Chapter Text
Ice's boots touched the ground in San Deigo on a warm June morning. The salty air blew in lazily as the sun clawed at the back of his neck. He swung his duffel bag over one shoulder and glanced at his wristwatch.
Slider was late.
Ron had run ahead to get his hunk of junk from the mechanics. He killed the battery during his last deployment by leaving the headlights on. Ice couldn't remember when his truck wasn't at the mechanics. The echoed sentiment of "I fly planes for a living, how hard can it be?" was the foremost culprit in most cases.
Little by little, the rest of the carrier's inhabitants trickled onto dry land with varying levels of excitement as they met their families in the morning light. The wives, children, and mothers, waiting with open arms. The impatient girlfriends swept into loving embraces as children leaped into stumbling sailors.
The rest of the squadron would be a little further behind, in his experience, emerging in a group of four to six to begin the festivities. They would most likely hit the O Club before crashing at the nearest hotel. It was a five-hour drive back up to Lemoore after a rocky night's sleep. They had finally been relieved of their duties aboard the Lincoln and not a moment too soon.
They cared about each other - practically lived in each other's pockets while on deployment - but there were only so many card games and magic tricks to keep them entertained. There was a limit to the news aboard a carrier as rhythm and routine overtook excitement. Occasionally, a letter would contain something salacious but after the first rotation through the mess, the inevitable Playboy's value would plummet. Even in the ocean, life went on.
He'd never been met off a boat by anything but the welcoming committee of Ron's hideous truck or Wolfe's ugly car. Slider had a wheel of forgettable flings that sometimes bothered to show up. After a few years, Wolfe became more fickle, eventually disappearing altogether. He showed up periodically with a postcard. The last Ice heard, he was somewhere in Korea.
Sure enough, the flock of four emerged onto the port with howls of approval. East threw his arms to the heavens and praised Jon Bon Jovi for their place on land. Romeo took the discarded bag and steered the rest toward the waiting linking bus. Robin mumbled darkly on his way by, fighting to fold down his map.
Ice pulled his bag from his shoulder and, just when he was about to drop it, caught sight of Ron's crocodile green Ford pickup tearing around the corner before it screeched to a halt across the road.
Ron rolled down the squeaking window and threw his head out of the gap like an energetic rottweiler, "Get in, princess, we don't have all day!"
"We're going to need one in that piece of shit," he grumbled as he looked both ways.
He crossed the road and tossed his bag into the back before climbing into the shotgun seat. He closed the door gingerly and clicked his seatbelt into place with a silent prayer. Ron had never crashed with Tom in the shotgun seat, but he had heard the wild tales from East during their time at the academy. No arrests, only a few bent fences, and a broken wing mirror.
The interior of 'Darla' stank from Ron's putrid body spray and wet dog. A silver six-pointed star hung from the rearview mirror, and a hula girl bobblehead sat on the dash. The black seat covers served no real purpose but to bunch if you sat on them for more than ten minutes.
"So," Ron began as he pulled into daytime traffic, "are you going tell me why you're hitching a ride, or am I supposed to theorize forever?"
Tom rolled his eyes and shifted his shoulder against the window, watching as the buildings raced past. He'd overheard Ron placing bets with the other guys at breakfast, feeding conspiracy theories. They ranged from Ice totaling his car to him gifting it to his (nonexistent) Russian girlfriend. Ron, apparently, had at least twenty bucks on (as Elvis put it) 'fucked wiring'.
"Daniel borrowed it - he's giving me the keys once we get back."
Ron took a sharp right turn and laughed. "Get back? You just got here, stupid."
"I'm going to Virginia," he said sourly as if the state had left the bitter taste in his mouth, "The Admiral has summoned me to dinner."
He was always Admiral. Not father. Never dad.
The Admiral was married to their mom. No one knew how the beautiful woman in a navy dress in their living room had created Admiral Alexander Kazansky. His mother loved him - Tom guessed there must be some part of the man that wasn't distant and cold. He was yet to be presented with any evidence to the contrary.
They stayed quiet for the rest of the journey to the airport. There wasn't much else to say when they had been living together for months. The well of conversation had run dry.
They had lost contact with most of their Top Gun class after the Gulf. Hollywood and Wolfman had vanished onto the Enterprise, Sundown and Chipper were back in Maryland, Mitchell redeployed, and that was the last they'd seen of them.
Wolfman popped up in places sometimes, sending photos through the mail, but there was little to go on for everyone else. The gossip said Mitchell was either; training to go to the Moon or he had some top secret job in the desert (where the aliens are - clarified Wolf). Either way, Maverick had gone from being thrown around the globe to vanishing from radar completely.
It was just him and Ron like it had always been.
They got postcards occasionally; the photos of pretty beaches and dazzling sunsets were bought from some tourist shop wherever they were. Not that anyone got to see those beaches.
The last letter with his name on it was from Carole, dated a few months ago;
Dear Tom
Thank you for the advice - Martha really appreciated it. We're both doing okay, and Pete's been helping us out when he can. I don't remember math being so difficult! Bradley sends his love, he's at the piano right now, smiling where I can't see. If he grows any more he'll be taller than Mav in a year!
The nightmares are less frequent now - thank goodness - but I can't get him to go near the ocean for anything. Pete thinks it's because of what happened to Nick, but Brad won't talk about it. He won't talk to me, and he has Pete wrapped around his little finger. I'm tearing my hair out just thinking about it. He can't avoid the sea forever - we don't live in Tennessee anymore!
I'm trying not to worry too much, but he's so much like Nick, like Pete, and most days he's not even trying to give me a heart attack. He's made a friend on the baseball team we're having him over for lunch today (wish me luck!).
We can't wait to see you again. Please stay safe.
Love Carole, Bradley.
Slider dropped him off at San Deigo International with the promise of two bottles of Vodka with their names on them once he returned. He gave Tom a grim nod before he pulled from the curb, heading home to the promise of a warm bed and silence.
The four-hour flight began uncomfortably with his shoulders wedged between the window and the teenage girl to his right. The khaki did its best to deflect most of the heat but ultimately failed in the close quarters of the Lockheed L-1011 TriStar. Tom watched out of the window as the ground crew efficiently readied the plane for taxi, the unease in his stomach growing tenfold.
There was a difference between flying an aircraft and being flown.
The former was like breathing. He had control. Ice knew every piece of his plane, from the engine to the knuts and bolts holding it together. Sitting back and letting someone else fly didn't come naturally to him. He could have looked over the pilot and copilot's licenses, and he still wouldn't have been reassured. An instructor at the academy had told him that there was more to flying than a plane and a manual - he'd laughed then.
The girl tapped his shoulder, "Gum?"
She couldn't have been older than eighteen, with chin-length (dyed) black hair and a square jaw. The set of black earrings nestled in her earlobes tangled with the wires of her Walkman.
Ice peeled himself from the window and unclenched his jaw to smile at her. "Yes, thank you," he said, taking a piece from the outstretched wrapper.
"You... like boats?" she asked slowly as she tucked her gum away. Her eyes flickered to the bars on his uniform.
He caught her wince as she rummaged through her bag. "Not really," Tom said as he cracked through the outer shell of the gum. She raised an eyebrow at him. "I prefer planes."
"Hm," she frowned.
"Do you, like boats?"
"They make me hurl," she yawned, tucking her hair behind her ears. "How are you in the Navy if you don't like boats?"
Tom tapped his wings, "Can't fly a boat."
"Then why'd you look like you're gonna hurl?"
"Sam!" a girl interrupted.
Tom and Sam (presumably) turned to find a second girl in a sleeveless denim jacket covered in patches, badges, and safety pins. She scowled at her friend as she closed the overhead locker and threw herself into the aisle seat. She ran a hand through her blonde hair and giggled.
"I am so sorry, sir," a high Virginian drawl continued, "we didn't mean to bother you."
"It's no problem," Tom shrugged before turning to the window.
Watching did nothing to calm the tight clench of his stomach above his seatbelt. Seeing, and listening put his mind at rest - ticking off his list and communicating with Ron and the tower put his mind at rest. Being able to run through a list of checks, put his nerves at ease. He didn't know how Ron did it. On a commercial aircraft, he was a sitting duck, unable to turn off the part of his mind scared of being blown out of the sky. He would've driven to Virginia if his brother didn't have his car. It was a daunting journey but considerably preferable to placing his life in a civilian's hands.
Takeoff and landing were punctual as they came to a stop at Reagan National Airport. Tom thanked the air hostesses (smoothing down their purple dresses with bright smiles) and shuffled down the metal stairs, bag in hand. He left the airport with the seas of stressed parents and barking suits.
Tom waited on the sidewalk, catching the few stray glances from strangers as they wheeled their luggage into the airport. The civilian stares never really became normal, no matter how long he was in uniform. Some he'd grown used to; the hunting eyes of women in The O on the prowl, the wonder sometimes seen in the eyes of children at the grocery store, the distant looks from veteran's wives at the cemetery.
It was a VW Golf in Navy blue, clean, with an immaculate exterior. A worthy investment for his first real paycheck. He couldn't take all the credit for its upkeep since it wasn't used more than thirty days a year, but it was pristine.
Daniel pulled up to the curb and popped the trunk.
Tom tossed his duffel bag into the back over the emergency kit and wiper fluid and closed the trunk with a gentle click. He slung himself into the shotgun seat and clicked his belt into place before turning to his brother.
Dan had aged since they had last met. Of course, he had - time had passed. It was cruel that way.
His youngest brother had a wife, a child on the way, and a home a stone's throw from their parents. Daniel inherited the softness of their mother's face and darker chocolate hair that was cut to regulation length and extended into the beginnings of a beard. His shoulders were much broader, with a heavier build due to his profession. He looked better. The Marines suited him. It was laughable that he'd considered the Navy.
Daniel opened, then closed, his mouth twice before speaking, gripping his hands on the steering wheel. He seemed to roll the thought across his brain while deciding what to say. He turned to look out of the windshield.
"It was good of you to come," he said.
"I wasn't given much of a choice."
"It was good of you to come," he repeated, "Beth's been bouncing off the walls waiting to see you, and Mick's on shore leave too." Tom nodded faintly. "Are you staying?"
Tom shook his head, "No, I promised Ron and the guys I would be back to pay a friend a visit." he watched Daniel's smile fall and added, "I'll be up for the baby, Dan. I don't want to push my luck."
"Dad says it's an embarrassment that you see your flyboy buddies more than your family."
He didn't doubt that it was a direct quote.
Jaw clenched, Tom took a patient breath and bit back the tornado of profane insults that grew behind his molars. Daniel wouldn't hear a bad word against the Admiral. There was plenty of them to go around. He tried his best not to express any of his opinions around his siblings.
"I'm going to need to make a stop before the house."
"A stop? Tom, we don't see you for years-"
"The cemetery."
Daniel stopped rambling as they joined the road out of the airport. "Shit, sorry, yeah," he mumbled, the tips of his ears burned.
He didn't press further. It was impolite. Don't ask about those who have passed. People die, Thomas. This man died serving his country, an honorable death. The Admiral said nothing else as they lowered a man that he served beside for twenty years into the ground. The lesson had been drilled into the rest of his children many years later.
Dan waited outside the car.
Tom walked through the rows upon rows of white stone until the weight became overwhelming. The sea of death stretched as far as the eye could see, men, women, and children. It was a clear day, the sun high in the sky, the lawn green. It felt wrong, in such a place. He took the step and the next until he found who he was looking for; a uniform white epitaph with an engraving and a flag. A small binding of flowers - lilies - lay across the base. The grave hadn't been visited in a while, by the looks of things.
NICHOLAS BRADSHAW
LT US NAVY
MAY 4 1962
JULY 29 1986
It was inappropriate to find him here, so far from his family and friends; on the other side of the country with Tom's father instead of on the sunny shores of San Deigo. Bradshaw didn't know these people, the nineteen-year-old to his right or the fifty-six-year-old vet before him. Three plots lay empty beside Goose. This wasn't his place. Virginia hadn't been his place for many years.
One mistake. His mistake. His jetwash had ripped a man from his wife and his child. Worst of all, Mitchell had taken the fall. Ice had stood by and watched a good man destroy himself over misplaced blame. He was helpless to stop it then, stood so far with his outstretched hand trembling so.
"Hey, Mother Goose, It's been a minute," he said abruptly as his throat turned to sand. "I'm heading back to San Deigo tomorrow, to Carole and Bradley." Tom faltered as he bowed his head and looked down at the lawn. "I'll keep an eye on him, I promise. I'll keep them safe. Or at least I'll stop Baby Goose from hitting him with a baseball for his birthday, again." He took an unsteady breath and fiddled with his ring. "He'll be eleven soon - probably taller than Mitchell by now." Ice muttered, trailing off for a few moments, "bye, Goose."
The walk back was brisk, taking no time to linger or stroll. Cemeteries had never given him the solace that he sought. Tom climbed back into his car without acknowledging Dan, doing his seatbelt with his eyes glued to the dashboard and his heart in his throat. The funeral burned into the back of his mind as he rubbed a mark off the windshield. He could see Mav's face now, his hand holding Bradley's as Carole cried.
"A friend?"
"Just drive."
An eternity of uncomfortable silence later, Dan pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. They sat in the car and listened to the conversations buzzing inside. Their mother was loudest of all, ordering her troops to take bowls, plates, and cutlery into the dining room.
The house hadn't changed a bit, the same white wooden exterior and flag hanging from the porch. The lawn was a tidy length, and the roses shone from the other side of the white picket fence. Five cars (including his) crammed into the driveway.
"There's still time to run for the hills," Dan joked.
"Don't give me any ideas," he replied, unbuckling his seatbelt and pushing the door open. He stepped onto the cobbled driveway and closed the door. Daniel shut his and walked around the car to the trunk before Tom interrupted. "Leave it. He'll think it's presumptuous."
Dan shook his head and muttered something before straightening out his white shirt and tucking it into his jeans. They stopped just short of the porch. He turned to Tom with a serious look, "Here's what you've missed; Suzie lost the baby, and Mickey doesn't want to talk about it - don't bring it up. Dad's been reading through all of our reports-"
"Asshole," he swore.
"Yeah, well, I wasn't the one who told you. He's going to ask about the Gulf - do not engage. Mom's fine. She's joined a gardening club - say the roses look nice. Beth wants to enlist because her job sucks. We haven't managed to get through to her - that's your job. Please talk to her."
"Okay."
Tom took a deep breath and brushed his hands on his thighs. He hoped it was under the guise of adjusting his uniform.
Now would be a fucking good time for a wingman, Mitchell.
He could use something unconventional to get him out of the particular corner he'd backed himself into - no doubt Mav would have some ridiculous idea for their daring escape. Tom would roll his eyes, seconding Ron's valid criticisms, before going through with it; narrowly escaping the jaws of defeat.
He walked up the steps, across the porch, and knocked on the door.
The sound of footsteps grew louder until they turned into a sprint towards the door. Beth threw the door open and shrieked before launching herself into his arms.
Beth, no matter what age, would always be a baby to him. A small bundle of pink blankets and sleepy eyes in his six-year-old arms. She had grown into a tall woman with short blondish-brown hair around her shoulders and endless energy. She hadn't inherited the worst parts of their father, only his sharpness in the face and his cold eyes. She was the best of them.
She wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and her knees around his hips as Tom tried not to drop her. "I can't believe you came! This is awesome! I haven't seen you in FOREVER!" Beth exclaimed as she was set down on the floor. "Your hair!" she giggled, stretching onto her tiptoes to run her fingers through the top. "WHERE have you BEEN?" she asked, glancing over his shoulder to frown at David. "You're late?"
"I'll tell you later," Tom smiled. He couldn't help it. She took his hand and pulled him over the threshold. He didn't quite topple but lost his footing for a second before he dropped her hand.
"MOM! TOM'S HERE!" She screamed down the hallway before turning back to him. "She's going to tell you that you look skinny - don't argue."
Their mother appeared in the kitchen doorway with her hands mounted on her hips and a warm smile. "Thomas," she said as he shuffled towards her. Her hand cupped his cheek as she moved onto her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his forehead, "you look skinny." she frowned.
"Hi, mom," he smiled, setting his hand over hers. "the roses are gorgeous."
"I joined a new gardening club -" she exclaimed, resting her other hand over her heart. "I don't know what you've done, but I'm glad you're home," she added a little quieter.
"I don't need to do anything, mom," Tom said as she pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her middle as he leaned down. She clung to him through his khakis before pulling away. "I can't stay for long."
He listened as everyone sat back down in the living room without them.
She looked beautiful with her hair pulled into a bun and her favorite pearl earrings hanging from her ears. A pale purple summer dress hid under her apron.
"Your room's ready," She supplied hopefully, nodding towards the stairs. "you're always welcome here, no matter what... differences you and your father have. This will always be your home."
"I promised a friend that I would be there for her son's birthday. It's the first time in years we've all been on land together in time."
Her eyes widened, "Your?"
"No, no, nothing like that. We flew with his dad."
His mom nodded solemnly. Helen didn't know much about the life her sons lead, but she had been married to Alexander Kazansky long enough to recognize the looks people shared when talking about certain things. She couldn't hope to understand, but she could try her best to offer comfort to them.
"What's taking you so long?" Beth yelled from the living room.
"Just a minute!" he called. Tom turned back to his mother and took her hand from his face, squeezing it, "I can't stay."
"I know."
The look on her face was crushing. A mix of sadness and disappointment. The tiny flicker of hope was extinguished. Each time they went through the same routine, and yet each time, she prayed for a miracle, for the day she had her son back in her arms and not in a casket.
They sat down in the living room with everyone, taking their usual seats. Tom sat at the end of the sofa nearest his father's armchair. Beside Michael. Michael sat beside Dan and him beside Beth, who sat near their mother.
The Admiral didn't rise to greet his son. He sat as he always did, back in his domineering armchair in uniform with a frown. His blonde hair was cut to regulation length, pushed back off his face making his features sharper - harsher. His eyes drifted over the pictures at the back of the room. His fingers rapped against the stiff leather to a marching beat, his wedding ring catching the light with each movement.
Tom decided that no greeting was better than an interrogation and thanked his lucky stars for the time being.
Michael was everything their father wanted in a son; athletic, obedient, qualified, and following in his footsteps. He was married with two children to his beautiful wife Suzanne with a matching picket fence. He sent Tom a shrug as he took another biscuit from the coffee table - a nervous habit.
The silence was deafening. No one dared break it, finding themselves very interested in the chips on the coffee table and their socks.
"Where's your friend?" The Admiral asked gruffly.
Your RIO. Never again would he bring Ron within a five thousand-foot radius of his parent's home. Never again would he ask for a lift from a guy with a pickup truck and a broken radio that only played rock music.
"San Deigo, Sir."
"You're transferring to Miramar," he stated. It wasn't a question. It was a fact from a file somewhere.
"Yes, Sir,"
"What happened to the girlfriend?" Beth chimed in, swooping in to save the day from the permafrost of her father's conversational skills. She beamed at Tom and wiped the crumbs from her lips.
"There's no girlfriend-"
"Tom," his mother sighed worryingly, "sweetheart."
"I'm married to the job."
"You know what I heard, Tommy?" Daniel grinned, leaning forwards to look at him. "Me and Mickey here heard you're some kind of hotshot." Tom sent him a warning look. "I'm not kidding! Just the other day, some pipsqueak asked if I was 'Iceman' -"
Michael chimed in louder, "and he went, 'who the f-" he came to heel under their mother's stare. "- heck is Iceman?' and the kid says 'The Iceman' like you're Billy Joel or something." he said with a series of fluid gestures. "Then some flyboy came into the mess and said 'wrong Kazansky, stupid' -"
"Before dragging him away!" Daniel finished gleefully, "So I asked around, right, and all I hear is your name or whatever and stories from everywhere -"
Tom didn't dare look at his father, turning in his seat to smile at his idiot brothers. "It's all... ship gossip," shrugged it off as the Admiral's eyes lasered holes through the back of his skull.
"So you're, like, famous?" Beth piped up, cutting him off halfway with an innocent smile.
Beth could always get away with murder. Being the youngest and the darling daughter in a family of sons left her with god-given charm and the ability to wrap their parents around her little finger. If the equestrian phase had lasted until her tenth birthday Tom was sure she would have gotten a pony.
"It's a story for some other time," he pleaded with a faint nod towards the Admiral, "excuse me."
Tom nearly ran into the kitchen to escape the conversation, finding his mother's bolognese bubbling away on the stove and the radio playing some old song. He took a chair out from under the table and sat down, burying his hands in his hair and taking slow breaths. The conversation flowed naturally from the other room with news about Suzie, Julie, and the kids.
A set of footsteps thudded on the kitchen linoleum. He looked up to find Michael leaning against the door with his arms folded over his chest.
"Why don't you invite us over, Tommy?" he asked.
He looked up and fixed his hair, sitting back in the chair. "What?"
Michael peeled himself off the door and walked further inside. "I'm not an idiot - we're not idiots. We know why you take all those deployments in fuckknowswhere, why we don't see you at Christmas."
Tom shrugged, "I like to work. I like Lemoore." he caught Michael's eye-roll. "I don't just sit in my house in darkness until deployment, stupid. Just because I'm not married doesn't mean I'm unhappy."
Unhappy? No.
Lonely? Quite possibly.
"Married to the job? Really? You know who says that shit - Dad."
"I'm not him."
Michael laughed, "Yeah, you've made that very clear. You're so fucking rebellious and just as distant." His smile dropped from his face as he realized what he said. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. "Look, Tom, I love you, but we never see you. Beth lives here, and Dan and I are within driving distance. You're a seven-hour flight away, and we don't have your address or telephone number."
"I'm not going to argue with you," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You don't get it - It's not just me. I can't just up and leave whenever I feel like it."
"Can you give me your address, at least?"
Tom nodded hesitantly, "I'm never there," he lied.
He plucked a pen from the nearby mug and tore a piece of paper from the notepad on the kitchen table. He scribbled down the address and his number and folded the paper in half before handing it over.
Michael took the paper and slid it into his back pocket with a sad smile. "You never told us you got the Top Gun trophy."
"Doesn't mean anything to you, does it? There wasn't much point."
"Was there a ceremony?"
Tom sighed as he finished tidying away the paper and pen. "There was,"
"Does mom know?"
"She knows whatever The Admiral told her."
Michael groaned and made the motion of choking him. "Just because we don't get it doesn't mean we don't want to know, stupid. I know you and dad don't get along, but we don't give a shit that you like planes! We would have wanted to be there."
Tom shook his head, "It wasn't good timing, you were all in basic, and he wouldn't have let you come. It got cut short anyway for a deployment." he scratched his jaw and mused, "Good cake."
Beth marched into the kitchen a few seconds later and planted her hands on her hips. "What on Earth is taking so long? You said "excuse me" not "wait as I plan my escape!"
"Sorry."
"Everything's fine. Tom was just telling me about his house in California, which is perfect for a party." Mickey grinned as he moved to stand behind Beth so he could make a jerk-off motion out of her line of sight.
"I wasn't," he defended weakly, "It's a shoebox with a kitchen."
Beth beamed, "Well, it doesn't matter. Dinner's ready. Mom wants us to set the table."
They sat at the table in the same seats they had been sitting in for their whole childhoods. The table bore scars, notches from steak knives, and scribbled initials from pencils. His mother sat the furthest from him, at the end of the table with Beth and Mickey. Dan and Beth sat opposite, with the former beside their father. They said grace and picked up their cutlery.
Twenty minutes in, the conversation began again. Beth peered at him over her glass of wine and not-so-discreetly elbowed Dan under the table.
"Uhm, so, Tom," Dan coughed to cover up his wheeze, "a friend mentioned he saw your name on a plaque or something?"
It was a vague enough question that he didn't have to answer.
"Who's your friend?" he replied, cutting through his spaghetti.
"Just a guy from work, his brother's in Miramar said his name was Patra?"
Tom snorted. Some callsigns were like math problems - you could reverse engineer them from a surname and come up with the correct answer. It depends on who you had with you while you were earning your callsign. There was one night to bribe your way under the radar. All it takes is one idiot, and you're stuck with something terrible. One idiot, a shit callsign, and you're infamous.
An example from the academy: Lt. Gerry "Bath" Room.
"Cleopatra," he muttered to himself. He looked up and nodded, "I wouldn't know. I'm not involved with Top Gun anymore." he answered politely.
"Beth, why don't you tell your brother about your concert?" Their father cut in loudly over the top, tearing conversation away with a sip of his wine.
Beth scowled, "Dad, we haven't seen Tom in ages. He doesn't want to talk about my violin recital. "
"No, Beth, he's right. We shouldn't talk about work," Tom supplied with a fake smile before turning his attention back to his bowl.
He shoveled the rest of the bolognese into his mouth and laid his cutlery vertically on the plate.
"So, where's your cute friend with the pickup truck?" she asked with a smile of feigned innocence. "Did he drop you off?"
"He's too old for you,"
"He's too old for you," Tom and his mother met each other's eyes and burst into restrained laughter as Beth huffed and puffed in her seat. "seriously, Beth."
"How come we've never met any of your friends?" Michael asked.
He dabbed the corners of his mouth and gathered his cutlery on his plate, sending a sharp kick under the table.
Mickey yelped, pointedly ignored the identical glares of "what are you doing" coming from his mom and dad, and turned to Tom with a winning smile.
"They're..." he huffed, trying to find the correct phrasing.
Idiots - was technically right, but it wasn't exactly reassuring for people to hear that the people trusted to fly multi-million dollar jets once tried to recreate the dance from Dirty Dancing after three bottles of Tequilla. That story, or the time they stumbled into a karaoke bar and refused to leave on the morning of a deployment.
His squadron wasn't the height of professionalism either. On duty, there had been countless fights over baseball teams and rock bands. Off duty, multiple attempts to drag race on base village roads had resulted in hours of post-hop laps. Admiral Holliday had dismissed their lapses in judgment to the summer heat and swore the 20-man squadron to secrecy.
Tom tried again. "They're pretty scattered," he began. Good, vague. "different squadrons and deployments. None of the guys live nearby so we usually meet on birthdays and holidays."
Join the Navy! Travel the world! Meet lifelong friends!
Which you will never see unless there's a miracle or a funeral.
"That sucks," Beth chimed in helpfully, filling the silence with bluntness as she took a hefty sip of her wine.
The conversation migrated to politics after that; local governors, elections, whatever Clinton was doing.
He helped clean up, much to the Admiral's disapproval. His father and brothers sat with bourbon. Tom washed, and his mother dried. Before they knew it, they were done. Beth put the plates away and closed the cupboard with a yawn.
Tom wiped his hands on the teatowel and threaded it through the cupboard handle, stifling his yawn. He turned around and leaned his hips on the side of the counter, folding his arms over his chest.
"You didn't have to do that, Thomas." his mother smiled as she untied her apron and pulled it over her head. She hung it on the peg beside the door before pausing. "I love you," she said before disappearing into the corridor.
"What am I, chopped liver?" Beth huffed at the empty doorway, sticking her tongue out in defiance.
"Maybe if your elbows weren't on the table for dessert, she would've thanked you too?" Tom suggested, sticking his tongue out at her. He took his hips off the counter and peered out the back door.
The garden glowed by the amber lights from the deck where the bugs swarmed. The plants grew up the banister, winding their little arms around the square beams.
She scowled. "That's a bad habit too," Beth called after him, walking over to where he stood, "folding your arms. It makes you look lazy-"
"I'm going to get some air,"
The door wasn't locked. Tom stepped onto the decking and continued until he reached the other side, resting his elbows on the ledge. He heard the door close with a creak, and open with a whine as Beth joined him outside.
She was far more lightfooted than he was, benefiting from her lithe frame forged by running track. She wound her cardigan around her chest and sighed into the darkness.
"I want to enlist," she mumbled into her shirt. "I'm guessing fat-mouthed-Dan told you everything already -"
Tom cut in gingerly, "He hasn't told me anything, didn't say a word the whole way here - I swear." he knocked his elbow into her ribs, "Go ahead."
Beth huffed as she tucked her hair behind her ears, "It doesn't make sense for me to do anything else, does it?" she groaned, "I went and got a degree, and it sucks. It sucks - you should see the jerks I have to work with, Tom. They treat me like I'm five." Tom listened as she clenched her fists in anger. "They're all old and gross, and none of them take me seriously." She stopped and sat her head in her hands. "If I do this, dad will be proud of me."
Tom moved his arm around the back of her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple. "You make him proud already, always have," he murmured, "You don't have to be a lawyer if you hate it, but he's not going to like you enlisting," Tom said. Beth grumbled. "It's mainly because you're his baby, and by the time you came along he got to be your father. He just wants to know you're safe, here, with mom."
"He was your dad too," she said quietly.
"You're smart, Beth. You can do anything."
Beth leaned over and picked his right hand up from the ledge, showing him the ring. "You went to the academy,"
"Yeah," Tom snorted at the memory, "and I wouldn't go back. The point is: that you have the options that we didn't. I was terrible at school, Mick's grades went down the toilet after he started football - Dan barely made it out alive."
"You left with straight As." Beth rolled her eyes.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "I didn't have a choice. Please don't waste yours because anyone can throw around a title."
"You're not going to tell me not to?"
"I'm not going to tell you to do anything,"
"Yeah, whatever, I'm going back inside," Beth laughed, elbowing him in the ribs. She reached the door and stopped, still smiling. "thanks for the chat."
After the door closed behind her, he gave it a few moments and returned inside. Tom joined the conversation about Admiral West's new position at Annapolis with feigned interest as Michael recited their meeting at Admiral Sinclair's promotion celebration. His eyes grew weary from the nodding and polite smiling as the grandfather clock in the hall struck ten.
━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━
Tom arrived back in Miramar, San Deigo in the early hours of the morning. The sun grazed the houses in the distance as it peaked its head up from under the duvet. The neighborhood was silent except for the engine's hum as he stopped outside the house. He parked at the bottom of the driveway and retrieved his bag from the trunk. He jogged up the steps and knocked on the door.
A few minutes later, Carole opened the door with a smile. She didn't look as tired as when he last saw her, mostly the same except for a few new creases around her eyes and lips. She'd thrown on denim dungarees over a pink and yellow tie-dyed top, the denim cuffed to mid-shin.
"Ice," she said brightly, opening the door wider to let him in. "he's upstairs."
Tom stepped inside and closed the door with a tired smile. He couldn't maintain it as he reached out, "Carole," he began with his heart in his throat.
"Yes?"
"Uncle Ice!" Bradley exclaimed from the top of the staircase. He looked down and waved in his blue dinosaur pajamas.
Tom waved and let Carole go as Bradley flew down the stairs and wrapped his skinny kid arms around his middle. Tom hugged back before Bradley pulled away with a toothy smile. The kid now came up to his ribs, his hair curled around his jaw and separated into curtains over his eyes, and small Superman plaster wrapped around his index finger.
"Hey, kiddo," he beamed, ruffling the top of his hair. "why aren't you asleep?"
Carole laughed as she shuffled back into the living room.
Bradley's smile morphed into a pout as his arms folded over his chest. "Not cool, Ice," he grumbled.
Tom snorted as he knelt beside Bradley and took his small hand into his, finding a matching superman plaster on his middle finger. "That looks sore," he frowned. "are you okay?"
Bradley nodded, pulling his hand away to shove it into his pajama pocket. "It was just a door," he mumbled as he studied his feet. "It's not that sore."
He nodded gravely, rising to his feet, and laid his palms on either bony shoulder. "I'm afraid it's bad news, Mr. Bradshaw - we're going to have to amputate."
"Ice!" Bradley meowled.
A third set of footsteps joined them from the kitchen.
Ice looked up and had the wind taken out from under his wings.
Mitchell wrapped himself around the doorway. His brain turned to mush within a matter of seconds. It felt like decades since he'd last seen him - seven years. Mav looked good - better than he should. He wore a pair of blue jeans and a tight white shirt. His dog tags clacked as he moved. His hair was longer than he remembered it being. He wiped his hands on the teatowel he was holding and threw it over his shoulder as he braced an arm against the doorway and cocked his hip.
"Ice," Mav nodded cordially, tucking the escaping hair behind his ear.
"Mitchell," he managed.
"Uncle Ice! Uncle Ice!" Bradley yelled as he tugged on Ice's pant leg.
Tom tore his eyes from Mitchell and leaned down to swing Bradley onto his back. He held onto the kid's legs as they wrapped around his hips. Bradley's arms looped loosely around his neck a few seconds later.
"Whoa," Bradley gasped, an expression of pure wonder.
"What is it Baby Goose?" Mitchell laughed from the doorway.
"Uncle Pete, you're tiny ."
Maverick's grin fell instantly as his shocked expression replaced it. He tossed the teatowel at Bradley's head.
Bradley caught the towel before impact and scrunched it into a ball. He flung it back, missed, and watched the projectile soar over Maverick's head and land with a thud on the kitchen floor.
Carole snickered from the living room doorway. She wandered over to Mitchell and steered him into the living room before turning over her shoulder to send Ice a look.
"Uncle Ice?" the small voice above him asked.
"Yeah, Bradshaw?" Tom replied, taking careful steps towards the living room, his bag forgotten at the door. He ducked under the door and held onto the kid's legs as he moved.
"Are you here to stop me from kicking Uncle Pete's butt at baseball?"
Mitchell scowled in the corner. "He's not like this when you're not here," he muttered darkly, hiding his smile with the back of his hand.
Tom laughed as he dumped Bradley on the sofa and sat on the floor with Mitchell and Carole. He crossed one leg over the other and wedged his elbows on the sofa cushions to support himself. He glanced at the floor and found a game of Monopoly underway. Bradley was winning by a considerable chunk from the looks of things.
"No, Baby Goose, I'm here to throw you the best birthday party ever," he replied with a pointed look towards Maverick, who looked as if he was swallowing down an ocean of colorful curses.
"Goodness!" Carole exclaimed as she jumped to her feet. "Where are my manners? Would you like a drink, Tom?"
He smiled, shaking his head, "I'm driving."
"Ice," Bradley frowned. He slid off the sofa and bundled himself beside Tom, resting his sleepy head in the crook of his elbow.
"Yes, Bradshaw?"
Tom moved the closest arm around his shoulders as Bradley blinked sluggishly. "I'm gonna-" - yawn - "to go to the moon," he mumbled, curling his arm around Ice's stomach.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, running his fingertips through Bradley's almost blond hair as he drifted to sleep. "I'm sure you will."
Tom carried Bradley upstairs ten minutes later. He scooped Bradley into his arms, one under his knees and the other under his neck. He took care, treading carefully up the stairs. He lowered him into his dinosaur bedsheets and tucked him in before turning off the light and closing the door.
When he rejoined Mitchell and Carole, he found them talking in hushed voices. He sat down in his place and dissolved his smile. Carole had cleared away the Monopoly board and tidied it away on the shelf.
She shuffled over to sit between them and moved her arms around the back of their shoulders, fighting back a yawn, "Stop arguing," she commanded sleepily.
"Yes Ma'am," Mitchell laughed, leaning back to stick his tongue out at Tom.
How old was he, five?
Tom rolled his eyes and flipped him off. He leaned back into Carole with an angelic smile, "I promise I won't instigate any argument."
Maverick guffawed.
In the conversation that followed Tom filled the rest of the gaps in his knowledge from the past six months.
Bradley was still too young to be in the little league team but had joined the school's team. He was good as a seven-year-old could be, bouncing between the Metcalfs and some of Carole's friends while she was at work. He was a normal kid. Mitchell had abandoned Merlin a few months ago - after their last deployment - but kept in touch. He had received two ironic postcards; one from Sundown and one from Hollywood.
Mitchell walked him to his rental car an hour later. Carole watched from the porch with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. He looked between Ice, the car, and back with a deep frown growing across his forehead. He circled the vehicle and bent down to examine various pieces. Mitchell ran his hands over the body and messed with the wiper blades just to piss Tom off.
"You drive a Ford, Iceman?" Mitchell said finally, stepping away with his hands on his hips. "Were they all out of Porches or?"
"Blow me, Mitchell." Tom ground out, "Can you even drive?"
He held his hands up in surrender. "Just making conversation." Mav smiled faintly, "Viper said he'd approved your transfer," he continued as Tom threw his bag into the trunk and closed it.
Ice froze. "You're at Top Gun?"
They had entrusted MITCHELL with teaching the next generation? Someone had to have been shot over that one. The thought was ludicrous! Maverick had been late to nearly every pre-hop briefing in his professional career.
"Well," Mitchell pondered, "It was that or the circus, and-"
"They weren't hiring any more clowns, right." he sighed on his way back around the car. Tom leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He squirmed under Mav's scowl. "It's only while Ron's on leave," he explained unnecessarily - like an idiot.
"Wolfe said,"
"I'll see you around, Mitchell," Tom said, opening the door and slinging himself inside. He buckled his belt and turned the ignition, resting his palms on the steering wheel.
He rolled his eyes, "Later, Kazansky,"
"That's Lieutenant Commander Kazansky, Mitchell," he said with a winning grin.
"Fuck off, Kazansky."
"Yeah, yeah."
Tom drove to Ron's and practically threw himself at the door. He rang the bell, waited, and then rang it again. It was eight. Ron liked to sleep in until at least ten if not twelve. He rang the bell again. Patience was a virtue for men with more than two hours of sleep.
Ron opened the door a few seconds later in a pair of sweatpants and an AC/DC tank top. He flipped Tom off while rubbing his eye with the other hand and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "I'm going to kill you."
he strode inside and slipped his shoes off. He set them down beside a pair of Converse and green flip-flops. He let his bag fall to the floor and rubbed his temples, "I'll take that drink now."
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse - Mitchell's at Top Gun. "
"God help us," Ron yawned, closing the door.
Ron ran his hands through his hair and scratched the back of his neck, dragging his feet down the corridor and taking a left turn into the kitchen.
Ron's house was more of a home than any of his had ever been. He'd bought it during Top Gun - expecting a timely return to the area. The joke had been on him since they spent most of their time in Lemoore or on the Lincoln. It was a nice in-between place near friends, he couldn't be faulted for that.
A rug led into the living room, hiding the scrapes on the dark wooden floor, a bit dusty, and the colors faded from wear. The living room was similarly worn, brown leather sofas made an L across the south and west walls to face the TV. The wall closest to the door held a dresser occupied by a silver Sony cassette player and a three-pronged cactus.
Ron threw himself onto the farthest sofa and gestured to the space beside him. "Sit down," Tom stopped in the middle of the room. "please," he added, leaning his elbows on his knees and linking his hands between the gap.
"You're scaring me," Tom said slowly, slipping his hands into his pockets.
"You're scared?" he laughed, "I'm shitting myself over here. Sit down, assface." Tom sat down. "Sofie's pregnant - let me finish. She told me yesterday, and I said I would marry her."
Sofie Sofie Sofie. Ron's girlfriend Sofie - shit. Sofie, the elementary school teacher? Tom couldn't remember her well. They had met once at The O Club - he'd had a few - she had short brown curls and a blue summer dress. Smelled like lavender or something...
"Shit-" Tom exhaled, finding Ron staring into the middle distance beside him. "Are you okay?" He reached over hesitantly before leaning his hand on the back of the sofa.
"I don't know. Sofie told me to my face. She wants to keep it." he rubbed his eyes. "I said I'd marry her on the spot. It's," Ron linked his hands at the back of his neck and bowed his head. "it's the right thing to do, isn't it?"
"Do you love her?"
"I don't know, I just - I don't know, man." he sighed, "I can't just bail on her, not with a kid."
Tom nodded. He didn't have anything wise to say, no experience or an anecdote to reassure him. He tried to speak, but no words came out. What could he possibly say? He looked at the carpet and found no solace there either. There he was, at thirty-three, a father. Ron, a father. The man who thought alcohol poisoning was a symptom of a good night out.
"Can you say something?" Ron asked, "Please?"
"When's the wedding?"
"The last Sunday before I go back."
"Three weeks," Tom echoed as he fell slack into the sofa. "Before you're redeployed?"
Ron shrugged, "Yeah," he turned to meet his eyes and carded a hand through his hair. "will you be my best man?"
"Of course," he smiled.
"Great, because it was you or Leo-"
"Shut up Kerner."
"So," he declared, slapping his thighs as he got up. Tom winced. "now that's out of the way. What hap- what are you looking at me for?"
Tom groaned and joined him in standing. "You're going to be a disgustingly good Dad, you know that?"
"Shut up." Ron flushed to his ears, waving him away. "When did you see Mitchell?"
"Give me a drink, and I'll tell you."
They made their way into the kitchen and took their seats at the island. It was a small room with blue cabinets and a white tiled floor.
Ron opened the fridge and took out a bottle of vodka, kicking the door shut behind him. He opened the nearest cupboard and took out two tumblers. He set everything down on the counter in front of Tom and moved the second glass toward him. Ron then wandered back and shut the cupboard door.
"So, Mitchell," Ron said, unscrewing the lid and pouring two good glasses of the clear liquid. "I'm not going to start there - untwist your panties. How's Baby Bradshaw?"
Tom took the glass and cradled it gingerly between his hands. He stared at the counter and ran a finger around the rim of the glass.
"He's good, growing up," he smiled at the thought, "It's like I blinked, and he's turning eleven. It's so strange. It's like Beth all over again; one minute they're knee height, and the next they're talking so fast I can barely catch up."
"You've been whipped, man, by a kid," Ron said with a low whistle. "You know how many people would pay to see this? I would make good, hard, cash off a video-"
Tom laughed as he picked up his glass and took a sip of the sharp liquid. He sighed and swirled the Vodka in slow circular motions, "It's the least I could do." he took a swig, "I killed his dad. I'm in his debt."
"That's not it, and you know it. You love that kid," Ron waved off his protest and drained his glass. "No, shut up a second. I know you love him because you went to see him yesterday. After a seven-hour flight home and putting up with your dad, you went to see that kid at the asscrack of dawn."
Tom drained his glass and set it down. Ron filled the glass. He ran a hand through his hair and slid it into the back of his collar, dipping his fingers under his tags and undershirt to massage the aching muscles. A sigh.
"Michael's hours away - I never see my nieces," he said, looking down at the ring on his finger.
He meshed his hands together and twisted the ring around his finger. No time like the present. Tom released a shaky sigh.
"I gave up trying to get a girl." Tom began quietly, running a finger around the rim of the glass. "Years ago, before we graduated from Top Gun." he paused, "Then Goose, and it became concrete. I had to watch a kid bury his dad, and I decided I could never do that to someone."
Ron leaned over the counter and folded his arms.
"I went to see Goose," he drained the rest of his glass, "there are three plots between him and the next guy. Carole, Bradley, and who else. Who do you think?"
Ron sighed, pouring himself another drink. "We're all going to go eventually. Some of us go in our sleep, and some of us go in a fireball over the Pacific. You don't know when you're going to die. You're a thirty-four-year-old jogger who doesn't eat junk food and occasionally drinks."
"How many of our class at the academy do you think will make it to fifty? Sixty? Seventy? How many will retire? How many will see their kids graduate? Grandkids?"
"You're such a buzzkill, man," he groaned, capping the Vodka, "It's between you and Leo, and you're not looking so hot."
"Fuck off. I'm the hottest ass in the fucking Navy, Kerner."
A smile spread across his face as he walked back over and put the vodka back into the fridge. Ron slammed the door shut and turned on his heels.
"Great, then you'll have no problem getting a date for the wedding."
"Wait what's between Wolfe and me?" Tom cut in, tapping his nails on the glass.
"Oh, you know," he said nonchalantly, "who's going to be the kid's godfather."
Tom nearly fell off his chair.
"God, you're an ass." he spluttered, finding Ron grinning back at him. Tom stopped to let his brain catch up. His hand flew up to cover his mouth. "Seriously?" Ron nodded. "Did you not listen to anything I said?"
"I did, but most of its bullshit. I know you're not just hanging about with the kid because you feel bad. I know you better than that."
Tom drank the rest of his glass and swallowed it down in one. The burn lasted as he took a sharp breath and carded his hands through his hair. "I'm going home now," he declared, slamming a hand on the counter. He hopped off the stool and headed towards the door.
"I guess he's being called Pete then!" Ron yelled after him.
"Be my guest!" Tom yelled back as he sat down in the hallway and began pulling his shoes on.
Ron rounded the doorway cackling, "Peter Leonard Richard Kerner sounds pretty good,"
"What if it's a girl, jackass?"
"Then I forfeit any right to naming that little angel."
Tom stood back up and brushed himself off. "Let's pray for a miracle then," he said, opening the door. He walked to the rental and opened the door. Ron followed him outside and folded his arms. "Don't call him Tom," he said, climbing into the car.
"Wasn't going to!" Ron laughed, "Drive safe."
"Fuck off," he smiled as he closed the door and started the engine.
Tom turned into the driveway and killed the ignition. He got out and fished his bag from the trunk, slamming it shut with a yawn. He shuffled to the door and fished his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door. He stepped inside the hall and slipped his shoes off with a sigh.
The house was silent.
He walked up the stairs and tossed the bag into his room.
Tom saw a bright light from the house next door and crept closer. He peered outside and found someone wandering in the room across the fence. The flimsy drapes were drawn halfway over the master bedroom's window.
The man walked around the room, backlit by the two amber lamps flooding the room. He stretched and flexed, swinging his hips as he shimmied out his sweatpants. A sea of toned muscle moved with him, arms extending over his head as he pulled his shirt off.
Tom jumped away with his heart in his throat. He tripped into his bedroom and unbuttoned his shirt, pressing his back against the door. He pulled his arms out of the sleeves and removed them by the collar before laying the shirt across his lap.
The day only got longer.
He undressed and showered before pulling on a pair of sweatpants and collapsing into bed. He couldn't sleep, didn't have anything to eat, and didn't have anything to drink. Tom stared at the ceiling until his limbs grew heavy. His eyelids fell shut.
At five, he dressed and went for a jog. When he returned at 0520, he showered and dressed. By six, he was shown back around by Commander Heatherly and directed toward the coffee machine.
On his assigned desk sat a tower of paperwork a printer thick, and a packet of black ballpoint pens. Captain Metcalf set a cup of coffee on his desk and told him to be in the classroom by seven for the pre-hop.
The first report was a joy.
Lt. Alex "Roadie" Decker and her RIO "Worm" were a disciplined and determined team who graduated from the academy with high praise and went on to impress Jester and Viper in their first month. They were four points behind, according to the whiteboard behind Maverick's desk.
He finished reading at ten to seven when Mitchell swaggered through the door with a cup of coffee and a shit-eating grin. Maverick threw himself into his chair and kicked his feet onto the desk. He took a languid sip of his coffee and glanced down at the paperwork with a grimace.
"How long've you been here for?" Mav asked absentmindedly as he licked his fingers and flicked through the first folder.
"Six," he replied, neatening the pile on his desk.
"My bet's on Wasp and Bat."
"You're out of your mind," Ice snorted before draining his mug. "They're not team players. Wasp has repeatedly abandoned his wingman for personal gain, and Bat has obviously done something to annoy Jester."
Maverick rolled his eyes and held up his palm as he turned away and drained the rest of his cup. He threw the cup into the trash and listened to it land with a smirk. It was impressive that at thirty-one he was still a teacher's nightmare.
"See you in the classroom, Lieutenant Commander Killjoy," Maverick said in a sing-song voice as he peeled himself off his chair and walked towards the door. "Don't be late."
He was never late.
"See you there!" he beamed back sarcastically.
Ice leaned in the doorway with his arms folded as he caught the end of the classic "don't abandon your team" lecture. He'd put his aviators on upstairs and taken a stroll to the hangar, counting on Viper's usual morning announcements.
It was nice to see that some things never changed.
The class sat at less than rapt attention, slumped into their chairs like petulant teenagers. The two idiots in the back row passed folded notes across the gap and stifled their giggles into their collars.
"ATTENTION ON DECK!" Commander Heatherly boomed, "Please welcome Lieutenant Commander Kazansky, callsign Iceman."
Tom made his way down the aisle, head held high, as the whispering began. He took his place beside Mitchell, hands clasped behind his back.
The two jokers at the back he now recognized as Wasp and Bat. At the front sat Roadie and Worm at attention, leaning forward in their seats.
"I'll make this brief," Ice began, his eyes scanning across the room. He caught Bambi slinking into his chair and Bond examining his fingernails. "I am not Lieutenant Mitchell-"
"No shit," Wasp coughed into his fist. Bat laughed.
The rest of the room was silent.
His eyes narrowed, "Lose the attitude, Lieutenant Jones." he said cooly before moving on. "Because I am not Lieutenant Mitchell I will use the punishment which I see fit. The rules are law. The hard deck is law. These statements are non-negotiable." he paused, "I expect to see some good flying. You're all here because you're the so-called best of the best. Prove it - if not to me then to yourselves."
Tom stepped back beside Mitchell and angled his head slightly to catch his smile.
"You're such a hardass, Ice," Maverick said while itching his nose.
He looked ahead and fought down the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You're welcome," he replied out the seam of his lips.
"For what?"
"Making you prom king," Tom joked dryly, leaning away. "I'll see you in the locker room," he muttered as Jester arrived at his side.
They walked to the changing room chatting aimlessly. He learned that Jester had put his bet on Bond - the slumper with the curly hair and filed teeth. They went into the changing room and found their lockers.
"Apart from the transfer, you don't seem too surprised to find me here, Commander Heatherly," he said, zipping up his flight suit.
Ice pulled on his harness and clipped his helmet to his hip as Jester hiked a knee onto the bench to lace his boots. Metcalf left the room with a telltale click of the door as it swung shut.
"Mike said you'd be back. Here you are." Jester shrugged, "I'll see you up there."
Ice left the changing room and followed the voices down the hall. He stuck his head around the corner and saw Cleopatra, Bat, and Worm huddled around with their helmets under one arm. Cleopatra had them pulled in close, their heads bowed into the center of the discussion as they whisper-hissed.
"I'm serious, man. He's not fucking around," Cleopatra hissed as Roadie and Bond joined the circle with barging elbows.
"Bullshit Patra, he's a relic - at least Mitchell's not a hardass." Bat laughed.
"You just don't like him because he's good, and he doesn't take your shit," Worm chimed in, rolling his eyes.
"How's being good working out for you, Worm? All that ass-kissing and you're trailing behind."
"How's your teamwork, Bat? Last I checked, you were the one abandoning your team to get some fucking points," Roadie snapped in a thick Jersey drawl. She nudged Worm and pushed past, turning back to Bat. "You're all talk and no balls."
Ice started walking as the group dismantled, arriving on the tarmac seconds before the kids. He caught Mitchell seconds before climbing into his plane. He tapped his leg.
"Ice?" he yelled, pulling his helmet off.
"Bat's going to tell Wasp to come for me, be ready when he does," Ice screamed back over the roar of the engines.
"How do you know?"
He started walking away without giving Mav an answer. He grinned and jogged over to his plane, climbing inside with a familiar bubble of anticipation in his stomach. Ice clicked himself in and clasped his mask into place as the cockpit lowered and sealed above him. He looked over and found Maverick sending him a thumbs-up.
This was going to be fun.
The instructor's frequency was considerably quieter. A few murmurs of positions and an offer for drinks after work.
"Hey, Iceman?" Maverick asked as he turned onto the runway.
"Yes?"
"How about we up the stakes a little?"
Tom sighed, he could practically hear Mitchell's grin as he fired down the runway. "Spit it out, Mav, we don't have all day."
"Loser buys a round." he gasped into his radio.
"Is that official, Maverick? Because I could do with a beer." Viper came in as Maverick pulled up into the clouds.
"I wouldn't mind a drink," Jester laughed as he turned onto the runway. "How about you, Iceman?"
"I'm busy tonight," Tom replied to a chorus of groans. "Switching to child-lock frequency now."
"Shit! Jester's airborne too - where the fuck is he Bat?" Wasp screeched.
"I'm trying! I can't see him! Where is he?" Bat shrieked.
Jester disappeared as Viper fired down the runway.
"Watch out!" Bond howled, "Bat your three o'clock!"
Ice increased his speed steadily from the top of the runway, pushing forward as his radio screamed.
"Roadie, Viper's at your six!" Bambi came in, "Defending"
He cruised at a low altitude, watching from below as the chaos unfolded. Viper chased after Roadie, who pulled up just in time. Maverick hovered just above him as Jester dove between Bond and Bambi.
"Guys where's Maverick?"
"What do you-" Cleopatra was cut off immediately by Maverick and Jester on his way back. "Shit!"
"Cleo what are you doing? Defend! Bond where are you?" Wasp yelled.
"I'm dead guys," Cleo said sullenly as he dropped through the clouds.
The rest of the class followed suit, with Ice getting a last-second lock on Roadie before Viper called time. Wasp went neatly after Bond, forced into a corner by Ice and Mav. Roadie got Mitchell but not before Bambi got Jester. It was a good day.
Ice landed on the tarmac on both feet. It was unusual, flying without Slider, not having the voice in his ear but instead in his head. It had taken him a while to get used to it, the silence, being alone. He pulled his helmet off and clipped it to his belt in time to catch the end of Wasp and Bat's twenty press-ups for, unsurprisingly, mouthing off at Jester. Wasp looked up to him with a deathly glare, painting the target between Ice's eyes. He walked past silently as Jester and Viper counted. The rest of the class were - surprisingly - absent. They had no doubt beaten them to the gym. They would regroup in the classroom for the post-hop.
Mitchell strolled languidly to the showers, helmet under his arm and cheerfulness to his gait. Tom caught up with him in a few strides. They turned the corner and headed toward the changing rooms, their footsteps echoing in the silence.
"So, got a hot date?" Mav asked, raising his eyebrows obnoxiously.
"Yep," he said, popping the 'p' with a smirk. "me, Slider, and a six-pack." he lied.
"Oh come on, Ice, come to The O Club with us."
"It's Monday."
"And tomorrow's Tuesday, so what?"
He stopped in front of the changing room door, "I only go to The O Club on Fridays or weekends."
Ice pushed the door and strode inside. He made his way to his locker and listened as Maverick chased after him. He unzipped his flight suit and stepped out of it before hanging it back up. He reached behind the back of his collar and pulled his shirt over his head, folding it in half.
"Have you gone dry or what?" Maverick muttered beside him as he stripped and pulled his towel free.
Ice sighed and walked into one of the cubicles, throwing his towel over the divider. "It's called professionalism," he said, turning the shower on. He gasped quietly as the freezing water slammed into his lungs. Tom closed his eyes as the water washed over his shoulders and down his spine, his hand slipping on the tiles.
Maverick laughed, "I'll find out eventually."
Ice dressed and left before Viper and Jester got into the changing room. He fell back into his chair and took a new page from the stack. He picked up a pen and began with Roadie, following the rubric that Viper had shown him earlier. Paperwork was a necessary evil in his line of work - one that he hadn't anticipated taking over most of his life after leaving flight school. It only got worse the higher up he climbed - as most Admirals he'd met had said. He was two reports down when Maverick walked in brandishing two Top Gun mugs with coffee, steam curling off the lip.
Maverick set a mug down in front of him, "It's good to see you, Ice," he yawned. He lingered, laying his palms on the desk.
"Thank you," he said absentmindedly as he signed off on Bond's report. He looked up as his eyes narrowed. "Can I help you?" Mav raised his eyebrows suggestively, retracting his hands and placing them on his hips. "No. I'm not telling you what's going on - It's none of your business." Ice continued curtly, dropping his gaze back to the paperwork.
He grinned, "So something is going on!"
"You have eleven reports to write." he sighed, setting his pen to the paper, "Thank you for the coffee."
Tom crawled home at six, collapsing on the steps. His hand ached from writing, and his elbow was stiff from where it leaned on his desk. He closed his eyes and sat in the sun for a few minutes. The steps weren't comfortable - a worn wood that groaned underfoot - but he was finally sat down. His bones sank into the steps, tearing an exhausted sigh from his lungs. The distant sound of kids playing filled his ears after the passing of two loud cars, their laughter shrill and infectious as they ran down the street. The rest of the evening was quiet, the day's heat wilting as the night grew nearer.
The hop-planning had lasted longer than anticipated, with all four instructors chiming in to debate the flight path and parameters down to the most minuscule of details. It was strange, being in the room where Metcalf and Heatherly sat as they planned and prepared their hops. Stranger yet was seeing Mitchell chime comfortably between them, leaning across maps - brows furrowed - with insightful comments about maneuvers and trajectory. All immature comments, jokes, and complaints vanished; once the door was closed Mitchell was a completely different person. The transformation took the wind from Tom's sails as he watched the class clown turn into a valedictorian in front of his eyes.
He, as an observer, mostly took notes of the day-to-day. He made the calculations, totaled up the numbers, and kept his head down until either Viper or Jester asked for his opinion. He stood around the table, leaning over the map, and listened for the most part. At the meeting, he learned what the files couldn't tell him.
Peace.
The kids were a few streets down, kept away from the instructors at Heatherly's request. Metcalf's off-base house was enviable in that regard. Top Gun antics were a sacred ritual that passed through every roster that stepped through the foyer's doors. The more extreme Saturday night celebrations had been retired at the turn of the 90s after some idiot got injured trying to find the infamous betting sheet in Viper's office. It had been years since he'd heard of any legendary stunts.
The roar of a motorbike snapped his eyes open a split second later.
Tom jumped to his feet and ran down the drive in time to watch Maverick slow to a trot in front of his house. His heart had jumped somewhere into his throat as he brushed his khakis off and shut his gaping mouth.
"Ice?" Maverick laughed, carding a hand through his hair, "You're my new neighbor?"