#IMAGINE the survivors guilt- | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strnilolover · 19 days ago

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NNN - matt sturniolo - survivors guilt

⚠︎TRIGGER WARNINGS⚠︎ : school lockdown, school shooting, guns, death, blood, life or death situation, witnessing death, traumatic experience, police involvement, nightmare/night terror, panic attack, use of y/n, detailed descriptions, and more.

⚠︎THIS CONTENT BELOW MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR SOME READERS. VIEWERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED. IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING IN THE WARNINGS PLEASE DO NOT READ OR READ AT YOUR OWN RISK⚠︎

Flashback • 3 weeks ago

Sometimes school was something you looked forward to. Not just because of the extra curricular’s you were in or because the school work was enjoyable — it was because of your friends and matt who were able to make the days more bearable even when they were the worst of days.

Today you arrived at school a little early, hoping to get some much needed studying crunched into your already jam packed schedule. While walking up the steps to the school, you spotted Matt near the main entrance with a few of your close friends gathered around him. His blue eyes landing on you, flashing a small smile and giving a playful wave. You quickened your pace, weaving through the students until you joined them.

You took your place next to matt, flashing him a grin. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Matt teased, nudging you with his shoulder as you just rolled your eyes. “I could say the same for you.” you fired back, punching his arm lightly. His mouth opened, holding his arm as he gave you a faked hurt expression.

You smiled, turning your head to look at your friends. “Guess I’m not the only one who had trouble getting up,” you said, glancing around at your friends, who looked equally sleepy. “You guys ready for the most thrilling English class of our lives?” the sarcasm laced your words as you wiggled your brows.

One of your friends groaned. “Only if we get to hear Mr. Klein’s riveting analysis of metaphors again.” they said as their face scrunched up, sticking their tongue out. “I think i’d only be ready if Mr.klein just dropped all lesson plans for the day.” another one of your friends grumbled.

You all shared a tired laugh, your head now resting against matt’s shoulder as you somewhat cuddled his arm. It felt comforting to be surrounded by the people who knew you best, the ones who made every day a little easier. “I was going to get some studying in, but you guys have ruined my plans.” you pouted at matt and your friends, and they all laughed.

“Sorry baby.” matt said as his hand brushed against yours, lacing your fingers together as you started to walk through the front doors, your friends on either side.

As you walked, the usual chatter filled the air—the familiar sound of lockers slamming, friends greeting each other, and the echo of hurried footsteps as everyone rushed to their first class. The energy was calm.

“Think today’s the day we finally get a pop quiz?” Matt asked, giving you a sideways grin. You rolled your eyes — at this point they might get stuck permanently like that. “Oh, please, don’t jinx it,” you laughed, giving him a playful shove.

You all made your way down the hall more, but you quickly stopped at your locker. “Just go to class without me guys! i’ll be there soon.” you said to your friends, but matt had insisted on staying with you. Your hand fiddled with the lock, twisting to all the right numbers before popping open.

“So,” Matt started, shoving a hand into his pocket while the other came to rest up on the lockers. “since you couldn’t cram in your extra studying time this morning, why don’t we study at your place tonight?” he suggests, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth.

You hummed, grabbing a few books out of your locker before closing the door and securing the lock. “I dunnooo,” you drug out, turning to him as a hand reached out to pinch his side softly. “We’ll have to see if i’m in the mood to study tonight — and if my parents are okay with it.” you stated, head tilting to the side. He nodded in agreement.

The bell echoed through the halls signaling class was about to start. You and Matt both hurried down the hall to class, slipping through the door and sliding into seats beside each other, your few friends already in some seats around you. You were grateful to have them here, grateful that you didn’t have to face another long school day alone. Matt settled beside you, giving you a quick, reassuring smile as the teacher began to start class.

Once the class settled down, Mr.klein started taking attendance, calling out everyone’s name as they all said ‘present’ or ‘here’. “Okay class, today we’re going to start working on some group writing projects…” he started to explain some writing project but your attention was only half on him and more focused on Matt.

“I hate writing projects.” matt complains with a groan as his head tipped back before coming forward again and leaning toward you. Your eyes squinted, glaring at him. “Matt, babe — i’m always your partner for this shit cause you hate it.” you deadpanned, reaching your hand over to flick his arm.

He pouted, faking his sadness as he just grabbed his arm where you flicked him, you giggled before your attention shifted back to Mr.klein, listening to the instructions and taking down notes. Once he was finished explaining, you partnered up with matt, his desk moving flush to yours as you laid the plans out in front of you.

Class had been in session for about an hour now — yet you and matt couldn’t agree on a topic to write on. This always happened, he writing ideas were — okay, but this wasn’t supposed to be a goofy project. It was supposed to me serious and thought out.

You shook your head at another one of his statements. “No — no we should write about something that’ll resonate with people, not make them bored.” you argued, trying to explain to matt that writing about random shit wasn’t the way to go.

He opened his mouth, an argument right on the tip of his tongue — but was quickly cut off with the loud blaring of the intercom coming on, red lights already flashing brightly.

“Lockdown condition three, Lockdown condition three — lock doors, close blinds, barricade doors, turn off lights, take shelter.” the speakers blared, reds lights flashing and illuminating the whole room as they blinked.

You flinched, the loud sound being something you weren’t expecting. Your head turned to matt, a puzzled look on your face. “What is going on?” you asked, and all he did was shrug. You sat there listening to the speakers until another warning line was delivered.

“This is not a drill — I repeat — This is not a drill. lock doors, close blinds, barricade doors, turn off lights, take shelter.”

Your face paled, momentarily freezing as the realization hit you — that this wasn’t a drill. You sat there for a few moments, not registering that matt was trying to get you up. “babe — c’mon we have to help barricade the door-“ his words snapped you out of your daze and you nodded, shooting up your from your seat to close blinds and move things in front of the door.

The room was loud as furniture was moved and scrapped across the floor — you were frantic, running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

You put anything you could — desks, chairs, things that would keep the door closed and unavailable to get through. Matt was right there helping, along with your friends and classmates to get the job done as fast as possible.

Quickly everyone took cover in a far corner of the room, hidden away from sight from any door or window. Your body clung tightly to matt’s as the speakers repeated their warnings. Some students asking in hushed voices about what was going on.

Mr.klein hushed everyone, telling them he wasn’t sure and would let them know when he knew more information. Some students started to cry, texting families and some trying to be strong. Your friends were in the front of the group, quickly looking back at you as they all gave you small smiles of reassurance.

Everything was so piercingly quiet except for the light murmurs of classmates talking and the loud warning blaring from the speakers. Your head turned to matt as you leaned into him, “Do you think we’ll be okay?” you asked quietly. Matt just took a deep breath, “I hope so baby…i hope so.” was all he said.

You weren’t sure how long you were sitting crammed in the corner for with matt and everyone else — all there was, was this persistent ache in your legs from being curled up so tightly. It was still quiet, nothing had happened yet and Mr.klein still hadn’t said a word.

Suddenly, screams rang out through the halls outside the door, the unmistakable sound of gun shots being fired following the shrieks. Your whole body went ridged, flinching as your fists clutched matt so tight you thought you might break him. Your heart was pounding wildly — the pounding in your ears as the sounds got closer and closer.

The distant sound of sirens outside could be heard — but they weren’t close enough. You could hear the sound of fists banging on doors and walls outside before suddenly a loud bang was heard on your classroom door, the items piled toppling over as whoever was out there tried to force their way through.

Your classmates panicked, mumbling quietly out of fear. The teacher shushed everyone — bodies huddling closely together as the bangs continued. The door should hold, surely you piled so much stuff in front of it — but you were wrong.

Surely this isn’t how your life ends? You thought maybe this would never happen to your school — how selfish of yourself to think.

The loud banging continued — whoever was there was persistent on getting in here. You clutched to matt even tighter, tears now clouding your vision as you tried your best to stay calm. Matt’s hand rubbing your back in an attempt to ground you.

Then the door busts open and — everything happened so fast you weren’t sure how to react. Loud gun shots rang out — classmates piercing screams were loud as your eyes darted around until they landed on your friends. Time felt like it froze, switching to slow motion — watching as bullets were shot at them.

That was the last thing you saw before you were dragged down to lay on the floor. The bullets hitting other classmates — their blood splattering all over you as the shooter just fired shot after shot.

You were mortified, silent sobs leaving your mouth as matt’s hand covered it to keep you as silent as possible. Their limp dead bodies laid over you — covering you from the shooters eyes.

The sight of those bullets piercing their bodies — their faces, were permanently burned into your skull. The blood that spilled out, covering your body from near by classmates made you sick to your stomach.

The sound of heavy foot steps echoed the hallway, multiple bodies bursting in through the door as they shouted — police — but they were too fucking late.

Your ears were ringing, you couldn’t focus on a single thing. The only thing you could focus on was the faces of those you saw die — the blood covered faces of your dead friends. The police were still shouting around you, telling the shooter to drop his gun and surrender — another fire of a gun sounded before multiple others joined.

It felt like you were on the floor for hours before an officer came over to check on those who survived — that being you, matt and a few other people. Matt shuffled, trying to pull you up off the ground with him after the police moved those who were deceased off of you.

“y/n — sweetheart we need to go, we need to listen to the police.” he said softly, trying to get your focus on him. But you couldn’t, all your eyes were looking at still were your friends — you could have saved them, why didn’t you fucking save them?

You just stood there, eyes blankly staring at the ground where they were laying — your friends were laying. And if your mind wasn’t so focused on them, you would’ve seen the killers own dead body laying not far from you. But you weren’t — it wasn’t possible when you felt so ashamed, so — upset with yourself.

All you did was watch — you were the last thing they saw.

Your feet moved eventually, carrying you out the classroom and into the hallways as matt guided you. Even there your eyes couldn’t tear away from those who were dead — blood pouring out of their bodies, and splattered on the white walls of the school. You didn’t know what to feel — didn’t know how to feel, you still weren’t fully there.

You made it to the front entrance of the school, pushing the doors open — the blinding light of the outside world burned your retinas, or — at least that’s what it was supposed to feel like, but it didn’t.

When you were outside, families were waiting — multiple parents crying and scared, hoping and waiting for their babies to come out to them. Your own family was there, taking you into their embrace when you were finally able to see them. You wouldn’t let matt leave your side — you couldn’t. What if something happened to him too?

When you got home — still covered in blood, you immediately went to take a shower. The water was boiling hot, steam filling the bathroom as you rid yourself of your clothes. When you stepped into the tub, you took your loofa, pour ounce after ounce of soap on it.

Scrubbing your body over and over and over again until your skin had turned raw and red. Your own blood visible from how viscous you scrubbed yourself. From how desperate you wanted to be clean — to rid yourself of that burning memory in your skull.

You don’t know how many times you scrubbed yourself that night — loosing track until it hurt to scrub yourself any further, your hand eventually dropping the loofa as your body slowly slid down to sit under the shower head on the floor. You tucked in on yourself, curling up as your mind plummeted.

It should’ve have been you instead.

Present Time

The masked man pointed the gun directly at matt as his body stood between you and the killer, sacrificing himself to keep you safe. The man only laughed, moving it to point the barrel of the gun toward matt’s temple as he pulled the trigger. The loud ringing of a bullet firing ricocheted through your skull, making your vision unfocus.

When you came to — time had seemed to slow down. Matt’s eye’s widened, his body slowly falling to the ground.

You screamed as you watched matt’s body drop to the floor — blood pouring out of him as that same killer stood in front of you and your classmates. Your body trembling as your tried to wake him up, thinking it was just a dream before your eyes looked at the killer, the last thing you saw was his finger pulling the trigger at your head before everything went black.

You tossed and turned in your bed — and if anyone were to walk in right now, they’d see the discomfort etched into your face. Quickly your eyes shoot up, body shooting up in bed as a scream ripped past your throat, sweat covering your body as your fists clutched the sheets to your bed.

A door swung open outside before footsteps quickly pattered across the hallway, your door swinging open — matt rushing in to check on you after the blood curdling scream you let slip. His feet taking quick strides over to your bedside.

“y/n — y/n!!” matt said, grabbing your shoulders as he pulled you into a hug, his body lowering to the bed as he held your body tightly. Your limbs thrashed around in his embrace, screaming and kicking as the nightmare still clung freshly to your mind.

“N-no!! let go — let go!!” you screeched, your hands coming up to claw at him — but they were uncoordinated, not landing on him once as your mind continued to panic.

These — nightmares…night terrors — started happening ever since the shooting, most of your nights were sleepless as memories plagued every corner of your being. Matt hadn’t left your side since — seeing how much it had left you shaken, your family nice enough to let him stay in the guest room across from your room.

Matt just held you, squeezing his arms tightly in an attempt to keep you safe from yourself until your body tired itself out, holding you close and whispering comforting words into your ear. “It’s okay baby, i’m here i’m not going anywhere.” he whispered, pressing a light kiss to your head as you shook.

You stopped thrashing your limbs, nails now digging into matt’s arms, leaving crescent shapes in the flesh. You sobbed, sucking in sharp breaths as you tried to speak.

“Y-you were gone — you d-died, he killed you. h-he killed me!” you choked out, fists now moving to grip his shirt tightly. “There w-was blood everywhere.” you cried, hot tears were running down your face as your breathing became more ragged and choppy.

The nightmares had gotten worse after you attended the funerals of the friends you lost — the services making everything feel too real, making you realize you actually lost them. It was too many someone as young as you should have to ever attended.

It’s your fault they’re gone.

Your breathing began to quicken more, your face hot and wet as your mind continued to spiral out of control. Your fists held him tighter, zoning out as you began to feel sick to your stomach.

Your chest felt tight — eyes frenzied and darting around. It felt like you were drowning, your tears falling harder now as you tried to regain control of yourself. You tried to speak — but all that came out were pained whimpers and sobs, your breath catching in your throat.

“y/n, i need you to focus on me baby, it’s okay.” matt whispered, pulling you into his chest, your head resting against his heart. “Listen to the sound of my heart love, focus on my breathing. I’ve got you, everything’s okay.” he continued, rubbing circles on your back as he rocked you back and fourth.

You strained to listen through your own heartbeat in your ears, rapidly pounding against your skull. It felt as though you would pass out any moment from lack of proper oxygen — but you tried, feeling the rise and fall of matt’s chest pressed against your ear and the side of your face.

Matt noticed your strained efforts, weakly smiling to himself as he looked down at you.

“That’s it baby, doing so good.” he cooed, continuing to rub your back as your breathing slowed down, your tears flowing less now. He could feel the rapid beating of your heart, it felt like it would jump out of your body if you weren’t careful. Your panic slowly subsided, exhaustedly melting into matt’s body.

Your breathing was still ragged, nose stuff from how hard you were crying — you had to breath through your mouth.

He let out a long breath, calming his own nerves. He never knew how you would be after a nightmare or night terror — sometimes you were okay after a moment of him holding you, other times it was like this. Needing to calm your panicking mind in order to fall asleep again. It drained him — but you needed him, he wasn’t going to let you do this on your own.

When you pulled away from his chest, your eyes were red and puffy and tired, body still shaking from all the emotions coursing through your veins. Your mouth was dry and your head was pounding from how hard you were crying. Your hands let go of matt’s shirt, coming up to rub at your eyes and head.

“m’so sorry matt,” you started, voice cracking slightly. “didn’t mean to w-wake you again.” your voice was barely above a whisper, almost inaudible if matt wasn’t listening to intently.

He just shook his head, a hand coming up to wipe away some stray tears you hadn’t realized were running down your face. “Don’t ever apologize, this is something you’re dealing with — a traumatic experience you’re dealing with.” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

You shook your head, “I-I couldn’t save them matt.” you mumbled, sniffling. “they were right there and i couldn’t do anything to save them — i should’ve done something, what kind of friend am i?” you rambled. “F-fuck i couldn’t even save you.”

What if you cant ever save him?

Matt frowned, pulling you onto his lap as he situated himself in your bed. “It’s not your fault baby — it’s not your fault they aren’t here anymore, it’s the horrible person who decided to do what he did.” he whispered to you, holding you closely. His hand raked through your hair, tucking your head under his chin as he just continued to hold you.

You always thought about them — about how that day could have been different if you had just tried to do something to save those people you held close to you. But, the damage was done and here you were — wishing it was you and that they could still be here — you weren’t fast enough for them.

Eventually, matt got you calmed down enough to try and get more sleep, laying down in your bed and tucking you into his side as he encouraged you to try and sleep. “I’ll be right here when you wake up in the morning baby, i promise.” he reassured, holding you tighter — like you might just disappear somehow.

You listened, letting the exhaustion from crying and not enough sleep, pull you into unconsciousness for the night again.

When you had woken up in the morning, matt was right there next to you just like he said he would be. You smiled weakly to yourself — slowly pulling the covers back and moving out of your bed to head downstairs where you’re sure your parents would be at.

Before leaving your room, you looked in the mirror. You looked awful — dark circles under your eyes and your eyes red. Your hair was a mess and your clothes looked disheveled. You weren’t a pretty sight to see.

You walked out your bedroom door, feet softly pattering down the stairs and into the kitchen where you could hear your parents talking. Your ears picked up on a few pieces of their conversation, even though you know you probably shouldn’t be listening.

As you arrived in the kitchen, your parents attention was shifted to you — their eyes taking in your appearance. A look of worry crossed their features, but they didn’t say anything. After a moment, your mom was the first to speak. “Are you doing okay honey? we heard you last night…i’m still so sorry you’re going through this sweetie.” she said softly, gently walking toward you to wrap you in her embrace.

She pulled back, briefly looking into your eyes before she started to speak again. “So…we know your school has been closed for the last few weeks because of what happened,” she started, and somehow you didn’t like where this was going. “but — we just got news they’re reopening tomorrow for students to go back.” she said. Your face dropped at the words, eyes darting over to your dads before looking back at your mom.

Your head shook, “W-what? no…no! y-you expect me to go back there after — after what h-happened??” you quickly said, your body pulling out of your mothers embrace, the panic rising in your body at just the thought of returning to the same place that you saw your best friends be murdered at. Your parents just looked at you sympathetically, their eyes softening.

“We promise it’ll be okay y/n…nothing will happen again, you’ll be safe.” your dad stated, hoping that somehow his words would help calm you down. But all it did was make you feel worse — what if it’s me and matt next?

“y-you guys can’t make me!” you wailed, quickly turning away. You could hear your parents calling your name and trying to speak as you sped toward the stairs and darted back up into your room as you closed the door behind you.

Your back was pressed against your door, palms flat against the wood, your eyes closed as you tried to keep yourself calm. When you opened your eyes again, Matt was already sitting up in bed, his face twisting with worry as he saw your state.

“y/n? what’s wrong baby.” he asked, opening his arms up for you to slid into, which you did. Striding over to the bed and Sitting down, you leaned into him — his presence calming you slightly. “They want me to go back,” you started, voice straining as you held back your tears. “back to where my friends died — i can’t go back. i won’t.” you say, shaking your head as you spoke.

Matt’s face softened more, “you don’t have to go back baby, not until you’re ready — even if that takes a while.” he said, tugging you closer. You let out a sigh, trying to turn your head to look up at him.

“I will never be ready to face that place again. Not when all I can see are their faces and their blood whenever i close my eyes. They were right there, and I couldn’t fucking do anything.”

a/n : part 2 to this will be posted after NNN is over <3

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topgunruinedme · 25 days ago

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When they closed their eyes (and prayed you would change)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Fandom: Top Gun (Movies)

Relationships: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Jake "Hangman" Seresin - Relationship, Solomon "Warlock" Bates & Beau "Cyclone" Simpson

Characters: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Additional Tags: Referred previous relationship, Previous Hangster, Ex Hangster, Grieving, Past Relationship(s), "Dagger" Training Detachment (Top Gun), Movie: Top Gun Maverick (2022), Protective Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Hurt Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell Acting as Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw's Parental Figure, Pete "Maverick" Mitchell Needs A Hug, Beau "Cyclone" Simpson is a Softie, Protective Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, Beau "Cyclone" Simpson Needs A Hug, Parental Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, POV Beau "Cyclone" Simpson, Guilt, Medical Inaccuracies, Survivor Guilt, Dissection, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Wakes & Funerals, Hurt No Comfort, Whump

Language:English

Series: ← Previous Work Part 8 of (Jon Hamm) Beau “Cyclone” Simpson fics

Words: 4,462

Summery: Beau’s reaction to the outcome to the Uranium mission.

Receiving one final nod from the head doctor confirming that they no longer needed him for anything else, feeling more like a lieutenant being dismissed from a Commanding Officers office after being chewed out he turned to leave only to feel something under his shoe grind, and his stomach dropped as the risk of hurling skyrocketed. He closed his eyes briefly trying to find the will before he lowered himself down, one hand clutching around the chilled metal of a nearby hospital cot the other gently dislodging the object as he rocked back onto his heel, eyes darting towards the sticky metal as his palm clutched around the familiar shape. The unmistakable shape. There innocently hanging from his fingers by its mattered slick chain were Bradshaw’s dog tags. The chain was caked in blood, drowned in mud and slowly drying dirt and who knows what other substances had been smeared into it during transport obscuring the name. He didn’t need to be able to read it to know who it had once belonged too.

Losing a wingman didn’t get any easier.

They like to pretend it does, that its common, and that it’s just another part of the job. He was sure that numerus aviators his age, retired, climbing the brass ladder, or still flying, had heard their Commanding Officer start the tangent ‘If you fly long enough, it’s bound to happen,’ once or twice in their career. But that’s just the thing, it happens, but no matter how many times it happens; how many times they got shot at, burned in, no matter what you tried. It didn’t get easier.

Because you can’t stop it.

They were pilots, worse, Navy Aviators. Their entire lives were dangerous, from dawn to dusk, 365 days a year.

But losing a Wingman, it was different. That was someone on your wing 24/7, who was so close they were practically an extension to your own body. That’s why it hurts so much. Its why his own chest had cracked open when he had burnt in, breaking his back firmly dragging him out of the sky’s only to open his eyes to find his wingman, his best friend by his bedside, wings already self-clipped with a broad smile as Solomon scolded him for thinking he could climb the ladder before him as if it was a challenge.

It was different.

But losing an Aviator…much less one under your command. It took that crack and wedged priers into the wound and tugged, like standing in a swarming room as they performed open heart surgery, knocking around in your chest and your pretended you didn’t know about it.

It was different. He didn’t know how, but it just was. Maybe it was the fact he didn’t have them flying on his wing, he didn’t know them in the sky’s, he didn’t trust them with his life. Maybe it was because they were young, so much more then him, that they arrogant, just he was, and maybe just maybe, he was wating for the fire in the sky when they finally burnt in.

But it didn’t stop them. The nightmares that frequented him in the twilight hours. Draining terror filled dream space that was no longer filled with him sitting in the cockpit of his jet just sitting on their wing watching them get shot down with a gut wrenching feeling deep down that he could have saved them. Now it was much worse, hanging up his wings his dreams drag him to his one place of sanctuary, the control room, only now instead of being on their wing watching knowing he couldn’t do anything, he was now listening to his pilots, as life's they put in his hands for safety, crumble before them.

Those days were the hardest, the ones that he struggled to tell life from fantasy, watching a plane crash into the tarmac in one moment then clear skies in another. Those days weighed him down for hours after waking with the screams of his aviators, their cries of fear, an echo of their training coms, haunted by the feeling that he was the one who put them there. Who clutched their hands and lead them to their deaths.

It was harder when they were people he knew. People he had seen walk into his halls young faces filled with anxiety and excitement only to leave hardened by life, confident in their abilities even if their confidence was backed with an enormous ego and cocky grins. They were good, serious enough about the missions that he didn’t need to rebuke them, yet. It was different when it was people that he had trained, that he had selected for the mission out of hundreds of other files. Watching them openly struggle to complete the training course, the bad blood, the bird strike, the g-lock. It was dangerous, too dangerous. Yet he pushed them, he still sent them to their deaths knowing he would be standing before 6 coffins that next week because he had watched them fail the simulation time, and time again. Witnessing them all slowly break down over time as they were forced to face the fact the realisation that they were being sent on a suicide mission, the mark of death finally searing into their skin digging its crawls in and refusing to let go. And despite the poorly hidden terror, the trembling palms, and flattering voices on the coms as another sim failed. He still sent them.

There was no pretending, no brushing it aside. They all knew. He could see the way Sol’s jaw ticked in worry, and how every so often the staff would send him a worried uneasy look the longer he let the pause drag on before finally denying a rescue bird. He could feel it, the heated glare Mitchell sent him, he had no doubt the man had wanted to truly burn him, fists clutched by his side, already prepared for a fight, teeth grinding, in his last resort for control. Because that's what it really was. Suicide. There was no point denying it. He gave them the tools, the means, and now they were dying for their country. But they will still be dead, and very well by his hand.

They weren’t ready, but they were they’re only line of defence.

Somehow 6 graves didn't seem all that important in the grand mass of casualties that could occur if they failed.

Only, when those jets left the tarmac for the last time it wasn’t 6 graves he was digging. It was only one. One foolish boy.

Dagger Two. Bradley Bradshaw. A lonely kid with too much anger, a warm sun who would gravitate towards people and became the light of the room, only to be smothered by the raging flames that stung anyone who got too close. A kid who had the potential to be a great pilot, if only he wasn't afraid of his own shadow. He was too cautious, too hesitant, too angry. And in the end, it cost him everything.

And he had lost it all over one man. Jake Seresin. A man that Bradshaw didn’t even like, a man the older had been ribbing since the first moment he had met them at the graduation gala. He was observed the faux rivalry, and the teasing grins turn hostile over the years as their friendship became frail, and those teasing comments became biting and tension built, their failed communication butting between them until they finally exploded. He knew, he could see it, the hesitant tense tight nod to each other over the tarmac as they climbed into their respective jets. He knew what they really wanted to say. Stay safe, come home, I love you.

Too hesitant. Too rash.

In the end, it was too late. The kid may have looked like he just walked out of a 80’s commercial with his loud shirts, crappy clique facial hair and taste in music, but by god that kid loved. He loved everyone. He knew that from the report of the man's first hop in Top Gun, the man who sacrificed himself in the very first training hop just because he was trying to save his wingman. The man who unlike others didn’t hold his life on a pedestal, instead he left it low and allowed people to use it as a stepping stool.

A man who struggled to see worth in his own life. And briefly he wondered if Mitchell had a hand in that.

They were children. All of them. And he had sent them to their deaths. He had sent one to their death.

The only son of the esteemed reckless Captain who stood beside him, anger fading as he became frighteningly pale as he swayed, his body shaking with light tremors as his hands clenched around the mission control board hunched over in an attempt to take in a breath as his panicked short rasping breaths became audible. His eyes pinned to the raider that was entirely too empty as if begging for the light to reappear, for Roosters Estat to magically activate. His knuckles were white and the man's chest was moving entirely too fast, but the older man didn't seem to hear Hondo trying to talk to him in a low voice, or register Solomon who stood beside him stock still back straight and chin high as a perfect picture of a Commanding Officer, but his face betrayed him, it radiated his sorrow as he rested a silent hand on the grieving man’s shoulder.

The silent comfort did nothing to compare to the gut-wrenching sob that was ripped from the grieving father’s lips as his son was shot down, or shot the wails as the title KIA was stamped onto his file. It didn’t stop a father who had already lost so much listening to his son sacrifice himself for a man that according to everyone, Bradshaw hated.

Lieutenant Jake Seresin, Hangman. The same man whose cry of agony ripped through their radios his grief so plainly clear, the devastating longing as he called out for Bradshaw, for Bradley, his wingman.

“Did anyone see a parachute?” Seresin demanded “Did anyone see him?”

“He's gone Hangman” Floyd said quietly down the coms.

“No! We have to go back, he could still be-”

“Return to base. Now Hangman god dammit, we are not losing anyone else today” he croaked out swallowing thickly praying no one else picked up on how his voice had cracked issuing the order. If anyone had no one mentioned it. A small mercy. Especially after having to face the fact he called off any rescue attempts on a fallen soldier, the same soldier whose family stood beside him listening to him sentence his son to death, again.

What will you tell them when you're dead? What will you tell their families?

There was nothing he could say, not without cutting out his own warm intestines and wrapping them around his neck first. A noose that pulled too tightly with each breath he took on borrowed time stolen from someone far too young.

Calling them back to base had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and yet, it had also been the easiest. Calling them away from Bradshaw, condemning him to death had been the hardest thing he had ever had to condone, yet making the choice to save 5 other lives in the process had been a no brainer. In fact, hearing that all 3 jets had landed on the tarmac in okay condition had caused him to release a guilty breath of relief.

To have to stand next to a man's world who had just lost all steering and crashed into a fiery end was not, watching Trace drop from her jet and rush over to their sonic leader and throw herself into his arms sobbing hysterically has been pain inducing.

Yet somehow, he doubted his pain came anywhere close to what Mitchell was feeling watching everyone return home safely.

Everyone except his son.

Search and rescue took hours. It took hours too long.

The only small mercy he could offer the Captain was sending out a ship wide notice that only required staff were to be on deck, preventing anyone beside the ground staff from witnessing the Halo land, from witnessing the way Mitchell shattered as they wheeled a black body bag out on a stretcher, to witness the way the man’s hand twitched as if to reach out for the boy, as if his touch alone would solve whatever ailment plagued the kid. The sight of the black bag caused a mass to form in his throat, his chest wrenching open ever so slightly more as his pradictions were confirmed. But if he had thought the idea of the kid dying had hurt, it was nothing compared to how he silently closed the door to the medical bay in the Captain’s face, baring him dorm the medical examination. From the horrifying post modem report as they all but caved open his chest and cracked it open with a wrench.

Bradshaw had been killed by extensive blood loss. Which in itself wasn't typically unusual, ejections were just as dangerous as flying the jet. Anything could go wrong at any moment, and you have nothing to protect you as you quite literally fall from the sky. Only he bled out, slowly and painfully. Not from his initial ejection, not from burning in, or succumbing to the cold climate. But from an unfortunate and ill-timed run in with an attack helicopter that had decided to finish the job that the SAM’s had failed.

Bradshaw had been shot to death. He had been alive when he went down.

And he had called them off.

He had killed Bradley Bradshaw.

Maverick's Son.

His aviator.

Staring down at the man before him he couldn’t help but feel sick. There was specks of dried blood in the kids moustache, and he felt an odd parental urge to reach down and fix it for him much like his own mother had for his father, and his grandmother had for his grandfather, much to his annoyance. His skin itched with the urge to lick his thumb and brush it across the man’s face to rub away the blood like an insignificant speck of dirt.

As if he had the right to touch him.

It was him. Bradshaw. Part of him had hoped when they set the bag down on the cold morgue table that it would be a stranger’s face staring up at him in a familiar uniform. He had hoped…but the kid hadn’t managed to escape the clutched of death. So he laid there naked, chest cut up in three different directions barely held together by stapples, face filled with tension, brows furrowed, lips pursed as if squeezing his eyes shut in fear of facing his death. rigor motus, the doctor had explained, the tension of muscles freezing after death, he would relax in time as the muscles burned away. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better or worse.

He didn’t have the heart to let Mitchell in here, not after he was the reason his kid was on the slab. He couldn’t bear the idea of making the man identify his own kid, ruining his last memory of the lively man. Taking over was the least he could do. Mitchell had just lost his wingman, had just put one of the most important person in his life into the ground and now he was about to burry another, he didn’t deserve to have his image of Bradshaw tarnished like this, no matter how messy of a relationship they had.

Swallowing down the bile as he silently signed his name on the bottom of the document confirming his witness to the identification as he tried to ignore the nurse who gave the boy a shed of decency as they wheeled him over to the freezers placing a white sheet over the body. Receiving one final nod from the head doctor confirming that they no longer needed him for anything else, feeling more like a lieutenant being dismissed from a Commanding Officers office after being chewed out he turned to leave only to feel something under his shoe grind on something, and his stomach dropped as the risk of hurling skyrocketed. He closed his eyes briefly trying to find the will before he lowered himself down one hand clutching around the chilled metal of a nearby hospital cot the other gently dislodging the object as he rocked back onto his heel, eyes darting towards the sticky metal as his palm clutched around the familiar shape. The unmistakable shape. There innocently hanging from his fingers by its mattered slick chain were Bradshaw’s dog tags.

The chain was caked in blood, drowned in mud and slowly drying dirt and who knows what other substances had been smeared into it during transport obscuring the name. He didn’t need to be able to read it to know who it had once belonged too.

He swallowed thickly standing, stepping back to compensate for the way his head buzzed with dizziness, tongue frozen glued to his lower jaw bile coating the inside surfaces as he gently folded the tags into his palm before clenching them feeling the pin prick of the name as the indented mental pressed into his skin. Searing its victims name into its murders skin.

He didn’t remember the walk back ot his quarters. But he remembered the red lines across his skin from where he had clutched too tightly in fear they would disappear if he didn’t clutch them. He remembered thinking about debriefing and how he’d have the brass on his arse for a report, before immediately dismissing the idea. There would be a time and place for debrief, it just wasn’t now. He would let them have some time to grief and get over the initial shock of the mission and allow them to suffer their individual adrenaline crashes and dinful hospital stays before he bothered them. he remembered the slightly pause in his stride as he stepped out into the hall into the communal ward, the fuzzy faces of the daggers all exhausted and waiting their turns to be check on, their voices wobbling in his ears unobtainable in his own silent panic, no doubt asking about the very man whose figure, cold, still, and dead, that haunted the corner of his vision.

He didn’t see any of it, his own jaw clenched so hard it made his head throb. His shoulders wound so tight that one touch might send him into hysteria as his eyes filled with tears.

He didn’t remember the stumbled walk back to his quarters, he didn’t remember how he got from the hallway to his sink. Fingers trembling as they wrapped around the still wet chain. He didn’t remember if he had locked the door or not, but he remembered reminding himself to be careful as he ran the tags under the water with shaky hands. Turning them over as he cleaned them with a gentle stroke of his thumb revealing the name beneath it as he attempted to repent, to remove the sin that cling so tightly to the kid’s innocence.

His sin.

He deserved better. Bradley deserved so much better.

The water turned red, and the colour of his sin settled at the bottom of the sink staining stark against the cracked white porcelain for all to see. Red dripped down his wrist and travelled down his arm into his elbow drenching the front of his uniform due to how close he stood hunching over the sink as he worked.

He had to get this right. He had to fix it. He had to do something.

The funeral was the worst he had ever attended. Not because no one came. If fact it was one of the biggest, he had seen in all his years, Bradshaw was truly loved. And worst of all, he wasn’t entirely sure the man had realised how much. A man who walked thorough life alone with the occasional Phoenix by his side willing to walk him through the darkness failing to reach out to the welcoming hands as if he was blind to them, as if he was all alone in the world.

He had been to many funerals, families, friends, comrades, it was part of the trade. Almost second nature. But he had never been to a silent funeral. Pure silence. No one other then the officiant spoke. Not a sob, not a cry or a sniffle. Nothing. As if the sound of shifting itself would rob Bradshaw the small amount of peace he had found in that stuffy box as they lowered it into the ground Mitchell standing blankly at the edge, golden wings imprinted into his palm, taps still ringing in his ears as dirt dropped from his palm onto his sons grave.

Returning the boy where he truly belonged, between his mother and father.

There was no cheerfulness that Bradshaw always managed to prompt by being nearby, there was no one to be slowly dragged out of their shell at the sheer ridiculousness of the older man, and there was no soft music for the man to serenade as he sung the house down his voice reverberating off the walls.

This wasn’t a funeral; it was a tomb.

He watched as Solomon, a man stronger than himself, stand up and approach the podium to softly conclude the service. A man who knew Mitchell so much better, who was more empathetic than he could ever make himself, hand him the flag that represented his son’s life. He watched silently waiting until Mitchell was able to step away from the swarm of condolences, the smaller man visually shaky on his legs before Kerner swooped into his side gently taking his weight without blinking.

It was now or never.

He stood form his seat, the grounds mostly cleared out now as people began to congregate towards their cars to drive to the Hard Deck for the wake, forcing himself to take a step towards the man and swallow his own anxiety and flaring guilt, he knew the moment Kerner clocked him, hand twitching on Mitchel’s shoulder ever so slightly in warning, incoming. Neven and Wolf never standing far, the guard dogs watching him carefully while pretending to be interested in the conversation they were holding.

He watched Mitchell tense his tired gaze drag to him, shoulder slumping in defeat. “Admiral Simpson” Mitchell sounded dull. Empty.

His lips parted then closed, then again. What the hell was he meant to say to a man who just buried his son far too early? What was he meant to say to the man after killing his son?

They're dead! What do you tell their family!

What excuse is worth their child’s life?

He pressed his lisp together firmly swallowing, instead his hand slipped into his pocket collecting the precious cargo where he had been running his finger pad over most of the service. He hesitated slightly before extended the handout towards the man. Mitchell adjusted his grip slightly freeing one hand clinging the flag to his chest, his eyes were red, puffy, and bloodshot as he held out his hand palm up. Making it very clear this was a very frail olive branch of trust.

His breath hitched slightly as he twisted his wrist, fingers brushing the man’s freezing skin and finally let the tags fall, before letting his hand fall back to his side as Michell stared at them like he’d never seen them before, then as if they were the stars themselves. A nebula, a supernova promising life beyond the universe. Like a man behind a yoke who was just told that they would be flying into enemy land with no wingman, no flairs, no ammo, with no parachute.

A death sentence.

He cleared his throat rasping as the emotions threatened to choke him. His own words trying to crush him under the weight of his father’s gaze. His voice shook slightly “They- they got left behind in medical while they were working on him- they were covered in blood and…” he wavered trailing off silently, begging the man to understand why he withheld them from him for so long.

I already took your son; I couldn’t bare giving you last part of him covered dripping with the same red that drenched my own hands.

“Thank you” Mitchell rasped tightly, hand curling around the tags hand coming up to clench them to his chest joining the flag, Mitchell flattered slightly “Thank you. For seeing him…”

“Of course,”. The boy’s face was going to haunt him from the rest of his life. But he didn’t regret it. Not when he had ripped him away from the world too soon. No number of apologies would ever be enough. No matter what he did would ever make up for that, for stealing him from Mithcell.

“I don’t think I would have been able to handle seeing him like that” Mitchell whispered admitting it with a pained look eyes flickering over to the coffins and the photo beside it. The man’s haunting smile mocked back at them. Playful and alive.

“You shouldn’t have had to”.

No parent should ever have to bury their child before them.

“Take some time”. He knew he hesitated too long when Mitchell’s tired eyes tracked his, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment he dreaded so much finally happen, at his sons funeral to all places. He wasn’t that cruel.

Aren’t you? His mind mocked.

“Take some time…you have until the end of the month then I expect you back in my office for debrief Captain” he watched the man’s brows furrow and the Admiral’s hand on the man’s shoulder squeeze, grounding him as Mitchell wavered swaying to the man’s side, all but collapsing like a puppet with no strings, “That is if you still want the position”

“Position?” Mitchell croaked weakly.

“As a teacher. There are still 11 daggers, and I would like them to stay that way. I can’t guarantee you will be flying missions anymore, but I can waver flight hops. At least for a few years until the Brass manage to kick you to the curb”.

“You want me to come back?” Mitchell sounded distraught, destroyed.

“If you’re willing. You don’t have many years left in you Mitchell, but I think a few years teaching the best of the best what you know, then it’s well worth it. Even if it does mean I’m going to have to get used to those flybys of yours haunted the base”.

“Thank you” Kerner rumbled when it became apparently Mitchell was lost, unsure how to answer, the man frowned slightly there was a slight hint of gratitude, but the man held it behind tightly locked gates. “It’s a very generous gesture considering what I’ve heard your opinion on Mitchell has been in the last few weeks”.

It’s the least I could do, he could suffer for a few years. He deserved it. It would stunt his career taking on the role of Mitchell’s protector he knew that. He could care less.

It’s what Bradshaw would have wanted.

To have a chance to fix things between him and his dad, to be able to teach side by side and hear them laugh in the hallways or yells as they lecture the pilots after a risky hip. To see the man hang over his godfather with that goofy smile clad in those stupid loud shirts singing out his heart.

Where he should be.

Instead, he settled on “It's what Iceman would have wanted”.

#Referred previous relationship #Previous Hangster #Grieving #“Dagger” Training Detachment (Top Gun)#Movie: Top Gun Maverick (2022)#Protective Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw #Hurt Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw #Pete “Maverick” Mitchell Acting as Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw's Parental Figure #Pete “Maverick” Mitchell Needs A Hug #Beau “Cyclone” Simpson is a Softie #Protective Beau “Cyclone” Simpson #Beau “Cyclone” Simpson Needs A Hug #Parental Beau “Cyclone” Simpson #POV Beau “Cyclone” Simpson #Guilt #Medical Inaccuracies #Survivor Guilt #Dissection #Blood and Gore #Blood and Injury #Major Character Injury #Implied/Referenced Character Death #Wakes & Funerals #Hurt No Comfort #Whump #top gun fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun fandom #cyclone: takes drag from cigarette i inherited admiral kazansky's trophy husband #beau cyclone simpson

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