Chapter Text
Maverick
He died alone.
That's what bothers Maverick the most. Goose died alone- probably thinking about his front seater, his son, his wife- before a bright flash of pain and fire and then bam, gone.
I should have died, too turns into I should have died, instead comes back to it should have been me.
Maverick thinks about Goose way too much- he thought about Nick while making breakfast this morning, during his morning run, and now, while comparing candidates for the upcoming mission.
Most days, the guilt swallows Maverick whole. (Most days is an understatement.)
But, Maverick can usually outrun his guilt (again, understatement of the century, but who's counting). Rooster, though, not so much. Bradley Bradshaw takes let's turn and burn seriously. To a personal extent. He sees Maverick and he burns, literally.
Maverick isn't the only one to notice this problem. Lieutenant Trace seems to have caught on as well, subtly moving towards Rooster whenever Hangman is around, whispering to him during debriefs, leaving with him when training is done for the day. Maverick thought they were a thing, as Amelia would say.
"So, Phoenix and Rooster, huh?" He'd asked Lieutenant Floyd during a one-on-one the week prior. He figured Bob was the most approachable and least likely to ask questions.
Bob shuffled in his seat. "Uh, what about it? Sir."
Maverick waved him away. He didn't mean to pry, but Rooster was the closest thing he's had to a son. He also knew how dangerous it was to have a relationship with your wingman. "They're pretty close, right? Like…"
"Oh." Bob's glasses slid down the bridge of his nose with the force of his coughs. His ears tinge pink. "No, sir. They're not- It's really not-"
Pete feels his face flushing as well. "Right, Bob. Got it. Thanks." Anyways. Turn and burn, Maverick. Turn and burn.
Phoenix
Phoenix was having a shitty fucking day. She locked herself out of her room at 0400 in the fucking morning, had one hell of a hangover, and to top it off; she's partnered with fucking Hangman for the oncoming sortie.
She can count all the things she likes about Seresin on one hand. There aren't enough fingers and toes on her body to tally the things she hates. Code: Jake Seresin is a pompous fucking asshole with a non-existent teamwork streak and a habit of flirting with all the wrong women. Women, meaning her.
"Rough night, Phoenix?" Jake leans against the body of her plane, grinning. She glares at him.
"I don't know, Bagman. You tell me."
He smirks, removing the toothpick from his mouth. "I thought it was great. From the noises you made, I think you did, too."
Natasha almost chokes on her spit. Her eyes dart to where Bob is strapping himself into the seat above them. Way to keep it on the down-low, dumbass. "You tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better."
"Hey now, that's not what you said last night." Hangman raises his arms in mock surrender. Above them, Bob coughs in the cockpit, the only indication that he'd heard their conversation. Jake gathers his helmet and oxygen hose and turns away with a mock salute.
"Let's turn and burn, Phoenix. Bob."
Up in the pit of their plane, Phoenix can practically feel Bob's eyes burning holes into the back of her helmet. "Don't ask," she supplies. With a sigh, she flips on the engine and switches to comms.
Bob yells to be heard over the noise. "Wasn't going to! But, seriously, Natasha? Hangman!"
Natasha just taxis the plane to the runway for takeoff. Bob wasn't wrong- she's been asking herself that question for the past few nights. Just sex, she'd told Jake a week ago, as he cornered her in the hotel hallway with his mouth on her neck, No ties.
No ties, darlin'. Scout's honor. That signature toothy grin should've told her the truth, but she chose to ignore the pang in her heart and focus on the one deep in her belly instead.
Bob
"Say, Phoenix. How's 'bout we say Bob stands for something? Other than Robert, I mean."
"Don't take the bait, Bob. Wanna know why we call him Hangman?" His front seater's voice comes in clear and calm over the comms. She sounds serious, and slightly agitated, but Bob swears he can hear her smirk. Maybe that's just him being paranoid, after learning about Phoenix and Hangman's late-night events.
Don't plan on it, he thinks. (It's not like he isn't used to this kinda stuff. With a callsign like Bob.)
"All right. I got it. Baby on board." Maverick's plane cuts through Hangman's laugh. Bob chooses to ignore that particular jab- not the first time he's heard it, certainly not the last.
What is this dude's problem? Bob makes a mental note to have a long, deep conversation with his partner later. To make sure she's mentally stable.
Hangman tells Phoenix to break right and goes off straight. "Leaving your wingman. There's a strategy I haven't seen in a while." Same, Maverick. Holy hell. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this guy? He must've said it aloud because Phoenix scoffs.
"That's why we call him Hangman. He'll always hang you out to dry." She doesn't bother to keep the bite out of her voice. Then, tone. Maverick goes in for the kill and places them in missile lock, literally minutes after the exercise starts.
"Son of a bitch!" He hears Phoenix rip off her oxygen mask and does the same.
"Rough night?" He, again, yells over the roar of the engine.
His front seater simply flips him the bird.
Hangman
"What the hell, Jake!" Natasha storms over to his plane and shoves him hard.
"Jesus, babe. I just touched ground." Slipping off his helmet, Jake chooses to ignore the way her face scrunches up at the nickname.
"You don't get to pull that kind of shit! We're not in the Academy anymore!"
He recalls Maverick's words from earlier, during the one-on-one. Something about mentorship and an inflated sense of self and other pieces of advice he chose to ignore. "Son, your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."
"Chill out, Phoenix. It was just an exercise." Jake is good at sweeping his bad choices under the rug, but he knows both Natasha and Maverick are right. He hasn't pulled that stunt since the Academy, and never during a real mission. Honestly, he thought Maverick would go after him instead of Phoenix and Bob.
Phoenix crosses her arms. Despite the chill, her face is flush with anger. "And when it's not?"
Fuck. He has always excelled at keeping his emotions out of flying, which Jake believes is key to being a good pilot. Look at Rooster- he overthinks and is guaranteed to get them all killed. But when Phoenix looks at him like that, goddamn, he can't help but flush with shame.
"I wouldn't do it during a real mission, Trace," He says, quieter now. "You know that."
She sighs. "Sure. But practice how you play, Hangman. Soon it will be very real."
Hangman hates the look of doubt he sees in her eyes. Hates the dark edge of fear creeping into his own. This mission, someone's not coming home. They both know it; Maverickck knows it. They stare at each other for a heartbeat before Jake chuckles nervously. "Relax, angelface. I'm God's gift to aviation. Do you really think I'd actually leave anyone hanging?"
She gives him a pitiful glance before turning to face Bob on the other side of the tarmac. "I don't know, Hangman.” She says again. “You tell me."
His heart sinks and he burns.