Archive of Our Own

Ice is gonna kill Hangman. Murder him in cold blood in his sleep.

No, not in his sleep, that would be more painless than he deserves. Ice needs to make sure Hangman suffers.

He could, potentially, murder his sister too. After all, it’s her fault that Hangman saw those Halloween pictures from when Ice was fifteen, and it was her insistence on matching costumes that allowed them to come into existence in the first place all those years ago. But if three decades of her torment haven’t made him do it yet, he doesn’t think that the explanation of this being his last straw would hold up very well in court.

Hangman, on the other hand… him, Ice has known for less than four months and he’s spent most of them being an annoying pain in the ass, so there’d be witnesses to confirm that it wasn’t unjustified. Though the same witnesses could also say it was their idea too, so maybe he should just kill them all and skip town. He might have to do that either way, if he even makes it through this.

This being a dare. One which, worst case scenario, could end with him getting completely humiliated, but one which could also make him the new owner of the very expensive scotch from Admiral Kerner’s alcohol cabinet, if Rooster’s word is worth anything. When Ice said yes, he’d decided that he’s good enough of an actor to risk it, but now he’s not so sure anymore.

He knows how to act casual even when he’s feeling anything but. That’s the easy part. He’s the fucking master of making nerves look like boredom, twirling around the paper umbrella that came with his cocktail and not bothering to look at anything that’s not right in front of him, as if he simply couldn’t care less.

The drink was a courtesy of Hangman so at least he’s good for something, even though it came delivered by Penny as “compliments from the man by the pool table,” and Ice was so sure that she was seeing right through him and just playing along until she leaned in close and warned him to “be careful about these aviator types, sweetheart.”

Hangman’s taste in alcohol is… acceptable, given the situation, even though it’s sweeter than Ice usually prefers, and much weaker than he really wants right now. He has to admit that a glass of vodka wouldn’t complete the picture as well as the colorful Sex on the Beach does - though thanks to the name alone, it’s still another item on his list of reasons to kill Hangman.

He’s been compiling them since he sat down to keep himself distracted. Because the one single time he took a look around the whole bar, when he first walked in, he spotted Captain Mitchell sitting in one of the booths, laughing with his old buddies, and that was when he realized that the worst case scenario is so much worse than just humiliation - because Maverick could do so much worse to him.

Most days, Ice is determined to ignore his stupid, useless crush on the older man that’s never going to lead to anything anyway, and he’s been doing a pretty good job of it for the past couple months, but there’s no use in trying to ignore it tonight, no point in trying to hide from it.

Which is ironic given that hiding is pretty much exactly what he’s doing right now. Hiding in plain sight, that is, with how many people have been looking at him the whole night. Any other day, it would’ve been flattering and he probably wouldn’t have hesitated to look back at least at some of them, but tonight, it’s just reassuring more than anything else. It’s a confirmation that it’s working, that he might just get away with it and get that bottle of scotch after all.

It’s also, in a way he wasn’t expecting, kind of freeing. He’s sitting in a bar full of sailors and he doesn’t have to be one of them. Besides a handful of people who he’s doing his best to never so much as glance in the direction of, no one even knows that he is one of them. Because really, for tonight, he’s not.

For tonight, he’s long blond hair and a short dress that’s just barely not navy blue with small, open toe heels to match, because the elite Dagger Squadron is really just a bunch of jokers who all want to die.

Halo provided the shoes but they had to buy the dress and the wig, which Hangman offered to do very eagerly, all in the name of embarrassing Ice. Bob even did his makeup, with Halo’s eyeshadow palette and Phoenix’s bright red lipstick that she got for her birthday once and has barely used since. Both of the women did offer their own tips and opinions from the sidelines, but Bob insisted that he used to help his sister get ready for a night out often enough that he knew what casual makeup looked like better than the both of them and, most importantly, could put it on another person pretty well.

Ice, despite being the one who would actually be stuck wearing it for several hours, wisely opted to keep his mouth shut through the whole procedure. If he did have a say in it, the lipstick would’ve stayed barely used. The eyeshadow probably too, if it was really all his decision, but definitely at least the lipstick.

It feels like too much, in his inexpert opinion. It has him fighting the urge to worry at his lip with his teeth because he can’t stop thinking about it being there, but he’s also not sure how the whole thing works and he doesn’t want to accidentally smudge it. No matter how much he just wants to get it off.

But Halo assured him that it wasn’t too much, and even Hangman tried to be helpful for once, though his “I’d fuck you” meant very little, given that he himself’s admitted that there’s very few people he wouldn’t fuck if he had the chance.

Not that Ice has much of a right to judge him, really, given who he would-

“Not a fan of football?”

Ice chokes on air. Instinctively, he wants to greet Captain Mitchell by name, and maybe even with a salute, but he remembers barely a second later that he absolutely cannot do that right now. He’s not Ice right now, he can’t be. He’s… fuck, he should’ve come up with a fake name.

And Mitchell’s still waiting for an answer because he hasn’t actually done anything at all yet, fuck.

Frantically, he looks up to find the screen. He’s been so distracted that he’s barely noticed there’s a game on, but it is, and it seems to be attracting quite the crowd too. Is it some kind of a championship game? Ice can enjoy the sport for the sake of it but he’s given up on keeping up with any of that. Between deployments, he usually misses too much of the season to make it worth it to him.

The score flashes on the screen in large letters and it’s looking like a pretty big blowout, so Ice does what he’s always been so good at - faking it.

“Not when they’re not playing well,” he lies before taking another sip of his drink through the straw. He’s not sure what to do here - despite how many people have been looking at him, no one’s approached him directly yet. And besides, Maverick isn’t just anyone, in so many ways.

Ice can’t act like Ice here. He and Maverick may not be very close personally, but they’ve still known each other for a couple months at this point and the Captain has occasionally come out for drinks with the squadron, especially after they completed the mission. Ice can’t risk Maverick noticing something familiar and getting suspicious.

So what would Ice usually not do?

“Well, that’s what a true fan is supposed to be, isn’t it?” Maverick wonders, smiling, friendly - Ice knows very well what his actual criticism sounds like, looks like, feels like, and this isn’t it. “Someone who sticks around even when times are tough?”

What would Ice not do?

He licks his lips absentmindedly, chasing away the sweet taste, and glances at Maverick from the corner of his eye a bit less subtly than he’s usually capable of. “No, I think that’s the captain.” There’s nothing on Maverick’s jacket to signify his rank, so Ice doesn’t dare point it out, but the corner of his mouth twitches a bit like he’s made the connection anyway.

“And would you agree with that?” he asks, not bothering with the game at all but instead looking right at Ice, attentive, like he genuinely cares about his opinion here.

It’s one of the things that make him so easy to respect, besides his skills and years of experience. He listens when people talk and gives weight to what they say, whether they’re an Admiral or a Lieutenant. Ice hasn’t met many people in his position, of his rank, who bothered to even fake that, let alone actually meant it.

“I think…” He bites his lip a little, playing it up, until he remembers the lipstick and quickly lets go again. “I think a good captain is one who does all he can to make sure his team wins.”

The end of his sentence almost gets lost in the sound of the whole place erupting into loud cheering and clapping. There’s even some swearing and words of relief, and that’s what finally makes Maverick look away from Ice and at the game. “Sounds like they’re turning it around,” he notes.

“They must have a good captain then,” Ice points out, using Maverick’s comment to keep the conversation firmly on the game. Because that’s what they’re really talking about, this has nothing to do with flying or the Daggers’ mission, because Maverick isn’t actually having this conversation with someone who would know anything about that. He’s having it with… a random woman that Ice should really come up with a name for, or he might blurt out Sarah when Maverick asks, and he can’t risk that.

“You know,” Maverick says slowly, pulling him out of his head and his frantic attempts to remember an English name for a woman that doesn’t belong to someone they both personally know. Natasha’s out of the question and so’s Callie and Penny, Lada’s Russian-

“The captain’s not the only one on the field,” Maverick goes on, completely oblivious. “He could be the best player in the league and it wouldn’t mean anything if his team wasn’t just as good.”

Ice freezes. His thoughts screech to a halt, and he can only hope that his breath doesn’t hitch too loudly. Is that supposed to be a compliment? It sounds like another metaphor. Is Maverick suspecting him? Is he trying to make him come clean just to claim the praise from a superior officer? Does he think Ice is that vain?

Squeezing the wooden stick of the paper umbrella hard with his fingers, he leans forward to take another sip and digs his teeth into the plastic straw just a little, just for a second, just to give his nerves some kind of an outlet.

He smacks his lips when he straightens back up, in a way he usually finds obnoxious, and declares, “I’ve changed my mind. Football bores me.” He’s being purposefully rude, so much more than he would ever actually dare as himself, and especially in a conversation with Maverick, so hopefully that will assure the Captain that he’s talking to someone else. “Is there anything else you can hold a conversation about?”

Fuck, he has to fight the urge to take it all back and apologize the moment he says it, the disrespect nearly making him feel sick. Sure, he’s had some COs he dreamed about telling fuck off to, but Maverick is nowhere near that list. With any luck though, the attitude will be enough to turn him off the conversation completely, and that would be a couple problems solved.

But Ice has always been shit at finding four-leaf clovers, so instead of walking away, Maverick smiles even wider, his mouth falling open on a kind of amused chuckle that’s maybe a little surprised too, but it’s gone before Ice can analyze it properly.

“Sure I can,” he says lightly, like Ice is also just joking and not starting to panic even a little bit. “But, and please tell me if I’ve misread this,” Maverick’s voice drops lower, quieter, as he goes on, leaning in closer, “I also have a bike parked right outside.”

Oh.

Ice’s eyes don’t widen only because he’s a damn good actor, but it’s a near thing as the understanding hits him that Maverick’s attracted to him.

No, not him, that’s a dangerous way to phrase it, an unwise direction to let his thoughts stray in. Maverick’s attracted to the woman he thinks Ice is. Worse, Maverick wants to sleep with her. Maverick’s offering her a flimsy excuse to walk out of the bar with him instead of voicing the real reason, as if she might not want anyone to overhear and know it. He’s being discreet, but there’s no mistaking his tone or the look in his eyes. Ice might not own a bike himself, but he’s used a similar line often enough to be sure.

Maverick must have picked up on something. His body language, maybe, or the way he’s let himself look a bit more than he usually would have, or maybe the captain metaphor came out as flirting instead of the honest compliment Ice was going for. Fuck, that’s it, of course it is, Maverick thought it was a random woman saying them, someone nowhere near his chain of command. Ice should’ve just not said anything at all, fuck.

But it’s too late for that now, when Maverick’s looking at him waiting for an answer, his expression honest, relaxed, maybe even excited, like he already knows he’s about to hear a yes. He’s obviously not a guy who’s used to getting rejected. Ice can’t imagine why anyone would ever tell him no, and he can’t imagine himself doing it either.

Even now, even when he knows it would be the smartest thing to do, maybe even the only smart thing to do, he just can’t. They’ve had a nice conversation, pleasant, comfortable, and he can’t imagine making Maverick walk away from it wondering where it went wrong. Maybe he’d sleep it off and forget all about it in the morning, hell, he could probably get any other person in this bar just as easily, but Ice just can’t.

He’s sure Maverick would never make this offer to the real him but even as this fake person, this costume that can be anything he wants it to be, Ice can’t make himself be someone who would reject him, just like that. He owes him an explanation at the very least, and an apology for leading him on. But god, fuck.

Ice licks his lips decisively and stops fucking around with the paper umbrella. “What kind of bike?” he opts to play along, hoping that he looks relaxed, or that his nerves translate as anticipation if nothing else.

The slightest hint of tension falls from Maverick’s shoulder, as if some small part of him was worried about Ice rejecting him after all. But it’s truly so miniscule that Ice doesn’t even realize it was there until it disappears on an exhale as Maverick’s smile widens. “1986 Kawasaki. She’s a beauty, trust me,” he reveals and for a moment, Ice could almost believe that he truly only wants to show him his bike. The words bring pride into his voice, the kind that only hints at how much work he must have put into the thing.

“Vintage,” Ice notes, allowing himself to joke a little. The rest of the squadron loves to tease Maverick about his age and he usually has no problem playing along, or at worst rolling his eyes at them, but it’s not something Ice has ever had the nerve for. “You’ve got me curious now,” he decides. “I want to see her.”

He doesn’t bother with finishing his drink, the sweetness is already stuck to his tongue anyway. He does have to scramble for an excuse when Maverick offers to pay for it though, clumsily explaining that he’s already done it because he wasn’t planning on having more than the one tonight, but thankfully Maverick doesn’t poke holes into his logic.

It feels like he almost rips it apart himself anyway when he stands up, having completely forgotten about the heels he’s wearing, and stumbles on them embarrassingly like a newborn calf. But Maverick catches him instead of laughing at him, his arms wrapping firmly around Ice’s waist to help him stay upright and quickly letting go the moment he finds his balance.

He gives himself only a second to mourn the loss, only a second to wish for them back, and then he’s rushing to snatch up the handbag on the counter with his phone and keys in it before Maverick can realize that he completely forgot it was there. The damn dress is so impractical, there’s no pockets on the thing.

And it’s so damn short too, he has to keep fighting the urge to tug it down as he follows Maverick to the door. He’s not used to showing this much of his legs, especially not like this, in this kind of a setting, and he can’t get rid of the feeling that half his ass is out, even though he logically knows that the dress ends mid-thigh.

The idea of looking for any of his squadron in the crowd doesn’t even flash through his mind until the cold night air hits his bare shoulders and makes him shiver. Fuck, maybe he should’ve listened when Halo advised him to borrow one of her sweaters.

“It’s gotten colder,” Maverick comments lightly and Ice wants to agree, but he barely has the time to nod before Maverick’s taking off his jacket and fitting it around his shoulders. 

“I- no, I can’t-” he tries to protest instead of getting distracted by Maverick’s hands touching him again, but he’s not given a chance.

“It’s alright,” Maverick interrupts him lightly, rubbing his shoulders a little, as if he’s trying to help him warm up even more. “Keep it.”

Fuck, he’s such a gentleman. Maybe Ice should just tell him right here, spare them both and get it over with. They’ve left the crowd behind now, there’s no one to witness it if Maverick doesn’t take it well, Ice could do it now, but… it still feels too open. Too public. It’s just a parking lot, there’s always a chance of someone overhearing them, and Ice really doesn’t need that adding to his humiliation.

“There she is.” Maverick gestures somewhere towards the cars, his hands gently turning Ice in the right direction and urging him to move, and he can’t do anything but listen even when they drop away. Maverick sounds so excited for him to see the bike, Ice just can’t.

“She’s beautiful,” he manages to say when the Kawasaki comes clearly into view, finally voicing another one of the many compliments he’s never had the opportunity or the guts to actually give Maverick. He doesn’t ride himself, he much prefers cars when it comes to land transportation, but this bike’s had his attention ever since he spotted it sitting in Top Gun’s parking lot at the end of the first day of training, before he was even sure of who it belonged to.

“She’s not the only one,” Maverick responds, openly looking at him from the corner of his eye, and Ice is instantly certain that there’s no chance he’s not blushing. Maverick’s just so bold, so shameless.

Every pilot has an ego and Ice knows he’s no exception, but Maverick wears his own confidence so much more comfortably than some cocky Lieutenant. Ice has no idea if that’s something that always comes with age, if Maverick’s gained it with his skill, or if it’s just what he’s always been like, but either way, it’s damn attractive. It’s steadying, even when it throws him off like this. It’s something he can lean on, something he has leaned on, in situations much more serious than getting complimented.

Before he can figure out a response, or at least try for one, Maverick’s hand is wrapping around one of the handlebars and he’s climbing on to straddle the bike. “You know how to get on?” he asks casually, seemingly not assuming either way.

Instead of answering, Ice takes a deep breath and slowly settles behind him, clumsily balancing on one heel and leaning on his hands for a second before he finds the spot where to settle his other foot. Unsure of what else to do with it, he ends up shoving the handbag between his thighs awkwardly, leaving the strap hooked around his arm just in case, because he knows he can’t just hold it in his hands.

He knows where he should put those but he hesitates again because… he can’t just touch Maverick like that, he can’t just do that. But putting the jacket on properly so he doesn’t lose it during the ride and wrapping the strap around his elbow more securely only gives him a couple seconds to stall and try to build up the nerve. Then there’s really nothing left for him to do but slip his hands under Maverick’s bare arms, raised slightly away from his body to give Ice the space, and put them on his chest.

The muscle he can feel under his palms isn’t a surprise, he knew Maverick was built well, he’s seen it, but getting to touch, even over the thin material of Maverick’s tee, is something else entirely. Fuck, it makes him want-

Maverick’s hand wraps around his wrist and firmly tugs him even closer, giving Ice no chance but to press to his back, his chin nearly landing on Maverick’s shoulder before he catches himself and ducks away.

“I tend to drive fast,” Maverick warns him as he starts the bike and despite everything, despite the nerves constantly drumming under his skin, Ice’s lips twitch up into a smile. Yeah, he’s seen that too.

But he understands that the warning is really a question, and he can’t resist. “Show me what you’ve got,” he says, and he even manages it somewhat confidently, gripping on a little tighter, certainly enough for Maverick to notice.

Watching his expression at an angle, Ice can see a part of the grin his mouth opens on, happy and excited, the energy of it contagious. Slowly, their weight shifts, the engine revving loudly, and then they’re moving.

Over the wind whistling in his ears, Ice barely hears Maverick urging him to hold on but he can’t do anything else anyway, a panicked thought flashing through his mind that he probably should’ve asked for a helmet. His fingers twist into Maverick’s tee and he frantically presses himself closer to the strong line of his back, but he could swear he can feel the muscle shifting under the fabric and it has him hesitant to truly plaster himself to Maverick, even though he still feels unsteady.

He can’t focus on himself completely, too fixated on the smell of Maverick’s cologne and the short hair tickling his cheek if he leans in close enough, distracting him and making his thoughts stray to places that are very dangerous, especially because the one thing he’s perfectly aware of is that his body is responding to it all. The vibrations of the bike between his legs, the way Maverick grips it and handles it, are doing the opposite of helping too.

With so many things taking up his attention, they reach Maverick’s place before Ice can figure out how the hell he’s supposed to tell him, and he doesn’t even realize that they’ve arrived until he feels the bike slowing down and tilting. When he finally rips his eyes away from Maverick’s shoulder, his house is right there.

Ice has been inside before, when Maverick invited the whole squadron over to celebrate after the mission, but visiting as himself and with eleven other people is nothing like what’s happening right now, what he’s feeling right now. He needs to tell Maverick right this second, before this has a chance to go any further, but he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He doesn’t know how to tell him.

Maverick turns to look at him and it’s only then that Ice remembers he’s still holding on to him. Fuck, he’s never felt this thrown off.

“Everything alright?” Maverick asks, picking up on what he’s clearly completely failing to hide.

He finally lets go, hoping that he’s at least not blushing as he tries to quickly figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do with his hands. He ends up wrapping them around himself awkwardly to rub at his arms, leaping after the first ideas he gets that sounds at least a little logical.

“Just a little cold,” he lies quietly. “Can- can we go inside?”

No, shit, that’s not a good idea. It makes sense but it’s fucking terrible, he can’t fucking go inside Maverick’s house when he shouldn’t even be standing in front of it.

But Maverick’s smile comes back full force before he slides off the bike and holds his hand out to help him down too, and then they’re walking towards the front door and all of Ice’s thoughts come to a screeching halt, freezing with panic.

Damn it, fuck, he just needs to say something.

“I-”

But then the door clicks and suddenly they’re standing inside and all he can do is nothing, is to not take a single step more, stuck in place, and to not let go of Maverick when he tries to move forward himself.

“I-” he tries again, but then Maverick is turning back around to face him fully and his eyebrows crease with worry as his free hand slides up to squeeze Ice’s shoulder, and he thinks he might start crying instead of saying anything.

Because Maverick’s going to hate him, and Ice can see that clear as day now. He’s let this go on for too long, always waiting for a better moment, but this is it and it’s not coming, it’s just gotten worse and worse. And now Maverick’s going to be so angry and disgusted and throw him out on the street and probably get him thrown out of the Navy too, somehow.

Fuck, does this count as attempted assault? Could Maverick make it count? He’s a goddamn Captain, he could probably do anything he wants. And Ice is still wearing his fucking jacket.

He wants to take it off, he wants to rip it off himself and shove it into Maverick’s arms and apologize and beg, but then Maverick’s taking another step closer to him and cupping his cheek in his palms, a touch so much more gentle than anything Ice deserves right now brushing his skin and- oh. He’s crying.

He blinks and his eyes are wet, his chest heaving.

“Hey,” Maverick whispers quickly, as if he wants to comfort him. “Hey, sweetheart.”

God, fuck. Sweetheart.

“What’s wrong? I- it’s alright if you’ve changed your mind, you can just tell me. I promise I won’t be mad.”

No, of course he wouldn’t be mad, because Maverick’s a decent guy. Maverick’s a decent guy who can definitely handle getting rejected by a woman at a bar, fuck, Ice should’ve just said he needed the bathroom and left him there.

But he didn’t, so now he’s here.

He takes a deep breath, a desperate attempt to steady himself as he steps back to put more space between them, but it’s only an inch before the door stops him and his breath hitches again. He has nowhere to go.

He has nowhere left to go.

“I-” He swallows, but it’s useless. “Sir, I’m- I’m sorry.”

Immediately, Maverick stops touching him. His hands fall away, he even takes that one step back that Ice couldn’t, and all Ice can do is try to stop crying and brace for the reaction.

“Don’t be sorry,” Maverick says, still so fucking soft, shaking his head. Ice freezes, confused and terrified both at once. “You don’t have to be sorry, it’s alright. Do you want something to drink? Tea? Water? Uhm- take a shower? Or would you rather just go home?”

“I- what?”

Maverick smiles at him again, gentle. “I think I have some juice too, but that might not be safe to drink anymore.”

What- what the hell is happening-

It’s alright if you’ve changed your mind.

Fuck, Maverick thinks-

“Sir, I’m not a woman,” Ice blurts it out before he can stop himself, his mouth finally overriding his brain. He tenses, expecting shouting, expecting rage, pain, but Maverick doesn’t do anything. His mouth barely opens a little, eyebrows rising, and Ice clenches his jaw. “I’m not a woman,” he says it again, no steadier, as if Maverick could’ve somehow not heard him. “I- I’m sorry, sir, it was a bet, it was a- a stupid bet, I didn’t mean for this to-”

Finally, Maverick moves. His hand wraps around Ice’s forearm before he can grab the damn wig and rip it off, and he flinches, can’t help it, his mouth snapping shut. The stupid handbag slips from his arm and hits the ground loudly, and he twitches again like someone shot him.

“Ice,” Maverick says, inexplicably calm, gentle, and Ice stops breathing anyway. “Of course you’re not a woman.”

“You knew?” The sir only shows up in his mind belatedly, with no chance of making it out of his mouth. This whole time, Maverick knew? Does that mean this whole thing was a joke? That Maverick was in on it? Did Hangman somehow-

“You thought I didn’t?” Maverick interrupts his spiralling thoughts, cuts them off sharply, almost perfectly matching Ice’s own shocked tone. “Ice, why did you say yes to me if you thought I didn’t know?”

And suddenly the whole woman thing feels fucking easy compared to having to answer that question. He should lie. Say it was a part of the bet, something, anything, but the truth is out of his mouth before he can come up with a story that sounds better. “Because I- I didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t want to or you thought you couldn’t?” Maverick’s voice is suddenly much harsher, and Ice has to fight not to flinch away from it. He understands why Maverick’s asking, why he lets go of his wrist as fast as he does, he can see it in his worried expression. What Maverick really wants to know is if this is a harassment accusation about to happen, and Ice can’t shake his head fast enough.

“I didn’t want to,” he even manages to insist somewhat confidently. He needs Maverick to understand that he wouldn’t do that, that he has no reason to. “I- I knew I had to tell you but I couldn’t- couldn’t make myself reject you. Sir.” There’s no amount of sirs that’s gonna save his ass right now. Ice clears his throat, desperate to move on from this. “Why did you ask me if you knew?”

Not that anywhere else he can go is much better.

Maverick doesn’t answer for what must be seconds but feels like an eternity with the way he presses his lips together and narrows his eyes, watching, thinking. Ice can only hope that whatever he’s looking for, he can find it under all the nerves and panic.

Finally, he seems to come to a decision. “Because I wanted to,” he says, sounding like he did when he told Ice he looked beautiful.

And fuck, he really did tell Ice, didn’t he? He knew exactly who he was talking to.

“Sweetheart. Can I call you that?”

Ice nods, can’t not, can’t stop the hope from making his heart beat wildly, can’t force himself to not stare at Maverick. God, sweetheart.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart.” Maverick smiles, and Ice knows he’s blushing. “I couldn’t make myself not take the shot tonight.”

Fuck, take the shot.

Captain.

It seems they were having the same conversation after all. Ice can’t remember everything he said and how he said it, but the basics are more than enough for him to be sure that there’s no point in trying to hide anymore. Not from himself, and certainly not from Maverick.

“I.- I don’t usually… dress like this,” he stutters, mumbles, as if that matters at all right now.

But Maverick doesn’t point it out. He doesn’t laugh. He just says, “I figured. You should,” he adds. “If you want to. You really do look amazing.”

“I-”

“But you’re hard to look away from in your normal clothes too, I promise,” he tacks on easily as if he’s not- as if he- as if Ice can even attempt to count how many times he’s jerked off over the thought of Maverick in his flight suit, in his dress whites, in the fucking jacket he’s still wearing.

He still kind of wants to take it off, but… not really. Not anymore. He wants to see this through first, needs to find out where Maverick wants to take it.

“Should- should you be saying that?”

Maverick smiles, still gentle, but now there’s also a note of amusement to it. “I think we’ve established that you like me saying that.”

Fuck, it’s just like Ice thought. Maverick’s got his number. He’s aiming right at the bullseye.

“I- sir-”

“But I can stop,” Maverick interrupts him before he’s even sure of what he wants to say, his voice firm again, determined. “Listen to me, Ice. This can stop right here, and nothing’s going to happen. Alright? You can tell me no, and nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise.”

It’s just like at the bar, with the bike. But it’s also completely different.

Ice swallows and tries to sound at least a little steady. “I don’t want to tell you no, sir.”

Maverick doesn’t smile this time. He grins, all teeth and excitement and promise as he takes a step closer, almost close enough to crowd Ice against the door. “You can stop calling me that, you know.”

“I don’t-” He doesn’t really want to, it feels better to say it than to not, but he manages to phrase it differently. “I don’t think I can, sir.”

Maverick smirks like he’s seeing right through him anyway, and Ice nearly shivers. “Alright,” he voices, low, assessing, calculating, and the reaction gets harder to fight. “Can I kiss you now?”

Maverick wants to- The whine is out of Ice’s mouth before he even knows he’s about to make it. “Please.”

Maverick kisses like he compliments, firm and confident and steadying. It should be an oxymoron, Maverick kissing him steadying him, but it’s not. It’s a strong chest Ice can lean into and a hand that comes up to cup his cheek, to tilt his head and hold him when he gasps and lets Maverick in to explore his mouth, teeth digging into his bottom lip and a quick tongue soothing the hurt before it slips inside.

He’s quickly running out of air and he doesn’t care, clinging to Maverick’s strong shoulders, without a doubt feeling out the muscle this time. Maverick swallows the moan that escapes him when he sinks his fingers into the skin, and he tries to arch up too, desperate to get closer, but he shifts the wrong way, forgets what shoes he’s wearing again and loses his balance.

And Maverick steadies him again, catches him and doesn’t let him fall, the muscle shifting under Ice’s hands as Maverick leans into him and pushes him up against the door. It achieves what Ice was trying to do too, pressing them together perfectly, and he moans again.

He can’t stop his hips from twitching forward to find more friction, can’t help but part with one of Maverick’s shoulders to fumble for the hem of his tee instead and slip his fingers underneath it. He needs it, needs to feel the heat of Maverick’s bare skin and finally touch the firm stomach he’s been dreaming of since that dogfight football game.

Fuck, not just dreaming.

Maverick responds with a quiet gasp and grinds forward, right into where Ice is hard and aching for him, straining in his underwear. There’s about four too many layers between them and that makes it hurt, but it’s so fucking delicious too. More, Ice needs more.

“Sir-” It slips out of his mouth the second Maverick stops kissing him, whining as he chases after him. “Sir, I- please-” He doesn’t even know what he’s actually begging for, hands scrambling to pull Maverick impossibly closer, to keep him right where he is, right where Ice needs him.

But the wave of desperation suddenly crashes down when Maverick groans into his neck. “Fuck, baby.”

Baby. Ice can’t help but gasp.

“You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” Maverick’s tongue runs over his skin and Ice’s head falls to the side completely on its own to give more space to his lips, his teeth. They trace a path along his jaw, nipping at his earlobe. “That fucking mouth of yours, baby.”

Your mouth, Ice wants to say, but that cursed mouth makes him moan instead, makes him arch up just as Maverick grinds forward, and he only gets louder when he finally notices that Maverick is just as hard as he is, He can feel the bulge in his jeans, fuck, and he’s powerless to not move against it again. He wants- he wants to touch Maverick, he needs to-

“Sir, please,” he begs again, only with a clear goal this time, his fingers already moving lower to fumble with the buckle of Maverick’s belt. “Let me- please-”

Maverick pulls away and he whines, another plea already on the tip of his tongue when steady hands cover his own and stop his frantic, eager tugging. With the sudden amount of space between them, he can feel the shame clawing back up his throat and he desperately tries to swallow it down as his fingers freeze, his whole body freezes, waiting for a reaction with wide eyes and trying to brace for judgement.

Maverick doesn’t give him the time, thankfully, thumbs rubbing his skin as tilts his head almost like he’s about to kiss him again. Ice’s lips part without conscious thought, but Maverick only smiles. “Sweetheart,” he says, low and deep and perfect, his dark eyes locking right onto Ice’s. “Can I take you to bed?”

Under that stare sending shivers down his spine and heat to his groin, Ice can only just barely swallow another whine and nod. The moment Maverick catches on to the minute gesture, he doesn’t waste any time.

He does kiss Ice again but only briefly, before he frees one of his hands and starts tugging him forward by the other, guiding him further into the house and up the stairs.

They barely make it to the landing before they’re pressing close once more, lips sliding together clumsily as they stumble over the steps. The heels aren’t making it any easier but Ice can’t even begin to figure out how he would take them off without separating from Maverick.

It’s not all bad anyway, because when he slips a little too hard, Maverick pushes him up against a wall to catch him with an easy smile, and even breathless, Ice doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of it and find the hem of his tee to get it off of him.

Exhilaratingly, Maverick does just that, his own hands tugging it over his head and letting it drop to the ground. Ice doesn’t see where it lands, can’t find it in himself to care about anything that’s not right in front of him, that’s not Maverick’s naked chest and the delicious muscle he wants to sink his fingers into, maybe even his teeth if Maverick would let him.

He doesn’t get to admire it for long, but Maverick’s tongue back in his mouth makes it easy to not mourn, and Maverick’s hands carefully leading him forward again don’t give him the chance.

He takes the opportunity to touch at least, to hold onto Maverick’s shoulders to stay steady and feel out the muscle with no barrier in between. It’s nearly enough to make him moan, and the low chuckle Maverick lets out against him almost makes his legs give out again.

But he’s caught, he’s held and supported and only teased lightly with a bite to his lip as Maverick pulls him up the last steps, helping him find his balance again on even ground. He grips Ice’s forearm but doesn’t touch bare skin like Ice expected, and that’s when he remembers he’s still wearing the jacket - he’s still wearing Maverick’s jacket.

A small wave of panic rises up in him again and he quickly moves to take it off, but Maverick doesn’t let him, stopping him with a firm grip. “Keep it,” he says in a rough voice. “It looks good on you.”

He swallows the loud groan Ice lets out, nearly tripping with it again. Maverick wants him to keep it. His jacket. He wants Ice to wear his jacket when he- when he-

They stumble into the bedroom loudly, Maverick letting the door slam shut as he pulls Ice further in. “I’ve seen you in class,” he mumbles against him, and Ice has to hold back a noise of surprise when he realizes that Maverick’s been looking at him for that long. Since the classes.

But he has no choice but to let out the next shocked gasp when Maverick’s hand drops to his crotch. “Always chewing something, sucking on something,” he continues lowly. “Drove me fucking crazy.”

“Sir-” Ice forgets what he wanted to say instantly, all of his thoughts vanishing into the air in a moan as Maverick cups his dick over the stretched tight fabric of his dress, hips stuttering forward, feet stumbling through another step as he scrambles to follow when Maverick moves back.

“Do you always need to have something in your mouth, sweetheart?” he wonders into the space between them and Ice flushes hot all over, even more than he already is. “Need me to stuff you full?”

Oh, god, Maverick’s not just letting him, Maverick’s offering.

“Please,” Ice gasps desperately, unthinking, chasing after his mouth. “Please, sir-”

Maverick steps away and doesn’t let him follow this time, stops him with a sharp look and a hand on his chest. Ice has to swallow a confused noise, watching him settle calmly on the edge of the bed. Suddenly, he has to tilt his head to look at Maverick, but he still feels like he’s the one under the microscope, his breath hitching under the weight of those eyes.

“Then get on your knees, Lieutenant.”

Oh, fuck.

Ice has no idea what noise he makes but he knows it’s loud. He feels like he blacks out for a moment, because everything comes back into focus with the sharp pain of his knees hitting the ground, and that’s when he knows he whines. That’s when he freezes on reflex, his arms hanging by his sides and his hands clenching awkwardly where they’re just barely touching the ground as he looks up at Maverick, waiting for the next order in the best attempt at standing at attention he’s capable of.

“Fuck,” Maverick groans, looking down at him with one hand gripping the bulge in his jeans. “Good, Lieutenant. So good for me.”

Ice nearly moans. He wants to be.

He opens his mouth to beg again, but Maverick doesn’t give him the chance. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he orders, thumbing at the button of his pants. “Hands behind your back.”

Ice breathes out and folds his arms behind himself, hands touching at the small of his back, grateful to have something to do with them as he grips his wrists for support.

“Good,” Maverick tells him again, making him shiver. “Keep them there.” He slides the zipper down slowly, even with his hard cock urging it along, as if he’s teasing them both, and Ice can’t help but sway forward at the sight of it tenting his boxers.

Maverick chuckles, deep and low and amused, but he stops Ice with a hand on his cheek. “Hold on,” he says, and before the shame can make Ice back away, before he can apologize for it, Maverick’s fingers slide up into his- into the wig, to tug on the synthetic hair. “Can I take this off?” he asks quietly, soft in a way Ice wasn’t expecting.

His eyes widen but he rushes to nod too, and then both of Maverick’s hands are on him, fingers carefully sinking into the fake hair to sweep it back and tug it off. He even manages to find the two pins holding it to Ice’s head and undo them before they can start hurting. As all of it falls to the ground behind him, the only thought Ice is willing to spare it is that he needs to get those pins back, because Phoenix threatened to gut him if he doesn’t return them and he’s only half sure that she was joking.

And then Maverick’s fingers are in his real hair, gentle fingers messing it up before their grip tightens to pull on it, to pull him forward. “Now, come here,” Maverick orders, spreading his legs wider to make space for Ice as he guides his face into his crotch.

The only thing that muffles Ice’s groan is that he puts his mouth to the fabric at the same time, tonguing at the wet spot growing on it and the shape of Maverick’s cock, panting hungrily. He wants it, he wants it in his throat, licking against it like his saliva could melt the fabric and get him any closer to it.

“Fuck, so eager,” Maverick says roughly but it’s not criticism, his hands keep their grip on Ice’s hair, keep holding him close instead of pulling him away. His hips push up minutely, a hint of a thrust, and Ice can only spread his knees wider until the dress stops him, to shift his weight forward and follow the silent order.

“That’s it, Lieutenant,” Maverick huffs, petting through his hair. “Keep going. Show me how much you want it.”

Ice moans, loud and trying to not be ashamed of it. There’s nothing he wants more.

He tries to prove it too, finding the head of Maverick’s cock and pressing his tongue to it, sucking on it clumsily, as much as the fabric will let him, tasting his own spit. He can almost imagine that he’s tasting precum too, that it’s soaking through, and it makes him groan again, makes him tilt his head to find a better angle. And at last, setting his shoulders, it makes him look up at Maverick too and meet his dark eyes while he’s panting against his dick.

Maverick’s hard stare feels like judgement and he loses his nerve again practically immediately, hesitates and freezes with his mouth still open, fighting to not shrink back but not daring to look away either. Thankfully, Maverick doesn’t make him wait long. “Just like that,” he decides, his fingers moving through Ice’s hair gently, like he can tell that Ice needs something to help him stay in place, shivering under the light touch. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

Breath hitching, Ice manages a nod.

“Answer me, Lieutenant.”

He has to hold back a gasp. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Maverick’s voice is a deep rumble, one hand gripping Ice’s hair firmly, holding him still, as he reaches into his boxers with the other. 

Ice could guess, could feel out, the size of his dick, but it did nothing to prepare him for the real thing, Maverick practically showing it off for him as he strokes himself from root to tip, once, twice, spreading the precum along the shaft with a twist of his wrist. He lets out a single pleased groan, quiet, as he grips himself tighter on the third stroke, and Ice tries to sway forward to get more of those sounds out of him, but Maverick’s hold on him doesn’t let him move more than an inch. Whining, he follows where it’s pulling him instead, to look back up into Maverick’s eyes.

“Show me,” he orders and Ice doesn’t even think about it before he obeys, before he’s opening his mouth to stick his tongue out and whine again, wordlessly begging for-

Before the doubt can creep back in, two of Maverick’s slick fingers press down on his tongue, and Ice wants them, wants to wrap his lips around them and taste them. It takes all of his self control to stay still, to only shiver as Maverick’s fingers rub back and forth, making him drool, making him even more desperate for something bigger to replace them.

“Fuck,” Maverick curses lowly. “You look so good on your knees for me.”

Ice sways forward and has to force himself back again, shifting his weight. He swallows even though he knows it won’t do anything, won’t prevent him from drooling on the floor, the shame of the inevitability of it heating up his cheeks.

But Maverick doesn’t let it happen, shoving his fingers deep enough to tease the back of Ice’s throat, nearly to the knuckles. He wants to lean in and take them whole and suck on them, just to show Maverick that he can, that he will, but Maverick’s pulling them out again to wipe the spit off on his cheeks before he can build up the nerve.

“You love this,” Maverick says, almost fascinated. “Don’t you, Lieutenant?”

Ice doesn’t dare not answer out loud this time. “Yes- yes, sir.”

“Would you let me fuck your mouth, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Ice gasps. “Please.” It sounds like a moan even to his own ears, but it doesn’t seem to convince Maverick.

A silent tug on his hair reminds him to not break eye contact, Maverick’s gaze piercing and intense. Ice has to fight with himself to not look away again, but he also has to dig his nails into his skin to keep his hands behind his back instead of dropping them to adjust the dress stretched over his crotch.

Finally, Maverick says, “We’ll see.”

He lets go of Ice’s hair so suddenly that his head almost drops to his chest, but he manages to keep looking up, gasping, waiting for-

“Get to it then.”

Ice doesn’t wait a single second to lean forward, and before he can even try and tilt his head to clumsily work out the angle, Maverick’s fixing it for him and gripping the base of his cock to guide it into his mouth. Ice’s eyes flutter shut on a rough exhale.

And then he’s wrapping his lips around the head and sucking on it, the bitter taste of it bursting on his tongue and making him moan, making him want more. Maverick groans above him and he wants more of that too, so he settles into a better angle to take more of Maverick’s dick into his mouth, swallowing around the head when it hits the back of his throat.

Maverick wants to fuck his mouth, so Ice needs to prove to him that he can, that he’ll make it good, that he can take it.

Hollowing out his cheeks, he pulls back to the head just for the taste, just to take a breath, but before he can take in more again, there are fingers running through his hair, not holding him in place but making him pause anyway.

“Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart,” Maverick whispers and Ice realizes he’s whining. He swallows to shut himself up, and Maverick’s nails scratch at his scalp. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Ice’s eyes fall closed on a gasp, but he doesn’t let himself bask in the praise for long, because he knows he can do better. He can be what Maverick wants.

He takes a deep breath, relaxing his throat, and sucks him in again slower. He pauses when the head hits the back of his throat but he doesn’t stop this time, only gives his gag reflex a second to calm down and then he’s pushing past it until his nose brushes the curls of Maverick’s crotch. He gets a moan for it and echoes it, muffled, choked.

“Fuck, baby.” Maverick’s hips twitch up and he makes sure to stay still to take it, to show that he can. He’s not sure where he finds the nerve, but he somehow manages to open his eyes again and look up into Maverick’s, trying to ask for it.

“You want it?” Maverick figures and when Ice nods clumsily, he doesn’t force him to pull off to answer verbally this time. “Alright,” he allows, gripping his hair tight again to tug him back an inch. Ice lets himself be moved, going limp under his hands, waiting for- “You deserve it, Lieutenant.”

Maverick starts out slow, staying gentle as he guides Ice’s head, barely leaving his throat, as if he just wants to stay there, and Ice almost whines. He wants to complain, wants to glare, wants to get fucked, but then Maverick tugs sharper and makes it hurt so good and thrusts up to meet his mouth halfway.

He does it again, harder, faster, settling into a rhythm that makes Ice moan and drool, and he couldn’t care less. Maverick could rip all his hair out and Ice still wouldn’t care if it meant his cock kept filling his throat, kept making it hard to breathe and impossible to think about anything but the sounds he’s making, the little grunts and moans and gasps.

He slows down only once, when he drags Ice’s head back until only the tip is still resting on his tongue, and Ice is helpless to not look up at him as he drags in a deeper breath. For the first time, he becomes aware of the tears in his eyes as he shivers and fights to stay still, to not wrap his lips around the head and take more than Maverick is giving him but to just wait, certain his nails are leaving indents in his skin from how hard he’s gripping himself.

“Good,” Maverick rewards him for the effort. “You’re doing so good for me, Lieutenant.” His voice is deliciously rough, hoarse, and in combination with his words, it’s more than enough to make Ice moan. But Maverick cuts the sound off with another tug on his hair, pulling him close and thrusting right back into his throat, moving him quickly, the sting of it perfectly sharp.

He’s not stopping anymore, instead setting a steady, hard rhythm that gives Ice no option but to let himself be guided, let Maverick have him however he wants him. He can hear himself, choking and moaning at the same time, spit on his chin, but he can also hear Maverick’s voice, grunting a string of curses and praise. “Shit, just like that, baby- fuck, your fucking mouth, Lieutenant, you’re fucking perfect.”

Ice shifts on his knees before he can stop himself, the fabric of the dress moving over his cock, and the quick spark of pleasure almost makes him lose focus, makes his hips twitch forward, helplessly searching for more. His moan is broken, muffled, he tries to swallow it down around Maverick’s cock and gets to hear him groan.

“So good, L-lieutenant, so fucking good,” he speaks roughly, his voice shaking just barely. “Just hold on, sweetheart, hold on for me.” His hips don’t slow down but he tugs on Ice’s hair a little differently, more up than just forward, and Ice opens his eyes to look at him, following the silent order.

He must look obscene like this, dressed like this, on his knees with tears leaking from his eyes, mouth stretched around Maverick’s cock, drooling, but the shame is almost an afterthought with the way Maverick is watching him, eyes dark, muscles tense, and the way his next thrust is even rougher, sharper. “I’m- close,” he grunts. “Can I come in your mouth, Lieutenant?”

Ice’s response is a reflex. He whines, wrapping his lips tighter around Maverick’s cock, trying to suck on him as best as he can, because he wants it, wants the taste of it, wants to choke on it, and he doesn’t know how else to say it without having to pull off.

“Fuck,” Maverick curses, looking at him with something that almost feels like admiration and makes him want to squirm. “Yeah? You want it?”

He can’t nod like this, but whining seems to get the answer across well enough. Please.

“Shit, alright- alright, sweetheart, you got it-” Maverick closes his eyes when he comes, cursing, moaning. The taste bursts on Ice’s tongue only a moment before Maverick’s hands drag him forward again, his cock sliding into his throat and making it hard to breathe, but it doesn’t matter. He does his best to swallow, to not choke, to make it good, and tries to not look away from Maverick to commit his face twisted up in pleasure to memory.

He stays still, doesn’t move an inch until Maverick’s grip on his hair loosens and trembling fingers run through it instead, gently guiding him to pull back. Ice can’t resist sucking on the tip as he goes, just for a second, for one last taste of it, and though a small, overstimulated whine slips from Maverick’s mouth, he doesn’t scold him for it. He only gives him a breathless little smile, still touching his hair.

Swallowing his own saliva, the sweet, bitter aftertaste lingering on his tongue, Ice already knows his throat won’t be happy tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. He only cares that Maverick’s hands cup his cheeks, fingers tracing his jaw to keep his head tilted up, and whispers, “Gorgeous.”

Even as quiet as it is, that single word rushes straight down Ice’s spine and to his cock. He has to clench his jaw to stay silent, he doesn’t want to ruin what this moment is, doesn’t want it to end, but Maverick seems to have a different idea. “C’mere,” he urges, still soft, not an order, but Ice can’t not follow it either way, letting Maverick’s hands help him up as they drop to his shoulders.

Fuck, he’s gonna break a leg, Ice realizes with one knee still on the ground, his other foot shaking and struggling to find balance on the small heel. But Maverick doesn’t make him try to put any more of his weight on it, firmly guiding him forward until his leg connects with the bed instead, holding him steady and urging him close until both of Ice’s knees are safely on the mattress - and framing Maverick’s thighs.

The position forces his dress to ride up a bit more and Ice feels strangely, embarrassingly naked, no matter that he’s usually wearing a lot less clothes in this position. He also feels embarrassingly close to Maverick, close enough to kiss him again, and it makes him almost want to pull back, unsure if that’s what Maverick was aiming for. Still keeping his hands behind his back makes balancing complicated, and it’s starting to hurt a little, but he does it anyway, because he doesn’t know where else he’s allowed to put them, shuffling on his knees awkwardly.

Maverick cups his cheek again before he can make up his mind, pulling him close and guiding him into a kiss. Maverick’s tongue pushes past his lips again, licking into his mouth insistently, and Ice moans just from the thought that he can probably taste himself. Some guys don’t like that but it seems like Maverick does, seems like he wants it, feels like he’s searching for every hint of it behind Ice’s teeth.

He loses track of Maverick’s other hand, completely forgets about it, too distracted to care about it, but he quickly remembers when it brushes the back of his thigh and slips under the dress, just enough to make him shiver. He gasps into Maverick’s mouth, struggling to stay still and not lean into the touch, struggling to not beg for more but to just take what Maverick wants to give him. He wants Maverick to give him everything, he needs it, he’s trembling with it.

“You can move, Lieutenant,” Maverick tells him, warm, gentle, and his hand moves from Ice’s cheek back to his shoulder, the jacket rustling as it trails down his arm to wrap around his wrists and squeeze them. “I want you to move.”

It’s not exactly an order, but Ice still follows the guiding touch and releases his wrists, slowly, still feeling awkward as his arms fall by his sides. Not letting him sit with the feeling for more than a moment, Maverick takes his hands and leads them up to rest on his shoulders with a smile that turns more into a smirk when he grips Ice’s ass, making the dress ride up even higher. It catches on the bulge of his cock, dragging a whine from Ice, and now Maverick is definitely smirking.

“I want you to feel good,” he continues, rucking up the dress over Ice’s hips to rest on his waist and making his breath hitch.

“Sir-” He knows it’s coming but he has no time to prepare for it, no chance to keep himself still or hold back an embarrassingly loud moan when Maverick’s hand slides down into his underwear and wraps around his cock. “Sir!”

“You deserve to feel good, Lieutenant,” Maverick whispers into the corner of his mouth, giving his dick a short stroke in the confined space before pulling him out to set a proper rhythm. It’s a little dry, a little rough, but not for long with Maverick thumbing at the head methodically. That’s all he needs to make his grip perfectly wet, because Ice is absolutely dripping.

“Ah- please-” His voice breaks, fingers sinking into Maverick’s bare shoulders as his hips move helplessly, desperately.

Maverick comfortably picks up speed, still gripping tight into the meat of his ass, and Ice hopes it’ll leave bruises, hopes he'll find them in the mirror in the morning, that he’ll get to have this just for a couple more days. “C’mon, Lieutenant. Take it, you deserve it.”

Ice is whining against Maverick’s mouth, trying to stay open for him, trying to kiss him back properly, but he can’t, he can’t catch his breath, can’t get himself under control. His hips jerk forward, cock brushing Maverick’s stomach, and it’s too good to not do it again, he can’t stop.

“That’s it,” Maverick encourages him. “Yeah, you did so well for me, you deserve it, Lieutenant. C’mon, sweetheart, come for me.”

Ice nearly shouts when two fingers press against his hole, and he knows he can’t actually have them, dry and over the fabric of his briefs, but he thrusts back onto them anyway, caught between Maverick’s hands. A bit more pressure turns out to be just enough to push him over the edge, his voice cracking on a moan as he spills into Maverick’s fist, coating his stomach.

Breathing hard, he’s still clinging to Maverick’s shoulders, and as he makes himself relax his grip, he realizes how much it must have hurt. Maverick doesn’t complain though, he only slows down until it’s almost too much, and then carefully lets go of his softening cock. His broad palms trail up Ice’s back to hold him close and press their lips together lightly, not pushing for anything more, and before he can steal all of Ice’s air, a warm but gentle grip on his nape leads his head down to rest on Maverick’s shoulder.

“You’re good, sweetheart. You’re good,” he whispers. The praise slides right down Ice’s body but it catches higher this time, settling in between his ribs pleasantly. “You did so well for me.”

He doesn’t realize he’s still shaking until he stops, until he actually goes limp against Maverick, guided by his touch and his words, trembling thighs finally giving out to settle in his lap.

“That’s it,” Maverick tells him, soothing. “Just like that, just relax.”

“Sir-”

“Maverick,” he insists lightly. Not scolding. “You can call me Maverick.”

“Maverick,” Ice concedes this time, but he doesn’t say anything else. He didn’t really want to, didn’t mean to, he just wanted to say something, get the air out of his lungs somehow.

Maverick seems to understand, lips brushing his temple. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

It takes Ice a moment to get it, just a second longer than it takes the confused sound to leave his mouth, but then he feels Maverick’s fingers on the collar of his jacket. Understanding clicking in his mind, he hurries to nod and even successfully hums an audible agreement. Words are… he doesn’t really want to bother with them yet.

Maverick works slowly to get his arms out of the sleeves, palms brushing over his bare skin to warm him up before the cold air can make him start shivering again. But Maverick doesn’t stop there, doesn’t stay there. After setting the jacket down on the bed, he reaches for the zipper of the dress to slide it down, his free hand following the hiss of it to cover Ice’s shoulder blades.

Slowly, the dress falls to pool around his hips, and it’s probably getting all wrinkled up like that, but that’s the last thing Ice cares about right now. Without thinking, he presses closer to Maverick’s chest, trying to keep warm, and it seems that Maverick understands, rubbing his shoulders and carefully digging his fingers into the tired muscle.

They stay like that, but only for a short while, just until Ice’s breathing finally settles and his tongue doesn’t feel too heavy for his mouth anymore. Then Maverick leans away, his strong arms nearly lifting him up until he manages to get his knees under himself to help. “Let’s lie you down, sweetheart, c’mon.” Maverick directs him towards the head of the bed gently. “Let me clean you up.”

He should- he should probably go, the thought slithers into Ice’s mind as his back hits the mattress. He should put the dress back on, figure out how to walk again and go, but Maverick chases the idea away like an enemy jet. He lifts Ice’s hips to slide the dress off, taking his briefs with it, and now it’s definitely ruined, it must be. Maverick takes care to spread it over the back of a chair anyway, together with his jacket, and Ice can’t make himself speak to tell him that he doesn’t have to.

He watches Maverick duck into the bathroom and one slow blink later, he’s sitting back down on the bed in only his underwear, and bringing a soft towel to Ice’s skin to wipe the sweat off of him. When he notices Ice watching him, he smiles. “You can rest if you’re tired,” he says quietly. “I’ll get you some water, yeah?”

“I should-” His tongue feels clumsy, too stiff to speak. He is tired, this whole night’s been so much, so good, but he can stay awake. “I should go, I can- I can go, sir-”

“Maverick,” Maverick reminds him gently, dropping the towel on the ground and wrapping one hand around Ice’s ankle. “You should stay,” he says next, still in the same tone, fingers tugging on the strap of the small heel to figure it out. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

That sounds nice. The shoe slips off and Ice instinctively flexes his toes, and it feels very convincing. As does Maverick’s hand on the arch of his foot, pressing right into the soreness pleasantly.

“I- I’d like that too,” he dares to admit to the ceiling as Maverick does the same with his other foot, and he just barely doesn’t groan from relief.

“Then you stay,” Maverick says simply. “Do you want to borrow some pants? They might be a bit short on you, but…”

Ice shakes his head wordlessly. He’s sinking down into the pillows, too tired to try and move again, so if Maverick doesn’t mind…

It doesn’t seem like he does, leaning forward with a smile to press a quick kiss to his lips, thumb brushing his cheek. “Hmm, not sure I have anything that’d get that off,” he says lightly, almost like he’s just thinking out loud. “Would wet wipes work, do you think?”

Get what off-

Oh. The lipstick. He- he’s still wearing the lipstick.

The embarrassment is barely a spark in his chest, he’s more surprised that he actually managed to forget about it, to not care about it - that Maverick made him not care.

Logically, he can slowly put together that if it’s still on him, and not on Maverick from what he can see, wet wipes probably won’t be enough. It might need some specific thing he doesn’t even know the name of, and Bob sounds like the best candidate to ask about it - in the morning. The thoughts don’t want to stick right now, protesting against the idea of talking to anyone else but Maverick tonight.

“It’s fine,” he tells him, clearing his throat. “You- you mentioned water?”

With a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and one more proper one when Ice tilts his head for it, Maverick nods. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.“

He heads back into the bathroom, and Ice lets himself just enjoy the view.