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There's countless books about it, studies and journals and articles and advice columns, and Mav has never read a single one of them but he knows they're all bullshit anyway. What your wings look like doesn't say a damn thing about you.
Small wings don't mean you're shy or quiet or introverted. Big wings don't make you an attention seeker. Dark wings aren't a sign of evil, light ones don't guarantee a good person and pure white ones don't mean you've been touched by an angel. Multiple colors don't make you a two faced bastard who can't be trusted.
A guy with wings the softest pink can throw a mean right hook that will send you to the ground, while his wife with blinding white feathers just watches on. Their son with wingspan shorter than his arms will laugh at your bruises the next morning, loud enough for half the street to hear.
Your new friend with dark brown wings and white coverts will take one look at you and say that you don't ever have to go back to that house.
Mav also knows that he's the exception to this. His wings reveal everything about him that matters.
Sure, they won't warn anyone what a loudmouth he is, and Goose says their dark indigo color only makes people comfortable not looking beyond first impressions to realize what a great guy he actually is. No, it's everything else. It’s his short flight feathers, barely strong enough to get him in the air, and it’s his alulas that would make every landing a crash even if he could fly. It’s their mass, it’s their length, it’s everything they’re not.
Underdeveloped, that’s what the doctor called them when Goose finally dragged him to see one. An injury sustained to his back at a young age must have damaged the shoulder blades and lasting effects are not allowing his wings to grow properly.
When asked if he knew what incident could have caused the injury, Maverick lied and said he had no idea, because it was easier than admitting that there was more than one possibility.
He had a surgery done that Goose insisted on paying for, where the doctors fixed what they could on the bones. He was given preening instructions, Goose was shown how to massage his back, and they were told that with all of this, regular stretching, and some patience, Mav will most likely be able to fly. Eventually.
Eventually still hasn't happened by the time they go to Top Gun and the irony is the only thing funny about it. Mav’s officially one of the best pilots in the whole damn country and he can't fly.
The other guys all show off their feathers without shame.
Hollywood's grass green ones look massive even when folded up, almost reaching the length of his arms, and Wolfman has a beige cowboy hat to match his, and they keep nudging each other with them, ruffling each other's hair with their primaries.
Sundown's wings are a fascinating mix of pink and orange and he walks around as proud of them as he should be, and Chipper's turquoise contrasts well with him, looking like a work of art when they stand next to each other.
Slider's wings are as large as could be expected for a man of his height, colored a deep red and fading out into a lighter shade at the tips. He's obviously aware of how obtrusive their size can be and politely keeps them tucked close to his body, even though he rarely bothers to hide them completely. And whenever he's close to Iceman, he stretches one of them out to physically cover his pilot's back.
Iceman himself doesn't show his wings off as often as the rest of them. He usually keeps them hidden when they're all together, in the locker room or in class, but he still has them out when he's just walking around, so they haven't slipped Mav's attention either.
They're more than twice as long as his arms and pure white, and they're just another proof that the whole "touched by an angel" thing is pure bullshit.
Per the doctors’ recommendation, Mav should be displaying his wings and stretching them out at least as often as Iceman does. And he’s pretty good about it when he’s on leave, walking around with them spread out practically all day whether he’s at his own place or staying with the Bradshaws, but it’s different on duty.
Goose gets it, his need to hide around other people. He’s not too happy about it, because his priority is Mav’s health above anything else, but he accepts it and would never really force him to change, though he always pushes a bit. Hell, he even supports it, by not having his own wings out as often as he could so Mav doesn’t stick out too much for being the only one keeping them hidden.
But when they get back to their housing at the end of the day, when the door shuts and it’s just the two of them, Goose wraps a wing around his back and his hand rubs at Mav’s shoulder blades with careful pressure to coax his wings out.
They rustle quietly as they spread out, Goose stepping away to give them the space they need while still keeping a hand on his back, right between where his wings come out from. Mav sighs as he flaps them slowly, stretching the sore muscle.
“There you go, honey,” Goose whispers, his hand moving up to squeeze Mav’s shoulder. “Dinner first?”
It’s a comfortable routine they settle into. They make food, go over the next day’s schedule and wash up, all with their wings out. It takes a bit of maneuvering, because this place is smaller than Goose’s home, but even that is a part of it.
Mav ducks under Goose’s wing and bumps his own into the RIO’s stomach, and Goose lifts his wing over Mav’s head and knocks over an empty glass. Mav teases him about it on his way to the shower and Goose ruffles his hair with his other wing.
He takes his time under the warm water, letting his muscles relax, his wings stretching just a bit further away than they could at first. They have grown some in the years since his surgery, his primaries reach all the way to his fingers when he spreads his arms now, but they’re still a lot smaller than they should be at his age.
He rarely notices his own progress, even when it’s something as significant as the wingsize, but thankfully he has Goose for that, assuring him every step of the way that he is getting better.
And a lot of the credit for that goes to him.
When Mav gets out of the bathroom, he brings an extra towel with him and Goose is already waiting on the bed. “C’mere,” he encourages softly and Mav goes, lying on his front and folding his arms under his head. He sighs, relaxing as best as he can when Goose starts on his shoulders, the massage oil pleasantly warmed up on his palms.
It wasn’t easy at first, letting Goose do this for him, understanding that he wanted to. But Goose never stopped offering, kept explaining that really, it’s just preening with extra steps and he’s been doing that for his friends and his family since he was a kid.
Because apparently that’s how it’s supposed to be. You’re not supposed to get a crick in your back twisting around trying to get at your scapulars, someone is supposed to do that for you.
The first time Goose put a hand on his wings, Mav flinched away and then cried the whole session. It took him a bit of time to learn how to repay the favor, but with Goose’s patience and Carol’s guidance, he figured it out.
Now it’s something they do regularly. When Goose is done loosening up his back muscles, Mav sits up to let him continue working on his wings while he starts carefully straightening out Goose’s primaries.
The sun is high in the sky, beating down, not a cloud in sight to hide it. With the sand looking golden in the light, it’s objectively a beautiful day. Subjectively, Mav is too damn hot to admire it.
Goose is sitting next to him on the bleachers, his wings raised high shielding them both, but even their slow and steady flapping does little to cool either of them down. Mav would prefer to be anywhere with air conditioning over this, but it makes Goose happy when he joins in on the group activities, so he’s staying where he is.
Even if he can’t really join in on the game of fly volleyball the rest of their class is playing.
They barely rise a few feet off the ground, flying backwards to catch a long ball or moving up sharply to spike it, hovering comfortably with their feet dangling in the rare calm moments. A small cloud of dust is swirling in the air as their wings kick up the sand despite them obviously making the effort to limit their movements, and if Mav wasn’t putting so much energy into not getting a heat stroke, he would maybe find it in himself to be impressed by the display of skill instead of annoyed.
Every once in a while, when the duos are switching out, someone will shout at him to join in but Mav always declines. “I’d kick up so much sand you’d be begging me to quit!” he lies with a grin, sticking to his usual excuse for why he doesn’t show his wings. They’re just too damn big.
“C’mon, Mitchell! I could use some real competition here!” Even Iceman calls out to him at one point. His own wings take up a good chunk of the court and he’s been playing with his back to the sun, because everyone agreed that the light reflecting off his white feathers right in their faces would be too unfair.
Mav spares a brief thought to Iceman’s neck and sunscreen before replying, “You could use the practice!”
He quietly pushes Goose to play when no one is paying attention to them, to maybe swap out with one of the other duos, but every time, Goose just swats him with a wing and says he’s happy right where he is.
“If they all tire themselves out today, we’ll have the edge in the air tomorrow,” he whispers conspiratorially, right before turning to cheer as Chipper manages to score and even it out again. Mav is quick to join in, if a little quieter.
The game goes on for a long time, so much so that Goose gives in to his motherly mode, reminding everyone who’s not playing to drink some water and stretching out his wing to shield their heads if they sit close enough. Which they eventually do when they see the shade being offered.
Finally, the game comes to a sudden end when, in an effort to reach the ball, Iceman flies back so sharply that he ends up horizontal and to overcorrect, beats his giant wings so strongly that he throws sand into Slider’s mouth and blinds everyone.
When the dust settles, the ball is sitting right on the boundary line on Hollywood and Wolf’s side of the court.
Slider offers to finish the game grounded after spitting the sand out, but ultimately they agree on a tie and a shared need to shower.
“Race ya back!” Wolf shouts and as six pairs of wings spread, no one cares about not kicking up sand anymore.
As they get smaller in the sky, Mav leans into Goose’s side and a wing wraps around his shoulders, easily pulling him in. “Wanna go one on one, grounded?” he offers, but Goose just chuckles and ruffles his hair.
They share the rest of their water in a comfortable silence, watching as the dust settles and the sun dips beyond the horizon. Mav hands the last sip of to Goose but instead of drinking it, he shakes out the droplets into Mav’s hair. He yelps and grumbles about it, but he can’t lie and say it doesn’t feel refreshing.
“I don’t think anyone’s gonna be coming back this way,” Goose notes, smiling as he crushes the plastic bottle. “You feel like stretching out?” he asks, casually enough that Mav could easily brush it off.
And Goose would let him too, he knows. After all this time, it’s still not something he’s eager to do, not even in the Bradshaws’ backyard where he knows no one will see him. But at home, he at least has little Bradley keeping him company and turning it into a game, making everything a little more fun. Out here, there’s nothing but the scorching sun.
And Goose.
“Sure,” he sighs, scrambling to his feet as Goose squeezes his shoulder in encouragement.
“You think you could make it down the bleachers?” he suggests, betraying that he hasn’t just suddenly thought of this.
Mav isn’t surprised. It’s been on his mind too, even if he wouldn’t admit it, because while the daily massages help, they wouldn’t be much use without regular exercise and until now, here at Top Gun, it’s been near impossible to find enough space and time alone for that.
The bleachers aren’t a bad idea. A controlled fall is easier, and honestly less scary, than just flying upwards. The forward motion will be a problem, without a doubt, but if his wings give out, there will always be a step for him to drop on.
“You’ll catch me on the ground?” he asks, not bothering to try to hide his nerves.
Goose smiles and wraps a hand around his forearm. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”
Taking his wings out in the fresh air feels good, Mav has to admit that. Feeling the gentle breeze ruffling his feathers, they spread wide on their own volition, fluttering up and down like they could actually take him up into the sky. Even the sun that’s been torturing him the whole afternoon feels pleasant soaking into the feathers and Mav sighs, tilting his head back as they warm up.
Tentatively, he gives a stronger flap and Goose steps aside, keeping a loose hold on his arm but giving him the space he needs. This too used to be harder, with no one teaching Mav the mechanics of flight when he was younger. He knew how other people did it, he learned by watching, but that didn’t tell him how to use his own muscles, which he didn’t even have.
It took him so long to even get the movements right, let alone gain enough strength to put into them, but today, it only takes a few tries for his feet to peel off the ground.
“There you go,” Goose encourages him, his own wings tucked in close to his body. “Careful now, a bit stronger and lean forward.”
Contrary to popular belief, Mav can actually follow instructions very well when he wants to. With Goose’s guidance and his steadying hold, he makes it about halfway down the bleachers before sharply losing height.
His foot slips on a step and his wings flutter frantically to overcorrect, but he’s too thrown off to put enough force into the movements and if it wasn’t for Goose’s hands grabbing him and grounding him, he would probably slide all the way down into the sand.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his wings stretching out and still moving, trying to shake it off.
“Are you alright?” Goose worries, carefully easing his harsh grip, and Mav huffs.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You did well. Maybe this is enough for today, it’s been a while-”
“No.” Mav straightens up, determined. “I can do it.” He’s not a quitter. Goose knows the progress he’s made, knows how much his limits can be pushed and what’s taking it too far, and he knows Mav can make it down the damn bleachers.
He’s tired. It takes a lot of work even getting off the ground again and he continues his descent maybe a little faster, a little less carefully than he should, and his wings are shaking when the sand crunches under his shoes, but he makes it down the damn bleachers.
As a fist connects with his face, Mav has the sobering realization that he really shouldn’t have gone out tonight. His shoulder slamming into the ground in the next second is also pretty sobering.
He can feel the pressure on his back, his wings wanting to come out and shield him from the assault, but he can’t let them. He shoves his back against the wall because he can’t give them the space, can’t have them become the main target and get even more damaged.
The rest of him can handle it. The boot that digs into his stomach isn’t the first time he’s been kicked and it certainly won’t be the last, and he knows that bruises will heal, just like he knows that if he breaks a wing, his chances of ever flying will plummet down to zero.
Goose probably wouldn’t agree with that approach, but Goose isn’t currently barely avoiding a broken nose by catching the next kick with his arm.
“Hey!” a thunderous shout echoes off the walls and he squints, trying to make his eyes focus enough to find the source.
“What are you doing?!” A tall figure stands at the corner, wings spread to an imposing size. It’s hard to tell their color, shrouded in shadow as they are with the man’s back to the sunset, but he thinks he can see some white in there.
“Goose,” he gasps, sagging to the ground with relief.
“None of your business,” the rough voice above him says. “Me and Mitchell were just havin’ a chat.”
“That sounds exactly like my business, though.” That doesn’t really sound like Goose.
But he doesn’t want to open his eyes again.
He hears a punch land but doesn’t feel it, and then another one, a shout, a curse, someone walking away.
Hands on his shoulders and he flinches.
“Mitchell.”
It’s not-Goose.
“Maverick. Can you look at me?”
Is it Iceman?
He forces himself to look.
White feathers.
Iceman?
No, there’s a little brown streak there.
Goose?
He doesn’t know. He whines.
“Why didn’t you fly away?”
The white is so bright it’s blinding.
“Can’t,” he mumbles. Goose should know that, shouldn’t he?
Feathers rustle and he knows they’re his own, but he can’t force them back.
“Fuck!” Goose-not-Goose sounds angry. “Maverick, what the hell?!”
Everything goes dark.
Ice is faster in a plane than he is with just his wings. That’s simply a fact, that’s why aerial combat works the way it does.
But with Maverick in his arms, he feels like he gets damn close.
He probably breaks a law or two with how low he’s flying, how tightly he’s turning, but he doesn’t even think about slowing down.
He can feel Maverick breathing steadily where he’s pressing the other pilot close to his chest, and he thinks he even heard him make a noise over the wind in his ears, so it’s possible that he’s awake again and only passed out for a few seconds. All his wounds seem to be superficial, bruises slowly coloring out, and though his arm is bleeding, it didn’t seem to be too deep when Ice inspected it.
But.
Maverick’s wings are all kinds of fucked up, he can’t even begin to guess what was done to them. They look plucked, definitely a lot smaller than they should be, and Ice can see that they’re weak and worryingly thin, even with how tightly they wrapped themselves around Maverick’s body when his eyes slipped closed.
There were no feathers in that alley. The wings weren’t even out when Ice got there, he has no idea what the fuck happened and maybe he’s not exactly the biggest fan of Maverick’s style, but he’ll be damned if the pilot loses the ability to fly because Ice was too slow getting him help.
Ice’s own wings are too big to safely navigate around the base, especially at the speed he’s going, so he flies upward instead, high above the buildings. Everything looks a little different from this angle but he recognizes Goose’s truck in front of his and Maverick’s housing, and tucks his wings close to his body to dive back down sharply.
The landing is nowhere near elegant. Pain shoots up his feet and his knees bend as he stumbles into a wide stance to keep his balance, his wings not slowing him down as much as they would if he spread them properly.
But the noise he makes hitting the ground serves its purpose well enough, because before he can even attempt to figure out how to hold Maverick with one hand to knock with the other, the door is flying open.
Goose’s frown deepens when he sees Ice, obviously not who he was expecting. “Ice, what the-” and then he looks down and worry takes over his expression. “What the hell?”
“Goose,” Maverick mumbles weakly and Ice lets himself feel the slightest bit of relief that he really is awake.
“Someone beat him up,” he hurries to say. “Some- asshole, I don’t know- behind the bar-” He could attempt to explain more but he thankfully doesn’t have to, Goose opening the door wide and rushing him inside.
He almost forgets to hide his wings but luckily, he remembers before he can get stuck in the doorway, quickly following after Goose to put Maverick down on a bed.
Goose takes over from him then, touching Maverick’s shoulder and whispering, “Hey, honey, I’m here, it’s alright. Can I take a look at you, Petey?” With his soft tone, the dark and damaged wings slowly uncurl and spread out on the mattress, exposing Maverick’s body.
The trust in the gesture is clear.
Goose touches Maverick’s face gently, taking his jaw to turn his head and get a look at the bruise blooming on his cheek. Maverick gives a soft whine as Goose touches it, but he just shushes him gently. “It’s alright, it’s alright, it doesn't seem broken.”
Ice is slightly concerned for what it means that Goose knows that just with some touching, but then the RIO turns to him. “Ice,” he says sharply. “Kitchen, freezer. There should be some frozen peas. And towels.”
“Got it.”
Ice has never been in this place before but all base housing is pretty much identical, so it doesn’t take him too long to get himself oriented and find what Goose wants from him. He grabs two packs just in case and when he takes them back, Goose’s hands are on Maverick’s body, pulling his dirty shirt up and probing at his chest, checking his ribs. He really looks like he knows what he’s doing and that’s good, but Ice still isn’t sure he likes it.
When Goose takes one of the packs from him and wraps it in the towel, Ice takes his cue from it and prepares the other one in the same way. Maverick hisses as Goose carefully presses the peas against his cheek and Goose shushes him again, grabbing his hand to make him hold it there.
The other pack, he puts against Maverick’s ribs and as the pilot grits his teeth, Ice gets his next set of instructions, to find a first aid kit under the bathroom sink. “I didn’t find any serious injuries,” Goose says, softer now as if he wants to reassure Ice too. “I just wanna disinfect his arm, bandage it.”
That just leaves one thing.
“And- and his wings?”
Maverick freezes and for the first time since he passed out, actually looks at Ice.
Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe they’re ignoring it on purpose, maybe there’s nothing they can do and they’re just waiting to process it until he leaves, until he’s not intruding.
But Goose jumps at it, getting on his knees next to Maverick and reaching for his feathers. “Oh no, what happened to your wings?”
Ice’s jaw drops. Has he seriously not noticed until right now? He checked Maverick’s whole body like he’s done it before but he didn’t notice the wings?
“I-” Ice hesitates, pushing the shock away so he can help. “I don’t know. I didn’t see any feathers when I found him, but he said he couldn’t fly, I don’t-”
His mouth snaps shut when Maverick tugs on Goose’s sleeve and whispers, “He doesn’t- it’s fine.”
At that, Goose gives him a very intense look. Maverick stares back and nods.
Ice isn’t sure he was supposed to hear it but he did, and he opens his mouth to say that it’s absolutely not fine, what the fuck, when Goose turns to him.
“Later,” he emphasizes. “Get the first aid kit, now.”
Later doesn’t feel right but both Goose and Maverick are looking at him now, expressions tense, and Ice decides that Goose knows about Maverick’s health more than he does, so if he says it can wait then he’s going to trust that.
No matter how much he doesn’t like it.
When he brings the first aid kit back, Goose seems determined to keep him busy, instructing him to hand him things as he works to clean up Maverick’s arm, getting gravel out of it and making sure it’s not infected. He even has Ice wrap it, definitely more than strictly necessary, and then sends him to get a glass of water.
Even from the next room, he can hear Goose and Maverick talking in agitated whispers, but they stop the moment he comes back in.
Ice has the unpleasant feeling that he’s missing something important.
Goose helps Maverick sit up and drink the water, and though he’s pulled to sit on the bed too, no one tells Ice anything until the glass is empty and sitting on the table. Then Goose adjusts the frozen peas on Maverick’s face while giving his friend a pointed look, and Maverick sighs.
“M’wings are fine,” he mumbles. “They just look like that.”
Ice frowns, “I thought you said they were giant.”
“I thought you said yours were white.”
The accusation has Ice freezing on instinct. Of course they’re white, he wants to protest. Must have been a trick of the light if you saw any different.
But Maverick is tense, his own damaged wings staying close to his body, and Goose is glancing between them with a curious expression. Because he already knows.
A secret for a secret. It’s only fair.
Ice rolls his shoulders back with a sigh and lets his wings come out, quickly pulling them in because they wouldn’t fit into the bunk otherwise.
“They were white when I was born. My father was proud of it,” he explains. “I dye them, but it doesn’t last long.”
He hated the brown stripes on his primaries for a long time but now, it feels almost good to show them off. Slider knows, and Goose does too, even if he didn’t have the details until now, and it doesn’t feel as terrifying as he thought it would to add Maverick to that short list.
Because Maverick most definitely can’t fly and that feels a lot worse.
Maverick moves, shuffling closer and making Goose smile. His wings spread a little, primaries just barely brushing Ice’s own where he’s keeping them close to the wall and out of the way.
The soft touch makes him shiver, but he thinks he hides it well enough.
“It’s an old injury,” Maverick explains himself simply, and Goose puts a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s getting better.” It sounds like an age old reminder, and Maverick smiles and nods like that’s how he’s used to reacting to it.
It seems there’s some common ground for them to share after all.