Top Gun: You Can Be My Wingman (Maverick X Reader)

Lost.

Bright, blindingly bright, light floods my vision as my eyes crack open, my eyelids sore and aching from misuse. Groaning, I squeeze them shut again in response, my senses coming back to me as I begin to register the overwhelming pain surrounding my body, specifically my shoulder and lower back. Worried, I finally open my eyes and try to sit up, forcing myself to exert my muscles and get into a sitting position, wincing and almost crying out as a bolt of agony shoots through my back.
Before I check out the source of the pain, I look at my surroundings, surprised to see myself lying in my full flight gear in the middle of a deserted and dry valley, a collapsed parachute lying around me like a pool of fabric, the chords stuck and tangled in a nearby tree, a few broken branches scattered around my body. Everything clicks when I notice my helmet still clasped around my head, oddly being something I didn't recognise immediately; the surprise, the horror and the raw fear I felt as I got the reply from the backseat:
"We're going down, Quicksilver!"
After that moment, the events are a blur, but I do remember hearing a voice in my earpiece before we ejected, calling out to me, telling me I'll be ok.
We'd been out on a training mission in the mountains, my wingmen being Maverick and Goose as we chased the instructors around the range before it had all gone wrong. I guess I was trying too hard to show off to Maverick, the naval fighter being a new found friend who I worked hard to impress. I let him down, managing to get caught in the jet wash behind his plane as he shot past. My RIO and I had to eject; speaking of which, where is he?
Swallowing, I snap back to reality with the sharp feeling of a wave of pain coming from my shoulder accompanying it. I sigh and lift my hands to pull off my helmet, wincing at the ache and quick pain as I do so, dropping it to the floor and running a hand through my dirty hair before cocking my head to look at my shoulder. A patch of dried blood encrusts the torn fabric, sticking it to my skin uncomfortably, only coming away when I gingerly pull at it to reveal an open, infected wound marring the skin.
"Crap." I hiss as it stings in the dry breeze, quickly twisting around to check my back. A similar wound is visible under the ripped fabric, the ugly mark vivid and dark against the skin around it.
Setting my jaw, I consider my options.
I can either stay here and wait for help to find me, risking death from lack of food and water, or I can go and find help, braving the pain of walking for hours to find civilization.
Instinctually (and probably stupidly), I decide to go with the latter. Pushing through the agonising pain, I stand, grabbing my helmet and stretching out my taut muscles as I take in the surroundings in more detail.
To my right, a small stream runs through the dry, dusty mountains on either side of me, the clear water gurgling slightly as it flows through it's channel. Across from it, I can see a gap in the valley side, a plume of smoke just visible behind it. Maybe it's worth checking out.
Breathing deeply, I orientate my head, unclipping my parachute and taking a step, stopping abruptly when I stagger suddenly, my vision spinning dangerously. Allowing it to adjust, I hesitantly start forwards, gritting my teeth against the sharp sting from my wounds, moving step by step towards the smoke.
The going is slow, but I eventually make it to the gap in the valley, shuffling through it as carefully as possible. What I see on the other side is unsurprising, but shocking.
There, like the skeletal remains of a great bird, is the carcass of the jet I was flying, the metal debris charred and blackened by flames, the pieces scattered around it almost jauntily. A little to the left is another coloured parachute, the bright fabric covering a human-shaped object: my RIO.
Hurrying as much as I can, I stumble over to it, pulling on the parachute until it falls away from him, revealing the mangled body of Matthew "Arrow" Fletcher, my best friend. Blood covers his face and body, his features disfigured and marred under his cracked helmet. Going to him, I roll his limp body onto his side, pushing my fingers against his wrist, sorrow and fear welling up in me as my breathing increases.
Nothing.
No pulse at all.
Falling back on my ankles, I drop my head to my chest, my hair falling over my eyes as I sob, tears falling down my face as the severity of the situation hits me.
Matthew is dead.
My best friend of 19 years, gone forever. I lift my hands and cup my face, crying into their dirty surfaces with abandon, my heart almost breaking in grief.
For what feels like hours, I sit there, tears pouring down my grimy face until I harden my resolve and look up.
Leaning over his body, I reach into his shirt and pull off his dog tags, clutching them in my shaking hand before standing and looking down at him again. Silently, I salute him, giving him one last mark of respect as I turn and leave, walking off towards the entrance of the valley, not knowing where it takes me but going with it anyway.
I'll find my way home, even if it kills me.