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Sitting in his office, savouring what feels like an extremely hard-earned cup of tea, Ice finds himself distracted, as he always is whenever Maverick flies It’s as though his mind is split; one part focused on his responsibilities aboard the carrier, the other firmly tethered to Maverick’s jet slicing through the air.
He sets the cup down, watching the steam curl up, trying to focus on the paperwork in front of him. But even here, even with an entire ship demanding his attention, Ice feels that pull, the quiet vigilance that never quite lets him relax until he knows Maverick’s wheels are safely back on the deck.
As he works, he tries to convince himself that he has nothing to worry about today; Maverick is on a routine patrol of the no-fly zone, a straightforward mission with little that could go wrong. But Ice knows Maverick too well, and knows that “routine” to him usually means “boring.” And when Maverick is bored, he has a way of making his own excitement, of finding something out there to push against.
He’s just managed to push it from his mind when there’s a rap at the door, a worried-looking Petty Officer standing there.
“Sir,” she says quickly, “you’re needed in the operations centre; it’s Lieutenant Commander Mitchell, he-”
He doesn’t let her finish, waving her silent as he gets up from his desk and follows her from the room.
They travel down the carrier's corridors in record time, and soon Ice is stalking into the room, letting the petty officer trail behind. Glancing around at the room’s occupants, he’s relieved to find that at commander; he’s by far the most senior.
“Everyone, out,” he orders, paying no attention to the looks they exchange as they flee, nor the bridges he might need to mend later focused instead on the radar screen and the radio.
On the screen, Ice watches as Maverick’s dot drifts further off his designated patrol path, edging closer to a blip hovering near the no-fly zone boundary. It’s a small, fast-moving mark on the radar, possibly an Iraqi reconnaissance jet. Maverick, as always, seems dead set on closing the distance, despite standing orders not to engage unless the aircraft crosses into the restricted area.
Ice’s jaw tightened, his stomach churning as he watched Maverick edge closer and closer. Dammit, he thinks, the last thing he needs is Maverick going off-script this close to the line, letting his instincts override orders yet again.
Ice forces himself to keep his voice level as he presses down on the mic. “Maverick, I am ordering you to stand down. Return to your patrol route immediately.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Maverick’s voice comes back, crackling with static—too convenient to be genuine. “Ice… you’re breaking up. Comms interference… might be that bogey I’m trailing.”
Ice’s grip tightens, recognising the excuse. He glares at the radar screen, watching as Maverick’s dot inches across the screen, closing in on the unknown aircraft with all the stubborn audacity that makes him Maverick.
“Lieutenant, I know you can hear me,” Ice says, his voice hard as steel. Maverick had finally been promoted the previous year, but he uses his old title, hoping to get a rise out of him. “Stand down. Now.”
The radio falls silent, leaving Ice to watch the radar helplessly as Maverick’s dot continues on its reckless course. He can imagine Maverick in the cockpit, eyes trained on the target, refusing to turn back, caught up in the chase. Ice swallows back his frustration, fingers drumming against the console.
“Maverick,” he says, each word deliberate, “if you don’t disengage… when you land, I swear to God, I’ll remind you exactly who’s in charge here.”
The silence stretches, and for a moment, Ice’s voice dips into something both dangerous and somehow familiar, the tone he knows gets through to Maverick when nothing else does. “If you don’t change course, I’ll strap you face-down over my desk, and believe me, you’ll feel it for a week.”
A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, despite the situation. “I’ll make sure sitting down isn’t an option until you’ve remembered what ‘stand down’ means.”
The room is silent except for the faint hum of equipment, but Ice’s gaze is locked on the radar, unwilling to look away until Maverick’s dot starts to turn back. For an agonising moment, Ice watches as Maverick inches ever closer, looking like he’s about to engage. But just as the radar blip of the unknown aircraft seems within Maverick’s grasp, his dot hesitates and then, finally, begins a slow turn back.
Ice lets out a breath, his fingers still gripping the edge of the console. Relief floods through him, quickly followed by simmering frustration. Maverick has turned back, but Ice knows him well enough to realise this isn’t Maverick following orders, but instead coming back only after he’s satisfied his curiosity.
Ice watches the dot with narrowed eyes, already calculating the words he’ll have waiting for Maverick when he steps off that jet. Maverick may have avoided crossing the line, but he’s about to discover there’s a price to pay for dancing so close to it.
“Get your ass back on deck,” he says finally, standing up before he can hear Maverick’s response, trusting that the man will do so now that he’s had his thrill.
Exiting the room, he sends the wide-eyed flight crew back in and heads up on deck to wait for his errant pilot.
On his way up, he collides with Captain Reynolds. “Sorry, Sir,” he apologises, drawing himself into a hasty salute.
“In a hurry, Commander?” the man asks dryly. Cursing Maverick mentally for getting him into these situations, Ice flushes, and opens his mouth to explain.
“No, there's no need to explain,” Turner says. “I heard about Mitchell’s latest escapade,” he adds disapprovingly.
“Yes, Sir,” he replies, grimacing. Keeping Maverick in the air has always been a balancing act, his reputation swinging wildly between being known for brilliance and rule breaking.
Captain Reynolds regards him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I’m handling it, Sir,” he says, keeping his tone steady, but allowing some of his frustration to show on his face. “He turned back before he engaged,” he adds, leaving the “just” unspoken.
Captain Reynolds studies him for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. Finally, he lets out a small, knowing sigh. “Mitchell must be one hell of a pilot to have someone like you constantly running interference, Kazansky,” he says, his tone carrying a hint of admiration along with the usual disbelief.
Ice holds his gaze, knowing better than to deny it. “He’s one of the best, sir,” he replies, his voice steady. “And worth the effort.”
Reynolds raises an eyebrow. “Must mean a damn lot to you, Commander. Not everyone would go to these lengths.”
Ice simply nods, acknowledging the truth in the captain’s words without offering further explanation. Reynolds regards him for a beat longer, then nods.
“Then keep him in line, Kazansky.”
“Yes, sir,” Ice replies with a respectful nod, “I have something in mind that should get through to him.”
Reynolds eyes him for a moment, curiosity flickering in his gaze, but he seems satisfied. “See that you do, Commander. I don’t want any surprises from Mitchell for a while.”
Ice’s smiles, all teeth. “He’ll get the point, sir. I’ll make sure of it.”
The captain nods at him and continues down the corridor. Cursing under his breath, Ice runs up the remaining stairs, arriving on deck just in time to see Maverick leap from his jet. Not for the first time, he silently questions Command’s decision to transition their squadron to F/A-18s. Whoever up the chain of command had decided Maverick should be flying a single-seater clearly hasn’t spent enough time around him.
Goose, and later Merlin, hadn’t always managed to restrain Maverick, but they’d provided a steadying presence, a check on his wilder impulses. Now, with Maverick alone in a jet, Ice feels like he’s holding his breath every time Maverick flies, waiting for the next stunt that’ll have him back up here, reining him in all over again.
Maverick spots him almost immediately, Ice sees his eyes widen, but he turns back to the flight crew without acknowledging him. Fine, Ice thinks. You want this the hard way? I can deliver. He crosses his arms, leaning against the bulkhead, waiting just long enough for Maverick to feel the weight of his presence.
Eventually, Maverick’s movements grow a little stiffer, the familiar cocky ease slowly fading as he realises Ice isn’t leaving. Ice lets the silence stretch, letting Maverick feel it, making sure he knows there's no avoiding this.
Finally, he speaks, his tone low but unmistakable. “Lieutenant Commander Mitchell,” he says, emphasising the title with all the authority he can muster, “Come here, please.”
At last Maverick turns towards him, but he stands his ground, fidgeting with his flight suit. Ice holds his gaze steady, then raises one hand and curls his fingers in a slow, unmistakable beckon, a silent command that leaves no room for defiance.
Maverick’s jaw tenses, and for a second, it seems like he’s weighing his options. But Ice doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his hand, just waits, knowing that his recalcitrant partner will give in eventually.
Maverick exhales and glances around at the crew as if hoping for an escape. It doesn’t come, the flight crew studiously ignoring the scene playing out between the two of them, and slowly Maverick crosses the deck and comes to a stop in front of him.
Ice doesn’t say anything, instead takes Maverick by the elbow and leads him off the flight deck, down the stairs, and along the many corridors that lead to his tiny office. Fortune shines on Mav, and the only person they meet on their travels is an Ensign who stops like a deer in headlights, snaps them a quick salute and hurries off in the opposite direction.
“Ice,” Maverick complains as she retreats, attempting to escape from his grasp, looking embarrassed to be seen being frogmarched through the carrier.
“No,” Ice says firmly, keeping a tight grip, “you should have come the first time if you didn’t want help finding my office.”
Maverick mutters something under his breath but ceases struggling, and in a few moments more Ice is steering him through the door of his office, shutting it and pulling down the blinds to obscure the glass window into the corridor.
“What the hell was that, Maverick,” Ice says, turning towards his partner. “You damn near broke the rules of engagement! Not to mention that bullshit with your comms; I know full well you heard every word.”
At that, Maverick flushes a deep red, clearly recalling the specifics of those words. His eyes flicker to the floor; his usual swagger dimmed just enough that Ice knows he realises he’s in trouble.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” he says, jutting his chin out defiantly. “I basically stuck to orders.”
Ice takes a deep breath, fighting the urge to tip Maverick over his knee without hearing anything further. His eyes narrow as he repeats, “Oh, you ‘basically’ stuck to orders, did you? That’s what you’re going with?
Maverick nods, though his confidence is visibly wavering.
“So you didn’t deviate from your patrol route? And you definitely didn’t ignore a direct order from your squadron commander to stand down?” Ice’s voice is low and dangerous, a cold, sarcastic edge sharpening every word. “And you most certainly didn’t fake comms interference.”
Maverick squirms, a flicker of guilt showing as he shifts from foot to foot, avoiding Ice’s gaze.
“Oh, I must have been imagining things, then,” Ice continues, his tone dripping with disdain. “Because a pilot of mine would never dare do any of those things if he knew what was good for him. Right?”
Maverick’s defiance crumbles just a bit more, his bravado slipping as he glances up at Ice with a hint of unease. “Look, I,” he starts, but Ice holds up a hand, silencing him.
“If you think for one second that brushing it off will get you out of this, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“Nothing happened, Ice!” Mav pleads. “It wasn’t even a reconnaissance jet in the end.”
“Nothing happened this time,” Ice replies, emphasising the words for maximum impact. “But it so easily could have; what if it had been a reconnaissance jet, and you engaged too early? We both know how delicate things are here; we can’t afford even the slightest misstep.”
“And besides,” he continues, “that doesn’t excuse any of the flagrant pieces of disobedience you committed today, does it.”
“...no,” Mav admits finally.
“Good.” Ice replies grimly. “Now, I want you to tell me why I shouldn’t make sure you remember this incident every time you sit down for the next week.”
“I- I can’t.”
“That’s right.” Ice agrees, ” You can’t, and I will.”
He walks past Maverick, who is staring at him open-mouthed, opens his desk drawer and pulls out the strap. It had started life as a razor strop, but he’s since fashioned it into what he knows Mav seeks as the ultimate consequence.
Pulling out the small tin of wax he keeps next to it; he hands both to a still gaping Maverick, who takes them without thinking, nearly jumping out of his skin when he looks down at what Ice has handed him.
“You know what to do,” he says, leaning against his desk.
With extreme reluctance, Maverick takes wax from the tin and starts to work it into the leather. When he finishes, he throws the tin at Ice, and thrusts the strap out, clearly unwilling to hold onto it one moment longer.
Ice takes it, flexes it in his hands, and then sets it on the desk. Maverick tracks it with his eyes, looking puzzled when he sees it be set aside.
“You’re not going to use it?”
“Oh, I am,” Ice replies, “but you’re coming over my knee for a good while first.”
“Ice, no, you don’t need to.”
Ice merely stares at him and pulls the armless chair from behind his desk, settling in it and patting his lap. “Suit down and over, please.”
“Ice, come on… I know I messed up, but…” Maverick’s voice trails off, clearly realising there’s no way out of this.
“Suit down and over,” Ice repeats, his tone calm but unyielding, patting his lap in a way that invites no further argument. “You know exactly why you’re here, Maverick. This isn’t a suggestion.”
With a resigned sigh, Maverick’s hands go to his flight suit, cheeks flushing as he unzips it and pulls it down to his knees, following suit with his underwear without having to be asked. He hesitates a moment longer, but Ice keeps his gaze steady. Taking a breath, Maverick steps forward, draping himself over Ice’s lap, his face flushing as he settles in place.
Ice places a steady hand on Maverick’s back, leaning forward. “You need to understand that when I give an order, I expect it followed, not half-followed, not ‘basically’ followed. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Maverick mumbles, his voice barely audible.
“Good.”
Wasting no further time, Ice raises his hand and brings it down hard on Maverick’s ass. The skin turns white, and before it can flush pink, he lands another and another, each one firm and unrelenting, Maverick already starting to squirm around his lap. As he settles into a rhythm, the crisp sounds echo around the small office, accompanied only by the sound of an occasional pained hiss.
When Maverick’s behind starts to turn a deep sore pink, he stops, places a steadying hand on his partner’s back.
“You think orders are suggestions, Maverick?” Ice asks, punctuating each word with a sharp swat. “That you can decide when and if they matter?”
Maverick grits his teeth, his face visibly flushing. “No, sir,” he manages, his voice tight.
“Good.” Ice says, aiming solid swats at his thighs. “Your behaviour today was unacceptable, Maverick, and I know you’re well aware you crossed a line.”
“Yes, Sir,” Maverick says, “Ice- please.”
Adding a couple more swats to even up the colour, make sure that Maverick is under no illusions that they finish when he asks, Ice stops.
He gives Maverick a moment to catch his breath and then helps him to his feet.
“Do you remember what I said would happen to you if you didn’t turn back immediately?” he asks.
Flushing, Maverick nods.
“Well?” Ice says, unwilling to let the man off.
“You said- you said that you’d strap me face down over the desk, and I’d feel it for a week,” he finally mumbles, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
“That’s right,” Ice says. “And you didn’t turn back immediately, did you.”
“No, Sir,” Mav agrees miserably.
“Over the desk, please.”
Maverick stomps his foot but clearly thinks better of any further protest. He leans over the desk and grips the far side, giving Ice an uninterrupted view of his already pink ass.
He lets out a quiet sigh, knowing that following through now is as much about setting a precedent as it is about addressing Maverick’s recent stunt. Maverick’s defiance, his insistence on pushing limits, these things won’t change without consequences he’ll remember the next time he feels tempted to cross a line.
He picks up the strap and flexes it in his hands, allowing Maverick to hear the quiet creak of the leather. The sound alone makes Maverick’s shoulders tense, and his grip tightens on the far edge of the desk.
“You’ll remember this next time, won’t you?” Ice asks, voice calm but firm.
“Yes, sir,” Maverick mutters, his voice resigned, though he doesn’t turn his head.
“Good,” Ice says. Without further delay, he brings the strap down firmly across Maverick’s already pink skin. The impact lands with a sharp crack, and Maverick’s breath hitches, his knuckles whitening as he braces himself for the next stroke.
Ice doesn’t rush, giving each stroke its full weight, ensuring Maverick feels the lesson sinking in. The strap lands with precision, the steady rhythm filling the silence in the room. Maverick’s breathing grows sharper, his shoulders tensing with each crack of leather, but he doesn’t protest or pull away, showing Ice he knows he’s earned it.
Finally, when Mav’s behind is turning a deep red and his breath starts to come in hitches that sound an awful lot like muffled sobs, Ice stops, putting the strap aside. He pulls Maverick up off the desk and into his arms, letting the man lean into him, clearly utterly spent.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his chest.
Ice runs his hand through Mav’s hair slowly, feeling him lean into the touch. “I know you are.”
“You were so mean,” Maverick grumbles eventually.
Ice snorts, “you earned it.”
‘I ‘spose so.” Mav says reluctantly, sounding a lot younger than his thirty-two years.
Ice pushes him off his chest, holding him by the shoulders so Maverick can see his face. “I love you, you idiot, but if you ignore orders like that again, I will find time to spank you before and after every mission, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Jesus Christ, Ice,” Maverick says, eyes wide. “I copy.”
“Good.” Ice allows a small smile to break through, softening the sternness he’s worn like armour through the entire ordeal. He squeezes Maverick’s shoulders reassuringly, letting him see the warmth behind the steady resolve in his eyes.
“Now get out of here and lay low for a bit would you?”
Maverick gives him a lazy salute, “Can do, Commander.”
He raises an eyebrow, allowing a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Don’t think calling me Commander will save you,” he says. “You’re mine, in and out of that cockpit, and if you pull another stunt like that, you’ll find yourself right back here,
Maverick raises his hands in a playful gesture of surrender. “Understood,” he says with a lopsided grin, but there’s a note of sincerity in his eyes.
As Maverick heads toward the door, Ice crosses his arms, watching him go with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. Just before Maverick slips out, Ice calls after him, his voice carrying a faint smirk. “And Mav, try not to get into any more trouble today. I could do with a few hours of peace.”
Maverick turns, flashing him a wink. “No promises, but I’ll do my best.”
With that, Maverick disappears into the corridor, and Ice watches him go, a sigh escaping as he steels himself, knowing all too well that this won’t be the last time he has to pull Maverick back from the edge.
Still, he meant what he’d said to Captain Reynolds earlier; he’s worth the effort.