Work Text:
It's a swelteringly hot mid-July day, closer to evening and still unbearable despite the sun having dipped halfway below the horizon. The singular desk fan in his and Iceman's office rattles as it reaches the far left, then again when it reaches all the way ot the right. Maverick, forehead sticky with half-dried sweat where he rests it on top of his arms, throws a pen at it.
The work day's been over for at least an hour now, but there's paperwork to do, even if it's only signatures and double-checking hop plans for the following week. Both of these things, Maverick could finish in roughly 30 minutes if he wasn't actively stalling. The California night promises to be soupy from post-storm weather, and as it is, he's only destined to return to a third-floor apartment with a broken AC unit and no air circulation. Not exactly something he's itching to tackle head-on.
Maveirck misses the fan by a mile, hears his pen smack clean into the wall with a dull thud, and when the rattling doesn't stop like it hasn't since Ice flipped the fan on, he grabs for something else to chuck. Before he can toss the fork he'd used during lunch, Ice sits up abruptly, the front legs of his chair, previously tipped off the ground, smacking hard on linoleum.
"Stop it," mild irritation is heavy in Ice's voice, but Maverick knows it's got more to do with the heat than with Maverick's personal brand of fan-related vengeance.
He winds his arm back higher anyway, face still tucked into the crook of his elbow. "Make me."
Maverick doesn't have any real plans to throw it; knowing his luck, he'd nail an electrical socket dead center and short the entire building. That doesn't stop Ice from heaving himself out of his seat to reach over and grab the fork right out of Maverick's hand.
"You're going to break something."
Maverick groans, mostly for the dramatics, and pushes himself up. He doesn't bother to wipe the moisture off his brow.
"Not before I turn into a puddle," he grouses, then flashes a small smirk at Ice, who thoughtlessly spins Maverick's dirty fork between his long fingers. "Though I guess that's more your thing, huh?"
Ice doesn't look even half impressed by the weak wordplay, and Maverick can't blame him. It's too stifling for jokes, and he knows that Ice is either too good a person or too competitive to leave Maverick here by himself, so Maverick dragging his feet is only hurting them both.
"If you're not even pretending to do work, just go home, Mitchell."
Take me to yours instead. It's on the tip of Maverick's tongue, but he doesn't let the suggestion slip off. They don't have any spoken rules, and nothing says Maverick can't ask to come over, but it's the middle of the week, and it's too hot to offer anything close to the kind of thanks he'd normally dish out for the chance to do naked laps in Iceman's pool. So it wouldn't be polite. Inviting himself. At least, that's what Maverick figures Ice might use as a reason to shoot him down.
"Just cut and run already," Maverick offers instead, nodding his head toward the door. "We both know you're finished. No use hanging around just to prove you can."
He almost thinks he's got Ice convinced, that he'll leave Maverick to suffer until the sun goes down the rest of the way, and he can chase off the heat with a late-night bike ride and then a blisteringly cold shower. But Ice's eyes narrow after a few seconds, all steel colored glass, infuriatingly knowing where his gaze pins Maverick in place.
"Stow the shit, Pete."
'You're not shaking me, asshole,' Maverick reads in the slant of his frown.
And what could it hurt, really? Maverick doesn't even know why he's making such a big deal about it. The AC breaking wasn't his fault, and he'd called the building supervisor the second he'd woken up, practically swimming in a pool of his own sweat. Ice doesn't make a habit of judging him and finding him lacking anymore.
Maverick sighs and slumps back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, grimacing when it pulls his shirt tighter across his torso and reminds him just how sweaty he is under his uniform. He closes his eyes and tries to think of frigid, breezy thoughts.
"I don't have air-con right now. The thing shit out sometime last night, and apparently, they're low on parts for a quick fix. Not exactly excited to get back to my own personal sauna."
It's quiet for a minute. Just that tick, tick, tick, burrrr, rattled from the little desk fan until Maverick reaches the end of his shoestring patience and cranes his head to look at Ice. He lets out a confused hum when he sees the stiffness in Ice's shoulders and the way he's no longer spinning Maverick's fork, just holding it in one loose fist.
Ice's jaw clenched, his gaze pointedly ahead of him. It's an expression that Maverick's seen before. It's the one Ice wears before he pushes Maverick into already messy sheets, and they're at risk of being late on a Monday morning, the one when Maverick dares him to jump on the back of his bike, and he does, even though it always makes him so dizzy he can't stand afterward.
Maverick watches as Ice reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls something free, inhaling deeply through his nose before tossing that something right at Maverick's chest. It's a rough catch, but Maverick manages, and his fumble seems to break some of the sudden tension because Ice smirks, small and pleased at having tripped Maverick up.
Maverick lets him have it because he's suddenly got a heavily creased and surprisingly weighty envelope in his hands. The paper is blue-white, standard post-office issue, and soft where it's been folded over. He looks between it and Ice, who's staring now, hard and expectant.
"Uh..."
"Jesus, Mav. Just open it."
It feels like a treat that Maverick, without even really trying, can grind that endless patience Iceman projects into a fine dust. A superpower, even. And while normally, he'd make a show of pretending to mull over the envelope in his palm, maybe give it a shake and comment on how it's not his birthday, the temperature is still disgustingly hot, and Ice is tensing up again; Maverick's perpetually easy-going attitude feels tapered to a blunt edge in the face of a long day and potentially longer night.
He unfolds the envelope and lifts the unglued flap to widen the opening, then tips the contents onto the desk. A key, small and brassy, clanks as it hits wood. There's a dusting of metal shavings that flake off, telling Maverick it's freshly cut or, at the very least, has never been used.
Maverick's throat goes tight unexpectedly.
And here he was, thinking about all the stupid little reasons he couldn't ask to sleep over, just to wait out his AC repairs.
"This-"
"Yeah." Ice cuts him off, answering quickly, even though it sounds like his teeth are being pulled. "Seemed like a good enough excuse to finally give it to you."
Maverick runs a finger over the soft creases of the envelope still in his hands and wonders just how long this has been burning a hole in Ice's back pocket.
"Were you waiting for one?" He's going for a devil-may-care attitude, like his entire understanding of how deep they're willing to go in on one another isn't being shaken at the root. He fails spectacularly, and Ice scowls.
"Are you gonna take it or not?" He doesn't wait for a response, already leaning forward like he's going to steal the damn thing back. Maverick beat him to it, snatching the key from the desk.
"Yes, Christ, keep your pants on, Kazansky." He digs into his top-most desk drawer, where he throws his wallet and keyring every morning, slipping the new key right next to the Kawasakis.
When Maverick looks at him, Ice still seems apprehensive; he can see the little dent in Ice's cheek where he's clearly chewing the inside of his mouth. And because making that look go away feels just as important as flying sometimes, Maverick tries his best to fix it.
He affects a lecherous grin, gives Ice the most unsubtle once-over, and barely stops from laughing when he notices all the circles of sweat-damp fabric he hadn't before. They're probably matching.
"Or you could take your pants off. Seeing as you're clearly angling for some action here." He shakes his key ring for emphasis.
It has the desired effect, Ice snapping a "Jesus, just get your fucking shit Mav," only to soften quickly, frown edging up into the smallest of smiles as he rolls his eyes. He tosses Maverick's fork back at him and switches off the desk fan. "I want to go home."
"Yeah," Maverick agrees, chest warm for reasons finally not related to the weather, "Home sounds good."