Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Maverick was in the garden.

Ice could see his fingerprints smudged on the sliding glass door, remnants of oil and grease from whatever fried food he'd surely had for lunch, and dust off the tools currently scattered all over the kitchen table. He eyed the transmission currently sitting on said table; it was too small to be a car's, so that meant Maverick was taking his bike apart again.

He backtracked into the hallway and set his briefcase down in the study before walking into the bedroom. The days were getting shorter, but not by much, and the rooms were still flooded with light. Ice preferred it that way. It didn't make everything about this place so fucking depressing.

He busied himself shedding his uniform, carefully unclipping his ribbon rack and stars and putting them away, folding his slacks neatly after checking the hems for any sort of fraying. It was good, methodical work. If everything else in his life dropped on its head, at least Ice would have the simple task of hanging up each item of clothing in the closet that had been pushed to one side to accommodate white t-shirts and black t-shirts and t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off that even Maverick had admitted were close to becoming rags.

Ice didn't mind. It was a big closet, and there was nobody who was intimately acquainted with him enough that they would go snooping in it. There was probably a rule in the uniform code about that.

A single Pepsi lingered in the back of the fridge next to the mineral water and a carton of heavy cream. Ice pulled it out, wincing at the cold metal can against his fingers. Then, ignoring the prints on the glass, he gave the latch on the door a tug open. A gust of humid air hit him instantly along with the faint smell of charcoal. Someone was grilling.

Maverick was sitting on the concrete patio on a lawn chair, his bare feet stretched out in front of him and mottled with grass and dirt stains. He had one of Ice's potted petunias in between his legs and was halfheartedly plucking the dead flowers off it and dropping them into a plastic bucket.

"How was work?" Maverick asked, not looking up from the pot. One of the blooms clung to his glove and he batted it away gently.

"Good. I brought you a present." Ice held out the can, and Maverick finally turned his head. His cheeks were flushed from the sun, his eyes hidden by aviators that slid down his sweaty nose when he moved. He pushed them back up with two fingers. "Under the condition I get a drink."

"Okay," Maverick agreed. He adjusted the pot so it wouldn't tip over and cracked open the can, taking a greedy gulp of it before passing it back to Ice. "Gonna sit?"

"Want me to?"

Maverick bobbed his head. Ice pulled the other chair over to where he was sitting and eased into it. The sun was behind the eave of the house now, casting a long shadow across the backyard.

"It's official, then. Thirty-six." Ice drank, gave it to Maverick. Their fingers brushed as the can traded hands, and Maverick's fingertips lingered on his skin for a moment before retreating. "It doesn't feel that long."

Maverick didn't say anything, but he glanced over at Ice.

"It's like…just yesterday Slider and I were shipping out to Top Gun. Shit. And that stupid volleyball game. My body doesn't think so, but my head does." He was rambling, sure. He couldn't help it, not around Maverick. It felt irrevocably good to know that Maverick was actually listening this time around. "It's stupid, how that works. I shouldn't remember that as much as I did."

"The volleyball game?" Maverick asked. He took another drink to cover up the rasp in his voice.

"Yeah."

"I don't remember it much at all. I…I remember what happened afterwards, but not…I was hot."

"Yes, you were."

Maverick spluttered, choking on a mouthful of Pepsi. He cradled the pot with his free hand while he coughed. "No," he gasped, wiping at his mouth. "I meant, it was a hot day. You— Jesus. Don't just say shit like that."

"Are you going to deny it?"

He shook his head slowly. "Kazansky, you are a dog. Good thing I don't remember, then. It'd probably be a montage of you staring at my ass the whole time."

Ice said nothing, because Maverick was probably right. He liked the weird, somewhat twisted humor they'd developed together— not quite funny, not really offensive. It was everything but military standard. It was…it was theirs, in a way.

"I'm tired," Maverick said after a moment of silence. "I thought this time would be different. But it's just the same old shit on a different day. I feel bad."

"About what?"

"Thinking it'll be different." He fidgeted with the tab on the can. Ice must have been staring, because Maverick hunched his shoulders defensively. "I'm just saying how I feel. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

"I— yeah. I wasn't…I wasn't judging you." Ice looked away because it probably did seem to be that way, from Maverick's perspective. "If you want to pretend I'm not here—"

Maverick snorted and shook his head again. "You've been gone all day. I've had enough time to think about this, I want to…I want to tell you, it's just…it's hard."

Ice nodded wordlessly.

"The less I think about it, the better I feel," Maverick admitted. "And then, when I do think about it— I was his pilot, y'know, I'm the one who was supposed to look after him. He's dead and I'm trying so hard to pretend he never existed at all. Like we'd all be better off that way. And it's, it's not fair to Goose, okay? Even if he is dead."

"Maybe not," Ice ventured. "But it's not very fair to you, either."

Maverick's brows furrowed behind his aviators. "Nothing's fair to me. I always get the short end of the stick. I'm used to it. I can— I can handle it."

There's that word again. Handle. Manage. Survive. Maverick didn't know any other life than that, one shoe dropping after the other. It couldn't be so easily beaten out of his system. After all, you weren't in the Navy to have a good time. Maverick had joined because he had something to prove, not because he wanted to. He knew how hard it would be. And yet…

"Well, anyway," Maverick said, brushing off his last sentence like it was a pesky fly. "I thought about leaving. Packing a bag, getting on the bike, just going. No note. If I had to sit down and write you a note, I probably wouldn't leave at all. So I took the bike apart instead."

"I saw," Ice replied, if only to provide a sounding board for Maverick's monologue.

"I left fingerprints on the door. I'm going to clean them. But I came out here for some air and your plant looked kind of sad. So I started doing this instead. And I had a sandwich for lunch. You have those fancy pickles I like— the tiny ones. I'm doing it again."

Maverick rotated the pot on his lap, critically examining the flowers. Ice had never even seen him look at a plant before, let alone prune one. "Carole had these. So easy to maintain I didn't even kill them. I remember because they leave your hands all sticky, when you touch the flowers." He plucked off another dead one and dropped it in the bucket. "It's the first time in a couple of weeks. That I've thought about leaving, I mean. But I kept telling myself that if I could make it to today, at least I could say I tried. I've been here thirty-seven days now. And you still haven't driven me out."

He lowered his sunglasses and winked at Ice to show that it was a joke.

"You've been counting?"

"You haven't?" Maverick retorted. "You've been marking off the days on your calendar."

"Yeah, the one in my—" Ice paused. Backtracked. Maverick seemed to jerk like he'd been shocked, and hastily rearranged the pot before it could tip over.

"I didn't touch anything," he protested immediately. "I went in there to look for a pen, I swear, that's all—"

"Hey, hey. Woah. That's not—"

"One pen." Maverick held up a finger for emphasis. "And I put it back. Right where I found it. I made sure to remember where I found it, too, and then I wrote it down with the pen so I wouldn't forget. You can check."

"Check what?"

"Where the pen is."

"I don't care where the pen is, Maverick. I never said you couldn't go in my study, okay?" Maverick stared at him, unconvinced. "It just surprised me, is all. I didn't think you wanted to go in there."

"I don't," Maverick deadpanned. "I told you, I was looking for a pen."

"Okay."

"Okay." Maverick nodded to himself. "I did put it back. I'll show you."

"No, you're not going to show me. It's just a pen. You can take it, for all I care. Mav, you— it's okay. It's your house, too." Ice sighed. "So what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've made it to today. What are you going to do now?"

Maverick hesitated. "Stay," he said quietly. "I like it here. You do laundry every week and there's always clean towels and your pillows aren't flat. And sometimes it rains and you can hear it on the shingles, and I don't have to worry about the floor flooding or cracks in the ceiling. I can't help it."

"Would you come back? If you left, would you come back?" To me? lingered on his tongue, but he didn't allow himself to say it.

Maverick took a deep breath and held it in. He pressed his gloved fingers into the dirt. "I think…eventually, I would. I really don't know. I never think about what I'm going to do after. It's just important that I go. It doesn't matter to me. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah."

"I do like it here," Maverick said. "With…with you. Even if Brad's not here anymore. I like…not being alone all the time."

"Me, too," Ice said. Maverick's lips twitched. Ice sat there as Maverick drank his Pepsi, working up the courage to speak. Sometimes, it was phenomenally hard to just open his mouth and spit it out. Especially when it came to Maverick. "Can I take you to dinner?"

"Dinner?" Maverick echoed, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"Yeah. We could go to the boardwalk or get burgers or…or something else. I don't care." Maverick lifted an eyebrow speculatively, and Ice felt his face go hot. "I know we said spaghetti, but I'm not really feeling it. Or if you really want it— I just figured…"

"Dinner," Maverick said again. He scratched his cheek, leaving behind a smear of dirt on his jaw. Ice looked at it for much longer than necessary. "A date, you mean."

Ice froze. Suddenly the sun seemed too bright, the humidity too damp, the chair too hard. "Um, no."

"Oh."

They stared out at the yard for a long time. Ice realized he was gripping the armrests of the lawn chair a little too tightly, and eased off. He licked his dry lips. He wondered if Maverick was waiting for him to say something. He wondered if he should be saying something.

"Dinner. Just dinner. Like, normal dinner. Food, and um. Napkins. And. Whatever else you do during dinner." This was going great. No wonder he'd lived so long in this house alone; he couldn't even do it right when it counted.

Maverick removed his sunglasses, narrowing his eyes against the sun. He wiped them on his dirty shirt. "Do you even know what normal people do during dinner?" he asked.

"No," Ice admitted. "I wasn't trying to— to seduce you, if that's what you think— I figured it would get your mind off things. That's what I was trying to do."

"I hate to break it to you, but you succeeded." Ice let out a breath through his teeth. "You're not very good at this, Iceman."

"Tell me about it," Ice said defeatedly. He shouldn't have used the word seduce. Not at all. "When I say dinner, I mean dinner. I just want to get that out of the way."

"Alright."

"It's Friday night, that's all. I thought we could get out of the house, do something…fun." Ice winced at Maverick's expression. "Yes, I know, dinner shouldn't be fun. But I'm old, and I've been dealing with bitchy admirals all day. Watching paint dry is more exciting."

"Amen," Maverick murmured. "I don't know. I don't really…I'm not in a good mood right now."

"Exactly. That's why I asked. If you change your mind when we get there, we can come back home. You've been thinking about him all day, haven't you?"

Maverick squared his shoulders again, dragging his thumb along the rim of the pot. He swallowed the last of his Pepsi. "Yeah," he said finally.

"So maybe you deserve a break," Ice ventured. "Just dinner. That's all I'm asking."

A couple of minutes passed, and finally Maverick nodded his head. "Just dinner," he said, stretching his feet out. He observed the grass stains on his ragged jeans. "I'm going to have to change."

~

It ended up being not just dinner, as Ice had secretly hoped.

They went to a restaurant off the highway that Bradley apparently swore by, according to Maverick. It was the kind that had crushed peanut shells as a floor decoration and thought neon signs of livestock and beer bottles were the height of fashion. It was Maverick's sort of place, Ice thought.

It was definitely not Ice's sort of place, that much was for sure. But he could keep his lips zipped because, as Ice reminded himself, this was his whole idea.

Maverick picked at his burger for a while, more interested in his surroundings. Every few minutes, he'd reach out and kick Ice's shin under the table lightly, and Ice could hear his jeans swishing as he swung his legs back and forth.

"It's cool in here," he decided finally, gnawing on a fry. Ice resisted a smile, taking a sip of his ice water. "Kinda dark."

"It's also dark outside."

Maverick looked out the window, to where the sun had finally sunk below the hills in the east. He looked back at Ice, half-eaten fry clutched between his fingers. "Observant."

One of my many talents, Ice thought sarcastically. "How's your food?"

"It's food," Maverick said, resuming looking around. He'd pressed himself into the corner of the booth, back to the window.

"We could have gone somewhere else."

"It's not bad food." His face pinched. "I don't like you doing that. I don't need to be babied. I'm perfectly capable of making my own choices. I'm just…antsy right now."

"How come?"

Maverick lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "New place. Lot of people."

Ice opened his mouth to retort, made himself wait ten seconds, then closed it. He was getting a lot better at controlling his temper around Maverick. The ten seconds helped. Well, the simple fact that Maverick was here, alive, and living under the same roof as him again helped, too.

Instead, he inconspicuously watched Maverick's eyes track from one patron to another as he occasionally gnawed on his fries. Of course it was a new place, of course there were lots of people; it was a Friday night, and a temperate one at that.

He made to speak again, but Maverick waved a limp fry at him. "Don't," he said. "Before we start fighting about something. I can't do that today."

Ice nodded and went back to his food. He felt sort of awkward not talking about anything. Whenever he had dinner with people besides Maverick— usually coworkers or brass members— there was no shortage of conversation. It was always a miracle if Ice managed to finish his meal in time. But Maverick had always liked to eat in careful, perceptive silence, like he couldn't afford to be distracted.

He reflected on this. Thirty-seven days since Maverick had come home with him. Since Maverick had agreed to. Some days Ice still couldn't believe it, when he came home from work to Maverick attempting to cook or knee deep in whatever project he was currently hooked on. Once, Ice found him cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by origami jet planes. Apparently, you could really make a scale model F-18 out of a single sheet of paper. Ice had been absolutely stunned, and Maverick had gotten defensive about it, and the whole thing would have been blown completely out of proportion if not for a nicely timed call from Bradley Bradshaw.

Maverick still drove out to the hangar to continue the arduous process of restoring the P-51 and to collect his mail, but he had a space in Ice's closet and two of his dresser drawers. Some days he left at dawn, but he was always home by the evening, sometimes with takeout. It was more than Ice had asked of him, more than Ice should get in return, if he was being honest. But somewhere along the line, he'd stopped wondering if Maverick wouldn't come home today and just started expecting him to be there.

"Mav?" Ice asked. Maverick looked at him. "Hey."

"Hey," Maverick replied, brow furrowing. He plucked a piece of lettuce off his plate and began to nibble on it, waiting for Ice to speak.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

"I dunno." His eyes strayed away from Ice's for a moment and then snapped back. "Putting the bike back together, I guess. I have to get a new tailpipe for it eventually, the old one's starting to rust. And I think one of the tires has a nail in it."

"You want to do that tonight?"

"No, I can…" Maverick pursed his lips. "Oh, okay. I see what you're doing."

"It's still early," Ice hedged. "Then we won't have to worry about going anywhere tomorrow. We could listen to a game on TV; I think the Padres are playing." Maverick was still frowning at him. "We could get popcorn. The kind with artificial butter."

"Ice, honestly. It's a crime you don't already have that. A little artificial butter isn't going to kill you."

"Is that a yes?"

Maverick gnawed on his lower lip. "I guess," he said defeatedly. "You don't have to do this. I'm— I'm fine, okay? It's not like I haven't been through this day every year for the past…forever."

"I know. I'm just trying to do things differently. We used to ignore each other, whenever…I don't want to do that again. I don't want to make you feel like you can't talk to me about it."

Maverick closed his eyes and pushed his hands through his hair. "I don't get you, sometimes. I keep on waiting for you to scream at me for something stupid, or hit me again. God, that makes me sound like an ungrateful jerk."

Ice thought it made him sound like the jerk, but he didn't open his mouth.

"It's, it's just that I feel like you're doing too much. Or I'm not doing enough, or— people aren't usually trying to make me happy, that's all. It's always the opposite. So to me it sounds like you have an agenda, and I know you don't, but it makes me feel like I stepped in a giant piece of shit. Barefoot." Maverick gave his head a tired shake. "It's like living in the world's longest Navy party where everyone is smiling and nodding their heads to shit they don't agree with."

"Hey, I'm not doing this because I don't want to. It's because I care about you, Mav. It makes me happy when you're happy."

Maverick's nose scrunched up. "That doesn't even make any sense. Nothing makes you happy."

You're wrong, Ice thought with a wry smile.

"I can back off, you know. You just need to tell me."

"Why don't you just do what you want?" Maverick snapped, shutting his eyes again. He took a few deep breaths through his nose. "I'm—"

"I know," Ice said. "I'm going to go use the restroom."

He didn't really need to go, but he could tell when Maverick needed a moment to recover. He supposed it was hard for a man who'd been living, more or less, on his own for the last couple of years, splitting time in the desert. He couldn't force Maverick into any sort of relationship, platonic or otherwise. Maverick would have to take the leap himself.

When Ice came back, Maverick was staring blankly down at his plate. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, before kicking Ice's shin under the table lightly.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you," he said mechanically.

"I forgive you," Ice replied. Maverick looked up at him, one brow raised. If we had done this a decade ago, things might be totally different, Ice thought.

"I don't want you to back off," Maverick continued. "I want you to— I want the old you. Who wasn't so fucking worried about hurting my feelings. Let me get the check. It's the least I can do."

Ice hesitated, weighing his options. Either one might end up in another fight, if he was being honest. "Okay. Fine."

"Thanks," Maverick said, but Ice didn't think he was talking about the check.

He'd cooled off by the time they made it out to the auto parts store out by the highway, Ice was glad to find. Normally Maverick was always a little touchy— around Ice, that was— and it didn't help matters when he was pissed off, especially today. Ice had hoped that he could somehow change things by letting Maverick take the wheel, so to speak, but apparently he hated that just as much.

"Better," Maverick said as they passed through the sliding glass doors, untucking his sunglasses from the collar of his t-shirt and pushing them on his nose. "Less people. More quiet."

They walked up and down each aisle, too quickly to be casual. He nearly bumped into Maverick a couple of times when he'd stopped abruptly to look at something.

"Personal space, Ice," Maverick said. "Learn the meaning."

They spent a long time looking at exhaust pipes, because Ice made the mistake of asking why there were so many types, and Maverick was a walking encyclopedia on that kind of stuff. So he knew that a motorcycle could have twin exhaust systems or a two-in-one, but if you had a four cylinder you usually had a twin exhaust system, and there were also mufflers, but those made your bike look like shit if you got the wrong one, and I know you were never really into sex toys, Ice, but if you could just imagine—

That was a conversation for another day, hopefully a day where Ice would already be dead so he wouldn't have to have it.

The tire section was, at least, a lot simpler.

"You could help put it on," Maverick said as they walked back to the car. That made Ice immediately suspicious, because Maverick never wanted Ice to help with anything, unless it was the dishes.

"I could?"

"Sure you could. It would be fun."

"For who, though?" Ice asked. "Because I'm pretty sure your definition of fun is different than mine. Does it involve any really embarrassing positions?"

Maverick pretended to think. "Maybe. You'd get your yoga in, let's just say that."

Ice bumped him with his shoulder, keeping one eye on Maverick's face. "You're the one who needs it, not me. I could be convinced to watch."

"With what?" Maverick snorted. "I'm not going to perform a peep show for you. Jesus. Everything that comes out of your mouth is rancid."

"I didn't mean it like that," Ice replied, because he honestly hadn't. Personally, he thought that it was probably Maverick's mind that was rancid. "Look, I just meant—"

"I know. I like giving you shit."

"I know," Ice echoed on a sigh.

On the drive back into town, Maverick kept squirming. Ice noticed it even with how much he was focusing on the road— his eyes weren't the best in the dark anymore, like it or not— and he kept wanting to pry, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He'd learned that was usually the best thing to do around Maverick. When Ice left his mouth open, bad things usually happened.

"Are we still getting popcorn?" Maverick asked finally. Somehow, Ice had a feeling that he wasn't all that worried about popcorn, of all things.

"Yeah. Do you want me to get anything else?"

Maverick hesitated, and Ice imagined his brow creasing. "Could you get some more rags? I left mine back at the hangar. I don't want to get everything all messy when I do the bike tomorrow."

"Sure thing," Ice said. "That all?"

"Yeah," Maverick said. He fidgeted again, lifting his hand to bite his thumbnail. Ice waited. "Look, I know you're trying to turn this into, like, a…a good day, or whatever. I've seen movies before. But you don't have to. I mean, you shouldn't have to."

"I shouldn't?"

"No. It's not— it's not your problem."

"Well, I think it—"

"Yeah, because you think all of my problems are your problems. But they're not, and I don't want— I need to learn how to do it on my own. And I have, in some ways." Maverick huffed irritably. "When you make a big deal about it, it just reminds me…"

He trailed off, biting his nails harder. Abruptly, he dropped his hand and squeezed it tightly between his knees. "Can we just act like everything is normal? Like it's just another day?"

"The day's over, Mav," Ice said. Maverick snorted, more from Ice's comment in general than the joke he was trying to make. "Okay. Yeah, we can do that."

"I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate what you did for me. Because I do. It was— nobody's ever been…not like you," he finished lamely. "But it's weird. I'm still getting used to this."

"I know."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Does that mean we're not getting popcorn?"

Maverick considered. "No. We're definitely getting popcorn. But only because we don't have any in the house. We're just stocking up."

So they got the popcorn and a few other things Ice had on his shopping list. It would save him a trip this week, and by the time they were done he noticed Maverick's feet dragging.

Pete Mitchell was not one for shopping especially late at night, which was exactly Ice's plan. It meant that fifteen minutes after they put the groceries away and finally settled down for the night, Maverick's head was drooping against the back of the couch.

It didn't last that long, all in all— retirement meant Maverick could sleep as long as he wanted whenever he wanted, which was a lot— but he'd woken up at 0400 sharp alongside Ice that morning, but Ice always liked watching him fall asleep and seeing all those new wrinkles smooth out. He supposed it was creepy, and he would never admit it to Maverick, but still.

He blinked back awake and sat up, working a crick out of his neck. "Fuck," Maverick said. "Did I fall asleep?"

"Old man," Ice teased. "Half an hour, maybe."

"I have to stop doing that," he muttered under his breath. Then he rubbed at his arms furiously. "You turned the aircon up, didn't you?"

"Figured you should be prepared for all the hot air." It took a minute, but Maverick eventually rolled his eyes. "You want a blanket?"

"Mmm. Nah." Then, to Ice's surprise, Maverick shifted over to the other side of the couch, practically burying himself into Ice's side. Ice didn't dare breathe until Maverick got himself situated, yawning. "Maybe all your hot air can keep me warm."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Don't fall asleep again, I might accidentally burn you."

"Shut up." Maverick elbowed him, leaning his head against Ice's shoulder. "Brad said to tell you hi, by the way."

"You called him?"

"Uh-huh. I thought that…it's his dad. I figured he could always ignore me if he didn't want to talk." God knows he was good at that, Ice thought to himself. "He was going out with a couple of his squad tonight. He likes them."

"He likes people," Ice commented. "Far cry from either one of us. No surprise we're not related."

"Yeah…" Maverick fell quiet at that, lost in thought. "He's so different from me," he said. "He's got nothing but my attitude."

"Oh, your attitude?"

"Ice," Maverick said, and Ice rolled his eyes. "He's like his father. He's always been like his father. I don't get it. I never wanted to rub off on him, but he barely even knew Goose."

He stopped again, and Ice heard the click of his throat as he swallowed. He wished his arm wasn't trapped underneath Maverick's body, but maybe that was okay for now. Maybe Ice needed to try something different.

"Tell me how you put the bike back together," he said abruptly. Maverick tilted his head a little bit, but he didn't move.

"Why?" he asked, and Ice could hear the rawness in his voice.

"I'm curious. How do you know what part goes where? What happens if you forget something, do you have to start all over? Isn't it dangerous?"

"Not when it's off, dummy." Maverick scoffed like Ice was the stupidest person in the world— and when it came to this stuff, he probably was, so Ice couldn't even be angry. "It's only dangerous if you drop something on your toe. So yeah, for you."

"That was one time."

"You set the laundry basket on my foot, Tom. I was right there."

"You were in the way."

"You really don't have to. I'm fine."

"Good fine or bad fine?"

Maverick's nose twitched. "Bad fine. You ask too many questions. If you want to know how to put the bike together, I can just show you right now. It won't take that long."

Maverick's definition of long had changed on a daily basis as far as Ice had known him, but that wasn't the point. "Okay."

"See, I— what?"

"Let's do it." Ice sat up, dislodging Maverick from his side. "You can put the tire and the pipe on tomorrow. Save you more time to watch the game."

"The Padres suck. You don't seriously want to go into the garage and get all dirty. You're going to have to shower."

"A little grease isn't going to kill me. And a little cleanliness isn't going to, either." Maverick raised a brow at him. "Come on. You offered."

"It's late."

"It's Friday."

"I know what day it is. Stop trying to distract me," Maverick said tartly. Ice held his hands up. Maverick gripped the couch cushion a little too hard, glowering up at him. "It's just another fucking day, alright? So if you could leave it alone, that'd be great."

"Maybe I don't want to leave it alone."

"Well, I do." Maverick swallowed again, his throat bobbing. His eyes glowed with tears. "This isn't you, Ice. I know it's not you, because…because you never used to do this shit. And that was okay, because I didn't want someone that would— like Carole."

He looked away, as if he were ashamed to say her name. "To everyone else, it's only another day. That's the way I want it to be."

But it's not, Ice wanted to say. It never will be. Will you ever see that?

"Remembering him in a good way isn't any better than remembering him in a bad way," Maverick continued. "He's still— it's worse, and doing all this fun stuff on the day he died, it's just— it sucks!"

"But, I—"

"I know. I know and that's why it's stupid. You've given me all this shit but I just want him back, okay? I want him back!"

"I do, too," Ice said. Maverick's jaw clenched. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand a couple of times, still not looking at Ice. "You're not alone in this, Mav. Bradley had to grow up without a dad because of what happened. I had to make sure that there was someone in his life who would teach him all the things that…that Goose would never get to. And even now…we ruined everything. And we just kept ruining it."

Maverick sniffled, but he didn't try to contest.

"It's a hard day for me, too. But that's why I'm doing all of this. We should be in this together."

"You shouldn't let me drag you down," Maverick snapped immediately.

"You're not the one who's dragging me down, though. Not now. Not ever. You're the one person who kept me going."

"Why? Because I'm such a ray of fucking sunshine?"

Ice smiled; he couldn't help it. "You never let anything stop you," he said. "Not even me."

Maverick narrowed his eyes. "I could kick your ass any day of the week, Kazansky," he muttered, glancing Ice's way quickly when he chuffed. "You're…you're right. Don't expect me to say that ever again."

"About which part?"

"Idiot," Maverick said, pressing his mouth into a thin line so he wouldn't smile. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and then leaned back into Ice, hooking one arm over his waist. "There's this part of me," he said, "that left, when, when Goose died. Like he took it away…I never thought I'd get it back. And then there's you."

"Yeah, I did a real number," Ice sighed. Maverick very nearly snorted. "This is me, Pete," he said. "It always has been. You just didn't need it until now. You didn't want what I wanted to give you."

"Gross."

"Hey, I mean it."

"Yeah. Yeah, I— sometimes I wish it was the nineties again. I don't know why. Everything still sucked, but it was easier. I wasn't trying to fix it. It was easier just to…to let it go." He paused. "Do you still want to go put the Kawasaki together?"

"Honestly, no. That's way more your thing."

Maverick merely shook his head, getting to his feet. Ice watched him carefully for any kind of discomfort, but he distributed his weight evenly on both feet. Granted, it had been around a month since he'd strained his hip in the uranium mission, but a couple of times Ice had caught him limping when the weather turned damp.

He wondered if it would ever fully heal, or if it would just become a physical reminder for the both of them of what could have happened. The thought sent a chill through him, and he was so lost in thought that he didn't even notice Maverick sticking his hand in front of Ice's face.

"I could teach you a thing or two," he said casually. "If that skull of yours isn't too thick."

"Thick enough," Ice said, and he slipped his hand into Maverick's.