〉IMPULSIVE DECISIONS
pairing: pete "maverick" mitchell x reader word count: 4.5k cw: jealousy, kissing, flirting, very mild injury, unsaid feelings, angst summary: you're a naval doctor at top gun, and you can't get one of the lieutenants out of your mind.
masterlist
You didn’t mean to stare. Really, you didn’t.
But there he was—white sleeves rolled up, the bar light catching in his green eyes like some kind of cinematic joke, laughing at something with Goose that you were too far away to hear. Everything else blurred out. You couldn’t have looked away if you tried, and trust me, you did try.
His smile curled just a little on one side. Was that on purpose? Did he know?
God, you think you forgot to blink.
Then—jolt. Your shoulder was yanked sideways, and your name was being cursed out.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" You blink hard, like you've been underwater too long.
Your friend, Sarah, has her hand on your shoulder, her eyes practically breathing fire. "Seriously?" Her stare cuts straight through you. "Stop staring at him if you’re not going to go talk to him."
"I wasn’t—"
"You were. Open mouth and everything."
The heat crawls up your neck, scorching your ears. You take a sip of your drink, but the ice has melted, and it doesn’t hide your embarrassment at all.
Sarah rolls her eyes as she glances between you and Maverick. "Better be glad he didn’t look over. So, how many kids did you two have in your daydream?"
"I hate you."
She laughs into her drink, completely unbothered, while you watch the condensation slither down your glass like it might save you. Your face still feels hot, and the worst part is: she’s not wrong. You had been staring. Open-mouthed, apparently.
"Come on," she says, swirling her drink. "You’re not subtle. You never are around him."
You roll your eyes, taking another sip and wishing the drink didn’t taste like a puddle. "You’re imagining things."
But then, stupidly, you glance back over.
He’s not looking. Thank god.
Goose is telling some story with big gestures, and Maverick is half-listening, half-scanning the room like he's waiting for someone. His elbow’s on the table, a finger lazily circling the rim of his beer bottle. That damn smile is still sitting on his face like it belongs there.
"What would you even say if you talked to him?" Sarah asks suddenly.
Your head snaps back to her. "What?"
"I mean like actually talk. Not when he’s flirting with you in the medical room."
You look down into your drink. "I’d probably say something stupid. Like, 'Hey Mav, nice looking—'" You pause, "eyebrows?”
"You’re horrible. No wonder you’re still single."
You kick her under the table. "Fuck you. If you were in my situation, you’d be worse."
"I would never be in your situation because I’m not a pussy. Just go talk to him. It’s not a big deal."
"No," you say, trying to sound firm. "There’s no point. It’s just a thing."
“A thing,” she repeats, unimpressed.
"Yeah. A passing... thing."
Sarah’s eyes drift back toward him. "You sure about that?"
"I don't like him, Sarah. I just—"
"You just daydream about him, exactly."
You don’t answer.
For two solid minutes, you manage to keep your eyes away. But when you look back, Goose is gone.
In his place sits a blonde, her hair twisted around one finger, leaning in close like it’s something she’s rehearsed a hundred times. Maverick smiles at whatever she says—lazy, easy—and your stomach drops in that slow, humiliating way that catches you off guard.
You turn back to your drink, but you suddenly feel too sick to take a sip.
Sarah follows your gaze, then exhales sharply through her nose. "Of course."
You say nothing.
"Seriously?" she adds. "She’s not even subtle."
Still, you say nothing.
The blonde laughs—scrunching her nose like she’s seen it done in a rom-com—and you narrow your eyes in disgust.
Then you stand. Your chair scrapes against the floor loudly.
"Hey," Sarah snaps, eyes on you. "Where are you going?"
"I’m going home."
Her brow furrows. "Why? Because of her? Don’t do that."
"No, not because of her. I’m just tired." You lie.
Sarah doesn’t buy it. You wouldn’t either. "No, you’re spiraling."
"I’m leaving," you say, more firmly now. "Before I stare again, and he catches me, and I get fucking humiliated."
She frowns, her defiance softening.
"You don’t even know who she is," she says gently. "Could be nothing. Could be a sister."
You glare.
"Okay, fine, not a sister," she mutters. "But still. So what?"
"So, Sarah, I don’t want to see him look at her like that." You barely hear your own voice when you say it.
That’s it. That’s the truth. The ugly kind.
You don’t wait for her response. You just grab your jacket, fumble with the sleeves, and walk through the bar, bumping into people who are too happy, too in love, too much. Seeing happy couples and Maverick with some blonde bitch. More happy couples. More Maverick with some blonde bitch.
You try not to look back. God, you try.
But you do.
And there he is.
Maverick, turned slightly, head tilted like maybe—just maybe—he noticed you were gone.
Or maybe he’s just watching the door.
Either way, it doesn’t matter.
You push it open, step out into the salt-wet night, and let the door swing shut behind you.
Outside, the air is cooler. You take a breath like it might undo something.
It doesn’t. ────────── ✮ ────────── The medical wing is too cold this morning. You wash your hands, wipe down the counters, and pretend it’s just another shift. Just another morning. No blonde, no bar, no sharp pit in your stomach.
You barely slept the night before. The sheets twisted around your legs sometime before 4 a.m., and the clock on your nightstand mocked you every time you checked it. By sunrise, you gave up pretending.
The fluorescent lights were too bright and certainly not helping your headache. Your uniform felt stiff, your mouth tasted like cheap coffee and regret, and your eyes felt dry, no matter how much you blinked to bring yourself any relief.
You tell yourself you’re fine.
Until he walks in.
He doesn’t knock. He never does. He just shows up like he belongs in your space. Like, he’s never been the reason you can’t breathe sometimes.
Maverick’s in a flight suit, the sleeve rolled up to reveal a bruised forearm and a scrape that probably stung when he showered. His expression is cocky. That wasn't unusual for Maverick, but today that sly grin felt different.
"Morning, doc," he spoke loudly, making sure that you could hear him from across the room as he stood at the entrance.
You don't look up right away. You’re measuring out antiseptic on a pad. Frankly, you didn't want to see him after last night.
"What did you do this time, Mav?" You said. The irritation was prevalent in your tone.
You heard the sound of footsteps nearing you, and that was your mental sign to turn around and face him. Maverick lifts the arm like it's no big deal. "Wingtip clipped the edge of the net. Didn’t eject. Just bounced."
"Of course you did," you muttered.
He sits on the exam table, the paper lining crinkling as he shifts. His legs swing lightly, banging the heels of his shoes slightly into the metal. You take a quick glance at the bruise, then at his face. Nice eyebrows. He was watching you closely, as if analyzing you.
"You should put some ice on that," you said, opening the freezer in the medical room and tossing him a small bag of ice.
He catches the bag like a sixth sense. "You left kinda fast last night," he says.
Your chest tightens. "I was just tired," you reached for the gauze. Your hands were steady, but your heart wasn't. It keeps thudding in this unsettling, miserable rhythm, like a warning.
Maverick adjusted his rolled-up sleeve, as it had shifted down a bit, so you could have easy access to it. You slowly press the cloth onto his skin, avoiding any and all eye contact with him.
He studies you for a second too long. "You didn't say goodbye."
"I didn't know you saw me."
He brushed a loose piece of hair behind your ear as it fell out of your ponytail. This wasn't unusual for him—the subtle touches and the small acts of affection—but today wasn't a day you could handle it.
He winces slightly when the alcohol hits the cut. You almost said sorry. You don’t. "Didn't seem like you were having a good time last night. Everything okay?"
You don’t answer.
Not out loud.
Because how do you say: I watched you smile at someone else like she was the purpose of your life, and it gutted me alive.
You rake your mind for answers, anything, just saying fucking anything. "It's just work stress. I'm just peachy." Work stress was one of the dumbest fucking answers you could've given him. You tend to the pilots in the Top Gun program; there isn't much stress with this job, except for this one pilot.
"She was just asking about the jukebox. It was malfunctioning or something," he said. Bold of him to assume you cared about that blonde bitch—you did—you didn't want him to know that. How does he know you saw them?
You look at him, finally — really look at him. His expression doesn’t match the cocky grin from a moment ago. There’s something softer under it now, like he’s waiting for you to say something important, even if you don’t know what it is yet.
You finish taping the gauze into place and step back, your hands itching for something else to do. Anything but stay here and admit you’d felt anything at all.
"You're all set, Pete. Don't come back in here today," you chuckled, trying to blend the awkwardness with humor. He had a reputation for his reckless behavior, which often resulted in a few minor injuries that you tended to. His prying eyes—those damn green eyes—bore into yours, trying to find what you truly felt.
"No promises, doc. Anything to see your face again."
He's just joking, that's just Maverick. You attempted to reason with yourself, grounding yourself from swooning over him.
Maverick hopped off the medical table, his shoes making a thud on the tile flooring. The tension between you two was unavoidable; it was obvious that you were uneasy, and Maverick took your silence as a confirmation.
"You're usually not this quiet. You're mad at me." He took a step closer to you, but you didn't dare look him in the eye.
"As I said, Lieutenant, I'm just tired."
Maverick doesn't buy it.
"Yeah?" he says softly, almost amused. "Tired of me?"
You finally meet his eyes, and it’s a mistake. There’s no teasing in his expression now—just something unspoken and dangerously close to tender. He steps closer, and closer.
You scoff, trying to brush it off. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me losing sleep over you."
His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. "Are you?"
Yes.
"No." You look away, pretending to straighten the med kit. "I don’t have time for this."
"Listen, I care about you—"
"I don't understand what you want me to say, Maverick," you snapped at him, finally meeting his eye. Frustrated is what you came off as, but really, you were embarrassed.
He leans in, and you can feel his words as much as you hear them. "Maybe I want you to say whatever it is you’re too scared to admit."
You look at him, really look—his jaw tense, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, like he’s holding his own breath, waiting on you.
And just when you think he might say something else—
"Hey—" It's Slider, pausing mid-step with a file in his hand, eyebrows raised like he just walked into something private. Which, to be fair, he did.
Your head shifted in his direction, taking a big step away from Maverick like it would erase anything Slider saw.
Slider blinks. "Uh... I can come back."
Maverick clears his throat, straightening. "No, you’re good."
You nod quickly, moving back behind your desk. "What do you need, Lieutenant Kerner?"
Slider gives you a curious glance but hands over the file without pressing. "Just physical results."
You flip it open, skimming, thankful for something to focus on that isn’t your own traitorous heartbeat.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Maverick walking toward the door, pausing just before he leaves. He looks like he wants to say something, his mouth moving with no words leaving it. But he doesn't, he just looks at you and walks out.
You exhale a breath you didn't know you were holding, shutting the file and reaching your hand out to Slider.
"Whatever that was... keep it out of my sight, please," he said.
You glare at him. "Out."
He grabs the file out of your hands and backs out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
And the second the door clicks shut, you want to scream—but god, you couldn't let him get to you. ────────── ✮ ───────── Impulsive decisions were something new to you—correction, impulsive decisions were something good for you.
A three-day break was the best you could manage—three days away from Maverick. You went back home to Oregon, expecting that distance would clear your mind. Lesson learned: expectations rarely match reality. Now, those three days were over, and tomorrow morning meant going back to work. But tonight, you were at the bar with Sarah.
The jukebox was playing something low and slow—Sinatra, maybe. The kind of song that made you feel things even if you didn't want to. Sarah was rambling about some cute guy at the pool table who kept staring at her.
Like him with her, you were staring at the wooden door, waiting for a certain pilot to walk through it.
"If you were going to hunt him down like this, you shouldn't have left for three days," Sarah said, sipping her drink without looking at you.
"You know, I really fucking hate it when you're right."
Sarah grins into her glass, "I'm surprised you're not used to it yet. It's a daily occurrence."
You roll your eyes and swirl the watered-down drink in front of you, the clink of ice a weak distraction from the pounding in your chest. You haven’t even seen him yet, and he’s already taking up every square inch of your brain.
"Besides," she adds, "why are you sitting here with me? You didn't come back here for me. You came back because you couldn't stop thinking about him."
"I came back because I'm stationed here in San Diego."
She lets the silence sit, soft and knowing, then finally shrugs. "Look, all I’m saying is, you can run off for three days, try to reset your nervous system, but if the second you’re back, you’re checking the door like he’s oxygen? You gotta deal with it."
You snort despite yourself and glance down at the table, fingers tightening around your glass. She’s not wrong. You did come back because of duty, yes—but also because you couldn’t stand another second in that too-quiet apartment, lying on your childhood bed like some ghost of who you used to be, thinking about him. About that stupid half-smile.
As if summoned by mention alone, the bar door creaks open.
You don't turn. You won't.
Sarah's eyebrows lift slightly. "Don't look," she warns under her breath, which is code for: look, there's Maverick!
You sip your drink, hoping the burning sensation down your throat will help shift your focus. It doesn't. You stare down at your drink, rubbing your finger along the rim. "Please tell me he isn't looking."
"You're safe, for a bit at least."
You blink and glance up—just a flicker, a quick check. It was tough to admit it, but you were desperate to see him.
He’s at the bar. Leaning against it like he’s got nowhere to be and all night to be there. Same flight jacket. Same stupid aviators. He’s scanning the room slowly, like he’s not really looking for anyone—except you know better. His eyes catch on your table and then—
They stay.
Shit. Shit.
You look at Sarah immediately, pulse screaming. "Shit."
Sarah smiles. "Shit," she echoes. "You gonna talk to him?"
"Fuck no. I'm talking to you right now, I'm very occupied."
"Add a 'bull' in front of that shit, will you?" She grins.
But you don’t get five seconds of peace before Goose slides into the seat next to yours.
Goose calls out your name. "Haven’t seen you around. You disappear or something?" Did Maverick tell him to talk to you?
You give him a polite smile. "Just took a few days off. Nothing exciting."
"Must’ve been exciting enough to miss Mav pacing around like a golden retriever with separation anxiety." Goose leans an elbow on the table and tilts his head. "He’s been weird."
You raise a brow. "Weird how?"
"You know," he says casually. "Flying too cautiously. Staring at the med wing like it might cough up your silhouette. That kind of thing."
Sarah snorts beside you, and you shoot her a warning look.
"I’ll let you in on a little secret," Goose adds. "He was hoping you’d be here tonight."
You scoff lightly, more out of disbelief than anything else. "Yeah, right."
And then—like a horror movie beat you should’ve seen coming—the shadow falls across your table.
Maverick.
"Hey, doc. Where have you been?"
You freeze for a heartbeat, the air thick with the kind of tension that’s way too familiar and way too dangerous.
"Oregon," you tilted your head up, finally meeting his gaze. Those sparkling green eyes. "I took a long weekend."
A small grin was plastered on his lips, and without you realizing, your lips curved up into a smile.
Goose, sensing the shift in atmosphere, slides out of his seat. "I'm gonna check on the jukebox." He grabs his beer and claps a hand on Maverick's shoulder before he walks off in the opposite direction of the jukebox. At least attempt to keep up a lie. Sarah mutters something about needing fresh air and follows Goose into the crowd, leaving you and Maverick alone at the table.
Traitor.
Maverick slides into the seat across from you, the one Sarah had previously occupied. For a moment, it's just the two of you—the clink of ice and the murmur of the bar's low buzz like background static.
"You look good."
"You always say that, Lieutenant Mitchell."
"And I haven't lied, doc."
You chuckle softly, the familiar warmth of his voice loosening the tight coil in your chest. It’s ridiculous, how just hearing him say something simple like that feels like a small victory. You glance around, half-expecting the whole bar to be watching, but no—just the usual low-lit haze and the scent of spilled beer and old wood.
"You ran off. Why is that?" He asked, taking a sip of his beer.
You raised an eyebrow, not expecting him to be so upfront. Then again, it was Maverick. "I didn't—"
"You did." Another stupid fucking smile. Cheeky.
You squint your eyes at him and laugh a little. "Goose said you were looking for me? Why is that?"
Maverick doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, gaze fixed on you like he's trying to memorize every flicker of your expression. The bar noise melts to a dull thrum again, your heartbeat louder than the jukebox.
He leans forward a little, both of his forearms now resting on the table. "I really didn't like the substitute doctor."
"How much trouble could you have gotten in? I was gone for three days."
"I missed you."
I missed you. What the fuck.
No smirk. No teasing. Just the truth.
Your stomach does something traitorous—somersaults, probably—and you blink at him like the words haven’t quite registered.
"You missed me?" It slips out before you can stop it.
Maverick nods once. "I missed you, doc. I missed getting hurt and seeing you every day in that bright ass medical room. I missed seeing you smile when I said something stupid. Three days and you got me running like a dog without a leash."
Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say, which is terrifying, because you always know what to say. Sarcasm, deflection, some medical bullshit—there’s always something. But now?
Now you’re just... still.
"Wanna get out of here?" he asks, not suggestive—sincere.
You glance around—at the jukebox, the pool table, glancing between all of the naval aviators that circulated this bar on a near-daily basis.
"Yeah," you say, "let's go."
You both stand. It’s instinctive now, the way he waits for you to step ahead first, and you do, leading the way toward the exit. Your hand brushes against his when you push the door open, and for the briefest moment, his fingers curl around yours—not grabbing, not holding, just… touching.
Outside, the air is cooler than expected, a breeze coming off the water. The sun’s gone down completely now, the parking lot lit only by the bar sign and a few flickering street lamps.
He walks you over to his bike. "Promise me that you won't go at 150 miles per hour while I am on this bike," you say to him sternly.
Maverick grins, that daredevil gleam in his eye, like you just challenged him to go faster than 150.
"You're no fun," he says.
"I'm serious. I may be a doctor, but I can't operate on myself," you reply, giving him a look that could stop a grown man in his tracks—except Maverick was never great at stopping when he should.
"I'll keep it under 100," he offers, holding up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.
"95."
"98."
"Deal."
He swings his leg over the bike, settling into the seat with infuriating ease, then looks back at you. "You getting on, or are you going to keep pretending you’re not dying to wrap your arms around me?"
You roll your eyes but slide in behind him, arms going around his torso, grudgingly. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Mav. This doesn't mean anything."
"Oh, I know," he says, starting the engine. "But it means you missed me."
You don't say anything. You don't have to. But a smile creeps up on your lips.
The bike roars to life beneath you, loud and alive between your legs, and Maverick doesn't floor it—he coaxes it forward with surprising gentleness, pulling out of the lot like he's got all the time in the world. Maybe he does. Maybe you both do.
The streetlights blur a little as the two of you weave through the San Diego streets, wind tearing at your jacket, the scent of sea salt and jet fuel lingering faintly in the breeze. You tighten your grip just a little, not because you’re afraid he’ll crash, but because some traitorous part of you doesn’t want to let go.
"See?" he says, grinning as he clutches the handle again. "I'm capable of restraint."
"Keep this up, Lieutenant."
When he finally turns off the main road, it’s onto a quiet bluff that overlooks the water. You recognize it—the same spot he sometimes goes after late-night flights, the one Goose swore was his favorite thinking place.
The bike slows, then stops.
You both sit there for a second, engines cooling, the world falling quiet except for the rhythmic shushing of waves below.
You climb off the bike slowly, tugging your jacket tighter. He follows, helmet in hand, leaning against the seat with an unreadable look.
"This where you take all the girls you emotionally damage?" you ask lightly, your voice low and teasing, trying to keep the moment from swallowing you whole.
He runs a hand through his messy hair. You stay standing, arms crossed now—not defensive, just trying to hold yourself together while he keeps all of his attention on you. "No. You’re the first one who calls me out on it and still gets on the bike."
You chuckle, and the smile lingers on your lips as you look out at the water, only illuminated by the pale moon. The ocean breeze runs through your hair during your moment of silence.
"Needless to say, I sorta missed you too," you say quietly, referencing his confession from earlier, looking down at your shoes before looking back at him.
"Why did you leave?"
That stopped you; you couldn't admit to his face that you were jealous of some random girl getting the attention you yearned for from him. You wanted him to smile at you like that—god, it felt corny—but it was true.
"I had things to do—" "Cut the bullshit already." He's looking at you like he already knows. Like he wants you to say it.
"I saw you." It comes out low. Quiet. But it’s enough to make his brows pull together, faintly confused.
You swallow. "That night. At the bar. With that girl—blonde. The jukebox girl. You smiled at her like she was the best thing to happen to you that week. And for some stupid reason, that felt like a punch to the gut."
Maverick exhales slowly, his expression softening.
"It's so stupid, I'm sorry. This isn't important; it isn't relevant. You talk to girls, you flirt with girls. I'll get over this and I'll go back to being the woman who patches—"
But you don’t finish.
Because he's already there, surging forward with only the kind of confidence that Maverick could carry. One moment you're rambling like a nervous wreck, the next his mouth is crashing onto yours, cutting off the words like he couldn't stand your delusions.
It's everything he was holding back, and you stopped holding back as well. All the tension from missed glances, late-night memories, and flirty touches wrapped up in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs.
His hands are in your hair, at your waist — he doesn't know where to hold you first, so he touches everywhere, like he needs to remind himself you're real. That you’re here. That you came back.
You let out a sound—surprised, maybe a little furious at yourself for liking it this much—and your fingers grip the front of his flight jacket, grounding yourself as the kiss deepens.
When he finally pulls back, breathless, eyes still locked on yours like they’re magnetized, you blink in stunned silence.
"…Okay," you say, voice uneven. "That was… abrupt."
His lips are still close to yours, brushing up against them. You feel the vibration of the chuckle that escaped from his lips that were just on yours. "Yeah. Couldn't hear you be stupid for a second longer."
You shake your head, laughing breathlessly as you try to piece yourself back together. "That was very on-brand for you."
He grins—cocky, unrepentant. “I’m consistent.”
“Reckless,” you mutter.
“I warned you.”
You roll your eyes but don’t step away. Not even close.
Instead, you lean back in, like you both know this is only the beginning.
And for once, you get to be impulsive, too.
notes: is the top gun fandom on tumblr still alive... hi if they are. i hope you guys liked this, i don't think i've written something this long in such a long time. still a bit rusty on writing, but my recent obsession with mav will not let me go. - c ౨ৎ
