Top Gun Imagines

Unexpected Solutions [Maverick X Reader]

A/N: Song track to accompany this one-shot:

Hot Summer Nights - Miami Sound Machine

Also: this took way too long to write (like, 2 days for some reason) so please vote and comment!

(The title sucks, but oh well.)

****

It was always summer nights like these that made you feel... alive.

With the gentle breeze blowing against your skin - not to hot, not too cold...

It's on evenings like these that used to spur you on - fuel your creativity.

But tonight, on this particular evening, as you're watching the sun sink below the horizon from behind your desk, you can't help but feel worse than ever.

See, you'd missed your deadline.

By two days to be exact.

Being a branch between the US Navy's Air Force and the general public through reporting and publishing informational articles can be exhausting.

Especially when your necessary source of information continues to be uncooperative.

Lieutenant Pete Mitchell was supposed to have briefed you on his MiG sighting. Three days ago.

A sighting that according to those higher ups, was to be known to the general public in the vicinity of the airbase in order to maintain a sort of constant surveillance of the enemy craft.

If the people know what to look for, they can report it and then the Navy can scramble their fighters.

In your head, it makes half sense.

You understand where they Navy is coming from.

But the civilian side of you disagrees - fearing that by making this information known to the public they will go about their lives in fear for a reason unlikely to ever happen.

Pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration, you sink in your seat, the orange glow of the setting Sun bathing the paper in front of you in a warm hue.

"I can't finish this until he actually does his part," You mutter bitterly, kicking away from the table and wandering towards the kitchen of your small apartment.

Just outside of the Navy's bounds sits a small community, one that's relatively tightly knit, considering most of the folks here have spouses or other loved ones amongst the ranks.

But not you.

You're just here to do your job.

Which, as you pour yourself a glass of water, peering out the window that faces your front door, the answer to your job's problems seems to appear from thin air.

A familiar jacket clad figure is clambering off of yet another familiar motorcycle, a dark pair of aviators sitting on his features.

Surprise ripples through you at the newcomer's arrival as you watch him stride up the walkway and onto the porch, knocking against the door.

How in the world did he get my address?

And why would he be here now, of all times?

Setting your glass down and answering the door, you whisk it open to reveal a grinning Pete Mitchell, a slight awkwardness evident in his stance.