𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

↳ 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
'you shake my nerves,
and you rattle my brain'

━━ 𓄼 𓄹 ━━

FIGHTERTOWN
Miramar, California

𝐈𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 to admit, but she had missed California.

The sweep of the surf was heavier here, crisp and unhindered by humidity. Basil had even more energy than usual. For the entire time they moved cardboard boxes and plastic bins into the storage locker, he had run around the nearby park with Amari.  The distant barking and peals of laughter drifted through the afternoon light.

"This is a shit ton of work for a temporary assignment," Max had huffed as he set down another box.  

He had driven his car an hour south just to come help her move. The bulk of her long-term things would be staying in the storage locker until she received a more permanent housing assignment. Her small apartment in Coronado was already scattered with the bare minimum of what she would need for her time at Top Gun.

She peered up at him through the sweaty curls of her hair. The secondary question was evident in his tone. Was this temporary?

"Maybe I'll end up stationed in California again." The words felt awkward on her tongue, but she still managed to say them.  Maybe we only get limited second chances in this life, Max.  Maybe I used up all of mine already.

The second part remained unsaid.

The night before her assignment would officially begin, Cam's yellow pickup truck rolled to a stop in the sand-dusted parking lot of the Hard Deck. The beach front bar sat amidst a handful of palm trees with a neon sign already blinking bright.

The ignition clunked off. Pressing her hands to her forehead, she leaned back against the headrest. It was almost tradition to come to this bar. It would be sacrilegious to throw her truck in reverse and leave now.

Three more seconds of peace and she opened the door.

Bowie's processed voice echoed as she stepped through the threshold.  Fritz was already waiting for her, sitting at the bar talking with a gray-haired Navy vet. When he saw Cam, he excused himself from the conversation and waved her over.

Fritz handed her a glass. "You're late."

She gave a laugh of disbelief and took a sip. "How do you even remember what my order is?"

"You order the same goddamn thing every time."

"True," she said, letting the bite of whiskey coat her senses.  It felt good to be known.

With their drinks fresh from the bar, Cam and Fritz staked out their spot in the far corner with the billiards table. They used to play doubles for drinks with Kit and whoever they managed to con into a round with them. But that was a different bar, a different city. The times she had come to the Hard Deck, it was just her and Kit.

It came in flashes. Cam could still see Kit leaning on the bar, back during their time at Top Gun. Always going out of her way to hold a decent conversation with whoever was tending before the rowdy crowd seeped in. Dirty blond hair tied back in two neat dutch braids and a wild grin. The engagement ring on her left hand glittering like a star.

A reminder of Kit's fiancé, perhaps the one man who would never forgive Cameron Mejia for what she had done.

The chairs spaced intermittently against the shiplap walls weren't empty. Another Navy pilot sat in one of them, a guy with blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked vaguely bored.  The expression of someone who had arrived at a party too early.

"Hey," Cam said amiably. Try as she might, the tone came out forced.  "You're Bob, right?"

He pushed his glasses further up his nose and nodded. He reminded her of her brother Gabe, humble and reserved. "That's me."

"Berlin," she introduced. "Do you wanna join?" She gestured to where Fritz was carefully selecting his cue. They could switch the game to cutthroat and make room for a third player, she knew Fritz wouldn't mind.

"I think I'll just watch for now."

She let it go. Besides, beating Fritz never failed to raise her spirits.

They moved to the table and away from where Bob was sitting. Immediately, Fritz asked, "Do you know him?"

"Not personally, no."

"How'd you know his name?"

"I managed to get the list of recruits out of Mendez before I left Whiting Field. He was so glad to get rid of me, he might have even given me a helicopter ride to Disney World if I asked nicely."

Cam had passed all of her flight tests with flying colors. Mendez had been more than happy to sign her transfer paperwork, a little too enthused to be rid of his biggest liability.

Fritz snorted. "You couldn't have been that bad."

"I wasn't very nice," she admitted. That was the kind way of putting it. The words abrasive, difficult to work with, and prone to strong changes in mood had also been used. Therapy had helped, but all of her patience had died with Nikita.

"Hate to break it to to you, but you've never been nice.  You wanna go first?"

She held out a gracious hand. "Please, be my guest. You need all the help you can get."

The noise of the bar was beginning to rise as more people got off of shifts. She was aware of all of it, spine prickling with annoyance as someone cycled through songs on the jukebox without letting them play all the way through.

Sure enough, Fritz's first shot ended without a single ball in a pocket. He caught her eyes and shook out his arms. "I'm warming up. Don't worry, I'll knock you on your ass in due time."

She lined up a shot and got the red seven ball in. "Solids," she announced and then proceeded to miss the next one on purpose. The faster this game ended, the faster she would be without a distraction in her hands. 

"So if you saw the list, you must know what kind of competition we have on our hands. Any specific issues in our future?"

Cam glanced over her shoulder, dismayed to see that her luck wouldn't hold. Her teeth grated. "Issues is a good word."

Jake Seresin. Immaculate blond hair, lips twisted in a permanent smirk, and a face that was just asking to be slapped. Beer in hand, he stopped right in front of the table with his friend trailing close.

"Well who do we have here?" he drawled.

"Hangman," Fritz greeted. He looked Jake up and down, lip curled in disapproval. "God, time has not been kind to you."

"Fritz. Not a good night for you, I take it?" he said, glancing at the table.

"It was great until about five seconds ago," Cam interrupted as she adjusted her body to take her turn. "You tend to have that effect."

In her periphery, Jake turned as if he hadn't seen her standing there. Condescending to the very last. "Take out any cargo containers lately, Berlin?"

She hit the cue ball with perfect accuracy, sinking two more into balls opposite corner pockets. Without glancing up, she said, "You're in a mood. Get turned down by another girl?"

If she hadn't been watching closely, she never would have seen his grin falter.  Lucky guess.

She had heard the stories from other people, mostly from Natasha Trace who had flown with Jake Seresin in the same Top Gun class. They were all stationed in Lemoore at one time or another, but Cam rarely enjoyed the specific pleasure of interacting directly with Hangman. Always hangs his wingman out to dry, she recalled.

Cam stood up straight so Fritz could take his turn. "Tell me something, Hangman. Does your ass ever get jealous of the shit that comes out of your mouth?"

The man next to him snorted into his drink.

Leaning on the cue, she turned to him. His name was Javy Machado, but he had no reason to think she knew that. "Who are you?"

He gave her a wicked grin. "Coyote."

She tilted her head back to the table. "Coyote. Pretty badass callsign for someone who's fly is unzipped."

He looked down at his pants and quickly fixed the issue.

"I'm gonna go get a refill," Hangman nodded, maintaining his bravado.

Cam grinned, satisfied. "You do that."

Fritz let out a low whistle. "Ladies and gentlemen, Berlin is back and she's taking no prisoners."

Now that they were gone, she allowed her expression to fall. "Jesus, I can't stand him."

"Look on the brightside, if he's on the roster, it can't get any worse." Fritz took another shot and missed his mark by an inch. "Fuck this."

It could get worse. It was going to become a great deal worse.  On the list she had pried out of Mendez's hands, Bradley Bradshaw was sitting right below Billy Avalone's name. Cam had successfully purged her life of him since he had decided that taking the high road won out over any friendship they had ever had. There had been glimpses, but the last time they had a conversation was almost ten years ago.

Why they had picked him for this detachment, she couldn't imagine.

"And you really can't get any worse at eight-ball. I would've thought I taught you to at least be a little better at this," she mused, downing another sip of her drink. 

"What can I say, my teacher was shitty."

"It's the student, not the teacher," she reminded him, setting the drink back down on a nearby table. "You just couldn't pick up any of my tricks."

"I'm a disappointment to my country."

The bell clanged up at the bar and a cheer went up, drinks raised to the sky. Cam remembered immediately what it meant. Free round on the poor son of a bitch who had crossed Penny Benjamin. For a moment, she fell back into the familiarity of this place. Here she was another regular, a Navy pilot and nothing more. A smile tugged at her lips, threatening to give her away. It was a strange relief to be back here after all this time.

In her periphery, someone's hand snatched her drink off the table. She whipped her head around. "Excuse me–?"

Natasha Trace held up the glass, brown eyes alight. "What are you drinking, Berlin?"

Cameron's face relaxed into a genuine smile. "Whiskey soda."

She drank the rest down in one. "Good choice."

"Phoenix!" Fritz said, far more enthusiastic than he had been when greeting Hangman. "What's with the back up dancers?"

Natasha glanced over her shoulder. The taller guy of the two grinned easily, dark mustache shifting.  Reuben Fitch.  "Payback," he introduced.

"I'm Fanboy," the other one nodded, much less open. It took a second, but she recalled his name too.  Mickey Garcia.  He kept his shoulders squared, expression closed off.  Another duo team.

"Can we have the next round?" Natasha asked.

"'Course," Cam said. "Just let me put Fritz out of his misery."

"Oh come on," Fritz lamented, lanky body folded over the table.

Unfortunately, the steady rhythm of the conversation was interrupted by Hangman swooping back over to check out the situation.

"If it ain't Phoenix! And here I thought we were special, Coyote." He glanced pointedly at Cam and Fritz. "Turns out, the invite went to anyone."

Suddenly, their secluded corner was more than a little crowded. It was clear that whoever was in charge of recruiting for their detachment had talent at the top of their criteria list. However, the personalities that were about to clash were going to outweigh any level of skill.

Phoenix sucked in a sharp breath. "Fellas, this here is Bagman."

"Hangman."

A pithy "Whatever," was her only response to the comment. "You're lookin' at the only Naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill," she told them.

"Stop," Hangman smiled, positively bursting at the praise.

"Let's not forget the whole story," Cam said.  The smile drained from his face like a punctured balloon. "The other guy was in a museum piece from the Korean War."

"Cold War," Coyote clarified.

Wonderful, Cam thought. Another idiot follows in the wake of Hangman's charm.

"Different wars, same century," Payback said, unimpressed. "Not this one."

Fritz let out a low whistle. "Gee, Hangman. There's an old guy up at the bar if you want to take him out back and hit him with my truck."

Fanboy finally cracked a smile.

"Who are your friends?" Coyote said to Phoenix, desperate to distract the conversation.

"Payback."

"Fanboy."

"Hey Coyote," Phoenix nodded.  Her gaze turned to Bob, still sitting at the high top looking out of place.  "Who's he?"

"Who's who?" Coyote said, unsurprisingly oblivious.

"Him," Cam cocked her head towards Bob.  A surge of defense rose for the poor guy. "He's been here the whole time."

"Man's a stealth pilot," Hangman maintained, leaning on the billiard table. Cam had the sudden urge to shove him off.

"No, weapon's system officer," Bob clarified, brushing the remains of crumbs off his tan uniform pants.

Coyote snorted as Hangman said, "With no sense of humor."  With that, Hangman and Coyote headed back in the direction of the bar.

"Those two are like a pair of vultures." Fritz shook his head. "They just can't stay away."

"He needs the attention," Cam said, turning back to the game. She brushed her curly ponytail back over her shoulder.  As she leaned in, she could smell the remnants of an old beer spill on the green felt.  "It's the only validation he has."

There was a back and forth between Phoenix and Bob, establishing that yes, his callsign is Bob and yes, he would be flying as Phoenix's new WSO. Cam drowned out the rest of the conversation and focused on the table.

It was down to two more of Fritz's stripes and the eight ball.

"Where's the shot going, Cammy Cam?" Fritz goaded. If he wasn't going to win on skill, he sure could succeed in the annoyance category.

"Corner pocket."

And she would have got it in too, an easy shot for an easy win of the game. But her hand slipped, concentration breaking at Natasha's voice calling out, "Bradshaw! Is that you?"

The eight ball bounced off the rim of the table with a hollow crack.

Fritz gave a loud whoop of laughter. "Yes!"

Cam didn't dare look away from the table. "That doesn't mean you won."

"It means I have a fighting chance."

The conversation was closer now. "Is this how I find out you're stateside?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah, I just thought I'd surprise you," Bradley told her.

Cam hated the electric bolt of shock that ran through her at the sound of his deep voice. The easy sound of it–something she hadn't realized she even missed. She heard it in her mind only sometimes now, usually on the good days when the memories glowed gold instead of gray.

Fritz missed his shot again, and Cam tried to displace the sound of Bradley with her own laugh. "Are you trying to lose this game? I'm not giving you any more chances."

"Phoenix, please help me out here," Fritz demanded, unknowingly doing exactly what Cam didn't want him to. Now, the attention of everyone in their corner of the bar was drawn to them.  The light buzzing above the pool table suddenly felt like a spotlight on a stage.

"Help? I hope you didn't put money on this," Phoenix laughed. "Never bet against Cameron."

At the sound of the name, Bradley let out a stunned half-cough. "Cameron?"

Finally, Cam picked her head up and looked at him.

She hadn't seen him in so long, it made sense that he had changed. The mustache was certainly new. He had grown into his height even more, muscular chest visible underneath the ridiculous white shirt and tropical-print button down he was sporting. Everyone else was in their khaki uniform, yet he had the confidence to roll up to the bar like he was on vacation.

Bradley looked at her like a deer caught in headlights.  She stepped closer to him, keeping her jaw set.  "You're blocking my shot."

The air stilled, side conversations dropping around the table. This wasn't a joking comment between friends. There were teeth behind the words.

He stepped to the side, still looking at her with his lips parted. Even she had to admit that silence looked good on him.  "What the hell are you doing here?" he had the nerve to ask.

When she pulled the cue back, she made sure it hit him square in the gut. He doubled over with a low wheeze and the eight ball sailed right into the pocket.

She straightened, unable to even muster a smile. No energy left to taunt Fritz for a win that was rightfully hers. "You know damn well why I'm here. Don't say it like you're surprised."

Bradley was still searching for words. "I'm not surprised, I just–"

Not wanting another word of his bullshit, she leaned to the side and loudly called out, "Phoenix! Table's yours."

"Finally," the woman said, gleefully taking the cue out of Cam's hand.

"Bradshaw!" Hangman sang. "As I live and breathe."

Cam didn't wait around to hear another word. Fritz followed her back up to the bar, also not too interested to hear Hangman try once again to assert dominance. No doubt, he would be itching for team lead. Whatever this detachment was for, she would rather go rot in a Floridian swamp than follow Hangman anywhere.

"What was that all about?" Fritz laughed, taking a seat at one of the barstools with a drink still in hand.

"Old grudge," Cam muttered.

"Looked pretty fresh to me."

"Some things never die."

It was becoming overwhelming to be here. She could feel her anxiety raise, heart rate beginning to hammer below the golden wings pinned to her chest. If Basil were here, the dog would have already tried to drag her outside towards the peace of the ocean sand.

"Another drink?" Fritz asked, already holding up a hand to signal Penny. "You look like you could use one."

"I think I might head out," she told him.

He frowned. "It's still early."

She hoped her expression would be enough. The last thing she needed was questions. "Never too early to leave a bar, Fritz."

To her great relief, he gave a curt nod of understanding. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

The jukebox cut out. Abruptly, she turned her head to the side as the first notes of the old piano rang out through the bar. Bradley was at the keys, no doubt.

Cam took the opportunity to slip outside unnoticed.

Only when her shoes hit the sand did she allow her posture to droop. It was all a performance, it had been for the last year. Keep up the facade, never let a scrap of weakness shine through. It was a deadly combination to have so many memories clash together in the same place. Bradley Bradshaw standing in front of her in a bar that Nikita Kasper had once frequented. Too many old ghosts in the same place.

Una noche maldita. A cursed night that did not bode well for the remainder of her time at Top Gun.

She sat out on one of the adirondack chairs that lined the beach, half-listening to the sound of the bell at the bar ringing and another chorus of shouts. The notifications on her phone were few. Two texts from Max, both of them pictures of Joanna at her latest soccer tournament, and then a text from her dad asking if she was going to come visit.

The sound of the piano drew her attention back to the open windows.

"You shake my nerves, and you rattle my brain–"

The memories floated back, sweet as the summer breeze off the ocean. That same song in a small town dive bar that Max had managed to sneak Bradley and Cam into. Hazy smoke in the air, laughing so hard she couldn't breathe and leaning on the piano bench while Bradley played the same song when they were seventeen. An emotional attachment that never died and ever the crowd pleaser. She maintained that the true reason he had learned to play piano was to play that song.

"Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!"

It made her sick to her stomach. This game they had played since they were eighteen would be easier if the memories they had shared were terrible. 

There was another person out wandering in the sand. At first she figured he was drunk, but his footsteps were too purposeful. A middle-aged man in a beat-up leather jacket.

Standing in front of him now, Cam glanced at the patch on the chest of his jacket just to make sure. "Captain Mitchell?"

He didn't recognize her at first. One glance at the badge on her shirt that read MEJIA and he was slightly taken aback. "Cameron Mejia. Haven't seen you in a while."

"Likewise." She looked over his shoulder. Through the window, she could clearly see Bradley at the piano bench, aviator sunglasses on as he hammered the keys. Cam knew well that she wasn't the only one who had barely spoken to Bradley Bradshaw in the last decade. "Hiding from someone?"

"Got booted for an empty wallet."

"The old cell phone on the bar." Fitting that he would have been the poor son of a bitch. "I always forget about that."

"You're lucky you didn't forget in front of Penny," he told her, playing it off with a laugh. "Going back inside?"

"No, I don't think so," she said, voice hard as stone. Her eyes cut back to see Phoenix laughing and singing with Fritz. There used to be a place for Cam there, too. "I think I've had enough for the night."

"Ah, that's too bad. Care to take a walk?"

This was still the same man who had jump started a truck with his motorcycle out in the California desert. The guy who had coached Cam through her first flight hours in a Cessna after her dad insisted she was going to give him an ataque al corazón with her impulse in the air.  Back then, any spare time Maverick had when he was stationed in California was spent with Bradley.  Not much, but still significant.

An old family friend, it was still difficult to see him only as a superior.

Cam walked with one thumb hooked through a belt loop.  Waves crashed, turning a hazy purple in the evening light.  "I thought you were still flying as a test pilot. Why are you at North Island?"

"Same reason you're here."

She started to laugh, but then stopped. "You aren't serious." Mendez's list had neglected to reveal the instructor of this whole ordeal.

He placed a hand on the chest of his beat up jacket, right over his heart. "I'd never joke about something so important."

"That is a bullshit lie," Cam laughed, looking out towards the ocean. The words spilled forth before she could stop them. "I hope they gave you more of a choice than they gave me."

His expression fell. "I heard about your squadron, glanced at your file when I was going through things the other night. Were you close with the one that died? Nikita Kasper?"

"I was flying as her wingman," Cam said, keeping her expression neutral.  The ocean waves thrummed in time with her heart. She was my closest friend. The closest thing I've ever had to a sister. I'm the reason she's dead.

"Ah," he said slowly. It struck her, suddenly, that she was finally telling this story to the one person who might understand.  In his situation, it was his wingman that had been lost.  Neither of them elaborated on it.

"But I'm here now," Cam settled, taking a breath of ocean air to clear her thoughts.

He finally bit the bullet. "How's Rooster?"

"No idea.  Still haven't talked to him more than twice in the last ten years." Maverick's unshakable confidence fractured.  Clearly, he was hoping for a miracle.  She tried to keep the conversation afloat. "I don't know him as Rooster, anyway. He's still two-by-four to me."

His original call sign, more of a nickname that he received when he was trying to get his private pilot license. Of course, no one in the Navy would know that.

Maverick gave a little laugh, reminiscing. "Two-by-four, stiff as a board in the cockpit. I never could get him to loosen up.  He always had to follow every rule in the book."  A beat of silence, and then, "God, I miss him."

Nearly a whisper, Cam said, "Me too."

And even though Rooster was mere meters away from both of them, it might as well have been miles. The uncrossable gap, returned yet again.

━━ 𓄼 𓄹 ━━

a/n ooo dramaaa

in the coming chapters you'll see more lil 'flashes' back to cam and bradley's time growing up with each other.  the dynamic between the central pilots and maverick is prob the most fun part to write so I'm very excited hehe.  this whole 'introduction' chapter was a bit of a fight to transfer into writing because everyone has two 'names' that I'll be using more interchangeably than they do in the movie.  I hope it wasn't confusing!! 🤠

hangman kind of hints at the story behind cam's call sign, but it does indeed involve two cargo containers getting demolished like the berlin wall by a certain pilot in a training plane ✨

more basil content soon!! 🐕
--nat