A/N: Due to certain events later in this chapter, expect a lot more foul language than I usually use. I felt the situation called for it...be forewarned.
>>>>>
I...don't even know how I'm feeling, or how long I'll be feeling it. I'm still feeling it, the day after. Half the day I lay there, simply feeling things I can't explain until around noon, I manage to get myself up from bed, and out of Maverick's arms. The thrill of secrecy is gone. The thrill of anything is gone. If anyone didn't know that Maverick and I are dating, or that he's been sneaking into my room at midnight, they sure as Hell know now...and I couldn't care less. Maverick is barely alive. The only sign of life is the shallow ripple of breath inflating his chest, and the strangled squelch of each swallow. I've never seen him cry so hard and for so long. I think I fell asleep before he did, so exhausted that not even his constant hiccuping could keep me up. All that crying has completely blocked his sinuses. Poor boy sounds like he's got a cold. I guess Carol checked on us last night...or maybe this morning, cause I woke up to a box of tissues on my bedside table and two glasses of water. I drained my glass in one gulp.
It stung like liquor on my tattered throat.
Hours of sobbing will do that to you.
Bleary eyed and weak, I stagger like a newborn foal into the kitchen, not expecting to run into anybody. Viper gave Maverick, Ghost, and I the day off. If anyone is up, it should be Charlie, who still has a class to teach. But it's way past time for her first session, so who's that tiptoeing around the stove?
A flash of caramel catches my eye.
"Oh."
That came out louder than I meant it to.
Ghost visibly startles, her hand nearly slipping from the kettle. Her head jerks in my direction, revealing an ashen face and sunken eyes; my stomach gurgles uneasily. There's an uncanny resemblance between my RIO and a skull, with blue gems set into its eye sockets. The flush that normally marks her cheekbones is nowhere in sight. She's a hundred shades of gray and green, excluding the bags under her eyes, which are a deeper hue of purple than any bruise I've ever seen, and trust me when I say, I've seen plenty. Who knows how long the two of us stand there.
Staring.
Wanting so badly to say a million different things we can barely allow ourselves to think. Everytime a sentence lands on my tongue, I swallow it down, and force myself back to square one.
Ironically, it's my pondering, molasses speaking RIO who has the first word.
"Hey."
My heart lifts a little, to hear her voice.
Such a simple thing, 'hey.' But I'd give up the entire dictionary's worth of words to hear that small greeting over and over again, like a tape on rewind. It feels like honey on my eardrums, which throb and pulse thunderously from last night's headache. A quarter of my chapped lips form a smile as I echo the sentiment.
"Hey."
We share fragments of a smile...
And then she's pouring hot water over a teabag.
And I'm leaning against the counter, telling myself to eat something, but afraid of how my stomach might retaliate if I try. Not even a banana seems safe. What's wrong with me, a hushed whisper releases in my ear. I grimace and pick at the knotted flakes of skin around my fingernail. When did I stop taking risks? The flesh peels easily, like string cheese. Great. Way to help your stomach settle. I feel my face turn green as I shove both hands into my jeans pockets. Right, I didn't change. Neither did Maverick, come to think of it. Honestly, I'm not sure how we got home. I vaguely remember hands pulling us apart on the runway...dragging us gently towards an office — well, first the medical office, where Maverick got checked over. That was the only moment where he stopped crying for the rest of the day. I was still bent over myself, rocking back and forth, but he just quietly held my hand while the nurse examined his scrapes until he was cleared.
That's when we saw Viper, and he let us off the hook.
"Mourn, gather anything you need, rest. We'll arrange a trial, a funeral for Goose, but in four days we'll need you back here to fly...you might think it sounds cruel, considering all that's transpired but I'm sure Stirrups can tell you that when you fall off a horse—"
You've got to get back on.
I always knew that growing up. I would slip off the saddle, bruise an arm or a leg, and cry, but daddy always hauled me under my arms and hoisted me back on the horse, made me do a couple of circles at least, until the horse and I both could come to a halt and sigh together. If only I'd been able to apply the same skill to aviation...maybe I would've coped better with losing Vixen. But those days are long past. I've learned the lesson, one way or another, and even though my heart feels cracked and I want to crawl back into bed with Maverick and cry all the water out of my body, I know that I'm going to get in that cockpit next week, and I'm going to fly. Because I can't let grief hold me back; I refuse to let it break me; frighten me; weaken me.
Most of all, I won't let it break Maverick.
He was there for me when I was lost.
Broken, afraid.
I'll be damned if I let him slip through the cracks and fester as long as I did. No way in Hell. I'm going to be here for him, and we're going to get back in those jets, and crush Iceman and Slider.
We're gonna win that trophy for Penguin.
It's so passionate in my head, I half expecting to hear that age old sigh.
"How's Maverick?"
I blink back the single tear my speech has accumulated.
"Sleeping."
Ghost dunks her tea bag under the boiling water and nods in sync with each plunge. A plume of steam coils around her sullen features.
My heartstrings stretch themselves thin as they reach for her.
"How are you feeling?"
Her sigh disturbs the flow of steam.
"Like a slug. Slimy, lonely, wandering in search of the 'what now?'"
She doesn't have to ask to know that I'm a slug too. It's not the first time that our telepathic powers have worked on the ground. They're more acute in the air, but it's times like these, when words are untamable, and hearts too fragile, that our thoughts can intertwine and speak for us. I don't have to tell her that I feel as sad and broken as she does...just like she doesn't have to tell me that she needs the biggest hug in the world. I'm already taking the mug from her hands and drawing her in before she can cough up a sob. Our height difference is painfully obvious as we fold in on each other. Her forehead slots along the slope of my collar; I tuck my ear against her scalp. Ghost's hair is slippery and unkempt. I can't even begin to imagine what mine must be like, so I don't try. The only effort I exert is the sap of strength left in my arms to cradle my best friend. She's warm and cold all at once, but she fits just right.
Our hug could endure anything.
It's our own little forcefield.
A bubble.
We take our time inside our bubble, and hold each other for as long as our legs can bear us up.
Even after we've parted ways, I feel the echo of her arms blanketing my body. I can't bring myself to eat, but Ghost convinces me to make some coffee. Balancing two mugs, I creep back into my bedroom, finding Maverick half awake, and buried under a heap of blankets. Smiling tightly, I plod over to the bed, setting down our drinks before leaning into the mattress. My added weight barely disturbs Maverick. He can hardly meet my eyes. I hold my breath, studying his face that's become partially welded to the pillow he's crushing between his arms. There's the stamp of sleeplessness under each eye; both of which are nearly swollen shut from the constant crying. Under his red nose, a slimy streak marks his upper lip.
A snotty mustache, I think, instantly reminded of Goose.
Goose.
The mere mention of his name has chills patterning my arms. Goosebumps, I muse, not sure of whether I like the irony in it. Another thing to add to my list of, 'not sures.' Not sure how I'm feeling — though Ghost pretty much cleared that up for me — not sure what to do with myself, how to proceed, and now this. To make matters worse, the slug in me is beginning to scoot over, providing space for another, stronger emotion. Like a fireball or something. Maybe a hornet, if we're sticking with creepy-crawlies. Some of me wants to curl up and melt through the floorboards, maybe even take Maverick with me so the two of us can forget the world; a puddle of mush under everyone's feet. But the other half is restless; angry; stingy. I wanna hit someone, scream, tear out my hair or someone else's — it makes no difference to me. This...this feral beast that's joined the scene is thirsty for blood, as if I haven't seen enough of that in my life between Vixen and...
Goose, I swallow the lump in my throat. Say his name, Stirrups, before it's too hard to even remember it...you've made that mistake before...learn from the past...
More importantly,
Set an example for Maverick.
I exhale the air clogging my windpipe...
This is going to be harder than anticipated.
I'm already tempted to lie down and abandon our coffees.
Instead, I force a gentle smile and run a hand over Maverick's head, very lightly threading my fingers through his matted hair.
No hum.
No smile.
Not even a blink.
Nothing.
"Hey, baby..." I murmur, continuing to play with his hair, mostly to stop myself from freaking out. "I brought you some coffee...thought it might feel nice on your throat...and help wake you up a bit?"
Maverick glances at me—
And looks quickly away.
I saw my lower lip between my teeth, "Pete...at least have some water. You've been crying for hours...you need to rehydrate."
Maverick stares blankly at my lap.
A sob builds in my throat. Boy do I know that look. Those empty eyes, so sullen they've lost their emerald shimmer and turned cold and gray as stone. It's like a knife through my heart, tearing open the stitches of an old wound as it's twisted and plunged deeper. To see Maverick so despondent, his forehead feverish but his hands like ice, the lack of motivation, the desire to fester in a dark room, no water, no food, for days on end; drowning in a bed of quicksand. I know this story like the back of my hand. I remember standing up from a hospital bed, only to collapse into my own. No one needed to confine me to bedrest; I did that of my own accord. Chained myself to the mattress, denied myself food and water and sunlight and company; a prisoner of my own making. It was the stupidest thing I've ever done. Grief makes you do that, stupid stuff. It makes you hate your friends, yourself, life, God, all of it. The only thing you love is the shovel in your hands and the hole you dig yourself into.
Once you start, it's hard to stop.
So so damn hard.
I thought I was stuck in the hole I dug, but this cocksure son of a gun managed to yank me out.
And here we are, all these months later.
"Maverick," I begin, pausing to grab his attention. His brows lift a centimeter or two as he cracks open one puffy eye. I lock onto that eye, staring straight down the lens to his soul. It's obvious by the way he suddenly squirms that he's uncomfortable, but as much as it pains me to say it, screw his comfort. He's on a dark path, and I have this chance to intervene. Grief is like one of those diseases that you've got to catch early, otherwise it's too late. Gritting my teeth, I dive headfirst into the half-ass speech simmering on my tongue. "You want to lay here forever, you aren't hungry, you don't want water, you don't want to get up and move on, or think, or talk, and you have every right to feel that way. Viper gave you this time off for just that; wallowing. You can lay in bed all day. You can watch shit films and eat your stupid chocolate ice cream and get fat and that's ok...because you lost—"
My voice wavers.
A tear drops from Maverick's lashes.
"We lost our Goose...and it hurts like Hell..."
Maverick winces.
I shudder, on the verge of breaking down,
But press on.
"You can mourn him, Mav...I...I've gotta do it too but you can't do what I did. You can't waste your life, broken and angry and afraid. I was so stuck, Pete...and you pulled me outta that shithole and now God's given me a pretty screwed up way of repaying you for it — but I'm gonna repay you, every cent. Because I wouldn't be here without you...I wouldn't—" I hiccup, "I won't let this happen to you."
I finish, out of breath, shivering from the threat of oncoming tears. My hand slides along the curve of Maverick's face, falling into place just over his cheekbone, where I trace goose over and over and over. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maverick blink, shaking a clump of tears free from his eyelashes, like dew from a treetop.
They trickle down his raw cheeks and he tries to draw a breath through his nose, but congestion is a little shit, and I hear the squelch of snot blocking each nostril. It's sickening, sure, but moving in a weird way. I reach for the tissue box Charlie left, tearing the top one off the stack and tenderly blotting under Maverick's nose. His eyes squeeze shut as it rubs against his chafed skin. Soft as tissues are, anything can burn when you've cried your nose raw like he has. I mutter sweet nothings and then crumple the tissue in one hand, tossing it over my shoulder carelessly. My room is a permanent wreck. Clothes, shopping bags from yesterday, and who knows what else litter my floor. Charlie's going to need another cleaning day to get this disaster in order.
Still won't be as much work as getting this disaster in order, I hum, skimming Maverick's hairline.
His eyes roll back...
He smiles faintly...
And he sighs, "My how the tables have turned," he whispers hoarsely.
I inhale sharply, tears riding out my shaky laugh as I comb through Maverick's hair, following the curve of his skull. Both hands tremble violently. My smile stretches the flesh over my cheeks tight enough to see straight through to the bone. Shaking, struggling to catch my breath with a hitch in my throat, I frantically pet at the back of Maverick's head — like a mad woman, seeking a desperate release from the stress of it all; losing Goose, the terror of losing Maverick to the hole in his heart; fear of failing to spare him my pain. The anxiety was so tangible, I could've sworn I held it as I now hold Maverick's head: a heavy weight in my hands. A bowling ball of darkness dragging me closer and closer to the ground. And all it took was Maverick's smile to turn that weight to dust. It evaporates so fast, the steam blinds my eyes, and before I can tell myself not to cry, I'm falling forward in Maverick's arms and crying ugly tears down his shoulder. Warm rivers wind down his collarbone and slip beneath his shirt.
Here I am, adding to the grime coating his skin.
Maverick has every right to push me away.
But he pulls me close, pressing our chests together.
I lay on top of him, face buried in his neck, hands and arms crushed between his shoulders and the mattress. Our hearts fall into a rhythm, like two metronomes left to themselves. It doesn't take long for them to swing in time. For the ten minutes we waste, pressed together in my room, it almost feels like our cloven hearts fuse into one.
Sipping my coffee, I glance towards Maverick.
His face disappears behind his mug.
The afternoon sun sets him ablaze.
Smiling to myself, I reach for his hand and intertwine our fingers.
There's no one else in the world I'd rather share a heart with.
>>>>>
Four days crawl by, deceitfully swift at times, and painfully slow at others. By the time I get to bed each night, I'm more drained than I've ever been in my entire Naval career. Boot camp was Hell, but maybe Hell ain't that bad, considering I made it under my covers awake enough to change clothes. I can't even remember the last time I slept in pajamas. The most effort I put into my night routine is taking off a layer, whether that's a shirt or pants. Ninety-six hours to process; mourn; arrange; comfort; and finally piece myself and Maverick together, so we can complete the final step and move on. What a sick phrase, 'move on.' For someone who's been through it, I still reserve hard feelings against it. Telling yourself to get it together is one thing, telling another person is an absurdly different task. Try watching your boyfriend stare at the picture of his dead best friend, tucked under the frame of the bathroom mirror, sobbing uncontrollably, and then tell him to, 'move on.'
I can't be that girlfriend.
Especially given my track record.
Somedays, I feel like the world's biggest hypocrite, spending all my energy encouraging everyone to push on through the heartbreak—
When a year ago I laid myself down in a ditch and took almost half that time to climb back out of it.
Four days of ups and downs go by in a constant flip-flopping of extremes. One minute, Ghost, Carol, and I are combing through Goose's stuff...helping Carol pack, laughing over memories, sharing stories not everyone's heard; and on the turn of a dime, we're going through an entire tissue box in one sitting. Charlie is shouldering four broken friends while quietly grieving a beloved student plus teaching classes. Iceman might not have been close with Goose, but he's not all that cold after all. Rumor has it he's been stopping by Charlie's to spend time with Ghost when she doesn't have her hands full packing at Carol's or sitting and crying with me. Somehow, amidst the babysitting and crying and not eating and packing, Maverick and I manage to get down the beach. We always end up on the sand as the sun is setting and the day crew are heading home.
Sometimes Ghost joins us.
Carol never comes — she's got her plate full with little Rooster.
But I've seen her, standing at the edge of the ocean on her own, staring across the waves, whispering things for the wind to take to her husband.
I'm reminded of Vixen.
"Take me to the sea, Remi...lay me down in the water like sailors of old. Let me wash away somewhere new."
I like to think of her and Goose out there, jamming together, two party animals too big for this world. They would've gotten along, had things worked out different...but things are the way they are, and that may be the hardest truth to accept. Almost, I sigh, stacking a pair of red discs on the checker's board. Accepting that Goose won't come down the hallway, a box in his arms, bellowing Great Balls of Fire, is proving impossible. I could tell myself a thousand times, a thousand different ways, that he's gone forever, but I'd still find my eyes straying towards each door, each hallway, and expecting to see him there, vibrant Hawaiian shirt undone, aviators clipped to his undershirt, that easy confidence coming out in his strut. His mustache lightly twitching over his smile, like clouds over the sun. How have I never noticed how perfect Goose was?
Brave, kind, wise, fun.
A perfect husband, father, friend.
Brother, I amend, catching Maverick's eye from across the room.
His sun kissed skin seems a shade too close to sun burned.
It's only when he drags his sleeve across his eyes that I realize he's crying again.
"Your turn, Aunty Stirrups!"
I uproot my attention from Maverick and replant it right in front of me, on the checkerboard, in the middle of my game against Bradley.
God stole that sly grin right off of Carol's face and glued it onto his.
"Where'd you move?" I ask, searching the board for a change.
"Not telling."
"What?" I gasp, shooting him a look of surprise.
Bradley giggles.
A miracle he's happy. The happiest one, in fact, of our entire group.
"Daddy always said not to tell."
I huff, not sure whether to run away and cry or laugh. "Course he did."
"When will Daddy be home? I want to play checkers with him."
The air dries up.
I can't hear Maverick rifling through boxes or Carol wiping the counter. I can hardly hear my heart in my chest. Is it still there, or did it finally fall into my stomach? Nope, it's still there, burning like a half-healed scab torn clean off. Biting back a whimper, I reach across the game board and take one of Rooster's pudgy little hands in mine. His amber eyes flutter up to my sorry gaze, and though I feel every ounce of his attention there, I know it doesn't stick when I tell him again,
"Your Daddy isn't coming home, baby..."
Bradley's throat squishes.
I hear him swallow. It's a small, wet plop like a heavy bead of water falling down a drain. His hand slips out of my grasp before I can even give it a loving squeeze, and we return to our match like nothing happened. From opposite sides of the house, the sound of busy work resumes. A quick swish and squelch from the kitchen and the crackling of cardboard across the living room. Carol and Maverick turn their backs on Bradley and I, as if hiding their faces will resolve his denial. A terrible cramp in my chest puts a pause on our game. I send Bradley outside to play ball while I run to the bathroom. I sit on that toilet, staring between my knees into the shadowy abyss of my pant legs, struggling to understand.
How do you tell a kid that his Dad is dead?
How do you explain that it was an accident...when the other guy in the plane made it?
Maverick has nothing but love for this family, but deep in my heart I feel a monster stirring, and it whispers cruelly into my ear that somewhere down the line, after Rooster finally understands, he'll have everything but love for Maverick...
And maybe me too.
On the Bradshaw's toilet, I make an oath and swear it on Vixen's grave.
I won't ever let Bradley drift away.
>>>>>
Between the five of us, Maverick, Ghost, Carol, Charlie, and I, the Bradshaw house is completely packed by the day of the funeral. The day after, Maverick has his trial. That night, Carol and Rooster will hop in the car with her sister and brother-in-law and make the drive to their place where they'll live until Carol can get back on her feet and figure out how to navigate life as a single mother. We've talked endlessly about it, nursing midnight coffees in the middle of her empty living room, surrounded by boxes that boast Goose's name in blue marker. While Bradley sleeps, his mom worries and cries to me like a sinner in the confession booth. I endure her rants patiently, wanting desperately to come up with the perfect step by step plan for her to live by. We hash out how she'll make enough money for her and Rooster, how she'll keep him active and secure good friendships for him through extracurricular activities like baseball and swimming. I even give her my parents' number so she can call my mom anytime she has questions or needs help.
They've already promised she can come stay whenever.
It's not like the farm is going anywhere.
"Not unless a tornado hits," I joked.
It already feels like one's hit us. Our little Top Gun family is like a tornado-ed house, split directly down the middle.
Chaos.
The funeral is the most organized we've been. That morning, I roll out of bed and force Maverick to take the shower he's been putting off for days. That's the other thing. Since the second day after the accident, I've been living at Maverick's house, just to keep an eye on him and stay close to Carol. We still have the same boundaries. It's no different than how it was before. Instead of him sneaking through my window into my bed, we can freely collapse into his at the end of the day, exhausted and clingy. My bag of stuff sits in the corner of his bedroom, hardly noticeable in the wreckage Goose left in the wake of his death. Unlike me, Maverick is fairly organized. His drawers are categorized because he wants them to be.
Last time I made a point of neatness was when I lived under the Navy's roof.
They thought they got me to change my messy ways.
Well jokes on them because I'm still a slob.
"That's one thing that hasn't changed," I snort.
"What?" Maverick stumbles back into the room, towel slung around his waist, tearing a hand through his sopping hair.
I gently brush through my own damp hair, which I lightly dried while Maverick was showering. "Just commenting on how the Navy tried to break me."
"Oh yeah?"
He says it sardonically, but his tone is too bland to hit it home.
"Yeah," I ignore his mood, knowing better than to mention it. "I've always hated cleaning up and folding and organization in general and even after the Navy made me learn how to make a bed and iron a shirt I still live out of a pile of clothes on the floor."
"Well," Maverick sighs, appearing behind me in the mirror, in boxers and buttoning his white uniform, "At least you clean up nice," the corner of his mouth turns up as he presses a kiss to my cheek.
I cock my head to the side, studying my own uniform and the way it compliments my hair. Too bad I'll have to wrestle it back into a bun.
"I guess I look pretty good."
Maverick smirks lightly and stoops to rest his chin on my shoulder. Our eyes connect in the mirror. "And what about me?"
"Hmmm..." I stroke my chin and stare at what of his reflection I can see from around the side of my body. "You'd look better with pants on."
His eyes laugh, but it doesn't reach his lips. Funny how he's in the habit of doing that lately.
Makes me miss old times more than ever.
"You're the first to think so," He remarks.
I roll my eyes and nudge him back with a buck of my hips, "Move over, pilot-boy, I've gotta tame this beast."
Shaking his head, Maverick slinks back to the bed where his pants lay waiting. It's a battle, coiling my ringlets into a tight knob at the back of my head. Screw the Navy and their protocols. Technically, my hair should be short, or pulled back whenever I'm on duty, but I was never one for dumb rules. Neither are Viper or Cougar for that matter, seeing as they haven't called me out on my wild mane. Today however, I'm positive they won't be so lenient. With Naval protocol reaching its finest hour, the very best of the Navy will be brought out. Military funerals tend to do that. We always have to pull out all the stops to demonstrate how epic the life of a soldier — or in this case, a radar officer — is. Civilian guests will expect nothing but the best.
There's a French saying for that that I can't remember.
Typical.
I can never seem to be eloquent when needed.
Which is why I pull Maverick from feverishly fixing himself in the mirror with a blunt, "Time to go."
It does the trick, and that's all that matters. Once we've hit the road, I can finally allow myself to relax. The pandemonium of traffic is a lovely blanket of interwoven sounds to help hone my senses. Dipping closer towards Maverick's back, I press my eyes shut, test my hold on his waist, and once I'm sure I won't get so distracted that a left turn will cause another funeral, I turn my face between Maverick's shoulder blades. Both of us brought our leather jackets. They're practical for motorcycles, in case of an accident, but also a protective layer over our spotless naval uniforms. Not that either of us care about looking 'perfect,' but this isn't just any Navy gathering.
Everything matters.
We've even got our white caps, tucked into our waist bands.
For the first time in ages, I actually give a shit about being presentable.
'Cause even though Goose was as casual as it gets, and would rather us be out drinking and having a good old time celebrating his life...this ceremony is important. It's closure for Carol, honor for Goose, and a way to unify our country. From inside the military, it's often hard to recognize the severity of our situation. Especially since I'm not one of the men and women sent overseas, putting real bullets into real enemy heads. Saying goodbye to the farm didn't mean forever...it was more of a see you later. But my brothers and sisters in the Army and active parts of the Navy, Airforce, Coast Guard...they're out there, missing their wives and husbands and daughters and sons; they miss thanksgiving and Christmas; they want real home cooked meals and a good four hour nap in a rocking chair. The families they leave behind miss them just as much, and want all those things and more for them.
But sometimes we don't get what we want.
Most times, we get shit thrown right in our face.
Swallowed by the darkness of Maverick's jacket, trapped inside my head, I wrestle with the bitter truth, that whether or not Goose died in a training session, he still died for his country, slaving away to graduate from a school that would make him the best aviator in the USA. He could've gone on to take down enemy aircraft, win awards, decorate himself in medals, Hell, Goose could've become an Admiral. There was so much potential there. So much left to experience, see, do, love.
Love.
Damn, the way a single word can pull the pin from a bomb. I feel the impact but refuse to let the walls drop. I clutch Maverick's front, pretending to shift on the back of the bike so he won't get worried and pull over. Just get this over with...just get it done...
I don't think I've ever wanted so badly for something to end.
But if it ends...
That means it happened.
Funerals aren't for miscalculations.
Mistakes.
Mishaps.
We don't bury MIA cases.
Which means—
"He's dead," I whimper, "Goose is really dead..."
So much for not crying.
Tears foam at the ends of each eye, sharp as razors, hot as coals. I press my face deeper into the leather sheen, thinking if I could just squish my eyes against something maybe they won't bleed profusely? Maybe I can hide any and all evidence of the panic gripping the splintered remains of my heart. Carol. Carol's lost her husband. She has a four year old boy who's gonna grow up without a father. She has to move away from her friends, away from her husband's best man, partner, brother, and figure out how to do this all alone. Carol has to heal herself, her son, make money, make breakfast, lunch, and dinner — Lord...she has to build from the ground up, and none of us are gonna be there to help her because here we are, stuck trying to fix ourselves and climb back into the metal contraptions that killed him! Our group is falling apart faster than a wet cookie. Goose, dead. Carol, moving. Ghost is hardly around anymore because I can't juggle her and Maverick and as much as I hate him, Iceman's actually there for her now that she needs it! Charlie...I haven't had a full conversation with her in days. She's up before the sun and I haven't been at her place in days. Who knows what she's going through, isolated from the rest of us because wh-what? We're too damn selfish to check in on the woman who's housed, fed, taught us, even babysat for us?
Everything's falling apart.
It's over.
How do we come back from this?
How do I do this again...
Another funeral.
Two in two years.
I sniffle, suppressing a moan for fear of Mav hearing. He'll think I'm hurt. Which I am but, not in a way he can help. No one can help. We've lost them...we've lost our RIOs...we must be cursed.
Or I'm just cursed.
And I dragged Maverick into it the moment I gave half my heart to him.
I hate myself the rest of the ride; I hate myself when we park and pull off our aviator jackets and slide on our hats; I hate myself as we locate the others; I hate myself as we exchange hugs and move to take our places.
Words are said by a kind eyed pastor. Rooster clings to his mama's hand, absolutely adorable in his tiny suit. Charlie lifts a handkerchief and dabs at her eyes. No amount of handkerchiefs or tissues could plug the flow from Ghost's eyes. Maverick has to latch onto my wrist to stop me from launching across the grass towards my RIO. It's the worst form of torture, watching your best friend cry, knowing there's nothing you can do about it. You want to hug them, wipe their eyes, tell them everything will be ok, but you can't even take a step forward because your Commander is saying all this beautiful stuff about your other best friend, laying in the casket. As two officers step forward to raise the flag from Goose's coffin, I stare at the pools in Ghost's eyes, struck by the melancholic grandeur of those irises. The silver film brings her sapphire eyes to life. Beautiful soul, even as she weeps.
Still, I ache to dry her tears.
In anguish, I crunch my hand into a fist.
My knuckles pop so loudly, Iceman jumps.
Maverick's fingers are tangled with mine before I can injure myself.
A grim faced officer hands over a perfect red, white, and blue wedge and utters five hollowing words, "I'm sorry for your loss."
Carol's knees shake beneath her skirt as she accepts the folded flag.
Ghost's chin falls to her chest and Iceman's arm is quick to wind around her shoulder.
I stifle a scream of pain.
Maverick and I squeeze each other's hands mercilessly.
There's no hiding it now. Anyone can see the way us four lovestruck aviators stand. Way to go Goose. One last prank.
"Maverick, Stirrups."
I tug on Maverick's arm, stopping him from turning away. "Viper," I reply calmly, making a point of staring directly into his sympathetic eyes. I will forever despise pity, especially after watching someone you loved stuffed underground, but I'm not afraid of it, and I'm not going to throw a fit. "Your speech was lovely...but, you got the name wrong."
He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"It's Duck," I mumble, thinking back to the first time I switched up his callsign, right before our highly illegal race to Top Gun. "Or Pigeon, or Kiwi, anything but Goose, because that definitely wasn't his callsign."
Viper smiles faintly, his graying mustache quivering like a prelude to his soft roll of laughter. "I'll make sure they redo the headstone."
Suddenly the joke doesn't seem so funny.
"You do that," I whisper.
"Take care of each other," Viper says, eyes bouncing between us, and dare I add our linked hands. "I'll see you at the trial tomorrow...and if all goes well...back in the air the day after. There's still a trophy to win...and I think Goose would look pretty good on the plaque in my classroom."
I can't fight the grin that paints my face.
Glancing over my shoulder, I'm met with cold disappointment. Maverick looks the opposite of pleased. His jaw locks, jutting a through his cheek as he blatantly ignores Viper's comment.
For whatever reason, his attitude pisses me off.
Sensing the tension, Viper clears his throat and wanders off.
A presence looms against my shoulder.
"Are we going?" Maverick growls, just loud enough for me to hear.
"Just go wait by the bike," I snap, "I'll meet you there."
Our hands come apart in a harsh split. Like rope torn in half. I deny him the satisfaction of a glance before storming off towards Iceman and Ghost. Slider and Iceman finish a bro-hug as I come onto the scene. Ignoring the boys, I go straight for Ghost, immediately pricking her attention as I weave my way through the crowd. Her puffy face brightens the moment our eyes lock. Smiling, I stop in front of her.
"Hey."
She sniffs a congested, "Hey."
We lurch into one another's arms, lost in that bubble again. An instant heartwarmer, the way Ghost throws her arms around my neck and rocks onto her tippy toes so we're level; cheeks smooshed together. I wrap her up tight in my arms.
Eyes shut, breaths shallow and slow, we ruminate in the moment. And when stillness becomes too much, we sway, bodies caught in an interlock. I feel Ghost's stomach sink back against her spine right before she breathes a sigh along the shell of my ear.
"When are you coming home?"
"Soon," I promise, "I just gotta make sure he's ok..."
Ghost squeezes me twice and falls back onto her heels, sweeping both hands down my arms until her fingers hook around my wrists. I flash her an attempt at a comforting smile as we clasp hands. "Are you ok?" Ghost asks, lightly swinging our arms across the gap between us.
I stare at the grass.
"Are any of us?"
The gap becomes too much like a canyon.
Ghost hugs me a second time. It's too short for my liking, but I've got a pissy Maverick to worry about, and she needs to wash her face of the teary-botox look. Grimacing, we pull ourselves apart. No sooner do I relinquish her hands, than Iceman swoops in, resting a hand on Ghost's shoulder and quickly kissing the crown of her head. The man is a skilled whisperer. I barely catch whatever it is he threads through Ghost's scalp but I'm pretty sure I hear a, 'give us a second,' coupled with, 'sweetheart,' an endearment I never thought I'd hear off of Iceman's lips. A bittersweet flavor coats my tongue. It's an overload of tart that I nearly gag on, and yet I can't keep the goop out of my eyes as Ghost tilts her head back and pecks him on the jaw before excusing herself to check on Mama Hen and Little Rooster.
The second she's gone, I raise my eyes.
Iceman's face is turned.
He watches Ghost walk away, gnawing his lip.
I cross my arms over my chest, expecting some sort of speech about, 'just cause Goose is dead doesn't mean I'm not gonna crush you for that trophy blah blah blah—' but Iceman is full of surprises. My patience hourglass is one speck of sand away from running out when he finally coughs out a muted,
"Look...I know you've got a lot on your mind..."
Understatement of the millenia.
"...but Maverick needs you, so you...don't worry about Meg. I've got her."
Meg, my heart sighs. He called her sweetheart. He called her Meg.
Not even I call her Meg.
I'm not sure how to feel about it, to be honest. And if we're being honest, I have half a mind to slap Ice across the face for being so blissfully domestic in my presence. It tarnishes my loathsome image of him.
"You know Goose never liked you."
Iceman peeks at me from the corner of his eye.
I jut out my chin defiantly and add a firm, "I don't like you..." His mouth ever so slightly purses into a pout as he quirks a single brow. Now that I've got him, I slap on the — "but...Goose gave you a chance with her."
I nod towards Ghost. We pause to admire her gently scooping Rooster into her arms. "He trusted you," I continue, "and I trust him, so don't screw this up. Don't prove him wrong."
Iceman cracks a grin and finally faces me head on.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I nod in acceptance of his answer and turn my back on him, ready to get back to Maverick—
"Hey, Stirrups?"
I look over my shoulder, eyes narrowed.
Iceman swallows hard and runs his thumbs around the circumference of his Naval hat. "For the record...I liked Goose. I really did. And I'm sorry."
"Stop."
He blinks, "Stop what?"
"Stop making me like you."
Iceman smiles and tips his hat.
Am I scowling or smiling? Who knows. But I do know that Ghost is right. Iceman is a good guy. Sure, we may fight. I still hate that we like the same ice cream and that we both like Queen, but Iceman is a good guy, and he's Ghost's guy, which means one way or another, I'm going to have to accept that. And maybe today is the day I finally do. My high spirits are like clouds beneath my feet. I float past the knot of family members that's formed around Carol and Bradley. Tomorrow, after Maverick's trial, we'll stop by to pick up a couple of Goose's things that Carol wants us to keep. Last time we talked, she told me explicitly that Maverick is to have Goose's dog tags and to make sure she doesn't forget to give them to him. I remind myself of it as I slip off my hat and cram it under my arm. What a weird way to leave a funeral, bouncing like the ground is one springy mattress and your body light as a feather.
I miss Goose...
But I know he'd want me to be happy.
Inconceivable, I snort, that Iceman is the cause of the smile on my face.
The hat gets crushed against my ribcage as I awkwardly reach behind my head to undo the bun. The damn thing is giving me a headache. It's been so long since I properly tied my hair back that I nearly forgot why I hate it so much. Wearing a bun or ponytail for more than five minutes wears down on my brain cells until it feels like the elastic band is dragging them out the back of my skull, dribbling them one by one down my hair. Talk about torture. Corsets might've sucked but hairbands? I don't even own any. I had to run next door and borrow some of Carol's.
Not that she needs them with her current cut.
I shake out my hair, sighing in sweet relief.
As I narrowly avoid one headache...
I walk right into another.
"What took you so long?"
A helmet comes hurtling towards me and I manage to catch it in the nick of time, but drop my white Naval cap in the process.
"Holy shit, Mav, I wasn't ready!" The helmet practically capsized my stomach, forcing my exclamation out in a whirl of breathless words. Frowning at him, I squat down to pick up the hat, which is now streaked with powdery dirt crusted along the corner of the sidewalk. "Seriously?" I scoff, frantically brushing it off the hand half weighed down by the bike helmet. "I only have the one hat, Maverick."
"You weren't ready?" He asks, completely missing everything else I've said.
"No," I shove the helmet over my head. "I was busy talking to Ghost and Iceman."
Maverick's jaw locks.
My leather jacket hooks halfway up my shoulders as I pause to look at him. What is up with him? I understand being upset about Goose...and wanting to go home and get out of these ridiculous costumes...but...why the Hell does he have to be so snappy with me? It's not like I haven't just spent the past four days, shouldering his grief and mine! I left my own house to stay with him — to watch over him! And this is how he repays me? Letting his anger out? On me? Maverick whips his head around, hiding the rest of his face from me, but I've already caught that look. Those embers in his eyes. His entire expression is stretched thin. You'd think if the pacific breeze touched his face just right, it might implode. An aggressive rev of the engine has me hurrying to pull on my aviator jacket. I tuck my dirtied cap under my belt and hop on the motorcycle.
Sitting behind him feels wrong.
It isn't romantic when I hug his waist.
Instead of snuggling into his body as breakage against the wind, I sit up as straight as possible without being thrown off the back of the bike.
I endure the cool bite of the air, rushing past my cheeks, and fight every urge to hold my breath. I spoon plentiful helpings down my throat and swallow every ounce of it down, no matter how cold. There's more sea-salt in the breeze than on a potato chip. It sticks to the back of my throat like glitter caught on sticky-paper. But I keep breathing. And with every breath I take, I travel further down memory lane, gleaning freshly fallen drops of grace for Maverick. I remember being angry at the world and letting that bitterness eat me from the inside out. It drove me to frustration with people I knew and strangers, like the two boys who sat next to me during my first class at Top Gun; the same boys who serenaded me at the bar when they could've just left me to sulk. I was rude to them; cold and mysterious; and yet they patiently coaxed me out of my shell and taught me how to be happy again.
That doesn't make it right for Maverick to speak to me the way he has...
But if he was patient —
I can be patient, I breathe.
So I wait, focusing on everything but Maverick for a while. Once we're back at his house, it's impossible to ignore him any longer. He leaps off the bike before I can even unclip my helmet.
"Maverick!"
The front door slams shut behind him.
Cursing, I slide off the motorcycle and sprint up the steps after him. I tear open the door and catch him glaring at his reflection in the mirror, visibly on the verge of tears as he furiously wrestles with his uniform. His fingernails scrape the buttons but at the rate his hands are shaking, he's never gonna get them through each loop. I drop my helmet by the door and gently press the sole of my shoe against the wood, easing it closed. The lock pops quietly, muffled by the sound of my Naval cap hitting the floor.
"Maverick—"
"That son of bitch," He hisses, finally ripping the first button out. "Did you see his face? The way he grinned when they lowered the casket—"
"What?"
"I knew he was trying not to show it during Viper's speech, but the second it was over, the bastard couldn't help himself—"
Maverick's nail busts on a particularly stubborn button and he swears so loudly my ears ring. He winces as he pops the wounded finger into his mouth, sucking away the trickle of blood that's developed. I inch forward, hands outstretched in a pacifying manner. I'm not afraid of him. I know he would never hurt me, but the way he's acting, frantic, like a rabid dog, clawing at its own skin, lashing out at helping and harming hands alike, I can't help but move slowly, worried he'll see nothing but red the minute I try to intervene. He pulls his hand from his mouth and goes back to unbuttoning his shirt, struggling worse than before with a bleeding fingernail.
"Mav stop—" I plead, reaching for his trembling hands, "let me help—"
He bats me away.
"Smug, goddamn son of a—"
"Who on earth are you talking about!"
A shrill laugh emits from the back of Maverick's throat. "Don't act like you didn't see it too. Iceman couldn't have looked happier now that Goose is—" Maverick's voice falters. He coughs and goes back to his shirt, successfully popping one, two, three, four buttons in a row, but at what cost? He leaves a red trail as he goes down the line.
"Iceman!?" I exclaim. "That's who this is about!"
"Of COURSE it is!" Maverick bellows, suddenly rounding on me. He's a mess. His hair torn this way and that by the ride home, his top half unbuttoned, gaping around his shoulders and bloodstained down the center. "I saw him! Looking like the goddamn happiest man alive! All year long, everyone's been going on and on about how damn clever he is! Cold, cunning and all that bullshit — I thought it was bullshit," Maverick laughs, gesturing to his reflection, "But they were right! He's a cold, sick son of a bitch who just loves that Goose is dead because I c-can't fly without him and he KNOWS IT! HE KNOWS IT! And he's gonna get that goddamn trophy and win because Goose is dead—"
His rage breaks like a storm on the horizon.
Suddenly he's sinking against the dresser, crying.
I stare, dumbfounded. My vision is obstructed by a hot web of tears that refuse to fall. They swirl in colorful shapes, muddying my senses. Maverick's mad rant went off like a bomb and deafened me. I vaguely see the shape of him, shaking the entire dresser as he grips it with white knuckled hands, his head brushing the mirror every time he sinks farther forward. As hard as he cries, I still can't hear it. My ears are ringing like church bells hopelessly out of tune. I might as well have left the bun in, cause the headache I have now is a hundred times worse than what could've been. Through my confusion and pain, I stagger forward, reaching for Maverick's shoulders, using the one thing that seems to be working on my face.
My mouth.
"Pete," I whisper, "Pete you've got it all wrong — Ice wasn't smiling at all! He's...he's sad about Goose too, he told me—"
"He's lying," Maverick spits. "He's a liar, Remi! He's a cheat and a liar and he wanted Goose to die!"
"NO he doesn't! I know you're hurting and I know you're angry but Iceman hasn't done anything wrong—"
"Is that what Ghost told you?" Maverick snaps, jerking out of my arms, "That he's so perfect and misunderstood! Nice people lie too, Stirrups! And pretty and sweet as she is, Ghost is just as screwed as the rest of us—"
My blood boils.
So much for patience.
"Don't you dare talk about Ghost like that!" I growl. "You know she only sees the best in people! And you and I both know she's usually right about this shit so leave her the Hell out of this!"
"SO WHAT?!" Maverick screams, tears streaming down his face, gesturing wildly, "SHE AND ICE HOOK UP AND YOU'RE SUDDENLY ON THEIR SIDE!?"
"NO YOU IDIOT, I'M ON YOUR SIDE! I'VE ALWAYS BEEN BECAUSE I FUCKING LOVE YOU!"
Maverick hangs his head.
The house stops shaking.
We pant in the quiet, out of breath, out of anger.
"Pete," I whisper, sniffing back tears, "Pete look at me—"
"I can't..."
"Wh-what?" I whimper.
"I c-can't look at you...everytime I do I...I just see the three of us I — I see him."
You know the sound a burning building makes, when the instructional integrity is compromised? The sound before it collapses in on itself, reduced to rubble? It's a groan deeper, stronger, more agonized than anything you've ever heard. I guess hearts are like that too, when they burn for too long, and suddenly, it becomes too much to bear. I've never felt such a horrible sound come from inside me as in that moment. That confession passed like a yawn between us.
He couldn't bear to look at me.
And I couldn't bear to look at him.
So I did the only thing I could think of, and turned and ran out the door.