Chapter Text
Flying with Maverick was never boring. This was a fact.
Goose knew this, loved it even, and cherished every moment of adrenaline-pumping excitement that came with it as he acted as Maverick's RIO. Maverick was skilled, one of the best pilots Goose had ever gotten the privilege of flying with.
Sure, he was a bit cocky (which fighter pilot wasn't?), scrappy on occasion, and got into so much trouble—both on the ground and in the air—that Goose often found himself swearing right alongside him. But Goose wouldn't have it any other way. He trusted Maverick, and he knew that both of them saw the other as a brother. Hell, Goose had made Maverick Bradley's godfather.
Where Maverick went, Goose followed.
And where Goose went… well, Maverick was most likely not far behind or already seven steps ahead, either shouting or getting shouted at.
So far, all true facts.
They were a team, a duo that practically finished each other's thoughts before any words were said, and they goaded each other on with bets and dares just as much as they supported each other through thick and thin. Maverick and Goose were more than just friends—they were family. Simple as.
Mav was Goose's other half in every way possible, and Goose was the anchor that kept Mav grounded when his reckless nature threatened to take over. Joined at the hip, they were the bane of any higher-ups when they got their F-14 off the runway, with Mav's wild ideas and Goose urging him on from behind him.
Goose had made it known his top priority was getting home to his family, something Mav took to heart more than half of the time, even if he didn't always show it.
Usually they flew well with a wingman.
Hollywood and Wolfman had been swell to fly with in hop 19 a couple of weeks ago, with Mav easily mapping out a plan to work with the other duo in the air beside him, even if he got a little over-eager near the end of said hop. Which resulted in Wood being taken out.
There was a lecture from Goose all the way back to the ground about how stupid leaving their wingman had been. And Mav had promised, with that open, honest glint in his eyes, that he wouldn't do it again.
Goose trusted Mav. It was the truth, like how the sky was blue, the grass was green, the punishment push-ups they had to do on the hot tarmac sucked, Goose was a great RIO, and Mav's flying skills were top-notch.
Top Gun was hard and challenging. Of course it was; Goose knew that since before Stinger sent them off the USS Enterprise after Mav had to coach a frazzled Cougar back onto the deck and the latter turned in his wings. Mav knew that too.
But it wasn't just a learning experience. No, Top Gun was more than that; it was a chance to prove themselves, to push the limits, and to become the best of the best. And Goose had no doubt that they would succeed together, just like they always did. Be the number one, the top of the board.
Hop 31 started fine, if a little rushed, with Mav and Goose missing out on the chance of inspecting their jet before lifting off like they normally did. With Wood lifting into the air with Wolf, followed shortly by Mav and Goose, and then Ice and Slider joining them. Goose had felt like banging his helmet against the canopy. Throughout the hop, Mav and Iceman ribbed and griped at each other over the radio like they were measuring their egos and dick sizes. Christ, ladies, you are both pretty; stop biting at each other's throats.
Then Jester rocked up with the fear of God up his own ass, ready to crap on anyone's sunny day, and it was a one-on-three dogfight in the sky. Goose told Mav to get his head in the game and win this thing with his “pilot shit”. The bickering stopped, and the fight was on.
Wood ended up backing off, making him and Wolf out for the count, while Ice and Mav hashed it out to get a lock on Jester's aircraft.
Then everything went to shit.
Ice cut them off, making both Mav and Goose curse his stupid frost-tipped hair. Goose encouraged Mav to try and line up again or take out the second jet, too focused on the enemy jets to look in the direction of Ice's jet. Ice went high, and Mav went low. Jester led the pair on, his A-4 jet slicing through the air with learnt precision that would make any pilot squeal in awe and delight.
Another fact about Mav that Goose forgot to mention was that he was a hot-headed pilot with more impatience than anyone Goose had ever met.
Ice took too long to take his shot and pulled up, and Mav took the chance to jump forward and take a shot at Jester, Goose’s voice cheering him on from his seat behind him. A second passed, with Mav and Goose going through the spot Ice left, and alarms screamed in Goose's ears as their engines crumpled into a tragic resemblance of abstract art, or maybe like one of the clay art pieces Bradley had shoved in Goose’s face the last time he was home.
They fell into a flat spin, the feeling of his heart dropping to his toes and his stomach flipping on end as Goose frantically called out to Mav to get control over their jet before his organs decided they wanted out of Goose's body.
Two seconds passed, and Mav barked out—panic and fear lodging themselves in Mav’s words—for Goose to pop the canopy, to eject, to get out before the jet plunged into the sea with them still inside.
Fighting against the pressure in his arms, Goose barely managed to yank open the canopy, cutting air slapping his and Mav's faces as they hurtled towards the ocean below. The rush of wind drowned out all other noise, Goose's heart pounding in his ears as he braced himself for the imminent lurch of their ejection.
The angle was wrong, or Goose had ejected too soon, or the wind kept the loose canopy above the cockpit.
Goose wasn't sure.
He didn't know.
He should've paid more attention in their last emergency ejection lesson.
Maybe he should’ve kissed Carole one more time, tickled Bradley until they both would’ve been red in the face, told Mav that he was one of the most amazing people in the Navy and that Goose loved each and every single member of his family. Maybe he should’ve dragged everyone around a piano and goofed off and belted out the lyrics of ‘Great Balls of Fire’ back in the diner one more time, maybe, maybe….
There was a sickening crack, the sound rattling around the inside of Goose's skull louder than a church bell, and everything went black, white, grey, to nothing, and then to everything all at once.
His eyelids felt heavy.
But not at the same time.
He was warm but had shivers wracking his whole body like he was after being sprayed with ice-cold hose water in December.
He tried to move and succeeded. His fingers flexing, his ankles rolling, and his elbows and knees bending like old but well-oiled hinges, and then finally wrenched his eyelids open. Nothing greeted him; his sight so fogged over that he couldn't make out anything in front of him.
He blinked, lessening the blur in his vision as he tried to force his brain into waking up. The sky stared back at him, wide and empty above him as a frown curled from underneath his moustache. That… couldn't be right. He turned his head, left—ocean for miles—then right—more water—and then down.
His own face greeted him, blood seeping from underneath his helmet like a sick-minded attempt at Halloween makeup, and over his forehead, nose, eyes, cheeks, chin, and down onto Mav's flight suit as his best friend kept them both afloat in the sea, pieces of their jet drifting on the water surface around them.
The body Mav was clutching was limp, its shoulders slack and the neck crooked at a nauseating angle as blood-slick hands curled around the helmet-covered head and around the body’s waist.
'Horrifying' couldn’t even begin to describe the sight.
The realisation hit Goose like a tonne of bricks, memories of the hop flooding back into his mind. The engines. The alarms. Ejecting. Colliding with the canopy. The last thing he remembered was the jolt of impact before everything went black.
He looked away from his own bloodied face and looked down at himself, a small, hysterical noise clawing itself out of his mouth as he found himself standing on top of the water. He was physically fine, with no wounds, not a single thread out of place on his flight suit, and his skin was dry.
Goose was not fine.
He was so far from fine that it felt like a cruel joke.
The thought hit him like a solid sucker punch to the nose—Goose was gone, lost in the accident; he was dead, a ghost.
He was staring down at his best friend, who was cradling Goose’s dead body as he waited for help to find him. Probably the Coast Guard, since the Navy hadn’t reached Mav by now. Which meant that Mav had been floating on his back in the water for more than two hours. The sun was bearing down from its position in the sky; surely Mav had heat stroke or dehydration by now.
“Oh Mav… Pete, honey…” Goose whispered, his hands coming up to cover his mouth as he collapsed onto his knees on top of the water, his eyes filling with tears that could rival boiling water as they escaped Goose’s eyes.
Now that Goose was closer, he could hear Pete—because it’s Pete now, the small kid Nick had practically adopted when they finished their training and got paired together as Pilot and RIO, the kid that had nightmares and snuck into Nick’s bunk when he couldn’t go back to sleep or was too cold, Nick’s little brother—whispering choked, watery words as his arms kept Nick’s body close to his smaller one.
“Oh no, no, oh God, Goose. Nick, ‘m sorry, please. I’m so sorry. Oh God, ’m sorry. I got you. I've got you, please. I’ll get you home, Goose. You gotta kiss Carole an’ need to hug Bradley; you’re gonna make it, please, please, Nick …”
The words were near feverish, melting together like thick taffy, and Nick felt like he was dying all over again because of how broken Pete sounded.
“Fuck, Pete—I’m here, I’m—” Goose automatically tried to soothe Pete, his arms instinctively reaching out to touch the smaller man to hug, touch, pat, or do something—only for his hands to pass through Pete’s flight suit and earn a full-body shiver from Pete and a thin, pained noise to escape his throat.
Goose jerks back like he touched lava, his eyes wide as he stares at Pete as his body trembles for several seconds and his hold on Goose’s body slackens for a brief moment before tightening again in a desperate grip.
The sensation of helplessness washed over Goose as his thoughts slowly linked inside his mind; he couldn't touch Pete.