The Next Step

Title: The Next Step
Rating: NC-17.
Fandom: Top Gun
Pairing: Maverick/Iceman
Disclaimer: Not mine, don’t sue. All you’ll get is a collection of my trashy fanfic and a well-thumbed copy of LotR anyway.
Notes: Takes place after the movie, assuming that both Maverick and Ice take teaching posts with Top Gun. Takes great liberties with Navy procedure, I don’t doubt, and I'm intentionally using a more modern timeframe than the movie, so please don't try to call me on anachronisms!

***

"Right now you arrogant sons of bitches are thinking you're the best of the best. Out there that may well be, but around here… Well, me ime introduce your flight instructors, Lieutenant Commanders Tom Kazansky: callsign Iceman, and Pete Mitchell: callsign Maverick."

Maverick and Ice stepped forward from where they'd been standing beside the blackboard; they stepped up beside Commander Metcalf - Viper - with their hands tucked neatly behind their backs and their new insignia and name badges pinned to their new blue flight suits. They'd been promoted together, after Ice had taken up the offer of a teaching place at Top Gun, and Maverick's request to be stationed there had been approved. Now they were instructors, meeting their very first class.

Viper introduced the new guys to Jester and Charlie; Maverick managed to keep himself from winking at his girl, Charlie, Charlotte Blackwood, the civilian expert assigned to the Top Gun program. It was a quick intro, then the newbies filed out behind the hangar boss to get a look at their planes, Charlie wandered off in the direction of heb, ab, and Viper motioned for the rest of them, oh-so-many of them, to follow him.

Viper took a seat at his desk, up in his office. Jester lounged against the bookcase at the side of the room like he practically belonged there, and Maverick and Ice just hung back by the door like a collective third wheel. Viper was handing out cigars for some reason, but it turned out neither of the two new instructors were smokers, so the boss just shrugged and snapped the box shut.

“Blue,” Viper said. Maverick frowned. He glanced at Ice; obviously he had no more idea what was going on than Maverick did, because there was an uncharacteristic if admittedly barely noticeable frown on his face.

Jester nodded. “BJ,” he said, taking a puff on his cigar.

“Maverick?” Viper said, turning his way, rolling the cigar between his thumb and middle finger, leaning on his desk with this oddly expectant look on his face.

“Sir?” Maverick asked. Ice looked pleased that Viper hadn’t asked him first.

“The trophy. Who’s going to take it? I’ve got Blue, Jester’s taking BJ. Who’s your bet?” He dug around in his pants pocket for a second then smoothed a twenty-dollar bill out on his desktop. “Twenty dollars in and the pot’s yours if your man comes in Top Gun. So, who’s your vote?”

“Tex Kellerman,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. He’d read the guy’s file. He kinda reminded him of himself.

“Ice?”

Oh, now Ice didn’t look so smug. He shrugged. “I don’t seem to have much choice left, Sir,” he said, “but I’ll take Trapper.”

Viper nodded. “Have a seat, boys.”

So they took a seat, side by side in front of Viper’s desk. They sat there while their CO and his XO puffed on their cigars and made small talk about aerial manoeuvres, but all the time Maverick’s mind was turning. That bet unsettled him, as he stared at his own twenty sitting there on the pile with the others. He wondered who’d bet on him last time, who’d bet on Ice, who’d bought himself a beer or two when Iceman and Slider came in first. He wondered who’d lost out when Goose died.

Maybe it was one of them. Maybe one of the men right there at that desk had lost twenty bucks the day Goose Bradshaw didn’t come home from exercises. Maybe one of the guys, his CO, his XO, had cursed that day because he’d known Maverick losing Goose was as good as him losing the bet. Christ, that was morbid. Completely unlikely, but Christ, he couldn’t help himself. And suddenly he felt like all that smoke in Viper’s office was suffocating him.

It seemed an eternity until he was dismissed, and he left the office stinking of smoke and feeling sick to his stomach. He could’ve hit something, or some*one*, so he decided to hit the base gym instead. Punching the hell out of a stuffed vinyl bag wasn’t going to make it all go awayt itt it’d be a start.

---

Maverick was in the faculty shower room in his tighty-whiteys, leaning against the sink. He’d spent an hour and a half in the gym, Ice at the other side of the room rowing incessantly on that damned machine while he punched ‘til his wrists and his knuckles ached, and hit the running machine ‘til his legs felt like jelly. When he’d worked himself almost to the point of collapse, he decided it was time for a shower.

But unfortunately it hadn’t been enough, because he was still seeing Goose in his head and how could he function that way? He knew Charlie was there at her place and she’d be waiting for him; she’d hold him and stroke away the tears he almost didn’t know he’d cried. She’d love him. He loved her, he thought, and she’d love him, but right then that wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want her sympathy, or her tenderness. He wanted something else. He needed something else.

He grabbed his shampoo, tugged off his underwear and headed into the showers. It was the mild, baby stuff he’d used and been teased for ever since he’d found out his eyes reacted badly to the regular kind, and he squeezed some out onto his hands as he stepped under the spray. He ran his left hand over his hardening cock and heavy balls, then he leant against the wall, spread his legs and brought his right hand to the cleft of his ass.

He just ran it between his cheeks at first, but then, slowly, with the tip of his index finger, he started to circle his entrance. His cock twitched and his balls tightened as he pressed his slippery fingers in – two at once – and it made him gasp hoarsely. He had only a few moments there, pressing his fingers in and out and believing he was alone. After that, Ice spoke.

“Maverick,” he said, but Maverick didn’t turn. He just slipped the fingers from his ass and used that arm to lean more heavily against the wall. He rested his forehead against the cool tiles, and felt vaguely sick, vaguely embarrassed. But really, he was too numb to care.

“Maverick,” Ice said again, louder, closer, lower. His footsteps were intentionally loud against the wet shower room floor, like he was giving him the time to back away. Maverick pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all the stupid times, of all the guys, of course it had to be Ice.

So he didn’t reply at first; instead he moved again, thinking, not thinking. Fuck it, why not; he ran one hand over his ass, one finger snaking between his cheeks before he leaned back against the wall. He spread his legs further, then he nodded. Something told him Ice wouldn’t need much further invitation, and obviously he didn’t.

He felt Ice’s chest push against his back, hot and slick under the pouring water. Ice reached out and braced himself with his left hand against the wall and Maverick watched that hand, transfixed. He felt Ice’s cock up against the small of his back before he moved it further down; the wide, blunt head pressed in between his cheeks, against his entrance, and then Ice thrust in, hard.

Maverick grunted, full, and so did Ice. Ice’s other hand found the wall and he leant down harder, pushed in deeper… Maverick thrust back against him, still pressed to the wall and tense. He squeezed his eyes shut; he was seeing stars even before hit hit the spot inside him that made him mewl like a day-old kitten. God, Ice was big, and brutal, his cock slamming into his ass and his dog-tags hitting his back as Maverick’s collided with the wall. It hurt like a son of a bitch but it was so fucking *good*… He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and listened to Ice cry out as he came, the sound oddly muted by the hiss of the showers.

He pulled out, breathing heavily, and didn’t say a word as he left Maverick alone.

It didn’t take long, fisting his own cock as he sank to his knees. He came, and watched his semen wash away as he felt Ice’s come trickling from between his legs. That washed away, too. He saw to that.

He turned off the shower. He dried himself and dressed and left, settling down gingerly astride his motorcycle. He sped away, aching. It had been brutal, the fucking, the sex, and he wasn’t quite sure if it had gone down the right way, but the image of Goose was gone.

He had a feeling it had been just what he’d needed, even if he now felt moixedixed up than ever.

***


Marshall ‘Tex’ Kellerman was a huge hulk of a man who looked more like a Marine lieutenant than a Navy pilot. He was pushing 6’7”, was built not unlike a brick shithouse, and Maverick – correctly – thought he’d probably have a tough time even fitting into the cockpit of an F-14. But Christ, what the guy could do once he got there… He was starting to make Top Gun look like a walk in the park.

Viper seemed impressed. Maverick just congratulated himself on a bet well placed and wondered who the guy had had to blow to get a flight suit in that size.

He wasn’t worried; he was still the best, even if his name wasn’t on the blessed Top Gun plaque. Ice’s was, and he was better than Ice, so that meant…

Goddamnit. Speaking of Ice, there he was, just standing there at the other end of the classroom, staring at him. Maverick couldn’t read that infuriating poker face but he had a feeling that he wasn’t the only one thinking about the names on that plaque. Ice still thought he was the best, and annoyingly he had the name plaque and the shiny silver trophy to prove it. Still, Maverick knew now wasn’t the best time to try to prove him wrong.

Besides, it wasn’t as if they were enemies. They weren’t exactly friends, but no, they weren’t enemies. They were… co-workers.

“We’ve got a mission to fly,” Ice said suddenly, and Maverick realised that far from the trophy, Top Gun, who was the best of the best, he’d been waiting for the Iceman to say something about the previous night in the showers. He wasn’t sure what it meant that he hadn’t said a word about it.

Maverick checked his watch and then nodded. They left the room together, in silence.

---

It was their first time in the air as a real team, their F-5’s and Jester’s A4 screaming through the bright blue Californian sky, high over the Mojave Desert. Somewhere out there were Tex and his rear, a guy named Hawk who Maverick had known back in flight school, and Viper’s pet crew, Blue Kowalski (Christ but that was close to Kazansky) and ‘Coop’ Cooper. Confident though he was, Maverick had to admit this looked pretty damn tough.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The radar blipped.

“Two bogeys on our six,” Maverick barked into his radio, knowing it was Tex and Blue.

The radio crackled. “I seem them,” said Ice. “Coming in high and right.”

So Jester gave the order. “Break formation.”

They broke.

It was a hard-ass dogfight, even with the numbers on their side. Fifteen minutes in, Tex got a missile lock on Jester, putting him out of the game and evening things out for the student body. So now it was just two on two, Maverick and Ice, Tex and Blue.

It turned out the instructors played together a little more effectively than the students; with a little quick thinking and with Ice bizarrely following Maverick into a diving stunt that was obviously a glaring omission from the textbook, the next thing that the ‘best of the best’ knew was Maverick and the Iceman had them in a firm missile lock. Game Over. Score one for the Top Gun grads.

They didn’t talk much afterwards. In fact, they didn’t talk at all, they just hit the showers. Maverick glanced at him; he didn’t have to say a word. Ice moved in behind him, his cock already hard. They left separately, maybe fifteen minutes later.

***

***

A week and a half of fucking in the showers and then suddenly, nothing. It wasn’t even as if Ice was avoiding him because they were just as… well, just as whatever they were with each other when they weren’t flying or screwing. Maverick was at a loss, and it wasn’t pleasant. And it wasn’t like he could just ask Ice what was going on, because outside of the shower room, they’d never admitted what they did in there. Maverick was pretty sure they never would.

So really, he had no choice; he settled back down for week three and tried to put it out of his mind. He thought he did a pretty good job, too, not staring at Ice in the classrooms or the corridors, not waiting around in the showers just in case he happened to turn up. And he had the competition to focus on, because Tex and Hawk were still ahead even if Blue and Coop had managed to creep up and close the gap a few points. So what if it was only twenty bucks? He liked to win.

Still, it seemed like there was something missing. He saw Charlie a couple of nights and took her out at the weekend but that didn’t seem to help. She was nice and he liked her but he couldn’t believe he was basing a whole relationship on ‘nice’. Strange, considering he’d thought he d hed her. Now he just wasn’t sure, like he wasn’t sure about anything but flying.

So he concentrated on the flying. It was easier in the air because up there in his F-5 he knew exactly what to do. It was like his mind turned off and he just went by instinct – he didn’t have to think about Goose or Goose’s death, just like he didn’t have to think about his illicit shower room liaisons – and lack thereof – with Ice. Flying was simple.

But then Friday came around. Maverick planned a night in front of the TV with a six-pack of Bud followed by a day of bumming around the house and a day of screwing Charlie through her mattress. He thought maybe then he’d feel better, but he didn’t get a chance to find out. After a quick and unexpected meeting with Viper about how he was giving them a week’s leave after the current class graduated, his old buddy Hawk headed him off in the parking lot.

“Hey, Mav,” he called, jogging over, still in his flight suit and carrying his helmet. “Come have a beer with us tonight in the O Club, ‘kay? We haven’t seen you in there since we got here.” He gestured over at Tex and a couple of the other flight crews who were having a loud conversation about some football game he must have missed. He missed that, rowdy conversations about sports, about whatever, drinking with the boys, actually y’know, having *fun*. He didn’t need a second invitation.

“Sure, Hawk,” he said, straddling his bike and kick-starting it to life. “I’ll see you in there.”

---

The Officers’ Club was pretty much heaving when he walked in at nine, and it didn’t take a genius to spot the Top Gun contingent. The sixteen of them – all eight flight crews – were spread between two tables they’d pushed together in the corner, and, obviously, the bar. Maverick walked over and they greeted him with an already drunken roar.

He settled down on the stool they freed up for him between Hawk and Cooper. He ordered a beer and took a sip as Hawk was telling him they were glad he’d turned up, and then he turned. He was just trying to make out what was showing on the wall-mounted TV across the room, but he found himself staring straight at Ice.

“What’re you doing here, Kazansky?” he called down the bar, hoping it didn’t look like he was staring at Ice in his whites. Sure, all the Navy guys in the place were in their spiffy white uniforms, but Ice’s was crisp, immaculate.

“Students asked me,” Ice yelled back, without really seeming to yell. Maverick shrugged and held up his beer bottle for a second with a silent ‘cheers’; Ice did the same, almost smirking. Then Maverick turned back to Hawk, back to the conversation, and away from Ice’s distracting gaze.

The alcohol flowed plentifully and Maverick was glad for the guys’ sakes that it was a Friday night. He lived off base now so he’d have to ride his crotch-rocket home, but the others were going at it like there was no tomorrow. He didn’t envy them their inevitable hangovers.

Still, he didn’t need alcohol to have a good time, and despite a surreptitious glance toward the end of the bar every so often – Ice was with a girl and Maverick was damned if he’d let that get to him – he was actually enjoying himself. He was one of those oddities who strangely liked being around drunk, rowdy sailors. Not that any of them were exactly sailors per se, but they were Navy so it kind of counted.

It was somewhere around 11:30 that someone – probably BJ Kennedy as he was further gone that all the rest – ordered a round of Drambuies and haem sem set alight in some stupid attempt at macho showmanship. They spread them out down the bar and not to be outdone Maverick did his first, followed by Cooper who managed to singe his eyelashes. Maverick just smirked as Hawk set his hair on fire and Tex put him out with his beer. Suddenly Hawk’s whites weren’t quite so white.

Ice did his last, catching Maverick’s eye as he did so. He watched him as he downed the shot then slammed the glass down on the bar with a mutter of ‘fratboys’ at the charred, beered Hawk and his snickering entourage. Maverick noticed that the girl was gone, and Ice gave him this *look* while the others were occupied that made his stomach flutter and his cock twitch. Then the Iceman upped and disappeared into the john.

Maverick wasn’t sure, but he thought he knew that look and he had to find out if he was right. He left the bar with a quick mutter that that went as unnoticed as his departure and headed for the bathrooms.

He’d always had impeccable timing; he walked in as the last other guy walked out, after Ice had finished but before he’d got himself tucked back in. Ice glanced up, checking it was him, and then turned to him, cock in hand. Then, stroking himself, he headed for the cubicle furthest away from the door. Maverick followed.

Ice locked the door. They just looked at each other for a second, almost nervously, then Maverick was up against the wall and Ice’s hands were *everywhere*. They next thing he knew his pants were around his knees and they were both hard, pressing against each other, gasping out loud. He felt dizzy as Ice’s cock and Ice’s hand touched his and his hips jerked completely out of his control. Ice smiled, his eyes dark. He leant in closer ‘til Maverick could feel his jaw brush against his neck, and his eyes drifted shut.

Ice took them both into his hands and he jerked, slowly at first and making Maverick twitch with it, then harder, faster. Soon Maverick was stifling moans, biting down on his jacketed arm so he wouldn’t cry out. God, this was an indiscreet place to be screwing around, but mostly he didn’t care. He’d take a fucking court marshal ten times over if only Ice would keep touching him like that. Christ, he was so close.

He came with a jerk and a muffled cry, and Ice wasn’t far behind. He stepped back and left Maverick leaning against the wall as they both zipped up their pants. Maverick smoothed down his jacket and his hair and eyed the door while Ice wiped his hands. Still a little unsteady, still tingling, Maverick unlocked the door and stepped into the doorway. His head was spinning. He shouldn’t have moved so fast but suddenly that court marshal wasn’t looking so appealing.

The room was empty despite the din outside. He made to leave before someone else came in but Ice caught his arm and pulled him back. He wanted to ask what the hell he thought he was doing but then their lips met and the thought vanished completely.

It wasn’t a soft kiss; it was all tongues and teeth, Ice’s fingers winding almost painfully in Maverick’s short hair and Maverick’s eyes closed as he moaned into Ice’s mouth. But it was too short. Maverick still wanted more when Ice pulled back and walked straight out. He left him there, practically panting up against the wall with no idea what had just hit him.

He licked his lips. His mouth tasted of fire. His shirt smelled of Ice’s cologne. This was all one big fucking mess.

***