Work Text:
Bradley.
The script is neat, slanting softly to the right. Navy ink on a crisp white envelope. It’s the official kind where the paper will be folded into three equal segments.
Bradley.
There’s no address. Why would there be? He found it at home after all – left behind for him on the raven’s writing desk.
“For the last time, it’s just a desk, Mav.”
“A desk you use to eviscerate poor, unsuspecting pilots with your Montblanc.”
“If they’re unsuspecting then they deserve to be eviscerated.”
“You say that, but you’ve never been at the receiving end of one of your reprimands.”
“How exactly would I go about reprimanding myself?”
“I don’t know – is the Admiralty your punishment for being a raging homosexual?”
“No, my punishment for being a raging homosexual is you, darling. Besides, most people don’t see promotion as a plague out to get them.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing someone with the plague might say. I remain unconvinced.”
“May I remind you that the plague maintains your current lifestyle? Your fifty-six-step Korean skincare routine doesn’t grow on trees.”
“Ooo, Daddy, tell me more about where money comes from.”
“Dad! I’m right here!”
“Wow, kid, that’s the exact shade of red that Goose went the first time he caught Ice and I getting biblical in the showers. Are you related?”
He takes his time feeling the weight of the stationary. It feels expensive and he hates it, wants someone to crash through the bedroom door and wrench the wretched writing from his hands. Wants to never have picked it up from the bedside table. Wants all the words within to remain unsaid.
Bradley, it says.
It’s for him. From someone who loved him. From someone who held him in his arms from the first day he drew breath and who will not see his last. His eyes burn but no tears come, and he wishes they would because there’s a hurricane inside him and he wants to drown in it – be washed ashore, bruised and broken for all the world to see. Because now there are last times. The last time they had breakfast. The last time they flew together.
The last words his dad will ever give him.
He clears his throat to an empty room and turns the envelope over. The seal rests unsecured inside the throat, flipping easily with the press of a thumb. The letter itself requires a small tug. It's thick. As expected, it unfolds into three segments, revealing an ornate letterhead: Commander, U.S. Pacific Fleet, Admiral Tom Kazansky.
Baby Goose,
I hope, wherever I am going, that Ice will forgive me for stealing his official stationary for family business. He always meant to write one of these for you himself, but between one thing and another (one thing being the cancer and another being his full-time job as COMPACTFLT which, as you know, consisted of spending ninety percent of his time putting out the fires that I so gleefully lit for him as a token of my undying love and affection). The pen I’m using is his own Montblanc and I will not be seeking forgiveness for that as I gave it to him in the first place.
There are so many things to say, and I have no idea how. How do you say goodbye to your own child? I’ve thought about this for months, wondering if the right words would ever come to me at the right time. But of course there is no such thing. No matter what I do, one day I will leave you. I hope it is a long time from now. That I get to see you promote your way into the Admiralty like your father or become an Ace like me. Or an instructor. Or quit flying altogether and become a barista. As your parent, I feel vaguely obliged to insist that you become a doctor but as my child it’s within your full rights to do whatever you want. I only want you to be happy.
I’ve left you everything: the house, the hangar, and the bike. Keep whatever you want. Get rid of whatever you want (but I recommend you let Uncle Ron clear out the back of our wardrobe for you if you want to ever look at pictures of Ice and I in the eyes ever again). I don’t want you to be burdened by material things because you feel obliged to. It’s a big house to be alone in. I would know. But it’s a good house, and every scratch in the hardwood floors and replaced window glass is proof of life. Do you remember when you kicked your ball through Ice’s office window? You were eight and I found you walking halfway down the driveway drowning in my bomber jacket and with a blanket stick over your thin shoulder like some Looney Tunes urchin. What a drama queen. Ice just laughed it off and came outside to play with you, leaving me to board up the window. We never painted over the marks you left on the side jamb in the kitchen. Had a special marker we used and everything. Ice insisted. He wanted it to be uniform so that you could overlay your marks with another colour one day and compare. Always prepared, my Tom.
You are so loved, Baby Goose. By your first parents and your last. By your friends and family. Never forget that, sweetheart.
When I lost my parents, all I could think about was how alone I was. How big the world was. How scary it was. I didn’t have a permanent home between then and meeting your father. Goose, that is. Dammit, this is getting confusing. It’s like that film Ice loved but strenuously denied loving. The musical in Greece where Meryl Streep’s daughter has lived her whole life without a father and then three come along at once. Anyway. Goose was the best friend I ever had. Still is. Of course, Ice is also my best friend and partner in all things, but Goose will always be the first. The first proper friend I ever had. The first person to love me after I lost everyone that ever did. The first person I trusted fully and wholly. I don’t know if I could have loved Ice if Goose hadn’t shown me first what love really was. When he died, part of me died with him.
But then there was you.
You cried every time I held you at first. Behaved for your Ma and Pa and then when I finally got a turn with you it was like the air sirens went off around the world all at once. With a piercing cry you commanded all of my attention and you wanted none of it. But when you were about a month old you had a bout of colic and I took you to mine to give your parents a bit of a break. Goose had fallen asleep on the floor and your Ma had that twitch under her left eye that always came before a storm. I took you home and you kept me up for forty-eight hours straight. It was not fun. I haven’t known peace since, I tell you. But it was worth it. I changed all of your stinky diapers and held you on my chest for skin-to-skin contact. After two days you covered me in spit up and fell asleep. You slept for hours. When you woke up again I remember holding my breath, but you didn’t budge. You just stared at me with those round eyes of yours and nuzzled into my chest like you were sniffing out a heart I wasn’t even sure was still there.
One day, Goose was gone. But you were still here. Whatever time I had spare I used on you and your Ma when you were near Miramar. My first date with Ice we went to the movies and then to a diner, and it was special because we could hold hands in the dark of the theatre. He paid for everything because I’d spent my last dollar on that model plane you loved so much. He paid for everything and I paid him back by pulling away from our first kiss to tell him that I loved him but I could never put him first in everything. Because there was you, Baby Goose. Tom is the love of my life. No one could compare before, and even then, on our first date, I knew no one could compare after. But I would give it all up for you, if he didn’t want that. But this is a love story, isn’t it, sweetheart? He kissed me and said “I know, Mav. Let me buy you a fucking hamburger.” He came from money and I from none. I came from loving parents and he from none. Ice understood love as a verb. Every time he held a door for me, saved me a plate in the mess hall, or helped me with my paperwork told me everything I needed to know.
The first person he said “I love you” to out loud was you. It was a year after you’d first met each other and the three of us were at mine watching the game. You fell asleep between us. Ice carried you to bed. When he finally managed to wriggle out of your arms you mumbled something that sounded like “lve you ips”, which we interpreted as “I love you, IcePop.” Ice brushed his fingers through your hair and whispered, “I love you, too.”
I decided then and there that I could die happy like this.
I won’t ask you not to be sad, honey. Be as sad as you need to be. Cry as much as you want to. As much as you don’t want to. There is no right way to grieve. I’m sorry you have to carry this around with you. Your Ma and Pa. Ice. Me. Anyone else that Time may take away from you. It’s not fair. Nothing is.
It wasn’t fair of me to pull your papers. By now, we’ve talked this over a fair few times, and I am so profoundly grateful that you have chosen to forgive me. I missed out on so much of your life. If I could turn back time, I would. And I know, I know. This is where you’ll tell me to shut the fuck up and turn it around on me. Apologise to me. You don’t have to, Baby Goose. I was never angry with you. Just sad. Shit, that sounds worse. But no matter what your brain might tell you, honey, I always loved you. I always will. Nothing you ever did or will do can change that. Don’t even try. Tom was the wind beneath my wings. You are the compass needle taking me home.
People often express love as “I would die for you.” I would. A thousand times over for each of you. Goose too. And Carol. Undecided about your Uncle Ron. But when Tom died? That was hard, kid. Really hard. I lived in him and he in me: I gave him parts that I don’t want back and he gave me what I would fight tooth and nail to keep. But not even Maverick can fight death.
I can’t open his side of the wardrobe without knowing I don’t have to be somewhere for a while. His scent lingers still on everything, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve lost time huddled by his sweaters. If I close my eyes, I can pretend he’s still with me. I use his shampoo now. His conditioner. We have twin sinks in our ensuite. Two of everything. I can’t even begin to describe how good it felt to go shopping with him. Buying two of everything. Planning a life together. We never thought we’d have it, being gay in the Navy and all. Thanks, Obama. I always make enough dinner for two. It’s not a bad thing, I guess. Leftovers are nice to have on long days. And on days like today? The day I’m writing this letter? You come over and I have someone to share my food with again. Use my towels again. Someone else’s soft snoring to fill the house, even if it is from down the hallway instead of in my ear. You’ve made it easier to keep going. I was ready to go down during our mission, distract the bogeys and do everything I could to let you kids come home safe. I’m not sure I was glad that I didn’t have to. But you came into my life again, sweetheart. I lived for you.
I hope I leave you with friends and family. Remember, family isn’t just blood. Think about us? We were a good family, weren’t we? If I thought I could’ve gotten away with it, I would have run down the registry and changed your name to Bradley Bradshaw-Kazansky-Mitchell, but Ice said you’d only get bullied in school.
Can you do me a favour, Baby Goose? Never stop loving. It’s easy to think it’s not worth the trouble. What does it lead to? Anxiety? Depression? Mistakes? Guilt? Loss? Grief? Of course it does. We’re not the first to have felt it and we won’t be the last. Love is the reason we are. Ice and I didn’t get to grow old together. Not truly. We wanted to become grandparents one day. Grandfather Geese or something. Die next to each other in our sleep, embracing at the age of a hundred because Ice liked things neat and orderly. Though I guess that’d make me ninety-six, but whatever. When I was ten I thought I’d burn out before twenty-five. At twenty-four, I met Ice. We got thirty-six years together. I’ve lived longer with him than without him. All happily ever afters end at some point: the end of every life is a separation – something we can chop and change the timeline of in writing but not reality. So is it still worth it? Knowing that the happiness and joy is probably the middle rather than the finale?
Yes.
Sweetheart, if you’re reading this then I am gone. A bit late to say it at this point, but I’ve put it off for long enough. I don’t know how I’ll go: could get jumped, could get run over, could get to Mach 11 at age seventy-five and die the fastest man that ever lived. Again. That would be something. It probably won’t be that, though. Don’t ask me how I know – because I don’t – but I’m tired. I’m no spring chicken and everything aches all the time. My heart the most. I do mean that literally. Went to medical and everything and they told me I belong to this fun, exclusive club called Those Over Sixty. Talked a lot about something called a “risk factor?” I think multiple senior officers have mentioned this concept to me over the years, but I’ve never managed to wrap my head around what it means.
For reasons entirely unrelated to the above, I thought it would be a good idea to write this letter. I’ll keep it on the bedside table for you until you find it, however long it’ll be. I hope I can stick around for a little while longer, but I’m happier not knowing. Like most of life, I’m at my best when I’m taken by surprise and get to fly by the seat of my pants (hah!). When it’s my time, though, know that I didn’t struggle. Sixty-something is a bit young these days maybe, but it won’t be a tragedy – I won’t have it. Storywise, I had my hero’s journey. I had my life’s love. I had my life’s joy (that’s you, buddy). I got to have everything I needed and almost everything I wanted. I only wanted more time with all of us together. Might have gotten it, in another life, but it would never be enough, y’know? I could live forever inside Ice’s heart, be the oxygen in his blood, and walk hand in hand with his soul to face the end of all worlds.
Bury me next to him, will you? It should go without saying, but I just can’t take the chance leaving that unclear. He’s been gone for a while now, but it feels as if it was yesterday sometimes. And don’t let the press separate us, please. Don’t let them say we were colleagues or good friends. If I am to be grounded at last, let me rest next to my husband. We’ll have a lot to get on with, and we always sleep best together.
Let me call you by your given name for once. Bradley. Bradley Bradshaw. Never forget who you are: the beloved son of four parents, good friend to your fellow Daggers, and the proudest achievement of my entire life. Keep those broad shoulders back and straight and bow to no one. Remember, we’re all part of those we meet along the way. The part of you that is all planes, engines, go? That’s me, buddy. The part of you that will not bend – will make others bend instead? That’s Pops. The part of you that is passionate and burns hot? That’s Mom. And that part of you that is patient? The part that gives others your time and love? That’s Dad. That’s Goose. But the part of you that got you where you are now? Got you to the other side of that uranium mission? The part that came for me when I needed it? That’s all you.
You are the best of all of us.
When my wheels go down and my wings fold up, I’ll still be in every takeoff and Pops in every landing. We learned to sign, you know, when his voice was going. To show and read what word and voice could not reach. So when you miss us, say “Talk to me, Dad. Talk to me, Pops.” Feel us in the rising and falling of the air, the inhale-exhale to steady your hand, the thrill of racing wingtip to wingtip with Hangman into the setting sun.
My hand’s cramping now. I think it’s time.
Nothing can ever prepare us for goodbye, honey. As your dad, it is my job to make sure you have what you need. My advice is this: life is tough on your own, but you don’t have to be. You aren’t. When you finish reading this, call your wingman. Maybe you don’t want to, but you should. Do it for me. Do it for you. Who knows? It could be the death of you both or the greatest love story of all time.
I think I’ll go buzz the tower tomorrow. As we both know, Tom was ninety-seven percent of my impulse control.
Love,
Dad
Despite himself, he laughs. Of all the things to do. It sounds strangled and hoarse like there’s something stuck inside him, filling him from the chest and fanning out, out, out. But then he looks down again, running his thumb across his dad’s love – traces the cursive loop of the “D” in the way Dad had tried teaching him to do.
“This isn’t the way Miss Torres is teaching us to do it.”
“Ignore her. I’ll deal with it at the next PTC.”
“Dad, you’re not allowed at the parent–teacher conferences anymore, remember?”
“Well, Miss Torres is wrong and homophobic.”
“Mav, it’s not homophobic to teach handwriting slightly differently to the way you were taught.”
“Whatever makes you sleep at night, Mr Chicken Scratch.”
“That’s Admiral Chicken Scratch, thank you.”
“Forgive me, Sir, I’ve been naughty.”
“See, this is why you’re not allowed at the parent–teacher conferences anymore.”
“Pops, you’re not allowed either. You scare everyone.”
“We need to get Bradley a new school. He’s obviously surrounded by cowards.”
“Hold on, Admiral Chicken Scratch. Let me grab your Montblanc – I sense an opportunity for evisceration.”
The moment slips away, sliding down his cheeks and stinging his lips. He goes to fold the letter back up but finds that he can’t. Love, Dad, it says. On impulse, he brings the papers to his nose and there it is – a lingering scent of motor oil and Pops’ cologne. How long before it fades?
Love, Dad, it says.
“I do”, he croaks. “I love you. I love you.”
The words float in midair. No one comes to collect them. An awful noise fills the room, and it’s only when he chokes on his own air that he realises it’s him. His noise. New and terrifying sounds from a person he’s never been before in a world he doesn’t recognise.
“Talk–” he swallows. “Talk to m-me, Dad.” It’s hard to breathe. “Talk to me, Pops.”
The grandfather clock echoes in the empty hall for a count of twelve – it’s the antique Kazansky clock that has announced time as far back as he can remember. His now.
He wants to imagine a jet-fueled breeze dancing through the open bedroom window and tickling his cheek. A whisper in his ear shaping every name under the sun except the one on his birth certificate. Anything to tell him there is a Somewhere Else where his love can go.
But the night is still, quiet, and he presses his sniffles into his raised knees, waiting to be swallowed by the dark.
“Hey, Rooster.”
That’s Jake.
“Roo?”
A hand touches his shoulder, and he startles like he’s not six foot three and taller than all his parents ever were.
“Shhh, it’s ok. It’s ok. I came as soon as I could.”
“Sorry,” he chokes out and rubs furiously over his eyes. Jake blinks into view, in uniform and kneeling next to him on the hardwood floor. “I’m s-sorry.”
“Stop apologising. What do you need?”
How can he possibly answer that? He’s lost and he keeps breathing and the world keeps turning and the grandfather clock chimes again and time and time and time slips by like it has somewhere to go – like Dad isn’t gone and life as he knows it didn’t end today.
It must be later again because his face is dry and itchy and his throat sore. He’s still propped up against Dad’s bed, ass on the hard floor, and Jake is next to him, smelling like a diner.
Jake passes him a paper bag with a murky yellow “M” on it.
“When did you get food?” he asks.
His wingman shrugs. “‘Bout half an hour ago? You…you spaced out for a little while so I took the opportunity.”
“Thanks. You didn’t have to.” Hunger hasn’t really been on the forefront of his mind the last several hours, but at least it’s familiar.
Jake takes a bite of his hamburger and says, “Shut up, and let me buy you a fuckin’ burger.” It comes out garbled from between bulging hamster cheeks.
Something settles inside him. For a brief moment, he’s somewhere else in another time and another place and there are two other men, younger than them both, discovering who they are in the wake of another missing man.
The paper bag unfolds easily.
“Jake, did you get me a Happy Meal?”
“And a milkshake.”
He exhales on a weak laugh and eats the food Jake bought him.
They sit in silence for a while. Afterwards, Jake tidies up and starts bullying him into going to bed. He doesn’t want to.
“C’mon, Rooster. You have to meet with Cyclone in the morning.”
Formalities. Dad’s locker. His office.
“Will you come with me?” he asks, catching Jake’s eyes. They’re a red-rimmed green tonight, and it shouldn’t make him feel better to know that Jake cried too but it does. It does.
“Of course.”
He walks to Dad’s side of the bed, still made to regulation standards, and turns down the duvet.
“Is it weird if I ask you to stay?”
“No, Roo. Not at all.”
Toeing off his socks, he collapses onto the plush mattress and buries his nose in his dad’s pillow, tucking the letter under it.
“Is it weird if I want to sleep here? In their bed?”
“No, Roo.” The answer comes with a dip in the bed as Jake joins him. “Is this alright?”
He nods into dad’s pillow and closes his eyes. There’s a lump in his throat again, and he swallows hard, feeling it travel down into the tearing apart of himself.
“H-how do I be without him?” he whispers. “How do I stop this? This–this hole in my chest?”
Strong arms wrap around him, and then there is a rise and fall to bury into.
“It’s not a hole, Roo. It’s Mav. It’s just Mav.”
He sleeps. Morning comes.
Too soon, they’re in a car, and Jake drives them to the airfield as the new day blushes pink and orange across the yawning sky above.
The main building flags at half mast. He stares at it for a while, watching it ebb and flow in the breeze and wondering if it’s weird of him to think of wind speeds. Jake bumps their shoulders together. In the distance, he hears the familiar whine of engines and turns to catch the tail-end of twin aircraft taking off, banking due east to greet the brilliance of the rising sun.