Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The new orders had come in more quickly than Hondo had expected. Or at least, the sparsely worded orders to report to NAS China Lake for a briefing had landed in his inbox more quickly than he had expected; given the additional clearances they would probably need, it was still likely to be a few months before they were actually transferred to VX-31. Still, it was all he could do to keep their new assignment to himself; more than once he’d been caught daydreaming at work, and had had to come up with a story while one of the Air Force techs had bugged him about it, Mav smirking knowingly behind him. He probably hadn't read an email quite as closely since the Milpers email from Ice's office had landed him a semi-official assignment to watch Mav's back three years ago.

Still, he only had to wait a week or so before they took a couple days’ break in testing to drive up to the base. Pete had, apparently, acquired a newer model of a Kawasaki Ninja, and declined Hondo’s offer to carpool in favor of speeding away along the highway so fast that Hondo lost sight of him in seconds. Hondo rolled his eyes at this, but followed along behind at a considerably more respectable speed through the fading light of the evening desert, resigning himself to arriving after dark, probably well after Pete. 

Or so he had thought. A little over a half hour later, he spotted the hazards of a motorcycle up ahead, and slowed to a stop on the shoulder next to Pete, leaning up against his parked motorcycle. He hopped out, looking at the bike with concern. 

“You all good? Something up with the bike? I can give you a ride to pick up your truck, throw the bike in the back -”

“Nah, bike’s fine. I stopped because of that .” He pointed over a hill on the horizon.

“What?” Hondo squinted a second, trying to see what he was pointing at. 

“That. That’s one hell of a smoke pillar over there, and there’s a little glow on the side of the hill, see?”

Hondo squinted again, and could just make out the smoke Pete was pointing to. 

“Yeah, and? Someone’s got a bonfire, so?”

Pete sighed. “Okay, I get you haven’t been in Cali that long, and you spent most of that time at Edwards, but out here, giant smoke pillars are a problem. Fire is a problem. That’s Jawbone Canyon, I’ve been out dirt biking there, didn’t see much to burn but I haven’t been there in years, maybe there’s brush or something now. We should go have a look, report it to the firefighters if we have to.”

“Seriously?” Hondo ran a hand over his forehead and looked at his watch. “Mav, we have a briefing at 0700 tomorrow morning, we don’t have time to go traipsing out into the desert.”

“I know, but it’ll be quick. No one else is out here, if there’s really a fire we can’t let it get out of hand without alerting someone. I’m not fucking with you, we have to.” He looked at Hondo, and Hondo felt himself instinctively straighten up at Mav’s steely gaze. 

“Yeah, okay, I hear ya, man,” he said reluctantly. “You know how to get there?”

“Yeah. Follow me, I’ll go slower now.”

Hondo followed the bobbing light of the motorcycle off onto a smaller road, then a dirt track, winding away from the freeway into the darkening desert towards the dusty hills. It was getting bumpier, the dust spiraling up around the wheels of the car, and he cursed inwardly as they rattled forward. Pete was probably right, he grudgingly admitted to himself, they should see if there was a fire, but it was late, they were getting further and further away from civilization, and now he could see the flickering light of the fire dancing off the side of the hill, even if it wasn’t visible yet. 

He followed Mav’s bike around the bend, then saw that he had stopped. He pulled up next to him, on the shoulder, and rolled down the window. 

“Whoa,” he muttered, as the smell of smoke came through. He glanced over at Mav, who was looking confusedly at the fire - because there was a fire, but it wasn’t a brush fire. It was what looked like an absolutely enormous bonfire, at least thirty feet high, with a crowd of people standing around, cars and trucks haphazardly parked around, a few tents dotted here and there. 

“What the hell is that?” 

“No idea,” said Hondo, staring. “You think it’s that thing those kids were talking about? Burning Man or whatever the fuck?”

“Nah, I think that’s in summer,” answered Pete, squinting at the fire. As they watched, a tall figure hopped down from the roof of what looked like a bus, dragging something large, and threw it onto the fire; sparks flew into the air, and a few people cheered. Pete glanced over at Hondo. “Let’s go check it out.”

“What? No, let’s get outta here. The fire’s under control, we’re already late -”

“Oh, come on, I’ve never seen anything like this before. Let’s go.”

Before Hondo could say anything else, Pete had flashed him a grin, kicked the starter on the bike and sped forward. Hondo cursed under his breath, started the car again and followed him, inwardly grateful he had had the foresight to get four-wheel drive. It wasn’t long before Pete had pulled up the bike in the corner of the basin formed between the hills, near a row of dirt bikes, and Hondo parked next to him. 

“Pete, this is ridiculous, they probably don’t want us here, no one knows we’re out here, they’d never find us if -”

“Ah, it’s okay, Hondo, I’m just curious.” And before Hondo could say anything else, he had hopped off the bike, pulled it onto the stand, and started over towards the fire. With some trepidation, Hondo followed behind him, squaring his shoulders as they walked over to the fire. 

“Hi,” said Pete pleasantly, walking up to a group of surprised-looking people dressed in flannel shirts and fleece jackets, none of whom could possibly be over about thirty. “I’m Pete, what kinda party’s this?”

“What?” One of them had turned around with a confused look, glancing between the two of them.

“Oh, and this is my friend Bernie,” added Pete, jerking a thumb behind him, “but he usually goes by Hondo. Anyway, I don’t mean to interrupt, we’re just curious because we saw a fire and came to check it out in case it was a brush fire and someone needed to alert the firefighters.”

“Eh, there’s nothing to burn here,” said one of them, gesturing offhandedly at the fire, “except the trees, of course.”

“The what now?” Pete looked distinctly confused.

“Oh, are you not SpaceXers?”

“Uh -” Hondo was looking around at the group. “We might need a little more explanation.”

The lone woman in the group rolled her eyes, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and extended a hand. 

“Hi, I’m Carly,” she began, “we’re all engineers at SpaceX, and this is our annual Christmas Tree Burn. That guy -” she gestured at a tall man climbing on top of what Hondo could now see was a disused school bus “- somehow got hold of an industrial baler a few years ago, and picks up all the dead Christmas trees in his neighborhood plus everyone who has one at SpaceX, bales ‘em up, and then we have a giant bonfire out here and camp and go dirt biking. See,” she turned back to her companions, “this is why they have me talk to NASA, you clowns do a shit job of explaining what’s going on.”

“Okay,” said Hondo slowly, looking up at the fire, then back over at the bus; the heap on top, he could just make out, was made up of dozens of baled-up Christmas trees. “So you’re engineers at SpaceX? That’s awesome, is Musk as nuts in person?”

The group let out a collective groan, and Hondo chuckled. “Okay, okay, I won’t ask.”

“You guys sure about this? Is this even safe?” Pete was still looking with concern up at the fire. 

“It’s fine,” said one of them airily, “They’ve been doing it for years, there’s nothing else that’ll burn out here, and it’s BLM land - Bureau of Land Management land. They don’t give a fuck.” He extended a hand, and Hondo shook it. “Andy.” 

“Pleasure. Hondo, or Bernie I guess.”

“So what’re you guys doing all the way out here?” Carly was looking back and forth between the two of them. 

“We’re on our way up to the Naval Air Station at China Lake,” answered Pete, gesturing somewhere Hondo assumed was north, “coming from Edwards AFB, we’re in the Navy but we work with the Air Force test squadron out there.”

“No shit, seriously? Are you a test pilot?”

“He is,” answered Hondo with a grin, “I’m a test engineer.”

“Ha, me too,” said Carly, “or as good as, anyway, I’m a certification engineer, I basically argue with NASA about how to qualify Crew Dragon for flight.” 

“That’s really cool,” said Hondo, impressed. 

“Are you kidding me? You guys test fighter jets out at Edwards!” This time, it was another engineer from the edge of the circle, and Pete laughed a little in response. 

“I’d like to say it isn’t as cool as it sounds, but it’s pretty fun,” he said modestly with a shrug. 

“You guys working on something at Skunkworks? It’s right near China Lake,” interrupted another one, and Hondo snapped his head around to look at him. At Hondo's gaze, he chuckled. “Was I not supposed to guess that? Don’t answer if you’ll have to kill me or whatever.”

“It’s fine, man,” snorted Hondo, waving a hand. “You figured that out quick, though.”

“Eh, everyone here’s a giant aerospace geek,” added Andy, gesturing with his beer. “You guys want a beer, by the way?”

“Nah, I gotta drive,” said Pete, and Hondo shook his head in turn as another engineer chipped in. 

“Old classmate of mine’s at Skunkworks now, if you meet a Simon Weinberg, he’s crazy smart.” 

“Damn, he must have some intense clearance level,” whistled Andy. “Skunkworks sounds like the only part of Lockheed that isn’t slow and bureaucratic,” he added, taking a sip, “they actually build cool shit, but -”

“Don’t mind them, the ones who drink the SpaceX Kool-Aid are pretty hard on traditional aerospace,” said Carly to them in a stage whisper with a grin. 

“Hey, you’re the one who has to wrangle conflicting requirements with old Shuttle guys at NASA!” another engineer yelped. 

“Jason,” she said with a sigh, “again, those guys literally wrote the book on crewed spaceflight, it’s not about meeting the letter of the reqs so much as it is understanding why they’re there -”

“Yeah, except they got two different lower oxygen limits, ” grunted Jason into his beer. 

“Look, we need to learn from them, they’ve seen things go wrong.” 

“She’s got a point, y’know,” interrupted Hondo before he could stop himself, “in aircraft operations, they say the boldface is written in blood. If your NASA folks have seen shit before, they’ve got good reason to be worried, that’s probably where a lot of the requirements come from.”

“See!” Carly said with enthusiasm. “C’mon, that one astronaut - Victor - he said the Navy cares way less about their people than NASA does, and even the guy in the Navy has requirements for aircraft!”

“Wait a sec, Victor Glover? You guys know Ike?” Pete looked up in interest. 

“Ike?” Carly looked confused a sec, and Hondo chuckled. 

“They’re civilians, they use human names, Mav,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and Pete snorted, but went on. 

“Yeah, Ike’s his callsign, I flew with Victor Glover in Iraq. He actually made it to the astronaut corps, then?”

“Yeah,” answered Carly, “nice guy. We’re in life support systems, I think my NASA counterparts have the astronauts come visit to make sure we take their safety seriously. They fly their T-38s in from Houston and walk around in their flight suits all day.”

Pete laughed. “Good to know, I’ll have to hit him up, see how it’s going.”

“You said you’re a test pilot, you ever apply for the astronaut corps?” 

Pete scrunched his face up. “Not for me. I like flying, you’re literally bending the air around you. Can’t feel anything in space.” 

“Suit yourself. One of my old professors just got named to the next astronaut class. I ever get a chance, I’m going.” Carly took a long sip of her beer. “You, Hondo? They always want engineers to be astronauts.”

“No way,” he answered definitively, “I hate flying commercial , no way in hell am I getting on top of thousands of tons of rocket fuel.” Andy snorted, raising his beer in his direction in a mock toast. 

“Anyway, it’s been nice to meet y’all,” said Hondo, looking at his watch, “but we really oughta be going, it’s getting - what is that smell , it’s disgusting, that’s not the Christmas trees, is it?”

A few of the engineers started sniggering, and Pete clapped him on the shoulder with a chuckle.

“Welcome to California, Hondo, that’s weed. And that’s our cue to leave, folks, you have fun but we can’t risk failing our drug tests.”

They walked back over to where they had parked, Hondo still sniffing suspiciously at the air.

“I can’t believe the future of spaceflight rests on a bunch of kids smoking pot and burning Christmas trees,” he grunted, feeling in his pocket for his car keys. Pete laughed, and Hondo looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You sound older’n me, Hondo,” he said with a grin. “You watched The Right Stuff ? Average age of those engineers was twenty-six.”

“Yeah, and they weren’t on drugs,” added Hondo, the corner of his mouth twitching in spite of himself.

“They lived on coffee and cigarettes,” snorted Pete, “I’ll loan you a book. They weren’t all smoking, anyway, and you’re just too used to the Navy. They seemed pretty sharp to me.”

“Sure as hell hope so,” muttered Hondo darkly. 

“You heard her, NASA won’t let ‘em fly their people unless they’re happy with it. I should ask Ike how it looks from the inside.”

“You do that, I’ll try to forget the smell,” grunted Hondo, resolving never to let Pete breathe a word about the weed smell to his mother. 

The next morning, Hondo had just managed to find the mess and fill a thermos with coffee before he skidded, yawning, into the briefing room, three minutes late. Pete appeared at his elbow, seconds later, looking distinctly under-rested but his eyes gleaming with manic energy. 

“It’s happening, Hondo,” he muttered excitedly. 

“We’re late, and all we’re doing is getting through a shit-ton of paperwork for our clearances,” he grunted in response, taking a large gulp of coffee in the vain hope it would keep him awake.

“Someone said we’d be getting a high-level overview of the project, though.”

“It’s an experimental hypersonic stealth jet, the next-gen Blackbird. What more do we need -”

Hondo broke off as two military police officers, a Commander and three civilians with badges came down the hall and ushered them through multiple locked doors into a tiny, windowless room. 

“Okay, gentlemen, you know the drill, we gotta get you new clearances,” said the Commander in a tired voice, “I got forms for the two of you to fill out, retina scans, all the usual, and these folks’re here to talk you through some reading you’ll want to get through.”

He gestured at the three civilians; the middle one, who looked barely old enough to have an engineering degree, waved uncertainly. One of his companions, a jaded-looking balding man in his fifties, rolled his eyes and sat himself down across the table from Hondo. 

“Captain Mitchell,” he said, extending a hand to Pete, who shook it politely, “and Warrant Officer Coleman -” Hondo shook his hand in turn. “Nice to meet the two of you, I’m Chris Meyerson, Deputy Chief Engineer on the Darkstar project. Chief Engineer sends her apologies, she had to be at JPL this week, you’ll meet her another time. We can’t get into details just yet, but my colleague Simon -” he gestured behind him “ - put together some packets for you to study up on hypersonics for the next couple months before we can bring you onsite.”

“Hi, I’m Simon, Simon Weinberg,” said the youngest engineer, a little hesitantly. 

“Nice to meet you, Simon,” answered Mav warmly, smiling at him, and Hondo smiled at him in turn; Simon looked slightly heartened at this, and cleared his throat.

“Okay, could I just ask - how much do you guys know about hypersonic flow regimes?”

“Studied ‘em in school, but that was so long ago, my info’s probably out of date,” shrugged Pete. 

“Mind me asking how long, sir?” Hondo heard Pete let out a snort. 

“Long enough. Graduated in ‘82, I hear CFD’s gotten a hell of a lot better since then. And no need to call me ‘sir’, Pete or Maverick is just fine.”

“Uh - okay, sir. Sorry. I mean Maverick. And yeah, we have more now, it’s all in the textbook.”

Hondo felt his eyebrows rise at the word “textbook”, just as Simon turned to him. 

“And you, sir?”

“Same here, Simon, you can call me Hondo,” said Hondo, “and I finished my degree a few years ago, but all the aero stuff was focused on transonic and supersonic regimes, didn’t get too far beyond that.”

“Well, don’t worry, the aero folks have Ph.D.s in this,” said Simon with a wave of his hand, “but hypersonic flows don’t behave the same, it’ll be good for you guys to get the gist before you get there because operations can be counterintuitive.”

He reached behind him and pulled out two enormously heavy binders, and set them down in front of them with a soft grunt. 

“Just skim through that before you get up to Skunkworks,” he said, entirely too casually, in Hondo’s opinion, as he tipped his head to the side; the binder was at least two inches thick. “Oh, and here’s a textbook for a bit of light background reading if you need it,” he added, dropping a book even thicker than the binders in front of Mav. “I could only get hold of the one spare copy, but you guys work together already, maybe you can share?” He still sounded nervous. 

“We’re good to share,” said Pete, in what Hondo supposed was a reassuring tone of voice, but he sounded a little doubtful; Hondo could see him glancing between the binder and the book. Simon was looking between them again, a little anxiously.

“Oh, by the way, Simon,” added Hondo, “think we met an old classmate of yours last night. Someone who works at SpaceX?”

“Oh, yeah, Nick,” said Simon, his face relaxing a little. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. Really smart, I see why NASA trusts him to keep their people alive - not that I -”

“Quit digging, Simon,” snorted Chris, then tipped his head towards them. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, we’ve got good people too.”

“Where’d you meet Nick?” asked Simon curiously. Hondo looked at Mav out of the corner of his eye; Mav met his gaze for a second, then chuckled. 

“Tell you another time.”

Chapter Text

If asked, Hondo would still have answered unequivocally that he hated flying, did it only when he had to, and spent the entire time praying they stayed right-side-up. And it was still true, even when Pete had promised he would feel differently in the Mustang (he hadn’t, he had clung to the seat for dear life and begged Pete to put them back down). But however much he hated being in the air himself, he couldn’t help the excitement washing over him at the sight of the little cartoon skunk on the building. They were at Skunkworks, the Lockheed Martin Skunkworks, home of the SR-71, the U-2, and countless other incredible machines that had featured prominently in his books on planes growing up. He hated flying, but he loved planes, and these were about as amazing as they got. 

This time, Pete wasn’t even being punished. This time, they were here because the 412th Test Wing needed a test pilot who was, in the words of the Test Flight Director, “absolutely batshit insane.” It had been months’ worth of the usual interviews, random contacts and odd questions that came with getting new clearances - though Pete, it transpired, already had Top Secret clearance and was merely subjected to an additional battery of Skunkworks background checks - and they had finally arrived. Hondo inhaled deeply; something smelled faintly of jet fuel, though that could easily have been his imagination after waiting months for the first walkthrough of the Darkstar test facility. 

For a few minutes, they loitered around the lobby, which was bright with wide windows looking out onto the tightly controlled desert, a few airframe parts and wind tunnel models on display around the room, waiting for the Chief Engineer to walk them through the project. Pete looked a little paler than usual, deep bags under his eyes, but a familiar glow still lit them as he peered closer at a series of wing sections from the first U-2 tests.

After a minute, the Deputy Chief Engineer Chris arrived, accompanied by a small, slight, middle-aged blonde woman with glasses and a piercing gaze. 

“Nice to see you again, Hondo,” he said with a grin, “and Pete -” Pete raised a hand in greeting. “And this is the project Chief Engineer.”

“I’m Dr. Sharon Bell,” she said crisply, holding out a hand, and Hondo shook it. 

“Officer Coleman, flight test engineer. And this -“

“Captain Mitchell,” she interrupted him, and Pete walked over, and grasped her hand in turn.

“Ma’am,” he nodded politely, wincing a little, though she hardly had a grip strong enough to hurt.

“Nice to meet you both, we’ve been needing a test pilot with your kind of experience,” she said, glancing between the two of them. “And a flight test engineer who actually understands aircraft operations in real-world conditions,” she added, nodding at Hondo. 

“Good to hear,” he answered; Chris tipped him a wink. 

“Yeah, Mr. Coleman, we’ll need you to advise the team on robustness testing,” continued Dr. Bell, strolling towards a door behind the desk, tapping her badge, and beckoning them through. “I hear you’ve got an eye for diagnosing which off-nominal conditions caused damage.”

“That he does,” grunted Pete, with a hint of humor in his voice, though he did not sound as enthusiastic as Hondo had expected. Hondo turned to look at him, but it was dark in the hallway and his face was in shadow.

“Nice to meet you in the flesh, sorry I couldn’t join with Chris last time. And I hear you met Simon from hypersonics already.”

“Oh, we did,” said Pete with a faint chuckle. 

“He’s - ah - very enthusiastic,” said Hondo with a nod. Chris let out a short laugh. 

“I’ll say, but he’s sharp as hell. He’s around somewhere here, you’ll see him later, so I hope you two read those packets of his.”

“Got through most of ‘em,” nodded Hondo, a little uncertainly; Pete shifted a little at his side, but Hondo couldn’t see what Pete had to be uncomfortable about. He had just barely conceded to let Hondo take the textbook, and had photocopied hundreds of pages out of it before handing it over.

“Good. Anyway, this time it’s me who can’t stick around. I got a meeting with some of our experimental budget folks, you’ll have to excuse me. See ya, Sharon.”

Chris pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket, and waved at the three of them before striding back down the hallway and tapping his badge to leave again through the same door. Dr. Bell smiled at them, and Hondo smiled tentatively back as she beckoned them further down the hall. 

“Okay, so,” Dr. Bell continued, as they emerged into a large room. “This is the testbed facility, and over there is our HITL - hardware-in-the-loop - testbed.” She waved; there was a glass enclosure with a false floor, and a small woman sitting at the console in front of a bench loaded with electronics boxes, including what Hondo recognized as power modules and switch cards as well as parts he had never seen and cabling harnesses every which way. 

“That’s Caroline, by the way. Systems testbed engineer. She’s a Gremlin.”

“A what?” Pete asked confusedly; Hondo snorted at the picture of a Gremlin pasted on the door. It included the caption “FELT CUTE - MIGHT EAT SOMETHING AFTER MIDNIGHT AND TURN INTO A KILLING MACHINE IDK”

“A Gremlin,” said Dr. Bell with a chuckle. “That’s what we call those of us who develop operations test anomalies. We put you,” she gestured at Maverick, “and the jet, through simulated anomalies to find problems with our contingency operations procedures. She will fuck you up, believe me. She came with me from JPL, and I’ve watched her convince a roomful of spacecraft operators that there was a solar flare incident when what she’d really done was disable one of the reaction wheels that governed the spacecraft spin rate, and thirty of NASA’s smartest engineers failed the sim and made a giant simulated crater on our simulated Mars.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Hondo, looking at Caroline with his eyebrows raised; she waved cheerily at him, her cheeks dimpling, and despite himself, he found himself grinning in response. Simon himself emerged from behind a server rack, and waved at them in recognition so enthusiastically that his grounding wrist strap caught in Caroline’s hair. 

“How old is she?” Pete asked, his forehead creased, peering at Simon disentangling himself from Caroline, even as Hondo muffled a chuckle at the sight. “We have child labor laws in this country.”

“She’s twenty-eight,” snorted Dr. Bell. “You’re not the first one to ask, don’t worry.”

“You’re just getting old, Mav,” chortled Hondo, though privately he thought Caroline had one hell of a babyface. He clapped him on the back as Dr. Bell rolled her eyes and turned to point at a set of server racks, then stopped short as Pete winced at the slap, hunching over in pain and wrapping an arm around his middle. 

“You good?” he asked him, feeling worry creeping into his tone.

“Stomach’s been bothering me,” muttered Pete, his eyes still screwed shut. “Been off for a couple days.” Apparently he could sense what Hondo was about to say, because he held up a hand and added, “Quit worrying so loud, I’ll get checked out long before I’m supposed to fly.”

Pete straightened up, set his jaw and ran a hand over his forehead, looking determinedly forward. “C’mon, Hondo, this is probably the coolest project we’ll ever get to see.”

They followed Dr. Bell over to the server racks, Hondo looking at Mav with some trepidation. 

“This is probably less interesting to you, but it’s our HOOTL - hardware-out-of-the-loop - testbed. It’s got a bunch of simulated hardware, so we can compress clock cycles and run software logic tests faster than real-time. Not necessarily for you to worry about, but you’ll see it again, it’s used a lot for robustness test runs. This is where we’ll find edge cases for you to fly.”

They followed her through another hallway, then through another door, this one with yet another badge scanner on it. Hondo caught a glimpse of Pete’s face as she held the door, their temporary paper badges hanging uselessly around their necks.

Pete looked paler still, now, with a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and Hondo cocked an eyebrow at him. He mouthed “ I’m fine” over his shoulder and pushed through into the room. 

“Uh,” said Hondo, “what’s this?”

He glanced around; the high bay had massive sliding doors at one end, such that you could roll them up and have one entire part of the room exposed to the desert. It was bigger than the hangar they had seen on the drive up, on the opposite side of the building, and definitely didn’t appear on the satellite map. 

“This, gentlemen,” she looked between them, “doesn’t exist, you understand me?” Her gaze was sharp. Hondo swallowed and nodded.

“We had to redesign some of the engine when we first brought it out here. Built our own hot-fire test facility because quite frankly it was cheaper and more secure to do that than go back and forth. You’ll get to see some of the scramjet transition tests before we send you -“ she looked over at Pete, then broke off. Hondo, who had been staring, open-mouthed, at the disembodied engine connected to the test stand, snapped his head around. 

Dr.Bell had stepped closer to Pete. “Captain, are you all r-“

“No,” he heard Pete breathe hoarsely, his face screwed up in pain again, and before he knew what was happening Pete was bent over and vomiting violently onto Dr. Bell’s shoes.

“ Pete !” Hondo took one step in his direction, and just as Pete straightened up, he looked at Hondo, gave a sharp gasp of pain and doubled back over, a hand pressed against his stomach.

“Sorry,” he breathed, just as Hondo reached his side. “I think I need help -“ he made another attempt to stand up, and Hondo felt an “ oh fuck no” escape him as Pete’s eyes rolled back in his head.

He wasn’t quite sure how he managed it, but he caught Dr. Bell just as Pete collapsed forward onto her shoulder, staggering a little as both of them fell onto him, but he managed to stay upright.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Bell,” he said, as politely as he could manage, and then took hold of Pete’s shoulder over hers. “Are you all right?”

“I’m just fine, thanks, Officer, I’m a little more worried about Captain Mitchell here.”

“Ma’am, I think we’re well past “Officer Coleman”,” grunted Hondo, trying to lever Pete off her; she obligingly slid to one side, took Pete’s other shoulder and lowered his still form to the floor, carefully avoiding the vomit. “You can just call me Hondo.”

“Sure, Hondo, then I guess you can call me Sharon,” she answered. 

“Well, Sharon, we gotta call an ambulance, they made us turn in our phones before we got in here, do you have a secure one?”

She shook her head. “Hondo, we can’t.”

“You don’t have a secure phone? Okay, where’s the secret landline?”

“No, Hondo,” she said more clearly, sitting back on her heels, “we can’t have an ambulance come to the facility. We can’t let paramedics in.”

“Are you serious?” Hondo felt his voice go up. “What the hell do you do if anything happens?” 

“We have a site medic, and if an ambulance is really necessary, they can come to the perimeter,” she answered, pulling out a phone in a black case and punching in a number. She listened for a minute. “ Damn, on-site medic’s not picking up.”

“Sharon, I have known Mav too damn long, and he does not say he needs help unless he is actively dying . Can’t the base hospital send an ambulance? They’re Navy corpsmen, it’s not like we’re trying to bring in random civilians.” Hondo could hear Pete breathing shallowly, his shirt was stuck to him with sweat. Hondo glared at her for a second, but Sharon just looked at him, and shook her head. 

“Hondo, in this room we shoot people first and ask questions later if you look at the hardware funny. We don’t have janitors because it’s too much work to get them cleared, so we do all the custodial work ourselves. I get what you’re saying, but we. Cannot. Have. Paramedics. In. Here.”

“Try the on-site doc again,” hissed Hondo, a hand on Pete’s arm; he felt unnaturally warm through the sleeve. Sharon was one step ahead of him, the phone already to her ear, and barely a minute later Hondo heard running footsteps down the hall.

There was a pounding on the door, and with a nervous glance at Sharon, Hondo opened it to a skinny, harassed-looking man clutching a first-aid kit. 

“Shit, of all the places -“

He knelt beside Pete, and Hondo scooted out of the way. 

“I’m sorry about your shoes, Sharon,” he muttered to her. 

“Be sorry later,” she shrugged. “Not our biggest problem right now.”

The medic looked up, still gripping Pete’s wrist. “I can’t be sure, but he’s obviously running a fever and he’s rigid in the abdomen, so I suspect he has appendicitis.” Pete let out a faint noise, shifting slightly. “He needs to get to a hospital, feels like his temp’s spiking.” 

He pulled out an identical phone to Sharon’s in a black case, called a number Hondo couldn’t see, and said in curt tones, “We need an ambulance at Echo Base. Stop at the gate, you can’t come in. Prep for a possible emergency appendectomy upon arrival at the hospital.” He hung up, and turned to Hondo. “Look, the ambulance can get as far as the gate. I think, between three of us -“

Hondo had been looking the doctor up and down; he had been prepared for this, ever since Sharon had said paramedics weren’t allowed in, but the doctor was a tiny wisp of a guy, smaller even than Sharon, and he shook his head.

“I got it,” he said resignedly, and knelt down on the floor, sliding an arm under Pete’s knees and another under his shoulders. At the shift, Pete twitched, curled inward on himself a little, then tried to force Hondo away; Hondo leaned his head back a little to avoid a clumsy blow, then readjusted him. To his relief, Pete stopped struggling and slumped against him.

“Don’t put him over your shoulder,” cautioned the medic anxiously, and Hondo rolled his eyes, because he at least wasn’t that stupid. 

“I won’t, now where are we going?” Hondo grunted, getting to his feet with some difficulty; Pete was a small guy, but dense as hell.

The doctor pointed him through the halls, and Sharon toed off her shoes and ran ahead of him in her socked feet to open doors for him as he walked as quickly as he could, his heart hammering in his throat.

He was moving as fast as he dared, trying not to jostle Pete too much. His breathing still sounded shallow, and when Hondo chanced a look at him, his head was tipped back, his eyes half-closed, his face paler than Hondo had ever seen it.

They eventually reached the door, and Hondo could hear the distinct wail of a siren. The ambulance was on the other side of the chain link fence, the lights flashing as a clearly confused paramedic argued with the heavily armed security guard. Sharon shoved the door open, and Pete flinched a little as Hondo walked out into the brutal midday heat of the desert. 

“Hang in there, Pete,” he muttered, striding across to the gate. Pete shifted a little in his arms with a pained grunt, but his eyes stayed closed. 

The on-site doc followed him anxiously over to the gate and pulled it open for him as the paramedics rushed over and carefully took Pete from his grip while the doctor rattled off some medical jargon at them. Hondo watched numbly as they maneuvered the gurney into the ambulance, shivering a little with the loss of Mav’s feverish body despite the burning heat of the June desert. 

Someone was asking him a question. 

“Sir? You want to go with him?”

He snapped back to awareness and considered for a second; the corpsmen were holding the ambulance doors open.

“Uh, no, actually,” he said finally, running a hand over his face. “No, I - I’ll be there later. I’m supposed to call his people.”

The paramedic gave a sharp nod, hopped into the ambulance and they tore away back towards the base hospital at NAWS China Lake. 

“They’ve seen this before,” said the doctor, and Hondo jumped a little before turning to look at the man next to him. 

“Really,” he added. “The base hospital sees a lot of appendicitis cases. In fact they’re doing a study on pilots because they suspect high altitude exposure is somehow linked. He’s in good hands.” His tone was kind, reassuring. Hondo swallowed, and nodded.

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “Can we - I gotta go back in, grab our things, call his contacts -“

“Yeah, one sec, I’ll get you back in,” said the medic, glancing at the temporary paper badge. “I’m cleared to escort you, c’mon. It’s Jeff, by the way, Jeff Huang.”

“Officer Coleman, but everyone calls me Hondo. Nice to meet you, Dr. Huang.”

“I think,” he answered with a dry chuckle, gripping Hondo’s hand, “you can just call me Jeff, Hondo.”

They went back through the secure gates and re-entered the building, and Hondo breathed a sigh of relief at the shade and air conditioning. Sharon was still waiting for them in the lobby.

“He’s going to the hospital?”

“Yeah,” said Hondo heavily. “I’m sorry, Dr. Bell - Sharon - I think we’re going to have to pick this back up later. I’d stay myself, but I have to go get his things, call his people, you know.”

“ You’re calling his contacts?” Her eyebrows went up his forehead. He shrugged.

“We’ve worked together a while. It comes with the territory.”

“What territory?” Jeff looked vaguely suspicious, and Hondo felt a laugh bubble up despite himself.

“We were told y’all -“ he gestured vaguely at their surroundings “- or your flight test folks, anyway, were after a pilot who was, quote, “batshit insane”, end quote. Batshit insane pilots get hurt. It happens.”

“ Dammit,” muttered Jeff, rubbing his forehead. “I’m going to be seeing more of him, aren’t I?”

Hondo gave a wry grin. “Probably. I’m here to keep him mostly between the lines.” He glanced down at Sharon’s socked feet. “Again, I’m so sorry about your shoes, Sharon.”

“Eh, they’re just shoes,” she shrugged. “I took ‘em off so as not to track anything through the halls. Like I said, no custodial staff.”

“Do you - can I help clean up?” Hondo asked guiltily, though now that he had stopped moving, his legs and arms felt like they were made of lead.

“Frankly, Hondo, until you get your permanent badge issued, it’s easier if we just do it, it’ll be a pain to get you back there,” she shrugged. “Caroline and Simon are probably already on it, anyway. Everyone was kinda worried when they saw us running out.” Her expression was kind. “Do you need anything, Hondo? Some water?” 

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” he said gruffly, shuffling his feet. Jeff produced a bottle of water from a fridge Hondo hadn’t seen behind the desk, and Sharon gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and Hondo found himself being escorted back to the gates, handed back his and Mav’s phones, then shown to the parking area, and over to his car. He opened the windows without getting in, started running the fans to cool the car down before he had to drive anywhere, and leaned against it with a sigh, looking out over the desert. 

Now he had to call Ice. Or get to the hospital first. He debated that for a second, sipping his water slowly. At least he didn’t have to pick up Mav’s bike. Mav had agreed to carpool with him that morning instead of insisting on riding; now Hondo knew why.

He settled for throwing himself into the car, rolling the windows up, turning the AC to the max and calling Ice on speaker while he pulled away and started towards the base hospital.

“Kazansky speaking.”

“Hey, Ice,” Hondo began lamely. Ice must have sensed something in his voice, because his tone immediately sharpened.

“Hondo. What happened?”

“Hate to call you under these circumstances, sir, but we had to cut our introductory meeting at Skunkworks short,” he started, his voice shaking a little. “Mav passed out. On-site doc thinks it’s appendicitis, he called an ambulance, he’s on his way to the base hospital.”

There was a sharp exhale on the other end. 

“He’s going straight into surgery?”

“I don’t know. Doc here wasn’t certain, not like he could run tests or anything. I’m on my way there after him.”

“Okay,” he said tightly, and Hondo heard the sound of a door shutting. “God, fuck , at least this time I’m at the same base for a couple days.”

“Good timing, I guess?” Hondo joked weakly, skidding to a halt at a red light.

“For once,” he heard Ice sigh on the phone. “I’m on my way to the base hospital, Hondo, I’ll meet you there. Drive safe.”

Hondo pulled up to the base hospital, abandoned any hope of parking in the shade, and hurried into the emergency reception. Ice didn’t seem to be there yet.

“Ma’am, I’m here about Captain Pete Mitchell, he was just brought here after he collapsed, they said it might be appendicitis -“

“Hold on, sir,” answered the corpsman at the desk, holding up a hand. “Are you a family member?”

“No,” he answered impatiently, “but I work with him, his emergency contact’s on the way here -“

“And you’re not his CO.” She was eyeing the pins on his khakis. He blew out his cheeks and looked down.

“Ma’am, I had to get him to an ambulance earlier, could you please just tell me what’s happening?”

“He arrived not too long before you did, but I’m sorry, sir, I’m not authorized to give you any information about his condition.” Her gaze was firm, and Hondo felt his shoulders tense.

“Look, ma’am, I understand the rules, but I’m the one who called his people in the first place -“

He was cut off by the door flying open with a sharp bang . Kazansky strode through it, his face set, his eyes like chips of ice, and made straight for where Hondo was standing. The corpsman snapped to attention and threw off a salute, dropping her clipboard on the desk, even as Hondo felt something in his chest relax.

“Gonzales,” he bit out in a clipped tone, tilting his head to read her nametag, and she jumped a little; Hondo felt himself straighten up instinctively.

“Yessir?”

“I’m here for Captain Pete Mitchell. I’d like an update, please.”

His voice was even, but steely. Hondo chanced a glance at him; his jaw was clenched.

“S-sir, are you family?” 

“ Yes , corpsman, or I wouldn’t be asking.” Ice tipped his head towards Hondo. “So’s Coleman, for all intents and purposes.” She looked between them, a little thrown, but nodded. “Now tell me -“ he punctuated the words with a sharp slap of his hand on the desk “- just what the hell’s going on with him.”

“Uh, yessir.” She looked terrified now, and Hondo could hardly blame her for quailing under his glare even as she fumbled with her clipboard, then pulled something up on an iPad. “Uh, Captain Mitchell arrived here about fifteen minutes ago with suspected appendicitis. The on-site doctor at the Skunkworks facility called ahead, and our personnel confirmed the diagnosis shortly after. He’s being prepared for immediate surgery to remove the appendix, as his temperature was spiking when he arrived, raising concerns that it might rupture and lead to further complications.”

She stopped talking and looked up hesitantly at Ice. 

“Uh, sir -“

“When will he be back out?” Ice cut her off.

“Probably an hour or two,” she said nervously. “You’re more than welcome to stay, sir, and you can see him after he’s moved to recovery.”

She gestured at the seats in the waiting area.

“Thank you, Gonzales,” he said with a curt nod. “Dismissed.” 

She scurried gratefully back behind the desk as Ice turned to face Hondo.

“You okay, Hondo?”

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand over the back of his head. “Wasn’t expecting this one, but hey, it happens, people get sick.”

Ice’s lips twitched. “That they do. At least no one’s in trouble this time.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Hondo, chuckling weakly. Ice raised an eyebrow sharply at him, and despite knowing him now for twelve years, Hondo shivered a little.

“Explain,” he said coolly, then relaxed his expression. “So I know what I gotta smooth over.”

“Probably nothing that anyone would hold against him,” started Hondo with a small snort, “but the Chief Engineer was walking us around the facility and Mav was a little off but said he was okay. So we got all the way into an area that, uh, only exists on a need-to-know basis, you get me?”

Ice nodded.

“Anyway, that’s where I guess he realized he wasn’t okay, and he threw up on the Chief Engineer’s shoes and passed out on her and almost took her down with him.”

Ice’s eyebrows had climbed astonishingly high on his forehead.

“Jeez, was she mad?” He looked a little as if he were trying not to laugh.

“Y’know, she was real nice about the whole thing,” said Hondo, tipping his head to the side. “It was a mess, though, because they couldn’t even let paramedics near the damn building. Hell, they don’t have janitors because it’s too much work to get ‘em cleared, so she said they do all of it themselves.”

“You know what,” said Ice with a snort, “Mav can do his own smoothing over on this one, I wanna see him make nice with civilians who had to clean up his puke.”

“Gotta say, she was very calm about it,” shrugged Hondo. “I caught her before he took her all the way down and she escorted us out in her socks.”

“Actually, how did you get him out? Without the paramedics?”

“On-site doc called an ambulance to the gates, and I carried him out,” said Hondo, sobering a little. “He was in rough shape, not totally conscious, and he was in so much pain he tried to take a swing at me.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Nah, I’m fine,” shrugged Hondo. “He was a mess, but it sounds like they got it under control here at least.”

“Hope so,” Ice grunted, getting his phone out. “I have to make a call, Hondo, just a sec.”

He stepped away with a significant look at Hondo, his phone to his ear, but stabbed the button after a few rings. 

“I forgot. He’s deployed to the Stennis , I’ll have to get hold of him the long way round.”

Hondo watched idly as Ice went through his phone to connect to the relay to the carrier sat comms, wondering somewhere why Ice still went out of his way to get hold of Bradley after over a decade of estrangement. It seemed odd to him, though he was fully prepared to believe that not being a parent left him lacking some perspective on the situation.

“Damn.” Ice’s voice cut across his thoughts. “Couldn’t get through. I know there were some black ops missions, but I didn’t think they’d be going totally dark. Oh well. Not my command. I’ll try again when Pete’s back out, I guess.”

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, coughing a little.

“Man, my throat’s been dry as hell for days, it’s not usually this bad when I have to go out to the desert. Want to find some coffee while we’re waiting?”

They wandered down the hall and found a room with stained coffee urns, random snack packets in baskets, and one harried-looking doctor agitatedly stirring a cup before looking disinterestedly at them and striding back down the hall. Hondo was frankly not entirely sure they were supposed to be there, but Kazansky seemed confident the medical staff wouldn’t begrudge them a cup of coffee, so he got himself one and a small bag of almonds before they headed back to the waiting area.

Ice was sipping his coffee slowly in his chair, methodically deleting emails from his inbox. Hondo had googled “appendicitis”, then promptly thought better of it and closed the gory-looking medical tabs, forcing his mind away to think instead about the Skunkworks facility, which, until they had been derailed, had seemed intensely cool. Worth moving out to the desert for, anyway, temporarily at least. He was just scanning over the image of the hot-fire test stand in his mind, wishing he could discuss it offsite, when someone in surgical scrubs and a cap came out and pulled Gonzales aside for a tense, whispered conversation. 

“Sirs?”

Hondo and Ice looked up at her; her voice was anxious.

“Sirs, the surgeons have an update. Apparently Captain Mitchell’s appendix ruptured not long after he arrived, so they had to do an open surgery instead of keyhole, but his fever was so high his body didn’t react well to the anesthesia -“

“Get to the point, Gonzales,” snapped Kazansky, suddenly bolt upright, his shoulders squared. She swallowed.

“He briefly went into cardiac arrest on the table, but they got a rhythm back very quickly, sir,” she said hastily as Ice blanched. The feeling had started to drain from Hondo’s limbs again. “The surgery’s taking a little longer, though, as they can’t afford the infection spreading, so they have to clear all the debris from his abdominal cavity and he’ll need a course of strong antibiotics to avoid complications. It’s unclear how long it’ll take him to regain consciousness after the reaction to the anesthetic.”

“ Will he recover ?”

Ice asked the question point-blank, the muscles in his jaw shifting, and Hondo felt as if he were frozen to his seat.

“Uh, we’re not sure, sir, it’s just worse than they thought and the recovery will be longer, and it’s more likely there will be complications.”

Hondo’s hands found his knees and gripped them, steadying him.

“Thank you,” said Ice, a little hoarsely. He cleared his throat more forcefully than normal. “Thank you, Gonzales, make sure to keep us updated. That’s an order.” 

She nodded, made a clean about-face and resumed her post at the desk. Ice was running a hand over his face. 

“ Shit , I really gotta get hold of the kid,” he was muttering, almost to himself, then took a slow breath in. “Never does things by halves, I guess.”

Hondo felt his lips twitch in spite of the numb panic that seemed to have taken hold. 

“Nope, never seems to. I can stay, sir -“

“Ice,” he corrected. “It’s a hospital, Hondo, no need for formality.”

Hondo nodded. “Just instinct when you turn the glare on the corpsmen. I can stay if you need to go.”

He gave a short nod in response. “Might have to run to my office, see if I can’t get Admiral McLane to put me through.” He looked very tired all of a sudden, deep furrows on his brow. “Thanks for staying. I know you’re not doing it for me -“ he held up a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other “- but I’m glad you’re here all the same.”

“Me too,” said Hondo fervently. Ice half-smiled at him, cleared his throat with an unusually harsh noise, and strode out of the room.

Hondo waited uncertainly for another half hour or so, attempting to distract himself with the LA Public Library app on his phone. He had put six books on the Troubles on hold by the time another scrub-clad member of the surgical team emerged from the depths of the hospital to talk to Gonzales. He looked up, and she was clearly hesitating about how to call him over, but he had long since gotten used to this particular circus.

“Do you have an update, Gonzales?”

She didn’t look quite as terrified of him as she had of Ice, but still straightened up reflexively as he approached.

“Yessir, they’re just closing him up now. They think they got everything out, but it was messy and there’s a high risk of infection, not to mention they’re still not sure of the effects of the reaction to the anesthetic. If he comes to without any more major temperature spikes, he ought to make it fine.”

“And,” Hondo asked hoarsely, “if…if he doesn’t?” 

“If he takes longer than twenty-four hours to regain consciousness,” she began slowly, sounding as though she was choosing her words carefully, “then he may have suffered some complications from the reaction, which are likely to affect his nervous system. And if his temperature goes above 105 again for longer than an hour or two, it’ll be likely that the infection has spread to peritonitis, which can be life-threatening. He’ll be administered a course of strong antibiotics as soon as he’s out of surgery, then it’s up to him.”

Hondo nodded slowly, his mouth dry. Of all the things to take Pete out, it couldn’t be a ruptured appendix, it just couldn’t. After everything, all the flak, the ejections, the combat missions, and the decades-long refusal to wear a motorcycle helmet, it was positively laughable that a corpsman  was looking him in the eye and telling him Pete might not survive an infection. He almost did want to laugh, actually, but stopped himself; what was wrong with him?

He managed to school his face enough to nod and mutter a word of thanks to the corpsman, who said something about letting him know when they had him in recovery, and stepped out into the hall. The desire to laugh had faded. He held up a hand experimentally; it was shaking. 

He had to call Ice. Ice needed to get the update, too. He leaned heavily on the wall, pulled out his phone, and called before he could think too much about what he had to say.

“Kazansky speaking.”

“Ice, I got another update from the surgeons. He’ll be coming out in a minute. But they don’t know if they cleared all the debris, so they’re worried about the infection getting worse. And they don’t know if he’ll have complications from the reaction to the anesthetic. They said if he comes to in under 24 hours without his fever spiking too much, he’ll…he’ll make it okay.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Ice’s voice was tight.

“I…I’m not really sure. They said there could be complications for his nervous system from the anesthesia, and they’re giving him antibiotics for the infection.” He swallowed. Hard. There was a brief silence on the other end.

“Thanks for letting me know, Hondo,” said Ice finally, his voice rough. “Did they give you anything else?”

“Just that he’ll be out of surgery in a few minutes. Guess it’s up to him after that.”

Another silence. “Okay. I’ll be back in a little while, Hondo, I’m going to have to make a few more phone calls, but I’m sending reinforcements.”

“You’re - what ?” Hondo asked, but Ice had hung up. Hondo slid his phone back in his pocket and almost mechanically went back to his seat, raising his long-cooled cup of coffee to his lips without really tasting it.

It wasn’t long before Hondo was summoned back down a long hall and ushered into a small room where Pete was lying, pale and worn-looking, on a bed. There was an IV taped into his arm and an oxygen mask on his face. He looked oddly small in the bed. Hondo took up what was now a frustratingly familiar post in a hard-backed chair next to the bed, wishing Ice was still there. Or anyone, really; he had long since learned that waiting in a hospital was a lonely endeavor. 

This thought had barely occurred to him before the door swung open again and a tall figure strode into the room.

“ Slider ?”

Slider stepped in front of his chair, pulled him to his feet and nearly crushed him in a hug, holding on a little too long as always, but Hondo didn’t mind. His solid warmth was comforting in the sterile room.  

“Good to see ya, Hondo, it’s been a while,” he felt Slider’s voice rumble in his chest, then Slider released him and his eyes fell on Pete. He reached out and ruffled his hair affectionately, like Pete was a little kid, asleep, and not a fifty-year-old man drugged into insensibility.

“Ice called while I was on my way up from Lemoore,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Not gonna lie, Hondo, he sounds worked up, what’s the latest on Mav?”

Slider took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and looked at him expectantly, and Hondo swallowed. 

“His appendix ruptured, so they had to open him up and clear out the debris, but they don’t know if they got it all so he’s on antibiotics and they’re worried about infection. And he reacted so bad to the anesthetic that his heart stopped on the table, but they got him back, just not sure about nervous complications from the reaction. If he wakes up in twenty-four hours without a fever spike, he’ll make it okay.”

Slider nodded slowly, glancing back over at Pete in the bed and squeezing his hand for a second. Hondo found himself very grateful he didn’t ask what would happen if Pete didn’t wake.

“It’s a little weird, y’know, seeing him in the hospital when it’s not his fault,” he commented wryly, and Hondo let out a small snort. “Can’t even get mad at the little fucker for doing this to us,” he added fondly.

“Even the folks at Skunk- where we just came from were real nice about it,” nodded Hondo. “‘Course, they haven’t had to deal with his other messes.”

“Relax, Hondo, I know where you were. I’m not allowed details of the tech, that’s it. Guess y’all’s first day didn’t go too well, huh?”

“I mean,” said Hondo with a small smile, “usually I’d rather not have to carry him around, he’s a hell of a lot heavier than he looks.”

“Oh, I know,” said Slider with an eye roll. “He pass out or something?”

“Yeah, and he almost took the Chief Engineer down with him after he puked on her shoes,” said Hondo. “It’d be funny if it wasn’t this bad,” he added, gesturing at Pete’s still form. 

“It’ll be funny next week,” said Slider bracingly. “He’ll be okay. Shortstack’s been riding a fuckin’ superbike for thirty years with no helmet, he is not getting taken out by his own goddamn organs .”

The confidence in Slider’s voice was heartening, but Hondo was having a hard time shaking the corpsman’s uncertain tone from his head. His dad had been fine. Had never gotten sick. Everything had been fine, until it wasn’t. He looked at Pete’s face on the pillow.

“Hondo,” said Slider softly, “how long you been here?”

“I don’t even know, man,” he said with a sigh. “It’s been a day.”

“Take a break,” he answered. “Seriously. I got him for a while. You had to carry him to an ambulance. Get yourself something to eat, maybe catch a nap.”

“You’re staying?”

“I know the policy too, Hondo. I’m here. It’s okay. You can take a break.”

“Thanks, man,” said Hondo, with feeling, running a shaking hand over his face. 

“I’ll call you. You can go. Ice’ll be back later.”

Hondo nodded, swallowed again, and got up; Slider reached out, squeezed his shoulder and gave him a gentle pat on the back. He made some attempt to smile at him, to which Slider gave him a wry look, and sat back down next to Pete as Hondo left the room. 

They had only arrived at the base last night; he wasn’t sure if it was the unfamiliar setting or his own distractedness, but it seemed to take him a very long time to find his temporary housing assignment. He hadn’t even had time to unpack beyond fishing some clean underwear out of his duffel. He sat down heavily, then remembered he still had Mav’s phone jammed into his own pocket and pulled it out, dropping it on the counter. The screen illuminated for a second, showing a view looking out the front of the cockpit of a small plane. For a second, Hondo almost snorted to himself at Mav having a picture of the Mustang on his phone, then he noticed the controls were different, the nose of the plane was a different shape, and the hands on the controls were definitely too small to be those of an adult man. The picture was peculiarly grainy, like he had taken a photo of a Polaroid, and Hondo swallowed, hard, suddenly a lot less confused about why Ice was probably still trying to call Bradley on Pete’s behalf. He leaned back in his seat, pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, and let out a long breath; there was nothing else to do now but wait. 

He was not entirely sure how he managed to go about the rest of the day, but somehow, he found his way to the mess and ate without really tasting his food. It was when he had been staring at the same page in the hypersonics textbook for several minutes that his phone finally, finally started buzzing insistently, and he snatched it up. 

“Hello?”

“Bernie?”

“Jacob,” said Hondo with a sigh, trying not to sound too disappointed at his brother’s voice. “How’re you, man?”

“Better’n you, by the sound of it, but you could still sound happier to hear me,” answered Jacob, and Hondo could just see the wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. “Something wrong with the new job, or what?”

“Uh, I guess the new job could’ve started better,” muttered Hondo, sinking down on the edge of his bed. “Pete’s in the hospital.” 

Jacob let out a small snort. “What’d he do, jack up another plane on your watch?”

“Got his appendix taken out,” muttered Hondo, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Apparently his heart stopped on the table, he’s not awake yet.”

There was the sound of a long exhale on the other end. “Shit, Bernie, I’m sorry. I’m sure he’ll be okay, he looks like he’s in decent shape.”

“Dad was fine, too.” Hondo couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. Jacob was silent for a second. 

“It’s not like that,” he said finally, “Dad was a lot older. And he never went to the doctor if he could help it.”

Hondo nodded, then realized Jacob couldn’t see him, and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Makes sense.” He straightened up a little. “So what’s going on with you?” he asked, a little lamely. 

“Well, I got good news for you at least,” said Jacob, and Hondo could almost hear his face stretching into a broad grin. “We just got approved as foster parents, so you’ll have a new nephew next time you come down. We’ll probably be able to adopt him, too, but one step at a time, right?”

“Oh, that’s great, man, I’m happy for you,” said Hondo, feeling his own face stretch into a grin despite the tightness in his shoulders. “When’s he coming? How old is he?”

“Seven. Two weeks, but we got to meet him at the group home. I’ll send you some pictures when we have ‘em. Listen, Bernie, I gotta go, I still haven’t called Gloria -”

“Go,” said Hondo, “it’s okay, at least I got something better to think about now. Wear earplugs before Gloria shrieks down the phone.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hope Pete will be okay. Get your ass home on your next leave to meet your nephew.”

Hondo set down the phone, smiling a little; some of the numb panic seemed to have receded a little at Jacob’s excited tone of voice. He made a note in his phone to remind him to ask Rosie how she felt about getting a foster brother, then dropped the phone on his nightstand, suddenly exhausted. It was just about late enough, now, that he could reasonably justify going to bed, and he changed, threw back a sorely needed finger of bourbon, and collapsed on the bed, suddenly exhausted. 

He awoke to a buzzing noise; he had forgotten to close the blinds and the morning sun seemed to poke him in the eye. He picked up his phone blearily. 

“Hello?”

“Hondo,” said a tired voice he recognized as Slider’s, “Mav’s up. He’s gonna be okay.” 

Hondo fell back on the bed, feeling his shoulders relax as if they had been tensed all night. 

“Thanks, Slider,” he managed, his voice a little rough even to his own ears. “You been there all night?”

“Yeah, I got some sleep but not enough. Ice is coming in a bit, he’s been raising hell and earth trying to get through to the kid, something seems to be up with the sat comms on the boat.”

“Okay. I’ll stop in pretty soon,” he said with a grunt, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “Gotta see this for myself.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m already giving him shit for dragging me away from Lemoore,” muttered Slider, “but it feels like punching down, he’s still kinda out of it.”

Hondo snorted a little, feeling considerably lighter as he got up and started dressing one-handed. “Good to know. You want some coffee?”

“Fuck yeah, if you’re offering,” said Slider through a yawn. “See ya, Hondo.”

Hondo had managed to find two thermoses, and filled them with coffee in the side room at the base hospital with the hypersonics book under his arm before finding his way back to the same room, where he nearly ran headlong into Slider, whose face was looking unusually pinched. 

“Oh, thanks, I need this,” he said without preamble, taking the thermos Hondo was holding out and taking a very large gulp. “Ice just stepped in -” 

They were interrupted by the muffled sound of a raised voice, though it wasn’t easy to distinguish words. Hondo looked at the door; Slider, too, had cocked his head to the side. Hondo shrugged, and made to lean against the wall to drink his coffee. Slider, however, grinned, moving closer to the door.

“You might be above eavesdropping, Hondo, but I’m not, I sat with him all night and it’s not even the first time, I figure I’ve earned the right.”

“And you outrank him,” muttered Hondo under his breath, regretting the words almost immediately, but Slider merely chuckled.

“Damn straight. C’mon.”

Hondo stepped a little closer to the door, next to Slider, a little hesitantly, but his curiosity got the better of him and he strained his ears for a second. 

“ - no , Ice, just stop, you said he was gonna be called to the next TOPGUN class, I’m not fucking that up for him -”

A muffled few words, then Ice’s voice became clearer. “- didn’t know if you would be okay.”

“I’ve felt better, but I don’t think I’m gonna die anymore,” and now Hondo could hear Pete more clearly. 

“Mav, fine, if you say so I’ll -” Ice’s voice became unintelligible “- but you asked me to, and he has a right to -” 

Hondo tipped his head closer to the door; Slider shifted next to him, but Mav raised his voice, and his words were a lot clearer now.

“And now I’m asking you to stop. I slowed up his career once, I’m not doing it again.” His tone was harsh, bordering on angry.

Ice started to say something, but stopped; through the door, Hondo could hear a muffled coughing. 

“ Fuck, my throat’s still dry as hell - fine, Mav, you win, it’s your kid.” Ice’s voice softened then, and Hondo had to strain to catch anything, but was pretty sure he heard Ice ask “You sure you want me to stop trying to get through?”

He didn’t hear anything after that, but assumed Pete had nodded, because he heard what sounded like a faint sigh. Slider caught his eye, and before Hondo could stop him, had yanked open the door. 

“Mav, Ice,” he said, half-smiling at them, “been a pleasure, I’ll be back, but I need a nap first. Hondo’s tagging in.”

He raised his coffee at them in a mock toast, Ice tipped him a two-fingered salute, and Mav cleared his throat. 

“Thanks, Sli,” he said quietly from the corner, “sorry I made you sleep here.”

“You didn’t make me do jack, shortstack,” snorted Slider, his grin turning fonder, and the corner of Pete’s mouth twitched as Slider gave a parting wave and turned down the hall. 

“You should get some sleep too, Ice,” Pete said a little croakily from the bed, “looks like you need it.”

“You’re one to talk,” sighed Ice, gesturing at the IV taped into Pete’s hand, “but fine.”

“‘M’sorry I snapped at you,” he said a little uncomfortably, looking down, “just -”

“I know,” said Ice, running a hand down his face, “it’s okay, Mav, I know. I’ll stop trying.” He turned to Hondo. “Good to see you, hope you’re doing -” he coughed, hard “- better’n the rest of us, but take it easy, ‘kay?”

Hondo nodded, and Ice clapped him on the shoulder and left the room with a yawn. 

“Hey, Hondo, sounds like I owe you an apology,” said Pete from the bed; his voice still sounded tired, and he still looked pale, but he was awake, half-smiling at Hondo, and Hondo grinned back.

“Don’t apologize, but I’ll take a ‘thank you’.” He sat down in one of the chairs next to the bed, sipping at his coffee. 

“Sure, but help me out here, it’s a little fuzzy. What am I thanking you for?”

“Let’s see,” snorted Hondo, pulling the book out from under his arm, setting it on the other chair and counting off on his fingers. “First, there was the catching you - and Sharon - when you passed out before you hit the deck, then I had to carry your ass out of the building because they wouldn’t let the paramedics in -” he took a sip of coffee “- then I had to call Ice and listen to a corpsman tell us you might not make it.”

Pete’s face had turned more serious.

“Shit, Hondo, I’m sorry I scared you guys,” he muttered, fiddling with something in his hand; after a second, Hondo recognized a worn set of dog tags. “And - and thanks for getting me out, I owe you one. I didn’t hurt Sharon - Dr. Bell - did I?”

“You tried to take a swing at me when I picked you up, but you missed, I think the pain had you out of it,” he nodded at Pete, “and you didn’t hurt Sharon, but you did ruin her shoes.” 

Pete covered his face with the hand that didn’t have an IV in it. “Jesus Christ, so I did throw up on her,” he muttered in an embarrassed tone. 

“She was real nice about it,” said Hondo, but couldn’t stop the note of humor in his voice. “But yeah, you might wanna buy her new ones, smooth it over if you’re gonna fly her death machine.”

“Don’t remind me, Hondo, that woman is the Chief Engineer - and I’m sorry, I don’t remember trying to hit you, but I do remember it hurt so bad I couldn’t even fuckin’ see.”

“Better now?”

“Well, I don’t think I’m gonna die,” shrugged Pete, gesturing vaguely around them, “so I’d say so.” He rested a hand on his side for a second, where Hondo supposed the incision was. “Didn’t think appendicitis would hurt more’n being shot at, but hey, we’re here to learn new things.” He rested his head back on the pillow, but threw Hondo a smirk; Hondo rolled his eyes in response and took a long sip of his coffee. 

“Speaking of,” he said, picking the book up, “you can have this back while you’re laid up. We can’t get behind, Skunkworks has a ticking clock on that contract.”

Pete snorted. “You must’ve been worried, I didn’t think I’d get the book back from you.”

He took it, opened it, then seconds later closed it again. “I don’t think I can think straight right now, Hondo,” he said with a yawn, handing it back to him, “you can hang onto it for now. And you don’t have to stay, it’s okay -”

“Got nowhere else to be,” said Hondo with a shrug, and he folded one ankle over his knee, leaned back in his chair, and flipped to his page on shockwave-boundary layer interactions as Pete resettled himself into the pillows. A few sentences in, he glanced up; Pete was already asleep again, the chain from the dog tags slipping out of his loosened grip, and Hondo smiled to himself a little before going back to the book.

Chapter Text

It had been two months of living on a base that was, somehow, more remote and desolate even than Edwards AFB, but Hondo had barely noticed. The Skunkworks flight test engineers had turned out to be a highly enthusiastic bunch, most of them relatively young - Hondo supposed Lockheed Martin had had trouble persuading many of their senior engineers to move out to the middle of the desert. With the exception of a few grizzled members of the Skunkworks old guard and a few equally grizzled ex-Navy technicians, Hondo rather suspected that either Dr. Bell or Maverick was the oldest person working on Darkstar. 

At least, Dr. Sharon Bell was definitely the oldest right now, seeing as Mav had taken a few days’ leave. He had given very little explanation, but apparently, turning on the charm with both the engineers and the base commander after the disaster of their first day had had the desired effect. He had avoided Hondo’s questions, too, but given the timing - two months, give or take, after Pete had stopped Ice from pulling Bradley off a carrier before his chance at TOPGUN came up - Hondo had a reasonably shrewd idea of where he had disappeared to, and hadn’t wanted to press. 

Mav had reappeared several days later, his face set and grim, just in time for the human factors checkouts in the newly integrated simulator that the testbed engineers had jerry-rigged to simulate the dynamics of high hypersonic flight regimes. For three days’ worth of testing, he barely spoke except to answer the questions of the human factors engineers. Hondo, for his part, had hardly noticed for the first day, busy as he was interfacing between the human factors and flight operations engineers. After the third day, though, Simon had tipped his head towards Hondo in the flight test operations center. 

“Hondo,” he said quietly, “you read about how hypersonic flow regimes don’t work the same as supersonic, right?”

Hondo snorted. “Read about it? I can see that packet of yours in my sleep , Simon.”

“It means the flight dynamics don’t feel the same to the operator.”

“I know,” he grunted. 

“You think Captain Mitchell does?”

Hondo snorted again. “The reason I had to memorize that packet is because he wouldn’t let me have the textbook for six weeks. Half his TPS instructors were Shuttle pilots. He gets it.”

“He barely said a word to the human factors folks. Usually, a pilot gets into a hypersonic flight sim, they feel like the whole thing’s backwards, forget about high hypersonic.”

Hondo didn’t respond. It was, in fact, incredibly unlike Mav to sit in a flight simulator for three days, try out something that apparently was supposed to feel wildly different than any aircraft he had flown before, and not comment on it. 

“You think something’s up with the sim?”

Hondo jerked his head up, Simon’s voice cutting across his thoughts. He cleared his throat. 

“Uh, no. Mav would’ve said something if it didn’t make sense, and the testbed team spent weeks with you aero folks, I’m sure they set it up right.”

Simon nodded. “‘Kay. I’m just - I’m a little nervous about this project is all.”

Hondo felt the corners of his mouth twitch. 

“I’m not the hypersonics expert - that’s you - but so far looks like you’re doin’ good. Mav won’t be the reason it doesn’t work, anyway, don’t worry about that.”

Simon’s shoulders dropped a little and he exhaled. 

“Thanks, Hondo, I appreciate it. Figuring out how to test it isn’t really like theory or design work.”

“You don’t say,” grunted Hondo. “They spend half of test pilot school beating that into you.” 

Simon smiled tentatively at him, and Hondo smiled back as Simon walked away, then looked back down at his console, not really seeing it. It hadn’t been that long on the project yet, but the engineers needed to trust Pete if they were going to get anywhere. 

“Mav?”

“Hm?” 

“C’mon. Most everyone else left. Let’s get outta here, have a drink.”

Pete stuck his head out of the flight sim, holding his headset half off one ear. 

“What now?”

Hondo cocked his head to the side; Pete’s eyes looked hollow. 

“Wrap it up. You practically haven’t left in three days. We’re getting outta here and getting a drink.”

“I took off for four days, I’m making up time,” grunted Pete, but he was getting out of the sim with a grudging look at Hondo. “Now?”

“I know the contract’s on a tight timeline, but we’re not quite into forced overtime yet,” answered Hondo, taking the headset out of his hands. “Let’s go.”

To his surprise, Mav nodded as Hondo hooked the headset over the edge of the sim box. 

“There a decent Navy bar around here? I don’t have civvies on me.” He gestured at his and Hondo’s fatigues, and Hondo shrugged. 

“No idea. Doesn’t matter, all the civilians ‘round here are contractors anyway.”

“Fair point,” grunted Maverick, falling into step beside him.

They left the building, the desert air cooling rapidly as the pink sunset light faded into a deep blue overhead, and made their way to the parking lot, Pete climbing onto his bike and following Hondo’s car to a dimly lit dive bar near the base, a few enlisted folks inside sitting around and watching a ball game.

Hondo pulled up a bar stool and ordered a bourbon from a bored-looking woman behind the bar, then turned to Maverick.

“Same, no rocks. Two fingers.”

Hondo turned in his seat, one eyebrow raised.

“Thought you only drink whiskey at weddings and funerals.”

“That’s Irish whiskey,” Mav countered with the ghost of a smirk, “got no rules about bourbon.” The bartender clicked two glasses down on the bar in front of them, and Mav took his, tapped the rim against Hondo’s with little ceremony and took a long pull.

Hondo took a sip, looking expectantly at Pete, whose shoulders slumped as he set his glass back down.

“So I went to San Diego.”

“Yeah, I figured,” said Hondo noncommittally; Pete would talk as long as he didn’t push. He waited. Pete took another sip and let out a sigh.

“Thanks, by the way, I needed this,” he muttered, tipping his glass in Hondo’s direction.

“That bad, huh?” Hondo asked, before he could stop himself, and regretted it almost instantly as Pete’s face darkened a little.

“No - well - it - it’s not Bradley this time,” started Pete hesitantly, and Hondo managed not to voice his surprise this time, waiting for Pete to go on. 

“I mean - I did go for his TOPGUN graduation, you guessed right, you’re not stupid,” he said with a small groan, pressing a fist into his eye socket, “but we didn’t - uh, I’m not sure he knows I was there. Doesn’t matter. But I saw Ice’n Sarah.”

“Ice went too?” 

“Yeah,” sighed Maverick, “he works on base and all. But he - he’s taking some leave. That cough he had a couple months ago, turns out it’s throat cancer.”

Hondo felt his chest go numb as he stared blankly at Mav, who was looking down at the counter, then took a sip without really tasting it. Somewhere, he registered that the ice cubes were rattling in the glass; his hand was shaking.

“ What?”

Mav scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“He used to smoke. Quit years ago, guess it still fucked him up. He looks like shit. Just had surgery, now they’re doing chemo to kill whatever’s left.”

“He - shit, he doing okay? Sarah?” Hondo’s own voice sounded a little strange to him. Pete shrugged.

“He’s - handling it, I guess. Sarah too. Tried to see if I could help, Ice just told me to behave myself so he didn’t have to deal with the shitty phone signal at the base hospital.” Mav picked up his glass again, then set it down; it was empty. Hondo reflexively signaled the bartender, swirling his own glass with his other hand. Mav nodded his thanks and took a pull from the fresh glass.

“Carole died in that hospital,” he said softly, and Hondo felt something tighten inside him. Then Pete set his glass down, tightening his jaw. “It’s not like that, though.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “They caught it early, he’s got good odds, they said 75 percent, Ice has made it through worse.” 

“That’s something,” muttered Hondo, almost to himself.

“Yeah,” said Mav, taking another sip, “felt stupid, though, Sarah was trying to make me feel better.”

Hondo looked at him a second.

“Not that stupid, you sound worried.”

“Yeah, but - she has it worse, Ice has it worse. Goes against the whole order of kvetching.”

“The what now?” 

Maverick half-smirked at him, then fished a pen out of his pocket and pulled a cocktail napkin towards him.

“The Order of Kvetching,” he started, “actually something Sarah explained, kvetching’s Yiddish.” He drew a circle, then another around it, and another around that. “See, the person affected by whatever shitty thing’s happening, they get to kvetch to anyone they want. But anyone in the outer rings, they can only kvetch to someone who isn’t as close to the problem. Comfort in - “ he drew an arrow inwards “- and dump out.”

“That why you’re, uh, kvetching to me?”

Mav gave a faint chuckle. “Yeah, I guess Sarah would count this as kvetching.”

“‘Kay, well, guess the comfort here’s of the southern variety,” said Hondo, half jokingly, as Pete tipped back half of what was left in his glass, then felt his own shoulders drop as Pete looked at him. “I’m real sorry, Mav,” he added softly, gripping his shoulder for a second, “but you said yourself, Ice has beaten worse odds. I hear they’re really good at that hospital, too.”

He wasn’t entirely sure which of them he was trying to convince, but the lines on Mav’s face softened a little as he nodded. 

“Thanks, Hondo,” he said, swallowing. “Guess I just gotta sit tight for a while, don’t need to stress Ice out.”

“Thank fuck,” sighed Hondo theatrically, casting his eyes skyward, and to his relief, Pete let out a snigger in response. 

“Yeah, yeah, make your life easier too, you got enough to do.” 

“That reminds me,” grunted Hondo, getting off his barstool, “I pulled you outta the sim because - no, gimme the tab, it’s on me - Simon asked if something was up with it because you hardly said a word about the feel of the controls. You start giving these guys some feedback here, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” nodded Pete, throwing back the last of his drink, standing up and swaying a little. “ Shit - didn’t mean - ah, fuck, Hondo, you got me drunk.” He grabbed the edge of the counter for support. 

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” snorted Hondo, “but you looked like you needed it.”

“I did,” said Pete, shaking himself a little, “but I forgot I came on my bike.”

“You are not getting on that thing,” said Hondo firmly, pointing a finger at him, “I only had one and I’m no lightweight, I’m driving you, Captain.”

Pete opened his mouth, and Hondo held up a hand. 

“Leave the bike here, Mav, you can get it tomorrow.”

“You’re lucky it’s not my favorite,” Pete grumbled, but stumbled out after him without further protest. It was only once they got to the car that Hondo realized he had no idea where he was going.

“Mav?”

“Hm?” Mav had slumped against the window, half asleep. 

“Where’m I taking you? Only been out to your hangar once, and you drove.”

Mav made a gesture at Hondo’s phone, and Hondo handed it to him; he typed in some numbers, hit “Get Directions” and put it back in the holder. Hondo squinted at it a second.

“You just got coordinates? No address?”

“I got a P.O. Box,” grunted Pete. “Let’s just go.”

Hondo rolled his eyes and started the car.

It was pitch black when Hondo pulled up in front of the pale facade of the hangar, the words UNITED STATES NAVY just visible in the headlights. It was far enough that the lights of the base were hardly visible; the Navy had to have rearranged things when they had decommissioned it. 

“C’mon, Pete, we’re here,” he said, shaking his shoulder. There was no response. Hondo thunked his head back on the headrest, sighed, and got out of the car. He pulled the passenger seat door open, and Pete nearly fell out; Hondo caught his arm, and he got clumsily out of the car, scrubbing a fist into one eye. Hondo looked at him for a second, then gave up on Pete moving under his own power and pulled him roughly to his feet, hooking his hand into his armpit as Pete leaned his weight on him. He half-dragged him towards the massive sliding doors, clicking the key fob over his shoulder. Pete fumbled in his pocket for a key, and after a few tries, managed to get a padlock off the door, slid back a huge bolt and slumped his weight against the door until it slid back a couple of feet. He stumbled, and Hondo caught him again, cursing softly. 

“Why the fuck d’you live out here, you nutjob -“ Hondo muttered under his breath, pulling Pete into a vaguely upright position as he looked into the cavernous darkness of the hangar. 

“That,” said Pete in response, and Hondo jumped a little as he turned and pointed upwards; he hadn’t really been expecting an answer. Pete was still pointing, and Hondo grudgingly turned his head and looked up. 

“Whoa,” he breathed in spite of himself. Now that the headlights were out, the sky was so full of stars Hondo could practically see the light glancing off the mountains. The Milky Way glittered above, clear and distinct, glowing in colors he hadn’t known were possible. He gazed, open-mouthed, straight up, for a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes, hardly noticing Maverick sliding out from under his arm before there was a clattering noise inside. 

“Oh, shit,” he muttered to himself, flicking on his phone flashlight and walking inside the hangar; Mav held up a hand to block the light. He had already taken off his fatigues and was standing there in a t-shirt and boxers, holding out a plastic cup of water to him.

“You can crash here, Hondo, it’s late,” he muttered as Hondo took the cup, watching with relief as Mav downed his own water. He gestured at a long couch with a blanket thrown over the back; a pair of boots was discarded in front of it. Hondo was about to protest, but just as he opened his mouth he yawned hugely. It was late, they had to be in early the next day, and Mav was already climbing clumsily into the Airstream at the back of the hangar. He gave up, sitting heavily down on the couch and levering off his boots and stripping off his own fatigues. The couch, miraculously, was long enough for him to stretch out all the way, more comfortable than most of the Navy-issued beds he had slept in, and he was asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes. 

“Hondo.”

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

“C’mon, Hondo, it’s six, get up.”

Hondo cracked an eye; sunlight was streaming through the windows in the hangar, and Pete had cracked the doors. He sat up. Pete handed him a cup of coffee in a cracked CVN-71 mug, and he sipped it gratefully; it was black and scalding with a bitter kick that seemed to burn away any exhaustion left in his chest. He looked slowly around, sipping his coffee and pulling his pants back on with one hand. Pete was somewhere over by the pegboard covered in tools, putting something in a toaster. There were at least three tool chests, one flammables cabinet, and several bikes, the P-51D looking shinier than the last time he had seen it - Maverick must have an air show coming up. Hondo sat back down and shoved his feet back into his boots. Across from the couch as he looked up there was a large cabinet with the flag sitting on top that he recognized as Duke Mitchell’s.

This time, though, the door was open, and inside there was what looked like a wall covered in pictures. Hondo stepped closer. There was a trophy with a small model F-14 on it; the plaque read LT RON “SLIDER” KERNER . Hondo snorted, resolving to ask Mav what it was doing there, when something else caught his eye. It was an old picture, at least thirty years old by how young Mav looked, standing next to Goose, more relaxed than in the old Navy portrait Hondo had seen, by an F-14 with their names on it. Another of Goose wearing the same orange-sleeved shirt he had had on in the other picture, flipping off the camera. An even younger Maverick, grinning bashfully, holding a tiny baby; there was what looked like a hospital bed in the background. A picture of a young boy with curly blond hair, swinging a baseball bat, his tongue stuck out in concentration. A much younger Iceman, a little girl that had to be Rachel on his hip, ruffling a teenage Bradley’s hair with his free hand while a pretty blonde woman laughed into an ice cream cone. A very old black & white picture of a mustachioed, dark-haired man in khakis holding a scrawny boy on his shoulders. Next to it, over the corner of the board, there was an old, tarnished string of what Hondo recognized as rosary beads.

In the corner of the board, as if Pete had run out of space or thumbtacks or both, was a picture of Bradley jammed into the frame of the corkboard. This one was recent; Bradley looked exactly as he had last time Hondo had seen him, with a thick mustache, wings glittering on his dress blues.

“Here.”

Hondo jumped, almost spilling his coffee; Pete had appeared at his elbow, holding a plate with an English muffin covered in peanut butter on it. 

“Sorry, Mav, I wasn’t-“ 

“S’okay,” shrugged Mav, holding out the plate, “and this is all I got, I need groceries.”

“Thanks,” said Hondo, taking it and biting into one half of the muffin. “Mind if I ask why you have a trophy with Slider’s name on it?” He quirked an eyebrow, and Mav chuckled. 

“It’s Slider’s TOPGUN trophy, he’n Ice finished first in our class, they each got one to keep. Until he lost a bet with me.” 

Hondo snorted. “Should I ask?”

“Ask him,” countered Pete with a grin, taking a bite out of his own English muffin. Hondo watched as his eyes lingered on Bradley’s Navy portrait.

“Bradley finished second,” he added, almost to himself, “came down to one point between him and some kid they call Hangman. TOPGUN airboss had money on Bradley, though. Way Ice tells it, the other kid’s kind of a wild card.” There was a note of pride in his voice as he gazed at the picture, and Hondo sipped uncomfortably at his coffee, unsure what to say. Then Mav seemed to come back to himself, glancing briskly at his watch. 

“We should probably be outta here in a few, Hondo, bathroom’s in the Airstream, you can just leave your cup in the utility sink.”

He tapped him lightly on the shoulder and walked back towards the sink. Hondo nodded, draining his coffee mug as he turned away from the board. Pete didn’t say anything else while they finished eating, found various scattered possessions and got back in the car. 

“I’ll admit,” Hondo confessed into the silence as they pulled away from the hangar, “it’s a little lonely for me, but the hangar’s not so bad. The stars are fuckin’ incredible. ”

“Yeah, it’s a good view. Lotta space, and my own runway. Reminds me of the sky out at sea. Little lonely, though, sometimes, sure, but I don’t…I don’t really need that much company.”

Hondo glanced doubtfully at Pete.

“You just make sure to talk with the aero and human factors folks,” he reminded him as the base came into view.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” said Pete, flapping a hand resignedly, “but I might need to go find more coffee, still got a headache from the bourbon.”

“You’ll be too jittery for the flight sim,” said Hondo. 

“Nope,” said Pete smugly, and held up a hand for Hondo to see; it was perfectly steady, and Hondo marveled inwardly despite himself, because Pete had had at least two cups already. “Coffee kinda evens me out,” he said cheerfully in response to Hondo’s confused expression, “it’s weird, but it works for me.”

Hondo snorted.

“Whatever works, we need you to have steady hands, I guess,” he said, pulling into the lot outside the barbed-wire fence. 

Pete flashed him a grin and hopped out of the car before it had stopped moving. 

“It’s only going to get more fun from here, Hondo.”

Chapter Text

Hondo sipped absently at his beer as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Then again, and again. He pulled it out and glanced at it, then rolled his eyes and slid it back into his pocket; apparently, his mom and Auntie Clara had decided to have it out in the family group chat. It was probably best not to get involved, he supposed, though he felt mildly guilty at having left so soon after Christmas, abandoning his brother’s family to the chaos of his mother, sister, aunt and grandmother. 

“You with us?” Maverick had reappeared at his side. “Sli’ll be mad he’s not the center of attention at his own party.”

Hondo snorted into his beer. 

“It’s the after -party to his retirement party, and it’s pretty much just the Kazanskys’ usual New Year’s shindig anyway.”

“Eh, I’m kidding, he’s fine,” Pete conceded with a small grin, tucking his thumbs into his belt and tipping his head towards the couch. Slider was sprawled at one end of the couch, Ice at the other, the jackets of their blues hanging over the back of the couch, Danny handing Slider a beer and Ice a ginger ale. 

“Ice looks pretty good, considering,” commented Hondo in a low voice, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Pete’s shoulders tense for a second, then drop a little.

“Yeah,” he answered absently, taking a sip of his own beer. “Better’n last time I was here, anyway, he’s actually in remission now, done with the chemo, no need for any more surgeries. Only difference is he’s almost as much of a lightweight as I am these days.”

Hondo chuckled again, tipping his head at Pete’s beer. “Good thing you’re crashing here, then, I can only drag your ass home so many times.”

“ One beer, Hondo,” he sighed in response, “oh, and we gotta make sure to catch Slider before he leaves, said he had something to talk to us about. Probably the fuckin’ budget mess he was trying to hammer out with Cain before he retired.”

Hondo groaned. 

“That’s so far above my pay grade I don’t even wanna think about it,” he grunted, taking another sip.

“We might not have a choice,” muttered Pete darkly. “If the Navy’s re-allocating experimental dev funding towards more unmanned shit, could be a problem for both of us, ‘specially since you got qualified as a flight test director.” He looked morosely into his bottle. “Darkstar being manned ‘n all, it’s got more heritage from the SR-71 than the regular SR-72, be ready sooner ‘cause we can just make stuff manual when it gets hard to make autonomous. But it’s still experimental and expensive as fuck, Cain’ll go there first for the unmanned funding, the contracts are tied together so he wouldn’t have too much Acquisitions bullshit.”

Hondo felt his shoulders drop. “Shit.” He took another sip, staring absently across the room at where Slider’s wife Ana was chatting animatedly with a pretty woman he’d never seen before. “And what the hell are we supposed to do about that?”

Pete blew out his cheeks, and looked down. “Meet the contract parameters, probably. Get the thing working and hitting high hypersonic regimes consistently by the end of the year, beat the SR-72 to the punch so the Navy actually buys a few of ‘em. Not like I blame Cain - the man’s seen some horrific shit, I’m all for risking fewer lives - but even if we’re behind schedule, we’re still ahead of the 72.”

“Yeah, but Mav, we’re behind.” There was a sinking feeling in his chest when he thought about the go-backs and the issues that kept cropping up in testing; they had only just managed to hit the Mach 4 benchmark that year, which in itself had resulted in substantial redesign efforts. For a plane that was, for now, only a little faster than the original Blackbird. To his surprise, though, Pete snorted. 

“Yeah, defense contractors aren’t the Navy. Been talking to some folks that came outta other Lockheed divisions - partly to figure out what the hell happened with some of that bullshit in the F-35 we tested - and aerospace contractors slip their schedules all the fuckin’ time. Hell, I ended up meeting folks who came from SpaceX, like those kids we met in the desert, and it’s the same shit - sure they move fast’n break things like it says on the news, but they constantly slip launch dates too. Being behind schedule doesn’t matter as much as being behind your competition.”

“I’d say you gotta be kidding me,” said Hondo, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch, “but after testing the F-35, I’ll believe it.” He took a sip. “You talk to anyone who used to work on that goddamn tailhook?”

“Lucky for them I didn’t,” said Pete in a mock-threatening tone, then looked up; Hondo saw a grin spreading across his face as he followed Hondo’s gaze over toward Ana and the other woman. 

“So,” Pete added in a more cheerful tone, “you gonna talk to Tania, or what?” He nodded in the direction of the woman, smirking slightly at him, and Hondo jumped a little. 

“Uh - no - I mean - I was just kinda staring into -” he glanced up again, a little shyly this time. 

“Do you want to? I mean, she’s single.”

“Uh -” he looked down; his face was a little warm. “I - sure, man, whatever.”

“Don’t be nervous,” said Pete bracingly, “she’s nice, she’s known Ana forever.” And without waiting for an answer, he gripped Hondo’s shoulder firmly and steered him in their direction before Hondo could even protest.

Chapter Text

Hondo had arrived early, jittery enough that he forced himself to pour from the decaf pot on the ancient drip coffee machine. Hardly anyone else was there yet, but he hadn’t been able to go back to sleep after finding himself wide awake at 4 am. Today was the Mach 9 test, and it was nothing short of a goddamn miracle that they had even gotten here within the year. After some dramatic propulsion instabilities in the Mach 6-8 range, he had almost lost hope they would even meet the contract parameters within a year of the original deadline. Now, following exhaustive tests on the hot-fire stand, Maverick spending, frankly, too many hours with the human factors team on the scramjet transition integration, and too many late nights to count, they were here, Mach 10 within reach by the end of the year. Considering how well the plane had behaved at Mach 8, Mach 9 should be a cakewalk. 

Or so Mav had reassured him the other night; Hondo hadn’t served as flight director in a real flight ops room for a run-for-record yet. They had simulated the CAPCOM role a thousand times, Mav seemed relaxed, the jet was going to be fine, and he breathed slowly out into his coffee as he tried to calm down.

“Hondo?”

He glanced up. 

“You’re here early,” he grunted at Simon. “Don’t tell me you slept -”

“I went home, Hondo, it’s fine,” interrupted Simon breathlessly. “Listen, none of the other Navy folks are here yet, do you know a Rear Admiral Chester Cain?”

There was a sinking feeling in Hondo’s chest, and he set down his coffee cup a little harder than he had intended. 

“Oh, I do,” he said darkly. “Why?”

“Ran into Sharon. She just got off the phone with him, I think I heard her saying something to him about canceling the program - but they can’t, we’re funded to hit Mach 10, aren’t we?”

Hondo scanned Simon’s tense face; he looked so young, it was hard to believe he was near thirty. He scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“Look, we don’t know anything yet,” he said, trying to sound steady, “but yeah, they can pull funding - word from Warfare Conops is that unmanned things are gonna be higher priority, and even if we’ll be ready sooner, you get why.”

Simon nodded, looking crestfallen. 

“Boeing let a shit-ton of people go when they didn’t win the long-range strike bomber contract,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and sitting on the edge of a desk. “What d’you think, Hondo, how many of us’ll get to go to the SR-72 instead of being let go?”

“I - I got no idea, Simon, I’m sorry,” said Hondo, a little guiltily; at least he could just wait for the Navy to reassign him. “Look -”

He was cut off by a ping on the secure phone he kept at the facility, and pulled it out of his pocket. There was an email from Sharon, addressed to the team, with only “All Hands - 10am” in the subject line and nothing in the message body itself. He felt his heart sink a further few inches. Simon had pulled out his own phone, and was staring at it, biting his lip. 

“Is Captain Mitchell here yet?”

Hondo shook his head.

“We should probably go warn him,” he muttered, almost to himself, “before he gets too deep into test setup.”

Maverick was just pulling his bike up onto the kickstand when they walked in, sliding his sunglasses into the neck of his shirt. The grin on his face faded as he met Hondo’s gaze; Hondo swallowed. 

“What?” Mav’s tone was still light. 

“We’ve been ordered to stand down. They’re scrapping the program,” said Hondo heavily. “Said we fell short. Contract says Mach 10.”

“Today’s test point is Mach nine ,” Pete answered pointedly, “Mach 10’s two months from now.”

Hondo felt his shoulders drop a couple inches; Simon was looking uncertainly between them. 

“Cain’s on his way to shut us down personally,” he said, looking Mav in the eye, but Mav’s face was, inexplicably, stretching into a grin once again. He stepped back a little, turning to slowly rake his gaze over the black side of the jet, casting a quick glance out at the sky. Hondo swallowed. 

“Well,” he said, a hint of mirth in his voice, “he’s not here yet.”

Hondo’s heart stopped sinking, and instead leapt into his throat; Pete’s darkly humorous expression could mean nothing good. 

“What - Mav, no - what the hell’re you thinking -”

Mav snorted. “Sword’s been hanging over our head for a while here, Hondo,” he said, casually locking his bike, “we all knew it, this time we got a little advance warning. This baby behaved so well at Mach 8 that the test to 9’s probably a formality before pushing to 10.”

“But we have to stand down,” interrupted Simon, “Sharon -”

“Well, technically,” said Mav, “I don’t answer to Sharon. And she doesn’t answer to Cain, either, if he gave her a heads-up it’s out of professional courtesy. Any superior officers give you orders, Hondo?”

Hondo felt both his eyebrows climb up his forehead. 

“Well - no -”

“Great. Neither of us have new orders. I didn’t read my emails this morning -” Hondo snorted disbelievingly “- I was focused on getting ready for the test.” He winked at Hondo, and Hondo rolled his eyes with a small laugh.

“Okay, Pete, I hear ya, this sucks. Cain’s on his way, get in uniform before he gets here.”

Maverick’s face hardened a little. 

“Hondo,” he said in a low voice, “you and I both know this build can do Mach 10. Simon knows it can do it better than we do. The unmanned program can’t absorb all the Lockheed folks, at least a hundred of ‘em are losing their jobs unless we hit the contract. We’ve got plausible deniability. Sharon and Caroline took a sabbatical from JPL for this. It’s Simon’s first project out of school. If we can try, we should.”

Hondo glanced up at the gleaming black side of the jet, the thermal-hardened windshield glinting in the light of the open door. Two years’ worth of testing had gotten them this far. He swallowed.

“You sure? Cain’ll fuckin’ lose it.”

Mav shrugged. “If you want, I’ll make it an order as Captain of the 412th Test Wing. You’d be out of trouble.”

“That’s not -” Hondo broke off. “And you?”

Mav gave a dark chuckle. “Lotta folks have been trying to get me out of the Navy for a lotta years. Guess it’s Cain’s turn now, we’ll see how he does.”

Hondo looked carefully at him; Pete met his eye unflinchingly. 

“Okay, Captain,” he said, with some trepidation, “let’s go. And you’re talking to Sharon first.” 

Hondo’s heart felt like it had resumed its normal position, only to start hammering against his ribs, the tension mounting as they set up the flight test ops control center. He watched as Maverick climbed into a heavy black pressure suit, and they started down the long, red-lit hallway that somehow always felt like HAL 9000 was ready to eliminate the humans. He glanced over; Maverick’s face was set, his expression determined. 

“Remember,” he started, as if any of them could forget, “the contract point’s Mach ten . Not ten point one, not ten point two, Mach ten . That’ll keep the program alive.”

Maverick’s eye flicked over to him for a second, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly. Hondo raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t like that look, Mav,” he said, the hammering in his chest seeming to become more insistent. 

“It’s the only one I got,” Mav shot back, and in spite of himself, Hondo felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. 

The flight test operations center was no less tense; he sat in the flight director’s seat, the lead test engineer to his side, the row of subsystems leads grimly setting up their consoles. Finally, the CAPCOM voice net crackled to life in his ear as the main displays came up. 

“Flight, Darkstar, how do you read me?”

“Darkstar, Flight, I read you five by five, how me?”

“I read you five by.”

Hondo turned his head as the door behind them came open, and Simon reappeared. 

“Cain’s pulling up,” he said breathlessly, “almost at the gate.”

Hondo felt his own shoulders tense. 

“Mav,” he started softly on the CAPCOM net, abandoning the hail protocols, “it’s not too late to turn around, buddy. You know what happens to you if you go through with this.” 

The voice came stubbornly back. 

“I know what happens to everyone else if I don’t.”

There were a few whispered mutterings along the row of consoles, and Hondo clenched his jaw a second; try as he might, he couldn’t find it in himself to argue.

“Flight, Ops Net, thumbs for taxi.” A row of thumbs-up appeared along the consoles; the voice net stayed silent.

“Flight, Darkstar, you are cleared for taxi. Go/No-Gos for takeoff.”

“Thermal, go.”

“Avionics, go.”

“Control surfaces, go.”

“Structures, go.”

“Propulsion, go.”

Hondo switched his mic back to the CAPCOM net.

“Darkstar, Flight, you are cleared for takeoff,” said Hondo, straining his ears for any sound that would signal Cain’s arrival. 

“Copy, Flight,” he heard Maverick say cheerfully, and then the screens lit up with the flow of EVR messages that signaled the takeoff procedure. 

They watched, transfixed, as the runway feed showed the sleek black shape speeding up, then gliding into the air with surprising grace before it disappeared entirely. 

“Hah, that’s fuckin’ hilarious.” 

Hondo’s head snapped around; Mark, in the corner, was looking at his phone. He hastily muted his mic. 

“What now?” he hissed at Mark. 

“I play Counterstrike with one of the guard shack MPs,” answered Mark, still chuckling, “apparently he flew so close over it he scared the shit outta Cain’s aide.”

Hondo let out a snort in spite of himself, grateful they had muted themselves, then got back on the net, running through the post-takeoff, pre-test ground checkouts, bringing the jet up to a hot soak at Mach 3.5, the lead test engineer closing out the steps as they went through them. Until the door banged open with such force that it bounced back into the taut face of Admiral Cain. 

“Ah, Admiral Cain, sir,” started Hondo, his heart trying to stop up his throat even as he did his best to sound relaxed. “Right on time.” Cain’s expression grew darker.

“I’m early. So are you,” he bit out at him. 

“Sir,” nodded Hondo, “uh - has anyone offered you a coffee?” He kept his expression polite, his tone neutral, gripping his mouse to stop his hands from shaking. 

“Bring it down. Now.” 

Hondo stared at him for a second, trapped, then nodded. 

“Darkstar, Flight.”

“Go, Flight.”

“Darkstar, Admiral Cain is asking -”

“Ordering,” corrected Cain sharply. 

“- ordering us to bring her down.” 

There was a short silence, then a few garbled noises, some static, and some broken words. 

“- Mach - oh - alpha -” the comms fell silent again. Hondo could feel Cain’s gaze boring a hole in the back of his neck, and struggled to remember what it was that they had dealt with during the Mach 6 testing. 

“Uh, this is where we’ve had trouble with comms, sir, it’s called “earth bulge”.” They had fixed the earth bulge issue two months ago with a ground relay; he could see the radio engineer holding back a chuckle behind him. Cain’s face tightened, but he nodded. 

The Mach counter ticked up slowly; now Maverick was executing the procedure on his own, comms too slow for the scramjet acceleration. Mach 7. Mach 8. 

“Entering high hypersonic.” Simon’s voice came over the net. The air in the room seemed to be electrified, wall to wall, as they all stared, transfixed, at the data streaming in, the rendering of the Mach waves tightening around the sharp form. Mach 9.

”He’s the fastest man alive,” breathed Hondo, to himself more than anyone else; he felt Simon shift a little, saw him subtly pump his fist at the clean readouts at Mach 9.

Hondo didn’t dare look at Cain, but instead kept his eyes firmly fixed on the console, fiddling with his split screen to the test procedure. Step 7.1.1.4 simply read “Increase to Mach 10 from Mach 9.” There was a checkbox, grayed out on his console, only modifiable by the lead test engineer, who hovered her cursor over it, nervously staring at her console.

“Flight, Darkstar, we have a windshield hot caution.” A yellow light flared on the status board with Mav’s crackly hail. Hondo nodded, his heart in his throat. 

“Copy, Darkstar. Continue.”

The numbers flickered on the screen. Mach 9.7. Mach 9.8. 9.8. 9.8. 

9.9.

His eyes darted around the room. The engineers had spent months developing procedures, validating assumptions, simulating contingencies, and sleeping under their desks. Maybe it wouldn’t be his ass for starting the test, but as long as Maverick hit Mach 10, it wouldn’t be theirs either. He watched the Mach counter on the screen, not even daring to blink.

“ Mach TEN!”  

He was on his feet before he knew what had happened, the room full of yells and cheers, Jamie from Thermal pounding his back, Simon whooping next to him.

“Put that in your Pentagon budget!” 

The room froze for a second, but he kept his eyes firmly on the screen, feeling Cain’s gaze sweep the room even as he tried to suppress his grin.

Step 7.1.1.5 read “Maintain airspeed of Mach 10.0 +/-0.05 for 10 seconds.”

Step 7.1.1.6 read “Decrease airspeed to Mach 9.”

The screen flickered. 10.1.

“Ohhhh, don’t do it, ” hissed Hondo under his breath. 10.1 could be dealt with. 10.1 could be the instrumentation rounding up from 10.05. 10.1 could be explained away. But he’d known Pete too long to believe they’d get to 7.1.1.6 without a fight. 

10.2.

Hondo let out a breath and held the mic up.

“Darkstar, Flight. Mav, that’s it. You’re beyond the test point.” He glanced down at the lead test engineer, who nodded and unmuted her own headset.

“Flight, Test Lead, we need Darkstar to move to the next step in the procedure.”

“Test, Flight, copy, I hear ya.” He switched his mic back to the CAPCOM channel.

“Darkstar, Flight.” He waited a second for the “ go, Flight ”. It didn’t come.

10.3. Hondo felt his breath hitch.

“Darkstar, Flight, do you copy?”

A red light flared on the status board; the windshield hot caution had turned to an overheat warning.

“Flight, Thermal,” Hondo heard the hail over the net just after the hail in the room. 

“Go, Thermal,” he said tightly.

“Flight, we need to slow to Mach 9 and proceed to the “End Test” section. The windshield can’t take much more of this.”

“Copy, Thermal. Darkstar, Flight.”

No response.

“ Darkstar ,” said Hondo again, a little hoarse. 

10.4.

“Mav?”

Then the screen was flooded with red warnings, the EVR messages flowing onto his console went from green INFOs and yellow WARNING_LOs to a scary rush of orange WARNING_HIs, then a shuddering noise came over the comms -

Then the click of the comms cutting off.

“ Maverick ,” said Hondo stupidly. 

He was on his feet, though he couldn’t remember standing up. The telemetry wasn’t updating. He hadn’t received any more EVRs since the stale ones of ten seconds ago. The Mach counter had shut off. Darkstar was gone. 

Hondo sank back into his chair. Maverick was probably gone with it.

For a moment, he tried to picture it, whatever had happened, what it would look like. There was an ejection seat, but all the modeling of any kind of ejection in an ordinary hypersonic regime - let alone high hypersonic - had indicated an ejection wasn’t survivable, and the seat was pretty much just there in case something happened during takeoff or landing. 

No, there would be no ejecting. No escape. No way Mav was surviving this one.

He swallowed, hard, and looked numbly around the room. The lead test engineer, ever professional even with red eyes and a choked voice, had moved on to the contingency procedure. All telemetry was lost, so she was skipping most of the steps, guiding the flight ops staff through the last known coordinates and projected trajectories. Search and rescue would be dispatched, when they narrowed down the coordinates, but it was hollow; there was no one to rescue. At best, it would be recovery. 

Mav was gone, and without him, Hondo suddenly felt utterly useless. 

He felt Cain’s gaze on the back of his neck, boring into him. He turned around, the consoles melting into the background. Cain had his arms folded across his chest, his face unreadable, gazing at Hondo.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Coleman,” he said finally, his tone clipped.

“Sir?” Hondo failed to keep the surprise out of his tone. 

“As much as Mitchell has pissed me off in his career,” said Cain evenly, “he tends to inspire loyalty, at least in people not in his chain of command. You’ve worked with him a lot. I expect he’ll be missed around here.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The answer was flat, automatic. 

Cain ran a hand over his face. He suddenly looked very tired.

“I’m going to have to help find a new pilot for this test wing, now,” he grumbled under his breath. “Not to be insensitive, Coleman, but this happens. This is a risky job. It’s part of why this kind of program is on the way out. UAVs can do so much, we don’t need to risk good men and women as much as we used to.”

“He was a good man, sir,” answered Hondo, fighting very hard to keep his voice steady.

“He was,” agreed Cain grudgingly. “I know perfectly well why he launched today, Coleman, don’t think I don’t. But I’ve got tough decisions to make too, and it’s all a lot easier when people respect the chain of command.”

He made a clean about-face and strode back down the hall. Hondo let out a long, shaky breath as the reality started to sink in. Mav was gone . The Test Lead kept going, her breath hitching a little, her eyes moist. The room was subdued, the operators answering hails in low voices, moving mechanically through the contingency procedures. 

He picked up Cain’s untouched, cooling cup of coffee, and took a sip, trying to control his breathing. 

Mav was gone . 

It had been fifteen-odd years they’d worked together, off and on. Ten years since Iceman - the fucking Iceman - had called him into his office, and informed him that his new unofficial assignment was to watch Pete’s back. Two years that they’d been out in the desert testing the most absurd aircraft the engineers at Skunkworks could dream up. Two years since he’d had to carry Pete to an ambulance with appendicitis after he’d passed out and taken Sharon, the Chief Engineer, down with him. Five years since Mav had driven him three hours each way and refused payment for gas to his father’s funeral because his car’s clutch had chosen exactly that moment to melt to the gears. Since Mav had covered for him when traffic on the return trip had resulted in him nearly going AWOL.

His eyes burned suddenly, and he swiped a hand across his face, muttering an excuse to the other engineers as he made his way blindly to the men’s room and leaned against the wall. He stood, for a while, staring up at the ceiling, trying to fight past the knot in his throat and the burning in his eyes.

After a few minutes, or a few hours - he wasn’t quite sure - he was leaning over the sink in the bathroom, trying to gather himself well enough to get through the contingency procedures, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He hit the button through the pocket of his fatigues to decline the call. That was a secret line, the only phone he was allowed in the facility, and if it was ringing, it was one of the test personnel, or worse, Cain calling him back in. They could all wait a few minutes. He looked at himself in the mirror, then splashed some water on his face. After another incident, a lifetime ago it seemed, Pete had told him in no uncertain terms that he had to call his emergency contacts in a certain order - Ice first, then Bradley, and Ice would decide if it was worth pestering Bradley. He had to call Ice, at least. He owed Pete that much. Even if Cain had already got hold of him. 

He smoothed a hand over his face, and his phone buzzed again. He sighed, dried his hands and face, and went to answer, but the ringing stopped just as he was pushing open the bathroom door. 

Then he saw something odd. The missed call wasn’t a number from any of the mechanics, any of the test engineers, the comms office, Cain, or anyone else at the facility. It wasn’t even one of the blocked numbers that belonged to another secret secure line. It was a number he’d never seen before, with an area code somewhere in North Dakota. 

North Dakota? He didn’t know anyone from North Dakota except for one enlisted buddy from a few years back who definitely didn’t have the clearance to have this number and whom he hadn’t seen in years anyway. 

The number from North Dakota glowed suddenly on the screen again, and against his better judgment, Hondo picked up. 

“ Hondo? ” The voice that crackled over the staticky line was rough, ragged, exhausted, but unmistakable. 

Hondo dropped his phone. 

“- shit -” he fumbled to pick it up, trembling fingers holding it to his ear, then he realized he was holding it upside down, and fumbled it back around, his throat dry with shock and disbelief. 

“Mav? Mav? Is that you? Are you fucking shitting me?”

A hoarse chuckle came down the line. 

“Sorry, Hondo, you’re stuck with me,” Maverick answered, and Hondo felt the familiar mix of fondness and exasperation well up in him at the sound of his voice, even as his knees went weak with relief and he slid down against the wall to sit on the floor.

“You scared the shit outta me,” he hissed on the phone. “Not just me. Simon, Jamie, Mark, all the engineers are devastated, we thought you were gone. Even Cain was nice to me. He was nice to me, Mav, we thought you were fucking dead .” His voice shook a little. 

“I’m sorry, Hondo,” said Mav apologetically. “Really. I’m okay. Mostly. No one called Ice yet, did they?” 

“No. That’s my job, I was just working up the nerve.” 

“Eh, I’d have called him next if you didn’t pick up on the third -”

“And you better be sorry,” continued Hondo, steamrolling Maverick, because the relief was morphing into annoyance now. “We talked about this. Contract point was Mach ten , the procedure says plus or minus point-oh-five. I’d’ve forgiven ten point one, hell, the aero folks would've loved ten point one, but you just had to push it, didn’cha?”

“That’s what test pilots are for, Hondo,” answered Mav, and Hondo could hear the laughter in his voice. 

“You wrecked a billion dollar jet, Mav!” Hondo felt his voice go up, then he stopped. “At least, I assume it’s wrecked,” he added. “We lost all telem, all comms, we got nothing, Jamie’s pulling satellite data to see if we can pick it up -”

“Yeah, it’s wrecked,” cut in Maverick, finally sobering. “I got a bunch of civilians all around me, Hondo, we’ll save the explanations until we can have a secure debrief, 'kay?”

“Yeah,” swallowed Hondo, Maverick’s words bringing him back to the present. They had to recover whatever was left of Darkstar; pieces of it in the wild were a security risk. They had to get Mav back to the base - his goddamn suit contained classified tech, not to mention he would have to get checked out; Hondo had learned his lesson before about Mav claiming to be “mostly okay”. This, he knew how to do. 

“Okay,” he began, feeling some strength come back into his voice. “Mav, where exactly are you? We gotta recover you, not to mention as much of the hardware as we can get back, then we’ll figure out the debrief.”

“I’m in a small town, it looks like. Near a forest. I’m at a place called Cecil’s Cafe.” 

“Okay, Cecil’s Cafe in North Dakota…” Hondo put Mav on speaker, then started hunting for the cafe in Google Maps.

“I’m in North Dakota ?” 

“Yeah, that’s the area code you’re calling from, anyhow.”

“It’s a landline. The good folks running this establishment let me use their phone.” There was a beat, and a muffled thanks somewhere in the background. “And they’ve just offered me a cup of coffee. Hondo, we can get the Navy to cover that, can’t we?” There was a note of pleading in his voice. Hondo snorted.

“Take the coffee, Mav, I’ll take care of the reimbursement. How far are you from the wreckage?”

“Not far. My ESAT’s destroyed -” there was a long sipping noise “ - but I know I walked about two clicks pretty much straight south from where I went down to get here, so that should narrow the search area.”

“It does,” said Hondo, scrolling the map, “but damn, Mav, you couldn’t have crashed in a state with a Naval Air Station? You realize, being in North Dakota and all, that we gotta send the goddamn Air Force to pick you up and do debris recovery?”

There was a sigh down the end of the line, then a low, “ Fuck - oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am, I’ll watch my language - jeez, fine, Hondo, you do what you gotta do and I’ll deal with whatever Chair Force clowns you have to send.”

“You don’t have a choice,” muttered Hondo. “Sit tight there for a little while, okay?”

“I’m okay for a minute here.” There was a brief silence, then a swallow. “These nice folks have offered me a slice of pie, and it’s just about the best pie I’ve ever had.” 

“You wanna be extracted from there or not?”

“I’m considering it, Hondo, and you would understand if you tried this huckleberry pie.”

Hondo rolled his eyes. 

“Look, I got work to do to get you out of there and clean up the giant mess of top secret plane parts you scattered over half the state,” he said. “Charge the Navy for as much pie as you want, man, but if you don’t bring me a slice I will make sure the corpsman with the coldest hands on base checks you out. Stay where you are, we should get you an evac soon. I’ll give you a call back, if they let you near this phone again.”

“Thanks, Hondo. Really.” Pete sounded like he had his mouth full, but Hondo could hear the sincerity. 

“Stay. Put.” he answered firmly, and hung up. He ran a hand over his face again, but this time couldn’t stop the grin spreading over his face. That crazy son of a bitch had lived , Hondo wasn’t burying any more friends just yet, and Darkstar was still funded, even if they would have to rebuild the flight unit. He found he was completely unable to wipe the grin off his face as he strode back down the hall to the flight test operations center. 

It took nearly ten minutes for Jamie, the Test Lead, to recover herself, let go of Hondo, dry her eyes and start yelling at the equally emotional flight operators to get back on the net so they could start getting Pete back. Another twenty minutes before they got hold of exactly the right spot for satellite imagery to show the wreckage of the plane. Grand Forks AFB’s medevac transport was down for repairs, so they instead sent a chopper just to get Pete back to Grand Forks, with the agreement that he would be immediately transferred to a transport back to NAS China Lake. 

He ducked out of the room to call back the number from before. 

“Pete, it’s all good, I got in touch with Grand Forks AFB. Their medevac transport is down, but you don’t seem to be in immediate danger, so they’re sending a helo with an immediate relay from their base to NAS China Lake. You have about a half hour until they show up, and they’ll land in the field across the road. Finish your pie.”

“All good, Hondo, I went easy on the pie after that adrenaline crash. I saved you some, though.”

“Outstanding. Ask the waitstaff if they prefer a bank transfer or a check in the mail, and for fuck’s sake get a receipt this time. With a tip.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Hondo, that’s below your pay grade.”

“Damn straight it is, but I feel personally responsible for these folks babysitting you. I owe them.” 

“They said to tell you I’ve been well behaved.” 

“Doubt it,” snorted Hondo. “Put me on the phone with whoever’s there, and I’ll see you soon.”

“Sure thing.” There was a scuffling noise, then a female voice on the line. 

“Hello?”

“Hello, ma’am, this is Warrant Officer Coleman, U.S. Navy,” Hondo began. 

“Well, sir, I’m Liz Elsen, it’s very nice to meet you and thank you for your service.”

“Ms. Elsen, I cannot thank you enough for looking after my friend Pete there. I know this is an unusual situation, but ma’am, rest assured the Navy will pay the tab.”

“Oh, it’s my place, I meant for that to be on the house. He looked real lost.”

“That’s ever so kind of you, ma’am, but I think we owe the taxpayers our due diligence, and as government employees, we’re not allowed to accept gifts.”

“It’s just hospitality, sir,” she answered politely but firmly, and Hondo almost laughed. 

“Ma’am, in that case, consider it a thanks from me for keeping Pete out of trouble. Print him a receipt, and we’ll make sure you’re paid what we owe.” 

“Thank you, sir,” she said politely. “Really, it’s been my pleasure.”

“I’m glad to hear it, ma’am. Take care. We’ll have him out of there in about a half hour. You have a nice day now.”

“Bye,” she answered, and there was a click on the line. Hondo stared at his phone for a second, still grinning a little. The engineers had largely gotten through the contingency procedures already. Maverick was okay. All he had to do now was call Ice.

Chapter Text

Hondo stared at his phone for a minute, then took a deep breath and hit the contact labeled ADM Tom Kazansky . 

“Hello? Ice?”

“Hondo,” he heard Ice say, in a voice that was rougher and hoarser even than Mav’s had been. There was a sharp cough. “I’m sorry, I, uh, caught something, any chance we can do this -” there was a pause, and a long inhale “- over text?”

“Uh, yessir, are you okay?” 

“Don’t worry,” he heard Ice say, faintly, before there was an abrupt click. Hondo did not, however, have a lot of time to think about how cracked Ice’s voice sounded before his phone buzzed. 

New Message from ADM Tom Kazansky: 

I need to talk to you.

He pulled up his texts, took a deep breath and typed.

Sorry about this. We’ve had an -

He stopped for a second, thinking carefully, then continued. - incident during a test.

Bubbles. Then -

…

Ice: I know. I was just about to ping you.

Hondo: You know?

Ice: He called me 

…

More bubbles.

…

Ice: You sure he’s okay? 

Hondo: Conscious

Hondo: Talking

Hondo: Got coffee from a diner owner who let him use her phone

Ice: Thank fuck. He can be a charming bastard when he wants 

Ice: get him checked out

Hondo: Wilco. What do you want me to do about Cain?

Ice: Forget Cain. 

…

Hondo stared at the bubbles on the screen in confusion. Cain was still in the building. There was no getting Mav out of a debrief with him. Before he had long to think about this, though, there was another buzz.

...

Ice: You and Mav have new orders.

Hondo: New orders?

He fired off the message more quickly than he had meant, and hastily tried to make it sound more polite. 

Hondo:  …

Hondo: Sir?

Ice: Sorry, wish I had more warning

Ice: Have to yank you out of the test wing

Ice: Just a few weeks

Ice: We need Maverick. 

There were no more bubbles. Hondo waited for a second, looking at the curt message, then felt his thumbs cutting to the chase before his brain did.

Hondo: Where? For what?

Ice: TOPGUN. I needed to warn you.

There was a prickling at the back of his neck as he hurried to type a response.

Hondo: About what, sir?

Ice: We’re bringing in some of the best TOPGUN graduates for a critical mission. 

Hondo stared at the message, hoping vainly it didn’t mean what he thought it did; but if it didn’t, Ice wouldn’t feel the need to warn him. He steeled himself, and typed again.

Hondo: Bradshaw?

Ice: I knew I liked you

Ice: Yep. Mav needs to train him

Hondo: You couldn’t bail him out?

Ice: I insisted on Mav teaching this mission.

He felt his eyebrows climb his forehead, forcing himself to stay calm, trying his best to formulate his question in a way that didn’t sound accusatory.

Hondo: Respectfully, sir, are you sure this is a good idea?

Ice: Pete doesn’t accept losses. 

Hondo: This seems like a conflict of interest, Admiral.

Ice: I’ve seen the mission parameters. 

Ice: The mission fails, we’re all fucked. The instructor fails, the pilots are fucked. We need Maverick.

Hondo swallowed, hard, rereading the stark message a few times before he managed a response. 

Hondo: You’re in a tight spot.

Ice: I’m doing the best I can by my personnel

…

…

Hondo waited, looking at the bubbles that appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. 

…

Ice: If it forces those idiots to hash it out, so much the better.

Hondo: Thanks for the warning. Does Mav know?

Ice: Not yet. That wasn’t a secure line. Don’t tell him Bradshaw’s on this mission. Already getting him back at Top Gun is going to be rough for him. 

Ice: Plus, the air boss is a real hardass. 

Hondo: Are you sure it has to be him? TOPGUN churns out great pilots without him.

Ice: I know the air boss. Good man, shrewd strategist. Too shrewd. He can make tough decisions.

Hondo: Admirals have to.

Ice: I know. But I’ll be damned if I sacrifice Bradley.

Hondo: So you’re giving him Mav to get him home? 

Ice: Best I can do. 

Hondo: I trust you, sir.

Ice: I appreciate it, Hondo, but even if you didn’t, orders are orders. 

…

…

Ice: Good luck.

Hondo: Thank you, sir.

Hondo slid the phone back into his pocket with a sigh. Now this. He knew too well what kind of shit being back at Miramar could dredge up for Mav, and that was on top of throwing him together with Bradley. He was a Lieutenant now, he knew that much. But Hondo himself had never actually met him, not really, not beyond steering Pete away from an abrupt face-to-face run-in, years ago now. At least Maverick had been back to see his TOPGUN graduation; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all this time.

The next couple hours went by in a flurry of relaying phone calls with Grand Forks AFB, talking to the few personnel they had with high enough clearance to help recover what was left of the jet, and the occasional update on Pete’s return flight. Eventually, though, the tower at NAS China Lake informed the test wing that a chopper was being dispatched back to Skunkworks’ remote corner of the base set aside for Darkstar. 

Hondo strode out onto the tarmac, the gusts blowing dust into his face, squinting in the sun until he could see a small, singed figure climbing clumsily out of the helicopter in a heavy black pressure suit. Mav waved at him, a wry grin breaking through the soot and dirt covering his face, and Hondo yanked him roughly into a hug, still boggled that he had survived at all. 

“‘M’fine, Hondo,” grunted Pete into his shoulder. “Easy, I think I cracked a rib or two.”

“Why am I not surprised,” sighed Hondo, releasing him and clapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon. Cain’s asking for a debrief.”

“ Now ?” Mav groaned, and Hondo could hardly blame him; Cain had apparently also received a call from Ice’s office, and would probably be positively incensed at having to issue Mav’s new orders after debriefing him on a test flight that wasn’t supposed to be funded in the first place.

“Not like I can do anything about it,” shrugged Hondo. “You were flying and had an incident in a test. Admiral overseeing the contract’s calling your ass to the carpet.”

Mav nodded and sighed, fiddling with his helmet, then he glanced down into it.

“Oh, almost forgot,” he said, extracting a small, battered takeout box from the helmet under his arm. “Brought back some of the pie. Damn it was good.”

Hondo took the box with a laugh, cracking one of the flaps; the pie looked a little worse for wear, but he appreciated it all the same.

“You’re an idiot, Pete,” he commented fondly.

“Don’t I know it. I hope you’re not getting chewed out with me.” 

“One of the benefits of not being a motherfuckin’ lunatic is that usually I don’t get reamed out,” he answered, closing up the box again. “Explain to me how the actual fuck you’re still alive right now?”

“Eh,” said Pete, running a hand through his hair, “I got lucky. Windshield overheated past Mach ten, what with the plasma forming in the compression envelope. It expanded more than it should’ve, started to force some of the structure apart, but remember when they couldn’t pull the PICA heat shield material out of the cockpit structure when they nixed the ejection pod conops?”

Hondo nodded; the decision to scrap the ejection pod had taken weeks and reams of analyses indicating it was unlikely to work at best. 

“Yeah, well, they weren’t wrong, it’d be damn near impossible to make it eject cleanly from the structure, but they left the PICA in because they'd already built it into the airframe, so when she started to come apart and the plasma got in, it didn’t burn straight through the cockpit, probably saved my life. Engines failed pretty quick, I pulled up a little just before I lost the aero controls, and glided a ways on what was left of the wings until I figured we were going slow enough that I could use the ejection seat they built in for anything on the tarmac. It kinda worked,” he raised a gloved hand to swipe over his forehead, leaving a streak of something black, “not that shit wasn’t already overheating and smoking in the cockpit. Seat caught fire, too. Came down right near what was left of it.”

They had arrived back at the main building, now, and Hondo swiped his badge and pushed open the doors to the facility. Mav walked through with a muttered word of thanks, then Hondo heard a muffled “oof”. He looked over; what looked like most of the flight test operators, at least half the hypersonics team and the Chief Engineer Sharon Bell had slammed Maverick into a many-armed group hug, and he let out a small chuckle. 

“‘M’okay, guys,” he heard Pete say from within the cluster, and they started to let go, Sharon wiping her eyes as she extricated herself from Simon. 

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” she said, her voice regaining some of her usual crispness, but she didn’t look angry. Mav smiled wryly at her and shrugged. 

“You all put in too much work. Didn’t want to see you get laid off before you could see it through.”

There were appreciative murmurs through the group, and Simon muttered quietly, “Thanks, Pete.” Pete nodded at him, the corner of his mouth twitching, then looked down, his expression a little embarrassed, and Hondo cleared his throat. 

“Sorry to break up the party, folks,” he grunted, “but if Pete’s still with us, Cain needs to talk to him.”

The mood sobered almost instantly; Hondo steered Pete by the shoulder down the hall.

“It’s not a firing squad, Hondo, well, not a real one, I’ll get there,” he heard Pete grumble, and Hondo let out a dark snort. 

“I don’t think you’re getting discharged,” he answered, pointing him towards a door, and realized his mistake when he saw Pete raise an eyebrow. 

“What makes you say that?”

“Nothing,” he said hastily, “just - you didn’t technically disobey any orders.” 

Pete gave him a curt nod, his expression still suspicious, then stepped through the door. 

Hondo waited, uncertainly, leaned up against the wall; he couldn’t hear anything. It didn’t take long, however, before the door banged open again with perhaps slightly more force than was strictly necessary. 

“Mav?”

Mav shut the door behind him, then slumped wearily against the wall next to Hondo.

“You already knew I was getting ordered back to TOPGUN?”

Hondo nodded resignedly. 

“Ice told me.”

Pete let out a dark snort, not looking at him. 

“Cain did say something about my guardian angel having impeccable timing,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You know what for? Why the fuck do they need me? ”

Hondo swallowed guiltily. It wasn’t for him to tell Pete, but knowing that didn’t make it easier. 

“No clue,” he said, hoping his voice sounded neutral, “Ice said I’m going with you, though.” In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what pretext Ice had for sending him, too, but if flight testing on Darkstar was going to be delayed anyway, there was probably something he could do on base in San Diego. 

Pete blew out his cheeks. “That’s something, I guess.” He tipped his head exhaustedly towards Hondo. “We can go swing by Ice and Sarah’s. Won’t be too bad.”

Something tightened in Hondo’s chest, but he nodded anyway, hoping Pete didn’t notice that he didn’t quite meet his eye.

Chapter Text

The Milpers email containing his orders had been brief. He was to assist with the analyses of the mission parameters based on previous flight test data. No other details. Given Ice’s abrupt explanation, he rather suspected that the specifics of his orders were a cover at best, that he was there primarily to watch Pete’s back. Still, this did not apparently grant him an invitation to the meeting the TOPGUN air boss had scheduled with Pete, and they parted ways in near-silence outside a drab-looking conference room as Hondo continued down to the engineering offices. 

Trying not to think too much about what Ice had said about the air boss, he finally reached door 114 and knocked uncertainly.

“Uh, hi, excuse me -“

“Hondo?” The door had flown open to reveal Jordan, one of the test engineers he had worked with on the F-35, a few grays showing in his hair. 

“Jordan, hey, what’re you doing here?” Jordan had taken his hand and pulled him into a brief hug, slapping his back.

“Got out a couple years ago,” shrugged Jordan, “then I got the Navy to pay me more to do basically the same job. Civilian contractor now.”

“Wow, look at you, man,” chuckled Hondo with a nod, glancing up and down at his clothes, “Uncle Sam finally cut you loose.”

“Eh, not totally,” said Jordan with a wry gesture around the office. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the other engineers. It’s a weird mission profile, we gotta pull test data and run some new analyses.”

They sidled into the room as Jordan made a few introductions around the cluster of test engineers, some in khakis, some civilians, then Jordan flung himself into a seat and re-connected his laptop to the projector. 

“We got a few options here, but it’ll probably be the F-35 or the F/A-18,” said Jordan, pulling up a 3D rendering of what looked like a mountain range, “and either way, it’ll be completely nuts - the target’s right at the bottom of this valley, crazy steep.”

He zoomed in on the angle, and Hondo cocked his head to the side at the X drawn at the bottom of what looked like an unusually steep ravine. 

“Kind of a shame we’re not doing this twenty years ago,” muttered a woman in the back, “the Tomcat could pull ridiculous Gs.”
“Yeah, and knock out the pilots who pulled too hard,” cut in Jordan. “Besides, what’re they going to do, hug the sides of the valley?” 

“They might have to.” The woman in the back had produced a laser pointer and was pointing at a smaller X on the rendering, up near the cliff. “Aren’t those SAMs?”

“That’s too low for any of the contingency procedures,” answered Jordan, “not enough altitude for the required margins -” he zoomed in on a cross-section of the valley “- they’d have to fly at a hundred, two hundred feet to avoid the SAMs, then they gotta pull hard turns, makes more sense not to come in too hot and just use chaff to evade.”

“Will they have enough flares to get through ‘em all?” She had cocked an eyebrow.

“Will the airframe stand up to the alternative?” countered Jamie. “We’re looking at -” he toggled the view and pulled up a cutaway of the valley. “Angle that steep, gotta be at least eight Gs if they’re trying to come in low from the trench.”

“Airframe’ll do it.” Hondo heard himself say the words before he had really thought them, his eyes glued to the trajectory Jordan had sketched across the screen. He felt the others in the room shift to look at him. 

“It’ll do it,” he repeated. Jordan cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You sure?”

Hondo nodded, his throat dry. “The F/A-18’ll do it, at least.”

“It’s only qualified to seven and a half Gs,” said the woman doubtfully, shifting in her seat, and now Hondo could see her nametag reading CDR BARROSO as she flipped through a PDF on her laptop. “It’s right in the NATOPS, look -”

He cut her off. “Commander Barroso - ma’am - you got access to the USNTPS database?” 

Hondo hadn’t meant to interrupt, exactly, but she handed over the laptop with a raised eyebrow. He muttered a word of thanks, fumbling a little as he pulled up a new window, hoping the test data was still accessible. 

“Hondo worked on the Hornets before the F-35,” he heard Jordan say somewhere over his shoulder, but he kept his eyes on the screen, reformatting the search query until he saw the test run come up. 

2006-11-08 F/A-18 BLOCK III AESA RADAR SWEEP UNDER VERTICAL CLIMB ROBUSTNESS: RUN FOR RECORD

“Here,” he said, turning the screen of the laptop out, “this was early Block III, they haven’t really changed the airframe since then. Bent part of the fore fuselage a hair, but it made it.”

“Who the fuck got permission to redline the test up to ten - ” Jordan’s eyes widened, and he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Jeez, I should’ve known it was Maverick.”

“Hold on -” Barroso had pulled her laptop back. “They scheduled a test up to nine Gs and redlined it to ten?”

“If the jet can do something, sooner or later someone’ll make it do that, even if they’re not supposed to,” said Hondo, and Jordan snorted darkly next to him. 

“Careful, Hondo, you’re starting to sound like Mav. We used to work with Captain Mitchell, testing the F-35,” he explained to the room, “goes by Maverick , and that dude was an absolute whackjob . Hell of a test pilot, though, I’m not exactly surprised it’s his name on this test.” He jabbed a finger at the laptop. “Airboss won’t like it, though, he’s pretty by-the-book, and how do you even train for that if it bends part of the frame?”

Hondo shrugged, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Guess that’s why Admiral Kazansky ordered Mav back here to run the training.”

“You gotta be shitting me.” Jordan’s eyes had gone wide; a few heads had turned their way around the room.

“Nope,” answered Hondo, a little more heavily than he had intended. 

“I can’t believe he’s still flying, jeez,” muttered Jordan, running a hand over his face again. “Someone in the brass’s gotta be worried if they’re throwing him at it.”

“Did we not just discuss that they might have to push the aircraft beyond its design point?” Barroso interrupted, gesturing again at the cutaway of the valley. “Whackjob or not, guess it makes sense to pull someone they know can actually do it.”

Hondo nodded, trying not to think about the horrible moment Mav had gone silent on the comms during that test. Jordan ran a hand over his face again, through his hair. 

“Oh, well, not our business to make the training plan, just to make recommendations,” Jordan said tiredly, to nods around the room, “guess we can say the F/A-18’ll do it, just not totally unscathed.”

Barroso glanced up at the screen again. 

“Been a while since I’ve flown combat,” she said, “but it’ll be edge of the envelope pretty much no matter what, they can’t be expecting everyone to come back from this.”

Hondo felt a chill run up his spine. He swallowed hard, wondering when, exactly, Pete was going to be informed who else had been called back. 

He had no way of finding this out, however; they stayed in the room most of the afternoon. After they had narrowed to the F/A-18 based on the GPS jamming - Hondo internally relieved not to have to listen to Mav’s complaints about the F-35 - it was a tedious time, picking apart possible mission profiles and digging up flight testing under similar conditions. Hondo’s back was stiff by the time they had divided up the possible failure modes between them and were filtering out of the room. He was still running over some of the old data in his head when he walked past a door and nearly collided with someone coming out of it. 

“Pete?”

“Oh, it’s you,” grunted Pete, looking up at him, his eyebrows drawn together, and Hondo flinched a little at the look on his face, but tried to stay calm. 

“Yeah, I ran into Jordan - he’s working here now -”

“Good,” said Pete absently, running a hand over his face, then looking sharply back up at Hondo. “Ice tell you Bradley was going to be here too?”

His eyebrows had drawn together still further. Hondo swallowed, and reluctantly nodded. Pete’s expression hardened a little. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from Hondo’s eye for a long second, then nodded slowly, turning to start down the hall. 

“Mav - Pete -” Hondo started after him, Pete walking unusually quickly. “Look, he asked me not to say -”

“‘Course he did,” grunted Pete tersely, looking determinedly forward. 

“Pete, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t -”

“‘Course you couldn’t,” came the answer, Pete still not looking at him. Hondo felt heat creeping up under his collar, speeding up to keep pace with him. 

“Look -” it came out louder than he had intended, and Pete snapped his head around to look at him, his eyebrows still pulled sharply together. 

“You weren’t gonna disobey the Fleet Commander , Hondo, I know that,” he said, striding back out through the lobby over the NAVAL AIR FORCE insignia on the floor. “I just gotta -” he let out a long sigh, leaning against the door for a second “- get outta here, clear my head.”

“You want to get a beer?”

“No, thanks, I’m going for a ride,” he heard Pete mutter, fumbling in his pocket for the keys, and Hondo recognized the dismissal in his tone. He nodded as Pete waved a hand at him over his shoulder, found his own keys in his pocket and made his way over to his car, hoping the dust would settle before the training had to start. 

He jerked awake; he had fallen asleep on the thin couch in his temporary housing. The Cowboys game on the screen was long over, the announcers discussing replays. He looked around for a second, half-dazed, looking down at his watch; it was only 2215, and he wondered for a second what had woken him up before there was a sharp rapping at the door. He got up, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, and opened it. 

“Hondo.”

“Mav,” he muttered, blinking at him, “what the hell -”

“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” said Pete, shoving his hands in his pockets, “but I was pissy earlier and you didn’t need that, I’m sorry, I just -”

“Didn’t have to come out here to tell me that,” said Hondo, peering at him; Pete somehow looked even worse than he had earlier, paler, the worry lines on his forehead deepened, the corners of his mouth tight. 

“I didn’t,” he answered, pulling a heavy book from under his arm with a slight wince and holding it out. “Here’s your F/A-18 maintenance manual. You said you wanted it back if you had to work on the Hornets again.”

“You’re - you decided on the F/A-18, then, not the F-35?” said Hondo, taking the book, still looking at his face. Pete shrugged. 

“Not a mission I’d wanna fly in the F-35, even if I liked the thing.” He made a gesture at the manual. “Made a few notes cross-referencing the NATOPS, but they’re in pencil, you can erase ‘em. I, uh, can’t let you have my NATOPS, though, I need that. Just for tomorrow, though.”

“What, you gonna memorize it tomorrow?”

“Nah, already got it up here,” said Mav, the ghost of a grin flitting across his face as he tapped his head. “Just an idea, see if I can get through to ‘em.” The grin faded, and Hondo felt his eyebrows go up a little; with the deepened worry lines, Pete looked scared . Hondo wasn’t sure he’d seen Mav look scared before. 

“Try not to get fired on your first day, Mav,” he said, trying to sound humorous, but a note of concern came through even to his own ears. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, Hondo,” he answered, stifling a yawn, “I’m not the one flying into a war zone next month.” And with that, he ran a hand over his face, looking as tired as Hondo felt, mounted his bike with an oddly stiff movement and pulled away before Hondo could say anything else.

Chapter Text

“Got the data together from the test flights,” said Hondo, tapping the laptop and the book under his arm as Jordan emerged from his office, “Commander Barroso’s right about the F/A-18 specs, but I managed to get hold of some of the original airframe stress modeling, too.”

“Great,” said Jordan with a grin, “get it in the SharePoint with the rest and I think that’s all we’ll need for this mission.”

“That’s it?”  

“Yeah, probably,” answered Jordan, falling into step beside him in the hallway, “the analyses can only get so far, we got data on how the jet’ll handle pretty much all the mission parameters. Putting ‘em all together will just have to be proven out in flight.”

Hondo nodded absently; it made sense, and Jordan had, after all, been a test engineer on the F/A-18s a lot longer than he had, but it left him feeling oddly out of place. His orders had only said to support the mission analyses. Nothing else.

“I’ll swing by, say hi to Mav, but I can’t stick around,” added Jordan, glancing sideways. “You going back out to China Lake, then?”

Hondo made a noncommittal noise, and Jordan chuckled. 

“It’s okay, Hondo, I did hear they’re testing some crazy dark stuff over at China Lake, you probably can’t talk about it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, seizing on the excuse, “had to get extra clearances and everything.”

“Sounds about right,” nodded Jordan, then added, “hey, Captain - Maverick - good to see you!” 

Three men had walked out into the hall - Mav, already in the old green flight suit he had used before Darkstar, and two others in khakis, stars glinting on their lapels. Hondo reflexively snapped his heels together and threw a respectful salute, which they returned unsmilingly. It felt odd, really, seeing Pete salute him back, but the moment passed as quickly as it had come, Jordan extending a hand with a grin. Mav’s face looked grim, the corners of his mouth tight, but he managed a smile, shaking Jordan’s hand. 

“Admirals, Jordan here used to work with me and Hondo qualifying the F-35 for the Navy a while back. Guess you got out now, huh?”

“Yeah, civilian contractor now, I’m not a lifer like you, Cap.” 

Mav waved an airy hand with the ghost of a grin. “No titles, Jordan, I’m not your CO anymore. Everything good?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s been pretty good. And hey, if you’re not my CO, you wanna settle a bet about some rumor we heard outta Edwards AFB a few years ago? Something about an Air Force General from USSPACECOM?” 

“Uh,” said Mav, with a slightly uncomfortable grin at Hondo, “how ‘bout we discuss that off base sometime?”

In spite of the glances that the other two men in khakis were exchanging, Hondo felt himself suppress a chuckle; Jordan grinned in response. 

“Sure, another time,” he answered, and Hondo watched as Pete’s shoulders relaxed slightly and he smiled back at Jordan. 

“Sounds good, shoot me a text or something.” 

Hondo cocked an eyebrow at Pete; he shook his head at him very slightly, still looking warily at the two others. 

“Excuse me -“ one of them dipped his head to look at Hondo’s name tag “- Warrant Officer Coleman. Admiral Kazansky said you were joining us to support some of the mission analyses?”

His brow was furrowed, and the look he was giving him seemed almost accusatory. Hondo opened his mouth, but Jordan cut in.

“Seriously, Kazansky sent you?” He turned back to the admirals. “Yeah, we’re about done, though. Hondo pulled out some data from a crazy high-G flight test Mav flew a while back, and between the other folks we covered pretty much all we could about the mission parameters.”

“So you’re done now.” The taller of the two Admirals was looking down at Hondo; he swallowed, glancing at the name tag. 

“Almost, Admiral Simpson.” 

“Then what are you doing?”

“I -“ Hondo stopped; Pete had glanced at him, briefly, out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not sure, sir, no new orders yet.”

Simpson gave him a long, appraising sort of look; the other Admiral cut in, his voice deeper, slower. 

“I’m Admiral Bates,” he said politely, “and we arranged the training so you all had time to finish the mission analyses. It’s just dogfighting today,” and now he tipped his head towards Maverick, the corners of his mouth quirking. “I’m sure we’ll find something else for you to do.”

Hondo nodded, a little doubtfully; to his relief, Pete cut in. 

“We’ll find you a SCIF if we have to, maybe get some work done on our, uh, other project.”

“For the moment, though, Coleman, stick around for some of the training. We’ll take extra manpower if we can have it.” Bates’ tone was friendly, but Hondo watched as he glanced sideways between Pete and Simpson, then back at him. He swallowed, and nodded. 

“Yessir.”

“Great. You can go listen in on training ops in ATC.” He nodded at Jordan. “Nice to meet you, but we have to go.”

“We’re late, Mitchell,” added Simpson, looking at his watch and turning to beckon them down the hall. Hondo looked between them, uncertain if he was being invited to follow, then his eyes fell back on Pete, who was anxiously worrying the corner of his old, worn F/A-18 NATOPS under his arm with his free hand. Pete turned to follow Simpson, a little stiffly, and Hondo remembered, suddenly, that Bradley didn’t know yet who had been assigned as instructor. He swallowed hard, shot what he hoped was a reassuring look at Pete, then followed them down the hall. 

“...one of the finest pilots this program has ever produced. His exploits are legendary. I give you Captain Pete Mitchell, callsign ‘Maverick’.” 

Bates’ deep voice rang through the makeshift outdoor classroom, and Hondo saw Pete straighten up, square his shoulders, and stride down the aisle between the desks; he watched the tall profile he recognized as Bradley’s with some trepidation, but he barely seemed to react as Pete walked past. 

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, and though Hondo was still looking at Bradley, some movement caught his eye among the other flight suits; three of the other aviators were covering their eyes in embarrassment, slumping down in their seats to avoid Maverick’s gaze, and Hondo glanced at them in confusion before Mav started talking. 

“The F/A-18 NATOPS,” he began, and he ran a hand fondly over the cover of the book, “tells you everything you need to know about your aircraft. I’m expecting you to know this book inside and out.”  

There were a few “yessir”s and “damn straight”s through the classroom; Bradley remained silent, but Mav seemed to be determinedly looking away from him. To his surprise, Hondo saw a grin spark across his face, then he dropped the book into a trash can next to the podium with an abrupt thunk. “So does your enemy.” 

The class jumped. Hondo struggled to suppress a chuckle; Bates caught his eye, a darkly humorous look on his face, and Hondo muttered, “And we’re off,” prompting a small snort from Bates in turn. 

Despite the stern look Simpson shot the two of them in response, and the continued stony expression on Bradley’s face, Hondo felt himself relax a little as Maverick explained the exercises of the day with obvious enthusiasm, and his improved mood persisted even as the class went to pre-flight, leaving him to find his way to the Air Traffic Control tower and find a desk space to listen in. 

He had already posted some of the analysis work to the shared drive by the time the first team of two Hornets was airborne, their voices crackling over the comms. 

“What do you say we put some skin in the game?”

Mav’s voice sounded deliberately casual.
“What did you have in mind?”

“First one to get shot down has to do two hundred pushups,” came the same voice, still cheerful. 

“That’s a lot of pushups,” said Mav evenly, but Hondo could hear a smirk in his tone. 

“Well, they don’t call it an exercise for nothing, sir,” came another voice, joking. Neither of them sounded like Bradley; Hondo wondered, privately, what exactly was going to happen when they were both up in the air, but for now, at least, Mav sounded confident.

“You got yourselves a deal, gentlemen,” he answered. “Hondo, I know you’re listening in, you wanna run a pushup drill later?”

Hondo snorted aloud; one of the ATCs turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised, just as Mav added “Forgot you can’t talk on comms, Hondo, but aviators, you’ll be seeing him later. Fight’s on now, let’s turn and burn -”

It was a good thing, Hondo reflected, that he didn’t have that much more to do that day, because despite the tension that had been building since they had arrived, listening in on the comms was - oh, hell, it was fun. Even when Rooster had appeared and gotten himself shot down in place of the first two voices - Payback and Fanboy - Maverick’s tone had barely changed over the comms, and Hondo had counted off his two hundred pushups on the tarmac without incident. Maybe things wouldn’t be that awkward. Maybe they could be professional about it. 

In fact, he was starting to relax a little, still chuckling to himself about the two cocky aviators who had taken a selfie with Rooster coming back shamefaced for their own pushups, when he settled back into his seat in ATC. He slid on the headset, then something prickled up the back of his neck. The tone of the comms chatter had cooled noticeably; an aviator called Hangman had hailed Rooster and gone straight for the elephant in the room.

“What’s the deal with you and Maverick? Seems like he’s got you a little rattled.”

Hondo strained his ears, barely able to hear a sullen mutter of “none of your business.” 

He waited, listening keenly for a few seconds as they swapped a couple more barbs, wondering just what the hell Maverick was doing if he wasn’t actually engaging them, then -

“Where is he, anyway?”

“Been here the whole time.” There was a slight edge to Mav’s voice, but he still sounded calm, a hint of humor still in his tone as Hangman breathed “what the fuck ” to no one in particular. 

“See me now?”

Hondo couldn’t, but presumably Mav had made some kind of startling appearance to throw them off. 

“Come on, let’s get it over with -“

“Fight’s on!” Rooster’s suddenly angry tone cut off Mav’s cool one, and then Hondo couldn’t tell what was going on, but it sounded like they had both plunged towards the earth, Hangman cursing into his mic.

“Okay, you put us here, now how are you gonna get yourself out? How low do you wanna go?”

Hondo had barely a second to marvel that Maverick was still, somehow, managing to sound like an instructor, when - 

“I can go as low as you, sir, and that’s saying something!”

Hondo flinched, bodily; several others in ATC exchanged glances. That was flat-out insubordination, over the comms no less.

“Hard deck is five thousand feet, fellas, you are running out of room!”

Hangman had chipped back into the conversation, but seemed almost as much of a spectator as Hondo was; Hondo got up, trying to see out the windows to the range, but they were too far. He glanced around for a set of extra binoculars, then saw a tall figure grabbing the last ones. Admiral Simpson was peering out at a couple of tiny specks on the horizon, his expression furious, even as Hondo heard Mav say “That’s it, kid, now come get me -“

Hangman chimed in again. “Rooster, drop down and take the shot!” 

“It’s too dangerous -“

“Too late, had your chance -“

Hondo could no longer even see the specks he had thought were the three jets, but the unmistakable sound of a missile lock tone sounded over the comms, and Maverick, breathing a little heavily, said coolly, “Go see Hondo about your pushups.” 

Apart from a muttered “same old Rooster” from Hangman - and that kid had a mouth on him, Hondo thought privately - the comms fell silent apart from a few clipped words to ATC about their return. Hondo took off his headset; Simpson had already left the room with long strides, his jaw set. He glanced around at the slightly stunned faces of the air traffic controllers, then walked back out into the late afternoon sunlight, shucking off the top of his fatigues and letting the breeze run through his t-shirt.

He spotted Mav climbing carefully out of his jet, but not before Simpson was striding towards him. Mav followed him inside, worrying at the straps of helmet, and Hondo’s eyes landed on Rooster. His expression looked like mingled anger and regret, but he set his jaw as he met Hondo’s eye. 

“Guess we’re doing this again,” he muttered, his helmet under his arm, and Hondo nodded as Rooster ran a hand through his sweaty hair and assumed the push-up position, this time not bothering to undo the top of his flight suit, staring stubbornly down at the tarmac.

Hondo started counting, watching Bradley lower himself onto the tarmac over and over, but it left a strange taste in his mouth; it was nothing like it had been earlier, all joking banter and slightly-humbled aviators. This time, it was just Bradley, and Hondo could hear him gritting his teeth, even as his knee stumbled and he half-fell out of position.

“That’s enough - Rooster, that’s enough.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop himself, and Bradley hesitated a little, then sat heavily back on his haunches, breathing hard, the anger leaking out of his face, leaving behind what looked like hurt. He looked at Hondo for a second, his eyes narrowing a little, and for a moment, Hondo wondered if he recognized him, but then he nodded and muttered a low “thanks”. Hondo nodded in turn, then left, just as another aviator came striding angrily in their direction, and with a shock Hondo realized that it was the same woman who had been on the Nimitz with Bradley, years ago. There was a patch on her flight suit reading “Phoenix”, and a sharp expression on her face.

“You got some explaining to do,” she started, just as she passed Hondo, and he slowed his walk slightly, just enough to hear her add “Breaking the hard deck? Insubordination? What the hell, Bradshaw?”

Hondo kept moving, too far out of earshot to hear a reply. The earlier jovial mood had been shattered. Even the few flight suits still milling around the ready room had gone quiet. 

He had made his way back to the tower to pick up his things. The sun was lower now, the range was clear, and the base was starting to empty out. There was nothing else scheduled for the day. He took one last look out of the windows at the empty desert, then started back, wondering exactly how far this could go before Simpson’s patience ran out. Then a door banged open, and Bates and Maverick emerged from it, stony-faced, as Bates said angrily, “You could learn a thing or two about timing, Captain.”

Pete nodded stiffly, not looking at Bates, who turned a corner abruptly and disappeared. Pete watched after him for a second, then looked at Hondo, a little paler than normal.

“Are you -“

“Hold on,” interrupted Pete, holding up a hand, beads of sweat appearing on his face despite the air conditioning, and before Hondo could ask, he had dived sideways into a men’s room. There was a rough, wet coughing noise, and Hondo felt his feet follow him inside, his breath tightening a little.

“Jesus fuck ,” he blurted, seeing a pair of boots under the stall door and quickly wetting a paper towel. “That bad?”

“You were listening on comms,” grunted Pete, taking the paper towel and wiping his face. “Not one of my better adrenaline crashes.” 

“Sounds like it was damn near an actual crash.”

Pete didn’t answer. Hondo wordlessly handed him his own water bottle. Pete took it, rinsed his mouth, and handed it back in equal silence. 

“You gonna stay in the Navy long enough to finish training ‘em?”

“ Yes ,” he answered, his eyes suddenly bright, “I can’t not, Hondo, you know what this mission looks like, and they have to come home.”

Hondo gave him a scrutinizing look; “they”, he presumed, meant Bradley, but he wasn’t about to push him on that, not now. 

“‘Kay,” he said, still a little doubtful, straightening up and extending a hand to help Pete up. “‘Cause Ice’ll have my ass if anything happens to -“ he broke off; Pete had gotten halfway to his feet, then stopped, his face screwed up in pain. “Shit, man, you okay?”

“ Fuck - yeah, I think so -“ Pete straightened up slowly, wincing. “Don’t puke with broken ribs, Hondo, it’s bad.”

“What the - you said they were only cracked , and you swore you got checked out - who the fuck cleared you to fly -“

Mav held up a hand as if to stop him. 

“I did get checked out, don’t worry, Ice practically threatened me. Went to an off-base urgent care, no one can ground me there, and they were just cracked, nothin’ I can’t push through. Except I got thrown out of the bar last night. Literally. Think it knocked ‘em out of place.”

“You - what?” Hondo’s head was spinning. “But you were sober last night - aw, hell, I don’t care, you shouldn’t be fucking flying -“

Mav let out a long sigh, going over to wash his hands. “Yeah, I was sober. Turns out Penny bought that Navy bar by the beach. I got suckered into buying a round because the kids kept showing up and I was trying to - to see what they were like, and talk to her at the same time. Bad idea. She got three of ‘em to throw me overboard when my card got declined.”

“ That’s why some of them looked like they wanted to die when you showed up,” muttered Hondo, with a small chuckle in spite of himself. The corner of Pete’s mouth twitched.

“Yep. Think we’re even, though, since the pushups. Sorry I asked you to do that, by the way, that’s below your pay grade -“

Hondo waved this away impatiently. “Not a problem. Explain to me how you’re pulling combat maneuvers with broken ribs?”

“Taped ‘em,” Mav answered resignedly, sliding the zipper of his flight suit down and pulling up the hem of his t-shirt; Hondo sucked in an involuntary breath at the mottled bruises covering his torso, with strips of heavy black physio tape across his ribs. 

“ Christ, Mav, you really shouldn’t -“

“Not for you to say if I shouldn’t fly,” cut in Pete abruptly, his face tight, then he blew out his cheeks and looked down as Hondo flinched a little. “Ah, dammit, I’m sorry, Hondo, you don’t need me taking my shit out on you.”

Hondo looked down at him a second, watching Pete pinch the bridge of his nose, the heat receding from his face.

“No, I don’t.”

Hondo saw his throat click in a swallow.

“Doesn’t make any difference, I gotta fly anyway.” The sentence sounded so familiar that Hondo almost chuckled. 

“Okay, I’ll cut ya some slack because you’ve had a shitty day.”

“Nah, it’s been pretty successful, I’d say,” countered Maverick, a grin flitting across his face, and Hondo felt his brows climb up his forehead.

“No, really,” he said, looking at Hondo’s expression, “I’d hoped that Bradley - well, I hoped a lot of things -“ a muscle in his jaw jumped “- but we know what we’re working with now, in terms of those aviators. Got ‘em convinced this mission is serious, that they still have something to learn. Got to see how they work together in different teams. We can get started on training for the mission now.”

“If you say so,” said Hondo, watching as Mav pulled a chapstick-sized tube of ibuprofen out of a pocket, emptied the entire contents into his hand and swallowed them with a handful of water out of the sink. 

“Eh, I don’t know if Cyclone - Simpson - and I are exactly aligned on our priorities, but he practically worships Ice, so I got a little goodwill in the bank here.”

A small shot of relief went through Hondo’s chest, but not enough to stop him cocking an eyebrow at the now-empty pill tube Mav was shoving in his pocket. 

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s practically a nutrient. You know, Vitamin I.”

Hondo rolled his eyes and started towards the door. “If it works. And at least you got decent tape, where’d you get that?”

“I didn’t get checked out at base medical. Didn’t say I didn’t go there at all. I got a couple corpsmen I know.”

“Exactly how many ghosts from your past are showing up on this mission, Mav?”

Hondo was looking sideways at him as they made their way down the hall.

“More’n you think, Warlock - Bates - he was my CO a while back. Oh, that reminds me,” he muttered, feeling in his pockets, “I still owe Penny.”

“After she threw you out?” Hondo looked incredulously at him. “Come on, it didn’t sound good the last time.”

“I pay my debts, Hondo,” said Pete firmly, “and, well, it’s been good to see her.” He caught Hondo’s eye, and in spite of the tension in Hondo’s chest that had not lessened in the slightest, he couldn’t suppress a chuckle at Pete’s expression. 

“Sure, Mav, have fun.” At the mention of Penny’s bar, something occurred to him. “By the way, were you actually planning on doing two hundred push-ups like that ?” He gestured in the vague direction of Pete’s ribs; he was still moving stiffly.

“I was planning on not getting shot down.”

Chapter Text

New Message from ADM Tom Kazansky :

Been getting some angry emails from Cyclone

Hondo unlocked his phone with some trepidation, just as there was another buzz. 

Ice: About Maverick

Ice: And you

Hondo’s heart leapt into his throat, but just as he started to text back, more bubbles appeared. 

…

Ice: At least he trusted me when I said it was better to have you there

Hondo: I’m trying, sir

He looked at his own message for a second. In truth, he wasn’t exactly sure he was accomplishing much. He had done the analyses, counted off pushups, and peeled Pete off the bathroom floor; but even if Pete was heeding his words of caution, it wasn’t as if Rooster was. 

Ice: I know. Knew this would be hard

Hondo: So did I

Ice: Never thought he’d stay this mad this long

Hondo: It’s where we are, sir

Hondo: Mav’s been professional at least

Ice: Except for the hard deck

Hondo: I was on comms. Rooster went after him first

Hondo: And he did submit a request to lower the hard deck

Ice: And took the fall for the incident, the way Cyclone tells it

Hondo sighed, and swallowed. 

Hondo: Rooster was openly insubordinate over comms, sir

Ice: Maybe Mav should let that be his problem

Ice: Stubborn bastard won’t let go

Hondo: Which one, sir?

Ice: …

Hondo looked at the bubbles for a second, wondering if that was out of line, then -

Ice: good one

Hondo let out a sigh of relief. More bubbles appeared on the screen. 

Ice: …

Ice: I don’t expect miracles, but if you can remind him to focus on the mission, I’d appreciate it.

Hondo: Done. 

Ice: Thanks. He does listen to you

Hondo: Respectfully, sir, maybe you should talk to him too

Ice: I know I need to. He’s not best pleased I put him there 

Hondo: That’s putting it mildly. 

Ice: TFB

Ice: didn’t have much of a choice, and I’m running out of time here

Hondo: What do you mean?

Hondo: Sir?

Ice: …

The bubbles appeared, disappeared, reappeared, then disappeared again. Hondo waited a minute, then gave up, shoving the phone back in his pocket. He had a distinct sense he had crossed a line somewhere, though he couldn’t understand Ice’s cryptic comment. In any case, he was supposed to be sitting in on the next phase of training; apparently, the mechanics and maintenance crew on base hadn’t anticipated so much wear and tear on the Hornet fleet. 

Pete, however, did not reappear that evening, and Hondo found himself intercepting him in the locker room the next morning instead. 

“Where’ve you been?”

“Sailing,” he grunted, shrugging himself into his flight suit, still more stiffly than usual. Hondo felt his eyebrows go up. 

“ What now?” he asked, thoroughly nonplussed, and Mav shook his head irritably. 

“I’ll explain later. Whaddya need?”

“Plan for the training,” said Hondo, straightening up a little, tapping the laptop under his arm. “Caught up with some of the mechanics when I was on the tarmac, they were a little worried about the high Gs we were looking at in the analysis, especially after everything they had to fix from one day of dogfights.”

“‘Kay,” he answered, letting out a small sigh. “Well, Cyclone let me lower the hard deck for this. There’s a canyon out on the range, a little deeper’n the one at the target, so we’ll be training that low-level run for the next week.”

“Below the SAMs?”

Hondo saw Mav flinch a little out of the corner of his eye. 

“Yeah,” he said, “you and Jordan said there were enough of ‘em that it’d be too easy to run out of flares before even getting to the target. I put aside this whole week for it. Sim runs in the morning,” he added, pushing open the door, “hops in the afternoon, then debrief.”

“Got it,” muttered Hondo, making a note in his phone, then turning uneasily back to him. “And you’re right, Jordan and the other engineers were worried about the flares, but the repeated Gs’ll be an issue too, might knock the lasers out of cal, and it’ll be a strain on the airframe -”

“They’ll get there alive,” interrupted Maverick, his tone turning sharper, and Hondo felt a prickle of annoyance that faded almost as quickly as he watched Pete’s jaw tighten; they had arrived at the door to the classroom, the back of Rooster’s head just visible where he was talking with Phoenix. He had been on the point of turning around to go pull up some of his old work on preventive maintenance in the Hornets, but something in his look of apprehension stopped him, and instead, he followed Mav into the classroom, slipping unobtrusively into a row at the back and getting out his laptop to hunt for it in the online databases instead. 

Maverick and Rooster hadn’t been in a room together since before the cobra maneuver, but Maverick, to his credit, seemed to be making a considerable effort at being professional as he explained the next training phase of the mission. Even when Rooster had interrupted that the enemy knew no one was insane enough to fly below the SAMs, Mav had hardly been fazed, continuing his explanations largely unruffled, and there had been no more interruptions until they were dismissed to the flight simulators. 

The hops, however, were another story. The next several days proved unusually hectic. Maverick had scheduled at least three hops every afternoon, and Hondo had had to fall back into a long-forgotten routine of near-constant inspections and replacements with the on-base technicians just to keep them airworthy for the next day’s training. He rather suspected, actually, that Jordan had sweet-talked the mechanics attached to their old VX-23 test squadron into giving up some of their spare parts supply, but didn’t find a time to mention this to Pete. He had been leaving abruptly after the debriefs, his face set and grim, the collection of exhausted aviators trickling out slowly after him. Once or twice, Hondo thought he caught Rooster looking curiously at him, but every time he looked back, Rooster had turned wearily away again. 

They were several days into the canyon training before Hondo managed to slip back into the debrief, intent on catching Mav this time; the maintenance chief with VX-23 had finally put his foot down and grounded the jets for the next day until all the fuel injector valve heads could be replaced. The aviators filed in seconds before him, their flight suits sweat-stained where the G-suits had compressed them, slumping into the chairs as Maverick pulled up a rendering of what was apparently their most recent hop. 

Hondo had barely found his own seat before Mav was leaning on the desk, looking keenly at Rooster.

“What did you do wrong? Why are you dead?”

Hondo flinched, but no one else did; apparently, this routine had become standard in the last few days. Mav waited, his expression stern. 

“Sir -” Phoenix had chipped in, and Mav turned to her, his arms folded.

“If you know, Lieutenant Trace, tell his family why he’s dead.” 

Hondo blinked. Phoenix simply answered, “He said he doesn’t have one, sir.”

Hondo’s breath caught in his throat, and Pete’s face tightened just slightly; he continued to look determinedly at Phoenix, even as Hondo saw Rooster shift in his seat. 

“Bullshit. Tell me why he’s dead.”

Hondo wondered for a second how much Phoenix knew, but had little time to think about it before she answered.

“Sir, he’s the only one who made it to the target.”

“A minute late, Lieutenant,” he countered, a note of impatience entering his tone. “He gave enemy aircraft time to shoot him down. He is dead.”

“You don’t know that -” Rooster began to argue, and Maverick held up a hand. 

“You’re team leader up there, so now your team is dead too.” The animation on the screen showed four tiny green F/A-18s; the leader blinked red, slowly followed by the others. 

“You’re not. Flying. Fast enough,” came a drawl from the other side of the room that Hondo recognized; after a second, he remembered it was Hangman, and Hangman certainly hadn’t been shy about needling Rooster before. 

“The canyon’ll be tighter day-of,” added the aviator next to Hangman, one that Hondo didn’t recognize, but he was leaned forward around Hangman. 

“Coyote -”

The tallest in the room, a Black aviator with a mustache, shrugged a little and leaned in. 

“Coyote’s right, and the missiles’ll be real. You gotta make that time-to-target, man.”

“You don’t have a second to waste,” added Hangman, glancing back up at Maverick, but he held up a hand again, and the three fell silent. 

“We made it to the target,” answered Rooster stubbornly, seeming to have taken Mav’s quieting of the others as an opening. 

“And superior enemy aircraft intercepted you on your way out,” he answered. 

“Then it’s a dogfight -”

“Against fifth-gen fighters -”

“We’d still have a chance -” and Hondo almost laughed, because it had been a long time since he’d met someone as stubborn as Pete -

“In an F/A-18 -”

“It’s not the plane, sir, it’s the pilot,” said Rooster, with a note of victory in his voice.

“Exactly,” he heard Maverick say sharply, and Rooster jerked his head up, affronted; the silence in the room was very loud all of a sudden. Hondo looked uneasily at Mav; he looked uncomfortable, biting his lip as if he regretted his words. 

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission,” said Rooster in a low voice, and Hondo felt the tension in the room thicken still further; stubborn or not, he surely knew when to stop pressing?

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Hondo could see Hangman straighten up in his own chair. “On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back.” He watched Hangman cock his head towards Phoenix. “No offense.” Hondo could hardly blame Phoenix for bristling at this, but to her credit, she made no reply; Bob, next to her, said something too low for Hondo to hear, but her answering chuckle was just audible. 

Maverick had turned towards Hangman, and started to open his mouth, but Hangman had started talking again, this time looking pointedly at Rooster, and a nasty prickle went up the back of his neck. 

“I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative is all.” 

The side of Rooster’s face that Hondo could see was going redder, and Maverick held up a hand as if to stop him, but this time it wasn’t enough to keep control of the room.

“Lieutenant -” 

“We’re going into combat, son,” continued Hangman, “on a level no living pilot’s ever seen. Not even him.” He nodded at Maverick, who was looking between the two of them. “That’s no time to be thinking about the past.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rooster’s tone was low, dangerous, and Maverick stepped forward. 

“Lieutenant -” it wasn’t clear this time which of them he was addressing, and Hondo could hardly blame him for his nervous expression; he could feel his own shoulders tense, hoping Hangman wasn’t going where he thought was going -

“I can’t be the only one who knows Maverick flew with his old man. Or that Maverick was flying when his old man -”

“Lieutenant, that’s enough -”

Mav’s face had gone white, and he had grabbed Rooster’s shoulder, Phoenix and Bob on his other side, holding him back as he lunged at Hangman, and Hondo found himself half out of his seat.

“You sonofabitch -” 

Rooster had grabbed Hangman’s collar, and Coyote had stepped between them, but Phoenix was insistently pulling Rooster back; Maverick had let go, his face frozen, his jaw set. Rooster dropped his arm, breathing heavily, just as Hangman shook himself free of Coyote. 

“I’m cool, it’s cool,” Hondo heard him say, his tone overly casual, then he added, “He’s not cut out for this mission.” 

Mav made no response, a muscle jumping in his jaw, looking as if he was steeling himself, then straightened up, taking a breath.

“You’re all dismissed.” His tone brooked no arguments. 

“You know I’m right,” continued Hangman, but Hondo watched Maverick raise an eyebrow at him, and Coyote put an arm around his shoulders and steered him out of the room. The rest of the room followed, most of them looking relieved, not saying a word.

Hondo felt as if he had been glued to his chair; he let out a long, slow breath as the door slammed behind the last person to leave, raising a hand experimentally. It was shaking. Pete, for his part, had sunk down to sit on the desk at the front of the room, pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders seeming to crumple inwards a little. Hondo slowly got up to sit next to him on the desk, but somehow, it didn’t feel like the time to address the issue with the fuel injectors. They sat in silence for a minute or two, until there was a short buzz. Pete fished his phone out of the pocket of his flight suit, typed a message with aggressive jabs at the phone, and got up to look out the window. Hondo cleared his throat.

“That got out of hand,” he started tentatively. 

“No shit,” Pete grunted, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Guess I should’ve figured someone’d look that up.”

“Mav,” he tried again, “Your TOPGUN class picture’s on the wall. In the ready room.” 

Pete didn’t look back, but Hondo heard him mutter “God fuckin’ dammit” under his breath. 

“It was still a shabby move of Hangman. Might wanna talk to him about that.”

“I have to, don’t I,” said Pete with a groan, “but that means I have to talk to Rooster about taking a swing at him for it, too, and - and I -” he swallowed. “Just, what the fuck you expect me to do about that?”

Hondo had opened his mouth for a second, then shut it at Pete’s words. How, exactly, was Maverick supposed to reprimand Rooster for losing control when Hangman had brought up that incident? He had already gone pale when it had been brought up, and Hondo wasn’t about to forget the mingled fear and grief on Pete’s face from the flashback to the accident, even years later.  

“Yeah, that I don’t know,” he conceded quietly with a shrug, “but you can talk to Phoenix, maybe. She was throwing the book at him on the tarmac after the hard deck incident.” 

Pete was silent for a moment. 

“That’s not a bad idea,” he answered, a little gruffly. “Dammit, I could kill Ice for setting me up like this, but at least he sent you, too, you’re probably the sanest person on the whole damn base right now.”

“Only if you keep driving Warlock and Cyclone crazy.”

Maverick let out a dark snort in spite of his still clouded expression. 

“Doing my best. Ice just pinged me, anyway, I’m probably getting a talking-to.” He rubbed his palms on his flight suit. “Did you need something, by the way?”

“Yeah,” said Hondo heavily, remembering what he was supposed to be doing. “You’re gonna have to do everything in the sims tomorrow, I’m sorry, y’all are wearing the jets out and we gotta ground all of them to replace the fuel injector valve heads before they burn through.” 

At this, Maverick turned to look him fully in the eye.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously -”

“We need to train in the jets, the sims won’t be enough -”

“Mav,” interrupted Hondo, feeling his own tone sharpen, “you don’t trust me on this? I know what I’m doing.” 

Mav gave a contrite nod, and Hondo went on. “So does the VX-23 maintenance chief, and if we don’t, someone’s gonna have an engine fire. You want that?”

Mav rubbed a hand down his face. 

“I know, Hondo,” he said, his voice small, “and I’m sorry, I keep taking my shit out on you, I promise, I’ll try harder.”

The annoyance faded almost as quickly as it had the other morning; his face really did look apologetic, and Hondo sighed. 

“Just buy me a drink or two when we’re done here, okay?” 

“I owe you more’n that, but sure,” answered Mav, straightening up. “Well, Ice wasn’t asking when he told me to come over, I better go. You headed out?”

“No, they asked if I could help second shift maintenance, pull some of the panels off tonight to make the work smoother tomorrow.”

“That’s below your pay grade, Hondo.”

Hondo shrugged. “So’s counting pushups.”

“Fair point,” said Mav, getting out his keys, “I wouldn’t mind turning some bolts myself, might clear my head. Let me know if you need another set of hands.” He turned to leave. “I’m sorry you have to put up with extra work on top of my bullshit, Hondo, I promise, I’ll try to stay focused on the mission.”

Hondo raised an eyebrow. Pete sighed. 

“I mean it.”

“Good,” he said with a snort, “‘cause Ice asked me to make sure you do.”

“I’ll tell him you reminded me,” said Mav, tipping Hondo a finger salute as he ducked into the instructors’ locker room. Hondo watched after him for a second, hoping whatever Ice had to say would be enough to keep Mav steady.

Chapter Text

Some of the tension radiating off Maverick’s body seemed to have seeped into Hondo, and he found himself wandering outside and walking slowly down the line of jets being towed into the maintenance bays before second shift, watching the sun sink lower in the sky. 

Still, he only began to feel his shoulders loosen once his shift had started and he had begun methodically opening access panels on the long row of Hornets. There was something soothing about the metallic grind of the impact driver, he thought, or maybe it was just the repeated movement that he had known how to do for decades. He hadn’t even felt his phone until it buzzed for a second - a third? - time in the pocket of his coveralls.

New Message from: Pete Mitchell

He opened it with a knuckle, wiping grease off his hands. 

Need a hand with the maintenance

?

Hondo glanced down the long row of jets, then tapped out an answer as quickly as he could without using his fingertips. He didn’t need help, not really, but Maverick had looked antsy earlier, and extra hands wouldn’t hurt.

Pulling access panels off for maintenance tomorrow

Hangar bay 6

Hondo had been expecting him, but still jumped a little when there was a soft throat-clearing noise behind him.

“Hey. Where’re the impact drivers?”

Pete’s voice sounded unusually rough. Hondo glanced around, and felt his eyes widen; Maverick looked worn, hollowed out, his eyes red-rimmed. His shoulders, far from being tensed, had dropped inwards.  

“Second drawer,” answered Hondo with some apprehension, tipping his head toward the tool chest. “Uh, Mav, you oka-“

The sound of the tool drawer slamming open and a hex head being clicked into an impact driver cut him off, and he gave up, going back to the panel on his own jet as Mav went over to the neighboring one and started in on the bolts. 

“Ice wanted to talk to me,” he said, his voice barely audible over the noise of the impact driver. 

“You mentioned,” Hondo answered noncommittally; Pete’s face wasn’t visible behind the wing. He waited, his hands stilling on his own tools. Then he looked around the side of the jet. Pete’s face was tight, worried, like he wasn’t sure what to say. Hondo waited, then after a second Pete lowered the driver and swiped a hand over his face, turning his head wearily towards him.

“Ice’s cancer’s back.”

Of all the things Hondo had anticipated, this was not one of them, and he gripped the driver handle a little tighter as Pete continued. 

“Sarah said there’s -“ his voice cracked, and he looked away, swiping at his face with his sleeve “- there’s nothing more they can do. That’s it.”

For a second, it felt like the floor had dissolved, and his knees weren’t quite steady anymore; he hung onto the wing, trying to process something that seemed unthinkable. Ice had always been there, a presence Hondo had practically taken for granted since he had answered the phone almost fifteen years ago. He wasn’t - he couldn’t be - dying.

Then he heard the sound of a shop stool scraping roughly on the floor, and he fought to refocus his vision. Pete had dropped onto the stool, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Hondo’s legs were still numb, and his fingers did not seem to be responding too well, but he managed to pull another stool over to sit heavily down next to him. Pete’s shoulder bumped up against his; it was shaking. Hondo swallowed past the tightness in his throat and leaned into him, just a little, and there was a slight answering pressure from Pete’s shoulder. 

They sat like that for a minute, or maybe five, maybe ten, Hondo wasn’t sure. Eventually, he heard Pete let out a shuddering breath, and Hondo scrubbed at his own eyes under his glasses with the sleeve of his coveralls.

“They - they need anything? Ice and Sarah? Anything I can help with?”

“Don’t think so,” Pete answered, his voice rough. “I asked him, too. All he said was that I had bigger problems, and if I wanted to do him a favor I should focus on teaching. Said the kid - the kids need it.”

“Yeah, well, orders are orders,” said Hondo heavily. “That sounds like him.”

Pete snorted wetly, drying his face on his sleeve. “Does, doesn’t it,” he said, his voice regaining a little strength. “He looks like hell, Hondo, and sounds even worse, worse’n when I got him on the phone the other week.”

Something sank a little further in Hondo’s chest, but his eyes stayed dry this time, and he let out a slow breath. 

“Guess you know what he wants you to do,” he muttered, looking down at the impact driver still in his hand. He felt Mav straighten up a little next to him.

“Yeah,” he answered, his voice still rough, but he braced his hands on his knees and stood up. “We still got work to do.”

“C’mon, Mav, go get some sleep, you look -“

“I don’t do something with my hands right now, I probably won’t sleep,” he interrupted, and despite the knot that had not loosened in his chest, Hondo was slightly comforted to see his hands were steady on the driver as he turned back to the access panels.

He didn’t say anything else to Hondo for a long while, not until they had finished, Hondo peeling off his coveralls and looking sideways at the grease stains on Mav’s t-shirt. They were halfway down the hall when Hondo realized Maverick had slowed.

“Mav?”

He turned back; Pete had stopped in front of a picture, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Hondo stepped next to him, looking at the picture of a much younger Maverick & Iceman, shaking hands on the deck of the USS Enterprise.

“At least Ice’s career outlived the Enterprise ,” muttered Pete with a slightly sad chuckle. “Hell, all of us in that picture knew he was going straight to the top, even then.”

“Huh,” said Hondo noncommittally, looking at the picture. It had been years now since he had seen them, but Hollywood and Wolfman were still recognizable in the background, drenched to the skin; a much younger Slider than Hondo had ever seen was squeezing Wolf’s shoulders. “Even then?”

“Yeah, I’m just damn lucky he decided I was worth keeping around,” said Pete, “probably the only reason my Navy career outlived the Enterprise too.”

Hondo snorted a little; it sounded suspiciously accurate, but he wasn’t about to dunk on Mav at that particular moment. 

“Didn’t you say you didn’t get along at first?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Mav with a small laugh, “I was a piece of work , let me tell ya, chip on my shoulder the size of Texas, and Goose was hardly any better even if he was supposed to be keeping me on the rails.”

“Worked out okay, though?”

“Yeah, I mean, Ice never stopped being an uptight hardass, but he cut me some slack after - after Goose. Not before a few scuffles, though.”

“What, really?” Hondo was having a hard time picturing much of an argument between them, not when faced with their broad grins from the old picture.

“Eh, we were young and dumb. Had our heads up our asses, got in each other’s faces. Probably a good thing there used to be volleyball nets down on the beach. If we hadn’t worked out some of our energy there, might’ve been more dust-ups.”

“I hear that,” snorted Hondo, “not like I saw land much in the Middle East, but a few games of desert football were pretty good at stopping us junior mechanics from killing each other with our tools.”

“That why you were trying to get intramural football going at China Lake?”

Hondo snorted.
“Can’t be that hard, there was IM softball back at Pax River, Paco was always bitching about losing to the JAG team and that one Marine who looked like Kevin Bacon. But yeah, I’m more a lineman build than a softball player. Or volleyball,” he added with a chuckle. “Played varsity in high school, too.”

Pete hummed noncommittally. “Makes sense. Dallas is big football country.”

“Yeah,” said Hondo, “wish we could just get ‘em all outside, run ‘em around a little. Got me through my first deployments without losing my mind.” 

He turned to leave, then cocked an eyebrow at the look Mav was giving him. 

“What?”

“That,” said Mav, spinning on his heel and jabbing a finger in his direction, “is the best idea you’ve had all day, and I’m including the Phoenix thing in that.” 

“What, you got time for recess in the middle of training?” Hondo said, chuckling.

“No, I mean it. Your guys got along better after a few pickup games, you just said that. And hell, if we’re just gonna be in the sims tomorrow, might as well take a break.” 

“God knows if anyone needs a break -“

“I know you do, Hondo, I can get you out of maintenance bullshit, come with -“

“I meant you,” said Hondo, with a vague gesture at Pete’s person, and he let out the ghost of a chuckle.

“Yeah, guess so. There’s a good stretch of beach out behind Penny’s bar, it’ll be nice, Sarah’s nephews were teaching the grandkids touch football, I can borrow a couple balls from the Kazanskys.”

“Yeah, touch football’s a good plan -“

“Nah, they’re too amped, and it’s just sand, we can play full contact. ‘Sides, you really think Hangman and Coyote are about to go easy on anyone out there?”

“You’re gonna try tackle football ? With your ribs taped together?” He could hear the note of doubt in his own voice, but a grin was now spreading across Pete’s face.

“What d’you think Ben-Gay is for, Hondo?”

“Well, it doesn’t heal broken ribs,” said Hondo, a little apprehensively.

“Nothing ever really does, don’t worry, bruises’re fading anyway.” He waved a hand nonchalantly at Hondo, and in spite of himself, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch. 

“Guess I’ll find out if keeping my PT score up was worth it.”

Chapter Text

There was a ding from his phone, before his usual alarm time, and Hondo could feel his arm reflexively reach out and grab it before his brain was fully awake. 

New Message From: Pete Mitchell

He lazily unlocked his phone, squinting a little without his glasses. 

Mav: Got hold of the first shift maintenance chief

Mav: Said they don’t need help today

Mav: Go back to sleep

Hondo smiled to himself. It seemed a lot more likely to him that Pete had just asked first shift not to ask him for help, but this didn’t seem like the moment to question it; instead, he just rolled back over and was asleep in seconds. 

It had to be at least a couple of hours later that he eventually blinked awake again, because now the sun was streaming brightly through the blinds. 0804. He wondered somewhere vaguely if he had ever actually woken up that late not on leave. He was halfway through making coffee before it occurred to him to look back at his phone again. In among the flood of emails was one from Pete, marked urgent, cc’ed with the rest of the aviators. 

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

SUBJECT: Alternative training schedule

Canceling today’s hops for maintenance to switch out all the fuel injector heads. Sim runs and classroom session also canceled. Report to Silver Strand State Beach behind the Hard Deck at 1300. No uniform of the day, civilian beachwear permitted. Come ready for light PT. 

There followed a few reply-all emails from whichever aviators had woken up early enough to alert the others, at least two of which looked like they had been written half-asleep, and Hondo snorted to himself a little, both at Hangman’s apparent inability to spell and the prospect of full-contact football as “light” PT. Darkstar was still in a holding pattern with the anomaly reconstruction, and the first shift mechanics had been persuaded to make do without him. For the first time in a long time, he took his time over his coffee, sipping slowly as the sky brightened outside. He was just getting the milk for a second cup when his phone buzzed again.

Mav: might need to borrow your car later

Mav: just occurred to me I can’t carry a football on the bike

Hondo rolled his eyes to himself as there was another ding from his phone.

Mav: meet me at Ice & Sarah’s? 11ish?

In their hurried departure from NAWS China Lake, he had forgotten to pack much by way of civilian clothes, let alone swim trunks, and settled for his PT shorts and a stained t-shirt he had worn under his fatigues before driving over to the Kazanskys’, the house still familiar even after a couple of years. He saw the garage door open before he had pulled up; Mav’s bike was outside. As the garage door came up, he saw Pete standing with his t-shirt crumpled in his hand, Sarah spraying sunscreen over his back with one hand and holding the garage door remote in the other. She waved at him, and he grinned as he got out of the car. She looked worn, he supposed, but she smiled back at him, squeezing him quickly into her side with one arm. 

“Nice to see you, Bernie, it’s been a while - dammit -”

She was shaking the sunscreen bottle, but no more seemed to be coming out, and Mav shrugged, turning around. 

“I think you mostly got me, thanks, Sarah.” He was fanning his shirt at himself to dry the sunscreen, and Hondo noticed gratefully that the bruises seemed to be fading now, and with tape that largely matched his skin this time, he looked slightly less like a murder victim than Hondo had expected. “Sorry, Hondo, didn’t mean to use up all the sunscreen.”

“S’OK,” shrugged Hondo, “got my face lotion in the car, keep my shirt on and I’ll be fine.”

“It’s hot out today -”

Hondo snorted. “I’m from Texas, Sarah, I’ll be fine, and anyway my momma had a couple weird moles removed, don’t need to risk it.”

“Uh -” Pete was looking at him a little awkwardly. “Do, uh, Black people -” 

“Yes, Mav, we get skin cancer too,” said Hondo, rolling his eyes.

“Actually, Black folks are more likely to die of it,” chipped in Sarah, and Hondo looked at her in amazement. “We did a PSA on sunscreen when I worked with the Parks department,” she added as she met his eye, “so yeah, good idea to have the SPF face lotion.” 

“Black don’t crack,” added Hondo with a smirk, and Pete snorted a little, pulling his shirt back on. 

“Or it's good genes, I met your mom. Anyway,” he said, emerging from the neck of his shirt, “Sarah, you said we can borrow a couple footballs?”

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a beach cart in the corner of the garage, “my nephews were teaching the grandkids the other day, so no promises that they’re clean. There’re beach chairs in the cart too. And you can borrow the cooler, if you wanna come get some Gatorade.”

“You’re a gem, Sarah,” said Pete with a relieved sigh, and they followed her through the garage door into the cool darkness of the kitchen. 

Hondo was watching, a little awkwardly, as Maverick pulled whatever bottles Sarah pointed at out of the fridge, her face a little strained even though she was still smiling as she produced a cooler and started throwing ice packs into it. He should say something, but what, he had no idea. He had been wrestling with himself for at least a minute when there was a tap on his shoulder and he jumped.

“Hey, Ice,” came Mav’s voice, and he looked up to see Ice standing in the doorway. Mav hadn’t been lying, he did look pretty rough, but he smiled at Sarah before giving Hondo a friendly nod. 

“Hi, Adm-Tom,” Hondo corrected himself, a little awkwardly, as the corner of Ice’s mouth quirked and he held up his phone just as Hondo’s dinged. 

Ice: A word?

Hondo nodded, and followed him out of the kitchen door as there was another ding from his phone. 

Ice: Slider left his jersey here last time we hosted the Army-Navy game watch party

Ice: If you want to borrow something clean

Hondo snorted a little, but nodded; Ice gave him a small wink, and reached inside the laundry room and handed him a Navy football jersey, typing on his phone with the other hand.

Ice: Mav told you?

Hondo swallowed, and nodded, meeting his eye reluctantly. 

“I - I’m sorry, if there’s anything you need -”

Ice just waved a hand impatiently at him, and Hondo stopped as Ice started typing furiously again. 

Ice: none of that now

Ice: I took a gamble pushing Mav into this job

Ice: I know I’ve asked a lot the last few years

Ice: consider it a last favor to watch his back

Hondo could feel his eyes on him, and looked back up again, swallowing hard; his gaze was still piercing, even if his face looked tired.

“I’m here, sir, I got it.”

Ice’s face crinkled in a small smile, and he held out a hand. Hondo shook it, feeling his grasp shake a little. He met his eye again, just as Ice took in a deep breath and rasped “thank you,” with so much apparent effort that Hondo’s throat tightened. 

“It’s been an honor, Admiral,” he answered, hoping Ice could hear everything he didn’t quite know how to say. Ice’s other hand clapped onto his shoulder, just briefly, before he let him go and typed another message on his phone. 

Ice: likewise

Ice: and no titles in the house

Hondo let out a small chuckle in spite of himself, just as Pete emerged from the kitchen. 

“You ready? Sorry, we can't stick around -”

Ice made a nonchalant gesture with his hand, and Hondo held up the jersey with the other. 

“Is that Slider’s?” Maverick looked at it for a second, then tipped his head towards Hondo. “He played football all of two semesters at the Academy and never shuts up about it every time the Army-Navy game rolls around -”

There was a ding from his phone, and he fished it out.

“No, I’m not borrowing your damn clothes, Hondo’s big enough for Slider’s jersey but I look like a fuckin’ toddler in your shorts, and I can kick your ass at volleyball in jeans anyway.” 

Ice raised an eyebrow dramatically at him, and gestured emphatically at his throat, and Sarah snorted as she came back into the room, rolling her eyes. 

“You’re playing the cancer card, huh?” Mav answered, a hint of humor in his voice even as a shadow crossed his face. “I really did kick his ass at volleyball, Sarah, just so you know - anyway, Hondo, we better go, thanks for letting us borrow this stuff.”

“Anytime, Pete,” she answered, sliding an arm around Ice’s waist as he leaned into her a little. There was another ding on Mav’s phone, and he looked at it for a second before glancing back up.
“Thanks, Ice,” he said quietly, just as Ice reached out with his free arm and pulled Pete into his side for a second. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late.”

Mav was quiet while they loaded the beach cart, balls, and towels into Hondo’s car, and got on his bike in equal silence, leaving Hondo to change his shirt and follow behind, the homes and yards giving way to a few juice bars and bike paths as they neared the beach. He had only just parked in the one shady spot behind the Hard Deck, which was apparently closed, when he heard a tapping behind his car. 

“Just a second , Mav, jeez -”

He got out, punching the button to pop the trunk, and Mav pulled out the chairs and the beach cart, handing Hondo the cooler.

“Thanks, Hondo, seriously, no way would I have been able to do this on the bike,” he said, nodding at the bike perched in the corner of the lot. 

“Any reason you didn’t just have me pick you up?” grunted Hondo, hefting the cooler over one arm and clicking the key fob. 

“Uh,” Pete answered, looking down at the sand and smiling a little awkwardly, “I, uh, might’ve told Penny I’d give her a ride home - it’s her night off at the bar, but she’s still gotta do her books -”

Hondo let out a mock groan as Pete set down the beach chairs. 

“Seriously? We’re back here again?”

“Oh, c’mon, what happened with you and Tania anyway?”

“This isn’t about me,” he spluttered, “and we went out a few times, just - I got busy out at China Lake, then she’s been taking care of her mom -”

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, Hondo,” said Mav with a snort, “we both know you got your life together a lot better’n I do.”

Hondo made to reply, but there was a familiar figure already coming across the sand. 

“Hey, Pete, and - it’s Hondo, right?”

“Yeah, hi, Penny,” he answered, more than a little impressed that she had remembered. “Nice to see you again, Mav says the bar’s yours?”

“Yeah,” she nodded with a pleased grin, “you should come by sometime, I probably won’t need to throw you out.”

“Oh, you wound me,” said Mav with an expression of mock chagrin, “might have to throw a football at your window for that.”

“Ha, good luck,” she said triumphantly, “Santa Ana winds’re picking up, they’re blowing off the shore, you’ll have a hard time throwing towards land.”

“Oh, of course you’d know that, skipper,” he countered, and Hondo looked curiously between them. 

“No shit,” he said, “you really did go sailing?”

“Yeah, Pete’s, uh, learning,” said Penny, with a slight chuckle. “I can’t lie, it’s a little disappointing for a career Navy man -”

“Well, if we gotta defend this nation in sailboats, we got bigger problems,” grinned Hondo, gesturing at the water, and Mav grinned back. 

“Yeah, that’s what the Coast Guard’s for.”

“They do protect us from idiots who can’t handle their boats,” conceded Penny with a small smile. “Anyway, we’re receiving some inventory, excuse me, gentlemen.”

Hondo watched as Pete’s eyes followed her back across the sand, then looked back at him. 

“I was just doing a favor for a friend, that’s it - she needed help with the engine -”

“Uh-huh,” said Hondo, raising an eyebrow, then dropping it again with a short laugh. “I don’t care, Mav, y’all know what you’re doing.” He wasn’t at all sure that was true, if he was honest, but Pete’s expression had relaxed more than Hondo had seen in days, and, well, it wasn’t as if he could judge. “Anyway,” he added, gesturing as Pete stripped off his shirt, “you look a lot less like someone beat the shit outta you now, probably helps.”

Mav snorted, a little sheepishly, then glanced up. 

“Oh, I think that’s them,” he said, squinting behind his sunglasses. 

“Where?”

An old blue Bronco, an F150, and a couple of convertibles had appeared in the parking lot of the Hard Deck, and Hondo could see the aviators making their way across the sand in twos and threes. They waited, watching as the group slowly filled out, dressed in a motley array of shorts and cut-off t-shirts that betrayed how unexpected a beach day was, though Rooster had on a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt that looked vaguely familiar to Hondo for some reason. 

“So,” began Maverick, clapping his hands together once the chatter had subsided, “we got a different kind of exercise today. We’re going to be playing dogfight football, something a buddy told me about, but pretty simple - offense and defense at the same time, like you gotta do in the air. You all met Hondo?”

There was a general murmur of assent. 

“Yeah, well, he helps keep all our asses in the air, which is below his pay grade, by the way. He’s reffing, so what he says goes, and you will respect that.” Mav handed him a whistle, and Hondo took it uncertainly. 

“You sure?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“‘Course,” answered Mav under his breath, “look how it went last time I tried to referee a dust-up in this bunch.” He raised his voice again, leaning his elbow on Hondo’s shoulder. 

“We’ll play down by the water, easier to run there, mark out the lines with paces. Any questions, before we pick teams?”

A hand went up. 

“Coyote?”

A broad-shouldered Black aviator next to Hangman was looking warily at the strips of tape on Mav’s ribs. 

“Uh, sir, is this touch football?”

“Nah, we can play full-contact.”

“Sir,” came Hangman’s voice, “should we be doing that? With women?”

Before Mav could answer, a snort and a “scared, Bagman?” came from somewhere behind Fanboy; Phoenix was leaning her elbow on Rooster’s shoulder, smirking at Hangman. Mav shrugged. 

“You heard her. Everyone here okay with full-contact? Good. Use your judgment, no one’s flying hurt tomorrow. Okay, Rooster, Hangman, you’re team captains, Hangman, you get first pick.”

“Phoenix,” he said immediately, and Hondo could hear the grin in his voice as Phoenix stalked over to stand next to him with her arms folded. 

“Coyote,” countered Rooster. 

“Fritz.”

“Bob.” 

“Payback.”

“Halo.” 

Hondo could see Hangman and Rooster glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes as they went on. Then, right as Fanboy walked over to Hangman -

“Maverick.” 

Hondo wasn’t entirely sure he had heard correctly, then Hangman whistled. “Picking the old-timer? Got some fences to mend, huh, Rooster?”

Phoenix elbowed him in the side, and Hondo was just able to hear her hiss, “you didn’t learn from the last time you called Mav old?” Hondo, however, was looking at Maverick; he looked a little thrown, but was gamely walking over to Rooster’s team. 

“Okay, you guys -” he tossed Hangman a blue football “- are the blue team, we’re the red team. Let’s go!”

Hondo followed them down the beach, chuckling to himself a little at the shirts they were tossing behind them on their way to the water, and set himself up in the middle, Rooster in the corner of his eye pushing up his sunglasses as Hangman yelled “hut hut hike!”

Even if he had been expecting it, Hondo had to marvel a little at how much more easily the aviators moved around each other even after just a couple of chaotic plays. True, Mav had been right, there was no way that they would have restrained themselves to touch football, but even so, Hangman and Phoenix seemed remarkably in sync with only minimal smack talk, Coyote and Payback had apparently decided that giving each other noogies was the best defensive tactic they could come up with, and the competition seemed to have relaxed between all of them, become friendlier somehow. Hondo had only blown the whistle once - when Halo had shoved Yale into an oncoming Harvard under the pretext of being too small to tackle him herself - but all in all, it was a lot less dirty than he had expected. He was just exchanging a glance with Maverick, who also seemed to have relaxed a little, until -

“Mav, watch it -”

Hondo jerked his head around; as the scuffle separated, he could see Mav, apparently having been thrown on his back, and for a split second, Hondo thought he saw his face tighten in pain, but then a hand reached down to help him back to his feet. It was Rooster, and for a second, Hondo watched an expression of disbelief cross Mav’s face, but he hid it quickly, apparently thanking Rooster, even as Hondo saw Rooster glance down at the fading bruises. But as quickly as the moment had come, it passed; Halo threw Maverick a pass, breaking the tension. He seemed to come back to himself as he caught it, then Hondo could have sworn he saw him smirk for a second before he took off running towards the line in the sand, faster than Hondo would ever have expected even without broken ribs, and he smiled to himself as he blew the whistle and yelled “Touchdown!”

“Damn, Rooster, how’d you know Mav was that fast?” came Hangman’s voice over Coyote & Bob’s cheers, but Rooster just shrugged. Fanboy was spinning the other ball in his hand, then spiked it down into the sand, and Coyote and Payback leapt exaggeratedly backwards away from it like it was a bomb, snorting with laughter. Mav held up the ball triumphantly, then tossed it to Hangman, walking away from the line with his arms raised. Hondo noticed Rooster watching after him, but unlike the others, he didn’t raise a protest as he dropped back into his beach chair and fished in the cooler. Then a yell drew his attention back into the fray; Bob had gotten hold of the ball, looking startled that he had caught it at all, then started running full-tilt towards the line. Rooster switched his focus, hefting Bob up onto his shoulders with a cheer, and Hondo smiled a little at Bob’s shyly pleased expression while the squad started chanting his name. Then Payback tore his eyes away from where he, Coyote and Hangman had been looking at Maverick with some concern and lifted Fanboy onto his own shoulders, and a very violent game of chicken ensued, Hondo dodging hastily out of the way as Bob and Fanboy fell into the water with an enormous splash. 

They were all still laughing as they emerged from the shallows, completely drenched, Bob attempting to wipe his glasses on his sodden shirt, when out of the corner of his eye, Hondo spotted a tall figure that looked a lot like Cyclone, fully dressed in his khakis, stalking across the beach. He felt his shoulders tense for a second, because there was no way Cyclone hadn’t seen all of them, but then he stopped, apparently talking to Penny where she was perched on a bench with her ledger, and Hondo tried to relax a little, glancing around to get his bearings again. 

“Here, Hondo, fill in for Mav -”

Someone had shoved the ball into his chest, and without thinking about it, he took off running, not even sure which team he was supposed to be joining. Phoenix flung herself at him,  but he kept going, grinning a little as more of them joined in. He hadn’t started as a running back for three years in high school for nothing, and pushed onwards, nearly the entire squad laughingly attempting to tackle him now. Then his foot hit a soft, wet patch in the sand, and he struggled to right himself, but there were twelve of them, and he finally collapsed into the sand, laughing in defeat as he handed the ball off to Phoenix. 

“Not bad, sir,” said Bob politely, reaching out a hand to help him up, “didn’t think it’d take all of us to get you down.”

“I don’t go over easy,” he said with a chuckle, getting up, “but y’all are younger’n me.”

“It shows,” answered Bob, nodding at where Fanboy was now splashing Rooster with water. The game had mostly collapsed now, and with a shot of relief, Hondo saw Cyclone dropping his hands from his hips where he was glaring down at Maverick, shrugging his shoulders and making his way back up the beach. A lot of them had now given up on the game, Coyote and Hangman playing a leisurely game of catch as the rest shook out towels and collapsed onto the sand. Hondo followed Bob back up the beach, and lowered himself back into the beach chair next to Maverick. 

“All good?”

“Eh,” said Mav, waving a hand lazily, “Cyclone knows we couldn’t fly today, and I think he believed me that the team-building exercise worked. Don’t worry.” 

Apparently, he could sense Hondo’s doubt, because he turned his head to look at him and added, “really, it’s fine, he didn’t even yell. I’m not too banged up, either, so I’ll call it a win.”

“If you say so,” said Hondo, leaning back in his chair and reaching down into the cooler. There was a bottle of Advil neatly tucked between the bottles of Gatorade. “Guess you got everything you needed?”
“‘M’fine,” he heard him answer lazily, his hands behind his head. “Hey, if any of you didn’t bring water,” he added, raising his voice for a second, “come grab a drink out of the cooler. You’re all dismissed, take the rest of the day.”

Hondo wasn’t entirely sure if he had dozed off, but the quiet murmurs of the sunbathing aviators, the sound of the waves and the breeze seemed to have mingled in his ears. Either way, the sun was a little lower in the sky when he opened his eyes again. Coyote, Payback and Hangman were standing in front of their beach chairs, Payback dripping water from his hair and mustache. 

“Uh, sir, got thrown in the water for the pushup thing, and it occurred to me we oughta apologize for throwing you out of the bar, the - the other night. We didn’t mean to hurt -”

“You didn’t,” said Mav in a reassuring tone, waving a hand, “this happened before that, all fine, and those are Penny’s rules.”

“We’re still sorry, sir,” added Coyote, and Hangman nodded in assent as Mav chuckled. 

“You heard me, you’re dismissed, no need to “sir” me on the beach. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” 

“Thanks for the field trip, Cap,” said Hangman, tipping him a finger salute, and they turned and left, following some of the others up the beach, where they appeared to be debating the relative merits of going home or going to the bar. Hondo thought for a second that he saw Rooster watching them as he put his shirt back on, but as soon as he looked, he was again deep in conversation with Bob and Phoenix. Next to him, Maverick stretched, still a little stiff, but his shoulders relaxed. 

“C’mon, Hondo, I’ll get everything back in your car, I’m supposed to take Penny home.”

They loaded everything back into the trunk of his car, then Pete clapped him on the back as he turned towards his bike. “Thanks for that, Hondo, it was a good idea, I think it helped.”

Hondo shrugged. “It was fun. Hope you’re not in trouble.” 

Pete snorted as Penny appeared around the side of the building, sliding his sunglasses back on.

“If you see Cyclone, buy him a drink from me,” he said, grinning, “I’m not trying to drive him crazy, I promise.”

Chapter Text

“Coleman.”

The deep voice reverberated off the side of the hangar as the maintenance chief was walking away from Hondo, and he turned on the spot before his brain had placed the voice. Admiral Bates was striding towards him, his eyes scanning the hangar. 

“Sir,” he answered with a nod and a salute, which Bates returned crisply.

“Have to say, Coleman,” he began, glancing approvingly along the long row of jets, “we might’ve been - ah - a little surprised Admiral Kazansky sent you here with Mitchell, but guess he knew what he was doing. No way would this training operation hold together without your help.”

Hondo straightened up a bit, a warm shot of pride making the corners of his mouth twitch. 

“Thanks for saying so, Admiral.” 

Bates’ face cracked into a grin. “You can probably just call me Warlock. Thanks for vindicating me after I persuaded Cyclone to give you a chance.”

Hondo snorted a little. “Guess you can call me Hondo, then, sir.”

“You sure they don’t need you up at the flight test facility at China Lake? By the sound of it, this all’s below your pay grade these days.”

Hondo shrugged. “It is, but I got pretty good at it back in the day. And - uh - things are in a holding pattern back at China Lake anyway, I can probably do some good here.”

Warlock nodded slowly, looking at him in an appraising sort of way. Hondo swallowed. 

“Some good here, like keeping Mitchell on the rails?”

“Uh -” Hondo was taken aback; he wasn’t exactly sure what to say to that, and Warlock’s eyes seemed to be looking straight through him. Then he chuckled.

“It’s okay, Hondo,” he said, his eyes crinkling a little, and Hondo tentatively smiled back. “Kazansky flat-out told us it’d all be smoother if we let you come. I’ve worked with Maverick before.”

“He’s good at what he does,” said Hondo firmly, and Warlock’s mouth twitched.

“He’s exceptional at what he does,” he answered with a wry smirk, “but sometimes I wish he’d play the game a little.” At this, Hondo couldn’t help but let out a small snort, and Warlock chuckled again.

“Anyway, just wanted to see about the jets, because we’re going to have to play schedule accordion here.”

“What now?”

Warlock glanced around, then lowered his voice.

“New intelligence. I won’t get into the details, but mission window’s getting moved up. Training’s going to have to move on to the precision strike, so these better be ready for that high-G climb Mitchell’s scoped out.”

Hondo’s mouth felt a little dry, but he nodded. “They’re good, sir, and I’ve seen Mav pull off a climb like that.”

Warlock gave him a short nod, though his eyebrows rose slightly.

“Hope he can get ‘em to pull it off too.” 

Despite Warlock’s apprehensive tone, Maverick seemed relatively upbeat, even after what Hondo surmised had to be a tense meeting with Cyclone about moving to the next stage of training. Even the aviators seemed less tense, a little easier around each other, a few snorts of laughter echoing down the hall as Hondo passed them on the way back to the classroom.

“Oh, shit, is something wrong with the jets again? I know I told you Cyclone ordered me to start the precision strike runs, but it’s only been a day , I didn’t think we’d have more maintenance issues yet.”

Mav had appeared in the doorway of the classroom, still in his flight suit, and Hondo held up his hands, grinning. 

“Nah, it’s OK. Just on my way out, you wanna get a beer?”

Mav glanced at his watch, then grinned back at him. 

“Sure, why not. I’ll get changed. You want a ride to the Hard Deck?”

“Hell no, you can quit trying, you’re never getting me back on that deathtrap.”

They had managed to get a booth in the back of the bar, Hondo glancing around while Pete took what he considered an unnecessarily long time chatting with Penny as he ordered their drinks. Some of the aviators had filtered in, some still in their flight suits, and he watched Payback tickling Fanboy for a second, Phoenix nudging Coyote in amusement. 

“Here,” he heard Pete say, and the noise of the glasses being set down on the table seemed to snap him back to the present. He looked up; Pete had followed his gaze. 

“This one’s on me, by the way,” he added, pushing Hondo’s beer closer to him and nodding over at the aviators, who were now racking pool balls. “That day out on the beach really got ‘em working together a lot better.”

“Even now? With the training compressed?”

Mav sat down opposite him and took a long pull from his own glass, apparently considering. 

“They’ll get there. It’ll be tough stringing all the elements together, but they’ll get there. You listen any over comms today?”

“Nope. Haven’t been up to the tower all week.”

“Yeah, well, if you get a chance, try listening in. That’ll be the real trick, how they work together in the air.”

Hondo nodded, taking a sip, watching Pete for a second.

“Payback and Fanboy, I’m not worried about,” he continued, almost absentmindedly, his head half-turning towards the pool table, “they get along pretty good with most everyone. It’s the Echo teams got me thinking. Coyote ‘n Hangman work together okay, but even then, Hangman doesn’t put the team first, doesn’t jive with most of the Foxtrot teams. He ‘n Phoenix can do okay, when they’re not taking shots at each other, but what with Rooster in the mix I don’t -” he paused for a second “ - I don’t really wanna go there. Rooster and Phoenix are good together, but she can’t push him into fully committing, he’s too controlled.”

“ Too controlled?”

Mav looked up at him, and Hondo suddenly regretted his interruption. 

“Sorry - I didn’t -” 

“S’okay, Hondo, it’s hard to see without being up there, but it’s one of those things where you have to fully commit, because if you hesitate, it doesn’t work - like throwing a backflip, you have to go for it or you get hurt.”

“What makes you think I’ve ever attempted a backflip?” snorted Hondo, then sobered. “Anyway, you’re the one who’s flown combat missions, I won’t question it.”

“Eh, maybe you should,” Mav shrugged, “makes me consider things. For that matter, you notice anything about how they all get along?”

Hondo raised an eyebrow; he wasn’t exactly sure how much he had to add, but thought for a second anyway. 

“You’re probably right, Hangman and Coyote’re pretty tight,” he started, glancing back over at the pool table. Pete followed his gaze again, and Hondo thought he saw him winking at Penny. “But they might get lost in their own world, not work as well with their Foxtrot teams - and you said Phoenix is the best in the dual-seat, if you have to send the three of them, put her with Coyote.” He was suddenly very grateful that Rooster wasn’t there. “And - well - maybe Phoenix can help light a fire under Rooster’s ass, but she was the one asking if it was achievable, so…”

He didn’t want to press; already bringing up Rooster was a topic he wasn’t sure he had the right to go near, even if Maverick had asked. He waited, sipping at his beer. 

“Yeah,” sighed Mav after a few seconds, “yeah, I guess he - I guess all of them’ve gotta believe it can be done. They can do it, that’s not the problem.”

Hondo shrugged, unsure if that comment warranted a response. They sat in silence for a moment before he opened his mouth again, remembering Warlock’s face from that morning. 

“You’ve convinced people before that something could be done,” he tried, and Mav chuckled darkly. 

“Yeah, well, I was only right about Darkstar up to Mach 10.3.” Hondo watched his gaze drift back over to the bar; this time, Penny waved at both of them, and Hondo waved back. 

“Oh, and that’s another thing,” he said, turning back towards Pete, “you trying for another shot with Penny?”

Pete looked at him again, smirking slightly. “Do or do not, there is no try .” 

“You -” Hondo looked back over at Penny; she seemed to be smiling to herself as she rinsed glasses. He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Ah, fuck it, I guess it’s never been over for good before. Guess she doesn’t mind the bruises.”

“Nope,” he answered smugly, and Hondo restrained himself from rolling his eyes with difficulty.

“Whatever keeps you in a good mood, I guess,” he said with a snicker. “But if that’s how you hurt yourself again, I am not peeling you off the floor.”

The next day saw Hondo with a half-dozen emails from the first shift maintenance chief; apparently, following their discussion, Mav had scheduled a full day of short hops, arranging all the aviators in different pairings. It made sense, he supposed, even if they were putting a lot more cycles on the jets. Still, this did not stop him from forwarding all six emails to Maverick, only stopping to note “better make it worth our time” on one of the subject lines. He had just received a terse reply of “copy”, along with a middle finger emoji sent separately via text, by the time he settled himself into his usual spot up in the tower. There were already jets in the air, and chatter over the comms as Maverick went back over the steps that by now even Hondo knew - climb, invert into a dive, paint the target with the laser, take the shot, then climb back out. 

As the afternoon wore on, though, even with pairings that Hondo had thought would get along, things seemed to get more tense. Not one of the teams managed to actually strike the target, and though they were, according to Mav’s encouragements, getting closer, their frustration had started to show. It had just occurred to him that this was probably why Mav hadn’t scheduled anyone for back-to-back flights without a break, when Coyote swore loudly enough over comms that the airboss snickered a little. 

“That’s a miss - fuck this shit -”

“Language,” came a quieter voice that Hondo recognized as Bob’s, with a note of humor despite how tired he sounded, and then another voice that had to be Phoenix interrupted. 

“We still gotta climb out, brace yourself -”

For a few seconds, there were only a few heavy breathing noises over the comms, then things went eerily silent.

“Coyote?”

Mav’s voice sounded worried, and Hondo felt something prickle down the back of his neck. 

“Coyote, pull up. Coyote, level wings.” He still sounded calm, but there was an edge now in the way he issued the command. Then Phoenix cut in, and her words made Hondo’s blood run cold. 

“Shit, I think he’s in G-LOC -”

“Coyote, do you copy? Can you hear me?”

“He’s gonna burn in!” 

Phoenix’s scared tone seemed to echo around Hondo’s head, so much that he barely heard a muttered “like hell” from Maverick, and then an audible gasp that he assumed had to be Bob before Mav’s voice cut back in, hoarse and frantic.

“Coyote - Coyote - c’mon, gimme tone, gimme tone - COYOTE! ”

Somewhere, as if very far away, he could hear an automated female voice repeating “Altitude - Altitude - Altitude” before it was replaced with a more insistent “Pull up, pull up! Pull up, pull up!” He was straining his ears to hear over the whine of the missile lock tone, squinting out of the window even though he knew they were out of sight in the mountains, just barely aware that the air traffic controllers were half out of their seats. The seconds stretched long and slow as they waited, hardly breathing, for the click of someone’s comms disconnecting. 

Then there was a loud, shuddered gasp, and the “Pull up, pull up!” insistence stopped abruptly. 

“Coyote, you okay?” Maverick sounded scared, more scared than Hondo had heard him in years; his audible sigh of relief at Coyote’s shaky “yeah, yeah, I’m okay” seemed to echo around the room. Then he realized that the whole room had let out a breath at the confirmation, the air boss sagging in his chair a little. Hondo took in a deep breath; he, too, was shaking a little. 

“C’mon, let’s go home,” he heard Mav say, a little calmer now, “Maverick has the lead, come on.”

The range controllers around him started to get back into their seats, and Hondo felt his heart rate start to come back down again. Then -

“ Shit. Bird strike, bird strike!”  

His heart started hammering abruptly again as a strange thump sounded over the comms, and then his ears were full of yelling -

“Left engine’s out!”

“It’s still spinning, try to restart it -“

“Phoenix, it’s on fire, don’t -“

“Restarting -“

Then a sharp explosion muffled her words, and Hondo’s chest tightened.

“I lost control, I got no response -“

“You can’t save it, you have to eject! Eject, eject!”

Maverick sounded, if possible, even more frantic than before, and something tightened still further in Hondo as it occurred to him, somewhere, that Mav knew, probably better than anyone else, what was and was not salvageable in flight -

Then there were two short explosions, one after the other, that Hondo supposed had to be Phoenix and Bob punching out, and seconds later, the distinct click of loss of comms from the jet. 

“I got two chutes,” he heard Coyote say, a little uncertainly.

“Confirm, two chutes,” repeated Maverick, still hoarse, but clearly trying to regain control. “Tower, this is Dagger, launch search and rescue for Phoenix and Bob. Do you need coordinates?”

“Negative,” came a voice in Hondo’s headset, and he jumped; it was the first time in several minutes that one of the range controllers had spoken. “Thanks, Maverick, but we got their ESATs. Launching SAR. You’re cleared to return.”  The airboss tapped the range controller on the shoulder and whispered something to her, and she nodded, then added, “I have orders from Admiral Simpson that Dagger is not to request a flyby.” 

Hondo felt a short huff escape him that might have been a chuckle if his chest hadn’t been so tight. He looked down; his fingers were still curled around the arm of his chair, his knuckles white, and he slowly tried to relax his hand, forcing his breathing to slow down. The controllers were still talking in the ear of his headset, going through the checklists, for all the world as if this were a normal return to base and the same number of jets were coming back as had taken off. It was, somehow, reassuring to hear the standard procedure run through the same way as every other sortie that day. 

The door banged open, and he jumped; Cyclone and Warlock appeared in it, their faces set and grim, and Hondo found himself reflexively standing at attention along with the rest of the room. He could still hear the voices of the SAR crew in one ear through his headset, even with the range controller explaining what had happened, but he slowly pulled it off as Warlock turned to him. 

“You been in touch with maintenance, Coleman? We’ll need to assess if cycling those jets through that climb could cause any others to have problems.”
“Sir,” he said, mouth dry, “I’ve seen it before, it bends the frame a little, acoustic loads can sometimes mess with the radar and jitter messes with the lasers, but it won’t cause engine failures -”

“We’ll pull the recordings,” interrupted the airboss, holding up a hand, “see if we can hear anything - I thought I heard the bird make contact.”

“Hasn’t been a birdstrike here in years,” said Cyclone darkly, “and I’m not convinced Mitchell’s parameters are achievable. Coleman, you’re supposed to be our test engineering guru, are you sure that cycle stress on the airframe wouldn’t affect the engine?”
Hondo straightened his shoulders, swallowing hard. 

“Pretty sure. At worst you’d get a flow instability from deflection at the inlet, no way would it catch fire.”

He was met only with a curt nod; he didn’t much like the searching look Cyclone gave him, but there wasn’t a lot else to say. 

“We should go, Beau,” he heard Warlock say quietly, “they’ll be getting ‘em back to medical soon.”

Before his brain could re-engage, Hondo heard himself say, “I’ll come too, sir, I can give the jets that just came back a once-over.” He wasn’t quite sure why he had offered that; all he knew was that he didn’t like the idea of Cyclone finding a shaken Maverick alone on the tarmac. 

However, when they finally emerged into the bright sunlight, the flight line was deserted, except for two mechanics running post-flight checklists. 

“Gomez,” Hondo said, his mouth dry, “you look at the ones that just came in yet?”
Gomez shook his head. 

“Nah, sir, they’re down the end. Saw Captain Mitchell, he was walking Machado inside.”

“Probably already heading to medical,” came Warlock’s deep, slow voice over Hondo’s shoulder, and he nodded, the tightness in his shoulders easing slightly. 

“Thanks, Gomez,” he added, before turning back into the sun and shading his eyes for the walk down the flight line. 

He could see it almost as soon as Mav’s jet came into view; there was a dark red spatter right under where it read CAPT PETE “MAVERICK” MITCHELL , and part of the leading edge of the wing had more bird blood, a few feathers stuck in the vanes, and some nameless tarry substance that Hondo didn’t want to think about too hard streaked around it. 

“That’s it, sirs, bird guts all over. Doesn’t look like he sucked it into his engine, but guess it got into Phoenix’s.”

Warlock nodded calmly, his arms folded; Cyclone looked up at the wing, one eyebrow raised. 

“First birdstrike in three years and it takes out a trainer aircraft for this mission,” he muttered. “Thanks, Coleman, anything else at first glance?”

“I’ll hear it from the maintenance chief when they’re done with the inspections, sir,” he answered, hoping his voice sounded steady. Cyclone gave him a brief nod, his expression inscrutable, then scrubbed a hand down his face, letting out a breath. “At least we didn’t lose anyone,” he said, barely audible, and Warlock nodded in assent, reaching out to clap him on the back.

Hondo, too, felt his shoulders relax a little as Warlock prodded Cyclone back in the direction of the hangar, and he followed, grateful not to be the one who had to clean the blood off the jet. It could have been worse. SAR had found Phoenix and Bob in one piece. Maverick and Coyote were both upright, if Gomez was to be trusted. He let out a long breath, looking at the sun sinking lower; they hadn’t lost anyone, and even if Mav was as shaken as he sounded, it would have been worse if Rooster had been up. All things considered, he supposed, they had been lucky.

Chapter Text

It was hot out, even though it was late in the afternoon now . Cyclone and Warlock were exchanging a few terse words about recovering the debris of Phoenix and Bob’s jet, and Hondo followed them on the way to the tower, only half listening as they came into the shade. Even the subpar air conditioning felt good, and he took a deep inhale, feeling his heartbeat slow down. 

They were going down a narrow hallway when Hondo registered that the others had slowed. 

“Hold on, I got a call in the morning I’ll have to rearrange - let me block out my calendar -”

Warlock stopped, and Cyclone held up a hand, opening a door with the other, and Hondo realized belatedly that they were walking past his office. 

“I’ll just be a minute,” he added, and Warlock made a noise of assent, turning instead towards the men’s room on the other side of the hall. Hondo looked uncertainly at Cyclone’s half-open office door, before his eye fell on the vending machine a few feet along. 

He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he was scanning the rows of bottles, and privately grateful his fatigues didn’t show sweat stains, fished in his pocket for a couple of bills. A bottle of Diet Coke thudded in the bottom of the machine, and he was carefully cracking it so it wouldn’t explode when Warlock re-emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants and looking at the office door. Hondo followed his gaze; Cyclone was standing in the doorway, his expression oddly blank. 

“That was SECNAV on the phone just now,” he said, his voice just as inscrutable as his face. “Admiral Kazansky just passed.”

Hondo opened the bottle and took a sip. 

For a beat, everything was silent, then he heard Warlock’s deep, slow voice next to him. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Beau, I know he was a mentor.”

Hondo watched as Cyclone’s face tightened a little and he nodded in acknowledgement, but his own mind seemed to have jammed, the condensation from the chilled bottle leaking over his fingers, his feet somehow glued in place even though the ground was falling away under them. He managed to coordinate both his hands well enough to shakily replace the cap on the bottle before it spilled, though how he managed that when nothing seemed to be stable, he had no idea. Ice was gone. Ice was gone.

Cyclone had run a hand down his jaw, and was saying something to Warlock, but Hondo barely heard him; it felt like he was losing his balance, as if something he hadn’t known he’d been leaning on had been suddenly pulled away. It didn’t feel real, he had just seen him, and though neither he nor Sarah nor Pete had beaten around the bush about the cancer, Hondo had never really thought about what it would mean for him to die. He had been there , sometimes intimidatingly so, since his steely voice had come down the line when Hondo had called Mav’s emergency contact number almost fifteen years ago. 

“Coleman?”

He blinked. Warlock had tapped him on the shoulder and was holding out a pocket-sized tissue packet. He reached up; his face was wet. He took a tissue, mumbling a word of thanks that he wasn’t sure was fully audible, and swiped clumsily at his eyes. Cyclone’s expression had softened slightly, and he cleared his throat. 

“I still have to coordinate recovery of the wreckage,” he said, a little gruffly, “before we can clear the airspace.”

“No rush for you to help, Hondo,” Warlock added, and Hondo felt a rush of gratitude, “that’s not going anywhere, and with all the snarge on Maverick’s jet, anomaly reconstruction’s probably a formality.” 

Hondo nodded as a thought crossed his mind - Mav never took his phone in the air, and if he had walked Coyote to medical straight from the tarmac -

“Uh, sir - I gotta - someone has to tell Mav, he doesn’t have his phone, he should know before they announce -”

“I’m NAWDC commander,” cut in Warlock, his voice firm and steady, “I’ll go talk to Mitchell before I send out the announcement. You take a minute, Coleman, whatever you need. Squad’s dismissed for the rest of the day already.” 

“Let me know when to lower the flags, Sol,” said Cyclone, the lines in his face looking more deeply etched than Hondo had ever seen them, and he squared his shoulders and strode off down the hall. Warlock grasped Hondo’s shoulder briefly, then turned down the hall in the other direction, leaving him alone. 

His breath was still shuddering in his chest a little as he pushed open the door to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, and he looked uncertainly in the mirror. It was a strange feeling, going through the same motions as a couple weeks ago when he had thought Maverick was gone along with Darkstar, only this time, there would be no phone call from the middle of nowhere, no unexpected heroic survival. Cancer hadn’t allowed him a second miracle. SECNAV had confirmed it. The flags were being lowered, if the buzz from his phone signaling a fresh email meant anything. And somewhere, Sarah was making phone calls, and Warlock was talking to Pete. 

Something squeezed a little in his chest, and he wiped his face roughly on the sleeve of his fatigues, straightening up. Mav had sounded strained enough earlier on comms that Hondo had intended to find him anyway, and Ice had asked him for a last favor; he owed him that much. His hands were still shaking slightly, but he tightened the cap on his Coke bottle, squared his shoulders and pushed his way back out of the men’s room in the same direction Warlock had gone. 

He had passed Warlock’s office and the locker rooms when he saw a door open down the end of the hall, letting in the bright sunlight from outside before it slammed shut again; he opened his mouth to shout something, then saw a tall silhouette walking away outside. It wasn’t Mav; it was Bradshaw, his hands in his pockets, and Hondo closed his mouth again when he saw Warlock stepping out of the ready room. He made a gesture as if to reach for Pete’s shoulder in the doorway, then abruptly pulled his hand back, nodded and said something in a low voice that Hondo couldn’t quite hear. Something tightened in his throat as he watched Warlock turn crisply back up the hall towards his office, his expression somehow grimmer than before, and just as he turned into the doorway, Hondo could have sworn he tipped his head back in the direction of the ready room. 

He stepped closer; Pete appeared in the doorway, and glanced down the hallway at the door Rooster had left through before he looked back at Hondo. His expression was frozen, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, and Hondo swallowed hard. Pete gave him a cursory nod, then slumped against the wall, sliding down it until he was sitting on the floor, as if he could no longer hold himself upright, and Hondo found himself sitting down next to him, his own knees still shaky. For a fleeting second, they were back in the hangar bay from barely a week before, and his memory seemed to swim a little, that moment seemingly at once very close and a very long time ago. 

This time, though, Mav wasn’t bothering to hide his face; his eyes were dry, despite the tight, tense lines of his face that looked like he was still bracing himself, as if the news had not yet landed, even though it had. They sat there for a long moment, Hondo wishing vainly for some idea of what he could say. He reached for the Coke bottle next to him, fidgeting with the cap, then nearly jumped when there was a soft throat-clearing noise next to him. 

“Any chance of a sip?”

Pete’s voice was hoarse and oddly distant. Hondo nodded, noticing as he shifted that Pete had leaned some of his weight against his shoulder. 

“Here,” he said hesitantly, “you can finish it, I’m good.”

Mav nodded, taking a long sip and closing his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said, his voice still strangely faraway, “oxygen dries you out up there.” The lines of his face seemed to have deepened, exhaustion in every feature, and Hondo swallowed, hard. 

“You need a real drink?”

The offer sounded lame even to his own ears. Pete shook his head vaguely. 

“No,” he answered, still not meeting his eye, “no, I gotta go see Sarah - they had things they asked me to do. For - for the funeral.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word, but his eyes were still dry, staring off into the distance. Hondo’s own eyes burned a little, but he blinked and nodded in turn. 

“Tell Sarah, if she needs anything -”

“Sure, I’ll tell her.”

Hondo nodded, and they lapsed into silence again, this time not for more than a few minutes before Mav started to get to his feet, moving slowly and hesitantly, then extended a hand to help Hondo up. He didn’t need it, but took it anyway, taking care not to pull on Maverick’s smaller frame; his hand was shaking slightly, but his grip was firm. 

“I better go,” he said again, and he met Hondo’s eye this time. “Thanks for - for the Coke.”

He turned and left through the same door Bradshaw had walked out of, his shoulders hunched inward a little as if trying to protect himself from a blow, and Hondo watched him leave, trying to gather his thoughts. An announcement had gone out to the base, and probably to the fleet. The funeral was no doubt planned to precision. He, too, was dismissed for the day. Mav didn’t want company. There wasn’t anything else for him to do. 

And maybe there wasn’t going to be much else for him to do - the thought had snuck into his brain, and it felt selfish to wonder, but what was going to happen to Maverick now, and to him by extension? Ice had, apparently, overridden Cyclone’s choice of instructor; there was even less justification for Hondo’s presence. Then he shook himself - this was no time to be worried about his job , not when Sarah had lost her husband, not when Mav and Slider’s oldest friend was gone. He slowly made his way out to the parking lot. The sun was going down now, and the headlights of his car flashed at him when he clicked the key fob, his thumb slipping onto the trunk button as he walked up to the door. 

“Dammit - ”

He turned to slam the trunk back down when something caught his eye and he pulled it back open again. The cooler was still in there. The footballs were there, covered in sand. One of them was trapped under the beach chairs that Sarah had fished out for them before Ice had shaken his hand and thanked him for his help. He had meant to return everything, he really had, but it had slipped his mind in the last couple of days, and something rose in his throat as he looked down at the jumbled pile of things. His eyes burned again, and he blinked, but then his eye fell on the KAZANSKY scribbled in Sharpie on the handle of the cooler, and then it was all too much. He fumbled with the door and managed to get it open enough to drop onto the seat, his elbows on his knees, and pulled his glasses off before swiping clumsily at his face, hot tears coming faster than he could stop them. 

It took longer than he wanted to think about to get control back over his breathing, clear his throat and put his glasses back on. The hollow feeling was still there, but he felt steadier now, and had just started his car when there was a buzz from his phone. 

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJ: (No subject)

Something we should talk about, if you have time for a drink. Preferably off base. Text me at 619-810-7323 

Sent from my iPhone.

Baffled, he read the email twice through in quick succession. It didn’t make sense, why Warlock wanted to meet him off base, but even if he had had anything else to do, he sensed that this was not the moment to ignore the NAWDC commander, and hastily copied the number into his messages. His phone lit up barely a second later. 

Hard Deck Bar

51 Half Moon Bend

Coronado, CA 92118

Chapter Text

It was very dark by the time he arrived at the Hard Deck, though the bar was busy, light spilling out from the windows into the tiny parking lot. His was far from the only set of fatigues inside, but he didn’t see anyone he recognized besides Bates. Even Penny wasn’t behind the bar tonight, replaced by an older man with a white ponytail, and he slid onto a stool next to Warlock, who had changed out of his khakis. Probably on purpose, he thought, as Warlock nodded to him and quietly waved to the bartender; even though Hondo could hear the name “Kazansky” in snatches of conversations, no one else appeared to have noticed there was another Admiral there. 

“What’s your poison, Coleman? I’m buying, you look like you could use it.”

“Bourbon,” he started, his voice feeling like he hadn’t used it in a long time, “with rocks. Whatever you got is fine.” 

“You heard the man. And a refill, please.”

The bartender filled a glass with ice and Four Roses, then poured another measure of rum into Bates’ glass, which he raised slightly, turning to Hondo. 

“Here’s to the Admiral,” he said quietly, glancing upward, “fair winds and following seas, sir.” 

“Fair winds and following seas,” echoed Hondo in a low voice, then took a long pull from his glass, looking uneasily back at him. 

They drank in silence for a minute before Warlock started talking again. 

“So. I said I figured Kazansky sent you here with Mitchell for a reason.”

Hondo felt his shoulders tighten slightly. “Uh, sir, I know you have to do what’s best for this mission -” 

“This isn’t about your job, Coleman,” interrupted Bates, raising a hand, “and even if it were I don’t think the maintenance chief would stand for you getting pushed out before they deploy.”

Hondo felt his cheeks warm slightly, and he nodded. 

“Thanks for saying that, sir, but -”

“We’re off base, I’m out of uniform. It seemed like a personal matter to me.”

Hondo felt his eyebrows go up at this, but Warlock continued. 

“Rooster’s not…been making it easy on Maverick in training, but he’s been pretty professional about it - well, as professional as he gets, anyway, his methods can be, ah, unorthodox -”

A small snort escaped Hondo, but Warlock kept talking. 

“- but he and Bradshaw got into it again earlier, and what with Admiral Kazansky passing, too, this time -” Warlock cut himself off, apparently considering, then took in a breath, and started again, lowering his voice. “Look, Coleman, you’re just about the last person left in the Navy who knows him personally, so I’m telling you this in confidence, you hear?”

Something ominous prickled up the back of Hondo’s neck, but he nodded anyway. 

“Door was open, they weren’t keeping their voices down. Bradshaw was asking why Mitchell stood in his way, but I didn’t hear what about - anyway, whatever answer he got, didn’t sound like he liked it - you know what that’s about? He’s been pretty fair with him in training.”

“Uh -” he fought with himself for a second “- that’s - I think - it’s really not for me -”

“It is personal, then,” cut in Warlock, taking another sip and waving his hand, “it’s okay, I don’t need to know what’s not my business.”

“Good,” answered Hondo with some relief, “because I’m not sure I even have the whole story.”

“Kazansky knew?”

He nodded; Ice had tipped his hand years ago. Bates gave a slow nod in turn. 

“More personal’n I thought, then,” he muttered, almost to himself, and Hondo wasn’t quite sure if he was meant to answer that until he started talking again. 

“I don’t need details, Coleman, but is it about Goose?”

Hondo nearly choked on his bourbon. “Uh, not - not really, sir, I don’t -”

“Because,” added Bates, looking into his glass, “he helped teach my TOPGUN class, back in ‘87, and I know it haunted him back then.” He looked at Hondo expectantly. 

“Still does,” he answered, watching him; Warlock hadn’t brought up how he knew Mav before. Hadn’t talked to him this much before, period. 

“I was worried about that,” he answered darkly, throwing back the last of his drink, “because it got ugly between them.”

“Ugly how?” he asked, with more than a little trepidation, and Warlock blew out his cheeks.

“Bradshaw said all kinds of shit. That he wasn’t going to make the mistake his father did with Maverick. Even said no one would mourn him when he burns in, ‘cause he doesn’t have a family - cheap shot, if you ask me -”

“He said what?”

He had spoken more loudly than he had meant to; Warlock’s eyes widened a little, but then his face relaxed, and he nodded. 

“I said it was a cheap shot. He looked like someone’d punched him in the gut. All I could do to tell him Kazansky was gone on top of that.”

Hondo raised his glass again, and drained it, hardly noticing the burn with the heat creeping up his collar. The ice cubes were rattling against each other a little; his hand was shaking. 

“I asked you here to find out if that was as bad as it sounded,” started Warlock again, tipping his head towards the glass that Hondo had set down with more force than was strictly necessary, “and guess it was. Figured you should know, if you’re friends. God knows he needs those.” He muttered the last words, almost under his breath, but Hondo nodded fervently anyway. He looked down; he was still gripping his glass, so tightly his nails had gone white. He took a deep breath, trying to form his thoughts.

“Sir - what -”

“This isn’t the moment to discuss how to finish out the training,” said Warlock, looking down, “Mitchell’s got a couple days’ leave, everything’s on hold for the funeral, anyway, burying an O-10’s no small op - just - thought you should know, and I know you don’t like it, but we do have to consider if a personal issue’s going to affect the training. Nothing’s decided,” he let out a long sigh, “but trust me, Coleman, we’re doing our best here.” 

Hondo nodded, hearing the tone of dismissal. 

“Thanks for the drink, sir, I’d better go.” Warlock held out a hand, and he shook it, once, Warlock’s grip firm in his. 

He hardly watched where he was going, walking blindly through the parking lot, fumbling in his pocket for his key and jabbing furiously at the button on the fob, then nearly ran into his own wing mirror when the headlights flared, almost blinding him. 

“God dammit -” he flung a hand up to shield his eyes, accidentally hitting the button for the car horn at the same time, and a strangled half-yell of anger and frustration seemed to fight its way out as he slammed his hand down on the hood of the car. The sound of the horn merged into the noise of the car alarm. Something in him seemed to boil over, and he kicked the tire of the car, hard enough to hurt, his heart hammering in his throat, then again, and again before he noticed someone staring at him from across the parking lot. He punched the unlock button furiously, his face burning as he hurriedly turned off the alarm and leaned back against the car. He stared blankly out at the black ocean, breathing hard, trying not to think about Pete’s frozen expression from earlier, the way he had held himself, as if expecting someone to hurt him. Warlock had said Bradshaw told Mav no one would mourn him when he burned in. Not if. When. 

His eyes were stinging again, but it was different from before; this time, it matched the anger flaring in his chest. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down enough to drive. It was a good thing, he reflected grimly, that Bradshaw had left the building before he had arrived. 

He was woken from a fitful sleep the next morning by the repeated buzzing of his phone on the nightstand, and blearily flicked it open to the email that had just landed on top of the pile. 

FROM: [email protected]

TO: [email protected] ; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]

CC: [email protected] ; [email protected]  

SUBJECT: ADM Kazansky Funeral - Training Postponed

He scanned the email quickly; it was brief, a simple statement of condolences before explaining that training was canceled that day and the next, and that all sailors were invited to pay their respects. 

His phone buzzed again.

New message from: Pete Mitchell

Mav: Funeral’s tomorrow

Mav: Sarah’s having a wake this afternoon, said to invite you

Mav: nothing formal, no brass, come in civvies

Mav: but could you pick Slider up at the airport around 2?

He typed a response one-handed, reaching for his glasses with the other. 

Hondo: no problem

Mav: thanks

Mav: his number’s 619-233-4626

There were no more bubbles after the abrupt message. It read just like Pete had sounded the day before, closed off, distant. But at least he had something he could actually do, now, and he rolled out of bed to make coffee, saving Slider’s number with one hand. 

It was a weekday. The airport was quiet, and Hondo could see Slider’s tall form through the glass even before he made it out onto the sidewalk. 

“Hi, Ron -”

He was cut off by Ron wrapping him in a hug, his grip just a little too tight as always, but Hondo found himself not really minding; it had been almost a full day since he had spoken to anyone. Slider sniffed a little as he let go, and Hondo turned away, popping the trunk so that he could throw his very worn seabag into the back of the car. 

“‘S good to see you, Hondo,” he said, settling into the passenger seat, “thanks for the ride, I didn’t expect - Ana and I were down in Mexico with her family, she couldn’t come -”

He rubbed at his nose, and Hondo glanced away from the road for a second. He hadn’t seen Slider look like that before, like he had something to be sorry about. 

“I don’t think anyone expected - well -” he began, a little lamely, and Slider nodded.

“Not this soon, anyway,” he said. “I talked to Sarah, she’s handling it like a champ. And it - it was - he wasn’t in any pain, I guess, that’s something.” 

He was looking determinedly out of the window, surreptitiously swiping at his face, and Hondo felt his throat tighten, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“How’s Mav?”

Something lurched inside Hondo, but he kept looking at the road, shrugging a little, and thankfully, Slider seemed to accept this as enough of an answer. 

“Yeah, stupid question, he’s probably doing about as well as I am. And you?”

Hondo stared for a minute out of the windshield, flicking the turn signal; how was he doing? He settled for another shrug and a noncommittal noise, and saw Slider nod out of the corner of his eye, tipping his head back against the headrest. At least the silence was comfortable, he thought absently, as the ocean came into view along the now-familiar road to the Kazanskys’. 

The next couple of hours were a strange blur, from when he pulled up in the driveway that now had several cars crammed into it and Sarah emerged from the garage, looking tired but mostly composed. Slider had engulfed her in a long hug, kissed her on the cheek, and they were whisked into the house. There seemed to be a lot of people there. Two women that Hondo recognized as Sarah’s sisters, even though he hadn’t seen them in years, seemed to be directing operations, dispatching relatives to pick up others at the airport, ironing shirts with one hand with the other wrapped around Rachel’s shoulders, and handing out glasses and pointing at a collection of bottles on the coffee table. Hondo felt almost dizzy, watching people move around him. Hollywood and Wolfman showed up at some point, armed with not one but three Costco vegetable trays, but had barely shaken his hand before they were being pointed to the kitchen. Hondo had been ordered to unload the dishwasher and run the coffeemaker, but now found himself sitting on the couch, Mav next to him and Slider on Mav’s other side.

They had barely moved for a while, at least long enough for his coffee to have gone cold, before the door opened again and Penny appeared, hugging Sarah tightly before she swept around to the coffee table, cocked her head appraisingly at the bottles standing on it, then got out another couple from her bag. 

“Irish courage for your coffee?”

Hondo jumped; he hadn’t expected her to address them. Slider held out his mug with a wry smile, and Penny tipped a healthy measure of Tullamore Dew into it, but Pete shook his head silently. 

“Hondo?”

“His comfort’s usually of the Southern variety,” he heard Pete say, in a slightly croaky tone, and he looked around; that was the first thing he had heard him say for most of the afternoon, and the corner of his mouth twitched as he looked back at Penny. She smiled at him in turn, and fished around in her bag again before coming up with a fifth. 

“You’re in luck,” she said, “bourbon delivery just came in. Buffalo Trace okay?”

He nodded gratefully, but drained his coffee and grabbed a glass before she unscrewed the cap. He wasn’t exactly in the habit of drinking multiple days in a row, but muttered “fuck it” half to himself, half to Penny as she poured a finger into two glasses, clinked them together, and handed him one. The burn gave him something to focus on as he absently watched Penny go over to ask one of Sarah’s sisters what she should help with, then he felt the couch shift under him as Pete got up and followed her. They had just taken the trash and recycling out to the garage, Penny saying something quietly to Pete, when Slider caught Hondo’s eye. 

“Tell me that’s not happening again,” he muttered, with a glance towards the garage door, and Hondo let out a small snort under the cover of the chatter in the room. 

“Yeah, it might actually work this time, who knows,” he answered, following Slider’s gaze, when he saw his eyes narrowing. 

“So, they got something going on,” he said, half under his breath, “and even with that - and Penny’s a good lady - something’s off.” Hondo felt his shoulders tense a little, but Slider kept talking, half to himself, still watching after them. “More than - than Ice going, I mean, he’s not talking, I haven’t seen him eat or drink anything -” he cut himself off, running a hand down his face. “Last time he froze up like that was when the kid left.” He turned abruptly to Hondo, his face tight with worry. “Something go down between ‘em? I know Ice was worried that might blow up.”

Hondo’s mouth went dry. His fingers slipped on the side of his glass. He set it down hurriedly.

“Uh,” he started uncertainly, “I -” he stopped again. Pete hadn’t told him anything. Bates had told him only what he’d overheard. He felt Ron shift a little on the couch next to him, and looked up reluctantly. Slider was looking at him keenly; it wasn’t quite as piercing as Ice’s gaze, but he still seemed to have gathered the worst from Hondo’s expression, and nodded slowly. 

“He actually tell you anything?”

Hondo slowly shook his head, and Ron’s mouth tightened again. 

“Not talking’s not good,” he muttered under his breath, swiping a hand down his face. “I don’t know if it was a good idea, throwing ‘em in together, but -” he let out a shuddering sort of breath. “Ice was pretty firm on that.” 

Hondo let out a sigh in turn, and nodded in agreement, pushing down the strange shot of guilt at the idea of taking issue with Ice’s orders in his own house. At his own wake. He shook himself a little, then picked up his glass again, tipping it back and forth but not really drinking, even as Slider took a large gulp of what now had to be mostly cold Irish coffee. 

“What -“ he wasn’t even sure how to formulate the question. “How’d you - how long did he - act off, last time?”

Slider shrugged. “A while,” he said vaguely. “It’s easier for me if I feel like I can do something, y’know, so I checked in a lot, made him come out for beers, that kind of thing.”

“That what you’re doing here?”

He wished almost instantly that he hadn’t asked, but Ron considered for a second, his eyes growing shiny before they crinkled in a small smile.

“Little bit,” he said, his voice thick, “someone’s gotta step in and look out for shortstack if Ice isn’t -“ his voice shook again, and he looked away. Hondo reached out uncertainly to put a hand on his broad shoulder, and Ron leaned into him, slinging an arm around him in turn. 

“Damn lucky for all of us you’ve been around,” he muttered. “Even if Ice did you no favors this time.”

Hondo gave a slightly wet snort, and Slider rubbed a hand down his face. 

“Ah, well, it’s too soon to get mad at him for it, I guess. C’mon, it’ll make us feel better if we go try to help again, even if Sarah’s sisters are running this ship with an iron fist.” 

He had only been to one other wake, but still, this one seemed unusually busy. Even Cyclone had dropped in, accompanied by two notification officers, and conferred briefly with Sarah about some details of the funeral - Hondo supposed he, too, had some role to play as base commander - but had only stayed long enough to express awkward condolences to the living room, his eyes flicking over to Hondo and Maverick in the corner. Not long after that, Viper, his hair nearly all white now, had shown up to make a brief toast for Tom. Hondo could see Pete’s face tighten at his words, but he raised his glass dutifully anyway, before Viper had pulled him into a hug and ruffled his hair, clapped Slider on the shoulder, and stepped back out of the door. Finally, Danny had arrived after Wolfman had been sent to pick him up, his shoulders and jaw broader than when Hondo had last seen him, and once he had hugged his mother, that seemed to be the cue for them to leave the family in peace. The whole afternoon had slid by with Hondo feeling distinctly out of place in a house full of grief, no matter how many times Sarah and her family had thanked him for coming, and he left for his housing hoping very much that attending the funeral would feel less intrusive. 

The next morning felt similarly hazy, as if time was still running on its own schedule, but at least this time he had orders. His blues were still wrinkled from the hurried packing job he had done leaving China Lake, but ironing them with the beat-up ironing board he had unearthed in his temporary housing was oddly soothing. There was something calming about the long-practiced motion, the one thing he had had to know how to do no matter what the Navy said his job was. And anyway, Ice had more than earned whatever small honor it was for Hondo to show up at his funeral in a pristine uniform, no matter how unsure he was about the other favor he had asked. 

It felt easier in the strange drift of the morning to have a time to show up, a required dress, even a link to the SOP for the order of service, and it was easier still to melt into the dark crowd of service dress blues at Miramar National Cemetery, like he was part of a smoothly oiled machine. He spotted Phoenix, Bob and Fanboy getting out of the old blue Bronco he recognized from the beach, then saw Rooster getting out of the driver’s seat, and quickly looked away. Bob, however, had spotted him, and the rest of the aviators fell into step with him, talking quietly to each other but mercifully not to him. He had no idea how long they were there, as more sets of blues and somberly dressed civilians filled out the crowd, until he spotted the flag-draped casket being carried across the grass. 

It seemed right, he thought, watching as seven enlisted men fired three volleys in perfect unison, as white-gloved hands folded the flag and Cyclone handed it to Sarah; everything was clean, moving like clockwork, the way it should, no mistakes. With a jolt, he realized Maverick was standing next to Sarah, with Ice’s kids, Slider just behind him in a dark civilian suit - but then again, Ice had told him to his face that Mav was as good as his shithead little brother. Someone was shifting near him, and he saw Phoenix looking curiously at Bradshaw, who was staring unblinkingly at the funeral party, and Hondo wondered, somewhere, if things had been different, if there would have been a place for him there too. 

Finally, he saw Pete step forward to the casket, gazing down at the finish on the wood, and for a second, Hondo thought his expression might crack, that he might not hold it together this time - then he reached for the wings pinned to his chest, managed to undo them, set them on the wood, and landed a single blow that drove them home. His eyes were shiny as he raised a salute, but his face was still determinedly set as he made a clean about-face and walked away slowly. Slider touched him lightly on the arm before stepping up in turn to the casket, taking a set of wings from his pocket, and driving them into the wood. Viper followed him, and after that, a few other officers started stepping up to the casket, either tacking their own wings to it or simply saluting. The crowd started to slide apart as the missing man formation roared overhead. 

Something about the sound of the jets made his throat tighten; it was over. That was it. He found himself following a line of officers paying their respects up to the casket, uncertainly looking at the shiny wood, then reached out and brushed it lightly with his hand, wary of leaving fingerprints on the surface. They had already talked, and he had nothing left to say, even if he could have trusted his voice, so he stepped back, saluted the casket, and swallowed hard, schooling his face, trying to remind himself he was in uniform.

He caught Rooster’s eye as he turned away; his expression looked lost, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, and Hondo tried to suppress a prickle of anger, turning away quickly as he saw Sarah walking up to Bradley. He felt a shot of relief when he saw Slider wave at him, and started walking in his direction. Mav, too, had spotted Slider, and Hondo watched as Slider wiped at his face before wrapping him in a bear hug, looking as if he might lift him clean off the ground before Mav flinched slightly and said something Hondo couldn’t hear. His eyes, too, were red, but his face was dry, as if he had made sure no one could see him shed any tears. Hondo’s throat was still tight, but it eased slightly as Slider released Mav with a kiss to the side of his head, under his cover, and pulled Hondo in turn into a one-armed hug. 

“We should go,” said Slider, his voice thick as he straightened up. “Sarah’s going home with Danny and Rachel, they’re sitting shiva -” he nodded towards where the three of them were walking away, Danny’s arm around his mother “- and Wood ‘n Wolf went to hold down some tables at the Hard Deck.” Hondo nodded, and Mav shifted a little next to him. 

“I - wait for me a minute, would you?” His voice was easily as choked as Slider’s, and they nodded as Mav held up a hand and started walking back toward the clusters of people, looking down, his shoulders hunched and his hands deep in his pockets. 

“Hey,” Hondo heard Slider say. “Why’s he following him?”

He looked up, and followed his gaze. Rooster appeared to be searching the crowd. 

“I don’t -”

“How bad did it get , Hondo?” Slider’s tone had sharpened, and Hondo hesitated, trying to work out where the line was. 

“He - he said some shit about - about not making the mistake Goose did with Mav,” he said, turning his head as Slider let out a low growl. 

“He did not, that little -” Slider covered his face in his hands, then dropped them. “ Shit , I know why he’s pissed, but that’s un-fuckin’-called for - dammit, I think he’s going after him -” 

In the face of Slider’s agitation, Hondo privately decided it was probably for the best that he hadn’t told him the rest of what Warlock had overheard; the combination of anger and disappointment on his face was more than enough already, but now Rooster seemed to have spotted Mav, and had started towards him -

“Hold on a sec,” he grunted, holding up a hand. 

Bradshaw was taller than him, and Hondo had to walk quickly to catch up, but he managed to put himself squarely in his path, his heart hammering as he looked into his face. 

“Uh -” he looked a little thrown at Hondo’s sudden appearance. “Uh, hi, Hondo, have you seen -”

“Where do you think you’re going?” The words came out more sharply than he had meant. 

“I’m - I’m looking for Mav, I wanted to -” Bradshaw suddenly looked very uncertain, and Hondo took advantage of his silence. 

“ Nope,” he said forcefully. “He doesn’t need one more damn thing on him today, you hear?”

The familiar stubborn look came over his face. “I just want to - I don’t know - just talk -”

“You don’t get to try ‘n make yourself feel better, Bradshaw - I’m sorry, Lieutenant Bradshaw -” he could hear an edge to his own voice, and fought with himself, remembering that Bradshaw was technically a superior officer “- not now, not today.”

Bradshaw looked taken aback at his tone, but something told Hondo he wasn’t about to get dinged for insubordination, and he pressed on, jabbing his finger at Rooster’s chest. 

“You listen to me, and you listen good,” he started, feeling a surge of heat behind his eyes, “you’re gonna take whatever shit you got going on, put it in a box, and square it away until after this goddamn mission, you got it? Do not fuck with him, or so help me, I will -” he managed, with an effort, to stop himself before he veered into a threat, but the message appeared to have landed, Bradshaw shrinking a little in front of him. A muscle was jumping in his jaw, then he looked down, muttering, “Understood, sir.”

It was Hondo’s turn to be surprised; he had expected more pushback. He nodded, once, then turned to leave. In the distance, Viper had his head tilted towards Maverick, talking to him with a serious expression. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

The question caught him off guard, and he wheeled around, looking at Bradshaw, who was looking at him as if trying to place him in his memory. He looked at him for a long second. 

“Because people would mourn him if he burned in.” 

He took a moment, watching his words sink in, taking a certain amount of satisfaction in the mingled fear and realization creeping into Rooster’s expression, then turned to leave again, leaving him standing there alone.

Chapter Text

The next day dawned much too early. It felt like the bourbon from the post-funeral toast hadn’t quite finished drowning his sorrows, and he was grateful for the small mercy of the clouds covering the usually bright California morning. It took two very strong cups of coffee before the dust was clearing from his eyes and his head, and the gears in his brain slowly ground back into motion. Cyclone’s email had allowed for one more day off. He supposed that meant him, too, though after that - Warlock had seemed confident he was going to be staying through the rest of his scheduled temporary restationing, he supposed, but Mav -

As if on cue, his phone let out a loud buzz, and he jumped, snatching it before it could vibrate itself off the counter. 

New Message from: Pete Mitchell

Mav: I need your help

His thumbs typed an answer almost on autopilot. 

Hondo: sure

Hondo: with what

Mav: …

There was a long pause. Bubbles appeared, then disappeared again. Hondo was just turning back to his coffee when there was finally another buzz. 

Mav: can you meet me on the flight line

He stared at the message for a second, then typed a response. 

Hondo: training doesn’t start again until tomorrow

Mav: i know

Mav: …

The message had come in almost immediately this time, and the bubbles didn’t last more than a few seconds.

Mav: whenever you’re free

Mav: …

Mav: please

Hondo looked down at the message for a few seconds, hesitating; his service dress blues were still hanging on the hook on the door in the corner of his eye. 

Hondo: ok

Hondo: gimme an hour

The building was silent as he walked through, following the long hallways down to the hangars. It felt too quiet, like the whole building was holding its breath, even as he stepped outside by the hangar to the end of a long row of jets. 

“Oh, there you are - thanks for coming, Hondo, really,” he heard Pete say, and he jumped, turning to see him emerging from between two of the planes. 

“No problem,” he said, feeling his brow crease; Pete looked as if he’d barely slept, his eyes red-rimmed. “What d’you need?” 

Maverick didn’t answer immediately, and Hondo felt something shift uneasily in him as Mav looked down at his feet, then back up at the jet next to him, which Hondo belatedly realized was his, CAPTAIN PETE “MAVERICK” MITCHELL painted neatly on the side. 

“I need my jet through maintenance by tomorrow morning,” he started, still not meeting his eye, “and I need it fueled.” 

Hondo stared at him. “Uh, okay,” he started, “but maintenance chief’s not back on until tomorrow, all the techs got the day off, too, so you’ll -”

“No. Not them. I know it’s below your pay grade, but if you were out of practice they’d never let you touch ‘em to help out. It should be fine, regular checklist stuff, but I can’t get it fueled myself.” 

“ Yourself - what the hell, Mav, I’m not supposed to be doing that without the chief here, never mind you -”

“It can’t wait, Hondo,” Pete interrupted him, finally meeting his gaze, and there was something burning behind his eyes that Hondo hadn’t seen before. Something prickled up the back of his neck. “I need it before oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. Got a demo to run.”

“What - ” Hondo didn’t even know what question he meant to ask, but Mav held up a hand to stop him anyway. 

“Can you do it or not?”

“It’s not about if I can - why the hell can’t it just wait another few hours?” He looked at him for a long second; Mav looked down, avoiding his gaze. 

“Are you trying to pull an unauthorized flight ?” 

Maverick looked off to the side, a muscle in his jaw jumping. 

“Cyclone’s taking over the training. Doesn’t think it’s feasible to do it with my parameters.”

“He taking you off flight status?” 

Mav didn’t answer, just reached up and ran a hand over the nose of the jet. 

“Cyclone’s not wrong. All I taught ‘em is that they can’t do it. Longer they don’t think it can be done, the longer they’ll hold back, and they can’t , caution ruins good flying -”

Something clicked in Hondo’s brain. “So you’re running a demo to show ‘em they can? Of the whole mission? We talked about this, about not doing too many full runs in the jets, you know what happened to the airframe last time you pulled those kinds of Gs multiple times in one flight, and if you don’t have permission, well..”

Mav shook his head slowly. “Gotta be done.” His voice had lowered, as if he was grinding out his words, and Hondo felt his shoulders stiffen in response. 

He cleared his throat, hesitating a little, trying to sound reasonable. “These things aren’t disposable , Mav, that’s a sixty-five million dollar jet, if you ruin it without permission we’re not just talking about a discharge, we’re talking about five to ten in Leavenworth and I don’t know if I can -”

“So I should just let ‘em die?” Mav interrupted, his tone rougher now, and Hondo took an involuntary step back. “I should just let ‘em take the easy way in, expose themselves to the SAMs just because Cyclone didn’t want me to do a demonstration?”

“No - that’s not what I -” Hondo stammered a little. “I know Cyclone’s a hardass but he’s not a bad guy, you go to him and ask if you can run a demo, hell, you could do it in the sim without his permission -”

“That won’t be enough!”

“It’ll have to be!” 

Hondo heard his own voice, nearly a shout, ring off the side of the hangar, Mav in front of him, breathing heavily. He met his gaze again, and Hondo almost wanted to step back again; there was a burning intensity in his expression that wasn’t quite anger, that he couldn’t quite place. 

“If you’re not gonna help me, I’ll figure it out. You wanna make sure I don’t die doing it, you can stick around.” His tone was almost menacing, now, and Hondo bristled a little; Pete had never asked him to do something that would fuck up his career. He straightened up, a little nervously. 

“No. I’m sorry, Pete, I know you’re worried, but I can’t let you do that, this is the rest of my life we’re talking about - yours too -”

“If it’s my ass, it’s my ass. You can leave anytime you want,” Mav gestured irritably back to the door into the main building, and for a moment, Hondo considered it, considered leaving, and forgetting the whole conversation - but if he did, and something went wrong -

He steeled himself, and turned back towards him, trying to control the prickle of anger. “Ice gave me orders to watch your six - ”

Pete tipped his head back with a groan of frustration. 

“Ice is gone, Hondo -”

“Yeah, well,” interrupted Hondo, feeling heat rising behind his eyes as he met Mav’s gaze with a glare, “he knows - he knew I wasn’t doing it for him.”

Pete fell silent, his chest still heaving, and some of the anger seemed to leak out of his face, but the burning intensity remained. Hondo held his gaze, his face still hot, but as he glared, something seemed to shift in Pete’s expression. With a jolt, he realized it was fear. It wasn’t something he’d seen before from him, but now it was raw, almost desperate. 

They stood there for a second, Hondo feeling the heat recede slightly from under his collar. Then Mav looked down, turning away for a second and swiping a hand over his face. 

“Warrant Officer Coleman,” he started, his voice rough but insistent, “I need you to get this jet through maintenance and fueled before tomorrow. That’s an order .” He ground out the last words, and Hondo felt himself straighten up instinctively, even as his eyes widened. In thirteen years, Maverick had not once given him an order. 

He had barely had time for this thought to filter through his brain before Mav had looked back up again, clearing his throat uncertainly. 

“Cyclone didn’t send the email yet, about taking over the training,” he said, under his breath, a slight pleading note in his voice, “nothing to say you knew it wasn’t a lawful order. You’re in the clear.” 

Hondo swallowed, and finally met his eye; it was a fair point, he wasn’t heading for a UCMJ violation, even if Mav was, but something still stung. 

“Yes, sir, ” he answered, laying emphasis on the last word. Mav nodded, once, his jaw set, then looked away again. Hondo stood uncertainly for a second, then turned on his heel and stalked over to get the log for the jet. 

He arrived the next morning with a feeling of trepidation resting on his shoulders, avoiding eye contact with everyone he passed, not looking over to the maintenance chief as he passed the hangar. Pete hadn’t spoken to him since the day before. Now, though, his anger had faded slightly, replaced with the growing unease. Maverick didn’t seem to care anymore about staying in the Navy, even about staying out of federal prison, and Hondo had practically handed him more than enough rope to hang himself with. He blinked a little, avoiding Ice’s steely gaze from his picture that still hung in the lobby, before sliding as unobtrusively as he could into the classroom. 

The aviators were chatting, already in their flight suits, perhaps a little more subdued than normal, but maybe that was Hondo’s imagination. More than a few of them were gazing out the window at the clouds gathering on the horizon, speculating about the hops later. He snuck a glance at Rooster, who seemed to be in his own world, gazing aimlessly at the empty podium at the front of the room, the frozen screen displaying a rendering of the canyon. 

They had just started murmuring about why Maverick was late when the door opened, and Cyclone and Warlock swept into the room. Hondo swallowed, looking forward as Warlock called them to attention, then handed the floor to Cyclone, sitting calmly down in front of Hondo. He shifted a little in his seat, only half listening to Cyclone; whatever Mav was planning, he hadn’t done it yet.

“...as your instructor, I will be revising the mission parameters. Time to target will be four minutes, and you will enter the canyon at reduced speeds. This will expose you to the SAMs, but you’ll avoid the high-G climb out.”

“But, sir,” he heard Phoenix interject, “we might run out of chaff before we even reach the target -”

“It’s a reasonable risk against not making it through that canyon to begin with, Lieutenant,” responded Cyclone, but far from falling silent, the room was now erupting with questions. 

“We’ll be giving enemy fighters time to intercept,” added another voice, and Hondo looked up; Phoenix pushing back he could see, but Rooster?

“Well, Lieutenant, you have a fighting chance in a dogfight. What do you think your chances are in a head-on collision with a mountain?”

This time, Cyclone’s quelling tone had the desired effect, and the room fell silent again, Rooster’s jaw clenching, his expression stubborn from what Hondo could see. 

Then the air traffic control audio crackled to life from the speaker next to the screen, and Hondo could have sworn the whole room jumped. 

“Maverick to range control, entering point Alpha.”  

Hondo could feel every hair on his body standing on end, straining his ears. 

“Confirm green range, but sir, I don’t see an event scheduled for you today.”

“Well, I’m going anyway.”

Hondo could see a muscle jumping in Cyclone’s jaw as he turned towards the screen; the animation had sprung to life, a tiny green jet blinking towards the start point. Despite the frozen feeling in every one of his limbs, Hondo had to admire Mav’s attention to detail. He hadn’t asked for help with the classroom comms; this had to have been something he had set up early in the morning. 

“Set time to target at 2:15. Maverick inbound.”

If the air traffic controller answered, Hondo didn’t hear it, not with the surprised muttering rising through the classroom. The countdown timer on the screen flicked from 4:00 to 2:15, even as Payback’s voice audibly came through, saying “Two-fifteen, that’s impossible.”

Maverick had, apparently, not heard him, and Hondo held his breath as the animation showed a jet pulling through the tight turns of the canyon, the G readout showing 5.6, then 6.8, then back down to 5.3, even as the timer counted down faster than it seemed like it should. 

“Popping in three - two - one -”

Mav was breathing heavily as the G readout suddenly went negative and the animated jet inverted, then -

“Bombs away -”

The timer was ticking down, three seconds, two seconds -

A sharp beep sounded from the animation indicating a strike on target, followed a second later by a distant boom , and the room erupted again. 

“Bullseye - holy shit -”

“Nice,” he heard Phoenix say appreciatively under her breath, and Hangman apparently caught her eye, nodding in agreement. He could just see Rooster, staring at the screen as if carved from ice, and hastily looked down; he was gripping the back of the seat in front of him so hard his nails had gone white. As he shifted his gaze, he could have sworn he saw Warlock pump a fist in silent triumph, but the moment he looked up, he was looking impassively forward again. 

Then the room fell silent. Cyclone had raised a hand to the babble, his expression positively incensed as his eyes swept over the room. Hondo swallowed, but to his immense relief, his gaze didn’t linger on him. 

“Excuse me, Lieutenants,” he said, his voice constricted with anger, “I need to go to the tower and request that Captain Mitchell bring that aircraft down, now . Admiral Bates -”
“I got it, Beau,” he heard Warlock answer calmly, getting up out of his seat. He went to the podium as Cyclone stalked out, and again Hondo felt a distinct squirm as Warlock, too, looked across the room, but there was something that looked distinctly like amusement in his expression. He could have sworn that Warlock quirked an eyebrow questioningly at him, but as soon as he registered it, it was gone, Warlock now calmly explaining that because of some weather patterns moving in, their afternoon hops were canceled and they would be training in the sims. 

Hondo stopped listening; his body was only just starting to feel like his again. He tried to take a deep breath, then realized he hadn’t fully let go of the one he had been holding. It had to have been several minutes before he realized that the room had mostly emptied, that the aviators were leaving for the flight simulators with Rooster picking at his nails while he made for the door. 

“Coleman? You good?”

Warlock’s slow voice cut through his stunned brain. He got up, a little stiffly. 

“Yessir, fine.”

“Seems to me,” he heard him say quietly, after glancing towards the door, “that Mitchell would’ve had a hell of a time getting his jet through maintenance by himself, ‘specially with the techs off yesterday.”

Hondo froze, halfway to the door, his heart pounding. 

“Ah, well, he always did like us to know how everything worked, made our whole TOPGUN class go through a maintenance training shift. Guess he could figure it out, even if he’s not qualified to sign off on it.”

Hondo nodded, slowly, not fully trusting himself to speak, hoping Warlock would leave it -

There was a short buzz, and Warlock fished his phone from the pocket of his khakis. 

“You’ll have to excuse me, Coleman, Admiral Simpson’s asking me to meet him in his office. Have to see where we go from here.” 

He gave Hondo a wink that he was nearly sure he had imagined, clapped him on the shoulder, and left the room nearly before Hondo could process the dismissal. 

It was several seconds before Hondo registered that he was alone in the room, that no one had said a thing to him about helping Maverick, and that Warlock was apparently prepared to look the other way. He leaned against the doorframe for a second, trying to stop the shaking in his knees, and taking a few deep breaths, then nearly jumped out of his skin when Warlock reappeared in the door. 

“Any chance you could go help the ground crew tie down the jets outside? We’re getting some strong winds blowing in with the rain.”

He nodded, squared his shoulders, and followed him out of the room. His legs seemed to be carrying him without too much direction, down the long hallways and through the hangar to the flight line. A number of the jets were already inside the hangar bays, the technicians buzzing around them, and then he saw a lone aircraft taxiing in, and something flared in his chest. He accepted a set of tie-downs from the maintenance chief with a muttered word of thanks, and stalked over to the plane, even as Maverick climbed out of it, his movements slow and tired. 

“Hondo,” he heard him start, but he cut him off.

“We gotta tie down the jets, Captain. Weather pattern’s moving in.”

Mav nodded, and held out a hand. Hondo slapped a ratchet strap into it without looking at him. 

“Hondo, I owe you an apology.” 

He didn’t answer; from his position by the wing, he could distinctly see a slight bend in the joint that hadn’t been there yesterday. 

“Hondo, please -”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” he interrupted. “Airframe’s bent.”

“Think you can fix her?”

He let out a noncommittal grunt. 

“Hondo, I’m -”

“You’re sorry ?”

The words came out more sharply than he had meant. Pete had ducked under the wing, and was looking at him now, turning his helmet over in his hands. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I should never have asked you to do something like that, you worked too hard to get here, and I abused our friendship.”

“Damn right you did,” he said, but he could feel the anger leaving his voice now. “I didn’t want to break my promise to Ice. Not like that.” 

“You didn’t,” Pete said, and he could hear an attempt at reassurance, “trust me, Ice helped me with worse -”

“I told him I’d watch your back, help keep you in the Navy.” 

Pete looked down, running a hand through his sweaty hair. 

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” he muttered, “I did what I had to. They needed to see it. ‘M not stupid, Hondo, I know what happens to me now.”

“You better hope the JAG’s in a good mood.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he answered, with a shrug, though Hondo could see his shoulders slump a little. “Someone was gonna push me out eventually. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t go down with me.”

Hondo’s throat tightened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Pete started again before he could. 

“I know it’s not an excuse, Hondo, I just - I never wanted to fuck up your life. He’s - it’s not your -”

“Yeah, I know, Pete,” he said heavily, “just - don’t do that again.”

Pete let out a dark snort. 

“Pretty sure I won’t have the authority to do that anymore.” 

Hondo swallowed; his throat was tightening still further now. 

“I’ll come visit you in Leavenworth.” He had meant it to sound joking, but it didn’t. Mav gave him a wry smile. 

“You’re a better man than I am, Hondo,” he said, his voice a little rough, then followed Hondo’s gaze, looking back under the wing towards the hangar; Warlock was standing there, apparently in expectation, his arms crossed over his chest. Hondo heard his throat click in a swallow, then Pete had wrapped him in a brief, one-armed hug, ducked under the wing, and squared his shoulders before starting across the tarmac to where Warlock was waiting. 

Chapter Text

Hondo could hear the maintenance chief shouting something indecipherable over the wind, but kept tying down planes, his cover rolled up and shoved in his pocket so it wouldn’t blow away. A couple raindrops landed on his face. He looked up. The clouds were darker now, almost angry-looking, and he hurriedly tightened the last ratchet strap he had before starting back towards the hangar from the flight line. 

He had only just made it inside when the maintenance chief tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Uh, sir, you know what Captain Mitchell was up to? Only we gotta rearrange the scheduled maintenance for tomorrow -”

Hondo let out a sigh, feeling his shoulders drop a little. 

“He ran the whole mission sequence at once, pulled too many Gs and bent the frame.”

The chief was muttering something under his breath and Hondo gave a short, humorless chuckle. 

“Don’t worry, I don’t think you’ll have to be in a rush to fix it,” he said darkly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him raise an eyebrow, and clenched his jaw shut, looking firmly out at the rain now starting to fall in earnest.

“Fuckin’ test pilots,” he added, under his breath, “never know when to quit.” 

“He done this before?”

Hondo gave a brief nod, clearing his throat. “I can give your guys a hand fixing it.”

“Much appreciated, sir,” he heard him answer, and he gave another nod as the chief turned away, typing out an email on his phone. Hondo kept staring outside, hardly seeing the storm; it felt like his mind was flicking between the countdown timer on the classroom screen, the bent wing joint, Mav’s tired expression. Something was buzzing in his brain, making him go in circles over and over about what was going to happen next. Mav was probably looking at a dishonorable discharge. Ice was gone. Darkstar wouldn’t be resuming testing for a while; maybe he could get sent back for anomaly reconstruction. He wondered idly how long it would be before he was back out in the desert.

He didn’t realize how long he had been standing there until raindrops were flecking his glasses, blown inside by the wind, and he hastily retreated. He had almost made it all the way back to the classroom when several of the aviators appeared, apparently freshly out of the simulators, talking animatedly. 

“- what do you think’s gonna happen?”

“It’s gotta be a court-martial, he stole a whole-ass F/A-18 - at least, I think he did, no way did Cyclone give permission for him to do that -”

Hondo instinctively moved to the side as they came down the hallway, but Bob had already spotted him, raising an uncertain salute, which he returned with a subdued chuckle. 

“You don’t have to salute me, Bob, technically, you outrank me .”

There was a snort from somewhere behind Bob, and he gave Hondo a small smile before turning to roll his eyes at Yale. 

“C’mon, man, everyone knows the Warrant Officers’re worth more to the Navy than we are.”

“Fair point,” agreed Payback with a nod, looking hopefully at Hondo. “Uh, sir - Hondo - do you know what’s happening now? Admiral Bates had us in a few sim runs for the original parameters, but Admiral Simpson never got back to us about the training -”

Hondo looked uncomfortably around. All of them were looking earnestly back at him, except for Rooster, whose face he couldn’t quite see behind Payback’s tall frame. He swallowed. 

“I - look, y’all know as much as I do,” he started, holding his hands up, “for better or worse, everyone’s shipping out end of the week, so best I can say is you better be ready.” 

He could see Bradshaw shifting his weight, and flicked his gaze over to him, but he was looking down at the ground. There was a murmur of assent from the group; Fanboy looked distinctly nervous, but nodded with the rest of them. Phoenix had lifted her chin and was looking him appraisingly in the eye. 

“Warlock said you were holding a lot of things together behind the scenes,” she said, and Hondo let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he hadn’t been so tense. 

“Yeah, guess so. Y’all might’ve guessed this isn’t my usual job.”

“Thanks, then,” she said with a small nod, “for everything.” There were a few added “thanks, Hondo”s scattered among the aviators, and he nodded appreciatively at them. 

“No problem, you got hard things to do, might as well help. Sorry about the pushups.”

“Eh, that’s Payback’s fault,” interjected Coyote, clapping a hand onto Payback’s shoulder; Hangman snickered, and Hondo found himself cracking a reluctant smile. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

The gaggle of flight suits filtered around past him, and Rooster caught his eye for a second, his expression uncomfortable, opening his mouth as if hesitating to say something. Hondo raised an eyebrow at him, and he shut his mouth and looked away, speeding up a little to catch up to the rest. 

His things were exactly where he had left them, in the back of the classroom, where the windows were rapidly darkening. He drained his water bottle, set it down next to his laptop, then jumped a little as a very loud roll of thunder rattled the windows. 

“Sorry,” he heard a hoarse voice say, and he startled again, spinning around to see Pete standing in the doorway. 

“Not you, you’re fine, thunder caught me,” he said, letting out a breath, feeling his heartbeat start to slow back down. “You -” he started uncertainly. “You’re not - Pete, I’m kinda surprised to see you not in cuffs right now.” 

Pete let out a humorless snort, shoving his hands into the pockets of his flight suit, moving a little stiffly again.  

“You and me both.”

“What -” he stopped himself. “Cyclone haul you in?”

There was a long pause; he could just see Pete’s face tightening as he looked out the window at the rain now hammering the glass. He gave a short nod, but didn’t say anything for a second. 

“Mav?”

“Yeah,” he heard him say, his voice sounding a little faraway, “reamed me out for a good ten minutes before he told me he was making me team leader.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Hondo shook himself. 

“He what?”

“You heard me.”

“Did I hear you right? ”

“Yep.”

Something was chilling him from the inside, and he shivered a little. “You - you sure about this?”

Pete’s expression was still distant, but oddly calm as he met his eye. 

“Better we send five of them, ‘stead of six. Cyclone wants me out anyway, this way’s better.”

“Mav -” he started, then stopped, unsure what to say. Maverick didn’t look scared, the way he had the day before. His face was taut, but his eyes were clear as he looked back at him. 

“It’s what I’d do. Doesn’t make sense to leave behind the guy they know can do it in time.”

His voice was still unnervingly calm. Even though his words made sense, something was prickling up the back of Hondo’s neck. 

“Thought you didn’t want to fly in combat anymore?”

“Didn’t say I wanted to. I said it’s better if I do.”

Hondo swallowed; he had no answer to that. Pete’s tone had a note of finality to it, as if it was inevitable, and he wondered for a second if he shouldn’t have seen this coming. After a minute, he found his voice again. 

“You, uh, shipping out with the rest of ‘em, then?” His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. Pete nodded slowly, his eyes sliding back out to the window. 

They stood for a minute, Hondo not really seeing the rain hitting the window. Maverick would be flying. On a mission he’d already said not everyone would come back from. In place of one of the others. 

Mav cleared his throat, interrupting his thoughts. “You getting sent back to Skunkworks?”

“Uh,” he started, “I - I don’t know. I guess so. No new orders yet.”

Mav hummed in acknowledgement. “Sorry you got dragged out here.”

“What - don’t -” Hondo paused. “Don’t apologize. Wasn’t you, anyway.” 

He heard Mav’s throat click in a swallow.

“I asked Ice to send me. Instead of him. He’d be a little pissed I actually made it happen.” 

Hondo let out a small snort. 

“You think?”

“Ah, who knows. Not like he sent me here to play it safe.” 

“No one who’s met you has ever done that.” 

Mav let out a subdued chuckle. “Guess not. Speaking of, I’m sorry about the jet. Hope you don’t get stuck fixing it.”

“Probably will - and I’m still mad at you for that - but you gotta go on another carrier deployment so guess you’re getting what’s coming.” 

“Yeah, I know what’s coming for me.” 

His words hung in the air for a second; Hondo felt his shoulders tighten involuntarily, then Mav cleared his throat. 

“I don’t know if you could -” he stopped abruptly. “Forget it, I can’t ask - anyway. I owe you a drink before then.” 

“You owe me a whole damn bar by now,” said Hondo, “but sure.”

“I’ll text you.”

Pete had already disappeared through the door when Hondo’s phone buzzed. It was an email from the maintenance chief, asking if he could come back and walk him through what had been done the last time Maverick had bent the frame of an F/A-18. 

Before he could make it to the hangar, however, he was interrupted by a door opening just as he passed it in the hallway. It was Warlock, sticking his head out halfway. 

“Oh, good, I was hoping I’d catch you. A word?”
Hondo nodded with some trepidation; he wasn’t exactly used to getting good news from Warlock, who was now shutting the door behind him. 

“Look, when Admiral Kazansky told us he was sending Mitchell, he was pretty clear that it’d go better if we brought you in too, and he wasn’t wrong,” he started.

“Thank you, sir -”

“Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t an order, Coleman, but like I said, you’re probably the only actual friend he’s got left in the Navy. We can’t really afford any more risk than we already have for this mission. Would you be willing to fly out to the carrier with us?”

“Uh -” Hondo looked at him, a little thrown.

“For, uh, moral support. Maverick did say your ongoing project was in a bit of a holding pattern.”

“It is.”

“Like I said, it’s not an order. I’m asking as a favor. I know you haven’t done sea duty in years -”

“Okay,” he interrupted, more quickly than he had meant, and Warlock’s eyebrows went up. “I mean - yes, sir, I’ll go, it’s only a week, right?” Truthfully, he had been very grateful to be assured of stateside postings, but there was something about Mav’s unnervingly calm voice that was sticking in his mind. He could put up with a week on a carrier. 

Warlock met his eye, then let out a breath. 

“I’ll be honest, Coleman, this is not a mission I’d wish on anyone to manage. I know you’re not doing it for me, but it relieves some of the pressure, so thank you. You’ll get orders with details in your email.”

Hondo nodded, looking at him again. There were deep circles under his eyes that mimicked Mav’s, and Cyclone’s, as if the strain was starting to get to him. He swallowed. 

“Not a problem, sir. Gotta be better these days, anyway.”

“Only thing that’s better is the coffee since they started shipping Starbucks out there,” grunted Warlock. “Thank you, again, we’ll see about getting you some extra leave time after this.” He held out a hand, and Hondo shook it. He disappeared back through the door, and Hondo stood there for a second, absorbing what he had just agreed to. 

He found himself unexpectedly grateful to be spending the rest of the afternoon methodically inspecting different components of Maverick’s half-disassembled jet. It was comfortingly familiar, going through repair checklists, and he was idly wondering if there would be any work to help with on the boat when his phone buzzed, twice, insistently. 

Mav: Hard Deck at six

Mav: ?

It was more crowded for a weeknight than he had expected, a football game playing on the TV in a corner and a huddle around the pool table that looked to be made up entirely of overexcited NROTC cadets. The same white-haired man from the other night was behind the bar, Penny nowhere to be seen, and Mav waved to him from the bar. 

“Bourbon, rocks,” he said, as Hondo slid onto a barstool next to him. 

“Thanks,” he nodded. “You order anything?”

Mav held up a glass of ice water. “Can’t really afford to drink, not with hops first thing.”

“And you’re not supposed to drink with ibuprofen.”

Maverick looked blankly at him, his eyes wide. “You’re not serious.”

“Uh, Mav, did you not know that?” 

“No, and now I think the Navy’s got a pretty serious problem, ‘cause they throw Motrin at every medical issue then let people out into ports on liberty.”

“Are you just now realizing - you know what, forget it, you made it this far.” Hondo raised his glass in Mav’s direction, and took a long pull, the bourbon burning the back of his throat. 

“Only need to get a little farther,” he muttered with a shrug. Hondo looked at him keenly, and he added, “Still nothing about when they want you back at Skunkworks?”

“Uh -” he set down his glass, a little harder than he’d meant. “Actually, no, Warlock - they want me out on the carrier, too.”

Mav set down his own glass, turning on his stool to face him fully. 

“Shit, Hondo, I’m so sorry you’re getting dragged out with us, I can ask - they probably don’t need you that bad -”

Hondo bit his tongue for a second, trying to figure out how much honesty was warranted.

“Don’t worry, Mav, I can handle a week on a boat. Not a lot of people who know how the strain on the jets’ll transfer to the seaborne units.” It wasn’t a lie, but something still squirmed a little in him. Mav met his eye searchingly for a long second, and Hondo took a sip, the ice cubes rattling slightly against each other. Then he sighed, and looked down. 

“‘Kay, well, Warlock must’ve looked at your file, he’s not wrong about that, you practically wrote the book on preventive maintenance.”

Hondo shrugged. “Just got a refresher. Anyway, it’s not like I gotta do months of sea duty. Y’all have it a lot harder than me.”

“I don’t know about that,” started Mav, “but I’m gonna owe you more’n the one drink, that’s for sure.”

“You can make it up after.” He had meant it to sound humorous, but somehow it didn’t. Mav’s face crinkled in a small smile. 

“I gotta be honest with you, it’ll be easier this way. I’ve never had a carrier deployment without at least one friend before.”

Hondo tipped his glass, looking at the amber liquid. “That what you were gonna ask me to do earlier?” 

Pete snorted. “I - maybe. I got no right to ask that, though, not after -” he gestured vaguely “- everything. Guess someone else did it for me.” 

“Guess so.”

Chapter Text

New message from: Pete Mitchell

Mav: storing the bike

Mav: any chance of a ride tomorrow?

Hondo sent a thumbs-up, just as Mav sent a brief “0530?” The thumbs-up landed last, and he looked at it for a second before deciding that was enough of an answer. The remaining few days of training had been uneventful, if subdued, Bradshaw seemingly avoiding Pete’s eye. All of them, really, had been quieter and more serious than usual, and the tension had enveloped him, too, his shoulders tight as he folded socks and underwear into his duffel. At least his temp housing had been extended. He blew out a breath as he looked around the room. Small mercy though it was, he supposed he had Warlock to thank for relieving him of the additional burden of cleaning up, or even of hauling along his blues, hanging on the closet door now, still creased. 

He had just finished when his phone started buzzing insistently, and he picked it up wearily.

“Hi, Momma.”

“Hi baby, your auntie Clara and I need to know who all’s coming for Thanksgiving. Jacob and Ava and the kids are all coming, you gonna make it out of the desert now?”

“Oh -” he fumbled his phone away from his ear to put it on speaker, pulling up his calendar. “Uh, yeah, I think - we’ll - I’ll make it back just in time -“

“Back from where, Bernie?”

“Uh -“ he stopped. “I’m sorry, I forgot to tell y’all, we gotta ship out on a real short carrier deployment. Just a week, it’ll be over just in time -“

“You said no more sea duty! You said that years ago!

“I know, Ma, I’m sorry, it’s a - special op, only a few days, like I said, it’ll be over - look, sometimes I got -”

“Don’t come acting like the Navy making you do that when you said you’d be stateside for good now!”

“Navy’s not making me this time,” he said, flicking hastily to the email with his orders, “it’s a favor - I’m back in San Diego the Wednesday, be in Dallas Thursday morning for Thanksgiving, ‘kay?”

“This is a favor?”

“Yeah - you remember my friend Pete, he needs some help for a - for a mission -”

“Oh, Pete, he want to come too? He was so nice that time at your father’s funeral.”

“Uh,” started Hondo, a little thrown at the abrupt change in tone, “I don’t know - he, uh, might not be able to make it this time -” he broke off, swallowing.

“Well, you let him know he’s welcome. You’re here on the Thursday?”

“Yeah, I’m getting my flight now.”

“You don’t have a flight - ”

“I’m sending the details, I love you, bye Momma.”

He looked at his phone for a second, then blearily flicked open his laptop and hurriedly found a flight, cursing himself for having forgotten to book a holiday flight until the last minute, wincing a little at the fares. It was jarring, somehow, thinking about the fact that there was a whole holiday happening after the mission window, that his family was expecting him for something that had nothing to do with rogue nations, uranium plants, or stressed airframes. He poured a finger of bourbon, funneled the rest into his old flask that he had always used to sneak liquor onto the boat, then collapsed into bed before he could think too much about the next week. 

It was still mostly dark when he got into his car the next morning, but the door flew open almost as soon as he had gotten to Mav’s assignment. 

“Morning, Hondo,” he said, through a yawn, hitching his very worn seabag onto his shoulder; the P. MITCHELL stamped on it was so faded it was barely visible. “Ready?”

“Close enough,” he shrugged. Mav nodded, reaching into the back pocket of his fatigues for his cover, and something caught Hondo’s eye over his shoulder, hanging on a hook just inside.

“Uh, Mav, why’re your whites out?”

Mav snapped his head around, then looked back, swiping a hand over his face. 

“In the same bag with my blues when I got ‘em out of storage,” he muttered. Hondo nodded, a little absently; there was nothing else out in the room, no possessions, as if no one had been living there at all for weeks, except for a stack of envelopes on the table. Then he caught Mav’s eye as he pulled the door shut behind him. The circles under his eyes looked starker in the early morning light. 

“C’mon,” he said with a sigh, “we better go.” He popped the trunk open, and Mav threw his bag into it; he seemed to freeze for a second, and Hondo realized with a jolt that he had still not returned the footballs and the cooler marked KAZANSKY - but then Mav slammed it shut again, squaring his shoulders as he got into the passenger seat, and Hondo opened his own door with a yawn. 

The other aviators, when they arrived, were almost as pale and puffy-eyed, yawning and exchanging few words as they strapped themselves in. Hondo took a couple of deep breaths, stuffed his earplugs into his ears against the roar of the engines and tipped his head back, hoping vainly that he could fall asleep long enough to get through the flight.

By the time they had made it to Guam, however, he was wide awake. Mav was propped up on the pile of duffels, his cover over his eyes, apparently asleep. The aviators were sitting together in a circle, Coyote attempting to teach everyone to play spades, Hangman across from him acting as his partner and smirking at a confused-looking Bob and Phoenix. He watched them absently for a minute, toying with the idea of trying to find some coffee before the transport took them to the carrier, when someone tapped his shoulder. 

“Hondo? You want some?”

Fanboy was holding out the enormous bag of pistachios he had been handing around the circle, and he grinned at him, taking a handful. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Y’all doing okay?”

“No point in getting all stressed out now,” he answered cheerfully. “You want to play?”

“Nah,” he said, standing up and stretching, “gotta go stretch my legs before we get crammed into another plane. And no one needs to take more of Bob’s money.” 

Fanboy nodded, tipping him a humorous wink. “You’re too nice to us, Hondo, but I’ll take it after the pushups.”

“Take it where you can get it, no one’s gonna be nice for a while.”

He had only just finished possibly the worst cup of military-grade coffee he had ever encountered before they had to pile into the C-2 that sat on the tarmac, Cyclone and Warlock talking quietly to each other a few seats down as he strapped himself in. This time, there would be no sleeping, and he tried to relax his shoulders and breathe through his nose, fishing his earplugs back out. 

“Y’okay, Hondo?” he heard Mav ask drowsily from next to him, and he nodded, gripping his knees for a second as the ground crew slammed the doors. This time, there would be no sleeping through it, not after the coffee. There was some motion from next to him; Mav had blinked open one eye, and was looking at him questioningly. 

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered with a swallow, even as Mav bumped his shoulder against his, “just - didn’t think I’d have to do this again.”

“You ‘n me both,” he answered in a low voice, and Hondo let out a dark snort, which apparently startled Fanboy on his other side.

“What?”

“Hondo doesn’t like flying,” explained Mav, and Hondo felt his face grow warm for a second before he added, “and I don’t blame him for a second, can’t stand flying in anything someone else is driving. Gotta hand it to you, Mickey, I could never do your job.”

Hondo saw Fanboy’s ears go pink as he nodded, looking pleased, and started to nudge Bob, before the engines roared to life, drowning out everything else. 

The bone-rattling thump of the landing on the deck seemed to jerk Hondo back into something from a decade ago. Even the air smelled the same as the doors were flung open, flooding the cabin with sunlight as everyone started prying themselves out of their seats. He blinked for a second at the overwhelmingly familiar sounds of people on deck shouting at each other, the engines winding down, and everyone on the transport scrambling out. He glanced to his right. For a second, Mav looked equally as dazed as he felt, then sprang out of his seat energetically, as if something had fallen into place in his mind. The squadron had turned to him as he stepped out onto the deck. 

“Briefing in two hours, ladies and gents,” he called, his voice sharp and authoritative again, glancing at his watch, “get a nap, get some coffee, do what you have to do, we got two more days and we’re gonna use ‘em.”

“What he said,” added Cyclone, brushing past Hondo with a tired gesture at Mav, “dismissed.”

The aviators, who had straightened up at Mav’s commanding tone, seemed to relax as one as Cyclone dismissed them, scattering across the deck in twos and threes, and Hondo looked questioningly over at Pete, who shrugged. 

“We’re here now. Easier to just do it instead of thinking too much, y’know?”

To Hondo’s surprise, Maverick turned out to be correct. For at least the next day, there was something reassuring about falling back into a well-worn, if rusty, routine. Warlock had nudged him into pitching in on a maintenance shift, which turned out to be run by one of Hondo’s own old junior techs from years ago, and by the time he was dousing his hands in Fast Orange and peeling off his coveralls, he could feel his shoulders relaxing a little. Despite the wear on the afterburners, the jets were, on the whole, in marginally better shape than the ones back at Miramar. As far as he knew, the CAPs Mav had scheduled as a warm-up had been without incident. Even the coffee was actually better than he remembered. 

He was just coming off his shift and considering finding another cup as he emerged into the sunlight glinting off the water. There had been murmurs of a weather hold the next day, but there was only a light breeze now. As he turned away from the rail, though, he nearly ran into Warlock, who looked calmer, maybe, than he had onshore, but with his expression still determined. He met his eye for a second, but before Hondo could salute him, appeared to change his mind, clapping him on the shoulder and moving past him. He blinked, a little thrown, then saw Maverick, leaning up against the railing, still in his flight suit. He turned to face Hondo, shoving something in his hand into his pocket as he did so. 

“How’re you holding up?”

Mav’s face, like Warlock’s, was calm, but set, his eyes not really meeting Hondo’s. 

“Fine. CAPs were okay, ‘bout as ready as we’ll ever be.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

He looked at him carefully; Mav just shrugged in response. 

“I can fly.”

“Not what I asked.”

Everything was quiet for a second except for the noise of the ocean, then Mav cleared his throat.

“This was always gonna be a completely batshit mission. Someone’s gotta do it.” 

Hondo swallowed, and nodded, trying to decide if it was worth asking whom he was going to pick, then thought better of it as Mav fiddled with the zipper on the pocket of his flight suit. 

“I was gonna go find some coffee, if you want -”

“Sure, I’ll come along,” he answered, and Hondo let out a breath, turning away from the railing with him as Mav continued. “You had a look at the jets?”

“Uh, they’re fine,” he managed, “same wear patterns on the afterburners like all the seaborne units, but these have fewer hours on ‘em. Y’all know better’n I do how they feel in the air.”

“Feels better hearing it from you,” answered Mav, swiping a hand through his hair. “I mean, I know it’s not your job anymore, I know you got bigger fish to fry, just - thanks for having a look.”

Hondo felt his face warm. 

“It’s what I’m here for.” He wondered, idly, if Mav knew his presence wasn’t really for the jets, then shook himself; it hardly mattered now. 

It wasn’t until late that evening, after a remarkably cheerful dinner - Payback, it transpired, had gone to school with two aviators in the air wing - that he saw much of the tension return to Mav’s expression. He had gone back to his bunk early, where he had been slotted in with some of the nuclear engineers, when there was a pounding on the bulkhead. 

“Hondo?”

He flung it open, feeling his eyebrows go up.

“Mav? They gave you nicer digs than this, didn’t they?”

“I know you used to sneak bourbon on every boat,” he said without preamble, his tone exhausted, blinking in the light. “Wouldn’t ask if I had another option, but I gotta get to sleep somehow.”

Hondo let out a breath in a short chuckle, relieved the engineers sharing the cabin were all still out somewhere. 

“Tell you the truth, I was kinda waiting for the stress to get to you.” He pulled out the dented flask concealed in a pair of socks, and held it out; Pete took it with a muttered word of thanks, tipped his head back, and poured some of the contents into his mouth before handing it back with a wince and a swallow. Hondo looked at him keenly, then took a pull himself, noticing with some trepidation that it was at least half empty now. 

“You good?”

“You know me, I’m not really used to whiskey,” he said, scrubbing a hand down his face, “‘cept at weddings and funerals. But this’ll do.”

Something inside Hondo shuddered a little at this, but he nodded, grasped Pete’s shoulder for a second as he yawned, then felt his own face stretch into a yawn. 

“See, it’s working,” started Pete in a darkly humorous tone, before another yawn cut him off. “G’night, Hondo, thanks.”

The carrier seemed oddly quiet the next morning. The officers’ mess was almost empty, apart from the aviators, who were exchanging few words, looking tense; still, to his relief, they looked reasonably well-rested. Until his eye fell on Rooster, who had his hands wrapped around a mug, his food untouched. Something squirmed a little in him. To his relief, though, Phoenix nudged him with her elbow as she sat down next to him, muttering something he couldn’t hear, and he nodded, taking a bite of eggs.

The aviation boatswain’s mate had looked worried enough about setting up for launch the day before that he had offered to help, though frankly, it felt easier to have a task right now with some sort of measurable outcome. They had just checked off and cleared two F/A-18Es and two F/A-18Fs, Hondo going down every line item as if he could burn the list into his brain, when his watch beeped. 

“Oh, shit - I’m sorry, Rodriguez, I’m supposed to show for a briefing -”
He shoved the tablet back at her and almost ran up the ladder, to a dimly lit room where all twelve aviators were packed in, shoulder to shoulder; he swallowed, and slid sideways into a corner as Warlock finished explaining the mission parameters that Hondo sincerely doubted anyone needed to hear again. Warlock ceded the floor to Maverick, who was clearing his throat, and his heart thudded insistently in his chest; Mav’s expression wasn’t so much calm this morning as dead-eyed, utterly serious.

“This is a very specific mission. My choices are a reflection of that, and nothing more. It has been an honor flying with all of you.”

“Captain Mitchell, select your Foxtrot teams.”

“Payback and Fanboy,” he said, “Phoenix and Bob.”

“And your wingman?”

A beat, then -

“Rooster.”

Hondo could feel himself stiffen against the wall; Cyclone, next to him, shifted his weight, but didn’t say anything. Maverick’s eyes looked for a second as though he were daring someone to challenge him, then he looked down. 

“Get in your G-suits, everyone, we’re up on deck soon. Sir.” He nodded to Warlock, who stepped forward again. 

“The rest of you will remain in reserve on the carrier. This is what you’ve all been training for. Come home safely.”

Hondo’s eyes crossed Mav’s gaze just as Warlock stopped talking, but then Cyclone had dismissed all of them, and they were filtering out, Cyclone and Warlock’s khakis standing out in the flight suits. Hangman had just walked out past him, his face taut, when Mav tapped his shoulder. 

“I know what I’m doing, Hondo, ‘kay?”

“Wasn’t gonna say anything,” he said, feeling his shoulders tighten a little; Mav looked paler even than he had the other morning, and like he hadn’t bothered to shave since they had shipped out. “Not like I know what it’s like up there, I trust you on that.”

Mav bit his lip for a second, nodding. “Appreciate it, Hondo, now we gotta see if they do.” He glanced up, and Hondo followed his gaze to Rooster’s retreating back. 

“You got this,” he said with a nod, his heart pounding against his ribs again now, and he looked reluctantly back down at his watch. “Boatswain’s mate needs a hand,” he said, “I’ll see you on deck before…before you go, ‘kay?”

“Sounds like we can’t take off without you guys anyway.”

Chapter Text

It seemed to take him a lot longer than usual to get up to the deck. In fact, he had to double back on himself, having absently followed behind the unusually silent pack of reserve aviators headed for the briefing room being used for overflow comms. He shook himself, flexing his fingers to try to bring himself back into his body, when he nearly ran headlong into a tall figure emerging into the narrow walkway.

“Oh - ‘scuse me, sir -“

He stopped abruptly as his eyes met Bradshaw’s, which were ringed with dark circles, his face pale and sweaty, swiping his sleeve over his face as he shut the door to the head behind him. Hondo swallowed. Bradshaw met his gaze, looking for a second as if he were teetering on the edge of saying something. His expression had gone well beyond nervous; he looked every bit as blankly terrified as Maverick had when he had ordered him to fuel his jet, and Hondo felt an odd sensation in his stomach. It took a second before he recognized it as sympathy. 

Bradshaw had looked down, and started shouldering past Hondo before he managed to find his voice. 

“Good - good luck out there.” His voice sounded a little strained. Bradshaw’s head jerked up, his expression surprised, then his jaw tightened, and he gave him a small nod. 

By the time he had made it to the hangar, where the last of the spare jets was being moved to the deck, he had come back into himself somewhat. This time, there was nothing comforting about the familiar hum of activity; it was like a familiar song with jarring notes. Someone handed him a headset, and he put it on. The tower voice net wasn’t looped in yet, and he felt like his body was carrying him through the motions of pulling back the shuttles on the catapults. He could see Maverick running a hand over the nose of his plane like it was a skittish animal, then someone approaching from the other side. He stood up quickly, and something lurched in him as he saw Rooster, still nervous-looking, saying something he couldn’t hear, and Hondo took an involuntary step towards them before he saw Mav nodding, and Rooster turning away towards his own jet. Maverick, however, did not move, apparently hesitating, and Hondo saw him raise his head to say something, just as the roar of the steam cat came up, drowning out everything else.

Then someone bumped into his shoulder, pushing past with a heavy fuel hose, and he felt his body start to move again, checking the shuttle was in place, even as the voice net crackled to life in his ear. 

“...overflow room, this is Rough Rider, how do you read me?”

“Rough Rider, this is Dagger Reserve, we read you five by five,” he heard a voice say, a little hoarsely, and for a second he struggled to place it, then - “Are - are Daggers One through Four on the net yet?”

“I read you five by also, Dagger Reserve. One through Four should be coming online.”

“Dagger Spare coming on voice net,” he heard Hangman say, and with a jolt he realized the Reserve voice was Coyote, a little higher than usual as he responded with “Good, Dagger Reserve’s standing by, here’s hoping no one needs you, Spare.”

“Y’all sit tight, Reserve, hope no one needs you either.” 

Hondo looked up; Hangman was already in his jet, off to the side. The boatswain’s mate was gesturing at the shooter in the control pod. She beckoned him with one arm, and he jogged over. 

“Gotta get these four up on the cats,” she said breathlessly to him, “this deck crew’s still pretty green, you wanna give ‘em a hand with the JBDs?”

“No problem,” he said absently, squinting at Rooster climbing into his jet, and she muttered an appreciative “thank you, sir” before he turned away. 

Helping the deck crew set up the jet blast deflectors, however, did not occupy his brain nearly as much as he had hoped. Even the chatter had died down, the comms chief checking in only briefly, her tone terse. He could feel something tightening in his chest as he watched Maverick climb into his cockpit, tipping him a two-fingered salute from the top of the ladder. He muttered a brief excuse to the boatswain’s mate and stepped uncertainly over to Mav’s jet, the tight sensation tensing still further as he followed his gaze over to where Rooster was donning his helmet. 

“Mav, uh -”

Mav’s gaze was distant; he seemed not to have noticed Hondo was there. Hondo swallowed, trying not to look too closely at the dark circles under his eyes, the occasional gray hair in the couple days’ stubble. 

“Maverick?” he tried again. “You with me?”

Maverick blinked, giving a slight nod, and Hondo could feel his eyes narrow as he looked at him. This time, though, Mav seemed to be aware of his gaze. 

“What?”

“I don’t like that look, Mav,” he said, his throat tightening even as he said it, but something quirked at the corner of Mav’s mouth. 

“It’s the only one I got,” he countered, a darkly humorous note in his tone, and something eased just slightly in Hondo’s chest as he let out an involuntary chuckle. Mav’s face sobered again. “If I don’t see you again, Hondo -” he drew in a breath, and Hondo felt something prickle at the corner of his eyes “- thank you. For everything.” 

Hondo looked at him for a long moment, the knot in his throat tightening painfully; Mav’s gaze was keen this time, as if to reinforce his words. He swallowed again, hard, hoping he could keep his voice steady. 

“It’s - it’s been an honor, Captain,” he managed, holding his gaze even if his eyes were burning a little, and Mav stared back, as if trying to find something else to say, then Hondo saw his throat click as he looked down. Hondo blinked, swiping at his eyes under his glasses, and felt Mav’s gloved hand grasp his shoulder, just for a second. He reached a hand up to grip his arm in turn, then Mav let go, facing determinedly forwards as the canopy slid into place and he fastened his mask on. 

Hondo could feel himself instinctively step back as someone darted forwards energetically, answering Mav’s hand signal, and started moving the jet over to cat 1. He felt his arms drop back by his side again, looking along the deck through blurred eyes. This was it. There was nothing left for him to do. 

“Dagger One, comms check.” 

He jumped; Maverick had, apparently, come online on the flight voice net. His tone was steadier now, as if this was nothing more than an ordinary hop. 

“Dagger Spare, standing by.” 

“Dagger Three, up and ready.” 

“Dagger Four, up and ready.”

A pause, and Hondo held his breath -

“Dagger Two, up and ready.” He sounded a little uncertain, but was coming through clearly enough, and Hondo flexed his fingers, trying to loosen the tension in his shoulders. There was a tap on his shoulder. 

“We should be good here, sir, thanks for the extra hand,” said the boatswain’s mate breathlessly, “uh - Admiral Bates said to tell you you could go up to the tower.”

He blinked, trying to focus his gaze, and nodded at her. 

“Thanks, uh, Rodriguez, no problem,” he said, his voice sounding a little strange, and he turned away from the deck, about to pull off his headset when he heard a click , as if someone had started transmitting then changed their mind. 

“Sir?” Rooster’s voice came through, still uncertain. “Sir, do you copy?”

Hondo stopped, feeling his breath catch in his chest again, turning slowly back to where Mav’s jet was, his face not visible where he was -

“I want to thank you all for trusting me to lead you,” he heard Maverick’s voice say, “you’re the best of the best. All of you.”

There was a heavy pause, then he heard Phoenix speak up. 

“We’re with you, sir. All the way.”

“No ‘sir’,” Mav countered over the static on the net, “we’re all the same rank today. Dagger One, up and ready on catapult one.”

Hondo’s eyes burned again, and he yanked the headset off roughly, shoving it clumsily onto the rack before swiping his sleeve roughly on his face, trying to control his breathing. It had sounded distinctly like a farewell, even though he was still there, his hand signals to the shooter just visible through the canopy, would still answer a hail on the net if Hondo put his headset back on. He pushed roughly inside, half-blindly feeling around until he could let himself into the head, slumping back against the door as it shut behind him. Everything quieted; he let out a long, shaky breath, pulling off his glasses and running a shaking hand over his face. Somewhere, it occurred to him that he could probably still count on one hand the number of times he had addressed Mav as “Captain”, and something about that nudged a small chuckle out of him in spite of the tension wound up in his shoulders. H e could feel his breathing get steadier, and he scrubbed his glasses clean with a piece of toilet paper, putting them determinedly back on.

He could feel his heart speed up a hair as he pushed open the door to the Pri-Fly, but none of the comms officers took any notice of him, focused intensely on their consoles, which were throwing icy blue light onto Cyclone’s tight expression, Warlock equally grim next to him. He glanced over at Hondo, and nodded briefly before turning back to the radar display. 

“Support assets airborne,” he heard the comms chief say, pointing at the tiny E-2 icon on the display, “strike package ready. Standing by for launch decision.”

“Send ‘em.” Cyclone’s entire frame looked tense, his arms folded, staring straight ahead. 

Hondo felt, more than he heard, the massive vhoom of the catapult, then again, and again, and again. 

“Dagger One away. Dagger Two away. Dagger Three away. Dagger Four away.” 

The roar of the afterburners seemed to fade away unusually quickly before the room audio crackled to life. 

“Rough Rider, Dagger,” said Maverick’s voice, and he sounded steadier now in the air, like it was any other hop, “Comanche, standby check-in.”

Another voice came in, this one a little more noisy. “Comanche one-one, set. Lightning One, status.”

“Lightning One, set. Bravo route is clear.”

He could see one of the techs mutter something into his mic, and the comms chief nodded. 

“Dagger, Rough Rider, you are clear to point Bravo.”

“Copy, Rough Rider. Dropping below radar.”

Hondo narrowed his eyes against the glow of the radar display, watching the Dagger One icon flicker and vanish, followed quickly by the others.

“Daggers now below radar,” said the comms chief, glancing up at Warlock, “switching to E-2 picture.” 

“Target valley up ahead. Comanche, picture.” Mav’s voice was still solidly calm, steadier than Hondo felt, his heart seemingly speeding up with every flicker of the display timer, though as the radar screen switched, there was something heartening about the reappearance of the four tiny F/A-18 icons.

“Picture clean,” came the crackly voice of the E-2 NFO, “decision is yours.” There was a pause, the comms chief looking tense, then she tapped her own headset. 

“Dagger, acknowledge.”

A beat, then - 

“Copy. Dagger attack.”

He saw Cyclone nod, once, out of the corner of his eye. 

“Tomahawks airborne,” interjected one of the techs to the right of the comms chief, and Hondo could see a few beads of sweat on Cyclone’s forehead, glinting in the light of the consoles.

“No turning back now,” Warlock said, half under his breath, his tone constricted, and Cyclone’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Dagger is set,” came Maverick’s voice again, still firm, “proceeding to Bravo. Ready on my mark -” and Hondo scrambled to get the watch out that he had nearly forgotten he had in his pocket “- one mark.”

“Two mark.”

“Three mark.”

“Four mark.”

He stared at his watch, now counting down steadily, and blinked; there was a timer that one of the techs had started, just in the corner of his eye, the glowing numbers seemingly trying to burn themselves into his brain. 

There was more chatter on the comms from the CATCC below as the mini-boss started directing the Hawkeye closer in, and in spite of the aggressive blinking of the timer and ticking of his own watch, something eased a little as the tiny DAGGER FLT GRP icons held tightly together, passing the first SAM site without incident. 

Though, even as his gaze flicked over the screen, Dagger Two was slipping back, Dagger Four holding formation behind it -

“We’re two minutes to target,” chipped in a voice, and Hondo could hear a faint beeping from Fanboy’s console. 

“Thirty seconds to Tomahawk impact on enemy airstrip,” interrupted one of the comms officers, then he could hear Payback come in. 

“We’re three seconds behind, Rooster, let’s move.” 

“Rooster’s losing ground here,” he heard Warlock mutter, and he jumped slightly; Warlock had moved closer, peering at the radar.

“Dagger, Comanche,” said the E-2 NFO, and something prickled unpleasantly down his back, “we‘re picking up two bandits. Single group, two contacts.”

Hondo snapped his gaze back down to the radar display. Two red tags had appeared on the radar sweep, labeled BANDIT 1 and BANDIT 2, and no F/A-18 could outrun a fifth-gen fighter. 

“Where the hell’d they come from?” Cyclone sounded almost as thrown as Hondo felt, an edge to his voice, and Hondo could see Warlock’s jaw tighten before he answered, “Long-range patrol?”

His calm tone, however, did nothing to reassure Hondo; he felt his fingers tighten around the stopwatch, just as Phoenix came back in.

“Comanche, what’s their heading?”

“Bullseye, zero niner zero, southwest.”

“They’re headed away from us,” came in Rooster, ”they don’t know we’re here,” but unlike Phoenix, his voice was taut, uncertain, and something tensed uncomfortably in Hondo’s chest.

“The second those Tomahawks hit the runway, they’re gonna change course to defend the target,” said Maverick, still calm, as if it were just another training session, “we have to get there before they do. Increase speed.”

Maverick’s jet was starting to pull away slightly from the second pair. Phoenix’s voice crackled through, sounding strained. 

“I’m right behind you, Mav, don’t wait for me -“

Her jet tightened the gap a little bit, widening the first pair’s lead on Rooster, and he felt his fingers tapping the rim of the watch.

“Sir,” said the comms chief, glancing up from her console, “Daggers Two and Four are behind schedule. Time to target, one minute twenty.”

Hondo didn’t need the reminder; the burning red numbers of the display timer seemed to hang in the air, and he blinked, looking down at his watch instead, willing the gap between the jets to close.

“Tomahawk impact in three - two - one -“

He had hardly had time to look back at the radar screen when the tiny darts of the Tomahawk missiles started disappearing, first one, then three, then all at once -

“Impact,” came the E-2 NFO again, “enemy runway is destroyed.”

“They know we’re coming now,” Cyclone said darkly; his arms were tightly folded again. 

“Dagger, Rough Rider, bandits have changed their course to intercept at the target.”

The comms chief was pointing again at the bandits, but Hondo’s gaze was on the four jets, and his heart skipped unpleasantly; Daggers Two and Four had dropped back further still.

“Rooster, where are you?” For the first time, Mav sounded on edge.

“C’mon, Rooster, we got bandits inbound, let’s turn and burn,” chipped in Payback, and Hondo felt a prickle of anger; he had to move, did he not understand how serious -

As if in support of his point, Comanche came back in.

“Bandits two minutes from target, Daggers one minute from target.”

Hondo was tapping his fingers on his stopwatch now, muttering “come on, Rooster, move it or lose it” under his breath, before he saw Cyclone glancing over at him - but he said nothing, just tightened his arms over his chest and lowered his head. 

“Guys, let’s move!” Fanboy’s voice had gone higher, anxious, and Payback added, “if we don’t pick it up right now, those bandits are gonna be waiting for us, and Rooster, I don’t need that shit today -“

There was a click on the comms and what could have been a crackly breath, as if someone had started transmitting and then changed their mind. Then another voice.

“C’mon, kid, you can do it,” and it was Maverick this time, a little quiet, not as crisp, “don’t think, just do -”

Warlock met his eye for a tense moment, then -

“ Damn , Rooster, take it easy!”

He glanced down at the radar screen so fast he felt his neck crack; DAGGER TWO had pulled forward, even a little ahead of DAGGER FOUR, and he heard a small whoop that sounded like Fanboy before his transmit clicked off.

“Dagger Two is reengaging,” came in the voice of the E-2 NFO, and something eased just slightly in his chest as the space tightened between all four jets on the radar. Cyclone blew out a breath behind him, and Warlock straightened up. 

“Almost - there -“ Phoenix sounded strained now, but still calm. “Bob, fire up the laser -“

“Air-ground check complete, laser code verified one-six-eight-eight, laser is go,” and Hondo let out a breath at Bob’s calm tone.

“Phoenix, standby for pop-up strike.”

“Ready.”

“Popping in three - two - one -“

Mav’s voice was clearer now, breathing as heavily as Phoenix but still steady. 

“‘Kay, Bob, let’s paint the target -“

“Standby - hold on - acquired, Mav!”

“Acquired, nicely done, bombs away -“

A pause, and Hondo held his breath, watching the radar showing the jets pulling away from the center of the canyon.

“We’ve got impact!” Bob sounded more excited than Hondo had ever heard him. “Check, that’s a hit, direct hit, direct hit!”

“Miracle number one,” muttered Warlock, just loud enough for Hondo to catch it, before Rooster cut him off “- Fanboy, where’s my laser?”

Rooster sounded urgent, but not scared, which in Hondo’s opinion was nothing short of a miracle in itself, but Fanboy’s frustrated tone sent something cold down his spine “- not - hold up - dammit, bad checksum code - fuck this, deadeye, deadeye - restarting -“

“C’mon, we’re running out of time!”

He felt as if the cold was spreading through his limbs, he had known the acoustic loading was a risk, and the recycle time on the laser was too long -

“I think I got it - almost -“ Fanboy sounded frantic, but there would be no getting the laser online in time -

“No time,” said Rooster, firmly, “dropping blind in three - two - one - bombs away, bombs away -“

There was a clear second where everything seemed to stand still, even the red-lit display timer, and Hondo felt frozen to the spot. 

“Bullseye - bullseye - bullseye!”

The E-2 NFO was positively jubilant through the crackling of her comms channel, and Hondo could feel his spine loosen and his arms drop back by his sides, several of the comms techs letting out a cheer. 

“Miracle number two,” he heard Cyclone say over the noise, even as the comms chief swept a look around the room that had the techs snapping back to their consoles.

“We’re - not - out - of - this - yet -“ 

Maverick seemed to be fighting to get the words out. Hondo heard Cyclone mutter “now they’re in coffin corner”, tipping his head towards Warlock, even as he felt his grip tighten a little around the stopwatch. 

He had barely had time to take in a breath, though, before Phoenix’s voice came back in.

“Smoke in the air! Smoke in the air!”

“Radar warning, SAM in the air, Phoenix, break right!”

The comms was suddenly full of yells, and Hondo’s heart started hammering insistently, hard enough to nearly drown out the mingled shouts about SAMs tailing jets, frantic instructions to break right or left, or deploy countermeasures. He could feel the watch slipping in his fingers, but after a second, the flood of shouts was starting to slow, maybe this was it, maybe they’d get out of it now, but Payback was shouting again -

“Rooster! Two more on your six!”

“ Shit! I’m outta flares -“

“Rooster, evade, evade -“

And Hondo’s heart was pounding against his ribs now, because Maverick’s voice was finally scared now, and if Rooster got hit -

“I can’t shake ‘em!”

For a horrible moment, Hondo stood there, straining his ears, the comms eerily silent, until there was the distinct click of a disconnection.

“MAV!”  

The yell was the more terrible because he hadn’t known Rooster could sound like that, ragged and desperate - but that was Rooster -

“Dagger One is hit! I repeat, Dagger One is hit! Maverick is down!”

And Phoenix’s shout was clear, definitive, hitting Hondo like a punch to the gut as the DAGGER 1 icon flickered and vanished from the radar display. 

“Comanche, Dagger,” and why was the E-2 NFO still talking calmly on the net as if everything was normal? “- bandits inbound, one minute to contact, recommend Dagger flow south.”

“Anyone see him? I didn’t see a chute -“ 

Rooster sounded frantic, now, his voice cracking around the edges.

“Rooster, those bandits are closing, we can’t go back,” came Payback’s voice, heavier now, and Hondo felt an irrational surge of heat, of course someone had to go back, why was Payback acting like that -

“Dagger Spare, permission to launch and fly air cover -“

Cyclone looked at the comms chief, shaking his head with an almost imperceptible movement, his mouth a thin line.

“Negative, Spare.”

“We have to find Maverick -“

“Tell him there’s nothing he can do for Maverick, not in a goddamn F/A-18,” ground out Cyclone, his voice raw, and the heat rose in Hondo’s chest at that, even as Warlock started to say “launch Search and Rescue”. 

“ No, not with bandits in the air,” cut in Cyclone, and this time, Hondo could not stop himself -

“Sir, Maverick is still out there!”

“We are not losing anyone else today!”

Cyclone’s voice cracked as he spoke, breaking on the last word, and it was that, more than anything else, that silenced Hondo, his chest heaving, his feet freezing to the spot.

“Dagger Two, return to carrier. Dagger Two, acknowledge.”

“Rooster,” came Bob’s voice, softer now, “he’s gone. Maverick is gone.”

Something about Bob’s gentle tone hit harder than Cyclone’s, and this time, the words wouldn’t leave his head, echoing in his brain, the comms chatter fading into the background. He’s gone. Maverick is gone. 

“Get ‘em back to the carrier,” he heard Cyclone say, somewhere very far away, and the comms chief said something in response, but his vision was blurring now, the voices fading. He swiped at his face, but it didn’t seem to make a difference, his throat tight and his eyes stinging. The ground was falling away under him again, like it had when Ice had died, but this time, he had to fight to keep from falling with it, screwing his eyes shut against the bluish glow of the screens, his own breathing loud enough now to drown out the chatter in the room. 

That is, until the comms chief raised her voice enough to cut through the haze. 

“Dagger Two, return to carrier. Acknowledge - Dagger Two, acknowledge -”

“What the hell - ” Cyclone’s voice had sharpened again. “Get him back here!”

“Dagger Two, do you copy? Dagger Two, come in!” Her voice was firm, commanding, but there was no response, and Hondo lifted his glasses enough to wipe his eyes more fully on his sleeve, peering at the screen. The icon marked DAGGER 2 had broken formation to sweep back towards the target on the map, closer now, too close, and something horrible sank in Hondo’s chest. 

“Oh, don’t do it, ” he muttered, just as Phoenix came over the comms with “Rooster, what the ever-living fuck, get back here, asshole -”

There was no answer, just Comanche cutting in.

“Dagger Two is closing on a hostile aircraft. Dagger Two, you are not to engage. Repeat, do not engage -”

Hondo blinked, trying to clear his vision. There was another BANDIT icon on the screen - or maybe it was one of the first ones, but moving too slowly to be one of the fifth-gens, then it vanished before he could think about it, and something ran cold again down his neck.

“Dagger Two, come in. Dagger Two, status - ”

His heart had apparently restarted at some point, because it was hammering insistently again, the DAGGER 2 icon uncomfortably close to where the BANDIT icon had vanished, too close to where the SAM batteries had hit. He stared at the screen unblinkingly, willing the icon to turn around, but then there was the distinct click of loss of comms, and Hondo’s breath caught in his throat as the icon flickered, then vanished along with the bandit. 

“Rough Rider, Comanche, we have loss of contact with Dagger Two.”

“Rooster?” Phoenix’s hail was disbelieving, and something in it tugged at him. 

“Dagger, Rough Rider, do you have a visual on Dagger Two?”

There was a painful pause, then Payback’s voice came in. 

“Negative, Rough Rider, we - we lost visual when we started heading back.”

“Rooster, come in - Rooster - goddammit, you moron -”

Phoenix’s voice was breaking, now, and she cut herself off, but not before Hondo felt a surge of sympathy for her frustration. Mav hadn’t taken that SAM for Rooster to go down with him, had meant, always, for him to come back, would never have come back without him, no matter how little Hondo had wanted to face that -

“You okay there, Coleman?”

Warlock had gripped his shoulder, and Hondo gulped, feeling some sensation come back into his body at the touch, and he marveled somewhere that he was still standing, that there was still ground under his feet. He blinked. His face was wet. He swiped at it again, his sleeve rough on his face. Warlock, for his part, seemed not to expect an answer, for which Hondo found himself grateful. He shrugged, awkwardly, his shoulders feeling like they didn’t quite belong to him. 

“I’m - I’m sorry, Coleman,” he heard Cyclone say, his voice tight and constricted, and Hondo nodded absently, his vision blurring again. The comms chief was saying something, and the DAGGER 3 and DAGGER 4 icons were approaching the boat, but now it was Bob’s voice coming through instead of Phoenix’s, and he swallowed, hard.

“They shouldn’t need any extra hands on deck, not with only two jets, you can - can take a break.” 

He chanced a glance at Cyclone; his expression was drained, every line on his face taut, and he swallowed, nodding again and letting out a slow, shaky breath. The stopwatch was still in his hand, and he reflexively looked down at it. He had, apparently, gripped it hard enough to crack the face, the hands frozen where they had counted up some twenty seconds after the countdown to zero, and something in his eyes burned again. He shoved the watch into his pocket, blinking, trying to engage his legs enough to get to the door, maybe get some air, when he heard Cyclone tip his head towards Warlock and clear his throat. 

“Sol, we - we gotta call the notification officers -”

Hondo stopped just in front of the door. 

“Don’t bother.” His voice sounded thick even to his own ears. 

“What?”

“Don’t bother with the notification officers, sir,” he managed, still looking at his boots, “they’d’ve just gone to each other.” 

There was a mutter of “Jesus Christ” from behind him, but he didn’t look to see who it was, pushing open the door so the salt breeze could sting his face. 

Chapter Text

Hondo had gotten below the flight deck as quickly as he could, avoiding the questioning looks from the deck crew and the boatswain’s mate, moving blindly through the boat until he found himself outside again, alone looking out over the ocean where he had run into Maverick only the day before. It felt like it had been a thousand years since then. He leaned heavily on the railing, looking determinedly out at the ocean in the opposite direction from where he could still, faintly, hear the sound of the returning aircraft. 

The wind was stinging his face, his eyes watering. He pulled off his glasses roughly and cleaned them on the hem of his sleeve. Pete had promised , had said he wouldn’t pull another stunt like this after Darkstar - or wait, that wasn’t right, he hadn’t actually promised a damn thing, had only said he was sorry after Hondo had threatened to kill him if he died on him again. A dark snort made it past the lump in his throat; he’d gotten exactly what he asked for. 

The unexpected sympathy he had had for Bradshaw earlier that day had vanished, replaced by a cold fury; Hondo couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it coming. Mav had been prepared to trade his life for his, had been from the very beginning, and the second he did, Bradshaw had made it meaningless, so Maverick was gone for no fucking reason. He was gripping the rail, now, the anger pricking the corner of his eyes, until he heard the roar of jet engines flying overhead, exactly as they had at the funeral, and the heat subsided - at least Ice hadn’t lived long enough to see this. 

He felt, more than he heard, the heavy thump signifying that one of the jets was back, the vibrations coming down from the upper deck through the column joined to the railing next to him, but he kept his eyes on the horizon. A few minutes later, there was another one, and he let go of the railing; even if he stayed long enough to count the impacts from all the support aircraft landing back on deck, they’d still be two short. 

He screwed his eyes shut at that thought, willing his breathing to stay steady. Everything was quiet now, aside from the sound of the bow wave far below. Too quiet, even. He couldn’t remember finding a few minutes alone on any of his previous sea duties.

As if on cue, there was a gentle rap on the railing, and he straightened up, putting his glasses clumsily back on. Bob was standing a few feet away, still in his G-suit, his face sweaty and exhausted but his expression soft. 

“Hey, Hondo, you - you okay?”

He looked back at him for a long moment, his fingers slipping off the railing, and shrugged. 

“Yeah, sorry, dumb question,” Bob said with a small nod, “Nat’s taking it pretty hard too.” 

“Yeah, I…figured.” His voice sounded rough. He swallowed. 

“You want something to eat? Or drink? Figured I’d grab some snacks for everyone.”

He held out a handful of granola bars, and Hondo blinked for a second, then nodded, taking one of them at random with a word of thanks. He unwrapped it, and took a bite; it was sweet, a little sticky, and he was dimly aware of there being chocolate chips in it. His hand was shaking a little, and he was starting to get chilly, the sweat sticking his t-shirt to his back now cooling in the breeze. Bob was occupied trying to shove the half-dozen granola bars in his hands into one of his pockets, and Hondo chewed slowly, realizing he was hungry only after swallowing a bite. 

“Oh, and I got something to drink, too -”

Bob glanced surreptitiously around, then produced a small flask. 

“Shine?”

Hondo looked at it incredulously for a second. 

“You brought moonshine on the boat?”

The corner of Bob’s mouth quirked, his smile crooked. “I know I’m not the only one. My cousin makes a batch whenever I got leave, so it’s ready when I ship back out.” 

Hondo barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes as Bob extended the flask, tipping a measure into his mouth then handing it back. The unholy burn made him splutter, his eyes watering again, but the fiery trail it burned down his throat seemed to bring him even more back into his body than the granola bar had. 

“Sorry, burns a little, that’s not his best work,” he heard Bob mutter, before he took a long sip without so much as a flinch and re-capped the flask. 

“Forgive me, Bob, but that is some redneck shit right there,” he managed, wiping his face with one hand and gesturing at the flask with the other, “I’ll stick to bourbon, but - thanks.” His voice sounded a little clearer now. Bob’s lopsided smile widened at him for a second as he slid the flask back into a pocket. 

“I should go back up,” he said quietly, his smile fading now, “Coyote was helping Phoenix get through checks, and Payback ‘n Fanboy’re pretty torn up, too -“

“I’ll come with you,” Hondo heard himself say, before he could think too hard about it, shoving the last of the granola bar into his mouth. Bob’s eyes widened in surprise for a second, then he nodded, his expression grateful, and Hondo followed him back up to the flight deck. 

It was busy again on the flight deck, but the crew seemed more somber now, their shouts muted, and the boatswain’s mate gave Hondo a sympathetic look that he didn’t quite know what to do with. The empty spaces where they would have tied down the other two jets seemed to draw his eye like a dead body, but he forced his gaze to the back of Bob’s head, where he was tentatively approaching Phoenix, perched on the bottom rung of the ladder, her hands covering her face. 

“Hondo,” he heard a voice say uncertainly, “can - can you give us a hand here? Wind’s picking up, Chief said we needed more tie-downs.” Payback had appeared next to him, his face taut but focused, with a handful of ratchet straps that Hondo took from him. Over his shoulder, he could see Fanboy slowly pulling off his helmet and staring into it for a second as if unsure what to do with himself, then going over to Phoenix’s jet, perching on the other side from where Bob stood and sliding an arm around her shoulders. He blinked, then looked back at Payback. 

“Sure,” he answered, his voice rough again, taking a few ratchet straps from him with some gratitude at having something to do. “Where’s Coyote? Can he get some of the others to help?”

“Over there,” grunted Payback, tipping his head as he walked around the other side of the jet, “Hangman won’t get out of his cockpit.”

“He - what now?”

Hondo followed Payback’s gaze over to where the spare jet had been set up, one of the deck crew standing irritably in front of the nose with his hands on his hips. Coyote had climbed the ladder up the side, and the canopy was popped; Hangman seemed to have his arms folded, staring stubbornly down at his yoke, Coyote leaning on the edge next to him. Hondo swallowed, hard. 

“Cyclone told him to stand down, mission was over. Said he wouldn’t get out, that they gotta launch SAR sooner or later and they’ll need air cover too, but I don’t -” Payback pressed his lips together, stopping himself mid-sentence, and Hondo felt the knot in his throat tighten. He was relieved when Payback broke eye contact, leaning down to affix the plane to the deck. He had just moved over to the other side of Phoenix’s jet when he saw Coyote glance up, meeting his eye for a second. His expression looked oddly strained, even guilty, and something rose in Hondo’s throat. 

“Hondo - Officer Coleman, sir -”

The boatswain’s mate was tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Rodriguez?”

“Sir,” she said breathlessly, holding one side of her headset off her ear, “sir, something showed up on the radar - they want you back up in the Pri-Fly.”

“They - wait, why?”

“You should just go, sir.”

There was something insistent in her tone, and he glanced over at Hangman’s jet - he was bolt upright in his seat now, Coyote still there, both of them apparently listening intently, and he dropped the ratchet strap, his body carrying him over to the tower before he had really finished thinking about it. His heartbeat had sped up again by the time he pushed open the door, hammering against his ribcage as he looked around the room until he caught Cyclone’s eye.

“We got something on the E-2 radar,” said Cyclone, his voice constricted, “not sure what it is yet -”

“Sir,” said a comms officer as a ping sounded, “we got Rooster’s ESAT, it came back on.”

“Is it malfunctioning?”

“No, sir,” said the comms officer, “he’s supersonic.” 

Something skipped abruptly in Hondo’s chest. 

“He’s airborne,” said Warlock, peering intently at the main radar display, and Hondo, too, leaned forward, straining his ears for an update from the E-2 NFO, even as Cyclone cut in disbelievingly with “In what?”

“Sir,” said the comms chief, turning around in her seat, “Overwatch reports an F-14 Tomcat is airborne and on course for our position.”

“It can’t be -” started Cyclone, as Warlock muttered, almost to himself, “Rooster doesn’t know how to fly one of those,” his words rattling in Hondo’s brain, because it couldn’t be -

“ Maverick .” Cyclone’s voice seemed to have steadied, and something about his stunned tone loosened something in Hondo. He was leaning over the shoulder of the comms chief, staring at the radar next to Warlock before he was really aware that he had moved, his heart in his throat as the tag flickered into view where Rooster’s ESAT had been, marked “F-14”. 

“He’s still alive,” Hondo heard himself say, the words feeling odd in his mouth, as if they weren’t quite real, and he stood, mouth open, staring at the display, the corner of Warlock’s mouth quirking in his peripheral vision, until there was another throat-clearing noise from the comms chief. 

“Sirs, Overwatch is reporting two fifth-gen fighters on course to intercept that F-14.” 

A beep sounded, and two more markers appeared on the radar display, moving with purpose, and Hondo’s heart started thudding against his ribcage again as he willed the F-14 to move faster - 

“They can’t outrun ‘em,” he heard Cyclone mutter grimly, as if in answer to his thoughts, just as another voice broke through on the net. 

“Rough Rider, Dagger Spare,” came in Hangman, “permission to launch and fly air cover for the F-14 -”

Hondo could see Warlock and Cyclone exchanging a glance, but their expressions were unreadable. Then Cyclone shook his head.

“Negative, Spare, we do not have confirmation on the souls in the F-14, sit tight.”

Hondo let out a sharp exhale; for all they knew, someone on the ground could have taken Rooster’s ESAT and launched the F-14, but he could see his own hope etched on Cyclone and Warlock’s faces, their eyes glued to the F-14 tag, watching the two bandit tags get closer and closer on the radar display as his breath caught in his chest. They hovered in tight formation for a moment, and Hondo hardly dared breathe as one of the comms techs started resetting the display to focus closer in, the E-2 NFO giving instructions, then -

“Rough Rider, Comanche,” he heard the crackly voice again, “loss of contact on Bandit 2.” 

The BANDIT 2 tag flickered, then vanished from the display, and Hondo felt his heart starting to speed up again, it had to be, that had to mean Maverick had managed to hit at least one of the fifth-gens - but there was still a second one in the air, the tag uncomfortably close to the one marked “F-14”.

“Gotta be them,” he heard Warlock say under his breath, and the words seemed to bolster Hondo as everyone in the room seemed to lean in closer to their consoles. 

“Scan everything,” came another voice over his shoulder. Cyclone’s voice was as taut as his face. “Channel sixteen, and anything else they could be transmitting on -“

“Already on it, sir, we’ve been sweeping for a minute,” answered the comms chief, not turning around. Her eyes, like Hondo’s, were fixed on the F-14 on the display, and it kept coming closer -

“Rough Rider, Comanche,” came the crackly voice again, “we lost contact with Bandit 1, too, but we got a new problem. New bogey coming in from the south, bearing one seven niner, three hundred knots closure.”

A sharp beeping sound from the console showed a third tag marked BANDIT 3, but Hondo hardly registered it; if BANDIT 1 and 2 were gone, it had to be Maverick, no way would they have sacrificed two of their fifth gens for a trap - unless they were spoofing the radar somehow -

“We got something! We got something on channel sixteen! Patching it through from the CATCC, just a sec -”

There was a sharp noise of static, then a garbled noise, then a very distinct voice. 

“-yday, mayday, mayday, Dagger Five, Dagger Five, Dagger Five, Bravo 150/74, inbound mom, two souls on board, this is Dagger Five, mayday mayday -“

A great breath escaped him, and he half-laughed as he looked at the F-14 tag, relief flooding him. 

“That’s them,” came Warlock’s deep, slow voice, and the comms chief was grinning back at him. He caught her eye, and felt a grin stretch across his own face in turn, something lightening in him. 

“How the hell’re we gonna talk to them?” Cyclone looked almost as relieved as Hondo felt, but his words seemed to ground the room back in reality.

“I don’t know, sir, you know we’re dark for this op, we can’t really be saying anything on sixteen.”

Cyclone nodded slowly. “And Rooster’s never even been a GIB, forget in an F-14, probably just found button sixteen -“

“Beau,” he heard Warlock cut in, holding up a hand, “you forget I was a RIO for a year?”

Surprised, Hondo glanced down at Warlock’s khakis, and heard him chuckle.

“Gets crowded with too many warfare devices, but I think I remember how the F-14 radio works. We can get ‘em, Cy, lemme head down to the CATCC, try and get ‘em to switch channels and get on a relay, maybe.”

He bent down, saying something to the comms chief, then strode out the door, the wind gusting in. Cyclone glanced at Hondo, his expression torn between doubt and hope, before he squared his shoulders and looked back at the comms chief. 

“Patch sixteen in again.”

She nodded, and Bradshaw’s voice crackled through again. 

“Dagger Five, Dagger Five, mayday, mayday, mayday -”

“Dagger Five,” cut in Warlock’s deep voice, “if that’s what you’re calling yourselves, we copy. Standby.”

There was static again for a second, then what was audibly, unmistakably a sigh of relief. 

“Dagger Five copies, sir.” 

Hondo felt himself letting out his own breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cyclone’s shoulders drop just a hair, as he turned towards him again. 

“They won’t have a tailhook. Getting them down’ll be hell -”

“Maverick can handle that,” said Hondo, his voice feeling almost rusty, “got more traps’n anyone in the Navy by now, and I had to clean up one of his dirty landings already a while back.”

Cyclone nodded, his eyes distant, as if he were calculating something in his brain. 

“Think you can do it again? I hate to ask if they can bail out, but they might not have a choice.”

“We got it,” said Hondo, with a confidence he did not feel, but Rodriguez had her act together, they could manage it, they had to manage it -

“Sir,” cut in the comms chief, her voice sharp, as a shrill beep radiated from the console, “BANDIT 3 is still inbound and approaching the F-14.”

Something prickled up the back of Hondo’s neck. 

“Rough Rider, Dagger Spare again,” came Hangman’s voice, urgent now, “permission to launch to fly cover for the F-14.”

Cyclone’s jaw was clenched again, and Hondo looked hopefully at him. 

“Not yet,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, and the comms chief blinked. 

“Negative, Spare, hold on, bogey’s not engaged yet, might still be safer if the souls in the F-14 bail out.” 

There was a muffled sound on the comms, as if someone had started cursing but had had a hand slapped over their mouth, and Hondo wondered somewhere if the overflow room was still patched in, wishing there was more he could do than keep his mouth shut -

“Coleman,” Cyclone interrupted his thoughts. “We might still have to launch spare, then either launch SAR or set up for a foul deck, could you -” his expression looked as though he was asking for forgiveness, and Hondo swallowed, hard, and nodded. 

“Got it, sir, I’ll head down to the deck.”

He pushed open the door again, his heart pounding, but the wind wasn’t chilling him the way it had before, and he moved faster now down the ladders and out to the deck, seizing a headset and pushing his glasses more firmly onto his nose. 

“Rodriguez, you been listening? We got a messy situation up there.”

“I know,” she answered, then pulled off one ear of her own headset and beckoned him closer. “You think we’re gonna have to run the cat again?”

Hondo followed her gaze over to where Hangman was still stubbornly in his jet, and bit his lip. 

“They’ll need it,” he answered, lowering his voice, “can I - I mean, your deck crew -”

She glanced up at the tower again, then back at his face. “I trust you. Get ‘em. They’ll help you set up.”

He nodded gratefully at her, then sprinted over to the jet. 

“Coyote, listen, get outta here - Hangman, we’re setting you up on catapult one.”

“What?” Coyote had stepped off the ladder, his expression baffled.

“You know as well as I do they’ll need help. Close your canopy ’n say your prayers, Lieutenant.”

Hangman looked at him for a long second, glanced up at the tower, then back again. 

“Yessir. Been ready a while.”

He closed the canopy, and Hondo got down from the ladder, stowing it with a swift movement, and waved at the deck crew; apparently, Rodriguez had spoken to enough of them that they started moving the jet into place, locking him into the shuttle with an urgency they hadn’t had earlier, their pace matching Hondo’s accelerating heartbeat. He stopped for a second, then turned the volume up on his headset again as static crackled in. 

“Rough Rider, Comanche, Bandit appears to be engaging.” Something cold ran down Hondo’s spine - Mav had been able to hold off the other fifth gens, so the F-14 had had some ordnance loaded, but who knew how much -

“Roger,” he heard Warlock again, “do not try to make contact with the F-14, not right now - if they can, they should punch out -”

Hondo could barely hear, now, a buzzing in his ears, and he looked up at Hangman, who met his eye for a second. He looked back at him, took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before he grabbed the arm of the nearest person in a SHOOTER vest. 

“Launch him. Now.”

“We got permission?” 

“We’re gonna. Go.”

The crisp, definitive order sounded like it had come from someone else’s mouth, but suddenly the crew was springing into place, signaling Hangman as he pressed his head back into his headrest, and Hondo’s mouth was dry as he saw the shooter shifting under the bubble, readying the cat. 

“Dagger Spare, Rough Rider -”

Before the comms chief could finish the hail, though, everything else was drowned out by the roar of the steam catapult, the afterburners thundering past, and Hondo almost could hear the windows rattling up in the tower. He waited, his heart in his mouth, as the noise seemed to echo around his brain before finally fading as the jet climbed higher. 

“Dagger Spare, Rough Rider, that was a hail telling you to launch.”

“Copy, Rough Rider,” came Hangman’s voice, a small note of humor in it, “well, did that, what’s next?”

Hondo snorted to himself, his shoulders relaxing a little, and Rodriguez approached him again. 

“You think we’re gonna need SAR?”

He sobered, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“We’ll need SAR or we’ll need a foul landing miracle. Better get the chopper ready, and the barricade -”

“Rough Rider, Dagger Spare, closing on Bandit 3, do I have permission to fire?”

“Dagger Spare, only if the souls in the F-14 do not eject -”

“They’re trying to evade -”

Hondo had frozen, his feet glued to the deck as he strained his ears. Rodriguez, too, had stopped moving. 

“They’re climbing -”

“Spare, Rough Rider, they need ten-k feet altitude to eject in the Tomcat.”

“They’re not ejecting,” Hondo heard Hangman say, just barely loud enough to be heard over comms, “why aren’t they ejecting?”

“Spare -” 

There was a drawn-out, frozen moment of silence, and Hondo could feel his breath stilling in his lungs, straining his ears until -

“Got ‘em!”

Hangman’s voice was jubilant, and Hondo darted out to peer around the tower, but the specks on the horizon were too far to see. He listened intently, hardly daring to breathe. 

“Rough Rider, Spare, Bandit Three’s been neutralized, their weapons were hot before I fired. They’re gone. Help me out with the comms relay to Dagger Five?”

There was a small chuckle, then Warlock’s deep voice answered, “You bet, Spare, hold tight, I got instructions for the Tomcat RIO.”

Something in Warlock’s voice loosened Hondo’s shoulders, and he felt a long breath escape him, a grin spreading across his face as Warlock started rattling off complex instructions about circuit breakers. The dark specks on the horizon were growing more visible, and he felt lighter, sprinting across the deck to tap on Rodriguez’ shoulder. 

“Probably won’t need SAR,” he panted, just as Hangman came back on the net. 

“Rough Rider, approaching with Dagger Five - I have it from the RIO that the ejection mechanism is non-functional, nor are they equipped with a tailhook, or nose gear.”

“Told you,” Hondo said, and Rodriguez half-groaned.

“Ugh, I know we want ‘em safe, but it’ll be a damn mess. Guess we better get going, spare needs down first.”

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hold back his grin as he jogged after her. The crew, too, seemed jubilant, pulling out the musty-smelling webbing of the barricade, bouncing on the balls of their feet as they watched the jets approaching, Hangman relaying instructions before setting up for his own approach. Hondo was so keyed up that even the bone-rattling thump of the landing on the deck seemed not to touch him. Hangman, too, looked jittery even at a distance, popping his canopy and tipping Hondo a finger salute before looking up anxiously, still holding his mask up. 

“Maverick is downwind, no front landing gear, no tailhook.”

“Copy. Relay the following, Spare -”

Rodriguez nodded at Hondo, and he turned down his headset; he couldn’t worry about Mav in the air, not now, and he glanced along the row of waiting deck crew members. 

“Foul deck, foul deck! Pull the trip wires! Ready the barricade stanchions!”

“They even gonna make it down?” Rodriguez panted, waving at her own line of deck crew, her voice lower and more doubtful than when she had been rapping out orders to the deck crew. “I mean - no tailhook, no nose gear - we’re gonna have tarmac damage -“

“He’ll be fine. Not even his first trap without a tailhook.” He spoke with a confidence he did not feel, but forced down his nervousness. “Maverick’s got more traps’n anyone, lucky it’s -”

He was cut off by an earsplitting roar of jet engines, and this time he could hear the windows rattling up in the tower, and chuckled a little to himself at the image of Cyclone still up in the Pri-Fly. 

“Rough Rider, Spare, Dagger Five, uh, forgot to request a flyby,” he heard Hangman say, half laughing, “but they’re ready for landing. Tomcat, zero four. Ball, eight point niner - shit -”

Hondo shaded his eyes with a hand, squinting; there was smoke now trailing from the starboard engine. 

“Rough Rider, Spare, Dagger Five RIO says they don’t wanna think about the fact that they just lost an engine.” 

“‘Least that bleeds off speed,” muttered Rodriguez, then looked up, yelling more instructions, and Hondo pulled on his end of the barricade, watching intently as the LSO held up signals, the F-14 getting closer and closer, and he felt his hands clench - c’mon, Mav, you got this -

The rear wheels hit the deck with a thud , the nose screeching into the tarmac and punching into the barricade, straining it forwards as smoke rose around the wheels and sparks flew off the deck as they skidded, ten feet, twenty feet, until finally, mercifully, they ground to a halt, the jet angled crazily to the side but blessedly intact. He watched, hardly daring to breathe as the deck crew surged forward with fire extinguishers, pressing in after them, Coyote and Hangman behind him, and he could feel himself stiffen a little as the canopy came up - but they were alive , Maverick pulling off his helmet, looking sweaty and exhausted but alive, grinning even, and something felt like it was expanding in Hondo’s chest, pushing into his throat, warming him from the inside. His vision was blurring, and he pushed up his glasses to swipe at his eyes, then blinked; Mav was suddenly in front of him.

“Hondo, I’m sor-”

The rest of his sentence was cut off as Hondo seized him in a hug tightly enough that he could feel Mav wince, and he slackened his grip hastily, but Mav didn’t pull back like he had after Darkstar, gripping the back of Hondo’s fatigues. 

“‘M’sorry, Hondo,” he heard him mutter into his shoulder, “didn’t mean to do this again.” 

Hondo let out a wet chuckle. 

“You made it, man,” he managed, his throat tight as he gestured at the still-smoking F-14, “can’t ask for much else.”

“Yeah, well,” said Pete, shuffling a little as he let go, “didn’t have much of a choice, you said you’d kill me if I died on you again.” He smiled crookedly at him, and Hondo smiled back, swiping at his face. 

“‘S’okay. I get why.” 

Something in Pete’s face wobbled a little, and he pulled Hondo, one-armed, into another hug, clapping him on the back as he muttered a fervent “thank you” in his ear. 

“Hey, they helped,” he answered, nudging Mav in the direction of the tower, where Cyclone and Warlock were looking down, their expressions relieved, and Mav turned his gaze upward, throwing a respectful salute. 

“Captain Mitchell! Captain Mitchell!” 

Hondo looked up; Bradshaw was pushing his way towards them, and Maverick was looking around, still trying to see what direction he was coming from. 

“Go get your kid,” he said quietly to him, steering him by the shoulders to where Rooster was looking frantically around, and he stepped awkwardly forward. Hondo watched as they looked at each other for a second, Rooster’s face uncertain, his mouth opening a little as if to say something, and Hondo found himself praying inwardly, for what, he didn’t know, only that Mav could not take any more hurt -

And then Maverick reached for Rooster’s shoulder, pulling him in close as Rooster let himself be pulled down, sliding his arms tentatively around Mav and holding on to his G-suit as if unsure he was allowed even as Hondo saw his knuckles whiten where he tightened his grip. Then Mav pulled away, his hand still on the back of Bradley’s neck as he said something to him that Hondo could not hear. Whatever it was, Bradshaw’s lip trembled for a second, his eyes growing shiny before he responded in a low voice with something that had tears spilling down Mav’s face before he pulled the kid back in, hugging him as if it would make up for everything of the last weeks - or, really, it occurred to Hondo, the last years. 

Bradshaw had pressed his face into the shoulder of Mav’s flight suit, tears streaming down his nose, and though Hondo’s vision was blurring, he could see that Bradshaw’s face had relaxed so he looked younger, for all the world like a kid seeking comfort. Maverick’s fingers were ruffling the hair at the back of his neck, in a motion that looked so familiar, so well-practiced, that Hondo’s throat tightened again and he leaned back against the jet. His knees were shaking. He wondered vaguely how long they had been shaking.

“What the -“ 

Hangman was staring at Mav and Rooster, open-mouthed, Phoenix beside him, looking equally stunned, but as she made eye contact with Hondo, her face softened.

“Don’t bug Hondo ‘bout it, he had as rough a day as the rest of us. Bradshaw, on the other hand, you owe us an explanation -“

Bradley had let go of Mav, now, laughing a little as he swiped at his face and turned to them. His eyes met Hondo’s for a second, looking nervous, but Hondo could not bring himself to be angry, just managed a “good work, kid”. Rooster looked unexpectedly pleased at this, giving Hondo a small nod and a word of thanks before his eyes fell on Hangman.

“Chalked yourself another kill,” he said, jerking his head towards the sky, and Hondo almost wanted to laugh when he felt Mav bump his shoulder against his, leaning against the F-14 next to him.

“That how he thanks him for saving our lives?” 

Mav’s eyes were still damp, but he was smiling, his eyes indulgent as he watched Hangman and Rooster shake hands awkwardly and Phoenix hug Rooster before shaking him mock-angrily by the shoulders.

“It’s a hell of an improvement.”

Mav’s face softened still further. 

“Guess we got somewhere - Hondo, you got a tissue or something -“

Hondo fished in his pocket, and came up with a battered Kleenex packet.

“I got - Mav? ”

Mav was sniffling a little, but not from the tears; blood was now pouring from his nose, thick, ominous streams, and he wiped at his face as if he hadn’t noticed.

“Hondo?”

He glanced down at his hand, and Hondo could see his eyes widening, then they met his gaze again, and he looked pale, before uttering a low, worried “oh, shit ” under his breath. 

Chapter Text

Everything froze for a second as Maverick looked at him, his expression uncertain, then Hondo felt his eyes widen as his face slackened, his eyes starting to roll back, and Hondo started to extend his arm, to do what, he wasn’t quite sure - there was blood from Maverick’s nose on his G-suit, on his sleeve, dripping onto the deck -

“Captain - Mav -“ Bradshaw had rematerialized, but before Hondo could say anything, had clumsily grabbed at Maverick’s shoulder, looking frantic. “Mav? What - no -”

Hondo blinked, and suddenly everything seemed to speed up alarmingly; Maverick’s knees had apparently given way, his eyes half-closed, but Bradshaw had caught him around the shoulders before he hit the deck. He was looking up at Hondo, now, blank fear reflected in his face as Hondo stood there, trying to force his brain back into action. 

“Medic! We need a medic over here!”

Coyote’s voice seemed to break through the frozen moment in his head. He could feel his body again, enough to echo Coyote’s shout for help, giving him a grateful nod even as Coyote turned away to start clearing a path. He squatted down. 

“Medics’re coming,” he panted, “do you know why - I mean, what the hell happened out there -”

“I - I don’t know - I didn’t think they hit him when he got shot at -”

“When he what now?” It came out a little more angrily than he had intended, and he forced his gaze away from Mav’s bloodied face, trying to control his breathing.

“Hostile chopper was shooting at him on the ground, after he punched out - but he wasn’t bleeding, before -” Rooster’s voice was cracking now, and Hondo swallowed.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, looking up; the medics had appeared, now, Coyote directing them, and he started to let go, “the ejection’s plenty when he was already banged up - oh, ‘scuse me, Petty Officer -”

He shuffled out of the way, his heart skipping a little at the bloodstains down Mav’s G-suit, then extended a hand, looking down at the top of Rooster’s head. 

“C’mon, get out of their way.”

Bradshaw did not answer, or look up; Hondo could see him still gripping Maverick’s flight suit, Mav’s head nearly in his lap, his knuckles white where a corpsman was now trying to pull Mav out of his grip without jostling him. 

“Sir, you need to let go - we need to get him outta here.” The corpsman looked around, as if trying to find someone who could order Bradshaw to let go. Hondo shrugged helplessly, but bent down anyway, shaking Rooster’s shoulder, but his grip did not loosen, even though the corpsman was trying to push him away, and Hondo felt his heart pound a little faster as the medics set down a stretcher next to them.

“You have to let go, sir -“ a note of urgency mixed with frustration was in the corpsman’s voice, now, and before Hondo knew it he had an arm around Bradshaw’s chest, pulling him back up as he stumbled a little.

“Mav -“

“Let ‘em do their job, kid,” said Hondo, his arm clenching instinctively as Rooster’s fingers scrabbled at his elbow, “just - stop fighting me, it won’t help him, stop -“ he tightened his grip around his ribs, then heard a sharp inhale from Rooster and loosened it.

“You - you okay?”

Rooster looked at him, shaking himself free, and Hondo met his eye for the first time since that morning. He looked a lot younger, somehow, his face still white and scared, but his jaw set stubbornly.

“Fine,” he said shortly, “bruised from the ejection is all.” He looked down, then back around to where the cluster of medics was now hurrying away with the stretcher. Hondo swallowed down his fear, trying to control his breathing, noticing out of the corner of his eye that several of the other aviators were now staring at them. He let out a breath, nodding awkwardly.

“You punched out, you gotta go to sickbay too.”

“They won’t let - they’ll hold me somewhere else, Mav’s got - he has a policy -“ Bradshaw’s voice was cracking now, and he looked away. 

“I know the policy,” Hondo countered impatiently, “just -”

“You know - how much do you -”

“C’mon, BB,” came a voice, and Hondo jumped a little; Phoenix’s expression had shifted from stunned to businesslike as she took hold of Rooster’s arm. “He’s right, let’s go.”

Bradshaw looked around at her as if he had never seen her before, then nodded silently, allowing her to prod him into motion. She caught Hondo’s eye for a second, and he nodded gratefully at her before tipping his head back and letting out a long breath, letting his gaze slide over the scorch marks on the side of the F-14 before he looked up. A dozen pairs of eyes were staring back at him. 

He gulped. Hangman and Coyote wore identical expressions, eyes narrowed as if trying to read his mind. Cyclone was looking at him in an appraising sort of way; Warlock, next to him, just looked worried. Hondo opened his mouth, then shut it again, his heart skipping a little sickeningly as his fingers brushed a still-sticky bloodstain on his sleeve. 

He blinked. Cyclone had clapped a hand on Rooster’s shoulder as he went by, saying something Hondo could not hear, but while Phoenix nodded in acknowledgement, Bradshaw hardly seemed to react, his expression blankly panicked as they passed Warlock, who turned back towards the rest of them. 

“I know you’ll all be concerned about Captain Mitchell, but the medics got it from here,” started Warlock, his voice grave, “and it’s still the CAG’s air wing, and while we all thank you for the extraordinary work today - that includes you, Chief, uh, -”

“Rodriguez,” supplied Hondo automatically; she had appeared just behind Payback, looking questioningly at Hondo.

“- Rodriguez, and your personnel - CAG does need to get you all clear of the deck to resume operations and begin decommissioning this - uh -”

“Bag of ass?” interjected Hangman. Hondo let out an involuntary huff that would’ve been a laugh if his chest hadn’t been so tight. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Warlock with a small quirk of his mouth, “now, the rest of you, out of your gear, get showered, go find something to eat, and that’s an order. You, too, Coleman.”

He nodded numbly, dimly aware that everyone around him had started to move away, talking in hushed voices but still glancing curiously at him. Cyclone had folded his arms, his face tight. 

“Coleman -“

“Not now, Beau.”

He shot Warlock a grateful look, and forced his limbs to start moving again, pulling his headset off and making for the nearest door. One of the dark stains on his sleeve caught his eye, and he looked firmly away, trying to breathe through his mouth. It seemed very dark inside. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. They felt slow to respond. In fact, his whole body felt slow and heavy now, his feet carrying him clumsily to sickbay. A dull ache was rising in his temples. His heart finally seemed to have slowed down, but it felt like weariness more than calm. He wondered, vaguely, if he should even go down to sickbay, but something in Bradshaw’s surprise at Hondo knowing Maverick’s hospital-bed policy had stuck with him; Mav didn’t need to be alone there, not now. 

He was abruptly shaken out of his stupor when he pushed open the door and the bright lights stabbed him in the eyes. He squinted; there was some kind of commotion, Bradshaw shaking off a corpsman, looking frantic, and he blinked as he looked around, trying to take it in. Phoenix caught his eye; her expression was somehow both weary and baffled as she raised an eyebrow at him. 

“He won’t let ‘em check him out ‘till they tell him what’s going on with Maverick,” she muttered, and Hondo could hear the question in her tone, but the corpsman’s exasperated voice cut in before he could answer.
“Sir, we have to check you out, and we can’t just give out private information -”

“Yes, Petty Officer, you can. Look at his file, I think I’m still listed on there, you have to tell me if - if anything -”

He was looking around as if to avoid finishing the sentence, and his gaze met Hondo’s. His jaw was set, but the look in his eyes was almost pleading, and in spite of himself, a pang of sympathy went through Hondo’s chest. He glanced over; the corpsman was looking at him, now, and he swallowed. 

“He’s not lying,” he affirmed, his voice low, “that’s Mitchell’s NOK, you can keep him informed.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phoenix going through a double-take, her eyes widening in his direction, but he avoided her gaze, looking firmly at the corpsman whose eyebrows had gone up. 

“Uh, okay -”

Rooster had thrown his arms out to the side as if to say “well?” and the corpsman glanced at him, then started tapping hurriedly on his tablet.
“Yep, okay, you’re right, sirs. Captain Mitchell’s condition is still being assessed, but you’ll get updates -”

“Anything you know,” Bradshaw ground out, his tone insistent. “Now.”

“Uh, are you sure, sir? Are they -” the corpsman gestured at Phoenix and Hondo, and Bradshaw glanced, briefly, at Hondo, then nodded. 

“They’re fine, just - I need to know -”

“All right. We had indication of a punctured lung, three broken ribs, bleeding into his abdominal cavity, bleeding into his lungs, possible collapsed lung -”

The room seemed abnormally silent, now, or maybe that was just the slight haze that was coming over Hondo’s senses, but he shook himself, fighting to focus on the situation. 

“...they’ll most likely have to get him into surgery to stop the bleeding.”

“Will he - is there - will he be…okay?”

Bradshaw’s face was paler still, now. The corpsman was shuffling his feet a little, and Hondo felt the blood drain from his own face.

“We don’t know yet. The compression of his G-suit slowed some of the internal bleeding, so it’s hard to tell.”

Hondo could hear Bradshaw’s throat clicking as he swallowed, feel Phoenix shifting a little next to him. Then an older medic stuck her head through the door. 

“What’s the holdup, Wong? Get him on an exam table, now, you know ejection protocol -”

Bradshaw flinched.

“‘M’fine, ma’am.”

“Bradshaw,” interjected Phoenix, apparently recovering her voice, “so help me, I will kill you if you die on me again. Let ‘em check you out.” She looked at Hondo again, then in a softer tone, added “they’ll let you stay if you do.” 

Bradshaw looked lost for a long second, as if he was fighting with himself, then nodded, glancing round almost apologetically at Hondo before he followed Wong through a door. Hondo let out a long exhale, shoving his hands in his pockets just as the other medic passed them on her way back out. 

“Look, sir, ma’am, if neither of you need anything, I’m gonna ask you to leave, we’re about to have more people in here.”

“What? Why?” 

Hondo was grateful Phoenix had spared him from asking, but at that second, a crackly announcement sounded. 

“Now this is not a drill, this is not a drill, all members of the walking blood bank with blood type O, report to sickbay immediately. Repeat, all members of the walking blood bank with blood type O, report to sickbay -”

The door burst open almost immediately, before Hondo could ask anything, and he turned to see an anxious-looking Coyote shoving his way through, closely followed by Hangman. 

“I’m type O and I’m in the walking blood bank on the Ford,” he said without preamble, and at the chief medic’s glance at his flight suit, added “I didn’t fly today, Chief, take mine.” 

He was rolling up his sleeve already, his tone firm, and Hondo could see her surprised expression turn businesslike. 

“Uh - great, thank you, sir, full name, service number -” she was already typing on her own tablet “- good, your donor status checks out. Sit down there, we’ll get you hooked up. You, are you in the walking blood bank?” 

“Yeah, but I’m not type O -” Hangman looked nervous, and Hondo could see him looking questioningly at Phoenix. 

“Then we won’t need you,” she cut him off crisply, “thank you, but I’ll need you to go.”

Hondo could see as he opened his mouth, ready to argue, but before he could say anything, there was a veritable flood of people pushing their way into the tiny room. 

“I’m in the walking blood bank, Chief, O pos -” “Me too, O pos -” “I’m O neg”

“Great, thank you, can you form a line -”

There were more people arriving, and her voice was drowned out at the chatter, and Hondo’s hackles were rising along with the noise in the room, then -

“QUIET!”

The sharp yell cut through the babble. A dozen heads turned to the doorway, and Hondo peered around. It was Cyclone, looking uncharacteristically worried. The Chief hastily saluted him, and he returned it grimly before gesturing at her to go on. 

“Okay, thank you, sir. We’ll need -” she tapped something on her tablet - “fifteen units max, you were here first, Lieutenant Machado, and the rest of you, just a sec. Who here’s gotta operate heavy machinery in the next 24 hours?”

A few hands went up, and Hondo could see her scanning the room, counting under her breath. 

“...thirteen, fourteen - ‘kay, we got enough, anyone operating heavy shit, get outta here. We’ll call if we need pinch hitters.”

There was a murmur of assent, and some of the crowd started to filter out of the door. Cyclone moved a little to let them past, but stayed standing there, his eyes darting between Hondo, Phoenix, Hangman, and Coyote, who was now in a chair, unzipping off the top of his flight suit, then to where Bradshaw had suddenly reappeared. His own flight suit was tied around his waist, and there were some dark flecks around the neck of his t-shirt that Hondo decided not to look at too closely. 

“How much blood does he -”

“Not yours, sir,” cut in the Chief swiftly, “you’re under observation.”

“Seconded, Lieutenant,” came Cyclone’s voice, a little tauter than usual. “We were lucky to get you back in one piece, I’d like you to stay that way.”

“He should be fine, sir, we’re just keeping him overnight, ejection protocol.”

“Thank you, Chief, and - and Captain Mitchell?”

“You’re his CO?” She glanced around the room, at the people now being checked through, and Bradshaw cleared his throat quietly. She raised an eyebrow at him, then looked back at Cyclone. 

“We’ll let you know when he’s out of surgery, sir,” she said carefully, and Cyclone glanced suspiciously at Bradshaw, then at Hondo, but to his relief, seemed to accept this answer, and gave a curt nod. 

“Thank you,” he said again, and turned to leave, but the room had become more crowded now with a couple of junior medics setting up chairs and tying tourniquets around arms. There was some shuffling, and Hondo moved out of the way, but his eye fell on the blood now welling into the tube taped into Coyote's arm, and his vision swam -

“Okay, I meant it, everyone not type O and not under observation, get out!”

The Chief’s shout snapped him back, and the junior corpsmen hurriedly yanked the remaining chairs out of Cyclone’s way as he disappeared through the door. Hondo breathed slowly through his mouth, giving her a look of gratitude as he turned firmly away from Coyote, following Hangman and Phoenix as they picked their way out. 

“Hondo? Hondo, you okay there?”

“Fine,” he managed, looking up; it was Hangman, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“I just - just wanted to thank you - y’know, for getting me up on the cat.”

He blinked. 

“Don’t have to thank me,” he said, his voice sounding tired even to his own ears, “you’re the one finished the job.” 

“Yeah, but I got there in time ‘cause - hold up, Phoenix,” he interrupted himself, looking over Hondo’s shoulder, “just what the hell was all that about?”

“Uh -” she looked from Hangman to Hondo, her face tight and drawn as she pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I don’t know much more’n you do, but -”

Hondo felt, more than he saw, Hangman turning back towards him, but Phoenix caught his arm. 

“C’mon, man, don’t bug Hondo, it’s not like he’s gonna air Maverick’s personal stuff behind his back anyway.” 

“Yeah, but his personal stuff is Bradshaw’s personal stuff -” he was looking between them, his face taut. “Hondo -”

Hondo shrugged; his shoulders felt heavy. “Not for me to tell.” Phoenix let out a short huff, turning a pointed glare back on Hangman, who nodded a bit sheepishly. 

“Sorry. I just - this isn’t like him, I wanna know -”

“Don’t we all,” sighed Phoenix, “but not now. C’mon, let’s go find something to eat before the watch ends.” She rubbed a hand down her face, looking almost as tired as Hondo felt, and tipped him a finger salute before pushing Hangman in front of her through the adjoining frame. He nodded at her in response, but couldn’t muster the energy to follow. His eyes were itching; he leaned heavily back against the nearest bulkhead, scrubbing them under his glasses. He appreciated, for a second, how grateful he was that Phoenix had turned Hangman away from him; even if he’d had the right, he wasn’t sure he would be up to any kind of explanations. Deciding not to think too hard about the kind of explanations he probably owed Cyclone, he managed to find his way back to his quarters, moving half-blindly as the headache reared back up, and by the time he fell into his bunk, he had stopped thinking at all. 

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

“What the -”

He sat up. Everything was pitch black.
“Sorry,” he heard the sleepy grunt from the upper bunk, “set that alarm on shore leave, can’t get it to turn off.” Hondo looked up; his temporary bunkmate - he fought for his name - LaSalle was punching a button furiously on the side of a glowing watch face, then cursed, taking it off and shoving it under his pillow to muffle the sound. Hondo, however, sat up fully, stretching his legs, still disoriented. Damn, he had passed out with his boots still on, and he wavered for a second between taking them off and getting up for some water, before standing up and picking his way as quietly as he could towards the door. 

He squinted in the light for a second, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve before putting them back on. Everything felt quieter, the activity of the day dulled to the low, ever-present hum of the ship systems. His brain was sharper now, the images of the day coming back - the long scorch marks up the side of an F-14, skidding to a halt on the deck, Bradshaw burying his face in Maverick’s shoulder, blood leaking out of Mav’s nose - 

Something prickled up his spine. He was suddenly wide awake, staring at the dark stains still just visible on his sleeve - no one had said Maverick would be okay - 

He had arrived at sickbay almost before he realized that his feet were carrying him there, and was hesitating in front of the door when it opened to reveal a vaguely familiar face. 

“Can I - wait, Cottle?”

The face in front of him was perhaps a bit more lined, his hair grayer, but the medic’s crusty expression was unmistakeable, even as Hondo glanced surreptitiously at his nametag. 

“I know you,” said Cottle slowly, “what was it, fourteen years ago? Cracked your head open falling down a ladder?”

Hondo ran a hand self-consciously over the faint scar on the back of his head. 

“Yeah,” he said, “that was me - you’re still in? Thought you’d -”

“I’m not that old, Coleman,” grunted Cottle, then his face cracked in a grin. “You got me, though, I did retire, spent a couple years in the reserves, but got divorced, didn’t have a lot to do and the Navy started calling up all the medics they could get their hands on. Helluva deja-vu feeling, Mitchell landing back in sickbay on my watch.”

“Never broke the habit,” he muttered. Cottle chuckled, then his face sobered. 

“He’s gonna be fine,” he said, “but he was a mess, had ribs that were broken weeks ago from what the surgeon said, made the internal bleeding worse - what’d he do?”

“He’ll be okay?”

“Oh, sure, but it was touch ‘n go there for a minute, he shouldn’t’ve been flying today, forget punching out, he’s gonna be grounded for at least -”

Hondo had stopped listening; there was a buzzing in his ears, and he forced himself to let his breath out slowly. Mav was recovering. Mav would be okay. 

“Hey,” cut in Cottle’s voice, “had you worried, huh?”

Hondo blinked, then nodded, feeling a small smile stretch across his face. 

“Yeah,” he said with a breath, “like I said, never broke the habit.”

Cottle gave a gruff snort. “That got something to do with why he was flying with broken ribs?”

“It might, but that’s need-to-know.”

“Heard that one before,” grunted Cottle. “Anyway, don’t worry, they put the other guy in there with him, he’s not by himself, though what the hell that deal is with them no one seemed to know. Go stick your head in, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“What -” Hondo bit his tongue; Cottle was holding the door open behind him. 

“Lotta people worried ‘bout him today, we had to chase ‘em off all evening, but I get the feeling you earned the right to check our work. Now go put your mind at ease so I can get some rack.”

He nodded gratefully, muttering his thanks as he pushed through the door. There had to be some people on the night shift, but they were nowhere to be seen as he made his way through to recovery, until his eyes fell on a bed with Pete in it, still a little pale, but his face mercifully cleaned of blood. There was another bed a few feet away, the sheets rumpled, and a chair pulled up next to Pete’s bed where Bradshaw sat, slumped over the end of his bed with his head resting on his arms. Hondo stepped back, a little hesitantly, then he saw the lift of his ribcage and heard a small snore, and Hondo felt his shoulders relax. At the sound, Pete’s eyelids fluttered a little, and he blinked one eye open, his hand reaching out very gently to ruffle the hair on the side of Bradley’s head where it was turned towards him. He did not appear to wake, and Hondo watched for a second as Pete ran his fingers again through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead in a motion so familiar that Hondo’s throat tightened for a second. 

Then Mav’s head jerked up, both eyes fully open now, if a little unfocused. 

“Hondo?”

His voice was croaky, but Hondo felt a real grin stretch his face this time even as something pricked the corners of his eyes. 

“Yeah, just came to see how you were doing,” he answered in a whisper, sitting as quietly as he could down on the opposite bed and resting his elbows on his knees. “Gave us a scare back there.”

“I know,” whispered Pete, “and -” he turned his head to Hondo with a small grunt - “I’m sorry - Hondo, I know this was rough, I never meant for you to deal with all this.”

Hondo blinked; his eyes burned, and he sniffed a bit, swiping at his eyes.

“‘S’okay. I know why you did it.”

“You look like shit.”

Hondo let out a small, wet snort. “You look worse.”

Pete gave a tiny chuckle. “I know.” He sobered again, looking down at Rooster, still fast asleep; Hondo followed his gaze.

“When you went down,” started Hondo, very quietly, “he lost his shit. Disobeyed a direct order to go back for you. Almost threatened a corpsman into telling him what was up after - after you collapsed. Wouldn’t let them check him out ‘til Phoenix reminded him they’d let him stay if he did.”

Pete nodded, his throat bobbing a little; his eyes had gone shiny. 

“Not a guilt trip. Just - you gotta have a real conversation, okay? I’m done watching this.” 

“I know,” he heard him answer, a little wobbly, a small hitch in his breath. “I promised him we’d talk. When we got back.” He brushed the hand not resting in Bradshaw’s curls across his eyes, and Hondo felt his own throat tighten. 

“Did - did you sleep, Hondo?” he added, his voice still rough. 

“Some.”

“Go,” he said, the whisper firmer now, “I already put you through hell, don’t stay up any later on my account.” 

Hondo opened his mouth to protest, then it stretched into an involuntary yawn. 

“You got a point there,” he whispered, getting to his feet and glancing down at Bradshaw, “and it’s okay, Mav, just - just don’t let it be for nothing, ‘kay?”