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There’s parties.
Exclusive and secretive, and categorically off the fucking books. And the invitations are always the same. Small, burgundy envelopes tucked away in private spaces. Under the windshield wiper, at the bottom of a daily briefing folder, slotted between the gaps in a locker.
The instructor’s quarters were empty when Maverick entered. Or at least he had thought they were. Viper had gone home hours ago, and Jester never showered on base. The place sure smelled empty, but then again it was hard to pick up anything besides the jet fuel seeping into his flight suit. His shower was quick and methodical as ever, couldn’t have hardly lasted more than five minutes. So it caught Maverick off guard - the envelope, tucked neatly into the corner of the mirror opposite his shower.
His stomach dropped as crossed the short distance to the sink to pluck the letter free. The instructions were typed on stiff parchment and briefer than he’d expected, but Maverick was a smart guy. He could fill in the blanks.
An address belonging to zip code 3 tax brackets above him, a dress code (nondescript civilian). And then, at the very bottom, a single word scratched across the paper in thick red ink:
Mayday
Maverick had never been one before. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought they were still a thing. Just the kind of bullshit a drunken old sailor would ramble on about while drooling into the bar, longing for the pretty omega he left back in some port in the summer of ‘48.
He flipped the envelope over in his hands and then sniffed it heavily, hoping for any sign of its sender. Obviously it had come from an alpha, but who? It left him feeling nervous, and he so he did what he always tended to do when nervous.
“Just say you’re sick or something,” Carole snorted through the receiver.
“There wasn’t exactly an RSVP,” Maverick grumbled, tossing a look over his shoulder to ensure he was actually alone this time. “It’s not the kind of thing you can say no to.”
“I thought you said you’ve never been to one before?” Carole asked, somewhat distractedly. He’s pretty sure she was cooking dinner and definitely not in the mood for talking an anxious alpha off the ledge.
“I haven’t-” He twirled the cord around his finger, taking another peak over his shoulder. Just in case.
“Well I have-”
“What?!”
“Oh shush you,” Carole chided, “You know, I had a life before Nick. But anyways, it’s invite only. Nobody goes who doesn’t want to be there, and you’ve already got the safe word so…”
“So?” Maverick couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Carole had- that she, fuck.
“Then again, those were civilian parties. Could be a little different from the Navy. I’d imagine more intense,” Carole hummed against the sound of the kitchen sink.
“Uh, yeah,” Maverick muttered, still stunned at the revelation, “Isn’t that sort of the point?”
“Oh Maverick, you’ll be fine!” Carole laughed, “What’s the worst that can happen?”
And Maverick didn’t really have an answer to that, so she wished him luck and hung up on him. He spent the next ten minutes staring blankly at the phone in his hand until he shifted his weight and felt the weight of the envelope in his back pocket.
He shook his head, he had to get himself together. Can’t go freaking out at his very first invite. No, that won’t do well at all for his reputation. He had enough trouble trying to outrun the shadow of being Duke Mitchell’s son. Getting labeled a bitch of an alpha simply wasn’t an option.
He had to make it work.
So Saturday rolls around and Maverick puts on the polo Carole made him wear to Bradley’s piano recital, stuffs the envelope into his back pocket and hails a cab. The driver nods silently as Maverick relays the address, but the beta’s raised eyebrow tells him plenty.
Maverick leans his head heavily against the window and closes his eyes. He should’ve drank before leaving the house. Slammed back a glug or two of the cheap vodka Wolf left last time the boys were in town. Maybe that would’ve taken the edge off.
The cab lets him out at a pair of towering gates at the bottom of a sprawling property. He takes his time on the winding walk toward the house, reveling in the damp air as he goes. Rain’s forecasted for later this evening, and Maverick hopes idly that he’ll get a chance to watch the thunderclouds roll in. It’s not every day they get a storm this late in the season.
“Welcome,” an alpha, obviously Navy, calls from the porch. Maverick has met him no less than four times before, but for the life of him he can’t remember the guy’s name.
“How’s it going?” Maverick shrugs, taking the stairs two at a time. The guy’s already taller than him as it is, he doesn’t need the added advantage of the highground. The man laughs around his cigar and rolls his shoulders back. He lets out a gratuitous groan as he stretches. Now that they’re closer, Maverick’s immediately overwhelmed by the scent pouring off the man in waves.
“Well,” he huffs, “Let’s just say they’re warmed up.”
Maverick ignores the way his stomach flips and instead snorts, gesturing for the cigar.
“You been to one of these before?” Maverick asks between drags.
He hates the taste of tobacco, it makes him want to gag if he’s honest. But alphas smoke cigars. Or at least they like to be seen smoking cigars, and tonight is all about being seen. Fulfilling the role nature expects of them, even if Maverick personally thinks all that carrying on about designation is a load of horseshit.
“This is my third,” The man is pleased with himself. “You?”
“Nah,” Maverick passes the cigar back. “I’m more of a lone ranger.”
“Mitchell, you’re a man after my own heart,” The man smirks. “But I think even a rogue like you will find it in yourself to have some fun.”
“Oh I’m sure,” Maverick smiles, all teeth. His companion replies in kind and it’s then that his mind helpfully reminds him that this man is Beau “Cyclone” Simpson, who is apparently quite a big deal in some circles. At least that’s what Ice tells him.
“You know the rules?” Cyclone asks. He stamps out what’s left of the cigar on the wooden railing and then flicks it down into the bushes below the porch.
Maverick grimaces and says, “I thought there was just the one.” He follows Cyclone through the threshold into the grand lobby of the nicest house he’s ever seen.
“Eager,” Cyclone laughs, leading them through a series of corridors.
“Isn’t that the point?” Maverick counters as they walk, taking in the grandiosity of the art-lined walls. Maverick’s fairly confident that a hand towel in this joint would cost more than a year of his salary. A year of their salaries combined, now that Maverick thinks of it.
Beau seems at home, shoulders lax, collar undone, and sleeves rolled up to expose the tan lines of his forearms. He’s handsome, sure, but he smells fucking rancid as far as Maverick’s concerned. It’s hard enough to ignore during working hours - scent neutralizers can only go so far. They’ve never spent time together outside of the Navy, so Maverick’s struggling to keep his lip from curling up.
He wonders if Cyclone had been nervous at his first party, but shoves the thought down as quick as it comes. Alphas don’t have anxiety. Certainly not about an invite as coveted as this one is.
“You remember the word?” Beau stops before a towering oak door, crossing arms loosely in a halfass show of strength.
Maverick widens his stance and rolls his eyes, “Mayday.”
“Just checking,” Beau grins and then disappears behind the door. Maverick follows him inside and then immediately wants to turn around. It’s a larger room and it smells insane, alpha pheromones engulfing him before he can even catch his breath. He steadies himself, and blinks rapidly to soothe his burning eyes.
“I know,” Beau says, clapping a hand around Maverick’s bicep. “It’s a lot to take in at once. Just have a drink and enjoy yourself.”
Maverick shrugs the touch but heeds the advice and makes it straight for the bar. He takes the first thing the bartender hands him. It’s some cocktail, smokey and fruity and terrible. It tastes like one of Carole’s fancy hand soaps, but he manages to choke it down. He places the empty glass back on the bar and notices a small bowl of sugar cubes. He leans over to grab one and brings it closer to his face. It’s slightly pink and has little flicks of red throughout. He takes a whiff and all he can smell is a dry erase marker.
“Only the best for our guests of honor.” The bartender smirks as he wipes down the counter. “But if you’re looking for something to help with the, uh- stamina… Well then the beta in the gray suit can get you sorted.”
Maverick blinks. It takes longer than it should for the meaning to sink in. Right, he’s at one of those parties. The streets call this stuff catnip but Maverick’s pretty sure it's got some longer, horrific name in the labs it's cooked up in.
He puts the cube back where he found it and orders another drink and knocks it back with a shudder. He puts his back to the bar, taking in the… well, uh, the sights. The room looks like a cross between a library and ballroom, with card tables and leather couches spread throughout. There’s a marble fireplace at the center of the back wall, and that’s about all Maverick is able to observe before one of the mechanics he used to work with tugs a leashed omega practically over his feet.
Okay.
The place is packed with a pretty even ratio of alpha to omega. Surely there’s betas floating around, but the primal scent in the air is stark enough that Maverick’s head is too clouded, probably a little too drunk already, to pick them out. Damn, that drink was strong.
He lets out a deep breath and tries to clear his head. He’s got to focus. He’s still not certain who invited him, which means he doesn’t know who’s watching or why. Maybe Viper thought he needed a break. Or it could be Admiral Benjamin looking to fuck him over after his latest run-in with Penny. For all he knows, his wings are on the line, which means Maverick has to be on his game the whole night. Parking it in a sofa and passively watching isn’t going to cut it, he needs to participate. And quickly, before anyone starts to suspect his hesitance.
He runs his hands through his hair, tries to will away any lingering doubt and then finally pushes his way through the crowd toward the center of the room. He recognizes more alphas than he expected to, but he feels a dawning sense of dread crawl over his skin as he counts three, four, five omegas he’s seen around the town.
“Maverick!”
He’s not sure if he should be relieved to see a friend under these circumstances, but Cougar has a way of putting just about anyone he knows at ease. Maverick welcomes the arm around his shoulder and pats his old wingman on the chest.
“Are you back?” Maverick cries over the dull thrum of the pianist - because of course there would be live musicians here - playing in the corner of the room.
“Nah, man,” Cougar laughs, waving him off and then stumbling. He flails his arms, narrowly avoiding an omega kneeling between some Captain’s legs on one of the couches. Maverick rushes forward to steady him and tries not to cough at the scent of fresh slick pouring off Cougar’s sleeves.
“Sundown couldn’t make it so he gave me his spot.”
“Good man,” Maverick nods, because that’s the sort of thing he probably should say.
Cougar agrees wholeheartedly and starts to pull him through the crowd as he animatedly gives Maverick the tour. Most of the girls here are locals looking to snatch up an eligible Navy alpha, he tells him as they pass a pair of omegas literally ripping a sailor’s shirt off. Some are more desperate than others, Cougar laughs and points out the TOP GUN from three cohorts back bending a beta, naked from the waist down, over the side of a leather couch.
Maverick waves at him and then looks down to the beta and makes a show of licking his lips in approval, because that’s the sort of thing he probably should do.
“But I bet I know what you’re really after,” Cougar whispers conspiratorially, having led them both to a discreet door tucked in the corner of the room. It must be a closet of some sort, Maverick didn’t even notice it until it was two feet from his face.
“And what’s that, Coug?” Maverick tries to match the energy, and seems to do a passing job of it because Cougar breaks out into a fit of drunken giggles.
“C’mon you don’t have to play dumb Mav,” Cougar pushes at his arm.
“I’m not,” Maverick mutters, losing his patience for this game as he hears a girl cry out from the other side of the room. Maverick winces and hopes it was pleasure, but the chorus of alpha laughter that follows doesn’t give him much hope. Some party.
“Do you seriously not- wait,” Cougar grabs his shoulders and looks him dead on. “Why do you think you were invited?”
Maverick huffs something close to a growl and shrugs out of the embrace, “Beats me.”
“Oh my god,” Cougar’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “You’re going to lose your fucking mind!”
He leans past Maverick to knock three times on the door and then drags them both inside, slamming it shut behind them. Maverick stumbles through the sudden movement. He steadies himself with a hand on the door, and then takes a quick stock of the room.
And then he loses his fucking mind.
It’s a small, cramped room. Probably a storage closet or something like that, but it’s big enough for a semi-circle of folding chairs all positioned like the sun’s rays around a sturdy wooden desk.
It takes all of two seconds to recognize the scents of his old cohort. Wolf’s sprawled lazily, shirtless and nursing one of the bartender’s cocktails, in the chair closest to the back. Hollywood’s collapsed on the ground, pants shucked around his thighs, his semi-hard cock flopped heavily onto his stomach. Chipper’s sitting opposite Wolf, palming himself as he puffs on a cigar.
Directly across the room is Slider, standing tall behind the desk, grunting like he’s in the U.S. Open and wearing just about the stupidest fucking face Maverick’s ever seen. But Maverick doesn’t look long. No, his eyes instantly snap down to the desk where Tom “Iceman” Kanzansky is lying, belly up, taking Slider’s cock like he was put on this earth to do just that.
“Holy fuck,” Maverick blurts out, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Besides Ice - his head is hanging off the desk, eyes slammed shut, lip caught between his teeth as Slider pounds into him.
“Oh hey there shortstop,” Slider pants, grinning wildly as he reaches to paw at Ice’s face. “See Tommy, I told ya he’d make it.”
Ice doesn’t respond, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to have heard Slider. Maverick can feel sweat start to collect at his neck, but a quick glance around the room tells him that he’s alone in his concern.
“Uh- hey,” Maverick says, probably a beat too late, “What’s up?”
“You didn’t hear?” Hollywood mumbles into the carpet.
“Uh,” Maverick can’t take his eyes off of Ice. The smell is overwhelming, alpha and tobacco and sweat and booze and sex but the unmistakable current of omega cuts through it all. Maverick can feel something instinctual, something primal stir deep inside, but he shoves that down for the time being.
“Ice is set to make Commander,” Cougar, the clingy motherfucker, is once again draping his arm around Maverick’s shoulder. He still reeks of dried slick, and Maverick’s mind just about short circuits as his brain makes the necessary connections.
Oh, right. Ice.
“Cain has the promotion all lined up. Calls him into the office and everything,” Cougar slurs and sways, taking Maverick with him.
“Says the promotion is all Ice’s, if he wants it,” Wolf continues, since Cougar’s useless. “and Ice wants it, wants it bad, and so he says something like ‘Oh yes sir, I’ll do anything for it’ and well-”
The room erupts into laughter and hollering. Maverick opens his mouth, tries to join them, because he probably should, but he can’t, because he can’t breathe. Not with Ice, five feet away, laying limp as he’s railed within an inch of his life, and clearly not particularly happy about it.
“Guess he didn’t realize how literal Cain is,” Chipper grunts around his cigar. Slider finishes with a shout and Ice twitches through it but that’s about it. Maverick can feel his heart thump, stomach twisting in knots as he tries to figure out what the fuck he’s doing here.
“So this is like a hazing thing?” Maverick says shakily and immediately knows it was the wrong thing to say. The room, besides Ice, looks to him in varying degrees of discomfort.
Maverick wishes, not for the first time, that Goose was here to navigate this for the both of them. He was always the better at this sort of stuff, even as a beta. Goose was in with these kinds of guys - really any kind of guy, if Mav’s being honest. Goose was something of a tragedy as far as dancing goes, but he had a certain grace, a social fluidity that could soothe Maverick's clunky faux pas.
“I mean, he asked for the promotion…” Slider says as he tucks himself back into his trousers. He gives Ice’s thigh a pat, and then drapes it over the other in what Maverick is sure Slider believes to be a kind gesture. Gotta give an omega some privacy, after all. Maverick’s blood burns at the small whimper that escapes Ice’s teeth as Slider repositions him.
“He knew what he was getting into when he came here tonight.”
Maverick thinks back to the sugar cubes. He’s pretty sure that it's not as simple as that. Ice is clearly drunk and probably drugged, and everyone’s acting like…Like that’s normal. And Maverick’s not sure how to be normal about that.
As far as he can remember, Ice doesn’t even drink. That first night at the O-Club, Ice was sipping what he wanted everyone to believe was vodka. And the asshole managed to fool them. He was tall and handsome and intimidating and wearing sunglasses in the middle of a dark bar. Anyone in their right mind would think him to be an alpha.
So it stood out to Maverick, the fact that Ice was lying. All confrontational and taunting and yet clearly, to Maverick at least, full of utter shit. But Maverick’s mother raised him, for as long as she could, to be a good boy, so Maverick kept his observation to himself, even if the fucker was going out of his way to embarass him.
Maverick figured that challenging another pilot was fair game. But outing an omega, well. That was something else entirely. Something Maverick wouldn’t ever be able to get behind, social hierarchy be damned.
“You’re up Mav!” Cougar cheers, dragging him out of the memory and toward the wooden desk.
Maverick’s moving on autopilot, all the blood in his body pumping steadily south as he gets a stronger dose of the omega pheromones flooding the room. A wave of guilt rocks through him as he feels his arousal stir despite how fucked up all of this is. Ice is wrecked. Covered in bruises, bite marks, and he reeks of sex, of other men’s come. It’s pathetic, it’s disgusting, it’s horrifying. And it’s also just about the hottest thing Maverick’s seen in his fucking life.
Oh God, he’s gonna be sick.
“I don’t know…” Maverick puts a hand on the corner of the desk, digging his feet in before Cougar can shove Maverick on top of the omega, who still hasn’t moved from where Slider put him.
“C’mon Mav, you gotta,” Wolf yawns, as if they’re sitting through one of Charlie’s lectures and not, uh. “Cain said he needs five since Ice wants to be O-5.”
Maverick’s overstimulated to hell and back, but he’s still got his wits about him enough to count. He grabs at his neck, and laughs nervously, “Yeah but wouldn’t that make me the sixth?”
“Five alphas,” Slider claps him on the shoulder, hard enough he rocks into the table.
Ice doesn’t react. It’s starting to freak Maverick out, more than the rest of this freak show. Ice is never still, always thrumming alive with energy and vitality, spinning pens and chomping away at gum without a care of how distracting he is. Distracting to Maverick, at least.
“Chip and Wolfie gave us a run for our money though, aye Wood?”
“Hell yeah we did,” Wolf pumps his fist.
“You fix him up, and he’s done.” Slider shrugs, like it’s simple, like Maverick’s being ridiculous. Gives him a look like Carole does when Bradley won’t finish his vegetables. “Cougar, Wood, and me already did our part.”
“Yeah Mav,” Hollywood laughs, still somewhat delirious on the ground. “Put the poor guy out of his misery!”
“But that’s only four?” Maverick pulls his eyes from Ice - no small feat - and looks to Slider, hoping it’s not what he thinks.
The question makes the room fall silent. Slider at least has the decency to wince as he says, “Cain.”
Oh, well that’s much worse. Maverick never liked Captain Cain, but that wasn’t exactly shocking. Authority figures and Maverick, historically, famously, not a good match. Cain was an asshole, vindictive and insecure. Fiercely conservative and prone to uh, let’s say unorthodox, leadership methods. Truly, an old school alpha, one of those real nasty fuckers. Probably thought omegas had no business in the service in the first place.
So Maverick wasn’t a fan long before Ice put Cain on his radar.
He was pretty much the only alpha that Ice ever mentioned to him. Ice was a man, after all, and a proud one at that. Ice could handle his own battles, and often did so far more effectively than alphas twice his size. Ice commanded respect and wore it like a second skin. He was TOP GUN, drove a bitching car and ran through girls like it was his job.
All of this to say: Ice was hardly a blushing omega, cowering behind his big and strong alpha. And yet he still wanted Maverick to know that Cain made him nervous. Mentioned it a few times in their correspondence while deployed, and then even brought it up in passing in the locker room once they both started instructing together.
“What’s your read on Cain?” Ice had asked while brushing his teeth, making eye contact only through the mirror. Maverick shrugged, far more preoccupied with needing to take a piss, and told him he couldn’t stand the guy. Ice nodded twice and that was it.
Maverick didn’t make a big deal in the moment, but he sure as hell noted it. The uneasy way Ice had stood at the sink, hunched over, left leg bouncing up a storm, his eyes, still ice cold and collected, locked on Maverick through the mirror.
Maverick rakes his eyes over Ice’s body now, lifeless other than the occasional twitch. It’s too early for bruises to settle in, but there’s bite marks. A lot of them, and some…Fuck.
They’re deep, too deep. Maverick has to steady himself as a wave of nausea threatens to knock him over. He’s pretty sure he can see dried blood between Ice’s thighs, but it’s hard to tell since he’s got them clamped shut ever since Slider closed his legs.
He tries to calm himself, takes a deep breath through his nose and immediately regrets it. All he can smell is the sterile burn of vodka Ice doesn’t even drink, tempered only by a lingering note of what Slider left behind. He picks his head up and looks across the room to his friends, Ice’s friends, and tries to make sense of it.
If he’s being honest, he could see Cougar getting a little carried away. And sure, Slider’s probably been itching for a chance at a little payback ever since Ice dumped his sorry ass for the teaching spot at Miramar. Plus, they’re alphas, pretty fucking hammered ones at that. And Ice looks good, and smells even better.
So yeah, Maverick can see how they got a little rough with him. Can even see the appeal in it if he can look past the shame of his own desire, of the bile rolling at the back of his throat.
But would they actually hurt Ice? Leave bite marks that deep? That’s unlikely, or at least Maverick hopes it is. He doesn’t actually know Slider that well. The guy you meet in the locker room can be a totally different person in the bedroom, Maverick knows he sure is.
“Well?” Slider prompts.
The post-orgasm haze seems to have cleared his mind a bit. His pupils are back to a more civilized size, that feral energy subsided for the time being, and the RIO’s clearly avoiding looking down at the mess he’s made of his pilot. Maverick looks around and figures that Slider’s guilt is catching. No one will meet his eyes, so Maverick closes them and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Alright,” Maverick sighs, only a little horrified by how easily he agrees. “But I’m not having an audience.”
Cougar, who's always been a lightweight and kind of slimy if Maverick’s being honest, boos like they’re tossing back beers and hotdogs at a Padres game. He actually fucking boos. The absurdity of it all, the smell of it all. It’s far too complicated for Maverick’s drunk mind to keep up with, so he singles in on the one priority he can manage.
“And I want a bed.”
Hollywood has finally managed to pull himself to his feet, so he crosses the room to help. Ice is a big guy, it takes more effort than any of them expect to get him upright. Especially since he’s whining and flinching the whole way through. Maverick’s trying to figure out the logistics of carrying him bridal style, but then he hears an alpha roar somewhere back in the main room.
He hates himself for it, but he repositions so that he’s fireman-carrying Ice over his left shoulder. It’s the fastest way to get Ice out of here, even if it means parading the omega ass up for the entire party to see. Slider gets the door, and puts a hand out to rub at Ice’s back. But Maverick shifts before he can make contact, lets a low growl roll out from his chest and carries on back into the main room.
Maverick hopes Ice is fucked up enough that he won’t remember any of this, and then he thinks about how fucked that train of thought is and tries to focus on not throwing up. Hollywood leads him along the wall, a path that’s marginally less exposed than the crossing through the center. They’ve nearly made it to the hallway when a piercing whistle silences the room.
Maverick freezes, and then leans his right side onto the wall so he can better support Ice’s weight. He holds his breath as Cain approaches.
“There you are!” Maverick’s never seen the bastard smile before, and he hopes he doesn’t have to anytime soon. He tightens his grip. “I hope he behaved for you boys.”
“Yes, sir,” Hollywood grunts out, radiating discomfort.
“How many?” Cain’s laughing, turning over his shoulder to bring in the others in on a joke Maverick doesn’t quite get. Male omegas are pretty rare by any standard, but they’re virtually unheard of as far as the Navy goes. There’s no doubt that everyone knows exactly who the omega draped over Maverick’s shoulder is and why he’s here in the first place.
“Mitchell’s about to seal the deal, so that’ll make seven,” Hollywood relays faithfully. Maverick’s glad for it because he’s pretty sure he’d end up ripping Cain’s throat out with his bare teeth if he were to open his mouth right now.
“Always was an overachiever,” Cain snorts. “Well, before you go. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
Cain grabs Ice’s leg, flopped limp over Maverick’s shoulder, and yanks it back with enough force that Maverick nearly drops him. He struggles until he’s got one knee on the floor, which probably is exactly what Cain was going for. The movement shifts Ice forward, so that he’s pressing Maverick’s neck down to the carpet below. Maverick can’t see what’s going on, but he knows it's nothing good by the sound of the quiet whimpers coming from Ice. He slams his eyes shut and counts backwards from thirty and just hopes that Cain’s not hurting him further, hopes that all this is almost over, that they can get the fuck out of here.
Maverick wants to scream. The primal urge he’s been trying so hard to quell flares bright and hot. A growl, low and deadly, rumbles out from deep in his chest. A warning, and one with clear intent behind it. Cain only laughs at this, drops his hand to Maverick’s head and ruffles his hair.
“I think it’s safe to say Kazansky here has proved himself, hmm, useful,” Cain says as Maverick slowly, carefully pulls himself back up to both feet. “He’s made his country proud, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir,” Maverick spits through his clenched teeth.
“Well then, as you were,” Cain says between laughs. Maverick turns on his heel and takes a step toward the door, and Cain sends them on their way with a resounding SMACK on Ice’s ass. The omega yelps, writhing in pain with enough force that Maverick really does fall this time. The end up a tangle of limbs on the carpet, Hollywood inching through the door just quick enough to miss it slamming shut.
Maverick lands on his back, finally able to let go the full power of the growl he’d been holding in. It’s loud, honestly closer to a roar, and it immediately upsets Ice, who’s curled in on himself just an arm’s length away.
“Jesus Christ,” Maverick crawls toward the whimpering omega, his hands held frozen just above Ice’s side, unsure how to go about this without causing further distress. Ice, still dazed and confused as all hell, lets out a steady stream of whines as Hollywood and Maverick get him up into a semi-standing position.
Dragging Ice through the winding halls of this great big house is something of an ordeal, but Hollywood manages to get them to an unoccupied guest room on the second floor.
“So are you really going to…” Hollywood asks from the hallway, nervous all of a sudden, as Maverick drags Ice into the room.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Maverick hisses, trying to keep his voice low. Hollywood takes a step back, eyes wide as he blinks, scrunching his forehead like he’s got a headache or something.
“I…” He starts, running a hand through his hair, “I think I drank…too much.”
“No kidding,” Maverick calls over his shoulder as he gets Ice into the bathroom. It’s expectedly grand, with a massive white tub along the wall. “What did that bartender give you guys?”
“I dunno,” Hollywood slurs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “A guy in a suit brought some drinks around. Didn’t ask what was in ‘em. Coug wanted to do shots.”
Maverick sighs, gently depositing Ice onto the tiled floor. He winces the whole way down, letting out a particularly pained cry when his backside finally makes contact with the ground. Maverick gulps, eyes stinging, and his nose is burning at the biting acid weaving itself through Ice’s scent.
“This is so fucking…” Maverick gulps, leaning over to turn the faucet on, “It’s fucked, man.”
“Is he gonna be-” Hollywood hiccups, “You think he’s gonna be mad?”
“Can you blame him?” Maverick counters, the anger that’s made itself a home inside of Maverick this evening coming back to a head. “I mean, dude, what the fuck?”
“He could’ve stopped it,” Hollywood takes a step forward, desperate for an absolution Maverick’s got no right to give. “Right? That’s the rule. He never said the word.”
Maverick ignores Wood, gently winding his arms around Ice’s torso to help him into the tub.
“He could’ve said the word,” Maverick mocks as he positions himself on the edge of the tub. He reaches for a washcloth and dunks it into the warm, soapy water. Ice’s slumped down in the water, shivering and miserable but at least his eyes are open.
“Man, he can’t even talk now,” Maverick whispers, shaking his head, exhausted and anxious and entirely unwilling to talk Hollywood down from whatever ledge Cain brought them to. Instead, he directs his attention to something actually worth his time.
Maverick takes the washcloth and brings it slowly in front of Ice’s face, giving him a chance to recognize it, and then he slowly rubs the grime from his cheek. He starts to work in light circles, moving down from his face to his torso and everywhere else. Hollywood leaves at some point, but Maverick doesn’t notice, too caught up in the little noises of discomfort that Ice makes whenever he runs the cloth over a particularly nasty bite.
“Hey, you,” Maverick sighs once Ice opens his eyes again.
His pupils are still wide, too wide, but they’re working their way back to normal. Ice blinks slowly, once, twice and then carefully pulls his arm from the water. He brings his hand up right to his nose, turning it around as if he’s inspecting it.
“My ring,” He sniffs after a few moments. Maverick looks up from the bath and yep, sure enough. Ice’s Academy ring is missing. Ice frowns at him, eyes brimming with tears. Maverick needs to soothe him, needs to do something after the nightmare they just put him through, so he rushes forward, nearly knocking himself into the water in the process.
He runs his fingers through Ice’s hair, trying to comfort but then his finger catches on…something. Maverick’s stomach churns but he quickly pushes past it and starts to work shampoo through the short locks.
“I’m sure we’ll find it,” Maverick murmurs, dropping his free hand to rub little circles into the crook of Ice’s neck. “I bet Slider has it. We can ask him tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Ice says after a moment, “That’s okay.”
Maverick isn’t really sure what to say to that, so he stays quiet and finishes up on Ice’s hair. Once satisfied that the omega is no longer drenched in various…liquids, Maverick helps him up and wraps him tightly in the soft towel he found hanging beside the sink. Maverick guides him out of the bathroom and toward the bed, holding his hips steady in case his still-wobbling legs give out. Ice crawls on the bed without fuss and gingerly lies on his back, but he loses the towel.
“Uh,” Maverick was reaching across Ice’s body to pull over the extra pillows, but now he’s stuck half-straddling the omega’s very naked body. “Whacha doing there bud?”
Ice bites his lip, tilting his head in confusion. Maverick’s eyes go soft at the sight. God, Ice really can be sweet sometimes. It’s just- it’s unfathomable. Maverick takes one look at the omega and is nearly bowled over with an animalistic, carnal need to protect, provide, to care for him.
“You said-” Ice whispers, and then quickly shuts his eyes. He drops his head back to the pillow and spreads his legs wide beneath Maverick, angling his hips upwards in a clear invitation. Ice breathes through his nose but otherwise doesn’t move or open his eyes.
Maverick can’t breathe. He’s looking between the omega’s legs, taking stock of the state of his thighs. They’re bitten and bruised, it looks so fucking painful that Maverick thinks he’s going to cry. His eyes gravitate slightly north, to the tuft of blonde hair and the soft, wet folds laying between his thighs.
It’s not the first time Maverick’s seen Ice exposed like this. Maverick might not be proud of it presently, but he is an alpha at the end of the day. He’s snuck a peak or two or twenty in the locker room over the years they’ve worked together. How could he not?
Ice is a vision like this, spread wide and open, skin soft and clean, just waiting for Maverick to lay claim like all the others have before him. Maverick’s always found him beautiful, but this is something…well it’s something. Maverick trails his finger up Ice’s side, soothing the tense muscle. A slight tremble rakes through the omega’s otherwise pliant body. Maverick slides his hand up the length of Ice’s torso to cup lightly at his jaw.
“Mav?” Ice's voice shakes, his eyes peering open. He’s confused again, lip pushed out in a pout. It’s cute, if Maverick can manage to forget about the uh - the everything, that’s led them to this moment.
But he can’t forget, so the spell is broken. He pulls his leg over Ice and lays down beside him, close enough to still touch but he leaves space for the omega to retreat if the contact’s not wanted. Maverick returns his hand to Ice’s face, and then draws it down to scruff gently at the back of Ice’s neck, hoping to comfort.
“Don’t!” Ice yelps, contorting away and throwing his hands up to cup at the skin. His eyes are screwed shut in pain, another wave of distress floats through the room. It makes Maverick’s pulse jump, so he scoots forward to get a better look. Ice is still clutching his own neck, trembling as he breathes heavily through his nose.
“Hey there Tomcat,” Maverick tries to soothe, “Let me see.” He manages to pry Ice’s hands away, revealing a very deliberately placed bite right across the scruff of Ice’s neck. That flare of anger sparks inside him for what feels like the twentieth time already tonight.
“What the fuck?” Maverick growls, and then winces as Ice whines. He’s gotta get his head together, he can’t lose it here. Ice has been through enough as it is, Maverick’s got to focus.
But seriously, what the fuck?!
Biting an omega, an unmated one at that, has always been taboo. Everyone knows that. It’s forced submission in the worst way, painful and humiliating. It used to be a punishment. Bite an omega in a place it’ll stick, an ongoing reminder of how bad they’ve been. The mark, Maverick’s assuming Cain’s mark, will last for days, maybe even weeks. It’s fucked up all six ways to Sunday, which is why alphas don’t do this sort of shit anymore.
He closes his eyes and tries to keep it together. He just feels so bad for Ice, his heart is physically aching. He settles back down, this time running his thumb ever so lightly across the scruff. Ice doesn’t yelp this time, but he’s still tense.
“Maverick,” Ice says after a while, meeting him with eyes filled with tears. “Will you-” He hiccups, “Just do it, okay?”
Maverick blinks, confused. His mind works backwards, trying to figure out what the omega’s asking for. He looks back to Ice and when he sees the fear in his eyes, he thinks of Cain and.
Oh.
“I’m not,” Maverick gasps, reaching out to grip his hand. “Ice, Jesus Christ. I just said that to get you out of there!”
“But,” Ice shakes his head, “He said that- I have to.”
“Forget about that asshole,” Maverick growls, shifting his weight forward until he can properly fold Ice into his arms. It’s awkward, Ice is still tense and shaking, and unfortunately naked. Shit, he’s probably cold. Maverick reaches down and pulls a sheet over Ice’s body, tucking it so that the omega can wrap it around himself, a thin barrier between their bodies but a barrier nonetheless.
“You don’t have to do anything,” Maverick says as he settles them into a more comfortable position. “It’s over. You did a good job, but it’s done. No more.”
“Oh,” Ice blinks. And then promptly bursts into tears, burying his face forward into Maverick’s chest, heaving with sobs. Wrapping the omega, shaking and miserable but finally safe, is the easiest thing Maverick’s ever had to do. Maverick reaches to flick the lamp off, and then grips Ice tighter. He drops a kiss to the omega’s forehead, and starts to rub circles across the flat of his back, hoping to bring him even a moment of peace.
“Maverick,” Ice whispers, sometime later, bringing him back to consciousness. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but his head is fucking pounding. He feels a moment of sympathy for Hollywood and the rest because, seriously, what were in those fucking drinks?
“Ya-huh?” Maverick says, drooling a little into Ice’s shoulder.
“What was Wood talking about earlier, in the bathroom?” Ice asks, toying with the bed sheet still clinging to his body. Maverick scrunches his eyebrows as he tries to remember the conversation. He was so focused on Ice that he sorta forgot Hollywood was even there.
“He said something about a word,” Ice prompts. And oh, that helps.
“Yeah, mayday,” Maverick yawns, the pull of sleep so tempting he can barely resist. “The word on the invite.”
“I don’t get it,” Ice says in a high voice, shaky and needy. It sends Maverick’s heartbeat skyrocketing upwards, the implications slamming him awake faster than a bucket of freezing water would.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Maverick gasps, twisting so he can look Ice in the eyes. It’s dark in the room, but Maverick’s got a pilot’s vision. He can see the confusion, the fear. Ice shakes his head no, and then starts to worry his lip between his teeth.
So. That explains a lot. The joke Cain didn’t let them in on. The uneasy, misplaced confidence from the others. Cougar’s twitchiness, Wood’s growing anxiety. Cain never gave Ice the safe word, and he made sure the rest of them would be too drunk to notice.
Maverick blows out a heavy breath. He’s tired. Bone weary, disgusted, enraged, scared, but mostly just so fucking tired. Ice is still drunk (or drugged, probably drugged). His eyes still have that haze over them, and he’s moving slow, reaction time dulled and sedated.
Maverick should tell him. A better man would give Ice the truth of what happened here tonight. But would a better alpha? The now familiar urge to protect roars to life in Maverick. He should tell him, but it’s not like it will change anything. Won’t do Ice any good. Won’t take back the last six hours, won’t erase the violation, the pain, the fear. Maverick wants to be a good man, but for tonight, the most he can do is be a good alpha.
“Mav?” Ice’s voice is small.
Maverick sighs one last time and drops a kiss to Ice’s cheek, rearranging them so that they’re back into a more comfortable position. He wraps Ice tight in his arms, moving his hands low to grip tightly in a possessive, lover’s hold. Ice struggles for a moment, but the fight goes out of him as quick as it came. He makes a small noise. A whine but not an unhappy one. Content, even.
Maverick closes his eyes, and he hopes Ice does too.
“Don’t worry about it.”