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They’re smooshed into the corner of a gigantic sectional in a sun-drenched living room.
He can feel Natasha’s contented rumble through his back. The gland at the base of his neck aches in the most wonderful way. He ponders, briefly, if he didn’t really get shot down by SAM’s over that uranium plant in the ass-end of nowhere, and this isn’t all some kind of dream conjured up by the G force of that climb out of the crevasse. He’s finding it a little hard to believe that this is all real.
Hangman and Rooster – Jake and Bradley, here – are squabbling at the sofa’s other end, tussling and nipping where Bradley has a vice grip around Jake’s waist. He’ll never quite believe that those two, of all people, have been settled and mated for going on a decade now. He wouldn’t have thought they would be the type to marry young, they don't seem very traditional. Then again, defiance of expectations seems to run in the family. There are clattering noises coming from the kitchen, accompanied by the intoxicating smell of breakfast (he glances at the clock on the wall, brunch really) along with the sounds of Mav and Ice’s bickering. He still can’t believe the COMPACFLT is Natasha’s dad, Maverick’s mate. Based on everything he knows about the both of them, that pairing just shouldn’t work. But here Bob is. In their living room. Listening to his CO, and his boss’s boss’s boss bicker like the two most married people he’s ever heard in his life. Something about bacon… or chocolate.
Natasha’s hair tickles the back of his neck. He doesn’t care about anything else. She’s here. A contented little groan settles in his throat.
Then Jake’s foot catches in their blanket, and unceremoniously whips it halfway across the room.
Whatever violence Natasha is abruptly planning gets interrupted by Maverick, looking softer than Bob’s ever seen him; sleep-rumpled in sweats. The shirt is far too big for him. It has “Annapolis Class of ‘81” across the back in faded block lettering.
“Breakfast, Kiddos, then we can all come back here and leave the dishes for later.” He reaches out a hand to each of Bradley and Jake, “C’mon, up!” they roll off the couch and submit to maternal affection easily enough, sloping through to the kitchen where Admiral Kazansky – just Tom, or Ice, at home Bob – is promising fresh coffee and fresher pancakes.
“You too, lovebirds!” Maverick grins at them, but hesitates before approaching. They’re both going to be going to be twitchy for a while with their bond so new, but Mav is (Bob is learning) first and foremost a mother. His hands feel impossibly gentle where he brushes Nat’s hair away from Bob’s neck, and runs cool fingers around the raw mark. “I’ll get you something for that after breakfast. We’ll let it breathe for a while.” Bob’s eyes track to the corresponding place under his CO’s – his mother in law’s – collar. The old scar is pale and obvious against tanned skin. But it’s also small, neat and precise in a way that speaks to great care, both in the placing and in the subsequent healing process. It’s gentle, and… doting, a blazing neon sign that tells the whole world how much Maverick is loved by his mate. His mother’s mark hadn’t looked like that. A ragged, rushed, thing placed out of frustration and necessity. Left to heal on its own with little to no care from the man who’d put it there. He leans back into Natasha’s firm hold. He’s going to have a mark like Mav’s. A year ago, a month even, he could never have imagined it.
Mav helps them shuffle until they reach the edge of the seat, Natasha manages to get an arm around his waist when they stand. He wriggles one around hers right back. Maverick gives them an impossibly soft look as they all shuffle into the kitchen, arranging themselves on stools around an island positively groaning with food. Bob manfully resists the temptation to try and worm his way back into Natasha’s lap. These stools aren’t that big. They’d definitely fall over.
Breakfast is as raucous as five bone-tired aviators (Plus one Admiral) can make it. Bob doesn’t miss the way Nat, Jake, and Bradley are all side-eyeing the smoothie that is all the admiral has in front of his place, rather than the piles of pancakes, eggs, and bacon he’s heaped in front of each of theirs. Admiral Kazansky growls at them when he notices, and pointedly steals a forkful of creamy scrambled eggs from his mate. Maverick is unsubtle in his encouragement and less nervous than Bob about the strength of the kitchen barstools, he looks like he’s trying to melt himself into the admiral, to fuse the two of them into one being. Kazansky – Ice – is doing nothing to stop him, he’s got a palm cupped around the captain’s hip, fingers disappearing under what Bob is beginning to realise must be his own academy jersey.
Hangman rolls his eyes at Bob, “They’ve always been like this.”
Next to him, arm still around his waist, Natasha snorts, “Oh, because you two are so much better?” Both of their ears abruptly tinge pink.
“Oh, c’mon Nat” Bradley wheedles, “we’re not that bad.” Bob can feel his mate (and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of saying that) raise an eyebrow at her brothers.
“Don’t” Jake is squirming in his seat, though he doesn’t really seem to want to dislodge Bradley’s hand from its place on his thigh.
Natasha leans in behind him, nose to his ear, “When we were kids” she murmurs, like a secret, just for them “Jakey here would follow Brads around like a little lost duckling every time he stayed over with us.” Her grin would make stronger men shake. “The very first time we learned what mating was, he turned to me and said ‘Nat, I’m gonna marry Bradley!’ we were five.”
The image of self-assured – to the point of arrogance – Jake Seresin (or is it Kazansky? Bradshaw?) following anyone around, much less like an innocent baby animal, is too absurd. He loses it, bent double in helpless laughter.
“To be fair” Jake is struggling to keep an even tone, clinging to the remaining shreds of his dignity, “I was right.” He stares right into Bradley’s eyes. They really are disgustingly sappy. Nat throws a bacon strip at their heads, it catches Bradley across the cheek and goes half into his open mouth. Bob laughs harder.
“Don’t believe a word they say, Bobby” Nat tells him, un-surreptitiously forking even more food onto his plate. Not that he’s complaining, he hasn’t had a full heat in years; he’s ravenous. And Admiral Kazansky makes the best pancakes he thinks he’s ever eaten. “I had to lock them in a closet together to make them get over themselves.” She has a sly, triumphant, grin on her face, only slightly ruined by a huge bite of pancakes, bulging her cheeks out like a chipmunk.
The smile slips off Bradley’s face, he pulls Jake closer to him, and hooks his chin over one shoulder. “I never really thanked you for that, did I Tasha?” his eyes flick between Nat and her parents. There’s something heavy behind his gaze that Bob can’t identify.
“What’s a decade between friends?” the brightness in Natasha’s voice is forced, but it breaks the tension. Jake’s laugh is genuine, so are Mav and Ice’s. the tension dissipates. It’s not worth bringing it back by asking what happened. Nat will tell him later.
True to Mav’s word, Ice leaves the dishes piled in the sink when he herds Bradley and Jake back into the living room. Mav guides Bob and Nat upstairs into Mav and Ice’s en-suite bathroom. He tries not to stare around too much when they pass through the den, where there is clearly a large and comfortable nest, taking up the centre of the room. The alpha and omega scents are so intertwined throughout the space that Bob cannot tell the two apart. It’s so different from the howling cavern of space between his mother’s nest, crammed into the back of the house, (and only avoiding claustrophobia thanks to the large windows that looked out over the garden), and his father’s den near the front door. The rest of the house in between had been dead, scentless, air. There was nowhere in the yawning gap where the scents intermingled or overlapped. His mother had filled it with artificial fragrances, scent diffusers sprouting from every flat surface, blanketing the house in the cloying smell of chemicals and essential oils. There’s none of that here, only the faint aroma of lavender emanating from under the sink. The lavender turns out to come from a large bag of epsom salts that Bob spots when Maverick opens the cupboard to retrieve an overly comprehensive first aid kit.
Natasha snorts when she sees it. “Pop’s still keeps it stocked?”
“Oh yeah” Maverick nods, lifting off the lid to show a frankly unsettling amount of wound-care essentials, “He still worries I’m gonna crash the bike into a wall one of these days.” A one-shoulder shrug. “Bobby, you sit here” Mav gestures to the closed toilet lid, “Nat, honey, come watch me, you’ll have to change out a couple times before it’s all healed.” He feels better when she nudges his knees apart and stands right in his space. Her hand in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. He leans into the touch. The world fuzzes out at the edges.
“Okay” Mav’s voice is at a distance, “hold still.” Something wet and cold, around the edges of Natasha’s bite. Then the cool fingers are back on his neck, with them the medicinal smell of wound cream. The plastic shriek of sterile packaging. Gentle pressure. Fingers prodding all the way around the edges of an antiseptic-smelling bandage.
“You keep bite-gauze just lying around?” a gentle laugh.
“Well, after your brother… you know how Pops likes to be prepared.” Her fingers leave his hair.
“Bobby?” her face comes int focus in front of him. “You still with me baby?” he nods, ”How’re you feeling?”
He’s tired again. Everything in this house is warm and soothing. Maverick and Iceman’s scents are blended together so thoroughly here, in their shared space, combined into something smooth and comforting. Everything smells like Natahsa. God he loves her.
“Let’s go back downstairs, we can cuddle up on the sofa again.” She pats his knee, then takes his hands and pulls him after her, back down to the living room that smells like safety and pack.
Someone, probably Bradley, has shoved the giant square ottoman from the middle of the room into the corner of the sectional, turning the whole thing into one massive nesting space. He and Jake are already stretched out lazily in the middle of a pile of throw pillows and decorative blankets. Jake looks up when they come in, from under the tangle of his alpha’s long limbs. He reaches a hand out to Bob, beckoning him into the impromptu nest. He crawls in next to the other omega, Nat lays herself out along his back. He hears Mav shuffle downstairs after them, and the cushions dip where he and Ice join the tangle. In front of him, Jake heaves a contented sigh, and offers Bob a tired little half smile, eyes still closed. Natasha wriggles a hand under his shirt, settling her palm flat over his stomach.