Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Special Victims Squad Headquarters, Tuesday, March 21, 2000

They stand in front of the mural with the strings and evidence connected by tapes leading to a name: Troy Manning, Navy lieutenant, assigned to the USS Enterprise for the past ten years as a gunnery technician. Cragen looks optimistic but cautious.

"So we have everything to pass the case to the D.A.?"

Stabler nods.

"There is no DNA, but there are security cameras and testimonies from two victims in New York and three others..."

"Five," Benson corrects him.

"Five other victims from different cities willing to testify," he continues, "the coincidence between the attacks and the USS Enterprise presence in the area, and the restricted-access drugs he had in his possession."

"But we still don't know how he got the drugs," laments the captain.

"No," Benson admits. "We suspect someone from the Navy but don't have jurisdiction there."

"And they won't open the doors for us," warns Munch without lifting his eyes from the file he is studying. "It is strange that they are not already here, claiming military jurisdiction."

"Ah." Cragen sneers. "I'm sure the military police don't want to get their hands dirty. They leave the pervert to us, but we can't study his contacts in the Navy and accuse his accomplices. Because Manning couldn't do all of this alone,” he points to the pattern of moves the SVU team has pieced together in the past week.

"Speaking of accomplices," Munch intervenes, "I've been thinking about what he said, about doing 'what I had to do.' Doesn't that sound like a cult phrase? How do you follow in someone's footsteps?"

Cragen looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Are you suggesting he's a copycat?"

"Or that he's a disciple," Munch agrees. "After all, the military structure is ideal for recruiting people willing to obey the craziest or most disgusting instructions."

Stabler and Cragen, both veterans, look at each other uncomfortably, but this time they can't dismiss their colleague's idea out of hand.

"Keep going," the captain encourages him.

"I wonder if we can get to his accomplices by looking back in time rather than trying to beat the Navy legal team into Manning's current social circle."

"Not a bad idea," Benson says with a thoughtful expression. "Captain, if there's any chance of finding another assailant, or at least other victims..."

Cragen nods.

"Very good! Jeffries, we just found you something to do until that ankle heals: go through the files of the last ten years looking for similar cases. We already know the pattern, so it should be easy to retrieve the reports."

She nods and moves in the swivel chair to her workstation.

"Cassidy."

The young detective raises his head, eager to receive an assignment.

"Your task is to keep Jeffries from making this a physical chore. I know the files are digitized from 1995, but you must help her with the boxes from ninety to ninety-four. OK?

New York Police Archives, Friday, March 24, 2000

"This is the last box," Cassidy reports, setting it next to the table where Jeffries studies yellowed papers. "Unsolved sex crimes, January and February 1990. Need anything else? Coffee? Water?"

"A bat, to bust the balls of the officers who processed these cases," Monique answers without looking up.

Cassidy laughs but ignores the comment. The entire team has sometimes felt this way when interacting with officers from other branches, whose sensitivity to sexual violence is non-existent. He reaches for his jacket when a noise from the table stops him.

Monique has a folder open in her right and left hands on the desk, her index finger marking a date on a form. Her eyes move desperately from one document to another.

"Did you find anything?"

"I think so…" -then she explodes- "Damn sons of bitches!"

Special Victims Squad Headquarters, Friday, March 24

They are back around the board with the photos, notes, and connections. Jeffries and Cassidy have added a whole new section, with cases they suspect are due to Manning or his accomplices in 1990, 1994, and 1997.

"The only one I'm completely sure of is July 1990," Monique explains. "The victim's description is identical to the eight confirmed cases. After drinking something innocuous, she felt out of her body, like in a trance. Her attacker was in front of her, but she couldn't make out his face. She only remembers that he was blond and had a white navy uniform."

"And she fits the pattern," Brian adds. "Sarah Seresin was a young woman of clear indigenous biotype who recently turned twenty. She was celebrating with her friends the nursing and midwifery course graduation."

"Was the USS Enterprise in New York in those days?" Cragen asks.

"No, in New Jersey, for repairs."

"Close enough," the captain agrees. "What do we know about the victim?"

"That the officers who took her statement laughed at her," Jeffries replies angrily. "Look at this! They asked him if she had eaten any mushrooms from her tribe. There's no tracking, there's no sexual assault kit. Nothing!"

Stabler grunts and clenches his fists. Then he forces himself to breathe very slowly to calm himself.

"But where is she now?" Cragen insists.

"We don't know sir," Brian admits.

"Very good," the captain sighed. "It's late, and we have other cases. Munch, I want you to start looking for her on Monday. She went somewhere. Hopefully, she's alive and wants to help put that monster behind bars."

Special Victims Squad Headquarters, Monday, March 27

"Hum."

Olivia puts the form she was filling out on the table and looks at Munch. After more than six months of working with the man, she knows quite a bit about his noises. This grunt means, "I see something I don't like."

"Did you find Sarah Seresin?"

"I think so," he agrees without taking his eyes off the computer screen. "But I don't know if she will talk to us about the case."

"Is she dead?"

"No, she is in good health. She has lived in San Diego since 1994," -but Munch's tone is not reassuring. "It took me a while to find her because she married and changed her last name. Now she is Sarah Kazansky. The problem is that she has a nine-year-old daughter..."

Olivia does a quick mental calculation and winces. Damm! Munch keeps explaining.

"…whose birth certificate lists Tom Kazansky as the child's father."

"That's strange," she admits.

The detective gets up and goes to Munch's table.

"Maybe they had a previous relationship, and he decided to support her?"

Munch shakes his head and purses his lips.

"Tom Kazansky is a Navy pilot. In 1990 he was assigned to the USS Enterprise and spent the week of July 8-14 in New York. Nine months later, he is in Chicago for the birth of Sarah's baby. Doesn't that seem suspicious?"

"Let 's go see Cragen!"

Special Victims Squad Headquarters, Wednesday, March 29

Elliot sees the officer move through the precinct tables, and the hairs on his neck stood up. In his years as a Marine, he learned to quickly recognize aides, and this is a poster boy in his crisp white uniform and shiny cap. He stands up without thinking and stops him.

"Can I help you?" He says without a hint of sympathy.

The other is unfazed by his aggressiveness.

"Lieutenant Jeremy Novak, Navy Operations," he answers with a smile. "Detective Stabler, right? We found out that your squad was asking about a family of ours."

Elliot winces. Yes, the squad has been asking because the story of Sarah Kazansky, nee Seresin, just doesn't fit. Cragen followed official channels with little hope of obtaining the Kazansky file and cross-referencing it with Manning's attacks. Elliot called some old Navy contacts to learn about his meteoric career. He knows Munch did the same through his network of conspiracy theorists and actual spies. However, they did not expect such a frontal response from the institution.

"If you come here to intimidate us..."

"Stabler?" Cragen's tone is both a question and a warning.

The lieutenant's smile grows even bigger -how is that possible?- as he walks around the detective and goes to the door of the captain's office.

"Captain Cragen," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm Lieutenant Jeremy Novak, Navy Operations. I'm here because of your squad's interest in Tom Kazansky and his wife."

But Elliot won't be easily ignored. He follows Novak into Cragen's office. His boss gives him an exasperated look but doesn't order him to leave.

"Sit down, Novak." The officer complies, pulling his cap with mathematical precision over the center of his thighs.

"Thank you."

Stabler takes the other chair across from the captain's desk.

"What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me what leads your squad to inquire about the family of Rear Admiral Kazansky. We thought you guys had already taken your yearly Navy bite and will turn on the Army or Air Force."

Despite the harshness in his voice, Novak smiles like a Kent doll. But Cragen is not intimidated.

"The case of Lieutenant Manning is still open. We want to cover all the bases."

Novak narrows his eyes.

"I find it strange that to cover all bases, you start tracking a decorated officer who barely knew him and not the defendant's inner circle."

"We go where the investigation takes us," Cragen says with a smirk.

"The investigation will not take you very far if it collides with national security interests."

Stabler can't contain his surprise.

"What!?"

The lieutenant turns to look directly at him. His face has become a contemptuous mask.

"The Navy can only have one hundred and sixty rear admirals. Rank is not given away, and we protect those officers and their families. Kazansky passed the strictest internal and external controls before being confirmed. Yes, he has skeletons in the closet, but he is not an accomplice to Manning." He turns to the captain. "Consider this a courtesy call." He stands up and begins to put on his cap. "Anything else I can help you with?"

"Since you mention it," the captain stops him with a gesture, "we believe that Sarah Kazansky may have pertinent information on the case."

Novak blinks a few times and looks at Cragen with a mixture of disbelief and admiration. Finally, he sighs, and it's the first time he's spokes as if he's following orders that he doesn't like.

"She will arrive tomorrow afternoon to spend the weekend in the city. She is willing to speak to you, off the record," -he emphasizes the last part- "on Friday morning. Hotel "The Mark." There will be children there, so be discreet."

“The Mark” Hotel, corner of E 77th St and Madison Ave, Friday, March 31

"Have you been here before?" Olivia asks as they ride the elevator up.

Elliot shifts his shoulders uncomfortably and shakes his head.

"Way above my budget and the budget of a rear admiral and his wife, a professor at a public university," he notes.

She nods, and they wait to say anything else until they reach the suite door.

A tall and stocky teenager with a still tender face opens the door. He must be fifteen or sixteen years old.

"Yes?"

"Officers Benson and Stabler," she starts to say as she shows her identification.

The boy's eyes go from vaguely bored to clearly annoyed, and he doesn't let her finish.

"Really?" He growls and turns back into the suite. "Dad, the police!"

An eight or nine-year-old blond boy comes running up and grabs onto the boy's waist. He is followed with a more relaxed step by a dark-haired man, whose hair falls over his green eyes and is quite stocky. He wears an elegant dark gray three-piece suit and a lighter shade of tie. The teenager complains in the jaded tone that Elliot knows so well from his daughter.

"Please, Dad, next year, can we go on vacation somewhere where the cops aren't looking for you?"

The detectives exchange questioning looks.

"Brad," the man answers calmly, "we're not on vacation, and the cops aren't looking for me."

He turns to the detectives.

"Good morning. How can we help you?"

"We are officers Benson and Stabler," -Olivia repeats- "from the Special Victims Unit -she spares the explanation of "sex crimes" it doesn't seem pertinent with Brad and the other child there. "We're looking for Sarah Kazansky."

The man nods and is about to say something, but the boy's voice rises in defiance.

"My iná did nothing wrong."

Elliot does not know the term "iná", but it is clear that Sarah is dear to the little one. He crouched down to catch up with him.

"Of course not," he assures him. "We came to ask for her help."

The boy frowns and looks at him intently for a moment before nodding.

"OK," and he steps aside as if he can let them through.

Elliot barely contains a laugh. Standing up, he can also see a glint of amusement in his partner's eyes. Brad has put a hand on the boy's shoulder and is holding him protectively against him, giving them a challenging look. The man has a more complicated expression, a mixture of pride and melancholy that disappears almost immediately.

"Brad, take the sensaku to the room, close the door, and turn on the TV," he says softly, but it's clearly an order.

Brad looks between the man and the detectives, doubtful.

"Now!" this time, the voice has an edge of undeniable hardness.

Brad takes the boy by the hand and walks into the suite.

"Come on, Jake, let them talk about boring things. We can watch Transformers in my room."

"Yes!" -The child runs. "Sam, Sean, let's watch the Transformers!"

The man gives them one last tender look before turning to the officers.

"Good morning. My name is Pete Mitchell."

"Oh my Good! You're Maverick," Elliot exclaims, his admiration making him drop professionalism in a flash.

Mitchell relaxes, clearly amused by Elliot's reaction.

"And you were a Marine, Detective Stabler?"

"Desert Storm," he nods, "your low flights saved my butt more than once."

"Thank you for saving my partner's life," Olivia interrupts, "but we really need to talk to Sarah Kazansky."

This causes the two men to become serious again.

"Of course. Follow me."

Mitchell leads them through the hall to a door that leads to a smaller room. The space is illuminated by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Madison Avenue and furnished with various sets of wine-red armchairs, sofas, and mahogany-colored coffee tables. A woman is sitting on a loveseat with a coffee service in front of her. She gets up as soon as they enter.

Sarah Kazansky is very different from the photos in the file of her attack. She was skinny then, to the point that it was hard to believe that she was already twenty years old. The bruises on her face and neck gave her a hopeless air. Her eyes had a gleam of fear, like a hunted animal. She is now a woman with round features and tanned skin, wearing a dark blue tailored suit that contrasts nicely with the black hair braid that falls over her left breast below her sternum.

"Mrs. Kazansky," Olivia approaches. "Thank you for having us. I'm Detective Benson with the Special Victims Unit. This is my colleague Stabler."

Sarah gives them a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and looks suspiciously at Elliot.

"Shall we sit down?" Mitchell takes Mrs. Kazansky's hand and leads her down to the sofa. Then he gestures to the service at the table. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," Elliot agrees, always sleep-deprived.

Olivia decides that the smell is quite tempting. Who knows when she'll have something to drink in a place like this again? She nods.

To the detectives' surprise, it is Mitchell who serves them. Sarah sits very upright.

The caffeine fix causes Stabler to snap out of his fascination with Mitchell and ask the obvious question.

"We were told the Kazansky family was in town for a visit and the lady was willing to talk to us, but what are you doing here, Mr. Mitchell?"

"Pete is my brother-in-law," Sarah speaks for the first time.

"Your brother-in-law?" Olivia doesn't remember any sisters in Sarah Seresin's profile.

"Ice and I are wingmen, brothers on land. My wife and Sarah decided that we should live together to raise the children," the man clarifies without looking up as he pours his coffee.

The detective purses her lips, uncomfortable. There is something there... the explanation is the truth, not the whole truth.

"And your wife?" She believes that Sarah would prefer the support of another woman in this situation.

"She died two years ago of cancer."

"I'm sorry."

He nods, there is some longing in his eyes, but —as in his tenderness with the boy earlier— it disappears quickly. Elliot decides to return to the reason for their visit.

"Mrs. Kazansky, you filed a complaint for sexual assault on July 12, 1990. What can you tell us about that?"

"No. First tell me, do you have him?"

"We have a suspect in custody, yes. But we fear that he has accomplices. You said that you were attacked after interacting with several sailors. Correct?"

She nods. Her face becomes an empty mask, and her eyes look at an indeterminate point on the wall.

"It was hot. Central Park is nice at that time of year. The city was rife with young men in white uniforms. My friends and I… we left the graduation ceremony straight to celebrate. It had been difficult that year, but I believed that at last… that at last…"

She covers her mouth and holds back a sob. Mitchell puts down his coffee, puts a hand on her thigh, and whispers something into her ear. She takes a deep breath and calms down. Elliot and Olivia exchange strange glances: very intimate behavior for a brother-in-law, isn't it? Sarah Kazansky sighs and speaks again.

"We found them near the zoo. I found curious that they were all blonde. Not that the Navy is the most diverse institution, but finding five blond sailors is unusual, isn't it?"

"Sailors?" Elliot says.

She nods.

"Are you sure they weren't Marines or Airmen? Because in your original statement, it only says "white uniforms."

"It's been ten years, and I joined a military family. Now I can recognize the differences in the uniforms."

"Very well, continue."

"We stayed because they weren't drinking alcohol. It seemed safe. They offered us their "fruit juice," and we bought hot dogs. I remember thinking that the prices in the Park were outrageous but for one day… It was my graduation, right? After a while, I started to feel bad, so I decided to leave. One of them offered to walk me to the subway. At the subway entrance, I realized that I had lost my card and had no more money. I decided to walk, and he said that he would accompany me."

"Do you remember his name?"

"He told me his name was Ken, like Barbie's boyfriend," she laughs bitterly. "I'm sure the five of us gave false names."

"How?!"

Sarah Kazansky looks at Olivia wearily.

"They said their names were Ken, Alan, Matt, Storm, and Doug. Rings a bell?"

Elliot has three daughters. Of course, two of those names ring a bell.

"Ken and Alan are toys, yes. The other three…" he looks at his partner.

"Oh!" Olivia's eyes light up with understanding. "Major Matt Mason's team on the moon: Sergeant Storm and Engineer Doug. It's another Mattel toy line!"

Sarah nods, and her gaze wanders again. Dissociation seems to be her resource for remembering the event.

"We walked… from the Park to my apartment it was about thirty minutes. The distance had never cost me, but that day I arrived stumbling. I guess it was whatever was in the juice. I knew I couldn't climb the stairs alone, so I agreed that he would come with me into the building and the apartment. He grabbed me by the neck and..."

Her voice cracks, and she rests her forehead on Mitchell's shoulder.

"Do we have to continue?" he demands. "It is the same thing she said in the police report ten years ago."

"When they laughed at me," she recalls.

Elliot feels his rage against the officers who received the report boils. Anger is his frequent companion these days. At least now he has specific recipients. But anger can't divert him.

"You said you didn't remember their faces."

She separates from her brother-in-law.

"No. It's very disturbing. Remember their voices, their haircuts, but not their faces. All my memories of that day are of people without faces, as if I was within some horror film. Does that have to do with the drug they gave me?"

"We believe so, yes. One of the problems with the case is that we don't know who was supplying our suspect with this drug."

"I got it from the ship's pharmacy, of course," Mitchell says.

"It could be."

Olivia will not tell him that the Navy has been denied access to the USS Enterprise personnel data and pharmacy inventory. She prefers to focus on what they can get.

"Mrs. Kazansky, did you meet Tom Kazansky before or after the attack?"

It's automatic. The name makes Mitchell and Sarah tense up. She straightens up and shifts her eyes from Elliot to Olivia strangely as if trying to solve a riddle.

"Oh!" she says suddenly and turns to his brother-in-law. "They think it was Tom."

Mitchell makes a disgusted face.

"That means that…" he smiles slightly at the detectives. "The suspect was a sailor from the USS Enterprise, right?"

"We can't…" Elliot starts to say.

"Please! Two ships were anchored in the area that week, the USS Saratoga here in town and the USS Enterprise in New Jersey. The only reason to ask about Tom is that you think he might have had contact with the suspect."

"You are strangely familiar with the Navy's movements in town that week, Mr. Mitchell," Olivia replies accusingly, but the man does not lose a beat.

"Of course, I was on the USS Saratoga. I spent a couple of days in the city between the 9th and 11th of July. Then I went to Iraq to save your partner from Saddam Hussein's missiles."

"Sometimes we joke, Pete, Tom, and I, that our destiny was to meet in New York that week, but fate prevented it, and, instead of one of them, I found Ken."

The detectives look at each other in confusion.

"If you didn't meet Tom Kazansky that week, why are you listed him as Samantha's father on the birth certificate?"

"Human feelings are complicated, but the forms of the Navy are simple, conventional. I met Tom in Chicago in November 1990. He was on medical leave, visiting his friend William Cortell. Cortell's wife, Vivian, volunteered at a women's shelter where I was staying and invited me to Thanksgiving dinner. I was hungry. Pregnancy makes you very hungry, so I accepted. Tom is a tender, understanding, generous, patient man. It was easy to fall in love with him. My husband is also a calculating man. Do you have any idea what it would do to his image to enter into a relationship with a disgraced woman and accept a baby of an unknown father as your own? So we made up that we had met in that horrible week."

"That's why you didn't get married until 1994," Olivia understands.

"Tom is a good man," she repeats. "He waited for me to be ready."

Special Victims Squad Headquarters, Tuesday, April 3

Munch and Jeffries are discussing the best strategy for interrogating the suspect in custody when they see the navy lieutenant arrive, followed by two sailors bringing a light forklift full of boxes of documents.

She steps forward.

"Can we help you?"

"Lieutenant Novak, Navy Operations."

She and Munch exchange an exasperated look. Elliot told them about the guy's threats. As on his previous visit, Novak is unfazed by the detectives' reactions.

"I bring you a little gift. Is Captain Cragen around?"

Considering his companion's still sore ankle, Munch knocks on the captain's office door. Cragen storms out.

"What story of national security do you have now?"

"One with a happy ending, I hope." He gestures, and the sailors move the load of documents to the center of the squadron area. "Here is the list of personnel and inventories for the USS Enterprise pharmacy from 1989 to last year. The print is small, but I'm sure the NYPD can supply you with magnifying glasses." Then he hands Cragen a card. "This is my phone. When you have suspicions of someone specific, let me know. We will be happy to provide another guest for Rikers."

The detectives stare at the mountain of documents in disbelief. They've been asking for a fraction of this for weeks and have never heard back.

"How…?"

Novak grins like a shark, all teeth and cruel eyes.

"It's a little gift from Rear Admiral Kazansky."

Chapter Text

Lockheed Martin X-35

That morning, Sarah braids his hair.

"I want you to wear something of mine," she says while arranging the locks with setting cream and skillful fingers.

Mav doesn't say anything; he just enjoys her caresses while looking at her through the mirror. He knows she's nervous, and nothing can calm her down until he calls her from Edwards Base. So he keeps quiet and lets her do it.

When she finishes, she leans on his back and hugs him. He turns his head and kisses her on the lips.

"Everything is going to be fine," he assures her.

She pulls away and nods vigorously, trying to convince herself.

Mav regrets being unable to explain that the chances of the X-35 failing today are much lower than on the deck of any aircraft carrier with an F-18. All Navy jets are years old, and they are the fastest-aging combat aircraft. The rapid acceleration of a catapult launch and the controlled crash at the heart of aircraft carrier landing maneuvers create irreparable stress fractures.

Instead, the Lockheed X-35 is entirely new. The prototype's monetary, military, and engineering value means that it has been thoroughly inspected, and its technical specificities discussed, revised, and tested countless times. The X-35 flies. There's no doubt about it. So today will be the first flight, but Mav is not in danger today.

Of course, he won't tell her that he will start to be in danger tomorrow when they begin to carry out genuinely complex maneuvers to test the capabilities of this plane. Although carefully orchestrated, it is during tests to discover the aircraft's limits that anything can hapen.

It's still early morning, but he must arrive at 9:30 a.m. Skunk Works is three hours away. He barely finishes breakfast when the horn of the company car sounds.

"At least you won't leave on the Kawasaki," Sarah sighs and hugs him before letting him go.

He holds back the urge to kiss her because they are on the ground floor, and they have strict rules for that. So he just grabs the suitcase and heads to the door. Before crossing the lintel, he turns to her.

"I love you."

The drive to Antelope Valley is a long one. Lulled by the engine and isolated by the dark windows, Maverick falls asleep again. When the car turns off, his fighter aviator reflexes are activated, and he wakes up in one go without drowsiness. Outside, the sun shines, reflecting on the desert sand.

"Thank you," he says to the driver before getting out of the car and addressing the group bustling around the X-35.

The first to notice him is Ed Beurer, the ensembling manager. He interrupts his conversation with Rezabek, the lead engineer, and waves his arm at him. Rezabek turns around quickly, a frank smile on his face.

"Pete, you're here!"

The pilot makes a mocking face and allows himself to be hugged.

"Yes, Rick, I am here. I remember you promised me a plane two years ago, and I came to see how things were going."

Rezabek laughs but turns away and points towards the hangar door, where the plane already has half its body out.

"How about?"

When he saw the model in Vice Admiral Garcia's office more than two years ago, Pete thought it was what was expected of a modern fighter jet. The lines were elegant, the profile gently curved to avoid air resistance, and the wings not precisely like those of the F-18 but a little thinner. Finally, he gasps in front of the full-scale multifunctional X-35.

The chief engineer notices his reaction, laughs, and shakes his shoulder.

"Do you want to take her for a walk?"

"I think I'm committed, right?"

Beurer and Rezabek nod proudly and bring him closer to the jet.

Two hours later, Mav has handed over his luggage to the security team, is in his flight suit, and is finishing the final security check. On the runway, two F-18s prepare to take off. They are the control planes, which will accompany him on the flight to Edwards Base to monitor and observe the aircraft's performance and notify of any details that the team on the ground cannot detect through the computers.

"Pete" -Beurer approaches him with a small wrapper.

"What's up, Ed?"

"This is a Lockheed tradition," the man explains as he offers him the package, "take my wallet, my car keys, and the wallets of the rest of the X-35 senior team." You'll give them to us when we meet at Edwards Air Force Base. Okay?"

Mav takes the wrapper, honestly moved.

"Okay."

"Well, I have to go. By land, it is almost forty minutes."

They hug each other.

Mav says goodbye.

Pete feels the adrenaline flowing and sharpening his senses as he begins takeoff maneuvers. As a pilot involved in developing the X-35 since 1998, he has spent countless hours in the simulator. There, he proposed the craziest stunts and the most dangerous atmospheric conditions, but he always knew that any error would only be a report for engineering and programming. That didn't quite prepare him for the feeling of the real X-35 vibrating in his hands.

Already in the air, his escorts are located on each side. Simon Hargreaves is a retired British Royal Navy pilot hired by the company for his experience with Harrier vertical lift and descent maneuvers. Paul "TP" Smith is, like Mav, on loan to Lockheed Martin from the US Air Force.

"Commander Hargreaves, Lieutenant Colonel Smith," he says into the radio and waves to confirm eye contact.

"Commander Mitchell," Hargreaves responds, always sober.

"You look good, Maverick," comes Smith's playful voice. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Don't worry, TP, I'll let you play with my new plane tomorrow."

They both laugh until Hargreaves brings them back to reality.

"We have a schedule to meet, gentlemen."

"Sure," -Mav handles himself and proceeds to report. "Control, takeoff, and stabilization in the air completed without problems. Ready to head to my destination."

"Understood X-35. Everything looks good here. What do the scorts say?"

"No structural damage is detected on the upper and right parts," Hargreaves answers.

"No structural damage is detected in the lower or left parts," -reports Smith.

"Understood F-18 Hargreaves and F-18 Smith. X-35, proceed to destination."

"Understood control. Destination Edwards Air Force Base. ETA: 25 minutes."

Pete stops circling Antelope Valley and heads northeast toward Edwards. He ignores his heartbeat and carefully observes the landscape and control panel. Taped to the weapons console —still useless— is a sticky note listing the basic aerial maneuvers he must complete on the short 30-mile trip.

"Okay, TP, watch and learn," he announces before breaking to the right and sliding under Hargreaves with surprising smoothness.

As they move forward, they take turns and pass each other en route. Nothing excessive, nothing that puts too much strain on the newly released control systems and the fuselage. From the ground, the Edwards control base and the Lockheed convoy follow them in real-time.

After the first ten minutes, even the taciturn Hargreaves relaxes. They managed to take flight more than a month after the Boeing prototype. Still, their performance is already better than the X-32: Rowdy had to suspend basic maneuvers and land because his escorts discovered a minor hydraulic leak on his inaugural flight. What a mess!

After 22 minutes, the X-35 lands at its new home, and shortly after, the escorting F-18s touch down.

Pete stays in the cabin with the excuse of checking the control panel one last time. He feels the adrenaline shock fade through his system, and random tremors begin to run through his body. Wow! He has done something that his father never did, that not even Ice has done: be the first to fly a new, literally unknown plane.

As Sarah fearfully bid him farewell today, he realized one of his quirks. Vance Coffman saw it through his file's overlapping notes of skill and insubordination: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell constantly pushes the limits. It never occurred to him to fear for his life during these years of building the X-35 because what is exciting to a test pilot would be pure terror to most people.

This Tuesday, October 24, 2000, is definitely a good day.

Pete looks outside. Several people have already approached and are waiting for him to get off the plane. After recognizing some faces, he moderates his expectations for the rest of the day.

This morning was good, the rest of the day… We'll see.

In any case, no one can take away the satisfaction of the first flight. Pete is sure that Lockheed will win the Joint Strike Fighter program. The X-35 is as smooth to guide as a baby and powerful as a dragon.

He takes a deep breath and finally lift the cabin.

The applause begins when he stands up to reach the descent ladder. At the foot, Beurer is waiting for him.

"What a plane!" -Pete exclaims, unable to contain himself, as he goes down.

His steps are cautious because he knows that the drop in adrenaline can affect his coordination, but his voice does not shake.

"We did it, man, we did it. What a thrill!"

The assembly manager takes him into his arms when Pete hits the ground. Surprised, the pilot remains still for a moment before returning the gesture.

"I'm sorry," says the red-haired giant. "I had to hug you, I had to hug you. It's seven years of our lives in this, Pete."

Mav pats him on the back and gently pulls away. He runs into Rezabek, who also looks ready to cry. Try to lighten the atmosphere.

"You set me up. How can I return to the F-18 now?"

Rick Rezabek nods.

"We arrived in time to see you make the last turn before landing. God, she looked so amazing."

"It felt great," Mav confirms. "It was great, yes. Thanks a lot for the trust."

"Do you think that…?"

"Yes, the plane is ready. It feels perfect."

Rezabek rubs his hands, satisfied.

"We are going to fly on this plane and kick ass every day. That's all there is."

"Not so fast, Rezabek."

Pete involuntarily tenses. He wants to take any of the jets around him and fly far away, but he turns and salutes.

"Rear Admiral Steidle, sir."

Steidle's inquisitive gray eyes linger on Pete for a moment. To those who don't know anything about their previous relationship, it would seem that he is only disdainful towards a commander with no political relevance. Mav can see the same unjustified dislike as always. Because Rear Admiral Steidle doesn't hate Pete Mitchell but the ghost who always accompanies him, Duke Mitchell.

Oblivious to the glances loaded with meaning, to the long and spiteful memory of the Navy, Rick Rezabek smiles proudly.

"I'm not going fast. I'm going at the perfect pace, rear admiral. My team and I have a lot betted on the X-35. This program will end up running from now until the year 2050, long after I retire. The performance of this aircraft will change history."

"Your engineering team has certainly done a commendable job," Steidle admits with a small smile.

"Not just my engineers. Without Mitchell and Smith's recommendations, it would have taken us much longer to detect several problems in the programming." -Steidle's smile turns bitter, but the engineer does not notice. "Also, didn't you see how Pete flew up our plane?"

"Yes, I saw. Ready to take it anywhere, right Maverick?"

Pete can sense the implicit "to take it to our enemies," but it doesn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. Two can play this game.

"I had gas for thirty more minutes. I could have flown to Top Gun at Fallon and greeted Viper."

The rear admiral purses his lips minimally, and Pete knows the dart hit its target. The entire Navy knows that Viper and his father were wingmen and that Commander Metcalf protects him should be evidence that he is not guilty of anything, except that hate knows no reason.

Steidle doesn't have time to respond as Vance Coffman arrives all smiles.

"Commander Mitchell, thank you very much. You have made our dream come true," he turns to the rear admiral without hiding his satisfaction. "My dear Steidle, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule and coming to our first flight."

"Mr. Coffman, I left the program's direction in 1997, but nothing could stop me from seeing it flourish. Boeing and you are really pushing the limit.

The CEO of Lockheed Martin nods diplomatically.

"Major General Hough is over there," he points to one of the F-18s, where a short, broad-shouldered man with brown hair is talking to TP and Hargreaves.

TP's face reflects growing discomfort, and Pete feels the protective impulse to go and interrupt the current Joint Strike Fighter Program Director´s interrogation. Seemingly casually, Rezabek puts a hand on his shoulder.

"I sugest we go to lunch.” Coffman continues.

Steidle raises his eyebrows, and his eyes become mocking.

"Is that appropriate?"

The CEO waves a hand with a dismissive attitude.

"Bah, eating at the Happy Bottom Riding Club is almost a must when visiting Edwards Base. Come on! Florence Barnes III awaits us with her famous lamb in basil."

Steidle nods, and they both walk off to find Hough at a leisurely pace. When they finally leave the area in a jeep, Mav feels his entire body relax.

"Will you ever tell us why half of the Navy's brass hate you?” -asks Beurer, who remained silent while his bosses maneuvered the always thorny issue of his pilot advisor.

"No."

"Well, it was worth trying. By the way, my wallet?"

Truth to his word, Rezabek's team has the Lockheed X-35 back in the sky the next day. A series of carefully orchestrated maneuvers test the capabilities enabled by its novel manufacturing and software. Pete alternates on flights with Paul "TP" Smith, who gives the Air Force´s perspective.

Fighter aircraft needs are different for the Marines, Navy, and Air Force, which was one of the major problems of the Joint Strike Fighter program. The Navy wanted the new jet to be twin-engine. The Marine Corps and Air Force wanted a single engine because it was much more affordable and reduced the weight. The critical difference is that you fly over the ocean in the Navy. If your only engine fails... well. Rear Admiral Steidle convinced the Navy to accept one-engine designs after the Joint Strike Fighter increased its specification requirements for engine reliability.

On the other hand, a Navy jet must achieve flight capability in the short space of an aircraft carrier's takeoff deck, which measures only 100 meters. Of course, they push you with a catapult, but the acceleration cannot fail when the big blue awaits you at the end of the track.

The X-35 tests are excellent, and the Boeing team loses its advantage daily.

Although the X-32´s first flight was on September 18, what everyone is talking about is that shortly after takeoff a minor hydraulic leak was discovered, and the inaugural flight was shortened to twenty minutes from the planned thirty or forty minutes. Commander Phil "Rowdy" Yates is one of the Navy's best, he's no magician. Other problems, small and large, have plagued the X-32's testing period. Although Boeing's public relations department does its best, the facts do not support them.

Instead, TP and Mav alternate testing the X-35 daily, and things are going great. Pete still feels the new plane is a docile dragon, but TP prefers another metaphor.

"Mav, I swear this has never happened to me. Just an incredible, constant amount of acceleration, right through your back," he told him dreamily after his first flight. “The feeling that I had a stallion in my hands that was ready to go anywhere, anywhere I wanted.”

Pete patted TP on the shoulder to wake him from his post-flight reverie.

"I hope your official report is less poetic," he mocked.

Of course, Pete misses his family, but the phone is a good resource. He calls home every afternoon when the children have returned from school. Sarah puts him on speaker on the dining room phone, and they talk while they have a snack. He listens to them with the kitchen noises in the background, and they tell him about the day's adventures as if he were there. He can only share a little of what he does with the X-35. It is a military secret. But does tell them anecdotes about his worldwide missions in the PG version, which satisfies them.

Since he was told the start date of the tests, he knew that he would miss Ice's monthly visit, and he accepted the idea. He consoles himself, thinking that at least Sarah and Ice will accompany Sam, Jake, and Sean on the Halloween tour. Brad is not going this year. He says he is sixteen and "too old" to go trick-or-treating. He was invited to a theme party at the home of another student from his high school.

In conclusion, if it were only for the tests with the X-35 and the management of homesickness, Mav would be fine. The problem is that he not only has to interact with the Lockheed Martin technical team but also with the representatives of the Joint Strike Fighter who observe the process.

Mav knows he has matured a lot since his years in Top Gun, but probably not since that summer of 1986 has his performance been studied with such attention and ill will. It's not just Rear Admiral Steidle. It's also the attitude of aviator John "Goat" Brotemarkle, NASA engineer Sam Wilson, and one of the representatives of the defense department, Paul Kaminski. Wilson and Kaminski are retired Navy aviators, which qualifies them for the job and prejudices them against Pete.

They are small things but constant.

When he lands, they never congratulated him on his performance.

When he presents reports, they always question his opinions and analysis.

When they meet in the base dining room, they sit nearby to chat politely with TP and ignore Mav.

At first, TP wanted to include him in the conversations, and realizing how belligerent the discussion sessions were, he tried to intervene, but Pete talked him out of it halfway through the second week at the base.

"I don't understand why you let them treat you like that, Mav," the pilot complained one afternoon when they were alone in the showers.

TP drops his towel as he starts to get dressed. They are sitting on benches in front of the lookers. Mav smiles as he brushes his freshly washed hair, only wearing a towel around his hips.

"Because it's not important, TP. They don't hate me. They hate an idea: Duke Mitchell's brat in the air. Nothing you say will make them see me differently. Coffman betted hard by choosing me for this project. It's not worth risking the X-35 for a couple of discourtesies."

"It's not rudeness," TP contradicts as he puts on his shirt, "it's abuse. Yesterday. You did the cobra maneuver without a mistake, and none of those who have ever been close to performing it said anything. They just huffed and made notes on their clipboards. Even Rowdy told you how good he looked. And he's supposed to want you to lose!"

Mav smiles at the memory. He ties his hair with a leather strip at the nape of his neck.

"Did it really look pretty?"

"Oh! You can't imagine. The PBC team was filming your movement on the radar screen and in the sky with their mouths open. I heard them whispering about winning an Emmy at your expense."

Pete nods, satisfied, and gets up to get the clothes out of his locker.

"That's the important thing."

"Yes," TP concedes, "but not the only important thing."

"You're right, but it's not reasonable for you to get on bad terms with an official from the defense department and another from NASA. You are young, and this assignment should boost your career TP. Don't make enemies by association. I will always fly with a ghost by my side. There is nothing you can do about it. So the next time Wilson and Kaminski talk to you, be a good soldier and smile.

TP makes a contemptuous face.

"I'm not sure who wins. They are not great conversationalists."

So, things have continued peacefully for three weeks, during which the X-35 met the certification schedule established by the Joint Strike Fighter program. Combat maneuvers, adaptability to short and long runways, aiming, radar, and even an extra one: aerial refueling certification. That was TP's turn since the X-35 uses the Air Force refueling system. It worked like a charm.

But there is something that continues to elude them: supersonic flight. Like aerial refueling, the Joint Strike Fighter does not require a demonstration of supersonic flight. But with only three more test flights left of its X-35, the entire Lockheed Martin team wants to hear the boom. Honestly, Mav wants to do it, too. He wants to see the faces of everyone who wants to see him away from his precious experimental plane when he steps out of the cockpit after breaking the sound barrier.

The flight is planned for the afternoon. Pete has a light lunch and meets with the rest of the team in the hangar. While Rezabek goes over the exercise instructions, he realizes he feels relaxed and safe.

He has braided his hair like Sarah taught him. His hair is reaching the middle of his back now -he stopped cutting it since he joined the reserves in April 1998 - and is one of the elements that distinguishes him in the base and that most bothers some of his detractors. They mutter about regulatory haircuts and martial appearances. But Ice and Sarah love playing with Mav's hair, in and out of the bedroom, so Mav will only cut it when he absolutely has to, in July of next year. Combing his hair the way his wife taught him and his husband liked is his way of keeping them in this exercise that, like the inaugural flight, has no comparison.

"Well, we have reached 0.98 match several times already. Today, we are going for the 1.5 match," -he looks seriously at his pilot. "Only 1.5, Mitchell. Have I been clear?"

He furrows his eyebrows with an innocent expression.

"When have I accelerated without reason?"

The whole team laughs around him.

During the pre-flight check, Steidle and Brotemarkle approach with their usual expressions of restrained displeasure.

"Ready to break the sound barrier, Mitchell?" -the rear admiral questions in a blasé tone.

Maverick is tempted to respond with something arrogant, to rub it in his face that his beloved Rowdy is riding the obviously losing horse, but years of family life have taught him to be discreet. So, deflect he must.

"You know the Lockheed Martin team, sir, they are overachivers. It's an emotional victory more than anything else."

"Yes, you need an emotional victory in the air because on the ground…" -Goat spits.

The entire team falls silent. Pete gets up from where he was checking the X-35's landing gear and slowly turns towards the officers. He just can't believe Brotemarkle would lose his composure like that in public. Judging by the murderous look Steidle gives him, the rear admiral is not happy either.

"My wife is on the ground, indeed. Do you have anything to say about the late Carole, Lieutenant Brotemarkle?"

Goat has the nerve to answer him.

"God save Carole because only He knows what she saw in you. On the other hand, as a parent, you must not be doing very well. I heard that Bradley Bradshaw didn't apply to the Naval Academy."

Oh! Oh really? He can't contain his laughter.

"If my son decides to follow his own path in life, Goat, instead of imitating me with a zombie, I think I did very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go fly." He arches his eyebrows and runs the tip of his tongue over his upper lip. "I will fly so fast that you won't be able to hear me when I get to your side. Then you'll know everything I can break."

Just as he expected, his flirtatious gesture provokes surprise and fear in Brotemarkle. The big man steps back as his face turns red. Steidle sighs and looks up at the sky. It seems like he wants to hit Brotemarkle over the head with his plastic clipboard.

The team's laughter accompanies Mav even after he boards the plane and closes the cabin because he can hear the laughter in flight control through the radio.

"Mav, I love you!" -the tower guard technician almost shouts at him.

"I swear," TP interrupts on the radio. "I thought Goat would have a heart attack and we would lose today's exercise."

"Please, it wasn't that bad. Let's be professional." -How is Pete the one calling for calm? "Control, do I have a free runway?"

"Wait a minute, Mav. I have the PBS team on the other line."

"The TV team?" -he knows they've been filming everything for a documentary about the approval process for the new fighter jet, but what do they have to do with this?

"Yes, they're asking who wants copies of the video of your uh... pass with Goat a few minutes ago before deleting it because, of course, that won't appear on TV."

"This is serious?"

"Very serious, Mav," -confirms TP. "Rowdy and I just secured our copies. You really got under the idiot's skin. Do you want a copy? Why am I asking? Of course, you want a copy! Do your thing with match 1.5. I'll take care of that."

Rowdy is with TP?! Now, this is delirious. Rowdy is the test pilot of the Boeing X-32. They are not supposed to have any contact!

"Okay, control here. Secured video. Commander Pete Mitchell, ready?"

"Commander Pete Mitchell, I request a runway for test flight number twenty-five of the experimental aircraft X-35."

"Understood Commander Mitchell. Runway free. Have a good flight."

After so many maneuvers, endurance tests, discussions about the X-35, and -Pete can admit it to himself- harassment, having an objective that will also be a gift for the team feels good. They have worked here almost 30 days, 7 days a week, 12 hours a day, and seeing nice things in the sky is good. Right?

However, the truth is that Maverick forgets all that when he turns on the afterburner to get the extra impulse and go supersonic. When he reaches match 1.5, he doesn't think about the numerous Navy officers who incessantly tell him this is not his place.

He thinks in Ice, Sarah, Brad, Jake, Sam and Sean, in Goose, Carole, Ray and Walter.

Maverick Mitchell breaks the sound barrier cradled by the love of his family.

Of course, the X-35's fuselage keeps it alive, but... we're talking about feelings.

How does the story end?

In January 2001, to demonstrate the short takeoff and vertical landing (STOVL) capability of the X-35, Simon Hargreaves took off in less than 150 m, went supersonic, and landed vertically. As a result, on August 26, 2001, the Joint Strike Fighter program awarded Lockheed Martin a contract to develop and demonstrate the system for its experimental X-35 aircraft, renamed the F-35.

But this won't be the last time Mitchell helps develop experimental aircraft or participates in debates about the future of aerial combat. As early as the Fall of 2001, the government was talking about reducing the number of F-35 aircraft it would buy and spending more on unmanned combat aerial vehicles, a line of development led by Rear Admiral Chester "Hammer" Cain. And who is one of the leading builders of unmanned combat aerial vehicles? Boeing.

Chapter Text

Restaurant Central Michel Richard

Dawes likes Central Michel Richard. It's close enough to the Hoover Building that you can walk there no matter the time of year. It's affordable for his salary but refined enough to feel like you're enjoying something exclusive. The staff gives you effortless personalized treatment as it is not yet well known.

"What do you want today, Director Dawes?" the waitress asks after seating him at his usual table.

He looks at the menu to check but has a good idea of his plans. Today, Dawes really needs one of those chef Michel's handmade burgers: spring hasn't yet taken the chill out of DC, but the effect of the Virginia Tech massacre has the city on fire.

"Gazpacho, Prime Burger, and a Berry Mule to drink. I have to return to the office."

"No dessert?"

He shakes his head.

"My wife and doctor have ganged up against me, Alice."

She laughs as she finishes writing down the order and picks up the menu.

"It's for your own good, director. I'll be back with your drink."

He watches her leave with quick steps and vaguely thinks that he moved like that thirty years ago. It's now just one o'clock on Monday afternoon, but he feels like he hasn't slept in the week since Seung-Hui Cho went down in history as the perpetrator of the deadliest mass shooting in modern American history. With all his heart, Dawes hopes the record is not broken for a long, long time.

He lies back and closes his eyes.

The more they dig into the killer's past and motivations, the more evidence appears that this was not terrorism but madness. He told the president and the governor of Virginia that this is a problem of poor mental health management. With the War on Terrorism consuming the intelligence community's budget and manpower, the FBI simply cannot follow every crazy person who claims to be Jesus reincarnated.

"Your drink, director."

Alice's voice forces him to stand up and push away his drowsiness. It wouldn't be good to fall asleep here. While enjoying the fresh taste of berries, coconut puree, fresh lime juice, and ginger beer, the man lets his eyes wander around the restaurant in the middle of lunch. Eager to think about something other than the massacre, he allows himself to use his training to catalog the people around him.

There, a senator or representative's assistant from a family with old money tries to impress a young lawyer.

There, a local investor, perhaps linked to the mafia, eats while looking anxiously at his phone.

That trio of men discusses the organization of a happy event, a wedding, a bachelor party?

That sixty-something man looks like a scientist but stares at everything with intensity. He wants to remember the experience. He may be in town to testify at one of the many legislative committees.

That couple that just arrived... It can't be!

Dawes leaves the mocktail on the table and stares at the beige surface for a few seconds. He forces himself to take a deep breath and calm down. Just because Seung-Hui Cho called himself an apostle of Jesus in his rants, he can't let his mind go back to that. Tiredness plays tricks on him. Of course, the couple three tables away are perfectly unknown people.

Sure, it was just an illusion. Dawes slowly lifts his face and looks at the table where Alice takes the order.

Damm! His eyes did not deceive him.

How dare Ray Levoi visit DC and sit in a restaurant less than five minutes from FBI headquarters?

Oscillating between fury and disbelief, William Dawes watches as Ray gives Alice a heartbreaking smile he never showed in the ten years he worked for him. His outfit is casual: jeans, shirt, and leather jacket. His face has rounded since the last time he saw him, in the fall of 1987, but his military-style hair and thin gold-rimmed glasses give him an air of calm wisdom.

Ray never had a problem passing as white, with his blonde hair and blue eyes. But Dawes knows. He recognizes the Sioux heritage in the shape of the face and the arch of the eyebrows. Plus, his skin now has a deep tan, resulting from living on the plains of South Dakota. On the other hand, the woman accompanying him is clearly Indian. Her high cheekbones, broad forehead, straight black hair -styled in two braids- broad body, and exaggerated curves leave no room for doubt.

Alice finishes taking the order and leaves. Dawes sinks into his seat and curses the bright, open room at Central Michel Richard for the first time. They could see him!

But she and Ray only have eyes to look at each other. With that and their intertwined fingers, it is clear that they are a couple. It is not something recent. He understands it when he sees no surprise in their interactions but the trust from years of living together.

"Your gazpacho, Director Dawes."

"Thank you, Alice," he forces himself to say. "Please wait. That couple," he gestures vaguely toward Ray, "have they been here before? They seem familiar to me."

She smiles.

"I don't think so, sir. They told me they are visiting the city."

"Ah, he has one of those faces, then."

She nods and leaves.

Dawes spends the rest of his lunch tense as a wire. Although the yellow gazpacho and the burger are impeccable, the flavors do not bring him the usual joy. Every other bite, he glances toward Ray and his Indian woman's table. They thoroughly enjoy the crab cakes, fried chicken, and Mac' n' Cheese washed with plenty of California white wine. The director does not realize it, but part of his vigilance is motivated by the envy of such a menu full of carbohydrates and fats. He still would have looked at former Special Agent Levoi if he ordered a salad, but the fury would have been less intense.

He extends his meal as long as possible but still finishes before his partner. He sees the rain falling through the window and considers using it as a justification to delay his return and find out more. He throws the idea away right away. Curiosity is one thing, unjustified vigilance another. If Ray Levoi is in town, it's none of his business. The appropriate division will inform if his actions are problematic.

The Pine Ridge case was difficult to fix, but Levoi's decision to leave the FBI certainly made things easier. The most brutal blow had been for his family, of course. Colonel Levoi was proud of his service, and for his son to turn his back on the nation so radically made him suffer. Leaving the FBI to become a shaman on a reservation. What a waste! Poor Finn, first Rachel, ten years later, Ray.

He motions for Alice to bring him the bill and promises himself that this is the last look he gives them. He forgets his resolution almost immediately: Ray has taken out his phone, and whatever he reads affects him deeply. The relaxed and jovial attitude disappears, his back tenses, and he passes the device to his partner, making an imperious gesture to Alice. From his angle, Dawes can see her face. Seeing fear appear on a woman's face is never pleasant.

Alice is coming back with his bill. She stops at Ray's table, probably to tell them to wait. He insists with restrained gestures and a stern face, extending his credit card. She casts a sad look in his direction, and Dawes makes a conciliatory gesture with his hand to let her know that he's okay. He's in no hurry. Ray also turns around, but - strangely - there is no reaction of recognition in his eyes. He just looks curious and then nods, grateful that Dawes is allowing him to prioritize his payment.

Alice returns to the register to process Ray's payment.

Dawes sits back and ponders how to take advantage of this turn of events. It's pouring, so they'll have to wait for a taxi at the door. Could he find out something more? Now that he's given up his turn with Alice, he has an excuse to talk to them. Although... it's strange that Ray pretended not to know him. Maybe she doesn't know about his DC past?

Alice returns, leaves the check on Ray's table, and walks briskly to his table.

"I'm so sorry, Director Dawes. They were notified of an emergency and must leave."

"Don't worry," he says as he signs the receipt and keeps the copy. "I accept any excuse to spend more time here. Until next week."

She smiles, but Dawes no longer pays attention to her. He hurries to catch up with them at the door.

Ray and his companion are glued to the door, trying to get as little wet as possible.

"Is everything okay, mister...?"

Ray looks at him with surprise and some distrust. There is no trace of recognition in his pupils. He holds the woman a little closer in his arms.

"Kazansky. Thank you for letting us pay earlier."

Dawes nods. Now that he sees him up close, he can notice the exquisite quality of his clothes and shoes. It's not what you would expect from two inhabitants of the Oglala reservation. Although this restaurant should also be above their budget, but they didn't seem worried. He hides his uncertainty by turning up the collar of his coat to protect himself from the rain. Then he sends a quick text to his secretary to send him a car and stays there with his hands in his pockets and a thousand questions in his throat: what are you doing here? Who is she? Have you left your mystical madness behind?

Ray is three feet away from him, closer than he has been in twenty years, but he doesn't dare say anything. Instead, they are prisoners of that uncomfortable silence that arises when you find yourself in close quarters with strangers. Dawes feels it sometimes when he takes the elevator at the Pentagon. He never expected it to happen at the entrance to Central Michel Richard, in a box with three sides of glass and another of intense rain.

Ray's phone rings and he slowly takes it out of his jacket pocket. The woman separates her face from her chest to read the message. They have one of those conversations in glances that characterize long and solid relationships. Ray swallows dryly, and she buries her face into his chest again.

"Bad news?"

His question seems to snap him out of a trance. He looks at him again in surprise, as if he had forgotten Dawes was there.

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But we must return home."

"Home?"

"San Diego, California," then looks at the street. "Where is that taxi?"

San Diego? This doesn't make sense: Ray Levoi lives in Allen, South Dakota.

"Taxis in DC are unreliable, even here downtown," he lies quickly, "and with this weather..." he sees his car turn the corner, and something occurs to him. "Maybe I can help you?"

Ray gives him a suspicious look.

"Help us?"

"My car is arriving, I can take you to your hotel."

"We already bothered you enough."

"Not at all," the car stops, and the driver approaches with an umbrella. "Your wife seems disturbed."

"I do not even know your name."

Dawes holds back his exasperation and decides to play along.

"William Dawes, Director of the FBI."

Fred Thompson was William Dawes in Thunderheart (1992)

She turns a little to study him with narrowed eyes. Ray's pupils dilate in surprise, but he holds out his hand.

"Rear Admiral Tomas Kazansky. This is my wife, Sarah."

Dawes hides his astonishment by turning to his driver.

"Charlie, we will take the Kazanskys to…"

"The Hamilton, at 14th and K," the man completes.

"Wait here," he instructs without turning around, afraid that his flushed face will betray him, "my driver will return with the umbrella."

Dawes hurries into the car and uses the time before the Kazanskys arrive to regain his composure. How is this possible? It's been twenty years, but he's sure he could recognize that traitor anywhere. However, impersonating a high-ranking Navy officer is pointless, especially with him. He knows about Kazansky, although vaguely. He was the one put in charge of the Office of Naval Intelligence after the sudden death of Wilkes until Porterfield was confirmed. They never met because he became FBI director in 2004.

The door opens again. Kazansky enters, followed by his wife. They give him an uncertain smile as the driver closes the door and walks around the car.

"It'll be five minutes to the hotel," Charlie announces as he gets behind the wheel and adjusts his seat belt.

The sedan's interior is spacious, but in any case, the couple continues hugging and almost glued to the door.

They go out onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

"Are you in town on vacation?"

Kazansky grimaces.

"Wedding anniversary delayed," -and smiles awkwardly. In his arms, Sarah snorts.

Oh! Good reason to visit Central Michel Richard: to appease a wife.

"Can I ask how long?"

"Thirteen years." now he smiles without reservation.

His tone is proud, and the director, who has three divorces under his belt, has to admit that it is a good reason to be proud.

They pass 13th St., and Freedom Plaza opens to the right. Kazansky touches his wife's shoulder.

"Look, love, at the statue of Kazimierz Pulaski."

She presses her face to the glass, although the intense rain makes the outside almost invisible. The man turns to the director.

"The plan was to stop here when we walked back to the hotel, but…" -he shrugs.

Dawes nods. He can understand that an officer with a Polish surname born in the middle of the Cold War would feel interested in Pułaski, a Pole officer who fought against Russian hegemony on Poland during the first part of his life and was later instrumental in American independence.

They turn by 14th St., the memorial to the father of North American cavalry disappears and, with it, the brief excuse to speak.

However, Dawes notices something that confirms that this is not Ray Levoi messing with his sanity. Kazansky does not have a mole on his face, unlike the unfortunate former agent who is now hiding in Indian territory with delusions and visions. Ray has a mole on the right side of his face, just above his jaw. He remembers it well. But then, how to explain their strange resemblance?

An uncomfortable idea arises: could there be three and not two babies? It's disgusting, but Lizzi Levoi would not be the first to give for adoption a baby from a multiple birth. After all, the father of her children was a drunken Indian. Three babies are a lot of work, even in functional families. With Finn Levoi, that wouldn't have happened. The colonel would have hired help while bragging to everyone about his virility. But Lizzi didn't find Levoi until much later, and the damage was done. Finn spoke to him about his daughter in his last days, about the pain that losing her had caused him. Dawes knows it was a testimony of Levoi's trust in his discretion.

The car stops. Kazansky's voice brings the director out of his sad thoughts.

"Thank you, Director Dawes."

He rushes to shake the hand offered to him.

"It was nothing. I hope nothing serious awaits you at home."

But Kazansky had already closed the car door. Charlie exits the curve of the Hotel and continues on 14th St. to return to the FBI headquarters.

Tom and Sarah stay in the hotel lobby. They breathe easy once the car turns L St. and is out of sight.

"So that's William Dawes," she finally says.

But Tom shakes his head and looks around uneasily. After meeting the colonel's old friend, it seems to him that anyone could take him for Ray. Distraught by memories of his past life, he pulls his wife and heads to the elevator. He doesn't speak until they get to his room.

"This weekend in DC was a mistake," he says with a sigh as he leans against the door.

Sarah makes a disgusted noise as she hangs her coat in the closet.

"Don't be silly. Ray's messages allowed us to take control of the situation."

Tom snorts.

"Great help! Sure. The first text is "A man sees Ray Levoi in a restaurant in DC," then "Tell him you need to go home." Sometimes, I think my brother enjoys being cryptic."

Sarah giggles as she removes Tom's jacket, makes him sit on the bed, and kneels between his spread legs.

"You know? I think it's better that Dawes saw you now and not in the White House's hallways."

He pouts.

"I wanted a photo next to the statue of Kazimierz Pulaski."

"You wanted an imaginary photo with Mav," she corrects.

"Well, if Pułaski and Pete are alike, it's not my fault."

Ice believes that the points of contact between his husband and the Pole are evident: Like Mav, Pulaski was gorgeous, often acted independently, disobeyed orders, and had a reputation for being a loose cannon.

"And I couldn't eat the chocolate mouse either," he concludes tearfully.

Sarah puts her hands on the back of his neck and forces him to bend over so she can kiss him on the lips.

"I have something dark and sweet for you."

Tom raises his eyebrows and smiles mischievously.

"Really?"

She nods, releases the ribbons of the dress that close the shoulder pieces, stands up, and lets the fabric fall to her feet. In the dimness of the room, where the only source of light is that which filters through the thick rain clouds, the copper color of her skin is dark. It almost looks like chocolate.

Sarah's waist is facing Tom. He holds her hips so she can't move back and kisses her navel passionately. He sinks his tongue into the slit and sucks until she moans.

"So I'm your dessert?" -she asks between gasps.

Tom stands up and kisses her lips. Then he steps away to take off his shirt.

"You are never dessert, woman. You are always the main dish."

She smiles and falls onto the bed.

Chapter Text

"He exudes an innocence that's part of his charm.

Maybe part of his success is that when people see him on the screen,

they would, in a fantasy, like to corrupt that innocence."

Martin Scorsese on Tom Cruise

Tuesday, October 4, 2011, 2 am, "The Moan" Bar, Honolulu, O'ahu Island

He got out of the truck and approached the bar with a determined step. He waved to a pair of police guarding the perimeter and walked under the yellow tape. As soon as they recognized him, the reporters began shouting questions. He did not turn his head in their direction. He had learned early that they could take even his facial expressions as "revelations," right now, his face only reflected anger at the interrupted sleep.

Entering through the wide-open door, he noted with satisfaction that the police had already cleared the area and only bar staff remained, judging by their neon pink t-shirts with "Moan" printed in black and super tight pants. Seven of them had been seated at tables and had bored faces while a couple of officers, with a look of interrupted sleep, did their first interview. On top of the bar was an evidence collection case, and Charlie Fong was dusting the surface to recover prints. At the back of the room, he saw Sergeant Lukela talking in a low voice with another police officer in uniform. He headed there.

"Ah! McGarrett," Duke greeted, "I was surprised the governor left us this."

Steve raised his hands in a gesture of peace. Things were starting off badly if even Lukela believed that Five-0's intervention was a bad idea.

“I don't know anything, Duke. Denning's secretary woke me half an hour ago and said to bring the team here. Chin and Officer Weston are on their way. Can you tell me what happened here?”

Sergeant Lukela exchanged a worried look with the officer -Mako, her badge said-. She snorted and said, "Fucking haoles" under her breath. McGarrett wasn't supposed to hear it, so he was polite and didn't notice.

“This bar belonged to Koi Kahale.”

Oh! That set off his alarms right away.

“Okay. From what I remember about that guy, he doesn't usually let anything go.”

Luke nodded. His eyes showed evident satisfaction at the commander's quick response.

"I said it belonged because he's dead," he pointed his thumb to the gallery behind him. “They executed him in his office. We think around midnight. His manager went to bring him a bill and found him shot three times. He called the police. We call organized crime. His boss decided to call the governor. Denning called you.”

Steve nods. He can see how taking the case away from organized crime and handing it over to the special force -the attack dogs, they call them- could make the department uncomfortable. At the same time, after the corruption cases that have rocked Hawaii with the murders of Meka Hanamoa and Governor Jameson, he understands why Denning wants detectives with no ties to Hawaii's underworld for this high-profile case.

Hawaii Five-0 is the only part of the state's police force that can guarantee this.

He sighs.

“This it's not my fault, Duke.”

“I know, kid. Do you want to see the scene?”

Steve opens his mouth to respond but hears familiar footsteps behind him and turns. Chin and Lori just entered the bar. He carries a tray with four cups of coffee in his hands. She only brings her coffee, which she drinks as she follows him with clumsy steps.

"Good morning," says Chin, affably.

He moves the coffee tray forward.

“Your latte, Duke, your mocha, Officer Mako.” -he turns towards the bar- “Charlie! I brought you a latte, too.”

Steve reaches for the fourth cup, but Chin pushes the tray away.

“What do you think you're doing?”

“It's not for me?”

Chin looks at him, surprised.

“Of course not! It's to make peace with Detective Gleason, who was taken off the case by the governor. Is he in there?” -he asks Duke.

“Yeah.”

Chin goes to enter the gallery, but Steve stops him.

“One moment! You bring coffee for the entire police team, but not for me?”

"You earn more than me, McGarrett," Chin responds impatiently. “I'm trying to improve interdepartmental relations, and do you get jealous?”

“I'm just saying. I also woke up at 1:30 am, and I'm part of the team.”

"I can't believe this," Chin growls. “Where is Danny?”

Steve raises his eyebrows, amazed at the change.

“He's at home.”

Duke, Chin, Lori, and Mako stare at him. Even Charlie stops his work at the bar and turns to him. He realizes what he said and rectifies it.

“In his house, I mean. Grace is with him because her mom had a party or something like that, and I thought he could at least wake his daughter up and take her to school. What does it have to do?”

Mako looks at Duke in disbelief. The old sergeant looks at the sky.

“Danny is the one who buys your coffee, McGarrett.”

The commander looks at them, surprised.

“Really?”

"Some attack dogs," Mako murmurs, again not quietly enough.

Steve opens his mouth. He can't ignore the comment this time, but Chin grabs him by the arm.

“Let's look at the scene and ask Detective Gleason what he knows. Stay here with Charlie Lori.”

The blonde just grunts and takes another sip of coffee.

Tuesday, October 3, 8:30 am, Hawaii 5-O Headquarters, Honolulu, O'ahu Island

"Well," Lori comments as Chin prepares his presentation of the case, "from what I learned last night, this is like the end of an era."

"That's right," Chin confirms.

Danny looks at them in disbelief from across the conference table.

“What is this? Another Hawaiian tradition no one told me about? Do we mourn the pimps who launder money in bars?”

“Danny!” -Chin looks at him, surprised.

"Koi Kahale was much more than that," Steve says as he approaches.

He puts a cup of coffee in front of Danny, looks meaningfully at his colleagues, and sticks out his chest proudly.

“Oh! I'm going to die? Is that what it's about?”

“What? Why do you say that?”

“You brought me coffee. You never bring me coffee, McGarrett! This is the kind of gesture you consider too compassionate and kind for your tough military identity. Now tell me, what's wrong?”

Steve looks desperately at Lori and Chin. She can't hide her amusement. He has something like pity in his eyes.

“McGarrett knows that what's coming will bother you, Danny.”

The blonde turns to Ho Kelly. His scandalous and false astonishment changed for concern.

“I'm listening.”

The detective nods and begins his presentation.

“Koi Kahale, born on Molokai in 1942, has been known in the criminal world of Hawaii since the late 1950s. He began by providing stationed soldiers with everything that the Army or Navy did not want to give them: drugs, sex, or French movies. Then, he spread to tourism. He had a network of bars, cabarets, and, more recently, discos, which he used to launder his money. He always maintained a tense coexistence with local gangs and the yakuza. Several generations of Hawaii police officers, the DEA, the FAA, and the FBI repeatedly tried to arrest him but could never prove the charges.”

"He was well connected," Williams agrees. "That explains why Denning wants us on the case. I still don't see anything special on his profile." -he sips the coffee- "Oh! This is really good, Steve. Exactly how I like it! Thanks, babe."

Steve nods but doesn't smile at him.

Lori makes a face and continues with the presentation.

“From what I learned this morning, the most accepted theory to explain why no one wanted to take over Kahale's business is that he exploited a very niche market: underage prostitution. Few people like the idea, but it makes a lot, a lot of money. So, he simply paid the crime families to ensure they did not intervene. It is also ideal blackmail material, which guarantees protection from law enforcement.”

Danny feels the trace of coffee in his mouth turn to ash. He swallows dry.

“Oh!” -is all he says.

His eyes pass, nervous and disgusted, over the face on the screen. It reveals nothing of his inner depravity. Fifty years destroying childhoods and no one... Has Nabokov visited any of the Koi Kahale properties? The idea is ridiculous, but he is oscillating between panic and rage. Of course, ridiculous ideas strike him.

"Danny," Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, the texture of his calloused fingers through the thin fabric of his shirt calming him a little, "do you need a moment?"

"No," he shakes his head and looks at Chin. “Go on.”

“Last night's execution was a professional job. the two guards Kahale had at the office door were sedated with darts, and the victim was shot three times, two in the chest, the third in the forehead with a short weapon, with a silencer. The estimated time of death is between midnight and one.”

“Do we already have the files from the security cameras in "The Moan"? -Danny asks.

"They just arrived," Steve reports, "but they only cover the public areas and the outer perimeter. The office corridor is the same as the bathroom; there is only one camera at the entrance, but from the angle, you cannot tell who entered the bathroom and who continued towards the office.”

"That gigantic blind spot can't be a coincidence," says Danny.

“Of course,” -Chin agrees- “privacy had to be guaranteed to those who came for the "other" business.”

“Okay, okay.” -the blonde takes a deep breath. “So, who do we suspect right now?”

Steve shrugs.

“After almost half a century of operations in a business like that, the question is who didn't want him dead, except some of his employees and clients,” -the commander muses. “It could be that the families decided to clean the house out of fear of Denning's aggressive policy of moralization. It could be someone from his blackmail network who decided to end the arrangement. Damm! It could even be one of his former victims.”

Danny turns to Lori.

“Can you do some of your criminal profiling magic to point us in a specific direction?”

She shakes her head, still looking at the crime scene photos on the screen.

“There's not enough, Danny. It was a meticulous and clean job, with no collateral damage, but that fits the profile of a hitman and a person with obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

"In the field of material evidence," Chin intervenes, "Charlie's team collected many sets of prints at the bar and are cross-referencing them with those from Kahale's office, but that would be circumstantial at best. Plus, with work of this quality, it's unlikely that whoever executed it left any traces last night."

They look to McGarrett for guidance. The commander sighs.

“I have a fun little job for each of you: review surveillance videos.” -he gives each person a USB memory. “These are the files from the bar's security cameras on the night of the murder. We will try to identify all the people who enter and exit the hallway leading to Kahale's office during the window we were given. We'll meet again when someone finds something interesting in the images or until Charlie and Max send an update.”

10:30 am, Hawaii 5-O Headquarters

“What's new?” -Danny asks while rubbing his eyes.

"Charlie sent an update on the fingerprints at the bar, and we have a suspect," Chin reports as he manipulates the digital table. “This is Peter Mitchell” -and with a gesture, he passes the military registration photo of a man with a wide jaw, black hair, and green eyes to the screen.

McGarrett makes a surprised noise. This is a Navy officer captain, as detailed in the basic profile accompanying the photo.

“And why is Captain Mitchell our suspect?”

As soon as he asks the question, Danny looks at him, curious. There is something in Steve's tone as if he fears the answer Chin will give.

“Mitchell's prints were already in the Hawaii Police database. He has been fined for speeding and reckless driving the four times he has visited the island in the last ten years.”

"Well, he's a Navy pilot. I can't imagine going less than 100 an hour would satisfy him, even to go for groceries," Danny comments.

Beside him, McGarrett nods silently, but his posture is tense.

“That is not important in this case. His fingerprints were in a much older record: Mitchell was one of the hundred people captured in a raid on the "The Moan" in 1976. It was one of the many and fruitless attempts to accuse Koi Kahale of something solid.”

MacGarrett massages his brow and bites his lip. It's clear he doesn't like where this is going.

"Wait, wait," Lori interrupts. “His file says that Mitchell was born in 1962. He was fourteen years old at the time. What was he doing…?” -and she stops because she has connected the dots. “Oh!”

"Yes," Chin sighs with a bitter smile and puts a new image on the screen. “This is probably Pete Mitchell's first mugshot.”

The photo is black and white, and the face has not yet lost the roundness characteristic of childhood, but his chin and nose are identical to his adult photo. The eyes are confrontational as if daring the police officer who took the picture to tell him something about the situation he finds himself in.

“But those records should be sealed.” -Danny can't contain the feeling that they are complicit in some kind of archival voyeurism. “He was a minor, a victim. Why are we seeing this?”

"Because of the Kato leak," McGarrett whispers.

“Oh!” -Danny feels that his nightmares have just acquired another element. He looks at Chin -It happened to Hawaii too?”

The Hawaiian nods. Now, it is Lori who looks at them disoriented.

“What is Kato leak?”

Danny and Chin exchange awkward glances. It is never pleasant to acknowledge the failures of the police system. Although Lori is his colleague now, she is ultimately a Department of Homeland Security agent. If she didn't know about the Kato scandal at the time, it's because she didn't need to. McGarrett puts them out of their misery by speaking up.

“In 2001, the federal government finally gave money to all the country's police departments to digitize their sealed files related to juvenile crimes in paper format. The goal was to build a database to better recognize child trafficking and exploitation patterns at the local, state, and national levels. The problem is that, as usual, they could have invested more in security. Five years later, when a lot of material had already been uploaded, a hacker, or group of hackers, entered the intranets of several police departments to specifically steal that data. All the FBI managed to determine was the digital signature: Kato. I found out from my father. He complained that he had warned about the lack of security of the department's intranet. From Danny's reaction, I assume that the city of New Jersey was another victim.”

"Yes," the blonde agrees. “But that doesn't explain why Mitchell's prints connect us to a case from 1976. If it's sealed, it should stay sealed for the police, even if it was stolen.”

Chin spreads his arms in defeat.

“Because the state of Hawaii, in its infinite wisdom, believed that the best way to deal with the feared wave of blackmail was to incorporate those files into the police database with a unique marker: they only appear when directly related to the case in question. Mitchell has been finned four times before by the traffic police, and this never came to light.”

Danny doesn't hide his mistrust. He can see from Lori's expression that she doesn't like the solution either.

"That's re-victimizing," she says. “It cannot be assumed that, because a person was the victim of a sexual crime before turning eighteen, they are automatically suspicious of whatever happens to their perpetrator thirty or forty years later.”

"No," Chin admits uncomfortably, "but in this case it has been useful."

“How?” -she snaps without hiding her skepticism.

“Because, according to his credit card records, Mitchell had never been to that bar in his four previous visits. Why did he return to "The Moan" now?”

"That might have nothing to do with Kahale," McGarrett interjects.

The rest of the team looks at him strangely. He returns a surprised expression.

“Mitchell is a Navy officer, "The Moan" is a gay bar.” -he extends his arms. “Should I say more?”

“Oh!” -Lori remembers. “The repeal of DADT last month.”

“Exactly.”

"Anyway, I think it would be good to check Mitchell's alibi," says Chin.

“Okay. Send me his hotel information to the phone.” -the commander agrees. “Come on, Danny.”

Tuesday, October 3, 11:30 am, Hilton Hawaiian Village, Honolulu, O'ahu Island

They knock on the door of Mitchell's suite.

“Who is it?” -asks a male voice.

“Hawaii Five-0, police.”

A smiling blond man opens it. He has a similar height to McGarrett, a retro-wave mustache, and two small scars on his left cheek. He wears a horrible Hawaiian shirt and beige cotton pants. He looks them up and down, and the smile fades from his face. He turns towards the interior of the suite.

“Dad! The pair of strippers you ordered me are not my type.”

Steve and Danny look at each other in shock. Before they can intervene, Mitchell appears, dressed in a white T-shirt, tight jeans, and a long-sleeved plaid shirt.

"I didn't order any strippers, Brad," he says with a revolted expression. “I love you, but I'm not interested in helping you empty the pipes. You are an adult.”

"We're real police officers," Danny intervenes, definitely not wanting to see how this little family misunderstanding ends. He shows his badge. “We are Detectives Williams and McGarrett. We want to speak with you, Mr. Mitchell.”

Brad makes an exasperated face.

“Again?” -He turns to his father. “I would like us to finish our vacation in Hawaii once, just once, without the police coming to complain about how you drive.”

Mitchell smiles at his son.

“I wouldn't be your father, then. You know I feel the need...”

"Yes, of course, the need for speed," the young man interrupts in a tired tone.

“And since you're not interested in knowing which speed sensor I threw to the ground this time, I'll go with the detectives to their office.” -he looks at them with sudden authority- “Right?”

Danny blinks, a little disoriented. They have lost control of this conversation if they ever had it. Was Mitchell waiting for them?

"Yes, exactly," McGarrett supports, smiling. “It's nothing serious, just a formality.”

But now, the young man looks at them with suspicion.

“What department did you say you were from?”

The commander's smile tightens a little.

“Hawaii Five-0.”

"Don't worry, Brad," Mitchell says. “I'll be back in a while. You entertain yourself with one of the cucumbers in the suite's kitchen.”

“Dad!”

The captain takes advantage of the fact that his son is all red and looks at the two detectives with embarrassment to go out into the hallway and close the door behind him.

"I just want to make it clear that these things only happen with you," Danny says as soon as they sit in the car.

“With me?” -Steve asks, amazed, as he maneuvers to leave the hotel parking lot.

“When I go to interview people with Chin or Lori, no one ever believes that we are strippers, or sex workers of any kind, McGarrett.”

“Hey Danny, it's not my fault that people project strange things when they see me, okay?”

“No, it's not my fault, he says. But he doesn't stop swimming every day in the early morning to stay like a damn underwear model.”

“Are you saying I'm pretty, Danny?”

"I must admit, retirement life suits you, McGarrett," Mitchell says from the back seat in an amused tone. “Less than two years, and you're already married.”

“Do you know each other!?”

The commander looks at the captain angrily through the rearview mirror.

“I am not retired, but in the reserves.”

Mitchell waves his hand as if downplaying the distinction.

“Steve! I asked you a question. Where do you know him from?”

"From San Diego," he admits with a guilty tone. “I was stationed at the San Diego Naval Base, and we met there.”

"It's a small community, the Navy," Mitchell explains and turns to look by the window.

Danny feels betrayed. At the same time, he's not sure why, but Steve not denying that they're “married” makes him feel something funny in his stomach. It's the first time he's just let it go.

They don't speak for the rest of the trip.

Noon, Hawaii 5-O Headquarters, Honolulu, O'ahu Island

Before arriving, Steve sends Lori and Chin on various missions outside the headquarters.

He takes Mitchell to his office, closes the door, and closes the blinds. Williams is surprised by the attention he pays to the suspect's privacy, but he doesn't say anything, just sits beside him behind the bureau. His colleague gives him an uncomfortable look, clears his throat, and begins the interview in an unusually formal tone.

“Captain Mitchell, we want to interview you regarding the death of Koi Kahale. Mr. Kahale was murdered today in his office inside the "The Moan" bar between midnight and one in the morning.”

"Uh-huh," says Mitchell, looking at his hands.

“Do you know anything about that bar or that man?”

“The margaritas are delicious. I hope that does not change with the new management.”

Danny snorts, realizing that the relationship between McGarrett and Mitchell prevents his colleague from being as aggressive as usual. Is the captain a rank higher than a commander in the Navy? He doesn't know it, but it's clear that Steve doesn't feel up to harassing this man until he confesses. He decides to intervene.

“You were waiting for us, Mitchell. Can you explain why?”

“I learned about Kahale's death on the local news this morning. I was in that bar last night," he shrugs, "I'm always on the list of usual suspects," he concludes bitterly.

“But did you know the bar before? Did you know it was Kahale's property?” -he insists.

Mitchell narrows his eyes at Williams as if trying to understand him.

“Of course, I knew the place. One doesn't forget the counter where they took your virginity," he says without intonation.

McGarrett makes a strangled sound, half surprised snort and half outraged growl. Williams feels his eyes prickle and, disturbed by the calmness with which Mitchell talks about his rape, looks away at the wall.

“Although the smell is different now since you can no longer smoke inside the bar. And I didn't know it still belonged to old Koi, no.”

“What time did you leave the bar?” -Williams asks when he manages to regain his composure.

“Shortly after eleven, I think. I'm not sure about that because, like I told you, the margaritas are excellent.”

“Did you return to the Hilton Hawaiian Village with your son?”

“No!” -The captain seems almost disgusted by the idea. “Bradley had found company for the night. We separated.”

“So you went to…?” -Danny makes a rotating movement with his hand, like pulling a fishing line.

"I went to the sea," Mitchell concludes as he plays with a steel-gray ring on his right hand. “The memories made me feel bad, so I walked to the coast. I was meditating there with the help of a bottle of vodka. I woke up at dawn and went back to the hotel.”

The detectives exchange worried glances.

“Are you saying that you have no alibi for the time of the murder?”

Mitchell looks at McGarrett as if he were a not very smart person.

“I don't need an alibi because I didn't kill him, commander. Look for a gunpowder test or DNA or something like that.”

“We don't have...” -the ringing of his cell phone interrupts Steve.

Catherine's photograph appears on the screen. Puzzled, he motions to apologize to the other two men, turns to the wall, and responds.

“What did you do?” -the scream is so loud that he has to move the device away from his ear.

“Cate, what's wrong?”

“Why is Maverick at the Hawaii Five-0 Headquarters, Steve?”

“How…?” -but he thinks better of it, gets up, and leaves the office. “How do you know that?”

“Because they ordered me to triangulate his phone.”

“That makes no sense. He's just here to answer some questions. He will leave at any moment” - although, as he says it, he realizes it won't be that way.

Maverick has no alibi, but he does have a motive and the training to carry out an operation like the one that cost Koi Kahale his life. He's a viable suspect with the resources to leave Hawaii. They have to hold him.

“Look, I don't know what made you think taking Maverick Mitchell from his hotel was a good idea, but the order to locate him came fifteen minutes ago. I finally escaped from the analyst room and locked myself in the bathroom to tell you.”

He checks his watch.

“Fifteen minutes? It's been forty since we went to pick him up. That means the alarms went off twenty minutes after he left with us. Voluntarily, I might add. Who…?”

“Who ordered to locate Maverick with all the capacity of the Navy as soon as he disappeared?” -she interrupts him sarcastically. “Do you really have to ask me that?”

“Ups!”

“Yes, very eloquent sailor. I hope you have something better to say to Kazansky.”

Now, he's starting to panic.

“Is he in Hawaii?”

“Of course, he's in Hawaii. Kazansky is the Central Command commander, and Mitchell is in San Diego after the deactivation of the Second Fleet. Why else would Mitchell be here if not to meet him?”

“Well…”

"I have to go," she interrupts him again. “I've been in the bathroom for too long already.”

And hangs up.

McGarrett returns to his office, where Danny laughs at what Maverick tells him. He raises his eyes to him with an amused expression.

“So "Smooth Dog"? I never imagined you could have such a cute nickname, Steve.”

“Come on, doesn't it make you want to pet him every time you see him? What did you call him?” -Mitchell puts his index finger against his lips while pretending to try to remember- “Ah! Yes, underwear model. Let me tell you, I agree.”

“Very funny, Maverick. Using military information to get Danny on your side. And you shouldn't talk like that.”

“Why not? President Obama has freed me,” -he raises his arms above his head. “I'm so happy I could almost vote Democrat.”

Steve grimaces in discomfort and returns to his seat.

“The repeal of DADT does not mean the end of homophobia in the armed forces.”

“No, but for the first time in my life I can sleep without fearing losing my job for being who I am.”

“Talking about being who you are. That bottle of vodka that you say accompanied you last night. Maybe it is on the beach? We can locate it and prove that…”

The captain shakes his head.

“I threw it into the water.”

“Mav, you have to help me out here! Without an alibi or evidence that you were somewhere else, I am obliged to arrest you.”

The green eyes reflect sadness, and the lips twist into a tired smile. He doesn't stop playing with the ring.

“I was alone on the beach all night, sorry.”

It occurs to Danny that this whole discussion is ridiculous. This man spent thirty years in the closet in the Navy, but one night in the wrong bar will destroy his career. He opens his mouth to say that they could invent something, maybe let him sleep in one of the offices until they solve the case, but the sound of footsteps outside makes him change his focus.

“What's going on out there?”

Before he reaches the office door, it opens. A tall, blonde man enters, a turbulent expression in his broad face. He wears the white uniform of the Navy and three silver stars on his epaulets.

McGarrett and Mitchell get up right away.

“Vice Admiral Kazansky!”

“Ice! What are you doing here?”

Kazansky looks Mitchell up and down.

“Bradley called me, of course.”

Then he turns to McGarrett. His eyes harden.

“You have courage, Smooth Dog, but little judgment.”

Only the awareness that that is Steve's nickname in the Navy keeps Danny from jumping at the moniker. He intervenes anyway.

“Excuse me. Not that seeing you both in this macho versus macho staring contest isn't fun and all, but the civilian here would like to know what gives you the right to barge into our office, mister...”

"Vice Admiral," Steve rectifies.

“If so, what brings you here, Vice Admiral Kazansky?”

“Looking for my partner.”

There's something about the way he says "partner" that confuses Williams. The intonation is deeper than the rest of the phrase. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Steve tenses even more. He assumes that it is a Navy code, like nicknames, but this indicates danger.

“Yes, that is understandable, but mister, sorry! Captain Mitchell has not been able to give us an alibi for the period between eleven thirty at night and one in the morning. Without that, we can't let him go. He's a person of interest in a murder case, you know?”

Kazansky looks at Mitchell curiously.

“What did you tell them?”

"That I went to the beach with a bottle of vodka," the brunette answers while playing with his ring and looking at the ground.

“Really?” -Kazansky shakes his head and puts a hand on the captain's shoulder. Mitchell raises his eyes with a challenging expression.

“Really.”

Kazansky smiles at him, but it is a sad gesture. He takes a deep breath and turns to McGarrett and Williams.

“You must excuse Pete. The repeated ejections have caused problems with his memory. Obviously, he told you about some other night many years ago. Yesterday, when we left "The Moan," -Mitchell groaned when he heard "we"- “Bradley went to the hotel with a companion, and we…”

"Ice, no." Maverick's tone is a prayer. Kazansky ignores him.

“... we went to the house that the Navy assigned me during my visit. We drank some more and went to sleep.”

Danny blinks, unsure of what he can make from that statement. A man can go sleep at his friend's house, of course. But the way Kazansky said "partner" and Mitchell's insistence on excluding the vice admiral from his testimony suggests otherwise.

“That's very good. However…”

“Danny” -now it is McGarrett who tries to stop him, but Williams ignores him. He has to get to the bottom of this.

"However," he repeats, "Mitchell may have left after you fell asleep."

Something violent shakes Kazansky. His pupils contract, and the blue of his irises almost makes the black of his eyes disappear. It's so brief that Danny wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been paying close attention to the officer's every reaction. The vice admiral blinks, and his eyes are calm again. He smiles, but it is like a predator that shows its teeth.

“I'll be more explicit, Detective Daniel Williams,” -the use of his full name makes McGarrett react, and he stands next to his partner with a defensive attitude. “Pete Mitchell and I slept together last night. In addition, the house has a Navy security team assigned to it. You can interview them. They will testify that we entered at eleven forty-five at night, and no one left until this morning.”

“Oh!”

“Now, if you'll excuse us. I only have three more days of leave.”

Kazansky puts his arm around Mitchell's shoulders and spins him around to leave the office. Steve reacts when he already grabs the door handle.

"Sir," they both look at him over their shoulders. “Congratulations.”

Kazansky sums up pride. Mitchell smiles shyly.

"Thank you," says the captain.

A week later, there is no progress with the case, and Five-0 has to dedicate his efforts to the sad story of Blake Spencer. After that, they finally get Kono back, but even with one more person on the team, they don't make any progress on the case. The work was excellent, and no one mourns Koi Kahale's death enough to provide clues.

Meanwhile, the Noshimuri family takes over the Kahale business in a way that surprises many - not Kono -. Adam, whom old Hiro Noshimuri is grooming as his heir, sets up a small rehabilitation program for the victims, with psychological help and resources to relocate outside of Hawaii if they wish. Kahale's lieutenants appear dead throughout the archipelago in particularly gruesome styles throughout October. Even those who flee Hawaii when they realize they are being hunted. The police try to prove that the executions are the work of Michael Noshimuri, Hiro's brutal youngest son, but there is not enough evidence, and, for once, the boy seems to be doing a genuine social service.

Monday, October 31, 4:30 pm, Hawaii 5-O Headquarters, Honolulu, Oahu Island

Danny finishes organizing the Kahale case materials. The governor has ordered to close the investigation and declare it a "cold case." They must complete the file and send it to archives. He reread the documents carefully because the way in which they found their only suspect still seems highly questionable to Williams. The least he can do is ensure that Mitchell's privacy is protected in the files Five-0 controls.

When he goes back over his notes, he remembers a detail that seemed strange to him at the time, but never confirmed. Determined, he goes to McGarrett's office.

“Hey, Steve, about the Kahale case.”

“Yeah?” -answers the commander without looking away from his computer screen.

“Kazansky never asked us why we had gone looking for Mitchell. I told him his partner was a person of interest in a murder investigation, and he didn't even ask who had died. Doesn't that seem strange to you?”

McGarrett stops typing, steps away from the table, and looks at Danny intently. The blonde knows that look. Steve is deciding how much of his life in the Navy he can reveal to him.

“Did Mitchell tell you why they call him Maverick?”

“Yes, because it flies like crazy.”

“They called me Smooth Dog because I could sneak into any place with my charms, I am faithful and bite hard.”

“I don't doubt it, baby.”

“They call Kazansky Iceman because he plans everything perfectly and doesn't make mistakes. He is one of the greatest strategic minds of the second half of the 20th century. He and Maverick have been inseparable since 1986 when they saved each other's lives in the Indian Ocean. They are a legend in the Navy. Remember Cate called me halfway through the interview?” -Danny nods– “It was to tell me that Kazansky had ordered Mitchell's cell phone signal to be triangulated. So, when he entered this building, he had already read our files and knew perfectly well what we were investigating.”

“Wait, our files aren't classified? We are the governor's task force!”

McGarrett raises his eyebrows.

“Kazansky was director of Naval Intelligence and is the Naval Forces Central Command commander. Very few databases are closed to that man.”

“Okay” -other things continue to bother him, but he knows it's better not to talk about it in this place. “I'll finish in five minutes, and we'll leave, okay? We have to pick up Grace for the Halloween stroll.”

Already in the car, Danny tries to yank the final thorn.

“Steve, don't you think it's strange that Kazansky took Mitchell to that particular bar?”

“Yes, I thought about that too. It didn't fit with what I know about Iceman. But then I started thinking about the time of the crime. Iceman and Maverick were drinking, probably toasting, to the freedom that the repeal of DADT gives them, just as Koi Kahale was executed. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced it was not a chance visit. Kazansky wanted Mitchell to know that he knew about his visit to Hawaii in 1976. Plus, there are the rings.”

“The rings?”

“Maverick had a ring that he played with constantly.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you remember about the ring?”

“Well... it was steel gray, had texture, like a very fine printed filigree, and was new. The finger had no discoloration around it.”

“Very good. Now, try to remember Kazansky's hands.”

Detective Williams closes his eyes to focus on the memory. To be honest, he didn't pay much attention to the vice admiral's hands. Only when he put his hand on Mitchell's shoulder could he see that... He turns to Steve, surprised.

“His ring was identical. Oh!” -he suddenly understands- “That's why you congratulated them.”

“Yeah. I think they got engaged that night.”

Danny can't help but feel skepticism toward the strange alignment of events.

“The person primarily responsible for Mitchell's sexual abuse dies coincidentally on the night his twenty-five-year-old partner proposes to him?”

Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye, still paying attention to the helm because it's Halloween afternoon, and many people like to start to celebrate early. Neither believe in coincidences, which is impossible when you work as an investigator, whether in counterterrorism or robbery.

They're turning down the street from the Edwards mansion when Danny decides to close the issue.

“It was a hell of a personalized engagement gift.”

Chapter Text

Princeton-Plainsboro University Hospital, New Jersey, September 2015

"I need your help," House announces as he drops into the side seat in Wilson's office.

It is not a seat for patients or family members. Wilson reserves it when he invites another team member to give their opinion. It's pressed against the wall, closer to his desk than the other three seats in the office.

The oncologist does not take his eyes off his computer screen, where he is transcribing the latest notes of a case.

"Good morning to you, too, darling. How did you sleep? My guard was excellent. Thanks for asking."

House grimaces and taps the table with the tip of his cane.

"I thought a thing about having a stable relationship was skipping all the bullshit of empty formalities" -and he raises his damaged leg over the arm of Wilson's chair.

The brunette looks at the sports shoe out of the corner of his eye and nudges it with his elbow.

"It doesn't include not saying hello to your husband when you see him for the first time that day at…" -he briefly looks at the corner of his laptop screen- "two in the afternoon."

"I sent you a text message at eight o'clock."

"You sent me three emojis!" -Wilson corrects- "A tongue, an eggplant and a smiling face."

"Evidence that my passion for you has not waned in… how long have we been together again?"

"Sometimes it seems too much, sometimes too little," Wilson complains as he saves the report and closes the hospital's MyChart.

He gets up and goes around the opposite side of the table from where House is to look for his coat.

"Where are you going?" -asks the other as he hurries to leave the chair to approach.

"I want what you promised me in that text message before I help you with anything."

House raises his eyebrows and smiles.

"Delighted."

A couple of hours later, while Greg is showering, Wilson feels his husband's text message alarm. Fearing that it is some emergency, he picks up the phone. If it's not from Princeton-Plainsboro, he will return the device to its place. What he sees makes him raise his eyebrows and keep the cell phone between his fingers.

"Honey," he smiles at House when he returns to his room with a towel tied around his waist, "who is Bad Bunny 1982?"

But his face shows none of the emotions he expected: amusement, mischief, even discomfort. House opens his eyes wide and rushes towards the bed to take the phone from him, with his face distorted by fear.

"You read it!?"

"But…"

House snatches the phone and pins him to the bed. Their faces are very close together, but nothing is sensual about it.

"Did you read the message?"

"No, no. Of course not."

House sighs, steps away, and unlocks the phone.

"What the hell is happening?"

"He's a patient," House answers while typing something.

"A patient? You never give your personal number to patients."

"He is a special patient."

He leaves the phone on the nightstand and turns slowly to Wilson. He looks at him with a calculating expression.

"My patient needs a private consultation. That is the favor I wanted to ask of you.

"A private consultation… with me?"

"Well, I only have one oncologist at home. I could call Chase, Ausies are multi-purpose, you know, but since you don't let me blackmail people into keeping secrets for me anymore," he shrugs.

"Do you mean that you need an appointment as quickly as possible?" -He is already mentally reviewing his agenda.

"No. When I say private, I mean outside the hospital. No nurses, no records. Just you and me, in a private place that the patient would choose."

Wilson looks at him carefully. They know that there are dark stages in their partner's life, which they prefer not to talk about. Most of the time, they pretend that House went on sabbatical during 2011. They also pretend that in the years between his expulsion from Johns Hopkins and medical school at the University of Michigan, he was not in California working in illegal clinics -for people without access to the system, he insists- facing the police and using soft drugs.

The problem is that House's past sometimes comes back to bite them. It may be something easy to handle, like a sudden, painful memory. It could be something potentially criminal, like a gang member demanding Vicodin without a prescription, of course.

"This patient of yours, do you know him well?"

"Since 1982."

Wilson holds his breath because, in 1982, House was in California. He has never told him what the clinic where he was an assistant did, but he understands that the people who went there were... not in good standing with the law, to put it kindly.

"Clinic patient?"

House shakes his head as he plays with the edge of the sheet.

"Surgery. Cardiothoracic trauma. He left after three days."

"What!? Did they let him go?"

House shrugs.

"His brother came for him. He explained that he had business to attend to. What were we going to do? To call the police? To his mommy? Besides, he survived, right?"

Wilson grimaces and gets up to look for his pants.

"Obviously, but no thanks to you."

He feels uncomfortable with this conversation. A guy whose chest was littered with bullets had to leave the illegal clinic, where they saved his life three days later. Oh my God!

"Hey! May I inform you the stitching was very nice."

"I'm sure he thanked you," he responds sarcastically while taking the socks out from under the bed.

"If you knew it was. He even laughed at my jokes."

"It is definitive, then, the man was up to his eyebrows on morphine."

"He was one of the most rational guys I saw pass by. He barely lied, but he did it very well when he lied."

That pauses Wilson because House doesn't give away that kind of comment. He sits on the opposite edge of the bed to put on his pants. He feels blue eyes dull into the back of his neck.

"And you kept in touch all these years?" -It's disturbing to think of House solving puzzles for the mob.

"No, no. It was more like… he was letting me know he was alive. He sent me a card when I graduated from Michigan. Another one that said, "Get well, idiot," when the thing with my leg. It has been this way for more than thirty years."

"How do you know that the person sending you the messages is him, then?"

"Oh! That's easy. In the first text, he quoted something I told him when we changed his bandages for the first time - he reaches for his cell phone, looks up the message, and shows it to Wilson.

"I've been told that having a Buick's chassis printed on your chest is very sexy."

"A Buick's chassis?"

"Yes, that's what happened to him. He was hit by a car."

Wilson snorts in disbelief.

"It ran over him, yes, of course."

He moves across the bed until he is facing House again. Looks him in the eyes.

"Does this Bad Bunny think he has cancer?"

His husband tilts his head to the side.

"He knows it could be something else but wants to start by ruling out the worst. I told you, a smart guy."

Wilson sighs, defeated. He's sure he'll regret it, but that's always the case with Gregory House.

"Okay. Make the appointment."

Wilson always wondered what it would be like to cross the line, but it turns out it's hard to tell the difference. Nothing happens after he agrees to see this mysterious - and hard-to-kill - unique patient of House. Not immediately, not the next day, not the next. He finds himself anxious.

"Still nothing?" -he asks at the end of the week while they have dinner at home.

Greg, the bastard, only has to look at him to know that he's not referring to the most recent Amazon purchase they bought with the other account and sent to his PO box.

"No. He is setting up the place."

"Do you know if he lives in the area?"

"I don't know. I don't want to know. And you shouldn't care."

Wilson nods, uncomfortable. He's usually the one who reminds House that he shouldn't interfere in the lives of the people around him.

The following Tuesday, almost ten days after learning about Bad Bunny 1982, House goes to lunch in Wilson's office. He carries a package with the logo of the Korean site they like - they get a discount because House diagnosed the owner's father with rheumatism - and his eyes have a mischievous gleam.

"Ready to go to the dark side, love?" -he asks while he sits down slowly.

Wilson delays responding with the excuse of clearing the table, opening the bag, and removing the food containers.

"I think that happened when I left your funeral to go on a motorcycle to tour the country."

"And look, it cured you of your awful thynoma."

Wilson grimaces. He doesn't like to think about it. One day, he had only five months more to live, so Greg pretended to be dead so he could be with him at that time. Two months later, his tumor had mysteriously disappeared. He had a life ahead of him and a husband - what happens in Las Vegas does not stay in Las Vegas - who was a fugitive from justice and officially dead. The economic, legal, and social consequences were… intense.

"So?"

"On Saturday, they will pick us up to go see him. How many diagnostic artifacts can we take without Foreman finding out?"

Wilson raises an eyebrow, amazed. Generally, House's limit is to jeopardize his access to the case he works on or his employment. He's never seen him interested in being discreet. Without a doubt, this Bunny is quite a character. It doesn't look like fear but rather admiration and concern. He sighs.

"Let me think. A few things are portable, and we can take them in the car's trunk."

During the rest of the week, they stay late and take advantage of the downtime to take what amounts to a reasonably complete, non-invasive oncology check-up team via the service elevator.

"You know," Wilson comments on Friday night when they finish packing everything, "this is a good idea."

House looks at him blankly from the floor, where he finishes taping two polyfoam pieces to protect the endoscopy equipment.

"Have a portable oncology kit," he explains.

House finishes securing the case and leans against the wall to get up.

"I'm sorry to wake you from your latest white savior dream, honey, but the people in Africa, A, have excellent doctors and, B, what they need is peace and control over their own natural resources. -he wipes his hands on his pants- Leftover pizza and sex before bed?"

"Oh, my good sir, that's just what the doctor ordered."

The next morning, a beige SUV parks in front of their door, and a guy in his fifties gets out, tall, with graying blonde hair, wearing pants with side pockets, a tight T-shirt - which reveals incredible abs - and a black and red checkered shirt. He's an average guy in an average car, yet his mannerisms and the way he looks around - calculating, alert - scream of a military background.

"They told me you will bring the beers to the football game watch party?"

House nods and instructs Wilson to help load the devices into the SUV trunk while he settles into the passenger seat.

"I'm a poor sick man, darling," says the fucker by way of justification.

The driver says his name is Rick but doesn't say anything else about himself. He puts music, and Wilson has to admit it's a good selection of '80s rock. After almost an hour of traveling south, they stop at a housing development on the outskirts of Allentown. All the houses are the same; in front of most of them, there is a nondescript-colored SUV, and no one is on the street.

It's a suburban nightmare, the kind of setting where Wilson imagines the sordid stories of Stephen King or VC Andrews taking place.

Rick opens the garage door with a remote control so they don't stop outside the house. There's a sports car inside, but Rick maneuvers the SUV into what's left of space without a problem. The door closes behind them immediately.

Through the door that connects the garage to the house enters a man with graying black hair and bright green eyes. He is wearing jeans and a very tight white T-shirt.

"Hey, Rick."

"Tommy," the driver greets.

As Rick goes to take out the bags, Tommy gives them a calculating look.

"I suppose you are the famous Dr. House."

To Wilson's surprise, Greg just nods.

"And he?"

"The oncologist I promised, James Wilson, my husband."

Tommy does not hide his surprise.

"We have a problem?" -Greg asks and takes a step back- "Because if he starts making a fuss about it now..."

"No, no." -Tommy assures them- "Not at all."

Behind him, Rick lets out a mocking chuckle.

"It would be the height of hypocrisy at this point."

Oh! Wilson understands. That's an additional reason to prefer trusted doctors, right?

"Let's go" -Tommy gestures for them to follow him into the House.

Behind them, they hear Rick following them with the oncology kit on a portable forklift.

"He is waiting for you in the studio. He said your equipment could be sensitive, and we shouldn't take any chances with the stairs. Additionally, it has an attached bathroom."

It is obvious that the house was rented. It is deliberately decorated to have no personality, with sparse and bland furniture. There are no portraits or scattered coffee cups, nothing to indicate that they want to make it their own. All the windows have shutters down, so no one can't see anything from the outside, even if someone wanders into the backyard. To balance, all the lights are on. The intense halogen light makes furniture with cold, dull colors look even more faded.

The study has a double sliding door. It contains a massive bureau, three wide armchairs, and three bookcases with hundreds of encyclopedia volumes bound in red and gold—the kind of flashy, useless thing that goes with a rented house.

A man is sitting on the edge of the bureau. He is tall, has blonde hair, is still shiny, and must be over fifty years old, from what House told him. His face has wide cheekbones and full lips, but his cheeks are flaccid, and his skin color is a little grayish. He wears a green sweatshirt with a zipper on the front, gray gym pants, and sneakers. The clothes look used, although not worn, but they seem to hang from his shoulders. Another sign that he has lost weight quickly.

Greg stops a few steps from their patient and rests his weight on the cane. Wilson stays by his side. Tommy keeps walking until he is behind the man, leaving room to allow them to work but close enough to intervene.

Yes, James decides, definitely a bodyguard.

Rick puts the boxes in the studio's corner, leaves, and closes the door behind him. He can't hear footsteps going away, so he assumes he will stand guard by the door.

"Greg," Bad Bunny 1982 greets in a hoarse voice, and the tension in his neck tells Wilson it hurts to talk. His eyes remain severe, and there is a slight glint of fear in the depths of his blue-gray irises.

"Edward," -Greg bows slightly- "How's business going? The family?"

"Good. It's been a good year. The Serbs did not cause many problems."

The bodyguard lets out a mocking laugh. Wilson feels his stomach clench.

"The family is fine, too. My youngest son is in senior year of college," he adds with evident pride.

"Oh!" -his husband sounds genuinely surprised- "Congratulations?"

"You're not doing too badly either, from what I see," and he jerks his chin at Wilson.

"No, not bad. Meet my husband, James Wilson."

Edward looks him up and down without concealment.

"He's cute," he says with a smile.

"He also has both healthy legs, so he will take the instruments out of their boxes while I ask you some questions. Okay?"

After Edward's nod, House drops into one of the armchairs, takes out a notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and gets to work.

Wilson listens to the interview as he opens the boxes and organizes the devices. At one point, Edward's voice fails, and his bodyguard begins to answer in his place. He's a quiet guy, Tommy. He speaks mostly in monosyllables and numbers. But the confidence with which he says all indicates that he knows his boss well. When Edward grunts in doubt or disbelief, Tommy responds, "That's what Sarah said," and that's the end of the questioning. He deduces that Sarah is his wife.

Of course, he has a wife! Mafia bosses are not gay. And it is clear that this man is used to being obeyed, even if his voice fails him now.

From the picture the symptoms paint, the oncologist understands why they fear it may be throat cancer.

"Let's see if I got the information right between your excellent imitation of a racing car engine and the mini Terminator codes. -House summarizes- Six months ago, in March, you started losing weight for no apparent reason, accompanied by fatigue and migraines. By May dizziness and nausea started. Finally, you have had a persistent cough for almost two months, which appeared without any other cold symptoms. You have no idea if there is a history of cancer in your family. You were exposed to internal combustion engine exhaust almost daily between 1982 and 1998. You do one hour of high-intensity exercise every day except Sundays. You were a social smoker between 1983 and 1990. You drink alcohol approximately once a month."

"Yeah," -Edward confirms in his raspy voice.

Wilson exchanges a look with Greg. It certainly could be. But there is something in her husband's eyes as if he doubted the answers he received.

"What about your... medicines?"

"My medicines?" -Edward repeats with undeniable mockery in his voice.

"Yes," House insists with a dry voice, "the ones you took every day and they made you so happy."

James can't see them because he's in the attached bathroom washing his hands, but he stays very still, and he's afraid to even breathe. How long has this man been taking drugs?

"I had to stop taking it at the beginning of the year." -Edward informs with a clear tone of longing- "Do you think that could be it?"

"Unlikely. You would have noticed the adverse reactions much faster. And nothing else has changed recently in your life?"

The patient grunts, reflective.

"The office changed," Tommy reminds him.

"How did it change?" -Greg asks.

Edward is slow to respond.

"My… mm… organization changed my place of operations. I have been in Washington, DC, for two months. Before it was by the sea, with a dry climate."

Wilson feels his heart sink. This is worse than he imagined! It is a national organization. Next to the sea and dry climate? What crime syndicate has agents in California and DC?

He takes a deep breath and returns to the office.

"The air in DC stinks." -Tommy complains with a revolted expression.

Edward gives him an amused, exasperated look.

"Stop it," he says with the tone of someone continuing a long and useless discussion.

"Certainly, the level of air pollution in DC could have triggered the cough," James says, still clutching a disposable towel.

The boss and his bodyguard look at him in surprise. Tommy's eyes are slightly satisfied, as if Wilson's opinion vindicates his displeasure with the city.

Greg purses his lips, not looking very convinced.

"Let's move on to the clinical examination. James?"

He puts the stethoscope around his neck and walks over, but Edward looks at him with a panicked expression.

"He?"

"Of course he." -House replies impatient- "Didn't you want an oncologist? There you go. I did a lot of sexy things to him to get him to agree. You're not going to make my oral talent go to waste."

"But…"

"Mr. Edward, I assure you that everything that happens in this exchange is protected by confidentiality between doctor and patient."

The man remains hesitant, but Tommy puts a hand on his shoulder and leans toward his ear. Wilson doesn't try to listen. Just watch the man's expression go from anxious to guilty. Finally, he nods.

"Take off your sweatshirt and shoes, please."

Underneath, he wears a gray Henley shirt whose flap reaches his sternum. It's completely buttoned up, but it's evident that Edward feels almost naked. He's probably used to formal suits, maybe even a bulletproof vest?

Wilson begins the ritual he knows by heart. Posture, height, weight (with a note about the previous register), and body temperature. It's clear that this man won't take off his pants, so he settles for studying the skin of his face, neck, hands, arms, and feet. He is sure that he had any bruises or other skin irregularities, they would have told.

"Open your shirt to auscultate."

He automatically brings a hand to his chest and clutches the opening. What little relaxation they had achieved evaporates.

"I have some scars."

"Yes, Greg told me you were hit by a car."

Edward turns to House with a raised eyebrow and curious eyes.

"Did a car hit me?"

House, who is watching them with great attention, nods.

"You crashed into the chassis of a Buick, didn't you?"

"Yes," the patient confirms.

Tommy lets out a mocking laugh. James rolls his eyes. Whatever brought Edward to the operating table in San Francisco over thirty years ago is irrelevant now. Furthermore, he already assured him that he is obliged by law to keep his secrets, and House vouches for him. What more guarantees can he ask for? The man seems to come to the same conclusion because he purses his lips, sighs, and begins to open the buttons.

Very slowly, he separates the flaps. Expires. Puts his hands away. Wilson looks at the skin twisted by old scars and the thick lines of a tattoo covering them. In a flash, he remembers one morning in the summer of 2008 when he told a teenager, "Your mother was a breast cancer survivor." He steps back, looks at the man's features again, and can see…

"Oh God! You are Jake Mitchell's mo... father."

Blue eyes widen in surprise, then tinge with panic.

Wilson is dragged by an unexpected force, and suddenly, his back and skull collide against one of the walls of the office.

"Tell me how you know that!"

The bodyguard has him immobilized with a forearm stuck in his neck and a gun against his temple. His green eyes - like Jake's, he notes - flash with a murderous shine.

He sees Greg advancing toward them from behind the man with his cane raised, but Edward hasn't stayed still. With one blow, he disarms Greg and pushes him back to his seat.

"Mav."

What is Mav?

"Answer to me!" -Tommy insists without noticing that the pressure on his neck prevents Wilson from speaking.

"Maverick!" -the boss shouts again- "Let Dr. Wilson go, please."

His voice is like a broken bell ringing with a rusty clapper but standing on a tall, hard tower.

This time, the bodyguard reacts.

"Not until he tells me how does he knows about Jake."

"Wilson knows Jake from when he went to hide in Bradley's apartment, Mav." -the boss explains calmly- "He can't say it himself because you're choking him. Now let it go!"

With an angry growl, the man finally lets him go. Wilson falls to the ground, coughing. After a cautious glance at Edward, Greg approaches him.

"Are you okay, honey?"

He just nods, knowing not to strain his vocal cords. They hug. What the hell is going on? That man knows where he lived eight years ago, how? More importantly, if he is Jake's father... Bradley said they were from a military family. That's the great mystery? A trans man walking the halls of power? Yes, he can understand the secrecy.

Edward is coughing from the effort. It is a dry and agonizing sound. Maverick (what kind of name is that?) hands him a glass of water. When he recovers, he looks at them again.

"You didn't tell him," he claims accusingly to House.

"I didn't think it was relevant!" -his husband defends himself, still from the ground.

The man snorts and turns to his bodyguard, who looks at him, tense as a wire.

"What does that mean?" Edward asks softly and points to the gun still in his hand.

"We are in New Jersey." -from the tone of his voice, he could refer to the Wild West- "You are weak. I took it to feel protected." -sighs- "I got carried away." -he admits, embarrassed, then looks at Wilson- "I'm sorry, doctor."

He forces a mollifying smile and leans on a bookcase to get up. He extends a hand to Greg to do the same.

"Edward, I like you, but trying to kill my husband is where I draw the line."

The boss nods. He turns to Mav and extends a hand in an imperative gesture. The other man pouts but hands him the gun. Edward walks to the other side of the bureau. With deliberately large gestures, he opens a drawer, puts the gun inside, and closes it. Then he returns to face them and sits on the table's edge again, like when they arrived.

"Better?"

Greg looks at him questioningly. James knows that if he says, "I'm done," his husband will follow his wishes. But now he feels huge curiosity, besides his responsibility as a doctor. He sees both men with a new perspective. He pulls House's hand, and they return to the armchairs in front of the bureau.

"You are Jake's parents," he doesn't bother to phrase it as a question.

Edward crosses his arms over his chest, curls his lips, and nods.

"How did you knew?"

"Jake had a beautiful photo of when he was a newborn, sleeping on your chest." -he points in the general direction of the area with his index finger- "The tattoo is unmistakable." -he looks at Maverick- "And he inherited your green eyes."

The couple exchanges an intense, brief look, oscillating between pride and bitterness. The feeling is gone when Edward looks back at them, and only a dark resolution remains.

"Did you talk about the photo?"

"Yeah. I told him..." -he stops to collect his thoughts, he doesn't want to hurt him more- "What I believed at that moment, that you were a cancer survivor. That he was a miracle baby."

Maverick emits a low, mocking laugh.

"Yes, he was definitely a miracle."

"I never took you for the motherly type, Edward." -Greg intervenes.

Wilson kicks him.

"Ouch!"

"I don't have a maternal bone in my body, House." -answers with a harsh inflection- "Jake was an accident, things that happen when you don't have regular access to testosterone."

Then Wilson understands something else.

"Those medicines that Greg referred to earlier, were they your hormone replacement injections?"

"Yeah. It became to complicated to obtain them without leaving a trace. I thought fifty-four was as good an age as any to quit."

"But then, are you menstruating again?"

"No, no. I had a radical hysterectomy in ninety-three."

"A carnage, you'll mean," Maverick corrects.

"Yes, well, I couldn't go to my family doctor," -he responds irritatedly and explains to the doctors- "It was in an illegal clinic that performed abortions and other services. He's still upset because he couldn't accompany me."

"Were there no complications?" -insists Wilson.

"No. I left two days later and rested at home for a week. I went back to work. I reduced the dose of testosterone from then on."

"On your own?" -James is scandalized.

"Well done," -Greg congratulates him at the same time.

He earns a recriminating look from his husband.

"You must understand, Dr. Wilson, that I have pretended to be a biological man since I was seventeen. The last time my doctors knew my true identity was when I had Jake. Besides, I'm here, right?"

Yes, the man survived self-dosing hormones for decades without giving himself a heart attack, developing diabetes, or going bald. Although it sounds barbaric and frustrating, he has to grudgingly admit that Edward was able to handle himself well without professional help.

He admits his mistake with a reluctant grunt.

"Oh! Look at you, love, all grumpy and unable to express your feelings. We'll still make a man out of you," Greg mocks.

"Let's get back to the exam," he says, standing up.

Now, Wilson can notice how tense Edward was during the first part of the appointment. He supposes It's no wonder if the last time he went to a check-up without having to play hide-and-seek with his own doctor was more than twenty years ago. He proceeds to auscultate, palpate and percuss without further surprises. The man is, indeed, in excellent physical shape.

"I had to focus on never getting sick," he explains sadly.

"Just imagining that diet makes me want to die," House comments in a horrified voice.

"Imagine what it's been like to live with him all these years," Maverick responds, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Edward and James exchange exasperated glances.

Although careful examination of the head and neck reveals no abnormal areas or swollen lymph nodes, Wilson decides to go all the way.

"I want to take a blood sample and do a laryngoscopy."

"Will the blood results be ready that quickly?" -the bodyguard is amazed.

"For what we are looking for, yes."

He extracts the blood and starts the laser scanner. Then, House helps him put the monitor on the desk and connect the cables to the endoscope. He takes out a spray bottle and shows it to the patient.

"It's 10% lidocaine. I want to numb your tongue slightly so that the gag reflex doesn't trigger when I watch.·

Edward looks at the drug with slight suspicion but eventually nods.

The laryngoscopy goes uneventfully, although it reveals nothing that links the man's symptoms to cancer. The throat is very irritated, it is true, but the vocal cords seem more overused than injured.

Wilson sets the endoscope on the table and removes his gloves with a frown. He sees that House is also baffled. He opens his mouth to suggest another test but is interrupted by the hematology scanner's alarm. The small screen begins to display figures. Annoyed as always by the small font size, he presses a button so that the information appears on the monitor they have on the desk.

Maverick whistles, admiring.

"Did you steal that from the hospital where you work?"

"We borrowed," House corrects, without taking his eyes away from the results.

"I want one of those," he begs his boss.

"What for?" -Edward snaps- "I don't need a device to know your adrenaline levels. They are always over the roof."

James finds this innocent exchange amusing. Now that Edward and Maverick don't try to hide it in front of them, they treat each other like an old married couple. He aspires to have that with House now that the specter of his own cancer has disappeared. Cross the andropause curve and…

Oh! He turns to his patient.

"When, exactly, did you stop testosterone?"

"February."

"But you said you hadn't planned, right? You decided to leave it because it was too dangerous."

"Yeah."

"And when did you move to DC?"

"End of July."

"And what happened four months ago? Around April or May."

Edward looks at him, surprised and angry. Bingo!

"Nothing important."

"It's evident that your body believed it was."

"Honey?"

Wilson turns to his husband.

"I think we are looking with the wrong perspective. We got very complicated."

"You know I love complications," Greg admits, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, but life is not always complex. Tell me, if it were just the weight loss, fatigue, and migraines, knowing that he cut his testosterone suddenly, what would you have told him?"

"Ah! Yeah. That he should not cry because andropause passed over him like a freight train."

"Exactly." -he looks back at Edward- "The throat problems didn't start until you came to DC. It is fall. I'm almost sure it's a seasonal allergy. What doesn't add up is that four months ago, you started having dizziness and nausea. So I repeat my question, Mr. Edward, what happened four months ago?"

"Yes, honey," Maverick intervenes with an irritated voice. "Can you tell us what happened?"

After thinking about it a little, the man begins to speak slowly without looking at them.

"Four months ago, I learned that certain adjustments were necessary in our organization's human resource allocation. Technically, it is not my area of action, but I knew my solution would be better than the one being considered. It was an urgent matter. It was complicated to implement my idea anonymously. Yes, I admit it stressed me out."

"Was it a life or death situation?" -Maverick asks in a soft voice.

Edward bites his lip. When he finally looks at his partner, the anxiety is clear in his eyes.

"It was."

"Ah," is all the other says.

There is something implicit in the question and its answer. Wilson realizes those two know perfectly well what "human resources" is about. There is an air of melancholy and weariness between the two as if this were a topic they regularly discuss. The atmosphere is cut with House's intervention.

"But if the dizziness and nausea were psychosomatic, they would have disappeared when the problem was resolved."

"Well," Edward admits, "then I was afraid my intervention would be discovered. The move to DC made everything worse. It was one stress on top of another."

"Oh! I never took you for the sentimental type, Edward." -Greg adds with amusement- "So we've solved it." -he starts typing on his phone- "I'm sending you a list of several antihistamines that don't tend to cause drowsiness since you're a busy guy. Although I think you can go to your family doctor without the danger of him discovering your secret."

James turns to Maverick.

"Can you help me dismantle all this?"

With Slider leading the quirky doctor duo away with their fascinating diagnostic equipment, Maverick returns to the living room, where Ice has sprawled out on a couch. He covers his face with one arm and seems relaxed for the first time in months.

He kneels next to him.

"Do you want an herbal tea before we go?"

Blue eyes watch him carefully. Mav knows he's afraid of his reaction, so he tries to project the most reassuring expression possible. His husband nods but doesn't let him go; instead, he takes his hand, gets up, and follows him to the kitchen.

He leaves Ice drinking and rushes to erase the last traces of their presence on the property. With the practice of managing a house with four children, he scrubs the bathroom and cleans up the office. When he returns, Ice is washing the cup and spoon he used.

They don't say anything until their sports car has left Allentown behind and merges into traffic on the Turnpike. The air is thick between them, with the enormity of what Tom admitted like a third passenger. Maverick decides he can't travel like this for the next three hours.

"Regarding what you did..." -he begins.

"Don't scold me, please." -Ice stops him, clearly on the defensive- "I've had enough of the twists and turns my head has taken."

"I don't want to scold you," Mav responds in a conciliatory tone and puts a hand on his thigh to calm him down. "Just explain to me what happened, okay?"

"It started in April. One of the many ceremonies to celebrate the new facilities at the Bahrain Base. Among the guests was the commander of the USS Eisenhower, the insufferable Koehler. You know people are already talking about Jake, right?"

"Yeah. Brad told me that the most recent theory is that it is a product of genetic engineering." -he chuckles.

Ice makes a face.

"At the reception, everyone was around Koehler asking him about his star aviator. I noticed several commanders looking at him with envy. The truth is, I was proud until that idiot opened his mouth. He said yes, Lieutenant Junior Seresin was good, but would be better when he finished hardening. They were working on cutting the wires he brought from the USNA between him and his squadron commander.

"Did he say that?" -knowing Jake's career, it is not difficult to realize that he refers to his relationship with Brig.

"I thought it was paranoia, so I managed to talk to him directly. As I expected, he started complaining that Harvard had no shame and was affecting his ship's morale. That in the days of DADT, he would have thrown him off head first for half of the things he does and says. I played my rule-freak card and asked if he had anything concrete. He admitted he didn't but tried to appeal to my strategist side. He had plans for Jake, he told me, and Brig was always in the middle. He complained that Harvard protects him from other sailors when that should be the squadron commander's job."

"That guy allows bullying on his ship to reinforce the importance of his officers?!"

"So it seems. Anyway, for Koehler, the relationship between Jake and Brig was either faggot or childishness, and he wouldn't allow either on his boat. That night, I decided I had to get him out of there."

"Jake warned you..."

"Jake is my son!" -Ice cuts him off forcefully- "I wasn't going to let that homophobic piece of shit gaslight him just to cover himself in glory."

"He could have solved it himself."

"He could," -he admits- "but only in a reactive way, after losing Brig. Excuse me if I don't want to sit and watch him suffer," -he concludes sarcastically.

"You could have also told us something."

Ice lowers his head because that's a reasonable claim despite Maverick's conciliatory tone.

"I was afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Tell me, what would you have done if you knew?"

Maverick tries to think of a scenario where he wouldn't try to confront Stephen "Web" Koehler or warn Brig of the danger through his parents. Either move would have drawn Jake's ire.

"Yes..." -he admits, defeated- "Intrigue is not my thing."

"So I got to work. But I had to do it before I took office in Washington, or there was a possibility that Jake would become suspicious and reject the offer just on principle."

"I thought Jake was happy on the Eisenhower," Maverick says.

"Well, he was lying, or he didn't know he wanted more until he had it in front of his eyes. A single mention in the Navy News Bulletin of openings on the USS John C. Stennis was enough for him and Brig to submit their availability forms. And, of course, Gregory Huffman wanted him. Who doesn't wish to have Jake Hangman Seresin on their aircraft carrier? The problem was Koehler and VFA-32 commander Munchkin, who wanted the glory of the new Iceman without the hassle of his nanny. They started putting off getting Jake's paperwork, and I had to send them an audit to get them to let go of their prey."

"But then, do they know it was because of him?"

"Nah. The audit was scheduled. I only ensured the team had the Navy's most rule-abiding, perfectionist people. They couldn't justify keeping Jake. It was exhausting. I used a few favors, but I managed not to let anyone see my final move, so my prestige has grown. And Huffman feels indebted to me now."

"Happy ending?"

Ice gives him a shy smile.

"Something like that, yes."

Chapter Text

Washington, DC, March 2020

Elizabeth watches Henry, weighing up whether or not to bring up the subject. After all, they don't spend as many nights together as they'd like and should prioritize… other aspects of their life. At the same time, she's keen to share this with her husband. To start with, it's not related to the election campaign, which seems to monopolize all their conversations. Also, it's not strictly legal, there's an undeniable ethical knot at the heart of the matter, which his perspective could help her with.

"Hey, Henry, do you know a Navy pilot named Mitchell? He seems to be famous," she says casually as she lifts the covers on her side of the bed.

He looks up from the dresser where he's putting his things. His eyes sparkle as if he's anticipating something fun.

"Maverick?" He lets out a short laugh. "Who did he piss off this time?"

She wrinkles her brow, a little surprised. She knows about Pete Mitchell from his participation in the mission to deactivate the uranium enrichment plant in Sakha-Yakutia last November and from the film. Still, she was unaware that he elicited such sympathy in her husband.

"No," she clarifies. "I mean his father, Duke Mitchell."

Henry's face changes immediately.

"Oh, that Mitchell," he walks over to the bed and lifts the covers on his side. "Yeah, I know him. He was…" he sighs and shrugs his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable. "It's a scary story that the Admiralty uses, Duke Mitchell, the traitor, and his son, Pete Mitchell, the madman."

"So it's true that his son carried a stigma?"

Henry looks at her straight on, curious.

"Yeah, it's true. Rumor has it that he was denied entry into the Naval Academy, even though he had a perfect application, so he had to go to college and work through NROTC. Afterward…" he makes a vague gesture with his hands, "the higher-ups were never happy with him, his word didn't carry the same weight, that sort of thing. Why do you ask about that?"

She drops the file into the center of the bed. It was a difficult read, but she's undoubtedly had heavier materials to sleep on since they moved to DC.

"Because I have received a request to grant a posthumous Presidential Pardon to Duke Mitchell."

He looks at the folder curiously for a moment, then back at his wife.

"That isn't a file from the Naval Justice Office."

"No. It's an NSA file."

He raises an eyebrow.

"I'm officially intrigued. First, I can't imagine Maverick doing all that paperwork. It's not that he doesn't care about his father, it's just that I don't think he trusts the Admiralty enough to expect a fair trial. Second, the NSA? I thought presidential pardons were the work of the Justice Department or the military prosecutor's office."

"You're right," Elizabeth confirms as she climbs into bed, "it wasn't Captain Mitchell who initiated the request, but Sarah Kazansky."

Henry nods.

"Ah, that does make sense."

He gets into bed but doesn't lie down. He sits against the headboard and looks at the folder, somewhere between curious and uncomfortable. She turns a little to face him.

"I know that face."

"What face?"

She smacks her lips.

"Henry. That face you do when you think there's something deeper."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't deny it. It's confirmation enough for Elizabeth.

"Come on, what are you not telling me?"

Henry purses his lips uncomfortably. He's never been one for gossip, and he's not about to start now, but he's known for years that "friendship" isn't the right word to describe the relationship between the Kazanskys and Pete Mitchell.

By the time he met him during Operation Desert Storm, Maverick was already a legendary figure. The rescue of the SS Layton was an operation that was talked about in the war pilots' guild, like the tales of great heroes of the past. The most fascinating of his characters was Mitchell, of course, with his cursed last name, defiant attitude, and magazine model image.

In 1993, he was introduced to another star of the story. Tom "Iceman" Kazansky was then a commander, and his girlfriend Sarah was a young, energetic woman. Well, actually, she was already a celebrity in her own right: the Navy is quite conservative, and this Indigenous nurse – the actual comments were much less delicate – refused to marry the father of her child. He and Kazansky were part of their respective officers' entourage, a docile audience for Rear Admiral Tolkan's commissioning ceremony. Henry remembers that moment with strange clarity because two contradictory ideas emerged as he watched the couple's interactions. First, she seemed much more in love than he was. Second, Iceman was suspiciously disinterested in talking about Maverick, as if he wanted to downplay the importance of their relationship, which made Sarah angry. He found it odd.

In his experience, civilian girlfriends had little understanding of the brotherhood born from combat and often harbored well-or-badly concealed jealousy of their partners' colleagues. That Sarah disapproved of Kazansky's behavior, an obvious political move to distance himself from the troublesome aviator, was admirable. Few people are as consistent in their sense of justice. He also concluded that it was doubtful that their relationship would last. Kazansky wanted to climb and had the talent to do so, everyone knew that. But he could not imagine Sarah Seresin as the dutiful wife befitting a high-ranking naval officer.

He got almost everything wrong. Kazansky was, if not madly in love, at least interested enough in Sarah to marry her. She lived up to some expectations, giving him another baby, this time a boy, less than a year after the wedding. As for distancing himself from Mitchell? Please! Kazansky has two nicknames: "Iceman the Terrible” and “Maverick’s Guardian Angel.”

So, no, it doesn’t surprise him that Sarah Kazansky wants to do this for Mitchell. The thing is… In a way, the Department of Defense can be divided into two types of people: those who insist that Kazansky looks out for Mitchell out of honor of their professional brotherhood and those who know that Maverick is the love of Iceman's life. Henry falls into the second group, and what has always confused him is the relationship between Sarah Kazansky and Pete Mitchell. Sarah doesn’t strike him as the kind of woman who would agree to cover up for her husband’s homosexuality for decades. At the same time… That’s what she’s done, right?

No, it's more complicated. There is a familiarity and an evident trust between those three.

Take Metcalf's funeral a few months ago. It was a political event, and Kazansky made the most of it, exchanging greetings, making social chit-chat, and strengthening alliances. The expectation was that Sarah would be hanging on his arm, sober, hurt, but not overwhelmed by the circumstances. She wasn't. The Admiral worked through the reception but was accompanied by Vice Admiral Kerner, first and his youngest son later. Mrs. Kazansky was caring for Maverick, evidently devastated by the death of the closest thing he ever had to a father.

Yes, it was a sensitive and considerate gesture, but politically clumsy. It exposed the Admiral's "true" priorities. Does Sarah Kazansky value her husband's lover so much that she would jeopardize his image? Henry is mature enough to understand that part of his discomfort comes from the conventions of monogamy. Sarah and Pete act with unusual confidence and a lack of competitiveness, which is uncomfortable by contrast. He doesn't believe he has the capacity to share Elizabeth with anyone else.

But how do you explain all this to your wife without clouding her judgment?

"Look, Kazansky and Mitchell have been thick as thieves since they saved each other's lives in 1986, and of course, Sarah Kazansky has more reason to trust the system than Mitchell. That's all."

"No, it isn't."

Henry huffs, frustrated.

"Bess, you have to make a decision based on your own criteria and the advice of... Who is supposed to advise you on this?"

"The Judge Advocate General, the Office of the Pardon Attorney, and the White House Legal Office.

He can't help but raise his eyebrows. Hasn't Mike Barnow had his say in this? It's only a matter of time, surely.

"Yes, well, I don't want to influence you."

She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Duke Mitchell died on November 5, 1965. I don't think you knew him, so you can't influence my opinion of him. At least not in any way relevant to the present situation. You've already confirmed to me that his son was a scapegoat for his father's alleged treason. What else is there to that story?"

Henry closes his eyes for a moment, tilts his head, and looks at her again.

"Mitchell has a biological son."

She nods. The application letter mentions it. Jake Mitchell preferred to cut ties with his father and go to the Academy under his mother's last name than to deal with his father's and grandfather's cursed legend.

"What the letter surely doesn't mention, and I doubt the JAG and CIA reports would consider worthy of mentioning, are the rumors about that boy. Nobody knows his mother because it was supposedly Mitchell's one-weekend fling in New York. You can imagine that in 1991, it was a huge surprise when he was given full custody of his son and asked for a position on land to look after him.

She nods. Yes, it is unusual for a man to do so much, even when the mother dies.

"What many people did notice was that, first, when Maverick returned to serve at sea, the Kazanskys began to care for Jake full-time and, second, that the child looked more like Iceman than Maverick."

"Are you implying that…?"

"I'm telling you what was being said. I think the rumor arose from the prejudice with which anything related to Mitchell was viewed. Some only wanted to see a linear pattern: he was a Mitchell, destined for betrayal or madness, like his grandfather or father. Kazansky was trying to save him, it was his charity project," he can't help but grimace as he repeats the argument. "But imagining Maverick covering his wingman Kazansky's back by assuming paternity of his bastard. Ah! That's the kind of melodramatic twist that many people prefer. Of course, the fact that the boy disappeared after finishing high school only fueled the theories."

"Well..." she is silent for a few seconds while she processes the information. "I was right," she touches the folder still between them. "That doesn't changes my opinion on the Duke Mitchell case."

"I'm glad," he nods. "Are you going to tell me now why the NSA sent you a report on Duke Mitchell?"

"Because the CIA opposes the presidential pardon."

"Excuse me?"

She gives him an embarrassed smile. It happens often when she has to admit the mistakes of an agency to which she remains emotionally attached.

"They argue that it would generate scrutiny over events that are better left in the past."

"It means that, technically, whatever happened with Duke Mitchell is public, but no one has noticed until now, and they will do everything possible to keep it that way."

She nods her head and twists her lips in displeasure.

"The documents on the circumstances of his death were declassified in 2018. It is about Operation Barrel Roll, which the CIA implemented with the support of the Air Force and the Navy."

"I remember some of that," he nods, brow furrowing as he tries to remember. "Something about the monstrous bombings in Laos, right?"

"Yes, between 1964 and 1973, they dropped 260 million bombs to destroy North Vietnam's supply routes through Laos. It cost a lot of money and 118 lives: 113 Air Force, four Navy, and one Marine Corps. Amazingly, Sarah Kazansky waded through the thousands of reports to complete this request less than three months after declassification."

But Henry is more interested in something else.

"So Duke Mitchell didn't abandon his post to go live with a mistress in Hanoi?"

Now, it is she who raises her eyebrows, astonished.

"That was the Admiralty's explanation?"

"Well, yes... I told you it was a story to scare recruits, didn't I? It has all the components: uncontrolled passion, femme fatale, and, of course, a bit of racism."

Elizabeth snorts, not hiding her displeasure.

"And Pete Mitchell decided to join the Navy?"

"I think he wanted to prove that there was honor in his family," Henry shrugs. "Clean the family name with blood, so to speak."

"If it's blood we're talking about, he's shed enough to wash several reputations," she admits, though her tone is hesitant. "He's one of the most decorated officers of his generation."

Now, Henry realizes that his wife is not telling him everything.

"But…?"

She looks at him, doubtful. She carefully considers what she is about to say.

"But our relations with Vietnam are going well. If I sign this presidential pardon, I will bring back the whole disaster of Operation Barrel Roll and not only give ammunition to those who prefer resentment here. The resistance to President Ngọc Thịnh within the Vietnamese Communist Party is real."

"Pure sexism," snorts Henry.

"Indeed. She is a woman and was born in South Vietnam. She should not even have become vice president for many conservatives," she admits, as annoyed as her husband. "The fact is that any debate about the Vietnam War is used by her enemies to remind them of her family's past."

"Elizabeth…" Henry throws up his hands in a shocked gesture. "You can't be considering denying this to the Mitchell family in the name of geopolitics! They've been paying for the CIA's failure for over fifty years."

She bites her lip and looks at him, unsure.

"Give it to him!" is the first thing Mike tells her the following day with an annoyed look. "I don't even know why you asked for a meeting to discuss the matter, but okay. I went for a run an hour earlier," he points with his index finger accusingly. "The things I do for you, Elizabeth! To get to the office first and tell you alone. Here's my advice: Give Duke Mitchell a presidential pardon."

Elizabeth blinks several times, somewhat taken aback by the belligerent tirade she is greeted with at her own office. Her right hand is still on the doorknob of the Oval Office, and she is clutching several folders on her chest with her left arm.

"I really think I've lost out with this new office," she sighs.

She glances over her shoulder at Blake's desk, but her secretary shrugs and gives her a tight smile. Despite herself, she understands - who can stop Mike Barnow? She finishes entering, closes the door, and walks over to her desk.

"At least at the State Department, they will be waiting for me at the elevator door on the seventh floor, and I had the time in the elevator to myself."

"I think it's lovely that you're having nostalgic reminiscences about your time as Secretary of State at the end of your first term," he replies mockingly. "I'll make sure someone asks you that at one of your campaign events. Now, on to the important part. I want to save you time, and save the time of all the people you called to discuss Duke Mitchell. There's nothing to discuss."

She drops the folders on the table.

"I'm not going to issue such a controversial presidential pardon without consulting all parties, Mike."

"Controversial? Controversial? Did you read the same report I did? Sarah Kazansky wrote a moving letter laying out the long list of microaggressions, snubs, and petty gestures the Navy had filled Pete Mitchell's years of service with, leading his son to abandon his home and family name to prevent his career from dying before it began. Sarah Kazansky's plea is supported by three letters claiming that Duke Mitchell was shot down in combat after heroically engaging MiG fighters and saving the lives of the rest of his squadron. However, the Navy and the CIA forced them to remain silent. Who are the three brave guarantors of the aviator's character? Conspiracy theorists? No. Resentful ex-intelligence agents? No. Sarah Kazansky managed to obtain testimony from three officers aboard the USS Oriskany at that moment, direct witnesses with impeccable records. The late Rear Admiral Mike Metcalf and Captain Harlan P. Chapman, aviators assigned to the aircraft carrier,  who claim to owe their lives to Mitchell, and, to top it off, the late Vice Admiral Bartholomew J. Connolly III, captain of the USS Oriskany from April to December 1965."

Elizabeth slumps into the presidential chair and throws her head back. She knows all this. Mike knows she knows, but he doesn't stop.

"Sarah Kazansky supports her testimony and that of the three highly decorated officers with declassified CIA documents that reveal how they not only spectacularly failed to prevent the use of Laos as a transit territory for North Vietnamese communist forces. They did so by spending millions of dollars on bombs that still affect their civilian population and also lost more than one hundred American lives."

"Why do you keep saying her full name?" she cuts and sits up on her chair, curious.

"Oh! So you did notice?" Mike smiles with amusement and pride. "Because the most important thing here is who is asking for the pardon. If any political consideration deserves this request, it is not because of Ware and Haymond's flimsy excuse that the Vietnam government is going to collapse. It is your political career that will be affected. It is your plans for the second presidency that are at stake. Do you want Kazansky to be your Secretary of the Navy? Then give Duke Mitchell a presidential pardon, and you can promote Pete Mitchell to rear admiral to finish sweetening the pill."

"Do you really think Kazansky would turn down the offer of Secretary of the Navy if we denied that to his friend?"

Mike raises his eyebrows and gives her a look of pity.

"Friends? Is that what you think they are?"

She opens her mouth and closes it again. She carefully reviews her conversation with Henry last night and finally understands what he didn't dare say but kept hinting at.

"Since when?"

Barnow shrugs.

"Estimates vary, but most likely in the early to mid-nineties. There are two proven facts: Kazansky and Mitchell bought a mansion together," makes quotation marks with fingers, "so their wives could support each other," snorts mockingly, "in 1994. And they were at an impromptu celebration for the repeal of DADT in Hawaii in October 2011 to," makes quotation marks with fingers again, "accompany Mitchell's stepson Bradley Bradshaw at one of Oahu's most iconic gay bars, The Moan. There is also, of course, Mitchell's spectacular coming out via Hollywood, with the Oscar-winning Best Picture of the Year Top Gun. Officially, there is nothing else. Kazansky does have two nicknames, though Iceman and "Maverick's Guardian Angel."

"And their wives…?"

"That's something that no one has a good explanation for, and it's something that, of course, those who remain in denial about the possibility of a homosexual admiral cling to. Mitchell married Carole Bradshaw, his best friend's widow, in 1994. According to my sources, there was always a consensus that it was a marriage of convenience. No," he hastens to clarify in response to Elizabeth's dismissive expression, "not to protect Mitchell from gossip about his sexual preferences, but to guarantee her and her son's status within the military community. Carole Bradshaw's maiden name was," dramatic pause, "Abbot."

"Like the representative from Texas?"

Mike nods.

"She was his sister. Would you risk having custody of your gay son passed to someone like Richard Abbot?"

Elizabeth shudders at the suggestion. Abbot is a summary of everything she finds repulsive about the mythical "Deep America." His platform has four pillars: racist xenophobia, recalcitrant sexism, defending military spending, and lowering taxes for the rich. No, she would not leave him to care for anyone, regardless of their sexual orientation or age. At the same time, her admiration for Mitchell grows. She read about the accident that took Nick "Goose" Bradshaw's life and can understand his feeling of guilt, but marrying the widow to protect his son? That is an unusual level of commitment.

"Very well," she nods, "let's accept that Carole Bradshaw never cared about Mitchell's sexual orientation. There's Sarah Kazansky. Suddenly, this request seems…" she purses her lips, unsure of what word to use.

"Illogical? Unexpected? Contrary to her interests?" Mike lists while rocking in his seat.

He makes a face of discomfort. Elizabeth knows that expression: Mike Barnow doesn't like not knowing.

"From your expression, I gather that the relationship between Admiral Kazansky and his wife seems," she hesitates again with the term, "legitimate?"

Mike makes a stiff, reluctant nod.

"You know that challenge where you look back and try to spot clues to what's happening in the present?"

"Of course," as a CIA agent, teacher, and government official, she had to do that many times.

"Well, this is one of those cases where there are no clues."

She raises her eyebrows, confused. No clues? It's Washington DC, there's always something, isn't there? Although… if Kazansky has hidden his relationship with Mitchell for over twenty years, they are very good at this. She likes him more and more for Secretary of the Navy, maybe even Secretary of Defense? No, with those rumors around him, that would be taking things too far.

“You have to understand,” Mike explains, “the whole Iceman and Maverick romance is little more than a conspiracy theory inspired by Top Gun. There are only two concrete facts, which can be explained in other ways, with perfectly heterosexual arguments. The dissonant element is Sarah Kazansky, who bore him two children, one of them before they were married. Who as late as 2008 was writing him love letters. Who has been seen with hickeys on her neck after spending the night with her husband as recently as 2015. Do I believe Kazansky and Mitchell are lovers? Yes. Can I explain what Mrs. Kazansky's role is? All I can think of is that the Admiral is a stud and she is…" Mike rolls his eyes, clearly uncomfortable. "She appreciates Mitchell taking on some of the physical demands of their relationship. In any case," and now his voice regains its composure, "I wouldn't be a good advisor if I didn't tell you that this pardon is the key to keeping you in the good graces of Admiral Kazansky, whom you want for your second term in office, but who owes you nothing."

Elizabeth nods thoughtfully. The moral imperative invoked by Henry is now joined by personal political advantage. Can she make this decision on those criteria alone? Ephraim Ware and Hugh Haymond's argument is not a flimsy excuse, no matter what Mike says, no matter how much she resents the sexist and regionalist undertones of the current tensions in the Vietnamese government.

She reaches out to ask Barnow something else, but Blake appears in the doorway.

"Madam President, your daily security update. And you have a meeting at 8:30."

Mike stands up immediately.

"I'm going to go get some sugar to justify my ex-wife's hatred. I'll see you in half an hour to hear you go all presidential on how the right thing to do is, like when you freed Erica James while Conrad was incommunicado on Air Force 1," and he winks at her, complicit.

The security report lasts not half an hour but forty-five minutes. There is something brewing in Venezuela, but they cannot figure out exactly what. China has still not managed to control the strange outbreak of pneumonia that began last December in Wuhan. Although the government has managed to prevent the infections from spreading beyond the province of Hubei, there is growing evidence that it is doing so by openly violating the human rights of its population. The worst thing is that the CDC delegate admits there is no other way to stop the SARS-CoV-2 virus.

It is a bitter prologue to the uncomfortable discussion that awaits.

As she walks through the halls of the White House, Elizabeth congratulates herself again for having asked Blake to leave the University of Virginia and join her on her adventure as Secretary of State. Her assistant scheduled the meeting on the Presidential Pardon in the Cabinet Room to accommodate all the parties involved around the long table. She appreciates it. Walking from the Oval Office to the Cabinet Room gives her a few moments to focus again on the Mitchell family and how much the American government owes them.

Elizabeth sits, as usual, in the center of the table with her back to the windows (she prefers to avoid the temptation to try to make out the garden when discussions get tedious; she is the president, after all). Her chief of staff, Jay Whitman, sits to her right, and White House counsel Olivia Mason to her left. Mike is next to Olivia but moves his chair away from the table and feigns apathy by staring at the ceiling, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, hands connected by outstretched fingertips.

Across the table, the sides are clearly defined. Attorney General Nolan faces the president, his expression calm and his gestures relaxed. Only the frequency he picks up and puts down his pen reveals his tension. The defense department's representatives have chosen to sit to his left: Admiral Ellen Hill looks frankly uncomfortable, Navy Secretary James E. McPherson and Gordon Becker, the trusted defense secretary he inherited from Conrad, are very stiff, but their eyes are wide and wary as if they were in battle. Clearly aware that they are in hostile territory, Ephraim Ware, Director of National Intelligence, and Hugh Haymond, Director of the CIA, left a seat between Nolan and them.

"First of all," Elizabeth begins, "I want to thank the defense and intelligence representatives for taking the time to look into this matter. I have studied your recommendations and assure you that I understand each position on the Mitchell matter. That is why I asked you to come. The decision is mine, indeed, but it will affect several branches of our government. When possible, I like to work from a consensus. So, I would like to start with the recommendations of the Justice Department and White House Legal Counsel."

This part is short and to the point: Nolan and Mason agree on this one, and their expositions complement each other almost perfectly.

The Attorney General reminds them that the Department of Justice has a general policy of not accepting applications for posthumous pardons because the time of the officials involved in the clemency process is better spent on applications for pardons and commutations of sentences from living people. In addition, modern investigative techniques are useless for very old crimes. However, Sarah Kazansky's application was not processed by the Office of the Pardon Attorney but by the Navy Pardon Requests Office. The Navy's Criminal Law Division

considered the claim worthy of reaching this year's list of pardons. The Attorney General's Office agrees with the Office of Naval Justice that there was an injustice. This fact is widely documented through declassified documents from the government. For these reasons, his office sees no reason to oppose granting the pardon.

Now that Mike has tipped her off, Elizabeth recognizes a slight tension between several people when the Pacific Fleet commander's last name is mentioned. Interesting.

For her part, Olivia Mason addresses the general policy against posthumous pardons: rehabilitation is impossible. However, from her point of view, the key to this request is the burden that the Mitchell family has carried since 1965. The stigma that Pete Mitchell carried is undeniable, and it is also documented in the file with testimonies and excerpts from Navy documents. Among the most scandalous evidence are successive versions of the USNA Naval History syllabus, where for decades, the "Mitchell Affair" has been presented as an example of the risks of fraternization in enemy territory. The most obvious and painful impact, of course, is that his only son decided to adopt his mother's surname, Seresin, and cut all ties with the family.

Elizabeth recalls the difficult situations her children have found themselves in because of her and Henry's work. Alison and Jason have had a hard time, yes, but they never... or maybe they have?

Have they ever considered giving up their family in exchange for a little peace? For the opportunity of being judged on their own merits?

Poor boy!

Olivia concludes, and Mike snorts.

"Well, that's it, right? We can just let the president sign on the dotted line and move on."

"Wait a minute, Mr. Barnow," speaks Ephraim Ware. "The issue does merit debate," he turns to Elizabeth. "Madam President, as the CIA report explains, the ramifications of bringing this to light could be… uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable!" Ellen snorts, clearly outraged. "You made an honorable man into a traitor, you condemned his family to public scorn in the middle of the Cold War, and now you say 'uncomfortable'. Please!"

"It wasn't just us," Haymond answers with all the dignity he can muster. "The Air Force agreed to deny any US involvement in Laos."

"And those are a good bunch too," Gordon growls.

From his expression, it is evident that he is already planning to order a thorough investigation into who decided what.

"Madam President," Ellen makes no attempt to hide the fact that this moves her deeply, "the documents have been declassified. The truth is there for anyone who wants to look for it. A posthumous pardon for Duke Mitchell would demonstrate beyond a doubt that this administration stands by its combatants, not paying mind to," she throws a venomous glance at Ware and Haymond, "political considerations."

Elizabeth nods slightly to the Admiral and turns to the Secretary of the Navy, who looks unusually gloomy today.

"What is your position, McPherson?"

"Madam President, I worked for military justice my entire career. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell has given JAG personnel work," shakes his head, "more times than I care to remember. He was a belligerent officer with a nasty ability to walk the fine line between courage and insubordination. Or at least that's how we thought of it. Because Mitchell was synonymous with trouble. I... I'm not going to deny that I saw the ghost of Duke Mitchell, too. What we did." he rubs his face with his hands. "Those twenty casualties that were never acknowledged, those families, for God's sake. But Maverick persisted. He knew he had talent, and he gave everything to this country. I don't think a presidential pardon makes up for it. I've defended victims of harassment, and it's... But at least we can close the chapter. Madam President, please."

"What do you think, Jay?"

Her political advisor looks at her without hiding his surprise. Then he looks around the table and, as proof of how much he has matured, he does not flinch at any of the looks he receives in return.

"As far as I understand, no one at this table denies the rightness of the presidential pardon for Duke Mitchell." Ellen can't help but smile with satisfaction. "I also think the CIA's warning about instability in Vietnam has merit, but it's not something we can't handle. It's just a PR issue. We set up some events related to our economic cooperation with Hanoi get the press there to focus on something else. I even think we could have been proactive in this, considering that polls indicate that the public sees this administration as loosely committed to its military. I think it was a mistake not to take control of the narrative when the documents were declassified. If the pardons had been the administration's initiative, no one could have denied it was fair and would put us on the right side of history, which is difficult when we're talking about Vietnam. Instead, we now risk making it look like the wife of the Commander of the Pacific Fleet forced your hand, Madam President."

At the oblique mention of Kazansky, Hill, McPherson, and Becker all turn very stiff. Oddly enough, Haymond does, too. Elizabeth saves that detail for later and replies to Jay.

"If we can't avoid that narrative, which I find a bit far-fetched, I don't care," she waves her hands, fingers extended, across the table. "Sarah Kazansky marked all the Xs and dotted all the i's. I'm sure that, precisely because she was the Admiral's wife, the Office of Naval Justice reviewed the file with a magnifying glass to ensure that everything met the highest standards. So, our only problem is the internal opposition to President Ngọc Thịnh. Tell me, Haymond, do you think it will be enough to feed the news cycle so the Vietnamese press looks to the other side, or do we need to look for an additional incentive package?"

Her question generates looks of frank astonishment from the three military representatives.

"Madam President…" Ellen exhales with an incredulous voice.

She gives her a determined look.

"You said it yourself, Admiral Hill. This administration needs to prove that it stands with its combatants. And you're right, Jay, that we should have been proactive, but it's not too late." She turns to Olivia. "I want us to investigate the legal status of the other casualties from Operation Barrel Roll. If we can issue all the pardons simultaneously, no one will have reason to believe that Kazansky forced me to do anything. Right?"

She glances at Mike. As expected, he has the look of ecstasy that comes from bold political moves that include a drop of decency.

San Diego, July 3, 2020

The room smells of sex and happiness.

This year, Ice managed to get himself assigned to oversee the Blue Angels squadron during their Independence Day maneuvers in San Diego. A completely ceremonial mission, of course. The Blue Angels don't need the Admiral, but the cameras need him.

Pete won't complain about the Navy playing PR with his husband if it means he's home for his birthday.

The kids are out, living their adult lives. They will come tomorrow. Today, they have the house, and they have taken advantage of it.

"We'll have to disinfect the kitchen," Ice's voice is more of a vibration because his lips are pressed against his husband's back.

"Tomorrow," Pete answers sleepily.

He moves his head a little, wanting to suck on Sarah's nipple a little more, but she gets out of the bed.

"Hey!" he moans, surprised by the sudden emptiness in his arms.

Ice sits up slightly, leaning his elbows on the bed, and watches her pull something out of one of the dresser drawers.

"Mitawin?" he asks.

Sarah turns to them, a legal-sized envelope in her hands and a proud smile on her face.

"Honey, your birthday gift for our husband was exquisite, but I think I outdid you this time."

She walks back to the bed, sits down, and hands the envelope to Pete.

"Happy birthday, Mitchell."

They both look at her in surprise. Sarah doesn't usually use that last name. She knows Pete has a complicated relationship with his family legacy. It doesn't matter that Viper told him his father wasn't a traitor because no one else knows it, nor will they ever know.

Pete looks intrigued at the envelope, at his wife, and at the envelope again.

"Come on," she urges him, smiling, "open it, Mitchell."

He raises an eyebrow, puzzled by the insistence on using his last name, but complies. Ice shifts so that his back is against the headboard so he can look over his shoulder. Pete opens the envelope and pulls out a sheet of stiff paper, the modern parchment substitute used to print official documents. "Executive Grant of Clemency" it says on the first line, and the seal of the United States Department of Justice gleams on the bottom left. It can't be… or can it?

“Oh, Sarah!” Ice’s voice is low and reverent, like someone witnessing a miracle.

So it's true.

Pete swallows and forces himself to read the entire document.

Executive Grant of Clemency

Elizabeth A. McCord

President of the United States of America

To ALL TO WHOM THESE PRESENTS SHALL COME, GREETING:

Be it known that this day, I, Elizabeth A. McCord, President of the United States of America, pursuant to my powers under Article II, Section 2, Clause 1, of the Constitution, have granted

Duke Mitchell

A TOTAL AND UNCONDITIONAL PARDON

WHEREAS, the United States Military Tribunal for the Northern District of Vietnam found Lieutenant Mitchell guilty of Desertion under Article 85, Section 885, Title 10, General Military Code of the United States, and sentenced him to death on December 14, 1965.

WHEREAS, the Department of Defense and the Department of Justice have recommended executive clemency for Lieutenant Mitchell.

I HEREBY DESIGNATE, direct, and authorize the Office of Presidential Pardons, as my representative, to sign a grant of clemency to the individual named herein.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my name and cause the seal of the Department of Justice to be affixed.

Made in the City of Washington,

District of Columbia,

June 29, 2020.

He has enough control to put it away. He doesn't want it to get wet with his tears, and there's no way he can...

Sarah takes the document from his trembling fingers, places it on the nightstand, and climbs into bed.

"My dad," he moans incredulously. "Did you get a pardon for my dad?"

"The documents of the CIA operation were declassified in 2018," she explains. "I made the request as quickly as I could. I didn't tell you anything because I didn't want to give you false hope."

Pete doubles over and lets out a few choked, pained sobs that shake his chest and make the veins in his neck tremble.

"It's okay, love, it's okay," Tom coos as he wraps his arms around his torso to press him against his broad chest, "let it out."

"My dad didn't abandon me," he suddenly blurts out in a high-pitched, almost childish voice.

Sarah puts her hands on his shoulders.

"Of course not," her voice doesn't shake, although her eyes are wet. "Your dad was a good man, Pete. A hero. And now everyone knows it."

"Th… Thanks, love."

"No," she denies softly. "Thanks to you, Pete. For your love. For Tom's love. For the children you gave me," she gives him a soft kiss on the lips.

Ice kisses the back of his neck.

"You deserve it, Pete."

The man shakes again with a hoarse, agonized whimper. He raises one hand to his wife's cheek and caresses her lips with his thumb. His other hand finds Ice's hand on his chest, and they interlace their fingers.

"You are my perfect birthday."