Chapter Text
The first thing Pete noticed as he slowly drifted into consciousness was a fierce pounding in his skull.
It wasn't the drawn-out aching of a tequila-induced hangover. Nor the general spinning and wooziness of a moderate concussion. Those he was intimately familiar with, thank you very much.
This hurt differently. Concentrated in a spot on his right temple, he could feel agony throb in time with his heartbeat.
Shit.
What had happened?
Gritting his teeth, Pete heaved his eyelids open. Colours swirled wildly all around him, illuminated by blindingly bright light.
Against the pounding in his head, he could dimly make out a cacophony of background noise. Beeping monitors. Whispered voices. Swift footsteps on linoleum floor.
Definitely the medbay.
But how did he end up here?
With a groan, Pete allowed his eyes to drift shut again. Rooting wildly around his aching brain, he reached for the last thing he could remember.
Top Gun.
Hop 31.
Iceman, who wouldn't get out of the fucking way to let him take a shot.
But what came after?
A sharp surge of pain stabbed his temple.
Shit.
We're in his jet wash!
I can't control it!
Eject! Eject!
Pete's eyes flew open.
Fuck!
Wildly, he looked around, blinking until the blurred shapes around him gained focus.
The first thing he could make out was a nurse hurrying towards him.
Against her grip on his shoulders, he struggled to sit up.
"- need to lie back down, Sir. Sir! Calm down. We're still waiting for the neurologist."
"Where is he?" Pete demanded, shocked at how gravelly and deep his own voice sounded. How long had he been out?
"Doctor Stevenson is on his way down. He told us to page him as soon as you were awake and we —"
"No!" Pete groaned. "Not the doctor. My — "
"Mav!"
A new voice rang across the med bay and Pete's heart surged with relief. Thank god!
The nurse now held his chin in a vice-like grip and was brutally shining a flashlight into his eyes.
Still, Pete could see a familiar tall form approach his bed in his peripheral vision. He'd know that frame anywhere. And the ugly Hawaiian shirt it was draped in.
Apparently satisfied with his pupils' reaction, the nurse finally released Pete’s chin. With a groan, he let himself fall back onto his pillow and blindly reached out a hand towards the man now at his bedside.
Or rather the men.
Swimming into focus behind the Hawaiian shirt, he could make out another familiar figure, equally tall and with light blond hair, his usually cocky bearing now bent with worry.
At least the asshole has come to apologise for not getting the hell out of my line of fire.
"Fuck, Mav I'm glad you're awake!" a familiar voice breathed. Strong fingers wrapped around his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You had us all worried there for a hot minute."
Finally, his vision cleared enough to make out the garish pattern of brown palm trees on the shirt of the man holding his hand. He gave a tired smile and tried to squeeze back.
"Sorry 'bout that," he murmured in the same gravelly voice. Damn. "How long was I out for?"
"The mission was two days ago," the other man at his bedside answered.
Wait. What?
That voice, it sounded -
But -
"What mission?" Maverick muttered, confused. There hadn't been a mission. It had been a training exercise. What was that asshole playing at?
Stunned silence greeted his question.
"Uh, Mav. Can you remember what happened?"
Slowly, Maverick let his eyes drift up to look at the man who now held onto his hand so tightly it almost hurt.
His still-jittery brain decided to take in details rather than the whole picture. Ugly shirt. Broad shoulders. Blond hair. Trademark moustache turned down in a worried frown.
"We ejected and I — the jet wash. Did I — did I hit the canopy?"
His memories were a maelstrom of disjointed flashes.
The canopy! Watch out!
The hand in his spasmed and the man it belonged to let out a noise akin to a strangled sob.
Immediately, Pete felt guilty for worrying his friend. His brother.
"It's alright," he tried to sound soothing and even attempted a smile, though he was afraid it came out as a grimace more than anything. His entire face felt off. Looser but rougher. The Gs he pulled during the ejection must have done a real number on him. "I'll be fine. I'm just glad you're OK, Goose."
All at once, the hand in his went slack.
"Holy shit," Pete heard the other man at his bedside curse. He'd forgotten about the prick. What did he have to complain about?
"What are you even doing here, Kazansky?" he ground out, ignoring the strange sound of his own voice.
"I'm not — I — "
Foreboding roiled in Pete's stomach. Iceman's voice was off. No longer ice-cold, but stunned and — scared?
His head protested with a sharp jolt of pain when he turned it to glare at his rival. His eyes still moved sluggishly, and he felt frustration surge. Shit, it was like trying to get missile lock on Viper.
At last, his vision focused on the man standing beside his best friend.
Who was definitely not Tom "Iceman" Kazansky.
The resemblance was there. Light blond hair. Sharp features.
But this was a stranger.
"Who are you?" Pete asked weakly, stomach twisting. Something was wrong.
The hand holding his tightened again, this time so much that Pete actually winced.
"Ouch! Buddy, that kind of - "
Pete's eyes flickered over to his best friend and his voice failed him.
The man's face was hauntingly familiar. The nose was the same. The arch of his eyebrows. The colour of his eyes. Even the wave of his hair and the shape of his ears.
But his chin was wrong - much squarer and adorned with the white lines of two thin scars. His mouth was broader. And there were far more lines creasing his forehead and the corners of his eyes.
It felt like someone had punched the breath out of Pete's body.
This was not -
"Goose?" Pete croaked, nausea clawing up his throat and pain searing through his skull.