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He chose me.
He chose me.
He chose me.
For years, the pulled papers made Bradley believe that the man who raised him, the man he idolized, the man who gave him every flying dream — didn’t believe in him, didn’t want him, never wanted Bradley with him in the sky. It broke his heart every time he thought about it, all throughout his delayed naval academy stint, all throughout his tenure at Top Gun, all throughout his career so far.
Every damn mission, I’ll fly to prove you wrong rang in his head, rattled in between his ears as he pushed and pushed himself closer to the heights that had been taken away from him. Every maneuver he pulled, every stunt in the air that drew raised eyebrows and grudging acknowledgment from his peers and COs–in his head, he aimed every one of them at a version of Maverick twisted beyond recognition, cold eyes waiting for Bradley to fail, waiting for the boy he raised to prove him right.
And yet–Mav had said his callsign earlier, quiet and sure. Hangman had straightened in front of him, proud and deserving when Cyclone asked who his wingman was going to be. Bradley had kept his eyes down, assuming it was a lost cause–and he would have deserved it, because any other CO would have had him written up for insubordination after what he had said.
(Any other CO would have had him washed out for his behavior since Day 1, and he knows it.)
“...and your wingman?”
“Rooster.”
Bradley had snapped his head up so fast, eyes incredulously meeting Mav’s. There was nothing there of the twisted, taunting, malicious eyes that he had convinced himself existed for fifteen years, waiting for Bradley to fall and fail.
There was only a quiet assurance as he met Bradley’s eyes, a slight set in his jaw that Bradley recognizes from difficult sports club training sessions, or when Mav taught him how to drive.
Come on, kid, you can do it. Clutch and brake, nice and easy.
Come on, kid, you can do it. Coach Jarden isn't gonna take it easy on you, so don't you dare make it easy for him.
Come on, kid, you can do it. I know it's hard, but that's part of the play. Go on, I'll be right here.
He might as well have said I believe in you out loud in front of Cyclone and all the assembled Daggers, for all that it turns Bradley’s world upside down, throws out his fifteen-year-old assumptions of the man who raised him (the man he loves as a father), flips his useless anger on its head.
(Rooster catches half-glances, feels his dad’s eyes on him all the way through Warlock’s briefing. He can’t meet those eyes–not yet.)
Bradley’s still dazed when he gets to the deck, and barely processes Hangman’s sincere (as far as he can tell) send-off. The only person on his mind is Mav.
He spots him by his plane, doing the double-checks himself, running his hands over the chrome like a blessing and a silent prayer.
Dad, his heart wants to say.
Mav, his brain wants to say.
“Sir?” is what he says, his tongue tied by years of pained estrangement and wounded hurt, for both of them. “Sir!”
At the sound of his voice, Mav looks up at him, face carefully blank. Bradley stops several feet away, like a poacher corralling a wounded animal.
Because that’s what Mav looks like now–there’s an unsettling, tentative, fearful look in his eyes as he looks at Bradley, waiting.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop, for another missile to fire.
And Bradley can’t blame him. The last time they were this close, he had uttered the worst words imaginable.
No wife, no kids–no one to mourn you when you burn in.
My dad believed in you. I’m not going to make the same mistake.
He hadn’t meant them—not really. He had just wanted the other man to hurt as much as he did, had taken a perverse pleasure in seeing the pain bloom all over Mav’s face, a wounded hurt glazing over his eyes as he looked at Bradley in disbelief.
And then Warlock came, and Mav had sagged against the wall when he heard the news. Bradley had hovered awkwardly, eyes by default drawn to the man who raised him.
He had wanted to hurt him. Mission accomplished. Strike 1 of 2.
Bradley had lingered through the ceremony, seeing his other uncles surround Mav from afar, a few stoic nods thrown his way. They had respected his boundaries too, all of them sticking to Navy protocol whenever they crossed paths in Bradley's career.
Ice was the exception; the COMPACFLT who never missed a chance to tell Bradley that he misses you, he's so damn proud of you, he got hurt on a mission now but he's fine, if you still care he'd want to see you.
He loves you so much, Bradley.
Each and every time, Bradley had brushed him off with a cordial salute, falling back on protocol and wielding it like a double-edged sword. The disappointment in Iceman's cold gaze was always palpable.
He hadn’t had a chance to apologize to his uncle Ice.
No, scratch that–he had had multiple chances over the years.
He threw them all away, and now he stood in front of the coffin holding the man who didn’t deserve his silence.
And for what?
To remain angry at the man in front of him now, who waits expecting to be burned by Bradley twice, thrice, a hundred times over?
Did Bradley want to stand in front of his coffin too, knowing he had burned away whatever was left?
No one to mourn you when you burn in.
What a terrible, horrendous lie.
“I–” Bradley’s throat dries up, but he croaks a few words out anyway. “I just wanted to say–”
I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
I was wrong.
Thank you for choosing me, today and all those years ago.
I love you. I don't deserve to, but I do.
I miss you.
I want to come home with you.
Please don’t burn in.
I’d mourn you.
I’m still your kid, if you’ll have me back.
I want you back.
The deck speaker crackles loudly, snapping Bradley’s carefully-prepared sentences in half. “All aboard the aircraft, get ‘em all!!”
The two of them snap their heads to the crew operator and look back at each other simultaneously. The mission looms ominously before them, crew deck scurrying to and fro around their planes. They have to get in now.
Bradley swallows. The moment’s gone, his courage failed yet again. Hangman always did say that Rooster just meant “Big Chicken.”
“I–”
Mav’s face softens, instinctive comfort taking the place of that wounded fear. “We’ll talk,” his dad promises. “When we get back.”
It's familiar. He sounds so sure.
But both of them know that no mission is promised. It’s why the Navy makes them write those letters waiting to be sent in case of a casualty call, why they both have had a last will and testament written out since their twenties, why Bradley never really took Mav off his NOK list because he still wanted to know that someone would care if he left this world, damn it all.
They’ll talk when they get back. Bradley nods, swallowing all the words he never got to say, the ones he means more than the ones he aimed with deadly precision.
They weigh down his chest, pull his bones down to the sea. If he dies on this mission, then these words die with him.
We’ll talk when we get back we’ll talk when we get back we’ll talk when we get back whenwegetback whenwegetbackwe’lltalkwhenwegetback—
He turns away.
“Hey, Br–Bradley!”
Bradley turns away from him, and Mav might be imagining it but every step of his boy looks haunted, his face a mess of questions and words that he must have wanted to throw out at Maverick, if only to release them.
He suddenly gets an image of baseball-playing Bradley at sixteen, up to bat and walking out from their dugout, their team demoralized from a bad game so far.
They were the away team, and the stands were packed with parents cheering for the home team.
It’s the same haunted quality in the boy’s steps, the same turmoil of thoughts playing over his downcast face.
Mav stood up and shouted, “You got this, Bradley!”
Bradley turns at the sound of his voice, surprise taking over his face, his jaw dropping open as he spots Mav in the crowd. Mav can see him mouth his name and give a small wave in acknowledgment, a shy smile stealing over his kid’s face.
He had rushed here as soon as his ship docked; he had planned to surprise the kid after, but now was as good a time as any.
“You got this!” he repeated, louder this time, the heads of other parents swiveling around. His uniform probably stopped any snarky comments in their tracks.
Bradley missed on one and two, the pitches whizzing past him and into the catcher’s mitt with finality.
Mav remained standing, the groans of Bradley’s other teammates’ parents reaching him. “Come on, kid,” he whispered. Bradley turned toward the stands for a second, searching for him. Their eyes locked, and Mav hoped his nod conveyed all the love and belief he had for his boy–unchangeable and unwavering, no matter the result of the game. "You can do it."
Bradley nodded back, a renewed fire in his eyes and confidence set in his shoulders as he turned away and took up his bat.
He hit a home run, and Mav whooped shamelessly — but even that exhilaration paled in comparison to his kid clambering into the stands when the game was called, the audience parting before him as he zeroed in on Mav.
Mav chuckled as he found his arms full of sixteen-year-old, clinging on so tightly that Mav couldn’t breathe. His mostly-prickly teenager had already outgrown him, but Mav still held him easily.
“Mav,” he heard, whispered against his neck, his kid turned into him and away from the world.
“Hi, baby goose,” Mav laughed. “Surprise.”
Bradley just held on tighter, fists balling in Mav’s starched uniform. Not letting go anytime soon, then.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” Mav whispered. His teenager didn’t groan and protest the endearment this time. He takes another chance and presses a kiss to the boy's temple. Bradley doesn't make a face or wipe it away; instead, he snuggles impossibly closer, his face pressed flush against Mav's neck. Mav's heart warms as he tightens his hold. “I’m so proud of you.”
Bradley now walks further and further away, a heaviness dogging his every step. Mav suddenly feels the need to dispel that cloud hanging over his boy, wants to see that fire in his eyes and the confidence in his stance. He’ll need it, if he’s going to make it home.
And he will–if Maverick has anything to say about it. No ifs or buts.
We need another home run, sweetheart. In every sense of the word.
“Hey, Br-Bradley,” Mav tries, tripping up on his son’s name. It’s not Rooster, or Lieutenant Bradshaw. It’s a gamble; and if this doesn’t pay off (if he doesn’t turn around again), then Mav will just have to learn how to fly with his heart left behind on the carrier deck.
But wonder of wonders—this time, his kid turns around, something like faint and tentative hope in his eyes. Mav hopes to God that he isn’t imagining it. “Hey.”
He tries again, putting every ounce of love and belief and grace into his next words. “You got this,” he asserts, nodding like he’s back in the stands of a baseball game—except now he’s right beside his kid on the plate.
A flicker of familiarity and knowing recognition sparks in Bradley’s eyes as he swallows and nods back.
Maverick just takes a few seconds to gaze at him, committing his kid’s face to memory. He looks like Goose, like Carole, like all his parents’ hopes and dreams grown up big and strong.
“Someone’s not coming back from this,” he had told Cyclone, matter-of-fact. Here, now, standing in front of his kid, he’s determined that that someone will not be Rooster, will not be any of the younger pilots who are about to follow him into a death trap.
There’s a bit more surety in Bradley’s steps now as he turns away from Mav to climb into his plane.
God. He’s going to get them all home alive, even if it kills him.
(It probably will.)
He says as much to Hondo, in less words; but his faithful warrant officer reads it in his eyes nonetheless.
Comanche gives them the all-clear. They have a few seconds left until entrance. Rooster’s on his left wing.
He takes a long last glance at his kid’s plane; another Bradshaw hovering over open water.
“My dad believed in you. I’m not going to make the same mistake.”
This isn’t the first mission the kid has flown–but Maverick can only imagine what’s going on in his head. Here he is, tethered to Maverick like his father was. It must grate on him–the same way he’s been chomping at the bit this whole training detachment. Mav sighs a little as he beholds his godson’s plane, steady in his position, red helmet visible as Bradley waits for orders like a good soldier—very pointedly not looking in Mav’s direction.
(Rooster takes a quick glance. Quick enough to ground himself in the moment, to remember that he’s following Mav. Believing in him, just like his dad before him. The “same mistake,” the same willing heartbreak. Over and over, without hesitation or reservation.)
Thirty years later, Maverick holds another Bradshaw’s life in his hands.
Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m going to bring you home.
With the roar of the plane and the crackling of the radio in his ears and a burning promise in his heart, Mav pushes the throttle.
“Dagger attack.”