#saltsicklover

They, Duke Mitchell and God, serve as an altar to place blame at; like a carcass at their feet left to rot and fester. If Pete’s inability to attend the academy was a fresh dead rabbit- fur stained dark with spilled blood as the flesh was splayed open (as if one could see the pain actualizing in the spaces between it’s ribs) then Duke Mitchell’s memory has been cast in bronze, his hard lines turning a weeping teal as he accepts the flayed offering with nothing more than continued servitude. 

Pete’s greatest sacrifice to God himself was his best friend. An offering not given, instead ripped from Pete’s life in a way that still echoes through him– hollow. Over the rippling ocean, alive, to then be consumed by the salt of the waves turning wine dark with blood. The pair stranded in the current, white foam washing over them with nothing left to do but drift. Their Nomex green suits weighed down by the bloody salty mixture of the sea; Pete’s white knuckle grip on the straps of his best friend’s parachute the only thing keeping them together. There was no life left in Nick then. When they were finally raised into the rescue chopper, Nick's limp body went first, turning in the wind as the waves continued to try and take Pete under. This was the first time he was truly and utterly alone. Pete had a realization then and it crashed into him harder than the waves ever could: God likes his offerings bloody too. The salt of the ocean and of his tears were nothing more than a garnish on top of an already perfect atonement.  

Pete continued to sacrifice at their altar for the next ten years. From cutting his instruction at Top Gun short (two months was about fifty days too long for him) to shitty oversea placements as retribution. Small, forgotten islands in the East Sea of Japan became home. Detachments where he shared tiny barracks rooms with other pilots and seamen alike. Those felt lonelier than life on a carrier– at least with the bunk rotations, Pete could convince himself he was sharing a bed with another. The scent of sweat and cologne stuck to the rubber mattresses and it did its best to starve off Maverick’s long-haul feeling of emptiness. God, he was fucking lonely. 

Things got worse when he ended up back stateside. Though he should have been thankful, one slip up of offering his new phone number to his best friend’s widow meant that his old cronies were ringing off the hook. Carol meant well in giving out that number, she really did. She figured Pete to be a lonely man whose sole purpose was to fly for the Navy, and while she hit the nail on the head with that, it didn’t mean Pete took too kindly to the near constant droning of the phone. 

What hurt more was that Tom didn’t call. 

Ron Kerner called regularly, and so did Carol, always wanting the latest gossip about his life, his unit, the base, anything they could get Maverick to divulge to them now that phone calls didn’t cost them a dollar a minute to make.  

Marcus Williams called once too, his voice still holding that tilt that suggested that it was in fact Sundown he was talking to. He let him know of some shit he heard coming down the line from his base in Texas. Though it was true, Marcus used the call to check in on Pete, too. Ending the call, a bit less Sundown and a bit more Marcus, he left Pete with the standard we’ll talk soon though soon never quite comes at the speed they suggest it will. 

That’s the thing with Aviators– they always toe the line between themselves and their call signs like a silly nickname could cover up the fact that they actually care. Pete doesn’t let himself think about when Marcus slipped into the call. 

Ron calls again, and then Bradley, Carol’s son, starts to phone Pete himself. Pete’s answering machine is filled with questions about how to talk to girls and stories about just how hard it is to be thirteen. Pete does his best to return the calls and answer the questions. He loves talking to Bradley and the older he gets, the better Pete has become at ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest when he does. 

He still cries, sometimes. Usually after Bradley has called and asked to hear about his father, again. It’s been like this for years and Pete still has stories the young boy hasn’t heard. One’s he’s saving for when he’s a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit more like his dad. At least that’s what he tells himself, instead he might be saving them for days when he himself is a bit stronger, a day where his voice won’t break and crackle across the phone line, a day when Pete can finally think about that day without being overtaken by nausea. 

Those tears come with a choked out sob– Pete may as well be kneeling at the marble base of God’s altar instead of sitting on the cold kitchen tile, his back pressed to the linoleum of the cabinets. 

And still, Tom doesn’t call. 

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if Pete could rip the memory of the Layton Mission from the gray matter of his brain. It’s not so much the battle that gets him, either, that gets to Pete late at night when he’s tucked away beneath his sheets– or when he’s doing preflight checks, or drinking after work, the memory is always there. 

Instead, that memory, the blond man and his shark-snap grin, is almost on constant replay in the back of his mind. That damn death grip of a handshake that led to the pair coming together, their orbits finally close enough to send them colliding into each other. It was all hard pats on the back and smiles so big their cheeks hurt. 

At the time he convinced himself it was just the adrenalin of realizing he was still alive. Still breathing and standing on dry land with his wingman in tow. Then, as they stood toe to toe, embraced in each other's arms as much as their gear would allow all sweat soaked and satiated just by being alive, Pete’s life shifted. It was a small shift, almost imperceivably so. But, he felt it deep within his very being. The memory of Tom’s body heat radiating into him caused a feeling of heat somewhere stuck between his heart and his stomach. In a way, Pete convinced himself it was that same sort of heat, only this time it was his body creating the feeling instead of another. But truth be told, it was all Tom’s doing, even if neither of them realized it. 

In the coming days after, he rode the high of survival, letting it carry him all the way to his new posting with a fever and a confidence that was simply too Maverick to be ignored. Then as the day became more routine, the excitement of life dulling back out to a saturation of normalcy, Pete began to notice the feeling… that feeling where he knew there was something missing, hanging just beyond his reach. His world had shifted again, this time going unnoticed and it left him craving. That knowing heat no longer stuck in his abdomen, now seemingly akin to void. 

It wasn’t the same hollowness that came with the thought of Nick, or the guilt that panged against the walls of that empty space inside himself when Bradley sounded just a bit too much like his father. No, this was different all together. 

That made him cry too; he chalked it up to an attempted expiation, though he wasn’t sure if God or his father were receptive to that sort of thing. His amends on Earth were as completed as grief and time would allow.

These tears were something else entirely. And still, Tom didn’t call. 

It’s not quite like Pete expected Tom to call. After all, they went their separate ways after Layton. Pete turned right back around while Tom turned his gaze forward. But sometimes, in the heat of the jet, or while he flies down the highway, tires squealing in the way his lungs felt the need to, Maverick swore he could feel Tom’s back pressed up against his own. Maybe that’s just how it goes when two become linked in such a way- the trauma bond starving off a war before it starts- to then lead life 180 degrees from one another. Ghosts of memories with the knowledge that they have your six in the same way that you have theirs. Phantoms of a bond that lasts not because you want it to, but because it has to despite it all. 

Pete has never tried to call Tom, either. 

It might be something in the way that they’ve always spent their lives halfway to heaven that makes the fact that Tom Kazansky could be- is- standing rain soaked and unannounced on Pete’s front porch less of an unheard of possibility and more like an answered prayer. The rain itself is not unusual for the season but Tom’s presence is, and the look he wears plastered to his brow in the same way his hair is, is even stranger. 

And in that halfway to heaven part of their lives- both in the way that they spend their time in jets racing towards the bend of the Earth and the sky that might just give way to the heavens if they could reach it, and the way that they knew all too well how quickly a jet could claim a life- that’s where Pete first let him imagine a moment like this. A moment where Tom might step through the front door of his house- of their house- after one of those long and grueling missions. A moment where Pete might be able to wrap his hand gently around the back of Tom’s neck and pull, their lips meeting in the middle. Whispered “thank god your home” and “I’ve missed you” shared between them presses of their lips. The images swirled in his brain, thoughts he knows better than to entertain but they themselves are so sticky sweet with endearment that he can’t help but give into their warm glow. In another life where the world was different or he was someone else. He would’ve been such a good wife. 

But now, Pete is still himself, and Tom is still standing under the cover of his porch dripping water onto his welcome mat.  Tom looks a little thinner, and more worse for wear than Pete’s ever seen him, but fuck he still looks good. His eyes wander over Tom’s body, taking in the way his clothes stick to his skin. Light wash jeans now dark, the thick fabric hugged to his thighs. White t-shirt basically see-thru now, his abs just visible in the amber buzzing of the porch light. The button down shirt framing the thick outline of his shoulders did nothing to help Tom in the rain, but Pete can’t help but let his eyes linger on the curves of muscle Tom has there. 

Tom lets Pete look, his words sitting thick on his tongue. Tom had an entire monologue planned out, from beginning to end, mapped out on his walk over. It was a few miles after all, from base to Pete’s front door. Tom has always been an analytical man, thought out and sure of himself, but all that faded to the background as soon as Pete pulled open his front door. So, Tom lets him look. 

He looks, too. Not that Pete noticed the way his friend’s eyes wandered over his own body. In nothing but jeans, wrinkled and worn, left undone like Pete had pulled them on just to answer the door. They’re zipped but the button hangs open. There’s no waistband hidden underneath, just a line of dark brown hair that leads down his abs and disappears behind the brass teeth of the zipper. 

Tom’s eyes are angled low enough, that in the light of the half dead bulb, he appears to be keeping his eyes strictly to the ground. He’s not, but again, what Pete doesn’t know won’t hurt him. As that thought crosses Tom’s mind again, his stomach twists a little. 

“Ice… What the-”

Life has been this way for almost as long as Tom has been in the Navy. The pair, Tom and Pete (who were just Iceman and Maverick back then), were stationed in sunny California with the best the Navy had to offer. At least, the best that time around. It was only a matter of time before the next class of the "Navy's Best" would be roaming those same halls. The proverbial coin was formed that first night at the base's watering hole, their meeting nothing like the fairy tales. There was no first glance that broke away into love at first sight. There was no knowing, there was only acknowledgement and unspoken challenge; a formed edge splitting them, and joining them, two parts of the same whole.

That edge was there in each and every aspect of their lives, Pete's the Yin to Tom's Yang. One was reckless while the other was controlled, both spirals of chaos and jet fueled adrenaline giving way to hazy drops while they clung to each other. All sweaty palms against Namex green, nimble fingers tugging on zippers and pinching plastic buckles, breaking away the parts of themselves called "pilot" and baring their truest selves. They had breathed life into each other since that first week. What began as animosity boiled into sexual tension. Post sex clarity had Tom's face pressed into Pete's stomach while the smaller man carded his fingers through Tom's sweaty hair. The gel is no longer holding, allowing the gentle curl to return to its natural state. Tom still remembered the warmth of Pete's fingertips against his scalp and the way his fingernails would graze the nape of his neck just right. He remembered how warm Pete felt beneath his cheek, the sweat sticking their skin together. It should've been gross, but instead it felt like a small declaration of love. A taste of something real that had to remain unspoken. Tom let his fingers draw inconsistent patterns against the slope of Pete's ribcage, his fingertips dipping into the spaces between them. Bone to soft flesh and back again. He didn’t know then how many I love you’s and other whispered sentiments would be left on his tongue with him to do nothing more than taste. They didn’t yet know of the sweetness that was coming. 

That was 1986. And where there is sweet, sour is sure to linger.

1990 was a wave of ice cold reality that took the pair under. Tom and Pete, (now more often known as Ice and Mav) and their RIO's, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw and Ron "Slider" Kerner had been called back to Top Gun for a strictly off the books mission. One of those missions that could change the tides and win you a couple very shiny awards that wouldn't see the light of day for at least thirty years.

It was supposed to be out and back, a little flight over the ocean to take out an off the record boat, no bigger than a crabbing vessel that had wandered into the wrong waters. It was all hush hush, no backup required. Missiles, guns, whatever it took to wipe the little boat off the map, pilots’ discretion. After all, the tides are subject to change under the smallest bit of wind blowing in the right direction. Mav and Goose were set to take off first, followed by Ice and Slider. They were to fly in from opposite sides, bisecting over the boat just long enough to drop a couple of missiles and get out of dodge. Easy on paper. Easier in the air, that was until the instruments went out and they were flying blind. RIOs’ eyes on the vessel below, pilots’ just missing the closeness of their companion jet. It was a simple thing, a mistake in the darkness of the still erupting dawn. The pair clipped wings, sending each jet out into a spin. Around and around they went, their target blown to cinders below.

 The spin threw Maverick's turned head back achingly hard against his headrest, the dizziness having taken over his senses. Iceman and Slider spun too, but Ice was thrown outwards against the thick straps of his seatbelt. The wind was knocked from his lungs, but he recovered faster than Maverick did. If it hadn't been for Goose yelling at him from the back seat, Jesus Mav, level us out!, at just the right time, they would've ended up ejecting.

The first place the foursome ended up after returning to the carrier was the infirmary, laid out on cots while they waited for the ship's doc to release them. Sweat still dripped under their suits, skin sticky and damp. 

Maverick got his bell rung, left with a bad concussion, an aching neck and a light ringing in his ears. There were a couple missing bits in his memory, but nothing the doctor on board could do a whole lot about besides hoping the pieces would fill themselves in before he got seen on shore. He couldn't remember what he had for breakfast in the mess before the mission or the bunk he was temporarily assigned to. Little things, but Ice couldn't help the worry that sat in the space between his lungs, the sourness of it crawling up his throat..

TEMPORARY MEMORY LOSS DUE TO BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA, his chart read, the bold letters glared up at Tom. The blond gulped, running a hand through his messy hair. The action itself hurt, hell, he ached something fierce. Ice himself had some bruises and deep, red indents on his skin from the edges of his seatbelt. The color sort of matched the pretty red mark that ran from above his  lover’s eyebrow, down and around the edge of his face, right where his helmet sat. 

Goose and Slider were in perfect condition aside from the normal bumps and bruises that come from pulling a difficult maneuver. The ghosting of seat belt bruises that would be gone within the week. Bastards. It always seemed that those two lucky fuckers made it out of the worst of it without too much trouble. The realization made Ice wish he would've given Slider a harder time when the oaf broke his collarbone over an intense game of beach tag that ended in a hard tackle courtesy of Wolfman. 

It had taken what seemed like forever to get cleared by medical, then sent back out to the deck to be loaded into a plane, piloted by some LT that spent his time playing Taxi Pilot for those coming on and off of the carrier. It was almost business as usual after a mission like that, aside from the knowledge that the debrief with an encore of being stripped down by their superiors had been waived all together. As far as the brass was concerned, the Top Secret mission had been completely squared away. Everyone came back alive, no international incident to tend to as fall out. A win is a win. 

Once they touched down back in North Island after far too much traveling over the past day and half. They were all looking forward to getting home and sleeping off that bullshit mission. It was two weeks before Pete and Nick had to return to Pensacola while Tom and Ron were needed back in Lemoore by the following Monday. It wasn't long, really, but the group were looking forward to getting to spend some time together, shooting the shit and drinking like they had after the Layton mission.

It had been four years since the four were together, all standing still in the same place instead of passing like ships in the night. It wasn’t rare for two or three of them to inhabit the same place as California seemed to be a hub for them all, but the four of them in the same place at the same time was something incredibly hard to come by. It was comfortable, the comradery something they’d come to define more as familial love, rather than pure friendship, not that any of them dared say such a thing out loud. 

"What do you say, boys? Want to head straight for Lemoore or do we wanna crash in a hotel for the night and make the drive tomorrow?" Tom throws the question out with a casual shake of his wrist, his eyes locked in on the face of his watch. His chest aches as he draws a deep breath in, refocusing his eyes on the trio of men. There's a conscious effort to keep his eyes bouncing between them, though he wants nothing more than to hold his lover’s face in his gaze. 

He had to fight to keep from throwing his arm around Pete, desire burning in him, to bring his lover in for a much needed kiss. It's missions like that one where he knows the minute they get home, they are either going to be tearing each others' clothes off, or screaming blame at each other for anything that went wrong, alongside anything that could have.

It's always been like that for them, started after Layton and they never quite grew out of the habit. But then and there, staring at Pete and the sweat dripping down from his hairline to his jaw, he wants to kiss him. Tom’s eyes drag down the gash on Pete’s face, the mark cluttering his pretty features in a way that turns his still boyish looks into something more manly. Or maybe it’s more rugged, more chiseled and hard in a way Tom has never seen before. A feeling stirs within him, making a home near the discomfort and worry still nestled in his ribs from their time in the infirmary. 

If there is one thing Tom knows for a fact, it’s this, Pete Mitchell has an uncanny way of awakening a mix of feelings in him that he’s never felt before. 

Then, as Pete shoved an elbow into Slider's stomach, he wanted to laugh, so he did. That was a common substitution for them, laughter in places of kisses, of hand holding, of the quiet intimacy that normal couples got to enjoy. Where they couldn't kiss, a look would do, but a shared laugh was always better. Something to share the sweetness on his tongue. A part of Tom hated this fact, the hate stuck somewhere deep in his bones. He knows why they can’t be open with their love for each other. He knows the consequences of their actions and how each moment they steal away could end their careers. Who wants to hire a gay, disgraced, former Naval Aviator with a dishonorable discharge? That question is neighbors with the hate he holds deep within him, and so he hates, but he keeps his distance. 

"I don't know about you guys but I'm beat, and considering you two are crashing our place, I think we should head back tonight," Slider laughed at the look he receives from Ice, that “are you serious” look at the blond casts from under his brows. Slider's wry smile only grows bigger. They all knew the house in Lemoore was owned by Ice and Mav, it had been for almost three years at that point and it was Slider who was crashing long term. Goose crashing on the couch when he found himself in town without the rest of his family was normal, but made it all the more fun for Slider to tease about.

"I'm good with that, looking forward to crashing," Mav answered honestly, an exhausted smile ghosting over his lips. Maverick has never been able to sleep on airplanes, too anxious to let himself fully relax and drift off. He’s been awake since the day of the mission, now looking worse for wear. Ice had to look away to keep himself from jumping his partner right then and there in the middle of the base parking lot, eager for a kiss though Mav looked like he was barely keeping vertical. Call Iceman a greedy man, a selfish one -it doesn’t matter when it comes to Pete Mitchell- because it’s true. His hand found a home on Pete’s shoulder, if only long enough to squeeze it reassuringly. Iceman’s ready to crawl out of his skin to get closer to him. 

"You're not supposed to sleep, remember, Mav?" Ice's tone went gentle as he took a step back from Mav. "Doctor's orders. Night sleep only, and someone has to wake you up every hour to make sure you're doin' alright. You've got an appointment at the clinic on Lemoore come Monday morning.” Pete looks dejected, expression then obscured by the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. 

It’s not just Ice eyeing Maverick, Goose is too. Part of him wants to reach out and slap Mav encouragingly on the back, but he is just too damn tired to muster up the energy. Goose knows hospitals and doctors make him uneasy after a bad bout of pneumonia took his baby sister when he was four. Through the exhaustion, Goose shares a look with Ice, and all Ice has to do is nod. 

He’s got Mav. Simple as that. He’s got Maverick. 

That’s the consistent unspoken topic between the two, Goose and Iceman. They knew each other in flight school, were friendly when they ran in the same circle but they were never close. Their priorities were just too different for the pair to mesh any better. Goose was busy courting Carol. Ice’s focus was the NATOPS, shitty bathroom handjobs, and keeping Slider out of trouble- in that order. After graduation they didn’t see each other until their TDY to TOPGUN and by that time Goose was more protective over Maverick than any other RIO he’d ever seen. Of course, that was back before Tom knew everything he knows now. And through the accident at TOPGUN that left Goose on bedrest through the following year, the group of four became closer. From wingmen to fast friends. And somewhere in there, though the timeline has gone hazy with the passage of sand through the glass, Tom Kazansky and Pete Mitchell fell in love. So to say Ice and Goose pass the baton that is care-for-Maverick back and forth, communication rests in looks and nods. Quiet for the safety of their careers and the protection of Maverick’s pride. 

"How bad do you think traffic's gonna be? It's been a minute since I've driven in Saturday night California traffic," Goose inquired, almost ready to slump down and nap against his duffle, right there on the still sun warmed pavement. Slider pulled the bag from his fellow RIO's hands, only to toss it into the back of his truck.

"It shouldn't be too bad," Ice lied, the fact of it evident on his face. "Hopefully back before midnight,"

Mav checks his watch, the face of it swirling a bit in his vision with the sunlight, "That's... So many hours from now, Ice." There’s a whine-like quality to his voice and it hits Ice right in the chest. Part of him wants to laugh, to tease the younger man. Then a thought pops into Ice’s head, he’s injured, you prick, and then he feels somewhere between idiot and plain ol’ bad. 

Slider, however, laughed. 

No one bothered enough to throw out an actual estimated time of arrival after that. Soon after, all the bags had been thrown haphazardly into the back of Slider's truck and the group piled in. Slider and Goose up front, partly because they're taller than the other two, but because it made sense to them all that Ice was to be in charge of watching out for his husband.

Ice has Maverick. 

They'd only been on the road for about a half hour before Ice unbuckled his belt in the back of the cab, which earned him a strange look from Maverick. As risky as Maverick is when it comes to his job and his life, one thing he has never played around with is seatbelts. If there was a seatbelt to be used, Maverick would be locking it into place without a second thought. Maybe it’s because every jet his ever flown had safety belts, or maybe it’s because the man had never fully trusted anyone behind the wheel- the fact that he doesn’t have a commercial drivers license refutes this statement- but nobody’s ever questioned his adamant use of the safety device, not even his husband. 

The truth of the matter was that Pete’s mother was thrown through the windshield of her Rambler when she had a head on collision with a box truck. She never wore a seatbelt, and no one could ever say for sure that it would have saved her life, but Maverick knew better than to play with fate that way. And now, as Pete watches Ice unbuckle, he has a strange desire to reach out and catch his wrist. He wants Ice to wear his seatbelt, and the fact that he isn’t is bothering him a lot more than it rightfully should. After all, Slider isn’t wearing his, and Goose didn’t start until after Bradley was born. But God, he wants Ice to buckle back up. 

The uneasy expression on Mav’s face was new, yet Ice paid no mind to Mavericks' wary look, instead picking one leg up and twisting so his back laid against the side of the cab, his legs up on the bench seat.

"What are you doing?" Maverick asked, a wrinkle in his brows. His voice had come slightly pinched, the exhaustion weighing on him now swirling along with the new anxiety of his wingman playing fast and loose with the safety laws. Ice nudged the younger man's knee with the toe of his boot, a hint at the other man to move. He didn’t. 

"Attempting to get comfortable," He groaned, nudging Pete again, "Now would you unbuckle and come here so I can stretch my legs out?" Ice missed the flash of disbelief that flashed over Pete's face before his features settled into confusion once more. Another beat passed before Ice huffs out something unintelligible under his breath. He leaned forward, unclicking Pete's seatbelt himself. He took Pete by the upper arm before dragging him back with him, Pete's back meeting Ice's chest. Their legs in front of them across the rest of the bench seat, their knees still stuck bent but arguably more comfortable than they had been moments before. Ice's arms made their way around Pete's middle, the younger man going rigid.

"Ice what are-?"

"Just relax, hmm, Mav?" Ice hummed in his ear, sticky sweet, as one of his thumbs made small, loving movements against his ribs. For a moment, Ice wondered if he should’ve been gentler with his husband, but the thought passed as quickly as it came as he settled into his embrace. If Ice noticed the pickup in Pete's heart rate, he didn't mention it. With a terribly long deep breath, Maverick managed to let himself completely slump against Ice's sturdy frame, head leaned back against his shoulder. It had been more comfortable than he could have predicted, but the spinning pain in his head kept him from thinking of that fact for too long. 

The blush that rose up his neck and ears only managed to make him hotter against Ice's chest. Ice’s breath against Pete’s neck had him on edge. The warmth of it tickled his skin in such a pleasant way that Pete couldn't help but allow himself to enjoy the gooseflesh taking over his skin. This was intimate, far more intimate than any wingmen should be- at least that’s what Pete thought- but the slow movement of Ice’s thumb against his ribs lulled him into a sense of security. 

Pete spent most of the ride zoning in and out, listening to the drawled conversation of the men in the front seat. Music crackled through the stereo but its volume was turned so low that each song blended into the next, a lulling drone of guitar strings.The sun set as they drove, the blue sky turning smoky orange and vibrant lavender filled Pete’s eyes when they seldom cracked open. Ice held him firmly in place, keeping his lover pressed fully against him and for the first time since the ending of the mission he felt like he could breathe. In the safety of the backseat, Ice let his lips press gently into Pete’s hair behind his ear, a gentle touch no more than a kiss gentle as butterfly wings. Pete stirred a bit in his arms before falling right back again, his weight no more his problem. Ice felt whole. 

Ice’s tender sweeping of his thumbs against Pete’s middle as he pulled the smaller man back firmer into his chest so they could rise and fall together lulled Pete to rest, but as Pete would drift, Ice would nudge the space just behind his ear with his nose before whispering a quiet hey, you’ve gotta stay awake, Mav. It left Pete feeling a sort of conflict he didn’t know he could feel. 

My father's office looks the same. Honesty it has looked the same for as long as I can remember, and it's not just this office either. Every single one of my father's offices has looked just this way. Tan walls, that sort of sad, off beige color that every military installation, from this side of the world to the next, think outfit them so well. There's always a strong oak desk, sometimes it's pine, but either way it's always a sturdy piece of furniture that has no business around the thrown together particle board of the neighboring pieces.

My father has always brought in his own chair. It's faded leather is always well conditioned and it's warn in. Warn in just the way that when you sit in it, you can almost feel the ever lasting presence of the many years my father has sat in that very seat. He has hauled it with him all around the country, always in unaccompanied baggage so it would be sitting in his office and ready for him upon his arrival. He used to joke that if he made it there before his beloved chair, his time stationed there would be hell in a handbasket.

The day he got stationed at Top Gun as the Air Boss, that chair took it's rightful place behind the new desk. The same desk with empty drawers and too many files preemptively stacked atop it. But that's just how it is, right? After all, it's been that way since my father made Commander and things don't look to be changing anytime soon.

The decanter on his book shelf has been wiped clean of dust and fingerprints. No doubt filled with any run of the mill whiskey that may find it's way into my father's hands. It's an office staple, that decanter's about as old as myself, but the crystal still shines after 25 years, especially after a good cleaning. There's a bottle of good whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk, sat beside a bottle of the best vodka he could find. Always ready for the COMPACFLT to drop by on a moment's notice, though the Admiral has never made himself known long enough to break it out.

I sit and stare out the windows, the ones that make up the back wall of his office. There's always windows, but strangely the size seems to correlate with rank. One might think it would depend on the building, on the base, on the climate or area of the world, but what I've come to find out is the higher the number on your Pay Code, the bigger your fucking office widows.

That, and the less time you have for your family. It seems the higher that Pay Code number, the more time I've managed to spend with clerks and assistants. More visitation with office windows and the low reflection that stares back at me as I try to focus on the air field. Aircraft take off and land, the service men and women knocking out their required flight hours as the sun moves its way throughout the sky. But still, there are times I catch my own eyes in that low light reflection, but there are less tears now. Or there had been, until that fucking incident at the airport.

Truth be told, I haven't stopped shaking. In that damn reflection of my father's office window I can see both my tear stained cheeks and the confused looks on Rhett and Jake's faces. The images twist together. It's all hurt, every last piece.

I'm sure the three of us would be a sight if we were all standing in the same place, the boys with those same lost looks, hurt flashing through there eyes, and me, red rimmed irises and damp skin. Skin that is already threatening to chap over from the way it stings. I should have savored the way they so fiercely defended me. The way they folded me into themselves and kept me safe. Isn't that what home is, if only so briefly? A lifted wing to a chick in the same way their kind eyes were to me. It's a shame, the way it all came crashing down with those four little words.

There's not even a part of me that doesn't ache when the memory of only hours ago runs through my head. Their touch still ghosts over my shoulders. Phantom fingerprints left upon my upper arms, still smoldering, smoking as they cool.

Friendship has to be written into the strands of the universe, it just must be. Hidden deep within the stitching, taking a back seat to the drips of ink that are marred into skin, so easy to see. Because if it isn't, my soul shouldn't feel this heavy. It couldn't feel this heavy. So it must be. It must be.

There's mumbling coming from just beyond the fire door of the office, voices that I can't make out by ear but I know those tell tale footsteps that can't help but get closer. My heart pounds in the same way his footsteps all but reverberate through the floor. The voices get closer, and closer, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the air field- the vision of my own red rimmed irises in the glass of the O-9 sized window.

"Sir, I'm trying to tell you that-" The words come through muffled then clear as the door nearly squeaks open. A call to DPW and those hinges wouldn't grind, but I know door hinges aren't exactly on the high priority list for a Vice Admiral.

"Birdie?" That damn nickname's spoken by my father, in that surprised tone that is just a little too irregular completely flattens all my resolve. The floodgates open, or moreover, they break, just as I turn to meet his eye.

"Hi Dad," The words come out too wet and too close to a sob, but we both just stand there looking at one another. In the time we stare at each other, the Earth has rotated almost two hundred eighty miles around it's access. Four hundred fifty kilometers in roughly fifteen seconds. His hand is still curled around the doorknob, the brass of the handle turned down just so. A Lieutenant stands next to my father, an apologetic look hung upon her features. The tightness of her bun pulls her eyebrows up, barely noticeable, but it makes her look a little more surprised, a little bit more of herself that's usually hidden under the mask, just barely breaking through.

It's another two hundred eighty miles before my father makes a move. He enters further into the office while the Lieutenant slips the door shut. I can almost feel how the handle must be warm beneath her slender fingers. The same warmth is rolling off of my hands; all of the nervous energy having nowhere to go but cycle out to my fingertips only to crawl back up my arms once more.

"Hey, kid," My father speaks after another moment passes, another few miles, "I- uh,"

There is so much hanging between us. After spending so many years arguing, instead of words left unsaid between us they all seem to be hanging in the air. Stiff and starched like a uniform collar, textured underneath my fingertips. The way they brush against my skin makes me itch as I inch closer. I wish to choke on them; on the words, longing for a moment that I had something else to say. Some sort of words found stuck somewhere between the tightness of my throat and the stickiness of my gums, lips dry and cracking under the pressure. Instead, they all still hang between us, a rickety old rope bridge while the few feet between us is a canyon's expanse.

The average argument lasts ten minutes, and families tend to have around a hundred arguments a year. That's a thousands hours of disagreements that stand between us over the last year alone. A hundred and twenty five words per minute. That's one hundred twenty five thousand words and I can feel each and every letter that hangs between us in this moment, thick between us like a fog. I can't seem to breathe.

The only thing that seems real is the hot tears falling down my cheeks and the sight of my father's downturned smile. There is so much pity there, or maybe it's remorse in the way one is remorseful for not appreciating a song the first time it's played through. It's the missing of the baseline and the way the bridge carries through to the end of the score. His eyes are gentle, in the way roses are- pricking, piercing from just the right angle.

"It's been a long time, Dad, I've missed you," The words have been hidden in the spaces between my molars, stuck there so long I barely recognized their honesty as they fell from my tongue. My lips catch on their sharp edges and I swallow down the acrid taste of bile and copper. Wiping at the new found streaks of tears, smearing them across the heat of my cheeks, my fingers come back tinged with watery mascara smudges.

"It's been too long, Birdie, sweet pea, too long," There's a slight hesitation in his tone, but it's all too genuine, in a way that makes my stomach turn. The nausea isn't new, not today. "How was-" I know he's going to ask about the last year, about the travel and the time spent in-between our arguments but I can't keep the words from slipping off of my tongue.

"I need to know about your Aviators," He stops, the words hitting him straight in the face leaving mouth hanging open mid sentence. His eyebrows scrunch with the narrowing of his gaze, the confusion evident in the way his head cocks gently to one side before he straightens it right back again. Parts of my father are slipping past the Admiral, like sand through fingertips, but he does everything he can to hold onto his hardened exterior.

"My Aviators?" There is so much hidden in the way the syllables crackle from his throat. He looks as though he has words still stuck to the roof of his mouth, words he keeps tonguing at to keep them hidden behind his teeth.

"I- yes," My brain is spiraling just a little to fast for my mouth to keep up. I can almost feel the way my nervous system is spiking, my neurons firing as my tongue tries to say the words in the forefront of my mind. The deep breath I force into my lungs does nothing to slow my thoughts, but my father's shoulders relax at the sight of my own shoulders dropping slightly. It's a shallow effort but it helps, if only a little.

"I met one of your Aviators today, at the airport," He nods in understanding, "Blond, tall, from Texas. Super nice. Said his name was Jake,"

"Jake?" My father huffs out, scrubbing a hand over his face. "A Texan with one of those shit eating grins?"

"He had a nice smile, if that's what you mean," I reason. The feeling of an impending argument is like static in the air, the hair on my arms standing on end as gooseflesh breaks out over my bare skin. That feeling is acknowledged with a quick glance between us, a look that has him moving closer to his desk. He picks up a framed photograph from it's corner before holding it out to me. I finally move closer, separating some of the distance between us. It's strange, being so close together after spending so long apart. I often wonder if that's how all children's relationships with their parents are after they grow up, or if my father and I are stuck in a unique form of perpetual misunderstanding. I take the photograph from his hand.

"This him?" He points at a man in the back row of the photograph, big smile and kind eyes. It's definitely him, that much I am certain of. There is just something so recognizable about that smile of his, the way the lines on either side of his mouth bend with a dash of mirth, bracketing perfect teeth. It's sick, really, how nice his teeth are.

There are a handful of other people shoved into the photograph together. Jake has his arm thrown around another man who sports a mustache and messy hair. That man looks at Jake like he emits pure light. Eyes squinted slightly with a smile too big to be contained with a closed jaw. That's Rooster. That's Jake's soulmate. There's no other explanation as to why the blond would be holding the other man so incredibly close, with his hands gripping into the material of Rooster's flight suit.

To Jake's other side is a woman. Her smile is smaller, almost practiced, but true joy emits from her eyes. With slicked back hair and sharp brows, she looks all business, like a woman not to be fucked with. But a friend, maybe? Her nametape is too small to read, but as one of the only women in the squad, she won't be too hard to pick out of the crowd. It's the man standing next to her that throws me. Another familiar face stands to her side, Rhett, only with shorter hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My eyebrows scrunch, mimicking my father's expression.

"Yeah, that's him," I confirm, my eyes still tracking over the faces in the photograph.

"Why do you ask, sweet pea?"

"I met a man on accident, really, his name is Rhett, and his friend was with him, this man here, Jake. We actually ended up on the same flight" I watch my father nod in understanding, one of his hands coming up to brush at his nonexistent five o'clock shadow. I huff, averting my eyes for the next part. "I might have had my soulmate sentence encounter earlier this afternoon," The confession is sheepish at best. I don't meet his eyes. There's no point. I know the expression he wears now and I know I can't handle it in this moment. There's already been enough crying.

"Was it with him? With Hangman?" I watch from the corner of my eye as my father's eyebrows knit together impossibly tighter. His voice is pinched at the callsign, lips tight around it.

"Yes, it was him, but that's not really the point, Dad," My eyes trail over him in the photograph again, but I'm pulled back to Rhett, confusion gnawing inside of my skull, just behind my eyes, "How old is this photograph, because this is Rhett right here, and he told me he wasn't military," I want to ask him if he really knows his aviators all that well, considering the lack of acknowledgement on his features.

"That photo was taken after their last mission, wasn't more than a few weeks ago, right after they all graduated their advanced training. It's recent, and there's nobody in that squad named Rhett,"

"There has to be! This is him, right here next to that woman. I swear it's him!" My fingernail, all chipped polish and sparkles, clinks against the glass, my father leaning closer to get a better look before plucking the frame from my gently shaking hands.

"Sweet pea, I think you're mistaken," His tone sounds like his words are treading a minefield somewhere deep in his throat. I can't help but cough at the thought. That tension bristles between us again, electric like a storm. My fingers knit through my hair to keep from chipping more of my nail polish from my already scraped up nails.

"That," My father taps the glass with his finger, "Is Lieutenant Floyd"

"Lieutenant Floyd?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Floyd," There's a faux confidence in his tone, the same one he used to use when he would call home to say he'd only be gone a little while longer.

"Dad," I raise my eyebrows as I finally swing my eyeline back up to meet his, "What is Lieutenant Floyd's first name?"

He sputters a bit, a hand rubbing at the lack of stubble on his chin. There's a sort of furrow to his brow, one I recognize, even if the rest of his features are laid out in a way I have never come to know. My father has always been a sure man, steadfast in his actions, information spread out in his brain easy to access. This grappling for an answer is unlike him, but it makes him seem impossibly more human. 

"Oh, Dad," The words are spoken with slight exasperation laced in the low chuckle that springs forth from deep within my chest. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'll just ask the very nice Lieutenant who let me in earlier, she seemed... knowledgeable," 

I am met with the deep roll of my father's eyes, his hands no longer scrubbing over his face, instead he rubs carefully at his temples. His reaction makes me grip a little harder at my hair. It's stupid, this battle between us. Something left over from the strife of my youth; what we clung to with white knuckles and bloody nail beds just to keep a semblance of a relationship. It's all adolescent animosity stripped to adulthood anonymity, achingly arduous. 

"Honestly, Birdie," The words travel on an exhale, "I don't know his first name. Hell, I don't know most of them, especially if they don't give me trouble. I've always called him Lieutenant, barely ever needed Floyd tacked on the end,"

My father shrugs his shoulders unceremoniously, plopping the photograph back down onto the corner of his desk. He leans back into the long line of his desk, his usually pristine tan uniform wrinkling with the way he almost folds in on himself. My tongue flicks over my teeth as I fight the grimace I can feel rising over my features. I try and school my face back into pleasant nonchalance, much like my father usually does, however I think it's a skill better mastered with each star pinned to his collar. 

"Can I say something?" There's too much honesty in the way the words crackle out. I nod; it's easier that way. My hands find home near my hips, my thumbs tucked into my belt loops in a shallow attempt to keep from continuing the pull on my roots. 

"For what feels like forever now, it's just been you, your brother and I against the world. Just the three of us, and I know not having your mother has been one of the most challenging things, for all of us. I know there has always been this bond that Arrow and I have had, and maybe it's because he is my son, or because he decided that the Navy was his calling too. Either way, I know that there's a foundation there, one that you and I just don't have," I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. The more he speaks, the more the sight of him swims. 

"But, I want you to know that even though you and I have struggled," There's a little trace of humor there, but neither of us comment on it, "I love you so fucking much, kid. So much that my chest aches. And I knew this day was coming- your soulmate encounter. God, kid, I am so excited for you, but so fucking scared because you're my baby bird and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, I love you too much," 

There are tears steaking down his cheeks, a sight I haven't seen since my mother passed away. It makes my own chest ache in turn, seeing the strongest man I have ever known begin to crumble. With two quick steps, I am in my father's embrace. His arms are warm, cradling me into his chest, my face into the sandalwood scent of his collar. The stars pinned there less of an obstacle between us, now. He lets a land run over my spine, palm flat to my back, the warmth pooling through my top.

"I'll love you no matter what, kid, even if your soulmate is some military rat like me," He laughs,  low and rumbling, into my hair. 

"I love you, too, Dad, so much," I mumble into his collarbone, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I can feel my tears sinking into the cotton of his shirt, the tan darkening with moisture. He doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he doesn't say a thing. We stand there like that for a while, embracing. It's my father who breaks the silence. 

"So, kid," He clears his throat in an attempt to hide the mangled bit to tears that still sits on the back of his tongue, "Tell me, how did it all happen? What did Hangman say?" The distaste in my father's tone is evident. I pull away from the embrace with a rueful laugh, one that stirs around that anxious feeling that's been ever present since the airport. 

"Well," The word is all sigh, "Jake, Hangman or whatever you call him, was on the phone listening to his voicemail and Rhett had asked him who the message was from, you know? It was a pretty long message," I babble out the last sentence, trying to get to the point, but the words are stuck somewhere under my tongue. 

My father just nods at me, allowing me the space to continue. Instead, I plop down into one of the chairs that sits in front of his desk, ones that are meant for official meetings rather than anxiety soaked realizations. I scrub a hand over my face before winding my fingers through my hair again, gentler this time. He stares at me, patient eyes and expression neutral. It's practiced, but genuine. I stare at he ground in front of my shoes when I can no longer meet his gaze. 

"Rhett asked who it was," I begin again, back tracking a bit, "And Jake looked at him and said Oh, it's just Bob and that was it. I've had these words on my skin for so long that I thought hearing them would be so easy, but Dad, I panicked," 

"Oh Birdie, it's okay," My father hums, giving me a small grin on the side of reassurance, "It's not always like the stories, the fairytales are just to give us hope, but that's not how life is supposed to play out. It's alright," 

"It gets worse," My words are wet, "I ran, Dad, I ran. I heard him say that and I ran out of the airport and into the first cab I could find. I came straight here, I didn't know what else to do. I didn't even stick around to figure out exactly who Bob is to Jake. God, this whole situation gives me as much anxiety as a baby on board a pond jumper, look at me, I'm shaking like a fucking leaf." 

"What did you just say?" 

"I said I'm shaking like a leaf, look at me!" I laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out all gargled. I hold my hands out, watching the way they tremor at the thought of it all. 

"No, not that," My father shakes his head, "The thing about the pond jumper," 

"I dunno, Dad, it was an analogy," I reply, it's all furrowed brows and tired voice. as if it could be anything else at this point. I watch my father's expression turn quizzical, his eyes tracking though the air as if he's watching a hop. His nose twitches for a second before he schools his expression back. His hands tighten a bit around the edge of his desk, then he's clicking his tongue to punctuate a sort of silent eureka moment. 

"Come with me, kid, I think there's someone we need to go talk to," Then he's pushing himself form the desk and heading towards the door with the same conviction the Admiral meets everything with.  

"What?" I push myself from my seat but can't keep my shoulders from sagging. He's stopped at the door, turning back to offer just a hint more. 

"I think you and I need to go see Captain Mitchell," There's distain in his voice at the name. I bite at my lower lip, tucking my hands back through my belt loops. 

I want to rip my arm away from Jake's gentle grasp. I hate how he still holds me so kindly after how I treated him. After I ran. Tolerant fingertips against stilted skin. The area feels exposed. I feel exposed, too. Jake's hand is still on my elbow, warmth trickling into streams of amenity. There is no nettle of anxiety and that fact makes me want to cry. Fuck. I don't really want to cry, not again. But the gentleness of this almost perfect stranger tempts the fate of my tear ducts. 

The breeze sends an achily dry feeling over my tear chapped skin. I grimace lightly at the feeling.  It's nothing but mere distraction. It's nature's own fingertips grazing against my skin.

"You ran," Jake starts, his eyes darting over my face but never settling exactly on my eyes. His tone holds no accusation, thought it should be dripping in it. Instead, Jake remains soft spoken. He drops his hold on my elbow. I miss it as soon as it's gone, worried that now, I may float into space with nothing to tether me down. Nothing to tether me to this: here and now. 

"I did," It's a confirmation that pains me as it leaves my lips. 

"I'm sorry I scared you," The apology catches me off guard. So does the way Jake looks broken up about it. God, that makes me feel worse. And then I'm surging forward to wrap my arms around him. For a moment, it's just like it was in the airport, awkward and clunky. Then he relaxes a bit, wrapping his arms loosely around my shoulders. 

Maybe this is what our relationship is bound to be, not written by the universe, but instead untangling from the bonds that came before. Maybe that's what friendship is. The unabated way we fold each other into embraces. My aplomb tendencies when it comes to the truth and the way it meets Jake's largess fits together like patchwork. Stitches made of brazen conversation hold us together, felicific. 

"It wasn't you that scared me, it was the fucking words!" I explain, though it comes out all mumbled, though urgent, into the fabric of his flight suit. I turn my head, pressing my ear into his chest.

His heart beats in my ears, off rhythm with my own. Thump, thump, thuthumpump, thumpthump. Thump thumpthump, thump, thump. 

"I have carried these words around for so long, and I've always hated what I thought they meant. I always understood it as a negative, and I never understood that it could be so gentle. And I know that you didn't pick them out to mean more than just simply what they do. But, Oh, it's just Bob, seriously?" I'm somewhere between laughing and crying by the end. Jake rubs a hand up and down the length of my back, right over my spine. It's warm and comforting. 

"Still, I'm sorry," Jake mumble, his chin resting atop my head. 

"Well, even though you don't need to apologize, apology accepted," I squeeze him around the middle, punctuating my words. Thump thumpthump thump.

"Thanks, Birdie," Jake hums, his hand never stilling. We stand like that for a few moments, the wind blowing past us. It's barely lukewarm and cooling under the slow dying sun. Jake's hands are torrid in their place around my body, an even heat exchange. 

"I wanted to punch you," I admit, not even feigning sympathy. "Not today- but, a long time ago... Somewhere around fourteen I got fed up with the way people reacted to the "just " in my sentence. Everyone always saw it in a bad light, and it made me want to punch whoever said it, or would say it."

"Do you still want to punch me?" Jake's laugher rumbles over the beat of his heart. 

My laugh rumbles over mine too. "No. I just... I decided that Bob is my everything so long ago, and so at the time it felt right to throw hands over him."

Jake's laughter doesn't stop, instead the rumbling in my ear gets louder and louder. He mumbles something about how Bob would turn bright red if he'd heard that but I think it was meant more for himself than for me. Silence overtakes us, save for the usual bustle of the airfield and the ever present sound of our heartbeats. Thump, thump, thump. Still, Jake keeps up his ministrations against my spine. 

"What's he like?" The question breaks the silence. A jet takes off somewhere in the distance, neither of us comment on it. 

"Bob?" Jake inquires, his hand stilling. 

"No, Jay Leno," I gaze up at him with one of those seriously looks on my face, the best one I can muster, "Yes, Bob," 

"Well..." Jake takes a deep breath in, swishing his words around in his mouth like a sip of expensive wine, "You've got a good one, Birdie, truly. He's one of the best men I know. Smart as a whip, quiet, observant to the point where never misses a damn thing, it drives us all nuts," 

Jake's laughter thunders. 

My heart stutters, still I'm quick to quip back a response. 

"Everyone or just you?" 

"Oh, shut it," The words are all playful. 

"He looks just like Rhett," I mumble. I take my bottom lip between my teeth, rolling over the fullness of it. Jake erupts in heavier laugher. 

"Yeah, twins usually do," 

"Shut up," I retaliate quickly, releasing my lip to make sure he hears me. "How is Rhett? I feel so bad for running. Fuck, I haven't even apologized to you. I am sorry, Jake, I really am," 

"You don't have to apologize. I was there, remember? I know how it went down. I probably would've run too," Jake admits, resuming his motions up and down my spine. 

"I don't think that makes me feel any better," I hide my laugher in his chest, my barely wet skin almost squeaking against the material of his flight suit. "But thanks anyway," 

"You bet," Jake hums, "Rhett is alright, worried. We... We didn't really get a chance to talk about the airport thing because Bob picked us up. I think Rhett was avoiding saying anything so he didn't say the wrong thing," 

"I don't think you can say the wrong thing," I pull away from the warmth of his embrace to look up at him, "It's all predestined, you know. And if they are close, wouldn't Rhett know what Bob's sentence is anyway?" 

"You would think," Jake chuckles. 

"Do you know what his says?" My voice wavers at the question. I probably shouldn't have asked. Fuck my curiosity for getting the better of me. Another jet takes off, loud and unbothered by our conversation. 

"I do," 

"And?" 

"I'm not going to say as it's not mine to share... But..." A few beats pass between us, a jet soaring overhead. It buys Jake nothing more than a few seconds.  "I think I'm the one who's supposed to say it," There's only a sliver of apprehension in his tone. 

"How do you figure?" 

"Because I know the words, and I know that we are standing here right now having this conversation and by now I'm sure everyone else is in that hanger waiting on me to show up to start the hop," Jake brings his hands up to my shoulders, pushing me back far enough to look at me without having to crane his neck. "And I know that we could wrap this up right now and walk back to the hanger and I could say those words and everything would go from there, just as it should."

"Right now?" 

"Right now," I can barely hear him over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I swear, if it wasn't for his hands on my shoulders, I would be vibrating away from how hard my heart is hitting my ribcage. 

"It's not too fast?" I ask, finally deciding on some sort of sentence that doesn't really capture what I'm trying to say. 

"Bridie, people wait their whole lives for this. They fight wars and move across the world for this. They take the same bus to work everyday. They run for political offices. They develop apps and services for this sort of thing and right now, Bob is sitting in that hanger right there," Jake thrusts a pointed finger towards the hanger, his tone getting a bit louder with each sentence, "And you are standing here asking me if it's too soon?" 

"I guess I just-"

"Bob already talks about you," Jake interjects, not caring for my excuses. 

"He doesn't even know me," I retort, once again defensive. There is a part of me that wishes I'd stayed hidden away in my father's office, staring out his too big windows and allowing myself to bargain over the importance of this situation. Instead, Jake is like a reflector for excuses and bullshit, cutting through all of the excess and highlighting the point with less than eloquence.  My heart still pounds, I can feel it in my fingertips as they graze over my thighs. I try and push the incessant thumping sound out of my ears in a better attempt to hear what Jake is saying. 

"It doesn't matter. Bob's a quiet guy, but when he is talking, it's often about his soulmate. He wonders, usually out loud, about what you will be like. He worries too, about if you'll care he's in the Navy, or that he's a Wizzo. He worries that you'll hate moving all the time, or won't want to be with him because there's the risk of deployments and all the other bullshit we go through. At the bar, he wonders about what your signature drink is, and if you like to play pool or if you prefer darts, or dancing. He hopes that you'll be beautiful, but not in the face or body, but in the soul. I'm telling you Birdie, he wants to know everything, and he's not very good at waiting for it," 

I can only stand there, still as stone with Jake's hands cupped over the caps of my shoulders. I can't even flounder over words. There are none stuck in my throat, in fact, for the first time in a long time I am speechless. 

So Jake continues, "Birdie, Robert Floyd is head over heels for you already. My Mama always used to say that there is no difference between a wise man and a fool when it comes to love, and looking at Baby on Board I can say that, and I mean this as kindly as I can, there is no telling if he's wise," There is a chuckle stirring somewhere deep in his chest at the notion. 

"That's a lot to live up to," I mumble, hoping Jake misses the words over the jets racing over us. He doesn't. Of course he doesn't. 

"You're not living up to anything, Birdie, that's the thing. Bob hasn't even met you yet and you're everything. I already know it," Jake's admission is brazenly honest in a way that has me teetering over the precipice of my own self conscious mind. "And think about it this way, with as much time as he spends talking about ya, think about how much time he spends thinking aboutcha,"

Jake has a point, as hard as it is to admit. 

"Can I be honest about something?" Jake's shoes are the most interesting thing in the world, with the way my eyes are locked onto the dark leather. I trace the eyelets with my eyes, up the wrapping of the laces to where the legs of his flight suit are bloused into his boots. 

Jake's hands slide from my shoulders, hitting his thighs with a low smack. "Have we not been?" 

Glancing up, I take in the sight of Jake's crimped expression, how his eyes glint in the lowness of the sun. His shoulders dip. A deep sigh escapes from the prison of his chest, edged with more concern than hostility. It's met with my own, the lukewarm air swirling in my lungs only to mingle with the wind again, now a few degrees hotter. Everything feels hotter now. 

"Brutally," The word is overwhelmingly correct, cutting the tip of my tongue as it passes. "But I think I have more to say before I reach a consensus or a breakdown."

 I chuckle out a dry laugh. Jake nods, squaring his shoulders just a little bit. It's an urge to continue, not that I needed one at this point. 

"Up until this point, I don't think I ever thought past wanting Bob. I decided that Bob was it for me so long ago that I never found a need to think past it," I shove my hands as deep into my pockets as they will go to keep myself from picking at my nails. 

"I've never been focused on finding him. Never focused on if he would like me, or if I would like him because I knew that it was in the hands of the universe, you know? And maybe if I believed in a God or something it would be in their handsand then I really wouldn't have to think about it. I mean, the universe picked me for Bob and him for me, so why would there be anything to worry about? But..."

My gaze finds itself just over Jake's shoulder, fixated on the hanger. The hanger that Bob is probably standing in waiting for the hop to start. Maybe he's cursing out Jake for being late. Or sitting next to that beautiful brunette laughing like there isn't a care in the world. Perhaps he's worried about being late, the hop in the forefront of his mind. It could be what he's going home to after work. Maybe he has a cat, an entire collection of Lego flowers, or an alcoholic roommate. 

Standing here for just a few moments longer keeps that information at bay, along with all the questions I'm too afraid to ask myself. 

And even though Jake swears six ways to Sunday that Bob wants me, maybe it's just because he thinks he has to. What if Bob only likes me because the universe told him to? Or what if he doesn't like me at all- the whole thing just an overexaggerated front to keep those he's closest to from asking questions. 

There are so many questions. 

Jake sways into the forefront of my now glassy vision, his face just a little out of focus. His brows are furrowed, tightening as I blink a few times to refocus everything. 

"But what? What is it?" Concern. There is so much concern in the gravel of his voice. 

"I... I think..." Another deep, slow breathe of air that smells thick of jet fuel. It burns my lungs as it passes, more now than it has before. Everything burns more now. I can feel my skin glazing at the heat, like I'm more glass than paint. More sugar than starch. More myself than destiny. 

"No, I know," I meet Jake's eyes, ignoring how they burn too, "I don't want Bob to like me out of obligation. I don't want a relationship born out of a feeling of moral imperative, or because he's being backed into it. I don't want him to fall in love with me, I-"

Jake looks addled, and maybe...  marred? There is something unreadable in his expression, his eyes ever fixated. I only stutter for a second, over my words, over that look, over the glazing of my own flesh. 

"I want Bob to walk into love with me," There's a scuff of realization the moment the words are said, something akin to a record scratch. I am more than a predestined prediction, a proportional kind of perfect. "I can't have the same retronym love story of duty with no real choice. Soulmates or not, Bob needs to choose me or I'm not the one for him."

The conclusion is finite and final. That's all it needs to be.

Jake is all slack jaw and flashbulb eyes.  His hand make's it's way slowly through the air until it's stoking back his hair. He follows around the top of his head until he's at the nape. Scratching at the back of his neck, Jake still looks my way. I can't see anything in his face other than astonishment bordering on incredulous. A small part of myself, a part that I didn't know existed past the pedant preteen years that bled into formalist youth, begs for a sort of validation. But I stay quiet. I don't need Jake to dignify this. Not when I know in my bones that it's true. 

We stand just like this for a few minutes. I count the number of deep, slow breaths he takes. Three thousand three hundred sixty miles the Earth has rotated in the time it took Jake to take just under forty five deep breathes. 

My heart beats hard against my ribs, and for the first time today I spend a moment calculating my heart beat. It's more than thumps thrown against the backside of my ribs. In times like this I break the world down into numbers, into something tangible and bite sized- easily digested. Somewhere around beat eighty five a jet pulls my attention away. 

Jake's eyes are locked on the ground in front of his toes. I can just barely see the way his eyes trace the hairline fractures of the concrete. They mirror the fractures of this conversation, though words go unsaid the concrete beneath out feet seems more like ice. We are drifting. 

"You've made me reevaluate this entire thing," The words are a mess of mumbled whispers feathering off his tongue. Then he laughs, one of those thick honeyed laughs that rattles your entire being. I didn't bring this point up to have Jake question his entire reality and from the sound of his laugh all slick and marred he may be doing just that. 

"Let me ask you something," My words are somewhere between a peace offering and a threat of war. An olive branch paired with cocklebur and thistle; a fucked up bouquet. "Do you love Bradley?"

"Of course I do," There is no hesitation, just conviction, "He's my everything," 

"Are you in love with him?" The words are like chem trails hanging visible between us. Jake's tongue laves over the corner of his mouth for a second. Our eyes meet and he cocks a small smile. 

"Honestly, he's the only person I've ever been in love with. I think I was in love with him before we even got together. Somewhere between butting heads over work shit to the time we hauled each other into that filthy bathroom stall while on shore leave, I fell for him. We uhh..." There's another moment of hesitation, heavier than the one before, "Rooster wasn't looking for his soulmate. Too much tragedy and loss when he was growin' up. He didn't want to lose anyone else. I on the other hand have one of those sentences,"  

Jake fumbles with the zipper on his flight suit, his fingers shaking just a tad. The zipper pulls with a metallic buzz all the way down to his waist, far enough for Jake to pull his left arm free of the fabric. With a twist of his arm, I can read the fragile script inked into the soft underside of his bicep, I just hope he's okay.

Two beats and a breath. 

"Is he?"

"Not all the time, but, things with Mav are getting better everyday. He still struggles but that's life," It's all warmly honest and sweet coming off of Jake's tongue. I share a smile with him. Jake traces over the words with his thumb, pulling gently at the skin. The air between us is lighter now. I am no longer counting heart beats. Instead, I let them pass through my chest without a second thought. The seconds pass, the Earth rotates and I breathe without fraction.

"But enough about us," Jake waves his hand in dismissal, "Are you ready?" He pulls his flight suit back over his shoulder, threading his arm though. The zipper hums that metallic zip again as I chew on the inside of my cheek. Am I ready? I don't know, but standing here under the slow setting sun makes me feel like I could be.

"How long does the beginning last?" I meet his eyes with question. His jaw ticks but the corner of his smile ticks up too. There is so much knowing in that look. 

I've always been more at home in endings. With autumn, dying flowers in vases, and sunsets. Last words, whispered goodbyes, and the feeling of fingertips grazing palms after handshakes; those make sense to me. 

Beginnings and I are strangers sharing fleeting glances. We are curtesy smiles across crowded rooms when our eyes meet on accident. Business cards and for sale posters pinned to public bulletin boards and the passing of cigarettes at concerts. Beginnings haze past me and if I don't move, don't breathe, don't blink, I can coast into the now, the middle of moments, what's left between the beginning and the end.   

"Only a second," 

Jake takes my hand in his own. He rubs his thumb reassuringly over the joint of my thumb, our palms pressed together. Gently, he's guiding me back to the hanger. The whole ordeal is regulated by his kind touches. My skin burns under his hands, but it's not that romantic kind of burning. Instead, Jake's fingertips pressing into my skin are a smoke signal; I follow it diligently. 

The walk to the hanger is quiet. No words spoken between us. The only sounds come from the base itself and the way our shoes hit the pavement. I wish there was a sort of de rigueur for situations like this. A handbook outlining exactly what you're supposed to say in the limbo moment between past and future. It's that moment where the word present doesn't quite fit. It's too liminal, a sort of aberration. Jake's soothing touch is pithy in the same way it is integral. 

The sound of our shoes against the pavement changes as we pass through the threshold. It's far less crunch and a bit more scuff, now. Jake's boots are louder than the soft rubber of my sneakers. They give me a little bit more height, in turn I feel harder to miss. As if the only civilian in a hanger full of flight suit clad aviators would be difficult to miss in the first place.

We only make it about half way into the hanger, just about the point where the chilled breeze warms over when Jake stops me. I go to take another step but his hand tightening around my own. It's a quiet plea to stay put. There's more to unfold, and for a moment I wonder if the beginning has past yet or if I'm on the cusp of it. Jake separates his hand from mine, the warmth of his palm sticking for a few fleeting seconds. 

Maybe that's how much time the universe spent connecting souls together in friendship. The few fleeting moments in the flick of a pen, ink still drying on the parchment of the universe. 

The aviators all sit facing the board at the front, a couple to a table. There's only six aviators sitting, but that accounts for the main team, save for Hangman walking up the aisle. My father, Tom and Pete are at the front of the room, similar to the way I left them. Now, though, Pete is leaning against the table with his husband rather than taking up residence on the floor. My father is still sat in a chair at the front, but he's now facing the group of young aviators. His eyes catch mine from across the room, a small reassuring grin taking it's place on his lips. It keeps me from wavering, then it disappears as fast as it came. 

I catch Tom's eyes next. From this far away, the usual stark blue of his eyes are less icy. Now, they're more soft, welcoming like a clear sky. He places a hand on Pete's knee, the younger man agog with excitement to the point where he's almost buzzing. He must've spotted Jake and I when we walked in, but the famous Maverick is good at keeping people's attention where he wants it. Everyone's eyes are still focused forward on him as he natters on.  I will my ears to hear over the newfound sound of blood thrashing through my ears. 

But it's not Pete's voice I catch, instead it belongs to a woman.

"Why are you two sharing this story now? I know that Payback and Coyote have been asking about this for months and you're finally talking? Something doesn't add up, if you ask me," 

Pete goes to open his mouth again, but Tom squeezes his knee again. His grip looks a little too hard. Mav doesn't seem to acknowledge the uniform wrinkling grip his husband has on his knee, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

"I was thinking the same thing," Bradley pipes up, his chin resting against his closed fist, elbow propped up on the table in front of him. "Even though I've heard this story about a thousand times, I know Jake wanted to hear it-" 

"Where is Bagman? I thought he came in with you, Bradshaw," The woman counters back. 

"I'm right here, Phoenix," Jake pipes up, his tone more smug than I've ever heard it, as he's walking right past the empty seats to stand next to my father. "I was working on something for the Air Boss, is that alright with you lot?" 

There are murmurs, nothing intelligible. The usual glower on my father's features when he's in front of his subordinates is no where to be seen. Instead, his features are schooled into neutral disinterest. Jake leans towards him to whisper into his ear- my father's expression remains still. Then Jake is moving towards Pete. He leans in between Mav and his husband, letting them both listen to what he has to say. With a clap of his hands, Pete is interrupting whatever Jake is telling him. I am a bit taken aback by Pete's sudden command but it seems no one else is surprised. Tom shakes his head a bit but does nothing to hold back his husband. 

"Alright team, change of plans!" The words are met with a groan. "Our lovely COMPACFLT is going to take you guys for a little trip across the air field, I'll be there to join you shortly. Lt. Floyd, could you hang back for a moment, Admiral Simpson and I would like to have a word with you. Same goes for you as well, Lt. Seresin," 

"That's a lot of formality there, old man," Jake jests over the sound of scooching chairs and boots against the cement. I watch as the small group files out of a door at the back of the hanger, diligently following after Tom. 

It's only then that it really hits me. 

The only people left standing in this hanger with me are my father, Pete, Jake and Robert Floyd. My Robert Floyd, the man I have spent so long imagining. When I was a child, I used to talk to the moon about him. The habit started after my teacher told us the story about the man in the moon. He served as my confidant, my secret keeper, and my light for the future. It wasn't uncommon to commune with the milky light of the moon as it shown through the sheer curtains of my childhood bedroom.  

I suppose it's fitting that my soulmate, too, has a love for the sky. I wonder if he's friends with the moon in that same way. Childlike innocence held over with white knuckles while tucked under blankets, anything to fend off the monsters turned Sunday scaries. 

I let my eyes trail over his frame, though I can't make out much. Only the back of his head, with his clean, Navy regulation hair cut. He is that dishwater blond that Rhett is, hair shining with a slick coat of gel to keep his bangs out of his eyes. Bob wears his flight suit, which gives me absolutely no clue into his world of personal style. But, I like the way it stretches over the expanse of his shoulders and down the broadness of his back. The slick-ish green material pulling taught over the the caps of his shoulders as he slumps forward a bit. 

Sitting alone like he is almost makes him look like a little kid who got into trouble at recess. He keeps his hands tucked in front of him, the picture of polite as he waits for his next instruction. Maybe it's instinct, maybe it's Navy issued, either way he's all patience and clean corners tucked into a military grade flight suit. 

The sight of my father leaning down in front of Bob pulls me back to reality. He wears a kind smile, that same one he used to wear at father-daughter dances and parent-teacher conferences. That smile belongs wholly to my father- Cyclone: the Admiral is no where to be seen. It's strange, for a moment he almost looks out of place in his uniform, but I don't have time to dwell on that fact. 

Pete is pulling Jake towards me, a hand on his collar. 

"I'm telling you right now, Jake," Maverick punctuates his seriousness with the use of Jake's first name, "You are going to go easy on Bob, alright?" 

"I think he's a lot stronger than you give him credit for," Jake shoots back, nudging Pete in the ribs with his elbow. "I know we all joke around and treat Bob like he's the kid of the group, but he's worked just as hard as the rest of the team to be here. He deserves it. There's no doubt in my mind that he won't take this in stride," 

"This isn't like you, Hangman," Pete chuckles, punching him playfully in the chest, "If I didn't know any better I'd think there's a heart in there somewhere," 

"You're forgetting I'm practically engaged to your son, you know," Jake is all jest and shinning eyes as he looks down at the shorter man. 

"The word practically gives me pause," 

The moment between the men is as sweet as it is endearing, but my heartbeat threatens to take over my senses again. Anxiety swirls like thick smoke, overtaking my lungs and burning my eyes. I can feel myself tearing up. 

"I can appreciate the father-in-law son-in-law bonding that's happening right now, but in case you two have forgotten I am this fucking close to losing it," I hold my fingers up for emphasis, my pointer dangerously close to my thumb, "Watching y'all, I feel like the lunatics are running the asylum," 

"Dangerously accurate," Pete laughs, earning a scowl from me. I turn to Jake for some sort of help. Standing here, the seconds ticking down, I feel myself wavering. 

"So, this is it?" 

"This is it," Pete echoes, unhelpfully, "You've got this, Little Bird," 

Pete uses that as his exit, patting Jake on the arm as he leaves. I don't turn to watch him walk away. My eyes are somewhere on the center of Jake's chest, but the images are all muddled and glassy. He takes my hand in his own, thumbing over the ridges of my fingers. 

"Walking into love, eyes wide open, I promise," Jake's susurrus voice barely audible over the blood rushing through my ears. Gently, he guides me down the aisle between the tables. It seems a million miles from here to there, a sentiment I've only ever heard brides use. Then, he's stopping me a row back from where Bob is seated, still talking to my father. Jake himself does not stop, instead going to stand next to my father. 

"You got it from here, Lieutenant?" My father asks, turning his quirked eyebrow Jake's direction. 

"I do," Jake confirms confidently, his hands coming down to rest palm down on the tabletop in front of Bob. 

"Alright then," My father straightens up, "I'll see you in a few minutes, Lt. Seresin. Have a good night, Lt. Floyd," 

From my new vantage point, I can see a sliver of Bob's side profile. A clean shaven jaw gives way to a long, pale neck. He wears glasses, that little fact feels more concrete than anything else up unto this moment. Robert Floyd wears glasses- those Navy issued, Birth Control Goggles that I've always had an affinity for.  

Once when I was a kid, I had asked my father why the Navy glasses were hated. I liked them, truly. They reminded me of the vintage models in my mother's old magazines- and that look was the height of fashion circa 1976. My mother had a love for all things vintage fashion, and I developed a love for a well dressed man whilst looking over her shoulder. My father's response to the question was nothing that made sense until I understood exactly how cruel people could be. 

"What's going on, Hangman?" There's a round quality to Bob's accent, though it is decidedly more formal than Rhett's. 

"I'm getting to that, Baby on Board," Jake chuckles, leaning closer to Bob effectively keeping the other man's eyes on him, "Close your eyes," 

"Close my eyes? Yeah, right," Bob scoffs, "I think I learned better when it comes to you, all the way back when we were kids. Nice try. Now, tell me, what's goin' on?" 

I watch Jake's smile bloom larger on his face, but he doesn't spare a glance my direction. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, nervous energy threatening to boil over. Even though energy buzzes under my skin, I want nothing more than to hear Bob speak again. 

"Seriously Robby," The nickname makes me almost laugh. It's said with just a dash of sweetness, something closer to fond. Bob lets out a slightly exasperated sigh. "Close'em up,"

"I swear to god, Seresin, if this is some sort of overdue hazing or some other bullshit I am going to kick your ass," Bob grumbles, but must closes his eyes by the pleased look reflecting on Jake's features. 

"It's not, honest," Jake swears, a hand placed over his heart. I watch the pair as I rock back and fourth. It's a gentle movement, anything to keep myself from crawling out of my skin. "And you and I both know that you couldn't kick my ass if you tried," Bob looks like he's going to retort, but instead he sinks down a little further in his seat with a roll of his eyes. 

"Well, get on with it," Bob mumbles, his shoulders dipping a bit. 

"Will you take this seriously, please, Robby," There's that nickname again. Jake's words are met with a low grumble about how he really is taking something absolutely ridiculous as seriously as he can. "Let me ask you somethin'"

"Alright," Bob shrugs his shoulders, his uniform wrinkling under his movement. Bob is so apprehensive, rightfully so. Jake is still looking down at him, hands pressed to the table. The look Jake has painted across his face is nothing short of mischievous, a look that I would not want to be on the receiving end of, for fear of trouble. 

"Now, no matter what I ask, you've gotta keep your eyes closed, alright?" 

"Okay, alright, Jake. I get it, eyes are to remain closed," 

Then Jake is waving me over with a flick of his wrist. There is still a wide smile across his cheeks which makes it a fraction harder to say no. Still, I shake my head, eyes wide, trying to deny his request. He huffs out a sigh when I manage to scoot myself less than two steps closer. A second later he is crossing over to me, taking my hand in his again. He guides me back to where he was standing before, in front of Bob. 

I can see his whole face now.

From the tender slope of his nose to his dusty brown lashes, the first thing that strikes me is just how kind he looks. I take in the gentle wave of his hair and the way it's pushed back from his eyes. I wonder what is would look like without all the product. Would it slope down onto his forehead, the obvious wave more prominent? From here, though his features are so similar to Rhett's, he looks so incredibly different. There is a softness to Bob that I wouldn't have expected. The points where Rhett is hard lines and calloused skin, Bob is undisturbed water, crystal clear and inviting. 

Robert Floyd looks nothing like the idea of men I have come to picture in my head: the ideal man outlined for me since childhood. Those men were all beefy hands and square jaws, sharp lines that lead to a commanding presence. Instead, Bob is lean muscle and something so unbelievably oneiric. He is soft in the way the best things are, seafoam and clouds, the feeling of coming home. It's strange, really, the settled feeling that makes a home near my diaphragm. It's all delicate revelation.

The anxiety still lingers in my extremities, dancing through my thighs and down to my toes just to accompany the pulsing feeling in my fingertips. 

And suddenly, I want to know everything. The dam breaks, cracks running through the concrete that held back my terse reaction and adjunct feeling of crumbling resolve.  

The tears come fast and unexpected, the only thing keeping in a surprised gasp is my hands cupped over my mouth. Get it together, get it together, get it together! Those are the only words going through my head, accompanied by the sound of blood rushing though my ears.  Jake grazes his knuckles over the exposed skin of my arm, his expression still as kind as ever. He doesn't take his eyes off me when he addresses Bob again. 

"I had a point brought up to me today, about the whole soulmate thing," It's a start. Jake looks like he's hunting for the words, "And I'm embarrassed about it. I mean, it makes so much sense and I can't have you looking at me when I admit this," 

Jake is really hamming it up, leaning into this whole bit. I'm not sure if it's to ease my anxiety or if it's to mess with Bob, but either way I don't care. I am stuck standing here, in front of my person and will listen to every word that leaves Jake's lips if it means I get to look at Bob unbothered for a few more moments. 

God, he's pretty. His lips look soft, even though they are lightly sun kissed. Or maybe that's just their natural color. His cheeks match, though. A stained sort of blush that looks like crushed berries. I want to trace the ridge of his cupids bow with the tip of my nose, a precursor to a kiss that is a long time coming. I want to wear that raspberry stain on my skin, too. 

"Okay..." Bob's tone is nothing short of patient. "My eyes are still closed, I promise. Go on when you're ready," 

"The thought is this: people begin a life with their soulmate with their eyes closed, blinders on. They jump into something purely because something in the universe deemed it that way. I wonder what would happen if we walked into the whole thing with our eyes open instead of falling blindly, or out of obligation," Jake is summing up the sentiment well. He hits each detail in a way that threatens to make my head spin to hear them out in the open like that. It's one thing to admit those things out loud, but hearing them fall from someone else's lips is dizzying. 

"That's the thing, Jake, I don't think it's all out of obligation," I suck in a deep breath at those words, holding it hard within my lungs. Jake looks at me with a knowing sort of look that doesn't make holding in this breath any less of a necessity. It's a few more seconds before I finally let go, the breath escaping my lungs slowly. 

"What do you mean?" Jake probes further, doing his best to hide the joy in his tone. If Bob notices, he doesn't say anything. 

"Just because we've got these words doesn't mean it dictates our future. Anyone who tells you different is drinking the Kool-Aid. I mean, I hope more than anything that my person wants me just as much as I want them, but the words don't make it so. It also doesn't mean shit the other way. Things can work out even if your words don't match up, because that's not what love is, Jake," Bob's tone has turned soft now, a care laced into his words. He takes his glasses from his face, setting them down onto the tabletop so he can rub at his still closed eyes. His expression is still soft, though he moves to rub his temples. 

"Love is a choice. Plain and simple. I mean, look at my parents. You know they don't have each other's words, but they are the most in-love people I've ever seen. The universe didn't do that, they did. It was a choice they made every single day, to wake up and love each other and build that life together. And so, if you're worried about everything with Rooster, you don't have to be. Not as long as you wake up every day, love each other and build a life together, whatever that looks like for you," 

"So," Jake's words are interrupted by the smile growing on his face. His cheeks are red from the force it takes to smile so big, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Great love is walking in to it with eyes wide open?" 

"That's exactly what it means," Bob confirms, bringing his hands back to his lap. At his confirmation, the world seems to slow. Each second lasts longer than the previous, the beating of my heart the only thing out of sync now. Tick, tick, ti-thump thump tick. Jake squeezes my shoulder, keeping his eyes firmly on me once again. 

"There's something else I have to tell you, Robby," The joy in Jake's voice is palpable, warm like sunshine on skin. The ever-present burning feeling mellows to this. That static burn of the sun shinning from high in the sky, enough to turn skin hot with blush. "Birdie's here," 

The room goes almost silent, save for the sounds of Bob's deep, uncertain breathes. A moment passes. Then another. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. For the first moment I consider my attire, a white t-shirt and jeans. Could've been worse. At least it's something else to think about other than counting moments, minutes, heartbeats or breathes. 

"Excuse me?" The words are taught, leaving an equally tight throat. Bob sounds almost pained, somewhere in the rigidness of his tone. Bob cracks his eyes open, reaching for his glasses. He slots them back into place on his nose, adjusting them with his long fingers. 

That's something else concrete; the cleanliness of Bob's nails. I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the thought, after all, I'm taking comfort in something so silly. Anything to distract from the pulsing of anxiety. 

Bob looks up, his pupils dilating as he refocuses to the light of the hanger. His eyes focus on Jake first, his expression something I can't quite read. Then his eyes flick to me. The best thing I can offer him is a sheepish smile but it makes Bob cock is head to the side like a confused animal. Like things will make more sense at forty-five degrees. 

"Robert Floyd, Birdie Simpson," Jake introduces us as easy as if he were introducing two friends. "Birdie, this is Just Bob," That part is accompanied by wink and a hint of a chuckle. 

"I shoulda hit you," I grumble, dashing a glace over to Jake. His laughter fills the room, bastard. Bob doesn't move, his head still cocked to the side as if he's trying to make sense of it all, dot the I's, cross the T's, but his mental pen's out of ink. I watch his gaze bounce between Jake and I a couple times as he flounders. His eyes are a notch wider than what I would consider normal, the delicate blue of them shining like ocean baubles under the florescence of the hanger. 

"Well, say somethin' to 'er Robby!" Jake's drawl sneaks out with his desperation. He holds his hands out, almost like he's trying to display me to Bob, the only thing that's missing is the jazz hands. I am clutching the material of my jeans in tight, sweaty fists. This whole thing is going somehow worse than I had anticipated, even through Jake's good natured exchange and I can't help feeling exposed. 

Jake mumbles out a "See, no tellin' if he's wise," just barely loud enough for me to hear. It's supposed to be a comfort, I suppose, but the limbo look I find myself locked in keeps my nerves from settling. 

A sound akin to scrambled vowels escapes Bob's lips. His eyes widen impossibly further, his cheeks going crimson . That same color accompanies the skin around his collar. It would be an endearing sight if he didn't look so totally mortified. His expression isn't at all comfortable, mirroring the exact feeling zinging underneath my skin. This wasn't how this was supposed to go... God, this is so much worse. 

The universe could have delt us better cards. All happy smiles and those movie reel, airport hugs that knock the wind out of you. Those Hollywood kisses with hands cupping faces accompanied by breathless words. I've been waiting for you. You look beautiful. I can't believe you're finally here in my arms. But that's not this. After all, the only hand the universe has wields a pen. The moment the words are wrote, we are on our own, ink stained and pleading. 

"I don't think you were ready for this- either of us," I correct myself, "So, I uh... I think I'm just going to go," I start backing up slowly, heading for the back door of the hanger. I can't place the look Bob gives me, but it makes my stomach twist. "I'm sorry, again. To all three of you," 

"Birdie, please don't-" The door slams behind me, cutting Jake's words off. The chill of the outside air rapidly cools my heated skin. It's still California, but with the sun barely visible over the horizon, the air is cool. 

Tears are rapidly forming in my eyes, though I don't exactly feel like crying. Instead, its the feeling of insurmountable stress weighing on my nervous system. Out of everything I am feeling, I can only name the things I don't want to experience because of the emotions wrecking through my body. 

Though I don't want to cry, my body doesn't seem to be getting the message as fat tears dribble onto my cheeks. I don't feel like running, which in itself makes me chuckle. Usually, when things get hard I want to disappear, take time to figure out exactly what's going on. It's why I've been away from my father for so long to begin with, and why I ran from Rhett and Jake at the airport. What has always taken me distance to see is coming through remarkable clear this close up. 

Maybe I should be broken hearted, or maybe I already am and whatever this fucking feeling buzzing in my chest is only serves as temporary cover. I can't hold back the laughter that vibrates through me. After all of the stock I put into meeting my soulmate, my person, and it having gone down just like a sinking ship only serves to make one thing so perfectly crystal clear. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. It has me turning on my heel and headed right back through that door. 

Jake and Rhett haven't moved too far in the minute or so I've been gone. Jake is still standing in front of the table, looking down at Bob who now has his head buried in his hands. His glasses are pushed up his face, balancing oddly over his forehead. 

"Birdie?" Jake questions, voice louder than necessary. Bob lifts his face from his hands, his glasses falling back crookedly over his nose. I ignore Jake's question along with his gaze, my sights firmly squared on Bob.

"Could that have gone worse?" 

Bob still wears that deer in the headlights look, eyes like flashbulbs, but he finds his voice. "Statistically? Yes," 

Jake mumbles an oh, for Christ's sake to himself but doesn't say anything forthcoming. My hands cup my own face, palms cool against my still hot skin as I cross the concrete to stand in front of the table. Bob watches my each and every move until he is looking up at me from his seat wearing a mimic furrowed brow. My hands make homes of my jean pockets once more. 

"For us I mean," I offer more criteria, "I mean, we really didn't say much to each other, so it's not like we could have said something to offend one another. There hasn't been time to make an impression besides the minute or so of blatant staring. No body threw up, or fainted, or cried. I didn't dump a cup of hot coffee on your lap or anything. Hell, I even had a friend meet her soulmate after they got into a car accident. So really, Bobby, could this have gone worse? 

There's a sort of dry chuckle to my words, a humor that's been left out in the wind too long. We've officially made it past the beginning now, that much I know to be true, and there is already so much comfort in that fact.  

Bob looks to be pondering over my words for a moment before a small, cheeky smirk makes a home on his lips. I can't help but mirror that smile. 

"Well, when you put it that way," Bob places his hands on the tabletop, pushing himself to his feet, "I think that was probably the worst we could have managed. Considering the circumstances, what do you think?" 

"I think we faired alright," I offer, "Could have been better, but life's good at hitting you right in the kneecaps," 

Bob smiles widely at me, and this time it's me who's looking up. Bob is tall, just like Rhett, but looking up at the man in front of me is so much sweeter. He thrusts his hand out, offering it to me, "Robert Floyd," 

I wrap my hand around his, squeezing, "Birdie Simpson," 

"You two do know that I did this already, right?" Jake interjects. Neither Bob nor I turn to look at the blond, his presence all but forgotten. 

"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Birdie," Bob's voice is smooth, anxiety hidden in the upturn of his smile. God, he's got a nice smile. 

"Likewise, Lieutenant," I stick my tongue out at him playfully, nose scrunched. 

"No, absolutely not," Bob still holds my hand in his, "If this is going to be anything other than friendly acquaintances, you don't get to call me that here," 

"Here?"  The question belongs solely to Jake. 

"Then what can I call you?" It's all mischief. 

"Let's start with Bobby, I quite liked that," He admits, his cheeks flushing again, this time it's gentle. The blush that overtakes his skin isn't out of embarrassment, instead it's out of a new found fondness. I can feel it creeping up on my own skin. 

"Alright, Bobby," 

"It's Robby..." Jake interjects once more, this time earning a glance from Bob.

"Maybe to you and the family, but to Birdie here, it's Bobby," Bob explains, as if he hasn't just decided that fact for himself. "Don't you have to go meet up with the squad and Admiral Kazansky?" 

Its more of a get out of here than it is an actual question. Jake seems to miss the scram message hidden in the kindness of Bob's tone. 

"Uh... Not technically. Everyone is actually going to the Hard Deck. Pops called off the hop. Figured you wouldn't want to be flyin' after this and we couldn't let Phoenix without her back seater," 

At the explanation, I finally pull my eyes from Bob to look at Jake with an unimpressed expression. "What I think Bob's trying to say is get lost," 

"Well, yes. But nicer than that," Bob tries to offer at Jake's open mouthed surprise. 

"I know he talked me down today," I gesture to Jake, "But, I don't think he deserves nice. Have you ever sat next to that man on a plane? God, he bounced his leg the whole time! I thought he was going to buzz right out of his skin," 

"You should hear him over coms while he's actually the only piloting," Bob laughs under his breath, "He's sort of insufferable,"

 "That's not a surprise, but at least Rhett's not up there with you. I was stuck in between the of of 'em the whole damn trip," 

"Oh god, both of them?" Bob asks, his thumb stroking over my own. He still holds my hand, slightly awkwardly over the table but I don't care. In fact, he is so warm and I want him to hold me closer. 

"Both of them," I confirm with a wry smile. 

"In that case, scram Bagman," Bob laughs, hooking his thumb over his shoulder. 

He holds his hands up in defense, "You don't have to tell me twice. I know when I'm not wanted," We watch Jake walk away for a moment before turning back to look at each other once again. 

"I can't believe you grew up with him," I laugh. Bob laughs too, almost like he's in agreement. After the laughter dies down, we stand there in silence for a few moments. In times like this I would usually be counting down the tick of the clock but for once I am totally wrapped up in the present. That's when Bob clears his throat. 

"I owe you an apology," Bob leaves no room for me to brush off his words, "I'm sorry I handled that as poorly as I did. I was caught off guard and then made a fool of myself. I'm not trying to make excuses, I really am sorry, Birdie," At the end of his apology, Bob's eyes slip from my face, a blush taking over his own. 

"Oh Bobby," I squeeze his hand, pulling his gaze back to my own. "You don't need to apologize. That's not how I was expecting things to happen. Jake make the choice and I just let it happen. I think I should be apologizing to you. So, I'm sorry,"

"Apology accepted," Bob smiles.

"Apology accepted," I return. In that moment we settle into the quiet again, but it doesn't last very long. 

"So," Bob starts again, a bit unsure of his words. 

"So?" 

"Do you think we've got a chance at this? The crash and burn beginning behind us?" Bob looks so damn hopeful. I can't help but swoon the second that look it turned down to meet my eyes.

"Let's look at the facts. You're a WSO, so you're already trusting, brilliant, a hard worker. I grew up a Navy brat, so I know what this life looks like. I'm not a stranger to the deployments or the work that has to happen for something like this to work out. I've got no where I have to be, nothing committed to. Hell, I was coming home, technically, the home being where your family is or whatever. And you already know my father, so there's no awkward introduction there. I already know Rhett, and Jake, not to mention I'm just a few members short of having met your whole team. I live out of a fucking duffle bag of fucks sake," The words spill from my mouth with no abandon. Bob just listens, a dopey smile drawn over his lips. "All things considered, I think we've got a good chance. I hear it's all about making the choice to make it all work,"

Its not totally clear if Bob picks up the little joke because the smile on his face hasn't faltered. Neither has his hand, still holding my own, even through my little speech. Carefully, Bob uses his free hand to adjust his frames over his nose so they sit a little bit straighter. 

"What do you say we get out of here? Dinner maybe?" He offers, eyebrows raised. He looks a little nervous. I offer him my nicest smile. "And then we can talk more about all this," 

"That depends, Lieutenant, are you going to wear the flight suit?" I flirt shamelessly. It's met with that confused look that I've already come to recognize, though his head only tilts about fifteen degrees this time. 

"Uh, no? I was going to change before we left," Oh sweet, sweet Bobby. 

"I know," I giggle, "I was flirting with you,"

"Oh," The blush crawls across his skin again. I want to kiss every bit it colors. 

"I can't believe you outed the fact that you have a rank kink in front of your friend and wingman, but you can't pick up when I'm flirting with you," I pull my hand from his, only to hit him playfully in the chest. 

Bob's eyes go wide again, "Oh my god, did I?" 

"You did," I confirm through laughter, watching Bob go from pink to red. "Now go get changed, I've gotta hear more about that," 

"Okay, okay," Bob holds his hands up in defense, walking himself out into the aisle between the tables. "One thing, first," 

"What's that?" Bob just holds his hand out to me, beckoning me into the aisle with him. I take it, rounding around the table to stand in front of him. He is taller now, this close. He looks down at me over the bottom wire of his glasses, a cheeky smile on his features. 

"I'd like to kiss you first, if that's alright," He leans closer and closer with each whispered word. The last thing I see before my eyes slip closed is the still pink tint to Bob's cheeks, the same tint that matches the gentle blush of his sun kissed lips. 

"You better," I mumble, our lips meeting a moment after. Bob's hands snake around my body, fingers threading through the beltloops at the the back of my hips. I wrap my fingers around his collar, clutching onto the fabric, holding him close. The kiss is all gentle, though there is so much warmth taking over my skin from his touch. It burns like new flame, the kind that gives light to the future. To our future, together, tangled in each other's embrace. 

That first kiss is a brand new beginning taking flight. The first beginning I don't want to end. 

TAGLIST

The wind whips past us, the warm California sun dusting over my skin. I can feel the undersides of my eyes and down my cheeks beginning to chap with the newfound wind against my tear washed skin. I can't help the continued scrunch of my eyes as we walk. Between the sun and the stinging of my skin, my expression stays wrinkled tight with distaste. 

Though I've been on more air fields than I can remember, I still feel like a stranger here. Amongst the jets and the pilots, the mechanics and the helicopters, I feel so small. Like the ground could open up and swallow me whole with no consequence. I know I don't belong, but I walk along anyway, step for step with my father who practically owns the ground we walk on and the skies above. 

The hanger is large and imposing, just as they always are. Tall buildings meant to swallow jets, blocks wide and just as deep. The hanger is painted that same sad taupe hinted gray color as everything else, yet it's more imposing than the rest. There's a metaphor here, somewhere. Something about soulmates and their ability to blend into the background until they are standing right in front of you, suddenly the only thing in your view. Yet, the only thing that my mind can fixate on is the stuttering of my heart and the sweat collecting in my palms. 

A section of the hanger is set up with tables and chairs, all perfectly pushed in and lined up. It's a classroom of sorts, the fresh air carried in through the open doors of the hanger. If I cared about this part of the world, the Navy that is, I could get lost in the diagrams scrawled across chalk boards scattered around the space. I could zone in on something to distract from the tension in my body, though it seems to be the only thing keeping me standing. It takes an extra moment  for me to pull myself back to reality. 

At the front of the room, a man leans up against a table, back to us while another man sits in front of him, legs up on the table. They are both in uniform, though their body language is excessively causal. They don't notice as we approach, too wrapped up in each other to care about how their conversation carries through the hanger. 

"I know it's going to be a change, Mav, but it's going to be good," 

"You know me, Ice, I'm not good at staying in one place," 

Then, my father coughs, a subtle way to express our presence. He's always been a man of subtly if he could help it. That has the pair turning to us, their conversation now on hold. The man sitting doesn't get up, but he pulls his feet down from the table. His mop of brown hair is un-styled and no doubt out of regulation, but the Captain's bars sit dutifully upon his collar speak louder. The other man is all striking eyes and light hair, face full of wrinkles but in the way well conditioned leather is. Warn and loved. I would recognize him anywhere, though our history is nothing more than brief snippets of memories now, of history past and gone. 

"Excuse us, Captain Mitchell," My father sounds all business, and then his eyes catch the blond man, "Admiral Kazansky, sir," I seem to be the only one who picks up the waver in his voice. 

"Cyclone," The pair speak in time. Their eyes flash to me then back to my father, their expressions natural.  I focus in on Kazansky. His lip twitches just a bit, almost cracking into a grin. But he's better than that, the COMPACFLT is much too skilled in the interpersonal relationships that come with his position to let a smile slip. The three men bounce glances between them. The stern expression that Captain Mitchell once held is breaking, eyes twinkling as a subtle smirk curls across his lips. 

"Oh!" My father almost exclaims, turning to me, "This is my Daughter. Birdie, this is Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, and the Commander of the Pacific Fleet, Admiral Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky," 

The introduction has the Captain rising form his seat. He leans over the table, one hand planted firmly to the top whilst the other extends my direction. There is no care for the files spread out over the top, just his palm pressed firmly to the surface. His smile is all crooked teeth and kindness. I return the smile, ignoring the way my father fights off a grimace. The Captain commands the room, from the angle of his shoulders to the way confidence bleeds from him. He thrives with each new set of eyes directed straight at him, and I am no exception. 

"It's nice to officially meet you, Pete," I shake his hand firmly. I hope he can't feel the layer of sweat that coats my palm. If he does, he doesn't mention it. There is no questioning of my phrase, either, like it's almost expected that people know him, officially and otherwise. I can no longer hide my own smirk, as incomplete pictures from my memory are snapping together, finally whole. This is Pete, Tom's soulmate, his husband, his wingman. After this brief introduction, the pieces are falling into place. I have heard my fair share of stories about this very man, but nothing like what someone might expect. Where there are usually tales of heroics and jets, Tom has filled those spaces with tells of their private life. 

I know that Pete texts Tom constantly, even though Tom hates anything having to do with cellphones. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell drinks whole milk, something that Tom can't wrap his brain around. He washes the dishes with wash cloths instead of sponges. Little details, intimate but not private information, and it rolls around somewhere in the back of my head. 

"The pleasure is all mine, Birdie," I believe him wholly, no question in my mind that he takes pleasure in meeting me- in watching my father squirm. His smile only grows. His eyes are flicking between me and my father who is standing just over my shoulder, a foot or two away. I turn my attention to the man next to Pete. Tom, as he introduced himself to me when he first met, is nothing but shinning eyes and a grin of ambrosia. He rolled his eyes at me, a laugh dancing from his lips the first time I called him Admiral Kazansky. I never have quite figured out the humor there. 

"It's great to see you again, Tom," I ignore the confused glances as I greet him, stretching my hand out towards him. He rolls his eyes fondly. 

"Get that hand out of here!" Tom chuckles, pushing himself off of the table, "Who do you think I am? Come around here and give me a hug, Little Bird!" 

He embraces me, taking me into the fullness of his hug. He bleeds warmth in the way Pete bleeds confidence. I take it in, letting it swallow me whole. There's a scent that clings to Tom's clothes, something that I've never quite been able to place. It's rich and clove full, over taking my senses. There is something special about a hug from the Iceman. He asks how I've been, his lips pressing into my hair. I'm still smiling, somehow impossibly wider as I pull back to meet his eyes once more. 

"Well, Tom," I chuckle in turn as he takes my hands in his own. "I-" There's a hesitation. Even with the adrenalin of reuniting, anxiety still has it's claws dug deep into my skin. I drag my teeth over the fullness of my bottom lip before continuing. "It happened, and I'm..."

"Somewhere between bargaining and boycotting?" His eyes scrunch at the corners, long lines of skin creasing with knowledge and understanding. There's such a kindness in his eyes and it threatens to break me open. Tom has always been able to read me like this. It used to freak me out, in the beginning. He could look at me for less than a minute and surmise just what was thrumming through me, even if confusion seemed to cloud my own understanding. 

"Cut that out!" I laugh gently, squeezing at his hands with my own. He squeezes back, that knowing look plastered behind his glasses. "I hate it when you do that, you know," I don't. 

"What can I say," he winks. He still holds me close, closer than any newly introduced folks should. I dodge the rhetorical, focusing my sights elsewhere. 

"With everything you've told me, your soulmate being the man who irritates my father to high heaven really makes sense," I shoot a look over to Pete. He quirks an eyebrow. I can feel my father's eyes square and solid between my shoulder blades. The Admiral is laughing, the sound a bit scratchy against his throat, but it's whole and happy. "How's your health?"

God, that's a scary question, but I can't keep it tucked under my tongue. His expression goes soft, soft in the way melted candles are when their wax is hardening after the flame is blown out. There's a strength being regained there, beneath it all, cooling. I can see the ice cold, no mistakes veil flicker behind his eyes and it's a comfort. a familiarity from long time past.

"I'm good, Little Bird," He grips my hands a little tighter, thumbs pressing into the tops of my hands, "Scans are clear, have been for a few months now. I'm good,"

"I am so beyond happy for you, Tom," I pull him into another hug, tighter this time. I mumble into his collar, for the both of you. He squeezes me tighter. It's a thank you, if I've ever felt one. It only lasts a moment before my father is clearing his throat again, no doubt confused and likely feeling awkward watching his daughter embrace one of his heroes so freely. I look at Pete first, who looks confused too, but more interested than anything, before turning to meet my father's eyes. 

My father looks like he's ready to speak, but his mouth only opens and closes a few times before he scrunches his whole expression. No words are said. I stand next to Tom, wanting to bounce on the balls of my feet out of pure nervousness. I don't. Mostly because I don't want my father to give me that disapproving look- and because standing next to Tom is more comforting than I remember it being. 

"Are either of you gonna clue us in?" Pete supplies, a hint of joy behind his voice. Between the look on Tom's face, all kind and warm, and the look on my father's, confused and frustrated, there's no doubt in my mind that Pete is having an absolute hay day with all of this. 

"I worked at the USO in Pensacola, and did stints out in D.C, and Maryland with the org too, and Tom just so happens to spend a lot of time stuck at the USO," I giggle a bit, nervousness bubbling through the explanation. 

"Little Bird and I have spent a lot of time together over the last couple of years, over cold sodas and prepackaged food," Tom laughs at the memory, "I don't think anyone plays a better game of Pinochle than this young woman right here," 

"I've had a lot of practice, thanks to you, Tom,"

My father, with still furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line, gives us a curt nod of understanding, signaling his readiness to move onto a new subject. As fun as it to watch my father wriggle under the intense stares of the other men, I still smile sheepishly at him. I know this is not even close to why we walked all the way out here in the first place. My nerves are shot, thinking about it all. I don't know how much longer I can smile and pretend that my thoughts aren't racing a thousand miles an hour over this whole situation. 

"What brings you two out to the hanger this afternoon?" Tom asks, lacing his hands politely in front of him. Pete sits atop the desk now, looking just as interested to help as Tom does. 

"Mav, roster up," My father directs, cutting to the chase. His features are stern and even, leaving nothing to be deciphered through them. Maverick quirks a brow. 

"What?" Maverick asks with a cock of his head. 

"I'll explain when you're through," Dad waves his hand non committedly, "Roster up" 

"Bradshaw, Seresin, Tra-" 

"With first names, if you could, please, Maverick," My father interrupts with a mildly defeated sigh.

"Do you want them in alphabetical order too?" Pete asks, smirking. My father just shoots him one of those looks. Tom and I both bite back chuckles. Mine is nervous, Tom's is nothing but bright.

"Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Sersein," Maverick starts slow, pretending like he is trying to remember just to get further under my father's skin. He even counts them off on his fingers. "Natasha Trace, Rueben Fitch, Javy Machado. They are our main pilots, with Robert Floyd and Mickey Garcia as our main WSO's. We also have a backup team that we call in from other detachments if-"

"Robert Floyd," The words are directed at me, cutting Maverick off. He's spoken the name like an Epiphone. My father's eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised. "I told you there was no Rhett," 

"But I know what I saw, Dad, and Rhett is in that photograph," I counter back feeling defensive and confused, but I know what I saw. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, even as I bury my face in my hands. It shouldn't be this hard; Rhett is in that photograph, even if they want to fight me on it. I'd die on this hill. 

"Rhett?" Maverick interjects. A hand is placed on my shoulder. I pull my gaze from my hands. The hand belongs to Maverick. He's leaning towards Tom and I, hand on my shoulder to offer a sort of comfort. "Rhett Floyd? Bob's twin brother?" 

Consider me wrong... and dead. Dead wrong. 

"Oh, for fucks sake," My face is landing right back into my hands as I sink to the ground. The tension in my body is no longer enough to keep me standing. Pete is over the table in a second, sinking down to the floor next to me. Tom's hand is planted firmly over the lip of the tabletop above my head to keep me from smacking my skull against it. 

"Birdie?" Pete asks gently, putting his hand back onto my shoulder. I can't find the words or the heart to explain it all again. 

"This Bob," I sniffle, my voice still muffled by my hands, "Does he know Hagman?"

"Hangman" My father corrects. 

"Yeah, they know each other," Pete confirms, his voice softer than before. I lean my head against Tom's thigh as my father pulls a chair out to sit, to be closer to my level. 

"Want to tell us more, kid?" Tom's voice is low, gravely and it wraps around me like a warm wind. 

The words are stuck in my throat, the letters making a home in the folds of my vocal cords. I want to speak. I want to pick the words from the swollen flesh of my throat and piece them together in some sort of serial killer magazine cut-out letter for the world to read. Maybe they could print it in the paper. The carbon smudges and inky fingerprints could then find their way to Bob. To Jake. To Rhett. To the men who sit with me now and wait so patiently for me to put my own tongue on a plate for their sheer understanding. 

These men, Pete, Tom, and my father have taken so much grace with me and with this whirlwind of a shit show. Tears swim behind my eyelids, threatening to roll down my cheeks. My tongue is still at home behind my teeth, but somehow words are creeping up coated in bile and anxiety. 

"I met Jake and Rhett at the airport in Dallas this morning," I manage after a few moments. I've spread the whole interaction out in my brain, cutting pieces like I'm editing an old film reel. Cut this, keep that. If only there was a way to reshoot a scene, cut something better than the flimsy film I lived. I can't speak another word, instead I thread my fingers into the neck of my t-shirt. With an uneven sigh, I pull the neck down, revealing the sentence scrawled delicately across my collarbone.  

Oh, it's just Bob.

Tom doesn't look. I don't either, but my father and Pete are focused in on the ink. There's a beat of silence, like  everyone is holding their breath at the same time. Nobody dares say anything. I just burry my face in my hands again.

"And you've never heard this before?" Tom inquires, assessing all of the details. I can only shake my head no. My less than dignified response is met with hums of understanding. 

"Did it feel like this with you guys?" I ask the room, "So... fucked?" 

And then Pete laughs. He fucking laughs. There's the swift sound of a hand hitting the back of a head, and then Pete counters back with a groan. I can hear my father fighting back a giggle, but I don't pull my hands away to see anything. I can hear enough; the darkness of my caged fingers seems to be the only thing to keep the drowning feeling from taking over again. 

"Oh, kid, you've got no idea" Pete is chuckling again. No hand smack to the back of the head this time. That gets me to peek out from behind my fingers. "Picture this," Pete makes a dramatic gesture outwards with his hands, setting the scene, "It's 1986, night before we are to report to TOPGUN and Goose and I were at the O Club. It's a bar- and back then, people were smoking inside-"

"Get to the point, Captain," My father mutters. 

"Anyway, I'd know Goose for forever by that point. We were in that damn bar for the first time, talking like usual and he looks at me and goes You wanna know who the best is? and I swear all the color drained from my face in that moment. We had gone to that bar to let loose before training started and instead of getting to drink and relax, Goose had to mother me," 

I can't lie and say that Mav's story doesn't make me feel a bit better but all I can manage is a hum in acknowledgement. No more words come. 

"I had the pleasure of finding out moments before, that same night," Tom chimes in from above me, my head still laid against his thigh. "Slider, my RIO, found out that Mav and Goose slid into the class at the last second. I didn't have any idea that it would have turned out the way that it did. Not with my sentence."

"Hey, we did not slide in," Maverick's voice goes slightly tighter, laced with annoyance. 

"Sliders words, not mine, first of all. And second, Slider had pointed across the room and told me he had to go accost the new guys, then pointed to you and Goose. I'd known about Goose through Slider, but when I asked him who else he was going to torment he looked at me and said the hot brunette."

The laugh that escapes my lips catches us all off guard. My father is laughing too, right along with me. Tom joins in a second later, a chorus of laugher around a smug Maverick who's mumbling about still being hot. 

The wind shuffles through the large open door of the hanger, lukewarm by the time it reaches us. But Maverick's hand on my shoulder is warm, as is Tom's thigh beneath my cheek. My father looks at me as if I were the sun. His eyes not quite meeting my own. His narrow eyes crease the skin around them, a shallow biological attempt at reflecting some of my emotion right back at me. It's stifling, even under the abnormally chill of the fall evening as we are tucked into the back of the hanger. 

It's safe here, if only for a fleeting moment. My heart broke open next to my severed tongue, both resting atop a sliver platter. But these men are not vultures, they are not here for the taking. Instead, they are art restorers and surgeons and everything soft, comforting and warm. They serve only to take the broken and severed pieces of myself and repair them. To put them back into the cavernous spaces of my body that yearn to have them back. The same parts that yearn for bourbon, God, and Bob. 

And maybe that says something about me; the inability to keep my own broken parts together and how they cut into my skin when they were mine and mine only to hold. But here and now, these men holding pieces of me with gentle hands whilst they share pieces of themselves. It gives me hope. Hope that everything is going to be alright. It can be heard in the laughter. 

"Hey Dad, Pops, Cyclone and... stranger? What's all the laughing about, and why are you on the ground?" A new voice breaks us out of our haze of laughter. I'm wiping at my eyes, a bit startled at the presence of a new person. He's tall, mustache clad and pure muscle. He saunters over to us, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his flight suit. 

This man carries himself with the kind of confidence only overly cautious people exude.  Shoulders square but slumped in on himself. His steps have a small hang-up when he catches my eyes, a wariness stemming from somewhere unseen. Maybe it's the way I, a stranger, am triangulated between his superiors all too casually. 

"Hey Baby Goose," Mav greets him, warm crooked smile and squinted eyes. It's fonder than the smile I received. "What are you doing here?" The first questions from the stranger was dashed- but the nickname connects another set of dots in my brain. I look up at Tom and mouth Bradley? in silent question. It's met with a proud smile and a nod. I know of Bradley. Of course I know of Bradley. 

I know of him in the same way I know of Pete, little fragments of information in the back of my brain. He likes mustard, a lot. Has an affinity for terrible Hawaiian shirts. Flies just like Mav, though Tom only admitted that after he'd been awake for a little over thirty hours. An ex college baseball player, and a current baseball fanatic. Bradley Bradshaw is Tom Kazansky's pride and joy. 

"I'm here for the hop you schedualed," Bradley says like it's obvious knowledge, "Oh, and Hangman made it back this morning. He's in the locker room getting changed. I think I saw Phoenix and Bob pull in too," 

"The hop?" Tom asks.

"The hop?" Pete asks too, a little more urgently. Those two little words are bathed in question and a bit of panic. 

"Yeah... The hop that you schedualed? Are you okay, Mav?" Bradley asks, eyes focused on Pete. The older man just nods, his eyes darting around like he's trying to remember scheduling the hop in the first place. 

"He's fine, Baby Goose," Tom reassures his son, but doesn't clue him in to anything else. 

"Bob is here?" My father asks, suddenly swerving the conversation in a whole new direction. Of course my father would be the one to speak up about the fact turned issue that we all clocked the moment the words left Bradley's lips. Ever the mediator and coraller of the vagary, Cyclone makes my business his business, even more than it already had been. My father's always been able to make sense of the world, even when I can barely tell left from right. 

And right now, left abandoned me somewhere between the airport and the gate to base. No doubt forgotten like a wallet in between the seats of the taxi. Right, as far as I'm concerned, has achieved sentience and think's it's main objective is to tell up or down apart and its bad at it's job. 

"Yes, Bob is here. Everyone should be here this evening. Are you here to observe the hop, Admiral?" There is a confusion to Bradley's voice. It sounds like he is doing his best to act casual, yet professional in front of his superiors. 

"Not exactly, Lieutenant Bradshaw," My father sighs, pointing a finger towards me, "The woman between your fathers is my daughter Birdie, and we are..." He trails off, trying to find the words. With a roll of my eyes, I stick my hands out in an attempt to ask for help getting to get to my feet. Bradley takes the hint, stepping forward to grasp my hands and pull me up from the ground.  

This close, Bradley is all tepid touches and musk. A small hickey peaks out from under the collar of his flight suit, but it looks like it was made half hearted- left pink and speckled rather than bruised dark and purple with passion. Bradley holds my hand an extra second or two, maybe longer. I'm lost in the pattern of his skin for a moment as he steadies me on my feet. 

A squeeze of my hands before he releases them brings me back around. 

"Thanks, Bradley," My soft smile is met with his confused look. Eyebrows are dropped low over narrowed eyes. 

"How do you know my name?"  The question is clipped short by the tightening of his throat.Definitely anxiety masked as confidence. 

"I know a lot about you, Bradley," I chuckle. As stressed out as I am, even with the run down feeling weighing at my shoulders I still find it somewhere within me to make jokes. "Tell me, Bradley, do you still have that blanket with the awful duck pattern all over it?"

I watch Bradley's eyes go wide, mouth falling open. There's stunned, there's scared, and then there is whatever look Bradley Bradshaw is giving me right now. I'm barely keeping it together, but Tom and Pete are losing it. Big, loud laughter fills the air. 

"They're," Is all Bradley can manage after a moment, his eyes scanning my face feverishly, "...geese"

The look on his face is good, but the worry flashing behind his eyes makes me ease up. 

"Oh my God, I'm sorry! I'm friends with Tom! He likes to talk about you, a lot, and I saw my chance to fuck with you and I took it, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you!" I finally apologize, the look on Bradley's face becoming too much to take. I do giggle, though.

Bradley looks over my shoulder at Tom with narrow eyes, "I hate you, for the record," 

"I know you do," 

"Who do we hate?" Fuck, I know that voice. I recoil a bit at it, my face scrunching up as far as it can. I bristle but I stand strong.

"My Pops," There's faux anger in Bradley's voice, "He's letting his friends use personal information against me," 

"Oh, in that case, I'm sure you deserve it, Roos," Jake jokes, "Who's the-" Then his eyes meet mine as he appears from behind Bradley. "Birdie!?" 

"Wait, you're Rooster?" The nickname clicks. 

Bradley exclaims at the same time, "You're Birdie?!"

"God, this world is too fucking small!" I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. I turn to look at Pete and Tom. Tom shrugs while Pete just chuckles on. It's like they both know, or knew, something I don't and are basking in the pure knowledge of it. 

"You okay, Birdie?" My father asks, pushing himself up from his seat. 

"I'm okay, Dad," I reassure him. He lowers his voice when he gets closer, asking again if I'm really okay. I shrug, but nod, doing my best to flash him my most convincing smile. 

"You're Cyclone's kid? Cyclone's Birdie?" Bradley asks, "The woman Jake met this morning?" I nod in acknowledgment, my smile faltering. "Oh my God, that means you're Bob's-!" Bradley's words are halted by a swift elbow to the ribs. I swear I can feel the pain of it too, radiating somewhere between my ribs. Maybe it's just the anxiety. 

"You told him?" 

"I did, I'm sorry,"  Jake starts, almost tripping over his words. "Can we talk? Privately?" 

"We better," I counter back, no venom but all bite. Jake and I break away from the group, walking away from the classroom set up. Eyes linger on us for only a moment. The lukewarm air blowing in from the open hanger door is cooling the closer we get to the exit. He takes me by the elbow, leading me out of the hanger and down the sidewalk. We finally stop between the hanger and another small building near the gate to the airfield. 

TAGLIST

The picture stared down at Bradley from it's place atop the mantle. The golden frame highlighting a photograph he's never seen before. Not that he would have. After all, this is Jake's family's house and he is just a last minute addition to the festivities. 

Jake all but drug Bradley down to Texas with him, after Maverick and Ice got pulled to the Pentagon for the week of Christmas, pulling both the rug and their plans out from underneath them. So, Maverick and Iceman packed up their dress uniforms and hauled themselves across the country. When Jake got word that Bradley would be the only Dagger not spending the holiday with family, he knew his Mother would have his head if he didn't bring the mustached pilot along with him. 

Now, Bradley stands semi-awkwardly in a cozy living room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The air smells of warm vanilla and fresh pine trees, the Christmas tree decorated to the nines in the corner of the room. There are six presents under the tree, far less than Rooster had been expecting when he walked into the room. The lights twinkle, lighting up the room and fighting off the darkness creeping in through the windows.

Though Bradley keeps trying to look anywhere else, his eyes keep snagging on that damn photograph. There's something about the way Hangman looks in it, smile wide as he looks up at a woman, well, more of a girl really. She's sat in a tree, body tucked into the spaces between a couple of curing limbs of the large oak. Jake's younger in the photograph too, maybe twelve years or so. His hair is longer, the back curling around his neck gently, the top threatening to fall into his eyes. Even though the photograph is black and white, Bradley can still see that damn sparkle in Jake's green eyes. 

The girl smiles down at him with so much adoration in her features and it hits Bradley straight in the chest. It's one of those looks that his mother used to give his father, and the way Maverick and Ice look at each other when they think no one is around to see them. Her smile is so damn big, her cheeks round and hued. 

A cowboy hat is held loosely between her fingertips, laying over Jake's chest. He leans back against the tree, bracketed by her legs. Her other hand is wrapped around a branch, keeping her body firmly in place as she leans out just slightly to get a better look at her counterpart. Jake, on the other hand, just has his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, thumbs hanging loosely over the edge of the pockets. 

Though every photograph is a piece of time captured, this photograph seems to hold so much more. Like the moment had been frozen just so, existing more than just to be photographed but because they actually wanted to be there, wrapped up in each other. 

The heat from the fireplace spreads over Bradley, soaking in through his clothes. There is no snow in Texas, but there is a bite to the air that he hasn't been able to shake since he walked off of the plane. It's a far cry from a California winter, but this house is far cozier than his back home. He'd forgone decorating, fully prepared to be at his Dad and Pop's place, and their decorations had been up since the week of Thanksgiving. 

"What's caught your eye, Sailor?" The sound of Sarah's voice makes Bradley practically jump out of his skin. Sarah, Jake's older sister, holds a plate of plastic wrap covered cookies in her hands, a grin firmly fixed to her lips. It's that signature Seresin grin that Bradley has come to recognize all too easy. 

"Aviator, actually," The answer is sheepish, Bradley still reeling with the feeling of being caught looking at something he shouldn't, even though the photograph is proudly displayed on the mantle place. 

"I know, I'm just bustin' your balls, kid," Sarah shoots back, her voice nothing but kind. She sets the plate of cookies down on the coffee table before turning her attention back to a cherry red Bradley. "Do you think Jake would let us forget that little distinction?" 

The little laugh that leaves Bradley's lips almost surprises him, "No. I don't think he would."

"Seems you wouldn't either, Brad," She nudges him with her elbow, taking up place next to him in front of the fire. "Which one of these oldies caught your eye?" 

The wall above the mantle, as well as the mantle place itself is absolutely covered in photographs. They are all mixed together, frames and sizes, ranging from faded with age to almost new. The pair stand in front of the fire for another beat, taking in the heat from the crackling flames as their eyes trace over the photographs. It's then that Bradley begins to find that same girl, again and again, over and over. He's almost dizzy from the way his eyes snap between photographs. 

"Oh, what are we lookin' at?" Another woman's voice calls from behind Bradley, same as before. This time, it's Jake's little sister Anna. She bubbles into the room, choosing to stand in front of the fire on Bradley's other side. "God, the photo wall. I swear, Mama's lucky our family is small or she'd run out of room up there," 

The women share a giggle, the sound washing over Bradley in the way Natasha's does. It's all warmth and comfort, the sound of friendship withstanding the test of time. Bradley doesn't laugh, however. He is too stuck looking at photographs of Hangman and the way he lights up the fucking world when he looks at that girl. It makes the pang in his chest hit just a bit harder when he thinks for just a little bit too long. He's never seen Jake smile like that. Not in photographs, not in person. Hell, even when they made it back from the Uranium mission, Jake didn't smile like that. God, there was a bit of pain in his smile, something Bradley still has never been able to place. That smile had been all grateful and surviving, lined with a thin stroke of aching that Bradley just can't fucking shake. 

"This one is one of my favorites," Anna points a well polished fingernail up to a small square frame on the wall. Inside, Sarah, Anna, and that mystery girl are all lined up. Sarah and Anna are dressed in formal gowns, deep sea green with hemlines that hit the floor. Their Seresin blonde hair is pinned up from their shoulders, makeup sparkling in the sunlight. The mystery girl is squished between them, her dress stark white and absolutely glittering from all of the sequins. Her hair is down in curls. Her makeup is done but hard to see with her eyes squeezed closed, whole expression broke out in a laugh. Sarah and Anna are laughing too, though their faces are less scrunched up. 

"Oh my god, mine too," Sarah laughs, her nose wrinkling a bit. "It was a beautiful wedding, and we got so many pictures but Mama had to hang that one up! Look at me, why is my mouth open so far?" The girls are laughing harder, each grabbing a light hold of Bradley to keep steady. 

"Well, at least you aren't blurry!" Anna shoots back, her body slightly hunched over. 

Bradley is just about to ask who's wedding it was when Sarah thrusts her finger towards another picture. 

"Look, the proposal photo is just as silly. Jake's hands are practically covering up Pip's face!" The girls are laughing again, both still clutching at Bradley's frame. He just leans closer to the photo, trying to get a better look, one with less glare. It doesn't help, really, the photo out of focus anyway. Jake can be made out, standing behind a girl with his hands covering her eyes, well, most of her face, save for her smile. Her fingers are wrapped around his wrists, looking like she's trying to pull Jake's hands from her eyes. 

"With how blurry it is, we're lucky we can even tell it's them!" Anna all but howls, wiping at her waterlines with her fingertips as carefully as she can. 

"Do you think Mama knows that she picks the worst photos?" Sarah inquires, finally releasing her grip from Bradley's sleeve. 

"I think they're nice," Bradley stutters out, his voice so low it almost gets lost in the crackling of the fireplace. "Who is that, anyway?"

He first chances a look to his left, only to wish he hadn't. Anna looks up at him, a look of pain crossing behind her eyes, only to bleed out over he features even as much she tries to hide it. Though, it quickly mixes with anger, and she's spitting out words before Bradley can even decipher the expression that she's settled on. 

"That's Pip," She informs him, like that information should be clear as day to him. "Are you blind or something, Bradshaw?" 

Bradley's eyes jump over to Sarah in a silent beg for help. He feels like a deer caught in the headlights, or maybe how grandma felt just before her ass was grass at the hands of Rudolf himself. 

"No, not blind," Bradley's tongue finally falls on the words, though they taste a bit off on his tongue, "I just don't recognize someone I've never seen before. Hell, I didn't even... I guess I just hadn't... Jake is married?" 

The air is sucked out of the room as soon as the fully formed question leaves his lips. Suddenly Bradley feels too hot in front of the fire, or maybe he's too hot from the heated look that Anna is sending his direction. Either way, he feels all sweaty under his Henley, suddenly wishing for that almost forgotten chill of the Texas winter air. He takes a step back away from the fire. And then another. The looks he's getting from the Seresin girls are polarizing. Anna looks almost furious, while Sarah's brows are scrunched together, eyes wandering like she is trying to put a puzzle together in her mind. 

Anna steps forward, ready to spit another harsh word Bradley's way, but Sarah catches her by the wrist. The squeeze on Anna's wrist is enough to keep her quiet for just a second longer, long enough for Sarah to get a sentence out,"

"Bradley," His eyes snap back to meet hers, "Has Jake ever mentioned Pippa?" 

The air has slowly begun to enter the room again, but Bradley doesn't trust his tongue. It's like being back at the academy again, throat dry while he stands at attention waiting for his uniform inspection. So, Bradley just shakes his head back and fourth a couple of times, firm in his 'no'. He watches as Anna's eyes begin to swim, then as she is quickly folded into her older sister's embrace. Her hand is quickly cradling the nape of Anna's neck, Anna's face tucked right into Sarah's shoulder. 

"So, you have no idea who Pippa is. Or that Jake was married?" A small, wet sob is muffled by the material of Sarah's sweater. Her hand runs over Anna's now shaking frame, her own eyes swimming. But she manages to hold it together, keeping her eyes locked with Bradley's. 

"Was?" Bradley manages to ask, all but choking out the one word. 

The front door slams shut a second later, making the trio jump. There is so much tension in the air, swirling with confusion it's almost stifling. 

"Hello Family! Hey Bradshaw, how are you holding-" Jake rounds the corner, only to be met with Bradley's startled expression and Sarah's angry, watery eyes. Anna is still folded into her big sister's arms, crying gently. "Up..." The last word slips from Jake's lips, his head tilting to the side out of confusion. "Is everything okay?" 

"Jake Seresin," Sarah starts, more hurt than venom in her voice, but it still makes Jake's heart beat a little faster. "When did you stop talking about Pippa?" 

The name makes his heart twist, but the question has his stomach dropping to his knees. He flounders, mouth opening and closing, never settling on a response. 

"Hangman?" Bradley tries, but the older man still doesn't meet his eyes. 

"You know what, I've gotta," Jake hooks a thumb behind him, "I gotta run into town," He turns on his heel, ready to head back the way he came just moments before. 

"Jacob Morris, don't you dare take another step," His shoulders slump at his sister's warning, but he does stop. "Bradley, sit down. You too, Jake," Sarah has gone into full big sister mode now. Bradley listens first, stepping around the coffee table to take a seat on the couch. Jake plops down onto one of the arm chairs a moment later, but refuses to meet his eye. Then, Sarah settles Anna into the matching arm chair before turning to her brother with her hands on her hips. 

"So," She begins, hurt in her voice, "Are you going to tell you wingman about your wife, or am I?" 

That sentence broke the flood gates, tears falling down each of the sibling's cheeks while Bradley just sat there in the salty silence. 

"I met Pip when we were eighteen," Jake croaks out, eyes still glued to the floor in front of his boots. "She was my everything. God, she had the best spirit. So full of love, and she lit up every room. I know everyone says that, but there was just something about her, everyone took notice. I don't know why, but she picked me. We got married at twenty, right before I shipped off to the Academy. Leaving her behind was the hardest thing I ever did. Then, after flight school, she moved out to NSA Pensacola with me. We got our first real go at it, you know, the whole being married thing," 

Bradley hangs onto every word. Each one slow spoken and fully of pain, but he takes them in anyway. 

"You know, they say my call sign is due to my flying. Always leaving people hanging in the air, in the battle. But that's not true," A hollow laugh leaves the depths of Jake's chest, "It was because I left everyone hanging at the bar to go home and call Pip before she went to bed. Then it stuck because I would leave right after hops to go home to her. She was my everything. Nothing else mattered to me. It was her and flying and right back to her," 

Jake gets a little choked up, so Sarah squeezes his shoulder. A sign of support. 

"When we were twenty six, she came home for Thanksgiving. I was stuck out in the middle of the fucking ocean, so she came home to spend the holiday with family. I told her to, God, I told her to. She always said she missed being in Texas, and we were in Maryland by then. So I told her to drive home for it. Spend as much time as she could here while I was gone."

Tears are slick over Jake's reddened cheeks, hot from crying. He takes another deep, jagged breath before continuing. 

"She was killed by a drunk driver a few miles from here. She made that whole drive without a single hiccup, only for some dickhead from a town over to get behind the wheel while shitfaced. I uhh..." The sobs hit him harder, too hard for him to continue to speak. 

"The Navy couldn't get word to him for days," Sarah explains, "Communication went dark for their mission a few days before. It was out of all our hands. We waited until she was home to scatter her ashes," 

Jake grips the chain of his dog tags at her words, "Not all of 'em," He pulls them free from his shirt, a small, steal vile hanging beside them. "I still got a piece of her with me, right next to my heart," Then he takes his sister's hand from where it sits atop his shoulder. He squeezes it gently. 

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything, Rooster. I just, I guess... " Jake takes another jagged breath, "After Pip died, I got bad. I became reckless, started truly living up to my callsign. Thought if I left people hanging in the air, I might get back to her faster," 

The admission pulls small gasps from his sisters, as well as a deep pang from Bradley's chest. He gets it, he really does. Bradley is the other side of the coin, being careful, too careful. Stuck hoping that if he holds back just a little longer, he will actually be just a second too late, a second closer to seeing his parents again. 

Anna reaches a hand out to Jake, and he takes it in his free hand, the trio leaning on each other for support. No doubt in the same way they have had for years now. The sight reminds Bradley of Maverick, Ice, and his Mom. How they used to hold each other up after Goose died. The look the sisters share being so close to the way his Dad and Pops looked at each other after his Mom died. Bradley sees so much of his own life here in this little room. 

"Stand up," Bradley almost orders, though his words are still on the side of kind. The lack of context makes Jake finally meet Bradley's face. 

"What?" The blond asks through stray tears. 

"Stand up, Hangman," And so he does. Bradley pushes himself from the couch, and in two strides is wrapping Jake in his arms. His wingman doesn't flinch away like he was expecting, instead, the blond wraps his own arms around Bradley. 

"Thank you for telling me, Jake," Bradley starts, keeping his voice as even as he can. "I, I think you need to hear something, though," 

"I already know I'm a fucking idiot, Rooster," Jake mumbles into his shoulder, the cotton slowly dampening. 

"No, it's something Mav used to say to me after my parents died," Jake nods at that, so Bradley continues. "Mav used to say, I know things are hard without them, but you've gotta keep living, because you've gotta have stories to tell them when you meet again," 

"And part of that living, Jake, is talking about your loved ones, present and lost," Sarah interjects, but Bradley nods in agreement. 

"I guess you're right," Jake admits as he pulls back from Bradley's embrace to look at him and his sisters. "I should talk about her,"

"Yes, you should" Anna squeaks out, wiping the tear tracks from her cheeks. 

They say it's about the journey, the destination itself nothing more than an ending, all the importance found in the steps it takes to get there. But really, it's the destination itself that holds the meaning. After all, if that wasn't the case, the destination wouldn't come with a soul crushing grip, fingers digging into the folds of my lungs just to starve out the capacity for air. 

The journey's memories would not be left with inky smears of fingerprints, the clarity nothing more than the orange tinted, overexposed film and the whirring of a projector still clicking though no more film is passing through. Nothing left but the flickering light of the present, the whirring akin to blood rushing over ear drums. 

Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom.

And this in and of itself is death. Squinting through the glaring light that is now I can see the curve of his lips, the way they give frame to perfect teeth and a tongue that has done nothing but speak promises that his hands have kept. And his hands are gentle. They are clean. They have guided me, unseeing, through the journey of the last year. 

It's been months through screens. Fingers hovering over buttons. The decision of to call or not to call. Messages collecting in inboxes and photos of moments I never had the hope of being a part of. It's better than our mother's had, or their mother's before them. Crackling phone lines and tear soaked stationary from wars past. Though the story has been the same, it has always been the same. And the story is this: man fights for his country, for his love, for his honor, for the women behind them and the men standing at his shoulders. They fight for dignity, out of duty, out of order and for a future they have no hope of seeing. That is not to say that they won't make it out alive, that they won't come home. No, it is to say that they are leaving a legacy, moving pieces of a chest board from which the game was erected at the turn of the first war and shall be played until the end of the last. 

Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. 

And what are we? The women who stand behind them. The women, the families, the love that stands behind them as they fight for dignity, out of duty and out of order as they search for their honor. Tear drops on stationary, kisses pressed to closed envelopes spritzed with perfume. We are crackling voices through barely connected telephone lines. We are the viewers of the photographs and the "likes" on social media, the wish you were here comments and the well wishes from worlds away. We are the same as every woman that has come before us. In love with a Soldier, an Airman, a Seaman, a Marine who's gaze is forward. 

You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one, and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly. 

From NAS Pensacola, to just east at NAS Jacksonville. Jacksonville turned to NAS Yorktown which gave way to Miramar in the way the coast gives way to the waves. The letters came in sparser than the phone calls ever did, but maybe that's what did me in. That last letter, an acknowledgement of life in the wake of something horrible having been prevented that now sinks below the horizon, down, down, down. 

It's always my own breathing, my own heartbeat. After all, I am still alone, even if he is alive and well. He stands an ocean and a world away. It's always my breathing. 

She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.

She follows the letter down, down...

Blackout. A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling, sounds of vertigo.

Sounds of breathing.

The Hard Deck on a sunny evening is all rich wood and the stark smell of the ocean, the windows pushed open to invite the fleeting warmth into the bar. I haven't made it further than the front stair case; Jake Seresin's smiles, an invite and a warning all at once though it isn't directed towards me. He doesn't even know I'm here, and I could keep it that way. I could run now, I could leave, deal with everything over the phone and through ink strokes of dying fountain pens in the same way we have been dealing with everything for months. 

I can at least be neat. Walk out and be seen as clean. 

The thing is this, Jake is home. Here at the Hard Deck, on the beach in Miramar, California surrounded by his squad, his newly minted and now permanent squad. The Daggers, the name fitting the feeling that the news pushes into the space between my ribs. An ache lives there now, unrelenting and dangerous. A reminder that the journey, our journey, has found the light at the end of the tunnel, and it's a train heading straight for us. We stood no chance, not with out feet planted firmly on the tracks. 

The shame of being seen consumes me. 

I know the look that will streak across his eyes before that smile lands full and glistening on his lips. I know that look of happiness, the one that is unburdened and surviving though it shouldn't. A smile that knows nothing of the pain looming around the corner, the dagger still stuck in my side and the way that I have been tracking blood behind me, droplets splattering crimson sick on the pavement as I limp out from hiding. He's not going to notice the way my skin is still slick with blood or the way the proverbial handle still hangs from it's new sheath between my ribs. It's red ink under his rose colored glasses. 

I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone.

Though it wasn't a choice he made, at least, it hasn't been since he agreed to this job in the first place. The moment that ink dried on his contact, royal blue and officially binding, it hasn't been his choice. Not really. And maybe somewhere along the line I got tangled up in it all. In the kindness of his words that snuck out from his cocky grin and the way his eyes raked over the unbroken skin of my body and claimed it as land to tend. Maybe my heart has always been in my hands; why he has shielded me from the horrors of the world with his own body, even before he had a chance to see them with his own eyes. Maybe he knew my skin was supposed to stay unbroken. 

Maybe it wasn't. 

But either way, I still bleed now. And Jake still wears the rose colored glasses that come along with survival like this. A second chance at life, he declared proudly over the phone no less than a week ago, a chuckle laced in his voice in a shallow attempt to hide his utter bafflement. He wasn't supposed to make it back from this one, no matter the promises his Captain made. Jake's tone worn thin over the phone like he knew it was the end. He wasn't supposed to make it back. Our story was supposed to end there, my own body on the other side of the railroad crossing while Jake fell gallantly from the sky; a blaze of glory and red hot heat. 

But now he's home. Home, home, home. 

That's the whistle of the oncoming freight train, a warning call. 

It’s not enough nearly to survive. One needs to flourish.

I push into the bar, squaring my shoulders with my chin held high. There is no white flag here, no surrender. If one of us must fall from the sky, all burning red heat and glory, I guess it's going to be me. 

To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light.

I know the look that's coming, the look that will dash across his eyes and the smile that will bloom. Worse yet, I know the look that will succeed his smile. That look where he will square his jaw and narrow his eyes, batting down the hatches to make sure no sense of hurt will make it through. 

The hurt will make it though his eyes anyway. The cracks in his facade akin to the humanity he wishes he could keep from display. Hangman: a persona to keep emotions at an arms length though they already has a noose securely around his neck. I can see it in the pinprick tears collecting in the corners of his eyes even as he lifts his chin up; a Tarantino tilt of the head.  

He spots me, eyes going wide as his smile. "Oh my god, Sweetheart, what are you doing here?" The sight of him in all his blond hair, blue eyed glory gives me pause. God, he is beautiful. He is beautiful, with kind hands that have guided me through these last few months and now, this moment will be the last time I truly get to appreciate it. 

Those kind hands are working their way around my frame as he pulls me into his chest. He bleeds warmth, and for a moment I wonder if he can feel how much blood I've already lost, if it's wet against his palm as he grazed over my ribs. I wonder if he can feel it, and if it would still be warm. Warm with the feeling of me, and the love that I have for him. God, I love him so. 

There can be no friendship with someone I am not ready to betray. 

It's in this moment that I know, with his hands wrapped around me and my cheek pressed against the heat of his chest as his heart beats thickly in my ear, Jake Seresin is my best friend. He is my best friend and he doesn't know I'm bleeding out. 

The train is getting impossibly closer, now. It's horn blaring in my ears so loud it's giving me vertigo. I sway a bit in Jake's arms; he grips me impossibly tighter- I begin to hemorrhage. 

"Oh, Sweetheart, I am so glad you're here. If I would've known you were coming, I would've picked you up! I can't believe you didn't tell me you were coming! Jeez, I can't believe you are here, Sweetheart, really. God, you feel good," Jake's words come uninterrupted, punctuated with another squeeze of his arms. 

"Yeah... I'm," The words come out muffled against his chest, though it sounds like my own voice is a million miles away, "I'm here." 

A moment more passes gently, stuck in the confines of his embrace before he pulls back. His eyes meet mine for a moment, stark blue in the way the the flag is, embedded with stars and glory and a weight I can not even imagine- before they are flicking back up to his squad.

And it's in this moment where I realize that Jake Seresin may love me, and I may love him, but there is no blood left in me. I have nothing left to bleed, only words to bare. There is only desperation on my tongue to beg the man before me to love me more than he loves his own glory, his own noble sacrifice, and his country. 

Let me be very clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered. 

I will be slaughtered too, whether it be from the knife still stuck in my side or the incoming train, I will be flayed open under the hot California sun for the world to see. 

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly. 

And yet, it will be okay, because I will be seen. Jake Seresin will see me, unclean and unkempt, void of blood and tears, the only thing left over will be the ghost of us and all the love that I still have left to give. Atoms cannot cease to be- I think my love for him is one in the same. 

I hope death is like being carried to your bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room. 

"Can we step outside?" I peer up at him, my chin pressed to his sternum. Truth be told, I look past him, over the prominence of his brow bone and up to the planks of the ceiling. It's easier to take a hostage when you don't have to look them in the eye.  For a moment I wonder if I should have feared getting blood on him to begin with, but knowing he himself could not feel it even as it coated his own palms helps me guide him from the audience of his friends. His wrist held loosely in my grasp until we've made it to the sand. For a moment I almost forget to let go. 

Of course love is still there. Still, still, still. 

There is a sort of sticky sweetness in the cavern of my chest now as I stand next to him. Maybe it's been there this whole time, encasing  my heart and thickness of it's beating. Jake wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side with gentle hands. He hums with contentment, fingers brushing over my arm. 

"I can't believe you're here," Jake still looks at the sky, the horizon line drawing his eye. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?" 

My heart stutters in my chest. What am I doing here? My eyes catch the horizon too, as I pull the proverbial blade from it's place between my ribs. It too is sticky sweet with blood and smeared fingerprints. 

I write my own deliverance. 

The words are written on my tongue in bile. My hands shake. I shove them into my pockets, eyeline still stuck on the orange of the setting sun. It's warmth accompanies Jake's, sinking into my hollow corpse. Again I threaten to sway under the momentum of the moment. This is it. The ending.

"I came to say goodbye," They are not the correct words, the letters all jumbled up and ill-fitting in my mouth. "I came to wish you well." He turns his chin down to me, eyebrows knit together in confusion. 

"Goodbye?" The word rakes itself out of his throat, all gravel and uncertainty. His hold tightens on my shoulders, just a little, pulling me tighter into his side. Heat continues to roll off his frame. My hands form fists in the confines of my pockets, an attempt at clutching this moment before it  slips past. 

"Yeah, I mean..." There's a pause. Breathing room. A forcing of air in and out of my lungs. Jake doesn't seem to breathe at all. "This is it, isn't it?" 

"What could you possibly mean by that?" His gaze meets mine for the first time, steady and unyielding.  Suddenly I am aware of just how much blue surrounds me now. From my cheap cardigan, littered with holes that still manages to fight off the chill of the breeze to the royal of the ocean waves. The sky is azure too, melting into orange and pink hues that will give way to the vast deep navy of the night. But there is nothing more royal that of Jake's irises. Still weighty with stars and glory, but reflecting my own strangled feelings back at me. The destination grips my lungs just a little bit harder, the train wheels squealing against the tracks, but it's too late now. 

Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, too tight, and everything my eyes see is blue then, too. "I came to say goodbye, so you could continue your life, you know,?" I shrug vaguely, hoping he will get the idea, "Like really continue your life here, settle down. This is your home base now, and your family is in there. I'm not really sure what else you'd be expecting to happen right now." 

The words pour out of me, not crossing my brain before they leave my tongue. A strangled sound of confusion leave Jake's lips as his arm slips from it's place around my shoulders. The chill gets in after that, right down to my bones. 

"I-" The words catch. I hold my breath waiting for a moment, then another, then another. Jake breathes deeply now, forcefully. Taking each beath deep into his lungs like it's painful. I continue to hold my breath. 

The spot between my ribs, now void of proverbial blade still aches, but now with more loneliness and finality than strikes of pain. A fact dawns on me in that moment, as my lungs  burn for air, watching Jake's jaw stutter with upspoken words. Maybe this wasn't supposed to be an ending. Not like this, maybe not at all. 

You are a burning house that I want to live in. 

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" With Jake's unsure words, I manage an uneasy breathe. My lungs feel aflame with new oxygen. My eyes meet the sand, my dirty sneakers looking out of place next to Jake's nice leather boots. I can't help the almost chuckle that escapes my lips, it comes out as more of a grimace. 

It occurs to me that maybe Jake has no idea about just how much I'm falling apart. Just like my mother, and her mother before her. Loving men from afar as they fight- Soldiers, Airman, Seaman, and Marines. The shock of it all ricochets through me; a generational pain that is now mine to hold. 

The splendid thing about falling apart silently... is that you can start over as many times as you like.

"If you're saying what I think you're implying here, I need you to say it out loud," Jake breaks through the fog of it all, his voice stern and commanding. It sends a shiver down my spine. I have never seen him like this, burning so fiercely with love and it makes the sticky sweetness of my insides warm. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, I need you to say it. I need you to say the words out loud for both of us to hear, because I need to hear that goodbye if you're going to walk away from me. Oh God, Sweetheart, please don't walk away now,"

"When you were on that ship," I kick some sand with the toe of my shoe, a neat little pile of it forming in front of me, "When you called, I didn't think you were coming back, and now that you're here, you're alive... God, you're alive... I just thought that I'd be holding you back. I mean, if we kept this going, there would always be something dragging you backwards, and I don't want to drag you back, Jake. But, I also can't do it like this anymore. Our relationship has been spent through phone calls and letters and I don't think we've spent more than three days consecutive together, ever," 

"I am so fucking glad that you are alive," I can't help but laugh, the pressure a little less crushing, "But we are both worth more than this," 

When I finally gather the courage to look up, Jake's eyes are already on me, running over my features so slow like he's working on memorizing them. I have so much more to say, so many words that wouldn't fit on the collage ruled paper or in the textbox of a message.  All of these words just begging to escape from behind my tongue. 

"I love you," I blurt out, eyes linked with his blues, unhindered and unbashful. "God, I fucking love you, and I can't believe I'm saying it for the first time now, not over the goddamn phone, and we are on the periphery of a fucking ending," 

"It's only an ending if you call it as such," Jake reaches for my hand. I extract them from the their denim confines and let them slip into his. "Because I am not fucking walking away. Do you think that I would?" 

What a question. What a loaded fucking question. 

"No," I answer honestly, "Not on purpose, but I know the fight is always in front of you, and that leaves me in the rearview, and I am not going to ask you to give up that, to give up all of this, for me. You have a family here, now, even if you don't want to use that word. Those folks in there, the people you almost fucking died with, those are your people forever, now. They are who you have to fight with, and fight for."

"Yes, they are my family, but that doesn't mean that you aren't anymore," Jake squeezes my hands, pulling me just a little closer. 

"Anymore?" I barely hear my own voice, but I do feel the tears welling up in my eyes. "Have I been your family before now? Before this moment, before you almost died?" 

"Of course you have," Jake chokes down a chuckle. "You are my person, my home, and I want you here, here with me,"

"But what about everything that comes next. The next time you have to go somewhere in the middle of the ocean to fight an unknown battle, with enemies who are just trying to do the same thing. Everyone is just fighting to stay alive, to get home, what then?" 

"Who do you think I was fighting so hard to get back to?" Tears fall from my eyes at his words, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks. "Who do you think I will continue to fight to get back to? Sweetheart, I will dogfight my way out of anything if that means making it back to you," Thumbs swipe at my tears as he leans in, pressing his lips over mine. A welcome home and a goodbye all in one, but not a goodbye from one another, but from the people we used to be. 

Death frees us from the torment of parting. 

And so the train passes, I remain un-flayed to the world and Jake didn't go out in a blaze of glory and red hot heat. I may have bled out, but that dagger was never mine to carry- even if we were both fighting to get back to each other. And maybe a part of us died there, on that beach, our lips pressed together as Jake breathed life back into me. It's a death, but not one of finality, because If you're lucky, you die many times before you ever really do.

----

QUOTE CREDIT

Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom. - David Wojnarowicz

I can at least be neat. Walk out and be seen as clean. - A burning Hill - Mitski 

"She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.

She follows the letter down, down...

Blackout. A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling, sounds of vertigo.

Sounds of breathing."

― Sarah Ruhl, 

Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. - Hamilton 

"You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one, and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly." - President Eisenhower in April 1954 

The shame of being seen consumes me. - Cynthia Cruz from  diagnosis, The Glimmering Room

I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone. - Matchbox 20

There can be no friendship with someone I am not ready to betray. -slavoj zizek 

Let me be very clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered. - anecdote of the pig, tory adkisson

I hope death is like being carried to you bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room. - lilies abounded

It’s not enough nearly to survive. One needs to flourish. - Jack Tanner, The Source of Dreams, When Human Imagination Died

To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light - rainer maria rilke

I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly. - Anne Sexton, A self portrait in letters.  

Of course love is still there. Still, still, still. - unknown, tumblr

Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. - Halsey 

You are a burning house that I want to live in. - unknown, tumblr 

“The splendid thing about falling apart silently... is that you can start over as many times as you like.” ― Sanober Khan, 

If you're lucky, you die many times before you ever really do. - Jake Weasley Rogers. 

Death frees us from the torment of parting. lighthousekeeping, jeanette winterson