Chapter Text
Rooster is practicing maneuvers with three other pilots in his squadron when the call comes in.
The USS Kitty Hawk has been at sea for over a month now. They’re all itchy to take every moment they can to get off the deck and in the air instead, and after the third basketball flew overboard into the Pacific Ocean, Captain Fischer seems inclined to grant them the time.
The deployment is meant to be a routine one, filled with diplomatic stops and interspersed with practice drills. Rooster doesn’t expect his heart rate to climb higher than it does when he presses his F/A-18E Super Hornet to her fastest limits. But when his radio crackles unexpectedly, his heart skips a beat.
“Talons, this is Command. Search and rescue is needed immediately. Turn your noses due east; the Falcons and Tigertails will meet you shortly.”
Rooster’s eyes widen, and he can’t help the quick glance he shoots the crystal clear ocean water below. It’s not marred by green dye or the wreckage of an F-14 Tomcat, and his dad and godfather aren’t looking up at him from the waves. Still, when he grips his joystick and starts to guide his plane into position, he can’t help but feel four years old again.
Then he forces a breath out, and another, and lets his eyes track the other Super Hornets around him, and reminds himself that no one has flown a Tomcat for the US Navy since 2006, and his dad is already dead, and his godfather has been dead to him for fifteen years.
The four Super Hornets fly east in a diamond formation, Rooster at the righthand wing. It doesn’t take long before one of the Golden Falcon squadron MH-60S Seahawks joins them, with one of the E-2D Hawkeyes in the Tigertail squadron right behind it.
The Talons in Rooster’s Eagle squadron drift farther apart, still in diamond formation, to let the Seahawk and Hawkeye fly at their center.
The Hawkeye plane stands out in any crowd, with the giant disk attached to its top, but its electrical systems make it a top-notch search and rescue addition. The Seahawk is the necessary aircraft, though: A helicopter with space for ten people, it no doubt launched with medical personnel inside.
Rooster and the other Super Hornet pilots are the unnecessary ones in the bunch, with limited ability to spot anyone in the water, and entirely unable to then rescue them. If they hadn’t already been airborne, Rooster knows they likely wouldn’t have left the carrier.
As they keep flying east, he focuses on the information being passed between Command, the Seahawk, the Hawkeye, and his own squadron leader. There’s not much, because a lot of the actual information is confidential. In fact, the only real thing they’re being told is that a Navy pilot ejected just west of Hawaii, the Kitty Hawk is the closest carrier, and their job is to find the pilot and bring him home.
Despite being the closest carrier, there’s still long miles of ocean between the Kitty Hawk and the pilot. Rooster stares out at the horizon as they fly, wondering what the pilot was doing away from an aircraft carrier or base in the first place, that he needed some other carrier to come in and find him.
Then the Hawkeye’s pilot comes on the radio. “Command, approaching the ejection zone now. Talons, Falcon, keep your eyes peeled.”
“Copy that, Tigertail,” the Seahawk pilot says. The Seahawk and Hawkeye, helicopter and airborne control, keep flying straight. The four Super Hornets, with only a pair of eyes each in their cockpits, spread out more, tilting their wings to the side to lean over and scan ocean water for a hint of green.
Rooster wonders how long the pilot was in the water before their base figured out enough of an approximate ejection point to send search and rescue. His dad, he knows, was in the water for two hours. Maverick held his dad above the water for two hours.
He hopes it hasn’t been that long for this pilot. It’s been about thirty minutes since Command first rerouted Rooster’s squadron.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
They’re inching closer to the forty-five minute mark when Rooster’s radio crackles on, and the Hawkeye pilot says, “Command, we’ve found him. Golden Falcon is bringing him up now. Talons, you can close in.”
Rooster sighs, closes his eyes against the bright blue ocean water for a moment, and then opens them, pressing his palm against the joystick to guide the Super Hornet’s nose around. For all that they spread out to search, the Talons didn’t go far from their formation’s center, and the Seahawk is still hovering close to the water when Rooster arrives.
Green dye mixes with the water about fifty yards from the helicopter, and in the churning ocean under the whipping blades, a small black and gray form clings to the tell-tale orange of the search and rescue officer. Even as Rooster watches, the wire from the Seahawk begins to wind up, pulling the two figures from the water.
The black and gray figure is moving, Rooster thinks. At the very least, his head is upright, and he’s not being pulled up by himself.
Rooster remembers being ten years old, hiding on the stairs at two in the morning, listening to Maverick tell his mom through sobbing breaths about having to watch Goose’s limp form go into the air alone.
This is not that, Rooster tells himself, and guides his plane back to the Kitty Hawk at his squadron leader’s command.
The Super Hornets reach the Kitty Hawk quickly, eager to land after the practice maneuvers paired with unexpected search and rescue drained their fuel, and also to get out of the way of the incoming, potentially-injured pilot. They fly faster than the Seahawks can—much, much faster—so despite there being four of them, Rooster is on the deck, completing his post-flight checks, when the last of his squadron lands and the Seahawk and Hawkeye come into sight.
For a moment, Rooster lingers by his plane—and then the remaining anxieties brought on by the short mission propel him forward.
He just needs a glimpse of the pilot, he tells himself. Just a glimpse, to make sure that he’s ok and that he’s not anyone he knows.
Rooster stops by the hatch leading to below deck, and waves his other squadron members on when they slow with concerned looks.
Phoenix is in San Diego, he reminds himself. So are Fanboy and Payback. Hangman, for all he dislikes the other pilot, is in Virginia. Coyote somehow landed a tour in Italy. Halo and Omaha are in Florida, with the Navy unwilling to put Phoenix and Halo even on the same coast after their explosive team-up as pilot and WSO. The only other pilot Rooster would consider himself close to is—
A pair of green-shirted flight crew haul the Seahawk’s doors open, and two white-shirted corpsmen, red crosses on their helmets, rush forward to greet the people coming out. First is a pair of Golden Falcons, who turn and hold their hands up.
The person they help, their hands on his elbows, is bent over, dark hair covering his face, but he’s dressed in the same black and gray as the person they pulled from the water. The outfit is clearly a flight suit, though not one Rooster has seen before, and even from yards away Rooster can make out the silver captain’s eagle on the pilot’s shoulder.
The Golden Falcons leverage the pilot down, then swing his arms around their shoulders. The pilot looks up, nodding at the corpsmen, and then he looks past them to Rooster and his face goes pale.
Rooster doesn’t blame him. Not when he knows his own face just did the same thing, all the blood draining the moment he recognized Maverick.
Maverick. It was Maverick the whole time. When Rooster flew out with the other Talons, hell, when he was doing practice maneuvers with them, Maverick was ejecting from a plane into the Pacific Ocean.
He was looking for Maverick this whole time. The figure he watched the Golden Falcons pull from the water, the figure being helped over to him now, was Maverick.
“Rooster,” Maverick says, voice hoarse, no doubt from however long he waited under the hot sun to be rescued. Did he think of Goose while he did? Did he think of Rooster?
Rooster opens his mouth, but it’s dry. He licks his lips, and it’s not enough. He shakes his head, eyes the open hatch, and goes below deck.
Behind him, there’s the slow clanging sound of someone unsteadily but surely climbing down the ladder. But Rooster moves faster, and Maverick doesn’t catch up.
There’s no one in Rooster’s quarters when he gets there, his roommates no doubt busy with debriefs or other work. Rooster himself should be reporting to Captain Fischer for his own debrief.
But Rooster’s mind is a whirlwind, caught in the same flat spin that killed his dad, pinned beside his godfather.
Maverick had to eject. Why? Is he hurt? He had to be helped out of the helicopter, and he hadn’t tried to walk on his own. Last Rooster knew, Maverick was stateside in THIRD Fleet territory, so what is he doing in the Pacific being picked up by a SEVENTH Fleet carrier? What is he doing near Rooster? All the details are confidential, too high up for Rooster’s lieutenant status; is the Navy still sending Maverick on impossible missions? Hadn’t Iceman put a stop to that? Is Maverick hurt?
Rooster presses the heels of his hands to his eyes till he sees stars, then tears his hands away and stares out the porthole at the setting sun.
That’s what it comes down to, in the end. Maverick’s health. Rooster doesn’t want his godfather in his life anymore; he made that clear fifteen years ago and stuck to his choice.
That doesn’t mean he wants Maverick dead.
Anger flares in Rooster’s chest, hot and heavy and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t know who the anger is at. Maverick, for daring to eject where Rooster had to see the aftermath? The Navy and Iceman, for not taking proper care of Maverick? Himself, for not being able to put Maverick out of his mind?
Rooster turns on his heel and sets out into the passageway, closing the door to his quarters behind him. He’ll make sure Maverick is ok. Then he’ll leave his godfather behind again—this time for good.
The door to medical is watertight, and sound of the handle mechanisms and the door opening invades the otherwise quiet space with a heavy clang, making Rooster wince as he steps through the doorway and over the steel knee-knocker in his way.
Medical, like every space on an aircraft carrier, is a tight, efficient space. There’s a counter with a corpsman flipping through paperwork, a wall of locked cabinets, and three curtained-off bunks. Two of the bunk curtains are open.
The third is closed.
Swallowing, then grimacing at his dry throat, Rooster steps up to the counter. The corpsman looks up at him with a raised brow, eyes flicking down and then back up again, making Rooster acutely aware of the fact he hasn’t changed out of his flight suit yet, or even pulled any of the gear on top of it off, despite the fact he landed over an hour before.
Rooster has a mustache and often wears Hawaiian shirts, though. If there’s anything he’s used to doing, it’s shrugging off people’s weird looks at his clothing choices.
“I’m here to see Captain Mitchell,” he says.
“Name and relation?” the corpsman asks.
“Lieutenant Bradshaw,” Rooster says. “I’m, uh—” Is he still listed as Maverick’s next-of-kin? What if he doesn’t want to see Rooster? He practically ran away from him not too long ago, let alone the fifteen years of silence—
The ring of a curtain being pulled back fills the space, and Rooster and the corpsman both look over to see Maverick standing there, eyes wide and flight suit around his waist. His chest is bare but for a few white medical patches dotted here and there.
“Captain Mitchell!” the corpsman says, but Rooster ignores him, already rushing over to catch his godfather by the shoulders as the man tries to stumble forward.
“Whoa, Mav,” Rooster says, backing him up with a gentle shove. He’s all too aware of the purple-black bruises that line Maverick’s shoulders and chest like tattoos. But Maverick goes easily where Rooster puts him, that stunned look still on his face and hands coming up to gently circle Rooster’s wrists.
“You’re here,” Maverick says. Rooster ducks his head, and can’t help but look his godfather in his eyes.
“I’m here,” Rooster says.
The back of Maverick’s knees hit the bunk behind him, and he sits with a thump, like he doesn’t have the strength to stand anymore. Rooster isn’t sure if he’s that tired and hurt, or if it’s an emotional weakness.
He’s not sure which would be worse.
Rooster’s hands are still on Maverick’s shoulders, and with Maverick sitting now, his arms come up by the man’s head. Maverick hasn’t taken his hands away from Rooster’s wrists either, and while Rooster had no intention of doing more than making sure Maverick was ok before leaving, he can’t bring himself to walk away when Maverick leans his head against Rooster’s forearm and looks up at him.
“It’s good to see you, Bradley,” Maverick says.
Despite himself, despite everything, it isn’t a lie when Rooster says, “It’s good to see you too.”
He pulls his wrists gently from Maverick’s hands and sits beside his godfather on the bunk, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him into his side.
The last time Rooster was this close to Maverick, he was eighteen years old and taller than his godfather, and still growing. Now, even sitting, he towers over the other pilot.
Maverick doesn’t shrink away. He sinks into Rooster’s side with a sigh, resting his weight there like a ship seeking shelter from a storm—like he has no doubt Rooster can be that shelter.
Rooster takes a shuddering breath and looks away. The corpsman looks back, freezing in the middle of pulling the curtain back around Maverick’s bunk, but after a moment finishes the action.
Rooster and Maverick are alone.
Rooster looks back to Maverick, and finds the man’s eyes have slipped closed and his breathing steadied. He hasn’t reached that whistling snore he always lets out, though, so he’s not asleep yet.
“What are you doing here, Mav?” Rooster whispers, and Maverick’s eyes open as he sits up to look at Rooster.
“I can’t tell you that, Bradley. You know that.”
Rooster snorts, but nods. “Yeah, I know.” Better than he did as a kid, when all he knew was that Uncle Mav kept coming home with more bruises and more nightmares, and refused to tell Bradley anything that would let him help.
Navy missions that are classified are classified for a reason. Without security clearance, there’s no knowing—whether you’re a kid or another pilot.
But Rooster had to try.
“Where are you going next, then?” he asks.
Maverick shrugs, wincing when the motion pulls at his bruises. “Your captain passed on orders from Ice. I fly to TOPGUN in the morning.”
“You’re teaching again?”
Maverick laughs, just a small sound, and Rooster purses his lips. “Yeah, I know. Thought the Navy learned better last time.”
“You mean the Navy didn’t like your methods. Doesn’t mean they were right.”
Maverick’s eyes widen for a second, then settle into something soft. “You mean that?”
Rooster shrugs his free shoulder, then nods. “I always wanted to fly with you, Mav. It was my dream, before…”
Before Maverick took that dream and put it in the shredder with Rooster’s academy application.
At the reminder of everything between them still, Rooster pulls away from his godfather and stands, fingers clenched into fists by his legs. In his wake, Maverick lists to the side.
For a moment, Rooster thinks Maverick looks mournful, face drawn and creased with old age—and then Maverick straightens up, captain’s mask sliding into place. For all Maverick has never earned an admiral’s star, he’s still an officer, used to commanding respect from lieutenants like Rooster.
Even when his captain’s eagle is down around his waist with the rest of his flight suit.
Even when the lieutenant is his godson.
“I’ll see you around, Mav,” Rooster says, and flees the room before he can say something he’ll regret.
If Maverick tries to follow him again, Rooster moves too fast to see him.
That night, when Rooster finally reports for his debriefing, Captain Fischer hands him new orders to report to TOPGUN. He doesn’t sleep, turning over and over in his bunk.
The next morning, when Rooster boards the helicopter taking him and Maverick stateside, he avoids looking his godfather in the face. It’s as much so he can ignore Maverick’s red eyes as it is so he can hide his own.
Whatever Ice has planned for them, it better be one hell of a mission.