𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 | A Top Gun Fanfiction

Chapter 35: 𝘋𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴, 𝘚𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴

The driveway was empty. Maverick's driveway. If his bike was still parked in the Top Gun lot, there could've been a chance that he went on foot. I did it. I walked from his house to Charlie's in a couple of hours. If I'm crazy enough to have done it, that's surefire proof that Maverick is crazy enough to hike it all the way from the academy to his house. Only, there's no way he made it before I got here, and I would've passed his sorry ass trudging along the guardrails. I crank the Jeep into drive and peel away from the house, going close to twenty over. Emotional energy has rapidly descended to fossil fuel level scarcity. Somehow, I've got the will to spin Ghost's car around town like a Porsche, but I can't bring myself to scream or curse and release the pressure pinned between my ribs. I want so badly to punch the dashboard, not enough to break anything, this is Ghost's car after all. I just...I just need to hit something. Instead, I clutch the wheel so tightly, my knuckles burn white-hot against the black leather.

Where else would he go?

The beach maybe...

Please tell me he didn't go to the beach.

As dramatic as our confrontation would be on a sandy stage, lit by the embers of a dying sun, composed by the crash of the sea, that means I'd have to search the whole damn shore to find him.

I free a hand from the wheel and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"I need a drink."

Downtown, I pass our bar. My eyes linger, drawn to the memory of beer, friends, music, laughter. Mostly the beer. I lick my chapped lips, considering for a second how fast I could pop in for a drink and hit the road. Look, I'm not one to drink and drive, but I'll drink and then drive if it calms this incessant buzzing under my skin. There's something wrong with this chair. How the Hell does Ghost drive this thing? I shift in my seat. Big mistake. Now no position is comfortable. I shift again and again. Are there pins on the driver's seat? The light turns green, and I hit the gas, lightly raising my butt off the leather for a moment's relief. As I force myself to sit back down, I throw the bar one last look —

Never mind.

A horn blares behind me.

"Shit!" And I've cracked. "Shit, sorry!"

James Bond wishes he could've made a turn like that. I probably scared the life out of the chevy behind me, but they're alive; and I'm alive, surprisingly. I turn into the parking lot, sliding into the spot right beside Maverick's bike.

Bugs never bothered me much. Growing up on a farm, you get used to bunking with roaches and crickets. If you've got brothers, you end up catching them and treating them like POWs. Bugs never bothered me; until now. The hum of my nerves has spread to the outerlayer of skin, and when I thought it couldn't get any worse, it now feels like millions of tiny critters are crawling along my body. Down my back, along my arms, weaving through my hair, under my shirt. A colony of bees, wasps, hornets. I know they aren't real. I know when I scratch every itching limb, that nothing will react and sting me. Against all reason, I shove both hands deep within my pockets the second I've hopped out of the Jeep and locked the doors. I leap up the steps, clearing them two at a time and jam an elbow into the door handle. Upbeat music greets me. I recoil, expecting something less energetic when the bar is this desolate. There's hardly any customers at this time of day. Everyone's still in school, or at work.

One bartender dries cups behind the bar, while three old men, retired I presume, chat over a couple tap drinks. Close to the jukebox, a middle-aged man and woman pour over papers.

There, slumped at a bar stool, is my Maverick.

He pushes a shot glass across the counter top.

The bartender picks it up, easily refilling it with a clear bottle perched by his elbow. He slides the glass back, and Maverick's hand army crawls towards it. I set my jaw and stride forwards. The music is a headache, but it swallows most of my thoughts, numbing me as I reach out and intercept the shot glass on it's course to Maverick's parted lips. Maverick's delayed reaction sets off alarms. I watch his eyelids plummet, his jaw twitch, as I placed my palm over top of his shotglass and gently lower it to the counter.