Prompt: Broken Voice / Unable to Speak
Title: Moving Forward
Fandom: Top Gun (1986)
Warnings: N/A
Word Count (excluding author's notes and such): 5,691
Time Period: 1991. During the Gulf War air campaign, an important piece of Operation Desert Storm.
Author's Note: This is a piece inspired by the scene in the original film when we see Maverick packing up his kit, with Stinger asking him where he'll go next. Pete expresses interest in becoming an Instructor back at Top Gun. We later learn in the 2022 film, that he only lasted two months in that role. Now, as the audience, we're led on to believe that he only lasted that short duration because of his usual antics that the Navy obviously doesn't approve of... But what if that wasn't the sole reason for his short time back at Top Gun? I wanted to explore sort of an AU side to things while still drawing on some very plausible history. I also wanted to create some answers at why when we catch up with Pete in the 2022 film, he is alone and isolated. Again, we're led to believe because he's still holding onto Goose, that guilt forces him into this isolated position, but what if those weren't the only reasons?... Enjoy!
(Edit: I likely shouldn't have written this as part of my challenge, but frankly, it's been sitting as an idea for too long now and this prompt gave me the inspiration to write it!)
(Edit No. 2: Holy crap - this might as well have been it's own little short story! I am so sorry for the length of this monstrosity, but I am super happy with how it turned out! It wandered slightly, but I think it went in a good direction... I definitely hurt my own feelings with this one, though.)
Synopsis: Commander Y/N "Oddball" L/N, a woman who usually sticks closely to her instructor role at Top Gun, having graduated second in her class in 1987, finds herself thrown into the fray of Air Combat once again. Though this time, she's leading a Team of current Top Gun pilots into battle alongside none other than Commander Pete "Maverick" Mitchell who has been called back to assist with this Mission. But when their reconnaissance flight heads south and the Y/N finds herself, along with the rest of her pilots, in the midst of an enemy anti-aircraft barrage, will they make it back? Or will this be her final flight?
----
Moving Forward
Oddball.
That's what they've always called you.
Why?
Because you're always a loner.
No matter how hard you try to fit in... even if you wanted to, you just can't.
And frankly, you're fine with that fact.
You work just fine alongside other pilots, teaching them how to become even better than they thought they were before.
But your go against the flow type demeanor always seems to get you in situations you can't quite understand why you're in.
Such as this one.
You'd just landed after one heck of a routine training flight, far more common nowadays with Operation Desert Shield beginning to quickly become Desert Storm, the far more aggressive take towards the rising tension in Iraq.
Or at least, from the bits and pieces you've heard, that's what it certainly sounds like.
"You know," The older, uniformed man sitting behind the desk in front of you mutters, setting aside his cigar, "We had someone along your ways of thinkin' come through here a few years back. Was one hell of a egotistical bastard - you women don't seem to carry that trait."
You inwardly flinch at his words, though make no move, remaining at attention, gaze fixed on the wall behind his head.
"Funny enough, as fate would have it, that kid's comin' back," The rather grey haired Admiral in front of you chuckles with a shake of his head. "Comin' back to get your team ready for deployment."
Confusion and genuine surprise pricks your thoughts.
So the rumors have been true.
America is flinging herself back into the fight yet again...
With us at her helm.
"Inform your Team of this development and ensure they are equipped with the necessary Ground School supplies. Hangar three. 0600."
"Sir, I-" You start, uncertainty working it's way into your tone, a frown creasing your brow.
"That is all, Commander. You're dismissed," He orders, sliding a plain, brown paper folder across his desk, wordlessly urging you to pick it up and continue on your way.
So that's what you do, blinking in acknowledgement, before heading towards the door and stepping out into the dimly lit hallway, the sound of it closing behind you with a wooden thud echoing down the corridor.
These hallways practically feel like home, and as you stride down them, gaze wandering over the now rain-stained windows and the grey mix of F-14s and F-15s sitting quietly on the tarmac, you can't help but sigh.
They are home.
And these handful of pilots...
The current best of the best...
They're your Team.
Yours.
And now you have to be the one to send them into the fray of whatever the hell is going on overseas - you along with them.
Huffing a chuckle of a rather disbelieved laugh, you pause as you near the exit, something... no, more like, someone, catching your eye, practically sprinting towards you.
You don't recognize him - he's not a regular on base, that's for sure.
Clad in a pair of jeans, cowboy boots, a plain white shirt (that's quickly becoming soaked) and an evidently decorated brown bomber jacket, the newcomer comes bursting through the door in front of you, taking a breath before wiping the rain water from his face.
It's almost as if he doesn't notice you until you shift your weight to your other foot, moving ever so slightly, but enough so it catches his attention.
And it does, earning a slight jump of surprise, his gaze instantly settling on yours, a breathy chuckle being pulled from his lips.
"I honestly didn't even see you there. Sorry ma'am."
A soft smile tugs at your lips.
"No harm done," You assure. "It's understandable - making a break for it to get out of that rain."
"Yeah," Is all he replies, lips beginning to form the slightest ghost of a smirk. "You're a pilot?"
You hadn't even comprehended that you're still donning your olive drab Flightsuit, too caught up in mentally trying to determine just who this man in front of you is.
Or were you lost in this stranger's rather mesmerizing green gaze?
"Hm?" You muse aloud, eyes suddenly widening in realization that he'd spoke and you had never answered.
Once more, the jacket clad newcomer just chuckles.
"Top Gun isn't for the faint of heart," He grins, shedding his jacket and tossing it over his shoulder before passing you by, clapping you on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "But I'm sure you'll do just fine!"
Blinking a few times as you watch him go the way you'd just previously came, you simply stand there, confusion and curiosity running askew through your mind.
I'm not a student... Does he really think I'm...
"I'm an Instructor!" You holler after him, as he just comes to a halt, turning slowly to face you, grin not fading.
"Well, that makes two of us!"
Realization floods your system as you hear the Admiral beckon the newcomer into his office, a barely audible and rather annoyed sounding "Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell" reaching your senses.
And before either of you can say much more, you watch as the stranger now known to you as Maverick, disappears into the room, the wooden door once more closing with a familiar thud.
Leaving your flabbergasted figure and the rain-stained windows alone in the quiet space.
****
"Attention on deck!"
You barely hear yourself bark the order aloud, voice echoing back at you in your head and in the hangar, the tall ceilings naturally causing sound to sound louder than it seems.
That includes the shoving of chairs against concrete as your Team follow suit, hauling themselves to their feet and snapping to attention.
Standing rigid from where you'd decided to sit, off to the side, your eyes follow the Admiral as he makes his way towards the front of the large space, yet another plain brown folder in his gasp.
"At ease, gentlemen," He greets with a cold glance your way, earning an inward eye-roll from you as you settle back into your seat.
It's accurate that the majority of Naval Aviators these days are still men.
Heck, you still, to this day, have no idea how you've made it to where you're at.
It had been one hell of a ride - seeming near impossible at times - but you'd somehow made it.
Almost as if everything in the universe had finally aligned to benefit you for once.
"As I'm sure you've all been briefed by Commander L/N, you are being deployed."
A rather hushed silence fills the hangar, the same way it had when you'd told them all last night in the common area, by the time you'd trudged back to the Crew Quarters through the rain from the Admiral's office.
"Operation Desert Storm is a go - it has been for under a week now. All of you will be headed to the USS Saratoga as soon as possible. She's currently positioned in the Red Sea, close enough to the conflict to provide aerial assistance. Reconnaissance and low level bombing runs have been..."
The Admiral trails off, the sudden sound of boots against concrete earning everyone's attention.
Twisting in your seat, you turn to face the source of the noise, an inward chuckle rising within you.
The same man that you'd encountered last night in the rain is striding towards you, a pair of dark aviator sunglasses sitting rather... handsomely upon his features, a grin creeping onto his features as he nears you, clad in his Flightsuit.
"How nice of you to join us, Commander Mitchell."
"Sorry, Sir," Is all he replies, casually taking a seat at your side as the Admiral resumes his speech.
Which almost instantly becomes a steady drone of information you'd told your Team last night.
"I never got your name," Pete Mitchell murmurs from beside you, his gaze not leaving the higher ranking man at the front of the room, acting as if he's listening.
"Y/N," Is all you mutter back in reply, a sudden heat rising to your cheeks that you barely recognize.
"No callsign?"
At this, you pass Maverick a disapproving look, shaking your head.
Though in return, you just get a similar look back, urging you on with a smirk.
"Oddball," You grumble, giving into his question, to which he nods in thought.
"Seems fitting. Maverick and Oddball, the best Top Gun instructors around!" He teases lowly, a chuckle escaping him.
"As I'm sure all of you are wondering about the addition of Commander Mitchell alongside Commander L/N, the answer is quite simple," The man at the front of the room begins, switching gears, his voice changing slightly.
The Admiral's steady, steely gaze is resting heavy on you now, your own returning with a coldness you've learnt to carry over your years of service.
"The Navy feels that for this particular combat mission, a second commanding opinion is needed, hence the addition."
You can feel Pete's gaze switch to you, no likely waiting for some sort of reaction.
But you give none, simply holding your superior's gaze evenly, a glistening of a challenge sparking within you.
"Your Instructors will report back to you tonight to give the final orders. In the meantime, head back to your Quarters and begin to prepare for deployment. You are dismissed."
The air goes slack as the Admiral strides away, an almost smug looking grin on his features.
"Surely your professional opinion can't be that bad if they called me back," The man at your side huffs, crossing his arms over his chest as the pair of you stand there, watching your Team follow their orders.
"Why? You got a reputation around here, Mitchell?"
A breathy chuckle falls from his lips, smirk growing.
"You could say that."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose with a shake of your head before once more raising your gaze to meet Pete's.
"Well, you better catch me up to speed real quick on how you do things because it looks like we'll be going into an active warzone together whether we like it or not."
"That works for me," He grins, stepping closer to you slightly, gaze wandering across your chest for a moment.
"Y/N "Oddball" L/N," He recites off of your Top Gun graduate name badge, a slight heat rising to your cheeks once more.
"Pete "Maverick" Mitchell," You hum back at him, a teasing in your tone. "Now c'mon. We've got work to do."
****
In all your years in the Navy, no one, not even the other Naval Aviators you'd graduated from Top Gun alongside, have ever spent as much time with you as Pete Mitchell has been this afternoon.
He hadn't left your side since this morning.
The pair of you had gone for a walk around Base, chatting about well... everything.
Everything from why you joined the Navy to your favorite songs...
Something about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, though, strikes you as a type of loneliness, masked behind his rather off the cuff, egotistical and charming demeanor.
You hadn't pried though, knowing right well what the cause for his front may be.
In this line of work, you lose people.
It's almost inevitable.
You'd never lost a wingman in all your time of flying, but as it's been told numerous times, if you fly long enough, it'll happen eventually.
You're just hoping it doesn't happen in the coming days.
"Looking at your assessment of Hurricane and Rico, it's safe to say they're likely our best bet for... Y/N?"
Pete's voice had been merely a distant drone, though when your name falls from his lips, it gains your attention as you blink a few times, sitting up straighter in your seat.
"Hurricane... and... Rico?" You mumble, glancing at the assortment of your pilot's profiles and records strewn across the table top between you and your newfound Partner.
"Yeah, for a more frontline combat role, I'd imagine, based off of their records and your reports?"
You wordlessly nod, thinking of the pair, always in sync in seems, especially in the air.
Stifling a yawn, you allow your gaze to wander the now much darker surroundings of the Crew Common area, the lone light off to the far side of the room bathing the darkness in a warm glow.
"I'm just not sure how I feel about sending these guys into an active warzone," You mumble, propping your head on your fist, tired gaze resting on the pilot across from you. "They're good, sure, but how good do you have to be to make it out of whatever the hell we could be up against?"
At this, Maverick's features soften slightly, a frown falling to his lips.
"They've been in far more capable hands than they would've been if I had been here," He assures, instinctively grabbing your free hand that'd been holding Rico's record, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You've done all you can do. But at the end of the day, it all comes down to the pilot in the box."
Inwardly, you know right well that Pete is correct.
In fact, you're rather surprised that such comfort and wisdom just came from the same pilot who'd waltzed into the hangar this morning, an air of ego hot on his heels.
But there's a nagging thought in the back of your mind that just won't leave you alone, no matter how hard you push it away.
These pilots haven't seen this type of action in quite some time... and one can only do so much against Surface to Air Missiles... especially in the middle of the desert...
"You're right," You hear yourself murmur, a yawn overtaking you.
The brunet holding your hand offers a small smile, his gaze not leaving yours.
"Let's finalize our Teams and pass along the decision. Then, we can get some rest."
And all you can do is nod, thankful that for once, someone else is at your side.
****
It had taken a bit of time to get to where you are currently, standing on the Flight Deck of the USS Saratoga, quickly becoming abuzz with activity.
Your gaze wanders over the lines of patiently waiting aircraft as well as the glimmering waves of the Red Sea.
Though a thick, black smoke burns in the distance on the mainland.
And you know right well that's where you're headed.
That's where your Team is headed.
Right into the thick of it.
"Everyone's ready to go," A sudden, rather familiar voice sounds from beside you, the newfound comfort of Pete Mitchell's sunglassed gaze resting on you. "We should probably get on it."
"Yeah..." Is all you can muster up to reply, too caught up in watching the black clouds to billow higher and higher into the blue sky.
Shaking yourself from your thoughts with a sigh, you turn to face your Partner, your own sunglassed gaze wandering him over, your heart just aching to say something, your head screaming at you otherwise.
"Mav, listen, I know we've only-"
Though your sentence is cut short, the pilot's usual attitude interrupting you.
"We'll talk when we're back on Deck," Maverick nods with a grin, beckoning you to follow his strides.
So you do, reaching the F-14 that you'd taken turns flying all the way out here in between refueling stops, beginning the same routine that you do before every flight almost as if you'd both done it together a hundred times before.
"And you're sure you want me to pilot?"
Your Partner pauses part way up the ladder, taking one last glance back at you, standing below him.
"I'm sure," You assure him with a genuine smile. "I've had to be a sit in RIO a few times before, heck, I even took a few night classes."
You pause, noticing Maverick's slightest change in demeanor.
His previous grin is no longer evident as he stands there, gaze now wandering the Flight Deck, almost as if he's lost in his own little world...
"I'm trusting you, Pete."
The sternness in your voice must pull the pilot from his thoughts, because almost instantly, he flashes you his familiar toothy smile, continuing up the ladder and clambering into the cockpit.
Huffing with a satisfied nod to yourself, you hastily make your own way into the rear seat of the Tomcat and don your helmet, beginning to run through your pre-flight checks.
And you're so caught up in your mental list that you barely resonate the fact that the canopy over your head is now closed and sealed tight, the aircraft you're in gradually beginning to move forward against the runway.
Heck, you hadn't even comprehended the fact that you'd already strapped yourself in and locked your mask into position.
Not until Maverick's questioning tone filters through the speakers in your helmet.
"You ready for this, Oddball?"
Coming back to the present, you blink a few times, allowing your gaze to survey the awaiting aircraft of the rest of your Team.
"Just a walk in the park, Mitchell."
And with one last go ahead from the Tower, you find yourself soaring through the air.
With the Saratoga growing smaller and smaller to your back...
And the billowing, looming black smoke becoming thicker and thicker on the horizon.
****
So far, everything is as you were briefed on.
Oil fields burn steadily beneath you for as far as the eye can see, their smoke making your objectives difficult, but not impossible.
"Assess the Iraqi airbases for any new threats and then get the hell home," You can hear the stern tone of the Admiral aboard the Saratoga when he'd briefed you and your Team one final time before you'd left the safety of her deck.
A safety of which, you're beginning to miss.
"Picture still clean?" Pete's inquisitive tone cuts into your thoughts, startling you slightly as your gaze that had been wandering the blurring desert sands re-focuses on the radar screen in front of you.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Picture clean," You confirm for what seems to be the hundredth time - your Partner seems to be quite on edge.
"We're nearing the defensive lines for the first airbase," Hurricane's tone sounds in your ear, a hint of concern evident. "Y'know, I'm not too sure how we're gonna get close enough to assess their arsenal of aircraft or anything else, considering the fact that you know, they're gonna be shooting at us in about... three minutes or so?"
At this, you hear the man in front of you just chuckle.
"Only one of us can get close enough."
"You knew that, man! It's our job to watch Mav's back while he and Oddball race in there and snap some photos!" Rico, Hurricane's RIO, exclaims with a sigh, earning a laugh from you.
"C'mon, Hurricane! You know better than that!"
But then, the lighthearted chatter almost instantly fades as your heart drops.
Radar warnings all too familiar begin to demand your attention, your voice already informing your Partner of the change in pace before your mind can even comprehend it.
And all you can do is go along for the ride as the pilot in front of you instantly takes defensive action, the SAM that had locked onto your trail erupting in a ball of flames behind you, having fallen for the flares.
"Get in there, Mav! We'll cover you!"
At this point, it's hard to tell which one of your pilot's that is, but all you can tell is that his tone is laced with adrenaline and...
Terror.
SAMs, accompanied by a relentless barrage of anti-aircraft fire, crackle through the soot-stained skies, the missile's white smoke a stark contrast against the dark clouds from the fires below.
But Pete is making good progress towards the objective, the glimmering silver of buildings gradually getting closer.
"When I tell you, you better have that camera at the ready so we can get the hell out of here," Pete states firmly, tone unwavering as you callout yet another tag on the radar, to which he evades with relative ease.
"Copy."
Time seems to stretch on forever, the Iraqi airbase seeming to just become a figure of your imagination... It's almost as if the closer you're getting, it simply remains in the same place?
"We're nearing the right coordinates, right, Mav?"
It takes him a second, flipping through the notepad strapped to the thigh of his Flightsuit.
"Yeah, the one's we were given, anyways."
You swallow the rising lump in your throat at the realization that is gradually beginning to form in your mind.
"Something isn't right, here," You murmur to no one in particular, a wave of icy realization washing over you.
But that's when all hell breaks loose.
Any pilot's worst nightmare instantly coming true.
"Falcon three is hit! I repeat, Falcon three is hit!"
That's Rico's voice - that accent would be clear to anyone.
But the absolute panic in the pilot's tone?
You've never heard anything like it until this very moment.
"Shit! There go Blaze and Link!"
The callout sends a shiver of your own panic dancing down your spine as Maverick banks back around for a moment, your gazes both wandering the bedlam at your rear.
All that's left is a ball of flames tumbling towards the desert below, the shouting in your headset becoming almost too much to bear as you muster up all your strength not to break down.
Your Team needs you.
"Did anyone see a parachute?" You demand, praying that your tone doesn't sound as watery as your quickly becoming blurry gaze.
No reply.
"Did anyone see a chute?!"
"They're gone, Y/N," Pete's own sorrowed tone floods your headspace as you simply sit there, the previous artillery bombardment almost having gone silent, unable to return any words in reply.
"Falcons return to carrier immediately," The stern voice of one of the controllers back at the Tower pierces through your quickly muddling thoughts, tone unwavering, completely unaware that you'd just lost one of your own.
You can hear your Team acknowledge the order all in their own ways, though their tones no longer carry any sort of upbeatness to them.
Instead, they're all simply void of any emotion, absolutely in shock after witnessing two of their comrades burn in right in front of them.
"Falcon one, returning to carrier."
And as the plane you're sitting in begins to head back the way you'd came from, mere minutes ago, yet another ripple of panic choruses through you.
"Smoke in the air! Smoke in the air!" You yelp aloud in utter surprise as the all too familiar blaring warnings begin to sound once more, your body almost instantly being forced into your seat with the sudden evasive maneuvers Maverick begins to pull, attempting to get a bit more altitude.
There's absolutely nothing to stop these SAMs from locking onto a target and bee-lining towards them.
There's no terrain, no structures... nothing to confuse the missile's honing equipment.
Just endless miles of burning sand.
"Flares!"
Fist practically smashing against the button that signals the flares, you twist against the restraints keeping you in place, watching with wide eyes as the SAM erupts into a ball of flames, gravitating towards the flares...
Only to quickly realize that wasn't the only one.
Another missile comes bursting through the smoke as the plane you're in begins to climb once more, your Partner's callout for flares barely resonating with you.
"We're out of flares, Mav!"
"Damn it!"
And that's the last thing you hear before your world goes black, with nothing but the feeling of warm, relentless wind blowing across your exposed skin.
****
Images, so brief, flash through your mind as you fade in and out of consciousness, the only thing you vaguely feel is just... heat.
For a moment, a rather bloodied Pete Mitchell is staring down at you with utmost concern glimmering in his gaze, the searing Sun being blotted out by his features.
Then, blackness.
This time, orange fills your vision, accompanied by the distant feeling of... sand and sweat.
Though you don't feel warm, rather, immensely cold.
Darkness overtakes you yet again.
But, coming around once more, your feeling finally comes drifting back to you in much larger pieces than before.
Pain resonates with you in your left ankle, another constant ache throbbing in the back of your skull.
And the shivering sure as hell isn't helping.
"Pete?" You attempt to murmur aloud, your vision taking quite some time to return.
Though you hear nothing echo back at you in return, merely a rather strangled sounding whimper.
Though that must be enough to gain the attention of your Partner, because as you rest your head back against something cool, exhaustion setting in, a pair of steady hands urgently rest against your back and gripping your hand, capture your focus.
"Easy, Y/N," He coaxes, voice so full of relief and concern, it brings tears to your gradually clearing eyes. "You're alright. Just a broken ankle, that's all."
You hear yourself groan in frustration, though it cracks as soundless sobs wrack your frame, the gravity of the past few... hours? weighing heavy on you.
"They were my Team! Mine!" You rasp, vision finally returning to you, only to be met with the familiar features of your Partner.
His brown hair is beyond messy, parts of it almost look sticky with what you hope isn't blood, rather, just sweat.
What was a clean, crisp Flightsuit is now dirty to no end, the sleeves torn and seams fraying.
And for a moment, it makes you wonder just what he's been through while you've been in and out of consciousness
Keeping your sorry ass alive.
"I'm sorry," Is all you murmur, your head finding it's resting place against the coolness of the rock at your back, propping you up.
"What's there to apologize for?" Pete hums, nearing your side and settling in beside you, your sides instinctively pressing together for some sort of warmth.
"You've been stuck with my dead-weight ever since we ended up here - in the middle of the desert that also happens to be a warzone - and even now, I'm still no use to you!"
You can swear you hear the pilot sitting beside you chuckle, a sadness creeping its way into his tone.
"I'm just glad you're alive," He admits, shifting forward slightly so you can see him completely, his warm gaze steadily holding yours. "After we bailed, I honestly had no idea if you'd even made it out before we burnt in..."
Maverick's tone wavers, a slightly haunted glimmer appearing in his gaze.
"But then I saw the chute... and when I got to you, even though you were unconscious and unresponsive, you were still breathing... and for a moment..."
Tears are gathering in his eyes now, a trembling dirty hand raising to wipe them away.
"I thought I lost another... - you. I thought I lost you."
The man in front of you exhales with a shaky chuckle, running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to compose himself.
"I should be the one apologizing, not you. Because of me, you nearly died."
So your hunch was correct.
You don't feel any sort of satisfaction of being correct though, no, instead immense sorrow filters through you, compassion swelling.
Wordlessly, you urge yourself to shimmy forward, close enough to the broken pilot to grasp his dirty hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Just like he had all those nights ago back at Base.
"I guess all that matters now is how we move forward," You rasp, voice desperately crying out for water to ease the dryness, though you know right well there's none of that around.
"Because we've both lost people. But I don't think they'd want us dwelling on them, would they?"
Inwardly, you chuckle at your own words, thinking about what type of reactions your two students would've had if they'd seen you like this - a sobbing mess - because they're gone.
They would've made it some sort of joke that would've got the rest of the Team laughing and then you would've never heard the end of it.
But, you watch as Pete Mitchell's expression shifts ever so slightly, almost seeming to ponder your words as if they were the most important things on the planet.
"How we move forward..." He mumbles lowly, expression shifting once more as he lifts his gaze to meet yours, his thoughts visibly clearer, though you can tell your words have stuck with him. "We move forward tonight by just making it through until Search and Rescue gets here tomorrow."
Offering a small smile, you pull Maverick towards you with the bit of strength you have left, planting a ghost of a kiss to his cheek.
"You're one hell of a pilot, Pete Mitchell. But you're a far more loyal Partner than I'd ever thought I'd give you credit for. Keep that, okay?"
Wordlessly, he nods, the edges of his lips twitching up into his familiar smirk.
"Giving credit where it's due - it's about time!"
"Oh, shut up."
Nestling closer together and pulling the few bits of salvaged parachute over top of the pair of you to try and retain some heat as the cold night draws on, you sigh.
The sorrow is still there, weighing heavy in your chest like a pile of bricks.
But, you've got to move forward.
If not for you, you've got to move forward for them.
****
It had come as a surprise when Pete had woken you up with a rather excited grin on his features, barely visible in the dim darkness of your desert surroundings.
The hum of the familiar sound of rotors nearing where you'd lay had also earned a smile from you.
And when you'd finally boarded that helicopter and taken a sip of the bottle of water that had been instantly offered to you, it had finally dawned on you.
The same way its dawning on you now, as you stand back at Top Gun, albeit on crutches, in front of the Admiral in his office.
"I was glad when I got the news that they found you and Commander Mitchell in one piece," He hums, taking a draw of his cigar before setting it down, gaze flicking to you.
"And I'm glad you'll make a speedy recovery. We need you back up in the air as soon as possible to keep training these pilots to be better than they think they are. And as much as it galls me to admit it, you truly are one of the best of the best, Commander, regardless of your outward demeanor."
His words surprise you slightly, but you still hobble forward, unpinning the golden wings from your uniform before gently placing them on his desk, stepping back.
"I'm done, Sir," You declare, voice wavering. "I've lost the edge, from my perspective, at least."
The Admiral merely holds your gaze, genuine surprise at your sudden actions evident in his expression.
"Understood. Well, Ms. L/N, it's been an honor to have you amongst our ranks."
"Thank you, Sir."
Somehow managing a salute, you turn and hobble out the door, the wooden door once more closing behind you with a soft thud that echoes throughout the corridor.
And as you continue on towards the exit, nodding at the pilots you'd served alongside for countless years, you can't help but allow a chuckle to escape you as you stand there, peering through the window beside the door.
Clad in a familiar looking brown bomber jacket, a plain white t-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell stands outside, resting casually against a rather sleek looking motorcycle, his dark aviator sunglassed gaze making contact with yours.
All you can do is shake your head with a grin, making your way outside into the California sunshine, as he walks towards you, his own grin beginning to grow.
Meeting you halfway, the pair of you simply stand there for a moment, too caught up in the presence of each other to even say anything.
But then, Pete takes a step forward and wraps you in an embrace, to which you return, letting your crutches clatter to the pavement, now supported fully by him.
"What in the world are you doing back here, Mitchell?" You breathe where your head finds a resting place against his shoulder.
"I could ask you the same thing," He breathes in reply, breath tickling your ear.
"I'm moving forward. Are you?"
It takes him a moment to formulate a reply, the arms around you squeezing tighter almost in a sort of assurance.
"Yeah, I'm moving forward. That's why I'm here."
His tone drops slightly as you both pull away, the pilot stooping down to return you your crutches.
"I came here to see you," Pete explains, a bittersweetness in his tone and in his thin-lipped smile.
And almost instantly, you realize the unsaid meaning behind his words.
He came here to say goodbye.
"Well, it's good to see you," You murmur, mustering up as much of a true smile as you can, though a piece of you, the tiniest piece of you that had hoped for something more, breaks.
"Good to see you, too," Comes his reply, though his breath hitches and he gives in, pulling you against his chest one last time before stepping away, sunglassed gaze meeting yours.
"Take care of yourself, Pete Mitchell."
"I always do. Make sure you're staying off that ankle, okay?"
"Okay," You mumble, holding back the rising tears and fighting to keep the smile on your lips as he makes his way back to his bike, with you in tow.
"We'll go out sometime - when things settle down a bit," He offers over the noise of his motorcycle and an overhead F-18, passing you a rather worn and crumpled looking piece of paper from his jacket pocket.
You accept it wordlessly, not trusting your voice to say much more.
And with one last shared nod and a smile, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell heads on his way, leaving just you and the piece of paper standing there in the California sunshine.
Wondering...
How you'll keep moving forward.