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It's not even six in the morning, and Maverick is pissed. He's too goddamn old to have his chain jerked around, and yet the Admiralty thinks that just because they're pumping money into his project, they get to call the shots?
"They do, Maverick," Hondo says when Maverick makes those thoughts known, stepping in time with him even as Maverick speed walks to the hangar, leather jacket over his shoulders, mouth in a line so flat it could balance a marble.
"We're not ready yet!" A few of the technicians scatter at Maverick's shout, unused to his generally laid-back demeanor being replaced by the ire filling him to the brim. They've clearly never seen him at the Bradshaws for poker night, Bradley gleefully taking him for all he's worth, Goose having already given up half an hour before.
They want a live test today, not in the three weeks it's supposed to be plausible. It's an ask so ridiculous that it makes Maverick sick.
"It's either that or they're scrapping us. Somethin' about wasting tax-payer dollars on science fiction mumbo jumbo."
That draws Maverick up short, coming to a stop so quickly the heels of his boots scrape the ground, and Hondo goes an extra few feet before realizing he's on his own. Sure, Maverick had a similar sentiment when he'd taken the assignment because, really? Time travel? But then he'd laid his eyes on the Darkstar engine, and he hadn't cared if it never worked. She's beautiful. And now they're going to scrap her? Unacceptable. Add to that the jobs people would lose, the black marks of heavy redaction hanging on them as they moved from base to base. It's not a question.
Maverick meets Hondo's eyes. He knows the CWO is reading him loud and clear and is already exhausted by what he sees.
"Fine. They want me to rip a hole in space-time. Let's rip a hole in space-time."
The premise of the Darkstar engine is simple- very Back to the Future. He rides the line in a jet as fast as possible, ensures he's punching in the coordinates, and presses a button that lights up the corresponding field generator located in a bunker beneath the base that's teaming with scientists and the flight team. It should be simple; he's run the simulations a hundred times over.
Despite not knowing the science (quantum physics was never his forte), Maverick trusts his engineers with his life, but that doesn't stop his nerves from spiking when he eeks just over the Mach 10 threshold, his bones rattling under his skin. And it doesn't make him feel any better when his comms start shitting out as the frame of his wings whine with such a force Maverick swears he can hear it. His hand is on the button, the light glowing green and bright, and he's waiting for the go, for the all clear, but Hondo's voice in his ear is half static, half shouting.
Before Maverick can think about it, because that's about the time every damn warning signal goes off at once and explosion is imminent, he slaps his hand down and then grabs the eject handle under his seat.
Thankfully, it seems the rapid change in pressure only knocks him out, and the snap to black he feels when the canopy (and everything else really) explodes isn’t a quick and nasty death by plane part impaling.
Waking up in the forest, still smoking, covered in soot, and feeling every strained joint in his body, is not the worst-case scenario Maverick could have imagined; he even manages to limp his ass to the nearest sign of civilization, staying conscious enough to seat himself in the bird they send to pick him up. Mostly, he's not thinking about worst cases at all. Instead, he's wondering how he's going to spin this story for Bradley and Goose in a way that doesn't risk getting him shut up permanently by some government goon. It's not until he's back on base and being called into the Admiral's office, still a wreck and in desperate need of painkillers, that what has happened begins to sink in.
Cain is sitting at his desk, the sunrise cutting his displeased features sharply. He's flipping through what can only be Maverick's file, but beside it, there's another, much smaller but heavily creased at the edges. It's notably old.
Only when the door closes, clicking pointedly shut and automatically locking behind him, does Maverick realize that the Admiral isn't the only person there. Sitting in a chair near the corner, hands on his knees and back straight, is a young man Maverick's never seen. There's something tight at the corner of his blue eyes, and he's staring dead ahead, blinking in increments of minutes instead of seconds. It's eery and immediately calls to Maverick's mind the faces of some of the men he'd served with at The Gulf. Shock- the body shutting down to rudimentary functions so the brain doesn't break.
Tension builds in Maverick's spine, and he turns his attention back to Cain, who's watching him with undiluted scrutiny, his mouth pursed.
"Congratulations, Captain Mitchell," he says, voice a low rasp, a professional kind of wry sarcasm dripping from his tone.
Maverick's brows furrow, his head tilting.
"Sir?"
Cain straightens up, lips quirking into a half-smile; it's a mean expression. He nods towards the man in the corner who, upon Maverick's second glance, seems to barely be breathing. He hasn't shifted an inch, and there's an itch at the back of Maverick's mind, a truth he hasn't been told yet but is working closer to the surface with each beat that passes as he takes more of the other man in.
"Your engine worked."
And oh.
Oh no.
Lieutenant Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky, twenty-eight years old, is sitting on Maverick's dusty couch, fingering the plastic sleeve of the water bottle Maverick had handed him almost ten minutes prior. He hasn't said anything more than "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" since Cain had introduced them that morning, and Maverick can't exactly blame him, even though the silence is starting to eat at his nerves.
What is someone meant to say when they've been forcibly pulled damn-near thirty-five years into the future with no promise of a return trip? Maverick doesn't even know what he's supposed to say. Logically, he knows it's not his fault. He'd had the green light (not that he'd known it at the time); no one could have guessed that some freak lightening storm on Kazansky's end, in combination with the engine's output inexplicably altering the coordinates, would smack together and create the perfect conditions for an instant time traveler. Still, he'd been on the other end of the joystick.
That's probably why Cain's saddled Maverick with babysitter duty. There's also the fact that no one else with the clearance lives as off the grid as Maverick does, splitting his time between his hangar home and the Bradshaws when Bradley’s not overseas, and Goose isn't on some commercial route—no better place to put the both of them on house arrest.
A group had come and cleaned Maverick out of his motorcycle keys, laptop, and phone; hell, they'd taken the old pager he'd shoved into a drawer, too. When they'd started side-eyeing the half-finished P-51, Maveirck sent them packing. He'd given them a couple of the components, though, just to appease them, never mind that he could replace them easily with stuff he probably had lying around.
Maverick has made it this far in his career, stalled as it is; he's not looking to get discharged and thrown in a hole for running with a man out of time.
When roughly an hour passes without either of them speaking, Maverick can't take it any longer. He stands from his seat and rubs his hands against his thighs, trying not to balk under Kazansky's eyes as they track him while he moves. They're intense.
"You want something to eat? It's not gourmet, but I can promise it's better than anything they were feeding you on your carrier."
A beat passes, the other man's throat working silently. Whether it's the promise of a hot meal that isn't too wet or too dry or that time travel takes it out of a person, Kazansky shrugs.
"Sure, that'd be... good."
It's the most he's said in one go. Maverick takes it as a win.
The win does not last long.
Stuck together over the first five days, with no forthcoming news from Cain or some other Admiral, the tension doesn't dissipate. Ice (because after their first meal, they'd worked it out that Kazasnky was going to be addressed as Ice and, regardless of Maveirck's rank, he was not going to be answering to Captain) is military neat and doesn't poke around Maverick's things. He's also surprisingly open about his life back in the 80s, a mom in the ground and a dad that doesn't speak to him for reasons that he's tight-lipped about, not a lot of friends on the climb up the rank ladder, but a RIO that's probably missing him.
Still, that's the best of what Maverick can say. The other man is like a caged animal, agitated and pacing, and Maverick is no better. He's confident the only reason the Ice doesn't snap is because a part of him considers Maverick his superior, but that doesn't mean there's no boilover.
There's nothing Maverick can do, though, more than give Ice the single mattress in his trailer (Maverick's back be damned), access to every book and manual lying around, and keep things light when the atmosphere settles to just a simmer and they can manage a friendly conversation.
Twice, doctors come to poke and prod at Ice, and each time, they seem just as dissatisfied that his blood isn't glowing green. No one will tell them anything or update them on when they might be able to leave Maverick's hangar. All Maverick gets for his trouble is a shrug and the offer to pick him up more rations and a few more things to keep them entertained while effectively cut off from the rest of the world. It leaves a sour tang in the air, and Ice, when he's done rolling down his shirt sleeve where they'd stuck him with needles a half dozen times, stalks away, slamming the door to the trailer as he disappears into it.
It's hard because Maverick's never been good at handling conflict pacifyingly. The urge to prickle and bite, only mellowing slightly over the years, still lives under his skin, but still, he doesn't chase or shout, not even when, ten minutes later, Ice stomps out of the trailer, boots on and jacket over his shoulders.
He gets two feet from the open hangar door before Maverick catches on to what he's doing and stops him, grabbing the crook of his elbow. When Ice whips around so fast it throws Maverick's hand away, the older man is surprised he doesn't catch a fist to the face with how shuttered and angry Ice's expression is. He's seething, and it's a real struggle for Maverick, his own nerves shot to hell, not to rise to the same state.
"You need to calm down," Maverick says, unsurprised when Ice's mouth twists and he jerks away.
"What I need is to get the fuck out here before I start peeling my skin off or picking fights."
Maverick kind of wishes he would. It might help get it out of their system, but then he thinks of touching Ice and... well, he might be thirty years the kid's senior, but he's not dead. Ice is also the only person Maverick's talked to in close to a week. Instead of offering to wrestle, however, Maverick sighs heavily and jerks his chin back towards the trailer.
"Then get your fucking sneakers on. Can't drag you into town since it's a ten-mile hike, but I've got something at least half as good."
It's nearly an hour-long jog down to the spring, but by the time they reach it, some of that static electricity threatening to spark a fire has eased, and as Maverick sits on a flat stone, Ice doesn't offer a complaint as he joins him. In fact, he opens his mouth and starts talking about his frustrations about how he doesn't know anything and no one is helping, how he's somehow dead to his country, to everyone who's ever known him, and alive. It's limbo, and he understands Ice's desire for a shred of control over an out-of-control situation.
It's close to midnight by the time they make it back to the hangar, and as Maverick makes his way to his kitted-out couch, he bids Ice a good night. Sleep doesn't come, though, no matter how long Maverick lays with his eyes closed.
Eventually, Maverick sits up, disgruntled, and goes for his tools, dragging them as quietly as he can toward the P-51. He lets his mind wander, spinning over itself, and eventually, as he allows his hands to move on autopilot, an idea forms.
He can't send Ice back, can't introduce him to the future, but maybe it wouldn't be cheating if he introduced the future to Ice instead.
The first lesson Maverick gives Ice is on the transition from the Tomcat to the Superhornet. They spend hours pouring over the NATOPS in greater depth. Maverick is surprised and delighted when Ice easily keeps up with him. He asks questions, and though Maverick was never a teacher, he thinks if he were, he'd want a dozen students like Ice, at least when they're not butting heads over the reality of maneuvres, using salt and pepper shakers as figures to prove their points. Ice pushes back, and it's like a friendly dogfight. It makes Maverick grin.
Their second lesson is Maverick's bikes. They're not all newer models, but there are only so many things Maverick knows off the cuff without Google (and hadn't that made him feel a bit stunted, confronting his dependency on the brick that usually lives in his pocket). So he flexes his engineering degree and walks Ice through the care and maintenance of each one, laughing when Ice gets oil all over himself. It's not Maverick who gets the last laugh, as it turns out, seeing as he promptly swallows his tongue when the bastard whips his shirt off and, with a scowl, throws the soiled thing away.
Lessons three and four take the rest of the week because it's mostly a mix of technological innovations and positive policy changes that Maverick thinks will keep Ice's mood up, along with music that he knows Ice will hate. It's not like Maverick keeps a lot of top 20s in his physical collection, but it's a little too pleasing to throw on the Kesha CD Bradley got him as a gag gift and see Ice's expression grow more and more dire.
A notable change takes over the hangar. It's less oppressive, the visits from the Navy not darkening their evenings for long periods anymore. Maverick intercuts his info-dumping and distraction tactics with card games, impromptu gin rummy, and poker with gummy worms for chips. They're both competitive, but gone is the dagger of the unknown and uncomfortable dangling over their heads, threatening violence.
Something tells him that if they'd been at TOPGUN together at the same time, it would have been a nightmare. As it is, their combative personalities are dulled by proximity and growing ease with one another. It's nice.
The fifth lesson is the one Maverick is most weary about, but the more time he and Ice spend together, the more he thinks it's the most important one. It's something Maverick thinks he'd want to have known a few years shy of thirty.
Maverick is not, as Goose has often asserted, entirely self-absorbed. Still, he knows he looks good. He's taken a hell of a lot of trouble staying in top shape, keeping himself groomed like the Navy demands of him. He also, despite being out of any kind of steady relationship for close to a decade, knows the feeling of eyes that stray a bit low, that loiter when he's turned around or turned away.
Ice is subtle about it; he's no doubt trained himself to sneak glances, to keep hidden, but Maverick's been around the block a lot longer than him, and he sees the signs. Add all the things he's not saying into the mix, the half answers he gives Maverick when asked about someone's bed being lonely without him, and why Ice is sure his dad never cared to comment on his recorded "death," Maverick's convinced he's not mistaken.
So, when Monday rolls around, the dawn of their third week together and they're eating instant oatmeal with the last over-ripe bananas from the bunch of stuff they'd gotten from the previous food drop, Maverick leans back in his chair and asks, "You wanna know my favorite thing about the future?"
Ice raises a brow at him, but he's relaxed where he sits. He's been wise to Maverick's game since the second lesson, but he's been a sport about it. Mavericks chooses to believe it has more to do with his winning personality than the only other option being anger and boredom.
"It's not handheld computers and this whole 'internet' thing?"
Maverick shakes his head, huffing a soft laugh, but then he sobers, hushing the small part of his brain that always tries to flash DANGER at him when the topic's raised.
"It's not worrying about my godson getting court-martialed for meeting up with his partner at the airport," Maverick says slowly, eyes not sliding from where they meet Ice's across the coffee table separating them. There's a moment, brief, where his eyebrows come together in confusion. Then he realizes what Maverick's saying, so sharp, and he goes tense all over. Ice's mouth pinches, his glare narrowing, but he doesn't say anything, so Maverick does his best to keep himself relaxed and continues, smiling as he recounts.
"Not having to turn a blind eye when I catch some cadets fooling around in the showers. Going to my old squadmate's wedding was pretty good, too; those guys sure know how to drink. And Christ, the first time I kissed another man in public and didn't immediately check over my shoulder? Felt like a revelation." Maverick watches as, in increments, understanding sinks in and, with it, a burgeoning kind of hopefulness that opens Ice's expression into something soft and aching.
"They, uh," Ice coughs, going a little shifty, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand as he finally breaks eye contact with Maverick and folds his arms across his chest, "they're not throwing 'em out anymore, for... that ?"
It's almost heartbreaking that Ice can't say it out loud, but Maverick doesn't blame him; he just smiles wider.
"Yeah, Ice. It got rough for a minute, but then it got better. It gets better."
Maverick ignores the sheen in Ice's eyes and makes him another coffee instead.
What Maverick can't ignore, however, is the weight of Ice's attention in the following days. He asks his questions, seems to get more comfortable sliding the more personal ones into the conversation, and he looks at Maverick less discreetly as time passes. It leaves Maverick feeling... conflicted. On the one hand, he knows that Ice is stuck with him for the long haul until the Navy can finally figure out what to do with him, but on the other... it's been a while since Maverick's stood at the center of someone's physical interest without a little wining and dining first, and the fact that it's coming from a tall, blond, young thing that's two parts spit and vinegar and one part intelligent and endearing is a bit of a no-win scenario. All of Maverick's buttons pushed at once.
Still, Maverick keeps his stare as fleeting as he can manage, and when it's lights out, and Ice has retreated to Maverick's trailer, leaving Maverick to his own devices on the couch, well, that's a different story. Maverick's good enough to wait until he's sure Ice is asleep before slipping his hands into his shorts, biting into his pillow as he gets himself off. And, after a couple of times, the small flickerings of guilt over the fact it's blue eyes and strong forearms making him spill into his hand dissipate.
On the edge of a month post 'Whoops, Welcome to 2019', they're finishing up one of their nightly jogs (a habit put in place after the first when Maverick realized they’d both needed those couple of hours outside the four walls of the hangar) and the previously balanced scales that Maverick has been rightfully ignoring tips.
The sky opens up with a thunderclap of unanticipated thunder, the weather changing in the blink of an eye and unloading buckets upon buckets of water on them. It's still half a mile back to the hangar, but with a shove, Mavrick grins wickedly and shoots off toward the shelter, Ice squawking and cursing as he races to keep up.
By the time they make it back, they're drenched in rainwater, the scent of damp earth and cool metal greeting them as they rush into the hangar, laughing, shaking the droplets from their hair. Maverick doesn't remember the last time he's smiled this much, felt this light even waterlogged as he is. Ice makes him feel like he's the one who got sucked through a wormhole and shot backward a few decades. It's a sobering thought, but even as he has it, Maverick can't make himself feel bad, not when Ice is grinning, entirely unburdened for the first time since Maverick saw him in Cain's office.
Their eyes meet from across the few feet between them, and like a bolt to the chest, Maverick feels the air change, though it's not in a bad way. Even if Maverick is a little rusty, he knows what anticipation feels like when it's pressing down on him.
Ice dropping his soaked jacket to the ground and taking two long steps into Maverick's space doesn't surprise him, and when the blond brings his hands up to Maverick's shoulders, sliding Maverick's jacket down to join it, that's not all that shocking either. It's only when Ice draws them chest to chest, forcing Maverick to tip his chin to keep their eyes locked, and leans close, slow like he wants to be sure to telegraph each centimeter he steals, that Maverick tries to speak, his throat catching around a lump he hadn't even known was forming.
"Ice," he has to swallow, "we probably shouldn't..." They definitely shouldn't, for about a dozen separate reasons- the age gap, the rank difference (even if Maverick had been flippant about it at the time), but mostly- "You're gonna go back at some point." And Maverick doesn't need either of them getting hung up on each other when that time comes, even if something tells him they're well and truly past that point.
Ice doesn't stop dipping down, not even as Maverick is forced to close his eyes or risk them going crossed, their noises brushing together. He can feel Ice's breath ghosting over his mouth, the warm puffs heating his rain-chilled skin. And really, Maverick's only so strong, only so willing to set his ingrained recklessness to the side. When Ice whispers his name, just a soft " Mav ," like a plea, there's no stopping from throwing an arm blindly around Ice's neck to haul him the last few inches down, their mouths coming together firm and fully.
It certainly doesn't stop Maverick from walking them backward, one hand on Ice's cheek to keep them kissing, guiding the eager, wanting touch into something slow and deep like he's learned to love, a silent reassurance this isn't something that needs to be fought for and rushed, until they get to the steps of the trailer. He pauses only long enough to open the door, letting Ice run his mouth beneath Maverick’s jaw and nip carelessly at his skin until Maverick knows there'll be a mark.
He drags them to the mattress and lets Ice fall between the spread of his legs, the both of them still damp, making the trailer humid with the heat they're throwing off, and even then, Maverick doesn't stop a goddamn thing.
When they're both spent, wrapped around each other and panting, sweat replacing the rain and pooling in the places their naked bodies overlap, Maverick runs his fingers through Ice's hair, his smile small as the larger man tries to burrow into his chest. The bridge is gapped, the line is crossed, and Maverick can't find it in himself to feel regret, though admittedly, there are very few times in his life he has.
"You know," Ice says after a few minutes, bringing Maverick's attention back from where he'd been drifting.
"Hm?" Maverick prompts when the blond doesn't follow it up right away.
There's a bit of shuffling, Ice crawling up Maverick's body so they're eye to eye, his arms looped comfortably over Maverick's middle. He knocks their temples together, and Maverick huffs out a soft laugh. Ice looks a cross between completely satisfied and serious, but there's always something serious about him, Maverick figures, so he's not entirely prepared when he finally says, "There's nothing in my file about making it back to '85."
The implication is clear, and a pit forms in Maverick's stomach from the initial idea that sprouts forth. They manage to rebuild the Darkstar engine and figure out just the right mix of bullshit natural phenomena and locations, and Ice doesn't make it through the return trip.
Or-
"I-" Ice falters, pulling Maverick tighter to him. He tucks his face into Maverick's shoulder, a rare show of insecurity. "I don't know if I want to go back."
Maverick knows he shouldn't get his hopes up- can't let himself hang his hat up on the idea that it's just for him Ice might want to stick around, but regardless of what he tells himself, his heart swoops. He tries not to let it show, though, and continues brushing his fingers through Ice's hair, trailing them down to rub gently at the back of his neck.
"Then we'll figure that out." Because no matter the reasoning, if Ice doesn't want to go? Maverick, maybe selfishly, isn't going to let the Navy take him.