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Maverick wakes to the ringing of a phone, far too early in the morning. He rolls onto his back away from Ice’s warmth and blindly grasps for the receiver, dragging it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey! Where are you?” asks a voice that sounds suspiciously like Slider.
Maverick glances at the clock radio next to the phone. “It’s 0400, where do you think?”
“You promised you’d be here.”
“Slider, what are you talking about?” asks Maverick, not hiding his yawn.
Maverick hears Ice mumble something unintelligible but annoyed sounding into the pillow beside him; he agrees with the sentiment.
“It’s Tuesday,” Slider informs him expectantly.
“Yeah, and?”
The scoff from Slider's end is not unexpected but also not appreciated.
"Christ, Maverick." And doesn't that tone make him feel judged. "Tuesday. The 12th? Getting any fucking warmer?"
Maverick grits his teeth because he's not awake enough for this, and he's real tempted to tell Slider to shove it. Instead, mindful of a still-sleeping Ice, he gets out of bed and sneaks far enough away that he's not risking creating a boyfriend just as grumpy as he is.
"The point, Kerner, before I hang up and pretend you calling before the ass crack of dawn is just some nightmare."
“The 12th. Ice’s birthday,” Slider says the words slowly like Maverick’s a young child. “Come on, shortstack. I thought you were smarter than this.”
And oh, shit. Now that his brain is starting to come back online, the synapses pinging the way they’re supposed to, he does in fact remember what Slider’s talking about.
Maverick nearly drops the receiver, and it bounces awkwardly between his hands as he tries to juggle it back into his grasp. When he does, he manages an “I’ll be there in fifteen.” Slider makes a grunt of affirmation, and the line cuts.
Rolling out of bed makes Ice mumble something indistinct in the shape of "What the fuck, Mav?" and Mav has to settle him down by leaning over and kissing Ice on the forehead before brushing their lips together. Ice melts under his touch, and the warmth of their shared bed pulls at Mav like gravity.
But the echo of Slider's voice in his ear is enough to pry him away. "Delayed gratification," Mav mutters.
He manages to put his boots on the wrong feet, and then grab Ice's jacket instead of his own, but finally makes it out the door.
Rolling the Kawasaki down the driveway past the bland sedan assigned the COMPACFLT is awkward in the dark, but he knows if Ice hears he’ll be up in an instant.
After an embarrassing moment where he attempts to start the bike with his house key - no one can ever know - he makes his way through the quiet neighborhood and out onto open road.
It feels empty at this time of night and Pete takes the opportunity to get a little speed, arriving in half the time to a Slider who is already waiting giving him the stare of judgment.
"About time."
Pete flips Slider off, yawning. "I've gotta get back by 6 before Ice gets up. Let me see her already."
He's led into the warehouse, where a vintage 1972 Cessna T337 is sitting in the middle of the floor. "Well?" Slider asks, gesturing.
"Ron, she's gorgeous," Pete states, already itching to explore. "Paperwork?"
Slider slaps a folder in Pete's hands. "All there."
Pete grins, giddy. "Alright, I need coffee and a solid hour to look her over before I commit," he says, even though he can feel that she's the one.
Slider matches Pete's grin. "On it."
Ron’s a genius.
Well, perhaps that’s a little generous given his performance at the trivia night last Tuesday, but Pete doesn’t know how the hell he managed to pull this one off.
It was Pete’s idea initially. It had come to him a few months ago after a conversation he and Tom had about their first experiences in the air, but he was just planning on getting the same model, not the exact fucking plane. It cost him more than he cares to admit but it’s worth it if he gets to see Tom fly again.
He has no doubt that Ice would say that the plane is excessive but after the year they'd had - after a year spent watching Ice fight through surgery and radiotherapy, well… Ice deserves a little pampering.
"Are you about done yet, Mitchell? Because I'll have you know there are other buyers lined up that won't have me freezing my balls off at 5am," Slider grouses, clutching his coffee cup for whatever warmth it’ll provide.
Which is why Maverick puts the pen to his lips, humming extra thoughtfully just for Slider's benefit.
"For the love of — just fucking sign already, Mitchell!"
After one last scan of the maintenance logs, he flips back to the front page of the contract and dutifully, he signs his name. It’s done. The Cessna is his, officially, and soon to be the best birthday present Ice has ever received. Maverick looks over at Ron with a smirk, “You sure you’re fine with flying it to my hanger?”
“Are you questioning my current flight status?”
“Well, you did fly for Spirit Airlines, who knows what bad habits you developed.”
Ron rolls his eyes before shoving Maverick with his free hand. “I should have killed you years ago.”
It's a humbling thought, that one day it'll be Ice taking off against the morning sun- and not Slider, and that it'll be Ice that he's racing his Kawasaki with. A man can dream, or in Ice's case, wake up to his dream taxied right into his driveway. He knows Ice will ask about the cost, but Slider's good enough to give him dibs and a discount. Anything to get Ice in the air again, he agreed.
It's almost six when he makes it back, and Slider tosses him the keys, the plane covered by blinds in the house.
Ice is awake when Mav gets in, as expected, early mornings as much muscle memory at this point as the handling of the F-14. He’s still in bed, though, preferring these days to start the morning catching up while he’s propped up against the headboard. Good news for Mav, who can slip back under the covers with him and start his birthday morning properly.
“Where’d you go?” Ice asks when Mav opens the door to the bedroom.
Mav doesn’t reply, just shoots him his best innocent smile, the one he usually reserves for smiling his way out of stealing an F-18 or cases of mild-to-medium insubordination.
“Is that really your question?” Mav goads, finally warming up as he wraps around his personal heat lamp.
Ice raises an eyebrow, giving him a look that states: I know what that smile means, don’t try me.
“What other question is there?” he asks. Mav hums.
“You should be asking yourself, how did I possibly luck out with the most charming,” he punctuates this with a cheek kiss, “Handsome,” the other cheek, “Generous,” the bridge of his nose, “Loving boyfriend?” Finally, a too-chaste kiss before Mav pulls away with a grin, adding, “Also, what’s today's weather like? That one's good."
Ice fixes him with a look that makes Mav chuckle.
“You’re the one up before dawn,” he remarks. “You tell me.”
“You mean to tell me that Tom ‘Iceman’ Kazansky has failed to check the weather forecast?” Mav says, feigned incredulity turning to a grin as Ice swats at him.
“Fine,” Ice grumbles. “South westerly, ten knots. 15 percent chance of rain at 1500.”
Mav laughs gleefully – not just because that’s perfect flying conditions, but because God – Ice is just so perfect. He deserves every part of what’s waiting for him outside.
“Come on, then,” Mav grins. “Come with me.”
Mav makes grabby hands until Ice huffs and allows Mav to pull him from their bed. Mav beams and can’t resist a quick peck on the lips before he’s practically dragging the taller man out of the room.
“Mav? Whoa! Damn it, Pete, hold on. What’s the hurry?” Ice demands as he nearly trips on their way through the living room to the front door.
Mav stops at the front door and turns, nerves racing excitedly.
This is it!
“I’ve got a surprise for you. Now close your eyes. And no peeking!”
Tom gives him a skeptical look, but complies.
Mav takes a deep breath, takes Tom’s hands. “Alright,” he says, and steps back. “Threshold in front of you, watch the welcome mat.” Another two steps back, watching as Tom clears the doorway, then the welcome mat. “Straight shot here to the stairs,” Mav says, leading Ice down the porch. “Okay, three steps.”
“I gathered,” Tom says, smile playing on his lips, eyes closed. He steps down on Mav’s cue. “I assumed you hadn’t suddenly shrunk.”
Mav loves this man more than should be possible. “Fuck you,” he says. “Get a man a birthday present, and he mocks you.”
They make their way outside, carefully sliding into Tom’s sedan.
“Can I open my eyes now or am I trusting that you’re not going to crash?”
An indignant cry from the driver’s seat, “Oi! -And no. Keep ‘em shut Kazansky.”
It’s a short journey, especially this early in the morning. Tom gets out with some assistance, eyes still firmly squeezed shut. Pete guides Tom forward towards the hangar, positioning him in front of the Cessna.
Pete goes quiet, then says, “You can open your eyes now.”
Silence.
A wet sniffle.
A choked breath.
“Thought I asked for a puppy?”
"Betchya didn't think you'd join the mile high club, age 60!" Mav grins, offering a hand.
"Best birthday ever," Ice murmurs, reeling Mav in. "Should we take this party back to bed?"
"Not yet, babe, we've got people coming! Shower first, you look well fucked."
Ding dong!
It's three Bradshaws at his door, Goose extending a fluffy yellow puppy in greeting.
"Where do you want this cake, birthday boy?" Carole asks.
Bradley settles at the piano with his dad for 'Happy Birthday,' pup snoozing on Slider's lap.
But where's the happy couple? Where's the cake?
In the bedroom, celebrating properly.