Thirty-Five Years

by Takada Saiko

When Rooster is forced to eject from his fighter, things don't go as planned.

While their deployments had collectively gotten shorter once the United States Navy had decided to keep the Dagger Squadron together, the stakes for each mission that they went on had become significantly higher. Why else would they send the best of their best in if any man would do?

And it was a good thing they did, too, because not just anyone could maneuver their way through the situation that they found themselves in. It was supposed to be a covert mission. Four F-18s. Four Daggers. Rooster led in as Dagger One, Phoenix and Bob following up as Dagger Two, Hangman was Three, and Coyote Four. The plan was to get in and out before anyone ever saw them coming. Or leaving, so they'd hoped. Not that things ever went quite as planned.

Shouts sounded off over the radio system coordinating between the four aircrafts to avoid missiles and bullets and enemy aircraft that just about clipped Phoenix's nose clear off her Hornet. Voices overlapped, yet all five pilots knew exactly how to communicate with one another. This wasn't their first rodeo. Hell, they'd all thought they were good before they'd bombed the facility in Iran. If you asked any one of them, they'd only gotten better since. They'd certainly learned to become a better team.

"Smoke in the air!" Coyote yelled out. "Dagger Three, break right!"

Rooster risked the quickest glance he could manage over to where a missile was aimed directly at Hangman. It never made it to him, though. He broke right, just as Coyote had shouted, but then he pulled back and throttled upward, nose pointed at the sun high in the sky to disorient the fighter gaining on his tail. He loosed a round of flares that struck the missile and it exploded in the air where he'd been moments before.

The shouts continued and Rooster broke hard to the left, shaking what might have turned into a tail as the other craft sped right by him. They might be the best the Navy had to offer in a dogfight, but they were across enemy lines and that same enemy would wisen up and launch more fighters if they didn't end this now. He was team leader. It was his call. They needed to finish this and get home. "I got a path!" he shouted. "Goin' in!"

"I've got your wing," Hangman answered and Rooster bit back a snarky retort. Time and place, Bradshaw. Time and place.

The two fighters swung around to where the weapons depot was tucked away at the edge of the cliffs, snug and hard to get to from the low altitude that they'd been forced into. Missles launched, cutting off the intended path and driving both Hornets out a little further to the left and the right than originally intended. Rooster ground out a low curse. "I've lost my angle."

"I've got it," Hangman answered and shifted into position. And just like that, Rooster was the wingman. Funny, it wasn't long ago that neither of them would have found themselves quite so flexible when it came to the kill shot.

Hangman was barreling ahead even as Rooster's alert systems started to scream. He took a quick look around through the canopy, searching for the source. There. A hanger built into the side of the mountain and a next gen fighter on its way towards them. This could be a problem. "Dagger Three, tally one, ten o'clock high!"

He received a grunt of acknowledgement as Hangman stayed on target. Rooster swallowed his argument. They had a mission to complete, and if Hangman had the shot, he'd make sure he didn't get his ass blown to hell while taking it.

The fighter sped out and Rooster broke far enough off to engage, but never quite leaving Hangman's wing. The other pilot was fast, but inexperienced. Whatever training the locals had been promised to accompany their shiny new toys clearly hadn't been completed. This guy was all power, but little skill. Rooster feigned left, broke right, and got a lock. Missiles away he veered even further back, just in time to see Hangman's own missile drop hit home, the weapons depot that had gone against every treaty signed in the last fifty years exploding into the air.

And kept exploding.

The fire built on itself, whatever was stored down there a ton more powerful than their intel had indicated to them. The celebratory cheers were quickly cut off as the flames leapt up towards both Rooster and Hangman's Hornets, the two aviators cutting off towards the ocean to escape the bursts of fire and shrapnel. Rooster jolted forward, his fighter's warning systems screaming at him and he stared at it for half a second longer than he should have. Shit. nothing like literally having your tail on fire.

But things could always get worse.

A second fighter swooped out of the plumes of smoke and into his line of sight. Bullets scattered across Hangman's Hornet and the other man loosed a curse out over the radio, dodging and releasing a burst of flares that only bought him a few seconds. "I'm out!" he shouted.

Every warning system was screaming at Rooster. He was losing his fighter, the damage spreading and no matter what he did he couldn't extinguish the flames. It was a goner, but the problem was that no one else was close enough to get the enemy fighter off of Hangman. He might make it. He was a talented pilot, but he was outgunned, if not out manned. It was a risk a team leader shouldn't take. It was a risk Rooster wasn't willing to take.

It all happened in what felt like a fraction of a second. He punched it, using speed that only fueled the flames on his own fighter to shift into alignment, loosing his last missile at the enemy fighter and seeing it strike before it could take Hangman out of the air. Alarms blared and he grabbed the ejection handle between his legs and pulled hard. The canopy shattered, he was jettisoned upward, and his fighter exploded beneath him.

Everything went black.

As with all dogfights, it had all happened so fast. He couldn't even say that he had gotten an air-to-air kill in, no matter how hard he'd tried to flip the script on the next gen fighter that had been on his tail. He was fast. Too fast. And Hangman had been running low on every type of ammo.

But his wingman had come through. And then Rooster's fighter had just… exploded. Phoenix screamed his name over the open radio and Hangman immediately swung his fighter around. "I've got chute!" he shouted, catching sight of it between the falling debris and flames. He just couldn't see what shape the other aviator was in, even as he descended through the heavy smoke and towards the ocean below.

The base was destroyed, what was left of the personnel and pilots that had been held up there had bugged out, and the only relief found in the orders to return to the carrier was that they were sending search and rescue for Rooster. Not that the daggers could do anything for him in their F-18s. All they could do was return and wait.

Debrief came and went, the four remaining pilots stiff and silent when they weren't giving their report to the admiral that had overseen the mission. None of them had known him prior to shipping out and he didn't appear to be the sharing type. Hangman recounted the details as he'd seen them, and somehow his missing squad mate made the truth a little easier to ground out than it might have been if they were all celebrating on the deck together: Rooster had saved his life.

The helicopter was landing as they made their way back to the deck after being dismissed. Jake risked a glance to his right to see Phoenix looking like she was coiled and ready to spring forward. Anyone less disciplined might have as they waited for the doors to slide open to see if Rooster strutted out on his own with all the luck he clearly had picked up from his godfather or….

"He's gonna be okay," Bob shouted over the sound of the rotors powering down.

The door slid open and a Navy medic was the first out, taking the end of an occupied stretcher. Already hooked up to some sort of IV bag was the prone form of their squad mate and Hangman squinted against the sun that was starting its downward dip for the day. Blood caked Rooster's face that hadn't been washed off by the waves. His flightsuit was a mess, simultaneously soaked through and burned in places. The medics had peeled it away from his shoulders and removed his undershirt, likely to get a better look at his injuries. It looked like there was a temporary bandage lining his ribcage, blood seeping through. Hangman couldn't hear it with the sounds of the carrier all around them, but he saw the injured aviator grimace as the second medic eased out, jolting the stretcher. Behind the two medics came another man with a familiar red helmet in his hand.

"Shit," Phoenix managed.

"He's alive. And conscious," Coyote pointed out.

"Not sure the last one is a plus right this second," Hangman muttered and tilted his head towards the far end of the deck that would lead them around the long way to the medical bay. If they moved fast enough, they might be able to catch someone with some answers without getting in their way.

—

Bob's surprised shout at seeing Rooster's fighter's tail on fire had been what had drawn Phoenix's attention away from her pursuit of the fleeing enemy craft, but the explosion had kept it. The sparks from the raging fire trying to drag the Hornet out of the sky had mixed with the controlled explosion that kept Rooster from ejecting directly into his canopy, but even though he'd clearly punched out, he didn't get enough space between him and the fighter before the explosion had thrown him. She'd watched it happen. She'd seen the pressure slam into him, ripping his chute outward towards the ocean - a saving grace. The cliff side probably would have killed him - and had known that shrapnel and burning debris was following, even as he'd dipped down beneath the plumes of smoke that had made it impossible to see exactly where he hit the water below.

But it hadn't killed him. That much they knew on deck and saw a bit closer up, even if the medics had shoved all four of them out into the corridor. She'd locked eyes with him - bruises already starting to form around them, showing signs of a broken nose - and he'd offered her a struggling smile that barely tilted his lips and a weak thumbs up to prove he was with them. As they were ushered out, Phoenix had sunk down against the wall.

While the medics weren't keen on updates, at least no one forced them to leave their doorway vigil. Bob went and got coffee and water for them all, and at one point Coyote had to step away for a brief moment, but mostly they just waited in silence. The five spares that had been waiting on deck in case they needed to join the first wave of Dagger Squadron dropped by to check in, but the narrow corridor had become too crowded far too fast and the four that had been out there with him had been given preferential standing space as long as they swore to let the others know when they got an update.

So they waited, the three men leaning against the wall with Phoenix on the floor, a half finished and very cold cup of coffee held loosely in her hands. "Did you know it'll be thirty-five years in a few days?"

She could practically feel three sets of eyes turn on her at the first words spoken between them in at least an hour. "Since what?" Coyote asked, shifting against the wall.

Phoenix looked up, dark eyes flickering between her squad mates. She knew him the best out of all of them. Moments like this reminded her of that. "Since his dad died."

Hangman actually winced at that. "Bad ejection, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"But he's okay," Bob said quickly and Phoenix shrugged.

"He's alive," she corrected.

The words had barely left her mouth when the door they'd practically been guarding for hours now opened, revealing a very tired looking doctor. To her credit, she didn't look startled even though all four aviators were immediately on her, firing off questions that overlapped. She held up her hand. "He's stable. And awake, but he needs to rest. I'm recommending we send him home ahead of the carrier, but that won't be until tomorrow."

"Can we see him?" Phoenix asked, trying to get a look past the taller woman and into the room. All she saw was medical equipment.

"Keep it brief. Not all at once."

She moved past them, likely to give her report to the admiral. Bob - closest to the door - took an intentional step back and nodded at Phoenix. Coyote echoed the movement.

"I'll be in in a sec," Hangman offered, the unspoken understanding that she should be the first in shared among them. Well, she did know him best, even if she, Rooster, and Hangman had all met at Pensacola.

Phoenix slipped into the room and stepped around a medic that was cleaning up. She spotted Rooster on the far side of the room, a curtain only partially pulled for the privacy that none of them really expected when they were out to sea. His eyes were closed and a nasal cannula rested on his mustache, pushing a little extra oxygen into him. They'd cleaned the blood off his face and she could see a collection of cuts and the beginning of some bruises along his hairline and around his eyes. Dressing was wrapped up and around his left shoulder and down his chest. How far down, she couldn't tell with the sheets pulled up. Another bandage was wrapped around his left forearm, two fingers on the opposite hand taped together. She glanced up at the monitor next to the bed, assessing his vitals there.

"Hey," he croaked, startling her attention back to him. The smile he offered her this time was a little more real than it had been when they'd first brought him below deck, albeit even more tired now.

"I'd ask how you're feeling, but it looks like they're giving you all the good drugs," she teased.

"Oh yeah," he managed with a weak chuckle and struggled to clear his throat. "I don't know what day it is."

"It'll be a hell of a story once you're back on your feet."

He hummed a soft agreement, but something caused his lulling eyelids to pop back open, only fractionally clearer than a moment before. "Please tell me no one's told Mav."

"Not that I know of. Bob, Hangman, Coyote, and I've all been waiting on you since they brought you in. I don't know if Admiral Hale knows the connection." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Doc said they're sending you home ahead of the carrier. Pretty sure he'll notice something's up."

"That bad, huh?"

"You kind of look like you got blown up."

Rooster snorted at that, but seemed to relax a little. "Just don't want him to worry."

"Bad time of year for this, huh?"

"Is there a good time with him?" Rooster countered, and sighed. "But yeah. Bad time of year. I just wanna make sure he sees I'm okay, you know?"

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Okay?"

To his credit, he seemed to think about that for a moment. "I will be."

There was a long moment, those soft brown eyes of his catching her own darker ones and Phoenix tried for a lighter smile. "Better be, Bradshaw."

The door opened and it was enough to break the moment. Rooster loosed a breath, shifting his gaze away and Phoenix looked over to see Hangman standing in the doorway. If he had something to say, he kept it to himself. Apparently saving his life bought a little bit of good will. Or at least neutral. "So do you and the old timer share the nine lives, or so you each get a set of your own?"

Rooster snorted a laugh and then coughed, grimacing as he settled a little further back onto the cot. "It was close."

"No shit. How're you feeling?"

"Tired."

And that was their cue. Phoenix reached over and gave his hand a gentle squeeze, careful to avoid his broken fingers. "Get some rest."

He was already fading, even as he mumbled an affirmative and Phoenix started ushering Hangman back towards the door. "Any more news in about sending him home?"

"Yeah. They're flying him out tomorrow morning. I volunteered to go with him."

Phoenix's eyes narrowed at that. "Why?"

Hangman feigned insult, but sobered up just as quickly as he glanced past her at their sleeping squad mate. "I was out of ammo and in a tight spot. Bradshaw saved my life. Least I can do."

She nodded slowly. "Just… try to be a little less of an asshole to him?"

That shit-eating grin returned. "Where's the fun in that?"

She rolled her eyes as they moved back to the corridor. She didn't want to go. If there weren't a report to file and work to be done, she might have settled herself down in the chair next to his bed for a little while. In fact, she might just bring the reports back down to do just that.

—

Everything from punching out on had been something of a blur. He had snippets of memories. Fire and what had to have been pieces of his exploding fighter slamming into him and, the next thing he knew, Rooster had been underwater. He'd pulled in a breath and found only saltwater before his training had kicked in and, despite the spiking pain, had kicked hard to help the flotation device in his flightsuit to get him to the surface.

He was in and out and on the helicopter before he'd come fully around again. Lights in his eyes, questions barked at him, and the rattling of his dog tags around his neck. At least it was his people that had found him, even if he hadn't known any of them.

They were supposed to leave out first thing that next morning, but it was nearly thirty-six hours after the crash before he and Hangman boarded a helicopter that would take them to shore where they'd be loaded onto a larger Navy plane for transport. Somewhere along the way Hangman popped off about getting them there in a fraction of the time if he'd been flying. The medic didn't find that funny. Rooster might have if everything didn't hurt so damn much.

He had a laundry list of injuries. Broken nose, concussion, and something torn in his shoulder that made a cringe-worthy popping noise every time he moved wrong, even with his arm firmly fit into the sling they'd provided. He'd cracked two ribs and had taken some shrapnel. And then there were the burns that were starting to pull, reminding him of the fireball his Hornet had been when he'd ejected. He'd nearly argued when they'd brought the wheelchair, but had had to swallow his pride at the thought of crashing immediately to the floor if he tried to walk. Well, at least the painkillers took the edge off the irritation too.

Surprisingly enough, Hangman didn't give him as much hell as he would have expected. Rooster had anticipated the same rounds of jabbing snark that they usually tossed at each other, but if this was his brand of gratitude or he just wasn't going to be as entertained if Rooster couldn't give as good as he got, only Hangman knew. His wingman didn't leave his side as they made their way to shore, at the hospital as they looked him over a little more thoroughly, or as they boarded the transport.

Rooster surfaced from one of the many rounds of light, drug-induced dozes his body kept slipping into on the flight stateside. He shifted, stiff and uncomfortable and more than a little frustrated with his lack of mobility and general awareness. He tried to focus through the fog that had saturated his brain since he'd woken up in the medical bay on the carrier. It took a moment, but he finally picked apart Hangman's voice from the low rumble of the engines. He strained, trying to decide if he was talking to a medic or one of the pilots that had come back here for a few minutes of shut eye. His voice grew louder, though, and the words more distinct as he circled around into Rooster's line of vision and he spotted a sat phone in his hand. "Yeah, just woke up. You wanna talk to him?"

There was a beat and then another before Hangman handed the phone over. Rooster took it, careful of the fingers taped together, and struggling to remember if he should know who was on the other side of the call. It'd be just his luck to croak out a hello? only to have it be Admiral Simpson berating him on destroying the second multimillion dollar jet in as many years. No, he opted for a safer option. "Bradshaw."

"Bradley," Maverick's relieved voice sounded from the other end. "You okay?"

Well, that answered the question on if Mav knew or not. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He pointedly ignored the skeptical look Hangman shot him. "They call you?"

"Apparently you still have me as next of kin," Mav answered.

"Never took you off." He'd thought about it. Hell, he'd started to fill out the paperwork more times than he could count, but every time the thought of something happening to him and Maverick hearing about it some handful of years later had stopped him. Not that he'd ever been willing to admit it at the time. It was just a hassle and who was he going to put on there anyway?

Mav made a small, startled sound. "You either," he acknowledged softly.

"Probably should have snagged a computer on the carrier. Just…. Didn't want to worry you." He let his head thump back softly, squeezing his eyes shut. Especially not now. Not this time of year.

There was a long stretch of static and for a moment Rooster thought he'd lost the connection. Finally, Mav sighed, and he thought maybe the Old Man was just trying to feel out where the boundaries were so he didn't catapult across them. "Just get home safe, Rooster. I'll see you on the tarmac."

A small smile tilted his lips. "See you when we get home, Mav." He ended the call and handed the phone back to Hangman. As the other aviator turned, Rooster cleared his throat. "Hey. What's the date? Got kinda lost in the fog."

"Depends where we are," Hangman answered with a shrug. "We're due in on base at 0800 on the twenty-ninth."

Well shit.

Hangman shifted uncomfortably. "Phoenix mentioned…."

"Yeah."

"Thirty-five years, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Probably good you talked to him."

Rooster nodded, feeling it through his shoulder. "Yeah," he said softly and let his eyes drift closed again. He needed sleep. Real sleep, not just catnaps between struggling to stay awake. He wasn't going to be better by the time they made it there, but he could at least make sure he was conscious when they got to base.

—

In the years following Goose's death, Carole had always made sure Maverick found his way to their house on the anniversary. Sure, some years he was deployed, but if he was stateside, he knew where he'd be: with the only people who mourned Goose as much as he did.

Then Carole had gotten sick and she'd died. Mav and Bradley - because the kid hadn't gotten his own callsign yet - and had spent that July 29th together just the two of them. The next year Bradley had been away at college, but by the next he'd found out that Mav had pulled his papers from the Naval Academy and had cut him entirely out of his life. Year after year, Maverick had secluded himself on that day. He mourned alone. He suffered alone. Until last year. The Dagger Squadron had received a permanent base on North Island to be sent out on missions as the Navy saw fit, and Maverick and Rooster had spent the day together. They'd gone to the graves and then they'd gone flying. That night the two of them had had one or three too many at the Hard Deck, but it'd been more smiles than tears as they'd goofed off and sung Goose's favourite song, his son on the piano and holding a hell of a better tune than Maverick.

Mav had hoped they'd wrap the mission and be home by the twenty-ninth this year. He just hadn't expected it to be this way.

The call had come in the middle of the night. Those were never good. During the mission, Lt Bradley Bradshaw had been forced to eject. There'd been an issue and search and rescue was underway. Captain Mitchell would be updated as soon as they knew more. Penny had had to pry the phone from his numb fingers, even as the dial tone could be heard from the other end. He couldn't breathe. He hadn't been able to think about anything other than the fact that just a few days shy of the thirty-fifth anniversary of Goose's death, Rooster was…. He hadn't known. Bad ejection, over water, search and rescue…. He hadn't slept the rest of the night.

Then the next call came with the sun. They'd found him. He was alive. He was with the medics to assess his injuries and Captain Mitchell would be updated as soon as they knew more. He'd tried to sleep that night, but found himself in the Pacific Ocean holding onto a lifeless body, but even as Goose's name slipped from his lips, he turned him over to see Rooster's face. So much for sleep.

The next update of any detail came from Hangman once Maverick had exhausted every favour owed and finally got connected to the sat phone on the transport bringing them home. He got the full story and felt the panic that had gripped his nightmares flare back up with a vengeance. It wasn't until Hangman offered to put Rooster on the phone that Maverick had slowed back down, keeping his voice as measured as he could. He'd sounded tired, but he was alive. He was alive and he was coming home.

So at 0800 on July 29, 2021 - thirty five years after one of the worst days of his life - Pete "Maverick" Mitchell stood on the tarmac, watching the transport that Goose's son was on taxi in. The transport came to rest, the engines were shut off, and the ramp was lowered out the back. Inside, as if both ready and willing to make their exit as quickly as possible, were Hangman and Rooster. Rooster sat in a wheelchair, glaring up at his wingman's cocky grin, and he rolled his eyes at whatever the other man had said. He was beaten and bruised - likely more than Mav could even see - but he was alive. And he was home.

He met the boys at the base of the ramp and Rooster started to try to push himself to his feet. Maverick waved him back down. "Take it easy."

"I'm fine," Rooster huffed as he sunk back down into the chair and Mav snorted. The younger man bobbed his head back and forth a little, a noncommittal sound escaping him as he considered his next words, before he looked up to meet Maverick's eyes. "I'm gonna be fine."

"I know," Mav breathed. It was going to be alright. He was going to be alright.

—

He'd argued. And argued and argued and he'd lost the argument. Mostly because he couldn't drive himself at the moment and Mav made the decision for him. It definitely wasn't because he had a three flight walk up to his apartment that he never would have made in his current state. Nope. Not that at all. And it could have been worse. Medical could have sent him straight to the hospital once they were done checking him over, but instead they ordered him home and to bed rest. Mav had just taken it on himself to choose his home rather than Rooster's.

Penny had the guest room set up by the time they arrived. It was small, usually used for storage, but the bed was a whole lot more comfortable than the med bay back on the carrier, the hospital bed during their brief layover, and definitely better than the cot on the transport plane. By the time Rooster took a seat on the edge, the last round of pain meds had already kicked in and Mav eased him back into the pillows, careful to avoid his injured shoulder.

He must have slept most of the day, waking up here and there, mostly when Mav roused him to eat a little something or get some water down his throat. When he finally woke up on his own, the sun looked like it was on its way down and he risked a glance over at the digital clock. 18:15. It was quiet - Penny likely out at the bar - but a soft snore drew his attention around to where Mav was slumped down in a chair, feet propped up on a side table, and an afghan tucked around him. Rooster studied his sleeping face for a long moment. It was funny, a couple years before he'd tossed the fact that Mav didn't have a wife or kids to mourn him if he burned in, and while he had been pointing to the fact his father had had both, he could have just as easily been talking about himself in those days. Maybe he should have called. Let him know he didn't have one more Bradshaw to mourn. He was still getting used to this too.

Mav jerked a little in his sleep and Rooster shifted, trying to get a better line of sight. He wasn't awake, but looked like he was dreaming. Or having a nightmare. Then his dad's callsign left Mav's lips in a strangled whisper. Yep. Definitely a nightmare. "Hey, Mav," he called out softly.

The older aviator jolted upright. "Rooster!" he shouted, eyes wide and he seemed to be lost in the nightmare for a couple of seconds into consciousness. Finally he blinked, shook his head a little, and Rooster suddenly found those sharp blue eyes on him. "Rooster," his name left his godfather again, this time with more relief than panic.

"Hey." He shifted, grimaced, and then carefully rolled into a seated position, long legs dropping over the edge of the bed so that his bare feet rested against the floor. "You're gonna get a crick in your neck if you keep sleeping like that."

There was another beat of silence before Maverick scurried up to his feet, blanket falling away and he looked like he was going to push Rooster back down to the admittedly very comfy pillows. He held up a bandaged hand before Mav could get ahold of him and shook his head. "I'm gonna get stoved up too. How 'bout a change of rooms and a movie?"

"Sure," Mav managed and straightened where he stood. Now that he knew they were just switching locations, he offered Rooster a hand up and a shoulder to lean on as they made their way very carefully out into the living room.

It was quiet, with the evening light casting long shadows. Rooster let Mav help ease him down onto the couch, arm resting on the sofa's armrest in lieu of the sling for his shoulder. He watched Maverick fumble about with the controls, trying to find the right one to pull up one of the streaming services. Rooster snorted and motioned for him to pass it over, getting them where they needed to go in a few clicks. "You're getting old, Mav. The tech is outpacing you."

His godfather took a heavy seat next to him and damned he looked tired. Guilt weighed on the younger man and he reached, tapping the back of his hand against Maverick's arm. "I'm sorry."

A chuckle escaped him. "For what? You're not wrong."

"You know that's not what I mean. For not calling as soon as I was conscious."

"Hard to do from the middle of the ocean."

"For scaring you. For scaring you this time of year. I know…" He closed his eyes, feeling the emotions he hadn't expected to come bubbling up.

"Bradley. Bradley, stop. This is not your fault. You saved your wingman's life. You did your job. I'm not gonna blame you for that."

"I know, but I'm just saying… I know you miss him. Still. Always. I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere. Thirty-five years from now, we're both still gonna be here, you hear me?"

"You know I'm turning sixty next year?"

Rooster snorted, shoving him lightly. "No excuses, Old Man. Right here. You and me."

"You've got yourself a deal, Rooster," Maverick answered softly and finally seemed to relax a little. "What are we watching?"

"Airplane."

"What?"

Rooster grinned. "C'mon. Dad loved that one."

"And I hated it. How do you even remember that?" Mav sighed dramatically before shaking his head, a smile stretching into place. "Fine. For Goose."

Rooster's own grin broadened and they settled in, both men laughing and grimacing and finally falling asleep leaned up against each other. And in that place right before he dozed off, Rooster could have sworn he saw his dad smiling down at them both.

End.

Notes: I was rewatching Top Gun Maverick the other day for some inspiration for another story and sort of... fell down the rabbit hole. I really love all of the relationships in this movie, especially Mav and Rooster. Hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!