Work Text:
Natasha knows Bradley. Like, knows knows him. She is undoubtedly his closest friend even if he’s a bit of a moody asshole sometimes and stickler for the regs and takes far too much joy in ironing. He’s alright, really. He’s popular too. People flock to him because he’s got a golden boy streak a mile wide and he puts you at ease with a clink of a beer and a teasing joke. People think it comes easy to him.
It doesn’t.
The confidence, that’s all him, but the laughter, the happiness, the spontaneity? It’s all planned. She knows because she’s seen it. And she wishes he would get some fucking help, but he won’t.
*
NAS Pensacola is huge. It sprawls out in every direction, building after building after building all pre-made and assembled here, and the sun beats down without mercy. It’s fine for her, it feels a little like home, but the North-Eastern boys get so burnt in the first few weeks they never forget to wear sun cream again. Everyone will tell you learning to fly at Pensacola is surreal and she’s no different. She’s absorbed more information in the past six weeks than she ever did in four years at the Academy. It’s essentially a crash course in how not to get killed or piss off an admiral. She meets Bradley there, soon to become Rooster.
He sits next to her in the first lecture and extends a hand,
“Bradley Bradshaw,” He grins. She laughs,
“Bradley Bradshaw?” She mocks and he holds a hand on his heart and gasps in an effeminate gesture she was not expecting,
“You trying to make enemies on the first day?” He says and she laughs harder. When she calms down, she does actually manage to shake his hand,
“Natasha Trace,” She introduces herself and his grin only grows wider,
“We’re going to be very good friends, Nat,” he says, and she believes him.
The six weeks pass in a blur and Bradley is there for all of it with a dry comment and shit-eating grin. He quickly took to making fun of all of their instructors behind their backs in a way that had her struggling to talk to some of them with a straight face.
Pensacola is where their friendly competition begins too. Realising they get grades means that Natasha has extra ammo to wind him up with, which she does constantly. He responds with a ferocity she did not expect by throwing himself into everything just to beat her.
“You know, it almost seems like you don’t like getting beaten by a girl,” She teases one night at the bar when they’ve received the results for their penultimate assignment. He doesn’t laugh, actually he looks stricken with panic,
“Is that what you think this is?” He asks, brows furrowing. She’s thrown off by it, his upset.
“No, Bradley, I was joking,” She tries to assure him. He looks down, then glances around the bar, chewing on his lip. She takes another sip of her beer.
“It’s nothing to do with the fact you’re a girl, Nat,” He says it with such sincerity it sounds like pleading, “If I ever made you feel like that, I’m so, so sorry. You’re clearly going to be an incredible pilot and being a woman has nothing to do with that,”
She’s even further taken aback.
“Thanks, Bradley,” she says quietly, feeling emotion rise in her throat. Her dreams follow a path laid only by a few before her, she knows she’s going to make it, but she didn’t expect to do it with support.
“You know I’ve always got your back, right? Like if anyone says shit, I’ll knock them out,” He stresses and she laughs, then, trying to break the tension she can feel growing,
“You’ll knock them out?”
“Yeah, my-,” He stops himself. A montage of emotions slides across his face like he can’t decide which one he feels and eventually settles on cool indifference, “I learned when I was younger,” he explains. She clinks his beer,
“Cheers to knocking out sexists,”
“Cheers,” he says, and the grin is back in full force.
*
They meet Hangman in Texas learning how to fly Goshawks. They all get their callsigns in Texas. Rooster gets his after a drunken game of truth or dare, Phoenix after a lucky training accident, and Hangman, well, he’s just a plain dickhead.
If Pensacola is mind-blowing as your first commissioned navy experience, Kingsville is crazy. Phoenix thinks she spends the same amount of time drunk as she does in the air. Kingsville teaches you to feel invincible, it teaches you confidence and it’s meant to teach you to work as a team even if not everyone (read: Hangman) gets it.
It’s also the first time she starts to see the cracks in Bradley’s façade. She’s known him nine months by then, and she hadn’t suspected anything.
One evening he leaves the bar early with no explanation, he just pats everyone’s backs and walks out. No one else worries, but Natasha does.
She finds him later at the beach, staring out to sea, the sun fading on the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground. His curly hair ripples in the breeze, his knees pulled up to his chest, and his Hawaiian shirt abandoned, leaving him just in a white t-shirt and jeans.
“You look worse for wear,” she says, dropping down to sit next to him. His face is unreadable for a moment, before he startles back to reality,
“You don’t need to be here,” he says, voice hoarse. Cigarettes litter the ground around him.
“Kinda feels like I do,” She leans forward to make eye contact with him, “Come on, what’s wrong?”
He sighs, runs his hand through the sand, letting the granules pass through his fingers.
“It’s the anniversary of my dad’s death today,” He looks up from the sand to connect their eyes, tears welling in them,
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, feeling every inch like her Nonna back home, bringing Bradley into her arms. Her shoulders begin to dampen as he shakes, letting out the emotion he must have been holding it in all day, “no one would have blamed you if you took today off,” she says, and he shakes his head.
“Pointless,” he says, “I’d just sit in my room and be sad,” She concedes that as a decent reason not to.
“Is there anyone you need to call back home?” She realises starkly she knows nothing about his personal life. She doesn’t know the name of his mum or dad or if he has siblings or a partner. He hasn’t been forthcoming with any of that kind of information.
“Got no one,” he whispers, and there’s an edge to it, “Mom died too, haven’t got any siblings, don’t know any of my other family.” Natasha holds him tighter.
“Okay, well, you’ve got me, we’re family,” is what she settles on saying, incapable of letting this man believe there’s no one out there for him.
“Really?” His mouth is parted, eyes wide, tear tracks drying down his face and his snot is on her uniform, and she makes the promise to herself to look out for him with all her power.
“Yes, Bradley,” she affirms, “what would I do without my wingman?” he huffs a laugh, sucks in a breath,
“you’d be stuck with Bagman,” they say at the same time and descend into giggles afterwards, the alcohol still in both of their systems.
After that, an understanding grows between the two of them, like their thoughts have synced up and they can predict each other’s actions. Natasha would say it’s in Kingsville that they truly become best friends.
The other thing that happens in Kingsville is she witnesses Bradley’s horrific temper for the first time. Between learning about his dad and that incident, she starts to see the picture of Bradley’s childhood form before her eyes, even though she still feels like she’s missing so much.
It started off as harmless ribbing between the boys in the mess hall at lunch one day. She had rolled her eyes and tapped out of the conversation quickly, not interesting in their male posturing, but Bradley, of course, had been snared in with the temptation of winding up Hangman.
“Come on, Rooster, what’s the deal with Trace?” One of the idiots on their course asks, completely ignoring the fact that she’s right there.
“I don’t know, Pot-shot, what’s the deal with you and Bagman,” he replies, tone mocking. Pot-shot goes bright red as the rest of the group laughs at his expense. Hangman leans back, spreading his legs,
“Come on, baby, is that all you got?” He says to Rooster and the group makes a collective ‘oo’ sound as Rooster winks at him,
“Oh, you wanna know how much I got, Seresin?” Jake loves games like this, and Bradley knows it very well.
The issue is, though, Jake has no perception of boundaries. None.
“Not as much as your momma and she was down my place last night,” Bradley freezes, and then launches himself across the table without a second thought, tackling Hangman to the floor by his collar. His head cracks on the lino with a sickeningly loud noise and, because they’re all stupid men, the rest of the pilots start chanting fight! over and over.
Bradley gets a few good punches in before Jake rolls them over and does some damage of his own, splitting Bradley’s lip and leaving a cut in his hairline.
“Oh my God, boys!” Natasha shouts, lunging forward to pull Jake back off Bradley by his shoulders, almost resorting a choke hold to pull him backwards. She scrabbles to get hold of him again when he throws her off and then there’s a captain running toward them barking orders and she’s stepping backwards, and Bradley’s being hauled off.
Jake and Bradley spend the night in the brig.
He gets back the next morning on a phone call which she tells herself she isn’t eavesdropping on, but she is.
“Yes, I know, I was stupid,” Bradley’s saying and then he’s quiet for a good five minutes,
“I know, Ice, I know, no I don’t want to hear from him-,”
There’s another moment of silent when Bradley huffs as he’s cut off.
“Okay,” he sounds defeated, “love you, bye.” He hangs up. Then he meets her eyes.
“Um,” she says, and he grabs her arm as she tries to leave,
“Wait, Nat,” He holds her there by the door, making such strong eye contact she can’t look away, “I’m sorry for losing it, it’s just-, it’s just too much sometimes.” She studies him for a moment, taking in the pallid tone of his skin, the bags under his eyes,
“It’s okay, Bradley, it’s okay,” she says, and he sweeps her into a tight hug, making her rise on her toes.
“Thank you,” he says lowly into her hair, and she squeezes him just a bit harder.
*
They get separated. Almost a year together and they get fucking separated. Natasha could kill navy command. Bradley gets assigned to NAS Oceana for his fleet replacement squadron and she gets sent to NAS Lemoore. That’s nine months of training they won’t be with each other for. It’s the navy, she doesn’t really have a right to complain, but it rankles her – the inconsideration when her and Bradley score highest when they fly together.
Eventually a CO explains it’s to make sure they can fly just as well with other people but still. She’ll get over it. Bradley does some begging to Anonymous Phone Man (as she’s dubbed him) about changing his assignment but no joy.
*
Halfway through the FRS, command somehow gives them the opportunity to fly back to Annapolis to watch the Army Navy football game. Bradley screams down the phone in excitement to her about, ecstatic that they’ll see each other again, and she echoes the same sentiment. They talk daily, much to the amusement of Nat’s squad mates, but he’s always going to be special to her and no one compares to how close they are.
Two weeks later she’s running into his arms at the airport and he’s lifting her up and screaming with joy.
“I missed you so much!” She shouts, too loudly, and he replies with the same. Eventually, after Bradley’s CO tells him to get a move on, they pick up their baggage and head to their accommodation.
It’s far too nice for their rank. They even get separate rooms.
“Bradshaw, how the fuck did you swing this?” She asks and he sticks his head out of his door and grins at her.
“My dad had a few old friends who wanted to do something nice for me,” he says, and she rolls her eyes. Legacy navy brats.
The crowd at the stadium is electric. This game is the biggest event of the year, and it feels like the entirety of the USNA, and West Point have shown up to watch, all in their dress uniforms with mascots. The USNA’s real life mascot sheep makes a brief appearance accompanied with much whooping. It reminds her of her days at the Academy, stressed beyond belief about academics but having the time of her life.
She doesn’t mention it to Bradley. Last time she asked why he didn’t go to the Academy he shut down completely.
The two of them are in a box with some command staff she doesn’t personally recognise but she does recognise the number of stripes on their shoulders.
“Rooster, who the fuck are your dad’s friends?” She hisses at him. He stops waving at the crowd and gives her a toothy smile,
“Just you wait, little Phoenix,” he answers, and laughs when she purses her lips together, unimpressed.
The game begins without Phoenix meeting whoever Bradley knows and quickly she gets wrapped up in it, screaming at the navy players to move or run faster. Bradley is no different, both of them massive sport fans, and soon enough the whole box is leaning over the barrier joining in the ‘beat army!’ chant that gets going every five minutes. It’s a surreal experience. She remembers halfway through she should be networking, but no one here wants to talk careers and the game is so close that she can’t look away.
The navy win by the skin of their teeth. Privately, she thinks the army actually had the edge on them, but she joins in with the raucous celebrations, nonetheless. Everyone’s hugging each other and screaming as if they’d won World War Three, senior brass officers pumping fists and hoisting each other into the air.
Then, Bradley’s surprise shows up.
(She almost falls over the barrier.)
“Ice!” Bradley shouts as soon as he catches sight of him elbowing into the box, and then fucking Rear Admiral Kazansky, her boss’ boss’ boss’ boss, gives Bradley the biggest smile she’s ever seen. Gathering Bradley up in his arms, he holds him so close it feels unprofessional for this setting. It feels familial rather than friendly, and Natasha realises how little she still knows about him.
“How are you, kid?” Kazansky asks Bradley and he nods,
“Good,” he says, “thanks for getting us here,” Kazansky waves his gratitude away,
“All you ever need to do is ask, Bee.” He blushes a little bit, and Kazanksy hugs him again.
Natasha tries to look inconspicuous during the whole interaction, but Bradley knows her better than that. He’s well attuned to her snooping tendencies.
“Ice,” he waves Natasha forward, “this is Lieutenant Natasha Trace, callsign Phoenix.”
She sticks out her hand and graciously, Kazansky shakes it.
“She’s training with the Flying Eagles at the moment,” Bradley informs him and Kazansky raises an eyebrow,
“One of mine?”
“Yes sir,” she says, and he gives her a conspiratorial grin,
“Don’t crash my planes, lieutenant,” the joke puts her at ease, and she manages to join in with his laughter,
“I won’t sir,” she assures him, and he looks pleased. Bradley is practically glowing. Natasha gets the feeling he really, really wanted her to like Kazansky.
They chat for a bit longer before Kazanksy is whisked away for what Natasha assumes are rear admiral duties but not without a hushed conversation between him and Bradley that gets increasingly heated until Kazansky puts a stop to it. Bradley seems ruffled afterwards, but she doesn’t mention it.
Later, they’re on the roof of their accommodation looking out across the Academy. Bradley’s been quiet since they came back from the game, usually they’d lighten up and have a few beers but right now they’re off alcohol. Strike team training and all that.
“Is something up, Bradley?” She finally asks after joke attempt number seven is shot down. He sighs, looks down at his hands. She recognises the nervous habit.
“Nothing’s wrong, I just-,” he cuts himself off. Takes another deep breath, “promise you won’t be mad at me?”
“Roo, what’s going on?” She asks, moving to sit up to look at him properly.
“Just promise, Nat, please?” She can see in his eyes how much he needs her approval for whatever this is.
“I promise,” she relents. He relaxes. Minutely. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.
“I’m bi,” he says, turning to look up at her with sincerity written into every inch of his body. His Adam’s apple bobs. “And I just wanted you to know,”
“Oh Bradley,” he falls onto his back with the strength of her throwing her arms around him, “thank you for telling me,”
“Are you… surprised?” She pulls back, giving him a nonplussed look.
“I cannot tell you how much I try to avoid thinking about your sex life,” he guffaws, throwing his head back, the tension well and truly broken.
“Same,” he says, “I’m glad I told you,”
“Me too,” she lets him sit back up, clinking their Sprites together like they would a pint. “Amen to getting fucked over by cocky navy assholes,”
“Amen to that, sister,” he says and chugs the Sprite, then hacks foam up over the roof. Charming, Natasha thinks.
*
Her FRS squadron open their assignments together. Most of them will stay with the Pacific Fleet and some will be sent to wherever’s currently lacking a fighter pilot. Hers reads:
Lieutenant Natasha “Phoenix” Trace
Strike Fighter Squadron 41 (VFA-41)
“Black Aces”
USS Abraham Lincoln
NAS Lemoore
United States Pacific Fleet
First to Fight, First to Strike
There’s the Black Aces patch inside too, ready to be ironed on to her flight suit. It’s a dream come true. She’s a pilot, a fighter pilot, and she’s deploying on an aircraft carrier.
Six years, just about, to get to this point. The Academy and everything that came after.
She wipes the tears off on her sleeve and thinks about Bradley.
Bradley’s squadron opens theirs together too, as per tradition. He banned Ice from telling him anything about his assignment, wanting it to be a complete surprise. His reads:
Lieutenant Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw
Strike Fighter Squadron 87 (VFA-87)
“Golden Warriors”
USS Gerald R. Ford
NAS Oceana
United States Fleet Forces Command
“War Party Rocks!!!”
It’s perfect. He stares at it until he’s swept up in the cheering with everyone else and his COs are dumping buckets of water on them all and he knows he’s getting drunk tonight. He’ll call Nat later.
*
They don’t see each other for three years.
Their fleet deployments take them to opposite sides of the country and then the world and then it’s 2012 and they haven’t seen each other.
Natasha’s fleet deployment is insane, but that’s a story for another day.
They get recalled to Jacksonville.
Three years.
Bradley is different.
He’s tanned darker, his hair is shorter meaning it doesn’t curl over anymore and he’s grown the kind of moustache that’s only permissible in porn or the navy. His body still sits with a laidback swagger and his eyes still glitter with mischief.
They don’t scream and jump when they reunite, he just embraces her tight to his chest and she winds her arms around his waist, holding each other in silence. Eventually someone whistles at them and she gives them the middle finger. He runs his hands down her arms, checking everything is still in place.
“I missed you,” he says, “Jesus, I missed you so much.” He smiles slightly, the bags under his eyes creasing,
“I missed you too, you sap,” she shoves him with a shoulder. They laugh and head out of the airport towards base check-in for the next few weeks of the detachment.
She studies him silently for the first few days. He charms their instructors as usual, makes friends as usual, but there’s something else going on. It’s only obvious to Natasha because they’ve known each other so long but he’s different. Changed. And it’s not maturity or any of that bullshit. It’s more of a bone deep weariness, like he’s carrying weight he never used to.
They’re sharing a cigarette the first time she asks. She exhales, hands it back to Bradley,
“You seem different,” she says, and he laughs, “no I’m serious, Brad, it’s weird.” He shrugs,
“I don’t think I’m different,” Cigarette smoke curls in the air above him as he tips his head back and breathes it out. Sweat trails down his throat, the temperature still easily in the high 20s even at night in Texas.
“Did something happen in Virginia or something?” She takes the cigarette when he holds it out to her. He shakes his head, wraps his arms around his knees. They’re under the shadow of the hangar roof, the floodlights stretching out across the airfield in front of them. The land is completely flat here, the desert racing away in every direction into the darkness. In a distant part of her mind, she imagines this what Afghanistan would be like if she gets the chance to go.
“I’m fine, Nat, I promise,” he gives her knowing look, used to her prying. She accepts it with a suspicious glare.
Before the hop the next day, she watches him bounce his leg in the briefing, stare out the window, chew his pen, and do anything other than listen. She hadn’t seen him at breakfast that morning. The instructor doesn’t seem to notice how distracted he is. The guy next to him steadies him with a hand on his elbow when he lurches up from the chair.
As he stows his stuff in his locker, his hands shake and he wipes sweat from his forehead, slipping into his flight suit quickly with no fuss. He pushes off from the locker, takes two steps, and blacks out.
Natasha shouts and jumps forward when she hears him go down, accompanied by her fellow aviators leaping over to try and break his fall.
He’s properly out.
They take him to hospital where she meets Maverick.
Maverick is equivalent to when you get to the end of the puzzle and the last piece doesn’t fit for Nat’s picture of Bradley’s life. This man, clearly a distinguished pilot who she’s never heard of before, is Bradley’s emergency contact. And Bradley loathes him. No sense whatsoever.
He spends three days in hospital under observation and she visits him every day, bringing him news from training and gossip and he slowly regains his colour and weight. Maverick is there too, in silence in a corner of the room. Bradley calls Iceman at one point and lets Natasha talk to him as well. Mav smiles a little then, a change from his fixed indifferent expression.
The training finishes three weeks later and they get sent to their shore detachment postings, back to their squadrons and miles apart.
Natasha gets to TOPGUN first.
Bradley a year later.
There’s a deployment or two to Iraq and Afghanistan, and then there’s the special mission.