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If there’s one thing Jake Seresin didn’t have on his yearly bingo card, it was ending up in urgent care three days before Christmas. More specifically, ending up in urgent care in San Diego, sweating from every pore in his body while being poked and prodded by a very young, very enthusiastic nurse named Sandra. She’s trying to get him to relax. It’s proving fairly unsuccessful.
“It’s in there deep, honey,” she says, and he can hear the grimace in her voice as she applies pressure to his body with a cold, sterile implement.
Jake bites his fist to stop himself from letting out a cry. Aside from being incredibly painful, it’s one of the top-five most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to him. Which is really saying something, because Jake tries his hardest to appear as unbothered as he can at all times. He’s above embarrassment; as cool as a breeze, according to Javy.
Trying his hardest to grin and bear it is borderline impossible, and on top of all of the other regrets which led up to this precise moment, Jake’s kicking himself for forgetting his Airpods. Instead, his only distraction from the excruciating experience is whatever is going on in the beds surrounding his own. The white curtain around his section might be the only thing protecting him from the mortifying experience of being seen in his current state, but the upside to the flimsy material is that it doesn’t block out any sound. Jake has always been famously nosy, and right now, he needs to think about anything other than what Sandra is doing behind him.
He’s offered momentary reprieve from the assault on his body when Sandra is called to attend to another patient, and as he sits and waits for the torture to recommence, he closes his eyes and listens. There’s a man talking far too loudly about bladder incontinence on one side of him, and a child screaming from the other side of the room, but the other bed next to Jake is suspiciously quiet, save for some quiet murmuring. Jake wills the guy with bladder issues to tone it down so he can eavesdrop, but every second sentence is lost to words like ‘adult diaper’ and ‘urinary tract’.
“Hey bud,” a male nurse says, evidently trying to get the attention of whoever is in bed three. “You hit your head kinda hard, hey?”
Maybe it’s another kid, Jake wonders, although the nurses here seem to have a tendency to call everyone by pet names. Jake doesn’t necessarily mind it, but it definitely doesn’t align with any part of the Hangman persona. He barely represses a shudder at the mere thought of anyone from work finding out about his current predicament.
“Something like that,” Jake hears the person – definitely a male – say. “Wow,” he adds, and the tone of his voice makes it sound like he’s cringing. “That hurts.”
“You’ve definitely got the bruise and the swelling to prove it,” the nurse replies cheerily. “You let us know if you feel like you’re gonna be sick, okay?”
There’s a beat before the guy says, “Should I feel like that?”
Jake can make out Sandra’s familiar voice behind the curtain. “It’s better if you don’t, honey,” she tells him. “You’re only with us in urgent care because you didn’t actually lose consciousness, but if you start feeling nauseous or develop a headache, we’re going to need to send you up to the ER.”
The man groans softly. “No, I’m good,” he insists. “Just…a little woozy?”
Sandra hums. “I’m going to get the doctor for you, okay? We’ll need to run some basic tests to rule out anything serious. I’ll leave this button with you. Use it to call out for my colleague, Nathan, at any time.”
Jake hears the curtain rustle as Sandra and Nathan let themselves out, then listens to the squeak of Sandra’s shoes on the linoleum as she makes her way around the other side of Jake’s bed. For a moment, he’s expecting her to breeze back into his section, before he hears her speaking in a low voice to the doctor who is inspecting Mr Urinary Incontinence.
“The patient in bed three is ready for you, Sharon,” she says, clicking a pen rapidly a few times over. “Looks like a mild concussion, but he fell pretty badly, so I’m hesitant to let him go too soon.”
“Let me run the basic tests and we’ll see what we’re working with,” an older, female voice says. “How did he fall?” Before Sandra can answer, the doctor interjects, evidently speaking to the man in bed one. “Mr Richards, please stop attempting to remove your own catheter. I promise we will attend to you in a moment.”
Jake wrinkles his nose. Sandra, on the other hand, seems thoroughly unperturbed and plows on with bed three’s medical history. “Fell out of an airplane.”
“Sorry, what?” the doctor asks, as Jake strains to listen in. This he’s gotta hear. “He—”
“It sounds a lot worse than it is,” Sandra admits. “What I mean is, he fell down the stairs while exiting the plane.”
Well, that’s a lot less exciting, Jake thinks. For a moment, he was imagining a hop gone wrong, but if an accident had happened on base, it would have been dealt with by the Navy’s medical officers. This man has simply failed to hold onto a handrail.
“Right,” Sharon-the-doctor says slowly. “Slippery conditions out there with all that rain we’ve been having. Could’ve happened to any of us.”
Wouldn’t happen to me, Jake thinks smugly. But then again, he didn’t think he’d end up with foreign objects in his body either.
He quickly gets an ego check when Sandra re-enters his section, armed with another medical instrument. Jake wishes he never saw it. “Right,” she says, eyeing him with a confidence that he finds both scary and inspiring. “We’re going to get these things out.”
“That’s what I came here for,” Jake replies between gritted teeth, trying to sound more grateful and less like he wants to throw something. “Do what you gotta do.”
“Oh, I will,” she promises with a little too much enthusiasm. “I will make it happen.”
Jake wonders if the man in bed three is privy to this conversation, and prays that he is hard of hearing. “What do I do about the whole…sweating thing?” Jake asks, trying to slow his breathing as Sandra resumes her position behind him. “And the nausea?”
“That’s just the infection,” she says smoothly. “We’re going to give you something for the pain and some strong antibiotics. It should clear all of that right up. You’ll need to stay on the ground for a while though – definitely no flying on the painkillers.”
Jake’s got severe reservations about his ability to sit in a chair for a long period of time, let alone fly a fighter jet. He doesn’t mention it though.
“Okay, I’m going to go ahead and start,” she says, and Jake takes a deep, fortifying breath, bracing himself for impact.
It doesn’t help one bit.
Over the next five minutes, he uses more curse words than he ever thought possible, bites his hand so hard it bleeds and almost throws up all over the shiny, white floor. Before any biohazard events can occur, Sandra has the foresight to call for backup, and Jake can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed as another nurse rips back the curtain separating him from bed three to shove a bucket under his face.
The result isn’t pretty. Better out than in, he supposes.
It’s not until he’s finished coughing up the contents of his stomach that he hears a familiar voice. There’s a loud ringing in his ears, but even then, he swears he hears someone call him by name.
Not his name. His callsign.
“Hangman?” says the voice, and Jake looks up just in time for Sandra to pinch the extremely sensitive skin on his back again.
“Fuck,” he yelps, still holding the bucket of his own vomit while he stares down Bradley fucking Bradshaw in the next bed over. He’s never been less happy to see Rooster in his goddamn life.
“Jesus, man,” Bradshaw says, because he wouldn’t know a thing about appropriate time-and-place if a clock hit him in the fucking head. “You look like shit.”
“Feeling great, Rooster,” Jake chokes out, before burying his head in the bucket again. Hot, heady shame curls up his neck in tendrils, like it’s choking him. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You two know each other?” the nurse who handed Jake the bucket says, as Sandra puts a glove-clad hand on Jake’s bare skin.
“Felicity,” she says sharply. “The privacy curtain is there for a reason—”
“Don’t bother,” Jake interjects bleakly. “It’s too late.”
Felicity gives him a guilty look and holds her hand out for the bucket instead. “I’ll just go and clean that up for you,” she says. Jake gives her a grimace that he hopes looks at least ten percent appreciative.
“What the hell happened?” Bradshaw asks, because he’s about as tactful as a blind bull in a china shop.
“What the hell happened to—” Jake stops himself. “You fell down the airstairs?” Suddenly, he’s feeling a lot better about himself. When Sandra prods him again, he only whimpers a tiny bit.
Bradshaw cringes. His cheeks are flushed, either from embarrassment or from the mild head injury, but in any case, he doesn’t look too bad. Unlike Jake, at least he has a shirt on. “Some kid tripped me up,” he mumbles.
“Bradshaw, you fly F-18s for a living,” Jake says, as if Bradley might have forgotten his entire fucking career. “How did you fall out of a passenger jet?”
“Like I said—”
Jake rolls his eyes, which is painful given his headache but somehow still worth it. “Yeah, I heard you–Fucking motherfucker—”
“Just a few more,” Sandra tells him, the metal dish next to her clanging as she deposits the offending material. “You’re doing so good.”
“You gonna tell me about that?” Bradshaw asks, gesturing towards the metal dish.
“No,” Jake rasps. His stomach rolls dangerously. “We’re not talking about me.”
“Maybe we should be,” Bradshaw says, infuriating as always.
“Look, Bradshaw,” Jake spits out, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing deeply as Sandra scrapes back more of his skin. “I didn’t fucking save your ass from certain death a month ago just to have you break your neck because you weren’t watching where your feet were going.”
“I thought this wasn’t about you,” Bradshaw deadpans.
Jake wants to let out a feral scream. He thinks it might be the pain talking. “Yeah, well,” he says tightly. “I just think you could show your appreciation a little better.”
“I’ll be sure to think of you every time I step outside from now on,” Bradshaw promises, although the sarcasm is so thick Jake wonders how the words don’t get stuck in his throat. “I—”
“Mr Bradshaw,” a voice calls, as a stern, older woman appears between their beds. “I’m Sharon, one of the doctors on duty. I need to run some neurological and cognitive tests to make sure you’re going to be alright for us to send home tonight.”
“Sure,” Rooster replies.
“Good luck, bird brain,” Jake mutters, because he’s petty like that.
Sharon-the-doctor gives him a sharp look and promptly pulls the curtain between them. Sandra gives him another poke and Jake only just manages to stop himself from crying out again.
“There’s a really stubborn one here,” she tells him, unperturbed by his terrible language and general bad attitude. “This might hurt a bit.”
“They’ve all hurt a bit,” Jake grits out, and she just hums in a way which tells him she’s very much aware of that.
“Just let me get this last one and then I can apply the dressing and give you a prescription for as many antibiotics as your body can handle,” she says. “Ready?”
“Wait,” Jake protests weakly. “Can I get another bucket?”
Five minutes of unbearable pain later, Jake is relieved but shaking like a leaf. Beside him, Sandra has left the evidence of his stupidity – several bloody, splintered cactus spikes adorning a metal dish. Someone has pulled the curtain between beds two and three open again, and for someone with a suspected concussion, Bradshaw is craning his neck severely, trying to catch a glimpse.
“Did you miss your mouth with the toothpicks?” he quips, looking towards the dish beside Jake’s leg when Sandra disappears to get disinfectant and dressings.
“Bradshaw, don’t be crowing about my issues when you have proven yourself incapable of exiting an aircraft,” Jake snaps. “Unlike you, I fell off a cliff.”
“Bit of an exaggeration,” Sandra says, unfortunately rejoining them with gauze and disinfectant in hand. “Although falling on loose rock really isn’t anything to be ashamed of. You two just need to be more careful with your footing.”
“Hear that, Hangman?” Bradshaw smirks. “We could both improve our precision.”
“You really wanna complain about my precision, Rooster?” Jake gripes. Not for the first time, he wishes the uranium mission wasn’t classified so he could yell about how he shot a fifth-gen out of the sky to save back-seater Bradshaw in a museum piece. Instead, the nurses have to listen to urinary incontinence issues.
Bradshaw shrugs, then winces as if the movement pains him. “Point taken. You should still tell me what happened to you. We’re in this together now.”
Jake wants to ask Bradshaw exactly what he means by that, but Sandra starts applying the disinfectant and suddenly he’s incapable of saying anything at all. “Sorry,” she soothes. “I know this sucks.”
“Not as bad as the extraction,” Jake admits through gritted teeth.
She pats him on the shoulder and says, “Next time, don’t wait a week-and-a-half to get these removed. You could have saved yourself the infection and a lot of pain.”
“I don’t plan on there being a next time,” Jake tells her, which fortunately, makes her laugh.
“I’m just saying,” she says, looking between Jake and Rooster before disappearing behind his back again to apply the gauze. “You’ve clearly got friends around. So get over your pride and ask for help next time you decide to fall off a hiking trail and into a Cholla cactus, okay?”
Bradshaw, to his credit, only looks slightly gleeful about this news. “Hear that, Hangman? We’re friends now.”
“Don’t sound too happy about it, Rooster.”
“You know what friends do?” Bradshaw continues, leaning back against the pillows of the bed he’s perched on. “Tell each other stuff. Like how they managed to fall into a cactus.”
“I told you, I fell off a cliff,” Jake grunts.
Bradshaw hums. “Don’t believe that for a second, Seresin.”
“You fell off a set of airstairs,” Jake reminds him. “So don’t get too comfortable talking about cacti.”
Bradshaw’s grin gets impossibly wider. “Falling out of a plane sounds a lot more dangerous than falling into a spiky plant.”
“Don’t forget the part where he left the spikes in for over a week,” Sandra says, which is disappointing because Jake was really starting to like her but apparently, she’s a traitor. The Bradley Bradshaw effect is unreal. “This infection is nasty.”
“I’ll make sure I have tweezers at the ready next time,” Rooster adds, with a generous serving of mock sincerity. “Although spikes kinda suit your abrasive personality, Hangman.”
“I think you can probably see why I didn’t ask Bradshaw for help,” Jake tells Sandra. She just laughs politely, as if he’s making a joke. He’s very much not.
Their bickering is interrupted by Nathan-the-nurse who arrives to tell Bradley he’s free to go; released from urgent care with no further questions. Apparently, he passed the cognitive and neurological tests with flying colors, which Jake really wants to make a smartass comment about, but doesn’t get the chance.
“We need someone to come and sign you out,” Nathan says. “So, who can I call?”
“I can’t just…sign myself out?” Bradshaw asks, presumably wondering why a man in his late thirties can’t make the call to simply walk out the door.
Nathan grimaces. “Not with a concussion, unfortunately. Our duty of care responsibilities mean we have to make sure someone is going to drive you home.”
“Can’t I just take an Uber?” Bradshaw asks. “It’s the holidays, and I don’t have anyone in San Diego right now—”
“What?” Jake interjects. “Maverick can’t scramble a jet for you real quick?”
Bradshaw scowls at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Penny is forcing Mav to do something called relaxation. It’s a new concept for him, and I’m trying not to screw it up.”
Jake snorts. “Seems very off-brand. Look, I can drive you home if you want—”
“Huh,” Rooster says. “That would be a good idea, except that you seem to be under the impression you’re not in urgent care yourself.”
“Mr Seresin will be good to go in about ten minutes,” Sandra says from behind Jake’s back, where she’s pressing down the dressings. “I just need to get you the prescription for your antibiotics and painkillers. You’ll need to collect them from the pharmacy on the way home, okay?”
“Yes ma’am,” Jake replies smugly, watching Bradshaw’s face morph into a frown. To rub salt in the metaphorical wound (not that he wants to be thinking anything about that), he adds, “And I’m good to drive?”
“Sure,” Sandra confirms. “No head injuries for you.”
“Just wounded pride,” Bradshaw mutters.
“Airstairs,” Jake reminds him with a pointed look. Then, he turns to Nathan. “How do we sign Bradshaw’s life into my hands?”
“Don’t remember agreeing to get in your car,” Bradshaw grumbles, but he doesn’t make any serious protest when Nathan presents Jake with the relevant forms.
“First time for everything, Rooster,” Jake murmurs, scratching his pen across the paper clipped to the plastic clipboard. “Never heard any complaints from people who come home with me.” It feels very surreal signing something that says he’s going to take good care of someone Jake has baited more times than he could possibly count, but then again, he’s always had a soft spot for Bradshaw.
Not that he’ll ever admit it.
“That’s because you’ve probably murdered them and hid the bodies,” Bradshaw snaps back, and Nathan gives them both a very concerned look before Jake plasters on a fake smile and dates the form with a flourish.
“There,” he says, tugging his shirt over his head and accepting a prescription from Sandra. “You’re all mine now, Bradshaw. Let’s go.”
“Did you actually read these wound care instructions?” Bradshaw asks, using the light of his phone to snoop on Jake’s medical documentation. “You’re supposed to change the dressings every day for a week.”
Jake has not read the wound care instructions. In fact, he’d put that task firmly in the future-Jake basket, intent on getting to bed as soon as possible. It’s late – just before midnight – and he still has to drop Rooster home, which is proving to be no mean feat.
“Mind your own business,” he replies, crunched over his steering wheel as he drives. The prospect of having to lean back against the seat is terrifying, and he’s doing everything he can to avoid contact between the cut up, irritated skin on his back and any hard surface.
“Do you want to find yourself back in urgent care?” Bradshaw demands, because he doesn’t know how to leave anything alone. “Trying to do everything yourself is what got you that horrible infection in the first place.”
“Look, Bradshaw,” Jake sighs. “I appreciate the concern, but it’s really not your problem. I’m sure I can work it out with a mirror, or something.”
“I’m not convinced,” Bradshaw mutters under his breath.
They drive in silence for another five minutes, turning onto base and being waved through the checkpoint. Jake clears his throat. “Where’s the hen house, Rooster?”
“Oh,” Bradshaw says quietly. “I live just off base, actually. Inherited it from Mom.”
Jake slows to a stop, then gives Bradshaw a sharp look. “And you just forgot to say something before we went through the checkpoint?” he asks incredulously.
Bradshaw shrugs. “I’m coming home with you, aren’t I?”
Jake starts to wonder how bad Bradshaw’s head injury really is. “No, Rooster,” he says slowly, as if Bradshaw might need time to compute the point of the exercise. “I signed you out of urgent care so I could drive you home; so you don’t have to drive anywhere, remember?”
“That was before I read the wound care instructions,” Bradshaw argues, like he’s the one acting rationally. “You need help, Jake.”
Bradshaw’s casual use of Jake’s first name makes every thought racing through his mind grind to a halt. Something is very deeply wrong with him, Jake registers, because it makes him just the tiniest bit horny. Maybe Bradshaw’s head injury is contagious. “I don’t—”
Someone behind them uses their horn. Jake looks in his rear-vision mirror and notices a Jeep flashing its lights at him, obviously perplexed as to why a car is stuck in the middle of the road. He guesses the occupants aren’t having a nonsensical argument about wound care and concussions.
“Jesus Christ, Bradshaw,” Jake mutters under his breath, hitting the gas a little too hard and yelping as his back brushes against the seat. “Learn to communicate.”
“Bit rich coming from you,” Bradshaw points out, which is valid, but also Jake hasn’t effectively invited himself over to his longtime rival’s housing. “It’s not a big deal, Seresin. I’ll just change the dressings for you tomorrow, and then someone else can take over. I’ll sleep on your couch, or something.”
“With a head injury?” Jake asks, already spiralling over the fact that he can’t possibly let Bradshaw sleep on his couch. What if the hospital didn’t catch a brain bleed or something and Rooster dies in his sleep because Jake left him to languish in his living room? That would look really bad, especially because the two of them have always been at each other’s throats.
He decides not to mention the inevitable bed sharing. They’ll get to it eventually.
“I’ll be fine,” Bradshaw says, like he didn’t fall out of a commercial jet earlier today. “I’m sure I can put up with you for one night.”
Jake snorts. Really, he rationalizes, Bradshaw only has himself to blame.
To Jake’s immense surprise, Bradley doesn’t seem perturbed by the concept of bed sharing. If anything, he seems slightly relieved.
“Don’t want you to die in your sleep from your cactus infection,” he says ruefully as Jake throws him a spare pair of exercise shorts and a t-shirt to sleep in. “You still look kinda…bad.”
“Thank you, Bradshaw,” Jake says tersely, stalking back to his ensuite bathroom and swallowing his painkillers and antibiotic down with a glass of water. He fills up another glass and hands it to Bradshaw, who is still looking at the shirt in his hands like it might be poisonous.
“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, skirting around the end of the bed so he can claim the side he prefers to sleep on.
“I just— I get kinda hot when I sleep,” Bradshaw says, placing the glass of water on the nightstand. “Do you mind if—”
Privately, Jake wants to tell Bradshaw that he does mind, because refusing to wear a shirt is inflicting cruel and unusual punishment. Unfortunately, that would involve admitting the extremely minor and not-at-all inconvenient crush Jake has had on Bradshaw ever since he first laid eyes on the idiot. Usually, their constant bickering keeps Bradshaw at a distance, but that’s not particularly helpful when he’s literally climbing into Jake’s bed.
“Do whatever you want,” he says, plugging his phone into the charger so he doesn’t have to look at Bradshaw’s horribly attractive physique.
Bradshaw sighs. The covers pull around Jake’s body as they accommodate another human, and when Jake turns the lights out he swears he feels a different kind of electricity turn on. The darkness makes his whole body feel more sensitive; more aware of the fact that there’s another body beside him, separated by nothing but an expanse of white cotton. Suddenly, he’s so conscious of the way Bradshaw smells, a cedarwood mixed with some kind of citrus, wrapped up in the familiar scent of Jake’s laundry detergent.
The whole experience is kind of alarming. Jake feels like he’s walking on a livewire; waiting in anticipation. He wonders if Bradshaw feels it too, or whether he’s just worked up from the whole urgent care ordeal and slowly losing his mind because he can’t make sense of how falling into a cactus led to getting into bed with his long-term rival and subject of many late-night fantasies.
“Are you okay?” Bradshaw asks, and it takes a moment for Jake’s soupy brain to work up a response.
“Aside from the fact that sleeping on my stomach sucks?” he mumbles into his pillow. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” Bradshaw replies, yawning gratuitously. “You better not steal all the covers.”
“You better not snore,” Jake says, even though he’d privately like the opportunity to tease Bradshaw about it.
“Goodnight, Seresin.”
“Night, Rooster.”
Jake is staring at his running shower and trying to convince himself to get in when Bradshaw barges through the door like he owns the place. Thankfully, Jake’s still wearing underwear so it’s not a totally catastrophic situation, although it appears that Bradshaw is still avoiding the t-shirt Jake gave him.
“Uh, what the fuck?” Jake yelps, highly alarmed by Bradshaw’s appearance in his bathroom. Apparently, he’s unfamiliar with the concept of knocking. “Were you raised in a tent, Rooster?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Jake,” Bradshaw says, apparently starting his day with another assault on Jake’s sanity. “That’s gonna fucking hurt.”
Jake laughs bitterly. “And what do you propose, Bradshaw? That I avoid showering for a week?”
“I propose letting me help you,” Bradshaw insists, batting Jake’s hand out of the way when he tries to reach back to peel off the remainder of his gauze. “That’s what I’m here for, remember?”
Jake does vaguely remember that conversation, but he’d assumed that Bradley would be satisfied by helping with the new dressings after the fact. He didn’t anticipate being subject to supervision for an entire shower.
If he’s honest, he’s feeling a little more caustic than usual, but it’s probably because he woke up with Bradshaw’s warm hand on the back of his thigh; his face practically pressed into Jake’s shoulder. It was a shock, but it was also…nice. The problem is, Jake doesn’t know what to do with nice. Especially not when it comes to Rooster.
He decides to say nothing while Bradshaw finishes peeling off the rest of the gauze, one hand steady on Jake’s bare shoulder as he drops it on the bathroom countertop. “Looks angry,” he murmurs, clearly assessing the damage on Jake’s back. “Stay there.”
Jake has never been particularly good at following Bradshaw’s instructions, but for some reason, he decides to comply. It might be because Rooster’s hand is still curled around his shoulder, thumb pressing into the juncture of Jake’s neck, and if he’s not careful, he’s going to get carried away with the idea of Bradshaw’s lips there instead. “What are you doing?” he asks.
“Helping you,” Bradshaw says simply, reaching around to turn down the shower. “Get in. I’m gonna clean the wound so it doesn’t have to be under the water pressure.”
“Are you—” Jake spins around, privately relieved when he realizes that Bradshaw has only taken off the exercise shorts and not his underwear. He’s not sure he could handle the confusing array of emotions which would probably result from having water in a wound while Bradshaw is naked in his vicinity.
Bradshaw shrugs. “Guess I’ll just have to go commando until I get home.”
Jake resists the urge to groan. He does not need that visual. “Whatever,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.”
As expected, it’s an unpleasant experience. However, either the antibiotics are already working or Bradshaw’s wet, semi-naked body is performing medical miracles, because it doesn’t feel as awful as before. In fact, Bradshaw is very gentle, washing the wound out with warm water, intermittently anchoring his palm on Jake’s shoulder or his hip as Jake grits his teeth through the pain. Once he’s done, he steps out of the bathroom and leaves Jake to finish showering.
Once Jake is finished, he returns to complete the job. They work in relative silence; Bradshaw applying the gauze and adhesive to Jake’s naked back, and Jake staring at him in the mirror until Bradshaw asks him to pass the scissors. It’s excruciating to admit, but Jake really couldn’t have done it by himself. The angle would have made it practically impossible without dislocating his shoulder.
“Why didn’t you ask someone to help you remove the spikes?” Bradshaw asks softly, cutting a piece of adhesive with a snip of the scissors.
Jake doesn’t really know how to answer that. The truth is that he doesn’t have anyone to ask – all of his relatives live out of state and Javy is visiting his own family – but that sounds a bit tragic. “I don’t know, Bradshaw,” he huffs. “I thought I could do it myself.”
Bradshaw hums, smoothing over a piece of gauze. “There’s no way you could have reached these,” he says, completely matter-of-fact. “And I know you, Jake. You’re not stupid.”
“Don’t go soft on me now,” Jake scoffs, trying to deflect from the fact that he’s fairly certain Rooster is calling him out for lying. “I’ll start to think you like me.”
“I do like you,” Bradshaw says, as if it’s a simple admission that won’t completely destroy Jake’s sanity. “I think you’re a dick sometimes, but I like you.”
“News to me,” Jake mumbles, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“Call me next time you fall into a cactus, okay?” Bradshaw insists, patting down the gauze and looking over Jake’s shoulder, catching his gaze in the mirror. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”
“You don’t have to pity me, Bradshaw,” Jake replies, because he can’t help but ruin a nice moment. All of this feels so foreign; so unsettling, and he doesn’t know where to put all of the emotions which are threatening to spill out of him. “I’m Hangman, remember? I like being self-sufficient; I like going at it alone. You should know that, anyway. You’re the one who came up with that callsign in the first place.”
“Yeah, but you’re not Hangman right now,” Bradshaw murmurs, and to Jake’s abject shock, he hooks his chin over Jake’s shoulder and tips his head slightly against the crook of Jake’s neck. One of his hands curls around Jake’s hipbone; grounding and stable. They look good together, a traitorous part of Jake’s brain supplies.
He has no idea how his voice comes out so steady, but it takes a Herculean effort to do so. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the concern, Bradshaw, but I’m not like…Little Orphan Annie. I can do things on my own.”
Bradley’s eyebrows shoot up into his forehead, and he gives Jake a long look in the mirror. “Little Orphan Annie?”
Jake coughs. “In hindsight, you are the wrong audience for that reference.”
To his surprise, Bradshaw just grins and steps away, ruffling the back of Jake’s hair. “God you’re a dick,” he says. “Can’t get a shred of gratitude out of you.”
“I’ll let you use my shower,” Jake supplies, able to take a deep breath now that he’s not drowning in the heat of Bradshaw’s proximity. “How’s that for gratitude?”
Bradshaw rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna use your body wash.”
Jake smiles. “I’ll send you the bill.”
True to his word, Bradshaw actually does use Jake’s body wash. Jake can smell it as he drives Bradley home, carefully repressing any thoughts which relate to his passenger’s lack of underwear. They bicker as they drive – Bradshaw has a big fucking problem with Jake’s music taste, apparently – and then get into a serious discussion about how a cutlery drawer should be organized. Before Jake knows it, he’s sitting in his car, watching Bradshaw disappear behind his front door.
Being alone has never felt less normal, he realizes.
He has a whole day to kill, so he crunches through some semi-stale toast for breakfast, cleans a bit just for something to do and lights a candle for ambiance. He orders takeout for lunch because he can’t be bothered cooking, and then flops front-down on his couch to waste away in eternal boredom.
He’s halfway through a nature documentary on wood turtles when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The interruption is probably for the best, he realizes. His neck is starting to get a crick in it.
“Hello?” he says, unsure what Bradshaw could possibly want considering they saw each other approximately eight hours ago.
“What are you doing for dinner?” Bradshaw asks, as if Jake is going anywhere or doing anything other than moping around his living room.
“What do you think I’m doing, Bradshaw?” he replies drily. “I have a cactus wound. I’m housebound.”
“You have a wound, not the plague,” Bradley tells him, like he’s suddenly the expert on wounds because he read Jake’s care instructions and changed his dressings once. “Can I come over?”
Silence lingers for a moment while Jake tries to make sense of his words. “Why?” he eventually asks. “You were literally just here.”
“It’s not like you have a better offer,” Bradley bites back, which is savage, but not untrue. Jake kind of respects him for it. “I’ll make sure you take your antibiotics.”
“I have a reminder on my phone for that,” Jake points out. “Technology is wild these days, Bradshaw.”
“Shut up,” Bradley says, but his voice sounds amused. Fond, almost. “It’s the eve of Christmas Eve,” he adds. “Feels like we should do something.”
“That’s not a thing,” Jake tells him. “Can you pick up burritos from Vallerta Express on your way?
Bradley laughs, and before Jake can really come to terms with it, he realizes he’s smiling into his phone. “Sure,” he says. “What’s your order?”
Jake has some reservations about letting Bradley Bradshaw into his house again, namely, that having him around has somehow started to feel very normal and Jake’s not sure how that happened so fast. The last thing he needs is to end up with high expectations or some deranged dependency on a guy who sometimes seems like his rival but lately feels like something else entirely. He has half a mind to ask what Bradley’s meeting with the airstairs did for his decision making processes, but part of Jake’s brain apparently takes issue with self-preservation, and when he opens his door and finds Bradley with a takeout bag from Vallerta Express – his Bronco parked behind Jake’s truck in the driveway – Jake decides not to question it.
Within hours, it becomes apparent that Bradley isn’t leaving anytime soon. The worst part is, Jake doesn’t want him to.
Once comfortably full of burrito, Bradley curls up on the corner of Jake’s couch – most of it is taken up by Jake’s body, since he has to lie front-facing down – and if it affects his enjoyment of the wood turtle extravaganza, Bradley doesn’t mention it. Instead, they trade lazy and increasingly ridiculous turtle-related insults, and when Jake’s eyes start to feel heavy, he’s roused by the feeling of Bradley’s fingertips brushing his hair back and asking if he needs to be carried to bed.
Jake pretends to be insulted by it, but privately, he finds the concept strangely alluring.
Upstairs, Bradley plies Jake with his antibiotics and painkillers, then commandeers Jake’s one and only spare toothbrush and steps into another pair of exercise shorts that he plucks from Jake’s closet. Jake’s not sure he ever agreed to sharing his clothes, but he supposes his hangers don’t contain any Hawaiian shirts and besides, there’s something about seeing Bradshaw in them that does funny things to his heart.
This time, Bradley doesn’t ask for permission before slipping between the covers like he belongs there, although Jake supposes that an invitation isn’t really necessary. Clearly, neither of them are under any illusions about the inevitable, and there’s no real reason to send Bradley home anyway. They coexist just fine in the same bed.
When Jake turns out his light, the buzz of energy that shrouds them is just as bad as the night before, if not worse, and it only gets louder and more insistent when the back of Bradley’s hand brushes against his own as they adjust sleeping positions. He feels crazy with it – consumed by the thought of asking Bradley if he can feel it too – but Bradshaw is still and silent as Jake tries to convince himself to drift off, and besides, there’s something about the atmosphere which feels precious, like Jake might ruin it if he acknowledges its existence.
When Jake wakes, he finds Bradley right next to him, his face tucked into the crook of Jake’s neck; moustache scratchy, lips soft and slightly slack against the underside of Jake’s jaw. Jake has no option but to retrace his steps from the previous day, making a hasty escape in the direction of the shower.
As if the sound of running water is some kind of siren song, Bradley comes barging in again, demanding that Jake let him assist with his favorite vocation. The few minutes of separation has fortunately allowed Jake to stop spiraling about the feeling of Bradley’s lips on his neck, and instead of having a crisis about the shower, Jake’s able to tease him about his newfound passion for wound care. In response, Bradley goes into a concerning amount of detail about the properties of cacti, as if Jake should have known that the stupid plant would give him an infection.
The shower is much the same as the day before, although Jake can’t help but notice that the bickering and surface-level insults feel safe and familiar, whereas the casual, gentle touches feel much more momentous. The brush of Bradshaw’s hand on Jake’s shoulder, the soft rub of his thumb over Jake’s hip bone, the way his fingers curl around Jake’s waist – all of it makes Jake want to melt into the shower tiles and jump out of his skin at the same time.
Apparently, Bradshaw brought a change of underwear this time, so they go straight from showering into a trip to the grocery store. Originally, the mission is breakfast food because Jake has nothing in his fridge and the bread is no longer edible, but by the time they finish up at the checkout, Jake thinks they’ve bought enough food to survive a mini-apocalypse.
It’s mostly Bradley’s fault for fear mongering about the grocery store being closed on Christmas Day, but it’s also Jake’s tendency to get distracted by colorful packaging. While they’re in aisle three, they find a little girl with brown pigtails and a pink puffer jacket having a crisis about chocolate-chip pancakes, and Bradley takes one glance at her harangued-looking father and throws three bags of chocolate chips into the cart.
“You anticipating I’ll throw a tantrum?” Jake asks, amused.
Bradley just shrugs. “Can never be too careful.”
With a bit of playful cajoling, Jake manages to convince Bradley to make the pancakes for brunch, and then washes the dishes as he watches Bradshaw eat leftover chocolate chips straight from the bag. He finds himself drowning in something – whether it’s the sweet smell of sugar or the casual domesticity written into the way Bradley leans against his kitchen cabinetry – he’s not sure. In any case, he’s trying his hardest to convince himself that this is all temporary, and although Bradshaw is acting particularly co-dependent right now, it’s probably just his way of expressing gratitude. Or the Christmas spirit, or something.
They play cards for a bit, before Bradley convinces Jake to go for a walk around the block in the early afternoon. It’s probably a good idea. The winter sun barely makes it through the dark gray clouds, but the fresh air is healing. It slows Jake’s racing thoughts and calms the rapid beating of his heart until they make it back to Jake’s place and Bradley has the audacity to try and hold his fucking hand as he opens the front door.
(Jake lets him).
It’s not until they’ve wasted the day away watching back-to-back Christmas rom coms and talking shit about the plot, that Jake remembers what day it is. He has half a mind to ask Bradley when he’s going to head out – because surely he’s going back to his own place for Christmas Day – but the words get stuck on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he steadies himself by watching Bradley make dinner for them – a Southeast Asian fried noodle creation, apparently – then eats, washes up and tidies the living room while avoiding the conversation altogether.
It isn’t until Bradley catches him around the wrist and says, “Bed?” that everything comes grinding to a halt.
“You’re not going home?” Jake asks, feeling a bit stupid for it as he stands in the middle of his living room. He’s suddenly hyperaware of his own body, unsure what to do with his hands, as Bradshaw gets to his feet and nudges Jake gently with his shoulder.
“You kicking me out?” he counters, dropping Jake’s wrist and stretching his arms overhead with a yawn. His plain white t-shirt rides up slightly over his hips and Jake has the overwhelming urge to touch his bare skin.
“No,” Jake says honestly. “It’s just— You know it’s Christmas tomorrow, right?”
“Sure,” Bradley replies, maddeningly casual. “I’m not doing anything. Figured we could just spend it together.”
“You sure you haven’t still got that concussion?” Jake quips, and although it comes out sounding like a joke, he’s actually quite serious. There’s no way that one trip to urgent care has resulted in this speedrun of domestic bliss.
Bradley rolls his eyes good-naturedly and shepherds Jake towards the stairs instead. “Barely had a concussion at all,” he says. “Your injuries, however—”
“They’re getting better,” Jake defends, which is true. The infection is basically gone and the pain is much more tolerable.
Bradley hums, following Jake into his ensuite bathroom. “Feels like there’s a ‘thank you’ in there somewhere,” he teases. “Just haven’t heard it yet.”
“I’m truly grateful and forever in your debt, Bradshaw,” Jake bites back, because he’s an asshole and heartfelt appreciation just isn’t his thing. “You should consider changing professions. Maybe wound care is your calling.”
“Well it’s sure as shit not yours,” Bradley replies drily.
“Careful,” Jake warns. “I’m not forgetting the airstairs that easy.”
Bradley just grins and reaches for the toothbrush that is now propped up in the holder alongside Jake’s. “Toothpaste,” he demands, holding his hand out as Jake slaps it into his palm.
They get ready for bed, Bradshaw disappearing into the bedroom to change into the exercise shorts which, at this point, he’s basically stolen. Jake takes a couple of minutes to shave, staring at himself in the mirror for a long moment after he’s finished, having a minor internal crisis about the fact that he’s been living with another man for the past few days and it’s slowly driving him insane. There’s something about the way that Rooster has become Bradshaw and Bradshaw has become Bradley, and his brain keeps trying to calculate what it all means – the culmination of the gentle, grounding touches and the teasing and the hand holding – but it can’t quite come up with the answer.
He’s still staring at himself when Bradley steps back into the bathroom, looking over his shoulder into the mirror.
“What’s going on?” he asks, and Jake expects to be provoked with a joke about being conceited, but instead, warm hands dip under Jake’s t-shirt to catch his waist, Bradley’s thumb brushing over the sensitive skin near his hip bone. It draws Jake’s attention for a moment, and when he looks up, he finds Bradley looking back at him in the mirror, a question burning in his gaze. Slowly, as if making sure Jake isn’t going to bolt out of his own house, he drops his lips to the juncture of Jake’s neck and shoulder and presses a soft kiss there.
Jake’s breath audibly hitches in his throat, and he’d be annoyed about being so obviously affected, except that he’s too busy watching Bradley Bradshaw kiss his neck in real time. For a moment, everything seems to go slightly slow and syrupy, until Bradley nudges his nose against Jake’s cheek and whispers, “Come to bed, Jake,” like he fucking owns the place.
As it turns out, he may as well, because Jake doesn’t have time to question the fact that he’s been following a lot of Bradshaw’s instructions recently before his feet are moving of their own accord. He lets himself be led, fingers loosely threaded through Bradley’s, until Bradley drops himself onto the edge of the bed and pulls Jake down on top of him, Jake’s knees pressing into the mattress as they bracket Bradley’s hips.
“This is new,” he says, finally managing to find his voice. It’s raw and affected and god, Jake hates himself a little bit for losing every shred of his composure, but the way Bradley is looking at him feels like it might set everything on fire.
“Do you want me to stop?” Bradley asks, hands slotting right back around Jake’s waist. It’s starting to feel natural, Jake realizes. Like Bradley’s hands really belong there.
Jake considers it for a moment. He’s pretty sure that whatever is going to happen next is going to ruin him for the rest of eternity, but he probably got on this train the moment he decided to drive Bradley home from urgent care, and he doesn’t have the strength to get off now. “No.”
“You sure?” Bradley asks, thumbs tracing the ridges of Jake’s hip bones again. “We don’t have to do anything, Jake. We can pretend like this never happened.”
Jake resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s not sure how good Bradley is at compartmentalizing, but Jake certainly won’t be able to forget about sitting on Bradley’s lap anytime soon. “I’m sure.”
He winds his arms loosely around Bradley’s neck, one hand cupping the base of Bradley’s head. There’s something thrilling in the way that Bradley’s eyes close momentarily, leaning into the touch. When he opens them, he says, “You’re sure, sure?”
The careful questioning is sweet, and so on brand for a guy who Jake has spent his entire career calling slow. Unfortunately, slow just isn’t Jake’s speed. “Come on, Bradshaw,” he murmurs. “Get off that perch.”
Bradley’s lips part into a brilliant smile, and before Jake can take stock of what’s happening, he’s been tugged down by the front of his t-shirt as Bradley flops onto his back. He has half a mind to say something about his injuries, but there’s just no time to think about anything other than the fact that Bradley’s lips are inches from his own, and Jake makes the executive decision that bitching can wait.
Kissing, however, cannot.
On the odd occasion Jake let his imagination run away with things, he always imagined Bradshaw would kiss him in a way that reflected their other interactions. He thought it would be passionate and bruising, a struggle for power premised on something hot and heavy. On the contrary, the first kiss they share is languid, unhurried and punctuated by the warm sound of Bradley’s laugh, pressed into the roof of Jake’s mouth.
Later, Jake will realize that Bradley kisses the same way he flies. He’s careful, cradling Jake’s waist like he’s something precious, his lips slow and searching as he finds all the ways to make Jake’s toes curl into the sheets. There’s no urgency to it at all, but the way Bradley touches him – gradually raking his hands along Jake’s side – still speaks to a sense of direction and control, propelling them further towards whatever precipice they’re about to take a leap of faith from.
Slowly, the kisses become more heated, and Jake uses his position to his advantage, exploring the expanse of Bradley’s throat, sucking a bruise into a pressure point, thrilling in the way that Bradley’s head tips back so willingly. He migrates along Bradley’s jaw and rakes his earlobe through gentle teeth, and by the time he returns to Bradley’s lips, he finds himself hauled into a deep, desperate kiss, the brush of Bradley’s tongue drawing a noise out of him that would ordinarily be very embarrassing, save for the fact that Bradley swallows it up with a grin.
“Don’t hold back,” he whispers, hands migrating lower to stretch over the swell of Jake’s ass. “I like the way you sound.”
“Never heard you say that before,” Jake points out, clinging onto some semblance of normality as Bradley sucks on his bottom lip then coaxes him back for more. “Normally, you’re telling me to shut up—”
“Not like this,” Bradley says breathlessly, hands pressing Jake’s hips down so his weight blankets Bradley’s body. “Could listen to you like this all fucking day.”
Jake draws a sharp breath, barely swallowing down another sound that threatens to escape his lips as he feels Bradley – really feels him – hard, and eager underneath him. He distracts himself with the hot press of Bradley’s mouth instead, mind going numb as Bradley does something with his tongue that Jake will never be able to explain but is absolutely crazy about.
“Fuck,” he rasps, as Bradley’s hands guide him down again, increasing the pressure between their bodies. The urgency ticks up a notch as Bradley tucks his face into the crook of Jake’s neck and kisses the sensitive skin there, and Jake rolls his hips again in response.
The sound it draws from Bradley’s mouth is heavenly. Jake finds himself with a new challenge; a new target.
“You good, Bradshaw?” he teases, pressing his hips down again with intent. The slide of fabric on fabric creates a kind of friction that he craves, even though his mind is racing ahead to the prospect of feeling Bradley naked underneath him instead.
“Could be better,” Bradley chokes out, his voice so affected and so hungry it makes Jake a little feral. “Could have our clothes off.”
Jake rolls his hips once more for effect, then pushes himself off the bed to significant protest. “There’s an easy solution to that.”
Bradley chases after him, tugging off the exercise shorts he’s wearing in one swift motion. Jake, who is busy rucking his t-shirt over his head, doesn’t realize they’re going for full nudity all at once until he resurfaces and finds himself confronted with the absolute vision of Bradley’s dick. Something in his brain momentarily short circuits.
“Holy shit,” he says, losing track of space and time momentarily. His mouth is somehow dry and salivating all at once and fuck, he feels like he might pass away if he doesn’t get his mouth on Bradley in the next minute.
Unfortunately, that idea is ruined by the fact that Bradley seems to be thinking along similar lines. He steps closer, crowds Jake back towards the bed and tucks his thumbs into the side of Jake’s shorts. “Please,” he asks, kissing the hinge of Jake’s jaw. And who is Jake to deny him?
“Yeah, okay,” he somehow manages to say, and before he can get all the words out, his shorts and underwear are pooled around his ankles and Bradley fucking Bradshaw is on his knees, his kiss-bitten, red lips inches from Jake’s skin.
“You gonna let me suck you off, Jake?” Bradley murmurs, as if the question even needs to be asked, and when Jake reaches out to brush Bradley’s bottom lip with his thumb, Bradley sucks on the tip of it instead. Jake starts to have severe doubts about his stamina.
“Would let you do just about anything right now, Bradshaw,” Jake admits, his voice shaking slightly. He doesn’t know how he knows what Bradley wants, but somehow he does, because when he takes himself in hand and feeds Bradley his cock, Bradley’s whole body seems to shiver.
It feels dumb and prophetic to contemplate it, but Jake knows his whole world has been changed by the first pass of Bradley’s lips. He wants to look away – preserve a shred of his sanity – but the pornographic sight of Bradley’s warm, brown eyes staring up at him as his lips stretch around Jake’s shaft is something to behold.
“Fuck, Bradley,” he gasps, and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about losing it slightly because Bradley is sucking his dick, then sliding his tongue, flat and firm along the length of it until Jake’s head feels like it might be filled with cotton candy.
He should never have underestimated Bradley’s ability to render him practically nonverbal – after all, Bradshaw has driven him halfway insane the entire time they’ve known each other, although never quite like this. He pulls out a stunning array of tricks, swirling his tongue around Jake’s tip like the tease he is, before swallowing him all the way down again, wetness pooling at the corner of his eyes as his throat flutters.
The heat and the pressure of his lips are unbelievably good, and when he hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, Jake just about comes right then and there. The noises it rips from his chest are just about as involuntary as the way he accidentally bucks his hips, and when Bradley sits back on his heels, popping off after a torturous few seconds spent laving his tongue over Jake’s tip, he grins.
“Good?” he says, wiping his stupid, sexy mouth.
“Not sure why you’re bothering to ask,” Jake breathes, untangling his fingers from Bradley’s hair and offering his hand. “This is gonna be over very quickly if you stay down there.”
“I don’t mind,” Bradley tells him. “I’m having a good time.”
“Yeah?” Jake goads, heart racing. “Would you have a better time if I let you fuck me?”
The speed at which Bradley lets himself be pulled to his feet tells Jake everything he needs to know, and after a few seconds of tearing apart his nightstand drawer, Jake throws a bottle of lube and a condom on the bed and tugs Bradshaw down with him.
“Can’t go on my back,” he reminds Bradley, climbing over the top of him again.
To his surprise, Bradley frowns. “Would have loved to watch you,” he murmurs, licking his palm and reaching between them to jerk Jake off slowly. “Maybe another time.”
Jake’s not sure whether it’s Bradley’s hand on his dick or the mere mention of revisiting this experience, but the sequence of events sets off a chain reaction in his brain. Before he can stop to think about it, he says, “I could ride you,” like it’s not an incredibly intimate thing to do and a terrible idea considering the nature of their relationship. It might ruin him. He doesn’t really care.
“You’d—” Bradley starts, then stops. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Okay.”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic,” Jake deadpans, reaching for the lube.
“I think you might have broken me,” Bradley explains, as if he’s not the one who’s been doing all the work. “My brain’s not really working.”
“Can’t have that, sweetheart,” Jake says, because he’s completely fucked and lost all sense of self control. “Still need your dick for something.”
Bradley laughs. He shifts as he accepts a drizzle of lube and works it over his hand before slowly stroking Jake again, pausing to gently squeeze the crown.
“You’re gonna need to be careful,” Jake warns, slicking up his own fingers and pressing one against his rim, “or you’re gonna ruin this for yourself.”
“I could help you out instead,” Bradley offers, mumbling the words into Jake’s lips as he rocks forward to kiss him breathless. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“It’ll be quicker if I do it,” Jake tells him, which is the truth and also necessary because it’s beginning to feel like an absolute must to get Bradley’s dick in him as soon as possible.
The kisses Jake presses into Bradley’s mouth become increasingly desperate and messy as he works back against his fingers stretching himself. He’s never minded minimal prep, likes to feel a bit of a burn, but Bradley’s dick is thick and long and all kinds of enticing, and Jake wants to be able to take him all in one go. He’s never done things by halves, and he’s not about to start now.
By the time he’s worked himself up to three fingers, he’s had to tell Bradley to stop touching him, because he’s so keyed up. He can’t imagine how Bradley feels, cock heavy and neglected as it curves against his stomach. It’s lucky that patience has always been Bradshaw’s virtue.
“Let me feel,” Bradley croons, one hand skating down the cleft of Jake’s ass before dragging a finger against Jake’s rim. He presses inside slightly, curls it as Jake makes a strangled noise. “Fuck, you’re good.”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t amateur hour,” Jake bites out as Bradley wipes his hand on the sheet and then tears open the condom wrapper, rolling the latex over himself. “Are we gonna get this show on the road?”
“Okay, cowboy.” Bradley smirks. “Anyone ever tell you that your ass is perfect?”
“Heard it a few times,” Jake replies, true to form even when he’s slicking up Bradley’s cock and positioning himself. When he sinks down, he’s nowhere near as careful as he probably should be, and the sensation punches all the breath out of him as Bradley practically yells into Jake’s pillow.
“Holy fucking shit,” Bradley cries, throat exposed as his head tips back. “Motherfucking—God, you’re something else, Jake.”
Jake keens under the praise, catching his breath as he shifts to find the right angle, a sound working its way out of his lips as he hits the spot. After a moment spent remembering how to make his lungs work, he says, “So complimentary, Bradshaw.”
“Credit where credit is due, Seresin,” Bradley groans, his hands coming to rest on Jake’s thighs. His breath hitches audibly in his throat as he looks back at Jake with a kind of devout fascination that should be reserved for two people in an actual relationship and not colleagues who ran into each other in urgent care and then accidentally fucked about it.
Jake drowns. Instead of trying to reply, he swallows thickly and rocks his hips, riding Bradley’s cock once, twice, trying to acclimate to the stretch of the angle. He doesn’t need any further encouragement, but Bradley isn’t shy about showing his appreciation either, expressive and loud and moaning Jake’s name into the space between them like Jake doesn’t have neighbors.
Jake’s quadriceps ache, but the burn of it is lost in the heat and the pressure and the feeling of too much and also not enough. And yeah, maybe he lets a few things slip that he shouldn’t, like the fact that Bradley looks fucking beautiful laid out on his sheets; like the fact that he’s never been fucked quite like he is right now, but those things are also true and he’s not sure he can really be blamed for his honesty.
Bradley, to Jake’s detriment, looks, sounds and feels fucking devastating. The choked up noises he makes are unearthly, littering the room while his fingers scrabble at the skin on Jake’s thighs and hips and waist. There’s the coppery tang of blood at some point when Jake bends down to kiss him and Bradley bites his lip a little too hard, but Jake can’t even feel the twinge of pain. The drive of Bradley’s cock is so perfect; so filling that Jake basically forgets his name, let alone the fact that his body is in suboptimal condition.
“I’m close,” Bradley whines, his eyelashes fluttering closed as he tosses his head to the side. “Can you—”
Jake rolls his hips and Bradley cries out, hands gripping Jake’s thighs. “Come on,” he urges. “Come for me, Bradshaw.”
“I– Fuck, Jake,” Bradley breathes, jaw going slack as the unbridled pleasure writes itself across his face as he comes, hips jerking as Jake rides him through it.
When Bradley’s eyes fly open, Jake grins. “Thanks for the advance notice,” he teases. “Pretty tight timing there.”
“Shut it,” Bradley groans, then reaches for Jake’s dick and makes him lose his train of thought. “Come on, Jake,” he says. “Mess me up.”
“You better help me change the sheets,” Jake slurs, unsure why he’s thinking about laundry while Bradley’s dick is still in his ass and he’s being jerked off with intent. It doesn’t take long – a few passes of Bradley’s hand and an expert flick of his wrist – before Jake lets himself be pushed past the precipice, a low moan drawn from his throat as he spills all over Bradley’s chest.
“You’re such a diva,” Bradley tells him a moment later, his clean hand tracing patterns on Jake’s hip as Jake kisses his jaw.
They’re extremely messy and sticky, and Jake hadn’t considered the repercussions of having to take a shower and use up a new packet of gauze, but he finds he doesn’t really care. He’ll go through ten more if it means he gets to have sex with Bradshaw again.
“Think I can leave my underwear off for our next shower?” Bradley teases, apparently following Jake’s train of thought. “Could save on water if you let me in properly.”
“So environmentally conscious,” Jake replies, lifting himself off Bradley’s body and gingerly walking towards the ensuite. He looks over his shoulder at the absolute mess they’ve made of the bed, Bradshaw still propped up on his elbows, watching. “You coming?”
“You just blew my fucking mind,” he huffs. “Give a man a minute.”
Jake pretends he’s not incredibly pleased to hear that, disappearing into the bathroom and turning on the shower. Predictably, Bradshaw is there in five seconds flat, pausing only to dispose of the condom.
He’s still gentle as he tends to Jake’s back, but when it’s over, he wastes no time drawing Jake into a sweet, lingering kiss.
“You know,” he says earnestly, pushing Jake’s wet hair out of his eyes. “You’re all I really wanted for Christmas.”
“Okay, Mariah,” Jake deflects, hiding his grin by pressing a kiss into Bradley’s neck. “You use that on all your hook ups?”
“Only the Christmas-adjacent ones,” Bradley replies sarcastically, then lifts Jake’s chin with two fingers. “I’m serious, Jake. I want you. I don’t know what you wanna do with that, but I had to tell you.”
“Is it my perfect ass?” Jake quips, skirting around the serious conversation they probably need to have. He figures they can do that later, when sheets are changed and Bradley’s curled up at his side.
Bradley rolls his eyes. “If you’re not careful, I’m gonna buy you a cactus for Christmas.”
“Just wondering if all of this,” Jake muses, gesturing between their bodies, “is brain damage from the airstairs.”
“Nah,” Bradley says softly, smiling through the droplets of water that collect on his cheeks. “Been thinking about you for a while.”
“You like me?” Jake repeats, pressing up for another kiss.
Bradley goes easily. “Yeah, you idiot. I like you.”