Chapter Text
The invitation arrives, gold-embossed on navy, cordially inviting Bradley Bradshaw and guest to the wedding of Rachel Kazansky and Levi Morgan. The date is two days before Christmas at a vineyard in San Diego and an email address supplied for his RSVP.
When Mav’s number flashes up on his phone later that day, Bradley takes care to sigh before he accepts the call.
“Hi, Mav.”
“You’re coming to the wedding, right?”
“If I can get leave.” He’s not as keen to go as Mav clearly is, but Bradley spent enough summers with the Kazanskys when he was growing up that Rachel’s practically family. Had it been her brother’s name on the invite that would be another story.
“I’m pretty sure if you say whose wedding it is—”
“No.” Bradley’s voice is firm, his answer final. His CO’s the one who gets to make that decision, not the political sway of Iceman’s daughter. That Mav thinks nothing of suggesting it… sometimes Bradley wonders whether they’ve come any distance at all in the year since the uranium mission forced their reconciliation.
“Well,” Mav dials it back, chastised. “If you’re able to come, Penny’s asked whether you’d like to stick around and spend Christmas with us. Amelia’s here this year.” Then a softer, more gentle, “No pressure, kid. It’s an invitation, not an order.”
One that Bradley feels as conflicted about accepting as he does the wedding invitation. He wants to find it easy to say yes; to believe that he’ll enjoy a Christmas spent with family – which is a strange concept to have resurrected after all this time – but he can’t will himself into a feeling that doesn’t yet exist.
“Thank Penny for the offer,” he says. “Let’s see how my request for leave goes.”
“Just to warn you –” a smile has crept back into Mav’s voice “– the second you accept the wedding invite Penny and Sarah will start a shortlist of eligible partners. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the wedding was just an elaborate excuse concocted by those two to fix you up.”
Bradley’s “Why?” Is too short for Mav to register the chill that’s crept into his voice.
“Because the two of them think you’re a nice boy who deserves to be loved.”
“Because the two of them feel sorry that my mom’s dead and they’re taking it upon themselves to interfere with my life despite not knowing anything about it?”
There’s silence at that.
“They care, that’s all.” Mav’s tone is nearly as cool as Bradley’s. “I’ll tell Penny to back off.”
“No, no, it’s fine, it’s just…” As the anger washes out, guilt sweeps in, and he finds himself saying, “I actually planned on bringing someone.”
***
As soon as he ends the call, he regrets it, but if Bradley doesn’t head to base now he’ll be late. All the way there – a short drive in the Bronco with the windows down and the music up – all the time he spends in briefing, in pre-flight prep and post-hop debrief – he puzzles over what to do. The only time his mind isn’t on the wedding is when he’s in the air. Even a routine flight like this demands focus and after the mission Bradley’s been more focused than ever, his flying sharper, his reactions faster. Less thinking, more doing.
Which brings him back to Mav.
He could lie, not bother putting in a request for leave at all and say it was denied, but that feels like a cop out. So, before he leaves work, Bradley puts in for leave – a whole week, spanning the pre-wedding festivities, the wedding on the 23rd and Christmas Day itself. He has enough vacation days left and no specific plans for anything else before the year’s up.
The request is granted in the time it takes for him to drive home.
Great. Now all he needs is a plus one.
Obviously he can’t ask anyone he actually works with. He’s managed to keep his links to Ice hidden for the majority of his career, and he’s not close enough with anyone in his squadron to share that with them. That would just muddy things. (Besides, who could he even ask? Half of his squadron are married and the few people on base he likes well enough to share a drink with aren’t people he’d want to share this with.) Asking one of the other Daggers, people he genuinely considers friends, feels like a different kind of a risk with Mav and Penny being involved. Penny’s line of work makes her far too sharp when it comes to spotting a ruse and both she and Mav know the group too well to be easily fooled.
Fuck.
He should call and fake a break up. But even as his finger’s poised over Mav’s contact, Bradley hesitates.
Because it’s not just Mav he wants to fool, is it?
Tapping into Instagram, to an account he follows as a form of self-flagellation, he scrolls through a grid of selfies and food porn from around the world, shots of the sun setting over oceans anonymous enough not to violate security, a pod of fucking dolphins and a whale breaching the surface of the sea, all interspersed with prideful snaps of an ever-growing collection of medals and accolades.
Adam Kazansky: Rachel’s twin brother; Ice’s pride and joy; the bane of Bradley’s existence.
The kid who’d announced to the dinner table during Bradley’s fourteenth summer that Bradley wanted to fly for the Navy. A secret he’d shared in confidence when the two of them had been talking about the future and Adam had declared he’d rather spend his life shoveling pig shit than follow in his father’s footsteps.
“Why would you want to be like your dad?” His lip had curled in disgust and Bradley, who’d recently taken to wearing his dad’s old shirts after Mav had unearthed a couple he’d kept in storage, had shrugged, aware that he’d given too much of himself away to someone who didn’t care what it meant.
Even back then he’d known that his mom wouldn’t want to hear about it – the look on her face when Adam gave the game away had been all the confirmation he’d needed.
It had been one of the few things they’d fought about, until she had something bigger to fight. An enemy that didn’t care about winning or losing, and won anyway.
The same day Mav blocked his application to the academy, Bradley’d got a text from Adam saying he’d got in.
Ever since, Bradley’s felt like the poor relation, pressing his nose up against the candy shop window while Adam sweeps a sample from every jar into his face before going back for seconds.
For a long time, Bradley’d assumed Adam didn’t give him a second thought – it’s not like they ever saw each other. A few years ago, though, Bradley had been one of the Golden Warriors seconded to the USS Abraham Lincoln – a carrier to which the VAQ-133 air wing was attached. First night shipping out he’d been sitting in the mess hall with Nacho and Hoops, the three of them still bedding in to a new team, when he’d heard a familiar laugh and turned sharply to see Lieutenant Commander Adam Kazansky walk through the door, a peacock surrounded by a cohort of sycophants.
Before he’d chance to turn away, the two had locked eyes and, from that point on, Bradley’s life aboard the carrier had been a specific kind of hell. Taunts and jibes and snide little asides fired at him from every angle, a rumor spreading across the ship that famed Top Gun graduate Rooster had been sent to the Abraham Lincoln as punishment for an unspecified infringement. A rumor convincing enough that even Nacho and Hoops, who should have known better – who did know better – started asking questions.
Two weeks in and Bradley had walked up to Adam’s bunk and hammered on the door. On seeing who’d knocked, Adam had rested one arm on the doorframe, vanity showing in the slight flex of his abs beneath his undershirt and the way the angle of his arm showed off the tone of his muscle.
“Baby Bradshaw.” A nickname he’d used when they were kids because Bradley was younger by a month. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Why’ve you been talking shit about me, Kazansky?”
An unctuous smile had oozed across Adam’s face. He’d inherited his father’s cheekbones and jawline, had the same mouth, and yet the way he held himself, how his face moved to express the personality within, was so far from Ice’s compassionate intelligence that it was hard to believe they were related at all.
“That’s one hell of an accusation to be firing at a superior officer, Lieutenant.”
Four years. Sometimes it meant nothing. Bradley’d worked hard to make himself believe that his path was his own and time wasn’t something that needed to hold him back. Sometimes it meant everything.
“Stop spreading rumors about me, sir, or I’ll lodge a complaint with your CO.”
“‘Sir’,” Adam had purred. “I like that word from you, Baby.”
“And I don’t like that one.” But the tone with which Adam said ‘Baby’, the look that accompanied it, had explained a lot.
“If I hear anyone spreading rumors, I’ll be sure to set them straight.” Delivered with an unmistakable edge to the word ‘straight’.
And, because once in a while it’s all-too-tempting to pull the tail of the tiger, Bradley had mirrored Adam’s pose, watched the slight drift of his attention as his gaze skimmed the line of Bradley’s body, and leaned in close enough to hear the change in his breathing.
“You do that.” A fraction of a pause. “Sir.”
Life had changed after that. Adam had gifted Bradley way too much power and he was shameless about using it. It hadn’t ended well.
So attending his sister’s wedding without a plus one does not appeal. Which brings Bradley back to the question of who.
Of the people he’s fucked in the last couple of years, he has the contact details of exactly three, and he can’t imagine any of them being all that pleased to be called up to attend a wedding two nights before Christmas. A holiday people usually like to reserve for their families – and one that Bradley’s traditionally done the opposite.
Last Christmas he’d been on ship somewhere far enough away there was no question of returning Stateside. But the Christmas before that…
A reflexive coil stirs low in his belly at the memory of what he’d been up to two years previously, when he was supposed to be at the Military Ball. A night spent fucking a golden Adonis with a knowing smirk, wickedly bright eyes and a talent for knowing exactly what Bradley wanted.
Jake. No last name had been offered and Bradley hadn’t asked. He’d been paying off the cost of Jake’s company well into the new year but, to this day, that night (and the day that followed) remains the best present Bradley’s ever bought for himself.
He still has Jake’s card.
Writing the email is swift work. Summoning the courage to press send takes longer, but he does it eventually.
The reply is instantaneous… because it’s an auto-response: Thank you for your enquiry. I no longer take in-person appointments, but feel free to check my website for alternative options.
Battling a nosedive of disappointment, Bradley clicks on the hyperlink to Jake’s OnlyFans site. What little he can see for free confirms that Jake’s as handsome as Bradley remembers, his breathing deepening, desire demanding more oxygen than a moment before. The subscription’s toward the pricier end of the spectrum, but Bradley’s already reaching for his wallet when an email alert pops up from Jake’s address.
Bradley Bradshaw – as in the fighter pilot who fucked me dry two Christmases ago?
Bradley laughs, pretty sure it was the other way around, but if the shoe fits…
One and the same.
He barely has to wait two minutes:
Still got the ’tache?
Bradley replies in the affirmative and the response is even faster:
Huh. Send me a decent photo.
Not entirely sure what counts as ‘decent’, Bradley spends longer than he’d like trying to get a picture that captures his face and enough of his body to show that he’s not been slacking in the gym.
The next reply takes a little longer than the last, but it’s worth the wait:
Alright. I’ll bite. (Or you will, if I recall.) What’s the job?