Chapter Text
Ironically, it all starts because Slider had gotten another call from Cyclone, several weeks after everything had settled down after the Mission and it’s aftermath.
Rubbing a hand to the permanent wrinkle he could feel forming between his brows. “. . . and you’re calling me about this, why?”
Because I have it on good authority that you’re the best person to deal with Hot Shot Pilots and their problems. Cyclone said bluntly. (And if it was coming from anyone else, Slider would have suspected a humorous aspect to the statement.) I’m currently reviewing some options for Lt. Seresin at the moment, but I’ll send you over his files — let me know what you think.
And Slider has to give the man credit for the balls on him, cause he hangs up on him.
Heaving out yet another sigh, Slider gets up to get more coffee from the pot in the outer office. Settling back down at his desk and clicking back into his emails, knowing that Cyclone was nothing but prompt and efficient.
Going through all the tabs and codes to open the personal files he’d been sent on one Jacob Nathaniel Seresin. For all that he’d been interacting with the younger pilot for the last several weeks, some of the parallels he was drawing from the file answered Slider’s questions about why Cyclone had roped him into this.
Pausing the longest at the latest entry into the file.
Psych Eval: Failed.
. . . Slider knew exactly what that meant, when it came to a Hot Shot pilot. Because it must be killing the kid, to know that he wouldn’t be let back into the sky until he’d ‘gotten his brain in order.’ But . . . the evals were standard for a reason, and they were much more stringent about them than when Slider had been a Lt. Which was a good thing, since he’d seen the fallout too many times, when pilots were allowed and/or forced back up into the air before they were ready.
Memories of Mav’s pale face after Goose had died; memories of Ice’s hands shaking for similar reasons, as much as he was able to hide it better than the Little Shit. Memories of years of sharing a small room on a carrier and waking to the sound of Ice’s stuttering breaths after a nightmare . . .
Heaving yet another sigh, Slider reached for his phone, already knowing that he was in too deep to turn away now.
“Cyclone? Got some ideas. He’ll hate it — but I could do with an aide for a while . . .”
And it would be a good way for him to get Seresin’s name out into circulation. With the way Hangman was a lot like Iceman (as much as he was like Maverick) then Slider knew the kid would want to climb the ranks. Might as well help that along.
Feeling the weight of his age settling into his bones.
Looks like he’d be heading to visit Ice for a bit, after his shift.
Say what you would about Maverick’s age (and Hangman had made enough jokes about it to know) but the man was an absolute beast. Chest heaving as they finally finished their daily five mile run.
“Had enough yet, Lt?” Maverick’s voice definitely held a smirk.
“Bring it, Old Man.” Hangman shot back, though the bravado was lessened a bit by the way he was still leaning over his knees, trying to catch his breath.
Hearing the chuffing little laugh as the man gave him a few moments. “Think Rooster would like some cinnamon rolls?”
Looking up, hands now on his hips, Hangman noticed the familiar smell on the breeze. “Forget Rooster — now I’d like a cinnamon roll.”
Rolling his eyes, Maverick headed towards the crosswalk and towards a familiar place. The little bakery not far from Penny’s place. And since they were all enjoying Penny’s hospitality, of course they had to patronize the local shops.
Evidenced by the way the young woman behind the counter’s face lit up with recognition. “Good morning!” Already turning to the glass case full of warm and sugary goodness. “The usual?”
“Yep!” And even at the ripe old age of 54, Maverick’s smile could still work wonders. “Thanks Izzy!” Good thing he only used it on Penny. Not that it was as effective on a woman who’d known him for over three decades.
“So,” Maverick turned to him as their order was getting prepared. “You ready for today?”
“About as much as you are, I expect.” Hangman shot back.
Because they both had to report in later that afternoon, since their leaves were almost up. No doubt they would receive their marching orders. Though, in Mav’s case, Hangman wondered if Cyclone would still be pushing for the man’s retirement. (And Hangman has heard as much gossip and scuttlebutt as the next seaman, about the many, many admiral’s who would be glad to see the last of the Captain.)
And in his own case, Hangman knew that he wasn’t getting up in the air anytime soon, not with the way he’d bombed his eval. Wondering if Mav knew about that . . .
“Well, I’ve had a lot longer then you to get used to having my life upended at the drop of a hat,” Maverick shrugged. Eyes all too knowing as he looked at the younger pilot. “. . . and I think I’m allowed to worry about your well being, just a bit, wouldn’t you agree?”
The last weeks of caring for their resident Chicken having grown a true bond between them. And the way Maverick had clung to Hangman like he was the only buoy in an ocean of hurt.
'Ice . . . Ice!' The Old Man mistaking him for his Wingman, now dead. Hangman offering what comfort that he could, in Rooster's absence.
Shaking off the memories, once again.
“Just wanting to get it over with,” Hangman goes with a non-answer, seeing Maverick accept the evasion. Saved by the bell of Izzie saying their order was ready.
Armed with coffee and cinnamon rolls, they were ready to face the day.
Or maybe not.
“Sir?” Hangman asked, unsure if he’d misheard.
Slider let it slide. “To reiterate: would you like to be my aide for a while, or not?”
Blinking. Because that wasn’t how he’d expected this day to go. He’d fully expected to be grounded for a while longer, at least until his next eval, kicking his heels and staring forlornly at the sky like some kind of war bride waiting for her husband to come home like in the old timey movies.
His silence prompting Slider to continue. Though, he was wholly Vice-Admiral Kerner in this setting. “I’d like to think I’m a good judge of character, Lt. And I’d like to give you the opportunity to explore the more administrative side of our line of work.” Keen eyes piercing through him. “It’s all well and good to have opinions — but having the power to back them up is another matter entirely.”
And Jake can’t argue with that. After all, he’d spent the last month or so of the Mission having to follow seemingly impossible orders for what was ostensibly a suicide mission. Given his career choice, he’d long resigned himself to following orders (even stupid ones) but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“So — Lt. Seresin,” And it was Slider talking to him know, something conspiratorial in his face and tone. “How do you feel about learning how to weaponize a paperwork trail?”
While also being close enough to keep an eye on Maverick and Rooster, went unsaid.
“This could blow up in your face,” he thought it only fair to warn the man.
Watching Slider snort, looking far too amused. “Kid, I’ve been wrangling Maverick for nearly thirty years — trust me when I say that you’ll have to work hard to top anything that that Little Shit has done to give me gray hairs.”
“Then I accept, sir.” And I accept the challenge. Though he left the latter part unsaid, for the good of his health.
Accepting the handshake that Slider rose from his desk to exchange with him.
“Then we’ll get this paperwork done,” Slider nodded. “But first — lunch!” Herding Hangman to his feet and out of the office, giving a nod to his secretary. “How do you feel about Japanese cuisine, Lt?”
“I think it’s hard to keep the sauce from getting on your uniform,” Hangman commented, thinking of his time posted at the base in Sasebo. “Delicious, though.”
“Then that’s where we’re headed.” Slider said, his hand large and firm on Hangman’s shoulder as he guided his now protege through the halls.
It would be the start of a beautiful friendship.