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Not only had they survived, they’d won. It’d been six on two at the end, after whatever was left in Goose’s tags had done its job and gotten Maverick’s head back in the game. Just Mav’s plane and Ice’s against six fucking MiGs, and they’d shot down four by the time the enemy’d had enough. God, they should send him and Ice up against anything, fucking anything, they’d rip it to shreds.
This called for appropriate celebration.
“Mustang, this is Maverick, requesting flyby.”
“Negative, Ghostrider, the pattern is full.”
Maverick had to laugh. Like that mattered. Like they could deny him this.
Merlin, behind him— “Uh, ‘scuse me, something l should know about?”
Maverick ignored him.
“Mav.” Ice’s voice, over the comm. “What are you doing.”
“Taking a well deserved victory lap. You in or out?”
Maverick already knew the answer, of course. On approach to the carrier, they were practically at each other’s wingtips. He was close enough to see Ice’s face. He waited for the sneer, for Ice to piss off and bank for landing. Possible eyeroll, lecture optional.
Instead he got Ice’s slow grin, almost a baring of teeth, as he leaned in to the mouthpiece. “I’m in.”
Mav's smile in return was in danger of cracking his face open. Even Slider’s “What, you’re serious? Ice—” and Merlin’s “No no no, this is a bad idea, Mav—” barely registered. It didn’t matter. This was going to be good.
And ohhhh it was sweet: meeting Ice’s eyes at they accelerated together, their jets in sync, Slider’s long whoop over comms drowning out Merlin’s muttered curses from the backseat. Mav felt the victory singing through his veins—fuck, there was no way they should have survived that, they were heroes, they were gods—high on the utter connection to his plane, his wingman. And in that moment, screaming past the tower together, the answer to what now, where next wasn’t the numb void of the past week. The answer, bone deep and obvious, was Ice. Wherever Ice is.
*
Later, after the celebrations, when Maverick learns Ice will be cashing in his winner’s rights and heading back to Miramar, it’s settled.
“Top Gun?”
“Yes sir.”
“God help us,” Stinger cackles through his cigar smoke. Mav doesn’t cough, but the grinning is starting to hurt. He hasn’t been able to stop.
That's right, he thinks, puffed full and cocky and luminous, that’s us. Bring it on.