Chapter Text
“Is there a problem, Captain?”
Mav clenches his jaw as he turns away from the screen. “You know there is, Sir.”
The admiral gives a slight huff as he taps to zoom in on Bradley’s picture. “Yeah. Bradley Bradshaw. I understand you used to fly with his old man. What was his name?”
“Goose, Sir. But that’s not–”
“Tragic, what happened.”
“Captain Mitchell was cleared of all wrongdoing,” Warlock interjects, and Mav is grateful, but—
“Is that how you see it, Captain? Is that how Goose’s son sees it?”
Mav grits his teeth and pushes down the old feeling of guilt that rears its head, because while on any other day it might still send him spiraling, it’s not what’s important right now. What’s important is a slight loophole that, if Mav plays his cards right, might allow him to keep part of his promise to Carole.
I couldn’t stop him from flying, sis, he thinks desperately, but maybe I can keep him away from this.
“Sir. Bradley Bradshaw can’t be on this detachment.”
Admiral Simpson raises an eyebrow. “And why not?”
Mav takes a deep breath. “I’m his legal guardian. You can’t have us on the same assignment.”
Cyclone takes a folder out from the pile in front of him—Bradley’s—and holds it up. “We are aware. Technically, guardianships are only until the child has turned eighteen. Lieutenant Bradshaw is far beyond that threshold, Captain.”
“We’re still on each other’s NOK lists!” Mav protests. “I’m his godfather. It’s a clear conflict of interest, Admiral.”
Said admiral quirks a brow. “Suddenly so rule-abiding, Captain?”
Mav shakes his head as he swerves around the taunt. “The handbook is clear, sir. Regulations state that no two officers who share close relations may be placed on the same detachment to minimize compromising the—”
“Be that as it may, Captain,” Cyclone says icily. “Lieutenant Bradshaw is more than qualified to run this mission. He placed top of his class at the Academy, and has received glowing evaluations from every CO that’s had him since.”
Mav knows. He was there when Bradley graduated, cheering loudly when his boy finally got his wings. He keeps every news article, cherishes in his heart every top-secret mission file that Ice discreetly lets him peek at, glows with pride at every story that makes its way to him on the Navy grapevine.
“Hell, looks like he would have shared the Top Gun trophy with Seresin here if Trace didn’t swoop from behind to take them all.”
Mav had requested special leave (without telling Bradley) to go watch Bradley’s class undergo Hop 31. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been shaking with worry the whole time he was on the ground, mumbling desperate prayers under his breath as the control tower announced a play-by-play of the ongoing hop for the benefit of the waiting audience.
He had practically sprinted to Bradley once they had landed and celebrations ensued, and something in his face must have struck his kid, because the towering pilot had merely let Mav check him over with a shaky voice and trembling hands, blood-red ghosts and hot tears obscuring his vision.
“I’m okay, Mav,” his kid had told him softly, after stilling Mav’s harried examinations by pulling his dad into his arms. “I’m okay, I promise.” His mustache had quirked wryly. “Sorry, guess I won’t be bringing home the trophy. Tash is a hell of a flyer.”
Mav hadn’t cared about the trophy, and he told Bradley as much. All he wanted–all he wants, then and now and forever–is for his kid to be safe.
Admiral Simpson taps Bradley’s folder as Mav’s heart thumps louder. “Sir,” he tries again. “Whether he is qualified or not, the regulations have no leeway for a conflict of interest—”
“Correction, Captain,” the admiral says, his face screwed up in distaste as if he’s swallowed a lemon. “The regulations are superseded–regularly, I might add–by the chain of command. And in this case,” he glances to Warlock, who shrugs, “you are here at the request of Admiral Kazansky. He seems to think you still have something to offer the Navy. What that is, I can’t imagine…”
Past Ice’s name, Mav tunes everything out. Of course. He doesn’t whether to laugh or curse his old friend’s name out loud.
Damn it, Ice.
“So it seems like I have to keep you, Captain,” Cyclone concludes distastefully. “And there is no standing reason to keep Lieutenant Bradshaw off this detachment. You will be meeting the squad tomorrow at Top Gun, 0800 sharp. Do not be late.”
Ice: That didn’t go well.
Mav: Bradley? Really?
Ice: Don’t doubt the kid.
Mav exhales sharply as he taps out his reply.
Mav: I’m not doubting him. Kid’s one of the best.
Ice: So what’s the problem?
Mav blows out a breath through his teeth as he thinks about what to say to that.
Mav: The mission.
Ice: That’s why you’re here.
…
Ice: We’ll talk later. You’ve got incoming.
Mav furrows brow at the cryptic message, but he’s immediately interrupted by a jubilant shout by the pool table.
“Bradshaw! This is how I find out you’re stateside?”
Oh, crap.
Mav hunches down lower over the bar, turning around to keep himself out of his kid’s line of sight. Although, judging by the knowing look Penny sends his way, his cover’s already about to be blown.
He taps out another furious message to Ice.
Mav: You could have warned me!
Ice: Would you have come?
Mav groans internally and pockets his phone as he feels someone come up beside him. Said someone clears his throat.
Mav puts on his best grin (although, with his painkillers wearing off, it’s really more of a grimace) and turns around on the bar stool to look up into those familiar eyes and mustache.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Bradley can hardly contain himself as he walks over to Natasha but keeps swinging his head around the bar. The Hard Deck is packed, and he didn’t believe his Uncle Ice when he said that was where Mav would be after literally surviving an ejection--but in retrospect, it made sense. Mav liked to unwind after stressful days; and in Bradley’s book, it had been one hell of a day.
“Hey, Tash,” he says distractedly. “Sorry, I’m looking for someone.” He cranes his head just as he hears another familiar drawl.
“Bradshaw. As I live and breathe.”
“Not you, Hangman,” Bradley snaps back, right as he catches Penny’s eye and her subtle head movement—
—towards a hunched leather jacket at the end of her bar.
Got you, Bradley thinks in relief as he winds his way around several groups of people towards that familiar leather jacket. He clears his throat as he comes up beside the man that he thought was dead.
“Hey, baby goose,” Mav grins up at him, obviously hiding some sort of pain. He’s holding himself rigid, Bradley thinks anxiously, but his exasperation doesn’t know whether to hit or hug the infuriating man he loves as a father. “Whatcha doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” Bradley asks, infuriated all of a sudden. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in—”
“He’s here because he owes me a round,” Penny cuts in smoothly, Mav’s card in her hand with a receipt. “But his card’s been declined.”
Bradley watches Mav’s face change to several shades of shock and embarrassment as he gets his card back and tries to make up for it in cash, but Penny won’t have it. Bradley stops her before she can ring the bell to have Mav thrown overboard.
“He’s just ejected,” he whispers under his breath as he holds onto her wrist. “Please. Put it on my tab, I’ll get him out of your hair.”
Penny agrees, like the angel she is, and Bradley leads his protesting dad out of the bar.
“Bradley, wait, we can’t just leave Penny–the bill…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bradley grits out, still loosely holding on to Mav’s wrist and tugging him along to the waiting Bronco. “She’ll understand. We have more important things to do.”
He makes Mav get in the passenger seat, and he doesn’t miss the grimace of pain in his dad’s face, which just makes his worry go to a hundred.
“Hospital, Mav.”
Mav looks helplessly at his kid. “Brad, I’m fine.”
“Humor me,” Bradley bites out as he pulls out of the parking space and swings around toward the Miramar hospital. “Because Uncle Ice hinted that after whatever top-secret explosion you got pulled out of—”
“Technically, I walked out—”
“—Admiral Cain chewed you out and sent you straight here, where Ice hinted that you had another encounter with another admiral—”
“He really shouldn’t be so open about classified operations,” Mav remarks reprovingly.
Suddenly, in a fit of anger, Bradley pulls over and puts the car in park, breathing heavily as he looks away from Mav. Mav winces. Perhaps being aloof and annoying about it all hadn’t been the best approach.
“I got the KIA call,” Bradley says numbly, still looking away from Mav, and Mav immediately feels like the biggest asshole on earth. “I had just gotten off the boat in Virginia, given orders for California, and was waiting at the airport for my flight when I got the call.”
Mav winces again. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.
“I boarded my flight,” Bradley chokes out quietly, gripping the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking. “I boarded my flight, and I didn’t—I thought CACO would be waiting for me when I landed. I didn’t want to leave the plane…I thought–I thought if I didn’t leave the airport, I could pretend—” he bites back a sob, and the muffled sound is so heartbreaking that Mav immediately reaches out to wrap an arm around his kid and pull him closer across the console, ignoring the strain in his ribs and spine. Bradley resists at first but follows quickly once Mav gives another insistent tug, tucking his head in the crook of Mav’s neck and shoulder, and Mav immediately feels the collar of his t-shirt grow wet.
Bradley breathes in the scent of his dad—jet fuel and fire, and the familiar leathery scent of the jacket he once wore around his shoulders for Halloween.
“I’m sorry,” Mav whispers above him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m okay, baby goose. Really.”
Bradley shakes his head as he pulls away and composes himself. “Uncle Ice said that Admiral Cain didn’t even let you go to medical. We’ve got to go, Mav. Please?” Oh, and then he turns those eyes on Mav, the ones he knows Mav has never been able to resist—not when he was three, ten, twenty-three, or apparently, thirty-four.
Mav sighs, and relents. “Okay, Brad. We can go.”
Bradley immediately brightens and puts the car back into drive, heading towards the Miramar hospital. Mav settles in for the ride, until something occurs to him.
“Hang on,” he says suspiciously. “This Bronco was in the shop. I brought it in like you said before I went up to China Lake.”
Bradley hums. “I picked it up after I landed.”
“So how’d you get to the shop?”
“Uber?”
Mav narrows his eyes. “Are you asking me or telling me, young man?”
Bradley sneaks a sideward glance to his dad in the passenger seat, looking disgruntled, and sighs. “Uncle Ice picked me up.”
“Personally?” Mav squawks. “I thought he was in DC?”
Bradley snorts. “What do you think pulled him out of the meeting?”
Mav slumps back in his seat. “Darkstar.”
“Is that what it’s called?” Bradley asks curiously.
“Nice try,” Mav snorts. “Damn Kazansky. Should’ve known—”
And then he abruptly cuts himself off, but Bradley notices. “Should’ve known what, Mav? What are you even here for? Uncle Ice vaguely said you had another meeting, which by the way is absolutely ridiculous, you just crashed–”
“Ejected,” Mav corrects absentmindedly. “And stop fishing for details, you know better than that.”
“I’m just saying! That Admiral Cain must be the biggest asshole if he didn’t even let you go to medical, my god–”
“That’s why he picked you up,” Mav says suddenly, realization dawning on him.
“What?” his wonderful, incorrigible boy says, confused. “Uncle Ice? He didn’t—oh.”
“Uncle Ice indeed,” Mav huffs, pulling out his phone to send a text to his wingman.
Mav: With B, going to hospital. Thanks.
Ice: Don’t mention it.
“He knows you’d never bring yourself, and no superior actually cares for you enough to let you go—”
“Hey!” Mav says indignantly.
“—you know I’m right,” Bradley huffs darkly, still angry on his father figure’s behalf. “So he brought me here to make sure you get checked up.” He throws a self-satisfied grin Mav’s way. “Can’t disobey an admiral’s orders, Dad.”
“Cheeky brat,” Mav retorts, pushing away the feeling of unease as he remembers Bradley’s face on Cyclone’s screen. “Just drive and let’s get this over with.”
“Sir yes sir,” Bradley says, tone a lot lighter now, and Mav looks over at the driver’s seat with a soft smile. Despite the circumstances, it’s amazing to have his kid near. As Slider told him once, jokingly but closer to the truth than Mav would ever admit, Darkstar and test-piloting were merely coping mechanisms for keeping himself busy when Bradley was deployed.
They get to the hospital, and Bradley’s worried gaze when he sees the bruises all over his torso is enough to make Mav sit still and endure the endless poking and x-rays. They eventually let him go with braces that Mav is sure he won’t ever wear, but Bradley’s puppy dog eyes might just get him to suck it up for at least one night.
“Four bruised ribs, Mav? And a sprained ankle? Holy hell, how are you even standing?”
“Painkillers are a wonderful thing,” Mav quips, but that only makes Bradley pull over at a pharmacy to make sure they have all the doctor’s prescribed medicines and additional wraps for his ribs and ankle, which didn’t quite enjoy his landing from ejection or his trek back to civilization. All things considered, he had been very lucky. Just so long as he didn’t see the inside of a plane for at least three months, the doctor warned sternly, and Bradley profusely promised on his behalf, but Mav just thinned his lips in a neutral smile. There was no way he was staying out of a plane, not if this mission (and Bradley’s life) depended on him.
“It’s a mild sprain, sweetheart,” Mav protests later that night, when Bradley insists on following the care regimen the doctor gave–which, horror of horrors, involves Mav staying still.
“It’s still a sprain,” Bradley retorts sternly, making sure that both braces on Mav’s ankle and ribs are on properly, his ankle elevated on a couple of pillows, the compress wrapped around it with a towel. “And it’ll get better faster if you keep still. Good thing you’re back home, and they probably won’t call on you for some time if they know the results of your last test flight excursion.”
“I’ll have you know crashes are just as beneficial as landings for flight craft research,” Mav says lightly, letting Bradley’s (very wrong) assumption lie. His kid merely sighs worriedly. “I know, Mav. I just don’t like the fact that it’s you doing the crashing.”
“Hey, I’ll be okay,” Mav murmurs tenderly, pulling Bradley’s wrist to make the kid sit down beside him. “I’ll be okay, baby goose. I promise.” Bradley just sniffs and bends to lie down so that he curls up by Mav’s hip. Still sitting up, Mav smiles as he runs his hand repetitively through those unruly curls. Even cropped for the Navy, they still stuck up everywhere if Bradley’s hair wax let go. And if Mav had to guess, between landing in Virginia and flying to California and making a beeline for the Hard Deck, his kid must not have even had the time for a shower. Guilt spikes through him as he sees the tiredness in Bradley’s face, slowly relaxing by his side as his eyelids droop under Mav’s hand.
“Sweetheart?”
“Mmh?”
Mav hides a smile at Bradley’s sleepy mumbling. Still cute, even when he’s all grown up. “I need you to promise me something.”
That gets Bradley to blink his eyes open, and Mav knows his kid is barely conscious, but he’s endearingly trying to listen anyway.
“I need you to trust me,” Mav whispers, nervous, heart in his throat. “Even if–even if you might not agree with me. I need you to trust me.”
Bradley blinks, and yawns. “That’s it?” he asks sleepily. Mav raises his eyebrows and chuckles slightly. “Yeah, bud. You okay with that?”
He thought his curious child would’ve asked him for more details, the same way he always did—as a child figuring out the world (why is the sky blue, uncle Mav? why is the sun yellow? why can’t we actually fly like birds?), as a teenager figuring out his boundaries (what do you mean I can’t take the car, Dad? why can’t I drink yet? what harm would one cigarette do?) to a young adult finding his place in the world (why does the Navy do things this way, Mav? why do you do things that way? what if I do something different?).
“Mhmm,” Bradley agrees, his eyes already closing shut.
“You sure, kiddo?” Mav prods. “Trusting me, whatever I say?”
“Sure, Dad,” Bradley murmurs, eyes closed. “I’ll always trust you.” And then he snuggles closer to Mav’s side, and with a soft sigh of contentment, he’s asleep.
Mav marvels at the childlike trust, and his heart thumps harder as he thinks of the dangers he’ll have to subject his child to. Because even without seeing the whole squad’s performance, Mav knows in his bones that his kid is among the best of them—and with the way Cyclone defended him, he’s inclined to think that he and the admiral agree.
He keeps a hand in Bradley’s hair and listens to his kid’s breathing as he reclines on the pillows behind him, closing his eyes and riding through the pain of his bruised ribs.
They have tomorrow—they’ll take it one day at a time.
The next morning, they both get up early—but Bradley makes Mav promise to stay in bed.
“I received orders to report to Top Gun today,” Bradley informs him as he dashes around, getting ready as Mav watches, carefully maintaining a neutral tone. “It’s why I’m in California. I asked around to see who could come help while you can’t get on your feet. Uncle Slider replied saying that he’s busy, but he’ll see what he can do.”
Mav hums. “I don’t think he’s going to be much help,” he says honestly, because he’s already texted Slider separately to give exactly that kind of non-committal answer to Bradley, and to pull up at the house only after the Bronco left. Mav might be reckless but he’s not suicidal; riding a bike with his ankle and ribs would hurt like a bitch, and he’d very much like to reserve the inevitable pain for his day of teaching a bunch of kids how to fly a godforsaken mission. So, hitching a ride was really his next best bet.
Something holds him back from telling Bradley right then and there—something about Bradley’s mother goose instincts tells him that Bradley would tie him to the bed if he knew that Mav was planning to go to Top Gun.
So instead, he watches with no small amount of pride as Bradley dons his flight suit, his squadron patches sewn on the lapels. “I’ve got to go,” his kid says hurriedly, glancing at the clock and pressing a kiss onto Mav’s forehead. “Love you, Dad. Text me if you need anything and no one can drop by. I’ll make up some excuse to the CO and drive right back.”
”I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Mav says vaguely, even as the earnest promise sparks a warmth in his chest. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart.” He pushes himself upwards uselessly, wishing that he could get up quickly and make his kid some food. “Did you eat breakfast? I could’ve sworn there was some yogurt in the refrigerator or protein bars in the cupboard—“
Bradley shakes his head as he grabs his keys and heads out the door, waving as he goes. “No time. I’ll grab something from the mess if I arrive early enough. Bye, Mav! Text me!”
And then he’s gone, and Mav huffs to himself in the empty room as he pulls himself upright, slowly putting his legs on the floor, wincing as he stands, cataloguing the ache from his ribs and the twinge in his left ankle. He keeps his weight on the ball of his left foot as he glances at the clock. 0730.
He curses as he rushes to get dressed into his own flight suit, and emerges out of the bathroom to see Slider enter the house. “Was that Bradley? Damn, the baby goose got big.”
”You see him every Christmas,” Mav groans as he hobbles to his boots, slowly lacing them on. The tight support around his ankle helps some, but it’s still inconvenient.
“Still,” Slider shakes his head. “They grow up fast. I saw him on a boat a few months ago doing my inspections. Kid landed on the deck like he wrote the NATOPS.”
The praise makes Mav beam, forgetting his pains for a second. “That’s Bradley,” he grins. “Now, how fast can you drive, Vice Admiral Neven? I have an appointment at Top Gun.”
When Mav gets to the podium, the ache in his ankle and ribs a dull throb thanks to extra-strength painkillers, the look on Bradley’s face sends a sharp stab of guilt through his chest.
Sorry, sweetheart, he thinks apologetically. But there’s no way I’m letting you all go through this without me.
“Good morning.”
He gets a few respectful nods, but Bradley looks away from him rebelliously, and Mav catches a glimpse of a very familiar kind of anger on his kid’s face. It’s the same kind of protective anger that he saw yesterday, the same kind of anger that whisked him to the hospital because Bradley was adamant that someone had to care for Captain Pete Maverick Mitchell, and it certainly wasn’t going to be the Navy (certain admirals excluded). It’s the same kind of anger that teenage Bradley would wear as a mask to hide his worry whenever Mav came home on medical leave, battered and bruised all over and still insisting on making dinner. Hell, it’s the same kind of angry that Goose would be if Maverick pushed too hard, was too reckless, disregarded himself just a little bit too much, committed a stunt that was just a little too costly. Mav didn’t care for himself much, in the early days—Goose did.
And now, Bradley does. The anger on his son’s face is an anger borne out of intense care, and knowing that makes Bradley’s reaction hurt in an entirely different way.
Still, they both have a job to do. Mav takes a deep breath and holds up the thick booklet in his hand. “The F-18 NATOPS contains everything they want you to know about your aircraft. I’m assuming you know the book inside and out.”
He gets a few affirmations. Bradley stays sullenly silent. Mav had helped him review for his exams on the NATOPS, staying on video call in California while his kid was in Annapolis.
“Come on, kid,” Mav urged. “You know this one. Section 5, subsection B. What does it say about the correct angle of landing gear positioning?”
”Uh--45 degrees on approach.”
”Great!” Mav praised. “Now come on, go to sleep. Can’t take an exam on only two hours of shuteye, baby goose. Hell, I wouldn’t let you in a plane with the way you’re practically falling asleep on me.”
”Sorry,” Bradley yawned. “You’re right. Thanks, Dad. I owe you one.”
”My pleasure, sweetheart,” Mav said. “Rest well. Need a wake up call before your class?”
“Please,” Bradley said drowsily, already falling asleep with his phone tucked beside him. “I can’t miss this exam.”
Now, Mav throws the NATOPS into the trash can beside the podium. He looks up, and Bradley’s raising an eyebrow, reluctant interest mingling with the sparking anger in his eyes.
“Bradley! Bradley!”
He keeps walking.
“Rooster!”
Damn this kid.
“Lieutenant Bradshaw!”
And that’s what makes his kid turn around with a huff, aviators on and staring straight through Mav. “Yes, Sir?”
“Let’s not do it like this,” Mav pleads, and Bradley’s jaw clenches.
“You going to wash me out?”
“No,” Mav says quietly, not revealing what he had already tried to do. He’d failed, anyway—Bradley was already here. He should’ve known; making his kid’s decisions for him would never have turned out okay. “That would be up to you.”
Bradley stands stubbornly at attention, and Mav sighs. “I asked you to trust me,” he implores. “Please. Trust me now.”
“I do trust you, Mav,” Bradley states, taking off his aviators to look his dad in the eye. “It’s trusting you with your own welfare that’s the problem.”
Mav huffs. “You’ve been spending too much time with your uncles.”
“I’m serious, Mav,” Bradley begs, and Mav is struck by just how much his kid is serious—openly pleading to his commanding officer. “Your ribs–hell, your ankle! You shouldn’t even be walking!”
Mav softens. “Well, then it’s a good thing I’ll be flying instead,” he quips, sobering immediately when Bradley’s face twists into a grimace of frustration at his flippant reply. “I’ll be okay, baby goose,” he promises. “I’ll be just fine. But this mission—you all need to be ready. I have to get you ready. I can’t just teach from a chair. I won’t back out from this.”
Bradley exhales, rubbing a hand over his face before putting his aviators back on and standing back at attention. “Understood, sir,” he says neutrally. “Am I dismissed?”
Mav’s heart twists a little; they’d never crossed paths as commanding officer and squad member before. He didn’t expect it to sting quite as much.
“Get to your plane, Lieutenant,” he says with much effort. “I’ll see you up there.”