#slidersimpfics

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Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at home for Valentine's day. There was a sort of novelty at being able to head into his own office that morning, rather than dragging himself out of a base hotel somewhere thousands of miles away, wondering if his work schedule and the time zones between them would even allow him enough time to call Pete. Sometimes, he couldn’t, and in the years when he hadn’t dared text, he’d slip into his bed that night feeling like he was missing a limb. He wondered if hundreds of miles away, Pete felt the same. He wondered if he knew Tom was thinking of him. 

But there would be none of that this year. It was a balm Tom hadn’t even realized he needed. It wasn’t just like any other morning.

He headed into work after waking up beside his partner, both of them taking their time as they got ready. Pete had plastered himself to Tom’s back while he’d shaved in the shower, pressing kisses along Tom’s spine while he hogged all the hot water, not that Tom had minded. Pete made breakfast while Tom had prepped their uniforms, and they’d even spared enough time to sit at the table and eat together before they had to head onto base. They drove together. Tom handed both their IDs to the gate guard when they rolled onto base, and they both had to reign in their smiles at the kid’s utter shock at seeing Tom’s rank on his card.

When he dropped Pete off at his office, Tom leaned over the center console to kiss him, sweet and soft, safe enough to linger.

“I’ll be here at five,” he reminded Pete as he shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his bag. “Don’t be late. I’m still taking you out to dinner tonight.”

Pete grinned. “Yessir,” he said, cheeky as always. Tom couldn’t resist drawing him into another kiss.

At his own office, Tom spotted roses on desks, chocolates and other little presents, things that had been delivered as surprises and others people had carried in themselves. There was always a little gymnastics that came with getting gifts into secure buildings, favors called in from friends who worked in the same office as one’s spouse, instructing them to leave this or that on someone’s desk, the tricky navigation of security clearances required to reach specific areas. His own rank and clearance meant that he hadn’t had any trouble getting a single red rose and an envelope into Pete’s office the year before—the first year he’d been able to dare leaving something for Pete in such public view—but given the difficulties, he didn’t expect anything from Pete. He’d already been showering Tom in his affections all day, and Tom was pretty sure he was hiding a gift for him in the back of his underwear drawer, not that he was looking.

He marked his assistant’s sly little smile the minute he passed her desk, greeting her with a suspicious smile of his own, though if she knew anything, she didn’t let on. His smile turned to a grin when he opened the door to his office.

On his desk sat a thin green vase. Two origami fighter jets sat on sticks, arranged like they were soaring out of the vase on either side of a single red rose, with a card sitting on the desk below.

Tom grinned back at his assistant. 

“Were you in on this?”

“On what, sir?” She couldn’t quite hide her smile. 

“Right.” Tom grinned, shaking his head fondly. Of course Pete had something else planned. 

“Oh,” his assistant caught his attention once more, “your three o’clock meeting was canceled. I’ll let you know once they reschedule.”

“Okay,” Tom gave her a nod. “Thank you.”

His assistant withdrew as Tom stepped into his office, setting his bag on his chair and picking up the card, TOM, written out in Pete’s capitals. He wrote like an engineer, messy and quick, but Tom had always loved his handwriting. Maverick could never be encapsulated by something neat, and Tom loved him for it.

He slipped the card from the envelope.

Don’t worry, I won’t ask who the better pilot is. 

I’m sure you don’t need me to come into your office and embarrass you in front of your whole staff, but since you put the idea in my head last year, I have to tell you I have been tempted. I know my schedule makes things a little hard for you to do the same, but I bet you could figure something out. In the meantime, you’ll just have to endure me embarrassing you in other ways.

I’m still holding out for our rings and our wedding, but I hope that for now, this is something.

My wingman, my guardian angel, my partner, my everything. I love you, Tom. 

Happy Valentine’s day.

Pete

P.S. My hop today ends just after 1500. Check your schedule.

Tom had just enough time to stop by the base commissary and buy a bouquet of flowers, and he was on the tarmac when Pete climbed out of his jet just after 1500. 

It was February 14th, 2013, don't ask, don't tell was a thing of the past and Tom "Iceman" Kazansky pulled his partner close and planted a kiss on his lips for all the world to see. He felt Pete smile against his lips, and Tom kept his forehead pressed to Pete’s when he drew back from the kiss, his arms still around him.

“Happy Valentine’s day, Pete,” he murmured. Pete kissed him again, until his lips pulled into a bright grin.

——

When Maverick looked up at a shadow covering his beach chair, the sound of footsteps on sand coming to a stop beside him, he wasn’t surprised to see Admiral Simpson standing beside him, hands on his hips as he surveyed the beach in front of them. He was surprised, however, to see the relaxed smile on the Admiral’s face. It was true they weren’t under a deadly time crunch like they had been the last time this little scene had played out, with the mission and all its disastrous consequences looming over all their heads, but a smile still wasn’t something he expected out of the Admiral under most circumstances. He was even more surprised when the Admiral glanced behind him, then sat down in the sand beside Maverick’s chair, uniform and all.

“Dogfight football?” Simpson asked, nodding towards the aviators in front of them.

At the waterline, the daggers were racing over the sand, throwing footballs between them and shouting. Since the last time they’d played, they’d started to get more of a handle on the game, figuring out something of a strategy, but the longer they went on, the more it descended into chaos. Not to mention a certain curveball that the aviators had been all too happy to introduce.

“Not quite.” Maverick told the admiral, his eyes on a single figure within the group. “Dog football. They came up with it themselves.”

The daggers had opted to keep both footballs, though at least one of them—or both, for one rather comical moment—was almost always in the mouth of a certain German Shepherd, Tess. Maverick watched the daggers chasing her into the water while they scrambled with the other ball, trying to lead her over to their respective sides or entice her back to the field of play. He wasn’t sure Tess had any idea what the rules were, but she was running circles around the daggers, evading their grabs for the ball and lighting up cheers of triumph or shouts of dismay whenever she raced into an endzone marked by a line carved into the sand.

“It looks like they’re still doing offense and defense.” Simpson observed. They watched Coyote take a sliding dive for Tess, grabbing for the football in her mouth before she dodged away, tail wagging. “Did they add any new rules for her?”

Maverick shrugged. “I’m not sure I understand it anymore, to be honest. They’re not allowed to tackle her, but that’s my rule.” 

Simpson nodded. “Smart.”

“And, I think if she scores in an endzone it gives the team more points than if a human scores.” 

Maverick watched Rooster rush past Tess, lightly shoving her playfully, lunging away and continuing to run to lure her to follow him. She was hot on his heels as he raced towards his endzone until Phoenix whistled loudly, slapping her thighs and calling for her to come her way instead. Rooster hurried to redirect her with his own calls and Maverick and Cyclone watched the opposing struggle until Payback and Fanboy slid in the sand to reach Tess, fighting to wrestle the football from her grip.

“It’s been a lot of this.” Maverick told Cyclone.

Shouts erupted from the sand as Fanboy pried the football from Tess’s jaws, nearly dropping it in the sand. He scrambled to get control of it, tossing it to Hangman before Phoenix could snatch it from his hands.

“Tess! Go long!” Jake was at the back of the pack, but he raised the ball and Tess knew exactly what he was offering, taking off sprinting towards the other end of the sectioned off patch of sand. He threw the ball hard and the aviators all watched it fly, the other football forgotten.

Tess caught the pass in the air, landing just beyond the line marking the end zone and the aviators erupted into a chaos of cheers and screams. Maverick watched Rooster nearly knock Hangman to the ground as he launched himself at him with a shout of triumph. Hondo’s whistle singled the end of the game, and Cyclone patted Maverick’s shoulder.

“Keep up the good work.” 

---

Seeing Pete “Maverick” Mitchell committed to an institution was, quite frankly, terrifying.

Ice had known him for a long time. Maverick wasn’t in the Navy because he supported the military. He didn’t go to college because he appreciated academia. He hadn’t dreamed and planned for him and Ice to get married because he believed in the legal system that would bind them together. Pete Mitchell—Pete Kazansky-Mitchell—cared about people. Pete Mitchell joined the Navy because of his father. He went to college as a means to an end, and because it was what his mother would have wanted for him. He married Tom because he cared about Tom. For him, nothing was about the institutions he lived under, so when he suddenly committed himself their community college classes like a man who’d fight to the death to defend a city college, Tom knew the reason was not because he’d taken a shining to academia. The reality was much worse.

They’d enrolled in a class in American Sign Language a month or so after Ice’s cancer diagnosis, after it had become apparent that Tom might not make it out of the trial with his voice intact. They didn’t acknowledge the fact that Tom might not make it out of the trial, period. That was too large to acknowledge, the prospect too terrifying. If the instability of their lives had taught them anything, it was that they could control only what was in their hands, and fight as he might, Tom’s life wasn’t as in hand as he’d have liked, so they controlled other things. They went to their classes. Twice a week, in the evenings after they got off work or treatments, they’d duck home for a quick dinner and drive to to the college for their class. Sometimes Tom would have to meet Pete there, running late with this national security crisis or that cancer treatment. Regardless, they'd make it to the college for their class and they’d fit themselves into an arc of students, their professor standing in the center teaching them to communicate without their voices. 

Sign language was something Tom might have found interesting if he’d had the ability to learn it on his own, without necessity driving his pursuit of the class. Unfortunately, he didn’t have that luxury. Every time Tom entered the silent classroom, he felt his skin crawl. He’d lived his life, built his career in screaming fighter jets. He felt at home speaking over a radio, singing with Pete in their home, telling his husband he loved him with his own voice. He would be able to communicate even if he lost his voice—when he lost his voice, as his doctors were beginning to say—but the knowledge that he would have to lose it in the first place was debilitating. He looked at Pete signing beside him, the most vibrant, bold man he’d ever met suddenly subdued and silenced, and he could think of nothing else.

For the first time in his entire life, Tom was failing a class, and it was a class he was going to need to exist and communicate in the very near future. 

Pete, however, had the highest grade in the class. 

He practiced constantly, signing to himself, signing to the professor after the class dispersed, studying online in his free time, in his breaks at work, whenever he could manage. He was practically a teacher’s pet. He’d raise his hand at every opportunity, answering questions or participating in dialogues with full sentences when the rest of the class could only manage broken fragments. Tom knew Pete could achieve whatever he put his mind to, but he’d never seen him throw himself into something like this, but Tom knew why. 

The knowledge seemed to make it worse.

Tom spent every class distracted. Trying to learn, but caught in the brutal understanding that he had to learn. He felt the pressure and he tried to respond to it with grace, as he always did, but he couldn’t manage it. Stress drew him thin. He hadn’t relinquished all of his duties at work—it seemed he’d climbed high enough in the ranks that nothing short of death, not even retirement would get everything off his plate—and the additional stressor hung over him more than it ever had. He sat in class and wondered about national security, his eyes glazing over as his professor instructed the class. He wondered how he’d participate in the collect calls he had with the other admirals without his voice. How could someone even interpret for him if he didn’t know the language they would interpret? Pete’s elbow would nudge his as he signed to the professor and Tom would snap back into reality, witnessing his husband’s skill in stark contrast to his own ineptitude. The contrast was starting to breed resentment. 

He knew Pete’s skill could be explained as well as his failing could be. They were both stressed, their stress finding different outlets. In Pete, he channeled his emotion into focus, picking something he could control and grabbing onto it with everything that he could. Tom’s battle was more physical, but mentally it left him drained, and his mind decided to check out, to swerve into damage control and hunker down in everything that he already knew, to hold tight and not let go. It made logical sense that he was having trouble learning, but he couldn’t help the frustration he felt at the sight of Pete signing so skillfully. Their instructor had learned of their situation early on, but one of their classmates had suggested he and Pete practice together after Tom had admitted his own struggles with learning the language—a well meaning, reasonable suggestion—and Tom had nearly snapped at her. He didn’t want to practice ASL, at least not with Pete. He didn’t want to sign with him—though he did, whenever Pete wanted to—and he was constantly asking Pete to speak to him, to speak for the two of them as it became harder and harder for Tom to voice his own words. He didn’t want an ounce of Pete’s silence.

Still, he was trying to be graceful. He was trying to adapt, trying to be flexible, to learn and change as he had always done. Every life lesson he’d endured had taught him that message, but Tom found it harder now than ever.

“Tom.” 

Pete caught his attention as he stood at the kitchen counter, a glass of water in his hand. He’d been still for the past five minutes, sipping slowly, while Pete had been rushing to and from their bedroom frantically changing out of his uniform. Work had run late, they'd made it home later than usual and were both forgoing dinner in favor of getting to their class. Or at least, that was the plan.

“What are you doing?” Pete asked him, threading his belt into his jeans. “Go get changed, we’re already going to be late.” 

He made one handed signs as he spoke, running his thumb up over his chest, waving his hand down with his arm lifted out to his side, pointing away from them, towards their bedroom. Clothes. Late. Go.

He’d been signing like that for weeks now. Tom wondered if he even knew he was still doing it.

He set his glass on the counter. He was still in full uniform, the stars on his shoulders felt like lead weights, but there was still something known in them. Changing into civilian clothes, sitting silently beside Pete as he drove to the college—because Pete would insist he was driving—was so terribly unknown, so awful and foreign and different, that Tom was standing at the kitchen counter with a glass of water in his hands and stars on his shoulders knowing full well he was making them late. He felt like a child, and yet his feet wouldn’t move.

“Tom.” Pete said again. His voice was stronger. Tom wondered when he’d stop using it around him entirely, when he decide that it was crueler to speak to Tom when he couldn’t speak back, and he’d sign instead, because Tom was supposed to know how to sign back. He didn’t want Pete to be silent.

“I’m tired.” His voice was already rough and gravelly. He knew the sign for ‘tired,’ he’d place his fingertips on his chest and let his wrists fall down towards his chest as if pulled down by exhaustion. Pete would have made the sign but Tom kept his hand around his water glass, his other hand resting on the counter. “Go without me.”

“Tom, I’m not–” Pete broke off with a frown, moving towards him when Tom suddenly picked up his glass and turned from the counter. He brought his glass to the sink but didn’t look back. If he didn’t look back, he couldn’t see Pete’s signs.

“I’m not going to go without you.”

He made it to Tom’s side, setting his hand on his arm. Tom could see him out of the corner of his eye, watching him, imploring him to look back. He knew without looking that Pete’s face was filled with concern, open and honest and kind. He wanted to scream, but he knew he couldn’t. Even ignoring propriety, he couldn’t imagine the pain screaming might cause him. Just the thought of it felt like it could render him silent months earlier than he might be able to hold onto his voice.

“Then let’s not go.” He could feel Pete’s thumb tracing one of the bars on his sleeve through the fabric of his jacket, and he looked down, unable to help watching him.

“Tom.” His name again, soft and kind but imploring in the same way. Pete’s hand tightened on his arm. It was as good as begging Tom to look at him but still he didn’t turn.

“Look.” Pete swallowed loud enough that Tom could hear it. “It’ll be fine if we’re late, Scott will understand. Just go change and then we can go. We’ll come straight home afterwards, you don’t have work tomorrow so you can sleep in for as long as you want.”

The flow of reasoning off his tongue was nearly enough to make him turn, but he didn’t. He felt his eyes slip closed at the hint of pleading in Pete’s voice, like getting them out the door was something he needed. 

“Come on, Tom.” He pressed, his voice soft. “I know we’re not doing this for grades but you have to at least pass. They’re not going to let you move up if you don’t—”

“Stop.” He pulled Pete’s hand off his arm, prying his hand away with trembling fingers. “Please, just–”

“Tom–” When he finally turned to look at his husband, Pete’s eyes were wide with concern, fear swimming in the green, fear for Tom, for whatever mess was living in his head.

“Pete.” Now it felt like he was begging, but for what, he had no idea. Pete was right, he needed to go to this class, he needed to pass, but what did he want, now at this moment? Pete couldn’t take away his cancer, he couldn’t make him better, he couldn’t take away the exhaustion and pain hanging over his entire being. 

Pete’s hand reached up to cup his face, his eyes softening. Maybe it was at the sight of Tom’s face, the fact that he was looking at him now, maybe it was because there were tears welling in Tom’s eyes and Pete could actually see the problem rather than fumbling around in the dark, but the fear faded from Pete’s eyes.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.” He whispered, his free hand settling on Tom’s hip. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

There was so much love in his voice. Pete never failed to show him how much he loved him. He’d been doing it publicly only for a few years now, since he and Tom devoted countless hours to helping drive Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell into the ground, but he’d been doing it privately long before then. He kissed it into his skin, murmured it into Tom’s ears, promised it to him just with a moment of eye contact, a word over the radio that no one would suspect but Tom would know. Pete had been telling Tom he loved him since wingman had stopped meaning friend and started meaning family.

Tears spilled over Tom’s eyes and he suddenly felt like a failure. He could count the number of times he’d cried in uniform on one hand and most of them came from pain or panic. Watching Ron hang limp in his chute after he’d passed out from pain wrecking his shoulder on the canopy during an ejection. Tom had thought he died. Hazy moments of half-consciousness when he was dragged from his own plane after smoke started to fill his lungs, panic the only sensation he could feel. Showing up in a hospital sleep deprived, drowning in stress and being told he couldn’t even see Pete because of a records mix up that left Tom unable to prove his power of attorney to the partner he’d taken for life.

“I don’t want to stop talking to you.” He croaked, tears and pain making his voice rough. “I want to be able to talk to you.”

Pete’s features softened, sympathy in his eyes but also pain, sadness for what Tom was losing and what Pete would be losing as well. He stepped a little closer, wrapping an arm around Tom and guiding Tom’s head down onto his shoulder.

“I know.” He whispered.

“I don’t want—I don’t want you to stop talking, either.” He croaked. He pressed his tears into Pete’s neck, shivering at the feeling of Pete’s fingers brushing through the hair at the base of his skull. When would he lose that, too? “I love your voice, Pete. I don’t want you to stop talking to me just because I can’t talk back.”

“I’ll talk whenever you want me to.” Pete promised, but Tom kept going.

“You’re not quiet, Pete. And I–” he broke off with a gasp, his tears rapidly starting to push towards sobs, but he had to keep going. He was desperate to keep speaking. It felt like if he couldn’t speak now, he’d never have the opportunity to speak ever again. “I hate seeing you in those classes, I hate seeing you silent. You talk more than anyone I’ve ever met, I can’t lose that. Not like I’m losing everything else.”

The truth was almost too brutal for him to bear, and maybe it was for Pete, too, because he stepped back from Tom slowly. He took his hand instead, leading him from the kitchen and into the living room, where he guided Tom to sit on the couch. He nudged his legs apart and moved to stand between them, guiding Tom close and cradling his head against his body. Tom felt his hands curl into Pete’s clothes, holding onto him tight as a sob wracked through his body.

“I want to be able to tell you that I love you.” Tom rasped. They’d only just gotten married a few months before his diagnosis. They hadn’t even had a wedding anniversary yet. “I can’t lose that.”

“Tom.” Pete pushed him back by his shoulders enough to cradle his face again, lifting his chin until Tom was looking at him. “You will always be able to tell me that you love me.” His voice was firm, offering no room for argument. “I don’t care if you whisper it. I don’t care if you mouth the words. I don’t care if you sign it or type it out or use morse code or fucking flags, you will always have a way to tell me that you love me. And I will love you no matter what way you decide to tell me.”

Tom couldn’t hold his gaze. He pulled his face from Pete’s hands, hiding his face in the fabric of Pete’s shirt. He couldn’t stop his tears, but Pete didn’t seem to mind, holding him close even as he cried splotches into Pete’s shirt. 

“I love you.” He croaked through his tears. His arms wrapped tight around Pete’s waist and he held him close. “I love you so much.”

Pete pressed a kiss into his hair. “I love you, too.”

He held him until Tom stopped crying, until his tears dried but he breathed in ragged little gasps. He slipped Tom’s uniform jacket from his shoulders and tossed it onto a chair nearby, then guided him to lie down, laying on the couch with him. They lay together until Tom’s breathing had calmed, and Pete rested his hand on Tom’s chest, his thumb, pointer finger, and pinky extended. I love you. 

Tom picked up his hand, curling his fingers back in. He kissed them each individually, pressing his lips to Pete’s knuckles, then his palm, and the back of his hand. 

“It’s not really about me being quiet, is it?” He asked quietly, and Tom shook his head, tears threatening to well in his eyes just at the admission.

Pete pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“I love you, Tom.” He murmured. “And I know this is hard. Probably the hardest thing we’ve ever faced, but we’ll go through it together. I’m going to be here for you, no matter what.”

Tom let his breath out in a slow, measured exhale. When he felt like he wasn’t going to burst into tears again, he pressed a sign into Pete’s chest, his thumb, index finger, and pinky extended. I love you. 

Maverick watched his new RIO from across the room, a slip of paper resting on the table below his hand. His last RIO had lasted him a matter of days—a new personal record for him. Maverick hadn’t been counting, but his CO had snapped the words in his face when Maverick had reported to him after the pilot had left the flight deck in a huff. As soon as they’d landed he’d jumped from the Tomcat like it had burned him, raging at Maverick for risking his life and being the most dangerous pilot he’d ever met. He’d made so much of a scene the flight deck crew had actually come over to check on Maverick as soon as he left. Unfortunately, their concern hadn’t been enough to save him from his CO’s anger, hot on the heels of his RIO’s outburst. 

Maverick had known Champ had a stick up his ass from day one, it really had only been a matter of time. This new RIO, however, seemed to be more laid back.

Nick Bradshaw. Callsign “Goose.”

He was in the center of the mess hall, tucked into the center of a group of pilots and RIOs. Normally, Maverick would’ve placed himself on the group's periphery, finding a seat at the end of the table and maybe offering a few words here and there if the group looked open to speaking to him, but Champ had wedged himself into the group, and he’d been seething at Maverick since the minute they’d landed on their last hop together a day ago. Rather than invite another screaming match, Maverick had decided to take a table to himself at the edge of the mess.

It gave him a good vantage point to people-watch. He’d been with this particular squadron for only a few weeks now. Champ had been his RIO for half of one of those weeks, another sticking with him for two and a half before he’d decided Maverick’s flying was too much for him. At least he hadn’t screamed at him when he’d made the decision, unlike Champ. Goose was another new addition to the unit, though it was clear he’d met most of the men before, likely running into them during other postings or deployments. He’d joined the unit a few days after Maverick had, after his previous pilot had opted for a career change to give his family life some stability. Goose didn’t look torn up about it, and he’d been flitting around the unit’s unassigned pilots for the past few weeks, filling in vacancies when RIOs got sick or helping out from the carrier. He hadn’t flown with Maverick yet, but it was clear everyone liked him.

He stabbed a blueberry with his fork and rolled it in maple syrup, left on his plate from the pancakes he’d devoured minutes earlier. The mess hall was surprisingly lively for breakfast, the aviators at the center talking eagerly over hot food and steaming coffee. Even from across the room, Maverick could see a bright grin lighting Bradshaw’s face. He cracked a joke Maverick didn’t hear, and one of the pilots rolled his eyes. Another punched him lightly in the arm, but the reactions didn’t dampen his smile.

Maybe he was corny, Maverick guessed. He didn’t mind a few bad jokes, and if Goose turned out to be the one RIO willing to put up with his flying, then Maverick certainly wouldn’t be looking for reasons to refuse him. Still, a hint of worry kerneled in Maverick’s stomach. Even when he’d told his joke, the smiles the other aviators threw at Goose were all fond. Amused sometimes, but generally relaxed and open. He couldn’t spot one person at the table ever giving the man a side-eye. There were a few that seemed relatively indifferent, but no one disliked him, which was much more than Maverick could say about himself. He was liked well enough on the ground, and the more daring members of the squadron liked him in the air, too, but there were some that took one look at him, his hot head and his flashiness and hated him on sight. Maverick couldn’t help but make enemies, and if he screwed up with Goose, he had an uncomfortable suspicion that he’d make quite a few more.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a burst of laughter from the aviators clustered at the table, a honking laugh carrying over the others. After a moment, he realized it was coming from Bradshaw himself, and he glanced down at the paper below his fingers, the official assignment that had Maverick paired with the RIO for their hop later that day.

He felt a wry smile creep onto his lips. “Huh.” He murmured to himself, listening as the honking laugh quieted and Bradshaw pressed his face into the shoulder of the man beside him. He looked down at the callsign printed on the paper. “Goose.”

-----

Bradshaw’s laugh, as it turned out, was not the reason for his callsign. Maverick found out the real reason about a week and a half later, hunched over a toilet in the bathroom attached to the locker room, losing his lunch fifteen minutes before he was scheduled to go on a hop.

The door creaked open somewhere behind him, footsteps sounding on the metal floors. 

“Hey, Mav, you in here?” Goose called, his voice echoing through the room. “We’re supposed to be doing preflight right about now.”

“Yeah,” Maverick called back, his voice gravelly from heaving. He hoped Goose didn’t notice. “Just give me a minute.”

“Hey man, you sound–” Goose had followed his voice into the bathrooms and he pushed open the stall door Maverick was hidden behind, his face contorting with worry. “You don’t look too good.”

Maverick shook his head, and the movement was enough to send nausea swimming through him. He dropped his head back down to the toilet and he could feel Goose’s eyes on him in tense anticipation, his body jerking as his stomach heaved, but he’d emptied the contents of his stomach minutes ago. There was nothing left in him now.

“I’ll be okay.” He mumbled, though he couldn’t lift his head, and when he opened his eyes to slits, the sight of the vomit in the toilet below him was nearly enough to send him gagging again. “I’ve got a bottle of Pepto in my locker. Maybe they can send Jinx up before us.” 

He lifted his head when Goose didn’t speak, and he saw a hard look on the man’s face.

“No way, Mav. You can’t fly like this.” He told him, “I’ll be right back. Wait here.”

“Goose, wait.” He croaked, fighting to lift his head but the other man was already gone, pushing his way out of the locker room. Maverick let his head fall back down to the toilet seat, and he focused on breathing deep as he waited for Goose to come back.

His whole body felt clammy, covered in sweat. He could feel his hands trembling, his arms shaking all the way up to his shoulders, his core still locked tight with tension. Vomiting had helped his nausea slightly, but the adrenaline that had raged through his body left him feeling ravaged, his whole body thrown off kilter without food in his system to pull him back towards some kind of equilibrium. Maybe Goose had been right about him not flying.

Maverick could only remember sitting out one flight in his life, when his father had booked an aero club plane to take him up as a little kid. It hadn’t been the first time he’d taken Maverick flying, but as a kid, Pete had jumped at every opportunity to go. He’d woken up in the middle of the night before sick to his stomach from something he ate and he’d spent the rest of the night in the bathroom. His mother had found him in the morning and had gently told him he’d better stay home, despite his sobbing protests. Both she and his father had promised him there would be other times, that he’d get another chance to fly with his father. Little did they know, his father wouldn’t return from his next deployment a few months later.

He forced in a deep breath, pushing the thoughts from his mind. There were already tears in his eyes, forced out when he’d gagged earlier, and he wiped them away with a trembling hand. There was no way in hell he was going to cry in front of the RIO he’d been flying with for hardly more than a week. 

“Hey, Mav?” The door creaked open again just as he was getting a handle on his breathing, Goose’s voice echoing through the empty locker room again. “Still here?”

“Still here.” He confirmed glumly, his cheek still resting on the toilet seat. If he wasn’t so sick already, he’d be disgusted, but it was cool against his clammy skin, and he found he didn’t have the energy to care. Goose had definitely made the right call.

“I told Buck you were throwing up. They’re going to have to shift the schedule around but they’re giving you the rest of the day off.” He’d made it back to Maverick’s side, and Maverick slowly lifted his head as Goose stopped in the doorway of the stall. He watched the other man crouch down, reaching out a hand to set it on his shoulder, nevermind that his shirt was damp with sweat. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Much to Maverick’s astonishment, Goose didn’t just leave Maverick to fend for himself after he’d delivered his news. Rather, he heaved Maverick upright to stand, wrapping an arm around him when he wobbled, his vision clouding with dark spots for a moment. Goose flushed the toilet and helped him back to the locker room, helping Maverick down onto one of the benches. Thankfully, he didn’t go so far as to undress him, but he told Maverick he needed to take a shower and waited with a stony expression on his face until Maverick started to comply. Goose tucked Maverick's clothes away in his locker, handed him his towel and helped Maverick to the shower, an arm out like he was worried he’d fall.

“I’m fine, man. I promise.” Maverick told him, though in reality he felt woozy and more than a little sick despite the distinct lack of anything in his stomach, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Goose.

“You look like you’re going to pass out.” Goose told him, casting him a wary glance. He backed off when Maverick tugged the towel from his waist and tossed it haphazardly onto a hook, starting the shower in front of him. The water came out blessedly cool, and after he got over the shock of it hitting his bare skin, he nearly groaned in relief. 

“I’ll be fine.” He promised, dropping his head to let the water wash over his hair. He knew Goose was still standing behind him, watching him with that wary, concerned look of his, but he didn’t care. He’d never been one for modesty even when he was younger, and the Navy had properly whipped any tendency towards it out of him.

“You don’t sound too convincing.” Goose told him. Still, Maverick could make out the sound of his boots on the tiles and when he looked back, Goose was laying back on one of the benches across from the showers, his hands folded behind his head, his eyes on the ceiling. Maverick couldn’t help but stare at him, the sound of the water slapping on the tiles the only sound in the room.

“You don’t have to stay.” Maverick told him, turning back to face the wall again in case Goose looked back over at him. “I’m sure there’s somewhere else you’d rather be than looking after my ass. You don’t have to take care of me just because we’re flying together.”

Any of the other guys would’ve left already. The most they’d do was spread the word that he wouldn’t be flying and let him know he was off the hook, then they’d worry about themselves. Champ probably would’ve cheered if he found Maverick sick to his stomach, and he certainly wouldn’t have stuck around to help him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had tried to take care of him, or had been more than the slightest bit concerned about his well being. 

“I know.” Goose promised. Maverick felt eyes on his back, and when he dared a glance over his shoulder, the RIO gave him a soft smile. “I’m right where I want to be.”

He stayed on the bench while Maverick showered, following behind him when he headed back for his locker and handing him clean clothes from his locker while he sat on the bench in front of it. Once he was dressed, Goose walked him back through the carrier halls to his bunk and pointed Maverick to it as soon as they were in the room. Protesting would be a losing battle, so he went without complaint. 

Still, Goose didn’t leave. He took Maverick’s boots and flight suit once he’d tossed them off and returned the suit to his locker, setting the boots neatly nearby so Maverick could reach them if he needed them in a hurry. He brought Maverick a plastic bag—in case, y’know, Goose had told him—a water bottle, and a little sleeve of crackers, though he couldn’t even begin to guess where he’d gotten them. 

Maverick took all the items with confusion, setting them atop the blanket as he dragged himself beneath the sheet. He watched with astonishment when Goose ducked from the room and came back with a book in hand. He still wasn't leaving.

“Why do they call you Goose?” He asked, blinking as the RIO flicked off the overhead light, plunging the room into darkness. “Where did it come from?”

Goose settled himself on the bunk across from Maverick’s, flicking on the little reading light in the bunk. When he looked towards Maverick, shrouded in darkness while the light shone on Goose’s face, there was a hint of color in his cheeks.

“It’s short for Mother Goose.” The man confessed, he gave Maverick a smile, “partly because of how I laugh, and because I like to tell stories, but I guess I have a tendency to dote on people. In flight school it was my whole thing.”

Maverick rolled over onto his side, burrowing a little deeper into his bed, but he gave Goose a little hum of acknowledgement. 

“I’ve been told I can be a little much. I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s not too much.” Maverick promised. He felt his eyes already drifting shut, Goose’s attention lulling him into a peaceful calm. “Most people don’t give a shit about me. Everyone who flies with me is gone in a month or less, and they all say I’m dangerous, that I shouldn’t have been given a license, that I shouldn’t even be in the Navy. I’m used to looking after myself.”

“Well, your flying is definitely something, but I don’t think you're dangerous.” The words made him open his eyes, and he found Goose watching him through the darkness. He met Maverick’s gaze and held it. “I’m not gonna quit on you, Mav. You don’t have to be on your own anymore.”

Maverick felt himself draw in a breath. He’d had RIOs tell him they’d stay before, only to leave once they realized they couldn’t take it, they couldn’t take him. He didn’t want Goose to be one of those. He didn’t want to deal with any more promises broken.

“Goose–”

“You don’t have to say anything, Mav.” Goose told him gently. “I’m sticking around. I mean it.”

There was a seriousness in his eyes, something that told him Goose was seeing him, actually seeing him for everything he was. Duke Mitchell’s kid, a hothead, dangerous, arrogant, a maverick, but loyal, committed, smart, good. Goose didn’t look away.

“Get some sleep, Mav. I’ll be here.”