bradley’s house feels empty. it’s always a bit of a shock, to step over the threshold from sunny, sandy san diego into the gaping abyss of his old house. it’s felt that way for nearly as long as he can remember.
first, it was the absence of nick bradshaw. his mother, bless her soul, tried so hard--goose’s old knickknacks spilling over shelves and table surfaces, the ever-permeating smell of recipes gathered from the other military wives (always with just a tinge of burning), the garden she kept in full bloom--but she was just one woman and the house was built for a family, not a widow and her four year old son. bradley remembers pockets of silence. nights with carole staring blankly at the tv, the only source of light and sound, some game show host’s plastic laugh echoing into the ceiling.
and then carole died and bradley fled the nest for maverick (and iceman’s) home.
when he finally returned, a man now, he couldn’t even make it through the door. no dad. no mom. no maverick. but there was ice on the phone laying out his options. selling it is even more unthinkable than living in it.
so bradley rents it out. to families, couples, rowdy groups of college kids. he hopes it fits them better than it ever did him.
then the mission happens and recuperating in the barracks sounds even worse than if he’d just laid down in the snow and died, so back to the house it is.
natasha had dropped him off at the door, worried eyes as he took a fortifying breath and opened the door to darkness, but he waved her off. he’s been alone with the silence for a few days. no matter how many lamps he turns on or how many windows he opens, it’s all so cold and dark and quiet. hollow.
that changes quickly.
jake muscles his way through bradley’s door and bradley can’t even stop him, his and mav’s crash landing leaving him with a limited range of mobility.
