Work Text:
Ice slides his thumb under the envelope fold and tears it open, pulling out a sheet of thick, heavy cardstock. In overly formal calligraphy, the invitation reads, ‘You are cordially invited to the wedding of Bradley Peter Bradshaw and Jacob Matthew Seresin on the twenty-third day of June, two thousand and eighteen.’
“We have a strict ‘No Uniforms’ policy, no exceptions. Especially you, Admiral,” Bradley says, pointing his finger accusingly in Ice’s direction. “Nothing ruins a party faster than a flag officer showing up. My ass cheeks clench up just thinking about it.” Mav snorts from his seat at the table, shaking his head as he sips at his coffee.
Ice ignores the joke and claps his hand on Bradley’s shoulder. “You finally picked a date, then. I was starting to think you two were all talk.” Bradley rolls his eyes and mumbles out a, “Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s a critic.”
Fighting to keep a straight face, Ice dryly adds, “I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you about the RSVP.”
Bradley scoffs and over-dramatically purses his lips the same way he did when he was eighteen and smart-mouthing. “‘Check your calendar’ for what, old man? A round of golf? You’re retired, you’ve got nothing but time.”
Mav laughs from his chair. “Oh no, you’ve got this all backwards, kid. He only played golf before he retired. Now that he’s out, you couldn’t pay him enough to pick up a club. And don’t listen to him, he just likes running his mouth. You’ll get used to it again in no time, Brad. It grows on you. Like a fungus,” Mav informs him, then adds, “We’ll both be there with bells on, don’t you worry.”
“You fucking better,” Bradley grumbles under his breath. “I’ve gotta fill my half of the church somehow and Jake’s got four brothers and more cousins than he can count.”
After a casually thrown-together, impromptu brunch, Bradley makes his graceful exit. Once the door shuts behind him, Mav sidles himself next to Ice, leaning against the counter with a wink and a hip check. Ice hip checks him right back. “So the kid is getting married,” Ice announces, slipping his readers on as he glances down at the invitation, turning it over in his hand.
“I guess he is,” Mav agrees, entirely matter-of-fact.
It’s a comfortable silence they find themselves in, standing in the kitchen sipping their coffee, and after a while, Ice breaks it. “You know, I don’t think I’ve worn a real suit since my senior prom. When it’s formal, I’ve always just shown up in uniform.”
“Well, you had better break out the checkbook, then, and find a Brooks Brothers, Kazansky. The kid sounded like he meant business with the ‘no uniforms’ spiel.”
-----
As much as Ice hates to admit it, Bradley really is right that he has more free time than he knows what to do with now that he’s retired. It’s actually pretty nice to have an errand to run, a reason to get out of the house. So it doesn’t take Ice long at all to follow Mav’s advice and schedule a fitting appointment at the Brooks Brothers in La Jolla Village. He's gone there a few times over the years and they've always done an excellent job making alterations to his dress uniforms. The following week, Ice takes the Five north to La Jolla Village, walking a couple of blocks because he couldn’t find parking, and steps inside the shop.
A sharply dressed man with facial hair even more ridiculous than Bradley’s greets him at the counter and guides him to the back of the store. On the table, the man lays out an array of sample books and brochures of cut patterns and fabric types and color options. There are certainly more choices to make this time than he has ever been offered when he’s dropped in for uniform alterations. But it isn't a complaint. The longer he thinks on it, the more comfortable he is with the idea of wearing a suit instead of a uniform. And if he’s being entirely honest with himself, there’s a real sense of relief in having the excuse not to wear it, of not having the option.
It’s been a hard enough transition into retired life without having to step back into the shoes again so quickly for a night, carrying the mantle and the expectations. It’ll be nice to spend the night as an anonymous guest, indistinguishable from the crowd.
The man with the extravagant goatee is exceedingly helpful, and he is terrific at his job, talking Ice into a suit a little more ostentatious than he would have chosen on his own, but the result speaks for itself when the man shepherds him to the tailoring platform in front of the trifold mirror.
Even unaltered, the suit looks incredible.
Ice stands still as the man steps in close and starts fidgeting with the fabric, pinning hems for the perfect leg break, cinching fabric in the coat for a better silhouette. Ice watches the man make his alteration plans, writing a page full of notes, and Ice finds himself even more impressed as he looks on.
The last time Ice got himself fitted for a suit was for his senior prom in 1978 and he had winced at the price tag then but he’d spent the money anyway because nothing in the world seemed more important in that moment than impressing Lori Ann Webster. His teenage mind had done the calculations and decided eighty bucks was worth the chance that Lori Ann would like his suit so much that she’d put out at the end of the night. His math had been correct, but eighteen-year-old Tom Kazansky would have fallen out cold at the thought of paying thirty-two hundred dollars for a suit, even one as nice as the one Ice is wearing now.
It looks damn good, though. As much as he hates the word, he has to admit, he does look distinguished. The thought crosses his mind that Mav is going to love it, and the corner of his lip pulls up in a smile.
Forty years later and Ice is still just the same. Not so different now at fifty-eight than he was at eighteen, he thinks. Still spending stupid money on a fancy suit trying to impress his date.
_____
By chance alone, Maverick doesn’t see him in his fancy new suit until the day of the wedding when they’re heading out the door, but he looks almost pained and lets out an honest-to-god groan when he sees Ice dressed to the nines. “Oh, fuck, baby. We can’t be late, but god damn.” Ice just tosses him a self-assured smirk and a wink as he grabs the car keys out of the bowl.
“Don’t forget to grab the present!” Ice calls from the garage and a few moments later, Mav steps through the door way, neatly wrapped gift in hand, running his mouth the same way he always is, saying, “Who needs a fucking french press? The real present is you showing up looking like that, Jesus Christ,” as he fumbles with his keys, locking the door behind him.
Ice opens the driver’s side door and Mav slides up behind him, slipping his hands under Ice’s Zegna jacket and running his hands up Ice’s flanks. “You’d better let me drive, sweetheart. If you don’t, I’ll be feeling you up the whole drive and I don’t want to show up to church with that on my conscience. The ghost of Sister Mary Margaret might smite me down on my way in. What a way to ruin a wedding.”
Tossing the keys to Mav with a laugh, Ice just shakes his head. “Once an altar boy, always an altar boy, hmm? You know, I figured you’d like the suit, but I didn’t think you’d like it this much. I mean, have a little self-respect, Mitchell. You’re panting like a dog.”
Mav flips him the bird as he slides into the driver’s seat.
-------
The church parking lot is already packed by the time they arrive twenty minutes early, so Mav drops Ice off at the front to go find Bradley while Mav chases tone on a parking spot.
There’s a room off to the side of the entrance of the church with a ‘Wedding Party Only’ sign on the door and Ice sneaks his way inside, shutting the door softly behind himself.
Bradley is fidgeting with the watch on his wrist and pulling on the sleeve of his button-down, trying to make it sit just so as he looks himself over in the mirror. Ice takes it all in, Bradley in an olive green suit with a pink pocket square and a tie printed with flamingos. It certainly isn’t a look Ice would have picked for himself in a million years, but, somehow, Bradley manages to pull it off. “Nice tie, kid,” Ice calls out, grabbing Bradley’s attention.
“Lookin’ pretty snazzy yourself, Ice,” Bradley answers back, walking over and pulling him in for a hug.
After a long few moments, Ice pulls back from the hug and knocks the knuckle of his index finger against the silk flamingo tie. “Your mom would’ve loved this,” he says. Carole’s front yard had been home to a flock of tacky pink flamingo lawn ornaments, and though Bradley may not know it, she had a flamingo tattooed low on her hip that Goose had drunkenly sung odes of on more than one occasion.
“Yeah?” Bradley asks quietly, looking down at the tie.
“Yeah,” Ice reassures him with a gentle smile. “She was crazy for ‘em. And she was crazy for you, too. She’d love everything about this.” Ice can’t claim to have known Carole Bradshaw particularly well, but of that much he’s certain. And on a day like today, the kid deserves to hear it.
Bradley’s brow furrows and he rubs his thumb softly over one of the flamingo prints.
“So, uh, where’s Mav?” Bradley asks to change the subject, craning his neck to look around.
“He’s parking the car, he’ll be here in a minute,” Ice tells him, but speak of the devil, and Mav steps into the dressing room.
“Oh, your mom would love this,” is the first thing Mav says when he sees Bradley, Mav beaming at him with that wide, happy smile.
Bradley laughs, sounding a little wet, and he clears his throat, “Yeah, Ice was just saying.”
Mav’s staring at Bradley, taking him in, and Ice knows exactly what he sees. Because it’s the same thing Ice sees when he looks at the kid, too. The mustache and the stupidly loud tie print and all of it together really just make Bradley the spitting image of Goose. It’s impossible not to see it. Bradley’s a decade older now than Goose ever was, and it’s been thirty years since Ice last saw him, but looking at Bradley now is like seeing Nick Bradshaw alive and in the flesh, like no time has passed at all.
Ice brushes his hand against Maverick’s and Mav looks over. Their eyes meet and they both know without saying a word. It’s something better left unsaid. Not today. Mav flies dangerously close to acknowledging it, just a hairsbreadth away, saying, “They’d both be so proud of you, Bradley.” But none of them are equipped to have a conversation like that, especially not with the sounds of the maid of honor on the other side of the door directing people to their seats.
Ice steps in and drops a hand on Bradley’s shoulder. “Sounds like you have somewhere to be,” he says, nodding his head toward the door, “We’ll be out there, filling up your half of the church. We just wanted to see you first. Congratulations, Bradley. We’re happy for you.”
Bradley lets out a deep breath and nods, jaw clenching with the strain of repressed emotion. “Thanks. It means a lot. You two being here, all of it,” is all he manages to get out. Ice just nods and makes his way to the door. He watches Mav step in and pull Bradley in for a hug, the two of them having a quiet conversation, whispering into each other’s ears. Ice can’t quite make out the words, but after a few moments, they both pull away smiling. Mav claps Bradley hard on the shoulder and then follows Ice out the door, clearing the emotion from his throat as they walk into the chapel and sit themselves on the Bradshaw side of the church.
-----
Weddings and funerals are the only reasons Ice has stepped foot in a church for the last forty years and it always feels strange to him. But this church is nothing like any church Ice has ever been in before. It’s bright and sleek and modern, with big, open windows and twenty-first-century style. Which makes sense, he supposes. It has to be if it’s the sort of church hosting a wedding for two men.
It's the first time Ice has ever been to a wedding between men, and ever since Bradley handed over the invitation, Ice has been quietly wondering what it would be like. And to be entirely honest, it’s not nearly as novel an experience as he was expecting. Mostly exactly the same as every other one he’s attended except there’s no wedding procession down the aisle and no one is wearing a white dress.
Once the music stops and Bradley and his guy are standing together at the altar, the preacher starts in on a little homily. It doesn’t take long for Ice to lose interest, so he discreetly starts to look around, taking it all in. There are a handful of people he recognizes and a few more he thinks he’s seen in Mav’s photo collection, but most everyone here is a stranger to him.
As he processes it all, Ice settles into the knowledge that this is the life Bradley has built for himself. The friends he’s made and the family he’s joining all in one room. Ice and Mav are one small chapter in the life story of Bradley Bradshaw. Side characters with perhaps oversized impacts, Mav especially, but small roles nonetheless. Regardless, though, Ice is happy to be here. Happy to be one of the few tenuous connections Bradley has to the parents who should have been here to smile and laugh and cry over him on his big day.
When the preacher announces, “You may now kiss the groom,” and declares them spouses, Ice can’t help but smile. It’s a brave new world.
-----
The reception is being thrown in the ballroom of a hotel a few miles down the road from the church, a smart idea, if you ask Ice, given the way nearly every Naval officer he has ever known drinks. Better to let the guests stumble their way to an elevator than to their cars.
Mav heads straight into the party with their present in hand, while Ice puts himself in charge of the logistics, checking them into the hotel and carrying his and Mav’s bags up to their room on the fourth floor. Ice takes a few minutes to himself in the hotel room to decompress and freshen up, enjoying a few moments of quiet before he forces himself to join the loud, joyous, boisterous party downstairs.
Stepping into the ballroom is a jarring reminder that it has been decades since Ice could be considered anything close to approaching young or wild. The music is loud and grating and the young people on the floor are moving in ways Ice wouldn’t have thought to call dancing. Bradley’s dress code rule seems even more reasonable now than it did ten minutes ago. A uniform would have been so extraordinarily out of place in a room like this. Ice spots his crowd on the far side of the room, the people with grey hair and a monopoly on the chairs. Truly, the best part of retirement is that Ice no longer has any obligation to make his rounds about the room, shaking hands and being seen. He’s free to find himself a comfortable chair in a deserted corner without making any small talk. And that’s exactly what he does, detouring to the open bar first to order a glass of Woodford, then laying claim to a chair at an empty table.
By Ice’s estimate, about a quarter of the guests are Navy. As per request, none of them are in uniform, but Bradley certainly wasn’t wrong about flag officers ruining a party and Ice can spot the ones who recognize him as easy as anything. They don’t make it hard with the way their eyes widen in panic for a second when they first realize. Ice can see the cogs turning in their heads, reviewing their internal checklist of how to act, how to behave, straightening their spine and stiffening their limbs. Ice gives them the nod of recognition and it’s usually enough to shake them out of it.
A small part of him can’t help but enjoy the moment of panic the mere sight of him inspires, though. It’s been a jarring transition for him, to go overnight from the commander of two hundred ships and two-hundred-and-fifty thousand sailors to the commander of his and Mav’s backyard garden. There’s an aimlessness to retirement, a loss of direction and purpose that nearly everyone had warned him about, but that nothing could truly prepare him for. So it’s nice to have these little moments, these hints of the power he used to hold, a reminder of the stress his mere presence could evoke. These opportunities don’t present themselves very often anymore. Memories are short once a man leaves the Navy, so Ice takes the time to enjoy the thrill while he still has the chance.
After a solitary ten minutes slowly nursing his whiskey, Ice spots a woman about his age with dyed blonde hair separating from the crowd and heading his way. She sits herself in the chair right next to him, giving him a penetrating look. “You were the one sitting next to Pete Mitchell at the ceremony,” she states plainly.
Ice raises an eyebrow at her bold opening line, but he doesn’t argue with her, just tilts his head in acknowledgment. “I’m Donna Price,” she introduces herself self-importantly. If the name is supposed to mean something to Ice, he doesn’t have any idea what it is. And when Donna Price realizes her name’s insignificance to him, she adds, “Carole was my half-sister.”
Ah. Now that she mentions it, he can see a few hints of resemblance and, looking at her for a second time, he thinks he may have seen her before in a photo in one of Mav’s albums. Ice offers out his hand and simply says, “Tom Kazansky.”
She shakes it reflexively, and then carries on talking. “I saw you in the parking lot outside. You and Pete drove here together from the church.” It isn’t a question; it’s a statement and Ice doesn’t feel the need to give any sort of answer. He says nothing.
Donna Price purses her lips at him and leaves an uncomfortable silence hanging, seemingly hoping Ice will fill it with an explanation if she lets it drag on long enough, but Ice is wise to the tactic, having employeed it himself more than enough times, and stays quiet. Eventually, she huffs and says, “Y’know, I told Carole back in ‘95 that she should just marry Pete. He’s more handsome than a man has any right to be and it would’ve solved a lot of her problems. Plus, Pete did just about anything Carole asked him to, so I told her I was sure it wouldn’t be a hard sell. But she just told me Pete already had himself a ‘blonde-haired, blue-eyed something sweet’ and she couldn’t possibly get in the way of that. I’m assuming that’s you?”
Finally, she has almost managed to phrase it as a question instead of a statement of fact, so Ice concedes enough to offer a deflection in reply. “No one’s ever accused me of being sweet before.”
“A blonde-haired, blue-eyed something, then,” she presses him, tartly.
“Didn’t see any blonde when I checked the mirror this morning.”
She looks at him unimpressed, but he doesn’t break. He doesn’t know this woman and it is none of her goddamn business who exactly he is to Maverick Mitchell. He looks her over with the cold, disinterested glance that he spent decades perfecting on the entitled, self-important officers of the United States Navy. It’s enough to make her back down, turning away with a huff, throwing him one last suspicious glance over her shoulder.
Good riddance.
Ice sips on his Woodford.
A wolf-whistle draws his attention and a familiar voice drawls, “You lookin’ for some company tonight, gorgeous? I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” as Maverick slides into the seat next to him with a flirty smile made to charm.
The corner of Ice’s lip twitches up as he wordlessly gives Mav the once-over, reluctantly amused by him and his stupid, ugly boots. Maverick had changed from his dress shoes into his cowboy boots in the car before they stepped foot in the hotel, arguing that the Texan delegation making up Seresin’s half of the guest list clearly wouldn’t mind.
“Hell of an opening line there, cowboy, calling me easy and lonely,” Ice shoots back and Mav laughs. “Now tell me: Exactly how many drinks deep are you, Mitchell?”
“Just the right amount, Kazansky. Just the right amount. I’m pacing myself,” he says, and Maverick very rarely over-indulges, so he’s probably telling the truth. He must be pretty firmly in ‘tipsy’ territory, though, because he’s loose enough to casually lace his fingers through Ice’s and drop his head against Ice’s shoulder without a second thought.
“You really do look great,” Mav says, plain and sincere, dropping all of his cheesiness and charm. Ice presses a kiss into Mav’s hair and admits, “I was thinking about you when I bought the suit. About how much you would like it.” Mav huffs out half a laugh and squeezes Ice’s hand in his grasp. “Check out the ego on you, huh?” Ice rolls his eyes and knocks his shined shoe against the side of Mav’s well-worn boot.
“They throw a pretty good party,” Ice says, looking out at the crowd of thirty-somethings on the dance floor, Bradley and his guy among them.
Mav hums in agreement just as the DJ transitions the music away and picks up the microphone to MC. The two of them stay just like that, fingers intertwined and shoulders touching, through a best man speech by Seresin’s oldest brother and a maid of honor speech by Bradley’s friend who flew the mission from Hell with Mav. They stay like that for the cutting of the cake (complete with mutual smearings of cake across Bradley and Seresin’s faces) and an overly sentimental first dance between Bradley and his guy to a sappy country song Ice has never heard before. And as the slow, maudlin song winds down, the DJ masterfully coerces the rest of the twenty-and-thirty-somethings back onto the dance floor with bass strong enough to reverberate through Ice’s chest.
They’ve been here long enough, Ice decides, bracing his hand against his knee and levering himself out of the chair, then pulling Mav up behind him with his outstretched hand. “Come on then, Casanova. Let’s leave the young ones to it. Us old men can shuffle off to bed while the kids party it out.” Maverick is pretty pliable after a few drinks and he doesn’t even offer up a show of a fight at being called an old man, he just lets Ice lead them out of the ballroom, the sound of pounding music growing fainter behind them. They walk side by side to the elevator, Mav mostly managing to walk in a straight line, only occasionally brushing shoulders with Ice, and Ice finally slides his jacket off, folding it over his arm while he loosens his tie with one hand.
Mav steps in the elevator first and goes to press the button before realizing he has no idea where they’re going. Ice laughs a little quietly at the tipsily confused look on Mav’s face, but offers up the number, “Fourth floor, Jack Daniel.”
Mav presses the button, then answers back with a lazy smile, “It was Johnnie Walker, I’ll have you know,” so clearly self-satisfied at his own little joke.
“Scotch over bourbon? They’ll never let you wear your cowboy boots again, Texas.”
Mav doesn’t reply, he just shakes his head with a huff of a laugh and presses in close, leaning his weight against Ice’s side. Ice is happy to help hold him up, sliding his arm around Mav’s back and rubbing his thumb over Mav’s biceps.
The heavy door to the hotel room shuts itself behind them and Ice unlatches the strap of his Breitling from his wrist, setting it on the dresser top while he wriggles his feet out of his shoes. He leans a hand against the top of the desk to balance so he can pull off his socks, and Maverick presses up along his back, gently knocking him forward into the desk, his hands settling comfortably on Ice’s waist.
“I’ve wanted to do this all day, baby. You gonna let me?” he mumbles between wet, open-mouthed kisses to the back of Ice’s neck, grinding his cock against Ice’s ass through their suits.
Ice nods, not entirely surprised at the shift in gears. A few drinks are usually enough to get Mav’s engine going and he hasn’t been subtle in his appreciation of Ice’s suit. Ice bends over, bracing his palms flat against the desk as Mav’s hand slips around his waist and starts fiddling with the latch of his belt. He palms Ice’s cock through his pants.
Ice knows what Mav likes, so he offers up a little taunting. “I’m up for it if you can get it up after all those drinks.”
Mav laughs. “‘If I can get it up’ he says, Jesus fucking Christ. The day I don’t get it up for you wearing this goddamn suit is the day I die, sweetheart,” Mav tosses back, grinding his hard cock against Ice’s ass the whole while, always ready to answer a challenge, always ready to rise to the occasion.
“Now stay just like that for me, baby,” Mav tells him, stepping away to dig through his duffel bag on the bed. He comes back and sets a bottle of lube on the desk next to Ice. Mav drops Ice’s pants down to pile at his ankles and pushes the tail of Ice’s crisp, white button-down up his back so he can run the flats of his palms over Ice’s ass. A groan comes from behind him and he feels the soft fabric of Mav’s suit press up against his ass, Mav’s cock a thick ridge beneath soft wool grinding against him, proving to Ice that Mav won’t have any problem at all keeping it up.
The click of the bottle cap is all the warning Ice gets before Mav slips two chilly, slippery fingers inside him, fingering him and opening him up. The two of them have been doing this often enough since they retired that it doesn’t take much time at all for Mav to get him ready, for Ice to give Mav the go-ahead.
Mav breathes out a long, drawn-out, “Fuck,” as he pushes inside and Ice answers with a low hum as he relaxes into it. Ice dips down, his elbows resting against the desk top and he buries his head in his arms, moaning as Mav starts up a nice rhythm, tipsy enough to be a little clumsy and unpredictable about it. His hips smack against Ice’s ass, and the noises are punched out of him with every thrust, little grunts and moans when Mav hits just the right spot. And, fuck, Mav’s so goddamn good at this. He knows how to get Ice just right.
Mav runs his mouth at the best of times, but buried balls deep inside Ice and more than a few drinks in, there’s no stopping him. It’s an endless torrent of words, praise and disbelief and compliments, a little stroking of his own ego for good measure, too. “God, you look so good, baby. Best ass I’ve ever fucking seen. Can’t believe this ass is mine, fuck, it’s so goddamn good. I’ll give it to you just right, baby. Nobody can do it better than me.”
Ice lets the words wash over him, happy to have Mav’s voice in his ear while Mav works him over. None of it really registers as anything more than dirty talk until they’re both teetering on the edge, worked up and fully revved.
“Love it when you dress up for me, baby. You gonna look this pretty for me at our wedding, too?”
It’s just lucky timing that Ice careens over the edge as Mav speaks, spilling onto the cool wooden desk top, moaning and clenching down tighter around Mav in pulses and rhythms as he rides the waves of orgasm Mav fucked out of him. Just as Ice is winding down, Mav gets there too, grunting and collapsing over Ice’s back as he finishes inside with a last few snaps of his hips.
“Was that a proposal, Mitchell?” Ice asks between huffs, when they’re both finished and still catching their breath.
Mav tenses up behind him and lets out a baffled, “What?”
“Because if it is, we’re gonna have to come up with a better story to tell people than you running your mouth while we fucked,” Ice says, wheezing out a laugh.
He feels Mav press his forehead between Ice’s shoulder blades and let out a little groan to himself, and Ice keeps laughing at him. Mav lays an apologetic kiss to his spine through the fabric of his button-down. “Sorry, sweetheart, that’s really not how I meant to ask.”
Ice turns his head over his shoulder to look back at Mav. “The answer’s yes, in case you were wondering.”
Mav raises a shy eyebrow at him, “Yeah?”
Ice shrugs. “Yeah, sure, why not? I’ll marry you,” he says, and fighting a smirk, adds, “And I’ll look this pretty for you when I do. I’ll buy a new suit and everything.”
Mav squeezes his eyes shut and huffs out an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll ask you right, Ice, I promise.”
“Ask again all you want, Mitchell, I’m never letting you live this down.”