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He’s thirteen and Mav buys him his first leather jacket.
There are patches on the sleeves already - old squadron patches that Mav’s collected, sewn into the fabric by his mother. Her smile is just as bright as Maverick’s, her laughter infectious as she squeezes Bradley in a hug.
“Isn’t it sharp, baby? Looks so good on you.”
“I love it,” Bradley gushes, turning to hug Mav for the third time since unwrapping the box. “Thanks, Mav. This is awesome.”
Mav’s eyes are shining, his hand ruffling through Bradley’s curls. “You’re welcome, Bradley. Happy birthday.”
//
He’s sixteen and Mav takes him up in the Mustang for the first time.
The sky feels like home. Bradley realizes he shouldn’t feel hurt anymore by Mav leaving so often — how could Mav be kept from this? How could anyone ?
Bradley feels the phantom thrum of the controls underneath his hands. He can see his future, knows instinctively that this is where he’s meant to be.
“I’ll be a pilot,” Bradley says into the headset, confident despite the slight crack in his still-changing voice. “Just like you, Mav. No backseat for me. I’m gonna fly.”
“I know you are, kid,” Mav laughs, guiding them back toward the hangar. “Can’t wait to see it.”
//
He’s seventeen and he realizes his mom isn’t going to make it to his eighteenth.
She’s tired. So goddamn tired. Bradley wishes he could do more, but he isn’t prepared for this. All the time in the world couldn’t prepare him for this.
He’s living in a world that constantly refuses to equip him. It isn’t fair.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Carole whispers, smiling as best as she can manage, her frail fingers tangled with his. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you, too,” Bradley whispers, hugging her close. “I bet — I bet I’ll be able to hear you, y’know? Up in the sky. The way Mav hears Dad.”
With his head resting on her chest, he can’t see her expression, but he feels her fingers tighten around his reflexively.
“You don’t have to be in the sky to hear me, baby,” Carole says, and it’s the strongest her voice has sounded in weeks.
//
He’s nineteen and he’s alone.
Shitty food network reruns, cheap beer, the low thump of music from one of the apartments downstairs. There are messages on his answering machine that he’s ignoring and a card left in the mailbox downstairs.
“Happy birthday, Bradley,” he mumbles to himself, popping the tab on another can of beer. “What’s one more.”
//
He’s twenty-four and swaying in the middle of a dance floor, tequila thrumming through his veins, when the realization hits him.
He’s officially reached an age his father never did.
Bradley thinks he mumbles an apology to the girl he’s been dancing with, but he isn’t sure. He walks on unsteady feet to the bathroom, ducking into one of the stalls and slamming the door shut, resting his sweaty forehead against the metal as he desperately tries to catch his breath.
He doesn’t know what a Bradshaw man is supposed to look like at twenty-four. He’s never seen it. It makes his stomach roll. The tequila burns even more on its way back up.
He’s wiping his mouth with a towel at the sink when he catches sight of his own reflection, sweat shining on his skin and stubble grown in around his cheeks. He brushes his fingers over his top lip, scratching against the hair there, and distantly remembers the way his dad’s mustache would scratch against his cheek.
When he shaves the next morning, he leaves the hair on his top lip alone.
//
He’s thirty-two and there’s another card in his mailbox, but there’s a text from a new number this time, too.
Happy birthday, Bradley. Heard from Ice about Top Gun. Congrats.
Bradley reads the text multiple times throughout the day. Blocks the number. Unblocks it.
At 11:58pm, annoyingly sober and exhausted, he finally replies.
Guess I didn’t need your help getting here after all.
Maverick doesn’t text him again.
//
He’s thirty-six and officially retired from active duty. Maverick’s hangar has become a second home to him again, just like it was when his mom was at her sickest.
“I’m older than her now,” Bradley says quietly, seated on the couch and watching the sun as it sets over the desert. “You realize that? I’m officially older than momma ever was.”
“I know, kid,” Maverick says, reaching over to clink his beer bottle against Bradley’s empty one. “It’s a hell of a thing, huh? Feels — undeserved, almost.”
“Does it go away?” Bradley asks. “It hasn’t with my dad. Guessing it won’t go away with her, either, will it?”
Maverick smiles, meeting his eyes. “Not completely. But your parents - they’d be so proud of where you are now. You’ve given them a hell of a legacy.”
Bradley’s quiet for a bit, long enough for Maverick to grab another bottle for them both. He speaks again when Maverick’s settled back with his book.
“I’ve hated my birthday ever since Mom died,” Bradley says. “Tried to avoid it, usually. Preferred spending it drunk or alone.”
Maverick glances at him. “Well, you aren’t drunk. Certainly aren’t alone.”
“Nah,” Bradley says, shaking his head. “And this is the first time in years I haven’t wanted to be. It’s the best birthday I’ve had in years, Mav.”
Maverick grins. “Wanna make it better?”
“How?”
“My birthday gift.”
Bradley snorts. “You get me another jacket?”
(Because he still has the one Mav got for him at thirteen. Treasured it even when they weren’t speaking.)
“Better,” Maverick replies. “Thought I’d let you fly a loop in the Mustang.”
Immediately, Bradley’s jumping up and heading toward the plane to get her ready to fly. Maverick follows him, laughing the entire way.
The sky feels like home. And just like he thought, he hears his momma’s voice in the roar of the wind.
Don’t you look sharp, baby. Thirty-six looks good on you.