jake seresin x reader x bradley bradshaw (wc 5.6k)
summary: when Jake, your ex boyfriend, comes back into town he doesn’t like to find that Bradley is stepping on his toes. he decides to show you who you really belong to
warnings: smut, 18+ content, swearing, descriptions of violence, blood
author’s note: whew okay here we go. this originally started out as a Jake fic and just evolved okay. i would like to clarify that I didn’t set out to make Jake the bad guy. maybe he’ll redeem himself. inspired by ‘Darlin’ by Chase Matthew so give it a listen!
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Bradley's palm curves around your hip and gives it a squeeze before he steps away from the bar. He dips his head down as he does so to accommodate for the noise level of the room, his nose brushing your hair. "Well I better be off. I'll see you later, darlin'. Tell your mama I said hi."
The gesture is friendly and innocent. Habitual in the way a friend would reach out to another. You don't think twice about it.
You smile warmly up at him, leaning into him before he takes his leave. "I will, Bradley. Drive safe."
No sooner than he's gone, his empty spot is replaced at the bar top.
"Why's he call you darlin'?"
Jake's voice makes your heart drop in your chest.
His palms are braced on either side of you against the bar top as he leans down over you. You couldn't escape if you wanted to. Instead you turn in your seat to face him, your eyes already narrowed back indignantly at his accusing ones. You cross your arms in front of your chest without even thinking about it.
"Jacob."
Your once warm smile is replaced by something more straight faced and cold. No one would guess that your heart rate has just picked up tenfold.
"Matter a' fact, how's he know your mama?"
There's a snarl no-so-hidden in his cowboy pretty grin. Something biting and mean and—jealous.
Bingo.
"You know he's just a friend," you answer flippantly, already turning your stool back around.
Jake catches it before you make it very far, jerking it back around so that you're facing him once again. Now you're almost nose to nose, and you can see every shade of green in his eyes.
"Is that what you wanna call it?" Jake asks, sounding like his feathers are more than just ruffled. His tone is a bit cocky, a bit pissed.
Your relationship with Jake is complicated to say the least. The two of you have been on and off again for months now with no end in sight. You fight, you break up, you get back together, and then you just end up doing it all over again. And even when you're broken up, you're not really broken up. You're still his drunk call at 2am, and when you dress up for a night out, making him jealous is always on the forefront of your mind.
Really, Bradley is just a friend. He was just a friend. A familiar face that you're comfortable enough to run to when you don't know what else to do. Comfortable enough that you may or may not have made out with a few times.
Okay so you really don't know what Bradley is. Just that he's nice, warm in ways that Jake isn't.
He was there when Jake wasn't.
"I'm not calling it anything because it's nothing," you insist. "You're being crazy."
And that really pushes his buttons.
He tisks, blowing air through his teeth in exasperation. "Crazy," he repeats, shaking his head as if the word itself has offended him. "No, what's crazy is that there are rumors going around this town that my girl is going out pretending to be someone else's."
You bite your tongue but don't say anything. You hope he doesn't catch onto the nervous way you swallow.
"Not so crazy now, huh, darlin'? "
You don't respond to his accusation but you don't deny it either. Jake knows you're playing him.
Instead you try to steer back the conversation. "Last time I checked, I wasn't your girl."
Last time you checked, the two of you were freshly broken up and Jake was half way across the country. If you're being honest, you can't even remember the reason the two of you broke up. You probably didn't even know what the reason was at the time. The two of you do so much screaming that it gets hard to tell.
Jake fixes you with a look. "We both know damn well you're always going to be my girl."
Oh.
Now is probably a bad time to finally note how good he looks. His face is fuller than the last time you saw him, healthier and flushed with color. There's a hint of a five o'clock shadow that he doesn't usually allow to grow and his eyes are brighter. His body is fuller too, the strong build of his chest practically strains against his white t-shirt.
"So what's ole boy got that I don't? What's he do that I don't? Because baby, last time I checked, you liked being railed in the back of my Chevy."
Immediately your face flashes red. Not only because there are plenty enough people around to hear him—and did hear him—but because the memory is too engrained in your mind to forget.
You're off of the stool and dragging him towards the closest door in seconds. You pass Natasha in the process, and you know you'll be hearing about this later. Her sharp gaze doesn't miss anything. The swinging door of the ladies room rattles as it closes behind you.
Jake smirks when you let him go. "Oh sorry. Am I only allowed to say that when the door's closed?"
He's definitely not sorry.
You jab a finger into his chest, hard, and you revel in the satisfaction that comes with his huff of surprise. "Look, I know we keep trying and trying, but we don't work. I mean it when I say I've moved on, Jake, and it's about time you do too. So go bitch about your broken heart somewhere else."
Jakes grabs ahold of your elbow before you can turn away and yanks you close to him. His grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise. Rather than fight him, because you know it would be useless, you glower, breathing heavily through your nose. At nearly half a foot taller than you are, Jake seemingly towers over you. The pissed off look in his eyes makes them an even harsher green; a green that has held you captive since the day you met.
"Since when do you go around telling our friends that I'm 'trash' ?"
For a moment he has you, and you stop actively trying to tug your arm away. Your eyes lock in a stand still with his. His green eyes challenge you with quiet intensity, daring you to own up to all of your smack talk.
"That I'm just a fuckboy, right?' He presses.
You couldn't deny that there had been multiple occasions when one too many beers got your mouth moving and the Dagger Squad was on the receiving end. Phoenix and Coyote specifically. Phoenix knew when to keep her mouth shut.
Coyote on the other hand... Really, you should know better than the mouth off to Jake's best friend.
It's no use trying to deny it.
"Let go. We're not fighting over this," you growl, snapping your eyes out of the trance he'd locked you in, trying to pull your elbow away from him.
Instead of releasing you, he pulls your body closer as he walks you backwards so that you're chest to chest and pressed against the bathroom wall. You can feel his heart thumping hard against his ribs.
"But that's all you ever wanna to do, isn't it? All you ever want to do is fight." His hand that is holding your hip to his own slides down to grip the back of your thigh and hikes your leg up around his side, putting your center directly in contact with the bugle in his jeans. Reflexively, your hips rut up into him. He chuckles, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Oh, that's what you wanted, huh?"
You're about to snap at him, tell him you're not some whore that he can just fuck the attitude out of, but then he leans down and licks a trail from the juncture of your neck all the way up to your ear. The hot heat of his mouth sends the warm leak of arousal straight to your core.
Your fingers fist into his now wrinkled t-shirt, doing your best to shove him away. To his credit, he draws away just slightly. Jake is man enough to give you some space.
"Let go, Jacob."
"C'mon," he invites—challenges, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a rueful smile. "For old times sake."
You press your knee up into his crotch and feel how hard this interaction has made him. "You think I'm in love with you, Seresin?"
"Yeah, actually. I think you're pretty obsessed with me." His smirk is relaxed and cocky. Too cocky for someone who has been MIA for six months.
You growl and lean into his face, taking it upon yourself to undo the distance you'd created earlier. "I don't even fucking like you. You're nothing to me. You're a nobody."
To his credit, Jake doesn't seem bothered by your harsh rebuke. If anything, it spurs him on. Because it means to some degree, you still care.
That's the thing about Jake. It doesn't matter how pissed off he makes you, how much of a jerk he is, how much you tear him apart in front of your friends for the hell that he's put you through, you will always hold something for him. Hatred maybe, but as long as there's still a little bit of a spark, you're always going to let him back in.
"Then why're you still here?" He urges.
He's right.
You could leave. You could shove him away like you mean it and walk right out of the bar, call Bradley to pick you up in an instant. He wouldn't stop you. You wouldn't hear from him for another six months and then someway, somehow, you'd end right back up in this situation.
"I hope you brought a condom," you respond instead.
Jake scoffs, leaning in closer to you. "Why? We both know you like it raw, baby."
"I don't know where your dick has been," you retort. And before he can open his mouth, you continue, "Lord knows you didn't go six months without getting it wet."
Instead of replying, Jake hikes your knee up further over his hip, bunching your dress up further over your hips. "How about instead of insulting me, you spread your legs and let me get to work?"
It's not a suggestion because before you can open your mouth, his fingers are pushing aside your panties and sliding right against your clit. Your hips jerk at the brief sensation but Jake wastes no time getting to the point.
You bristle involuntarily when his fingers abruptly enter you. His middle and index finger slide right into your weeping cunt without resistance, forcing apart your silky walls. You don't mean to whimper but it's been so long since someone's touched you like Jake has.
"All that fuss and you're dripping," Jake huffs. "I've barely even touched you."
A snarling thought forms in your mind at his cockiness but nothing comes out except another breathy gasp. His fingers slide all the way in, down to the second knuckle, and your walls clench around him. His hands are big and all you can think about is how much bigger his cock is.
"She ain't got much to say now, does she?" Jake purrs. You can feel the tips of his fingers rubbing along your walls. "I think you missed me."
Your pussy clenches around his fingers in response and he chuckles before pressing them further inside. "Fuckin' sucking me in," he huffs, and you can feel the ridges of his knuckles slide against the slick walls of your cunt as he allows your spasming muscles to pull him in.
His thumb finds your throbbing clit and finally, you find your voice. "Jake— Jake, I'm gonna come," you say breathlessly, the fist that you'd had balled in his shirt moving to push his hand away. "Please, I can't—"
Without warning, Jake hikes your knee up further around his waist and presses his thumb firmer against your clit. The sudden onrush of stimulation almost makes you cry.
"You're almost there, baby. I can feel you squeezing me. Just let me make you feel good," he encourages, refusing to let up despite your pleas.
When your hips involuntarily buck up, Jake holds you in place, and all you can do is let him as your head falls back against the wall. His two fingers curl inside of you and that's all it takes. Molten fire shoots through your belly and electrifies your spine.
The orgasm lasts what seems like forever. Your body is flushed and tingling and entirely over stimulated. "Okay, okay, Jake please," you whine breathlessly. You have to forcibly push him away so that you can recover from the aftershocks without being drawn into another orgasm.
Your pussy spasms as Jake slowly removes his fingers, his other hand still supporting your now limp body against him. You flinch at the over stimulation as his thumb gives one last swipe over your clit before he removes his hand.
And then, without his green eyes leaving yours, he draws his two fingers up to his mouth and sucks. They glisten against the wet press of his mouth, and his throat bobs as he swallows.
You're not sure if it's you breathing heavy or him, but the level of arousal in the room is audible. You feel something drip inside of you. Literally.
At your evident fixation, Jake pulls his fingers from his mouth and smiles. His prefect pretty boy smile is devilish. He leans in close and his smile twists into a smirk.
"I'll see you around, darlin'."
And then he's gone, pressing through the bathroom door and leaving it swinging behind him as if he's got no shame in being caught. The retreating click of his boots echos on the hard wood floor of the Hard Deck as he walks away.
A hand catches the door just as it stops swinging. "You did not," Phoenix hisses, and it's more of an incredulous statement than a question.
Instead of answering her, you cross your arms, as if the action will collect some of your lost dignity. "You knew he was back in town?"
It's her turn not to answer you. You cock an eyebrow. Finally, she sighs exasperatedly. "He asked me if you were seeing anyone."
"Of course he did," you mutter, leaning over the sink to look into the mirror and try to swipe away your smudged lipstick. The adrenaline running through you is starting to fade into that familiar, frustrated ache.
"Please tell me you didn't say anything about Bradley."
Phoenix leans against the doorframe, watching you pull yourself together with that analytical gaze that makes her such a good pilot. Her gaze isn't judgmental—just tired.
"I told him you were busy. I told him you were seeing someone else—which you were, until ten minutes ago," she emphasizes. "But you know Jake. Tell him he's not cleared for landing, and he just takes it as a challenge to clear the runway himself."
You turn around and lean back against the cool tile of the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. "How long is he in town?"
Phoenix looks away.
"No," you breathe.
"Orders came through last week," Phoenix confesses quietly. "And he's not just passing through this time. He's stationed here at Miramar for the foreseeable future."
The air in the bathroom suddenly feels thin, like you've just shot up 14,000 feet. You've spent six months building a life that didn't involve constantly looking over your shoulder or waiting for midnight phone calls.
You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to ward off your sudden impending migraine and also physically shut out Phoenix's words.
"Of course he is. It's not like he has anything better to do than move across the country to come and fuck up my life," you mutter, more to yourself than anyone.
Phoenix sighs, shifting so that she's leaning against the bathroom sink, facing you. She crosses her arms, her shoulders sagging just a little. The dim overhead lights of the bar bathroom hum above her, casting a shadow across her troubled face.
"Look, I didn't tell him about Bradley to start a dogfight. I told him because I thought that it would actually make him back off for once. Give you some breathing room."
You let out a humorless, miserable laugh and drop your hands from your face. "When has Jake Seresin ever seen a full flight pattern and backed off? It's like an open invitation to him."
You look at your wrinkled dress in the mirror and can still feel where his hands were on your hips, tight enough to bruise. Your skin feels sticky with sweat and filthy from the tiles of the bathroom wall. And worst of all, the deep, throbbing ache between your thighs is a humiliating reminder of how effortlessly he dismantled six months worth of personal growth within just five minutes.
Phoenix must be able to read the look on your face because she removes herself from the sink and walks over, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "I'm not judging you for whatever happened. I know Jake. I know you two loved each other at some point. I know it's not easy," she reassures you gently. "But I also know that somewhere out there is a guy who would drop everything in an instant to come and get you."
Bradley.
Bradley, who had so sweetly inserted himself into your life when you needed him and never left. Bradley, who kissed you softly and then tickled you with his mustache until your chest ached from laughing. Bradley, who only left the bar after you'd reassured him repeatedly that you were gonna be okay without him.
You needed to call Bradley.
You pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration. "Gosh, Nat. He's probably halfway down the highway by now."
Phoenix doesn't budge. "It doesn't matter. He'll come get you. Just call him."
After a moment of hesitation, you nod and retrieve your phone from your purse. You scroll through your contacts until you find Bradley's name in your call history.
Brad <3 (incoming call) 4:13 pm
As your thumb hovers over his name, Phoenix steps away to give you some space. "I'll walk out first and make sure Jake is distracted. Just stay in the bathroom until Bradley gets here. Try not to let him see you leave."
As Phoenix slips out of the door, you press the call button and lift the phone to you ear listening to the steady, rhythmic ringing as the call goes through. Every second feels like and eternity, like at any moment, Jake will walk right back in and catch you red handed.
On the fourth ring, the line clicks open.
"Hey, there, pretty girl," Bradley's voice crackles through the speaker, sounding relaxed and steady. The engine of his Bronco rumbles steadily in the background. "Everything okay? I just got onto the main road."
The sound of his voice—safe and familiar, completely unaware of the disaster that just unfolded in the bathroom—makes a lump form in your throat.
"Hey, Bradley," you start, doing your best to keep your voice from crackling. Your nose is doing that thing where it starts to burn and your eyes are prickling with unshed tears. "Yeah, um, just a change of plans... Are you... can you turn around and come get me?"
There's a brief pause on the line, the heavy hum of his truck's engine the only sound filling the silence before he speaks again.
"Turn around?" he asks, his tone shifting from relaxed to alert. "Yeah, baby, of course I can. But, hey—are you sure you're okay? You sound like you're about to cry."
Bradley knows you. He knows the exact pitch of your voice when you're stressed or trying to hide something.
"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine," you lie, pacing around the small bathroom with your phone pressed to your ear so that you can hear him clearly over the background noise. "It's just... The bar got really crowded and there's a lot of people, and I just... I really want to go home now."
"Did something happen?" Bradley's voice has dropped into a tone that says he's on edge and is about to come flying back down the road if you don't convince him that you're okay within the next ten seconds. "Are you safe?"
"Bradley, listen to me. I'm safe, I promise," you say quickly, raising your voice so that it sounds more confident than you feel. The last thing you need is for him to come storming into the Hard Deck looking for a fight. "Nothing happened. I just really want to go home."
You hear the distinct rhythmic click of his turn signal and the aggressive crunch of his tires as he does what you can assume to be a U-turn in the middle of the highway.
"Alright. I'm turning back now," Bradley says, his voice firm and grounding. "I'll be there in five minutes. Make Phoenix or one of the guys wait with you, okay? Don't stay by yourself."
"Okay," you answer softly, some of the tension finally leaving your body. "Thanks, Bradley."
"Don't worry about it, pretty girl. I'll see you in a few minutes."
"Okay, bye."
The line clicks dead and you lower the phone from your ear, taking a deep breath as you do so. Bradley's coming, but the hard part isn't over yet. You have about three minutes to figure out how to get past Jake and out of the bar before Bradley decides to come get you himself.
You take another deep breath and push open the bathroom door.
Immediately, you spot Phoenix just a few feet away. She's at a table with Bob and a couple of the other guys, looking engaged in a conversation, but every so often, she looks back over at the bathroom door.
When her eyes lock with yours, she subtly nods her head over to the other side of the bar.
Jake is exactly where you hoped he wouldn't be.
He's perched leaning with one arm on top of the jukebox and beer in his other hand. Coyote and Omaha are standing there beside him, talking loudly, animatedly retelling some sort of story. Jake laughs, his perfect white teeth flashing in a cowboy pretty smile. He looks completely unbothered and totally immersed in the conversation.
But the second you step into his line of sight, his head turns. Those piercing green eyes lock onto you and hold your gaze. He tracks your movement through the bar with a predatory stare.
You look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's completely unmoored you, and make a beeline for the front doors of the bar.
Head up. Eyes straight. Keep moving.
As you pass the jukebox, you can feel Jake's eyes burning holes into the side of your face. You almost make it past him, when his slow, southern drawl cuts through the room.
"Gonna leave without saying goodbye, darlin'?"
You stop, your heart pounding out of your chest. Ignoring him in front of the Dagger Squad will only make this whole thing look worse. Slowly, you turn around to face him.
"I'm tired. I just want to go home, Jake."
Jake chuckles, stepping away from his jukebox kingdom. His white t-shirt hugs his swollen biceps as he walks towards you. He looks you straight in the face and smiles. He's dangerously handsome and he knows it.
"Is that right?" he asks, his voice sounding innocently curious. "That's funny. You didn't seem all that tired a few minutes ago. You actually seemed pretty awake to me."
Your face burns, but before you can snap back, the sound of a truck parking just outside draws your attention. Through the open windows of the bar, you see Bradley's blue Bronco park right out front.
Jake's eyes flicker to the window at the same time that yours down. The amused, dangerous smile on his face falters just a fraction. He looks back at you.
"Well, look at that. Your ride's here."
"Yeah," you say, already turning for the door, feeling relief flash through you. "He is. See you around, Jake."
You don't wait to see if he follows you. You turn on your heels and push through the heavy front doors, the cool night air hitting your face like a breath of fresh air.
Bradley's truck is idling, the blue Bronco sitting right out front. Through the windshield, you can see Bradley sitting in the driver's seat, his hands tapping impatiently against the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the front exit anxiously. The moment he sees you, the tension in his shoulders visibly drops.
You pull the passenger door open and climb inside. The cool blast of the air conditioner is a stark contrast the the sweaty atmosphere of the bar. You shut the door quickly, cutting off the noise of the bar entirely.
Bradley immediately reaches over to take your jacket, his eyes searching your face. He reaches out, his large, gentle hand catching your chin, turning your face so that he can get a good look at you.
"Hey, hey," Bradley says softly, his brow furrowed with concern. "You're all frantic. What's going on?"
"Nothing, I—" but before you can even get the words out, Jake Seresin waltzes out of the front doors of the Hard Deck, his cowboy boots clicking as he walks. He's got that look on his face. The one that says he's looking for trouble.
Bradley is jumping out of the drivers seat before you can even think to stop him.
You yelp.
"Bradley, please—" you lunge for his arm across the console but he's quicker, and you only weakly manage to catch the edge of his t-shirt before he's storming out of the car.
You scramble out of the passenger seat, your hands clawing at the handle of the passenger door faster than you knew you were capable of moving.
Bradley, however, is quicker. He meets Jake halfway under the dim glow of the bar's porch lights, effectively cutting off Jake's path to the truck.
“Fuck off, Seresin," Bradley growls, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register than you've never heard from him. His board shoulders are squared, his feet planted firmly in the gravel.
Jake stops where he is, but he doesn't step back. He just stops a few inches from Bradley, capitalizing on the few inches he has on the brunette aviator. You can see him thinking, as he sucks his tongue to the front of his teeth and cocks his head.
"Relax, Bradshaw," Jake drawls, voice dripping with a sickening amount of southern sweetness and effortless confidence. He tilts his head towards the Bronco, his pretty green eyes flashing in malicious amusement. "Just coming out to make sure my girl gets home safe. Didn't know she called a taxi."
"Your girl?" Bradley asks, his tone incredulous. "You go AWOL for six months and then decide that you're just going to inject yourself back into her life? I'll tell you something, Bagman. You're good but you're sure as hell not that good."
Jake lets out a sharp, amused laugh. His eyes are sharp and cold. He leans in as his voice drops low. "Oh I think I am that good, Rooster. But don't take it from me. Why don't you ask her."
Jake straightens and turns his glinting green eyes to you. "Darlin'," he drawls. "Why don't you tell Bradshaw here just how good I am? Or should I?"
Bradley's entire body goes rigid. His jaw clenches so tight that you see the muscles jump in his neck. Your heart drops.
"Shut up, Jake."
The disgusting implication lands exactly where Jake intendeds it to.
"You keep your fucking hands off of her," Bradley seethes, his voice sounding unsteady for the first time tonight. He steps so close into Jake's space that they can probably feel each other's breath on their faces.
"Am I lying, baby?" Jake asks, his dripping a confidence that says he knows you won't say otherwise. He tilts his head, his green eyes daring you to look Bradley in the eye and deny it. "Go ahead. Tell him how good I felt."
You're crying at this point, hot tears rolling down your face. "Jake, stop it!" you beg, you voice cracking as you say it.
Bradley finally turns his head towards you. The look on his face breaks your heart.
His brown eyes, usually so warm and steady, are searching yours with a quiet, desperate plea. He's begging you to deny it. To lie. He doesn't care if you lie at this point. Just don't tell him it's true.
"You know, Phoenix told me you were seeing someone," Jake continues, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "She conveniently forgot to mention it was Bradshaw. But hey, I get it. Old habits die hard, don't they."
With a low, animalistic growl, Bradley reaches his breaking point.
He lunges, his right fist coming into contact with Jake's jaw with a sickening crack. The sheer force of the blow sends Jake stumbling backwards. The only reason he doesn't fall to the ground is because he stumbles, catching himself on the porch railing just in time.
"Bradley! Stop it!!" you shout, rushing after him as he advances towards Jake.
Jake is on his feet by the time Bradley reaches him, and he doesn't waste the opportunity. The moment Bradley is within range, Jake swings. Bradley sees it coming soon enough to at least brace himself. The blow clips the edge of his jaw, hard, but if anything, it only makes him angrier. He lunges again. This time, the punches don't stop.
"Jake!!" you shout, and this time your frantic voice is enough to send the front doors of the Hard Deck flying open.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!" Coyote exclaims, as he takes in the scene unfolding before him. "That's enough!!" he shouts. Payback, Fanboy, and Phoenix are right on his heels, racing down the steps to break up the brawl.
Bradley has successfully pinned Jake against the side of the Bronco, his forearm pressed hard against Jake's throat as he draws his fist back to swing again. Bradley's face is contorted into a look of pure, unrestrained fury. Jake's face is red and bloody, but he's still looking at Bradley with a malicious glare in his eyes.
Before Bradley's fist can land, Fanboy and Payback are yanking him off of Jake. It takes both of them, but somehow they manage to move Bradley's massive frame. Bradley fights against their grip, his boots digging into the gravel as he thrashes, still spitting insults.
"Don't you ever fucking touch her again!!" Bradley roars, his voice raw. "You hear me?! I'll fucking kill you!!"
Coyote helps Jake to his feet, shaking off the other pilot despite his insistent protests. "I'm cool, man. I'm cool."
Jake leans over and spilts a glob of blood into the gravel. Despite the dark purple bruise already forming where Bradley first hit him and the blood and dirt covering his clothes, Jake looks over at Bradley and smirks.
"I hope you got all that out of your system, Bradshaw. Because I'm not fucking going anywhere," Jake says, and his voice carries out across the parking lot. "I'll see you in the air tomorrow."
And then with the press of Coyote's urging hand on his shoulder, he turns and walks back into the bar, using his hand to wipe the blood from his face as he goes.
Jake doesn't look back as the heavy wooden doors of the Hard Deck close behind him, leaving nothing behind him but the tense, heavy silence of the parking lot.
"Get out of here, Rooster," Payback says quietly, finally letting go of his grip on Bradley's arm. Bradley just stand there for a moment, his chest still heaving. All the fight has left his shoulders, and now he just stands there in the parking lot looking utterly broken.
Without a word, Bradley, turns on his heels and walks straight back to the Bronco. He doesn't wait for you. He just climbs into the driver's seat and slams the door shut so hard that the entire frame rattles.
You stand in the gravel of the parking lot, completely frozen.
Phoenix appears at your side. "Go home," she states sternly. "Get in the car. No matter now mad he is, he'll take you home."
You swallow, and then softly you nod. "Okay, I'll call you when I get home."
Slowly, you walk towards the car and get in.
Bradley starts puts the car into reverse and pulls out of the parking lot without a word. He's still breathing heavy, his eyes fixed dead ahead as he pulls out onto the road.
There's blood all over him. His knuckles are split and theres a mixture of his own and Jake's blood drying on his hands. His bottom lip is also split and bleeding, the crimson red color smeared across his face. The cut made by Jake’s academy ring on his eyebrow is the most worrying. It's open and actively bleeding, dripping down his face and onto his ruined t-shirt.
He doesn't speak for a long time. The anger that was keeping his shoulders tensed earlier is back, as well as the agonizing silence of the parking lot.
"Bradley..."
He doesn't respond to the sound of his name. He doesn't want to listen to you explain yourself right now.
But Bradley isn't stupid. And above all else, Bradley knows Jake Seresin.
summary: when your back seater doesn’t make it back to base, Rooster is your shoulder to cry on
warnings: swearing, angst, character death, blood
author’s note: thank you all so much for the interaction with my last post! again, I have zero aircraft knowledge so forgive me (and my spelling)
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You remember crawling across the ground, trembling and shaking, sticky with hot blood and covered in dust. Your ears buzzed, staticky, as though you could hear everything and nothing at all. Sick as a dog, you’d leaned over to vomit.
“Gator, snap out of it! Right fucking now!" You scream, praying he will hear you shouting through the headset. "God dammit, wake up!"
From the backseat of the cockpit, you get nothing but radio silence. He had blacked out, falling into g-LOC as you began the climb out of the canyon. And then your engine failed.
You want nothing more than to reach behind you and smack the living crap out of him, but your hands remain glued to the control stick, desperately trying to pull the plane up in a hopeless last ditch effort.
Black smoke billows out the backside of the engine. Inside the plane, meters and gauges on the control panel flash red, going haywire.
“Hijack, punch out! You're about to reach the hard deck! Do you hear me?! Punch out!" You can hear Maverick screaming in your ear just about as well as you can see the numbers on the altimeter clicking down dangerously low...
05,678 ft
04,374 ft
03,294 ft
“Gator, now or we're both fucking dead!"
02,412 ft
Maverick's voice is still crackling in you ear, the radio going in and out as you lose signal. "—out! You have to leave h—! You hav— eject!"
01,523 ft
The ground rushes towards you as you hurdle downwards. Your head is pounding from screaming.
“PUNCH OUT, GATOR!!"
“Hijack!"
Squeezing your eyes shut and chocking back a sob, you jam your finger into the release button. The cockpit hatch opens up and your parachute erupts from your pack, the wind snatching you from the plane seconds before it crashes into the cliff.
You had laid there for what seemed like hours afterwards, waiting for a rescue copter, waiting to pass out. The remains of the plane sat just a few hundred yards from you, a light with flames.
Guilt pooled in the pit of your stomach as images of the charred cockpit filled your brain. There would be nothing to salvage, no survivors. Your eyes clenched shut, trying to expel the image from your head.
You left him.
At some point, you remember staggering to your feet after heaving your aching body off the ground. You had smashed your nose during the eject, and could feel the blood dripping from it. Running your tongue across your teeth, you feel the grit of dust and smoke, and taste the metallic twang of blood in your mouth. Nausea gets the better of you, and you have to lean over to retch again. Above you, the hum of approaching helicopter blades whirs loudly.
You stay put as the rescue copter descends to the ground, using your arm to block any flying debris from hitting your face. The first person off the aircraft is Rooster, followed by two medics, and Maverick not far behind them. Rooster is by your side within seconds, launching himself at you with such force that you stumble back, your hands remaining limp at your sides.
You watch over his shoulder as members of the rescue team tread around the smoking wreckage. Someone shakes their head.
Gator is dead.
Rooster then pulls back so his hand can grab your shoulder. Holding you away from his body, his eyes scan you frantically for injuries. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? he demands, the tension in his voice obvious at the sight of blood on your face.
No, I'm not. Gator is dead, you want to scream at him.
You swallow, shaking your head. "Must have bit my tongue on the way down, hit my nose ejecting," you murmur numbly.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the medics motioning to Maverick. Receiving the news, he sighs, closing his eyes and gathering himself when he thinks you’re not watching. He turns back to you, nodding softly and placing his hand on your shoulder to steer you towards the helicopter. "Well, per protocol, you still need to get checked out."
However, you don't move from where you’re standing. Rooster stops after a few steps when he notices you’re not following. "Hijack?"
Maverick is already in the chopper, the blades whirring to life again. Rooster walks back towards you. "Hijack," he repeats, his eyes watching something over your shoulder. Don't look back you think. His eyes fall back to you. "C'mon ‘jack, we gotta go—"
“He's dead," you state aloud, your voice sounding small and far away even to your own ears. "He's dead, Rooster."
Rooster reaches for you, his hand wrapping around your elbow. "You're in shock right now," he says gently. "Let's get on the chopper, yeah?"
I can't leave him. I can't leave him here all alone.
You step back to avoid his grasp, but he strides forward, catching your arm before you can escape. "[Y/n]—," he begins. "[Y/n]." You yank your arm back, twisting your body as you do so.
“No. Not without him," you plead, but Rooster is already grabbing your other arm and pinning your back to his chest, causing you to be hoisted off of the ground. "No!" you scream, kicking your legs wildly. Your heavy combat boots lash out into empty air. "No, I can't leave him!"
“Gator is gone, [Y/n]. He's gone."
You’re still screaming, thrashing wildly in Rooster's arms as he carries you onto the helicopter. You fight him every step of the way. Hot, angry tears stream down your face. You hiccup on a cry caught in your throat. It's painful and hurts your ribs when you force a breath in.
"Please, I can't leave him! I can't— I can't —"
Rooster holds you close to his chest, pulling you down to the floor in the belly of the helicopter. His arms wrap around your torso tightly to keep your arms from flailing. Your cries are hysterical.
"Shhh, shhh," he soothes into your ear as you sob. "I've got you, I've got you."
When the aircraft lifts off, he continues to hold you to his chest as you struggle against his hold. You can feel your chest tightening, making it harder and harder to choke out cries.
The next thing you know, there's mask being wrestled over your face, a tank and a concerned medic in your peripheral vision, and your hysterical sobs fade into the blackness that swallows you
———
Water verging on the edge of cold and just warm enough that it's cruel sprays down onto your shoulders, seeping through your scalp and dripping down the bridge of your nose. Around you, the remainder of the spray pelts down onto the tiles and forms droplets on the walls. The sound feels like white noise in your head. It's the first conscious moment you’ve had since the helicopter.
Despite the uncomfortable numbness that the communal shower provides, you’re painfully aware of the silence; painfully aware of the existence of your own body: the water dripping into your mouth as you breathe, the burn of your eyes, the press of hard tiles against your spine from where you’re crouched against the wall. You suck in a breathe and water flows into your mouth, a sputtering sob escaping you.
Gator was your weapons assistant officer, named for his impeccable set of pearly whites and constant grin of mirth. He was your best friend. You’d completed basic training together and both went on to be accepted into Top Gun after graduation. You were inseparable, Gator somehow even managing to become your permanent back seater in the air. Wherever you went, Gator went.
Even after you met Rooster, Gator continued to be there for you, vowing to your boyfriend before each and every mission that he would bring you back home safely. It was his job to watch your back while you were up in the air; however, you still felt the same responsibility to protect him. Every time you took hold of the controller in that F/A-18, he was trusting you with his life, and therefore it was your responsibility to get him back on the ground safely.
You had failed him.
You don't hear the soft tread of boots on the shower tiles until Rooster is crouching down in front of you, now being misted by the spray himself. He brushes a wet tangle of hair out of your face, cupping your cheek afterwards. There's a soft, pained smile on his face.
“Hey," he says softly, his voice tender. "I'm sorry," is all he whispers.
You lean into his large palm, his warmth caressing your cheek. Your eyes are bloodshot and glassy, filled with tears.
"They gave me his helmet," you manage. "It's the only thing that survived the crash."
There would be no body to bury, just an empty casket with a flag for the service.
Back in the barracks, a swamp green helmet sits on the bunk next to your own. Pseudo scales line the top, a nod to his reptilian call sign. Right now, it makes you sick to look at.
“I can put it away," he offers gently, as not to upset you with the suggestion. As guilty as it makes you feel, you nod. His large hand pats your knee as he stands.
“Alrighty then," Rooster sighs, wrapping a towel around your shoulders and lifting you into his arms. He's already damp from the shower, so the addition of your dripping body makes no difference to his wet uniform. His large hands splay across your bare skin, and nothing has ever felt more welcoming.
When you enter the barracks, Rooster grabs a plain military issued t-shirt from his belongings, passing by Gator's bunk to snag the helmet with his free hand. The other arm holds you close to his body. You see him scoot the helmet underneath the bunk, now out of sight.
Setting you down on the bunk, he slips the t-shirt over your head, the tan garment so large that it pools beneath you. You drag your palm under your nose, sniffing as you do so. You throat and nose are raw from crying, and your eyes burn.
“Look at me."
You can feel the mattress dip under you as Rooster sits down. "Hey, look at me." This time his finger nudges your chin up to meet his hazel eyes.
"Let him go," he says softly.
The knot in your raw throat won’t allow you to respond, so you just turn your head away instead, but Rooster’s hand won’t allow it, and he brings your eyes back to his.
“I almost lost you too.”
It isn’t until now that you see the fresh quiver of wetness wavering in his eyes, his tough exterior threatening to crumble before you. “I almost lost you too,” he repeats, as though to feel the very possible reality on his lips.
There were many days that you stood at the mission control panel, hardly breathing until the moment Rooster’s feet were on solid ground again. When Rooster went down with Maverick just outside the Ukraine power plant, your entire world ceased to exist until his tracker appeared back on the radar. You knew what it felt like to lose someone before you had even lost someone.
Rooster holds an arm out for you to scoot closer to him, and you nestle into his side against the wall. He plants a kiss to the side of your temple, ducking his head down to nudge his nose against the column of your neck. His lips place delicate kisses along your throat, his mustache tickling your skin.
You had started dating not long after you met, still a little young and foolish for your relationship to be considered anything serious, especially for soldiers who could be deployed across the country at any given moment. But you two gave it a shot, and here you still are two years later. After a year of considering yourselves unattached, you decided to date exclusively. However, there were still gaps in your relationship that neither of you knew how to cross.
Until now.
It’s so unannounced that you’re hardly sure you hear it at all at first, but then he says it again.
Here’s a quick look into my next Jake fic, “Why’s He Call You”.
————————————————————————
"Last time I checked, I wasn't your girl."
Last time you checked, the two of you were freshly broken up and Jake was half way across the country. If you're being honest, you can't even remember the reason the two of you broke up. You probably didn't even know what the reason was at the time. The two of you do so much screaming that it gets hard to tell.
Jake fixes you with a look. "We both know damn well you're always going to be my girl."
Oh.
Now is probably a bad time to finally note how good he looks. His face is fuller than the last time you saw him, healthier and flushed with color. There's a hint of a five o'clock shadow that he doesn't usually allow to grow and his eyes are brighter. His body is fuller too, the strong build of his chest practically strains against his white t-shirt.
"So what's ole boy got that I don't? What's he do that I don't? Because baby, last time I checked, you liked being railed in the back of my Chevy."
Immediately your face flashes red. Not only because there are plenty enough people around to hear him—and did hear him—but because the memory is too engrained in your mind to forget.
You're off of the stool and dragging him towards the closest door in seconds. You pass Natasha in the process, and you know you'll be hearing about this later. Her sharp gaze doesn't miss anything. The swinging door of the ladies room rattles as it closes behind you.
Jake smirks when you let him go. "Oh sorry. Am I only allowed to say that when the door's closed?"
summary: bradley is know for being the safe bet, some may even call him overly cautious, but what happens when an accidental pregnancy completely changes the flight plan.
warnings: accidental pregnancy, swearing, bradley being absolutely feral
authors note: it’s been a HOT minute since i’ve written for mr. bradshaw and i so enjoyed this! please note that I am very open to suggestions for a part two!
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Nicholas "Goose" Bradshaw was killed in a F-14 crash on July 29th, 1986. He was 24 years old. He died exactly how he wanted, tearing through the sky in the backseat of an F-14 Tomcat with his best friend. The man Nick Bradshaw called his baby brother would hold together the pieces of Nick's skull until search and rescue found them.
He was already dead.
The wreckage of Goose's death didn't stop burning when the flames of the crash site were finally swallowed by the icy Pacific. The Bradshaw home smoldered black with grief for months after. Maverick, his ribs still purple from the straps of his ejection harness, delivered the news. Carole did her best, running on stubborn love and her own fading health, but the grief swallowed that fiery attitude of hers faster than Bradley could grow up. She passed in St. John's Hospital, held by the same man who held her husband when he passed.
Bradley was six years old.
They raised Bradley, him and Ice. And when the time comes, Maverick does what any good wingman would do: he pulls Bradley's papers.
He sets Bradley's career back by four long years, feeding the still-warm embers of the wreckage of Goose's death.
Bradley's rage is like a coke can, fallen out of the fridge and awkwardly jammed into the same compartment of the fridge over and over again. Perfectly fine on the outside until someone cracks the tab and unsuspectingly finds themselves the victim of an explosion that's been waiting to happen. And boy does he explode.
Goose had been so mild mannered and easygoing that everyone just assumed Bradley inherited his relaxed demeanor. Carol too, had been peaceful and easygoing. So it was startling to find that Bradley, despite all of his usual timidness, had a fuse. It wasn't nearly as short as Maverick's—whose Ice would argue was nonexistent—but it was there, buried beneath all that quiet.
And when Bradley finally stands before him after eight long years, his broad chest heaving, his voice shaking with a fury that has been simmering since he was four years old, Maverick can practially feel the blood of Nick Bradshaw staining his hands all over again
"What? You thought you were gonna pull my papers and that would be it!? Problem solved??"
Maverick stands his ground. He feels forty-two years young again, staring at his kid's application and death sentence all in one. "It gave you time to grow up."
"I didn't need to grow up," Bradley snaps, his light hazel eyes darker than any storm cloud Maverick has ever faced. "I needed my dad. But you took that away from me too."
The radius of Bradley's fury is staggering. Maverick is left standing in the quiet hum of the hangar, Bradley's words echoing off the metal walls like a sonic boom, even louder than the slam of the door as the young pilot storms out.
"I needed my dad. But you took that away from me too."
It takes Maverick a long time to move. And it takes him even longer to stop hearing those words. They ring even after the roaring engine of the vintage Bronco engine peels out of his driveway, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust to fade into the already bleeding orange sky.
———
The Miramar sunset has quickly become your favorite part of this training assignment. Sure, the beach was nice, and the smell of the coast cleared your mind quicker than any liquor that you've tried. But the sunset, there's nothing quite like it, impossibly golden and incredibly vibrant.
You've only been a part of the Dagger detachment for a few months now, reassigned to this highly decorated squadron of the Navy's elite after their miraculously successful Uranium mission. You've been informed of their reputations before you arrived. You knew Hangman was egotistical and arrogant. You knew Coyote was his right-hand man. You knew Phoenix was sharper than glass, and that her WSO was quiet but deadly. You knew Payback and Fanboy were inseparable.
And you knew Rooster was slow. Deliberate. The safe bet.
You hadn't expected to fall for him. You hadn't expected that a couple of weeks of the toughest training of your life would sit you down in a booth at the Hard Deck. That those hazel eyes would sit down across from you and order two margaritas. That a couple of hours later, you would end up half-naked on the beach, sprawled out lazily in the sand beneath him. That the taste of those margaritas and the salt of the ocean would linger on his lips when he kissed you, where you realized that beneath that easygoing, mustache-sporting exterior was a man of immense, steady depth.
That night has turned into six months. It's fresh, it's new, it's exciting.
And right now, it's about to get incredibly complicated.
You sigh, looking out at the fading sunset one last time before you climb down the ladder of your jet. The feeling of your feet on the ground makes your stomach dip in a way that makes it feel like you're pulling Gs. Your breakfast from this morning threatens to make an appearance. You press your hand to your flipping stomach, a chill running through you despite the warmth of the evening.
"Hey."
You jump slightly, turning to find Bradley walking towards you from the hangar. He looks exactly like the man the Navy thinks he is—relaxed, and broad-shouldered, his flight suit tied around his waist, hands tucked into his pockets. He's got that easy, slow stride that makes it seem like he's got all the time in the world.
But as he gets closer, and you can see the caramel colored highlights in his hair, you notice the tightness around his eyes. That soda can like fury has been shaken. The tab is cracked, and he's doing everything in his power to keep the pressure from blowing.
"Hey yourself," you say, forcing a smile as you finish tying your hair up into a ponytail. "You look like you're miles away."
Bradley stops a foot away from you, blocking the last of the sunset with his large frame. He towers over you, but the Navy must overlook the extra few inches thanks to his prowess as a pilot. His dark eyes soften just a bit, but the shadow still lingers. The shadow of a four-year holding pattern that he can't seem to fly out of.
"Just thinking," he murmurs, and then squints before reaching out to brush his knuckles against your cheek. "You feel okay? You look pale."
Your heart hitches. He doesn't know. No one knows, besides maybe the high schooler at the superstore checkout counter. You don't know what's worse, knowing that you're both active-duty pilots under the most intense scrutiny of your careers, or not knowing how Bradley's going to react when he finds out. Tradition says you should have been careful. Protocol says you should have a ring.
"Bradley," you begin softly, catching his hand before it can fall from your cheek. "Let's go back to your place."
He blinks, sensing the timidness in your usually confident tone. His cautious instincts are flicking on, lighting up like the control board in his F-18. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."
The drive back to Bradley's place is unusually quiet. Usually he had the Bronco windows down and the radio on, and he sang along as tapped out the tune on his steering wheel. Today is different. He's tense, his hands gripped tightly to the wheel even as he pulls up to the house.
It's off base, a little one bedroom house right on the beach with a front porch and white fence around the front yard. It was his parent's first house, left to him after Carole died, and he couldn't bear to part with it.
You remain in the passenger seat even after he parks the car. Bradley does too. He cuts the engine and just sits there for a moment, his forehead dropping to rest against the top of the steering wheel.
The silence wasn't hostile—it never was with Bradley—but it was dense and heavy. You could hear the storm brewing in this head, the fizz of the soda can waiting to explode.
You stare down at your hands folded in your lap. You feel nauseous again, your palms clammy as you pick at the edge of your fingernail.
"Bradley," you say softly, reaching out to touch his forearm.
He lets out a long, ragged breath and then straightens in his seat, his head twisting to look over at you. "Yeah?" He asks softly, doing his best to put on that easygoing, slow and steady Bradley Bradshaw smile for you.
"I'm pregnant."
Almost immediately, the smile drops from his face. For a long moment, he just stares at you, his face unreadable.
"Bradley—"
The sound of the Bronco door slamming shut echos like a gunshot in the quiet beach neighborhood. Through the faded windshield, you watch him go—a blur of green flight shirt and raw, kinetic energy tearing through the pristine white gate of his front yard.
He paces a tight, jagged line across the grass without a word, finally stopping in front of the porch with his hands on his hips. You can see his chest heaving, his massive shoulders shaking.
He mutters something under his breath that looks like 'Fuck'.
You push your door open, your boots moving across the gravel driveway with a soft crunch. Bradley doesn't turn around, even when you stop behind him.
He's not angry, you remind yourself. He's scared. He's processing.
"Bradley..." you say again, your voice barely carrying out over the distant roar of the surf.
When he finally does turn around, his eyes are still cast down towards the ground, hands braced on his hips. "Six months," he breathes out, shaking his head. "We've been together six months."
You swallow. "I know," you admit quietly.
"I've spent my entire life being careful," he continues. His chest is still heaving, his breathing harsh and frantic. "I check the weather. I check the maintenance logs. I fly safe because I known exactly what happens when you don't."
He lets out a short, bitter laugh, and shakes his head. "And then Mav had the nerve to look at me and tell me I needed to grow up. Fucking asshole."
Bradley sucks at his teeth. "Everyone thinks I'm just like my dad. Easygoing. Mild. Patient. But I am so damn tired of waiting for permission to live my life."
You reach out, taking one of his large hands in yours. The same hands that are steady and strong enough to pull up a thousand pound plane engine are shaking.
"Bradley look at me," you command him gently, your voice at least sounding steadier than his shaking hands.
Slowly, his hazel eyes come to rest on your face. They're wet, glimmering with anger and the fear of uncertainty.
"Then, baby, stop waiting."
Bradley stares at you, his jaw tight, his chest still rising and falling in heavy inhales and exhales.
For a man who flies at Mach 2, Bradley processes life in agonizingly slow motion. You can see the calculations running behind his wet hazel eyes. He's thinking about the risks, the career fallout, the Daggers, Maverick.
And then you see when it happens. His shoulders drop, and his wet eyes crinkle, and something that resembles a choked laugh escapes him.
"A baby," he breathes out, the reality finally piercing him through the panic. "We're gonna have a baby."
Then it all comes crashing over you. Relief. Joy. Fear.
"Yeah," you smile through a sudden blur of tears. "We are."
Bradley's palm slides up to cradle the back of your head and he presses his lips to your forehead in a tender kiss. "I was supposed to marry you first," he huffs, sounding just a little regretful. "Maverick is going to blame me for being reckless. Hangman is going to have a field day."
You let out a wet, breathless laugh against his chest. He was right. You would both probably catch some hell for this. The Daggers were some of your closest friends, but Navy gossip was brutal.
"Let Seresin talk," you murmur, burying you face into the crook of his neck. "That's about all he's good for anyway. As for Maverick..." You pause, pulling back just enough to look up into his hazel eyes. "That man is just going to be happy you made him a grandpa."
Bradley lets out another breathy, genuine laugh, the kind that finally rids his broad shoulders of the tension he's been carrying since he stepped off of the tarmac. He closes the distance between you and wraps his strong arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buries his face into your hair and breathes you in.
"One thing's for sure," Bradley murmurs. "He is absolutely going to lose his mind."
———
A couple of weeks later, the drive the down the coast to the Kazansky-Mitchell residence is the longest twenty minutes of your life.
Bradley's hand hasn't left your since you got into the Bronco, or really since you broke the news to him. His grip is firm, steady, and grounded. He doesn't look like the same man whose world fell apart in his front lawn a few weeks ago. The hesitation that usually governs his every move has evaporated, replaced a steady, protective focus.
"You ready for this?" Bradley asks softly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The blinker clicks ever so tediously as he turns down the drive.
"No," you admit honestly, squeezing his hand. "But when has that ever stopped us."
His sparkling hazel eyes catch yours in the rearview mirror and he offers you a small, sharp smile. "That's my girl."
Despite the fact that Bradley has had an on and off turbulent relationship with Pete Mitchell since before you started dating, the Kazansky-Mitchell home has always been somewhere that you've felt welcome at. The house is lavish, grand and sprawling along the water, beyond suitable for a near retired admiral who has nothing but time on his hands to enjoy it after beating an aggressive round of cancer. While Bradley tends to make himself scarce when he and Captain Mitchell are fighting, they still always extend the invitation for dinner.
When Bradley parks the Bronco in the driveway and walks around to open your door, Tom is sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch as he usually is, his reading glasses on his nose and a book in his hands. From his aging appearance, it was clear that his health had seen better days, but his mere presence is as commanding as ever.
The former COMPFLT stands when the two of you begin to walk up the front porch and his posture is still every bit the four-star admiral he used to be. A part of you still always wants to salute him before approaching him. But based upon his soft, warm expression as Bradley guides you up the porch steps, it's clear that his days of commanding are past.
"Bradley, it's good to see you kids. We were beginning to think you two weren't going to stop by."
Regardless of whatever the state his and Maverick's relationship was at the time, Bradley's fury hardly ever extends to his surrogate father. Your boyfriend shakes Ice's hand when he offers it and pulls the older man into a firm hug.
"You know how it is Pops. Mav and I have our days. I missed too much to stay away for long now."
Ice just smiles at his son warmly, a smile that conveys missed birthdays, holidays, a cancer diagnosis, graduations, promotions. "I think your dad is inside." And then he adds, "He'll be glad to see you."
Bradley squeezes your hand and nods toward the door with a sigh. "Right, guess I'd better go make amends."
You squeeze his hand back and watch him go, leaving just you and Ice on the porch. The retired admiral turns to you. Again, his smile is warm, looking nothing like the man who used to eat junior grade sailors for breakfast.
"It's good to see you're keeping him grounded. He's a good man. He just needs a push sometimes."
"He's wonderful, Admiral," you say, and you mean the statement will all of your heart. "He really is."
Not long after you and Ice settle on the rockers on the porch, Bradley reappears through the front door with Maverick right behind him. He offers you an easy, relaxed smile as he settles on the porch swing beside you. The tension usually crackles between Bradley and Maverick seems to have dissipated, at least for the moment. As if to reassure you, a tentative but relieved grin breaks through the captain's weathered features.
"[Y/N]! Good to see you. Glad someone can convince this kid to drive south."
It's a jab at Bradley, however unintentional, but to your relief, the younger pilot doesn't bite at the comment. Instead you just hear him let out a heavy sigh, one that says he's going to let it go for the sake of peace.
Conversation flows smoothly for most of the evening. Talk shifts from workplace gossip, to Mav's latest project in the garage, to plans for the upcoming weekend. To much of yours and Bradley's enjoyment, the two old men still bicker between themselves like lovesick teenagers. Even when Ice's voice rasps and his words fail him, they still manage to taunt each other. The retired admiral will raise his empty hands, moving his fingers in a way that you aren't privy to yet, and Maverick will scoff, firing back with his own verbal insult. It makes you breathe easier to see the kind of people that raised Bradley during the hardest times of his life.
At some point, when the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, Bradley clears his throat, and he starts, his voice clear and steady. "We need to tell you guys something. And I need you to just listen for a second before you say anything."
Across from you, the looks on the two men's grown concerned, uncertain of what Bradley is about to say. Eventually, Ice nods softly. "Okay. Talk to us, kid."
Bradley clears his throat again, this time sounding a bit less confident than the first time. "Well, um.. [Y/N] and I just found out some news... We're expecting. We're going to have a baby."
For a moment, even Ice's rocking chair stops creaking.
Maverick sputters. "You're... what?"
From beside him, Admiral Kazansky is living up to his callsign. He's straight faced, his icy blue eyes unreadable. He just rubs a gruff hand over his face, rubbing his fingers at his temple. And then a slow, rare smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth as he looks across his shoulder at his husband.
"Well, Mitchell. Payback's a bitch, isn't it?"
Glancing over at you with so much adoration in his eyes, Bradley interlocks your fingers with his and then looks back at the two men who are still processing the information across from you. "Look, we know it's sudden. Probably a little sooner than you were expecting—"
"Sooner?!" Maverick blurts. "Bradley, you're not even married!!"
You can't help but wince a little at the statement. Bradley squeezes your hand as if to say, 'it's okay, we knew this was coming'.
"Mav—" Bradley begins, ready to defend himself. But before Bradley can finish, Ice interjects.
"Pete, leave them be." He reaches over and grabs his husband's hand as if to settle him. "Accident or not, what's done is done."
Ice turns his sharp, steady gaze back onto you and Bradley, his expression shifting from mild amusement to that of a cautious parent. "Congratulations you two, really, we're thrilled. But Mav does have a point. You've only been together a few months... In the Navy, there's a protocol to these kinds of things. A checklist. You completely bypassed the flight plan, kid."
Bradley shifts uncomfortably on the porch swing, his broad shoulders tensing as he prepares to defend himself once again. It's your turn to squeeze his hand.
"Pops, c'mon," Bradley basically groans, the petulant teenager that he used to be showing just a little. "I'm a grown man. I'm twenty-six years old. I know we fucked up the timeline."
He looks over at you, his big hazel eyes softening as his mouth twists into a dreamy, wistful smile. "But screw it. We're so damn excited. Because I'm tired of waiting for permission to live my life."
You can't help but smile back at him, leaning into his side on the porch swing. In that moment, all of your worries disappear, and you know that everything is going to be just fine.
Ice and Maverick watch the two of you for a long moment. They look at Bradley's fierce, protective grip on your hand and the warm smiles on your faces. And then they look at each other knowingly. Finally, Maverick lets out a long, slow breath, which then turns into a watery laugh.
"Twenty-six," Maverick mutters, shaking his head. "Gosh, Bradley, when did you get so old?" He finally relaxes back into his chair, the rocker rolling backwards slowly with the movement. "Your dad would be absolutely losing his mind right now. Your mom too. They'd be so damn proud."
You see Bradley's throat bob at the mention of his parents. You hadn't thought about the fact that they're missing this.
"I sure hope so," Bradley says softly, and for the first time, his voice sounds weak.
"They would be," Ice reassures him, his sharp features soft and genuine. And then a sharp, mischievous glint returns to his eyes. "But don't think that Nick wouldn't have something to say about this whole not being married thing. He'd have your hide."
Bradley's face flashes an embarrassed crimson and he rolls his eyes. "Okay, okay, I hear you guys. I promise I'm gonna take care of it."
And then it's your turn to flush red. Not that it hasn't been implied, but the two of you really haven't talked about getting married before now. Hearing him say it out loud to his dads makes it all the more real.
Maverick catches the flushed look on your face and looks over knowingly at Ice.
"Alright, you two," Maverick says, patting Ice's knee affectionately. "I'm sure you've got other people to spill the news to. Go on. Get out of here and get some fresh air. It'll be good for the baby,"he adds with a wink.
You can't help but laugh at his words. You can already tell he's going to be a very attentive grandpa—for better or for worse.
———
As you and Bradley walk down from the house to the beach, a comfortable quiet settles between the two of you. Your interlocked hands swing and you walk beside each other, your feet sinking into the soft ground as it gives way from soft grass to sand.
Eventually, Bradley looks over at you. He's got a mischievous gleam in his hazel eyes, his mustache lifting with the twist of his mouth. "You ready to tell the Daggers?"
You laughs a little breathlessly, admittedly a bit nervous. "No—"
"But when has that ever stopped us," Bradley quotes, repeating your words from earlier.
On the beach, now that the new is at least partially out, Bradley can hardly keep his hands off of you. On your waist, in your hair, sliding past your baggy pair of jeans that are becoming tighter and tighter by the day. All the possessive touching that he wasn't allowed to do is finally coming out. The weeks of careful glances in the briefing room, him stealing glances at your waistline to see if anyone else could notice, the agonizing weight to the secret seems to lift.
You laugh between kisses like two college kids in love and allow him to undo the button of your jeans. He drops to his knees when you step out of them, his heavy frame shifting easily into the soft sand, and he presses a few soft, deliberate kisses to your belly. The rough skin of his hands smooths firmly over your hips, grounding you as the cool ocean air sweeps over your skin.
"I still can't believe it, baby," he murmurs, his mouth pressed to your belly as he speaks. Bradley's voice is a low, gravelly vibration that makes your chest ache with a blooming warmth. He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his hazel eyes green in the sunset. "You're gonna make me a daddy."
The pride in his voice is enough to make your throat swell.
"You're gonna be such a good daddy, Bradley," you whisper, your palm cradling his cheek. He leans into it like a cat, his face hot and flushed.
It takes him a lot of convincing to get you in the water—the Pacific is notoriously biting this time of evening—but eventually he does. He hooks his large hands under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he wades into the surf. He laughs when you yelp as the first wave breaks against his waist, misting you with an icy spray.
His slick, salt sprayed body never leaves yours. The water swirls just below your waist, cool enough to make your skin prickle, but everywhere Bradley touches is pure heat. Something about you in bikini bottoms and your pregnant belly just barely showing out the bottom of the white tank you're wearing over your swim top has made him absolutely feral.
He presses his palm against the small of your back, holding you close against the gentle resistance of the tide. His damp hands find the barely showing curve of your waist, pushing up against the wet fabric of your tank top so that your belly is more exposed. When he does kiss you, it's deep and consuming, tasting like salt and the lingering warmth of the sun, his bare chest solid against yours.
The cautious pilot that you once knew has been replaced by a man who was deeply unafraid to show how committed he was to this new role as a father.
"Bradley," you giggle breathlessly as his hands wander down to your butt, his large palm encompassing almost the entirety of your rear. "Someone is going to see us."
"Let them," he growls softly, his mouth moving down your jaw as his fingers find the tie of your bikini bottoms. At the discovery that these things can be untied, he tugs mischievously at the strings. "Let the whole damn Navy see. I don't care."
You let out a breathless, giddy laugh. You burry your fingers into the damp, caramel-highlighted curls at the nape of his neck and tug, forcing his eyes to meet yours. "Your dads and my soon-to-be in-laws are a hundred yards up that boardwalk. If they glance out their back window, I will never be able to look Ice in the eyes again."
And that's how you find out Bradley Bradshaw has a hair pulling kink.
His fingers freeze against the wet strings of your bikini bottoms, his entire posture going rigid against yours. Something like a pleased groan rumbles in his chest. Looking down at you, Bradley's pupils are blown so wide his eyes look almost black.
A teasing, mischievous smile breaks out onto your face. "You like that, big guy?" You tighten your grip on his thick locks of hair and tug again, firmer this time.
You see his throat contract as he swallows. Bradley looks down at you, his hazel eyes dark and heavy, entirely consumed by the sight of you. "You have no idea," he growls, his voice dropping into a tone so thick and low that it sends heat pooling to your stomach.
Bradley swallows again. "You look incredible," he whispers, and the combination of the compliment and his blissful register makes your heart skip a beat. His large hands find the swell of your stomach under your tank top again. "I mean it. I don't think I've ever seen anything more gorgeous."
The teasing smile on your face melts into rueful frown as you fight the sudden rush of watery emotions threatening to bubble up from your chest. "You can't do that," you protest, your fingers loosening their grip on his hair to rest on the back of his neck. "You and these hormones are going to make me cry, Bradley."
He chuckles, light and airily, like he didn't just create the most tender moment in the world. "Well we can't have that, baby. We've still got to take that picture."
"Right, the picture," you breathe out, grateful for the opportunity to pull yourself together before the tears do start falling.
Bradley doesn't let go of you even when you begin to wade out of the water. His hands linger protectively on your hips until you feel your feet sink to the warm, dry sand of the shore. You make your way over to the pile of your clothes lying in the sand and rustle through them until you find your phone buried in the pocket of your discarded jeans.
"Okay, so how do we do this," you ask him, suddenly feeling the pressure of deciding how you should drop this news to the Daggers.
Bradley shrugs, coming to stand behind you with his hands on your waist as you stare down at your phone, dusting sand from the screen. "Up to you, momma. They're going to flip no matter what."
He's right. With such profoundly unexpected news, the world really is your oyster.
A wicked thought suddenly flashes through your mind, and the teasing smile from earlier reappears on your face.
"I have an idea," you murmur, looking at his reflection in the dark phone screen. "You think you can follow orders?" you ask, turning to face him.
It's Bradley's turn to smirk. "Baby, following orders is literally my job."
You reach up and place a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him downward. "Alright then. Get on your knees, big guy."
Bradley lets out a low, ragged laugh, but he doesn't hesitate for even a second. His massive frame sinks immediately into the sand as he drops to his knees right in front of you.
"Good boy," you hum, and his face flushes red.
"This good?" he asks as you look down at him.
His board, bare shoulders are squared, shining freckled and golden in the evening light. In front of him, your white tank is ridden up just enough to make your soft bump less of a suggestion and more of a statement. You reach down with your free hand and bring his hands up to hold either side of your stomach. His huge palms cover almost the entirety of it, but on the screen, it's perfect.
Before you can snap the picture, Bradley leans in and presses a warm kiss to your belly. His mustache brushes the sensitive skin and you laugh, reaching down to wrap your fingers in his hair and tug his head back just enough so that his dark, lust blown eyes look straight into the camera.
Click.
The picture that you catch is striking. Dare you say, almost scandalous. The Daggers are going to have a stroke.
"Let me see," Bradley asks as he lifts himself to his feet. He looks over your shoulder at the screen, and a dangerous, wicked smirk appears on his face. "Oh yeah. That'll do it."
You open the Dagger group chat and select the photo from your camera roll, typing out a caption before you send it.
[You]: Copilot arriving in December 🍼✈️
You hit the arrow and the message send with a sharp whoosh.
For a grand total of ten seconds, the chat goes dead silent. And then the server breaks into utter nuclear chaos. The notification feed turns into a blur of frantic text bubble that shoot up the screen to make way for then new incoming messages at lightning speed.
[Phoenix]: OHMYGOD OHMYGOD OHMYGOD. WHAT!?!?! BRADSHAW. [Y/N]. IM SCREAMING.
[Hangman]: Holy Fuck! Bradshaw, you fucking animal. I didn't think you had it in you
[Phoenix]: GUYS IM CRYING!! CONGRATS!!!!
[Coyote]: Bro bypassed the entire flight plan, skipped the checklist, and went in straight for the kill. Well played my man. Congrats!
[Payback]: There's no way. Bradshaw?!?? Mr. Cautious himself??? The man who takes three business days to decide on a lane change? That's who just dropped a scandalous pregnancy announcement in the group chat??
[Hangman]: {replied to Payback} There better be a ring on that finger
[Phoenix]: {replied to Hangman} Shut up asshole
[Fanboy]: Has anyone checked on Maverick??!!? That old man is going to have a literal heart attack
[Bob]: Congrats guys!!!!
[Hangman]: {replied to Phoenix} Just pointing out the obvious
[Payback]: But seriously, congrats you two. Really happy for you guys
Bradley, who had been watching the nuclear explosion unfold from over your shoulder, removed himself from your back to take out his phone.
[Rooster]: Ring is being handled, Seresin. Don't worry your pretty little head about it
Instantly, the group chat explodes again.
[Phoenix]: ARE WE HAVING A WEDDING?!??!!
[Phoenix]: PLEASE LET ME PLAN IT
[Hangman]: I'll believe it when I see the rock, birdman
[Payback]: {replied to Rooster} Bro really said "handled". Respect
[Coyote]: There's no way Bradley Bradshaw is getting married before any of us
[Fanboy]: {replied to Coyote} Don't rush it. I can't handle becoming a godfather twice in one day
Before you can read anymore replies, Bradley reaches over and takes the phone from your hand, tossing it onto the blanket on the ground. He wraps both arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his broad chest and sighs, h
the heavy weight of his body sinking into you. Now that the world officially knows, the last bit of tension has completely drained from his massive frame.
You hum quietly, leaning back into him as his large hands slide under waistband of your jeans. His warm palms finding the bare skin of your waist, his thumbs tracing the small, growing curve of your stomach with a newfound reverence.
He holds you there for a long moment, just breathing you in, his chest rising and falling in heavy, steady rhythms against your back. The weeks of stolen glances in the hangar, the agonizing weight of the secret, the fear of what his dads would say—it all washes away with the tide.
Bradley turns you around in his arms so you're facing him, his hazel eyes dark, focused, and entirely consumed by you in the moonlight. He reaches up, his large fingers gently tangling into the hair at the base of your neck, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.
"Let's go home, baby," Bradley murmurs, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that makes your heart race faster than any jet engine ever could. He leans down, his mouth hovering just an inch from yours, his breath warm against your lips. "I think it's time I show you just how much I love that you're carrying my baby."
summary: before he can take on Annapolis, Michael must first figure out how to survive on the ground with the man who walked out on you all those years ago. you try to find the balance between letting man you loved back into your life and protecting the life you built without him
warnings: angst, swearing
author’s note: this is officially the longest series i’ve ever written and there’s more to come! please note that the author knows she changed Jett’s name to Ethan bc it wasn’t sitting right with her. it will be fixed in previous chapters
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The Miramar sun is always warm and golden, and the weather is always perfect. It warms the road leading up to your neighborhood and casts a pleasant golden shadow across the officer housing units. It's the sun that, after twenty years, has tanned your skin into a permanent golden color, and it's the same sun that is reflecting off a pair of pilot-style Aviators in your driveway.
He looks older, more mature now than he ever did. You'd heard he'd recently made Commander and had been reassigned. But rumors were just rumors. It just so happens that this rumor is standing on your front porch in a plain white t-shirt and old blue jeans. This was a personal visit. Not work.
Your heart thuds heavily against your ribs as you pull slowly into your driveway. You put the car into park, but don't get out immediately. Your palms are sweating. You take a deep breath as you remind yourself that it's been almost fourteen years, and you're not the same girl you used to be.
You're back in the cockpit now. This is your house. This is your neighborhood.
You gather yourself and step out of the car.
"The base is about five miles south, Seresin. You must be lost."
He turns around at the sound of your voice. Something like an amused smile flashes across his face, but it's gone just as soon as it was there.
"I'm not lost," he responds, but his voice trails off as he takes in the house around him. The one he hasn't been back to in years. There's a lacrosse stick leaned against the porch, a stray tennis ball in the yard, and a 'USNA Bound' yard sign out by the road. "I'm just...looking."
You cross your arms. Your flight suit is tied around your waist, the wings you had reclaimed a few years ago glint in the sun.
"What do you want, Jake?"
Jake looks down at his boots, his hands braced on his hips, as he thinks carefully about his answer. This is a timid side of him that you never saw often.
"I saw a picture of the boys that you posted," Jake says quietly after a moment. "They... um, they look happy. You look happy."
There's laughter coming from the backyard, followed by the joyous yap of a puppy. Duke had passed away a few years back after twelve long years, and you and the boys had only recently gotten around to getting another dog. His name was Goose.
You look from the backyard to Jake. "I have two beautiful boys who don't even know you. And Jake, they're fantastic. They're good, kind, smart boys. Ethan is playing lacrosse, and Michael is about to graduate. I mean, can you believe that?"
You see him swallow hard, his jaw working. The silence between you is stilled with missed birthdays and baseball games and holidays.
"And best of all, Jake," you continue, your voice dropping to a soft, spoken whisper. "They're nothing like you."
It was true. They truly were your boys. From their dark hair to the slopes of their noses, they were all yours. It was like you had somehow managed to make two clones of yourself, only male and much taller. You had poured your resilience, your quiet strength, and your stubborn, hardheaded refusal into their DNA.
Despite their similarities, like their nearly identical noses, they were each unique in their own way. While both thick-haired brunettes, Ethan kept his on the short side, and it has a tendency to curl on its own accord. Michael's was immensely thick without a curl in sight. Michael's brow and jaw were harder compared to his younger brother's--a physical manifestation of the responsibility he'd carried since barely old enough to know what it meant to be the man of the house. Ethan’s face was sharp with the blue eyes to match. While Michael's eyes were more of a hazel, similar to your own.
He swallows again, and you finally see it, the emptiness and regret blanket him like a storm cloud, and now he's just a sailor weathering the storm.
"He looked so much like you... in the photo. But I don't know... I didn't recognize him at first... and then I did."
As you watch the man you used to know crumble in your driveway, you remain silent, but you know what he's talking about. You see it too, and not just in the photo, but in the boys everyday.
Because their smiles—that was all Jake, as much as you hated to admit it. Always big and joyous, always friendly. Their smile lines creased the same way his did, as if their cheeks ached with the intensity of holding such a genuine expression. One thing that you loved and hated in equal measure was the way their eyes crinkled anytime they smiled or laughed. It was the only part of him that they carried.
"They're yours, (Y/N). I can see that," he says, finally looking up at you. The cocky young pilot that you knew in your twenties is gone. Standing in your driveway is a man who looks like he realized he sold his life for the air and has finally run out of sky. "I just... I wanted to see if there was still a seat at the table for me. And (Y/N), if there's not, I'm willing to make one."
Your jaw clamps together as you remind yourself to stand your ground. "The table has been set for three for a long time, Jake. If you want a seat, you're going to have to do more than just show up with a reassignment order."
Your eyes fall back to the house again, where you know the boys are inside, probably starting up their homework. "Because despite the fact that I may still have a place in my heart left for you, theirs never had one."
You turn your back on him and begin walking back towards the porch. And as you reach the door, one of the beams holding up the infrastructure of your heart crumbles just slightly. You pause with your hand on the doorknob and stop, looking over your shoulder.
"Michael is graduating on Friday. The ceremony starts at 5. Don't wear your uniform. This is his day. Come as a dad or don't come at all."
The morning of graduation, the air at the stadium is thick with California heat and an electric hum of anticipation. The lives of hundreds of young adults are just about to begin. It was different for you than probably most of the parents here. They'll tell you this chapter started when their kid was born. But for you, this chapter started when you walked across the stage at your own high school graduation, and you shook the hand of the congressman who had appointed you to the Naval Academy.
You sit in the front row of the section reserved for the student's immediate family. But your family is a little bit of an exception. To your left, the Dagger Squad occupies the remainder of the entire row, a wall of faces that had stepped up and become the boy's surrogate family.
Maverick sat to your immediate left, looking at the stage with a quiet, paternal pride that made your throat tight. With your parents being absent, and Jake's family off in Texas, he and Ice, who always insisted you call him Tom, made sure you and your boys always had somewhere to go for the holidays. Rooster and Phoenix are beside him, your two closest friends who, in eighteen years, never missed a lacrosse match or school play. Bob is flipping through the camera settings, taking test shots of the stage to ensure he gets the angle right. Even Payback and Coyote have flown in, their loud bickering about who was the better godfather drawing looks from the parents around them. They were the village that helped you raise your boys.
To your right is an empty seat with a reserved sign on it. You try not to look at it.
You watch the students as they file into the gym instead, the tension in your chest loosening as you spot Michael. He's easy to find--the tallest in his row, his brunette hair perfectly styled, his jaw set in that hard, resolute line that had become his trademark. He looked like a man ready to take on the world. But the tough guy demeanor dissolves as soon as you catch his eye.
His eyes light up, his smile lines creasing as his face relaxes to give you a jubilant smile. For a fleeting second, he's your little boy again.
The ceremony is a blur of speeches and applause. Towards the end, the principal begins recognizing the names of the students heading to the Service Academies. When Michael's name is called—'Michael Thomas Seresin, United States Naval Academy'—the Dagger Squad erupts. Maverick lets out a whistle that could be heard for miles, and Phoenix is clapping like she'll never stop. You wince at Rooster's "Fuck, yeah, Mick!", but just shake your head and laugh, a smile stuck permanently on your face.
And you see him then, a shadow standing at the back of the stadium, unwilling to join the celebration. Just like in your driveway, he's not in uniform. He's got on a crisp polo shirt and khakis. He looks remarkably like a civilian if you ignore the way he stood with the rigid posture of a man who spent four years learning how to march on a dime.
He's not looking at you. His eyes are fixated on the stage, where Michael is shaking the principal's hand with his spitting image Jake Seresin smile.
You see him close his eyes, a pained expression flashing across his face, but you know he's not seeing himself. He's seeing you, the girl he met at Plebe Summer in Annapolis, who fought tooth and nail to be there because no one else was around to save her.
You turn back to Michael. This was his day.
After the ceremony, the field is a bustling sea of caps and gowns. The Dagger Squad swarms Michael first. Rooster swings his arm around the boy, who is now almost just as tall as him, and catches him in a headlock before he can make an escape.
"Come here, tough guy," Bradley rubs his knuckles through Michael's hair before he can protest, effectively ruining it for any pictures you might have wanted. You couldn't care less. This moment is enough.
When Michael manages to shove him off, his smile a mile wide, Maverick is right there to shake his hand.
"Congratulations, kid." You know the old man is normally more of a hugger, but right now, the handshake is a nod to the young man standing in front of him. You know Michael knows this too because he offers Maverick a pleased, tight-mouthed smile.
"Thank you, sir."
Phoenix is next. She claps him on the shoulder with a surprising amount of strength, which he's used to after all of these years, and grins. "Don't let them see you sweat, kid. You're already logged more flight hours than half the graduating class there."
His preparation was a nod to the group of aviators around him. Each one of them had poured countless hours of their own time into him.
Finally, it's your turn. Michael finally breaks away from the group and walks towards you, his blue graduation gown flowing in the breeze. He throws his arms around you in a fierce embrace and doesn't let go. He's a good foot taller than you, and his weight is crushing, but you don't ask him to let go because you're taken back to the eighteen years ago when you were standing in the kitchen so utterly afraid, and your eyes start to tear up.
"I did it, Mom," he breathes into your hair.
"I know, baby. I'm so proud of you."
And then you feel him tense in your embrace, and his arms fall away as he pulls back. Now standing a few feet in front of you, his hazel eyes are fixed over your shoulder. He looks like a deer in the headlights, only the look in his eyes isn't fear.
You watch as his brown darkens, and you see the immediate shift of his set jaw. Jake stands a few feet away, looking out of place for the first time in his life. The silence between the two men is tangible.
"Commander," Michael says, his voice level and hard.
Jake flinches at the title but takes the acknowledgement as a win. He steps forward, almost as if daring Michael to size him up, and then he extends his hand. "Michael. Congratulations. That's... Annapolis.. It's a hell of an achievement."
Michael doesn't offer his hand. He just gives Jake a curt nod, but you can tell that his eyes are searching Jake's face. For something, anything to explain his absence for the past fourteen years. Maybe he's looking for the man who stopped in the driveway for him all those years ago. If he is, he doesn't find him.
"I'm going to carry on the Seresin legacy at the Academy," Michael says. "But I want you to know that I'm not doing it for you."
Jake swallows hard. "I don't expect you to."
"This is for her," he says, and to others, it may not have been noticeable, but you hear the tremble in his voice.
Without another word, Michael turns his back on Jake and looks to you. The hard edge of his face softens into the joyful one that you recognize.
"Come on, Mom. Ethan's waiting at the car. And Uncle Bradley promised to buy me a beer so long as I don't tell anyone."
You can't help but let out a disbelieving laugh. "Bradley Peter Bradshaw!"
As Michael leads you away, the Dagger Squad slowly follows suit, and you glance back over your shoulder one last time. Jake is still standing there where you left him, hands in his pockets, utterly alone in this midsts of the remaining families.
He may have gotten his stars, but life hadn't waited for him while he was away. He had two grown sons who very clearly weren't just going to invite him back into their lives. He'd have to fight like hell for a seat at the table. If he wanted to be a part of your lives, he was going to have to earn it, one mile at a time, on a long road back from Texas.
summary: Jake makes a promise to you and fails to keep it. when all else fails, you want to be the one to run. but you aren’t the leaver. so it has to be Jake
warnings: angst, talk of divorce, very very very vague mention of cheating if you can catch it
authors note: guys this story line has grown so so much an I’m so excited to get the next part out. in the meantime, you can read part 1 here and part 2 here!!! Part four!!
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The silence that follows Bradley's name is heavy. Not crackling with electricity but firm, as you'd finally dropped the weight of resentment that you've been carrying. The silence follows you as you walk back towards the master bedroom.
Mentioning Rooster wasn't just some petty jab about the rumors that used to go around—because they did go around. It was a reminder of the world that you used to live in, one where you saw the faces of your teammates every day and not just once every blue moon at the grocery store.
You're sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at your hands, when Jake finally makes his way into the room. He doesn't turn on the overhead light like he normally would before bed. That means you're not going to bed. Instead, he moves through the darkness of the bedroom that you share, the one he hasn't slept in any more than he's slept in the barracks on base.
"That wasn't fair," he says, his voice soft.
"Fair?" You let out a short, restrained laugh, and finally look over at him. "Jake, I gave up the career that I fought tooth and nail for so that you could keep yours. So don't talk to me about fair."
He swallows pensively.
"I didn't ask you to quit. You chose me. You chose this family—"
"You chose this family," you snap, suddenly standing, and the words feel guilty coming out of your mouth, but you mean them. You loved your boys.
But you loved being a pilot.
Jake stands too, refusing to let you have your space. "You can be angry. You can hate me and say you never wanted this, but this is our life now. And I'm doing this for us," he insists, reaching out for you and grabbing hold of your elbow.
You don't move any closer to him, but you also don't pull away. You just stand there staring at him. He looks like the man you fell in love with—the cocky, brilliant, too pretty for his own good pilot who flew like he was invincible—and also like a complete stranger.
But you don't voice those thoughts, and all he can see is the pain in your eyes. Jake closes the gap between you and wraps his arms around you. For a moment, your thought is to push him away. You want to stay angry because your anger is a shield, and it has always protected you. Because if you stop being angry, you're just the girl who is so afraid of being left behind again.
You were newly eighteen when your mother stood in the driveway, threatening to leave. Things hadn't been okay at home for a while, but you were supposed to make it through. You always did.
"You can come if you want, but I'm leaving."
You had developed a blistering hatred for her that festered over the course of many years. She was a raging narcissist, the person who made you the most insecure and brought out the worst in you. You hated being around her.
But she was your mother.
And what kind of mother leaves their child? What kind of mother leaves their child in the broken shambles of a home they didn't even break in the first place?
As a little girl, you grew up with this fear that eventually, some big screw-up was going to make one of your parents leave. It didn't occur to you that not every child feared that each fight was going to be their parents' last.
Your throat is tight, and every fiber of your body wants to cry out and say, 'Please remember, there was a love, and it was ours'.
But you're so tired.
You allow your forehead to fall against his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne and jet fuel clinging to his clothes. You can hear his heart beating fast and steady, the heart of a man who lives for the thrill of the sky.
"Two weeks," you murmur, more to yourself than Jake. "That's fourteen days."
Jake rubs his hand along your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. "I promise I'll be here. I'm all yours until then."
You pull away just enough to look him in his soft green eyes, your expression hardening into the sailor that you once were.
"Good. Because when you come back, things are going to change. You're going to be here, and I'm getting back in a cockpit. That's the deal. "
"Ok," Jake concedes softly. "That's the deal."
And for the first time in years, something flutters in your heart, hope perhaps. You could do this. You could let him go, and he'd come back, and you could do this. Things would get better.
But as you send Jake off two weeks later, his beam is a mile wide as he joins his crew. He absolutely lived for this. And he was never going to live for anything else.
The promise that Jake makes you dies somewhere out over the Pacific.
When he finally comes home from deployment six months later, he finds a house that has learned to function perfectly well without him. And instead of stepping back into it, Jake seems to hover around the perimeter like a guest who is not quite sure where they belong.
Slowly, his presence became less and less, just like it was before this deployment—almost like he was still on deployment.
"I just need to catch up," was his excuse when he'd show up late to Michael's tee-ball game and then proceed to spend the entirety of the time he was there with his eyes glued to his phone. "Command evidently went to shit while I was gone, and now it's my problem."
The deal you'd struck becomes a fleeting thought, a wistful desire of the past. Every time you brought up finding time to renew your flight physical or going to meet with Cyclone to talk about returning to an active status, something comes up. Jett gets an ear infection. Michael has a soccer game. And Jake? Jake was always 'team lead' or 'essential mission personnel' or 'stuck at the airfield' and 'too busy to pick up the boys from school'.
You weren't just a single mother; you were a secretary for a man who didn't want to be managed. At some point, the fighting stopped being loud and started being silent and cold. And somehow that was much worse than the screaming.
Finding yourself sleeping in separate beds happened gradually. It started as Jake "falling asleep on the couch" after a late night of reviewing conops and training plans. At some point, he moved to the guest room and never really moved out.
Now, finding yourself standing in the buzzing hum of the lights in the base locker room, you watch him. A place that used to be so familiar, you now feel so out of place in. This is Jake's turf now.
You cross your arms over your chest, watching quietly as Jake tugs on his boots at the end of the locker room bench. He looks tired, more tired than you've seen him in the past five years. You're sure there was a time in the academy when he got even less sleep than now, but you still don't like the thought of him flying like this.
"It's Michael's birthday tomorrow," you remind him gently. His fourth, you want to say, in case you didn't remember. "He wants to know if you'll sleep at the house tonight..."
He huffs, blinking blearily as he finally gets his heel shoved into his other boot. He takes his time getting an answer out. "I'll see if I can get my paperwork wrapped up early today."
You sigh, knowing that it's a futile promise. Not only do you doubt his adamancy in actually doing so, but the chance of him actually getting through it all is just as unlikely. You've come to learn that there's always one more form, always a last-minute briefing, always another reason to stay away just a while longer.
You look away, up at the ceiling, at the wall. And then you just say it.
"I don't want to get a divorce."
Jake pauses tying his laces.
The distant sound of a jet engine roaring on the tarmac bleeds through the walls, filling the silence. It's the first time either of you have brought up the word. It's certainly been there, because where else was sleeping in separate beds heading? But evidently neither of you wanted to be the one to propose the idea.
He doesn't look up. His fingers stay looped in the laces of his boots, frozen. "Is that where you think this is heading, (Y/N)?"
You shrug, suddenly fighting back an onrush of emotion. Your throat is tight, and your eyes sting with the threat of tears.
"I don't know—yes? I mean, I don't want it to be. It's just that I feel like we're already living it, Jake."
Jake finally finishes with his laces, and he stands. The bench creaks in his absence. And for the first time in weeks, he actually looks at you. The green of his eyes is bloodshot, rimmed with an exhaustion that is deeper than not getting enough sleep.
Jake wipes a hand over his tired face, the glint of his gold wedding ring catching in the overhead lights. He looks up at the ceiling, then down at his shoes, as if he'll find some sort of escape or ominous black hole to swallow him there. But there's nothing; he can't fight his way out of this one.
"I'm trying to provide, (Y/N). Everything I do is for you and the boys—“
"Don't even, Jacob," you snap, your voice sharp and dangerous. "This was never for us. This is for you and only you. You're just chasing the stars on your shoulder." And then you can't stop. "Because if you actually wanted to fucking provide, you'd give me a chance to get back in the cockpit again."
Jake's jaw tightens. The mention of the promise that he'd broken is a fatal blow.
"I can't be both, (Y/N)," he whispers. "You were right. I can't be Hangman and the man you and the boys need at the same time. I'm not good at it. When I'm here, it takes everything out of me. I have to be perfect. And when I'm at home, I just feel like I'm failing. I see the way you look at me. I'm not who you need... and I hate it. So I stay here, because this is what I’m good at."
The honesty is more painful than the silence ever was. It's the first real thing he's said to you in years.
"You are a great father. Or at least you were. I don't know what happened. You stopped trying, I guess." You reach out and place your palm on his chest. "I'm not asking you to be the best. I'm just asking you to be here." You can feel his heart beating in his chest. "Please, just be here."
Jake closes his eyes and takes a deep, grounding breath.
"Okay," he sighs, finally allowing the walls he'd built around himself to crumble. "I'll be there to tuck them in tonight. I've got some work to do before then, but I'll be there."
"Bedtime is eight sharp," you remind him.
"I know, I know—"
"I mean it, Seresin. Don't be late."
You wait for it.
The text that says he won't make it.
You've had this kind of hope before. The kind that waits for the low rumble of a RAM engine and the crunch of gravel in the driveway.
You go through the motions. You take Duke out for a walk, you pick the boys up from daycare, you cook dinner, and no Jake. So you feed the boys, and you bathe them, and you rock Jett to sleep, and still no Jake.
Another hour passes. You read Michael a bedtime story. Still no Jake.
You put Michael to bed. Still no Jake
You're in the kitchen cleaning up the last few dishes from dinner when you hear the engine of his truck. The glimmer of hope that you'd had earlier is gone. You stay by the sink, sponge in hand, and listen to the heavy thunk of his car door as he closes it and the thud of Jake's boots on the porch.
The door opens and closes. Duke woofs, his tail wagging pensively, like he's not sure of who's entering.
You wait for him to walk into the kitchen. Your face is blank, your jaw tight. You hear him kick off his boots by the door, something you're just choosing to overlook at the moment. The clock on the oven reads 11:43 pm.
"Jake—"
"Don't even start," he mutters, cutting you off the second that he walks into the kitchen. "There was a bird strike, and one of the new butter bars had to eject. I had to sit in on the whole debriefing with Simpson."
You swallow.
"Go back to Texas, Jake." Your voice is flat and empty, but you mean it.
Jake freezes, his hand hovering above the door handle of the fridge. When he looks back at you, all of his usual bravado has drained from his face.
"What?"
"Tell Maverick you want to transfer. Go back to Texas."
"You're asking me to leave? What happened to not getting a divorce?" His voice rises to a level that is dangerously loud enough to wake the boys. His arms are folded defensively across his chest as he turns to fully face you.
"Yeah, I am," you say, almost as if you convince yourself. "Because I'm not the leaver, Jake. As much as I want to be. So it has to be you."
Jake's jaw is working, his green eyes searching for the girl who once would have begged him to stay, to give in, to wait for him. But evidently, he doesn't find her, and his arms drop from his chest.
"So you're just kicking me out of my own house?" he rasps.
"If I leave, I take the boys with me. I uproot their lives, their school, their home. I won't do that to them. I won't make them lose everything because you couldn't figure out how to stay."
That was the thing about you. You came from a long line of leavers. Your mother had left; your father was absent. You know the easy relief of running. You would leave. Every cell in your body was screaming at you to get in the car and never look back.
But it wasn't about you these days.
You have to think of your boys. You have to be the one stationary thing in their lives.
"Your parents will be happy to have you back at the ranch for a while—Lord knows we never go to see them enough," you add. "Go figure out if you want to be a Commander or if you want to be a dad. Because you can't keep being a dad only half of the time. It's killing me, Jake. And I won't let it kill them."
The look on Jake's face is stricken and solemn, like a man who knows he's lost the war. And now he's standing in the remains of the battlefield. He keeps looking from you, to the hallway where the boy's bedrooms are, to the front door.
Finally, he nods. And when he speaks, his voice cracks. "I should... Um, I should back a bag then." His voice is so quiet that it's almost a whisper.
"Okay," you answer, your voice softer this time.
He hesitates another moment, as if, while he's trying to wrap his mind around this, maybe you'll change your mind.
"You don't have to leave tonight," you say. "Stay, go to work tomorrow, and tell the boys goodbye in the afternoon."
Jake nods softly. "Okay." And then he heads up the stairs.
You stay downstairs to give him some space. You hear him rummaging around in your bedroom closet, hear the opening and shutting of the drawers of his dresser as he packs.
Only when the bedroom door of the guest room shuts do you walk back upstairs. You expect sleep not to come, not when Jake is sleeping a bedroom away in a storm cloud of emotions, but it does, and you wake up feeling as though a thousand pounds has been lifted from your shoulders.
The roar of the RAM's engine fills the silence of your little neighborhood. It's an aggressive, low rumble that feels like it vibrates the glass of the kitchen window. You stand there, knee-deep in the wreckage of a life that you'd tried so hard to build, and watch the red glow of Jake's reversing tail lights back out of your driveway.
Jake hasn't looked back at the house once.
"Dad!" Michael's voice rings through the air, high and desperate.
Your heart sinks, aching deep within the cage of your ribs as you watch your four-year-old scamper down the driveway. His tiny bare feet slap against the pavement as Jake's truck backs out of the driveway.
You watch apprehensively from the kitchen window, your heart growing heavier by the second. You see Jake pause as Michael reaches the end of the driveway, only halted by his lack of shoes. He's such a stranger these days that you don't even know if he'll stop.
With a plane ticket west and a backseat full of his belongings, Jake puts the car in park.
You bite your bottom lip as he steps out, cradling Jett closer to ease the ache in your chest. At the very least, you're thankful that only one of your boys will remember this hurt.
"What, Mick?" Jake asks, his voice soft as he steps out of the cab and walks back towards the end of the driveway.
" 'ave a hug?" Michael inquires from behind the pacifier in his mouth, his arms raised up in the air, fingers reaching for Jake. He's already in his pajamas, ready for bed before the sun has even set.
You watch as Jake swoops him up, wrapping him in a bear hug of enormous strength. He buries his face in Michael's neck, his shoulders shaking in a way that you haven't seen since Jett was born.
Jake presses a firm kiss to the top of Michael's darkening head of hair, one of his large hands placed firmly on the side of his head. He squeezes him tight one last time and then sets him down.
Jake turns away and doesn't look back. He knows you're watching. His boots thud heavily against the pavement as he walks back to his truck. From the window, you see him reach up to wipe his eyes as he walks.
As the tailgate of Jake's truck disappears down the street, the silence that falls upon the house is different than the kind that has been swallowing it for months. It's eerily peaceful.
Your eyes drift from the empty driveway, where Michael is now riding his tricycle, to the collection of framed photos sitting on the kitchen windowsill. Most are family photos. There's a grainy Polaroid picture of yours and Jake's very first date—back when you were just two cocky 2nd lieutenants who thought they owned the sky. There's one of Michael holding Ethan the day he was born. And one of Duke, his tongue lolling out, looking like the happiest dog in the world.
But the last one, dusty and half hidden by a picture of Jake holding Michael, doesn't quite fit in the storyline told by the rest. You pick it up and place it in front with the others.
You're standing in front of a brand new F/18, your signature bright blue helmet held under your arm as you grin from ear to ear and give the camera a thumbs up. It had been cold in Germany, and so your cheeks and nose are burned red from the wind, your hair somewhat contained in long dutch braids.
The girl you were five long years ago stares back at you. She looks like she could fly through a mountain if she wanted to. She looks invincible. She had all these big dreams, plans to soar through the ranks, be the best damn pilot Miramar ever saw.
And now, standing at your kitchen sink with Jett sleeping in your arms, all that's left of your big dreams is a framed 4-by-3 photo above the sink.
summary: Tommy Shelby needs a wife. his cousin Michael has just the solution
warnings: swearing, large age gap, 18+ smut
author’s note: THREE posts in a day! guys who and i. when i tell you guys i’ve been sitting on this thing for over a year…
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You are nineteen the first time you meet Thomas Shelby. Nineteen is a very inconvenient time to fall in love. However, so is twenty-nine.
The Garrison was chock full of people, and yet no one appeared to mind. The music playing seemed only to aid in livening up the already boisterous pub. Laughter fueled by whiskey and gin and tonic floats around the room. It is an unusual but welcomed setting for the town of Small Heath, and why shouldn't it have been? John Shelby had gotten married.
Couples dance amongst the crowd, making use of what little empty space had been made, the tables moved for the purpose of dancing. A multitude of small children consisting of the young Finn Shelby and John's children weaves between moving feet, their parents too engrossed in the events of the evening to take notice of their behavior.
"To John Boy!" The eldest of the Shelby brothers roars, thrusting up a glass of beer, causing its contents to slosh over the rim, spilling onto the bar top. Somewhere on the other side of the bar, his brother smiles in amusement at him, his cheeks colored a bashful pink as he raises a glass up in return, drawing his new wife closer to him. The rest of the pub cheers in response.
Your cousin, Michael, materializes from within the crowd, a gleaming smile on his face and his eyes alight brightly. You had lost him sometime ago but hadn't bothered to go looking for him, wanting him to spend time with his family. You didn't know very many of them and didn't want him to waste his evening trying to make small talk for you. So instead you had opted to enjoy the free champagne and watch the party from afar.
Like Michael, you had only just discovered his true identity; however, you were raised together and it would have felt weird to refer to him as anything other than your cousin now.
He truly did belong in this life, in all of its grotesque glory. The starched collar and expensive dress shoes suited him just fine. In the letter that he had sent last week, asking you to visit him, Michael had briefly alluded to the success of the family business that he was now involved in. You'll admit, you were worried. You had always thought Michael was so strait-laced, but now you can only shake your head seeing just how at home he is here.
Michael walks over to stand beside you, a drink in his hand. "Well?" He asks, alluding to the room. "What do you think?"
"I think that you're barely eighteen and have already acquired the taste for whiskey," you tease him. His eighteenth birthday had just passed, making him only a year younger than yourself.
He chuckles, shaking his head. "I meant about my family."
Sighing and looking out at the bustle of the bar, you laugh airily for lack of proper words. "It's all very... you," you eventually relent, adding, "I'm very happy for you."
Michael smiles, obviously pleased with your approval. "Come on, I'll introduce you." And so despite your reassurance that you were just fine watching him have fun, he guides you into the heart of the crowd, his palm pressed to your back.
After shaking hands and offering your congratulations to John and his wife, Esme, Michael leads you to the end of the bar, where an older woman is invested in an argument with another girl who is obviously heavily pregnant. Their conversation ceases when Michael clears his throat.
"Mum, Ada, this is (Y/n)," Michael begins, his palm still resting against your back, where his fingers graze bare skin.
You are suddenly a bit self conscious about your choice of attire. By no means were you inappropriately dressed for the occasion, but the long, form fitting black gown with a deep, open back has left you feeling suddenly exposed. The dress was gorgeous, but you didn't know any of these people enough to dare to make such a flashy first appearance.
Seemingly relieved to have been rescued from the heated conversation, the pregnant woman stands, offering you a hug, waving away your worries with the gesture. "It's nice to finally meet you! Although I'm surprised Michael managed to convince you to come. We're a little unconventional here," she adds knowingly, sounding a little annoyed.
You just smile back politely, assuring her that everyone had been lovely so far. The rumors about the Shelby family and the Peaky Blinders were often carried on whispers of illegal gambling and murder. Despite it all, the events of the night thus far presented them to be rather normal people.
The lady to whom Michael had referred to as 'Mum' is less welcoming in her greeting.
"Polly Gray. Michael's mother," she clarifies with a restrained smile, but the look in her dark eyes remains hard and unwavering. You find none of Michael's kindness in her eyes. In fact, you find none of Michael in her at all.
He must take notice of her coldness because he excuses the both of them, pulling her aside. Ada begins to say something to clear the tension in the air but is interrupted by a loud cheer coming from behind the bar. She looks over her shoulder and sighs, standing up with a hand on her protruding stomach.
"If you'll forgive me, I have to make sure Arthur isn't having too much fun," she apologizes, moving surprisingly well for someone in her state. Her departure leaves you alone once again.
The barkeep notices your lingering about the bar side and walks over once he's finished with the other customers, slinging the towel he had been using over his shoulder. "What can I get for ya, Miss?" he inquires kindly.
You'd already taken previous advantage of the festivities of the evening, indulging in the expensive liquor offered in wake of the wedding, so you shake your head, politely declining his offer. "Thank you, but—"
"Two whiskeys, Harry," a voice says suddenly from beside you. Previously unaware of his appearance, you turn towards the voice on your right. The expression on the man's face is stoic and unreadable as you meet his gaze. Empty blue eyes stare straight though you.
Surprised, you tilt your head slightly, your brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, who—"
“Thomas Shelby," he says, turning back towards the bar, a proper Birmingham accent weighing on his breath. He slides one of the two glasses over to you, lifting the other to his lips.
And now you have a face to put to the name. A face with hollowed cheekbones and full lips and emotionless eyes. Everything about him oozes confidence and well discerned calculation. Glancing between him and the bar top, you eventually accept the drink. You'd heard about Thomas Shelby.
Expectantly, he peers at you over the rim of his glass as he takes another drink. "Am I going to have to ask you your name?"
You laugh, a little embarrassed that you had been so caught up in your thoughts. "(Y/n) (L/n). I'm a cousin of Michael's... or I was," you admit.
Tommy nods, a soft ahh of understanding escaping his mouth. "I see."
You stand together at the bar, sipping whiskey and watching as people bustle about the pub. As the evening hours have approached, a few partygoers have called it a night, but most remain, still celebrating in the lively Garrison. It was a wedding after all.
Tommy makes no further efforts to converse with you, instead watching over the pub as he languidly nurses his drink. You take the opportunity to drink in the enigma that is Tommy Shelby.
He is a terrible sort of handsome, and that is perhaps why his belligerence is allowed to be so. There is a calm that washes over when in his presence, one that is laced with an elegant sort of fear, like a rabbit that knows it is being hunted. As though every breath that you take is only taken because he has permitted you to do so. You've never encountered a man so insidious looking. Just his presence stirs something in you incomparable to that of any other man. It is almost frightening.
Spurred on by the free whiskey and the temptation to taste his allure, you turn to him, backing away from the bar. Decidedly, you would have to indulge in him to understand him. His eyes follow you with slight curiosity. You have to restrain your smile. Now—now—you have caught his attention.
"Do you dance, Mr. Shelby?"
He doesn't move from where he is reclined against the bar, instead simply tipping back the rest of his drink, and for a moment you think that he's going to refuse you. After another moment, he straightens and steps towards you.
"No," he says. "I don't. But ask me anyhow."
With a pleased smile, you offer him your hand. Again, you propose, "Would you dance with me, Mr. Shelby?"
As inconspicuously promised, he takes it gracefully and follows you out onto the floor. One of his calloused hands finds the bare flat of your back, and you're surprised by its sudden warmth. Perhaps you had come to expect all aspects of Tommy Shelby to be wrapped in an ice cold exterior. An amused puff of a breath escapes from his nose when your skin twitches at the contact, but still his eyes survey the surroundings of the room, deliberately skirting from your own gaze.
What are you hiding, Tommy Shelby?
The pub is still decently crowded, but people make way as soon as they catch sight of the middle Shelby brother, opening up a path for the two of you as Tommy guides the two of you out further onto the floor.
You quickly learn that for claiming he doesn't dance, Tommy is excellent at it. Each step he takes is precise and planned, done with the confidence of someone who has learned to dance, but not for the sake of enjoying it. At first you get the impression that he is bored; however, when you look up, he's fighting a smile off of his face.
"Micheal always says you're much too serious," you comment, proceeding with caution. The last thing you would want to do is say something to offend him, especially now that you've peeked past the dark curtains of his well armored exterior.
This causes his eyes to fall to yours, but he only hums in response. His hand is steady against your exposed back, holding your body close to his chest. You've caught a few more glances, turning heads as you float across the room.
"Micheal is young," is all he says.
Micheal is young.
And so am I, you think.
It was certainly no secret that Tommy was getting on in years. His job had aged him well. And surely any man in his late twenties would begin to feel the pressure to settle down eventually. But Tommy Shelby was not any man. He still carried that wild look in his eyes, something not many people saw—that or they mistook it for insanity. Micheal had told you that Tommy used to be a different person before the war. "He used to smile, believe it or not," he had laughed, as if he was incapable of it now.
"What's the matter with young?" you ask tersely, your heart sinking with an inappropriate amount of disappointment. A foolish little spark had been lit inside of you since his approach at the bar, taking his advances as interest rather than genuine kindness.
Tommy won't meet your eyes, his cool exterior reappearing. His feet never miss a step, and the two of you continue on moving to the music as if nothing has changed since you stepped upon the floor.
His blue eyes focus on something far off in the room, and he swallows thickly, as if the words taste foul in his mouth. "I'm old enough to be your father—"
You stop him before he can finish.
"You knew," you accuse, embarrassed that you had been played as a fool. "You knew—"
"(Y/n)," he murmurs to stop you, his voice still gentle, as if he were talking to a child. You have stopped dancing, now standing idly amidst the crowd. "I shouldn't have been so forward—"
"Don't give me that bullshit. That's not fair and you know it—" Tommy's hand grabs your jaw, stopping your sentence before you can finish it.
His thumb presses into the side of your jaw, the rest of his fingers cradling your chin. It doesn't hurt, that's not his intention, but it's enough to silence you. His eyes flicker between yours, deciding.
You decide for him.
"Kiss me," you dare, your eyes meeting his with equal intensity. There was something about him that you had to have. You would not let him attempt to scare you away.
If others have noticed the altercation going on between the two of you, no one dares to intervene.
Finally, he speaks. "Do not," he says calmly, stressing his words carefully. His blue eyes won't let go of yours. "Make me feel guilty for this."
Tommy's fingers release their hold on your jaw, instead slipping to cradle your cheek as he dips his head towards you. You lean forward, desperate to feel his mouth on yours, and he allows you to do so, waiting patiently for your lips to meet his. The kiss is firm but gentle, his mouth warm with the taste of whiskey.
Slowly, you pull away and feel him smile discreetly against your mouth.
Tommy's hand on your back presses you close again, and this time he leans in beside your ear. Cheek to cheek, he's close enough that you can hear him swallow as he wets his lips. "You may think that you're attracted to me, and that's fine," he begins. "But let me assure you that my looks will not be enough to make you stay."
"You flatter yourself."
He laughs breathily at your retort. "You're attracted to me because you see an out from your boring, easy life. I offer you something much more exciting—something dangerous."
You pause at his assertion. Perhaps he was right. Unknowingly, he'd read you like a book before you knew even the reason yourself.
In an attempt to quickly brush off your surprise of him having read you so well, you assure him confidently,"I can handle dangerous."
He laughs again, and then pauses. Based upon the amount of time that his breath stalls beside your ear, you get the impression that he is about to make a confession. "I am not a good man, (Y/n). I'm a bad man who does very bad things."
This—this was the Tommy Shelby that you had heard so much about. This was the man who killed first and asked questions later.
When you realize that he is waiting for you to speak, you pull away to look into the hollow caverns of his blue eyes. "You can try to scare me off all you want. I may be just a young girl to you, but I'll have you know, I'm not the afraid sort."
Staring back at you, he huffs, a discrete sort of smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Tommy Shelby would choose his wife the same way in which he would choose a horse. She had to be of good blood, with fair manners and in good health—young enough to bear heirs to the Shelby name.
But there was something else that he was really looking for, the same thing that he'd been searching for in you since the moment he laid eyes on you an hour ago. There was something wild growing in you. Something just a touch untamable no matter how hard anyone tried to break you. That was the kind of woman it was going to take to marry Tommy Shelby and stay married to him.
He can see it now, the gypsy spirit that Micheal had promised him was in you.
Thomas had been cautious but intrigued when Micheal informed him of you, his so-called cousin that was just a bit too untamed to stay in the city. You hadn't ended up here tonight by pure coincidence.
You wanted an out from your quiet life, and Tommy Shelby needed a wife. Micheal had just the solution.
"Good. Because all of it comes with me, my brothers, the family business, my reputation."
You laugh at his formality. "Is that what this is? A business deal?"
"Yes," he replies evenly without missing a beat. "That's exactly what this is."
His suddenly businesslike voice stirs up another amused laugh from you. "Thomas—"
"Tommy," he corrects you.
"Well, Tommy," you comply. "My cousin isn't going to allow me out much longer, so why don't you wrap up this business proposition of yours before Micheal comes looking for me."
Tommy can't help but grin a little. You're a lively thing. Little do you know that Micheal had left you in Tommy's hands over an hour ago.
"Very well," he concedes. "Home we go."
The cold streets of Small Heath lay desolate before you as you exit out the Garrison doors.
"This way," he directs you, his polished shoes clicking with determination against the filthy pavement. You follow him blindly through the darkness, trusting only his warm hand on your back to act as your guide. He halts you beside a polished Bentley. The car is a sight for sore eyes in the ugly streets of Birmingham.
"C'mon, in you go," he huffs as he opens the door for you, his breath condensing in the air. You climb in with the help of his firm hand, and Tommy closes the door behind himself. He looks over at you as he starts the car. He looks hesitant—suddenly boyish and uncertain for all of his usual terrifying demeanor.
"I don't make a habit of bringing women home," he finally confesses.
His shyness, though you wouldn't go as far as to call it that, gives you the courage to slide back closer to him, your hand rising to cup his cheek.
"Is that what I am, Thomas? Just another woman? A whore?"
"No," he breathes. "And it's Tommy."
This time you kiss him. It's more forceful than when you kissed him in the pub, hungrier.
A guttural groan arises from his throat, and he laces his fingers through your hair to deepen the kiss. The noise sends arousal pooling to the pit of your stomach.
Encouraged and determined to taste every piece of him that he will offer, you slide your hands around his neck to pull him closer, kicking your shoes off in the process.
"No," Tommy huffs as you climb over the seat, his hands held up as if not to touch you. "No," he repeats, as if determined to show some sort of restraint. "I'm not fucking you in my car."
Now seated in his lap, you can feel the bulge in his trousers. You roll your hips into him, and he drops his hands to grip your thighs, struggling to restrain himself. "(Y/n)," he warns.
A little disappointed, you laugh and lean forward, your noses brushing together in the darkness. You can feel his breathy pants against your lips and his body tense beneath you.
"Afraid to ruin your leather seats?" you tease.
He scoffs. Micheal wasn't lying when you said you were a lively one. "I don't care about the bloody seats. But this isn't going to be a quick fuck in my car." Tommy motions his head towards the passenger side. "So get off so I can fuck you properly."
You have to laugh at the irony of the situation. He may be downright immoral at times, but Tommy Shelby was nothing if not a gentleman.
"Fine, have it your way," you murmur, pressing one more kiss to his lips before you slide back into the passenger seat. From the corner of your eye, you watch him adjust himself in his trousers, a smile on his face.
The ride back to Arrow House is painfully long. You had only seen the mansion once, from behind a tinted car window, watching as Michael walked into his new life. It looks different, even more ominous as you stand on the front steps yourself.
Tommy's palm finds your back once again, pressing you forwards as he opens up the door. "Go on ahead up stairs. Don't mind Frances. I'll be up in a second."
Still, you hesitate at the door. This was it.
Tommy takes your hesitation in stride. "Go on. I won't be long behind you," he promises.
Nodding, more to yourself than anything, you step inside. The entry way to the house is dark with the evening, but you can tell it's extravagant all the same. The large, winding stair well looms before you. As you glance around, you notice Thomas has disappeared. You pause. The house is silent. For how big it is, you're surprised you can't hear the echo of Tommy's footsteps, wherever he's gone. You do, however, hear the maid as she approaches. She stops at the entry of the hallway.
"Mr. Shelby hadn't informed me he would be having a guest." Her tone is curt, but not unfriendly. She was clearly someone who ran a tight ship, but was used to the antics of her employer.
Before you can reply, Tommy swiftly reappears. His palm finds your back, guiding you ahead of him up the stairs. "Frances, this is (Y/n). She'll be staying a while."
A while was one way of putting it.
"Lock the door," you hear him call out over his shoulder as you take the stairs. "You can shut up me office. I'll be headed to bed."
“To bed!" the disgruntled maid mutters out after him, as if she's never heard something so ridiculous. "Would you like me to make up the guest room, then?" she calls.
At this, Tommy stops at the top of the stairwell. He pauses thoughtfully, despite having no intentions of having her do so. "No, I think we'll fair without," he finally concedes.
The maid huffs out exasperatedly at him, as if he were eighteen and not in his late twenties.
His mouth forms something that resembles a smile. "Goodnight, Frances," he bids her, and then ascends the stairs after you.
He finds you where he figured he would, investigating his bedroom. The painting of the stallion above the bed has caught your attention. You jump at the sound of his voice.
"Everything to your liking?"
He's stood in the doorway of the grand bedroom, a respectful distance away, just watching. His large overcoat is gone, as well as his cap, and suddenly he looks a lot less like Thomas Shelby and a lot more like the Tommy that Micheal had told you about.
You flush, but not at the idea of having been caught snooping. "It's gorgeous, Tommy."
"Good," he replies, taking a cigarette that has materialized from the box in his pocket and placing it between his lips. "Because I'm quite opposed to the idea of having to move bedrooms. This here's the only one with a view of the stable."
Your thoughts go back to the photo above the bed. "Do you like horses?"
"I like 'em better than people, that's for sure," he replies, having lit the smoke between his lips. He walks over and takes a seat in a chair at the far end of the room. He leans back in the chair more than he would normally, relaxed. His thighs fall apart invitingly as he does so.
Slowly, you tread over to him. Smoke plumes from between this lips. You want to taste him again, the smoke in his mouth and whiskey on his lips.
"What do yeh want, aye?" he asks as if reading your mind. He places the cigarette aside in an ashtray regardless, freeing his hands for you.
"You promised me something," you allude, stepping close enough to stand between his spread thighs. Tommy sits up as you do, one of his palms finding the back of your knee.
"I don't make promises," he says, but as he does so, pulls your leg closer, so that you have to lift it to bracket the outside of his hip in the large arm chair.
Humming, you climb the remainder of the way into the chair, and your hands find either side of his jaw. "You told me you were going to fuck me."
His steely blue eyes don't waver, but you hear his breath stiffen for a moment. "Let's fuck, then."
It's Tommy who kisses you this time, tugging your body into his, his finger tips digging firmly into the tender flesh of your thigh. You can feel his body move beneath yours, every bit as powerful as you anticipated him to be.
"Please," you whisper, your voice so soft spoken that it'd be a wonder that he heard you had your mouth not been pressed to his cheek. "Please, Tommy."
Suddenly he stands, heaving the both of you from the chair without warning. No sooner are you standing than are you laid flat against his bed. Tommy reconnects your mouths as he climbs on top of you, one of his hands runching up your nice evening dress to venture higher up your exposed thigh. You jerk when his fingers find the slick, leaking mess of your cunt. Your body flashes hot. No man has ever touched you like this before.
Between heavy kisses, you speak up. "Tommy.... I— Thomas, I haven't— I've never done this," you finally manage to breathe out between kisses.
He pauses, his mouth hovering above yours, breathing heavy. "S'alright, love. You trust me, yeah?"
Despite the fact that the black pupils of his crystal blue eyes are blown wide with arousal, you can see the man who lured you in, cunning and confident. The king of Birmingham.
"Yes, Tommy. I trust you."
"Good, good," he breathes, and then he reaches for the buckle of his pants, undoing it with one hand. Tommy pauses once it's loose, staring down at you.
You're gorgeous, lying on his bed and breathless. His cock throbs. He's been particular in his later years, more refined, and lacked a taste for the typical quick fuck that Lizzie Stark to offer. That, and the weight of family business took its own toll on him. His leaking cock reminds him of that.
Then he does something surprising. He grabs ahold of the underside of your thigh and flips you over, his hovering body now pressing your belly into the silk sheets. You let out a sound of surprise, and for once, you hear him chuckle.
That low, genuine sound vibrates against your back, a sound so private and stripped of his usual armor that it feels more intimate than when you kissed him in the pub.
"(Y/N), I am not that old of a man. I may have been nineteen a long time ago, but I am still more than capable in bed."
You can't help but laugh, pressing your blushing face into the sheets as to hide it from him. "I'm sorry, I— You just surprised me."
He lets out a bemused hum, his hand sliding underneath the front of your hips, lifting them up so that your ass is raised in the air. And that's when you stop laughing.
He fills you, and the stretch comes immediately, almost without warning. You can feel him all around you, the lean muscle of his chest against your back, his thighs bracing your hips.
"Now, where'd that wild spirit that Michael promised me go?"
You can tell he's waiting for your body to relax, but the pulse of his cock inside of you says he can only wait so long. The thrum of his heartbeat and his breath on the back of your neck help.
He inches his hips back slightly and then nudges himself back in, and your body, embarrassingly, responds accordingly. Your cunt makes a schlick sound, and you can't help but whimper a moan.
"Tommy."
"Easy, I've got you."
Tommy's hands slide up underneath your dress, his calloused palms finding the soft tissue of your breasts and the excited rhythm of your beating heart. The feeling of him is so overwhelming that all you can do is press your cheek into the silk sheets and take it, your cunt leaking all the while.
The steady rocking and occasional sharp snap of his hips into you is eventually enough to bring you to the edge. Fire crackles through your belly, and your hips quiver with the effort of holding yourself up.
"Atta girl."
Tommy's hands find your hips, and to your relief, you think he's going to pull out. Instead, his fingertips dig firmly into your sides, and he pulls your hips back into his at the same time that he snaps his forwards.
You muffle a desperate cry. This is the first time you've ever experienced being at the hands of a man like this.
Against your body's natural reflex to pull away from the overstimulation, you let him have his way, and he snaps his hips into you a few more sharp times before he's coming, his cock pulsing hot bursts of cum into you.
At some point, one that you're unaware of, Tommy pulls out of you, leaving your hips hiked up and rear-facing him as he steps away from the bed. "Don't move," he murmurs, as if even if you wanted to, your jelly-like limbs would even allow it.
As he buckles the belt of his slacks neatly back into place, he looks back at the mess of you that he's left on his bed. The opening of your used cunt is pink and glistening. A mixture of his cum and your own slick leaks out, a sticky thread dripping down to join the existing pool on the ruined mattress.
He enjoys a private smile to himself before he walks back over towards the bed. Very gently, he reached out his fingers to brush your cunt, using his thumb to indulgently wipe away the cum leaking from it. You mewl, your hips lifting to get away from his fingers.
Tommy huffs at your overstimulated, dazed state and relents. Finally, he flips you over and cradles you to his chest, drawing back the remainder of the covers as he does so. Doing his best not to jostle you, Tommy places your head on the pillow and draws the covers over you.
Not looking for sleep himself, he fetches his cigarette case from the dresser and makes his way silently out of the master bedroom. He shuts the door as he leaves, stopping to light his cigarette once outside the door.
The image of you spread out on his mattress flashes through his mind and a grin softly flashes across his face.
summary: settling into domestic life after planning a lifetime as a fighter pilot is difficult to say the least. another pregnancy brings yours and jake’s marriage to the brink, and jake’s deployment might just sink the ship.
warnings: angst, mentions of pregnancy and abortion, swearing
author’s note: you guys are never going to believe this. part two of on the brink is out!
Part three is here!
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You originally thought you'd be a nervous wreck when it came time to give birth. Because you didn't want this. You don't want this. You never wanted this.
But at four days past your due date, you'd been more than ready to deliver by the time your water broke on a quiet Wednesday afternoon. Thankfully it had been late enough in the evening that Jake was already home from work and could drive you to the hospital.
While Jake was immediately a ball of nerves, you were just relieved to finally get this whole labor thing over with, excited even, and admittedly not just because it meant you'd finally be through with this pregnancy. You had been harboring this precious life within you for over nine months, a life that however afraid you were to be apart of, was something that you and Jake alone had brought into this world. He was an extension of you, and an extension of Jake, and that was already reason enough to love him. Only Wednesday night turned to Thursday evening and still no baby.
At a certain point, Thursday evening was starting to look like Friday morning, and you were beyond exhausted.
"C'mon, pretty girl. You've done harder things than this," Jake encourages, his strong hand gripping yours as you grit your teeth, throwing your head back against the thin hospital pillow.
In your line of work, you'd gone through some of the most physically and mentally challenging training known to man. You ejected out of planes before. But nothing could have prepared you for the pain of labor. You were used to your body fighting with you, not against you.
You groan as another contraction ripples through you. "I'm a solider, Jake. I wasn't made for this."
Something flickers across his face, pensive disapproval perhaps. You're not. Not any more.
The miserable cry that escapes you cuts him off before the words can leave his mouth.
It feels like your body is trying to tear itself apart from the inside out. There's sweat dripping down your forehead, clinging to your neck and making your hair stick to your skin. It's dehumanizing, lying there on the stiff hospital bed, the sheets rumbled beneath you as you pant and cry and moan.
But somehow you do it. After nearly eighteen long hours of labor, you have a baby boy.
You barely remember the moments following, the nurses whisking him away, the doctor checking your vitals, whether he cried or not, whether you cried or not. What you do remember is when Jake finally walks over to the bed and crouches beside you, a little blue bundle in his arms.
"Hey, kiddo," Jake begins softly. His green eyes haven't left the baby in his arms. "You know her, don't you? That's your mama."
Never again, you'd swore to Jake. You were never doing this again.
*eighteen months later*
Your stomach churns with dread as you drop the pregnancy test onto the table in front of him. "Jake, I can't do this. I can't do it again."
He's barely even had time to read the stick before you start pacing, but based on your reaction, he knows what it is. True to his nature, he doesn't have an immediate reaction at first, just rubs a hand over his face and sighs. You stare at him expectantly, arms crossed, anxiously waiting for his response.
"So what are you saying?" he asks slowly.
Your jaw feels tight, like you can barely get the words out. "I can't do this." There are other things that you can't outright say, but he knows what you mean.
You hadn't wanted to be a mom at all in the first place, but you did it, and you were a great fucking mom. But it had completely turned your life upside down. You quit your dream job to raise Michael and only allowed yourself the hope that maybe one day flying would be back in the cards for you. Having another felt like putting the last nail in the coffin of your career.
Jake sighs, staring at the positive test on the table. Despite being the driving force behind all this, he knows how hard being pregnant was on you. Truthfully, it was hard on both of you. Up until Michael arrived, it had strained your relationship significantly. Things did get better once you found your groove as a family and you settled into your new lifestyle as parents. It would take some adjusting, but the idea wasn't totally abstract.
Reclining backwards in the chair, Jake looks up at you. His green eyes are careful as he watches you, thoughtful as he chooses where to start. "You can't or you don't want to?"
Your racing heart is slowing down now that you've gotten past what you feared was going to be an explosive reaction. You try to wipe the tears from your eyes. "I can't, Jake."
His lips press together. Then, Jake nods slowly. Sitting back up, he stands from the chair and walks over to where you're standing. Still sniffling, you let him scoop you up into his arms and lift you up so that you're sitting atop the kitchen counter. His warm hands squeeze your knees as he stands between them.
"I know that this is hard on you, I know, baby. And if you'd told me that you didn't want to do it again then we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now, okay? Because I won't make you go through that again. But you can do it, baby. You've already done it."
Your throat clenching as you try not to cry again, your eyes drop down from Jake's face to stare at the fabric of your pants. Sometimes you hate it when he's sensible. You had done it. And despite your reluctance, you could do it again.
"You don't think that it's too soon?" You finally ask, looking back up at Jake as you gather yourself. Michael hasn't even turned two yet.
With something that resembles a faint laugh, Jake shrugs, his hands still rubbing your skin. "If we're going to have another, we might as well do it now. We're not exactly teenagers anymore."
You half glare at him. You were still both well within your twenties, but you know what he means. It's the thing about being a woman. There's a timeline, an agenda to be followed. It's different for guys. Biologically, they can have kids whenever they want. There's no pressure to get the ball rolling. As a woman, it's an extremely small window that you find yourself looking at. Nine, ten years if you're lucky. That's it's. That's all you get. You are consciously aware that your body has an expiration date.
You sigh, not out of defeat, but more so as your own way of coming to terms with yourself. You could do it. But afterwards, you have a promise to keep to yourself.
"This is the last time," you warn Jake, giving him a look that means that there's no changing your mind. "We have to swear that this is the last time."
"Okay, baby."
*one year later*
Somehow, by some ill fate, having a second baby wedges you and Jake even further apart. Which is weird because it was supposed to do the exact opposite.
The fighting never stops.
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry you had such a bad fucking day," Jake spits. Shedding his flight suit as he marches through the house, he pointedly picks up his dirty boots from where he had deposited them on the floor —which were the whole reason for the current argument— and chucks them outside.
"In case you didn't know, I'm allowed to have a fucking bad day every once in a while," you spit back at him, your back now turned to the stove, where you had been cooking before he walked in. "Between two kids, you, and a dog, everyone always needs a piece of me, and it's fucking exhausting."
It was hard enough taking care of a two-year-old and a newborn with completely different sleep schedules. It was nearly impossible to do on your own when Jake left for work each day, a concept he didn't seem to understand. The last thing you needed was more things added on to your already full plate when Jake came home. Sometimes it was his attitude, sometimes it was him forgetting to pick up something for you from the store on his way back from work. Today, it was his dirty boots.
Jake huffs. "You see, that's the problem. Because our bad days have very different outcomes. When I have a bad day at work, chances are someone dies."
"You think I don't fucking know that, Jake? That was my life. I lived it too. But it doesn't make my feelings now any less valid."
Jake just stands there in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, his face hard and unreadable as he stares back at you. Suddenly, you get the impression that it wasn't just a 'hard day at work' that's making him so irritable.
"What?" you ask, the tension that is creeping up your spine making your voice suddenly terse.
"What do you mean, what?" he growls.
"What's wrong?" you insist.
He doesn't even wait to drop the bomb.
"I'm being deployed."
"What?" you repeat again, this time your voice is pitched in disbelief. "No. Tell them no."
Between Maverick and being in close cahoots with the literal COMPFLT, Jake had enough seniority to have some sort of say in these kinds of things. Sure, there were some instances where it simply didn't matter, but you'd just had another baby for God's sake. He couldn't just leave you here for an indeterminate amount of time by yourself.
His shoulders are tense, like he's bracing himself against you. Jake sighs, heavy like it hurts to even waste his breath arguing. "(Y/n), this is my job. I can't just tell them no."
Not can't, you think. Don't want to.
"Yeah, well, what about your job here!? What about actually being a part of the family that you begged me for for once!?" You snap, gesturing with your arms spread out towards the kitchen that you've eaten so many dinners alone at, the hallway, where your sons are napping in their bedrooms after hours of trying to get them both down just so that you could attempt to cook dinner. "You're never fucking here, Jake!" There are frustrated tears suddenly welling in your eyes as your chest tightens and everything that you've been holding in for months comes out. "And I'm trying, but I can't keep doing this alone."
You watch as something painful like regret flashes through Jake's green eyes, maybe even what may be a look of pity, but his hardened jaw doesn't change. Just as he opens his mouth, a cry erupts from the back of the house.
Jake steps forward, but you cut him off. "I'll get him," you snap, interjecting before Jake moves so much as half an inch. You move quickly down the hallway, wiping tears as you go in an attempt to pull yourself together. Jake doesn't follow you.
It's Michael, likely woken up from all of the shouting, but thankfully, you're able to quiet him before his prolonged wailing wakes up Jett. You're not sure you can handle any more crying today. Rather than spending the next thirty minutes trying to put the two-year-old back down for his nap, you resolve to settling him on your hip and walk back downstairs. You hope that, at the very least, this means he will sleep through the night.
Jake is gone when you reemerge into the kitchen. His boots are no longer by the door, and his truck has vanished from the driveway. His absence is tangible. Although your tears from earlier want to come rushing back at the fact that Jake really just up and fucking left, you won't subject yourself to crying again. Chances are, if you cry, Michael is going to cry.
So you don't cry. You pretend as though it doesn't feel like there is a giant gaping cavern in your chest, and you finish cooking dinner. And then you eat dinner. Alone. And after you wash the dishes, bathe the babies, and let the dog outside. Alone. And all the while, you remind yourself that you are okay with doing these things alone because you have always done them alone. And despite this, when you finally sit down on the couch after having completed your nightly routine, the gaping wound is still fresh in your chest.
You're faintly aware of the clicking of Duke's toenails against the wood floor as the golden retriever greets Jake at the door with his ratty stuffed bear in his mouth. His large tail thumps against the wall as Jake shuffles in around him. Otherwise, the house is quiet. In the back of your mind, you hear what sounds like Jake dropping his keys onto the counter and then him venturing into the living room. You're half asleep, so you don't bother to greet him. The TV is on, but the volume is at a barely audible muffle. You can't sleep without some sort of background noise when Jake's gone.
When he glances around to search for the remote, he finally spots you on the couch.
You're sprawled out on your stomach, pillow propped under your head in addition to one of your arms. You'd taken a quick shower after bathing the boys and so you'd changed into a t-shirt to sleep in. It's one of Jake's from his days at the academy. The print is so worn and faded that you can barely read the big bold 'USNA' on the front. Michael is curled up in between the crevice of the couch and your side, the toddler's fuzzy blanket wrapped snugly around him as he snores away. The baby monitor is on the coffee table by the arm of the couch, ready in case Jett wakes up.
You're dimly aware of Jake's presence leaning over you, and you feel him lift up Michael from the couch. As he does so, muffled cries begin coming from the monitor. Jake reaches for it too late because you're already sitting up, grabbing for the monitor.
"Hey."
"Hey," you greet, keeping your voice low so as not to wake Michael.
"Baby's crying," he says softly, gently rubbing Michael's back to keep him asleep. You hum and stand up, reaching out for Michael.
"Here, let me take him," you say, already reaching out for the toddler. It was you who tended to have the most luck putting Michael specifically to sleep. Walking quietly down the hall, you tuck him in with his blanket and shut the door before crossing the hall to the baby's room. The lamp is already on, glowing through the doorway. The crying has stopped, and you find that Jake has beaten you to him. He's got Jett balanced on his hip while he wipes snot from the crying 8-month-old's nose, a bottle in hand. He glances over his shoulder when you walk in.
"Got a bottle out. Didn't know if you wanted to nurse 'im."
You only hum in reply, taking advantage of the quiet moment to watch him. Jake settles into the rocking chair, the same one you've spent hundreds of hours between Michael and Jett. It creaks a little more under Jake's weight, the rhythmic creak filling the silence of the nursery. His large hands support Jett's little head of blonde hair in a way that makes your heart ache.
You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. This kind of silence is unusual for your home and would normally be a welcome reprieve. Right now, it feels like a breaking point.
"He's out," Jake whispers, glancing up at you, breaking into your thoughts. The green of his usually vibrant eyes is muted in the dimness of the nightlight, and they look tired and shaded. For a moment, you think that he's going to say something to break the tension, maybe apologize for the boots, or for the shouting and walking out, but the deployment-shaped cloud is still hanging over you.
Typically, you would give in, apologize for being so moody, but your thoughts keep going back to the flight suit he's in and the one you haven't put on in three years.
"So? Which one do you choose?" Miraculously, your voice doesn't tremble.
His soft green gaze darkens. The chair stops rocking. "What?"
"The oath or the vow? I'm not saying there's a right choice," you add. "I just need to know which one."
Rather than answering, Jake sets the empty bottle on the side table and carefully stands, transferring the sleeping infant into the crib. He lingers there for a second, his eyes fixed on the baby's soft cheeks before turning to face you.
"I have to go, (Y/N). You know I do."
This time, you don't argue. He doesn't have to go. It's his choice. And he's made his decision.
"When?" You ask, your voice turning business-like, the sailor in you taking over because this is how you deal with bad news in the Navy. You simply turn your emotions off.
As if he knows how ridiculous the words are going to sound when he says them, Jake's voice becomes quiet. "Two weeks. I'm team lead."
And there it is. The truth comes out. He's been chasing this since the Uranium mission.
"Congratulations."
He knows there's no real praise in those words.
Silently, you turn your back to him and leave him standing in the dim light of the nursery.
"And Jake?"
He looks up, something like hope flickering in his eyes. "Tell Bradley I said hi."
summary: a ghost from Tommy’s past comes back demanding the crown. Tommy fights to keep that ghost buried
warnings: swearing
author’s note: guess what. I’m not dead. if this post actually gets some interaction, maybe part two will be out soon….
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While most families in Birmingham would be bundled up in thick coats, heavy boots, and caps, preparing to depart from the warmth of their homes for Sunday mass, the Shelbys were not most families. Arrow House was empty, but not because its occupants were packed into pews, bowing their heads before a man playing god. Rather, there was business to be done, and other men more powerful than God to be obeyed.
Thomas Shelby had arranged for an important business meeting to be held in his home office and to ensure he not be disturbed, had sent the inhabitants of the house out with his brothers for the day. The usually loud house had settled into an eerie silence, allowing for Thomas Shelby and his guest, Mr. Solomons, to speak without any interruptions.
The Jew swirls the whiskey around in his glass, smacking his lips in his own idiosyncratic manner, one that was intolerable enough to drive Thomas Shelby up a wall. Had Tommy been in a worse mood, it likely would have, but for now, he bites his tongue.
Staring up at the portrait hanging above the desk of the latter's office, Alfie motions towards the painting with a wave of his fingers whilst still clutching his glass.
"Mr. Shelby, you are gypsy and yet your sons answer to the names of damned Christians. Why is that?" This is said with the high pitched sort of whine that is typical of Mr. Solomons' cockney accent.
Tommy tips his head in a gesture of amused acknowledgement. "My wife is an aloof Catholic with a sense of humor."
Pictured in the life sized frame is the third generation of Shelbys. In the middle sits Tommy himself and you, his wife, in all of your graceful regality. Directly to his right is his eldest, Judas, who only looks more and more like the second coming of the devil with each passing day. Behind you is Cain, the middle child. While he takes after you a considerable amount, with lighter hair and a larger smile, his eyes are all Tommy — bone chilling and deadly blue. On your lap is Saul. At only three years old, he came a number of years after his brothers, but regardless he was no less alike.
There was no mistaking the Shelby children when they are seen out on the street.
Alfie stares skeptically at the painting. "Right..," he whines. "And I assume now that the Shelby legacy is secure, you do intend to stop infecting this city with your spawn, right?
Tommy's mouth twitches into a smile. "Now, Mr. Solomons, the good Lord himself says there in his book to be fruitful and multiply. You know that."
The Jew, unamused, turns his head away whilst muttering. "That doesn't pertain to the devil's descendants."
With a mildly exasperated sigh, Tommy reclines back in his office chair. "Alfie, what do yeh want? Nowadays, my wife is convinced you just stop by to drink my whiskey."
You were not overly fond of Alfie Solomons. Unlike your husband, you didn’t have it in you to so quickly forget how troublesome he could be. You only had enough unending forgiveness for one man.
"I just came by to check on an old friend!" The man rasps, extending his arms out in exclamation. "I can't do that?! S' quite rude of you," he grumbles as he stands, whining in his typical Yiddish manner.
Tommy doesn't stand himself, just watches the now irritated and exasperated Jew snatch up his cane and walk himself to the door.
"Goodbye, Alfie," he states calmly, a hint of amusement in his usually solemn tone. The Jew waves him off, leaving the house in his typical loud manner.
The early end to Tommy's business meeting leaves him with extra time on his hands to do some work uninterrupted. And he does so late into the afternoon, until you come looking for him.
“Thomas, your eldest is looking for you."
In his later years, Tommy Shelby had taken to wearing glasses. Thin, round-framed spectacles that sat daintily on the bridge of his slim nose. They eased the straining headache that reading and other office work so often caused.
Tommy doesn't look up from his work, only adjusts the glasses on his nose. "Tell the boy I'll be out in a minute. He's like you," he adds, smiling to himself as he flips through a stack of papers. "Not an ounce of patience for me."
He's only jesting at you. Your unwavering patience for him was miles long. Ridiculously so.
You clear your throat. "Your gypsy son."
Tommy looks up at you through the glasses that have once again slid down his nose. He quietly presses them back up the bridge of his nose and resumes his work. "I have no gypsy sons."
It had been strange, opening the door of your own home to find the same eyes that you'd married and fallen in love with standing on the other side. But Duke Shelby was no Tommy Shelby.
"He said he won't leave until he's spoken to you. He said he wants the Rom Baro."
The scratching of the pen in his hand stops and then it falls to the wooden desk altogether. His desk chair scrapes against the wooden floor as he stands up. "You stay here," he orders as he swiftly pushes past you and into the hallway.
"Thomas," you begin, deciding there's not enough bite in his command for you to heed him.
Your own words go unheard as he marches through the house, his determined footsteps echoing on the wooden floor as he reaches the front entryway. Your tone changes from cautious to dismayed when he grabs the brass boot jack from beside the door. "Thomas!"
Tommy yanks the front door open and chucks his weapon out the door in the same motion. Scrambling to get out of the line of fire, the boy standing outside throws himself out of the doorway. The boot jack catches the boys shoulder, rather than his face as intended.
Without hesitation, Tommy starts after him. "You stay away from me fucking house!"
Duke is scrambling to get to his feet as Tommy picks up the boot jack again. But he's not fast enough because Tommy already has his arm raised and is hurling it down at him again. This time the boy rolls out of the way just in time and he misses.
"Thomas! That's enough!" You shout from the front of the porch as he bends to pick up the brass weapon once more.
Tommy is breathing hard, his shoulders heaving as he straightens. Duke scrambles to his feet before Tommy can decide to continue his attack.
"What do you fucking want, coming here, eh? More fucking money?"
Duke takes his time dusting himself off. His too-short slacks are dirty at the knees where he fell, and his palms are scraped and bleeding. He has none of the Shelby look that your boys do, his face rounded and hair much lighter. Even his posture lacks the Shelby character. He resembles a stray begging for scraps on your doorstep.
"I paid your mum to keep her bastard away from me," Tommy snarls, pointing his finger accusingly.
"I don't want your money. I'm your heir, Rom Baro. I want my rightful place at the throne."
Tommy scoffs. "You sleep with the dogs in the streets and steal from widows and children. You are a ghost from the life I buried in the ground decades ago."
Duke stands his ground, despite the fact that he had been cowering in Tommy's presence just moments ago. For once, his steely eyes lock with Tommy's. "The streets are talking. They say the Great Tommy Shelby has forgotten the smell of the road. You've gone soft in your cush life, and the Shelby legacy will die with your silver spoon sons."
Duke had poured the petrol by showing up here, and his words had just struck the match. The brass weapon is still clutched in your husband's white-knuckled grip. You know he is not afraid to use it. You step off the porch and place a gentle hand on Tommy's arm.
"Tommy," you begin softly, keenly aware that you're about to have to stop a murder.
He doesn't look at you. His eyes are fixed on Duke. "My sons," he begins, snarling, "are my legacy. They are the future of Shelby Company Limited."
Duke raises his jaw defiantly, "You can deny it all you want, but I'm a Shelby too. It's in my blood. If you want to change that, you're going to have to get your hands a little dirty."
And just when you expect him to strike, Tommy suddenly relaxes. The tension leaves his shoulders, and his grip relaxes on the boot jack.
"You want your place?" he asks lowly.
Likely started by Tommy's sudden change in demeanor, Duke almost hesitates to nod. But eventually he does.
"Alright," and the word sounds almost dangerous. Tommy reaches into his waistcoat and withdraws a single gold pound, tossing it in the dirt at Duke's feet. The boy watches it land but doesn't move to pick it up. "Buy a drink at the Garrison and ask for Arthur. Tell him I sent you to dump out the piss buckets."
And then he turns on his heels and walks back up the steps of Arrow House, the brass boot jack still clutched in his hand. He disappears quietly into the house, calling you in through the open front door. "[Y/N]. Come inside."
Slowly, you turn to follow your husband back inside. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Duke crouch down and pick up the coin.
Tommy has dropped the boot jack back in its place beside the door and now stands in the open door of his study as he pulls a cigarette from his case. He shuffles the pack before returning it to his pocket, the smoke dangling from his mouth.
"He won't last a night in the Garrison. Arthur will see to that."
"And if he does last, Thomas?" you ask softly, crossing your arms.
"Then," Tommy says, talking around the cigarette as he methodically pulls out a lighter and takes it to the unlit end. "Maybe the boy was right." He looks up at the portrait hanging on the wall of his office, the one with you and his boys. "I will have to get my hands a little dirty."
