» » Takes place during the events of Chapter 30 « «
When I agreed to join Top Gun and fill in an empty seat for a fellow female aviator, I never knew what a dam I was bursting. I never once thought that the military was as blemished as the rest of the world; that you would be looked down on for being a girl. Dad was so good to me, always looking out for my well being. He was a storm of a man. A thunderclap resounded for every wrong step made in his presence. In the back of my mind, I understood that if the boys surrounding me ever upset me in any way, Daddy would bring holy fire down on their heads and fry them remorseful. I understood, and yet...I convinced myself that they liked me. That the second our class was tossed together, they had the decency to look past the border between our sexes, and appreciate me for who I am: a girl who loves the star-spangled banner and would circle the world on wings if she could. I worked harder than I ever have in my life to get in that class, to get here, in Top Gun...
Stirrups is right. Men can be mean, and think they know better, but any human is capable of pride and ignorance. I suppose I'm grateful to Dad for protecting me, and grateful to Stirrups for helping me see a less rose-gold reality. I only wish she could've been a little naive too; experience less hurt, suffered less.
At least I'm here. I'll be her look out now. I might not be able to throw punches like Maverick did to Dash, but...it's like Mom always said:
The world is my onion.
She had a way of rearranging phrases. It drove my Dad crazy.
But she was right — about the onion. My eyes are fingers of their own, peeling back layers of whatever I see. I don't remember a time when I didn't see three levels deeper than the surface. There has always been a magnifying glass in my heart; it can unravel the densest novel and the most bitter of people. As a child, I used to stare at practically every little thing. Stars, moon, and sun, the ocean, pebbles, and moss, humans and animals alike. The world is my onion.
Little did I know that moving to Miramar would peel back a layer of my own life.
I wilted at the prospect.
My roots ripped up? What else was I to do but go cold and gray.
I did what I could to bring myself to life again. Dad alone kept my very center blood red. Honor, duty, courage. I spoke his words to myself on the flight to Miramar. I've spoken them to myself since he passed. In the dark of night, I sometimes have the strength to whisper each one to the breeze, hoping he'll tell it to the sea and they will ride together, the three of them, on the backs of the crystalline waves to the moon. I fall asleep thinking of my father collecting a million glittering whispers from the cratered surface. I wish he could send me some whispers of his own...but that's not how it works with death. He takes you away, and he gives you something to make you forget before. Those on Earth are cursed with remembering.
How painful it is, to know something you can never have.
But, how wonderful, to have many somethings right here, right now.
Wordsmith though I may be, I'm not half the poet required to put into verse the love I feel for my Top Gun family. My Charlie, Stirrups, Maverick, Goose and Carol and their little Bradley. How to begin to say what it feels like, to have each of them in my life? A shock. An electric jolt the second I peeled the first layer of my onion. Six. Six godsends? Overwhelming. Like too many gifts under the tree. Shiny, red and gold and warm. And you want them but you're unable to move your feet because they're all so perfect in a pack. You're nervous, but you aren't scared, because you want what's there for you. The shiny exterior and the let downs they obscure. People are presents of the best sort and I've never known such beautiful people as the six I found in Miramar.
They're a gift I'll always hold dear.
And of course...there was the unexpected seventh gift.
Iceman.
Funny how when we met, it was like we were two chips off the same brick; pieces of the same puzzle. Two raindrops falling from the same cumulonimbus. It certainly felt like falling, locking eyes with him.
Water knew water at that moment. He was fascinated by another of his nature, who was free. Rain that can trickle and pour. Clouds sewing earth with pitter-patters only to reap their puddles. He's frozen. He cannot trickle, he cannot pour. A solid block that could only grind and groan out of frustration and wanting. I saw the winter in his soul; the sheets of ice, like a glacier, entombing him. Stirrups, Maverick, Goose, even Slider, dedicated as he is to Iceman, could not see. They don't peel onions with their eyes. They have to pick them up and feel the sting of tears to realize what they've got in their palm. I didn't have to hold him to see that he was more than his resume. Trophy pilot and playbook enthusiast...that's Iceman too, but that's the ice.
Underneath, I could see the man.
And for the first time in my life, I felt a symphony in my stomach.
It plays on cue.
A glance sets them off. Strings wailing to the rhythmic pulse of the percussion. They know how to swing the second he so much as breathes. It's a genre of music all but unknown to me. I've felt the ghost of it in my heart when reading. It's the sort of Jane Austen effect; the tingling desire that has every girl seeking their Mr. Darcy. All my life, in Ireland, in America, between the pages of Dickinson or in the cockpit, I've been silently searching for my Mr. Darcy. Wanting that feeling that Elizabeth Bennet has as they confess their love. Poetry puts it into words better than I could, and aviator poet though I may be, according to Stirrups, I feel unqualified in this department of love.
That is why I'm waiting.
Waiting for ice to break, before I dry up.
Stirrups convinced me to invite him to the barbecue, which thankfully worked without a hitch. It's no secret that the boys dislike Iceman. Hate him even...
But I like him.
And Goose and Maverick like me. Not as much as they like Stirrups. It's a bitter truth, to see your friends, closer knit than they are to you...but I understand. I feel the sting of it, but I know that they found her first. She found them first. I'm content to have what pieces of Goose and Maverick's hearts are left for giving. Maybe the reason I seek after Iceman is because I don't have to settle for leftovers. He's got a whole beating heart under that snow that's yet to be claimed...and he could be mine. Just mine.
I could be his.
When the time is right, I hum, sipping my Irish Coffee.
Goose and Maverick are still arguing with Stirrups about who won today's dogfight. I can't believe it myself, the way it all played out. We were in a perfect formation, ducks all in a row, and Iceman, having scored the role of caboose, had no one on his tail to shoot him down. A fortunate success. I giggle into my wrist as I mop the damp trail of my upper lip with my sleeve. Stirrups still claims that the boys lost, because they got buzzed, whereas Goose—
"Ice was the last man standing. That means he won. We—" His pinkie gestures towards Maverick, "Were his wing-men, which means we won."
"Correctamundo."
The voice catches my breath in a tight fist. Gasping, I tear my eyes from Goose's pinkie and glimpse the cue, pushing his way through the crowd. Right on schedule, I remark, as the symphony raises the first note of tonight's performance. My insides jingle like Christmas bells as Iceman flashes me a dazzling smile, two parts ego, one part vulnerability. Those two-thirds can't hide his genuine happiness from my onion peeling eyes.
"Ice!"
"Figured I'd find you all here. There was such a raucous, I thought..." Iceman makes a show of rubbing his chin inquisitively, "It's gotta be the Troublesome Trio."
Carol and I share a laugh.
Troublesome Trio.
And Ice says he's not a wordsmith.
From the corner of my eye, I see Stirrups lean forwards, a fierce look in her emerald eyes. "Excuse me but we're a Quartet."
Iceman holds fast, not once breaking eye contact. "Not after I ask her for a dance."
Halfway to my lips, my glass trembles in my hand. The earthquake spreads to my stomach. I feel as if I'm rattling the table. Barely able to breathe above a whisper, I ask, "You...want to dance?"
A simple yes would do, but Iceman isn't a 'yes' sort of guy. He's clever. Quick witted in ways I only wish I was. The wheels in my brain have one speed and that's tortoise. I crawl along, borderline ambling, piecing words together, examining, halting, I've rarely blurted a thing in my life. With age, I've learned to hurry it up. Not everyone is patient. School teachers taught me to cater towards quick thinkers by showing me the harsh reality of falling behind them. I hated school for it. I wrote poems about how hard it was. As a kid, no one I knew outside of my home took the time to listen to my silence. Stirrups was one of the first...followed by Goose, Maverick...
And Iceman.
"You like this song," he remembered— "Will you dance with me to it?"
The orchestra crescendos.
It's a battle of Beethoven-like mania and Journey's lovesick ballad.
For the first time in my life, I leap into action. On nimble feet, I hop over Stirrups' lap, trying not to jostle her. Iceman slides around the table and reaches out to help me down. My heart pitter-patters when our skin meets in the chaining of hands. His calloused palms grate against my baby-soft flesh, I once had calluses on my fingertips, back when I played the fiddle. It was my grandfathers. Ever since I stopped, my hands have become shea lotion again. Pale cream, easily scorched by the California sun. Even in Ireland, under the condensed clouds, I'd burn. It hurt then, and it hurts now, being burned by Iceman's hand, but it's a good sort of hurt. Like the aching of muscles, ready to grow back stronger. I grip Iceman's hand like my lifeline as he leads me to a bald spot on the dance floor and skillfully whirls me into his arms.
Beating hearts meeting.
Not even flesh and bone could hinder them from hearing the other.
The symphony fades, as most songs these days do, and Journey is all I hear.
Iceman gazes into my eyes as he guides both my hands behind his head.
I feel the fluttering echo of his fingertips as they fall down my arms to my waist. There they rest, warm and strong. It's almost embarrassing to be this close to him. Knowing the whole table can see us and are no doubt watching eagerly, or not so eagerly, in the case of everyone but Carol. Without glancing back at my friends, I know that Stirrups throwing knives into the back of Iceman's head with her eyes. She reminds me of that Southern phrase, regardless of her Alabama origins. A snake in a bonnet, but not because she's deceitful. Stirrups can't hope to be deceitful. Poor thing hates that everyone can read her heart in perfect lines across her face. My Stirrups is a bright green snake in a bonnet, pretty to those worthy, venomous to those who dare defy her. If it weren't for me, she would've sank those fangs into Iceman long ago.
Sure enough, I catch her eye.
Only, she's here, on the dance floor, wrapped in Maverick's arms.
She glares.
Iceman stiffens.
Giggling, I mouth a 'thank you' to Maverick who turns Stirrups' back towards us. Iceman's grip on my waist loosens once more, and we bow back into the flow of the music, rocking back and forth in unison.
"You're good at swaying," I tell him quietly.
He smirks, "Oh but not dancing?"
"This isn't dancing," I laugh, "We're just rocking back and forth. Sometimes we call something what it isn't: swaying a dance, you, ice — when really, you're a man. Men can be ice...but...you aren't..."
He seems confused.
I hesitate to recompute, but panic. What if I wait too long, and hurt his feelings?
"You're warm."
And this is why I don't blurt out my incomplete thoughts. Because without proper treatment, they're like unsalted meals. Distasteful and puzzling. I hang my head, hot in the face and too embarrassed to look him in the eye after all the nonsense I just poured out.
"You're warm too," Iceman murmurs, shifting me in his arms. Our legs press together. All of us presses together. A tremor plays on my spine like a mallet draws notes from a xylophone. I feel every ounce of Iceman's body heat seeping through the stitches of my casual clothes, through my pores, directly into my bloodstream. The red flow burns so hot, you'd think everyone in the bar could see my veins glowing. He thinks I'm warm...but by daring to utter such a thought, he's turned me so hot, I've passed the boiling point. A temperature. I'm running a temperature with this fever he's making me feel. We're swaying and the room is spinning but Iceman is still. I anchor myself to his hazel eyes.
"You...make me feel warm..." Iceman bites his lip before adding, "When I'm with you...I feel a lot of things and I've been thinking about you, and what I want—"
"The trophy?" I tease.
"Yes but — I can't guarantee I'll get it. I...I can't guarantee that if I did, that it would be worth the pain of wanting it."
He pauses.
He's stringing his words together, I realize.
He's doing what I do.
So I do what he does for me. Every time.
I wait.
His throat ripples as he gulps. "I wan — I need more than a trophy."
What could he possibly need more than the Top Gun Trophy and the respect of our entire class? A rhetorical question, of course. The answer is plain as day. It sits in his eyes. The same eyes that caress my flushed little face.
Now I know what he was saying to my brother that night...
Why they shook hands and smiled.
"So you did ask him."
"Who?"
"Brian...and he said yes..." He said yes, which means Iceman asked, which means Iceman wants this, like I want this, but I can't help but doubt, for safety's sake. "Are you sure?"
"Sure?" Iceman furrows his brow.
I smile softly, "That you don't want that trophy more?"
Iceman's brow smooths as he chuckles, lightly shaking his head. It droops at the slightest angle to better reach my height, but my untimely teasing weighs him down so that his hair tickles my forehead as he laughs. We continue to sway absentmindedly, even as Iceman's hands disappear from my waist and reappear around my face, his fingers splayed across my rosy cheeks. The gentle press of his palms are like a hug for my heart. It falters in its march and my eyes flutter shut.
"I want you..." I feel his breath on my nose. "I want to get to know you better, because I can't stop loving everything I know right now," Iceman heaves a sigh. Laughter rides on its back like dandelion puffs on a breeze. "Look at me, Casper...you've turned me into an addict. I'm hooked on the way you talk, think, are —"
"Should I reel you in, then?"
Iceman stops his lovely rambling. It's impossible to overlook the way his eyes have caught on my lips. Despite the queasy desperation in my stomach, I'm forced to admit the situation is mutual. We are quite frankly, hooked on one another; tethered together, and I'm not sure who is reeling in who as his hands draw my face forwards and mine force him down by the firm grip on his collar. My ears pop the moment I feel pink flesh against my mouth. It's a sudden onslaught of tingles. A torture device, engineered to fry the veins of the victim. Hot electric shocks pulse through my limbs. Ironic really, how my knees could shatter yet my hands would sooner be severed from my arms than release Iceman's shirt. I cling to the collar, choking the nape of his neck with it, the ridges of my white knuckles brushing the bare skin leading to his jaw everytime I shift my bodyweight. Even with Iceman bending, I must stand on the tips of my toes.
Not that I mind.
I couldn't mind anything less...if I had a mind to do it with.
All the brains have drained out of my ears. Iceman's arms are coming back around my waist, his tongue wandering the seam of my lips—
"Can you breathe alright?" Iceman pants.
"No."
His brow furrows in concern.
But I smile.
And he kisses me once more.
After we dance another two songs, bleeding from a molasses march to a tail shaking, head swinging beat, Iceman interlaces our hands and leads me back to my table, where four faces stare expectantly, painted an array of emotions. Giddy, smug, amused, unconvinced. Goose, I think with a laugh. My fellow Radar Officer barely glances at me before turning a withering stare towards the man attached to my hand. I peek at Iceman from the corner of my eye and find his expression too serious for all we've just done in fifteen minutes. It's a wonderful, feathery thought; that Ice can kiss me like that and just as easily stare down his opposition. Slick with sweat, our palms slide off one another, joined only by the crochet of our fingers. I give his hand an invisible squeeze. His large digits make it impossible for my hand to do much more than twitch.
"You be good to her, Iceman, or I'll murder you and make it look like an accident, you hear?"
No one laughs, except Ice, who chuckles but agrees to Goose's terms.
"If he does kill me, Mav," he drawls, shooting a bemused look to Stirrups' boyfriend, "Make sure to put on my grave, 'Killed by a Goose.'"
Everyone laughs at that.
We continue to laugh the rest of the evening.
When laughter is gone, and our party is staggering to the parking lot, alcohol pumped and sapped of energy, I feel the comfortable echo of it in the hollows of my ribs. Or maybe that's my heart. It seems to have grown twice its normal size since Iceman said all those things. Maybe I'll go home and write it all down.
"Hey, Ghost!"
Stirrups grins from across the parking lot, tucked under Maverick's arm.
She smirks. "Mav will give me a ride. See you at home."
"Have her home by 12!" Maverick hollers.
"You're drunk, Maverick!" Iceman bellows back.
The Troublesome Trio and Carol mount their bikes and roar all the way down the road, leaving Iceman and I to shuffle over to my trusty Jeep. I re-remind myself to jot down as much of Iceman's confession as I can recall. It doesn't have to be perfect. Art is never that way. Imperfections told imaginatively are by far superior to perfection. I'm sure if I worded it all in a poetic meter it wouldn't seem so jumbled and half forgotten.
A tap on the nose refocuses my vision like a camera's lens.
Iceman leans a shoulder against the Jeep.
"I know that face," He smiles, "What're you thinking about?"
"Writing a poem."
"About how handsome I am?"
"No," I laugh, "But I'm open to suggestions."
"I better see this poem, detailing my stunning looks and cleverness."
We reawaken laughter.
Crinkles form around the corners of Iceman's eyes. A smile stays frozen on his face as he dips forward, one hand coming up to skim my cheekbone. He's leaning in when I suddenly figure out the three words I've been needing to ask all evening...
"So what now?"
"Now..." Iceman whispers. "I kiss my girlfriend goodnight, and tell her to drive home safely, and tomorrow, I pick her up for our first date and hopefully...I don't screw it up."
Step by step, he fulfills his plan.
Beginning with a kiss.
"Goodnight," He murmurs against my lips.
I sigh a googly eyed, "Goodnight..."
Iceman holds the door as I slide into the front seat. I buckle in and key the ignition, overwhelming the slam of the door with the alarming howl of the engine. Iceman folds his arms over the edge of the open window. I turn to him, and he kisses me unexpectedly.
"You only mentioned one kiss."
"Amendment: I kiss my girlfriend twice goodnight."
Giggling I shift into drive.
"Drive safe," He calls, slowly backing away from the car.
"You too!"
Pulling out onto the road, I melt to my Frankie Valli tape. Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You cements itself in my bloodstream. Battling the urge to daydream for Iceman's sake — I did promise him I'd drive safe — I promise myself to do it tonight, while I lie awake in bed, tingly and permanently pink faced. I'll scribble poetry and ponder step three...