Work Text:
“Alright lieutenants,” Mav says. “Good work today. You’re all dismissed.”
The younger pilots fall out of formation with a few relieved grunts. Mav worked them to the bone today; once in a while, he takes Ice up on his offer to do a few training hops on different bases. It’s not as big of a commitment as full-time Top Gun teaching, so Mav still finds it doable.
He’s in the middle of sending off some of the pilots who approached him for some end-of-class notes when he hears something that makes his spine stiffen.
“Hey, did ya hear what happened to Bradshaw?”
“What, the academy kid? No. He was supposed to be on patrol with me this morning. Never showed up.”
“Yeah, apparently the poor kid collapsed on the tarmac today.”
Mav feels his heart beat faster and faster. He’d tried, over the years, to get tabs on Bradley through the ‘86 class; they did what they could, but over time Mav sensed that they were giving him less and less, as Bradley joined the Academy and joined their ranks. He let it be, reasoning that if this was a way for Bradley’s uncles to stay in his life, he wouldn’t destroy it. He wouldn’t break Bradley’s trust in them and take another thing away.
And so he lived on hints and stories on the wind. But now? Here?
Bradley’s here?
“E-excuse me, Lieutenant,” Mav calls, throat suddenly dry. The younger pilot turns around. “Sir?”
“Bradshaw,” Mav manages. “Where–is he okay?”
The lieutenants exchange looks. “Last I heard he was on his way to medical,” one of them shrugs. “Are you family, sir?”
Yes.
No.
I don’t know anymore.
“I knew his parents,” Mav finally says. “Thank you, lieutenant. I think I’ll drop by.”
Mav practically runs into the medical building on base. This isn’t Miramar; he isn’t known by the nurses and hospital staff, so he gets quite a few looks. With no familiarity of the place, he’s forced to slow his stride and walk up to reception.
“I’m here for Bradley Bradshaw,” he says impatiently, waiting as the nurse on duty looks him up and down. “Relation?” she asks, pen poised on her clipboard.
Mav freezes.
“Sir?” she prods, irritated. “Any relation?”
“Um–I’m his godfather,” Mav says lamely. She hums and puts her clipboard down to tap at her computer–presumably Bradley’s file. “Name?”
“Pete Mitchell.”
She makes a tsking sound. “Sorry, sir, I don’t have you here on the NOK list. Mr. Bradshaw’s current NOK is his commanding faculty at the academy.”
Mav’s heart falls and shatters. He knew–he suspected, that Bradley actually didn’t want anything at all to do with him anymore, to the point of–he never got any emergency calls. He always chalked it up to Bradley being safe and well, but now he wonders.
“Please,” he begs, “please. I have to see him–some lieutenants said he collapsed?”
The nurse eyes him for a minute, and something in Mav’s expression must convince her because she sighs and makes a note on her clipboard. “I can sign you in as a visitor,” she says, “but visiting hours are only until six pm, and as you are not an NOK, no medical information on the patient can be released to you. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, ma’am,” Mav says, practically shaking with the need to see his son . He takes a glance at the clock–five thirty. He’s got barely thirty minutes.
“You’re in luck,” she says. “We got him into a single room because what he has is viral–you might want to mask up before you go in.” She hands him a disposable mask from the container on her desk. “Room 308.”
Mav knocks before going in, his heart beating double-time. The room’s lights are dimmed, and the small bundle on the bed is turned away from him.
Bradley.
Mav takes slow steps, and as he gets closer he can see the bundle shivering. Chills, his mind supplies. Bradley always used to get sick so badly–for most of the year, his kid had a great immune system, but once a virus got him, it got him bad.
Mav’s heart clenches as he tries to imagine how many times his kid has gotten sick in the last five years—and he wasn’t there.
He’s here now, and even if Bradley gets him thrown out in the next few minutes, he’s going to try to help.
He opens the small cabinet in the room and takes out the extra blanket, slowly rounding the bed and shaking it out over his kid. He can finally see Bradley’s face–his eyes are twisted shut in pain, his mouth open and slack, skin clammy and pale. This close, Mav can feel the heat radiating off of him from the fever; he winces and takes off the extra blanket he just put on, keeping it confined to Bradley’s feet instead to make sure he doesn’t overheat. There’s an IV in one of his hands and a ready vomit pail by the bed–still unused, although by the way his kid is involuntarily gulping in his fevered sleep, that won’t be the case for long.
He can barely contain himself—he’s sure the nurses must have looked at Bradley and given him some medicine, but if this truly was viral then they would probably tell him to ride it out, except for the IV to avoid dehydration and possible fever medicine if it truly got too high. God, Mav remembers rushing Bradley to the ER once, all because of a fever. His kid used to get terrible fevers. All things considered, he’s glad Bradley’s being monitored here and not told to go home and take care of it in the barracks. Likely they’d want to contain the spread of something viral on base.
And that’s when Mav hears the sound of retching, and he barely snatches up the pail in time before Bradley sits up and heaves. Mav moves by instinct, by muscle memory, by five years of not being able to care for his kid.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, “let it out. That’s it.”
It takes a few minutes. He winces in sympathy as Bradley resorts to dry heaving by the end of it, panting and with tears in his eyes. He hasn’t looked directly at Mav yet.
There’s a tumbler of water and a packet of tissue by the bed. Mav pours out a cup and holds it to his kid’s cracked lips. “Here,” he says softly. “Drink some water. It’ll make you feel better.”
Bradley obeys, drinking half of the cup. Mav takes some of the tissue and gently, gently wipes his kid’s mouth, making sure no vomit residue remains. Bradley just lets him, eyes still screwed shut in uncomfortable pain as he lays back down on the pillows.
Mav moves away the pail discreetly and heads to the bathroom to rinse it out, spraying on some disinfectant before he dries it and brings it back to Bradley’s bedside.
And that’s the moment Bradley chooses to crack his eyes open halfway. “Thanks,” he croaks out, and Mav spares a second to admire how good his kid is–almost out of his mind with fever and he still remembers the manners Carole taught him.
“No problem, sweetheart,” he replies without thinking, and immediately regrets it when Bradley freezes.
“Mav?”
His dad’s here?
Bradley immediately sits up, his joints aching from the fever, his eyes hot and fever-bright. The new nurse in his room is wearing a mask, but those aren’t scrubs–
“Hi, Bradley,” the nurse says, and there’s a hesitant look in his eyes, but that isn’t a nurse, Bradley would know that voice anywhere–
He reaches out weakly, and the other man comes closer, arms outstretched, and Bradley just about collapses into them and begins to cry. He buries his face in the shirt–jet fuel and fire, and the aftershave that he knows Mav never stopped buying because Nick Bradshaw used it too.
The tears leak out before he can stop them, and Bradley doesn’t even know why he’s crying—he’s exhausted, with not a drop of energy in his body, and all he can think is that his dad’s here.
“ Dad,” he whimpers, and the arms around him hold on tighter, one hand coming up to cradle his head and stroke through his hair, and the gentleness triggers another round of tears.
He had told himself he could do this; he’s in his twenties, for Christ’s sake, he should be able to handle a bit of sickness on his own – even if it felt incredibly lonely. It was less than ideal being sick on base rotation, he only had a few weeks here and he was determined to get back on his feet and learn everything he can before they rotated them back to the academy. His stomach had been aching but he had taken an antacid and popped a Dayquil before patrol and convinced himself it was fine, he was fine— and then the next thing he knew, he was flat on the tarmac and burning from the fever.
He’s still shaking from the chills, and his joints ache so badly he’d like to cut off all his limbs. Mav’s other hand is stroking up and down his spine. It feels nice; Mav’s always felt warm. Is he dreaming?
A soft wry chuckle echoes above him. “No, you’re not, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. It’s been so long—
“I’m here, baby goose,” Mav whispers above him, and Bradley feels a tender kiss placed in his hair. It makes him feel more fragile than usual, because he knows deep inside him that he’s supposed to be angry—
—but he wants this. He’s missed this. He can’t–he can’t do this alone, and there’s not much pride left in his worn out body.
“What do you need?” Mav says softly, and he’s letting go to bend down and look Bradley in the eye– he’s taken off his mask, he shouldn’t do that, Bradley doesn’t want to infect him— and his dad looks older, there are wrinkles that Bradley’s hasn’t seen before, bits of gray at the temples. Has five years really been that long?
Bradley shakes his head, and immediately regrets it because the headache brewing at the back of his skull suddenly lances through his whole head. He screws his eyes shut and dives forward into the crook of his dad’s neck and shoulder. “Jus’ want you, dad,” he mumbles with much effort, vulnerable and begging. He’ll blame it on the fever later, this sudden weakness that sweeps away five years of anger and hurt. He can’t— he can’t do this …
A hand comes up to cradle his head again oh-so-gently, tenderly massaging the nape of his neck, and Bradley must be imagining it because it feels like his headache just about disappears.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” he hears Mav repeat, and it jolts just enough energy in his arms to cling weakly onto his dad’s shirt—if this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up. “I’ve got you now. It’s okay, baby–you’ll feel better soon, alright? It’s okay.”
And Bradley–angry, pained, weak, frustrated, lost–he believes it.
Mav’s heart just about tears apart when he sees how weak Bradley is, and the way his kid reaches for him anyway.
It’s the fever, Maverick tells himself. It won’t last, but he’s overjoyed to be here at all.
The last time he saw Bradley, his kid had stormed out of their house with a declaration not to contact him, not to go after him. To see him and hold him again after five years, in this state—it takes everything in Mav to not be the one to break down in tears.
Instead, he focuses on holding his boy. He’s not a boy anymore, not really–Bradley’s twenty-three now, god, a whole adult. He’s grown a mustache that makes Mav’s chest squeeze at its familiarity, and his shoulders have grown broader, he’s grown taller. His childish curls have lengthened into waves now, cropped short for the Navy, and Mav is so afraid that he won’t recognize this stranger—but it’s still his kid. It’s still Bradley, Bradley who is now shaking and feverish and wanting him, and Mav wants to give him everything, kiss it all better like he used to when Bradley came crying to him with a scraped knee.
There’s a knock on the door, and the nurse from reception pokes her head in. “Visiting hours are over,” she says brusquely.
Bradley pulls back and his eyes widen as he looks from the nurse to Mav. “Please don’t go,” he begs, and Mav’s heart cracks all over again. He looks at the nurse helplessly, who purses her lips. “Sorry, love,” she says. “No exceptions.”
Bradley clings tighter, curling a weak arm over Mav’s arm and practically pulling him down to the bed. Mav grunts softly as he bows over, throwing another helpless look to the nurse. “He’s my dad,” Bradley sniffs, almost childishly. “He can’t go.”
The nurse does a double take. “Mr. Bradshaw, he isn’t on your NOK list.”
Several conflicted emotions flash over Bradley’s face as Mav watches quietly, unsure where he stands. All he knows is that his kid’s arm is clinging onto his, like he did the first day of elementary school, scared of a new school and a new environment. All he knows is that he isn’t going to be the first one to pull away.
“He is now,” Bradley rasps out, and there’s a slight flush to his cheeks that Mav thinks might equally be from the fever or from shame. “I want to update it.”
The nurse looks from Bradley to him, and Mav just shrugs but looks back at her hopefully, and then she just sighs. “You Navy,” she clicks her tongue. “I’ll do that updating for you, Mr. Bradshaw. Seeing as he’s your NOK, he can stay past visiting hours.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bradley croaks, and Mav wordlessly hands him the rest of the cup of water, which he gulps down immediately.
The nurse just shakes her head as she closes the door, and Bradley ducks his head away from Mav—although Mav can’t help but notice that his hand is still clinging onto Mav’s arm.
“I’m sorry,” Bradley mumbles, and Mav just shakes his head. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss onto those sweaty waves. “It’s alright. I’m just glad I’m here now.”
Mav gingerly sits halfway on the bed to relieve his aching back from bending over, and he gets the biggest shock of his life when Bradley makes a small noise and curls further into his side. He presses a kiss into his kid’s sweaty hair and wraps an arm around him. “I’m sorry,” Bradley mumbles again, muffled by the way he’s curled under Mav’s arm.
Mav closes his eyes and just rests his cheek on top of his kid’s head. “It’s okay, dearest.”
Bradley’s warmth against his side gives him a little courage. “I hope I haven’t missed out on any NOK calls?” Mav asks lightly, praying with all his heart that his precious child has been safe and well, for all those years that he hadn’t been there to keep him safe.
Bradley stiffens a little, and Mav immediately regrets it—
—but then his kid relaxes further into his side, clinging. “Don’t be mad.”
And now Mav has to blink the tears out of his eyes, because when was the last time he’s heard that?
“Don’t be mad, uncle Mav,” his ten-year-old would say, tearfully hiding a failed science test behind his back.
“Don’t be mad, dad,” his sixteen-year-old would say, eyes darting and scared, the Bronco’s keys clutched tight in one hand.
“Don’t be mad, Mav,” his seventeen-year-old said, once, for the last time before leaving, beaming but somehow nervous, his Navy Academy application in his hands, ready to be sent in.
“Just tell me, kiddo,” Mav says now, an echo of years gone by, tentative and nervous to know if his kid remembers how this used to go.
“ Just tell me, kiddo,” he used to say. “You know I love you anyway.”
All is silent in the room for a handful of minutes, and Mav is content to listen to his kid breathing.
“I was in a car accident once,” Bradley whispers finally, low enough that Mav has to strain to hear it, ducking his head down to look at his kid. Bradley keeps his gaze lowered, even as Mav’s arms tighten instinctively around him in shock.
“I—I wasn’t driving. We went to a college party, and we didn’t know our designated driver got a few drinks in.”
Mav holds his breath, his heart rate spiking.
“I–I was in the front seat. Airbag blew open. Hit my head on the window.”
“ Oh ,” Mav swallows a gasp, shudders, immediately running a hand through his kid’s hair, fingertips searching for scars. “Oh.”
It’s the only thing he can say, suddenly terrified, deathly scenario after scenario running in his head a mile a minute, imagining—
“Don’t be mad,” his kid says again, finally angling his head up to meet his eyes, pleading. Mav just holds him closer. “I’m not,” he struggles to say, pressing another kiss on that brow, blinking away the image of blood and shattered glass and broken skin and bone that superimposes itself over his child, his kid, his baby—
“I love you,” he says, desperately, cradling Bradley’s head closer, pressing multiple kisses into his hair. “I love you. I’m so glad you’re okay, sweetheart.”
I wish I was there.
“I would’ve come,” he says quickly. “I would have. You have to know that.”
And Bradley is riddled with guilt, pitying his past self that didn’t have his dad when he woke up, sore and bruised and hurting, in the middle of the night in a hospital he didn’t know. “I know,” he says quietly, because he does, even as he’s tried to convince himself that he didn’t care. “I know. I–I’m glad you’re here now.”
Another kiss on his forehead is his only reply as his dad holds him closer, and when Bradley sneaks another glance, he sees Mav’s lips moving silently in sorrowed relief, eyes screwed shut as he cradles Bradley close.
Bradley vomits twice more during the night, and the second time it comes up clear. Mav winces as his kid starts crying softly from the pain of his stomach convulsing.
“H–hurts,” Bradley whimpers, and the sound cracks Mav’s heart in two.
“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” he shushes, rocking Bradley back and forth. “I’m sorry.”
Bradley used to be small enough that he’d wrap him in a blanket and hold him whenever he got sick–Carole and he would usually take turns, but if he was on leave and she had a shift the next morning, he’d usually take Bradley for the whole night. Bradley would still fit on his lap, and he’d hold him throughout the night, monitor his temperature, wake him for his medicine. It’s been a while since he got to hold his sick kid; and Mav wishes it happened under better circumstances, but he’s secretly infinitely grateful for this chance.
Pail cleaned and dried for the third time, he washes his hands and gingerly moves closer to his son–he really can’t bear the sight of his kid curled up and in pain, shivering from the chills.
He gets in the bed, throwing a hail Mary for his immune system to hold up–it always did, when it was Bradley he was taking care of. Carole used to say that being a parent gave them superpowers.
Bradley’s curled away from him, still shivering through gritted teeth yet furnace-warm. Mav gets in behind him and curls an arm over his shoulder slowly–
–and that’s when Bradley turns quickly to burrow into his chest, chasing his warmth the way he did when he could still fit into Mav’s lap, his teeth still slightly chattering from the chills.
“Okay, okay, baby goose,” Mav can’t help but chuckle, throwing an arm over his kid to pull him in closer, pulling up the blanket loosely over those grown shoulders. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”
He runs a hand up and down Bradley’s back, despairing at the thought of not having a change of clothes for his kid–his shirt is soaked through.
“Think you’re gonna need a change of clothes soon, kiddo,” Mav says softly as he checks the time–0132. Not a lot of people he can call at this hour, on this unfamiliar base. “Can you tell me your barracks room? I’ll be quick, just in and out–”
Bradley shakes his head, fisting his hand in Mav’s shirt. Mav’s grateful he at least had the presence of mind to change out of his flight suit before rushing over. “Don’ want you to go.”
Mav softens. “Okay, kiddo. What say I just ask the nurse for a gown, hmm? Get you out of these sweaty clothes.”
Bradley reluctantly nods, and Mav carefully extricates himself from his boy’s octopus hold before making a beeline for the first nurse he comes across. Given the slow hour, the hospital gowns come fairly quickly.
“I’m not taking off my pants,” Bradley says adamantly, and Mav swallows his chuckle to spare his kid the embarrassment. “Sure, bud. Just the top. I don’t like you having to sleep in that–it’s practically soaked. Want me to give you a sponge bath? You’ll feel better, I promise.”
Bradley wants to say no, wants to pull away—but what can he do? He’s the weakest he’s ever felt, and a sponge bath sounds amazing. He nods shyly, and the genuine care in his dad’s eyes throws him for a loop. That Mav would still do this, would still want to care for him, even after pulling his papers, even after Bradley left— none of his old reasons are making sense.
Helping Bradley change is slow work—it tugs at Mav’s heartstrings to see his kid so weak. By the time he gets the shirt off, a new sheen of sweat has beaded over his kid’s forehead. He makes quick work of the sponge bath over his kid’s torso–lukewarm water, to help bring the fever down.
By the time the bath is done and the gown is on, Bradley looks exhausted as he lays back down. “Thanks,” he rasps out, and Mav smiles, bending down to place a tender kiss on his son’s forehead. “Anytime, dearest.”
It’s soft, and it’s warm, and it’s everything Bradley missed and tried to convince himself he didn’t need—everything he’s wanted more than anything for the past five years. But the memory of his papers resurfaces, and it must be the fever (Bradley blames it, anyway) because he can’t feel the anger anymore—confusion is left in its wake.
“Why?” his kid asks, just as Mav is cleaning up. Mav stiffens, and closes his eyes in anticipation. This is it.
“Why what?” he replies mildly.
“Why are you doing this,” Bradley continues, and Mav looks up in surprise to see his kid staring at him, eyes glassy. “Why—I don’t…I thought you didn’t want me…”
Mav drops the sponge. “What.”
“My papers,” Bradley chokes out. “I thought–you always flew with me, told me about the Navy and you and my dad so when—when you pulled them, I thought…”
I thought you didn’t want me.
The words stab themselves into Mav’s chest. “Bradley,” he abandons the pail and sponge, rushing to his kid’s side, “ Sweetheart .” He takes those weak hands in his own. “Is that what you thought?”
“What else could I think?” Bradley snaps, as bitterly as he can; although it comes out more hurt. “What else was I supposed to think?”
“No—that was never…” Mav bows his head, condemned, and exhales. “That was never the reason.”
Bradley searches his dad’s eyes, and there are many years between them but he knows his dad isn’t a liar. It’s part of why his confusion turned into hurt—because he thought Mav would never hurt him, and then he did.
“Then why?” Bradley begs.
Mav hesitates. “Please,” Bradley whispers, “please, dad. Tell me why.”
“Because I love you,” Mav finally murmurs. “And your mother loved you too.”
Instead of finally answering all his questions, the words carve a hole in Bradley’s brain as all his excuses, all his anger stutters to a halt. “What?” he finds himself asking, the word empty as it leaves his mouth.
“What happened to your father, it–it took away so much,” Mav continues. “Your mom wanted you to live, to have everything he didn’t, to experience life outside the Navy and probably be safer than he was.”
“So Mom didn’t want me to fly,” Bradley says, numbly. Mav raises his head to look at him, heartbroken. Bradley slowly lies back down on the pillows, his head spinning–not from the nausea. “ She asked you to pull my papers.”
Bradley closes his eyes, and the tears leak out of their corners. He’s done, spent; the anger bleeds out of him along with all his energy. “Mom,” he whimpers. “I miss her.”
“Oh, baby goose,” he hears Mav say mournfully, a tentative hand in his own. “I miss her too.”
There’s nothing else to say after that. Bradley turns on his side and tries to get back to sleep, his heart turned just as inside out as his stomach.
He doesn’t let go of his dad’s hand.
Mav catches no more than winks of sleep throughout the night as he watches Bradley, pulling the uncomfortable chair closer to the bed. His kid’s stomach must settle some time during the night, because Bradley manages a full four hours of uninterrupted sleep before waking again at around 6:00 am.
“Hey,” Mav says softly as Bradley blinks his bleary eyes open, hovering a gentle hand over his forehead. Still slightly warm, but cooler than last night. “How’re you feeling?”
Bradley swallows, his throat scratchy as he pushes himself up and downs a gulp of water, closing his eyes in relief when his stomach doesn’t immediately clench. “Better,” he answers, suddenly embarrassed now that his wits are somewhat together. “I–”
“It’s alright,” Mav says immediately, sitting back and giving his kid some space, even as it kills him. He wants to hold him close and never let go. “I can go, if you want, I’m sorry for overstepping, I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” Bradley croaks, and Mav pauses. “I–it’s okay.” He fidgets with the sheets, need and pride warring within him. “Stay? Please,” he tacks on at the end. “If—if it’s okay.” He gathers a little more courage to look at his dad (because Mav’s always been his dad, no matter how Bradley tried to tell himself otherwise). “Please?”
The words spark a joy in Mav’s heart that he thought he’d never have again. “Of course, sweetheart,” he answers, drawing closer as he tries to quell his excitement. “I can be here. Whatever you want.”
Bradley yawns, suddenly feeling comfortably sleepy now that his fever has gone down. “‘M cold,” he mumbles.
“Sure, bud, there’s an extra blanket right here—”
Bradley shakes his head no, because he doesn’t want an extra blanket. He keeps his eyes closed to feign drowsiness as he reaches out to tug at his dad’s shirt, and he hears a surprised fond chuckle as his dad gets the message. “Alright, kiddo, give me a second.”
Bradley smiles slightly and scoots back as the hospital bed dips and he feels his dad’s warmth, one arm wrapping around him as he relaxes into his dad’s hold.
“Get some more sleep, baby goose,” Mav murmurs above him as Bradley tucks his head underneath his chin.
"My rotation--"
"I'll take care of it," Mav promises, already mentally calling in a favor with Ice. “You need all the rest you can get.”
And as Bradley snuggles closer to his dad, he finds that he’s already healing.