occasionally writing @shadowsndaisies - Tumblr Blog

canyon runs: take one

wc: 6.9k

synopsis: "why are you dead?"

main masterlist

athena-verse master post

a/n: two updates in a week? who even am i. (ps thanks for putting up with my poor posting consistency)

“Time,” your dad began, “is your greatest enemy,” and you can’t help the pit that starts to form in your stomach as you stare at the clock on the screen behind him. “Phase one of the mission will be a low-level ingress attacking in two-plane teams. You’ll fly along this canyon to your target,” he explains as the screen shows you everything you need to know. “Radar-guided surface-to-air missiles defend the area. These SAMs, they’re lethal,” he admits and you’re stuck on the specifications of the SAMs and the imaging, and that pit grows because you know where he’s going with this. “But they were designed to protect the skies above, not the canyon below,” he continues.

You let out a puff of breath and look over at Javi who was sitting on your left today. Jake was directly in front of you, though he’d turned back a few times during the spiel. You could see the tension in Nat’s arms as she shifted from across the aisle and one row up.

And then Rooster cut in, he was directly across the aisle from you, both of you still tense from how the dogfighting drills the other day had gone.

“That’s because the enemy knows no one is insane enough to try and fly below them,” he huffed, and you knew in that second, that’s exactly what this mission was going to ask.

“That’s exactly what I’m going to train you to do,” you dad says and you scoff slightly to yourself.

“Of course,” you mutter, it’s quiet so no one else hears it, except Javi, who shares another cautious look with you in response, seems like he had the same pit in his gut too.

“On the day, your altitude will be 100 feet, maximum,” your dad informs you are, and there’s a hushed whisper that befalls you all. You see how ‘Nix and Bob turn to each other, and can hear the murmur from Brig and Logan who were in the row behind Rooster. “You exceed this altitude,” your dad continues, and the radar on the screen beeps, “radar will spot you, and you’re dead.”

You watch as the SAMs target the jet in the display and that beeping immediately sets you further on point.

“Your speed will be 600 knots, minimum,” your dad tacks on.

“Shit,” you whisper and Javi nods.

“Shit,” he agrees.

The timer reappears on screen as your dad gives you the last parameter, “time to target will be 2 minutes,” and you almost choke on your breath. “That’s because fifth-generation fighter wait an air base nearby,” your dad supplies as if he could sense your unease with his back turned. “In a head to head with these planes in your F-18s, you’re dead. That’s why you have to get in, hit your target and be gone before these planes even have a chance of catching you.”

The screen changes again, “This makes time your greatest adversary,” your dad repeats and you shake your head, clicking your pen as you start scribbling down thoughts based off the parameters. “You’ll fly a route in your nav system that simulates the canyon. the faster you navigate this canyon, the harder it’ll be to stay under the radar of these enemy SAMs. The tighter the turns, the more intensely the force of gravity on your body multiplies, compressing your lungs, forcing the blood from your brain, impairing your judgement and reaction time,” he explains and your hand subconsciously grips at the edge of the seat in front of you.

You’re vaguely aware of how Jake shifts his arm, so your fingers can brush against him, but you’re more focused on keeping the disbelief and nerves off your outward appearance.

“So, for today’s lesson, we’re going to take it easy on you,” your dad smirks. “Max ceiling: 300 feet. Time to target: three minutes.”

There’s nothing easy about that, you want to say, but you know better, you know that with the time crunch, and with what this mission called for, giving you any breathing room during training was a mercy.

“Good luck,” your dad says finally, and for the first time since starting the briefing today, he meets your eyes directly.

…

You’re anxious as you watch. An itch starting to form as you sit there. Coyote, Bob, and Phoenix were the first group up, and you were all listening on the tarmac. Mav had made it clear, there’d be a debrief at the end of each round. Wanting us all up in the air and able to make it through a round first.

“Time to target is one minute thirty, we are two seconds behind,” Bob’s voice crackled and you sat in your jet, waiting was always the worst, you decide. “Increase to 480 knots,” he instructs.

“We got to move, Coyote,” Phoenix tags on.

“Copy. Increasing speed,” Coyote confirms.

You’ve got the radar on your nav, watching the two jets move through the canyon. So you see as Javi shoots forward just to slow abruptly.

the “Shit!” that comes from Phoenix is proof enough she hadn’t anticipated, and you watch as she avoids crashing into Javi by pulling up, over the ceiling.

“Why are they dead?” your dad had asked, focusing on Javi, who looked too solemn in his seat beside you. “We broke the the 300-foot ceiling, and a SAM took us out,” Phoenix answers. “No,” your dad dismisses, looking back at Coyote. “Why are they dead?” he presses again. “I slowed down, and I didn’t give her a warning,” Javi admits and that uncomfortable itch returns. “It’s my fault,” he adds, and you look at your friend who seems to be overly tense. “Was there a reason you didn’t communicate with your team?” you dad asks. “I was focusing on-” Javi had begun but it’s clearly not what your dad wanted. “One that their family will accept at the funeral,” he asks and you let out a punched sound. It was something you all actively avoided talking about, the idea that in a few weeks one or more of you may not be here anymore, that theres a chance you’d have to attended each other’s funeral services, have to look each other’s family’s in face knowing why their loved one was dead. “None, sir,” Javi says, sitting straighter, and you very subtly bump your shoulder with his in concern, but Javi doesn’t respond, keeping his gaze focused on Maverick. “Why didn’t you anticipate the turn?” Your dad continues, this time focusing on Phoenix. “You were briefed on the terrain.” As Phoenix opens her mouth, searching for the words your dad cuts her off too. “Don’t tell me. Tell it to his family.” You don’t miss the look Nat gives her wizzo in response, despair and guilt all wrapped up together.

…

“Hangman, ease up. The canyon’s getting tighter,” Payback’s request is intersped with heavy breathing.

You were fiddling with your gloves as you listened, still on the ground, while Payback and Fanboy took a run with Hangman. Fritz, Omaha, and Halo hadn’t had any luck in the round before, Fritz had gotten too close too the ceiling and dipped down too far as a result, not yet used to how low the hard deck was paired with the low ceiling.

“Negative, Payback. Increase your speed,” Hangman shoots back and you watch as his jet accelerated, but Ruben and Mickey’s doesn’t.

You have to swallow the lump in your throat. You know how Jake got his callsign, you know why. You just always had such a hard time connecting the two personas that normally appeared as different people. Jake versus Hangman. Part of you was irked, because the stakes were too high to leave your wingman behind, but part of you understood, as guilty as it made you feel. The stakes were too high, not to make it to the target on time too. A prisoner’s dilemma, you decide, I wonder which circle of hell Dante’s got for us now?

“You’re going too fast, man,” Payback shoots back and your thoughts are brought back to the radar.

“Well, no harm in being ahead of schedule,” Hangman shoots back.

You can see the way Nat’s shaking her head from where she, Bob, and Coyote are sat on the tarmac. A tablet with the radar screen in front of them as they watch. Too anxious to sit in the hangar with the rest of us still yet to take our turns. Fritz, Omaha, and Halo were shedding a few layers as they joined them as well.

“Damn it, slow down!” Payback shouts, and you wince at the tone. “I can’t stay on the course!” he admits, and you feel the nerves bubbling again. The speed your dad wanted, the lack of space for mistake, it wasn’t a pretty combination.

“Ah! You’re gonna hit the wall! Watch out! Watch out!” Fanboy’s shouts force you to close your eyes and throw your head back against the seat.

You hear the radar and you don’t have to look to know their run is done.

“What happened?” Maverick asked, and you swallowed. Payback and Fanboy were sitting in the row behind you, and Jake was right in front of you. The tension was heavy. Had been since you all came back. Having to listen to yourselves and watch the radar reconstructions didn’t help. “I flew as fast as I could. Kinda like my ass depended on it,” Jake shrugs. You can see the movement of his shoulders and have to bite your lip before saying something you really shouldn’t. Before asking him why he was being like this? Asking if he’d actually do that during the mission? If he’d risk everyone else’s lives and even the success of the mission to prove he was the best? You didn’t want to know the truth. “And,” Rooster cut in. “You put your team in danger, and your wingman’s dead,” he scoffs. “They couldn’t keep up,” is all Hangman offers in response and even Javi winces at the tone.

…

You got paired with Shadow and Lucky. They were good, strong fliers. You’d never worked with them before this detachment. But Shadow was a damn good flier, able to keep pace, and Lucky seemed to have a sixth sense on him.

You and Shadow communicated pretty well, but you let the nerves catch up to you. The pit in your stomach making you think you had to speed up more.

You did, you were about 100 knots short of the parameter minimum.

“Increase speed to 600 knots,” you finally decide.

“You have to pace yourself, Athena. Go to 550 first,” Lucky advises.

You should have listened.

“No, we’re moving too slow, we’ll miss the window. Increase to 600,” you negate, increasing your speed.

Shadow, to his credit, kept up. But the speed paired with the ever narrowing canyon and a particularly sharp turn put too much pressure on you, a level of Gs you hadn’t prepared for, and you lost control, having to go above the ceiling in an attempt to avoid the wall, a fail.

“Fuck!” the curse is loud, but neither Shadow nor Lucky say anything about it until you’re on the ground.

“I would’ve made the same call,” Shadow offers.

His callsign you’d noticed was more than his ability to keep pace with anyone, but more to do with the fact that he was a man of little words.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” you argue, dismissing the sympathy.

“Athena-” Lucky’s ready to interject.

“No, Shadow would have listened,” you tell them and both men fall quiet, you were right. “I should have listened,” you say next, voice vulnerable, offering an apologetic look to Lucky.

“It’s only the first run, you won’t miss it twice,” is all Lucky says in response, patting your shoulder.

“Why are you dead?” You notice he’s asking you but his eyes are focused past your head. There’s an uncomfortable tension that’s settled over all the Naval Aviators in the room. You know why. Maverick is the teacher, and he’s been asking the same question (which is still giving you phantom hives) but everyone knows he is your dad too. “Why are you dead, (y/-” he cuts himself off, “Lieutenant Mitchell,” he finishes instead, and you can understand his need for some sort of separation. “We were moving too slow, we had to speed up, she made the right call,” Shadow defends and briefly your fathers eyes flicker to the other pilot and Wizzo who were seated in the last row across the aisle. “And yet, she’s dead,” your dad repeats. “That’s the expected result, isn’t it?” you ask. And finally your dad seems to pause, everyone does. “This mission, the parameters. We’re only in phase one and it’s pushing everything we’ve ever been taught. That’s why they chose us. Someone’s not coming home, but you have to make sure we at least meet the objective before that,” you lay it out, everything you’ve put together over the last few days. It’s not fair to press it with your dad, you know that. You’d been able to read him and everything he wasn’t saying, better than anyone else. You knew enough to read between the lines. If he was focusing on why the pilots died, it’s because according to the brass, that was an acceptable outcome. “Why are you dead?” he asks again, his voice gravelly, as he stares at you. It has the same result as when he told Javi to tell Phoenix and Bob’s families, because this is it. How do you explain to your dad why you’re dead? The United States Navy, you want to say. It’s not a patriotic thought at all, and you have to swallow it down, you chose the Navy. “I was too worried about making the time, and I ignored the advice of my Wingmen,” you admit, you hear the choked sound Javi makes from beside you. Admitting your faults today had been a quiet task, but you were willing to put it out there, you had to put it out there. “It won’t happen again,” you add for good measure, and you make eye contact with Lucky and Shadow as you say it, both of them offering you a nod in solidarity.

…

Hearing Harvard and Yale get paired up with anyone but you always left you put out. You knew you worked well with them. Nine times out of ten if was guaranteed results. Hearing Harvard and Yale get paired with Rooster made you exceedingly nervous. Your fidgeting had gotten worse as you sat and watched their run. This was the last pair though, the last group in this first round, none of you had been successful in even completing the run, let alone making it to the target on time. There was an underlying level of tension to the entire flight, and then they started shouting. You were now sat on the ground with everyone else, your head laying on Phoenix’s thigh as you listened, and stared at the sky, imagining the route and the fliers in the air.

“Rooster, we’re 20 seconds behind and dropping!” Harvard shouted.

“We’re fine. Speed is good,” Rooster negated.

“Increase to 500 knots!” Yale argues.

Rooster is as dismissive as before, “Negative, Yale. Hold your speed.”

“Rooster, we’re late!” Yale argues, tone edging with something more aggressive.

“We’re alive. We’ll make up time in the straightaway,” Rooster says, but looking at the radar, the timer, and the route you knew they wouldn’t.

“We are not gonna make it,” Harvard disagrees, voicing your thoughts.

“Just trust me!” Rooster shouts, and you wince. They wouldn’t, not fully at least, and it was entirely out of loyalty to you, not that you’d ever asked that of them, but they stood firm with it regardless. “Maintain your speed. We can make it.”

…

They didn’t make it, at least not on time.

The longer you sat in the seats the more the phantom itch persisted. It was growing unbearable at this point, and then your knee started bouncing. A nervous tick you normally worked hard to keep at bay, and based off of Javi’s side eye he noticed it.

Watching the growing tension between your dad and Rooster was only adding to your nerves.

Worse, even, was the question, why are you dead?

“Why are you dead?” the question was definitely starting to give you hives, the more you heard it. “You’re team leader up there. Why are you, why is your team, dead?” Maverick’s pushing, you can see the war in both of their eyes, and your knee keeps bouncing in response to your nervous energy.

“Sir, he’s the only one who made it to the target,” Phoenix defends, and Javi places a hand on your knee to stop it, giving you a careful look as his gaze jumps from you and then back to the mess unfolding before you.

“A minute late,” your dad sighs. “He gave enemy aircraft time to shoot him down. He is dead.”

Your eye twitches at the idea of Bradley dead.

“You don’t know that,” Bradley argues.

“You’re not flying fast enough!” Jake cuts in, and you want to interject, you want to tell him to please keep your mouth shut. “You don’t have a second to waste,” Jake adds.

“We made it to the target,” Rooster argues.

“And superior enemy aircraft intercepted you on your way out,” your dad and Rooster are locked on each other now, arguing, it was just like the dogfight, but at least this time they both had their feet on the ground.

“Then it’s a dogfight,” Rooster decides with a level of seeming unflappability that you had not been expecting nor had you been prepared for.

“Against fifth-generation fighters?” your dad’s tone is incredulous.

“Yeah!” Bradley doubles down and you balk. “We’d still have a chance!”

No, we wouldn’t, you can’t help but think.

“In an F-18?” your dad presses, but you know Bradley won’t backtrack now, they were both too stubborn, too hurt, to give the other enough grace.

“It’s not the plane, Sir, it’s the pilot,” Bradley shoots back and you wince, fingers gripping back to Jakes seat, fingers pressing into the fabric, and curling, one pinching the material on the arm of Jake’s flight suit as well.

“Exactly!” Mav confirms and a silence falls, the hurt in Bradley’s eyes is unmistakeable. And you feel like you’re fifteen all over again, like you’re standing in the rain, trying to talk to him, trying to bring him home as he finally breaks and tells you what your dad had done.

“There’s more than one way to fly this mission,” Rooster argues, resolute, his tone quiet once again.

“You really don’t get it,” Jake drawls and you let go of his seat in an instant, knowing whatever was about to follow was going to make it all worse. “A man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come home,” he states clearly, voice level, and tone low, a slight southern drawl as he turns to look over his shoulder at Bradley. “No offense intended,” he adds, winking at Phoenix, and your stomach turns.

She discreetly flips him the bird, adjusting her hair, while Bob speaks up in her defense, “yet somehow, you always manage,” he states flatly.

“Look, I don’t mean to criticize,” Hangman shrugs, and your eye twitches again, because yes, yes he did mean to criticize. “You’re conservative, that’s all.”

“Lieutenant-” Maverick’s voice holds a warning, but it’s weak, and you realize he’s just as helpless to watch the fallout as everyone else.

“We’re going into combat, son, on a level that no pilot’s ever seen, not even him. That’s no time to be thinking about the past,” Hangman continues, and your gaze flickers to your dad and watch the slight flinch he lets slip.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rooster’s tone is equally testy and your knee is bouncing again, this time, Javi doesn’t say or do anything.

“Rooster-” Maverick’s voice is soft in comparison, as he makes another weak move at diffusing the situation.

“I can’t be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man,” Hangman says, and your whole body shifts, breath catching in your throat.

“That’s enough,” Maverick interjects, a bit more firm, and your eyes couldn’t decide where to focus, jumping between the three.

“Or that Maverick was flying-”

“Lieutenant that’s enough.”

“When his old man-”

You hear it as the seats shift, Rooster’s out of his, and Jake follows suit.

Your dad is shouting again, “That’s enough!” but no one is listening.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Bradley shouts and it kicks your body into gear.

Jake’s got this stupid show smirk on his face, and it all happens in slow motion as your surge forward, Coyote behind you. Javi reaching for Jake while you step in front of Bradley.

This is a moment, you realize, one that will haunt your dreams tonight, one that you’ll be thinking of in the back of your head in every interaction with Jake and Bradley going forward. You know it is, because Jake knows there’s a history between you and Brad, and you realize that he probably thinks that maybe what he’s now learned about Rooster’s dad plays a role, and you realize you should have said something, because if he was willing to get testy in a bar for you, you should have realized he’d take it as far as he deemed necessary as well.

Jake to his credit is wearing that smirk as you hold a hand up to Rooster, who’s body freezes at the sight of you.

What Jake was not anticipating was the look of utter betrayal in your eyes. You catch the slight slip in his facade as he notices the way you’ve begun to close yourself off to him.

What Jake was not prepared for, was the violent flinch you’d reacted with when he brought up Bradshaw’s old man, he’d seen it in the corner of his eye but had been too focused on pushing Bradley’s buttons.

If he’d focused a little more he would have noticed the way your eyes flicked to your dad first and then to Bradley, as your forced yourself to your feet.

Now you’re stood between them. Bradley frozen but angry, and Jake curious and hurt at the distant look in your eyes, one that only softens when your gaze flicks to where your dad’s leaning heavily against his desk.

And that guts him a little. That look. It’s not angry, it’s not venomous, it’s just devoid, and he honestly doesn’t know what to do. He can fight with anger, he can fight with venom, he can even fight disapproval, but this he doesn’t know what to do, especially not on you.

You’re the one to stop Bradley. You don’t even have to put your hands fully on him. It’s just a palm near his chest, but Bradshaw freezes when he realizes who is blocking his path.

Jake keeps his persona is check though, and saunters closer, pushing Javi’s grip off. He meant to lean in, to say something else, he manages a, “I’m cool, I’m cool. Hey! Hey!” as he shrugs off hands as he moves closer.

“That’s enough!” Maverick’s echoing the same words, as if not sure what else he could offer, each repetition meaning less and less.

But he gets stopped when a hand pushes him back. He’d anticipated Rooster to surge forward, maybe even take a swing, and wouldn’t that be something? To finally get him to act instead of freeze? But you’re the one to react with those empty devoid eyes.

Using your other hand you firmly push Jake back. It’s not an inherently violent move but it does surprise Jake, far stronger than what he’d been anticipating and leaving him entirely lost, why the fuck were you suddenly protecting Bradley Bradshaw?

A glance around shows he’s not the only one caught off guard.

The look in your eyes tells him everything he needs to know. Even Phoenix seems thrown by the 180 you’ve pulled, by the pilot you’re protecting.

Did you really think she’d protect you after bringing up her dad’s dead wingman? a voice in the back of his head asks, one that sounds a lot like his sister, but he ignores it, like he normally does.

“He’s not cut out for this mission-” Jake finally says, squaring his jaw.

“That’s enough,” Maverick repeats again.

“-you know it,” Jake adds. He then puffs up a bit, “You know I’m right,” he adds on, eyes lingering on you.

“You’re all dismissed,” Maverick manages to spit out and you’re still standing protectively in front of Bradley, eyes hard, glaring at anyone who steps too close. Jake takes one more look, shaking his head before he stalks off, Coyote in tow as he goes.

And then everyone is dealing with the fallout.

Fritz, Omaha, and Halo disperse quickly, not wanting to get caught up in anymore. Shadow and Lucky shoot you a look but follow after them. Harvard and Yale, however, hover. You shake your head, and hesitantly they leave, pulling Payback and Fanboy along with.

Nat opens her mouth and tries to say something but you cut her off before she can utter a syllable. “Go 'Nix, Brad and I are going to get some air,” you say seriously, and your voice is thick with emotion in a way she’s never heard from you.

You finally drop the hand that’s stayed up in front of Bradley, turning it and gesturing for him to move. He turns and walks, following the gesture you’d made directing him in the opposite direction of Hangman, not even hesitating after being queued by you. As soon as he starts moving you’re quick to follow. You leave Nat and Bob with one more firm shake of your head as if to say do not follow.

You shoot your dad another look as you pass him but he seems frozen. You keep your gaze on Bradley’s back as you slow, but your dad waves you off, his own gaze darting to Bradley, and you understand what he means without a word being uttered.

…

You and Brad find yourselves sitting on the tarmac under the shade of one of your jets, you’d allowed him to decide where to stop, and you weren’t going to complain. It’s hot. but it’s the only place that made sense. Where you could talk freely and no one would overhear, where you were away from everyone else.

Bradley’s quiet at first. For a long time you sit. You unzip your flight suit, you roll it down, and un tuck your tank top so you can catch a break from the heat. Bradley follows after your example but remains quiet for a long time. And then “You called me Brad.”

You don’t know what posses you, but with one of the meanest tones you can manage in the moment, you scoff, “That’s your name, dipshit.”

And Bradley smiles a little at that, because while it was mean, there’s no real heat in it. He’s familiar with the fire of your anger, been the root of it the last few days, but the way you say it, even with a mean tone there’s an echo of a familiar fond sarcasm, and so he can’t help the smile.

“You haven’t called me Brad since-”

“Since before you broke my heart and my trust,” you lament seriously. You lay it out flat and you see the way he shuts his eyes in response, the smile disappearing in an instant. Your lips twitch down, that wasn’t fair, not right now, at least. “Sorry,” you offer quietly, taking a deep breath and doing your best to reign it in.

“Don’t,” his voice turns rough. “Don’t apologize to me. We both know I don’t fucking deserve it.”

This time you’re the one to stay quiet, because well, he’s not wrong.

And for the first time since you’d been faced with Bradley in the flesh, you let yourself look. Truly look at him, taking in the differences and the similarities to the boy you knew.

He looks like the Goose from the photos in the hangar, the Uncle Nick, you never got to know.

It stays quiet again for a few minutes before Bradley lets out a sigh, “can I tell you something, personal, without you running?” he asks.

He doesn’t phrase it that way to be mean, you can tell, but you’re hit with a little pang just as well. You hesitate for a second before offering a curt nod.

“You were the first person I wanted to call, the day I started at UVA,” he admits and you let out a breath. “All I wanted to do was call you and tell you all about it and plan your fall break so you could come stay with me. I’d dialed your number before I paused and realized we weren’t speaking, and I think for the first time since that night in the rain, I finally realized what I actually lost. When I realized what I’d said and how it must have hurt, and how I’d ruined it all,” he’s talking, just talking now, as if now that he’s started he can’t stop.

You find yourself frozen as he does. He’s finally giving you the real answers, the things he never put in the emails, how he felt, when he realized, all the things you’d ever wondered when you found yourself thinking about it.

“And I figured it would fade. You know, because there wasn’t anything else, because I was supposed to move on. I was the one who walked away, the one who wrecked it, just like you said. I broke it, so I had to move on. But it never faded. And then another year had gone by and one day I’d gotten a box of stuff from one of my mom’s friends, stuff they found when they were moving, they got a hold of my information and got the box to me. And there was this picture-” Bradley pauses again, trying to collect himself, but when he looks back at you there is so much sincerity in his eyes that you have to look away.

He shakes his head but keeps going, “It had to be from one of the early summers. way before mom got sick, or at least before we knew about it, but there we were. Mom was on that awful orange sofa that you fucking loved taking naps on, that she refused to get rid of because it was Little Miss Mitchell’s Nap Couch, Bradley, don’t be so ridiculous,” it’s how he says it that drives home, because that’s exactly what she used to say, tone and all, whenever Bradley asked if they could get rid of the orange monstrosity that you had in fact loved the hell out of. “-And her head’s tilted back laughing, and she’s pointing at these two idiots who were messing around in front of her,” Bradley continues, and there’s a flicker of something deep in your mind.

From the before, the thoughts you kept for the joy, but locked away due to the melancholy that often accompanied them.

“A little boy, maybe eight, on the ground, and this tiny girl, no older than five, sat on top of him. she’s just sitting on his back, with her hands in her hair and a tub of hair gel on the floor while he messed around with a GameBoy. His hair is standing on a point, but the little girl’s got the biggest most infectious smile and so the boy’s smiling too,” Bradley’s voice has gotten thick and you have to blink a bit as your mind spirals down thoughts of the summers you spent in Virginia.

You start blinking quickly, when you have another realization, you had that memory. A different photo but the same day, the same memory, you didn’t remember Aunt Carole in it, but you remembered the rest. In your photo you were sat on Bradley’s back, hands in his hair with a mischievous smile while he smiled for the camera. It had always been one of your favorites. That was Brad, your Brad. The one who learned how to dutch braid after you mentioned you really wanted your hair in braids like his neighbor used to wear. He’d gone over to her house while you spent a week with Slider one summer, he’d spent nearly every day you were gone next door, learning how to do the braids. By the time you came back he was anxious to show you what he’d learnt in the week apart, they weren’t perfectly even, nor were they particularly neat, but you had looked at him with so much joy and happiness. He had been proud of himself, and his mother even more so. He’d mastered it before the summer was over.

You’re the best big brother, Brad, you’d told him later that night, and he let you sleep over in his room staying up past your bedtime playing cards together.

“I remember,” you finally whisper.

Bradley nods, and he runs a hand through his hair nervously, “I got the box, I saw that picture, and that was the first night I emailed you,” he admits. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t look at the photo and not try, I’d spent the last two years trying to move forward, but every single time I learnt something cool, or saw something funny, all I ever wanted to do was show you. Looking through the memories, and seeing so much of you, so much of my mom, I just. She would’ve been so fucking mad, so out of her mind pissed at me, for what I said, for how I treated you. I just. I wanted to try, for her. For you.”

His voice had gotten choppy at the end, he’s nervous, your mind supplies still aware of all his ticks. You’re quick to wipe away a tear before you looked down at your hands. There was a lift inside you. Something so deep and hurt that never healed properly, like only now someone had taken care of the part that was festering. It wasn’t healed, not even close, still raw and open, but it wasn’t throbbing, it wasn’t infected, not anymore.

“You…” you trail off, taking in everything he had said, and then you settle yourself on the one part that still didn’t make sense. The one part you couldn’t piece together, “why did you keep emailing?” your voice comes out in a rush, spitting them out to make sure you ask, that you don’t just chicken out.

“Because I fucked it up,” it’s so simple when he says it. His voice so open and raw. It’s exactly what you’ve been waiting almost ten years for. “I fucked it up, and those emails were all I could do at the time, they were all I could fucking manage. Which is so fucking pathetic, but I’m sorry,” he finally says and shit, you’re definitely crying now.

“I’m so sorry. For how I acted, for how I treated you. But more than all of it, I’m sorry for what I said. Because I know you, at least I knew you. I know you could’ve forgiven me for acting like an idiot. I know you could’ve forgiven me for shutting down. I know that you would've. But I said the things I knew you wouldn’t forgive and… and the worst part is I did it on purpose.”

You’re scrubbing at your face a bit furiously now, tears flowing, and it’s too public. You’re still on base, still sat out on the tarmac.

“Stop,” you finally say, because you can’t. You can't go back to that, not when your head's clouded with the moments of the past that had made the two of you who you were. you say stop because it was bordering on too much.

“I never should have brought your mom into it,” is what he offers up next, and you can’t help the aborted sob that slips out.

There it is.

The thing you could never bring yourself to forgive him for.

Your biggest insecurity.

Bradley was the only one you’d ever confided to about it.

Not Ice and Aunt Sarah

Not Slider.

Not Carole.

Not even your dad.

Just Bradley.

You’re working on wiping the tears away and you can see how Bradley’s still crying too when he opens his mouth again, “I know how much-”

And you finally snap, “No!”

You push yourself up to your feet and away from Bradley, but he’s quick to his feet too. “You don’t get to say you know how it feels, or how much it hurts! You were the only person in the world I trusted enough to share that with. The only person I ever even fucking told! You took my biggest insecurity, the thing that caused me the most heartache and you poked at it, until it was raw and bleeding everywhere!” your voice is raised, not shouting yet, but bordering on too loud.

Bradley makes a wounded sound in response.

“I never trusted anyone with that. Except for you. And I have never trusted anyone like that after either,” you tell him honestly.

And there are tears streaming furiously down Bradley’s face, even thought it’s dead quiet as you both just stare.

“I have to go,” you finally say, your voice small, breaking, but firm.

“(y/n), please—” he starts, and you nearly falter, nearly turn back to him, almost giving in. It’s the first time he’s called you by your first name since the Hard Deck the day you both arrived, and the sound alone makes your chest twist.

“No.” The word comes out sharper than you mean it to, but it feels necessary. “I’m… I’m sorry about what Jake said. He—he shouldn’t have said that,” you rush out, the memory of how flippantly he’d spoken of Goose stinging fresh in your mind. “But I can’t, Brad. I—it took years—I can’t…”

You trail off, offering a pained look, one that says everything words can’t, before you scramble back a few more feet. The heat of the tarmac hits your bare arms and shoulders, the sunlight washing over you like a cruel spotlight, and you can feel the sobs threatening again. You can’t—won’t—let them fall here. Not now. Not in the middle of base, not in front of all those walls, the orders, the eyes that might see too much.

Bradley doesn’t move. He watches you, frozen, and you know he wants to speak, to reach for you, but the space between you feels infinite. You glance back just once, taking in the look on his face: a mixture of raw hope, fear, and heartbreak. In someways it would be so easy to collapse into him, to let the years of grief and anger spill over, to let him hold the part of you you’ve kept protected for so long.

But you don’t. You can’t. Not now.

Turning fully away, you start walking toward the locker rooms, each step a little heavier than the last. The sound of your boots against the tarmac feels impossibly loud, echoing in your ears. Behind you, Bradley exhales—a slow, trembling breath—but he doesn’t follow. You don’t look back again.

...

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