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Cyclone watched the celebration on the flight deck, clinging to the rail in front of him.
The bastard had done it. Somehow, again, despite his best efforts, Captain Pete “Maverick” Fucking Mitchell refused to die.
It was infuriating, and a fucking relief.
Ice had been right, when he’d forced Cyclone to bring Maverick in for this mission. No one else would have succeeded. They didn’t lose a single pilot.
One F-18 during training to a damn birdstrike and two shot down in enemy territory, but trust fucking Maverick to find a god damn museum piece and actually fly the thing and shoot down fifth generation fighters.
He wasn’t sure if he hated Maverick, or if the tightness in his gut was something else.
He locked eyes with Maverick where the man stood, surrounded by sailors, and Maverick saluted him.
Cyclone nodded back at him.
He shared a look with Warlock and turned on his heel.
“Make sure Captain Mitchell and Lieutenant Bradshaw get seen by medical,” Cyclone said to one of the enlisted men as he walked back into the bridge. “And tell Captain Mitchell to come see me after medical clears him.”
“Yes, sir, Admiral Simpson,” the enlisted said.
He went to the small private quarters that had been assigned to him for the duration of this mission and sat on the edge of the bunk, head in hands. He was exhausted. Mentally and physically drained, and he knew he was probably only half as tired as Mitchell and Bradshaw and the rest of the Daggers.
The last two weeks had been hell. Between the mission, being forced to bring Maverick back to Top Gun on the orders of Admiral Kazansky, Admiral Kazansky dying, and just dealing with the rogue that was Mitchell, he wanted a vacation. A long one.
He didn’t quite know what to think of Maverick, if he was honest. The man was a damn good pilot, no doubt about that. They had never actually met before this mission; they had never been stationed at the same bases at the same time, and had been with different squadrons, and had never been deployed on the same sortie. And of course, as a three star, Beau rarely got to handle a stick anymore.
Maybe there was a part of him that was jealous of the fact that Mitchell was still a captain, that he still got to fly.
And holy shit, could the man fly.
Intellectually, of course, he’d known that. Of course Captain Mitchell could fly. He was a graduate of the Navy Fighter Weapons School. He was the first Ace since 1972, and had done in it a stolen enemy Tomcat.
He had been enraged after Mitchell had stolen that fighter jet and flown the pattern, but god damn, it had been amazing to watch.
Cyclone was grateful that the pilots and Warlock had been so distracted by Maverick’s insane flight that they hadn’t realized he was half hard. That had been the first time he realized he had a problem.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch that smile off Maverick’s face, or taste it.
If he had gone home that night and whispered Maverick’s name into his pillow as he came into his fist, well, no one needed to know that.
He had no idea how long he sat there, cradling his head in his hands, elbows digging into his thighs, thoughts spiraling out of control, when a brisk knock at the door jerked him upright.
Beau was not surprised when the door opened before he could say anything and Pete Mitchell walked in, hair crusty from sweat, still in his flight suit. He shut the door behind him and stood there.
“You wanted to see me, Admiral?”
Beau swallowed and got to his feet, eyes running over the other pilot. He looked…tired. No surprise, given what he’d been through. There would be a debrief, he knew, and they would get all the information they could from both Mitchell and Bradshaw about what had happened after their fighters went down.
“Medical cleared you?”
“Yes, sir. Some bruises and minor lacerations, spinal compression from the ejection, but otherwise I’m good. Bradshaw was cleared as well.”
“Good, that’s good.”
What the fuck was he doing? Mitchell didn’t want to be here. He probably wanted to take a shower and crash for 14 hours, not be standing in the tiny, private quarters of an admiral that he didn’t even like.
They stared at each other. Mitchell tilted his head, looking at Beau with a slight frown. Cyclone knew he was acting weird, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“What the hell were you thinking?” It was ragged, rough, dragged from Beau’s throat.
“I did what I had to do to finish the mission, sir.”
“I know that,” Beau snapped.
Mitchell arched an eyebrow. It was that look that drove Beau right over the edge.
He wasn’t sure how he had gotten across the room. He didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember pushing Maverick against the bulkhead, fisting a handful of that short, sweaty hair to angle the shorter man’s head just right, and he certainly didn’t remember crushing his lips against Maverick’s in an angry, desperate kiss.
But that was what he was doing.
At best, he expected Maverick to swing at him, push him away, tell him he was going to report him. This stupid, fucking lapse of judgement was going to cost him everything.
He did not expect the hungry noise that Maverick made, or the hand grabbing his waist and pulling him closer.
He certainly didn’t expect Maverick’s mouth to open, the kiss moving from a desperate crush of lips to something deeper, needier.
One hand was braced on the bulkhead, the other cradled Maverick’s jaw, tilting his head. Maverick’s hands were on his waist, fingers hooked through the beltloops of his khakis.
“Admiral…”
“Don’t,” Beau hissed into Maverick’s mouth, “don’t call me that.”
Mentally, Beau decided right then and there that he would only call the man ‘Maverick’ in his mind during…whatever they were going to do. He couldn’t let him get that close. He couldn’t call him…Pete.
“Cyclone,” Maverick said after a moment. Beau swallowed his call sign from Maverick’s lips, their tongues sliding against each other. Beau’s hand slid from Maverick’s jaw, down his neck—he could feel his pulse hammering away—to his chest. His fingers rested over the zipper.
They could still back out of this. Pretend this kiss had never happened, go their separate ways and pray they never saw each other again.
He could stop this. He was a three star admiral, for fuck’s sake. He should absolutely not be thinking about unzipping a captain’s flight suit, he should not be thinking about how his skin would taste.
Maverick bit his lower lip and Beau yanked the zipper of the flight suit down, revealing the sweat stained undershirt.
They weren’t going to stop, were they?
Judging by the way Maverick’s deft fingers were undoing Beau’s uniform shirt, no, no they were not.
Beau shoved Maverick’s flight suit off his shoulders, only pausing at the sudden intake of breath from the other man. Shit, had he pushed too far?
“Don’t stop, you just hit a bruise,” Maverick said.
Beau lifted his eyes and for the first time since he had slammed their lips together, looked Maverick dead in the eye. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see. Anger, perhaps, disgust, confusion.
He saw none of that. Only a calm acceptance, and beneath that, a burning desire.
He swallowed, and they were kissing again. He didn’t know who had closed the distance that time, but it didn’t matter. Maverick had unbuttoned his uniform shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the ground and some tiny voice in the back of Beau’s mind was yelling at him to pick it up, hang it neatly, stop kissing the fucking captain.
Admiral Beau “Cyclone” Simpson had always been a ‘by the book’ kind of man. A rule follower. He always hung his uniform up and had precision folds in his pants. He followed the rules and it had gotten him to where he was in life; three star admiral, airboss. The rule follower would not be caught dead kissing a subordinate captain.
He told that little voice to shut the fuck up and deepened the kiss again. The top half of Maverick’s flight suit was bunched around his waist.
Beau slipped an arm around that trim waist and pulled him right against him, never breaking the kiss. Maverick’s hands wandered, yanking his white undershirt up and pressing his palm against Beau’s stomach.
There were a lot of layers between them, but there was no way Maverick could miss how hard Cyclone was. Those uniform pants did not hide much.
His brass belt buckle clattered loudly against the deck, Maverick’s fingers struggling to undo the top button of his uniform pants while crushed against the taller man.
They were standing next to the bunk and Beau wasn’t quite sure how they ended up there. He had Maverick’s flight suit completely unzipped and was grateful that somewhere between medical and here the man had dispensed of the G-suit and the vest.
“Sit,” Beau said, pushing Maverick back onto his bunk.
“Yes, sir,” Maverick said, a teasing lilt to his voice. Beau glared at him, but that pleased little smirk and Maverick’s kiss swollen lips had his own face cracking in a slight smile.
Beau dropped to his knees and focused on Maverick’s boots, quickly untying them and pulling them off. He pulled the socks off next, making a face at the slightly damp wool.
“There was a lot of snow,” Maverick said, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Clearly,” Beau said. He reached up and grabbed the flight suit. Maverick’s hips went up as he pulled, letting him peel the thing off him.
Beau found himself kneeling on the flight suit, staring at the pilot in his bunk. Maverick wore nothing but his white cotton undershirt and tidy whitey briefs, which were doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he was fully erect, a damp stain spreading slowly across the front.
He sucked in a breath. The obvious evidence that Maverick was just as on board as he was made things tighten in his gut.
Holy shit, what was he thinking?
His hands were on Maverick’s bare thighs and he leaned up or Maverick leaned down and they were kissing again. One of them was making needy, desperate noises and Beau couldn’t tell if they were coming from him or Maverick, but it didn’t matter.
They split apart just long enough for both their undershirts to get tossed to the side, leaving Maverick in nothing but his briefs and Beau in his khaki pants and dress shoes. Beau kneaded the muscles of Maverick’s thighs, groaning into the kiss as Mav’s hands ran over his chest, thumbs brushing his nipples. He was achingly hard, his uniform pants straining over his erection.
This is not what he had wanted to see Maverick for, was it? Had this been his plan all along? No, surely not. He wanted to make sure that Maverick was okay, not kiss the man.
But he wasn’t going to stop, not when Maverick had been haunting his fantasies for the two weeks he’d known the bastard.
Moving a bit fast, wasn’t he?
He stopped thinking when Maverick’s hand came to the back of his neck, dragging him closer and kissing him again, his tongue sliding into Beau’s mouth, licking the back of his teeth, sucking on his own tongue. Jesus, the man was filthy.
Two could play that game.
Beau broke away, dragging his teeth over Maverick sharp jaw, pressing a kiss against his pulse, licking his way lower, biting at his clavicle, teeth scraping over a hard nipple. Maverick gasped, arching into him, fingers tangling in his short hair. He could feel some inflamed areas, bruising from the ejection seat and parachute harness, most likely, and he kissed each spot he came across as he moved lower, nosing at Maverick’s bellybutton. His skin tasted of sweat and he could smell his musk.
He was on his knees in between Pete Mitchell’s legs, breathing over Maverick’s covered cock. He glanced up, meeting Maverick’s eyes, waiting for…something.
There it was; a nod, a smirk.
They were really doing this, then.
Beau kept his eyes locked with Maverick’s and lowered his head, using his teeth to grab the waistband of his underwear. He heard Maverick swear and his hips went up, letting the Admiral yank his underwear off with his teeth.
Maverick was finally, gloriously, naked, leaking cock standing at attention, breathing hard, watching the half naked Admiral on his knees in front of him.
Beau dropped his eyes, staring at Maverick’s cock. It was a nice one, no surprise there. It had been years since Cyclone had blown another man, hell, it’d been years since he’d been with another man. He wasn’t going to try to deep throat him on the first go, but by god he was going to taste him.
The first go? Fucking hell, he was already thinking about doing this again.
“Just going to stare or are you—Jesus Christ!” Maverick said, his smartass comment derailed the moment Admiral Beau Simpson wrapped his lips around his cock.
Beau let Maverick’s dick slide out of his mouth, the leaking tip resting right against his lower lip.
“Jesus Christ is not my call sign, Captain,” Beau said, eyes never leaving Maverick’s as he opened his mouth and wrapped his lips around the tip of his cock again. Maverick’s face split into a laughing smile at his words, the laugh choked off when Beau opened his mouth and took his cock again.
He swallowed around the cock in his mouth, eyes slipping half closed as he concentrated on sucking, licking, bobbing his head. It had been awhile, that was for sure, and his throat was going to be sore, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He felt Maverick’s hand rest lightly on his head, not pushing, not holding him in place, just resting on his head, caressing his hair. He could hear Maverick’s ragged breathing mixed in with soft curses and gasps. A distant part of him wondered how long it had been since someone had gone down on Maverick.
It didn’t matter because he was here now, that pretty cock in his mouth, that calloused hand on his head. The words of praise falling from Maverick’s lips were for him, not anyone else.
He could tell that Maverick was holding back, stomach muscles tight, stopping himself from thrusting into Beau’s mouth. He didn’t think he was up for a solid throat fuck this time around, but maybe at another point.
God damn, there he went again, thinking about a repeat performance.
He kept one hand on Maverick’s thighs, the other moved to wrap around the base of the other man’s cock. He could control the angle a bit better with his fingers wrapped around Maverick’s dick, and he used that to his advantage, pushing himself to take Maverick a little deeper, gagging slightly when his cock hit the back of his throat.
Beau lost himself in the sensations; the feel of Maverick’s shaft on his tongue, the taste of his precome sliding down his throat, the desperate moans tumbling from the good captain’s lips, the way his hips strained, holding himself back. He could feel the zipper of his uniform pants digging into his erection, damn near painful, but he didn’t want to let go of Maverick’s thigh or cock to take the time to unzip his pants.
He felt Maverick’s grip on his hair tighten, the muscles of his thigh quiver.
“Cyclone, Admiral, shit, I’m…fuck, please, fuck, Admiral, I’m going to come!”
Beau paused, swallowing around him. He could pull back, give Maverick a moment to recover. He could put his stars back on and act like a three star was supposed to act, remind Captain Mitchell that this had never happened and never would again.
Or he could make Maverick lose control.
He picked the second option.
He met Maverick’s eyes, never breaking eye contact as he swallowed around him again.
Maverick whined, his stomach tensing, his fingers tightening in Beau’s hair. He squeezed his fingers around Maverick’s length, pressing his tongue against the man’s leaking slit, sucking on the head, and then Maverick’s cock was pulsing, thick, hot seed spurting right across his tongue and down his throat. He swallowed but had to pull back before Maverick was finished, a streak of white ending up across his cheek, his lips.
“Holy shit,” Maverick muttered, breathing hard. Beau took in the sight of him, hunched over on his bunk, one hand still on the admiral’s head, the other bracing against the sheets. Sweat glistened on his skin, a rosy flush spreading across his entire body.
They stared at each other, each breathing hard. Maverick’s hand moved down Beau’s head, dragging his thumb through the spend on his cheek. When his thumb stopped at Beau’s lips, he opened his mouth and sucked his thumb clean.
“Fucking Christ,” Maverick said, staring at Beau’s mouth.
“Still not my call sign,” Beau said, voice rough from use. Maverick rolled his eyes and put his hand on the back of Beau’s head, dragging the taller man up and crushing their mouths together. Beau groaned into the kiss. It felt like Maverick was damn near trying to crawl into his mouth, chasing the taste of his own come.
“Sometimes call signs change,” Maverick mumbled against his lips. It didn’t happen often, and it usually happened because the pilot did something remarkably stupid, but it did happen. Beau could just imagine the look on people’s faces if his call sign changed to Christ. No, he was good with Cyclone.
Beau nipped at Maverick’s lip, breathing the same air. Maverick’s hands trailed over his chest, his bare stomach, down to his khakis. His knuckles brushed Beau’s covered cock, pressing lightly against it, feeling it twitch.
Maverick’s hands finally unzipped his pants and Beau couldn’t stop the groan from tearing from his throat as the pressure of the zipper was finally relieved.
Fuck, when was the last time he had been this fucking hard? He couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Maverick’s hands shoving his pants down.
Both men cursed when his uniform pants got tangled around his shoes.
“Fucking hell,” Beau muttered, sitting up and bending just enough to untie the damn things. Off went one, then the other, tossed across the tiny quarters with no regard to where they landed. That was a problem for future Beau Simpson. His pants and briefs followed moments later and finally, finally, he was just as naked as Maverick.
He felt Maverick’s hands on him, fingers tracing the scars on his back, tickling his ribs, down to his hip. Beau turned, taking his turn to touch that glorious skin in front of him. In the dim light of his quarters, he could make out the bruises and lacerations from two ejections within 3 weeks. Really, the man shouldn’t have been flying at all after ejecting at fucking mach 10, but that was neither here nor there. Maverick was in front of him. Maverick had lived.
He leaned over, or Maverick pulled him down, and they were kissing again, Maverick once again licking into his mouth, sucking on his tongue. Beau groaned into the kiss, throwing his leg over Maverick’s hips and straddling the man. He was cognizant enough to not put pressure on his bruised ribs, holding himself up with one arm while kissing the holy hell out of the man, his other hand tracing Maverick’s arm. His hard cock pressed into his stomach, a steady stream of precome leaking from the slit. He rolled his hips, dragging his hot, hard length against Maverick’s spent, spit-slicked cock.
Maverick whined into his mouth, hips jerking.
“What do you want?” Beau asked, speaking the words into the kiss.
Maverick’s eyes fluttered, trying to focus on his words.
“Inside,” Maverick said. No hesitation, no second thoughts. It made something deep within Beau’s gut tighten and his cock twitched eagerly.
“I have no condoms,” Beau said after a moment. “Or lube.”
“I’m clean,” Maverick choked out.
“Fuck,” Beau muttered. “So am I.”
“Inside,” Maverick said again.
Beau knew there was no lube or condoms in his room. It wasn’t exactly something he had put down a mission essential item. Lack of foresight on his part. He could make do.
“On your stomach,” Beau said, lifting up just enough to let Maverick roll over. Maverick obeyed (and Beau thought that just very well may be the first time the good captain had ever obeyed an order from him) and he took a moment to truly appreciate the great ass in front of him. Maverick grabbed a pillow and held it to his chest, back arched, ass up.
Fucking gorgeous.
Beau ran his hands down Maverick’s back, feeling each dip in his ribs, every line of his muscles, and grabbed a handful of ass cheek in each hand and spread them apart, getting his first look at that pretty little pucker.
He adjusted, squeezed Maverick’s ass one last time, and bent over, drawing his tongue over his entrance.
Maverick shouted in surprise, twitching, pushing back against Beau’s face as the admiral dove in.
There was a part of Beau, a very tiny part, wondering what the ever loving fuck he was doing. It had been years since he had been with anyone, let alone another man, and here he was, eating the ass of the Navy’s best pilot, the man who drove him absolutely bug-fucking-nuts, and he couldn’t wait to do it again. That tiny voice wondered where this would go, could it even go anywhere? Did it matter, or were they just both relieved to be alive and celebrating that in the oldest way possible?
He shook those thoughts away, squeezing a bit harder than necessary on Maverick’s delectable ass, and brought one finger to rub at that spit covered hole.
Maverick whined and whimpered when Beau pressed that finger into his ass, making some of the most beautiful, needy sounds Beau had ever heard. He would remember those sounds the rest of his life. He rutted against the sheets as he slowly fingered Maverick open, adding more spit.
“I can take it, I can take it,” Maverick chanted, rocking back onto Beau’s two fingers.
“Hush,” Beau said, sinking his teeth into the meat of Maverick’s ass. “I have no doubt you can take it, but I’m not putting you through any unnecessary pain.”
Maverick stilled and Beau swore the older man choked back a sob. He let Maverick believe he hadn’t heard it, licking around his fingers, spitting directly into his open hole, gently pushing a third finger in. He lost track of time, focused solely on opening Maverick’s body to him, focused on the desperate, panting breathing coming from the other man, focused on the way his own dick was harder than ever.
Beau spread his fingers apart, groaning softly at the sight of Maverick’s rim stretched around them. He wasn’t going to last long and wanted to be buried inside that ass when he did come.
“Please, please, please,” Maverick whispered, hips twitching, his own cock starting to harden again.
Beau pulled his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets. Maverick whined, his hole fluttering and empty and god, Beau liked looking at it.
“How do you want to do this?” Beau asked.
Maverick shakily got to his hands and knees, presenting his ass to Beau.
“Like this,” he said, voice shaky, “deeper this way.”
Fucking hell, the man was a menace.
“No complaints from me,” Beau managed to get out, taking in the sight before him. It was truly unfair how fucking pretty Maverick was, cock hanging heavy between his legs, all lithe muscles and tan skin.
Beau spread Maverick’s cheeks again and spit on his hole, then his hand, smearing his spit and precome over his cock.
Was he really going to do this? Fuck a captain under his command?
Well, he sure as shit wasn’t going to stop now.
“You’re sure about this?” Beau asked, one last time.
“Fuck me already!” Maverick snapped.
“Pushy,” Beau said, rearing up behind Maverick. He put one had on the pilot’s lower back, the other wrapped firmly around his dick. He dragged his dripping head back and forth over that tight ring of muscle, doing his best to control his breathing.
“Please, please, please,” Maverick whispered again.
Beau’s eyes fluttered shut as he pushed, the blunt head of his cock right against that hot hole. Both men groaned when Maverick’s body finally opened to him, the head of Beau’s cock popping past his rim. Beau held his breath, counting backwards from 100 in his mind so he didn’t blow his load right then and there.
Fuck, Maverick was so tight and hot. He gripped Mav’s hips, not moving, giving the other man a moment to get accustomed to his size. Beau felt the moment Maverick relaxed and rolled his hips, pushing deeper, deeper, until he bottomed out, cock buried all the way inside the other man, hips flush against Maverick’s ass.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Beau said, voice strangled.
“So d’you,” Maverick said, a bit slurred.
Beau bent over, pressing his chest to Maverick’s back, holding his hips, ghosting kisses across sweat slick skin. Maverick rocked back into him and Beau pushed forward, dragging his cock slowly in and out of Maverick’s channel.
“Harder,” Maverick gasped out, fisting his fingers into the sheets. “Please, harder.”
Beau could do nothing but comply, grabbing Maverick’s hips in a bruising grip and drawing nearly all the way out before slamming back home. Maverick let out a shout, head flinging back, back arching, tightening around Beau’s cock with every hard thrust. Their harried breathing, moans, and the sound of skin on skin echoed around the tiny quarters. Beau reached around Maverick, blindly finding his cock and stroking it in time with his thrusts. Maverick shouted, hole tightening around Beau’s dick.
The man was still sensitive from his first orgasm, and Beau was dead set on wringing a second one out of him.
He plastered himself to Maverick’s back, lips dragging over his shoulder, panting into flushed, sweaty skin. He kissed and sucked at his shoulder, intent on leaving a mark.
“C’mon, Pete,” he whispered, forgetting his earlier decision to only call the man by his call sign. “Come for me, sweetheart.”
Pete gasped and moaned, hole clenching around Beau’s length driving into his body.
“Pete,” Beau panted, squeezing his cock.
Pete grunted, cock twitching in Beau’s hand, and then he was coming, streaking the sheets with his seed. His hole tightened and his channel seemed to flutter around Beau.
“Please,” Beau whispered, hips stuttering. He was so fucking close, so close, he just wanted one thing.
“Say my name, Pete, please, say my name.”
Pete turned his head slightly, meeting Beau’s gaze. His eyes were slightly unfocused, glazed over, pupils blown wide with arousal.
“Beau,” Pete said, “come inside me, Beau.”
Beau swore he didn’t let out a sob at the sound of his name falling from those lips. His hand moved to keep Pete’s head turned, and he strained forward. The kiss was awkward and messy, and Pete kept saying his name with every haphazard thrust.
Beau cried out, his orgasm taking him by surprise, a wildfire rushing from the base of his spine to every nerve and fiber of his body. His cock pulsed and twitched, painting Pete’s inner walls white. Pete moaned, arms trembling as he struggled to hold them up. Beau couldn’t remember the last time he’d come so hard his vision nearly whited out. He wasn’t sure he had ever come so hard in his entire life.
Pete’s arms gave out and both men went down, Beau somehow still sheathed inside him. Pete groaned when he took Beau’s full weight and the admiral immediately lifted his upper body off him, unwilling to pull out but knowing Pete’s ribs probably hurt like a son of a bitch.
He pressed one kiss to the base of Pete’s skull and slowly pulled out, moaning at the feel of that ass trying to keep him in place. His cock slipped out with a soft pop and he swallowed hard at the sight of a thick bead of his come leaking from Pete’s hole.
“You good?” Beau asked, breathing hard.
“So good,” Pete managed, rolling slowly on his side. He grunted as he tried to sit up, Beau’s hands moving to help him.
Beau was a bit surprised when Pete rested his entire weight against him, cheek resting against his shoulder. Beau wrapped one arm around Pete’s shoulders, his own cheek coming to rest against the other man’s dark, sweaty hair.
He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, the only sound their breathing.
“I should go,” Pete murmured. Beau’s arm tightened around his shoulder.
“Stay,” he whispered.
Pete looked at him and Beau could see…something in his eyes. Confusion? Acceptance?
“Stay,” Beau said again. “I know you probably want a shower, but I have a sink and a toilet and some towels. Just…stay. Please.”
Pete stared at him for another moment, then nodded. “Okay.”
Beau let out a relieved sigh, closing his eyes and pressing his nose into Pete’s hair.
He should’ve told him to go. Helped him get dressed, sent him on his way with a smile and a ‘thanks for the good time’.
But he couldn’t.
Damn his traitorous heart.
They sat there a bit longer, sweat and seed starting to gel and get uncomfortably sticky. Beau kissed Pete’s head and got to his feet with a groan, padding across the cold metal floor in nothing but his black socks. He grabbed a wash clothe and got it wet with warm water, chancing a glance in the mirror.
He looked…satisfied. And like he’d just had the best sex of his life.
He walked back to Pete, aware of the man’s eyes following his every move. He sat down next to him again and gently started wiping him down. Pete groaned and leaned into him, making Beau slow down. He did his best, wiping sweat, grime from landing in enemy territory, and come off his skin.
Pete let Beau guide him onto his stomach, allowing Beau to wipe his back and butt off. He pushed himself upright with a groan and leaned against the bulkhead, watching as Beau walked back to the sink and rinsed the towel before giving himself a cursory wipe off.
“You want to brush your teeth? Drink some water?” Beau asked. Pete blinked at him, clearly very much about to pass out.
“Yeah, yeah, I probably should,” he said, getting to his feet with a groan. Beau watched him stagger the few steps to the small head, leaning on the sink. He grabbed one of the spare toothbrushes that had been shoved in the room at some point and handed it to him.
Pete turned on the tap and bent over, drinking directly from it, which Beau knew they weren’t supposed to do, but…whatever. If non-potable water was what killed Pete at this point…well, what a stupid way to go.
“I had bottles,” Beau said mildly, his stomach flip-flopping at the smile Pete threw his way. The two men brushed their teeth and Pete moved to use the head, Beau slipping out and giving him some privacy.
He took in the ruined sheets. Thankfully, at the base of the bunk was a trunk full of spare blankets. He tore the top layer of sheets off, grimacing at the stains, and tossed them aside. He had a new set on by the time Pete shuffled out of the head, looking even more exhausted than ever.
“You want your underwear to sleep in?” Beau asked, glancing around the room for it. They had to be here…somewhere.
Pete snorted. “I’m good if you are.”
Beau nodded and climbed into the bunk, followed moments later by Pete. They shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position. It was a bit awkward; it had been a long time since Beau had slept with anyone in the same bed as him, and the navy rack wasn’t exactly made for two men.
Finally, they settled in, Pete’s head on Beau’s chest, one leg thrown over Beau’s thigh.
Neither said anything, the darkness and silence settling over them like a blanket.
Beau was just about asleep when he felt Pete’s lips move against his chest, catching in the wiry hair across his pecs.
“Beau…thank you,” Pete whispered.
Beau’s arm tightened around him.
“You’re welcome, Pete.”
It didn’t take long and Pete was out cold, exhaustion finally catching up to him.
Beau lay there, breathing in the scent of Pete Mitchell. The room smelled like sex, like both of them, and like desperation. His arm tightened around Pete again, and he pressed a kiss against his head.
This was going to bite him in the ass, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Pete was alive, pressed against him. He could feel Pete’s heart beating in his chest, and finally, he let himself drift off.
:::
Warlock walked through the passageway, a frown on his face.
Both Cyclone and Maverick were late for debrief. Not completely out of character for Maverick, especially given what the man had been through yesterday, but very out of character for Cyclone.
No one had been able to find Maverick. The man had disappeared after slinking out of medical the day before and hadn’t been seen since. If all of the jets weren’t accounted for, Warlock would be concerned that the man had stolen another one, convinced the catapult crew to launch him, and flew out of there.
But thank god, all of the jets, even that damn F-14, were accounted for. Maverick had not stolen a jet.
So where the hell was he?
And Cyclone. He knew his friend was stressed, that the last two weeks had been a shit show for everyone. He had seen the despair in Cyclone’s eyes when Maverick had been shot down, and the utter despondency when Rooster soon followed.
He remembered that Cyclone had mentioned that he wanted to speak to Maverick after the man had cleared medical. Maybe Maverick was still there.
He hoped Maverick was there. He really wasn’t looking forward to explaining to Cyclone that they somehow lost Captain Mitchell on the carrier.
He stopped in front of the door to the private quarters Cyclone had been given. His were a few doors down. He was sure it had actually been a supply closet at some point, but it had a rack and he wasn’t going to complain.
Warlock knocked briskly on the door. There was no response from within. He pulled the key out of his pocket; Cyclone had given him the spare, just like he’d given Cyclone the spare key to his supply closet. He unlocked it and frowned. It was dark in the room. He pushed the door open wider and stepped in, looking down when he stepped on something.
His frown deepened. It was Admiral Simpson’s uniform shirt, fruit salad of ribbons and all, discarded on the floor like an afterthought. There was one of Cyclone’s shoes, tossed aside like the man had thrown it. His eyebrow shot up.
There was a flight suit, bunched up and tangled. Undershirts in different corners of the room, a pair of flight boots with dirty socks sticking out of them.
He looked at the bed, knowing what he’d see.
What did surprise him was how peaceful the two men looked, clearly naked, curled around each other, Maverick’s face buried in Cyclone’s chest, Cyclone’s arms around the older pilot.
Unexpected, but not all that shocking.
Cyclone had been sporting an erection and trying to hide it after Maverick stole that jet and flew the pattern. His eyes had not deceived him.
He wanted to let them sleep, but knew he couldn’t give them that indulgence.
“Beau,” he said softly.
Cyclone’s eyes snapped open and Warlock saw the fear in his face when they locked eyes. He wasn’t going to report them. He didn’t care what they did, as long as they were happy. He liked Maverick for Beau, actually. Maybe he could get the three star to loosen up a bit.
“You’re both late to debrief.”
“Shit,” Cyclone said, arms tightening around Maverick.
“I can hold them off for another thirty minutes.”
Beau’s eyes shot to his, questions and tentative relief clearly written across his face.
“Thanks, Sol,” Beau whispered.
Warlock nodded and set Beau’s uniform shirt on the edge of the bed. He turned and walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Yeah, he could stall the debrief for another thirty minutes or so.
:::
Pete’s eyes opened the moment the door closed.
“Is he gone?”
Beau barked out a laugh.
“Yeah, he’s gone.”
He could deal with the knot of worry in his gut later. He didn’t think Warlock would report them, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do about that knowledge.
“Guess we should get dressed,” Pete murmured, forehead still pressed to Beau’s chest.
“Guess so.”
Beau was glad that Pete didn’t seem super thrilled about the prospect either.
After a moment, they started to untangle themselves, peeling apart and sitting on the edge of the bunk together, shoulders touching.
“How did you sleep?” Beau asked.
“Really good, actually,” Pete said like it was a surprise. Beau had the feeling that Pete didn’t have many good nights of sleep. Lord knew Beau hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
“Good,” Beau said, getting to his feet with a groan. There was no way he was going to be able to wear that uniform again without washing it first.
Pete stood up and stretched, drawing Beau’s eyes to his taut stomach. The bruises were even more evident, and he knew they would only get darker before yellowing and finally fading. Silently, the men recovered the clothes they had ripped off in such a hurry the night before. Pete pulled his underwear back on and Beau tossed him a pair of clean socks and an undershirt.
“Thanks,” Pete said, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull the socks on.
It shouldn’t have given Beau a thrill to see Maverick in one of his undershirts. It was nothing more than a white tee shirt. Maverick had hundreds of the things, most likely, but Beau knew that one was his, and he liked it.
God help him, he was completely fucked, wasn’t he?
Pete pulled on his flight suit. It was wrinkled, but it would work. Beau was glad he had a spare set of khakis, especially since his shirt had Warlock’s footprint on it now. He quickly undid the stars from the collar and pinned them on the clean shirt, followed by his ribbons. Pete watched him, neither man saying a word.
When they were both dressed and their hair tamed, they stood in the middle of the room, glancing at each other and then looking away.
“Are we going to talk about this?” Pete finally asked.
Beau’s heart constricted and he felt a moment of panic.
“Not yet,” he managed to get out.
He saw the disappointment, the sadness, flash across Pete’s face before the other man could get it under control.
He stepped closer, put his hand on the back of Pete’s neck, and pulled him close, brushing his lips over Pete’s.
“I said not yet, not now, not when we’re late for debrief already. After. I swear, we’ll talk. We’ll…”
“Figure this out?” Pete asked, arching his eyebrow.
“Yes. We’re going to figure this out.”
Pete gave him that thousand watt smile, the one that deepened the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes and showed off his teeth. Beau couldn’t help himself and kissed him one last time, tasting that smile.
Beau pulled back and they stared at each other again, the awkwardness gone.
“Let’s swing through the officer’s mess and grab coffee,” Pete said. “I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Beau said, putting his shoes on and tying them quickly while Pete waited.
Right before Beau opened the door, Pete grabbed his wrist.
“Beau,” he said, “thank you.”
“It was my pleasure, Captain,” he said as the door opened and they stepped into the passage. He followed Pete to the mess and if anyone wondered why Captain Mitchell was walking a little funny, well, he had ejected out of a jet yesterday.
Beau chuckled as they got their coffee and headed for the debrief room. He put his hand on Pete’s shoulder right before they walked through the door, giving it a brief squeeze.
Pete smiled at him, and they walked through the door.