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

An Unfair Fight.

"How many are we up against?" Slider questions through the mics, his head visibly turning in the cockpit to our left, the RIO waiting for one of us to reply as he watches us from across the distance.

"Apparently there's five, but we know how they like to be." I respond, biting my lip as Maverick continues for me.

"It's likely there will be more than there are on the radar." His voice is also concerned, though he flies at a relatively steady pace, meaning he isn't nervous at all.

"Yay." Slider replies, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

"Hey, at least you've only just gotten out here, we've been flying for hours!" Stalker exclaims, the quality of her reception a little distorted thanks to the distance between us, our wingmen already being at the destination and all.

"True. How're you doing for fuel?" I inquire, cautious as to how we should approach this, knowing it may well be an ambush.

"Quarter of a tank. We'll last another hour or so." Jolt reports, the sound of his voice surprising me, not used to being spoken to by him.

"Good." Iceman approves for me, his jet dipping to accommodate Stalker's as she comes into range, the rest of us falling into an arrow formation with Maverick leading.

"Any sight of them yet?" Merlin asks through the mics, waiting a little for the other RIOs to check. Behind me, Hawk cranes his neck in search of the enemies, though I know they are not in the vicinity; the radar is blank at all edges.

"None." Jolt responds, followed by Hawk and Slider.

"Nope."

"No, all clear."

My grip tightens on the joystick, my nerves starting to kick in again.

"That's odd, we're in the right area, they should be here." Hawk murmurs behind me, to no one in particular.

"You forget that planes move." I point out, chuckling dryly at his dismissive response.

"Shut up."

For a little while longer, we move together through the sky, hoping to lure them in with our easily-attacked target, though we don't receive any correlating blips from the machinery in front of us to signal anyone's approach. Eventually, we choose to split up, fanning out over a large area to cover more space, each of us slowly becoming tenser as the time goes on, suspicious of the eerily empty range given to us by our control tower. None of us say much, only breaking the silence to report the lack of bogeys in the area, voices laced with trepidation.

It takes twenty minutes for Hawk to finally spot something.

"Hey, Quicksilver? I think we've got three bogeys on our tail." The RIO says cautiously, sounding unsure of himself.

"Really? Where?" I question, surprises that nothing came through on the radar, checking the green circle again just to make sure. It shows empty rings on a blank background, as it has done for a while now.

"Miles back, out of range." He replies, hands gripping at the inside if the canopy as he tries to make out whatever it is that he can see, "They're definetly following us, though."

Confused, I twist in my seat, keeping the plane in a level flight as I try to spot what Hawk is on about, spotting the distant shapes with some difficulty.

"What the hell are they doing?" I murmur, returning my gaze to the front of the cockpit, unsure of what to do in this situation.

"I don't know, but they've been following us for ten minutes or so."