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At this point, Maverick wondered if he should even bother bandaging any of his wounds—bother icing any of the bruises he could still feel up and down his torso. Didn’t seem to matter much, since he was never going to heal anyway, not with the group of meatheads that had been assigned to base.
They weren’t just tossing insults his way—or pulling hazing like shit like stealing his clothes.
No, these were quite literally some of the only people Mav had ever met, since foster care anyway, that went out of their way to try and maim him.
Their hatred for him was real , tied to some decades old misconception about his old man and some of their relatives that they couldn’t get past.
Not that Mav could blame them, really— he didn’t really know what happened with his old man, either. But it wasn’t his fault—
He would never have left the assholes hanging like they implied, still wouldn’t—even when he spent an extra twenty minutes or so to and from the locker rooms and his housing to try and avoid Jameson and his so-called friends. And they weren’t even the only ones! Seemed like almost everyone on this forsaken base were anti him . He had to watch his back, hell, he had to watch his front .
Which is why he was sneaking around the third level of one of the older, sparsely inhabited housing buildings, seeking out an empty rec room or communal space to try and get some studying in before next week’s hops. Rumor was he’d be getting a new RIO—
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, Mitchell?”
The pilot froze as the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Wrong move —
Almost as quickly, he was ducking, trying to dodge the several pairs of hands reaching for him.
There were too many of them, tangling in his uniform as something hard hammered into his gut. Maverick doubled over as the air was forced out of his lungs, forcing himself to stay off of his knees so that maybe he could get his feet back underneath him and get the hell away.
“Fuckin’ trash—”
“Why are you even still here?”
“Quit like the traitor shit you are—”
“Just like your shit of a father—”
“He’s a murderer —Mitchells always are—bet you will be one day, too—”
“Leave me the hell alone,” Maverick spat, pulling against their iron grips. Why the hell did they think they needed four guys to come after just him?
That only succeeded in him catching another round of kicks and shoves as he was suddenly lifted . The bastards were laughing .
Maverick had never struggled as hard as he did then, thrashing out and kicking in every direction as he was carried bodily down the hallway. He hit out with elbows and knees, twisting himself over and over again as he tried to pull out of their hold.
“Let go of me!” he threw his head backwards, intent on headbutting anyone within his reach, but he hit only air as the laughter increased. “Fuck off !”
“Hell of a mouth on you, huh, Mitchell—”
“We need to shut him up, Sammy—”
“Here—”
Maverick choked and gagged as what he hoped was a sock was shoved into his mouth suddenly, cutting his pleads off.
“Where are we takin’ him?”
“I think Mitchell needs to clean his mouth —”
“Showers? Pools? See how well the shit swims?”
“Nah—I was thinkin’ we throw him in the laundry .”
Maverick kept throwing himself around, even as their hands tightened and bruised all over his body.
What the hell did they mean laundry?
There was a sudden metal clanking as the chute door in the wall was suddenly wrenched open.
“Ha—look at that, Dennis! These old fuckin’ buildings still have old school cutes— we’re on what? The third floor?”
“He’s good at flyin’, right? Shouldn’t be a problem—”
“Bit of a tight squeeze but—-”
Maverick kicked out, feeling a little satisfaction when he nailed one of the bastards in the mouth, drawing blood.
It wasn’t enough, though, as the other three tightened their hold on him, shoving him headfirst towards the hole in the wall. Maverick grabbed blindly at the wall, trying to drag his fingers in a hope to catch any sort of purchase; anything to stop them from throwing him into the chute. Maverick braced himself, trying fruitlessly to keep his frame large enough to not fit into the chute.
It worked for about a minute before Jameson palmed his forehead, shoving his head backwards.
Mav registered a sharp pain in the back corner of his head before everything went black.
********************
“Why the hell—-some Naval hospitality,” Nick muttered to himself, wandering down the darkened hallway. He screwed his face up, pitching his voice higher. “We know you just arrived but our fancy new housing buildings are full— you’re going to be staying in this old, possibly abandoned building—- and you’ll have to visit the laundry station yourself to pick up necessities because it’s the weekend—but you can do that, right?”
He snorted as he looked at the wall signage, following its direction to the laundry facility. “I mean, sure— I can — anyone can grab their own laundry— but like it’s the principle of the thing, Uncle Sam—”
The tall RIO laughed to himself as he continued his one sided conversation, pushing open the door to the laundry room and flicking the light on. It was fairly standard, from what he could tell, with bins of sheets and towels around the edges of the room near the washing machines.
“What sheets do I want, huh? Well let me see—we have white and white and white and—oh, that looks like it might be some striped—oh shit —” Nick bent slightly, hand hovering over the red streaked linens in one of the bins. “Holy hell—-where—that’s blood —”
And it was a concerning amount of it! Red, rusty streaks tinged the majority of sheets in the bin in front of him, the blood seeming to drip ominously from the chute directly above it.
Against his better judgement, Nick found himself crouching slightly to look up in the chute, praying he wouldn’t find anything.
“Holy shit —” he gasped, eyes widening as he realized the blood was sluggishly dripping from a man that was shoved into the chute, the other man’s green eyes slowly blinking open to stare at him in confusion. “Uh—- hi there, bud—give me a second, okay? Just a second—I’ll getcha outta there. Not really sure how but I guess if you fit in you should fit to get out—”
He wasn’t too far from the exit, thankfully, so Goose reached up into the metal gap, grabbing fistfuls of the kid’s uniform and tugging. It took a bit of elbow grease at first, but then he suddenly popped free, tumbling into the linens as Nick did his best to keep his head and shoulders upright.
“There we go— wow—never done that before. Pulled calves, sure, lambs even, once, but sailors? First time,” he offered an easy grin at the other man before his face darkened. “Holy shit, kid— who the hell gagged you—here, easy—bet you couldn’t get your hands ‘round to pull that out, huh? Okay, I’ve gotcha.”
Nick eased the sock out of the other man’s mouth, keeping a hand on either side of his face as the brunet grimaced and worked his jaw.
“Th—” Mav cleared his throat. “Thanks—”
“Course, kid—’m Goose, by the way. Well, Nick Bradshaw, but friends call me Goose,” he offered, studying the kid in front of him. Because he was just a kid. Scrawny little thing with dark hair sticking up oddly and blood trailing sickeningly down the back of his head. “Sit tight, okay, honey? I’m gonna take a look at the back of your head–got a hell of a laceration—”
“Bastards,” Maverick muttered, wincing as he felt the new man’s inquisitive fingers prodding the back of his head.
“Gonna need stitches,” Goose frowned. “Bet being upside down in that damn chute didn’t help anything— how’re you feelin’? Dizzy? Sick?”
“What?”
“Tryin’ to see if you have a concussion,” Goose explained, moving back to stand in front of the other man.
“Why?”
“Because—” he tilted his head. “Because it’s not healthy to have a scrambled brain?”
“Why do you care—I don’t know you, man,” Pete grumbled, trying rather unsuccessfully to climb out of the linen bin.
“I know,” Nick took pity on the shorter man and practically scooped him out of the bin, leading him to the bench on the far side of the room. “But like I said, my name’s Goose—feel like you could use a little lookin’ after, kiddo—”
“‘M not a kid,” Maverick blinked a bit purposefully, trying to clear his vision.
“Dizzy?” the mustached man bent to meet his gaze. “And you could have fooled me, hotshot—-but okay, not a kid. How old are you?”
“19.”
“Oh well then,” Nick grinned. “And do you have a name, honey, or am I gonna have to call you socks or something?”
“I—I’m Maverick.”
“Oh, shit, no way,” his eyebrows raised.
Mav clocked his response and stiffened, leaning out of his immediate reach.
Nick realized the reaction and held his hands up. “Hey, easy—it’s just— Pete Maverick Mitchell is supposed to be my pilot, so I was gonna say nice to meet you. Obviously, I wish it was under different circumstances—cause I mean, how the hell did you end up like this, huh?”
“I—you’re happy to meet me?” Maverick’s face scrunched up as he tried to process just who the hell this jovial person was.
“Well, yeah,” Goose frowned. “Wish you weren’t bleedin’ like a stuck pig but damn happy to meet ya Mav. Somethin’ tells me we’re gonna have a hell of a time in the cockpit, huh? Betcha don’t earn a callsign like Maverick for nothin’---”
“Well, no, guess not,” the shorter man was still confused.
“Course not! Which means we’re gonna have some fun!” Nick grinned, watching the other man’s pupils carefully. “But first let me tell ya somethin’ about me, okay? Told ya my callsign’s Goose, right? Well it’s short for Mother Goose. Some friends coined it for me at the Academy because I was always lookin’ after everyone.”
“That’s a mother hen,” Maverick argued, head tilted slightly.
“True enough, kid, but ya see, a Mother Goose is something extra—something more than just lookin’ after the people around me. Got a hell of a protective streak—I look after what’s mine, ya got me? So you and me? We’re gonna be friends buddy, don’t you worry ‘bout it—but as long as you're my pilot, Mav? Not gonna ever have to worry about those jackasses that put you in the chute, okay? In fact, after I get your head looked at, might find myself on a bit of a mission to introduce myself, ya know? Meet the neighbors—-maybe you have some suggestions as to who I should speak to, huh?”
“I never said—”
“You muttered about some bastards,” Nick argued, helping the kid to his feet and keeping an arm wrapped around him. “And I know you didn’t shove a sock in your own mouth before going for a slip ‘n slide ride down a laundry chute—also seemed pretty damn shocked that I didn’t hate you once I heard your name.”
“Most people do,” he shrugged.
“Well I’m not most people,” Goose gently started leading the pilot out of the laundry room. “You’ll learn that. We’ll get there, I promise—and someday you’ll tell me why you thought I’d hate you on sight too, okay? But for now, I just want you to know that I’ve got your six, okay? I’m your backseater, honey. S’my job to look after you now.”