Chapter Text
Jake throws his suitcase on the worn fold-out bed, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the soft spray of dust it kicks up. Beggars can’t be choosers but rest assured, Jake will be doing a thorough clean before he settles himself in for the next month. He knows the others don’t understand why he’s here with them. Hell, he barely does himself. But Mav was right about the Suicide-Mission-That-Wasn’t so he’s probably right about this, too. He sits down next to his suitcase, letting out a deep breath as he runs a hand over his face. His phone vibrates against his leg and he fishes it out of his pockets. It’s a text from Javy.
You sure you’re ok with this?
Jake lets his eyes drift around the office-turned-bedroom as he considers his answer. On the desk is a small framed photo of the owner of the house he’ll be staying in. It’s a young couple on the beach, swinging their son between them. Jake’s gaze roams over the man’s face, the familiar, stupid moustache and garish Hawaiian print shirt. The woman’s smile is wide and infectious, blonde curls sent haywire across her face from the wind. Gripping on to both of their hands is a young Bradley Bradshaw, grinning proudly without his two front teeth. The photo is faded with time, slightly blurred due to the thin layer of dust across the glass. Jake would know that face anywhere, though. The worst part about finding himself staying in this particular house post-mission is that a long time ago, he’d thought he’d find himself here for different reasons. Still, as painful as it is to dwell on the what could have been’s, it’d be worse to be alone. Especially after such a clusterfuck of a mission. Jake’s had enough of being lonely.
More sure of this than the alternative.
His text has barely gone through when he gets Javy’s response,
Just look out for yourself. I’m here if you need me, man.
Jake closes his eyes and allows himself one single moment more of feeling miserable. Dr Choi always said that allowing himself to feel his emotions is key. As much as Jake hates listening to other people, his Navy-appointed shrink is the exception. That woman is a goddamned genius. He takes a deep breath and on the exhale, he lets it all go. He’s glad to be here because it means he’s alive. There are worse places to be.
The house is noisy when Jake heads back downstairs. Fanboy had settled himself in before Jake had even arrived to the Bradshaw house and now he’s puttering around the kitchen, doing some kind of stocktake of what food is available.
“Yo Hangman, you got any preference for dinner?” Fanboy calls from behind the fridge door.
“Anything that I don’t have to cook would be my first,” he drawls.
“Well you’re in luck ‘cause Rooster only seems to have frozen meals in this house. Microwaving is not cooking,” Fanboy’s nose is scrunched with disgust as he shuts the fridge behind him, “I didn’t get off base to eat like crap, though. I’m going to the grocery store then I’m making empanadas. You want in?”
“On the grocery run or the empanadas?” Fanboy’s reply is cut off by the sound of a car pulling up. Jake hears the engine cut and the sound of two doors opening and closing. The voices are muffled but it’s identifiably Rooster and Phoenix, chatting away with their typical ease. Jake’s shoulders slowly but surely make their way up to his ears, despite his best efforts to look relaxed.
Despite setting himself up in Rooster’s house, Jake hasn’t actually had to see him yet. Small miracles. The last time they’d seen each other was at the official debrief from the mission. Cyclone had given them all an entire month off for R&R. Jake strongly suspected there weren’t any postings for them to jump back into because they hadn’t been expected to make it back alive. After the brass had left, Maverick had hovered back with the rest of the team for a moment. He’d looked every year of his age when he’d suggested, quietly but firmly, that they should stick close for their time off, saying that the Bradshaws had a house nearby that should fit the whole team if need be. Maverick himself had been grounded, was staying at his girlfriend’s place nearby and was available if they ever needed to talk. Jake’s shrink always tells him he can’t isolate himself after the hard missions, and the other pilots must have been getting the same advice because there hadn’t been a single protest. Phoenix had made a group chat for the six of them and the only message in it was Bradley’s address. No convincing, no further conversation necessary. Fanboy had been the one to let him into the house when he’d arrived, giving him a quick tour of the place and letting him know which room Bradley had left for him. The relief Jake had felt was indescribable. Now, though, he regrets not getting this over sooner.
Phoenix is the one to open the door, looking totally at ease letting herself into the Bradshaw house. Her hair is in loose curls framing her face, a pair of sunglassess atop her head the only thing keeping it out of her eyes. She has a carry bag in her hand but no suitcase. Greetings are thrown around haphazardly and then the door opens again.
Bradshaw, as I live and breathe.
There’s something about Bradley in civvies — because this is Bradley, out of uniform, not Rooster — that never fails to take Jake’s breath away, even now. Bradley always looks softer, more relaxed in his plainclothes, faded Hawaiian shirt almost falling off one golden shoulder. His eyes are hidden by his sunglasses but the smile he offers Jake is real, small and tentative. Jake doesn’t smile back. Bradley is rolling Phoenix’s suitcase beside him, her jacket draped loosely over the handles.
“Just give me one sec to take this upstairs,” Bradley says to Phoenix, fixing her jacket on the hooks by the doors.
“You don’t have to take it up for me, Rooster,” she huffs in fond exasperation, “I need to know where your room is anyway if I’m staying in it.”
Jake is good. In fact he’s very good. He’s so good that he doesn’t even flinch even as his whole body goes cold at Phoenix’s words. He turns on his heel, military sharp, to face Fanboy.
“Sign me up for that grocery run of yours. You good if we leave now?”
* * *
It almost didn’t start between them. It was a bit of a lucky coincidence that they even met in the first place. Bradley was born and bred in San Diego, a hop, skip and very small jump from the local naval aviation base. It had made no sense to Jake why he was doing his flight school training in Corpus Christi, Texas. Jake can remember the question burning on the tip of his tongue when Bradley told him, but early on he learned better than to ask. On the surface, Bradley was carefree and easy-going. Open, friendly and forever joking. It wasn’t until you got close that you realised, he was only giving you a taste. The rest of his life was a series of blackholes that were absolutely not to be discussed. Jake saw through his façade immediately. He recognised the tactic, it was one he’d been using for years. He liked to think he wore it better though.
They weren’t bunkmates, because that was a cliché that Jake absolutely refused to partake in. Jake’s bunkmate was Javy, a fellow Texan. They fell in together as easy as breathing. Javy grew up in a house with three brothers, so Jake’s competitive streak rolled right off him like water off a duck’s back.
“I respect you wanting to be the best,” Javy said, “but know I ain’t never gonna compete with you. It’s a waste of my time. The only person I’m trying to be better than is me yesterday.” Jake admires the sentiment. He sees the value in it, and on days when he’s pushed his body about 3Gs past its limits, sometimes he wishes he could be motivated the same way. But he can’t, and Javy never asks him to be. Jake thinks he’s the best friend he’s ever had by the end of their first week of basic.
Javy Machado has the honour of introducing the world to the dumpster-on-fire that is the Jake Seresin-Bradley Bradshaw shitfest. It goes like this. Week one of basic is the most physically draining of Jake’s life. The second Jake and Javy get home, they pass out. The social butterfly of Jake’s high school days is dead and Jake has no idea when he’s going to get the energy to resurrect him. Week two is slightly better physically, but that’s when the mental strain comes. The why am I doing this. The I wonder what my family is doing right now. And that second one in particular, sucks ass. Friday week three, Javy’s had enough. He’s got an old high school buddy, Marco, he’s been meaning to catch up with. They’re meeting at a bar off-base, and he drags Jake along with him because Jake is, quote, too pretty to be moping at home. Jake both appreciates that Javy thinks he’s pretty and utterly rejects the idea that he’s moping. The bar they go to is tacky, with ye-olde-Americana propoganda posters lining the walls. The tables are sticky with liqour and there’s a faded smell of cigarette smoke that won’t leave. The music is old-school country, about loving your truck and hating your wife. Jake thinks he spies a stuffed bison head on the back wall. But the drinks are cheap and that’s all that matters at their ages. Javy introduces Javy to Marco, and to Marco’s bunkmate Bradley. It takes Jake a second to place him, they only have one class together. He’d immediately dismissed Bradley as good, but not good enough to be serious competition. He mentally recategorises the other man the second he sees him in that stupid bar.
Jake wishes he could say he had been cool about it. But as forgettable as Bradley had been in class, he is equally as attention grabbing in his civvies. Jake is gone on him before he even opens his mouth. Javy slides himself into the booth next to Marco after the introductions are over, getting straight into chatting about the good-old-days and high school football. Bradley smiles at Jake, soft and tentative and pats the booth next to him. The hand he offers to Jake is rough with callouses and slightly cold from the beer it’s been wrapped around. Jake tries to be subtle as he takes him in. Bradley is miles of golden tanned skin, with russet brown hair that’s clearly sun-bleached at the top and just a little too curly to sit neatly. He’s wearing a blue and yellow Hawaiian print shirt over a plain tank, dog tags hanging out exposed. His moustache should be atrocious — this is the 21st century, not 1971— but his eyes make up for it. They’re a warm brown, open and kind, framed with long lashes. Jake’s always had a weakness for brown eyes.
“California?” Jake says as an opening. Bradley laughs like music.
“I feel like I should be offended with how many people have said that to me the past few weeks,” he chuckles. His voice is low and a touch husky and Jake is a little bit in love already.
“Not a criticism, just an observation,” Jake grins back at him. As if he could be from anywhere else. The tan isn’t too different to Jake’s but the way he holds himself, loose and easy, screams California.
“From the accent, you’re just as Texan as these two,” Bradley shrugs a shoulder across the table. His whole body shifts with the movement, legs spreading wide and comfortable as he leans back into the seat. His thigh presses against Jake’s under the table, warm and solid.
“Yes sir, but I ain’t met either of them before coming here,” Jake lays the drawl on heavy, “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you out as the fourth wheel.” The smirk he flashes Bradley is considered. There’s a certain delicacy required to play this game. Too subtle, and the flirting goes over his head. Too overt, and he runs a risk of bodily harm if he’s misjudged this. Bradley’s eyes flicker down to his lips and back.
Oh thank god.
“Just for that, I’ll shout your first drink if you like.”
“Bradshaw, I feel like this could be the start of a beautiful thing.”
In some ways, Jake is right in what he says. It’s definitely the start of something. Whether or not the drunken handjobs they’re giving each other two and a bit hours later in the bathroom of a truly disgusting bar can be called beautiful, is definitely up for debate.
* * *
Despite Jake’s earlier request to opt out of cooking, he ends up helping Fanboy out with the empanadas. He figures its not exactly fair to have one person responsible for making enough for six hungry pilots. Potentially seven if Maverick checks in on them, which they’re all expecting him to do at some point today. Plus, Jake’s trying to be less of a dick. Just a little. Surviving a suicide mission’ll do that to a person. The food was meant to be for dinner, but it ends up being a late lunch instead because they’re too hungry to wait after their shopping excursion. Fanboy and Jake make the executive decision together, and figure no one else will mind too much.
The groceries go away slower than they should because they’re cooking in someone else’s kitchen, but the conversation between them flows easily. It’s nice and simple, mostly about their first round at Top Gun. Jake hasn’t really had much time to get to know Fanboy on his own, without Payback being attached to his hip. It’s nice to get to know him, properly. He learns Fanboy is two years younger than him and he has two older sisters. They’re in the middle of cooking up the beef when Bob finally makes his appearance. The other WSO is characteristically timid as he enters Bradley’s house, despite Fanboy’s warm, welcoming demeanour. Bob tries to ask why Bradley isn’t the one giving the tour and Jake just shrugs him off. Too busy playing with Phoenix, he keeps to himself. Fanboy leaves Jake with very detailed instructions on preparing the dough as he shows Bob to his room. Jake wonders how Fanboy got himself so comfortable in Bradley’s house so quick.
The empanada dough comes together mostly by memory. Daniel — his first, well, everything — had taught him in his mother’s kitchen in junior year. He’d rolled his eyes at Jake’s clumsy fingers and taken his hands in his own with the carefree affection they could only show in the safe confines of Daniel’s house. He’d pressed kisses to the side of Jake’s head as he pushed the dough into little crescent moons, laughing at his silly gringo boyfriend. Jake had been a little softer back then, hadn’t needed to compete quite so much. Not with Daniel. Still, he had been enormously proud when not a single one of his empanadas had leaked their filling into the oven. Daniel’s mother had looked them over, then looked Jake up and down and said she approved. They’d all known it wasn’t just the food she had been talking about. Those were the good times, before it all went to shit.
“Who taught you how to make Mexican food?” Fanboy says as he watches Jake press the edges of the pastries together.
“A friend I knew in high school,” is all Jake says, tone light and even despite how wrong it feels to diminish Daniel that way.
“Well he taught you pretty well. No complaints from me,” Fanboy’s grin is wide and easy, “Phoenix is harder to please though. She’s the final seal of approval.” There’s been radio silence from Phoenix and Bradley upstairs, even through Bob’s arrival, and Jake is glad. There are somethings he just doesn’t want to hear. The first round of empanadas are in the oven already. The smell of them cooking ends up being what brings the rest of the squad downstairs.
“Do I smell actual home-cooked food?” Phoenix grins as she capers down the stairs. Jake gives her a quick once-over that he hopes is subtle. She looks remarkably unruffled. So does Bradley, as he follows her slowly. Jake’s next breath comes to him easier. Bob comes out of his room, absently wiping his glasses on his button down.
“You do, but be careful it’s hot,” Fanboy says, setting the baking tray down on a placemat in the middle of the kitchen bench. The rest of the pilots crowd around the other side, eager to get food into their empty stomachs. Phoenix is the first one actually game enough to eat one despite the boiling steam curling up off the top of them. Bob breaks one in half and holds it up to his mouth, blowing on it softly. Jake bites his tongue so that he doesn’t make a joke about the goofy way Bob’s glasses are fogging up. He’s playing Mr Nice Jake, and this is day one. He can’t be breaking this early. He’d made promises to Dr Choi that he intends on keeping.
“These are so good,” Phoenix moans, “I haven’t had these homemade in months.”
“They were made by our secret Mexican chef, Jacobo Seresiño over there,” Fanboy points.
“No shit,” Phoenix’s approval is grudging but it’s there. Jake breaks into a broad grin.
“What can I say, I’m very good at what I do,” he preens as he puts the second lot in the oven. Bob takes a cautious little bite, raises his eyebrows a touch and nods silently to himself. It almost feels as good as Phoenix’s assessment.
“See this is why I don’t like praising you,” Phoenix’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, “I give an inch and you take a mile.”
“I’m not even taking the mile for me. A friend taught me, and I wouldn’t want him being embarrassed by me making subpar food in his name.”
“Daniel, right?” Bradley says.
Everyone stops. Silence, so rare in this rowdy group of individuals, spreads over them like a particularly scratchy flannel sheet. The tick of the clock and the whir of the oven fan echo through the room. Jake wishes he could see what the others’ reactions are but his eyes are glued to Bradley, who’s ears are slowly turning red. The fucker has his eyes fixed on the empanada in his hand. Coward.
“Yep,” Jake snaps, popping the P obnoxiously, “that was the one.” And because Jake is a mature, grown man, he takes that moment to storm out of the kitchen. He has been living in Bradley’s house for six. Fucking. Hours.
And it’s already gone to shit.
* * *
The way Bradley and Jake fall into bed together is both as easy as breathing and painstakingly difficult at the same time. On the one hand, their chemistry is the most electric that Jake has ever felt. And he flies planes upside down. Regularly. Their bodies seem to know each other before their minds can catch up. Jake doesn’t know the name of Bradley’s old high school, or why he’s four years older than everyone in their cohort, but he instinctively knows all the right buttons to push with his body. And Bradley gives as good as he gets. With Daniel, everything had been new and hesitant. It’d taken practice for them to learn each other inside and out. What they liked, what they needed. This is entirely different. Sometimes, they’re so in sync it feels like they share a heartbeat. They seem to know exactly who needs to take the lead when they come together. Bradley likes it slow and teasing. He takes his time and is toe-curlingly methodical in everything he does. Everything is designed to push Jake as close to the edge as he can and keep him there as long as possible until he’s a sweaty, begging mess. Bradley likes it best when Jake’s vocabulary is reduced to ‘please’, ‘more’ and ‘Bradley’. Jake doesn’t know if the other man’s stamina is because he’s older or if it’s just something inherent to him. He wouldn’t be surprised either way.
If they’re on a time limit, then they’re playing Jake’s way. His way is fast, and hard enough that they leave marks on each other. Fingerprints on hips and nails running down backs. He likes the heat of it, the inescapable rightness of it, when they come together completely and fully. He likes pinning Bradley beneath him and riding him until they’re both breathless. He likes the way Bradley talks to him, riles him up with dirty words and promises. The best is that he knows that the promises aren’t empty, because Bradley saves them all for the next time. His memory is eidetic. They push and pull and switch. He keeps waiting for it to get stale and routine but somehow, it just doesn’t.
The difficult bit is everything else. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell had been repealed before either of them had started serving, but that doesn’t change a whole bunch. Despite the shiny new diversity posters, it’s not exactly a welcoming environment. Between being a military base, and the middle of Texas, two men fucking is something that happens very, very quietly and not even half as often as Jake would like. At first, they’re very good about it all. Javy and Marco have their weekly catch ups at their tacky bar, Bradley and Jake get it down to a science. They have just under three hours usually. Four if there’s a live gig playing. It takes Javy nearly three full months to figure out there’s something going on between them. He tells Jake he doesn’t care who he sleeps with, as long as Javy never has to see it or hear it. Once Javy knows, they loosen up a bit. They don’t flinch if people see them walking together around base. Sometimes Bradley will even come over before Javy goes out to meet Marco. It’s rare and they’re disgustingly well-behaved while Javy is around. Bradley won’t even sit on the same couch as him until Javy’s left the room. It only hurts a little bit. Besides, sneaking around is all Jake’s known before, so it doesn’t make sense that he expected things to be different this time.
Slowly, Bradley offers little pieces of himself to Jake while they lay basking in the afterglow. He learns that Bradley is every Californian stereotype come to life. That he’s been surfing since he was a kid and he was a bit of a stoner through high school, but he never got caught. He learns that Bradley is an orphan, he was raised by his godparents but they don’t speak anymore. He learns that Bradley enlisted once he finished his college degree in aeronautical engineering. That he didn’t know he was queer until he got to college. He describes himself as an equal opportunity kind of guy if people ask about his sexuality because when he says bisexual, people tell him he’s just gay and confused which he hates. Jake feels warm and proud when Bradley tells him he’s only ever had one night stands with guys before, it’s never been a regular thing.
In return, Jake tells him that he understands not having a dad, because Jake doesn’t either anymore. Bradley is the first person that Jake ever tells about Daniel. About how they were friends and then they were more. About how much it meant to him that Daniel’s mom loved him, because his own mother was absent at the best of times. Daniel was the first person that Jake didn’t feel like he needed to be perfect for. Just being Jake was enough.
He tells him about the night that ruined his life. His tongue fumbles to find the right words when he describes getting caught with Daniel by his father. He’s never had to describe it outloud before and the words hurt as much as the memories. Fag, his dad had called him. Diseased. He’d told him to get out of their home because his younger brothers weren’t safe with someone like him in the house. His father had allowed him half an hour to pack and tossed him into the street. His mother had said nothing, like a good Southern housewife. His hands shake as he recounts the tense weekend spent at Daniel’s. He wasn’t fluent in Spanish back then, but he’d been able to understand enough to know that Daniel’s mom absolutely could not afford for Jake to stay. How much it tore her up to tell Daniel that Jake needed to leave. So he’d enlisted. Not for the glory or for duty, but for a roof over his head. He’d used it as a clean break.
Bradley holds Jake in his arms and tells him all sorts of sweet things. That Jake didn’t deserve that. He’s so strong, and brave to have gotten through everything. He’s done so well with himself. His dad doesn’t deserve to have someone as great as Jake in his life. Jake doesn’t believe the things Bradley says but they are nice to hear. They talk about nicer things, too. It’s not all doom and gloom. The one thing Bradley never talks about though, is the fact that they’ve been sleeping together exclusively for the better part of a year but Bradley still calls them friends.
* * *
When Jake gets back from his run, Bradley is in the kitchen alone. He startles when Jake pushes the door open. His face shifts from surprised to guilty in a flash. Jake crosses his arms across his chest, ignoring the disgusting way his tank sticks to his sweaty skin.
“Hangman, come out back!” Fanboy’s voice carries through the open back door. Jake stalks through the house, deliberately keeping his eyes forward and away from Bradley. Maybe Jake will let him apologise later. But not before he sweats a bit.
Jake steps out onto a little patio, gaze sweeping across the backyard. There’s a bricked area running up the left side of the property down to an old tin shed in the back corner. A couple of old sofas sit around a brick firepit that he’s sure they’ll make use of. On the right there’s a decent-sized square pool where everyone seems to have congregated. With one extra. Maverick is sitting next to Bob on the upper step of the pool. He’s got his customary aviators on, wearing a faded black t-shirt and khakis he’s got rolled up to his knees. He sends a wave Jake’s way, encouraging him to join the four of them.
“Bob won’t come in and the pool is too big for just Phoenix and me,” Fanboy hollers from the pool. As Jake drifts across the yard to the others, he’s suddenly overwhelmed. He almost feels like he should apologise, despite the fact he’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything wrong. Technically. Something must slip through and show on his face because Bob gently pats the empty spot on his right and smiles up at him.
“Whatever history you’ve got with Bradshaw, we won’t bug you about it,” he says. Jake believes him. The others though, are a different story.
“Since when has anyone on this team been able to stand not knowing gossip,” he sighs, sitting himself down on the hot bricks.
“It’s not exactly hot gossip though,” Fanboy shrugs, “So Rooster knows some guy you went to high school with, big whoop,” he spins around in the water until he’s facing Phoenix again, “what was your best friend’s name in high school?”
“I’m only telling you because it is not one of my bank security questions,” Phoenix says, “Her name was Misha. Bob?”
“Hannah.”
“My buddy was Christian,” Fanboy says, then he points at Maverick, “You?” The smile across the old man’s face shrinks a little and he rubs his hand over his thighs.
“My best friend was Goose. Nick.” Jake tenses beside Bob. Bradley’s dad.
“There, now we’re all on the same playing field again. No stress, right?” Fanboy’s gaze is loaded, like he’s testing to see if Jake will stay pissed. Jake shrugs it off.
“Well I’m gonna try to hack into all your banks now so I’d be a little stressed if I were you,” Jake jokes, “Except Phoenix, of course.” She rolls her eyes at him.
“Too much of a gentleman, I’m sure.”
“Exactly,” he grins. Fanboy starts up a splash war against Phoenix. The three on the steps are mercifully just out of the firing range.
“We left Rooster solo for lunch clean-up to tell him off,” Bob says quietly, “We put aside some empanadas for you, if you wanted them later.” Jake is touched. He reaches out and grabs Bob’s shoulder. The squeeze he gives it is light.
“Thanks, Bobby,” is all he can manage. The silence stretches out between the three men. It’s an awkward tension between them, somehow total strangers and not. This is the most fucked up thing about missions like the one they flew together. Afterwards, they’re all left with this weird, desperate feeling to keep close to each other despite not having a clue how to talk to each other outside mission parameters. Maverick is a living legend, but he’s also just a guy sitting around with his feet in a pool. Jake knows nothing about the man personally but he also knows that he trusts Maverick implicitly with his life. How do you make small talk with someone like that?
“We still on for jousting?” Rooster’s voice comes from behind them.
“Shit yeah,” Fanboy shouts, “me and Rooster versus Hangman and Phoenix.”
“Well Bob, I think the splash zone just tripled in size. Do you want to grab some chairs?” Maverick says, hauling himself up with a groan. Bob nods and the two of them make their way over to the patio, out of the piercing mid-afternoon sun. Jake figures that his gym shorts will dry fast enough so he wades straight into the water.
“You reckon you can get me up on your shoulders Phoenix?” Jake asks her, pulling his sweaty tank up and over his head, throwing it haphazardly onto the lawn.
“I’d probably snap my neck under your fat ass,” she grumbles but accepts the hand he offers to climb up on his back and onto his shoulders. Her legs are strong around his ears and she gets her balance quickly. Bradley comes back with two sun-faded pool noodles. He passes the blue one up to Phoenix with a grin.
“Being seven foot suits you,” he laughs.
“It has its perks. Who’s coming up to join me?” Fanboy starts climbing up on Bradley’s shoulders before she can even finish her question. Bradley just sighs and passes up the yellow pool noodle.
“Alright, the rules of engagement are,” Maverick calls, “Horses, keep your hands on your riders. No shoving your opponents.”
“Horses?” Jake scoffs.
“Us, the noble steeds,” Bradley says with a smile. His hands go up to settle on Fanboy’s knees and Jake does the same to Phoenix.
“If your hands move up, I decapitate you with my thighs,” Phoenix warns.
“Mmm, sexy way to go, though,” Jake purrs. Bradley’s laugh is loud and full-bellied. A grin threatens to show itself at the corner of Jake’s mouth.
“Please avoid hitting each other in the head because I really don’t want to go to ER,” Bob adds. Jake makes his way to one side of the pool, Bradley and Fanboy taking the other.
“On your marks,” Maverick shouts once both of their backs are against the wall, “Get set. Go!”
“Onward!” Fanboy yells as Bradley and Jake charge forward. Despite being the top pilots the Navy have to offer, both Phoenix and Fanboy manage to miss each other with their noodles on the first run. What starts off as jousting quickly degenerates into Fanboy and Phoenix slapping each other and whipping up water with the noodles.
“No, you can’t duck! It’s kill or be killed,” Fanboy screams as Bradley tries to dodge the sweep of Phoenix’s pool noodle.
“Cowards!” Phoenix cries. It’s barely a few sentences of smack talk before they’re both switching to Spanish, spewing horrendous insults at each other and Jake can barely stay up straight from how hard he’s laughing. Between Phoenix’s flailing legs, Jake looks up and makes eye contact with Bradley. He’s grinning, water dripping down his face and beading in his stupid moustache. Jake’s heart somersaults in his chest. He can’t hold it back this time. He smiles back.
* * *
Jake joined the Navy because he didn’t have a lot of options, but he quickly finds that he’s suited pretty damn well to it. When he was younger, his mother had sighed at him and said that Jake’s competitive nature was his ‘cross to bear’, but in flight school his teachers do whatever they can to encourage it. Within weeks he goes from fairly confident to downright cocky. Praise is hard to come by in the military but Jake manages to draw it out of each one of his instructors. Just once, Jake catches himself thinking that Daniel would think he was an asshole if they met now. But he shoves the guilt into a bag with his civvies and leaves it under his bed. His uniform feels like slipping into a character. Jake, the closeted kid who was terrified of his own father, gets left behind. In his place rises Hangman, the highest scoring ensign Corpus Christi has seen in a decade. He has nothing left of his old life so he gives everything that he has to this new one. He’s ruthless and talented, and more perceptive than he lets on. Six months in, he can look at the other cadets and tell which ones have families to go home to just by the way they fly. People like him, who don’t have anyone left, fly like nothing is holding them to the Earth. There’s a fine line between them and the straight up suicidal kids. Those ones are all in rotary wing. Not even Jake is crazy enough to want to fly a helicopter through a warzone. He’s not even halfway through basic before his teachers are pulling him aside and recommending him for the strike pathway once he’s done. The strike pathway ends up being the first fight that Jake and Bradley have.
In his head, Jake is calling Bradley his boyfriend by this point. He knows they haven’t had the talk yet but still. Jake is nineteen and stupid, and he doesn’t know why someone who’s not his boyfriend would sleep with him for over a year. He’s never just fooled around with guys before. It’s only ever been relationships. It feels close enough to what he had with Daniel that he just assumes that’s what this thing with Bradley is. They stopped using condoms five months ago. By Javy’s rules, that alone means they’re dating. They’re only a few short weeks out from graduation so Jake thinks it’s fair game to talk about what their plans are going to be.
“Have you thought about which path you’re gonna go for next year?” Jake asks. His head is resting on Bradley’s shoulder, leaning back in between the V of the other man’s legs. Their mess is cleaned up and they’re both basking in the loose-limbed closeness. They have thirty minutes before Javy gets back. Jake doesn’t plan on putting his clothes back on for at least another twenty five.
“Strike,” Bradley mumbles against Jake’s hair, “It’s the only one I’m going for.” Jake blinks slowly a couple of times. He knows Bradley is good with planes. He knows them inside and out and his technical knowledge is unmatched amongst their batch of cadets. But flying strike in a fighter-plane isn’t about how well you know your machine. It’s about how you fly. Bradley is a lot of things, but a fighter-pilot is not one of them. His callsign is Rooster, for God’s sake. The obligatory chicken jokes have made themselves known, several times. Strings of numbers run rampant through Jake’s head. The fatality percentages they’d been given in class suddenly make him feel sick.
“Why only strike?” Jake licks his lips, his mouth uncomfortably dry. Bradley tenses up behind him. It’s subtle but Jake can feel it on his back. Bradley sucks in a sharp breath of air and lets it go in a slow exhale. The cool air runs a shiver all the way down Jake’s spine.
“Because my dad was a fighter-pilot,” he confesses. Jake is willing to put money on the fact that the only reason Bradley can be this vulnerable is because Jake physically can’t look at his face. The pieces slot together in Jake’s head and he feels panic bubble up inside him, burning away his happy sex glow. It’s not just hot, but caustic, the burn stings his insides like bleach.
“So? Why do you have to be the same as him?” he asks. The question should be neutral but his voice comes out sharp. Bradley goes as still as a statue beneath him and Jake can feel the shift in the air. Jake sits upright. All of a sudden, the only point touching between them is Bradley’s knees around Jake’s hips. It’s mostly in his head but Jake swears he feels the bone dig in.
“Why are you talking to me like that?” Bradley snaps.
“I’m not talking to you like anything,” Jake huffs, “I’m just saying you shouldn’t have to do something just because your dad did it.”
“I don’t have to do it. I want to do it.”
“How come you don’t fly like it, then?” Jake regrets the words the second they come out of his mouth. He can’t take them back though. As much as Bradley doesn’t want to hear them, they’re true.
“Fuck this.” Bradley fully pushes away from him then, picking his underwear up off the floor and sliding them up his legs. The bed Jake’s sitting on suddenly feels very big. He grabs his own underwear, feeling self-conscious about his nudity in front of Bradley for the first time.
“I didn’t mean it like-”
“Yeah, you did. I don’t fly like Hangman—” Jake flinches at the venom Bradley puts into his callsign “—so I can’t fly strike, that’s it? You’re just that much better than all the rest of us?” The sarcasm dripping from his words flips Jake from defence to offence. He gets up on his feet, refusing to be smaller than Bradley.
“This isn’t about the fact that I’m a better pilot than you,” Jake snaps, “This is about the fact you’re barely justifying wanting to fly a plane that’s gonna kill you.”
“Sorry you can’t understand wanting to do something for your dad just because yours is a piece of shit.” Jake recoils physically like he’s been slapped.
“What the fuck-”
“You can insult my dead dad but I can’t talk about yours?”
“What are we even talking about right now,” Jake’s laugh is borderline hysterical and he chooses to blame it for the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, “All I wanted to do is talk about the fucking pathways next year.”
“And why would you get a say in what path I pick?” Jake’s been keeping it inside for months so he can’t help that the words tumble out of his mouth in one breath—
“Because you’re my boyfriend?” Bradley’s arms cross against his chest and he cocks his head to the side. There’s a beat of silence. Jake feels sick to his stomach. His heart has been thundering in his ears but now everything is still, quiet.
“Why would you think that?” The words are spoken softly but they hurt more than anything Bradley’s said this far. They pierce Jake in a way that feels physical, and he crosses his arms over the spot that he feels is bleeding out.
“What do you mean why would I think that, why wouldn’t I think that?”
“This was sex.” Was. Bradley’s face is blank in a way Jake’s never seen it before. Jake feels the world fall out from under his feet. He wants to say something but everything is going a million miles an hour in his head and he can barely separate one thought from the next.
“I think I should leave,” Bradley says, voice cool and even. No. Jake wants to say it so badly but there’s an invisible pressure on his throat and he can’t breathe. His vision swims with tears and all he can see are his own shaking hands. Bradley dresses himself with brutal, military efficiency and strides out of the room.
For the second time in his life, Jake hears the cold, final snap of a door shutting him away from someone he loves.
* * *
After dicking around in the pool for a few hours, Mav seems satisfied enough that they won’t kill each other so he leaves them without adult supervision. They’re all pretty worn out so after takeout and a few beers, they’re all in bed fairly early. Jake barely has the energy to change the sheets to less dusty ones. Despite the exhaustion of the day, both emotional and physical, Jake’s brain decides that he doesn’t need sleep tonight. He wakes in the middle of the night with a jolt. Where just seconds before he’d been watching Mav and Bradley’s plane light up in a ball of flame, there’s only the darkness of his little room. His eyes strain with the adjustment and everything spins. His heart thunders in his ears as he sinks his head into his hands. He counts his breaths until they go back to being slow and even. The worst part about the nightmares is that once Jake is awake, he’s awake. He’s not like Javy, who can just turn back over and go back to sleep. Resigned, he groans and gets himself up to head to the kitchen for water. His throat is dry as a bone. On the landing, soft noises from Bradley and Phoenix’s room make him pause. There’s a gentle hiccup and then the muffled timbre of Bradley’s voice. It’s low and soothing, the purpose of it clear as the sound of Phoenix’s sobs seeps under the door. Jake can’t even find it in himself to be jealous. If anyone asks, he’ll blame it on exhaustion rather than sympathy.
He makes his steps as soft as possible as he descends to the ground floor. Someone’s left a light on downstairs which makes it easy to navigate the staircase. When Jake gets to the bottom, he can see Bob sitting at the kitchen bench with a book in his hands. The clock behind him shines in the low light. 3:54. He sighs. Bob turns his head at the sound and offers Jake a tired smile. As Jake pads over to the kitchen, he can see Bob’s scratching away at a little book of sudoku. He’s more than half way through. Jake wonders how many nights he’s stayed up doing little number puzzles to keep him away from the nightmares. He fills himself a glass from the sink and downs it in one. Filling it back up for good measure, he leans on the island across from Bob.
“Have you slept at all tonight?” he whispers. Bob gives him another small smile and shakes his head.
“I know when it’s going to be a bad night, so I don’t even bother,” Bob’s low voice always seems a touch too soft during the day, but it fits in perfectly with the quiet atmosphere in the kitchen. Anything louder and it feels like everything will break.
“How many puzzles have you done tonight?” Bob flashes him an honest-to-god smirk at that.
“Finished the last book around two-ish.”
“Shit,” Jake’s eyebrows climb up his forehead, impressed.
After a beat, Bob sets the book down in the middle of the island on its side. He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head to the side to match and keeps working the puzzle. Jake lets his tired eyes roam across the neat squares. They fall into a rhythm together. Bob uses a mechanical pencil and never once reaches for his eraser. Jake occasionally points out where a number might go. His success rate is not impressive. Bob gets five for every one Jake gets. Bob doesn’t say a word until they’ve graduated from the ‘medium’ intensity to the ‘hard’ ones.
“This is nice.” Jake just hums his assent.
“I almost went to stay with my twin sister after the mission, instead,” Jake looks up from the puzzle, but Bob’s eyes stay on his book, “it’s not like this at her place though. She’s a nurse so she’s up all hours of the night. She gets so upset when she comes home from night shifts and sees that I haven’t slept. She never says it but I can tell she feels like she should be able to settle me.” Jake snorts at that.
“Exactly,” Bob sighs, “the nightmares don’t have anything to do with how comfortable I am, they just happen. So it’s nice. Being here. With people that get it.”
“Yeah,” Jake’s voice is croaky with disuse, “it is.”
“Even though all of you are way too high energy for me to be around all day, I think this was the right decision. To stay together.”
The events of the day flicker through Jake’s head. Despite the rocky start and the subsequent embarrassment, the feeling that sticks out the most is how he felt at dinner. The five of them had sat around the firepit with takeout Chinese containers, reeking of chlorine as the sun set. It’d felt a little like when they’d played football on the beach. Like pieces of a whole slotting together.
“I think so, too,” Jake says and he means it.