"Are you sure you really wanna do this?"

Pete Mitchell would be lying if he said his heart isn't jackhammering behind his ribs. Vibrations from every pound of his heart seem to ricochet up into his head with every step closer to the Hard Deck he takes. All he can hear is the blood roaring in his ears, which somehow rhythmically moves with the pulse of the ocean against the shore.

He asks the question more for himself than her sake—he knows how she feels about this night. She'd been going on about it for two weeks, ever since they'd shared a few beers (and a few more touches) after the flight at her ranch. Eager to meet the men and women he works with, she'd nearly begged him to bring her back to North Island, to the bar, to make introductions.

And to say he wasn't nervous about it would be a bald-falced mistruth.

Things with Rooster hadn't progressed at all the last two weeks—actually, things had worsened. The echo of Bradley's cutting, "My father trusted you," rings like a hollow gong between every other heartbeat. His gut hasn't returned to the void it once occupied before the knife of Rooster's hot glare had twisted into his center, cutting him to ribbons.

What's worse, these kids aren't picking up the training. At all.

Nobody had successfully navigated the gauntlet. Phoenix and Bob nearly bought it, Coyote had put himself in G-lock. Seresin was riding everyone's ass with his cockiness, and Simpson—well. Things with Simpson would get worse before they got better, if his career survived at all. Tension was so thick it could be cut with a butter knife, a progression he absolutely didn't need at this point.

Pete was losing it. Slowly, calculatively, but his control was slipping. People were going to die if he didn't rein in these bucks–a fact that nearly strangled him every time he dropped into the cockpit. Goose would never forgive him if he sent his son off to die—or maybe, his memory would never forgive him.

Either way if either did find a way to forgive and forget, he'd never forgive himself.

And Tom—Ice. His mind shoots back to last week, sitting across the artesian carpet of his friend's office, watching the striking figure of one of the Navy's most brilliant fliers through welling, sparkling tears. He still could hardly breathe.

His stomach hadn't settled from the devastating news of the cancer spreading, robbing this man of so much more than a voice.

God, Ice. He could break down and just bawl over what's happening to his best friend, his wingman. Some days it was like walking on glass, feeling the pain slowly rip up through his feet, climbing into his chest–waiting for the floor to open beneath him and consume him. Waiting for something to crack, to break; something he, or anybody else, could never put back together.

Thirty years navigating the lines of a friendship with Iceman coursed through his blood, flashed before his eyes like a living, breathing picture.

Once they were stronger, faster men. The teeth of a fight, even the glimmer of death couldn't hold them back—they charged, full balls to the wall, into everything unimaginable. Between them the commendations and medals, the recognitions and reprimands stretched the length of his arm. But then they hadn't mattered; now, they were little more than words on a page, platitudes that couldn't save him, Tom, or anyone else from life catching up.

Once they were fearless, indestructible; gods of the skies, of this life they'd built for themselves. But now? The Goliath of living had come to battle, and he was equipped with little less than stones.

Once this life was laid out before them like a lover—open, willing, ready. Pete hadn't even imagined the day would come where he would face the reality of stopping living.

Too many smoking guns, too many rolled dice. Luck ran out, eventually. Tom had always told him that.

Kazansky had figured it out early, played it safe on the last twenty of his career. It had gained him everything—title, admiration, prestige. The entire Pacific Fleet was at his command. But life was catching up despite his towing the line—and, as much as Pete wished Tom didn't have nearly the life he could've should he have stayed reckless and wild, it simply wasn't true.

Tom had everything—everything Pete could only ever dream of.

And now he just thought of Iceman and he was a breath from flatline.

First Goose, now Tom. Life was showing her colors, lifting her skirt and throwing in his face its inevitable end. What more would it take from him before he stopped towing the line between skill and luck? He wasn't sure there was anything left to give, much less take, but if there was—life would rip it from him, that much Maverick was sure.

Tom had, in some strange way or another, been there for him in his own way when Goose had died three decades ago. And now, Tom is dying. Differently, yes, but he's dying, and Maverick has no beginning idea of where he belongs in this. How to support a man who has everything, a man who has saved his ass so many times—-a man losing everything.

It's time to let go.

How the hell do you let go of everything when letting go means losing?

Such a concept wasn't in his realm of existence. Mitchell's didn't lose. They don't quit. They persevere. They survive. But how do you survive when death's dripping maw is breathing down your neck, smacking you in the face?

He remembers the twinkle in Kazansky's eyes when he mentioned Mae, about the P-51. Tom is eager to meet her. He'd sent a poignant text, all but ordering he bring her by Sunday, for dinner, to meet the shadow of a man who wears the face of Tom Kazansky. Why he wants to meet her, Maverick has no idea—he's never expressed interest in any of the women of his life. Not real interest, anyway.

Mae had all but jumped up and down at the idea. Ripping the phone out of his hand she'd replied to the text for him, signing it with her own name, telling the Admiral she'd be delighted to bring wine and dessert.

Like a fish out of water he'd gaped at her as she pressed close up against his chest, lithe fingers slipping his phone into the front pocket of his t-shirt.

Smiling brightly, her teeth nearly glistening at odds with the bright stain of pink lipstick, she'd reminded him to breathe before kissing the corner of his lips sweetly.

"Don't get all excited on my account," she'd chided him with that trademark giggle he'd come to all but love, "you do like Ice, don't you?"

"Like is a strong word," of course this was a lie and she knew it, shoving his shoulder playfully with her bejeweled fingers. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Mae. This is the Admiral of the Pacific Fleet we're talking about here. It's not like having dinner with a poker buddy." He still couldn't explain why he was nervous, but the lump in the back of his throat hadn't subsided.

"Really. I thought he was your friend, Pete. So which is it—do you kiss his ass, or are you his friend? Hard to be both, honey."

She'd been right, of course. She was right a lot.

Fairly sure his throat is closing, sweat has become visibly evident on the back of shirt as Mae's fingers tangle with his, tugging him across the pea gravel of the parking lot. Her boots grind the gravel as she hauls him forward step by fateful, nerve wracking step. The look she tosses over her shoulder as she guides him is punctuated by a bright smile, one that cuts him right at the knees and draws his attention beneath the belt.

He's nervous. He has been nervous since she asked him to bring her back here—knowing this is a Navy bar, a bar his class hangs out at quite frequently, hasn't left his attention. The guys would be all over her, and not just because she'd opted for jeans that held her perfect curves nearly hostage. Mae was a sparkling light in the otherwise bleak hailstorm of mess this entire mission was becoming, and to frustrated, drunk pilots looking for a good time?

She wouldn't be hard to miss.

And he, being a man twice her senior, wasn't sure how to feel about the inevitable attention Mae would draw their way. When he was with her he felt more alive in ways that even a younger him hadn't, sure. His body responded to her unlike anything he ever imagined, he could live on nothing but her smile and the way she talked a mile a minute.

When he was with her he was someone else entirely, a better version of himself he didn't think possible to exist—but, despite the magic of her eyes and the way she wrapped him around her finger, she was not a time bender.

She could not change the amount of years between them, the crow's feet around his eyes or the aging lines of his hands. She'd never said it bothered her. It didn't even seem to be in the realm of discussion. But here, right now, before the gaping maw that is Hard Deck packed full of younger, more worthy suitors, he can't help but see little more than years between them.

"You okay, Pete?"

He blinks, registering her question, his gaze moving to consider her turning to face him. She flicks a curl from her face, head canted just a little to the side as her nose does that thing it always does when she's trying to process.

Tightening her fingers through his, she steps to him, taking his other hand in her own much like she had the first. Fingers slipping through his, she lifts their hands shoulder high, shifting her weight on her feet.

She's so magnetic. Beautiful. Her hair springs from the clip she'd wrangled it into in every direction, her lips nearly beaming with that glossy red makeup she knows he likes. Her cheeks are ruddy with color, eyelashes curled perfectly. She hasn't worn this much makeup before, and he isn't sure if he prefers it or not.

Smiling crookedly at her, she repeats her question. "You okay? You're acting weird, Mitchell."

He chuckles, trying to dispel the nerve that the question strikes along his spine. He loves when she uses his name, any of his names. He has three, but she could call him any number of things and he'd still respond.

She hasn't answered his question, from before. "I'm great," it's a lie, but she doesn't know won't hurt her, and he nods in the general direction of the door before giving either of their interlaced hands a light squeeze, "as long as you're sure you want to do this."

"Why wouldn't I want to meet your students?"

The question, at face value, is an innocent one. He can see she hasn't made the connection. She may never. In the short time he's known her, she isn't one to overly read into situations and circumstances. She's a straight shooter, but she is capable of reading between the lines—though these lines, it seems, appear to be beyond her.

His brain falls through a number of responses, none that seem appropriate, before realization dawns on her face. The muscle in her jaw flecks a little before she hums in understanding, her chin leveling with the floor to hold his gaze.

Releasing one of his hands, her finger hooks his chin, a single brow popping matter-of-factly as she looks up into his face.

"I'm here with you, Pete. And I'm not ashamed of that."

His gut reaction is to clapback because for a second, he wonders if she actually means it. For a beat Pete can hardly remember a time when he's ever gone anywhere "with" someone, as her connotation of the word suggests. Before he can stop himself he smirks, amused by the statement, and his head cants ever so slightly to the side.

"You said it, not me—"Her brow spikes up for a second and he wonders if it'll fly right off her face. He'd meant it to be humorous, but the wrinkle of her forehead said otherwise. He always did this, disarmed serious situations with humor. Like a child. Damn.

He watches her tongue trace over the front of her teeth, her eyes searching his, as if she's rallying the words. Pete notes the way she swallows a breath, the grip of her fingers between his ironclad, unwavering. Suddenly he can't hear the throb of music bleeding out through the walls of the Deck, the muffled murmurings of voices within the building. All Maverick can readily feel his her hand in his, all he can hear is the rush of blood between his ears.

"You didn't have to say it, it's written all over your face, Maverick," she challenges with a poignant bite, shifting her weight on her feet just a little more, enough that it slightly pops a hip. For a second it hangs there between them and his gaze drops to consider the toes of his boots, and he feels the weight of her gaze.

Then something snaps in the air between them. It's tangible, nearly alive. It worries him that it's so present, so real, and prompts his gaze back to hers—instead of that resound, unwavering look, her brow is furrowed, her eyes nearly doe-like in their innocence as she attempts to navigate the space between them.

Cheeks lit up with lobster-colored heat, she worries her bottom lip.

"Pete—are you, you embarrassed to be seen with me or something?"

Alarm rips through him like a current. It's the first time in knowing Mae that he has ever heard her stumble about her words—usually, she is steady as brandished iron. Sure on her feet, with a quicksilver wit.

But now, the words almost cause her to shrink back from him, her gaze worried and troubled like an uncertain, sheepish animal. He doesn't like it—at all. It robs her of the wild confidence that had captured him from the jump, made him question everything and reevaluate all his decisions. She's retreated, alarm blatantly alive on her face.

It takes him maybe a moment too long to respond. He can feel her energy begin to slip into neutral, like she's weighing the idea of stepping back from him. He doesn't give her the chance—Maverick tights his fingers through hers a little, pulls her forward off her axis.

He can feel every pound of her body in the tension about his shoulders as she huffs in protest, the toes of her boots kicking up pea gravel over his. Her chest brushes against him and he lifts their hands above his head, mostly to keep her balanced until she can find her feet. Now staring up at him, her mouth a prayer from his, the thunder of her heart thunks against his ribs, reminding him she's alive. She's here. She thinks he's embarrassed by her.

What a thought. If anything he is enraptured by her. Enchanted and fully captivated, a slave to every touch. The electricity that leaps through his blood like a wildcat reminds him that he could never be embarrassed by such a pretty young thing. Instead, she's the force that makes his body sing, his blood buzz with some strange, unfettered need.

Embarrassed by her? He only wished it were that mild. He's entranced by every movement of her facial muscle, every wisp of air. The touch of her brushed up against him is enshrined in the very core of his being. She feels so very unlike anything he's ever known, but every good thing he ever has, and it's a cocktail of uncertainty that sits deliciously at the base of his gut.

All at once he doesn't know how to feel, to think—but for the first time, he doesn't grapple for control.

Stretching his head down and forward, he rests his forehead against hers, just so. "I could never be embarrassed by you, Mae," the very weight of her name on his tongue makes his blood call out for her like a drowning man, "and if my head is ever buried that far up my ass, I give you full permission to with me as you will."

Maverick can feel her smile, even though she's looking down at their feet and his eyes are closed. Focusing on little more than the thrum of their hearts pumping side by side, for a moment Pete's unsure if that's actually the right thing to say. He's never been good at this—hell, relationships never last long enough.

He starts a little when her hands release his and find his face, her fingers warm against his skin from their embrace. Her nails bite pleasurably against his skin. The jewelry smattered across her fingers is cool and all feel so different, they animate her hands in perfect little ways he never wants to forget. When her thumb gently skips across the seam of his lips, his eyes open to find her smiling crookedly at him, her eyes nearly sparkling in the dim light of the waning evening.

"I'll remember you said that," her wink seals the deal before she rocks up on her toes, slings her arms around his neck, and brushes her lips along his bottom one. He can taste the traces of lipstick, which sends heat into his low gut, "now. How about a kiss for luck, Captain Mitchell?"

He's hardly one to deny her anything. "Only if you promise not to kill any of my students, sweetheart."

Her nose wrinkles devilishly before her eyes flash with that sapphire intelligence he could clock a mile off.

"Oh. Well don't you know how to just take the fun out of everything, flyboy?"

I am so sorry an update for this is so late! I'm only anticipating a few more chapters before we wrap Mav and Mae. Enjoy!