#bradley: ...ok<3

[daggerspared]

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.

jake uses all his pots and pans and puts them back in the wrong places. he leaves his jackets over the back of the chairs, the sofa, the door handles. his voice booms down every corner, making snide comments at bradleys choice in decor or telling some fantastic story to coyote over the phone. bradley can’t turn his head without some evidence of jakes overwhelming intrusion into his life.

and he realizes he hasn’t heard an echo for days.

because jake seresin is big. big head, big talk, too big for his boots. 

too big for top gun—the narrow hallways and stuffed classrooms. too big for the bars they find themselves occupying—spreading himself all over the pool table, dominating the dart board, somehow always punching a new track into the jukebox. and certainly too big for the aircraft carriers. hell, bradleys surprised he even fits in the cockpit.

it’s an opinion everyone shares. that hangman is a lot. too much. he exists and he does it loudly and largely. there isn’t a room on earth that could fit him and his ego. you’d suffocate if you stand too close too long.

but for the first time in days, bradley can breathe and the air doesnt taste stale.

later, jake will tell him about the seresin house. the fields that swallow you whole, the endless expanse of blank walls, the dining table with too many chairs. little jakey seresin, filling himself up with hot air, trying to fill the space his parents love never did.

too small for the house of his childhood, too big for the bunks, but here, his sound and spirit nestle into the space, into all the nooks and crannies that had been cold as long as bradley can remember.

bradley doesn’t think the bradshaw home feels empty anymore. he doesn’t think jake feels like too much anymore. he thinks it all fits perfectly.