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His mind has been made up before he even stepped foot into the mansion - a fake beard is possibly the singular worst thing he could ever have on his face. This fake beard specifically, he thinks bitterly as he once more fights the urge to scratch at it.
One time. One time he lets someone else handle his mask and it leads to him getting stuck with this itchy monstrosity for a whole night that has barely even started. He's at least been able to put his foot down so he looks less like Santa Claus and more like a college kid growing his first beard, but Romanoff still insisted that he needs more than just a wig for this one, and Coulson agreed with her.
She was right, of course. The fact that he personally knows some of the aviators here tonight, and many more have certainly seen photos of him, is a risk but it also means that he knows how these people work better than anyone on his team.
The risk is a part of the job. And it's frankly amazing how unrecognizable some store bought Halloween costume can make a person.
There is no way this beard is a better quality than that.
A waiter offers him a glass of champagne, a sign that the opening toast will begin soon and then he'll have to pretend he's here to celebrate Admiral Pearson's promotion - just like everyone else. The guy’s a dick from what he's found out in preparation for this night.
It's impolite, but he can't resist taking a sip, subtly pressing the cool glass into his cheeks and pursing his lips to chase away some of that itch.
"This is the last time I'm letting someone else get me ready," he mumbles after he swallows, but he knows it's loud enough for the mic on his collar button to pick up.
"Don't be such a primadonna, Saint," Romanoff's voice cracks in his ear. "Keep it together. We don't need anyone to think you have a rash."
He almost scoffs. "I'm not an amateur, Widow."
At least the fake curls are from his own collection and therefore perfectly fine.
He’s only been to a handful of Navy functions and all of them have been just as, if not more, boring than this one, with a singular exception. Though he’s still not sure if the Top Gun graduation belongs on that short list at all, because sure, he’d also been stuffed into dress whites then, but it had a different feel to it.
Ron was there with him for one, and that man always brings his mood up. And he could actually relax and celebrate, because Top Gun was over and that meant his job was done and he could go home. And even though he was a little disappointed that he couldn’t get the trophy, he could bring Coulson the confirmation that there was no Hydra brainwashing happening under the guise of Navy training, and that was just as good. Almost.
Not to mention, working under Viper was a pleasant change of pace, even for that short period of time. Seeing him was honestly one of the few things he’s been looking forward to tonight, but so far he’s had no luck finding the man. Which is insulting to his skills and incredibly irritating, because with every sweep of the room he makes, his list of people whose paths he does not want to cross keeps growing.
He wanted to greet Viper with a wink and an obnoxiously proper salute, have fun for at least a few minutes this evening, but instead he’s had to plaster on one fake smile after another and butter up way too many men who don’t deserve a single real compliment - which are all of them, really.
He’s already an hour into this thing and so far the hardest act he’s had to put on was not rolling his eyes during Pearson’s opening speech, no matter how admirable the man’s talent for talking so much and not saying much of anything substantial was.
His wife is thankfully not as boring, though half the fun of being stuck in a conversation with her is that he’s pretty sure she wants to fuck him. And based on the way Romanoff keeps snickering into his comm, she thinks so too.
“I must say, I just love your accent,” she says, for the third time already. He hasn’t been timing the conversation, but this has to be some kind of a record. “Where did you say you grew up again?”
He didn’t, and Romanoff laughs once more. It’s kind of her to do it for him, while he plasters on a polite smile and answers, “In West London, Ma’am. We moved when I was young, but you know how kids are. It’d already stuck by then.”
“Oh! Oh, please, say something without it! I just need to know how your American accent sounds.” She flutters her eyelashes at him and he can’t decide if it’s a blessing or a pity that Romanoff doesn’t have a visual on the floor.
His American accent is perfectly fine - he was, after all, born here - but he knows what she wants to hear. On an imaginary map of the States, he stabs it somewhere around New York, and makes a show of clearing his throat before he starts on a nonsensical script, throws a hard r in there along with some soccer and French fries, and ends it on a movie quote that has her hiding a giggle behind her hand.
“Masterful,” Romanoff notes in her own fake British accent and instead of rolling his eyes, he makes himself laugh along.
“Ice?”
He almost flinches, but he knows better than that.
He is better than that, even though suddenly hearing that voice for the first time in months is a serious test of skill.
“Ice, is that you?”
He’s already cursing himself even as he apologizes to the lady and turns around to face Maverick’s surprised expression. He can actually see as the hope and excitement drain out of his eyes and it honestly would have hurt less if the pilot had stabbed him in the shoulder.
Instead, it feels like it’s him twisting the knife when he slips back into that fake polite smile and British accent. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, pushing on even as Maverick’s smile completely disappears. “I don’t know of anyone going by the name of Ice. Is that a nickname? It’s quite ridiculous if you ask me.”
Damn, he still looks exactly the same as he did on graduation day. He’s even dressed the same, and it would feel like a cruel joke if it wasn’t obviously hurting Maverick too. He glances away, blinks, and an awfully fake chuckle comes out of his throat. “Yeah, I suppose it is. ‘m sorry for bothering you, sir.”
The sight of Maverick walking away is familiar too, and he can only stand to entertain Pearson’s wife for another minute before he has to excuse himself and get the hell out of there.
“Saint? What happened?” Romanoff questions the moment the conversation ends, but he doesn’t bother to answer with more than a grunt so she knows he’s not dead, until he slips out of the main room and finds a balcony with an unlocked door to hide out in.
“What idiot checked the guest list?” He demands as soon as the fresh air hits him, doing very little to cool him down.
“The idiot who got you on it, me,” Romanoff emphasizes and he winces.
Yeah, that helps more than the cold.
“Sorry,” he grumbles. He leans on the railing and finds it downright freezing, even through the long sleeves, but he doesn’t bother to pull away. With a sigh, he tries, “And who double checked it?”
“You could’ve, if you wanted to be sure.” He can actually hear her shrugging.
“Great,” he deadpans. “So this is my fault then.”
“Sounds like it. And what exactly is this ?”
“Maverick is here. Pete Mitchell.” He knows he’ll never hear the end of it, even before Romanoff bursts out laughing. Which is fair.
Maverick is not the only person here that he knows personally. Hell, he’s had a whole conversation with his old Academy Commander, which he handled perfectly fine. Unfortunately, Maverick is the furthest thing possible from an old man he’s only ever felt annoyed with at best. Maverick is…
Maverick is a risk he shouldn’t have taken, skin he shouldn’t have touched, lips he shouldn’t have kissed, and a mistake he should have long moved on from.
He exhales slowly, watching the cloud of cold air disappear, and wishes he had a damn cigarette.
“Maverick?” Romanoff snorts. “The kid who beat you at Miramar?”
Suppose that’s one way to distract him.
He knows she can’t see him, but he rolls his eyes anyway. “He didn’t beat me and you damn well know that.”
“Sure, but it pisses you off.” Romanoff sounds so smug, there’s no way that’s healthy. “Seriously though, he didn’t recognize you, right?”
He doesn’t want to, but for the sake of the mission, he admits, “He almost did. Fucking Mitchell.”
“But you don’t need to pull out?”
“It’s a risk,” he states plainly. It doesn’t exactly put his life in danger, but it’s still nowhere near ideal. Maverick recognized his voice, even with the stupid accent he was putting on. “But we won’t get another chance. I’m staying.”
“Copy that, Saint. Good boy.”
“Fuck you too, Widow. I’m not Barton, in case you forgot.”
“You know, you say my name a lot like Ice did.”
Despite the fact that he’s hearing the voice for the second time tonight, he doesn’t just flinch, he outright freezes. It’s embarrassing, really.
“And you sound exactly like him when you’re pissed off.”
Romanoff is saying something, probably about how Barton is too much of an idiot to be a good boy, but that’s just a guess. Because even though she’s speaking directly into his ear, he doesn’t catch a single word of it.
Because Maverick is right there, pretending to be polite and closing the balcony door now that he’s been noticed. He’s trying to look smug but he’s not a good enough actor to hide the storm of emotions in his expression.
“Sir,” he tries, slowly, but the fake accent sounds a lot less natural even to his own ears right now. “I really don’t think-”
Maverick huffs. “And the British accent’s back, nice.”
“Sir, for the last time, I am not who you’re looking for-”
“Oh, cut the bullshit, Ice.” There’s a very distinct Oh from the comm as Maverick gets loud enough and close enough for the mic to pick up. “I just heard you imply that you let me win Top Gun. Which, seriously? Get fucked.”
He and Romanoff do have a few just-in-case nonverbal signals, but none appropriate for this level of Fucking Hell . Hoping she’ll understand his improvisation, he pretends to straighten up his collar and runs his fingers over the mic, knowing it will pick up the unusual rustling.
“Your play, Saint.” Romanoff does get it, but she’s entirely unhelpful. “But I don’t think this guy’s the type to let things go.”
Well, she’s right about that.
He sighs and turns around to face Maverick properly, the railing digging into his back as he folds his hands on his chest. He clenches his jaw, frustrated with himself more than anything, and breathes out slowly. “Hop 31. A few more seconds and I would’ve had that shot, but you were too close and too impatient. It wasn’t worth the risk, so yeah. I let you take it,” he admits. “Now, what the fuck are you doing here?”
The shock on Maverick’s face is less familiar, the way his mouth hangs open and his eyes widen in disbelief. He has to blink a few times to get rid of the look, and it transforms right into indignation. “What am I doing here?” he exclaims. “What are you doing here? And what the hell are you wearing?” The hand he throws out high makes it clear he’s not talking about the dress whites.
He’s not getting an explanation either way.
“I asked first.” He’s barely blinking, doesn’t want to look away for even a second, barely breathing. “You’re not even a Commander.”
He is. Or, well, the man he is tonight is. He’d have liked a Captain more, but he’s only aged himself up a little and a higher rank wouldn’t have made sense.
Maverick is on the way there, he knows. He has the aspirations, he remembers. But for now, he’s only a fresh Lieutenant Commander and this really isn’t his scene.
The huff Maverick gives only confirms that. “Viper got sick. I’m his replacement, to represent Top Gun.”
That explains why he couldn’t find the man. A pity, really.
Though it’s a little hard to take that explanation at face value. “You were the second choice after Viper? To represent?” he questions with a raised eyebrow and Maverick rolls his eyes.
“No, that was Jester,” he admits with fake annoyance. “But I’ll have you know, I’m the best instructor they’ve ever seen.”
It makes him chuckle, even as his chest tightens with it. This is dangerous, he knows. This is familiar and comfortable, and that’s why it’s dangerous, because he can’t let himself relax. Not tonight, not with Maverick, not again. Once can be a mistake, but twice? Then he’s just an idiot.
He’s not an idiot. And Maverick doesn’t turn him into one. He’s just…
Irrelevant.
“I’ll take your word for it.” He keeps his voice light even though he feels anything but, and ignores the look Maverick gives him, because he’s not that easy to read and he damn well knows that.
“Saint, cut it out. You can’t be gone too long yet.”
Oh. He completely forgot Romanoff was in his ear.
He’s gonna get so much shit for this.
He clears his throat in a wordless Copy that, and pulls away from the railing. Which is a bad move, because Maverick stays right where he is, so it only brings them closer together. Too close. He could probably count Maverick’s lashes if he really wanted, and he hasn’t been in that position since the night before graduation.
He made damn sure of that.
He doesn’t miss the familiar way Maverick sways forward and quickly pulls back an inch, clearing his throat for the second time. “We should get back to the party.”
“What?” From the way Maverick blinks, he wasn’t expecting the evasive maneuver, and it helps a little with the embarrassment of having to make it in the first place. “Fuck the party, Ice, you still haven’t-”
“Don’t call me that.” Saying it as harshly as he does is a mistake, and Romanoff on the comm lets him know it too.
Maverick frowns, but at least he finally moves back too. “What, Ice? You want me to call you Tom now, or what?”
It is entirely unfair that he doesn’t exactly mind how the name sounds out of Maverick’s mouth. He knew that already, from that one time Maverick tried it during that one night, and even lost in pleasure, he’d snapped at the pilot not to.
He’s not Tom these days and it’s dangerous to forget that. Even if - or maybe especially because - Maverick calling him that is like a siren’s call.
“Neither,” he tries to explain. “You shouldn’t be talking to me at all.”
Predictably, Maverick doesn’t like that. “Oh, fuck you. I haven’t seen you in months, you haven’t talked to me since-”
So maybe he panics a little. But he can analyze his emotions later, because right now, grabbing Maverick by the collar has the desired effect of making him not finish that sentence. “Shut up,” he growls. “I am not that person right now, do you understand that? You call me that, you finish that sentence, and you fuck me over.”
He can count on one hand the number of people that threat has even a chance of working on. But Maverick is a good guy, and possibly still likes him at least a little bit, and definitely not someone who deserves to know what it feels like to have a gun pointed at their face.
Maverick is staring at him like he doesn’t know him. Which is good, because he doesn’t and he needs to finally realize that. But frustratingly, it also hurts, because at one point it almost felt like he could have.
Tom never got physical with him, not this aggressively, and he shakes Maverick to drive the point home, for both of them.
“Okay, I got it,” Maverick gives in quietly. “I- what am I supposed to call you then?”
Satisfied that they really have reached an understanding, he eases his grip on the shirt, can’t stop his fingers from brushing over it, to smooth out the crease lines. “Dominic,” he says, watching Maverick settle back with his feet on the ground. He may have been harsher than he meant to, but he only winces internally.
“That name’s about as real as your beard.”
“You shouldn’t be calling me anything at all,” he emphasizes. “You should go back to that party and make some passable first impressions, and forget I’m even here.”
Maverick scoffs. “Yeah, obviously you’d like that, Dominic.”
He very carefully doesn’t react. It feels cruel, but he just folds his arms on his chest and silently waits for Maverick to realize that the answer is yes. Which he does with a pissed off, “Fuck you,” but at least he finally turns around to leave.
As soon as the door closes, he doesn’t collapse, but he does lean back on the railing with a sigh of frustration. Damned Maverick. Did he feel like this when they said their goodbyes before he left for Layton? When Tom left him standing there without the kiss he so obviously wanted, angry and hurt and confused?
Tom was never supposed to be that cruel, so maybe it wasn’t him saying that goodbye after all. Maybe Tom had already left by then.
Not thinking, he runs his hand over his face, and it pulls his attention back to the stupid itchy beard. Well, at least he can actually scratch it now.
“What was that, Saint ? ” Romanoff sounds almost smug, but she’s also a good friend and he can tell she genuinely cares. That still doesn’t make him want to talk about it.
“Shut up, Widow.”
That’s a new record, he thinks triumphantly when the lock clicks, and quickly shoves the pick back into his pocket. A locked drawer is a very lousy hiding place for secret documents, but he's not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. Tonight has been such a pain in the ass, he more than deserves something to be easy.
He left the balcony very shortly after Maverick and almost immediately got roped into a conversation with a retired admiral trying to convince him to invest in some midlife crisis of a passion project. He’s still not entirely sure what exactly the man wanted him to throw his money at, but he knows he never wants to hear the word bitcoin again.
Thankfully, the man’s wife came to drag him away and even apologized for his rambling, bless her soul.
Then he was looking around the room to locate Maverick, when he unfortunately caught the eye of Mrs. Pearson again and in his desperation to not be flirted with anymore, he turned to the person standing closest to him. And for the next ten minutes, he was stuck in the most boring conversation of his life.
And that’s saying something. Honestly, one would expect a Navy test pilot to have some interesting stories to tell.
When he finally excused himself to refill his drink, he almost begged Romanoff to tell him that the security guards would be changing soon and he could finally go do his actual job.
She told him to wait five more minutes and in that time, he managed to catch the attention of a Captain with very strong opinions on the night’s choice of wine. It took another ten minutes to shake him off.
So even though it’s a little frustrating, he’s definitely not about to complain that the actually important part of the night is simply breaking into a drawer - that doesn’t even have an alarm on it, seriously, what kind of amateurs - and shuffling through the files to find the right ones.
This is obviously the universe giving him the break he so clearly deserves.
“You know, you’re gonna have to give me some kind of an explanation.”
Or maybe not.
He curses out loud, because if he can’t have any peace tonight, he deserves at least some outlet. And banging his head on the wall isn’t really an option. “You followed me?”
“Saint? Come in, what’s happening?”
Maverick just shrugs. “I got bored of making good impressions.” He could almost be making a joke, except that he’s not even smiling. He’s just standing right in the doorway, leaning on the frame like the inexperienced idiot he is, looking as if he’s actually expecting to get some explanation.
Well, tough luck.
“So you decided to sneak on the heavily guarded second floor?”
“You did it first,” Maverick points out, making him crack for the second- third time and roll his eyes.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Is Maverick in there?” Romanoff exclaims as she finally catches on, blessedly voice the surprise for both of them. “Are you serious?”
“And that’s another question on the list.”
“Which you could have texted me,” he suggests. “Preferably tomorrow.”
“Would you have answered?” It’s a challenge he unfortunately cannot meet. He doesn’t even have the phone number, which he shouldn’t have given Maverick in the first place, anymore.
He was overcorrecting when he got rid of it, but maybe he should have locked the door on that whole mess a little more properly. Put a padlock on it.
There’s no point in doing that now, so he looks at the files again, checking once more that they’re the correct ones, and starts fitting them behind his waistband. Pointedly ignoring Maverick’s raised eyebrow, he finally responds to Romanoff. “I want it on the record that I did not drag him into this, the idiot came willingly. In fact, he’s the only willing party here.”
“Write your own damn report, Saint,” Romanoff snorts. “I’m guessing you’re not too fucked if you have the time to think about that?”
He shakes his head, still ignoring Maverick’s looks as he straightens out his shirt, patting himself down to make sure the files aren’t visible. “Yeah, hopefully. He’s been cooperative so far.”
Maverick huffs very rudely, given the compliment he’s just received. “He is right here!”
“And he is leaving.”
They both are, for that matter. He steps up to Maverick, doesn’t let himself look properly, not again, and grabs him by the arm to drag him out of the admiral’s office. Ignoring Maverick’s noise of surprise, he quietly closes the door and drops down low to fix the lock.
“I hope you’re both leaving,” Romanoff mutters as he does. “The guard should be coming up soon.”
It wouldn’t be fair to say she jinxed it, and it's honestly a safer bet to blame the universe, when just as he straightens back up, he notices the sound of someone coming up the stairs. “You had to say it,” he still complains to Romanoff with a quiet groan. “I don’t suppose you can find an escape route I could take with a civilian?”
“Hey! I’m in the Navy!” Maverick protests, but at least he’s gotten the memo and does it in a whisper.
“Keep in mind that the civilian is an idiot,” he adds just for some vindication.
“The admiral’s window is almost above the balcony. That’s the best I can give you.”
The admiral’s window was going to be his own escape route if the mission went FUBAR, and he knows that jump is not something Maverick can make without at best spraining an ankle. That’s not a risk worth taking.
He could leave Maverick behind, he makes himself consider. Hell, he probably should. But that would make him suspect number one the moment the missing files are discovered, and another thing not worth risking is someone looking too deep too properly and connecting the two of them.
And even though it really would be his own fault, Maverick is not someone who deserves to meet the cold side of an interrogation room.
“Alright,” he mumbles to himself as he runs a hand through his hair. The curls are too short for it to make much difference, he knows, and in the next second, he’s reaching for his collar to mess it up and undo a button.
They’re gonna have to take the cliche route.
And it really is such a stupid cliche, he thinks even as he reaches for Maverick and grabs him by the shirt for the second time tonight, twisting his fingers into the fabric to crumple it up. He makes Maverick stumble, dragging him further down the hallway and away from the door, but then he helps him catch his balance again by pressing him against the wall.
“You’re gonna have to kiss me.”
Maverick is looking up at him like he already did. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open on soft pants, hands coming up to grip his shoulders like it’s muscle memory, he paints an all too familiar picture.
Except it didn’t actually happen yet, so when he recovers from the shock of the rough treatment, Maverick frowns. “What?”
“For our cover,” he explains quickly. “C’mon, kiss me.”
He should just do it and deal with the consequences, with the rejection, later but he can’t. It doesn’t feel right, not after last time. He knows how much he hurt Maverick, he knew he would when he decided to cut him off and he’s been reminded of it every time Maverick opened his mouth tonight.
He can’t be the one to do it.
“So now it’s our cover?” Maverick hisses. “All night, you’ve been pushing me away, you’ve been ignoring me for months but suddenly when you need something, it’s our cover? I don’t even know who you are!”
“Keep your voice down-”
“You’re probably some kinda criminal, aren’t you? Maybe I should be turning you in instead!” Maverick throws his hands up, red in the face, but doesn’t push him away. Yet.
“You do know me,” he tries.
“No, I don’t, Dominic.”
“Fuck my name, Maverick, you know me. You recognized me.” He thought he was just saying it to be convincing, because he can hear the steps getting closer and right now, his fate rests in the hands of a hurting man with trust issues, but as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how painfully true they are.
No one knows him, not really. But when Maverick took a chance on their last night together, he got a hell of a lot closer than anyone has in years. He needs him to risk it again.
Maverick’s mouth opens and his hands move to cup the back of his head and pull him closer. “If I kiss you,” he whispers at the last second, “will you tell me who you are?”
He looks Maverick in the eyes and thinks that actually getting naked would have felt less intimate. “I don’t have a clue.” It sounds like a lie and he braces himself to be pushed away, tries to prepare for the hurt of it.
And Maverick kisses him.
He’s trying to be gentle, pressing their lips together softly, as if he’s trying to make it mean something. And it does, he’s not alone in wanting it, but they don’t have the time.
He bites Maverick’s lips to make it swell up, hears his surprised noise as he slides a hand into his hair to mess it up, and dares to hope to make it up to him later. He dares to want to make it up to him, not just how quickly he slips his tongue into Maverick’s mouth, but all of it.
How he threw away his personal phone because Maverick wouldn’t stop texting him. How he gave Maverick his personal number in the first place, knowing he should never talk to him again. How he let Maverick kiss him and take him to bed and make him feel good, and how he lied to himself that it didn’t mean anything.
And how he’s still lying to himself that he doesn’t want to fall in love with Maverick.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
Oh, right, the security guard.
He was half planning on playing it up but in the end, he doesn’t have to fake anything, because he really doesn’t want to pull away from Maverick. And Maverick hasn’t suddenly become more responsible and obviously isn’t eager to push him away either, so the poor guard has to very loudly clear his throat for him to decide that it’s enough.
When he finally moves back, Mav follows him a few inches and he’s so tempting. But he doesn’t let himself kiss him again, licks his lips instead and gives the guard an embarrassed smile that he knows looks completely fake - which is working in their favor here, honestly.
“Apologies, sir.” How ruined he sounds on the other hand, that’s completely real. “We just needed, uhm- some space.”
The guard levels him with a look that would make a weaker man cower. “Taxis have plenty of space.”
Still with that embarrassed smile, he nods frantically. “Of course, sir, we’ll get right on that.” He doesn’t wait to be reprimanded more, or for the man to remember that he might want to check their IDs and write down their names. He just grabs Maverick by the arm and starts dragging him towards the staircase, making him choke on air, while the guard mutters a very rude insult.
Staying in character, he throws Maverick an excited grin that hopefully also looks comforting, and as they reach the top of the steps, he mumbles into his mic, “Widow, is extraction ready? I have the perfect opportunity to bail.”
“What about Maverick?”
“He’s the opportunity.”
He shoves Maverick into the backseat first and then climbs in after him, doing his best to ignore the way his mouth is open on ragged breaths, lips slick and bright red. He’s barely slammed the door when Romanoff peels away from the sidewalk and accelerates down the street, but somehow she still finds the time to check them out in the rearview mirror.
“I see you’ve had a good time tonight.” She smirks.
He cocks his head. “Five minutes out of four hours is not my worst score, no.” He can feel Maverick’s eyes on him even as he turns to look out the window to watch the cars they pass and check that none start off after them, that they aren’t being followed. They shouldn’t be, there’s no reason for suspicion yet, but he only relaxes when they’re a whole block away.
Then he nods at Romanoff, pulls the comm out of his ear and sets the stolen files on the middle seat. Maverick frowns at those too.
Romanoff finally stops glancing back at them and sets her eyes firmly on the road, but the annoying smirk stays firmly in place. “You gonna introduce us, Simon?”
Maverick’s eyes widen as he registers the new name, looking between the two of them, trying to figure out what he has no chance to.
He clenches his jaw because Romanoff is absolutely awful and absolutely did that on purpose. “Do you want to be introduced, Natalia?”
She laughs, because it’s a weak retaliation and they both know it, not carrying nowhere near the same significance. Thankfully, she’s not too mean though, so she stops teasing and changes the topic. “Coulson isn’t going to like this, you know.”
He rolls his eyes, but she knows he’s grateful anyway. “Coulson should have made someone double check the guest list then.”
“To be fair- uhm-” Maverick chokes under the look Romanoff gives him - which is fair. She’s the best at being intimidating in every situation, including when she only has a small mirror and her eyes to work with. But Maverick is reckless enough to be brave even in the face of that. “To be fair, I only got added on this morning? It was really last minute.”
Romanoff is good at many things, including somehow cooing sarcastically. “Aw, he’s sweet. Simon, you made him sound like way more of a bastard!”
“Uhm- I- I could be that too, ma’am?”
“He’s just trying to make a good impression.”
“You two are so cute.” There’s that fascinating sarcastic cooing again. “Were you like this in the summer too?”
“Well- we-”
Without thinking, he throws Maverick a pointed glare and without hesitation, Maverick shuts right up. Without crashing into a wall, Romanoff somehow doesn’t miss the exchange and laughs. “Cute.”
Bullied. He’s just trying to do his job here and he’s being bullied for it.
Then again, there’s obviously a theme to this night and Romanoff has always been a mean woman.
“He’s still gonna have to sign some papers,” she doesn’t forget to remind him.
“Yeah, I figured,” he sighs. That has been clear to him since he told Maverick the truth about Hop 31. “Can we do it in an office at least?”
She gives him a look that says she can read him a lot better than he’s comfortable with. But that’s just another thing he’s had to get used to with her. “We have perfectly good holding cells.”
“And he’s not a criminal.”
He doesn’t feel exactly great about leaving Romanoff alone with Maverick, even without the panicked look Maverick gave him when it became clear that’s what’s about to happen. But Romanoff simply told him to go get changed - and hissed at him to get him shit together and make up his mind - and grabbed Maverick by the arm to lead him into the elevator.
He stayed in place long enough to see that the were going up and not underground, and then made himself leave.
On the bright side, he finally gets to take the itchy beard off. It could be used again, and he should probably bring it back to storage, but none of his coworkers deserve to have to suffer through that. Well, there’s a couple that do, but his conscience wins and he does the kind thing of throwing it in the trash.
He’s more careful with his wig, checks it over and gently puts it back into the closet with the rest of his collection. He runs his hand through his real hair, blindly puts the short strands into place and, letting out a slow breath, he finally turns to the mirror.
“Who are you?” He rarely asks like this. He rarely cares like this but he knows, if he goes back to Maverick like he wants to, he’ll have to have a better answer than a lie or an I don’t know, however honest.
“I am… Dominic.” Dominic has a surname too, written in black and white on the guest list and the ID he’s set on the table, but he can’t say it. Just the first name tastes wrong on his tongue, mean and rough and bitter. It sounds like a lie.
“I am Simon. Templar.” Simon feels better. Safer, like someone he could use to be right now. But Simon tastes bland, like the blank slate he is and not like the man Maverick recognizes and trusts.
“I am Tom Kazansky.” Blind panic seizes him for all of a second, even as his mouth forms easily around the words. Tom is… complicated. Tom is too much history, too much baggage, too many mistakes and someone he’d have never considered being again if it hadn’t been necessary. But Tom is also, without a doubt, Maverick's.
It’s the middle of the night but he still considers calling Ron, just to hear from someone else how stupid he’s being. Romanoff could do it too, he’s sure she would love to, but she’d say it for the wrong reason and she wouldn’t be half as nice about it.
Maverick is sitting alone when Simon walks into the office, with his sleeves rolled up and collar undone, twiddling his thumbs until he registers the sound of the door and makes himself still. His eyes widen when he turns around, and it’s hard to tell if he’s surprised by Simon’s appearance or by the fact that he’s here at all. But either way, his shoulders drop as he visibly relaxes.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Were you expecting someone else?” He realizes only after he asks that it sounds like a joke a lot more cruel than he intended it to.
But Maverick takes it in stride with a shake of his head. “I didn’t know who to expect.”
Simon still can’t help the shame he feels, biting his tongue as he quickly crosses the room to sit behind the desk. He considers apologizing, even though just moving past the unfortunate remark seems like a bigger mercy to him personally, but before he can decide, Maverick speaks again.
“You look good like this, Ice.” And just as Simon almost winces, Maverick outright panics. “Simon? Or- or is it still Dominic? Sorry, I- I don’t-”
It’s been a long night, for both of them. Simon doesn’t even know what time it is right now, he hasn’t bothered to check. With a sigh, he interrupts Maverick’s babbling. “What did Widow talk to you about?”
“Uhm- that’s the redhead, right?”
Simon nods. He already has a pretty clear picture of how the conversation went, he’s had the honor of being present for a few of them and he knows what the protocols are, and that’s exactly why he wants to talk about it with Maverick.
Because he swallows, grows visibly nervous at the memory of it, and says, “She… told me my whole life story, and put together what she apparently thinks is a rough psychological profile, and then she made me sign an NDA. I’m pretty sure it says she can legally kill me if I break it.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s… good to know.”
“Hey.” He wants to reach for Maverick’s hand, both of them still lying on the desk, to offer some comfort, but he’s not sure if it would be welcomed. He can’t make himself. “You don’t need to be afraid of her. She’s good at being intimidating because that’s her job, but she wouldn’t actually hurt a civilian. Which you absolutely are, in this context.”
Maverick gives a slow, clearly disbelieving, nod. “Right. In the context of you being government spies.”
“Not just spies,” Simon corrects without thinking and then makes himself add with a wince, “and not exactly the government.”
The chuckle that comes out of Maverick’s mouth is painfully awkward, because he obviously doesn’t mean for it to, and then he can’t seem to decide if he wants to immediately stop or if that would make it more awkward. If that’s somehow possible.
“Makes sense. I figured you wouldn’t be stealing from the military then.”
Yeah, they probably still would be. But that’s not something Maverick needs to worry about.
“Ice, I-” he starts, but then he panics again. “Oh- uhm-”
And after the night they’ve had, after everything they’ve had, it’s too much even for him. He doesn’t let himself think about it too hard.
“Just call me Tom.”
“Tom.” He tries to brace himself, but he never stood a chance against the way Maverick whispers his name like a prayer. All the tension left in his body bleeds out as his mouth shapes around the word for a second time, even though he makes no sound beyond a soft sigh. “I missed you,” he admits. “I still don’t really know what’s going on… and until now I wasn’t completely sure I should be on your side, but I am. And I miss you.”
“Maverick…”
“I mean it,” he insists with his usual stubbornness.
“I know you do. I-” he tries to think of a lie that sounds believable enough, but ultimately, nothing but the truth comes to his mind. “I did too.”
“You could have texted me back,” Maverick points out rightfully, but there’s none of the previous heat behind it.
“I couldn’t,” he makes himself say, even though he’s not planning on explaining the honesty. To make up for it, he pulls open the top drawer of the desk and grabs a post-it note. “It’s been a long night,” he starts from the other end, rushing to speak over the protests on the tip of Maverick’s tongue. “You should go home. Get some sleep. If you still have anything to say to me in the morning, don’t hesitate to text.”
Maverick eyes the phone number he hands him very skeptically, and he smiles. “I promise I’ll answer.”
It should end there, with Maverick carefully folding the note in half to put in his pocket and leaving, but he can’t help himself. He walks Maverick to the elevator and then gets in with him, even though he could just scan his access card and press the button for the garage and end it there.
Instead, he tells Maverick, “Koenig will drive you home,” standing at his side as they go down. “Chatty guy. You can tell him to shut up, but be nice about it.”
Maverick gives him a tired smile. “You like him?”
“He’s a good guy. Not intimidating at all.”
“Well, that’s good.”
It could end there. But Maverick is still looking at him with a painfully familiar expression, and he can’t make himself deny him a second time.
He takes a step closer and Maverick’s eyes follow him, wide and unblinking as he reaches out and cups Maverick cheek. The excitement sparking up in his expression is mesmerizing, and he doesn’t make Maverick wait any longer.
He kisses him and not a single thing about it feels wrong.
In the morning, he wakes up to several unread messages from an unknown number, sent at a very concerning time given how late Maverick left the headquarters.
I have one question, the first one says. The second, Goose knew who you were before you ever talked to us. I know he’s not one of your spies. And the third, How could he know you if Tom is just another persona?
Tom yawns and before he can start typing, another message comes. Also, is it too much if I want to meet you for a coffee? And only a few seconds later, A coffee date? Am I pushing it?
Tom chuckles to himself. You’re always pushing it, he sends. I should have the rest of the week off. I’ll go anywhere that isn’t Starbucks.
And Tom isn’t just a persona.