Work Text:
The sound of a buzzing fluorescent is liable to drive Maverick to the edge, if he wasn't already there.
Rick Husband Amarillo International Airport is not exactly a bustling hub of the aviation world. That wasn't inherently a problem. Most of the test fields he frequents are giant acres of fenced off desert, beaten into submission and paved for 8,000 feet and ready whatever the DoD and Lockheed had cooking up for him to take for a spin. Remote was typical. Desolate was just another Tuesday.
The Amarillo Airport took desolate to a new level.
Sitting there with an almost drained, mostly warm beer in the single restaurant and bar in the entire miserable place, three days after Christmas, he thinks he's seen enough of the whole city to last a lifetime.
Hell, if Maverick never saw the state of Texas again, even from 36,000 feet, it would be too soon.
Christmas wasn't exactly his favorite holiday to begin with. If he'd had his own way, he'd have spent the four days he'd finagled for time off leaving a dent in the sofa in Ice's basement, watching bad television and spending time with the assorted Kazansky clan. It was his preferred way to spend the holiday after Carole had passed, and it was only at Penny's request that he'd flown down to spend time with her parents in their sprawling ranch on the edge of Amarillo.
The admiral hadn't been any more impressed with Maverick in his older age than he had been as a kid. Still, he'd played nice, kept his hands in respectable areas, and done his best to show that he and Penny were serious and he was good enough to deserve her.
That had worked well.
"Any chance I could get another?" Maverick asks the bartender's back, watching as he systemically went through and weighed bottles of liquor, noting it in a worn notebook.
"Hmm?" The man turns, eyebrows raised and tongue poking out from between pursed lips before he processes the request and his expression goes a little regretful. "Can't, man. Sorry." He gestures to the clock on the wall, and returns his gaze to Maverick's.
"It's 9," Maverick says, a little obviously.
"Yeah, can't serve past then. We close in half an hour." He scoops up the notebook, and at Maverick's expression, seems to remember himself. "I mean. You can still stay. Just— bar gets locked up."
"Ah." Maverick glances down at the dregs of his beer. He doesn't particularly want it, but not finishing it feels a lot like leaving a man alone behind enemy lines. No one deserves to be left here.
He's still musing on the thought, gearing himself up to drain the last of it when the bar shakes as someone else drops a bag on the counter and then drops himself onto a stool a few feet down.
"So glad someone's still here, Jesus." The voice is weary, an easy drawl that, if Maverick had heard in any other place than here, might have made him sit up and take notice. As it were, it felt like water to a drowning man. Fucking Texas.
"Not for— Holy shit." The automatic reply of the bartender is broken by the obvious recognition in his voice, and it's what it takes for Maverick to look up at the new patron.
Maverick has a flash of blonde hair, tan skin, and dark circles before a wide, shark-like grin splits his features in two.
"'Holy shit', that's how you greet a paying customer?" His hands come down, hard, on the top of the bar. "Oughta tell your momma you talk like that."
"She's the one who taught me that word, thank you." The bartender is an entirely different person, reaching forward to catch the blonde man's hand in a tight grip. "Jake— Jesus, didn't even know you were in town."
"Not for long." He cocks his head in a small assent.
"Obviously," the bartender responds. "Christmas?"
"Obviously," the man— Jake— replies.
"You're out of here fast— did you see Maggie? Or— God, anyone? There's a whole herd of people who'd be happy to see you."
As Maverick watches, Jake's features flicker, a there-and-gone moment of discomfort with the conversation. Maverick didn't think Amarillo was small enough to run into familiar faces easily. He's guessing Jake didn't, either, as he watches his features smooth back into an easy grin.
"Yeah, got called back unexpectedly." He shrugs, patting his bag on the stool next to him.
"Government efficiency for you," the bartender says, snorting quietly. "Want a beer?"
Maverick stares incredulously at the side of his head, idly curiosity replaced with dismayed irritation. The bartender doesn't even glance his way.
"Please," Jake says imploringly, and as Maverick continues to stare, a new, cold, post-9 PM pint lands on the bar in front of the blonde man.
It's a humiliation ritual to sit there as they speak. If there were any other place in this airport to wait besides the tiny string of seats near his gate, one of the six in the place, he'd be there. Instead, he sits and listens.
Jake manages to avoid most of any real conversation, while the bartender— Doug— recounts what sounded like a list of high-school glory days to Jake's steadily decreasing interest. The smile doesn't fade, but as Maverick sends increasingly envious glances at the beer, it seems like the expression becomes increasingly sharp.
He's debating standing up and heading for the gate anyway, if only for a chance to stretch his legs, when the bartender finally starts making noise about needing to leave.
It's not until they've said their goodbyes, the liquor had been tucked back into its shelves and locked behind a rolling grate, and anything not nailed down has been put away that Jake finally turns his attention down the now empty bar to look at Maverick.
"Eavesdrop professionally, or just as a hobby?" His grin is still sharp. Maverick wonders if it ever changes.
Maverick turns, sending a glance around the empty bar and the scant few feet between them before meeting the other man's gaze. Any other day, he might entertain him. Today was not any other day.
"Apologies." Maverick doesn't make any move to stand up. "I get any state secrets for my time?"
Jake doesn't bother replying. The snort he lets out says plenty, and he grabs the bag from the stool next to him before he stands and departs.
He might be on another flight. Theoretically, there were other flights that left this dog and pony show of an airport. But when he finally stands up and surveys the deserted terminal, there's exactly one gate with anyone around it.
The agent had told him, when he'd attempted to book his ticket to 'anywhere that wasn't in Texas' this morning, that the 10:12 PM to Houston was the last flight out of the airport for the day. He'd booked it, begrudgingly.
He should have hitchhiked.
There's nowhere else to sit, as the motley crew of passengers waiting to board mill around near the gate and stare a little hungrily at the little turboprop outside the glass of the windows. He stands, and does his best to ignore the blonde head in one of the chairs between him and the jet bridge entrance.
The hop to Houston goes quickly, if nothing else. The fact his connection to DC doesn't leave for another five hours is less than ideal, but— He didn't really have much choice.
Once he gets off, he debates finding some corner of the airport to try and catch a little bit of sleep once he finds his gate. The one benefit of the military was the learned ability to sleep anywhere, and he wasn't above stretching out on the floor if he had to.
It's there, standing in front of where his plane would eventually be, in a few hours, that he hears a low curse.
"You're kidding me." The drawl could be anyone, Maverick thinks to himself. It's still Texas.
When he turns, the grin is gone. As is all the sharp edges to the man's expression. Instead, it looks about as worn down as Maverick feels.
"Are you going to—" Jake pauses as his gaze flickers up to the current flight at the gate. "Milwaukee? You seem like a Wisconsin kinda guy."
"Washington," Maverick finally sighs out, and Jake just fixes him with a stare.
"State?"
"D.C."
Jake inhales. It shouldn't be possible for an inhale to sound like an expletive, but he managed.
There's no reason why this stranger should manage to have irritated Maverick so thoroughly. More so, there's no reason Maverick should have irritated him. He's willing to blame Penny for his mood. He wasn't sure about the other man.
Walking away from him feels good. It feels better when he doesn't follow.
"So. Girlfriend or work?"
Maverick startles. The sudden jerk of his neck makes him hiss, and he's rubbing it when he turns to face the direction the voice— the drawl— had come from.
Jake is sitting two chairs down from him, looking annoyingly chipper despite the late hour and the dark circles that seem to carve underneath his eyes. He's tan enough that the deep purple stands out, and Maverick has to blink to make himself focus on the question.
"What?" Maverick asks blearily, even as the words register. He doesn't want to answer.
"What's getting you back to DC before the turkey's gone cold and the decorations come down?" Jake is a chair down, and his fingertips bang out a soft tapping rhythm on the plastic arm of the chair.
At Maverick's expression, he continues.
"Anyone else would at least be milking the time off through the new year, with three exceptions." He holds up his hand. "Significant other. Some federal agency position that needs you back. Or military." He wiggles his fingers with each one. "And you don't strike me as a suit, and you're a little old for active duty, so—" He shrugs. "Work, or girlfriend?"
Maverick stares.
"It's one of the two," Jake repeats. "Would it make you feel better if you knew for me?"
"No."
The look Jake sends him feels like it might be the first genuine expression he's made all day, and Maverick takes in the grin without the thin layer of aggression on top of it. It's not a bad smile by any measure.
"Fine." Jake says, and glances around the gate. There's a few other people, dozing in the now empty chairs since the flight to Milwaukee left, but it's mostly deserted.
"Y'know, I was joking earlier about stealing state secrets, but if it's one of those 'if you told me you'd have to kill me' situations, you can just blink twice," Jake murmurs in a conspiratorial tone.
Maverick lets out a startled laugh, and it's enough to earn an irate glare from the man dozing a row of chairs over. He's biting down his response when Jake leans in again.
"That guy's an alphabet soup agency type." Jake sends a look Maverick's way. "Hundred percent."
He shouldn't indulge this. He should send a glare this kid's way, put on his sunglasses, and do his best to doze before the flight boarded. He's not sure why the guy had so firmly latched onto Maverick, but he wasn't in the mood to entertain some young kid who screamed military.
"Fiancee, not girlfriend," Maverick finds himself saying, before he can think better.
Jake stills a little in his periphery, like he hadn't been expecting an actual answer.
He's opening his mouth to respond, when Maverick cuts him off.
"Ex-fiancee, technically."
Jake freezes for a brief moment, before he speaks again.
"And you're rushing up to see her?"
"Heading back to work," Maverick corrects, and Jake makes a quiet sound.
"So I got two right for the price of one. Double jeopardy."
It's quiet for a long moment, and Maverick wonders if he's finally become uninteresting, when he's interrupted again.
"Do you have a name?"
Maverick glances over.
"I keep waiting for you to do the polite thing and introduce yourself, old timer, but it hasn't happened yet." He wets his lips, and he tilts his head. "She leave you on account of your manners?"
It's enough, rude and bemused and unexpected, to make Maverick laugh again, tired and just this side of bitter.
"Pete," he finally settles on as he extends a hand to him. "Jake, right?"
He grins. "So you were eavesdropping."
"Not eavesdropping when you're five feet away from me in an empty room."
Jake shrugs, not quite conceding the point. He glances at the chair between them, and after a moment of hesitation, shifts to the seat immediately adjacent to Maverick.
Maverick half expects him to keep prodding, asking questions or cracking jokes, but instead, he just sits. It's a little quiet, just a shade awkward, but the longer they sit there, elbows brushing, the less odd it seems.
Jake doesn't seem to notice the tapping motion he's making on the shared arm rest between them. Maverick does. It means his eyes keep drifting down to stare, and he's debating telling him to stop, when the pale band on Jake's ring finger suddenly registers. He's staring, but it's not until Jake's fingers stop their impromptu drum solo that he realizes that Jake has noticed.
When he raises his gaze to meet Jake's, there's a faint flush on the tips of his ears. He doesn't hide his hand, but he does fidget slightly, rubbing a thumb over the pale skin and flexing his hand like it might feel less obvious.
"You can ask," Jake says, in a conversational, easy tone. His expression doesn't match.
"It's not my business."
Jake hums softly, and drops his hand to his lap.
"Probably not." He looks away from Maverick, taking in the significantly more filled gate around them, before his gaze drops down to his hand.
Maverick hadn't worn a ring. Penny had one, a solitaire on a gold band she'd picked out herself, and worn proudly.
It'd been sitting on the dresser of the guest room as Maverick packed, after her quiet confession about running into Mitch, an old flame, one who'd always been the right person at the wrong time.
It was still the wrong time, if she'd been engaged to someone else. Fortunately, she'd figured out a way to change that issue.
Maverick looks down at Jake's hands, and makes himself speak.
"So. Wife, or work?"
Jake's head snaps up at the question, and he sends a guarded look Maverick's way.
"Pardon?"
"What brings you back to D.C.?" Maverick shifts, and glances around the gate. "Before the turkey's gone cold."
Jake doesn't respond at first, and Maverick wonders if he'd gone a step too far, when he finally answers.
"Neither," he says, and when Maverick looks his way, there's a tiny, bemused expression on his face.
Maverick is about to open his mouth to ask when Jake cuts him off.
"I'm category three. Military." He smiles, and it's a softer one than the others Maverick has seen tonight. "And it was fiance." He snorts. "Ex-fiance."
Maverick hadn't needed the clarification about military, not with the way Jake carries himself or the regulation-ready haircut, but the second part is enough to surprise him. He watches as Jake drops his gaze, and Maverick makes a low sound in the back of his throat.
"Must be something in the air," he murmurs, and Jake makes a quiet, surprised noise before he laughs.
"Something, alright." He sends a glance around the gate, then further down the terminal. With a quiet sound, he wets his lips and sends a glance Maverick's way.
"Any chance I can buy you a drink?" His expression is guarded, but something stubborn lingers behind his eyes. "Not— not. Anything. But maybe we can compare notes."
Maverick thinks again of the frustration that had driven him to that stupid bar in Amarillo in the first place. The creeping certainty that he wouldn't want to talk about this trip with anyone, because there's no way they'd understand. He looks again at the bare, pale skin of Jake's ring finger.
"I don't think that's the best idea," Maverick finally says, and watches as Jake's face falls for a moment before that same sharp looking expression is back, instinctive and automatic. Maverick doesn't stop talking.
"Military fraternization rules are tricky. I think I can buy you one, though."
Jake's face is startled for a moment, before a bright spark of pleasure breaks through. He runs his gaze over Maverick in a slow assessment, and Maverick doesn't bother hiding his own smug amusement.
"Sounds like a deal," Jake says, and when Maverick stands, he wonders if he might have to reassess his opinion of Texas after all.