Time Flies

by StarlightSorcerer

Three stories in one! In the first, Penny reconnects with her ex (and Amelia's dad!) The second chapter is Iceman's story, exploring the intersection of his career as a Navy pilot and his queer identity. The third is all about Rooster: his childhood, his journey to earn his wings, his relationship with Phoenix, and his reconciliation with Maverick.

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: 88 Keys

Nick never wanted to learn the piano.

He much preferred rough-housing outdoors, playing soccer, wolfing down an armful of snacks from the 7-Eleven, or sneaking into the local theater to check out those violent action flicks he wasn't allowed to watch.

"Nick, you need a little culture," his mom would say over and over and over. She lamented the lack of energy, diversity, culture, and pretty much everything else in their small town. She dreamed of the cosmopolitan, sighing wistfully while flipping through an old photo album: documentation of her many trips to New York City.

Week after week, she dragged her grumbling son to his piano lessons. His teacher appeared to be older than the antiques that filled her home—a quite charming farmhouse, actually, if you could make it out through all the clutter.

Nick hated the whole arrangement—stuffy old house, stuffy old lady, stuffy old piano. He tried escaping once, but his teacher caught him, and she was even more unpleasant when angry. So he didn't try that again. Well, he figured, if he was going to be stuck here two hours a week or more, he might as well do what Mom wanted.

He did come to enjoy playing piano, but only after the lessons were over. Starting in his teenage years, whenever he'd find a piano in a pub, a store, someone's home, he'd play a jaunty tune and start singing. More often than not, people would join in and sing along. This was a million times more fun than studying Liszt.

Nick's son would go on to learn the piano as well. Bradley remembered hanging out in a restaurant as a boy, while his dad sang and played piano. It was one of his most vivid memories of his late father.

He had this powerful, though somewhat subconscious notion, that by learning this instrument, he'd be closer to his dad in some spiritual, mysterious way.

He actually ended up enjoying it far more than he thought he would. His teacher was wildly impressed with his aptitude. He is truly gifted, she would say. He took a special interest in Beethoven and Liszt: the more complex and difficult to master, the better.

What he loved most of all was playing the songs his dad used to play, the kind folks could sing along with, the kind that brought everyone together in jubilation.

Bradley questioned whether his plan worked: did he feel closer to his dad? He figured if he had to ask, the answer was no. Perhaps his efforts were futile. But he tried to stay hopeful.

He was close, he told himself. Close to a feeling, close to a revelation, some presently far away thing that had no name. Sometimes, when he played, when he sang, everyone gathered around him and singing along, the energy in that space seemed…different. Everything felt right. Everything in the universe was exactly as it should be, not a piece out of place.

In those rare times, with that energy so near to him, he swore he could almost reach out and touch it. If he could only hold it close, just for a moment.

---

Pete opened his eyes.

The room was calm and quiet on this hazy early morning. He noticed the door to the balcony had been left open. A gentle breeze ruffled the doily-patterned curtains. He sighed happily, letting the memories of yesterday wash over him. But he knew he couldn't hide away in bliss forever. Eventually, the nagging worries would slither back in, suffocating the peacefulness.

Time to go.

He dragged himself out of his blanket cocoon and trudged to the bathroom.

When was the last time he saw Bradley? It must have been at least a year. Not a lot of time in the grand scheme of things—the blink of an eye, in fact, but when you were a kid, a year was an eternity. Pete had been especially busy. He didn't have time to visit. His Navy career took him all over the world. The job was exhilarating, but also grueling, and it took everything out of him. But Pete had to ask himself, was that just an excuse? Did he truly not have even a moment to spare? Or was he just afraid?

What if Bradley didn't want to see him?

What if he hated him?

Pete took a quick shower and threw on some clothes, mindlessly going through the motions.

Things used to be so simple. When Bradley was young, he and Pete had so much fun together. They sneaked out to the local candy shop when Mom wasn't looking to stock up on sweets. They'd paint the town, exploring all the nooks and crannies, the main street and the forest bordering the neighborhoods. Bradley seemed to really look up to Pete, always asking him questions, so many questions. What happened to that kid? As he entered his pre-teen years, he became more distant. He even became a bit surly. When Pete came to visit, he didn't seem too interested in talking to him, not even a little. He'd vacate the premises to go hang with his friends. Pete knew some of this was just normal growing up stuff. Kids got to that age, and they didn't want anything to do with adults. He tried not to take it personally.

But part of him worried…maybe there was more to it.

Pete left his room and rode the elevator to the dining area, where his mood brightened slightly. The continental breakfast was in full swing. He grabbed himself a bowl of Cheerios, an apple, and two blueberry muffins. As he shoveled cereal into his mouth, he glanced around the room. Maroon carpet and curtains with shiny gold patterns cutting across it, large windows letting the sun pour in. The place was deserted. One older gentleman sat a few tables over, eating a muffin. An employee verified the fruit bowls and cereal dispensers were full, and of course they were: there was nobody there to eat it all. Pete finished up his breakfast and left, taking the second blueberry muffin with him.

He went out the automatic doors out front and was immediately hit with a chilly breeze. The world outside was drenched from last night's downpour. The sky continued to spit every now and then. A path led from the front entrance down a little hill into the park. It was thickly wooded, red maple leaves hanging low from the rain. It was quiet and peaceful and blah blah blah, but too cold for his liking. He zipped his gray windbreaker to the top, shivering as he headed down the hill.

Pete found him where he said he'd be: by the old lamppost. While the others were brand new—bright bulbs and a post with a fresh coat of gray paint—this one was dim and its forest green paint was coming off in large flakes that wreathed its base.

Pete watched him pacing around the light, looking at the trees and cracked stone path. His hair looked magnificent, obviously. He wore jeans and a blue jacket on top of a San Diego tee. He must've been warm—well, warmer than Pete, at least, because the jacket was totally unzipped.

"Mornin', Tom!" he called out to him.

He jerked his head around. He smiled warmly, though tentatively, when he saw him. "Hello, Maverick." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Did you eat?"

"No, not yet."

Pete held out the muffin to him. "You want this? It's blueberry! Your favorite!"

Tom looked between him and the food. "Oh. That's really sweet of you. But no thanks."

Pete deflated. "What's wrong? You're not hungry?"

"No, it's just that I had my cheat day yesterday."

"It's just a muffin."

"It's just carbs, sugar…"

Pete shook his head, but he still smiled. "You're impossible."

Tom smirked. "Yet, here you are, talking to me."

Pete rolled his eyes. He began to nibble the muffin—he couldn't let it go to waste! He stared at Tom, who stared back at him. Tom started to say something, but then he just sighed, looked down at the ground, up at the trees, at the path ahead, looking at anything but him. Geez. Their relationship had changed (quite dramatically) a few times over the years, and now it appeared things had changed yet again…and not for the better. Why the hell was it so…awkward?

Tom had been off since yesterday afternoon, when they met up at the local pub. He had gone to the trouble of shuffling his schedule just to meet up with Pete in this far off town. Pete saw him come in the door and his heart beat like a kettle drum. They hadn't seen each other in about six months. They shared a hug then sat at a booth. They had a lovely time, but Pete felt something was off. It wasn't anything Tom said; it was all in his eyes, his movements, the silences between his words. Pete checked in with him, of course, and of course he lied and said everything was fine. Pete knew exactly what he was doing, because he'd played that game himself in the past: hide your emotions away, don't be vulnerable.

He tried to put it out of his mind.

"Are you heading out?" Tom asked.

"No, not right now. It's a pretty short drive. Probably go this afternoon."

Tom nodded to the path. "Wanna take a walk?"

"Yeah, absolutely!"

The two strolled down the rain-soaked stones, listening to the dripping leaves. Neither of them said a word. Unlike usual, though, Pete didn't find it to be a comfortable silence. He kept nibbling the blueberry muffin, hoping the awkwardness would fade. He began to feel a tad nauseous, so he tossed the remains of the muffin into the nearest trash can, telling himself that was the cause of his discomfort.

He started, "So, you—"

And at the same time, Tom said, "How are—?"

"Uhh, go ahead," Pete said, forcing a light and relaxed tone.

Tom cleared his throat. "I was just going to ask, how are you? Yesterday, you told me your job was going well. You didn't say anything about yourself."

"I mean, that's—I'm pretty sure—didn't I—?"

"In fact, we mostly talked about work."

Pete couldn't deny that. At least some of this awkwardness was his fault. Tom asked how he was doing, and he went on and on about debriefs and nighttime carrier landings. He'd tried working as an instructor a little while ago, but that hadn't panned out. He'd gone back to his old position: flying fighters in a fleet squadron. Meanwhile, Tom was climbing the ranks. He was an instructor at Top Gun and loving every minute. At the moment, he was crafting his very own tactics lecture, and his murder board was scheduled for next week. Pete was happy for him. He was one of the best pilots in the Navy, and he deserved the highest rank he could possibly hold.

He deserved the world.

"Umm, yeah." Pete finally realized he'd been quiet for way too long. Tom stared at him with eyebrows raised, awaiting an answer. "Good. I've been really good, man."

Tom nodded. "Good. That's good. How are you feeling about seeing Bradley again?"

Pete's heart raced with anxiety. "Uhh, ya know, it's—Yeah. Should be fun. How are you doing, by the way?"

Tom frowned pointedly, but he didn't push the subject. "I'm well, thank you. How's your family?"

"Well, my mom and Adam are loving married life, that's for sure. Mom just told me she's been looking at photos from the wedding. She's gonna send me a few copies."

Tom tried to maintain his stoicism, but Pete noticed the corners of his mouth twitch up, just a little. "That's nice."

Pete gently elbowed him. "You remember that suit?"

"Yes."

"Remember the color?"

At last, Tom's icy exterior cracked. He grinned. "Yes, I remember—"

"Midnight blue," they said together.

Tom chuckled. "I think you remember my suit better than I do."

"It was awesome," Pete said, smile growing. "And, obviously, you l—"

"That was fun. That was a fun day," he murmured wistfully. He stared up at the trees, smile frozen, eyes glistening with memories.

Pete almost stopped smiling. He wasn't a fan of his tone. Correct lyrics, wrong melody. He sounded and looked as if he was remembering someone who had died. "Yeah, that was fun!" Pete agreed cheerfully.

Tom looked at him again, eyes searching his face. "So what have you been up to? Outside of work, obviously."

Pete shrugged. "Oh, you know, the usual. Just hanging with the guys and bar-hopping and really bad karaoke. We tried bowling a few times."

"How did that go?"

"Uhh, terrible," Pete chuckled through his words. "I don't wanna say we used bumpers, but…we used bumpers."

Tom ran a hand through his hair. "So…who do you hang out with?"

"Usually it's just me and Slider and Wolfman and Razor. Oh! And I got to meet up with Merlin a few months ago. Great to see old friends again."

Tom scratched the back of his head. "What about…Penny? Have you seen her recently?"

Pete's smile evaporated. Where was this conversation going? "Penny?" he echoed.

"Yeah, Penny. You were talking about old friends, so—"

"She's an old girlfriend."

"I know you had this…'on again, off again' thing with her. I figured…maybe you two would find your way back to each other. Maybe you'd work things out."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Pete grumbled, gnawing on the inside of his lip. When he told Tom about Penny, he didn't expect him to use that information in this way. Maybe he was being overdramatic, but he felt…betrayed. "You know, like I said, I was barely into my twenties, she'd basically just gotten out of high school. We were young and stupid and we didn't know what we wanted. It was never gonna be a long-term thing. And now…I don't know, we're both two totally different people, probably, and we want different things, probably, so…forget it."

"Well, it doesn't have to be Penny. Haven't you been dating?"

"No, actually," Pete snapped. "I have not been dating. Is that shocking to you? Seriously?"

"I just—" Tom broke off as a jogger passed. He waited for her to be out of earshot. He looked at Pete, let out a sigh. "I just want you to be happy."

Pete threw his arms in the air. "Really? Are you sure? Because I'm sure as hell not happy right now, thanks!"

Tom put a hand on his shoulder. He said gently, "Don't you want to get married, have a few kids? Don't you want a normal life?"

Pete glowered. "I told you a hundred times, I don't want kids. And normal?" He scoffed. "Are you even listening to yourself? I thought your therapist told you to stop saying shit like that."

Tom shook his head. "Please don't go there…"

"I don't give a shit what's 'normal.' It doesn't matter."

Tom hesitated. His brows crumpled and his eyes shone. "No, it does," he murmured, voice uneven. "It shouldn't, but it does. It matters to most people. Trying to go against it…It's like…trying to stay warm when you're standing in the middle of a blizzard. It's impossible. God, Pete, it's…exhausting. I can't fight it, you can't, no one can." He squeezed Pete's arm. "I'm sorry. But—"

Pete pulled away from him. He grumbled and cursed under his breath, face burning with anger, his throat sore from holding back sadness. As if he didn't have enough on his plate. He stared down at the glittering grass sprouting in the path's cracks, his vision turning blurry.

"I'm sorry," Tom whispered.

Pete sniffed. "No, no. Don't be sorry. It's not your fault."

They were quiet for a bit.

Then Tom started a new conversation, saving them from the depressing silence. "You haven't seen Bradley in a while, right? Maybe a year?"

"Yeah."

"You're nervous, aren't you?"

"That'd be an understatement."

Tom smirked. "Is that why I'm here? Stress relief?" he joked.

Pete cracked a smile. "Yeah, and you're doing a pretty bad job."

Tom cocked his head to one side. "What is it you're afraid of?"

"I donno, just…" Pete sighed. "I'm worried 'cause…he's not doing too good. Carole says he has a lot of anger issues, he's aloof, he's…sad. I want to be there for him, help him through this, because…I feel responsible."

"Maverick…"

"I know, I know. Maybe it's wrong to feel like that, but…it's how I feel. But he probably…I don't think he wants anything to do with me." He groaned. "I don't know what to do." He looked up, made eye contact with Tom. He stared back, his blue eyes calm and thoughtful.

They stopped walking.

Tom gripped Pete's shoulders. "Let him lead. Talk to him, try to connect. Offer help, if he seems open to it. If he doesn't want your help, if he doesn't want anything to do with you…then that's his choice. I know how painful that would be, but you have to be willing to accept that outcome."

Pete nodded as he mulled over his words. Everything always made more sense after he'd talked to him. He let out a small chuckle. "Geez. This isn't fair…"

"Hmm?"

"Man, you've done so much for me. What the hell have I ever done for you?"

Tom smiled. "Don't say that," he murmured. "You know this isn't a one way thing. I was trapped inside myself before I knew you." He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

Pete eagerly hugged him back, resting his head on his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut. But that couldn't stop his mind's eye from seeing everything: the future he feared would come to exist. He knew he couldn't hide forever. He needed to go face it. He needed to accept that he may never have a close bond with Bradley, no matter how much he craved it.

But Pete knew he had to keep going, no matter what.

"You'll be okay," Tom whispered into his ear.

"Yeah," Pete agreed, although in that moment, he wasn't convinced.

They let go of each other.

---

Bradley Bradshaw always knew what he wanted.

No matter what or who stood in his way, no matter what he had to sacrifice, he would earn his wings. When he was very young, his dad told him about his life as an aviator: the grueling challenges, the trials and tribulations, and the great rewards that followed. Bradley knew right then that he wanted nothing else.

His childhood was a good one. Of course, losing his father at such a young age was a shocking, life-altering cruelty, but there were some good times. His aunt and uncle were extra sweet with him, taking him on more outtings than ever before and always baking some fancy desserts for him. But there was a side of it that he didn't like. They kept asking him how he was doing, what he was feeling, but not in a normal, casual, happy way. The questions were emotionally charged, their voices breaking, their eyes glistening and mouths quivering, as if simply asking the question was a great difficulty. He always just said "good" or "fine," forcing an over-the-top cheerful tone.

Even at that young age, Bradley heard the question behind the question: "How have you been…since your dad died?"

Seeing how emotional his family was, it made him feel guilty. Maybe he wasn't sad enough. Maybe he wasn't grieving the right way. A few days after the funeral, when he and his mom were still in California, he cried—quietly, privately, not wanting his mom or anyone to know. There was a devastating hurricane of emotions he couldn't make sense of. Predominantly he was confused. There was no war going on, so how did something so bad happen? What about Pete? He loved that guy: he was the fun uncle he never had. He'd been in that plane, with his dad, and he was the pilot, the one in control. How could he let this happen? Did he make a mistake? Was he being careless? Did this make him a bad person? Bradley was angry at him, angrier than he'd ever been in his life. And he was also angry at himself for being angry at Pete.

After that night, he didn't cry for quite a while. He just couldn't. He started to think he'd never cry again. What was wrong with him? His mom, on the other hand, never stopped. In the middle of the night, he'd pass by her bedroom door and hear her violently sobbing. It was the worst sound in the world.

Bradley tried to cry, let it all out, but it didn't happen. He didn't even realize until much later that he'd never fully processed his feelings. His mom would occasionally try to talk to him about everything, but he side-stepped every attempt. Eventually, she stopped trying. After all, it was difficult for her, too. She'd lost the love of her life, and the void could never be filled. Years later, friends would try to set her up with some nice, funny guy. They always said no one could ever replace her husband, it wasn't about that, but maybe she could find love again.

"No," she would tell them. "I don't want anyone else. Nick was it."

They stopped trying.

What helped Bradley the most in those early days was his friend group. They were tight, thick as thieves. He didn't talk to them too much about his dad's passing, but he didn't need to. They were always there for him, and they had so much fun together. Then his mom said they had to move. He was furious. He threw tantrums, screamed at her, cursed her out, said awful things that he could never take back. But she stayed firm. It was too painful, being in this home. There were too many memories. But memories were one of the biggest reasons Bradley wanted to stay: both the memories of his dad and the new memories he'd make with his mom and friends.

So they moved. Then a few years later they moved again. And again. Bradley stayed mad. He didn't shout at her—well, not all the time, anyway. He let his anger quietly fester.

At each new town they inhabited, Bradley made new friends. But during his teen years, he started losing them. His buddies loved to "borrow" some beers and drink them down by the old quarry. Bradley immediately loved the taste of alcohol—maybe too much. He drank way more than he could handle, got mean, then got sick. The guys didn't really want to hang out with him anymore, and he couldn't blame them. He decided he'd go down there and spend some time with himself instead, which was a mistake, because he didn't do too well on his own. He was a born extrovert. Plus he had a lot of unresolved issues he was trying to run from. He'd take a beer from the fridge, telling himself Mom would never notice. Well, she very quickly did, and he was in more trouble than he'd ever been in.

They didn't have a good relationship during that time.

Bradley went off to college. He had trouble making friends. He hung out with a few people, but he wasn't close with them. Nothing could match his childhood friendships. Plus he was pretty emo most of the time, so that probably put people off. He had a few girlfriends, but nothing serious. He had sex a few times, but it wasn't this mind-blowing experience everyone promised it would be. Maybe he was doing it wrong. Some of his male friends—in particular the ones he didn't really care for—congratulated him, on what he had no idea. Like him, they were pretty crappy guys, and all those women probably deserved better.

He spent most of his college years alone, in his room, studying hard. He loved to work, loved to learn.

It was around that time his mom started to get sick. Watching the person he loved most waste away like that, all the suffering, the false hopes, the time running out…there weren't enough words to describe that horror. He tried to stay with her as long as he could, especially towards the end. But eventually, he had to return to his studies. His mother insisted.

Late one night, hunched over his desk and cramming for a physics exam, he got the call. Before he picked it up, he already knew. For once, the din in his mind quieted. His course load, his hopes and worries about the future, his dreams of flying—all of it silent. The doctor told him his mom had passed away. They exchanged a few perfunctory words, then he hung up.

For the first time in many, many years, Bradley cried. It truly shocked him. He felt almost relieved. Maybe he wasn't as soulless as he thought.

Even with all that grief, life went on, just as he knew it would. The world, cruel and cold, didn't give a shit about the pain you were in. It kept on turning and time kept on ticking. He buried himself in college work, and eventually graduated. Now it was off to Pensacola, off to the skies.

Unfortunately, he hit a roadblock on his travels. Pete Mitchell, of all people, had pulled his papers. Bradley held a grudge for a long time. He did what he did best: he stayed mad. A pretty sorry skill to be sure, but he couldn't deny how proficient he'd become.

Despite the delay, he eventually got back on track and made it to Pensacola, where all great aviators for the American military were born. The training was harrowing, a set of challenges that brutalized them and shook them to their core. But it would save their lives. In the event of a crash in the middle of the dark, wild ocean, you needed to be able to rescue yourself.

Bradley and the other students were strapped to an apparatus, blindfolded, and dunked upside down in a mammoth tank of water. You then had to escape and reach the surface. There were, of course, trained officers there to help out in case of an emergency, but that fact did very little to calm their tense muscles and racing hearts.

Bradley wouldn't say he enjoyed it, exactly, but it was thrilling, like nothing he'd ever experienced. He exploded out of the water's surface on his first try. As soon as he took a breath, a warm wave of accomplishment washed over him. There were a number of other extreme training challenges, and he embraced every one of them.

He was itching to get flying, but that was still a ways off. There was a lot to do beforehand. A lot of sitting in classrooms, taking tests, basically college 2.0. But finally he and the others would move on to something new and exciting: the simulators. It reminded him of an arcade machine. It was this thing you'd sit inside of and you'd watch a screen, pretend to fly. Not quite the real thing, but an important step on his journey, and he took it very seriously.

Then came the time to decide their role. For most of his life, Bradley wanted to be a backseater, just like his dad. Of course, Radar Intercept Officers didn't exist anymore, not since the Navy retired the F-14. But nowadays there were Weapon Systems Officers. He figured he'd go for that. But after Pete Mitchell pulled his papers, he changed his mind. Why the hell would Pete do such a thing? Did he think he was unfit to fly? How ironic. Asshole. He'd prove him wrong and then some. He wouldn't be "just" a backseater—he'd be a pilot, the one in control, and he'd do it better than Pete Mitchell ever could.

No one was going to die on his watch.

Bradley would never forget the first time he sat in the cockpit. The incredible speed, the g-forces fighting him at every turn, the seemingly endless and gorgeous vista of sea and sky. It was exhilarating and pure zen all at once. After logging a few hundred hours, Bradley Bradshaw earned his wings. Shortly thereafter he received his orders: he was to join a fleet squadron. Six months on a carrier, flying the F-18 Hornet for the Navy.

His dream had come true.

If that weren't rapturous enough, a miracle happened: Bradley found his joy again. The bonds he formed with his brothers and sisters in arms were unbreakable. Whenever they went to the Officer's Club (or the "O-Club," as they called it) he would play the piano and they'd all sing. He was a little rusty at first; he realized it had been years since he played. But it wasn't long before he got back into the groove. Just like riding a bike. The air was electric on those nights. He'd never felt like this before, not even among his childhood friends.

Unfortunately, friends came and went in this world. People got promoted, moved to other squadrons, etc. It was rough, at first, but Bradley came to accept it. "The needs of the Navy" was a common refrain.

One night, he met someone who would become one of his closest friends.

Bradley was hanging in the O-Club with his buddies, relaxing after a long day. He was careful not to overdo it; memories of his teenage escapades still made him cringe. Plus, behavior of that sort was unbecoming. He didn't have too much trouble resisting the alcohol these days; he was in a better place, worlds away from childhood melancholy, loving his job and loving life. He sipped on his light beer and chit-chatted and listened to his friends' stories.

But then something more interesting captured his attention.

Close by, a male and female aviator were having a lively debate regarding the Hornet and its capabilities, how best to fly it and ranking it against other fighters—the usual pilot stuff.

Bradley didn't recognize the guy. But what really shocked him was that he didn't recognize the woman either. There weren't many female pilots in his squadron, or in the whole Navy for that matter. Due to many decades of discrimination, aviation was still largely considered a man's game. As there were so few, he knew all of them that he shared a carrier with. How had he missed her? Maybe she was new.

Well, whoever she was, she was winning this debate. She really knew her stuff.

The hours flew by. Bradley's friends encouraged him to bang out a few tunes. He was certainly in the mood for it; his spirits were high and he was ready to play. As he worked his way towards the piano, the crowd shouted requests at him. That always made him chuckle. He appreciated it, but he already had a song in mind, a special one he hadn't played in quite a while.

Great Balls of Fire.

Bradley had no idea why, but that night, he felt he just had to play it. Perhaps somebody was paying him a visit. He felt that certain somebody's presence lifting the mood of everyone in the place. He played especially well, and his buddies and everyone else sang along. Afterwards, as he was heading back to his table, someone grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. Oh, God. Was this asshole trying to start something? But then he turned around and there was that woman, the woman that had won the debate.

And she was grinning ear to ear.

"Hey, that was awesome!" she yelled over the noise of the bar.

He blinked at her, a bit caught off guard. "What?"

She punched his shoulder. "The piano! You're really good, man! You do this every night?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, it's kinda my thing." He held out his hand. "I'm Rooster."

She shook his hand. "Phoenix."

"You're in my squadron, right?"

"Pff! Yeah, thanks for noticing!"

"Oh, uhh—"

"Dude, it's fine, I'm new!"

Then they talked about the thing all Naval aviators talked about after they met: the origin of their call-sign. Bradley's story wasn't the greatest. They'd dubbed him Rooster because he was too cautious, always sitting on his perch atop the barn, far away from everyone, avoiding danger. To make things worse, Bradley found out the rooster was the most disliked bird on the planet. Folks hated their ear-piercing shrieks, and they weren't even needed in order for a chicken to lay eggs. They were pretty useless. Bradley resented the name for a long time. But nowadays he'd made peace with it.

Phoenix's origin story was badass. During a routine training flight, one of the engines malfunctioned. Black smoke filled the air. They thought she'd never make it back to base, but she landed with the plane (and herself) in one piece. Her CO said it was like she'd risen from the ashes, and her WSO added, "like a phoenix," and that was it, the name stuck.

Phoenix and Rooster quickly became close. They felt very at ease with each other, they laughed a lot, finished each other's sentences.

When they were alone, Rooster quietly told her about his dad, about losing him, how he was the reason he'd chosen this life. He usually didn't tell this story so quickly after meeting someone. But he felt comfortable telling her. It just felt like the right time.

Phoenix was the first woman in her family to be in the armed forces, as well as the first pilot. Bradley had assumed she was a city girl—something about her demeanor and personality—but that couldn't be further from the truth. She grew up in a small town, where everyone knew everyone. Her parents ran a dairy farm, and of course she was expected to pull her weight, even as a kid. As soon as she was big enough, they put her to work. Bradley, having been a suburban kid, didn't understand. To him, it sounded a bit mean. Unfazed, she told him that was just how life was on a farm, nothing cruel about it. Her parents are good people, "salt of the earth," she'd always say.

While at sea, Rooster and Phoenix hung out in the rec room a lot, chatting over a game of pool. She routinely kicked his ass. She'd been playing this game since she was nine, down at her hometown pub. Besides that, they didn't see each other much. During the day, they were flying and performing other Navy duties, and at night they were separated between the men's and women's quarters. But sometimes, on those late afternoons in between, they'd hang out around the billiards table, sipping beers and swapping stories.

Rooster relished every moment.

As fun as the rec room could be, his favorite hangout spot was the officer's quarters. While on base, they were given their own rooms. Nothing fancy, but compared to the cramped bunks on the carrier, these rooms were the suite at the Plaza. Double bed, private bathroom, couch, TV—finally, your own space!

Rooster would visit Phoenix's room to chat and have snacks and laugh at stupid sitcoms and late-night infomercials. She introduced him to Mystery Science Theater 3000, which he found to be a very strange and hilarious show.

One night, Rooster found his anxiety spiking. He checked his watch. It was getting late. Maybe he should stop doing this. People might start to suspect something was going on between them, even though there was nothing even remotely sexual happening. But it didn't look good, him hanging out in Phoenix's room late into the night.

She elbowed his arm. She must've caught him checking the time. "Am I boring you?" she teased.

He chuckled. "Absolutely not."

They were about halfway through an MST3K, one about yet another giant monster lumbering towards yet another city in East Asia. They sat in comfortable silence, occasionally cracking their own jokes about the B-movie.

Rooster turned to her to say something, probably about the movie, but he quickly forgot. Phoenix gently pulled off her hair tie, letting her long, dark locks fall around her shoulders. He felt slightly stunned. It wasn't in that cliched, bull-shit way, like in old movies when a girl let down her hair and took off her glasses and finally the guy found her attractive. Gross. No, she was always attractive, hair up or down. He simply felt…privileged. She kept her hair in a ponytail all day every day—he'd never seen her without it. This was special. Well, in reality, it probably wasn't, as far as she was concerned. But that was how he felt.

Rooster kept looking at her, smiling, probably looking kinda dumb, not that he cared. Phoenix finally felt his eyes on her and turned her head. She smiled back.

He didn't know what it was about that moment, but it made him realize something. There was something about her, an extremely important thing, that he still didn't know despite all the time they'd spent together.

He asked, "What's your name?"

She smiled even more. "Natasha."

He blinked at her. "Oh. That's—" A really pretty name. "That's a nice name."

She murmured melodramatically, like some fancy lady in an old film, "Oh, I'm sure you say that to all the ladies…"

He snorted.

"What's your name?"

"Bradley."

"What's your last name?"

"Bradshaw."

Phoenix's tight smile grew, her face turning red. Then she couldn't hold it in anymore. "W-wait a minute," she chuckled through her words. "Your name is Bradley Bradshaw?!"

Rooster chuckled a little. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten that reaction. "Yeah, yeah, I know."

She kept laughing. "What were your parents thinking?"

He shrugged. "They were probably thinking it was funny."

She at last calmed down, wiping the last of the laughter tears out of her eyes. "So…do you prefer 'Brad' or 'Bradley?'"

"Definitely Bradley. I don't think anyone's ever called me Brad."

She pulled her legs up on the couch, then poked at his knee with her toe. "Okay, Bradley."

He smiled, his face burning. It was odd, and also nice, hearing her call him by his name. Oh, well. They'd go back to referring to each other using their call-signs, anyway. That was just what you did.

Rooster watched the TV again. He still felt Phoenix looking at him. He turned back to her, smiling expectantly. She smiled back…then her eyes wandered down to his mouth.

He froze. Oh. Oh no. Did she want to kiss him? This was all moving so fast. Did he even want to kiss her? He shouldn't even be thinking about this. Behavior like this was strictly forbidden, as they were in the same squadron. She must know this. They can't possibly—

Phoenix asked, "So what's up with the mustache?"

Rooster let out a breath. Wow, he was such an idiot. His heart was racing over literally nothing. "Yeah, uhh…I didn't tell you? My dad had a mustache. So…just thought I'd grow one too."

She grinned. "Aww. That's probably the best reason to grow a mustache I've ever heard."

"I believe it."

Her glistening eyes searched his face. Her smile faded slightly, turning from joyful to pensive. She said to him, quietly, in a tone he'd never heard before, "He'd be really proud of you."

Rooster stared into her eyes. People had said this to him before—many, many, many people. He'd grown tired of hearing that hollow, perfunctory statement. It meant nothing, absolutely nothing. But coming from her…it meant everything. It filled him up inside, filling at least part of the void he long believed would never go away.

He replied, "I hope so."

---

The sunset cast an ethereal, orange glow over the world.

It was about time to leave.

Penny stood by her car, key in the door, throwing impatient glances over her shoulder. "You coming?"

Pete hovered between the driveway and the backyard, his eyes on The Bench. "You go ahead," he said lightly. "I'll catch up."

Penny followed his gaze. She nodded, smiled knowingly. "Okay, I'll see you in a bit. Don't keep me waiting too long."

"No, never."

She smirked. "Never? You sure about that?"

He looked at her, his smile small and unsure. "Wha–? I mean—I—"

She laughed. "Geez, I'm joking!" Then she mumbled, just loud enough for him to hear, "Mostly." Then she got in the car before he could say anything else.

Pete sighed. He waved to her as she backed out. She smiled tightly, obviously holding back even more laughter. Before she said anything, he already knew she was kidding. But he was still in the process of beating himself up for how he'd treated her in the past. Once she'd left, he crossed the backyard and sat heavily on the bench.

This place had become his respite from heartache and grief. He ventured out here to think about everything, or nothing. After all that he'd been through in the past few months—the mission, Bradley coming back into his life, Tom's passing—he needed somewhere he could go to find peace, a place where he could begin to untangle the complex web of emotions in his heart.

He'd never really been a very religious person, but now he felt he was starting to understand it, in a way. This little place felt like a church, as folks had always described it—calming, warm, someplace where things started to make sense. It was the most spiritual place he'd ever been: the birdsong, the chirping of the crickets, the distant whoosh of the waves, and the spectacular view of the ocean.

Pete leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

"Hey, Goose. Sorry to bother you. I know you're probably pretty busy, flying around up there, you and Ice. He's a great wingman, right?"

He paused, listening to the silence. Of course he never actually expected a response. But sometimes…he hoped against hope that in some strange, unexpected way, he'd get a message from beyond, a sign, something. He felt kind of foolish, but he couldn't help himself.

"I just…umm…Bradley's leaving soon. Six month deployment. And…I'm really gonna miss him, obviously. Things've been good between us. Better than ever, actually."

He lifted his head, looked around the yard. A gentle breeze rattled the leaves. The birds and crickets kept singing. He smiled, just a little, just for a moment.

"So, I was thinking…I'll keep an eye on him while he's here. Then when he goes on deployment…you can watch over him." He chuckled. "Yeah, I know I don't need to tell you to do that. I just needed to say it. I worry about him a lot, too."

He stared down at the grass, sat with the silence.

"Okay," he sighed. "I gotta go now. I'll talk to you again real soon." He stopped again, listening to the ear-splitting nothingness. "All right. Say hi to Ice for me, okay? Bye for now…"

He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. The wind had grown more aggressive, racking tree branches and shrubs, tugging at his clothes, pushing against the waves.

Pete left the yard, feeling…well, like usual, a lot of things. So many things. Too many things.

He didn't know what he felt.

---

The last few months had been rough, to say the least.

Bradley has been so laser-focused on the mission, he'd forgotten what it was like to think about anything else, to feel anything other than sheer determination and tension. Of course he'd also brought a lot of unnecessary emotion into the mix: all of his bottled-up rage and long held resentments. He was still ashamed. He couldn't stop apologizing to everyone, especially Maverick. He would just smile and say

"Hey, it's all right. Don't worry about it, it's in the past. Now it's time to let go."

Bradley knew he was right, but easier said than done. He tried his hardest to focus on gratefulness above all else. He had survived the mission, so had Phoenix, Maverick, and everyone else. That was something to celebrate. He needed to stop wallowing in self-pity and depression and embrace the light that was all around him. That light wouldn't last forever.

Things had been touch-and-go for a bit. They lost two planes and almost lost three aviators. Bradley visited them in the hospital. When he saw Phoenix in that bed, exhausted but otherwise okay, he felt pretty stupid and useless. He briefly considered bringing her flowers or something, but maybe that would be weird. They were supposed to be friends, and friends didn't give each other flowers, right? Plus she wasn't even hurt, just under observation.

Shit. He was overthinking everything. Again.

Phoenix seemed really happy to see him. Maybe his presence made a difference. Maybe he wasn't a total asshole that everyone should avoid.

But his exchange with Maverick just a few hours earlier told him otherwise.

Rooster had told him he was all alone, and had nobody to mourn him if he bit the dust on this mission. It was one of the worst things he'd ever said to anyone. He couldn't stop thinking about the look on Maverick's face. Then all night he kept seeing his mother, shaking and close to tears as he took out his anger on her yet again, saying all those things he could never take back.

When would he ever learn?

No. Positives. Focus on the positives.

Bradley didn't think he and Maverick would make it back. If it wasn't for Hangman swooping in at the last second, they would surely be dead. And of course Hangman would never let him forget it.

"You owe me, Bradshaw! I saved your sorry ass!"

God, he'd be happy to never see that stupid smirk ever again.

Bradley was beyond relieved, overjoyed to be alive, standing in front of all his friends on that carrier. He thought for certain his life was over, and he had accepted it. The F-14 became his coffin, the ocean his graveyard. But that didn't happen. He made it. He was alive. He should be so much happier than he was. But he had nightmares. He wasn't sleeping well. Part of him was still back there, soaring over the cold, dark sea. Well, that was one more thing to bring up in therapy.

Phoenix seemed to have all that happiness but none of the pain. When they hung out at The Hard Deck or on the beach, he noticed her patting his back or squeezing his arm a lot, just touching him more in general. Which was fine. It was like she couldn't believe he was there, and she had to keep reminding herself. He knew how she felt.

One early morning, they stood just outside the bar, all alone, taking in the cool, gentle air. All their friends had left. Penny had closed up and drove off with Maverick.

Rooster and Phoenix laughed and chatted about nothing in particular. Then there was a lull in the conversation. He turned around to watch the sunrise, the splatter of pink light as it spread across the sand. Then, suddenly, completely out of nowhere, Phoenix hugged him. Rooster stood there frozen for a good few seconds. Then, slowly and carefully, he wrapped his arms around her. He told himself it wasn't a big deal. Friends hugged all the time, and it felt good, but not that good, and certainly not that kind of good. He definitely didn't notice how warm she felt, or that her hair smelled sweet, like pineapple or something.

They stayed like that for a while, locked in a peaceful embrace. Bradley heard the waves and felt the warm sun, but only barely. Mostly he heard her breath and felt her body against his.

She whispered, "I really thought I lost you."

A small smile twitched its way onto his face. "Well, you didn't," he said, because he couldn't think of what else to say.

She chuckled. "Yeah. Thank God."

They ended the hug.

After that, they must've smiled at each other, said goodnight, and gone back to their respective rooms. Bradley didn't remember.

But nothing else that happened that night was very memorable, anyway.

---

Rooster and his fellow aviators played football almost every day.

Maverick hadn't planned on it, but he'd really started something. None of them could resist some friendly competition. Occasionally, random girls that happened to be on the beach would join in. Of course, the guys weren't as rough with them as they were with Phoenix, because they weren't one of them.

Hangman used the games as an excuse to absolutely demolish Rooster, all the while reminding him that he owed him for blah blah blah—he never shut up about it.

Well, the games were mostly fun. Rooster enjoyed playing against Phoenix. Today she was being especially brutal. She tackled him to the ground and they wrestled for the ball. He hugged the ball against his chest and rolled over, trapping it under himself, but she didn't let up. She pulled at his shoulders and dug her knees into his back. At this point they really weren't even playing the game anymore, not that either one of them would admit it.

The guys were getting frustrated.

Coyote muttered under his breath, "Man, every damn day," and Payback sighed, "Seriously?" And Bob shook his head, and Hangman screamed at the top of his lungs, "GET! A! ROOM!"

Eventually, Rooster lost his hold on the ball. Phoenix had managed to move him through sheer persistence. By that time, though, she wasn't paying any attention to the game, whatever was left of it. Bob snatched up the ball and he and the guys carried on without them. Neither of them really noticed or cared.

Phoenix rolled Rooster onto his back, pinning him by his wrists. He was far too tired to do anything about it. But that was okay.

She smiled triumphantly. "Give up yet?" she panted.

He smiled back.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

She raised her eyebrows.

Then he sighed, "Yeah, I give up."

"Awesome." She jumped to her feet and offered him a hand. He grabbed on and she pulled him up with a sharp grunt. "God, you're like a box of rocks!" She looked him over then left to join up with the guys again.

Rooster needed a break. He walked to his duffel bag and pulled out his phone. Nearby, Hondo sat on a folding chair, sighing and shaking sand out of his glasses.

"You okay?" Rooster asked.

Hondo nodded. "Oh, yeah. Just can't keep up anymore." He flashed a smile. "Don't get old, kid."

Rooster chuckled. "Well—"

"Hey, Bradley!"

He turned his head. Some blond girl in a teeny green bikini was waving and bouncing over to him. The hell? Did he know her? She obviously knew him. She must've been one of the girls that had joined in the football game. Now, she stood in front of him, smiling expectantly, so he supposed he had to say something.

"Hey, uhh…hey."

She giggled. "It's Bridget, remember?"

He nodded quickly. "Oh, uhh, yeah, of course." That didn't ring a bell.

"That was super fun! You guys are all, like, really nice! How long are y'all in town?"

"Uhh, not much longer. I'm going on deployment soon and—"

"Aww! Sad face!" She pointed to his phone. "Let me give you my number so we can text and stuff!"

He looked at the phone, then her, then the phone again, blindsided. "Uhh, wha—?"

She plucked the phone out of his hand and started typing. "Cool!" Then she handed it back to him. "Well, I gotta get going! I've got a class soon!" She waved to him as she jogged away. "Buh-bye!"

"Umm, okay." Bradley stood there, stunned, staring off into space. What just happened? He shook his head. Oh, well. He scrolled through his phone for a few moments, trying to forget about the weird encounter. He looked up briefly to see what his buddies were up to.

He locked eyes with Phoenix. She was frowning, wholly and pointedly displeased. As soon as he made eye contact, she blinked in surprise and jerked her head away, obviously embarrassed that she'd been caught staring.

Rooster sucked in a nervous breath and looked away.

God, this sucked. Hopefully things didn't get any more awkward.

---

That night, the gang retired to The Hard Deck for a few games of pool. Rooster was so happy to win against Hangman at least once. Phoenix had given him some good pointers. She wanted him beat as badly as he did. Bob tried out a game, but he wasn't very good. He took a really long time to set up a shot, hemming and hawing and squinting. Phoenix asked him if he needed a new prescription.

Eventually the guys grew bored of billiards and switched to drinking instead. Phoenix and Rooster kept playing.

Rooster carefully positioned the cue.

Phoenix kept murmuring, "Don't get distracted, don't get distracted."

Rooster couldn't help cracking a smile. He took his shot and sunk the ball with no trouble. He looked up at her and saw the sly grin. "That's not working, ya know."

"What's not working?"

Rooster shook his head. "You're not distracting me."

She shrugged. "If you say so." She lined up her shot, gaze focused and fiery, but calm. She hit the ball, but it stopped just before the pocket. "Damn. I'm rusty."

"Well, almost," Rooster commented lightly.

"Screw almost."

Rooster studied the table but was immediately distracted by the song that filled the bar. Really? That one again? He looked up and there was Hangman, standing in front of the jukebox with that dumbass smirk on his face.

"Hey, it's your song!" he called.

It was "Rooster" by Alice in Chains. Yeah. He did this ten times a night. He thought he was just so hilarious. Rooster rolled his eyes. He tried to focus on the game again.

But then Phoenix said, lightly but hesitantly, "I saw you talking to that girl."

Rooster closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a sigh. Really? He was hoping they could just forget about it. He opened his eyes again and positioned the stick. "Bridget?" he said, forcing a light tone.

"Right, yeah. She gave you her number?"

Rooster scoffed. "More like forced it on me." He took a shot, a terrible one, aggressive and impatient. The balls bounced all around creation. He didn't really care. He looked Phoenix in the eye. She smiled placidly. "Obviously I'm not gonna text her," he assured her. "I'm not interested."

Phoenix shook her head. "Why not? She was nice. And she seemed pretty interested in you." She quickly lined up a shot. Boom, right in the pocket.

Rooster frowned at her. "Yeah, was she?"

Phoenix chuckled. "She was flirting with you a lot."

"Yeah?" he muttered. He tapped the ball with his stick, readying himself, but his heart wasn't in it. "Didn't even notice."

"What? How?"

Rooster gritted his teeth. Because I was too busy flirting with you. Did he actually need to say it? She wasn't stupid. Where the hell was this conversation going? "No idea," he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm and bitterness. He hit the ball much harder than he intended. The balls bounced wildly.

Phoenix sighed at the state of their game, but otherwise smiled. "Why don't you text her?"

Rooster dug his fingernails into the cue stick. "No, I don't think so," he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "I don't even know her."

"Well, that's dating, right? You don't know someone, then you talk to them and get to know them better." Phoenix sunk yet another ball in the pocket. Time ticked by, each second more uncomfortable than the last. Rooster stood stock-still. She looked at him expectantly. "Your turn."

Rooster just stared at her. What the hell was all this? She wanted him to date this bimbo? He figured she'd brought her up because she was jealous, and wanted to be assured nothing was happening there. For God's sake, after everything that had just happened on that beach…

He felt that scarily familiar, sickly heat rising in his stomach. Self-control was going out the window. He took a breath and moved to line up his shot.

Phoenix cleared her throat. "I-I mean, I just figured…maybe you two would have a good ti—"

"Seriously?!" Rooster slammed his stick down on the floor. Phoenix flinched and averted her eyes, staring at the table instead. All the guys turned to look at him. "What the hell is your problem?! You're just gonna tell me how to live my life now?!"

Phoenix kept staring wide-eyed at the table, obviously too startled to respond.

Rooster stalked away, face burning. He woke up from the blind-rage pretty quickly and the shame and guilt came crashing in. Oh God why why why did he keep doing this shit? He had treated Maverick like garbage for the duration of his training. He would've beaten Hangman to a pulp if all his friends, including Phoenix, hadn't physically held him back. He'd snapped at Phoenix and thoroughly freaked her out. He'd never spoken to her like that. He promised himself he'd never do that to her.

He'd fooled himself into thinking he'd changed. He wasn't different, not at all.

As he headed out of the bar, Maverick was coming in. Great. As if things couldn't get any worse. He tried not to look at him, but he caught that worried expression on his face, those searching eyes.

"Hey, Bradley, everything okay?"

"Fine," he muttered. Well, that was super convincing. He stomped out of the bar and out onto the beach before he could ask any more questions. He didn't want him to know what had just happened. He'd disappointed Maverick enough already.

Bradley paced around the beach, trying to calm down. At least there was no one around to bother him. He wanted to hurry back into the bar and apologize, but maybe that wasn't a good idea. Maybe Phoenix wouldn't want to see him after that. Maybe she needed a moment. He pushed his fingers through his hair. What the hell was he gonna do?

"Rooster?"

He winced. Glacially, he turned around. Phoenix stood a few feet away, arms crossed. She looked guarded, but not angry. He walked slowly towards her and she stayed where she was.

"Phoenix, I am so sorry."

She nodded a little. "It's okay."

He heaved a sigh. "I've been trying to, you know, work on this and…I'm just…not where I wanna be." He looked into her eyes. "I keep making the same mistakes."

She cracked a smile. "That's part of life. It's okay. Really."

He felt himself smile, just a little.

"Maybe…I mean, I was being a bit pushy—"

"No, what? No. You were just being nice. Don't apologize."

She nodded. "Okay. So you're angry about…just…the whole thing. Right?"

He took a deep breath. He had a feeling he knew what she was getting at.

"I'm telling you to go talk to this girl. And right before that…there was…all that stuff we did on the beach…and everything that happened before that…" She let out a sad chuckle. "Yeah, that was kind of a dick move."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well…takes two to…uhh…"

"Tango?"

"Yeah. Couldn't remember the, umm, saying…"

She chuckled a little. Then she stopped. She stopped smiling. She struggled to make eye contact for a moment. "Bradley…what are we gonna do about—" She gestured between them—"this?"

He released the breath he'd been holding. So this was it. They were finally going to have That Talk, the one they'd been putting off for years. The one they pretended didn't need to happen, so they could hold on to that impossible "maybe" forever. Maybe they could just ignore the rules. Maybe it could all work out.

Maybe they could be together.

But he knew the truth. There was only one right answer.

"Nothing," Bradley replied. He saw the exact moment something in her eyes changed. She looked down and away from him.

"Yeah," Phoenix murmured.

"Yeah?"

"I agree. Nothing." She sniffed. "Look, I can't risk—" She looked at him again. "This is my life. I have fought really damn hard to make it this far, and maybe even harder to be taken seriously. I…I'm sorry I—"

"No. It's okay, seriously." He smiled reassuringly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You know I'm just like you, right? All I ever wanted was to fly. I don't wanna risk losing my wings. Plus…it's kinda my thing: following the rules, being too careful. I can't stop now."

She smiled. "Right. They don't call you Rooster for nothing." She hesitated, eyes darting around. "Umm…I already…I know the answer, but, I have to ask…"

"Go ahead."

"You still…you want to be friends?"

"Yes. Of course I do."

"You don't mind the friend zone?" she joked.

He scoffed. "That's just something asshole guys say when they wanna get laid. Phoenix…" He gently squeezed her shoulder. "Even if we aren't a…I still care about you. I love hanging out with you. My career and my life got so much better after I met you. If I didn't have you in my life…that would fucking suck."

She nodded. "Good. That's how I feel, too."

Bradley could tell how much she was struggling to keep that smile on her face. "Natasha…"

"Oh, God, don't call me that," she chuckled, voice breaking. "Just give me a hug, okay?"

He put his arms around her. She hugged him back, hands rubbing his shoulder blades.

Rooster stared down at the sand, heart heavy with sadness. God, why did this have to hurt so much? Why did this have to happen?

But he knew better than anybody: sometimes you get hurt, and you can't wish the pain away. You can only endure it. That was the truth.

They let go of each other.

---

The bar was overwhelmingly crowded by the time Pete got there. He parked his motorcycle out front and was promptly swarmed by excited college kids. He'd met this particular group before: they were all in the same shop class and very passionate about bikes. After a brief exchange, he headed inside. He ran into Bradley and he didn't look well: clenched fists, face knotted up with anger, stomping out of the place as fast as he could. When he saw Pete, he dropped his gaze. He claimed to be fine, but of course Pete wasn't buying it. He was tempted to go after him, but he changed his mind pretty quickly. Maybe Bradley needed some time to himself. He'd catch up with him later.

Pete miraculously claimed an empty stool and surveyed the place. The new girl, Lily, was manning the bar, scrunching as many drinks as she could into her hands and passing them out. She smiled, but her eyes screamed, Help me!

The aviators were gathered around the pool table. Bob and Phoenix were talking, both of them frowning and sighing. Bob shook his head as Phoenix hurried away, making a beeline for the exit. Now what was that all about? They looked just as upset as Bradley.

Pete scanned the place again. He didn't see Penny anywhere. He supposed she was buried somewhere in the crowd. Though he knew she could handle herself, he worried all this activity might be stressing her out.

A hand patted his shoulder and he jumped.

"Woah, sorry, didn't mean to scare you," Hondo said. There were no stools by this point, so he settled for leaning on the counter.

Maverick gave a little wave. "S'all good."

Hondo frowned. "What happened, Mav?"

He blinked at him. "Huh?"

"You look like you're worried about something."

"It's that obvious?"

"To me, yeah."

"Just…you know, Rooster—"

Hondo clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Man, I know, it's all you talk about. And I get it, but…you gotta calm down, all right?"

"Yeah," Maverick sighed. "He's going on deployment soon, and-and I saw him just now, and he looked really upset, and I-I don't know wha—"

"You're worried whether he's here or not."

"Yeah. Just can't help it."

Hondo peered over the gaggle of drinkers and heaved a sigh. "Well, I'm gonna try to get a drink." He edged into the fray. "Wish me luck!"

Maverick gave a salute. He didn't bother trying to get Lily's attention. He wasn't in any hurry; he'd be there all night like usual, anyway. Eventually she brought him his favorite drink without him having to say a word. He told her she had the makings of a great bartender, which made her blush and mumble some self-deprecating statement he didn't quite catch.

"Heeellooo Pete Mitchell!"

He turned and there was Miguel, practically galloping up to him with all the energy (and adorableness) of a mini-horse. His husband, Gussy, a much more quiet and subdued sort, trailed behind. He was quite attractive: tall, strong, perfectly styled dark hair, just a hint of a beard.

Miguel clapped Pete on the back. "Soooo good to see you again!"

"Hey, man, good to see you too."

Gussy simply smiled and waved at him as he followed Miguel into the crowd.

Then yet another friendly voice: "There's my number one guy!"

Pete smiled. He knew immediately who that was; that Queens accent was a dead giveaway. "Hey, Tracy." He stood up and they shared a brief hug. They'd been hugging a lot since Tom passed.

She held him at arm's length, looking him over. "How ya holding up, dude?"

"Okay."

"Just okay?"

"Yeah."

"Same."

"I'm okay, also," Melissa murmured.

Pete did a double-take. "Oh, hey, hi! Sorry, I, uhh, didn't notice you were there!"

Tracy scoffed. "Oh, don't feel bad! Lady's quieter than a church mouse! I keep tellin' her, if workin' for the pride center don't work out, she'd make a great spy!"

Pete chuckled. "Yeah, I could see that!"

Melissa grinned, fiddling with a stray lock of hair. "Oh, God, I don't know about all that."

She'd changed a lot over the decades. When Pete first met her, she was a shrinking violet. She faded into the background, not daring to make the smallest sound. But as she met more folks at the center, and as she continued with her transition, she found her confidence. She let the light inside her, the one that had always been there, shine bright.

"How's Eli?" Pete asked.

"Oh, he's doing great!" Melissa chirped. "He's loving life in Arizona. I don't know how he stands the heat, though!"

Tracy chimed in, "We've talked about this before: he's a human lizard!"

She snorted. "Aww, my little lizard boy…"

Tracy grabbed her arm and practically dragged her away. "Okay, come on, time to get wasted!"

Melissa smiled sheepishly and waved good-bye to Pete.

He chuckled. Those two were inseparable.

At long last, Penny made her way back to the bar. She stood in front of him, panting and bracing herself on the counter.

Pete squeezed her hand. "You good?"

She smirked. "Trying to be." She tapped his beer bottle. "Lily got this for you?"

"Yeah. She remembered."

"Nice."

"Yep."

Pete released her hand and turned around in his stool, looking around the place yet again. Finally, he saw Bradley. He was sitting on the piano bench, but he wasn't playing yet. He conversed with Bob, smiling and nodding. Phoenix hung out nearby, quietly listening in. Well, whatever happened before, they seemed to be in good spirits now.

"Everything okay?" Penny asked.

He turned back around. "Looks like it."

She scrubbed a glass as she peered into the crowd. "Your friends are here," she reported cheerfully.

He cleared his throat. "Umm, yeah, I know. I talked to them when they came in."

Penny had met the whole gang when she came to Tom's celebration of life. Pete had off-handedly invited her then quickly forgot.

"So what should I wear?" she asked him the day before the event.

He shook his head. He had no idea why he was being asked this question. "Huh?"

"I've never been to one of these things before. Is it casual or are we dressing up?"

The words stuck in his throat like hot glue. Finally, he forced out, "Yeah, it's-it's just a casual thing, don't worry about it."

His anxiety spiked. When he'd invited her, he didn't think for a second she'd actually be able to make it. She was always so busy trying to run her business. Now that he knew she'd be there…

How was he supposed to feel about that?

Tom's celebration of life was held behind the pride center on a perfectly sunny, blue sky Saturday. Tracy worked the grill, doling out her spectacular pulled chicken and ribs. Melissa and her son and ex-wife conversed with Sarah. Miguel was in charge of organizing, but his number two was out sick. Gussy was lending a hand, but they still needed more help. Pete volunteered to help out in any way he could.

He talked to a lot of folks that day: some were his close friends, some he was only vaguely acquainted with, and some were total strangers. But they all had one thing in common: they all loved Tom. It was quite a diverse group: kids and old folks and everyone in between.

After dark, they sat around a campfire, making smores and roasting weenies. Everyone took turns telling stories about their beloved friend. Sarah was barely holding it together. Melissa kept putting her arm around her, although she too looked emotionally overwhelmed.

Finally, it was Pete's turn to talk. His heart thundered. What could he say? He had so many stories to tell. Was there any one tale that perfectly encapsulated who Tom Kazansky had been and all he'd done? It was impossible. He turned off the overthinking part of his brain. He let his soul take the wheel. He spoke about this person that had meant so much to him, and slowly everyone around him faded away. The only one he really saw was Sarah, who was a full on mess by that point: head lowered, hand over her eyes, her whole body shaking.

Pete finished up his little speech. Everyone in the circle smiled and nodded and wiped their eyes. He finally took notice of Penny, who he forgot was sitting right next to him. She smiled in that gentle, comforting way that she did when someone was upset. But she also had a certain look in her eye; she was thinking deeply. She was putting the pieces together, and he wished so much he could know what the final picture looked like.

She hugged him, and only then did he start combing through everything he'd been saying for the past fifteen to twenty minutes.

A familiar voice yanked him back into the present: the clanging of glasses, loud chattering, boisterous laughter, some 80s rock blasting from the jukebox—all of it buried beneath the quiet, nervous question:

"Hey, Penny…you sure the stick's okay?"

She nodded. "Yes, Bradley, it's okay, really. Gonna take a lot more than that to break it."

He frowned and shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Okay, I guess…"

"Just stop beating yourself up, all right?"

"I'll try," he mumbled, letting out a small, sad chuckle.

She gestured to the wall of bottles. "Can I get you anything?"

"Yeah, uhh, another Rolling Rock."

"You got it."

As soon as she left, Maverick tapped Rooster's shoulder. He jerked his head around, blinking in surprise.

"You okay, man?" Maverick asked gently.

Rooster stood frozen for a good long moment. Then he managed a nod. "Yeah. Totally. All good."

Maverick's eyes darted to the pool table. "What happened with the cue?"

"Pff, uhh, ya know…it's not a big deal." He started staring at the counter, the floor, the ceiling, desperately avoiding eye contact. "I just…lost my temper. A little bit."

Maverick nodded slowly. "Okay. Were you…mad at someone?"

Rooster cleared his throat. His eyes stayed locked on the counter. "Umm…yeah, but, it's all good now. We worked it out."

Maverick gave him a comforting smile. "Good." Rooster obviously didn't want to talk about this, and he wouldn't force him.

Luckily, Penny returned right then, saving them from the awkward silence. She handed the green bottle to Rooster. "She can really put 'em away, huh?" she chuckled.

He smiled. "Yeah, for sure." He gave Maverick a little nod then left.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Pete turned back to Penny and yell-whispered, "Did you see what happened before?"

Penny stared at him. "Huh?"

"Bradley said he lost his temper with someone. Did you see what happened?"

She shrugged. "I mean, yeah. He yelled at someone."

"Well, who was it?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, if he didn't tell you, then I don't think it's my place to say. He obviously doesn't want you to know, or he's not ready to tell you yet."

Pete heaved a sigh. He had a death-grip on his beer bottle.

"Why do you want to know so badly?"

"To help him out, obviously. Why does it have to be a secret?" he grumbled.

She squeezed his hand. "Pete, maybe he doesn't want help. You can't force it on him. Then that'd be more for you than him."

Pete mulled over her words. He felt like he'd had this sort of conversation a number of times in the past. He let out a little chuckle.

She smiled. "What is it?"

"It's nothing. Just…apparently I really like people who give me advice."

She chuckled. "Makes sense. You always really need it." She stepped away for a few moments, passed out some drinks.

Pete took a glance around the bar. He'd never seen it so busy. Tired office workers coming in for happy hour, some woman's birthday party, the aviators and other Navy folks, college kids, and on and on. He spotted Bradley sitting on the piano bench, and Phoenix standing beside him, clutching the Rolling Rock. He was talking a lot, but of course Pete couldn't hear him over the noise. He'd rarely seen Bradley this relaxed and joyful. Phoenix smiled radiantly as he spoke. She kept leaning on him, hand gripping his shoulder.

"They like each other," Pete murmured to himself.

"Who?" Penny asked.

"Bradley and Phoenix."

"Maybe don't stare at them too much," she chided gently.

Pete turned back around. "Can't believe I didn't notice before. Did you?"

She shook her head. "I mean, they're definitely close, I noticed that. I just wasn't getting a romantic vibe."

"They're into each other. Trust me."

"How can you tell?"

"I just…I dunno. I just know. I know about these things."

She looked at Rooster and Phoenix for a few moments, squinting thoughtfully. Then she looked back at him. "Since when did you become some kind of love expert?"

He grinned. "Since always."

"Oh, shut up," she chuckled as she headed off to serve more customers.

Pete hopped off his stool and headed over to the billiards table. He received many enthusiastic greetings from his former students: fist-bumps and claps on the back and so on.

Hangman grinned. "Well, well, look who it is!" He nodded to the pool table. "You play?"

"Yeah," Maverick replied. "I play a pretty good game."

He pointed to him with the stick. "Hundred bucks says I destroy you!"

Maverick chuckled. "Man, I'll play a game, but I'm not placing any bets." He'd watched Hangman play pool many times, and the man was a beast. The only person who consistently beat him was Phoenix, who had apparently been playing the game her whole life. Bradley won a game, but only once, and it was a hard-fought victory.

Maverick and Hangman played a game, one with no money on the line. Maverick had made the right call. Hangman destroyed him, just like he said he would. Maverick put in a decent effort, but it didn't amount to much.

After the easy victory, Maverick held out his hand to him. "Good game."

Hangman smirked as he shook his hand. "You're just happy I didn't take your money, old man. Next time, we play a real game."

Maverick made a noncommittal noise before handing his cue over to Payback. Apparently he believed he could take on the master. Mav wished him luck.

He went to the piano. Bradley was playing a random medley of tunes.

"Ready for your concert?" Pete asked.

Bradley flashed a smile. "Yeah, almost. Just warming up."

Pete took notice of his mood: the easy smile, the relaxed posture, the bright and focused eyes. He saw that change in Bradley every time he played the piano. The kid was in his element, completely at peace. It was as if a light was shining on him—or perhaps from him.

Music was his church.

"Hey, Maverick!" Phoenix stumbled through the crowd, beer bottle in hand, grin lighting up her face. She threw an arm around him, hitting his back a little too hard. "Good to see you! How are you doing?"

"I'm all right," Maverick said. He noticed that even though Phoenix was simply standing there, on completely even flooring, she bobbed back and forth as if she were on a ship on rough seas. Her face was red, eyes glazed. She was halfway to drunk, maybe a little more. He asked, "How are you doing?"

"Never been better!" She took a swig of her beer and sat on the piano bench—well, more like fell onto it, as far as Maverick was concerned. She pulled her feet up and leaned back, resting against Rooster.

He chuckled, his fingers hitting all the wrong keys as she pushed him out of place. "Phoenix, I can't play when you do that."

She scoffed. "You're such a whiner." She struggled back to her feet.

Pete eyed her worriedly for a moment before turning back to Bradley. "So, you got a setlist prepared?"

He shrugged. "Nah, just winging it. Should be good." He pulled on his shirt collar. "Got my lucky shirt on."

Pete hadn't really noticed it until then. It was yet another Hawaiian shirt—he figured he must have at least a dozen of them. This one was a collage of palm fronds, bunches of bananas, and toucans.

"I like it," Pete said.

"Hey, thanks. It's probably my—"

"Move!" Phoenix lethargically pushed against Rooster's back.

"Uhh, which way?"

"Just…like…move."

"Left? Right?"

"Up."

Rooster shifted forward as much as he could, which was maybe half an inch. He held his hands up in confusion. "Umm, okay, I don't really get—"

Phoenix sighed, pushed him forward even more, then plopped down on the bench.

Maverick watched, feeling something between amused and bemused, as Phoenix and Rooster sat back to back on the bench. Poor Rooster was completely squashed, his knees pushing against the keys.

"Okay, this isn't gonna work," Rooster chuckled through his words.

Phoenix groaned. "Why not?"

"Well, I can't get to the pedals or the keys. Do you really have to sit there?"

"Yes." She inhaled even more beer. She laid her head on his shoulder. "Mmm…you're so comfy…"

"Really? Thought I was like a box of rocks."

She laughed and lazily thwacked his arm. "Shut up!"

Pete smiled at their antics. "You gonna be okay, Bradley?"

He gave a thumbs-up. "Yep, don't worry, I can handle her."

Phoenix grinned. "Oh, yeah? How are you gonna handle me?" She reached around him, tickling his fingers. "Huh? Huh?"

He gently pushed her hand away. "Okay, come on, cut it out."

Pete figured he should give them some alone time. He headed back to the stools, which were all taken by that point. He went to one corner of the counter and stood between Tracy and Hondo.

A few minutes later, the concert was in full swing. Bradley played and sang and everyone joined in. College kids and office workers, aviators and civilians, young and old, all belting out the songs. He played for a little over an hour.

After that, things began to quiet down. Partiers departed: one by one, group by group. The aviators stayed, as did most of Pete's buddies. For the first time in a long time, the jukebox could be heard. The upbeat tempo of Bowie's "Let's Dance" filled the quiet place.

Pete took a seat at the bar at long last. He sipped his beer, watched Penny feed glasses into the washer. The guys were laughing and telling stories. Bradley and Phoenix hung out in one corner of the bar, just the two of them. They spoke quietly, both grinning ear to ear.

Pete heard the stool beside him creak. He turned his head and there was Miguel, smiling warmly.

"Hello!" he chirped.

"Hey. You enjoy the concert?"

He gasped and slapped a hand over his heart. "That boy took my breath away! So good! How long has he been playing?"

"Oh, forever, since he was a little kid."

"Yeah, that's what I—Oh! Penny! Over here, please!"

She walked up to him, smiling politely. "What'll ya have, Miguel?"

"Another French martini, pretty please?"

She hurried away. "Coming right up!"

"Oh, thank you so much, hun!" Then Miguel turned to Pete, lowering his voice to a normal volume. "So, Gussy and I have been talking about you…"

Pete grinned. "All good things, I hope?"

"Absolutely. We were talking about what a great job you did, ya know, helping out with Tom's celebration of life. You're a natural born leader, Pete Mitchell!"

"Oh, I am definitely not," Pete replied lightly. "Took me a long, long time to learn."

"And learn you did! So, we were thinking…" His smile grew. "How would you like to be a group leader at the center?"

Pete's smile faltered. He was completely blindsided. Him? Volunteer at the pride center? Lead a group? Really? He couldn't picture it.

Miguel went on, "We have quite a few slots available, all different topics and age groups, lots of options. We just know you'd make such a great addition to our team!"

Pete nodded along with him, simply because he didn't know what else to do. A tornado of emotions swirled inside him, bringing on a startling lightheadedness. He scrambled to gather up the scattered thoughts and emotions, tried desperately to assemble them into something coherent.

"That's…that's very kind of you. Thank you. Really. I just… I mean, I love visiting the center, but…ya know, volunteering, leading groups…that was more Tom's thing. I—" He broke off. Penny had returned with Miguel's drink. She slid it over to him, flashed a quick smile at Pete, then left. He continued, in a whisper, "I don't think it's really for me."

Miguel had sunken in his stool a little, his eyes less bright, but he kept smiling. "I understand. No pressure."

Pete started, "Again, I appre—" But then he got distracted by Phoenix, who was stumbling and bumbling towards them. Her frizzy hair had started to escape her ponytail, strand by strand. She blinked hard, seemingly struggling to keep her eyes open.

She slammed her hand down on the counter with all the force and grace of a two-year-old who needed a nap. "Penny," she mumbled. "One more, please."

Penny walked over to her, face aggressively stern. "No. You are cut off."

"Whyyyyy?" she moaned, hanging her head.

Penny replied slowly, "Because you are visibly intoxicated."

Phoenix shook her head. "No, I am not vissally—vibally—intossa—"

Penny raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, nice try."

Phoenix kept trying anyway. A few moments later Bradley swooped in and escorted her back to their table.

Pete chatted with Miguel a little bit longer, before he and Gussy called it a night. Eventually, Hondo and Tracy and Melissa and most of the aviators left as well, leaving only Pete and Penny, Bradley and Phoenix.

Pete sat there quietly, staring down at the counter. He thought and thought and overthought. He dipped his fingers into his pocket, felt the metal chain. He took Tom's dog-tags out of his pocket and looked at them, ran his thumb over the numbers, over his name. An overpowering wave of grief washed over him. He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead into his hand, felt the cool metal of the tags on his skin.

God, I miss you so much.

He knew Miguel was right: he'd make a great leader. As he desperately tried to peer through the fear in his heart, he realized that yes, he did want to do this. Why did he hesitate? What was he so afraid of?

For a long time, neither Pete nor Tom could speak of their visits to the pride center, at least in certain company. If the wrong person found out, it could raise suspicion. Next thing they knew a superior would be yanking them into a secluded space and giving them the third degree. But eventually, the laws were changed, and they were finally, truly free. Tom experienced a complex mix of emotions.

They both did.

But more than anything, Tom felt relief. He said as much, but he didn't need to: Pete could see it all over him; the lightness, the peacefulness. Tom didn't have to lie anymore and struggle to keep his stories straight. He talked about the pride center to people he previously had to hide from. When the subject of sexuality came up, he was unfailingly honest. He wasn't exactly shouting it from the rooftops, but he was extremely open about all of it.

Pete wished he could share in his happiness. Mostly he was just ashamed and on edge. What was he supposed to do? After he'd been brainwashed into feeling disgusting and wrong his whole life, did the world now expect him to forget all that? Was it now his duty to be proud and tell everybody everything about himself and how strong he was after all he'd been through? Why the fuck did the world keep telling him how to feel and how to live his life? He was so god-damn sick of it.

He remembered this one night vividly. It was late, after all the other dinner party guests had left. He confessed to Tom that he felt guilty for not being celebratory along with him. He knew his friend wouldn't be upset at all, he just needed to say something.

Sarah stayed quiet for a while, smiling comfortingly. She exchanged a glance with Tom, who sat next to her on the couch. He looked calm and unfazed.

He said, "Don't apologize. You feel what you feel."

Sarah nodded. "You're going to have a lot of complicated feelings," she said gently. "That's perfectly normal. You've been through a lot, you both have." She held her husband's hand. "But it's going to be okay. Things will get better, I promise."

She was right, as always. But he still hid, still worried about what people thought. It was monumentally difficult to get used to this new world. He thought about Miguel and Gussy, being openly gay, being a couple and everyone knowing they were a couple, sharing a kiss and holding hands in public, in front of everyone. Pete was truly and wholeheartedly happy for them. He wasn't bitter, not anymore. This was all just so alien to him.

"Hey, Pete."

He lifted his head. Penny was sitting in the stool next to him, smiling. He suddenly realized how tired he was. He wasn't even sure if he was smiling back.

She searched his face. "So…I'm sorry, I swear I wasn't trying to eavesdrop: I just happened to overhear what Miguel said."

"Yeah?" Pete closed his hand around the dog-tags, felt the letters and numbers press into his skin.

"Yeah, and I think you should go for it. You'd make a great leader." She laid a hand over his tense knuckles. "What do you think?"

Pete felt himself smile. "Umm…yeah, I think I want to do it."

Penny grinned. "That's great." She looked at him—or more like into him, as far as Pete was concerned. It was awfully intense, but not in a bad way. "If you want to talk more, just let me know. But you don't have to. I don't need you to."

Pete let out a breath. He managed to say, "Of course. Yeah…thank you." As he spoke, she stood up and leaned over to give him a lingering kiss on the forehead. Pete closed his eyes. He completely opened his fingers and held her hand. A few moments later she moved away. She squeezed his shoulder.

"I gotta go close up, okay?" she murmured.

Pete saw that look in her eyes, the one that always made his heart race. "Okay." He released her hand and she left to continue with her closing duties. He supposed he should make himself useful. He got up and began collecting empty glasses and discarded beer bottles. As he worked his way to the back of the bar, he found Phoenix snoozing, head resting on her folded arms. Bradley was far more lively: he'd returned to the piano to play yet another tune. Pete couldn't help but pause his work to watch in awe. It didn't seem possible that a human being could be capable of such speed and precision. It was truly beautiful to witness. Pete had seen him play this piece, and others of equal complexity, many times before—either at Carole's home or school concerts. It wasn't just the music Pete enjoyed, however. He saw how much joy Bradley took in music and performing, and it made him happy to see him happy.

Pete finished up the glass and bottle gathering and took a seat at the table in the back, right across from the very drunk, hopelessly unconscious Phoenix. Bradley's song at long last came to an end. He stood up with a sigh, shaking his hands like wet towels.

Pete chuckled. "You okay?"

"Uhh, yeah, mostly. Think I maybe overdid it a bit." He walked over to the table, his jittery eyes fixed on Phoenix. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolled around a bit. "Our Uber should be here soon," he mumbled distractedly.

"Well, make sure you rest up," Pete advised. "What's that piece called again?"

"Hungarian Rhapsody Number 2."

"Yeah, I knew it was one of those really old, really complicated ones! I remember hearing you play that one a long time ago. I think it was at one of your concerts."

Bradley nodded, still staring at his phone. "Right, yeah, when I was in, like, eighth grade!" His groan faded into a chuckle. "God, I'm so old…"

Pete laughed. "No, no you're not, trust me!"

Bradley frowned. "I'm really sorry…that was probably one of those nights I blew you off, acted like a total dickhead—"

"Bradley, don't worry about it, seriously. That was, like, twenty years ago. Wasn't really a big deal, anyway." They'd done this dance so many times: Bradley apologizing profusely for something bad he did just recently or even ages ago. Pete always had the same response, and he figured he might as well say it yet again: "It is time to let go."

The slightest shadow of a smile crossed Bradley's face. "I know…"

Pete drummed his fingers on the table. He kept hesitating, kept holding his feelings inside. It was time to let go of that, too. He needed to be open. That was the only way to heal. He said to him, "I know how hard you worked to play like that. I'm really proud of you."

Bradley at last looked up from his phone and made eye contact. He just stared for a moment, stunned into silence. Then he said, "Thanks a lot, man."

Pete nodded. "It was worth the sore wrists," he said lightly.

"I'll keep telling myself that," Bradley chuckled through his words. He turned to Phoenix, shaking his head in exasperation. "We better get going." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, Phoenix." She didn't move. "Phoenix. Phoenix." Nothing. He sighed. "Natasha."

She jerked her head up with a snort. "I-I'm awake," she grumbled, voice gravelly and threadbare. Most of her hair had fallen out of her ponytail, the frizzy locks framing her reddened, exhausted face.

Bradley rubbed her shoulder. "Come on, it's time to go," he said gently. "I called us an Uber."

Phoenix groaned as she stretched her arms. "Oh. Thanks." She smiled sleepily up at him. "That was very sweet of you."

Bradley smiled back. "Well, I can't just leave you here. I don't think you'd be able to make it out of here on your own."

Phoenix laughed. "Yeah, you're totally right! No way in hell!"

He looked her up and down, trying to gauge how unsteady she was. "Can you stand up?"

She squinted thoughtfully. "Umm…I will try." She put her hands on the table to steady herself, and slowly, very slowly rose out of her chair.

Bradley looked at Pete, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, and he mouthed, Holy shit.

Pete barely managed to suppress a laugh.

Finally, Phoenix made it to her feet. Bradley kept a hand on her shoulder, eyeing her warily. He turned back to Pete. "We still on for tomorrow?"

Pete glanced out the window. The faintest glow of sunlight had begun to peek over the horizon of endless ocean. "Umm, no, we're still on for today."

Bradley smirked. "Yeah, good point." He began to guide Phoenix to the door. She clumsily moved with him, eyes half-closed, tottering forward like a zombie. Bradley called over his shoulder, "See you at one!"

"See you then!"

Phoenix waved and just that slight movement caused her to wobble. "Buh-bye, Maverick," she mumbled.

"Bye," he replied in a worried tone. "Get some rest, okay?"

Bradley and Pete exchanged another look, one that said, Oh brother, what a mess.

They could do that now: one little smile, a raise of the eyebrow, and they usually knew what the other was trying to communicate, no words needed.

It was one of the best things in the world.

---

As planned, Bradley and Pete met up that afternoon. Bradley came to Pete's hangar and they grilled some burgers for lunch. They chatted about Pete's old airplane, about the aircraft-related items in his collection, about the past, the future, important things, not so important things.

Bradley wandered over to the desk where Pete kept his photo collection. They'd pored over many of them already, all the pictures of Bradley's late father. Pete had found even more photos recently, and had just begun the monumental task of sorting through them all. The mountains of memories currently overtaking his desk were mostly from Tom and Sarah's wedding, and a few from Pete's mom's wedding—both to his dad and Adam. He didn't expect Bradley to care too much, but he immediately took a great interest in them. A smile burst onto his face as he admired a photo of Tom and Sarah on their wedding day. This photographer, whoever they were, had obviously taken the couple by surprise: Sarah grinned radiantly, while Tom stared blankly into the camera. He wasn't a big fan of having his picture taken, and he hated being photographed without his permission. Pete often wondered if he was the one who had taken it, just to mess with him in that good-hearted way he always did, but he couldn't remember. False memory or not, it made him smile.

"They look so happy," Bradley commented.

Pete nodded as he looked at the photo. "They were a great couple, super corny. They went everywhere together, cleaned the house together, cooked together. They were always hugging, holding hands…"

"Man, I can't wait to get married."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, totally, and have a couple kids…" He looked away from the photo, stared off wistfully, imagining that future.

Pete playfully elbowed him. "How many kids, huh? Two? Three?"

Bradley stared at him, the color draining from his face. The excitement in his eyes had been replaced with sheer terror.

"Four? Five?!"

"Uhh, think I'll start with one, see how it goes."

"You said a couple! That's more than one!"

"Well, I'm rethinking it now!" Bradley laughed. "You're kinda freaking me out!"

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Well, speaking of getting married…" He stared pointedly at him, hoping they'd have another telepathic exchange and he'd know exactly what he was getting at.

Bradley smiled, shaking his head in confusion. "What?"

Pete elbowed him again. "Come on, you know what I mean…"

"I do?"

"You and Phoenix!"

Bradley's smile faded. His eyes darted away from him. "Oh."

"What? What's wrong?"

He cleared his throat. "I mean…we're…we're friends. It's gonna kinda…stay that way…" He stared at the floor, frowning, eyebrows scrunched.

Pete shook his head. "Well…why? You like each other, right?"

He heaved a sigh, gave a little nod. "Yeah, but…"

Pete stared at him for a few moments, just thinking. Then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks…followed by another ton of bricks. "Oh. Are you in the same unit?"

"Yes," Bradley muttered, exasperated.

"Okay," Pete murmured. "I'm sorry. I should've figured—"

"No, it's fine, don't apologize." Bradley shoved his hands into his pockets and paced around, looking at the floor or the ceiling, too depressed to make eye contact. "We talked about it—just yesterday, actually. We're not gonna date or anything. There's nothing we can do, the rules aren't gonna change. We don't wanna sneak around. It wouldn't be…it wouldn't be good for us, being together like that…"

Pete nodded slowly. "It'll never be enough. You'll get angry, you'll get bitter. You'll start to resent each other. It takes—I imagine it would take a while to heal after something like that, probably."

"Yeah…it hurts, but…I figured we made the right choice."

"And, hey, don't give up. You probably won't be in the same squadron forever."

Bradley looked at him, smiling ever so slightly. "I'll wait for her. I-I'd never ask her to do that for me, 'cause that wouldn't be right. But I'll wait, definitely." He wandered back to the piles of photos. He stared down at them, bracing himself on the desk. "Ya know…I really love her." He let out a breath. "Don't think I've ever said that out loud."

Pete didn't know what to say. Bradley's words warmed and broke his heart, all at once.

Bradley unpinned a photo from the corkboard. It was a picture of himself, his mom and dad, and Pete. He'd seemed almost afraid of the photo at first. He didn't want to even look at it for too long, let alone hold it. But now he couldn't stop studying it. He stared at one face in particular.

"Hi, Mom," he murmured.

Pete looked between him and the picture. "You remember that day, right?"

Bradley nodded. "God…I wish I could see her just one more time, just so I could apologize. I treated her like shit. And I never got a chance to make things right."

"Bradley…she knew you regretted all that, okay? She knew how much you loved her."

"Yeah…I know…I just…I wish she could see…how much better I am now." He sniffed. "We could've been really close again, like when I was a little kid. But…that's it. It's over. Can't go back. I have to start accepting that. Time to let go." He pinned the photo back on the board. "Wish I could tell her all my stories, too. She would've loved to hear about the mission."

Pete searched his face. "How are you, by the way? After…everything we went through, flying the F-14…"

"I'm…hanging in there." He shrugged. "I have nightmares, obviously. But I can handle them. Just another thing to talk to my therapist about," he concluded lightly.

Pete blinked at him, trying to collect his thoughts. He had no idea. "You see a therapist?"

He smirked. "I've basically been going to therapy my whole life, man."

Pete felt a shadow come over him—grief, guilt, all manner of ugly things. "Yeah…I mean I've been going to therapy since…since my twenties, so…"

Bradley smiled and patted his shoulder. "And it really helped you out, right? I don't know where I'd be without it!"

Pete brightened a little. When he was young, everyone said therapy was just for "crazy" people. It was a shameful, dark thing that you kept secret. He was happy to be reminded that it wasn't that way anymore. "Yeah, absolutely. It's been really good for me." In that moment, he realized that his guilt, mostly misplaced but potent all the same, had made him selfish, made him somewhat blind to Bradley's struggles. He'd been so wrapped up in his own grief, he'd never said it…

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Bradley nodded. "Thank you. Same to you. I mean, not just about my dad, but…your friend, Ice."

"Thanks." Pete pulled Tom's dog-tags out of his pocket and looked at them. "I'm not sure what I want to do with them yet. I threw your dad's tags into the ocean. It felt pretty cathartic at the time. I know your mom held on to the other pair for the rest of her life. So…" Pete's voice broke. "Umm…I think I'll just…I'll keep these ones with me." He put them back in his pocket.

Bradley murmured, "Do you keep those with you all the time?"

"Pretty much."

"Yeah, me too." Bradley reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of dog-tags.

Pete stared in silence, overwhelmed, completely swept away by what he was seeing. He couldn't take his eyes off them. He reached out. "Umm, can I…?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Bradley said quickly. He handed over the dog-tags.

Pete turned them over in his hand, carefully studying them. He ran his fingers over the name: NICK BRADSHAW. He drew in a shuddering breath. He thought he'd never ever see these again. This was almost too much. He handed the tags back to Bradley.

He carefully put them back into his pocket. His eyes darted between Pete and the floor. "Umm…can I ask you something kinda personal?"

"Sure."

"Do you…do you believe in God?"

Pete thought for a moment. He hadn't been expecting that. He shrugged. "I mean, I think so, in a way, yeah. It's hard to explain. Why, do you?"

Bradley shook his head. "Not really. I don't know. I don't know if I believe in God, but…I believe in my dad. I talk to him, sometimes." He scoffed. "I dunno, maybe that's weird, but—"

"No, it's not weird." Pete cracked a smile. "I talk to him, too."

Bradley's face lit up. "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Do you talk to Ice, too?"

"No. I mean, not right now. I don't think I'm ready for that yet."

Bradley reached into his pocket, curled his fingers around the dog-tags. "Sometimes…I feel like he's here, helping me out. I think he's the reason I made it this far."

"That could be. But…don't sell yourself short." Pete reached out, squeezed his arm. "You are the one who chose this path, you are the one who put in the work. You are so much stronger than you think. Please don't forget that."

Bradley looked at him, eyes shimmering, obviously struggling to hold back tears. He didn't say anything; he simply smiled.

The two went back to digging through the photographs, mostly in silence. Pete watched as Bradley separated a few into a small pile.

Pete broke the silence. "You wanna take those with you?"

Bradley's eyes darted between him and the pictures. "Uhh, yeah, I'd love to. Is that cool?"

"Yeah, sure, I've got plenty." Pete watched him shuffle through the photos. They were all of himself and Goose in their younger years: hanging out on the flight deck or the O-Club or some nondescript street in Oceanside.

"I don't think I have any pictures of you," Bradley murmured. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Bradley turned his head, stared at the golden midday sun as it poured into the hangar. "Ya know, I used to really hate vacations. All I ever wanted to do was get back to the boat, get back to flying. But…I don't feel that way anymore." He looked at Pete and smiled.

Pete smiled back.

Whenever Bradley left the carrier, he found life pretty lonely. He didn't have any family to visit: his mom and grandma had passed away a long time ago.

Whenever Pete wasn't working, he retreated to his hangar. He could only work on his plane and stare at old photographs for so long before that hollow feeling overtook him. This place was sad and empty. It was no home.

But now, as Pete and Bradley spent time together, hanging out in the bar, combing through memories, talking about everything or nothing, they felt that something had changed. In that moment, neither of them said it, but they both knew it to be true…

They were finally home.