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Maverick leaned against the sink, not having the energy to do anything other than. He was aware that his commander, Viper, was speaking to him, but no words registered. "Go home, Maverick."
He'd been discharged from the hospital after a week with bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, bruising and slight spinal swelling. It wasn't enough to warrant surgery, but after a week of the swelling slowly reducing, they deemed him ok to go home. Maverick had numbly accepted the morphine as he hobbled out.
His first stop was his home.
It was...empty. Cold. Lonely.
Mav flicked the light on, blinking owlishly. He dropped the medication on the side and fell onto the sofa. His ribs pounded painfully, but it was fine. He deserved the pain. It was his punishment.
He knuckled his eyes, pushing the tears back into their ducts.
Now wasn't the time for crying.
~
Maverick couldn't sleep.
Every time he shut his eyes, even blinking, he was back in the tailspin, unable to get out. He was there, shouting for Goose to eject.
Then he was falling.
He was falling towards the ocean. He fumbled for the parachute strap, gasping at the jolt back.
He was floating.
He drifted towards the pacific ocean as limp as Goose.
He hit the fridged February waters, his muscles seizing up. He gasped sharply as he swam. "Goose!" He called. He grabbed his best friend's body, retching as a trail of blood slid from his head.
Then he would wake and blearily fumble for his clock.
It would only be 01:43.
And he wouldn't sleep again for the night.
~
His phone would ring throughout the day, but Maverick was passed out drunk. Alcohol seemed to be the only thing that would leave him in a dreamless sleep. He knew he shouldn't drink on the morphine, but he didn't care.
Why should he live, with nobody to rely on, while Goose died, leaving his family behind?
Maverick was on his fourth beer when the phone rang.
"Hey, Mav. It's Carole... I'm just ringing to see if you're ok... I know it was traumatic, and Viper said you were hospitalised. Um... Bradley misses you as well, so, call me back,"
Maverick finished his beer. I'll go tomorrow, he thought. It's not like he could drive with his injuries and the morphine anyway, but he was drunk.
Maverick didn't go tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after.
The beers didn't stop being consumed.
Maverick was finally having a good night, no pain, no nightmares, when his liver decided enough was enough. He was thrown to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet for hours on end. He hadn't eaten anything of worth either, so nothing was coming up.
Yet, his stomach continued heaving.
His head pounded endlessly, his vision swam dangerously. He leant over to retch up nothing again when blood splattered against the porcelain sides.
Oh well. He thought. It's not like I don't deserve it.
Goose bled from his head.
~
Maverick finally hauled his ass over to Carole's, seven days after her message. His ribs ached, and his spine pounded, but he plastered a smile on for his godson. Bradley went out to the garden, leaving him to talk with Carole.
"I'm sorry, Carole... I... It should've been me, not Goose. If I'd been more careful," He said.
Carole would slap his arm. "He loved flying with you Maverick. He would've flown anyway, without you. He would've hated it, but he would've done it." She tearfully said.
The adults put their smiles on for the four-year-old once more, playing and messing around. "What is that?" Bradley asked as Maverick applied some morphine gel to his ribs. He winced, inhaling sharply through his teeth. "Just some cream, bud. It's ok," He smiled. Carole ushered Bradley away to watch cartoons while she applied it to his back and neck.
She scanned his face. "Come on. You can stay here tonight. I don't want you alone right now," She said. Maverick shook his head. "No. I've already ruined enough. I don't need to stay," He argued weakly. "I don't care, Maverick. Goose was your friend, and he would be appalled at the lack of self-care," She snapped.
Goose is dead though, so it doesn't matter.
Carole.
Carole tucked Bradley into bed at 6:30, leaving Maverick to watch over. They needed milk. Everything she did was robotic, of sorts. There was no time for her to break down now, despite Goose's death. Her son needed her, now more than ever.
And it would appear that her friend was struggling more than he let on, physically and mentally.
He'd stayed over for a few nights across the week. Carole debated calling somebody to talk to him, a therapist. She would catch him in the bathroom, gripping the sink so tightly, his knuckles were white. His eyes would be red, his shoulders would be quaking and tears would be running down his cheeks.
She knew he tried to put on a front for Bradley, injury-wise. He showed him the scar on his ribs from the cuts, which the four-year-old found very cool. He would wince and cry out in his sleep, or even when he walked.
But Carole didn't realise how bad his mental state was.
Not until she came home.
When she opened the door, she was hoping to find Maverick asleep. She was not expecting him to be on the ground. "Maverick!" She exclaimed, dropping the bag. The pilot grasped at his throat, wheezing. "I can't- I can't-"
Carole scanned him over. Her sister back in Texas suffered from a panic disorder, so thankfully, Carole knew what to do.
"Ok, Pete, you're having a panic attack. I need you to follow my breathing?" She dropped to her knees and dramatically breathed in and out. "Come on, follow my breaths. In...... out...... in...... out....." When the aviator failed to calm down, Carole grabbed his hand and place it on her chest. "See? Feel my heart beating? Just follow my chest,"
Slowly, Maverick's breathing calmed back down to a slower rhythm. Carole exclaimed when he listed to the side, barely catching himself with his arms. "I thought I was gonna die..." He mumbled. "Panic attacks do that," She mumbled back. He panted on the floor. "Come on, I'll help you to bed."
He slept in until midday the following morning.
~
Carole knew it was the final step when she found him in a drunken stupor at midday the following week. Thankfully, Bradley had gone to school, so Carole phoned 911.
He had his liver pumped and sent to the psych ward, where he was admitted.
Carole reached out to a therapist as well. If Pete "Maverick" Mitchell could do it, whether it was mandatory or not was beside the point, then so could she.
After he was released, they began seeing a bereavement counsellor together. In fact, they both saw two; bereavement together, Carole saw a single-mothers group, while Maverick saw a navy specialist.
One who deals with trauma and loses.
That's what her husband was.
A traumatic loss in a book.
~
Carole steadily grew better, able to function again. She began working as a teacher in San Diego, not too far away from Maverick. She knew he'd stay near a naval base for as long as he could. Eventually, after around a year, Maverick began to fly again.
To her's and Maverick's horror, Bradley wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and join aviation, he announced on his 17th birthday.
Four days later, Carole found out she had cancer. On her deathbed, having called Maverick from overseas, she held his hand tightly. "Don't let him apply, Mav. Pull whatever strings you can." She whispered. Maverick sniffled. "Don't worry. He won't. I'm not losing him. Not like I did Goose."
She jutted her bottom lip out, patting his hand fondly. "You don't still blame yourself, do you? Honestly?" Maverick's sigh and unwillingness to look her in the eye told her. She slapped his shoulder. "Mav, I'm about to see him again, and I will tell him to haunt your ass if you don't stop."
He smiled with a chuckle.
And Carole passed away peacefully in her sleep, reunited with her husband forever.