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Jake didn’t make it a habit to stay the night. It’s a reflex born from late night hayloft hookups and teenage sneak-outs, meant to be sequestered away in the dark of night, away from disapproving parents. It’s further buoyed, later in life, by the brief connections made between military personnel. There’s no need to sleep in the same bed when you both know you’re going to be sent to other parts of the world, likely on totally different time zones and with weird cell phone or internet limitations- too much of a pain in the ass to try and stay in touch with every person you do the horizontal tango with.
He is, of course, thinking about these things while he is wearing sweatpants that are very much not his, laying in a very comfortable bed that is very much not his own. He listens to the breaths of the sleeping man laying beside him and stares at the ceiling, trying to figure out why the hell this time had turned out different.
Jake hadn’t worn his khakis to the bar, opting instead for a black t-shirt that he knew made his arms look great and a pair of jeans that made his ass look even better. He’d been in a good mood the whole night, and the ringing of the bell that meant free drinks had boosted his mood even further.
He’d locked eyes with the guy across the bar when he’d gone to retrieve the free round, and something about him had caught Jake and refused to let go. It had tugged at him as he’d winked and walked away and pulled at him as he swapped the song on the jukebox.
That pull actually keeps him from raising hell too much- he’s preoccupied with catching the guy’s gaze. Bar Guy has faint crow's feet and green eyes, a strong jaw and a smug smile. He’s honestly ticking quite a few of Jake’s boxes- he’s got a thing for the more…experienced crowd.
He drifts away from the pool table where Halo, Coyote and Omaha are attempting to teach the new guy- Bob- how to play nine ball so that he can sidle over to where Bar Guy sits. His eyes follow Jake when he walks, and the attention gives him an extra boost in confidence, so he doesn’t hesitate for a second to lean in and get real close.
Bar guy looks startled until Jake pulls back, having reached over to grab the older man’s phone off of the bar.
“You’re a glutton for punishment, huh, pops?” Jake wiggles the phone in his hand, flashing a sharp grin. Bar Guy chuckles.
“Not really- or at least, non financially. To whom do I owe the safety of my credit score?” Bar guy gives it as good as he gets it, and something in Jake sits up at the idea of finding someone running at the same pace.
“Jake.” He hands the guy’s phone back, and Bar Guy purposefully overshoots, dragging calloused fingers down his wrist and over the back of his hand, lingering on the touch.
Bar Guy looks at Jake, and the thing that had hooked itself into Jake earlier suddenly nails him to the floor. He plucks his phone out of Jake’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Jake,” He sounds like he’s savoring the name, “I’m Pete.”
Pete, it turns out, is sixty years out (and absolutely amazing looking for his age), a fellow naval aviator (albeit one in a less…active position), and absolutely fantastic in bed. By the time they’re through Jake is pleasantly sore and absolutely exhausted, and admittedly a little fuzzy around the edges, which is why he doesn’t automatically slip on his clothes and boogie back to the barracks. When Pete urges him up out of the bed, he’s expecting to be shown the door, but instead Pete hands him a pair of (almost a little too small) sweatpants and takes him to the bathroom for a shower.
(A very fun shower, but that’s a story for another time.)
Once they’re clean and dry, Pete lures him back to the bed with sweet kisses, and Jake’s head is still in the clouds, so he follows. He pulls the (freshly changed) bedspread overtop of Jake and settles in behind him, arm wrapped around his chest, nose buried between his shoulder blades. Jake falls asleep easier than he has in years, wrapped up in nice-smelling sheets, with the warmth of the smaller man behind him.
And now here he is, laying in Pete’s bed, in Pete’s sweatpants, staring at Pete’s ceiling. It’s been a while since he’s gotten this far- usually by now he’d be out the door and back home. He glances over to the man sleeping next to him, and the idea of disappearing curdles something in his stomach.
As if agreeing, his stomach rumbles angrily, and Jake realizes he’s actually pretty damn hungry. He decides that that’s as good a direction as any, and slips out from beneath the covers. He picks up his clothes and puts them on the chair in the corner of Pete’s room, just so the guy doesn’t wake up to someone else’s underwear hanging off the foot of his bed. Then he walks out into the hallway, and meanders to find the kitchen.
He manages to scramble some eggs, make some bacon and is pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan before everything goes to hell.
He’s still sort of out of it, more focused on not burning the pancakes and keeping the mess minimal (let it be known that Jake Seresin washes the dishes as he finishes with them, as everyone should) than he is thinking about his surroundings. So, when Rooster walks by in an old ratty t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, eyes still mostly shut, Jake’s brain harkens back to being greeted with the same exact situation while on deployment on the same ship as Rooster, and he doesn’t do much besides flip his pancake and mutter a half-asleep good morning.
Rooster, obviously still mostly asleep, responds with a “Morning.” and opens the fridge to root around.
It takes a second, but realization hits like a smack to the face. Both of them freeze, Rooster still standing in front of the open refrigerator, Hangman in the middle of flipping a pancake. The pancake lands perfectly in the pan, thank god, but Jake is too busy processing to put the pan back on the burner.
It’s Rooster who moves first, pivoting on one foot, closing the fridge door, orange juice in hand. The noise of the fridge closing seems to kick-start Jake’s brain again, and he puts the pan back down on the burner.
“Hangman?” Rooster asks, brows furrowed.
“Rooster.” Hangman responds, also confused.
“What are you doing at my dad’s house?”
Jake doesn’t think fast enough to school his expression- he can feel how his eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. He gapes, for just a second, looking at Rooster but not quite at Rooster. “Pardon?”
It's then, of course, that they both realize that Jake isn’t wearing a shirt. Normally neither of them would care, of course, but Pete had been…thorough, the night before, and Jake knows he must have an impressive array of hickies and bite marks, a decent chunk of which are in decidedly risque territory.
“No,” Bradley says, “No. No way.”
“Now, listen,” Jake begins, only a little defensive.
“No!” Bradley points an accusing finger at Jake, though its intimidation is undercut by the fact that he’s still holding a carton of orange juice, “No! I’m not gonna listen, because this isn’t happening!”
“Rooster!” Jake hisses quietly, in contrast to the near-shout Bradley has fallen into, “Would you pipe down!? Pete-”
“Pete?!” Now Bradley sounds hysterical, his voice getting higher and a little breathless. “Pete?!"
“Rooster-”
“No! No, no no! No!” Bradley puts his orange juice down and points again, and this time Jake is glad that there’s an island in the kitchen that separates them by a good few feet. Otherwise he thinks that his call sign might be a little more literal.
“You didn’t.” Bradley says, still pointing, sounding like he’s trying to convince the both of them that he’s telling the truth.
“I, uh.” For once, Jake doesn’t slot back into his normal cockiness- it’s too early and he’s still too gobsmacked to do anything but admit the obvious. “I think I did.”
The noise Bradley makes is a wounded one, as if Jake had just told him someone had died. He drops his face into his hands and rests his elbows on the island, shoulders slumped. He lets out a muffled little groan. “This isn’t happening.”
“Bradley?”
Both men startle sharply at the new voice and whirl to face the doorway, Jake with a spatula extended like a sword, Bradley with his arms still on the island. Pete stands there, hair a mess, brows furrowed. Jake’s chest does a weird fluttery thing (and that’s something he’s going to have to examine later) when he realizes the shirt that Pete is wearing is a little too big on him because it’s Jake’s .
“I thought you were supposed to get here this afternoon.” Pete leaves the doorway to pull Bradley into a hug. Bradley hugs back, momentary horror forgotten. “What time did you get in? How did you get here from the airport?”
“I only got here a couple hours ago, Mav- I was napping on the couch.” Bradley says, pulling back. “I was supposed to catch today’s flight, but there was an opening in an earlier one and they offered it to me because, y’know, Navy. Turns out Phoenix was landing about the same time- we ran into each other at the airport and Payback gave me a ride because he was already there to pick her up.”
Jake’s brows furrow when Bradley starts listing call signs. He recognizes those names- they’re both graduates of Top Gun. He’s wondering if Rooster, Phoenix and Payback were called for the same mission when the smell of burning reaches his nose, and he turns to look at the forgotten pancake on the stove.
“Shit!” He grabs the handle and pulls the pan off the stove, turning the burner off as it goes. The top of the pancake still looks good, so in an attempt to save it he dumps it onto the plate with the rest of them.
It’s too late, of course, the bottom is blackened and the pancake itself is stiff as a board. Jake sighs, disappointed, and then turns back around.
Pete and Bradley are both staring at him, the former with a soft fondness that brings some heat to his cheeks, the latter glaring at him in a way that promises pain.
“You made breakfast?” Pete asks, voice soft.
“Oh, uh, yeah.” Now he’s embarrassed. “I wanted to bring some up to you, but, uh. I guess Rooster yelling woke you up.”
Pete’s eyebrows furrow again. “Rooster?” He turns to look at Bradley, who looks like he’s ready to sink into the floor. “You two know each other?”
“Yes,” Bradley grits out, “Mav, this is Hangman .”
Now it’s Pete’s turn to look surprised, eyebrows raised, jaw slack. Jake watches as the shock melts away into…. glee? Then Pete bursts into laughter, and he has to put a hand on the countertop to steady himself because he’s laughing so hard he’s nearly wheezing. Jake and Bradley share a confused look over the top of his head.
“What’re you laughing about?” Jake asks, wary.
“Nothing, nothing,” Pete is still chuckling as he straightens, and he has to wipe tears from his eyes because he had been laughing that hard. “Just, uh, just got a sense of Deja Vu.”