┌───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────┐
FOUR
words left unsaid
└───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────┘

☆.｡.:*　　.｡.:*☆

ANOTHER day of training with Maverick, another day of disappointment. The egos of all the aviators have been squashed a few times more, although some pilots needed some much-deserved humbling. Celeste's boots pound along the tarmac in step with Luisa's, their shadows marching across the ground. Helmets balanced on their hips, they have been exchanging their frustrations in training so far. They are mid-way through Luisa's story on how she almost crashed into Maverick out of nerves, when right on cue they hear their commander's voice travel across the tarmac.

"Cosmo! A moment, please," Maverick suddenly announces, amidst the humming of jet engines getting ready. The sun is glinting off his shades as he walks towards her, and she stands to attention, but with an uneasy air as she looks him up and down. What does he want now? Celeste raises her chin a little higher as he arrives in front of her.

"Sir," she greets him.

"We're going to do some more training. I want you up in the air as soon as possible."

"Alright, but Bullseye's not ready right now—"

"I know. That's why you'll be flying with Hangman."

Hangman?! Celeste's stomach hardens like lead, dropping into her boots with the agony of the concept. He could have picked anyone else, literally anyone else. Next to her, Luisa is trying her hardest not to smile at the unfortunate situation, whilst also between Maverick and her friend with pity.

"But– but sir..." she begins to protest, "With all due respect, I fly best when I'm with my brother. We understand each other, and we work well together."

"I know," Maverick shrugs, since he knows all too well. "But this mission is different. I want to see how you both work with others, should the situation come up. Bullseye will be flying with Tintin today as well, so it all evens out. The parings between pilot and WSO have to be perfect."

"Alright, but... Hangman?"

Her commander chuckles then; even with her best efforts, Celeste just can't mask the distaste she has for that pilot. "If it's any consolation, Rooster is your wingman," Maverick adds. "Now, you'd better get ready to be up in the air."

Only when he walks away does she drag out the longest sigh, squeezing her eyes shut. This is the last thing she wanted. She understands the idea of trying out other pilots, but the idea of working well with Hangman is too foreign of an idea to work. He just has zero consideration of wingmen or anyone on his team. It's all about him. And Quincy... she gets him, and vice versa. Up there in the air, they co-operate like clockwork, know each other's instincts inside out. They hearts even pump the same blood through them.

As for Rooster, she doesn't know whether it's better or worse having him as her wingman.

Celeste feels a hand squeeze her shoulder, Luisa's voice soon following as she says, "Good luck up there... if it isn't Maverick who kills you first, it'll be Hangman driving you insane."

"Maybe I'll just eject to save myself."

Luisa laughs, squinting into the sun behind Celeste's head. "But at least you'll have Rooster."

"Yeah... I guess."

There's a twinkle in the girl's eye then, as she circles around to be half-cast in the shadow of the building behind them. "I've been thinking..." Luisa starts off, before pausing as she glares over with nostalgia. "All five of us are here, you know, and I don't think we have properly hung out in years. Wouldn't it be nice to meet up again? Maybe at the Hard Deck tonight, if we're all free. We could catch up, have a couple of drinks, wind down if Maverick's been working us too hard... what do you say?"

Celeste considers this, remembering the fonder days of innocence when they would all hang out together. They practically grew up on the tarmac of an airfield. Between naval bases, these were a group of kids who understood each other; lives often controlled by the service of their parents, influencing every particle of their childhoods. It would be nice to meet outside of the other people on the mission, who have something else more sacred in common.

"Count me in," she finally says with a decisive nod.

"Great!" Luisa lights up, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm sure Quincy will be up for it, and I'll ask Bradley later... oh wait, there's Ryan! Hey, Ryan!"

The man stops in his tracks, searching around for the voice until he finds it. One hand holding his helmet by its straps, Ryan cups the other over his eyes to mask the searing sunlight from them. "Yeah?" he calls.

"We were thinking of having a little childhood reunion, just the five us tonight at the Hard Deck. You coming?"

"I can't, I'm visiting my dad once I get out of here."

"Really?" Celeste says, trying not to sound too surprised. Ryan is usually so absorbed in his work, he barely takes the time to visit his family. She and Quincy live on the other side of the country, and yet it sometimes feels like they talk to the Kazanskys more than the oldest son himself.

"Yeah, I figured I should drop by before things get too busy..." Ryan shrugs, his gaze dropping down to the ground as his voice trails off.

"Alright, well what about tomorrow night?"

"Sure, why not?"

"That's another one in the bag then," Luisa triumphantly pumps her fist in the air.

     After leaving to find the designated F-18, Celeste's steps are heavy along the tarmac as she dreads going up in the air more than ever. The sun is starting its journey west, drinking away the vividness of the clear blue sky. She watches her own shadow grow and shrink against the ground for a while. When she gets to the jet, Hangman is already there waiting for her; the cocky smile he's wearing only grows, laced with well-calculated charm.

     "So, you're flying back-seat for me, are you?" Hangman walks over to her.

     "Looks like it," Celeste mutters.

     "Well, the pleasure's all mine, darlin'... as long as you just let me do what I have to."

     She exhales sharply, avoiding his eye contact. Hangman is one of the pilots who either never or rarely flies with a back-seater, unlike Quincy and Luisa, or Payback. And sometimes she wonders if he thinks that gives him the right to feel more important — that he doesn't need people like Bob, Fanboy or Tintin to help him up in the air. Celeste will simply have to grit her teeth and get through it... but what she won't let him do is belittle her role.

     "Then let me do my job," Celeste returns, "and we'll be fine."

     I didn't ask to be flying with you, she wants to add, so we're even.

     "Everything okay over here?"

     Bradley's voice is cautious behind them, his face sharpened with wariness. Celeste has no idea how long he's been standing there, but his face seems hardened almost with... jealousy? Hangman just straightens his back, plays it off, while she turns her attention to checking the plane. Her skin crackles with humiliation and irritation as the arrogant pilot continues to get on their last nerve.

     "Everything's wonderful, Rooster. Isn't it great we're all working as a team?"

"Yeah... it is," Bradley has to strain to say it. Then like Celeste, he gets to the silent treatment until he absolutely needs to interact with Hangman. That's one thing the both of them have always had in common... the stone cold silence they can serve is deafening. She can only share an equally disgruntled look with Bradley as she fastens her helmet; deep indigo with COSMO etched onto the front, along with small stars dotted around in a pattern.

"Ladies first," Hangman nods toward the plane.

This is going to be great, she just thinks with a sigh, getting into the back seat.

Once they're up in the air, Cosmo still can't unwind the uncomfortable knot in her stomach with Hangman in the cockpit. It feels so wrong. Not that she doubts his abilities — as much as she hates to admit it, he probably is the best. But he simply cannot work with anyone. Rooster, meanwhile, is on high alert. He seems fixated on scanning the air for any sign of Maverick, wordless between essential communication between the two jets.

     "Nothing on radar yet," Cosmo says after a while, practically on the edge of her seat waiting for him.

Hangman, however, has other priorities up front. After about five minutes of watching Rooster tensely search the skies for their commander, he asks, "Say, Rooster... mind if I ask you a personal question?"

     "Would it matter if I did?" their wingman replies tiredly over comms.

     "So what's the story with you and Maverick? Seems like he's got you pretty rattled."

Cosmo rolls her eyes in the back, but even she has to admit she's curious. There is so evidently something between Bradley and Maverick that's making things so goddamn tense.

"It's none of your business," Rooster curtly replies. "Now, where the hell is he?"

"Been here the whole time."

Cosmo spots Maverick at the same time he speaks up, but there's no time to give warning — cruising just beneath Rooster's plane, he casually passes over the top so he is inverted over him. The two men stare up and down at each other from their canopies, as if to size each other up.

"Holy shit..." Hangman watches, for even he is perplexed by the whole thing.

"What the hell?" Cosmo whispers under her breath. Maverick isn't making any moves to attack, and nor is Rooster. They're just staring each other down through the glass of their canopies.

"Do you see me now?" Maverick says. "Come on, let's get this over with."

"Fight's on!" Rooster growls.

Without warning, the two F-18s suddenly begin to plunge hard, locking into a rolling scissors manoeuvre as they plummet. It's an insane manoeuvre to carry, one that completely throws Cosmo and her front-seater off guard. And the way they're soaring towards the hard deck is damn near suicidal.

"What is with these two?" Hangman tilts the jet slightly, so the pair of them can see the spectacle better. "Cosmo, you have any idea what this is about?"

"None at all..." she just watches in disbelief, leaned over with her hand pressed to the glass. What really stirs her is the aggravated comments the two pilots are firing at each other over comms, even while struggling against the Gs they're pulling:

     "Alright, you put us here," says Maverick, "how you gonna get yourself out?"

     "You can bail out any time!"

     "How low you wanna go, Rooster?"

     "I can go as low as you, sir, and that's saying something!"

     "Rooster, this is insane, pull up!" Cosmo tries to warn him over comms. But the two pilots keep plummeting downwards further and further, the brown of the earth rising to meet them quicker than ever. Her breath lodges itself in her throat in a suffocating lump, for a moment leaving her to wonder if they really are that stupid to go out like this — she would hate to believe it, but this is a recipe for disaster.

     "What's past is past... for both of us!" Maverick strains against the Gs.

     "You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?" Rooster snaps back.

     She cannot believe what she is hearing. The contempt seeps through the comms and infects the air, leaving a foul taste in Cosmo's mouth. There is so much unexplained, so much left in the dark — more importantly there is so much she has missed. Shouldn't she know what's going on with Rooster and Maverick, like Hangman said? Or do they just not talk about these things anymore? And if so, since when did she lose sight of that so much?

     Right now, though, she can't worry about that. There's instead the blinding truth that Maverick and Rooster could hit the hard deck any minute now, and it's over something stupid... so stupid.

     "Hard deck's 5,000 feet, fellas," Hangman pipes up over comms, sounding concerned himself. "You are running out of room!"

     "What are you doing? Pull up!" Cosmo exclaims more urgently this time.

     But they won't listen.

     "Rooster, your strategy is about to run us into the ground... what you gonna do?" Maverick challenges him.

     "Rooster!" the WSO calls from above, breath hitched as she watches them continue to plunge downwards. Surely they can't be more than a thousand feet above ground now, and that is ballsy territory. Just when she thinks she is going to witness them burn in, Rooster and Maverick pull up last minute, levelling out. The former has the advantage, in the offensive position as he trails behind his commander. It would be a perfect opportunity to get a kill — Cosmo sits forward in her seat, begging him to seize the chance.

     "There, you got it," Maverick encourages him, "don't think, just do."

     "Come on, Rooster, you got him! Drop down and take the shot!" Hangman also eggs on his wingman, in a finer moment of camaraderie.

     But Rooster lingers cautiously behind, giving the excuse that, "It's too low."

     "No, it's not, just give it a chance!" Cosmo tries to persuade him.

     "Too late, you had your chance," Maverick interjects. With effortless ease, he slows down his plane so he hovers over Rooster for a moment, before falling back behind so now he's in the offensive. It is only a few seconds later that he targets his student, the sound of tone filling up his cockpit. "That's a kill. Knock it off."

     "Damn it!" Rooster curses.

     "Same old Rooster..." Hangman shakes his head smugly at the front.

     All Cosmo can do is stare down from the back window at her wingman, simmering with disbelief... in truth, she's pissed. It was one thing if Rooster and Maverick had some secret feud she didn't know about. Even if they were best friends, she could handle him not telling her about that. But if he was careless enough to let it get in the way of their mission? That is a step too far over the line for her. There is too much at stake, too much to be sacrificed in this mission.

     "Go see Hondo about your push-ups..." Maverick teases gently, although his voice is weary with regret.

     Back on the tarmac, Celeste still has a bone to pick with her wingman. The sun is setting over the other jets parked there as she storms across in her uniform. Hondo is still stood by Bradley, who's straining against push-up after push-up. But unlike other times, Hondo isn't playfully barking orders at him — instead he's pitiful, watching and telling him over and over that he can stop now, that he's well over 200. Bradley just won't listen. Even as he seems to be in agony, there is perhaps little pain that's worse than whatever eats him up inside.

"Alright, that's enough," Hondo tries to get him to stop. "Rooster, that's enough, man..."

     When Celeste reaches him, Hondo has given up with a small shrug. "See if you can talk him out of it," he murmurs, walking away slowly with no other options. She folds her arms across her chest and just stands there for a moment, watching Bradley go up and down. His limbs are practically trembling — whether it's from exhaustion and strain, or contained hostility towards Maverick, she can't tell anymore. Perhaps an unhealthy combination of both.

     "Bradley, stop..." Celeste demands calmly. When he keeps going, her patience withers away. "God damn it, Bradley, cut it out!"

     He can't take anymore. His arms give way and he collapses onto them, trying to catch his breath. Bradley shifts on his sore muscles to sit upwards, face flushed and beaded with perspiration as he props his elbows on his knees. In front of him, Celeste crouches down and glares daggers at him — he can't even find the strength to look at her.

"That was some desperate shit you pulled today... what the hell was that?"

"Don't worry about it..." Bradley murmurs, staring at his feet.

"Don't worry about it? Of course I'm worried about it!" Celeste seethes, only slightly raising her voice, but every word just as biting and betrayed. It all comes tumbling out and she can't stop it. "You're supposed to be one of the dependable ones, the kind you can rely on in a mission. The ones you can count on instead of Hangman, or Houdini back in my squadron. But that stunt you pulled today was out of pocket, and I– I mean... practically suicidal! What if you'd had a WSO with you? What if I'd been in the back seat, and you'd put me at risk—"

"You know I'd never do that to you," Bradley suddenly snaps; not out of spite, but almost offended that she would even suggest such a thing. It is the first time he has made eye contact with Celeste since she walked over, and the intensity almost floors her. Physically forcing her eyes away from his for a moment, she lowers herself to sit cross-legged in front of him. She quietly searches in the silence for a way to get through to Bradley. It used to feel so easy with him — why is it so forced now? Such a task to reach out and connect?

"Look, as your friend... I just feel like there's something you're not telling me. Things feels so tense between you and Maverick all the time. So, you know, as your colleague too, if it's going to get in the way of this mission, I think I at least have the right to know what's going on."

Bradley sighs, staring with a sobered look into the distance. "He pulled my papers."

"... What?"

"He pulled my application from the naval academy. Set me back four years."

Celeste furrows her brows, trying to process this new information in whatever way she can. She has so many questions, all of them melding into one simple one for the moment: "But... why?" she asks him quietly.

"I don't know," Bradley murmurs, and she can tell that's possibly the worst part of it all.

Placing her palms flat on the tarmac behind her, Celeste leans back for a moment as she thinks. What reason would Maverick have to pull Bradley's papers? Surely it couldn't be out of malice; that man loved him like a son, even if he couldn't see it himself. She sits with this as the roar of jet engines in the distance attempts to drown her thoughts out. But then her heart sinks slightly in her chest, another epiphany occurring to her.

"... Bradley, that was years ago," she says quietly. "How come you never told me?"

He has no answer for this one. Frankly, neither does she. All this time and she never knew. It explained a lot — why Bradley was a little late to the naval academy like she was, but Celeste had never thought to ask why. Then again, in return, he had never told her either. She removes her hands from the tarmac, her palms getting too hot now as she dusts them off. Her back curls over as she leans forward and takes her turn to stare at the ground. Maybe they really have drifted apart. They used to know everything about each other, from how they took their drinks to their deepest, darkest fears; now when it comes down to a pretty big part of Bradley's life, she has been completely oblivious. Should she have known? Or guessed? Or asked?

But most of all, she squirms under the way it suddenly turns a mirror on her own life — Celeste has heard this story before. A few details swapped here and there, sure, but she has lived through it before. Indeed, she knows exactly how Bradley feels, more than she would like to... and she too has been keeping that secret for far too long.

She can't sit here dwelling on it. "I should probably go," she announces, tinged with instant regret at leaving him.

But Bradley doesn't mind. With a sigh, he just shrugs and says, "Yeah. Me too."

Celeste offers him a hand to get up, and he takes it, bringing him up to his feet. The space between them seems to condense for a moment, squashing all of the air out with it. She clears her throat and tries to change the subject. "So, uh, Luisa's thinking we should all get together tomorrow at the Hard Deck," she tries to sound casual. "You know, just the five of us, like old times... what do you think?"

"Old times... sounds good," Bradley nods. As he's looking at her, he seems to lose track of what he was searching for in her face, leaving Celeste frozen beneath the warmth of his gaze. Then he blinks, appears to re-focus his mind and curtly replies, "Alright, well, I'll... see you then?"

"Yeah, see you."

The two split away promptly, parting to opposite ends of the tarmac; each of them scolding themselves for every word left unsaid.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The drive back to his childhood home should be a comfort for Ryan, but instead it's... complicated.

     Not that he didn't have a great childhood. On the contrary, he had it better than most kids he knew — a nice, loving family, growing up in a big house with plenty of grass to run around on. He had the good fortune of having his own bedroom, meaning privacy from his unruly brother and sister when he wanted it. Then there were the trips down to the beach every weekend, or visiting his dad at naval bases. He got lucky; Ryan knows that.

And yet, it's complicated.

He watches the street become familiar as it materialises before him and in his rear view mirror. The window is open, air rushing in laced with the salt of the coastal sea air. Ryan inhales lungfuls of it and lets it sink into his pores — he has to admit, it's healing just breathing in this place. Though his view is tinted like rust by his shades, he recognises the house instantly when his car approaches it along the street. Gleaming white walls, giant arched doorways, the palm trees swaying softly with the breeze, the balcony which he knows leads to his father's office... he can almost picture him sitting in there, quiet and studious among all his medals. The role model he has always been.

Ryan's car pulls into the driveway, which is surprisingly more crowded than usual. He gets out, observing curiously as he slips his shades into the breast pocket of his denim jacket. The footsteps of his childhood are re-traced with every clunk of his boots against the orange terrace tiles, following the trail to the front door. Even while ringing the doorbell, he can see activity going on behind the frosted glass either side of the entrance.

     A smaller shadow glides to the door, the outline of which Ryan can recognise instantly. It belongs to his mother, Sarah Kazansky, whose identical blue eyes stare straight back at him as she answers the door — of her three children, it was Ryan who emerged almost the spitting image of her. But allegedly, his mannerisms and the way that he carries himself is his father, through and through.

     "Hi, Mom," he smiles.

     "Oh, Ryan..." Sarah pulls her son into an embrace; he expects it anyway, but is only thrown off by how tightly she squeezes him.

     "Is, uh... is everything okay?" Ryan asks, once he is finally released from her grip.

     His mother nods, lips sealed into a tight line as her eyes shimmer before she hugs him again. "Yeah, everything's... everything's okay. I've just– I've missed you, that's all."

     "I missed you too."

     "Not as much as I missed you."

     "Okay, okay, it's not a competition! Mom, you're strangling me—"

     "Is Ryan here?" calls a younger voice from the next room, sounding hollow in the open living space. But once she circles around the corner, the bright ocean-blue eyes of his sister Sabrina are staring back at him. It's like staring at a clone of Iceman, sometimes. "Oh my God, you came! You really came..." Sabrina jogs up to her oldest brother and squeezes him tight — Ryan swears he can't remember the Kazansky women giving hugs this suffocating before. What is going on?

     But he tries not to overthink it, unable to escape the clutches of Sabrina as she takes in her brother with admiration. "I wasn't sure you would have time to drop by," she says, incapable of not smiling. "Usually you're so busy with work. I mean, when was the last time we saw each other? A year and a half ago?"

"... Yeah," Ryan finally replies, feeling a pang of guilt. Has it really been that long? "I must've been busy. I mean, you get it, right?"

"No, yeah, of course," Sabrina nods, faltering slightly.

A third figure walks into the hallway, another missing piece of the puzzle — his brother Logan, the middle child and balanced exactly of features inherited from both parents. One thing he certainly shares is their father's cold stare, reserved for the frostiest of relations. Ryan would prefer not to be on the receiving end of it, but then again, it's been like this since they were teenagers. Still, he tries to keep things amicable at meeting him again.

"You're not gonna hug me too, are you?" Ryan tries to joke.

"Nah," Logan just shrugs, "you're good."

Well, that was a conversation killer.

"What're you doing here?" asks Logan, controlled cynicism sharpening his words.

"I'm just swinging by to say hi to Dad," Ryan replies. "And you guys, of course."

"Aren't you busy?"

"Yeah, but I wanted to make the time."

"That's a first—"

"Do you want a drink?" Sabrina suddenly interjects. "You look like you need a drink, I'll– I'll get you something." Her voice sounds as though it has been polished to perfection, but scrubbed so hard that it's still rough around the edges. Before Ryan can answer, he watches her teal sundress trail behind her briskly into the kitchen, Logan following her.

Next to him, Sarah squeezes his shoulder gently. "I'm just going to go check on your father," she tells him. "I'm sure he'll be ready for you in a minute."

Ryan nods, leaving her to go upstairs. In front of him in the middle of the entrance, a large table displays a whole swarm of family photographs — almost as if keeping vigil. He walks forward to them, the distant horizon of the sea visible from the doors to the back yard. He instantly recognises his father's younger self, dressed smartly in uniform some time in the late 80s; the frosted blonde tips, the tanned skin, that stare of his that was always calculating something. Not in a menacing way, either, just always one step ahead. In other ones he's more relaxed; Ryan barely recognises himself, smaller and slightly sun-burned, with ice cream all over his mouth as he sits on Iceman's shoulders.

He wants to look at more, but distant chatter from the kitchen catches his ear. The hushed whispers of his siblings draw Ryan in closer, approaching slowly so they won't hear him coming. They seem to be having a big disagreement — and with their best efforts, they are trying their best to hide every scrap of it from him.

"We don't know how much time there is left," Logan is whispering, leaning against the counter as Sabrina hastily fills up glasses of water at the sink.

"There is still time," she insists. "Besides, this is what Dad wants. He made us promise. At least until the mission's over."

"If we even have that..."

"Logan!"

"What? It's the truth."

"We have plenty of time. So if nothing else, do this for Dad. It's what he wants."

"Alright, but he has to know something, 'cause he's gonna walk in, see how he looks, and figure out something's wrong—"

Ryan clears his throat loudly behind them in the doorway. Sabrina jumps, spilling a little of her water before laughing nervously. Logan, meanwhile, is barely fazed; just stares his brother down thoughtfully. What is up with them today? He opens his mouth to ask the two of them what is going on, but Sabrina just returns with a glass of water to shove into his hand. "Here you go," she comments. "Extra ice cubes, no citrus as usual."

"Uh, thanks..." Ryan takes a tentative sip, his eyes unmoving from Logan's unnerving stare.

He definitely gets the idea he's missing out on something — he knew it beforehand, too. Ryan only gets updates from emails, texts or the occasional calls he has time for without cutting them short. What he does know is that Sabrina still hasn't spread her wings with the degree she graduated with a few years back, staying home to help take care of their father when his cancer got worse. Logan is still grinding his journalistic career, sometimes writing a few pieces on the navy or the military; perhaps compensating for lost dreams. And his mother is always here, taking care of everyone.

As for Ryan's father... the last few years have been rough, to say the least. He remembers how it started with a call in the middle of the night, his mother in floods of tears as she told him Iceman was in hospital. Deployed halfway across the globe, Ryan stood and listened helplessly as she panicked about when he'd started coughing up blood, and that they were running tests but it didn't look good. After that, the dreaded word: cancer. Even the word alone felt deadly. But somehow, through aggressive treatment, Iceman had pulled through — plenty of battle scars to prove it, but he came out the other side. His throat had been ravaged and torn apart, leaving his voice a scratchy croak. Not that it bothered them too much. The Kazanskys were only thankful he'd made it out alive.

Apart from that, all he knows about are the text updates, which have sounded a little less optimistic than usual. Ryan knows some tests were run a few months back, but still knows little beyond that.

When his mother walks back into the kitchen, he can't take it anymore. "So, how's Dad?" Ryan asks; by the heaviness of tone, it more implies, What am I missing here? Sarah swallows thickly, staring at her children. Sabrina's bated breath is held, while Logan just nods slowly to encourage her. With a sigh, she turns to face Ryan and lays out the truth:

"He's... not well," Sarah admits. "It came back."

Bile shoots up Ryan's throat for a moment, while dread plants itself like a seed in his stomach. She doesn't even have to elaborate for the news, however bad or even worse, to paralyse him.

"He's changed a lot since you last saw him. Even speaking is painful now. But... we'll see how it goes, alright? Just don't worry too much, honey. That's the last thing your dad wants." Her eyes are glistening as she reaches out and squeezes her son's hand, trying to steady her trembling voice. Ryan squeezes it back, still processing the information. It came back. There's too much up in the air for it to be left on that note. But he has the feeling he will be none the wiser when he walks into his father's office.

     "He's really been looking forward to seeing you," Sabrina pipes up.

     "Yeah?" Ryan smiles weakly.

     "Yeah," she nods, while Logan stares down at the kitchen tiles.

     "You'd better go up, then," Sarah whispers to him. "He's waiting for you."

     Ryan leaves the three of them alone in the kitchen, walking through vertigo as he staggers over to the steps. How is he supposed to act now? The news feels like a word detached if its meaning — he really has no idea what follows on from that, how bad it is, if there is even anything to be done about it. Instead, he locks it away with each step he takes up to the landing. The only thing on his mind when Ryan gets to the top is the dark wood door leading to his father's office. It has been left slightly ajar, just for him. He raises his knuckles to the wood and knocks gently.

"It's Ryan," he says, "can I come in?"

Then, remembering that his father is practically speechless these days, he scolds himself. Trusting he won't be intruding, Ryan slowly opens the door and pokes his head around. He is instantly greeted with all the medals and trophies lining the shelves and walls, along with photographs of Iceman's glory days. In the middle of it all is the man himself — wrapped up in a thick dark jacket, despite it being warm outside, with a scarf nuzzled around his neck to hide the aftermath of his tracheotomy. Underneath it all is a slimmer man, more frail and weak.

     He is mid-cough with rattled lungs when he clocks his son entering the room. Iceman's hands move to the armrests on his chair, attempting to get up and greet him. "No, Dad, stay where you are– I'll just..." Ryan urges him to sit back down, before wrapping his arms very lightly around his shoulders in a tentative hug. Afraid he might snap him in half if he squeezes him too hard. Iceman weakly pats his son on the back, unable to speak in return, but gestures for him to take a seat opposite.

     Ryan and Iceman sit like that for a moment — just gazing at each other, the desk space between them as the toes of their shoes barely touch on the floor.

     "How've you been?" he asks cautiously.

     His father just shrugs, and makes a so-so motion with his hand. Always the modest one. Ryan watches as Iceman reaches over to his computer, the clattering of keys being his way to communicate as his words appear on the black screen. He remembers this from when his father's treatment took the most out of him — but now, it seems it is his sole way of communicating. It doesn't hit him until he sees it in person; until now, it's been easy to take for granted when his father still seems so animated in text messages.

     When he is finished, Iceman sits back and lets Ryan read his message on the computer:

     How's the mission going?

     "A little bit of a bumpy start, I guess," he replies, trying to remember to do most of the talking. "

     But Iceman shakes his head, and points again the message.

     "I'm not sure I follow..." Ryan says cluelessly.

     His father re-thinks, then points right at his son's heart, mouthing You.

     "You know what I think?" he asks, and when his father nods, he sighs. "I don't know. Honestly, I get it if you might not like me saying this, but... I think we're doing this mission in the wrong pair of hands. To me, Maverick just seems like the completely wrong choice to be our commander."

     In any other situation, questioning Iceman's choice or authority would be out of line. But instead, he is interested to hear his son's perspective, massaging his chin as he listens to his grievances.

     "It's just that when he flies, he's so unpredictable. And that means he's also unsafe. People who fly like that are dangerous..."

     For some reason, Iceman chuckles at this, eyes glazing over with nostalgia for a moment. Ryan raises a brow at him, as if to ask, What's so funny? Still smiling, his father gets back to the keyboard, typing out his next reply:

     You remind me of myself when I was a young pilot.

     A burst of pride bursts through Ryan's chest, burning with warmth. He straightens up a little in his chair and asks, "Really?" to which Iceman nods fondly. He ponders this for a moment; behind his father, there is a faded framed photograph of a young Iceman and Maverick shaking hands, the latter of whom looks even more reckless than these days. "Do you miss it?" Ryan asks. "Being up in the air?"

     Iceman pauses. Then after a bittersweet nod, he backspaces on his last sentence, adding a new one:

     It's in my blood. Yours, too.

     "Funny, because I don't remember it that way," Ryan teases tentatively. "I used to hate flying at the beginning. Do you remember that? Whenever I visited you at work, I'd always start crying because the planes were too loud. So you bought me those big ear-defenders, remember those? The bright orange ones."

     A grin. Backspace. Typing:

     They were so damn big on your little head.

"Nothing's changed, really," Ryan laughs.

Before he knows it, they are somehow immersed in this one childhood memory, even traversing the space around it too. Ryan does most of the talking, while his father chips in with written comments or a nod now and then. They talk about how scared he was of flying as a child, even on commercial flights; how Sarah had to soothe his wailing every time. He would even get nervous when Iceman had to go on missions, clinging onto his leg at the door... it's safe to say he grew out of that.

Back then, it had always been Logan who'd wanted to fly — he was obsessed with the idea. But before he could even apply to the naval academy, he made the discovery of his colour blindness. The rug had been pulled from beneath his feet in an instant. Ryan, however, had grown to become more fond of flying. And watching his father, feeling the pride and honour of the service to his country, he knew he had perhaps found a calling. So Ryan ascended up the ladder and his brother watched from afar...

Maybe Logan hasn't forgiven him for that yet.

But they don't touch on those grievances, instead focusing on the funnier image of a little Ryan with his ear-defenders. As they do, he realises how little they do this. Just reflect on old times. One of them has always been too busy, either to look at old memories or make new ones. If Ryan is being honest, he still thinks he should wrap this up soon... but he also didn't expect this to be such a welcoming visit.

Just as they are laughing, a small sucking of air from Iceman makes his heart drop. Phlegm lodged in his throat, he suddenly starts to cough, quietly at first until it rattles through his throat and lungs.

"Dad... Dad, are you okay?" Ryan asks in a panic. "Here, drink some water."

He thrusts the glass of water on the desk into his father's hand, watching with bated breath as he carefully gulps it down. When the blockage is freed, Iceman sighs, able to breathe more normally again. Crashing back down to reality. It came back, echo the words from earlier in Ryan's head. A crack in the door opens behind them, the anxious face of Sarah peering inside. "Everything okay?" she asks carefully.

Iceman nods, swatting the air to send her away. The door shuts behind Ryan and he turns back to his father. Maybe I shouldn't have come here, he thinks. He doesn't look well, and maybe this is just too much for him to take. Pressing his fingers on his bulky scarf, he pulls his chair in gets back to typing out a message:

Maverick was the right choice. Just give him time. You don't know what he is capable of.

He pauses. Then, deleting the first part of the sentence and amending the third, he sits back with his final draft:

You don't know what you are capable of.

Ryan sighs, not having an answer to that. "I'll just have to believe you, I guess... look, Dad, I'd better get going. I have an early morning tomorrow for training."

The flicker of disappointment in Iceman's eyes cannot be missed; still, he lets his son go. He understands.

"But I'll visit you again, alright?" Ryan promises, getting up out of the chair and giving his father a chaste hug. "Maybe some time next week, if Maverick hasn't driven me crazy."

The man in the chair hums thoughtfully, his eyes drifting over to the framed photograph of him and Maverick in their glory days. Then, chuckling, he types out one more message:

Maverick drives everyone crazy.

☆.｡.:*　　.｡.:*☆

AUTHOR'S NOTE

this chapter was a roller coaster of action and angst, let me tell you that! first of all, ✨bradleste✨... bless their hearts. that scene was rather painful to write, because celeste and bradley care for each other so much, but they're really caught up in their own personal fears and struggles, whilst also processing their feelings for each other that are becoming trickier to hide. don't worry though, the next chapter should be a lot nicer for them *wink wonk*

also we got our first ryan POV! i loved writing (my interpretation) of the kazansky family so much. logan has a lot of pent-up resentment and hangs onto the past, while sabrina is so invested in taking care of her dad and making everyone happy. in case you don't remember from the cast list at the start, logan is played by jack kilmer (val kilmer's actual son!) and sabrina is played by sydney sweeney... sorry to mercedes kilmer for not casting you as the sister, oops 🙊 as for iceman, i felt a big responsibility to portray him in the right way, and i really hope i honoured his character. ryan's main arc is his relationship with his dad, so that should be explored more.

next chapter, it's mainly focusing on the core five, including important backstory for celeste... and perhaps a little flashback with her and bradley? stay tuned!

──

published: february 23rd, 2023