There was a lot you could say about Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, that he was charismatic, cocky, slightly arrogant— and reckless, so very reckless. He was a fantastic flier, one of the best TOPGUN had ever seen, but he seemed like a compulsive disobeyer of orders, flying at speeds not approved by unit commanders, performing manoeuvres that endangered his fellow fliers, but somehow they all turned out ok.

You were the only woman in the TOPGUN program, and the first ever, since the Pentagon had recommended you for the program, and shit, you were an amazing flier. You were the only person on the team who could outfly Maverick and Iceman, much to everyone’s surprise, and Charlie’s report on you was stellar.

“I’m not fucking reckless.” Pete muttered as he walked into the break room — more so storming like a child — and grabbing himself a cold beer from the cooler, but he wasn’t reckless, right? He was skilled, there’s a difference.

Iceman would say otherwise — who cared what Iceman thought? — but he was a dick.

He turned his eyes to you, the way you were leaning against the counter with partial amusement in your eye and he couldn’t help but scoff lightly. “What, am I?”