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Maverick thinks Carole will have him cradle the baby awkwardly in his arms the way he’s always seen people do in movies. Instead, she lays him on Maverick’s chest, positioning Maverick’s hands so one supports the little bum and the other cradles the downy head.
“Quit holdin’ your breath,” she says. “Why are you so tense? You’re fine. He’s fine. I gotta pee and maybe splash some water on my face so I’m not passin’ out in the casserole when Nick’s mama comes by with dinner later. Lord, I am exhausted. ”
Then she’s gone, and Goose is taking his turn to sleep for an hour in the bedroom, so it’s just Maverick on the couch with five-day-old Bradley in his arms.
He’s tiny, and solid, and warm. It’s like holding a hot water bottle, Maverick thinks wildly, only Bradley’s softer. When he stirs a little, his soft hair brushes Maverick’s chin. Maverick’s throat goes tight. Are his eyes wet? “Hi,” he whispers.
Bradley squeaks like a kitten. Maverick adjusts his hold on him, just a centimeter of motion, so he can get a better look at Bradley’s face. He squints up at Maverick with cloudy blue eyes. They nearly look crossed - Maverick thinks maybe Bradley can’t see him well at all. He moves his face closer to Bradley’s to help him. Their noses brush. Bradley’s little pink mouth opens and closes.
Maverick’s head buzzes with a rush just as powerful as the one he gets from G-forces. He has the wild urge to tuck Bradley under his shirt, to keep him closer, where he’s safe. Bradley smells like milk and spit-up and the extra-gentle laundry detergent Nick’s mom brought over yesterday. He turns his head slowly, as if it’s too heavy for him to control the way he wants. Maverick does his best to support him.
“What’s over there?” Maverick asks Bradley. “I don’t know if you can see very well yet. Do you hear something?” Maverick listens. Sure enough, water’s running in the other room. “That’s the toilet flushing. Yeah. That’s the water going through the pipes.” It strikes Maverick that Bradley doesn’t know what pipes are. Does he know what water is? Yeah, Maverick decides; “Water like when your daddy gave you a bath yesterday. Boy, you hated that, huh?” Bradley had screamed at Goose until his little face was almost purple. Goose had nearly been in tears by the time he got Bradley patted dry. You didn’t even go in the water, buddy, he’d said frantically. I’m so sorry. It was just a washcloth.
Bradley’s mouth opens again. “Are you hungry?” Maverick wonders a little anxiously. He’s pretty sure he could make a bottle if he had to - surely the instructions on the formula can aren’t any more complicated than the NATOPS book - but if Bradley screams at him the way he hollered at Goose, Maverick’s certain he’ll cry too. All his years of toughening up, undone by a baby who doesn’t even weigh seven pounds.
Bradley’s hand finds its way to the neck of Maverick’s shirt. His fingers slowly open, then cling to the fabric. He nestles his little head against Maverick’s collarbone. Maverick kisses his fine blond hair.
A flash and a click startle Maverick. Bradley jerks on his chest. “Shh, shh, shh,” Maverick says hurriedly when Bradley whimpers. He glares at Goose, who cringes as he shakes out a Polaroid.
“Listen,” Goose protests, “Carole would kill me if I didn’t document that moment.”
“Don’t you go pinning anything on me,” Carole calls from the bathroom. “If you woke that baby up, that’s all on you, mister.”
Maverick gently pats Bradley’s back. “You’re safe,” he tells him. “Mav’s gotcha.” Bradley settles. Maverick relaxes. “Let me see the picture.”
“Keep your hair on,” Goose says. He grabs the marker he keeps by the calendar and scrawls something on the bottom of the Polaroid. The words hit Maverick in the chest, right beneath where Bradley’s sleeping, when Goose hands him the photo:
Bradley’s Mav.