Chapter Text
Maverick doesn’t notice the change at first.
It’s too easy, in the chaos of teaching at TOPGUN, to let himself get lost in the rhythm of hops, in class instruction, in afternoons on his bike, and in nights spent staring sleeplessly at the ceiling of his base housing. It’s harder to look outwards, to see the other men who teach with him, and not notice the space that always seems to float next to him, held perpetually empty as if the occupant might come back at any moment.
And, well-
It’s easier to ignore it.
It’s his excuse for why it takes him so long to notice the change in Ice.
The way that Ice moves is always what catches Mav’s attention first.
It’s deceptively smooth, for as tall as the man is. When he’s focused, it turns almost feline, and it makes Mav’s mouth go dry as he watches the other man slip between people and make his way to his target, in this case, his RIO, leaned against the bar.
He doesn’t believe all the gossip that tends to follow those with a vamp status, as a rule. He’s known enough friends or someones who knows someone to know most of the rumors are just that- rumors. But when he watches Ice stride across the bar, he wonders if there isn’t something preternatural that makes him move like that.
So when Ice nearly stumbles, toe catching on the leg of a bar stool not quite tucked under the table it’s pushed into, Mav can’t help but stare.
From then, Maverick tries to watch the other man more closely.
He can’t tell if it’s his own imagination, or if the other man actually is paler than usual, if the faint purple cast under his eyes is more noticeable or not.
Mav wishes, fiercely, that Goose was still with him, or that he knew someone well enough to confide about his sudden curiosity without the inevitable chastising that would follow. The sudden ache when he thinks of Goose isn’t new, not anymore, but the ferocity still catches him off guard, makes the space between his ribs throb like it had only happened yesterday.
The other instructors might know something about Ice, but he shudders at the thought of actually broaching the topic to any of them. Slider, probably, would know if something was happening, but Maverick can’t begin to imagine how that conversation would go.
The tentative peace between the three of them after the Layton rescue had held, had followed them across the Indian Ocean and as they had settled into the daily routine of a teaching post in Miramar. But still, Maverick doubts discussion of Ice’s status is on the table, even now.
He’s never known someone with a positive status particularly well, at least not before Ice. The closest he’d come is a girlfriend whose brother had been attacked and turned in his first year of college.
It wasn’t as bad as it used to be, even then. Job protections and legislation meant they could still work and serve, and medications meant the sun sickness that usually kept them indoors wasn’t an issue. Hell, he remembers the first time he’d gone to meet her parents, and when he sneaked into the garage to grab a beer from the fridge, being caught off guard by the bags of synthetic blood tucked in the back on the bottom shelf.
Still, when he’d met Ice’s eyes in the O Club that first night, he’d felt that instinctive shiver that he’d learned to associate with a positive status, and he’d been startled enough that he was sure the other pilot had noticed. The way his grin had turned sharp edged, teeth gleaming in the low light of the bar, and how his eyes had tracked the bob of Maverick’s Adam’s apple as he’d swallowed stuck in Maverick’s memory.
He’s spent more time than he’d care to admit since then thinking about vampires.
Maverick knows, logically, that Ice probably just uses synthetics, manages his thirst the same way the majority of positive status guys do, but certain things stand out. The first time Maverick had watched him tap his pen in a class, irritatingly distracted by the movement in his periphery, it’d taken him longer than he’d care to admit to realize Ice was tapping in the same rhythm as Maverick’s heartbeat, seemingly absentmindedly. It had made Maverick flush, hot and startled, and Ice’s rhythm faltered and broke as Maverick’s heart picked up.
He hasn’t caught him doing it since, but once was enough.
In the end, it’s not another instructor who gives it away, but one of the students.
He doubts the men know he’s within earshot after their hop, but still, he can’t help but listen when the sound of Ice’s name cuts through the din.
“-Kazansky is the one I’d be afraid of, though, Christ-” Cheapskate, a tall RIO with dark curls and an Appalachian twang that colors every word, speaks loudly enough that it carries down the hall.
Another pilot cuts him off with a snort before he can finish the thought.
“Why, don’t tell me you’re actually afraid of-”
“-of what, Corner, the things that go bump in the night?” Cheapskate cuts him off, half turning to grin at the pilot over his shoulder.
“Not like he’s interested in your scrawny ass-”
“Hey, he’s got a taste for RIOs, I know it, haven’t you seen Slider’s neck?” At that, Maverick nearly misses a step, as several realizations click into place.
A bite isn’t enough to change someone. Not even multiple bites. He’s not sure on the exact process, but he knows that much.
Synthetics work, but apparently are nothing compared to the real thing.
Ice has known Slider a long time.
The RIO’s recent absence on base, the product of a concussion keeping him from full duty, takes on a new cast in Maverick’s mind, and Ice’s recent spate of odd behavior feels infinitely more suspect.
Maverick can’t think about it too long before the rhythm of teaching draws his attention once again. In between classes and hops, he tries to watch the other pilot, but even with a shared office, they rarely cross paths.
He thinks he’s being subtle, when they do see each other. As they walk in from one of the hangers, both still adjusting to the A-4 and flying solo, he watches the way Ice walks, tries to decide if the other man’s gait is different, somehow. It’s not until Ice sends him an odd look that Maverick realizes he’s half a step behind and squinting at Ice’s feet. He clears his throat awkwardly before he picks up his pace, and asks Ice about one of the newer students.
It’s a few days later, when he’s sitting with Charlie in the mess that he gets more clarity.
The hall is nearly empty, this late in the afternoon. There’s a brief lull in between classroom instruction where he and Charlie both have time to actually sit and eat, but it means the food is an odd mishmash of late lunch leftovers and mess hall constants. There’s a group of ensigns at a table near the far wall, but for the most part, they’re left alone to their food.
“If you keep staring at him, people will talk.” Charlie’s voice is droll, but when Maverick shoots her a glance, chastened, she looks amused.
“I’m not staring.” Maverick takes a quick glance at Ice, one of the few other people hanging around. He’s across the hall and speaking with another instructor near the main door. Maverick isn’t sure why he’s here, certainly not to eat, but his observation is interrupted by Charlie clearing her throat pointedly.
“What were you saying?” She asks, and Maverick stabs into his bowl of salad with a snort. He debates denying it again, but in the face of her bemused stare, he sighs, and asks the question that’s been floating in his head for the last few days.
“Has he seemed… off to you?”
Charlie, for her part, weighs his words. It could have been awkward, teaching with her, especially after their brief attempt at a relationship had fizzled soon after his return to TOPGUN. Still, she seemed content to keep him around, and he tries not to do anything to change that.
“I haven’t spent as much time around him as you, but he has been quiet since Slider’s injury,” she offers, and glances over at the man in question. “It’s a shame.”
Maverick furrows his brow at that, and risks another look. When he turns back to Charlie, she’s got her lower lip between her teeth, and Maverick watches as she worries it.
“What do you mean, a shame?” Maverick tries to keep his voice light, but the steely edge to his words still cuts beneath the surface.
Her eyes flash as she looks back at him. “That people aren’t willing to talk to him now that Slider’s not around, that’s what.” Misinterpreting Maverick’s look, she continues. “It’s appalling that in this day and age people are still so closed-minded about status, even in the military-”
“Hey, hold on-” Maverick tries to interrupt her, but she carries on.
“And Pete, honestly, I’m surprised it matters to you.”
“It doesn’t, Charlie, Christ-” Maverick huffs out an annoyed breath, and drops his fork with a clatter. It carries in the relatively empty space, and Maverick flushes when it draws a few curious looks.
Maverick sends a wary glance around before he leans in, speaking again. He’s quieter now.
“That stuff doesn’t matter, at least, not really. I meant he just seems tired or something, I dunno.”
Charlie purses her lips into a flat line, and Maverick can practically see her quietly tuck that observation of his away in her labyrinth of a mind. She finally speaks again, but at least she’s drops the accusatory tone.
“Is that why you’ve been strange around him?” She asks, and Maverick can only gape.
“I’m not being weird around him!”
“Some of the other instructors are taking bets if you two are going to come to blows before this group graduates from the program.”
Maverick lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re lying.”
She tilts her head in a move that’s neither an acknowledgment or denial. “They might as well be. Metcalf asked me if I thought there was an issue keeping you two paired on hops.”
“And you told him?”
“That you two were professionals,” she says, and takes a careful bite of her pasta. “And that he should ask you two if he was really concerned.”
Maverick can only shrug in response. Still, she continues.
“Is there something else?” She doesn’t push, but her gaze remains fixed on him. He fights the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.
Maverick glances around to make sure Ice is still on the opposite side of the room. At some point he must have slipped out, because Maverick can’t spot him. Finally, he speaks.
“Do you think he feeds off Slider?” He fights the urge to wince as he asks, feeling like an idiot as soon as the question was out of his mouth. It’s invasive, and a borderline stereotype, but since the thought had come to him, it’s been impossible to shake.
Charlie shrugs. “Probably.”
Maverick blinks, nonplussed. Before he can speak, she continues.
“And Maverick? At the risk of repeating myself.” She takes a sip of her water and sends him an amused look. “You’re both professionals. If you’re that concerned, you should probably talk to him.”
Maverick chews over what Charlie had said for a few days before he finally has a moment to speak with the other man.
They’re on the way out to the hanger to fly together, providing a cat and mouse temptation for the students on one of their later session hops, when Maverick finally drums up the courage to speak. Still, it takes him a long moment before he finally moves, grabbing the sleeve of Ice’s jumpsuit and tugging him to a halt outside the open hangar door before he can go inside.
“Hey, hold on a second-” Maverick starts, and ignores the searching look Ice sends his way. “Before we go in, I wanted.” He pauses at that, and once he stops, he finds it impossible to start again.
With an incredulous look, Ice stares between the open hangar and the A-4s inside it, to where Maverick’s fingers are still curled around his flight suit sleeve.
“What did you want, Maverick?” The call sign comes out clipped, and despite the neutral tone, Maverick can’t help but feel like he’s being chastised.
“Look, I know it’s none of my business,” he says, and Ice straightens imperceptibly, gaze shuttering as Maverick speaks. “But with Slider gone, I noticed-”
“What did you notice?” Any pretense of calm has vanished, and Maverick isn’t imagining the hostility in Ice’s words.
“I just noticed,” he continues, “That you’ve been. Off, since Slider left, and I wanted to see if there was anything I could do. So.” Maverick swallows heavily as he trails off, momentum failing him in the face of Ice’s cold stare.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ice says, and Maverick lets out an incredulous huff.
“You don’t? So you think you’ve been chugging along at full strength?”
“I didn’t say that-”
“I’m not trying to be a dick, Ice, I just noticed-”
“You don’t know what you noticed.”
“Hey-” Maverick starts, but with a lightning quick move, Ice tugs his arm out of Maverick’s grip.
“We’re going to delay things if we don’t get in the air,” Ice says, and turns on his heel to stride into the hanger, leaving Maverick staring open mouthed at his retreating back.
The hop is a shit show from the moment they get airborne.
Once they’re in the air, heading east towards the mountains, Maverick tries to talk to Ice over the comms. It’s not until the third time he’s met with stony silence that he finally gives up, deciding the silence isn’t a technical issue, but rather a deliberate dismissal.
It shouldn’t chafe as much as it does.
Still, when the other pilot veers away and splits the gap between two of the student’s tomcats, leaving them scrambling to respond, Maverick lets out a low oath and is left just as wrong footed as they are.
Ice flies like a man possessed, putting pressure on from the first moment and never letting up. It’s psychotic, and impressive, and not at all what they’d planned before the hop. Maverick wishes fiercely that he could throttle the other man, and tries to make do with keeping on his wingtip.
When they land, Maverick hardly waits for the ground crew to throw down chocks behind his wheels before he’s out of his plane, bee-lining away from the hangar before he can say something he regrets.
His indignation lasts him through his shower, jaw clenched and muscles aching from the tense squeeze of anger drawing his shoulders up to his ears. But somewhere underneath the anemic stream of water, it fizzles out, and he’s left cold and bone tired.
He doesn’t expect to see the other man when he enters one of the classrooms, and pauses in the door frame at the sight of Ice, slouched low in a wooden desk chair. At his entrance, Ice sits up, frown etching across his face and brow furrowing.
“Sorry, I’ll-”
“Wait.” Ice says, and it makes something burn in irritation, low in Maverick’s chest. He makes himself draw in a deep breath before he speaks.
“You need to come up with an excuse for whatever the hell that was out there,” Maverick says, and steps fully into the room. “I don’t know what our post mortem is going to look like, but once Metcalf gets wind of whatever you want to call the last two hours, he’s going to come down on you like-”
“Like I’m you?” Ice says, but there’s no venom in his tone. It makes Maverick snort, and he rubs a hand roughly over his still-damp hair.
“Something like that,” Maverick offers, and shuts the door behind him with his boot. Once the door is latched, he lets out a sigh, and whatever fight he had left in him bleeds out. “Honestly, Ice, what happened?”
Ice doesn’t respond, and takes a slow beat before he rises out of his chair. His knees crack as he moves, and Maverick has half a mind to call him old before the look on the other pilot’s face stills the words on his tongue.
“You were right,” Ice says, and Maverick bites down on the urge to joke, and instead meets Ice’s gaze levelly. He looks mulish, and his gaze flicks between Maverick’s for a moment before he wets his lower lip. When he speaks again, it’s stilted.
“Given the effects of a concussion, I’ve been concerned that some things might set back Sli’s healing.” Ice watches Maverick and his reaction carefully, and Maverick, for his part, tries to keep his expression neutral. He’d suspected, but something prickly and uncomfortable heats the back of his neck at the confirmation. When Ice continues to survey him, Maverick nods once.
“Makes sense,” he finally says, and Ice takes it as his cue to continue.
“So. You may have been right, that. The transition has been a little… rough.” Ice looks pained at the confession, still dancing around the full truth of the matter, and Maverick bites down on the urge to say ‘I told you so.’
Maverick takes a moment before responds.
“I mean, you’re still-” He cuts himself off, deeply aware of how out of his depth he’s gotten in rapid order. “You’re still eating, right?”
Ice huffs out a laugh, and its enough to break the uneasy tension of the room. At Maverick’s sheepish look, Ice shakes his head at him.
“Christ- Yes, Maverick, I’m eating.” Ice’s voice is sour, but amusement sparks behind his eyes, and keeps the words from stinging. He sends an assessing look Maverick’s way and hesitates before speaking.
Sensing he’s unlikely to get a better opportunity, Maverick pushes.
“It’s synthetic, though?” When Ice opens his mouth to respond, a defensive set to his brow, Maverick continues. “And it’s not the same, right?”
That makes Ice pause. He finally nods.
“And that’s why you’ve been a king-sized pain in the ass?” Maverick asks, and Ice laughs at that.
“You never mince words, do you?” Ice crosses his arms across his chest, and Maverick watches as the other man drums his fingers against his upper arm. It’s the only sign of nerves he’s seen from the other man in a while, and he waits while Ice chews over his words.
“I could help, y’know.” Maverick speaks before he can think.
Ice’s fingers still.
“I’m not Slider, but I’m also not concussed-” Maverick starts, and once he starts, the words tumble out. “And if it’s going to be a problem, I can-”
“Stop.” Ice’s words are clipped, but not unfriendly.
“It would work, wouldn’t it?” Maverick continues, hardly believing what he’s saying. He hadn’t intended to offer this, hadn’t even considered it, but somewhere in between closing the door and watching the uncomfortable tilt to the other man’s mouth, pulled tight and frustrated, the thought had crystallized in his mind and resolution welled up in his chest.
“Maverick-”
“Would it?” He cuts Ice off, and watches as Ice clenches his jaw for a brief moment before responding.
“Hypothetically-”
“Not hypothetically. Actually.”
“Actually.” Ice snorts, and his gaze turns contemplative. “In actuality. Sure. It could.”
Maverick pauses, and raises his eyebrows at the other man. Ice just stares back, something guarded in his expression.
“So?”
“You’re nuts.” Ice finally says, and drops his arms to his side, glancing longingly at the door behind Maverick.
“Would it help?” Maverick pushes, and shifts his weight so he’s in Ice’s line of sight.
After a long beat, Ice nods, once.
“So?”
“So what, Mav?” Ice asks, and Maverick isn’t imagining the exhaustion he hears in the other man’s voice. It solidifies his resolve, and despite the voice in the back of his head screaming at him, he straightens up as he speaks again.
“So, are you interested? B negative, on tap,” Maverick says, and taps the side of his neck with two fingers.
Ice slumps like his strings have been cut, and he barks out a humorless laugh. He looks skyward for one brief moment before he finally responds.
“If-” he starts, and holds out a hand warningly at Maverick. “And I do mean if, we’re going to do this, I want to see a blood count.” Before Maverick can ask, he continues.
“Medical will have it, you can get it from them. If that’s okay, we’ll talk.” Ice glances once more between Maverick and the closed classroom door, and then at his watch. He opens his mouth to speak again, but decides against it. With one more withering glace at Maverick, Ice brushes past him to leave.
Maverick is left standing in the empty classroom, buzzing with the same heady rush of adrenaline as a tower flyby. If a stupidly wide grin splits his face, well- No one is around to give him hell for it.
From there, it all happens surprisingly fast.
It takes a little bit of finagling to get his blood work from medical, but eventually the beleaguered nurse he corners sighs and hands over the page of results, a seemingly inscrutable page full of numbers and ranges.
When he hands it to Ice a few days later, folded in half and slid across the desk in their shared office, the other man cuts him a sharp look. The room is small, two desks and a wall of filing cabinets that remind Maverick uncomfortably of the principal’s office from his junior high days, but the windows overlooking the base runways make up for the tight quarters. Still, at Ice’s glower, he feels every inch of constriction from the space.
“Really?” The reprisal in Ice’s voice is undercut by the quick grab he makes for the paper, unfolding it and surveying the results with an assessing eye.
“As requested,” Maverick says, and watches with unmasked curiosity as Ice reads the page silently. “Does that even mean anything to you?”
Ice sends him a stony glance, but Maverick just raises his eyebrows, undeterred.
“I’ve been looking at Slider’s results for years now, so.” Ice replies, and returns his gaze to the paper.
“And they test him that often?”
“For donors, it’s S.O.P.,” Ice says, eyes fixed on the page. “When he agreed initially, it got added to his medical file. Normal checkups.”
“What, you just check the box for ‘bloodbag’-”
“There’s a form,” Ice interjects, tone frigid.
Maverick snorts. “Figures.” He jerks his chin towards the results. “So why the cloak and dagger with these? Can’t you just request mine, too? Fill out the form?”
Ice doesn’t move, and his expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, Maverick is certain the other man would be flushing if he could. He squints, lips twitching, and leans forward towards Ice.
“Why couldn’t you just request mine, Kazansky-”
“I haven’t disclosed that you want to be a donor,” Ice cuts him off, and drops the paper on the desk.
Maverick scoffs, eyebrows creeping towards his hairline as he leans back in his chair with a huff. Irritation licks up his spine and tightens the muscles in his neck. “If you think I’m not serious-”
“Unclench, Mitchell,” Ice snaps as he rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “I don’t doubt you, Christ-”
“Then what is it?” Maverick pushes, voice clipped.
Again, though he’s not sure why, Maverick is certain that if the other man could still flush, he would. Ice sucks in a breath through his nose, and Maverick watches as the muscles in his cheek twitch and flex.
“Technically,” Ice starts, “I’m not supposed to do this off carrier.” He glances up at Maverick, gaze inscrutable, and surveys the other man’s reaction.
“No?”
“No,” Ice sighs. “They’re slightly more understanding when synthetic might be harder to come by, but they discourage it when we’re on shore.”
Maverick lets it sink in for a moment, as irritation bleeds away into startled amusement.
“So you and Slider-”
“-don’t-”
“-Have been sneaking around like high schoolers for, what, months?” When his words are met with an icy silence, Maverick lets out a bark of laughter. “Ice, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Bite me, Mitchell.”
“Wrong way,” Maverick says, grin coloring his words. “That’s your job.”
That finally breaks Ice’s silence, and the other man pushes back from his desk, chair squeaking against the linoleum tile. He’s got the page in his hand, crumpled, and is making for the trash can before Maverick can speak again.
“Hey, shit, wait-” Maverick stands and moves to cut him off, planting his feet and stopping Ice with a hand on his chest. “Look, I’m sorry, I was just messing around.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” Ice says, eyes fixed over Maverick’s shoulder on the trash can near the door.
“It was my idea, so don’t call it stupid,” Maverick says, and relaxed minutely when Ice snorts out a laugh. “And hey, I already went through all the trouble of getting those results, so.”
Ice begrudgingly meets his gaze, and the chill finally, finally, thaws some. “So what?”
“So? Do I pass muster?” He nods down at the page, still held in Ice’s grip. He’s caught momentarily by the way his fingers twitch around the paper, the subtle flex of the muscles in the other man’s forearm before he looks up to meet Ice’s suddenly curious gaze.
“You’re fine,” Ice says, and Maverick doesn’t pause long enough to try and puzzle out the new tone to Ice’s words, and instead just sends him a cocksure grin.
“Of course I am. I’ve got great blood.”
“Is it hard to get your head to fit in your helmet? Seems like it gets bigger every day.” Ice steps back, and drops the paper back on his desk. Maverick blinks at the new space between them, and takes a half step back with a shrug.
“Just talented, I guess.” He sets his hands on his hips as he watches Ice smooth out the paper carefully, before he tucks it into the second drawer down. “So when do you want to do this?”
Ice pauses a moment before he looks up again, eyes dark, leaning his hip against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. Maverick fights the urge to cross his own arms in response, pushes down the itching sensation at being so openly assessed by the other man. After a long beat, he offers, “Friday?”
Ice nods once, and glances down at his watch. “That works. I’ll come to your place after work.”
“My place?” Maverick balks slightly, and Ice’s lips curl into an amused smirk.
“Your place, Mitchell. Unless you feel like explaining this to Slider.”
Maverick must make a face, because Ice laughs at him.
“I thought so. Throw out your old take out containers, pick up the dirty socks. I’ll be by.” Ice says, and with another glance at his watch, moves past the other man to the door.
“And Maverick?” He says, and Maverick half turns, pivoting to meet his gaze.
“Yeah?”
“Drink some water.” Ice shoots him a wink, and before Maverick can reply, is out the door.
Maverick isn’t exactly living in squalor, but he does straighten up before Ice comes the following night. The base housing he’s been assigned with the posting in Miramar is sparse, but he’s been there long enough that some personal touches have made their way in. The fridge is littered with drawings from Bradley, sent from Carole as soon as he had a new mailing address, and a creased Michael Crichton novel sits on the coffee table, spine limp after countless reads.
Still, he clears out a long wilted vase of flowers, remnants of Charlie and the brief attempt they’d made to rekindle their relationship when he’d first returned, and shoves the pile of mail off the kitchen table into an unused drawer below his cutlery.
It isn’t until Maverick is pacing in front of his couch, inherited from the last tenant and surprisingly comfortable despite its worn edges, that he realizes he’s nervous.
He can’t put his finger on why, given that he was the one who’d tracked Ice down, that he was the one who’d suggested it in the first place. Still, when Ice knocks on his door, he starts, and it takes him a long moment to suck in a deep breath before going to open the front door for the other man.
Ice has his hands pushed deep in jacket pockets, and at the sound of the door opening, turns from where he’d been staring at the street to face Maverick. He’s obviously been home before coming, dressed down in denim and a clean undershirt, hair still damp from a shower. His gaze turns assessing when he sees Maverick, and after a beat, speaks. “Hi.”
“Hey. C’mon in,” Maverick says as he steps aside, gesturing Ice inside. He wonders if the way his heartbeat is rushing in his ears is obvious to Ice, but pushes down the thought.
When the other man pauses in the living room, glancing around without speaking, Maverick moves around him towards the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything?” Maverick asks, and then laughs at the incredulous look Ice shoots him as he shrugs off his jacket and drops it in an empty chair.
“Sorry, stupid question.” Maverick says, and pauses, unsure what to do next. He didn’t anticipate this when he’d first asked Ice, and isn’t used to the way nerves freeze him in place, turns words stilted and awkward in his throat. With a knowing glance, Ice turns, and scoops the remote off the couch, and drops down in the center with a huff.
“Sit.” Ice says, and clicks on the TV. He scrolls through the channels quickly, and as Maverick drops down in the corner of the couch, Ice finally settles on the Padres game, three innings in.
“I didn’t think you were a fan,” Maverick says, glancing between the screen and Ice’s profile, lips curved in a slight smirk.
“I’m full of surprises,” Ice deadpans, and nods towards the TV. “Stop thinking so loudly, watch the game.”
Maverick wants to dead arm him, and pushes down the urge. He chafes at being so transparently managed, especially in his own house, but from the way Ice leans back into the cushions and steadfastly ignores the way Maverick’s eyes are burrowing into the side of his head, Maverick can only assume he’s settling in for the long haul.
Maverick does manage to focus for half an inning, the quiet back and forth of the broadcasters droning into a blanket of white noise. But eventually, his gaze returns to the other man, whose attention seems fixed on the admittedly miserable showing by the home team.
Maverick can’t decide if the other man is backing out, or if this is just some bizarre pre-feeding ritual he does. In the low, flickering glow of the TV, backlit by the kitchen light, Maverick cuts a surreptitious look at Ice.
Now, with the time to really look, he can admit that the other man does seem thinner, cheekbones more prominent, brow slightly pinched. The overall effect is softened by his hair, soft and floppy without his normal gelled spikes. Somehow, it’s easier to think of him like this as something more supernatural; hell, as a vampire, as opposed to in his service khakis or flight suit. This version of the pilot feels new, different; but even so, it settles the slightly nervous flutter in his chest. He’s helping a friend, his wingman, even if it’s not how he’d anticipate doing so.
“So how do you normally do this?” Maverick asks in the bottom of the fifth, as the final batter strikes out swinging.
“Do what?” Ice asks, turning to look at Maverick as the commercial break comes on.
Maverick finally gives in to the urge and punches Ice in the shoulder. It breaks some of the quiet tension that simmers between them, and Ice let out a fake groan and grabs at his shoulder.
“Christ, you asshole, I try and do something nice-”
“You’ve been fidgeting the entire time I’ve been here,” Ice says, straightening back up. With a wry smile, he shrugs. “I hoped you might actually relax.”
“I just assumed that-” Maverick cuts himself off before he can verbalize the thought, and Ice narrows his eyes at him.
“Assumed what?” He asks, head tilted as he turns his body to more fully face Maverick.
Maverick can feel the creep of heat up his throat, and turns to look at the TV to avoid Ice’s knowing gaze.
“God, I dunno, that you’d be- Hungry.”
Ice, to his credit, doesn’t laugh. From the way he bites down hard on his own lip, though, it seems a close thing.
“I actually ate before I came over,” Ice says finally, and the surprise cuts through the awkwardness that had clamped around Maverick’s chest.
“Wait, really?” Maverick asks, and Ice nods in response.
“It’s generally, uh. Safer, if I’m not too hungry.” Ice says.
Maverick pauses at that, and Ice blinks at his silence. For the first time since he’d crossed the threshold, the same nerves Maverick feels seem mirrored on Ice’s face.
“We don’t have to do this, Maverick,” Ice starts, and Maverick scowls in his direction.
“I offered, didn’t I? I just don’t know the protocol for this.”
Ice lets out a soft laugh, and Maverick ignores the flutter in his stomach at the sound. When Ice doesn’t respond immediately, Maverick continues.
“So, what is it? Neck, or-”
Ice’s eyes flick down to Maverick’s neck, and in the low light, they look almost black. The moment stretches, and Maverick fights the urge to swallow as something foreign and hungry flashes in the other man’s gaze. An unexpected furl of heat snakes low in Maverick’s gut, and he can’t tell if it’s fear or something else that makes his pulse feel heavy in his chest, low and rhythmic.
Finally, after what feels like an eon, Ice shakes his head and meets Maverick’s gaze again.
“Wrist, usually,” Ice says, voice deceptively light. He glances back towards the TV, where the Padres are pitching again, and reaches out with one hand to pick up Maverick’s arm.
It’s an awkward angle, with Maverick’s right arm reaching across his chest. But as Ice shifts his grip and readjusts his position on the couch, his hand cradles the back of Maverick’s wrist and turns it upwards, and Maverick suddenly feels very, very exposed.
He’d never considered his arms vulnerable, but watching the way Ice’s long fingers wrap around his wrist and angle it slightly, bending to let the light of the TV illuminate the dip of his inner arm where the tendons push close to the skin, something tightens in his chest and he blurts out-
“This won’t affect my flying, right?”
Ice pauses, head dipped down towards Maverick’s wrist as if drawn by magnets. He glances up, and instead of joking, just shakes his head.
“No. It won’t.”
Maverick waits for him to ask if he’s certain again, to try and back out, but Ice just watches him with a steady, unwavering look. Finally, Maverick nods once more.
Ice sends a grimace his way.
“This is a bit awkward,” he offers, and Maverick lets out a slightly breathless laugh.
“Are you gonna bite me or not, Ice?” Maverick says, and grins at the scathing look he gets in response.
The grin dies when Ice leans down, and the point of his nose brushes along the soft skin of Maverick’s inner wrist. It makes the breath freeze in Maverick’s throat, and he watches, spellbound, as Ice’s eyes drift shut.
Maverick is focused on the soft smudge of eyelashes where they rest on Ice’s cheek, and is startled when Ice’s tongue darts out and licks, hot and wet over his skin.
The gasp he lets out is smothered, but it still makes Ice pause.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ice says, barely audible in the quiet of the room, and he pulls back slightly, readjusting Maverick’s arm in his grip. After a brief moment, he leans back down again, and Maverick watches, transfixed.
Ice hesitates, and the soft ghost of his breath over damp skin makes goosebumps rise on Maverick’s arm. Ice’s fingers flex minutely, and he closes the distance and licks over the skin again, firmly, deliberately.
He repeats the motion, and Maverick fights to keep his breathing even and slow as his focus narrows down to the cool grip of Ice’s hand and the heat of the man’s mouth, barely brushing his skin with each movement.
Maverick isn’t sure how long they sit there, but finally, with his skin tingling and tight, Ice lowers his mouth to skin.
There’s a brief brush of the points of Ice’s teeth- his fangs, dropped down to feed- before a sharp flash of pain as they sink into the flesh of his arm, and then-
Maverick sucks in a breath between his teeth, and heat blooms up his throat and jaw. The sensation is odd, more than anything- the wet heat of Ice’s mouth on his skin is almost secondary to the warmth that coils up Maverick’s spine, makes his heart pause then fall into a rapid staccato. He shifts in his seat, and fights to keep his arm relaxed in Ice’s firm, unwavering grip.
Maverick finds his eyes drifting shut as Ice continues his work. He’s vaguely aware of the way Ice angles his head, how his lips shift against the skin of Maverick’s arm as his jaw opens wider, but the sudden pull of suction as Ice drinks sends flashes behind his closed eyelids and seems to stoke the heat that still fills his chest.
Maverick breathes in deeply, hips shifting underneath him as a sensation he refuses to name makes his toes curl against the carpet. Ice’s grip tightens on his wrist, and almost as suddenly as the warmth had hit, something primal rears in him, and he fights down the sudden sensation of ‘trapped-too-much’ and the urge to pull away from the other man.
As if he could sense the smothering fear that was choking its way up his throat, Ice’s free hand comes up and cradles Maverick’s elbow, before he slides it up higher, fingers tucked under the edge of Maverick’s shirt sleeve and wrapping around the bulge of his triceps. Maverick can feel each point of the other man’s fingers, and he gasps softly when Ice shifts closer, the bulk of his shoulder pressing into Maverick’s chest and pinning him to the back of the couch. The earlier heat roars to what feels like an inferno in his chest, and Maverick is helpless against the twin sensations.
He has no idea how long they sit there, Ice a solid mass keeping Maverick in place and Maverick transfixed on the shape of Ice’s wide mouth pressed to the smooth skin of his inner wrist, but eventually Ice shifts, grip softening, and the suction on Maverick’s skin slowing.
Ice draws back slightly, and licks across the- Christ, the two perfectly spaced puncture marks, dark and incriminating against his skin. He watches as Ice does it again, and again, and once more as the flow of blood slows and finally stops under his careful ministrations.
Ice is slow to let go of Maverick’s arm, but he finally sets Maverick’s hand down in his lap with a surprising amount of care. Maverick watches it passively, and tries to find some urge to move from the plush comfort of the couch cushion. Somehow, he can’t, but the thought doesn’t bother him as much as it should.
Ice stands, smooth and quiet, and makes his way towards the light of the kitchen. Maverick’s heart is still pounding in his chest, and he’s grateful for the moment to himself. He pushes down the unexpected response, stares unseeingly and sucks in unsteady breaths until he feels a little less exposed.
Maverick’s gaze falls on the TV, and he watches the last out and the start of the bottom half of the next inning as he listens to Ice quietly rattle around in his kitchen. The rush of the tap turning on, and rattle of cabinets being pulled open and then shut is surprisingly domestic, and Maverick has to fight down the urge to giggle, slightly hysteric, as he looks down again at the bite on his wrist.
When Ice returns, it’s with a glass of water and a granola bar that Maverick isn’t quite sure where he found. He accepts both of them as Ice pushes them into his hands, and blinks up at the other man as he remains standing, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Thanks,” Maverick says, and clears his throat when it comes out hoarse. He pauses as he waits for Ice to sit, but when it becomes obvious he’s not moving, Maverick shifts to stand up instead.
“No, sit-” Ice pushes him down with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Eat that.”
“Yes sir,” Maverick drawls, and bites back the urge to laugh at Ice’s sour expression. Still, he obligingly unwraps the granola bar, and as he takes a bite and chews, he twists his wrist and examines the bite.
“That’ll heal on its own, but if you feel dizzy, or- weird, call me.” Ice says, and when Maverick looks up, the other man’s gaze is fixed on his wrist. When Ice finally meets Maverick’s eyes, there’s something almost hungry in his expression. But he blinks, and whatever Maverick had seen is gone.
“Okay,” Maverick finally says, when it becomes obvious Ice is waiting for a response. To punctuate it, he takes another bite of the granola bar, and watches as Ice nods once more in satisfaction.
“Good,” Ice breathes out. “Good. Okay, I’m-” He gestures vaguely towards the front door, and with one more long glance at Maverick, he scoops up his jacket and is out the door before Maverick can think to move.
Maverick sits, staring unseeingly at the TV as the game continues, and drinks the water Ice had gotten him. The drone of the TV is a steady presence, and he doesn’t move through the remaining two innings, until the post game show clicks on. He finally leans over to grab the remote, and clicks off the TV.
The sudden silence is startling, and Maverick finally stands. He glances once more at the couch, then at the door, as if there would be evidence as to what had just happened, but finds it unchanged.
He wasn’t sure what he expected when he’d brought this up to Ice. But it certainly wasn’t that.