#maverick centric

–9 months– 

The truth was, in many ways, Carole understood Pete like no one else ever would, and the same could be said for vice versa. Pete understood Carole in a way no one else ever would. It's no mystery where it started; their shared love, their shared tragedy. Goose dying was the epicenter for them. 

It's almost 11:45 when Maverick hears his phone ringing. He ignores it at first, hoping the person will realize they are calling at an entirely unreasonable time. Then he hears Carole's voice on the answering machine, hardly stringing a complete sentence together for her message, asking him to call her back when he can. 

Pete launches himself out of bed, trying to shake sleep and drowsiness away. He picks up the phone and immediately calls Carole back. 

Her name is the first word that spills from his mouth when she answers. He can hear the way her breaths are catching, and the way sobs are shaking her body. 

"Carole," he repeats, "Are you okay?" 

"No, not really." She manages to tell him after a few shaky breaths. "I don't think I will ever be okay again."

"I know," Pete sighs, leaning against the kitchen and living room doorway with the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. 

"Are you physically okay?"

"Yes," she whispers. 

"Bradley too?" 

"Yes," she answers between sobs. Pete feels some tension built up in his chest release, but not all the way. 

"Take some deep breaths with me?" Pete doesn't wait for her to respond and instead starts to count them out. 

"In," he counts five seconds out for her. Then tells her, "Out, one, two..." Mav maintains the cycle and pace of breathing, counting into the phone. After a while, he can tell that Carole's sobs are less all-consuming. 

Cutting him off mid-number on an inhale, Carole says, "I miss him." 

"I miss him too," Pete whispers like it's a secret. He may have gotten his head on straight enough to fly again, but that doesn't mean that Maverick isn't still filled to the brim with grief. 

"I always knew the risk. He did too. I just never thought it would hurt this bad." She stops speaking to cry more after saying that. 

"Thank you for calling me back. I just didn't know who else I could call now." Pete suddenly remembers the time difference and that it is three in the morning for her. 

"You can always call me Carole. I'll pick up if I can."

"Thank you."

"What can I do to help you?" 

"No, there's nothing." He can hear her hesitate, it's in the way her breath catches, and she draws out the o slightly in her response.

"Come on, Carole, there's something I can tell."

"My mind is racing, and everything is piling up. Which doesn't make sense; there have always been times I did it all alone when y'all were on the carrier."

"Nothing is the same anymore. Even the same familiar actions feel heavier." Pete supplies. He empathizes. He knows precisely where she is coming from. 

She just cries, but Mav knows it's a confirmation. 

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?" He asks her. Carole had always struggled with insomnia, and Pete couldn't imagine the condition had improved in the last 8 months. 

"No."

"Okay, forget everything piling up, and let's try and let go of a little bit of weight. Right now. How can I at least help you get some rest tonight?"

"I just need a distraction."

Pete looks around his living room trying to find something to distract himself and her. Finally, he lands on the manual sitting on the coffee table he had been going through that evening. "How about I read to you? I've been studying anyway. Big test coming up."

She hums into the phone for a moment. It's a sound that briefly raises gooseflesh on his arms. "What for?"

"The F-16."

"Yeah, I've always wanted to know about those." 

Pete laughs at the comment and almost recoils when a broken sob falls through the other side of the phone. After a shaky inhale on her part, though, Carole descends into an almost chuckle. 

"Okay, I just need to make some coffee." He tells her as he turns in the doorway to the kitchen. It only takes a moment more of fumbling before he starts heating the kettle. 

"Coffee at this time of night?" Carole asks, almost chastising. Using a tone not dissimilar to what he has heard her use with Bradley. 

"Steadies the hands," Maverick tells her. "A splash of Bailey's never hurts anything either." 

It's a small but real chuckle that falls from her mouth now. "You better not be wheels up in less than 8 hours."

"No, Ma'am. Tomorrow is my day off." Maverick reassures her. 

"Oh, good," Carole sighs. 

He pours the water not yet boiling into a mug before adding a packet of instant coffee. He is in a bit of a rush, so he just impatiently swirls it waiting for it to bubble. When he determines it is mixed enough that he won't gag, he adds a splash of the beige liqueur. 

Making his way to his couch, he asks, "Are you ready to learn all about augmented pitch control?"

"Well, I was hoping to learn about the landing gear, but I think I can live with that."

"If you really want," Maverick seriously tells her, with a heavy sigh,  adding a touch of sarcasm. Then, taking a big gulp of his gritty coffee, Pete flips open his manual.

Carole's laugh was genuine and authentic at his lackluster joke. Pete isn't sure that the flash of warmth in him is just from the alcohol, but it is gone as soon as he considers it. 

"Thank you, Pete," she sighs into the line. 

"It's no problem."

Mav flips open the manual, starting to read. 

He hears a few more stifled sobs from Carole, but they are sparse. She occasionally peppers in tired questions asking about something he read. However, the longer he reads, the less frequent her questions. Eventually, all she makes are drowsy hums, and her breathing evens into the phone. Pete keeps reading to her for ten more minutes while finishing his coffee, even though he knows she is asleep. 

"Goodnight, Carole," he finally whispers into the phone before hanging up. 

 Pete absentmindedly rinses his mug in his tiny sink, staring out the window into the dark night. He promises to call Carole more to check in.

He muses how it's not fair for her to do this alone. Pete knows he should try to help her and make up for some of the weight —the loss —she is bearing. That he is failing Goose, letting Carole freefall through all of this alone. After all, wasn't Carole, in a way, his responsibility? As his Godfather, Bradley certainly was. 

 Turning off all the lamps and making his way back to bed. Pete also briefly thinks it's not fair he has to do this alone either. 

— 2.5 years— 

Pete' Maverick' Mitchell is a broken man. He knew that but tried his best to be a good man. So Maverick started visiting the Bradshaws as often as manageable.

He wasn't at top gun anymore. However, Maverick has been working hard at playing friendly and responsible long enough to finally secure a position in the Atlantic fleet. It was going to allow him to be significantly more present. 

Maverick was always trying to make up for what he had done in the smallest ways. But, he knew it would never make a big enough difference, never replace what was lost. Regardless, he had a responsibility to Carole and Bradley to help them. 

After all, Pete often thought ruefully, wasn't he the reason the man who was supposed to help them died?

The first-day Maverick would spend with the Bradshaws was always dedicated to chores. The laundry list of things that Carole would mention or Pete knew needed to get done. Getting things done for them helped ease the guilt that bubbled in his chest and made him feel like he was compensating for his stay. 

Today was one such day; Maverick spent all day with Bradley in the garage, tuning up the Bronco and Carole's Jeep, changing oil, and checking everything on them so he knew he wouldn't have to worry about them driving until his next visit. He didn't mind the work and keeping his hands busy, being useful.

 It was an added bonus that time with Bradley in the shop was one of Pete's favorite things. Mav would talk Bradley through every step of what he was doing. Letting him help with the smaller, simple tasks. Bradley would still sit close to Mav, watching intently, even if he was playing with his toys; otherwise, the boy would be perched on Pete's hip or hugging his leg. Rock would fill the garage, punctured only by Pete's explanations and answers to Bradley's hesitant questions, along with the sound effects Bradley liked to make with his toy cars and planes. 

Days in the shop, doing chores, making dinner, and other similar moments on his visits, are what he secretly treasures the most. In the night, long after, Maverick is back on the carrier, and his mind feels more timorous than the raging sea he lives in; he will briefly masquerade as a pirate, not a sailor, and steal some of that treasure to tide him over. Pete would think back and savor those moments, recalling what a blossom of peace feels like.  

Then Carole had come into the shop kissing Bradley's cheek and loudly informing them she made dinner; it was a hearty lasagna. Pete scooped Bradley onto his hip. Walking them to the sink, Pete washed the grease and dirt off their hands before settling at the table to eat. 

After only two prompting questions and Pete's extra encouragement, Bradley animatedly told Carole about the things he learned in the shop that day. Bradley was getting more talkative again. A colossal comfort to not just Carole but Pete as well. After Goose had died, it was two months later when Bradley stopped talking entirely for a while.  

When Carole had taken him to the doctor, their best explanation was that the little boy might finally understand that his Daddy wasn't coming home this time. So, when Bradley started to talk again, they were as encouraging as possible. Encouraging his small words to the full-blown sentences, he was at again now. It made Pete appreciate every word the little boy decided to bestow on him. 

When they finished eating, Maverick picked up all their plates and started to clean them in the sink. All the while staring at the mother and son sitting at the table. His heart squeezes so hard in his chest that it feels like it might burst. Not wholly dissimilar to the feeling of fighting G-lock, Pete briefly considers if he is too young to have a heart attack. 

Then Carole laughs, that enchanting, consuming laugh of hers. Where she throws her whole head back, and it's reflected in her body. Where her shoulders shake, and her eyes crinkle almost closed. The laugh that comes from deep in her belly filling the extra space in a room. It is quickly followed by Bradley copying his mother. He has almost the same laugh — his miniature body following the same actions. 

Bradley has Carole's laugh, not Goose's. 

And Pete finds it a beautiful realization. His heart squeezes even tighter at the idea. Carole helps Bradley dip their spoons into Pete's ice cream bowl, still on the table. They share a secret look like they are getting away with a crime, stealing the ice cream. It's followed by both of them laughing again. With that sight in front of him, his heart gives one, then two, beats more before it bursts in his chest. 

Warmth floods his whole chest spreading throughout his body, and it all feels so simple: he loves his family. He had always loved this little family, but this is like everything has changed —no shifted — because they are his family. Pete realizes he really loves this woman, and there is no denying that Bradley is a son to him in everything but blood. With his hands covered in dish soap and water and a kitchen full of warmth and laughter, Mav's heart knits itself back together two sizes larger. 

As soon as that realization fully settles with Pete, he lets go of the plate he was holding. It clatters in the sink, and two pairs of eyes, both concerned and searching, look over at him. He doesn't know what the look on his face is showing, even though he likes to claim he only had one. However, the way Carole was looking at him says otherwise. The joy on her face is instantly shadowed by concern. 

He picks up the plate from the bottom of the sink and shoots them a forced apologetic smile. "The plate slipped." he supplies and then rededicates himself to cleaning the kitchen as quickly as possible. 

He can tell Carole is still worried, but she returns to her conversation with Bradley. While he finishes cleaning, that weight of guilt on his shoulders triples, pressing so hard into him that he feels like he can hardly breathe. 

Pete feels like he might break apart at the drop of a pin. He had killed his best friend, his brother. And now Maverick is here —in love with his wife, loving his son more than anything else. And Pete may love even more than he loves the Navy, more than he loves flying. 

What was he even doing here? Trying to replace Goose? How fucked up would that be? The more Pete considers the idea, the more his stomach flips. He regrets having such a large portion of dinner. He excuses himself to go to bed soon after the kitchen is clean. 

 He doesn't even read Bradley a story like he usually would before tucking him in each night. Reading to Bradley is something he typically insists on doing during his visits. Pete always justifies the action is to give Carole a break. Not because he loves the little sleepy sounds and questions Brad makes, insisting that he can turn the book's pages. Or how Bradley likes to explain the pictures to him. Not the heavy feeling of Bradley's head pressing into Pete's arm when he can't fight sleep anymore. 

It was a sight Maverick knew he couldn't take, not tonight. Not when the fantasy of Carole on the other side of the bed pops into his mind. Bradley sandwiched between them, angled into his side, Pete's arm over Carole's shoulder, her making silly sound effects to accompany the characters in the book. He tries to banish the vision to the far recesses of his mind, but it refuses to dissipate entirely. 

The ideas had been planted, and some part of him knows he will never be free again. 

That night, he dreams of kissing Carole, her warmth pressing against him, the sun shining. A dream where they are having a picnic at the park, and Bradley is flying a kite, shaped just like Pete's Nighthawk, moving around like it was caught in jet wash. Maverick wakes up in a cold sweat. He wakes up and packs all of his things, filling the duffle bag he had emptied the day before. 

Pulling the sheets off the guest bed and remaking it with the fresh set Carole kept in the guest closet. The crisp edges of a perfectly made bed. The other sheets, still damp from sweat thrown into the laundry hamper. He knew he should throw them in the wash for her instead of leaving more work. However, more than that, Pete knows he can't stay any longer. 

It is still night, and he wonders if he should wait or leave a note before hightailing it on his motorcycle. If he waited to start the bike until the end of the street, Maverick knew he wouldn't wake anyone with his departure. Maybe he could call later and tell Carole he forgot about some emergency orders or other semi-plausible excuse. 

But then there she is, sitting in her knitting chair with the lamp on at her side. It paints the living room in soft light. The shadows all creeping in around them, around him, sliding around Carole. A safe harbor in the storm, the lamp providing a gentle glow.

Pete is a deer in the headlights, looking into Carole's tired, resigned face. A cup of coffee next to her. She hates coffee, only keeping it in the house for when Maverick comes to visit. So, the sight of the steaming mug next to her can only mean she is waiting for him. 

"Good morning Pete," she says quietly, her voice the tiniest bit rough from the night and however long she has been waiting. The record player in the living room is playing a Dolly Parton album softly. 

He doesn't say anything, only waiting and ready to flee at the barest sign of weakness from her. It is a fool's errand on his part. 

Carole Bradshaw has never been weak. Not one single day in the years Pete Mitchell has known her. When the world shifted when they lost Goose, she was the better of them because she was strong. Only becoming stronger because she had to deal with it herself. Then Carole had to deal with it for Bradley, too, bearing the extra weight of his heartbreak. It was a battle he would never have won; A battle against Goose's ghost, Maverick was still losing.

"I made you coffee," she says then, turning her eyes back to the yarn in her lap. Her southern accent felt a little thicker and a little slower, coating his ears like honey. 

Maverick gingerly sets the bag on the floor. Carole is like a lighthouse or fog light —some guiding presence — drawing him through the dark home. Pulling his feet forward until he enters the safe bubble she creates in the living room. 

Pete perches on the edge of the couch, close enough to her side that she won't have to raise her voice. His chest is filled with a sinking feeling, free falling towards the ground. His heart already preparing for the crash and subsequent burn to follow. If he were a lesser man, his hands would have shaken, reaching for a sip of coffee. The warm liquid has a little extra kick telling him she added a splash of whisky. It was how he would always take coffee in the evening. The intimacy of her knowing him so well only makes his heart feel rawer. Pete isn't able to take his eyes off of her. 

"What's wrong, Mav? I need you to be talking to me, sugar."

That was a question with a dangerous trajectory. Maverick can never tell Carole what has happened. If he put it into words, it wouldn't be just a thought; it would make it real. It would be alive and fragile, a heaving little thing that would claw Pete apart from the inside out. 

He knew because he had seen it before; loving Carole Bradshaw is nothing short of all-consuming.

He rips his gaze away from her and stares into his coffee instead. Carole sighs heavily and shifts the yarn and hooks from her hands to the basket beside her. She faces her whole body towards him. Those shining blue eyes betray how tired she is, and yet, she is patiently waiting for him. 

"I need to leave," he grits out. 

"You don't need to leave."

"I need to leave," he repeats again. 

"Don't do this, Pete." She says, almost begging him. The kindness in her face fading from the surface. 

"I'm not doing anything. I just have to—" Carole cuts him off, which is good because Pete doesn't know where he was going with that thought. 

"You don't get to do this to Bradley or me."

"I have to, Carole. I can't. You don't understand." His words are halting and jumbled. 

"No. I think I do understand," Carole says the words slowly.

It couldn't be possible for her to know that he loved her, could it? Was Maverick so far gone that it was written all over his face? How his eyes would constantly seek her before anything else. Did she see the twitch in his arms, resisting the desire to pull her close? Can she know that most of his waking and dreaming thoughts are now consumed by her and Bradley?

"If you understood, you would be throwing me out on my ass," Pete tells her, staring down into the coffee he is gripping. The dark liquid threatens to slosh over the sides, prompting him to take another drink. 

"You think it's that terrible then? I should kick you out of the house?" 

"Yes. Carole, what I am doing is wrong." 

"Why, because of Nick?" Carole asks him not unkindly, but it still feels like a slap across his face. 

"Of course, because of Nick," Pete tells her. 

Pete is surprised to see her burst into tears. The saltwater baptizing the blue of her eyes, making them shine brighter in the dim living room. He can't identify anything similar to the feeling her tears inspire in him. 

"You're right. It is wrong for you to help care for a lonely, hurt little boy. And it is so wrong for you to be there for a struggling widow. He would have detested you for all of this. The worst thing you've ever done."

"Taking care of you two isn't what the problem is. If I was just taking care of you, with no alternative motives; if I was doing it because it is the right thing, then it would be okay." 

"So, the problem is that you–" Maverick quickly cuts her off mid-sentence. Refusing to let her say those words, refusing to make this conversation's realities worse than they already are. 

"Stop, Carole. Don't say that. It. I don't." The words come out so jumbled that Pete feels like a sock is in his mouth.  

"You don't?" She raises one eyebrow, not believing him. 

"No, I don't."  

"Don't pretend I don't know you."

"I'm not," Pete defends himself. They sit in silence for several long minutes after that. The ticking of the grandfather clock and the Dolly Parton album were the only thing disturbing the quiet. Then Carole finally decided to speak again. 

"It eats at me, too, Mav. You know that, right? Because sometimes it seems like you don't think I miss him." 

"I would never think that, Carole." Of course, he wouldn't; Maverick knew if there was anyone who missed Goose more than him, it was Carole. 

"It's been almost three years. Have you had alternative motives the whole time or just the last few visits?"

"It's more recent."

"I know," she sighs. Carole runs a hand through her hair in frustration. Pete can see the agitation lingering under the exhaustion in her. 

"Well, maybe you can answer this honestly. What's more messed up, Pete? What you are doing or what I am?" 

Pete slouches heavily into the couch, briefly pressing his hands hard into his eyes until stars spark behind them and then fade. Only then does he find the energy to look at her again. "Carole."

She holds up a hand, stopping him. Then, standing up from her chair, she stretches, causing her back to pop. Then she levels him with a melancholic look, "Enough, Mav. I'm tired, too tired to deal with this."

She set about turning off the music tidying the yarn in her bin and then drifted towards the hallway. The way she exits the space sucks all the warmth with her. Pete immediately lost that feeling of safe harbor. Carole was at the edge of the living room when she turned back to look at him. 

"I can accept you leaving me in the middle of the night. But if you ever leave without saying goodbye to that little boy?" Carole points in the direction of Bradley's room. "Don't come back." 

Pete stays. 

He waits for Bradley to wake up and then makes him breakfast before taking the boy to a local Baseball game. Carole doesn't leave her room until the late afternoon. His heart only hurts a little bit when she pretends like nothing happened in the early hours of the morning. Just another one of their conversations drifting into the wind. 

The want in his chest doesn't abate, nor does the echoing of Carole's question. Maybe they are both equally wrong, or maybe it isn't as wrong as he thought. One thing is clear to Pete on the minimal list of things Carole could do wrong in his eyes, the possibility of her loving him isn't on it. 

And it's okay that they don't talk about it, that it doesn't come up, because he never said that he loves her. Maverick had made damn sure those words didn't pass between lips. So, maybe these things can just go away. Give them a little time, some space to breathe, and the tension would dissipate between them. Maverick was sure of it.  

The part of him that now only craves her thinks about pursuing it. The traitorous part of him wonders. Hasn't Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell always craved relationships with just the touch of forbidden flavor? Whether with an admiral's daughter, an instructor, or his equal and rival. Pete never considered it genuinely deterring. 

On the contrary, some part of him saw the taboo as encouraging. But his best friend's widow? That was pushing it too far for any man —even for Maverick.  

The tension does dissipate, and the hopes he hides close to his chest don't matter. Not even three days after their unfinished conversation, Maverick is deployed to Panama. The realities of combat snapping him back into the realities of loss.

Maverick tries to give up those moments of 'dress up' of playing pretend and plundering his hidden treasure filled with laughs, too much food on the table, and slim arms holding him close. He is too afraid of tainting the memories with his stained touch. 

But to forget the Bradshaws? Let them go? That is impossible. One way or another, Maverick knows he will always return to them. 

— 4 years—-

"Who would it go to?" Maverick asks her one night. 

He silently thanked God that Bradley was already asleep when he got to Carole Bradshaw's front door that night. He had walked 8 miles from the bus stop. Maverick hadn't registered any part of the walk except the eight turns he needed to get to her door. 

She didn't say a word when she opened the door, just widened it for him and went to start a pot of coffee, and pulled a bottle of Baileys out. They were sitting together on the porch swing. It was swaying just enough to be soothing in the still of the night with the cicadas buzzing around them. 

Pete's hands still have the slightest bit of a shake to them since he had left his friend's funeral that morning. And he clutches the coffee cup Carole gave him like a lifeline. Its warmth provides more comfort than any of the liquid inside of it. Jim hadn't even been an aviator, but the image of his sister sobbing and holding that perfectly folded flag was burned behind Pete's eyes. 

The humidity in Virginia made him feel like his ghosts really were connected to his skin. They were hanging right there off of him. He had gotten better at pushing them away. Better at not letting his ghosts shift his hands and mind, only listening to them. It was a practice he only perfected in the sky. 

It is always so much harder on solid ground anymore. A fresher, newer hurt, one Maverick has not even started to examine, feels like he is back under the middle east sun. Pete has to remind himself that it is nighttime and that this humidity doesn't have the same oppressive force. He reminds himself it's okay because he is here with Carole. 

"Me, of course," she tells him, no question in her voice. 

He saw it the moment she said it; the image tweaks his soul, like when you suddenly hear a flat note in the middle of a melody. Two perfectly folded flags, sharp, crisp edges, red, white, and blue triangles, pressed behind glass. Pete's portrait and flag, sitting right next to Goose's— a home with more flags than men. Bradley growing up with not one but two looming shadows over his back. 

"No," it falls out of his mouth unsolicited. He moves to stand up from the chair, haphazardly setting his cup on the porch. He feels like a caged animal. He leans heavily against the nearby porch post, gripping it tightly. 

"No, it can't go to you." Maverick finally chokes out. He tries to take a few deep breaths to calm himself and banish the new image flaunting around his mind. 

"Who else would it go to but us?" She poses it as a question. 

He knows the answer, and so does she. There is no one else anymore, not really. 

And had there ever even been anyone else since Pete's mom died? 

No. Pete refuses to look at the horror blooming in his chest or the little voice whispering the truth:  It had always been Carole. Hadn't it?

Pete can only slowly shake his head. There is nothing he can say. Anything appropriate exits his mind to make more room for the idea of her being left alone again. The raw acceptance on Carole's face reflected in her eyes is too much for him. So, Pete closes his eyes, refusing to stare into her gaze any longer. Those blues were piercing his soul. 

Carole's eyes reminded him too much of the sky. A perfect clear sky, glistening blue. The blue that is born where the ocean and sky meet to form the horizon. That blue is the one thing he can't ever seem to stop himself from returning to. The blue that calls to him understands every part of him. That same blue: the defining characteristics of what he loves most in this world. 

"No one, but you two." Pete manages to force it out of his throat. Then brokenly, immediately, he has to remedy the words he allowed to slip out. "Anyone can have it, but not Bradley. And never you, Carole." 

Pete flinches in anticipation, registering the reverence with which he just spoke her name. He waits for the loud manifestation of his guilt, one he hears in Goose's voice, but it isn't there this time. Instead, it is drowned out by the dread of hurting this woman again. The idea of still making her pick up the pieces he has been dropping for years, even after he dies. 

Carole is still swinging in the porch chair, her feet brushing the ground just enough to continue the momentum. She looks thoughtful, her hands shuffling in her lap, absentmindedly pulling at a loose string in her skirt. 

"Would you like to be cremated or buried?" Carole asks him like she is asking what he wants to have for dinner tomorrow. 

The sound Maverick makes is one he isn't sure he ever heard before, an odd mix of a whimper, growl, and sob. Carole continues on though not waiting for a response. 

"Do you prefer Lieutenant Commander Peter Mitchell or Lieutenant Commander Peter 'Maverick' Mitchell? Maybe Pete over Peter?" 

"No," Pete manages to growl more firmly this time, forming the word with a scowl. His hands scramble to find something to grip, knuckles turning white as his nails dig into his palms. 

"Is there anything specific you want saved for Bradley?"

"Carole, stop," Maverick begs her. 

"No? Nothing for Bradley, okay. No worries. What about for Ice?" 

"Enough," he bites it out harshly, with a mean edge, desperate for her to cease this conversation. 

"No, I won't stop. These are things I need to know." She is firm in her answer. Her voice remains steady, but Pete can see how much this conversation is also affecting her. 

"You don't need to know."

"I do need to know."

"No more funerals. I promise," his voice breaks. Pete thinks he might fall apart or be blown away by the gentle summer breeze just from this conversation. 

"Will you ever stop making promises you can't keep, Mav?"

The question hangs in the air between them, and Maverick can feel all of the broken promises he has made crawling just under his skin. People think he is cocky and confident and only cares about himself; that's how he got his call sign, after all. But the truth is, Pete is more aware of his flaws and more haunted by his mistakes than anyone else he knows. 

"I always keep my promises to you, Carole. I promise you won't plan my funeral."

"You won't let that happen, will you?" She asks it almost jokingly, a clear indication of disbelief in her voice. 

"No, Ma'am. I won't," Maverick whispers. 

He is serious, his jaw set firm gaze so heavy it could almost be interpreted as a glare. They hold eye contact for a long moment, waiting for the other to look away first, borderline a staring contest. Then Carole deflates a bit, shoulders sagging like he had pressed a needle to a balloon. Finally, she shakes her head at him and shifts her gaze to look away and up as if she is sending a quiet prayer. 

"Good," she finally sighs. Carole pats the seat next to her, indicating he should sit again. 

Maverick releases his death grip on the banister he adopted at some point and sits stiffly next to her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, holding him close, her side pressed against his. Three breaths later, he sinks into her hug, shifting so that he can pull her closer to his side. So that he can breathe in her sweet honeysuckle scent.  

Carole holds him until he stops shaking entirely. His hands are steady where they grip her, and the sun starts to make its presence known. Every moment with Carole in his arms strengthens Maverick's resolve and determination. Then, when the sun crests the horizon and the sound of Saturday morning cartoons on the TV drift out to them, Carole finally releases him. 

After delicately untangling herself from his grasp, she cups his cheek, staring at him fondly. The blue of her eyes taunt him stealing his breath. She presses a gentle kiss to the corner edge of his mouth. It captures more of his lips than his cheek. The warmth lingers long after she heads back into the house, telling him to join them for breakfast when he can. 

It's a kiss that seals the promise in Pete's heart and mind. A kiss that has branded him. Pete would never let a flag be put into her arms again. He had already cashed that check. 

Maverick would be the best. He would beat the odds every single time; through every test flight, training, mission, deployment, and crash. He would make it for the chance to glimpse that color blue again. 

He wants to imprint that blue on every aspect of his life. It was already tattooed on the inside of his chest. 

When he enters the kitchen, he immediately accepts a running hug from Bradley. The boy smashes into his side and grips him tightly. He is practically vibrating with excitement. 

Holding Bradley, his eyes met Carole's again across the kitchen. Pete decided to indulge and take pleasure this time in the rush those blues give him before hiking Bradley up on his hip, hugging him close, and walking him back to the table.  

"You are getting so big," Maverick tells the boy who is hanging tightly to his neck. Bradley refuses to let him go after that sitting in his lap and sharing a plate of waffles with Pete. Maverick cuddles Bradley close to his chest on the couch for the rest of Saturday morning, Cartoon time. 

Pete feels a strange sense of calm he couldn't even fully imagine this time the day before. His resolve is absolute. He had a flight path set before him, a mission to fulfill: Carole Bradshaw would never have to plan his funeral. He was a cockroach, the world could keep smushing him, but Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell would continue on regardless.

–6 years —

Maverick had made many 'it will never happen again' promises to Goose. So many that he broke, and because of that, he doesn't know how to repent for this sin. He can't promise to never do the thing he just did again because it would only doom the moment. It would create a certainty rather than a likelihood that Maverick would fail Goose again. 

They had been drinking wine, which was the best way to start every night. That morning they had just dropped Bradley off at a weekend-long summer camp. It was the perfect opportunity to let loose, which Carole rarely had the opportunity for. 

It's easy for their nice early dinner or late lunch to shift to something more. It was easy with the way Carole hugged his waist on the back of his bike. Squealing when he reeved the engine or took a fast turn. Turning his head just a little further to the left was easy when Carole kissed his cheek. 

It is easy for one half brush of lips to become one kiss. And it is oh so easy for one kiss to turn into two, to three, until suddenly Pete had lost count. 

It wasn't easy to undress her. The back of the dress she wore had what felt like a million ties. Maverick had no idea how she got it on in the first place. It was easy to carry Carole to her room, her legs wrapped securely around his waist. It was easy how they fit together. 

Then for a while, it was blissful. For a little bit, nothing existed besides the two of them. It was easy when not a single thought ran through Pete's head except her name. 

It was now that things weren't easy. Carole had her head pressed to his chest, and she was tracing random shapes on his skin. In this quiet space, the guilt starts trying to crawl back into his skin. How, even though everything had felt so easy and so wrong. What Pete just did was wrong. 

"We should talk about what just happened," Maverick decides to broach the topic. He squeezes his arm and hand that has draped across her back and settled on her hip. 

Carole props her chin on his chest to look at his face and into Pete's eyes. The moment those blues entrap him, Pete wishes she hadn't looked at him at all. It's so easy for those eyes to pull his vulnerabilities out of him. 

"What is there to talk about, sugar?" A slight smirk shows her lips. "Round three, I hope?" 

"No, we can't ever do this again," Maverick tells her slowly. 

"You better be joking right now, Pete." 

"I'm not."

She rolls her eyes at him and pushes herself up off his chest. Before asking him, "How many years have you been in love with me now? Two?" 

It had been over three since Pete knew. But that didn't really change anything, did it? 

"Carole," he tries to say her name sweetly, placatingly. 

"It's probably been almost four for me. I don't know when it happened. But it did. Then suddenly, I just noticed one day. Like when you are used to seeing something all the time until you forget it's there. But once someone else points it out, now that's the only thing you can see. That's how I realized I was in love with you. It wasn't really any one moment."

"Please don't," he begs her. This isn't a conversation that can end well. They have done so well, never directly bringing things like this up. Only a few close calls over the years. Now, not only did they have sex for the first time, but Carole had also pulled out the L word. 

"It's not a secret, Pete. So why do you want to keep pretending that it is?"

"If we say it, then it's real."

"You don't want anything real with me?" She sits even further up on the bed, and the sheets pool around her waist, momentarily distracting him. 

"That's not the problem," Pete sighs, slamming his eyes closed. 

"I want an answer that isn't connected to Goose, Maverick." 

"I could leave you just like he did."

"You think if you died, I would be any less hurt because you never said you loved me? Because you refused to love me how we deserve? Sugar," she drawls out the word so Pete knows that while not condescending, there was every ounce of judgment she possessed behind the word. 

"If you leave me, I will hurt. It always would have hurt, no matter the situation. Plus, you made a promise to me."

He snaps his mouth shut at her reminder flashes of flags, guns, and flyovers, temporarily invading his senses. Then, with three steady breaths in and out, he returns to the present with her. Carole's blue eyes search his face intently, but for what he doesn't know. 

"I don't know how to stop feeling guilty, Carole." Maverick tries to explain. 

"No," she declares, rolling to the side and dragging one of the blankets to cover herself until she reaches the edge of the bed. "Enough of this, Pete. Stop with the perpetual guilt. I'm tired of it." Carole throws on his shirt that had been tossed aside earlier and starts looking around the room, he assumes, for pants. 

"Here is the truth. If my husband were still alive, this never would have happened. But he's not. He left both of us." A few angry tears are spilling from her eyes, and her voice raises an octave. She points a finger harshly at him. "And no matter how much you loved him, I loved him more. I still love him more."  

She shimmies into some panties and then stares at where Pete is still frozen in bed. Carole starts to button up his top. It seems silly to him that she now wants to cover up the skin Pete had just spent the entire evening worshiping and memorizing. 

"We are still here, Pete. We have been alone for years. So why aren't we allowed to be happy? I think Nick would have wanted me to be happy."

Her words punch a hole straight through his chest. Maverick isn't sure how else to comfort her or how to deal with this situation. So Pete sits up further in bed, pulling the sheet with him, and pats the open space to his side. "Carole, come back to bed."

"No," she says, scrubbing at her tears with the edge of his shirt. Carole gives him one last desperate, hurt look before exiting the room. 

He curses under his breath at her exit, turning his face into the pillows to let out a frustrated groan. But the pillows smell like Carole, and the bed smells like her honeysuckle perfume mixed with sex. It is suddenly too heady there for his emotional state. 

Pete pulls himself from the bed, finding his boxers to throw on. He goes to the attached bathroom and washes his face with cold water, trying to think of a plan to rectify this situation. However, all that turns into is a useless staring contest with his reflection. 

Carole is cooking in the kitchen when he joins her. He fights the urge to tiptoe, which is ridiculous because they are the only two people in the house. 

Carole slams a mug of coffee down on the breakfast bar with more force than Pete would recommend when handling pottery. She motions for him to sit with a flick of her hand. Pete sees her drinking a cup of coffee herself, taking quick gulps of the stuff. Carole sets her own mug down only to add more baileys to replace the new space in her cup.  

"You're cooking?" He asks hesitantly, taking a seat. 

"Yes. Sex makes me hungry," Carole responds matter of a factly. She flips the quesadilla in the pan but doesn't look at him. 

"Three," Pete finally says, deciding to broach the silence between them. Carole doesn't respond, though, only taking the quesadilla out of the pan and starting to make another. 

"It's been three years since I knew I was in love with you."

"I know, she says quietly. She doesn't turn to acknowledge him still. 

"It was your laugh," Pete shook his head at the memory. "I love your laugh. Maybe I always have, and then I realized Bradley has the same laugh. It's what finally did me in. I didn't know I could love as much as I love the two of you." 

"I thought he had Nick's laugh," Carole responds quietly. Pete is pleasantly surprised to find hearing his name only leaves a small squeeze of hurt in his chest. 

"Nope, his real laugh, when he finds something actually funny. That's all you, sweetheart." 

Carole finishes cooking the second quesadilla. She sets it on a plate in front of Maverick. Carole gulps down more of her coffee, which Pete estimates is now eighty-five percent whiskey. Then digs into the quesadilla she made for herself. 

"Are we going to wait three more years? Do you think the guilt will be less then?" She asks him in between bites. 

"No," Pete says. "No more waiting, even if he would hate me for this. Because you deserve to be happy, Carole. We have each other. And I love you more now than I love him. "

"What if I can't give you that?" Carole asks him quietly. 

"I would never ask for that from you. Can I just ask you to love me as much as you are able?" Pete still hadn't eaten any of his food, but he got out of his chair, rounding the edge of the island. 

"Are you going to let go?" She asks, resting her hands on his bare chest when he comes to a halting stop in front of her. Maverick cadges her against the counter with his body dipping his head into the crook of Carole's neck and shoulder. 

"No, Carole Bradshaw. I don't think I will ever let go of you," he mutters into her skin as Carole's fingers thread into his hair. 

There is more to talk about, but it is also oh so easy to fall back into bed again. Pete silently repents and worships at the only alter he has ever found solace. His mind consumed only with the thought of her again: Carole's skin, Carole's thighs, Carole's sweet voice, Carole's sweeter taste, Carole... Carole... Carole... 

— 13 years—

Pete is the lighter sleeper between the two of them. So when the phone started ringing, he was jogging towards the kitchen to pick it up by the next ring before it could wake up Carole. 

"Mom?" The voice on the other side of the phone asks. It only takes Pete's sleep-ridden mind a few moments to recognize Bradley's voice and shock his mind into full alertness. 

"It's Mav. Are you okay?"

"Is my Mama there?" Bradley's voice is heavy and slurring just a bit. 

"Are you okay, Brad?"

"I'm drunk, Mav," Bradley giggles like he is eight years old again. 

"I can tell," Mav says with a chuckle, making Bradley laugh harder. Then Pete hears voices talking loudly, muffled on the other side of the phone. 

"Shut up! I'm on the phone." Bradley yells, and then there are more muffled voices. Pete waits patiently, his amusement almost equal to his worry about the teen. 

"Mom," Bradley sings into the phone again. 

"Mav," Pete gently corrects him, but Bradley continues, not even acknowledging it. 

"I'm at the barn past the other side of the tracks of the east river. Leech won't let me drive. Can you have dad pick me up?" 

Before Maverick can say anything else, the line clicks dead. He sighed heavily and went back to the bedroom. Carole is blinking up at him tiredly. She moves to sit up from the bed, but Pete stops her with a gentle hand on the shoulder. 

"Is Brad?" She asks him blearily. 

"He's okay. I'm going to pick him up right now." 

She sighs and settles back into the pillows. Pete presses a kiss to her lips and then an additional one to her forehead. Then, giving her a wink as he throws on some jeans and a random shirt. Carole laughs and gives him a sleepy smile before nestling back into the pillows.

Pete grabs his jacket off the hook by the door, shrugging it on. He closes the door as quietly as possible on his way out of the house. 

Maverick speeds across town on his bike. He is thankful that he and Bradley took the top and back off the Bronco last weekend in preparation for summer. When he gets to the barn, he puts his bike in the back of the Bronco first. Strapping it down tight before setting off to find his wayward teen. 

Bradley is at a beer pong table, chugging down whatever is in his solo cup, when Maverick finds him. Brad slams his drink down on the table and gives Pete a full-blown goofy grin. Pete raises an eyebrow but smiles back at him. 

"You ready to go home, kiddo?" He asks. 

Bradley enthusiastically nods and starts walking toward Pete but doubles back to finish whatever was in his drink and almost falls down in the process. Bradley's friends laugh at him, and Pete checks on them, too. He is pleased to find them all significantly more sober. 

Leecher, Brad's best friend, helps Mav lead Bradley out of the barn and into the Bronco. Once there, he fishes the keys out of his front pocket, pressing them into Maverick's hands. 

"I had to take his keys," the young man admits to Mav. Pete pats Leecher on the back kindly. 

"Thanks for not letting him drive, John."

"No problem, Mav. I'm glad you came and picked him up. He didn't think anyone would." Leecher responds. Pete has to clench his jaw hearing the comment. 

"Are the rest of you kids going to get home safe? I can swing back and give rides."

"No, Sir. We are good. I haven't been drinking tonight and am driving everyone else home."

"You're a good man," Pete tells him. 

Leecher ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, almost embarrassed. "Thank you. I made him drink some Gatorade. And Mav? Don't be too hard on him." 

"Have a good night, Leecher," Mav says, shaking the boys' hand. When he gets into the cab, Bradley looks at him like a kicked puppy dog.

"Are you mad at me?" He asks in a small voice.

"No, I'm not mad. You can always call me." Pete tells him evenly. 

"Not mad but disappointed, right?" Brad asks, leaning his head against the car's headrest and closing his eyes. 

"Bradley," Pete sighs softly, shaking his head. 

"Forget it," Bradley says, not opening his eyes. 

Pete is quiet for the rest of the drive until he pulls the Bronco into Brad's parking spot next to the shop at the house. They sit there in silence for a while before Bradley starts trying to fuss with his seatbelt. The action puts an end to Pete's quiet contemplation on how to best deal with this situation and how Goose would've approached it. 

"Hold on, Brad. We can't avoid this anymore. We need to talk."

"Come on, Mav. We can talk some other time."

"No, we are talking right now."

"You promised we would always talk in the mornings when I was sober."

His statement was true. Carole and Pete had always told Bradley that he could call them no matter what, and they would pick him up, no questions, no fighting. And then, in the morning, they could all deal with the aftermath together. 

"I know we did,' Pete sighs and grips the wheel a little tighter. "But this talk isn't about you being in trouble for sneaking out and drinking. And I'm not taking you back into your mother's house tonight until you are sober."  

Pete starts the Bronco back up and pulls it out of the driveway, driving through town until he pulls up at the small 24-hour diner. He helps Brad inside and orders them both waffles, bacon, grits, and eggs, with two cups of coffee. 

Bradley doesn't say a single thing the whole time, except for how he wants his eggs cooked and echoing Pete's "thank you, ma'am" as their waitress walks back to the kitchen. 

Pete switches his water with Bradley's empty glass when the teenager finishes his own in three long gulps. Maverick sips his coffee, savoring the bitter flavor on his tongue. Shitty coffee like this reminds him of being on the carrier. The thought makes him sigh. He would be leaving on another cruise soon, and it felt like all the time was just sand slipping through his fingers. 

"Why don't you talk to me anymore?" Pete asks once the silence has stretched long enough that Bradley is shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

"We talk all the time."

"No, we don't. Not really, not like we used to. You don't talk to me. You don't talk to your mother. We don't even know who you are anymore. You are sneaking out to parties you know we would let you go to if you asked. You're drinking and getting into fights. The coach called and told us how you've been skipping practice."

"I'm just having some fun, Mav." 

"Look, it's one thing to have fun, Bradley, but it's another to risk your future. You almost got behind the wheel tonight. The only thing that stopped you was Leech taking your keys. You were risking your life!" 

He wasn't expecting Bradley to visibly recoil at his words. "You risk your life all the time, and so did Goose."

"That's different than drinking and driving."

"Of course, it's different," Bradley scoffs, rolling his eyes. 

"Flying a plane and drunk driving are not comparable, Bradley." 

"Sure, Mav. Only one of those things killed Goose."

Pete sits further back in his seat. Not letting the hurt and anger show in his face that he feels in his chest. He has to remind himself that Brad is lashing out, trying to hurt him. "Well, your father only did one of those things."

"You know, you can drop this whole duty, obligation, tough love, act you have towards me because you feel guilty or whatever." 

"I don't love you out of guilt or obligation, Bradley."

"You don't love me at all! " The teen hisses back at him. "You loved Goose, and with my mom, you just—" 

"I better not hear one disrespectful thing come out of your mouth about your mother, Bradshaw," Maverick warns him lowly. 

Brad's face flushes, but he does close his mouth for a moment, reconsidering what he was going to say. Pete knows that Bradley loves his mother more than anyone else in this world, and he would only regret saying whatever was about to spring out. Finally, he seems to settle on kinder words.  

"You only put up with me because you feel guilty about my mom."

"You think I 'put' up with you?" Pete didn't ask the question accusatory. Instead, he asks it because he really wants to know what Bradley feels. That is much more important than any of the reactionary feelings bubbling in his chest. 

"Yes. Why else would you bother with me?" Brad says the words plainly like they should be the most obvious thing in the world to Maverick. 

"I know you feel trapped by this idea of your dad hanging over your head. God knows your mother and I haven't helped as much as we should have with that. But you aren't him, Brad, and you never will be." Pete says gently, trying to see where the root of Bradley's problem is where he suspects.  

"Fuck you. Goose was an amazing man."

Maverick sighs and pulls a hand through his hair. So that approach wasn't going to pan out. "Yes, he was. He was my best friend. You aren't him, though. Bradley, you are trying to fit yourself into the shape of a ghost."

Bradley's jaw clenches, averting his gaze to stare out the diner window. Pete remembered the same look he used to have, the one he catches Bradley with sometimes; how his eyes would linger over pictures and then in the mirror, how it felt trying to pick out similarities and measure the differences. The way it hung over him.

Now here with Bradley, Pete finally understands what people were always trying to impress on him when they said to let it go. He understands what Viper saw while Pete struggled against his father's shadow. 

But how do you tell a tall, gangly boy who desperately wants to be a man to let go of his father? His father you killed?  

So, maybe he finally understood where they were coming from. However, he didn't understand what letting it go actually meant. Pete knew he would never let it go. He now understood the want to let go, though. The want for the young man in front of you to understand you; The want to not watch him make the same mistakes you did. Wanting to shield him from suffering under the crushing, unbearable weight of loss and expectation. 

"Look, Brad, you are going through changes and growing up. Right now, you are deciding the man you want to be. It's a choice you can't make for anyone but yourself. You have to be your own man. If that includes parts of him, great. But don't make your goal to try and fill his shoes."

"What do you want from me?" Bradley finally spits out, his face lighting up red in anger. Before Pete can respond, Bradley is barreling onwards, not even letting him get a word in. 

"I know," Bradley's voice cracks, "I know I'm never going to be Goose. Okay? I don't need you to tell me that."

The quiet between them stretches. The classic 50s and 60s music humming in the background, the kitchen sounds, and the few other scattered patrons' conversations fill the space. Bradley starts to sip his coffee now and rearranges his silverware under Pete's heavy stare. 

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You always call him Goose now." 

Bradley pauses at that. Setting the silverware he was fiddling with down. Instead, electing to start folding his straw wrapper, making a tiny accordion before he answers. 

"I don't know. That is all I really know him as. I guess… I realized he isn't really my dad anymore. You are."

A lump forms at the back of Maverick's throat, and he desperately tries to swallow it down. He feels tears start to well up. Bradley's eyes refuse to meet Pete's own searching gaze, but his eyes flit over his face trying to gauge his reaction. 

"I am so sorry, Bradley. "

"You are sorry? Sorry for what? That you are my dad?"

"No, not that! Nick would have done such a better job than me. I love being your dad so much. I'm trying, but I'm sorry you missed out on having an amazing dad in your life."

"I don't feel like I missed out on having a fantastic dad. You have been here the whole time. I just feel like I'm missing out on having known Goose. And it's so hard. Sometimes when I do something, I can see it on everyone's faces that I didn't do it the way they expected. 

"I see it in mom's face, and I see it in yours. When I don't react like y'all thought he would have reacted. Or I don't say something like he would have. I'm being compared to a man I never knew. Everyone looks at me and sees his distorted reflection."

Pete feels shame and guilt fill him. He knew part of what Bradley was saying was true, and he knows that has never been fair to him. Their waitress brings them their food and sets it down, asking if they need anything. Pete brushes her off with a quick thank you and watches Bradley start to cut into his waffles, the exact same way that Pete does. That hard lump of emotion rose up in him again at the sight. 

"I do love your parents. Your father was my best friend. Your mother is the strongest and kindest woman I have ever met. But you, Bradley Bradshaw. I love you for so many other reasons. Reasons that have nothing to do with them.

"I am proud of you. Watching you grow up and getting to see the man you are becoming; it has been the greatest honor of my life. Being in your life..." Pete's voice almost catches, but he clears his throat to continue. "It is a joy. I know you are figuring out who you are, but I am here for you, Bradley. Every step of the way, to support you in any way I can. 

"There is no one I would rather spend a Sunday in the shop with. No one I would rather go to a baseball game with. I love hearing about your classes and piano lessons. I was so proud last month when you refinished the Bronco. I love how you always try to take care of your mom. That you don't think it's embarrassing, even when your friends rib you. I love that you hate meatloaf just as much as I do. That you would rather do any chore than go to the grocery store. I love how you try to find humor in every situation. 

"I love you, Bradley, with or without your parents involved. I will keep loving you, no matter what. It's not something that is going to change because you snuck out to a party or because you don't like something Goose would have. I don't put up with you. I am thankful every day that you put up with me. That you have let me be in your life."

Tears are dripping down Bradley's face, and he is quick to scrub them away. His naturally ruddy cheeks, which were already red from alcohol, are flaming now. The color spreading down the length of his neck too. Brad hangs his head low, pressing his face into his shoulder and taking some big breaths. When the tears subside and Bradley has sufficiently scrubbed them away with the back of his hand, he pulls his face up, looking right at Pete. 

Then Bradley grins, cheesing at him. "Pete?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"It is okay if I call you dad? Right?" The grin hasn't fallen off Bradley's face, but his vulnerability is still written all over his eyes. 

"Of course, any time you want."

A few beats of silence pass. 

"Hey, Dad?" Pete doesn't know how to identify the emotions whirling in him hearing that phrase from Bradley. 

"Yeah?" 

"If you don't want your waffles, can I have them?" 

Pete laughs and smiles at Bradley shaking his head. "Absolutely not. These are my waffles."

The grin starts to fall off Bradley's face, and he looks down at his almost empty waffle plate. Despair and sadness slowly starting to overcome his face. 

"But you can order a milkshake," Pete tells him, finally cutting into his own waffles. He is rewarded with Bradley's grin again. 

They eat in silence together, and Bradley does steal one bite of Pete's waffles. A feat he only accomplishes after an epic fork fight that ends with both of them having a laughing fit. 

Walking back to the Bronco, after finishing their food, Bradley drinks his milkshake in a huge to-go cup. He throws an arm over Pete's shoulder. Brad has been taller than Pete for almost a year and still revels in it.

Pete doesn't mind it, though. It's a comfortable feeling that reminds him of Goose. He tries to dislodge that thought, instead enjoying that it's Brad, pushing the ghosts away to focus on existing in this moment with his son. "You know we will still have to talk with your mom when she wakes up." 

"Yeah, I know." Bradley groans, jumping into the cab. 

"Dad?" Bradley asks as Mav is starting the car.

"Yes, Brad?"

"I love you too. You know?"

"Yeah, son, I know," Pete replies gruffly. 

If Pete has to wipe some tears off his face at the next stop light on their way home, that is between Pete, Bradley, and God. 

— 16 years–

Pete and Carole rarely fight, but when they do, it's normally quiet, solemn, and serious. Not the blow-up, screaming, while throwing things fight they have had tonight. The kind of fight where they aren't even fighting about what they started with anymore, stuck on some twisted tangent. 

Pete is in the middle of an angry monologue where he is puncturing every sentence with a slam of his finger into the table when Carole interrupts him and asks him to bring her coffee. The request resets his brain, short-circuiting whatever thought he was in the middle of. It's a request to allow them both to cool off more than anything, but it also lets Pete know he is in for a longer night than he was already planning.  

Maverick has failed to deny Carole anything she has asked for a long time. He knows this fight is no different, which just works the anger and hurt deeper under his skin. Pete doesn't want to hurt Carole, but he wants her to know how much he is hurting. So, making sure to slam the screen door extra hard on his way out, he leaves the house and hunts down a place that can make her coffee.

Maverick orders the drink sickly sweet and extra hot since that is the only way Carole will drink it; it is a drink order he has always joked would send most people into diabetic shock. He starts to feel his blood pressure lower to a stable level when he has the drink secured. Pete then asks for a cup of Carole's favorite tea too. By the time he gets back to the house with two cooling drinks, he already has a sense of hollow acceptance beating in his chest. 

Carole takes two whole sips of the coffee when he returns to her side with it. She wrinkles her nose during each gulp and then presses the cup back into his hands. 

"You can have it," she tells him with a smile like she had gotten away with a little trick. 

"Thank you," Pete plays along like he hadn't always known that the coffee was for him. He takes a long drink of it despite the sweetness making him want to wrinkle his nose. He will drink the whole thing; drink it for the same reason you have to stomach through cough syrup. 

"We can finish our fight now," Carole tells him after watching him take a drink, setting the coffee down again.

Pete shakes his head and leaves her side to go into the kitchen. He adds a generous amount of honey to the extra cup before returning to her. 

"I got it just in case," Maverick tells her. She knows he's lying but does say anything. Carole only accepts the cup with shaking hands after she gives Pete a soft kiss, cupping his cheek and stroking her thumb along his cheekbone. 

He settles on the other side of the couch, and she sips the tea before setting it aside. Carole doesn't breach the silence between them again. Instead, she waits for Maverick to be ready. 

His chest aches, and he loves that she has always been the one thing, the one person he could take his time with. 

"You know, my dad is the reason I didn't go to Annapolis." He finally says. 

"Yes, I know," Carole tells him with apparent disinterest. 

"Are you okay with Bradley being like me?"

"He already is like you."

"Like me when you met me," Maverick clarifies. 

"Yes, Pete. I am." 

"Why?" The question falls out of his mouth and shatters on the ground at their fragile feet. Pete's vulnerability laid out in front of them. A young Peter Mitchell is one of the worst things he can think of Bradley being. 

She looks at him like he is crazy then. Her eyebrows creasing with confusion. "Because you lived. And Bradley will live." 

The words echo between them, resonating deep within Pete. She says it so simply like it is a given. Something to never question. And it's true; Bradley will live. Maverick knows it, knows it like how he knows Carole won't, knows it how he knows Goose didn't.  

"Haven't you realized yet?" She finally asks him, taking one of his hands and holding it with both of hers. 

"Realized what?"

"We look at him, and all we see is Nick, and he is on the outside. But inside, Bradley is your son Pete. You raised him with me."

"I know," Pete breathes the words, afraid of what owning them too loudly might do. 

"Nick wouldn't be mad, you know. Not anymore." Carole laughs, shaking her head. "He's going to be thankful Brad grew up with a Dad."

It's a conversation that they have had many different times in many different ways. How Goose would feel. How Goose would have reacted. It feels even more raw now than ever before, which Maverick finds a bit funny since time has only stretched. It has been many long years since Goose died. 

"I try to think he would be," Pete says with a sigh. 

"Why won't you do it then?" Carole asks him. 

"I'm going to do it, Carole," Pete tells her. He expects the words to taste of bitter defeat in his mouth, but they don't. He takes another swig of the coffee and sets it on the table. Pete knew he would do it from the first moment she asked. Maverick had accepted he would do it while driving home with their drinks. 

"Do you promise?" She asks him, and it is oh so rare for Pete to hear Carole sound this small.

"Yes, I promise." 

"Why didn't you want to?" 

"Because he is so much better than me. Because I didn't want him to ever go through the hurt, I did. Because I love him too much to not break my own heart while breaking his dreams." 

"Am I wrong, that he isn't ready? That this will protect him?" Pete considers her question for a long time. 

"No, you aren't wrong. It will make him decide if he actually wants to. If he is serious, he will do NROTC. Give Brad the chance to search for something besides Goose's legacy." 

"He's going to hate us," Carole says. 

"No," Maverick says quickly, cutting off her words. "He will hate me, Carole. Just me."

"I'm the one asking you to veto his application."

"He doesn't need to know that. "

"That's not fair to you or him."

"It is fair to him because he loves you, Carole. And I'm not going to let him convince himself otherwise. I don't matter." 

"You do matter, Pete."

"Not more than Bradley. Nothing matters more than Bradley."  

Tears spill from her eyes, and she grips him tightly in her arms. Throwing them around his shoulders and pulling him close. She is thinner and frailer than ever before. No one wants to address the reality that her treatments aren't working. And Pete hasn't even started to prepare for the type of ghost she will be hanging over his shoulder. 

"I don't want him to hate the only person he is going to have left," Carole cries into his neck. "I don't want you to lose him." 

Maverick just holds her tighter. "I'll get through it. I always do. Someday, he will understand." But that was something he didn't know. It is just something he hopes.  

"I don't want to fight anymore," Carole tells him. 

"No more fights, I promise," Pete tells her. It is yet another promise he manages to keep to her. Pete never has another fight with Carole Bradshaw before she dies. 

And Rooster does seem to understand, 16 years later, drinking a cup of black coffee in the hanger that Maverick calls home. Both of them are still sore and exhausted from the mission they flew together. Maverick is sure that he looks borderline haggard.  

While drinking his coffee, Pete thinks it feels like putting on a shirt you forgot you had. One that got lost in the back of your closet. The unexpected joy of finding out it still fits, maybe not the same way it used to fit. But it fits regardless. 

It fits how Bradley cuts his waffles the same, that he still lovingly dedicates time to the Bronco, and roots for the same sports team. But he is different in so many ways too. Pete hasn't adjusted to the hulking filled-out frame, the type of beer Rooster likes, or his favorite artist to play in the shop.