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Mav shouldn’t be sitting up.
That’s what the nurse said, anyway. That’s what his spine is saying too.
But his bed is just inches away from another, and Mav can’t look away.
“We had to sedate him,” the nurse tells him, because he is apparently still on his boy’s NOK list, so he gets access to his medical records. It’s a different kind of ache to know his kid only through the bones he’s broken, the wounds he’s sustained, the pains he’s feeling. “He worked himself up into a panic when we told him your condition.”
Because their relationship has always been a two-way street, and maybe Maverick was a fool for putting down his eighteen-year-old as an NOK in his own file, when said eighteen-year-old had surgically cut him out of his life.
So this is where their mutual foolishness has brought them: two human bags of broken bones, inches away from each other on a floating mass in the middle of an ocean, still reeling from their deadly joyride in the sky.
“How is he?” Mav tries, and the words feel painfully familiar and hopeful in his mouth. How many times has he asked that question in the last fifteen years, living on crumbs from those who were generous enough to answer him? How many times has he tried to piece his boy together from snatches of stories and whispers on the wind?
It was never enough.
The nurse rattles off her answer in full completion, and all Mav hears is a survey of what he’s done wrong, where he’s fallen short of protecting the one precious boy that Goose and Carole entrusted him with.
“But,” she sighs, “with a full recovery, Lieutenant Bradshaw should be just fine.”
Mav lets out a breath he doesn’t know he was holding.
“We are more concerned about you, Captain,” the nurse continues sternly, reciting a laundry list of injuries that Mav’s heard and sustained all before. “Captain Mitchell, do you understand?”
Mav just nods silently, because it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter, as long as Bradley’s alive and well.
The nurse shakes her head and leaves.
Mav scoots himself closer to the railing that borders their beds, breath quickening as the movement jostles bones and muscles that aren’t supposed to be moving. He eases himself back into position, one side flush against the cold metal, close enough to hear his kid breath.
Bradley’s eyes are closed in the induced sleep, forcibly relaxed in a way that Mav hasn’t seen for a long time.
“Sweet dreams, kiddo,” Mav says softly, contorting one arm up and over the metal barrier between them, indulging in one stroke through those curls that lengthened into waves, running the back of his hand gently over one cheek. Bradley sniffles in his sleep, and Mav freezes for one second, afraid to be found out–
–but his boy relaxes into his touch, Mav’s hand against his forehead. Mav aches to hold him closer; the inches between them are fifteen years too far.
“Shh, sweetheart,” he whispers. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
It’s presumptuous of him to assume; he’ll blame it on the painkillers later.
He settles in. Sleep doesn’t take him. His neck aches from the angle he’s turned his head: towards Bradley, towards his son.
He takes another chance, and reaches down to gently hold Bradley’s hand in his own.
“I’m here,” he repeats softly. “I love you, kiddo.”
Bradley’s only answer is a slight sniffle. It’s enough to bring a grin to Mav’s face.
A curt rap on the door announces the entrance of Admiral Simpson. Mav inclines his head. “Sir.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting, Maverick?”
Mav gives him a small smile, sure that the admiral by now has seen his kid’s hand in his own lap. “I am, sir.”
“So I see.” The other man pulls over a seat and sits by Maverick’s bedside by his feet, crossing his arms. “How are you holding up, Captain Mitchell?”
Mav shrugs. “I’ve been better.”
“So I hear.” The admiral motions to the other bed. “And Lieutenant Bradshaw?”
“Will make a full recovery.”
“Good,” Cyclone leans back in his chair. “That’s good.”
Mav looks at him and internally sighs. “With all due respect, sir, why are you here?”
Cyclone holds his gaze stoically. “I want to fill in some gaps for my official report.”
“You’ll hear everything at the official debriefing, sir–”
Cyclone shakes his head. “Before it becomes official, Maverick. I’m sure you know what consequences may lie ahead for some in your squadron.”
Oh no.
Mav turns his head to look at his kid, knocked out and oblivious to the world around him. “What did he do?”
The corner of Cyclone’s mouth ticks up. “I ordered him to return to the boat. Several times.”
Mav keeps his eye trained on the steady rise and fall of his kid’s chest. He knew Bradley should’ve been back on the carrier, had they followed the original mission plan, but he hadn’t realized—
“I threatened a court-martial,” Cyclone adds.
That makes Maverick turn his head. “What?”
Cyclone nods, leaning back in his chair. “Court-martial, Maverick. He disobeyed a direct order. Several times.”
His kid disobeyed a direct order to save him.
If he asked Goose to talk to him now, his RIO would probably laugh and whoop in his face. Look at my boy, giving you a taste of your own medicine!
Carole would be groaning. You helped raise him, Pete. I don’t know what you were expecting.
Ice–Ice would be smiling and shaking his head. He’s yours alright. Heaven help the Navy.
Mav works his jaw. “Surely there’s–there must be some mistake–”
“The entire command center heard him,” Cyclone interjects. “He said, and I quote, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t leave him. Dagger Three and Four, return to carrier. Lieutenant Bradshaw, going dark.’”
Mav opens and closes his mouth as a harebrained idea forms in his mind. Ice would have loved this one. Although, since he isn’t here anymore—and Maverick still hasn’t had the time to process that gaping loss—it has less of a chance of working.
Still, he has to try.
“What if he was acting under my orders?”
“What?” Cyclone asks flatly.
Mav tries again, infusing his very dry throat with all the subordinate authority he can muster. “What if he was acting under my orders, Sir.”
Cyclone eyes him. “And how, Maverick, was he supposed to be doing that when Dagger One was already shot down?”
“We talked on the carrier deck before the mission, Sir.” Mav spins the tale as easily as breathing. Ice used to call it the Mitchell shit-talking. “Hondo will attest to that. I told Lieutenant Bradshaw to make sure all the team members came home. Made it an official order as field commander, Sir.”
Cyclone blows out a breath as he follows where Mav is going. “And of course, squadron members who follow field commander orders are not liable for—”
“—for any infraction arising from possible conflict of field and control orders, Sir,” Mav finishes, feeling a little miffed at Cyclone’s raised eyebrow. “Article 19, section 65, subsection B of the Navy aviation field operations manual.” He smirks slightly at the surprise that flickers over Cyclone’s face. “Just because I throw handbooks in the trash doesn’t mean I don’t actually read them, Admiral.”
Cyclone groans and runs a hand through his hair. “You do realize this means a mark on your record.”
Mav shrugs. “One more won’t hurt.”
As long as it isn’t on Bradley’s record.
Cyclone looks at him intently. “Why, Maverick?”
Mav swallows and looks away, Bradley’s hand still limp in his own. “Why what?”
“You know what I mean. No evasion, Captain Mitchell. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you went down after Dagger Two called that he was out of flares.”
Mav looks at his boy’s face, slack in sleep but somehow still pained. Mav wants nothing more than to smooth out that little furrow in between his brows, but he doesn’t know if he still has a right to.
They haven’t talked yet. Mav won’t overstep any boundaries too soon. He saved his kid and brought him home; to have him near and breathing and healing is more than enough for now.
He holds Bradley’s hand close. “He’s my responsibility, Admiral. Has been since he was a kid.”
He meets Cyclone’s eyes. “I’ll always protect him. As much as I can, and as long as I’m able.”
Cyclone blinks and leans back, studying Mav. Mav just lets him, wondering what the other man is looking for.
Finally, the admiral heaves a sigh. “That’s your story, and you’re sticking with it?”
Mav bristles, but remains calm. “You can put me in front of any board of inquiry, sir, and I’ll say the same thing.”
Cyclone nods and stands, gaze flicking over Bradley once before returning to Mav. His voice softens. “I’d say he’s more than your responsibility, Maverick.”
Mav sits up a little straighter, as much as his aching ribs and spine will let him. “Yes, sir.” He smirks a little. “But there’s nothing the Navy understands more than command responsibility. Sometimes you’ve got to tell the brass what they want to hear.”
Cyclone shakes his head as he turns to leave. “Don’t give away all your secrets, Maverick. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Plausible deniability.” He pauses by the door and turns around. “I haven’t decided how to file my report, Captain Mitchell. But one thing is sure: you and Lieutenant Bradshaw will be grounded with medical leave for the foreseeable future.” He tips his head in acknowledgment. “It’s my command responsibility to make sure the Navy’s best aviators are alive and well.”
Then he leaves, Mav slightly shocked at the turn of events.
“I think Admiral Simpson just complimented us,” says a slurred voice.
Mav whips his neck around so fast, his bruised spine aches. “Brad–Rooster!” He swallows the endearments that almost make their way out of his mouth. “You’re awake.”
Bradley inhales sharply as he moves and something jolts, shooting up his back. “Ow.”
Mav’s brow creases in worry. “Do you need more painkillers? I can–”
“I’m fine, Mav,” his kid says groggily, dropping the Captain Mitchell and Sir. Mav’s never been happier to hear his name. Bradley breathes slowly as he resituates himself on the bed, waiting for the pain to subside. “I’m fine.” He cracks open one eye to look at Mav, gaze dropping to where his hand is still cradled in Mav’s lap.
“Oh, sorry,” Mav fumbles, placing the hand back on Bradley’s bed. “I was just—”
Bradley shuts him up by wordlessly taking Mav’s fingers in his own, interlacing their hands the same way they used to do when Bradley was in the passenger seat and Mav would drive him to school. Mav blinks back the tears and swallows the lump in his throat as he looks at their entwined hands.
“I’m–” Bradley exhales. “Thank you, sir.”
It’s back again, the ghost of formality and military protocol that rises between the two of them and hovers. Mav bites his lip. He can’t meet the kid’s eyes, just nodding to acknowledge. Words fail him. “You’re welcome,” he croaks. He almost adds a petty Lieutenant at the end there, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Not when there’s so many other endearments he’d like to say instead, things that are evidence of a bond that is barely holding on by a thread.
Bradley is scrambling for something he let go of fifteen years ago, and is deathly afraid that he’s fifteen years too late. He clears his dry throat, his dad’s hand clammy in his own.
“You–you promised we’d talk,” he says, tentatively. “When we get back.”
We’re back now. We made it home.
Mav looks up, finally, eyes trained on his boy’s face. Those brown Bradshaw eyes are fully open now, pleading. Mav has never been able to deny those eyes anything.
“We will,” he promises again. “But not now,” he adds, and Bradley’s face falls a little. Mav makes up for it by rubbing comforting circles on his kid’s hand. “We’re both…we both need to heal,” Mav acknowledges, reluctantly, implying the double meaning on purpose.
“Okay, but—later?” Bradley asks, more hopeful than he has a right to be.
“Later, baby goose,” Mav promises, eyes widening as he realizes what he’s just said. He clamps his jaw shut and tries to pull away from their hold, an apology through making distance.
Bradley blinks once, twice, his eyes filling with unshed tears. Baby goose. It had been fifteen years since anyone called him that. He’d forgotten—well. He’d left behind a lot.
He holds on tight.
“Later,” he repeats, once Mav’s hand has stilled and stayed in his hold. “I’ll hold you to that, si–Mav.”
It’s not yet Dad, not yet what his heart wants to say, but it’s pretty damn close.