𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 | A Top Gun Fanfiction

Chapter 34: 𝘎𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘔𝘢𝘫𝘰𝘳 𝘛𝘰𝘮

Maverick's reckless tendencies haven't much changed.

Except for the fact that he wears a helmet on the motorcycle now.

When I'm around to force him, that is.

I wonder how he'll be in the air. Maverick's hand leaves mine; I snuggle into him, thousands of futures branching off before my eyes. A whole tree has grown in my mind by the time we've reached Top Gun, with Ghost's baby blue Jeep hot on our heels. Maverick might be more reckless? Careless of his life, angry at himself? I don't dare say suicidal. The mere mention of it has my eyes blurred and crossed; a sick, sugary flavor clogging my throat, threatening a gag. What if he's afraid? What if he flies nervously? Too slow, too cautious to take any risks at all? A full 180 from who he used to be. Will he be cooperative? Aggressive? Despondent? Anxious? There's a drumming song in my head and it's pulling bricks from the wall. Footsteps or heartbeat, you couldn't tell them apart. Which is faster? If only I knew.

What if...what if Maverick goes into a panic attack? Mid air? He's told me about a kid he used to fly with, back at his old base. The guy was married, had a kid, and one day, out of the blue froze up, terrified of losing his life and deserting his family.

After losing Vixen, they demoted me to back-seater, so I never had a chance to lock up at the wheel.

All my panic attacks were contained.

Maverick...

He's piloting.

He's taking the plunge, and whoever they assign in the back?

Their life is in his hands.

He can't afford to screw up...he can't...

Something soft brushes my hand.

"Hey," Breath tickles the hollow of my ear. "You alright?"

Couldn't be further from it, but how do I tell him that? I can't very well tell him I've panicking over the thought of him blanking in the air and killing himself. I shouldn't even be thinking it — what if I jinx it? What if my worrying is somehow a convoluted means of summoning misfortune? "I'm alright," I force a smile, loosely threading our fingers together, so if anyone were to walk by, we could easily separate. "Just...worn out, from everything, the past four days have been loaded."

"Yeah," Maverick groans, "You can say that again."

"The past four days have been loaded."

"Loaded with shit. I feel like I haven't slept in centuries."

He massages the knot between his eyes.

If my throat were any wider, I could've coughed up my heart. "A-are you gonna be good to fly, Mav? We can talk to Viper — delay this. Four days isn't enough time. You need to rest."

"No."

"No?" I breathe, hanging as heavily on his every word as I do his hand, which I've crushed to carnage with my anxiety.

Maverick's eyes press shut. A deep inhale inflates his chest as his shoulders rotate back. He seems to grow another three inches. "I need to do this." He resolves.

He says it so strongly; as if he's already done it and come back successful. It could be a facade, a 'fake it til you make it,' mentality, but I can't bring myself to ground his determination. Maverick's got that look. That sharp-eyed stare that could splice cinder blocks. My thumb dances along the cut of his wrist, pausing over his pulse point. It thrums ecstatically. That could mean anything from basic nerves to genuine excitement, and yet, I sense a shadow behind every drop of his heart. Like he's lying through his teeth to himself and to me, so he can psyche himself out of a petrifying fear. I want so badly to say something — to whisper in his ear that he's going to be alright, that it's natural to be scared, that I was terrified when I first flew after losing Vixen and it took months to overcome it. But the moment I unhinge my jaw, footsteps and lots of them, clatter down the hall.