#user: i-wear-wet-socks313

[callsignthirsty]

OMG THIRSTY YOUR SUGGESTION BOX IS OPEN UMMM, first of all hi I love you, second I was thinking maybe a maverick x femPILOTreader can (her call sign be avalanche?) were they are a thing that only goose and carol know about, but not really just “casual sex” in mavs words, then ice starts flirting HARD with the reader and mav gets jealous and makes a big scene and they end up breaking up over it (cause maverick is too hard headed) and he regrets it forever but says nothing (that man won’t swallow his pride) and maybe a time skip to top gun maverick? Where he and the reader are called back together to train the team (is this too much?), I think it’d be cute to see mav fall in love all over again (not really cause he never forgot her) with her and be together in the end. Bonus points if she is like an aunt to rooster cause she was also good friends with the Bradshaws. I don’t know if it’s something you’d like to write or if it’s really not up your alley. Sorry if it’s a mess not good at explaining my self, anyway I hope you have a lovely day ❤️❤️❤️

Hey there @i-wear-wet-socks313 — Thanks for sending in your suggestion. There was a lot to unpack with this one, so I hope you don’t mind that I shortened it a little bit by breezing over the events of the first movie. That said: it’s still fixing to be about 10k by the time I get around to publishing part 2 (yeah, that’s right, I had to break it into two parts!) But what can I say? Your suggestion definitely smacked me upside the head (and I liked it)! Be on the lookout for part two in the coming week or two ❤️

Pairing: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x F!Pilot!Reader (call sign: Avalanche) Word Count: 7500 Warnings: Canon character death (x2), language, a general glossing over of movie events, the author knowing nothing about the Navy or aviation smut coming in part 2 Minors DNI

Call Sign: Avalanche

You hadn't kept in touch with Iceman since graduating from Top Gun. Honestly, you hadn't kept in touch with any of your classmates — it had been easiest to cut all ties. Despite this, you'd have had to be exceptionally observant not to notice the Iceman's rise within the ranks. Not that you hadn't done well for yourself but you were no Commander of the Pacific Fleet. So when Admiral Kazansky put in the call to have you transferred to North Island for a special assignment, you were flattered. Really. You figured that Iceman's recommending you for the job spoke to his appreciation for your shared craft and his belief that you could train the squad to do what needed to be done.

The good feelings last until you learn who you'll be expected to teach alongside.

Maverick.

That's when you see this assignment for what it is: a cruel joke.

Like Iceman, you haven't seen Maverick since your joint graduation ceremony in '85. Unlike Iceman, you actively worked to avoid Maverick. Because it was just your luck that you'd have a history with the Navy's best pilot.

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.

Read Next Chapter

[callsignthirsty]

Call Sign: Avalanche (pt. 2)

Hey @i-wear-wet-socks313 —

As promised, part 2 of your request. This one isn't quite as long as the first part, but that's probably a good thing 😅

Pairing: Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x F! Pilot! Reader (Call sign: Avalanche) Word Count: 4700 Warnings: the author knowing nothing about the Navy or aviation, language, smut Read Previous Minors DNI

Phoenix and Bob, Payback and Fanboy, make it to the carrier moments after Overwatch reports that Dagger Two has been shot down going back for Dagger One. No one was around to tell whether parachutes deployed, and Bradley’s ESAT was either turned off in the ejection or blown up on impact.

You’ve never heard a command room go so quiet so fast. Even Cyclone leaves with a heavy sigh, hand over his mouth as he goes to debrief with Daggers Three and Four.

On the tarmac, Hangman hasn’t been able to climb out of his plane despite Cyclone’s clipped permission to do so. You’re similarly rooted to your spot, static ringing in your ears and a numb, cottony feeling taking over most of your senses. It doesn’t feel real. You’d just gotten him back, and in a blink, he’s gone. They both are.

Maverick.

Bradley.

Gone.

Shot down.

Tears threaten to spill over your lashes, a sob working its way up your throat. They were supposed to come back. He was supposed to bring all of them back.

The metronomic tick of an analog clock keeps the time, but as each tock blends together, there’s no way for you to be sure how long you’ve been standing there. All the shapes, colors, and sounds mix together until, like paint, they become a single, muddy brown and swirl down the drain with your hopes for tomorrow. Any second now, the third shoe will drop: Payback will collapse, the enemy airbase will retaliate, or Bob will break his glasses. Then it happens:

Miracle number three.

“Sir,” the static-y voice of the operator in Overwatch comes through the radio, “we’re receiving a signal from Rooster’s ESAT. There seems to be a malfunction.”

You wipe your tears away. The mission technically isn’t over yet, and with Cyclone out of the control tower, command falls to you. “Have we lost him?” Devastation still colors your voice that sloppy, drab brown, but it is what it is.

“No, ma’am. He’s supersonic.”

It clicks for Hondo a second before it does for you, the meaning lost somewhere in the cotton that has grown between your ears, each thought coming to you slowly like molasses. “He’s airborne.”

An operator’s screen pings to your right. “Overwatch reports an F-14 Tomcat is airborne and on course for our position.”

A smile cracks the corner of your lips as your heart catches in your throat. “That sonuvabitch.”

Mav.

Without a word, Hondo meets your eyes, nods, and stands in front of the control room’s door to buy you extra time. News on a carrier spreads like wildfire, and Cyclone is undoubtedly already on his way back to command. Your time is limited. Every second counts, so you jump in headfirst.

“Is Dagger Spare ready to go?” you ask the comms operator.

“Dagger Spare requesting permission to launch and fly air cover,” Hangman’s voice comes through the radio before comms can ask him to confirm his status.

Behind you, Cyclone is banging on the control room door and ordering Hondo — who is pretending he can’t hear him through the reinforced metal — to step aside.

With the comms operator distracted, you slam your hand down on the blinking green button and lean into the activated mic. “Control to Dagger Spare, you are clear for take-off. Launch immediately.” For once, Hangman decides to keep his mouth shut, and when Cyclone makes it into the room, he’s too late. There’s no stopping the canon once it’s been fired. Hangman is airborne.

“Hangman.”

“Ma’am?”

“Bring them home.”

— — —

Sex on an aircraft carrier is a young man’s game.

That doesn’t stop either of you.

You excuse yourself from the control room and onto the flight deck, one of a hundred faces rushing toward Mav and Rooster as they stumble out of the cockpit. Once he’s let Bradley go, Mav only has eyes for one person. You. But this reunion is trickier. You leave the Tomcat, Bradley, the rest of the Daggers, and the crowd behind in search of something more secluded.

Years ago, Mav would’ve dragged you into a broom closet, but those days are far behind you. The Mav you know now has bad knees from too many spills off his bike and pulling too many Gs, and some days your back hurts when you bend down wrong. You both need a bed.

Mav’s bed might be closer, but it’s also back in the bunks with the rest of the team. You, on the other hand, are an admiral and that comes with perks. Not big ones, but a double bed and your own room are more than enough for what you have planned.

You manage to keep your hands to yourselves all the way to your quarters — you’re still Mav’s superior officer, and these things require discretion. That doesn’t stop Mav from keeping close or placing his hand against your lower back as you near your destination.

With a cursory glance at the empty hall, Mav’s hands find your hips. You both stumble into your room as the door unlocks and gives under your combined weight, your lips all over each other.

You shut the door as Mav swings you around to press your back against it, but you drive him further into the room, your hands in his hair as you gasp, stealing each other’s air as you greedily take everything you’ve been denying yourselves over the years.

“God, Mav.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He winces as he falls onto your bed, looking up at you as you straddle him. One of his hands finds your hip again, the other running up your ribs, bypassing your chest to cup your cheek. “I was an idiot,” he whispers hotly against your lips.

“Gonna need you to be more specific, Mav.” And you feel his chuckle as you lick down his neck.

“Guess I deserve that.” He hisses as you nip at his collarbone through his white undershirt. “Never should’ve let you go,” he says, his fist clenching in your shirt as if to prove his point, but he’s only making it more difficult for you to push his flight suit off his shoulders as he tries to tug you back down. “I was an idiot. I should’ve listened to you.”

“You’re here now,” you say, nipping at the corner of his jaw as you finally get the heavy fabric of his flight suit pushed to the side and pull his t-shirt over his head. But then you pause, smile falling. “Mav,” you gasp, as your fingers run over the dark bruise still forming across his collarbone. He hisses at the light touch — so his wince earlier hadn’t been from surprise. The thought crosses your mind that you shouldn't have brought him here. He'd been shot down, ejected, and then crash landed on the flight deck. You should've brought him straight to Medical.

“Later,” he says as if he can read your mind, brushing your hands aside as you reach for his discarded shirt. With his good arm, he pulls your front flush with his and despite your worry the contact sparks something deep in your gut. “I’m not letting you go now that I just got you back.” He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin. “I need you.” The vibration of those words raises goosebumps, a winterfresh zing of need shooting up your spine.

It's been years since you've had him last and you’re just as weak for him now as you ever were. Weaker, probably.

“Okay,” you promise and duck to catch his lips in another kiss. It's meant to be a peck, short and sweet, but Mav has other plans. You break away before you can get too lost in it. “But you’re going to Medical after this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You chuckle and give him a gentle shove. "From admirals' daughters to admirals." You shake your head fondly.

“What can I say?” he asks, impatiently unbuttoning your khakis so you can slip the garment over your head. “I’ve grown.”

You roll your hips down over his, feeling the plump line of him between your legs and reveling in his surprised groan. “Still growing.”

“Gimme a minute. I’m not twenty anymore.”

“Thank god.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You grin mischievously. “Nothing.”

“Listen, sweetheart.” Mav bucks his hips for leverage and rolls so you’re caged beneath him, though he’s careful to avoid putting too much weight on his bad arm. “I’ve learned a thing or two in my old age.” As if to demonstrate, he reaches around your back with one hand, deft fingers unhooking your bra. “And I’m going to rock your world.”

You lick your lips at the promise glinting in his eyes. “Big words for a small man,” you say, unable to resist the temptation to rile him up, goad him into action. To get his lips back on yours.

“Not small where it counts.” His hips rock into yours again, and you let out a little gasp as the rough zipper of his flight suit drags over your clit through your own pants. “Or did you forget?”

“How could I?” You drop the façade as you whine and arch up into him. “Cocky, chip on your shoulder, something to prove,” you list off. “Best sex I ever had.” And it’s a bit of a shock to your ego that your words ring true. Almost forty years later, no one has been able to hold a candle to Mav.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mav says as he kisses down the hollow of your throat, and it’s the slightest bit condescending but also full of pride. Your little admission may have bruised your ego, but it’s clearly boosted his.

“Guess it’s better when you love the guy.”

Mav’s head pops up, lips parted and eyes wild. “Say it again.”

You suck in a breath, your voice shaking. “I love you.”

“Fuck.” His head falls to thunk against your chest, resting right over your heart. “Again. Again, sweetheart, please.”

“I love you.”

Mav surges up, your teeth clacking as he attacks your lips with a barely restrained hunger. Your stomach clenches and your nails dig in to leave red trails down Mav’s back until they snag in the fabric pooled around his waist. Your head swims, lungs catching as sweaty palms try to push the material from Mav’s hips while he pops the button on your slacks and shoves a hand inside. He cups your sex and your stomach lurches, a jittery feeling growing by the second, blood roaring loud in your ears as your heart beats frantically against your ribs, hard enough that you wonder if Mav can feel it where your chests are pressed together. If he also feels like he's about to throw up butterflies.

Your legs tingle, the heat from your cheeks settling deep between your thighs with Mav’s finger as he runs it through your slick folds and lets it slip inside you until his knuckles grind into your pussy lips. “Still so tight,” he says as he quickly slips a second finger into you. You hum at the stretch. You’re warm all over, knees trembling where they cradle Mav’s hips. He can’t stop the shift of his cock against the back of your thigh, seeking your heat and enough friction to take the edge off his need. “Wanna taste you.”

“Mav,” you whine, shaking your head as his fingers disappear from your cunt with a lewd squelch, and you try to drag his flight suit over his ass with your heels. “Come back here and fuck me.”

“I will, baby,” he murmurs, kissing his way down your body. “Just a quick taste, then I will.”

The first touch of his tongue to your core is electric. You jolt, legs instinctively trying to close around his head, but he holds you where you are as he moans and dives back in for more. It goes beyond a simple taste, Mav working your pussy over with tongue, lips, and teeth like a man starved. Taking his fill of you and giving you pleasure in return until his lips are puffy, slick with spit and your arousal.

“Pete,” you half-yell, your walls clenching around his tongue as your fingers tighten in his hair. He releases you with a parting suck to your clit, heaving for breath as he licks his lips and lets you pull him up from between your legs.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, kissing up to your ear.

“Want to cum with you inside me.”

Mav groans. He kisses your collarbone and kicks the rest of his clothes off until he’s naked on the bed with you. “Condom?”

“Are you clean?”

He gives you a confused look. “Yeah, but–”

“So am I.” You pull Mav into another kiss and try to wrap your legs around his trim waist, but he stops you.

“I think I have some in my bag. Let me just–”

“Mav–” you stop him before he can reach for his clothes “–I’m nearly sixty.”

“Yeah,” Mav agrees. “We’re both too old to be raising kids, sweetheart. I'll jus–”

“Mav,” you say because he doesn’t seem to be getting it. “I can’t get pregnant.”

But instead of reassuring him, your words send him reeling. He sits back on his heels. “What happened?”

“Menopause.” You pull him down until you’re pleasantly caught between his chest and your just-left-of-comfortable mattress. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind fucking me before you completely kill the mood.”

“That an order, admiral?”

“Only if you’ll follow it.”

It turns out ‘fuck me’ is the one order Mav isn’t opposed to following. When it comes from you, of course.

Your jaw goes slack as Mav sinks into you, but your legs tighten around him, your short nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to leave little half-moons for the medical staff to find.

“Fuck,” Mav groans into your neck. “Not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that.”

“Me neither.” Your voice trembles, tears threatening to spill from how right this feels. Mav in and around you. Then, when Mav shifts back so he can grind forward: “God, Pete.”

“I’ve got you,” Mav vows before his lips are on yours again. Swallowing your hitch of breath and subsequent noise. “Never should’ve let you go.”

You arch when he hits that spot within you that turns your legs to jelly, and you don’t quite manage to bite back a moan. “Don’t do it again.”

Mav pants a laugh, sweat beading along his temples. “I won’t. Never again.” His hand sneaks from your hip to your clit, rubbing tight circles into it that has your vision swimming.

“Mm– Jesus. Fuck. Mav!”

Mav grunts into your lips as the wet slap of your sex becomes louder and more frantic. “You gonna cum for me?” You nod, catching his bottom lips between your teeth and giving it a firm, wet suck.

You scream when your orgasm hits you, catching you by surprise with its intensity. It’s been a while since you’ve cum so hard, and from the animalistic noise that your partner releases, you can assume the same for him. You’d feel bad for your neighbors if you were capable of thought at all. Instead, you run your hands up and down Mav’s back and trade soft, wet kisses as you continue to come down from the kaleidoscope of emotion and sensation still singing through your veins.

All too soon, you have to return to work. You’ve stolen him away for selfish reasons, but Mav still needs to report to Medical, and so long as you’re on the carrier, you still have a job to do. So you help Mav get back into his flight suit, straighten your khakis, and leave the sanctuary of your quarters.

You leave Mav to explain away the fresh nail tracks on his own. Slipping away while he’s still fully clothed and the medical staff is giving him grief for not coming directly to them once celebrations on the flight deck ended.

It’ll be a while before Medical gets him back to you, so you go about your duties.

Medical keeps Mav overnight for observation. When he's set to be released, a nurse walks him out and hands you a bottle of pills which Mav — whose arm is set in a sling — had no doubt tried to leave behind.

“What’d the doctor say?” you ask as he checks to ensure that Medical is out of view before he shakes out of the sling and throws it into the nearest trash bin.

He shoots you a cocky grin. “That you did a number on my back.” You choose to ignore that and instead raise an eyebrow at how he gently rotates his shoulder. From the painkiller prescription and the abandoned sling, you suspect that his collarbone is fractured, but Hell would have to freeze over before Mav would admit it. “Really, Avalanche,” he tries again, his finger brushing over the back of your hand — as close as you can get to showing affection outside of your quarters —, “It’s nothing I can’t bounce back from.”

“Uh-huh.”

He catches up to you as you round a corner. “Bruising will stick around for a while, but it'll fade soon enough.”

“And the swelling?”

“It’s not that swollen,” he insists but angles away when you try to get a good look at him. Not that you’re sure you’d have been able to see anything beneath his t-shirt, anyway.

“When can you fly again?” Cyclone had said that this would be his last station, but with the resounding success of the mission, you doubted that the Navy had seen the last of Pete Mitchell.

“A couple weeks.” That’s definitely pushing it. You’ll have to stay on your toes to keep him on the ground until he’s actually cleared to fly.

“Who’d have thought pulling Gs would be good for healing broken bones?” Your delivery is dry, but it gets Mav to crack a lopsided smile.

“Doctor might have said something about bed rest.”

Your conversation halts as another officer passes in the opposite direction. Once they’re out of earshot: “Is that right?”

Mav nods. “Only thing is: my bed isn’t very restful.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t know the last time you slept in the bunks, but it feels like you’re sleeping on a concrete slab–”

“That’s an insult to concrete slabs.”

“–and I’ve got a top bunk, and I just don’t know how much more these old bones can take.”

You hum. “It will be hard to climb up there with your arm in that sling you threw away.”

“Yeah,” Mav says, leaning against the wall as you turn to face him. “So I was kinda hoping I could stay in yours.”

You fight down the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “What makes you think my bed’s going to be restful?”

“Well, for starters, it’s lower to the ground. Much easier to climb into.” Mav smiles, dimples popping in his cheeks and eyes sparkling with the same undeniable charm you’d fallen for all those years ago. “But to tell you the truth, Avalanche: I’m really hoping it isn’t restful at all.”

You give Mav a stern once over before looping your fingers into the sleeves of his flight suit tied around his waist and begin leading him the rest of the way toward your quarters. “Come on, then, Captain. We should get you back to bed. Doctor’s orders.”

This time, when you and Mav make it to your room, you’re both smiling, your hands kept to yourselves.

There is no stumbling. You let Mav into the room first, pushing the door open for him once it’s unlocked and leaving the main light off as he sits on the edge of your bed. Flicking on the standing lamp in the room’s corner casts your bed and Mav’s face in soft yellow light.

“Mood lighting?” he asks, but you say nothing. Simply stand between Mav’s knees to caress his cheekbones with your thumbs and lean down to press a kiss to his forehead, cheek. “Avalanche,” he sighs as you tip his head back and pass over his lips to kiss his chin, the soft spot beneath his jaw. And then, after you hum in answer: “Kiss me.”

With a tender look, you give in. Brush your lips over Mav’s slowly and sip him like a fine wine. Take your time to really enjoy it. His wind-chapped lips, the mossy green of his eyes, the scratch of day-old stubble, and the tickle of regulation-short hair between your fingers.

Mav’s breath hitches when your knees sink into the mattress on either side of him. One of your arms drapes over his good shoulder, your other pressed flat to his chest so you can track the steady beating of his heart. His hands tentatively find your waist and hold you as he tilts his head to the side and licks languidly at the seam of your lips, eager to deepen your kiss.

Your tongues meet with a sigh, the two of you leisurely exploring the other until your lungs burn, love bubbles beneath your skin, and a fluttery feeling behind your belly button pulls your stomach tight.

“Lie down,” you say, gently applying pressure with the hand against his chest. Instead of answering, he steals your breath in another deep kiss, but you shake your head and give him a light push. “The doctor said you need to relax–” you wait until he’s situated against your pillows, then follow him, littering his neck with lingering kisses “–so let me help you relax.”

You work your way down, placing kisses over his shirt until you can push it up his stomach to reveal the dark trail of hairs that dip below the waist of his boxers.

“You don’t have to,” he says, thumb ghosting over your lower lip.

“I know.” You kiss his thumb, looking him in the eyes as you work to open his flight suit knotted around his waist. “I want to.” Mav lifts his hips to help you draw the heavy fabric off him. He’s half-hard in his boxers, and you rub your palm over the shape of him.

“Two rounds in twenty-four hours?” Mav huffs out a laugh. “Give me ten minutes.”

“I’ll give you more than that.” I’ll give you forever. The sincerity of it catches you off guard, heart skipping a beat and fingers stilling.

“Hey.” Fingers under your chin bring your eyes back up to his. “I know you will.” His smile mirrors that same raw emotion that had colored your words. Calloused fingers stroke your cheek like he isn’t half-hard with his dick in your face. Like you aren’t about to choke yourself on his cock and ride him into the sunset. You can’t help but crawl back up to steal one more kiss, lightheaded with the joy that bubbles up.

You brush your lips apologetically over Mav’s collarbone through the cotton of his shirt, then trail further down. Your hands rest over his boxers, bunching the fabric as your touch runs up and down his thighs without touching where you know he aches for you. Mav bites back a moan when your open mouth finds the head of him through his boxers, your tongue working to wet the fabric and catching the barest taste of him as he twitches under the attention.

“Please,” he whimpers with his head thrown back. You think about drawing it out, but he asked so sweetly — Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly and tried to keep his hips from jerking. You draw him out of his boxers, one hand holding him at the base while you lazily press a kiss to the head and draw him into your mouth. The airy “fuck” he lets out as his legs tremble is worth it.

It doesn’t take long to get Mav hard enough for you to climb into his lap, holding him steady as you line his cock up to your entrance and let gravity inch you down. Once you take him to the root, you stay there. Each of you content to be precisely where you are. Holding and kissing with a smoldering heat that scorches the backs of your throats until you’re burning up and dizzy from the smoke. Hands wandering. Mapping each other anew after so many years — the bump in Mav’s other collarbone from a long-healed break, a smattering of silver scars across his torso, back, and arms from surgeries or crash landings — stories you’ll have to ask him about later.

It’s only when the embers of passion blaze hot in your belly that you begin to shift together, unhurried and sighing into each other’s mouths as your hips roll together. Barely lifting before coming together again.

Your head wants to loll back, but you desperately need to look into Mav’s eyes. To soak in the way he looks at you like you’re something precious. To stay hypnotized in the many shades of green overtaken by the depths of his lust. His love for you. He catches your head when it becomes too heavy, cradling it in his palm and curling against you until your foreheads press together, eternity flashing in evergreen eyes as he coaxes you into a kiss.

Your climax rolls through you, reducing you to a shuddering, keening mess. Mav follows you over the edge, holding you so you’re pressed flush from his thighs up to where he gasps into the curve of your neck. You luxuriate in the sweaty embrace, catching your breath until you’re sure you can make the short walk to your bathroom to grab a washcloth and clean the both of you enough to climb beneath your covers.

Mav’s arm wraps around your shoulders as you curl into his side and breathe him in, happy to spend the remainder of your off-hours tucked beneath his arm. Warm and safe and loved.

“What now?” Mav asks after you’ve settled, his eyes transfixed on the ceiling.

“Whatever we want.”

“Yeah?” You nod, pressing a kiss to his chest. “Nowhere you need to be?”

“Nowhere I’d rather be, Pete.” His arm tightens around you, his head ducking so he can press a lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder blade.

“I’ve got a place in the Mojave,” Mav offers after a beat. “Not a lot. An old hangar. A trailer.”

“A plane?”

“Maybe.”

“Mojave’s a long trip from North Island,” you murmur. “How’re you planning on getting there?”

He shrugs. “Bike.”

You prop yourself up on your elbow, looking down at Mav where he’s settled against your pillow. At the mottled bruise over his collarbone. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’ll do it. “Guess I’m coming with you, then.”

Mav smiles. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

You shake your head, settling back into his side and pulling the duvet up to your chin. “We’ll rent a trailer for your bike.”

“Oh, we will?” It’s teasing. There isn’t a tense bone in Mav’s body.

“Someone’s gotta keep you away from that plane you may or may not have.”

“She’s not ready to go up anyway.”

An amused exhale escapes through your nose. “Good.” Then, as you drift, floating in that pleasant in-between of wakefulness and sleep, you ask: “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing,” Mav says. “Just gotta put on the finishing touches.”

You hum. “Teach me?”

“To fix up the Mustang?”

“A P-51?” He nods. “Well, now you’ve gotta teach me.”

“Yeah,” he says, picking up where he left off and rubbing circles into your skin. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

You nod, sleep steadily overcoming you. “Missed you, Mav,” you whisper as your breathing begins to even out.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” he whispers back like it’s a secret, and your heart feels lighter for it.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

You aren’t sure what the coming weeks will bring, but you know you’ll get through them together. Wrapped in Mav’s arms and his love, you finally drift to sleep.