𝑨𝑰𝑵'𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮?

².

✩‧₊*:・･:*₊‧✩

SHE'S LOST WHAT?

. . .

The music is so loud that I can feel it in my bones, rattling around like a pair of fuckin' maracas.

Everywhere I look is teeming and thrumming with life and laughter and suggestive smiles across the room, and I'm excited. After whatever happened in the classroom earlier at that briefing, I'm looking to redeem myself with a drink or five.

All the aviators here are wearing their white uniforms, and Bee and I are no exception to what seems to be the tradition. It's our first night in Miramar, and I suppose the militia has come to visit, and it's all a very big deal down at the bar tonight. I keep adjusting the waistband of my trousers, adjusting my little badge, my golden wings – you know, it's entirely possible to be nervous and excited at the same time. There's—a lot of people here. What I need is a beer to get me going, I decide, and then I can determine whether or not to take up on that girl that flirted with me when we first walked in.

Bee scratches, frowning, at his moustache – one would think he had nits there with how often he keeps touching that thing – and tries to find and point out to me some other Top Gun student he met earlier who he thought was nice.

I turn to him in all seriousness, peering up at him as I say, raising my voice in order for my words to carry over the music, "Remember two months ago when we splashed those bandits?" And he nods, humming. "And remember how you got so drunk that you threw up in front of that girl who was givin' you them eyes?" He narrows his eyes and nods again, slower, and hums, indulging me for the sake of indulging me. I give him a hearty pat on the back: "Well, Bee, I wanna get good and wasted tonight, and that means you're the driver – no drinking means no drinking."

My RIO shuts his eyes and almost pouts like a little kid, letting out a low whine of protest. "You know we have training in the morning, right?"

I grin widely at him. "I've managed before, and I'll manage again, my love."

He lets out a long, grumbling sigh. "Fine," he groans. He knows I need to loosen the fuck up.

But he doesn't stay sulking for long. Bee's a real social person, and he's always talking to someone – by the time the five minutes it takes me to get a drink has passed, he's already acquainted with every single student at Top Gun, even with the aviators not attending the school, the ones who fly for the base nearby. It's nice to see him in his element, smiling, laughing, chattering away about that one thing that happened to him and me a few months ago. I love that he always includes me in his stories, even when I'm not a part of the conversation. As I return from the bar, having just received my beer and a free gin and tonic from some random guy (cute, yeah, but still random), Bee ruffles my hair and yanks me into his little talk with that RIO he had wanted me to meet: Rango, a bright, smiley guy with curly, blonde hair, and his pilot, Champ, the more stern-looking of the two.