
Charlie laughed. "That sounds like..."
She looked up at him, saw the expression on his face, and was sobered.
"I slept with someone," Maverick told her.
Charlie's face went completely blank. She sat back in her chair like she had been punched.
He hadn't meant to be so abrupt, but then maybe he had. Maybe he wanted her to react out of shock and anger. Maybe he wanted to be cursed and screamed at, have someone break his heart.
Maybe Iceman was right. But he'd never admit it out loud.
"Who?" she whispered. "Why?"
"I didn't mean to," Maverick said, and as he said it realized how clichéd and awful it sounded.
"Who?"
"That doesn't matter."
"I think it does!"
"It's not like that, Charlie, will you listen to me? I slept with a guy."
Her mouth dropped open.
"That's why I think we should... take a break," Maverick said, unable to look her in the eyes. "I don't think it's fair to you. I don't --"
Charlie scoffed. "Please, Maverick, I'm not twelve. Do whatever the hell you want. It hasn't been working out lately, anyway, and you know it. I don't even know what's going on in your head half the time."
"Like that's not warranted?" Maverick demanded. "It's only been a few weeks! And I'm trying to move on, I swear to God!"
"You know what, Maverick?" Charlie said. "You're right. Maybe we should take a break."
She slammed a heavy book titled Fighter Combat: Tactics and Maneuvering on her desk and stormed away.
Maverick suddenly realized that while they had been talking, he had been rubbing his nail against the palm of his hand. It was bleeding openly.
He sighed and stood. If anything, the guilt in his chest had expanded.
"Hollywood, shut up, no one wants to hear about your bitchy French girlfriend," Chipper said, sounding annoyed.
Hollywood laughed. "You're just jealous because she gives amazing head."
"Please," Chipper said, rolling his eyes.
"Shut up," Iceman said, closing his locker.
"Who?" Hollywood said, pausing as he styled his hair to turn to Iceman and look at him innocently.
"Both of you. All of you. Just shut up."
There was silence for a few minutes. Maverick snuck a glance at Iceman while sliding his legs through his jeans.
"Hey, Mav, who's gonna fly with you tomorrow?" Wolfman said. There was a nervous edge to his voice.
Maverick sighed. "Fuck if I know. Merlin, probably."
"Oh, okay," Wolfman said, sounding relieved.
"She may be a bitch, but she's got a fantastic rack, you gotta admit," Hollywood said cheerfully, tapping his comb against his palm and running it through his hair.
"She smells like smoke twenty-four seven," Chipper said, "and I've never seen her smile at anyone, ever."
"Who gives a shit, man?"
"I said shut up," Iceman said, his tone even, but his voice loud and sharp.
"Fine," said Hollywood testily, slamming his locker.
None of them would ever acknowledge it, but there had been something present since the flat spin. Since they had realized Goose wasn't coming back. Everyone was a little less trusting, a little more on edge.
It could happen to any of them. It was the risk they took, being fighter pilots. But the only way you got through the day was pushing the risk to the back of your mind, and now it was front and center. It was etched on everyone's faces, in the way they checked their equipment an extra fifteen times before going up. The way Slider looked at Iceman, knowing he was far from perfect. Maybe better than the rest, cautious, determined, steadfast and reliable, but when it came down to it, he was human.
They were all human.
And it scared the shit out of them.
The ocean was laid out in front of him, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Planes roared above him, close, but to Maverick they were a million miles away.
He gripped the railing and took a deep, raggedy breath. The air cut his lungs and he coughed a few times, bent over, dry heaving until he had regained his composure.
When Maverick straightened up, Iceman was there.
There was no one else around for what seemed like miles, but he hadn't heard Ice walk up.
"What are you going to do?" Iceman said, approaching the rail and leaning his elbows on it, turning to Maverick and looking at him soberly.
"About what?"
"I heard from Hollywood you're thinking about quitting. Going home."
Maverick was silent.
"I'm not here to pass judgment."
Maverick's shoulders began shaking, but he couldn't do this, couldn't break down completely. Not here, not now. He pressed his palm against his mouth as tears began streaking like comets down his cheeks, kicked the metal railing as hard as he could and gasped aloud in pain.
Iceman stepped forward and grabbed him, holding him close. Maverick didn't have to say anything, just pressed himself against the broad, warm chest, clutching the fabric of his flight suit in a death grip. His entire body shook with silent sobs.
They stayed like that for however long, maybe ten minutes, maybe longer. Iceman just stood there, was his oak, was rooted to the earth in ways Maverick never would be.
His foil. His antagonist. His one remaining tie to this place. The only one he just couldn't cut.
Iceman finally sighed and sat down, pulling Maverick to him, and they sat like that for a while longer; Iceman staring across at the ocean and Maverick with his face buried in the flight suit, against the cheek that smelled sharply of aftershave.
"You good now?" Iceman said, finally. "As much as I'd love to sit here forever, Mitchell..."
Maverick laughed a little, the weary, hesitant laugh of someone who's been crying. He nuzzled Iceman's neck, kissed him, shifted so he was sitting in his lap more.
Iceman's dick was diamond hard underneath the fabric of his flightsuit, and Maverick drew a tongue across his jaw, up to his ear, and whispered, "I want you inside me, Tom."
Iceman rubbed his shoulder. "You're subtle, Mitchell," he said, but his voice was lower, huskier, his pupils wide and dark.
They wasted no time getting back into the building, around a corner, in a dark room where an abandoned vending machine loomed ghost-like in the shadows.
Iceman shoved Maverick against the wall, and some remnant of pain echoed underneath his skin, barely noticed. Maverick moaned, his own erection rising against the fabric of his flight suit as Iceman tore it off.
Iceman was slow, thrusting at a maddeningly even pace like a well-made Swiss watch as Maverick's hips bucked against him, worked into a fury, jerking off against his own hand and making audible-as-hell noises low in his throat.
"You want it harder?" Iceman growled in his ear, hands all over Maverick but somehow not enough for him. Maverick whimpered, sweat slick on his skin, somehow eked out a "yes".
He came, eyes closed, against the wall, and Iceman shortly after, his grip on Maverick tightening. Maverick trembled all over for a few moments, sinking to the floor. Iceman followed suit and Maverick leaned against him. They kissed in the dark, the curve of Iceman's brow tightening every time there was a noise in the hallway, as if he expected someone to jump into the room and shout "AHA!" at any moment.
"Whatever you do," Iceman said, after it had been quiet a while and Maverick's eyelids were drooping in the afterglow, head on Iceman's chest, fiddling with his watch, "it's your decision."
"Yeah," Maverick murmured.
"But if you leave, you can't come back."
"I know. I think..." Maverick wove his fingers through Iceman's blonde hair. "I'm going to take it one day at a time. Maybe go visit Goose over the weekend, talk to him... I know he wouldn't want me to quit. I've gotten this far."
He waited a moment, then, "What about us?"
Iceman smiled wanly in the dark. "One day at a time, Mitchell."
"Hey, Carol."
"Maverick, it's so good to see you," she gushed, wrapping him in a rib-breaking hug before he had even crossed the treshhold. "You look so tired, honey! What's going on, got a woman keeping you up at night?"
Maverick laughed uncomfortably. "Not exactly."
"Well, come on in, take your jacket off, you had a long drive."
"It was worth it," Maverick said, following her up the foyer steps.
"Mav!" Goose said, rolling into the living room.
"Hey, Goose," Maverick said, breaking into a grin. "What's going on?"
"Well, my dreams of being an Olympic hurdler are dashed."
Carol breezed out of the room and Maverick sat down.
"Really, though, how are you?" Maverick said seriously.
"I'm actually doing okay," Goose said. "Carol's dad wants me to be the VP of his marketing department. He runs an advertising company. Not a bad gig, I get to tell people what's funny and what's not and they have a lot of catered lunches..."
Maverick laughed.
"I miss flying with you, though, man. It's a whole other story being up in the air. You don't realize how big a part of you it is until you're back on the ground."
Maverick nodded. "Actually, I was thinking of quitting."
Goose raised his eyebrows. "Why?"
"I just... you know," Maverick said. "Lost my nerve. But I decided against it."
"Good. You're a great pilot, Mav. You shouldn't quit over what happened."
"Charlie broke up with me," Maverick said. The words felt weird even as he said them.
"What?" Carol gasped as she returned with a glass of lemonade. "You let that gorgeous girl go? Maverick!"
"Uh," Maverick said, "I'd explain, but..."
"But?"
Goose eyed him shrewdly. "Carol, could you excuse us a second?"
She left again and Maverick sighed.
"Who is it this time?" Goose said, sounding amused.
"Kazansky."
"Oh, Jesus Christ on a pogo-stick, Mav, you're boning Iceman?"
"Goose!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Iceman is boning you..."
"Goose!" Maverick hissed.
"I'm kidding, Pete, calm down. I don't care who you bone. But is it more than that?"
"More than what?" Maverick said, playing with the frayed hole in his jeans.
"More than sex."
"Yeah, well, I mean..." Maverick mumbled, "I kind of like him..."
"Oh man," Goose said, shaking his head. "Did you kiss him on the lips? You're not supposed to do that."
"Yeah, I did."
"Well, Mav, you're uh, you're pretty much screwed."
"Thanks."
They grinned at each other.
After that, the conversation expanded to include nothing and everything. The little stuff, like baseball and the weather and girls, and a little bit of the bigger stuff. The world. The Cold War. The bomb.
"With everything that's happened," Goose said somberly, "I've just been wondering if it's really worth it, what we do. Killing nameless, faceless people."
Every word lessened the weight of guilt in Maverick's chest. Every word reminded him that it was possible to move on, that it was part of life.
They talked late into the night, until Carol finally came in and suggested they get some sleep around midnight. "I got the guest bed all ready for you, Pete, or as ready as it'll ever be, 'cause I haven't had anyone in there since Goose's mother came to visit. C'mere, baby," she said, leaning over and planting a kiss on Goose.
"I'm gonna go make a phone call," Maverick said quickly, excusing himself.
The phone rang exactly four times before Iceman picked up.
"Hey, it's me," he said quickly.
"To what do I owe this displeasure?"
"That's nice of you."
"It's midnight, Mitchell, what do you want?"
"I just wanted to talk to you," Maverick said.
"Okay, shoot."
"Not about anything in particular..."
He heard Iceman sigh on the other line and bed-springs creaked, like he was sitting up. "Miss me or something?"
"No. God, self-centered much, Kazansky? I just wanted to talk."
"About nothing in particular."
"Exactly."
"I'm kinda thinking there's a reason you called."
"Okay, well, just -- what are we doing?"
"I don't know, Mitchell, you have a girlfriend."
"Nope."
"Really?" Iceman sounded distinctly pleased. Maverick smirked.
"She dumped me. With good reason, of course."
"Found out you liked dick?"
"Well, your dick, to be specific. But I didn't tell her that."
"So what's the problem?"
"I just want to know what we're doing," Maverick muttered. "Like if this is an exclusive thing."
"You want it to be exclusive? I don't have a problem there, Mitchell, I'm not really into getting laid for the sake of getting laid. I'm not Hollywood."
"I want you to want it to be exclusive."
"Basically, you want me to stroke your ego," Iceman said, sounding amused.
"Basically."
"There isn't something else of yours I can stroke?"
"Very funny."
"Okay, Maverick, I'll tell you this. I don't want anybody else to fuck you. Romantic enough for your tastes?"
"My heart is all aflutter and shit, Kazansky."
"Mission accomplished."
"Just for the record, I don't want you to fuck anyone else, either."
"I think that's been established."
"You're making me sound needy."
"Well, you did call me at midnight for reassurance that I don't want you to run off and get bent over a table by Wolfman, or something... I'm just saying."
"Please. Southerners aren't my type."
"I get the feeling you don't exactly have a type... maybe if 'has a pulse' is a type..."
"Apparently I'm into blondes."
"How unfortunate for you. I'm hanging up now. I'm falling back asleep."
"See you later, Ice."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. What was it he said in Casablanca, on the phone? We'll always have Paris?"
"Does that make me Ingrid Bergman?"
"I guess, although personally, I never understood her appeal."
"Me either. Night, Kazansky."
"Night, Mitchell."
Click.