Chapter Text
Scene: NAS North Island — One Week Post-Dagger Mission:
It had been one week since Maverick and the Daggers had done the impossible.
The Daggers had been granted three weeks of leave to rest and recover.
Vice Admiral Beau Simpson wasn’t so lucky.
He was still buried in post-mission paperwork—the kind that never ended. For the third time that day, he caught himself wishing that Iceman was still alive. If for no other reason, Tom would’ve helped him sort out this shitshow.
And the main source of this particular disaster?
Captain Pete Maverick Mitchell.
Iceman had been the one who reassigned Maverick to Top Gun to train the Daggers. Now that the mission was over… what the hell was Cyclone supposed to do with him?
Right after Iceman’s death, Cyclone had pulled Mitchell’s wings—immediate, clean, the logical choice. But then the man had flown the impossible mission, survived it, and somehow managed to bring everyone home alive.
So what now?
Permanently ground him? Discharge him?
Or… put his skill to use one more time?
The headache that had been following him for days throbbed harder behind his eyes.
He was just about to get up and refill his coffee when his computer chimed.
New Secure Message — From: SECNAV
He opened it, read it twice.
Then leaned back slowly in his chair.
“Iceman, you son of a bitch,” Cyclone muttered, staring at the screen like it might change if he waited long enough.
It didn’t.
Before his death, Iceman had submitted a formal request—if the Dagger Mission was successful, the Dagger team should be made permanent.
They would be stationed out of North Island, under Simpson’s command.
That alone wasn’t a bad idea.
But Kazansky had also recommended that Mitchell continue training and advising the Daggers—attached directly to the squadron.
And from the way the emails were bouncing between the higher brass…
They were seriously considering it.
Not just that.
They were also weighing the possibility of promoting Mitchell to Rear Admiral.
Cyclone dropped his head back against the chair, closing his eyes briefly.
Yeah.
This was going to be another headache.
Scene: The Hard Deck — One Week After the Mission:
Most of the backup Daggers had already shipped out, returning home to their families. But the core crew—Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy, Rooster, and Hangman—were still on North Island, wrapping up debriefs and final paperwork.
They’d agreed to meet at the Hard Deck for a drink. It was early, just past midday, but Penny let them in anyway, flipping chairs off tables and polishing glasses while Maverick helped stock behind the bar.
“Hey, Pops,” Hangman called as he strolled in, flashing his usual cocky grin.
The rest followed, their greetings quick and familiar:
“Hey, Mav.”
“Hi, sir.”
“Good to see you, Mav.”
Rooster didn’t bother with words. He crossed the bar in two quick strides and pulled Maverick into a hug—a solid one, tight and unguarded.
If the others were surprised, they didn’t say a word.
Maverick patted his back and, for once, didn’t try to crack a joke. He just let the moment stand.
Penny handed out drinks as Maverick moved easily behind the bar. The Daggers scattered—some toward the pool table, others to the dartboard. Hangman grabbed a set of darts and immediately challenged anyone who made eye contact.
The sound of banter, cue balls cracking, and easy laughter slowly filled the space.
For the first time in a long time, it wasn’t tension that bound them—it was relief.
Maverick leaned his elbows on the bar, watching them.
All of them alive.
All of them safe.
His gaze lingered on Rooster, still amazed at how fast the ice between them had started to thaw. It wasn’t perfect, but the distance was closing. They were getting there.
Maverick smiled to himself, quietly grateful—to Goose, to Iceman, to whatever stubborn angels had been watching overhead.
For the first time in years, it felt like maybe—just maybe—the worst of it was behind them.
Scene: The Hard Deck — Later That Afternoon:
The Hard Deck was in full swing by the time Cara slipped inside, the ocean breeze carrying in the familiar mix of salt, sweat, and summer sun. Music thumped lazily from the old jukebox, boots scraped against the worn wooden floor, and the clatter of pool balls echoed over the low hum of conversation.
She’d almost missed this place.
Cara weaved through the growing crowd toward the bar, her soft navy-blue dress brushing just above her knees. It hugged her frame in a way that was simple but still turned a few heads as she passed. Her auburn hair was down, curling loosely around her shoulders, catching just enough sunlight to spark copper highlights.
She wasn’t in uniform today. She didn’t need to be.
Penny’s eyes lit up the second she saw her. “Cara—hey, sweetheart.”
Cara leaned against the bar with a warm smile. “Penny. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for coming to the funeral.”
Penny reached out, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “Of course. I loved your dad. We all did.”
“How’s everything here?”
“Surviving,” Penny said with a soft laugh. “How’s Sarah? How are you holding up?”
Cara shrugged, honest but steady. “Day by day.”
Penny’s smile warmed. “That’s all you can do.”
Cara ordered a drink, but before she could pull out her wallet, Maverick appeared behind the bar. “Don’t even think about it. It’s on me.”
Cara raised a brow. “I can buy my own drink, Mav.”
“You could,” he said, handing it over, “but you won’t.”
She huffed a quiet laugh and leaned over the bar to hug him. He held on for a long beat, not quite ready to let go.
“You good, kid?”
“I’m getting there. Slider’s already gone home.”
“I know. He told me.” Maverick gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to see you here.”
His eyes flicked briefly to the dress—something like quiet surprise—but he didn’t say a word about it. Just smiled and sent her off with a nod.
With her drink in hand, Cara drifted toward the back deck. The music and voices softened as she stepped into the open air. The ocean stretched out before her, calm and endless. Some of the Daggers were down on the beach, tossing a football, goofing off like they hadn’t just pulled off the mission of a lifetime.
On the deck, she spotted two familiar faces.
Hangman leaned back in his chair, boots propped up on the railing, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Bob sat beside him, casually scribbling something in a small notebook.
Both were out of uniform—just jeans and t-shirts, relaxed but still carrying that edge that didn’t quite switch off.
Hangman’s gaze flicked to her as she approached. Recognition sparked—he didn’t know her name, but he knew her from the carrier.
“Hey there,” he called, sitting up. “You’re the Seahawk pilot from Lincoln, right?”
Cara smirked, sipping her drink. “Depends. You make a habit of memorizing every Seahawk pilot in the fleet?”
“Only the ones that fly like they belong on the deck.” He grinned, extending his hand. “Lieutenant Seresin. Call sign: Hangman. This is Bob.”
Bob offered a small, genuine smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Shortstop,” she said simply, giving her call sign without hesitation.
“Shortstop, huh?” Hangman leaned back again, letting the name settle. “Fits you.”
Bob nudged a chair out for her. “Want to sit?”
“Thanks.” She settled into the seat across from them.
“We were just arguing about whether you can actually taste the difference between high-end and cheap bourbon,” Hangman said, tipping his bottle toward Bob’s notepad like it was an official study.
“You can,” Cara said without missing a beat.
Hangman pointed at her like she’d just solved a puzzle. “See? She gets it.”
Bob shrugged, good-natured. “Science is on my side.”
“You don’t need science,” Hangman fired back, grinning. “You need taste buds.”
They kept going, the back-and-forth easy, like they’d known each other longer than they actually had. Cara listened, laughed, offered her opinion here and there, slowly letting the tension drain out of her shoulders.
After a while, Hangman tipped his head slightly, his grin sharpening just a little. “That accent… almost sounds like home.”
“Texas?” she asked, sipping her drink.
“Born and raised,” he confirmed.
A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “Spent my first ten years there. Guess it stuck.”
Hangman’s eyes sparkled. “Well, you wear it well.”
His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, his usual playful edge slipping back into place. “And you look good today. Real good.”
Cara’s response was soft but direct. “I was spending the day with my dad. I wanted to look nice.”
Something about the way she said it made his grin falter—just slightly.
He didn’t know the story, not really. But it was enough to quiet him for a breath.
“Yeah. Well… mission accomplished.”
Bob shifted the topic, pulling the conversation back onto lighter ground, but the moment stuck like a fingerprint on glass.
Cara sat with them a while longer, letting herself enjoy the breeze and the company.
She hadn’t meant to stay long.
But maybe… she would.
And something told Jake Seresin this wasn’t the last time they’d cross paths.
He liked that idea.