FIC: Tethered (Top Gun, Iceman/Maverick, PG)
TITLE: Tethered
RATING: PG
FANDOM: Top Gun
PAIRING: Iceman/Maverick
SUMMARY: Ice was having trouble sleeping for the first time in a long time.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for ticketsonmyself’s picture prompt, and for slashthedrabble challenge #180: restraint, via challenge #290: Past Prompts Revisited.
There was no tethering him. The world had tried, of course-his mother’s phone calls, girls with their soft, small hands circling his wrists-but the truth was there was nothing on earth that was so precious as flying away from it.
Ice was having trouble sleeping for the first time in a long time. He remembered, many years ago, when he had first left the simulators to go up, laying awake at night dreaming of the little F-14 Tomcat, the vibration of riding her running through his whole body, the kick of her thrust like a supersonic orgasm. The anticipation was worth more to his body than sleep. But now he flew every day; it was still the best part of his life but it was as reliable as the clocks hitting oh-eight hundred. Even though he was on leave, he knew this was not the problem; planes had not kept him awake in a long time.
Ice lay awake, his skin sticky in the San Diego heat, tickled by the night breeze drifting in the window. He shouldn’t have taken Mitchell up on his offer, was the problem. He had no business being back at Top Gun; he had no business being anywhere near Pete Mitchell. This wasn’t longing keeping him awake; it was regret.
Still. He looked over at the Mitchell’s face, slack with sleep-Ice liked him better that way; after all these years, he liked him best when his fucking mouth was shut-and he felt something, but it was not regret. Ice traced the line of Mitchell’s jaw, became mesmerized by the sight of him, unguarded, bare.
Ice closed his eyes. He felt the gentle breeze on his bare flesh, and he tried for sleep with military resolve. Operation Sleep: commencing oh-three hundred hours. He could not be kept from this; he operated with ice-cold precision and unmatched determination, and he would do this.
Beside him, Mitchell made a sleep noise, and shifted. Mitchell’s hand moved so it was pressing against Ice’s side. Ice swallowed; his breath stuttered. He opened his eyes, the mission forgotten. Mitchell was cast blue in the dim light, and he was almost smiling. He was lovely.
Ice squeezed his eyes shut, and drove himself back into his pillow. He brushed Mitchell’s hand away. He had an objective; there was a job to do. And there was no tethering him.