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Bradley didn't need to say anything to Tasha because, somehow, she already knew everything. Oh, Bradley hated her attentive, almost probing gaze.
“Witch,” he would say to her with a smirk, and invariably get a jab in the ribs. Tasha didn't like it when Bradley saw her as a woman; she always fiercely defended her independence and her right to fly the plane, but her gaze, her awareness—oh, in that she was somewhat like her mother—left no room for doubt about her nature. Soft power, amid broad shoulders and loud shouts.
No matter how much Tasha — “I am Phoenix” — rejected the usual comparisons, saying, “Don't put me next to the stove,” the warmth in her gaze could only be explained by that defenseless femininity that Bradley wanted to protect. He wanted to stand between her and Hangman, he wanted to always be there — just behind her, ready to help, but... but Tasha, after all, was stronger than him.
Her fragile silhouette could withstand more than Bradley, not physically, no, although her endurance was the envy of everyone, but internally she held a strength within herself — the fire of new birth and instant death. She never flaunted it, and Bradley — broad-shouldered, strong, loud — felt small and weak with her. He was decaying, his fires burning everything inside, while hers only illuminated.
He couldn't admit that he needed this light. He couldn't say a word in response to the question, “What's wrong with you, Roo?”. Roo. Bradley couldn't even say that, even before Rooster, that's what Ice and Mav called him like that. Tasha said it differently, with sisterly tenderness, not like the Hangman, who didn't think about his words at all, and certainly not like his... uncles? Bradley no longer knew who they were.
How could he talk about strangers? How could he admit that, even after seventeen years, he still wanted to feel Mav's hand—Maverick, Captain Mitchell—on his shoulder? Could he tell her that the Admiral of the Southern Fleet didn't know how to play badminton, and perhaps still didn't?
But Tasha looked as if she knew everything. And if she knew, then he didn't need to be afraid of words.
“He pulled my papers,” Bradley repeated blankly. That was the last thing he knew about the man who had replaced his father.
For many years, he avoided the news. Four years in college were easy compared to studying at the academy, where he felt inferior to his classmates, even though he was older (and taller) than many of them. Several times he even saw Ice from a distance and forced himself to look away, afraid to meet his gaze. Tasha was there. She didn't ask any questions, and at one point Bradley thought he hated her. She had somehow squeezed her way into a world that wasn't meant for her and was doing a much better job of it than he was.
She had nothing to fear. She had no past behind her.
He was glad to see her again in Top Gan, but he wasn't ready to face her fire again. It seemed that Bradley had nothing left to burn inside, and yet his chest burned with envy. Tasha—the light, flying Tasha. The strong Tasha. Straightforward Tasha. Tasha, who came out of the Medblock limping on her right leg and hissed furtively, pressing her hand to the abrasion on her cheek.
Tasha looked straight at Maverick, while Bradley kept trying to find something in his eyes that resembled Uncle Mav. Dad. Something like the three-letter word he couldn't say anymore; but he saw nothing but stern concentration and, at times, sadness. Perhaps it was sadness not even meant for him. That would be fair; Bradley didn't deserve emotions.
“You need to talk to him,” Tasha said. The setting sun behind her seemed to unfold bright wings, blinding Bradley.
“I don't know how,” he said quietly, clenching his unruly fingers into fists. His whole body ached.
“You'll have to get up. I can't carry you,” she smiled and patted him on the shoulder. It had become a routine: walking together from the airfield, talking quietly, and Bradley didn't even feel like he was trying to avoid anything. Everything felt natural with her.
She said he needed to get up, and Bradley found the strength to do so. It wasn't like when one of the commanders gave an order—it was almost mechanical, but genuine. Oh yes, she was a Phoenix. Or a witch. Or just a damn woman.
The best Bradley had ever been with.
She looked at Bradley without pity, although, to be completely honest, Bradley himself was drowning in regret. Yes, he was a jerk who couldn't talk to the people he cared about, but she forgave him for that. She forgave him and said it over and over again.
“I think he misses you too, Roo,” they saw Mav, or someone who looked painfully similar, in one of the windows.
“He always called me that. First Uncle Ice. And then him,” Bradley croaked. Early it wasn’t just “Uncle Ice”. It was papa.
“I'm sorry. I didn't know,” she squeezed his shoulder. Tasha's grip was firm. It was amazing how she could carry all this.
She let her hair down, holding them both back, giving them more time before the next flight and—Bradley smiled to himself—the next failure. Her hair was longer than Bradley had expected: curly, falling below her shoulders. It was surprisingly beautiful.
“How many times did you do push-ups?” he asked.
“You should know,” she shrugged lightly, “Less than you,” and that chuckle somehow lightened the weight on Bradley's shoulders, “Maybe more than a thousand. I try not to think about it.”
Forgetting about push-ups, about the unbearable heaviness when their number exceeds a hundred, is not the same as forgetting how the two best—then it didn't matter to Bradley whether it was true or not, he just knew that his uncles, his paren... that they were the best in the entire fleet — the pilots sat at his football game and shouted his name. It made the teenager blush and turn away. Bradley would have given a lot to make them proud of him again.
“You need to talk to him,” Tashi said more firmly than before.
“How?” Bradley grinned.
“The same way you did with me. Or with the Hangman. It's no difference,” she shrugged. Sometimes her fatigue was too obvious, but it had nothing to do with weakness.
Tasha was human, not a God, and it suited her remarkably well.
“Are you suggesting I fight him?” The pronoun was the easiest part. In essence, Bradley had long since come to terms with the fact that he was weak.
“Will that make you feel better? You know, if I were the Hangman, I would have stuck my head under the tap a long time ago. He could use a sobering up.”
They laughed in unison.
After a suicidal mission, they were miraculously returning together. Again. Tired, Bradley's body still tingled with the anticipation of his own death, but along with it came a feeling of unimaginable lightness.
“Are you going to talk to him?” Tasha asked, smiling.
“Yes. Yes, definitely,” Bradley replied, smiling back. “I love you, Tasha.”
It was something he couldn't find the right words for—nothing, as if what Bradley felt for her was hidden in one of those ancient manuscripts that had no translation, and what's more, no clear meaning.
“Don't be silly, Roo,” she replied.
Loving her was easy. Not like loving a girl. Certainly not like he loved Mav—that was difficult; not like he loved Ice, his papa—now loving him was painful; it wasn't what he felt for the Hangman—an absolutely indescribable mixture of feelings that made his blood boil. It was clear. Maybe because she made everything clear.
Bradley didn't need to explain anything. He could talk and she always listened.
“Hi, Mav,” he smiled, standing on the doorstep of Ice’s house, the house he shared with Mav, where Bradley remembered every corner.
“Hi, Roo,” Maverick smiled. Bradley couldn't see it, but he could feel his longing, hear Ice's voice responding to his childhood nickname, and feel his pride.
“I'm sorry.”
Bradley was thirty. He couldn't remember the last time he had forgiven someone like this — childishly, with almost desperate hope. He remembered an episode from his childhood: papa scolded him for something, something serious. Bradley said, “I’m sorry.” Ice forgave him.
He knew Maverick would forgive him too.