FIC: The Archer (Iceman/Maverick, PG-13)
TITLE: The Archer
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: Top Gun
PAIRING: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell/Tom “Iceman” Kazansky
SUMMARY: “Hey, Ice. You know that story about William Tell?”
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written for dailyfics prompt #13, apple (See my full table here).
Maverick nicks an apple from the wardroom, which strictly speaking is against regs, but who gives a shit. Maverick isn’t much for rules, and it’s not the kind of transgression that will get him more than a stern look. What he did not anticipate was the stern look coming from Iceman, but that was probably stupid, since Ice notices everything, and measures everything with his internal tape measurer, making sure everything is up to code and scowling at everything that isn’t.
They aren’t flying today, which means that Ice is scowling more than usual. Maverick likes life exciting, and he bores easily, but Ice gets edgier than anyone he’s ever seen when caged. They are on day three below decks awaiting orders, and Ice is drawn bowstring tight. Maverick was doing okay at distracting him, the two of them holed up in their bunk playing cards and making out a little, but apparently Ice woke up this morning determined not to be consoled. Now he is sitting on his bunk, back braced against the wall, staring at nothing. Maverick plops down beside him, upsetting the mattress.
He tosses the apple in the air, catches it. Ice is still eyeing it, because apples are not on the approved list of Things You May Bring Into the Bed, but he hasn’t said anything about it. Maverick isn’t sure, really, why he’s hanging onto it, and then it hits him.
“You know that story about William Tell?”
One golden eyebrow inches toward Ice’s brow line. “Yeah. So?”
“Like . . . they make him shoot the apple off some kid’s head, with a bow an arrow.”
“I said I knew the story,” Ice says. “The kid was his son, and if he’d missed the apple, they both would have been put to death.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit,” Maverick says. “The law was fucked up in those days.”
Ice just looks at him a long moment, that superior, slightly bemused expression he gets sometimes, like he can’t believe Maverick is in the same program he is, like he can’t believe Maverick is the same species he is. Finally he laughs.
“It’s not real, Mitchell, Jesus. It’s a fairytale.”
“Huh?”
“The William Tell story. It’s made up.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
Ice just shakes his head, and he’s almost smiling. “No, Mitchell. I’m not fucking with you.”
Maverick studies the angles of Ice’s face. “Do you ever feel like that?”
Ice’s eyes slide on him, and he looks almost interested.
“Like which?” he asks. “William Tell, or the boy?”
“The boy.”
“No.”
Maverick sighs. “I do. All the time.”
Ice is looking at him with profound concentration, and for a moment, Maverick is sure he is concocting a devastating barb to sink into Maverick’s ego. But Ice doesn’t let his wit fly; instead, he wets his lips, and says, soft, “Mostly, I feel like Tell.”