Archive of Our Own

Tash says he can be a mean drunk. First he’s all loose-jawed smiles and the slightest hint of a flush in his cheeks, then he’s rolling around in the sand with some townie who made an off-colour remark about the Sox last season. Jake’s always brushed it off – you work hard, you play hard – but he’s a morose three scotch and sodas down tonight at The Hard Deck, sitting on a bar stool watching Coyote wipe the floor with Fritz in another round of pool. At the other side of the bar, Phoenix and Bob are talking to Penny while she pours. The Rolling Stones’ I Can’t Get No Satisfaction is playing on the jukebox, which Jake thinks is a cruel sort of irony.

The party was four days ago. When Jake woke up in the morning, to another beautiful day in California and limited property damage, he was alone. Eventually he made it into the kitchen, where Bradley was holding court at the table while Phoenix and Bob fried bacon and eggs. Bradley nodded at him when he entered, but he didn’t say anything, and Jake sat down at the end of the table farthest from him, passing off his black mood as a hangover. 

He wanted to collar Bradley and ask him what the fuck because honestly he can’t deal with the emotional whiplash of sleeping together and then pretending they’re nothing more than colleagues with a newfound begrudging amount of respect for one another, but rattled by a hangover and the enormity of all his weird feelings from last night, Jake said nothing for a long while, only eventually deigning to speak when Bob pushed a plate of food in front of him, and Coyote asked if he wanted coffee. 

The past few days crawled by without incident. Fritz, Jake and Coyote went surfing, and for the first time in weeks Jake wasn’t preoccupied by thoughts of Bradshaw, because keeping his head above water – literally – and laughing his ass off every time one of them wiped out was enough of a distraction. Some guy from the LA Times came by and spoke to them for a piece about Top Gun, in light of a statement the Secretary of Defence made about their successful mission. There wasn’t, generally, a lot of time to think about Rooster during the day, but Jake found himself preoccupied late in the evening, whether he was showering or collapsed on his mattress, trying and failing to fall asleep. 

He hadn’t particularly wanted to come to the bar tonight, but figured it would look weirder if he didn’t, so texted a thumbs-up emoji when Coyote asked if he was coming. Things had only gotten worse as he lost two rounds of pool and had to watch out of the corner of his eye as Rooster spoke to a succession of hardbodies who all wanted to know about his big exciting mission. 

He looks good. Trademark Hawaiian shirt, hair windswept in the way that suits him. More than that, Rooster looks…easy. Like some of the tension he used to hold in his shoulders has dissipated since he cheated death twice in one day. Like he learned a lot about himself that day in the sky. Jake steals glances in between lining up shots and sipping drinks, which might explain how why he’s been playing like crap and how he’s three drinks deep after an hour. 

“You doing okay there?” Phoenix says as she returns with her beer in hand. Jake nods. “Wanna play?” she gestures to the currently vacant dart board. Jake turns, and decides it’s a welcome distraction.

“Sure,” he says, and gets up from the stool. At least it gives him something to focus on, and they all know he’s the best darts player in the bar, which means it’s rare that someone actually asks him to play. Jake doesn’t think too hard on why Phoenix might have asked, or why she doesn’t seem to mind that she’s losing almost immediately. 

By the time it gets to the final shot, he’s stood lining it up when his vision goes dark, and he feels a hand over his face, someone pressed behind him.

“Flying blind, Bagman,” a voice murmurs in his ear.

Jake tries to not let it get to him. He tries to relax his shoulders and aim straight. But his hand shakes and his heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest. 

The dart lands, with a dull thunk, in the wall above the board.

“The fuck you do that for?” he rips the hands from his face and turns around to give Rooster a shove in the chest. “You fucking with me for any particular reason Rooster?”

Bradley looks briefly confused, and then smirks, laughs. “Because it’s funny to rile you up, maybe?”

Normally this wouldn’t be anything. Jake would make some smart comment back, maybe they’d play a few rounds, and all would be forgiven. But it’s like there’s a sudden short circuit in his mainframe, and all he sees is red.

“Fuck you,” he spits, and feels some stab of petty satisfaction when Rooster stops smiling.

“What’s your problem, man?” he murmurs. There’s a lull in the bar. A few people are watching them now.

“My problem?” Jake says, stepping closer. “You mean besides your white trash ass walking around like you’re the second coming of Christ even though I was the one who had to save you?”

“What?” Rooster blinks, then makes a sort of bark-laughing noise. “Where’s this coming from little guy?”

“Bradley,” Phoenix warns, but to no avail.

“I’m so sick of your shit, Bradshaw,” Jake continues. “You’re not half the guy you seem to think you are. You’re not half the guy your Dad was, if Mav’s stories are anything to go by.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster’s scowling now. “And you’re such an expert on me, huh? You know me so well, right Bagman? Intimate-”

Jake punches him before his brain catches up with his body. There’s a commotion as everyone in the bar realises what’s happened, and Rooster staggers back, banging into a table. 

Phoenix says “What the fuck Jake?!” and Jake just stares at Rooster, who’s holding a hand up to his cheek. It only takes him half a second to respond; he barrels at Jake and punches him right back, square on the nose. It immediately starts to bleed. 

There’s a moment, a split second where they stare at each other. Rooster doesn’t look angry, though. He looks…confused.

“Out! Both of you!” Penny yells, and Jake doesn’t need telling twice, holding his palm up as he staggers towards the exit, as fast as his feet will allow, ignoring Phoenix and Coyote shouting after him, flagging down a taxi that’s idling in the parking lot. The driver tells him not to bleed on his seats, so Jake holds his shirt up to his nose, defeated.

When he’s home, he stands in the bathroom, holding his head over the sink until the bleeding subsides. He assess the damage in the mirror. It doesn’t look broken, so he washes the blood off his face and brushes his teeth. 

His phone has barely stopped buzzing since he got back half an hour ago. He turns it off and falls into bed without taking his jeans off, hoping sleep might alleviate the humiliation.

There’s this recurring dream Jake’s had for years. At this point it feels more like a memory. He’s fifteen and sitting in the passenger seat of his father’s Escalade, being driven to baseball practice on a rainy afternoon. Steven’s berating him for missing the bus – he just got off shift, so he’s wearing his stupid uniform, but Jake’s always known he liked people being able to tell he was a cop from twenty feet away. It turns into something else, he’s shouting about how Jake should be playing football at his age, how he’s a fucking failure and it’s just as well he’s not his real father, because God who’d want to have such a disappointment for a kid––

Then he loses control of the vehicle, and they crash through the siding on the highway. The car flips like it’s a toy, bounces through the woods, and plunges into Slough Pond. But the sensation of drowning doesn’t worry the dream version of him. In fact, it feels like a relief. He closes his eyes. He lets go. Someone breaks the glass of the passenger side door. Someone hauls him out of the water, onto the wet leaves that litter the bank, saying “Jake? Jake, can you hear me?”

It’s Dad. 

He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping for air, in the darkness of the bedroom he’s been living out of for the past two months. The curtains flutter in the breeze, windows open to let some night air in. He looks over at his phone. Four in the morning. Fuck. 

Jake knows from bitter experience there’s no getting back to sleep, so he gets out of bed, pulls on shorts and a shirt so he can go for a run. The beach is empty at this time, maybe save for a few optimistic surfers, and it means beating the oppressive heat that comes with the afternoon. Just him and the ocean. He laces his Nikes and puts his AirPods in, sets off on the file mile circuit that takes him along the coastline and back. It’s a decent run – he used to do it all the time when he was out here for initial training, every single day he’d be up with the lark, pushing himself harder and faster and further. Like always. 

Cyclone had some stern words for them yesterday about not causing a public nuisance, then announced they’ll all be getting their new assignments in a week, which means the party’s over. Time to shape up and ship out. Some of them will go back to their old posts, but Jake has a sneaking suspicion Rooster, Phoenix and Bob will be destined for greater things. Maybe him too, but he wouldn’t mind going back to Texas. Jake’s always done well with routine. Probably why he likes this fucking running route so much.

He’s just passed the two-mile mark when he spots a figure sitting out on the sand, looking down at something in their lap. The closer Jake gets, the more distinctive the shape is, and he realises it’s Bob before Bob seems to notice him. 

“Hey!” he shouts out, and Bob startles, dropping the book he’s holding in the sand. He looks over at Jake, and even from 30 yards away, Jake recognises the way his face softens. He waves. Jake grins, slows down to a jog. 

“What are you doing out here?” he pants out once he’s at a close enough distance to not shout, taking out his AirPods and shoving them in his pocket, hands on his hips as he looks down at Bob, who is brushing sand off his copy of…

Jake nosily tilts his head to look.

Gravity’s Rainbow. It’s a dog-eared copy, with little multicoloured paper tabs sticking out. 

“Oh, I’m reading,” Bob says, gesturing down at his book, like the explanation makes total sense. “Do my best work early. I usually go to bed at like, nine, and I only need eight hours, so–”

None of this is surprising somehow, but Jake’s grin isn’t mean in the way it used to be when Bob went off on one of his tangent. 

“What are you doing here?” Bob asks, looking Jake up and down. “Aside from giving me an inferiority complex.”

Bob’s wearing an MIT t-shirt and Tevas with what Jake thinks are some sort of beige cargo short designed for forty-year-old paper salesmen. 

“Running. Good to do it while it’s cool out.” 

Bob nods. “Um,” he says. “Do you wanna sit for a while?” The book is closed in his lap, and there’s something a little hopeful about his expression that makes Jake shrug his shoulders without thinking and say “Sure,” as he flops down into the sand.

For a moment they sit in silence, listening to the ocean and the way Hangman’s heart rate slows back to resting. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, though – in fact there’s something calming about it. Bob has that effect on people, Jake’s noticed. Everyone loves him at base, not just Tasha. For a little while Jake was jealous when they arrived and he noticed her take a shine to her new WSO, because she was his best friend when they came up together. They bickered like nobody’s business, but they’d always had each other’s backs. She reminded him of his sister Cassie – in fact, one summer when Tasha had come to visit him up on Cape Cod, he’d walked into the kitchen to find them exchanging their Jake impressions with alarming accuracy. 

They haven’t really spoken about the Bob development, but then again, there’s not been time. Since the mission finished, the group have rarely been apart, and Jake…Jake’s been dealing with his own shit. She keeps texting him, that stupid one eyebrow raised emoji he hates, followed by a question mark, to which Jake just obnoxiously replies with variations of his MeMoji (that she made for him). Sooner or later Tasha’s gonna corner him and ask what the fuck is going on – maybe she’ll team up with Coyote – but Jake’s been doing a great job at avoiding that inevitability so far. 

But Jake gets it now, the Bob thing. He’s a dork, but he’s the best dork Jake’s ever known. He’s easily the smartest among them, to the extent Jake doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s doing here and not off becoming the next Bill Gates or Steve Jobs or something. Maybe it’s altruism, maybe it’s coming from a military family. Most of them do, because it takes a special kind of freak to push themselves as far as you have to to make it in Top Gun. 

“How’s the nose?” he asks.

Jake laughs. “I’ll live.”

And Bob’s funny. Jake really likes that Bob’s funny. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Bob says after a few more moments pass in companionable silence. “And you can’t get mad at me.”

“That’s very unfair, y’know,” Jake says, barely serious. “Asking me to agree to something before I have any way of knowing what it is.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Bobby, it’s fine,” Jake says, grinning. “What’s on your mind?”

“Uh,” he says, blinking behind his glasses, and then looking over to the horizon, like he’s not sure how to word whatever it is that’s troubling him. “Well.”

“Bob, c’mon. You’re killing me.”

Bob sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face, before he finally turns back to Jake.

“Are you okay?”

The three-word question hits Jake like a ton of bricks. He looks at Bob askance, like he can’t even process what he’s being asked. His go-to reaction would be to laugh, to make some joke and totally torpedo any hopes of the question being taken seriously. But Bob’s expression is so sincere, so genuinely concerned, Jake can’t bring himself to be a dick about it.

“Why are you asking me that?” he says, trying his hardest to not sound defensive. 

Bob shrugs. He looks down at his book, fiddling with the corner of the cover. “You just seem…a little distracted recently. Since we got back. Like there’s other stuff going on in your head. Tasha…” he pauses there, like he’s gauging how Jake’s going to react to him mentioning her. Jake maintains a neutral expression. “She’s been worried. Says you won’t talk to her properly, and I know Coyote told her he thought there was something up with you at the hurricane party. Even before what happened the other night.”

It’s Jake’s turn to deflect by looking over at the ocean. He can make out a ship on the horizon – a cruise liner, maybe. It’s big and imposing against the skyline. He’s never liked boats all that much, and understands the irony there, so tries to keep the knowledge on a strictly need-to-know basis. For a long time he doesn’t say anything. He swallows thickly, the weight of Bob’s words hanging between them. 

“Did something happen? Something…before the incident with Rooster?” Bob tries again. His voice is soft, even by Bob standards, and if it was anyone else asking the question, he would have already laughed and told them he was doing just fine and to keep their eyes on the road. 

Jake still says nothing. His jaw clenches. Did something happen, he asks himself, because the answer is yes but also no. 

The cold, hard facts? He slept with Bradley Bradshaw twice. He had mind-shiftingly good sex with Bradley Bradshaw. Bradley Bradshaw was soft and sweet to him and held him in a way that felt like it meant something. Bradley Bradshaw bit his neck and called him pretty and Jake would have died for him right then and there. In some ways, Jake thinks he would have died for Bradley Bradshaw all along – it just took him a little while to realise it.

They have had precisely zero conversations about this. 

He hasn’t seen Rooster since The Incident at the bar a week ago, not even in passing, but Jake’s been keeping to himself, spending time on base or in his quarters. He drove out to Cleveland National Forest yesterday for a six-hour hike. Coyote had texted to ask if he was coming for drinks at The Hard Deck, and sent an eye-roll emoji back when Jake said he was out enjoying nature. 

Out enjoying nature and enjoying repressing any and all thoughts of Bradley Bradshaw and whatever the fuck was going on between them. 

“I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me if I was okay,” Jake says finally. His gaze is still fixed stubbornly on the boat out on the horizon. “It’s usually my Mom or my sister, but uh, I’ve…I’ve not really been the best at keeping them up to speed lately, so.” 

He thinks briefly of Cassie in Georgetown studying Veterinary Science, and of Mom, teaching art at a community college in Ann Arbour. Retirement hasn’t mellowed his stepfather any and no number of medals or newspaper clippings about his stepson’s feats of bravery can convince him he’s worth a damn. So he only goes home for the holidays, and he’s only ever there for the mandatory forty-eight hours. Jake always blames work, says he just doesn’t get the time off, and for whatever reason, Mom stopped questioning him on that a long time ago. It’s fucked up, Jake thinks, but all families are fucked up. 

Bob hums a little, acknowledging Jake’s words, but the sound translates to Okay but that wasn’t actually an answer. Jake doesn’t know when he learned to speak Bob. Only that at some point in that last few weeks, he did. 

Jake sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face. “No, Bob. I think we both know I’m pretty not okay.”

Bob laughs, ever so slightly, and Jake looks over, met by a sympathetic smile. “Do you want to talk about it, Jake?”

Jake looks at Bob, in his sensible sandals and genius university shirt. The khaki shorts which probably zip into full-length pants and those glasses which Jake had told Phoenix reminded him of Jeffrey Dhamer (she’d elbowed him in the rib for that one). 

“I’m sorry I gave you so much shit when we first met,” he says instead of answering the question. The words fall out of his mouth in such a way that Jake’s surprised himself. But they don’t stop. “I got real used to being a big fish in a little pond before I came back here. I met all of you guys and I just…” he sighs again, defeated. “It was like I had to just keep pushing. Rile everyone up, get some kind of reaction out of them. Just to get noticed in the crowd.”

There’s something owlish about the way Bob looks at him. “Jake, you graduated with the best grades out of any of us.”

“Yeah, but, it’s like…” Jake sighs. “It’s not the plane. It’s the pilot.” 

Something shifts in Bob’s expression, like a puzzle piece has clicked into place, and he suddenly understands Jake a little better. 

“We all knew you were the guy to beat when we walked into The Hard Deck,” Bob says, maybe trying to reassure him. 

“I wasn’t even on Maverick’s A-team,” Jake barks out a laugh, and shakes his head, but Bob cuts him off.

“And yet, you’re the only reason he’s here. You’re the only reason Rooster’s here.”

Jake looks over at Bob. For a moment they stare at each other. Then Jake sighs, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his knees, resting his chin in his hands. 

“You’re the only guy I know who could spend weeks partying and being told he’s hot shit and still come out feeling wounded,” Bob says lightly. Jake chuckles, despite himself. 

“It’s not about that,” he says. “I’m just sorry for underestimating you, Bob.”

“Oh, I’m used to it,” Bob says, shrugging his shoulders. “Honestly it’s been…kind of a superpower. People don’t notice I’m there half the time. You didn’t, actually. I’m a stealth pilot.”

Jake winces, still feels guilty about how he’d acted that first night in The Hard Deck, but Bob smiles. 

“And Tasha, uh, she…” He scratches at his hair. “She notices me.”

Jake smiles. “Yeah she does, buddy.” He reaches over and claps Bob gently on the shoulder.

“I’m sure it will blow your mind to know I was bullied a lot as a kid,” Bob says. “Military brat, moved around all the time. Big old nerd who built computers for fun. I never stood a chance.” He shoots Jake a wan grin. “But my Mom, she was so supportive, and she always said…as long as the people that matter to you are paying attention, the rest can’t touch you.”

“Your Mom sounds like a smart lady.”

“She is,” Bob beams. “She’s a five-foot Nebraskan who gets very vocal about the Super Bowl and will only get on a plane under extreme duress, but uh, she’s the best person in the world.”

They laugh again, and settle into the quiet, gaze fixed on the waves lapping gently at the shore. The sun has started to rise now, bathing the sky in a purple-pink wash that reminds Jake of Bob Ross re-runs. But after a moment Jake can feel Bob’s gaze prickling up against him. 

“Whatever you want to say Bob, I promise I won’t get mad,” he sighs.

“I just.” Bob starts. He stops. He clears his throat.

“This is about Rooster, isn’t it?”

Jake turns his head a little to look at Bob again. He doesn’t say anything.

“Sorry if I’m crossing a line here, man,” Bob sighs. “But…I guess when everyone’s busy not noticing me, I notice shit, and…” he shrugs his shoulders. “That stunt you pulled the other night at the bar seemed weirdly personal.”

Jake groans, burying his head in his hands.

“I haven’t said anything,” Bob adds quickly. “Not even to Tasha, but uh, I think she…well. She told me once she thought you two would get along better if you just fucked.”

“You can report to her that that is categorically not the case,” Jake deadpans from between his fingers, before he’s really thought about what he’s admitting.

“What- Oh,” Bob says quietly. Almost gravely. “When did…um,”

“Okay Penthouse Forum, I’m not giving you the details,” Jake’s head reappears and he fixes Bob with a look.

“What, no?!” Bob looks scandalised. “I’m just trying to get a timeline in my head. Trying to…you know,” he gestures with his hands. “Work it out. Process. Compute.”

“Just for the record, I hate this, I hate this conversation,” Jake groans. 

Bob laughs. “I’m sorry Jake, I’m sorry. I just. Wow. Huh. You and Rooster.”

“There’s no ‘me and Rooster’, Bob,” Jake says defensively. “We’re shipping off next week to God knows where. We had sex, we got into a fight, that’s it. People have sex all the time. Even, miraculously, you.”

“Okay, that’s mean,” Bob object. “But I’ll allow it because you’re clearly going through something right now and I’m a good friend.”

Jake realises he’s being an asshole, and bites his lip. Bob’s trying to help. As far as confidantes go, Jake’s fairly sure a priest would be easiest to get information out of than Robert Floyd. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I just…don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.”

Bob reaches over and pats Jake on the shoulder this time. It’s a little hesitant like he doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. Jake shoots him an appreciative grin. 

“You’re the only person I’ve told,” he admits. “Not Coyote, not Tash. I don’t know. I just…” he shrugs again. “I’m not good with this stuff.”

“Wow,” Bob murmurs. “I cannot believe I got to witness the first known instance of Jake Seresin admitting he’s not good at something.”

“If you tell anyone I’m going to kill you,” Jake warns, and Bob laughs.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I’m stating the obvious, but have you…spoken to him about it? Rooster?” Bob’s tone is so patient, Jake forgives the immense stupidity of the question. He shakes his head, sullenly resting his head on his forearms again, staring into the distance.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Jake sighs. “What am I going to say? Hey Bradley, great sex we had, sorry I punched you the other day, by the way, I have weird complicated feelings about you, just wanted to let you know before we don’t see each other again for another five years, good talk!”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it like that,” Bob says patiently and Jake sighs at him. 

“Something that’s always amazed me about Top Gun pilots is how bad they are at communicating,” Bob says, tapping his fingers lightly against the spine of his book. “I’ve thought about it so much over the years. You have these pilots, some of the best in the entire world, every one of them with the best education the navy can buy, and our whole deal is working as a team, and then, somehow, you take us out of the plane and it’s like we forget how to have a conversation. We’re just Sims, standing around, waiting for someone to tell us how to interact.”

“What’s a Sim?” Jake says, but Bob waves his question away.

“Not the point,” Bob says breezily, and keeps talking. It’s the most Jake’s heard him talk…maybe ever. “Maybe it’s to do with altitude, I don’t know. What I’m saying is, you’re just…creating your own cross, Jake. You’re carving it out, hauling it out to the mount and climbing right up there yourself. All because you won’t just…have a conversation with another human being who’s probably feeling as weird about this as you are.”

Jake frowns, like he always does when he’s been correctly called out on his bullshit. Bob, to his credit, doesn’t backtrack. He just gestures, like it’s obvious, like Jake and Bradley are some mathematical equation he’s solved very logically. 

“Fuck,” he mutters after a moment. “I need to talk to Rooster.”

Bob looks triumphant, but not in a way that Jake minds.

“You’re very good at this,” he says quickly. “Relatonship advice. I think if you ever get bored of flying planes, you could probably be an agony aunt. You know, like in magazines. If they still have that.”

Bob grins. “Thanks, Jake.”

The sun’s nearly up now. It’s a full hour since Jake left for his run. He sighs, stretching his legs out in the sand. “I need to get going.” Bob nods in understanding, looking back down to his book.

“Hey, Jake?” he adds, as Jake is picking himself up, dusting the sand off his clothes. “You know you can talk to me, right? And Tasha too? About anything. Not just this.”

“I know,” Jake says, with a quick nod of his head. He’s not used to naked sincerity, and doesn’t entirely know what to do when confronted with it. “Thanks, Bob.”

“Anytime,” comes the reply, and they wave at each other, only a little awkwardly, before Jake resumes his run, continuing down the length of the beach so he can loop back around across the pavement at the other end. Bob’s words ring in his ears the whole time, even when he’s put his AirPods back in and resumed his meticulously-crafted running playlist.

He noticed some things had changed when they completed the uranium plant mission, but it’s taken Jake weeks to spot some of the differences. They’re closer now, all of them. Maybe near-death experiences does that to people. 

It’s not that Jake’s never had friends – he’s always had those, always been popular. He was Homecoming King, Prom King, Most Likely to Succeed. Even throughout his Naval career he’s had guys to hit the gym with, guys to drink with, guys to shoot the shit with. But he realises, as he’s weaving his way back towards his rental apartment, most of those guys don’t know anything about him, and he doesn’t know anything about them. Tasha and Javy are the only exceptions, and even then they joke about how Jake keeps his cards close to his chest. 

Some things he gives away easily – he makes a fuss about his birthday, he doesn’t shut up about the Red Sox, everyone knows about his obsession with Jack Reacher novels – but Jake wonders if all those little bits of information were only divulged in an attempt to dissuard people from trying to get closer to him than he wanted. Being an asshole helped with that too. Everyone just assumed Hangman was only ever out for himself, he didn’t give a fuck about other people, and Jake was more than happy to play his part in perpetuating the myth for the sake of self-preservation. 

He thinks of his Dad again, and how disappointed he would be if he knew that was the lesson his son took from his death, no matter how subconsciously Jake absorbed it: Don’t love people, because people will leave you, whether they want to or not. 

Hey.

Can we talk?

we are talking

I mean properly. In person.

are u gonna punch me again?

Maybe if you ask me nicely.

pass

I’m serious Rooster.

u text like an old man

Is that a yes or no?

it’s a maybe

Do you want to go for a drive?

dateline says u shouldn’t let strange ppl take u to a 2nd location

I actually will murder you if you keep this up.

tasha wouldn’t visit u in prison

She might think I’ve done her a favour.

lmao

u can pick me up at 6 ig

What is ‘ig’

hahahaha you’re so old

I’m four years younger than you?

it’s ‘i guess’ u geriatric fuck

you realise the fact you had to explain that to me 

makes it actually take longer than the abbreviation?

ur dirty talk is rly bad

I’ll see you at six.

we can get u an early bird special

Very funny.

He pulls up outside Rooster’s bungalow at five fifty-five, and Rooster pokes his head out of the front door, looks down at his wristwatch, and gestures to it accordingly.

“Cyclone says if you’re on time you’re late,” Jake calls to him from the car. 

Rooster rolls his eyes. “You wanna go pick him up instead?” he calls back. “I’ll be two minutes. And park your car. We’re not taking that thing anywhere. It’s embarrassing.”

Jake’s rental Lexus is fine thank you very much, but it’s not his car so he shrugs, pulling into the second spot in the driveway. Somehow he knows Rooster would be even meaner about the Tesla he has back in Texas. An image flashes across his mind of driving in it, the two of them, Bradley pushing at all the controls on the touch screen, mercilessly ripping into Jake for buying the thing in the first place. And Jake would sit there grinning, not bothered one bit by the teasing, because he just liked being with him.

If he hadn’t actually become intimately acquainted with Rooster’s dick over the past few weeks, Jake would swear the sunflower-yellow monstrosity he calls a vehicle was an overcompensation. As it is, he gets into the passenger seat without argument, surprised by how clean it is. He didn’t notice that the night a few weeks ago when they drove home from the bar. It smells citrusy – he spots a little air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. It’s shaped like a lemon. 

“What?” Rooster says, as he’s clipping his seatbelt in.

“Nothing,” Jake says. “Just…this is a lot.” He gestures at the interior of the car.

“It’s a Jeep,” Rooster says the words slowly like he’s talking to a small child. “You’ve been in it before. Shit, you’ve spent how many years in Texas? This shouldn’t be weird to you.’

“It’s not the car dipshit,” Jake says. “It’s the…yellowness.”

“I like yellow,” Rooster shrugs. “It was my Mom’s favourite colour.”

Jake doesn’t want to be a dick about that, which he’s sure Rooster knows, because that sly fucker loves to play the ‘Ooh poor little orphan Bradshaw’ card to his advantage, but this is an apology call, so he shuts up.

“Where are we going?” Rooster asks. Jake shrugs. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“You grew up here,” he says. “Take me somewhere you like.”

Rooster snorts a little, like he’s amused, but nods. The truck roars into life, and they crawl out of the suburbs, towards the coastal highway. He fiddles with the sound system and a song comes on that Jake recognises. It sounds old. 

“Who’s this?” he asks, gesturing at the stereo.

“The Zombies,” Rooster replies. “Another one of Dad’s.” 

Jake nods.

“I inherited all his vinyl, y’know,” Rooster continues. “He had a good collection. Probably worth a lot, but I ain’t gonna sell it. My Mom’s ghost would probably come and fuck me up if I even thought about it.” He grins over at Jake. 

“I got my Dad’s too,” Jake says. “It’s still at my Mom’s, though. I didn’t wanna bring it to Texas. Shit, unless Steve threw it out.” He frowns. It’s a long time since he was home.

“Who’s Steve?” Rooster asks.

“Step-dad,” Jake looks out at the ocean. “Married my Mom in ‘06, few years after my dad died. We’ve never…seen eye to eye.”

Rooster nods, like he understands. “My Mom tried dating for a while, after my old man passed. I wasn’t a fan. Then she got sick, and I felt bad. Like it would’ve been easier if she had someone else. All she had was me, all I had was her. In a way it was…worse than Dad. After she was gone, there was no one left. We were a team, and suddenly I was completely alone. ‘Cept for Mav, but he wasn’t living in Cali by that point, so…” he trails off. “You make your own family, I guess.”

They settle into a companionable silence, save for the sound of the music and passing cars. Even though Jake must have driven these roads a hundred times, it’s strange being in the passenger seat, looking out at miles and miles of familiar dusty rock and sea. He tries to picture Rooster as a kid coming out here, in some junker of a first car. Did he bring the girls he wanted to date? Did he know even then he was going to be a pilot? Who was Bradley, before he was Rooster?

Jake has made his peace with how much he wants to know. He’s made his peace with this feeling that’s set deep in his bones about the man currently driving him to some secret place. If he can’t have what he wants, at least he can have closure. Closure means growth. Jake knows he could do with more of that. At any rate he knows he owes Rooster an apology for the other night, even if he doesn’t seem too bothered. There’s a ghost of a bruise on his cheekbone – Jake spotted it when he got into the car, and felt an instant pang of guilt, but Bradley hasn’t mentioned it. He thinks better than of having this conversation while the car’s moving.

Eventually they come to a stop, in a trailhead parking lot. You can see the ocean and the city from up here. It’s quiet as the grave though. The sky is a blanket of bright stars, and Jake immediately understands the appeal. 

“C’mon,” Bradley says, and unbuckles their belts. He hops out of the car and onto the hood, sprawling out against the windshield, looking up at the clear night. Not a cloud to be found. There are constellation that Jake recognises – his dad taught him when he was a kid. Said it was a navigational life skill, but now Jake thinks he just wanted to spend time with him. 

He watches Bradley for a moment, staring up at the stars, and he looks young. His countenance is comfortable, in a way it never was while they were training. He was always either cocky or sullen, no in-between. Volatile in a way Jake prided himself on not being. Since they got back, something has shifted in the way Bradley carries himself. Like maybe he’s not also shouldering the weight of the world anymore.

Jake hops up, joining him. They sit close enough that their shoulders touch, legs bumping up against each other where they’re spread out on the hood. 

“I owe you an apology,” Jake says, after a moment. 

“Yeah you do,” Bradley replies plainly. “What was that all about the other night?” 

“I don’t know,” Jake says quickly, even though they both know that’s a lie. He doesn’t look at Bradley, but he knows Bradley’s looking at him.

“You didn’t make me drive you forty minutes for ‘I don’t know’, Hangman,” Rooster scoffs. The inference is clear. Nope, try again. Do better. And he’s right, of course he’s right. Jake doesn’t know why he’s deflecting when the whole point of initiating this conversation was to be honest.

“I freaked,” he sighs. “I’d been…thinking about what happened with us, and I kept seeing you around, and you just…you didn’t seem to give a fuck. You were carrying on like business as usual. I felt like I was going crazy, watching you, having to see you and hear you and thinking about you. I thought it’d be easier if you hated me again.”

Rooster is quiet for a moment.

“And you decided the best way to make that happen would be by socking me in the face?”

He doesn’t have to look at Rooster to know he’s smiling a little bit. In that infuriating way where you can see it in his eyes before you see it on his lips.

“Don’t make this into a joke,” Jake says morosely. 

“I’m not,” Rooster insists. “I’m just trying to get a handle on your insane little mind.”

Jake looks over at him. Rooster does seem genuinely surprised by the confession.

“Listen,” Jake tries again. “I know this doesn’t mean the same to you, what we did, and that’s fine, it doesn’t have to, I just. I wanted you to know I’m sorry I chose to deal with that frustration in the way I did.”

“What?” Bradley looks at him, still baffled.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Jake snaps.

“What do you mean, ‘this doesn’t mean the same’?” He says. “Having sex? Because you told me it didn’t mean anything. And then you spent a morning staring at me like I’d made a particularly derogatory comment about Trevor Story. So y’know. I assumed you were having some kind of gay panic thing and decided to stay the fuck away.” Bradley shrugs.

“You thought I was having a gay panic thing?!” Jake accuses, scandalised by the notion. “That’s so— I’ve been to Pride you know. In Texas. That takes guts.”

Bradley chuckles at that. “So what the hell, Seresin? You just felt like punching me for the hell of it? Is throwing punches your love language?”

Jake sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I like you,” he says finally. “I really like you, Bradley fucking Bradshaw, I like having sex with you, I like talking to you, I like teasing you, I like kicking your ass at pool, I like having breakfast with you, I. Like. You. So. Much. It’s. Killing. Me.”

For what feels like an eternity - but is in reality more likely to be 10 seconds - Bradley says nothing. He stares at Jake, and Jake stares back, wondering if it’s too late to say ‘sike’ and pretend he didn’t just present his heart up on a silver platter. 

“And you thought the best way to express that was punching me in the face?”

Jake’s face crumples in embarrassment. 

“I can’t be the first to have had that reaction,” he managed to say hopefully, a glimmer of his trademark bravado rising to the surface.  

Bradley laughs at that. “Yeah, fair.” 

There’s a moment of silence again. They both look up at the sky. 

“How long?” Bradley asks quietly after a while. 

Jake shrugs. He thinks about it for a moment. The realisation didn’t come like a bolt from the blue, though. It crept in like a rolling fog until it surrounded him. “A while.”

Bradley sighs. He rubs his chin in the way Jake’s seen him do a hundred times when he’s thinking. 

“This is really bad timing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be inconvenient about pouring my heart out to you, Rooster,” Jake says haughtily, the flush of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. “You could just let me down gently like a normal person instead of berat-“

His rant is cut short by Bradley’s hand on his jaw, then his mouth on his mouth. It’s short, and Jake barely feels the bristle of his moustache before Bradley pulls back. Grinning. 

“You talk so much. We should’ve called you Cartman instead of Hangman.”

“Very funny.”

Bradley beams at him. “I thought so.”

Jake settles a little. It’s strange Bradley has that effect on him now. Grounds him. A lot of people would never think of Jake as being someone that needs that, but a lot of people  have been wrong about him before. Jake counts on that like Bob counts on not being noticed. Evasive manoeuvres. They learned that shit in 101.

“I like you too.” 

Bradley says after a moment. His voice is quiet, serious, but there’s something light about the way he says the words. Like a kid admitting a crush. Which, hell. That’s exactly what it is. Jake looks at him slowly, checking if he’s being negged or appeased in any way. But Bradley looks as sincere now as he did when they hugged on the deck of the carrier after they came back from hell alive. That’s not where it started for Jake, but it’s where everything began to crystallise. 

“Cool,” Jake nods. 

And Bradley grins. Then he laughs. “Cool?”

“Shut up, Bradshaw.” 

“Mm, I thought you wanted to talk,” he chimes, folded his arms across his chest. “So far all you’ve done is berate me. Very bad apology, I gotta say. Like, a three out of ten.”

There’s this look he gets, one that Jake started to recognise that day on the beach when Mav was trying to teach them about teamwork – a certain sort of smile that’s not quite self-satisfied to be smug, but it’s on the way there. Jake thought he hated it at first, but there’s a lot of things about Bradley that he could have sworn he hated, even up until a week ago. Hate is an easier emotion, he thinks, than the alternative, but maybe that’s bullshit, because the more he thinks about it, the more Jake realises he’s never really felt about anything that strongly. Not when he was angry about his Dad, not when he was goading other kids into fights at school, plausible deniability to avoid ever getting into trouble himself. He’s always derived a certain sense of satisfaction from watching other people lose their cool, but he never does. Maybe that’s why everyone looked so weirded out the other night at The Hard Deck.

“I really am sorry about the other night,” He says, as sincerely as he can manage. That’s something else that doesn’t come easily to Jake.

Bradley nods. “I know,” he reaches out and gently squeezes Jake’s thigh. “How’s your nose?”

“Fine,” Jake says, wiggling a little as proof. “I deserved it.”

“Maybe,” Bradley hums. “But I shouldn’t have done it anyway.”

“Bob has this theory about Top Gun pilots,” Jake doesn’t know why he’s bringing this up, but Bradley might find it interesting. “He says we’re bad communicators.”

“That’s not a theory,” Bradley snorts. “That’s an observation.”

“Asshole, don’t interrupt me,” Jake flicks him in the arm. “He says we’re bad communicators because we spent all our time at high altitude.”

“I don’t think that science checks out,” Bradley looks sceptical. “But we are bad at talking. You know it took Mav like, a decade to talk about my Dad properly?”

“Maybe the better you are at the job, the worse you are at communicating.”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

They grin at each other. 

“So you’ve been talking to Bob?” Bradley raises an eyebrow. 

“Mm,” Jake nods. “He’s kind of great.”

“Yeah. Honestly gonna miss him.”

Jake looks over at Bradley again, but stops short of asking Are you going to miss me too? Because it feels like if he got the shape of the words out of his mouth, it would be too raw, too honest. Even for the conversation they’re having now. 

“You know I was engaged?” Bradley says, and the look of surprise that registers immediately on Jake’s face is the answer, which makes Bradley chuckle. “Yeah. For a while. Girl I met at college in New York.”

“Huh.”

“Mm.”

Jake doesn’t know if it would be impertinent to press Bradley on it, so he looks at him expectantly. Bradley looks back. 

“Sorry, did you want me to elaborate?”

“Yeah, fuckface,” Jake rolls his eyes. 

“We’d been dating for like a year, and it made sense, y’know?” Bradley looks out at the city, twinkling in the distance. “Get engaged. Get married. Have kids. Buy a nice house in the suburbs. Even with the four-year setback, I convinced myself that was the plan. My parents got together young, and I think it’s easier somehow, doing this, when you’ve got someone to go home to.”

Jake doesn’t know about that, because he’s always thought the exact opposite. Self-reliance is paramount in his world. Or it was, anyway. 

“So what happened?”

Bradley sighs. “I called it off, four months later. Before we’d really planned it out, thank God. Just…didn’t feel right. On paper it was perfect, she was a pre-med student, a total smokeshow, though I was God’s gift for some reason, but…” he shrugs gently. “I kept waiting for something to change, for me to suddenly be amped about it, but I never got there. I loved her, I guess, but I didn’t want to marry her.”

“How’d she take it?”

“Oh, about as well as you’d expect,” Rooster deadpans. “Pretty bad. Called me a lot of names. Couldn’t show my face in Rochester for a while. But we talk now. She got married a while back to a guy with a tech job. Two kids, Golden Retriever, big house in Rhode Island. They’re one of those families that send a photo Christmas card.”

Jake wrinkles his nose and Bradley grins at his visible disgust. 

“Anyway, my point is, I’m not…great at this,” Bradley concludes. “And uh, no offence, but neither are you.”

“None taken,” Jake shrugs. “And in a week none of it will matter anyway, because the chances are we’ll be on opposite sides of the world.”

Bradley nods.

“But you made me drive out here so we could talk about it anyway.”

“I did.”

“Cool.”

Neither of them say anything else for a long time. Jake looks up at the sky again. He picks out the patterns he recognises: Orion, Cassiopeia, The Plow. After a moment, he feels Bradley shift, and their knuckles brush together as he wriggles around. When he stills, they’re still touching, and Jake, tentative in a way he isn’t used to being, lifts his thumb and moves it along the ridge of Bradley’s hand.

“So,” Bradley finally says.

“Do you want to come back to mine and get high?”

The suddenness of the question makes Jake snort. “What?”

“We’ve got precisely seven days left until our leave of absence finishes and we ship out to wherever the fuck they want us,” Bradley explains, like he’s talking to a small child. “Now, you can either go back to that sad apartment you’re staying in and be alone with your thoughts like some kind of weird repressed New England monk, or you can come back to mine, and get, like, disgustingly high, and watch YouTube compilations of old Vines and eat junk food until we pass out.”

Jake looks at him, incredulous.

“Are you sure?”

Now Rooster look at him, incredulous.

“No, I’m just asking as a goof,” he rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a narc.”

“I am not,” Jake protests, like a narc. “I just…” for a moment he thinks he’s going to say Shouldn’t we talk about this more? The fact we just admitted something’s going on here and we’re about to go our own ways and where the hell does that leave us? But he quickly thinks better of it, swallows the words down, and clears his throat before he looks at Bradley with the directness he’s been trying to conjure for weeks. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Awesome,” comes the reply.

A new thing Jake learns about Bradley Bradshaw: he rolls a joint with the practised precision of a guy who listens to The Grateful Dead and spends all his time with a boombox on the beach. 

As he’s thinking this, watching Bradley from the armchair, he realises his references do him absolutely no favours in the sounding-like-a-dad department, so he keeps the thought to himself.

“When my Dad was having chemo, he got a medical marujiana card,” Jake says. Bradley looks over at him.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. For the pain, y’know.” Bradley nods. “He used to go outside in the evening and sit in a lawn chair and smoke a joint. So for a long time, that’s all it reminded me of. When I was a teenager and all the other kids were smoking it, I refused, because it just…made me think of him.”

Bradley smiles softly. 

“I knew you were straight-laced.”

“I tried real hard,” Jake admits. “I think the first time I smoked was prom night, and…well, long story short, I got too high to give my date the time of her life, and ending up passing out with my arms around a family-size bag of cheese puffs. 

Bradley laughs. It’s a real, genuine cackle. He actually has to stop rolling while he processes the information, and Jake laughs too, because the image must be absurd.

“God,” he says, shaking his head, as he finishes off the joint. “You’re really doing wonders to dismantle any preconceived notion I had about you being cool.”

“I’m cool,” Jake says, lamely. “Just because you grew up in California.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bradley shrugs. “I was a teenage delinquent. Think it was the daddy issues.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Mav chewed me out when he caught me smoking once,” Bradley says, as he reaches for the lighter. “Scared the living shit out of me,” he grins at Jake. “For like, two months.”

Jake rolls his eyes, filled with a wave of affection for the sudden insight he’s gaining into Bradley’s wayward tendon.

“C’mon,” he says, getting up from the couch. “I’m not enough of a delinquent to smoke this inside.”

So they go out to the deck, and sit at the little metal table that’s out there, overlooking the ocean. Jake watches as an amber flame ignites the end of the joint, and becomes a glowing bud against the darkness. They’re illuminated by the porch light, and it’s quiet aside from the roll of the waves and the occasional sound of the mosquito zapper. He watches the practiced way Bradley takes a drag, sucks the smoke into his lungs, and exhales it into the night air.

“Haven’t got any cheese puffs for you to pass out with,” he teases as he offers Jake the roach. “But I could maybe spring a bag of Takis.”

“Gross.” Jake pulls a face.

“I’m a man of refined taste,” Bradley replies breezily. He gets up again, as Jake’s taking a tentative puff, and disappears back into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with two Coronas, sets them down on the table. Jake nods a thank you, and passes back the joint. 

“Good huh?”

Jake fixes him with a look. “I have absolutely no way of knowing.”

Bradley chuckles softly. 

They sit in companionable silence while they smoke. Jake drinks half his beer, and slowly grows looser in his chair, slumped like a cat reclining in the sun. Bradley looks…Bradley looks good. He always looks good. That’s been the problem for a long time now. 

“I can feel you staring at me,” he says, even though he’s got his eyes closed.

“I’m allowed to stare,” Jake replies.

“You don’t have a subtle bone in your body, do you?”

“I can tell you all about one bone I have.”

Bradley opens his eyes and boos him for that, which, fair. But then he eyes Jake lasciviously Like he’s been thinking it too. 

It’s probably a bad idea, all things considered. They’ve established how they feel, but also acknowledged the upcoming expiry date on their time in Fightertown, and those two things combined mean a repeat performance is only going to complicate matters. Upset the delicate balance they’ve achieved this evening. They should call it a night – Jake should stand up, say his goodbyes, and walk out of the door. Back to his apartment, back to reality.

Bradley licks his lips and flicks his eyes up and down.

“Don’t give me that look.”

A grin matches his own. 

“It’s the only one I got.”

Jake rolls his eyes, no heat behind the gesture. 

He thinks for a moment, before he gets up, raking a hand through Bradley’s hair as he passes him and reenters the house. He heads for the bedroom, flicking on the lamp on the nightstand, which bathes the room in a warm amber glow. He sits on the edge of the mattress, and listens to the sound of footsteps on the deck, the back door closing. Quieter footsteps, down the hallway. Bradley appears, leaning on the doorframe.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

Jake grins. “I don’t know if I’m all that nice.”

“Oh?” Bradley quirks an eyebrow like it’s a threat. 

It’s different this time, Jake thinks. Like Caesar crossing the Rubicon, but he doesn’t know if Caesar ever sucked dick. Probably, though. Just about the only thing he remembers from world history is that the Roman Empire was kind of gay. 

Either way the thought is fleeting, nervous white noise as he watches Bradley approach, and nudge his way between his legs. He runs his hand through Jake’s hair, then tips his chin up to make him look at him. 

Jake does. He looks at full lips curled into a smile that’s softer at the edges. He looks at dilated pupils and long eyelashes and yeah, sure, the scars that only serve as a reminder of what he’s lived through, what he survived. He’s not enough of a fool to think it’s love, but he’s just enough of one to keep a candle burning.

The pad of his thumb presses against Jake’s bottom lip. 

He still can’t tell if he wants him or wants to be him or some lethal combination of the two, but maybe it’s all the same in the bedroom. Maybe fighting and fucking have always been two sides of the same coin. 

“Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass,” he warns. “I won’t break for you.”

Maybe it’s a challenge, maybe it’s a dare. Maybe he wants to, deep down, because it would be so much easier if they could walk away from this with a sense of an ending. 

Bradley’s lips curl into something more vulpine. 

“Take off your shirt.”

Jake moves in the perfunctory manner of a man resigned to obeying an order he doesn’t agree with, tugging it off, letting it fall to the floor without ceremony. 

Bradley’s eyes flicker over the newly-revealed expanse of flesh. There’s something hungry in it, something lascivious and longing and Jake tries to remember the last time he felt like this, the last time he felt as hot as he does held under a gaze that’s half reverential, half predatory. He’s torn between wanting to pounce and wanting to drag this moment out indefinitely, looking up at Bradley’s curled lip, the wolfish glint in his dark gaze. 

The compromise is saying nothing as he reaches for the button on Rooster’s jeans — listens for the hitch in his breath just audible over the growl of zipper teeth parting. He pulls the denim down, greeted by black boxer briefs, the subtle indication of his arousal tented in the front. Jake grins. Jake feels powerful like this, knows the worth of his talented mouth and quick hands more with Bradley standing over him than perhaps at any other time. He touches him through the fabric, listening to the shaky exhale that follows. 

“Tease,” Bradley accuses under his breath. He’s not wrong. Jake hums a consideration as he drags his fingers beneath the waistband, until Bradley sighs and brings his own hand to cover Jake’s, guiding the fabric down, down, down, revealing the lighter shade of his skin where a tan hasn’t set in. 

“Don’t sunbathe naked?” Jake quirks an eyebrow, teasing. 

“Fuck off,” Bradley murmurs affectionately, free hand pulling at Jake’s hair. He chuckles, even as he’s dipping his head closer, inhaling the scent of him, familiar and reassuring, sweat and cologne and something he can’t put his finger on but knows intimately to be him, the light of his life, source of infinite frustration and heartache who is standing before him half-naked and angelic, golden-haloed troublemaker who is every Springsteen song, every scotch and soda, every sunburn to him. 

Jake’s never thought of himself as much of a romantic, but maybe he understands the attraction as he’s brushing his hands across Bradley’s thighs, feels the prickle of gooseflesh and the satisfaction of knowing it’s just for him that Bradley comes apart like this, gentle in all the places he should be harsh. He takes him in his hand, stroking him to full hardness, gaze fixed on the way he shudders and sighs. He’s about to do more when he feels Bradley’s hand on his shoulder.

“I want to,” he says quietly, almost shyly, like they haven’t had sex before. Jake stares at him, taking a moment to process, and the nods wordlessly, pushing himself further back on the bed, allowing Bradley to kneel in the vacated spot. He grins as he unzips Jake’s pants, as he coaxes them past his thighs, teasing him with the blunt scratch of his fingernails, ghosting over the cotton of his underwear. But Jake knows how to wait, contrary to popular belief, and he lies back, propped up on his elbows so he can watch the way Bradley moves. He mouths at him through his underwear, warm breath teasing as it ghosts over his cock, already hard and heavy. The mewl Jake lets out is barely human. His cheeks flush when he catches Bradley’s breathy laugh. 

He makes a deliberate show out of removing his underwear, sliding it down past his thighs, licking each new freckle, each new mole that appears in the absence of fabric. When he noses at the coarse golden hair which charts down from below his navel to the top of his cock, Jake all but whines, impatient. 

“I know,” Bradley murmurs, squeezing his thigh, rubbing the spot where his navy tattoo is. “You’ve been a very good boy.” 

The wording shouldn’t make Jake feel hot all over, but it does. He flushes in his cheeks, and for lack of anything else to do, buries a hand in Bradley’s hair, feels the soft curls and hopes he might take it as a sign of encouragement. 

He does. He flicks his gaze up at Jake and smiles. Not a smirk, or a grin. A genuine smile. 

Then that stupid clever mouth licks a strip from the base of his cock to the hilt, and Jake’s done playing it cool. His breath comes out in a stutter. As Bradley takes him in his mouth properly, full lips sucking, tongue swirling around the sensitive head, his fists curl in the sheets. It’s not like he hasn’t gotten head before – even from guys – but of course it’s different this time. Of course it’s different when you care, when you look down and see the face of a man you were willing to die for, as he makes you come alive through nothing but the use of his clever tongue. He’s responsive and languid, in no hurry. Jake feels like he’s on fire, but he never wants it to stop. He never wants to not feel like this, he thinks, as Bradley thumbs his hipbone, as Bradley takes him so deep in his throat it’s a miracle Jake doesn’t come from the sheer novelty. Later he might make some comment about Bradley sucking dick as good as he flies, but it’s not the time. 

“Brad,” he manages to breathe out, after God knows how long, after he’s been teased and brought to the brink at least three times, kneading the white sheets over and over. “I want…” he swallows. Jake’s never been much for vocalising in the bedroom. All for it when a partner does, but he’s a performer, he’s not used to being on the back foot, to whimpering and wanting and letting someone else take care of him. Bradley’s mouth withdraws with a lewd pop. When he looks at Jake, there’s salvia on his chin. He looks hungry and beautiful and dangerous.

“Fuck me,” Jake murmurs. “Please, Brad, please.”

There’s this look on his face, like Bradley’s trying to reconcile desire and duty. Sleeping together again is a bad idea when they have to call it quits in a week, but admitting how they feel was a bad idea too, and that didn’t stop them.

“Take care of me,” Jake continues, defiant. “I know you can. I know you want to.”

Bradley sighs a little. It’s a sound Jake knows, but has only ever heard in a professional context before, when he knows he’s beaten. He gets up from the bed, retrieving lube and a condom, when he offers out to Jake, who considers the little foil square. 

“Are you…y’know?” He asks, and Bradley looks sheepish.

“You’re the only person I’ve fucked since my last medical,” he admits. Jake grins.

“Mm. Same.”

With the admission, Bradley looks a little relieved. He chuckles under his breath as he leaves the condom on the nightstand, seats himself between Jake’s spread thighs and coats his fingers in lube. He’s gentle here too, gentle as he was last time, but Jake grunts, rolls his eyes. “C’mon,” he mutters, nudging Brad with his foot. “You’re going soft.” 

“Am I?” Comes the reply, before he crosses his sticky index and middle finger, pushes them into Jake’s ass and scissors them apart in a way that makes Jake growl. It’s a pleasant pain, a burn he likes, as he clenches his thighs around Bradley, encouraging him. “Good boy,” he mutters to Bradley, and pretends he doesn’t notice him preen at the compliment. He works him like this for a while, pulling in and out slowly, fucking him on his fingers while they kiss, languid and luxurious, until pre-cum drips steadily from Jake’s cock and he’s sure if Bradley doesn’t actually fuck him now he’ll come before and blow it for both of them. “Babe,” he murmurs against Bradley’s mouth, who hums back, seemingly cognisant of his point. 

He slips into the hot clutch of Jake’s body like he was meant for it, runs his tongue along the delicate part of his neck where his pulse is quickest. 

“If you give me a hickey I’m going to tell the others the truth this time,” he teases, turning his head so he can look at Bradley, who shrugs, mischievous. 

“Tell ‘em.”

Jake rolls his eyes, pushes Bradley lightly, who just fixes him with that impossibly charismatic smile, before he leans down to work another bruise into the junction of Jake’s neck and shoulder. 

He’s possessive too, Jake thinks. Rooster just hides it better. 

But thought takes a backseat to lust just as quickly, as the pace quickens, as Bradley pushes up into him and Jake rolls his hips readily, the quiet of the room punctuated by panting, moaning, the dizzy nonsense tongue of two lovers in congress. There’s a light sheen of sweat on Bradley’s chest. Jake idly finds himself wanting to lick it. When he kisses him, he presses his fingers against Bradley’s throat, feels the bob of his Adam’s Apple. He’s so real. It’s devastating. 

After a little while Bradley coaxes him onto his side, placing a knee between his legs for leverage, and he fucks him from behind, a hand on Jake’s cock, slowly teasing the head of it like he isn’t hypersensitive already; like he hasn’t been going crazy all night. It’s there he starts to lose control, pace quickening as he pistons his hips, and Jake rolls back to find him, one arm beat back; curled around him, encouraging him. 

He comes quietly, the orgasm rippling through him like an awesome wave. He feels it in his toes, his stomach, his fingertips. He feels Bradley tense inside him and bite down against his shoulder blade, breathing heavy against his spine. It’s electric, all of it, and Jake thinks he understands now, why people follow each other into the dark, why people move heaven and earth to be together. 

He understands it when Bradley turns his head to kiss his swollen lips, when Bradley strokes his hair as he pulls out of him, even when Bradley licks the cum from his stomach with a look so devious it makes Jake’s cheeks flush. 

They lie on the damp sheets, Bradley curled behind Jake, after some brief, barely-serious joke about who’s the big spoon. Jake won’t remember what they talk about by the morning, but he’ll remember the way Bradley’s hand curled around his abdomen, protective, and the even rise and fall of his chest when he eventually fell asleep. Morning promises a full stop, but Jake thinks he’ll settle for the ellipsis for a little while. 

EPILOGUE

The flight in from Dallas lands in LAX at three, and Jake swears he can do the drive himself. The rehearsal dinner for Tasha and Bob isn’t til seven, so he’s got plenty of time to get from the airport to the hotel in Palm Springs even stopping to pick up a rental car. 

Even so, it’s not exactly a surprise when he makes it into the arrivals hall with his garment bag slung over his shoulder and sees a familiar face standing amid the sea of drivers with neatly written, professional signs for their passengers. 

BAGMAN is written on his piece of paper, scrawled in the spidery capitals he recognises from months of post-its left on his refrigerator, postcards sent with obscure stamps. 

His shirt, orange with green flowers, is among the ugliest yet, and Bradley’s wearing his aviators indoors, which Jake has said (repeatedly and loudly) makes him look like a douchebag.

The smile, though? Jake concedes he should keep that, as he makes he way through the crowd.

“Hangman,” Bradley says. “You look good.”

Jake grins as he reaches over to pull the aviators off. 

“You ever considered any new material?” he teases.

Bradley shrugs, taking the opportunity to get an arm around Jake’s waist, leaning in and kissing him for the first time in weeks. When he pulls away, he grins, boyish, pushing a strand of Jake's hair out of his face.

“I know you like the classics.”