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1.
The first time it happens, Ice doesn’t even realize it’s directed at him.
It’s been seven days since Carole’s funeral. One day after Maverick left, reassigned to some nameless base in Europe with nothing but a duffel bag and a promise to call when he could.
And Bradley—sweet, shattered Bradley, with his too-big Hawaiian shirt and eyes that haven’t stopped looking lost since the hospital—is standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at his phone like it holds answers. Ice watches him from the table, newspaper spread in front of him, untouched. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to fix this.
Because that’s the thing, he can’t fix it.
Carole is dead.
Maverick is gone.
And Ice is all that’s left.
He should be better at this.
He’s known Goose since flight school, back when they were all still young and stupid. He’s loved Maverick for more than half his life, through deployments and dumb arguments and the kind of quiet, steady devotion that never needed words. And Carole—Carole, who looked at him like he was family even when he didn’t know how to be—had trusted him with Bradley more times than he can count.
But none of that matters now, because the truth is, Ice has never been good with this part.
Feelings. Comfort. The messy, aching reality of grief.
Slider had always been the one to throw an arm around his shoulders. Goose had laughed loud enough for all of them, gripping Ice’s wrist and including him in whatever they were talking about. Carole had kissed his cheek every time she saw him, her smile warm and knowing. And Maverick—Maverick, who wears his heart on his sleeve, who loves like it’s as easy as breathing—had always been the one to bridge the gaps Ice couldn’t.
Bradley is quiet, has been quiet for a week now.
Too quiet.
Ice makes sure he eats. Makes sure he sleeps. Washes his clothes, checks his homework, keeps the house running like it’s just another mission. But the silence between them is a living thing, heavy and suffocating, and every time Ice opens his mouth, he chokes on the words.
He wants Bradley to scream at him. Wants him to throw something, to blame him for Goose’s death, for Carole’s, for the fact that Maverick isn’t here when he should be.
(It should’ve been Ice. It always should’ve been Ice.)
But Bradley doesn’t.
He just sits there, small and lost in Goose’s old shirt, and Ice doesn’t know how to reach him.
The kid is waiting for him to do something, Ice has known him for so many years yet, he feels like a stranger.
(9 years and 8 months, not that anyone’s counting.)
(It’s easy to remember. The day Goose died was the day Bradley became his.)
Then, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy, Bradley glances up from his phone and says, “Oh, dad, I wanna go back to school Monday.”
Ice doesn’t react.
Because yeah, Bradley’s called Maverick “dad” for years now—or some ridiculous variation of it. Mavdad. Dadio. Dada .Whatever nonsense the kid comes up with when he’s feeling playful.
But Maverick isn’t here.
And when Ice looks up, Bradley is staring at him like he’s just realized what he’s said.
“Kid?”
“I’m—I’m sorry, it just slipped.”
Oh.
Oh.
Bradley wasn’t talking to Maverick.
Bradley was talking to him .
Bradley called him dad .
Ice’s chest cracks open.
He folds the newspaper carefully, hands as steady as a lie.
(Bradley doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring at his own trembling hands.)
“It’s okay,” Ice says, voice low.
Bradley’s eyes are wide, uncertain, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. And God, Ice is terrible at this. He doesn’t know how to do reassurance. Doesn’t know how to be soft.
But he tries.
Reaches out. Takes Bradley’s hand in his, rough calluses against trembling fingers.
“It’s okay, baby Goose,” he murmurs. “Call me whatever you want. Ice. Dad. Uncle Ice. Doesn’t matter.” A pause. “Just—whatever makes you happy.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Of course not. I thought you were on the phone with Maverick. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
He hopes it’s enough.
For a second, Bradley just stares at him.
Then, slowly, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, he smiles.
It’s the first real smile Ice has seen since the funeral.
(He doesn’t know about the promise Ice made to Carole.)
(Ice tries to memorize this moment anyway.)
And then Bradley moves, surging forward so fast Ice barely has time to brace before the kid is there, arms wrapped tight around his waist, face buried in his chest.
Ice freezes. (Ironic, yeah, fuck you.)
He doesn’t—God, he doesn’t know how to do this. His arms hover awkwardly, unsure where to land, before he finally settles them around Bradley’s shoulders, holding him like he’s something fragile.
(He’s not. Bradley is strong. Stronger than Ice has ever been.)
“Thank you, dad,” Bradley whispers, voice muffled against his shirt.
Ice swallows hard.
Ruffles his curls.
Tries not to fall apart.
(He fails at that too.)
Later, when Bradley is asleep and the house is silent, Ice locks himself in the bathroom and throws up until his ribs ache.
He doesn’t cry.
(Not much.)
But when he finally lifts his head, staring at his own reflection in the mirror, it hits him like a punch to the gut.
He’s a father now.
(Probably has been for a decade.)
He hopes to God he doesn’t fuck it up.
(He will.
He does.
Until one day, he doesn’t.)
-
2.
The second time it happens, Maverick is coming home after two months of deployment.
And things are—good.
Really good.
Ice and Bradley are closer than ever. The kid still wears Goose’s old shirts, still has Carole’s soft eyes and Maverick’s reckless grin, but now, when he laughs, it doesn’t sound like it’s breaking apart at the edges. Ice still doesn’t know how to do this—the hugs, the hair ruffles, the words—but he’s trying.
(He’s stopped throwing up at night.)
They have a routine now.
Ice goes to work. They talk—actually talk—about school, about flying, about the stupid shit Bradley’s friends did that week. They watch movies. They go to plays.
(They don’t talk about Ice’s promise. He doesn’t know how to tell Bradley.)
They sit through Bradley’s baseball games, and when other parents smile and say, “Your son’s so talented,” Ice doesn’t correct them.
He just stands a little taller and says, “Yeah. He’s the best.”
Because—
Ice is a dad .
And he fucking loves it.
He never thought he’d be a father.
For one, his tendencies (as the Navy so delicately put it) made it unlikely. Then there was the fact that his career came first—always. The mission. The sky. The next rank, the next assignment, the next win.
Tom “Iceman” Kazansky was meant to be an aviator. A lieutenant commander. An admiral, someday.
But a father?
No. That was never in the cards.
And yet—
Here he is.
Here they are.
And Ice loves it more than he ever thought possible.
He aches to hear Bradley call him dad again.
It happens when they’re arguing over dessert—brownies versus ice cream—and Bradley rolls his eyes and says, “Dad, you’re so difficult. I’m telling you, it should be ice cream on top of the brownies.”
They both freeze.
Ice’s breath catches.
He’s still so bad at this. Still doesn’t know how to react without making it weird.
But before either of them can say anything, the front door slams open, and Maverick is there , grinning like a maniac, still in his flight suit, smelling like jet fuel and home.
Bradley lights up like the sun, launching himself into Maverick’s arms with a shout, and Ice watches them, something warm and unnameable curling in his chest.
He was never supposed to have this.
A family.
A son .
But oh well.
Later—after they’ve eaten (ice cream on top of brownies, because Ice has never been good at telling Bradley no), after Bradley has disappeared into his room, after Ice has spent hours relearning the shape of Maverick’s body beneath his hands—he finally says it.
“Bradley called me dad.”
The words hang in the air between them.
Maverick’s hand stills in Ice’s hair. Ice holds his breath.
“Did he?” Maverick rasps, voice rough with something .
Ice nods. His throat won’t work.
Maverick smiles and presses a kiss to Ice’s temple. “You are,” he murmurs. “As much as I am.”
I’m not , Ice thinks. I was never supposed to be.
But he nods again anyway, burying his face in Maverick’s chest, letting the steady beat of his heart drown out the doubt.
(He’s a father now.)
(And he’s terrible at it.)
(But he’s learning.)
-
3.
The third time, it’s not even directed at him.
Bradley’s been calling him dad or pops every day since that second time—casual, easy, like it’s always been this way—but this is the first time Ice hears him say it to someone else.
He knows Bradley’s talking about him. Just not to him.
It’s Bradley’s last year of high school when Ice gets the call.
Fight. Principal’s office. Immediate presence requested.
It’s not the first time Bradley’s been in trouble. But it is the first time Ice is the one showing up—because Maverick’s down with the flu, feverish and miserable, and someone has to do it.
(It should’ve been Maverick. Maverick’s always been better at this—softer, quicker to laugh, slower to anger. Ice is all sharp edges and cold stares.)
He walks into the school like he’s stepping onto a carrier deck—posture rigid, jaw tight, expression unreadable. The admiral in him doesn’t falter. The father in him is vibrating beneath his ribs.
He’s outside the principal’s office when he hears it.
“He called my dad a faggot. My dad is a fucking admiral, you absolute dipshit—”
Warmth blooms in his chest like a detonation.
He’s an admiral, damn it. He doesn’t need an eighteen-year-old to defend him.
He doesn’t knock. Just pushes the door open and steps inside.
The scene is chaos. Bradley, fists clenched, looking seconds away from swinging again. The principal on his feet, red-faced. Another kid—bruised lip—slumped in a chair.
And then the other parents arrive, voices raised, indignation sharp in the air.
Ice doesn’t look at them. He looks at Bradley.
Bradley, who’s staring back at him like he’s waiting for the fallout.
Ice smiles.
Then he turns to the room, and his voice is Ice-cold.
“You lay a hand on my son again,” he says, staring down at the other kid until he flinches, “I’ll make sure you don’t have one left.”
The parents erupt. The principal looks like he wants to disappear.
Ice’s grin is all teeth. He locks eyes with the principal.
“I’m sure this school doesn’t want to be on the Navy’s bad side.”
There’s more yelling. Ice doesn’t care. He grabs Bradley’s backpack, jerks his chin toward the door, and they leave.
The hallway is quiet. Bradley’s breathing is still uneven when he whispers, “Thank you for coming pops.”
Ice ruffles his hair. Presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“You’re my son,” he says, simple as that.
Bradley looks at him like he’s just handed him the stars.
I was never supposed to be a father , Ice thinks.
But he is. It’s his greatest accomplishment.
-
The fourth time, Ice wishes Bradley hadn’t said it.
"Dad."
Just one word. Just that stupid, hopeful word, and Ice feels the ground drop out from under him.
Because he needed more time.
Just a little longer. Just until he could figure out how to say it—how to explain—without watching Bradley’s face crumple the way it’s crumpling now.
He was supposed to tell him. He was.
But—
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck .
Ice has faced down enemy pilots, stared death in the eye, made calls that cost lives—and none of it has ever terrified him like this.
Because this is Bradley. His son . The kid he held when he cried over scraped knees, the teenager he taught to shave, the young man whose picture sits framed on his desk at the Pentagon.
And Ice is about to break his heart.
"You're not enough."
The words land like a missile strike.
Ice doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s cold. Detached. The voice of a three-star admiral, not a father.
Maverick whips around to stare at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind.
Bradley—
Bradley looks like Ice just handed him a death sentence.
And Ice feels like he’s dying. Like his ribs are cracking open, like his lungs are filling with blood. But he straightens his posture. Lifts his chin.
(He’s good at this. At compartmentalizing. At locking the messy, screaming parts of himself away where they can’t do damage.)
(He has to be good at this.)
The silence is suffocating.
Bradley’s breath hitches. "What?"
Ice doesn’t flinch. "You heard me."
(He’s lying. He’s lying , and every word feels like glass in his throat.)
Maverick steps forward, hands shaking. "Ice—"
"You’re not ready," Ice continues, cutting him off. His voice doesn’t waver. "Not for this. Not for the Academy. Not for any of it."
Bradley’s face goes blank.
That’s worse than the tears. Worse than the yelling. Ice has seen Bradley angry, has seen him shattered,but this—this is nothing. Like someone flipped a switch and turned him off.
"Bradley—" Maverick starts, desperate.
Ice can see it—the exact moment Bradley decides he’s done. The moment he shuts down, locks himself away, just like Ice taught him.
(He taught him this. How to armor himself. How to survive.)
(He never wanted Bradley to use it against him.)
Bradley turns and walks out.
No screaming. No slamming doors. Just—quiet.
Maverick rounds on Ice the second the door clicks shut. "What the hell was that?"
Ice doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
His vision is blurring. His hands are shaking. He thinks he might throw up.
"Tom," Maverick snaps, grabbing his arm. "Look at me."
Ice does on autopilot. He spent years following orders.
Maverick’s eyes are wild. "You promised we’d tell him together. You promised—"
"I know," Ice grinds out.
"Then why—"
"Because if he hates someone," Ice says, voice breaking, "it has to be me."
Maverick is falling apart.
Ice doesn’t blame him.
I was never supposed to be his father , he thinks. But I am.
(Is he?)
-
5.
Ice never thought he'd hear it again.
Not after the decade of silence. Not after the bitterness that had settled like frost between them, sharp enough to cut. Not after the suicide mission that nearly took Bradley from him forever, or the awkward dinners that followed, where they'd all pretended the tension wasn't there.
Jake Seresin-Bradshaw still watches him with wary eyes, like he's waiting for Ice to fuck up again. And that's fine. Ice can take the heat of that gaze—has lived with it in his own reflection for years.
(He'd seen that same look in the mirror for years.)
Tonight is different.
The Daggers' laughter still echoes through the house as the others leave, until it's just the four of them: Maverick leaning back in his chair with that easy grin, Jake's arm slung over the back of Bradley's chair like a claim, and Ice—
Ice is memorizing the way the lamplight catches the gold in Bradley's curls. The way his fingers tap restlessly against the table. The way his throat works before he speaks, like he's steadying himself for impact.
Ice sees it the second Bradley takes Jake's hand, sees the way his throat works before he speaks—not to Maverick, not to Jake, but to him .
"We're going to be parents."
The words land like a bomb blast.
Ice doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Somewhere, Maverick makes a wounded, joyful noise, surging forward to pull Bradley into a hug, but Ice—
Ice is thirty years old again, standing in a too-quiet house with a too-small boy sobbing in his arms, begging for a mother who'll never come home.
He's forty, watching Bradley walk out the door with his Academy rejection letter crumpled in his fist.
He's fifty, standing on the deck of a carrier, watching his son's jet vanish into the horizon on a mission that might have killed them all.
Hours later, after the congratulations, after Maverick's teary embrace and Jake's awkward handshake, Bradley finds him on the porch.
"Can we talk?"
Ice follows without hesitation. Behind them, Maverick shoots him an encouraging smile while Jake visibly wrestles with the concept of not scowling at him for five consecutive seconds.
(Christ, that kid.)
Bradley braces his hands against the railing. The tattoos on his bicep flex—the same ones Ice had on his left bicep, they’d got it when Bradley turned seventeen, the same ones he now knows by heart, the coordinates of his parents' graves.
"I'll be a dad," he says, testing the words.
Ice doesn't hesitate. "You'll be wonderful."
And he means it. The man in front of him—a man, not the boy he failed, not the ghost he mourned—with his mother's kindness and his father's courage and that heart so damn big it forgave the unforgivable.
Bradley exhales shakily. "I don't know."
"You will be," Ice insists, admiral-steady. "You're a good man. You'll be an even better father."
The silence stretches. Crickets sing. Ice feels his head spin.
"Dad."
The world stops.
Ice's breath vanishes.
Bradley's eyes are wide, uncertain, like he's waiting for rejection.
"Dad," he repeats, softer. "I’m really scared.”
“I know.” Ice says, voice breaking.
"No, I mean—" Bradley runs a hand through his curls, "Christ, I don't know the first thing about being someone's dad."
The irony isn't lost on Ice. He huffs a laugh, dry as desert wind. "Neither did I."
Bradley shoots him a look. "You raised me."
"Badly," Ice says before he can stop himself.
Bradley's expression shutters. "That's not—"
"Bradley." Ice turns fully toward him. "Look at me."
Bradley does.
And shit, it’s his son , after all these years standing in front of him, asking him how to be a dad.
“You’ll be a wonderful dad.” he says.
“Dad,” Bradley says, his voice soft, “Will you help me?”
I was terrible at it , Ice thinks, I was never supposed to be a father.
He nods, doesn’t trust his voice but swallows and tries, “I was your age when I became a dad.”
Bradley's eyes glisten. His smile is small, tentative—the same one he wore at sixteen with skinned knees and too-big dreams.
"You were the best," he murmurs.
I was terrible at it. I was the worst.
“I tried.”
Bradley carefully sits next to him, takes a breathe in and rests his head on Ice’s shoulder.
Ice wants to throw up.
“I’m scared.”
And God, it's funny, isn't it? The great Bradley Bradshaw, fearless aviator, brought low by the same terror every parent knows. Ice huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to his curls.
"So was I."
Bradley's breath hitches. Ice ruffles his hair like he's thirteen again, like no time has passed at all.
I'm a father, he realizes, dumbstruck.
Even now. Even after everything.
(It's still the only title that ever mattered.)
-
+1
Alex Carole Bradshaw-Seresin is born on a Tuesday.
A perfect Tuesday, sun-warmed and blue-skied, the kind of day that makes you believe in miracles.
And from the moment they place her in Bradley's shaking arms, she owns them. All of them.
It takes approximately three seconds for Jake to dissolve into tears. Maverick isn't much better. Ice—well. Ice stands very still in the corner, gripping the back of a chair like it's the only thing keeping him upright, because if he moves, he might shatter.
They're good at this.
(Better than Ice ever was.)
Bradley, who changes diapers with the same precision he uses to pre-flight a jet. Who reads Goodnight Moon with dramatic voices until Alex shrieks with laughter. Who carries her in a sling during weekend errands, humming old 80s songs against her temple.
Jake, who paints her tiny nails sparkly blue to match Daddy's eyes. Who builds elaborate block towers just to let her knock them down. Who—when she wakes screaming from a nightmare—scoops her up and murmurs, "It's okay, darlin'. Daddy's got you," in a voice so tender it makes Ice's throat tight.
They were always supposed to be fathers, he thinks.
Maverick is a natural.
Of course he is.
He teaches Alex to make paper airplanes, folding them with careful creases. Lets her "help" in the garage, handing her plastic tools to "fix" his bike. Sneaks her ice cream when Jake isn't looking, grinning when she ends up sticky-faced and giggling.
Ice is—
He tries.
He reads reports with Alex curled asleep on his chest. Lets her "organize" his medals (which mostly involves her chewing on them). Memorizes the lyrics to Frozen because someone has to sing Let It Go with the proper dramatic flair.
(He cries the first time she calls him Pops. Bradley finds him in the study, red-eyed and pretending he wasn't just sobbing minutes ago. They don't talk about it. They don’t have to.)
The backyard is chaos. Cake. A miniature bounce house that Maverick definitely overinflated.
Ice stands near the dessert table, nursing a beer and watching the chaos. Alex is a whirlwind in a frilly yellow dress, her honey-brown curls bouncing as she tears through presents.
"Why don't you ask your Pops, baby?" Bradley says, pressing a kiss to her head.
Ice stops breathing.
Alex beams and toddles over, clutching an orange in her tiny hands. She holds it up to him like an offering.
"Help, Pops?"
Ice's vision blurs. He kneels, taking the orange with hands that aren't shaking. (They are.)
"Did you know," he says, carefully peeling it, "oranges help with the taste of jet fuel?"
Alex blinks up at him, "What's a jet and fuel, Pops?"
Ice laughs and kisses her forehead. When he looks up, Bradley is watching them, eyes wet.
Maverick pretends to be fascinated by a cloud. Jake busies himself with cake plates.
Pops.
It’s the greatest title he has ever owned.
(Better than COMPFLT.)
I was never supposed to be a father, he thinks, let alone a grandfather.
But here he is.
(He was always destined to be both.)