Work Text:
The smell of dust and sweat permeated the air of the Hard Deck bar, the sun hung low painting the sky in golden warmth that blanketed the land. Wooden floor creaked, pool cues cracking against the white with the clink of a pocketed ball and laughter echoed, a typical friday evening. Except it wasn't typical, as a group of pilots in uniform were gathered around said pool table. They were highly decorated, their uniforms stark in contrast to the bar's usual patrons. You worked the bar with the owner, Penny, smiling and cheerfully greeting different people despite your true shyness, regulars getting their usual with ease as you tried your best to not snap at someone when you'd asked "single or double" and they'd replied "yes"... sometimes you thought it was some people's first day on earth. Penny had handled the pilots- all simple beers, which was nice for her. They were loud, not like that made a difference to the uproar and the usual rabble that the bar drew in from the town.
"D'ya know what they're here for, Pen?" you murmured gently to her as you passed her to grab a beer for someone.
"They're not a normal group of pilots that's for sure." She said in return, eyes flicking to their patches on their uniforms, reaching across you to grab the ice scooper. You both worked in casual synchrony, not bumping into each other unless it was the purposeful nudge of the hip as a greeting; despite your age gap, you got on well.
"Do you think he is back?" you questioned quietly, the man was a sensitive subject for Penny, she'd mentioned him in passing a few times, staring into the distance wistfully with eyes glazed over with memory and tears that she refused to let fall. She only ever truely spoke of him post-shift when we would have drinks once the bar was closed, drunkenly reminiscing of the times with a man she called 'Mav.'
"Don't give me false hope," she muttered.
"Not false hope, just hope," you smiled wryly.
She rolled her eyes.
The pool cue cracked again as one of the pilots- a tall guy with dark hair and a wicked grin—missed his shot spectacularly. His buddies howled, slapping the table.
Penny exhaled through her nose, watching them like they were particularly loud seagulls that had wandered indoors. The tall tan blonde who was holding the other pool cue caught her eye for half a second- then looked away fast when she didn’t smile back. You grabbed another beer from the fridge, wiping condensation on your apron before heading toward a burly regular in overalls who’d been nursing his whiskey since sunset.
But then—the door opened again. A gust of wind swept in dust and golden light spilled across the floorboards. Everyone turned slightly; even Penny paused mid-pour. And there he was; leather jacket slung over one shoulder, hair just messy enough to be intentional (probably wasn't), aviator sunglasses perched on top of his head despite it being evening now, and that stupid easy grin you only ever saw in Penny's drunken stories.
Mav had come back.
He sits at the bar in the corner, looking over to where two of the pilots were now playing darts, the cocky blonde from earlier hits a perfect one hundred and eighty, laughing at his friends defeat, but refusing to take the money they bet. They make eye contact, but its clear he doesn't know who he's looking at. Then his eyes land on you, he raised a brow intrigued.
You nudged Penny over to Maverick, giving her an encouraging smile as you went to serve more patrons.
You hear her take a breath for confidence, her voice sturdy as she mused, "Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world, he walks into mine."
He looks up, a softer look on his face than moments ago, "Penny."
She sighed, "Pete."
"What are you doing here?" He asked, looking her up and down.
"I could ask you the same thing," she shot right back, and with that you decided to tune them out, giving them a small amount of privacy.
You serve a few patrons, but then Penny taps your shoulder twice as a warning that she was about to ring the bell, you brace yourself as the metallic clanging echoes throughout the bar, causing a cheer to errupt from everybody but a confused Pete. One of the aviators claps him on the shoulder close to mockingly, "Much appreciated, pal."
Mav just huffs slightly "What'd I miss?" To which Penny and you both sidestep to reveal a sign that reads; 'Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar, you buy a round,' to which Penny grins at him.
"For everyone?" He says exasperated.
Your focus is interrupted by the blonde pilot from earlier loudly announcing "Well what do we have here," he grinned lazily, showing off his canines that winked dangerously under the low light of the bar's pool table, "Here I thought we were special, Coyote. Turns out the invite went to anyone," he added emphasis to that last word condescendingly, "Keepin' it tight I see, Pheonix."
You continued to eavesdrop on them, curious about why so many elite aviators were in one place. Soon, the blonde approaches the bar, large tan hand wrapped around an empty beer bottle, his eyes meet yours, arrogance radiating him with every heartbeat, "I'll have six more on the old timer," his lip tugged upwards in amusement as his eyes flicked to Maverick. "Coming right up," you murmured gently in amusement, eyes flicking back to the cocky pilot, only to find he's still looking at you.
You grabbed six cold ones from the fridge, stacking them neatly in a plastic tray. The blonde pilot- tall, broad-shouldered, with that 'I own the room' grin - didn’t blink as he continued to watch you. His eyes lingered on your face. Not flirty-not quite- but assessing. like he was mentally sizing up every bartender who’d ever served him and deciding if you were better or worse.
You slid the beers across to him with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, yet you were a little intrigued. 'Wow, this guy radiated ego like cheap cologne' you thought to yourself, despite the fact his very much expensive cologne was all that came from him. but you weren't going to admit that, were you?
"What's your name?" He asked, texan drawl smug as he continued to eye you.
"Can you not read?" You said bluntly as you pointed to your name tag, where your name stood proudly in your block capital handwriting beneath the Hard Deck logo. "Thought you were in the navy, not a marine." Your eyes flicked to his decorated tan uniform, his name embroidered into one of the pockets 'J. Seresin.'
"Would you like some crayons with those beers?" You continued, half teasing yet half irritated at how one man could be so arrogant.
The blonde- J. Seresin- blinked. Once. Twice. Then that smug smirk froze on his face like someone had just dumped ice water down his back as he registered your words. He looked at your name tag, your name glaringly obvious and perfectly readable to anyone with eyes and half a brain cell.
His jaw twitched, just once, and the arrogance in his posture wavered for a millisecond before he recovered with forced bravado. "Right," he said slowly, drawl even thicker now maybe out of nervous habit, "Didn't see it."
Liar. He’d seen it fine, the man wasn’t blind; he was clearly so used to people fawning over him or intimidating him on sight because of the rank and medals piled on that uniform, not a bartender firing back at him like you were some bored barista who didn’t give two shits about who wore what patch where.
"Sure." You huffed in half- irritation, half- amusement. You didn't want to be directly rude, Penny would give you a stern look if you were, but you knew you would be able to get away with shutting down his ego a little. "So, Seresin." You began, "Why so many pilots?" you tilted your head slightly as you began cleaning a glass, it wasn't as busy tonight, allowing you to converse with the blonde man.
J. Seresin leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he owned the damn place. The other hand spun a beer bottle idly- nervous energy disguised as cool nonchalance.
"Top Gun's transferring a new squadron," he said, voice lower now, firm yet still laced with that southern drawl, "We're here for briefing tomorrow morning."
Ah. That explained why they were all in uniform, not just celebrating Friday night or passing through town on leave; they were working Pilots fresh off rotation, or incoming, probably being prepped for something big.
You nodded, switching up your movements to wiping down the counter with a rag, more to give your hands something to do than anything else. "Top Gun, huh?" you said casually, "Didn't realize they sent whole squadrons at once."
Seresin took a sip of his beer, watching you over the rim like he was recalibrating his entire first impression strategy. The other pilots had started chatting again-some laughing about misses in pool, others wondering why he was taking so long until they spotted you and your slightly unimpressed yet amused face- but Seresin seemed solely focused on you now. "Not often," he admitted, "But when command says 'assemble,' we assemble."
He paused, then added with that same Texan swagger, cocky, yet lowering his voice almost conspiratorially, "You ever meet Maverick before?" His tone wasn’t mocking, not quite, but there was curiosity beneath it. Like maybe even he'd not even seen the legend himself.
You glanced over at Maverick, who was now quietly nursing a beer with Penny talking to him lowly, both of them lost in conversation, voices hushed like they were rewriting history between longing glances.
“Yeah,” you said simply to Seresin. “She has.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. Not surprise,more like 'oh?' ;the kind of quiet realisation that came when you realised someone actually knew a mythical figure in the flesh. He took another slow drink before setting the bottle down and studying you again, not with arrogance this time, but something more thoughtful, like he was recalibrating his entire worldview because Penny knew Maverick and she worked at this dive bar and served him beers.
And then, his gaze dropped to your name tag again, your name still stark and bold against your uniform, which in reality was just a black shirt. A beat passed. Then Seresin did something unexpected. He smiled- not that cocky pilot grin from earlier-but a real one. Small. Genuine enough that it softened the sharp angles of his face under the golden bar lights. "Nice to meet ya," he said sincerely for once, and held out his hand across the counter toward yours, "Jake. Jake Seresin. They call me Hangman."
You took his hand, it was strong and enveloped your hand much more than you expected, veins protruding beneath the tan skin that ran up his muscle teathered forearms, you introduced yourself back to him and then asked, "Is that name meant to mean something to me?" you were teasing, you had infact heard about him before, but it was nice to put a face to a name.
He chuckled, a warm sound that rolled through the low hum of the bar, he didn’t let go right away, his grip lingering just a second too long to be casual.
"Yeah," he said, grinning again, those canine teeth glinting at you once more, less danger now, more flirtation, still not smug like earlier though, it was more proud than anything, "Nickname from flight school."
He finally released your hand and leaned back slightly on his stool, stretching one arm overhead like pilots do when they’ve been sitting too long in cramped cockpits.
"I'm sure it means something wonderful and totally not a rudely accurate judge of your character," you huffed amused, glancing at the six bottles- well, five now- that his aviator buddies were waiting on. "Think your friends are gonna die of thirst at this rate, Hangman."
Hangman snorted, following your gaze to the table where his squadron buddies, who were now openly staring and very invested in this interaction, were pretending not to watch while clearly doing nothing else. Not even bothering to pretend they were playing darts or pool.
One of them, Coyote, made a dramatic gulping motion with his hand across his throat, whilst Pheonix mimed tapping a watch.
Jake rolled his eyes but finally pushed off the stool, grabbing two beers at once with each large hand and balancing the third between the two pairs, "Alright, drama queens," he muttered as he turned toward their table. But just before walking away, he you a soft look, no arrogance left, just deserved confidence and called over his shoulder, "Be right back."
"Sure hope not anytime soon," You huffed in faux irritation, amusement threading your mock exasperation with the pilot. You ignored the way your lip twitched at the sound of his laugh because of your words.
As the evening stretched on, the Hard Deck bar had warmed with noise and laughter, bodies pressed closer as the night deepened. The pool table stayed in heavy rotation, cues cracking, balls rattling into pockets, while Hangman dominated one game after another, his ego almost unfortunately matching his skill. Every time he sunk a shot cleanly, he'd flash that sharp grin at you across the room like 'see that?' and yet you couldn't help but roll your eyes, with no malice in the action every time, it was obvious to see how he got his ego but damn it was hard not to be attracted to the arrogant asshole that was Hangman.
You watched from behind the counter during lulls between orders, the rhythm of cleaning glasses, pouring drinks on autopilot, but your eyes kept drifting to him.
Darts were even more chaotic. One of Hangman’s buddies, who you'd learnt was Bradley Bradshaw, callsign 'Rooster', kept yelling “bullseye!” every single throw whether it was close or not.
Maverick had been relentlessly teased for flirting shamelessly with Penny earlier, he bought her a drink first thing and hadn’t stopped chatting since. Then came time to pay up, Maverick handed her his card calmly, glancing around the bar. She returns, dropping his card on the bar, "It's been declined."
"You're kidding me," Pete sighed exasperated, reaching into his pocket, holding up all the money he's got.
"That won't cut it," Penny said cooly, clearly amused with the situation, handing him the bill.
It made Mav wince, "I can come back tomorrow," he started but she shook her head.
"I'm afraid rules are rules."
"You don't sound the slightest bit sorry," you grinned wryly at her, to which she just shrugged in mock innocence, eyes glinting at how much fun she was having being able to throw him out. She takes your hand and guides you to the bell with her, you both ring it and the now more populated bar cheers as you both point at Pete and call out, "Overboard!" to which the crowd repeats it back to us loudly whilst stomping and applauding.
A familiar hand grabs Maverick's shoulder, and you see Hangman sending you a wink, his biceps flexing as he and two of his friends, Coyote and Payback lift Pete with ease, two at the shoulders one at the legs as they carry him through the hollering crowd and throw him out front.
"Thanks for the beers, come back any time," you see Hangman salute the man they'd just thrown into the sand with a grin, before turning back and him zeroing in on you.
The second Hangman turned back toward you, the noise of the bar seemed to dull, as if someone had twisted a knob on reality.
He dusted his hands dramatically, still grinning from tossing Mav into the sand like yesterday’s rubbish. His friends were wooping behind him, Payback slapping Coyote’s back whislt he cracked a beer open with teeth, 'gross' you thought. But Hangman didn’t look at them, just walked straight for you. That stupidly confident stride again, his ego clearly back from earlier, the kind that said 'I own this room' without saying it at all. He stopped right in front of your end of the counter and braced both elbows down like he’d been there all night instead of just returning from playing human catapult.
“You rang?” he asked, voice low and teasing under the hum of music and chatter, that Texan drawl thick as ever but softer now.
Your heart did something traitorous in your chest before logic caught up. You weren't going to get flustered by some pilot who thought smirking and flexing his back muscles solved everything.
You gave him a blank look, "Nah." Then grabbed another bottle opener off Penny, who shot you an amused glance, and started popping caps off bottles that weren't even needed yet- purely out of spite, avoidant behavior masquerading as work ethic.
Hangman watched you work, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knew you were pretending not to notice him. He leant in a little closer, just enough for that stupidly good cologne to drift over the counter like it did earlier- much to your dismay and happiness-and grinned, “You always this intense opening bottles no one asked for?”
You didn’t look up, just popped another cap with unnecessary force making Penny snort beside you. Then Hangman did something bold, he reached across the bar, slowly, almost teasingly, and plucked a beer right out of your hand before it could even be served, took a swig, and set it back down where someone would eventually take it, but maintained that direct eye contact with you while doing so like the arrogant twat he was.
'The fuck was that?' You found yourself thinking. A challenge? A flirt? A power play? Probably all three, you rolled your eyes internally. And damn if his eyes weren’t brighter than they had any right to be under these dim lights, those amused blue-green eyes that constantly looked over you, framed by those unfairly long lashes pilots always seem cursed with on top of everything else they've got going for them physically speaking...really what was fair about any of this?
"You gonna pay for that, asshole?" you had clearly given up any true customer sevice niceties that you'd been desperately trying to maintain, but by the way you heard Penny huff in amusement, she would make an exception to you being rude to Hangman.
Hangman didn’t flinch at the insult, if anything, that stupidly perfect grin of his widened, like you’d just handed him a prize instead of an insult. He pulled out his wallet, slow and deliberate, flashing a few crisp bills before sliding one over to you. A twenty, for a beer that cost four bucks.
“Keep the change,” he said with mock seriousness, but there was warmth in it too, that easy charm pilots seem genetically wired to have; all confidence and zero self-awareness about how devastating they are to normal people’s hearts.
Penny side-eyed you, silently signalling that 'this man is trouble, and not even the fun kind; the will ruin your peace kind,' making you huff slightly.
But then Hangman leant sideways on the bar, body still angled towards you, and crossed his arms over his chest, forearms prominent and strong looking beneath the dim lighting of the bar, that sly grin that flashed those fucking canines at you that made your stomach flip drawing upon his face once more as he asked rather simply, "You always this mean to customers?” There wasn't offense in it, only teasing the kind only someone who genuinely liked being around you would bother with after getting insulted and ignored that same night.
You exhaled through your nose, a quiet, half-annoyed sound, but it lacked any real bite, amusement dancing in your eyes, “Only the ones who steal drinks and wink at me like I’m supposed to melt," you shot back, voice dry as dust.
Hangman didn’t even try to hide his reaction, that cocky bastard laughed, a full, rich sound that cut through the bar noise for just a second before he covered it with another swig of his- now legally purchased- beer. And then, because apparently he had zero self-preservation instincts, he set the bottle down again and said,, “So if I bring you coffee tomorrow morning… would that get me outta ‘asshole’ status?”
Your brain short-circuited. Just slightly. Barely noticeable unless someone was looking very closely- which thankfully no one was except Penny, who totally noticed, but then again she noticed everything didn't she?
"That implies we will be seeing each other again," you murmured, attempting to sound unbothered, not wanting his already massive ego to inflate bigger than his head.
Jake didn’t miss a beat, he set the beer down, turned his body fully toward you, like this conversation was now the most important thing in the Hard Deck (which to him it was) and said, voice smooth as that expensive cologne, “I imply it, you just confirm it, pretty thing."
Penny’s eyes widened, she slowly started edging away from your end of the counter like she’d seen enough drama for one night and didn’t want to be collateral damage when you inevitably snapped or fled, or a secret third option which she hadn't decided yet. She decided to not ring the bell for the pilot flirting with you, just for her own entertainment purposes. The noise of darts and pool games continued around you, the chaos of Friday night carrying on, but right here? Right between Hangman leaning on your bar with those stupidly gorgeous eyes and you attempting but failing to keep a straight face? It felt weirdly intimate, like he’d cordoned off this little space just for flirting with you specifically, whilst ignoring every other person in existence.
"Pretty thing?" You attempted to sound annoyed, instead of flipping him the bird your stomach did one instead. Your lips couldn't help but twitch, eyes flicking down shyly for a moment before locking back onto his irritatingly smug face, just a second long enough for him to realise that you were infact not annoyed at the name, no, it was frankly the exact opposite.
And Seresin being the smug bastard he was, with that stupidly fucking charming grin creeping back onto his devastatingly gorgeous face, slow and knowing, like a predator who'd spotted weakness in his prey, he doubled down, "Yep." He said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "my pretty thing."
"Oh?" You almost squeaked in surprise at that, his pretty thing? 'Lord have mercy on me,' you thought to yourself, heat creeping up your neck and warming your cheeks for the first time all evening. "Who said I was yours, asshole?"
Hangman’s grin didn’t falter, no, it grew wide and wolfish, like he’d just been handed a victory flag for taking down an enemy fighter.
“You didn’t say you weren’t,” he countered smoothly, leaning in just half an inch closer over the bar, not enough to invade your space, technically, but close enough that his voice dropped lower without him even trying. That Southern drawl was thicker now, softer, resembling honeyed whiskey. And then- the absolute nerve of this man- he reached out and gently tapped the tip of your nose with one finger before pulling back with that proud grin. A fucking nose poke. Like you were a puppy or something adorable instead of a fully-grown woman who had served him beer ten minutes ago with zero affection whatsoever.
"I'll fucking bite your finger off if you do that again." You grumbled harshly, glaring up at the man despite the warmth still dusting your cheeks, embarassment? Most likely. But you'd be a liar if you said you didn't find him charming.
Hangman’s eyes lit up as if you’d just issued a challenge that thrilled him to his core. Which you did. He didn’t pull his hand back. Oh no. Instead, he slowly- so damn slowly- lifted the same finger again, pointing it at you like a dare. And then, with zero hesitation or fear of consequences (which pilots apparently have in abundance), he shook that damn finger right in front of your face.
"Oh fuck off and go shove that finger up that arsehole, bastard," you grumbled at the damn audacity of this man. The bar around you kept thrumming: laughter from pool games, Rooster yelling about bullseyes that weren't bullseyes. However, right here in the tiny wooden space between bartender and customer, which, were you really that anymore? Pure tension. Flirtation. A standoff where one wrong move might end in either kiss or violence. Probably kiss though with how you had yet to actually harm him physically, a good sign as Hangman would take it.
You swatted his finger away hard with a sharp backhand, as if you were shooing a fly. A rude fly. 'Though is he not a fly already if he is a pilot?' you thought absently to yourself as you schooled your expression back to nonchalance. Hangman yelped, not dramatically, but loud enough that Coyote across the bar whipped his head around and barked out laughing. “Ow! Damn,” Hangman rubbed his fingertip with exaggerated offense, eyes wide in mock betrayal, but still sparkling with amusement because holy shit, he didn't think you’d actually hit him.
Somehow, he didn’t get the hint, why would he? He's a walking himbo. Instead of backing off, which any sane person would’ve done after getting smacked for poking someone, the man just… grinned wider.
And then he did something even more stupid, He leant forward again, and kissed your cheek. Quick as lightning. A soft peck right on the warm spot where your blush had been burning since 'pretty thing,' then pulled back instantly like nothing happened.
"Fuck you," your cheeks burned more, glaring up at him.
"We can do that. Thought you wanted a date first?"
"I never said I wanted a date."
"You didn't say no to coffee tomorrow."
"Didn't say yes either, did I?"
"Touché. You gonna come on a date with me?"
"Will you stop waggling your finger in my face?"
"If you say yes," he grinned cheekily.
"If I say no I'll break it off you and shove it in your own eye," you grumbled.
"Aren't you a sweetheart?" He teased back sarcastically, unbothered, "So that a yes?" he lowered his hands to be steepled in front of him expectantly, elbows on the bar's countertop.
You rolled your eyes for what felt to be the umpteenth time that evening, but couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lip, "Yeah, idiot."
The group of aviators began to grab the few things they brought with them, returning glasses to Penny at the bar, Coyote nudging Jake subtly to signal they needed to be back at base before it shut down for the night, making him sigh a little.
He scribbled down his number in his heavy handwriting onto a napkin with the Hard Deck logo on, not handing it to you, but instead sliding it into your shirt pocket next to your name tag, "You tell me when you're free tomorrow, pretty thing," he grinned at you once more, "and I'll take you to coffee and whatever you're feeling to eat..." he trailed off a little at the end, a foreign shyness about him that you hadn't seen at all that evening.
"Will do, idiot," you murmured with a softness to your voice, no malice in the insult this time.
"Be good, pretty thing," Hangman said gently, sliding you a very, very, generous one hundred dollar tip, before filing out after his friends, sending you one that flash of those sharp canines over his shoulder paired with a lethal wink that made your insides curl and your throat tighten, that fucking heat crawling back up your neck for the final time that evening.
And for once? You couldn't wait till morning.