Author's Note: In honor of Top Gun's return to theaters with Top Gun: Maverick, I decided I wanted to play around with something light and easy. Needed the distraction and Tom Cruise inspired me. For now this is a little one shot, but I may carve out a couple more chapters and play around with some Maverick/OC lighthearted fun. Haven't decided yet. For now, enjoy what is here!

Mayday

Swabbies, Spice, & Cold Steel

XxxX

It was rough coming back to paydirt when you'd had your first taste of the upper atmosphere, even rougher sitting still when you knew the thrill of being the fastest being on the planet. History and its best wordsmiths would never capture the beauty of the sky beyond the clouds, or the rabid intensity of traveling at Mach 10, with your tail, literally, on fire.

Pete Mitchell knew those things. He had tasted, seen, and felt them. He knew and had risked his career and everything he'd ever wanted for the mere idea of them. And now they would flow through his blood, through his memories, until they day he tasted the crisp dirt of a six-foot-under grave.

He tossed back a shot of tequila and cracked the glass back to the Hard Deck's black walnut bar. Gaze dropping to the surface, he slipped easy fingers over the dark, legendary wood. He'd sat here a dozen times with Ice over the thirty years of his career, reliving the days of youth and glory. It felt like the grooves of this bar were as much a part of him as the lines on his face, testament of a life lived on the edge, and in service.

Maverick sighed. He rubbed grease-stained knuckles along his jaw, willing the tequila to burn at the cold steel in his veins, hoping it would erase the last week. Angry tension burned deep in the muscle of his shoulders, reminding him of actions that had come with prices he wasn't keen to pay. Instead, pain reminded him of time, and time remembered him of age and the Navy.

Signaling for the bartender, she smiled at him before slinging his choice of tequila bottle between easy fingers. Young and beautiful, she'd attracted every hothead in the joint. Regulars planted in barstools to gape at her fiery ringlets. He'd never seen her here before. She was pleasant though, and offered refreshing small talk when he'd first straddled a stool.

"Holdin' up okay, Mav?" she asked. A rounded hip rested against the walnut bar, and she tossed her braid behind her. She spoke to him like she'd known him longer than the two hours he'd been here. "Get ya another while I'm here?"

He shook his head. "Beer's fine. Thanks, Lola." She popped the pour lid off the bottle, tossed it to the sink, and pitched the bottle beneath the bar. She snapped the rag from her bag pocket and rubbed at a stain on the bar. Someone called for her, and her head whipped around with the speed of a pilot trying to trail smoke.

"You just let me know if I can do anything else, Maverick," she called over her shoulder. It was an extended invitation from the ownership he knew, one that stood as tall as the open door policy.

He watched her lean over the bar, hands folded in front of her, smiling at the airman who had summoned her. He was out of his element but a smooth talker, could tell by the easy posture and shifting eyes. Lola was into him. The way she twisted a finger through a loose curl, her foot grinding lazily on the padded mat behind the bar all the evidence needed. Maverick chuckled as he tossed back the Titos.

Nudging the glass forward with his hands, he moved to shrug out of his jacket. He was sliding it off when the front door kicked open, a blast of hot air swirling as the female figure sprinted into the bar in a blur of curl. At almost the speed of light she was leaning over the bar, her fist throbbing against it rapidly. He blinked in surprise, close enough to see her smudged mascara and sweat stains on her button-down Wrangler shirt.

"Hey!" she demanded.

Lola's head whipped around to take notice, brow raising as she gave the other female an irritated look. The girl opened her palms on the bar, and stood on the square toes of her boots as Lola turned, cocking a hip. Her brow snapped up, expectantly. "I need ice and a couple rags," the stranger explained.

Her words rushed together and were breathy as she attempted to collect her breathing. Pulling a curl from in front of her face, she worked to tuck it into the snapback on her head. Maverick watched her posture stiffen. She clenched and released her fists on the bar.

When Lola didn't respond she added aggressively, "Hello? You gonna help or what?" Her eyes shifted across the bar, somehow managing to find him. Surprised, he started back and folded his hands on the bar. Her eyes hastily fell over him before she tossed a look back to Lola. "Any of you gonna get off your ass and help a girl or what? Chivalry that dead out here?"

For a second he was stunned. He'd never seen anyone throw around blanket statements so harshly, or with so much spice. Ducking his head he kneaded the back of his neck, staring at the tequila glass that was now sweating into the bar. His eyes shifted to study the woman, her gaze roaming across the bar for takers. Lola finally tipped her chin up and snorted.

"We don't know you here," she said. It was loud enough for the occupants to hear across the bar, the pool tables, even near the vintage Jukebox. "And we don't tolerate disrespect of the Navy, not around here. You're barking up the wrong tree." She tossed the rag she'd been using over her shoulder and stuffed her hands into the front pockets of her jeans.

She smacked the bar, and flung the collar of her button down demonstratively. "Fine. So much for the frickin' spirit of service the Navy always harps on. Damn swabbies." Pushing herself from the bar, she turned to stalk past him.

Without thinking, he swung about and grabbed her arm. "Whoa, whoa, hey," he placated. She stalled and backstepped, angling to look at him in the face. Her brow popped to attention beneath the brim of the Hooey snapback, Maverick suddenly finding himself staring into eyes the color of familiar blue steel. His tongue thickened in his mouth and he was disarmed.

"What?" Her eyes broke to his grip on her arm, and she gestured to it with a sharp hand. Wrenching out of his grip, she stepped back and reached to rub the area he'd gripped a bit roughly. "If you're sensitive about me calling out flyboy BS, get in line. I don't have time for –"

He slipped off the barstool and shrugged his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, now staring down at her. "What exactly do you have time for?" He questioned. His brow lifted expectantly and he watched her swallow a retort, the girl angling back a little from him. Surprise was written clearly across her face. "What's your name?"

Brow wrinkling, her eyes skipped over him discerningly. She frowned. "I've got a horse with a nasty gash that will eventually need stitches, but I've got about forty miles of tar to cover before that can happen." She crossed her arms before thumbing over her shoulder. "I stopped to let her rest and was gonna clean her up, but what's that to you?"

Her defensiveness didn't change, but Pete saw the authenticity behind sapphire eyes. Closer inspection of her immediate person and the dark circles beneath her eyes told him traveling had been long and hard, probably multiple days. Her face was blotchy red beneath the brim of her hat, hair unkempt despite attempts to hide it under the hat. Her jeans were stained and dusty, the shirt wrinkled.

He'd seen the look before, he was the look more often than probably acceptable for a middle-aged man.

It took him a second to process that she had wounded cargo. "You said an injured horse?" His hand gestured to the door and he turned, signaling that he would follow. She nodded and hustled for the door, Maverick striding to keep up with her.

Flinging the heavy doors open with hardly any effort, she slipped into the fading day. Creamy clouds spun through a golden hue of sky, sunlight glinting blindingly off a huge travel trailer and dually pickup, parked haphazardly at the far end of the lot. A stunning white and copper-spotted horse was tied off outside the trailer, fumbling with a hay bag as her owner jogged to the trailer.

He moved after her, immediately aware of the injury. Scarlet blood dripped to the Earth from the mare's chest. Putting a gentle hand to the animal's back, Maverick's fingers gently skipped along her topline, offering the animal a firm pat on her thick, muscled shoulder. Her ears flicked back and then forward in notice of him, and she lifted a leg slightly before it plodded back to the ground. A cloud of dust rose from the dry gravel beneath her weight.

The mare's master dipped low and slipped under her neck, giving the Appaloosa a firm pat as she popped tall on the other side. She untied the animal and backed her up a few paces, allowing Maverick to see the injury. He grimaced and puffed out an exhale, scratching the top of his head. It was a long gash, about four inches, in the flesh of her chest. It was flayed open and definitely would require stitches.

As if she could feel him mulling over her injury, the mare shifted nervously beneath his speculation, the stranger working to calm her. After a moment the mare dropped her head and gently nudged her, a deep exhale rising a snort. She licked her lips, the woman looking at him as she softly stroked the animal's nose.

"I just want to keep it clean before I get back," she stated. Sighing, she scratched the top of her head before her hand dropped, clapping against her thigh. "Stupid Scout here managed to catch her self on a gate latch. Keeping it clean is just as hard as keeping the flies off." Her demeanor changed and softened near the mare, her voice containing none of the spicy harsh she'd shown at the bar.

He eyed her and nodded before taking a few shuffling steps backwards. Lifting a hand, he gestured for them to stay. "Sit tight, I'll be right back." He turned sharply on his heel and jogged around the building to the back door, where the kitchen received deliveries.

He'd helped Penny unload goods through these doors a hundred times, knew the kitchen staff by name after years of snatching snacks and catching meals. He slipped through the back door easy enough. Wasn't hard to find containers for ice and water, even less difficult to track down a couple of clean rags. He filled the containers, threw rags over his shoulder, and slipped out before the staff even finished pleasantries.

Maverick returned to find the mare already tied, still fighting with her hay net. The woman was pouring what looked like rubbing alcohol over her hands and wrists, her hat removed and hanging from a belt loop behind her. She'd pulled her hair back into a high twist and bandana. She stepped out to take the container of water from him, moving to a knee before her animal.

"Easy now, Scoutie," she cooed. Her tone was placatingly warm, almost melting as he squatted beside her. She snapped a rag from his shoulder, her eyes darting to him, then the ground. "You can set those there, thanks." She gestured to the ground. He felt dismissed.

"Need me to do anything?"

She nodded, biting her lower lip as she dampened the rag. "Um. Just keep her calm. Light touches and quiet tones. This shit hurts." He stood and her eyes followed him for a second, before they dropped to the equine's chest wound.

XxxX

Within minutes, Scout's wound had been cleaned, bloody rags discarded to the back of the pickup among other contaminated first aid equipment. Pete watched the woman ball ice into one of the rags and press it to the inflamed wound, the horse snorting to a bristle at the contact. Once the ice melted, she dried the injury, and gestured for him to for a greasy, yellow tub resting on the fender flare of the trailer.

"Hand me that Corona, would you?" She asked. Maverick moved, snatched the container from the fender, and turned it over to read the label. Corona ointment, obviously well loved, considering half the label had faded beneath a greasy sheen of dirt and fingerprints.

He tossed it to her and she snatched it out of the air like a pro. "I didn't think there were horses in Fightertown," he finally got up the nerve to make conversation. She'd mostly been talking to Scout and helping him ease the horse into the treatment, her way of words making him feel every soothing ounce of tequila and beer in his gut.

She snorted and worked out of her overshirt. "Fightertown, no. Miramar, yeah, there are plenty of ranches and homesteads around here." She worked the paste into the injury, the animal's flesh twitching around the sensitivity. She stood and worked the remaining ointment from her finger into her jeans. She offered him a half smile, eyes darting over his frame as he worked strokes into Scout's neck. "I was just passing through. Ya'll have the cheapest diesel in a three-town radius." Capping the paste, she replaced it on the fender and reached for Scout's stays.

"That's a good reason," he laughed. "Are you from Miramar?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "No. Born and raised in Montana. Married a guy from here, though." She guided Scout away from the haynet. "He shipped out to Iraq and didn't come back, so I inherited the land."

Her resignation hit him like a load of bricks, and he dropped his gaze. The bitter sting of grief was familiar. Memories of Goose flashed before his eyes like a moving picture, and he dismissed his best friend's face with a shake of his head. Raking a handful of his hair back, he shifted his weight on his feet and looked down to them. After a moment, his eyes lifted to consider her.

She was young, no more than her early thirties by best guesstimate. Pretty in a simple, earthy kind of way, and pale skinned with freckles. Light hair complimented steely eyes and an hourglass frame, which was emphasized by high-rise Wranglers. Odd tan lines littered her arms and shoulders, evidence of living outside with livestock. Everything a man could ever desire, but all the sass that kept them away. Her character reminded him of a young Penny, though she was nothing like her at face value.

He blinked. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "That's not an easy reality." If there was anyone who could make a blanket claim like that, it was him. He had lived and breathed beside death nearly thirty years ago, and it still tortured him.

She nodded and shrugged again as she stuffed one of the rags into her back pocket. "Is what it is. He made his choice, loved the Navy more than he loved me and it killed him." The words rang with resentment. "The payout at the end of it all is nice, though."

He stepped back as she guided the Appaloosa around to the back of the open trailer, the animal effortlessly following her in. He moved to watch her trailer the horse with ease, slipping under the slant stall as she latched it with a firm shove. Unclipping the lead from the halter, she draped it around her neck, checked the latch, and stepped out to retrieve the hay net.

Only once it was firmly replaced and Scout's small window was dropped did she stop at the opening of the trailer. She crossed her arms and and leg, balancing her foot on the toe of her boot as she leaned. He stared up at her, trying not to smile as her lips pursed into a hesitant twist. Lingering, she finally hopped out of the trailer and eased one of the doors closed, Maverick moving to assist with the other.

Flipping the latch securely, she checked the door and turned on a heel to face him. Eyes fluttering closed, she heaved a knowing sigh. "I suppose I owe you something for your help?" She clapped her hands in front of her, ridding them of dust and dirt and bits of hay.

His brow furrowed. Lifting his hands to shake his head, he smiled and gestured to the trailer. "You don't owe me anything," he extended a hand between them in an offering of peace. "Just consider this the first step in changing your opinion of us swabbies, fair enough?"

She snorted, her shoulders shaking as she stared at his hand. After a moment she clapped her hand into his and gave it a firm shake. "Fair enough, if that's what you want." He nodded and didn't release her hand. His gaze dropped to consider their joined hands before he pulled his away quickly.

He took a few lazy steps back from her, waving again as he worked off his jacket to toss it over his shoulder. "Take it easy," he nodded to the trailer. "I'm Maverick, by the way." She stepped back a few paces herself, not breaking eye contact with him. Soon the back of his heel caught on the concrete apron of the parking lot, distance and silence growing between them.

Stumbling, he watched her chin tipped up and she cupped a hand around her mouth. "I'm Mae!" She called. Turning, she collected the rest of the first aid and threw the supplies into the cab of the pickup before hauling herself into the massive dually.

Seconds passed before she fired the diesel engine to life, secondary lights cutting through the fading light of the evening. She edged the pickup forward a little, reached out the open window to arrange the extended mirror, and guided the load out of the parking area. Scarlet lights on the trailer lit up the air as she tapped the brakes and edged out onto the pavement.

He watched the rig disappear down the street before returning back inside to his usual barstool, content to have another beer.