Permanent Set

By Sophia the Scribe

Permanent set: the irreversible changes that happen to a metal under stress.

A/N: A missing scene from my story Metal Under Tension, from Iceman's POV.

"I'm sorry—I didn't want to hurt you. But I thought you deserved to know."

Maverick's voice was subdued, a hint of pleading in his tone as he stared at Iceman. And Iceman was hurt, frozen where he sat half in the car, half already moving toward Goose's house. Maverick's words had reached inside his chest and squeezed.

It was me, then, my fault, only mine, he thought. If I were a better man…

The regret washed through him, thick and cloying—as though he had more regret to give, surrounded as he was by blood and shattered bonds.

But Maverick's eyes were on him: Maverick, here, impossibly, telling the impossible story of a different world, a different life—and something else bubbled up through the regret, tearing the air from his lungs in a relieved exhale—

Somewhere, somehow, they had made it work. There existed—or, at the least, could exist—a Kazansky family where his father's legacy had not followed him, where he had brought good to Sarah's life, and his kids'…a life where he had been a better man. And all due to…

"Thanks, Mav." He shortened the name on the instinct of a friendship he never had, seeing in a flash what that friendship could have meant, how it would have changed him.

Thank you for that other life…and thank you for telling me of it.

Then he turned away, and stepped out of the car. The walk to the front door seemed long, longer than it had any right to, and the doorbell sounded loud in his ears. The door opened—nearly thirty years, and Iceman almost thought Nick Bradshaw's expression unchanged, still lined with grief and anger and regret. But it was fear, now, that creased his forehead and hardened his lips.

"Iceman?"

"Goose," said Tom, quietly. "May I come in?"

Goose stepped back from the door and led them inside. "Something to drink?" he offered, voice tight.

"No." Iceman paused, words caught in his throat, unsure how to begin even after a car ride spent in silence to formulate these very words. "It's…I…have a couple of things to tell you."

"Bradley's dead, isn't he." Goose's voice was flat, devastated. "Why would you come here, looking like that, otherwise."

"Before I answer that," Iceman said, carefully, "let me tell you the other thing."

"Tom…"

"Please!" Now Iceman's voice, too, was pleading, desperate. "I would not hold it over you without good reason, I swear it. Please, Nick—I've never in my life given you reason to trust me, I know that, but please—please, just this once!"

Nick's eyes grew wide behind the gathering tears. Tom knew he was begging, uncharacteristically, incoherent words tumbling from his lips—but he couldn't stop. This was too important.

Slowly, Goose nodded.

Iceman exhaled. "A couple of weeks ago," he began, "I took my car over to a mechanic's shop called The Duke's Driveway. I met the proprietor, and something, something about him made me…talk to him, confide in him. I don't do that. You know—" he stared at Goose, intently, willing him to understand—"you know that."

Goose's mouth flattened. He nodded again, sharply

"So believe me," Tom went on with growing urgency, "when I say this man was unlike anyone—almost anyone—I've ever met before. And—he knew things about me he shouldn't have known. I even told him about Bradley's mission, which I shouldn't have done—and—" His rising voice broke, suddenly. The house filled with ringing silence.

"Yes, Bradley's dead," he resumed, lowly. "I'm sorry, Goose."

Goose let out a choked sob and turned away. "Why," he said thickly, "wait to say that? What could your mechanic—" his voice grew louder, bitten off and angry—"possibly have to do with my son being dead?!"

"It's Maverick," said Iceman. "My mechanic—It's Maverick. I know—I know it's impossible. I wouldn't believe it, either—didn't, until this morning, when I was convinced he was nothing more than the figment of my own conscience. But it's him. And he says…he might be able to fix this."

Goose, who at the beginning of this speech had turned back toward Tom in incredulity and anger, now stared at him flatly. "Fix it."

Tom breathed, and spoke slowly, precisely. "In his world, you died at Top Gun instead of him. He changed that, somehow, by a wish to save your life—and now he thinks that, if you two meet, it will change back, and Bradley might not be dead."

"Tom. That doesn't make any sense."

"I know. I know, Goose. But it's him, he's real—you'll know it the moment you see him—and…and I trust him."

Nick was silent. He turned away again, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook. Tentatively, Iceman approached and laid a hand on his back.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "This is a hell of a thing to put on anyone, let alone after everything else."

Goose let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Something changed, alright," he muttered.

"The most convincing thing," continued Iceman, "was his fear for Bradley, before I'd even mentioned him by name—and his absolute devastation when I told him he was dead. If you can't trust anything else, trust that—it's Maverick, and he loves your boy like his own son."

"And me seeing…Maverick…would bring Bradley back?"

Iceman half-scoffed, for a moment—at himself, at their situation, at the ridiculous, half-baked ideas and cryptic words behind their plan. "We think so. Hope so. And…at the cost of your life." And mine, he did not say. There were some things Goose did not need to carry—and Iceman had already made his choice.

Goose sharply, impatiently, waved away his concern. "Okay…okay. Go…go get Maverick, then. And we'll see." Even as he spoke, something dawned on his face, growing beneath the overshadowing grief—this was Maverick he would be seeing, if Iceman was telling the truth, and was not deceived himself; Maverick, his brother in all but blood, whom Iceman had taken from him all those years ago, whom he was now giving back—but far too late, and for far too brief a moment. A smile, strained though it was, touched the corners of Nick's mouth. He closed his eyes.

Tom gripped his shoulder for one more moment, then turned and walked back outside. He tapped on the window, startling Maverick from his silent contemplation, and gave him a solemn nod.

Maverick exited the car, walked up the drive—the front door opened—and he was flying up the last steps to engulf his friend in a desperate embrace. Iceman turned away, blinking back the sudden misting behind his eyes. Then he exhaled, gently ushered them back inside, and closed the door.

This was it.