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It shouldn't be a big deal.
Really.
It should've been just another item dropped in the trash to be disposed of at a later date.
However, Bradley finds himself staring at the innocuous little box in the trashcan in Maverick's bathroom for a solid five minutes before he brings himself to reach in and gingerly lift it from the confines of the plastic bag. The packaging looks fairly expensive, a mark of both thorough determination and commitment to a quality result. Bradley swallows hard.
It shouldn't be a big deal.
Regardless, the empty box of black hair dye in his hand trembles a little, and he forces himself to put it down and just breathe. Maverick dyes his hair? How long has he been doing it? And why?
Even after fifteen years apart, Bradley never considered Maverick old enough to want or even need hair dye. Maverick isn't supposed to need hair dye, but... it's been fifteen years, and Maverick turns fifty-five in three months. Stupid as it sounds, Bradley almost can't believe Mav aged.
Maverick has always been immortal, untouchable by trial, tribulation, or time. Even now, he seems so sprightly, his eyes mischievous and gleaming with mirth the way they did when Bradley was a child. Yet, now that Bradley thinks on it, Maverick's face creases with laugh lines. His crows feet became permanent somewhere along the way. Even though he still runs and plays with them, his knees crack and pop when he crouches, and it took him eight weeks to recover from the suicide mission instead of six.
And, apparently, Maverick dyes his hair.
After everything they went through, everything they fought about, and every conversation they had in the time since they reconciled, Bradley never in a million years thought hair dye would be the thing that made him truly compute just how long he left the old man alone.
Old man. The teasing jab is meant to be a joke, not reality.
Bradley sighs and scrubs his brow, tossing the box back in the trash where it belongs and heading to bed. Putting the idea out of his mind doesn't even come close to working, no matter what he thinks of otherwise. Try as he might, sleep evades him. If he pads from his room to Maverick's and plants himself on his dad's chest to listen to his heartbeat, that's no one's business but theirs.
"Mm?" Maverick rouses, cracking open one eye.
"Go back to sleep, dad."
Mav, still mostly asleep, lets his head tip back, his hand fall into Bradley's curls, and his eyes slip closed once more. The part of his mind attuned to Bradley's moods stays awake, bringing a sleep-rough rasp of "S' goin' on, kiddo?"
"Nothing," Bradley murmurs. "Go back to sleep."
"M'kay."
He doesn't go back to sleep, not for a long time, but Bradley chooses not to call him on it. In fact, Bradley is sure Maverick stays on the edge of waking until Bradley himself falls asleep. That would be just like his dad. Bradley can't say he dislikes it.
Come morning, while Maverick sleeps in, Bradley scoots closer to the head of the bed and pulls Mav against himself, pressing his nose into the old man's hair. It's as soft as ever, comforting.
"What's gotten into you, sweetheart?" Mav murmurs.
Bradley heaves a sigh, nuzzling closer. "You dye your hair."
"Mm-hm."
"Just... didn't think about how old you are now, is all."
Mav huffs softly. "Give it twenty years, kiddo. You'll be in my boat in no time; although, you'll probably look better with some gray at your temples than I do."
Bradley's mustache twitches with amusement before he turns solemn again. After a beat, he implores, "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Could you-.... Could you let it grow out? I want to see it."
A beat passes, then Mav gives Bradley's arm a soothing rub. "Sure, baby goose. Just don't buy a ticket on the guilt trip train, huh? Me getting older isn't anyone's fault, especially not yours."
Bradley hums. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Good. Now, what do you want for breakfast?"
It's not a new question by any means, but it warms Bradley all the same. Mav used to ask him the same thing all the time when he was a kid, and he hasn't been shy about asking since Bradley decided to move in with him again. Some things never change, no matter how old.
"Waffles," Bradley answers, a smile growing on his face.
"Good choice, kiddo."