Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

NOVEMBER 2008

Bradley isn’t planning on going out at all that night, which only makes things even more annoying when they go down. 

It’s Friday, which means he doesn’t get out of class until it’s almost 6 PM. Whoever decided that Russian Political Thought should only be offered in the 4:15-5:50 slot can go to hell as far as he’s concerned. The professor is nice and the class is pretty interesting, but having to sit through it three days a week when his stomach is always growling by the end of it is unenjoyable to say the least. Unfortunately, he needs to take it to fulfill his stupid degree requirements and the professor only teaches it in the fall semester.

That’s what he gets for choosing Political Science as his major. Maybe he should have just gone with Business like half the other guys he played baseball with in high school. 

Or maybe he shouldn’t have come here at all. Thinking about anything money related hurts his head about as much as having to sit through almost two hours of lecturing about Soviet revolutions and Stalin does, and thinking about how skeptical his mother would probably be over his choices–

Well, he tries not to think about that at all. 

Class thankfully gets out on time for once. Professor Strickland only holds them back a minute to remind them that the drafts for their final papers are due next week, but Bradley isn’t too worried about that. He’s got most of it done and plenty of time to finish the rest. 

As usual, his stomach started rumbling right around the time the clock hit the 5:30 mark. Bradley’s thoughts as he begins sliding his notebook back into his bag are mostly consumed by the debate of whether he should go back to his dorm and cook or head to the quad and splurge on something from the campus deli. 

He’s been pretty responsible in his spending this week, only shelling out cash for coffee on the two nights he spent cramming in the library for his Constitutional Law exam. A sub sounds a lot more appealing than ramen cooked on a hot plate does. As an RA, it’s probably a little hypocritical that he has one of those hidden away, but it had been cheaper than buying a microwave. 

He’s still weighing his options when he’s tapped on the shoulder from behind. He turns, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack, and smiles when he sees who it is. “Hey, Grace.”

The Poli Sci department at UVA isn’t particularly large. Not everyone knows everyone in it, but most of the people in his classes are people he’s had classes with before. Grace has had at least one class with him for the last three semesters and they’ve studied with each other enough to be considered friendly. 

Still, most of their interactions are limited to walking around campus together or going over notes in one of the library’s study rooms, which makes the question she poses come as a bit of a surprise. 

“You free later tonight?”

Bradley blinks. “What?”

“Are you free later tonight?” Grace repeats, stepping to the side so she isn’t walked into by the student that passes by them with their nose still buried in their notebook. 

“Uh.” Bradley would like to think he’s usually more eloquent than this, but the question feels like it needs to be handled delicately, at least until he figures out why she’s asking. They’re friendly, but not really all that close . He doesn’t think he’s ever done anything to give her the wrong idea, but she might not know about his… preferences. “Free to do what?”

“Go out.” Eloquent or not, Bradley knows he’s never been all that great at controlling his expressions. His panic must be written across his face, because Grace rolls her eyes. “To a bar, Bradley. As friends. With friends.”

Oh. His shoulders relax slightly and he follows Grace towards the staircase that’ll lead them down to the first floor. The elevator in this building hasn’t worked in years. “What friends?”

“Jamie, Zach, Serena, and Hunter,” she lists. “Maybe Hayden if she manages to finish bullshitting her way through Thompson’s paper. So, can I count you in? Zach’s car fits five and Hayden would be riding with Jamie anyways.”

Bradley knows all of the people she’s just mentioned. Jamie and Hayden are roommates and Zach and Hunter are in the same frat. They’re all in the Poli Sci department for major or minor, which he assumes is why he’s being invited. “I don’t know,” he still says. “It might not be a good–”

“Come on,” Grace groans. “I know you’re not going to lie to me about having too much homework. It’s the weekend! And you told me like two days ago that you’ve only got exams and papers left.”

“Maybe I need to study some more,” he counters, laughing when she rolls her eyes at him again. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the invite, but…”

“If Hayden doesn’t come I’m going to be stuck fifth wheeling with the others. Serena and Hunter think I don’t know they’re hooking up, but they suck at being subtle. Besides.” Grace shoves him lightly in the shoulder. “You’ve never come out drinking with me before.”

“I don’t go out drinking with that many people in general.” That’s the truth– not just because he needs to stay on top of his work to keep his scholarship, but also because alcohol gets expensive. 

“The semester is almost over. We should go out at least once.” They reach the first floor and Grace stops him before he can head for the exit. “Please?”

“I haven’t eaten dinner.”

Grace shoots down the last of his excuses with ease. “We can grab something before we leave. We aren’t leaving until 7:30 anyways.”

He sighs and glances to the side before shaking his head. What the hell? She’s right. The semester is almost up and her offer might end up being fun. “Alright. I’m in.”

He can give up on being Mr. Responsible for one night without disaster striking, right? 

-

Wrong. 

Okay, maybe wrong is an exaggeration. The night isn’t a disaster just yet, but he’s beginning to remember why he doesn’t go out very often. He’s also realizing why he hasn’t really hung out with Hunter and Zach before either.

Hunter isn’t that bad. Grace is definitely right about him and Serena sucking at concealing the fact that they’re definitely more than just friends, but he’s a pretty nice guy when he’s not busy giving Serena googly-eyes and disappearing off into dark corners with her. 

It’s Zach that’s getting on his nerves. They’ve only had one class together before– Intro to American Government freshman fall semester–  but he apparently feels comfortable enough with Bradley to call him Brad. 

No one calls Bradley that. Not even his mother or Maverick. Mostly because he hates it. Brad has always sounded too douchey for his liking, but that’s probably why Zach likes the name so much. He’s like every frat boy stereotype sprung to life. 

Bradley just hopes that doesn't extend to how he feels about gay guys. Zach being annoying he can handle, even if it's with a grimace, but he really doesn’t feel like having to deal with some asshole making a huge deal about who Bradley likes going to bed with. 

Not that he has that many options for that lurking around this bar. Bradley would be pretty surprised if he could find even one other guy that’s into guys floating around this place, but he didn’t come out to hook up with someone anyways. He came out to have fun with his friend.

Despite Zach’s insistence upon sticking to the nickname, Bradley would say he’s having a decent time with Grace. Every time Hunter and Serena have wandered off together they’ve made a face at each other. Grace seems to have turned it into a drinking game, downing a shot every time it happens and encouraging Bradley to do the same. 

It’s been over an hour since they got here and he’s pleasantly tipsy at this point. The irritation brought on by Zach’s drunken rambling is smoothed over by the buzz he’s got going on. 

Grace still must pick up on the fact that Bradley doesn’t like him all that much, because she waits until Zach has gotten up to stumble over to the bathroom to lean over towards him. 

It’s loud enough in the room for her to have to raise her voice. “Hey, Brad!”

Bradley gives her an unimpressed look for the mocking of Zach’s voice, but leans in as well. “What?”

She tips her head in the direction of the bar. “You see that group of guys over there?”

“Yeah?” He tries to keep his glance subtle, but with the number of drinks he’s had, it’s hard to tell if it works. It’s not hard to figure out which group of guys she’s talking about. They’re all huddled at the same stretch of the bar, passing out beers to each other, and based off of the matching shades of orange they’re wearing, he’d guess they’re in town for the football game this weekend. 

“I can’t tell if the one in the hoodie is checking you or me out. Think it might be you, though.”

It’s not hard to spot which guy she’s talking about either. Only one of them is wearing a hoodie— not to mention the fact he looks over his shoulder in the direction of their table not two seconds after Grace has pointed him out. Bradley tears his gaze away before they can make eye contact and Grace stifles a laugh that he glares at her for. 

“It’s not that funny,” he complains when she continues giggling even after Hoodie Guy has turned back around. 

“If you could see your face, it kinda is. But I’m not joking about him checking you out. He’s looked over here, like, ten times in the past half hour.” She taps her nail on the edge of her glass. “You should go talk to him.”

Bradley just barely resists the urge to pout. He’s not drunk enough for that yet. “If he’s so interested, he can come talk to me.”

“Ten bucks says he’ll do it before Serena and Hunter come back.”

He scowls. “I’m not making bets about my own love life.”

“Love? ” Grace wiggles her eyebrows. “You haven’t even admitted you think he’s cute yet. Love is a pretty big jump from that, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t gotten close enough to see if he’s cute. For all I know, he could be hideous.”

“With shoulders as wide as that, I think you could stand to make an exception even if he is.”

“If I’m making an exception because of a body part, it’s not going to be his shoulders,” Bradley says, raising his glass in a mocking toast when Grace practically cackles at the joke. She’s still laughing when Zach comes wandering back over. He’s not alone. 

“Look who finally showed up!”

Hayden waves at them both while Jamie focuses on keeping her drink from spilling as Zach slings an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, guys.”

“You finish Thompson’s paper?” Grace asks. 

“I’ve still got some editing to do, but I’m finished writing it.” Hayden slides into the seat across from Bradley. “Can’t really speak to what grade it’s gonna get, though.”

“Thompson’s exams are hard, but he’s a pretty lenient grader when it comes to essays and stuff,” Bradley says, smiling when Hayden’s expression lightens at the reassurance. “I had him last year.”

“Thank God. If I had to spend another five seconds thinking about ways to make the difference between presidential and parliamentary systems sound like an interesting topic, I think I might kill myself.”

“You sound like you need a drink.” Grace gives Bradley a smile that’s so innocent it’s suspicious. “We should go up to the bar, don’t you think, Bradley?”

He scoffs and pushes his chair back. “Actually, I think I’m gonna make a run to the restroom. You two can go, though.” Now that he doesn’t have to worry about bumping into Zach, he does actually need to go. It’s not just an excuse. 

Grace’s expression is still accusatory. “Have it your way.”

It’s his turn to smile innocently at her as he scoots around the table. “I’ll be back.”

The crowd is thick, but that’s to be expected on a Friday night, especially during football season. Bradley can’t even remember who they’re playing. He’s always been more into baseball, but he gets a pretty good look at the logo some of the bar attendees are wearing as he’s winding his way towards the bathrooms in the corner. It’s some sort of cow. Longhorns? That’s definitely something southern. Texas, probably. That’s a long way to come just to watch a football game. Takes dedication. 

Bradley’s not that big on school spirit. He chose UVA mostly because of the hefty scholarship they offered and how close to home it was, but that was before everything happened with his mother and with Maverick. He doesn’t really have a home to go back to now. Just the dorm and his Bronco.

He finds it more than a little ironic, how reckless Maverick had accused him of being with his dream of becoming a pilot. He’s Mr. Responsible for a reason. He can’t really afford to be anything else now, can he? He doesn’t have the money or the time.

Bradley relieves himself and spends an extra moment or two at the sink splashing water on his face to wash away how in his head the time alone has gotten him. He doesn’t want to be that sort of drunk. 

Stepping out of the bathroom is such a big change in atmosphere it’s almost jarring. The music has gotten louder now that more people are rolling in and there’s dancing going on. Hopefully the others haven’t gone too far. With how thick the crowd is, it would take forever to find them again. 

Evidently, it’s much less difficult for someone else to find him. 

He has to admit, he’s partially to blame for what happens. He isn’t looking where he’s going as much as he should be, too busy craning his head above the crowd in search of his friends. 

It’s hard to tell who actually walks into who, but if there’s one thing Bradley does soon become certain of, it’s that it isn’t his drink that sloshes all over the front of his shirt when he collides with the person standing in front of him. 

Bradley groans and takes a reflexive step back while the damage is still soaking in. “Fuck.”

The person in front of him seems to share a similar sentiment. “Oh, shit.”

“What the hell, man?” Bradley gingerly pinches the front of his now sopping-wet shirt between two fingers and unsticks it from his chest. 

Great. So much for a carefree night out. 

“You think I just wasted the rest of my drink on purpose?”

Most people wouldn’t, but Bradley does grow slightly suspicious when he looks up to see who the culprit of his current predicament is. 

It’s the guy from up at the bar. The one who had been throwing looks towards their table, only now he’s close enough for Bradley to get a look at a lot more than just the sweatshirt he’s got on— which is very unfairly dry, despite the state of Bradley’s own top. 

Hoodie Guy takes his own step back to survey the splotch his beer had left, and even though it’s a completely reasonable reaction, Bradley wonders if he’s imagining the way his eyes linger on his waist. 

Turns out, Hoodie Guy’s face isn’t half bad to look at. It’s not bad at all. He’s got sharp features and a square jawline that rounds out when he smiles, white teeth and dimples curling around a smooth, Southern drawl. 

“I might say something about wanting an excuse for you to take your clothes off, but my pickup lines are better than that.”

“If that was one of them, I’d have to disagree,” Bradley says, because even though his entire front is growing sticky, he still has some dignity left. 

He sort of expects the attitude to get Hoodie Guy to back off, but all it does is make him laugh. “You go to UVA?”

“Like half the people in this place.”

Hoodie Guy hums and leans in a little. “I’m up here from UT Austin for the football game.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows. Is this guy seriously trying to make conversation right now? “Like the other half of the people in this place.”

“I was gonna ask you to be my tour guide, but you already insulted my pickup lines.” Hoodie Guy sighs, playing up the front of being put out. It's a weird way of flirting. 

Bradley hates that it’s sort of working. “Two strikes,” he says. He pulls a face when he rubs a finger over his neck and it comes back damp. “You throw your drink on all the guys you try and get with?”

Hoodie Guy’s grin widens and he takes a step closer. “Only the really cute ones.”

“I’d be flattered if this wasn’t the only shirt I have to wear,” Bradley deadpans, though his cheeks heat up enough for him to be glad that the darkness conceals any color that rises to them. 

“In that case, let me give you a helping hand before I strike out a third time.”

Bradley isn’t given the chance to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean before a hand is landing on his shoulder to lead him towards a less crowded area. He finds some irony in the fact that they end up going right back to where he’d just come from— the bathrooms. At first, he’s confused as to why he’s just been pushed inside, but Hoodie Guy doesn’t waste much time before he’s giving him an answer. 

The door has barely swung shut behind him before he’s reaching towards the hem of his sweatshirt and tugging up. Bradley’s mouth drops open. The lighting is a lot brighter in the bathrooms. Hoodie Guy looks amused by whatever expression he finds on Bradley’s face as he holds his balled up sweatshirt towards him. 

“Relax.” He winks. It does nothing to make the tension leave Bradley’s shoulders. “I'm just trying to show you chivalry isn’t dead.”

“Right.” Bradley takes the hoodie and eyes the rumpled state of the black t-shirt Hoodie Guy was wearing underneath it. Except he can’t really call him that anymore, can he? “That mean you’ll turn around while I change?”

Texas— Bradley’s newly chosen name for him— gives another over dramatic sigh that’s slightly more endearing now that his hair is sticking up in a million different directions. “If you insist.”

Bradley matches his theatrics with a twirl of his finger. He waits until Texas has turned away to slip out of his shirt and into the sweatshirt. The interior is still warm from the body heat of its original wearer. Bradley’s shiver has nothing to do with the chill that lingers on his skin from the beer.

“You’re good,” he says, tucking the dry half of his soiled shirt into his back pocket walking towards the sink as Texas spins back around to watch him wet a paper towel and use it to wipe at his neck and chest underneath the borrowed hoodie.  

“I’m very good.” 

Bradley snorts. “And so very humble as well.”

“Your friends gonna jump you for wearing the rival’s colors?”

He glances down at the orange logo now emblazoned across his front and then back up as Texas, who he can tell is most definitely checking him out this time. “If they do, it’ll be all your fault.”

Texas’s smile seems to be perpetually lopsided, which is charming despite the noticeable fact that he hasn’t yet apologized for almost ruining Bradley’s night. If anything, he seems to have taken the situation in stride. “They gonna notice if you don’t rejoin them right away?”

“Is there a reason you think I won’t?”

Texas hums and tilts his head to the side, swaying forward like he’s about to tell Bradley a secret. “I could think of a few reasons why.”

Bradley swallows. Fuck, this guy looks even better in bright lighting. The green eyes and tan skin are almost enough to counteract his abrasive flirting tactics. Almost. The thing is, Bradley doesn’t need that to be counteracted because to tell the truth— he kind of likes it. 

He doesn’t even know Texas’s real name, but he doesn’t have to in order to take a step closer and meet him halfway when he leans in to kiss him. 

The inside of his mouth is just as warm as the inside of his sweatshirt. That’s the first thing Bradley notices after he parts his lips to let him slip his tongue inside. The second thing he noticed is that he still tastes like the beer that’d been sloshed all over Bradley’s chest.

The dignity he’d been clinging to when Texas first started flirting with him is a distant thought by the time his back hits the wall of the stall they somehow manage to stumble into without bothering to separate their mouths. The first time they do it’s so Bradley can drag in a few heavy breaths while Texas busies himself attaching his lips to the line of his jaw. 

Bradley closes his eyes and tips his head back until it thunks against the wall. Jesus. He would feel a little more embarrassed by how easily worked up this is getting him, but it’s been a while since he allowed himself the luxury of a night out and even longer since he let it lead to something like this.  

A well-muscled thigh wedges itself between his legs, putting an amount of pressure against the seam of his jeans that makes Bradley’s breath catch. 

“Fuck,” he curses, fingers digging into the muscle of Texas’s back, easily accessible under the thin material of his t-shirt. That gets him an affirming hum vibrating right up against the side of his throat and a hand slipping up under the edge of his hoodie to curl around the bare skin of his side.

His next sound is muffled by Texas leaning back up to catch his mouth in another sloppy kiss that’s followed by a half-thrust and another hand coming up to grip at his hip. Bradley matches the hold by sliding his own hand up to slot through blonde hair, fingers curling as he rolls his hips forward to meet the rhythm of the movements that have already left him aching. 

The rational part of his brain tells him he should be above this— making out with a stranger in a bar bathroom five minutes after meeting him and letting it turn into a dry humping session more reminiscent of figuring out his sexuality as a teenager than how he tends to blow off steam as a legal adult. 

He usually lets the rational part of his brain rule how he behaves, but it’s hard to hold onto that when he's got a good-looking guy in front of him and more than a few drinks in his system. Maybe he’s being stupid and irresponsible, but he’s allowed to let loose for just one night, isn’t he? There’s no one here he has to prove himself to. Just Texas and his sweatshirt. 

Based on what Bradley can feel pressing up against his hip, he’d say he’s more than proven himself to the guy anyways. 

He isn’t intending on letting any sounds escape, but it’s impossible to keep completely quiet when a hand other than his own pushes up against the front of his pants for the first time in months. Texas smiles, teeth sharp against Bradley’s bottom lip. 

“You better be careful before those friends of yours come looking.” He rubs a circle into the skin of Bradley’s hip and palms at him again with his other hand. “What would they think if they found you fraternizing with the enemy?”

“I don’t know what I did to make you think I give a fuck about our football team, but I take it back,” Bradley breathes.

Texas chuckles. “You gonna go back out there after this and tell ‘em I got you all wet?”

“I’m leaning towards staying in here and telling you to shut up.” 

“Few minutes ago you were telling me about how much my pickup lines suck.” The pressure against him increases and Bradley’s back arches into it. “I would say they worked well enough.”

“So the whole Southern Gentleman thing is just a false stereotype, huh?” Bradley shoots back, but it’s hard to keep up the unimpressed facade when he’s fallen back into grinding his hips against the warm body in front of him. 

“Am I not being nice enough to you, sweetheart?” It comes out as a croon and Bradley’s face flashes so hot it burns, but the ache in him also thrums so strong it feels like a second heartbeat. 

“Thought you were gonna show me that chivalry isn’t dead,” he manages to say. 

“Oh, I’m planning on showing you a lot more than that.”

Texas’s hand has just started inching towards the button of his jeans when the bathroom door creaks open. They both freeze at the same time, mouths only an inch apart. 

Bradley closes his eyes and prays to God that it’s not Zach or Hunter who has just walked inside. 

“Yo, J. You in here?”

Bradley’s prayers have been answered, but evidently Texas’s have not. 

He winces and leans back. “Yeah, man.”

Bradley’s eyes go wide. He knows this guy? Texas rolls his eyes, seemingly unfazed by the fact that his friend has just walked in on them. A few steps further and he’ll probably be able to see that there are two pairs of shoes under the stall door. 

If his friend cares, he doesn’t show it, nor does he come any closer. How often does Texas drag people into bar bathrooms to make out? “Mike wants to hit up that other place we talked about. You alright to head out in a bit?”

Texas sighs. It’s the first sign of regret Bradley has seen him express all night. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“We’ll be at the bar.” The door creaks again, and that’s that. They’re alone in the bathroom once more. 

Bradley is half expecting Texas to lean back in and kiss him. Make the most of the few minutes he just asked for, but evidently not even Texas’s ego wants to attempt to wrap things up in such a short amount of time. 

“I gotta go,” he murmurs instead. His hand squeezes at Bradley’s hip. “Don’t suppose there’s a chance I’ll see you at the game?”

“I’m more of a baseball guy,” Bradley says in lieu of an answer. He’s not going to go to the game, but he is a bit disappointed that the promise of more has been cut short. 

“Shame.” Bradley can’t tell if that’s genuinely meant, but if Texas is about to leave, he doesn’t suppose it matters all that much. “Maybe I’ll see you around town. I’m here all weekend.”

Bradley doesn’t have the heart to admit that him going out is a rarity. “Maybe.”

Texas steps back and flashes him with one last crooked grin. “Have a nice rest of your night.” With that, he ducks out of the bathroom stall and leaves Bradley to stand by himself, back still pressed up against the wall as he tries to collect himself. 

That was… an experience. An odd one at that, but obviously not unenjoyable considering how long it takes for him to calm down enough to step out to the sinks. 

It’s only once he catches sight of himself in the mirror that he realizes he’s still wearing Texas’s hoodie. He debates running out after him but decides against it in the end. He doesn’t want to make a scene, the thought of putting on his still beer-soaked shirt is unappealing. 

Besides, if Texas wanted it back, he would have said so. He doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who is shy about going after what he wants. Bradley’s swollen lips are proof enough of that. 

He exits the bathroom, much more careful this time as he cuts into the crowd and makes his way towards the table where Hayden and Grace are still sitting. Both of them raise their eyebrows at him when he approaches, taking in the easily noticeable change in his attire. 

Bradley sighs and tucks his hands into the front pocket. “Please don’t ask.”

Grace gives him a knowing look, clearly having recognized where the sweatshirt must have come from, but she’s kind enough not to interrogate him. Not that Bradley would have many answers. He doesn’t even know the full name of the hoodie’s original owner. Just an initial. 

So what if that’s the only thing he really knows? He probably won’t ever see him again anyways. 

Bradley doesn’t have time to focus on guys he meets in bars. No matter how good of a kisser they might be. He allowed himself this one night out, but he’s going to go back to his responsibilities tomorrow. Relationships are a distraction and he has bigger things to worry about— like his scholarship. His living situation. The road to becoming a pilot. Green eyes and dimples aren't a part of that. 

It was nice to be close to someone again, though. He has missed that. He misses a lot of other things too. 

“Brad, what the hell are you doing wearing Longhorns merch? ”

Bradley closes his eyes as Zach walks back up to the table. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

-

AUGUST 2012

When Bradley first walks into the classroom, he thinks he might be hallucinating— or maybe caught in some sort of weird dream manifested by parts of his psyche that he’s long since tried to bury. 

It just can’t be real. There’s no way this is actually happening. What are the odds?

He’s tempted to duck out of the room and walk in a second time in the hopes that he’ll find he imagined what he’s seeing, but he settles on a couple of strong blinks that are unsuccessful in changing the sight in front of him. That’s… That’s fucking Texas, sitting right in the front row. 

Bradley would march up and ask him what the hell he’s doing here, but the flight suit he’s wearing is a pretty clear answer. He’s a fellow student. He’s here to become a Top Gun pilot, just like Bradley is. 

For a split second, Texas looks just as surprised as Bradley does, but then a smile slides across his face to replace it. It’s just as lopsided as Bradley remembers it being at the bar. It’s been years since that night, but that smug grin is still somehow familiar.

Texas looks mostly the same. His hair is a little shorter, but the green eyes and dimples haven’t changed. Neither has the wink that’s aimed in Bradley’s direction. Clearly, Texas has recognized Bradley too. 

That’s almost surprising. Texas hasn’t changed much of his appearance since college, but Bradley definitely has. 

The classroom is mostly empty save for them and a few others sitting in the back. Bradley is grateful for that, seeing as Texas soon takes it upon himself to remind him that they already know each other much better than the other recruits in the room. 

“I like the mustache,” he says as Bradley walks by to sit in one of the spots a few rows behind him. “It’s very Magnum P.I.”

Bradley has to close his eyes before he pulls out his pen and notebook. Fuck. This was not how he needed to start things at Top Gun off. The process of getting here has already been complicated enough, and now his sort-of past hookup has popped up out of nowhere? 

“I didn’t—“ 

“Seresin!” 

Bradley’s feeble attempt at a response is cut off by a loud exclamation coming from the doorway. 

Texas— Seresin?— looks towards it and a grin even wider than the one he’d given Bradley spreads out. “Machado. I see they’re giving slots to just anyone at this place nowadays?”

“Clearly. You’re here, aren’t you?” Machado makes his way over to where Seresin is sitting and clasps their hands together with a laugh. They must be friends. So Bradley isn’t the only one that already knows this guy. 

Bradley wonders if anyone else knows him in the same way that he does. 

Machado might be friendly with Seresin, but he seems to have better people skills. He plops down into the seat beside him and nods at Bradley right after. “Hey, man. I’m Coyote.”

“Rooster,” Bradley says.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rooster.” 

Two seconds with Coyote and he’s already gotten more of an introduction than Seresin has ever given him. Even now, he doesn’t offer up his own call sign, but he doesn’t continue teasing Bradley either. Small miracles. 

What he does do is lean towards Coyote and whisper something that makes him let out another loud laugh. Bradley looks back down at his notebook. Pretending that he and Seresin have never met before seems like it’s going to be the best option. He doesn’t really need another reason for the Navy not to want him. 

The classroom slowly begins to fill up. Some of the faces that walk in are familiar enough to exchange nods with, but none of them are friendly enough to sit together until one of the last arrivals shows up. Her expression isn’t particularly friendly, but Bradley still smiles as she comes closer. 

“Hey, Phoenix.”

“Bradshaw. Long time, no see.” It’s actually only been a few months since their paths crossed on assignment, but relief blooms in Bradley’s chest at finally having someone else he can say he knows other than Texas. Seresin. J. Whatever. 

Seresin’s attention is dragged away from his quiet conversation with Coyote when Phoenix takes the seat in front of Bradley’s own. He looks interested. Bradley can’t tell if it’s an interest in her or the fact that she and Bradley know each other. 

He’s also not sure if he’s allowed to be bothered by the thought of that first option. 

Whichever one it is, the interest is strong enough for him to speak. “So, Phoenix. Rise from the ashes, right?” His eyes flick to Bradley’s raised eyebrows and then back to Phoenix’s unimpressed glare. “That have something to do with being fiery hot?”

If Bradley weren’t pretending not to know this guy, he’d tell him his pickup lines still suck, but Phoenix doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles for her. 

She scoffs and crosses her arms, twirling her pen between her fingers in a manner that makes Bradley think she’s considering jabbing it into Seresin’s smirking face. “I don’t know. What’s your call sign? Does it have something to do with you being a desperate loser?”

Coyote looks like he wants to laugh, but he’s loyal enough to suppress it. “Actually, he doesn’t have a call sign yet.”

Bradley frowns. “How is that possible?” he asks before he can think better of it. 

Seresin shrugs. He doesn’t seem very put off by Phoenix’s rebuttal, simply aiming his smirk back at Bradley instead. “Nothing has stuck.”

“He has commitment issues,” Coyote says, tossing a look towards Seresin that suggests he’s just touched on some sort of inside joke. “My suggestions were Headshot and Slayer, but he didn’t like them.”

Everyone knows pilots don’t get to choose their call signs, but leave it to this guy to be so picky about it that he doesn’t have one at all. 

“Maybe someone here will come up with one that sticks,” Bradley eventually says. He looks away first in the hopes that Seresin will do the same. 

He doesn’t. Green eyes remain trained on Bradley’s face as Seresin hums. “I guess we’ll see what develops, won’t we?”

-

All that develops during their first day of training is the now crystal clear fact that Seresin is a dick. A massive one, at that. 

Bradley remembers him being a bit of an asshole in college. Was it this bad back then? He’d been much more charming in the bar, but that is a pretty different setting from where they’re currently at. 

Maybe Bradley had been able to mistake the antagonization for flirtation because of how much they’d both had to drink that night— or maybe he just hadn’t spent enough time around him to realize how annoying he actually is. 

Because he’s really fucking annoying. 

Unfortunately, he’s also a hell of a pilot. Somehow that only serves to annoy Bradley even further, though that might also have something to do with the fact that Seresin has smirked at him and called him Chickie both times they’ve flown against each other and Bradley has lost. He’s the only person Bradley has lost to so far at all, which is also annoying as hell. One day in and it’s already become apparent that Seresin is going to be his staunchest competition for top of the class. 

Turns out, Seresin flies a lot like Bradley remembers him kissing. Confident. Aggressive. Absolutely no hesitation. He knows what he wants and he goes after it no matter what.

As Bradley soon finds out, that also extends to an every-man-for-himself belief system. 

They get paired up against each other for the third time that day, only this time, Coyote and another pilot named Shogun are assigned to fly as their wingmen. Bradley is paired with Coyote. He’s briefly concerned that there might be a conflict of interest that rises from that— him being so close to Seresin and all— but Coyote comes up behind him and pats him on the back a few minutes after their names are called.

He’s wearing a wicked grin. “Let’s put these suckers underground, shall we?”

Bradley smiles back and accepts his offered high five. “Let’s do it, man.”

Coyote is so easy to get along with that Bradley almost wants to ask why the hell he’s pals with someone like Seresin. Are they close enough for him to know about how he and Bradley first met? Is that what they were laughing about earlier?

It’s a struggle to keep those thoughts from distracting him as they head up into the air, but Bradley is used to ghosts from his past trying to haunt him while he flies. He’s had to deal with worse things following him than an aborted hookup with a cute guy. Said cute guy being right here to remind him of their history is admittedly a little less familiar.

Even his helmet is bringing back memories of that night. Since Seresin appears to be the only pilot in the entire Navy that hasn’t settled on a callsign, his helmet doesn’t have a name plastered across the front the way everyone else’s does. Instead, it has a logo. A logo that Bradley recognizes as being the same one plastered across the chest of the sweatshirt he’d been given all those years ago. 

The Longhorns. With how many puns Seresin has made today about Bradley’s callsign— calling him Chickie, Mother Hen, referring to him and Phoenix as the birdies every time he spots them together— Bradley has been mulling over several bull related remarks in his head, but he can’t quite come up with one that sounds as biting. 

In the he, it turns out he doesn’t have to. After a full day of watching him fly, Bradley realizes that a different comparison needs to be made. 

It hits him while they’re still up in the air. Coyote isn’t that bad of a wingman. A little more daring than Bradley’s own flying style, but not nearly as reckless as Seresin is. He has Bradley’s back when it’s important, and that’s what matters. That’s what wingmen are for. 

At least that’s what they’re for in Bradley’s mind. In Seresin’s, they appear to be nothing more than an afterthought— or maybe not even that. They’re a tool he can use to win, even if it takes them out of the game in the process. 

Leaving your wingman behind is an unpopular strategy for a reason. No respectable pilot would do it, even in a training environment. The implications of such a strategy in real life are shameful. 

But apparently, Seresin considers himself to be an exemption to that principle considering how little time he wastes in throwing Shogun to the wolves. 

Bradley is so taken back by the maneuver that he jerks his head to the side just to watch Seresin jet by. What the hell is he playing at? He’s so desperate to be the executioner that even the people on his own team are expendable?

That train of thought sticks with Bradley through the rest of their battle, even after Coyote has been tagged out and it’s just him and Seresin left up in the sky. As annoying as he is, the guy really is a great pilot. He probably didn’t even have to use Shogun as bait in order to narrow things down to a one-on-one with Bradley, which makes it even more infuriating that he had. What kind of asshole does that?

The anger over Seresin’s selfishness gives Bradley what feels like tunnel vision. He grits his teeth and puts all his focus into flying. The frustration adds an edge to his tactics he knows isn’t always there otherwise, and in the end, that seems to pay off. For the first time all day, he’s able to bury Seresin in the same way he’d done to Bradley the past two times they went head to head. 

Bradley isn’t the type to be smug over every small victory, but this one is particularly vindicating, and not just for him. 

Shogun nods at him when he gets back on the ground. The gesture is paired with a small smile. “Pretty sweet moves up there.” He’s not outright thanking him for knocking Seresin down a peg, but Bradley knows how to read between the lines. 

He responds with a two fingered salute and a tired smile of his own. “Better luck next time.” 

—

He can feel Seresin’s eyes on him from the second they’ve both stepped back into the classroom. 

Bradley avoids looking back, but the one-sided staring contest lasts all the way through their debriefing lecture and dismissal. It barely falters even when Bradley pushes out of his seat and begins gathering his belongings to head down to the locker room with everyone else who needs a shower. It’s been a long day, so that means all of them— including Seresin.

He walks behind Bradley, shoulder-to-shoulder with Coyote, who hadn’t seemed particularly phased by his friend’s abandonment strategy. Maybe that’s what his earlier remark about commitment issues was meant to refer to.

If there’s one thing Seresin does seem to be committed to, it’s keeping his gaze glued to the back of Bradley’s head. 

There are more recruits than there are showers, which leaves some of them sitting on the benches with their towels around their waists while they wait for a stall to open up. Bradley is one of those people. Surprisingly, so is Seresin. 

Bradley would have thought he’d be the first to shove his way to the front, but instead, here he is sat on the far end of the same bench Bradley had taken a seat on. Part of Bradley has to wonder if he did that on purpose. Is he hanging back in the hopes of getting Bradley alone?

He swallows and crosses his arms over his stomach, doing his best to pretend he cares about the conversation floating around the room just so Seresin won’t know how hyper-aware he is of the attention. 

“I’m not even all that worried about the flying part,” Shogun is saying. “Taking notes is what’s getting me. I hate that shit.”

“What, studying?” Bruiser snorts and continues toweling his hair. “You telling me you can’t read?”

“Fuck off.”

“Surely you learned something while we were at the Academy.”

Bradley tightens his fingers into the edge of his towel. Must have been nice to be allowed to go there. He doesn’t mean to glance at Seresin, but the mention of schooling has him flashing back to his time in college for what feels like the millionth time of the day. 

Seresin went the state university route, same as him. There’s gotta be a reason behind that. Bradley has to remind himself that he doesn’t care about what that reason is. Seresin is an asshole. 

His contribution to the conversation is an effective reminder of that all on its own. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone willing to be your study-buddy,” he drawls, smirking in Shogun’s direction. “They can help pick up your slack.”

Shogun’s jaw tightens. Bruiser has to set a hand on his shoulder just to keep him from stepping forward. “Don’t tell me you’re volunteering. We all know you aren’t much of a team player.”

“Not my fault if some of my teammates can’t keep up,” Seresin sighs, leaning back against the wall like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He closes his eyes with a serene smile. “No time to slow down if you want to stay alive.”

Bradley’s mouth is opening before he can even think to hold himself back. “You trying to be a hero or be a hangman?”

One green eye cracks open and fixes itself back on Bradley’s face. “Excuse me?”

Bradley straightens up. It’s too late to take it back, which means his only other option is to double down. “You heard me. It’s how you fly. Your favorite thing to do is hang people out to dry.”

“Hangman,” Seresin repeats, sounding like he finds the word distasteful. 

“You know what?” Shogun elbows Bruiser in the side. “I like it.”

“Suits him,” Bruiser agrees. 

Seresin’s posture is a little less relaxed. “Trying to saddle me with a call sign so soon, Bradshaw? How very forward of you.”

Bradley resists the urge to scoff. He’s talking about Bradley being forward? “Well, Hangman. If the shoe fits…”

Seresin is the one who scoffs now. “Whatever, Bird Brain.”

Once Seresin has both eyes shut again, Bradley lets the corners of his mouth turn up. There’s no telling if the name will actually stick, but at least he’s found a way to annoy Seresin back. 

Shogun and Bruiser both head out once it becomes apparent Seresin is done talking shit. It’s a slow process, waiting for the handful of other pilots to finish washing up, but eventually enough of them trickle out for there to be two stalls opened up. The water shuts off in the one that’s still occupied, the man inside stepping out during the few seconds it takes for Bradley to gather his soap and washcloth in preparation. 

Any suspicions he had about Seresin intentionally hanging back to get him alone are about to be proven correct. They’re the last two left in the shower area once Scarecrow rounds the corner back into the main part of the locker room. 

Bradley is the first to stand. He can’t see behind him where Seresin is still slouched on the bench, but he can feel that he’s gone back to staring at him. His grip unconsciously tightens around the knot of his towel. “Can I help you with something?” 

He knows it’s a bad idea to give Seresin the opportunity to answer that question, but he's been getting under Bradley’s skin from the second he first commented on his mustache. There’s no one else around at the moment, anyways. Now is the least risky time for Bradley to stop pretending that they don’t know each other already. 

“Well, I don’t know. Guess it depends.” The sound of Seresin’s Southern drawl creeps closer and a sense of deja vu crawls up Bradley’s spine at the hand he feels land on his shoulder. 

He’s felt that touch before. 

Seresin leans in so close that his breath brushes across Bradley’s skin. “How’d you feel about getting wet with me this time, hm?”

Bradley’s throat is dry when tries to swallow. He could shove Seresin’s hand off him. Step forward, duck into the empty stall that’s only a few feet away. But he could also stay where he is and turn his head to give Seresin a sideways look. Drag his eyes down. Take in all the ways his body has firmed up since college, the way it looks now that he doesn’t have anything covering it up. 

One of those options is a whole lot smarter than the other, but it doesn’t make that other option any less appealing. 

Bradley does end up letting himself look back, but only for a second. He wonders if Seresin can see his jaw clench. Christ. He looks good. Good enough for Bradley to want to do something really, really stupid, dignity be damned.

Except dignity isn’t the only thing that’s at stake here. The sound of laughter and lockers slamming shut cuts into Bradley’s thoughts. He tears his gaze away from the line of dark hair that trails down under Seresin’s towel.  

“Not sure that’s such a good idea,” he says. It comes out rough, but he means it. No matter how much he wants whatever it is Seresin is offering, he knows it would be dangerous to let himself have it. 

There’s too many people in this room and too many rules they’d be breaking right beside them. Bradley might not know what Seresin’s road to Top Gun entailed, but he knows his own. He has way too much to lose— besides, for all he knows, this might be another one of Seresin’s mind games. 

All he’s done today is taunt Bradley. If this is him executing a different strategy to get a rise out of him, Bradley can’t afford to let it work. 

There’s no denying that Seresin is an asshole, but he’s not the kind of asshole that would ignore Bradley saying no.  “If you’re sure,” he says, even as he’s letting his hand slide off of Bradley’s shoulder. 

“I am.” That’s only a half-truth. Bradley prays Seresin can’t hear it in his voice. 

It seems like he might, because he sounds more amused than he does anything else as he steps around Bradley towards one of the empty stalls. He unwraps his towel before bothering to pull the curtain shut, smirking when Bradley’s mouth drops open in response. 

“The offer still stands, Bradshaw,” he calls cheerfully “Feel free to take me up on it anytime.”

Jesus. 

When Bradley makes it into his own shower, he makes sure the water is turned towards cold. 

Chapter Text

AUGUST 2012

The name ends up sticking.

It starts with Shogun and Bruiser referring to Seresin as Hangman whenever Bradley is closeby, but the bit soon starts spreading. They both must’ve told some of the others about it, because it doesn’t take long for half their other classmates to pick the name up and start using it themselves. 

Bradley doesn’t know what reaction Hangman had given to the other names that Coyote had mentioned him rejecting, but it must’ve been worse than the one he gives this time– or maybe the guys in their class are just bigger dicks than whoever Hangman usually flies with. He clearly doesn’t appreciate being stuck with the call sign, scoffing and rolling his eyes every time someone makes a pointed remark with it tacked on the end, but Bradley can’t say he doesn’t deserve it. 

That’s what he gets for ditching his wingman. And for constantly getting on Bradley’s nerves. 

In any case, once Coyote starts referring to him as Hangman, it seems to bring on a new level of acceptance. By the time their first week is up, Hangman’s stopped glaring at every single person who’s switched to using it. He hasn’t stopped making jokes about Bradley’s call sign, but Bradley wasn’t expecting any miracles to happen. Hangman is a nuisance no matter what name he’s going by, up in the air or on the ground. 

It’s not just Bradley’s call sign that he’s picking at now, though. As the days progress, it grows into more. His flying style, his answers in class, his friendship with Phoenix– Hangman has commented on all of it.

By the time Saturday afternoon comes around, Bradley has grown curious to know what Hangman is going to comment on while they’re off the clock. 

Normally, it wouldn’t be within Bradley’s interests to spend what little downtime they get with someone who has spent most of the working week bugging the hell out of him, but he’s also not going to sit out of the group bonding activity Backbiter put together just because Hangman is attending. Especially when the aforementioned activity involves the promise of cheap drinks at the end of it. 

There’s a bar a few blocks away from the beach, which is where they’ve spent most of the day so far. There’s a safe stretch of water they could swim in, but most of their bonding has been taking place on the set of volleyball courts that are set up in the sand, surrounded by a couple stands of metal bleachers the sun has left too hot to sit on. 

Unlike some of the others, Phoenix has the foresight to spread her towel out underneath herself. When Bradley jogs up to the bleachers following his latest match on the court, she rolls her eyes and pats the spot beside her. 

“Take a break before you pass out from heat stroke,” she sighs, handing him his water bottle before he can reach towards it himself. 

“I’m fine.” He gulps down a few sips and wipes at the sweat he can feel beading under his eyes. “That’s more than I can say for Tarzan and Kudjo. You really gave those guys a beatdown.”

She smiles, pushing her sunglasses up on her nose. “They had it coming.”

He hums in agreement. They did. He feels for Phoenix. The Navy is still a boys’ club in a lot of ways, even if things have improved since Mav, or Ice, or any of his father’s old friends went through. Phoenix isn’t the only woman in their class, but she’s on the high end of the ranking right now. It’s left some of the less evolved male minds in the running with their feathers ruffled, including Tarzan and Kudjo, who have taken it upon themselves to take shots at her often enough for Bradley to consider stepping in– and he would, if he didn’t know she’d kill him for it. They’re friends. But, as her friend, he knows she doesn’t want that, so he’s settled for watching her kick their asses in the sky and on the sand. 

“Not my fault you fellas picked the sport that I played all throughout high school and college, anyways.”

“Would it be asking too much for you to take pity on me and throw a couple coaching tips my way?” 

Phoenix bumps their shoulders together. “The way I saw it, you were holding your own just fine.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a testament to my skill or the fact that Bruiser and Shogun just really suck at this game,” Bradley laughs. It’s true he and Scarecrow had managed to beat them, but volleyball isn’t really Bradley’s sport of choice. 

He’s about to tell Phoenix that when a shadow falls across both of them and the person who’d cast it is doing it for him. “More of a baseball guy, aren’t you?”

Bradley knows who has just approached them even before he has a hand shaded over his brow to help make them out. “What?”

Hangman smiles. With his tags draped over his bare chest and black shades over his eyes, he looks like something out of a male model catalog sprung to life. “You’re more of a baseball guy,” he repeats. Phoenix frowns while Bradley stares up at him in confusion, a few seconds passing before it clicks. 

The back of his neck feels like it goes cold despite the haze of heat that surrounds them. 

“Don’t suppose there’s a chance I’ll see you at the game?”

“I’m more of a baseball guy.”

To anyone else– including Phoenix– that remark doesn’t sound like it means anything, but knowing that Hangman knows– and knowing he said it because Bradley knows–

“More of a football guy, personally,” Hangman continues, leaning down to pluck his own water bottle from where it sits on the stand behind Bradley’s seat. The motions puts a lot more bare skin in a closer proximity to Bradley’s own than he feels prepared to handle, especially while Hangman is still running his mouth. “Next time we do this, we’ll have to switch the game up.”

“I could still probably beat half of these morons,” Phoenix mutters, quietly enough for only Bradley to hear her. 

He’d respond, but his brain is still short circuiting, playing the fantasy of spiking a ball right into Hangman’s smug face on repeat. It’s easier to focus on that than any of the other fantasies involving Hangman’s face that come to mind.

It’s been five days since Hangman pressed up behind him by the showers and asked to get wet with him. Five days since Bradley forced himself to say no . Five days since Hangman accepted that answer but left him with an open offer that in theory, Bradley could take him up on anytime. 

He hasn’t, but he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it. How can he not? He’s spent every day this week either cooped up in a classroom with the guy, waiting for his turn to fly against him, or trying to avoid looking his way while they’re both half naked in the locker room. 

Hangman has a pretty noticeable presence. Even if their history weren’t what it was, it would be hard to ignore him. 

Ignoring him now only continues to get harder when Hangman lowers his glasses and winks at him while Phoenix is looking away. Bradley glares back and silently wills him to fuck off before he says something else suggestive that Phoenix might pick up on the implications of. 

She’s pretty perceptive. And smart, and witty, and a hell of a pilot. She might deserve to be top of the class more than either of them do. 

It feels like divine intervention when someone interrupts them before Hangman has the chance to keep talking. 

“Yo, Hangman!” Coyotes calls. “Wanna pair up for the next match?”

Hangman makes the same face he always does at the sound of that name being used, but it doesn’t stop him from agreeing. “Sure.” Then, looking back down at the bleachers— “How about you, Birdies? Wanna test your luck? See if you can beat the dream team?”

It only takes a shared glance with Phoenix and another imagined instance of smacking Hangman in the face with a ball for Bradley to nod. 

“You’re on.”

“Great.” Hangman smiles and hooks a finger through the chain of his tags, spinning them to rest between his shoulder blades as he begins backing towards the court. “I’ll take it easy on you since you’re a beginner, Bradshaw. You, Trace? Not so much.”

“You know, somehow, I think I’ll survive.”

Bradley’s eyes catch on the dimples that line the small of Hangman’s back once he finally turns around. He swallows, hard, and hangs back to take an extra swig from his water bottle. 

Phoenix might survive this, but he’s not sure that he’s going to. 

-

Bradley considers himself to be a competitive person. It doesn’t matter how invested he really is in the matter at hand— admitting defeat isn’t something he likes to do. That’s probably part of why Hangman grinds his gears so much. They don't seem to have that much in common, but they both definitely have a tendency of fighting to get the last word in. 

Today is no different. 

“Come on,” Bradley says, but Phoenix only aims a withering look in his direction. “Please?”

“No.”

“Not even for me?” That question comes from Hangman, who is still standing on the other side of the court, ball in hand. 

Coyote and Phoenix share a look through the net, both being subjected to the same plea made by very different people. The answer Coyote gives is the same one Phoenix has just given Bradley. 

“No.”

Hangman throws the ball up into the air and catches it with a huff that does nothing to keep Coyote from jogging his way off the court, heading towards the bleachers at the same time Phoenix does. Neither of them look back, seemingly content to ignore each of their respective friends in favor of walking towards the parking lot with each other. 

So much for loyalty.

Bradley crosses his arms and squints at their retreating figures. Would it have killed either of them to stay and play through one last round?

Sure, most of the others have gone ahead to the bar, but it’s not like the sun’s completely set yet. It wouldn’t have taken that long anyways. All they needed to do was break the stupid tie.  

Being competitive means that a tie is almost as bad as losing outright, in Bradley’s book. It looks like Hangman might feel the same way based on the heavy sigh he lets out. 

There’s still enough light left in the sky for things to be cast in a golden glow, but Bradley doesn’t realize how late it’s gotten to be until after the first realization hits him that he and Hangman are the only ones left on the beach. 

Things immediately get awkward— or maybe that’s just Bradley’s imagination stirring things up because he suddenly has become very aware that this is the first time they’ve been alone with each other since the incident by the showers. At least there’s more space left between them this time. 

Except it doesn’t take that long before there isn’t. They both have to cross over the bleachers in order to collect their things, and of course Hangman’s bag is tucked on the same end of them as Bradley’s is. Why wouldn’t it be?

Bradley pulls his shirt out of his duffel as quickly as he can, trying to slip into it before he can start overthinking how Hangman’s eyes linger on his abdomen. Bradley’s got more muscle than he did the last time Hangman felt him up. He hates himself a little for wondering if the other pilot likes it as much as Bradley likes—

“Nice shirt.”

Bradley’s head snaps up at the sound of Hangman’s voice, then drops down to look at his own chest to see what exactly Hangman is commenting off. He barely looked at what top he grabbed when getting ready this morning, preparing for an outing where he’d spent most of his time without it on. 

It’s just a stupid graphic tee, off-white in color with the Looney Tunes logo stamped over the chest and some of the characters scattered around it. If he remembers right, he got it from a thrift shop. Not because he particularly cares about what’s on it, but because he’d like the vintage style of the print.

Hangman seems to care about it more than he does. He smirks and tugs his own plain white tee over his head. “You and Tweety-Bird have a lot in common.”

“Fuck off, Hangman.” Bradley pulls the hem of his shirt down and slings his bag over his shoulder. 

Hangman does the same, trailing behind him towards the parking lot. It’s not like he has ulterior motives— his truck is parked only a few spaces away from Bradley’s Bronco— but it still feels strange walking away knowing he’s giving Hangman his back. 

They’re alone. The parking lot is in a secluded location. Hangman could try anything. Anything could happen. 

What does it say that Bradley sort of hopes it does?

“You heading to Francine’s from here?”

“Uh, yeah. I think so.” Bradley hasn’t slowed down, so Hangman must have sped up to put himself at Bradley’s side rather than his rear. “You?”

“Yup,” Hangman pops the p on the end of his response. “But just so you know, my hand-eye coordination has greatly strengthened since becoming a pilot. I haven’t spilled my drink on anyone in years.”

Bradley almost stops dead in his tracks. That’s the second time today Hangman has referenced how they met. That has to mean something. Is it a hint, or another mind game?

This is Hangman they’re talking about. It could be both. 

One of Hangman’s favorite strains of criticism these past few days has surrounded what he calls Bradley’s perch. A pun on his call sign, but also one that refers to his slightly… conservative style of piloting. It’s annoying, but it’s also accurate. Bradley is stubborn in most parts of his life— when it comes to clinging to memories and holding grudges— but he knows he can be indecisive in others. 

Hangman, despite his status as a near stranger, seems to know that too. That means he more than anyone should appreciate the fact that Bradley is about to make a decision he’s already cursing himself for. 

“What you said the other day,” he starts, but pauses to clear his throat before he can finish. “About your offer still standing…”

Did you mean it? he doesn’t ask. 

He doesn’t have to. The slow smile that spreads across Hangman’s face tells him the answer to that, no words necessary. 

That doesn’t mean Hangman doesn’t use them. It’s Hangman. He never stays quiet for long. “Your place or mine?”

Bradley’s eyes knit together and at first he doesn’t understand what Hangman means until he follows the nod that Hangman gives towards each of their vehicles. 

Oh. That makes sense. Where else would they do this? The bar their classmates are all at is just as risky as it would’ve been in the locker room, and driving all the way back to their campus quarters would take an effort that exceeds the casual bounds of Hangman’s proposition. 

Bradley hasn’t hooked up with someone in a car since college. Then again, he hasn’t hooked up with someone in a bar bathroom since college either, so maybe this is only fitting. 

“Yours,” he says after a moment. The back of the Bronco is a little too open for this. 

Hangman’s smile turns sly. “What, you don't wanna give the seagulls a show?”

Bradley rolls his eyes, but lets Hangman toss their bags into the bed of his truck before climbing into the passenger side. 

They’re lucky the make of Hangman’s truck leaves that area relatively spacious as long as the seat is pushed back and reclined to its limit. Neither of them are small guys, but maybe— most likely— Hangman has done this before, because he seems to know how to put Bradley exactly where he needs to in order to make things comfortable. 

Bradley ends up on top of him, knees bracketing the outside of his thighs and bare skin pressing together when Hangman uses a hand to slide up the hem of Bradley’s shorts. He tilts his hips forward so the touch will go higher and realizes just how careful he’s going to have to be if he wants to get through this without giving himself a concussion. Even with the seat tilted back all the way, Bradley is tall enough for his head to be left brushing against the roof. 

Hangman takes it upon himself to quell those worries. “C’mere,” he murmurs, curling his other hand around the nape of Bradley’s neck and using it to pull him down until their mouths press together. 

Bradley’s first thought is that Hangman still kisses the way he remembers, right down to the way he teases his tongue along the seam of Bradley’s lips before slipping it inside, and lets the sharp edge of his canine scrape over the bottom one once they finally part for air. His second thought is that it’s unfairly hot to be able to feel the outline of Hangman’s tags pressing between their chests while Hangman presses a line of open-mouthed kisses up the length of his throat. 

If anything, that should take him out of his head and back to the reality where he’s still responsible enough to keep this from happening. The only reason Hangman’s wearing those tags is because they’re both in the service, and seeing as they’re both in the service, it’s stupid as hell to be putting himself in this position. 

Not just the specific position of straddling his lap in the front seat of his truck. Moreso the position of possibly being punished if anyone above them ever gets wind that they're fraternizing with a fellow officer. 

“ Fuck,” Bradley swears, fingers curling into the fabric of Hangman’s t-shirt. How the hell is he supposed to be responsible when Hangman is rubbing a hand over the front of his shorts? 

“You like that?” Hangman whispers into the sensitive patch of skin behind Bradley’s ear. 

“Think the answer to that question is pretty clear.” Bradley tries to keep his voice even, but then Hangman’s hand rubs against him even firmer. His breath hitches and he has to swallow down the soft sound that threatens to break out. 

“I know. I just like to hear it.” Hangman's thumb presses against the tender spot where Bradley’s neck meets his shoulder and it makes everything else somehow feel better. Bradley gasps, and Hangman hums. “See how sweet you sound when you’re not bitching at me?”

Bradley would yank on a handful of Hangman’s hair if he weren’t trying to avoid jostling them too much. “You’re one to talk about bitching.”

“There he goes again,” Hangman tuts. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“Get me off, I hope.” 

“We’ll see.”

“Don’t tell me you invited me into your truck with the intention of leaving me—“ Bradley’s complaint is cut off by the low sound of his own moan. 

Hangman grins up against his throat and tightens his grip around where he’s just shoved his hand under the waistband of Bradley’s briefs. “What was that you were going to say? Something about me leaving you hanging?”

“We do call you Hangman,” Bradley mutters, shifting his weight when Hangman doesn’t move his hand past a pointed squeeze. 

“They all call me that because of you. But you know what I think?” Hangman doesn’t give Bradley the time to respond before he’s bringing their mouths back together, drawing him in for a filthy kiss that he barely pulls back from to whisper, “I think you just came up with it because you think I’m hung.”

Bradley isn’t given the time to tell him to shut up either— and he would have really loved to for a joke as terrible as that. At least it keeps him from having to tell the truth of why he really chose Hangman.

Hangman has a habit of running away when things get complicated, same way as Bradley does. 

He’s not running now, but what he’s doing isn’t complicated. If anything, it’s the simplest thing that’s happened between them since Bradley first walked into that classroom. 

Hangman thumbs over the tip of him once, then twice before beginning to work him over with slow strokes. They don’t do much more talking after he finds a good pace, Bradley rolling his hips up into it and grinding down onto what he can feel pushing up underneath him. Their kisses turn sloppy. After a while, it’s more of them panting into each other’s mouths than anything, but it’s still good. 

So good that Bradley makes a protesting sound that verges dangerously close to a whine when Hangman guides him back by the hip until he realizes why. He’s more than happy to get his hand on Hangman after his shorts have been pulled down. 

As much as they clash at all other times, it’s easy to fall into sync here. As long as Hangman is twisting his wrist like that, it’s easy to forget that they barely can tolerate each other outside of this truck.

Bradley’s back arches at a particularly satisfying pull of Hangman's hand. His head comes dangerously close to smacking against the roof, but he barely notices, too preoccupied with chasing the edge he’s approaching. He makes a sound, high in the back of throat, with the intention of warning Hangman with words, but he doesn’t have to. 

Hangman must be able to read it in his body, because he speeds up the motions of his hand at the same time he uses the other to shove the hem of Bradley’s shirt all the way up to his chin. His fingers find the sensitive points of his chest, pinching at one side with purpose. 

The extra sting shoots straight down to the heat already coiling in Bradley’s stomach, and with that, he’s gone. His mouth goes slack as the rest of his body tenses up, blood rushing to his ears so loud he doesn’t realize how loud of a sound he’s making until Hangman curses against his jaw. 

“That’s it, honey,” he rasps, easing Bradley through the aftershocks. 

Bradley’s hips jerk at the name, but it also brings him back to himself enough to quicken the pace of the hand he still has around Hangman. As much as he wants to sink into the unexpected softness, he’s supposed to be giving as good as he gets here. 

His head feels hazy, but bringing Hangman to his own release doesn’t require much higher thought. It only takes another minute or so, towards the end of which Bradley’s free hand drifts up to slot through Hangman’s hair. It’s softer than he expected. There’s not much to hold onto, but Bradley isn’t the one who digs his fingers in. Hangman’s grip tightens around Bradley’s hip when the crest of his climax finally hits him, so hard Bradley wouldn’t be surprised if he finds a mark there tomorrow morning. 

He blames how out of it their orgasms have him for the uncertainty of how he feels at the thought of there being lingering proof of what has just happened. 

That proof doesn’t just come in the form of hypothetical bruises, as he soon realizes. 

It’s Hangman who points it out first, voice still rough with exertion. “You ruined my shirt.”

Bradley looks down at the mess that’s been made between them. Both of their stomachs are streaked with their releases— Bradley’s more than Hangman’s, because only one of them had had the foresight in the moment to push the other’s shirt out of the way. 

Whoops. 

“My bad,” he offers.

Hangman grunts and gestures for Bradley to lean back so he can pull his shirt off without elbowing him in the face. “Guess history has a way of repeating itself.”

Bradley shivers as Hangman uses his soiled shirt to wipe at his skin. Yeah. It sure does. “I, uh. I think I have some extra clothes in my truck if you need something to wear.”

“That would be good.” 

“Just let me go get it.” Bradley shifts and waits for Hangman to pop the lock on the passenger door down before cracking it open to climb out. Christ, his legs are stiff. That’s what they get for always doing this in places more fitting for prom dates than grown men. 

He always keeps a change of clothes in the back of the Bronco. It’s a habit he picked up during the rougher months of his college years, where he wasn’t yet an RA that had the perks of staying in the dorms over break. He doesn’t have to worry about where he’s going to sleep anymore, but he likes to be prepared in case of an emergency. This sort of counts as one of those. 

It isn’t until he’s tossed his bag on the floor and started rooting around the backseat that he realizes the predicament he’s put himself in. He pulls out the item he’s looking for and stares at it. 

Fuck. Hangman is never going to let this one go. 

He knows he’s in for it from the moment Hangman sees what item of clothing he’s holding. He’s rolled the window down by the time Bradley walks back up, leaving nothing between him and the delighted smile Hangman aims down at him. He opens his mouth, but Bradley shakes his head before he can dish out whatever clever comment he’s just come up with. 

“Don’t,” he says firmly. He tosses the sweatshirt he’s holding up to where Hangman can catch it. 

Hangman holds it up, the orange logo embroidered across the chest clearly visible. “Didn’t know you were such a Longhorns fan.”

Bradley is tempted to defend himself— tell Hangman that he still doesn’t give a fuck about college football rivalries and that the only reason he still has the hoodie is because he’s never been one to let perfectly good clothing go to waste no matter where he got it— but somehow, he has a feeling that doing so would only further Hangman’s delight. “We’re even now,” he says instead. Eye for an eye, shirt for a shirt. Same difference. 

Hangman pulls the sweatshirt over his head and rakes a hand through his hair to smooth it back down before sliding over to the driver’s seat. He jams his keys into the ignition, but doesn’t bother rolling up the windows as his truck rumbles to life. “If you ever wanna trade any more favors, all you have to do is ask.”

Even after Hangman has pulled onto the road, Bradley stays where he is, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes and drawing in a deep breath. What the hell did he just get himself into?

-

“So,” Phoenix says. “Did you guys have a solo rematch after we left or what?”

Bradley takes a sip of his drink to stall while he figures out how to answer that question. Like he said, Phoenix is a perceptive person. Not that it was that hard to notice that he and Hangman both showed up at the bar a good half hour later than everyone else. “Something like that,” he eventually mutters. 

“Who won?”

“You know, it’s hard to say.” He’s not sure how he would explain what happened even if he wanted to. To tell the truth, he’s been struggling to justify it in his head ever since Hangman peeled out of the parking lot.

What he did– what he allowed them to do– was stupid. There’s no denying that. Messing around with someone he can barely stand is bad enough, but messing around with someone he has to fly with? The only solace he’s been able to scrounge up is the fact that they hadn’t gone all the way. 

That’s the justification he’s settled on. Whether people want to acknowledge it or not, fraternization between officers isn’t that uncommon. Frowned upon, sure, but he and Hangman aren’t the first to do it, nor will they be the last. 

Bradley may be making stupid decisions, but he still knows how to set boundaries. Hangman had been the one to proposition him. Bradley had just taken him up on it at a later time. Call it a compromise. 

They’re going to be going through the program together for three more months, too busy with training to pursue any real relationships. Having an… arrangement with each other would be convenient, as long as they’re not completely reckless about it. All they have to do is keep it casual and be careful. Make sure they don’t cross any lines.

Phoenix moves on to a new topic of conversation and Bradley finds it in himself to look up, laughing at the joke she makes until his eyes lock with someone else’s across the room and his smile slowly fades. 

Hangman’s doesn’t. He grins from where he’s leaned against the wall beside Coyote and raises his beer in Bradley’s direction, tongue pushing against his cheek. 

Bradley breaks their gazes, face burning.

Keep it casual.

Right. 

-

OCTOBER 2012

They’ve fooled around so many times that by now, Bradley has lost count. He’s gotten laid more regularly over the past three months than he has in years. 

It’s hard to date with a career like the one he has, and even harder to make it stick long enough with the same person for a real relationship to form. There’s just so much uncertainty involved. Always a fear that the last time he leaves someone, there might not be a next time he sees them, because making it back home is never promised.

He knows that better than anyone. It’s why he’s always had a hard time making things last. Every time he’s even considered getting serious with someone, he can’t shake the memories of what it was like watching his mother have to cope with the loss of his father. Civilians… they don’t understand things the same way a pilot does, because most of them don’t have to. 

Bradley has never wanted to make someone have to. Hangman once said that history has a way of repeating itself, and while that’s true for some things, Bradley prays every day that the worst parts of his past won’t come back around.

Not that Hangman knows about any of that stuff. They’ve gotten up close and personal with a lot of each other’s business, but not that kind. It took a month of him putting his dick in Hangman’s mouth for him to even find out what the guy’s first name is.

Jake. Bradley doesn’t call him that, but it’s nice to finally know what J stands for. 

Hangman doesn’t call Bradley by his first name either. First names are personal, which isn’t something they're supposed to be. There’s also the fact that Bradley had kicked Hangman in the shin so hard he’d bruised the night he first found out that Bradley’s full name is Bradley Bradshaw and kept laughing for two minutes straight. Bradley would have done a lot more than just kick him if they weren’t crammed into a storage closet at the time.

Not the most careful place in the world to mess around, but it was after they’d been dismissed for the day anyways. They’ve had to get creative with some of their locations. It’s safest to do things in one of their rooms– but still risky in its own way because of how shitty the walls are at concealing sound, not to mention how difficult it is to sneak out afterwards without anyone seeing.

Bradley hasn’t asked if Coyote knows about what’s going on between them, but he hasn’t told Phoenix, so he’s pretty sure Hangman hasn’t spilled anything to his friend either.

The rest of them are none the wiser to their arrangement. If anything, they probably assume Hangman would be the last person on Earth Bradley would want to spend any extra time around, because despite their agreement to blow off steam with each other on their downtime, they still aren’t getting along that well with each other during training.

Bradley knows what Hangman’s face looks like when he’s coming apart. Hangman knows what he feels like on the inside. Those intimacies haven’t kept Hangman from continuing to pick Bradley’s every move apart or Bradley from snapping back every time he does. 

Hangman is still an asshole, but that might be for the best. It’s a lot easier to remember where the line is when Hangman is being a dick, and a lot harder to remember when he’s got a hand around the front of his throat and is whispering things like honey and sweetheart into his ear. 

Bradley finds himself having to remind himself of where those boundaries are more and more as of late. 

He wouldn’t go as far as to call Hangman his friend— not in the way that Phoenix is, or the way some of their other classmates are continuing to slowly become— but he is the person Bradley sees the most outside of training. It’s not like they live together. The quarters they’ve been assigned are on opposite ends of the hall and Bradley still values his alone time. He has no idea what Hangman does in his own room when they’re not in it together, though there had been one night where Bradley had seen a half-finished letter lying on his nightstand while fishing around the floor for his clothes. 

Hangman has a habit of tossing those away without looking. Hence why he’s been pacing around Bradley’s room for the past five minutes in search of one of his socks. 

He has the other one already on, along with his tank top and a loose pair of basketball shorts he hadn’t bothered putting anything on under before sneaking over after dinner. It’s a little distracting— or, it would be if it weren’t so amusing watching him get increasingly irritated the longer he has to search. 

“Where the fuck did it go?” he mutters.

Bradley stifles a laugh and briefly considers getting up from the bed to help search, but the opportunity to lay back and soak in the sight of Hangman glaring around with his hands on his hips is just too good to pass up. “I’m sure we’ll find it eventually,” he offers. 

Hangman’s glare is briefly aimed in his direction. “Because you’re being incredibly helpful right now.”

“Not my fault you decided to wear me out.”

“You know, most people would thank me for my generosity.” Hangman bends over to peer under Bradley’s dresser and Bradley uses the advantage of his back being turned to take in the way it makes the muscles of his shoulders flex. 

He hasn’t talked to Grace since they graduated college, but maybe he should call her when he gets the chance. Tell her that Hoodie Guy’s shoulders have held up over the years. 

It always makes his stomach do a funny flip, thinking about how long they’ve technically been acquainted with each other. It’s probably longer than anyone else here. 

“If you really can’t stomach the thought of making it back to your room without both socks on, you can just borrow a pair of mine.”

It’s not like they haven’t swapped clothing before. In fact, that’s something that’s been happening on a regular basis. Hangman’s UT hoodie has been passed back and forth between them over a dozen times by now, first as an accident, then as a joke, and eventually as a habit. 

There have been a couple more shirts ruined over the past few months. They’re not always as careful as they should be. Bradley is still annoyed at the buttons Hangmen sent flying off of the shirt he wore when they went out for Scarecrow’s birthday a few months ago. He really likes that shirt, and now he can’t even wear it until he somehow gains access to a sewing kit. 

“Some vermin probably ran off with it while we were busy.” Hangman straightens back up and makes a show out of kicking at a discarded t-shirt Bradley hasn’t yet moved to his dirty laundry bag. “You should really pick up around here, Bradshaw. Think about your guests.”

“You’re not really a guest anymore,” Bradley points out, pushing up on his elbows. “Plus you’re the one always flinging clothes around. It’s how your sock got lost.”

They both know Bradley’s points are correct, but Hangman still shakes his head in mock disapproval. “And I’ll never be able to find it in this pigsty.”

Bradley rolls his eyes and leans off the bed so he can snatch his briefs off the floor and wiggle into them, ignoring the way Hangman leers. “Your room is messier than mine.”

Another valid point Hangman can’t deny. He covers it up with a scoff. “What, are you saying there’s not enough ambiance for you to want to come over anymore?” When Bradley continues ignoring him in order to pull his sock drawer open, Hangman crowds closer, arms wrapping around his waist and chest pressing against his back. “Need me to go buy some candles for the next time you drop by?”

“Pretty sure that would just turn it into a fire hazard,” Bradley says, trying to keep up his unimpressed front even as Hangman presses his mouth to the side of his neck. 

“Bet we could still make it a hell of a way to burn out,” he whispers. Then, right as Bradley has begun to lean back into him, there’s a sharp sting that makes him hiss and slap at Hangman’s forearm. 

“What’d I tell you about that shit, Seresin?”

Hangman chuckles and drags his tongue over the spot where he’d just sunk his teeth in. “Relax. No one’s going to see it.” 

No marks in any visible areas. That’s one of their rules. Hangman isn’t that great at following it, but Bradley knows he’s also guilty of letting it slide. 

“Should have called you Dracula instead of Hangman,” he says under his breath, reaching forward to rummage through his drawer once Hangman lets him go. The lost warmth of their bodies pressing together leaves him cold. 

“You’re the one that stuck me with it,” Hangman reminds him. “Should have given it more thought.”

Bradley hums as if he agrees, but really, the name has only been proven more and more accurate the deeper they’ve gotten into the program. Hangman’s an even better pilot now than he was when they first began, but he still tends to think of himself before anyone else when he flies. He’s dangerous, in more ways than one. 

Bradley wonders sometimes if Hangman feels the same about him. Every time Bradley has called his piloting selfish, Hangman has countered by pointing out that Bradley’s is too slow. He’s too cautious, as Hangman has told him multiple times. Too indecisive. That’s dangerous in its own way. Maybe Hangman takes too many risks, but Bradley has difficulty taking any at all. 

The worst thing is, Bradley can’t even say that Hangman is wrong. He knows he needs to learn how to act in the air without overthinking it, but it’s not just the memory of his father that makes him do the opposite. It’s also just who he is. He’s spent most of his adult life on his own, trying to built himself up from where Maverick had torn him down. He almost always does the responsible thing, because frankly, he usually doesn’t have the room to make a different choice. 

He tries to avoid thinking about how Hangman makes up most of the risky decisions he’s made over the past few years.

Luckily, they never talk about that sort of thing, They don’t really talk about most stuff. They’ll get in each other’s faces during training, have arguments most people might never make up from, but then when they’re alone, they won’t even acknowledge it. 

Hangman will pull him in and Bradley will meet him halfway. They’ll kiss, get each other off, maybe joke around for a little while after— but everything always resets from the moment they re-enter the real world. 

It’s a routine at this point, represented best by the sweatshirt currently hanging over the chair that sits in front of Bradley’s desk. 

Hangman doesn’t even give it a sideways glance as he passes by it, toeing back into his sneakers once he’s pulled on Bradley’s borrowed socks. He doesn’t need it this time, but who knows what’ll happen the next. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Bradley turns to shut his drawer so he won’t have to watch Hangman crack the door to make sure no one will see him slip outside. “See you.”

The door shuts and the room immediately feels like it’s gone suffocatingly quiet. 

Bradley stands where he is for a moment and listens to Hangman’s footsteps make their way down the hall. He doesn’t stop to talk to anyone. Once again, they’ve managed not to get caught. That’s a good thing, but there’s a heavy feeling in Bradley’s chest that remains even when he pulls his shirt back on and returns to lay on the bed. 

He doesn’t get back under the covers, just lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. There’s a book on his nightstand he could be reading, some laundry he could stand to do, and a million other things he could probably immerse himself in to pass the time, but he just… doesn’t. He doesn’t want to do anything, and that includes move. 

He doesn’t think it has much to do with all the energy he’d just expended with Hangman. 

There’s only a week left of training before they’re set to graduate. As of a few days ago, Bradley has officially made it closer to that than his father ever did. 

He’s heard some of the others talking about who they’re going to invite for the ceremony— friends, parents, partners. All he’s done during those conversations is sit by and listen. He’s glad no one has asked him to contribute. He doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t have anyone who would come. 

Maybe his mother would have, if she were alive. Or maybe she would have been like Maverick and shot down this dream from the start. 

He doesn’t expect Maverick to show up. Bradley hasn’t talked to him since the day he stormed out at seventeen, but he’s not stupid. Maverick has connections. He probably knows exactly where Bradley is. 

Bradley closes his eyes. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure he would want Maverick to come even if things between them weren’t the way they are. It’s an irrational fear, but he can’t help picturing what would happen if Maverick looked at him or looked at Hangman. In his head, that alone would be enough for Maverick to know what they’ve been doing. How reckless Bradley has been. 

Hangman is the one selfish thing Bradley has allowed himself to have while he’s here, but maybe even that is too much. Maybe it’s the exact sort of weakness Maverick had referred to when telling him the Academy would never let him in. 

You’re too soft. 

Maverick hadn’t said it, but he’d thought it. Bradley had seen it written clear as day across his face during their last argument, and now he sees it in the mirror every day while washing up from training. 

Too soft. Too slow. Too indecisive. 

He rolls over until he’s lying on his stomach, face buried in a pillow. The slow breath he takes in smells like the cheap detergent the laundry room is stocked with and the slightly more luxurious scent of what he’s pretty sure is Hangman’s cologne, etched into the fabric by all of the time he’s spent sprawled out on the bed with Bradley under, beside, or on top of him. 

Bradley’s not sure if that makes the loneliness better or worse. 

-

“You think they’ll withhold my diploma if I punch him before tomorrow?”

Bradley shrugs. “They probably already have it printed,” he says. “But I wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”

“A girl can dream.” Phoenix’s hair is no longer in its usual bun, but instead in a braid that’s still damp enough from the showers for there to be water dripping from the end. 

Bradley’s own hair is wet as well. He hadn’t been expecting to see Phoenix waiting for him when he got out of the locker room, but he’s not all that surprised either. Not after what happened earlier. 

“I wouldn’t want you doing anything rash on my behalf,” he tells her, because it’s true. She doesn’t need him to protect her, and likewise, she doesn’t need to protect him. It’s not like Bradley isn’t used to Hangman’s taunting by now anyways. 

Admittedly, something about today felt different. Maybe it’s because they’re so close to the top of the class being announced, or maybe Hangman just felt like being particularly annoying. 

Both of those things make sense, but privately… Bradley thinks it really has sometimes to do with the fact that what Hangman said had veered dangerously close to a lot of the things Bradley has been thinking about already. 

It’s one thing to be called cautious and indecisive, but being called a liability is different. It cuts deeper. Bradley doesn’t know what to do with the hurt that’s welled up from the wound. 

He shouldn’t care what Hangman thinks. Most of the time, he’s able to move past it, or at least throw something back in Hangman’s face that’s equally as biting. 

Today, all he’d been able to do was stare at him, painfully aware of just how many people had their eyes on the exchange, but at a loss for words when it came to what he could possibly say that would hold the same weight. 

You can’t lead from the sidelines. As things are, the only thing you’re doing is making yourself a liability. It’s by far not the worst thing Hangman has said, but something about it got to him. 

Phoenix had been able to see that. It’s why she’d stepped in and dragged him away before Bradley could do something stupid, like shove at Hangman’s shoulders in place of a response he couldn’t come up with the words for. Bradley isn’t sure if Hangman had seen it as well. That’s on purpose. He’d purposefully avoided looking Hangman’s way the rest of the afternoon, even when they were waiting in line to hit the showers. 

He still doesn’t know what he’d say if they came face to face. 

Phoenix doesn’t seem to be planning on leaving his side anytime soon, at least. “You wanna go get something to eat?”

As tight as his stomach has felt since he turned his back on Hangman, Bradley nods. Going back to his room to lick his wounds in private is a tempting option, but not one that would make him feel any better. “You got somewhere in mind?”

“Blitzen mentioned this burger place the other day and I’m craving something greasy.”

He pulls the keys to the Bronco out of his back pocket and holds them up with a smile he has to force. “Let’s get out of here.”

They walk out of the building together and part of Bradley wants to never go back. 

-

It’s well into the evening when they finally do return to base, the two of them having spent twice as much time talking as they did actually eating while at the diner Phoenix suggested. 

She’s a good friend. She hadn’t said anything about it, but Bradley knows that she noticed his reluctance to head back. He’d picked up the check as a silent thank you, even if she’d made him promise he’d let her pay the next time immediately after. 

Her room is only a few doors down from where his is located. They’re still walking down the hall when Bradley picks up on the sound of footsteps coming closer. He turns before Phoenix does, but she’s the one who first reacts when she sees who it is. 

“Bagman,” she says. It sounds like a warning. 

If it is one, Hangman doesn’t take it. He continues coming closer. “Trace.” He nods at her, then looks at Bradley. His expression is unreadable. “Bradshaw.”

Phoenix’s shoulders square as if she’s ready to take a step forward and tell him off. Part of Bradley considers letting her, but he sets a hand on arm that keeps her from moving. 

“It’s fine,” he says quietly. She gives him a questioning look, but he nods to let her know he means it. He’s curious to know what Hangman has to say, and it feels like this would be a conversation best held in private. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Her eyes dart to Hangman. “Come knock if you need anything.”

He gives her a small smile as she turns to walk away. “I will.”

Hangman doesn’t speak back up until she’s made it to her room and the door has shut behind her. The sound of her lock clicking is loud in the otherwise empty length of the hall. Hangman’s voice is quiet in comparison. 

“Listen. What I said earlier…” He hesitates. 

It makes something tighten in Bradley’s chest. Hangman almost never hesitates. Usually, it’s him. 

Hangman sighs. “Whatever happens tomorrow, no hard feelings,” he eventually says. 

It takes Bradley a second to understand what he means, but then Hangman’s gaze flicks towards the plaques that line the walls surrounding them and he gets it. Tomorrow is their graduation ceremony. They’re going to finally find out their rankings. 

This is Hangman… what? Saying he won’t be surprised if Bradley wins?

It’s not an apology. Hangman hasn’t even said that he didn’t mean the remarks he’d made earlier— probably because he’s not sorry, and he did mean what he said to some extent. Bradley doesn’t know when he got so good at guessing what Hangman’s motives are, but he knows what a truce sounds like when it’s being offered. 

Hangman isn’t sorry and Bradley doesn’t think he forgives him, but he doesn’t have to. They’re not friends. They’re just… them. There’s no real way to describe it other than that. They fight, they flirt, and they fool around. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Bradley is silent for another long moment. He can’t think of a way to respond that doesn’t make his throat dry out, so in the end, he just goes with a repetition of what Hangman had said himself. “No hard feelings.”

Feelings aren’t something the two of them are supposed to talk about anyways. Keep it casual, right?

“Rooster,” Hangman murmurs.

Bradley swallows. Is it casual, the way Hangman is looking at him right now? “Yeah?”

Hangman doesn’t say anything else. Maybe there’s nothing to be said. 

It only takes a half step for them to be so close that Bradley can feel the warmth of Hangman’s breath brushing over his lips even before he presses their mouths together. The kiss deepens almost immediately. Hangman’s hands find his waist and Bradley brings his up to match the hold, gripping into his t-shirt. Their tongues tangle together and it’s so much that Bradley barely even notices when Hangman starts to walk them towards his room. 

It’s closer than Bradley’s. The part of his brain that’s still functioning recognizes that as a good thing. They’re already risking enough, doing this out in the open. He’s happy to get behind a locked door as soon as possible. 

So is Hangman, if the quick work he makes of stripping off Bradley’s shirt is anything to go by. His hands move so fast that the edge of the ring he always wears scrapes against Bradley’s skin. Shiny silver flashes in low lamplight as Hangman uses the same hand to fumble with the button of his jeans, popping them open and tugging the zipper down. 

Bradley draws in an unsteady breath as Hangman lowers down to his knees, taking both waistbands with him on the way. 

Hangman looks up at him, smoothing a hand over the length of one thigh and pressing a kiss to the other. “Relax,” he says. “Just let me make you feel good.” Another kiss is pressed to the divot of Bradley’s hip before Hangman surrounds it with his grip. 

Bradley’s own hands find his shoulders. He’s never been that great at relaxing on command, but that second thing— he knows how to do that. Hangman makes it easy, even if he has a tendency of making everything outside it difficult. Bradley lets his eyes fall shut as he nods, bottom lip tucking under his teeth when Hangman puts his mouth around him, all wet heat and a clever tongue. 

It’s intense. After three months, Hangman knows Bradley’s body just as well as Bradley knows his. He knows what he likes and how to make him fall apart, and tonight is no exception. 

Only in other ways, it is. Bradley can’t mark the exact moment he makes his decision, but he knows he has to get it out before Hangman’s mouth brings him to the edge he can feel himself steadily approaching. 

“Wait,” he gasps, blindly reaching a hand out until it finds the part of Hangman’s hair that’s long enough to tug on. “Wait, I—“

Hangman pulls back immediately. “What?” 

The genuine concern in his tone makes something funny twist in Bradley’s chest. He has to take a minute to even out his breathing before he answers the question. “I don’t want it to end here.” 

Hangman slowly raises back to his feet, green of his gaze level with Bradley’s once he finally re-opens his eyes. “And where do you want it to end?”

Bradley’s throat is so tight it forces his next words out as a whisper. “You got stuff we can do this with?”

Hangman studies him for a moment. Whatever he finds written across his face makes him lick his lips. He has to know what Bradley is asking. 

Three months and they’ve done almost everything with each other— everything except go all the way. That’s another one of the boundaries Bradley set for himself. It’s one thing to get each other off with hands, fingers, mouths. It’s another to do— that. It feels serious. Bigger. 

“You sure?” Hangman asks. He brings a hand up and strokes the back of it against Bradley’s cheek. “You want it?”

Three months and this is the one rule Hangman has never pushed the limits of. Now, Bradley is the one stepping over the line. This is the last night they’re going to have together in this place. Why should he keep from crossing it?

Bradley nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse with want. “What are you gonna do about it?”

It’s not meant as a taunt, but Hangman’s smile is sharp and his hands are rough where they fit around his waist to pull him forward. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck the attitude out of you.”

“You can try.” 

This time, the taunt is intentional. It works as expected, Hangman’s eyes narrowing and his grip growing tighter as he pulls Bradley towards the bed. “I do love a challenge.”

He leaves Bradley to rid himself of his shoes and his already shoved down bottoms in order to strip out of his own clothes. He takes his ring off and sets it on the nightstand, but keeps his tags on. They dangle down as he leans over Bradley, weight braced on his elbows. There’s a bottle of lube and a condom now strewn out beside them on the blankets. 

It’s not the first time Bradley has found himself underneath Hangman, but knowing what’s coming has his breath hitching even before Hangman settles between his thighs and brings a hand down to coax them open even further. 

This time, when he works Bradley open on his fingers, it’s not with the intention of getting him off. It’s with the intention of getting him ready. His method adapts to that difference— he avoids pressing against Bradley’s sweet spot even after he finds it in favor of spreading his fingers wide, slipping in an extra one that has Bradley hissing at the burn the stretch brings on. 

Hangman makes a soothing sound and slides his free hand up to cup around one of Bradley’s pecs. “You good?”

Bradley stifles a sigh. “Very good.” 

Hangman huffs at his own catchphrase being thrown back at him. “Still got that attitude, I see.” He twists his fingers with purpose, grinning at the moan Bradley lets out. “I’ll fix that. Don’t you worry.”

“Prove it,” Bradley manages to bite back. “I’m ready whenever you are.” He says that, but his hips shift when Hangman slips his fingers out, trying to chase the sudden emptiness away. 

Hangman is kind enough not to leave him at a loss for too long. He sits up until he’s balanced on his heels, thighs spread out thick under his weight as he tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth and pops the lube open with his thumb. Bradley stares up at him, trying to take in every detail the low light allows. The width of his waist, the dark hair that covers his torso, the tanline his watch has left wrapping around his wrist. If this is their last night together, he wants to remember what he can.

Hangman rolls the condom on, giving himself a few solid strokes to get himself slick enough to lean back over Bradley. The length of him lines up between Bradley’s legs, but Hangman pauses before pushing forward to lock their gazes.   

“Tell me if you need me to do something different.”

Bradley doesn’t really know what to say to that. The feeling that surges up in his chest feels scarily close to something like affection. 

He wraps his legs around Hangman’s waist and squeezes. “All I need is for you to quit talking and get to it, Seresin.”

Hangman smiles. It’s soft in one second and sharp in the next, flickering from one to the other like sparks fading in the firelight. “That desperate for me already?”

Bradley opens his mouth to fire back, but what leaves his mouth ends up being a quiet moan. Hangman lets out his own sound of pleasure as he breaches Bradley’s body, sinking inside so slowly that Bradley feels like the air has been squeezed straight out of his lungs by the time he’s bottomed out completely. 

“Fuck,” Hangman breathes, exhale hot against Bradley’s cheek when he ducks down to kiss him through the moments it takes for his body to adjust to the newfound fullness. “You alright if I—“

“Please.” Bradley can’t even be embarrassed by how easily he’s pushed into begging. 

Hangman’s eyes are dark when he pulls away to take in Bradley’s face. “I got you, honey.” His hips grind forward, slow and dirty. “I got you.”

Everything from there begins to blur together. Hangman finds a steady rhythm that Bradley begins to roll his hips down to meet and time begins to lose meaning almost immediately after. At some point, one of Bradley’s hands is brought up to cradle around the back of Hangman’s head while the other slips between them to start stroking himself in tandem with Hangman’s thrusts. 

It’s hard to stay quiet, but the way Hangman is curled over him does enough to confine the noises they both make for the sound of skin against skin to be the loudest in the room. 

Bradley doesn’t have any idea how long it’s been when his body begins to tighten, but he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. It’s been a while since he let himself have this— a long while.

In any case, Hangman doesn’t seem to be far off from reaching that same edge. 

“Fuck,” he curses in quick response to the way Bradley tightens around him. 

Bradley mouths messily at the line of his jaw in return, rasp of his evening stubble rough under his lips. He feels almost drunk on the pleasure pulsing through him, thoughts just as slow and syrupy as the drawl of Hangman’s accent. He can’t form many coherent ones at the moment, but one sticks out even through the haze. 

He’d stay in this moment forever if he could, Hangman a warm weight on top of him and anything tomorrow might bring still just a hypothetical that lurks beyond the horizon. Here, he doesn’t have to worry about how he flies or who might be judging him. He doesn’t have to dwell on the past or think about the future. His responsibilities don’t exist as long as they’re in this bed. 

All he has to do is what Hangman said. Just relax. Let Hangman make him feel good. 

Bradley does feel good— so good he’s not sure of how much longer he’s going to be able to last. He slows down the motions of his hand to give Hangman a warning, legs tightening around his waist and mouth opening to speak only for Hangman to interrupt him before he gets the chance. 

“You close, sweetheart?” His nose nudges against Bradley’s cheek. “You gonna give it to me?”

By now, he knows exactly how to read Bradley’s body. It makes Bradley feel wound even tighter, no longer only toeing the line of his climax, but something else as well. Something that has nothing to do with the way Hangman pushes himself deeper inside him, though that’s just as overwhelming. 

Hangman ducks down and attaches his mouth to the curve of Bradley’s neck, teeth sinking in at the same time his hips drive forward hard enough to make Bradley let out a sound that verges on a whine. He digs his thumb in just the way he likes it on the next stroke of his cock, and that’s it. He’s gone after that, back arching up and his body spasming around where Hangman is still carving out a place inside him. 

The clench of it draws him closer to his own release. He kisses Bradley again, slide of their tongues just as filthy as the slick mess between their stomachs. When Hangman follows him over the edge, it’s with a low moan that makes Bradley force his eyes open just to watch the way his face goes slack at the pleasure washing over him.

No matter what happens tomorrow, Bradley wants to know that this is something he got right.

Hangman’s tags are a hard shape between their chests as Hangman allows his weight to press down against Bradley’s body. 

That should make him feel trapped. In most instances, Bradley wouldn’t even trust Hangman enough to give him his back, but this is different. They’re different, when they’re together like this. 

Bradley’s heartbeat hasn’t quite slowed from its jack-rabbiting pace when Hangman's hand comes up to cup his face. He holds it there for a moment, expression just as unreadable as it had been in the hallway. Bradley doesn’t know what it means, but it feels like it should mean something. 

Hangman is the first to break their gazes, eyes flicking up. His hand raises along with them to push Bradley’s bangs off of his forehead. “Your hair used to be curlier.”

Bradley blinks. Hangman is still on top of him— inside him— and the first thing he wants to comment on is how Bradley’s hair looked during college? 

“Still curly,” he says quietly. “Just shorter.” 

Hangman hums thoughtfully and strokes his fingers through it for a moment. “Scars are new too.”

Bradley’s eyebrows knit together. Three months of mapping out each other’s bodies, and tonight is the night Hangman wants to talk about how they’ve changed? He commented on the mustache as soon as Bradley walked in that classroom. 

The scars that litter his face and neck are new, at least to Hangman. Bradley’s used to having to fend off curious questions about how he got them as well as the occasional unprompted touch. He’s surprised Hangman isn’t one of the people who took it upon himself to feel without permission, but even now he pauses before pressing his thumb under the longest scar that stretches across Bradley’s throat. 

Bradley wonders if Hangman takes notice of how hard he has to swallow before answering. “Got in a car wreck senior year. I wasn’t driving, but I was in the passenger seat. Impact threw me across the street.”

“Damn.” Hangman whistles under his breath, but doesn’t move his thumb away. 

“Yeah.” Bradley thinks back to the sheer amount of terror he’d felt in those moments and how the thought had crossed his mind that if he was going to die in a crash, he’d always assumed it would take place in the sky. He doesn’t tell Hangman that. “It wasn’t that bad, though. No broken bones, just a lot of scrapes from the pavement and cuts from the glass.”

“If it was me, I would’ve come up with a way cooler story than that.”

Bradley huffs. “Sorry for valuing honesty.”

Hangman pulls his hand back and plants it on the bed beside them. “You okay for me to pull out?”

“Probably a good idea before we get stuck together,” Bradley says, but it’s too hard to stifle the sound of discomfort he makes at the emptiness that follows Hangman rolling off of him.  

He climbs off the bed while Bradley is still adjusting to it and vanishes into the bathroom for a brief moment. When he reemerges, he’s holding a damp washcloth. His own body is already clean, so Bradley reaches out to take it as he approaches only for Hangman to take the job for himself. 

He’s methodical about it, but that same overwhelming feeling is back, tugging at something in Bradley’s chest that makes him want to do something even stupider than let Jake Seresin fuck him the night before they graduate from Top Gun. 

Like ask him if he wants to do it again sometime. 

Whatever lines that existed between them before tonight feel like they’re being washed away with the mess on Bradley’s stomach. They’re approaching the end of their time here. Isn’t now the right moment to try and find a new beginning?

There’s a spark that exists between them. Sometimes Bradley isn’t really sure if it’s the good or bad kind, but he knows that it’s there. It was there even on that first night at the bar where they didn’t leave each other with so much as a name. Even though chasing it wasn’t what brought them both here, it could be what keeps them together after. 

“Shit.” Hangman’s voice brings Bradley back to the present.

“What?”

Hangman’s fingers are still damp from the cloth when he presses them against the side of Bradley’s neck. It doesn’t hurt, but it does bring back a vague recollection of Hangman’s teeth biting down around that general area right before Bradley came. 

He groans. “How bad is it?” He doesn’t get an answer, which isn’t a good sign. “This is why I told you to stop with your vampire shit.”

Hangman shrugs, looking slightly sheepish but not like he feels all that guilty. “Uniform collar will cover it up.” He definitely doesn’t feel guilty. He even has the nerve to duck back down and give the spot another nip that he doesn’t pull away from immediately after. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw. I’m still your dirty little secret.”

Bradley sighs, keeping his eyes closed as Hangman moves to discard the cloth now that Bradley has been made clean. 

Secret. Right. Because that’s all that this can ever be. 

He barely knows Hangman, but even aside from that, all getting closer would do is complicate things for them both. Even straight officers in relationships are frowned upon, and Bradley doesn’t need to give the Navy another excuse to try and shut him out. 

He’s known that since the beginning. It’s what made hooking up with Hangman such a stupid move. Pursuing anything with him in the future… As things are, it would just prove Hangman’s point about Bradley being a liability. 

Besides, what would happen if they did try with each other and it didn’t work out? If Hangman knew anything about the baggage Bradley carries, he’d probably just start holding that above his head too. 

In the end, he keeps his mouth shut.

If Hangman notices his silence, it doesn’t bother him enough to show it. He makes a second trip to the bathroom, presumably to leave the cloth soaking in the sink, and grabs his underwear from the floor on the way back. 

“What time is it?”

Bradley rolls on his side to look at where Hangman’s watch sits on the nightstand. “11:36. Shit, it’s late.”

“I wonder how we could have possibly lost track of time.” 

“I wonder.” Bradley winces slightly at the ache that flares up from his backside when he tries to sit up properly. He glares at the amused chuckle it elicits from Hangman, fully prepared to tell him to shut up when Hangman beats him to speaking. 

“Nobody’s running to kick you out.” He shrugs at Bradley’s puzzled look. “Like you said, it’s late.”

Hangman’s telling him he can stay the night? That’s not something they do. Normally, they don’t have to. 

Then again, they've already done a lot of other things they don’t normally do tonight. It is late, and Bradley is already pretty comfortable where he is. Those aren’t just excuses to put off leaving.

“Okay,” Bradley eventually says. “Yeah. That’s…”

“We wake up early enough tomorrow and no one will see you leave. I gotta meet my folks at their hotel for breakfast anyways.”

Bradley catches his briefs when Hangman tosses them his way, slipping back into them while Hangman switches off his desk light.

So Hangman does have family coming in to see him graduate. Distantly, Bradley wonders if the letter he’d gotten a glimpse of was to his parents, or someone else. Maybe he’ll find out tomorrow. 

“I sleep with the fan on, so if you want to borrow a sweatshirt or something…” Bradley nods. He knows which one Hangman is going to give him even before it hits him in the face, having returned it the last time he was in here a few days ago. “Scooch over. Left side of the bed’s always mine.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. They both settle under the covers. Bradley turns to lay on his side before the urge to say something stupid can hit again. He’s curled up in Hangman’s bed and his clothes. More things they don’t normally do. 

Hangman reaches to turn out the nightstand lamp as well and the darkness covers them both. The drone of the fan is soothing— or it would be, if Bradley weren’t jolted back into being wide awake by the arm that drapes over him a moment later. He holds very, very still as Hangman shifts closer. 

He can’t remember the last time he was held like this. That shouldn’t mean something, shouldn’t it? Everything they’ve done tonight should, from the moment Hangman first came up to him in the hall. Maybe it would, if Hangman wasn’t Hangman and Bradley wasn’t Bradley. 

But they are who they are. That’s not something that can be easily changed. 

Whatever happens tomorrow, no hard feelings. 

Bradley closes his eyes. If nothing else, at least he has that to hold onto. 

Chapter Text

JUNE 2015

It wasn’t actually Bradley’s idea to go out tonight. In fact, he’d protested it when Scorpion brought it up, which makes him suspect that the suggested outing has more to do with his squadmate’s eagerness to let loose than it does with the fact that it’s almost Bradley’s birthday. 

It’s not for another week and a half— another thing that makes him think that tonight’s outing isn’t really about him— but he doesn’t tend to do much to celebrate it anyways. If he’s got access to his phone or a computer, he’ll respond to whatever messages he gets with the obligatory thank yous and promises of catching up, but that’s about it. 

The day is sort of a sore spot for him. The last good birthday he had was the one where he turned sixteen. His mother was still alive and well enough to bake a cake for him. Maverick had flown in and even let Bradley spend the day wearing his bomber jacket. He hadn’t had a real party, but he didn’t need to as long as he had both of them there. 

Every birthday that’s passed since then has just been a reminder of the things he doesn’t have anymore. 

He doesn’t tell most people that, hence why his squadron had been so insistent upon taking him out. Phoenix is one of the only people that knows. Every year, she makes sure to email him a full week after the date passes just so she can sign off with a belated birthday joke. The jokes are always terrible, but they still make him smile. She’s remained a good friend over the years. Of everyone he’s met through the Navy, she’s the one he’s closest with. 

If she were in California at the moment, he would call her up, try and see her while he and his team are still stateside, but that’s one of the pitfalls of making friends with fellow pilots. Timing is tricky to get right. 

Bradley directs his gaze to the dance floor. At least the others seem to be having a decent time. 

He’s not exactly brooding in a corner himself, but he isn’t really in the mood to make himself play the part of life of the party like he might on any other night. For now, he’s content to sit at the bar and people watch. He’s been doing that for a while. In fact, it comes as a surprise that he doesn’t notice the guy who’s apparently been watching him before the bartender comes over and slides another drink in his direction. 

He shrugs in response to the puzzled look Bradley gives him. Bradley’s been nursing the same Amaretto sour for the past half hour. “Guy at the end of the bar sent it over.”

Bradley eyes the glass warily. It’s just a green tea shot. Sweet, but with a bite. Just the way he likes his drinks. He doubts the bartender did anything weird to it no matter who made the request, but he still looks across the bar to try and pick out exactly who that is before touching it. 

It doesn’t take him very long to figure out who his mystery man is. The answer is made obvious by the wink and accompanying wave that are aimed in his direction. 

Bradley blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t imagining things, but he hasn’t drunk nearly enough for his mind to be dredging up images of a smile that smug. He’s not sure which is pounding louder, the music or his heart— the latter of which seems to have dropped down somewhere beneath his stomach. 

Out of all the places he thought he might run into Jake Seresin again… Actually, another bar makes perfect sense. History has a way of repeating itself, and all that. 

Bradley picks the shot up and downs it, setting the glass back on the counter as he stands. God forbid Hangman come up and say hello like a normal person. Three years since Bradley last saw him and he doesn’t seem to have changed one bit. 

Once he gets closer to him, he sees that’s not completely true. Hangman’s face is a little more weathered and the style he uses to sweep back his hair looks to have changed slightly, but his smile is the same. So is the twinkle in his eye, which only seems to shine brighter when Bradley slides into the seat beside him. 

“Howdy, there, stranger. What brings a face like that to a place like this?”

Bradley eyes the half empty Bourbon Hangman has his hand curled around. “Sure isn’t the DJ’s taste in music.”

Hangman laughs and raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Bradley hasn’t drunk enough to be imagining things, but he has drunk enough for his eyes to linger on the bob of Hangman’s throat as he swallows. “My team dragged me out. They’ve been dying for an excuse to live it up while we’re still in the States.” He tips his head at Hangman’s quizzical look. “My birthday is coming up. Technically, they brought me here to celebrate.”

He doesn’t know why he admits to that. He could have told Hangman anything and he probably would have bought it, but the honesty just slips through.

Hangman turns to him, smiling a little brighter. “No shit?” His hand comes up to thump Bradley on the back a couple times and Bradley finds himself sitting up straighter when he leaves it curled around his shoulder before speaking again. “How old you turning?”

Bradley looks down at his lap and lets a smile turn up the corners of his mouth. “Thirty-one. Nothing exciting.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Hangman’s hand squeezes where it’s slid down to Bradley’s bicep. “I’ve been having plenty of fun.” He leans in like he’s about to tell him a secret. “I beat you here by a month.”

“Happy belated birthday, then,” Bradley says. That answers the question he’s always had of how close they are in age. 

Hangman’s hand squeezes again, and this time, he leans in so far Bradley can smell the Bourbon on his breath mingling with the scent of his cologne. That doesn’t seem to have changed either. “And happy early birthday to you.”

“Thanks.” Surprisingly, Bradley finds himself actually meaning that. Maybe Hangman has changed since the last time they saw each other. At least enough to be a little more bearable. Whether or not that’s true, he seems to have retained his less than subtle flirting tactics. 

Bradley has changed, but not enough to push Hangman’s other hand away when it lands on top of his knee. 

Hangman’s eyes are trained steadily on his face when Bradly drags his back up from beneath the bar. “So, birthday boy.” His voice drops. “Your friends gonna notice if you disappear for a while?”

The smart thing to do here would be to push both of Hangman’s hands away. They’re in a bar surrounded by fellow officers. Maybe modern times have supposedly made things easier for guys like them in the military, but that’s not the sort of thing Bradley wants to test the accuracy of on a random Wednesday evening in Lemoore while surrounded by a bunch of strangers. 

Bradley is smart. He’s made it far enough in his field to know that, but he also knows that he’s been doing stupid things with Jake Seresin longer than either of them have been pilots. 

“Is there a reason you think I’m going to disappear?” 

Hangman’s thumb presses against the inseam of his jeans and his smile turns even more crooked. “Well, I don’t know,” he drawls. “I bet I could think of a few good reasons to keep you busy.”

A sense of deja vu makes its way up Bradley’s spine. This conversation is a familiar one. He knows how this night is going to go even before he gives in to the urge to nod and meet Hangman’s gaze through his lashes. “Alright, cowboy. Show me what you’ve got in mind.” 

-

What Hangman has in mind ends up taking place out back instead of the bathrooms like Bradley would have expected. That’s probably a good call, though. The bar they’re at isn’t the most high class establishment and Bradley doesn’t really trust that the sanitation standards inside any of the bathroom stalls would be up to par, especially while Hangman is wearing his uniform. 

The spot Hangman leads him to is secluded. Bradley wonders if he takes people back here on a regular basis. He knows that Hangman is stationed out of California. This is his turf Bradley is on. 

It’s not like Bradley’s remained abstinent in the time that’s passed since they left Top Gun, but something unpleasant turns in his gut as he pictures Hangman bringing someone else out here. Pressing their back to the same wall. Cupping their face in the same way. 

Hangman’s thumb strokes over the raised skin that marks Bradley’s cheek, and something satisfied curls up to replace what’d just turned his stomach. That’s a gesture reserved only for Bradley. He chalks up the irrational jealousy to misplaced bitterness from his usual birthday blues and tries to focus on the warm body that’s in front of him. 

He doesn’t have a claim over Hangman and Hangman doesn’t have a claim over him. That’s a decision that was made years ago, but Hangman doesn’t need a claim to be able to lean in and kiss him when Bradley is more than willing to meet him halfway. 

Hangman’s tongue still carries the taste of Bourbon. It’s a contrast to the cheap beer Bradley remembers tasting on him the first time they ever did this. They’ve grown up since then, and yet somehow, Hangman’s touch makes Bradley’s head spin the same way as it did during college and every other time they did this during training. 

They’ve grown up, but they haven’t outgrown this. It surprises Bradley, how easy it is to slip back into old habits, but when those habits involve the heat of Hangman’s mouth and his hands sliding up under his shirt— well, Bradley is only human. Sometimes it feels like Hangman will always be one of his vices.

Bradley leans his head back as Hangman’s lips travel down the side of his neck, hands slipping down to grip at his waist while Hangman uses his to grope at his chest. He’s only half-hard in his jeans, but the way Hangman pinches the sensitive points of his chest and rolls them between his fingers is enough for him to gasp and jerk his hips forward in search of friction that will get him all the way there. 

Hangman chuckles against his skin and flicks at one of his nipples. “Easy as ever,” he hums. 

Heat rises to Bradley’s cheeks. “Fuck off.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” A kiss is pressed to the hollow of his throat before Hangman brings his head back up to nip playfully at the cut of his jaw. “Keep coming back for more, don’t I?”

Bradley makes a broken sound. He isn’t sure if it’s in response to Hangman’s words or the hand now cupping over the tented front of his jeans. Hangman quiets the noise by capturing him in another kiss, nail scraping a teasing line over the skin that sits above his waistband when they break apart. 

“You’re an asshole,” Bradley says hoarsely.

Hangman grins and draws him in closer with fingers hooked around the edge of his jeans. “Nothing you didn’t know already.”

“Maybe I forgot.”

“It has been three years,” Hangman muses, mockingly thoughtful where Bradley is struggling to retain any thoughts at all. “But if I’m an asshole, you’re a thief.” He leans in and whispers his next words against the corner of Bradley’s mouth. “Don’t think I don’t remember how we left things off.”

Bradley’s fingers tighten around his sides. He has to swallow down the weak sound of protest that pushes up in his throat. 

Three years and he still remembers too. Sneaking out of Hangman’s room the morning of their graduation without bothering to wake him up wasn’t his finest moment, and taking that stupid sweatshirt with him definitely wasn’t his smartest move. He should have known Hangman would never let it go, but to tell the truth, Bradley wasn’t sure he was ever going to see him again. 

Hangman’s fingers slip under the elastic of his briefs. “You know, I would have just given you that sweatshirt if I knew you wanted it so much.” 

He’s still teasing, but Bradley’s face burns at being called out. He hadn’t thought Hangman would care all that much about him leaving without saying goodbye. 

Does this mean Hangman has thought about him over the past few years? Wondering where he is, what he’s been up to past the glimpses he’s gotten through mutual friends’ social medias the way Bradley has with him?

It’s not like Bradley is hung up on him. He’s just found himself getting curious, every so often. He and Hangman have been in each other’s orbits for a long time, and while there are plenty of macho dickheads to be found in the military, Hangman is a pretty one-of-a-kind sort of guy. 

Bradley has been to a lot of places and met a lot of people since they last saw each other, but he’s yet to come across someone that ignites the same spark in him as Jake Seresin does when they’re together. 

He doesn’t know what to do with any of those thoughts. It’s not like he can share them with the man standing in front of him, so he goes with the next best thing. He kisses him, hands moving down to clutch at his hips and drag him closer until he gets the hint. 

Thankfully, Hangman’s perceptiveness has prevailed over time as well. He smiles against Bradley’s lips and pushes forward with one of his thighs until it's snug between Bradley’s own. “Consider this an early birthday present.”

“Jesus,” Bradley groans. “You ever shut up?”

“Only when I feel like it.” Hangman’s hips roll forward at the same time he grabs Bradley’s ass with both hands. “But you’re welcome to see if you can make me.” 

Bradley only catches a glimpse of Hangman’s spit-slick lips before he slots their mouths back together. As much as he wants to savor the soft press of it, he can’t help but lean into the underlying promise of more that he can feel building between them. 

He loses track of how long it’s been since they came outside, too preoccupied with reacquainting himself with the feel of Hangman’s body and his mouth. He knows that at some point, Hangman reaches up and undoes the first few buttons of his shirt so that it’s Bradley’s bare skin pressing against the hard metal of his nametag when he drags him into their next kiss. 

With his eyes shut and Hangman’s hands on him, it’s almost too easy to forget where they are and how what they’re doing isn’t meant to be done so out in the open. There’s no one else back here besides the two of them, but if Hangman knows about this place, it’s safe to say other people do too. Hopefully none of their friends will think to look for them out here. 

However long they’ve been at it, it’s enough for both of their lips to be swollen by the time Hangman pulls away and looks at him with eyes that are half-lidded. He doesn’t step back, but he slows the slow roll of his hips and brings a hand up to brush his thumb over the bristle of Bradley’s mustache.  

“You miss this, honey?”

Bradley’s tongue darts out, and then Hangman’s thumb is brushing across the tender swell of his bottom lip as well. Did he miss this? Is that an actual question, or just another taunt meant to get Bradley to shut him up?

Serious or not, he can’t bring himself to answer that question no matter how gentle Hangman’s voice is when he asks it again, this time with a slight difference. “You miss me?”

What is Bradley supposed to say to that? Yes? That there were times over the past three years where he did miss having someone whose hands already felt familiar when they touched him? That sometimes, he regretted not saying anything on that last night?

There’s no honest answer he could offer that would fit into this moment. They’re already operating on stolen time as it is. 

“S’alright,” Hangman murmurs. It sounds like maybe he hadn’t expected to get an answer to those questions anyways. “I still remember how to give you what you need.”

He pops open the button of Bradley’s jeans and manages to get the zipper halfway down until the sound of the door creaking open around the corner makes them both freeze. 

Bradley would groan if he could get away with making noise. Great. More deja vu from the last time they tried something like this at a bar. He should have known.

“Hey, babe. No, we’re still out.” Whoever has stumbled outside has clearly had their fair share to drink tonight. “What, I can’t call you to say that I miss you?” 

Bradley tries to avoid looking everywhere but at Hangman, seeing as his hand is still halfway shoved down the front of his pants while there’s a stranger standing not ten feet away, but eventually they make eye contact. Hangman’s lips are pressed together and he looks like he wants to laugh. Unlike Bradley, he’s making no effort to avoid listening in on this guy’s drunken conversation with what sounds to be his very exasperated girlfriend. Bradley’s trying not to listen, but the guy isn't exactly being quiet. 

He isn’t exactly being still either. Bradley can hear scuffed footsteps pacing back and forth, but they don’t seem to be moving in their direction. He relaxes the tiniest amount— and then tenses right back up again when Hangman takes it upon himself to tighten his grip around the front of Bradley’s still stiffened-up dick.

Bradley would do a lot more than glare at him if he could, but as things are, he can’t even tell him off out loud. Don’t, he mouths. 

Hangman smiles innocently at him and gives him another squeeze. Bradley wants this guy to leave so he can smack Hangman upside the head just as much as he wants him to leave so they can get back to doing… other things. 

Only that isn’t the only interruption they end up having to worry about. Bradley’s phone buzzes in his back pocket. It’s quiet enough for their guest not to hear— not that he would notice anyways, with how he’s still rambling— but Bradley’s eyes widen enough for Hangman to roll his at him before he fishes into his jeans and pulls it out for him. 

It’s a text from Scorpion. Where R U dude?

Bradley closes his eyes. This is what he gets for letting Hangman drag him out here. His teammates are good people, but that doesn’t mean he wants them to quite literally catch him with his pants down. 

He silently prays to whatever higher power is up there that he’ll somehow manage to get out of this unscathed. 

The universe usually doesn’t tend to look kindly upon him in terms of luck, but his prayers seem to go through this one time. 

“Call you when I get home. Yeah. Love you too, baby.” The end of the call is followed by a heavy sigh that Bradley holds his own breath through, but he doesn’t end up needing to worry. It only takes a few more moments before the door opens, sounds of the bar drifting out and then cutting right back off when it falls shut again. 

Bradley lets out a slow exhale, shoulders slumping in relief. That was the closest they’ve come to being caught in a long time. Hangman finally lets loose the laugh he’s been holding back and Bradley can’t even be mad at it now that they aren’t in danger of being found out. He smiles and shakes his head, shoving at one of Hangman’s shoulders. 

“That was one of the guys from my squad that texted me. I don’t think I can get away with being MIA for much longer.”

Hangman sighs in feigned disappointment, but is kind enough to help get Bradley’s jeans back in a presentable state. “Shame. Guess you’ll just have to take a rain check on the birthday blowjob I was about to give you.” He pats Bradley on the cheek before getting to work on buttoning his shirt back up as well. “Lemme see your phone.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows, but hands Hangman his phone as requested. Hangman only needs it for a second or two. When he turns the screen back around, it shows a new contact has been created. Bradley looks up at him, not sure what to say. 

Luckily, Hangman almost always has that problem covered for him. “Give me a call next time you’re in town.” He grins, dimples flashing as he tucks Bradley’s phone into his back pocket for him and gives his ass a teasing squeeze after. “That way our plans can be… better laid.”

“Subtle,” Bradley says. It seems safest to go with a one word response in this instance. 

“That’s me.”

He isn’t expecting Hangman to lean back in to kiss him now that his clothes are back in order and the promise of more has been cut short, but he does. It’s shorter than the others. Almost sweet. 

Hangman steps back while Bradley is still processing it, taking a second to straighten out his own clothes before offering him a lazy salute. “Happy early birthday, Bradshaw. I’ll see you around.”

Bradley nods. “See you,” he echoes. 

As Hangman makes his way around the corner, Bradley finds himself already wondering if it’ll be another three years before that happens. What does it say that he’s not wondering if it’ll happen again, but when?

He doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or thankful that he doesn’t see Hangman at the bar when he finally heads back inside. 

-

SEPTEMBER 2019

From the moment Bradley first hears Jake Seresin call his name across the Hard Deck, it’s been exactly one year, three months, and twenty-four days since the last time they saw each other. 

Not that Bradley wakes up every day thinking about that number. He doesn’t— usually. But when he’d gotten the recall for this detachment, he knew even without having to ask that Hangman was going to be one of the other pilots heading back to Top Gun with him. 

The higher ups want the best of the best. Hangman is definitely one of those people, and with the kill he landed under his belt not too long ago, he’s an obvious choice for whatever top secret mission is in the works. Bradley isn’t surprised to find that he already knows most of the other pilots that have crowded around the pool area. 

Phoenix is still introducing him to the few that he doesn’t know when the sound of a familiar Southern drawl cuts into the conversation. 

“Bradshaw. As I live and breathe.”

Bradley’s eyes flick up. As prepared as he thought he’d made himself for this moment, it’s strange seeing Hangman in person again. It’s even stranger for it to be with so many of their former classmates here to witness the exchange. The last couple times Bradley crossed paths with Jake Seresin, there wasn’t exactly an audience standing by waiting to watch them get reacquainted. 

One year, three months, and twenty-four days .  

Bradley lifts his head and tilts it in acknowledgement of Hangman’s greeting. “Hangman.” He watches as Hangman plucks the pool stick out of Bob’s hand without so much as a warning. Bob doesn’t protest, but it’s clear he wants to. 

So, still an asshole. It seems that’s one thing that will always withstand the test of time. So is what Bradley touches on next. 

“You look good.”

“Well, I am good, Rooster,” Hangman responds without taking his eyes off of the shot he’s lining up to take. He gives Bradley a sideways glance that’s just as crooked as his smile right before he taps the ball forward, aim just as impeccable here as it is in the air. “I’m very good. In fact, I’m too good to be true.”

Less than five minutes of them being face to face and already Hangman is getting back to what he seems to be best at other than flying: pushing Bradley’s buttons. Time hasn’t been able to change that either. 

Bradley scoffs and shares an exasperated look with Phoenix. He still hasn’t told her about how he and Hangman spent their first tour around Top Gun, but she doesn’t need to know those details to come to the same conclusion as Bradley already has. 

Hangman is always going to be one cocky son-of-a-bitch. 

The focus of conversation shifts briefly as one of the pilots Bradley has just become newly acquainted with— Payback, he’s pretty sure— cuts in and asks the question of who knows what about the detachment they’ve all come back for. Nobody does, but far be it from Hangman to admit that he doesn’t have all the answers. 

“Well, mission’s a mission,” he hums, circling around the table as he examines which angle he wants to wake for his next shot. “They don’t confront me. What I want to know? Who’s going to be team leader.” He sweeps his gaze around the room like he’s taking in his competition, but in the end it’s Bradley that his gaze settles on. “And which one if y’all has what it takes to follow me.”

It’s an obvious taunt. They haven’t even set foot back on Top Gun yet, but already the competition is sparking back up between them. 

Everyone’s eyes are back to being on them. What is Bradley supposed to do? Back down? 

“Hangman, the only place you’ll be leading anyone is an early grave.” 

Hangman goes still, as if the barb has caught him off guard. Bradley knows it’s for show. Even the way his smile drops as he straightens up is just another part of the charade. They’ve said far worse things to each other. 

His expression doesn’t remain flat for long. There’s a smirk creeping its way across his face when he moves to slide past Phoenix, fully settled by the time he’s made his way around the table to stand in front of Bradley instead. 

“Well, anyone who follows you is just going to run out of fuel.” He settles back against the table, pool cue braced between his legs. “But that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch. Waiting, for just the right moment…” As he’s speaking, he leans forward, further and further until he’s stepped so close there’s only a few inches between them. “That never comes.”

Bradley’s eyes dart down to Hangman’s mouth before he can stop them, body wanting to respond in the way it would if they were alone. But they aren’t alone, and Hangman is using that to his advantage. 

He doesn’t give Bradley the chance to respond before he’s getting the last word in. “I love this song.” With that, he walks off.

Bradley watches him go, gaze still trained on his back when Phoenix sidles up to provide her own commentary. 

“Well, he hasn’t changed.”

“Nope,” Bradley says. “Sure hasn’t.”

She can’t possibly know how much he means that. No one but Hangman can, and with the way he’d been going on about waiting and right moments… 

He looks away before Hangman can look back and catch him staring. They’ve got bigger things to worry about than Hangman’s mind games. 

-

Following the last night the two of them spent together in a bar, Bradley only used Hangman’s number a singular time.

Not because it ended in disaster or anything. It hadn’t. It’d actually gone pretty smoothly. 

It’s not like he’d been avoiding calling him up after that night, but Hangman had said to call him the next time he was in town, and it took over a year from that point for that to happen again. He’d thought that maybe Hangman wouldn’t even answer when he reached out. Maybe he’d forgotten he made the offer to begin with or he’d found someone new to mess around with since then. Maybe he’d even found someone where things were serious. 

Bradley wouldn’t have held that against him, but he has to admit he was more than a bit relieved when Hangman picked up his call within the first few rings. 

They’d made arrangements to meet up at Bradley’s hotel. Things had been pretty cut and dry from there. 

Hangman had shown up at his door half an hour later and kissed him before Bradley even had a chance to properly welcome him inside. They’d fallen into bed, fucked, caught their breath, and then fucked again after. Bradley hadn’t expected anything different, but he hadn’t expected Hangman to stick around either, which he had, for whatever reason. 

It wasn’t like the night before graduation. Bradley hadn’t been held and Hangman hadn’t stayed long enough to fall asleep. It’d barely been an hour, and all they’d done was order room service and stay sprawled out on the bed next to each other. They’d barely been touching, but they’d talked. Hangman had asked him how he was liking his newest assignment. Bradley had answered and asked him if he’d ever wanted to be stationed outside the states again. Somehow, they’d wound up actually having a conversation– and for once, it didn’t immediately devolve into an argument. 

It could have been because they were both too worn out from what they’d just done to keep up their usual stream of bickering, or just because neither of them had felt like it. Either way, lounging there through the afterglow had felt… normal. 

Hangman had stopped to kiss him one last time before heading out, just like the time before.

Bradley hadn’t stepped foot back in California for over a year after that, and even now that he’s here, he hasn’t given in to the temptation of rekindling that particular flame. It’s not just because training is keeping them busy or because there are too many people who might figure their routine out, though those are both good reasons that Bradley has been trying to hammer into his mind– it’s also because Bradley hasn’t been able to bring himself to look Hangman in the eye ever since what happened in the classroom. 

After that night at the hotel, he’d thought that maybe things between them would be different. Still competitive, but more civil. Maybe they could even learn to tolerate each other. They’re supposed to be on the same team, after all. No matter who ends up leading it. 

Hangman has never been much of a team player, though, has he? He’s never bothered pretending otherwise. 

It’s Bradley’s fault for hoping for something different, but it’d been Hangman’s fault when Bradley leaped at him from across the classroom, hands going straight for his collar to do something he’s still not sure he would have regretted. 

Hangman would have deserved it. He knows that, doesn’t he? Isn’t that the reason he hadn’t fought back, even when Bradley was red-faced and spewing words he desperately wished would have hurt just as much as the ones Hangman hurled in his direction?

Jake Seresin is a lot of things. He’s arrogant. Antagonistic. So blunt it makes him border on unlikable despite all of his other charms. He’s willing to do almost anything to get his own way, and that includes saying shit that’s meant to sting. He’s intelligent and perceptive and his manipulation tactics are all the more effective because of it. 

Bradley knows all this. He’s known all of this since they were at Top Gun the first time, but while Hangman is a lot of things, he isn’t normally cruel. Cutthroat, sure. Bradley has a begrudging respect for how focused that makes him on his target. 

It’s become crystal clear that that respect isn’t mutual. Maybe it’s never been. Just because Hangman told him no hard feelings one time over half a decade ago— it doesn’t even matter if he’d meant it back then. Hard feelings are all that Bradley seems to have as of late. 

Maverick popping back into his life unexpectedly would have been hard enough to handle on its own. Having to handle that on top of Hangman being here, and now half the class probably gossiping about what happened to his father?

Bradley sits on the bench in front of his locker and stares at the screen of his phone. He’d come in here for some peace and quiet. So far, he’s only managed to find the latter. 

Even that escapes him once he hears the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. He looks up right as the door creaks open, blinking in surprise at who it is he sees. 

He’d thought it might be Hondo coming to kick him out, or maybe Maverick trying to convince him to pretend things aren’t still irreconcilable between them. It doesn’t end up being either of them. 

“You gonna brood in here all night?”

Bradley clicks the lock button on his phone and pockets it before Phoenix can get close enough to see the photo of him and Maverick he’d been staring at. “You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Phoenix shrugs and looks around. Other than the two of them, the locker room is empty. There’s not much for her to see. “Neither are you. Everyone else went home an hour ago.”

“So why haven’t you?”

She gives him a look and he drops his gaze down into his lap. Yeah, he knows. She’s here for the same reason she stayed through the rest of his pushups. “Because I wanted to check and see if my friend was okay.”

“I’m fine.” That gets him another look and Phoenix dropping down on the bench to sit beside him. He sighs and corrects himself. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know that what Hangman said got to you,” Phoenix says, which is true. Hangman might be one of the few people here who has heard the story with his father, but Phoenix is the only one Bradley has confided in about his papers being pulled by the man who has been assigned to instruct them. “But he’s just another idiot who leaves his brains in the cockpit. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

That’s also true, in some ways. But in others… Well, Hangman might not know the full story of how Maverick fits into Bradley’s life, but if today had made one thing clear, it’s that he knows more than Bradley thought. Not just about his past, but about him. 

If he thought being called a liability got under his skin, that was nothing compared to hearing Hangman tell Maverick that he isn’t cut out for this. That it was going to be Bradley’s inability to move on from the past that got someone else killed. 

It’s not even the fact that he did it in front of their teammates. It would’ve hurt just as much if it was only the three of them in the room, because everything Hangman had said were things that Maverick had already told Bradley himself. It hasn’t just gotten under his skin. It’s cut down to the deepest part of him. The one that he normally tries to keep closed off, where memories of his parents and the better days with Maverick are stored beside the grief and the ghosts from his past he has to push down every time he takes off into the sky. 

It touches on something personal. Something that suggests Hangman has seen past his surface, and for some reason, that scares the hell out of him. 

So much of Bradley’s time in the Navy has been devoted to trying to keep people from being able to spot his weaknesses. Hangman being able to make him fall apart in front of everyone with nothing more than a few well placed jabs— does that mean he’s failing? When did he give Hangman the power to do that?

It really shouldn’t have hurt so much. Hangman is… well, he’s Hangman. They aren’t friends. Never have been.

But not being able to make it as a pilot has been one of Bradley’s greatest fears since he was a teenager. He thought he could keep Hangman from finding that out, despite all of the other intimacies they’ve shared. 

He was wrong. Maybe that’s his fault too. 

“Nat,” he whispers without looking up. “Can I tell you something?”

Phoenix is quiet for a moment, likely taken aback by Bradley’s usage of her real name rather than her call sign. It’s a sign of how serious of a conversation this is. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”

And he does. He’s already told her more than he’s told anyone else, but this is different. This is something he’s been keeping from her— from almost everyone— for a long time. 

“Hangman and I have been hooking up.”

To her credit, the only outward reaction she gives to his confession is a slow blink and another long pause before she responds. “Okay.” 

“And it’s been going on for… a while.”

“How long is a while?” Her voice is soft. It’s clear she’s being careful with what she says. It’s not that his interest in men— or Hangman’s for that matter— is new information to her considering know long they’ve been in each other’s lives, but everything else certainly is. 

Bradley appreciates the delicacy. It makes him feel further away from falling back apart. “How long you got for me to tell you?”

She drops her hand on top of where he has his knuckles curled around the edge of the bench, squeezing gently. “I’m not going anywhere until you make me.”

He smiles at her, small but genuine. It’s good to know at least one person in this place will have his back no matter what. 

-

Surprisingly, Maverick’s impromptu attempt at team-bonding ends up being a success.

Bradley would have thought it was a planned out activity if it weren’t for the last minute change in instruction, not to mention the expression Cyclone had been wearing when he came storming onto the beach. Obviously, he hadn’t been clued in on their change in plans whatsoever. 

Bradley sort of wishes he still had an in with Maverick just so he would’ve gotten the text earlier. If he had, he wouldn’t have packed only jean shorts in his duffel bag for the day. They’re not the most pleasant thing to be wearing while rolling around in wet sand, but it’s still fun tossing the ball around with everyone. Even though he knows most of the others already, it’s good to get to interact with the ones he’s only talked to in passing. 

There’s one point where Halo hip-checks him so hard that he almost falls over. She spends a good five minutes apologizing for it. Payback doesn’t bother doing that when he bowls Maverick to the ground. The sun is so bright Bradley can barely even make out who it is that's fallen until he’s already reached down to help him up. 

Maverick smiles at him and it shakes something loose enough in Bradley’s chest for him to pat him on the shoulder before he jogs off. 

It’s the first vaguely friendly moment that's been shared between them. Not a forgiveness, but… a truce, maybe. 

Maverick isn’t the only person that Bradley reaches one of those with today. Ten minutes have barely passed before Bradley finds himself being sent tumbling down into the sand as well, landing on his back with a groan that goes unnoticed amongst all of the other anarchy ensuing. 

One person seems to notice, though. Bradley’s still trying to find it in himself to sit up while the wind is knocked out of him when a shadow falls across his body. He looks up and sees the hand that’s being stuck out before his eyes settle on the face of the person offering it. 

With his sunglasses on, it’s hard to get a read on Hangman’s expression, but he doesn’t back away even as Bradley stares at him instead of accepting the help. 

His hand remains where it is. 

Another beat passes, but then, Bradley takes it. 

Hangman pulls him up and claps him on the back with a small smile that Bradley tentatively returns. This is the first interaction they’ve had since what happened in the classroom. Bradley was the one reaching out then. Not to help, but to hurt. 

There are still hints of that lingering around the edges of his mind. This isn’t a forgiveness either, but Bradley doesn’t want to spend the rest of the time they have to prepare for this mission hating one of the people he’ll most likely be flying it with. 

Phoenix walks up to him once Hangman returns to the game, taking a second to brush the sand off her thighs before she asks, “You okay?”

She hasn’t been hovering ever since he told her the truth yesterday, but there’s an underlying concern in her tone. Bradley nods, and finds himself actually meaning it. 

“I’m good,” he says. “I think everyone needed a bit of a break.”

She hums in agreement. The deeper they get into preparation for the mission, the more the tension surrounding it has increased. It’s not just Bradley that’s been under stress, even if he had been the first to outwardly snap. “Promise of free booze doesn’t hurt any.”

“No, it certainly does not.”

The stretch of beach they’re currently on sits across from the Hard Deck, which Penny has agreed to open up an hour early just for them. Perks of the instructor having history with the local bar owner. 

She’s been sitting up on the porch for most of the afternoon, but it isn’t much longer before she disappears inside. When she comes back out, it’s to pull the doors open and wave to Maverick, who jogs up from his chair to join her. 

Bradley watches them for a second. Penny laughs as Maverick says something to her and Maverick smiles in response. He wonders if they’ve always been like that. He knows they have a complicated past, but looking at them together, they just seem so… easy. Like they’ve both learned how to let things with each other go. 

He wishes he knew how to do that too. 

-

Everyone heads inside after the dogpile on top of Hondo finally untangles. 

Almost everyone. Bradley stays behind with the intention of folding up the beach chairs they’ve left scattered around before the tide comes rolling in. He’s just gathered the first few and started to carry them up towards the porch when someone falls in step beside him. 

It’s Hangman. He has a couple chairs folded up under his arms and the cooler full of waters Maverick put out earlier in hand. They both have to circle back for a second trip to get the rest of the chairs, but Hangman doesn’t speak until they’ve reached the porch and finished stacking them against the railing. 

“You know, for someone who doesn’t care about football, you’re pretty good at it.”

Bradley pushes his sunglasses up on his nose. “I like football. Just never really had time to pay attention to it when I was in school.” He knows UVA’s team wasn’t half bad, but going to games wasn’t at the top of his priority list back then. “I was more into Little League growing up. Pitched for my high school team.”

“More of a baseball guy.” 

“Yeah.” Bradley allows the corners of his mouth to curl up into a small smile. 

“Makes sense you’ve got a great throwing arm, then.”

It’s possible Hangman is just trying to butter him up, back on his good side after what happened yesterday— except Hangman has never been one to take that route. He tends to say what he means. 

Either way, Bradley takes the compliment. “You play in high school?” 

“I did.”

“Let me guess. You were the quarterback.”

Hangman smiles too now. “What gave it away?”

Bradley isn’t about to admit to watching Hangman’s biceps flex through his well-practiced throws throughout the day. He shrugs. “You’ve got the personality for it,” he says, because it’s true. 

Hangman might not like being a team player, but it doesn’t take away the other qualities that give him the shape of a leader. He’s smart. He’s decisive. He’s also bossy as hell, but that’s besides the point. 

Maverick won’t make his recommendation for team leader for at least a few more weeks, but it’s not hard to tell that everyone already has an idea in mind of who it might be. Hangman is one of the obvious options. Bradley is the other. Whichever one of them isn’t chosen will likely end up being the other’s wingman. 

That should scare Bradley a lot more than the idea of Hangman seeing through him does. Hangman doesn’t slow down for anyone. He’d said it himself just the other day. They couldn’t keep up. He’s not willing to wait. He’s good enough not to need to. 

Bradley has witnessed Hangman abandon his wingman on more than one occasion during their training exercises— but, he also listened as Hangman coached him from above when they were flying against Maverick the other day. 

If Bradley had taken the shot when Hangman told him to, he probably would have won. That's a form of teamwork, isn’t it?

Hangman steps off the porch and onto the path that leads around the building to the parking lot out front. Bradley speaks before he can bite his question back. “You leaving already?”

“Nah.” Hangman shakes his head. “Just gonna go grab a shirt from my truck that isn’t covered in sand.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Bradley fidgets with the hem of his own t-shirt he’d thrown back on once the call was made to lay the footballs down, having left it draped over the back of Phoenix’s chair to avoid that very problem. “Good idea.”

Hangman pauses, lips pressing together like he’s debating on whether or not he wants to say what he’s thinking. 

Bradley thinks he knows what that might be. He remembers how things went the last time they were in this position, the last ones on the beach after a day spent in the sun with their fellow trainees. 

Hangman doesn’t drive the same truck now as he did back then. Bradley wonders if this one would fit them both inside too. He’s still working his way through flashbacks of wet mouths and frantic touches when Hangman clears his throat. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says. Bradley doesn’t think he’s imagining the roughness in his voice. “You should go inside.” He turns to take a step away, but looks over his shoulder before going any further. “Save me a beer?”

“No problem.” 

Bradley swallows his disappointment as Hangman rounds the corner. He doesn’t have any right to feel let down anyways. He hasn’t forgiven Hangman. It’s a fluke they’re getting along for longer than five seconds in the first place. 

He heads inside, grabs two beers, and slides into the seat across from Coyote once he makes it over to the tables where everyone is sitting. The chairs beside both of them are empty. 

When Hangman comes back in, he takes the one beside Bradley, muttering a quiet ‘ thanks’ for the beer. Phoenix is over by the jukebox with Halo laughing at the song choices Fritz is suggesting, but Bradley can feel her eyes on them. He avoids making eye contact with her. 

He knows what she’s wondering, and he doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what the hell is going on between him and Hangman either. 

Chapter Text

OCTOBER 2019

Bradley hates hospitals. 

He has since he was fifteen. That was the age where he started having to visit them on a regular basis. 

He doesn’t have an irrational fear of doctors or needles or anything like that. He can get through physicals and vaccinations without an issue, but hospitals are different. Hospitals, in his experience, are where people he loves have gone to die. 

It speaks to how much he loves Phoenix for him to be willing to step foot in one again. 

He goes by himself. Maverick had been the one to tell him where she and Bob were taken to by the ambulance, but the argument that had followed that conversation, Bradley doesn’t expect Maverick to hold his hand or some shit while he sits in the waiting area. 

Now that he’s had a little time to cool off, Bradley is grateful that Warlock had come in when he did. Guilt has settled in his stomach beside the knot of concern that’s been growing tighter the longer he has to go without being able to see that his friend is alive and well for himself. 

He’d taken a page out of Hangman’s book and said the cruelest things he could think of just to make Maverick flinch— but unlike Hangman, some of what Bradley had said had been untrue. 

Maverick does have people who would care if something happened to him. He may not have a wife or kids on paper, but he has Penny, Ice, and Hondo. Despite everything, he still has Bradley. That’s part of what makes Bradley so angry. 

It doesn’t seem to matter what certain people say or do to him. Even if he can’t forgive them, he can’t make himself hate them. He can shut people out and push them away, but he can’t make himself stop caring.  

It’s been a long time since he last saw the therapist his mother made him start going to around the same time she started getting sicker, but he knows what she would say about this situation. She’d tell him he lashed out out of anger, and he’d been angry not just because he was afraid, but because he was triggered. A fancy way of saying that today’s near-miss had made him think of his father’s death.

How could it not? A training exercise gone wrong because of an engine malfunction, Phoenix and Bob having to eject mere seconds before their jet crashed and burned— it’s haunting. It would be even if it weren’t Phoenix it happened to, but the fact that it is just makes it even more terrifying to think about. 

He clasps his hands between his knees and bows his head. To the outward eye, it probably looks like he’s praying, but really he’s trying to keep his head clear of any thoughts at all. 

It isn’t working. He just opened his eyes and leaned forward in his seat with the intention of going back to the desk to ask where the nurse is when he sees that someone else has already beaten him there. 

Bradley’s not close enough to hear what question Hangman is asking, but whatever answer he gets sends him over to the cluster of chairs where Bradley is already sitting. 

Hangman doesn’t look surprised to Bradley him there, but Bradley is surprised to see him. Surely he isn’t here to see Phoenix. The two of them can barely stand each other, and Hangman’s standing with Bob isn’t much better. 

Luckily, Hangman doesn’t make him have to wonder for too much longer. He takes the chair across from Bradley and nods at him. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Bradley says quietly. 

“I’m guessing you’re here to see Phoenix.”

“Yeah.”

Hangman nods and slouches back into his seat. “I’m here for Coyote.” He sounds just as tired as Bradley feels himself. 

Ah. Bradley almost winces. That makes sense. They’d all barely had time to process Coyote’s blackout before everything else went down, but Hangman and Coyote are about as close as Bradley and Phoenix are. Of course he’d come to make sure his friend is okay. 

“Is he staying overnight too?”

Another nod. “For observation. They just want to make sure he’s good to keep training after…” He trails off, making a vague gesture with his hand. “You know.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says again. He does know. All too well. “I think that Cyclone is back there right now. I don’t know if he’ll be talking with Coyote too, but I’ve been waiting a while. I don’t think they want anyone to see them until he’s done.”

“Done with what?” 

“Questioning them.”

A long moment of silence stretches between them. They both know what that means. Cyclone is going to be poking around about what happened up there— something neither of them can know for sure— to try and gauge whether or not the accident was Maverick’s fault. 

“Shit,” Hangman exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face where Bradley can see the stubble beginning to show through. “I know Maverick’s a daredevil, but you don’t think they’ll find anything, do you? Just because he was flying with them?”

Bradley stares at him. Does he know what he’s asking? He wants Bradley to determine if Maverick is to blame for today’s disaster?

His own words from earlier echo around his head. My dad trusted you. I’m not going to make the same mistake. 

“I don’t know,” he eventually answers. He has to look away before he can go on, feeling too pinned down by Hangman’s even gaze. “Guess we can ask Phoenix and Coyote if we get to see them before visiting hours are over.”

“Javy’s got a hard head. I’m sure Phoenix is the same,” Hangman jokes, but it’s half-hearted. 

Bradley glances back up at him. If he’s close enough to Coyote to use his first name, does that mean Coyote calls him Jake? His eyes drop down to Hangman's chest when the other man shifts to cross his arms. Or more accurately, the logo stamped across it. 

He’s wearing the sweatshirt. The one Bradley had folded up and given back to him the night they were at the hotel. 

Hangman still has it? He brought it with him?

For some strange reason, that makes Bradley’s throat tighten. He looks away again. Right as he does, a woman with a clipboard walks down the hall with Cyclone not far behind her. As usual, his expression is grim. When he sees Hangman and Bradley’s heads turned towards him from the waiting area, it grows grimmer. 

“I can’t tell if that’s a good sign or a bad one,” Hangman mutters once Cyclone has made it to the elevator. 

Neither can Bradley, but he’s torn away from those worries when the woman approaches them, clipboard still in hand. “Are you two here to see the pilots?”

Hangman smiles politely at her. It’s more than Bradley can manage. “That would be us, ma’am.”

“Come right this way.”

They both stand to follow her, and as they do, Bradley can’t help but think that if he has to be in a hospital, it’s nice not to be here alone. 

-

It’s completely by chance that they happen to walk back out into the hall at the same time. Coyote and Bob are sharing the room across from Phoenix’s. Bradley considers dropping in there as well, but he figures having to be in the same room as Hangman will have already worn the both of them out more than enough. 

Now that the scare is over, Bradley would say that they’re all more exhausted than they are anything else. Not just physically, but emotionally as well. 

Phoenix is one of the strongest people he knows. She doesn’t like letting it show when things rattle her, but even she had been a little wobbly around the edges when he talked to her. Watching her go down was hard enough. He can’t even imagine what it was like to be the one who had to eject. 

He couldn’t think of much to say that would make her feel better, but he thinks being there had been enough to help, even if only a little. She’d squeezed his hand before they said goodbye and made him promise to call her if he got wind of anything happening regarding Maverick and Cyclone’s report. 

That topic is what Hangman leads with when they bump into each other in the hall. 

He waits until they’re a few steps away from the doors to speak, voice low enough for Bradley to have to lean in to hear it. “Coyote said it was a bird strike. There was nothing any of them could have done differently, so if Cyclone or anyone says anything different, it’s bullshit.”

Some of the tension leaves Bradley’s shoulders. It’s not that he’d thought today was all Maverick’s fault, but it's good to hear that confirmed with facts. 

“You think they’ll say anything about it tomorrow?”

Hangman shrugs. They make it all the way to the elevators, still standing side by side when he reaches out to punch the button that’ll take them to the Parking exit. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Bradley follows Hangman inside but moves to lean against the opposite wall. No one else gets on before the doors are sliding shut again, and the silence that settles between them feels heavy. 

Heavy is a good way to describe everything that’s happened today. Now that he’s been able to see that Phoenix is okay, the news of the mission being moved up by a full week is back to pressing at the front of his mind. 

Hangman has his hands tucked in his sweatshirt pocket, but Bradley can see where the thick cut of his ring jutting against the fabric, worn thin by time and a plethora of trips through the washer. He tries not to stare, but it’s hard not to think about how many times he’s been in possession of that same article of clothing. How many times they’ve tossed it back and forth over the years. 

It’s a good sweatshirt. Comfortable. Reliable. But surely Hangman must be ready to trade it in for something new, right? Why wouldn’t he?

The sound of the elevator dinging breaks the silence before either of them do. A few more people climb on as they continue going down, but the two of them fall back into step with each other once the doors part to let them out into the parking garage. 

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Hangman says. His hands are still stuffed in his pocket. 

Bradley uses his to pull his keys out of his jeans. “Yeah,” he responds, but doesn’t move. He sighs and looks somewhere past Hangman’s shoulder. How did things get even weirder between then now that they’re not fucking their way through every free moment?

He presses his lips together in a thin line, turning with the intention of walking towards his truck when—

“Rooster.” 

Bradley stops and slowly turns to look back at Hangman, who still hasn’t moved. 

The expression he’s wearing is contemplative. “Whatever ends up happening with this mission—“ He pauses. Bradley isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say or because he’s trying to be careful with how he says it.

Somehow, he thinks he understands what Hangman is getting at, no words necessary. “Yeah,” he says softly. “No hard feelings.”

That gets him a small smile and Hangman’s head tipping in his direction. “Night, Bradshaw.” He’s the first to turn away this time, but it doesn’t keep Bradley from calling out after him.

“Night.”

Bradley climbs in his truck and sits inside without putting the keys in the ignition, spending the next few minutes deep in thought. 

Did he mean what he just said? Sometimes, it feels like things with Hangman will always be hard. There’s too much history. Too many differences in their personalities that make them clash. 

Hangman hadn’t said he was sorry this time either. He hasn't taken any of the things he said back, but now that it’s been a few days— Bradley thinks maybe he’s starting to understand that too. Today gave him a very real glimpse at just how life or death the stakes of this mission are going to be. He’s been in combat before, but this? This is different. It isn't just dangerous, it’s damn near impossible. 

Impossible means that they won’t have much room to be careful. Impossible means that they’ll need to be fearless. 

Those are things he’s always struggled with. He knows that. Maverick knows it. 

Hangman knows it too, and despite his overly-aggressive attempt at pointing it out… maybe he’d had a point, underneath all of the bravado. Maybe getting his feelings hurt was the reality check Bradley needed to realize how high the stakes of this really are. 

It worked, both to hurt him and to get him to that realization. He’s not going to tell Hangman thank you for throwing his father’s death in his face like that, but he doesn’t think Hangman expects him to. Sorry and thanks are two of the things they never say to each other.

There are a lot of things that they tend to let go unspoken. 

There are just as many things Bradley is afraid to ask questions about, like why Hangman— notorious for leaving any and everyone behind— seems to care so much about how fast Bradley flies. Enough to goad him in front of everyone, but not enough to fight back with anything more than words. 

Bradley sighs and starts his truck. Today has been long and dwelling on this train of thought is only making it drag out even longer. He needs to get some sleep. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better. 

-

If there’s one thing Bradley knows about, it’s losing time. He started having to handle that at a younger age than most. 

He lost time with his father. With his mother. He’s still losing time with Maverick, it feels like. They haven’t spoken since the argument Bradley ended by saying he doesn't trust him. 

Ice is gone. His funeral took three days to arrange and the mission had been moved up by a week even before that. 

There’s a weight that sits over everyone on the carrier that makes Bradley wonder if they’re all preparing for more losses to come. The look Maverick is wearing as he turns to face them is eerily similar to the one he'd been wearing during his speech at Ice’s service. 

The grief is still fresh for him. For Bradley, too. It’s not fair that they’ve having to fly this mission so soon, but that’s the thing about loss. It’s never fair. Time moves forward no matter what else stays behind, and in this case, they’re having to move forward with it. 

Maverick wasn’t supposed to be coming on this mission, let alone leading it, but in a way Bradley isn’t surprised that he is. If anyone can pull off the impossible, it’s Maverick. He is surprised that the opportunity of being named team leader being taken away isn’t a bigger disappointment, but now that they’re standing on board the carrier only minutes away from launching, he thinks that maybe being team leader wasn’t really what he was working towards these past few weeks. 

It’s been more about proving himself. To Maverick. To himself. Maybe even to Hangman, in some ways. It’s the two of them that Bradley finds himself glancing between as Maverick steps forward, expression somber and voice just as grave. 

“Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission.” His gaze sweeps over them. “My choice is a reflection of that and nothing more.” 

Cyclone’s hands are clasped together on his belt buckle so tightly that his knuckles are white. He turns his head towards Maverick. “Choose your foxtrot teams.”

The choices he makes are what Bradley expected. Maverick has never played favorites, but Bradley still knows him well enough to have been able to tell that Phoenix, Bob, Payback, and Fanboy caught his eye. The four of them each exchange glances with their partners. Bradley keeps his eyes lowered, but he can see in his peripheral vision that Hangman straightens up at the sound of Cyclone’s next question.

“And your wingman?”

The moment of silence that follows feels like it passes in slow motion. Bradley’s fists tighten behind his back, nails digging into his palms. 

Is he ready for this mission? Is he even ready to hear who Maverick wants to take with him?

Ready or not, it doesn’t matter. They all get their answer sooner rather than later.

Maverick clears his throat and lifts his chin as he calls out the last name for his team. “Rooster.”

Bradley’s next breath is caught in his throat, trapped by something he thinks might be shock. Maverick chose him. Is that as much of a surprise to everyone else as it is to him? 

He can’t make himself look around to see if that’s true. He can’t even make himself look up until Warlock steps forward to take over Maverick’s role as speaker, and even then, he only looks at Maverick. Maverick doesn’t look back at him before he turns and takes his place a few steps in front of him.

Bradley stares at his back. He should be paying more attention to Warlock’s instruction, he knows, but nothing is being explained that hasn’t been ingrained into him already. They all know this mission like the back of their hand. All that’s left to do is fly it. And, as Warlock reminds them as his speech comes to a close–

“Come home safely.”

Everyone around him begins to move as soon as they’ve been dismissed. Bradley remains where he is, standing alone. He can hear Fanboy and Payback clapping each other on the back behind them and wishing Phoenix and Bob luck before the four of them head out to oversee the rest of their jets’ preparation. 

When he finally does look up, he sees that Maverick is making his own movements, not towards the deck, but towards Hangman, whose head is held just as high as it was before the announcement. Proud as ever, even when Bradley was picked instead of him. 

No hard feelings, Bradley had told him. Does that statement still ring true? How can Hangman not hate him after this? 

Bradley swallows and looks away. He needs to move. The mission is what’s important now, not whatever may or may not be going on in Hangman’s head. He forces himself to walk away without dragging his feet. He isn’t trying to eavesdrop, but as he walks past where Hangman and Maverick are still standing, a portion of their conversation drifts over in his direction.

“You’re one of the most fearless pilots I’ve ever seen,” Maverick is saying. 

Hangman doesn’t disagree. Why would he, when it’s the truth? “But you need someone who’ll put the team first,” he says instead. His expression is angled away from where Bradley is passing by, but his tone is sincere. “I did not demonstrate that to you, sir.” 

Maverick doesn’t respond. Hangman goes on without missing a beat. 

“Rooster is your man.”

Bradley almost stops in his tracks. The only reason he doesn’t is because he knows it would make them look at him, and he doesn’t think he could handle that when the words alone have left his head spinning. 

Everything Hangman has just said is a far cry from the things he’d said that day in the classroom. Does this mean he hadn’t meant them, or that he’s just changed his mind? 

He thinks Bradley is the right choice, even over him. In all of the years Bradley has spent with Hangman in his orbit, he’s never known him to put someone else above him. If anything, he’s only ever seen him try and put other people down.  

That should mean something. That’s a thought Bradley has had about Hangman more times than he’s willing to admit. It could just be the gravity of the mission hitting him, but as he makes his way across the flight deck, he thinks that maybe there could be something meaningful that comes after this. 

All he has to do is make it back. 

-

They’re alive. 

Against all odds, he and Maverick aren’t dead. That’s not to say they didn’t come back a lot more banged up than they were when they left, but… they’re still breathing. 

Bradley’s neck, arms, and back are scratched to hell from the tree branches he’d torn through in his parachute, his ribs are bruised so much it hurts to breathe too deep, and his ears haven’t stopped ringing since his jet was blown up, but he’s still able to get both feet back on deck without immediately falling over. That’s alright enough to celebrate in his books. 

Unfortunately, it’s not alright enough for the med crew to leave him alone for long. He and Maverick have barely separated from their embrace when the first of them comes rushing up, zeroing in on the blood still smeared across both sides of Bradley’s neck. He tries to tell them he’s fine— which is mostly true, even if his ribs are throbbing from how tightly he and Maverick had held each other— but he knows better than to protest when they begin leading him through the crowd. 

To tell the truth, he’s not that broken up about being taken somewhere quieter. It’s not that he isn’t still feeling the euphoria of being able to pull such an impossible plan off. He is. But all of the other things he’s feeling underneath it are quickly pushing their way to the surface, and they’re things he’d rather not have to handle while surrounded by so many people. 

It feels like everyone’s eyes are on him, but as he allows himself to be led away, his gaze catches on one person in particular.  

Hangman is standing beside Coyote, who is cheering so loud Phoenix playfully covers her ears. It’s a direct contrast to the contemplative expression Hangman is wearing. Their eyes meet, locked in place amongst an overwhelming amount of movement. The feigned nonchalance and contagious smile he’d exhibited while clasping Bradley’s hand are gone, replaced with something that Bradley wants desperately to stop and get a read on. 

He can’t. Even if he could, this isn’t the place for them to do anything about what he might find. 

Bradley knows that it meant something when Hangman sought him out before they boarded their jets. He doesn’t think Hangman is aware that Bradley had heard what was said between him and Maverick, but there had still been a sincerity behind the parting statement he’d given to Bradley directly. 

You give ‘em hell. 

And Bradley had. He’d given them hell and gone through it himself just to make it back here. Defied death one time only for it to try and strike twice. Hangman had been the one to keep that from happening. He’d saved his life. 

That means something too, and while a simple handshake doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough to capture the gratitude, it’s going to have to be for now. 

-

Bradley is about as fond of infirmaries as he is hospitals, so needless to say it’s a relief when they finally dock back in the States. The cuts and bruises were easy fixes, and he somehow managed to come out the other side of two crash landings without a concussion, but his ribs weren’t so lucky. He’s got two particularly roughed up ones that send him straight to the doctors for a full x-ray once they’re back on dry land. 

They’ll need a few weeks to fully heal. That’s only part of the reason he’s told that as of now, he’s not to go back up into the air. 

Grounded pending psych eval was Cyclone’s exact wording. Bradley gets it. It’s not just him that’s been grounded— Maverick, Hangman, and all of the others who went up that day are facing the same order— but there is a certain irony he finds in the situation. He spent almost a decade trying to figure out how to stop flying with ghosts and the last few weeks trying to prove to more than one person that he’s worthy of being a pilot. 

As soon as he gets what he’s wanted, he’s restricted from flying altogether. It’s only temporary, he knows. None of them are particularly happy about it, but that unhappiness is outweighed by the joy they’ve been met with upon returning home from what has apparently been dubbed the miracle mission. 

He doesn’t disagree with the name. It’d felt like something close to a miracle, watching Hangman appear through all that smoke. For a moment, he’d thought that maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. That they actually had died and he was just being haunted by an amalgamation of all the things he left unfinished when he was alive. 

It wasn’t that. Hangman’s voice crackling through the radio had made that much clear, smug and somehow cheerful despite the daunting task they’d just pulled off. Hangman’s hand squeezing his once they got back on deck had been very real. 

The handshake may have been enough to tide them over while Bradley was still bleeding, but they’re back in California now. Bradley’s still alive and relatively well, but all that unfinished business he’d regretted leaving behind during the moments he’d spent thinking he was dead feels like a weight pressing down over him. 

Hangman saved his life. Bradley’s not very religious, but who is he to waste a miracle? He knows what a second chance looks like when he sees it, and maybe it’s taken him a few days to build up the courage to act on it, but… he’s here now. That’s what matters. 

Here being outside the door of the apartment he knows Hangman has been renting. He’d gotten the address from Phoenix, who had given him a long look over the drinks they’d been having when he asked. 

She hadn’t asked him what he was planning to do with it or if he was sure that he wanted to, which he’d appreciated— because to be honest, he isn’t sure. His heart is jumping in his chest and he hasn't even knocked yet. 

It takes him another two minutes of trying to work up the nerve before he’s finally successful. He reaches up and raps his knuckles twice on the dark wood. 

He almost died a few days ago. Surely he can handle this. 

The door swings open while he’s still staring at the ground trying to figure out what he wants to say. 

Only it’s not Hangman that he sees standing in the doorway. 

Coyote looks surprised to see him as well. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Bradley says. Fuck. Hangman has someone over. Is this a sign that this is a bad idea? He opens his mouth and takes a half step backwards, ready to rattle off an excuse he hasn’t yet come up with in order to make his escape, but Coyote speaks back up before he can. 

“Jake didn’t say you were stopping by,” he says. His smile is bright. Then, before Bradley can do anything to stop him, he turns and calls over his shoulder. “Yo, J! Rooster’s at the door.”

Any excuse Bradley could have come up with just got a whole lot more complicated. He would close his eyes if Coyote weren’t still smiling at him. His gaze is drifting back towards the ground until he hears footsteps approaching on hardwood. He looks up to see Hangman approaching. 

He’s wearing jeans, a tank top, and a questioning look, bangs sticking out from the backwards baseball cap he has on. He’s holding a beer that he sets on the entryway table. Bradley swallows. He definitely interrupted their hangout. 

“Rooster?” Hangman says, approaching the door. Coyote gives him a sideways glance Bradley doesn’t have the time to examine before disappearing somewhere back inside the apartment. 

“Hi,” Bradley repeats. He’s itching to take another step back, but the curious way Hangman is looking at him keeps him from moving. “I didn’t realize you were busy. I should have called or something. Sorry.” 

I’ll go, sits right on the tip of his tongue, but it dries up as Hangman shakes his head and takes a step out into the hallway. 

“It’s just Javy. He spends half his time over here anyways.” He tilts his head, eyes flicking from Bradley’s face down to the fists he has balled at his sides. “You been doing okay since the doctors cleared you?”

“Yeah. Just taking it easy like they told me to,” he answers softly, trying not to squirm when he feels Hangman’s gaze linger on the scratches that stick out from the collar and sleeves of the t-shirt he’s got on. 

“You wanna come in?”

Bradley’s not sure how to answer that without revealing too much right here in the hallway. He does want to come in, but he can’t exactly do what he came here for when Hangman’s already got company. “I don’t wanna barge in on you guys.” 

“You came all the way over here and you’re planning on leaving without coming in?” Hangman tilts his head, lips pressing together in an amused smile. “Somehow I’m not buying that, Bradshaw.”

Bradley doesn’t know what to say to that either, but Hangman takes it upon himself to find an answer for him. He steps forward and shuts the door. A warm hand wraps around Bradley’s wrist, tugging him closer. 

“I know you wouldn’t have shown up here if you didn’t have something specific in mind,” Hangman murmurs. His other hand lands on Bradley’s waist, fingers slipping up under the edge of his shirt almost immediately. “You gonna make me guess what that something is?”

Bradley’s hands land on Hangman’s shoulders out of instinct. “Maybe,” he manages to say. 

Hangman's first guess lands right on the money. He leans closer. “You miss me?” The question is low, asked into the intimate space that sits between their lips. “You come over here looking for me because you were lonely?”

He’s right and he’s wrong all at once. Bradley did miss him, but he didn’t come looking for him because he was lonely. He came looking for something else. “Yeah,” he whispers anyways, because it’s easier than the truth. 

“Well, you found me.” Hangman closes the short distance between their mouths before Bradley can respond. It’s not a sweet kiss or a particularly rough one. It’s somewhere in the middle, Hangman’s tongue swiping against his lips and Bradley sighing at the wave of relief that sweeps over him when he feels the familiar press of Hangman’s fingertips against his skin.

He has missed this. He’s had Hangman here with him for weeks, but it’s been years since they last fell in with each other, at least in this way. He doesn’t know if Hangman has been holding himself back the same way Bradley has just to keep from giving in to the temptation. He doesn’t really care, at the moment. They’re not holding back anymore.

That becomes a bit of a problem before too long. Bradley is aware that they’ve gotten up to stuff in more than a few risky places, but up against his front door doesn’t seem like the best of ideas, especially with Bradley’s ribs in the state they are. Not to mention the fact that Coyote is in the apartment, hopefully blissfully unaware of what’s taking place outside. 

There’s also the bit about Bradley actually wanting to talk to Hangman at some point. Unfinished business, and all that. 

“Wait,” he gasps when they finally part for air. “Jake, wait.”

Hangman, for once in his life, is quick to obey. Bradley thinks it might have something to do with the name that just slipped out of Bradley’s mouth, but he’s got too many other things making his head spin to dwell on it. “Something wrong?”

Bradley finds that his throat has gone dry. That’s not what makes him stumble over his words. “No. I just…” He trails off. 

Jake picks up his slack for him yet again. “Let’s go inside.” 

He places a hand on the small of Bradley’s back and guides him the door once he’s got it open, barely even sparing Coyote a glance as they pass by where he’s sitting in the living room. He’s got the game on and his own can of beer cracked open. 

He looks at them, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t seem to question it when Jake tells him—

“I’ll see you later.”

Coyote shrugs and gives Bradley a look that holds the silent sentiment of what can you do with this guy? “I’ll see you tonight. Remember there’s that thing at the Hard Deck.”

Jake waves him off, but Bradley nods. Penny will kill both of them if they miss it. They’re two of the seven people meant to share the spotlight. 

Even as Coyote is turning the TV off and gathering his things to leave, Jake continues leading Bradley further into the apartment. They wind up going down the hall and stopping at the last door on the right. Jake gently nudges him inside and Bradley swallows when he sees it’s his bedroom. 

To his surprise, Jake doesn’t immediately jump back on him after the door clicks shut behind their backs. When he does touch him again, it’s not to push him towards the bed or pull him in by the hips like Bradley is expecting. It’s a different sort of touch. One they’ve never shared before. 

Jake’s fingers slip between his, soft underside of his wrist brushing against the side of Bradley’s palm as he reaches to take Bradley’s hand in his own. The gesture is slow. Careful. They’ve done a lot of things over the years, but holding hands isn’t one of them. Jake squeezes gently and Bradley finds himself thinking back to their handshake on the carrier. 

That meant something. Does this mean something too?

Jake steps closer and Bradley swallows. The knuckles of the hand not intertwined with Bradley’s own brush over the more scarred side of his cheeks. He leans into the gesture at the same time Jake leans in to kiss him. 

This time, the kiss is sweet. There’s no teeth or tongue involved, but there are Jake’s fingers wrapping tightly around his and Bradley shifting forward until he can feel Jake’s tags pressing between their chests. It sends a different sort of rush through him than kissing Jake usually does. Not as dizzying, but just as strong. 

Jake lets his hand go and Bradley disguises the small sound of loss he lets out by exhaling against Jake’s mouth. It’s a different sort of intimate, being able to breathe in the same air when Jake breaks their kiss but only pulls back the barest amount. 

“I missed this too,” he whispers. 

While he’s speaking, both of his hands push at the hem of Bradley’s shirt, higher and higher until Bradley gets the hint and moves to tug it over his head. Jake’s palm ghosts over one side of his ribs, not quite touching where the skin is still mottled with bruises. 

Jake whistles, fingertips tracing the faint scratches that mark Bradley’s side. “It doesn’t hurt?” he asks.

“Not anymore,” Bradley answers honestly. “I mean, I won’t be playing dogfight football anytime soon, but… I’m not made of glass.” You won’t break me, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t think he has to. He sets his hand on Jake’s forearm to draw his attention back up to his face. “I’m still in one piece.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t scare the hell out of everyone.”

Bradley tips his head in acknowledgement. “You don’t scare easy, though.” Like Maverick had said, Jake is one of the most fearless people he’s ever met. 

“Not about most things,” Jake says quietly. His hand comes up to curl around the side of Bradley’s neck, thumb only centimeters away from one of his still-healing cuts from the forest. 

His thumb moves higher. Bradley holds very still. Is this Jake saying he was scared? 

“My apologies,” he says in a weak attempt at a joke. “Got any ideas on how I could make it up to you?”

Jake pauses and pulls back far enough for Bradley’s brows to dip. That isn’t how this exchange is supposed to go. Jake is supposed to take the remark as the invitation it is, lean in with a smile, and take the lead. That’s their routine. That’s them. 

Only Jake isn’t leaning in. He’s stepping back from Bradley entirely, hand sweeping through his hair as he takes his hat off and his expression turning tight underneath it. 

“Bradley,” he says. Bradley’s chest has gone tight too now. That’s the first time he’s heard Jake use that name, and what comes next doesn’t do much to loosen it up. “We need to talk:”

It takes a second for Bradley’s throat to cooperate with his tongue. “That’s never a good sign.”

Jake hums. It’s not in disagreement. “Not for most people. But we aren’t most people, are we?”

“No. We aren’t.” Bradley watches him turn to set his cap on top of the dresser, fighting the urge to tuck his arms around himself when Jake looks back at him. Should he put his shirt back on? “I kinda came here because I wanted to do that too. Talk, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“You wanna go first or should I, then?”

Bradley can’t tell if that’s a joke or not, mostly because he’s finding it very difficult to look Jake in the eye all of the sudden. He did come here to talk. He was more than happy to let them get a little distracted beforehand, but now that Jake has brought it up on his own—

 “You suggested it first, so…”

“Alright.” Jake’s voice is neutral. “I’ll go first.”

“I don’t need to sit down for this, do I?” He asks that half as a joke and half as a genuine question.

A beat passes. “I don’t know,”Jake admits. “I don’t—“ There’s a sigh, and when Bradley looks up, he sees that Jake has a hand scrubbing over the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to do this.” Do what? Bradley almost asks, but Jake is already continuing. “I mean, you do one thing for long enough and trying anything else—“ He breaks off to swallow. Bradley’s eyes still can’t seem to move higher than the bob of his throat. “It just feels like you’d be running the risk of ruining something that’s always worked.”

In an abstract way, Bradley understands what Jake is saying. Only somehow, he gets the feeling that Jake isn’t getting at the abstract. He’s trying to talk about something specific. Something he and Bradley are both familiar with. 

He doesn’t have to wait to see if he’s right. Jake has never been one to beat around the bush.

“I’m not going to lie to you and say some shit about love at first sight, because I don’t think either of us believe in it, but…” Jake sighs again and takes a slow step in Bradley’s direction. There’s doubting what first sight he’s referencing. “It’s been a long time since then.”

Eleven years, to be exact. Has Jake kept count like Bradley?

Jake takes another step. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty tired of letting the opportunities pass me by.”

“Opportunities?” One word is all Bradley thinks he could manage without choking while Jake is looking at him like that. 

“I know that even if I stopped right here and let you walk out that door, I’d find you again. I know that, because I’ve done it before, and you have too.” They’re standing so close that Bradley wonders if Jake can feel how fast his heart is pounding. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I know I’d find you, but I don't want to have to wait for that to happen.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want you to leave, because I—“

Bradley kisses him before he can finish, both hands on his cheeks. 

He’s kissed Jake more times than he’s kissed anyone else in his life all put together, but kissing him now— Bradley feels like he's 24 years old again, wide-eyed and wanting for the man in front of him once he finally pulls back. 

“I love you,” he says. It comes out as a rush, but he means it. He means it so much he doesn’t even wait to hear it back before he leans in to kiss Jake again. 

Jake is right. Bradley doesn’t believe in love at first sight. He’s not sure he could even pinpoint the exact moment he knew, but he knows. He knows, and now Jake does too. 

Because of the life he’s lived and the things he’s lost, Bradley thinks there’s always going to be some small part of him that’s afraid the people he cares about will either leave or be taken away. But in the face of everything Jake has just told him and the way he can feel as Jake’s smile breaks out beneath his palms, that part of him is insignificant. 

“Lieutenant Bradshaw, “ Jake drawls, because why wouldn’t that be the first thing he says in response to Bradley‘s confession? “Did you just cut me off so you could beat me to saying I love you?”

Bradley grins. “I might’ve.” He brushes his thumb over the smile lines that crease Jake’s cheek. “Mostly because I knew you’d hold it over my head forever if you said it first, and I plan on making this last for a while.” 

Jake hums and settles his hands on Bradley’s hips, nudging their noses together before he kisses him again. “I was still the one that made the first move,” he mutters against his lips. 

“I’m sure your friends and family will love hearing the story of you dumping your beer on me and attempting to defile me in a public restroom.”

“As I recall, you were fairly enthusiastic about that second part.” 

“Maybe I need a reminder.” Bradley takes a break from the banter to fix Jake with a look that’s soft enough to let him know he isn’t kidding with what he says next. “I did miss you, you know.”

Jake exhales and draws him closer by the hips. “I know things got a little out of hand when I—“

“It wasn’t just you,” Bradley interrupts. He doesn’t want such a happy moment to be overshadowed by their first I’m sorrys. He doesn’t need to be Jake sorry when everything that happened was what it took to get them here. “It was me too.”

It was both of them. In a lot of ways, it always has been. 

“You scared the hell out of me,” Jake still whispers. “I heard everything happen on the radio and when all that time went by— Jesus.” His hand slides back up, hovering over his ribs the same way as he’d done earlier, as if he’s still reveling in the fact that Bradley is safe. “You got no idea what that was like.”

“No,” Bradley admits. “But I know you saved my life. And I’m glad it was you.” He tips their foreheads together. “Who else could have pulled off coming to find me?”

“Thought I missed my chance there for a while.” Jake finally touches him, hand mapping a slow path up from his ribs to his chest, palm flat over the left side. “I love you.” 

Then, because Jake Seresin is never one to change his patterns too much— 

He pinches his fingers down over the most sensitive point. “But don’t ever do that shit again, Bradshaw. You hear me?”

Bradley groans, even as he lets Jake begin walking him backwards towards the bed. Jake may be an asshole, but he’s the asshole Bradley’s fallen in love with. “I hear you.”

“Good.”

They kiss again and it feels like all of the shared time between them melts away until the present is all that’s left. Jake is careful as he lays them down. Their fingers intertwine above Bradley’s head, and the only thought remaining as Jake’s lips move in a slow line over his throat is that he was wrong, all those years ago. That first time in Jake’s room the night before they graduated— that isn’t the moment he wants to live in forever. 

This one is. 

“Just relax, honey,” Jake murmurs. His thumb presses against the tender spot beneath the jut of Bradley’s wrist bone. He places a kiss over the center of Bradley’s chest.  “I’ve got you.”

Even if they hadn’t already been here before, Bradley would know that’s the truth simply from how Jake looks up at him when he says it. 

Jake does have him. He’s had him for longer than either of them knew. 

-

“Jake,” Bradley says, staring down. “What is this?”

“What is what?” Jake calls. He walks into the kitchen where Bradley is standing at the table, hands still attempting to straighten out his hair. They’d only rolled out of bed fifteen minutes ago, having stayed there long enough for it to be late afternoon. Penny will be expecting them pretty soon, but Bradley’s attention has been caught by something other than heading out. 

“This,” he says, gesturing towards the table. More specifically, the item sitting in the middle of it. 

Jake doesn’t answer right away and Bradley glances up at him, eyebrows raised. “You know what it is.” He rolls his eyes when Bradley only raises his eyebrows even further, but that’s what he gets for being vague. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re using your kitchen table as a clothing rack,” Bradley retorts just to give him a taste of his own medicine. “I know what it is, but why is it out here?” 

“Well.” Jake grabs the sweatshirt off where it’s neatly folded in the center of the table, folding it over his arm before turning towards Bradley. “I kinda was planning on giving it to you tonight. Had a whole speech in mind, but since someone decided to so rudely show up at my door, I had to improvise.”

“You were going to give it to me?”

Jake shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he looks slightly self-conscious, which is a new expression on him. “You already stole it once, so… Why, do you not want it?”

Bradley reaches out and snatches it from him. “I didn't say that.”

Jake laughs, but Bradley can tell he’s relieved. Like he thought Bradley would find the gesture stupid even after telling him he loved him. 

How could Bradley not want it, when it’s been such a big part of their relationship over the years? Not just because Jake had been wearing it the night they met, but because tossing it back and forth has been a habit neither of them could bring themselves to break. As old and as worn as the sweatshirt is after all the times they’re traded it off, neither of them ever wanted to get rid of it. 

Bradley shakes the hood out and pulls it over his head. Besides, it’s also just a very comfortable piece of clothing. 

Jake smiles at him and loops an arm around his shoulders. “Subtle.”

“That’s me.”

-

They take the Bronco to the Hard Deck. Bradley can see Natasha pulling up in her own Jeep while he and Jake are climbing out. 

He’s not sure if it's that or the sight of what he’s wearing that tips her off, but her eyebrows are raised and her expression is knowing when she approaches him inside. Her eye pointed flick towards his chest. 

“Since when are the Longhorns your team?” Her voice is deadpan, but the corners of her mouth twitch up as she watches him flounder for an answer. 

Jake ends up finding one for him. “Someone has come into his life that has bettered his taste.” He flashes her a bright smile and passes Bradley one of the beers he’s holding. 

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Natasha leaves Bradley to squirm under his gaze for a few more moments, but then she’s rolling her eyes and pulling him in for a side-hug that she uses the closeness of to whisper in his ear. “As long as he makes you happy, I won’t kick his ass.”

“Thanks,” Bradley whispers back, pressing his cheek to the top of her hair before letting go. 

Jake watches the exchange with his lips wrapped around his beer, raises the bottle in a mocking toast when Natasha steps back. “She hasn’t hit me. Does that mean I have her approval?”

Natasha sniffs at his stage whisper. “Her approval can be revoked at any time.” 

Despite the faces they make at each other, Bradley smiles. He saw them hug on the carrier. Whatever their differences are, Bradley isn’t the only person Jake is getting along with better these days. 

Natasha pats him on the shoulder as she passes by him to go say hello to Payback and Fanboy.

With everything still so fresh, Bradley doesn’t think he or Jake are ready for too much PDA, but he’s happy to let Jake stand a little closer to him than usual. He doesn’t move away even when Coyote eventually comes up to chat with them, but based on the wink Coyote aims at him when Jake has his head turned, Bradley’s pretty sure Natasha isn’t the only one that’s on to them. 

He’s okay with that. They still have a long way to go before they even think about revealing the change in their relationship to the higher ups, but these are their friends. 

Bradley’s eyes land on the Hard Deck’s latest arrival. Some of these people are closer to being family. 

Maverick spots him almost immediately, arm raising to wave at him above the crowd he begins to wade through. Bradley waves back and can see Jake smiling at him for it behind the next sip of his drink he takes. 

If Maverick makes note of how close they’re standing, he doesn’t comment on it before he’s crowding closer himself. He wraps the both of them in an embrace simultaneously, one arm thrown over each of their shoulders. His hand lingers on Bradley’s even as he pulls away, squeezing with a softness that matches his smile. 

“Good to see you’re still in one piece,” he says. Then, turning to direct his next comment towards Jake— “Make sure you keep him that way?”

Bradley blinks. 

Maverick hasn’t said he knows in so many words, but Jake gives him a sideways glance Bradley knows he’ll never, ever admit to being panicked. “Yes, sir,” he answers anyway. “I’ll certainly do my best.”

“Good man.” Maverick claps him on the back as he moves around them, sights now set on where Penny is up at the bar. Bradley stifles a laugh and Jake gives him an unimpressed look for it, but it doesn’t last long enough to keep his smile from showing through. 

“It seems I’ve been lucky enough to avoid getting the shovel talk.”

“For now. I’d still be prepared for some threats,” Bradley tells him, tone feigning sincerity. 

“It’d tak a lot more than some threats to scare me off,” Jake says, voice low enough to let Bradley know the words are just for him. “You’re stuck with me, Bradshaw.”

Bradley sighs and tips his head back. “Guess I’ll just have to learn to live with it.”

Jake huffs. “What a hardship.”

There was a time when Bradley would have thought that them getting to this point would have involved more of a fight. Pushing and shoving or something equally as frantic to get the feelings across. But when it came down to it, that wasn’t what it was like. 

It did take a lot of fighting for them to get here, but now that they’ve made it, things are… easy. Peaceful. In a strange way, Bradley is grateful that they took so long to figure it out. If they’d tried this seven years ago, or three, or even one, he doesn’t think it would have worked the way it does now.

There would have been too many obstacles in their way. Not enough trust. Denial of certain truths. Fear of all the things they might lose. Too many insecurities showing through. 

They wouldn’t have known how to be what the other needed. It’s taken time to learn that.

Bradley has spent so much of his life stuck in his own way, afraid to let himself have things— have people— because he thought he was only allowed to want one thing at a time. Being a pilot was always more important to him than things like love or forgiveness.

He has all three of those things now. 

“You alright?” Jake asks when Bradley falls quiet, eyes sweeping across the room to take in the sight of everyone celebrating. His hand brushes against the small of Bradley’s back and Bradley turns to smile at him, small and private. 

Maybe Jake has always been the right person, but this was the right time. 

“Couldn’t be better,” he says. 

Jake leans in a little closer. “Then how’d you feel about taking a trip down memory lane?” 

His eyes flick towards the corner where the restrooms and Bradley immediately knows what he’s getting at. He smacks him in the shoulder for it and Jake laughs, raising the hand not holding his beer in mock surrender. 

“I was kidding.”

“Sure you were.”

-

OCTOBER 2022

“You know, it’s not like I’ve never been to a football game before.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never been to one with me.” Jake says, ignoring the way Bradley rolls his eyes in order to continue adjusting his cap in the rearview mirror while the light is still red. “Besides, it took me three years to convince you to come, so forgive me for wanting to savor the moment.”

Three years and he’s still just as dramatic as ever. Bradley snorts. “You act like I was refusing your invitations. It’s not my fault you insisted on my first game being at home.”

Home in this case being Austin. It’s not Bradley’s first time being in Texas, but it is going to be his first time watching the Longhorns play. The other times they’ve been in-state have been to see Jake’s parents, mostly during the summer months because of the overlaps with both their birthdays. Jake has a big family. It takes a lot of planning to get them all together, and the jobs Jake and Bradley have contribute to that. Timing is hard.

The smile Jake gives him from the driver’s seat is easy. He lets go of the gear shift and drops his hands on Bradley’s thigh, squeezing. “Just wanted it to be special, is all.”

Bradley huffs, but covers the back of Jake’s hand with his own, slotting their fingers together. This whole trip is supposed to be special, and not just because they’re about to watch Jake’s team play. That’s only part of the reason they’re here. “I know. I landed myself a real romantic.”

“You love it.” The light turns, but Jake keeps his hand on Bradley’s leg as he pulls the truck forward.  

It takes them a bit to find parking, but even after his time away, Jake still knows the city well enough to find them a place that isn’t too much of a walk from the stadium. Texas temperatures leave the weather warm even in early October. Bradley still keeps his jacket tucked over his arm as he climbs out of the truck just in case. 

Jake had insisted he wear something with the team’s name on it to really hammer in the experience. Bradley’s stolen one of his (many) UT shirts instead of wearing the hoodie, opting for something white over the garish orange Jake’s decked out in. With the cowboy boots and the baseball cap he has on also bearing the team’s logo, he fits right in with the crowd they find already milling around the stadium when they get there. 

He has digs around his back pocket for their tickets with the hand not intertwined with Bradley’s, holding up to him with a bright smile as they approach the gate. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Again, this is not my first football game.” Bradley takes the tickets anyway. “But it’s cute that you’re so excited.”

“I’m very cute,” Jake agrees, dropping his hand just to snake his arm around his waist instead. He keeps it there for most of the time it takes to get to their seats, thumb hooked through the loop of Bradley’s jeans.

Three years, and Bradley is still getting used to how easily affectionate Jake is. Not just Jake, but his entire family. It’s not as if Bradley’s parents never kissed or hugged him— or Maverick for that matter— but he went without it for a long stretch of time. Nowadays, they see Maverick more than they get to see Jake’s parents, especially now that Bradley is in the process of becoming a Top Gun instructor and Mav has done everything to move in with Penny except sell the hangar. 

They’ve spent a couple weekends out there with him. The last time, Maverick had tossed them a set of keys to the place and told them they could take the plane out on their own if they ever felt like it. He’d claimed it was Bradley’s birthday present, but Bradley suspects it was a gift for Jake as well. He’s been dying to fly that thing since the first time he stepped foot in the place. 

At first, when reconnecting with Maverick was still in its early stages, Bradley had been afraid that somehow, he wouldn’t find a place in the new family Maverick seemed to have been forming with Penny and her daughter. His fears were very quickly proven to be unfounded. There’s not just been room for him, but for Jake as well. They’ve been in each other’s lives for so long that looking back, it almost feels silly to have ever worried about fitting into any part of it. 

Jake presses a kiss to his cheek and mumbles something about going to grab them both drinks from the concession stand. “I’ll be right back.”

Bradley nods and watches him go, sliding down further in his seat when Jake has made it out of their row. While he’s gone, he takes the opportunity to pull his phone out and check the message Natasha sent him when they were leaving the hotel. 

How’s the vacation going so far?

He snaps a picture of the stadium to send back. It’s a nice night out, the skyline already turning golden above it. Pray we don’t get trampled to death by drunk college students, he adds as the caption. 

Her response comes right around the time Bradley spots Jake making his way back down to their section of the stands. You’ve survived worse. 

He rolls his eyes and pockets his phone again with the intention of getting back to her later. Jake is holding two beers and has his eyebrows raised. 

“What’s got you making that face?” he asks.

Bradley takes the plastic cup he’s being offered and hums while swallowing his first sip. “Just something Nat said.”

“We should grab dinner with her when we get back.” Jake’s arm finds its way around the back of Bradley’s seat as he’s speaking, Bradley automatically leaning back against it. 

“That would be nice. It’s been a bit.”

“It has,” Jake says. “But for now I’ve got you all to myself.”

Bradley huffs. “At least for the next eight days.”

“And you’ll still be mine after that,” Jake says, low and intimate, turning his head to smile at him crookedly. 

Bradley reaches up, first to flick the brim of his cap and then to brush his fingers over the stubble Jake’s been letting grow since they left California. “That is the whole point of this trip.”

Jake's smile softens, smug facade fading in favor of leaning in to kiss him. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.” He kisses him again, warm fingertips slipping under the sleeve of Bradley’s t-shirt like he can’t keep from touching bare skin, even while they’re in public. 

The corners of Bradley’s mouth curl up, matched by Jake’s lazy grin when he pulls away. “Happy anniversary,” he tells him. 

He’ll save the I love you for when they’re somewhere more private, but Jake doesn’t need to hear it to know it’s how Bradley feels. Not when he feels the same way. 

“Happy anniversary.” Jake reaches up and pulls his cap off just to turn it around and plunk it on Bradley’s own head. “Now you ready to watch your boyfriend’s alma mater kick some ass?”

“It seems like my boyfriend is trying to make sure we don’t make it to the next anniversary,” Bradley deadpans, but he leaves the cap on after flipping it to face the front again. “You’ve been talking a big game, Seresin. Let’s see if your team can deliver.”

Jake holds his beer up and waits for Bradley to do the same before he taps their cups together, kicking his feet out and looking towards the field. “You gonna dump your drink on me if I say it doesn’t matter because I’ve already won?”

He squeezes his arm tighter around Bradley’s shoulders to make his point. Bradley rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother concealing the way his lips twitch. 

“Fourteen years and your pickup lines still haven’t improved.”

-

The funny thing about their anniversary is that it always falls only a few weeks after the one of the day they’d met. They don’t celebrate that one in a serious sense, but they usually pour something nicer to drink with dinner and joke about it over a toast. 

Bradley’s not actually sure of what they’re celebrating more tonight— the anniversary or the win the Longhorns had managed to pull off.

Knowing Jake, it’s probably equal parts of both. Bradley would pretend to mind that a lot more if it hadn’t resulted in Jake pressing him up against the door as soon as they got back to their hotel room.

They’ve long since made it to the bed, Jake collapsing back on it after cleaning them both up only a few minutes ago. They’ve both got their briefs back on, but Bradley has no plans on pushing Jake away even if he’s too tired to go another round, content to lay on his back and let Jake plant a line of lazy kisses up from his neck to his jaw. 

His hand is placed on Bradley’s chest, palm flat and fingers spread out so it’s easy for Bradley to fit his own in between them. He keeps them there even after Jake plans his final kiss to the corner of his mouth and pulls back to look at him, thumb of his free hand smoothing over Bradley’s mustache. 

The only light in the room comes from the window, but it’s enough for Bradley to make out the soft smile Jake is giving him. 

His question comes out just as gentle. “You have a good time today?”

Bradley hums and sets aside the usual sarcasm in order to give him an honest answer. “Yeah. I did,” he murmurs. He bumps their knees together and gives Jake’s fingers a light squeeze. “Love you.”

It’s second nature to say the words by now. He’s never stopped meaning them any less— nor has he ever let Jake forget that he said them first. Jake rolls his eyes at that every time he brings it up, but it never stops him from saying the words back. 

“Love you.” He raises their joined hands and presses another kiss to Bradley’s knuckles before rolling over to lay on his back beside him. Left side of the bed, just like always. Another thing that’s never changed since their early days together despite the other ways that they have. 

So much time has passed between them it would be impossible to stay completely the same. Bradley’s still stubborn. Jake’s still— Jake, for lack of a better word. They still argue sometimes, but now they actually talk it through once the heart of the moment has cooled off. Jake still takes Bradley’s breath away when he gets him alone, but now they both stick around after everything is said and done. 

They both spent a long time trying to convince the world that they didn’t need anyone but themselves. Maybe they don't in order to get by, but Bradley got tired of just getting by right around the same time he and Maverick almost died. 

He and Jake might not need each other, but they wake up every day and still want each other. When it comes down to it, that’s much more important. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jake murmurs. When Bradley tips his head on the pillow to face him, his eyes are still closed. He cracks them open as Bradley hums. 

“Just the past.”

“Good stuff or bad stuff?” 

“Good,” Bradley says after a moment. 

Good, because while not all of it was pleasant, it’s what it took for them to get here. They’ve each done enough running to last a lifetime. Lying here in bed with Jake, Bradley can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. 

He’s happy where he is. 

“Anything you want to share?”

Bradley smiles and shifts towards the warmth of Jake’s side, head bending to tuck against the crook of his neck. “Nothing you don’t already know.”