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“All of this got me thinking, you know,” Maverick starts, and then stops. It’s been a minute since either he or Ice said anything, since they hugged as if they would never be able to do it again. Which is ridiculous, Maverick thinks. They hug often, whenever they get to see each other in person. And the cancer being back means—well. It's bad news, it’s terrible news, and Maverick’s heart goes rabbit-quick again at even the thought, but it's not hopeless. He knows Ice, and he knows Ice won’t go down without a fight. He just has to hope he will win again this time.
Ice spins his chair away from his computer to face Maverick, who takes a chance to glance at the screen. Some official Navy email that is definitely above his Captain clearance level. Fucking figured that Ice would still be working. Maverick’s just been sitting next to him, in their comfortable silence, playing Block Blast on his phone. Swiping away the notifications from Cyclone and Warlock and Hondo as the bars appear on the top corner.
Ice doesn't close the computer tab, even though he must know that Maverick has looked. He tilts his head at him, inquiring. Maverick places another block that clears the tiles, the game rewarding him with a new color scheme that isn't eye-searing cobalt blue.
Ice’s foot nudges him. When he looks up again, Ice is still looking at him, with that slight purse of his lips that calls Maverick an idiot with zero words. As always, Maverick grins in response. Ice has an infinite well of patience even on his worst days, but he also has a hobby of calling on Maverick’s bullshit. He changes the laptop screen back to his notes app, and types down, Novel experience for you, I’m sure, considering you didn't finish the thought.
“Shut up,” Maverick laughs, kicking back at Ice’s foot. Ice laughs along, without any actual voice coming out of his mouth. It sobers Maverick up again. Ice definitely pushed himself too hard earlier. That’s why I fought for you. Something in him sears, painful and all too familiar.
Maverick loves Sarah Kazansky to death. Sometimes he wonders how the universe deigns him lucky enough in life to give him both her and Carole Bradshaw. Both beautiful and strong women, not similar at all to each other, really, other than the fact that they saw the men that they love have a shadow named Maverick clinging to them. And instead of resenting him, or trying to separate them, both chose to take him in, too. As if it was a given. As if Maverick has never just been an extension, and it’s just as easy to love him as the two great aviators who made it their life mission to watch Maverick’s six.
Goose was his brother, forever his missing limb, but Iceman is—
“I was saying that, to me you are,” Maverick swallows. He places three wrong blocks in a row. No moves left, the game tells him. Game over. He didn't even get a new highscore.
His eyes land on the Layton photo again. Iceman and Maverick, forever immortalized holding each other’s hand, smiles bright and victorious. He can hear the words they exchanged as clearly as it was said decades ago.
You can be my wingman anytime.
Maverick looks at Ice. Tom Kazansky hasn't looked away. Pete Mitchell is gripping the throttle, as scared as the day he went back into the air after holding his best friend’s rapidly cooling body. “I didn't want it to go unsaid. Just in case,” Maverick says. Forces it out of his throat as if he’s the one running out of voice. “But you must know—” His voice dies. He looks at Ice, desperate to be understood. “You must know.”
Ice—softens. It has been a long time since Iceman has ever been just a mechanically cold, merciless bastard to Maverick, but it’s still a sight to see. That Admiral Kazansky would ever let himself see what Captain Mitchell has to offer, over and over again.
Bullshit. You can be mine.
The sound of the keyboard clacking from Ice’s fingers is its own radar lock. When it’s quiet again, Maverick has to force himself to dive, and look at the screen.
As sure as I know you will always raise hell, Ice says, I know.
The furrow of Ice’s brow has smoothed out. There's simply a gentle smile on his face. Ice shakes his head, and it's a wonder of wonders of the years between them that Maverick knows it's not in disagreement or even helplessness. It’s just Ice, shaking his head fondly at Maverick running his mouth again.
Ice leans forward and pats his knee, mirroring what Maverick did when he first arrived. He raises his free hand: thumb and pointer and pinky up, middle and ring fingers down. Ice has mentioned that he usually sticks to texts and notewriting because it's more convenient, so between the two of them ASL is scarce and rusty.
But Maverick knows this gesture, and it's all he can do not to tear up for the second time in Ice’s home office today. He grips Ice’s hand on his knee and gestures back. The same one, except he crosses his pointer and middle fingers together.
Ice laughs again, all breath and no sound. All breath, Maverick reminds himself. Time. He needs time. To teach the kids, to come back home, to breathe and say, I love you, I really love you, over and over again, and mean it just as much every time. To fill every wall with photos, and turn around and find that the person in the image is still around the corner, waving their hand and calling for him.
Ice leans forward some more, and they end up hugging each other again, still sitting on each of their chairs. Maverick just needs time. To get through the canyon, to hit the bullseye, to survive the climb. Make sure everyone comes back home, and for home to still be intact.
Eventually they break apart. The sun has set outside, which means Ice’s kids are probably already back inside and cleaning up. There is a delicious smell of something cooking inside the house, and Maverick knows Sarah won't let him leave just yet, even if he wanted to. Not that he particularly wants to, at the moment. He just moves to stand up, pocketing his phone.
Just one more thing—allow him one more thing. He cuffs an arm around Ice’s neck and drops a kiss to his hair.
“One more email, Admiral, because I know you,” Maverick says, all warm with the sight of the crinkles around Ice’s eyes behind his glasses and his open smile. “Then join us for dinner.”
Ice smacks his arm. Only to then catch it before Maverick can pull away fully, and retaliates with a kiss to Maverick’s knuckles. He doesn't correct him on who’s the guest in the house. Neither of them have been guests to each other’s spaces in a long while.
Time, Maverick thinks as he leaves the office and joins Sarah in the bright kitchen, with the kids clamoring all over him. The kids want to compare Block Blast scores, and they complain loudly as they find out Maverick still has the highest one. They force him to click the Start over button, up until Sarah scolds them for using phones on the dinner table and they all move to help with dinner. Ice joins them soon enough, already shaking his head as he enters the loud dining room. Yes, just start over; Maverick will make enough time for everyone if it kills him.
The mission timeline is moved up, and Iceman’s funeral is scheduled even earlier than then.
“I didn't get to tell him thank you,” Maverick says. He knows Bradley has looked up from the photo album to stare at him, but he doesn't look away from his work of rearranging the photos on the desk. Mostly, he doesn't look away from the photo frame in his hand. Layton again. Funny how it's forever a cornerstone connecting him with Ice, in all official and personal capacity that matters.
“Thought it would be a disaster, when he forced us to interact again.” He shoots a wry smile at Bradley. “Well, it did, but you know. It got us here.” Maverick’s in his hangar. Bradley is also here, and they have been catching up, and they did not fight even once today. “I should have thanked him when I could.”
Bradley steps closer. He bumps shoulders with Maverick—or, his upper arm bumps against Maverick’s shoulder. When the hell did he get so tall? How the fuck did Maverick get another Bradshaw to stick around and watch his six again?
“I wish I could've thanked him, too,” Bradley says. His voice is quiet, matching Maverick’s tone, but he doesn't hesitate in his words. So maybe some lessons did stick. “There are a lot of things I should've said, when I had the chance.”
Maverick’s familiarizing himself with the smile Bradley now seems to give him so freely. It’s older, but he finds that it's not a stranger’s. Unlike Maverick, who bares his teeth at anything and anyone, Bradley only smiles when he means it. It still aches, but it's the sweet ache of gripping tightly to a precious stone.
“But with him, I have a feeling he already knew anyway.” Bradley hands a photo to Maverick. “Especially when it comes to you, Mav.”
Maverick turns the photo in his hand. It’s a newer one, because at the end of the day Maverick is a sucker for physical media and he prints out some of the photos in his phone. It was taken sometime this year, but far before the suicide mission was ever in anyone’s mind. A dinner in the Kazansky household which Maverick joined. He sat next to Ice on his couch afterwards, drinking hot tea because Sarah treats them as the old men they are. Their heads are bent towards each other. Maverick’s mouth is open mid-speech, and there is a smile on Ice’s face, too indulgent to be anything but in love. Maverick’s pretty sure he still has the chat history of what Ice said when he sent the picture to him: Sarah took incriminating evidence of me conspiring with you. He also remembers his own reply: And you thought of sending it to me instead of purging it? Wow, the Iceman has melted into a puddle of sap.
Maverick looks up again. Not just the Layton, then. All the pictures: cornerstones of every relationship he has ever built, all the uphill climbs and downfalls and stretches of them. Time wasted and time cherished. Ice and Goose, in the photos, constantly with an arm around him and smiling at him. The Bradshaws and the Kazanskys and the dozens of aviators-turned-friends across dozens of mission patches. Bradley, by his side right now, tentatively resting his arm around Maverick’s shoulders. How novel, Maverick thinks, quirking a smile as he borrows the word from Ice.
“Probably, yeah,” Maverick huffs, finally. After all, they're wingmen because they know each other well enough to work as a flawless team. It’s just that, “One thing we never figured out was who’s the best pilot between us.”
Bradley huffs a little laugh of his own, shaking Maverick’s shoulders. He releases Maverick, then, before putting the photo album back on the desk. “You guys were still on that bit? Just let it go, Mav,” he says, still with a smile. “When you're done reminiscing, c’mon, let’s get lunch. I’m starving and your plane can wait.”
As if on cue, his stomach rumbles. He weathers some more of Bradley’s laugh from behind his back. Yes, let it go, Maverick thinks, pinning the photo Bradley gave him next to the Layton frame. Maybe an old dog can finally learn a new trick, too. Let go, not to forget or dismiss or ignore. Just to move on, so the photos are not ghosts, but reminiscence.
“Lunch sounds great,” Maverick says, grabbing his jacket. He catches up to Bradley and grins up at him. “You’re the one paying for this old man, right?”
And time marches on.