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The Hard Deck was humming with its usual chaotic energy—the smell of salt air, cheap beer, and the rhythmic clack of pool balls. It was the kind of noise that usually put Pete "Maverick" Mitchell at ease, but tonight, he sat at the bar with a bottle of Budweiser in hand, feeling like he was watching a slow-motion mid-air collision.

Across the room, near the dartboard, the Dagger Squad was gathered. At the center of the gravitational pull were Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw and Jake "Hangman" Seresin.

They weren't fighting. Not exactly. They were standing entirely too close to one another, chests nearly brushed, squared off in a way that looked like a standoff but felt like a fuse burning down. Rooster was leaning against the wall, a smirk playing under that thick mustache of his, while Hangman hovered over him, a hand braced against the wood just inches from Rooster’s shoulder.

"You’re late on your break, Bradshaw," Hangman’s voice carried over the music, smooth and sharp as a razor. "If you flew as slow as you think, we’d all be home by now."

Rooster didn't flinch. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his brown eyes tracking Hangman’s every movement with a provocative calm. "I’m not slow, Jake. I’m patient. Some people like to rush into things and end up in the weeds. I prefer to wait for the right moment to strike."

Hangman let out a short, barking laugh, his blue eyes flashing. "Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re just scared to take the shot."

"Come over here and find out," Rooster countered, his voice dropping an octave.

Maverick winced, taking a long pull of his beer. Beside him, Phoenix leaned her elbows on the bar, watching the duo with an expression of profound exhaustion.

"Twenty bucks says they’re touching foreheads by the end of the night," she muttered.

"No bet," Payback chimed in from her other side. "I’ve seen this movie before. It’s either a fistfight or a wedding, and I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to buy a suit for."

Maverick felt a cold shiver of déjà vu. He looked at Rooster—the dark blond hair, the aviators tucked into his shirt, the stubborn set of his jaw—and then at Hangman’s cocky, golden-boy grin. It was like looking into a distorted mirror of 1986. The bravado, the lethal talent, the way they seemed to breathe each other's air just to prove they could.

"They’re just competitive," Maverick said, though even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie. "It’s good for them. Keeps them sharp."

Phoenix turned to him, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Mav, with all due respect, if they get any sharper, they’re going to bleed out. Look at them."

Maverick looked. Hangman was currently whispering something into Rooster’s ear that made the younger Bradshaw’s face flush a deep, tell-tale crimson. Rooster didn’t push him away; instead, he grabbed the collar of Hangman’s shirt, pulling him slightly closer under the guise of an intimidation tactic.

"I need to talk to him," Maverick sighed, sliding off his barstool.

"Good luck," Phoenix called after him. "Try not to get caught in the blast radius."

Maverick navigated the crowd, intercepting Rooster as he finally broke away from Hangman to head toward the bar for a refill. Hangman watched him go with a predatory, satisfied grin before turning back to the dartboard.

"Bradley," Maverick said, catching his stepson’s arm.

Rooster blinked, the heat still lingering in his cheeks. "Hey, Mav. Having a good night?"

"We need to talk about the tension," Maverick said, skipping the pleasantries. He led Rooster toward a quieter corner near the back exit. "The way you and Seresin are acting... it’s distracting the team. It’s distracting me."

Rooster rolled his eyes, leaning back against a wooden pillar. "Mav, don't start. He’s an arrogant jerk who thinks the sun rises and sets on his own ego. I’m just giving him a reality check."

"It doesn't look like a reality check," Maverick countered, crossing his arms. "It looks like a courtship. The staring, the constant bickering, the way you two can’t stay out of each other's personal space—it’s dangerous, Bradley. In the air, that kind of energy can get someone killed."

Rooster laughed, though it sounded a bit forced. "You’re overthinking it. It’s just rivalry. He pushes my buttons, I push back. It’s what we do."

"I know that look," Maverick said, his voice softening, becoming more fatherly than commander. "I spent half my career looking at a man the same way you’re looking at Hangman. I know exactly what’s happening, and I’m telling you, you need to be honest with yourself before you do something stupid at thirty thousand feet."

Rooster’s smile faded. He looked down at his boots, the blush returning. "It’s not like that. He’s... he’s Hangman. He’s annoying, and he’s loud, and he’s the best pilot I’ve ever seen besides you." He paused, his voice dropping. "And he doesn't know when to shut up."

"And you love that about him," Maverick pointed out.

"I don't love anything about him," Rooster snapped, though there was no bite in it. "I’m fine, Mav. Really. Just let us handle it."

Maverick watched him walk away, feeling entirely unconvinced. He turned his gaze toward the pool table, where Hangman was now leaning over the green felt, lining up a shot. Maverick approached him from the side.

"Seresin."

Hangman didn't lose his focus. He struck the cue ball, sending the eight-ball straight into the corner pocket. He stood up, chalking his cue with a flourish. "Pops. Come to tell me how great my low-level flight was today? I already know, but I never tire of hearing it."

"I’ve come to tell you to dial it back," Maverick said. "With Rooster."

Hangman’s grin widened, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "What’s the matter? Worried I’m going to hurt his feelings? I thought you wanted us to be a team."

"I want you to be a team, not a soap opera," Maverick said firmly. "Everyone sees it, Jake. The way you look at him when you think no one’s watching. The way you provoke him just to get a reaction."

Hangman leaned against the pool table, his posture radiating a feigned nonchalance. "It’s a game, Maverick. I poke the bear, the bear growls. It’s entertaining. Keeps the blood pumping."

"Is that all it is?" Maverick stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Because if you’re just playing with him, I’m telling you now to stop. He’s been through enough. But if you actually feel something... then stop the games and tell him. Because this 'rivalry' is going to end with one of you in the dirt if you don't figure it out."

Hangman’s mask slipped for a fraction of a second. His grip on the pool cue tightened, and for a moment, the cocky pilot was replaced by a man who looked terrifyingly unsure of himself. Then, the grin was back, brighter and more brittle than before.

"Don't worry about us, Mav," Hangman said, patting Maverick on the shoulder as he walked past. "We’re professionals. Mostly."

Maverick stood by the pool table, watching Hangman head straight back toward Rooster. He saw the way Rooster’s shoulders squared as Hangman approached, the way their eyes locked instantly, disregarding everyone else in the room.

It was a mirror image of the past. Maverick remembered the locker rooms, the sweaty tension, the way he and Iceman had circled each other like two stars destined to collide. He remembered the heat of the anger and how easily it had curdled into something else—something deeper, something that had defined his life for thirty years.

He walked back to the bar and sat down next to Penny. She slid a fresh beer toward him without being asked.

"Did you fix the world?" she asked softly.

"I think I just realized I’m watching history repeat itself," Maverick replied, rubbing his face with his hands. "They’re going to be the death of me."

"Or the making of each other," Penny said, glancing over at the two pilots.

At that moment, the jukebox changed songs, a slow, heavy rock beat filling the room. Hangman said something that made Rooster bark out a genuine laugh—not the mocking one, but a real, chest-deep sound. Rooster reached out and shoved Hangman’s shoulder, and Hangman caught his hand, holding it for just a second too long to be a joke.

"They're idiots," Maverick muttered, though a small, reluctant smile touched his lips.

"They're pilots," Penny corrected. "There's a difference?"

Maverick watched as Rooster and Hangman moved toward the door, still bickering, still vibrating with that restless, electric energy. They disappeared into the cool night air of the patio, away from the prying eyes of the squadron.

Out on the deck, the sound of the waves muffled the noise of the bar. Rooster leaned against the railing, looking out at the dark Pacific. Hangman stood beside him, the bravado finally beginning to flake away in the moonlight.

"Mav thinks we’re a distraction," Rooster said, his voice quiet.

"Mav thinks too much," Hangman replied, though he didn't move away. "But he’s not wrong about the distraction part. You’re a massive pain in my ass, Bradshaw."

Rooster turned his head, looking at Hangman’s profile. "You started it. You’ve been starting it since the day we met."

Hangman finally turned to face him. The cocky smirk was gone. In its place was something raw and dangerously honest. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d keep up."

"I’m right here," Rooster said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I’ve always been right here."

Hangman moved then, closing the small gap between them until their leather jackets creaked against each other. He reached up, his thumb brushing the edge of Rooster’s mustache. "Good. Because I’m tired of chasing you."

Rooster didn't pull away. He didn't make a joke. He simply reached up, grabbing the front of Hangman’s shirt and pulling him down.

The kiss was like their flying—fast, aggressive, and entirely lacking in caution. It was a collision of teeth and heat, a release of months of built-up friction that had finally reached its flashpoint. Hangman groaned into the kiss, his hands finding purchase in Rooster’s hair, pulling him closer as if trying to merge their very shadows.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, the cool night air stinging their lungs.

"So," Hangman whispered, his forehead resting against Rooster’s. "Does this mean I have to be nice to you in the briefings?"

Rooster let out a shaky breath, a slow, provocative smirk returning to his lips. "Don't you dare. I fly better when I’m trying to prove you wrong."

Hangman laughed, low and dark. "Challenge accepted, Rooster."

Inside the bar, Maverick watched through the window for a moment before turning back to his drink. He felt a strange mix of anxiety and peace. It was going to be a long deployment, and the paperwork for whatever those two were about to become was going to be a nightmare.

But as he looked at the empty space where they had stood, he knew one thing for sure.

The Daggers were going to be just fine. They were finally flying in formation.