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All little Bradley had understood, on that dark day long ago, was that his daddy had gone to fly planes and never come back.
Sure, he had memories. While they lacked clarity they contained warmth. His father’s love and hugs and shoulder rides - a mustache that tickled when he kissed him on the cheek while putting him to bed, promising to be there in the morning. And then one day he wasn’t there. And he never would be again.
Maverick had become the father figure in his life. It was his character Bradley imitated - his swagger, confidence, and deference to Carole. When it had all come crashing down, the last in a sequence of tragedies that made up Bradley’s then short lifespan, he’d cut and run, ignoring every attempt Maverick had made to reach out and mend what had been broken.
Because Bradley was sure it couldn’t be fixed - and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be.
Years of resentment and then, there Mav was, at Top Gun to teach them to fly a secret mission, larger than life and looking at Bradley like he was the older man’s whole world. In his mind, ever since Ice’s funeral, ever since Maverick had followed Warlock out of the room after Bradley had finally managed to make Maverick feel the devastation that he had felt all those years ago, now, he’d been excoriating himself. Because he’d taken it too far.
Hadn’t he done exactly what Hangman had done, but from a different angle and with a sharper blade?
Because they’d both managed to blame Maverick for Goose’s death, hadn’t they?
When he’d tried to articulate even an infinitesimal amount of what he was feeling to his godfather before they took off for the Mission, the noise had drowned him out. Anyway, it wasn’t like what he’d wanted to say could’ve been said there out in the open.
“We’ll talk,” Maverick had smiled at him, looking as nervous as Rooster was sure he looked himself. “When we get back.”
And, when Maverick had burned in (burned in because he’d sacrificed himself for Rooster) he’d thought that that would be the last thing he heard the older man say. Rooster wasn’t going to let it stand. It couldn’t end like this. So he’d gone back.
Back to save Maverick from a helicopter just in the nick of time. Back to trudge through the snow with the Old Man who was entirely too chipper, considering their situation. Back to feel his heart in his throat as Mav made the wings of the TomCat go out further and pulled off a one in a thousand launch. Back to be in the backseat of an F-14 with Maverick - because that’s where Bradshaw men belonged.
Although, ejecting was also something Bradshaw men were apparently in the habit of doing, because he found himself floating in the frigid sea, frantically searching for Maverick above the choppy surface.
There! Unclipping his parachute, he struggled over to where the older pilot floated.
There was red in the water.
“Mav!” He called as he finally reached his godfather. “MAV!”
The Old Man didn’t answer, splashing yet more water over Rooster as he struggled to right the ragdoll-like body, getting the other man’s parachute off and activating the emergency buoy.
There was red on Maverick.
Frantically, he sought to determine if there was a pulse, cursing the water that was turning his fingers numb as he finally just leaned his head close to the other man’s mouth to try to feel breath hit his skin.
Damnit … he couldn’t tell!
And then Maverick moaned. Small and weak. But he moaned .
“Thank God,” Bradley slumped back on the inflated buoy, gently tugging Maverick against him, trying to support his neck and head.
Now there was red on Bradley.
With relief came sudden awareness and he heard a plane overhead, glancing up to catch a glimpse of a familiar F-18. It was Hangman. Bradley really hoped that he could see them. Because it was really, really cold down here.
“Once we get back,” Rooster promised the insensible man resting against him. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”
The thought made a wave of giddiness roll through him, much like the wave that smacked against him a moment later, making him sputter. Dimly, he was aware that he was probably going into shock, but couldn’t bring himself to care. As the hysteria died down, he eventually became aware of the thump thump thump of chopper blades.
It was the rescue chopper.
Good. It would be nice to be warm again. He was starting to forget what that felt like.
Maverick let out another moan as a man was getting lowered, distracting Rooster from watching the man’s descent.
“It’s okay, Mav,” He promised. “It’s gonna be okay.”
He had to break his promise a little, since the corpsmen had to attach Maverick to a backboard separately to be lifted carefully up into the air and then into the belly of the chopper. Once Rooster had been pulled up as well, he scooted over to take Maverick’s hand where he lay, not heeding the medic who’d draped a blanket over his own shivering shoulders. He only had eyes for Maverick.
When they landed there was a whirlwind of motion and Rooster lost sight of Maverick. Phoenix’s face appeared before him as he struggled to follow. He felt so … heavy, somehow.
“What’s wrong -.” “Shock” “Not all … blood on him” and other snippets went in one ear and out the other. He managed exactly three steps before his legs buckled and he fell into oblivion.
——————————————
Beau “Cyclone” Simpson would be the first to admit that he didn’t have the best opinion of Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.
It was an opinion built by the reputation the Captain had garnered, over the years. A man with that long of a career and a collar still empty of Admiral’s stars was a good subject for gossip. Gossip that Cyclone had previously agreed with. The only thing that occasionally made him think that the rumors couldn’t be altogether true was the totally different opinion of Admiral Kazansky. Every time Maverick’s name came up, something fond and sad came over the older man’s features. And the way he’d talked about his Wingman … you’d think the man was Perseus incarnated or one of the Greek heroes from the myths who had the world on the shoulders and the gods had turned against them. Because that was what the Navy brass had always done - turned against Captain Mitchell.
Looking through the man’s paperwork before the Mission, seeing all the accolades and medals the captain had accumulated, as well as documented proof of the amount of times the man had turned down a promotion, Cyclone could only wonder what the story behind everything was. So he looked up the records from the Accident in 1986. The Top Gun class of both Iceman and Maverick, as well as the records of the mission that had gotten both men their air-to-air kills. Cyclone found a story - a story that left him with more questions than answers.
According to the military tribunal, Captain Mitchell was cleared of all wrongdoing. But had Maverick thought that? Cyclone wondered, staring out his office window, another tab on his screen open to the file of one Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw. It was a hell of a thing, to loose your back seater in a freak accident. And he knew Iceman had been involved - it was his jet wash Maverick had flown through. But … as long as it didn’t interfere with the Mission (and Iceman had only pursed his lips and remained silent when the two names came up in conjunction during the briefing, an old grief on his face) then he was going to let this run its course.
Despite what the brass seemed to expect, Cyclone did want all the pilots to survive this ….
——————————————
The Captain’s flying was something else. Even as he yelled at the man for breaking the hard deck (with his dead RIO’s son, no less) his inner pilot was drooling over the gracefulness of the various maneuvers the older pilot had pulled off. There was no question that the Captain belonged in the air. Cyclone could see why he’d never taken those promotions.
(Admirals didn’t fly, after all.)
“What does the Admiral see in him?” He asks Warlock, later in the Mission training, still trying to understand the logic. Because all he knows is that the brass is breathing down his neck, those kids are going to be running a suicide mission, and the Captain had decided to take his ‘kids’ to the beach. (And yes, Cyclone had started calling the squadron the Captain’s ‘kids’ in his mind.)
Warlock looked altogether too amused, in Cyclone’s opinion, “Probably for the same reason you can’t hate him, for all you try to say you do.” He nods his head at the various simulations from the flights running on the big screen. “And he’s a damn good pilot.”
So Cyclone lets it go, for now. He can wait - and watch.
——————————————
If he hadn’t been facing the window, he was sure Maverick would have seen his true feelings when he simultaneously reamed him for stealing a jet and flying the course in 2:15 and offered him the position of Team Leader. He could only imagine that this was how Admiral Kazansky had often felt - knowing that he was taking a risk, but knowing the Maverick always came home.
He can feel Kazansky’s ghost at his back, ice cold eyes boring into him as the Daggers report that Maverick is down. And as much as he doesn’t want to, despite Hondo’s protests, he does not allow a retrieval or air assistance. And then Dagger Two follows: Rooster is down — and they wait for an interminable period.
Until, against all the odds, as always, a Tomcat is reported flying towards the Carrier.
That son of a bitch. That beautiful son of a bitch.
“It can’t be,” Warlock is shaking his head, delight warring with the reality of the situation. “It can’t be!”
A gong tolls.
“Maverick.”
——————————————
Even the legendary Maverick was due to run out of luck sometime. At least the rust bucket’s ejection system had still been operational.
He could admit that he hadn’t been kind to Maverick. Wincing as he remembered everything he’d said before Maverick had flown the course in two minutes and fifteen seconds.
Was it jealousy that had driven him to remove Maverick as a teacher? It was one thing to say that he respected Admiral Kazansky. But it was quite another thing to go against his wishes the day after said Admiral’s death and stab the Captain in the heart (metaphorically). He’d like to think that he hadn’t seen the Captains value before, being blinded by the man’s reputation and miffed by the man’s attitude in general.
He saw his value now; now that the Baby Aviator’s had come out of this ordeal as a team; now that all six of the pilots had made it back to the carrier - alive.
Looking in on the surgical ward as both pilots were cleaned up (since both had taken shrapnel during the ejection and what Cyclone assumed had been their plane exploding afterward) he had a feeling that this was the start of something.
“Iceman must be laughing at me,” Cyclone told Warlock as they watched the surgeons making to move the two pilots into their recovery room.
“Because Maverick proved you wrong?” Warlock asks his old friend.
“Because I’m planning on asking him to teach at Top Gun, when this is over, brass or no brass.”
Warlock smiles.
——————————————
If this was even a quarter of what Maverick had felt after he’d held Goose’s body in the sea after their accident, Rooster wasn’t sure how the older man had survived it. Even though Rooster really wasn’t to blame for anything in this instance, he still felt guilty. But that guilt eased a little once he was finally able to get out of bed and sit by Maverick’s side, watching him sleep.
He’d been lucky, apparently. Rooster had taken shrapnel around his hip on the way down but he hadn’t noticed because of his panic and the ocean water making him go numb. It was enough to make him sit gingerly in the bedside chair, making sure to keep all his weight off that hip, but not enough to deter him from his vigil. They’d guessed that Maverick’s head had been glanced by a significantly larger piece of debris, knocking the older pilot out and giving him a gorgeous amount of swelling. But they’d assured Rooster that the Captain’s tests had been fine and until the Captain woke up and demonstrated otherwise, there shouldn’t be any lasting repercussions from his injury.
“Mom always did say you were hard headed,” Rooster chuckled wetly, clinging to the hand closest to him.
Luckily he’d finished having a good cry before Hondo led the rest of the Dagger’s in to visit.
Rooster accepted Phoenix’s gentle hug, nodding to the others as they gathered around the tableau.
“He looks a lot smaller now that he’s still,” Hangman was the first to pipe up once the obligatory niceties were acknowledged and exchanged.
Rooster snorted. “Don’t let that fool you - he’d always been trouble.”
“If you're up shouldn’t he be?” Bob asked hesitantly.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Hondo says, catching the question as he breezes into the room. “These were his second and third ejections this month. In light of that knowledge the doctors decided to make sure he gets all the rest his body needs.”
“Second and third this month?!” Comes the general outcry.
Rooster bends closer to the bed, half laying on the cot now, “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Old Man.”
“How well do you know him, exactly?” Hangman’s question diverts his attention from the sleeping form on the bed.
“He’s my godfather.” Rooster shrugs like it’s no big deal.
Despite their questions Rooster does not elaborate on the new information and the others finally station themselves around the room to keep the invalids company. After a while Rooster is convinced (or rather forced) to get back into his own bed.
“Because you’re injured too, Bradshaw,” Phoenix scolds him in that way she gets when she’s genuinely worried and he can’t help but cave.
And he does hurt, once he stops to think about it. Shrapnel is no joke. So he drifts off to the background noise of the low murmurs of the others and the beeping of Maverick’s heart monitor.
The monitor is what wakes him, later on.
Bleary-eyed, he forces himself to sit up, aware that something is wrong, the shrill sound of the machine blaring over the tones of the uproar. Once he realizes what’s going on Rooster rolls out of his bed, heedless of the various wires he disconnects along the way, forcing his way to Maverick’s side. The older aviator is a mess, previously peaceful features overtaken by sweat and panic.
“Goose!” The man cries out, curling in on himself as he holds out a hand against anyone’s approach. “Goose!”
Rooster’s heart breaks but he manages to barely break his stride as he cautiously approaches the bed.
“Hey, Mav.” He says as he approaches.
He watches Maverick’s attention and the man reaches out to him, body language taking a 180. “Goose!”
While it hurts a bit, Rooster goes along with the misconception, carefully supporting Maverick despite his own injuries, allowing the older man to pull him down onto the bed and tuck himself into Rooster’s side. The room goes still as Maverick settles down.
They’re all waiting for Maverick to realize his mistake.
And he does.
“Baby Goose.” The older aviator only clings tighter, the amount of relief and love in his recognition enough to make Rooster’s heart sing, the old threads in his heart that he’d let grow stale starting to stir with life again, reconnecting him to his godfather. “You’re okay.”
“Yeah, Mav,” Rooster assures him. “I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
“‘F’course!” Maverick chirps, clearly out of it, likely a combination of the drugs and his injury. “I promised Carole you’re get to be old like she di’n’t get ta'be.”
It all clicks into place and Rooster wants to cry. The other Daggers just look confused. Though Phoenix is always quick on the uptake.
“I miss her, y’know,” Maverick eventually continues, voice low like it’s a secret. “Miss Goose, too.”
There isn’t going to be a dry eye in the room before this is over, Rooster is sure of it.
“I’m sure they miss you too, Mav,” Rooster says, placing a gentle kiss on the top of the older man’s head. He’s got to start making up for lost time sooner rather than later, after all.
“An’ I missed you, kiddo.”
“I missed you too, Mav,” Rooster acknowledges, hugging the older man gently, mindful of his hurts, “I’m never leaving you again.”
“But -,” Maverick protests, turning to look up into his godson’s face. “I never apolo-
“And that’s okay.” Rooster cuts him off. “I understand why you did it, now.” Gently guiding Mav’s head to rest on his shoulder again, making him comfortable. “And I forgive you.”
A sniffle is Maverick’s answer. It’s quiet for a while until of fucking course Hangman pipes up. Though Rooster thinks it was supposed to be an aside to Coyote. “Jesus, he’s fucking small.”
Maverick puffs himself up in medicine induced indignation. “Still the best pilot!”
There’s a general outburst of laughter at that as Rooster soothes Maverick’s (metaphorical) feathers. “You always liked to argue with Ice about that, huh Mav.”
Maverick just looks sad and it looks worse on his damaged face. “He can’t be the best - now th’e’s de - de -”
Rooster shushes him, knowing what he’s trying and failing to articulate. Deciding to change the subject, he sics the loopy older aviator on the others. “So, whadda you think of the other kids, Mav?”
And that brings Maverick back to himself - because he’s one of the nicest, most genuine people Rooster has ever known, once he’s comfortable enough to be. “Phoenix is in charge while I’m gone. Definitely always.” Giving a big smile that makes him look years younger.
Hangman gives a squawk of indignation amid the general laughter. “Aw, common, Pops, that’s not fair.”
“Mmmm.” Maverick hums, peering at the cocky pilot from his spot at Rooster’s side. “Penny told me about your shena - shenani - what you get up to.”
“What would you do without us Mav?” Rooster asks, half in jest, half in earnest.
Due to the med’s, Maverick answers that with unusual honesty. “I’d have Hondo and the graves.” Twisting in the stunned silence after that blunt revelation. “Have a P-51! You should see her - she’s a beauty!”
“You always did like your toys,” Rooster eventually forces out, the word graves still echoing through his suddenly blank mind.
Because a part of him had realized, several years after the fight, that as much as he was alone among a sea of people, Maverick had to be even worse off. The Bradshaw's had been Maverick’s family. And Rooster had rejected him. Coming up through the ranks and pilot training, he’d heard about Maverick’s reputation and had guessed how that affected the captain’s day to day duties. But for Maverick to be reliant on graves to keep him company …
“But you have us now, Mav,” it’s Bob who pipes up this time, sweet, stealth pilot Bob whose face holds only determination as he looks around at the others. “You’re the best teacher we’ve ever had, right guys?”
There’s a murmur of agreement and Rooster sees the confusion on Maverick’s face.
“I’m not who you should chose as a role model,” Mav protests. “Brass doesn’t like me.”
At a look from Rooster, Phoenix approaches, taking the Captain’s free hand. “We’re just glad you're okay, sir.”
Maverick looks at her with wide eyes and then past her at the others who are nodding along. It could have become awkward except for Hondo finally coming in, doubtless having run the gauntlet of debriefs that Maverick and Rooster are exempt from at the moment.
“Hondo!” Maverick grins, then the grief and disbelief disappear like water off a duck’s back, and he wrestles the hand Phoenix isn’t holding free to point at the Warrant Officer. “You! You knew this would happen!”
Hondo looks entirely too amused, no doubt used to the older man’s antics, even the ones that weren’t medically induced. “Knew that what would happen, Mav?”
“That I’d get attached,” Mav declares. “It’s all a conspiracy! You and Ice are going behind my back again!”
Hondo steps up to stroke a hand through Mav’s hair, the older man leaning into it despite his protests. “You know it’s for your own good, Mav.”
“But they’ll leave!” Maverick pulls back to make his point. “They’ll fly away and I’ll be alone again.”
Rooster does pull Maverick into another hug then. “You might not remember this when the drugs wear off, Uncle Mav,” He meets the others eyes one by one. “But I promise that we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Seconded.”
“What he said.”
“Damn straight.”
“We’re not leaving you, Pops.”
Came the myriad of replies. And Maverick eventually drifts off, surrounded by people who loved him, just like he’d always deserved, despite his faults.
Home to roost.
Home to stay.