Chapter Text
All through flight training, Rooster had been told, repeatedly, the dangers of parachuting into trees. He’d seen the pictures of pilots who’d been impaled on branches, hanging like puppets from tangled marionette strings. So, as he plummeted towards the woods, not high enough to truly slow his descent, he braced himself.
This was going to hurt .
And it did.
The pine branches were soft enough, though they whipped across his face as they rushed by, his parachute deflating as it was buffeted by the same branches. And then - he heard his visor crack as a thicker branch from a tree that was decidedly not a pine connected with his helmet. He saw the cracks forming in it and then he hit another branch and it gave - the sudden pain blinding him as hot blood flooded his vision. He continued to fall, letting out a shout of surprise and pain. Then the harness jerked and he jolted to a stop, feet flailing for something to stand on, but finding nothing. To finish his misfortunes, something heavy fell onto his head and he knew no more.
————————————
He was getting too old for this.
Maverick groaned, internally and externally as he geared himself up to run in the direction in which he calculated Rooster would land. God, he hoped the kid was alright.
He knew the dangers of ejecting better than most. He’d never have wished it on Bradley. But the kid insisted on giving him a heart attack - all he could see, as he ran, was the image of Goose’s limp body, falling gently towards his ocean grave, all those years ago. So he ran.
And he found Bradley.
“Oh, God!” He felt like he had gained wings from his panic as he caught sight of the kid, hanging from a tree, his parachute tangled in the lower branches. “Oh no! Rooster! ”
The kid couldn’t hear him.
Was he dead?
Maverick couldn’t think like that - wouldn’t allow himself to consider that option. Quickly, he started to climb, ignoring his own aches as he struggled to reach the branches, not for the first time cursing his stature. Closer, frantic, he tried to see if the kid was breathing, the harness preventing Maverick from seeing if his chest was inflating regularly, freezing as he clearly saw the blood on the kid’s face.
Goose . It was Goose all over again - down to the blood painting the son's face from hairline to mustache and the way he hung limply - boneless, seemingly lifeless. Caught in the flashback, Maverick froze, feeling his own breath speed up as he struggled against the terror. Rooster couldn’t be dead - he couldn’t do this again, couldn’t bury another Bradshaw.
Was he destined to hold the bodies of everyone he loved?
Then - Rooster groaned.
Even through his panic and the thunderous beat of his own heart, pounding like Sunday church bells in his ears, Maverick heard it.
Rooster’s body twitched, finger’s reaching towards his head, most likely the center point of his pain.
He was alive. Alive, alive, alive .
Scrambling, moved to action, breaking out of his mental prison, Maverick made his way up the last few branches, managing to get just below the kid and to the right, close enough to touch. He tugged at the kid’s leg, letting him know he wasn’t alone.
“Bradley.”
Rooster’s head twitched, his eyes not opening, Maverick could see the blood that must’ve frozen his lids closed. “Mav?”
“Yeah,” Maverick soothed, voice trembling along with his hands, “I’m here. You’re gonna be okay, Baby Goose.”
Rooster nodded, swallowing. “I can’t see anything.”
“You bled pretty good,” Mav forced himself to examine the situation clinically. “Must’ve hit something on the way down.”
Groaning, Rooster rejoined, “‘member hittin’ a few things.” Wiggling in his harness, stopping with a chocked off groan. “Leg is shit, I think.”
With the amount of blood on the kids face, the older man hadn’t even looked at the rest of him. Now, upon closer observation, he could see another rip in the kid’s pant leg. The leg itself looked like it was starting to swell.
“Yeah,” Maverick agreed, swallowing as he considered how having Bradley immobile would affect any plans they might come up with to get out of here. “You bunged it up, kiddo.”
“… Can you get me down?” Rooster asked, face scrunching as he tried to think through his situation, despite not being able to see exactly what was going on.
“You’d better get your eyes open,” Maverick advised. “You’re a ways up - I won’t be able to lower you myself and I’m not gonna let you drop with that leg.”
As Rooster worked on rubbing the frozen blood out of his eyes, losing a glove as he did so, the empty article dropping like the balls that Galileo had dropped from the Eiffel Tower to make a point about gravity, Maverick moved around to investigate how the lines were tangled, looking for a safe way to free his godson. Grateful to look down and finally see Rooster’s eyes.
He had his father’s eyes. And, for once, they weren’t filled with suppressed anger and rage.
“Think we can make this work,” Maverick said, returning to the branch below Rooster. “You wanna try to swing over here? Let’s get you on something solid and work from there.”
Between them, they managed to get Rooster onto a branch, the younger holding on, wincing at the pain in his leg, the older getting the younger’s harness off, Rooster allowing the gentle handling. Then, the bigger challenge: getting down to the ground.
——————————————
Looking down, the distance, (which in reality was only about eight feet), felt like a mile to Rooster, a consequence of the pain in his leg and his general fuzzy-headedness and itchy eyes.
“Come’n, Baby Goose,” the nostalgic nickname slipping from his godfather. Maybe, in keeping with Rooster’s recent attitude, the nickname should bother him, but right now, having just survived his first ejection, lost in enemy territory, Rooster wasn’t going to complain. God, he felt like shit.
“Let’s get you down - nice and slow, now.”
Obediently, Rooster maneuvered himself, avoiding putting pressure on what he assumed was a twisted knee, (on top of the gash) since it didn’t feel like the bones were broken. Level by level, they descended. Allowing Maverick to help him sit against the base of the tree, looking up to see his parachute, which looked like a giant amoeba that was feeding on the tree’s thick foliage.
“They’re gonna know we’re here,” Bradley pointed out, the thought coming to him suddenly, “Once they see that chute.”
“Can’t bury it,” Maverick said. “Grounds frozen. They’re see our tracks first, anyway.”
“So,” Rooster asked, sucking in a breath as maverick carefully peeled the edges of the tear in his pants away from the swollen limb. “What’s the plan?”
“We need to hide,” Maverick told him. Glancing nervously at the greying sky, thick with clouds. The sun had disappeared, in the time between starting the flight through the canyon and ejecting. The fog they had flown through on the coast must’ve come in.
Rooster, reluctant, but acknowledging the necessity, let Mav slip under his arm, the older pilot bracing against his side, helping him along. As they trudged, Rooster’s own stuttering steps undoubtedly resembling a rabbits hopping through the snow - big and little, big and little - he sorted through his feelings.
It had always been strange, knowing how much larger he was, compared to Maverick. Remembering when he’d been 15, perpetually growing out of his clothes, his mother’s cancer diagnosis still invisible on the horizon, remembering Maverick pulling up on his motorcycle, finally home from a deployment to god only knew where. Remembering how he’d gone for a hug and the older man’s astonished expression at having to look up at his godson, the astonishment turning to honest affection, probably remembering Bradley’s father in that moment. Looking down on Maverick’s head, now, the shorter man barely coming to his shoulder, his stature like a rickety reinforcement made of ply-board propping up a sagging brick wall, it occurred to Rooster, once again, that Maverick had gotten old.
Sure, he was in excellent shape and his flying was beyond incredible, but, compared to how Maverick had looked, back when he was just Rooster’s ‘Uncle Mav’ the difference was striking. Had it really been 13 years since their fight? It felt like such a short time, looking back, busy with his own life and career. But , Rooster thought, Maverick must’ve been lonely . His lips thinned, remembering Admiral Kazansky’s funeral the week before last.
Prompting him to say, as Maverick helped him around a fallen tree trunk; “I didn’t mean it. What I said to you.”
“… I know.”
But did he really? “I’m sorry I said it. I was sorry as soon as I did say it.” Maverick wasn’t looking at him. “You didn’t deserve that, Mav.”
The older man swallowed, still looking away, “… you weren’t wrong, Bradley.”
Rooster’s legs locked and he twisted, trying to get Maverick to face him, the move unwise since it resulted in Rooster’s bad leg collapsing underneath him, his sudden movement and resulting shift in weight forcing Maverick and him down into the snow.
Panting heavily through the pain, both physical and mental, Rooster grasped at Maverick’s hand, forcing him to still - to look at him - meeting the older man’s eyes.
“Bullshit. You know that Hondo would mourn you. And Penny - don’t think Amelia didn’t tell me you’ve been putting the moves on her mom again,” Almost laughing at Mav’s startled expression - almost , “And all of us would miss you. God , Mav - you forced all of us, the best of the best, to get our heads out of our asses - to realize that we may be called the Best of the Best - but you’re better than best. Despite what the brass says.”
Continuing, watching the knowledge dawning on Maverick’s face, pressing his point home. “ Fuck them. You’re flying is pure poetry - they’re just mad that you actually do what they’re supposed to - you care about your subordinates. Before you made your test run and beat the simulation, we’d been sitting in that classroom, listening to Cyclone trying to sell us a suicide strategy: knowing that, if we refused, we’d face disciplinary action; knowing, if we agreed, that all or most of us would die by SAM.”
He allowed Maverick a moment to let his words sink in, seeing the tears come to his godfathers eyes. “Now, I don’t know why you did what you did, but you saved my life just now and made sure that the others survived this mission. So we’ll talk about it later, like you promised. And I’m glad you’re okay, Mav. When I heard you go down -,” Shaking his head, remembering the shadow of his godfathers plane, his own plane rocking from the boom of the missile destroying Maverick’s F/A-18, “I’d never realized, after I spent so long resenting you, how much I’d miss you after you were gone.”
Rooster ended up with an armful of pilot, returning Maverick’s squeezing hug with matching enthusiasm. Maybe, he sniffed, feeling a few traitorous tears of his own, maybe they’d be alright, now. No matter what the truth was.
………
“I promised your mother I’d do it.”
………
What?!
Pulling back, still holding Maverick tightly by the shoulders.
“You gotta understand -,” Maverick’s voice was hurried, desperate, pleading — and Rooster’s head was spinning. He couldn’t breathe - “She just wanted you to live.” Repeating, almost like he was talking to himself. “They both would’ve wanted you to live .”
“Oh hell,” Rooster gasped, leaning back into Maverick’s embrace, an embrace which was now stiff with apprehension. “We’ve wasted - god, we’ve wasted so much time .”
“You don’t hate her?” Maverick eventually asked.
“… no.”
Rooster felt … honestly, he didn’t know how he felt. What was the pain of his body, the cold sweat from wrenched muscles, and the pit in his stomach at their situation, compared to the realization that he’d hated this man - a man who’d only ever loved him, despite everything Bradley had done and said - hated him for more than a decade —— only to find out that his resentment was built on a lie.
And, head spinning, Maverick’s voice, growing frantic at his silence, sounding like it was coming from a far distance, Rooster was reevaluating his memories. Memories of his mother, every time he’d brought up the naval academy or flying, the memory of the subtle sadness on her face. And that last week in the hospital, Maverick calling in all his and Ice’s favors to be there, at the last, and the loud voices he’d heard, that one time, how upset Mav had been when he’d finally allowed Bradley to come in and see his mother.
Because, Rooster realized, looking at the older pilot with new eyes, Maverick had to have argued. His Uncle loved teaching him about planes and had helped him with his application. What had his mother said, to make Mav promise?
Whatever it was, it had to have gutted him. And, Rooster clenched his eyes shut against a wave of nausea, his mother would’ve had an Ace up her sleeve - his father’s death. While he knew his mother had never truly blamed Mav for his father’s death, they’d both known that Mav blamed himself. She would’ve convinced him with that.
Because, like Maverick had just said - his mother had wanted him to live.
He’d never gotten as drunk as he had on his 27th birthday, the birthday that marked him as officially older than his father had ever gotten to be. God, Natasha had been so worried about him and he was lucky that he’d been between deployments, otherwise he was sure a report would have been put in his file because of how long his hangover had been.
When the world settled and he opened his eyes again, seeing Mav, really seeing him, the older man was nearly panicking.
“You with me?” Mav pleaded, one hand gripping Rooster’s shoulder, the other cupping Bradley’s cheek, like he used to when he was younger and Bradley was smaller. “Come back to me, kiddo.”
“You should’ve told me,” Rooster chocked out, leaning into the touch. “You should’ve told me - god, Mav, we’ve wasted so much time .”
Mav swallowed, meeting his eyes. “If I’d told you then,” He asked. “Would you have believed me?”
No , Bradley thinks, he probably wouldn’t’ve. But still …
Is he crying? He’s got to be crying because Mav is pulling him to himself, letting him let it out on his shoulder, like he did when the other kids had teased him for not having a dad, like he did when his mother had died, like he hadn’t been able to do, when he’d screamed at his uncle that he’d never wanted to see him again - when all he’d actually wanted to do was to be comforted, his dreams in the dirt.
“I’m sorry,” Maverick repeats, uselessly, but sincerely. “I’m here now, kiddo. I’m here.”
They sit like this for awhile, until a throbbing pain through Rooster’s leg and head makes him shift, a low groan escaping him.
Maverick immediately pulls back, looking him over. “You alright?”
“I could be better,” Rooster says, wryly, through clenched teeth.
“We need to find a place to lie low,” Maverick says, looking around them. “It’s been long enough, and with their helicopter not reporting in, they’ll probably have sent out a patrol - if they haven’t already.”
Rooster allows Mav to help him up again and they move, towards the coast, if Rooster’s sense of direction is still on track. It’s the most likely place for a rescue to happen. He should check to see if his E-SAT is still functional, that way he can let them know he’s alive. It would be nice to get rescued. Then it starts to snow, both answering their dilemma and causing a new one.
If they don’t find a place to take shelter, they could die of exposure.
But, at least the patrol (if there is one) won’t be able to follow their tracks.
Either way, Rooster is beyond exhausted when they finally find a small opening midway up the nearest mountain side. Mav helps him sit down, scouting the small cavern to make sure it’s not already occupied by a bear or something like that (Rooster is definitely not trained for wildness survival) and then he leaves. To do what, Rooster isn’t sure. He looses some time between this point and when he wakes up to Mav gently examining his leg.
“The E-SAT?” Rooster mumbles, half-awake, trying to ignore the pain of his twisted, scraped extremity.
“Yours in operational,” Maverick confirms. “Mine got busted on the way down, though.”
Rooster wonders if it’s like that story he heard about a WWI veteran once, how a metal covered Bible stopped a bullet - maybe Mav’s E-SAT protected his uncle from the shrapnel of his exploding FA-18.
“I gonna live?” He tries to joke, knowing it falls flat by the way his godfather sends him an unimpressed look.
“It’s not broken,” Is the perfunctory verdict.
“Hey,” Rooster struggles to sit up, snagging at Mav’s sleeve, his godfather allowing him to move him closer. “I’ll be okay, Mav.”
Mav has that stubborn look on his face, the one he makes when he’s trying not to cry.
“It’s not anything fatal,” Rooster points out. And he’s right. Unless they’re unlucky enough to get captured, all he’s done is bash his head a bit and, most likely, wrench his knee joint badly. He should be fine. … Though, looking down at his leg, the gash could be a problem.
“It’s just,” Maverick finally grinds out, in starts and stops, “You were hanging there - just like - and your face - all the blood,” He sucks in a breath, a single tear escaping as Rooster watches, beginning to understand what’s bothering his godfather. “You looked just like Goose did, when it — when it , happened.”
It takes effort, but Bradley manages to sit up and drag his godfather into a hug, holding the man, not letting him shrink away, knowing, deep in his bones, that this was what his godfather needed - what he’d been denied for years - someone who truly cared. And Rooster was family. All the family Maverick had left. And the opposite was also true.
So Rooster lets Maverick cry, (it’s his turn, anyway) realizing how much these past weeks of training have hurt Maverick, how his own injuries when he ejected will likely be the source of nightmares for his godfather.
But he’d do it again - they both would, he knows. But for his godfather to be reduced to this, it was still heartbreaking.
“Do you really think they’ll send out patrols?” He asks in the eventual silence.
“… I would,” Mav says, pulling back to fuss with Rooster’s torn pant leg again, furtively wiping his eyes. “If we’d been attacked like that, I’d want to capture them - especially if we knew that at least one plane had been shot down.” There was a pause, before he continued. “It’s unlikely they know about you getting shot down, too. Since you destroyed the helicopter. Though, they’ll have to suspect that something took the helicopter out …”
And that’s that.
Since they hadn’t been able to salvage anything from their planes, the wreckage far from where each had landed, it didn’t take long to settle down for the night, Rooster urging his godfather to huddle with him for warmth. Their flight suits weren’t meant for this kind of cold, after all. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Still, they awoke in the morning, shivering, long before the sun rose.
————————————
It’s mid-afternoon of the next day when they hear the voices.
Carefully, Mav goes to the entrance and looks. Hurrying back eventually to sit with Rooster, whose injuries had stiffened during the night, causing him a considerable amount of pain.
“It’s a patrol,” Mav whispered needlessly.
They’re both quiet as the voices become louder, though they can’t make out the words. Even if they’re in the foreign tongue, it’s nice to know they’re not close enough to find their cave. The entrance is mostly covered over, now, from the snowfall.
Rooster would bet money on the storm delaying any rescue plans from their own side. The thought of the other Daggers, waiting back on the Carrier, not knowing if he and Mav were alive or dead, sends a pang through his heart that isn’t physical, but it drowns out all his other pain.
Eventually, the wind carries no more noise to their straining ears.
————————————
It’s been almost two whole days, and Rooster is nearly too tired to be hungry.
It’s cold and awful, watching Maverick fret over their situation, both knowing that Rooster can no longer go very far, even with Maverick’s help. They’d turned on Rooster’s E-SAT, the second morning, deciding to risk it. Perhaps Command would think it was a trick by the enemy, but it was worth a try. The snow gave them enough to drink, but they had no food. Worried about another patrol, Maverick hadn’t dared to venture out of their cave to look for anything edible, knowing that, unless it snowed again, his tracks could be their downfall.
Rooster says what they’re both thinking, on the afternoon of the third day.
“Maybe it would be better if we let them capture us,” looking at Mav, who’s face is already starting to look hollow from the hunger. He can feel the fever settling in his bones and the thought of dying here looms large between them. “Either way, we can’t just sit here anymore.”
His godfather swallows, obviously reluctant, but conceding the point.
“At first light,” Mav says, pressing his palm into his hollowed stomach. “We’ll head for the coast. If Command sends a rescue team, it’ll be easier for them to find us there. And once we turn on your E-SAT, all we gotta do is lie low and wait. We should morse code it, too, maybe that would help.”
It’s nice to have a plan. “At first light,” Rooster echoes, agreeing.
—————————————
But at first light, Rooster’s fever has set in and Maverick has no chance of moving his godson over the hostile terrain by himself. So he trickles melting snow into his godson’s mouth, wetting a scrap of the younger man’s pants to lay across Rooster’s burning forehead. As the day wears on, and Maverick knows he’s run out of options, he prays to the ghosts he is sure are watching them.
“Please, Goose,” he whispers, “I know it’s selfish, but you can’t have him yet. He’s gotta live.”
Rooster, fever robbing him of his conversational powers, submit’s to his godfather’s ministrations with a patience he’d never have when he was awake. And another day passes.
——————————————
When he’d fallen asleep in the cave, Rooster hadn’t been sure if he’d wake up. But as he slept, he dreamed ...
Someone is playing the piano.
That’s the first thing he realizes. The second thing he realizes is that he’s not in pain anymore. And third - he recognizes where he is. He’s home at the little house on the beach that he still owns, paying someone for the upkeep while he’s away on deployment. From a few rooms away, he is still able to hear the piano playing.
He goes in search of the source of the music, already expecting the piano that has always sat in the main room of the house. He’d learned to play on that piano. He remembers sitting on his father’s lap, watching long fingers flying over the keys to accompany an off key but enthusiastic voice.
There is a man sitting at the piano, his back to the door.
Bradley knows that back. He’d watched that back go to work that fateful day and never come back. All his life it seemed like he’d been looking at that back. Every time his mom looked at him, clearly seeing someone else, every time Maverick or Iceman had gotten that same look on their faces, especially when he grew his mustache and the first time he’d played ‘Great Balls of Fire.’
The piano is silent.
The man turns. And smiles.
He’s off the stool and bounding towards Bradley, an infectious grin on his face. “So, now you’ve tried the patented Mitchell/Bradshaw Special - what do you think?”
That … definitely wasn’t the first thing he expected to hear his father say, even if this was only a dream. Because that’s what this must be — just a dream and nothing more.
“Uh. What?”
His father - Goose - gestures with his hand, imitating a plane in flight. “Flying with Mav — was it everything you thought it would be?”
Bradley has to think a moment, remembering the Mission and after, Maverick’s encouragement as he’d completed the course and dropped the bomb blind, the Talk they’d had in the snow, the worry on Maverick’s weathered face as they’d hidden from the patrol.
“Yeah.” It had been like he’d imagined as a kid, wanting to fly with his uncle Mav (well, minus the getting shot down part). “Yeah, it was.” He takes a deep breath, trying to think what he wants to say, because he’s never thought he’d get this opportunity. Even if this figment of his imagination or whatever this is, isn’t real, he feels like he needs to say something deep and profound.
But, Goose blows past any awkwardness of the situation by putting a hand up to Rooster’s head, measuring between them.
“How in the world did you end up taller than me?” The figment asks, incredulous. Though he immediately moves past this revelation with an unconcerned shrug, back to business. Putting a hand to Rooster’s face. It feels so real. “You’ve been through a lot without me, son, and I’m sorry I missed it.”
Bradley swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. “… Not your fault.” He croaks.
“Still.” Goose looks him in the eye, shifting to cup his son’s face. “It’s worth apologizing for. Because I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry for when you were lonely. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to laugh with you and to cry with you. To teach you how to drive and how to treat your first date. I’m sorry you lost your mother too soon. I’m -,”
Bradley cuts off the rest of Gooses apology by nearly lifting his father off the ground with how hard he hugs the thinner, shorter version of himself.
“You promised,” He gasps between tears. “You promised you’d take me to the park - and we’d play catch,” He buries his face in his father’s neck. “But you never came back.”
He can feel his father’s tears against his neck, wetting the mustache tickling his ear. “We can play now. We have time.”
Bradley pulls back, excited, wiping at his face. “Really?”
“Sure we do, kiddo,” Goose grins the scenery flickering around them, becoming the park that had been near the house until it had been bulldozed for a new local supermarket, and they both have baseball gloves. “But only if you think you can keep up with an old man like me.”
Bradley grins and they play catch in the field, just like his father had promised on that day long ago. And they talk. Well, mostly Goose asks questions about his life. They talk, that is, until the sun starts to set.
“We’re almost out of time, Baby Goose,” his father says, gesturing at the horizon. “You’re going to wake up soon.”
But he wants to stay.
“No.” Goose says, reading his thoughts. “It isn’t your time.” He looks away into the horizon, like he’s watching something Bradley can’t see. “And Mav needs you.”
“But I need you, dad.” Bradley begs. “I want to stay.”
Goose looks at him sadly, terrible knowledge in his eyes. He doesn’t relent. With a simple gesture, an image appears between them - a portal to the world he can no longer inhabit.
The portal shows their little cave, Rooster pale and still, Maverick desperately packing snow around his fever wracked frame. Then the older pilot is staring at nothing, deathly pale.
“He’s blaming himself,” Goose tells his son. “Like he always does. He’s the olympic gold medalist of self-blamer’s.”
And Rooster knows what his sudden fever must’ve done to his godfather. Knows, even after all the things he’s said, even after all the years he’s ignored the older man, Maverick still loves him.
“I have to go back,” He accedes. “But,” he asks, hesitating. “Will I see you again?”
Goose shrugs. “You never know. But,” He shakes a finger in his son’s face. “If you actually come to stay for good before you’re at least 105 - I’ll sic your mother on you!” He hugs Bradley, before shoving him abruptly into the portal. “And don’t forget to turn your E-SAT back on! They’re sending a rescue team!”
Bradley is laughing as he falls back into himself, though he is also crying. For all that could have been.
For finally getting to play catch with his dad like he’d promised.