Chapter Text
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Mary Oliver, Wild Geese
The guy at the bar has been nursing his drink for the last twenty minutes, taking a sip every now and then and glancing around. A wallflower is a rare sight here amongst the socialites and trust funds that these events draw in. He's a new face, and a handsome one at that—broad shoulders framing a sharp jaw.
The gala is a yearly thing, almost always the same people time after time. Bradley has known most of them his whole life, an occupational hazard of having two godfathers in the Navy. Every year they talk, drink, eat tiny portions of something fancy and give generously to the veteran's fund this whole thing is for.
This guy, though, he piques Bradley's interest. He's in his dress whites, clearly an officer of some sort. Too far to tell his rank, but his blazer is heavy with medals and he can't be any older than Bradley.
Bradley politely ducks out of small talk with a friend of a friend of a friend and winds through the crowd, avoiding eye contact with the many people who will undoubtedly want to ask him how he's been since they last crossed paths. He even has to cut around a few security guys—it's not hard to notice how many more of them there are this year. The Navy takes death threats to their admirals seriously, apparently.
He steps up to the bar as casually as he can, sliding onto a stool right next to the newcomer. "I'll have what he's having." Bradley says as he gets Penny's attention. "Vodka, is it?"
The guy tips back his glass, draining the last drops. "Afraid not. Penny, m'dear, I think I'll have another aswell."
Penny smirks. "Two club sodas, coming right up."
"Much obliged." New guy says as Penny hands back their drinks, quickly whisked away by another customer.
"I haven't seen you at one of these before." Bradley says, an attempt at an icebreaker.
"Haven't been to one before." The guy's reply is blunt.
Bradley isn't going to let this guy brush him off. "Bradley Bradshaw, civilian contractor."
"Bradley Bradshaw? Did your parents not like you?" The guy is smiling as he says it, but it quickly fades when he catches Bradley's eye again. Not realising it was there, Bradley relaxes the furrow of his brow. "Struck a nerve? Sorry, darlin'." He holds out a hand. "Lieutenant Jacob Seresin, at your service." He looks Bradley up and down, not at all subtle. "But you, you can call me Jake."
Bradley shakes Jake's hand. "Lieutenant, huh?" Bradley looks again at his blazer, seeing the signature stripes. "With that much silver, I'd have pegged you for a Captain at least."
Jake's smile is all sugar, but there's something stopping it from reaching the rest of his face. "Retired earlier than planned." There's a hint of bitterness behind his attempt at humour. "Small disagreement between my plane and the ground."
"So, you're a pilot."
Jake dips his head in a nod. "Used to be. You sound surprised," He replies, "I guess we are a rarity."
"On the contrary." Bradley can be sly when he wants to. "I believe you've met my godfathers."
"Oh?" Jake queries, following Bradley's gaze across the room. Their eyes settle on Maverick and Iceman, dancing together like nobody else is around. "Oh."
"Yeah, that about sums it up. I grew up surrounded by guys just like you, Jake."
Jake scoffs, playful. "I'll have you know I am one hundred percent original, Bradley Bradshaw." He takes a sip of his drink. "So what exactly does being a civilian contractor entail?"
"For me, Aeronautics. All the little things guys like you take for granted."
"Well, we can't have that, now, can we?" Jake shifts in his seat, angling himself towards Bradley. There's something stilted in the way he moves, but Bradley doesn't have time to parse exactly what that might be. "Tell me more—what are you working on right now?"
"That's classified." Bradley beams over at him. "You see, I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you."
Jake breathes a laugh, and isn't that just a beautiful thing. "You keep your secrets, Bradley, and I'll keep my head."
"Deal." Bradley replies, lifting his glass to Jake's with a clink.
It's only a matter of time before Bradley gets pulled away for more small talk, and he's already starting to dread it. He rises from the stool and holds out a hand to Jake. "Dance with me?"
Jake looks up at him, unsure. "I'm not much of a dancer."
"Who cares?" Bradley says with a smile. "It's a party, Jake. Live a little." He steps closer to Jake and bows towards him, hoping a little chivalry might do the trick.
It does, and Bradley watches as Jake tries to hide his smile. Bradley could swear he sees a blush rise on Jake's cheeks as he takes Bradley's hand and lets himself be led into the crowd.
Jake wasn't lying when he said he wasn't much of a dancer, but the people around them could care less. Bradley has been to enough of these things to know his way around a dance floor blindfolded. He moves with the gentle rhythm of the music, making sure Jake can keep up.
When Bradley spins Jake round without warning and brings him close, Jake laughs against him. "I feel ridiculous." He says.
"Don't." Is Bradley's reply. "No one is watching."
They dance a few more songs, only stopping when Jake starts to look tired. Bradley returns him to the bar and they rest for a while. "Do you need a ride home?" He says before he can talk himself out of it.
"Buy a girl a drink first." Jake flashes him a wicked grin.
Bradley laughs. "It's an open bar."
"I'll give you that." Jake stands, his smile faltering momentarily as he does so. "After you."
He's close behind as they weave a path through the crowd, stumbling into the cool night one after the other. They gulp down the fresh air for a moment before Bradley's hand finds Jake's, leading him across the parking lot.
Bradley gestures into the dark, where he can see a streetlight reflecting off the roof of his car.
As he sees it, Jake issues a low whistle. "What year?"
"'81. It was my dad's." Bradley has worked hard to keep it in the condition it is. "Where to?"
Jake directs him until they're pulling up outside a house in Chula Vista. "Nice place." Bradley says. "You get a good view from up there?"
"Sure." Jake shrugs. "I'm just crashing on my friend's couch. Between places, I guess."
"I have a spare room." Bradley scrubs a hand over his face. "If you need somewhere more permanent."
"Thanks, but I'm alright. I can't exactly cover rent right now."
"You wouldn't have to. It's my place. You'd be doing me a favour, honestly, it'd get my godfathers off my back about the dangers of living alone."
"They'd rather you lived with a total stranger?"
Bradley laughs. "You're hardly a stranger, Jake. Honestly, it's kind of perfect. You've worked with them before, right? They already trust you."
Jake's expression is somewhere between awe and confusion. "You met me two hours ago, Bradley. You know I can't say yes."
"I know." Bradley sighs. "Promise me you'll think about it?" He digs around in the glove box, finding a pen and a tissue. He writes out his number and presses it into Jake's hand. "Call me if you change your mind—or if you don't. Just call me, okay? Tonight was the most fun I've had at one of those in years."
Folding the tissue and putting it in his pocket, Jake nods. "You sure are something, Bradley Bradshaw. Thanks for the ride." With that, he steps out of the car and disappears into the house.
Bradley goes home to an empty house. He texts to let his godfathers know he got home safe, as always. He's more than capable of taking care of himself, but it keeps them from worrying too much.
He slips out of his suit, already glad to be rid of it for another few months. The faint sound of the breeze outside lulls him to sleep.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
One week earlier
Jake has had enough of the universe fucking with him.
First, there was the crash. The hearing declared that it wasn't his fault, just a freak accident that could have happened to anyone—but it didn't happen to anyone, it happened to Jake.
In the moment, when his engines flamed out, it didn't matter why. What mattered was that he wasted so much time trying to recover from the spin.
If only he'd ejected a few seconds earlier, he might've had the tiny bit more altitude he needed for his parachute to slow him down. He might not have hit the ground quite so hard. If only he hadn't been over the mountains. If only it hadn't taken search and rescue so long to find him, and longer still to airlift him out. If, if, if.
Next, there was nothing for a while. The pain was muted then, consciousness only a thin thread for him to grasp at. He doesn't remember much of what happened between the rescue and the hospital. Sometimes it comes to him in dreams, in flashes. He tries to forget those too.
Then there was the hospital. Five weeks in the ICU, unable to move both due to his injuries and sedation so heavy he could hardly keep his eyes open. Five weeks of everyone refusing to be honest with him about just how bad of a hit he'd taken.
Maybe they were right not to say, in the end. He wouldn't have been ready to hear it. Another year and a half of physical rehabilitation, with a side of being poked and prodded to make sure his brain wasn't turning to mush. A year and a half of torture, just to remind his body how to walk.
Once, a doctor had the nerve to tell him he was lucky to have landed the way he did, sparing him a head injury and leaving his limbs and spinal cord intact. Lucky was an interesting choice of words. The list of damages included, but extended far beyond: a dislocated left shoulder, eleven cracked ribs, a broken collarbone, and his spine broken in three places. You know, just the small stuff. Jake didn't see that doctor again. Poor guy probably ran for the hills after the way Jake lost it at him.
Jake came home six hundred and twenty-seven days after he fell from the sky, with enough pins and shrapnel in him to never want to bother with airport security again. Only he didn't have a home to go to, because the Navy didn't want him anymore. He fought so hard to get back in the air, only to be told he'd never fly again. By all accounts, his recovery was nothing short of a miracle—but still, the risk of re-injury was too high. If something like that happened again, he might not be so lucky.
Lucky. There was that word again. Jake had given a decade of his life to the Navy, had sacrificed everything, and they considered him lucky.
They paid him off well enough, covered his hospital bills, gave him a medal or three. It didn't make it better. It didn't undo what happened, and nothing ever would.
So here he was, well over two years on from the accident, flush with a mostly clean bill of health and a new lease of life—unemployed, under experienced, unhoused—living between veteran's benefits and sleeping on friend's couches. Jake had slipped through the cracks of the system, and made himself at home.
Jake thought for a while that he was done hitting new lows. He was wrong, of course. He'd been rejected or fired from plenty of jobs since he left the hospital, but this one stung worse than the rest. Pair that with his pain flaring up worse than it has in months, and this calls for a celebration, surely.
Since the accident, he's had good days and bad days. Today is a bad day. He's all out of painkillers and splurges on a cab to save walking to the store. Taking a basket, he wanders the aisles aimlessly until a twinge in his back snaps him back to reality.
Jake tracks down the ibuprofen and throws some into his basket with a handful of the instant heat packs he promised his physiotherapist he'd try eight months ago and never did. This party is really starting to shape up. The milder painkillers don't help much when it gets bad, but he's off the strong stuff now, fought hard to kick it.
At least ibuprofen is better than nothing, and it doesn't make his head so fuzzy. There's still a haze over most of his time in hospital, a combination of the drugs and Jake's brain trying to pretend it never happened.
When he's sure he's finished in that aisle, he wanders towards the checkouts. On his way, he picks up a pack of party hats and stops by the liquor section. He's pondering a bottle when he hears a faintly familiar voice behind him. "What are we celebrating?"
Jake turns, startled, and finds himself face to face with someone from his past. On instinct, his posture straightens, sending a surge of pain up the length of his back. He winces, failing to hide it. "Admiral Kazansky, sir."
"At ease." He smiles, his expression softer than Jake ever saw it. His eyes are still sharp as ever, staring straight through Jake as if he's scanning for weaknesses. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Peachy keen, sir." Jake shrugs. "Seizing the day and what have you."
Iceman's polite smile isn't going anywhere. "Well, since I ran into you, you should join me for lunch."
Jake tries to stammer out an excuse. "That's good of you, sir, but I should really get back."
"I wasn't asking, Lieutenant." There's a hint of his admiral voice woven into his words. He walks towards the checkouts, and Jake can't do anything but follow. "And please, call me Ice."
It's not until they're outside that he realises the Admiral has paid for his shopping. He's always been the kind of person who can talk you into circles until you don't know where you started. Jake swallows his pride and doesn't mention it. He climbs into Iceman's car, an ancient Ford Cortina that looks like it should have been scrapped half a century ago.
The place Ice takes them to is quiet, relaxed. It's nice, but it makes it somewhat harder to ignore the pain. Sitting down doesn't help much either, but it's better than standing. If the pills kick in, Jake is going to have one hell of a nap later. He hardly slept last night anyways.
They order sandwiches and stare out at the bay. "I heard about your accident. I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"Yeah, well, it is what it is. Sorry doesn't make it better." Jake sighs. "I'm still stuck down here."
"How have you been, Lieutenant?" Ice presses. "Do you have a place to stay?"
Jake wishes the Admiral wasn't so difficult to lie to. "I've been staying with a friend."
"What about work? Any luck finding something new?"
"I'm between jobs, I guess." Jake shrugs. "Who wants to hire a guy with no degree and no work experience outside of flying jets?" A guy who couldn't even do that right, he doesn't say.
Ice smiles like he's plotting something. He almost always smiles like that, but this time it's somehow even more obvious. "I may be able to help you out with that. Lieutenant, have you thought about security work?"
"What, like being a bouncer?" Jake sighs. He's strong again, he knows that, but the faith he once had in his body no longer exists. "I don't know, Ice. It's not like I'm a prime candidate for that kind of work."
"I'm going to let you in on something of a state secret." Ice lowers his voice a little. "Over the last few weeks, someone has been sending threats to my office. Now, I'll be fine. I have a security team provided for me. My family, however, don't get the same treatment. The threats are against me, not them, so the Navy won't get involved. To tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I'm concerned that whoever is behind the threats will realise they can't get to me and will target my family instead."
"Where's your security team now, sir?" Jake asks, confused. They've been out in public for a while now, and Jake hasn't noticed any bodyguards.
Ice glances around and gestures to the table behind him. Two people are sitting there, and Jake suddenly realises he recognised them—they were in the store. "They've been here the whole time. Plain clothes, so we don't draw attention. Lieutenant, I want to know that my family is safe. In particular, my godson—whatever my husband is working on is probably already putting him in more danger than a potential attack."
"And you want to hire… me?" Jake realises something. "The store wasn't a coincidence, was it?"
"Not exactly, no. See, I kept tabs on you after your discharge." It might sound threatening coming from anyone else, but Jake has heard stories about the Iceman. He knows just how fiercely protective the guy can be over his charges, especially those who keep his husband alive and out of trouble.
"You've made excellent progress. Yet, you can't hold down a job. It happens a lot when people leave the service, especially when they're forced to for one reason or another. We give our lives to the job, and to have that taken away…" He pauses, choosing his words. "It isn't something most of us want to imagine. I think we can help each other here, Lieutenant. My godson is as stubborn as my husband and I combined. More, even. I want to make sure he's safe, but never in a million years would he let me hire a bodyguard for him. So I want to make you an offer."
"I'm not sure I like where this is going, Ice."
"Just hear me out. You're under no obligation to say yes." He continues. "You would need to gain his trust in order to keep tabs on him. Unorthodox, I know, but his safety is more than worth it. I can keep you updated on the situation, and I can pay you well. It's actually quite simple."
"Simple? You want me to lie to someone and essentially stalk them, and you're calling that simple?"
Ice sighs deeply. "I know it sounds like a lot, but I've had my fair share of death threats over the years. Whoever this is, they're serious about trying to hurt me. When they fail to get to me, they won't hesitate to target my godson."
Jake considers it. He hates the idea, but he really could use the job. "What about gaining his trust? I mean, I've never even met the guy. How do you expect me to be able to keep tabs on him without actually following him around?"
"That's the easy part, actually." Ice takes a sip of his tonic water. "For want of a better phrase… you're his type. In every sense of the word, really. There's a charity gala coming up next week. All you have to do is talk to him, find a way in, become his friend."
"Ice, you know I can't do that. Even you must hear how fucked up that sounds."
"Like I said, you're under no obligation. Take the week, think about it." He digs a card out of his pocket and hands it to Jake. "I'd like to formally invite you to the gala regardless of your decision. All the details are on there, as is my personal number. The event is to raise money for a veteran's charity, and we need more people like you to show potential donors that rehabilitation is worth their money."
Jake has never been one to suck up to rich folks. "You want a sob story, you've come to the wrong guy. I don't need anyone's pity."
"Of course you don't, Lieutenant, and I'm not offering it. Come along, shake some hands. You're proof that this work changes lives. Just be yourself." He scrawls his signature on the bill, standing to leave. "If you change your mind about the job—"
"I won't."
Ice smiles. "If you do," He says firmly, "you have my number. Take care, Jake."
Jake mulls over the offer for a few days. He decides that he absolutely will not take the job. The gala, however, is tempting. He was never much for big social events, but he has always had a knack for charm. If he goes, he could make a difference for other people like him. Maybe, with more funding, they won't end up in his situation.
The morning before the gala, he digs his old uniform out of where he's been storing his few belongings in the attic of Javy's place. The blazer and pants are a little crumpled, but the medals still shine just like they always did. His old cap still fits snugly.
In the mirror, he almost looks like himself again.
Talking himself into leaving the house takes longer than he's willing to admit. When he gets to the gala, there are more people than he's seen in any one place in a very long time. A few members of his old squadron are there, and they take turns hugging him carefully and offering their sympathy. It doesn't feel as bad as Jake thought it might. Maybe it wouldn't be a terrible idea to keep in touch with them.
After what feels like days of talking to rich couples and disgruntled former COs, Jake spots a free seat at the bar and clings to it like a life raft. He's been on his feet for entirely too long, and his back is well past needing a break.
It's been a long time since he last saw Penny Benjamin. God, he was so full of shit back then. Jake remembers more than one occasion where she'd kicked him and his friends out onto the beach after they'd had a few too many.
Jake takes his time with his drink, hanging on to his excuse to stay seated. Alcohol didn't feel like a great idea tonight, not with how it fucks with his meds. He's watching the bubbles in the glass when he notices someone take the seat beside him.
And of course, as seems to always be the case, one thing leads to another. Which is how he winds up in Bradley Bradshaw's car, the offer of a ride home all too tempting. What Ice must not have known is that while Jake may be Bradley's type, Bradley walked straight out of a movie and into Jake's life. He's the prettiest thing Jake ever saw, and Jake has to mentally kick himself to keep from doing anything stupid.
He drags himself to the couch as he hears Bradley drive away, kicking off his shoes but too exhausted to deal with his uniform.
There's a sour taste in Jake's mouth when he wakes, and with the curtains left open the sun in his eyes stings. He must have slept in an awkward position because his back is killing him. He knows moving will help, but as he tries to shift he inhales sharply at the stab of pain it stirs. So instead, he fishes around in his pocket and downs two ibuprofen with a mouthful of lukewarm water Javy must have left for him.
When the ache subsides enough for him to sit up, Jake spots a note on the table. Gone 2 work. Takeout in fridge all yours bud.
Sure enough, he finds a container on the middle shelf. As he waits for the microwave to heat it up, Jake looks around Javy's place. From here, he can see all his worldly possessions save the single box still left in the attic. He fishes his wallet out of his pocket to take inventory, scoring a grand total of seventeen cents and a long-expired condom.
That job is starting to sound less insane by the minute. Jake has an easy in, and it'd mean a new place to stay. Javy never complains about having him here, but Jake knows he can't stay forever. And knowing what Javy still does for work, knowing he's probably up there right now… it's a reminder Jake doesn't need of what he lost.
He tries to talk some sense into himself, but honestly, the job makes sense. He's always been good at noticing small things, scanning for threats and things out of place. It'd mean sleeping in a real bed instead of on a couch, and that concept is all too tempting.
Jake finishes his breakfast and digs a crumpled tissue out of his pocket. He texts Ice first to let him know he'll take the job. Then he punches Bradley's number into his phone and hits the green button. "Hey. You still got that room?"