These Tears that Burn My Eyes
The bike's roar mixed with that of the planes on the runway as Maverick revved the engine. The sun had set and the wind whistled in his ears as he sped through the night, headed nowhere, his mind running and running over Viper's words. It's your option, Lieutenant. But what would he choose?
The night deepened, broken only by one or another lively bar that spilled flashing lights and music out onto the street. Maverick passed them unheeding, avoiding the excitement of his fellow Top Gun graduates, heartsick and unsure if he should even still count himself among them.
But then, suddenly, he pulled the bike in, stopping for the first time in hours. Maybe it was the quiet of this particular bar, all calm and warm golden glow; but for whatever reason, Maverick stepped up to the building, ran a hand through his hair, and pushed open the door to the Rock and a Hard Place.
Inside, the bar was exactly as quiet as it seemed from the outside. It was almost empty, with only the bartender and a lone customer, silent but for the crackle of the fire and the gentle jangling of the door chimes. Maverick released a breath he hadn't known he was holding and slipped onto the barstool next to the customer, a blond in military dress hunched over his drink in a sorrowful and defeated slump. At Maverick's movement he glanced over at him and nodded a small greeting.
"Whiskey, neat," Maverick said, nodding back to the blond officer as the bartender came up silently for his order. She slid him a glass, and he took a small sip and sighed.
"Hard day?" murmured his companion.
"Hard week."
"Yeah."
Maverick cocked his head at the other's uniform. "Who're you with?"
"107th Infantry. Captain Steve Rogers." He held out a hand.
Maverick shook it. "Lieutenant Pete Mitchell. Top Gun. What's an army officer doing in Miramar, Captain?"
"Miramar? Is that what this part of London is called?"
"What? London?"
"Pardon me, Captain, Lieutenant," interrupted the bartender. Maverick looked at her for the first time, curiously taking in the unusual cut of her dress and unnatural brightness of her eyes. "You are neither of you where you expect. This is the Rock and a Hard Place, and I am Melpomene, guardian of sorrow. Tonight, do not wonder at this; but weep, and be comforted." She glided away.
Sudden tears stung Maverick's eyes as if Melpomene's words had released something tight in his chest. "Goose," he breathed, at the same time that his companion whispered, "Bucky."
Their eyes met in sudden mutual understanding.
"My RIO. I was flying the plane. But I didn't…I couldn't…"
"My sergeant. It was my mission plan, my lead…"
He was my brother, and I lost him.
Silence fell again, unspoken camaraderie. A tear dripped down Maverick's cheek and fell to the bar top. His companion shuddered in a silent sob.
"I don't know if I can go on," the captain whispered at last. "But I can't just…quit."
"I could—quit, I mean. I could. But…"
He wouldn't want me to.
"You cannot live for the dead," Melpomene intoned from the far end of the bar, "but neither can you die for them."
I wish I could.
They sat in the soft silence, two grieving friends, until eyes were finally dry and glasses were drained and the uncertainty in Maverick's mind had settled into a clear intention. Then they looked at each other again and rose from the barstools together.
"'Once more unto the breach?'" quoted the Captain with a small half-smile. Maverick nodded, quirking his lips in return. They gripped hands, pulling for a moment into an embrace.
"Good luck, Captain Rogers," whispered Maverick. "I'm sorry about Bucky."
"Good luck, Lieutenant Mitchell. I'm sorry about Goose."
They drew back and, with a respectful nod to Melpomene, slipped out of the bar.
Maverick straddled his motorcycle and revved the engine. Light streaked the eastern sky; the sun was rising.