Chapter Text
Jake rolled his shoulders back, unable to shake the pinch between his shoulder blades, or the strange heat along the nape of his neck that seemed almost to trickle down his spine. It felt like the hairs on the back of his neck should be rising; like he needed to look over his shoulder to double check he wasn’t being followed.
“ID, please,” the agent said tiredly, and Jake grimaced at the visible tremor in his hand as he passed it over. The agent didn’t seem to take notice of it, just scanning the card beneath the waiting red light, eyeing the screen, and passing it back again.
Jake was already toeing his sneakers off as he headed towards the next step. It all felt like being processed into a prison, not that he’d ever experienced that outside of movies and TV shows. It was all so brutalist and cold, while also being far too intimate—all these people, all the voices overlapping in a constant buzz in his ears, all the bodies nearby warm and sweaty.
The one thing he could control in a place like this was his own behavior. He could be the perfect passenger if nothing else. He could arrive precisely two hours before his flight, wear the right clothing to not need to do anything but slip his shoes off to go through the scanner, he could have his damn liquids in the right-sized bag, and he could get through all this shit and have his ass in a seat at his gate without any extra fuss.
He checked his watch. Eight thirty. Security had taken forty-five minutes. His head was starting to pound without his usual seven A.M. coffee, but he knew that the caffeine would do more harm than good today and just amplify everything he was already feeling. He didn’t need to be extra shaky, and he definitely didn’t want to rule out the possibility of dozing on the flight. He usually couldn’t fall asleep completely, but if he could just nod off a bit, the time would go by faster and that meant he’d have his feet back on the ground sooner.
It was eight forty-five when he reached the gate, which was of course halfway across the fucking airport. They were never close to security. It was always escalators and people movers and long carpeted hallways that smelled like luggage and socks.
He slumped into a seat a few yards from the gate door—close enough to hear the gate agent even if they spoke without the microphone; far enough that people in line to talk to the gate agent wouldn’t be bumping him with their backpacks every two minutes. He slipped his backpack off and unzipped it, taking stock of everything that he knew was already there, conveniently placed on top so that he could grab it the second he got a seat on the plane. Over-ear bluetooth headphones that could connect to his stupidly headphone-jack-less iPhone, check. In-ear headphones, check. Old MP3 player, check. Power bank, check. Ibuprofen and Tylenol, check. Tums. Melatonin. A book—his sister had mailed him a copy of Persuasion, because she’d just read it for the first time and decided that he needed to, as well.
He zipped his bag again and tipped his head back, letting his eyes shut. He hadn’t slept much last night—partly by design and partly by circumstance. He liked to be tired for a flight so that he was more likely to sleep, so he tried to go to sleep late, but he also slept fitfully before flights anyway, too busy imagining nose-dives and stalled engines to ever get deeply asleep.
He unzipped his bag again. He just needed to double check that everything was charged. He knew it was—he’d plugged the headphones and MP3 player into a power strip the day before and left them charging until this morning, just to make sure.
He held down the power button on the over-ear headphones, waiting for the blue light to appear next to his thumb. He held them closer, squinting at the small dot, which was remaining stubbornly dark. His breath caught, and he lifted his finger and pressed again. No. No fucking way.
He snatched the rickety MP3 player up next, flicking its power switch. Darkness.
“Son of a bitch.”
He hadn’t packed the stupid mini-USB cables to charge the headphones or MP3 player—the flight was four hours, and then he’d be at his family’s house, where there were a million of those damn cords, most of them there because of previous times he’d brought some home and forgot them there. So he grabbed his power bank, pulling out the right cable and stabbing it into the MP3 player.
Nothing. He bent over his backpack, his stomach twisting, and braced his head against his hands. What the fuck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, running back through the events of the past 24 hours, every possible step that could have gone wrong. There hadn’t been a power outage or anything like that. He’d unpacked and repacked his suitcase to make sure he knew where everything was, packed his backpack, cleaned his apartment, took out the trash, unplugged any non-essentials to save power when he was gone, and—
Jake raised his head slightly, staring blankly towards the frazzled-looking mom sitting across from him. He’d unplugged all his power strips. The power strip he’d charged everything from.
“Fucking shit.”
The mom looked up from her toddler and glanced at him with wide eyes.
He started stuffing everything back into his backpack and twisted in his seat, looking for one of those inane charging stations with the assortment of charging cables that used to be every fifteen feet in every major airport. A cheerful blue sign screamed Charging Station nearby, but it was just…outlets. Just outlets and more outlets. The stupid, dead MP3 player in his lap stared up at him with its ugly blank face.
His chest was starting to go tight, and he took a long, careful breath in before blowing it out in a steady stream. It was fine. He would be fine. He was a pilot, for chrissakes. It was ridiculous that he was afraid of commercial flying. It didn’t make any damn sense, and it was an embarrassment. He could man up and deal with the flight without any of the paraphernalia he usually used. It was fine.
“Hangman?”
Jake blinked and followed the voice up from the spot on the carpet he’d been staring at.
Bradley Bradshaw was standing a few feet away, a small duffle bag slung over one shoulder; rolling carry-on at his side. He was squinting at Jake curiously, like he was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. Bradshaw was wearing his fucking uniform. He tended not to wear it in public, for reasons Jake could never quite understand—it wasn’t like Bradshaw was afraid of a bit of attention. But here he was, head to toe, the perfect tight-laced Navy man in the middle of the airport.
“Bradshaw,” Jake said. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you on this flight?"
Bradshaw dumped his bag onto the seat next to Jake and cracked his neck. “Yeah. Flying to Texas for a layover on the way to North Carolina,” he said. He set his hands on his hips and shrugged, a little sheepishly. “I booked a cabin in the mountains.”
“By yourself?” Jake asked.
Bradshaw grimaced, the facial expression woefully ridiculous with that mustache in the middle. “Yeah.”
“For Thanksgiving?”
Bradshaw rapped his knuckles on the handle of his carry-on. “Mav’s doing Thanksgiving with Penny’s parents, which is a whole—thing. I thought it might be a little depressing to sit in my apartment alone while all of you flew home to see your families.”
“And it’s less depressing to go and sit in some mountain-man cabin by yourself?” Jake asked.
Bradshaw shrugged. He jerked his chin towards the gate agent. “I’ve gotta figure out my boarding situation,” he said. He grinned. “Feel free to get all your judgemental energy out while I’m gone.”
He turned and headed for the gate agent, and Jake found himself staring. Not—not the usual way, though Bradshaw gave plenty to stare at in that uniform of his. Just…shit. He knew that Bradshaw’s parents were both dead—he’d figured out about his dad on that suicide mission assignment, and had learned about his mother a while later. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t have grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, unless both his parents had been only children with dead parents. Though now that he thought it through, that would seem like a very Bradley Bradshaw kind of family situation.
They’d gotten closer, marginally, in the past few months since that mission that had brought them back together. The daggers had been made into a permanent squadron, one that trained and flew together, much to the delight of everyone involved. Even Jake had to admit that it was good news, and, he thought, a good decision on the Navy’s part. They all clearly meshed, and had a variety of strengths that made them a suitable squadron.
Bradshaw was leaning against the gate agent’s desk, his head bent to speak to the pretty Southwest employee who was blushing and smiling as she typed something or other into the computer. She gave him a nod when she was done, and Bradshaw headed back Jake’s way.
“What was that about?” Jake asked. He frowned. He’d meant to come across as amused and curious, but instead it rang more as anxious and overbearing. Well, you couldn’t win ‘em all.
“Forgot to check in for the flight yesterday,” Bradshaw said. “Got a trash boarding group, but uniformed military get priority boarding.”
He smirked, and Jake shook his head. “So that’s why we’re all being treated to the rare sight of Bradley Bradshaw in uniform.”
“What can I say?” Bradshaw said, gesturing at himself as he sank into the seat next to Jake. “Gotta give the people what they want.”
Jake bit his lip.
“What’s your boarding group?” Bradshaw asked.
“C.”
“Shit,” Bradshaw said. “You’re gonna be middle seat right by the back toilet. You know, I would’ve pegged you as a total uniform-in-the-airport brat.”
Jake just shrugged and flipped the power switch on the MP3 player a few more times. Still nothing. He didn’t ever dress in his uniform at the airport. He didn’t want anyone to look at him and think god, that military guy looks freaked out. The uniform drew attention and didn’t exactly color-coordinate with the sickly-pale nerves he typically wore to the airport.
“Whoa,” Bradshaw said, reaching for the MP3 player. “What the fuck is that?”
Jake yanked it back and stowed it in his backpack. “I know you weren’t born in the 2000s, Bradshaw.”
“And I know you know it’s the 2020s, Seresin,” Bradshaw said incredulously. “What else do you have in there, a boombox and some floppy disks? A Furby?”
The tension in Jake’s spine had started to fade away with Bradshaw here, but it was back in full force now. He checked his watch. They would be boarding in just a few minutes. He’d checked in promptly 24 hours before the flight, but he’d still gotten stuck in the worst group, so he really would end up in some middle seat between a talkative boomer and a sprawling, snoring, middle-aged man. At least he didn’t have anything he needed to stow in the overhead bin. He refused to deal with any of that, on principle.
“What’d you do to deserve C group, anyway?” Bradshaw asked. He was awfully chipper for being at an airport with Jake. Jake didn’t exactly think that was most people’s idea of a great start to their Tuesday, let alone Bradshaw’s.
Jake’s lungs were starting to get tight as the gate agent announced that A group and priority boarding could start lining up, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever answered Bradshaw’s question. He took a deep breath.
“Are you okay, man?” Bradshaw said. He was standing now, ready to go board. “You look like you’re gonna be sick.”
“I just really hate flying commercial,” Jake said tightly, wincing even as the words came out. He hadn’t really meant to say that, but everything was all hazy, between the caffeine headache and the little sleep and the stress and the stupid power strip and Bradshaw showing up. Dressed like that.
“You—” Bradshaw made a funny noise, and Jake squinted up at him. Bradshaw was staring back, his mouth slightly parted.
Bradshaw extended a hand towards him and Jake stared at it. The fingers wiggled.
“C’mon,” he said.
Jake took it and let himself be tugged to his feet. Bradshaw promptly pulled him towards the gate agent, his hand still gripping Jake’s tightly. Jake was suddenly very aware of the clamminess of his hands, and of the dry heat that Bradshaw’s palm and fingers clamped around him with.
“Excuse me,” Bradshaw said, and the gate agent glanced up at him, her cheeks already red again. A flight attendant was standing next to her, checking something on the computer with a furrow in her brow, and Jake’s stomach rolled.
“Yes, Lieutenant Bradshaw?” the gate agent said, and even with the pounding of his heart in his ears, Jake wanted to roll his eyes.
“Sorry to be difficult, but Jake here has C group, and I was hoping he could board with me?” Bradshaw said, and Jake lifted his gaze to him. What the fuck was he doing?
“Oh,” the gate agent said. “Well, only uniformed military members and their spouses can board priority, but—”
“Oh, well that’s perfect,” Bradshaw said, and things were starting to ring in Jake’s ears. Now would usually be the time that he’d queue up some music and white noise to block out everything around him.
“That works out,” Bradshaw was saying, his voice tinny and distant. “Because this is my fiancé.”
If Jake hadn’t been able to choke down a piece of toast this morning, he thought he might be light-headed enough to just pass out right then and there. His eyes darted from Bradshaw’s flat, pleasant stare to the gate agent’s wide eyes.
“Oh!” she said, and her eyes dropped to their still-linked hands. “In that case, you can both go ahead and line up right over there. And congratulations.”
“Thank you, Heidi,” Bradshaw said, and Jake was being tugged again, this time over to the small gaggle of priority boarders hovering next to the A boarding group line.
“What—what was that about?” Jake asked weakly.
“What, are you going to complain about getting to board first?” Bradshaw asked.
Jake gripped the straps of his backpack tighter.
“Who would’ve thought,” Bradshaw said. “The legendary Hangman, afraid of flying.”
“I’m not afraid of it, I just—”
Jake caught sight of their plane out the window, immediately recognizing the model of the plane, and felt the blood drain from his face.
“What is it?” Bradshaw asked, peering outside with him. “Just the sight of a jumbo jet sending you off the deep end?”
“Nothing,” Jake said. “I’m fine.”
“Hey,” Bradshaw said, nudging him with one elbow. “My mom was fucking petrified of flying. It’s nothing new to me.”
“Your mother’s husband died in a plane,” Jake said between gritted teeth. They were starting to board people. “If anyone has a right to be scared of flying, it’s her. Or you.”
“She was always scared of it,” Bradshaw said easily. “Listen, I’m just saying, if you need to hold someone’s hand, it’s nothing new to me.”
They reached the gate agent, who scanned their passes cheerfully and waved them through to the jetbridge.
Jake’s feet felt like lead weights below him as they approached the plane. He could already see the captain standing just inside the door.
“Welcome aboard,” the captain said. “Navy man?”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. “Naval aviator.”
The captain grinned and—he was saying something else, his mouth was moving, but none of it was quite making it through to Jake’s ears. Bradshaw was pointing at him now, grinning, until the smile slowly dropped and he was tugging Jake along again.
He stopped at one of the first rows, but Jake’s hand shot out and grabbed Bradshaw’s arm as he moved to lift his carryon.
“Not the front,” Jake said, and Bradshaw froze, his expression flickering before he continued down the aisle. He waited for Jake to stop at a row before he stowed his bag and gestured for Jake to take a seat.
“You want window?”
Jake sat, shoving his backpack under the seat in front of him. There was no point in getting any of his usual equipment out when it was all dead. He buckled his seatbelt, tightened it, and snatched the safety card out of the seat pocket.
Bradshaw watched him but didn’t say anything as the plane filled up around them. It was only as the doors were shut and the plane’s engines whirred that either of them spoke.
“You don’t have any bluetooth headphones, do you?” Jake asked, the words sandpaper rough in his throat.
Bradshaw shook his head. “I usually just pass out on planes,” he said. “All the white noise.”
"Do you have a phone with a headphone jack?"
Bradshaw grimaced and shook his head.
Jake nodded and glared out the window at the signature jagged flairs on the engine.
“It’s a Max 8,” he said stiffly, nodding his chin towards the engine.
“Oh,” Bradshaw said. “The ones that crashed a few years ago?”
Jake tightened his seatbelt again, the tight pressure of it against his hips helping just a little.
“Do you think they still sell headphones on planes?” Jake asked.
Bradshaw lowered the drink menu he was reading. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he said. “Everyone kind of has their own these days. They might have some shitty corded ones. Dunno.”
“Right.”
“What’s with the headphones, anyway?” Bradshaw asked. “And the 2003 music equipment you’ve got?”
The plane jolted backwards, ready to taxi towards the runway, and the attendants started their safety speech.
“I do better when I can’t hear anything,” Jake said. “The engine noises. I don’t know. I listen to music on the earbuds and white noise on the headphones. Drowns it out.”
“You ever think about, I don’t know, Xanax?” Bradshaw asked.
Jake rolled his eyes. “Right, I’ll just go to a therapist and tell them hey, I’m Lieutenant Seresin, I’m a pilot, I’m afraid of flying, please don’t mention it to the Navy, just give me some anxiety drugs and send me on my way.”
“Huh,” Bradshaw said, dropping his head back against the headrest.
The plane made a sharp turn and Jake glanced out the window. They were on the runway. The engines roared, and Jake tensed his legs, pushing himself back against the seat.
“Can you—can you just talk?” Jake asked, his voice strained. Bradshaw stared at him for a moment, his eyes big, before he cleared his throat.
“Uh, yeah. Um, did I ever tell you I played the oboe in middle school?” Bradshaw said. The plane lurched, the engines howling as it started to accelerate. “I was really, really terrible. I only joined because the—the kid I had a crush on at the time played the trombone, and I thought we could be friends if I was in band with him.”
The plane lifted from the ground, and Jake’s hand darted over, grabbing for the armrest. The armrest was a bit warm, and wide, and moving and—he glanced down, his stomach lurching. He was digging his fingers into Bradshaw’s leg.
He started to lift his hand away when Bradshaw’s hand landed on top of his, squeezing it into place.
“I still know how to play ‘she’ll be coming round the mountain,’” Bradshaw said. The plane bobbled, that uncomfortable, bloated wobble that commercial jets did constantly.
“Don’t you—” Jake swallowed, closing his eyes again. “Don’t you play piano?”
“You couldn’t play piano in band at my school,” Bradshaw said. “It had its own class. Hence the oboe. Had to get creative.”
Jake squeezed the armrest on his other side.
Bradshaw managed to not shut up about oboes and band practice until the seatbelt sign pinged off overhead, and Jake took a full breath. He didn’t like a single part of commercial flying, but the middle was the least-bad part, so long as there wasn’t turbulence. Take off was the worst by far, and landing wasn’t his favorite either.
“You alright?” Bradshaw asked.
Jake managed a grunt, and Bradshaw laughed lightly. “You know, my mom would’ve loved you.”
Jake pried his eyes open, rolling his head towards Bradshaw, who was looking right back.
“You—”
“Excuse me, gentlemen, would you like any drinks?” the flight attendant said, hovering at the end of their row.
“I’ll have a Coke,” Bradshaw said, smiling winningly.
Jake shook his head minutely.
“He’ll have a ginger ale,” Bradshaw said, and the flight attendant smiled.
“I heard you two are celebrating,” she said.
“Oh, yeah,” Bradshaw said. “Just got engaged.”
She smiled wider. “We might just have something to toast with, if you’d like,” she said. “Compliments of Southwest, of course.”
“Oh, we—”
“No,” Jake said, probably too sharply. “I can’t—”
Bradshaw squeezed his hand, and—right. He was still gripping at Bradshaw’s pant leg like a frightened child. He tugged to pull his hand away, but Bradshaw’s grip tightened.
“We’re not big drinkers,” Bradshaw said, and the flight attendant smiled sweetly before continuing on down the aisle.
The plane wobbled, and Jake grimaced, picturing a sudden spiral towards the ground. No parachute, no eject handles, no voice on the radio to assure him someone would be coming to collect him once he landed. Just a flimsy seatbelt and a sardine can of passengers. This would be the worst sort of death—not doing anything important, just dying because someone else fucked up their job and you were strapped on board with their mistake. Enough time to know you were going to die—oxygen masks dropping, screams and loud beeping, your stomach plummeting as you fell—but not enough time to make your peace with it or say your goodbyes. No way to stop it, no way to say anything you needed to say.
He’d always figured that he would become less afraid of commercial flights someday, once he felt that he’d lived enough. Sure, he’d done more as a pilot than most, and he’d scratched off every flight-related bucket list item he could think of, but the rest; the things he’d imagined when he was growing up that he’d get to do as an adult, a lot of it was just a big empty hole. He’d imagined himself having these great, heartstopping romances in his life—leave a string of ex-lovers behind throughout his twenties only to fall in love and have a husband and a kid or two, maybe three, by thirty-five. Instead, here he was. Thirty three, with not a single real relationship under his belt. Just two dead bodies in his ledger that he was supposed to be proud of; three dead if you counted the pilot who’d died flying beside him ten years ago. Not a chance in hell of a ring on his finger in the next decade; maybe never. Just more rungs on the Naval ladder to climb and medals to pin to his chest. Perfect.
There was nothing that made him wish he’d done things differently—done the things he wanted to do, period—more than flying in a godforsaken jumbo jet. Nothing like having your life flash before your eyes every five minutes and having nothing to see.
At least this time, he thought, as the brief patch of turbulence steadied out, he could go down swinging if they crashed. He could tell Bradshaw the truth, after all these years. Wouldn’t that be a great way to forestall rejection—confess that you thought you might love someone, but do it seconds before you both exploded in a great ball of fire.
“Do you want to try to sleep?” Bradshaw asked, later, once he’d finished his Coke and Jake had reluctantly had a couple sips of the stupid ginger ale.
“No,” Jake said tiredly. “I can’t really sleep on planes. I just end up dozing and jerking awake.”
“You know what my mom used to say on flights?” Bradshaw said. “She’d say, I always know that I have nothing to be afraid of so long as nobody’s screaming. Said she could sleep just fine because if anything was really wrong, the screaming would wake her up.”
“Somehow that’s not very comforting, Bradshaw.”
Bradshaw shrugged and settled back in his seat, reclining it slightly. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Wake me up if you need anything.”
Jake watched out the window at the clouds for a few minutes, his eyes too tired-gritty to really see anything. He reclined his seat, crossing his arms tightly and staring towards the ceiling of the plane. They were nearly halfway there. He just needed to… He just needed…
The warm, firm pillow under his cheek shifted, and Jake startled, jerking upright. His mouth was filmy and his eyes sleep-heavy. He checked his watch.
“Shit,” he said. “Was I—”
“Sleeping soundly for the past hour?” Bradshaw said, grinning. “We’re about to land.”
Jake turned to stare out the window. Towns were visible below, coming into clear view as they descended.
The descent was smooth, though Jake found Bradshaw’s hand wrapped around his own again by the time the wheels were touching down. He let out a tense breath, the knots in his back loosening in an instant.
He scraped his fingers through his hair, settling into his seat more comfortably now. He could breathe again.
“You back to normal that fast?” Bradshaw asked, gesturing at his relaxed posture.
“We’re on the ground, aren’t we?”
Bradshaw scoffed. “To be honest, I thought I’d never see the normal Hangman again.”
Jake smirked. “You never have to worry about that, Bradshaw,” he said, nudging his knee against his.
Bradshaw shook his head, smiling softly. Jake’s chest panged. Part of him… part of him wanted to still be anxious, if it meant Bradshaw gripping his hand and monologuing about fucking oboes for him. If it meant Bradshaw being so—soft with him. Still Bradshaw, but Bradshaw the way he was with most everyone else. The way he was with Bob or Phoenix, anyone, but never Jake. He could see why everyone adored Bradshaw, being on the receiving end of that version of his personality for once. Not that he had a problem adoring snarky, eye-rolling Bradshaw, either. But getting to see both was…nice.
He thought he ought to feel embarrassed, that Bradshaw of all people had seen commercial-flight-Jake, but he just felt…relieved. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually flown with anyone and not by himself. He wouldn’t have thought Bradshaw would be a particularly comforting presence, but shit. He’d actually fallen asleep. He tried to surreptitiously eye Bradshaw’s shoulder and check for any drool.
“Any big plans for this little getaway of yours?” Jake asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket and turning off airplane mode.
Beside him, Bradshaw was doing the same, flicking through notifications as they rolled in. “Not really,” he said. “Probably going to sleep a lot. Stargaze. Eat too much.”
Jake texted his sister back to let her know he’d landed on time. It was a three hour drive to get home from the airport, so he was hoping she was already here and there wouldn’t be a wait.
“What about Seresin family Thanksgiving?” Bradshaw asked. “Anything special?”
“It’s a whole thing,” Jake said. “Both sides of the family, all the cousins and their significant others and college roommates and assorted loners. My mom always invites her childhood friends, so sometimes we get their families, too. It’s a whole week thing for the immediate family. Mama wanted to kill me when I said I couldn’t come until today.”
“No shit?” Bradshaw said, but sounded distant. Jake looked over to him. He was frowning down at his phone, his mouth pinched.
“What is it?”
Bradshaw’s eyes lifted from his phone, and he sighed.
“My booking got canceled,” he said. “Guess there’s been a lot of rain out there the last few weeks and there was a mudslide this morning.”
Jake lowered his phone. Bradshaw’s face was drawn.
“What are you going to do?” Jake asked.
Bradshaw shrugged. “I’m sure there’ll be a motel or something with vacancies in North Carolina,” he said. “I mean, I’m used to holidays alone, I’ll just—”
Jake spoke before he could actually stop and think about what he was saying.
“You can come to my family’s house,” he said.
Bradshaw blinked.
“What?”
“C’mon. Thanksgiving alone is stupid. There’s plenty of room for you, and the food is much better than some motel shit.”
Bradshaw looked down at the email open on his phone and back up at Jake.
“You’re serious,” he said.
“I’m serious.”
The plane stopped at a gate and everyone stood up, overhead compartments clicking open up and down the aisle.
“If you are continuing on to Raleigh,” the pilot said overhead, “please remain in your seat. If this is your destination, welcome to Houston.”
Bradshaw’s lips were parted, his eyes wide and dumbfounded.
“You coming, Bradshaw?” Jake asked.
Bradshaw laughed. “I guess I am.”
Jake’s heart stuttered, and he choked down the sudden, too-much brightness in his chest.
Bradley Bradshaw was coming to Thanksgiving.