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

Bad News.

Sweat coats my brow as I haul myself out of the cockpit, groaning as I stretch out my cramping fingers against the warm sides of the jet, the muscles in my body aching from hours of hard flying. Stepping out into the blazing sun, I briefly look out at the runway before dropping to the ground, grunting as my knees almost buckle under the sudden weight, dragging a hand through my disheveled hair after removing my helmet from my head, sighing in relief at the cool breeze that meets my heated skin. Wearily, I look over at Hawk, who looks just as washed out as I do, his tawny hair stuck to his face from wearing his helmet too long, lithe body leaning against the side of the jet in exhaustion.

Since coming to the Lexington, Hawk and I have flown almost everyday for hours on end, more often than not on patrol rather than being asked to fight off enemy bogeys. Normally, I wouldn't complain, but many of the other pilots we are made to fly with have little respect for a female aviator, which makes working with them rather tiring. Today just happens to be one of the times we had to fly with the worst of them all: Barracuda and his RIO, Wasp. As of the first time we met, Barracuda immediately decided he'd try and hit on me, until I bluntly told him I was taken (by someone much better looking) and had no interest in him, at which point he began mocking me for my gender. Wasp only makes things worse, but he's only this way when his pilot is around.

"I'm gonna take a shower, I feel filthy." Hawk groans beside me, wiping sweat off his brow as he pushes off the jet behind us, dragging himself over to the changing rooms. Following him, I run a hand through my hair once more before entering the cooler interior of the aircraft carrier, going a separate way to Hawk into the female changing rooms. Once inside, I go to my locker to get out a towel, replacing my helmet on top of the metal box, my eyes straying briefly to the line of lockers beside it, taking in the few other call signs written above them.

Stalker, Ghost and Risky.

Three other female aviators have been on this carrier, but I wonder if they were called out on this fact by pilots such as Barracuda. It can't just be me, can it?

Shaking my head, I strip off my flight gear, throwing it in a pile in front of my locker, before going over to the showers in the next room along. Carefully, I wash myself under the flow of warm water, making sure to rub the sweat out of my hair as much as possible, using my fingers to massage the knots in my muscles. After ten minutes of relishing the pleasant stream of water, I switch the shower off and dry myself, going back over to my locker to pull out a neatly folded uniform, which I quickly put on. Rolling my shoulders to make myself comfortable, I tuck my dog tags under my shirt before reaching down to lace up my shoes, wincing slightly as my back cracks quietly in protest.

Finishing up, I leave the changing room and go to the forward mess deck, hoping to pick up a sandwich before having to report back to my commander. Walking down the corridor, I nod politely at some of the staff, ignoring others who show me the same level of attention, quietly making my way to my destination, only to come across my commander as I turn a corner.

"Quicksilver. How was your patrol?" He questions as he sees me, face stern and professional despite his tone being light.

"Dull, sir, but it's all clear out there. We didn't see anything out of sorts in our area." I report, briskly, saluting him respectfully as he nods and stalks off. I roll my eyes slightly at the short conversation, continuing on my way with more purpose.

Finally reaching the mess deck, I head over to the counter and grab a sandwich, not paying particular attention to its filling, and a drink, probably a bottle of water. Going to a spare table, I take a seat and open the sandwich packaging, pulling the food from its confines. Absentmindedly, I start eating, my mind wandering slightly until I hear someone sit down opposite me.