Chapter Text
By the end of the week, Jake feels wrung out.
Not tired like after running, or sleepy like late at night. This tired sits behind his eyes, heavy and dull, making everything feel slower than it should. Five days of new routines, new voices, new expectations he doesn’t fully understand yet.
He’s in his room when Maverick says it.
“Hey, bud. Laundry day today, okay? School’s coming up. Thought we’d get you set.”
Jake nods quickly. “Okay.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Laundry makes his stomach roll, but he’s learned not to ask questions that sound like trouble. He sits on the edge of his bed, fingers worrying the hem of his shirt.
Maverick starts gathering clothes from the floor and chair. Jake’s clothes. Not many of them. Shirts worn thin. Jeans patched at the knee.
Jake’s chest tightens.
“I’m gonna grab a snack,” he says suddenly, needing a reason to leave.
“Sure,” Maverick replies easily.
Jake slips out, padding barefoot down the hall. He grabs a granola bar from the cabinet, peeling the wrapper slowly, deliberately, listening to the sounds of the house. The clink of the washer lid. The soft shuffle of clothes.
Normal sounds.
Still, his hands shake.
When he comes back, he stops short in the doorway.
Maverick is standing by Jake’s bed, a small pile of clothes on his bed.
And in his hand—
Jake’s breath cuts off completely.
The bear is unwrapped. Exposed. Its fur faded, one ear darkened and misshapen where it burned years ago. Old and well loved. Seeing it out in the open feels wrong, like being seen without clothes.
“No,” Jake gasps.
Maverick turns, startled. “Jake—”
Jake moves before his brain catches up. He rushes forward, hands scrambling for the bear, panic slamming into him so hard his vision blurs.
“Don’t,” grabbing Maverick’s arm he cries, voice breaking. “Please don’t throw it away. I’ll be good. I won’t—I won’t bring it everywhere, I promise—”
The room tilts.
He smells it again — burned fabric. Sees it flying out the window. Hears laughter. Trent’s awful mocking.
Baby. You’re a baby.
His chest locks up. He can’t breathe right. His fingers clutch desperately at the bear, sobs tearing out of him, loud and humiliating and impossible to stop.
Rooster appears in the doorway, takes one look at Jake’s face, and moves fast.
“Hey,” he says, stepping in, instinctively positioning himself between Jake and Maverick. “Jake. You’re okay.”
Jake shakes his head frantically. “He’s gonna throw it away. He always does.”
Rooster flicks a glance back at Maverick, the pieces clicking in place “He thinks you’re taking it,” he says quietly. “Like to dispose of it”
Maverick freezes.
“Oh,” he says. The word comes out rougher than he means it to. He lowers the bear immediately, setting it gently on Jake’s bed, then takes a full step back, hands raised. “Hey. Jake. I’m not throwing it away.”
Jake can’t hear reason yet. His body is still trapped in the past, heart hammering, shame burning hot under his skin.
Rooster crouches in front of him, voice low and steady. “No one’s laughing,” he says. “No one’s mad. You’re safe.”
Jake’s eyes flicker to Rooster’s face. Searching. Checking.
Maverick kneels too, slower this time, careful, like he’s afraid to make it worse.
“I should’ve asked,” Maverick says. “That’s on me. I’m sorry.”
Jake’s breath stutters.
“I would never throw that away,” Maverick continues, firm and clear. “Not ever. I would never take something you love and get rid of it.”
He swallows, something fierce flashing behind his eyes — not anger at Jake, but fury that this fear exists at all.
“And I will never lay a hand on you,” Maverick adds. “Or Rooster. Ever.”
Jake’s hands finally close around the bear, pulling it tight to his chest like it might disappear if he loosens his grip. He’s still crying, but the panic eases, inch by inch.
Rooster straightens and rests an arm lightly around Jake’s shoulders, grounding without trapping. “You don’t have to hide it,” he says simply.
Jake nods, mortified now that the worst of the fear has passed. His face burns. His chest aches.
The rest of the afternoon, the bear doesn’t leave his side.
Jake carries it to the couch. Keeps it tucked against his ribs while he watches Rooster flip through channels. When Maverick brings him juice, he sets it down within reach without comment.
No teasing.
No looks.
No jokes.
When the washer hums to life loud enough in the quiet. Maverick sits beside his boys.
“Can we make some laundry rules?” he asks. “Only if that’s okay.”
Jake hesitates, then nods.
“You choose what gets washed,” Maverick says. “Nothing gets thrown away without you saying yes. Ever.” He pauses. “And the bear doesn’t go in the laundry. Not now. Not ever. Not if you don’t say so.”
Jake grips it tighter.
“Okay,” he whispers.
That night, the dryer hums softly down the hall. Jake sits between them on the couch, the bear tucked under his arm, its singed ear pressed warm against his wrist.
Nothing disappears.
Nothing is taken.
And this time, when Jake leans into the space between them — comfort item in full view — no one asks him to let go.