Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ceremony flew by in a blur of crisp uniforms, the roar of passing jets, the solemn notes of a trumpet. All of it sounded faintly muffled to Pete Mitchell’s ears, like the entirety of the proceedings were happening underwater.

Goose.

Goose was dead.

Those two words did not belong in a sentence together. Goose was so alive, all the time—the biggest presence in any room, the liveliest soul at a gathering, capable of making even the crankiest man smile.

But Goose was gone, and all Maverick wanted to do was cry, or scream, or both. But he did neither—just stood rigidly at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched tight to keep the emotions from overflowing.

And suddenly the ceremony was over, the casket was in the ground, and Maverick was left staring at a fresh plot of dirt and a clean new headstone bearing the name of his best friend, his brother in all but blood.

Carole was there, beside him, silent tears streaming down her face. Bradley was in her arms, his small face uncharacteristically solemn, not fully understanding what was going on but aware of enough to know that he wouldn’t be able to see his dad anymore.

Maverick, body moving on autopilot, shifted so that he could put his arms around her and the boy. Carole leaned into him, shoulders shaking, and Maverick carefully transferred Bradley to his own arm, letting Carole clutch him, hold him like a lifeline.

They stood like that—the three who used to be four—for a long time, leaning on each other, unable to leave the place where their husband, the father, their best friend lay.

Maverick felt, inexplicably, like an outsider. Who was he to be here, mourning as deeply as Carole and Bradley, Goose’s own wife and child? The man who brought him into his home, welded him to be part of his family, was gone. So now, what right did Maverick have to be here? He couldn’t replace Goose. Not ever.

But how could he just leave Carole and Bradley? They needed him, at least for now, and so he’d be there, Pete resolved, holding the two Bradshaws close. It’s the only thing he could do.

Eventually, Carole stirred from his arms, and Maverick stepped back. Bradley was asleep on his shoulder now, arms loosely twined around his neck.

Maverick cleared his throat, though his voice was rougher than he would’ve liked when he spoke. “I’ll give you two some time alone with—with Goose.” And oh man, even saying his name hurt.

Carole nodded, eyes red, their near ever-present sparkle completely absent. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Mav,” she said softly. She held out her arms and Maverick deposited Bradley into them. “I’ll call later,” she promised. She must’ve seen the guilt, the devastation, the mantra of I don’t belong, I don’t deserve this that was raging in his head in his eyes, because her own gaze sharpened a little, and when she spoke again, some of her old fire was back in her voice. “Don’t you dare be a stranger, Pete Mitchell.”

Maverick swallowed hard, willing his voice to be steady, his tears not to fall, himself not to break. He swallowed again. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

He stepped away, then, watching mother and son turn back to the grave. Carole sank to the ground, adjusting Bradley so that he rested in a more comfortable position in her lap. He heard the low hum of her voice and saw the occasional tremble of her shoulders, and backed up to give her privacy.

Maverick tipped his head back to look up at the sky. Vibrant blue, interspersed with patches of clouds. Perfect weather for flying.

But flying didn’t hold so much appeal to him anymore. Not without Goose. Who else could be his backseater but Goose? Who else would want to?

Maverick squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the sight of the blue expanse, what was once the promise of freedom now turned into a prison, a grave.

A tear leaked from his eye, splashed onto his lip.

Oh, Goose.

He looked down and turned away, walking to the entrance of the cemetery. Once he left, he would be truly lost. Without direction. That scared him, but he knew no way out of it. And so he walked, out of the gates and down the road to his waiting bike, ready to let its wheels take him away, take him to a future without Goose. And that thought scared him most of all.

As he went, he didn't notice a small group of people a ways away, clad in ceremonial navy uniforms—two pilots and two RIOs. They stood silently, watching the man they had come to know—arrogant, confident, too cocky for his own good—walk away, shoulders slumped, head bowed, none of those qualities visible anymore. They had misjudged him; they all knew that now. And so they each silently made their own resolutions. Maverick would be there for Goose’s family. And they would be there for Maverick.

Chapter Text

Tom Kazansky stood on the sidewalk outside of the modest-sized house, staring at it numbly, trying to convince his feet to move forward.

Just walk forward, dumbass. It’s not hard.

Oh, but how hard it felt at the moment. In front of him was Maverick and Goose’s shared housing, and Ice knew all too sharply that there would be only one of them in there. That ‘Maverick and Goose’, the two names that had always gone together, would now just be ‘Maverick’.

Because of you.

Ice gritted his teeth, shoving the thought down. Now was not the time to start drowning in guilt, though he wouldn’t fault Maverick if he took one look at Ice and kicked him out, screamed at him for killing his best friend.

A hand settled on his shoulder and he blinked, coming out of his thoughts to see Slider beside him, concern in his eyes.

“Ice, you okay, man?”

No.

He nodded firmly, trying to piece together his Iceman persona, cloak himself in the mask of confidence he needed to just walk up the front path—move your feet, Kazansky!

It was late in the afternoon. Hops had ended a few hours ago, and they had gone just as terribly as anyone could’ve expected. Maverick had blown up at Sundown after failing in their exercise, snapping at the RIO in an anger that everyone knew was just a masquerade, a poorly disguised cloak for his grief. Maverick had high-tailed it off base when they were let go for the day, presumably back to his housing, which was confirmed when Ice and Slider had spotted the Kawaski in the driveway.

Ice hardly even knew what he was doing here. But since the funeral, he couldn’t seem to get the image of Maverick—shoulders slumped, utterly defeated—walking out of the cemetery. He had said as much to Slider, and his RIO had sighed and rolled his eyes, dragging Ice out to the car. “Well, let’s go check up on him, then. The troublemaker probably shouldn’t be alone right now, anyway.”

Which brought him to this moment, trying to convince his feet to move. Would Maverick even want to see him, or Slider? It wasn’t like they had ever kept their feelings about him private—Ice had never liked Maverick, and he knew the feeling was reciprocated. But everything had changed now, and Ice didn’t know what to feel anymore.

Looking at Slider, he could see the same tormented feelings warring in his eyes. But the taller man seemed to at least have better control over his body; Ron put a hand on his back, propelling him up the walkway, his numb feet nearly stumbling up the front step.

Then he was at the door, and it seemed as if he could now no longer control his arms, couldn’t bring himself to raise his fist and knock.

Slider’s hand on his shoulder grounded him, brought some feeling back into his limbs. He knew his friend could see the battle raging in his mind, and after a searching glance said the only thing that could’ve propelled him to keep going in this moment. “It’s what Nick would’ve wanted us to do.”

Ice took a breath, nodded sharply, and, before he could lose his nerve, raised his fist and knocked solidly on the door.

Nothing.

Ice waited, then knocked again.

Still nothing.

Beside him, Slider frowned. “He is home, right? He wouldn’t have walked anywhere.”

Ice chewed his lip in thought, then because why not, he tried the door handle.

It turned.

Ice blinked in surprise, looking at Slider. His RIO shrugged, gesturing for him to open it further.

So Ice opened the door tentatively, the two men stepping inside. “Maverick?” he called into the house.

There was no response.

But Maverick had to be here. Ice was pretty sure those were his shoes shoved hastily to the side of the entryway, and anyway, his bike was in the driveway.

Slider moved past him, further into the house. “Hey, Mitchell. We know you’re here.” He walked past the small kitchen where dirty dishes were piled into the sink.

Ice followed his backseater, frowning at the supposedly-empty house, unease creeping up his spine.

Splitting up with Slider to check different rooms, Ice opened a door that led to a bedroom—Maverick’s, presumably. Curiosity rose in him, unbidden, and he took a step forward to look around. But before he could take another one, he froze.

There was a noise, behind him, coming from the room across the hall.

“Maverick?” He left the room and moved to the other door. This one was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open further, revealing another bedroom.

The lack of personal effects and decorations made his stomach clench—this would be Goose’s room, then. And sitting on Goose’s bed, knees tucked to his chest, eyes staring into the middle distance, was Maverick.

The other man didn’t seem to notice Ice’s presence as he stepped further into the room, eyes blank and hollow, his breathing shallow, faint tremors rippling through his body.

“Maverick?” Ice cautiously approached the bed, hovering a few feet away, unsure what to do. It was so strange to see Maverick, the Maverick, his rival, the man with a larger-than-life personality, so disconnected, so . . . still.

Ice’s hand hovered in the space between them, unsure whether to touch, whether it would provide comfort or simply spook the man. Thankfully, he didn’t have to decide, as Maverick finally stirred, seemingly only now aware of another presence in the room.

The younger man blinked a few times, clarity returning to his eyes. Eyes which then locked onto Ice, a flurry of emotions running through them that he couldn’t decipher.

“. . . Ice?” Maverick spoke after a few moments of silence. Even his voice seemed fainter, not fully there. “What . . . what’re you doing here?”

Ice sighed, running a hand through his hair. If only he himself knew the answer to that question. “I—you ran off pretty quick after hops ended. I was worried.”

Maverick blinked, the edge of his mouth curling up into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “Iceman, concerned about me? Who are you, and what have you done with Tom Kazanksy?”

It was an effort, a courageous one, to try to don the same bravado, the same cocky sureness, that made Maverick Maverick. But Ice could see right through it, see the tightness of his eyes, hear the faintest tremor in the words. Maverick was breaking—was already broken—and Ice had not one idea how to fix him.

He stared down at the other pilot, his firm gaze conveying that he was not going to take any of his bullshit, his mind a whirl trying to formulate what to say to comfort him. What did you say to a man who had just lost his best friend?

Apparently, Maverick was too exhausted to try to keep up the facade, even in front of him. His gaze dropped to his lap, where Ice noticed that one of his fists was clenched tight around something.

Maverick opened his fist, revealing a set of dog tags in his palm, the skin indented from the edges displaying how tight he had been holding them.

“They’re Goose’s.” Maverick’s voice was small, quiet.

Ice stepped closer, hesitating a single second before placing a hand on Maverick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Maverick.” The words were clipped, awkward, but sincere. And it seemed that Maverick could sense that because he didn’t snap at him.

They stayed like that for a few moments before footsteps echoed in the hall and Slider appeared in the doorway. “There you are, shortstack; I was getting worried about you.”

Slider moved into the room, scanning the scene. He locked eyes with Ice and seemed to read his unspoken pleas for help because he had no idea what he was doing. Slider moved to the bed and sat down slowly, not touching Maverick, but close enough to give him support if it was wanted. “Hey,” he said, leaning forward slightly, addressing Maverick. “What’s going on in your head?”

Maverick’s gaze was on Slider now, but his eyes were still distant, still hollow. He blinked a couple of times before asking, “What are you doing here? You—you don’t even like me.”

Slider snorted a little. “Well, yeah, that’s true. But I think recent events have forced us to change our perspective.” He leaned forward again, gaze boring into Maverick’s. “We do care about you, Mav. We want you to be okay.”

Maverick let out a breath. “Yeah, well, I’m fine.”

Ice sighed forcefully. “Clearly.” He wasn’t touching Maverick anymore, but was still standing close enough to read the minute expressions crossing his face. Annoyance. Confusion. But most clear—overwhelming exhaustion and grief.

Maverick opened his mouth, probably to try and protest, but Slider beat him to it. “Nope. No arguing right now. Mav, you’re coming back with us. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Ice blinked, not expecting that from Ron’s mouth. Back to their place? But as he considered it, he realized that it was probably the best course of action. No way was he going to allow Maverick to be alone.

Maverick seemed to be just as shocked at that statement, his eyes regaining their full clarity. “. . . What?”

Ice stepped back, gesturing at Maverick to get up. “You heard the man. You’re coming to our housing, at least for tonight. We have a spare bedroom.” His tone left no room for argument, and Maverick seemed to realize that attempting to wasn’t worth it.

Silently, he stood up and followed Ice out of the bedroom, Slider tailing them. They made it out to the car, Maverick climbing into the backseat without much fuss.

The drive back to their housing was silent, and as Ice drove he once in a while cast a glance into the back where Maverick sat silently, head resting against the window, his eyes distant again. Ice exchanged a concerned look with Slider; they both knew that Maverick and Goose had been close, but this was truly a testament to how close they had been, if Maverick was willing to show this kind of vulnerability in front of them.

When they got to their housing, Ice and Slider guided Maverick inside, the smaller aviator not putting up much of a fuss when he was handed some clothes and directed to go clean up.

It was only after he heard the water running that Ice dropped onto the sofa and ran his hands down his face. He looked up at his RIO who was leaning against the wall, the same weariness and concern he felt clearly displayed on his friend’s face. “How on earth do we handle this, Ron?”

Slider sighed, scrubbing his own face with his hands. “One day at a time, I guess.” He was silent for a moment before adding, “And, hey, I managed to wrangle your ass in the Academy; how much harder could this be?”

It was a small attempt at humor, but Ice gladly took it, giving a weak chuckle as he leaned back into the cushions.

Silence fell between them, the only sound the distant running of water, both men falling into their own thoughts. Ice considered everything that had happened, and how his perception of the man now showering a couple rooms away had been absolutely shattered. This was a delicate situation; Ice had the uncomfortable feeling that if they made one wrong move they would scare Maverick off. They needed to do this right. And as capable as he was in the air, Ice was self-aware enough to know that he was abysmal when it came to personal and emotional matters. They would probably need help.

It seemed that Slider was thinking along the same lines as him. He pushed off the wall and glanced at Ice as he turned to the kitchen. “I have a feeling we’re going to need backup at some point. I’m going to call Wood and Wolf.”

Chapter Text

Maverick awoke from a restless sleep, vague echoes of nightmares clinging to him even as he slowly sat up.

This was not his bed. Or his room.

A flutter of panic took root in his chest when the memories of the last afternoon and evening came back to him. A lot of it was vague—his mind had been a mess that whole day—but he distinctly remembered Ice and Slider in his room . . . no, in Goose’s room, because he had needed to be closer, somehow, to his friend. The two had taken him back to their housing. He had slept in a room in Ice and Slider’s housing? What had the world come to?

Suspicion took the place of the brief panic, and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, taking note of the different clothes he was wearing, clothes which definitely weren’t his, and which were several sizes too large. Why had Slider and Ice taken him here? Why had they shown up at his house in the first place? Was it some kind of setup?

Maverick didn’t bother trying to find other clothes to change into, simply opting to do his best to quickly smooth out the wrinkles before exiting to the room to find out what was up.

Slipping out the door, he padded down the hall in the direction where he could hear some voices coming from. He came to the top of a staircase and headed down, the voices getting louder—was that Hollywood?

He rounded the corner to the kitchen and was greeted by a sight that almost made him wonder if he was still dreaming.

Iceman was standing at the stove making eggs and bacon. Hollywood was sitting on the countertop, chatting animatedly with Wolfman, who was laughing over his shoulder as he carried a precarious stack of plates to the table. And as Maverick watched, Slider entered the room, peeking over Ice’s shoulder to check the status of the food; when he stood straight again, his eye caught Maverick’s.

Slider smiled at him, and it was a softer expression than Maverick thought he had ever seen the other man wear. “Hey, look who’s up!”

The others noticed his presence then and greeted him as he stepped further into the room.

Maverick frowned at them all. “What’s going on?”

Wolf finished setting out the plates. “We’re making breakfast, that’s what. Come sit.”

Maverick was still too in shock to properly protest as he was herded into a chair, staring dumbly as the others also sat and Ice came around to scoop some food onto everyone’s plate. The others were chatting around him, and he appreciated not being the object of everyone’s scrutiny, though suspicion still writhed in his gut . . . along with hunger.

So even though Maverick was still unsure of his classmates’ intentions, and because he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten an actual meal, he ate the food set out in front of him.

When he finished, he twirled his fork in his fingers, eyeing the men around the table. This new behavior towards him was just that—new. Nobody had ever taken the time to make sure he ate something, nobody had ever really been nice to him, except for Goose.

And so whatever this was, he wanted to know now.

“What is this?”

Maverick’s question, sharp and pointed, silenced the other aviators.

Hollywood tilted his head. “What’s what, Mav?”

Maverick frowned, gesturing at the food, at them. “This. You guys doing . . . this. Taking me back here, making me breakfast. I want to know why.” His eyes were stormy as he stared at the group.

Slider leaned forward, arms resting on the table. “We’re doing this because we want to, Mav. Because you’re hurting and you need help.”

Maverick shook his head, denying the other man’s words. “No. You don’t want to help me, no one does. Look,” he sighed, shoulders slumping with a sudden exhaustion, “just tell me what you want and I’ll do it, alright? I’ll do it, and then you can leave me alone.” He was too tired, too sad to go toe-to-toe with anyone today. Maybe they could just make his life a little easier and simply tell him what they wanted from him, not put on a whole show that was threateningly close to lowering his defenses, to making him feel cared for.

There was silence at the table for a moment, and then Wolf spoke, his brows lowered, his voice measured. “This isn’t some kind of setup, okay? I promise it isn’t. We don’t want anything from you, Mav. We just want to be here for you.”

When Maverick didn’t say anything to that, simply continuing to stare at them dubiously, Ice leaned forward, catching his gaze in an intense stare. “Maverick. I understand why you don’t trust us; we all messed up when it came to our judgments of you, and we know that now. Maybe you don’t yet believe that we care, but at least believe this: taking care of you, it’s what Nick would’ve wanted us to do.”

The words settled in Maverick’s gut like a stone. This is what Goose would’ve wanted for him. It was honestly always what he’d wanted for Maverick: for him to have friends, to be cared for—if not by Nick, then by someone else. And now he was gone, and yet his classmates were here, in front of him, caring for him. Now it was simply a matter of trust. But Maverick didn’t know if he was capable of it.

Ice spoke again, almost seeing to track where his thoughts had been heading. “Nick was our friend too, Mav. We’re not going to dishonor his memory by hurting his brother.”

Maverick looked up at him from where he’d dropped his gaze to the tabletop, searching his eyes for any hint of deception, and then doing the same with the other aviators gathered around the table. He found none.

Slider gave him a lopsided grin. “We’re here now, Mav. And we’re not going away.”

Maverick stared at his classmates, his chest aching with the kindness that was being extended towards him, kindness he had only truly felt from Nick and Carole. And . . . he couldn’t help but gravitate toward it, like a starving man to a fresh meal.

Maybe, this wasn’t some cruel joke.

Maybe, this was real.

And the small nod of acceptance he gave was like the release of held breath, the opening of a door, the stepping into something new and unknown. Scary, sure, but full of endless possibilities. It wasn’t a giving of his full trust, not a baring of his soul—not nearly—but it was a start.

The other aviators had hung around at Ice and Slider’s housing for a while after that. Mav had stayed, too, and started to experience the new, strange, but pleasant camaraderie that before he had been only an observer of: the couch bouncing when one of them flopped down beside him, arms casually nudging his or being slung across his shoulders. A room full of laughs that he was included in—and not an object of.

Hollywood and Wolfman left later in the afternoon, after clapping Maverick’s back and telling him they’d see him in class the next day.

Mav stared after them, suddenly aware of being the only one left who didn’t belong in this housing.

“Hey.”

He turned, meeting Slider’s gaze where the man stood in the doorway to the kitchen. There was a look in Slider’s eye that he was unfamiliar with, and he could feel his defenses instinctively start to rise again. “Hey.”

Slider stepped into the room, brows lowered slightly, that look in eyes furiously indecipherable. “We still have a week of classes left,” he began slowly. “And I know that you have enough points to graduate, but I think you should still finish the week out.”

Maverick’s lips tightened. Finish the week—he’d already tried that with Sundown, and he didn’t particularly feel like repeating that experience. The sky was tainted for him now, and he hardly dared to acknowledge the dark curling thing deep within his chest that had bloomed when he’d sat in the cockpit after the accident . . . the doubt. The fear.

Slider continued to speak, drawing Maverick’s attention again. “I know that getting back in the air is hard after an accident like that—man, I don’t know if I’d ever have the guts to again—but you’re different, Mav.” He stepped forward, the intensity of his gaze matching the intensity of the ache in his chest. “You’re made for the sky. You belong there. Anyone who’s seen you fly knows that.”

Maverick shook his head. “I can’t—”

“Don’t give me that,” Slider interrupted. “You can. Just finish the week.”

Maverick clenched his jaw, the longing for the sky warring with that loathsome fear. “I . . .”

Slider stepped forward. “What you need is someone you can trust, and someone who trusts you, in your backseat.”

This made his gaze snap up. “What?”

Slider sighed. “I know no one could ever replace Goose, but I’m offering to be your backseater for the rest of the week. I’ve talked to Ice already—he’s fine with it. I’ll just switch between you guys.”

Maverick’s mouth opened and closed for a second, speechless. “You . . . you’d want to be my backseater?”

Slider chuckled a little, shaking his head. “I’ve seen how you fly, and yeah, you’re more often than not a reckless son of a gun, but you’re never reckless enough to endanger whoever’s with you.” He grinned. “And, you know, I’ve had my change of heart about you. So yeah, I’d fly with you.”

Maverick was silent for a moment. Slider was willing—somehow, he trusted him enough—to be his backseater, if only for the week. It was unexpected, to say the least. But it also filled him with such gratitude. Not many people would willingly sit in a plane with him piloting it.

But that was only one half of it. Slider was willing to be his RIO. But was he willing to be the pilot? You’re never reckless enough to endanger whoever’s with you. But he’d endangered Goose. His mistake caused the death of his best friend. He struggled to quell that ugly head of coiled doubt that sprang to life inside him when he thought of another life in his hands, another chance for a mistake that could end it.

Slider spoke again, like he could see Maverick’s internal struggle. “Come on, Mav. At least try. This is what you were made for.”

Maybe it was the conviction in his voice, or the utter confidence in his gaze, but at those words, something solidified inside Maverick. Something small, something delicate, but it was there, and it urged him to take this offer, to not throw away all that he had worked so hard for.

And so, for the second time that day, Maverick nodded. And it was another step down that unknown path he had been thrust on since the accident—still wobbly and uncertain, but maybe a little surer than before.