Chapter Text
The mornings at Miramar never froze.
They cooled.
A low marine layer drifted in from the coast before sunrise, settling over the base and the quiet neighborhoods around it like it wasn’t sure where it belonged. The air carried a damp chill—enough to make skin prickle, not enough to justify complaining. Jackets came out of closets. Windows stayed cracked open just a little longer than usual.
Inside the house, life moved gently.
Maverick sat on the living room floor, one hand braced against the couch cushion, the other guiding a small plastic jet through an invisible sky. His movements were careful—not slow, exactly, but deliberate in the way people got when they carried weight they couldn’t put down.
“Easy,” he murmured, adjusting the angle of the toy. “You pull up like that, you’re gonna lose speed.”
Jake didn’t listen.
He rammed another toy into Maverick’s plane with a delighted shriek and laughed so hard he tipped sideways.
Bradley sat cross-legged nearby with a coloring book open on his lap. He’d chosen blue for the sky and green for the ground and was now coloring neither with any real urgency. He glanced up at the crash, frowned, then looked back down.
“That’s not how planes fly,” Bradley said, serious.
Maverick smiled. “You’re right. That’s… absolutely not how they fly.”
Jake crawled over Maverick’s leg, oblivious.
Ice watched from the kitchen doorway, coffee cooling in his hand. He stayed there longer than necessary. He always did when things looked like this.
Maverick on the floor instead of the couch because sitting too long made his back ache now. Bradley close enough to lean into him if he wanted to. Jake moving through the room like it belonged to him.
This—this was what Ice carried with him when he left.
Not the rank.
Not the mission.
This.
“You’re going to regret sitting like that,” Ice said mildly.
Maverick didn’t look up. “I regret a lot of things.”
Ice raised an eyebrow.
Maverick sighed and shifted, easing himself back against the couch with a quiet grunt. “Fine. I regret almost sitting like that.” Ice crossed the room and pressed a kiss to Maverick’s hair, lingering longer than usual.
“I’ll be gone a while,” Ice said quietly.
Maverick looked up. “How long is ‘a while’?”
Ice hesitated. “A month. Maybe less, if the rotation moves fast.”
Maverick’s jaw tightened just slightly. “And if it doesn’t.”
“Then longer,” Ice said honestly.
Bradley looked up. “Uncle Ice go far?”
“Yes,” Ice replied, kneeling to his level. “Far enough.”
Bradley nodded. “Okay.”
Jake crawled over and grabbed Ice’s pant leg.
“Papa,” he said, already unhappy.
Ice lifted him without hesitation.
“Yes,” he murmured. “Papa’s going.”
Jake pressed his face into Ice’s collar and stayed there.
Ice held him longer than necessary.
“I’ll call when I can,” Ice said to Maverick. “No promises on when.”
“I know,” Maverick replied. “Just… try.”
Ice nodded.
He didn’t say goodbye like it was a goodbye.
That was how they survived it.
The days without Ice stretched into a rhythm Maverick already knew.
Mornings slowed. Afternoons blurred. The house felt bigger when Ice wasn’t there, rooms echoing just a little too much.
Maverick filled the hours with routine.
Snacks. Naps. Quiet games that didn’t require bending too far or standing too long. Jake slept on the couch with one sock missing. Bradley stayed close—not clinging, just present.
That afternoon, Maverick sat at the kitchen table sorting mail he didn’t have the energy to open. His lower back ached—a dull, constant pressure that had become familiar. He shifted, grimacing.
Bradley climbed onto the chair beside him.
“You tired,” Bradley said.
Maverick smiled faintly. “Yeah. A little.”
Bradley nodded and slid his coloring book closer.
“You can sit,” he offered.
Maverick swallowed. “Thanks, buddy.”
Outside, the marine layer finally burned off, sunlight spilling in like it didn’t know what it had missed.
The call came just after dinner.
Maverick was halfway through negotiating one more bite with Jake when his phone buzzed on the counter.
Unknown number.
His stomach tightened.
“Hello,” he said.
“Captain Mitchell?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Tina. I’m Carol’s caregiver.”
Maverick stood so fast his chair scraped loudly.
“What’s wrong,” he asked.
There was a breath on the other end. Steady, practiced.
“She’s been moved to the ICU,” Tina said. “The doctors are concerned. They think… it may only be a few days.”
Maverick gripped the counter.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
“I’m sorry,” Tina added quietly.
“I’m coming,” Maverick said. “Thank you.”
He ended the call.
Bradley was watching him.
“Mav,” he said softly. “What happened?”
Maverick swallowed. “Your mom’s very sick.”
Bradley nodded, absorbing that. “We go see her?”
“Yes,” Maverick said. “We will.”
Jake banged his spoon. “More.”
Maverick’s hands trembled.
He ignored it.
The pain started quietly.
At first, Maverick thought it was just another contraction—sharp, uncomfortable, familiar. He breathed through it, wiping Jake’s hands, steadying himself on the counter.
Then it came again.
Stronger.
Lower.
“No,” Maverick whispered. “Not now.”
Bradley noticed immediately.
“Mav?”
“I’m okay,” Maverick said too fast. “Just— sit down, okay?”
The third contraction stole his breath completely.
He gasped, folding forward.
Blood followed.
Not much at first.
Then enough.
“Mav,” Bradley cried. “You’re bleeding.”
Maverick looked down.
“Okay,” he said shakily. “Okay. We need help.”
The first thing Maverick noticed was his breathing.
Too fast.
Too shallow.
Like his chest couldn’t decide how much air it needed.
He lay on his side on the cool tile, one hand braced against the cabinet, the other hovering uselessly near the dark stain spreading beneath him. Another contraction tore through him—low, crushing, stealing the breath straight out of his lungs.
“Okay,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Okay—just—okay.”
Bradley knelt beside him, small hands curled into fists that shook.
“Stay,” Bradley said, voice cracking. “Please stay.”
“I’m here,” Maverick forced out. “I’m not—going—anywhere.”
Jake cried from the kitchen doorway, sharp and panicked, his whole body hitching.
“Dad hurt!” he screamed. “Dad hurt!”
Bradly quickly reached for the phone with trembling fingers and hit speaker.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
"M-my uncle.. i-is... blood." Bradley panicked.
“I’m bleeding,” Maverick said, breath hitching between the pain. “I’m pregnant. I’m having contractions.”
“Okay,” the operator replied, steady and clear. “Sir, I’m here with you. How far along are you?”
“Seven months,” Maverick answered immediately. “Just over.”
“Thank you. Is the bleeding coming from the birth canal?”
“Yes,” Maverick gasped as another contraction hit. “It’s—getting worse.”
“Alright. Help is on the way. I need you to stay where you are. Don’t try to stand. Are there children with you?”
“Yes,” Maverick said. “Two. Four and two.”
“Okay. Keep them close but give yourself space. I want you to focus on breathing with me.”
Maverick tried. The pain rolled again, sharper, closer together.
“I can’t—” He broke off with a cry.
“You’re doing it,” the operator said firmly. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You’re not alone.”
Bradley hovered, eyes huge.
“Mav,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
“I know,” Maverick said, voice shaking. “You’re doing great.”
The knock came hard and fast.
Then the house filled with movement.
Two paramedics were suddenly there—red jackets, calm voices, hands that moved quickly and confidently.
“Sir, I’m right here,” one said, already kneeling. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Maverick gasped.
“Okay. Oxygen on. Let’s assess.”
Another contraction hit. Maverick cried out despite himself.
Jake wailed. “Dad! Dad!”
Bradley wrapped his arms around Jake, holding him tight.
“Dad go hospital,” Jake sobbed.
The paramedics worked fast—IV lines, blood pressure, gentle but firm pressure applied.
“Bleeding is significant,” one said quietly. “Pressure’s dropping.”
“We’re transporting,” the other replied. Then, turning to the boys, softer: “I’m going to stay right here with you, okay?”
Bradley blinked. “You stay?”
“Yes,” she said. “I won’t leave you.”
Relief hit Bradley so hard his knees wobbled.
As Maverick was lifted onto the stretcher, he turned his head weakly toward the boys.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “Okay?”
Jake thrashed. “No! Dad no!”
“I will,” Maverick said, tears slipping free. “I promise.”
The doors closed.
Sirens rose.
And then Maverick was gone.
The paramedic stayed with the boys, sitting on the floor at their level.
“You’re safe,” she said. “Help is coming.”
Bradley nodded, tears quiet now. Jake hiccupped, clinging.
“Dad hospital,” Jake said.
“Yes,” she replied. “Dad’s at the hospital.”
She spoke into her radio. “Attempting emergency contact: partner, Tom Kazansky.”
Pause.
“Negative contact. On mission.”
“Secondary: Ron Kerner.”
Another pause.
“Unavailable. Same mission.”
She exhaled. “Contact base. Request next listed guardians.”
The knock came again not long after.
The paramedic opened the door. Bradley run and burst into tears. “Uncle Wolf!” he cried. Wolfman dropped to his knees instantly, arms open. Bradley ran straight into him.
“We’re here,” Wolfman said, holding him tight. “We’ve got you.”
Hollywood scooped Jake up without hesitation. “Hey, buddy,” he murmured. “It’s okay.” Jake buried his face into Hollywood’s shoulder. “Dad gone.”
“I know,” Hollywood said softly. “We’ll go see him.”
Bradley clutched Wolfman’s jacket. “Is Mav gonna die?”
Wolfman swallowed. “They’re taking good care of him. We’re going to the hospital now.”
Bradley nodded.
He didn’t let go.
In the ambulance, Maverick drifted in and out.
“Birth canal bleeding ongoing,” someone said.
“Pressure’s still low.”
“Hang another line.”
Maverick’s mind clawed for one name.
“Ice,” he whispered, breaking. “Ice—”
Bright doors burst open.
Hands took over.
“Seven months, heavy bleeding, frequent contractions—”
“Get OB. Now.”
Another contraction ripped through him.
“Ice,” Maverick gasped, tears spilling freely. “Ice, please—”
The lights blinded him.
The world narrowed.
And everything else fell away.
The doors burst open into light.
Not the warm kind—white, clinical, relentless. The stretcher rolled fast, wheels rattling against the floor, voices layering over one another in practiced urgency that sounded calm only because it had to.
“Seven months, male omega,” someone said.
“Active contractions.”
“Significant bleeding from the birth canal.”
“Blood pressure trending down.”
Maverick tried to lift his head.
Hands pressed him back gently.
“Don’t move,” a voice said near his ear. “We’ve got you.”
The ceiling lights blurred into a long, continuous stripe. Each contraction came closer than the last, crashing low and hard, pulling a sound out of him that he didn’t recognize as his own.
“I need—” he gasped. “My partner—”
“We’re calling him,” another voice replied. “Focus on breathing.”
He tried.
In through his nose.
Out through his mouth.
The rhythm fell apart the moment the pain hit again.
“Okay,” he sobbed. “Okay—please—”
They turned a corner.
The room shifted.
Someone pulled back the sheet.
“Bleeding’s increased.”
“Get OB down here. Now.”
A hand squeezed his.
“Maverick,” a woman said calmly. “I’m Dr. Hayes. I need you to stay with me, alright?”
He nodded weakly.
She leaned closer. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer if you can. If you can’t, squeeze my hand.”
He squeezed.
“How far along?”
“Seven—” He swallowed. “Seven months.”
“Any complications before today?”
“No,” he whispered. “Everything was fine.”
Another contraction slammed into him. He cried out, body tensing despite the hands trying to keep him still.
“Okay,” Dr. Hayes said steadily. “Okay. You’re doing exactly what you need to do.”
Maverick laughed weakly at that. “Doesn’t—feel—like it.”
“I know,” she said. “But you are.”
Time stretched into something thin and sharp.
Monitors beeped.
Curtains rustled.
Someone called out numbers that didn’t mean anything to Maverick except that the tone changed when they said them.
His vision tunneled.
“I feel—” He broke off, breath hitching. “I feel cold.”
“Blanket,” someone said immediately.
Warmth pressed down over him, but it didn’t reach all the way inside.
“Maverick,” Dr. Hayes said again. “Listen to me. We’re concerned about the amount of bleeding.”
He nodded faintly.
“My baby,” he whispered. “Is—”
“We’re monitoring the fetal heart rate,” she said gently. “Right now, it’s not as strong as we’d like.”
Panic flared, sharp and blinding.
“No,” Maverick breathed. “No—please—”
“Hey,” she said firmly, squeezing his hand. “Look at me.”
He tried. Failed. Tried again.
“We’re doing everything we can,” she said. “But I need you to stay with us, okay?”
He nodded, tears spilling freely now.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Hands worked at his sides.
Cuffs tightened.
Lines were added.
“Pressure’s still low.”
“Bleeding ongoing.”
“Contractions every two minutes.”
Maverick stared at the ceiling.
“Ice,” he whispered.
No answer.
He swallowed hard.
“Ice,” he said again, louder this time. “Please—”
Another contraction hit, and he cried out, the sound tearing free of his chest.
“Ice,” he sobbed. “I need you.”
Dr. Hayes leaned over him again. “We’re still trying to reach your partner.”
“He’s—” Maverick gasped. “He’s on mission.”
She nodded once. “I understand.”
The fetal monitor let out a sound that wasn’t like the others.
A dip.
Maverick froze.
“What—” he whispered. “What was that?”
Dr. Hayes didn’t lie.
“That was a deceleration,” she said carefully. “It means the baby’s stressed.”
Fear punched the air out of him.
“No,” he said. “No—no—”
“We’re watching closely,” she continued. “If it doesn’t recover, we may need to act quickly.”
Maverick collapsed back against the bed, sobbing.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please—”
Another contraction ripped through him.
He screamed.
“Ice,” he cried, voice breaking completely. “Ice—where are you—”
His fingers clenched around the sheets.
“Ice,” he whispered.
“Ice.”
“Ice, please.”
The room hummed around him—voices, machines, movement—but all of it faded beneath the sound of his own breathing and the name he kept calling like a lifeline.
“Ice,” Maverick sobbed again.
And this time, there was nothing left in the word but need.