Chapter Text
Barely harnessed rage thrums in him, pure kinetic energy, usually steady hands shaking too badly to even unzip his flight suit. His skin feels foreign and too hot; suddenly, Iceman’s call-sign seems more ironic than apropos. He leans his forehead against his locker, trying to absorb some of its metallic coolness. It doesn’t work.
Beside him, Slider yanks on his civvies and claps a hand to Ice’s shoulder, saying something like, “Don’t kill him, Ice. Not worth the court martial.” but Ice hears it with a six second delay, like he’s underwater, and by the time he opens his mouth to respond, Slider’s gone along with everyone else.
Everyone except Maverick. Maverick who almost just got himself killed, put his whole fucking unit in danger, almost got Ice killed, Maverick who’s been showing up at his house for the past seven weeks and getting way too close- Ice slams his palm against the locker, hard- he thought it’d be different after Goose, that his RIO’s death might’ve knocked some fucking sense back into Maverick, but that would require him to have had some goddamn sense in the first place, and clearly, that is not the case.
Hurricane Mitchell blows through the doors, his chin jutting out like he’s just daring someone to challenge him.
Unfortunately for him, Ice is the only one there.
Unfortunately for him, getting into his locker requires putting his back to a seething Iceman who’s running on pure rage and adrenaline, and if Maverick thinks he’s unpredictable, he hadn’t seen anything, yet.
Ice can feel Maverick’s wary eyes on him, calculating the risks to his person in his rigid form, before he cautiously turns and yanks his locker open, obviously intending to get out of there and get shit-faced as soon as humanly possible.
“You have fun out there, Maverick?” Ice murmurs, deceptively light, “That get your blood pumping the way you wanted?” He spins on his heel, leans against the locker, face slipping into a comfortably glacial mask. Maverick’s jaw clenches, hands slowing, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Well?” Ice prompts, voice like a straight-razor.
“Well what, Kazansky?” Maverick growls, reckless and hotheaded just as Ice had known he’d be, “What the fuck do you want me to say? I had the time of my goddamn life out there.” he spits, hackles raised like a pissed off cat; sarcastic and easy to goad into anger.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll bet you did.”
Maverick spins, taking an ill advised step toward Ice, because he seems to think that Iceman being less likely to come to blows with the first asshole who questions his masculinity makes him all talk and no action. It’s a mistake he’s unlikely to repeat.
“Haven’t we already had this conversation?” Maverick asks, trying for disdain but achieving something closer to rabid dog, and Ice just watches him, running his tongue over his lower lip, nostrils flaring, and then Maverick’s six inches from him, and it takes all of Ice’s considerable force of will to keep from reaching out and leaving some vivid bruises on the man’s throat, because he’s still fucking talking-
“Let me guess, you gonna call me dangerous again, Iceman?” he mocks, giving Ice’s name a subtly drawn out sibilant ‘s’. Ice sucks in a breath, nearly a hiss- Mitchell’s insinuated almost-threat doesn’t go over his head, and the silence of the locker room is nearly deafening- a flash of nervousness or maybe regret crosses Maverick’s face, wondering if he’s finally gone too far, but instead of throttling Mitchell like he’s been contemplating, Ice just laughs, low and dark.
“Nah, Maverick,” he murmurs, hitting the final syllable hard, and Mitchell may not know how to pull off disdain, but Ice sure does, “You’d like that too much.” Maverick looks like he’s about to argue, mutinous- Ice takes a smooth step forward, all coiled muscle and suppressed fury, and Maverick shuts his fucking mouth for once. “It’s not that you’re dangerous,” he takes another step and Mitchell unconsciously shrinks back- Ice takes great pleasure in those few inches he has on the other pilot, looms over him like a specter, “It’s that you have all the self control of a fucking child. Maybe…” Ice’s voice has dropped to a low hiss, the heat of his ire finally beginning to bleed into his tone, and he hadn’t even noticed that he’d moved forward again until his hands were pressed hard into lockers on either side of Maverick’s head, boxing him in. “Maybe what you need is someone willing to discipline you like one.”
“Fuck you, Kazansky.” Mitchell says, trying for his usual bluster, but a primal sort of nervousness lingers behind his eyes, and he makes no move to get away. Ice’s mouth quirks at the corner, ruthless, feeding on this fight, flight, or fuck reaction Maverick seems to be experiencing- he can see Mitchell’s pulse flickering and jumping just above his collar bone. He has the sudden urge to clamp his teeth down over it.
“What, nothing to say?” he taunts, pressing forward, amused by the horrified look on Mitchell’s face, eyes darting to the door, when Ice’s thigh nudges against his hard-on.
Maverick’s not a bad fighter; he’s got decent form, he’s lithe and agile. But that can’t make up for the fact that he telegraphs his every move worse than almost anyone Ice has ever seen. Then again, that’s what happens when you’re all balls and no brain, driven by instinct and nothing else. So when Maverick takes a swing at him with something just shy of panic, Ice sidesteps him easily, snatching his arm out of the air and uses his momentum to flip him, pinning him securely against the locker with his arm twisted around behind his back.
“What are you doing?” Maverick asks, voice cracking almost imperceptibly.
Ice grabs his hair and yanks his head back, just hard enough to let the man know he’s not fucking around- “What someone clearly should’ve done years ago, Mitchell.”
Maverick chokes out something in reply, but it’s barely audible and peppered with so many curses against Ice’s parentage that he doubts it’s even a coherent sentence. “Ooh, the mouth on you,” he observes conversationally, then lets his hand fly, not bothering to temper the blow- He’d probably never get over that ass; tight enough to bounce a quarter off of or at least Ice’s hand, and Maverick’s skin is hot, he smells like adrenaline and sweat and jet fuel- he begins to struggle, finally, flushing bright from mortification more than pain as the sensation is dulled by his thick flight suit. Iceman laughs low in his throat and pushes himself up flush against Maverick, grinding into him, one hand still tight on his hip, and the answering groan sends a familiar prickle of arousal over Ice’s skin, beginning to tighten in his belly, but he ignores it because he’s pissed as hell, dammit, and Maverick needs to fucking understand-
“This what you want, Mitchell? You want me to fuck you, right here, where anyone could walk in?” he snarls, letting go of his arm in favor of palming his rapidly hardening dick, and Maverick doesn’t beg, not ever, but his jaw clenches and he gives a jerky nod, expelling all of his air in a single, explosive breath- Ice grinds against him, rhythmic, teeth scraping across the back of his neck, and Ice knows it’s cruel, but he doesn’t even give a shit- “Too fucking bad.”
Maverick bucks hard against him, and Ice isn’t sure if he’s trying to dislodge him or just get some friction, but he steps back and begins rolling his sleeves up, deliberate. Interestingly, Maverick doesn’t move, even though Ice is giving him plenty of space to get away. Ice gets the distinct impression that Maverick won’t so much as twitch until Ice gives him permission, and the thought sends a jolt to his cock. He wonders just how much obedience Maverick’s been shocked into.
“Go lock the door.”
Mitchell gives him a long, wary look over his shoulder. Ice just raises an eyebrow. Mav’s jaw clenches and he straightens, puffing his chest out and shooting Ice a glance that says ‘I’m only obeying right now because I want to’, then, miracle of miracles, does as he’s told.
He thinks he might like this side of Maverick- just insolent enough to keep things interesting, but ultimately submissive. Then he’s back, standing in front of Ice with his arms crossed, back ramrod straight. Ice doubts even he realizes that he’s waiting for instructions.
“Strip.” his voice is admirably steady, and Maverick probably thinks Ice can’t see the way his lip curls as he turns his back and begins to shimmy out of his flight suit, shaking his tight little ass deliberately and stripping off his undershirt, leaving him in just his briefs.
Inwardly, Ice crows with laughter. Outwardly, his expression doesn’t change. The smirk drops off of Maverick’s face; he lowers his eyes and blushes hard, realizing suddenly that Ice is as serious as the fucking plague about this and he probably wouldn’t want to work the rage out of Ice with sex even if he could.
“Lean forward. Hands against the locker.” the pitch of Ice’s voice is guttural, clipped and unyielding. Maverick swallows, teeth sawing at his lower lip, and Ice's eyes openly track the progress of his adam's apple. Mav nods, almost to himself, and turns to brace his hands against the locker. Iceman takes a moment to admire the fine form of him, broad shoulders and trim waist, muscles taut, breath quick, anticipation evident in every tense line of his frame-
“Fuck, Ice, just get on with it-”
Ice grins his shark-grin.
“Jesus, Mav. You look like you’re just about ready to burst.” he taunts in a low murmur, pressing a knee between Maverick’s thighs and nudging them further apart, forcing him into a wider stance. Maverick pants shallowly in response, his hands clawing against the metal. Ice rubs a palm over the thin fabric of his briefs, and the gentle touch seems to have the opposite effect; rather than calming, Mitchell tenses further, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Ice is only too happy to comply and drop that fucker like a bad habit.
His hand comes down on Maverick’s ass, three times in quick succession, all in the same place, and he can see his jaw clenching as he rocks with the blows, refusing to make a sound. That won’t last long.
“You, Mitchell…” Ice begins, hand stilling for less than a second before delivering another burning slap, this one to the other cheek, “are an arrogant,” and again, harder, “stubborn,” this time Ice’s hand goes wide and lands on the exposed skin of his upper thigh, and Maverick chokes out a tiny moan, “out of control,” Ice likes the response the blow got, so he repeats it, hard enough that his whole arm reverberates with it “selfish,” Maverick cries out, but Ice just speaks over him, drags his fingernails across the dark red marks his hand had left, other hand clamping down on his hip to hold it still as he jerks forward in an abortive attempt to get some relief. “-son of a bitch, and I’m fucking tired of wondering-” the whip-crack clap of skin on skin echoes around the large room, and Maverick’s knuckles are beginning to turn white, “-if you’re gonna get yourself killed every goddamn time you get in a fucking cockpit.” Ice’s hand throbs, and he’s panting, he’s said more than he meant to, but-
“I-I’m sorry.” Maverick gasps, bowing his head and swallowing back a shout as Ice’s hand comes down again over already-stinging flesh, and Ice wonders if the low burn has graduated to pure pain yet. He stills, more to rest his hand than out of concern for the state of Maverick’s ass.
“Sorry for what, Mitchell?” his voice may be glacial, but his hand’s a fucking inferno. Maverick doesn’t answer for a long moment, so Ice smacks him again, but softer this time, more a reminder than a reproach.
Maverick chuckles, low and bitter and raw. “For being a stupid son of a bitch… throwing tantrums.” his voice is stilted, like he’s forcing it steady. “I didn’t, uh-” he pauses, hands slipping down a few inches, leaning his forehead against the locker, unconsciously mirroring Ice’s earlier position. “Didn’t know anyone gave a shit.”
Ice grabs his shoulder and spins him around bodily, pressing his back against the lockers, searching his face for any sign of bullshit and finding none-
“You. Stupid. Goddamn. Motherfucker.” he mutters, biting his fist to keep from slamming it into something. “You’ve been flying like a fucking kamikaze because you-” Ice’s voice rises, and Maverick looks gobsmacked and a little turned on as Ice fucking loses it, kicking Slider’s locker so hard it pops open, and Ice doesn’t so much as pause in his rant- “didn’t know anyone fucking cared?!” he spins and jabs his index finger in Mitchell’s face, “This is the goddamn Navy, you narcissistic little shit. We’re your fucking family. Of course someone fucking cares, Christ.”
Maverick gives a little half-shrug. “Don’t get all worked up, Kazansky, I’m not gonna go slit my goddamn wrists or nothin’.” he snorts, holding a hand up like he’s trying to talk Iceman down, which is a fucking laugh but also might be sort of true. Then he’s as serious as Ice has ever seen him “It’s just- my parents aren’t around, no, uh, biological family, I guess. Goose was my brother, and now he’s-” he swallows, hard, and Ice stares up at the ceiling like he’s trying to set it on fire.
“Charlie.” he grinds out finally, not looking at Maverick.
"Huh?"
"Charlie. Your girlfriend. Idiot."
Maverick busts out laughing. “Really, man? Charlie? If I told Charlie I was shipping out tomorrow and wouldn't be back for a year, she'd tell me to have a nice trip and pack some sunscreen.”
Ice glances back down, and Maverick’s just standing there with his hands on his hips and one eyebrow cocked like he can’t believe Ice suggested something that stupid.
“Fine. Carol, then.” Mitchell just shakes his head.
“Fuck you, Pete.” he growls, shooting him a glare. “Me.”
Maverick starts to shake his head again, then Ice’s words register. “What?”
“Me, you daft piece of shit. I fucking care.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but then it’s full of Maverick’s tongue and his hands are full of Maverick’s ass, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, Maverick’s finally gotten the point.