Chapter Text
One. Two. Three.
Bucky dragged in a breath. His muscles burning with the strength to push once more.
One. Two. Three.
Come on , he thought. One more. I can do this. 104, 105-
“You're gonna wring your arms out to shit.” A familiar voice came in, causing Bucky to roll his eyes as he panted, pushing himself up one last time to sit back. He glared at Sam with some amusement.
“Very funny punk. Last time I checked doing pushups ain't the reason your arms went weaker.”
There was an exchange of looks before Sam burst out laughing, offering an arm which Bucky took and hoisted himself up with. The tarmac had roughed his hands from where he did the pushups, the hot California sun beating down on them. He was glad his F/A-18F Super Hornet was there to give some shade. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he eyed the namepatch on Sam’s chest and snorted.
“Let’s go, Redwing.”
He smacked Sam’s shoulder and took off across the landing strip, grinning. Sam followed, laughing.
Captain Steven “Twizzler” Rogers stepped into the briefing room like he’d just walked out of a recruitment poster. He didn’t even get the chance to salute before a voice met him like a slap to the face.
“Captain Steven ‘Twizzler’ Rogers,” came the dry, sardonic drawl. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Steve gave a polite nod. “Thank you, sir.”
The man snorted. “Wasn’t a compliment.”
Admiral Tony Stark strolled into full view, aviators pushed up into perfectly disheveled hair, coffee in one hand, a remote in the other. “I’m Admiral Tony Stark. Call sign: Boss of Everything That Matters.” He waved his coffee cup vaguely toward the corner. “And that brooding thing over there is Admiral Fury. Callsign Warlock. Don’t ask. He hates when you ask.”
Steve nodded at Fury, who returned the gesture with the warmth of a brick wall.
“I wasn’t expecting an invitation back,” Steve said.
Fury’s arms stayed crossed. “They’re called orders, Twizzler.”
Tony let out a theatrical sigh and tapped the remote. A projector flickered to life behind him, lighting up a harsh topographical map.
“Alright, class, eyes up front,” Stark said. “Today’s lesson: How Not to Start a Global Crisis.” He gestured toward the screen. “What we’ve got here is an illegal uranium enrichment plant. Very hush-hush. Very not-okay. Built in violation of a multilateral NATO treaty—which, fun fact, means everybody’s pissed.”
He clicked again. The image zoomed in on a brutal-looking valley.
“The uranium produced here could cause, let’s say, a major diplomatic headache for our allies. So the Pentagon wants us to do what we do best: break things quickly and leave dramatically.”
Steve’s jaw tightened as the visuals changed.
“The plant’s located in an underground bunker at the end of this charming, soul-sucking valley. GPS-jammed. Surface-to-air missiles everywhere. A handful of fifth-gen fighters, plus a big ol’ stockpile of surplus aircraft just waiting to ruin someone’s day.”
Warlock stepped forward, voice clipped. “What’s your read, Captain?”
Steve leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the projection. “Well, sir… normally this would be a job for the F-35’s stealth capabilities. But GPS-jamming neutralizes that advantage. So we’re looking at a low-level, laser-guided strike, better suited for the F-18.”
He gestured to the valley. “Two precision bombs minimum, four planes flying in pairs. But the escape route’s a nightmare. You’re exposed to SAMs the whole way out. And if you survive that , you’ve got a dogfight waiting on the other side.”
Tony raised his brows, impressed. “All requirements you’ve already met in the past. You know, when you were younger, dumber, and didn’t care about ejecting your spine at Mach 2.”
“Not all in one mission, sir.”
Tony gave a dramatic wince. “Yikes. Yeah. So… someone’s not coming back.”
Fury’s voice cut in. “Can it be done or not?”
Steve stared at the screen. “How soon before the plant’s operational?”
“Three weeks,” Tony said. “Give or take a miracle.”
Steve exhaled. “Well… it’s been a while since I’ve flown an F-18. And I don’t know who I’d trust to fly the other three. But I’ll find a way to make it work.”
Fury tilted his head. “I think you misunderstand, Captain.”
“…Sir?”
Tony grinned like a man about to drop a bomb, metaphorical or otherwise. “Oh, we don’t want you to fly it.”
Steve blinked. “Teach, sir?”
“Ding ding ding.” Tony spun the remote like a pistol. “We’ve recalled twelve of Top Gun’s finest from their squadrons. Bright-eyed, overly confident, mostly still alive. Your job? Cut them down. They’ll fly the mission.”
Fury stepped forward again. “Is there a problem, Captain?”
Steve hesitated. “You know there is, sir.”
Tony leaned back against the table, arms folded with theatrical patience. “Let me guess. Yelena ‘Prince’ Belova? Yeah, I’ve heard she’s a firecracker. You used to fly with her sister, what was her call sign?”
“ Crimson , sir.” Steve’s voice was low. “Captain Mitchell was cleared. Her death was an accident.”
Fury didn’t flinch. “Is that how you see it? Is that how Natasha’s sister sees it?”
Steve stood silent.
“With all due respect, I’m not a teacher,” he said at last.
“You were a Top Gun instructor before,” Fury reminded.
“That was thirty years ago. I lasted two months. I don’t belong in a classroom.”
Tony stood straight and dropped the charm like a curtain. “Good, because you weren’t our first choice. In fact, you weren’t even on the list.”
Steve raised an eyebrow.
“You’re here because Admiral Banner requested you,” Tony continued. “Greenman thinks you still have something to offer the Navy. Personally, I think he’s either very wise, or suffering from blunt-force trauma.”
He set the remote down and stepped closer, voice steel now.
“You don’t have to take this job. But make no mistake, this is your last post. You teach for Top Gun… or you never fly for the Navy again.”
And in the pause that followed, all Steve could hear was the hum of the projector and the distant roar of jets overhead, like ghosts waiting for someone to prove they were still worth the wings.
News was getting around. There was a new mission, and for it, it wasn't the whole academy getting picked.. Bucky was told by Sam, who overheard it from Nick Fury. That wasn’t good either, but it meant that Bucky was excited, because anything that was secretive was bound to have some form of fun.
“What do we have here?” Sam grinned, lowering his cue stick and resting it against the pool table. Bucky followed his gaze, lowering his beer as he saw three other pilots walk in the bar, and he chuckled, “If it ain't Ghost!”
They walked straight up towards them, two guys and one girl, big stupid smiles on their faces like they were just too happy to be present. The girl walked up, hair that was tied back. Their uniforms were on neatly, just like everyone in here, and Bucky tilted his head in recognition.
“And here I thought I was special, Redwing.” Ava ‘Ghost’ Starr grinned.
“Turns out the invite went to anyone.” Bucky butt in, to which Ava rolled her eyes in amusement. His eyes went to the two pilots behind her, and he leaned back against the pool table with a knowing look.
“Fellas, this here's WhiteWussy.” Ava smirked.
“WhiteWolf. Whatever.”
Ava continued to tease, “You’re looking at the only naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill.”
“Stop.”
“Now who are these two?” Sam grinned, gesturing to the ones behind her.
“Falcon.” Joaquin said.
“Agent.” John tilted his head, “Hey, Redwing.”
“Hey.”
Ghost kept her amused gaze on Bucky. Then, cocking her head to the side she said, “Who’s he?”
“Who's who?” Bucky asked, brows furrowing. He turned to look at a brunette guy sitting next to the pool table, beer glass in hand and his messy curls on his face as he was distracted brushing crumbs off his clothes. He looked up, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. Bucky smiled in amusement.
“Oh, I’ve been here the whole time,” he said quickly.
Bucky took the cue from Sam and circled the table. “Mans a stealth pilot. Literally.”
The man shrugged. “Weapons systems officer, actually.”
“With no sense of humor.”
The guy blinked like he’d just realized it was a joke.
“What do they call you?” John asked, arms crossed.
“Uh... Bob.”
“No, your call sign,” Joaquin clarified.
Bob blinked again. “Um… Bob,” he said. And nodded.
Ava stared. “Bob Floyd. You’re my new backseater? From Florida?”
“Looks like it,” Bob said with a shrug.
So familiarity between them set quickly, most of them knew each other already. Bucky tossed Bob a cue stick and ushered him to play pool. Joaquin and Bob hit it off well as they chattered around the pool table.
The Hard Deck bar buzzed with noise: pool balls clacking, laughter bouncing off the wooden walls, and the steady hum of Foghat's "Slow Ride " rolling from the jukebox. Aviators crowded around tables, drinks in hand, some relaxed, others trying to mask the tension in their shoulders.
The door swung open with a soft jingle. Yelena ‘Prince’ Belova strolled in, confidence dripping from every step. She scanned the bar, that familiar cocky grin already tugging at her lips, her eyes landed on one man.
"Prince," Sam said, smirking. "As I live and breathe."
She walked over to the pool table, her posture casual, her eyes cool beneath the cap. "Redwing," she greeted simply. Redwing gave her a once-over, then nodded in approval.
"So, anybody know what this special detachment is all about?" Agent kept his gaze cocky and set on Sam.
Someone shrugged. "Mission’s a mission."
"What I want to know," Bucky said, chalking the cue lazily, "is who’s gonna be team leader?"
The pool balls scattered across the felt with a sharp crack as Yelena hit them. Sam straightened up, gaze sweeping the room. " And which one of y’all," he asked, "has what it takes to follow mean ?”
Walker leaned forward slightly, voice calm but laced with steel, "Redwing, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave."
A few nearby pilots laughed, one of them letting out a low whistle.
"Whoo!" Sam pointed at him, unfazed. "Now that’s the spirit." A knowing look was passed from Bucky to Sam, leaning on a bar stool with a drink in hand.
"Anyone who follows you is just gonna run outta fuel." Sam drawled, standing in front of John. "But that’s just you, ain’t it, Agent? Snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment…” He paused, tilted his head. "...that never comes."
The jukebox kicked up a notch. Sam grinned and raised his glass. "I love this song!"
Walker didn’t say anything, just gave a small shake of his head.
"He hasn’t changed," Joaquin murmured from the back.
Ava nodded. "Nope. Sure hasn’t."
They turned their heads toward the doorway where more pilots were beginning to file in; more patches, more names. Joaquin leaned in, pointing some out to Bob. "Check it out. That’s Stark. Guardian. Omaha. Shit... that’s Fanny."
Yelena frowned. "What the hell kind of mission is this?"
Walker’s voice cut through the chatter. "That’s not the question we should be asking." He said, his own drink in hand. They all turned to look at him."Everyone here is the best there is," he said, eyes scanning the room. "So who the hell are they gonna get... to teach us?"
--
The bar was alive with the hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the upbeat notes of a piano playing smooth jazz in the background. Twizzler stood at the counter, holding his card out toward Peggy behind the bar. She took it with a raised brow, swiped it—
Beep.
She glanced down at the register, then looked up at him, lips twitching. “It’s been declined.”
Twizzler blinked, running a hand through blond hair. “You’re kidding.”
As if on cue, the music abruptly stopped. The murmur of voices grew louder with curiosity as nearby customers leaned in. A few started muttering, nudging each other with grins.
The piano kept playing, a soft, ironically dramatic jazz tune underscoring the moment. He looked over to see someone, a pilot, playing it. The pilot had a stupid little grin, a baseball cap, and eyes that looked like they wanted to fuck over someone.
“Hey, guys. Come on,” Twizzler said, turning toward the gathering crowd with a sheepish smile. He wasn't actually scared, but messing around was fun.The piano melody floated on, seemingly oblivious to his situation.
“How about…” he reached into his pocket, pulling out another card.
Peggy took it, glanced at it, and shook her head. “That won’t cover it.” She did not look sorry.
Twizzler scratched the back of his neck, grinning awkwardly. “Alright. Uh... I’ll come by tomorrow and bring you the cash.” He offered.
“I’m afraid rules are rules, Steve,” Peggy said with a smirk. She walked over and rang the bell above her head once, twice, and Steve winced.
A sudden eruption of cheers and clapping burst from the patrons. “Overboard! Overboard! Overboard!” they chanted, voices growing louder with each beat.
Twizzler looked around incredulously. “Really?”
The chanting continued like a drumbeat:“Overboard! Overboard! Overboard!”
Hands clapped him on the back as the crowd herded him toward the door, laughing and hollering. Four strong hands threw him out. The piano still played cheerfully in the background like it was all part of the show.
“Great to see you, Steve!” someone shouted, laughing.
The last thing Twizzler saw before the door swung shut behind him was Peggy, arms crossed behind the bar, fighting back a grin.
---