#GOOSE LIIIIIIIIIVES

[xiaokuer-schmetterling]

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✨🎧🎙️😎💙

https://www.tumblr.com/xiaokuer-schmetterling/786421085505814528/podlet-22-is

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Goose on the Loose: Mission Makeout (An unauthorized romantic military operation—and possibly a war crime) 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

(This is part of my pride month series)

Nick "Goose" Bradshaw had faced down MiGs, diaper duty, survived Mach 2 flat spins, and once ate gas station sushi on a dare. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for this. For them.

He slammed his locker shut with the force of a thousand repressed sighs. "That’s it. I’m done. I can’t anymore."

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, his best friend, his brother in all but blood, his tragically dense pilot, had once again spent ten minutes in the locker room having what could only be described as a foreplay argument with Tom "Iceman" Kazansky.

It had begun with “You’re dangerous,” had dipped briefly into “you’ve got no discipline,” and ended in a slow-motion towel snap that could get someone pregnant.

Goose was losing it.

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At home, Goose paced the living room, baby Bradley gurgling happily in Carole’s arms. She hummed as she rocked the baby, her gaze warm and patient.

“I’m telling you, babe—it’s not just me! They stare! They compliment insult each other! They even checked out each other's asses in formation!”

Carole—his radiant, patient goddess of a wife—handed him a mug of coffee and waited for the rant she knew was incoming.

“It’s like Top Gun: Pride and Prejudice out there, Carole,” he said, throwing himself into a chair. “They eye each other like it’s a duel. A slow burn duel. I saw Ice check out Mav’s ass today. Twice. Once during warm-ups, and again when Mav dropped his pen. It’s like they’re flirting through gritted teeth.”

Carole blinked. “You sure they’re not just rivals?”

Goose leaned in, whispering urgently: “They almost kissed in the locker room. Like, noses-brushed kind of kiss. That’s not a rivalry. That’s a crisis of repressed sexual longing!”

Carole, ever the battlefield nurse to Goose’s emotional triage, just nodded. “Honey, are you saying you want Maverick and Iceman to… kiss it out?”

“I want them to stop staring! Or start doing something! For the love of Kenny Loggins!”

Carole chuckled. “Sounds like you need a team.”

That was the night Goose snapped. Maverick and Iceman were clearly locked in a Cold War of Lust, and by God, he was going to end it.

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And Carole was right, Goose couldn't do it alone. He needed a team.

He knew just the guys for the job. Oh yeah. It was on.

Operation: Mission Makeout

Initiated at 0800 hours.

The first recruits were easy.

Slider, Iceman’s long-suffering RIO, sighed and said, “Finally.”

Hollywood and Wolfman high-fived.

Sundown muttered, “I knew those locker room vibes weren’t just sweat.”

And Chipper? He just whispered, “Bless you, Goose,” like a man finally freed.

They commandeered a conference room no one ever used and built a war board.

Photos. Incidents. A string connecting Maverick’s locker to Iceman’s bunk with a red thumbtack labeled “THE TENSION ZONE.”

A corkboard was wheeled in. Lines of red yarn were pinned between shirtless volleyball photos and the word “TENSION” written in all caps.

“I’ve seen it too,” said Hollywood grimly. “That time in the hangar, they locked eyes over a wrench. I think I heard music.”

“Slider and I saw them lean in too close. It was like watching a telenovela,” added Wolfman, clutching a margarita and distant trauma.

Chipper held up a diagram labeled IceMav Situation Escalation. “They keep almost kissing during flight checks. The danger is increasing.”

Goose slapped the board. “Then it’s time. Operation: Makeout is a go.”

Plan A: Get them alone together.

Result: They talked. About maneuvers. While slowly unzipping flight suits.

Plan B: Accidental karaoke duet of “Take My Breath Away.”

Result: They made eye contact. Then fled in opposite directions.

Plan C: Lock them in a supply closet.

Result: They played hangman on a clipboard and emerged looking even more sexually frustrated.

The squad was losing hope. Nothing worked.

The tension only grew.

At one point, Slider swore the air between them was physically vibrating.

“We’re gonna die of secondhand horniness,” Hollywood groaned, downing a shot of something neon green.

Goose look at his friends, all tired and mentally drained. “Let's go get drunk”

Everyone cheer.

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That’s when Carole intervened.

She found them at the O-Club, mid-spiral, nursing cocktails and heartbreak. Carole sipped her cocktail like a war general watching fools fumble the mission.

“You need to stop pushing them together,” she said. “You need to make them jealous.”

Goose blinked. “Jealous?”

“Yeah. Get under their skin. Make them act. Don’t be Cupid. Be the other guy.”

It was wildly unstrategic.

It wasn’t even on their corkboard.

But desperation is the mother of absurd.

Goose’s eyes narrowed. “You brilliant, beautiful genius.”

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The next week, Sundown pretended to flirt with Maverick. Maverick’s eyes darted to Iceman, who was suddenly training alone shirtless for no reason.

Slider “accidentally” kissed Iceman’s cheek in front of Maverick. Maverick didn’t blink for thirty-two full seconds.

Goose faked an injury so Carole could get close to Iceman and thank him for “being such a good friend to Nicky.” Maverick short-circuited.

Goose had seen the signs all week: Maverick flexed his fists whenever Slider got any closer than necessary to Iceman, clenched his jaw whenever Wolfman laughed flirtatiously at something Tom said (Goose was worried about Maverick's molars).

Oh yeah. Carole was right. It was only a matter of time before something happened. Anything. Goose would be happy with something as basic as not having to watch Tom check Maverick's ass at least five times a day.

Then… it happened.

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On an ordinary day, as Goose, Slider, Hollywood and Wolfman were returning to the locker room after a hop, they heard it:

There was a scream—possibly Chipper—and then silence.

Everyone ran, worried that something serious had happened, what they found was Sundown crouching down, holding his head in his hands, muttering something about pale assess and emotionally stupid pilots.

Chipper was leaning against the wall, pale and barely holding on, saying, over and over again, "I just wanted to grab my towel. Just the towel. How was I supposed to know Maverick was going to explode and get all territorial over Iceman? Oh man, I'm never going to be able to use that towel again.”

Then the sound of a locker slamming open, bodies colliding, and finally, finally—

Kissing.

Passionate, triumphant, emotionally overdue kissing.

They emerged looking starstruck, glistening, and joined at the hip like a slightly homoerotic centaur.

Maverick was grinning like a cat who got the milk, his hair completely disheveled, his lips swollen, his neck looking like it had been attacked by a vampire, covered in love bites.

(Iceman was a biter. Good to know)

Iceman, for his part, looked absolutely smug, his lips red, his eyes bright, his clothes disheveled, a very subtle semi, and an aura of complete peace.

He was the embodiment of a man in love.

Everyone stood frozen, staring at Maverick and Iceman like ghosts, and then...

Screams, hugs, backslapping, and high fives. They did it, the mission was a success.

Slider lifted Goose onto his shoulders, Hollywood kissed Wolfman passionately, Sundown cried with joy, and Chipper told Maverick and Iceman they had to buy him new towels. Expensive ones. He deserved it.

Peace, they thought, had returned.

They were wrong.

Now Maverick sat on Iceman’s lap during briefings. Iceman casually bit Maverick’s neck during fuel checks. They made out in storage closets and hung signs reading Occupied – Danger Zone.

“HE CALLED HIM HIS ‘BELOVED MENACE’,” Wolfman whispered, eyes haunted.

Goose downed his whiskey. “We won the war, but at what cost?”

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Years later, life was good, and the Flyboys were immune to IceMav's displays of love (and the occasional moment where someone would walk into a room to find Iceman bending Maverick in half and doing things to his ass). A lot of therapy was involved, but they were happy.

The Class of ’86, all admirals now, gathered at IceMav’s beachside house. They’d survived war, love, therapy, and at least three closet incidents involving caution tape.

That's when they saw it, almost in slow motion…

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw chatted casually with Jake “Hangman” Seresin across the grill. The air crackled. Meat sizzled with tension.

Hollywood dropped his beer. “Oh God. It’s happening again.”

Goose nodded solemnly. “It’s hereditary.”

Carole leaned back in her chair, sunglasses on, and smiled like a prophetess watching fate unfold.

Slider handed out tequila shots and a pamphlet titled "So Your Friend Is Being Emotionally Held Hostage By Sexual Tension: A Survival Guide".

They tried to warn Dagger Squad.

They tried.

But love… love always flies at Mach 10.5.

(Somewhere, in the distance, Great balls of fire plays on loop).