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Maverick fucks.
He’s been around, and he’s not ashamed of it. It’s not as if he’s got a new girl in bed every night — not even every week. Sure, the flyboys like to rib him about it, but his reputation stems from the way women come on to him, not the other way around. Mav can pick up a date just fine, but most conquests run a delicate hand across his shoulder before he’s even seen their faces. Who is he to say no to a beautiful woman?
You live your life between your legs, Mav.
Goose loved to tease, with his stable relationship with his perfect wife. Carole has taken over the shit-eating grins and poking remarks about his sex life in her husband’s wake. Such raunchy comments from a woman sweeter than honey make Maverick blush particularly red with an embarrassed smile.
Sometimes, though, there’s something different.
Sometimes, in a civilian bar, a man will rake his eyes up and down Maverick’s figure, and he’ll find that he doesn’t mind the attention all that much. Sometimes, he quite likes how men stare at him. Sometimes, he wants it like he wants to fly.
He hasn’t done anything about it, aside from a few little fantasies and wandering thoughts. Thoughts of strong arms and towering figures, of claiming mouths and broad hands. So, yeah, Maverick looks right back. He plays coy, lets his gaze drag over the parts of men he’s never let himself fully appreciate before, and leaves before he can be approached.
Maverick is not some blushing virgin. Except that he kind of is. Looking is one thing, but doing is another thing completely. Cowardice is not one of his typical attributes, but no matter how much he may want to explore, discomfort stews in his stomach. It pisses him off, frustration burning up into his lungs, knowing that he could drag a nameless man into the bathroom and let himself be ravished, but a shooting fear keeps him from knowing exactly what his body wants. It’s annoying. Maverick Mitchell doesn’t take anything lying down, but when a tall, seductive figure begins to approach, Pete’s legs mindlessly carry him out to his bike.
Fear should cower in the face of Pete Mitchell. He is nothing if not stubborn. It’s been a month and a half since he’s been laid, busy under piles of paperwork and lesson plans, and he craves a masculine form against his own.
The bar he scopes out is an hour away from base housing, unlikely to see anyone he knows. On that occasion, Maverick is prepared to put on an Oscar-worthy performance of drunk confusion. Oh, this? This is a gay bar? I was wondering about all the leather, haha!
He leaves his patch-clad leather jacket slung over a chair in the kitchen, and departs in his usual white tee and jeans – the ones that Carole said make his ass look especially good.
The drive is nice enough, with pretty views and enough wind whipping in his face to simulate flying at breakneck speeds. Fast enough to forget the nerves settling alongside arousal in the pit of his stomach.
Nighttime bliss settles over the establishment. Sweet neon signs tastefully light up the bar front, illuminating couples entering as Maverick parks the Kawasaki. Swinging off the bike, he readjusts his waistband and hair before pushing open the front door.
People, unashamed people, fill the club. Music blares as bodies sway and grind, humid air permeating the smell of sweat and cologne and alcohol. The atmosphere is immediately intoxicating. Heat rises to Maverick’s cheeks, and he wills his shoulders to relax. Few look in his direction as he beelines to the bar. He’s grateful for the lack of attention, as alcohol is required for the proceedings of the night. Two bartenders are working in tandem, one butch woman and one tall, skinny guy. Both look intensely focused on running a tight ship. Navy could use a couple hard workers like them, Maverick thinks with a smile.
He sits at the end of the bar where the butch is flitting around, shaking cocktails and opening beers. She sidles up to him whilst sliding a cold glass of something colorful to the woman next to him with a wink, “What can I get ya?”
Maverick reads her nametag, “Well, Jo, can I do a cheap beer and a B-52?”
“Absolutely,” she draws out the first syllable and slams the lip of the first beer she grabs on the edge of the bar. The cap flies off into the crowd somewhere, and Maverick pulls his eyes away from the way Jo’s forearms shift as she moves. He has a feeling he’s not her type.
Pulling his card from his beaten-up leather wallet, he trades his payment for the chilled bottle. Maverick turns between barstools to rest his back against the counter, both letting Jo work and scoping out the bar’s attendance.
The thing is, Maverick doesn’t even know what to look for. Sure, he has a type with women, but he’s not entirely picky, especially when it’s just a hookup. With men, though, he doesn’t know where to start. Maverick recognizes when some guys are objectively hot, but he’s never looked long enough to pick out what he likes. He just knows he doesn’t need someone to banter with over dinner or lightly caress his knuckles with their fingers; he needs someone who will put up some good flirting and get passionately dirty in a bathroom stall.
“B-52!”
He turns back to Jo, smiles at her admittedly handsome customer-service grin, and accepts the shot. She also slides his card back. She must be experienced, reading Maverick’s intentions for the night: get a quick buzz, some necking, and get out.
The B-52 shot is beautifully made and goes down smoothly. Coffee, cream, and a hint of orange. Not the most conventional warmup to harsh swigs of cheap beer, but it’s a pleasant precursor. A little something to enjoy before focusing on the task of getting tipsy and handsy.
A hand grasps his elbow.
“Hey there, hot stuff.”
Maverick turns to see a man, broad-shouldered and a good few inches taller, grinning with dimples. He’s got sandy hair kept short and squinty eyes. Not half bad looking, Maverick decides, and confident. Confidence is sexy.
“Hey,” Maverick tries to calm his tone. Is he supposed to use the same voice he uses with girls? What are the rules here? Can this guy tell he’s out of his depth?
“I’m Rich,” the man leans in, and the hand snakes up Maverick’s arm and around his shoulders, “and I was wondering what a gorgeous piece like you was doing alone at the bar.”
Mav smiles and takes a large gulp of beer, mentally fist-pumping that he doesn’t dribble on himself accidentally, “Nice to meet you, Rich.”
“Not gonna tell me your name?”
For a split second, he almost spits out Mav, “They call me Pete.”
Rich doesn’t lean on the barstool next to Maverick, choosing to stand close by. He can feel the heat radiating from the larger man’s body. Smooth skin peeks out from under Rich’s half-unbuttoned shirt.
The warmth is nearly unbearable, itching in discomfort at the back of Maverick’s neck, but he didn’t come this far for nothing.
Rich’s smile turns more sultry, “Who’s they?”
“Oh,” Maverick shrugs, going for cutely aloof and feeling like a fucking idiot, “Y’know.”
“You like to be mysterious?” Rich says it into his ear, hot breath scorching Mav’s collar.
Maverick lets out a shaky breath and sets his beer on the bar. This isn’t feeling how he thought it would. He so desperately wants to know what is going on with this side of him, to make some sense of who he is, but this man is–
A large hand quickly sweeps over his back and grabs a handful of ass. Involuntarily, Maverick makes a startled noise as the hand gropes and gropes. Squeezing and pulling as much as the denim will allow. Maverick’s shoulders snap into attention, back stiffly prepared to shove.
No. No, no, no. This is wrong.
He tries to back away from the wandering hand- hands, as a second moves towards his jaw.
“Look, man,” Maverick puts his own hands on Rich’s biceps and begins to push away, “I have some people waiting for me, so I'd better get back-”
Rich’s grasp doesn’t let up, fingers holding Maverick’s chin, “C’mon, baby, don’t be a tease. You know you want it.”
He thought he did. Truly. Now, he wants to be home. Distantly, he thinks of days long passed, sitting on the couch with Goose and Carole.
Maverick pushes a little harder, “Let go, jackass!”
Rich’s hands slide up to Mav’s wrists, grabbing firmly. Panic sets in. Uncontrollable, paralyzing panic. He can’t move, he can’t speak, and he doesn’t know anyone here who could help. Why did he think this was a good idea? Why is he suddenly afraid?
Another hand lands between Maverick’s shoulder blades, and just as he thinks I can’t get out, I can’t leave, a voice says:
“What’s going on, babe?”
He knows that voice.
Holy shit.
He knows that voice better than his own. That voice is in his ear several times a day. That voice shares an office with him. That voice makes his shoulders instinctively lower.
Maverick turns his gaze up to see Iceman fucking Kazansky, haloed in pink neon like a guardian angel. His eyes are steeled and staring daggers at Rich.
What the hell is Iceman doing in a gay bar?
“Pete?” Ice asks, flitting his gaze to Maverick.
Suddenly, he remembers what’s going on. Rich’s grip on his wrist is still nearly-bruising in intensity. Iceman’s hand is a grounding weight on his back.
“Sorry, honey,” Maverick sighs and leans into Kazansky’s side, “Got a little distracted while getting your beer.”
“That’s alright,” Ice coos at him. Maverick never would have imagined such a sweet tone to come from the Iceman, but Ice just leans between Maverick and Rich to grab at the beer nestled on the counter.
The motion succeeds in getting Rich to release his wrists. Maverick quickly tucks his left into his pocket and tries to subtly grasp at Iceman’s shirt with his right. If Ice asks, he’ll say it’s for appearances, but in all honesty, Maverick is terrified of the crude and piercing look Rich is fixing him with.
Ice takes a drag from the same beer Maverick had drunk from moments ago, and somehow that is the sexiest thing he’s experienced tonight. Not the time, Mitchell. His head swims in confusion. Rich’s threatening presence on top of the loud club scene and disappointment at foiled plans are overwhelming his senses. He can feel a drop of sweat roll down the center of his chest.
“Can we,” Maverick’s voice breaks, he swallows and tries not to sound so pathetic in front of his wingman, “Can we go home?”
The hand on his back lightly comes around to his shoulder and pulls Maverick into the line of Iceman’s body. His shoulders fit perfectly in the crook of Ice’s arm, like puzzle pieces.
“What?” Rich scoffs, eyes wide, “Are you kidding?”
Ice ignores him, “Yeah, let’s go home.”
“Hey, don’t you wanna share?” Rich attempts to clap a friendly hand on Ice’s shoulder, but it gets fiercely intercepted and batted away.
“I do not,” Ice snaps with finality, a sneer curling his upper lip. Maverick should be used to the look, but there’s a vigor behind it that he’s never seen before. He suddenly understands why so many people are scared of the Iceman.
Rich doesn’t back down. He puffs his chest up, but he’s still not taller than Ice.
“Come on, with the way he was leaning against the bar? The little whore is asking for it!”
Ice’s hand flexes where he holds Maverick’s shoulder. Maverick tucks more of Ice’s shirt into his fist by their sides and tugs him a little closer, trying with all his might to mentally communicate: don’t try to fist fight this guy for me, dumbass.
A few patrons nearby have stalled their conversations to carefully watch, drinks pushed away in case a fight breaks out. Most of the loud conversations over music and nightlife continue, but the few that notice watch intently. Maverick feels…oddly safe under their observation.
“Let’s go home,” Ice grits out, tilting his chin up to look down upon Rich.
Rich opens his mouth to speak again, but is interrupted by something feminine, but no less powerful.
“Sir, if you don’t leave them alone, you’re gonna have to leave for good.” Jo’s voice rises authoritatively. Despite her shorter stature, the fact that she means business squashes a considerable amount of Rich's confidence. He opens his mouth once more and is halted once more by a killer glare from Jo. The woman sets a knife on the counter, far bigger than anything that would be used to prep limes. Damn.
Grumbling, Rich raises his hands in surrender and stalks off to the other side of the bar. The people surrounding them snap back into their conversations, but only after throwing a few nasty looks at Rich’s retreating figure.
Ice shifts to the bar, still keeping Maverick close, “Thanks, Jo.”
Maverick lightly echoes his thanks.
“I got ya, Tommy.” She slides a new beer down the bar to a waiting hand without looking. Jo taps her knuckles against the bar at a person a few seats away from them, “Yo, Jackie, go tell Shawn to keep an eye on that asshole!”
Jackie nods, long hair swaying, and scampers off.
“Bouncer’s on it,” Ice softly says, squeezing Maverick’s shoulder, “You okay?”
Maverick squeezes his eyes shut and nods. What a shit night.
Jo’s voice reappears, “Want some water?”
Opening his eyes and shaking his head, Maverick sighs, “It’s fine.”
“Tommy,” Jo smiles somberly, “As good as it is to see you happy with your man, I think you oughta get him home.”
Ice leaves the half-full beer on the bar and nods. He doesn’t correct her. Why doesn’t he correct her? Why does he even know her?
Maverick’s mouth, for what may be the first time ever, cannot catch up with his brain. He wants to ask, but all he can come up with is a pitiful, “Can we go?”
Nodding, Ice gives Jo a last grateful smile and guides Maverick out of the bar. He’s still tucked under Ice’s arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The air is chilly, raising goosebumps on Maverick’s exposed arms. He fishes his keys out.
“Are you sure you're fine to drive?” Ice asks.
Maverick shrugs the arm off and makes for the Kawasaki, “I’m not a child, Kazansky. I’ll be fine.”
“Pete,” Ice stops him with only the word, “That guy could have attacked you. I need to know my wingman is okay.”
They haven’t been the closest since becoming instructors, but they’re friendly. The flyboys have a weird little pack formed, protective and teasing, but Iceman and Maverick stayed in Miramar (Slider, too, as the man would indignantly add). They work well together and spend a fair amount of the day in close proximity, but Maverick doesn’t know much about his wingman. Evidently. However, on the rare occasion of genuine worry, they pull out the loyalty card of being wingmen. Maverick can’t refuse, but he can guide.
“Let me drive,” Mav says, a plea leaking into his tone, “I just need to go fast. I’ll be careful.”
Ice doesn’t look convinced.
“Please. You can meet me back at mine to make sure I get back safe.”
Sighing, Ice pulls out his own keys, “Okay. I’ll meet you at your place.”
In a blur, Maverick is climbing onto the bike and tearing out of the lot. He wonders how short he can make the hour drive. Forty-five minutes, thirty? Wind bites at his cheeks, chills the inferno that swallowed him in the bar. He dips into the curves of the roads, and his chest tugs in temptation to speed up.
No. He promised Ice he’d be careful.
Maverick eases up on the gas. He still makes it back in forty-six minutes.
Bursting through the front door, Maverick hustles upstairs with the sudden need to peel his clothes off. He briefly debates burning the jeans where that disgusting man had grabbed, but remembers that Carole loves these jeans. Maverick changes into sweatpants and a faded old band t-shirt with holes in the stretched collar.
He moves into the bathroom, turning the cold tap on in the sink. He gathers the icy water in his hands a few times and splashes it over his face. Maverick looks up to see an almost unrecognizable version of himself. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow, and he feels disconnected from the man he sees.
Knock, knock, knock.
Maverick turns off the tap and descends towards the front door. The front door, which is already open, with a concerned-looking Iceman leaning in the doorway.
In the light, he can finally see Ice without the cloudy haze of club air. Ice, who stands tall in his well-cut, light jeans and midnight blue tank top that hugs the muscular curves of his chest. Ice looks similarly flush, but composed in his coolness. Not fair.
A case of beer is in one hand, a small bottle of vodka in the other.
“Stopped at a liquor store. Figured you’d want a little bit of fun,” Ice coughs awkwardly, “Or at least some compensation for a shitty night.”
Maverick wordlessly gestures him inside and shuts the door behind them, cutting off the night breeze. Ice settles into the couch, leaving plenty of room. Maverick follows suit, plucking a beer from the case.
Silence waves over them, daring each pilot to say a few words. Anxiety creeps up Maverick’s back. Kazansky could use any of this against him in any way. He was at a gay bar - dishonorable discharge. He let some guy rough him up - coward, pussy. He’s still freaked out, safe at home, sitting on the couch with a man who’s saved his life, possibly on multiple occasions - eternal judgments on Maverick’s lack of stability.
To fill the void, Maverick pokes at the vodka. It looks fancy.
“I don’t,” he clears his throat when the words rasp, “I don’t recognize this.”
Ice stares at the bottle, “Russian import. Not the most expensive, but it’s good. Stolichnaya.”
The word comes out deep and perfectly accented. Maverick hums, ignoring the shiver sent down his spine. Ice cracks open the small bottle and takes a sip. Maverick mimics the motion with his beer.
Seconds pass, then minutes. Maverick’s leg bounces as he tries to mentally phrase his thoughts a million different ways.
Finally, he comes up with a simple: “What were you doing there?”
Iceman sighs, a full-bodied and weighted thing, “What do you think?”
Maverick runs a finger along the lip of his bottle, “Getting laid?”
“Trying to, at least,” Ice takes another sip and finally turns his gaze to Maverick, “You?”
Humming, Maverick nods. It’s not really an answer, not one Ice deserves for his admittance. On one hand, he can’t believe Ice is into men. Such a straight and narrow guy, perfectionist, Navy-blooded, sneaking out to a club for homosexuals. On the other hand, he’s never seen Ice with a woman, never heard the guy brag. He assumed Ice was a private man, and he is, but not quite in the assumed way.
“You’re gay?” Maverick asks, unsure of why he needs to hear the words.
Iceman simply nods and tilts his head questioningly. The bastard always knew how to get his point across with few words.
Maverick sighs and runs a hand over his face, grimacing at the condensation from the beer bottle, “I…I don’t know. I like women, but there’s always been something else, I guess.”
On this couch, fully clothed, Maverick has never felt more exposed. Nude and innocent, like a baby left in the wilderness. He tucks his feet onto the couch, drawing his knees to his chest.
“Bisexual, that’s the word,” Mr. Know-It-All says, charmingly soft, “You know I won't tell, yeah?”
Maverick nods in understanding.
Another swig.
“I haven’t, uhm, I haven’t actually been with a guy, though.” His face burns, and Maverick fights the urge to tuck away into his knees forever.
Iceman shrugs subtly, “Don’t have to be with them to know you’re attracted to them. I spent all of my teen years that way.”
He can picture it: Young Tom Kazansky with naturally blonde hair, no bleach yet, picking his fingernails in locker rooms and spinning a pencil between his deft fingers whilst peering at a boy in class. Scared of the world that’s against him, scared that simply being will keep him from his dreams.
“I wanted to try,” Maverick whispers, “but I got fucking scared.”
Ice swings a leg up onto the couch and shifts his body to face Maverick, “Maybe you got scared, but a shitty guy approached you. I’ve seen him there before, and he’s always too aggressive. The owner is scared he’ll bring the cops into it if they kick him out, but tonight might’ve been the final straw.”
“I shoulda punched him,” Maverick says, lips touching the rim of his beer, “At least then I wouldn’t have frozen like some spooked animal.”
“Mav,” Ice sighs, “You were out of your usual playing field. Not many people can handle assholes like that alone, in any context.”
Maverick lets it sit for a moment. Ice is in no position to judge him for liking men, and he doesn’t seem to think he’s a coward. The threat of sleep begins to gnaw at the back of his head, and he’d be happy to call it a night. And never speak of this again.
“It’s not always like that,” Ice sips again, “If you ever wanted to try again.”
A small twitch wracks his body. Maverick swallows.
“They’re good people, I promise. I’d go with you if you needed a wingman,” Ice shoots him a small smile.
Maverick grins back, because, yeah, he’d like to go back with Kazansky. Following the thought, Maverick thinks that maybe he’d like to sit in one of the dingy little booths with Ice’s arm draped over his shoulders, where it seems to belong. Maybe, in a dream world.
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Maverick tilts his head back against the couch, “Sorry you didn’t get laid.”
Ice doesn’t miss a beat in response, “You’re more important.”
The sentiment is covered by Ice taking a larger sip of vodka and capping it off, cheeks pink. Maverick has a suspicion it’s not the alcohol’s doing.
Maverick reaches a hand over to Ice’s shoulder, “Thank you. For everything.”
Those blue-green eyes are painted with unspoken emotion. I’d do anything you asked.
Hazel-green look back in gratitude. So would I, you crazy bastard.
Ice hands over the vodka, “Keep it.”
“You sure?”
“I have a better stash at home. The expensive shit.”
Maverick laughs and takes the vodka and beers to the kitchen, placing them in the freezer and refrigerator, respectively. Ice is palming his pockets for his keys, and a light, dusty flush has settled in the tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks. He rubs his eyes and fights a yawn.
“Sleep on the couch, Ice,” Maverick offers up, “I’ll make breakfast as a thanks for being my white knight.”
Ice rubs at his eyes and settles back onto the couch, kicking his shoes off and swinging his feet up to the cushion Maverick had been sitting on. He collects blankets and a pillow to chuck at the rapidly fading man, who accepts the comforts with a melodious and tired thank you.
Maverick shuts out the lights and isn’t shocked when his voice is gracious and halfway to loving as he calls out in the darkness, “Goodnight, Tom.”
The response comes more naturally than breathing, just as warm and affectionate, “Goodnight, Pete.”
Tumbling into sleep, Maverick still feels a strong arm across his shoulders and a familiar heat against his side.