July 7, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.
The details of the meeting in the hangar were known to most everyone by the end of the week. People stared blithely at Maverick when they thought he wasn't looking, and the class, having worn out the scandal of Jameson and Padgett, moved on to the bad blood between Anderson and Maverick, Iceman and Maverick, Jester and Maverick, Anderson and Jester, Maverick and the entire United States government, etc, etc.
"Can we talk?"
Iceman looked up. The crease between his eyes deepened, but he nodded.
Maverick took his time closing the blinds and locking the door before he turned around, hands clasped behind his back, and approached Iceman's desk.
"Something you need?"
"An apology would be nice."
Iceman sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Fine. I apologize."
"I don't think I buy that," Maverick said, unbuttoning his dress whites, which had been dry-cleaned and pressed since Thursday. "I dunno, Tom."
Iceman's eyes followed Maverick's fingers until the final button came undone and then dipped down over his treasure trail to where it led.
"I got a tattoo," Maverick said, and he was seventeen again - an orphan with a bright future. a new motorcycle, and an attitude problem.
Iceman opened his mouth and closed it.
Maverick rested his elbows on the desk between them and with one hand slid his pants down ever so slightly, inviting Iceman to finish the job.
He did, standing up gracefully like he was about to receive a congressional medal of honor.
"It's small." Iceman stroked his finger over the ink-imbibed skin.
Maverick took a step back so his ass was flush with Iceman's cock.
"Not now," Iceman murmured - but his finger was still rubbing Maverick's thigh gently while the other hand crept under the elastic of his briefs.
Maverick grabbed Iceman's wrist and twisted. Iceman hissed in pain.
"What happened to your hand?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
He twisted harder and Iceman yanked out of his grip, shoving Maverick facedown on the desk and knocking the wind out of him.
"You ask a lot of questions, Mitchell," he said, softly.
"I need it - I need - you," Maverick gasped. "Jesus -"
Iceman's hips came forward as he moved closer and Maverick quieted.
"Five years ago I got shot down over the Pacific," Iceman said. "I broke my thumb ejecting. No one died. No sob story behind it. We got picked up an hour later." His hand ran up under Maverick's shirt, brushing along his individual vertebrae. "In the water."
Maverick's back arched and Iceman slipped his underwear off his ass, the soft bite of the elastic moving as Iceman's fingers did, pressing and probing and pushing. Maverick moaned and dug his fingernails into the wood of the desk.
July 7, 1998. Miramar, California.
When he arrived, Viper's wife was working in the garden, uprooting a row of cabbages. She gave him a friendly wave.
"Afternoon, Commander," Viper said, raising his cup of coffee to Maverick as he walked into the kitchen.
"Afternoon," Maverick replied, checking the urge to add a 'sir'.
"You look good." Viper got up. "Let's take a walk. How's your divorce going?"
Maverick shrugged, pushing up the sleeves of his flight jacket.
They left the house together, Viper running a hand through his hair.
"You should get laid," Viper said, squinting into the sun. "Best way to get over it, kid."
Maverick chuckled. "I haven't exactly been living like a nun."
Viper was quiet for a moment, then he slipped off his aviators and said, "Listen, Mitchell..."
Maverick paused.
"I understand the appeal of sleeping with a colleague," Viper said.
"Who told you -"
Viper put a hand up and he fell silent.
"Don't throw your career away for a dye-job in a uniform, kid."
"You're speaking from experience?"
This was, to date, the single most insolent thing he'd said to Viper, who let it pass with a mere eyebrow raise.
"I thought you loved Iceman," Maverick said, doing his best not to sound resentful.
Viper chuckled. "Guys like Iceman are a dime a dozen. There's nothing underneath the shiny wrapper. Don't get lost in that."
"Is that him as a pilot or him as a person?"
"As a pilot? He's excellent, one of the best. As a person..." Viper lit a cigar he'd been fiddling with and blew a ring of smoke into Maverick's face.
"He's different now," Maverick said. "Not in a small way."
"You have to expect that, after ten years on duty."
Maverick's eyes followed a distant plane as it crossed the horizon.
"Have you ever known anyone with, uh, post traumatic stress disorder?"
"Quite a few," Viper said. "Comes with the territory."
"Did they get over it?"
Viper nodded slowly. "Some do. But not overnight, Mitchell. And they're never the same."
Another smoke ring, but it was directed at the ocean.
"You know, I always liked Charlie," he said. Maverick opened his mouth to rebut and Viper added, "Never seemed like she'd make much of a doting wife, though."
"No," Maverick said through gritted teeth. "No."
"I've got something for you," Viper said, and pulled a yellowed envelope out of his pocket. "Letter from Duke."
Maverick felt a nerve twitch in his forehead. "Wh -"
"To you. Thirty years ago, he wrote this."
"Why now?"
"I thought about giving it to you when you got married, when your son came along... never felt like the right time," Viper said. "So here we are."
The setting sun glinted off his aviators and hit Maverick in the eyes, who looked down and accepted the envelope with a nod.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome, kid," Viper said, putting out his cigar and walking away.