July 18, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"It's not the worst case scenario," Jester muttered.

"It's Nevada. What's in Nevada?"

"Vegas," offered Maverick.

"I can't drag my wife to Vegas," Jim said, rubbing his temples.

Maverick was feeling oddly serene. Any minute now he'd burst into tears and start wailing about how he'd wasted the last ten years of his life, but for the moment, he was sitting there with a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.

Iceman was sitting rigidly in an armchair, glancing through the glass door whenever someone walked by.

LC Mike Townsend, who had flown with Chipper a few years ago and managed to wrangle a job at TOPGUN on the basis that they were short-staffed and he was desperate, made a tsking noise.

Iceman tipped his head back and parted his lips the way he did when something was weighing on his mind. The line between his brows was more pronounced than usual.

Maverick drummed his fingers on his thigh. There was a Post-It stuck to the knee of his jeans. He peeled it off. Haircut. He ran his hand through his hair and was surprised when a strand or two fell back into his eyes. Had he really been that out of it lately? He wrote on another Post-It, dentist? and stuck it to his desk.

"It's just insane," Jim mumbled, lighting a cigarette.

There was a knock at the door, and Viper walked in. Everyone tensed. Mike sneezed and saluted simultaneously and hit himself in the eye.

"Can I talk to you?" Viper said to Maverick.

"Yeah," Maverick replied, following him out.

Once they were outside, blinking as they were suddenly bathed in sharp California sunlight, he turned to Viper. "Why'd you stop by?"

"I heard about -"

"- Fallon."

"Yes," Viper said, drawing the word out as he squinted into the sun. "That's a ways."

"Honestly, I don't know whether to shit or wind my watch over here."

Viper chuckled dryly. "You'll figure it out, Duke."

Maverick paused. "Duke?"

Viper gave him a dismissive wave. "Duke, Maverick, you know what I meant." He lit a cigar.

Maverick sighed and sat down on the curb. "What am I doing here? Sometimes I don't even know."

"Nobody does, kid."

/

"Hey."

Iceman gave him a nod. Maverick took a seat on his desk. Iceman glanced at the space now occupied by Maverick's ass.

"What?"

"You're sitting on my desk," Iceman muttered.

"Yeah."

"Don't," Iceman said, twirling his pen, "do that."

"You're staying, aren't you? If we move to Fallon?"

"Mitchell... I'm forty years old. Once you get to a certain age, the calls stop coming, the jobs dry up. I'm not throwing away a good thing. What's your vendetta?"

"I don't have a vendetta," Maverick said, swinging his legs. "I just like California."

Iceman muttered something under his breath.

Maverick leaned back so his head was against Iceman's keyboard and stared up through his eyelashes. Iceman slid his hands through Maverick's dark hair and kissed him.

"Get out of here," he tossed out, returning to his paperwork.

Maverick sat up, which was a feat of abdominal muscles considering the position he was in, and strolled out of Iceman's office, straightening his collar.

/

July 18, 1998. Cordwainer's Shop, Miramar, California.

"This is a gorgeous Italian leather. Very supple, very soft. This style says... professional, it says, look at me, I am a businessman."

Maverick had started having his shoes custom-made around the time Charlie had stopped sleeping with him. He went to a very flamboyant French guy named Cyril in a little strand of shops about twenty minutes out of his way, but it was worth it.

"I mean, it is a custody hearing," Maverick said. "I don't want to look like I just went out and dropped that much..."

"Oh, of course," said Cyril. "This is more modest," he said, sliding the catalog back over to Maverick. "What size?"

"Uh, seven."

"Small feet," said Cyril.

Maverick cleared his throat. "Could you maybe -" he dropped his voice a little. "Add a lift?"

"How much? Half inch?" Cyril replied, like his request was not at all surprising.

"Uh... a quarter, maybe."

"We'll see. They'll be ready by tomorrow evening. Now hurry up and get out, you're not the only gay man who wants to buy shoes from Cyril."

"I'm not gay."

Cyril laughed hysterically as he closed the door behind Maverick, who stood there fuming indignantly and listening to the chimes jingle.