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Chapter Text

"Mav?" his voice threadbare, concern growing as the Captain's body sags into his. They had been embracing, after Maverick had thanked him for saving his life and he had made sure to let the other know it's what his Dad would have done. Under the cheering of the carrier crew, he can't hear any response. He takes the weight but gently jostles the other whose head is limp, and it hits him Maverick isn't responding. "Mav?!"

He kneels when Maverick's legs give out, still too close to an adrenaline crash to hold them both up. He clutches the pilot tight as those closest to them stop cheering, concerned, Rooster's hand patting the other, flinching at the feel of something wet, his palm red coming back red. It's a bullet wound, in the back of his shoulder blade, but the stain growing on his breast pocket shows it went straight through. The helicopter got him and Mav hadn't said a thing.

"MEDIC! SOMEONE GET A MEDIC!" He screams, sounding hysterical as the other hangs limply in his arms, blood drenching his flight suit.

The cheering turns to shouting, echoing his plea, adding noise to mask the silence of Maverick dying in his arms. Hands are pulling at him, at the man in his arms, but he won't let go, don't make him let go!

"Roo, let the corpsmen take him!," someone shouts in his ear, beneath the chaos and grief. The husky drawl registers after a moment, refusing to be drowned out by the rest of the noise. Hangman. Hangman's arms clench tight around his waist to keep him from leaping out as medics pull Maverick from his fingers, tangible pain sharp in his chest at being separated. "It's ok, they've gotta him!" the other pilot tries calming him down.

Blinking the grief and black spots dancing from his vision, he shudders, sagging back trustingly into the other's chest, trying to remember to breathe. With a grunt, Hangman hauls him to his feet, and Bradley would have tried to walk, chase after Maverick's disappearing form in the crowd, only his legs give out. The other scrambles to catch him, concerned. "Rooster?!" Frantic hands check him for injuries, thinking the worst. "Are you hurt?! Talk to me dammit!" He sounds scared, like the fear that's choking Bradley is contagious, fatal if inhaled. Everyone run, save yourself!

"I'm..fi-," he can't speak, too caught up in the grief and turmoil, it's wracking pain throughout his body that he'd be hunched over if not for Hangman keeping him upright. His hearing is going in and out, his vision blurring with unshed tears.

"Roo!" A worried Phoenix shoulders his other arm, whilst her back seater Bob cups his face, trying to get him to meet his eyes. Rooster thinks even in the haze, they're pretty.

"Are you hurt?!" Bob's voice like he's underwater, and Bradley thinks he's shaking his head, Hangman holding him close.

"Come on let's take him to the medbay!," Payback calls from behind, his hand burning a mark upon his back.

Rooster stifles on a sob at the gut wrenching pain, allowing the others to drag him along, the now worried crew giving them a wide berth, withdrawn and subdued. Admiral Simpson's ushering them towards where the other corpsman had run off to, ordering medical staff to divert all attention on them, Hondo beside himself with worry as he runs ahead to the medbay.

'Please, he's lost so much already. He can't lose Maverick too. Please,' he begs to any higher powers who will listen.

✯

The haze clears once he's off his feet, perched on the edge of a cot, a nurse examining him after going catatonic for an hour. His eyes get fried by the harsh light shined in them, blinking at the disturbance. He's in his own private room, if private can be defined by the separation provided by a flimsy curtain, but it'll do. The others involved in the mission were kicked out of the room despite protests once Rooster was dumped on the bed, hustled away to be examined as well, while the rest were forced to wait in the lobby. 

The nurse examining him is young, fresh-faced compared to the more sea savvy crew who don't even bat an eye at any wicked wounds or gnarly bruises fighter pilots earn on the regular. But because she's still green, she's more gentle than many of the other nurses tend to be, who wouldn't hesitate to poke and prod him with little caution.

Careful fingers wander through his curls, tenderly squeezing his scalp. "Any pain when I touch here?" The nurse asks.

"No," he shakes his head.

"Good, no signs of head trauma," she notes aloud. "Let's move to the further down," she motions to his bare chest, the straps of his harness having already begun to discolor his sun-kissed hide. 

"Ma'am," he probes anxiously whilst she examines the purpling splotches. "Do you know anything regarding Captain Mitchell? He was badly hurt, and -" his throat closes, can't even manage to utter the words he so greatly fears.

Her face twists sympathetically. "On record, I'm not allowed to disclose a patient's status unless listed as an emergency contact or next of kin," she recites, the statement like a sucker punch to the gut. He's neither, isn't he? At least, not since he was 19. But with a cautious glance over her shoulder, she leans in to quietly whisper, "Off record, last I heard, he's still undergoing surgery. Doctors are hopeful," she adds at the end, trying to instill some positivity into a bleak situation.

He manages to give a stiff smile of gratitude, letting her continue the examination in silence. The nurse tenderly palpates his chest, his sternum, his abdomen, maneuvering to the sides when-

"Ahhh" it's a startled gasp that comes out like a laugh, the nurse pausing with wide eyes. The area is sore, tender, the straps of his parachutes probably tight to his frame as he floated down to the ground after the SAM struck his jet. Or maybe it's when he was tossed around in the F-14. But instantly he feels bad, because she clearly had not been expecting it, her expression worried.

"Ticklish," he sheepishly grins, which isn't exactly a lie. Uncle Mav used to mercilessly tickle his sides everytime he came to visit, grinning hard as Bradley giggled and giggled. He swallows thickly at the memory, not wanting to get choked up in the infirmary.

The nurse lets out a breath, adorable smile reappearing. "Well, I'll be careful to not tickle you. I imagine laughter is not going to help with how bruised up you're gonna feel."

"No ma'am, it wouldn't," he humors, the ache residing as her gloves hands move towards the other side.

"Any pain or tenderness?"

He shakes his head.

She moves around the bed, to station herself behind him. "I'm gonna palpate the spine. Ejections from an aircraft are known to cause spinal fractures, so let me know if there's any pain.

He sits up straight as her gloved fingers press along the spine, moving downward to they reach the edge of his flight suit, sitting unzipped around his waist. "All good?" her voice like a jingle in his ear.

"Yeah. Though can't claim I won't be feeling it waking up tomorrow."

"As to be expected. I'm gonna have a listen to your lungs," there's some shuffling before a cold disc is placed right near his shoulder blade. "Deep breath in."

He follows the order, holding in until she gives the signal to let it out. She places the bell of her scope along his back, prompting the breathing pattern. "You know," she brings up. "I'm quite new to the rap sheets and accolades of many pilots here, but Captain Mitchell must be pretty legendary for Admiral Kazansky to make his appearance."

Rooster feels himself freeze, the words making his spinning word come to a screeching halt. Iceman's here?

"And out," she prompts, Rooster letting out a long whoosh of a breath. He pretends the slight tremble in his limbs is just from the cold, sterile room brushing against his exposed skin, and not his nerves acting up when thinking of seeing a man he hasn't faced in near a decade and a half.

She removes her stethoscope, shuffling around back in front of him. "Everything seems all clear, but to get a head start on the soreness you're gonna feel, I can dose you a small amount of painkillers?"

He shifts his posture, grimacing as his body protests at the movement. "Yes please."

She smiles, wandering to a cabinet on the wall, unlocking it to grab a bottle, turning it upside down to give it a good shake, the pills rattling inside as two are dropped into a plastic cup. She returns the bottle to the cabinet, shutting it with a metal click and wanders back over, holding the cup out to him. He accepts it as she quickly disappears behind the curtain, the sound of running water reaching his ears as she quickly returns in a flurry with a cup of water.

He gratefully takes it, downs the pills then the water, the cool taste refreshing. He hadn't realized how parched he is. As soon as he downs it, he worries for half-a-second it's about to come right back up, his body still jittery from the adrenaline crash, but luckily the sensation passes.

She smiles, stripping off her gloves, and pushing the curtain open, the room devoid of any other patients or staff. "Your team should be done already, and from what I imagine, ushered to the mess hall to get some food. If there's any update about Captain Mitchell, your commanding officer should be by to inform you all. " She pauses at the door, "Take it easy on yourself, Lieutenant."

Then she's gone, and Rooster is left alone to slip out of the bed, mindful of how sore his body is. With slow, aching movements, he pulls back on the rest of his flight suit, wincing at every ache and strain. Once the fabric is resting on his shoulders, he zips it up when he's got both arms securely in.

Stepping out in the hall, he looks down the direction mess is, but glances the other direction, where surgery and recovery units are. Seeing as the place is quiet, sun setting in the peaks of windows, Rooster takes his chances and wanders the opposite way from his team. Anxiety churning his stomach, he needs to find Maverick, or someone who can tell him if he's ok.

God, please let him be ok!

✯

Evading the occasional medical staff isn't too hard, perhaps he's managed to improve his skills with practice on the enemy base just a few hours prior. Pretend like you belong and no one questions it. He manages to catch whispered conversations, relays about operations including that the patient taken to surgery is out and in recovery room 8. 

The relief he feels nearly has his knees buckling, having to duck quickly into a dark empty room to catch his breath, back against the wall, head tilted up to avoid shedding tears, hand on his chest. Mav's alive, he's alive.

Eventually, when he's got a grip on his composure, he heads back out in search of room 8. The large aircraft carrier surprisingly has an entire level seemingly dedicated to medical, which is why it takes him too long to find where they're keeping Maverick. He nearly misses the room until his boots skid against the linoleum tile, periphery catching the 8 tacked on the wall outside a closed door. Hurrying over, he grabs the metal handle, and pauses, needing a moment to collect himself. He's fine, he's fine.

Mustering the courage, he carefully cracks the door open, peaks his head in, and immediately slumps unsteadily against the door frame at the sight of Maverick, even when his body protests.

Ever since he was a kid, Maverick flew. Fast arrivals, fast gestures, fast quips, Bradley could barely keep up in between the giggles pealing from his lips as the pilot tickled him, threw him in the air, lifted his shirt to blow raspberries on his tummy. Even when he got too old and too tall for being picked-up and hauled over the shorter man's shoulder, Maverick always on the move, dragging him into adventures with an arm around his lanky teenage shoulders.

And then after years of refusing to see the other, the first day recalled to Top Gun proved Maverick hadn't changed, not with the way he zoomed past them in the first training, Rooster and the others left behind to eat his metaphorical dust that lingered on the tongue long after he's dripping his body weight in sweat on the hot tarmac doing those 200 pushups. Fuck you, Payback.

Yet here he is, lying prone in a hospital bed, as still as his mother was in her casket the day of her funeral when he'd been forced to stand there, the invisible hand around his throat refusing to let go whilst Maverick pressed against him, arm around his waist, keeping him upright.

For someone so large as life, Maverick looks so small between the stiff white sheets, upper chest bandaged whilst hooked up to a heart-rate monitor, an oxygen mask strapped over his face. It'd be hard to tell he's even still breathing if not for the mask fogging with every other breath. 

Suddenly he feels light-headed, remembering that Maverick's blood is still underneath his fingernails. All my fault, it's all my fault, all my-

Movement to his left startles him from his spiral, standing up straight when he takes note of he's not the only visitor, the familiar figure stopping his heart. Iceman rises from his seat beside Maverick's bedside, gently releasing the hold he had on the pilot's hand. 

"Rooster," the Admiral greets, voice low as to not disturb the snoozing patient. The callsign feels like a gunshot straight through him, aim held for far too long.

"Sir," he addresses, back ram-rod straight, dread nearly seeping in every pore. It'd be a lie to say he can't recall the last time he'd remember speaking beyond formality with Iceman; he was there by Maverick's side the night he left. Uncle Ice. 'God', he's swallows thickly. 'I've missed him.'

The Admiral's mouth twitches, but his expression remains neutral, if albeit exhausted. "At ease." 

His posture sags, but the anxiousness running like adrenal through his body does not leave him. "I'm sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to check-" his mouth fumbles for an excuse that doesn't make him sound like a petulant child. What right does he have to barge in like this?

Iceman glances at his husband, even the briefest of flash of turmoil Rooster manages to catch before it clears, relief and assurance steadying the renowned Admiral. "He's going to be ok. Surgery went well and a blood transfusion should have him fighting to get back in the cockpit. Or at the very least out of this room." The words sound like levity, but the dead tone makes Rooster thinks the other is saying words for the sake of throwing a bone to him, even if he'd done nothing to deserve it.

The coldness of his profile is a warning that Rooster find his feet heeding, not braving to venture further into the room and assure himself with a shaky touch that Maverick is alive and breathing. Admiral Tom "Iceman" Kazansky is known for his calm composure, some still quipping at the 'cold as ice'. He had never understood as a child, because how can someone called Ice be so warm, he was like a heater anytime Bradley fell asleep on his chest growing up.

15 years have passed and Uncle Ice, the one who caught Bradley mid run, kissed his round cheeks, and read him story and story obligingly "okay one more baby Goose" is long gone.

Iceman is the one who's had to endure the crushed reaction his husband gets when never receiving a reply to all the birthday cards he sent, the silence when the phone calls refused to be answered, the snubs at any attempt of reconciliation. He probably knows every vitriol Rooster has spit at Maverick during these past few weeks leading up to the mission. Had to clench his jaw when Maverick relayed to him about how the younger told him to his face he had no one to mourn him when he burned in, completely forgetting Iceman waiting back home, no doubt worried every second that ticks down closer to D-Day.

'God, I'm awful' Rooster thinks, swallowing around the thick lump in his throat.

"Have you've been checked out?" Iceman asked, his dark eyes staring into his soul, peeling at every front he's ever tried to put up. The night his world ended, Ice sent him that similar look when he started ripping into Maverick, intervened when he was stepping over the line. "Enough!" The word still cracking like thunder in his ear. Iceman had never raised his voice at him ever before that night.

"Yes sir. Everything is fine," he relays, keeping it short to not waste the Admiral's time. Even with the remaining aches and pains making themselves more known, he's not the same boy who could run up to the man and ask for kisses on his boo boos, no matter how insignificant they were, knowing Ice would tend to them with great care. No, he threw that all away.

The Ice now nods, once, before there's a rustle on the bed, both of them snapping their heads to Maverick. He's still out cold, body just giving the occasional twitch with how deep he's under.

Posture sagging, Ice lets out a tired sigh as he retakes his seat, attention back on his husband, having already retook his hand. "You should get some rest, Maverick won't be going anywhere tonight."

It's a dismissal if he's ever heard one, so with a silent dip of his head, Rooster turns on his heel and leaves the room, fighting the childish wetness building in the corner of his eyes as he closes the door behind him. He has no goddamn right to ask to stay.

Wandering down the quiet hall, the lights dim for after hours, he shrugs his shoulders, phantom weight of his gear still persisting despite having stripped them off hours ago. His whole body aches and he wonders why the two painkillers he popped earlier haven't kicked in yet. Not hungry at the thought of food, he avoids the mess hall and heads for his temporary cabin.

A hot meal and some company would help relieve some part of the mild pressure on his chest and the way his throat keeps clenching uncomfortably, but he carries on, figuring he'd rather not deal with commentary on how much of a sorry sap he looks right now. He certainly doesn't want to be pathetic sitting out in the empty lobby to wait for an update he's not privy to. Not since he's tore the other apart 15 years ago and left, bags in tow.

Rubbing his sore side beneath his arm, he figures a fitful sleep would be the least he deserves, if whoever is up there is kind. 

Chapter Text

✯

Standing in a steady line, one soldier's boot lifts up it's heel, ankle leaning inward towards the other. The movement makes the leather groan, a slight creak that luckily is masked by Admiral Simpson explaining the parameters of their training today. 

They were given two days reprieve that Rooster spent sleeping for a day and a half from a combination of exhaustion and adrenaline crash, the rest of the time slathering himself in icy hot and stationing himself on his couch, watching some mindless TV whilst the routine 6 hour interval doses of Tylenol kept him from being physically reminded he survived a mission you can't so much as whisper to the eighty-six year old, hard of hearing lady down the street.

Luckily temptation was easy to stave off when answering texts from the others, assuring them yes he slept like the dead, no he is not in fact dead. Their concern eased a deep ache that he didn't receive anything from Maverick or Ice, though maybe that's because he changed his number years ago and deleted theirs in a fit of petty rage.

Despite what some would consider an attempt at the stanky leg, Rooster's expression is calm except for the occasional twitch it gives, fighting down the need to wince. His side is acting up today and not even the two pills he popped this morning took the pain completely away. At least the rise of his foot lessons the ache, his side not pulled taut. It'd be a relief if he could enjoy it in the open hanger, but man it's hot, the desert heat like someone thought it a good idea to get the fireplace going in the peak of summer. Beads of sweat already dotting on his face, dripping down the nape of his neck, dampening the collar of his undershirt, flight suit sticking unpleasantly to his skin. What he wouldn't give for a firehose to douse him right now, full stop.

"Psst Roo," a voice whispers behind him, Coyote trying to get his attention. Turning his head just slightly to indicate he's listening, Roo subtly lifts his chin. "You gotta go to the bathroom, man?"

A pause of confusion, he realizes what it must look like: leg turning into the other, foot unable to keep still, shifting his posture every so often. He forces his foot flat on the ground, fully locking his knee, hiding the wince as his side tugs petulantly. "Nah just antsy to get out there," he whispers back. It's true though, flying is his comfort, his choice of drug, and being unable to fly would destroy him like none else. With a stinging blink of his eye after a stray drop of sweat sneaks in his sight, he adds for good measure, "And tired of standing in the devil's asscrack."

Given that the hanger doors are slightly parted to mimic said image, Coyote snorts, the ugly sound unfortunately during a pause that has Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates glancing their way. "There something you want to add, Lieutenant Machado?"  

The others glance over their shoulders towards them, Hangman meeting his eyes, brow raised with a tilt of his mouth like he's in on the joke. Luckily Coyote plays it off, "No sir. Just excited to get back up in the air," he claps a hand on Rooster's shoulder, the movement tugging the corners of his smile up, enough to ignore the twinge in his side.

Cyclone sighs, like he expected no less, whilst Warlock lips just give the barest quirk, solidifying he's clearly the coolest. "Well, I'll spare you all more bureaucratic spiel. You've got some rounds of training to still complete from the original lesson plans for this mission, before the parameters were unexpectedly moved up. Fortunately, they are considered routine instructional, so a few days worth won't cost anything, but your time. Afterwards, you all receive special distinguishments, advanced commendations for those directly involved in the mission itself."

He sees the surprised, joyful expression Bob makes when he turns to meet Phoenix's smile, like he can't believe it whilst Rooster earns another pat on the back from Coyote. From Rooster's view, he can even catch the lifting of Hangman's cheek bone, a smirk no doubt on his face, pleased because he's the one who came in and saved the day. Though quietly, Rooster is glad he will be recognized too, even if he has to suffer a lifetime's worth of bragging.

"And, I understand you all are very concerned regarding the status of Captain Mitchell. I received word from Admiral Kazansky last night he made it out of surgery and is awake. Set to make a full recovery," he informs them, the relief that ripples through them better than any awards they've earned. Though he knew already surgery went fine, hearing this news has his chin trembling, having to clench his jaw to not burst into tears. Thank you, whoever is listening, thank you.

Even Admiral Simpson, a known hard ass and complete opposite in everything to Maverick, looks almost dare he wager happy at the news as well. Warlock grins outright, sharing in the relief they all feel. 

"Unfortunately he won't be able to attend the rest of the lesson while recuperating-"

"You know I tend not to follow orders," a voice so familiar, so vibrant as it echoes through the hanger catches his breath, all heads snapping to a grinning Maverick as he's wheeled towards them, a uniformed Iceman pushing his chair, Hondo walking with a smile beside them.

"Cap!" Payback yells excitedly, the other pilots hooting and collaring, vibrating to run to him, but having to stay in line like children tempted with a treat and told not to touch. It's increased tenfold when they realize Admiral Tom Kazansky, Commander of the Pacific Fleet is the one pushing Maverick closer.

There's a phantom ache in Rooster's arms, remembering what his dying limp body felt like holding up, pleading to above not to take him from him; a nightmare that'll haunt him later.

Iceman brings the wheelchair to a stop right near the podium, shaking Admiral Simpson's hand and then Admiral Bates' in greeting. Maverick, his leather jacket half on, one arm in the sleeve, the other hidden underneath, cradled in a sling, smiles up at the two before turning his attention to them.

"Wanna make sure I keep up reputations," he jokes, reaping low chuckles and jubilant grins.

"I'm surprised to see you out of bed," Admiral Bates humors, Maverick opening his mouth to speak.

"Not for long," Iceman cuts in before his husband can make up some lie like they've cleared him to fly. "He only got released because he swore to the nurse he'd agree to bed rest. Which is why our visit is brief, and we'll be heading home right after."

Rooster can tell a few of the others are sharing looks, questions about what the relationship is between Iceman and Maverick. Oh if he had the time, he'd be able to tell them memories that made his childhood with those two, even before they were able to disclose that being each other's wingman didn't stop after they landed.

Maverick huffs, grin not fading before he surveys the pilots, taking them in. "I just wanted to say that though our time was short, and I'm sure my teaching methods unconventional," laughter beneath breaths, an actual eye-roll from Cyclone, "I'm proud of you all. You've trained under difficult circumstances, completed the mission to the best of your abilities, surpassed expectations, and...you all returned safely back home." The statement speaks volumes of how much he cared, not just seeing them as a number but as kids he couldn't bare to bury for the sake of a mission. His eyes pass over each of them, before stopping on Bradley's, appearing shiny in the sun lit hanger. "I'm proud of you," his voice thick.

Rooster's nose twitches, his own eyes threatening to water when hearing those words. All he ever wanted was to fly with Maverick, to make him proud, to prove he could. It's been a long time coming, but he did it. He did it.

The moment is cut short when a hand comes to rest on Maverick's uninjured shoulder, the gold wedding band stark against Iceman's hand. Maverick breaks their stare, ducks his head as he composes himself, reaching to grasp the hand.

"I want to commend you all for your extraordinary efforts. You've made your country proud," Iceman speaks, his presence commanding the room, wide-eyed pilots mesmerized by him. But the fear is back, digging its nails into his chest, and Bradley can't raise his eye-line higher than the lapels on the Admiral's suit jacket, where the tie disappears in the cross section. "I knew when presented with extremely talented candidates from former classes at TopGun, you would be the ones to have the best shot at success. And with my husband at the helm, you surely would have a fighting chance."

If the others are shocked by the declaration, they do very good at hiding it, except Yale who murmurs 'holy shit'. Phoenix however side-eyes him, asking the silent question. He figures she'll pester him about it later.

"Our allies and I thank you for your tireless work.," a salute is offered and everyone quickly snaps to reciprocate, just as Maverick sniffs, lifting his head back up. "Now if you excuse me, someone needs a nap." It breaks the gravity of the room and the twitches of smiles not trying hard to be repressed.

"I'm not that old Ice," Maverick chides with a un-offended tone, though still sounding worn out like he's just finished having a good cry. His husband only hums, already steering the other away towards the hanger exit. Hondo shakes his head, smiling at the antics of the two as he trails after to see them off. A part of Bradley wants to hurry after them, beg like a child to go with them like he did before each deployment. But all he can do is watch them grow smaller in the distance until they round the door of the hanger, out of sight, far from out of mind.

"Dude," Fanboy says aloud, still taking in the last few minutes, the others in similar states of disbelief.

"Alright," Admiral Simpson calls to order. "We'll adjourn this briefing. Wheels up in five. Fly safe out there."

They all salute, boots wandering out of the hanger, heading towards the awaiting jets being prepped by aircrewmen. A harsh sock against his arm has his clutching the limb, "Ouch." 

"Oh shut it," Phoenix narrows her eyes, lips tilted. "How could you not mention Maverick was married, to Iceman of all things?!" she shouts over the idle engines. 

"Slipped my mind," he throws back without a second thought, having to evade another punch coming his way. "Hey! Watch it I'm bruised!" Even then, his cheeks are hurting from smiling. 

"So are the rest of us," she jests back, before diverting to her plane where Bob's already climbing up the ladder. A sigh, he rubs his arm and makes his way to his plane, antsy to get back up in the sky.

✯

After a comm check and instruction over the radio, safety checks done, they're given the all clear. The way the planes were set up, Rooster is second to last to launch, his plane slowly crawling down the taxi way as the others before him launch off in intervals, jet engines roaring before they race down the runway, lifting into the sky, heading towards the mountains.

'Dagger eight, you're cleared for take off' the clearance prompts him to turn into the runway, angling his plane with practiced maneuvers in the direction of the long stretch of road in front of him, the sky calling his name.

"Dagger eight, launching!," he announces, kicking on the engine before sending it, picking up speed as his wheels bolt down the runway.

The moment he's up in the air off the tarmac, the force pushing him into his seat, his chest caves in, the air robbed straight from of his lungs. Eyes widen in sudden fear, the twinge earlier in his chest feels like a pulsing throb, abdominal muscles spasms painfully like chewed gum being slowly, ruthlessly pulled apart. It's only years of experience that has him forcing his chest to fill, expand with air until the altitude levels, and the g-forces reduce enough to breathe normally, shaking his had clear. Jesus, what the fuck was that?

He directs his plane to where the others glide smoothly, speed decreased to allow the rest to catch up. Omaha not more than two minutes behind. Rooster adjusts in his seat, his side protesting at any shift but thankfully settles once he's comfortable. He'll definitely need to pop some more pain relievers when they return to base.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking," Hangman schmoozes, having taken the leader as the first one to launch. Rooster's smile curls beneath his mustache in-spite of himself.

"Oh brother," Halo jests, but doesn't sound annoyed at the bit.

"Did we pick-up a random airway y'all?" Fanboy asks.

"Come on now, he's been waiting for this day to come, let's not crush the man's spirit," Coyote adds, clearly enjoying his best friend taking the reins.

"I think that'll be protected by his massive ego," Phoenix chimes in, but they can all tell it's without heat.

"One could wonder how his jet manages with all that cargo," Bob adds, such surprise it's got the lot of them snickering, and Rooster's beaming beneath his mask.

"Enough commentary from the backseat drivers please. Remember hard deck is 2000 feet. Follow along, try to keep up," Hangman teases, before he's pulling a tailside, flipping to dive towards the ground, Rooster and the others following his lead.

The maneuver aggravates his bruises, but he manages fine, if experiencing more discomfort than usual. Fuck two pills. He's gonna have to stop in medbay to request the grade A shit. He's managing though, keeping up when suddenly he feels sick, like he's back in flight school, running his first launch that always tests your stomach.

Fuck, with nausea building in his throat, his body drops into a cold sweat, having to readjust his trembling grasp on the throttle. The lead f-18 does a barrel roll, something Rooster tilts to do before he chickens out, scared he'll be sick if he tries. Missing the maneuver, he barely catches when Hangman calls out a defensive split and he tags on end with half the group, clustered in formation as they veer left.

"Harvard watch your tail!" Hangman warns over coms, and it's the call out that drops lead in his stomach.

"Payback, SAM on your nose!"

"Talk to me Bob!"

"On your six!"

"Negative contact!"

"Rooster evade, evade!"

He wants out, he wants out of this cockpit, feet back on solid ground, wants to curl on the ground and feel the warm paved concrete flush against his cheek. His hand has been unconsciously pushing the the throttle forward, his place breaking off from the split, nose diving towards the mountain ranges.

Someone's calling his name, but he can't hear, not when a sick helpless terror takes over.

He contemplates ejecting, just to escape out of this cage, can't think, can't breathe. Even with the small voice screaming this is 65 million dollar vehicle, don't fucking crash it, he flies like the devil's on his heels, trying to get to the ground as quick as possible.

The clouds rush by, like smoke in the air and-

The missile's trailing him, he can't get away, swerving left right, he can't shake it he's going to get hit. He's screaming into his comms, he's out of flares, he's going to die!

There's an alert ringing from the dashboard when he breaks the hard deck, drowned out in the flash of memories. 'PULL UP. PULL UP.' 

The numbers on the altimeter are flickering, his altitude dropping too fast he can barely keep up:

800ft

|

760ft

|

720ft

|

630ft

|

590ft

|

510ft

|

400ft

  |

350ft

  |

305ft

  |

280ft

  |

250ft

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"ROOSTER PULL UP!" Hangman, Phoenix, Coyote, Fanboy, Bob, Payback, Omaha, Halo, Harvard, Fritz, Yale, all of them screaming deafening in his ear he can't tell them apart.

He sucks in a sharp breath, reality snapping him out of his freakout like a punch to the face, as he jerks the throttle back, thrown back into his seat as his plane bends in the opposite direction. The force is so intense, so crushing on his chest, he's involuntarily shouts, hand shaking as he tries to keep the plane steady against the turbulence, his side tearing itself apart. The frame is gonna give, the canopy going to collapse in on itself, pulverize himself to dust and bones he'll leave behind for scavengers in this desert to pick at.

Yet with some favor he's earned from the big man upstairs, he saves it. The plane barely skims by the terrain, a hair width's from a crash, kicking out over the desert mountain range, launching back up into the clear sky. His catches the grain of stability, hick maneuvering his breathing to keep from passing out, but two miracles doesn't guarantee a third.

'Finally you reach coffin corner' Mav's voice humming in his ears, displaying the diagram as the fighter jets charging 10Gs hot into the air, straight into their impending doom. 

'Oh my God, oh my God' He wants cover his ears, wants to hide beneath his bed, where the group gathered in the house can't find him like SAMs and tell him his mother is dying. She's not coming back like his father, like Maverick, like himself. 'I can't shake them!'

His hick patterns stumble, the stitch in his side screeching, and he's screams and screams and screams, no sound even escaping his mouth because he can't fucking breathe.

"Rooster?!" Hangman shouts, his jet heading straight towards him that Rooster has to swerve to avoid a collision, a curse ringing in his ears. Kicked off the trajectory, he stabilizes the wings on a steady altitude, no longer swan diving for the ground or the moon. 

He sucks in shaky breaths that hit his face underneath his mask, but the cold sweat is still there, and his eyes sting.

"Roo?!" Hangman drawl is hoarse, sounding as frayed as an overused wire, his plane rising into view on his left. Rooster has no idea where the rest are. 

"I can't do it, emergency land-ing," he chokes out, splitting from the other, returning to base, the runway.

How he manages to not crash the jet he'll never know, but the minute his tires screech to a halt in a swerve at the end of the runway, crew ambling their way over alarmed, he shucks off his helmet, climbs shakily out of the cockpit and takes off to the one of the nearest hanger, clutching his burning side.

Unlike his plane, he's gonna crash, and he rather not do it in front of everyone.

Ducking in the hanger, he stumbles to a far corner, behind crates of supplies, slamming carelessly into the metal wall with a bang, legs collapsing out from underneath him.

Something is sitting on his chest, an entire 10gs worth of force threatening to crack his ribs, he wished he could pass out, black out in g-lock instead of toeing the line of torture just enough to keep him alive to feel it.

There's commotion beyond the cracked doors, grating drag of wheels on the runway saying he's not the only one to cut their flights short, sounds of crew running about to accommodate the unexpected landings. He's tilting his head back, back arching to fight the pain that has his eyes watering.

"Rooster?!"

His weak wheezes sound awful to his ears, he doesn't think he can even call out for help if he tried.

"Roo-jesus!," boots are rushing his way, before someone drops to their knees in front of him, hauling him in their arms.

"Breathe, breathe," Fanboy begs, hands clutching him, shaking him. "Guys! Guys!" he shouts behind him, hoping help will come.

Rooster tries, tries so hard his head is going light, but it's like he's in the air, the oxygen cut out in his mask, and he can't. Then a sharp dig of a knuckle, right into his solar plexus of his sternum, another hand squeezing his ribs bursts the bubble, and he breathes, loud and gasping.

"Oh fuck!," he coughs, the pain in his abdomen worth the lungfuls of fresh air that he takes, the aroma of jet fuel washing over him like a splash of whiskey downed too fast.

"Dude," Fanboy shakily exclaims, a far cry from earlier.

Rooster huffs, dragged and harried, grimacing with a noise of miserable ache as his side seems to detest his need to fucking breathe.

"Rooster?!" Phoenix's voice rings near the entrance of the hanger.

"He's over here! I found him!"

Phoenix voice is carrying, "He's over here! Fanboy's got him!" More footsteps hurry over, the squad finding him absolutely in poor shape cradled in Fanboy's arms. Their expressions, already worried, worsen the minute they lay eyes on him.

Rooster thinks how he avoid the mess hall after the mission, not wanting to show up a sorry looking sap. Well this must be karma, cause fuck him right?

"Roo," Bob's kneeled by his side, the other crouching, a few hands touching his sprawled legs. "Jesus what happ-?"

"What the fuck was that up there?!" Hangman comes stomping up to the group, brow furrowed, sounding pissed.

"Man not now-" Fanboy pleads, still as shaken by what he stumbled upon.

"He broke the hard deck and nearly splattered himself into the goddamn mountain!" 

"Jake," Coyote tries to calm the man down, clearly having seen the state Rooster is in.

Before Hangman can go off on him, Rooster sucks in a breath that wheezes so violently, the noise wipes Hangman's ire clean whilst everyone else's expression drops.

"I-" he shivers, Fanboy hugging him closer, trying to warm him up. "I just got thrown back up there....the mission-" he doesn't know if he's making sense, trying to get warm whilst also not puke over himself and everyone else. Fuck maybe, he can ask the med staff to just knock him out, save what's left of his dignity.

His hand claws itself where it trembles, Halo reaching over and grasping it, not complaining when he squeezes top goddamn tight.

Phoenix's face tilts sympathetically, her hand resting on his thigh. "We get it," she comforts, not needing him to try to explain. No one challenges it, even with some airmen hovering in the background.

Except that reprieve is short when another voice, this one with actual authority has them tensing. "Where are they?!"

Some poor crew points the way, because Admiral Simpson "Hey! What the hell was that? Tower spotted one of you diving under 2000ft and-"

A straggler to the aftermath, Cyclone's anger too diminishes the instant he lays eyes on Rooster, laying prone in the middle, just starting to get some of his color back. Reprimand stalled, the place falls silent.

"He had a bad episode sir," Bob explains, gently rubbing Rooster's arm. "We all turned back when he made an emergency landing."

The admirals mouth snaps shut, eyeing everyone and clearing his throat. "Alright, everyone clear out, back to your posts." The airmen disperse, and Rooster tries to sit up, Fanboy keeping him steady. "You all too. I want to address Rooster alone."

They all look ready to protest, take insubordination on their records if need be, but Rooster motions them to listen, he can handle himself. Now that the nausea has subsided and he's left feeling like roadkill on the side of the road, he can manage, just as he always has.

They depart, glancing back at him as they leave the hanger and Rooster makes to stand, a hand held out to him.

Grateful, he takes it and allows his commanding officer to help him up, having to lean back against the wall as he gets his legs under him, hands braced on his thighs.

"I'm sorry sir, I-"

"No, I should be the one apologizing," Cyclone's face goes tight, arms crossed over his chest, chin dipped. Rooster knows admitting such must have gone against every fiber of the other's being. "We were concerned on the mission's success, focused on completing credits left over, we didn't prioritize a psych eval before sending you back up there, even for a routine lesson. That's where I failed you."

Rooster thinks his own failures outweigh the Admiral's, though he doesn't offer them willingly up.

"You're unfortunately grounded until further notice," his face drops, and Admiral Simpson sighs, letting his defensive stance unfold. "This isn't punishment, it's protocol. After what just happened, it's safer for everyone, including yourself to ensure you get your mind right. After the ordeal of the mission, you deserve time to recover." 

Rooster eyes sting, gutted, but keeps his mouth shut. 

"Consider the rest of your credits signed off, and your accolades secured. I'll have the clinician contact you for next week, but for now, retire early for the night. You're dismissed."

✯

'Hey, don't hole yourself up and wallow in the dark. Come to the hard deck and drink with us! My treat!'

Phoenix text burns his eyes from an hour ago as he glances at it in the dark of his Bronco, engine still ticking as it grows colder. He can hear the crowd and jukebox floating through the windows of the Hard Deck, tempting even if he's not feeling up to it. He popped painkillers the moment he got home, crashed pathetically in a destroyed heap on his bed, internally hating himself for losing it up there. He avoided inhaling another dose when he got the text, alcohol might do the trick for his throbbing side and defeated soul.

Figuring he's already driven down here, might as well, Rooster pushes down his insecurity and pops open his door, exiting his truck and slamming it shut, boots carrying him towards the lively bar. Navigating through the sea of bodies, with some half-assed sorries and dodging a few lustful looks, he finds the team gathered around the pool table, racking up a new game.

Lennox is the first to spot him.

"There he is!," Harvard calls out, sounding relieved and happy at Rooster's arrival. Going by the grins that pop up on the other faces, he's not the only one.

"Rooster!" he's pulled into hugs from the group, claps on the back. 

"Hey guys," he greets worn but glad to be in welcome company, a sigh leaving his lips as he pops a squat on a stool left out near the pool table against a pillar, just for him. The seat does wonders to relax his body, able to ignore the residual burn.

Fanboy is there in a flash, sliding by his side, touching his arm. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good," he manages to answer, already feeling more at ease by the warm reception.

A cold bottle, condensation still wet on the label appears in front of him. "Your drink, as promised," Phoenix holds it out to him, lips pulled in a small smile. 

"Thanks," he takes it and pulls a sip, the taste splashing on his tongue, running down his throat. It's piss poor, cheap, and fucking perfect like a cool breeze in an endless summer heat.

Fanboy snorts, slapping him on his back and returning to the game. 

Phoenix leans against the pillar, watching the pool table unseeingly as she brings up a topic he should've seen coming. "So Iceman and Maverick are married."

Snorting into the bottle, he lowers it and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah."

"How long?"

"How long has DADT been repealed?" he asks, Hangman cracking a stripped ball against the solid green, sinking it in the pocket. 

She gives him a deadpanned look, short nails pinging against her own drink. He just takes another sip of his drink, the fizz tickling his tongue, some rustling his stache. He really doesn't want to get into childhood memories that will for sure lead him to openly sobbing; he's met his breakdown quota for the day thank you.

Before she can dig, someone takes a seat into the empty stool beside him, a relief to see it's Bob.

"Rooster, how are you feeling?"

Angling his body towards the other, Phoenix letting out a sigh as she retreats to the pool table. Rooster answers genuinely, "I'm feeling better." 

"We were really worried about you," Bob shares honestly, his eyes showing the open concern he has for his wellbeing. 

"Oh," he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah I'm- I'm okay. I'm sorry I freaked you all out."

Bob touches his hand around the beer bottle, tingles running along up his arm. "Don't be sorry. I get the occasional nightmare about the mission. It happens to all of us. Even Hangman."

At the call sign, Rooster glances towards the blonde pilot, seeing him cracking a joke with Coyote, absentmindedly playing with his pool cue. Hard to believe, Hangman's always seemed infallible.

"Thank you," Rooster says, focusing back on Bob. "For the concern. I appreciate it," he leans close to make sure he's heard over the jukebox. 

Bob smiles, patting his hand before removing it completely, Rooster wishing he had left it there. A shout of "Yes! Pay up Fritz!" from Payback captures the WSO's attention, which lets him take his time to have his fill of the other.

Sitting on the stool, under a sea of mugs and bar lights, Rooster finds himself entranced with Bob.

He's handsome, despite what many probably have written off by the large wire frame glasses or demure disposition. His skin the color of browning honey, smooth and tantalizing to touch. He's pretty. Though a glance around the table finds many the same mesmerizing sight, warm and bronzed, smiling and laughing at stupid jokes. His eyes trace over Hangman's handsome jaw line, rubbing his fingers together, itching to touch the few days stubble. Or maybe the corner of his mouth, that perks every time he smiles, lascivious and charming.

Chiding himself on his blatant staring, Rooster drops his gaze and drinks, letting the alcohol do the talking.

"Bradshaw, as I live and breathe," greeting like deja vu has him grinning, Hangman sliding into view.

"Hangman. You look..." his eyes trail up and down the other, slowly. "Good." Perhaps he's turned lightweight overnight.

"Well I am good Rooster, I'm very good," Hangman smirks, hip cocked as he rests his hand on the pillar near Rooster's head. "You feeling good?"

"Better," he admits, though anything is better than the shit he pulled through this morning.

"Good," the blond sounds like he means it, gaze taking him in like he's categorizing every detail. He doesn't bring up the disaster of the flight, nor how Rooster's grounded. Small mercies.

"I was telling him we were all worried for him," Bob interjects, facing them both, knees brushing Rooster's. Hangman doesn't refute that statement and Rooster has to look down at his hands for something to do, willing away the flush on his cheeks, berating the way his heart beats against his ribs, not showing him any mercy. 

A hand lifts his chin, forced to meet Jake's green eyes; what do you know, they're pretty too. Thumb caressing his jaw, right near his scars, Rooster's lips part on their own. "Maybe he's got to be reminded sometimes."

Rooster swallows and thinks him so goddamn brave, and stupidly luckily he drove his ass to the Hard Deck. The alcohol warm in his belly, the bodily pains an after thought.

The bell ringing at the bar, followed by a simultaneous cheer of the patrons, breaks the trance, Hangman's hand slipping from his face. "I'll go grab more drinks. Bob, care to help?"

"Sure, be right back" with a gentle touch on his leg, the WSO slips out of his stool and the two hurry to cash in on some poor bastard's misfortune, Bradley left sitting there wondering if he's dreaming or not. The stitch in his side when he shifts too suddenly in his seat tells him, nope, he's awake alright.

"Looking cozy over there," Phoenix comments, rounding the corner of the pool table.

"I have no idea what you're referring to," he shouts back, the noise of the bar growing louder.

"You're a horrible liar Bradshaw," she leans down, lining up her shot.

"Nothing to lie about," he dismisses, breathing through a pinch as he reaches behind himself, setting his empty bottle on the divider.

By the time he turns back, Natasha has sunk her shoot clean, but there's a flicker of irritation flashing through her features. Hangman and Bob's return with more drinks distracts him from probing it, accepting another cool bottle, the sip crisp. 

He doesn't know how long they're chilling there, bracketed by two people who've got his chest doing funny things, but half way through his second bottle, his eyes blink languidly, and he stands, excusing himself for a piss. In the bathroom he splashes water on his face, trying to fight the wave of mild discomfort settling into his frame, exhaustion coming on fast. Slapping his cheeks to wake himself up, he dries his hands and tosses the crumbled paper towel into the trash.

Exiting the bathroom, he's about to return to the group when he spots something that pauses his steps, heart dropping to his feet.

In the spot he abandoned, Hangman and Bob are sitting on the two stools, heads leaning together as if discussing something with the excuse it's too loud to be heard any further. But from his vantage point, he sees the way Hangman's nose skims Bob's cheek, the murmur of his lips brushing against his ear, the effortless way the WSO leans into the points of contact without flinching. Even as Bob turns to fully look at Jake, the two seem to have eyes only for each other, a soft smile on pilot's face mirrored by one on the bespectacled officer's. 

He's seen the look enough to last a lifetime; in home videos, photographs, even in front of his eyes. It's the way his father looked at his mother, the way Maverick looked at Ice. The way no one had ever looked at him like that.

Suddenly all the pain Bradley's been ignoring comes back ten fold, and he just wants to be anywhere but here. He wants out.

Phoenix catches his eyes, and waves him over but he ducks and heads to the door, her confusion calling after him even over the noise. "Rooster?!"

He's out of the bar, hurrying to the car when the door crashes open behind him.

"Rooster, where you going?"

"Home!" he tosses over his shoulder.

"Home? But the night is still young!" Jake rushing to his wing, trying to persuade him to stay with his stupid handsome face.

Rooster keeps walking, doesn't want to be dragged back inside to watch Hangman and Bob look at each other like everything he deeply yearns for. He shouldn't yearn, he doesn't deserve it.

Hangman scoffs, a little buzzed as he walks backwards. "You don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, certainly not in the air." 

The minute it's out, Rooster stops, Hangman smirking like he's won until he realizes what he just said, any victory vanishing as he winces. "Shit, I'm sorry Roo. I didn't- I mean-"

Rooster jaw ticks, and he keeps walking, leaving Hangman in his dust.

"Come on man, spending time home alone like a loser isn't gonna cheer you up!" the other's tact is clearly lacking tonight, but the statement just makes him angry and hurt and he lashes.

Rounding on him, Rooster snaps, "No, but it's better than being punched below the belt when my dead father or PTS-fucking-D gets thrown in my face!" At the ferocity, Jake flinches back, expression shuttering.

Over his shoulder, Bob peers out the door, concern written all over his pretty face. 

Shit! Feeling like a dick, though he shouldn't given he's never gotten an apology for the first, he turns and storm to his Bronco. Jamming his keys in the engine, revving it and throwing it in drive before he can even let it get warm, peeling out of the parking lot.

He makes a few miles before he pulls over, hunched over his wheel, clutching his side. It hurts, it really hurts. Heartbreak and heartache, he's sore and tired and it hurts.

And the worst of all is it reminds him of his first heartbreak, a thirteen year old distraught his crush rejected him, citing her infatuation for someone else. He pretend he hadn't been burying his tears in Maverick's chest while Ice rubbed his back, all three pretending to be engrossed in the baseball game on TV, ignoring the splotchy stains on the short pilot's shirt when Bradley was done moping.

Begrudgingly, his eyes start traitorously watering. "Fuck," he bites out, wanting nothing more to crash and burn in his own bed.

Taking a deep breath, getting his shit together, he sits up slowly, slumping back into his seat and throws the gearshift into drive. Rolling back onto the road, he drives home, stuck on the question overtaking his mind.

He completed the most death defying mission, proved himself, yet why does he feel so broken?

✯

He doesn't know how much time passes, lying in bed, wishing he could just fall asleep, when there's a pounding at his door. A glance at the alarm clock on his night stand shows red numbers flashing, 1:08 in the morning.

"Rooster, open up!" 

It's Phoenix, and as much as he wants to ignore her, her continued battering on his door isn't going to go away. He gets out of bed, groggy and beaten down, opening to a tornado that rushes inside.

"Okay, what the fuck Rooster?!" her boots stomping across his hardwood floor.

"Phoenix, it's goddamn one in the morning-" he complains, sagging on the door.

"Too bad! Maybe you want to explain to how you fled the bar like a coward, and I stumbled on Hangman nearly in tears in the parking lot, Bob fucking lost trying to comfort him?!"

Feeling like a dick, Rooster doesn't bother shutting the door, she'll leave eventually once she's had her say. He shuffles over to the couch, wincing at the difficulties it takes to sit down.

"Maybe, I was tired you think about that." Her cutting look has him rolling his eyes. "Jesus. Hangman was being an ass, so what?"

"We know Hangman is an ass, but I wanna know why you decided to have a good go and bring up shit from weeks ago?"

Weeks ago? "Oh I'm sorry, my father's death is a fair point to throw out in class, but heaven forbid I bring up in an argument about doing so?"

"No, but what's the point when you all made up. He saved your life."

"Saving a life doesn't make up for the shitty things someone's said or done!" He knows that better than anyone. Not listed as next of kin or emergency contact. Cold profile warding him away.

"Then talk to him! Have a decent conversation instead randomly blowing up at him at a bar. Hell if not Hangman, talk to Bob. He listens, he'll understand. Believe it or not, they both care, a great fucking deal, about you. God, can't you see the way they look at-"

No. No, no, no. He's over this night, this pain, this fucking day. "I don't give a fuck, Phoenix. Clearly you need to get your vision checked, because they've only got eyes for each other and I don't know why you're throwing me in the middle like I'm some charity case needing love. Newsflash, I don't need anyone."

"Charity case? Is that how you think I see you?" she sounds hurt.

"Sometimes," he snaps, the past drudging itself in ugly ways. "Even back then, you'd try to pry, to force me to open up, look at me with such pity that I didn't have anyone."

"By your own choice. Because you apparently had someone. Someones," she grits, referring to two people who are not clearly here. No texts, no calls, no visits.

"That's a fucking lie."

She chuckles, devoid of actual humor. "You think I didn't see those unopened birthday cards you'd stuff in your mattress."

"Snooping? Seems like a pattern when you can't leave shit alone."

"Well forgive me for trying to care! Anytime I tried to ask, anytime I thought I was getting you to open up, you'd shut down!"

"Cause you couldn't take a hint!"

"Because that's what you always do. Panic, pull back. Your hallmark callsign." The blow is low and his brows pull down. "Anytime someone gets too close to what you hide, anytime someone tries to pull more out of you, you turn them away."

"And for good reason," he doesn't back down, clinging to all his old anger, like an ill-fitting coat he out grew.

"The past is the past," she says, throws her hands up. "You're being stubborn by refusing to acknowledge what's there now."

He scoffs, averting his gaze to the side as he shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

At this she sighs, disappointed and exhausted. "You don't get it."

Knowing it's futile, she makes to leave, pausing just over the threshold. "You keep doing this Rooster, you're gonna end up alone." 

Without another word, she slams the door behind her, a few beats then the sound of an engine in his driveway before tires peel away.

Hunching over, the tug in his side throbbing beneath where his hand rests, he doesn't hide the grimace, doesn't even have to.

Who would he hide it from when he's all alone?

Chapter Text

✯

For as visceral as the anger had burned in him, clung to him like a poison in his veins for those 15 years, the betrayal singeing everything as if it had just happened a day prior, Bradley honestly cannot remember clearly that fateful night.

Sometimes late in the evening, when he dares try to recall the night he left, he only remembers the echos of screaming, shouting, jumbled angry words tossed around by all three of them, the stinging in his eyes suggesting he was holding back tears, but the phantom tear tracks on his cheeks revealing he was failing miserably to do so.

"Enough!" Iceman had yelled after he insulted Maverick, startling his 19 year old self so hard, he instantly clamped up. Ice had never yelled at him, not even when he accidentally broke. something or lied. He used to think the man didn't have an angry bone in his body. Yet Bradley found it.

Perhaps they'll remember him in history books for discovering how to draw out the worst in the best people he knows; he's just that good

✯

Bradley wakes up feeling worse than any hangover he's ever had the displeasure to grapple with. His eyes feel crusty, his body achy from head to toe just laying on his back, and he's apparently accumulated all the humidity of the Top Gun base with the amount of sweat gathering on his body, pooling beneath him on the sheets.

'Ugh, I feel gross.'

Attempting to get out of bed, he mindlessly lifts his torso and immediately collapses back on the bed, clutching his side as a grueling, crippling pain wracks through him, a scream ripped from his mouth. "Jesus Christ!" he chokes off, an agonized high-pitched cry at the tail end, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.

Pain sounds too faint to describe what's clawed itself into his abdomen, gnawing on his ribs, shredding him down to the bone he thinks he tastes blood in the back of his throat. A sadistic shit posing as a good samaritan must have tried to put him back together, deep nails and painful screws littering what's left of the pieces of him, edges stapled callously together over the mess.

Even when the sensation subsides, taking it's sweet time to do so, it leaves behind a burn in his side, a stitch that's been half-way sharpened into a dull knife, rusty edges tugging as it's pulled from his body.

Taking a deep shuddering breath, a tear or two slipping down his temples, he has to roll over his uninjured side, chest lying in his damp sheets as he breathes against his pillow. Maneuvering back into an army crawl, he lets his body carefully reach the end of the bed, toeing the carpet, one leg at a time. With a deep breath and bracing his hands, he does an assisted push up and gradually shuffles his legs underneath him, makes it to stand only at the last moment to go tripping backwards into his drawers, slamming into the wall, making a wounded sound. Ah shit.

Feeling light-headed, his hand tucked beneath his arm to hold his shattered ribs, he sags back against the wall, sitting atop the dresser until the feeling of passes.

He doesn't know how long it takes but he damn near falls asleep, blinking awake, grimacing at the sweat cooling on his body, skin tacky. He needs a damn shower.

Pushing off the wall back onto his feet, managing to stay up right, he hobbles to the bathroom, his side too taut to stand straight. Given there's no one to impress in his lonely little corner of the world, he doesn't bother masking the pain.

A shower thankfully leaves him clean, and that's about it. He's still too hot, only can bear to throw on shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, not even bothering with the buttons.

In the kitchen, he tries to munch on a ripe banana, ripped from the bunch sitting on his counter, but after a sickening sinking feeling washes over him, it comes up just as fast. Hunching over his kitchen sink has never been so painful, gripping the edges, his gagging ending in a choked, bitter sob.

He wants his mom, he wants those he used to have there to fill her absence to take this pain away. He wants anyone, please anyone.

He suddenly reflects on all the times he hadn't felt this way, mourns never appreciating feeling good and right and fine. He wants out of this cage of a body, out of his skin, but he can't even fly away from this hell because he's grounded indefinitely. The awful reality he's subjected to is enough to eye the kitchen knife before he jerks his gaze away, cursing himself for even entertaining the idea.

Even grounded, he's expected to show up at the base, probably stationed on desk duty or at the very least occupy himself in the gym. Just the thought makes his shiver nauseatingly, shuffling miserably around the house in search of his phone to make a call.

He finds it half-charged on his nightstand, wandering back out to the living room, dialing a number he saved when assigned back to TopGun weeks ago.

A deep voice answers after a few rings. "This is Admiral Bates."

"Sir, this is Lieutenant Bradshaw."

"Rooster," Warlock greets warmly. "Why the early phone call? Debriefing isn't until 0800."

"I'm calling out sick today, sir. I'm in a sorry state and can't quite keep anything down. Figured it be safer to recover than attempt an exercise." He nearly says in the air, but saves himself from sounding pathetic when he would've had to correct himself. Grounded.

"Well that's alright son, I appreciate the call. I understand you had a rough time yesterday, I think myself and Admiral Simpson would both agree rest would do you some good." Immediately Rooster feels embarrassed, the retelling of his breakdown the previous day certainly having made rounds already on the base.

"Thank you sir," he says, hunching involuntarily when his abdomen contracts painfully, thinks of every horrible thing he's done to deserve this.

"And Rooster?"

A deep breath, the expansion hurts, but he finally manages a steady response. "Sir?"

"Do take care of yourself."

"I will sir." He hangs up, letting out an exhale that's got a sickening tremble running through his limbs.

Trying to distract himself, he scrolls through his phone and sees a group chat with a bunch of texts, a few from last night and many more from an hour ago. 

Super Secret Mission Squad

[Harvard] I still think the cue ball bouncing off the the table and hitting a ball in on the OTHER table should count

[Coyote] Man you're full of shit LOLOL

[Yale] Fritz you still owe me $20 bucks

[Fritz] Put it on my tab!

[Omaha] And you owe me $20 for our game, Halo. Beat ya pretty good last night ;)

[Halo] You can find it on your mother's nightstand

[Coyote] OOOOOHHH 

[Harvard] LKDKADKLSKDDK

[Yale] PFFFFT

[Payback] LOLOLOLOOL

[Fanboy] LAUGHING TOO HARD IM GONNA BE SICK YALL

[Omaha] DUDE NOT MY MOMMY D:<

Rooster's lips twitch as he scrolls to the texts from today, the humor fading as he skims the text

[Hangman] Mav and Iceman invited us all over for dinner tonight! Everybody better get your asses into gear!

[Fanboy] how the hell did you get his number?

[Hangman] Cause I'm his favorite that's why ;)

it strikes deep in his core, Rooster involuntarily hunching against the blow.

[Harvard] Dude! Admiral Kazansky wants to invite US for dinner? Why?!

[Hangman] Maverick says it's a reward for the mission and the hell we've trained through

[Phoenix] Dibs on bringing wine.

[Halo] Dibs on bringing whatever top shelf alcohol I can afford cause holy shit!

[Coyote] Dibs on bringing the most delicious meal you could have....

[Yale] ??

[Omaha] Don't say it-

[Coyote] Me! AHAHAHA 

[Bob] I'll make macaroni salad. Can anyone give me a ride?

[Hangman] I gotchu! Which, guess this means I'm bringing the sugar ;)

[Payback] Bleh! Get a room you two!

Heart hurting as bad as his side, he tosses his phone into the armchair before he can bear reading anymore, hearing it bounce with a dull thump until it lands facedown in the cushions. Not even a text or call from Maverick, despite the older pilot promising they'd talk when they get back, and Phoenix clearly was delusion in assuming there's a place for him between Bob and Hangman. Rooster tries to blame his blurring vision on how much pain he is in, and not by being so forgotten.

After scavenging in his bathroom for any relief from feeling like he's crawling on his belly in hell, he downs a couple acetaminophen and slaps freeze patches on the nape of his neck and his forehead. 

Turning on his ceiling fan, with some the arm strength he's gained through 400+ pushes, yes still fuck you Payback, Rooster carefully lowers himself on the couch, sighing with a relief when he manages not rip himself apart, sinking back into the cushion. So dead exhausted by just by the minimal moving he did this past hour, his eyes shut and he drifts off into a restless sleep.

There's a drip pinging against the metal bottom of the sink, the faucet not completely turned off as it drips, the owner having missed this minor detail.

Along with the few specks of blood staining the walls of the sink, stark against the stainless steel.

✯

In the resounding silence that followed, Rooster thinks he remembers the way Ice had his hand on Maverick’s arm, trying to calm his partner down who kept repeating the same tearful mantra "he's not ready, he's not ready", both standing on one side of the dinner table all three of them had sat as a family for years around, leaving him all alone on the other side with his broken heart cupped in his trembling hands. Two versus one. In a dog fight like this, where’s his wingman?

Try as he might, dredging up the antique memory shoved in the furthest depths of his soul, those are the only words that have etched themselves into every corner of his mind from that night.

"Enough!"

"He's not ready" 

But Mav and Ice are a pair, none without the other, always have been and always will be, clumping them together in his head anytime he dared spare a thought of their absence. So why would his mind not do the same with the last words he heard from them? 

"He's not enough!"

Bradley heard them every step of the journey he made on his own, clawing his way into the navy, into the cockpit of a fighter jet. It wasn't his father's untimely death that stayed his hand on the accelerator. No, that would have been reasonable.

How do you explain to people that the fear clawing at his throat, whispering in his ear that the two greatest fighter pilots this side of the Pacific think he's gonna crash and burn? That no matter how many recommendations he gets, how many awards he receives, how much praise he gets, it'll never be enough?

Because he himself will never be enough.

✯

When he wakes up, hours later, he finds he's now shivering, his teeth chatter like a jack hammer, mind foggy like coming out of being put under.

He feels drool drying on his chin, wiping it off when the back of his hand, brushing the wetness on his shirt, not coherent enough to realize the smeared dark stain it leaves behind.

Sitting up, a panicked whimper escaping him as he clings to the couch cushions in a crushing embrace. The pain is blinding, but his senses are dulled and too hyperaware all at the same time. And he's still so cold.

Making his way clumsily to his feet, almost falling over, he wraps his arms around himself, his legs bounce against the chill.

He hears a muffled sound, a repeating thrum and realizing his phone is buzzing in the arm chair. Snatching it with trembling hands, holding a way to bright screen to his face after just waking up, he squints.

Except regardless of how much he stares, blinks in attempt to clear his blurry vision, the texts aren't making much sense. Glancing around, he hunches against another full body shiver, fingers fumbling as his phone slips from his grasp, landing haphazardly on the carpet, still buzzing.

Squinting out his sliding backdoors, Rooster can make out the contrast of the water swallowing the beach, the sun just beginning to lower in the sky atop their embrace.

“Don’t go too far Brad! Don’t want the ocean to sweep you away from me!” his mother’s voice reaches his ears, the sound nearly drowning out under the noise of the waves.

“Don’t worry Carol!” Maverick yells back. Mav was always reassuring his mother, soothing away her worries. He was always so good at that when Bradley’s nightmares were scary, or his anxiety clamped his throat. “Me and Ice got him!”

“Look at that Baby Goose! You’ll be a swimmer in no time!” Ice always bolstered every little thing he did, always hung up his crudely drawn family pictures or tests he managed to Ace, or even get a B on.

Warm wash of memories sweep over his delirious mind and immediately starts that way, the temptation of warmth enough to draw him from his house and the buzzing forgotten phone.

He struggles with the sliding door lock, but finally gets it, rolling the door open and crashing through the hanging blinds. Uncoordinated bare feet stepping out onto the porch, he goes stumbling in the sand, kicking up soft grains in his haste.

The minute he's outside, he shudders in relief, the air like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. He continues forward, the thundering waves crashing in his ear, washing childhood memories ashore, soothing when he's in nothing but blinding pain.

✯

Standing on the opposite end of the table that fateful night, the very sensation he’d never been forced to face with since his mother died, since been taken in by Mav and Ice suddenly had crept up behind him, like a patient predator who played the long game to obtain it’s prey. He was alone. All alone.

He must have spiraled, overwhelmed by the betrayal and hurt that when a hand reached for him, and he slapped it away, shouting something. He stomped up the stairs that night, ignoring them both calling him to come back, maybe they weren’t finished tearing him down, but he couldn’t bear to remain on that side of the dining table. Alone alone alone

He barricaded himself in the room that night, watching as shadows in the hallway approached the door but didn’t dare knock, leaving him to wallow.

When it passed midnight, the house quiet and dark, that’s when he fled.

Packed a duffle, slipping out the window and climbing down the drainpipe. He left that night without any goodbyes, and never looked back. Even when walking down the quiet empty street, truly on his own for the first time in his life, he knew this was his only path, no matter how scary it would be.

Even with his feet itching to turn back around, something caught in his eyes to make them water, he figures it's was the only option.

Why subject himself to the heartache of company who make him feel alone?

✯

A couple walks down the shoreline, weathered hands holding onto each other, enjoying a stroll after dining early to beat the crowd. By the now the beach has cleared, the sun just beginning to set and many sunburnt, tired, and pruny ready to call it a night.

The husband scans his gaze as far as the eye can see, and squints when a dark shape rests on the beach further down the shore. His wife is paying attention to where she steps, but as they draw closer, he realizes it's a person, resting on their side, back facing them. Something about it has alarm bells going off in his head.

"Hun" voicing his concern, the outline of a young man coming into focus, wet sand sticking to his clothing, feet sprawled where the water barely skims his toes.

He tries to wander closer when his wife's hand tugs him back. "Oh dear, it's just some drunk kid, leave him be."

"Hun, I don't think so," the husband lets go of her hand, feet digging in the sand as he nears the young man. "Let me just check."

"Ron," His wife sighs, but walks closer, both adoring and cursing she's married someone who's too kindhearted for his own good.

"Son," the man kneels down, reaching for his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

He turns the limp man over, the unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt he's wearing parting to reveal a ghastly sight beneath the shirt.

The man's mouth drops, his wife gasping with a hand over hers. "Oh my God, Ron."

The young man's clammy, pale skin sweating while his chest rises too fast to be considered normal, a debilitating wheeze escaping his mouth. But it's the unobstructed view of chest area that nearly churns their stomaches. 

The husband turns to his wife, "Hurry back to the restaurant and have them call 9-1-1. Quick!"

His wife takes off down the beach without arguing, whilst he scoots closer, noticing a set of dog tags hanging from his neck. Oh. Kid's a soldier, probably navy given their location, someone who's given of themselves to protect the country and ensure he gets to enjoy the long uninterrupted walks with his sweetheart on this beach. Kid should not be left abandoned like this to die.

Gently grasping the young man's hand, bleary eyes blinking up at him, he tries not be panic at the weak grip. "Don't worry son, we're gonna get you help. I'm not leaving ya."

You don't leave your wingman.

✯

15 years of justifying his anger, using it to drive himself forward, drown out the echoes of doubt, for some seems like too long of time to hold a grudge. A grudge. The word doesn't even begin to cover what he's shouldered from that betrayal. Everything he did, everything he earned, was by his own sheer will, all of it a lonely consolation prize to broken dreams of being bolstered up to the top with the help of two people he once loved and admired.

So you can imagine what carrying 15 years of hurt does to someone when coming face to face with the cause of it all. The reigns he kept tight on his emotions were ripped from his grasp, the controlled flame in his soul burning like a forest fire, threatening to scorch him and everyone else in the blaze. And when dared questioned about his skills, his leadership, his worth by said person, he wanted him to hurt.

For all the spite he spewed at Maverick, claiming he's got no one to mourn when he burns in, it was a lie. 

No, that was all Rooster.

No wife, no kids, no family waiting for news, sick with worry, who would miss him if he should fail. Cause he's alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Chapter Text

A pen scratches against a crisp sheet of paper, the sharp sound vibrating against the wood underneath. Along the edge of the maple wood desk sits picture frames of family: his sister, brothers, and litters of nieces and nephews. The left hand side belongs to his spouse, handsome face captured on film through the years, moments shared between them when they couldn't openly express their love for each other and moments when they could. Their appearances may have changed, more fine wrinkles and grey hairs, but the look shared between them burns the same.

And then in the left hand corner, discreetly placed, are two pictures of a young man, a fresh faced teenager dressed in his baseball uniform and another two decades on donned in his formal Navy suit attire, distinguished badges on his breast, face more chiseled with a mustache that could be a reflection of a ghost. His son in all but blood.

Many intimately familiar with the Mitchell-Kazansky household know their care for the last remaining Bradshaw, but many who only know of their powerful titles and eye-raising reputations do not. The latter fact was not what they had ever wanted, but a decision made a decade and a half ago forced their hand.

Despite the imposed distance, the Admiral had used his authority over the years to keep tabs on Bradley, watching from afar in pride as his son made it to the Navy, rose through the ranks, even managed to make it to Top Gun, following in fathers' footsteps; was the Top Gun of his class like Iceman. Given his prestige with the program and rank, he easily snagged pics when Bradley earned his golden wings, one for his desk and the other for Mav's hanger. 

The photo was something that filled them with pride, but broke their heart all the same. Gosh, if Goose and Carole could see him then; if Maverick and Ice could actually see him then. The years had passed in the blink of an eye, the two of them having to settle with watching from afar. Though he wouldn't voice it aloud to Maverick, couldn't bear to see his husband break, Ice begin to worry they'd never reconcile.

Then came a mission across his desk that was life or death. The parameters gave even him pause, a steep price if they should fail, but a steeper price if they succeed without considering the lives in the cockpit.

He was tasked to select the best of the best of Naval aviators, the cream of the crop. He scanned through graduates of Top Gun, needing them within a variably young age range but not so fresh faced they'd never seen combat. Of course he should've expected it. Ice froze the moment he saw Bradley's photo, the same one situated on his desk. It was a sure fire choice, he couldn't find a valid reason to deny him when Admiral Simpson and Bates voiced their confidence. Despite the worry, Ice saw it as a divine intervention offering them a second chance, even if the devil was throwing his chips in too.

Admiral Tom Kazansky selected Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw a long with the 11 other Top Gun graduate candidates, and he knew he needed the best to teach the best, to ensure they came home.

The moment he caught wind of the Darkstar fiasco, he got his husband out of the warpath of a pissed off Admiral Cain, and threw his name in the ring. Without a fair warning.

Ice knew it would be a cold shock, and was prepared for Maverick to be upset, which he blames himself for the understatement; Mav was livid when he came home, ranting and raving and cursing him for putting them in this spot where someone might not come back from this. But Ice gave as good as he got when facing off in these rare moments, asking him who else was good enough to make sure their son came back home alive? 

Bowed by the question, Maverick took the job and kicked him out of their bed to sleep on the couch, slamming the bedroom door for good measure. Ice contended it was well worth it if it meant the two people he cared most about in the world would be able to finally hash it out, find the common ground they once had, learn to forgive and forge forward. 

Of course, that was asking a lot from two people who carried 15 years of hurt. Each time Maverick returned home from the base, he looked like he had been ejected from an exploding plane (again), crushed and morose, silent as he retreated to the bedroom, door clicking shut softly behind him. Ice had to hear second hand from Hondo every incident: the death roll face-off, the explosive fight during instructional where one of the others, some punk ass, decided to dig into some old wounds of the two just to see them bleed, and even the heated argument in the lounge where only a few words were caught but it was enough to break Ice's heart from afar "-dad trusted you, I won't make the same mistake."

The mission timeline was ticking down, sped up in fact, and Maverick was entirely withdrawn. He wouldn't even try to eat with Ice when he attempted to coax him, still avoiding talking to him. The couch was comfortable, they had forked a pretty penny when buying furniture, but he was missing the presence of Maverick by him, missed being able to hug him close in his arms and feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, something he never took for granted after losing Nick Bradshaw. 

He'd take the heated anger Maverick had from his youth, take a hit or a punch or yelling whatever it would manifest as, rather than this horrible silence and sunken pain his husband bore.

Unable to stand the distance one second longer, willing to endure the ire or rejection as long as he could be next to Pete, Tom rose from the couch one night, abandoned it in favor of taking the stairs. Steeling himself outside of the master bedroom door, Ice turned the handle and glanced in, frowning when he realized that the bed was still neatly made, but Maverick was no where to be found.

Not certain if his husband had snuck out, he was about go out searching when he heard it. A sniffle, almost faint. Wandering out of their room and down the hall, he made his way towards Bradley's room; no matter if they moved houses over the years, they always had a room for Bradley. Carefully opening the door, Ice swore he felt his heart fracture.

There was Maverick atop Bradley's bed, curled around a pillow, trembling back facing towards the door, a hitch in his breath telling him his husband is breaking. Has this been where Maverick has been sleeping every night? Had this been what he subjected himself to? What Ice had unknowingly let his husband suffer through alone?

Quietly moving closer and steeling himself to take all the anger and vitriol as he slides into bed, Ice curls around Maverick. But the minute his arm wraps around the shorter pilot's waste, Maverick chokes on a sob, clutching it close. "Ice please" the begging words striking the Admiral ruthlessly. "He's not ready. He.... Please don't-don't ask me to send someone else to die. Don't ask me to send him. Not him- not Bradley," he keens, sobbing fitfully.

A lump had formed him in Ice's throat at the state of his husband, having asked him to endure so much.

But he knows even when Carole made him swear to do anything in his power to keep Bradley out of a fighter jet, it was Pete's own fear and trauma that ultimately drove him to pull the papers. Even from a distance, no matter how proud they were of what Bradley accomplished on his own, Pete feared the moment they'd get the call death had taken the last remaining Bradshaw, the soul of the Mitchell-Kazansky household. It was a fear Ice had to wrestle with too, more than cared to admit, but he couldn't let it destroy their son, let it steal his dreams. So he forced Pete to confront his fear head-on.

"It's time to let go," he whispered in Maverick ear, somber when the other frantically shook his head. "Mav, you have to let him fly-"

"Please," Maverick pleaded, tears clogging his voice as Tom bodily turned him over, thumbs brushing the tear tracks away where he gently cradled that handsome, broken face. "Send me instead, please Ice."

Ice kissed him, soothing his pleas quiet, holding his husband close as he whimpers into the affection. As their lips parted, he made sure to look into those teary green eyes. "I know you're scared, you've always been so scared for him, even before we lost Goose. It's what drives you everytime you try stop him from flying, it what keeps our son from believing that he can do this." His husband shakily inhales. " If you don't send him, he'll never forgive you."

Maverick's chin trembles, a fresh set of tears pooling in his eyes. "But if I send him on this mission, he might never come home. So please, send me instead. Please."

Tom swallows, leaning his own forehead against Pete's, both of them sighing at the touch; he holds his husband tight until he falls into a restless sleep, staying awake to watch the one who owns his heart. He never wanted Maverick to be broken down like this, hates that this is their only chance at redemption and healing.

Ice had pushed for Mav to be the instructor for this mission, with the stipulation to Admiral Simpson and Admiral Bates that was the only role Maverick would play. Perhaps he too has been letting his own fear hold him back, letting it not give them the best shot of completing this mission, of bringing their son back to them.

The next day, he informs Cyclone and Warlock that he's putting Maverick as team leader, proving to his husband he believes in him and listens to him, that he won't let the terror of losing him prevent the team from succeeding. Ice was sure he'd be biting his nails and worrying himself sick when the time comes, but the need for his family to be whole again far outweighed his fear that would've crippled them all.

And the day the mission, it gives Maverick the strength to choose Rooster as his wingman.

Pen slipping off the paper, ink line having dragged to the edge, Ice sighs amusedly at his own reminiscing. Setting the Montblanc down, he reclines back in his chair, trying to take a moment to reassure himself his husband and son made it home, the team made it back in one piece, and the impossible mission was a resounding success.

It'll haunt him that Maverick was nearly taken his grasp, but he pulled through, and for that Ice thanks whoever up there is listening for rewarding the faith he had in his husband.

Deciding any paperwork can wait, he makes to rise from his desk, wanting to check on his husband and relish in the fact he's still by his side to continue to keep him on his toes.

✯

Maverick's shifting in his mound of pillows in the king sized bed, restless by an order, let alone one to be on bedrest. Pffft. Eyeing the balcony window, he toys with his mouth. Maybe a change of scenery would be nice, just to sit and enjoy the view, he swears! The pilot tries inching his way to the edge of the bed, making his grand escape when he hears it.

Padded footsteps on the carpet in the hallway trek closer until his husband wanders into the room, a singular brow raised at the mess he's made of the covers.

"Heyyyy honey," Maverick beams innocently, still a little hopped up on painkillers. 

Ice bites back a laugh in a way that makes his nostrils flare. Going by the look in his eyes, he knows exactly what the other was up to. "Mav."

"I just thought relaxing balcony would be nice."

"Mav-"

"The bed's a little lumpy and you know how my back's a little off these days."

"Pete."

Whatever you're doing downstairs, I could help!" he tries to bargain.

"Oh no," Ice shakes his head gently, ambling further into their master bedroom. "I think you're doing just fine here, following doctor's order to stay. in. bed."

"But, I'm bored," he bemoans, body wiggling closer to Ice when he sits on the edge of the bed, stopped by his husband's steady hands; he latches onto one of them, enjoying the touch.

"You're...bored?"

He dips his head. "Mhmm. Terribly bored." His gaze travels from those icy blue gems to linger on his husband's lips; his tongue wets his own, a swoop in his belly.

"Oh?" Ice smirks, catching on to his poor husband's thinly-veiled desire.

"And your lovely husband is in pain," he recites, hamming it up to see Ice's lips twitch.

"Oh you poor thing," the blond snarks, just as much he did when they were 30 years younger.

"But I can think of a few things to help me feel better and guarantee we stay. in. bed."

Ice snorts, leaning in. "You're a menace."

"Your menace." Maverick grins into kiss with his husband, the two enjoying the heady feeling still there like they're back in their Top Gun days, competing for the title and pretending they were only eyeing each other as competition, even as the so-thick-you-could-cut-it-with-a-knife tension between them earned some side-glances and raised brows.

That adrenaline-fueled rivalry lasted only a few weeks before they snapped after a heated argument about something so small and insignificant, making love right there in Maverick's shared kitchen, Goose screaming in shock when he walked unexpectedly and found them in their birthday suits, doing the semi-horizontal, slightly inverted tango on the kitchen counter. "My eyes, Mav! My eyes!'"

Maverick had laughed himself stupid, hit his head on the cabinets, Ice cradling the tender area whilst burying his own laughter in Maverick's neck, all the while Goose ran out of the house, screaming he was never going to fly again on account of "I'm going blind by the sheer shine of Kazansky's ass!"

God the memory aches well and good.

A ring breaks their private moment, their lips parting reluctantly while Ice sits up, pulling out his cell from his pocket.

"Admiral Kazansky speaking," he answers, Maverick leaning back into the pillows, refusing let go of the other's hand. He traces every fine line, callous, and curve before deciding to be a bit naughty, bringing it up to trace with his lips, mouthing at the gold wedding band.

"Hey Hondo," his husband greets, a deadpanned look at the distraction but making no move to stop it, Maverick grinning against the knuckle; Ice never could tell him no. "Yeah, Maverick's laying down, and supposed to be resting."

Just for that, Maverick bites his ring finger, before giving it an apologetic lick, enjoying the way Ice's blue gaze tracks his mouth as he wraps his lips around the finger. 

Realizing he's still on the phone, his husband blinks himself out of his lust-driven stupor. "Sorry, Maverick is being distracting. Can you repeat that?" Ice gives him a playful 'behave' look, before the simper is wiped clean at whatever the other has said into the receiver.

Maverick removes his mouth, giving the hand a squeeze.'What's wrong?' he mouths, disliking whatever is making Ice look like the worse days they're waded through, too many nightmares of close calls and loses.

"Hold on" Ice removes the phone from his ear and sets it on the bed, pressing the speaker option. "Ok, you're on speaker."

"Mav?" Hondo calls.

"Yeah I'm here, what's up?" he keeps ahold of his husband's hand, resting it on his chest, below his sling, antsy with the way Ice is carefully watching him.

"I know during the training you requested me to keep tabs on the kid, and I assume that goes the same for post-mission too. Well, I'm calling to inform after you two left earlier, the group had a routine exercise to run. Part-way through, Rooster's plane separated from the group and took a nose dive straight for the mountains, breaking the hard deck. The others couldn't seem to get through to him over coms." Maverick's breathing stops, staring horrified into his husband's own terrified gaze.

A thick swallow, Maverick dares to ask, "Did he-"

"He managed to pull up at the last minute and get above the hard deck with the others," Hondo reassures, the shuddering whoosh Maverick releases twinges his bandaged wound, his husband gripping his hand just as tight.

"You said he broke the hard deck. How low?" Ice inquires. There's a heavy pause before Ice presses. "Hondo, how low?"

"The altimeter registered 250 ft."

"Jesus," they both breathily exclaim, the thought of Rooster crashing that low on a routine run after all they've survived makes Maverick's throat close up, blinking away the stinging in his eyes.

"You would bend the frame pulling that curve," Iceman notes.

"Kid nearly did, and shooting up on nearly 9gs had to swerve to avoid crashing into Hangman who went after him."

Maverick brings their intertwined hands to his face, pressing his mouth to the knuckles, needing the touch to ground him. 

"And after?" Ice managed to ask, voice sounding rough.

"Rooster made an emergency landing and once on the tarmac booked it to one of the hangers. The team followed suit and Fanboy found him first, in pretty bad shape from what I heard. I only caught a glimpse before Admiral Simpson came charging in, but he was sprawled out on the floor, pale as a sheet."

Maverick leans into the thumb caressing his cheek, shaken with the imagery. He swallows down the sick feeling, his mind already conjuring up horrid scenarios.

Hondo adds, "The place was ordered to clear out but from what I heard Admiral Simpson has grounded him indefinitely, at least until he can see a psych and get his head on straight."

Ice is the one who exhales, sitting up straighter, taking charge when anything gets rough. "Ok. Make sure to suggest Dr. Kyler. He's one of the best handling PTSD. I'll text him myself, we go way back."

"Sure will, and if there is anything else, I'll keep you both posted."

"Thanks Hondo," Maverick manages to say, though his voice a little strangled.

"Of course. You guys take care."

The minute Ice disconnects the call, Maverick is pushing to sit up, his husband startling to stop him.

"Mav wait-"

Shaking his head, he tries to get out of bed, biting at the throb in his chest. "Ice you heard him! Rooster nearly crashed-" a shivering breath, "-into a mountain and collapsed. He's clearly not alright and he-" almost hyperventilating, hands gently grasp his shoulders, careful of the injury .

"Shh. Take a breath," Ice demonstrates, pulling Maverick to copy him, pulling him close to lean his head on his husband's shoulder, a hand rubbing his back. "That's right, easy now."

His free hand clenches on the back of his husband's shirt, twisting the fabric irreparably as he shudders into the unfaltering embrace. He tries, but it's so damn difficult when Goose's death flashes before his eyes in that unforgiving water, the image flickers as Bradley keeps replacing the body in his arms, still and quiet.

"Breathe Pete, that's it," the warm murmur against his temple soothes the tremble running through him, the press of lips a reminder he's not alone in this fear. He sags into the affection, using his free hand to grip at his husband.

It's takes time, having so long since an episode like this, but when he's finally calms, Maverick is drained, not even making an attempt to fight his husband when he gently lays him back against the pillows, restituting the covers over his waist. Bracing his hands on either side of him, Ice tilts his head, meeting his eyes. "I know you're scared Pete, I am too with what we heard just now. But you're still recovering and need to stay put. You were..." his husband pauses, like he's trying to stabilize himself. "-you were shot."

Maverick swallows, feeling the ache the bandaged wound gives after moving too hastily.

"Plus..." Ice trails off, a slight wince on his face, like he doesn't know if he should say what he's thinking.

"Tom, what?" he asks, holding his husband's hand. 

Ice's eyes roam over his face, something tender and sad. "Kid's just been grounded after having a dangerous flashback of a near fatal mission. Given our history, you and I know what happens when you try to approach someone after that."

Frame sinking into the bed, Maverick swallows, the outdated memories not forgotten. After Goose's death, he was angry, self-ridden with guilt, lashing out at everyone who treated him like glass, even distancing himself from Ice, considering dropping out of Top Gun. He was suffering and didn't want others to try and help, didn't want others to have to carry the weight of the world that deserved to be crushed on his shoulders, didn't deserve to be anything but alone. Only Ice coming over, forcing himself inside and holding Maverick, taking all the fists pounded against his chest until they became weak thumps, the shorter pilot's anger crumbling into sobs, saved him from his self-imposed torment. 

Deflating at the memory of grief, an old wound that heals but never fully stops aching, he leans into his husband's hand tenderly cradling his face, nodding into the touch, knowing Ice is right.

Tom's smile is gentle, still looking at him like he's his whole world; even now it steals his breath away. "Don't worry. We'll take care of him. We've been looking after him from afar, certainly won't stop now."

What would he do without Ice as his eternal wingman? He's lucked out the moment he managed to catch the attention of that blue-eyed stare at the O-Club, that's for sure. Blinking tiredly, Ice's thumb rubbing his cheek is making him drowsy.

"Just sleep Mav. I'll watch over you both," is a reassuring send off into a dreamless sleep.

✯

Admiral Tom Kazansky spent the rest of the afternoon making calls to Dr. Kyler, Cyclone, his secretary Sheryll, and of course anyone he had a meeting with this week to inform them it'll have to be postponed, because like hell is he not gonna take time off to help his husband's recovery; and his son's, however he allows it.

Maverick's resting on the couch, under Ice's watchful eye as he washes the dishes, the two of them having just finished a late dinner. He had been worn down enough to grant Maverick this one change of scenery, figuring it would do his husband good, though he particularly enjoyed the grumbling Maverick made under his breath when Ice insisted on carrying him downstairs, reminding the other he's on bedrest. 'Bedrest, my ass Tom. You just like hauling me everywhere.'

Ice would neither confirm nor deny the statement.

"And you reached Dr. Kyler?" Maverick asks, leaning back into the pillows Ice had propped up behind him.

"Yep. He'll be in next week, cleared his schedule all for Brad."

His husband nods, allowing himself to relax at the assurance their son's mental health is going to be addressed fast. "Do you think he'd like one of us there? Therapy can be...rough."

Ice shuts the sink off, drying his hands on a dish towel as he makes his way over to Mav, sitting on the sturdy coffee table to be able look at his husband fully. 

"I just- don't want him to go through another time by himself. I don't want him to think he's gotta shoulder this by himself."

"You're right he shouldn't, but it's not really up to us," he gently adds.

"Yeah," Maverick sighs, situating himself back into the couch, Ice patiently waiting for whatever else he's gotta say. "I know we agreed not to smother him, but can we at least give a call." Ice goes to open his mouth but Maverick hurriedly adds, "Maybe make an excuse that doesn't pertain to what happened today, like we'd doing routine follow-up with all the pilots and-"

"Mav," Ice pauses his husband's ideas, internally grimacing at the look of confusion flickering across that handsome face. "We don't have Bradley's number."

The look is wiped clean, devastation replacing it. "Oh, I-" He glances down at his lap, wrestling with what's probably clogged his throat. "I forgot." 

They had tried since that dreaded night to call, tired to many times their fingers would fall off, but Bradley would constantly change his number any time Ice or Mav managed to get ahold of it. All the unanswered calls, sent straight to voicemail, never to be returned eventually got the message across. After the last number changed five years ago, they had to stop trying to force their son to talk to them.

Regardless Maverick's dejected slump has Iceman abandoning his place, coming to sit on the edge of the couch, shifting his husband's legs to rest on his lap. Maverick swallows his grief, heels kneading into Ice's leg. "I just promised we'd talk when we'd get back. He wanted to talk Ice, he did. But then-"

"Then you collapsed on the aircraft carrier, bleeding out in Bradley's arms." Maverick's face twists, but Ice reassures. "Don't worry there'll be time to talk later, when both of you are in the right headspace, and little less banged up," offering a tender squeeze to the ankle, toes stretching from under the blanket.

It's quiet before the other releases a soft curse. "Shit," Maverick hand comes up to cover his face. "I probably messed him up more passing out on him like that."

The admiral reaches over and takes the hand, kissing the knuckles. "It was scary but you're fine now. I think it helped reassure him when he came to visit you."

"He came?" Maverick perks up, something hopeful and fragile in his face that makes Ice's heart ache.

"Yeah Mav, I told you this already," he reminds, lips tugged up with affection.

"Well, I was kinda looped on the painkillers, so" he shrugs, but the hope doesn't fade. "He looked ok, right?"

The creak of the private hospital room door snapped Ice out of his persistent watch of his snoozing husband, warm hand cradled in his. He's about to politely if not sternly tell the staff to leave when he pauses, the sight in front of him stealing the air out of his lungs.

Admiral Tom Kazansky had long had to make do with those two photograph on his desk for years, but they didn't hold a damn candle to the real thing standing in front of him.

Coming face to face with Bradley in Maverick's hospital room had been a sucker punch to the gut. At 19, Bradley had been lanky and already sprouting like a weed, but at 34 he was tall and built, having come into his own, filling out his frame. The picture on his desk smarted each time he glanced at it, but seeing the real live person in front of him hurt.

The three of them hadn't been this physically close in 15 years.

It hits Ice hard in the sterile room, to be able to see both of these men he adores beyond a shadow of a doubt, here, a little battered and bruised, but alive.

He rises from his seat, the movement startling Bradley- no Rooster, a call sign he earned on his own, who deserves to be addressed as such.

"Rooster," the Admiral greets, voice low as to not disturb the snoozing husband. 

"Sir," he answers, back ram-rod straight, and Ice feels his lips twitching. God, kid might as well be 16 again, thinking he's about to get in trouble for staying out past curfew.

"At ease." 

Bradley's posture sags, but the anxious look doesn't fade. "I'm sorry to disturb you, I just wanted to check-" trailing off, emotions heavy in his gaze stuck to a sleeping Maverick.

Iceman too glances at his husband, pained at the sight of the hurt man before the slow rise and fall of his chest soothes it away, steadying him. "He's going to be ok. Surgery went well and a blood transfusion should have him fighting to get back in the cockpit. Or at the very least out of this room."  He tries for levity, but it's been a long day, and he almost lost them both.

"Have you've been checked out?" Iceman asks, focusing back on his son taking in his fill, unashamedly.

Bradley frankly looks dead on his feet, sagging against the door frame. He eyes Maverick with a worried look, drenched with concern, but still, he makes no move to step inside.

Part of Ice wants to stomp over and pull the younger into his arms, hold him close to assure himself he's alive and safe and unharmed. But another part worries the touch wouldn't be welcomed. Last time he tried that cursed night 15 years ago, Bradley had slapped his hand away, screaming "DON'T TOUCH ME!" before running up the stairs, ignoring their calls to come back.

Neither Ice nor Maverick had known it would be the last words between them and their son for 15 years.

They tried, god that first night they about phoned the police until they operator informed them an adult can't be declared missing until 48 hours later; a call a few days later to the administrative office of Bradley's University, the one he had picked when having received the initial rejection, reported he was attending classes.

No response to the birthday cards, unanswered phone calls, no sign their kid was even still alive but what Ice's status could obtain. At both graduations, University and Flight School, they sat in the way back, dressed in their civilian clothes to not draw attention to themselves, steal the moment from their son who had earned it all on his own. There was so much pride at seeing him accomplish great things, but such sadness seeing him accept each degree with a polite smile, not even bothering to scan the crowd to check if someone had come to cheer for him.

It broke something inside of him to think Bradley was surrounded by families, and the two men who were once considered such couldn't approach. The friends and comrades he made through the years roped him into their own clans, the parents and siblings welcoming the lone man like one of their own. Bradley's attempt at happiness, the look he always threw on when someone compared his appearance to his deceased father, even from a distance, was crippling.

The long drives back home were always quiet, there wasn't much to say. Ice could only try not to shatter when Maverick trembled with muffled sobs when they turned in for the night, holding his husband close to, back to his chest, tearing up at the stuttered apologies beneath his breath for a promise he kept and what it cost them all.

"Yes sir. Everything is fine," Rooster relays, short and concise. He still remains where he's standing, not coming any closer; Ice is afraid to startle the kid should he approach, break the fragile lull.

Having to take the kid at his word, he nods, once, before a rustle on the bed, both of them snapping their heads to Maverick. He's still out cold, body just giving the occasional twitch with how deep he's under. That's Maverick for ya, never truly can sit still, even when he's asleep.

Posture sagging in exhausted relief, Ice lets out a dreary sigh as he retakes his seat, attention back on his husband, having already retook his hand. Offering the kid an out, he says, "You should get some rest, Maverick won't be going anywhere tonight."

Not even denying the probably relief to be dismissed, with a silent dip of his head, Rooster turns on his heel and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Letting out another sigh, Ice turns to his sleeping husband. "Well, he came to see you, so small victories."

"Ice?" Maverick's voice draws him out of his memory. "Bradley was ok, right?"

"Besides about to drop from exhaustion, yeah. Got checked out and said he was all good." Maverick sinks further into the pillows, clearly relieved to know their son is alright, as is Ice. "Give it time Pete, you'll both have your conversation. Even if I have to force you both into room and lock the door."

Pete mouth tugs up, snorting. His hand traces along Ice's palm, circling the calloused skin. It's a nice evening, just the two of them, the chirping crickets can be heard from outside even with all the doors and windows closed.

So they both jump when Maverick's phone starts ringing, having been set on the coffee table to avoid the Captain trying to wander off looking for it. Reaching over, Ice snatches it up and hands it to his husband, but not before holding it up out of reach.

"Ice," Maverick pouts, but his lips are twitching, failing poorly at being angry. Try as they might, 30 years later, the two of them are still little shits when it's just them.

Conceding, Ice hands it over but doesn't let go when Maverick holds it, leaning close. "Payment?," he teases.

Maverick smirks but leans into the kiss, the two falling into a sensual rhythm. "Ice," he grins against his lips, trying to tug away the phone as it keeps ringing.

With one last peck, Ice leans away, letting Maverick take the phone.

Pointing at him with a faux glare, his husband warns. "Don't start what you can't finish." Thumb sliding across the screen on the answer button.

"I could've sworn you like me edging you," he reminds, smirking even as his husband kicks his foot lightly against him, Tom catching it to run his thumb underneath the sole.

Phone up to his ear, Maverick bites back his grin. "Captain Mitchell speaking." Whoever it is, Maverick looks surprised to hear on the line. "Bob?"

Bob? Lieutenant Floyd, one of the WSOs?

Maverick's expression goes confused to concerned before he's rattling off their address. "Just bring him here. Do you have a ride?" A reply has him nodding. "Ok see you soon," he ends the call.

Lifting his chin. "What's up?"

"We're about to get two of the guys visiting. Something about a fight between them and Bradley."

"Bradley was in a fight?" Ice feels dread about anything violent near the kid, let alone after the day he has had.

Maverick shakes his head, waving his free hand. "No, more like an argument between Jake and him at the bar and Bob's worried and so I told them to come here."

Leaning back into the couch, Ice asks, "Where are they coming from?"

"The Hard Deck," Maverick throws off his blanket like he's gonna stand, but Ice gently pinches his leg, putting the blanket back. 

"Ice!"

"Nope. Bedrest."

"But the kids!" He motions back to the front door.

"I'll handle them, you stay put."

Not more than 10 minutes later, the doorbell rings, and Ice gets off the couch, taking a pillow and smushes it in his husband face as he passes. "Ice!" Maverick laughs, but Tom is already making his way to the door. Opening it, he comes face to face with a dressed down Robert Floyd, eyes wide behind the wire frame glasses.

"Uh, good evening sir-uh Admiral, sir, uh Maverick, no Captain Mitchell gave his address to us but I uh...sir-" The WSO fumbles through greetings, Ice trying very hard not to smile. Maverick wasn't kidding when he said Bob was adorable.

"Bob," the man goes wide-eyed at his own callsign. "You call me Tom."

If anything the WSO looks more alarmed. "Sir?" 

"Ice, stop scaring the poor kid!" His husband calls, much closer than where he's supposed to be laying on the couch.

Looking over his shoulder, discovering his husband wandering to the foyer, Tom sighs. "Pete," leaving the door to intercept him. 

"Hey Bob!," Maverick waves, charming grin in place.

"Mav!" Bob calls out relieved to see a familiar face, or at least one he's not so intimidated by. "Sorry to bother you so late, I contacted Hondo who gave me your number when I mentioned it was about Rooster."

"Hey it's no problem. Where's Jake?" his husband asks, trying to unsuccessful inch away from Ice's hands as they pull him close to his side. 

"Oh, he's in the car," Bob hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll go get him, he's in a- well it's a been a night." Quickly fleeing back to the vehicle parked on the street, Ice manages to scoop his husband up, Maverick fussing.

"Tom come on, I'm fine. We have guests," he waves his hand towards the open door.

"Then they'll understand you're supposed to be on bedrest," A grumpy dare he call it a pout is the only reply he gets, rolling his eyes. "At least you'll make do to sit," he places Maverick on the staircase, fifth step up, gently fixing the sling from where it's become a bit twisted.

Before his husband can throw up a fuss, their guests are entering the home, Bob guiding a blonde handsome man, Lieutenant Seresin, though off the top of his head Ice can't recall the callsign. Neither looks injured, though Jake does look like he swallowed a lemon, gaze glued to the floor.

Now Ice hasn't been in the classroom, so he'd sign off saying both men look fine, but whatever state he's in now, Maverick clearly grows concerned. "Jake, what's wrong?"

Lifting his head, you can tell the fighter pilot's eyes are red. "I messed up Mav," Jake's shoulders slump, like admitting so took the wind out of his sails, Bob touching his arm in sympathy.

"How? Bob, you said there was a fight? With Bradley?" his husband directs his question to the WSO for clarification.

"Yeah, I mean-" A wary glance at Jake. "We all met up at the Hard Deck, figuring Rooster could use a little cheering up after- well you both know what happened today right?"

Ice nods, "Hondo informed us earlier this afternoon."

"Oh, well we were all there, just having a good time. Bradley looked better, drank a little and we were just hanging out, me and Jake spent our time talking with him," he motions towards the other, face averted to the side somewhat in shame. "He went to the bathroom but when he came out he just kind of...left. Phoenix called out to him, but Jake is the one who ran after him. By the time I got the door, Bradley was yelling at Jake, something about being punched below the belt and-"

"I didn't want him to leave," Jake intervenes. "I tried get him to stay, we were all having a good time, I don't know what happened. One minute he's fine, the next he is upset about something. I- I don't always say the right things, you know I don't, Mav. I might have accidentally mentioned he didn't have anywhere to go tomorrow, given he's grounded."

Both Maverick and Iceman wince, Bob also grimacing slightly though he doesn't leave Jake's side. 

"But I swear I apologized right then and there! I just didn't want him to leave, especially going back him upset and alone after a shitty day."

A concerned side-eyed his way from Maverick, his husband tries to prompt for more. "Ok, then what happened?"

Sighing dejectedly, Jake pulls away from Bob, walking over to the wall to slide down it, sitting on the floor, arms resting on his bent knees. "He said 'it's better than being punched below the belt when my dead father or PTS-fucking-D gets thrown in my face'. Then he left in his jeep."

Jesus Brad. Bob shifts his feet, watching the other young man with concern.

"And Mav, I know I've been an ass," Jake hangs his head. "I- I have no excuse for doing so back then. I just...there was something going on between you and Rooster. And then I saw the picture of you and his old man at the base. I dig when I think there's something to find, and just-" he flings his hand out, tilting his head back. "I'm sorry for what I said back then-"

Mav waves off the apology. "Jake it's alright-"

"It's really not, and I'll be sure apologize a million times to Rooster. But please, tell me what to do," he pleads. "I mean Bob is fine, he's perfect and hasn't fucked up with Roo-"

"Jake," Bob laments, shaking his head.

Shaking his head, Jake beseeches at Mav. "You clearly mean a lot to Rooster, he was torn up when you collapsed after the mission. Tell me what to do to fix this. Cause I just really want your approval."

"Hangman," Maverick's voice fatherly, kind. "You got it the moment you saved us up there; the moment you didn't abandon your wingman."

Wait-Hangman?!

This is the one who saved Bradley and Maverick? The same one who apparently brought up Goose and his death to poke at the two. Ice doesn't know if he wants to buy him a drink or drown him in the Pacific Ocean; Admiral rank might be able to get away with hiding a body, he could do it.

But then again, this kid rescued the two most important people in his life when the end seemed inevitable, insured his son and husband returned safely home. And he does look awfully sorry, looking, frankly, a bit pathetic sitting on their floor, slumped on the wall.

"But Rooster-"

"Rooster's been through a lot, Jake. I know firsthand. I wasn't just someone who flew his dad; I knew his dad, his mother, and was there the day he was born. Me and Ice, we raised him after both parents died. He's like our son. He is our son. But with the fact, things weren't always easy."

Both men look surprised at this information. "Rooster's a really great guy. We both really like him," Bob admits, posture a little nervous as if he's spoken a huge confession.

Which he has. Well damn, his son caught himself two Top Gun stars. It's not surprising given how easy Bradley is to love.

"Well Rooster is a great guy, but so are you two. I'm glad he's become close to you both," Jake looks to open his mouth, but Maverick halts his denial. "Yes, you and Rooster both had your disagreements, but clearly you care enough to come here worried. I'm sure if you apologize, sincerely, you won't lose him. He values people in his life, even if they might accidentally hurt him."

Ice knows he's making a face, realizing Maverick's not quite picking up what the two are implying. It takes all 30 years of his career, training, and reputation to not outright laugh.

"In fact, why don't we host a team dinner tomorrow, here at our house? That way everyone's here, you can talk to each other, and enjoy some food and friends," Maverick glances towards Ice, who shrugs because this is too entertaining to pass up. Maverick setting up a date for Rooster is the stuff of sitcoms. "We can say it's for celebrating making through the mission and all the training you guys did."

"You'd do that for us?" Jake asks, hopeful.

Ice hates to admit it, but the kid reminds him of himself when he thought he lost Maverick, reaching a stalemate in their relationship after the accident, thinking he didn't deserve the grieving pilot as it was his jetwash that caused it all; Slider just gave him a smack in the head and told him to get his head out of his ass, that Maverick needed him. It's the best advice he's ever received.

"Of course. Rooster needs good people like you two in his life. One argument won't destroy a friendship," Maverick assures, Jake relieved as if the mislabel doesn't matter.

Standing a ways back, Bob glances towards Ice, clearly confused by Maverick's words, but he subtly shakes his head, biting back a smile. A look of comprehension passes over the WSO's face, but he nods, not arguing schematics. An opportunity is an opportunity. 

"Thanks Mav and...Tom," Bob manages, and if anything, it endears the Admiral more. Perhaps these two boys will give Bradley double love he so rightfully deserves.

"Our pleasure," the Admiral means it, offering a hand to Jake to pick him up off the floor. There's a minute pause, like the pilot is realizing who he's standing in front of, but Ice just grins, claps him on the arm. "You'll do right by him," he assures quietly, no- he orders.

Jake just nods his head, not gonna take the trust they've been given for granted.

"In that case, take my number," Tom offers it freely, Jake and Bob scrambling for their phones to add like he'll change his mind. "Bob, you have Maverick's already. Send out an invitation to the group, let's say 5pm."

"Will do sir," Jake dips his head, sounding more focused on the chance of a lifetime.

When the boys have left, in much better, hopeful spirits, Ice turns to his husband still sitting on the staircase, a long-repressed smirk finally working it's way on his face.

Maverick's confused smile makes him look years younger. "What?"

"Would you look at that. Our kid seems to have one upped you and captured two pilots' attention. And you're helping him seal the deal."

Maverick frowns before his eyes go wide, like he's just realized what he's agreed to, what he's helped organize. "Whoa whoa whoa, are you saying Jake..and Bob...Jake AND Bob- both?! Nope, Bradley is never allowed to date ever. I don't care if he's 34, he will stay single forever." Hands braced on the stairs, he makes like he's trying to get up.

"I think it's time for bed Mav, we've got a dinner party to plan for." Ice chuckles, scooping his husband up and making his way up towards their bedroom. 

"Well cancel it. I thought it was for team bonding. Friendship, Ice, friendship! I didn't know what I was signing up for, you allowed me to make decisions under the influence of heavy painkillers" Ice is still grinning, even as Maverick thumps his chest. "I'm serious Ice! Use your Admiral powers, Bradley Bradshaw cannot date until he's my age, or older."

"I think by now he's done more than date-" hand covers his mouth.

"Shhh, no he hasn't. He's just a kid, a really tall child, hasn't even held someone's hand."

Ice keeps talking like Maverick hasn't made that ridiculous claim. "And if it works out, he's gonna do a whole lot more with two accomplished pilots-"

"Don't wanna hear it! Lalalalala!" Maverick sticks a finger in his ear, unfortunately his other free to lean into.

"Kid's gonna be as thoroughly cared for as you were, if not more," he teases against the ear, wandering down the hallway. 

"Ice!" his husband bemoans his own idiocy, meanwhile Ice just laughs and laughs.

✯

Maverick has gotta hand it to his husband. He technically did get in contact with Bradley, second hand mind you, even if it was because Mav's a dumbass who didn't realize he was setting up the kid with two Naval aviator officers. He has his moments, and thankfully his husband loves him all the same.

Corralled into a chair at the set dining table, Ice having not let him lift a single finger to help, Maverick's antsy for the company to arrive, especially to see Bradley. As much as this dinner might present the chance for Bradley, Bob, and Jake to set the record straight, or not straight, between them, it gives the opportunity for Maverick and Bradley to have time to talk. It's been long overdue.

He doesn't even have his phone distracting him, Ice making sure both of them disconnected from work completely, setting their phones to the side on silent.

The door bell rings, and a pointed look from his husband stops him rising to greet guests, Ice going to answer the door.

"Sir," a chorus of greetings as Ice waves them inside with a bemused chuckle, informing the ones still outside of where to park.

Seems some still look nervous as they inch their way deeper into the house before they spot Maverick, tied to stuck in his spot, ushering them in. "Make yourselves at home guys. We don't bite."

Relaxing, they all set out the bottles of wine or dishes they brought, adding it to the feast. Maverick greets everyone one from his designated chair, the crew of pilots leaning down to hug him one by one. It's cute to see his husband Ice is the one who extends his hand, shaking each with a firm greeting, the cluster of pilots looking at him in awe. Yeah, sometimes he probably still looks like that, wondering how he got so lucky. 

"Please help yourself," Ice direct to the kitchen counter where he set out alcoholic or nonalcoholic in bowls of ice, chilling them. The kids take the offer greatly, whilst Phoenix ambles closer. 

"Hey Mav," she greets.

"Phoenix," he lifts his arm up as he bends down to hug him, mindful of his sling. "Glad you could make it."

"Thanks for having us," she smiles, facing Ice. "Sir."

"Lieutenant Trace," his husband greets, pride in his expression as he shakes her hand. "Wonderful job out there."

"Thank you sir," she accepts the complement just as the front door opens.

"Alright, the sugar is here!" Jake's voice calling from the foyer before Bob's shushing him. "Jake stop that."

"Oh boy," Phoenix utters, but she's clearly enjoying the appearance of her RIO and the other pilot, Maverick trying not to outright grin at the fierce blush on Bob's face as they make their way towards the kitchen, the WSO setting a dish on the table where it can fit. 

"Sorry we're late," Jake apologizes, clearly in a better mindset as he places a six pack on the counter along with the drinks, throwing out greetings to the others who already started drinking. He then makes his way over to them, Bob following his lead. "Sirs."

"Hey Jake," Maverick greets, surprised when the pilot hands him and Ice a gift wrapped box.

"A little housewarming gift from myself and Bob," he motions towards the other, who looks happy. Phoenix just spectates, obviously enjoying the show.

He raises a brow. "We've lived this house for 6 years."

"Mav," his husband chides him. "They're trying to impress us."

Oh right. Cause they like like Bradley. Narrowing his eyes, part playfully and part threateningly, he says, "You know I thought you were talking friendship when you wanted my approval."

"Oh we could be friends to Bradley. Very good friends," Jake grins lasciviously, Bob slapping his arm but not sternly if going by the dimples poking out on his cheeks.

Pete rolls his eyes, dear god was he ever this bad? Ice luckily spares him the pondering, taking the gifts. "Thank you boys. We'll be sure to open them later."

"You're welcome," Bob pipes up, leaning into Jake, nudging him with a wiggle of his brows as if to say 'see my idea was good'. 

Smiling, Jake glances around. "Is Rooster here yet?"

Lips parting, Maverick shakes his head. "No, um-" a cursory glance around the room shows they are only missing him, a pit of worry in his gut. "He hasn't arrived yet. You sure he got the text right?"

"Yeah, it's in a group chat with all us," Jake assures, waving his phone in his hand.

"It's the right number," Bob nods.

"Well sometimes he's, as the kids say, fashionably late," Ice's hand on his uninjured shoulder, casually easing his nerves.

"I tried to pick him up on the way here, willing to drag him here myself" Phoenix informs them. "His Bronco was in the driveway but no answer when I knocked. Even snuck around the back, went through the open sliding door but he wasn't home. Maybe he stepped out for the day," she shrugs, nonchalantly, seemingly trying not to appear worried either.

"He's probably late, like Admir- like Tom said," Bob repeats.

"Well, I'll give him another call, just make sure he knows to get his ass here," Jake bids off, heading back to the foyer to do just that.

In the meantime, Ice addresses Bob and Phoenix. "Lieutenants, anything to drink?" 

"Sure," they let Ice distract them, Maverick trying to engage with Fritz and Omaha who come over to inquire how he's doing.

They spend about an hour drinking and talking, Jake having returned with little luck at reaching Rooster, Phoenix and Bob in the same boat. Finally they all gather around the table, one empty chair catching the table's attention as the conversations trail off.

"Anyone hear from Rooster?" Fanboy asks.

"No, I couldn't get ahold of him all day," Coyote shakes his head. "Didn't even see him in the gym or the office at the base."

"I don't think he would be there," Halo interjects.

"Why? He's grounded," Phoenix frowns.

"Well I ran into Admiral Bates when I got there early to use the showers. Our plumbing in the rental right now is kinda, pardon my language, frankly shit so figured might as well reap the benefits of the base. Anyways Warlock told me Rooster phoned him early this morning, something like he's sick and was gonna stay home."

Sick? Even with a flu that knocked him flat and a fever raging at 102, you'd have to tie the kid to the bed to prevent him from going to school or baseball practice. 

"I tried calling him earlier, making sure he got the invite since he hadn't replied, but no smoke," Payback adds, mouth twisting.

Everyone else kinda shakes his head, having no luck either, even as Jake glares at his phone, Bob peaking over his shoulder to try and see if he gets a reply. Maverick feels something uncomfortable settle in his stomach.

"Well if he's not feeling well, he'll probably either stay home or show up late" Ice affirms from his seat at the head of the table, before he motions towards the spread. "For now, the food is getting cold, so why don't we all at least dig in.

With a polite acquiesce to the prompt, everyone begins serving, filling their plates, drinking from fresh pours. Eventually the conversations start up again, Maverick listening even with a disappointed feeling tugs down his mouth, a hand on his thigh squeezing gently like Ice knows how much Maverick had been looking forward to the team being here, to everyone being here.

Everyone's going around, sharing backstories of their families, their origins, wading through memories of how they ended up at the top, managed to snag a place at this table of the elite. Despite the food being demolished, drinks flowing, the sky outside getting dark, Bradley does not show.

"Sirs," Lieutenant Garcia clears his throat. "Sorry to bring up the subject, but how do you two know Rooster?" The forks and knives pause, many glancing wide-eyed between Fanboy and the two higher ranking officers; Jake and Bob keep hushed, figuring they leave the discretion up to Maverick and his husband. "Sorry if it's a secret, but I saw a picture of what looked like Rooster as a kid in the hallway as we came in."

Right, the one from the beach, a trip to the coast they made when Carole was still alive and healthy. Forgot about that one.

"As probably mentioned before, I flew with Rooster's father, Goose" Maverick phrases gently, mindfully not digging at Jake who looks appreciative at the kindness. "Myself, Iceman and Goose all went to Top Gun together."

"I knew Goose from flight school," Tom interjects, motioning towards him. "He introduced me to Maverick when we ran into them at the O Club."

Maverick grins, the memories warm and fresh in his mind, even despite the serious nature of the common thread. 

"Mav," Goose beckons him closer under the noise of the club. "You wanna know who the best is? That's him, Iceman." He points towards a far corner of the club, where a blond, frosted tip man in fucking sunglasses is sipping a vodka soda, speaking nonchalantly to a blonde chick in a white dress. "It's the way he flies, ice cold, no mistakes. Just wears you down. You get bored, frustrated, do something stupid and he's got ya."

He had him alright, especially the moment he's greeting his best friend 'Mother Goose', close enough to notice how tan he is, how mesmerizing his eyes are when he takes off those damn shades. Extending him a cordial congratulations before Iceman swoops in for the kill, trying to posture in front of him, Peter's distracted by his smile, blinding white above a chiseled jaw.

"Would you believe this man was wearing his aviators indoors?" He teases out to the group, his husband just shaking his head with that same self-assured smirk. "Thought he was so cool."

Their guests snicker, Yale chuckling, like he couldn't quite picture the image. "Sir?"

Ice tries to make an excuse, "It was bright-"

"Bullshit Ice," Maverick calls him out, most would be shocked at addressing an Admiral that way, but he's married to him so *privileges*. "It was the O Club. They haven't been able to afford decent lighting since 76."

The group tries to muffle their laughter, but Ice just shrugs and grins, sipping from his vodka soda, just as he did 30 years ago. God, did he have him alright.

"Anyways," Maverick focuses back on their guests. "We're all at Top Gun together. Goose was my RIO, we'd been flying as partners for years already, best friends since we met. I knew him and his wife Carole, and was there the day Bradley was born." All of the group at this point have stopped eating, entranced by the story. "They named me his Godfather and I got to hold him right after they did."

Phoenix smiles, soft and touched as are the rest. Jake and Bob soaking in anything they can learn about their crush.

Swallowing thickly, knowing the story wasn't meant to stay happy, Ice's foot nudges his, providing a small comfort. "Goose died after a training incident when he was four, so I tried to be there for Carole and Bradley, fill the space Nick left behind. Ice helped, became officially Uncle Ice and that kid had all three of us wrapped his little finger, along with the Top Gun class."

"Before he became Rooster, we'd call him Baby Goose," Ice says, a twinkle in his eye.

The group awws while Coyote murmurs a soft, "Cute."

A sigh, heavy. Come on Mav, like ripping off a band-aid. "And then Carole got sick, cancer, and passed. And me and Ice became his guardians." 

"How long have-" Phoenix phrases gently.

"Since he was 12," Ice finishes for him.

A sobering revelation that Rooster had lost so much at such a young age, a hush falling over the dinner table.

Payback tries to lighten the mood, "Well certainly then you must have some embarrassing stories? Maybe some blackmail material?"

"Ayy," Harvard, pointing at Lieutenant Fitch. "Come on Cap, you've gotta have some stories."

"Guys, Rooster isn't here to defend himself," Bob, sweet Bob tries to dissuade them.

"I plead the fifth," Maverick holding up his free hand, avoiding answering by taping a sip of his water.

"You're probably wondering how he got those scars," his husband starts as his fingers tap against his left cheek and neck, Maverick nearly choking on his water. 

He sets the glass down, scandalized. "Ice! Not that one."

"What? Don't tell me it was something embarrassing sir," Fanboy jokes.

"Depends on who you ask," Ice replies.

"It was traumatizing," Maverick tries to emphasize.

"Minor compared to what I get calls about every other week regarding what stunt you pulled this time," his husband dismisses.

"Rooster said it was during a combat mission," Phoenix comments, eyes narrowing like she's a shark in the water, have caught the scent of blood.

"That's what I always assumed," Jake bolsters the idea.

"Me too," Omaha pipes up.

"That's what he would've liked the story to be. But oh no. It was a mistake from his youth," Ice smiles. "When Bradley was 16, having just gotten his learner's permit, he decided to take the Kawasaki out for a spin when Maverick was deployed overseas after pissing off an Admiral."

He pipes up. "I would like to state for the record that Admiral Marshall deserved to be challenged."  

The group skeptically look towards Ice, who nods. "He did. The guy was a dumbass," the group snickers, elated that an Admiral of Ice's caliber would be so blunt. 

"Anyways, Bradley found where Mav stashed the keys and while I was work, took the motorcycle out for a cruise. Of course I get a call from the hospital informing me my son had essentially crashed the bike into a tree on the side of the road after swerving to not hit a squirrel. But I should state that they contacted both emergency contacts and I was listed second."

"As the first and deployed the time, the notification was late," Maverick takes over the story. "So I got the call and was only told Bradley had crashed his vehicle and he's in the hospital."

Ice interjects. "Maverick informed his CO his son was dying and he had to fly home to be with him before he passed, even threw in the line 'give Admiral Kazansky a call if you don't believe me.' So he comes back racing to the hospital, ready to throw a fit until he sees Bradley's fine."

"He was not fine," Maverick points at his husband. "There was blood everywhere and he forgot who I was-"

"Three scratches and a concussion," Ice corrects, clearly done yet begrudgingly amused with the dramatics; the kids are basically watching them bicker like an old married couple. "No, the really damage was to the bike which essentially was now half a bike as the front was crushed. Mav probably would have been pissed if not for the fact Bradley's doped out of his mind on painkillers and smiling at my husband, happy Uncle Mav has returned."

"It took me forever to repair her myself," he thinks wistfully.

"But you got out of that deployment early," Ice man points out, which fair.

"Did Rooster get in trouble?" Halo asks, beaming.

"Oh hell yeah," both Maverick and Ice answer simultaneously, causing everyone to laugh. Even with him not present, it eases the ache filling the absence with stories and memories of him.

"But sir," Harvard starts, almost thinking better of what to say. Maverick however urges him to say whatever his question is. "When we started, you and Rooster weren't very...um..close?" the pilot winces, like he's not sure how to ask about the elephant in the room. 

"We had falling out," Maverick manages to say. "It'd been a while since we talked."

It's Bob who dares to ask, "How long?" There's no acquisition, no blame in the question, no vitriol, but it still clamps his throat tight.

"A long time," Ice answers, and that ends the discussion on that.

The lump receding Maverick clears his throat. "Anyone want more drinks?"

"Yeah, yeah," Most jump at the offer, getting up to grab some more.

Maverick feels a hand reach for his, intertwining his fingers between his husband's. Peering his way, he finds affection as plain as day as it was all those decades ago.

"Give it time," Ice mouths, squeezing his hand. 

Trusting his husband, he nods, relishing the way Ice traces the wedding band on his finger.

✯

The dinner party was a success in ways it wasn't necessarily intended to be. Ice can see how much Maverick has taken a shine to each officer here, proud of them. It is disheartening that Bradley's not here to celebrate with them, but if the kid ain't feeling well, he deserves the rest. He, Maverick and the rest deserve a lifetime's rest after what they went through, Ice knows he could use it.

The minute he finished a blasted meeting that afternoon, he was informed by his secretary that communication regarding the co-vert mission had news and more news and news on top of that; enough of a whirlwind that Sherryl's face went from grief to devastation to hope to heartbroken to relief again in one smooth movement.

In the privacy of  his office, Ice had subjected himself to the recording of the coms, listening to the operator inform command Dagger 1 had been hit followed shortly by Dagger 2 when Rooster broke rank and went after Maverick, the announcement nearly taking out Ice's legs from underneath him, thinking he's just lost his husband and son and he had been the one that put them there.

Sherryl, bless her soul for all she's had to put up with him and Mav over the years, caught him before his knees could hit the floor, pushing him into his seat and urging him to keep listening. 

So he did, hearing Rooster's locator was picked up on radar, supersonic as a overwatch reported a Tomcat F-14 was headed for home.

'Fuck' he laughed wetly, able to show emotions in the privacy of his office; Sheryll has seen him through worse.'Of course Maverick would find a relic to make his grand escape and bring himself and their son home.'

But then the last recording wiped any relief when Comanche caught another SU-57 heading to intercept them, the lack of returned fire meaning they were out of flares and bullets. The radio had been turned on at that point, able to catch Maverick begging Bradley to pull the ejection handles, and sucker punch him when their son couldn't get them to work.

By that point Ice is sure he's squeezing his secretaries hand hard enough break, but she doesn't let go; not when he catches what he thinks are the last words of the pair.

"Mav!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry Goose."

Ice was breaking into pieces, not only about to lose them both in one fell swoop but to force Maverick to lose Bradley in nearly the same manner he lost Goose; to force Bradley to die like his biological father. After having pushed them both into this mess, made Maverick believe it was the only way, that it was time to let go.

Vision growing blurry, he'd never forgive himself.

Only for Comanche to call out that the SU-57 had been struck with a missile, one of their own having saved Ice's heart.

"Looking good Hangman," Bradley called, still choked up. Hangman. Whoever that kid is, Iceman is gonna buy him a drink and thank him personally for bringing his husband and son home.

But about not even 10 minutes later, Sheryll gets another call, and this one has her happy expression dropping. And it doesn't change. She informs him his husband collapsed on top the naval aircraft carrier, in Lieutenant Bradshaw's arms, bleeding out. Flying on a private helicopter the minute he could order one ready, praying he wasn't about to lose his wingman for the final time.

Landing on the aircraft carrier and directed to the medical wing, he hurries in, ignoring all the wide-eyed hasty salutes, demanding to know the status of his husband, Captain Pete Mitchell. They don't even bother checking Maverick's medical file, his distinguished badges and stars enough to waive the protocol. He's given the run down, Pete's in surgery, and the bullet went clean through his right pec below the collar bone, lost a good amount of blood, but the surgeon is hopeful. 

'Maverick you survived 10.3 Gs and ejecting out that exploding death trap, like hell are you going to let a little wound like this end you. Not when I and our son need you.'

Given his status they don't make him wait in the waiting room, instead guide him to the private hospital wing where Maverick will be set up. He paces the minute lengths of the room, only allows himself to fall into a chair when Maverick's wheeled in an hour later, looking pale with the oxygen mask over his face, but alive. So beautifully alive. After staff hooked him up to each machine, they left the two in peace, not even mentioning visiting hours. 

Clutching his hand, Ice thanked his husband's persistent guardian angel. "Thank you Goose, Carole. I know you miss him too, but we still need him here. So thank you."

Sipping from his glass, Ice runs his thumb of his occupied hand along the dips of his husband's knuckles, grateful beyond words. Taking in his handsome face, still as gorgeous as he was from underneath those dim club lights, Ice counts himself lucky. How he had approached and postured in front of him, caught his attention, he doesn't know. Ice just counts himself stupidly brave and so goddamn lucky. 

Very lucky Maverick, Bradley, and everyone came back home safe.

The doorbell rings, and all the guests glance towards the foyer, maybe expecting a very late appearance by the guest of honor. Ice reluctantly letting go of his husband's hand as he stands, motioning the others to stay seated. "I'll get it. Make sure my husband stays put, alright?"

"Yes sir," the group answers, even as Maverick sputters, calling out that he's a captain in the Naval Air force thank you very much!

Huffing out a laugh, Ice opens the door and is pleasantly surprised to find a friendly face. "Hondo, hey. Come on in."

Hondo looks hesitant. "Tom."

Tilting his head, perplexed, "What-"

"Hondo!" Maverick calls out happily, walking closer, a pep in his step.

Ice sends him a deadpanned look, glancing back towards the dining room. "I thought I said to keep my husband there!"

Peaking out from the corner, it looks like Jake and Bob are trying to hold back the rest, and somehow succeeding, sheepish smiles on their faces.

"I may have bribed them to get in my good books" Maverick reveals, grin bright. "We weren't expecting you, come on in."

But Hondo still makes no move to enter, looking like something is troubling him. "I've been trying to reach you guys."

"Oh, we set phones aside, given we haven't had guests in god knows how long," Maverick motions towards the office.

Hondo face does something that wipes away the joy on Mav's, Ice feeling like the floor is crumbling away beneath his feet.

"What's wrong?" Ice asks.

Hondo juts his chin, eyes sympathetic. "It's Rooster. I just got word he's in the hospital. And I don't know all the details, but I think it's bad."

The silence at the front door must alert the guests something wrong, Jake calling out their name, even though they can't answer. A thick gulp, Mav tries to ask, "How bad?"

A pause, too long, too heavy it's gonna break them all. "Real bad."

The ground disappears and and Maverick's quiet inhale is like a gunshot, his husband having to lean against him. The home goes quiet. It doesn't make sense, how- what? It doesn't-

Everyone came back home safe, right?

Chapter Text

At nearly 10 at night, the wheels of a grey Mercedes Benz CLS are tearing down the streets of Fightertown, just barely keeping to the speed limit. If some cop tries to pull them over, Admiral Tom Kazansky, Commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet, swears he'll do something drastic so help him, willing to put to the test how far his privileges of being a 4 star admiral extends. 

The radio decidedly off, his husband in the passenger seat is probing Hondo, situated in middle backseat, about anything and everything he can from the Chief Warrant Officer regarding the earth-shattering revelation that Bradley's in the hospital. One shared look after Ice had grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter, Maverick had all but threatened that if he tried to make him to stay home, he'd force one of the kids to drive him, or at worst, hop on his motorcycle and drive himself there one-handed. Their dinner guests are racing behind them, a caravan of vehicles full of worried pilots and WSOs following them straight to the base. 

"Tell us whatever you got. When did you hear the news?" Maverick asks

"Just under an hour ago, but the record in the system showed that he was admitted to the base at least five hours ago."

"Five Hours?! Why weren't we notified? We had our phones then!" Maverick demands, half-turned in his seat whilst Ice reaches across to lay a calming hand on his arm.

"I don't know! My guess it's because he was originally taken to a general hospital before they transferred him to the one on base where his medical file would be available." Hondo's shaken, clearly as worried about their son just as much as they are.

Maverick curses, and Ice meets Hondo's eyes in the rearview mirror. "How do you know it's severe?"

At this Hondo's brows pull down over the frame of his glasses, wringing his hands in his lap. "I saw the attending on his admission was not labeled under Dr. Foy, the primary physician who runs the medical wing. Instead he's been cared for by Dr. Tamara Holden; Holden's the Naval Flight Surgeon stationed on base."

The noise in the compact car drops to a terrifying silence, Ice squeezing the leather steering wheel tight. Without prompting, he presses down the gas, uncaring about any goddamn speed limits.

All to soon, they're pulling up on base, the guard recognizing the Admiral with wide eyes, holding open the gate when Ice in no certain terms instructs him to do so for him and the cars following him. Then he's speeding past the air base and heading straight for the hospital on site, a mile down from the runway and the air traffic control tower.

Pulling into the parking lot of the hospital, tires squealing, Ice barely throws the car in park when Maverick's throwing open his door and hurrying out of the vehicle, Hondo hastily unbuckling his seatbelt. The other cars are pulling into the lot just as Ice gets out the car, slamming his door uncaringly, hurrying to catch his husband.

As he grabs his husband's free hand, Maverick holds it in a death grip. "Ice," he says his name shakily as they both hurry into the hospital.

"I know," he soothes under his breath, wandering straight up to the front desk through the sliding entry doors, the nurse on station doing a double take, rising from her chair. "Admiral Kazansky. sir-"

"We're here to see about a patient, Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw. I believe he's under Dr. Tamara Holden's care."

Mouth snapping closed, her head dips. "I'll page Dr. Holden." She retakes her seat and picks up the phone, dialing a number to request the doctor's presence stat. Once finished, she glances up at them. "She'll be here shortly. If you want, you're welcome to go down the hall where the waiting room is located or just wait here."

"We'll wait here," Maverick answers for them, pulling Ice along to the group clustered around Hondo who's probably reiterating the little that he knows.

"The surgeon is coming," Iceman announced, the kids turning towards him with anxious expressions and jittery legs.

"Surgery? What would he need surgery for?" Fanboy asks, anxious.

"We're not sure," Ice runs a hand through his hair, that vodka soda not sitting so well with him.

"Did he need it right away, cause five hours....?" Harvard trails off, the others thinking the worst as well.

"Admission was five hours ago, not necessarily meaning he had immediate surgery. It just could be a minor thing." Bob tries to remain optimistic,  and Ice wishes he could appreciate it in this stressful moment. Jake is wearing a hole through the floor behind him, hand clasped on his mouth.

"It would explain why his car was there but the house was empty when I checked." Phoenix notes aloud. She then turns to address them, guilt dragging her features downward. " Sirs, I'm sor-"

"Don't," Maverick stops any hint of an apology from Phoenix. "You couldn't have known. None of us could've," the last part comes out quiet, trailing off as he gazes at the floor. Ice cradles his hand, trying to comfort his husband.

Sneakered footsteps tap along the tile floor when a woman, long hair tied in a low ponytail, donned in a white coat comes striding up to the help desk, leaning on the counter to speak with the nurse. "I'm told the family of Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw is here?"

"That's us!," Maverick answers, the doctor turning and frankly taken aback at the large party in front of her.

"You all are related to this patient?" Dr. Holden asks, expression wary, approaching their group.

"These are his squad members," Ice explains, motioning to them with his hand. "But he's listed as mine and my husband's next of kin. You can verify this under Admiral Thomas Kazansky's and Captain Pete Mitchell's files." 

"No need Admiral, I trust your word," the doctor doesn't fight it. "Perhaps the more people here, the more help there can be to obtain a clearer picture of this case."

"Can you tell us what happened?" Maverick cuts to the case, squeezing Ice's hand tight. 

Her posture straightens, face professional. "Lieutenant Bradshaw was brought in earlier tonight due to a ruptured spleen."

Fuck. More than a few of the pilots breathe the exclamation, all shock still.

"We had to perform an emergency splenectomy," she explains.

"You removed a part of it?" Ice inquires, trying to maintain a strong composure.

At this her expression cracks, twisting slightly. "We had to remove the entire organ. There was no salvaging it."

Someone sucks in a sharp breath behind him, Maverick squeezing his hand like he's trying to break both their grips. 

"Now, what I need to know is when could he have obtained this sort of injury? Because going by his current state, it's definitely not new," she motions towards the hallway she just came from.

The Lieutenants exchange anxious looks with one another, but remain silent as they wait for the Admiral's cue. 

"They were in a classified mission almost week prior," Ice offers minimal details, except to stress the difficulty of the event. "The parameters of the mission were extremely difficult, more so than any other I've had command in."

"When was this? I need the exact date," cutting through the bureaucratic bullshit as she digs for more information.

"The morning of the 17th. Total time from launch to everyone back on the aircraft carrier was at most 2 hours." 2 minutes and 30 seconds paired with a loss of two pilots only for them to make a miraculous recovery, steal a plane, and make it home after a dogfight. 

Her faces tightens a fraction, something flashes through her brown eyes as she presses. "Any noticeable injuries at that time?"

"None we were aware of. He was checked out after by the corpsmen on board," Ice recalls Bradley assuring him he had passed his med evaluation during their brief exchange.

"He did eject though," Maverick adds. "I did too, when both of our planes went down during the mission."

"Anything else?" her voice demanding more.

"No, though we were in an air combat situation towards the end, thrown around in an old F-14 while defending ourselves, but made it back fine."

"Mav, you were shot," Hondo speaks up, hesitantly reminding the other. 

Dr. Holden's face turns to slight shock, but Maverick quickly reassures, nudging his sling. "I was. Only me. It was a round from helicopter, went clean through, but I was fine after. Bradley wasn't hit. He wasn't?" Maverick turns to ask the kids.

Jake shakes his head. "He wasn't. I patted him down when you both landed, no bullet wounds or exposed injuries."

"And no prior injuries before this mission?" Dr. Holden inquires.

"No," the group answers, all testifying without a shred of doubt; they would had noticed anything off with Bradley. 

"So it had to be from the 17th," Dr. Holden confirms, hands on her hips, mouth pursing in trouble.

"Doctor, what is it?" Maverick tries, needing to know what's got her anxious.

She glances at them, dropping her hands. "As scary as it sounds, an injury like this is usually nonfatal, a 1% mortality rate. But every single day it goes undiagnosed, untreated, the rate goes up by 10%. And if going by your statement of when the initial injury could've occurred," She pauses, letting the grave reality sink in. "We're nearing the end of day 5."

50-50. Ice honest to God wants to throw-up. 

"Going forward, I'll keep this information in mind," she announces. "For now, he needs rest. We'll keep you updated on any changes." The statement sounds like a dismissal.

"But..." Jake clears his throat, leaning against Bob, hand on his shoulder, the bespectacled man looking scared and lost. "I mean he's here, as your patient, so you've got it under control, right?"

Her demeanor doesn't waiver. "He's my patient yes, and I'm trying everything in my power to help Lieutenant Bradshaw."

But that doesn't answer the question. Whatever she's holding back rankles Ice, in both trepidation and worrying anger.

"Can we at least see him?" Maverick asks, voice strangled he's gotta cough to clear it. "Please."

Her face reverts back that professional aloofness Ice usually takes a shine too; now it just irritates the hell out of him. "It's best he not have visitors right now-"

"Why not?" Omaha asks.

"Because it's after visiting hours, and my patient needs some rest after a major surgery."

"Ma'am, we are not asking for you to wake him up" Jake insists, Bob practically pleading with his eyes beside him. "We just need to see for ourselves. Please, let us see him."

Sympathetic, but not budging, she shakes her head. "I can't allow that." She's hiding something.

"Well what does your patient want?" Payback asks petulantly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Can't know given the fact he's out cold Lieutenant," she bluntly cuts through his argument, Reuben having the decency to look chastised.

"Doctor-" Maverick starts.

Before she can argue further, Ice finds himself saying, "I can happily order it Dr. Holden."

Her gaze cuts to him, infuriated as she chuckles without any ounce of humor. "You'd argue against my recommendations, use your stars to get you what you want?" she spits.

"When it comes to my son, yes," he states without remorse., his husband squeezing his hand in thanks. "We're not asking you to disturb his recovery for us. We just want to assure for ourselves that he's alright." We need to after not even knowing the kid had an injury like this.

Her nose twitches, angry, as she holds her tongue. It's a tense moment, before her posture straightens. "Fine. You want to see him? You all need to wear personal protective equipment, full up," her finger points to his figure and flicks upwards. "No exceptions. Once we're in the room, none of you lay a goddamn hand on him. Argue all you want, I'm not taking any chances."

The idea of head to toe PPE seems extreme, but Bradley's health comes first. 

"That's fine," Maverick assures.

Clenched jaw, Dr. Holden glances back to the nurse who's been watching the exchange quietly. "Silvia. Get them PPE for all them to wear." Turning back, she stares right into Ice's blue eyes, unflinchingly. "10 minutes Admiral," she warns, before she's leaving them to change, disappearing down the hallway.

A sigh of relief, the group don't waste time to wander to the nurse who directs them to the room containing the extra gear.

It doesn't click until Ice is assisting Maverick to put on a scratchy gown over his clothing that Dr. Holden never assured that Bradley was alright.

✯

He hates hospitals.

Nothing good has ever come from being a hospital. Not when Goose died and Maverick woke up in one, learning his world had crashed and took with it his best friend. Not when Carole had moved into one, which became the last home her larger than life personality filled before her passing. Not when he came rushing through the double doors of a hospital, worried after Bradley had crashed his motorcycle and assumed worst; they were lucky on that account that he only had a concussion and a few scars that would last a lifetime.

So why are they here? Bradley's already had a brush with a hospital. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't. 

Maverick face pinches beneath his mask, annoyed by the loose arm of the gown whilst his real one is pinned in a sling beneath the material. Their large party is finished changing, with two minutes left to spare.

Silvia, bless her soul, nervously escorts them down the hallway Dr. Holden disappeared to, quietly guiding the group of PPE donned current and former pilots and WSOs to where Dr. Holden stands outside a room, gloved hands clasped in front of her. As they approach, the mask on her face obscures any of her features apart from her eyes, which narrow the closer they get, her long hair pulled back into a cap.

"Thank you Silvia," she says, not an ounce of warmth, still angry at having her hand forced. Maverick would feel guilty if it was anyone else in there but Bradley. For the kid, he's shameless to a fault.

The nurse dips her head, retreating back to her station.

Without any other words exchanged, she wanders past them to a closed door, but just as the doctor grabs the door handle, she pauses.

The tenseness in her shoulders releases, a slump to them as she makes no move to open it. Subtly she turns her half-obscured face to address them. "I should warn you. With all the tubes that are exposed, we can't cover up the area around the injury yet. The sight...it's a bit startling to see at first."

Not able to process her words before she is pushing open the door, entering as they follow into the sterile room after her only to hauntingly freeze, someone making a choking sound.

Bradley's always been a bit of the sun incarnate; golden complexion, sandy brown hair the hue of a well loved beach, whisky colored eyes, a presence that lit up any room.

But now, he's laying still in that hospital bed, drained of all his color, nearly matching the stiff white cotton sheets pooling at his torso. There's a breathing tube stuck in his mouth, electrodes stuck to his skin to track his heart rate, IV drip in his arm. His closed eyes give him the appearance as if he's knocking on death's door, and if Maverick tries to deny the metaphor, the ghastly sight of his chest hammers it in.

Bradley's chest has a singular white patch of bandage underneath the ribs, but it does little to hide that his left side is entirely dark, akin to a deep merlot color, spreading from hip bone to just below the armpit. It reaches as far out as his ribs, and falls short of his sternum. A few tubes stick out of the area, burgundy red flowing through them into a machine.

The sight nearly sends him to his knees, reminding him of-

Maverick is enjoying a quiet evening with two people he adores when a 10 year old Bradley accidentally knocks over Ice's glass of wine resting on the coffee table in the living room during a fierce game of Monopoly, the devil's sport. They were keeping Bradley occupied while Carole was required to stay in the hospital overnight, a one time thing they had been assured before those stays became routine. Maverick is scrubbing vigorously with a wet rag against the white carpet whilst Ice soothed a sobbing Bradley, easing the stuttered apologies with reassuring cuddles. Maverick wasn't mad at all either, accidents happen, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, the stain wouldn't come out. Cleaner, detergent, hell even bleach, nothing. Perhaps it was a lost cause.

Eyes glued to his now adult son's chest, he wonders now if that stain spread upon Bradley's skin will ever come out. He can't fathom the horrendous thought of lost causes.

"This is what drew the most alarm in the couple who found him passed out on the beach," Dr. Holden informs the group as she nears Bradley's bedside, the group still frozen at the door. Only by sheer will do they approach the foot of his bed, never attempting to reach out a gloved hand in case they disturb the patient occupying the bed.

"5 days out," she reminds, voice grave. It's no wonder she tried steering them from seeing him in this state.

"A spleen's main function is filtering the blood. Thus when a spleen ruptures, it results in internal bleeding, as we found evidence of in Lieutenant Bradshaw's abdominal cavity and trachea when we intubated. We're draining the cavity just for a little longer, hence a few of the tubes. We'll let any remaining absorb into the body later. One of the tubes is helping circulate the blood in lieu of his spleen, at least until we can close the loop when he's stable enough to go under the knife again; the other organs can handle the spleen's job."

She lifts her finger, pointing delicately at the area that's the most gruesome. "However if you see this, that's where the main concern lies. It's partly bruising, but much of this is where the blood has clotted beneath the skin, occurring when the blood flow was disturbed. He's on anticoagulants to break them down."

"And what's the problem?" Ice asks, a solid presence at his back, keeping Maverick upright.

"Given how long it took for him to be brought to us, I have no idea if any of the clotted blood managed to intrude in a vein or an artery."

Maverick swallows, trying to keep his composure, but he feels himself shaking beneath his PPE.

"Because if it did, the tissue surrounding the area dies. At that point, we're looking at possible necrosis."

"But it can be treated," Halo interjects, trying to stay strong at the terrible sight of Bradley. "As long as it's done quickly."

"Necrosis is an infection, surely it can be fought with antibiotics," Shaken but trying to be strong, Jake bolsters that idea, Fritz and Yale nodding along.

But even with the mask, the pitying look on Dr. Holden's face speaks volumes. "The reason there's such a low mortality rate for this type injury is because patients can survive without a spleen, live productive lives. However, many have trouble fighting infections and are prone to falling sick, and that's if someone is in good overall health. In Lieutenant Bradshaw's current condition, necrosis would be a-" she stalls, falling silent as her eyes drop to avoid the flash of pain that crosses their expressions.

A death sentence. It would be a death sentence. Oh god Bradley.

He stumbles back in sickly shock, but his husband keeps him on his feet.

"Why is he intubated?" Bob croaks, barely managing to keep his eyes dry. "If this is just concerning the spleen?"

"When Lieutenant Bradshaw was admitted, he was feverish and hyperventilating. When you exert yourself breathing that rigorously, as if you're running a marathon, you get the blood pumping. And given that his spleen was fully ruptured by then, he basically was hemorrhaging internally. Another reason why we are so concerned about potential blood clots."

Maverick swallows down the urge to cry, to beg, to be sick all over the floor.

"We intubated him to steady his breathing, but also because he was in an extreme amount of pain. We'll be keeping him heavily sedated, and reevaluate the dosage when we remove the tube, probably around tomorrow morning."

"Why wouldn't he say something?" Phoenix speaks up, sturdy voice for once wobbling with an ache. "If he was in that much pain?"

"A preliminary toxicology report we took earlier shows traces of acetaminophen in his system. My guess is he's been self-medicating when the pain was bothering him. And by the time it became overwhelming, he was too delirious and incoherent to do anything about it."

Maverick hears more than feels the deep sigh Ice lets out against his neck, restricted by the mask. "What now?"

"We'll take him back to the OR in the next hour or so, close the loop, and ensure there's not too much excess blood that the body can't absorb. We're keep him on a regime of fluids, general antibiotics for any infection, and anticoagulants," her voice steady, sure that they can trust in the plan. But she adds in a resigned tone after, "Then we wait."

"Wait?!" Maverick chokes out, Ice pressing in closer. 

She gives a nod, resignation settling in her petite frame. "At this point, all we can do is wait to see what happens. I'm going to be frank and tell you that neither myself nor any of my colleagues have ever come across someone with a ruptured spleen who was only seen five days after the initial injury. The fact he's alive now is a miracle in itself, but eventually his health is gonna tip one way or another. We can't take gambles without proof before we act."

The group stands hushed, so goddamn helpless to do anything at the moment for Rooster, only reassured by the steady rise and fall of his bruised chest prompted by a machine.

"And sorry," she apologizes, both genuine and somber. "But no one can stay in the room with him. We can't risk infection when there's still open incisions on his body."

Gently guided out of the room, numb to all else, Maverick really hates hospitals, especially when it feels like it's come back to finish the job it failed do the first time.

If it finally takes the last Bradshaw from him, Maverick thinks he'll surely follow.

✯

The group is shellshocked, all earlier lively mood wiped clean by what they just saw and Ice wants to weep. Jesus Christ Bradley, what happened kid?

Maverick's withdrawn, allowing Hondo to help him pull off the PPE so Ice does what he does best, and take charge.

"Perhaps it's best you all head home, get some rest. You're free to return in the morning when hopefully visitors will be allowed."

If anything the group looks like Ice just told them he kicked their puppy.

"Sir, I can't leave," Coyote shakes his head. "Not after that."

"Me either," Halo interjects, hugging herself, voice shaky. "Wouldn't be able to sleep knowing Roo's in such bad shape."

Ice doesn't flinch at the description but it's a close thing.

"We're staying here," Phoenix declares, now back in control of her emotions, the other nodding at her words.

Oh Brad, do you know how loved you are kiddo?

"At least consider going home to change, into something more comfortable. We're going be waiting a good number of hours before we see him again," Ice carefully suggests.

The group glances down at their more business casual clothing they had dressed in for a dinner party that was missing the guest of honor who was in the hospital apparently dyi-

Ice's fists clench, steeling himself.

"Sounds like a plan," Harvard agrees quietly. "I'll be back sirs."

"Me too," Fritz trailing down the hall after him, the rest slowly breaking off.

"Maybe I can stop by Rooster's place, grab him an emotional support Hawaiian shirt," Phoenix tries to joke, and it would have landed if the levity hadn't slipped from her face like running water. Grimacing, she turns and heads to her vehicle. 

Bob and Jake hang back, the two looking especially upset, the planned evening having gone so awry. "Mav, Tom. Would you like me and Jake to run by your place and pick-up some clothing and essentials?" Bob asks gently.

Maverick face alights just a fraction, nodding. "Yeah. We'd do it ourself but we can't-" Can't bear to leave their son, not again.

Ice digs his keys out of his pocket, entrusting them into the palm of a somber Hangman. "That'd be great. We appreciate it."

Both boys nod, Jake straightening his shoulders as if to put on armor. His voice is steady as he assures, "We'll be back." Then the two are hurrying after the others through the sliding doors into the parking lot.

Maverick turns to Hondo, their friend looking at them with sympathy, holding the rolled up PPE gown in his arms. "You should rest Hondo, please don't stay on our behalf."

"Mav, Tom I can-"

"You've done enough, truly. We'll keep you updated," Ice reassures. "If anything you'll be the one to have to inform Cyclone and Warlock of the team's absence tomorrow." Probably for an extended period of time.

Nodding, he leans into clap them both on the shoulders, the Admiral and the Captain gratefully accepting the touch. "I'll be back tomorrow. It'll be good news in the morning," he speaks it into existence before departing.

And then, it's just them.

"Um excuse me, Admiral?" Silvia calls from behind her desk, sitting up in her chair. The two approach her as she waves them over. "I'm sorry to bother you both, but the couple that found Lieutenant Bradshaw are in the waiting room, hoping to speak with his family to check-in."

"Civilians?" Maverick asks, confused they were even permitted on base.

"One of them, the man however is a veteran, I believe."

Figuring they'll be left waiting for hours on any news regarding Bradley, they thank her and make their way down the quiet hall. It's a ghost town and one is left to wonder if because it's late at night or Bradley is the only patient in the hospital. He shouldn't have been, he was fine. He was fine.

As they turn the corner towards the waiting lobby, there resides a couple, a man with his back facing them, standing with an anxious set in his shoulders in front of a woman, speaking with one another in low voices.

As their footsteps alert the couple to their presence, the man turns and they're greeted by a familiar face. "Ice? Mav?" 

"Slider?" The both say, shocked to see an old friend.

"Oh Tom, Pete!," Slider's wife, Rebecca stands from the lobby chair, pleasantly surprised to see them as well.

"Hey you guys," Slider greets, clearly glad to see them, holding out his hand to shake theirs. "Fancy meeting you guys here. What's the cause?"

Ice spares his husband a glance. "We were told a couple was waiting to speak with us about finding our son."

Slider's expression becomes confused. "Your son, but- wait is that who-" he glances down the hall, hooking his thumb in the direction they just came from. "Is that Bradley?!"

Maverick sucks in a shaky breath, fists clenching. Unable to speak, he gives a curt nod.

Shock colors the RIO's features, his wife mirroring his horror. "Jesus. What happened? His whole side was like a giant bruise," motioning to his own chest.

"Ruptured spleen," Ice says, still sick at the image of the black creeping around Bradley's torso like death is trying to consume him whole. "They removed it."

Rebecca covers her mouth. "Oh God, Tom."

"How?" Slider demands, truly bewildered by the news.

Maverick hunches in on himself, pressing close to Ice, the later explaining, "It was sometime during a recent mission tasked by the Pentagon. No one realized he was injured until he ended up in the hospital tonight."

"They said you found him on the beach?" Maverick asks at last, tone so fragile it threatens to break.

"Yeah, me and Becca were taking a stroll after dinner, you know how the beaches clear out near sundown. And we saw him lying there, right near the surf. When I checked on him, we saw his..." Slider's voice cuts out, lump in his throat, motioning to his chest. Rebecca touches her husband's arm in comfort, her own face somber.

"Thank God you did," Ice manages, not knowing if anyone would have stumbled upon Bradley until hours later. By then it would have been 60-40.

Nodding, Slider slides a hand across his mouth, before clearing his throat gruffly. "Well he's here now, that's the important thing. Got the best doctors on staff. The kid's gonna be fine, right?"

Mute, the two don't know how to answer that question, when there is no answer to give.

"We don't...," Ice trips, feeling unsure in the first time of 30 years, faced with odds he would never bet on. "We don't know." And there's nothing Ice can do it fix it right away.

Maybe this, standing here feeling helpless, is too unbearable to handle. "Excuse me," Maverick chokes out, clearly in distress as he turns to hurry down the hallway, all three watching him go in anguish.

"Tom," Slider starts, trying to find the right words. "I- God I'm sorry. If there's anything we can do, please."

"Truly, you're all family," Rebecca reaffirms her husband's offer.

Ice takes a deep breath, raising his face to blink away the stinging of his eyes. "Ron, I don't know what-" his mouth fumbling for words.

Slider sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with the same reassuring touch as he did when Ice was struggling after Goose's death and Maverick was shutting him out. "Well how about we rally the troops? I know a couple of guys are stateside, I'll give them a call. You guys and the kid are gonna have a whole fleet to back them up. We don't abandon our wingmen."

Head tilted, touched, Ice hugs his RIO tight, his wife patting his back gently. Sniffling, he pulls back, taking in these dear friends. "Thank you both. That means a lot."

Exchanging a few departing words, Ice goes in search of his husband, growing more worried when he's not in the bathroom or near the front desk. Noticing his worry, Silvia gently directs him down the hallway his husband disappeared to, Tom thanking her with a nod as he hurries off.

He slows his stride when he finally finds Maverick, standing outside Bradley's room, peering in through the slits of the window blinds.

"Mav," Ice carefully approaches him, nervous to scare off a wounded animal.

"I don't understand Ice. I sent him on the mission, I let go," he stresses under his breath, Ice just noticing the shaking running through him by the slight quiver in his hand resting on the glass. Pressing in close, arm wrapped around his husband's waist, he gets a crushing front row seat to witness Pete's chin start to tremble. "I did everything right and we made it home."

Ice tightens his hold on his husband as he starts to break, chest heaving as the tears building in his eyes begin to spill. "So why is he in there? Why is our boy in there?" his voice hoarse.

Because of me, Mav. Because of me.

The guilt clogs his throat, but when Maverick turns and buries his face in Ice's shoulder, clutching him close as he sobs his poor heart out, the audible devastation steals his surefire voice.

Ice can only stare through the glass, heart trembling with tiny fissures cracking along the surface as his own vision begins to blur.

The image of Bradley, their son, still and sickly pale as he fights for his goddamn life, will haunt him for the rest of his days.

Chapter Text

It's a considerably beautiful day, the weather warm as a slight breeze rustles the tree tops, fair enough to enjoy laying a blanket out on the green lawns and study with some friends. Many students and faculty can be spotted running through the campus, walking their dogs, riding bikes or skateboards; everyone's soaking up a bit of the sun out here while they can.

Stepping into the recruitment building located right next to the campus dining hall, the bell above the door jingles, a young man entering with little flare as he grips the straps of his backpack, the door shutting without preamble behind him. It's a small thing, but to the young man it feel like he's taken the first step that'll determine the rest of his life.

"Be with you in a minute!" a booming voice calls from the back somewhere beyond the front desk.

Glancing around at the promotional posters decorating the walls, Uncle Sam pointing directly at him with bold faced lettering We Want You! that the young senior eyes with hunger; unfair set backs and nail biting patience, his allusive dream finally within sights.

It's been a long time coming.

A few moments spent waiting before a tall, greying haired man in military greens comes traipsing out from his office, face alighting at his presence. "Hello young man. How can I help you?"

The student, nearly bouncing on his feet, puffs his chest out and lifts his chin high, "I'm in my senior year- graduating soon, and when asked about plans after college, I've had my heart set on a decision for years," offering more exposition than necessary. Clearing his throat, he declares proudly, "I am wanting to enlist sir."

Despite his unwavering desire, there's a smidgen of fright nestled deep in his bones, worried he'll be denied, turned around, and pointed to the door for ever having foolishly thought himself worthy.

But that doesn't happen. Instead the man's smile goes from polite to something warm, dipping his head. "Well son, you've come to the right place." 

Hearing those words, not needing to brace for rejection, the young man let himself breathe, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His patience is finally being rewarded.

✯

Over the years and rising the ranks, he's heard the rumors, the ones that followed even long ago when he started to gain notoriety for his skills behind the throttle of a jet. Ice cold, no mistakes. He was precise, textbook savvy, and bore patience that long outlasted his opponents'. It's why he got so good when transitioning from maneuvering the skies to maneuvering the halls of a fancy four star office with his name engraved on the door, or even frequent visits to the White House; he could wait out the best of the them, in every argument, every fight, every debate until they floundered and left themselves vulnerable to his tone.

But at this very moment, standing in the crowded waiting room, Admiral Thomas Kazansky considers himself at the end of his goddamn metaphorical rope.

Even having dressed in fresh clothing, brushed his teeth and splashed his face with cold water in the hospital bathroom, he feels like he wants to scrub his skin until it's red and raw, just to get rid of this guilt and fear that's settled over him, dug into every fine line and crevice he's earned with age. It doesn't ease the longer they're forced to wait in this room, nothing but the clock ticking overhead to remind him that it was his well known ambition that put them here.

Reminding him that achieving his dream of reuniting his family came at a soul-crushing cost.

The rest of the Dagger squad have been here all night as well, snoozing occasionally through the hours in the uncomfortable conjoined chairs. Jake, like himself, can't seem to sit still, taken to pacing the transverse of the room, biting his thumb and lost in thought. Bob and Harvard are keeping Maverick company, the two lieutenants talking softly about their families, if only to keep them all distracted from the bleak reality at hand. His husband remains sitting after Ice gave him a look that implored he needed it, begrudgingly remaining in his seat; Mav needs the rest after the physical and emotional turmoil he's been put through and the one they still may have yet to face.

Coyote, Omaha, Yale, and Fritz are speaking lowly to one another in a makeshift huddle, comfier in their change of clothing but discomfited by the environment and the reason all of them are here, a tell by the anxious shift of their postures every so often.

Probably the most devastating thing is Lieutenant Trace sitting in the corner, a half-dozing Halo resting on her shoulder. The former had managed to grab one of Bradley's Hawaiian shirts from his home and was now running her fingers over the fabric in a reverent manner, her expression withdrawn except for her eyes, dark and haunted. 

Booted footsteps have the group perking up only to deflate when it turns out to be Hondo, though garnering a spark of joy when everyone takes notice of the multiple cartons of coffee he's carrying. "Thought the group could use a pick me up," the Warrant Officers announces, carefully jostling the good tidings in his hands.

The heavenly smell of fresh brew has the pilots stumbling out of their seats, Fanboy and Payback still bleary-eyed. With a thanks, the room quiets to occasional sips and pleased hums, most lost in thought over the morning coffee.

Hondo hands him one and another to Maverick, who has wondered to his side, Tom not bothering to half-heartedly reprimand him. Maverick presses into him as Tom wraps his arm around his waist, not at all self-conscious about showing some PDA in front of the lower ranked officers; can't bother to be when he and Maverick both need the physical reassurance. 

"Thanks Hondo," his husband says softly, curling into Ice.

"We'll pay you back," Tom assures, even as the Warrant Officer waves away the offer.

"It's really no problem guys. Coffee's a good remedy for rough nights," he chides lightly, the two of them nodding in agreement. It took a long time for Maverick's tears to trail off, longer for him to be convinced to leave the window even after Dr. Holden had wheeled Bradley back into the OR. When the Lieutenants returned and, including Jake and Bob with a large duffle of their clothing, the group situated themselves in the waiting room to fall into a restless sleep, though it eluded the Mitchell-Kazansky patriarchs.

Like they could've slept at all when the image of their son in that hospital bed is seared into their minds.

Hondo, glancing at the younger pilots and WSOs whom are occupied with their beverages, steps closer, lowering his voice. "I stopped at the air base office. Informed Simpson and Bates about Rooster. They sent their well wishes and asked to be kept updated on the situation. They would've come themselves in not for the administration wanting thorough debriefs about the mission from all involved, including you Mav."

He can feel his husband jerk in his hold, horrified at the prospect he'll have to step foot out of this hospital, away from Bradley. Irked by the Navy's protocols and obsession with paperwork, Ice grits his teeth, hating how some see them as nothing but cogs in a machine.

Hondo hastily adds, "The Admirals said they'd push back against the higher-ups, make sure to argue the kids and you both need a long recuperation period before any testimonies about the situation, especially given Rooster's condition."

Maverick releases a breath, leaning into his embrace. "When you can, tell them thank you."

"And if those vulture give them a hard time, tell em Admiral Kazansky is ordering it," Ice stresses.

Hondo nods, lips lifting briefly, before sipping his drink, waiting with them for news. Ice takes a pull of his own drink, the warm roast flowing down his mouth and soothing his throat, rough with repressed urges to scream and sob the prior night.

A quarter past 9 is when a sneaker tread can be heard coming closer from down the hall, before Dr. Holden comes into view, everyone hastily up on their feet, half-empty drinks abandoned. Stopping for just a moment, the sheer size of their group gives pause in the light of a new day, she continues her path towards them.

"Good morning," she greets, tone deceptively calm.

"Ma'am," Jake greets, just barely holding himself back from launching into an interrogation about Bradley, only because Bob's holding his hand. 

Ice can feel Mav fidgeting antsy in his arms, not one to hold himself back, especially when it comes to their son. "How is he?" 

"We closed the circulation loop last night and removed the tubes, the excess internal bleeding was sufficiently drained and the minuscule amount left over can be absorbed," she informs them, demeanor at ease. "We also were able to secure the area where the spleen used to be, and we'll closely monitor the other organs in the coming days to ensure they're managing the extra work sufficiently."

There's a slight relief at the assurance Bradley will be monitored as they wait to see how his body handles this life-alerting adjustment. When he's released, yes when, Ice can't begin to imagine how this could affect his career, his dream. Heed not, it's a troubling thought for a later time.

"We took him off of the ventilator and his breathing is steady enough to remain that way," she adds, relief coursing through him at the news. "That and he's responding to questions."

The group perks up.

"He's awake?" Fanboy asks, eager as they all are.

Her face slightly pinches. "In not so many terms. He's responding with movement and blinks, but he's not quite lucid or verbal yet. However that's not a cause of concern. It's quite common for those who've been under heavy sedation to take awhile to gain clarity, especially since he's still being administered heavy-grade pain medication."

"Can we-" Ice starts to ask, trying to be polite and not throw his stars and make demands.

"Yes," she answers easily, emphasizing with the need to see him now that he's awake. "You won't have to wear full PPE given that everything is sealed however I ask you all to wash your hands and wear a mask, at least for today."

Ice nods, as do the rest, willing to do anything to see his son.

"Now I must warn you, anything he might say when he does get to talking, take with a grain of salt." She articulates carefully, meeting each of their eyes, "He's still delirious and the dosage of pain meds are being adjusted as his body communicates with us the amount of pain he's in."

As she trails off, there's a pause to decide the order.

"Tom. You and Maverick should go first," Bob suggests, the group nodding without discussion.

Maverick tosses them a grateful look and holding Ice's hand, pulls him to follow Dr. Holden back to Bradley's room, only detouring briefly to the bathroom to dump their drained coffee cups and wash their hands thoroughly, Ice assisting his husband with getting him out and back into his sling.

Cleaned up, Dr. Holden hands them two masks outside of Bradley's room to don, before motioning them to enter, remaining behind in the hallway to allow them some privacy with their son. 

And he's thankful because stepping inside, Ice has to try not to let the cry building in his throat escape.

Though still lacking his usual honeyed color, seeing Bradley no longer intubated, only an oxygen mask covering his face whilst his legs shift beneath the thin blanket settles the anxiety in both of them. His son's expression behind the mask is groggy, sandy curls a bit mussed, eyes blearily blinking under the harsh hospital light. If he ignores the sterile smell and the steady beeping of the heart monitor, Ice can almost pretend they're decades in the past, and the two of them have come to wake a groggy teenager for school.

It also helps him reign in his emotions now that Bradley's chest has been covered up; hospital gown pulled up to his shoulder, no tubes or horrific bruising in sight, and for that Ice is thankful.

Gripping his husband's hand tight, he navigates them both closer, taking the two seats that have been graciously set out for them by the edge of the bed in front of the observation window that looks out into the hallway. Letting Maverick have the seat closest, Ice sits down and takes in the unhindered view of his son.

God, their kid has grown. The brief interaction they had back in the aircraft carrier's medbay had been too short, too far to drink in. Ice's gut weighs heavy with regret for not taking the chance to just hug the kid, check for injuries himself, instead taking his posture and his word that he was fine. God, for all his so-called intelligence and prestige, Ice knew nothing in that moment; had not a single clue that Bradley's body was a ticking time bomb as he left Maverick's hospital room. And now, with their roles reversed...

15 years has been too long for their reunion, without five feet of distance and uncertainty, to finally occur because Bradley got gravely injured.

A thick audible gulp, Maverick softly calls, "Hey Bradley." 

Their son's eyes flutter open from where they had been shut, head angling towards the source of the noise.

"It's Mav and Ice," his husband informs their son gently, laying a shaky hand on Bradley's arm, mindful of the IV. His son's eyes are glazed, lids hanging low, looking so young and vulnerable. Ice wants to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the world, always has even when he was too old and too tall to seek comfort from them.

"You're in the base hospital." his husband swallows, thick and audible. "You- you didn't walk away from the mission uninjured."

Bradley blinks sluggishly, gaze blank, and Ice can't tell if he even recognizes them.

"Slider and his wife Rebecca found you on the beach, you remember them right? They didn't even recognize you, did you know that? You've grown so much-" levity gives way to a shaky inhale, Ice gripping his husband's thigh in solidarity, before Maverick chokes out, a cry building in his voice, "You scared us Baby Goose. Scared us so much." 

"Damn right you did kid. Worse than when you crashed the Kawasaki," Ice wetly jokes, clearing his throat that feels like it's crushing any sound that tries to escape, especially as his husband wipes at his eyes.

Hushed, Bradley breathes deeply, fogging up his mask, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Sniffling, Maverick's touch becomes more assured the longer he can feel Bradley, and needing the reassurance too, Ice carefully lays his hand on Bradley's leg, right above the blanket-covered knee, feeling it move slightly before settling. He's alive. He's going to be fine. He's alive.

"The whole team is here," Maverick tells their son. "The minute we heard you were in the hospital, they came with us. Have been refusing to leave ever since."

"Slider's calling in the '86 guys, and soon they'll be threatening to throw us out for taking over the whole hospital," Ice shares with a short-lived smile, soothingly patting Bradley's leg as it twitches beneath the blanket.

It's a moment where Bradley is rapidly blinking at them, brows furrowed as he squints, chest pulling in slow drawing deep breaths. So it fractures Ice's soul when those honey brown eyes begin to water as a tear slips down his cheek, eyes squeezing closed in pain.

The sight has hastily Maverick and Ice scooting closer, chair legs scrapping on the tile. 

"Are you in pain?" Ice asks what they're both thinking, worried the pain medication isn't enough. Even when Bradley was up to nearly his hip, he hated seeing him in pain, kissing away the big fat tears and small boo-boos Bradley got as a rambunctious kid anytime he wasn't careful. He can't stand to see their son in any pain at any age.

Bradley just trembles slightly beneath their hands, breath rattling in his chest as his eyes remain closed.

"It's okay. We're here. We're right here baby goose," Maverick assures, thumb wiping away the stray tear trailing down his face near the scars and the strap of the face mask, not bothering to brush away his own. "We're not going anywhere. Even if the head of medical tries to make us leave, we won't. We promise." Ice squeezes Bradley's leg to echo the sentiment.

Rules be damned, Ice would like to see them try.

✯

Lieutenant Jake Seresin, callsign Hangman has two speeds: Fast and Better-Keep-Up. Patience aint his virtue as much as it's his sin.

And right now, he's nearly jumping out of his skin as they wait for their turn to see Rooster, to get to check for themselves that he's fine and he's on the way to recovery and-

Blowing air through his nose, lips pressed together, Jake paces across the waiting room, hands on his hips and trying to keep his mind from spiraling.

Jake doesn't do things by the half, never has and never will. But in his certainty, in the 100% he puts behind his words and actions, he's seen the way he's hurt people. Can't forget the broken look underneath all the anger Bradley threw at him when bringing up his dead father. Even if it was to try to get Bradley to fly like his ass depended on it, to not take chances when someone might not make it back from this mission, he knows it was a low blow.

Jake has always had to stand behind his actions, even hits below the belt, because if he doesn't, if he waivers and regrets, then he can't hold it back. Can't hold back the what-ifs.

He's powerless now to hold them back. Not when he questions what if the night at the Hard Deck, when he went running outside after Bradley, tried in blunt, non-gentle fashion to get him to stay. What if he had kissed him, even if earned him a shiner?  What if he confessed about him and Bob needing him, cause this thing begins and ends with him? What if he had said he was so goddamn sorry to hurt him during the training cause he was scared for him?

The What ifs may haunt him, but not as much as the what could've beens. Those, he prays to the almighty Lord if he still listens after putting up with Jake's shit, stay far away.

The same tread of tennis shoes is heard as the group anxiously rises in anticipation, Dr. Holden rounding the corner and approaching the group. Jake pauses at the entrance of the waiting room, like he's positioned behind the starting line at a race, ready to take off in a dead sprint just given the signal.

"Admiral Kazansky says you all are welcome to come to see Lieutenant Bradshaw now. Though I suggest to space out the visitors as to not overcrowd the room."

He, like the rest, agree to the suggestion, would agree to give up a kidney at this point. They just need to see Rooster of themselves, to be able to physically assure he's alive, no matter how long it may take. 

Following the good doctor along the corridors after washing their hands diligently and putting on a mask, they reach the familiar hospital room. A peak through the now open blinds lets him get a clear view of the silhouettes of Ice and Maverick, Bradley passed out in his hospital bed, chest rising and falling in a steady manner to indicate he's breathing. He's gonna be alright.

Harvard, Yale, Omaha, Halo, and Fritz enter the room, while Ice and Maverick step outside to allow the pilots to visit their friend. Even then, the couple stand by the window like the rest, can't seem to bare to let Bradley out of their sights; Jake understands the sentiment all too well.

Trying not to be pushy, Jake lips at his dry lips, tentatively asking, "How is he?"

"Confused, still out of it," Admiral Kazansky shares, icy blue gaze not wavering from his resting son as the aviators by his beside carefully watch him, speaking lowly as if their words can reach him even in his dormant state.

"Did he say anything?" Phoenix prods carefully.

Maverick shakes his head, sniffling. "No." But that one word says it all; no words were needed from the injured pilot to rattle them.

"God, how did it get this bad?" Fanboy asks, almost to himself.

"And why didn't we know?" Bob voice, twinged with pain has Jake pressing at his side. They should've seen the signs, they should've done something to prevent this. What ifs, what ifs.

Payback is the one who asks Dr. Holden. "Would Rooster have known he was injured?"

Her face does a contemplative expression. "It's hard tell. How can one discern the difference between ejection-sustained injuries compared to a severe rupture? This type of trauma doesn't always start at 100 on the pain scale." The group considering her words as she adds, "Perhaps other things were occupying his attention at the time."

Though she words it carefully, a cautious glance towards Maverick catches the Captain minutely hunching in on himself, Ice pulling him close, wordlessly dismissing any guilt on his part. How could he have known when being shot, he wasn't the only one needed emergency medical attention?

Jake remembers the chaos from atop the aircraft carrier, the crew in a frenzy surrounding them and-

"Please!" Rooster pleaded, trying desperately to reach for an unresponsive Maverick as corpsmen took him, Jake holding him close right over the injury. Fuck.

"Roo, let the corpsmen take him!," he assured the trembling pilot under the noise of the crowd.  "It's ok, they've got him!" His heart had done something funny when Rooster sagged back into his chest trustingly despite their differences.

Hefting Rooster to his feet, he downright panicked when Bradley nearly collapsed in his arms, the Texan patting him down, looking for any wounds or injuries. "Rooster?!" Frantically searching him for abrasions and bullet wounds, scared he had been shot too, Jake yelled over the noise, "Are you hurt?! Talk to me dammit!"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jake's gut clenches thick with guilt. He didn't look hard enough; he should've. What ifs, what ifs.

"I guess that makes sense, especially with his PTSD episode," Fanboy dips his head, shaking it like he's still trying to process everything. "But he surely had to feel it when he was up there again? And that steep nose dive had-"

Shoes squeak on the tile as Dr. Holden rounds towards Fanboy. "He flew?!" her voice echoing through the hallway.

The hallway quiets, occupants in the room turning to look out the window  everyone on alert by Dr. Holden's alarm. A wary glance at the group, Fanboy nods. "Yes ma'am. Three days after the mission was completed."

Bradley flew three days after earning a punched spleen. Jesus fucking Christ. 

She cocks her head, disbelief in her features. "You're telling me after rupturing his spleen on a mission six days ago, he flew just three days later?"

Everyone winces as Fanboy nods, though he looks sick explaining, "We had some residual training left over to complete, but part way through, Rooster nearly crashed into the mountain range after diving way below the hard deck. We couldn't get through to him until the last second when he pulled up. Made an emergency landing right after. When we all got back to the ground shortly behind him, we found him in one of the hangers, having a massive panic attack-" the WSO pauses, frowning," ...or at least that's what it looked it."

Dr. Holden actually runs her hands over her face, and Jake feels bad; this case seems to be getting more complicated by the second.

"Is that why he had to have it completely removed? The g-force furthered along the injury?" Iceman raises the question.

Dr. Holden sighs, hands on her hips. "Most likely. But I can tell you, that level of force on a ruptured organ would have taken someone out by the knees. How he didn't crash is beyond me," Maverick pales, leaning heavier on Ice who is doing a good job of mimicking a statute, but he can see the pain in the fine lines of his face.

Jake doesn't want to revisit the moment but it comes nonetheless.

"ROOSTER PULL UP!" he screaming himself hoarse, watching as the jet gets further and further from him but closer and closer to the ground, please God not after he saved him, please-

A pinch, small and sharp on his arm snaps him out of the flashback, Bob subtly bringing him back, taking his weight when Jake needs a moment to collect himself, dipping his head to hide his face.

Dr. Holden continues without pause, "Possibly the only reason he didn't know then and there was because he simultaneously experiencing a flashback."

"But how come he showed no signs to indicate something...deeper was happening?" Phoenix voices, struggling with the weight of her best friend lying in that hospital bed. Even through the years Jake antagonized Rooster, Phoenix has been there for the pilot through thick and thin.

"His body has been trying to tell him and those closest something was wrong," Dr. Holden gentle in her approach. "Just couldn't understand at the time." 

What ifs, those goddamn what ifs

The rest of the visit passes in a hush, Phoenix, Payback, and Fanboy visiting next whilst the others hover outside. Eventually Jake gets a turn with Bob and Coyote, and though scared to mess things up, to cause further harm,  Jake tentatively takes Rooster's hand in his and holds it, squeezing it tenderly even as it remains limp in his grasp.

For years he's been a church going, God fearing man, raised by his parents in those small town, white picket fenced Sunday school towns. Though he distanced himself from the rigid conservative views, he still tried to maintain routine. But every prayer has been recited by memory, without much feeling as taking to the skies, the weightlessness of power left him feeling he knew God enough but found him lacking, if only cause others said God would find him lacking for whom he loved.

But now, in this base hospital room, surrounded by people who feel like family, Jake bows his head, and holding Bradley warm hand in his, he prays.

'Please God, don't let this be a could've been. Please.'

✯

The remainder of the day passes in the same fashion. Bradley sleeps through most of the day, and when he does manage to rouse for short spurts, he's still out of it and non verbal. But that doesn't stop the group from talking to him, trying to emphasize they are here and not going anywhere. It helps that the hospital is on base and thus the group has access to the mess hall for meals and the locker room to store their stuff and shower. With the amenities not a concern, everyone hunkers down in the waiting room after visiting hours end to wait another night.

Maverick takes the longest to be pried away from his son's side at night, Ice having to pull him away even when he can read by his husband's posture that he wants nothing more than to remain as well. They've been together too long to note notice the things unspoken; he just wishes he was as good at reading his son as he is his husband, but years apart left him fumbling for translations he can't quite get right. 

"We'll talk when we get back," he had promised Bradley, even knowing things could go so wrong. But he never imagined this, never wanted to ever imagine this.

Maverick gets as much rest as he can in those stiff chairs, but he's too worried about Bradley to sleep more than a couple of hours on and off. Spending much of the time gazing at his slumbering husband and the other kids, not wanting to sleep in case something happens to them too. Hondo, his patron saint, arrived with more coffee in the early hours of the morning, gratefully not mentioning the dark circles no doubt adorning his eyes.

Before visiting hours commence, it's a pleasant a surprise that Slider shows up, basket in tow.

"Well isn't this a sight for sore eyes," the former RIO greets, shaking his hand and Ice's.

"Not much beauty sleep to be had here," Ice jests, but looks happy to have the retired aviator here.

He holds up the basket. "Rebecca baked some good for you guys, sent her well wishes and will try to visit soon again."

Touched, Ice remarks, "Ron you guys didn't have to-"

Slider cuts in. "Nonsense. This is how we treat family. Plus I contacted the guys and they should be here by tomorrow afternoon at the latest."

"Everyone?" Maverick's brows raise, a tilt to his lips.

Slider nods. "Merlin, Hollywood, Wolfman, and Sundown. Just said it involved the kid, and they didn't need anymore to start making travel plans."

Maverick feels warmth rush through him, and tries for once to keep his eyes dry, at least at the start of this new day.

Sensing the new guests has perked the interest of the early to rise lieutenants, Iceman introduces him to the group, "This is Ron Kerner. Used to be my RIO during my aviation days."

"Callsign Slider," the retired aviator shares, shaking each hand held out as the kids introduce themselves. He also offers the muffins to all the kiddos, who munch on them gratefully.

"I recall hearing your callsign. You were at Top Gun with Admiral Kazansky and Maverick?" Hondo asks curious.

"Oh yes. I also was the one who kicked Ice's but to get into gear and got these two together," Slider smirks, smugness in his stance. He claps a hand Ice's shoulder, giving him a teasing jostle.

Ice just rolls his eyes. "And he'll brag about it till the very end." But Ice meets his eyes, and Mavericks's heart swells adoringly at the devotion still there decades later. 'Yeah he's got me alright.'

"Should've felt the tension between these two, how we made through class without them fighting or making out is still a wonder to me."

Maverick fighting down a blush, argues half-heartedly, "That's not true." Ice doesn't help, given he's smirking unashamed; doesn't help with the younger ones watch on bemused.

"Oh yes it is,"  Slider argues good-naturedly. "Used to complain all the time to..." he pauses, before finishing more quieted. "...to Goose."

"You knew Rooster's father too?" Phoenix asks.

Slider nods, a sad tug to his smile. "Yeah, Mother Goose as we called him, fretted about everyone. In flight school he looked after us all, and by the time we reached Top Gun, had his hands full with this one," he hooks his thumb towards Maverick, only fondness in his voice. 'Oh Goose, I didn't make it easy, did I?'

"Were you around Bradley growing up, sir?" Yale asks.

"Slider is fine kid, I'm retired," the man in question waves off the formality. "But yeah I was and so were the others from class of '86. When Nick passed, we tried to be there for Carole and Bradley. Kid had us all wrapped around his finger, wasn't above using that puppy dog look to get to visit base," the former RIO recalls fondly, the memories aching in places Maverick can't reach to soothe them away.

"Which means Bradley basically could ask for anything and Ron and the others couldn't say no," Ice teases.

Slider points at him accusingly. "You say that like you didn't let him talk you into taking him up for a flight when he was 14."

"I plead the fifth," Ice holds his hand up, Maverick snorting at his husband's and friend's antics. The younger aviators watch the exchange with smiles on their faces, it almost makes Maverick hopeful that the worst days have come to pass.

"Being surrounded by Naval aviators, kid couldn't get enough of the job, but now it seems baby goose has flown coop. Goose would be proud, taking after his fathers," Slider finishes pride and grief in the words. It touches Maverick him deeply he's included in that, wants so desperately to be called Dad again by his kid, have time to reconcile and make his family whole again. 

The kids probe Slider for more, wanting to hear all the stories they can of Bradley. Maverick just leans into Ice, his husband matching silence lets them listen to the memories and endure the ache they bring as they hold one another.

It's an hour past when they realize the visiting hours already began, but there's no sign of Dr. Holden. Maverick's antsy enough to go check and demand ask if they can see their son, when a nurse comes towards them. It's not Silvia, but a new face.

"Hello is this the party for Lieutenant Bradshaw?" the female nurse asks.

"Yes it is," Ice stands up straighter.

"Wonderful my name is Nurse Katherine. I apologize for the delay, Dr. Holden's on her mandatory rest given she's been on duty for more than the 24 hours. But she left explicitly instructions to let you all come visit the patient. If you would please follow me?" she motions the way she came and like ducks in a row, the group clears out of the waiting room, Slider tagging along when Ice tugs at his elbow.

"Hospital seems quiet these days," Harvard tries to fill the space as they walk along the empty corridors.

"Yes, beside a few routine check-ups and the occasions bruise, Lieutenant Bradshaw is the only in-patient case here," Nurse Kate informs them.  

"We must be the first visitors of the day then?" Slider half-heartedly jokes.

"Your party is actually the second," she informs them.

Maverick blinks, tilting his head, looks exchanged in their little group.

His husband voices the confusion as they pause at the front desk. "Someone's visiting him?"

Nurse Kate confirms as she rounds the desk to sit at her designated seat. "A lawyer, assigned by the Navy to his case. He arrived this morning and that's why it took a little longer too to come get you. He's inside the room now," she motions in the direction of Bradley's room.

The group heads that way unescorted, but Maverick leans into Ice. "Do they do that often?"

Ice's brow furrows over his glasses. "No. Not unless the situation calls for it, which to my knowledge there is no investigation...yet. Hondo?" he glances over his shoulder to said man.

"Simpson and Bates have been able to hold off the higher ups so this news to me," the Chief Warrant Officer admits, shrugging.

Reaching the hospital room, the door is cracked just enough to catch a peak if a man in a dark suit speaking lowly in the chair to Bradley.. He's still washed out of his color and just blinks at the stranger with the same glazed look from yesterday.

"Excuse me?" Ice interrupts whatever is happening, entering into the room while Maverick, Hondo and Slider are on his trail, the kids waiting in hallway in view of the window.

The lawyer, a thin looking man with a brief case by his feet, rises from his seat. His eyebrows rise at who's standing before him. "Admiral Kazansky. I'm surprised to find you here."

"The patient is my son," Ice declares, no hesitation to the declaration. "And may I know you are?"

"Steven Mueller. A JAG Corps lawyer the Navy has on their payroll for particular medical cases like Lieutenant Bradshaw's." He motions back to Bradley, who squints at the vacated seat like he's trying to figure something out or at the very least stay awake. "However, I'm surprised to hear he's your son? I wasn't made aware of this."

"It's not public knowledge, but he's listed as our next of kin," Maverick interjects, not liking some stranger evaluating them like his opinion holds any weight. He especially doesn't like how he's standing between them and Bradley.

Mr. Mueller just hums, like he's not really interested by this new information. "Well for formalities sake, you'll have to contact the administration to inform them of this change of status. As of now, I've been assigned to this case to help Lieutenant Bradshaw get his affairs in order."

"Affairs?" It's Jake who barges in, frown set on his face, Bob hurrying after to ensure the pilot doesn't do anything to rash. "You act like he's dying."

"It's just a term we use," Mueller dismissed but Maverick loathes the grim press of the lawyers lips as he lifts his shoulder. "However considering how...severe his case is, there's no way to know know if it'll take a turn for the worse." He lifts up a document a pen in his hand, "Better to be safe than sorry." Sorry my short ass.

"He's currently indisposed, if it slipped your notice," Ice motions to the state of Bradley, groggily nuzzling into his pillow. God, Maverick wants to hold his kid and hide him from the world. 

"Unfortunately many in this sort of bleak situation are, but there's some lucidness to affirm a last will and testament," Mr. Mueller argues.

"And Admiral Kazansky can hire a lawyer to handle his son's will and any other thing you've got your panties in a twist about," Slider explains, annoyance rising in his voice. God does Maverick love this guy who could never beat around a bush. "It'll be handled when the kid gets better."

"If the Lieutenant Bradshaw gets better," the gentle correction feels mocking, and Maverick is this close to running this guy out of the room. He's trying to speak something ill into existence and Maverick's clenching his fist, arm trembling in his sling. Losing patience, Maverick brushes past Mueller, slipping between the lawyer and his son, keeping his eyes on him. He reaches back with his free hand, gently resting on Bradley's foot.

"When my son gets better, he'll make the decisions," Ice corrects the man.

"Then pray tell, what happens Admiral when he's back on the ventilator and can't even manage to give us a sign he's aware?" Mueller keeps badgering. 

"That's up to his Doctor and his fathers to decide," Phoenix pops her head in the door frame, sticking up in their defense.

"Actually it's up to the Navy, young lady," Oh and if that doesn't got everyone's spine straightening at the blatant talk down. Jake's jaw tensing as Bob, frowning at the man, holds him still.

"Her name is Lieutenant Trace," Hondo corrects, demeanor stern. It's hard to upset a man like Bernie, but this lawyer has managed to do so and more.

"Apologies, designations aren't my forte," Mueller sounds anything but. "However what I said still stands. The Navy decides."

"And you're speaking to the head of it, the acting authority in this room." Ice says, his husband going toe to toe with this shit.

A tight thin smile, as Mueller shakes his head. "Not from where I stand, Admiral."

"As the highest ranking person on this air base, I am," Ice not phased by the dismissal. 

"And given you're contracted by the Navy, he's the commanding officer who decides what happens on this air base," Bob interjects in Ice's defense.

"Should brush up on your law there bud," Slider tilts his chin, arms crossed over his chest.

"And I invite all of you here to join the class of military medical law 101, where no one's authority, even that of a four star decorated admiral can dictate someone's health choices. Lieutenant Bradshaw needs to declare a decision while he still can," the lawyer motions to Bradley, shielded by the Captain's angry form.

"Can't you see he's in no shape to talk let alone make decision?" Hondo argues, the ever patient man finally losing it.

"Well, why we don't ask him ourselves?" the lawyer faces towards them, Maverick standing his ground. "Lieutenant Bradshaw, we discussed your options just a few minutes ago-"

"That's enough Mr. Mueller," Ice demands, his husband sliding in between Maverick and the lawyer. 

Of course the Mr. Mueller doesn't heed the warning, leaning sideways around them to address Bradley in his weak state. "Sir, for your will, do you have next of kin or dependents to list?"

This guy is pissing them all off, Ice and Maverick cutting in at the same time, "You will stop this goddamn instant!" "Now wait just a minute-"

"No." The room goes silent, heads snapping to the bed where Bradley lays, having pulled his mask down haphazardly. It's the first word he's said in days. "I'm...I'm alone. Ev-eryone's gone. All alone..." He murmurs weakly, mind foggy and blank eyes blinking lethargically.

And if that doesn't fucking shatter the room.

Everyone's face must mirror his own devastation, because Maverick is trying to grasp what just came out of Bradley's mouth, words he would never fill in the 15 years worth of blanks.

Clearing his throat, the lawyer cautiously holds out a pen, "Well if you could sign a sworn statement on that-"

Maverick and Ice round on the guy, furious. "Absolutely not!"

"We've entertained this enough." Slider is the one who grabs Mueller by the back of his shirt, hustling him to the door as Phoenix, Jake, Hondo and Bob clear the runway for the launch. "Get the fuck out of here and go visit the eye doctor, because how you can't see he's not in the right state mind to sign anything is beyond me!"

"I'm here by request!" The guy tries to dig his heels in, stumbling when Slider tosses him through the doorway, spindly fingers clutching at the frame as the Lieutenants glare. "He needs to make plans in his current state-"

"You show your face here again, I'll make sure you never practice law for the rest of your life," Admiral Kazansky growls out, tone low that sends shivers up Maverick's spine, chilled by the look he's glaring at the man. His husband rarely is ever true to his callsign, but when he is, you best get out of his firing range.

Gulping, the lawyer straightens up, fixing his tie uttering, "You're making a mistake, Admiral." Before anyone can argue, the lawyer leaves without another word, composed if only to not seem as if he's running away like a dog with his tail between his legs.

Glancing back at the bed, Bradley is losing the fight to keep his eyes fully open, Bob has come to crouch beside him, fixing the oxygen mask back on securely whilst holding Bradley's limp hand. Even with soft words from the WSO, it's like Bradley doesn't even know Bob's there, that any of them are here. 

Don't know you how loved you are kiddo? We are all here for you. Please, don't you know?

✯

Last Name/First Name:

_________

Date of Birth/Age:

____________

Current Address/Mailing Address:

__________

The scratching of the pen can be heard as ot hurries across the paper, loud against the clipboard. He can hear the noise of campus muffled through the windows, people milling about and enjoying their day whilst he's inside, completing a declaration that will decide the rest of his life.

"So what branch are you considering son?" the commander sits behind his desk, pulling out pamphlets of the three different military branches.

"Navy sir," he answers, short and to the point.

The man makes a pleased sound, leaning back in his seat. "Ah, thinking Naval Seals? Marines maybe?"

He shakes his head. "No sir. I want to be a naval aviator," he declares, bold and unwavering.

Eyebrows climbing high on the man's forehead, fingers steepled together in front of him. "Well that's something. It's one of the top programs, very select make it through to that place. If you're looking to fly, you sure you don't want to consider the Air force?"

Shaking his head, the curly haired man looks up from the forms, pen halted in place. "My father was a Navy Aviator, a RIO and so were- other people in my life," he hastily adds, dipping his head once more to focus back on filling out the paperwork. 

Height (ft):

__________

Weight (lbs):

__________

Education (major/degree):

__________

The man hums, consideration in his tone. "A legacy huh? Surprised you didn't go straight into the Academy."

Clenching his jaw briefly, the young man grits out under his breath. "I wasn't ready." Clearing his throat, he tacks on a blank excuse, "Thought getting a degree would help in the long run."

Work History (position, years):

_____________

Health History (diagnoses/medications):

_____________

Personal History (anything to include):

____________

The man takes the words at face value, not probing at old battered wounds that have yet to scab over.

Dotting the last i and crossing the last t, he looks up and hands over the clipboard. "All done sir."

"Wonderful," the man takes the it from him and leafs through the pages, checking for errors and blanks until he reaches the last page, pausing. "Son, I think you forgot this section here."

Dread fills him, a nearly four year old sob building in the back of his throat before he clears his throat.  "I...I don't-"

The man's face goes soft, understanding what he's struggling to get out. "That's alright son. We've got options."

The young man lets out a breath, nodding. Options are good.

✯

Contrary to his denial that he's not a stealth pilot, Robert Floyd always seems to blend in. Callsign Bob, B.O.B., and as Jake likes to joke, Baby On Board. Real original Hangman.

Bob, file highlighting his intelligence and quick thinking skills, would say his most valuable asset to blending in is knowing when to talk and when to not. More often than not, he keeps mum and lets things play out, not needing to throw in his opinion when there's already too many personalities in the hanger, let alone in the cockpit. It's how he gathers information, observes the tell signs that will come in handy later. Perhaps it's a bit of a self-preservation tactic, and perhaps it's just his thought that if you have nothing to say, why talk for the sake of talking?

So at a quarter past 3pm when Dr. Holden appears in the doorway of Bradley's room, looking rested but contrite, Bob remains quiet, leaving the Admiral to handle it.

Slider and Hondo went to eat a late lunch at the mess hall, but he and the other aviators practically inhaled their food to rush back to Bradley's side. The Surgeon doesn't scold them for the amount of bodies in the room, like sardines in a can or the way they spill out into the hallway when needing to stretch their feet. Instead, she cuts right to business. "Admiral. I hear there was an altercation this morning."

Still holding a dozing Bradley's hand, Tom rises from his seat, demeanor unremorseful. "Yes. Some lawyer came here to try and get Bradley to sign legal documents whilst in his current, incoherent state."

Dr. Holden doesn't cower, but she does look uncomfortable. "And I apologize for that. I was informed the request was ordered by the nurse who took over the shift last night when reading his file." She explains. "I've made it clear to her and the other staff here at the hospital that taking actions on behalf of Lieutenant Bradshaw without running by myself and receiving the go-ahead will not be permitted."

Bob feels the collective company relax at her assurance that Bradley will be left alone for now as Ice dips his head in gratitude. "Thank you."

Dr. Holden's face is carefully composed when she requests, "May I request to speak to you privately? Your husband is welcome to join."

A heavy look exchanged between the two, Maverick gets out of the chair closest to Bradley with a whispered "be right back baby goose" and follows his husband out, leaving just them to man the ship.

Whilst some occupy themselves with a book or their phone while Bradley sleeps, Bob slips into Ice's unoccupied seat and takes the time to get his unobstructed fill of the pilot.

Since the moment, Bradley Bradshaw walked into the Hard Deck the night before they returned to Top Gun for a special detachment, a suicide mission that they were none the wiser to, Bob was entranced. Tall, tan, and handsome, Bradley captured the crowd down to the way he swaggered in like he owned the space to his effortlessly cool as a cucumber attitude when Hangman- Jake was right up in his space. It took some time to see the real man behind the veneer of Hangman, but Bob thought right away he could see Rooster fully, alluring as he played the piano and had the crowd singing along.

Bob dreamt that night of the two of them, so close together, nearly nose to nose that all they had to do was lean close and seal their lips over another. They looked beautiful together, and Bob woke up early that morning, something warm in his belly at the thought, feeling lingering even as he tried to shake it off during the day.

But it didn't take long to see that Bradley had his own veneer that was cracking before their eyes as Captain Mitchell trained them, tension between them mounting higher with ever foot of altitude they gained until they veered way too damn close to the ground in a death roll; Hangman's deep, gut-wrenching jabs didn't help either. Maybe that's when Bob starting talking, throwing out his two cents out if only because he didn't want Jake or Bradley to get hurt beyond repair. After the day spent playing dogfight football at the beach, the both of them warm and glowing and so damn beautiful when they smiled carefree, he kept the words to himself and just enjoyed the sight, especially close up when they piled on him in the sand or hoisted him up on Bradley's shoulders after his touchdown.

Words were few and far in between, but Bob tried. God he tried. When Maverick went down over enemy lines, he held in his own devastation and pleaded to the pilot to not do something that would cost him his life. "He's gone Rooster. Maverick's gone."

And like a sucker punch to his solar plexus his heart shattered when "Dagger 2 is hit, I repeat Dagger 2 is hit" rang out over the radios, leaving him breathless, eyes stinging and vision growing blurry behind his glasses. Landing on the aircraft carrier, mission successful but no one celebrating, Bob climbed out on autopilot, catching Phoenix when she stumbled into his arms, shuddering as to not breakdown over the fact that her best friend was de-gone. Bob himself, caught Jake's gaze where he sat still in the cockpit across the way, wrecked and unwilling to leave his place as Dagger Spare; there was no Hangman in that pilot seat, all veneer pealed away before his eyes. He held Phoenix tight and felt like he didn't breathe until he heard Rooster's estat came online and Jake was taking off on Cyclone's order.

Bob would swear all the words he could ever utter meant nothing compared to seeing that beautiful face come out of the F-14, to witness Rooster and Jake stand near toe to toe again, shaking hands and smiling, to feel Bradley's leg brush against his as he was sandwiched between him and Jake under the glow of the Hard Deck's light, heads huddled together as they traded stories and laughed. In that moment, all three touching each other, alive and safe before things went so sideways, Bob thought to himself....maybe dreams do come true.

Blinking back to the present, Bradley is lying still on the hospital bed, fogging up his oxygen mask, eyes twitching beneath his lids in what Bob hopes are pleasant dreams. He glowed in the bar and on the tarmac, but here he pales under the harsh fluorescent lights. Carefully running his thumb over Bradley's knuckles, Bob holds his hand gingerly.

None of them mention the words Rooster muttered earlier, easy to write off as meaningless confusion, but nonetheless they linger uncomfortably like a shadow the lights can't ward away.

Right now, beside wishing Rooster recovers safely and fast, Bob wishes he said more to Rooster that night at the bar, wishes when he felt his heart fluttering in his chest at the attention the pilot gave him that he had confessed, spoke dreams into reality. 

Feeling the hand in his twitch, Bob head snaps up and sees Rooster is waking up. The WSO signals mutely to let the rest know, the aviators dropping their books and pocketing their phones to crowd on the side Rooster's angled towards and the foot of the bed. Bob, spotting Jake against the wall, conspicuously as far away as he can be, motions to him to come join, Javy helping urge his best friend forward with a firm hand on his back until Bob manages to grab his arm and pulls him into the seat right at Bradley's bedside.

"Bob I shouldn't-" Jake uneasily tries to inch away, but the longing is plain in his eyes. Jake may have stepped over the line during training, but Bob knows he cares a lot for Bradley, and wants to prove so.

He touches Jake's arm, grazing down to guide his hand to the bed and replace his own to hold Bradley's. "You won't hurt him," he promises gently in his ear, hearing the thick gulp the pilot gives as he cradles the pilot's hand with reverence. 

"Well good morning Rooster, though it's technically the afternoon," Omaha jokes gently as Bradley's eyes flutter open.

"The year is 1957 and you've been sent back in time-" Bob's lips twitch as Harvard hisses at the swat Halo gives, chuckling. "I'm just pulling your leg man."

Phoenix rolls her eyes good-naturedly, running her hand on Roosters leg. "You're at the base hospital. You got hurt during the mission, remember?"

Bradley blinks slowly but eventually makes an affirmative noise.

"Mav and Iceman have stepped out with Dr. Holden," Fanboy adds. "They'll be back soon."

"As will Hondo and Slider, they just went to eat at the mess," Fritz throws in.

"How do you are feeling?" Bob asks, gaze tracing along Bradley's form to detect if he's in any pain.

"I'm...I'm-" Bradley frowns, struggling a bit.

"It's okay Roo, take your time," Jake speaks softly, still handling him delicately. Bob can't resist laying his hand over Jake and Bradley's, touching them both as Jake's fingers intertwine with his. The others, though with a clear view of the three holding hands, thankfully don't comment on it.

Bradley takes a minute or two, frowning before he finally mumbles."I'm...ch-icken," the words muffled a bit by the oxygen mask.

The group of them write it off as another ramble, but Omaha asks aloud, "Is he hungry?"

"Don't think the thing the mess hall serves can qualify as chicken," Yale jests, the others murmuring in agreement.

"Chicken?" Phoenix frowns, prodding her best friend.

"Too...chicken," Rooster nods and mumbles in agreement, not clearing up anything.

"About what Roo?" Jake gently asks, teasing when he adds, "Your flying? Don't you remember you got off your perch and completed the mission?"

"Yeah hit the bullseye blind too," Fanboy praises, Payback nodding along, remembering just how fast Rooster flew when he hit the throttle, nearly leaving the duo in the dust.

"Kickin nice," Bradley mutters.

The group blinks, confused. Jake glancing at Bob and the others for explanation, a bemused twitch of Phoenix's mouth at assuming the drugs got Bradley blazed.

"Yeah Rooster. You do kick nice," Payback humor him, the group chuckling under their breath.

But Bradley shakes his head. "Kitten nive," he repeats.

The others mouth the phrase like someone can figure it out, Bob playing it over in his head when the idea clicks. "Kitchen knife?" Bob asks to clarify if they all heard right.

Only for the room to go numbingly cold when the injured pilot breathes out, "Too chicken to...to cut it- out." Eyes blinking sluggishly, his limp hand reaches for his injured side before Coyote snatches his wrist, stopping him; the pilot's expression twists when the Immobilized Rooster makes a wounded sound.

Shocked, Bob sees Jake's face gets wiped cleaned as do the rest, the intertwined hands gripping Rooster's tighter.

But Bradley keeps mumbling, "Ev'rything..hurts , no one there-" a wobble to his voice, eyes staring to tear up.

"No Bradley, we're here. We're right here. " Phoenix tries, even if her surefire voice sounds fragile.

"Do you need more painkillers?" Halo tries to asks, Omaha gently rubbing a hand on Rooster's blanket covered ankle. 

"Dessert...dessert...dessert," Rooster's gaze distant like he's not fully here with them, lucidness fading fast.

"You want something sweet?" Fritz asks, wringing his hands like he wants to do anything to ease his comrades' pain.

Bradley suddenly chokes on a wheezing sob, chest stuttering. The sight and sound crushing Bob's heart painful between his lungs.

"Hey, hey man it's okay," Payback and Harvard reaching over to reassure him, the others silent touching where they can but it only seems to make his breathing worse.

"Breathe Roo, breathe," Fanboy begs under his breath, shaken just as he was back in the hanger after his near crash.

Jake cups Rooster's cheek, "Roo, it's okay."

The touch draws those glazed eyes over to him, teary and pleading. "Get the knife, get the knife-" the wrist in Coyote's hold trying to tug fruitlessly free. "C-ut it out- cut it out, cut it out!" he cries, tears building in his eyes as his mask fogs up at his rapid begging, heart rate spiking. Halo and Omaha have to pin his legs, afraid he'll roll out of bed and worsen his injury.

Jake recoils, horrified, Bob laying a hand on his shoulder as the collective faces flash with pain, everyone trying to soothe Rooster. Bob doesn't know what to say to help to alleviate this pain.

"Cut it-...cut... cu-" Suddenly Rooster's head sags on his pillow, eyes closing as his voice trails off, until breathing steadies once more. The group glances on the other side of the bed to see Dr. Holden having injected a sedative into Rooster's IV, all of them having not even heard her re-entry.

Gently, she smoothes a hand along the covers on Rooster's chest. "Like I warned. He's not fully coherent and you can't always take what he says to heart on military grade pain relievers." She clears her throat, glancing away to give the group time to compose themselves. "Perhaps we should let him rest undisturbed for awhile."

Bob swallows around the thick lump logged in his throat, rising from his seat as Jake slowly follows, carefully setting Bradley's hand down on the bed, touch lingering as the group files out of the room, subdued. Once in the hallway, Jake lets out a shaky, shuddering breath, Bob pressing against him apologetic, needing just as much comfort after hearing something that puts a pit of fear in their stomaches.

For the short time Bob's gotten to know Bradley, to fall for him, the pilot always appeared so strong, steady apart from the few moments things escalated; maybe he's much more fragile than they all realized.

When Yale makes an alarming sound, the group halts, everyone's curious gaze rounding on him. The expression he wears is as close to broken as Bob has ever seen someone. "He wasn't saying dessert. He was saying..." he trails off.

Without any other words exchanged, the group all catch on exactly to what Yale means, even when it takes their legs right out from under them.

Deserved.

✯

"I just wanted to speak to you for a few moments," Dr. Holden voice low in the empty hospital room down the hallway where they left the younger aviators to watch over Bradley as he rests. "It's about Lieutenant Bradshaw's condition."

"What is something wrong? I mean he's doing fine, right?" Maverick cuts in fast and cautious, hasn't been able to shake the rattling from the earlier confrontation with the lawyer.

"As of present, yes, but his vital signs are making me a bit wary."

Maverick hates the word the instant it's said as Ice straightens like the word lashed against the supple skin of his back. "Wary how?"

Her mouth presses in a grim line. "They aren't exactly dipping extremely, but they're not improving as I would have liked. This is only the third day in our care mind you, but still. That and what I found out from a recent correspondence have me, to be blunt, unsettled."

Maverick feels a pit of worry make his stomach clench tight. "Why? I mean he's awake and breathing fine with the mask," he motions to his face, mimicking the tool. He feels when Ice presses close, trying to ease him from getting hysterical. 

"I reached out that first night to some of my colleagues abroad if they had come across a case like this. Just this morning, I found a message sent late last night that stated they had a coworker who encountered a case with a patient who had ended up with a ruptured spleen after a disastrous mountain excursion with delayed rescue. By the time he ended up the hospital, five days had passed." Maverick and his husband breath catch, their hopes up only to have them crash down at the slight twist of Dr. Holden's lips, eyes regretful. "The patient died not more than a day later."

He can almost here the sounds of glass breaking as if someone's dropped a mirror, and Ice lets out a whoosh of breath near his ear like he's been sucker punched. 

Dr. Holden continues through their silence. "It's why the story his fellow officers relayed, about Lieutenant Bradshaw's short-winded flight he went on after the mission, came to mind. I have a theory the mission led to the initial impact, with a bruised spleen there would be swelling and pain. However that secondary exercise ruptured the spleen completely whilst experiencing a PTSD episode as he fought through a substantial amount of pressure trying not to crash."

"I'm proud of you," Maverick told the team gathered in the hanger after the successful mission, but his eyes were only for Bradley. He could feel tears prick in the corner of his eyes, his son's shiny even from a distance. He had no idea when he was wheeled out to the car, he was leaving Bradley to his doom.

Ice clears his throat, startling out of his memory. "So you're saying he's only alive because the injury didn't fully occur during the mission?"

Dr. Holden holds up her hands, uncertain. "I can't swear that it's the truth, but I'm leaning towards it given the only other example I've come across didn't end well. Because as much as the textbook says the mortality rate rises 10% each day, who would wait beyond a second day at max?" She sighs, straightening his white coat. "Like I said his vitals aren't dipping drastically and we're closely monitoring them for any concerning change on the third day since he's been admitted. I just want to inform you of my findings and establish clear approval that if need be, we move towards invasive procedures. No delay."

"You have it," Ice confirms, Maverick trying to feel comfort in the fact his husband doesn't hesitate to do what it takes to save their son.

With confirmation, Dr. Holden leaves them to make rounds, the couple staying behind for one undisturbed moment.

Alone, Maverick turns into Ice, hiding his face into his neck trying to keep himself from panicking. "Ice she-" voice trembling. Five fucking days and he could've died.

"Shhh." his husband wraps his arms around him, rubbing a hand up and down his back. "He's going to be okay. Dr. Holden told us so that we're not flying blind. She will be monitoring his vitals and you know those kids are keeping close tabs on him even when we step out of the room."

"But he could've-" Maverick throat cuts out, but Ice just presses his lips to his temple. 

"He didn't. He's fine. He's gonna be fine. Our baby goose is gonna be okay." Ice squeezes his tight. "Believe it Mav, you can't give up."

Believe. Don't give up. Don't think, just do.

Sniffling, he nods, hand gripping Ice's sweater as his husband sways them in place, letting him take all the time he needs to gather himself.

Eventually he pulls back, lets Ice thumb under his eyes with tender affection, stealing a simple peck before they head back to Bradley's room, hand in hand. Ready to face the bear head on. But the minute they wander down the familiar corridor to his room, Mavericks knows immediately something is wrong.

For one all the pilots and WSOs are out in the hallway, accounted for. The second is everyone avoids their eyes, postures stiff and no one is saying a goddamn word.

"What are you all out here for? Did something happen?" Ice asks, squeezing his hand. Everyone glancing at each other but no one taking the reins, so Maverick directs to one of the most honest of the bunch, "Bob?"

The bespectacled WSO grimaces, Jake eyeing him with worry as Bob wanders on closer. "We um- we were sitting with Rooster when he woke up briefly. After trying to talk to him, he said something that was...concerning."

"What did he say?" Ice asks outright, glancing back at the other aviators who avoid their eyes.

Bob casts a glance to the window where Bradley's resting as Dr. Holden notes his vitals. "He mentioned a kitchen knife and said he was too chicken."

Bewildered, Maverick is the one to ask, "Too chicken for what?"

Wincing, Bob meets there eyes, motioning to his side. "Too chicken to cut it out-" Maverick can't breath as Ice squeezes his hand. "He got a bit hysterical, begging Jake to cut it out before Dr. Holden sedated him. She reminded us not to take what he said to heart, but something about it makes us think it wasn't just the drugs speaking."

"You think he contemplated-" Ice trails off, the horrific thought of Bradley in his home, reaching for the knife to end it all. 

Maverick feels the minute flinch his husband gives, while he himself his emotions shutter, willing down the sick feeling creeping in the back of his throat.

Bob, looking at them like it hurts, dips his head. "He kept repeating he deserved it."

Maverick glances towards Ice, his husband expression tight, nose twitching like he's holding off the urge to cry. "Thank you for telling us Bob."

The WSO nods, retreating back to his place at Jake's side, the pilot slipping his arm around his waist and holding him firmly.

The silence perpetuates through the rest of the day, even when Hondo and Slider return after being informed of the incident by Fritz, Maverick feeling their anguish as they look towards him and Ice, who just keeps running his thumb over their intertwined hands. The silence carries through dinner in the mess hall, through the offer Dr. Holden makes to set up camp in one of the many empty hospital rooms with multiple beds and couches as there aren't other overnight patients. And the silence remains when Ice steers him into the locker room, being the last two to rinse the day off before trying to sleep.

The door locked for privacy, Maverick lets his husband gently strip him down then himself, before pulling him into a single stall, letting the warm spray wash over them. They never got to do this in their early days, DADT still in place, competitive rivalry still on the fringe of their budding relationship. But decades later, finally alone together, Maverick doesn't have to hold it in as he crumbles, curling in on himself as Ice holds him close, chest to his back, lips peppering on the nape of his neck.

He can't get the image out of his head, Bradley, crippled by excruciating pain, alone, reaching for the knife to plunge into his-

Gasping aloud, Ice just tightens his embrace and lovingly washes his aged body with soap and warm water, massages shampoo into his hair and tips his head back to rinse it all off, hand over his moist eyes to ensure he doesn't get soap in them. Facing one another, Maverick sees the pain on Ice's own face and wraps his uninjured arm around his husband's neck, kissing along his jaw as Ice's own shoulders quiver. Even with only one hand, he washes his husband as best he can, reciprocating the tireless effort his husband always bestows on him.

The silence is shooed away when they're dried, dressed, and back in Bradley's hospital room, making a makeshift bed on the couch Dr. Holden allowed them to haul in, two grown men snuggled on it where they can watch over Bradley, the constant beep of the heart monitor soothing away the image of his son hurting in so many ways. Somehow Maverick manages to sleep through the night, if only cause he falls asleep to Bradley's face and wakes up to the same sight, peaceful despite everything, even if his color is still muted.

Through the rest of the day, Bradley continues to sleep whilst the rest eat, read, or take sometime in the gym, burning away the restlessness and anxiety. Silvia, the nurse stops in mid-day, greeting them with a small smile, jotting down the vitals, a blink-and-you-miss-it pause as she finishes and leaves. Maverick wonders if he should ask, bother for answers but he can't himself leave Bradley's side, so he stays put.

The silence was warned away the prior night, but it's absolutely smashed to pieces when Slider escorts some familiar faces whose presence feels like soothing ointment applied to a burn.

"Well isn't this a sight for sore eyes," Leonard "Wolfman" Wolfe greets, already pulling Maverick into a tight hug, mindful of his arm in the sling. Merlin, Hollywood, and Sundown are doing the same to Ice, and making a round of introductions to the Daggers and Hondo; so many people who care and love Bradley they'd drop everything to be here for him. Don't know you know kiddo how loved you are?

If Maverick gets the retired pilot's shirt a little damp, he's gracious enough to not mention it.

✯

The class of 86 sits in chairs stationed around Bradley's bed, watching as his chest rises and falls. Ice's nearly jumps when his cellphone buzzes in his pocket, the Admiral slipping it out to peak at the text from his sister.

Sara K. McCroft: Tom, Slider messaged me that Bradley is in the hospital?! Call me back. We're all so worried.

Ice has been so occupied these past days, weeks with the mission and the falllout he didn't think to reach out to his siblings, his family. Or he amends, his expanding family if going by the kids sitting out in the hallways, having dragged chairs to station themselves like guard dogs outside of Bradley's room, graciously letting the older folks have some time with their baby goose.

"God it's like looking at a ghost," Wolf admits out loud in his seat, then immediately winces, angling towards them, "Sorry I didn't mean-"

"It's alright," Maverick waves off the apology, more rested than previous nights but subdued just the same. "Should have see him playing piano at the Hard Deck. Spitting image of Goose."

"But those curls are all Carole," Ice adds, tilt to his mouth.

The boys smiles are twinged with sadness as they memorize every new facet about their son, the grown man before their very eyes.

"God when was the last time we were all together, including the kid?" Slider asks aloud, leaning back in his chair.

"It was Thanksgiving right? Of 01?" Hollywood answers, looking to the rest for confirmation. "The next time we met up for Christmas, Brad was stuck at school. Same with the following Thanksgiving."

"Kid must have been busy," Merlin smirks, arms crossed over his chest. "I swear when me and Michelle could make it to yours for the holidays, Bradley was always away on a trip or studying."

Ice can see the discrete way Maverick rolls his lips, the creeping set of his stiff shoulder inching higher to his ears. The lies bubbling up to the surface, threatening to break through.

Slider backhands him on the arm playfully. "You never even sent us his Graduation pictures. Rebecca wanted a copy."

Ice swallows the guilt and pain as he admits, "We only managed to get two for us."

"Kid got his wings," Sundown remarks, proudly. "Solo pilot, and a damn good one from what I heard." Sundown's a three star Rear Admiral, still in the thick of his Naval career.

"Yeah," Maverick chimes in, voice raw. "So good he won Top Gun his year."

"Ayy," Hollywood and Wolf croon, high-fiving each other.

Slider claps a hand on Ice's shoulder, squeezing it. "Like father like son," his former RIO smiles, Ice feeling choked up as he reciprocates the gesture. Yes his son did it. All by himself.

After a moment to ruminate, Merlin tisks, sounding regretful. "It's sad it's been so long since we've all been together like this and when we finally are, it's cause the kid got so hurt."

"Well we could've meet sooner if these two didn't elope without us," Wolf jests, hooking his thumb towards him and Maverick.

"We didn't want a grand wedding," Ice shrugs, trying half-heartedly to evade them digging deeper, please it hurts, it always hurts. "Just wanted small and private."

"And we forgive you Ice. But hey, at the least the kid was there as your witness," Slider remarks, and Ice feels a stinging sensation behind his eyes.

No, their witness was the law clerk who signed on the dotted line. No matter the letters they sent or the voicemails they left, pleading for Bradley to be there, their son didn't come. On the day, they received a bouquet with a simple card that read Congratulations -Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.

Maybe the sign off was a stark reminder that there's a price to pay for keeping deathbed promises that come at the expense of others.

Feeling like he can't keep up the lie any longer, Ice admits listlessly, "No. He wasn't."

Their friends, mutual frowns adorning their wisened faced turn his directions. "He wasn't?" Slider asked. "Surely his CO would have been understanding the Commander of the Pacific Fleet was getting hitched and requested his presence there."

Maverick hunches in on himself, but Ice continues to poke holes in the shroud they worn so long. "Don't know. He didn't respond to us."

If anything it makes the frowns deepen, the worry more apparent. Sundown lowers his glasses, peering over the shiny lens. "Did you guys have an altercation?"

Ice meets their eyes, face numb. "We had a falling out years ago."

"Over what?" Merlin asks, the others just as lost. 

"Surely it couldn't have been that bad," Hollywood says. "I mean, at least to put it aside for a single day?"

"Not with what happened," Ice shakes his head, voice losing it's power.

Sitting up straighter in their seat, Ice feels them getting closer to the truth. "With what happened? Ice what are you saying?" Merlin asks.

But Ice for once doesn't know how to admit something he's withheld for so long.

"It's because I pulled his Academy papers," Maverick admits aloud, the room and even the hallway quieting. Ice glances over at the pilots rising from their seats gradually, wide-eyed faces as they peer in through the window; only Phoenix looks nonplussed if but somber. Bradley shared the truth with her at least; shared his long-lasting hurt with someone.

"What?" Hollywood asks in disbelief, the rest of the men too shell-shocked.

"Mav-" Merlin shakes his head, face gutted. "Why?"

"I....I had to," Maverick weakly whispers, chin trembling as he thickly swallows. 

"But that was the kid's dream," Slider stressed, staring at him like Ice should make sense of all this, surely Mav wouldn't do this to Goose's beloved kid, to their own son?! Their friends for decades look at them like their strangers. "You know this. To follow in Goose's footsteps, Ice's!"

Head bowed, Maverick's silent, not denying the truth. How could he when it was all Bradley talked up growing up, when nearly every Halloween he dressed up as a fighter pilot, excited to be like his Dads?

"If he didn't go to academy, are you saying-" Wolf putting the pieces together.

"Ice, Mav, how long has this been going on? When was the last time you three spoke before this mission?" Hollywood ask, pleading for answers from them as Maverick rubs his hand over his mouth, body turned away in shame.

Sighing, weary and sore, Ice answers with the weight each day missing their son has felt. "15 years."

"Jesus Christ!," Hollywood exclaims up out of his seat, running a hand through his hair, the other in similarly distressed states.

"But-but then who was with him? We haven't seen him since 01 and if he cut you guys off, did the kid have anyone?!" Sundown voice loud.

"He...he had-" Ice falters, remembering vividly Bradley dazed and weakly stating, "I'm...I'm alone. Ev-eryone's gone. All alone..."

Merlin looks imploringly towards his former pilot. "Mav, why would you do that? You were his biggest supporter besides Ice. I thought you loved-"

Maverick leaps to his feet, destroyed and voice shaking. "I do! I love him so much, so much since I got to ho-ld" he chokes on the word, hands cupped like they're cradling the newborn's phantom weight "hold him in my arms when he was born. B-but you guys just don't understand! I made a promise to his mother to protect him after I failed to protect his father." When the guys try to say it wasn't his fault, Maverick brushes right through the placates. "I had to- I...I- I couldn't let him d- not him too-," the group of aviators old and weary unlike they were young just watch on with pity and sadness as Maverick slowly breaks, Ice pulling him by his uninjured arm into his chest, wrapping around him. He spots Jake and Bob's faces through the window, all of the Lieutenants saddened.

Maybe they're disappointed that the big heroes, the legends of the Navy, are so very human after all.

The silence from last night creeps up again, the group of old friends hushed by such a secret pouring out. Finally someone clears their throat. "Was it worth it?" Wolf poses delicately.

Paused, Maverick's face goes throw a slew of complicated emotions, mouth grappling for words. Ice himself struggles at the question, unable to justify if missing 15 years of Bradley's life was a price he'd pay if given a second chance to delay his take off up into the skies.

They don't get long to ponder however when Dr. Holden enters the room, the tread of his sneakers disrupting this argument, a glance at the new faces before settling on Ice.

"Apologies for interrupting Admiral. I need to speak with you urgently."

Still holding his hurting husband, Ice waves off the decorum. "If it's about Bradley, they deserve to know too."

Begrudged, she acquiesces, "I thought it best to inform you some of Bradley's results today are not looking as good I hoped." Lieutenants pressing into the window or shuffling near the door to hear.

He transforms into the formidable persona he's known for. "Then you have my approval to take action."

Her expression however then changes, he wages, to that of remorse. "I'm afraid I also have to announce we cannot proceed with any invasive procedures."

Ice frowns, feeling his husband's harsh breathing cut out. "What do you mean?"

Dr. Holden sighs, posture uncomfortable but resolute. "Because Lieutenant Bradshaw does not have you or Captain Mitchell listed as an emergency contact or next of kin."

Blinking, Maverick straightens in his arms, croaks, "But he's our-" his husband clams up, maybe questioning if he has a right to stake claim.

"He's next our next of kin, in print on both mine and my husband's health records," Ice argues.

She tilts her head, mouth slanted. "I know. I checked personally after reading his own file. He is listed as your next of kin, for both of you, but he put no one as his." She expands. "I was confused why a lawyer was requested yesterday for Lieutenant Bradshaw without prompt. Turns out, it's because his power of attorney is designated as his acting CO with restricted access. Any procedures and treatments outside of a select limited approved list would need a lawyer to help navigate if the patient himself is indisposed."

Ice feels his mouth go dry and his mind flash a thousand different orders he can try to manage this new piece that's upset the chessboard.

Slider, his defender since day 1 even in light of the truth that spilled out just moments ago, argues, "But he's their son-" "Since he was 12!" Jake calls from outside, Slider pointing at the pilot, nodding. "Since he was 12. Doesn't that mean something?"

Dr. Holden looks regretfully as she responds, "In the grand scheme of things, no. Lieutenant Bradshaw is an adult and hasn't changed this protocol since he first enlisted in 2004. His decision stands and none of my staff are willing to lose their medical license to overstep that. I'm sorry," she tacks on the end, quieted.

Ice feels the tremble of his husband beneath his touch, hears Sundown breathe out a low "Jesus Fuck'', and sees Merlin rub a harsh hand over his face.

"I'm...I'm alone. Ev-eryone's gone. All alone..." No kiddo you never were, please you gotta know you never were.

"Then I'll hire him a proper lawyer," he declares, keeping his voice from cracking.

"You're more than welcome to, but I also suggest whoever is in fact his CO, needs to get their ass here. Because without their go ahead, and without legal advising, we cannot proceed with invasive decisions and I'll be frank, given his vital signs, we don't have a lot of time to waste."

She leaves the room with the last word, those left behind and in hallway glancing towards a passed out Bradley, breath fogging his oxygen mask, hue still that of pale foam on the crest of waves. Sleeping and unaware of that bomb that has just gone off. Ice feels his husband slip from his arms and all but collapse into the chair.

"I guess that answers that," Wolfman murmurs, the group somberly quiet as Maverick sags in his seat and buries his face in his hand.

It's unfortunate a single choice might cost them more than any were ever ready to pay.

✯

The young man watches as the recruiter comes back to the desk, brandishing a crisp packet, his expression remaining softened in sympathy.  "I can assure you, your particular situation is quite common. We have plenty of fine young men and women who don't have a lot back home to rely on. There's options for those entering the military with a lack of familial support."

He takes the packet, glad for one measly moment that being alone won't cost him his dream. "Thank you sir," reciprocating the smile he's offered, dream within sights as he begins to fill out the medical release and authorization forms.

It's not like he plans on crashing or injuring himself. Last thing he ever wants to do is give the two men ammunition to show he wasn't ready.

Besides, worst comes to worst, he'll burn in before it ever really matters, right?