Until Every One Comes Home
Synopsis: Duke Mitchell finally comes home.
Warnings: Family member death, grief, funeral planning, funerals, slight cursing.
Author’s Note: I meant to post this for Veterans Day—obviously, I wasn’t able to, but hey, better late than never.
Are there going to be military inaccuracies in this story?
Absolutely.
Am I still posting this?
Absolutely.
I dedicate this story to all those who served their country, especially to those who made the ultimate sacrifice, and to those who have yet to come home.
Early morning sunshine shone through a small kitchen window, upon a certain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, though it wasn’t a patch on the affection warming the very marrow of his bones.
Earlier, he’d come down the stairs, toweling his hair dry from his shower, to see the front door of his half of his and Bradley’s duplex open, admitting a goose-patterned fleece blanket-draped Bradley.
“Morning, Dad,” he yawned, using the free hand not clutching his blanket to scratch his curls, causing his blanket hood to fall off his head. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Joining me, huh?” Mav ducked his head, trying and failing to keep back his touched smile.
Ever since they reconciled, Bradley had been making sure to eat and spend time with him whenever he could, and when they purchased the duplex together last year, some part of Mav wondered if the time they spent together would decrease, less absence making the heart grow less fond, and all that, but if anything, it increased—in fact, Bradley spent more time in Mav’s half than he did in his own half.
That Bradley made sure to spend time with him was something he’d never fail to cherish.
“Yeah, isn’t visiting the aged a corporal act of mercy?” the younger man smirked.
Despite the memory of the immediately-thrown AARP letter he got in the mail yesterday saying otherwise, he shot back, “I’ll show you aged, just you wait until hops today.
And are pancakes good enough for you, Baby Goose?”
“Say less, Dad,” Bradley replied, striding to the kitchen, and Mav followed, throwing his arm around his boy’s shoulder.
So, there he was, stirring his homemade pancake mix in front of the stove, waiting for the pan to heat up, while beside him, a more-alert Bradley leaned back against the counter, watching the coffee he prepared brew in the maker.
Mav quietly took in the scene, basking in all the warmth from inside and out, before smiling and laughing quietly.
“What?”
He looked across at his boy, “Nothing—all this just reminded me of something.
I’d come back from deployment, and you’d always ask me to be the one to make breakfast; you’d sit on the counter, calling yourself my “‘sistant”.”
Bradley chuckled, “Yeah, actually—you’d pick me up and set me on the counter next to you.”
“Can’t do that anymore,” Mav laughed, as he poured the pancake mix into the pan.
“Don’t you dare, Dad.
And I don’t think the counter would be able to handle it, for another thing.
You, maybe, me, no.”
Though it was a fact that Bradley had nearly six inches and at least fifteen pounds on him, he protested on principle. “Calling me ancient, and now short?
Getting the shots in early, huh, kiddo?”
“You were the one who said short, not me, and I called you aged, not ancient—I could call you venerable if it makes you feel any better,” Bradley smiled.
Mav was helpless to stop his chuckle. “Call me a classic, then we have an agreement.
Now be my ‘sistant and hand me a spatula, will you?”
Later, while washing the dishes, Mav noticed Bradley intently filling out a form at the table. “What you up to, Roo?”
“Uh,” Bradley shifted, idly twirling his pen, “it’s a form to volunteer for honor guard if any deceased Navy personnel come through North Island.”
“Oh.” A sad smile touched Mav’s face. “What made you want to do that?”
“I…” his son scratched the back of his neck, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said about your father, and then my father… I, I don’t know—I just, someone should be there for them, you know?
Those who come home.”
He had told Bradley the story of his father while they were growing back together, learning how to be father and son again, but he never expected this kind of reaction to that story. “That’s great,” he nodded.
Bradley ducked his head almost bashfully before looking up, a gravity in his eyes. “They still haven’t found Duke yet, have they?”
Mav inhaled and exhaled evenly while drying his hands on a dish towel. “No.
Not yet.
Maybe one day, though.
I’m just happy that he’s no longer called a traitor,” he nodded, remembering the day Viper and the other members of VF-51 had managed to get the record set straight, Duke having been posthumously promoted to Commander and awarded the Navy Cross.
“He’ll come home too one day, Dad, I’m sure of it,” his boy confidently said.
“That would be nice,” Mav said wistfully. “Anyway, any special requirements for volunteering?”
“Nah, just gotta keep my uniforms close at hand, probably will have to buy a set for base, just in case, but nothing else, really.”
“That’s wonderful that you’re doing this.
I’m even prouder of you, Bradley.”
Bradley’s mouth twisted, and he sniffled a little bit, “Thanks, Dad.
Love you.”
“Love you more, Baby Goose.”
Mav didn’t think much more of this, other than when Bradley would come down for breakfast or in the middle of the day in uniform, or when he spotted Bradley come out of the locker rooms in them.
They would just exchange grave nods, the older aviator immediately understanding what was going on.
And then, very early one day, even by navy standards, Mav woke up, not sure what had roused him.
A moment later, his phone dinged with a message; a grope around the nightstand later showed that the message was from Bradley.
“Hey Dad, got an early arrival.
I’ll see you on base.
❤️🐓”
He smiled, admiring how dedicated Bradley was to his honor guard duties, sending off a “❤️” of his own.
Just as he was about to doze off, his phone rang again, this time with a call, the tornado siren ringtone indicating that it was Cyclone.
The thought of ignoring the call flitted through his mind, but he thought better of it, not wanting to risk his posting as a TOPGUN instructor and CO of VFA-223, the “Black Cloaks”, consisting of everyone selected for the uranium mission detachment training.
“Mitchell,” he spoke into the phone.
“Maverick.
You’re required on base ASAP.”
The words were familiar, but the tone was new: it was… almost gentle?
“Sir?”
“Be here by 0630.
Wear your blues, Captain.”
And with that, the line went dead.
He’d be lying if he said that dread wasn’t making boulders sink in his stomach as he buttoned the jacket of his blues, tucked his cover under his arm, and grabbed the keys to his infrequently-used Jeep, given the dress blues.
Eventually, he arrived on base at 0625, and the dread in him increased tenfold when he spotted Cyclone and Warlock standing outside NAWDC Headquarters, in their own blues.
He exhaled bracingly before he picked up his cover, and placed it on his head as he stepped out of the car.
Given the seeming gravity of the situation, Mav deemed it prudent to stand to attention and snap off a smart salute, once he was within four steps of the admirals. “Sirs.”
“At ease,” Cyclone nodded. “With me, Captain.”
It took a while longer than it would have for him to realize the three of them were heading towards the hangars.
Cyclone stopped them inside the hangar where Mav sometimes had classes, and just stood there, watching the runways, facing the longer one, being used as runway 36 today.
In a few moments, a C-5M became visible, landed on 36, and turned onto the apron, halting there.
From another building, preceded by a vehicle, twelve dress blue-clad officers in two single file lines stepped solemnly onto the apron.
Even at a distance, he rationally knew Bradley was one of those officers, but was still perplexed as to why he was here.
“With me, Captain,” Cyclone repeated, and they walked to the honor guard.
As they got closer, Mav saw that Bradley was indeed one of the honor guard, the head of the line closest to him, in fact, and the emotion on his boy’s face was puzzling, but he didn’t have much time to make sense of Bradley’s expression, because three things happened at the same time.
One, he realized that the other eleven members of the honor guard were all the members of his squadron—his kids—every single one of them was here.
Two, he realized too late that he was in a position of precedence over Cyclone and Warlock, in their line perpendicular to the honor guard.
Three, a flag-draped casket was carried out of the C-5, preceded by an officer in dress blues, a Lieutenant Commander, by the sleeve braid.
The Lieutenant Commander stopped in front of the trio of Mav, Cyclone, and Warlock, and saluted.
The three of them returned it, and in a shocking turn of events, the Lieutenant Commander addressed Mav first. “Captain Mitchell.”
“Commander,” he said, managing to keep most of the confusion out of his tone.
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, it is my honor to return the remains of Commander Andrew “Duke” Mitchell to his family, and to the soil of the nation he died for.”
Mav felt his eyes widen, and his knees weakened in shock, but before he could hit the ground, he felt two pairs of hands supporting his body.
A glance up showed that it was Cyclone on his left, Bradley on his right.
“See, Dad?” Bradley tearfully murmured, “I told you he’d come home.”
“That’s him?
He’s home?” he asked imploringly, his grip on his boy’s arm tightening.
“Yeah, that’s your father, Dad.”
He took a few calming breaths, then nodded determinedly. “Let me up.”
The Vice Admiral and his son lifted him to his feet, and he stood to his full height, facing the Lieutenant Commander. “Thank you,” he murmured.
With a solemn nod, the Lieutenant Commander stepped aside, allowing Duke’s casket to pass between the honor guard, Bradley calling the squadron to attention as they all saluted.
The casket was carefully loaded onto the waiting vehicle on the tarmac, Mav magnetically drawn to the flag-draped casket.
He placed a hand on the sun-warmed fabric, head bowed between his shoulders. “Welcome home, Dad.”
He struggled to keep his composure, but the reality of the situation was hitting him hard, and against his not-insignificant will, a sob escaped his lips, and he swept his cover off his head to rest his forehead against the casket, tears falling onto the red and white stripes like a benediction.
How many years had he dreamt of this, hoped for this, prayed for this?
Now, it was no longer a dream, a hope, or a prayer—his father was here, home.
And that just made the tears come all the harder, silent, trembling sobs now wracking his frame, as Mav gave his father the loving embrace he’d been saving for over fifty years, the bill of his cover in his opposite hand hollowly ringing against the metal of the casket, like a bell finally tolling half a century late.
What could have been an eternity or seconds later, he felt himself tugged into Bradley’s strong embrace, hearing, more than seeing, the squadron close ranks around him, shielding his renewed grief from any prying eyes.
The next thing he knew, he and Bradley were seated in Cyclone’s office, the Vice Admiral talking about the funeral arrangements. “Your father will be buried with full honors, regardless of where, with provision for a flyover, location and weather permitting.
However, should you like him to be interred at Fort Rosecrans, all expenses will be paid by the Navy, up to and including re-interment of your mother in an adjacent plot.”
“Oh,” Mav breathed.
Fort Rosecrans was where everyone special to him was buried.
Goose.
Carole.
Ice.
It also meant that he’d be able to visit his mom and dad a lot more than if he had his father buried next to his mom in his hometown. “I’d like that—both of them together again.”
Cyclone nodded gravely. “I’ll start making the arrangements.
There’ll be some paperwork you’ll have to sign for the exhumation of your mother, among other things, but I’ll do my best to take care of as much as I can, make things easier.” Cyclone paused. “My condolences, Maverick.
He’s home now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You and Lieutenant Bradshaw are dismissed for the day, as is your squadron.
Go home.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mindless, and still in shock over the whole thing, Bradley guided him out of the office and back to the parking lot, where he helped Mav into the Bronco.
The drive back home barely registered in his mind, and eventually, Mav found himself on his couch, in his usual white t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with red and black-striped fluffy socks (gifted by Jake), practically burrito-wrapped in Bradley’s goose-patterned fleece blanket, a hot bowl of spaghetti in his lap, Bradley himself next to him.
“Eat up, Dad, come on,” the younger man gently encouraged.
“How?”
“Uh, fork to mouth is how most people do it,” his son chuckled.
“No—I mean—my dad?”
“Oh.” Bradley swallowed, continuing, “well, the Commander in charge of organizing the honor guards asked me why I volunteered, and I said that my godfather’s dad had gotten shot down during Vietnam, and that they never found him.
He asked me for your dad’s name, said he’d look into it.
I was hoping for good news, but even I never expected this.
They found him on the side of a mountain.
It seemed painless, by the way, according to the report, based on what they could see on the remains.”
He nodded, grateful for small mercies, idly twirling the noodles onto his fork.
A gentle silence fell on them both, punctuated by the clinking of Bradley’s fork against his bowl, and his chewing.
Mav eventually wormed his hand out of his burrito, to rest it on his boy’s arm. “I can’t thank you enough, Baby Goose,” he breathed, voice breaking on the last word.
Bradley froze and slowly turned to face him, brown eyes shining, “Don’t thank me, Dad.
It’s the least I could do; after all, you brought me home—it was only right I bring someone home for you.”
Tears welled in his eyes again. “Oh, sweetheart.”
“Come here, Dad.”
It didn’t take much convincing for Mav to lean into the offered hug, tears he didn’t know he still had in him spilling over.
“I’m sorry I’m such a fucking mess,” he sniffled, however long after.
“You’re not a mess, Dad,” Bradley spoke into his hair, “you’re grieving your dad.”
“He died decades ago,” he protested.
“And he’s only come home now.
It’s not like you had time to process Duke’s death properly, Dad.
You had to take care of your mom, then you had to survive shitty foster home after shitty foster home, then you had to survive NROTC, then you had to survive flight school, and then—”
“I think I get the point, Brads,” he smiled through his tears.
“My point is, this is normal; don’t beat yourself up for feeling… feelings.
Lord knows you don’t deserve anything else to feel bad about.”
Incomprehensibly, his heart swelled with even more love for this kid, his son in everything but name and blood. “You know I love you so much, right, sweetheart?”
He felt Bradley’s smile on the crown of his head. “Mm-hmm—you only tell me a million times every day, Dad.”
“Only a million, huh?
That’s a horribly low number; I feel like that’s something I should say more—remind me, will you?”
“Ugh, fine.”
The warmth in his son’s tone was a clear contradiction of the seemingly-exasperated reply.
Swiping a hand over his puffy eyes, Mav glanced down at the now-cool bowl of spaghetti. “You worked hard on this pasta and I’m not even eating it yet,” he guiltily muttered.
“No problem, I’ll just stick it in the microwave for a minute.
And it’s jar sauce, Dad, it’s not like it’s your Nonna’s nine-hour marinara.”
“It’s made with love, so it’ll taste just as good.”
“Say that again when you tell me there’s not enough basil, okay?” Bradley chuckled, easily taking Mav’s bowl to the kitchen to heat it up again.
(There wasn’t enough basil in the sauce, but he didn’t mention it.)
As the days progressed, despite all of Cyclone’s help, planning his parents’ funeral was still a to-do—there were so many things to be decided; what date, what time, what caskets, what kind of rails for the caskets, what flowers, what photo (or hell, photos?) to display at the funeral, what chaplain, and most importantly—for Bradley, at least—who would be invited.
“Dad, come on, you got to invite the Flyboys and the Squadron.”
Mav sighed for what felt like the umpteenth time; Bradley had been pushing this for the better part of a day. “Brads, no, I don’t want to be a bother or a nuisance, okay?
I don’t want them to feel like they have to take time to go to the funeral of people they don’t even know.
For God’s sake, Baby Goose, even you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, I’d never force you.”
Bradley indignantly opened his mouth, closed and opened it repeatedly, before taking a deep breath. “You’re crazier than I thought if you think I won’t be there for your parents’ funeral, Dad.
I’m going, and that’s final.
Please tell me you’re inviting someone though?”
“Your Grandpa Viper, he deserves to say goodbye to his wingman.”
“Anyone else?” His son practically begged.
“Penny, because she’d probably throw me overboard the next chance she gets if I don’t, and she can even bring Amelia if she wants.
See?
I’m inviting people, Baby Goose.”
“Dad—”
“Bradley,” he evenly replied, a stern edge in his voice.
After a brief staredown, the younger man’s petulant sigh could probably be heard on the other side of the country. “Let it be known that I highly object to this, Dad.”
“Objection noted, kiddo,” Mav smiled weakly, reaching out to pat Bradley on the arm before changing the subject. “I like these for the flower arrangements—what do you think?”
Mav stared at himself in the mirror; today was his dad and mom’s funeral.
He carefully looked over his medals, making sure the order was correct—he still berated himself for, in his grief, screwing the order up for Ice’s funeral—only noticing the mistake when he took the jacket off that night.
Confirming that his Global War on Terrorism Service Medal was in the fifth row where it belonged, he stared at himself, wondering if his father would be proud of him.
It was pointless dwelling on what ifs and could have beens.
But, the fact remained that he was the only 86er still in the service who didn’t have at least one star.
From everything he knew, he and his father were so alike, even down to the way they flew, so maybe his father would also loathe the idea of stars taking him out of the skies.
A gentle knock snapped Mav out of his thoughts.
Bradley stood just outside his room, also in his blues. “You ready?”
“Yeah, just… thinking.”
“That seems dangerous, coming from you, Dad,” Bradley grinned.
“Well, I am dangerous,” Mav smirked in reply, quickly sobering.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing, just… I’m a Captain,” he admitted.
“Yyyeah… you are, Dad.”
Mav sighed, “I—I’m the only 86er still in the service who isn’t flag rank, that—that’s the point.”
Bradley stared at him, the pieces snapping into place, and he approached, raising a hand to Mav’s shoulder. “I don’t know exactly what your dad was like.
I can’t.
But I know that he went down saving the lives of his squadron.
And I think… that he’d be so proud of how you always make sure everyone comes home.
I know I am.
I am proud of you, Dad.”
Tears, love, and old guilt welled up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring your—”
“Stop.
It’s not your fault, and it never was, no matter what stupid shit I said before.
It was an accident.
I don’t blame you, and my father never would.
Now, let’s get off this guilt trip, and get your dad and mom some rest, huh, Dad?”
“Okay.”
Bradley nodded, pulling him into a brief hug. “Alright.
Get your cover, and I’ll grab mine, then we can hit the road.”
The fact that Mav knew the route they would take by heart, able to tell even with his eyes closed, just when Bradley would take a turn, was a little bit depressing, and he prayed that this would be the last time for a very long while that he would have to go to a funeral, most especially a military funeral.
Even his first of those was one too many, he bitterly thought, glancing towards the section where Goose was, as they entered the gate of Fort Rosecrans.
Despite his somber thoughts, he was grateful that it was a beautiful day, with perfect weather for a flight, as he got out of the Bronco to approach the minuscule group of people standing behind the hearses containing his parents’ caskets.
Giving solemn nods of their own, Cyclone and Warlock waved off the salute he and Bradley were about to snap off, allowing them to instead turn to Viper who was with his granddaughter, Erin.
“Mike,” Mav warmly greeted the man who was like a second father to him.
“Kiddo,” the venerable aviator rasped, creaking forward to embrace Mav.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’d have to be six feet under to miss this, Pete.
But even then, I’d find a way.”
His former CO had gasped in shock when he called the man several days ago to tell him his wingman had been found. “They found Duke?”
“They did.
He’s going to be buried at Rosecrans with my mom.
I’d like you to be there.”
“I’ll be there, no matter what I have to do to get there.”
“Hi, Uncle Pete,” Erin greeted, bringing him back to the present.
“Hey there, Diamondback,” he replied, using the nickname he’d given her years ago, moving to hug her too, mindful not to knock her cover off, the young woman having worn her Air Force blues for the occasion. “Thanks for coming.”
“We know how much this means to you, Uncle Pete, we wouldn’t miss it; and someone had to make sure Grandpa wouldn’t do something stupid to get here, or at least help him if he did.”
Mav laughed, smile only widening when Viper humorously interjected, “Quit talking about me like I’m not here, will ya?” as his still-sharp gaze landed on Bradley. “Bradley Bradshaw—it’s been much too long since I last saw you.
I remember when you were a little booger of a kid; now look at you.
Your old man would be proud.
Rooster, right?
With the 87 'Warriors?” Viper knowingly asked.
Bradley proudly nodded, “223 Black Cloaks now, under Mav, but, yes, sir.”
The retired admiral smiled as if Bradley had passed a test. “Quit it with the sir, son, but you let me know if Pete gives you any trouble, huh, Rooster?
Not too old to whoop this kid’s ass in a hop.”
“Quit talking about me like I’m not here, will ya?” Mav grinned, throwing the venerable aviator’s words back at him. “Excuse me,” he continued, spotting Penny and Amelia making their way to them, the latter striding forward and aggressively hugging him.
“I’m glad your dad came home, Mav.”
He leaned down, returning the hug. “So am I, sweetheart.”
She pulled back, looking back towards Penny. “I’ll let you talk to Mom.”
“Okay.”
After he gave Amelia a final pat, she strode off, declaring, “Hey, Chicken!”
Mav snorted, catching sight of his son’s expression at the moniker, but then his attention was drawn by Penny’s soft, “Pete.”
They had been taking it slow ever since the Uranium Mission, but seeing her never failed to make something in his chest flip flop. “Pen.
Thank you for coming, you and Amelia.”
“Of course.
Why wouldn’t we be here?” she murmured, placing her palm against his cheek.
He leaned into the contact, and her eyes softened even more. “You’re looking at me like that again.”
“Like what?” he smiled.
“Like I’ve hung the stars or something.”
His smile widened, “Only look I’ve got for you.”
She blinked, stepping closer to wrap her arms around him and gently kiss him.
Mav gladly leaned into the embrace, a sigh escaping his lips when she drew back. “Stay with me?”
“Didn’t have any other plans.”
A moment later, Mav decided to get the proceedings started.
Led by the honor guard and the hearses, they began the solemn walk towards the plots where his parents would be buried, Penny tightly grasping his right hand.
Eventually, he distantly saw the wreaths of flowers, the chairs, the twin holes the caskets would be lowered into, the easels with the photos of his parents, and Mav felt his breath hitch with emotion—reality was striking him more intensely than any G’s he’d ever pulled.
He clenched his jaw, willing the emotion back, and just as he felt like it was beginning to turn into a losing battle, he felt someone take his heretofore free left hand.
A glance in that direction showed Viper had replaced Bradley at his left, the older man sending him an understanding look, similar emotion shimmering in his own eyes, the two of them sharing a fortifying nod.
A further glance back showed his boy walking behind him and Viper, strong and steady, a sad smile on his lips, love and blade-sharp understanding in his eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at the plots, and had just settled into their seats, when Mav started in surprise; a large hand had clasped his shoulder and a familiar voice whispered into his ear, “What do you think you’re doing, starting without us, Shortstack?”
Mav turned in shock, seeing Slider right behind him, with all of VFA-223, Hondo, Hollywood and Wolfman, Chipper, Cougar, and Merlin approaching, one and all in dress blues.
Here, more familiar faces started to arrive—the Darkstar team, a couple of his fellow TOPGUN instructors, various NAWDC personnel, and then various North Island staff.
Mav couldn’t believe it—at the end, there had to be at least thirty people assembled around the gravesite.
Dots immediately connected. “Why are all these people here?
How did they know?” Mav whispered to Bradley.
“Well, word gets around, Dad—and it’s not like North Island’s that big,” Bradley nonchalantly replied.
He hissed, “Bradley Peter Bradshaw.”
The younger man squirmed in his seat, sheepishly muttering, “The squad and I might have… facilitated certain ears hearing about this.”
“Brads—why—I told you—”
“Dad,” Bradley reached out, “People care about you—the Flyboys wanted to be here for you. Despite what that nasty voice in your head tells you, and like, ninety percent of the brass hating you, a lot of people like you and want to be here for you.
Everyone here clearly wants to be here for you.”
Slider huffed, “You’re not a nuisance, Mav.
You’re family.
The real nuisance was you not calling to tell us all, but good thing the Baby Goose went behind your back.”
Mav rose from his seat, “Sli, I’m sor—”
Slider gently tugged him into a tight embrace. “It’s ok, just promise you’ll remember what brothers are for next time, huh?
Not a lot of us left, we gotta stick together,” he said, referencing the loss of Sundown not long after Ice’s passing—a harsh blow to the Flyboys. “Don’t listen to that voice in your head anymore, Mav.”
Wordless, he nodded. “Thank you.” Mav lifted his head to see his brothers, Hondo, and his squadron surrounding him, not a trace of anger in their faces. “All of you.”
Warm smiles and reassuring murmurs came from them all, and Slider patted him on the back. “Let’s get to work, Shortstack.”
“Okay.”
The ceremony proceeded according to plan, and eventually, it was time for Viper and him to hammer their wings into his father’s casket, but to his shock, before anything could happen, Omaha and Halo rose instead, unpinning their wings of gold as they went.
They hammered their wings into the dark wood of his father’s casket, then saluted.
Next to stand was Yale and Harvard, then Fritz and Coyote.
(Thump)
(Thump)
Two by two, his squadron went up and hammered their wings into his father’s casket, then saluted.
Payback and Fanboy.
(Thump)
Phoenix and Bob.
(Thump)
Bradley and Jake.
(Thump)
As Bradley circled back to his seat, Mav caught his eye, a shocked and wondering expression on his face. “I know we’re not your dad’s squadron, but hopefully we’re good enough,” he softly said in response to the unasked question.
Tears were already tracing Mav’s cheeks at seeing his squadron give his father this honor, but it didn’t stop there.
He was just about to tearfully thank Bradley when his attention was drawn by Slider and Chipper striding forward as they too, unpinned their wings.
(Thump)
Then Wood and Wolf stepped forward.
(Thump)
Cougar and Merlin.
(Thump)
One and all, his brothers hammered their wings into the casket, tightly grasping his shoulder in affection as they moved back to their places at his wing while he struggled to maintain his bearing, his heart swelling with love for this family who’d chosen him.
When no one else stepped forward, it was here, that Viper rose and drew a battered pair of wings from his jacket pocket, steps slow but even as he approached the casket, now covered in gold wings.
He gazed at the wings, a small, proud smile on his lined face, then with a gentle nod, he lifted his hand to place his own wings on the casket.
The sound of his fist hammering the wings in resounded through the air, the elderly man snapping to attention to salute his late wingman one last time.
When Viper turned, Mav rose for his turn, gently setting down the neatly folded flag in his chair.
It was this part he hated the most in all the military funerals he’d gone to, even more than the flag presentation, because it made everything feel so definite, the proverbial final nail in the coffin.
But this time, it felt almost like a relief—for once, his hands didn’t tremble as he unpinned his wings, and as his fist struck the metal into wood with the rush of wind and roar of F-18s overhead, Mav felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders; with his final salute to his father, he felt one of the oldest wounds in his soul beginning to heal.
The next thing he knew, the funeral was over, and he was standing before his parents’ graves.
Everyone was filtering back to the road, but he was seemingly frozen to the spot, staring down into the freshly dug earth.
He felt like he was waiting for something, the expectation in the air so thick he could almost taste it, but Mav didn’t know what it was.
Unbidden, the words “Talk to me, Dad, Mom,” slipped from his lips, barely audible even to his own ears.
Just then, a rushing sea wind blew through the cemetery grounds, and in the distance, he could see two birds dancing in the currents of air, soaring upwards into the sky, gradually disappearing in the distance.
The wind abruptly gentled, and though his cover had stayed on during the flyover and through the rushing burst of wind, it suddenly flew off his head.
He turned to follow its path, finding it already in Bradley’s grasp, who had a hand held out towards him, Penny, his brothers, Hondo, and his squadron—his kids, all standing behind his boy, who had a careful, expectant expression on his face.
“Hey Dad, let’s go home?” Bradley called out.
Mav cast a final glance into the distance that the two birds had disappeared into, a profound peace now in his heart.
He stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Bradley.
“Let’s go home, Baby Goose.”
He did not look back.
The title is taken from the USO motto.
The Navy Cross is the second-highest military decoration given by the US Navy, second only to the Medal of Honor.
Mav’s maroon Jeep can be seen in a corner of the hangar during the first hangar scene.
NAWDC: Naval Aviation Warfare Development Command, under whose umbrella TOPGUN belongs.
The C-5M is a US Air Force aircraft, but the Air Force is tasked with bringing home repatriated remains, no matter what branch of service the deceased is from.
The speech given by the Lieutenant Commander to Mav is an adaptation of what is said at a military funeral, when the flag is presented to the next of kin.
I made use of my Italian heritage!Mav headcanon here, which I am quite fond of.
The order of Mav’s medals at Ice’s funeral was incorrect, and even though I didn’t have to mention it, I found a way to explain it!
I’m quite pleased with myself for that one…
VFA-87, the “Golden Warriors”, based in NAS Oceana, VA, is Bradley’s squadron in TG:M, as seen by the patch on his flight suit.
The procedures detailed for the funeral are a rough approximation of the protocol for burials at Arlington National Cemetery.
Clarence Gilyard Jr, who played Marcus “Sundown” Williams in Top Gun (1986), passed away on November 23, 2022 from an undisclosed protracted illness.
Technically, hammering wings tridents into the casket is a SEAL tradition, but 1), this is a thing in canon, 2), it’s supposedly spreading to the other warfare qualifications, and I don’t know, I think Duke deserves it after the Navy crapped all over his reputation.
Bonus: They had a potluck at the duplex later, because Bradley thought ahead and had the Daggers bring food to his/Mav’s place.
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