Chapter Text
Scene: USS Abraham Lincoln — Officer Berthing — Evening:
Three weeks into deployment, the carrier hummed with its usual rhythm—metal beneath boots, distant machinery, the low murmur of ready room banter. Cara sat cross-legged on her rack, back braced to the bulkhead, laptop balanced on her thighs. Above her head, a taped photo caught the light: her and Iceman, both in flight suits, both grinning. A quiet anchor in the middle of the noise.
She rubbed her eyes once, then started typing.
Email — To: Bob Floyd
Subject: Checking In
Hey—
Just wanted to make sure you got moved in okay. Hope the water heater didn’t explode.
Hope training’s going smooth. I’ll write more when I can.
—C
She hit send, then opened another draft.
Email — To: Ron "Hollywood" Clark, Leo "Wolfman" Baran
Subject: So… I forgot something
Hey.
In the madness of last-minute deployment, I forgot to transfer the utilities and mortgage stuff to my account. Can you guys email the info so I can take care of it? Feel free to guilt trip me later.
Thanks,
—Shortstop
She was just closing the screen when a new message pinged in.
Email — From: Leo "Wolfman" Baran
CC: Ron "Hollywood" Clark
Subject: Re: So… I forgot something
Hey kid,
About that…
The house is already paid for. In full.
You don’t owe a dime on it.
Also, hypothetically speaking, if someone had maybe found a folder labeled “Cara”—and that folder happened to have your social, your banking info—then it’s possible we might have taken care of that too.
Also possible we forged your signature.
Hollywood wants me to add: “You’re welcome, brat.”
Don’t worry—we’re not sending you the bills.
—Wolf
Cara stared at the screen for a long moment, then leaned back against the wall.
Of course he had.
Of course Iceman had set it all up. Quietly. Thoroughly. Without fanfare.
It was just like him—making sure she’d have something solid under her feet when he was gone.
She exhaled slowly through her nose. Closed her eyes.
Then opened a new reply.
Email — To: Wolfman, Hollywood
Subject: Re: Re: So… I forgot something
You guys are the worst.
Tell Uncle Hollywood I said thanks. And that I’m forging his name on a wedding gift someday. We’ll call it even.
—Shortstop
She shut the laptop and rested her head against the bulkhead, eyes lifting to the taped photo above.
Home would be there when she got back.
He made sure of that.
And she would get back.
Just like she promised.
Scene: North Island — Training Airspace — Late Morning:
The sky above San Diego was crisp and clear, the Pacific a glinting sheet far below as Strike Squadron X carved through the air at speed.
Three versus three.
Blue Team: Phoenix with Bob in the backseat, Coyote running solo, and Maverick flying lead.
Red Team: Hangman, Rooster, and Payback with Fanboy in his backseat.
The comms crackled as the six aircraft fanned out into position high above the coast.
Maverick (over comms):
“Keep it clean. Keep it fast. Let’s see what three weeks of training’s bought you.”
Hangman:
“Careful, old man. You’re not the only legend up here.”
Rooster:
“Remind me to cut your mic next time.”
Fanboy (dry):
“Again?”
Phoenix (to Bob):
“Ready to dance, Bob?”
Bob:
“Let’s make ‘em sweat.”
The engagement began fast—Coyote dove low and banked hard left, drawing Rooster with him. Phoenix looped wide to the right while Maverick stayed high, tracking the flow.
Hangman stuck close to Payback and Fanboy’s wing, the three arcing inward toward Phoenix’s path. Bob tracked them calmly from the backseat, calling out bearings.
Bob:
“Two targets. Ten o’clock. Closing fast.”
Phoenix:
“Copy. Let’s split the difference.”
They broke hard—Phoenix pulling into a vertical climb while Bob called heading updates. Payback followed, Fanboy tracking her with tight adjustments. Hangman peeled off and surged toward Maverick’s six.
Coyote came screaming in from below, cutting across Rooster’s nose with a drag maneuver sharp enough to scatter Red Team’s pursuit.
Coyote (grinning):
“Miss me?”
Rooster (flat, annoyed):
“Not for long.”
From above, Maverick rolled inverted and dove, looping behind Rooster and driving him out of the zone.
Maverick:
“Splash one.”
Rooster (gritting it out):
“Out. Damn it.”
Bob (flat):
“That’s one.”
Coyote:
“Payback tagged. Two down.”
Fanboy (mock outrage):
“He clipped us through cloud cover! Illegal!”
Phoenix (amused):
“Take it up with Air Boss.”
Payback (resigned):
“We’re out.”
Three Blue. Two Red.
Hangman didn’t blink. He dove straight into the middle, gunning for Maverick with a hard bank and a dive-roll that split the formation.
Coyote moved to intercept—only to get blindsided by Fanboy.
Fanboy (cheerfully):
“Gotcha!”
Coyote (grumbling):
“Alright, I’m out.”
Down to three.
Maverick, Phoenix/Bob, and Hangman.
Phoenix arced wide, trying to box him in. But Hangman was faster—sharper—more dialed in than usual. He climbed high into the sun, then dropped behind Phoenix before Bob could call it.
Phoenix (groaning):
“Hit. We’re out.”
Two left.
Maverick:
“Let’s finish this.”
Hangman (grinning):
“Been waiting.”
The last few minutes were chaos and control—rolls, reversals, hard counters. Hangman flew sharper than he had all week. Maverick matched him beat for beat, drawing him into a high-G chase that skimmed the edge of blackout.
Then—
Maverick:
“Tone You’re dead.”
Hangman (after a pause):
“…Damn.”
A breath of silence across comms.
Phoenix (quietly impressed):
“That was one hell of a run, Bagman.”
Bob:
“Clean kill. He earned it.”
Fanboy:
“Still counts as a loss, though.”
Hangman (smug):
“Next time, old man.”
Maverick:
“Looking forward to it.”
Back on the tarmac, the squadron pulled off their helmets, sweat slicking their flight suits.
No one said it outright—but the tone had shifted.
They were sharp.
They were ready.
Scene: USS Abraham Lincoln:
Email — From: Ron “Slider” Kerner
To: Lt. Cara Kazansky
Subject: Nearly Four Weeks
Hey kid,
I was going to wait another few days to write, but then I remembered who your uncles are. Between Wolfman’s and Hollywood’s flair for the dramatic—and the fact that you’re probably still processing that your house is fully paid off—I figured I should write you sooner rather than later.
It sounds like you’re doing what you always do—finding the rhythm, holding your own, staying steady. That’s good. Keep your head down when you need to, but don’t disappear. You’ve got more people keeping an eye on you than you probably want to admit.
There’s a promotion in the pipeline. Not final-final yet, but it’s close. I may be trading in the view here for one a little further west. I know how you feel about ceremonies and names on seating charts, but if this thing goes through, I want you there. Which means I’ll probably have to order you.
I know you hate the attention. You hated it when it was Ice getting saluted every twenty feet. But you’ve got your own weight now, Cara. People see it. They respect it. Let them.
Alright, I’ve gone soft. Time to wrap this up before Wolfman finds out and starts calling me sentimental.
Write when you can.
Fly safe.
—Slider
Email — From: Lt. Cara Kazansky
To: Ron “Slider” Kerner
Subject: Re: Nearly Four Weeks
You know I’m happy for you.
And I love you.
That’s the only reason I’d come to a ceremony like that—well, that and the fact that you can order me.
I’m doing okay. Keeping my eyes forward.
I hate to say it, but I miss you guys.
Sarah emailed me. Said she’s over halfway through packing up the house. Apparently Uncle Hollywood and Wolfman surprised her last week and cleared out the garage.
You wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on with them, would you? They haven’t left Coronado since Dad’s funeral. Are they actually thinking about moving back?
Because… that would be kind of amazing. It’d be good to see them more—not just holidays.
I think, now that I’ve got my own house, I might actually start spending my leave there. Instead of wandering.
It feels strange to say that—my house.
Alright, that’s enough emotional honesty for one message.
Tell Sarah I’ll write soon.
—Shortstop
Email — From: Ron “Slider” Kerner
To: Lt. Cara Kazansky
Subject: Re: Re: Nearly Four Weeks
Hey kid,
You saying you love me without having to be put in a headlock? That’s growth. I’m proud of you.
Don’t get used to the compliments.
Official orders haven’t dropped yet, but the paperwork’s circling. So yeah—COMPACFLT is likely happening. Still feels weird. Your dad’s chair. Big boots. You know how that goes.
But if it sticks, I want you there.
Not just because I can order you—
But because I don’t want to do this without my goddaughter in the room.
I know you don’t like being treated different. But you are, kid. You always have been.
That’s not a burden—it’s legacy.
As for Hollywood and Wolf? Yeah… they’re circling something. I’m not sure they’ll admit it yet, but Coronado’s pulling at them again.
If they’re planning a return, you won’t hear it straight. Not until they’ve signed a lease and thrown a backyard cookout like nothing happened.
I’m glad the house feels like yours now. Your dad would’ve liked that.
He always said you needed a fixed heading—something to anchor to, not just drift.
You’re not drifting, Shortstop.
You’re charting your own damn course.
Proud of you every day.
—Slider
P.S. Sarah says to tell you she found your high school jersey. She’s holding it hostage until she gets an email.
Scene: Simpson Residence — Afternoon:
The house was quiet, sunlight streaking in through the high windows, warming the polished floorboards of the entryway.
Cyclone stood just inside the front door, coffee in hand, watching the driveway through the glass.
A dark blue sedan pulled up slowly.
Ethan stepped out—taller than the last time he’d come for the weekend, backpack slung over one shoulder, his duffel dragging behind him.
Cyclone opened the door before Ethan could knock.
“You gonna stand there all day or come inside?” he said, voice dry but even.
Ethan cracked a faint smile and stepped in.
Cyclone took the duffel from his son’s hand without a word and started down the hallway. “Room’s still the same. Sheets are clean. Closet’s mostly empty—except for the sweatshirt you left last time.”
Ethan followed, glancing around. The place hadn’t changed much. Still smelled like leather and cedar. Still had the framed photo of the two of them at the Navy game by the stairs and another one with his sister and his dad on the beach.
When they reached the room, Cyclone set the duffel on the bed and turned to face his son.
“Alright,” he said, arms folding loosely. “Couple things.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
“Fridge is fair game unless it’s labeled. No skipping school, no disappearing. You want to bring someone over, you tell me first. I don’t care if it’s a girl, a friend, or your physics tutor—just don’t surprise me.”
Ethan gave a short nod. “Got it.”
Cyclone paused, then softened just enough. “I’m glad you’re here, kid.”
Ethan looked down for a second, then up. “Yeah. Me too.”
A beat passed.
“Mom’s still kind of… tense.”
Cyclone’s jaw shifted, but his voice didn’t. “Yeah. She’s got her own way of dealing. Doesn’t change anything here.”
Ethan nodded again, slower this time. “Okay.”
“Unpack first. Then I’ll order pizza.”
Ethan grinned. “Can we get that place you always say is bad, because it's too greasy?”
“I didn’t say it was bad,” Cyclone muttered, already heading out. “I said it was dangerous.”
Behind him, Ethan’s laugh echoed down the hall.
It felt like the house finally exhaled, knowing things were changing for the better.
Scene: Cyclone’s House — Living Room — Night:
The house was quiet.
Not silent—there was the distant sound of music leaking from Ethan’s room, low and pulsing through closed walls. But quiet enough. The kind of quiet Cyclone hadn’t realized he’d missed until the space wasn’t just his anymore.
It had been a full day. Boxes moved in. Wi‑Fi connected. Boundaries drawn—some more clearly than others.
He sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a worn paperback facedown beside him and a half-empty glass of bourbon on the side table. His tablet rested on his lap, a soft ping drawing his attention.
New message.
He swiped it open.
Email — From: Lt. Cara Kazansky
To: Vice Admiral Beau Simpson
Subject: Checking In
Hey Cyclone,
How’s Ethan’s move going? Hope it’s okay—or at least manageable. Teenagers aren’t exactly known for subtlety, but you already knew that.
How’s everything at North Island? Any peace and quiet, or is Strike X keeping you too busy to breathe?
Is Maverick driving you crazy yet?
Also—how are you doing?
I’m fine out here. Busy. Focused. Just wanted to check in.
—Shortstop
As he read the email, the corner of his mouth lifted—subtle and tired, but real.
She said she was fine. Busy. Focused.
He knew better than to press—but he also knew her tells. That kind of phrasing usually meant she was doing what she always did: burying herself in work, keeping her hands moving so the grief couldn’t catch up.
It wasn’t avoidance, not exactly. Just survival.
Still, he made a mental note. If the next message looked the same, he’d push—gently.
He reached for the keyboard.
Email — From: Vice Admiral Beau Simpson
To: Lt. Cara Kazansky
Subject: Re: Checking In
Hey Shortstop,
Ethan made it in one piece—he’s in his room, claiming his territory one song at a time. We’re working on boundaries. And volume control.
Still, it’s good to have him home.
The move’s been, and is going to be an adjustment. For both of us.
We’ve had a few conversations. Mostly about the laundry schedule and how this house isn’t a concert venue. He’s a good kid. Just needs some grounding. I’m working on it.
North Island’s holding steady. Strike X is flying well—Maverick’s got them sharper than I’ve ever seen. Coyote and Phoenix are pushing hard, Hangman’s running his mouth, Bob’s quietly terrifying with that targeting system, and Rooster is still trying to prove he’s not just his father’s son.
And yes—Mitchell is driving me insane. That’s unchanged.
As for me—holding steady. It’s strange, the house not being empty anymore. But I’m glad he’s here.
Thanks for checking in. I mean that.
Keep flying smart. And keep writing when you can.
—Cyclone
He hit send, leaned back into the cushions, and let the quiet settle again.
The music thumped once, then cut off completely.
Cyclone listened for a beat. Then smiled.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was home.
For both of them.