Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rick was sober as a judge when he confessed to it.

Jake couldn’t have been more than fourteen at the time. He had just finished mowing the lawn and clearing their backyard of dried leaves. With his naked arms full of bug bites and scratches, he sat down on the steps of the back porch to take a breather, sweat staining the collar of his shirt.

He was staring up at the summer storm brewing in the sky when the back door screeched open. Glancing over his shoulder, he found Rick standing on the top step.

The man was holding a couple of sodas.

“Hey, son,” he drawled, climbing down and taking a seat next to Jake. Recently back from a two-day hunting trip, his dad was in one of his good moods. He offered Jake a Coke, his ring looking dull under the gray afternoon light. When Jake took it, he nodded to the backyard. “Nice job out here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They both popped their cans open at the same time, taking a sip and sitting in silence.

A sudden flash lit up the sky and Jake turned his eyes upward, absentmindedly bending the tab on his drink back and forth. He counted to six before thunder echoed across the fields like an explosion, some sort of prelude to the impending storm. He barely noticed when he pried the tab free from the soda can.

“Your mother used to do that.”

Rick’s voice came out of nowhere. For some inexplicable reason, it sounded louder than thunder itself.

Holding his breath, Jake forced himself to turn toward his father. He found Rick watching him the way he did sometimes, as if Jake was both an incomprehensible mystery and a painful memory.

“She would ask a yes-or-no question,” his dad continued, “then flip the thing until it gave her an answer.”

Jake looked at his Coke.

“Was she—" His throat was dry despite the drink, his mind racing through questions and possibilities that wouldn’t end up in a fist to the ribs. In the end, he risked it. "Do you miss her?”

Rick said nothing. When Jake dared to look up, the man was staring past the edge of their backyard and into the barren fields beyond. He was wearing his old Cowboys cap, the blue star faded with age.

His wide shoulders raised and fell.

“Every day.”

Rick downed his drink in three long swigs, his fist crushing the aluminum when he was done. He stood up with a hand on Jake's shoulder and climbed the steps. He was halfway through the doorway when he spoke.

"Your mama was the love of my life.”

He went into the house.

Around Jake, it started to pour.

Marie Lambert came up with it two weeks into jet training.

She was an SNA from VT-7 whom everyone in Meridian knew as ‘Witch’ for her endless knowledge of all things weird and esoteric. Jake thought the call sign was really badass, especially as she had earned it so early into flight school, but Lambert would always roll her eyes at it. "Leave it to y'all to pick the easiest choice," she'd say to anyone who'd comment on it. "At least be a little creative, you assholes."

And creative she was when she inadvertently gave Jake his own call sign.

They were having drinks at the local bar, some greasy Navy pub they all gravitated to like it was their home. Javy was flirting with a girl by the jukebox, rolling a quarter over his knuckles and waiting his turn to punch in Jake's request, some slow-paced Led Zeppelin song.

Across the room, Jake stole amused glances at the guy, completely ignoring the conversation around him. VT-7 and VT-9 were still riding the high of their latest hop, giggling like children about barrel rolls. Not that he could blame them. Beneath his skin, he could still feel the T-45 engine purring like a tiger.

"By the way, Seresin," Williams piped up, bringing Jake back down to reality, "nice flying today." Jake dragged his eyes off Javy and looked at the man. The asshole was smirking. "It's a crying shame you can’t lead for shit, though."

Williams was tall and handsome, hailing from some preppy town in New England. Jake wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him or bend him over the nearest available surface to make him scream.

"I know you were too far back to notice, darlin'," he drawled, "but I was in the lead today."

Across from him, Álvarez hummed.

"Being in the lead is not the same as leading, man." She finished her beer and set it down on the table, right next to their leftover nachos. "You're kinda self-centered up there."

It eerily sounded like something Uncle John would say.

The memory of a conversation held a long time ago popped into his mind. Words that were dusty with age and grief. Words about love leading to terrible fates.

"That reminds me," Lambert began, drunk on tequila. "There's this card in the tarot deck." She was unfazed by the collective groan of the people around her, swatting away the many hands attempting to shush her. "If you get it upright," she gritted out, slapping Álvarez on the shoulder to get her off, "it represents self-sacrifice and wisdom." She took a sip from whatever colorful cocktail she was drinking, swaying a little in her chair. "But if you get it in reverse, well.” Her finger traced an unstable circle in the air. “That's Seresin for you, stubborn and selfish."

Jake could've said he didn't know what she was referring to, but he would've been lying.

"Fascinating." Williams' smirk was even sharper, the fucker. "Does that card have a name?"

Lambert was staring at Jake with a pleasant smile.

"The Hanged Man."

Yeah, that's how it started.

"Well, Hanged Man.” Álvarez shook her empty bottle with a smirk. “Next round's on you."

The views are spectacular.

Jake leans forward, his breath condensing as it comes out. From the tower, he can see the Kintaikyo Bridge and the snake-like shape of the Nishiki River. Anchored out in Hiroshima Bay, the USS Abraham Lincoln and the USS Ronald Reagan look like paint strokes.

Everything is covered in late-December snow.

“I’m freezing my balls off,” Cujo grumbles behind him.

There’s a quick slap followed by a hiss of pain. “Shut up, man.” Raven sounds annoyed, as per usual. “This shit is beautiful, don’t ruin it for me.”

Jake tunes out the bickering that follows.

Standing on top of Iwakuni Castle, he stares at that beautiful sight, almost like a magazine cover. It makes him think about dunes and craters. About the silence of the open desert and the tapping of summer rain against the window. About freckles and moles and scars on sunburned skin.

He wonders not for the first time in five months if sentimentality is contagious.

It’s fucking annoying.

“They can’t take us assholes anywhere,” Slop mumbles to his right. Jake turns to him with a raised eyebrow and the man nods to Cujo and Raven, now playing photographers to a group of Japanese tourists. “We’re dumb hicks wherever we go.”

Raven makes the group smile before snapping a picture.

It reminds Jake of awkward poses and UFO museums.

With an exasperated sigh, he turns back to his squad. “Enough pestering the locals, children,” he drawls, getting Cujo’s and Raven’s attention. “Say bye-bye to your new friends and follow Daddy to the gift shop. Or get traded for the first available Marine that can fly a plane. Your choice.”

Cujo grants him his usual bitch face while Raven returns the phone to the tourists with an apologetic smile. Jake exchanges a quick look with Slop, but a grin pulls at his mouth as he starts walking towards the stairs.

“Has anyone told you yet,” Cujo rasps, falling in step with him, “how insufferable you've been since they promoted you, sir?”

It's not official yet. There are still a few weeks before he can wear the three half-inch stripes on his uniform. Not that the rank feels right, but Jake keeps that thought to himself and instead places a hand over his heart.

“You wound me, lieutenant. I’ve always been insufferable.”

At his back, Raven bursts out laughing.

The Vigilantes climb down the stairs, Jake leading the charge.

Emma will hate him if he doesn't get her the postcards he promised.

The night before she ran away, his mother tucked him in.

She fluffed his pillow and tightened the bed sheets around his body. “Look at you, all comfy,” she said, her cheek still red from Rick’s open palm.

Jake had his arms over the covers, playing with a Ninja Turtle figurine that John had given him for his sixth birthday. Jake didn’t have that many toys to begin with so that cheap plastic turtle soon turned into his most prized possession.

That night, as he was making Raphael skip across the planes of his ribcage, he asked, “Mama, tell me a story?”

Maureen hesitated, staring at him for a long time before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sure thing, baby,” she said with a sad smile. “As many as you want.”

Jake asked for three, one after the other like rounds in a machine gun. And Maureen delivered, talking about gingerbread houses and glass slippers and slayed dragons.

He remembers thinking how strange it was for his mom to indulge him like that. She was always sweet to him, but she tended to rush through bedtime, eager to go out with friends, sleep her hangover away, or entertain Rick when he was home.

But that night? That night was all about Jake.

The last thing he felt before falling asleep was Maureen’s lips on his forehead. “I love you, Jakey,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I always will.”

The following morning he woke up to the sound of things being smashed.

Staring at the few glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, he knew she was gone.

"You should visit for Easter," Eleanor says. Her voice sounds tinny through the shitty speakers. "I mean, you just missed Christmas and you're spending New Year on a boat, so."

It's not a request.

Jake doubts Eleanor will ever be able to ask for things nicely, too entitled for her own good. And yet, it's the first time she has actually invited him to her house in Houston, a family gathering to stuff themselves on food and conversation. She says Libby, Matt, and Emma are going to be there, and that Jake can use the opportunity to get to know Henry better, maybe even bond over sports.

Five months ago, all of that would've been unthinkable.

"Sure thing, El," he replies, smiling for her. "How about I bring some Cali wine? Make us all look like refined adults."

On the screen, Eleanor visibly relaxes.

"That sounds wonderful. I could use some of your cooking, too. I suck at it and Henry gets too anxious over planning meals. I love him, but he gets on my nerves." Her hair is up in a bun and she's wearing some silky pajamas, her nails a baby blue. "You can also, uh." She hesitates for a few seconds before leaning forward and lowering her voice for Jake's benefit. "You can also bring your partner."

She stresses the word. Partner.

Jake's eyes flicker to the window behind the monitor.

From where he's sitting, he has a perfect view of the strip in MCAS Iwakuni. On the tarmac, the Dambusters are climbing out of their F-18s and meeting with the Black Aces. Jake can see Phoenix and Bob talking to this guy called Bloodsport, the three of them laughing without sound.

Life in the military can be fucking weird.

Almost six months of flying over enemy territory, providing air superiority, and dropping huge amounts of ordnance like it’s the Fourth of July. Almost six months of receiving orders, eating bland food, and sharing his quarters with Archer from the Black Knights. Almost six months of jerking off to the memory of Bradley Bradshaw’s mouth and the curve of his lower back. And then, as a reward for a hundred and fifty-eight days of behaving like a puppet, a week of shore leave in some Marine base in Japan.

In fairness, MCAS Iwakuni is not that bad. It’s a tiny city within a city, flaunting its amazing view of Hiroshima Bay and its delicious local food. The whole CVW5 is stationed here, living with their families, taking their kids to school, getting weekend passes to stroll down Iwakuni’s streets like they are locals and not foreigners.

An empty apartment is the only thing waiting for Jake when he gets back home in a few weeks.

"I'll talk to him," he finally lies, alone in the comms room. "See if he has some leave piled up." He grins at his sister. "But count me and my cooking in."

Eleanor nods, visibly pleased.

Then she goes on to gossip about her new neighbors.

Right before everything went to shit between them at TOPGUN the first time, Bradshaw asked.

He sauntered to Jake’s F-18 right before their first exercise in the program, leaned on the expensive killing machine, and smiled. "So, Hangman," he began, "how did you get your call sign?"

He was in his full G-suit, smelling of jet fuel and sweat. Jake wanted to eat him up.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he drawled, giving Bradshaw his best grin and tossing his helmet from hand to hand. "Show me yours and I'll show you mine. 'Rooster' surely has a nice story behind it."

The man laughed, nose wrinkling adorably.

"Nah, not really." He bit his lower lip, giving Jake unmistakable bedroom eyes. "Just a song I used to sing in the communal showers at Oceana."

"Really, now. Which song?"

Bradshaw shook his head.

"I ain't seen yours yet."

Jake wanted to show him anything and everything. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, leaning closer than strictly necessary. "Okay. How 'bout this," he whispered, "whoever's fastest at getting tone on Panther today hears the story first."

Bradshaw licked his lips.

"Deal."

It went sideways, of course.

Rooster flew too slow, hesitating to take the shot at the last second like the program was Amateur Hour and not Jake's entire life, which was deeply insulting. And then Jake sacrificed his wingman, a then unknown Phoenix, to get tone on Panther, which in turn rubbed Bradshaw the wrong way.

Five days later, Rooster was calling them a mistake.

Six days later, everyone started saying Jake Seresin would hang you out to dry.

And as always, Jake took it in stride.

What had Marie Lambert said?

Stubborn and selfish.

The house was blue with a gray roof and white trim.

It had a front lawn where flowers grew in patches, a half-rusted chain link fence that rounded the property, and a mailbox quirkily painted in thick stripes. It was nothing like Rick’s house. There was no grandeur or pomp, no ostentatious architecture to overcompensate for years of being poor. It was just a tiny box of a house, worn down and lived in.

Across the street, Jake watched it from inside the Chevelle, sweating against the leather.

He sat there for fifteen minutes before he gathered enough courage to get out of the car and cross the street, his legs still numb from driving all the way from Texas. One last ill-advised stop before reporting to Lemoore.

Climbing the front porch steps, he fantasized about what could be waiting for him on the other side of that door. A drunk Maureen, still looking twenty-seven. A nice man with a wedding ring on his finger. A dutiful son or daughter, weirdly looking like Jake. Perhaps some stranger who would tell him Maureen no longer lived there.

With a deep breath, Jake rang the bell and waited.

And waited some more.

He counted to sixty-two before growing frustrated and ringing again, his finger pressed to the bell for longer than was considered polite. When nothing happened, he tried knocking, his fist rapping so hard against the wood that his Aunt Gloria would have scolded him. Still, no answer. He paced the porch and peered through the windows, making out the uneven shapes of furniture and decor, but nothing resembling movement.

The house was empty.

Jake carded a hand through his hair and then snorted for lack of anything better to do. There was a sick kind of irony to the whole thing, but he guessed that was on him for expecting more than he should’ve when it came to his mother.

Twirling the car keys in his hand, he took a long look at the white door and at the house number before turning around. One more item to add to his long list of bad de—

There was a woman standing next to the Chevelle.

She was holding a grocery bag and staring at the car, one hand brushing over the thick black lines on the hood almost in reverence. When she looked up, Jake noticed her eyes were the exact same shade he saw every day in the mirror.

Two days before shipping off, they get a 12-hour pass to go to the nearest izakaya.

“You can’t go back without trying the food,” this guy from the Eagles tells them, the name ‘Creeper’ on his tag.

With its wooden furniture and replicas of Japanese traditional paintings, the place is too small to comfortably seat all of them, but the food is fantastic. Jake loses count of how many yakitori dishes he demolishes, downing it all with beer and sake as Cujo stuffs himself on sashimi and lotus root.

“Fuck, Fanboy would’ve loved this,” Phoenix says in between bites of her fried chicken.

Jake leans back in his seat, momentarily sated. “What, the chicken?”

“Nah, the experience.” She waves her hand. “He's only seen Japan through that anime stuff he watches.”

Trace is sitting across from him, a lock of hair free from her bun. She seems relaxed, her cheeks pink from the heating and the alcohol. She's been nicer to him since they left San Diego six months ago. Whether it is because Jake has been flying as she wants him to or because she has finally caught up with his stupid sense of humor, he doesn't care to find out. They get along and that's what matters.

She has always reminded him of Libby. Jake isn’t planning on telling her that any time soon.

“How’s García doing, anyway?”

Phoenix wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Real good,” she says. “According to Rooster, he got engaged a few weeks ago. Our baby nerd, married. Imagine that.”

The warmth he was feeling fizzles out, replaced by dread.

His smirk is all plastic.

“You talking to Rooster?”

Trace snorts. “Like you aren’t talking to Coyote.” She looks at him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, but Jake watches her smugness slowly fade into confusion as his comeback gets stuck to the roof of his mouth. Whatever is showing on his face, he’s too slow to hide it. “Hey, something wrong?”

She sounds too soft.

Jake forces a pained smile on his face.

“I think I had one beer too many,” he drawls, trying to keep it together as true nausea crawls from his gut to his throat. “And I don't wanna barf in front of the ladies.” He clenches his hands under the table but keeps his shoulders loose. His smile is as fake as it’s fierce. "Not you, Phoenix. You could take it. I meant Cujo here."

Trace rolls her eyes, Cujo uttering an affronted hey around a mouthful of salmon.

It's fucking sad, really. Jake can take a barrage of insults with a grin and a beating with a laugh, but the mere mention of Bradshaw’s name brings him down like a house of cards.

Jake pats Cujo's back, stands up, and walks out with a be right back thrown over his shoulder.

It's only when he's standing on dirty snow that he realizes he left his jacket inside.

The last thing he did before being shipped off to the middle of the Pacific Ocean was text Bradshaw. Standing on the docks with his duffle bag on his shoulder and the USS Abraham Lincoln before him, Jake pulled out his phone in a last-minute decision.

Their chat was a long progression of messages going from tense to flirty to domestic, the last text sent weeks ago when they were still in Sagrado.

Jake looked at it before he forced himself to type.

He wrote, You’re one hell of a pilot, Rooster.

He wrote, Tell the Navy to fuck off if you want.

With a shaky breath and even shakier fingers, he wrote, Just don’t stop flying. You look good up there.

To this day, Bradshaw still hasn’t answered.

Jake wishes he hadn’t been expecting him to.

She was shorter than he remembered. Or maybe he was just taller.

The perm was long gone. She now wore a stylish shaggy haircut that reached her shoulders. Her build was still athletic, with strong muscles that spoke of exercise, maybe even a little vanity. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a blue t-shirt, passing for someone in her early forties instead of in her mid-fifties.

Jake watched her cross the street and march through the yard, hugging the grocery bag to her side like a child. Maureen stopped short of the porch steps, staring up at him with glittering eyes.

“Hi, baby,” she wheezed out, her voice rougher with age.

He didn’t move.

“Hello, Maureen.”

If his mother was disappointed by his greeting, she didn’t show it. Jake wondered if that was how Hangman came across half the time—an unreadable wall. Instead, Maureen placidly climbed the steps, stopped a few inches from him, and offered her keys.

“Be a sweetheart and open the door for me,” she said, looking at him with a knowing smile.

The audacity.

They were two peas in a pod, weren't they?

Snorting in disbelief, Jake grabbed the keys, unlocked the door, and held it open for her, his eyebrow raised high in a challenge. It made her grin, bowing her head in thanks as she walked past him and into the house. Her shoulder brushed Jake’s chest and he caught a sniff of her perfume. She still smelled the same.

“Well, come on in,” she offered, not turning back.

Twenty-seven years and not a single hint of—

Relaxing his shoulders, Jake closed the door behind him as he stepped into her living room. The house was as lived-in on the inside as it was on the outside. There was a floral couch in front of a chimney, its pattern faded with time; a mustard loveseat faced the window, completely ignoring the small TV in the corner. The floors were red-brown, old with time but taken care of.

There were books in random places. Framed articles on the walls. Souvenirs from all around the US.

Maureen disappeared behind a door with her groceries and Jake turned to the pictures on the mantelpiece.

Some photos were old, some new. Two strangers were featured in a black-and-white portrait, but the resemblance was so obvious Jake knew they were his grandparents. Next to them, there was a picture of Maureen in a formal dress picking up what looked like an award. Behind that, a more recent snapshot of her with a group of people. To Jake's surprise, even Rick was in that little shrine, carrying Maureen bridal-style and looking impossibly young under a pinkish-red patina of oxidation.

The remaining four frames were Jake’s childhood pictures.

Jake as a baby in his crib, Jake dressed up for Halloween, Jake ready for his first day of school, Jake grinning up at the camera during a bath—while his dad had kept only one, hidden where nobody would find it, Maureen had all of hers on display.

“You were one cute kid,” her voice suddenly said behind him. “A big glutton, but cute.” When Jake turned to her, she was standing on the other side of the couch. “Chubbiest cheeks I’ve ever seen. I fell in love with you the moment they put you in my arms.”

Twenty-seven fucking years.

“Not enough love to keep me, though.”

Maureen neither averted her gaze nor played shy.

“No, I guess not.”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Jake stared at her, silent as a grave. Decades imagining this moment only for all his words to fail him.

Maureen smiled a sad little thing that accentuated the wrinkles around her mouth.

“Look at you now, all grown up.” She hesitated for half a second before walking around the couch, still keeping her distance. Her eyes went all glassy, her expression pained. “I know why you came." She sat on the edge of the loveseat, facing him. "Just ask away, baby. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know.”

It felt as if she was agreeing to one last bedtime story before turning off the lights.

For a big chunk of metal, aircraft carriers overheat fast. It's all the equipment, Raven explains in annoyance every time someone in their squad complains. Radars and comms and devices that allow them to bomb entire armies to kingdom come.

Jake knows the logic behind it, but he still can't stand how hot the rec room is.

He abandons Cujo and Razorback to their unlucky Xbox game and makes his way to the deck where the salty air caresses his face and cools him off. It's raining like mad as they leave Japan behind, Hiroshima Bay becoming a thinner line on the horizon with each passing second as the CVW9 finally heads home.

"Well," someone says to his right. Jake turns and finds Slop making his way over. He must have followed him, seeking shelter from the sweltering heat inside the ship too. The man takes his place next to Jake, leans on the railing, and sighs. "Six months of your life you're never getting back."

Jake laughs, but it's humorless.

"Congratulations, lieutenant," he cheers. "You cheated death once more."

Slop is two years younger than Jake and already expecting his first kid. He was raised by a single mom, is allergic to cinnamon, and can say more with a single look than with a full sentence. He's one of the few people who knows Jake has his six, either in the air or on land.

Perks of being his wingman.

"Great news for me," Slop says now, staring at Jake from under his lashes. "I have a life to get back to." He rubs his hands together and tilts his head. "But what about you, man?"

The image of Bradshaw standing on John’s threshold pops into Jake’s mind.

It makes his chest hurt.

"What, you think I don’t have one?"

Slop doesn’t fall for it.

"The whole deflection number is gettin’ older, brother." His hand reaches out and squeezes Jake’s shoulder. “And you ain’t gettin’ any younger.”

The wind carries a few raindrops off course, making them land on Jake’s face.

With a strained laugh, he brushes Slop’s hand off.

Sometimes at night, when Archer is snoring in the bottom bunk and sleep eludes him, Jake pulls up his phone. As the light blinds him in the darkness, he taps his camera roll and scrolls through the pictures.

There are some of Emma, looking her cute, weird self as she goes about her day on the ranch. A few are selfies from Javy in the Chevelle, sent a month ago and received only when Jake hooked up to MCAS Iwakuni’s Wi-Fi.

The rest are pictures of Bradshaw in the New Mexico museums, blurry and awkward. The fact that he’s in the middle of talking or blinking or moving in the shots always makes Jake smile. And then it hurts like a knife to the chest.

Rooster had asked.

Anything else?

Jake should’ve fucking answered.

Uncle John let him have a cigarette once.

“I’d rather you try it with me than with one of your football buddies,” he said as he lit the stick and passed it to Jake. “Those boys can’t tell their heads from their asses.”

Jake pinched the cigarette with thumb and forefinger like in the movies and placed it between his lips. The smoke burned his throat as he inhaled, making him feel cool for all of two seconds before he started coughing loudly.

It was gross and suffocating and he hated it immediately.

“Well, congrats,” he hacked, passing the cigarette back to a smiling John. "I ain't trying that again."

His uncle laughed that soft huff of his, his rough palm clapping Jake on the back. “Knew you were smart, boy,” he said before smoking the rest of the cigarette with that Southern grace of his, an Italian version of the Duke in a sixties Western.

Now Jake watches Raven blow out a circle of smoke, its shape soon dissolving into the freezing night.

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when we get back?” she asks, taking another long pull from her cigarette. It’s a nasty habit, she always says, but she indulges in it anyway because she risks her life for a living and she has earned it.

At least, that’s the excuse she gives everyone.

“Ordering McDonald’s,” Jake drawls.

It’s a lie.

The only two things he’s really considering are crashing for three days straight and booking the first flight to Norfolk in an emotionally suicidal mission. Neither would make much sense to Raven, so he lies and makes her laugh, smoke coming out of her mouth like a boiling kettle.

Leaning forward on the railing, he watches the trail of sea foam the carrier leaves in its wake.

“What about you?”

Raven smirks and flicks the end of her cigarette, ashes falling everywhere.

“I’m tying my boyfriend to the bed and fucking him six ways to Sunday.”

If he’s honest, Jake envies her a little.

“Boyfriend,” he repeats out loud, his eyebrow raised high. “Wasn’t he your fiancé?”

Raven finishes her cigarette, puts it out on the railing, and hides the butt in her flight suit.

“My tree-hugging, leftist boyfriend? Not a chance, sir.” She calls him ‘sir’ like she’s saying ‘dude’. “He would sooner join the Army than set foot in a church, the heathen.”

He snorts.

“See, you complain about him being a socialist, Raven, but I know you low-key vote Democrat.”

Raven bursts out laughing, completely unbothered.

“All due respect, Commander,” she stage-whispers, “but you low-key vote Democrat, too.”

There’s a ruckus coming from inside the carrier, lots of loud voices counting backward from ten. The USS Abraham Lincoln turns from floating bunker to frat house. When the countdown reaches zero, cheers erupt from within.

Jake gives Raven his best disarming grin.

“Happy New Year, lieutenant.”

She winks.

“Happy New Year, sir.”

Six months on a big-ass ship gives you time to think.

Sure, the Navy does not encourage much thinking, not with its orders and regulations and standards. But they can’t stop anyone’s mind from wandering at night, uncomfortably lying on a berth and unable to sleep for fear of visiting ghosts.

Jake has had enough time to think about what he wants over the past hundred and seventy days. And what he wants is to buy himself a house.

He’s tired of renting out apartments or storing his stuff when he’s deployed and his lease expires. He’s even more tired of base housing and military neighborhoods. He wants his own home, some cozy place with a big bedroom, an open kitchen, and a backyard. Maybe even facing a body of water. The ocean or the closest lake.

He also wants to visit Italy. Truly visit it; not on a European tour with the Navy. He wants to book a plane ticket, absolutely abhor the whole flight, and set foot in Rome, in Milan, in Genoa. He wants to see the Coliseum, wants to taste every gelato flavor ever created, wants to take the train to the place where his nonna was born and walk down its streets.

He wants to wash away the taste of Sagrado, Texas.

And then there’s the family thing. Reconnecting with Eleanor, seeing Emma grow, and maybe, just maybe, starting his own family. Perhaps one day he’ll overcome his crippling fear of becoming like Rick. Perhaps one day he’ll finally call himself dad to a kid, one of those in the system that people turn away because they come from fucked-up backgrounds. Sweet children over five that slowly get bitter with time, just like Jake did.

Perhaps.

But above it all, what Jake wants the most is to run after Bradley Bradshaw and kiss him stupid.

That’s the only thing on his mind as they cross the line where the Eastern sunrise turns into the Western sunset.

He's torturing his insipid mashed potatoes when Trace sits across from him.

“Whoever is in charge of this ship’s kitchen is a sadist.”

She’s glaring at her food.

“Nah,” Jake chuckles. “This is actually a strategy.” He pictures his nonna’s appalled face at the quality of their meals and has to suppress a manic laugh. “Brass thinks shit food will make the suicide missions more palatable.”

Trace pops a broccoli floret into her mouth, makes a disgusted face, and pushes the veggies to the side of her tray as she chews with a scrunched-up nose. Jake smirks, a comment about birds eating seeds and worms ready on his tongue, but it dies the moment Bob joins them.

“Hey,” he says softly, adjusting his glasses with a knuckle.

Trace makes a noncommittal noise at him, still fighting her food as Jake gives up on his.

“Hiya there, stealth pilot,” he starts, “how's that paperwork going?”

Bob sighs in resignation but still shrugs as he opens a salt sachet. He went for the mashed potatoes and chicken fillet too. Jake doesn’t have the heart to tell him no amount of salt will fix that yellow blob.

“It's not that bad,” the guy says. “Yours is probably worse.”

It is. Jake has lost count of how many exercises his squad has been put through just to avoid idleness, leaving him with a mountain of forms to fill. That’s the thing with the military—once the mission’s over, all that’s left is babysitting. And naval aviators are the equivalent of spoiled, hyperactive toddlers.

“I’d buzz the tower any day to entertain you, Bob,” he drawls, “but it would probably get me shot.”

Trace snorts. “Why don’t you try it anyway?” She sips her water. “God knows I need a distraction.”

Jake throws a sly smile at her.

“Aw, Phoenix. You know you’d miss me.”

She rolls her eyes in exasperation, but there’s some fondness in there, too.

“By the way,” Bob pipes in, “in case you manage not to get shot—by brass or Phoenix, that is—my dad’s picking us up in North Island.” He cuts his fillet, pops a piece in his mouth, and keeps talking, his left cheek rounded. “There’s space for one more if you want a ride.”

Jake stares at him. Wonders if it was his idea or Trace’s. Figures out it doesn’t matter, that it’s still touching as hell that they include him now. Any other time, he would take them up on their offer in the blink of an eye.

“Mighty kind, Bobby,” he says. “Unfortunately, I have some business to attend to before going back to Lemoore.”

Phoenix looks at him with an indecipherable expression.

“Texas?”

Further East, he doesn’t say.

“Something like that.”

Bob nods and keeps eating, back to his silent self. Trace doesn’t stop staring at Jake until her WSO pulls her into another conversation altogether.

He hears it as he's brushing his teeth.

It takes him a moment to make out the words, his mind blissfully blank as his toothbrush goes through the motions. His reflection looks back at him, tired and slightly thinner. And then, like a switch being flipped, the lyrics register. Army green was no safe bet and the bullets scream to me from somewhere and here they come to snuff the rooster.

Jake spits three times before he steps out of their shared restroom.

Archer is lying on his bunk, filling out some reports and playing music from his phone. A raspy voice sings yeah here come the rooster right before the music swells, full drums and electric guitars joining the mix into a slowed tempo that speaks of nineties grunge.

"Hey, Archie," Jake calls, "what song is this?"

Archer rolls his eyes and stares at him.

"How many times do I have to tell you that nickname will get your ass shot?" He clicks the end of his pen. "By me, in case you're too dense to get it."

Jake grins.

"Aw, Archie, but you can’t find your own dick without me."

Archer groans, hiding his face in his pillow for two seconds straight. When he comes back up, he looks resigned. "It's Alice in Chains, you whiskey tango fuck."

He’s a good guy, Archer. A military baby through and through, a highly efficient officer, and a humble man. He has seen Jake jerk awake from weird dreams a couple of times, always offering comfort but never pushing. His only fault, in Jake’s opinion, is that he flies for the Marine Corps instead of the Navy.

"And the song?"

In Jake's mind, the words just a song I used to sing in the communal showers at Oceana light up like a Christmas tree. In their tiny room, Layne Staley rasps you know he ain't gonna die.

Archer clicks his pen again and goes back to writing. For an impossible moment, he reminds Jake of that fateful Marine officer in the mall in Corpus Christi.

"Rooster," the man grunts.

Jake's lips hurt from how hard he's grinning.

She became a writer.

She went back home, begged her parents for forgiveness, got sober, and became a writer. Maureen explained it in a matter-of-fact voice that failed to hide how proud she was of herself. Not that it was hard to figure out. After all, her articles were framed and on display around them for everyone to see.

“I began covering concerts,” she said, sitting on the other end of the couch. “Then protests and rallies.” Her posture was loose, but her hands fidgeted a little, her nails painted a dark burgundy. “Now I write short pieces about curious places from all over the country. Magazines don’t pay much, but I still get to travel.”

Jake had his palms on his knees, purposely lax.

“Not too shabby.”

“Yeah.”

Maureen tried for a smile, but it was so bland, she quickly dropped it.

The living room went silent for a few long minutes, Jake staring at his mother and wondering not for the first time what was going through her head. She was both a complete stranger and the same person who had sung him to sleep decades ago.

It occurred to him then, how easy it was to impress a child.

Breathing in deeply, Maureen finally gathered her courage.

“Truth is, I wasn’t fit to be a parent.”

The words weren't a surprise. Jake had been carrying that knowledge since he was a little kid, making his own meals and cleaning up after adults who were supposed to take care of him. To him, it was a known truth—Maureen Novak shouldn’t have been a mother. So, no. The words weren’t a surprise.

But they still stung.

“I kinda figured.” Jake’s eyes flickered to his hands, unable to look at her all of a sudden. “If it's any consolation, neither was he.”

The pause that followed felt tense.

"Didn’t your father—take care of you?”

When Jake looked up, Maureen was staring sharply at him, her eyes confused. Not even when Rick smacked her across the face did she look so troubled. Jake wondered then if that was the lie she had been telling herself all those years.

He snorted.

“Come on, Mom. You were only there for the preview.” His fingers dug into his knees. “I got the whole show.” He saw it dawn on her face, his meaning. Her cheeks went pale, her shoulders tensed up. And yet, the vindication he was expecting to feel was tainted with guilt he couldn’t explain. “Don’t sweat it, the asshole’s dead now.”

“He’s—”

“Yep.” He waved his hands. “Surprise."

Her green eyes stared into nothing for a while, her brows pinching. Jake watched her process all of it. The abuse, the death, the years she had missed. For the first time, he saw the cracks in her. Cracks that were probably there twenty-seven years ago.

Then Maureen looked back at him.

“But,” she said, “you were a kid.”

Jake sat there, with his mother’s eyes and his mother’s hair. Just as brash and loud as her. Two runaways trying to understand each other.

“Yeah, well.” He leaned back on the couch, the fight going out of him and leaving him empty. “Maybe it would've been easier if I hadn’t taken after you.”

Of all the things, that was what finally made Maureen cry.

For the first time in his life, Jake felt pity for her.

It’s fucking cold for California.

Jake zips his jacket all the way to his throat, shrugging the strap of his duffle bag back into place.

"Hey, man,” Cujo calls. “Need a ride?”

The guy looks like he has lost ten pounds in the last three days. His newest girlfriend is tucked firmly under his arm. Her name is either Chelsea or Charity, Jake can’t remember.

CVW9 scatters to the winds the moment they reach NASNI’s Visitor Center and the Vigilantes are no exception. Many have their families waiting for them, parents and spouses and kids who hug them tight and wish them a belated Happy New Year.

There’s laughter and there’s crying and Jake feels like his skin itches.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says at last, chewing hard on peppermint bubblegum, “I have my car in storage downtown.” He’s lying, desperate to get to the nearest airport in a bold gamble. Cujo doesn’t need to know that, though, so Jake claps the guy on the back and winks at his girl. “You lovebirds get home safe.”

He adjusts his duffle bag again, salutes Slop and Raven, and makes his way to the bus stop. A few feet away, he notices Phoenix and Bob among the rest of the Black Aces. They are being hugged by an older gentleman who has Bob's exact features. Trace looks uncomfortable for all of two seconds before she relaxes into the embrace.

Jake smiles to himself but doesn't stop to say goodbye.

There’s a plane he needs to catch.

Fiddling with his phone as he moves, he sends Libby and Eleanor a quick text to let them know he’s stateside. His thumb hovers over a third number, but he guesses the woman it belongs to can wait a little longer. Instead, he taps on Javy’s chat. The sun hits him right in the face, barely warming him as he writes a douchey I live, bitch that’s quickly followed by does that mean I have to return your car? We’re in love, your honor.

Jake laughs, puts on his shades, and lets his shoes click on the concrete floor.

He’s almost at the bus stop when he sees it.

A very particular truck is waiting for him in the parking lot across the street. On its light-blue hood, the person he has been thinking of for months.

Bradshaw slides down the Bronco until his boots hit the ground.

Jake is no stranger to dreams.

Eddie asked him about it once, both of them lying in their underwear by the edge of this peaceful creek Jake had found by chance on a hunting trip with his father. Their bodies were golden from the sun, their fingertips wrinkled from the water.

"What do you dream of?"

Eddie's big browns were magical in the noon light.

"Is this a trick question?" Jake drawled, digging his finger into an old bruise on his abdomen. "Wanna hear what I jerk off to, Reyes?"

Eddie smacked him in the chest, laughing.

"No, pendejo." He spoke the insult as he always did, fond and lovely. "I said dreams, not fantasies. I don't wanna know how your cousin gets your limp dick hard."

Jake didn't have any cousins and Eddie knew it, but he also knew how protective Jake was of certain things in his life, so the joke was meant to let him off the hook. Just as well, for Jake couldn't really explain how what he called 'dreams' were more often than not memories, nightmares, wishes. Glimpses of a life that left him disoriented and morose, lying awake in threadbare sheets with bile pooling in his mouth.

That his only dream was to sign his life away to the military in order to be somewhat free.

"Only you get me this hard, baby," Jake teased instead, grabbing his cock through his underwear before rolling on top of Eddie to make out.

Their laughter turned into a scream as they fell into the creek again.

Since then, Jake has asked himself the question often.

What do you dream of?

He has some recurrent ones—his nonna making gnocchi shaped like nooses, his father putting a gun in his hands, his uncle asking if he knows what burning napalm smells like, Eddie pressing bloody kisses to his lips. It's all part of his routine by now, one more ball to juggle with.

For whatever reason, he knows that's not what Eddie was referring to all those years ago.

If he were to ask the question again, Jake wonders if he would tell Eddie the truth. If he would say he dreams of a screamed Dagger Two is down. Of an angry slouch in a motel room and hands in a ten-and-two position on the wheel. Of a crooked grin and the torturing sight of a strong back arching in pleasure.

That he inevitably dreams of Bradley Bradshaw.

Jake knows perfectly well what Eddie would say about it, too.

Took you long enough.

Rooster grins at him from behind his aviators, wearing a bomber jacket over a flannel shirt. There’s no sunburn on his face, but his cheeks are a little pink. His hair is windswept, those messy curls adding to the boyishness of his smile.

He looks like a dream.

Jake clenches his hand around the strap of his bag and wishes he wasn’t the living image of exhaustion. He still forces himself to keep walking, plastering a huge smirk on his face and forgetting every word he had prepared for this moment.

“I’ll be damned,” he jokes instead, as if this isn’t fucking him up. “I don’t remember calling for an Uber.”

Bradshaw laughs.

“You wished I was your Uber, dipshit.” He gives Jake an assessing once-over. “I’m here to pick up this other hot dude.”

Jake has to fight the paranoid urge to look over his shoulder and make sure no one has heard, years of DADT conditioning still haunting his every move.

Good thing he’s one stubborn son-of-a-bitch.

“Careful there, Rooster,” he drawls. “You might hurt my feelings.”

Not that they aren’t already hurt, but that’s his own fault, so he swallows the words down and readies himself for bad digestion.

Bradshaw takes off his shades, eyes squinting in the sun. Jake can’t help but do the same, refraining from throwing caution to the wind and kissing that mouth, those scars, the hinge of a jaw and lower, either risking a fist to the face or getting them arrested for public indecency. They are also standing a mere four yards from the gates to North Island. One homophobic, trigger-happy redneck and they are going home in body bags.

“So,” Bradshaw starts softly, “Nat said she and Bob already have a ride home. I thought I would offer you one instead.”

He thinks, so you’ve been talking to Phoenix about me.

He says, “Aw, you came all the way from Virginia just to pick me up, hotshot?”

Of all the questions that burn the tip of Jake’s tongue, that one is the safest. And even then, it still feels like he’s in the air, fighting for his life. Against Bradshaw or himself, he couldn’t possibly say.

Rooster shrugs a shoulder.

“I was in the neighborhood, actually.”

“Visiting Mav?”

Those hazel eyes glint in mischief.

“More like being TOPGUN’s newest instructor.”

TOPGUN’s newest—wait.

Jake blinks twice before automatically slapping Bradshaw’s shoulder, making the man smile harder.

“You are fucking with me.” When Rooster shakes his head no with all his white teeth smugly on display, Jake lets out a pained laugh. “No, ‘course you’re not.” His hand closes around the collar of Rooster’s jacket and tugs a little, thumb stroking the fabric. “You sneaky asshole,” he drawls, sounding way more fond than he intends to, “so you reenlisted after all.”

Bradshaw—

Bradley.

Bradley knots his fingers in the strap of Jake’s duffle bag, his knuckles pressed to the shoulder beneath. “So it seems,” he whispers, staring right into Jake’s eyes like he’s sharing a secret, “Commander.”

The words clog Jake’s throat, a six months and not a word from you that feels poisonous. Thankfully, he manages to keep Hangman on a leash this time.

Bradley’s here for him. All else is dust.

“Well, in that case,” Jake finally drawls, gentle and soft in the shrinking space between their bodies, “I’ll pull rank and take that ride.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He slowly takes the duffle bag from Jake’s shoulder and backs off to slide it into the back of the Bronco. Then the fucker winks before opening the passenger’s door for Jake.

“Get in so I can tell you all about the dumb shits I call students.”

When Jake climbs into the truck, it feels like coming home.

His mom had taken him dancing in the rain once.

She had been twirling like a ballerina, her hair wet and her clothes dripping, face turned up to the sky in a giant smile. Jake had stared at her in wonder, splashing on puddles and barely managing a poor imitation of her unique grace, his tiny legs unable to keep up with her movements.

Not that it had ever been possible to keep up with her anyway.

The details were fuzzy and the memory was nothing but a flash of color, which made Jake think he had either made it up or been too young to properly remember. Whatever the case, that image of his Maureen was the only thing on his mind as he watched her make coffee in her tiny kitchen.

She was talking, asking him questions as subtle as a sledgehammer—did he play sports in high school, did he go to college, was he dating a nice girl?

Jake couldn't blame her.

He knew what it was like to be curious, too.

"The whole dating part is complicated," he said at last, leaning against the counter.

Maureen grabbed two mismatched mugs from a cabinet. One had 'You're on mute' printed on the side, the other 'I love NYC'. Jake had to hide his snort at the fact that she was literally a middle-aged bachelor.

"What d'you mean, complicated?"

She found a box of sugar packets, left it on the counter, and took a carton of milk from the fridge.

The memory of Bradshaw pushing him against the wall to kiss him in anger flashed before his eyes. Jake ignored it and said, "Well, I grew up to be an asshole." He shrugged when she turned around, one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched up. "I'm told is not a desirable trait in a partner."

Maureen's eyes flickered to the floor before she sighed.

"I don't think I'm in a position to judge you, to be honest." She made an abortive movement with her hand, still holding the milk. "I grew up to be an asshole, too."

The bright-red coffee maker started gurgling.

With an apologetic smile, his mom put the carton down and turned off the stove. Jake watched her pour the coffee in both mugs, making quick work of adding milk and sugar.

"You used to be such a sweet kid, though," she began as she offered Jake the NYC mug. "What happened?"

Jake stared at her as she took a sip of coffee, waiting for her to swallow.

"Rick did."

It had the intended effect.

She looked up, hands clenched around her mug and some semblance of betrayal in her eyes. Jake couldn't say if it was intended for him or for Rick, but it didn’t matter. She had no right to feel betrayed by the truth she had tried so hard to hide from, dancing her way through it.

That’s the thing about the truth, though. It always catches up.

Maureen said nothing for a long time, either feeling guilty or ashamed. Jake watched her suffer through it, letting the words scar her as much as Rick had scarred him.

And then, eventually—

"It seems we have that in common, don't we?"

Jake finally took a sip from his coffee.

"Who would've thought."

The alien bobblehead is still on the dashboard.

Jake can’t help but reach out with a finger and press on its head, momentarily stopping its shaking. Those black eyes stare at him almost in surprise, the round, green head squished to the side. Jake smiles and lets it go, the bobbing coming back with a vengeance.

From the driver's seat, Bradley is talking nonstop.

He's been an instructor for TOPGUN for the past two months, he says. After his training exercise in Kingsville—which, by the way, he's lucky to have survived because they invited the Air Force too, you know, bunch of assholes—he reported back to Oceana, half-convinced he was leaving when his contract was up. But then he called Mav.

Bradley's knuckles tighten on the wheel as he confesses to it which means it’s still a tender spot.

"I told him I wasn't going to reenlist," he says as the scenery around them turns into a dry desert, "but he suggested changing career paths. Next thing I know, someone was calling me about an opening at TOPGUN." He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile on his face. "Mav denies being involved."

Jake whistles.

"The Devil works hard, but Pete Mitchell works harder, huh?"

Bradley huffs out a laugh, speeding past a Volvo minivan with screaming children in the back. "Ain't that the truth," he murmurs. “So anyway, I thought I’d give it a try and hopefully teach other people how not to get blown up. Not that it’s easy. There’s this guy—”

He promptly goes on to bitch about his students, all of whom he calls an annoying pain in his ass.

He never once asks about deployment.

Jake is fucking grateful.

They have taken a longer route to Lemoore. Mainly because neither of them wanted to deal with the void of hell that was Los Angeles traffic. Secretly, Jake thinks it’s because it will make the trip last longer.

The radio’s on, probably set on the same station that filled the uncomfortable silences between them the first time they did this. Scorpions sing about hurricanes and sex, and Jake allows himself to tap the rhythm on his knee as he steals glimpses of Bradley. Of the way he leans back on his seat. Of the way he holds onto the wheel. Of the softness that hides behind the sharp line of his jaw.

The dangerous words Jake wants to say dissolve on his tongue when Bradley speaks again.

"You know, on my way from Virginia, I finished the trip I had in mind last summer.” His hands turn the wheel a few degrees west as the road curves. “Saw the Grand Canyon and everything."

The memory of sunburned skin and beads of sweat comes to mind.

"Was it better than the crater?"

They are both smiling.

"Honestly? No."

"What do you mean, no? People go rabid for the Grand Canyon, Rooster.” Jake has never been to the Grand Canyon in his life, but he still feels like defending it just to be difficult. “What was wrong with it?"

Bradley's smile turns a little melancholic, his tongue wetting his lips before speaking. “It was missing something.”

The laugh is past Jake’s lips before he can stop it.

“Was it, now?”

Rooster glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He shrugs like he can’t explain it, but Jake knows better. There’s something else Bradley wants to say, something that sits heavy in his chest. Those are the only things Bradley fears saying out loud.

Jake waits him out, but the words don’t come.

What he gets instead are those wide shoulders drooping in defeat.

They are skirting the edge of something important and Jake can feel it all the way to his bones. But he feels merciful, so he doesn’t push it.

“Say, Rooster, where’s the nearest McDonald’s? This sailor is starving.”

Of all the memories he has of his nonna, there's one that stands out.

He remembers it being a Sunday, the smell of incense from Mass still clinging to his clothes. The whole family had gathered at his grandparents’ house for lunch, an event that didn’t happen as frequently as it used to.

Dressed up in Maria Angela’s old clothes, the girls were noisily playing outside under the watchful eyes of Monica and Gloria, who traded gossip on the porch like they were spies in a noir film. In the living room, Rick and Grandpa Larry were talking about work and guns and politics with cigarettes in their mouths and beers in their hands, not quite drunk, but not entirely sober either.

John was late.

He usually was, avoiding getting stuck in the same room with his whole family and an intimidating amount of framed paintings of Jesus Christ on the walls.

None of this seemed to matter to his nonna, though.

She was in the kitchen, cooking pasta. Not the type that came in a box, but the one she made from scratch, the apron over her sleeveless floral dress stained with flour. She was puttering about the stove, waiting for the water to boil as the ingredients for her sauce sizzled in a copper pan. All her cookware was copper, brought from Italy when she crossed the Atlantic fleeing the aftermath of the war.

Sitting on the counter and favoring his right side, Jake was watching her work, hoping to get a taste of her marinara sauce before anyone else.

When the water finally boiled, his grandmother started throwing a large amount of rotini into the pot.

"Nonna," he called, amused, "isn’t that a lot?"

Maria Angela stirred the pasta before adding rosemary and salt to the sauce. "Ma, no," she said, dipping a tiny spoon in the marinara and tasting it. "More means you can have seconds. Sei molto magro, bambino." She added more pepper. Then she dipped the spoon again and made Jake try it. It was delicious. "Perché? You don't like my food?"

Jake licked his lips and shook his head, feeling a twinge of pain on his right side. "I would marry your food if I could, you know," he drawled with a huge grin.

The woman laughed, pinching one of his cheeks before going back to her pasta. Her hands were all dry and wrinkly, veins standing out and nails rounded. When she wasn’t stirring the rotini gently, she covered the pot and lowered the heat on the sauce to a minimum, keeping it warm as the pasta finished cooking.

Jake couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized by the way she moved around.

"Nonna," he called again, "why do you always cook for us?"

His grandmother stopped all movement. She looked at him, at the way he was hunched forward, trying to hide the blooming set of bruises over his right ribs. That look of hers would stay in his memory forever.

"Ah, bambino." Her eyes were wet behind her glasses. "Cucino per te perché ti amo."

Jake couldn’t understand her most times, but there were others when her meaning struck so true it made him hurt more than his father’s fists.

Jumping off the counter, Jake approached her, softly taking the pasta strainer from her hands.

"Would you teach me? I wanna cook for you, too."

Maria Angela smiled and kissed the top of his head.

To this day, there are very few people Jake would gladly cook for.

They can’t seem to find a stupid McDonald’s, so they stop at some random diner.

Jake feels a sense of déjà vu as they choose a booth in a secluded corner, far from all the other patrons. While Bradley orders, Jake sends a quick text to Maureen, ignoring the coy glances the waitress is sending his way. He’s still in uniform, probably looking like he’s been run over. The only thing he wants is ten hours of uninterrupted sleep in his king-sized bed.

What he gets instead is a soft-looking Bradley Bradshaw, which is not a bad consolation prize.

“So,” Jake starts, putting his phone back in his pocket and leaning forward on the table like he’s about to share a secret, “you moved to Fightertown?”

Bradley fiddles with the bottle of ketchup on the table.

“Yeah. A couple of months ago.” He grimaces. “Back to base housing again. It’s getting kinda old.”

Slop’s words come back to him. You ain’t getting any younger.

“What about your parents’ house in Virginia?”

“Sold it.”

Jake raps his knuckles on the table, thinks of John’s old apartment in Sagrado.

“I thought you liked that house.”

Bradley shrugs. “I liked what was inside it. The house was just an empty building most of the time.”

It rings so close to home that Jake has to suppress a laugh.

“Fair enough.” He feels his phone vibrate but ignores it. “When do you have to report back to Miramar?”

Before Bradley can answer, their waitress approaches with their order. She puts two sodas, a bacon cheeseburger, and a ham sandwich on the table, sending Jake a flirty smile. Thankfully, she leaves them to it, but Bradley still watches her go with an annoyed frown.

It’s cute.

“I took two personal days,” he replies eventually, turning to Jake. “Should be back on Monday, though.”

Jake hums before taking a sip of his Coke, the sugar going to his brain like lightning. “So you’ll be staying in Lemoore all weekend, then.”

It might be a little cruel, but Jake wants to hear him say it.

Bradley turns pink.

“Yeah.” He curls his fingers around his soda but doesn't drink. “I was wondering if, huh, the offer to take your car for a drive still stands.”

It is the stupidest excuse, but Jake will play along.

He thinks, anything with me still stands. What he says, though, is, “Sure thing, Rooster. We could set out early on Saturday, give Mav a heart attack by lunchtime.” He even waggles his eyebrows.

Bradley’s relieved expression makes Jake think of starry nights.

“Sounds like a plan.” He bites his lip, mouth too pale under his mustache. Jake wants to lick it red. “I could take the couch like last time, maybe?”

Jake suddenly wants more than ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

“Rooster,” he whispers, voice low, “you aren’t taking the couch and we both know it.”

Outside, the sky starts going dark.

His mom walked him to the car.

“It’s been a while since I saw this beauty,” she said, her hands brushing the top of the Chevelle. “Your father was very protective of her. Never let me drive her once.” She smirked then, winking at Jake. “Pity he never found out I once took her for a ride when he was gone. I was pregnant at the time and you kicked something awful when I stepped on the gas.”

Jake chuckled, his own story of grand theft auto on the tip of his tongue. With a hand around his car keys, he looked at Maureen and gestured between them.

“I wouldn’t mind repeating this.”

His mom’s hand hesitated before finding his arm and squeezing it tight. “I’d love to.” She smiled again, her fingers patting him on the chest. “You have my number. We could meet up in a few weeks, perhaps? I can drive down to California.”

Jake put his hand on the Chevy’s roof.

“Rain check on that,” he said. “I don’t get back from deployment until January.”

Maureen blinked twice before it dawned on her.

“You are in the military?”

“Navy, yes.”

He had purposely avoided telling her that, not sure why. Maybe because she wouldn’t understand. Maybe because she would judge him for it. Maybe because if she had taken him with her all those years ago, he would’ve become something else entirely.

As it was, Jake was trying not to dwell on the past anymore.

To her credit, it only took Maureen a few seconds to come to terms with it.

“My child, a sailor,” she joked. “And here I thought you’d end up being a rock star.”

With a wink, she stood back and let him climb into the car. He had his seat belt on and the keys in the ignition when he made up his mind.

“Who says I’m not?” he asked through the window. He popped on his sunglasses, preening like Maureen herself used to do at twenty-seven. “I’m a naval aviator. I fly deadly machines that go boom when I rev up.” His mom’s eyes glinted magically at this, still looking beautiful. It was the same image he remembered from when he was a kid. Grinning from ear to ear, he threw his whole charm at her. “Still kick something awful when I step on the gas, you know.”

He speeded out of her street to the fresh sound of her booming laughter.

He presses Bradley against the front door, closing it shut.

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley exhales into his ear, tilting his head back so Jake can kiss the soft skin under his jaw. His long fingers make quick work of the buttons on both their shirts, impatiently pulling at the fabric. “Where’s the bed?”

Jake can’t even remember where they left their jackets.

“In Hell, for all I care.”

Breathing in the scent of warm skin and aftershave, he scrapes his teeth down the column of Bradley’s throat, hearing him gasp. He knows he shouldn’t, but he still closes his mouth against pale skin and starts sucking, leaving dangerous marks behind. Not that Bradley seems to mind, judging by the way he’s holding onto Jake’s hair to bring him closer.

They make out against the front door like the world is ending, Bradley riding Jake’s thigh in a hurry as their clothes rustle obscenely in the dark. Jake’s tempted to wring out their orgasm right there, either sliding a hand into Rooster’s jeans or dropping to his knees to suck him off.

Instead, he grabs Bradley by his belt buckle and pulls hard.

They navigate the hallway blind, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. Jake loses count of how many times they press each other against the nearest wall so they can kiss deeper and grope harder, their gasps and their moans mixing with the filth they speak against each other’s mouths.

When they finally reach the bedroom, Jake’s so turned on he can barely function.

He manages to switch on the side lamp with anxious hands, getting a brief view of Bradley’s flushed skin before carelessly pulling the bedspread off the mattress and onto the floor. When he turns back around, Rooster presses him flat against pristine sheets that smell of nothing at all, swiftly climbing on top of him and going directly for his mouth, tongues in a sloppy kiss as they make quick work of their underwear.

"Fuck, you feel good," Bradley says, his body warming Jake up as he grinds their hips together. By the third thrust, their skin starts sticking with sweat, hands everywhere. “How do you wanna do this?”

Brushing his tongue against Rooster’s lower lip, Jake digs his fingers into the man’s ass and chuckles. “You, on your back,” he hears himself breathe, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Head by the edge.” Bradley lifts up on his elbows and gives him a hot look, eyes as dark as night as he keeps rubbing their cocks together. Jake puts on his best grin despite the assault. "Come on, lieutenant. Be a good boy."

It does the trick.

Bradley gasps, thrusting against the hollow of Jake’s hip one last time before obeying and rolling off of him. He lies back down, wriggling his body until his head is at the foot of the bed, hair a mess and hand jerking his dick slowly to make it drool.

He’s a sight to behold.

With lazy limbs, Jake plants a kiss on Rooster’s thigh before climbing off the mattress. When he stands above Bradley’s upside-down face, those hazel eyes are a shade darker.

“Nice view,” Rooster rumbles, his big hand finding Jake’s hips.

Jake’s sly smile is extra theatrical. “Always am.” He thumbs the corner of that lovely mouth, dipping the finger inside a couple of times. It’s not so much a tease as it is a promise. “This fine by you?”

Bradley swallows and Jake can see the way his throat bobs in the soft light. “Yeah, come on.” He kisses the thumb before sliding closer to the foot of the bed, letting his head hang gently off the edge. “I want it deep.”

God, Jake wants to fuck him raw.

Breathing out slowly, he jerks himself off a couple of times, his eyes never leaving Bradley’s despite the weird angle. “Anything you want.” His right hand cups the back of Bradley’s neck in support, right where his nape meets his back. “Open up,” he whispers, pressing the head of his cock to swollen lips. Rooster licks it twice before doing as told and letting Jake sink into unbearably wet heat, his jaw stretching wide. “Fuck, yeah, that’s right.”

Halfway in, Jake stops and lets himself enjoy the way Bradley sucks on his dick, tongue lapping the head like he’s starving. His body is a long line of flushed skin and strong muscle, standing out against the white sheets with his knees spread and his dick hard. Jake watches as he begins touching himself again to the rhythm of his sucking, the noise echoing on the walls.

Jake’s own mouth grows wet at the sight.

A sudden tap on his hip brings him back to the present. The hand that rests there is pulling softly, letting him know Bradley’s ready.

Biting his lip, Jake pulls out and pushes back in slowly, finding no resistance. It’s all the encouragement he needs, but he still keeps his thrusts shallow, brushing the inside of Bradley’s cheek just to watch it bulge obscenely. He can’t see Rooster’s face like this, but the man’s right hand keeps stroking his cock at a leisurely pace, his breath warm between Jake’s thighs and the veins in his neck standing out.

“Been thinking of this,” he rasps, captivated by the way Bradley’s throat is bared, “since I got on that ship.” His left hand joins the right one, supporting Rooster’s nape and brushing both thumbs over his throat in a promise. “You want this?”

The strangled moan that follows makes him hiss in pleasure, his fingers closing tighter around that neck to keep it steady. The next time he presses in, his dick goes deep enough for Bradley to choke a little, but the hand Rooster still has on Jake’s hip tightens up and pulls him closer like this is exactly what he wants.

It drives Jake insane.

“That’s so good, baby,” he hears himself say, pulling back to push back in to the root, absolutely amazed at the way Bradley tilts his head even farther back to take him into his throat. “Fuck, look at you.”

It’s not long before he’s fucking Rooster in earnest, the hands around that reddened neck feeling his cock going in and out. They are noisy and filthy about it, Bradley stripping his dick like it pains him and moaning around Jake in a lovely vibration that adds to the wet pressure.

Jake makes Bradley take it deep, hearing him breathe shakily against his balls with every thrust.

"Don't come," he grunts as he pushes into Bradley's mouth, increasing his speed and offering no reprieve. He knows Rooster would enjoy him spilling down his throat, but that's not what he has in mind. "I don't—fuck—I don’t want you to come like this."

Bradley hums defiantly around Jake’s dick, but he still slows down the hand on his cock.

With one last thrust, Jake pulls out slowly, feeling every inch of Bradley’s tongue before letting his dick fall from swollen lips, all wet and glistening. When Jake glances down, Bradley looks fucked out and ready to burst, inhaling unevenly to fill his lungs. "Alright, Commander," he rasps in a hoarse voice. He has a lazy smile on his face, mouth shiny with spit and temples stained with sweat and tears. "How do you want me?"

It goes all the way to Jake's gut.

He licks his dry lips.

"Inside me, lieutenant."

Bradley's eyes blink twice before the words dawn on him. Stifling a whine, Rooster squeezes the base of his cock hard and stares up at Jake like he’s dying, nodding desperately.

It only turns even more frantic after that.

They both finger Jake open with the leftover lube in his duffle bag, a mix of wet digits and lazy limbs and some dirty things whispered in each other's ears. ‘Yeah’ and ‘right there’ and ‘give me one more’ that mix with their harsh breathing as they hastily roll a condom down Rooster’s cock.

Then Jake presses Bradley to the bed and climbs on top of him.

"Couldn’t have you exerting yourself, old man," he smirks, pressing the head of Rooster’s dick to his ass and feeling like a disheveled mess.

Bradley huffs, fingers clenched tight on Jake’s thighs.

"I'm in my prime, fucker," he grits out, swallowing a moan as Jake lowers himself down on his cock inch by inch, feeling fuller by the second. He watches in fascination at the way those hazel eyes go half-mast with lust, staring at him like they can’t believe him.

Jake’s heart is racing by the time he’s fully seated on Bradley’s lap and it has nothing to do with how stretched out he is.

“You good?” he gasps instead, preening under Rooster’s constant staring.

Those long fingers grip his hips.

“Never better.” Bradley swallows, grinds his hips up a little. “Are you good?”

Cute.

Jake leans forward, hands braced on Bradley’s chest and a smug grin on his face.

“I’m too good to be true, baby.”

Rooster’s laugh cuts into a groan as Jake lifts his hips and slowly rolls them down, going for an easy rhythm that fills him up nicely. Letting his knees and legs do most of the work, Jake closes his eyes and focuses on breathing, the cock inside him feeling the right side of too much. Bradley hums and sighs and whines beneath him, sometimes exhaling praise Jake will give him shit for later.

“Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart,” he moans, his fingers digging into Jake’s ass.

Jake feels full, but above all, he feels whole.

He tries not to think about it at the moment.

What he does instead is shift his knees and speed up. He blinks his eyes open with a grunt and catches Bradley staring up at him in wonder. His mouth is open, not even bothering to shush his sounds as they escape past his lips. Jake wants to eat him alive, but he’s too busy trying to breathe air into his lungs.

Transferring all his weight to his left arm, he frees his right hand and traces an uneven line from Bradley’s nose, down to his mouth, over his chin, and all the way to his throat. “Do you want it?” he asks, thighs burning with the strain of riding Rooster’s cock.

Bradley nods.

“Yeah, please.”

Jake’s smirk feels a little weak. “Then jerk me off.”

Those long lashes flutter at the order.

Panting, Bradley moves one hand off Jake’s ass and closes it around his dick, stripping it to the same rhythm Jake has set above him. It makes him clench up which in turn wrings a moan out of Bradley. Murmuring a breathless good boy, Jake’s hand closes around Rooster’s neck to keep him pinned to the bed, pressing lightly on the sides to make its presence known.

“Oh, God,” Bradley grunts, his eyes shutting closed.

Jake’s whole body goes impossibly hot, gasping for air as the pleasure pools low in his belly. They make the headboard hit the wall with every move, probably giving the neighbors a noisy show. Jake’s left hand falls from Bradley’s shoulder onto the bed, bringing them closer together and making their limbs stick with sweat.

He feels the telltale signs building in his lower abdomen—

“Fuck, don’t stop,” Bradley suddenly grunts, his lips brushing Jake’s. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Jake barely has time to brace himself before Rooster plants his feet on the bed and thrusts up, hitting his prostate dead on in a frantic rhythm. “You motherfucker,” he grunts, his laugh mixing with a deep groan as his body goes into overdrive, making him clench up involuntarily.

Bradley whines, a pained sound that announces how close he is to coming apart. His hand on Jake’s cock speeds up, the side of his thumb rubbing perfectly against the frenulum. Jake’s whole rhythm goes to shit, but it doesn’t matter because Bradley’s throwing his head back, his whole body locking up.

The blood in his neck pulses against Jake’s fingers as he comes, jaw open and eyes squeezed shut.

He looks fucking beautiful.

That image and Rooster’s last thrust finally throw Jake over the edge, coming on Bradley’s cock with a full-body shudder. And because he may be a sadist after all, he doesn’t stop moving until they are both a sobbing mess, their muscles spasming with overstimulation.

It’s the best welcome home of Jake's life.

He rolls off Bradley, using his last functioning brain cell to hold onto the condom before lifting up and away. His body falls onto the bed like a puppet with its strings cut, lungs working double-time to keep up with his heart.

“Holy shit.”

Next to him, Bradley giggles.

“That was—”

Jake combs his hair away from his forehead and steals a glance. With his softening cock still wrapped in a rubber and semen splattered on his chest, the man looks like he was fucked into oblivion.

Good.

“Yeah, it was.”

Bradley smiles at him before turning and throwing his arm over Jake’s body. It's fond and gentle, like they've been doing this all their lives.

They stay like that for longer than they care to admit, cooling off on now-filthy sheets and murmuring nonsense until the chill finally registers. Grumbling, Jake rolls out of bed to fetch a clean bedspread to throw over their bodies, switching off the light and plunging the room into darkness on his way back.

He’s comfortably settled and half asleep when Bradley’s voice echoes in the room. For a moment, it’s difficult to say if it’s part of one of his dreams or not.

“Back in the car, you asked me what the Grand Canyon was missing.”

The bedspread rustles before a hand finds Jake’s arm, the palm hot against his chilly skin.

He nods before the words fall from his lips and onto the pillow. “I remember.”

Someone breathes out, someone breathes in.

“You, Jake.” The hand on his arm brushes all the way down until it finds his, knitting their fingers together. “It was missing you.”

Ah, fuck him.

Jake reaches out and brings Bradley in, carding a hand through sweaty curls.

“Yeah,” he says into the darkness. "I kinda know how that feels."

Sentimentality is indeed contagious.

Javy Machado’s an only child.

His parents had him when they were pushing forty, so he was their little miracle, getting as spoiled as a kid from a working-class family could get. Although he has a lot of cousins on his father’s side, they all live in Puerto Rico, which meant that growing up, it was only the three of them.

Jake knows all this because the moment he stepped inside the Machados’ house for the first time, he was told the whole family history, fed an obscene amount of food, and immediately adopted. José likes his jokes and Imani likes his manners, so he’s always welcome in their home.

To this day, Jake isn’t sure why Javy likes him, but he’s not going to question one of the best things that has ever happened to him.

His only clue is a weird-ass conversation they had after graduating, drunk as fuck on cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey. “Honestly, dude,” Javy said, face serious. “Earning your trust is a bitch.” He grinned when Jake gave him an offended scowl that was more drama than actual hurt. “But, to me? That makes your friendship all the more special.”

If asked, Jake Seresin will always say he has two sisters and a brother, blood be damned.

Javy knows everything there is to know about him. About Rick, about Maureen, about Emma. He even knows things Jake has never outright told him, like the story behind the Chevelle, or the name of that terrible hook-up in Pensacola, or what happened between Bradley and Jake all those years ago in TOPGUN.

And just as he knows all about his shitty past, Javy also knows how to take care of him.

That’s why, when Jake walks half-asleep into his kitchen in sweatpants and a hoodie the next morning, he finds his fridge stocked and his cabinets full. There’s fresh fruit in the fruit bowl, coffee capsules for his coffee maker, and a set of car keys on the counter.

Javy’s customary post-deployment note is stuck to the fridge with a New Orleans magnet, as always.

Welcome home, douchebag and a happy face.

Through the doorway to the kitchen, Jake can see the framed picture of John and Annie that hangs in the hallway, right next to an old Polaroid he found in a glove compartment months ago. They are both grinning brightly at him.

Sometimes he looks at his life and thinks about what a lucky son of a bitch he is.

Bradley bullies him into it.

Jake feels like lazing around on the couch and ordering pizza, but Bradley starts whining about Jake's risotto and how much he misses it. So the night before they go on yet another road trip to the desert, Jake ends up chopping onions, heating broth, and grating parmesan.

His kitchen is comfortable enough for two, but Bradley keeps brushing against him every time he moves. Jake plays along, pretending like he doesn't notice he's doing it on purpose. It's not like it's a hardship anyway.

"Plates?" Rooster asks, pointing to the small dining nook at the end of the counter.

Jake watches him out of the corner of his eye, adding ingredients to a pot.

"Cabinet to your right."

Bradley starts setting the table, looking soft in Jake's clothes. The old Navy sweatshirt he's wearing has its neck stretched so wide that Jake can see the hickey he left on Bradley's nape a few hours ago as they were ruining yet another set of sheets.

He almost burns the onions just thinking about it.

"So, is all your tableware mismatched?"

Bradley is holding two glasses that are completely different in size and color.

Jake shrugs.

"Yes."

"Why?"

He sounds equal parts curious and affronted. It's hilarious.

Jake’s tempted to tell him about John, about all the things he inherited from him, about how the man was to him what Mav is to Bradley. But tonight is not the night, so he smirks and says, "I'm sorry, is my glassware hurting your sensibilities?"

Rooster blinks once before rolling his eyes, a soft fine, be that way escaping his lips.

He goes back to his task, opening and closing more cabinets than necessary to finish setting the dining nook, which makes Jake think he's plainly snooping around. The man's humming something under his breath, but Jake can't make out what it is.

And that's when he remembers.

Adding some broth to the rice and letting it sit for a moment, Jake slowly pulls out his phone. He scrolls down his favorite songs until he reaches the one he wants. He presses play, leaves the phone on the counter, and turns to face Bradley, wooden spoon in hand.

Alice in Chains fills his kitchen at a slow tempo.

Looking down at the cutlery drawer, Bradley freezes. Very slowly, he drags his eyes from the forks to where Jake is standing by the stove, a shit-eating grin on his face.

So, it’s the right one.

"Of all the songs you could sing in the showers," Jake drawls. "Kinda on the nose, don't you think?"

He counts to three before Bradley bursts out laughing, head thrown back and everything.

"Aw, fuck you, man," he wheezes when he's done, cheeks pink. "Who told you?"

Grinning, Jake pours the last of the broth into the pot, stirring a few times. "Pure coincidence, I swear." He adds salt before winking at Bradley. "I almost swallowed my toothbrush when I heard it."

Bradley laughs again, placing the forks on the table.

"Now you owe me yours," he says. “That was the deal.”

It was not the deal, but Jake doesn’t really give a fuck. He turns off the stove, adds the parmesan, and stirs the buttery rice. Then he turns to Bradley with a smirk.

"Have you ever heard of Marie Lambert?"

They eat their risotto in between laughs and jokes, the story of how Jake got his call sign being greatly exaggerated for entertainment purposes. Bradley grins through it all, demolishing his food like a man starving. It pleases Jake to no end, especially when Roosters mutters a that is fucking outlandish followed by and I hate that it suits you and God, this food is amazing.

Later, as Bradley is doing the dishes and he's busy drying them, Jake pops the question.

“So, now that you’ve rejoined the hottest Naval frat house in the country,” he puts the pot back in its cabinet, “what do you want next?”

Bradley’s fingers don’t stop their movement under the faucet.

“I want a trip to the Bahamas,” he says without hesitation.

The honesty makes Jake laugh and he turns to face Bradley with a huge grin. He finds that boyish smile he can’t help but think about at all times.

Grabbing the next plate Rooster passes him, he dries it thoroughly and says, “Hella plan.”

Bradley gives him a wise nod.

“I also want a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yeah.” He rinses the last glass, passes it to Jake, and closes the faucet. “Always wanted one, but my mom said it was too much of a responsibility.”

Jake hums.

“Well, dogs sure are cute.”

Long fingers brush Jake’s flank as Bradley goes for a fresh dishcloth to dry his hands. Once the last plate is put away, they both stand against the counter, staring at each other.

“And what do you want?” Bradley asks kindly, arms crossed and cloth draped over his shoulder. He looks like he belongs right where he is. In Jake’s space. Doing the dishes and asking him inane questions and sharing his plans for the future.

Jake breathes in.

“I want a much-deserved raise,” he begins, sliding his arms around Rooster's waist and bringing them closer still.

Bradley unwraps his arms and lets his long fingers find the curve of Jake's ears, a humorous snort catching in his throat. Jake stares at his moles and his freckles and his scars. At his crooked nose. At his chin dimple.

And then, with his heart pounding in his chest, he goes for broke.

“But above all else?" He doesn't avert his eyes. "I want you.”

Those are the words.

Those are the words he should've said all those months ago.

Bradley's hands close around his face, hazel eyes growing serious as they stare down at Jake with a familiar intensity. And—well.

Jake allows himself to be seen.

“Yeah?” Bradley asks, voice a little hoarse.

I’m in love with you, asshole, Jake doesn’t say.

“Yeah.”

With a shaky breath, Bradley presses their foreheads together. His body is a tense line, but Jake doesn't worry about it. Bradley Bradshaw has always done things at his own pace, after all.

"Jake," he breathes, "it wasn't Pete Mitchell who convinced me to keep flying."

People say third time's the charm.

Hangman and Rooster just happen to need a fourth.

"Yeah, I'm beginning to see that."

Maureen asked the question as Jake was getting ready to leave.

Not that it was much of a question, but she made it sound like one. Jake still doesn't know if she was trying to be polite or gentle. Either way, she took the empty mug from him, put it in the sink, and turned around with her hands buried in the back pockets of her jeans.

"He never gave you my postcards, did he?"

Jake wondered how much time she had spent thinking about Rick.

"Nope. Although he did leave me the whole stack when he passed." He shrugged. "He was generous enough to also throw in the Chevy and an apologetic Post-it note."

Maureen looked devastated, but she still snorted.

"That man could hold a grudge, alright."

For some unspeakable reason, Jake instinctively knew his mom was not going to ask for more details. She had lived all her life without knowing, she could live the rest of it with her doubts, too. But Jake knew how much regret could eat a person alive, so he decided to put her out of her misery. After all, she wasn't a good mother, but she wasn't a monster either.

"He married, you know. Not long after you left." Maureen looked up at him, razor-sharp. "Her name is Monica and she is nothing like you. She did know how to work a washing machine, though." Jake carded a hand through his hair and gave her a pained smile. His mom snorted despite herself. "I have two sisters now. And a niece."

There was a clock somewhere in the house. Its ticking could be heard from the kitchen.

"Are you close with them?" Maureen asked.

It was difficult to explain twenty-seven years of family trauma to his absent mother in her tiny kitchen in Portland, Oregon. Jake wasn't even sure if he wanted to, if she would even understand. How could he explain the beatings? How could he confess he practically raised his sisters? How could he explain Eddie or the look John would give him when he hid his bruises?

She wasn't there.

She relinquished the right.

Instead, he went for the watered-down version. "Well, it's complicated." Taking a step back, he made sure to meet his mother's eyes. "But I'd still die for them."

Maureen gave him an assessing look before smiling.

"I know you would,” she said. “You always did love something fierce, baby."

They walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, slowly making their way to the front door. Maureen was chattering about the house, about when it was built, about when she bought it, telling Jake he was welcome any time if he wished or needed.

They were all the way out on the porch when he made up his mind.

"Listen, Mom." He turned to Maureen. Saw himself reflected in her eyes. "Rick married someone else," he took a deep breath, "but I thought you should know he only loved you."

He watched his words land one by one, the lines in his mother's face deepening with grief. Maureen closed her eyes, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she nodded, accepting Jake’s words for what they were.

Rick had told him she was the love of his life. Jake never stopped to consider that, despite it all, he was hers.

What had Uncle John said?

Do better.

Jake pitches their small bag into the back of the Chevelle.

He rounds the hood of the car, patting the Bronco’s tail light on his way to the driver’s side. “Not today, buddy,” he tells the truck before he slides behind the wheel of the Chevy with his sunglasses perched on the collar of his sweatshirt.

Bradley is sitting in the passenger seat in a Phillies hoodie, loading Mav’s address on the GPS.

“Got everything?” he asks absentmindedly as he taps.

Jake watches him with half a smile before he slots the keys in the ignition. The Chevelle rumbles to life, purring like the lioness she is. The speakers turn on, Jake’s mixtape filling the cabin.

“All set up, darlin’,” he says.

Bradley looks at him. Those eyes of his are as much a wonder as they were when Jake first saw them in a Marine camp years ago. Rooster’s cheeks are a little pink, the corner of his lip stretched up.

“Take us away, Hangman,” he whispers.

Then he plants the alien bobblehead on the Chevelle’s dashboard, a smug grin blooming on his face.

Jake lets out a full-body laugh, backs out of his parking spot, and floors it out of Lemoore with the love of his fucking life in the passenger seat.

Through the speakers, Bono sings about love and deserts and streets with no names.