#pilot!reader

“That sounds like a yes,” another student muttered.

The class dissolved into snickering.

Ryland sighed dramatically, adjusting his glasses. “Okay. Everybody sit down before Ms. Mercer gets here, because I would like my fiancée to think I’m a competent professional.”

That got their attention instantly. Their young eyes

“You’re getting married?”

“You have a fiancée?”

“How old are you?”

“Mr. Grace has game?” Trevor whispered, horrified.

Ryland pointed at him. “Detention is always an option. And I will not have my game questioned,”

The classroom door opened before Trevor could respond and the room went dead silent.

Y/N Mercer stepped inside wearing a dark NASA flight jacket over black fatigues, sunglasses perched on your head despite the cloudy weather outside. You seemed to carry yourself with the easy confidence of someone who regularly flew experimental aircraft fast enough to liquefy the average middle school science teacher. Which, Ryland supposed, was part of the appeal.

“Wow,” one student breathed.You smiled immediately at the students Ryland had told you all about. Usually while complaining over their lab reports and mocked drawings, “Good morning.”

The entire class chorused a stunned, awkward, “Good morning.”

Ryland folded his arms, leaning against his desk with entirely too much satisfaction. “See? This is why I asked her instead of the accountant from down the hall.”

You shot him a look. “You told them I blow things up, didn’t you?”

“A little.”

“You are such a menace. I do not blow things up, you know that,”

“And yet,” he said, wiggling the engagement ring on his finger, “you said yes.”

A few kids made exaggerated gagging noises.

You laughed softly before setting your helmet bag down on the front table. “Okay, before your teacher embarrasses himself further, hi. I’m Y/N Mercer. I’m a test pilot working with NASA Amres Research center and the ESA joint program. Which means I fly aircraft and spacecraft prototypes before they’re approved for missions.”

A hand shot up immediately.“Yes?”

“Have you ever almost died?”

Ryland rubbed a hand over his face. “Ethan—”

“No, it’s okay,” You interrupted, grinning. “That’s actually a very fair question.” The class leaned forward collectively.

“Yes,” you admitted. Your job was risky more than most, and with it, the risks of coming home. But it didn’t make you love your job less, “Several times.”

A chorus of whoa filled the room and Ryland watched as you spoke, the same way he always did when you talked about flying. There was something different about her when you discussed it—something brighter. Sharper. Like every nerve in your body woke up at once.

You noticed Ryland staring, and looked to him with a raised eyebrow. “What?” You asked.

“You’re doing the voice.”

“The voice?”

“The pilot voice.”

The kids immediately latched onto that. There’s a pilot voice?”

Ryland nodded solemnly. “Oh yeah. It’s this very specific thing where she starts sounding cooler than me.”

You snorted. “That is not a difficult accomplishment, Mr. Grace,”

The students laughed.Ryland clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. Betrayed in my own classroom.”

One of the girls near the front raised her hand carefully. “Were you always good at math and science?”

Your expression softened immediately.“No,” you said honestly. “I had to work really hard at it. Especially physics. I was never good at all that stuff so I had to put in extra time,”

Ryland perked up. “See? Important life lesson. Your brains are all squishy and adaptable. Neuroplasticity.”

“Mr. Grace,” Trevor said, “nobody knows what that means.”

“It means,” you translated smoothly, “your teacher is a nerd.”

“THANK you.”

“And he talks like a Discovery Channel documentary when he gets excited.”

Ryland pointed at you accusingly, “You love that about me.”

“I tolerate it affectionately.”

The kids were grinning now, completely invested.One student raised his hand slowly. “So… how did you guys meet?”

Ryland immediately answered, “She insulted me.”

You looked to him with an offended look, “I did not insult you.”

“You called my lecture ‘painfully enthusiastic.’”

“It was painfully enthusiastic.”

“You said I moved around like a caffeinated flamingo.”

“You do.”

The class burst into laughter. Ryland shook his head. “Anyway, I was giving a guest lecture for a NASA outreach program—”

“And he accidentally spilled coffee on himself in front of like fifty people,” you immediately added.

“It was one time.”

“He tried to pretend it didn’t happen.”“

I thought if I ignored it, everyone else would too.

“You literally had coffee dripping off your elbow.”

The students were wheezing now, filled with young giggles.

You smiled at him then, softer this time. Real. It still amazed you even now how you’re ended up together. You both were rather polar opposites. You were an adrenaline junkie, the very definition of an extrovert. While Ryland was….very much not. But it didn’t make you love him any less.

You two found a balance in each other.And that smile you always gave him, that look in your eyes, it always caught him off guard a little. Like somehow you still hadn’t realized you could do better. Because you knew you couldn’t—though Ryland always disagreed.

One of the quieter students near the windows raised her hand carefully. “What’s it like? Flying, I mean.” The room quieted.

You leaned back against the desk slightly, thinking. “It’s…” you paused. “Imagine you spend your whole life looking up at the sky. And then one day somebody hands you the keys.” The room stayed silent, even Ryland as you spoke.

In all honesty, it was impossible to describe the feeling. But you did your best anyways, “And the first time you break through the clouds,” you continued quietly, “you realize the world is so much bigger than you thought it was.”

A few kids stared at you with wide eyes.

Ryland smiled a little to himself. There it was again. That thing you did. Making people believe they could touch the stars.

Trevor finally broke the silence.“…That’s so cool.”

You grinned at him, “Don’t tell your teacher I can be cool. He’ll get competitive.”

~

“Eye movement detected.”

A strange voice filled your ears. Your eye lids twitched but couldn’t move more than a few flickers. Where were you? What was happening?

You tried to move, but nothing cooperated. Not your fingers, toes. Nothing. Was anything broken? It didn’t feel like it. There was a lot of uncomfortable sensations of tubes coming in and out of you, but besides that it seemed to be the extent.

“What is two plus two?”

The robotic voice filled your head again as your eyebrows furrow slightly in response. God your head was killing you. Can you tell the voice to shut up for two seconds?

“Shjskmmmm mmmppp”

You try to tell the voice just that, but it seemed nothing wanted to work, which really on frustrated you more. Which using that frustration you were able to twitch your fingers. Then your toes. Good. This was good.

”Incorrect. What is two plus two,”

This happened several more times before you were able to get the number out. The robot then asked you another question you couldn’t be bothered to answer.

Consciousness pulled you in and out a few times. Your eyes had opened the second time and the light was cruelly bright. The third time you were able to open your eyes you were able to move. Which had been a relief.

But it didn’t help the fact that your limbs felt like jello. Disregarding the robot arm trying to keep you in bed, your arms lift you sitting up before rolling over and out of bed. You let out a cry of pain feeling the tubes pulling out of you, quickly though not necessarily painlessly.

You quickly realized that it had been some sort of tube and…..catheter.

Ouch.

Your body shook as you rolled slightly, trying to escape the sensation, trying to get away from everything attached to you. Little streaks of flood covering the floor and from your IVs.

The room didn’t stop you. It seemed to simply watch you. Something else though, filled your ears beyond the hum of the room.

Footsteps. Real. Heavy. Careful.

Your head snapped up instinctively, vision was still blurred with tears, but you saw him.

A figure.

Human-shaped. Standing at a distance, like he was afraid to approach too quickly. Wrapped in what looked like a sheet, face half shaved. He looked terrifying.

He didn’t move closer. He just stopped. Hands slightly raised, palms open. But his expression was relieved. Why did he look relieved?

“Hey,” he said softly, “Hi. God, thank god you’re alive. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to wake up. But here you are!” He said, breathing out.

But your throat locked as panic surged again, sharper now.

You pushed herself backward on the floor, shaking your head weakly as your back hit one of the curved walls of the room.

The man didn’t follow, safely keeping his distance and you stared at him, breathing hard, trying to force your voice to work. Your chest tightened painfully as you worked your voice up.

“Who—” you tried. You really did. But it broke halfway. Your face twisted with frustration and fear.

The man’s expression softened, like he understood what you were going through. Did he?

“Who…” you tried gain, throat dry and rough, “who are you….”

“I….i don’t know. I was kinda hoping…” he said gently, carefully choosing every word, “I was kinda hoping you would know that..”

The reality of his words hit you like bricks, and panic settled in your stomach at the realization.

*************

You sat in the Hard Deck, nursing your beer and playing pool with Phoenix when the bell chimed.

You glanced up and saw the Texan himself walk in, hat on and everything.

“Hangman, what the hell are you wearing?” Phoenix asked, leaning on her cue. You looked him up and down, chuckling when you heard his response, “I wear this all the time.” His accent had gotten thicker after visiting his family.

You had all just visited your families for Christmas. It was only two weeks but it had given you all plenty of time to slip back into your old accents.

“Nice buckle, Bagman,” Rooster commented, obviously teasing the fact that the buckle looked like it weighed down the front of his pants.

Jake puffed out his chest, a smile gracing his features, “Thank ya, Chicken. Thought I’d bring it back with me, I ain’t worn one in a while.” Rooster sipped his beer, “You get it at Bass Pro or something?” Jake’s face fell and you couldn’t help but laugh. “You did not jus’ ask me that.”

You glanced at it, looking at the details. 

“You rode?” Hangman turned to you, his smile returning, “Yeah, best there was.” You hummed, sipping your beer before sitting it down to line up your shot, “What made you quit?” “I wanted somethin’ different for myself. My older brother rode, my dad rode. I did it for the adrenaline, so I thought maybe I could get my high while doin’ somethin’ that had more meaning.”

Before you could retort, Jake had looked at Bob. 

“Since when do you wear hats?” You smiled glancing back at the WSO, who was wearing a reddish-brown felt cowboy hat, before looking back and catching the way his pilot looked at you. “Well, Bagman, you ain’t the only one that grabbed something from home.” Jake nodded in mutual respect before looking back at you.

He took a quick glance down at your belt line, seeing the lights reflect off your own buckle.

“You rode too?” You nodded, taking the final shot of the game, “8-ball far left corner pocket.” You gesture with the cue before taking the winning shot. “That’s game Phee.” Nat rolled her eyes and slipped you a 20.

“So, what was your event?” “Barrel racin’.” “Were you good?” “Best there was,” you winked and sat next to Bob. “How’d you think I gained the name Rodeo?”

Hangman donned his signature smirk, “I could think of a lot of things.” You shoved him, “You’re gross.” “Come on, Ro. That was funny.” Bob shook his head and draped his arm behind you on the booth.

“What made you quit?” Hangman asked as he slipped into the seat across from you. You sighed, “I raced for nearly my whole life. My brother Bryan did too. I could say I got out for the same reason you did, cause it wouldn’t be a lie. But I was always just Bryan's kid sister, or Darrel L/N’s daughter. I made somewhat of a name for myself, but by the time people saw me as me-”

You shrugged, sighing, “I didn’t enjoy it anymore. It became more about the trophies than the experience. So I decided to be the best at somethin’ I was proud of. That could give me a family, like the rodeo used to.”

Jake nodded in understanding, he patted your shoulder before moving on to bother Rooster and Coyote.

Bob sighed and let his arm fall around you and pulled you close to his side. “You didn’t tell me that.” You looked up at him, “Sure I did. Did I not?” He shook his head, “No, and you know I listen to every word you have to say.” You scrunch your nose, “I swear I told you.” He shook his head, “Nope.” You pouted, “Oh, well now you know.” He nodded, “That I do.”

You both smiled and he pressed a kiss to your lips. “Bob-” “I know Y/N, I just-” You cut him off by grabbing his shirt and kissing him again. “I’m tired of hiding it too.”

********

Meanwhile, everyone was watching the two of you.

“I can’t hear a word they’re sayin’,” Hangman said, straining a little to hear you both better. “Dude, when is that gonna go away?” Phoenix asked, in reference to his accent.

“Oh, it’s always there, trust me. It’s normally strong when he's drunk or really pissed,” Coyote confirmed, laughing a little.

“Plus, you never complain about Rodeo’s accent,” Jake commented. “Yeah, but it’s cute on her and gets Bob all flustered.” The group hummed in agreement before turning back to the (no-longer) secret couple in the booth.

They watched Bob kiss you, say a few words before being pulled in again.

“Damn, when will it be my turn?” Omaha asked, shaking his head. 

“Bob is so in love with her it isn’t even funny,” Phoenix revealed. “He always talks about her, and they went to see each other's families over our break.” “Really?” Yale asked, crossing his arms.

Phoenix nodded, “He’s been in love with her since the mission in May last year. And I’m sure it’s the same case with her.” Halo nodded, “Yeah, I had to listen to her talk about him all the time. And then Bob would talk to me if you were anywhere within earshot of Y/N. He’s fallen hard, they both have.”

Jake shook his head, his eyes trained on the couple as they talked, “We don’t know how in love he is with her though.”

Everyone just scoffed, “Do you not see how they are looking at each other right now?” Fanboy asked, looking at his fellow WSO and his second best friend. “It’s painfully obvious.”

Jake scoffed, “Cowboys have a special way of tellin’ each other a girl is off limits, other than a ring and a few hickies.” “Which is?” Harvard asked, stepping closer, intrigued.

Hangman glanced around and saw a few guys looking at you, “Okay, when Bob gets up and leaves her alone, one of these guys will try to flirt and Bob is probably gonna see. And being the silent and passive aggressive type-”

“Guys, Bob’s moving,” Payback caught their attention. Everyone shut their mouth and watched how you sat there, a grin on your face as you picked at the label.

Jake narrowed his eyes trying to pick out which guy was gonna make his move.

Coyote hit his arm, “4 o’clock.” Hangman turned his head, seeing a guy high fiving his friends before adjusting his posture and making his way to you.

You didn’t look up when someone sat across from you. 

“You weren’t gone very long.” “Well I just got here,” the guy chuckled, and that’s when you looked up.

You glanced around for Bob, but didn’t see him. 

“I’m John.” “Rodeo,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “Rodeo?” You laughed, “It’s my call sign. I fly for the Navy.” John tilted his head, “You’re not from around here are you? You sound funny.”

The pilots, who had discreetly moved closer, dropped their jaws. “He did not just say that,” Rooster hushed out. “Oh he totally just did,” Phoenix smirked, waiting for you to lay into the guy.

You just laughed, “You have no idea how to actually talk to a woman do you?” If that hurt John’s feelings, he didn’t let it show, “Oh, I can show just how I talk to women.” He winked, “If you wanna take a ride?” You scoffed, sipping your drink with an arched brow, “Sorry, pal. I’m not interested.” He scoffed, fidgeting in his seat.

The group knew he was getting frustrated and there was no sign of Bob coming back, so they had to prepare to jump in themselves. Especially Hangman.

“Look, John, while I appreciate the offer, I’m already scheduled for a ride.”

Omaha and Yale choked on their drinks. Rooster and Phoenix smirked proudly, both for you and Bob. “I wasn’t expecting that,” Payback said, leaning on the pool table.

“With who? That cowboy that just left you here alone,” John glanced around. “And doesn’t seem to be coming back.” He looked back at you, “Come on. I could show you a better time.” He placed his hand over yours, gripping it.

You sighed, really just wanting him to leave you alone, “John, you are aware of the rules in the bar right?” He scoffed, and tightened his grip when you tried to pull away, “Yeah, don’t leave your phone on the bar. What the hell does that have to do anything?” You glanced up, smirking.

“You missed a few. There’s also a rule against disrespecting the Navy and women,” Bob looked at the tight grip on your open hand, and the tenseness of your shoulders. “And from what I can tell you’re breaking both. I can get Penny’s attention right now, then you have to buy everyone a drink, or you can leave.” 

John stood up, being the same height as Bob he could look him in the eye. “And if I don’t.” Bob glanced at you and you shook your head, not wanting him to get into a fight when it wasn’t necessary. “Well-” John punched Bob. “Bob!”

Hangman, Rooster and Coyote immediately jumped into action as you reared back.

“Rodeo,” Maverick had appeared, moving from his seat at the bar while Penny moved to the guy's friends telling them they needed to leave. Maverick had caught your elbow, “He’s not worth it. Help Bob, we’ll take care of him.”

You nodded and moved quickly to help your boyfriend, helping him up and grabbing his hat. “Are you okay?” He nodded, wincing slightly when you brushed your thumb over his busted lip. “That doesn’t look okay.”

He shook his head, adjusting his glasses, “I’m fine, Sweetheart. I’ve dealt with worse.” 

As John’s friends dragged him out, calling him a ‘fucking dumbass’ and throwing out ‘I told you so’s, Penny came over with a small ziplock bag of ice.

“Thank you, Pen,” you took it and the damp napkin, pushing Bob to sit on the table. You gently wiped the blood from his lip, “Bobby, I’m sorry. I coulda-” “Stop, don’t do that.” You nodded, “Alright.” He smiled, but it was small so it didn’t irritate the cut.

The group watched. They saw how your tongue poked out in concentration, and Bob’s eyes looking up at you.

“So, Hangman, what’s the thing? How’s he gonna ‘claim his territory’?” Fanboy asked, crossing his arms. “It seems he already has, his eyes are basically hearts,” Payback commented. “That’s exactly why he’s gonna do it.” “Do what?” Rooster asked, propping himself on the table next to Hangman.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue, cowboy,” you said as you pressed the ice to his lip. He hummed, “Of course, Princess.” 

He grabbed your wrist gently and moved the ice away from his lip. 

“It’s gonna swell.” “I know a way to make it better,” he sat up straight to look at you and kissed you. You giggled and ran your free hand into the hair at the base of his neck.

When he pulled away, he tongued the cut on his lip, “I need a way to show everyone that you're mine. And I’m not allowed to give you visible hickies.” Both of you knew it was too early for marriage, not that it bothered either of you but you knew this wasn’t how Bob would propose.

You smiled against his lips, “I think they know now, Rob.” He adjusted his hat and chuckled. “Now, as much as I love kissing you, this will be sore without ice.” He nodded and let you place the ice back onto his lip.

“You know, I’ve got an idea.” You hummed, “What’s that?”

Jake watched with bated breath as Bob reached up to take his hat off.

Bob placed the felt hat on your head, “There, now everyone knows.” Your eyes brimmed with tears as you looked at him. “Bobby…” “I know we’ve only been together for 8 months but-” You pulled him in for a kiss.

When you pulled away, his glasses were askew and his cheeks were flushed. “I love you too.” 

Bob smiled and looked over, seeing Jake smiling and dancing a little. “I think Hangman’s more excited about me giving you my hat than you are.”

You looked over and laughed, “Oh wow…”

“Do that!” The blonde pointed over at you two. “He gave her his hat, so?” Harvard said, sipping his drink. “In the south, that’s like a proposal. It’s like a promise ring,” Jake was still pointing excitedly at the couple. “Wait really?” Phoenix asked.

“Yeah, really,” you confirmed when you and Bob walked over. 

Jake rubbed his neck, “Did you-” “See you dance like a teenager that just scored a touchdown? Sure did,” Bob said, ice pack muffling some of the words.

Phoenix smiled sadly at her backseater, “You okay?” He nodded, “I’ve been bucked off a horse and pull g’s everyday, a punch to the face is nothing.”

Hangman couldn’t stop smiling at the two of you.

“Hang? You okay?” He nodded, “Just happy for ya is all.” You smiled and hugged him, “Thanks man.” 

When you pulled away, you reached back for Bob’s hand. He grabbed it and intertwined your fingers.

“Now, if y’all will excuse us. I think my scheduled ride has been bumped up. See y’all tomorrow.” You tipped your Bob’s hat and he waved as you pulled him out the door and to his Jeep. 

********

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed!

thank you to those that voted for this story and i will be posting the last one tomorrow. i really appreciate all of you that voted! 

if you want more polls for the ‘x reader’s that are just chilling in my docs let me know or if you have any requests for more fics please do so!!

love you guys <33

top gun tags <3: @milesdickpic​ @luckyladycreator2​ @hotch-meeeeeuppppp​ @sebsxphia​ ​

The second he parked the car and got out, Mick ran to the vehicle beside his. He was over the moon to share their first podium together in a completely new team.

Yn could only take off her helmet and balaclava before Mick's body engulfed hers in a bone-crushing hug. She smiled clinging to him, everything and everyone else long forgotten. Not even the flashes of the cameras. And the Schumacher certainly felt the same because he held her cheeks between his big hands tipping his nose on her. They shared a silent conversation with their eyes for a beat before Mick crossed another line that night. One both been meaning to do since they first met.

He kissed her and tasted months of longing, nights spent on the sim together, morning runs, salty happy tears, love. There wasn't even an ounce of rivalry as some people tried to portray at first. Quite the opposite, there was everything but rivalry between those two, and now the whole world was sure of that too.

The ride to North Island was quick. Mostly because Mav was speeding if he was being honest. There was nothing like the sight of an F-18 taxiing down the runway before taking off into the horizon. It brought a smile to the pilots face, cruising down the road next to the airstrip and pumping the gas to try and beat the jet before it went airborne.

When he arrived at Fightertown located in San Diego, the first thing Maverick did was head to the building where he was to meet with his new superiors. Walking in, Mav’s eyes caught sight of a familiar picture hanging on the wall to his left. It was a black and white photograph of a young Maverick shaking hands with a man he once rivaled, after successfully shooting down enemy planes.

Where a forever friendship was formed. Where Maverick found his wingman.

Behind him, was another photo. This one showed the same man Maverick was shaking hands with, but much older with an array of ribbons signifying his accomplishments. Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, Commander of the U.S Pacific Fleet, Mav’s wingman and literal guardian angel for when he fucks up.

Smiling at the photo, Mav continues down the hallway to the meeting room he’s expected at.

“Captain Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell. Your reputation precedes you,” were the words he was greeted with from the three-star admiral seated at the head of the table. Beside him was a two-star admiral.

“Thank you, sir.”

The admiral tilts his head, almost humored. “Wasn’t a compliment. I’m Admiral Beau Simpson. I’m the air boss. I believe you know Admiral Bates.”

Mav nods to the man in greeting, “Warlock, sir. Must admit, I wasn’t expecting an invitation back.”

“They’re called orders, Maverick,” Warlock corrects, albeit a small smirk on his lips. Mav sheepishly smiles, glancing to the ground. “You two have something in common,” Warlock gestures to the man beside him, “Cyclone here was first in his class back in ‘88.”

“Actually, sir, I finished second,” Mav points out. “Just want to manage expectations.” He ends with a full grin, as if he found the jab at himself funny.

Cyclone didn’t look impressed.

“The target….” Warlock leans in to redirect the subject before pressing something on the device in front of him. The screen behind Mav depicts blueprints, the Captain turning to see. “—is an unsanctioned uranium enrichment plant built in violation of a multilateral NATO treaty. The uranium produced there represents a direct threat to our allies in the region. The Pentagon has tasked us with assembling a strike team and taking it out before it becomes fully operational.”

The screen switches to a geographic model showcasing a mountain. “The plant sits in an underground bunker at the end of this valley. Said valley is GPS jammed and defended by an extensive surface-to-air missile array,” red dots light up around the mountain. They symbolize missiles protecting the bunker. “—serving a limited number of fifth generation fighters, which in turn are backed up by a plentiful reserve of surplus aircraft. Even a few old F-14s.”

“Seems like we’re not the only ones holding on to old relics,” Cyclone comments, noticing the look on Mav’s face at the sight of the old jets they used to fly back in the day.

“What’s your read, Captain?” Warlock asks, causing Mav to look intensely at the screen.

What he saw was something almost impossible. Looking at it from any angle indicated this to the esteemed pilot. It made Mav fear for the others who would be involved.

He cleared his throat before speaking. “Well, sir, normally this would be a cakewalk for the F-35’s stealth, but the GPS-jamming negates that. And a surface-to-air threat necessitates a low-level laser-guided strike tailor made for the F-18. I figure,” he pauses to think. “Two precision bombs, minimum. Makes it four aircraft flying in pairs.” Cyclone and Warlock share a look, while Mav points a finger at the mountain. “That is one hell of a steep climb out of there, exposing you to all the surface-to-air missiles. You survive that, it’s a dogfight all the way home.”

“All requirements for which you have real-world experience,” Warlock says, causing Mav to glance at him.

“Not the same mission, sir.” He turns back to the screen, deep in thought. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the odds were not in their favor for this type of mission. “No, someone’s not coming back from this.”

“Can it be done or not?” Cyclone questions, wanting to hurry up and finish the meeting. Time was at the essence and they needed to get started.

“How soon before the plant becomes operational?”

“Three weeks,” Warlock answers. “Maybe less.”

Bidding one last look to the screen, Maverick turns to face the Admirals. Oblivious to what they really wanted him there for. In his mind, he was the man tasked with leading the mission. “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve flown an F-18, and…I’m not sure who I’d trust to fly the other three.” He continues talking, not noticing the look Cyclone gives Warlock which has the latter interrupting him. “But I'll find a way to make it work—.”

“I think you misunderstand, Captain.”

This has Mav confused, “Sir?”

“We don’t want you to fly it,” Cyclone tells him. “We want you to teach it.”

Now that was the last thing the man expected. “Teach, sir?” Teaching and Maverick were not something to be used in the same sentence. He learned that quickly in his two months as instructor….thirty years prior.

His superiors both give a sigh, before Cyclone switches the screen on the projector. “We’ve recalled twelve Top Gun graduates from their squadrons.” Two rows of photos appeared showing the selected graduates in their flight jumpsuits. Each had their name along with their call sign located at the bottom. “We want you to narrow that pool down to six.”

Maverick let his eyes scan the photos, reading over the names after getting a look at each face they belonged to. BOB, OMAHA, HALO, YALE, HARVARD, FANBOY, PAYBACK, COYOTE, HANGMAN, PHOENIX. And then his attention was brought to the last two on the far right, making his heart sink as he read ROOSTER and LEGACY.

It was like the universe was out to get him. Digging up bones that could never be buried no matter how much he tried to fix the past. The boy with the golden hair and mustache, making him look like a carbon copy of his dad, Goose. Mavericks lost wingman who he still blames himself for his death. And the girl he failed as a father, a spitting image of his own self with matching blue-green eyes and black hair.

He hadn’t seen either in years. And if what Ice told him was true about what happened to their relationship, then Mav was at a loss to even attempt to approach the subject with his daughter. She never called. Never sent a text. Or even an email. But Maverick couldn’t blame her.

“They’ll fly the mission.” Cyclone’s voice brought him out of his inner battle with his thoughts. The admiral notices the clench of his jaw, and distant look in his eye as he turns away from the screen. “Is there a problem, Captain?”

The condescending tone nearly had Maverick walking out of the room. “You know there is, sir.”

“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, tapping the tablet with his finger. The screen pulls up the image of Rooster and all his information. “Bradley Bradshaw, aka ‘Rooster.’ I understand you used to fly with his old man. What was his call sign?” Of course the admiral knew, but he wanted Maverick to tell him anyway.

The pain in the Captain's heart was clear as he said aloud, “‘Goose’, sir.”

“Tragic what happened.”

“Captain Mitchell was cleared of any wrongdoing,” Warlock interjects, feeling sympathy for the pilot. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose one’s wingman. “Goose’s death was an accident.”

“Is that how you see it, Captain,” Cyclone asks before gesturing to the screen. It was clear he was getting under Mavericks skin. And it was working. “Is that how Goose’s son sees it?” Before the pilot could answer, Cyclone changed the screen to the next image.

The woman staring back at them had dark black hair cut in a sleek bob that fell just above her chin. She had strong cheekbones and jawline, dark brows framing what Maverick knew were bright blue-green eyes—which were grey in contrast to the colorless photo—and plump lips like her mother. She wasn’t smiling in her photo. When thinking about it, Mav couldn’t remember the last time he saw his daughter smile.

Once again Cyclone’s voice caught his attention. “Lieutenant Barbara Mitchell. Better known as ‘Legacy,’ which is something she certainly lives up to. Your daughter's reputation nearly rivals that of your own, Captain.”

Mavericks lips curl up, “so I’ve heard.”

Cyclone grimaces while Warlock smirks. It was already a handful having one Mitchell at Top Gun. Add a second and there surely would be chaos of some sort. But, they were the best of the best. Literally. Barbara Mitchell lived up to the legacy of her family in every aspect there was.

There was also another subject to note in regards to the three—Maverick, Rooster, and Legacy—being called back to Top Gun. “It’s my understanding Rooster and Legacy are—I’m sorry, were spouses. Or has the divorce not been finalized?”

Maverick grimaced, glancing away with his jaw clenched. So what Ice told him was true. It pained the aviator to know the two didn’t last. It was never easy being a couple where both were in the military, let alone fighter pilots and on top of that Maverick felt an underlying reason for their relationship ended was in regards to him.

It had been nearly two years since Ice told him Barb had filed for separation. Knowing his daughter, Mav knew she’d want to cut the ribbon loose instead of drawing it out and going to court so he expected the divorce was quick. Cyclone was just trying to piss him off. Mav wouldn’t put it past him to know they were in fact divorced.

Instead of answering the Admiral, he changed the topic to a more important matter. “With all due respect, sir, I’m not a teacher.” It didn’t work the last time, he doubted it would again.

“You were a Top Gun instructor before.”

“That was almost thirty years ago. I lasted two months,” He replied, trying to show it was a bad idea to give him the job. “It’s not where I belong.”

“Then let me be perfectly blunt,” Cyclone started, not showing really any sympathy. “You were not my first choice. In fact, you weren’t even on the list. You are here at the request of Admiral Kazansky.” Ah, Ice saves the day once again. “Now, Iceman happens to be a man I deeply admire, and he seems to think that you have something left to offer the Navy,” he pauses to shake his head.

“What that is, I can’t imagine. You don’t have to take this job. But let me be clear: this will be your last post, Captain. You fly for Top Gun, or you don’t fly for the Navy ever again.”

And just like that, Maverick was back at Top Gun. Whether he liked it or not.

Later that night Maverick ended up sitting at the bar at the local tavern ‘The Hard Deck.’ Two Lieutenants he recognized as the recruits Hangman and Coyote were tossing darts. Mav watched them for a while until he passed a few texts between him and Ice. Then to his surprise, the lady behind the bar was none other than his former flame, Penny.

He thought the conversation was going well….until she rang the bell. “Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cell phone on my bar,” Mav recited as he lifted his phone off the bar.

“And you buy a round,” Penny finished for him, a mischievous smile coating her lips.

With a hesitant look, Mav glanced around, “For everyone?” He questioned.

“I’m afraid rules are rules. You’re lucky it’s early.” Mav watched her walk away, smiling with a light blush to his cheeks. Every time he saw Penny, something in him stirred like he was a giddy teenager again.

“What do we have here?” The sound of Hangman’s voice called his attention. He followed the blonde’s gaze to a trio of officers entering the bar. A female lieutenant walked ahead of the two guys behind her. Mav recognized them as Phoenix, Fanboy, and Payback.

“If it ain’t Phoenix!” Hangman lifted the cue up and walked beside the table to greet them. “And here I thought we were special, Coyote. Turns out the invite went to anyone.”

Lt. Trace, aka Phoenix just smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fellas, this here’s Bagman.”

“Hangman,” he corrected.

“Whatever,” her tone indicated she didn’t care. “You’re looking at the only naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill.”

Hangman smiled, obviously feeling the inflation to his ego. “Stop.” He really didn’t want her to.

The tables then turned. “Mind you, the other guy was in a museum piece from the Korean War,” Phoenix points out, playing down on his accomplishment.

“Cold War,” Coyote jumps in.

“Different wars, same century,” Lt. Fitch counters.

“Not this one,” says Lt. Garcia.

Coyote gestures to the two with a pool cue in his hand. “Who are your friends?”

“Payback,” Fitch tells him and Garcia follows with, “Fanboy.”

“Hey, Coyote,” Phoenix greets.

“Hey,” he replies with a smirk. The woman nudges her head to the right, “who’s he?”

“Who’s who?” All eyes draw to the Lieutenant brushing something off some peanut shells off his uniform seated by the pool table. When he notices them looking at him he freezes. Coyote is the first to speak, “When did you get in?”

The blonde man with glasses smiles sheepishly, “Oh, I've been here the whole time.” At no point did the group notice the man, who was munching on some peanuts and watching the interaction play out.

“The man’s a stealth pilot,” Hangman comments and Coyote agrees, “Literally.”

“Weapons systems officer, actually,” he politely corrects. It causes Hangman to nod his head, “With no sense of humor,” and hand off the pool cue to Phoenix.

“What do they call you,” She asks. There’s an immediate blush to his cheeks when he answers, “Bob.”

“No, your call sign,” Payback rephrases. Again, the blonde man appears embarrassed, “Uhh….Bob.”

The name rings a bell for the female aviator, “Bob Floyd. You’re my new backseater? From Lemoore.” Beside her, Fanboy was lightly laughing.

Bob smiles at her, “Looks like it. Yeah.” She looks him over, as if to read him and gives a nod before handing him the cue, “nine-ball, Bob. Rack ‘em.” He stared at the cue, not really expecting to be included in the game. “Okay,” he eventually says while getting up from the chair.

Over at the bar, Hangman goes to cash in on the round bought by Maverick. “Penny, my dear.”

“Yeah,” she says, going up to him.

“I’ll have four more on the old-timer,” his eyes meet Maverick as he orders. The older man shakes his head when Penny gives him a look while going to grab the beers. A few moments later his attention is again drawn to the entrance of the bar when Phoenix loudly calls out to a patron.

A patron Maverick had yet to reunite with.

“Bradshaw!” She yells, capturing the young Lieutenant’s eyes. “Is that you?” At the bar, Maverick turns his back away, preventing Rooster from seeing him when he walks to the group. The woman gives an offended look when he approaches, “This is how I find out you’re stateside?”

The aviator sunglasses are removed and tucked into his shirt. “Yeah, I just thought I’d surprise you.” He comes up behind Phoenix as she lines up the shot.

“Hmm.” Bending down, Phoenix draws the cue back and makes direct contact with Rooster’s gut. He grunts, the woman pushing the cue forward to hit the ball and letting it shoot across the table. Rooster bends, clutching his stomach with a pained expression. “I guess I surprised you back.”

Squinting, Rooster lifts his gaze to her and smiles as best as he can, “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” she replies, her smile then falling. “Do you know if—.” The shake of his head cuts Phoenix off from finishing the sentence.

“We’ll find out sooner or later,” he stands straight, glancing at the other pilots around them. “I wouldn’t be surprised with this many of us called back, she would be too.”

Back at the bar, Penny handed Hangman four beers, courtesy of Mav’s round. “Here you go,” she says as he takes the bottles. The Lieutenant thanks her before turning to Mav to say, “Much appreciated, Pops.” He ends with a wink and turns back to return to the group.

Mav nods briefly, letting his gaze go past the blonde to focus on the man in the Hawaiian shirt behind him. Rooster’s back was to him, and wanting to get out of there before the young man noticed, Mav pulled out his card for Penny. “How about ringing me up before the evening rush?”

With a smirk, Penny goes to the register, leaving the pilot to himself once again. A few times he checks the entrance to see if Barbara had arrived. So far half of the recruits had shown up, Mav was prepared to get a glimpse of his daughter before heading out.

Changing the song on the jukebox and handing the beers over to Coyote, Hangman lands his sight on Rooster. “Bradshaw,” he draws out, snatching the cue from Bob before the Lieutenant could take the shot. “As I live and breathe.”

“Hangman,” Rooster returns, looking him over. “You look…good.” Nudging Bob aside, Hangman lines up his cue with the ball, “Well, I am good, Rooster.” The two connect eyes just as he draws the cue back and hits the ball, “I’m very good. In fact, I am too good to be true.”

The arrogance from the man has Phoenix and Payback shaking their heads, both turning to Rooster. “So,” Payback starts to say, “Anybody know what this special detachment is all about?”

“No, mission’s a mission,” Hangman replies, not taking his gaze off the pool table. “They don’t confront me. What I want to know: who’s gonna be team leader?” The balls clatter when he takes another shot after successfully pocketing the last ball. “And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?”

The look Rooster gives is one that reads, ‘you can’t be serious right now.’ “Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.” Though the music is playing it feels like one could hear a pin drop.

“Whoo!” Fanboy whistles, not even trying to hide the giggles falling from his lips. Phoenix was clutching the pool cue, staring at Rooster as if she could not believe he really said that. If Hangman was bothered, the man was doing a good job of not showing it. He simply grinned, walking up to Rooster and stopping so close they were practically toe to toe with one another.

“Well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel. But that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment…” Hangman steps closer, putting the cue in between them before finishing, “That never comes.” The next words to come from his mouth were cold and calculated, but what was that to stop him. Jake looks down to see Rooster’s left hand, where it was now vacant of a gold ring. “It’s a shame about you and the Missus—or should I say, former missus.”

That same hand then clutched into a fist, but that’s all it did. Behind Jake, Phoenix was glaring daggers into his back, checking on Rooster for his reaction while the others looked confused. It took a moment to realize what the blonde was implying. Hangman ramped up the tension when he added, “Say, you know I always wondered why her call sign was ‘Legacy.’ Interesting name. She wouldn’t tell me but said it had to do with her maiden name,” Hangman bites his lip while grinning, “Now that she’s not lady Bradshaw anymore, I’m looking forward to finding out the reason.”

“Watch it, Seresin,” Phoenix warned, but he ignored her. Rooster was her friend, and so was Barbara despite knowing Rooster longer. She didn’t appreciate the man making snide comments about their failed relationship.

When it appeared Rooster was not going to say anything back, Hangman smirked in a slight victory. “I love this song.” ‘Slow ride. Take it easy.’ As he walked away, Phoenix approached Rooster, both of them watching him as he went.

“Well, he hasn’t changed,” she says with no surprise.

“Nope,” he agrees, jaw still clenched from the last jab Hangman threw at him. “Sure hasn’t.” Getting an idea, Rooster walks away, leaving Phoenix by the table. She wanted to ask if he was alright, but decided against it.

Fanboy comes up to her, confusion coating his expression. “What the hell was that all about?” He gestures to Rooster and Hangman. Fanboy didn’t know either of them, but his curiosity peaked at the mention of someone called ‘Legacy’. “Who’s Legacy?”

Phoenix let out a sigh, setting the pool cue aside. “Rooster’s ex-wife, Barbara. She’s a naval pilot too—graduated from Top Gun three years ago right after their divorce.” Fanboy whistled lowly, not expecting that information.

“Damn. How long were they together?”

“Over seven years—married for five. They tied the knot after her commission, Rooster was already done with flight school by then. I think they dated for about two years before he proposed. Not really sure on the exact dates.”

Fanboy frowns, “What happened?” Phoenix glances over to Rooster who was walking in the direction of the jukebox. She gives a shrug and says, “He won’t say. Doesn’t really like to talk about it.” Fanboy nods, feeling sympathy for his fellow aviator.

“Why ‘Legacy’? That’s an usual call sign.” When he thought of the word, what came to mind was sorority girls or frat brothers who had parents in Greek life.

“Something about her family,” Phoenix answers. So he was right, it did have to deal with a parent. “She never talked much about her parents, but she told me once her mother was a civilian contractor for Top Gun and her dad was a pilot. Also her grandpa served, as did her Godfather. I guess in flight school that information spread, someone called her legacy and it stuck.”

Fanboy took in the information. He could understand how something like that would bestow that kind of call sign. It honestly intrigued him. Before he could ask another question, something else caught his eye. Gesturing to the entrance he said, “Check it out. More patches.”

Payback stands from the chair, coming up behind the two to see some fellow aviators, “That’s Harvard, Yale, Omaha.”

“What the hell kind of mission is this?” Fanboy questions, curious to know what he got himself into when he agreed to come back to North Island. Never had there been so many Top Gun graduates called back. The mission had to be a serious one.

“That’s not the question we should be asking,” Phoenix says to her fellow pilot. “Everyone here is the best there is. Who the hell are they gonna get to teach us?”

The card slaps down in front of Maverick, “It’s been declined,” Penny tells him. He gives a look of bewilderment, “You’re kidding.” There was no way it was empty. Had he not transferred over funds? Or did his last paycheck not go through?

Groans sounded around when the music was abruptly cut off. The culprit, none other than Rooster himself. Sunglasses on, despite being indoors, the aviator takes a seat in front of the piano, fingers go over the keys to play a light jazz. Phoenix hears the tone, smiling lightly as she calls out, “hey, guys. Come on.” Together they join Rooster, tossing the cue onto the table causing Hangman to throw his hands out as if to say, ‘Really?’

Meanwhile at the bar, Maverick is in a pickle. Not only was his card declined, but he was short on cash. Fishing out some 1s, and 5s, Penny just shakes her head at him, handing over the bill, “That won’t cover it.”

Taking the bill, his eyes go wide at the number listed at the bottom. Even before the evening rush there was a good amount of people in attendance. All who ordered a round on his tab. Trying to coax his way to a deal, Mav gives Penny a puppy-like look, “Uh, I’ll come by tomorrow and bring you the cash.”

A finger lifts to him, the woman moving over to the bell, “I’m afraid rules are rules, Pete.” Before he can plead with her, Penny swings the rope and lets the bell ring, resulting in the entire bar erupting in cheers. They begin to chant ‘overboard’ as Maverick lets his head drop in defeat, although he’s smiling throughout the entire exchange. “Really?”

Hangman, Payback, and Coyote pull up behind him, all three waiting for Penny’s signal. With a simple nod to the entrance, Maverick is hauled up with Payback and Hangman on each arm while Coyote takes his legs. All around are cheers and claps, “Overboard! Overboard!”

“Great to see you, Pete!” Penny shouts, grinning from ear to ear as he disappears from her sights. His back meets the harsh sand, a grunt escaping him while everyone cheers. Hangman salutes him, unaware that in less than 24 hours the man he just threw out would be his superior. “Thanks for the beers! Come back anytime!” The door shuts behind them, muffling the cheers as they continue in the now crowded tavern. All Mav could do was chuckle, brushing the sand off him when he rises from the ground.

He starts walking in the direction of his bike, but comes to a sudden halt when a familiar song reaches his ears.

“You shake my nerves, and you rattle my brain.

Too much love. Drives a man insane.

You Broke my will. But what a thrill.

Goodness gracious! Great balls of fire!”

Mav walks up to the window, peeking in to find Rooster seated at the piano while his fellow recruits dance and belt along the lyrics beside him. Goose’s favorite song. The one they sang together at the bar the time Carole and Bradley visited during their programme.

“I laughed at love. ‘Cause I thought it was funny.

But you came along. And you moved me, honey.

I changed my mind. This love is fine.

Goodness gracious! Great balls of fire!”

For a moment, it was no longer 2019. It was 1986 and a two year old Bradley Bradshaw was seated on top of the piano with a cowboy hat perched on his tiny head while his father, Nick, played the instrument below. In Nick’s lap was his beloved wife and Bradley’s mother, Carole, and beside them belting along the lyrics of ‘Great Balls Of Fire,’ was Pete and Charlie.

A happy memory, plagued with the tragic moment that occurred days later. Goose and Mav ejecting from the jet, but the canopy failing to open properly causing Goose to smash his head against the glass. The impact alone was enough to kill him. The man laid in Maverick’s arms as they floated in the water waiting to be rescued. He knew Goose was gone.

“God, he loved flying with you, Maverick,” he could still hear Carole’s pained voice as he watched her son. The happiness radiating from him was a spitting image of his father. The pilot had to look away, for there were tears welting in his eyes. Unbeknownst to him, Penny saw him from inside the bar, her gaze flicking from Maverick to Goose, realizing who the young man was to the aviator.

Feeling his knees start to buckle, Maverick pushed away from the window, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Reaching up, he wiped away any residue that leaked out before walking away. The sun was setting, casting a dark blue across the horizon as nightfall began to emerge. The Captain made his leave. As he approached the parking lot where his bike was, he stopped short when he noticed the bike parked next to him.

It was the Ducati he gifted Barbara when she got her motorcycle license at eighteen.

“I should’ve known it’d be you,” her voice came from the side, sending a wave of anxiety through Maverick as he stiffened. It had been so long since he heard it, and when he slowly turned to find her seated at the picnic table, Mav felt his shoulders drop.

Recently promoted Lieutenant Barbara ‘Legacy’ Mitchell stared back at him with an unreadable expression. A cigarette in hand and aviators perched on her head, the black haired beauty adorned a leather jacket similar to Mav’s with several patches lining its sides. A patch with her call sign was nested on her left breast reading, ‘Legacy’.

“Barb,” he whispered, watching her take a puff of the cigarette and holding her breath before slowly letting the smoke out. He hated the fact she smoked, and part of him believed she did it to spite him.

The woman didn’t greet her father. Instead she pointed her gaze at the beach in front of her, “When Ice told me I was being called back here, and what all to expect, I should’ve known he’d have you as the instructor. What I didn’t expect,” more smoke left her mouth, eyes going back to the man, ''was you to actually agree.”

Unsure of what to say, seeing it was going on four years since he’d seen his daughter, Mav cleared his throat, “Didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

“Let me guess,” she raised her brow, but there was not a flicker of surprise as she added, “You went against orders, pissed off an Admiral, was probably gonna get sacked once and for all, and being here is what lets you stay in the air. Am I on the right track?”

Mav bit back a smirk. Barb knew him too well—well, at least knew his routine. Instead he gave a curt nod, glancing at the ocean briefly, “Can’t really say you’re not. You know me too well.”

“I don’t know you at all,” she snaps, causing the smile to drop from his face. Barb extinguishes the bud on the table and flicks it into the trash beside the table. “I know Captain Mitchell. The Navy’s infamous pilot with a record that’s distinguished despite his tendencies to act unorthodox. That’s all I’ve ever known from you.”

As much as he hated to admit it, it was the truth. The relationship between Charlie and Maverick fell through shortly after Barabara’s birth in 1989. Due to his status as a fighter pilot and rarely being stateside, Barbara was raised in D.C with her mother, Charlie. It was rare for Maverick to get time off and visit his daughter. Mostly in the summertime or around the holidays did he manage to get a few days of leave, but on average it was twice a year that Barabar spent time with her father. And when she did, all Mav did was take Barbara flying and teach her all there was about the Navy and their family.

It was how she fell in love with aviation. It made her feel a connection to her father, something she longed for as a child. Her mother taught her a lot about astrophysics and engineering, but Barbara loved to take to the skies. From a young age she knew she wanted to follow her father’s footsteps and continue his legacy. She thought it was what he wanted. Why he spent so much time teaching her the basics on how to fly and expressing his love for the Navy.

But that wasn’t the case. He didn’t want her flying. The same way he didn’t want Bradly flying either.

And that started the first wave of strain between father and daughter. The second wave came when Barb joined the Naval ROTC program at Vanderbilt university. Had she applied for the Naval Academy her father would’ve known. So, she applied to schools with NROTC and kept it from him until the letter came from Vanderbilt with a full ride to their program. Barbara would’ve kept her entire college career a secret, but her father managed to find out from her mother. That put a second dent in their relationship.

Shortly after Barbara reconnected with Bradley when the Naval Academy played Vanderbilt in football. It had been years since they saw each other, the last being around the time he had graduated high school and first applied to the Naval Academy. She never heard what had happened, so it surprised her to see him there as an undergraduate when she had expected him to already be a commissioned officer. He was a senior already in his mid twenties while Barb was a sophomore having just turned twenty.

Their reunion was anything but a happy one which had Barb confused. Bradley was displeased to see her and pretty much ignored her when she tried to talk to him. Eventually he got his head out of his ass when she went off on him by saying, “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is Bradshaw, but if has anything to do with my dad—which wouldn’t surprise me— then it’s unfair to treat me like this since I don’t know what the fuck he did to make you this angry.” Believing her words, Bradley invited her to lunch to explain what happened. It angered Barbara, for who was her father to have the right to do such a thing to Bradley.

Although they two didn’t see each other much after that weekend, the two kept in touch through email and phone calls. They would update each other on school and their programs, Bradley’s upcoming graduation, and their excitement to go to flight school and start their careers. Barbara wasn’t sure when her feelings for Bradley started. He was older, roughly by six or seven years and she only ever saw him once in a blue moon growing up whenever she’d fly to visit her dad when he’d try to spend time with both Bradley and her. As a young girl she found Bradley cute, but he of course paid no mind to her except when she’d join in on little adventures with him and Maverick. All she knew was she’d get butterflies in her stomach whenever he laughed at something she said or recounted a small detail she told him weeks prior. Then when he sent an invite to his graduation, Barbara swore her heart skipped a beat and she was doing the most in order to look her best the day of.

For Bradley, he realized his feelings for Barbara about eight months after their first meeting. He suddenly found himself looking forward to their phone calls, reading her emails, and felt a longing to see her again. It’s why he invited her to his graduation. And then again to his commissioning ceremony. Seeing her there, looking absolutely ethereal, sealed the deal for Bradley. At his commission he formally asked her out and thus started their relationship that lasted almost eight years.

Bradley went straight to flight school, and Barb followed two years later after her graduation and commissioned—which Bradley got time off to attend. At some point—probably when the two were drunk and in a festive mood, Bradley proposed. It was a spur of the moment decision, but he loved Barbara with his whole heart. And she loved him too. Once Barb said yes, the two went on a whim and drove up to the courthouse with Charlie and Natasha as their witnesses.

Maverick had no idea. It wasn’t until he popped in to visit Barbara out of the blue at her first duty station, hoping to make amends for the way he behaved four years earlier, and found Rooster there….and rings on their fingers. One photo of them at the courthouse combined with Barbara’s embarrassed expression was enough to put the pieces together. Rooster took it upon himself to leave saying he’d be back later that afternoon, but not before kissing her right there in front of Mav.

And so a third and permanent dent was put between the two. One that was not so easily forgiven. “Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me? Did you not want me there?” “It’s not like you would have come, Pete.” “You don’t know that!” “Fine, here’s the truth: Rooster didn’t want you there and honestly neither did I. We’re happy, and I don’t need your seal of approval on what I do. You were rarely there for me and when you were all it was ‘planes this, planes that’ and ‘Navy this, Navy that.’ You didn’t bother actually being a father, Pete.” Yeah, it was true when they said words hurt.

It only brought more strain. Soon it would impact her own relationship. Barbara completed flight school and unfortunately like most military marriages where both parties are active duty, the two were separated on different assignments. They made it work for the most part. Everyday they texted or emailed and when they got time to call or Skype they would. By that time Barbara had garnered her own reputation in the Navy, not just because of who her father was, but because she herself tended to act unorthodox. It was no wonder why her fellow aviators in flight school dubbed her ‘Legacy’. She didn’t know how they found out about her parentage, at the time she went by Barbara Bradshaw, but it didn’t matter. They’d find out sooner or later.

But the topic of Maverick would come up and each time it never ended well. Rooster still held resentment for him pulling his application. For Barbara, as much as she was angry at her father for various reasons, she still loved him. There was still a longing to have that father-daughter relationship she desired as a kid. When talking to her mother about it, Charlie offered the advice of, ‘It won’t be fixed if you do nothing about it. Talk to him, hear him out, and also take responsibility for your actions.” That night Barbara called Maverick, without telling her husband, and had a two hour conversation with her apologizing for not telling him about Rooster and Mav for his reaction to her career plans.

Barbara eventually told Rooster about her conversation with her father that weekend over Skype. She was hesitant, and judging by the look on his face when she told him she was correct to assume he would not be happy. All he said was, “You know how I feel about him. I’m not gonna stop you from talking to your dad, Barb, that’s on you. But I just ask that you don’t expect me to forgive him anytime soon.”

Years passed and things had slowly become complicated. Rooster went off to Top Gun, Barb was promoted to LTJG, and their jobs became more demanding. Although they finally got a duty station together, they hardly spent time together. At one point the topic of kids came up after a colleague had mentioned it at a dinner party. It resulted in it never being brought up again. If they wanted kids, well, one person would have to either leave the Navy or change their job because having both parents as fighter pilots while raising kids was impossible. And neither of them were ready to give that up just yet. In the last year of their marriage, they would go days without talking to each other, even if they were both home.

The year 2016 proved to be the one that would ultimately end the relationship once and for all. And it was because Barb had finally had enough with the deal between Maverick and Rooster and took it upon herself to confront her father. A decision she would regret.

“Tell me,” she demanded as they sat in a booth at a bar close to the base. Maverick had gotten leave and decided to drop by, so Barb used what little time she had as the opportunity to get the truth. “Tell me why you pulled his application, dad. Why would you stop him from flying when you knew that’s all he ever wanted to do?”

She watched him bring a hand up to rub his face. “You don’t want to know, Barb.” His words only angered her more, the woman scoffing as she narrowed her eyes.

“The hell I don’t! Bradley trusted you—he looked at you like a father, and you betrayed him like that?” She refused to accept that Maverick would hurt the man he saw as a son without good reason. If there was a good reason for it.

“He wasn’t ready,” Mav gave the excuse, though it had some truth to it.

“That wasn’t for you to decide,” she snapped, leaning forward against the table slightly. “And even if it was, that still isn’t a good excuse to pull his papers. You’re hiding something else.” Barb could see it in the way he kept turning from her, clenching his jaw, and attempting to change the subject. There was another reason behind why he did it.

“Look,” Mav sighed, giving his daughter a stern warning. “If you knew the real reason why I did what I did, you wouldn’t want him knowing either. So by telling you, you’re putting yourself in a position where you can either break his heart with the truth,” he paused, hating how there was now an ultimatum on the table. “Or, you spare him the pain by taking it to the grave.”

Barbara should have let it go after Mav dropped that on her. But, like the stubborn pilot, the young Mitchell was relentless and believed it was up to her then to decide for herself. Initially, she was going to tell Rooster the truth because she believed he deserved to know. But then the words came out, and Barb felt her heart and stomach sink as it went down the drain. There was no way she could tell Rooster now, and judging by Mavericks' expression the older man immediately regretted confessing. And she didn’t blame him because now she felt the burden of the secret.

For months Barbara kept it hidden. Rooster was overseas on an assignment and would not be back for some time. When they would call, Barb played it off like normal. Although they ended up doing voice calls rather than Skype, her excuse being the internet service was acting up. Barb felt it in herself that she’d break if she looked into those hazel eyes of his. She proved herself correct when he returned at the end of the summer and immediately Rooster could tell something was up. Her body language was off, the tone in her voice sounded unsure.

“What is it?” He asked a few days later, catching her off guard. In the five years they’d been married and almost seven as a couple, Bradley was pretty much a pro at picking up on signals from his wife. Barbara was stubborn and good at masking her emotions, but the man could see past it. “You’ve been acting weird since I got here.”

“It’s nothing, Bradley,” Barb assured, but her voice betrayed her. Quickly she gave the excuse, “I’ve had a long week. The test run I mentioned last week didn’t go as planned. That’s it.” She felt his eyes in the back of her head as she washed the dishes in the sink.

“Whenever something is bothering you and you don’t want to tell me, you always turn your back to me so I can’t see your face.” The patter of feet against the wooden floors indicated he was walking up to her. “You can’t fool me, Barbara.” What followed involved a screaming match, accusations, and finally, Bradley packing a bag before slamming the front door behind him.

There was no formal separation between the two. Hell it wasn’t even a verbal agreement of divorce. For weeks Bradley ignored her calls, her emails, he had his friends give excuses when Barb reached out to them to get him to talk to her. Then one day she decided to go to his work, fed up with him ignoring her and witnessed him getting a little close with a female colleague. All Barb could see was Bradley leaning against the wall while a pretty blonde stood next to him, laughing at something he said before lightly tapping him against the chest. The gesture looked anything but friendly. And judging by the smirk on her husband's face, he enjoyed it.

It sent daggers into Barbara’s heart, turning on her heel to escape before he saw her. She cried the entire drive home, but took a break to put on a serious face when she stopped at the legal office before making a call to her Godfather, Iceman. The next day, to Bradley’s surprise and the shock of his coworkers, he was served divorce papers. When he arrived at the house that afternoon to confront her, another shock came at the sight of boxes and suitcases where Barbara informed him she was being transferred to the Pacific Fleet.

That was the last night Barbara and Bradley saw each other. Harsh words were thrown at each other—the woman literally threw a water bottle at Rooster during the heat of the argument when he insulted her. He easily avoided it, but the act itself increased his anger. Once again Bradley was the first to leave, but not before he signed the papers and spat, “Have a nice life, Mitchell.”

Talk about adding salt to the wound. It didn’t help that Barbara hadn’t spoken to her father in months. Months that would soon turn to years.

Now here the two were. Finally face to face after so long with little to no explanation why Barbara suddenly stopped talking to Maverick after the day she squeezed the truth out of him. The music from inside continued. Even outside, Barbara could make out the voice of her ex-husband. He always stood out when he sang that song.

“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” She says, reaching into her pocket to pull out another cigarette. Using her jacket to block out the wind, she ignites it before pocketing the lighter. “I saw you at the window.”

Mav felt a lump in his throat, looking down at his feet. Goose entered his mind and the wave of emotion hit him like a brick. He changed the subject, which probably was a bad idea but he had to take the chance while he had it. “What happened, Barbara?”

She doesn’t look at him when she answers, jaw tight and attention on the empty beer bottle in front of her. “Exactly what you said,” the chuckle she gave was anything but humorous. “I did it to myself. You were right—I should’ve never asked you why you did it.”

Maverick sighed, feeling his heart break at her confession. “I’m so sorry, honey. Does he—.”

“No,” she cut him off swiftly. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. That's why he walked out.” Biting her lip and looking away from her father, she adds, “And I let him. Because I knew deep down he would never forgive me—for not telling him after I went behind his back and confronted you. It brought on another dose of betrayal.” Barbara finishes her second cigarette with a long drag before extinguishing it.

“It wasn’t going to work anyway,” Barbara stands from the picnic table, moving to stand in front of Maverick. She was wearing heeled boots that made her taller than her natural five foot two and a half inch stature. She was small for the average pilot, but made the height requirements by half an inch. “You know how it is—husband and wife, both active duty in demanding fields with little to no time spent together. The topic of kids being a sore subject, plus a father-in-law that the husband can’t stand? I’m surprised we lasted as long as we did.”

“Don’t think of it like that, Barbara,” Maverick scolded, upset with her view of the marriage. Frowning, he stepped closer to the woman, but she shook her head.

“How else am I supposed to think of it?” She questioned rhetorically. “It didn’t work for you and mom, it wasn’t going to work for me and him.”

“What happened between your mom and I was complicated,” Mav told her. “We tried our best that year after you were born, and most of it was on me as you know.” He really did try. He loved and cared for Charlie, but marriage was not in the cards for Mav at the time. It was still young in his career and although the birth of Barbara was a surprise, he still was over the moon and tried to make the relationship work for the sake of their daughter. In the end, he and Charlie wanted different things and had to go their separate ways. “But I never stopped caring for Charlie—and I’ll always have a part of me that loves her. And just because it didn’t work out for us, doesn’t mean it will always be like that for you, Barbara.”

She was silent for a moment. Maverick stood still, unsure of what she was thinking. He wanted to hug her. It was tempting to just pull her into his arms and hold her like he did when she was a child. It had been so long since they did that he feared how she’d react. Pushing the thought away, Mav heard her exhale and say, “It doesn’t matter anymore. There’s other things to worry about than my tragic love life. I’ll see you tomorrow, Captain.”

It felt like a knife was thrown to his chest. It was always like that when Barbara referred to him as his rank or name instead of ‘dad’. It was like she no longer saw him as such. “Barbara!” He shouted as she mounted her bike and kicked the stand up. Glancing up to him, her face remained stoic. With a slight cough to clear his throat, Mav tried to smile but it didn’t work. Instead his face almost looked like he was pleading with her to not push him away again. “It’s good to see you.”

The light breeze swept through her hair, and Barbara gave a short nod. “It’s good to see you too.” The roar of the engine came to life and Mav watched her pull away from the lot before speeding down the road and disappearing around the corner. The sun had finally set, stars twinkling in the sky and the only light was from the moon shining down on the sea and the bar behind him.

With a heavy sigh, the pilot adjusted his jacket and mounted his own bike. He gave one last look to the bar before starting the engine and taking off on the same road Barbara had traveled.

What a day it had been for the veteran aviator. It started with him getting transfered, returning to Top Gun for the first time in 30 years, reuniting with his ex, and finally seeing Rooster and Barbara again. Now with one reunion down, he had one to go.

The next morning, Barbara Mitchell dressed in her flight suit to start her day by attending the first briefing and training. She didn’t know what to expect. After the previous night's conversation with her father and knowing he was to be the instructor for the next three weeks, Barbara realized she was going to have to push her limits like she’s never done before if she wanted to prove she was worthy of the mission.

Growing up, Maverick taught her the basics and how to perfect them so that by the time she went to flight school she was already more advanced than her classmates. The young Mitchell took it upon herself to learn aerial combat—when she was not supposed to—and managed to fly her way to the top of her class at Top Gun years later. With years of experience and having Iceman as her superior for the past few years, Barbara proved herself again and again to those who underestimated that she was the best there was.

It was Iceman who told her Rooster would be one of the candidates for the mission. He warned her the same time he informed that she was also selected. It sparked a sense of dread in the aviator. It was one thing to have to reunite with her ex-husband for the first time in three years, it was another to have to compete against him for a spot on the six-man team. With her father as the instructor, it was going to be an interesting three weeks.

Having opted out of going inside The Hard Deck last night, arriving at the hangar was the first time she became acquainted with her fellow candidates. “Well, well well,” Hangman’s voice was the first to reach her ears, “Just who I was hoping to see on this fine Wednesday morning.” While they waited for the instructors, the officers took seats at the tables provided in the middle of the hangar. Barbara was the last to arrive.

It brought a cheeky grin to Hangman’s face, giving a brief glance to Rooster, who had his head turned to the side. The lieutenant stood from his chair, meeting Barbara halfway up the aisle of tables. The first thing he did was look at her name patch, where the name ‘Mitchell’ was embroidered. Jake smirked, towering over the small brunette, “Lieutenant Barbara Mitchell.”

The woman narrowed her eyes, but greeted the man nonetheless, “Seresin.” Turning her head to the left, she makes eye contact with Natasha, “Hey, Phee.”

Nat gives a small smile with a nod, “Hey, C.” Barb tilts her head to the man with glasses behind the woman, “Who’s your friend.”

“That’s Bob, WSO.” The man in question lightly lifts a hand in a small wave, offering a smile to Barb. She smiles back, throwing a wink which has him blushing. “Those two hunks are Payback and Fanboy—I don’t think you’ve met them yet.”

“I have not,” she looks past Hangman to see the two men. They both give a gesture in greeting. “Nice to meet ya, fellas.”

“Same to you,” Payback replies and Fanboy nods in agreement. Barbara pays no mind to the man seated on her right, instead going to the open chair in the front next to Hangman’s. She ignores the looks they give Rooster, throwing down her wallet and keys on the table and plopping down on the chair.

Hangman sits beside her, leaning close and aware of the daggers being sent to his back from Rooster. “So, Mitchell—gosh that’s gonna take some getting used to,” It took everything in Barb to stop herself from throwing a punch to his jaw. They were in uniform and on the job. Now was not the time to get a demerit. “This is probably not the time to ask—.”

“Then don’t ask, Seresin,” she hissed in warning, assuming the question involved Rooster. He raised his hands in defense as he chuckled, “Hey, hey, now I’m not trying to dig up an old can of worms, but I’m just curious you know.” He gestured to her patch, “Can’t you let a fella in on what the secret is behind your call sign? I’ve only ever known you as Mrs. Bradshaw—but that couldn’t have been it.” He leans back to wink at an infuriated Rooster.

Barbara tsks, staring ahead at the large American flag draped in front of her. “Nice to see you haven’t changed at being a pain in the ass. You’re lucky we’re in uniform, Hangman, otherwise I would wipe that damn smirk off your face. Didn’t your momma ever tell you to mind your business once in a while?” she said in a low tone, but the whole company heard. In the back Coyote let out a whistle while Fanboy, Phoenix and Bob held back laughter. Rooster even had to stop himself from smirking.

Before Hangman could respond, the whole hangar was brought to attention at the shout of, “Attention on deck!!” The Admirals march in, Warlock taking to the podium while Cyclone comes to a halt beside Hondo.

“Morning,” Warlock greets the officers. “Welcome to your special training detachment. Be seated.” Chairs squeak as the group falls back to a sitting position, posture straight and attention on the admiral. “I’m Admiral Bates, NAWDC commander. You’re all TOPGUN graduates. The elite. The best of the best,” many grin at his praises, but they soon frown when he then says, “That was yesterday. The enemy's new fifth-generation fighter has leveled the playing field. Details are few, but you can be sure we no longer possess the technological advantage. Success, now more than ever, comes down to the man or woman in the box.” Still grinning, Hangman bids a look to Legacy before doing the same to Phoenix.

“Half of you will make the cut. One of you will be named mission leader. The other half will remain in reserve. Your instructor is a TOPGUN graduate with real world experience in every mission aspect you will be expected to master,” Barbara tenses, clutching the pen in her hand when she hears the soft sound of footsteps approaching. Warlock continues, “His exploits are legendary. And he’s considered to be one of the finest pilots this program has ever produced.”

In the corner of her eye Barbara sees Hangman turn in his chair, at first excited to see the instructor. But then the second he realizes who the man walking up the aisle was, the blonde brings a hand to his face and turns away in embarrassment. Having witnessed him, Coyote, and Payback throw her father out of the bar the previous night, it took every inch of her soul to not react at their shame. They were about to find out who he was to her, and she knew it was going to have everyone looking at her differently.

“What he has to teach you may very well mean the difference between life and death. I give you Captain Pete Mitchell,” the second the last name leaves Warlock's mouth, Handman’s head is snapping towards her. He’s not the only one. Phoenix’s expression is one of shock, as is Fanboy’s. Payback whistles under his breath, and Bob just looks confused—not really putting two and two together just yet. But Barbara remains stoic, unreactive. “Call sign: ‘Maverick’.”

Maverick replaces Warlock at the podium, “Good morning,” he smiles at the group, particularly at the three who threw him out of the hard deck the night before. They all smile back, embarrassment and awkwardness in the gesture. Hangman gives another glance to Barbara when he catches Maverick nodding to her. Then the man looks at Rooster, who turns away from his gaze with an unreadable expression.

With a thick book in his hand, Maverick draws everyone's attention to it as he lifts it level with his head, “The F-18 NATOPS.” He pats the top before placing it onto the podium. “It contains everything they want you to know about your aircraft. I’m assuming you know the book inside and out.”

“Damn right!” Payback shouts with pride. Others follow in suit with “Damn straight.” “You got it!”

Maverick nods, smiling before surprising them all—minus Barbara—by dropping the book into the trash can beside him. Barbara shakes her head, expecting it from her father. Cyclone and Warlock share a look. “So does your enemy.”

“And we’re off,” Hondo sighs from the side. Like the Captain’s daughter, Hondo had worked with Maverick long enough to know how he played.

“But what the enemy doesn’t know is your limits. I intend to find them, test them, push beyond.” Feeling the pressure rise, some candidates straighten their posture. Mav looks at each of them as he lists off the day's plans, but his eyes linger on both Rooster and Barbara, “Today we’ll start with what you only think you know. You show me what you’re made of.”

When they are dismissed and Mav takes the chance to leave the podium, the sound of Hangman’s light laughter captures everyone’s attention. “Something funny, Lieutenant?”

It’s strange, how in just a few hours, your whole life can totally and completely change. In just a few minutes, the strangest things can happen - the worst and the best.

In the span of five minutes, you solidified your top spot in the top gun academy. 

In the span of two, you ruined your relationship with your mom.

In the span of one minute and thirty seconds, Your best friend died because of a choice you made.

And within five minutes of that incident, you weren’t too far behind. 

In one minute, sifting through a box your stepfather sent you, you find a picture you’ve never seen before: Your mother, wearing a smile you’ve never seen on her face before, wrapped in the arms of a handsome navy pilot, all teeth and jawbone and eyebrows. 

And with thirty seconds of your arrival at the Hard Deck, that very same pilot comes waltzing in. 

Penny pauses her conversation with you, about how you’ve been, what you’ve been up to, how sorry she is for you, and strikes up a very similar conversation with him.

They have history, you can tell. 

Penny taps the counter over the barstool next to you - one of the only ones available in the crowded bar.

It only takes his polite smile to cement it in your head that this is him. 

This is your father. 

You don’t let anything show through, though. You stir up your shirley temple and smile, introducing yourself as majesty. 

“Ah. I’m in the Navy, too, you know. I’ve never met a Majesty before, though.” 

“Well, sir, this is a Navy bar… and I was on leave up until just recently. It doesn’t surprise me that you haven’t heard of me, since I was stationed in the Peninsula before , and everything there is pretty hush, hush.”

“Maverick,” he says, smiling again, but genuinely. He holds out his hand and you shake it. “Pleasure to meet you, Majesty.”

“likewise, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I finally see someone I know.” 

You bounce off, holding your drink tightly, acting as if your whole life hasn’t just been shaken up by a chance encounter at one of the many Navy bars in North Island. 

Approaching the group of other lieutenants, you steal a glance back at him grinning at Penny with the same stupid lovestruck expression that you saw in the photo.

Yep. That’s him. 

Maverick watches Majesty’s retreating form before she disappears in a group of rowdy pilots, wondering where he’s heard that name before. Majesty. 

He vaguely remembers some news from the peninsula about a year ago, but as the lieutenant had said, the news from there is very limited and very filtered. Something about a pilot whose call sign was Duchess…

“Uh oh.” Penny’s deadpan voice interrupts his thoughts. “You’re thinking. That’s never good.”

She slides him his beer and he laughs softly at her joke. 

“You know that pilot- Majesty - well?”

Penny glances over to where she disappeared into the group of pilots. She’s laughing along with the group while playing pool. They watched her take a shot.

The first thing he thinks is, she sucks.

“Yeah.. She’s a nice girl.” Penny starts deftly making a drink with the confidence of someone who’s done it a thousand times. “She watched Amelia for me when we were going through a divorce. Truly a lifesaver for both of us.” Penny meets his eyes. “She’s had a hard life, that one, and she’s not really ever had a reprieve from it, either. It’s good to see her laughing again.”

He sighs, knowing there’s a lot of pilots who joined up to get away from difficult families. 

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t recognize Bradley Bradshaw himself walking in until he walks up to Majesty and plants a kiss on her cheek,

He raises a hand.

“Penny, check, please?”

You’re having a surprisingly fun time at the Hard deck. You haven’t been clubbing since before you were deployed, and certainly not to a bar.

Who would you go with?

but the pilots you’ve met - and the old friends you’re seeing again are nothing but kind. (at least, to you. It’s been five minutes and Rooster and Hangman are already going at it) 

Phoenix introduces you to the pilots you don’t know, but there aren’t many. You swim in the same circles as most of them.

You line up a pool shot and slide the stick quickly, aiming the white ball at a general cluster of colored balls, and missing all of them completely.

“Now that,” a cocky voice begins over your left shoulder, “That was an astoundingly awful shot, your highness.”

You turn to face Hangman, who’s significantly taller than you, but you still stare right into his eyes. 

“I’ve never played before,” you defend. “And it’s Majesty.”

“Sure it is, darlin’. Lemme show you how to shoot pool.”

You cross your arms.

“Are you going to mansplain eight ball to her, Bagman?” Natasha- Phoenix - juts in. 

“Yeah, are you?” You ask, voice intentionally provocative, meant to make him splutter. Frustratingly, he doesn’t, only coolly lines up a shot - making it perfectly. 

“No, I’m offering to explain how to play properly, so it’s more fun for the both of us.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice. 

Before you can respond with another teasing comment, the music shuts off, making way for a loud, unhappy groan from almost everybody in the bar.

You hear the familiar intro to Rooster’s favorite song, (It’s the only one he learned how to play) and hand the stick off to Bob, whose wide eyes widen even further.

“That’s my cue to leave,” You announce to the group. “I can’t listen to this song for the fifty-thousandth time.”

You blow a kiss to Phoenix and wave to the rest of the pilots, hugging Fanboy, a close friend of yours, and bid adieu to Penny, slipping her a twenty.

“Thanks Penny. See you later, yeah?”

Penny winks at you and waves. You lean into the door and press out into the cool night air, the sound of the ocean suddenly the only sound you can hear - besides Rooster’s muffled voice and piano playing. 

You walk around the bar, getting ready to head back to base. The last thing you expect is to meet eyes with Maverick, who looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

Your voice startles him out of his daze. He shakes his head slightly. 

“Yeah. I’m good.”

His eyes drift to Rooster again through the window, a peculiar expression passing over his face.

“…Well, I’m headed back to base. Have a good night, sir.”

You turn around, hands in your pockets, beginning the short walk back to the barracks.

“Wait. Do you mind if I join you?”

You shake your head ‘no’ and stop to wait for him to catch up with you. How strange is this, the man you just realized was tour father walking with you back to the barracks. 

You walk down the beach in silence, watching the waves crash on shore. There’s not much to say. 

“Are you here for the mission?” he asks eventually, finally, one of you breaking the silence. 

“I.. actually don’t know, sir. They didn’t tell us anything but the fact that we had to be in class tomorrow.”

You meet his eyes, briefly analyzing his face before turning your gaze back to your boots in the sand. There are some features, you suppose, that are similar in your faces. little things, but if he’s your father, you definitely take after your mother. 

“So.. yes. Then you must be a damn good pilot. Penny seems to think so.”

You laugh.

“Penny has what I like to call ‘Mom goggles.’  She thinks everything I do is the greatest thing ever.” 

It’s his turn to laugh.

“‘Mom goggles’? I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well, you’re not married. Give it time and you’ll figure it out.”

Maverick puts his hands up.

“Hang on. How’d you know I’m not married?”

You gesture to his hand. 

“No ring on your finger. And by the way you were shamelessly flirting with Penny literally all night.”

“I was not!”

You shake your head, laughing to yourself. 

This could’ve been us.

you clear your throat, looking out over the sea. The sun has fully set, now, and you’re getting close to base. You yawn, covering your mouth. 

You turn up the path to the base, in a comfortable silence when the your phone rings. You fumble through your pants, unzipping the pocket where you’ve stashed you phone. It reads one word, one you’ve been dreading. 

Mom.

 You cast Maverick an apologetic glance and then take the phone  call. 

“Hey, mom. What’s wrong?” You can hear the resigned sigh in your voice. Captain Mitchell has stopped walking, waiting for you. You shoo him away, not wanting to inconvenience him more.

Your mother’s voice is unintelligible. Staticky and blurred. 

“My baby!” she finally says in words you can understand. “Where are you? I came home and looked in your room and you were gone!”

You rub your eyes. 

“Mom. You’re drunk. Where’s Kevin?”

Usually, by this point, Kevin, your stepdad would step in. 

Maybe, you think, somewhat bitterly, he’s come to his senses and left the crazy lady. 

“Out,” is all she says. “You’re not still running around with the Navy, are you?”

She’s says the word Navy like it’s a slur. 

“Mom-“

“Because this is just a phase, (y/n). You’ll get over it and realize that I was right all along. You don’t belong on the battlefield, you belong in school.”

“Mom, as a matter of fact, i love my job and i’m not planning on leaving it anytime soon.”

This is a conversation you’ve had many a time. Almost every time she’s drunk she calls you up to criticize your life choices. 

“Then you’re a failure.”

“Gosh, I really wonder why I left.”

That’s when you hang up, abruptly cutting off your mother mid sentence. 

You make it all the way to the barracks before you angrily start punching things. The nice thing about living on base again is the free gym available to you, so you change into a ratty old shirt and shorts and go down to the officer’s gym, where punching bags are already hanging. 

You do a quick job of wrapping your hands, then begin the assault on a bag, sending it swinging with a punch.

You keep going and going and going until your knuckles feel like they’re bleeding or broken or at least bruised, and all the stress and anger with your mother has burned off. 

You hit the shower after the gym, then collapse into bed.

Your phone is lit up with four call notifications and twenty six text messages from your mom, which you promptly ignore, silence your phone and fall asleep.

“Duchess, fly away!”

“Get out of there!”

“It’s okay.”

“Majesty!”

Your eyes snap open, your back and arms are covered in sweat. You hold your breath in and let it out, trying to calm your heartbeat. 

You glance at the clock. 

Jesus Christ, it’s only three in the morning. 

This mission can’t come soon enough.

—

A flash of blue and white appeared in your periphery. You quickly closed your eyes, as if by not seeing him, he couldn't see you in return. You'd been dreading this moment, but your damned curiosity compelled you to show up anyway.

"I will introduce you to your squadron," Thrawn spoke to you anyway, not commenting on your lame attempt to hide from the situation. "They are among the Empire's best pilots, though still not close to your level of expertise. For now you will set the standards for their training, help them understand what is required. But I expect to see intensive training within the cockpit soon."

There was a pause before he spoke again, one simple, inquiring word. "Captain?"

You opened your eyes. Everything from before was still there: the ships, the tiny pilots, the viewport into darkness. But now added to the view was the imposing form of the Grand Admiral, looking down at you with those piercing red eyes, waiting for you to agree to being on board.

"I didn't realize titles transferred across war lines," you said in response.

Thrawn did not seem phased by the venom you put behind your words. Or perhaps you hadn't put in enough for him detect. You weren't exactly in pique form at the moment, your body still feeling like it'd been wrung through a trash compactor a few times. The rest and rehab you'd received the day before was far from rejuvenating your fighting spirit.

"The goal is to have you become Flight Commander for the squadron. But we'll retain your title of Captain for now, until you prove yourself. Even if it creates more paperwork for my staff."

He nodded slightly behind you and you turned to find a few officers standing nearby.

"This is Officer Amara Tilde, the fleet's logistics liaison. And Sergeant Lou Mam, from the Chimaera's tactical division. They'll be overseeing the training and provide assistance where needed."

While you were arguing against the small voice in your head that sounded strangely like your mother's, telling you to be polite and smile or nod at the two in acknowledgement, Thrawn continued.

"But for all intents and purposes, the squadron will report to you. As their leader."

"Like it or not," you heard Sergeant Mam mutter under his breath.

If Thrawn also heard, he ignored it, instead turning to indicate he was ready to proceed with this grand plan of his. "If you are ready, Captain, we'll begin."

"And if I'm not ready?" you couldn't help but ask.

One corner of Thrawn's mouth twitched upward. "Then you'll have roughly a hundred meters to gear yourself up, Captain."

And with that, he set off, striding confidently into that dark and massive hangar, his staff members falling in to flank him on either side. You found your feet guiding you to follow along, making you ponder with each step what you were doing here and how you could possibly get free.

"At attention!" called out Sergeant Mam as they approached the group of pilots.

There was a rustle of boots, with a small squeak or two, as the pilots hurried into proper standing positions in front of their chairs. Thrawn and his two officers strode past them toward the podium, but you chose to hang back just behind, out of view. For one, you were still in denial and any little thing you could do to delay the inevitable, be it closing your eyes or pausing in your steps, you would shamelessly do. But for another, that short trek from the door to the middle of the hangar already had you beat. Your body had not fully healed from your crash just a few days ago, and what little rehab you'd done so far to gain mobility back did not prepare you even for a walk. Your body felt flushed, heated, and you were pathetically out of breath.

"At ease," the Sergeant stated as he took his place behind the podium. Thrawn and the other officer stood off to the side, the former giving you a questioning look that you didn't know how to answer from this distance.

The pilots relaxed into their chairs at the command.

"As you all know, you have been selected as the top graduates from the Academy to serve in this special training unit aboard the ISD Chimaera...."

As the Sergeant spoke, you couldn't help but unzip the top of your flight suit and shake at the fabric a bit, trying to get a breeze onto your sweating skin.

"Training?" one of the pilots interrupted, apparently interpreting the at ease command a little too loosely. "We were told Special Forces Unit."

"Indeed, you will become a force to be reckoned with. But first we must train you to get there."

There were grumbles and whispers but you weren't focusing too much on the scene. You still felt too hot. Confined. Trapped. Screw it, you thought, and pulled the zipper all the way down and shimmied out of the sleeves. The top of your suit now hung at your waist, leaving your top half in only a black tank top. Your tattoos would be showing now, as well as the many bruises and barely-scarred wounds you'd recently sustained. Even amongst the rebel forces you'd be considered indecent. But at least you now felt just a little freer.

"With all due respect, sir," another pilot spoke up, "we already received our training, at the Academy."

"Yeah," a third chimed in. "We're enlisted soldiers now. Not cadets."

"And not only that, we're the best," said another. "You said it yourself. Top of our class. What else could we possibly have to learn?"

You couldn't see their faces but you could hear their smirks. Oh, these were cocky SOBs. Something stirred in you at their behavior, very similar to the feeling you got whenever you looked up at the sky or out the viewport into space. In fact, one could argue the two feelings often went hand-in-hand. You had an insatiable desire to fly, yes, but also to prove others wrong. These smug pilots, fresh from the Academy, with their clean suits and fresh haircuts, thought they were on top of the world. But they didn't know what it was like to be in an active war zone. To feel pressure in the cockpit. To be faced with impossible decisions. They had a lot left to learn.

Thrawn chose this moment to step forward, and the murmuring of the crowd quieted down.

"The Academy has prepared you well enough," Thrawn addressed them with that quiet confidence you'd already grown used to. "But we can no longer afford to settle for only enough. The Rebels are growing in their strength and number, and most importantly, in their skill. Do you know who the best fighter pilot is at the moment?"

There was a silence as the pilots looked around to each other. One happened to catch you from the corner of his eye. He frowned in confusion at your presence before turning back around.

"A Captain in the Rebel forces," Thrawn answered his own question, following it up with your name. There was murmuring as some seemed to recognize the name. You weren't sure if you should feel flattered that your reputation preceded you.

"Can any of you confidently say you are better than her?" Thrawn threw out another question but this time didn't wait for a potential response. "No. You are not the best. But, you can be trained by the best. And then there may be hope for the Empire yet."

The pilot who'd noticed you before swung back around to look at you, starting to piece two and two together. You figured this was about as good a time as any to finally push yourself forward.

The whispers returned as you came into view, shuffling amongst seats to get a better look at your disheveled appearance. Or perhaps just your presence in and of itself. They were in as much disbelief as you were over the situation.

One pilot was a little slower than the others and called out, "Who the hell is this?"

Thrawn cooly responded, "The best," before stepping back to give you room.

You took in a deep breath, mostly to get your panting under control, and a little to calm the nerves. You were surrounded by enemies, you reminded yourself. These pilots meant nothing to you. You had nothing to prove to them.

And yet, the itching inside continued.

"Is this a joke?" You recognized the voice as the first pilot who had spoken up. He was a handsome guy, round face and clear skin. His smirk was as mischievous as you'd pictured it earlier.

"I wish it were," you said, hating how your voice betrayed your physical exhaustion.

The pilot didn't seem to know how to respond to that, so the one sitting next to him spoke up instead.

"So you're telling me this Rebel twat knows more about flying than we do?" She seemed to be questioning one of the officers or Thrawn himself, but her eyes were fixed on you.

"There's no need to be vulgar, Heva," the one who'd noticed you earlier spoke up, albeit in a soft tone. "She is the best..."

"For a Rebel," Heva scoffed, settling back in her seat with arms crossed. "Which isn't saying much, now, is it?"

You desperately wanted to scratch the itch, to put these MF-ers in their place, but you'd need to pace yourself. Battles weren't won in a day, as you unfortunately knew firsthand.

"Test me," you said, straightening up a little.

This earned you a mix of snorts and incredulous smirks.

"Alright," Heva sniffed. "How do you reprogram a misaligned targeting system mid-flight? Smoke is coming from the underside of a TIE starfighter cockpit, what has been damaged? Do you use concussion missiles or proton torpedoes against a particle shield?"

You noted her questions were specific to Imperial tech, things you would likely not know about. But even if you did, they were hardly the most important things to be quizzed on, so you didn't feel particularly demeaned like she probably hoped.

You hummed. "I confess, I don't know."

Heva wore a self-satisfied grin while a few snickered around her.

"Now let me ask you something," you continued, not letting them enjoy their petty victory for long. "You're flanked between two enemy crafts and no wiggle room on either side. Ahead is a building, or some other obstacle, where impact would be fatal. What do you do?"

Some of the pilots seemed to be considering the question while others, like Heva and the pretty boy next to her, were more reluctant to play along.

"How far away?" asked the soft-spoken one.

You looked out across the hangar. "Let's say... from here to the viewport. A hundred meters?"

"Wait them out" said the pretty pilot, and it was then you noticed he had some chewing gum in his mouth, further accentuating his blasé attitude. "The enemy craft won't risk a collision either. As soon as they peel off, you follow."

"They're Rebels," you pointed out. "Some of the crazier ones. Flyers who know how to bank last minute and won't let you breathe for an inch. You can wait to bank with them, but if you're even a hair's length out of sync, you'll collide."

"Pull up sooner," someone shouted out.

"Collision," you asserted. "They're flanking, not mirroring. You won't fall far enough back before they do, too."

"Alright then, Best Pilot in the Galaxy," sneered Heva. "What do you do? Or are you trying to use a trick question to make yourself sound smarter?"

You took in a measured breath to maintain your composure. "You drop. Kill the engine, drop a few meters, fire it back up in time to bank."

There were even more scoffs and snorts than before.

"That's not... you can't..." the soft-spoken pilot's face was screwed up in deep thought, trying to make sense of your outlandish idea. "I mean, the physics of it alone... How could you even calculate the timing of it?"

"A situation like that, there's no calculating," you agreed. "There's no recalling a classroom lesson or reciting a manual. There's only feeling."

You hadn't exactly held their respect before, but now you'd really lost them. You were preaching about feelings, to a crowd who didn't think they needed to be taught anything in the first place. The looks on their faces, the not-so-polite words they were sputtering at a not-so-subtle volume, were proof they found you ridiculous.

You risked a glance back at Thrawn, whose expression was deadpan and gave away nothing of how he perceived this whole exchange. Not that you needed his approval. But he'd staked a lot in this plan of having a captured Rebel pilot teach an Imperial squadron; you were nervous about the consequences of failing him.

Your gaze shifted from his apathetic eyes to a starship just behind him. A TIE Interceptor by the looks of it. There wasn't much you envied about the Empire, save for this one vessel. The itching intensified; you were practically chomping at the bit now that the idea popped into your mind. A way to kill two birds with one stone.

You steeled yourself with another breath and turned back to face your disgruntled audience.

"...it's just not possible," someone was saying.

"It is possible." You raised your voice to be heard over their ruckus. Whatever fatigue your body had been suffering was now muted as adrenaline began to ramp up inside you. "I've done it before."

This hushed them up a bit, though skepticism was still written across their features. You couldn't help but grin in response.

"Would you like me to do it again?"

~ ~ ~

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You'd dated for months, though neither of you was brave enough to put words to it. Carole was, though. Date. Relationship. Love. Any time she mentioned it, your cheeks would flame, Maverick would awkwardly look away, and Goose would pull her into a hug, kissing her until she giggled and the topic was changed.

Those were the days. And in a kinder world, things would've stayed like that forever. Instead, Iceman had unintentionally swooped in and blown your good thing to shit.

But even you could admit that it wasn't entirely Iceman's fault. As much as you liked Maverick, you knew that you had to keep your relationship under wraps. Though the Navy allowed women within their ranks, getting the opportunity to become one of the first female naval aviators was still a hard-won privilege and one that you didn't take lightly. The last thing you wanted was for someone to call you out for fraternization and jeopardize your job. And though you looked at Maverick as if he'd hung the moon just for you, you knew that few others within the Navy viewed his endeavors — and you knew they'd consider you, an endeavor — similarly.

But as hard as you'd tried in the beginning, you hadn't been able to stop Maverick from worming his way into your affections. And, it appeared, your efforts were similarly wasted on Iceman.

When you first met Ice, you'd suspected he was a dime-a-dozen. Tall and confident and by the rules. Until you saw him fly. You had an ego like the other pilots who made it to Top Gun, but you, at least, knew when you were beaten. And Iceman had all of you beat. Well, except for Maverick. That appreciation, however, must have been misconstrued. Somewhere along the line, Iceman had gotten it in his head that sliding into the seat next to you at the O Club and flagging the bartender down to grab you a drink was a good idea. You hadn't known he was interested until it was already too late.

You couldn't even remember the words that blew your world to pieces. Only knew that Maverick had his hand around your arm, your drink spilled all down the front of your khakis as he'd hissed and spit until he was red in the face. "You want to fuck Kazansky. Fine. I won't stand in your way."

"Pete."

"I'm done." And he'd gotten on his bike and driven away.

It had been the end of your relationship but the beginning of Maverick's downward spiral.

Goose died the next day.

Maverick turned in his wings.

Iceman won the Top Gun trophy.

Maverick was called away to the USS Enterprise right after the graduation ceremony.

You were long gone before he came back.

But here he is. Strolling into the briefing late, clad in his dad's jacket and old jeans. His brows draw down in confusion when his eyes land on you, his head tilting. Assessing.

At least he hadn't been expecting you, either. Neither of you had the advantage.

"Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell." Cyclone draws Maverick's attention to himself, sitting behind his desk. "Your reputation precedes you."

"Thank you, sir."

Cyclone's frown deepens. "Wasn't a compliment." It does little to humble the smile on Maverick's face, so Cyclone goes on to introduce himself, Warlock, and yourself, though, from the casual greeting they shoot each other, you gather that he and Warlock have met before.

With little delay, Warlock goes on to outline the mission. "The target is an unsanctioned uranium enrichment plant built in violation of a multilateral NATO treaty. The uranium produced there represents a direct threat to our allies in the region. The Pentagon has tasked us with assembling a strike team and taking it out before it becomes fully operational."

Warlock goes through his slides. The plant is in an underground bunker at the end of a GPS-jammed valley guarded by an extensive surface-to-air missile array and fifth-generation fighters. "Which, in turn," Warlock continues with another click to zoom in on an aerial view of the nearby airstrip, "are backed up by a plentiful reserve of surplus aircraft. Even a few F-14s."

"Seems like we're not the only ones holding onto old relics." You'd have taken Cyclone's words personally if they hadn't been meant as a blatant attack on Maverick. As it is, Maverick ducks his head as if the shot at him is expected.

"What's your read, Captain?" Warlock breaks the stalemate.

Maverick looks at you briefly before clearing his throat and approaching the projector. You follow along in your own hastily scribbled notes as Maverick talks through the possibilities. GPS-jamming means F-35s are a no-go. The low-level laser-guided strike is about as tailor-made for the F-18 as a mission can get. Two precision bombs. Four aircraft flying in pairs. High potential for g-loc on the way out and a dogfight all the way home. But it can be done. Supposedly.

"It's been a while since I've flown an F-18, and I'm not sure who I'd trust to fly the other three, but I'll find a way to make it work."

And then Cyclone hits you with the twist: "We don't want you to fly it. We want you to teach it."

Twelve Top Gun graduates have been recalled for the special detachment. Among them: Bradley. You can pinpoint the moment Maverick sees Bradley on the board, and you almost feel bad, but Maverick had brought this upon himself. You'd been there to pick Bradley up after Maverick pulled his papers to the Naval Academy. Had jumped in your car and floored it to the Bradshaw residence to hold the boy — now a young man — as he'd sobbed fat, angry tears.

That doesn't mean you don't wince when Cyclone sticks his fingers into the open wound that will evermore be Goose. "Tragic what happened." Even you want to smack the Vice Admiral for that.

But if Maverick has the plan and Maverick is expected to teach the graduates… "Admiral Simpson," you say, breaking your silence as you close your notepad, "I fail to see why I'm needed for this detachment if Captain Mitchell has the planning and training under control." Professional. To the point. "So if you don't need me…." You stand and make for the door. The sooner you can slip away, back to your life without Maverick, the better.

"Not so fast," Cyclone interrupts your exit and leans forward against his desk. "Let me be perfectly blunt. You–" you turn to find him pointing a stern finger at Maverick "–were not my first choice. In fact, you weren't even on the list. You are here because of Admiral Kazansky. Now, Iceman happens to be a man I deeply admire, and he seems to think that you have something left to offer the Navy. What that is, I can't imagine. And he has assured me that you–" Cyclone's steely green eyes lock on you "–can keep him in check."

Well, isn't that rich? "With all due respect, Cyclone, I'm an Admiral for the United States Navy, not a babysitter."

"Well, for the purposes of this mission, it would appear that you are both." He tosses a file onto his desk, and you glare at it. Not only does Cyclone outrank you, but the orders technically come from the Commander of the Pacific Fleet. You could say 'no' and walk away, but unless you're officially dismissed, it's a career-limiting — possibly career-ending — move. Ultimately, you walk back to the desk to pick up the file and stack it on your notepad.

Satisfied, Cyclone turns his attention back to Maverick. "You don't have to take this job, but let me be clear: this will be your last post, Captain. You fly for Top Gun, or you never fly for the Navy ever again."

That night, as you pour over the mission file, you wonder what Kazansky is up to. There's no way he put you, Maverick, and Bradley all in the same place over a mid-life power trip. But you can't figure out what he's out to accomplish for your life.

— — —

Warlock introduces you and Maverick to the twelve graduates. Well, eleven — you both know Bradley. Cyclone is beside himself when Maverick throws away the F-18 NATOPS and shoots you a look, but what does he expect you to do? Fish it out of the trash? This is Kazansky's circus. He can fish the NATOPS out of the trash.

Bradley catches up to you as everyone disperses to get changed into their g-suits for the day's hops. "Why the hell is he here?" he asks, voice low but venom clear in his tone.

"Iceman."

"Figures." Bradley's lips pull into a tight line. "So, what do we do?"

You sigh, exhausted, and the day has only begun. "What we do best, baby bird. Fly."

Frustratingly, Maverick's just as good as you remember him. Better, even. The fire of his youth still there but tempered marginally by time. And you hate to admit it, but you're rusty. No one told you when you joined the Navy that the higher you climbed the ladder, the further you'd get from the sky. You're shot down once by Hangman — which you're sure he'll brag about later at the bar — but Maverick is untouchable.

You're already on the ground when Bradley touches down to do his own pushups. Once your arms have turned to jelly, you let Hondo go with a promise to count the rest for Bradley.

"I told you to fly, not lose your shit," you say once Hondo has walked far enough away to give you the illusion of privacy. Bradley glares at you before returning to his pushups, sweat dripping off his nose and onto the tarmac. "When you let him get to you like that, you give him the edge."

"What does it matter?" Bradley says, taking a seat and looking up at you for the first time since he was thirteen. "He's going to wash me out."

"I won't let him."

Bradley shakes his head. "Don't."

"I won't."

"Well, you couldn't stop him last time." And that's not fair. You weren't the one who'd pulled Bradley's papers. You hadn't even known until the deed had been done. Until Bradley was asking if he could stay with you for a while, and you insisted on driving to him. The same night Maverick's name had become a dirty word to both of you.

You do your best to keep the hurt off of your face. Bradley isn't mad at you; he's stressed and lashing out. But on base, you're still his superior officer. "The four best pilots will be on the mission. Whether that includes you or not, Rooster, is up to you. But it won't if you keep flying like that." You leave when your phone buzzes with a message to meet at Cyclone's office in — you check the time — ten minutes.

— — —

It's cathartic, you decide, to watch someone else lose their shit on Maverick. Unfortunately for Cyclone, though, this is one of the rare times that Maverick's rule-breaking has a defensible reason behind it.

"The hard deck will be much lower for the mission, sir," Maverick responds at your side.

"And it will not change without my approval!" Cyclone snaps. "Especially not in the middle of an exercise. And that cobra maneuver of yours? That could've gotten all four of you killed. I never want to see that shit again." All you do is shrug when Cyclone's stare focuses on you. You aren't sure what Iceman told Cyclone to make him think you could make Maverick behave, but you're not sure what you're supposed to do when you haven't spoken to the man in nearly forty years.

And then they're off again: Cyclone and Maverick. Oil and water.

"You have less than three weeks to teach them how to fight as a team and how to strike the target," Cyclone says, and he looks like he's ready to wave a hand, dismiss you all for the day, and pour himself four fingers of whiskey.

"And how to come home." Your head snaps to Maverick. His lips are parted as if he wants to say something else, but the words must escape him because instead, he repeats: "And how to come home, sir."

You try to swallow, but your throat is dry like sandpaper. Eyes wide, you stare at Cyclone. Coming home had never been a part of the training plan. This — Maverick is the first person to mention bringing the team home. A pit settles in your stomach as the realization of what you've been assigned to hits.

A suicide mission.

You're sending six people into enemy territory to die. Less, if you're lucky, but not everyone is coming home.

Cyclone chooses his next words carefully — "Every mission has its risks." — but they do nothing to settle you. Your blood is on fire, and you're simultaneously hot and cold, an icy sweat breaking out across your temples. "These pilots accept that."

"I don't, sir." Maverick's statement settles around you like a well-worn quilt. You shiver, despite yourself as a part of you that you'd believe to be long-dead flickers back to life. Because at that moment, in those words, you know that Maverick will do everything in his power to ensure everyone comes home. It feels like hope. Like trust. Clumsy fingers pull the feeling tighter around you.

"Every morning," Cyclone breaks the silence, "you will brief us on your instructional plans in writing. And nothing will change without my express approval."

"Including the hard deck, sir?" You're running through a plan to get all the paperwork together to lower the hard deck as soon as the question is past Maverick's lips because, much to your chagrin, Maverick is correct, and you should all be flying much lower to properly prepare.

"Especially the hard deck, Captain."

Without skipping a beat, Maverick hands a manila file over the desk to Cyclone. "Sir." And it appears that years of getting on Admirals' bad sides have prepared Maverick for this exact moment. You have to fight the twitch threatening to bring your lips up at the thought that Maverick knew he was going to break the hard deck and had come prepared with the paperwork already filled out.

When you regroup the next day, the hard deck sits much lower.

In two-plane teams, the graduates take turns flying the simulated course on their nav systems. And because you're going easy on them, they have both extra time and a higher ceiling than they'll have when they fly the actual mission. Even with these allowances, no one can make it to the end of the course. Except for Bradley, but he'd flown too slow despite Yale's insistence that they would be late.

As Maverick and Rooster argue over whether or not running the course in four minutes would be a death sentence, you can see the graduates' faces drop as they come to the same conclusion you'd come to in Cyclone's office: that this mission might not be doable.

"That's no time to be thinking about the past," Hangman says as if he couldn't stand that Bradley's ire had been aimed at anyone else.

Bradley's head whips to Hangman. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Something about this screams danger, but Maverick is frozen to the spot. "Rooster," you say, hoping you can get in front of this; calm Bradley before Hangman can dig his nails in and give him a shake.

Hangman leans back against his seat, a smile curling his lips. "I can't be the only one that knows that Maverick flew with his old man."

"That's enough." Maverick finally snaps out of whatever had held him silent before, but Hangman is undeterred.

"Or that Maverick was flying when his old man–"

"Lieutenant," you bark, "that's enough!" But it's too little too late. The fuse must have been lit before you and Maverick had been on the scene because Bradley is suddenly out of his seat, other graduates clamoring to their feet to grab him or push Hangman out of his reach.

Maverick throws himself into the middle, ordering each man to stand down while Bradley snarls, "You son of a bitch!"

When you get a hand on Hangman's shoulder, he shoots you a self-assured smile. "He's not cut out for this mission."

You shove him away from Bradley. "Walk."

Hangman's pale eyes land on Rooster. "You know it."

"I said walk, Lieutenant." You give Hangman another shove for good measure, and his feet finally begin to carry him away from the situation, but not before his eyes lock on Maverick's over his shoulder.

"You know I'm right."

Back in the hangar, Maverick dismisses the class. You march Hangman to an empty classroom to reprimand his piss-poor behavior. Hangman nods in all the right places, but you doubt any of your scoldings get through to him.

— — —

Getting all the graduates on the same page calls for a new strategy. They can fly the course on their navs until they're blue in the face, but it won't bring them closer together. Won't keep Hangman from leaving his wingman out to dry or light a fire under Bradley's ass. With a few ideas in mind, you arrive at the hangar early, hoping you can snag Warlock and go over some of your ideas before seeking approval from Cyclone.

Instead, you find Maverick.

"You're a bit early," you say as you take a seat atop one of the desks in the back row. And underdressed. It seems that he hasn't updated his wardrobe since the '80s. Instead of khakis, Maverick must have walked onto base today in his jeans and an old, white t-shirt.

Maverick jumps a little bit, then erases an errant mark on the whiteboard with the hem of his shirt and returns to what he was writing. "Yeah," he agrees. "Wanted to get here before everyone else."

Clearly. "And what's that?" you ask, gesturing at the board.

"Oh." Maverick stands back and taps at the board. "New plan for the day. I'd have talked with you about it, but…." He doesn't have your number.

Class on the beach.

Meet at The Hard Deck.

Wear civvies.

"What's at the beach?"

"Dogfight football," he says as if that explains everything.

You cross your arms. "This isn't volleyball all over again, is it?"

"No." Maverick shakes his head with a fond smile crinkling his eyes. “No, this is teambuilding.”

"Ah," you play along and nod as if that clears everything up. "I think that's exactly what Viper called it when he sent us to the volleyball court." More like when Jester had chucked the volleyball at Maverick's head, and Viper ordered he and Iceman get their posturing bullshit over with. They hadn't, of course, but it had been worth a try.

"He did, didn't he?" Before he can start fiddling with the whiteboard marker, Maverick caps it and sets it down. You wonder if he's thinking about it, too. The long summer days. How the sun beat down on all of you until your shoulders were red. Goose. "Let's hope this goes better, then."

When you arrive at the beach, Hondo's already there with two nerf footballs in his hands and a referee whistle around his neck. Maverick's bike is in the parking lot, but you don't see him when you scan the beach.

"Avalanche."

"Hondo."

"Anything I can help you with, ma'am?" Hondo shifts his weight from one foot to the other in the sand. Maybe Maverick had told him about your history, maybe he hadn't, but the two seem close enough. Whatever he does or doesn't know, Hondo doesn't let it come between your professional relationship.

"Just trying to figure out what dogfight football is."

The idea is all Maverick's, but the concept is pretty simple. Offense and defense at the same time. Score by running your ball into the opposing team's endzone before they run their ball into yours. Stop the other team from advancing by grounding their ball.

As Hondo gets into the hastily made-up rules, Maverick comes down from the bar, jeans rolled up to just below his knees and dragging a cooler behind himself. "You made it," he greets you, his movie star smile warm like the sun as the sea breeze tousles his hair.

"What's in the box?" you ask, hiding behind the question and your aviators. Instead of answering, Maverick opens the lid to reveal a multitude of cans. "Beer? On the job?"

"There's water in there, too," Maverick says, digging through the ice until he uncovers a water bottle and hands it to you. You drop the bottle back into the ice with a crunch. "The class on their way?" he asks as he closes the cooler.

"I'm not sure." So you fish your phone out of your pocket and send Bradley a quick text to make sure he's on his way with the others. Truthfully, you hadn't stuck around long enough to be sure. Had simply added your own note below Maverick's before leaving yourself.

Erase after reading.

The class shows up, and shirts come off. You fight to keep your eyes on Hondo as he separates you into teams. For someone pushing sixty, Maverick looks good. Trim waist, toned arms–

"Avalanche." Your attention snaps to Hondo as he motions you to the left. "Orange team."

After a quick huddle, both teams line up. Maverick and Bradley against you and Hangman. You don't have enough time to overthink it when Hondo blows the whistle, and you all take off at the snap.

By the time you stumble to the cooler for some water, you've lost track of the score. Hondo might know, but you doubt it. Laughter rang out from the group as Phoenix brought Fanboy down to the sand. Count on Maverick to succeed where others have failed.

"Looks like your plan worked," you call out as Maverick makes his way over to you, jeans wet and sandy from all the times he'd been knocked into the surf, aviators crooked on his face. You get off the cooler to grab him a water bottle as he sits in the nearby chair and pulls his shirt back on. When you turn around, he's beaming.

"Get him!" Halo screams, and you and Maverick look to where Hondo has intercepted a pass. He looks between the ball and WSO as if he's surprised before he runs, but he doesn't get far before — regardless of which team they're on — the aviators jump on him like a bunch of puppies. Screaming and laughing and wiggling as they bring Hondo to the sand. A laugh escapes you, and suddenly you and Maverick are laughing together. It feels good to laugh with him again.

Not even Cyclone's shadow can dim your shine, but Maverick does peak at him over his sunglasses. "Sir?"

"What is this?" Cyclone asks as everyone sets up again, none the wiser to Cyclone observing from the sideline.

"This–" Maverick gestures to the surf "–is dogfight football."

"Offense and defense at the same time," you say once you take a sip from your water bottle.

Ever critical, Cyclone asks: "Who's winning?"

"I think they stopped keeping score a while ago," Maverick says, his own water bottle crinkling as he drains it.

"This detachment still has some training to complete, Captain." His words are said to Maverick, but they're directed at both of you. Cyclone shooting you a look that says he expected you to do more to keep Maverick on Cyclone's track than go along willingly when he decides to play hooky. And maybe it's because this is the most fun you've had in years, but you'll readily admit that Maverick's plan had worked better than anything you'd wanted to run by Warlock. "Every available minute matters. So why are we out here playing games?"

Bob scores a touchdown, and Bradley lifts him onto his shoulders. Bob raises the ball above his head as the rest of the squad mills about them and chants, "Bob! Bob! Bob!"

"It's a teambuilding exercise, sir," you say, catching Maverick's surprised look out of the corner of your eye. "You asked him to create a team. There it is."

The three of you watch as the group runs into the ocean to cool off, only Hondo appears to be aware of their spectator, but Maverick raises a hand in his direction as if to let Hondo know that you have it handled.

"I expect them to be ready to fly tomorrow." By the time the graduates fish themselves out of the surf, Cyclone is long gone. And as they begin to walk around The Hard Deck with the promise of food and a few rounds of pool, Maverick's eyes find yours through your sunglasses.

"Well," Maverick sighs, hands clapping against his thighs, but he doesn't make to stand up. "I've gotta see if Penny will take some of these beers back."

You nod, dusting sand from your legs and shaking your shirt before pulling it over your head. "Make sure they drink some water," you say because you remember what it was like to be young and in the Navy. "I don't want Cyclone on our asses about them being hungover tomorrow."

"You heading out?" He rises to meet you.

"Yeah." You pat down your pockets to make sure that you have your keys. "It's about that time."

"Stick around," Maverick says when your keys jingle in your pocket. "Penny makes a mean burger."

Mean might be an exaggeration, but it turns out that Penny's burgers are pretty good. You hadn't expected much from a Navy bar, but credit where it's due and all that. By the time Maverick finds you at your booth, he's returned all but two of his beers and passes one of them to you. "I'd have gotten you a glass, but I already paid for these, so…" he trails off, and now that you can see his eyes, he looks uncomfortable standing at the end of your booth.

Maybe you're still running on the endorphins from your teambuilding exercise, or your newly blossoming trust is making you do some weird shit, but you decide to accept the can that Maverick offers you. You crack it open and take a sip, nodding to the bench across from you. Maverick jumps at the chance and slides onto the seat, his elbows resting on the table as he takes a gulp of his beer.

"So," you say, not entirely sure where to start with how long it's been since you've willingly engaged in a conversation with Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, but you're in a mood to humor him, "still a Captain, huh?"

Maverick chuckles. "A highly decorated Captain." It sounds like he's been saying it for years.

The conversation is stilted. Strictly professional. But it's more than you've been willing to give Maverick in years. The conversation is shot dead when the jukebox is unplugged, and Maverick gets a faraway look on his face as Bradley begins tickling at the piano keys. Before long, the rest of the bar is scream-singing Great Balls of Fire along with him, but your silence stretches even after Bradley moves on to the next song. And the next.

Your anger rises with each change of the keys. Finally, you can't take the silence any longer. "It was wrong what you did." It's the least of what you've wanted to say to him for years.

"I did what I had to."

"Bullshit," you grit. You see red. Because who the fuck did — does — Maverick think he is? "You had no right–"

"Carole asked me to do it." He says it so softly that you almost miss it between the clack of the pool table and din of conversation. Of all the defenses you'd been expecting, all the excuses you'd imagined over the years, you'd never…

"What?"

"She– Well, she–" he stumbles over his words. A couple non-starters until he can finally spit it out with a careful look in Bradley's direction. "She never wanted him to fly. Not after what happened to Goose." So there it was. What you'd always assumed was Maverick's own selfish reason for keeping his best friend's son from flying.

But it wasn't his selfish reason. Fuck! You stared into your can, the carbonation fizzing against the thin metal until you could feel it beneath your fingers.

Fuck. You'd had Maverick wrong for years. Bradley had him wrong.

Maverick clears his throat when you don't have anything to say to his overdue confession. "She made me promise before she died."

"How long?"

"The next day," Maverick gives you a sad little smile.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

You still hate it, but you begrudgingly get it now. Years later. Maverick hadn't wanted to pull Rooster's papers. Carole had put him in an impossible position. "You could've lied." You hate to even offer it up. It feels wrong the second the suggestion slips past your lips. Who lies to their friend on the deathbed? But Carole wouldn't have known. She could have died in peace, and Bradley would've been none the wiser.

"I couldn't bring myself to tell her, then…" he shakes his head. "Anyway, I knew Bradley would fly." He gestures across the table at you. "Knew you'd be there to help him get back on track."

But something about all of this still doesn't sit right with you. "Why not just tell him?" You abandon your beer and lean across the table, catching Maverick's downcast eyes. "He's… It would've hurt in the moment, but you've had years." An urge seizes you, and you have to fight every instinct in your body telling you to reach across the table. To cradle Maverick's hand in your own and rub some comfort into the old bones beneath tan skin. "You have to know by now that he'd have understood." That he'd still understand. He'd be angry, but he'd understand.

For all that you were the wind in Bradley's sails after their falling out, you knew you'd always be a piss poor replacement for Bradley's Uncle Mav. God, you wished Goose was there to knock some sense into him.

Maverick takes another sip of his beer, his gaze on Bradley, surrounded by his teammates by the piano. "It's better this way," he says. "I'd rather him hate me than resent her."

"You're an idiot if you think Bradley ever could've hated Carole."

A smile tugs at the corner of Maverick's lip, but his dimples don't pop. "No one ever accused me of being smart."

— — —

You and Maverick play the role of intercepting fifth-gen fighters while the graduates practice the course at speed and attempt to hit an old refrigerator in the middle of the desert meant to simulate the underground bunker.

The day doesn't go as planned.

It starts with several unsuccessful runs, then Coyote going into g-loc, followed by a bird strike that forces Phoenix and Bob to eject. Your hands, steady in the cockpit, shake once you touch down while you try to keep your mind from spiraling. You try to do simple math in your head, and when that isn't distracting enough, you force yourself to look at the positives: Coyote is fine; Phoenix and Bob punched out, their parachutes deployed, and a helicopter is picking probably picking them up right now; Bradley hadn't been in the air.

Bradley.

Thinking about your baby bird makes your breath catch. Heart beating in your throat. How was he handling all of this? Had he watched them punch out? Had he ever–?

Before you can go to him, Maverick is there. "Hey," he says with a hand on your shoulder, and you don't brush it off. The touch is grounding. It's the only thing keeping you from entering a flat spin. "Are you okay?" All you can think is that you should be asking him that. What you muster is a nod. It's been a while since you've been in the air when something had gone wrong, and your mind keeps circling back to Goose. Maverick's eyes study yours before he ushers you toward the building. He asks you to wait before disappearing into the men's locker room and returning with a manilla folder. "Think you can bring Cyclone tomorrow's lesson plan?"

You accept the folder, looking at the thick card stock in your hands. "Where're you going?"

Hesitation and desperation war in his eyes. "Rooster." Ah. Yeah. That makes sense. You want to go after Bradley yourself, but Maverick needs it.

You swallow to wet your dry throat. "Yeah," you croak. "Good. Yeah. I'll make sure he gets it."

Maverick's hand squeezes your shoulder. "Thank you." Then he's gone down the hallway, peering through windows as he goes.

But bad news always comes in threes.

The call comes in while you're defending Maverick's lesson plan.

You hadn't even known that Iceman was sick.

Warlock offers his condolences to Cyclone, then dips out of the room to find Maverick and deliver the news. Seconds later, footsteps hurry past the door and out of the base. A door slamming as the rumble of a bike disappears into the distance.

You stand with your old Top Gun class at the service. Well, the ones who had been able to show up. Slider. Hollywood and Wolfman. Viper.

Ron had tried to get approval to fly one of the jets overhead, but his request had been denied, which, you thought, eying his hands as they shook during the eulogy, was probably for the best. After the service, the five of you grab a drink for old time's sake, and Viper pours one out for your fallen comrade. Maverick doesn't join.

But when it rains, it pours.

An email is all the warning you get that Cyclone is taking over the mission. Maverick's career as a naval aviator is over, but yours isn't. You're expected to stay on. Without Iceman to fight for him, Maverick is grounded. All over the world, you're sure, admirals and air bosses were breathing a collective sigh of relief — but to your surprise, you weren't among them.

For the first time since joining the Navy — with his best friend gone and his career at large buried alongside his wingman — Maverick is well and truly on his own.

Everyone is given a day off to mourn and collect themselves while Cyclone develops a new game plan.

New orders come through the following day. You arrive on base early and are briefed on the latest mission parameters, but they make you feel like you've swallowed lead. It's a feeling you can't shake while you change into your flight suit, a voice in your ear buzzing that you're sending your team off to an early grave. You're on your way to run through preflight to fly an example of Cyclone's plan when you swear you see Maverick out of the corner of your eye.

You squint through the early morning sun. "Maverick?" He puts a finger to his lips and waves you over, and with a quick look around, you go to him. When you're close enough, he pulls you into the shadow of the hangar he's hiding behind so neither of you will be seen by officers about their dailies. "What are you doing here?" you ask, quiet this time. "Cyclone said that you were done."

"Yeah," Maverick said, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "I'm sure he'd like to believe that."

"I don't like that look." But you're smiling.

"A lot of people 've been saying that lately." He smiles back. Then: "I'm going to steal a jet."

"Come again?"

Maverick holds his hands up to calm you down. You must've been loud in your surprise because he's looking around the tarmac like he expects to be found out any second now. "The only way they come home is the way we've been teaching them," he says, and it's truth. You both know it. The squad knows it. Cyclone knows it.

Every mission has its risks. These pilots accept that.

"I won't drag you down with me, but if you could just — I don't know — distract the ground crew while I climb into one of the F/A-18s, I'll deny that you had any part in–"

You hand Maverick your helmet. "Take mine."

"What?"

"I'm set to fly the course in–" you check your watch "–at the top of the hour." With your helmet in Maverick's hands, you begin loosening the strap that fits under your chin so it'll go on easier for him. "Keep your head down and use signals during preflight or you won't make it off the ground."

"Avalanche–"

"Cyclone doesn't think it can be flown, but it can," you say and place your hands on Maverick's shoulders. "Prove him wrong."

"Thank you."

"Turn 'n' burn, Mav."

You make your way to the class after you watch Mav take off in your plane. As luck would have it, you arrive just as your plane appears on the screen.

"Avalanche," range control crackles through the comms, "you are approaching point Alpha. Confirm green range."

"Copy, Range control. Green range is confirmed." Cyclone's eyes find yours when he starts at the very decidedly not feminine voice that responds to the tower.

"Umm… Avalanche?"

"Maverick."

"We have this event scheduled for Avalanche, sir."

"Well, I'm going anyway," Mav says. "Setting time to target: two minutes and fifteen seconds."

You might be the only person in the room who isn't surprised when Mav pulls off his stunt.

Cyclone takes off from the hangar with Warlock hot on his heels. You follow as they pass you by.

"You were supposed to keep him in line," Cyclone says, but he doesn't turn to look at you. Warlock does, you even think he understands why you did it, but Warlock wasn't the one Mav had to convince.

"With all due respect, sir–"

"Dismissed."

Your steps falter. "What?"

Cyclone shoots you a glare over his shoulder. "Go home, Rear Admiral. We will discuss this later." Then to Warlock: "Bring Mitchell to my office. Now."

With no other way to contact him, you head to the Hard Deck, knowing Mav will find you there eventually. You hope he's got good news when he does.

Mav takes significantly longer to show up than you'd anticipated, which is either good or bad. It's a busy night at the bar, the jukebox plays hit after hit, and one unlucky sod has the bell run on him for disrespecting a lady. No one is tossed overboard. You've only managed to drink half of your beer, your stomach lurching uneasily each time you take a sip, and your eyes jumping to the door every time it swings open, unsettled with the knowledge that you all ship out in the morning. That this was the last chance Mav had to prove the mission could be flown, to change Cyclone's mind before the team was selected. That he — you — might have been too late.

Then he shows up. Nostalgia personified in his dress whites, cap tucked beneath his arm as Loverboy croons over the clink of glasses and laughter that fills the bar. Your breath catches in your throat.

This is it. The moment of truth.

Mav's face gives nothing away as he leans in close enough for his breath to tickle your ear. "Take a walk with me?" You abandon your room-temperature beer and follow Mav onto the deck and down to the beach. He lets out a bone-deep sigh as his dress shoes fill with sand.

"What's with the whites?" You're shooting for casual, but you're practically shaking. Is this a final night of glory? A swan song? A victory lap?

"Just seemed appropriate." Mav shrugs and drags out your suffering.

"So," you say, drawing it out until the vowel is lost in the breeze, "did you get canned?"

"No." You give him a look, and he relents. "Close, but no."

The surf fills the silence, but there's only so much it can do before the space between you grows stale. The moment to say something has almost passed when: "Spit it out. We aren't getting any younger."

"I've been appointed team leader."

It crashes into you like waves against the hull of a carrier. The whites, the solemn expression. This is supposed to be goodbye.

"Don't go." And you mean it. Don't even have to think about it.

But Mav's eyes stay on the water. Dark waves gliding up the sand and retreating. "I have to."

"No. You don't."

His shoulders stiffen; you can see it clear as day with the way his whites contrast the inky black of the night sky. "Is that an order, Admiral?"

You scoff. "No. If it was, you'd just break it." Mav chuckles despite himself. "It's a request. From a friend." But the request feels hollow when you put it that way. Tastes like a lie on the back of your tongue.

"I'm the only one who's flown the course in the timeframe. It has to be me."

"Please," you say because you aren't above pleading. Because you're desperate and running out of reasons.

"I love you." The words feel like ejecting without a parachute. Like diving headfirst into an alpine lake at the height of summer — frigid water filling your lungs as you gasp. "Never stopped, but," he pauses, meets your gaze with his own, and for the first time, Mav seems every bit his age. You can't help but feel that he looks all the more handsome for it. "I wanted to say it now. In case I don't get the chance to, later."

You pull him into a kiss and breathe him in like water. Longing. Lingering. Drowning. Mav allows himself to sink beneath the surface with you before his hands cover your own on his cheeks and pulls away. He takes a step back, surfaces, stumbles slightly in the sand. "When I come back," he promises.

And that's precisely what echoes in your head when you hear that Dagger One has gone down.