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There’s five of them sprawled untidily in the ready room, waiting on their assignments.
Nervous energy runs tight through the room, but Bradley is oddly calm. Maybe it’s that he feels a little less like he’s got something to prove, right now, and any assignment feels good. More likely it’s something to do with the fact that Mav’s poker face seems particularly weak when it comes to Bradley, and his questions about whether he’d think about opening up his Mom’s old house if he ever happened to be based back in San Diego weren’t exactly subtle.
Jake arrives late and breathless, looking harassed. He sinks into the nearest seat, back row, then glances down and curses under his breath. For a moment, he closes his fingers around his wrist, fist clenched in frustration.
He glances back at the door, then up at the clock. Slumps when he realizes he doesn’t have time to make it back to the locker room and find his forgotten watch.
Bradley watches him, amused by the way such a simple thing seems to rattle Jake, but not unsympathetic.
There’s thunderclouds gathering on Jake’s brow, and Bradley hates to think of Jake having one of those mornings—a dozen little annoyances all stacking up, none of them enough to ruin a day on their own but more than capable of a vicious team-up.
He pushes himself up from his own seat, drops down next to Jake, fingers already working at his wrist.
Jake looks at him, brows furrowed, when Bradley holds his watch out.
“Just take it,” Bradley says, firmly. “You can give it back later.”
Jake’s fingers brush against his when he finally gives in and accepts it, jaw still tense but the faintest hint of a smile deepening the dimple in one cheek. He fastens the watch at his wrist, shakes it out. Finally relaxes enough to lean back. Presses one knee against Bradley’s.
The touch is warm and solid and too-brief as the door knocks open to admit Cyclone and Warlock, and they spring to their feet.
July is always a little somber.
His mom died on July 12th, and his dad on July 29th. Two weeks and fourteen years apart.
Bradley thinks, selfishly, like he always does, that it would be easier if his mom had died a little sooner or held out a little longer. If there was only a few days between one grief and another, he’d be able to bear it. If there were months, he’d be able to recover from one before sinking into the next. But two weeks is too long and too short all at once, and every year he spends them feeling like he can’t quite fill his lungs with the air he needs.
The old and well-worn hurts shouldn’t affect him this badly, but letting Maverick back into his life has opened more wounds than one.
July crawls by, sharp teeth and hot breath, and Bradley crawls after it. He flies on muscle memory alone, gives seminars by rote. He salutes when he needs to and smiles when he remembers, and hopes it doesn’t look like the expression is hanging in front of his face like a mask, detached, because that’s sure how it feels.
He’s working through lunch, because something’s got to give and that something seems to be his paperwork. His office is warm, the modest gap of the window admitting the smell of jet fuel and no breeze at all. It’s hard to keep his focus on the words in front of him, to keep track of which Top Gun student he’s even reporting on.
When someone pushes open his door—without knocking—the hot air shifts around the room like it’s making space.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Jake grunts, and instead of closing the door behind him, he shoves the stop under it with his foot. “Still not sure who you pissed off to deserve getting stuck in here.”
“At least I’m safe from the nepotism claims,” Bradley says. A beat too late, he tacks a weary grin onto the end of the joke.
Jake watches him. Bradley doesn’t feel all that inclined to play it up; the smile fades quickly.
“You eat?” Jake asks, eventually.
“Not yet.” Bradley grimaces, gestures at the mess of his desk. “I’m behind.”
Jake hums his acknowledgement, then seems to make a decision. He nods once, pulls the second chair up to Bradley’s desk, and settles himself down, plucking paper from the pile and running his gaze over it. Bradley stares at him.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
Jake looks at him like he’s just said something particularly stupid. “I know.”
It stings his pride, but Bradley’s in no place to be turning down the help. He turns back to his own report, pulling something up on his computer before he begins filling in boxes. For North Island, this is what passes for quiet: the roar of jets taking off and boots on linoleum and the scratch of pens against paper.
Beneath the table, he knocks his foot against Jake’s. Jake doesn’t look up, but his leg shifts, just a little, warm calf against warm calf.
It’s Bradley’s turn to go to Jake's tonight.
Which is to say, they’ve fallen into a pattern that neither of them seem inclined to break, trading off dinners and shitty reality TV, and occasionally beds when the ten minute drive home seems insurmountable.
There’s no plans, no invitations—just the comfortable familiarity of turning up outside each other’s doors, knowing they’re welcome.
Bradley knocks. He doesn’t hear what’s shouted through the door, but he takes a good guess and lets himself in. Sure enough, Jake’s in the kitchen, fully occupied with the makings of a stir fry.
Bradley toes off his shoes and wanders in, pulls himself up onto the counter to watch Jake work.
“Your watch,” Jake says, gesturing with a spatula to where Bradley’s watch is sitting with Jake’s keys and a handful of spare change at the end of the counter, the detritus of emptied pockets at the end of the day.
“Thanks,” Bradley says, and makes no move to take it.
Another little ritual. It’s been three weeks, now. Jake’s own watch has yet to make an appearance, and Bradley’s wrist stays bare, the tan line that marks where it had once sat becoming a little less clear week by week. Every time he’s here, Jake offers it back. Every time, Bradley leaves without it, and the next day it’s on Jake’s wrist again, nestled up against the constancy of his pulse.
They eat on the couch, TV turned down low, elbows brushing occasionally. Bradley lets Jake rummage around in his noodles with his fork when he complains that Bradley’s plate ended up with all the broccoli, and washes up when they’re done.
He pushes still-wet fingers against Jake’s neck over the back of the couch, and laughs at the way Jake’s face scrunches up as he tries to slide down the cushions away from the touch.
“I should take off,” Bradley says.
“Not staying?” Jake asks, scrubbing his sleeve over his neck, fingers lingering there long after it must be dry.
“Not tonight.”
“Get home safe.”
“I’m gonna get home dangerously.”
“Fuck off.”
“Perilously, even.”
Jake shoves him in the stomach, and Bradley stumbles back, still laughing when he reaches the door.
The Hard Deck isn’t their turf anymore.
Each fresh new batch of pilots that sweeps through Top Gun holds court around the pool tables and the dart boards, spilling through the bar with an arrogance that has tourists moving out of the way by default.
It’s embarrassing, to think that had been them, not so long ago, and without even the excuse of being so young and desperate to prove themselves for the first time.
Still, they slip in from time to time, and do their best not to frighten off their students, tucking themselves away in a corner and keeping themselves pretty much to themselves. Mav joins them, sometimes, when Penny gets sick of him and shoos him off from the bar.
Every time, he gives Bradley a searching look before he sits down, like he’s checking he’s still welcome.
Tonight, it’s more crowded than usual and Mav is nowhere in sight. They squeeze up against the bar and aren’t bothered that it takes them ten minutes to get served, patient in the knowledge the evening is young and they’re not—or at least, not young enough to be knocking back endless shots on a work night. One drink, maybe two, then they’ll head out.
Sweating bottles in hand, they shoulder through the crowd in search of a space of their own. As they go, Bradley’s foot catches on someone’s bag, only half-tucked beneath a stool, and he almost stumbles. Jake’s hand comes up to steady him, pressing in at his hip—Bradley’s head half-turns, but over the music and the crowd any words will be lost, so he presses his fingers briefly over Jake’s. Thanks, I’m all good.
Maybe Jake doesn’t understand, because instead of pulling away, his hand settles more firmly and his body moves a little closer to Bradley’s, close as his shadow as they move through the press of the crowd.
When Bradley wakes, it’s slowly.
The fading edges of some dream, nonsensical, catch on his consciousness, leaving little tendrils of confusion in their wake. A heavy breath spills over his lips, hot against the arm tucked under his face. He pushes his heels down, stretches his spine without shifting from the warmth of his spot.
It takes a moment or two for memory to slink in. He twists, still slow-blinking sleep from his eyes, and his breath catches a little to see Jake’s face, half hidden in the pillow, smooth and unlined.
There’s a careful six inches between them, maintained even through the night.
Bradley rolls over, settles so that he’s facing Jake properly, and lets his gaze meander its way across the sleep-soft lines of him—the splay of his lashes against his cheek, the bridge of his nose, the way his hair is fluffed up and messy.
He lifts the covers, just a little, to peek underneath, and yeah: Jake’s still just as shirtless as when he slipped in between the covers last night, a little defiant like he was still expecting Bradley to kick him out.
“Creep,” Jake mumbles, and Bradley’s head snaps up, his cheeks flushing.
“What the hell,” Bradley says, startled. His voice is low and rough-edged, as slow to wake as the rest of him.
Jake’s eyes flick open, and Bradley can’t tell if he’s imagining the little shiver that seems to accompany them. Bradley licks his lips, nervously, and sinks his face beneath the covers until only his eyes are visible, watching Jake watch him between heavy blinks.
“Hi,” Jake says, eventually, and his words are a little slow, syrupy. “What time is it?”
“Early,” Bradley says, the thin sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains like a sundial he’s long-since learned to read. Probably only just past five. “Go back to sleep.”
Jake huffs, buries his face further into the pillow for a moment, and Bradley shifts onto his back, still embarrassed to have been caught looking. His ceiling is just as ordinary as it’s always been, but he stares at it anyway, watching the play of shadows dancing across the white paint, a puppet show of nonsense shapes.
He’s never been good at settling back into sleep once he’s awake, but there’s something restful about Jake’s steady breathing by his side that lulls him back towards the hazy pliability of an almost-nap.
Jake shifts beside him, then freezes. Bradley opens one eye, turns to look. Finds Jake just a little closer than he’d been before, eyes open to lazy, narrow slits and brows tilted just a little with uncertainty.
“Can I—” he asks.
Bradley doesn’t wait for him to finish.
“Yes,” he says, simply, and when Jake tucks against his side, under his arm, Bradley’s fingers fit against his ribs like they’re coming home.