Work Text:
“And here,” Maverick said, tapping the chalkboard with the edge of a dry-erase marker, “Fanboy, you banked too wide. You had enough speed to hold the line tighter through the turn, but instead you let Hangman slip in. Gave him the angle.”
Fanboy, sprawled halfway off a plastic chair in the back of the ready room, raised his hands. “In my defense, sir, Hangman’s ego created a gravitational pull. I got caught in the orbit.”
Rooster snorted. Phoenix choked on her gum.
Hangman, of course, leaned back with his arms crossed and a smirk as wide as the runway. “You’re just mad I made it look good.”
Maverick sighed.
It had been a long morning—brutal training runs, half of them sweating out tequila from the night before, and a debrief that felt like herding overconfident toddlers. He turned back to the board, sketching out the correction with brisk lines.
“Speed and control matter more than flash,” he said. “Especially when you’re pulling maneuvers this tight. Doesn’t matter how good it looks if you miss the shot.”
Behind him, there was rustling—chairs squeaking, feet shifting, paper being folded. Nothing unusual.
Then came Hangman’s voice, slick as oil. “Hey, Mav. Can I try something?”
Maverick froze, one hand still halfway raised toward the board.
That tone was never good.
He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. Hangman was already halfway out of his chair, hands in his pockets, wearing the expression of a kid about to ask if he could set something on fire “just for fun.”
“Try what , Seresin?” Maverick asked cautiously.
Rooster was already chuckling, head down, like he knew exactly what was coming.
Hangman took a step forward. “Rooster and I have a bet.”
“Oh, that already sounds like a threat to national security,” Maverick muttered.
Rooster raised a hand. “I said he couldn’t do it. Jake said he could.”
“Do what , exactly?” Maverick asked, already backpedaling half a step.
Hangman moved faster.
Before Maverick could get another word out, he was scooped off the ground in one clean motion—arms wrapped around his back and under his knees, chest pressed against Hangman’s as the man bridal-carried him like they were halfway down a wedding aisle.
The entire room erupted .
Phoenix let out an actual shriek. Bob dropped the folder in his lap. Fanboy nearly fell off his chair.
Maverick, meanwhile, flailed one arm and made a noise he would never admit to.
“ WHAT the hell— Hangman! Put me the fuck down!”
“Nope,” Hangman said cheerfully. “Twenty bucks, Rooster.”
Rooster stood up, casually pulled a crumpled bill from his pocket, and tossed it on the table like he was tipping a bartender. “I hate that I doubted you.”
“I hate all of you ,” Maverick snapped, trying to squirm. But Hangman’s grip was solid—clearly practiced. Like he did this kind of thing regularly. Maybe he did . The man was built like a marble statue and annoying enough to believe he could get away with it.
Phoenix leaned forward with wide eyes. “Wait, wait, I need a picture of this.”
“No pictures!” Maverick barked.
“Too late,” Fanboy said, already holding up his phone.
“Jesus Christ—” Maverick kicked lightly at Hangman’s thigh, but the man didn’t budge. “This is hazing .”
“This is science, ” Hangman replied. “Rooster said you were too twitchy to get caught off guard. I said you were too light to not try. Frankly, this is a public service.”
“I’m your instructor , Seresin!”
“And I’m your number one fan , Mitchell,” Hangman grinned. “Besides, if you don’t want us to pick you up like a stray cat, maybe stop being so portable.”
“I’m five-foot-seven and nineteen pounds of rage , put me down!”
Hangman bounced him once. Just once.
It was humiliating.
Phoenix looked like she was physically restraining herself from clapping.
Rooster, leaning on the table now, raised a brow. “You look comfy up there, Mav.”
“I will make your next flight hell , Bradshaw.”
“I already assumed you would,” Rooster said with a smile.
Bob spoke up, quiet but honest: “Sir, you’re… uh. Surprisingly aerodynamic.”
Maverick dropped his head into his hands. “I’m putting all of you on KP duty for a month. ”
Hangman finally set him down, carefully, like he was something fragile. Maverick adjusted his jacket and shot the whole squad a death glare.
“Laugh it up. See how funny it is when I reassign all of your simulator slots to the middle of the night.”
There was a collective groan. Payback actually leaned back and whispered, “Not the 0200s…”
Maverick turned on his heel and stalked out the door. He paused at the threshold, then looked over his shoulder.
“You’re all lucky Ice isn’t here to see this,” he said darkly. “You’d be scrubbing carrier decks with a toothbrush.”
Then he was gone.
⸻
Five minutes later…
Hangman was still grinning when Cyclone walked into the ready room, half a stack of reports under his arm.
He paused.
Looked at the chalkboard.
Then at Rooster.
Then at the twenty-dollar bill still sitting on the desk.
Then at the group, which had definitely not stopped laughing quickly enough.
“I don’t want to know,” Cyclone said flatly. “Whatever it was, if it ends up in the incident report, I will murder each and every one of you in alphabetical order.”
“Understood, sir,” Phoenix said, saluting with a barely contained smirk.
Cyclone walked out.
⸻
Later that night…
Maverick finally answered his phone after three texts from Ice.
ICEMAN : Heard about the Hangman incident.
MAVERICK : How??
ICEMAN : Rooster sent me the photo.
MAVERICK : Traitor.
ICEMAN : You do look light.
MAVERICK : Et tu, Kazansky?
ICEMAN : If you weren’t in California, I’d test it myself.
MAVERICK : Do not threaten me with a good time.
ICEMAN : Tell Hangman if he touches you again, I’ll put him through a wall.
Maverick smiled and turned off his phone. For now.
But the next morning, Rooster walked into the hangar to find his locker rigged to dump shaving cream and glitter the second he opened it.
Retribution came fast in Top Gun.