Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Who’s Babygirl?”

Rooster looks up from where he’s been trying and failing to sink a solid. “Hm?”

Coyote picks up Rooster’s phone from where it’s sitting at the edge of the pool table, buzzing incessantly. “Your notifications are going crazy, Bradshaw. Seven texts from Babygirl and still coming in.”

His expression reminds Nat of how he got his callsign – predatory, seeking blood for fun. Machado is pretty fun most of the time, except when he’s got a bone to pick with you or you pique his interest somehow. And what she’s learned over years of knowing him, is Javy loves secrets.

A mysterious contact with a provocative name? Bradshaw was done for. 

“Oh,” Bradley props the cue stick by his hip, pulling at his mustache. “Y’know.” 

Coyote makes a tsk-ing sound. “None of that bullshit.”

“C’mon, Javy,” Natasha slides in, because Bradley has started fidgeting with the aviators hanging around his neck. “It’s something new, give him a break.”

It’s an easy story — potentially even true — and it seems to appease Javy.

“Babygirl already, huh?”

“I’m a sucker for a nickname,” Rooster shrugs, leaning harder into the story Nat has spun. It’s true: Bradley gave half his class their callsigns. He has a knack for coming up with things that stick. 

A loud exclamation from Coyote indicates he’s distracted enough so the topic can drop. Hangman struts in, still in uniform and attracting the interested eyes of more than half the patrons in the room. Javy pulls Seresin into a hug: they’re conjoined at the hip whenever they’re in the same place, which is more often than not.

Natasha will never admit this except under threat of death, but she finds their friendship endearing. Two peas in a pod. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.

A very pretty woman heads towards the two men and Bradley rolls his eyes towards Natasha, commiserating at the flirting they’re about to witness. Nat is still more concerned with said babygirl. 

“Close call.”

Bradley shrugs, unbothered. “Not really.”

Nat raises an eyebrow, an unspoken ask of excuse you because she just saved Bradley’s ass from an interrogation and he still isn’t offering up information, like a good friend should.

“Okay, fine. Tell me this then: when did you start dating?”

Because that’s the thing about Bradley — he doesn’t do dates. Doesn’t pick up people when they go out. Nat has seen the odd one night stand early in their friendship, but even those had fizzled out over time, though not for lack of trying from interested parties. She can’t remember the last time Bradley mentioned anyone. Has never used a dating app – lucky bastard – and doesn’t mention anyone of interest. Most of their conversations around dating, if that, have been around her own relationships.

Bradley wipes the condensation from his beer off the counter. “I’m thirty-five, Nat. Might be hard to believe but I do wanna be with someone.”

“So you're putting yourself out there.”

“So I'm putting myself out there,” Bradley repeats. He utters it like a sacrifice. 

“And you like this person?” Nat keeps it carefully neutral. She isn’t about to make an assumption — has unfortunately stumbled upon Bradley’s porn history while borrowing his phone for a quick search. They had adamantly Not Talked About It, but the search terms have been burned into her brain. 

“Yeah,” Bradley shrugs, and then he gets up to the empty piano, effectively ending the conversation. 

Nat sighs. She needs to make new friends, ones preferably not in the same line of work and equally emotionally constipated. A loud laugh from the corner catches her attention. Two more women have joined Coyote and Hangman, though both men are too engrossed in their darts game to notice.

Hangman’s saving grace, Nat thinks as she watches him leave a two meter distance from the interested women, is he’s a loyal guy. He sticks by Coyote when it’s not in the air, and he’s proven, shockingly, to put his career on the line for his teammates. Wears a wedding band proudly and never uses his looks to do what most Navy people wind up doing, even though more than enough people sidle up to him at whatever bar. 

Sometimes he hangs it on his tags, a safer place when they’re flying. Bob had seen the ring when everyone peeled off their flight suits for a break one day and caught her eye. Nat had just shrugged.

Hangman has been cuffed since the early days, back when everyone was young and dumb and stationed together at Lemoore. Coyote had spotted it first, whistling his congratulations; all Seresin had done was smirk and shrug it off. 

Bradley plays a quick scale, plonking a high note on the piano, and it draws the womens’ attention away from Javy and Hangman. Natasha squeezes next to Fanboy and accepts the beer he offers, ready to sing her heart out.

They’re a permanent elite squad situated in San Diego, and while one or two of them rotate onto special assignments, this is a weird settledness allowing them to actually get to know each other as people. It’s a rare commodity Nat is starting to grow grateful for: she’s seen edges of the world she’d never thought possible, but she loves this little nook of California. 

And yet, as the Daggers have gotten closer post-mission, falling quickly into shared alcoholic tendencies and easy ribbing, sharing bits and pieces of their personal life, Hangman hadn’t said much of anything. He’s mentioned sisters, a ranch, family vacations to national parks, but nothing about who he’s married to.

She’s not the only one curious: Payback baits every now and then with How’s the missus? and Omaha tags him in the groupchat for pictures that never come. Nat has even offered stories of her dates in hopes Hangman will poke fun and slip up, but no dice. The fact that Coyote doesn’t have a sense as Hangman’s actual friend serves to add to the mystery. 

Two tenets are true of their squad: they’re Topgun best and totally nosy. Secrets are for people who don’t have to trust with their life on a normal basis. 

It’s why they exchange a look the next day when they’ve gathered at Javy’s place for dinner, food a tried-and-true for team bonding. Hangman removes his ring to eat the ribs Payback brought, and the buzz of the question grows in anticipation the more beers everyone downs.

“Hangman,” Javy finally sighs as they all sit around in lawn chairs, plates empty, “Are you ever going to share with the class?” 

“About what?” Hangman is lounging on the back porch, legs sprawled out lazily. He’s been showboating all night with Javy’s darts setup outside, which is nothing new. Natasha can tolerate him for a lot longer now, in casual settings. 

Javy picks up his friend’s hand and flashes the fourth finger. “Holding out on all of us! Holding out on me .”

“Surprised you haven’t gotten it out of him yet,” Fanboy laughs — he famously lasted all of four minutes once at the mess hall before Javy had gotten pictures of who he was seeing. 

“I’ve done my best,” Coyote protests, feigning hurt. “No invite to the wedding… no Christmas cards… I’m starting to think you’re breaking up with me, Seresin.”

Hangman simpers, grasping Javy’s hand dramatically to his chest. “I would never. ”

“But it’s really not a big deal,” he continues, “It’s not like I’m the only one married here.”

“The difference is everyone here knows who my wife is,” Payback snorts, pointing a pickle spear at Hangman in accusation. “And has met her several times, unfortunately for her.”

Fanboy splutters in protest at the pointed look sent his way. “I was a perfect gentleman!”

“Tell us something, otherwise I’m starting to believe they don’t exist.” Omaha challenges, punctuating his statement with the crack of the opening of another beer.

“Well,” Jake says, clearly enjoying dragging this out like the attention-whore he is, “They’ve got a very perky ass.”

Besides Natasha, Rooster chokes on his soda.

“Dude, I take it back.” Yale shakes his head. “Here I thought you were a hidden romantic”

“You wouldn’t blame me if you’ve seen it,” Hangman smirks. “What else do you fuckers wanna know?”

Harvard chimes in, tossing a used napkin to the side. “How long have you been together?”

“Fair number of years,” Hangman replies. He leans back with arms folded behind his head, breezy and unflappable. Natasha wants to bonk him on the head like a whack-a-mole. 

“Specifics!” Javy crows, still peeved.

“Coming up on nine, if I’m counting correctly.”

“How does she have the patience to put up with you?” Payback joins. 

Clearly with the litany of questions, everyone has been bursting with curiosity. They’re all nosy little fuckers, Nat sighs, herself included, because the amount of space everyone’s romantic life takes up in her brain is bad. She still has to catch up with Halo about her last date.

“I make it worthwhile,” Hangman says, voice dripping with innuendo. Almost everyone groans, knowing this is devolving very, very quickly.

Javy elbows him. “You’re disgusting.”

“If it works, it works,” Hangman shrugs, unflinching at Javy’s pointy elbow. He’s holding court. “Anything else?”

“How’d you meet?” Nat asks, caving to her own curiosity. Bradley sighs besides her, breaking a tortilla chip in half with a loud snap. 

“Oh, it was love at first sight, Phoenix,” Hangman smiles, leaning back and taking the groans that come from the rest of the squad like it’s his own personal reward. “Saw those big brown eyes and couldn’t help myself.” 

It’s more than he’s ever said, but Hangman’s still deflecting — they’re clearly not going to get anything actually personal out of him. 

“Fine.” Fritz has clearly come to the same conclusion as Nat, and he’s going in for the kill. “How’s the bedroom, with you gone all the time?”

“Enough,” Bradley cuts Hangman off before he can answer, serious and at odds with the rest of their joking. “Jesus. Since when have you all cared this much?”

Javy and Nat exchange a look. Everyone has been getting along great before this, but their friends are — volatile. More often than not, Rooster and Hangman are the ones snippy over calls, criticizing each other’s flying with fervor and no holds barred. There are compliments and acknowledgements of success but their competitive nature will likely never fade, too ingrained, it seems, to wash away into peace.

Hangman smirks, unphased. “Thought you of all people would want the dirty details, Rooster.”

Bradley snorts. “Me?”

“Considering you don’t get out much.” Hangman tips his beer forward, grin sharp and vicious. 

Nat shoots Bob a look, who straightens up and wipes his fingers with a napkin. “Okay, no details of Hangman’s sex life, got it. Last one, and we’ll stop.”

Hangman clicks his tongue. “Aw, look. You ruined their fun, Rooster.”

“Whatever,” Bradley leans back, cracking open another Diet Coke. “Someone ask and get this over with.” 

“Okay, okay,” Halo pipes up. “Tell us your favorite thing about them.”

Hangman, to his credit, does soften at the question. He ponders it with a smile, no smarm, before replying, “They’re loyal as all hell.”

The answer is a hit, genuine aw’ s echoing through the backyard. Rooster, however, stays silent once again. Nat watches him slip away from the back porch, plate and drink abandoned.

“Phoenix, beer pong?” Fanboy gestures towards her from the fold-out table, Hangman’s moment on the hot seat over.

“Sure.”

She plays one game and carries her and Payback to victory over their WSOs. Bob takes the loss far more gracefully than Fanboy, but he shotguns both beers in turn, Bob dropping to do push ups until Nat cuts him off with an amused kick. 

“Coyote, I’ll bring these in?” Nat says, raising some dirty dishes and looking for a reasonable excuse to check on Bradley in the house. He hasn’t reappeared and she feels bad letting him flounder alone. Either the center of attention or moody in the corner, Nat sighs. It was very nice of him to volunteer to be designated driver for the night, but it definitely wasn’t helping as they all got deep into the libations.

She’s gearing herself up to be a good friend and maybe get at why Bradley’s so bothered. It's not like he shies away from sharing gossip. He just rarely volunteers his own. Rooster is a black hole where secrets go to die: a good and bad thing. 

“I think you’re enjoying this too much.” A familiar voice is low but clear from the kitchen, and when she peeks through the door, Rooster and Hangman are leaning on opposite ends of the counter, beers in hand. She hadn’t realized Hangman had come in, too. 

“Can’t blame me for bragging about my baby.”

“Cut the crap, Jake.”

“ Ouch. Jealous, Bradshaw?”

“Of what? You all loved up?” She hears Bradley reply and the rough timbre of his voice makes her realize they’re not actually on the edge of an argument. 

Nat dares another look and hates herself immediately. They’ve moved closer in the span of thirty seconds. Hangman has the lip of his bottle pressed against Bradley’s mouth now, and Nat watches in horror as he tips it forward. Bradley has a right hand curled possessive over Seresin’s waist. Both men are maintaining such intense eye contact, there should be sparks. 

It’s the most horrifying image to ever exist. Also what the fuck ? They’d just spent twenty minutes ragging on Hangman for being a devoted husband and yet, she’s watching the two of them do —

The alcohol is making her head slow. 

Big brown eyes.

Oh, of course.

She strides into the kitchen, coughing very loudly; Natasha drops the dirty dishes into the sink with more force than she should. In her defense, they’re heavy and greasy.

Hangman springs back but Bradley doesn’t move, and when Natasha raises one questioning eyebrow, he relinquishes and undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, pulling down the collar. An intricate line tattoo of a wedding ring is over the right side of his chest. It looks like it matches Hangman’s. 

She’s going to fucking deck him in the jaw.

“Well,” Nat finds her voice again after a long stretch of silence, “I’d rather this than find out from you two in a more compromising position. But you’re really on my shit list now, Bradshaw.”

He has the grace to raise both hands in surrender, but he doesn’t look all that phased. “Swear we had a good reason.”

“Oh?”

“DADT, Phoenix,” Seresin bites out, looking for all the world like he wishes the ground would swallow him whole. “You forget?”

She softens, breadth of the sight in front of her really sinking in. “Okay – but when that was repealed – and you know I wouldn’t. Hell, we wouldn’t.”

“I know! We know,” Bradley reassures her, “It just started off risky and became…habit, I guess. At some point, it was easier at work, and we didn’t want it to complicate things once we got here.” 

His fingers drum against the counter. “Mav doesn’t even know; what kinda decision would he have made for the mission?” 

“A bad one,” Hangman chimes in on cue. This is a conversation they’ve clearly had before.

“It’s not on your file?”

“Mav doesn’t read stuff,” Bradley waves his hand, very sure of his godfather’s lack of love for documentation. “Considering he separates us when we get a little snippy, I’m pretty sure he still thinks we can barely stand each other.”

“That shit Hangman brought up during training makes it a reasonable assumption,” Nat points out.

“Not wrong,” Hangman sounds unapologetic. She’d defend her best friend, except Bradley doesn’t look bothered at all.

“You didn’t have the tattoo during training?” Natasha asks, still piecing it all together. She’s observant; they would’ve seen on the beach. 

“Got it after the mission because I — am prone to losing things,” Bradley says, glancing sheepishly at Jake in a way that would be endearing if it weren’t for the fact she’s mad at him right now. “Used to wear a ring on my tags.”

“Lost it while ejecting,” Hangman supplies. “Worthwhile trade.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Bradley mumbles but Hangman waves it away: a clear dismissal of Bradshaw’s guilt. 

“Anyways,” Hangman clears his throat, “You’re in on it. Congrats, Phoenix. Now what?”

It’s a challenge and Natasha recognizes the stance: he’s in protective mode. Thinking about damage control. She takes a deep breath and backs off. 

“Now nothing.” Nat gives him her most winning smile. “Now I know why Bradley has no game.”

“Excuse you,” Bradley squawks, and it earns a sharp, pleased laugh from Seresin.

“Well, that’s true,” Hangman allows. “He tried to woo me with gas station snacks.”

“It worked,” Bradley sulks. “Keep this up and I’m not driving either of you home.”

—

“Did you mean it?” Bradley’s voice cuts the quiet of the car ride back suddenly. They’ve just dropped off Payback and Fanboy at their apartment and Jake is enjoying the breeze, salt air rushing through the open window.

“Mean what?”

“That,” Bradley continues before sucking in a harsh breath.  Jake sobers up a little when he realizes Bradley’s knuckles are white where they’re gripping the steering wheel. Vaguely, he wonders if he’s done something wrong.

“That it was love at first sight.” He manages. Bradley’s gaze is set determinedly on the road. Jake wants to pull his husband in by the collar and kiss him senseless.

“Yeah,” Jake says, quiet as well — it’s no longer a show, not entertainment for a captive audience. It’s just them, in the car, on the way back to their house. “I know it doesn’t work that way — but you were so fucking sad and passionate and hopped up on competition, I couldn’t look away.”

They don’t say these things often. More action, less talk. Jake shies from straight affection and Bradley too has his limits, but the alcohol is making his tongue loose. More raw. He watches Bradley swallow, Adam’s apple jumping. Jake dares to look up; Bradley’s eyes are straight ahead and glassy. 

“That’s sweet,” Bradley says, after they turn off the main road and Jake sees the familiar tree with the low crooked branch. “Really.”

“Getting soft on me, Bradshaw?”

Bradley takes the familiar final turn into their driveway. “Wore me down, maybe.”

—

Javy gets an invite to dinner from Jake the next weekend, an olive branch and a full explanation owed. He’s not so mad after a bombshell of a phone call last Sunday that he’ll refuse a free meal. When he arrives, though, Natasha’s also waiting at the front door.

“Oh,” she sighs when he waves, “It’s an ambush.”

Jake is the one who opens the door when they ring the doorbell. He’s got an apron over a dark green button-up, cooking gloves in the hand on his hip, grinning like this is a completely normal sight. Like Hangman, domestic and charming, welcoming them to a home awash in the soft warm glow of a California evening, is something they should be accustomed to.

“Welcome,” Jake gives Javy a friendly punch on the shoulder, “Shoes go on the rack, jackets in the closet next to it.”

Javy doesn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jake in his element outside the cockpit — maybe one leave where he’d invited Javy to go watch a UT game at the beginning of the season and showed up decked out in the most garish orange pants Javy had ever seen. But here he is, sidestepping a ledge to the kitchen without looking twice. 

Rooster is facing away from them, chopping rapidly against a thick wooden cutting board. He only turns when Jake runs a hand down his back, a signal. Javy watches them exchange a look.

Rooster flashes a very big smile their way when Nat begrudgingly offers the bottle of wine she’s brought. “Thanks for coming.”

“Do not even try to charm your way out of this,” Nat bites back immediately — the moment Jake had hung up, he’d texted her in all caps, trying to capture the internal screaming in his brain. 

I KNOW, he’d gotten back. MARRIED. 

“You’re buttering us up,” Nat narrows her eyes at the slab of sirloin sizzling in the pan. The kitchen smells delectable. 

Jake shoves a drink into his hand; it’s smoky and citrusy, mezcal curling over Javy’s tongue. 

“This is good,” Javy comments, sipping loudly the way he knows Jake hates. “I see right through you, though.”

“No shame in avoiding murder,” Jake smiles benignly.

“We figured we had some explaining to do,” Bradley corrects smoothly. “And Jake makes good steak.”

The we used is easy; it’s said with normality, like Bradley and Jake are constantly saying things like we’ll have two beers or yeah, we loved that movie . The reality sinks in starkly at that moment: yeah. That’s what they would and probably do. Jake moves to grab a knife for cutting a pat of butter and Bradley weaves out of his way, hot pan of potatoes in hand fresh from the oven. 

It’s a well-practiced dance, a second awareness of where the other one is. It’s nice, if he’s being honest.

“So how long?” Nat bites the bullet, leaning over the counter with her own drink in hand. “Has it really been nine years?”

“Depends if you’re talking about the first blowjob or the first date,” Jake replies. 

Javy wrinkles his nose. “Dude.”

“Forgive me, but I really can’t see you two going on dates,” Natasha laughs.

“I beg to differ, Phoenix, the big lump can be very romantic,” Jake smirks. He waves to the flowers on the table for example. “It was all very high school prom.”

“It was not ,” Rooster protests. 

“There was a piano serenade.”

Natasha cackles, much to Rooster’s embarrassment, ears red. “You’re such a cliche.”

“He liked it!” Rooster snaps a dish towel in Jake’s direction. Jake dodges behind Javy, full on laughing. 

“I’m starting to prefer you two pretending not to like each other,” Javy cringes at the display of affection, second-hand embarrassment strong. 

It’s a rare sight, Jake without his guards, one Javy only sees on the rare off duty occasion. Maybe it’s a sign of honor, to get to watch them on full display. Hangman moves the steak off the cast iron to rest and when he finally cuts into it, Javy’s mouth waters.

“This may be working,” he admits. 

“I know how to work a man,” Jake comments smoothly, before elbowing Rooster. “What happened to being a good host? Phoenix has no more wine.”

“True, she doesn’t,” Natasha grins. 

Rooster rolls his eyes, but obliges with a refill. 

“No ceremony then?” Javy takes Jake’s offered piece of steak in two fingers, wincing at the heat. “Shame. You’d probably rock a wedding dress.”

“I would,” Jake shoots back, “But nah, city hall, got it done in an hour.”

“Of course you got married young,” Javy huffs. He knows Hangman’s parents have been together since high school, and Jake’s older sister had gotten the ring by spring. It’s unsurprising he’d continued the pattern with a flight school sweetheart.

“Twenty three is plenty old enough,” Jake brushes him off, passing the salad over. 

Nat also grabs a piece from where Jake is cutting up the steak. “The nicer benefits don’t hurt.”

“Fair. But mainly because I couldn’t let him deploy all over the world looking like that,” Bradshaw laughs. He squeezes Jake’s bicep with unrestrained possessiveness. Jake is clearly used to if the way he doesn’t even react is any indication.

“But the brass knows?” Javy presses. He doesn’t want them to face repercussions, for them to get in any sort of trouble. He’ll fight like a hell-hound against anyone if so, a fierce protectiveness washing over him. Javy realizes, watching Jake relax against Bradley’s side, it’s because this is the happiest he’s ever seen the guy – not the exuberant competition at a party, but a quiet peace settled over him. Something that’s been missing for the past month.

And Javy’s a worrier. He’s got a hell of a poker face, but he’d been watching Rooster backslide into something he couldn’t help with either. To see it finally gone, for one reason or another, is worth celebrating.

“They know enough,” Jake shrugs, “Wouldn’t be in trouble.”

Natasha has a heavy pour and they all get pleasantly, tipsy drunk. Javy allows Jake to spoil him with second helpings of everything, if only for gaining penance over years of secrets. It stings, just a little. But it’s nice to finally be let in.

“Oh.” The puzzle pieces click as he watches Rooster tap away at his phone, trying to pick a song. Javy flashes a shit-eating grin at Jake. “You have him saved as babygirl, don’t you, Rooster?” 

Hangman whirls around in abject glee. Bradshaw pales. 

“I knew you two would gang up on me,” he groans, throwing a used spoon into the sink. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“No,” Natasha says, face twisting in disgust. “Jesus, Rooster.”

“I’m so flattered,” Jake slides his arms around his husband – wild, Javy thinks dryly, comparing this old-married version of them with how they almost bit each other’s heads off during training. “Am I your babygirl, darling?”

“Shut up,” Nat and Rooster say in unison, the former in horror and the latter in mortification. 

“Please,” Bradshaw tacks on, after Hangman glares. 

Jake catches his eye and yeah, yeah , Javy could get used to being in on this.  

—

Bradley slides in late to brunch the next weekend. It’d been a week of brutal hops, training sessions that left all of them exhausted and snapping at each other on the tarmac, looking awkwardly over beers as the frustration finally wore off on Friday. They’re packed into a large corner booth, shoulder to shoulder bickering over the pot of coffee the waitress had dropped off. Bradley wonders if they’re all getting codependent. He kinda loves it.

They’d figured it was time to burst the bubble. He’s far more excited than he’d been when they’d announced it to Mav over a coffee visit a few weeks ago. It’d been horrifying, Bradley stumbling through a panicked excuse to a bumbled explanation. Jake did nothing to help him: he paraded around the house like he knew where everything was – which wasn’t wrong but some light acting would’ve been nice. 

At one point, as Bradley was about to combust, Jake leaned over to Maverick and said, “So, Pops, would you agree daddy issues make people better in bed?”

He’d made Jake grovel a bit that night, but his husband had doubled-down that the sheer mortification on both faces had been worth it. 

Their squad will take it better; Phoenix and Javy already know, so that’s two down. He lets his left hand fall onto the table, taking a deep pull from the mug in his right. 

Jake’s fingers slot on top of his almost immediately, and when Bradley peeks, his husband’s eyeing the omelet section of the menu with burning intensity. The quirk of his mouth in the beginning of a self-satisfied grin is the only thing that gives him away.

The Daggers don’t notice, not immediately. They’re too busy debating how many consecutive barrel rolls Phoenix could take Bob through before either of them lose their guts. Coyote thinks Bob will cave before Trace does and Payback is certain of the opposite. There’s talk of money on the table, and Jake’s egging them on, five dollar bills floating onto the sticky table-top.

Bradley’s shoulders relax.

The food gets dropped off in large, inelegant dishes, and they’re noticed when Fanboy goes for the hot sauce. He immediately chokes on his toast. It’s enough to grab everyone’s attention in the exact sudden dramatic way Bradley detests and Jake thrives in.

“Are you two holding hands?” Payback asks incredulously.

The silence is thick. He meets Natasha’s eyes – she looks torn between amusement, pride, and the urge to punch him in the face. 

“What?” Bradley says, “No.”

He’s running his fingers absentmindedly across Jake’s ring. It takes everything in him not to melt into Jake’s side, or laugh at the incredulous expression on the squad's faces.

“They’re gaslighting us,” Nat sighs. “I knew you shouldn’t have gone to therapy, Bradshaw.”

“Hey, it’s been good for me,” Bradley retorts. “No more anger issues left.”

Jake and Bob let out simultaneous snorts.

“Only some anger issues left,” Bradley corrects himself. He’s blushing, but it’s not like they all haven’t seen each other at their worst. His worst has just tended to be — more recent. 

“Okay, no, this?” Fanboy points his fork at their conjoined hands, “You’re fucking with us.”

“Yeah,” Jake chimes in, grinning as he pulls his hand away to drop it onto Bradley’s thigh. “Caught us.”

“Practical joke.”

“Got married for a six year set-up,” Jake nods sagely.

“Married,” Fritz echoes hollowly. “Holy shit.”

“Six years?” Bob squawks, turning to appraise Nat in betrayal over his pancakes. “You said you didn’t know who Hangman was married to!”

“I didn’t!” Nat protests. “Until like a week ago.”

Payback is still suspicious, knife hovering over where he’s buttering his bagel. “Relationship or not, y’all gave each other your call-signs and the explanation I heard would’ve pissed off anyone.”

“True,” Fanboy adds.

Go big or go home. Bradley sips from his mug, coffee now lukewarm. “You can fill in the blanks on his helmet a number of ways.”

Everyone on God’s green earth has heard the joke before, which just adds insult to the team’s injury. The entire table groans loud enough for the rest of the diner patrons to look their way in annoyance.

“Oh my god,” Halo exchanges a pained look with Omaha, twin reactions. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Jake – what does Rooster stand for?”

 Jake smirks, and says primly, “Alarm cock.”

When the entire squadron stares, Jake takes on the immensely helpful task and explains, “Bradshaw loves a good round of morning sex.”

“It’s a dick joke,” Bob whispers in horror. “Their entire relationship is one long, extended dick joke.”

“Very long,” Jake purrs. He and Bradley move in sync to dodge the napkins thrown at them in rapid succession.

—

Javy’s coffee order is two creams, two sugars, and a hell of a lot of caramel. Said order, exactly the way he likes it, is resting on the counter. The curtains are already thrown wide open and there’s an extra pair of sneakers kicked off by the door. 

He’s got an intruder. 

“You’re letting it get to you,” Javy sighs. 

Nat twists the strands of her hoodie; they’re always crooked because she doesn’t tie them before throwing them into the machine. “We know about them now, so – it feels mean not to.”

“They kept it from us for years,” Javy points out, and he slides a chair out for her and forces Natasha down with a gentle shove to her shoulders. “I figure we have at least another six months of grace. I’m still making Jake pay for my drinks.”

Nat sighs. “What if they catch on?”

“They won’t,” Javy snorts, “Jake and Bradley are as observant as a brick wall. Have they caught on yet?”

“No,” she wrinkles her nose, “I’m pretty sure the last time Bradley asked about my dating life was a year ago, and even then, he didn’t know what Hinge was.”

“Of course he wouldn't, he’s old and married,” Javy points out. “I’m pretty sure people were using EHarmony.” 

Nat rolls her eyes. “He’s like, three years older than you.”

“Geriatric,” Javy affirms. He pops in an extra slice of toast for her. “Look – I don’t mind. I’m all for it. I’ll text Jake right now.” 

Her eyes are golden brown in the sunlight streaming through, crinkling slightly at the edges. It feels like a good bet; nothing to lose to tell two people with tight lips. Who can’t protest too much for not knowing. Javy taps out a quick message and sends it without a second thought.

Immediately, Nat’s phone lights up with a call.

“Actually, I hate them,” Nat declines the call from Rooster. “Bet they were gossiping all these years about everyone. Are you making eggs?”