antelopeace

                Did he… did he say something to Rooster to make him want to come home with Jake? He sucks in a deep breath, stomach churning as he considers the possibilities. Okay. It could be Payback. Unlikely, given how much he can’t shut up about his wife and kids. Still. Small chance. Rooster. Unfortunately high chance if he was around and Jake was past the point of no return with regards to alcohol consumption and his brain to mouth filter with his inconvenient crush that he has sworn Javy to secrecy about. There’s also a chance Jake brought home a complete stranger, but he hasn’t done that in years.

                He lies there and moves parts of his body ever so slightly, trying to gather clues as to what he maybe got up to last night. His feet aren’t sore, so he hasn’t walked on broken glass, which is something he’d rather do than deal with the fact Rooster is in his bed. His legs feel fine, normal, maybe a little tired from the run yesterday morning, which he’s glad he can clearly remember, but it’s not anything out of the ordinary. His stomach is not great, but he’s putting that down to the fact he’s the most hungover he’s ever felt.

                He hasn’t been fucked, his ass isn’t even tender, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t fucked Rooster. Or whoever it is lying beside him. Part of him, a large part, wants it to be Rooster because at least that would make him feel a tiny bit more okay, because he hasn’t ever really been okay with sex with no feelings. And there are definitely feelings between him and Rooster, even if they aren’t always particularly pretty ones.

                His lips feel raw. Like he rubbed them with sandpaper before he went to bed. He pauses his train of thought. Sandpaper? Or stubble? He’s spent enough time with Rooster now to know the other man sports a five o’clock shadow by lunch, and he’s never kissed him before, only imagined it, but… maybe?

                “Mmm. No. Stay…” the body mumbles, and it definitely sounds like Rooster and Jake throws himself out of the bed, toward the door to the bathroom, ignores the displeased grunt of the man he leaves behind him and pushes down the roiling in his stomach. He shuts the bathroom door and peers around, more light courtesy of the small, frosted window letting in early dawn light. He uses the toilet, washes his hands and looks into the mirror, sees his hair sticking up every which way and pulls a face. The clothes he was wearing last night are sitting in a pile on the floor by the washing basket and his brain stalls.

                Because that isn’t his washing basket. His is black, while this one is grey. It looks exactly the same, but it isn’t. He glances to the shower and blinks. None of his toiletries are sitting on the little shelf and he takes a deep breath, looks and sees a bright green toothbrush sitting in a cup. Jake’s current toothbrush is red.

                Oh fuck.

                It’s even worse than he thought.

                He was in Rooster’s bed.

                He’s in Rooster’s place.

                It’s familiar because they’re both in base housing.

                He reaches for the clothes on the floor, wondering if he can slip them on, discards the thought immediately when he realizes the clothes are wet and smell faintly of vomit. Okay then, that’s a little mortifying. He wonders if he can find some Tylenol or something to deal with the pounding behind his eyes. He needs to take the path of least resistance, and if his drunk self somehow talked its way into Rooster’s bed and Rooster let him then he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

                He steps closer to the mirror, pulls it open and sure enough finds a bottle of Tylenol, takes a couple using the cup with Rooster’s toothbrush to swallow them back. He looks in the mirror than and studies himself, his lips are red and raw looking, definitely look like they’ve been chewed on and maybe rubbed all over Rooster’s face and neck. He just doesn’t remember any of it and he’s a little pissed at himself.

                If he’d known Rooster would be… receptive to Jake making moves on him he would have done so long ago, rather than dragging out whatever the fuck weird tension-laden banter they’ve had going for years. He’d always thought it was all ego, but now… now he isn’t so sure. That said he’s not going to shy away from it now that he does know. Decision made he quickly brushes his teeth, uses Rooster’s toothbrush because their mouths have clearly been very well acquainted recently. Then he heads back to the bedroom, closing the door to the bathroom quietly and easing himself back into the bed, nestling closer to the warmth of Bradshaw’s body.

                “Wha?” Rooster mumbles in his sleep and Jake feels his heart squeeze and stutter as Bradshaw’s arm goes around him again, drawing Jake close so he can wrap himself around him better. Jake lets himself be manhandled, presses a kiss to the skin of Rooster’s neck and feels the rub of stubble against his sensitive lips, finds himself smiling against his neck.

                “Shh, go back to sleep baby…”

                “Mmm. Okay.”

…            …            …

                Hangman is asleep in his bed.

                Correction.

                Hangman is still asleep in his bed.

                Hangman who had turned up drunk off his face at nearly one o’clock this morning, making no fucking sense and rambling about needing a place to sleep and it needing to be in Bradley’s bed. He hadn’t managed to get more of an explanation, but he figured he kind of owed it to him, had let him inside and instantly regretted it when Hangman had then rushed for the bathroom and vomited. Bradley had forced some Gatorade into him, made him shower and then given him a clean pair of underwear to sleep in.

                He’d planned to put Hangman on the sofa, but he’d targeted Bradley’s bed with unerring accuracy and made himself immediately comfortable. Bradley sure as hell hadn’t been willing to sleep on the lumpy sofa which is probably older than him in his own damned assignment. Decided Hangman could deal with the uncomfortable realization he’d spent the night in Bradley’s bed. The night and most of the morning, given that it’s almost midday and he’s meant to be meeting Natasha for lunch at one.

                He grabs the dirty clothes and puts a load of washing on, knows the chance of Hangman leaving wearing anything but his own clothes are slim to zero. He stops briefly to take in the sight of Hangman’s fluffy hair sticking out everywhere and looking weirdly soft, not how Bradley has ever seen him before, even when they were sharing living spaces in the past. He turns the shower, hears a grumble from the direction of the bed but ignores it. Stepping into the shower he begins washing himself perfunctorily while his mind races through the potential reactions Hangman might have when he wakes up properly.

                Then he feels a hand on his hip and he jumps, then feels lips pressing kisses over his shoulders and he opens his mouth to say… what? Something? Anything? What the fuck? His brain is fixating on the fact that not only is Hangman in his shower, naked, but he’s lathered up his hands is washing Bradey’s back. What the fuck? He really wants to ask that out loud but he also doesn’t want to piss him off or for Hangman to stop washing his back, which has been difficult to reach with his ribs bruised as they are.

                “Uh. How did you sleep?”

                “Mmm. Better than I have in a long time. Thanks.”

                He doesn’t know what to say or do with that information, or the easy gratitude. He turns, needs to see that it is definitely Hangman in his shower with him. The kiss is a surprise, and he is still for a second before he’s kissing him back, brain now racing with a whole list of other scenarios. This was not in his list of potential reactions of Hangman waking up. Never in a million years. Hangman’s mouth feels hot and slick under the spray of water, his heart feels like it’s racing as he feels Hangman’s naked body press against his own.

                His cock is half hard and it feels incredibly intimate to be showering with each other, making out, but also feel like it’s not leading to sex. Instead it feels like simply an excuse to be close and since fucking when? He wonders if he's maybe dreaming or fallen into a coma, maybe an alternate timeline. He feels like he's missing a chunk of time, or an explanation. Both really. Anything that might explain what the fuck is happening right now.

                Maybe Hangman hit his head and thinks Bradley is his… boyfriend? They finish showering and Bradley pats himself dry carefully, vigorous rubbing making the scabs bleed a little still. Then Hangman is giving him shit about his lack of hair products and he's grateful because that as least feels normal. He makes an excuse about making coffee and flees to his kitchen, leaving Hangman fixing his hair in the mirror.

                His reprieve doesn't last long, not even five minutes later Hangman playfully bullies past him in his own fucking kitchen, pressing him against the kitchen counter, his hands finding purchase on Bradley's hips, fingertips seeking bare skin under his loose tank, stroking over the thin skin of his hips and making all the hair on his arms prickle with awareness.

                Bradley has no idea what the fuck is going on. He’d thought maybe Hangman was fucking with him, that's the only logical answer his tired brain can offer. But as minutes tick by Hangman continues to be weirdly soft and domestic, asking Bradley how he takes his coffee like it’s something he wants to know, it seems like an odd prank. Still, it's incredibly fucking strange.

                Whatever the hell is happening he's more than okay to go along with it.

like, Goose is eternally Mav's closest friend, closest family, closest person, however you want to look at it- Goose is Goose. no one takes the time to take a peek around the rumors before Goose. no one takes the time to consider whether Duke Mitchell's kid might be anything more than a piece of a rotten legacy. Maverick is the stand-in scape-goat of nigh on two decades' worth of pent-up feeling in the Navy, from fellow officers to COs and Admiralty alike, and the first time anyone ever offers him a hand with the burden is when Goose makes a grab at carrying the load. Maverick doesn't really know much about connection until Goose. he doesn't know much about what it's like to care or to be cared for. he doesn't have a good rubric against which to compare these things in his life.

he barely remembers his father, clinging to a photo, to his own hope as a son for a world where his old man did it right, to the stories of anyone who might've known him. and his memories of his mother are tainted, too. she used to call down from her room, asking me to play it over and over and over again. i got so sick of it. he tells the story like it's this fond and typical tale of a mother and a son, and to Mav, it must be. but, if we read between the lines, there's more. like her grief and its’ consumption of her, the partial abandonment of her child in the wake of it, the demands of a young mother’s undoing placed upon her even younger son. unfair no matter how understandable and no matter how tragic.

and then, that was it. foster care, and a whole lot of nothing in particular, relationship wise. then the Navy. then accusations, side eyes, strong words and sometimes, if he isn't fast enough, stronger fists, and then... Goose.

and Goose isn't a saint, exactly; isn't the greatest guy to ever walk the planet, or anything, not objectively. but he was raised to be kind, and he doesn't like to see somebody punched down on, and if you endear yourself to him, he's got a patient streak a mile wide. if you don't - well, he can have a mouth on him, too. it all lines up pretty much perfectly for Maverick Mitchell, from the first day the taller, lankier stranger is assigned to his backseat.

but those lucky days are numbered, and Goose is gone all too soon. a handful of too-short years. their early twenties, as best. Goose had known Carole for longer.

so, yes, he learns what he knows about friendship, about family, about connection, all from Goose. but the first time he gets to really make use of those things that he’s learned- is with Carole.

Carole, the only person to look him in the eye unapologetically after the accident, without shame or fear or pity. Carole, the only one to acknowledge the greatness of the loss that they’re all going through (all of them, Mav included). the first person who does not say that he must let go, move on, accept that it’s the first loss of many, after only a few hours, a few days. (and Ice of course, who in some ways does this too- but they are rivals until that moment and they do not know each other. they aren’t able to look one another in the eye or be vulnerable. and while i think this interaction has a lot to do with Ice becoming so important in Mav’s life later on, it’s just not the same to Mav then as someone he knows and trusts being there for him in that moment, is it?) the young widow Mav feels responsible for making, who touches his cheek and says god, he loved flying with you, Maverick. who says, without saying as much aloud, please don’t feel guilt for the way that this happened, it is horrible, but he died doing what he loved, flying with you, and he would never regret it, even if he knew.

and while TGM is intentionally vague about the between-movie happenings, a lot can be inferred (and inferring things is my 9-5, so i shall!!! thank u for humoring me) from what Mav says. his mother never wanted him to fly, not after what happened to Goose. she made me promise before she died. i was trying to be the father he’d lost. i just wish i would have done it better. Mav knew Carole for the rest of her life- until her death; by extension he knew Bradley. for most of his childhood, it seems, if not all of it; Mav was there with them.

Carole tells Charlie, i’ve known Pete for a lot of years, and i just love him to death. we don’t know what Carole means, exactly, when she says “a lot of years”, but as long as Goose did at least is a safe assumption. adding onto that the years to follow before her death, and that’s at least… ten years? maybe fifteen years, depending on when you think her passing occurred. either way a long time. and yes, eventually, he will have known Ice for longer; but only because of the solemn march of time after Carole’s death. Goose told Carole everything, including the stuff about Mav- (Goose tells me you’re in love with one of your instructors!)- and all of a sudden, Carole is the only living person who really and truly knows him. Carole is Mav’s oldest living friend, closest friend, for a long, long time.

you’re the only family i’ve got. Mav said it to Goose, in full sincerity, only days before the accident. and of course, he means Goose, but there’s no doubt he means Goose’s family, too. to see the smile on his face as they arrive off of the plane to visit, to see him walking with baby Bradley on his hip- this is his family, and now Goose is gone. and now, the only family Mav has left are Carole and Bradley.

there are holidays, birthdays, visits on leave, letters exchanged, life plans made and shared. he was there for her child- helped to co-parent her child, maybe, depending on your personal interpretation (and we all know mine is that he Very Much Did Do That lol). and i just think about… everything. about tearful phone calls and rambling letters and family dinners. about a day trip to the beach or a parent/teacher meeting or help around the house when he’s on leave, about a repair to the Bronco or a hand with the groceries or can you pick Bradley up from practice tonight? I’ll be a little late at work.

this foster kid from nowhere who didn’t know anyone, who didn’t have anyone, who learned what connection, friendship, and family meant when Nick Bradshaw hooked a lanky arm over his shoulders in the locker room and from that moment on, took him under his proverbial wing- this kid is a grown man with a life that has people in it, people he relies on who rely on him. Carole was never just Goose’s wife to Maverick. she’s his closest friend, the person he trusts most, his family. he’s there for her throughout her grief, and likewise, she is there for him throughout his. throughout everything else, too. the daily on and on, and the special circumstances- legal concerns, medical concerns, parental duties, it’s all there. in so many ways, he lives his life with her, right up until the end.

and at the end, he’s there, too. he plans her funeral, he makes the arrangements. he buries his closest, oldest friend. for the second time. (and let’s all agree not to think about how he’ll have to do this a THIRD time too, later on, because AAAAAA) and this time, he steps in for her child, too. he makes and keeps her deathbed promises. he allows the rest of his life to be (seemingly) irrevocably, irreversibly changed by those promises- for the worse. and he does it all for Bradley, yes, we know and talk about this fact often- BUT he does it all for Carole, too.

Carole Bradshaw, who really is one of the most important, most influential people in Maverick’s life. if not THE most. she doesn’t get much screen time, and she isn’t even mentioned by name in TGM (a crime!), but i am forever ill thinking of The Ways that she influences his character, his story, how he influences hers, about what their friendship looks like, about what they do to navigate all these difficult life situations together. some day i will write very long fics about this but i don’t have the time right now. so have this headcanon-adjacent long-ass analysis post that is not objective and that comes from the depths of my brain and the its-missing-Carole-Bradshaw-hours of it all.