Chapter Text
The first postcard arrives on a Thursday.
***
When Ice walks into the squadron admin office, the only person in the room is the yeoman on duty. He's itching under his sweaty flight suit, hair flat and lanky from his helmet, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. All he wants is a scalding shower with plenty of water pressure and ten hours off-duty, but the United States Navy doesn't believe in either sleep or hot water heaters, so a quick wash and a twenty-minute nap it is. Right after he's done here.
He steps up to the desk. "Lieutenant Kazansky here to pick up mine and Lieutenant Kerner's mail."
The yeoman snaps to attention. "Just a minute, sir," he says, and rifles through one of the bins, then thrusts two letters and a postcard his way. "The letters are for Kerner, sir. The postcard is yours."
"Thanks," he replies and steps into the hallway before holding up the postcard. Who the hell would be writing him? Normally, his mother or his sister send care packages, and his friends all write long letters filled with newspaper clippings and old crossword puzzles for him to fill out.
The front of it shows a photo of the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk, with the text First In Flight at the bottom — a little hokey, but there's nothing out of the ordinary about it. What is out of the ordinary is who it's from.
"Hey, man, I thought we were meeting back at the bunk."
Ice jerks his head up to meet Slider's curious stare. Shit, he hadn't even noticed anyone approaching. For that matter, he has no idea how long he's been standing in place staring down at Maverick's — fucking Maverick's — signature, as if he could somehow glean meaning from it if he stares at the lines long enough.
"Oh hey, Ron." He hands Slider his letters. "These are yours."
"Thanks." Slider pockets them, then points at the card. "Who's the postcard from? You don't have any friends except me."
"You're hilarious," Ice deadpans, then inwardly sighs and surrenders to the inevitable. If he tries to deflect away from the question, Slider will just sense blood in the water and pounce. Easier to forge straight ahead and try to nip Slider's curiosity in the bud.
He flips the card over and over and over in his hands. Lifts his shoulders in studied nonchalance. "It's from Maverick."
"Mitchell wrote to you?" Slider asks; he sounds as surprised as Ice feels. "What's he want?"
Ice has absolutely no idea, and that's what worries him. "Best I can tell, he just wanted to say hi."
"Huh." Slider rocks back on his heels, a thoughtful look on his face. "How long's it been since you've talked to him?"
The hairs on the back of Ice's neck stand on end, but he wills his voice into its usual calm. Nothing to see, nothing to see.
"Same time you did, at the O-Club the night before we shipped back out onto the Enterprise," he lies.
"Huh. Really?"
"Haven't had much time for pen pals," Ice points out. Which isn't a lie — he's been so busy he can barely breathe most days, between teaching his squad everything he'd learned during his time at TOP GUN and his ordinance DIVO duties and standing watch shifts — but it's nowhere near the entire truth.
"Yeah, I guess." Then Slider breaks out into a wide, shit-eating grin. "Well, tell the scrappy S.O.B. he stinks from me, will ya?"
"Sure," Ice lies again, even though he has no intention of replying — not now, not ever. He'd left Maverick, and all of the danger and possibility he'd represented, behind in North Island. Best to keep it that way.
***
It's not until much later that night, when he's alone in his bunk, that he slides the postcard out from where he's stashed it. And lets the tip of his finger trace over the slanted loops of Maverick's handwriting, while he silently mouths the text:
Hey Ice,
Hope things are good your way.
Keep the skies clear for me.
Mav
The words are innocuous, banal, and wholly impersonal. No hint whatsoever of his and Maverick's complicated history or of Maverick's particular way of expressing himself. Hell, the missive could have been written by anyone at all.
But the bigger question is, why in the world had Maverick sent the postcard in the first place? And why now?
It's been almost six months since they've seen each other. Six months since they've breathed the same air, since they've shared the same space. Six months since the Layton mission and the party afterward and Maverick's whispered invitation, and the best — and most dangerous — night of Ice's life.
He had almost managed to convince himself he'd imagined everything that had happened between them that night — except his imagination has never been that good, and he never could have predicted just how easily Maverick had taken command once they'd gotten behind closed doors. Ice can still vividly recall the way Maverick had methodically stripped him down and laid him out on scratchy cotton sheets and kissed every part of Ice's body until he'd been a trembling, quivering wreck. The way Maverick had taken his time opening Ice up with his tongue, then his fingers, the way he'd fucked Ice nice and slow, like time had no meaning, driving Ice to the brink over and over until he'd been practically sobbing in desperation, before finally letting him come. The way Maverick had lavished Ice with so much praise and so many touches and kisses that he'd lost count. The way he'd made Ice feel wanted and seen and —
— well, it's not important. It had been one night. One never to be repeated or talked about or even thought about night.
Ice has a career to focus on. Maverick is not and cannot be part of the picture.
***
He puts the postcard out of his mind, until the next one arrives two weeks later.
***
"How the hell are you so popular, Slider?" Patches grumbles as he hands Slider his stack of mail while the squad is taking some much-needed downtime in the rec room.
"I'm a likable guy, Kev, unlike your surly ass," Slider replies, with a sunny grin as he tips his chair back on its hind legs. Ice is just waiting for the day when Slider tips over too far and goes sprawling on his ass.
"You're a dick," Patches tells Slider, then tosses Ice a postcard. "That one came for you."
Ice neatly catches it in midair, frowning as he looks down at the front. It's a photo of Amelia Earhart standing in the cockpit of her infamous Electra Model 10. And, even though Ice already knows what he'll find when he turns the card over, it still sends a jolt through his body when he sees Maverick's signature. The message, on the other hand, is just as innocuous as the first one had been, and just as maddening:
Ice,
It's a big ocean. Try not to get lost.
Mav
There's a dark smudge at the bottom of the card that could almost be a fingerprint. Ice resists the urge to press down against it. He can still feel the ghost imprint of those fingers digging into his hips, leaving faint bruises in their wake.
"Who's it from?" Slider asks, thankfully oblivious to Ice's thoughts.
"Someone named Mav," Patches replies.
Ice raises an eyebrow in Patches' direction. His voice holds all the warmth of a glacier. "You reading my mail, Nelson?"
Patches puts both hands up in front of him. "It's a postcard, okay! Hard not to read them."
Ice jerks his head towards the door. "Get out."
Patches must hear the steel in his voice because he scampers off without a backward glance.
"Poor guy's gonna be pissing his pants," Slider comments, gleefully.
"Serves him right."
"Well?" Slider asks, after a beat. "What's the postcard say?"
Ice sighs, but dutifully recites the text on the back. "Ice, it's a big ocean, try not to get lost, Mav."
The corners of Slider's mouth turn down. "What the fuck does that even mean?"
Ice shrugs. He hasn't gotten the faintest fucking clue. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Is he back on the Layton?"
"I think so," Ice replies, even though he has no idea where Maverick is stationed now or what he's doing. Ice had made a few discreet inquiries after word had gotten around that Maverick had left his teaching position at TOP GUN, but he hadn't wanted to press too far. Hadn't wanted to rouse suspicions or questions in anyone's mind about why he even cared what his former wingman was up to these days.
Slider gestures at the card. "Maybe you should write back and ask him what the hell he's talking about."
"I'm not writing him back," Ice states. Whatever Maverick wants from him is irrelevant. Ice has moved on, and Maverick should, too.
Slider glances up from his own mail. "Wait, I thought you two had buried the hatchet. Do I need to start hating the guy again?"
Ice shakes his head. The last thing he needs is Slider's brand of protectiveness throwing a wrench into everything he's trying to bury. "No, we're fine, you know that." He stares down at the words again. Black ink on white card stock, impatiently scribbled letters that say nothing and mean nothing. Just like their night together. "I just...I don't have anything to say to him."
The only thing he could say is for Maverick to forget him altogether. They've led different lives, have no reason to stay in touch, and aren't on the same career path. Maverick's got ambitions to be a test pilot one day and Ice — well, he's got stars on his mind. At least three of them, if not four.
It's bad enough he still wakes up some mornings hard and aching and yearning for something that's never going to happen again. He's not going to add to his misery by half-assing a friendship that will only remind him of everything he can't have.
Slider gives him a confused look. "Okay."
Ice tosses the card aside, and gives Slider his best smirk. Slips inside the Iceman persona like a fleece jacket on a cold day. "Look, enough about Mitchell. Let's find a few guys for a poker match. It's been awhile since we've fleeced anyone."
Slider just frowns at him again, but lets him change the subject.
***
It's another month before the third one arrives.
***
Ice holds the edges of the postcard like it's a bomb that might go off at any moment, and takes a deep breath before glancing down. He sees a drawing of a vintage B.E.2 WWI bi-plane in flight this time around — Ice isn't sure where Maverick is getting all of the aviation-themed postcards, and spares a moment to wonder if he carries a stack of them around in his ruck, just waiting for the right moment to send them out.
Slider plucks the card out of his lifeless fingers before he even has a chance to react. "Well well well," he coos, delighted, "if it isn't another love letter from the boyfriend —"
All of the blood drains from his face. It's a fight to keep his feet planted and his knees locked. "Don't," he hisses, glancing around to make sure they're alone in the room.
Slider frowns at him. "It's a joke, man, calm your tits."
A joke. Ice forces out the breath and forces down the panic. Slider doesn't know anything. Slider can't know anything. It's just a friend busting his balls, no different than a thousand other jokes of the same ilk he's heard all day, all year, all his life.
"Sorry," he offers; it comes out stilted and stiff.
"It's okay, I know you've got a giant stick up your ass," Slider replies, accepting the apology with an easy grin before looking down at the card. "Huh. Why are a T-Rex's arms so short?"
"What?" Ice snatches the card back; he hadn't even had time to read the message.
Ice,
Do you think fish dream?
Why do T-Rexes have such tiny arms?
Is a hot dog a sandwich? And if yes, what about burritos?
Look forward to hearing your arguments,
Mav
"What the fuck am I, an encyclopedia?" Ice wonders out loud; internally, he wonders what Maverick's game plan is. If he even has one, or if he's just hoping for a reaction.
Well, he's not getting one. Ice refuses to play whatever game Maverick is trying to start. He's given Maverick enough leverage — he's already got to look over his shoulder for the rest of his career, wondering if Maverick is going to bring him down in a fit of pique or anger. (Not that he thinks Maverick would do something that would screw up his own wings — but he could, and Ice has no control over it.)
Slider tilts his head like he's trying to figure out what Ice is thinking. "You sure you two are okay?"
"We're fine," Ice lies. "I just don't have time for...whatever childish bullshit this is."
"Uh huh," Slider replies, unconvinced. "Well, if you're not going to answer him, I might. I have thoughts about burritos."
At that, Ice finally cracks a smile. Trust Slider to get him out of his own head. "You have thoughts about food, period."
"I'm a growing boy," Slider replies, with an easy grin, then pats Ice on the back. "Speaking of, it's almost chow time. Come on."
"In a minute," Ice says, and waits for Slider to leave before he opens his battered copy of Noble House and carefully places the new postcard along with the others in between the dog-eared pages.
***
Later, he traces over Maverick's handwriting with a shaking finger and tries not to think about all of the ways Maverick has left a mark under Ice's skin, penned in an ink that will never fade.
***
He ignores the fourth postcard that arrives six weeks later. And the fifth one that shows up a month after that. And the sixth, then the seventh —
Until finally, just as Ice had hoped, they stop coming.
(He tells himself it's for the best. Tells himself to focus on his goals. Tamps down the disappointment and longing until it's a tight ball that he buries deep under his ambition and drive.)
***
Chapter Text
(Three months later)
"Do you know what I'm going to do as soon as we dock?" Slider asks, as the port near Yokohama comes into view.
Ice straightens up from the railing. The wind ruffles his hair and flattens his uniform against his skin. "I don't want to think about whatever depravity you're getting involved in," he drawls.
"I'm going into town and getting myself a tiny chick to walk on my back," Slider continues, ignoring Ice.
Ice grimaces. Sounds awful. "Have fun."
Slider shakes his head, clearly unconcerned with Ice's lack of enthusiasm. "A few of the guys are getting together to grab dinner before we head our separate ways. You in?"
Ice shakes his head. Smiles his best razor-sharp smile. "Fuck no. I see you assholes enough. I've got my own plans."
Those plans consist of eating a decent meal and going to sleep in a room that he's not sharing with four other people. It'll be nice to breathe in air that doesn't taste of salt and see colors that aren't ocean-blue, navy-khaki, or carrier-grey.
Slider lets out a knowing laugh. "Which is code for, I'm aiming to get lucky."
"I didn't say that." But he knows exactly how the game is played and has mastered it years ago.
Sure enough, Slider bumps Ice's shoulder companionably. "But you're not denying it, either."
It's easier — and safer — to just smile and say nothing.
***
Ice ducks his head as he steps into the small bar, and looks around the dimly-lit room, sighing in relief when he doesn't see a single other person in uniform. He's not in the mood for small talk; he just wants to find a quiet corner to have a drink before heading to his hotel for the night.
A movement at the bar catches his eye and Ice turns his head to look —
"Maverick?" he croaks, certain he's seeing things. But he'd know that jawline and those shoulders anywhere.
The man — definitely Maverick — swivels in his barstool. Unmistakable hazel-green eyes widen in shock — at any other time, the effect would be comical. "Ice?? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he says. "I thought you were back on the Layton."
His heart is threatening to beat right out of his chest. He can barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears. Sparks ignite under his skin, and the long frozen landscape of his heart begins to thaw and unfurl, helplessly drawn to Maverick's light, like a flower seeking the first spring sun.
He drops onto the stool next to Maverick, grateful to have the support for his shaky legs. A quick, greedy gaze takes in the changes the last year has wrought — Maverick's shoulders and chest look like they've gotten wider, and his thighs are also straining the denim of his jeans. And he's still got the prettiest face Ice has ever seen, but it's got a little more character to it now. Not quite as perfect as it once was, but something altogether more interesting.
Ice can't stop staring, even though he hates himself for the weakness.
"The Layton?" Maverick shakes his head. "No, I've been an SFTI attached to VF-154 for the last year. Didn't Slider tell you where I've been?"
Ice frowns. "What's he got to do with anything?"
Maverick cocks his head, full eyebrows knitting together. "We've been writing back and forth to each other for months."
The band across Ice's chest tightens. "I...I didn't know," he says, faintly.
"Well, now you do," Maverick replies, with a shrug.
Why hadn't Slider told him about the letters? Or, at the very least, he could have mentioned Maverick's new posting. Would have been nice to have a heads-up that he could have run into Maverick while on liberty.
"Congratulations," Ice finally offers, the word sticking in his throat like a bone. He's happy for Maverick, of course he is — the posting makes perfect sense. Maverick may be a pain in the ass to certain commanders, but his innate intelligence and his expansive knowledge of aerial tactics are unequaled. Of course he'd be a sought-after instructor, despite leaving TOP GUN for whatever reason it was. And it means Maverick is already moving on. Just like Ice had wanted.
(So why does it feel like Ice is the one getting left behind?)
"Thanks," Maverick says, then scrapes out a rusty laugh that's devoid of humor. "You know, it turns out it's a hell of a lot easier to teach when you're not surrounded by ghosts."
"I'm sorry." Ice clasps his hands in front of him, so tight his knuckles start to go white. He's out of his depth here, flying blind, navigation systems shot. The slightest wrong move could lead to a crash, one he knows he won't survive.
Maverick shrugs in reply and drains his drink in one long swallow, the long line of his throat tilted up to the dim light overhead like a tease and an offering. Then he gives Ice an inscrutable look.
"It was good seeing you, Ice," he says and stands, as if to leave. Conversation over, just like that.
"Hold on, wait —" Ice lunges after him, half-stumbling as his feet get briefly tangled in the barstool.
Mav turns, the eerily blank look on his face belied by the flash of anger in his eyes. "What?"
Ice glances around the bar, but no one's paying them the slightest bit of attention. "You tell me. What the fuck were you thinking, writing to me?" he asks, dropping his voice to a whisper anyway, just in case.
A muscle tics in Maverick's jaw. Every word out of his mouth is stilted, measured, and far, far too calm. "Well, I thought we were friends. Turns out the joke was on me, though, wasn't it."
Shame — uncomfortable and heavy — presses against Ice's lungs, stealing his breath. "We're not — we are, but — Mav, I have a career to think about."
The look Mav gives him suggests he's more than a few crayons short of a box. "And you think I don't?"
"It's different for you —" Ice tries, but Maverick just scoffs, the sound ugly, scraping along Ice's nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
"No, it's worse because of my last name."
The shame churning through him is now mixed in with dread. He hadn't even considered that angle — Maverick's family history with the Navy had never even entered his radar. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
"Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, Ice. That's the problem," Maverick states, lips twisting in a mockery of a smile. "Enjoy your night."
Ice grabs Maverick's arm, the muscles tensing under his hold. "Mav, come on —"
Maverick jerks away with a glare. "Screw you, Kazansky," he says, but he doesn't even sound mad; he just sounds tired. "I got your message loud and clear, okay. Let's not make this awkward."
It's the smart play. The only play. Ice has ambitions and goals; he wants to make a name for himself, and make his mark. He can't afford to fuck this up by allowing himself to want anything or anyone too much. He's given in to temptation once already. A second time would be far too dangerous.
But he also can't let Maverick leave like this. Not when every fiber of his being is drinking Maverick in like a parched man in a desert. "Can we go somewhere and talk?" he asks. "Somewhere private?"
Maverick sighs, defeated. "What would be the point?"
"We should clear the air," Ice replies. "Chances are we'll be working together again at some point."
There's a long pause before Maverick sighs again. "Fine, yeah," he says. "A buddy is letting me use his place for the weekend. We can talk there."
With that, Maverick turns and heads towards the door. Ice scrambles to follow, getting lost almost immediately as Maverick hurries down the winding, hilly streets. Hopefully, he can find his way back to his hotel when they're done.
Maverick's friend lives on the 12th floor of a high-rise apartment building. When Ice steps inside the narrow living room and steps over to the balcony, he can see all of the ships lined up in the port — they look like miniatures from this far away. Like toys he could move with the slightest nudge. (If only things were that simple.)
He turns back to see Maverick sliding out of his jacket and tossing his keys onto the small dinette table in the corner. "I'd offer you a drink, but I don't think you'll be here that long," Maverick says.
Ice buries the wince. He'd probably deserved that. "I just want to know —" He pauses. "It's important to me that we're on the same page."
"About what?" Maverick asks. He's not even five feet away from Ice, but the distance between them stretches as wide as the ocean.
"About...what happened." It's not often he's caught flat-footed, but Maverick's not reacting the way Ice had thought he would. "This could ruin our careers if it gets out."
Maverick shrugs. "Not if we're careful."
"Do you even know what that word means?" Ice taunts, digging in to get a reaction. Any reaction.
Maverick flinches as if scalded.
"Shit, sorry —" Ice sighs, dragging a hand across his face. Fuck, he should be better than this. "I don't want to fight."
"It's fine," Maverick tells him, when a blind man can see that it's not. Ice had drawn blood; his hands feel slick with it. He watches as Maverick — always larger than life and twice as cocky — seems to curl in on himself, making himself small, and this — this sick, churning feeling in his gut isn't what Ice wants.
But the words remain locked in his throat, stuck and frozen by an invisible wall.
"Look, we fucked," Maverick continues, his tone the worst sort of robotic. "What else is there to say about it?"
It's nothing less than what Ice has been saying to himself for the last year. But hearing Maverick say it — the way Maverick is dismissing what happened it like it had meant nothing — rankles.
"Is that all it was to you? I put myself on the line and it was just — what — some kind of stress relief?"
Maverick's spine snaps into place. "You think I was willing to risk my wings for just anyone?" he asks, no longer impassive. Every word now is clipped and furious, anger twisting that beautiful face into something grotesque. "Actually, you know what, don't answer that."
"Mav —"
"It's getting late. You wouldn't want anyone asking questions."
A rejection and a dismissal, and not a particularly subtle one. But one Ice knows he deserves.
He nods once, numb, and shuffles to the front door on auto-pilot, hearing it shut behind him with a click that feels final, like that barrier is now sliding into place, leaving him on one side and Maverick on the other — and he jerks to a stop out in the hallway, his breath coming so fast he feels light-headed.
He should leave, he should leave, he needs to fucking leave before he does something he'll regret. He can't afford this. His life is risky enough.
But the thought of never seeing one of Maverick's easy smiles again, of never getting to argue with him over the best way to fly a mission or who's the better pilot, of never getting to hold Maverick in his arms again or breathe in his moans or see the way his eyes darken in need, of no one seeing him for who he truly is and wanting him because of it —
He whirls back around, pounding on the door with a shaking fist.
"I don't want safe," Ice blurts out, when Maverick cracks open the door.
"What?" Maverick's eyes are red-rimmed. Ice doesn't want to think about why.
"I don't want safe," he repeats, surer now. Gaining steam with every word. "I didn't become a Naval aviator to live a safe life."
Maverick chews on his lower lip. He doesn't move. "Then what do you want?"
Ice gives himself a second to take stock. To make sure. But his decision had been made the second he'd turned back around — hell, the second he'd seen Maverick at the bar — and he knows it. "I want you," he says, simply.
Maverick sucks in a sharp breath. And opens the door wider for Ice to come back inside. They stand across from each other in the living room, the silence awkward and loud, before Ice clears his throat.
"I don't know where this is going to take us." Somehow, admitting he doesn't have a plan out loud gives him the courage to say the rest. "But I want to try. I want you enough to — you're worth it."
Maverick had taken that first step. And the second, and the third — the least Ice owes him is to step back and let him know he's not in this dance alone.
Maverick's mouth quivers slightly, but his fists stay balled up at his sides. "Look, I don't know what you thought I was after with the postcards —"
"I was scared, okay." He sweeps a hand out towards Maverick. "Writing back to you made what happened between us real and I wasn't ready —" He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry I hurt you."
"I know the kind of man you are, Ice," Maverick replies softly. "It's not like I walked into this expecting candlelit dinners and roses and — fuck, I don't know, a spare key to your house —"
"You can have it. I mean, you've already got the only key that matters." Ice steps closer, emboldened now. Drawn in by the hope shining out of Maverick's eyes. "I'm not good at this, okay. But I'll give it my all. And you know me, I'm not going to settle for less than the best."
"Jesus, you're a piece of work," Maverick mutters, but then he's surging forward and tugging Ice down into a hard, biting kiss. Ice sinks into it, giving back as good as he's getting, pushing his tongue alongside Maverick's in slick friction, already craving more.
"C'mon," he urges, tugging Maverick's t-shirt over his head and getting his hands on a body he hasn't been able to forget for over a year.
Maverick scrapes his teeth over Ice's jaw, clever fingers making quick work of unbuttoning Ice's shirt. "Tell me what you want, Ice." The words slither like a promise along his spine.
"This," he gasps, palming the hot, hard length of Maverick's dick through the soft denim of his jeans. "You."
Maverick's nostrils flare before he yanks Ice forward, teeth clanging as he angles the kiss to go deeper. They sink to the bare floor, both of them clumsy with need as they strip each other out of the rest of their clothes and mark each other up with ragged nails and sharp teeth. The sex is frantic and hurried, both of them too keyed up to take their time or to take care — they barely manage to fit spit-slick hands around the other's cocks before Ice is falling apart, coming so hard he sees stars. Maverick follows seconds later, panting Ice's name again and again in a sweet refrain as he spills across Ice's stomach.
They lie sprawled together in silence, both of them struggling to get their breath back, before Maverick lets out a wheezing laugh. "Well, that was terrible."
Ice can still feel his brain leaking out of his ears. "Worst I've ever had," he deadpans.
Maverick's still smiling when he fits his mouth against Ice's. "Let me make it up to you," he murmurs.
"By all means," Ice replies, and gives himself over to Maverick's particularly focused brand of care.
***
It's over an hour later before either of them says anything that's not a demand or praise. They'd finally managed to make it to the bedroom, and are lying curled together on sweat-slick sheets, trading soft kisses and even softer touches, easy with each other in a way Ice had never even dared to dream of, when Maverick tilts his head to give Ice a sidelong glance.
"I've got one more year on this deployment, and then I'm up for LCDR and a DH position." He picks a piece of invisible lint off the sheets. "We could try to get stationed on the same carrier then —"
"You know it's not that simple," Ice says gently, trying not to break the spell between them.
Maverick looks up at him, his eyes almost silver in the sliver of moonlight shining in from an open slit in the curtains. "I'm not asking for simple."
"No, I guess you're not."
Ice doesn't want simple, either. He wants this — Maverick lying beside him, warm and solid and real, the only person Ice has ever met who can give him a run for his money in the air, and the only person who gets his drive and his needs.
"But if we can't get stationed together," he continues, "we'll figure it out."
"You're damn right we will," Maverick says, his voice lighter now, as he rolls on top of Ice, his body solid and heavy and a perfect fit against Ice's own.
"Write to me again," Ice murmurs, breathing the words into Maverick's mouth. "Please."
Maverick brushes their noses together, the caress somehow more intimate than earlier, when Maverick's dick had been inside him. "Write back this time," he commands, a whisper that whips between them with all the force of a hurricane.
Ice nods, shaky with relief, and maps Maverick's face — the stubble of his chin, the sharpness of his cheeks, the crooked angle of his nose — with eager lips and wordless promises that he'll move heaven and earth to keep. "You know," he says, letting the smile spill out from that thawing place inside him, "I've still got 48 hours of liberty left."
"Then I guess we should make the most of it," Maverick replies, and lowers his head to meet Ice's kiss halfway.
***