𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 | A Top Gun Fanfiction

Chapter 28: 𝘑𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘉𝘺 𝘑𝘦𝘦𝘱

Maverick survived the drive home; and Charlie is none the wiser. I managed to wake up before both my house-mates, so I took my time in the bathroom and offered to start breakfast for Charlie. Ghost drifted into the kitchen and made coffee for everyone while I finished up the eggs. As we worked, she asked about Maverick.

"He seemed shaken."

"He was," I balance a heap of scrambled eggs on the spatula and spoon them onto a plate. "There was a lot on his shoulders that I didn't know about. We talked. I think he'll be alright now."

"That's good," Ghost hums.

In perfect sync, she turns for the fridge and I carry our plates towards the counter. We pass each other, nearly colliding. Laughing, we dodge one another. At the counter, I set two places, decked with silverware and napkins. Ghost fixes my coffee the way I like it, black, and lightly sweetened. I'll drink anything I'm given, but when I've got a choice, I'm usually too impatient for creamer but naturally too sour to go without sweetener, so I end up black with a bit of sugar mixed in. Ghost, on the other hand, puts it all in. I've even seen her steep her coffee in lavender before adding milk and sugar. She hums a folkish tune as she stirs her cup. As I heft myself onto a stool, I disrupt her song.

"Where'd you go off to last night?"

"Oh," Even before she faces me, I can sense her giddy smile. It's almost tangible. Like pulp in orange juice. A bright happiness I feel between my fingers. She scrunches her nose like an over excited kid and brings our coffees over. "Well," I take my mug off her hands so she can hop into the seat beside me. "I haven't called my family in a while, since before I got here actually. So I rang Mom and talked to her for a little, and then I called Brian. The phone rang so long I thought I might fall asleep but he picked up and we scheduled a time for him to come by and drop off my car!"

I sip my coffee. "When's he coming?"

"In three days!"

Not what I was expecting.

Ghost is thrilled. Her head stays at an angle as she explains that he was planning to call this morning and let her know he'll be heading our way. It'll be a three day drive here, and then he'll catch his plane at the airport for Ireland, where he's visiting their mom. I let her rattle on as I eat, entertained by her impression of her brother on the phone. Her voice drops an octave but stays squeaky enough to sound feminine.

"You'll love him," She finishes. "Brian is an oak. He hates it, but he is. He's rough and beautiful and you just want to hug him."

"Ok," I laugh.

"What?"

I clear a bit of egg from my throat and firmly shake my head. "Nothing, nothing–"

"It's something!"

"It's you, that's what."

Her eyes widen. "What about me?"

I roll my eyes and grin. "Everything."

Pink blossoms on her cheeks and she hides behind her coffee. "Now who's being poetic," She murmurs.

If she qualifies one word as poetry, then sure, I'm a poet. Along with every human to ever say a single coherent word. But I take the complement and drain it with my coffee.

Three days drag by like a decade running a race. I'm so wrapped up in racking up points towards the Top Gun trophy, spending time with Maverick, and keeping a close eye on Iceman that come Saturday, I've almost forgotten. Ghost wakes me up by gently poking my shoulder. For a second, I think it's Maverick and I go to slap him, but she scrambles away with a gasp and I immediately shoot up in bed, totally embarrassed for almost attacking her. Ghost just laughs at my instinctive 'slappiness' and drags me out from under the covers before I can worm my way beneath them again. She's positively glowing. As she and I tidy up the house, Charlie plays some records. Ghost turns out to be a big Franki Valli fan, which I respect. Sadly, Charlie doesn't have any Journey or Foreigner but she does have Beatles and Elvis. I grew up listening to Elvis Presley, mainly because my father hated him, and I thought he was incredibly cute, but as I've gotten older, I love his songs for the nostalgia. Everytime Blue Suede Shoes plays, I remember jumping on my rickety old bed in the attic, wearing my cowgirl boots which I treasured as highly as the King did his blue suedes. With a duster and hand, I skate on my socks, belting Hound Dog. My RIO dissolves into giggles and rushes to change the record to a Beatles one.