Archive of Our Own

“I can’t name just one thing.”

Mickey laughed over the lip of his beer bottle. A quick sip to, hopefully, mask the pink gracing his cheeks, even though he knew the effort was futile at best. “You know that.”

Reuben wouldn’t listen. He never did. It was one of the many qualities that made him such a great friend at times, and such a frustrating one tonight. “One thing you like about her,” Payback pushed for an answer. “It’s not that difficult of a question, Mick.”

But it was.

They went through this once a week. Minimum. He and Payback skirted off base early - easier to secure a spot at the bar before the crowds rolled in - all to sip a few beers and lament over the fact that they both missed the clause in their kickass fighter pilot careers where it stated relationships wouldn’t fall into their laps. If anything, their chances at love were as out of reach as the horizon in front of them. They could speed towards it all they wanted. The line would still always be there, a hair’s breadth away.

Reuben often started. Making sure to take his time in overanalyzing every interaction he had that week with the woman who worked in the control tower. Fanboy could agree she had the voice of an angel. Payback’s infatuation was completely warranted. Even before they found out she also looked like an angel, Mickey could tell she was a good fit for his wingman. Reuben would flirt relentlessly and she, ever professional, would instruct them with a smile in her voice. Occasionally she’d joke around, but not enough for a week by week breakdown. Her clearing them for landing wasn’t the easiest thing to warp into a ‘dude, she likes you. You should totally ask her out.’

Creating a conversation around you took no effort for Fanboy at all.

“She’s like no one else I’ve ever met, Reuben.” Once Mickey got started, he couldn’t stop. His callsign hadn’t exactly spawned into existence because of his cool, detached, and nonchalant approach towards anything he remotely liked.

“I know what you mean,” Payback said.

He motioned to the bartender for another beer. Mav and Penny had a date tonight. Precisely why he and Mickey were sitting belly up to the bar so early on a Thursday afternoon. No eavesdropping from Penny. She was known for meddling if any of her regulars were remotely interested in each other.

“Day,” Payback sighed, “she has the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. You know what she did last week?”

Fanboy arched a brow. He did know what she did last week. The past few months of being stationed here sat in his mind, carefully cataloged away. From the batting eyelashes to the extremely obvious attempts to get Reuben to ask her out on a date. Mickey knew Day’s entire day all thanks to Payback’s crush. At this point, he felt like he knew her well enough to consider her a friend despite having never held a conversation with her.

Payback could easily do the same. There was one memory in particular Fanboy would break down again and again - Reuben truly had the patience of a saint.

“Does your mother call you Garcia?” You asked the first time he took you out for drinks.

The rest of the Dagger Squad milled about the bar. You all had shown up together, along with some of your fellow TOPGUN instructors, but somehow Mickey paid for everyone’s drinks that night. The two of you ended up tucked away in a booth by yourselves. He couldn’t help but to think of it as a date.

“No, she doesn’t.” He remembered how to form words somewhere between watching you polish off your drink and feeling you lean in closer to show your interest.

“Does she call you Fanboy?” A sheepish grin and a small shake of his head. “So what does she call you?”

He leaned closer to you, stopping just before your noses could touch. “She calls me Miguel.”

You tested the word out for yourself. Reuben swears that was the moment Mickey fell in love, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. Fanboy melted when he heard his name on your lips. This shift in power felt dangerous. At any point you could have this man in a puddle at your feet, willing to do anything for you. Yet, Mickey felt nothing but trust. You had never been one to abuse power - unless, of course, it was to give Hangman shit or get Payback back for something.

“But I can call you Mickey?” You smiled one of the most stunning smiles Fanboy ever saw out of you. How could he say no?

And that’s how you wormed your way into a first name basis. On top of becoming a featured subject for their Friday debriefs. If Payback took a shot every time Fanboy asked “Do you think her asking to call me Mickey was her way of hitting on me?” he’d have alcohol poisoning.

“Mickey!”

His head snapped towards the sound of your voice like a moth to a flame. Icarus to the sun. Maverick to bad decisions. Hangman to asshole comments. Thousands of similes all as timeless as the way his heart ached in your presence. A romance for the ages.

He only wished it could get off the ground.

Reuben slapped him on the shoulder. He passed Fanboy a tequila shot saying, “You need to make a move tonight.”

You moved towards the pair, splitting off from your friends. Surely that was something Mickey could overanalyze later tonight.

“Yeah,” he answered absentmindedly. “Sounds good.”

“Hi, Reuben.” You saddled up to the bar. Payback crushed you in a hug, and Mickey couldn’t ignore the jealousy flickering about in his chest. When would he build up the courage to greet you with a hug? Why couldn’t he approach anything that had to do with you with the same surefire confidence he could impart towards flying?

You squirmed in Payback’s grip. “Too tight,” you playfully choked out. “I’m dyin’ here.”

Payback released you, taking care to carefully shove you closer to Mickey, and laughed. “Good to see you too, Einstein.”

Both you and Mickey shot him a look. You’d been through your fair share of shitty callsigns. Mouth, which finally got axed after filing enough harassment claims, started because you’d mouthed off to your superior once during Plebe Summer and had your whole squad in the doghouse for two months. It took another two months for the disdain to finally drop off whenever someone called you. By then, though, people had been shifted around, and most at The Academy (those with extreme insecurity) didn’t appreciate having a woman attempting to be a future TOPGUN flier.

Needless to say, Mouth in the hands of young men with sexism at the forefront of their minds quickly became a problem. So the remainder of your time at The Academy, and sometime after, marked you as IKEA. I Know Everything Anyway. Not nearly as cool as Maverick, Slider, or Iceman, but you’d rather be known for your brain than your hotheadedness. Talking over everyone simply had to happen in class. Otherwise you weren’t going to be heard at all.

Einstein came later; from Iceman himself. He came to personally congratulate you on your perfect score. “You’re a regular Einstein, aren’t you?” He’d said, and it stuck. Sometimes spoken in awe, sometimes with disgust, but mostly in a playful manner like Payback always managed.

“Watch yourself, Payback.” You plucked the shot from Mickey’s fingertips. It was gone in a flash. “Can I have another round, please?” You asked the bartender, then turned towards Fanboy with a grin. “You’re having one with me, right? And one more, probably, to make things even.”

The one thing Reuben asked about earlier came to mind. Your refusal to take shit. That would have to be his favorite thing (in this moment because Fanboy knew he truly couldn’t choose a single aspect) about you.

“What’re you starin’ at?” How you tilted your head to scrutinize him reminded Mickey of his childhood dog. A stray his mother swore up and down would never come in the house, only to end up sleeping in bed with her each night. Kind of like you - except you snuck your way into his heart rather than his bed. “Are you okay?”

Mickey could feel the heat radiating off his face. In comparing you to his childhood dog, he had gotten the image of you in his bed stuck in his mind. What a dream, and not even in the typical horny way people used the term ‘in bed.’ Fanboy’s fantasy consisted of being able to hold you, talk to you for hours in the early hours of the morning, and revel in the knowledge that out of anyone in the world you could choose, you chose him. Anything more that came with a domestic love like that would be a bonus.

Of course, you weren’t a mind reader. Thank god for that. No stumbling apology would ever be enough to save Mickey from the embarrassment of daydreaming about you while you were next to him. This crush steadily reached towards schoolgirl doodling your joint married name in a notebook levels of delusion. Whoever said be friends with your crush never mentioned the crushing anxiety of ruining that friendship with any given misstep. When did Mickey know it was safe to take the next step?

“Hmmm?” The tips of his ears grew hot as you stared. Somehow he managed to grasp every chance to make a fool of himself around you. “Yeah,” he breathed, acutely aware of Payback’s smirk off to the side, “I’m fine.”

“Are you doing a tequila shot?”

“I don’t know about Mick here-” Reuben brought a hand down on Mickey’s shoulder- “but I will definitely be having one.” He turned his attention to the bartender pouring the shots. “Lime and salt too, please.”

Your eyebrows practically shot to your forehead. “You can’t handle a tequila shot? I would not have guessed that about you, Payback.”

If only you knew how Reuben truly partied. Fanboy knew him longest out of anyone on The Dagger Squad; they'd been a pair for most of his career.

Payback brought a hand to his chest. He gasped dramatically and Mickey rolled his eyes. “We call him Payback because of all the shots I paid for that he promised to pay me back for.”

“I did pay you back!”

“When?”

“How many times have I saved your life?”

You laughed, doing nothing for the heat still trapped in Mickey’s cheeks. “Isn’t that your job?”

“I could be shit at my job.” Payback shrugged. He shifted his position to reach for the salt on the table. All the confidence of a man who didn’t own this tab - Mickey, unfortunately, would be paying for more of the squad’s drinks tonight. “The lime and salt,” he explained, “are a part of the experience. There’s a comradery to a ritual done together. After this, we’re bonded for life.”

Long ago Fanboy used to be envious of the way people flocked to Payback. This simple act transformed into a performance. Storytelling was an art, and Reuben perfected it. He even had you succumbing to the supposed weakness of using a chaser.

To not stare you down while you licked your hand, Fanboy busied himself with the salt. However, his eyes flickered to you for the briefest of seconds. Right as he dragged his tongue over the fleshy part between his thumb and wrist. The want must have been apparent. He had always been the type to wear his emotions on his face.

But you weren’t. So when your eyes widened, Mickey paused. A horrible thing to do considering his current position. Your chest stilled for a second, eyes trained on him, and time stopped entirely. The knowledge that you might just want him too sent Fanboy crashing back to reality. He salted his hand with as steady a hand he could manage.

“A toast!” You cleared your throat, eyes darting around before settling pointedly not on Fanyboy. He could see your desperation for control. “Payback?”

Payback lifted his shot glass. The two of you followed suit. “May it always be the other guy who says 'This drink's on me.’”

Between Fanboy’s annoyance and your giggle Reuben licked the salt, threw back the shot, and grabbed a lime wedge to bite down on. He grinned around the peel. “I win.”

The competitive nature of fighter pilots took over. Mickey completed the sequence with ease. His bank account wouldn’t appreciate the smooth taste of the liquor but nearly dying those few months ago made him realize two things. One, he really didn’t want to spend all his time pining over you - he’d rather be with you. Two, he was getting too old for cheap liquor.

“That’s really- hey!” You felt around blindly on the counter. “Mickey, that's so not fair.”

He brandished your lime slice. “You’re supposed to do the shot, then complain about Payback. Everyone knows this.”

You stuck your bottom lip out in an overdramatic pout. “I wanted that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sure, Fanboy may have deepened his voice slightly. He might have seized the opportunity to slide forward, closer to you. What was he supposed to do? Ignore your blatant attempts at flirting because someone else was standing right there? He’d been doing that for the entire time he’d known you. At some point the third wheel needed to read the room.

Placing the lime wedge between your lips helped Payback do precisely that. His gaze flicked back and forth between Fanboy and his thumb gently pushing the fruit to your mouth. “I, uh,” Reuben fumbled for words, “I’ll go over there.”

No one acknowledged his departure. Fanboy kept his eyes locked on yours. After all, you were the whole reason he was at the bar in the first place. You pulled the lime into your mouth, and he let his thumb linger on your bottom lip for a moment before leaning back on the bar stool.

“Done pouting?”

You popped the lime out of your mouth. “I wasn’t pouting.”

Being a gentleman became so much harder when you ran your tongue over your lips to lick up all the juice. The movement killed Fanboy’s ability to speak entirely. Your smirk confirmed what he already knew. You were well aware of his weaknesses.

“So, Mickey…”

Like the sound of his name falling from those very lips.

It had been a while since the two of you talked about something other than work. Hell, Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time you and him were one on one. A lie. Payback debriefed that last one on one conversation with Mickey a few days ago. He couldn’t help it. Every day you were gentle on his mind.

“What have you been fanboying over recently?” You toyed with the citrus peel. Focused intently on pushing the thing around the counter. “Anything interesting?”

“You mean other than you?”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. His eyes locked on yours. Widening by the second with embarrassment. “I mean-”

A shy smile played on your lips. You looked pleased with yourself as you said, “Yeah, other than me. I try not to talk about myself too much. Don’t want to be Bagman Jr.”

Oh, Mickey could kiss you right now.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” He asked. Straightforward in the hopes of appearing more confident than he felt. Fanboy could face certain death, he could face Cyclone, and he could face Bob in poker. Your pretty face on the other hand almost always left him flustered.

You tapped a finger against your chin. Faking a deep concentration to pull a smile out of Mickey. “What was that TV show you’ve been dying to get everyone to watch, again?”

He instantly perked up. “You sure you want to open that door?”

“You’re right. Let’s have one more shot first,” you teased. Your hand rested on Mickey’s forearm. He tried hard not to stare at the headliner for flirty behavior and focused on your beautiful smile instead. The whole time his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. “I’m sure, Mickey. I like listening to you talk.”

And, damn, did Mickey talk. Somewhere in the midst of laughter, finding excuses to touch one another, and conversation the two limes turned into seven. The liquor worked any and all tension from Mickey. Tipsy - maybe leaning more on drunk - confidence coursed through him. Any flirty freudian slips he took in stride.

Tequila made a new man out of Fanboy. A closer version of himself, might be a better way to look at it. How he normally attempted to pick women up at bars. You weren’t any woman. Precisely why so many shots were necessary in the first place.

“Is it Thursday today?” You slurred your words together ever so slightly. The drinks brought a warmth to your cheeks that hadn’t been there earlier. Fanboy resisted the urge to reach out. Scared the slightest touch would shatter the illusion. “Thursday is darts day.”

“Thursday is karaoke day,” Mickey corrected, his sentence also fuzzy around the edges. “ ‘s why Coyote’s not here.”

He focused on the concentrated furrow between your brow. An expression that only ever came out when you were drinking. Sober you calculated everything immediately. A beer or two in and a loading screen appeared while you clicked the pieces into place. “But Bob’s here.”

Bob and Javy often skipped Thursday’s at The Hard Deck. Karaoke was bad enough with sober people who couldn’t sing. Adding drunkenness to the equation ended in certain disaster. Case in point - Javy “Coyote” Machado almost became Javy “Wolf” Machado because of all the drunken howling he did onstage instead of singing.

He hadn’t shown his face at karaoke since.

“Bob is here at Phoenix’s request.” That request being he lost a bet, but semantics were lost on the squad. “My guess is she gets him to sing ‘Sweet Caroline.’”

“All that attention on him? He’d melt.”

Fanboy shook his head. Bob was shy, sure, but he could handle the spotlight with enough time to prepare. “No, but Rooster is absolutely going to take the next three slots after to prove he’s the better singer.”

You laughed, and Fanboy could have sworn you used that as an excuse to lean in close and squeeze his bicep. “Oh, I’m so telling him you said that.” You swung around in your stool, using Mickey’s arm to stabilize yourself, and searched for Rooster in the sea of people.

In your time surveying the crowd, Fanboy traced the rim of his empty shot glass and reveled in being your rock. Could this be your future together? Inside jokes over drinks. Innocent touches with serious potential to transform into something more.

Tonight everything became clear. All questions would be answered - good or bad - Mickey decided. You were the brains. IKEA. You could tell him if you knew your feelings for him. If this pipedream had potential or would swirl down the drain.

Nails pricking skin pulled Fanboy from his thoughts. Your grip went stiff along with the rest of your body. Any traces of a buzz disappeared entirely in this strange rigid poster. He carefully pried your hand off him. “What is it?”

“Brent.” Your voice escaped you in a panicked whisper.

The name registered with Mickey briefly after wracking his tequila soaked brain for a moment longer than necessary. A few weeks ago, during downtime between practice hops, everyone traded stories about the worst ex they had. Payback shared his egregious tale about a girl he dated in high school stealing his dog when he didn’t ask her to prom, Phoenix told everyone how her blind date ended up storming into the kitchen of the restaurant they were at to cook his own meal, and Mickey gave the pared down version of his longest relationship ending when she moved halfway across the country to reunite with her… other boyfriend.

No one had anything nice to say. Except for you.

Your most recent ex, it seemed, had boundary issues that couldn’t be solved in a relationship with someone in the military. The constant reminders and communication simply weren’t compatible with where you were at in your career. Always moving around from base to base, fully prepared to be whisked away on a secret mission without a word of warning, didn’t bode well for the two of you. So, you split.

Everyone - Hangman - blatantly accused you of still having feelings for this man. Mickey couldn’t help but lean forward with interest, waiting for your answer. He prepared himself for crushing disappointment. You simply dismissed the notion with a gentle, “He’s not bad people. I wish him nothing but the best, and I hope that best for him is far, far away from me.”

But your body language conveyed the opposite. You stood, swaying on your feet, and shook your head. Mickey was immediately off the barstool. Buzz be damned. He let himself assume the worst and boost some adrenaline into his system. Overpowering the effects of the alcohol with stress always pulled Mickey’s mind back together. He called a constant state of anxiety home. Fight or flight was where he performed best. Fanboy had medals to prove it.

“Einstein? Are you okay?”

One arm wrapped around your waist. The look of shock on your face had Fanboy scared your legs would give out from beneath you at any given moment. His earlier thought of being your rock solidified in this storm. He wanted to be your constant, a source of comfort.

If only he knew how to help you.

For a second you didn’t answer him. Your eyes were locked on the man who had just passed through the threshold of The Hard Deck. Then you nodded. “Yeah.” You sounded far away. “Everything’s fine.”

Fanboy followed your gaze. He wanted to know exactly which man you side-eyed.

Smaller and skinnier than a lot of the men in the bar, expected from someone who wasn’t training with the Navy seven days a week. He appeared unassuming. Still, you knuckles were turning white from where you were gripping the counter. Unassuming didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of harm.

“What do you need from me?” He asked.

You swallowed, and your eyes finally met his. Mickey could have cried. You looked… small. The feared Naval aviator he knew so well had been replaced with someone else. Someone hurt, clearly because fear wasn’t an emotion you willingly showed. In all of a few seconds you’d become human.

“Einstein,” he repeated in a slow, gentle voice. “What do you need from me?”

“I have a restraining order on that man.” Shame, which Fanboy couldn’t comprehend why, lit your eyes. You turned back towards the bar. Eyes trained on the pile of lime peels. “For stalking.”

Boundary issues seemed like a serious downplay.

Mickey slid behind you to shield you from view of anyone approaching. He brought an arm around to rest against the bar. To anyone else, this would look flirty, but really Fanboy wanted to give you the ability to whisper to him without anyone else overhearing. “We should get you out of here.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know where he is.” The way your voice broke, broke Mickey’s heart. What did he do to you? “I don’t want to move if I don’t know where he is.”

“Okay.” Mickey nodded. “If I tell you where he’s at, then we’ll figure out if we’re using the back door or the front door.”

He keeps his eyes locked on yours, searching your face for any sign that you heard him. Gears turned behind your eyes. Emotions clicked away, compartmentalized to deal with later. You were using your training. Adrenaline killed if not dealt with effectively.

“You okay?” He whispered.

“I don’t want you to look away.” Selfishly, Mickey nodded. He didn’t want to look away until he felt confident he wasn’t leaving you to drift about in your anxiety alone. “I have to… to get myself under control.”

The bartender passed by without a glance in their direction. Conversation around them continued loudly. As far as Mickey could tell, no one paid you two any mind at all.

“You’re doing a great job.”

You closed your eyes. “Thank you, Mickey.” When you opened your eyes, any trace of fear vanished. Einstein, the Navy’s top aviator, would do what everyone else on a particularly traumatic mission did - deal with the emotional shit later, and eliminate the threat now. “Ready to go?”

Right now? He shouldn’t be shocked. When you were in action, you didn’t hesitate.

Mickey nodded. Now was as good a time as any. He held out a hand and helped you step around the barstool. You clung to him, the only impression that Brent’s appearance still had you rattled. It didn’t seem like a good time for Fanboy to peel himself away from you. Having a hand on you might be smart anyway. You wouldn’t get separated as you made your way through the crowd.

“There you are.”

Brent stood an uncomfortably close foot away. His teeth weren’t sharpened fangs, but his smile cut Mickey to the core regardless. This was a worst case scenario - coffin corner. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but my calls go straight to voicemail.”

Hands still clasped, the two of you turned to face him. You stared straight past him, right over his shoulder. Only when it became clear you couldn’t pass by without him being able to lay a hand on you did you acknowledge him. “Brent.”

The grin grew. Mickey straightened to full height. He wished he had the intimidating extra few inches most of the others on Dagger Squad had. Brent’s eyes slid Mickey’s way, down to your enjoined hands, but snapped back up to Einstein quick. Like you’d vanish given the slightest opportunity.

“Please move.” Your voice gave no room for further conversation but Brent made an attempt anyway.

“Went by your place, but your windows were dark.”

A pit of unease grew in Mickey’s stomach. Einstein had been going through this all on her own. None of them knew the baggage she carried. Some squad they were. He glanced your way, but you had the same blank look on your face.

Brent barreled on. “Key didn’t work in the lock. The one you kept under that stupid garden decoration was gone.” His eyes bore into your face. Too aggressive to be considered making eye contact. Fanboy had only ever seen a power display like this in interrogation training. “Did you move or something?”

You lifted a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.”

The mere implication Brent was breaking his restraining order changed the set of his jaw. Muscles feathered and he pressed his lips together. “But,” he said around a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m here now. Look. This is the last time, I swear. I just need closure.”

“If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.” You gripped Mickey’s hand a bit tighter and moved to step around Brent, but he sidestepped in your way. “Please move.”

“It’s a public bar, darling. I can stand wherever I fucking please.” All attempts at playing nice slowly started to drip away. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

Darling. Mickey’s stomach rolled. He felt your hand jerk backwards but neither of you could back up without the bar digging into your back. Brent seemed well aware of such a fact. He took a lazy step forward. “Whenever you want to ditch this one-” he spoke about Fanboy without sparing him a glance- “I’d like to talk to you.”

Enough was enough. Fanboy stepped forward with intent. What exactly said intent was he would figure out halfway through the confrontation. He wasn’t exactly known for his foresight in his personal life. The only thing that stopped him was you tugging him back.

With one small squeeze, you removed your hand from Mickey’s.

“You can talk to my fucking lawyer.” You used the same sickly sweet voice Fanboy heard you use on higher up’s that refused to take you seriously. “Until then, you need to move. Now.”

“Can we just talk outside?” Brent asked. He reached out to grab for your arm, but you dodged his advances.

“Please, do not touch me.” Your words were firm and flat. “I don’t want you touching me.”

“You owe me the courtesy of a conversation.”

Mickey never wanted to white knight on your behalf, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let this douchebag get anywhere near leaving his sight with you let alone get all the way to the front doors. He could handle you being mad at him for fighting a battle for you. He couldn’t handle what would happen if you took on a fight like this by yourself when you didn’t have to.

“Can we talk outside? Or are you going to keep letting your friends gaslight you into thinking I’m always the bad guy?”

When you failed to answer, Brent rephrased his question. It seemed your lack of emotional response wormed its way under his skin in a way he couldn’t hide.

“Can you stop being such a bitch and answer me?” He asked, reaching out once again to put his hands on you. A mistake.

Everyone in the bar fell silent at the dull ‘thack’ of your fist connecting with Brent’s cheek. Somewhere in the wide arsenal of cinema there was a scene just like this that ends in an all out brawl. Here Brent’s head snapped to the side thanks to the sheer force you packed in a single punch. He blinked in disbelief.

Mickey, on the other hand, saw the first forming a while ago. He wasn’t one for violence, but watching you remind everyone you weren’t one to take shit always made his mouth water. And watching you throw a punch may just be the hottest thing he’d seen all week.

Excusing, of course, the fact that your creep of an ex boyfriend still stood there in front of you with a dumbfounded look on his face like he had no clue what he could have done to deserve that.

You cleared your throat. “I asked you not to touch me, please.”

Fanboy grew tired of the niceties. The second you looked towards him for help, he was telling Brent to fuck offand he wouldn’t give him any choice but to listen.

Payback paced behind Brent. He inched close enough to catch Fanboy’s eye. Mickey and Reuben could always reasonably assume the other’s thoughts without words. Half the time they only talked because they liked to hear themselves speak. One look from Fanboy said everything, though. His wingman was headed out the front door on the phone with the cops in an instant.

All Fanboy had to do was keep things from escalating.

Brent straightened, eyes shifting around to all the Navy’s finest, and brought a hand up to where you punched him. For a second, Mickey foolishly thought he would swallow his pride. Brent looked ready to tuck his tail, turn on his heel, and run out of the Hard Deck.

No one said anything while they waited for Brent to respond. If he left, no one would bother him too badly. If he didn’t take the warning punch seriously, Mickey could almost bring himself to pity the poor fool. Almost, but not really.

Creepy smile devoid of emotion in place, Brent reached out politely once again and, this time, caught ahold of you. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

At the sight of Brent gripping your arm, the sound of your first name falling from his lips, Fanboy’s self-control snapped. This thin string holding himself together split.

His fist flew up faster than he could process. Brent’s teeth clacked as his jaw came together. Fanboy clipped your ex’s chin in the perfect uppercut, and he dropped straight to the floor.

Unconscious.

You, who talked so highly of this ex those few weeks ago that Fanboy convinced himself you were still in love with him, turned to Mickey with panic written across your features.

“You punched him!” You shouted to Mickey, eyes flickering between your ex on the floor and Fanboy. The angle wasn’t the slightest bit flattering for the poor guy.

Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face. He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm. Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind. Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.

“You punched him first.” Mickey shrugged. He shook his hand out in a gesture he hoped passed as nonchalant. Pain lingered, though, and he couldn’t help but grimace when he flexed his fingers.

“I had a reason.”

“So did I.” You crossed your arms and arched a brow. Mickey sighed and stepped over Brent’s unconscious body. “He didn’t respect you clearly stating you didn’t want to be touched.”

“I was handling it.”

“I know,” he said, “I just handled it with you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but, when your gaze moved from Brent to Fanboy one more time, he could see gratefulness. “I have to call my lawyer.”

—

Those bright red knuckles of yours had yet to fade. From the sound of it, Mickey could guess you’d hit his cheek bone and would be sporting some nasty bruises for a while. He didn’t bother to look at his own hand. It throbbed to an annoying degree. The chances of his knuckle being split was exceptionally high, but your well being in the moment mattered far more.

Neither of you wanted ice for your hands. Fanboy hoped it would make him look tough. You had been more preoccupied with leaving a voicemail explaining Brent had broken his restraining order and the police had been called and “to please call me back as soon as humanly possible.”

Then you both collapsed in a booth in the furthest corner possible of the Hard Deck because you wanted to see when the cops walked through the door rather than tuck yourself in the back. Fanboy refused to stray far. You hadn’t asked him to leave, which he took as a good sign. At least you weren’t too mad at him for stepping in.

“That’s one hell of a right hook you’ve got there.”

He hoped to ease the tension with a teasing joke. In classic Fanboy fashion, he misread the timing.

“My lawyer is not going to like this one bit.” You dragged a hand over your face. The one with the angry knuckles. “She told me, ‘If he breaks his restraining order, you can’t just punch him. As much as he might deserve it.’”

Mickey smothered a grin. He wanted to throw out a joke about you being the only one to find a lawyer who talks like Bob, but instead he motioned for your hand.

“Here.” A towel of half-melted ice sat next to him, waiting for the opportune moment for Mickey to refuse to let you suffer any longer. You extended your hand across the table for him to grab. He set the ice down gently, muttering a soft “sorry” at your hiss of pain. “You handled yourself pretty well out there.”

You made no move to take the ice pack or your hand away from Mickey. So he sat there, icing your hand, and watched you wrestle with your reaction. Fear, anger, grief, aggravation. They all shuffled over your features like Payback trying to pick a song from the jukebox.

Eventually, you settled on a classic. Humor as deflection. “I think I’d feel better if my punch was a one and done.”

He lifted the makeshift ice pack and made a show of inspecting your knuckles. “I’d say you packed a pretty good punch.”

That same shy, flirty smile from earlier came back. “Thanks, Mickey.”

“Of course.” Any attempt to appear cool shattered the second he saw the gratefulness in your eyes. “I hope I didn’t overstep. I’m not really up to date on the laws surrounding restraining orders or stalker exes.”

You shook your head with a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think you would be. You don’t strike me as someone who would ever turn out like Brent.”

“If I do, you have full permission to punch me. Whether your lawyer advises it or not,” he teased, and relief flooded him when you laughed.

“It isn’t self-defense to punch someone violating their restraining order. No matter how scared I was seeing how he found me.”

The tone in the booth shifted towards seriousness. Any trace of a smile on your face vanished, and you curled your fingers around Mickey’s hand. “I used to live out in Texas. Stationed there so often, I rented out an apartment because living on base didn’t feel permanent. I wanted a place to call my own.”

Mickey glanced out towards the bar full of the Navy’s best. Payback stood watch over Brent, who had finally come to and was arguing with the wall that was Rooster, Hangman, and Bob.

“He followed you from Texas?” He asked.

You nodded. Whatever you attempted to say got lost in the tears welling up behind your eyes. “Sorry.” You swallowed and blinked rapidly to clear the emotion from your face. “I saw him around town a few times, but this was the first time I felt like he actually knew where I was. Like it was more than a coincidence. When he talked about coming around to my place… there’s this part of me that can’t tell if he was talking about back in Texas or where I live now. It’s terrifying.”

Fanboy hoped the cops would hurry up. The sooner Brent could get out of here, the better. One punch suddenly didn’t feel like enough, and if Mickey threw another he didn’t think he’d be able to stop.

“And there’s a good chance I’ll be charged for assault.” Your laughter was ice cold. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know better- god, I’m so fucking stupid.”

Mickey squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him, and shook his head. “You are not stupid. He put his hands on you.”

“That’s not self-defense either,” you sighed. “He wasn’t attacking. The cameras are going to show him reaching out with a smile and he’ll, at most, get a slap on his wrist. I’m screwed.”

“He was attacking.”

“Did you not hear what I just said? He wasn’t attacking.”

“He. Was. Attacking.” Fanboy emphasized every word, then gestured to the bar you were in. “There’s at least 20 people I can count who will give that same story without needing to be asked. I’m sure Phoenix and Bob are already out there waiting for the cops so they can be the first to let them know what he did.”

You turned to look at the crowd of people, mouth quirking up into a smile when you spotted the rest of the squad keeping Brent on the other side of The Hard Deck. Fanboy watched your gaze lock onto the camera capturing the man acting like a saint for the sake of the security camera in the corner of the room.

The smile faltered. “You really think so?”

“You’re one of us, Einstein. We don’t care what base you’re coming in from. You’re assigned to our squad and we take care of our own.”

Mickey moved the ice pack and released your hand back to you. “Don’t worry about the security cam footage, either. The cops tend to take our word at face value. Plus, Penny’s got a good reputation for not calling unless it’s warranted. There hasn’t been a single bar fight she hasn’t sorted out herself..”

“That feels…”

“Like how Maverick would handle something?” He supplied.

You nodded with a laugh. “Exactly.” Your eyes traveled over Mickey’s face. “I appreciate you handling things with me today. I’ve been dealing with this on my own for a few years now. I forgot what it’s like to know someone has my back on the ground instead of only in the sky.”

“I’ve always got your back, Einstein. Ground, sky, and all areas in between.”

The opening practically presented itself to him in the way you smiled at him.

“Look, I know this might not be the best time or anything…” Mickey trailed off. He cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his nerves at bay. What kind of moron decided to ask someone out immediately after an incident like this? “But, after all the statements are taken, would you, maybe, want to take a walk along the beach with me? Just get out of here, get your mind off everything?”

You sat up straighter in the booth. For once, Fanboy wished he wasn’t alone with you. If Payback were here, he could confirm if your eyes actually lit up at the proposition or if Mickey’s wishful thinking clouded his mind again.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Mickey?” You asked. His name passing over your lips, over the teasing smile spreading across your face, rendered him speechless.

He cringed. “I’m an idiot, right?” Nervous laughter escaped him. “I mean, I planned on asking you out tonight anyway. If that changes anything. I don’t want you to think I’m, like, stepping in to take advantage of a bad situation. You can tell me no, Einstein. I know it’s been a… I mean, the past hour has been a lot.

“But I don’t want you to be alone while you’re dealing with all of this.” He turned in his seat to glance around for Phoenix. “Should we call Nat over here? Would you rather talk to her? I’m serious, this doesn’t have to be a date. I didn’t mean to overstep… What? Why are you laughing at me?”

You sat across the seat, hand smothering the giggles slipping through your smile.

“Am I rambling again?” He asked, and you nodded. “Sorry. I’m usually better at dealing with emotional situations like this.”

“I’d say you knocked it out of the park today,” you joked. Fanboy could only groan at the pun.

The two of you sat in silence for a bit. Mickey hoped the flush on his face appeared to be alcohol induced rather than his lapse of judgement. Your phone sat between them, screen still black while you waited for your lawyer to get the voicemail and call you back.

“It took you long enough.”

He tilted his head. Much like how you did when you first walked in today. “What?”

“Asking me out,” you clarified, “that took you a while.”

“Is that a yes?”

You threw your head back and laughed in a way Fanboy never heard you laugh before. A mix of elation and pure joy. Maybe the sound of your voice saying his name could be his second favorite sound. That laugh needed to be bottled away in his memories forever. “Yes,” you said. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

“I really like you,” he said, then, after a moment’s consideration, he tacked your first name at the end of the sentence. It only felt fitting.