Chapter Text
During leave in the winter of 1985, Goose and Carole, in this order:
- Tell Mav they're having a date night, goddamnit, because they haven't had one for ages, so help them.
- Tell Mav he's babysitting on date night.
- Tell Mav not to worry: he's not actually going to lose their sixteen-month-old child or something.
"I'm offended," Mav says, pouting, and crosses his arms. "I wouldn't lose Bradley. I'm his godfather. I'm a reasonably responsible adult." He pauses. "How the hell would I lose him anyway?"
"The first time I met you, you'd crashed your bike, had a nasty bout of road rash, and lost both your shoes, sweetie," Carole says, but she's mostly just trying not to grin. So is Goose. Traitor. "But we're not doubting you. We're being—you know. Encouraging!"
"Plus, the kid's despised every single babysitter Carole's tried to set him up with," Goose adds jovially, slinging one arm around Carole's shoulders and giving her a squeeze. "So it's also for the sake of not scaring any more off."
"That's right, honey," Carole adds tenderly, leaning up to kiss Goose's jaw. "I think he's just picky, though."
"Wow, you two," Mav drawls, "thinking of the big picture, huh?" Goose flips him off, grinning, and Carole's started biting on one of her knuckles to not start laughing. God, Mav thinks, he loves them like breathing, even when they're teaming up to mess with him.
"It'll be fine, Mav," Goose says, cocking his head, his tone softening. "It'll be just fine."
—
Bradley Bradshaw, at sixteen months, is easy to laugh, easy to smile, bangs his toys along to whatever music that comes his way, and is also somehow more stubborn than maybe three-quarters of the people Mav knows. He's also someone Mav would gladly lay down his life for; it's been that way ever since he was born and Carole, exhausted and teary but so happy, had let Mav see his tiny, red little face. Mav had reached out, and Bradley had grabbed on to his finger tight. Goose had been crying, and Mav and Carole had been too; honestly, the only one who hadn't been crying was Bradley, who'd mostly looked bemused that all the adults in his very, very young life were basically turning into human faucets.
Now, he's happily cuddled into Mav's arms after Mav had fiddled with the radio and put on the station that Carole and Goose both claim Bradley loves the most. Can't Fight This Feeling's playing, and Mav's singing along with it, even though his voice is kind of trash compared to Carole's, and he'd never be able to play along like Goose, but—well. Musicality was always the Bradshaws' thing more than his, even though Mav had made a few valiant attempts at the guitar before Goose had kindly broke it to him that he was terrible at it and to please stop before he lost more sleep. Plus, Bradley never minds when anyone's singing to him.
Mav's bet Carole a hundred bucks that he'll be playing a baby grand or something by the time he's five because—well, of course, Goose's going to start breaking out the sheet music as soon as Bradley can sit upright enough on the piano bench. Playing the piano's basically a rite of passage with the Bradshaws, anyway. Goose's mother, who'd raised Goose alone and died when he was a teenager, had taught him. Mav's one hundred percent sure Goose's got actual music lesson plans in mind already.
Bradley babbles along to the song, and Mav smiles down at him. "You're really liking this, huh, honey?"
Bradley looks at him owlishly, smiles with his baby teeth, and then chirps, "Mav!"
Mav freezes. "What?"
"Mav!"
Mav's eyes start burning, and his chest is all mixed up with about seven million emotions he can't name. Carole had said on the phone that Bradley was talking, but God, he'd never thought— "Aw, B," he manages, trying valiantly not to cry, "you didn't have to. I—Jesus."
—
After that, Bradley goes on a roll and starts naming whatever Mav points out to him—or he does his best anyway. Mav points out most of the stuff in the tidy living room before he remembers the book Carole told him Bradley liked and goes to get it.
It's a book full of birds, of course. Bradley names most of them as best he can ("S'gull! Mingo!") and with pretty impressive accuracy, given he's a sixteen-month-old baby. Mav tries not to feel too proud of him.
"You're a smart cookie, you know that?" he coos to Bradley anyway, who babbles happily in response. It's actually really, really fucking nice to babysit him; he sees how Goose pores endlessly over all the photos of Bradley that Carole sends him when they're out at sea or stationed somewhere that's not near here. Mav happily does the same, is happy to hear anything about Bradley deciding he likes peas and hates carrots, about the bits and pieces of things he's learning how to say. It's easy to listen to because Bradley is so, so easy to love.
"Cookie!" Bradley replies, then cocks his head. "Mav cookie?"
"Eh, your dad's more of a nerd than me, kiddo," Mav replies, flipping the book around and turning the page. He grins at what he sees; this is too good. "I mean, hey, I can hold my own just fine—you know, naval aviator and all—and I don't mind a good math twister or something, but… anyway." He flips the book around to show Bradley. "Look—a goose. That's your dad." He points to the goose. "Sort of, anyway."
Bradley peers at it, then slaps the other side of the book with his little palm, where there's a duck. Mav laughs, delighted.
"Yeah, well," he says, "that's your dad's competition. A duck." Mav flips the book around, and then he frowns; he'd pointed out the duck as the goose and the goose as the duck. Ah, fuck. Well, it probably doesn't matter anyway.
—
After the book, he decides to get one of Carole's burgeoning collection of photo albums and sits Bradley in his lap as they look through it. Mav smiles at a picture of him, Goose, and Carole at Galveston Island from 1980; it's from the first summer he'd met Goose, after he'd met Carole the winter before during her nursing clinicals. He'd fucked up his bike and crashed it after going home to his dorm at UT Austin one night, and she'd been the nursing student assigned to assess his sorry-ass state. It'd turned out that she was wickedly smart and even more wickedly funny and kind and Mav had gravitated to her instantly; when they'd found out that they both went to Austin, it'd basically sealed the deal on whether they were sticking together or not.
Mav had been more nervous than he'd ever remembered being that summer, still so young and desperate to make a good impression on the childhood friend she'd waxed poetic about (and was more than a little in love with). But then he'd met Goose—got wrapped up in his laughter and the easy way he slung an arm around Mav's shoulders—and they'd clicked almost instantly, just like him and Carole. Ever since then, it's been the three of them against the world.
Well. Mav rests his chin on Bradley's little head of blonde hair. The four of them.
"So, kiddo," he says, pointing to Carole in the picture, who's mid-laugh at something Goose had said. "That's…"
"Ma!"
He kisses the top of Bradley's head and grins. "And that's…" He points to himself, where he's got aviators perched on his forehead, beaming stupidly at the camera.
"Mav!"
"Right again. You're going to start reading whole books or something at this rate, you know that?"
Bradley babbles in response, and Mav chuckles a little. "Okay, maybe not yet. Gotta get those ABCs in first." He points to Goose. "Last one, honey. That one's…"
"Duck!"
Mav startles. He actually falters, unsure. "Uh—"
"Duck!" Bradley slaps the picture with his little palm again.
Why would he—oh, fuck. The bird book. Oh God—oh fuck, Mav told Bradley his dad was a goddamn duck. Goose is either going to laugh himself stupid or—he probably wouldn't kill Mav. Probably. Jesus Christ.
Well, maybe he can fix it before they come back. It can't be that hard, right?
—
It's that hard. Bradley is so, so unbelievably stubborn when he gets stuck on things.
Mav tries; he really tries. He tells Bradley, "Actually, that's your dad, little Goose. Not a duck. Can you say Dad?"
"Duck!"
Oh no, Mav thinks, despondent. No. So, he gets the bird book again and shows Bradley the pictures of the stupid goose and the stupid duck.
"That's a goose," he emphasizes, pointing to the right picture this time. "What's that, kiddo?"
"Goose!"
"Alright—and look, this is a duck. Not your dad, huh?"
Bradley frowns at him—a little baby frown that looks so much like Carole, it's scary—and then says, "Da!" He points at the duck. Mav feels his stomach drop out. Goose is definitely going to kill him. Carole is never going to live this down if he doesn't.
"No, that's a duck, Bradley. Can you say duck?"
"Da!" Bradley actually looks proud of himself, Jesus Christ. Mav's going to prematurely bury his own grave or something, except the kid's so goddamn cute when he does that that he doesn't even care.
—
When Goose and Carole get home, dizzily happy, clingy, and just a little tipsy from the wine, they find Mav asleep on the sofa, their son snoozing away on his chest. Carole leans her head on Goose's shoulder—leans into his warmth, his solidity, into every single way she's loved him since she was fifteen.
"See," she murmurs and loves them all so, so much. "It's just fine."
(She does end up giggling helplessly for five minutes straight when Bradley wakes up, sees Goose, beams, and says, "Duck!" Mav goes sheet-white. Goose nearly falls out of his chair, but then he starts cackling too.)