"So. Prom."

"What about it?"

"Oh gee, I dunno, Mav. Maybe I'm just used to you tellin' me more than I could ever want to know about your conquests, so when you're quiet—"

"Am I making you nervous, Goose?"

"Always."

"There's nothing to tell."

Hoping that another sip of beer will be enough to cover the slightest hint of regret behind the words, Pete uses the momentary lull in conversation to risk a glance at where he'd last seen Jo at a table sitting with her aunt and uncle. She's laughing at something Linda says, nose scrunching up a bit in that way that seems to always bring men to their knees.

Or maybe that was just him.

He hadn't been lying, saying there was nothing to tell about prom. Nothing more than Jo had already disclosed, anyway. That night had been as close as the two of them ever got to trying for something more than friendship. By graduation, Pete had another girl on his arm, and Jo hadn't seemed to have any particular feelings on that one way or another.

They were friends, and everything in him is already well-aware that it really should never be anything more.

He's not what she wants. Not really. And the only thing that makes that thought even slightly easier to take is the thought that none of the other men in this damn club are, either.

Except, maybe, for Goose.

Pete's mouth ticks up at the corners in response to that particular thought. At how a guy like Nick Bradshaw is maybe the only one capable of earning a stamp of approval from Jo's father. More importantly, from Jo, herself. Heaven only knew he had certainly never been able to do that. Not when both Jo, and the older man knew his penchant for trouble front to back.

Not that Goose is especially innocent himself, but there's a lot to be said for a guy whose charm is based on more than just a cocksure attitude and drive to be the best.

And maybe, that is actually better, all things considered, since Pete is pretty sure that drive is what will end up getting him killed.

"Okay, what's that look?"

"What look?"

"That look," Goose replies, aiming a significant look at Pete's face, even though the act does about what he expects, and rids his friend of whatever expression he'd been wearing in seconds, flat, "For a guy who's supposed to be at a bar with his friend, you're sure spendin' a lot of time in your own head."

"Yeah, well—we're done with that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"C'mon, Goose. You're always the one ready for a bet."

"Oh, you're goin' there, huh?"

"Looks like it," Pete agrees, already grinning as he scans the bar, looking for anyone that seems like a sure thing. None of this is anything he is not used to, the familiarity in the routine something that is almost far too easy to fall back on.

One final glance back at Jo is all he gets, before he feels the steady weight of his friend's hand coming to rest on his shoulder. And even if a part of him wonders if time's passing may have given the two of them a better shot, he makes no move to take it, his attention turning back to Goose in seconds, as his friend specifies the stakes…

"Okay. The bet is twenty dollars."

"Twenty dollars."

"You've gotta have carnal knowledge—of a lady this time—on the premises."

"On the premises."

"And uh—old friends from prom don't count," Goose adds, his elbow bumping against Pete's side, narrowly missing causing a spill of the remainder of his friend's beer as a result, "Of course, now that I think about it, she'd probably give you a run for your money."

Pete has absolutely no doubt that Goose is right, and he wishes the thought alone didn't intrigue him as much as it did. But Jo Carter isn't a woman to be won in a bet. She'd give him hell if she ever found out that he even attempted to try.

And even as he returns to the task of scoping out a girl—trying to win that bet—Pete catches himself wishing that thought wasn't as intriguing as it was, too.

…

"Any luck?"

"None whatsoever."

"Aw, honey," Linda sighs, one of her hands resting above Jo's to offer a small squeeze, "What about the one who came over to join you? Tall, maybe a little handsome—"

"Didn't want to go there. I don't think you would've wanted me to go there."

"Who's this now?"

Jo can't help but smile at her uncle's interjection, regardless of whether or not she truly feels the protectiveness hidden behind it is actually necessary. And even if she does look back to the bar in time to note the man that had tried to get her to leave with him after only seconds of knowing her is now fully invested in a conversation with another pilot, and the woman hanging on that pilot's arm, she hardly pays them any mind at all.

"I think they call him Slider."

"You give him hell?" Her uncle inquires, aware of how Jo's shoulders seem to shake just a bit in a failed attempt at restraining laughter before she replies.

"Maybe a little."

"That's my girl."

"Oh Mike, honestly. You talk as though you want her to be single forever," Linda chides, the words lacking any real reprimand at all, despite her best efforts to the contrary, "She's a beautiful girl."

"And I want her to be with a man worthy of her."

"I didn't know the two of you were so eager to marry me off," Jo teases, biting her lower lip to restrain a laugh, though the effort fails in next to no time at all, "Did my mother put you up to this?"

"If she did, it wouldn't be with one of these clowns."

"Well one of them has to be a decent man."

"Unfortunately, Aunt Linda, I think 'clowns' is actually fairly accurate."

Jo would be a fool to miss her aunt's somewhat pitying expression, but it doesn't bother her as much as she thought it would, at all. And as if the mere mention of the word 'clown' draws pertinent behavior into being, the sound of raucous singing suddenly becomes absolutely unavoidable, wafting towards them from the direction of the bar.

"Is that—"

"Maverick," Viper confirms, exasperated amusement apparent in his expression as he follows Jo's gaze to two familiar figures, serenading an unfortunate blonde at the bar, "Might want to go save him from himself, Jos."

"Really? I kinda thought it might be more fun to just watch."

Her uncle's laugh and answering shake of the head is the only response she receives to the comment, and even if a part of her knows she probably shouldn't pay any attention at all, she cannot entirely resist. From the looks of things, Pete has managed to drag poor Goose into the fray, though it is more than a little obvious he doesn't truly seem to mind.

The only one who really seems caught off-guard is the woman at the receiving end of it all, but Jo isn't about to get in the middle and risk drawing Pete's attention back to her, instead.

Not when it is more than clear that he is already up to his old tricks, and apparently dragging every other liquored up pilot in the building into the mess as well.

That poor, poor woman…

Biting back another smile, and failing just as quickly, Jo catches herself wondering exactly how it is possible for Pete Mitchell to have remained—almost exactly the same as he was while they grew up. Equal parts obnoxious and endearing, he'd always been the same. Teasing. Careful little innuendos to make her blush. Banter back and forth, because neither one of them could ever quite pass up the opportunity to have the last word.

She hopes, for this unknown woman's sake, that maybe—just maybe—Pete might have matured a bit. That he wouldn't be as prone to breaking hearts as he used to be years ago.

But of course, a part of her already suspects that is not going to be the case. That someone like Pete will be part-boy, even when he's fifty…

Something her aunt seems to pick up on in little to no time at all.

"He hasn't changed much, has he?"

"Not at all."

"It's a shame, really. There was a time I thought you two might have actually been good for each other."

"Assuming her father didn't kill him first," Viper cuts in, another laugh escaping as he taps the bottom of his empty glass against the table, before moving to stand, "Man isn't a fan of pilots, Linda, you know that."

"He seems to do just fine with you."

"He has to do fine. He married my sister."

Jo laughs somewhat absently in response to that remark, her attention already drawn back to the bar in time to note Pete heading off after the blonde he'd been singing to, apparently content to leave Goose behind. And before she can spend any amount of time talking herself out of it, she reaches out to stall her uncle in his own path to the bar for another drink, his expression growing curious as she stands, and takes the glass from his hand not long after.

"Bourbon, right?"

"I've got it, Jos—"

"I don't mind," Jo assures, offering her uncle a small squeeze of the arm before turning to her aunt, instead, "Anything?"

"I'm fine, dear."

Nodding, Jo begins to weave her way back towards the bar as carefully as she can, the press of bodies and sounds of laughter and dulled conversations at odds with the low hum of music coming from somewhere to the side of all the chaos. Truthfully, she isn't exactly sure why she's doing this, other than perhaps a nagging curiosity to bother Pete as much as he's always bothered her, if things don't go the way he wants with the mystery blonde.

And maybe, if she plays her cards right, she can even talk him into buying her a drink.

…

The girl is back at the bar again.

No, not girl. Woman. Compared to the rest of the crowd, desperately clawing for attention from any number of available officers, she is something different. Someone apparently uninterested in the attempted charms of a guy like Maverick, which seems to be an achievement in and of itself.

Rather than falling at his feet, she'd held her own. From the looks of things, she'd even managed to catch the pilot off-guard a few times, and even if he'd been trying not to seem too interested, an amused grin had still pulled at the corners of his mouth, regardless.

Despite what she may lack in height, the woman possesses a presence that isn't exactly easy to ignore. And even with the prospect of his own female companion practically begging him to take her into the ladies room for something a bit less tame than simple conversation, Tom Kazansky had remained precisely where he was.

Leaning against the bar, aviators still firmly in place, he'd kept an eye on the other woman. Had watched with mild intrigue when Slider made his way over to take a shot, himself.

Whatever move his friend had tried to win her over, though, the attempt was clearly every bit as much a failure as Maverick's was, and even if Tom hadn't heard a word of what was said, he could have clocked the startled amusement in Kerner's expression from miles away.

For whatever reason, the woman doesn't seem at all interested in the usual routine in places like this, and Tom might've thought she was already attached, but for the fact that he did not see her wearing a ring…

His distraction over that particular discovery had been enough to provoke a frustrated huff from the woman at his side before she moved off in search of someone more willing. And he might have decided to join Slider, to get a better idea of the woman's character for himself, but for the fact that she was already moving away from the bar, causing him to momentarily lose sight of her in the crowd.

By the time he found her again, she was seated at a table on the far side of the room, and there had been absolutely nothing to stop an eyebrow from rising skyward as soon as he saw the familiar figure seated at her side.

"Don't bother, Ice. Don't think she's interested in anything we can offer."

"You get a name?"

"I'm tellin' you, she won't be interested," Slider insists, flagging the bartender down for another shot, one elbow already propped against the bar, "You're lookin' at a lost cause, man."

Tom has nothing to say to that, his attention otherwise occupied as the woman leans forward to place her elbows on the table, and a few loose curls fall over her shoulder as a result. But of course he should have realized Slider would follow the line of his gaze, the sharp laugh his friend gives proving the renewed amusement resting behind his next words.

"Shit. She's here with Viper? Definitely a lost cause."

Tom knows that the reality of the woman's presence beside the Top Gun instructor probably should deter him. Probably. He has no way of knowing her exact relation to the man, and he is hardly the sort to jeopardize a career for a pretty face.

Something about her seeming lack of interest in luring an aviator into her bed is intriguing, though. It would be a lie to say he isn't at least somewhat curious to see what else she might have to offer in place of that, as a result.

Even before 'Iceman' had come to be more of a name than the one he'd been born with, he'd never backed down from a challenge.

And this woman?

She looks like she would be absolutely nothing but the kind of challenge that he might just enjoy.

Downing the remainder of his own drink, he doesn't bother requesting another. Not yet. Because movement from the table he'd been trying to pretend he wasn't observing so closely shows him the woman is going back to the bar with an empty glass in hand.

And he is moving to follow after her, almost without much in the way of conscious thought at all.

"Jesus, Ice, you got a death wish?" Slider demands, fingers tracing idle lines in the condensation on his glass, while his friend simply offers him a trademark smirk in lieu of any actual response.

Honestly, Slider probably should have predicted that, just like he should have seen the way Ice moves easily through the crowd to approach his apparently unsuspecting target coming with little to no effort at all. But even as he watches the woman in question laugh at something Goose is saying, Slider cannot help but mutter a few choice words under his breath, despite knowing that his friend will never hear them.

"Your funeral."

…

"Magnificent."

"That's what she said."

"Your friend was—"

"I don't even want to know," Jo admits, eyes narrowing as Pete returns to them, that familiar cocky smile firmly in place. Mere moments ago, the blonde she'd seen him going after had walked by, and Jo would be lying if she tried to pretend the words said in passing were anything short of a surprise.

The second she catches Pete's eye as he slides into the empty place at the bar on her other side, though, Jo can almost predict that, if she doesn't at least try to stop him now, she really will end up hearing things she could have lived her entire life not knowing.

"Nope. Nope. Don't even go there."

"Aw, c'mon, Jojo. Don't you want to know a little?"

"I'd rather not spend the rest of my night with disturbing images in my head, thank you very much."

"Ouch. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you might be jealous," Pete quips, sending Jo a wink that only earns him a skeptical lift of an eyebrow in response, "You are, aren't you?"

"You wish."

The way Pete almost immediately clasps both hands over his heart, stumbling back a step or two to feign some grievous injury has Jo rolling her eyes in seconds. And even if she tries to ignore it, she would be a fool to pretend one corner of her mouth isn't already twitching up into a grin as she turns to look at Goose with an expression that is nothing short of resigned.

"How do you put up with him all day?"

"Beer helps a lot."

"Nothing that's a little stronger?"

"Well, I didn't want to say it when he's right here," Goose says, clearly making an effort to appear as though he is truly considering the impact his response might have, even if he knows both Jo and Pete can likely see through it easily enough, "Felt like that might be kinda mean."

"Wow. You two are—you're great. I'm so glad I introduced you."

"Maybe you should work harder at winning a two on one fight if you really want to be first in your class," Jo retorts, more pleased than she cares to admit over Goose's ready laugh, as well as the almost stunned expression Pete wears as well, "Just some food for thought."

"She's got you there, Mav. I mean, unless you want your name on a plaque in the ladies' room."

"Wait, what?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Actually, I think I do—"

"The plaque for the alternates is in the ladies' room," Pete mocks, his tone causing Jo to bite her lip to restrain a snort of amusement, her curiosity far too piqued to even consider allowing him to refuse an answer to her next question.

"Who said that?"

"The competition."

Blinking back surprise at the unexpected interjection, Jo momentarily ignores the refilled bourbon now resting beside her on the bar in favor of turning to look the newcomer in the eye. It's difficult, considering he is significantly taller, eyes obscured by the trademark shades all pilots seem to prefer.

Or at least they are, until he reaches up to knock the aviators just a bit farther down the bridge of his nose, and Jo finds herself stunned beneath the weight of a pair of startlingly gray eyes.

"Your friend here have a name, Mitchell?"

Something in the way he asks the question, his gaze never moving despite the fact that he isn't really addressing her at all appears to be enough to push Jo out of her shock, even if it doesn't happen as quickly as she would have liked. And in spite of the small jolt she feels when an attempt at stepping back causes her to bump against the edge of the bar, she is more than a little unwilling to let this guy—whoever he is—retain the upper hand if she can avoid it.

"Actually the friend can speak for herself. And it's Josephine."

"Pretty name, pretty girl."

"But I prefer just Jo."

"Is that so?"

A slight nod is the only form of reply Jo gives, but as soon as she does, she could kick herself for being so foolish. She had intended the gesture to convey agreement, and nothing more. For it to stand as a signal of her own lack of interest in whatever brand of flirting this guy might have in mind.

Just one glance at the pilot's expression as he dispenses with the sunglasses that had been covering a part of his face entirely shows her that her effort has failed, though. Rather than becoming discouraged, he appears to only grow more determined.

The smile he gives her, with teeth flashing in the low lighting of the bar is nothing if not self-assured, and a part of Jo hates the small flutter she feels in her stomach as a step closer on his part gives her ample chance to catch a smell of his cologne.

"Tom Kazansky."

"The um—aforementioned competition."

"Thought I might buy you a drink," The man—Tom—suggests, glancing at the bourbon still waiting on the bar, "Unless you're gonna tell me that's yours."

"I wasn't aware I looked like I needed one."

"Considering the company you're in, I thought I might be doing you a favor."

"I think I'm doing well enough on my own," Jo states, fighting to resist another instinctive pull to step away with all she has, because regardless of her best efforts, she can't quite continue looking at the pilot standing a mere hairsbreadth away from her without feeling every last inch of the flush spreading across her cheeks, "And I certainly wouldn't want to cut in on your date."

"My date."

"Unless that wasn't a woman standing next to you. Honestly, with the lighting in here, it's sometimes hard to tell."

"Maybe I just found someone more interesting."

"Gee, Ice, I never knew you felt that way."

"I wasn't talking about you, Goose."

Jo can't help but laugh at Goose's comment, even with her desire to avoid giving her newfound companion any reason at all to take her response as a sign of interest. Even speaking to a fellow pilot, his attention does not seem to shift at all from her.

Yet again, Jo is momentarily speechless. Stunned. Caught off guard by the intensity of his observation, when she shouldn't be. She had promised herself that she wouldn't be.

Before she can stop it, something not all that far from what might be considered panic flares to life inside her chest, sending a renewed pulse of heat to her face while her heart hammers erratically against her ribs.

"So. How about that drink?"

"Actually, I've already got one."

Swiping the bourbon she honestly should have taken back to her uncle ages ago, Jo finally manages to persuade her frozen limbs to move, but not before turning at the last second to snag a shot glass straight out of Pete's hand. His eyes widen almost comically, but she doesn't even think to comment on that like she might ordinarily have done, before.

Instead, Jo tosses back the amber liquor in the glass, her eyes watering while it burns its way down her throat. Her fingers brush Pete's as she hands the glass back to him, and by some miracle, even with the sudden buzz, she manages to keep her feet, her attention drifting back to the pilot that already seems to have knocked her off-kilter so that she can offer him what she hopes will pass as a somewhat amused smile.

"Have fun with your date, Tom."

If he has any sort of response to that at all, Jo does not hear it, the sound of Pete and Goose's laughter following her as she meanders back to her uncle's table as best she can. All the air seems to have been sucked from the room, and her cheeks are still flaming whether she wants them to be, or not. And even if a part of her knows it is entirely silly to be reacting this way, when it is more than clear Tom was every bit the cocky pilot she knew Slider and Pete to be, Jo cannot help but feel a sudden need to step outside. To regain her footing, because she knows feeling like this for any longer than she already has is a disaster waiting to happen.

"I'm gonna step outside for a bit."

"Everything okay?" Linda asks, concern making its way into her expression as soon as Jo places her husband's bourbon on the table, and withdraws a shaking hand.

"Yeah. I—everything's fine, I just—I'm just a little warm, that's all."

"Somebody givin' you trouble?"

"No, nothing like that. I just—I'll be right back."

When she finally does manage to squeeze through the crowd and step outdoors, Jo practically deflates with relief, leaning back against the exterior of the club while she drags in breath after breath. And she makes a mental note to avoid places like these—places known for attracting naval aviators in particular—in the future as best she can.

Particularly if recent encounters prove she cannot be entirely certain she will remain capable of holding her own.

Pete and Slider were one thing, their almost predictable banter easy to fend off or ignore. But the other pilot—Tom—seemed to be a different scenario altogether. The cockiness was there, sure. And it wasn't exactly a secret that he clearly had no trouble finding women.

He hadn't gone heavy on the innuendo, though. Hadn't done anything more, really, than offer to buy her a drink. But there is still something about the whole thing that warns her to keep her distance. To take the way her stomach had seemed content to perform somersaults when he kept his attention firmly fixed on her as proof she made the right decision in walking away.

A part of her almost dares to wonder if Tom is different, somehow, but Jo shakes herself free of that idea as quickly as she can.

She's certainly seen more than enough proof elsewhere to know the only thing waiting at the end of any of those musings is disappointment.

…

Hello again, darling readers! And welcome to chapter three! Once again, I didn't change much here for those that are familiar with the original posting, but even so, I am still very excited to be able to get this posted, because the idea of smooshing Jo and Ice together as time goes on has me nearly feral. Oops?

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far! I truly do appreciate the support, and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as the last!

Until next time, my loves!

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