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Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part Two
Read Part One
Part Three Coming Soon!
Prompt from THIS ASK
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU
Word Count: 4000+
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, Lots of Crying, Parent Trouble and Reconciliation, Insecurity,
We don't get to meet Bobby yet, I'm sorry!
My father's office looks the same. Honesty it has looked the same for as long as I can remember, and it's not just this office either. Every single one of my father's offices has looked just this way. Tan walls, that sort of sad, off beige color that every military installation, from this side of the world to the next, think outfit them so well. There's always a strong oak desk, sometimes it's pine, but either way it's always a sturdy piece of furniture that has no business around the thrown together particle board of the neighboring pieces.
My father has always brought in his own chair. It's faded leather is always well conditioned and it's warn in. Warn in just the way that when you sit in it, you can almost feel the ever lasting presence of the many years my father has sat in that very seat. He has hauled it with him all around the country, always in unaccompanied baggage so it would be sitting in his office and ready for him upon his arrival. He used to joke that if he made it there before his beloved chair, his time stationed there would be hell in a handbasket.
The day he got stationed at Top Gun as the Air Boss, that chair took it's rightful place behind the new desk. The same desk with empty drawers and too many files preemptively stacked atop it. But that's just how it is, right? After all, it's been that way since my father made Commander and things don't look to be changing anytime soon.
The decanter on his book shelf has been wiped clean of dust and fingerprints. No doubt filled with any run of the mill whiskey that may find it's way into my father's hands. It's an office staple, that decanter's about as old as myself, but the crystal still shines after 25 years, especially after a good cleaning. There's a bottle of good whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk, sat beside a bottle of the best vodka he could find. Always ready for the COMPACFLT to drop by on a moment's notice, though the Admiral has never made himself known long enough to break it out.
I sit and stare out the windows, the ones that make up the back wall of his office. There's always windows, but strangely the size seems to correlate with rank. One might think it would depend on the building, on the base, on the climate or area of the world, but what I've come to find out is the higher the number on your Pay Code, the bigger your fucking office widows.
That, and the less time you have for your family. It seems the higher that Pay Code number, the more time I've managed to spend with clerks and assistants. More visitation with office windows and the low reflection that stares back at me as I try to focus on the air field. Aircraft take off and land, the service men and women knocking out their required flight hours as the sun moves its way throughout the sky. But still, there are times I catch my own eyes in that low light reflection, but there are less tears now. Or there had been, until that fucking incident at the airport.
Truth be told, I haven't stopped shaking. In that damn reflection of my father's office window I can see both my tear stained cheeks and the confused looks on Rhett and Jake's faces. The images twist together. It's all hurt, every last piece.
I'm sure the three of us would be a sight if we were all standing in the same place, the boys with those same lost looks, hurt flashing through there eyes, and me, red rimmed irises and damp skin. Skin that is already threatening to chap over from the way it stings. I should have savored the way they so fiercely defended me. The way they folded me into themselves and kept me safe. Isn't that what home is, if only so briefly? A lifted wing to a chick in the same way their kind eyes were to me. It's a shame, the way it all came crashing down with those four little words.
There's not even a part of me that doesn't ache when the memory of only hours ago runs through my head. Their touch still ghosts over my shoulders. Phantom fingerprints left upon my upper arms, still smoldering, smoking as they cool.
Friendship has to be written into the strands of the universe, it just must be. Hidden deep within the stitching, taking a back seat to the drips of ink that are marred into skin, so easy to see. Because if it isn't, my soul shouldn't feel this heavy. It couldn't feel this heavy. So it must be. It must be.
There's mumbling coming from just beyond the fire door of the office, voices that I can't make out by ear but I know those tell tale footsteps that can't help but get closer. My heart pounds in the same way his footsteps all but reverberate through the floor. The voices get closer, and closer, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the air field- the vision of my own red rimmed irises in the glass of the O-9 sized window.
"Sir, I'm trying to tell you that-" The words come through muffled then clear as the door nearly squeaks open. A call to DPW and those hinges wouldn't grind, but I know door hinges aren't exactly on the high priority list for a Vice Admiral.
"Birdie?" That damn nickname's spoken by my father, in that surprised tone that is just a little too irregular completely flattens all my resolve. The floodgates open, or moreover, they break, just as I turn to meet his eye.
"Hi Dad," The words come out too wet and too close to a sob, but we both just stand there looking at one another. In the time we stare at each other, the Earth has rotated almost two hundred eighty miles around it's access. Four hundred fifty kilometers in roughly fifteen seconds. His hand is still curled around the doorknob, the brass of the handle turned down just so. A Lieutenant stands next to my father, an apologetic look hung upon her features. The tightness of her bun pulls her eyebrows up, barely noticeable, but it makes her look a little more surprised, a little bit more of herself that's usually hidden under the mask, just barely breaking through.
It's another two hundred eighty miles before my father makes a move. He enters further into the office while the Lieutenant slips the door shut. I can almost feel how the handle must be warm beneath her slender fingers. The same warmth is rolling off of my hands; all of the nervous energy having nowhere to go but cycle out to my fingertips only to crawl back up my arms once more.
"Hey, kid," My father speaks after another moment passes, another few miles, "I- uh,"
There is so much hanging between us. After spending so many years arguing, instead of words left unsaid between us they all seem to be hanging in the air. Stiff and starched like a uniform collar, textured underneath my fingertips. The way they brush against my skin makes me itch as I inch closer. I wish to choke on them; on the words, longing for a moment that I had something else to say. Some sort of words found stuck somewhere between the tightness of my throat and the stickiness of my gums, lips dry and cracking under the pressure. Instead, they all still hang between us, a rickety old rope bridge while the few feet between us is a canyon's expanse.
The average argument lasts ten minutes, and families tend to have around a hundred arguments a year. That's a thousands hours of disagreements that stand between us over the last year alone. A hundred and twenty five words per minute. That's one hundred twenty five thousand words and I can feel each and every letter that hangs between us in this moment, thick between us like a fog. I can't seem to breathe.
The only thing that seems real is the hot tears falling down my cheeks and the sight of my father's downturned smile. There is so much pity there, or maybe it's remorse in the way one is remorseful for not appreciating a song the first time it's played through. It's the missing of the baseline and the way the bridge carries through to the end of the score. His eyes are gentle, in the way roses are- pricking, piercing from just the right angle.
"It's been a long time, Dad, I've missed you," The words have been hidden in the spaces between my molars, stuck there so long I barely recognized their honesty as they fell from my tongue. My lips catch on their sharp edges and I swallow down the acrid taste of bile and copper. Wiping at the new found streaks of tears, smearing them across the heat of my cheeks, my fingers come back tinged with watery mascara smudges.
"It's been too long, Birdie, sweet pea, too long," There's a slight hesitation in his tone, but it's all too genuine, in a way that makes my stomach turn. The nausea isn't new, not today. "How was-" I know he's going to ask about the last year, about the travel and the time spent in-between our arguments but I can't keep the words from slipping off of my tongue.
"I need to know about your Aviators," He stops, the words hitting him straight in the face leaving mouth hanging open mid sentence. His eyebrows scrunch with the narrowing of his gaze, the confusion evident in the way his head cocks gently to one side before he straightens it right back again. Parts of my father are slipping past the Admiral, like sand through fingertips, but he does everything he can to hold onto his hardened exterior.
"My Aviators?" There is so much hidden in the way the syllables crackle from his throat. He looks as though he has words still stuck to the roof of his mouth, words he keeps tonguing at to keep them hidden behind his teeth.
"I- yes," My brain is spiraling just a little to fast for my mouth to keep up. I can almost feel the way my nervous system is spiking, my neurons firing as my tongue tries to say the words in the forefront of my mind. The deep breath I force into my lungs does nothing to slow my thoughts, but my father's shoulders relax at the sight of my own shoulders dropping slightly. It's a shallow effort but it helps, if only a little.
"I met one of your Aviators today, at the airport," He nods in understanding, "Blond, tall, from Texas. Super nice. Said his name was Jake,"
"Jake?" My father huffs out, scrubbing a hand over his face. "A Texan with one of those shit eating grins?"
"He had a nice smile, if that's what you mean," I reason. The feeling of an impending argument is like static in the air, the hair on my arms standing on end as gooseflesh breaks out over my bare skin. That feeling is acknowledged with a quick glance between us, a look that has him moving closer to his desk. He picks up a framed photograph from it's corner before holding it out to me. I finally move closer, separating some of the distance between us. It's strange, being so close together after spending so long apart. I often wonder if that's how all children's relationships with their parents are after they grow up, or if my father and I are stuck in a unique form of perpetual misunderstanding. I take the photograph from his hand.
"This him?" He points at a man in the back row of the photograph, big smile and kind eyes. It's definitely him, that much I am certain of. There is just something so recognizable about that smile of his, the way the lines on either side of his mouth bend with a dash of mirth, bracketing perfect teeth. It's sick, really, how nice his teeth are.
There are a handful of other people shoved into the photograph together. Jake has his arm thrown around another man who sports a mustache and messy hair. That man looks at Jake like he emits pure light. Eyes squinted slightly with a smile too big to be contained with a closed jaw. That's Rooster. That's Jake's soulmate. There's no other explanation as to why the blond would be holding the other man so incredibly close, with his hands gripping into the material of Rooster's flight suit.
To Jake's other side is a woman. Her smile is smaller, almost practiced, but true joy emits from her eyes. With slicked back hair and sharp brows, she looks all business, like a woman not to be fucked with. But a friend, maybe? Her nametape is too small to read, but as one of the only women in the squad, she won't be too hard to pick out of the crowd. It's the man standing next to her that throws me. Another familiar face stands to her side, Rhett, only with shorter hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My eyebrows scrunch, mimicking my father's expression.
"Yeah, that's him," I confirm, my eyes still tracking over the faces in the photograph.
"Why do you ask, sweet pea?"
"I met a man on accident, really, his name is Rhett, and his friend was with him, this man here, Jake. We actually ended up on the same flight" I watch my father nod in understanding, one of his hands coming up to brush at his nonexistent five o'clock shadow. I huff, averting my eyes for the next part. "I might have had my soulmate sentence encounter earlier this afternoon," The confession is sheepish at best. I don't meet his eyes. There's no point. I know the expression he wears now and I know I can't handle it in this moment. There's already been enough crying.
"Was it with him? With Hangman?" I watch from the corner of my eye as my father's eyebrows knit together impossibly tighter. His voice is pinched at the callsign, lips tight around it.
"Yes, it was him, but that's not really the point, Dad," My eyes trail over him in the photograph again, but I'm pulled back to Rhett, confusion gnawing inside of my skull, just behind my eyes, "How old is this photograph, because this is Rhett right here, and he told me he wasn't military," I want to ask him if he really knows his aviators all that well, considering the lack of acknowledgement on his features.
"That photo was taken after their last mission, wasn't more than a few weeks ago, right after they all graduated their advanced training. It's recent, and there's nobody in that squad named Rhett,"
"There has to be! This is him, right here next to that woman. I swear it's him!" My fingernail, all chipped polish and sparkles, clinks against the glass, my father leaning closer to get a better look before plucking the frame from my gently shaking hands.
"Sweet pea, I think you're mistaken," His tone sounds like his words are treading a minefield somewhere deep in his throat. I can't help but cough at the thought. That tension bristles between us again, electric like a storm. My fingers knit through my hair to keep from chipping more of my nail polish from my already scraped up nails.
"That," My father taps the glass with his finger, "Is Lieutenant Floyd"
"Lieutenant Floyd?"
"Yes, Lieutenant Floyd," There's a faux confidence in his tone, the same one he used to use when he would call home to say he'd only be gone a little while longer.
"Dad," I raise my eyebrows as I finally swing my eyeline back up to meet his, "What is Lieutenant Floyd's first name?"
He sputters a bit, a hand rubbing at the lack of stubble on his chin. There's a sort of furrow to his brow, one I recognize, even if the rest of his features are laid out in a way I have never come to know. My father has always been a sure man, steadfast in his actions, information spread out in his brain easy to access. This grappling for an answer is unlike him, but it makes him seem impossibly more human.
"Oh, Dad," The words are spoken with slight exasperation laced in the low chuckle that springs forth from deep within my chest. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'll just ask the very nice Lieutenant who let me in earlier, she seemed... knowledgeable,"
I am met with the deep roll of my father's eyes, his hands no longer scrubbing over his face, instead he rubs carefully at his temples. His reaction makes me grip a little harder at my hair. It's stupid, this battle between us. Something left over from the strife of my youth; what we clung to with white knuckles and bloody nail beds just to keep a semblance of a relationship. It's all adolescent animosity stripped to adulthood anonymity, achingly arduous.
"Honestly, Birdie," The words travel on an exhale, "I don't know his first name. Hell, I don't know most of them, especially if they don't give me trouble. I've always called him Lieutenant, barely ever needed Floyd tacked on the end,"
My father shrugs his shoulders unceremoniously, plopping the photograph back down onto the corner of his desk. He leans back into the long line of his desk, his usually pristine tan uniform wrinkling with the way he almost folds in on himself. My tongue flicks over my teeth as I fight the grimace I can feel rising over my features. I try and school my face back into pleasant nonchalance, much like my father usually does, however I think it's a skill better mastered with each star pinned to his collar.
"Can I say something?" There's too much honesty in the way the words crackle out. I nod; it's easier that way. My hands find home near my hips, my thumbs tucked into my belt loops in a shallow attempt to keep from continuing the pull on my roots.
"For what feels like forever now, it's just been you, your brother and I against the world. Just the three of us, and I know not having your mother has been one of the most challenging things, for all of us. I know there has always been this bond that Arrow and I have had, and maybe it's because he is my son, or because he decided that the Navy was his calling too. Either way, I know that there's a foundation there, one that you and I just don't have," I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. The more he speaks, the more the sight of him swims.
"But, I want you to know that even though you and I have struggled," There's a little trace of humor there, but neither of us comment on it, "I love you so fucking much, kid. So much that my chest aches. And I knew this day was coming- your soulmate encounter. God, kid, I am so excited for you, but so fucking scared because you're my baby bird and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, I love you too much,"
There are tears steaking down his cheeks, a sight I haven't seen since my mother passed away. It makes my own chest ache in turn, seeing the strongest man I have ever known begin to crumble. With two quick steps, I am in my father's embrace. His arms are warm, cradling me into his chest, my face into the sandalwood scent of his collar. The stars pinned there less of an obstacle between us, now. He lets a land run over my spine, palm flat to my back, the warmth pooling through my top.
"I'll love you no matter what, kid, even if your soulmate is some military rat like me," He laughs, low and rumbling, into my hair.
"I love you, too, Dad, so much," I mumble into his collarbone, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I can feel my tears sinking into the cotton of his shirt, the tan darkening with moisture. He doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he doesn't say a thing. We stand there like that for a while, embracing. It's my father who breaks the silence.
"So, kid," He clears his throat in an attempt to hide the mangled bit to tears that still sits on the back of his tongue, "Tell me, how did it all happen? What did Hangman say?" The distaste in my father's tone is evident. I pull away from the embrace with a rueful laugh, one that stirs around that anxious feeling that's been ever present since the airport.
"Well," The word is all sigh, "Jake, Hangman or whatever you call him, was on the phone listening to his voicemail and Rhett had asked him who the message was from, you know? It was a pretty long message," I babble out the last sentence, trying to get to the point, but the words are stuck somewhere under my tongue.
My father just nods at me, allowing me the space to continue. Instead, I plop down into one of the chairs that sits in front of his desk, ones that are meant for official meetings rather than anxiety soaked realizations. I scrub a hand over my face before winding my fingers through my hair again, gentler this time. He stares at me, patient eyes and expression neutral. It's practiced, but genuine. I stare at he ground in front of my shoes when I can no longer meet his gaze.
"Rhett asked who it was," I begin again, back tracking a bit, "And Jake looked at him and said Oh, it's just Bob and that was it. I've had these words on my skin for so long that I thought hearing them would be so easy, but Dad, I panicked,"
"Oh Birdie, it's okay," My father hums, giving me a small grin on the side of reassurance, "It's not always like the stories, the fairytales are just to give us hope, but that's not how life is supposed to play out. It's alright,"
"It gets worse," My words are wet, "I ran, Dad, I ran. I heard him say that and I ran out of the airport and into the first cab I could find. I came straight here, I didn't know what else to do. I didn't even stick around to figure out exactly who Bob is to Jake. God, this whole situation gives me as much anxiety as a baby on board a pond jumper, look at me, I'm shaking like a fucking leaf."
"What did you just say?"
"I said I'm shaking like a leaf, look at me!" I laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out all gargled. I hold my hands out, watching the way they tremor at the thought of it all.
"No, not that," My father shakes his head, "The thing about the pond jumper,"
"I dunno, Dad, it was an analogy," I reply, it's all furrowed brows and tired voice. as if it could be anything else at this point. I watch my father's expression turn quizzical, his eyes tracking though the air as if he's watching a hop. His nose twitches for a second before he schools his expression back. His hands tighten a bit around the edge of his desk, then he's clicking his tongue to punctuate a sort of silent eureka moment.
"Come with me, kid, I think there's someone we need to go talk to," Then he's pushing himself form the desk and heading towards the door with the same conviction the Admiral meets everything with.
"What?" I push myself from my seat but can't keep my shoulders from sagging. He's stopped at the door, turning back to offer just a hint more.
"I think you and I need to go see Captain Mitchell," There's distain in his voice at the name. I bite at my lower lip, tucking my hands back through my belt loops.
"Why do we need to see Captain Michell? Isn't he the man you can't stand?" I ask, following after him. The whole thing seems futile but a curiosity thrums between my ribs. We pass the nice Lieutenant's desk, her seat vacant, before turning down the hall. It's not long before we are out on the air field and heading towards one of the large carriers.
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Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part One of Two
Prompt from THIS ASK
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5000+
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, Creepy Dude, Rhett and Jake rescue reader, one use of Y/N, airports and flying, argument, nothing too crazy, angst
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To all the people that said finding their soulmate was just so easy, and that they didn't even have to look deserve a giant middle finger shoved right into their face. After all, sometimes people's soulmates just fall right into their fucking laps like the divine are throwing them a goddamn bone.
Most of us have to earn the privilege of finding our soulmates. You would think that the universe would have come up with a better system, some way to be sure that you've found exactly who you're supposed to. But it's truly fucking coincidence.
What a goddamn pain in the ass.
Those little words scripted onto skin give only a hint, a shred of an idea that comes with far too much hope and no direction.
In a perfect world, that script would glow when you find your person, or maybe your person would be the one to say them. Maybe there'd be a way to just know that you've found your other half. Maybe the universe could've bloomed with color upon first contact, the whole world coming to life around you. Hell, maybe the fucking ink would itch when you came close, or, maybe it could turn colors, burning like a cinder straight to the skin.
It could have been a name, or map quadrants, an number even...
But no.
All we get is the first thing someone else in our earshot says about our other half. It could be anyone, really, family and friends, lovers or enemies. The universe doesn't care, like it's all one big cosmic joke.
And if you get stuck with something common? You're pretty much royally fucked.
The amount of sorry souls who are stuck with "oh, he's a great guy," or "she's so pretty!" Have to live with hearing that damn phrase over and over again, just hoping that maybe it will lead them in the right direction.
It's sick, really, the whole goddamn thing. Especially because I want nothing else.
"Oh, it's just Bob," is etched deep into my skin, the little letters marking over my collar bone like it's laced with disappointment. There's something about the word "just" that make's me clench my jaw. I can feel the muscle tick as I grind my teeth against each other, feeling the ridges catch.
Whoever Bob is sure as hell isn't just anything. He is everything, and the unlucky bastard who dares say anything different has a swift right hook in their future, or maybe a hard shove, if the mood strikes. Anything that might take the edge off.
Though I haven't met Bob yet, I feel fiercely protective over him, over the way others see him. After all, his heart is worth more than words like "just".
The airport is just a little too dead for 3am, a few too few people ambling around half awake. Those who are here wear dark bags under their eyes, snuggled deep into their jackets to keep the too cold air conditioning from hitting their bare skin. Some pull luggage behind them, kicking it at they go, getting more and more pissed off every time their heel catches on their suitcase. Others talk too loudly on the phone, their cell's pressed to their cheeks by shoulders, by hands, others taking through their headsets.
A sharply dressed man, clad in a brown suit and loafers argues with a woman in a language I don't speak. She is pointing at the board with a well polished fingernail, one that matches her power suit, while the man is shoving his phone into her face. It's obvious they are arguing about their flight, but neither of them seem to budge on their side.
It's comical, really, how animated they are. I wonder if they are soulmates, if they found each other out if the sheer passion and dedication they are displaying. After all, if one has this much passion for a flight, it would only stand to reason that the business of finding their soulmate would be met with equal fever.
They are a good match, too. The universe doesn't always deal out people who look like they should be together. Aesthetics clash, personalities not quite off set. But these two just have an air about them- like they belong; also like they are going to miss their flight.
I pass them as quickly as I can, as the anger rolls off of them. It's much too late, or maybe much too early to witness such an argument, and I have to make it all the way down to gate 93. With each step, my duffle bag seems to get heavier, no doubt taking after my eyelids.
Whoever designed the Dallas airport needs to be given some sort of medal for "longest hallways that seem to lead nowhere". With every turn I take I feel like I'm headed further away, but the signs keep pushing me forward.
Almost there, almost there.
Gate 88 and Gate 89.
Gate 90.
As I walk by Gate 91, I catch two men laying on the dirty carpet in front of the lines of chairs. Their forms stand out against the oddly patterned carpet, though they almost look like they belong there. They are waiting in front of a gate that reads no destination. I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't seem to stop the slowing of my feet. I slide one side off my headphones back off of my ear, doing my best to be inconspicuous. I hope to catch a word, a whisper of what they might be saying but their lips are sealed, it seems, neither one saying a thing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I take in their position on the ground. One has a cowboy hat pulled down over his face to try and keep the buzzing fluorescents out of his eyes. His head is balanced on a small duffle bag, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His hands sit on his stomach, fingers laced together. His skin is golden, one of those tans you get from being stuck outside day after day.
He doesn't move a muscle. It barely looks like he's breathing, really. There's something a bit eerie about it, the stillness of him.
The other man, blond with a cropped haircut and equally bronzed skin sits on the ground a few feet from the other. His back is leaned up against the side of a chair, his knees bent. He looks equally exhausted, eyes closed, head leaned back exposing the long line of his neck.
He shivers a bit, the wholeness of it rolling through his body. Though he keeps his eyes closed, his expression scrunches before relaxing again. He doesn't look even remotely comfortable, unlike his stony counterpart.
The pair have very different looks about them, the former all home grown cowboy with still muddy boots while the ladder is clean cut and chiseled. The blond has his hands shoved into the large pocket on the front of his hoodie, trying to starve off the chill that hangs in the terminal.
Not soulmates, that's for sure. Over the years, I have been able to pick out soulmates from just a few calculated but fleeting glances. There's always something about a pair that just reads right, a vibe that they give off when they are finally buzzing together. But one thing is for sure, these two aren't soulmates, the fact that they're even friends feels funny.
It's not an impossible fact, to be sure. The predestined soul mate, the way it's written into the universe, could be anyone. That's part of the difficulty of it, for sure, but there's always something that seems to click. Souls are like metronomes, clicking away, othering ticking, always out of time; until the right person comes along and you're right on time with each other. With this pair, they are just a little too jagged around the edges, too seasoned in their own rights to slot together. Friendship is different- nothing knit into the weave of the universe, there, though it may have been easier if it were.
The moment I make it to my gate, I throw my bag down, by body feeling a bit too much like jelly from all of the travel to hold it any longer. The men are just a gate down, living in their own little bubble. I can't fight the smile that blooms across my face. There's that word, about knowing everyone has their own lives, their own loves. Sonder, I think it is, and in this moment it washes over me.
"Hey," A voice rings out through the quiet of the terminal, over the loudness of my mind. I look up, my eyes meeting a man who must be in his later forties. He's balding on top, glasses shoved awkwardly onto the bridge of his nose. His clothes are a mismatch of dressy and unkempt. A suit jacket thrown over his hoodie, a pair of pajama pants adorning his bottom half. The whole ensemble is wrapped up with the cowboy hat sitting on the chair next to him, crocs on his feet.
"Hi," I nod more than speak, a strange feeling blooming in the pit of my stomach. This is not a man I care to be around. If I keep my eyes down, hands busy, maybe he will get the message.
"Why don't you sit down and we'll have a chat," There's a sort of greasy smile that spreads across his face. A shudder dances down my spine at the sight, gooseflesh breaking out over my already cold body. The feeling of them breathing to life makes my skin go almost clammy, an uncomfortable feeling under my warm layers.
"No, thank you," The answer is curt as I push my duffle just a little further away with my foot. It drags against the well walked carpet, the sound it makes echoing the one in my chest. It's a sort of stuck sensation, what it morphs into, one that I feel with my whole body.
"Oh, come on, what's a little chat going to hurt?" The man tries again, leaning closer to me, sliding to the seat next to him. We are no further apart now than when we started. My foot meets the side of my duffle again, ready to push it once more. Each little move he makes my eyes train on, from the way his hand curls around the armrest to the way he seems to be peering, leering, over the tops of his too thick glasses.
"Nope," I pop the 'P', waving my hand a bit, "I'm not entertaining this any longer."
I stoop down to grab my headphones from my bag, only to have the strange man's hand appear in front of me as he is reaching too. The step back I take is almost involuntary, more focused on getting away from his incoming touch than my things now sitting in between us. The glare I send the man is lacking due to the bubbling fear popping in my chest. I place my headphones around my neck in a shallow attempt to keep my hands from shaking.
"Oh come on sweet-"
"Tommy Grace! There ya'are! Ya'walked right past us, girl," An arm is thrown around my shoulder, warm and lean. I shift my eyes over quickly, mind and body shooting from high alert to a sort of easy when I see the cowboy from the gate over, now standing to my side, folding me protectively under his arm. The feeling of being protected shouldn't feel quite so strong coming from a stranger. However, the way he keeps his hand right atop the cap of my shoulder, his heartbeat thrumming against my other shoulder just bleeds that feeling.
"Oh! Seriously? You must've been hiding," I do my best to play along, instantly feeling a little more at ease as the man across from us looks less so. I can't help but revel in the uncomfortable look on the greasy man's face, as well as the warmth pouring from the cowboy.
"Is this guy a friend o'yers?" The cowboy asks, looking at the man from under the brim of his hat. I can feel the way the pads of his fingers dig into the muscle of my arm, each finger individually curling into the thickness there. It doesn't hurt. Instead it's a grounding point, from him to me and back again. Two strangers bound together if only for a moment.
"Oh, no, we've never met before," I tell him, gazing up at his face. The scruff of his cheek is fuller at this angle, the defined slope of his jaw easily tracible with my eyes. He's handsome from this angle, which I bet means he's even better looking from head on.
"I see, well," The cowboy narrows his eyes, "Your brother'sa waitin' and y'know how Jake gets,"
"Boy do I," I chuckle from the safety of his embrace, throwing a sideways glance to the man who seems to be in some sort of staring match with the cowboy. Their eyes are trained on each other, fighting for dominance over the situation. From the way the greasy man's eye twitches slightly, I know the cowboy must be winning.
"Go on an' see 'em, I'll grab your bag," He is pushing me towards the other gate, a warm palm between my shoulder blades. It's not a hard shove, but the way his hand is pressed firm to my back gives me a clue on just how quickly I need to get out of there. The cowboy shoots me a wink before turning back to the strange man, his eyes narrowing again.
I don't want to see the look in his eye when it's turned on the greasy stranger. I can imagine just how dark those blue green eyes could tint given the right amount of rage flowing behind them. So, I keep my eyes forward, keep focused on just where I'm headed.
Quickly, I make my way over to the now standing blond, Jake. The moment his eyes meet mine he is smiling, the kind of smile that instantly eases my nerves. I wave a bit, my hand not making it any higher than my midsection. I can't help but feel the same tiredness in my limbs that I see in his eyes. There is something weighing us both down, and something tells me it's more than just the travel. More than the overly saturated interactions with strangers and flight attendant served booze.
The moment I'm in earshot, he's already saying hello, opening his arms wide for me. I step into his space, wrapping my arms around his middle. Carefully, almost too lightly, the blond is wrapping his arms around me. It's one of those hugs- the kind you give that estranged relative at Thanksgiving. It's a tad bit awkward from my end, but Jake squeezed me just a little bit tighter as relax against his broad frame and I can't fight the urge to press my face into the soft fabric of his hoodie.
"Thank you," I mumble into his sweatshirt. As I pull back, the blond squeezes my shoulders quickly, a quiet "you're welcome" in return. I peer up at the tall blond, taking in the gentle curves of his smile lines, how they frame his headstone like teeth, polished white and perfectly straight. His tongue flicks over the corner of his mouth, eyes positioned somewhere behind me.
There is something in that look of his, something playing behind the sea glass tint of his irises. It's a sort of mirth, if mirth was more gentle than the definition explains. Maybe it's a fondness for the other man, one that's hidden behind layers of faux dislike and teasing. The pair bonded together as brothers are, all bemused, an oath, blood of the covenant, that they don't remember taking.
As I turn to follow his eyeline, Jake folds me carefully under his arm just as the cowboy had before. Maybe their friendship is stronger than I had originally thought. The way they seem to work in unison to the very clear way they've each folded me into the safety of their embrace. It's different with Jake though. He's more calm, his heartbeat isn't hammering out of his chest. I can scarlessly feel it where our bodies are pressed together.
"Does he do this kind of thing often?" There's a sideways glance shared between us before Jake's chest raddles with a light chuckle. It awakens him just a bit behind the eyes.
"Yes, but we usually know the girl," The humor in his voice makes the anxiety in my stomach settle a bit. His voice is too warm, too kind to elicit anything but safety in this moment.
I can feel the small smile ghosting over my lips, the image of the pair many years younger fluttering through my brain. The cowboy and Jake, rescuing girls in the school hallways, folding innocent girls, with glasses and hair pulled back into tidy braids, into their embrace. There's a sort of teamwork in the way it all went down today, through I missed the progression. From the moment the cowboy tucked my body into his, the intense hammering of his own heartbeat be damned, to the way Jake greeted me with literal open arms. There's so much warmth here.
"And he'd not your soulmate," It's a statement, plain and simple. That get's him laughing for real this time, his whole face coming to life from how his smile overtakes his expression.
"Not remotely," The words make it out a moment later as Jake still fights a bit to catch his breath. "We grew up near each other, down the same county road just outside a forgettable town here in Texas,"
"Escaping while you still can?" I chide, nudging him with my elbow.
"I escaped a long time ago," Jake corrects, a small shrug pulls away his body heat for just a moment before it returns.
"But you're back?"
"Rhett and I are headed to California," The explanation comes easy, and for a moment I wonder why he's even explaining it all to me, but I am thankful to know the real name of the cowboy, "He's helping get me settled in Miramar, new permanent station,"
"Station? Does that make you Army?"
There's that laugh again.
"Naval Aviator," There's no sharpness in the correction, as cocky as it is.
"Wouldn't it be a new port for you then, Sailor?" I nudge him again, playfully. There is something so easy about talking to Jake, his arm folding me into his warmth. Something truly sibling like about it, my place here under his sturdy frame. His protective nature and warm smile, a sort of family for just a few fleeting moments.
"I guess you're right," There's a tad bit of humor in that sentence, but it's hiding behind the tiredness layered in his voice.
"Wait, did you say Naval Aviator?" I look up at him so directly, eyebrows pulled tightly together as I fight to keep a smile off of my lips. "And you're going to Miramar?"
I watch as he pulls his own well groomed eyebrows together in a furrow, his lips curving into a ghost of a frown.
"Yes, Ma'am,"
I can't fight the laugh that bubbles past my lips, the whole thing sounding a bit too sharp, a bit too loud. Where most men are put off by the sound, Jake just looks at me with curious eyes. His tongue flicks over the corner of his slightly upturned mouth, that grin silently begging for me to continue.
"What're you lot laughin' bout?" Rhett calls out, his voice filling my ears.
"Well, turns out my brother," I wink at Rhett now, turning my attention his way, "works under my father,"
If the progression of thought could be clearly mapped through faces with flicks of tongues and furrowing of brows, the pair would have told a whole story in the matter of seconds, of squinted eyes and the pursing of lips.
"Your father?" The pair speak in unison, accents blending together. I can't help but laugh as I flick my eyes between them. Both wear a sort of confused expression, bemused with eyebrows scrunched together, head tilting just so.
"Yes, my father. Rear Admiral Simpson?" I offer the name as a sort of clarification, though it comes out as a question. Rhett's eyebrows knit together a little tighter, eyes darting to Jake for assurance, or maybe it's confirmation. Jake's eyebrows are raised, his mouth slightly agape by the time my gaze slips back over him.
"You're Cyclone's kid?" There's more to it, from the way his mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he catches the tip of his tongue between his perfect front teeth. "Are you Arrow?"
"Oh, hell no!" I can't hold back the laughter, my cheeks no doubt pinking up from the way my smile pushes them out, "That's my older brother, Anthony! He's an Aviator too, hoping to get selected for Top Gun any day now... Though I doubt that they'll send him anytime soon with Dad stationed there,"
Rhett's arms are crossed over his chest, his eyebrows no less furrowed than before. Jake's expression is still scrunched up a bit, but the lines are slowly relaxing with the more information he gets, so I continue.
"My name is Y/N Simpson, but everyone calls me Birdie," I hold my hand out first to Rhett, as I'm still tucked close to Jake, his arm slung over my shoulders.
"Birdie, is'a pleasure," Rhett removes his hat with one hand, shaking my outstretched one with the other. He gives it a quick squeeze before letting go, a kind smile on his face.
"Birdie?" Jake asks, tip of his tongue snug in the corner of his lips.
"Yeah, Birdie. You know, Cyclone, Arrow, Birdie, all things that have to do with wind and flying? My dad and brother both got call signs, but I had zero interest in doing anything with the military, but Uncle Solo dubbed me Birdie when I was tiny and it's stuck ever since."
"Solo? Is'e Navy too?" Rhett chimes in. He scratches at the back of his head, his hat tipping forward into his eyes a bit.
"Sure is. Admiral Solomon Bates, goes by Warlock," Jake stiffens a bit at the name, but relaxes a bit soon after. I bump his hip with my own, shooting a wink up his way.
"Well then, Birdie, it's nice to officially meet you," It's a bad recovery, but he clears his throat and keeps speaking, "I've gotta say, your dad didn't mention he had a daughter,"
"Oh yeah, that's not at all a surprise. You know how Sailors can be, and my Dad is a bit over protective of me. He's big on me keeping men at a distance. And if said man is Military? Ha! Not an ice cubes chance in hell that they'd make it within a hundred feet of me,"
Rhett smirks a bit, eyes flicking from my own glare down towards the floor. I know Jake's arm is still wrapped around my shoulder, just as I know that he is still sparing quick glances over to the greasy man a few yards away. I kick the toe of Rhett's boot with my own, wrinkling my nose at the way he snickers.
"So no soulmate yet?" Jake asks, tilting his chin down to look me in the eye. The question is so full of genuine curiosity and for once I don't feel terrible answering.
"Nope, not yet. Not even a damn lead, but that's okay. I'm a firm believer that it's going to happen when it's supposed to. I'm not in a rush," That last part may be a bit of a lie. I want nothing more than to finally meet the person that's supposed to be mine, mind, body, and soul. Their supposed to be this sort of connection, one that most people who have met their soulmate have only been able to hint at. It's one of those things where words just don't do it justice, even the great poets seem to have failed to find the words.
"Tha's too bad, 'cause I'd've jumped at the chance to take ya ta dinner," Rhett shoots me a wink, his blue eyes twinkling under the stark white lights.
"I bet you say that to all the girls," I jest, sticking my tongue out at him. There's another nudge between boots.
"Oh, he does, but he sure does have a knack for finding the prettiest ones," Jake interjects, bumping my hip with his own. I push him back with my shoulder, causing him to finally drop his arm he's had draped around me for the better part of the last twenty minutes.
"Whatever you say," I roll my eyes, "What about you boys, either of you found your better half?"
The way Jake's face lights up at the question gives me the answer before his words can. Rhett is just shaking his head, mumbling a "here we go" under his breath.
"I sure have! Rooster, he's an Aviator too," Jake begins eagerly, "We met like eight years ago? Maybe nine? I'm not sure, but it was in the middle of the ocean on a carrier, and we butted heads better than the best of 'em. I had graduated Top Gun not too long before, and he hadn't been yet, though he went shortly after that deployment. I don't think we would've figured it out if we hadn't decided to-"
"Don't even say it, Seresin," Rhett threatens with a point of his finger, aim fixed right between the taller man's eyes.
"I wasn't gonna go into detail," Jake laughs, though there's a glint of trouble in his eyes, "All I'm saying is that if we hadn't hauled each other into that bathroom stall at the bar and-"
"Flight number 4582, Dallas to San Diego is now boarding Group 1, priority members and military members traveling on active orders," A woman voice crackles through the intercom.
"Saved by the fuckin' bell," Rhett comments loud enough for Jake and I to hear. The boys begin to grab their bags, each only traveling with a small duffle bag. Rhett heads for the gate first, his bag slung over his shoulder, hat in hand. Jake follows after him, his bag clutched tightly in his hand.
"Thanks again you two" I call after them with a little wave. Jake stops in his tracks, turning back around to face me.
"Aren't you coming, Birdie?" There's that cock of his head again.
"Us lowly civilians have to wait until the next group to board," I joke back.
"Not anymore, you're boarding with me, come on!" Then Jake is all but hauling me through the ticket line and onto the plane. Jake throws my carryon into the bin above the row of seats Rhett has claimed and Jake waved me into the same row with a tilt of his head. Without assigned seating, the pair having decided that I'm going to be sitting in the middle seat between them. Maybe I should be more nervous, sitting between two strange men, but sitting here now the only thing I feel is safe.
The whole flight my head switches between resting on either one of their shoulders, sleep evading me completely. I went from tracing the lines of Rhett's hat as it sat atop his knee to counting just how many times Jake bounced his knee.
Part of the way through, he admitted that he's a terrible passenger, had been since he graduated from flight school. Maybe it's a control issue, or maybe it's the surrounding people moving all around the large aircraft. Either way Jake bounces his knee the whole flight. Sometimes he'd wipe his palms down his jean clad thighs to ease the tension and give a slight reprieve to the constant movement.
Rhett snored gently next to me, though he murmured in his sleep just a little. No words ever slipped past his lips, just half cut off sounds and the ghosts of sentiments. He kept his hands folded across his belly, head lulled towards the small window. I hate to admit it, but I admired the long line of his neck as his head was laid against the wall.
Neither man listened to any sort of music during the flight, which struck me as odd. My headphones sat snug over my ears through most of the flight, a folk country playlist thrumming through them.
The flight was fast, in the grand scheme and everyone aboard seemed to be thrilled to get off the plane. This terminal is busier than the last. The early morning traffic of the airport filled with people in suits, both sweat and formal. The boys and I walk side by side by side, making our way through the crowd like a force. Maybe it's the sheer size of the men at my sides, but the crowd seems to part for us.
The trilling of a cellphone breaks up the sounds of the terminal, following us as we walk.
"Jake," Rhett flicks his gaze towards his friend, a silly look on his face.
"What?"
"That's your phone, dude," I nudge him with my shoulder, our bags bumping together. By the time Jake fishes the device from his front pocket, the factory set ringtone has gone silent.
"Eyes up, Cowboy," I warn as we approach the tram. Rhett's eyes flick up just long fast enough that he doesn't trip over the gap. The doors closing behind us quickly, and Rhett bumps into one of the stationary poles in attempt to get out of it's way.
"It truly amazes me that he's a bull rider, since his sense of personal space sucks so bad," Jake mutters, leaning a bit closer to my ear. I can't help but snicker too.
"Bull rider?" The question is met with a nod from Jake as he presses the phone up to his ear.
Jake stands near, phone pressed to his ear with knit brows. The look of concentration on his face is tight, like he's trying to make out a hard to hear piece of information on the other side of the line. He pulls the phone away from his ear as we step off the tram, heading for baggage claim.
They bracket me between them once again, a tall man on each side of me. We share smiles as we walk in time with one another. A little trio formed because one sleazey dude at the Dallas airport couldn't take a hint. Life is funny that way.
They say the universe only hand picks soulmates, decorating skin just to prove that point. I, however, think friends are found in the flick of the same pen. After all, there's magic left over in the spaces between the letters, in the flick of the wrist of the universe. There has to be.
"Long message," Rhett comments, "Who was it anyway?"
"Oh, it's just Bob," Jake informs us. Rhett hums in response, but my feet stop moving. They retreat into the tunnel of my vision, blending in with the other travelers moving around us. Their once recognizable frames, broad and welcoming, melt into the sea of movement. Nothing in my vision sticks out, my brain too busy playing those damn words on loop.
Oh, it's just Bob. Oh, it's just Bob. Oh, it's just Bob.
There's a fleeting feeling in my fingertips from where my bag as slipped from them. There's the far off sound of it hitting the tile. My vision buzzes with people but god, those words are in the forefront of it all.
Oh, it's just Bob.
This moment may be stillness surrounded by the bustle of the San Diego airport. It may be bodies bumping into my own, shoulders connecting as someone passes. It may be one day be a memory of the way my whole body seems to have gone slick with sweat, far too warm and mildly uncomfortable. It may be a realization, both now and in the future. This moment may be the beginning of the rest of my life.
I'm not ready. Not for the future. Not for Bob. Not for facing his friends who must have noticed that I'm no longer by their side by now. I'm not ready for any of it. Not even remotely. I guess it sure wasn't a lie when I told them that I wasn't "in a rush".
The chill of the air hits me as I all but break through the sliding doors, out to the taxi line up. There's shouting, it's far off, covered by those four little words and the beating of my heart. I slide into the back of a taxi, my bag discarded onto the seat next to me. With the slam of the door, the taxi is pulling away from the curb. I press my forehead to the glass of the window, my breath fogging up the sight of Rhett and Jake breaking through the crowd. They stand there, confusion written into their features as they watch the cab pull away.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I squeeze them together. A deep sigh escapes me, the realization hitting me. They know my dad, at least Jake does. And we are all going to Miramar. It's only a matter of time before our paths cross again.
Maybe it wasn't even my Bob, I try and rationalize with myself. After all, how many people in the world are named "Bob" anyway? It's shallow in theory, a sort of knowing feeling sitting heavy in my gut. That was my Bob on the other end of that message; the feeling deep in my chest aches in a way that it just has to be true.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It's only a matter of time before our paths cross again. On base, in the commissary as we grocery shop. Eye contact over fresh produce, hands busy but eyes filled with questions. Or in my father's office, Jake dropping by on business as my dad and I sit on either side of his large desk. Words caught in our throats, my father's gaze wandering between us. Maybe it will be at the bar, our eyes locking from across the room. Questions shouted over the music; over the smell of alcohol.
And maybe Bob would be there too, looking positively like a dream I haven't fully allowed myself to have. He'd be there like the sunshine, glowing and warm and something I just wouldn't be able to outrun. He'd be all smiles and kind hands, wrapping me into his embrace in the same way his friends had.
It's only a matter of time, but I'll run now.
#robert bob floyd x reader#bob floyd x you#bob floyd soulmate au#robert floyd x reader#bob floyd x reader#bob floyd fanfiction#robert floyd x you#jake seresin#rhett abbott#top gun maverick fanfiction#bob floyd imagine#robert bob floyd x you#friend jake seresin#friend rhett abbott#bob floyd angst#saltsickrequests
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Title: Vienna ☁︎
Master List HERE
Listen to Vienna HERE
A request based off of THIS prompt
Romantic Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x AFAB Reader
Small use of "Y/N"
Word Count: 3300+
Rating: T
Warnings: Medical Inaccuracy, Medical Terminology, Hospital, Passing out, light descriptions of pain, throwing up, heavy Billy Joel references, talks of children and having kids.
If it weren't for the lack of breathe crystalizing in the air, it could have been the dead of winter in those four walls, the world around them frozen.
"You don't get to make that choice for me," Bradley speaks firm, tone boarding on pitiless. The way he rings his hands does nothing to quell the way Red shakes. "We are a couple, we work through shit together, and now you just want to walk away without any sort of reason as to why?"
Tears swim behind Red's eyelids; her breathing slowing in an fruitless attempt to calm down.
"You want a reason?" The heels of her hands are pushed into her eyes, Bradley's eyes locked on her chipped nail polish, nails chewed down. Something is wrong. Red always has her nails done. Always shinning with a thick coat of colored lacquer; this is wrong. There are chips in the paint, her skin bitten, torn and red.
The twisting in Red's stomach does nothing but make her sick, as if she hadn't been nauseous to begin with. It's unclear as to if it's the pain is from the cyst on her ovary that threatens to rupture at any moment, or if the the breaking of Bradley's heart is enough to take out her whole body. A gentle hand comes up to cradle her stomach though it's tender to the touch, protruding in a way that's only comfortable in familiarity. Bradley watches her hand cradling her stomach, letting his gaze follow the line of her arm up to her shoulder.
"Vienna," Its the only word Red can stutter out, her eyes pressed together so tight it looks painful.
"Vienna?" Bradley questions, the answer he begged for leading him no closer to understanding why he walked into their shared apartment to find Red packing her bags.
She would have been gone already if she hadn't spent close to an hour on the cold bathroom floor, the rug scrunched up under her knees. Emptying her stomach in that very bathroom has become too familiar, yet never easier.
"Yes Bradley, it's because you are the one Billy Joel sings about," Red laments like it's the most obvious thing in the world and that Bradley is just missing it.
"You have all these goals, these aspirations, these dreams and you are working so fucking hard to get to them. And God damnit Bradley, you're so ahead of yourself that you're forgetting what you need, and I just know that I'm not it, okay? You'd be a fool if you're satisfied with me,"
A few salty tears escape between Red's tightly scrunched eyes, flowing down the wrinkled skin surrounding them. Bradley is exasperated at her reply, his words stuck on his tongue as he flounders. Maybe in some other universe this analogy would make sense, maybe he would be that lost kid Billy Joel is just trying to get to take a goddamn break, but here and now it's leaving Bradley with more questions than straight answers.
The air around them stands still, neither brave enough to take a breath let alone make the next move. They stand four feet apart, Red scooching back every time Bradley takes a step forward. She is consistently just out of reach, his fingertips just a bit too far away to brush against her burning skin.
Bradley tries to piece together the broken girl in front of him, wracking his mind for the pieces of her that have been slowly slipping away over the last six months. Red hadn't always been this way, tattered edges and fraying composure. When the pair met, Bradley swore she could stop traffic with her smile alone, from the way her lips curled up at the corners to the bright shade of red lipstick that he quickly understood to be her signature color.
The first time Bradley sees her, she is sat atop her classic Cadillac with the hood popped, her legs crossed at the knee as she bobs nearly her whole body along to the radio that sits next to her. Bradley pulls his Bronco off to the shoulder, kicking up dirt as he throws his own vintage vehicle into park. The Cadillac is a red beacon just guiding him in, like a lighthouse in a storm.
"Hey there, Sailor," She flirts from over the top of her sunglasses, the frames pointing out and bedazzled, as Bradley slides out of his vehicle, "Do you save all the pretty girls?"
Then he's laughing before he's even made it all the way to her, a raspberry hue of a blush creeping up over the collar of his uniform. That's Not Her Style by Billy Joel kicks through her little radio, the connection coming in with a handful of static.
"Aviator, actually," Bradley finally matters as he closes the rest of the space between them, allowing himself to stand right between her newly uncrossed legs. "And of course I do, I am a gentleman after all,"
The comment is half assed flirting on Bradley's part, which is new for him. With a smirk playing on her pretty red lips, she twists the nob on the radio so the music sings just a little bit louder. There's something powerful in the way she looks down at Bradley, but it's him who feels like he is ruling the world with all her attention focused squarely on him. Her eyes drift across his nametag, before making their way back up to his pretty, flushed expression.
"Okay, Aviator Bradshaw," Bradley fights back a laugh at the name, willing her to keep talking with a nod of his head. She leans forward, just over him and smiles, "Do you think all your airplane knowledge could help me figure out what's goin' on with my Daisy here?"
"Daisy?" He cocks an eyebrow at her, completely smiting already. Any woman who names her car in a man after his own heart!
The mystery woman pats the top of her car with a little smile, "Yes, sir,"
That makes Bradley flush deeper, a blackberry tint. He tries not to let his mind wander too far, but in front of this woman who seems to have an affinity for the color, he doesn't mind the intense blush that's rising up under his skin.
"This is my Daisy, a 1956 Cadillac Eldorado, she's a beauty, isn't she?" The woman looks down at her vehicle but Bradley's eyes are firmly stuck on her.
"Yes she is," He replies, eyes tracing over the bright red lipstick she has expertly painted onto her lips. "What's your name, sugar?"
"My name is Y/N, but my friends call me Red,"
"I can see why," Bradley sends a wink up to her, causing her to giggle. "Let me take a look, you just sit up there and keep looking pretty, alright?"
Red brings two fingers up to her forehead, flicking her wrist in a mock salute, "Yes, sir, Aviator Bradshaw,"
All Bradley can do is laugh; he knows he should correct her and tell her that it's actually Lieutenant Bradshaw, but he doesn't dare embarrass her out of fear that she might not meet his eyes again and Bradley can't have that. So, he doesn't say anything, opting to round to the front of the car. As he peers into the engine, Red resumes her cross-legged position, listening to a new song thrum through the cheap radio.
After a few minutes of staring at nothing in particular, Bradley catches her eye as he rounds back around the vehicle, a sheepish look on his face. "Looks like you need a new valve for your carburetor, nothing I can fix for you right now,"
"Can you drive me into town?" Red asks sweetly.
"Absolutely," Bradley is almost too quick to answer. He runs his sweaty hands off on his tan trousers, leaving behind dirt and oil, his once pristine uniform slacks now unwearable. Then, he reaches up to Red, taking her carefully by the waist, lifting her off the top of the classic car.
"Thank you, sir," Red peers up from under her lashes, letting her hands slowly slide from around Bradley's neck and down his chest before pulling her hands away all together. It takes Bradley just as long to let go, enjoying the way her body squishes under his powerful hands.
The ride into town is short, really, but the pair sit inside the Bronco in the parking lot of the auto mechanic's. The radio is playing that damn Billy Joel song again, and Red is humming along, the sound making Bradley's heart swell. Then, Red is sliding over on the bench seat, right into Bradley's space.
She leans in, taking his chin gently in between her thumb and fingers, before planting a kiss right to his cheekbone. "Thank you," She whispers into his ear, then she's back on her side of the cab, throwing open her door.
"What was that for?" He asks her, a cheesy grin adorning his face.
"Just givin' the pilot something extra for a perfect ride," She throws one last wink his way before slamming the door behind her. Bradley watches her hips sway all the way across the parking lot and doesn't take his eyes off her until she is disappearing into the mechanic shop.
Then, as he's throwing the Bronco into reverse with a glance in the rearview mirror, he catches the kiss print she left behind. It takes him six blocks before he realizes she quoted that damn song to him.
But now, Bradley barely recognizes the woman in front of him. There is no longer that stunning read lipstick adorning her lips, instead her face is flushed with it's own rosy hue that looks more sickly and burning than it does anything else. Red cradles her stomach, her fingertips pushing into her lower abdomen. Bradley grimaces at the way she digs into the soft flesh of her stomach.
There's a clear look of discomfort on her features from the way her face is pinched, expression sour. Bradley wants nothing more than to fold her into his arms yet he doesn't make a move. He watches her eyes dart between himself and her suitcase, then to the pile of clothes next to the bed. Red is calculating her next move and all Bradley can do is watch her.
"Red..." It's a start, her name trailing off his tongue in a tone he has never heard himself use.
"It's done, Bradley," Her vision is swimming, Bradley's body going fuzzy just beyond her eyelashes.
"Can I help you pack?" It's a shallow attempt to keep her close just a little while longer, like he's pushing his cupped hands together to the last little bits of their relationship from slipping through his fingers.
Red can't say a word, everything stuck in her throat all jagged and laced with pain. A couple tears slip from her lash line, streaking down her face as she nods to him. And so, gently Bradley sits down on the floor and begins folding her clothes. Each article is soft against the rough, seasoned skin of his fingers.
Carefully, Bradley pulls all of her undergarments from the pile, straightening them out and laying them flat so they can be easily packed. Each pair stained with angry looking patches from blood long washed away. Each and every pair, Bradley notices, stained to some degree. Some are worse than others, sure, but not a single pair are left unmarked.
The sight of it make's Bradley's stomach churn. So does the way Red is kneeling just a few feet away, her head to her knees with pain written into her features. Bradley's hands slow, the tee-shirt in his hands becoming nothing more than a crumbled garment as his attention is fixed slowly on his girl. He does his best to ignore his own tears that are threatening to take over. Red whimpers like she is holding back a scream.
"Red?" There is too much panic in Bradley's voice. Then, she is slumping forward, her body going limp. Bradley's world moves in slow motion as he watches Red pass out, his mind replaying the way the tension leaves her body just as gravity takes her. It's a good thing she was already on the floor, her head not smacking against the floor or any furniture on the way down.
There is a sort of humanity in the way Bradley cradles Red in his arms, bringing her head up to rest against his shoulder, her back laying against his chest. He positions her right between his legs, wrapping a strong arm around her frame. It's the way so many have cradled their loved ones before.
With a quick phone call an ambulance is headed their way.
As the paramedics haul Red down the hallway on the stretcher, Bradley can't seem to move from his spot on the floor. Here he is surrounded by her half packed suitcase and her collection of stained underwear. He knows there is still a half full glass of water with just a squeeze too much lemon sitting on her bedside table. Red's robe still hangs on the hook in the bathroom, just waiting for her next post bath routine.
Here is littered with her, and Bradley knows he has to fight for her harder, because Red is his endgame and Vienna is only worth it if she is by his side.
The drive to the hospital seems like a cloudy memory to Bradley, though he is sure he ran a red light. It's hours before a nurse guides Bradley back to Red's room and all Bradley can think about is the look of sympathy on that nurses face and the way Red looks so fucking small in the hospital bed.
The nurse disappears not a moment later, leaving Bradley to stand and stare at Red's features from across the room. Slowly, he creeps up to her bedside, taking a seat in the uncomfortable chair positioned next to her.
Bradley takes in the slope of her nose as he pushes hair back from her forehead. He brushes his knuckles over her cheek and in that moment he realizes this is the first time he hasn't seen her in pain for months. The realization hits him square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He doesn't know why it took him so long to notice, why he never realized that his girl was struggling, Bradley has no idea what's wrong with her.
He knows he shouldn't do it, but Bradley takes the chart off the end of the bed. He flips through the thick pages of the chart, scanning for anything he can make sense of.
PROCEDURE: TOTAL HYSTERECTOMY
CAUSE: FIBROIDS
PRIOR DIAGNOSISES: ENDOMETRIOSIS, OVARIAN CYCSTS
They are terms Bradley doesn't recognize, yet they make his stomach churn with anxiety. He spends the night at Red's bedside, one hand laced with hers while he scrolls through the internet with the other. He bounces from medical websites to reddit forums, they Mayo Clinic to a medical textbook he found the PDF for somewhere in the recesses of the internet.
The information he learns is vast, too much for him to digest in such little time. The sickness Bradley feels is a mix of guilt and exhaustion, the feeling that he has failed as a partner hanging over him.
Red finally wakes the next morning, groggy and confused as a doctor and nurse stand over her, checking her progress. A nurse carefully works at changing the bandages on her abdomen, an ache panging through Red as she comes to.
"Wha-?" She tries, but the nurse is quick to sooth her.
"It's alright, doll, Dr. Greene and I are taking good care of you," She coos as she works, her eyes fluttering between her work and Red's face.
"You're in the hospital," The doctor begins, his bedside manner leaves something to be desired, "You were brought in after you lost consciousness. You had an ovarian cyst burst, and we had to operate. However, when we got inside, we discovered that your endometriosis had progressed rapidly and you had large fibroids. We had to take everything, so we preformed a full hysterectomy. I'm sorry I don't have better news,"
Bradley listens to the doctor from the other side of the room, his head swimming with information. He knew this explanation was coming, but nothing could have prepared him for Red's reaction to the heartbreaking news.
"It's alright," Red manages, "I had an appointment to for my pre-op pap, anyway,"
The nurse looks so sympathetic, almost like there are tears in her eyes but Bradley can't quite make it out.
"So you know that you will no longer be able to carry children, nor will you be able to have a biological child," The question is met with a tired nod, sadness written deep into the lines of her face.
In that moment it all falls into place for Bradley.
All he has ever wanted is a family of his own, and Red knew she wouldn't be able to give that to him. She wouldn't be able to carry his child, or any child. So, she hid it, the ability to face the man she loves and absolutely break his heart's just too much. That's why she was leaving.
Not because she didn't love him, no.
But because she loves him enough to make sure he had every chance to live out that dream. So he could get everything he wants, even if it's not with her.
"Oh, Red," Bradley sighs, tears slipping from his eyes. The doctor and the nurse slip out the door quietly, leaving the pair alone.
"Bradley?" Red asks like she can't believe he is standing in front of her. "Why are you here?"
He tries to keep that question from breaking his heart, but he feels a bit more fragile as he takes his seat next to her once more.
"I couldn't leave you," It's the truth, but there's more he has to say sitting heavily on his tongue. "I know why you tried to walk away,"
The way she sighs makes them both ache. She doesn't say a word, so Bradley continues, slipping his hand into hers.
"Do you really think that I would throw away everything we have, the life we have built together just because of this?"
"But, Bradley," Red whimpers, trying to pull her hand back. He squeezes it harder, not letting it slip from his grasp.
"Red, I need you to hear this. I have wanted kids my whole life, you know that. I wanted them with you, because you are my everything, but kids have never been the end game. It's you and I, that's the endgame. A ring on your finger and a little house somewhere off the beach, maybe a little prop plane and a dog. God, Red, you are my endgame, and no ability to have children, or not have them is going to change that. I can't lose you, Red, you're it for me,"
They are both crying, ugly tears and snot slick across their faces. The way they clutch each others hands like they might drift apart if they let go.
"I love you, Red, and Vienna waits for us both, together,"
"Together," Red manages through the pain, through the tears. Bradley stands, brushing her hair back once more before pressing an overly wet kiss to the center of her forehead. When he sits back down, he pulls his phone from his pocket. With quick fingers music slowly begins to pour through the speakers, filling the quiet of the hospital room.
"Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me
Why are you still so afraid?"
Bradley sings the words to her, his voice low and full of love. Red listens to him as her eyes begin to droop, sleep threatening to take over. She fades in and out for a few minutes with the verses. Somewhere between wake and sleep, Red pictures Vienna in the way Bradley described, the vision taking over her dreams.
#Bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw x you#bradley bradshaw x y/n#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader#bradley rooster bradshaw x you#rooster x you#rooster x reader#Bradley Bradshaw comfort#Bradley Bradshaw angst#top gun maverick fanfiction#saltsickrequests
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To Love, To Die, and Everything In Between
This was a requested work, you can find the request HERE
Find my Master List HERE
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader
Word Count: 3k+
Rating: R
Should I put an old school Wattpad excuse as to why I've been gone so long? Also, I really hope my tag list is right!
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of war and fighting, mentions of death, regular cannon violence (probably less), No use of y/n, the term Sweetheart, Tons and Tons web weaving, credit at the end. This is so fucking angsty.
---
They say it's about the journey, the destination itself nothing more than an ending, all the importance found in the steps it takes to get there. But really, it's the destination itself that holds the meaning. After all, if that wasn't the case, the destination wouldn't come with a soul crushing grip, fingers digging into the folds of my lungs just to starve out the capacity for air.
The journey's memories would not be left with inky smears of fingerprints, the clarity nothing more than the orange tinted, overexposed film and the whirring of a projector still clicking though no more film is passing through. Nothing left but the flickering light of the present, the whirring akin to blood rushing over ear drums.
Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom.
And this in and of itself is death. Squinting through the glaring light that is now I can see the curve of his lips, the way they give frame to perfect teeth and a tongue that has done nothing but speak promises that his hands have kept. And his hands are gentle. They are clean. They have guided me, unseeing, through the journey of the last year.
It's been months through screens. Fingers hovering over buttons. The decision of to call or not to call. Messages collecting in inboxes and photos of moments I never had the hope of being a part of. It's better than our mother's had, or their mother's before them. Crackling phone lines and tear soaked stationary from wars past. Though the story has been the same, it has always been the same. And the story is this: man fights for his country, for his love, for his honor, for the women behind them and the men standing at his shoulders. They fight for dignity, out of duty, out of order and for a future they have no hope of seeing. That is not to say that they won't make it out alive, that they won't come home. No, it is to say that they are leaving a legacy, moving pieces of a chest board from which the game was erected at the turn of the first war and shall be played until the end of the last.
Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.
And what are we? The women who stand behind them. The women, the families, the love that stands behind them as they fight for dignity, out of duty and out of order as they search for their honor. Tear drops on stationary, kisses pressed to closed envelopes spritzed with perfume. We are crackling voices through barely connected telephone lines. We are the viewers of the photographs and the "likes" on social media, the wish you were here comments and the well wishes from worlds away. We are the same as every woman that has come before us. In love with a Soldier, an Airman, a Seaman, a Marine who's gaze is forward.
You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one, and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly.
From NAS Pensacola, to just east at NAS Jacksonville. Jacksonville turned to NAS Yorktown which gave way to Miramar in the way the coast gives way to the waves. The letters came in sparser than the phone calls ever did, but maybe that's what did me in. That last letter, an acknowledgement of life in the wake of something horrible having been prevented that now sinks below the horizon, down, down, down.
It's always my own breathing, my own heartbeat. After all, I am still alone, even if he is alive and well. He stands an ocean and a world away. It's always my breathing.
She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.
She follows the letter down, down...
Blackout. A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling, sounds of vertigo.
Sounds of breathing.
The Hard Deck on a sunny evening is all rich wood and the stark smell of the ocean, the windows pushed open to invite the fleeting warmth into the bar. I haven't made it further than the front stair case; Jake Seresin's smiles, an invite and a warning all at once though it isn't directed towards me. He doesn't even know I'm here, and I could keep it that way. I could run now, I could leave, deal with everything over the phone and through ink strokes of dying fountain pens in the same way we have been dealing with everything for months.
I can at least be neat. Walk out and be seen as clean.
The thing is this, Jake is home. Here at the Hard Deck, on the beach in Miramar, California surrounded by his squad, his newly minted and now permanent squad. The Daggers, the name fitting the feeling that the news pushes into the space between my ribs. An ache lives there now, unrelenting and dangerous. A reminder that the journey, our journey, has found the light at the end of the tunnel, and it's a train heading straight for us. We stood no chance, not with out feet planted firmly on the tracks.
The shame of being seen consumes me.
I know the look that will streak across his eyes before that smile lands full and glistening on his lips. I know that look of happiness, the one that is unburdened and surviving though it shouldn't. A smile that knows nothing of the pain looming around the corner, the dagger still stuck in my side and the way that I have been tracking blood behind me, droplets splattering crimson sick on the pavement as I limp out from hiding. He's not going to notice the way my skin is still slick with blood or the way the proverbial handle still hangs from it's new sheath between my ribs. It's red ink under his rose colored glasses.
I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone.
Though it wasn't a choice he made, at least, it hasn't been since he agreed to this job in the first place. The moment that ink dried on his contact, royal blue and officially binding, it hasn't been his choice. Not really. And maybe somewhere along the line I got tangled up in it all. In the kindness of his words that snuck out from his cocky grin and the way his eyes raked over the unbroken skin of my body and claimed it as land to tend. Maybe my heart has always been in my hands; why he has shielded me from the horrors of the world with his own body, even before he had a chance to see them with his own eyes. Maybe he knew my skin was supposed to stay unbroken.
Maybe it wasn't.
But either way, I still bleed now. And Jake still wears the rose colored glasses that come along with survival like this. A second chance at life, he declared proudly over the phone no less than a week ago, a chuckle laced in his voice in a shallow attempt to hide his utter bafflement. He wasn't supposed to make it back from this one, no matter the promises his Captain made. Jake's tone worn thin over the phone like he knew it was the end. He wasn't supposed to make it back. Our story was supposed to end there, my own body on the other side of the railroad crossing while Jake fell gallantly from the sky; a blaze of glory and red hot heat.
But now he's home. Home, home, home.
That's the whistle of the oncoming freight train, a warning call.
It’s not enough nearly to survive. One needs to flourish.
I push into the bar, squaring my shoulders with my chin held high. There is no white flag here, no surrender. If one of us must fall from the sky, all burning red heat and glory, I guess it's going to be me.
To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light.
I know the look that's coming, the look that will dash across his eyes and the smile that will bloom. Worse yet, I know the look that will succeed his smile. That look where he will square his jaw and narrow his eyes, batting down the hatches to make sure no sense of hurt will make it through.
The hurt will make it though his eyes anyway. The cracks in his facade akin to the humanity he wishes he could keep from display. Hangman: a persona to keep emotions at an arms length though they already has a noose securely around his neck. I can see it in the pinprick tears collecting in the corners of his eyes even as he lifts his chin up; a Tarantino tilt of the head.
He spots me, eyes going wide as his smile. "Oh my god, Sweetheart, what are you doing here?" The sight of him in all his blond hair, blue eyed glory gives me pause. God, he is beautiful. He is beautiful, with kind hands that have guided me through these last few months and now, this moment will be the last time I truly get to appreciate it.
Those kind hands are working their way around my frame as he pulls me into his chest. He bleeds warmth, and for a moment I wonder if he can feel how much blood I've already lost, if it's wet against his palm as he grazed over my ribs. I wonder if he can feel it, and if it would still be warm. Warm with the feeling of me, and the love that I have for him. God, I love him so.
There can be no friendship with someone I am not ready to betray.
It's in this moment that I know, with his hands wrapped around me and my cheek pressed against the heat of his chest as his heart beats thickly in my ear, Jake Seresin is my best friend. He is my best friend and he doesn't know I'm bleeding out.
The train is getting impossibly closer, now. It's horn blaring in my ears so loud it's giving me vertigo. I sway a bit in Jake's arms; he grips me impossibly tighter- I begin to hemorrhage.
"Oh, Sweetheart, I am so glad you're here. If I would've known you were coming, I would've picked you up! I can't believe you didn't tell me you were coming! Jeez, I can't believe you are here, Sweetheart, really. God, you feel good," Jake's words come uninterrupted, punctuated with another squeeze of his arms.
"Yeah... I'm," The words come out muffled against his chest, though it sounds like my own voice is a million miles away, "I'm here."
A moment more passes gently, stuck in the confines of his embrace before he pulls back. His eyes meet mine for a moment, stark blue in the way the the flag is, embedded with stars and glory and a weight I can not even imagine- before they are flicking back up to his squad.
And it's in this moment where I realize that Jake Seresin may love me, and I may love him, but there is no blood left in me. I have nothing left to bleed, only words to bare. There is only desperation on my tongue to beg the man before me to love me more than he loves his own glory, his own noble sacrifice, and his country.
Let me be very clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered.
I will be slaughtered too, whether it be from the knife still stuck in my side or the incoming train, I will be flayed open under the hot California sun for the world to see.
I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly.
And yet, it will be okay, because I will be seen. Jake Seresin will see me, unclean and unkempt, void of blood and tears, the only thing left over will be the ghost of us and all the love that I still have left to give. Atoms cannot cease to be- I think my love for him is one in the same.
I hope death is like being carried to your bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room.
"Can we step outside?" I peer up at him, my chin pressed to his sternum. Truth be told, I look past him, over the prominence of his brow bone and up to the planks of the ceiling. It's easier to take a hostage when you don't have to look them in the eye. For a moment I wonder if I should have feared getting blood on him to begin with, but knowing he himself could not feel it even as it coated his own palms helps me guide him from the audience of his friends. His wrist held loosely in my grasp until we've made it to the sand. For a moment I almost forget to let go.
Of course love is still there. Still, still, still.
There is a sort of sticky sweetness in the cavern of my chest now as I stand next to him. Maybe it's been there this whole time, encasing my heart and thickness of it's beating. Jake wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side with gentle hands. He hums with contentment, fingers brushing over my arm.
"I can't believe you're here," Jake still looks at the sky, the horizon line drawing his eye. "What are you doing here, sweetheart?"
My heart stutters in my chest. What am I doing here? My eyes catch the horizon too, as I pull the proverbial blade from it's place between my ribs. It too is sticky sweet with blood and smeared fingerprints.
I write my own deliverance.
The words are written on my tongue in bile. My hands shake. I shove them into my pockets, eyeline still stuck on the orange of the setting sun. It's warmth accompanies Jake's, sinking into my hollow corpse. Again I threaten to sway under the momentum of the moment. This is it. The ending.
"I came to say goodbye," They are not the correct words, the letters all jumbled up and ill-fitting in my mouth. "I came to wish you well." He turns his chin down to me, eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"Goodbye?" The word rakes itself out of his throat, all gravel and uncertainty. His hold tightens on my shoulders, just a little, pulling me tighter into his side. Heat continues to roll off his frame. My hands form fists in the confines of my pockets, an attempt at clutching this moment before it slips past.
"Yeah, I mean..." There's a pause. Breathing room. A forcing of air in and out of my lungs. Jake doesn't seem to breathe at all. "This is it, isn't it?"
"What could you possibly mean by that?" His gaze meets mine for the first time, steady and unyielding. Suddenly I am aware of just how much blue surrounds me now. From my cheap cardigan, littered with holes that still manages to fight off the chill of the breeze to the royal of the ocean waves. The sky is azure too, melting into orange and pink hues that will give way to the vast deep navy of the night. But there is nothing more royal that of Jake's irises. Still weighty with stars and glory, but reflecting my own strangled feelings back at me. The destination grips my lungs just a little bit harder, the train wheels squealing against the tracks, but it's too late now.
Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue.
I squeeze my eyes shut, too tight, and everything my eyes see is blue then, too. "I came to say goodbye, so you could continue your life, you know,?" I shrug vaguely, hoping he will get the idea, "Like really continue your life here, settle down. This is your home base now, and your family is in there. I'm not really sure what else you'd be expecting to happen right now."
The words pour out of me, not crossing my brain before they leave my tongue. A strangled sound of confusion leave Jake's lips as his arm slips from it's place around my shoulders. The chill gets in after that, right down to my bones.
"I-" The words catch. I hold my breath waiting for a moment, then another, then another. Jake breathes deeply now, forcefully. Taking each beath deep into his lungs like it's painful. I continue to hold my breath.
The spot between my ribs, now void of proverbial blade still aches, but now with more loneliness and finality than strikes of pain. A fact dawns on me in that moment, as my lungs burn for air, watching Jake's jaw stutter with upspoken words. Maybe this wasn't supposed to be an ending. Not like this, maybe not at all.
You are a burning house that I want to live in.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" With Jake's unsure words, I manage an uneasy breathe. My lungs feel aflame with new oxygen. My eyes meet the sand, my dirty sneakers looking out of place next to Jake's nice leather boots. I can't help the almost chuckle that escapes my lips, it comes out as more of a grimace.
It occurs to me that maybe Jake has no idea about just how much I'm falling apart. Just like my mother, and her mother before her. Loving men from afar as they fight- Soldiers, Airman, Seaman, and Marines. The shock of it all ricochets through me; a generational pain that is now mine to hold.
The splendid thing about falling apart silently... is that you can start over as many times as you like.
"If you're saying what I think you're implying here, I need you to say it out loud," Jake breaks through the fog of it all, his voice stern and commanding. It sends a shiver down my spine. I have never seen him like this, burning so fiercely with love and it makes the sticky sweetness of my insides warm. "If you're saying what I think you're saying, I need you to say it. I need you to say the words out loud for both of us to hear, because I need to hear that goodbye if you're going to walk away from me. Oh God, Sweetheart, please don't walk away now,"
"When you were on that ship," I kick some sand with the toe of my shoe, a neat little pile of it forming in front of me, "When you called, I didn't think you were coming back, and now that you're here, you're alive... God, you're alive... I just thought that I'd be holding you back. I mean, if we kept this going, there would always be something dragging you backwards, and I don't want to drag you back, Jake. But, I also can't do it like this anymore. Our relationship has been spent through phone calls and letters and I don't think we've spent more than three days consecutive together, ever,"
"I am so fucking glad that you are alive," I can't help but laugh, the pressure a little less crushing, "But we are both worth more than this,"
When I finally gather the courage to look up, Jake's eyes are already on me, running over my features so slow like he's working on memorizing them. I have so much more to say, so many words that wouldn't fit on the collage ruled paper or in the textbox of a message. All of these words just begging to escape from behind my tongue.
"I love you," I blurt out, eyes linked with his blues, unhindered and unbashful. "God, I fucking love you, and I can't believe I'm saying it for the first time now, not over the goddamn phone, and we are on the periphery of a fucking ending,"
"It's only an ending if you call it as such," Jake reaches for my hand. I extract them from the their denim confines and let them slip into his. "Because I am not fucking walking away. Do you think that I would?"
What a question. What a loaded fucking question.
"No," I answer honestly, "Not on purpose, but I know the fight is always in front of you, and that leaves me in the rearview, and I am not going to ask you to give up that, to give up all of this, for me. You have a family here, now, even if you don't want to use that word. Those folks in there, the people you almost fucking died with, those are your people forever, now. They are who you have to fight with, and fight for."
"Yes, they are my family, but that doesn't mean that you aren't anymore," Jake squeezes my hands, pulling me just a little closer.
"Anymore?" I barely hear my own voice, but I do feel the tears welling up in my eyes. "Have I been your family before now? Before this moment, before you almost died?"
"Of course you have," Jake chokes down a chuckle. "You are my person, my home, and I want you here, here with me,"
"But what about everything that comes next. The next time you have to go somewhere in the middle of the ocean to fight an unknown battle, with enemies who are just trying to do the same thing. Everyone is just fighting to stay alive, to get home, what then?"
"Who do you think I was fighting so hard to get back to?" Tears fall from my eyes at his words, his hands coming up to cup my cheeks. "Who do you think I will continue to fight to get back to? Sweetheart, I will dogfight my way out of anything if that means making it back to you," Thumbs swipe at my tears as he leans in, pressing his lips over mine. A welcome home and a goodbye all in one, but not a goodbye from one another, but from the people we used to be.
Death frees us from the torment of parting.
And so the train passes, I remain un-flayed to the world and Jake didn't go out in a blaze of glory and red hot heat. I may have bled out, but that dagger was never mine to carry- even if we were both fighting to get back to each other. And maybe a part of us died there, on that beach, our lips pressed together as Jake breathed life back into me. It's a death, but not one of finality, because If you're lucky, you die many times before you ever really do.
----
QUOTE CREDIT
Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom. - David Wojnarowicz
I can at least be neat. Walk out and be seen as clean. - A burning Hill - Mitski
"She runs, trips and pitches down the stairs, holding her letter.
She follows the letter down, down...
Blackout. A clatter. Strange sounds—xylophones, brass bands, sounds of falling, sounds of vertigo.
Sounds of breathing."
― Sarah Ruhl,
Legacy. What is a legacy? It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see. - Hamilton
"You have a row of dominoes set up; you knock over the first one, and what will happen to the last one is that it will go over very quickly." - President Eisenhower in April 1954
The shame of being seen consumes me. - Cynthia Cruz from diagnosis, The Glimmering Room
I think I've already lost you. I think you're already gone. - Matchbox 20
There can be no friendship with someone I am not ready to betray. -slavoj zizek
Let me be very clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered. - anecdote of the pig, tory adkisson
I hope death is like being carried to you bedroom when you were a child and fell asleep on the couch during a family party. I hope you can hear the laughter from the next room. - lilies abounded
It’s not enough nearly to survive. One needs to flourish. - Jack Tanner, The Source of Dreams, When Human Imagination Died
To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light - rainer maria rilke
I fear I will be ripped open and found unsightly. - Anne Sexton, A self portrait in letters.
Of course love is still there. Still, still, still. - unknown, tumblr
Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. Everything is blue. - Halsey
You are a burning house that I want to live in. - unknown, tumblr
“The splendid thing about falling apart silently... is that you can start over as many times as you like.” ― Sanober Khan,
If you're lucky, you die many times before you ever really do. - Jake Weasley Rogers.
Death frees us from the torment of parting. lighthousekeeping, jeanette winterson
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#saltsicklover#top gun maverick fanfiction#jake seresin x reader#jake seresin x you#jake seresin x y/n#jake hangman seresin x you#jake hangman seresin x reader#jake hangman seresin x y/n#hangman x you#hangman x reader#hangman x y/n#hangman angst#jake hangman seresin angst#jake seresin angst#jake seresin fanfic#jake hangman seresin fanfic#hangman fanfic#saltsickwriting#saltsickrequests
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Hi! I’m the one who asked about the Bob soulmate AU and I had no idea that you had responded until late yesterday 😂 I saw your post about part 2 come up on my page and I got excited because I love soulmate AUs and then I realized that it was the one I asked about😂😂 I stopped dead in my tracks to read the first part and I loved it! I’m excited to read part 2
Oh my goodness, hello!!
Dearest Anon, I am so glad you are excited about Fated to Run!! I am having such a blast writing it, honestly! I am sneaking so much more in to this story than I had originally planned... oops!
Part Two is up, and can be found HERE
I really hope you like it! I want to know your thoughts, so please feel free to either shoot me another ask here, or you can message me anytime!
Thank you for the request, and for reading!
#saltsicklover#saltsickspeaks#saltsicksatisfies#bob floyd x reader#bob floyd fanfiction#top gun maverick fanfiction#bob floyd soulmate au#soulmate bob floyd#robert floyd x reader#bob floyd angst#bob floyd x you#saltsickrequests#saltsickaskbox
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I just saw your post about wanting requests and I just had the cutest idea for Bob😭😂
It came to me when I was scrolling through your master list and saw the little symbol for Soulmate AU and thought about that for Bob and what if it’s one of those where your soulmates first words are written on your arm and the reader has something like “oh it’s just Bob” and it’s referring to his call sign😭 I think it would be so cute
Hello my dear anon!!
First of all, thank you for this wonderful ask! I have been chugging away on it and it's gotten a little out of hand, so it will be two parts! The first part is going up right after this ask goes up.
It's titled Fated to Run - Fated to Fly
I hope you like it! Please feel free to send me your thoughts!
Are soulmate au's dead? I sure hope not, I freaking love them!
xoxo saltsicklover
#saltsickspeaks#saltsicksatisfies#saltsicklover#bob floyd x reader#top gun maverick fanfiction#robert floyd x reader#bob floyd fanfiction#bob floyd angst#bob floyd x you#bob floyd soulmate au#saltsickrequests
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Hi! You have asked for requests and if this one is too much it can def be skipped! I’m looking for a little angsty then fluff due to some of my own circumstances and just want to be comforted by Hangman or Rooster.
Anyways can you write one where the reader has had issues with her body and ends up having to have a hysterectomy and maybe reader feels like they are going to leave her because she won’t be able to give them kids because they are young and other people can? or she tries to leave them? Idk, again can def be skipped!
Your writing is so lovey! I hope you have a good day!
Hello my friend,
I wanted to write this prompt because it's very near and dear to my heart. As someone who has lots of trouble when it comes to their body and their uterus, I can sympathize greatly with your experience.
I am so sorry you are having to deal with these issues and I wish you nothing but healing and good days.
Your request is linked HERE and I hope I did it justice. It was a hard one to write.
#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw x you#bradley bradshaw angst#bradley bradshaw comfort#rooster x you#rooster x reader#rooster angst#rooster comfort#top gun maverick fanfiction#saltsickspeaks#saltsicksatisfies#saltsicklover#saltsickrequests
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The last request I made of you was so good and I loved it! Here’s another one:
you break up with Jake to try and make sure he doesn’t turn down the dagger squad’s permanent stationing in order to stay with you, and Jake is not having any of that and lets you know just how much he loves you and isn’t letting you go anytime soon
Is this ASK from November 2023? Yes it is. Did the universe finally align to the point where I could actually sit down and write for this? Yes it did!
Hello my dear, first of all, thank you so much for the request. Second, thank you for waiting for it. I didn't plan on falling off the face of the planet, but I'm back!
Your request has been written, you can find it HERE!
Thank you again my dear, I love writing for you!!
#saltsicklover#saltsickspeaks#top gun maverick fanfiction#saltsicksatisfies#jake hangman seresin#hangman fanfiction#jake seresin fanfiction#fanfic request#saltsickrequests
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You guys, I've gotten so many good requests! Thank you for sending them in! I am working on them now and hopefully they won't take too long!! Xo saltsicklover
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