Prompt: Pinned Down

Title: Saviors In White

Fandom: Top Gun (1986)

Warnings: Physical intimidation, unwanted physical touch, unwanted verbal interaction. 

Word Count: 2,088

Author's Note: This story is inspired by my Top Gun ambience you can have a listen to, below! Enjoy!

https://youtu.be/rKQUJzrP7Vo

Synopsis: When a Navy Journalist by the name of Y/N finds herself at the local bar to try and defeat a seemingly undefeatable bought of writer's block, she quickly discovers that try as she might,  her work will have to be put on pause... no thanks to some drunkard that decides to confront her, the situation quickly escalating at his unwanted interaction. Though, a certain pilot has his eye on her, and he, along with his fellow comrades, decide to step in.

----

Saviors In White

You haven't had a case of writer's block this bad in... forever.

Sighing heavily, you set the pen that had been in your grasp, aside, taking a sip of your ice water.

You'd made it clear to the bartender that you're staying away from alcohol tonight - the last thing you need is that messing with your already clouded, frazzled headspace.

This particular bar is one you frequent often, being a journalist for the Navy has that addition to it.

Though on this particular rainy evening, you'd figured leaving behind your quarters on Base would help to clear your head from the haze of whatever you're experiencing.

As experienced as you are, no matter how many of these articles you've written throughout your career, this one just seems to not want to come to you.

The words escape you every time you put the pen to your paper, your notebook well worn in, some of the pages even torn and yellowed - a testament to the many different aspects of your job and the locations you often find yourself in.

Such as this one, sitting alone on a bar stool, hunched over your workspace, the buzz of people, the clinking of glasses and rather loud music all keeping you company.

But yet, even in the crowded, noisy room, you feel alone, your mind falling prey to the same slump it's been in all week - from the minute you'd gotten this assignment.

Grumbling to yourself, you pick up the pen, tapping it absentmindedly against the paper, eyes wandering the sea of people, dots of familiar white uniforms setting you at ease slightly.

You're not the only one here on active duty.

There's a group of four men chatting down the bar aways, their expressions clearly teasing and defensive, no likely exchanging friendly competitive banter.

Another group of folks sit in a booth behind you, enthusiastically exchanging words you can't make out over the hubbub, the one woman practically hanging off of the one man's arm, her gaze not leaving him as he speaks.

And then... there's one man sitting two stools away from you, the other one on your right side vacant.

This man had already been here when you'd first walked in, hours ago, merely nodding a hello as you'd sat down and gotten to work.

But now...

As time stretches on...

The more he consumes, the more obnoxious he's quickly becoming, his voice asking for another drink from the bartender making you jump slightly.

The stranger's tone pulls you from your thoughts as you swivel your gaze to toss where he'd been sitting an unimpressed look, only to gasp aloud in surprise, your eyes widening as you come face to face with the evidently drunken sailor who's now sitting on the stool next to you.

"What?" He muses, the obnoxious volume of his voice making you wince as you shift in your seat, farther away from his presence at your side. "I just figured I'd offer to buy such a good lookin' lady like you a drink."

A sudden swell of anxiety begins to bubble within your throat, the words escaping you in this moment.

Though the bartender is quick to divert to where you sit, passing you a questioning look, to which you mutely nod.

"She's not drinking tonight, sorry, Pal."

Now it's the stranger's turn to pass you a quizzical glance, though the sternness of it comes off more like an angry glare, the intensity of his stare making your skin clammy in what your muddled thoughts register as fear.

An angry drunk is never a good thing...

"You sure? Surely just one. It's on me, Sweetheart. I'll take care of it."

A look of such disgust crosses your features as you feel your shoulders tense, your thoughts finally wading through the haze and returning to you in words.

"I'm fine for now, thank you," You refuse yet again, deliberately turning back to face your notebook, beginning to put the tip of one of your favorite pens to paper...

Only for an arm to completely sweep them from the surface of the bar, sending them tumbling into your lap and onwards to the tiled floor.

"I insist. Work can wait, can it not?"

Reeling around to face this drunkard head on, you simply blink in disgust, genuinely surprised, frightened and absolutely flabbergasted at his aggressiveness.

"Actually," You seethe, slipping off of the stool and bending down to retrieve your items, your back momentarily facing him. "It can't."

"Sure it can!" He practically yells, the feeling of your wrist being grabbed and twisted at such a random angle earning a sharp cry of protest from your lips as you're yanked back to your feet, your back now pinned against the bar you'd once sat at, your belongings still scattered across the floor.

Loose papers of confidential information, newspaper clippings, notes, pens and highlighters...

All scattered against the white tiled floor of this crowded bar, no one seeming to pay any mind to the predicament you're now in - that's escalating far too quickly for your liking.

Even the bartender who'd come to your aid previously is nowhere to be found, having been forced to tend to some newcomers that had wandered in.

Though as you stand there, your back pressed against the edge of the wooden bar so tightly, you could swear it feels as if it might break, you're completely unaware of the few Naval Aviators you'd noticed before, their attention no longer focused on their petty rivalries...

****

"Say, you need any help?"

The shorter brunet of the group chuckles, setting aside the drink that had been sitting idle in his grasp, turning to face the taller blond, his RIO by his side.

"With what?" He asks, sharing a humored look with his own Partner, also by his side, though his attention seems elsewhere, focused on something else down the bar...

"You figured it out yet?"

Iceman's snarky tone is merely a distant drone to the pilot they call Maverick, his gaze swiveling to follow his friend's, the pair staring in utter shock at the scene unfolding at the far end of the room.

A woman is pinned down against the wooden countertop of the very same bar they're leaning against, an evidently angry looking man hovering over her, uncomfortably close - any moron could see that, even at a distance.

"That ain't right," Pete "Maverick" Mitchell breathes, a dull flame of anger on the woman's behalf swelling within him, his shoulders tensing.

"It certainly doesn't seem that way," The one they call Goose echoes, a trace of concern dropping into his tone.

"I'm going over there. No one's doing anything!" Pete exclaims, his blood beginning to boil, face flushed in a certain defensive rage.

He doesn't know the woman - hasn't met her, ever.

But yet, something inside him snaps upon setting sights on her smaller figure, beneath the towering shadow of the drunk man hovering over her.

"That's no way to treat a woman! I don't care how drunk you are! Have some self control!" The shorter brunet continues to ramble, his feet instinctively carrying him across the floor, closer to the woman's side.

Though he's halted as someone sets a hand on his shoulder, the figure coming into his view seconds later.

"We've got your six, Mav, don't slow down for us," Slider nods, while Iceman merely blinks his agreement, the four men setting off across the tiled floor.

Making their way through the crowd of people with ease, no thanks to their familiar, crisp white uniforms.

****

Uniforms that quickly catch your attention as you still stand there, having given up awhile ago, pushing back or squirming out from beneath this drunkard's presence.

And now you simply allow his hands to roam across your body, the bomber jacket that had once covered your bare shoulders now also on the floor, right next to your other belongings.

"I'm tellin' ya, if you'd just let me buy you a drink, we could head back to my place and continue this fun... You know you want to..."

"That is the last thing I would want to do with the likes of you," You grumble beneath your breath, turning away with a wince as he nears you for what seems to be the thousandth time, his breath reeking of alcohol making you feel nauseous.

You're having a difficult time believing that no one has stepped in to free you of whatever cruel punishment this is, in fact, no one else around you seems phased at the drunkard's actions and your discomfort, other than the dots of white swiftly shrugging their way through the crowd...

Right towards you.

"Hey! You with that hideous blue jacket!" The shorter of the four uniformed men shouts out above the clamor, his paces quick and measured, though his expression is far from composed, an absolutely enraged and appalled look of rage across his features.

The man hovering above you finally steps back, earning a relieved sigh from you as he does, a ragged, shaky few breaths escaping you, your body still frozen to the spot.

"I could say the same thing about you, milkman!"

"That's the best insult you could come up with? You need to lay off the booze, man!" Another, one of the taller ones of the group chuckles as they all near where you stand, effectively surrounding the man who'd been pinning you down.

"That's a fact! Good one, Goose."

"It wasn't that good. It wasn't even funny, Slider."

Someone loudly clears their throat, as the blond one steps forward, followed by the one called Slider.

"It's time for you to head out, Pal," The blond urges as the pair roughly shove him on his way, guiding him through the crowd and away from your view. "What you just did - that's certainly not the way to win a woman over."

Leaving your shaken figure in their wake.

Though you're not alone - the other pair are still in front of you, seeming to be contemplating what to say.

The shorter brunet is practically staring you down, such concern and yet... admiration shining in his green gaze, it makes you wonder just what he's thinking.

Though his Partner also seems to be at a loss for words, but he quickly regains his composure, stooping down to begin gathering up your scattered belongings across the floor beneath where the three of you stand.

You and the brunet who'd been staring you down instantly follow suit, the two of you reaching for the jacket that lies between where you both stand, your gazes raising to meet one another's.

An unspoken thing is conveyed through his eyes as you both stand back up, the uniformed man wordlessly helping set your jacket back upon your shoulders, your arms gripping it tighter around your torso.

And you finally realize.

A set of golden wings are pinned neatly to the left side of his crisp white dress shirt, a collection of colorful ribbons also present below.

"You're a pilot," You finally speak, surprise echoing in your tone, earning a huff of laughter from the man in front of you, his Partner setting your now gathered belongings back on the bar behind you, earning a nod of thanks from you.

"That's right, a Naval Aviator," He grins as your gaze wanders across his chest, over to his name tag.

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

A fitting name...

"Well, thanks for the save, Pete," You nod, a genuine smile tugging at the edges of your lips. "I appreciate it. Though I will say, it was a surprise to see you uniformed fellas marching through the crowd merely to rid me of that drunk moron."

Pete steps closer, asking a silent permission with his eyes as he nears, a certain glimmer of well-intentioned mischief in his gaze.

"Someone had to do something," He explains, tone low, a slightly flirtatious ring to his voice. "Because that's certainly no way to treat a woman, especially one as pretty as you."

The pilot's remarks earn a chuckle from you, a light blush dusting your cheeks.

"Pretty? That's the best you could come up with?"

"Just work with me, here."

"Alright, Maverick," You smile, gesturing to the now two empty bar stools at your side. "So? What compelled the two of you to become a lone woman's savior on this rainy evening?"

At this, the pair slide onto the stools, sharing a humored glance before turning their attention back to you, grins unwavering.

"We could ask you the same thing."