The world was constantly against Pete Mitchell, it was no secret. Well, the Navy, but the Navy was his world. Actually, scratch that, it was the world! And despite its bests efforts to kill him, he just refused to die, so, no, yeah, it is the world. With his father being a disgrace to the Navy— labeled a traitor, scumbag, and a few choice words Pete could hardly stand to listen to before he would get antsy.

The world was constantly against Pete Mitchell, and it exhausted him. And then Hop 31 happened. So, as if going head to head with the Iceman Kazansky wasn’t difficult enough, now his RIO and brother were out of common for at least three months. Goose was lucky. No, more than lucky, he must’ve had a guardian angel on his side. He should’ve died— yet he was sitting in his hospital bed, cheerful as ever.

In the uncomfortable plastic chair on the side sat Pete, his knee anxiously bouncing as Goose rambled on and on about hospital food and how he couldn’t wait to eat a good, hearty breakfast. Pete was listening, sure, but he wasn’t digesting. How could he ever get back up into the sky after that?

Was it his fault? No! He was cleared of any fault, his record wiped clean and shiny like a freshly washed dinner plate. But still..

“We’ve got fries!” A cocky voice rang out into the room, distracting Pete from his current thoughts as his mind drifted towards the smell of hot food. Food. When was the last time he had something good to eat? It wasn’t important. Goose was, though. He stared at his own basket of fries, nose scrunched as the two aviators, Ice and Slider, chomped down alongside someone he didn’t recognize.

“Uh.. here.” Pete murmured, handling his warm food over to his surrogate brother. “Take ‘em. Can’t stomach nothin’ with the broken ribs, and whatnot.” He shrugged, running a hand through his shaggy black hair. Goose gave him a look, a look he knew well, but the older refused to press him— at least for now.