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The Bradshaw house was the only place in the world Maverick slept well.
He’d bunked down in more hovels than he can count—in the backseats of cars, in military housing with beds that were more spring than mattress, in the beds of strange women and men alike, once in a bush—and none of them compared to the small spare room that Carole kept for him.
There was a familiar warmth across his arm and chest; the sunlight arcing in through the little window to the backyard, draped over him like a warm body. The light tried to tug Maverick toward wakefulness but he fought it, letting his face sink deeper into the pillow as he chased just a few more minutes of perfect sleep.
It would be a long while before he graced this bed again. He’d have to hit the road before noon if he wanted to make it to the Charleston base for his briefing and reassignment. He’d be gone five, maybe six months at the very least.
He’d steal every damn second of sleep he could before then. He drifted, sleep teasing at the corners of his mind and warring with the ever-growing strength of the sunlight. When it finally shifted high enough to hit his eyelids, Maverick let out a pathetic groan and twisted, trying to roll away.
He didn’t make it.
His arms, sprawled above his head on the pillow and wedged against the rungs of the headboard, did not move. Something tightened around his wrists, and Maverick’s eyes snapped open.
He wrenched himself onto his belly; his arms twisted painfully as the bindings on his wrists tightened. He jerked his head up to see something thin and violently green.
“Bradley,” Maverick muttered.
It was Bradley’s jump rope, the same one that Maverick had found discarded in the garage with the other toys Bradley said he was too old for now. The knots were pulled so tight that the plastic fibers had started to fray.
There was a quiet sound behind him. Slowly, Maverick peered over his shoulder and caught a slip of movement by the bedroom’s door.
“Bradley.”
Bradley’s nose appeared first; it was too large for his face, just like Goose’s had been. Just a sliver of his eye appeared, like he didn’t want to see Maverick. When Maverick caught his gaze, Bradley jerked back behind the corner, his back hitting the wall with a loud thump.
“Why am I tied up?”
He got no response. After a long moment, Maverick hauled himself up into a sitting position. Wedged against the headboard, he started digging his short fingernails into the knots. He recognized them; he’d coached Bradley through knots for his scout troop one, maybe two years ago. He’d never taught Bradley how to tie him to a damn bed, though.
“How the hell did you manage to get these this tight?” he grunted.
Bradley, quiet as a mouse for once in his life, stayed hidden.
“If we’re playing games, I need to be awake, yeah? It isn’t fair if I’m asleep. Where’s your mom, huh?”
Maverick knocked his shoulder against the headboard in frustration, ratting the bed frame against the wall, and Bradley poked his head out again.
“It’s not a game.”
“No?” Maverick bit his tongue between his teeth as he jimmied the rod the jump rope was tied around. It was much too thick to break, and he had no shot at prying it out of the headboard. “This a new hobby? You gonna give up baseball for this?”
“I have a game next weekend.”
“You’ve told me all about it, big guy.” Maverick wiggled the knot between his fast-numbing fingers, trying to loosen it up. The synthetic fiber slicked quickly with his sweat, his fingertips sliding all over the material uselessly. “You’ve gotta make sure to call me so I can hear all about the home runs you’re going to hit.”
“No,” Bradley said, and Maverick’s fingers paused.
“No?” he asked, turning to look at Bradley. Bradley’s fingers were tight on the corner, but he didn’t meet Maverick’s eyes, staring resolutely at the floor. “You don’t want me to call?”
“I want you to come,” Bradley said, the slightest warble in his voice, and Maverick clenched his jaw.
“Bradley,” he began, aiming for soft and failing. He sounded tired even to his own ears. “I can’t.”
“You can stay,” Bradley insisted. “Mom said you can use the bedroom as long as you want.”
“I have orders from very important people, and I have to go. I’ll be back.”
“But I don’t want you to go.”
Maverick wedged his thumb into the knot as Bradley started to cry.
“Hey, hey,” Maverick crooned, craning to keep his eyes on Bradley as he wriggled the jump rope. “Bradley, buddy, come on. I’ll be back.”
“I don’t care,” Bradley begged. He looked younger than his nine years. He looked small and so damn miserable that Maverick had a hard time keeping his eyes on him. It pulled at something sharp and unhealed inside him, a little wound that had opened up when he’d realized as a child that crying never got him anything he wanted. Maverick hadn’t sobbed for anyone at nine years old. He’d learned long before then that tears only earned him derisive scorn and maybe a cruel laugh, if there was another kid in whichever foster home he’d been sent to.
Bradley’s tears, unashamed and unstoppable, hurt to look at.
“You can’t go,” he said as Maverick yanked the first layer of the knot loose. “You need to stay.”
“The Navy needs me,” Maverick said. He’d never meant to instill a glassy-eyed, awestruck sense of the planes and pilots into Bradley. It had just happened, and he’d caught Carole’s gaze one too many times over Bradley’s wide grin and felt the sinking in his stomach and Goose’s ghost, dead and ever-present, hung over them. If Maverick couldn’t get Bradley to listen, the Navy could.
“No!” Bradley shouted as Maverick loosened the final knot and yanked his wrist out. He bolted towards the bed, and Maverick was only just able to free his other hand before Bradley launched himself onto the bed.
“Bradley, Bradley!” Maverick grunted as Bradley’s hands grappled at him, reaching for his wrists. He pushed Bradley’s fumbling hands away easily and wrapped his arms around the boy’s body, crushing him tightly to his chest as he writhed uselessly.
With Bradley’s face pressed into his collarbone, he was finally able to make out the words Bradley was heaving out between shaky sobs.
“I need you more. I need you more.”
Grief hit Maverick as hard as the force of gravity. Everything in him felt impossibly heavy, and each gasping, wet breath Bradley heaved against his shirt crushed his skull harder into his spine like a racing ascent in the cockpit.
He couldn’t gather enough air in his lungs to respond. Even if he could, nothing felt right. I’ll be back. He couldn’t guarantee it, not ever. I have my orders. Soulless and cruel.
“Bradley,” he whispered instead. “Bradley.”
He held the crying boy in his arms, his shirt soaking with tears and snot as Bradley quaked. It hurt to hold onto him. It hurt to listen to, to see.
Maverick held him tighter.
“I’ll be back,” he promised, lied again, because it was the only thing he could say.
Bradley’s fist closed around his dog tags, desperate and clinging. When Carole appeared in the doorway, they held a long gaze over Bradley’s ducked head. They’d done it many times before, but the quiet, keening noises from Bradley made Maverick flich. Carole didn’t waver. She was stronger than him and always had been.
Maverick left within the hour. Bradley stood on the porch, Carole’s hand tight on his shoulder.
Bradley didn’t move from where he stood, ramrod-straight with his chin to his chest. Not when Maverick hugged him one last time, not when Maverick started the Kawasaki’s engine.
Maverick braced himself over the bike, his wrists aching from the tight lines the jump rope had cut into his skin, and waited.
Bradley didn’t look up.
Maverick left.