Chapter Text
Three hours after Maverick is cleared to go home, there’s a knock on his front door.
It takes him two tries to get off the sunk-in cushions of his ratty woven sofa, then five seconds more to catch his breath, braced against the arm, head spinning, dark spots creeping into the edges of his vision. His pulse pounds against his temple. Fucking hell. He should’ve stayed put, but.
Twenty, thirty, fifty seconds later—long enough that whoever knocked has likely given up—Maverick makes it to the door. Whatever. He’s committed now. And if it’s who he thinks it is—
Yeah.
Ice is standing on his front stoop, because of course he is. Because of course he’s the one bastard who can wait a full minute in silence and the one bastard who’s both patient and poised enough not to knock twice. He’s still in his service khakis, every inch of him crisp and sharp, fresh out of what Maverick assumes was a lengthy debriefing.
“Hey,” says Maverick. He manages a smile. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Ice looks at him. His expression is calm, almost placid, but there’s something tight in the corner of his eyes. Drawn. “You gonna invite me in?”
“Sure, why not,” says Maverick. He opens the door wider, and slowly, painstakingly, shuffles aside with it. He can feel the weight of Ice’s gaze tracking him the whole way. Then Ice’s hand covers his own on the doorknob, nudging it aside, firm but not ungentle, and Ice shuts the door, and Maverick lets him.
“Want something to—”
“Mav,” says Ice, and Maverick startles to find Ice’s hands already on his shoulders, steering him carefully around. “Sit back down.”
Maverick tries to shrug him off—then regrets it instantly when a jagged fissure of pain slices through his lower back, sucking the strength right out of his knees and nearly toppling him to the wood floor. Ice steadies him immediately and Maverick reaches out to grasp Ice’s forearm, nails digging into firm, solid muscle.
They stay like that for a few seconds, Maverick breathing harshly as he rides out the pain, Ice quiet and still as stone against his back.
He doesn’t ask if Maverick’s okay. It’s fucking obvious he isn’t. Instead, he guides Maverick the rest of the way back to the sofa, and sits him down.
“I’m fine, by the way,” says Maverick.
“Uh huh,” says Ice. “I see that.”
“That wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t make me get up to let you in.”
“Sure.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“I know.”
“Ice,” says Maverick impatiently. “Can I help you?”
And of course now is when Ice chooses to be silent. He still hasn’t let go of Maverick, but then he does, his hands dropping away from where they were braced on Maverick’s biceps, and Maverick feels a momentary pang of regret as Ice pulls back entirely, takes his warmth with him.
Ice looks away. Ice, who has never backed down from Maverick since their first meeting over a year ago, backs down now. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, carved out, like someone—like Ice himself—reached inside and scraped his every last rib clean of emotion, clean of feeling. It punches straight through Maverick’s chest.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I’m not,” Maverick says, instant, breathless. “I’m right here.”
Instinct tempts him to shift closer, but Iceman is his namesake right now, sitting half a foot away, shoulders rigid and the distracting line of his jaw drawn taut. No openings.
They’re not quite there yet, Maverick thinks. Their friendship, their mutual attraction—still budding, still too fresh, too new. They’re still trying to find ways to navigate around each other, still trying to find ways to navigate with each other, to not break something in which they both see promise. But Ice can be hard to pin down, and sometimes Maverick isn’t sure if Ice truly likes him at all.
He hadn’t expected Ice to come see him. Not today, at least.
But he did.
Well. Maverick’s nothing if not daring. With a grimace and a barely-stifled hiss, he scoots over, and Ice, who turned toward him the moment Maverick made a sound, catches him right as he tumbles into Ice’s arms.
Maverick doesn’t let Ice collect himself. He presses up against him and kisses the shadow of that gorgeous jaw. Slides his hands up the graceful column of Ice’s neck to pull his head down, so Maverick can reach his lips. Ice doesn’t resist. Doesn’t fight; leans into it instead. But he sets the pace, keeps it slow and steady until Maverick has no choice but to follow his lead.
Ice is warm. Despite the marble-cool sculpt of Ice’s face, the brisk edge of his voice, Maverick always finds give when he dares to close the distance.
“I didn’t see you eject,” Ice says, when they finally draw apart. He presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes. Their breaths intermingle in the scant, secret space between them. “Jesus,” he whispers. Says again: “I thought you were dead.”
Something warm and overwhelming wells up in Maverick’s chest. It spills over into curve of his mouth. “Tough luck, Kazansky. You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”
“Ain’t that right,” Ice says, but even as he’s saying it he’s reaching up with the pad of his thumb, grazing over the corner of Maverick’s smile, tender as anything.