Chapter Text
A chip of paint flecks off of the railing as Jake scrapes his fingernail against it. He's distracted.
His sister’s voice has faded to a dull buzzing in his ear, the phone he’s got pressed against his cheek near-overheating in the mid-day, California sun, but he doesn’t have the heart or energy to cut the conversation short. She’s excited, and when she’s excited, she rambles. He’s been told he does the same. Maybe it’s a family trait. Currently, she’s giving him the complete, blow-by-blow rundown of the seating arrangement her and her fiancé just spent the day working on.
At his back, A/C, soft rock, and overloud voices wash over him in waves. The door to the Hard Deck swings open and then closed, open and then closed again. Regulars craving a smoke break, tourists craving an Insta-worthy picture in front of the sunset, sailors heading back to work for the evening - they all come and go. They emerge in groups, or pairs, or alone. The early-evening rush is in full swing.
Smoke drifts toward him from further down the porch. He could move upwind, toward the rising tide that’s making its way up the beach and dragging with it a cool, briny breeze, but he doesn’t. In fact, he kind of likes the acrid tinge to the air. It sits in his lungs and reminds him of home and his favorite dive. He’s not drunk enough to bum a cigarette off the smokers mingling amongst themselves, not nearly, but maybe later he will be.
“And I set aside a seat at the table for your plus-one, but don’t feel obligated to bring someone. We know work is keeping you busy.”
Alane’s voice breaks through the fog of his mind. She says it breezily enough, like it's an off-handed remark, but Jake stiffens anyway.
“Oh, did I forget to mention that?” He finds himself saying, the words tumbling from his lips before he can fully think them through. “I'm bringing a date.”
There’s a pause, an intake of breath on the end of the line. Jake winces. She doesn’t need to say a word: he can hear the surprise even in his older sister’s silence.
“Oh,” she says, too late. He tries not to feel offended by the incredulity in her tone. He fails. “You didn’t. I just… I didn’t realize you were seeing someone. We thought you weren’t really…” Alane hesitates, no doubt trying to find the kindest way to voice her thoughts. “Interested in dating at the moment.”
Which, alright. Even though he’s just blatantly lied, it still stings like an insult. He hides his offense behind a laugh.
“Why’s that so hard to believe?”
“It’s not!” She hurries to explain. “You’ve just been so busy, you know, and mom said-“
Jake grits his teeth and resists the urge to slam his forehead against the wooden beam to his right. There’s no way out but to dig his hole even deeper.
“It’s still pretty new,” he cuts her off. “But, I figured now would be a good time to do the whole… meet the family thing, y’know.”
Because weddings are, historically, a great time to introduce one’s new (read: non-existent) significant other to one’s entire family. Right.
“Okay,” Alane says slowly, drawing out the sound. “Then I can’t wait to meet… them.”
The carefully neutral pronoun makes Jake squirm. He doesn’t correct her.
“Yeah,” he says instead, glossing right over the bait she’s just laid. “Well, I better let you go. Uh. Can you give mom and dad the head’s up for me?”
As if he doesn’t already know that this conversation will be the only non-wedding related topic of discussion for the next week. Still, she humors him with a promise to do so. There isn’t much else to say, just a reminder to send over his flight information as soon as he books it, and soon they hang up. It’s only then that the enormity of the lie he’s just told hits him: harder than the first time he passed out in a G-sim. Guilt and embarrassment mingle in his gut.
“Shit,” he swears, giving in to the urge to knock his forehead against the nearest hard surface.
Back inside, he detours to the bar for a shot. His friends have commandeered a table in the corner, but Jake is too preoccupied with his thoughts to handle joining them just yet. Maybe once he’s got enough alcohol in his system to dull the rising dread. Unfortunately for him, his best friend spots him before the rest of the horde, and Javy isn’t one to let him stew for too long.
“What’s the face for?” The low, amused voice in his ear is familiar as a strong arm wraps around his shoulders, shaking him lightly.
Penny drops off the shot, and Jake downs it before answering. It stings as it goes down. He hisses out a breath between his teeth.
“You’re going to laugh,” he chokes out, dropping the glass to the counter. He scrubs a hand over his face.
“What’s new,” Jake doesn’t even need to look at him to hear the grin in Javy’s voice. He releases his shoulders, though, and pulls up a stool. His knee knocks against Jake’s, purposeful. “Spill.”
There’s no use putting it off. “I told Alane I’m bringing a date to the wedding.”
Javy snorts, and Jake finally turns to look at him. Unsurprising and unhelpful, Javy’s grinning like this is the best news he’s gotten all week.
“Oh?” Jake has to resist the urge to shove him. Hard. “Jake ‘I-don’t-do-relationships’ Seresin bringing someone home to meet the family? Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Shut up,” he manages, weakly, and tries to flag Penny down for another drink. She’s busy at the other side of the bar, though, so he groans and buries his face in his hands instead. “I’m fucked. She’s going to tell our parents and then I’ll have to face their ‘sorry honey, maybe the next one will work out better’ disappointment the entire weekend when I show up alone with some excuse about a recent break-up.”
Javy makes a considering noise, and Jake frowns - lifting his head to narrow his eyes at him.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” Javy shrugs. “Maybe you don’t have to show up alone.”
Jake snorts. “Right. Date one, coffee. Date two, fly back home with me for my sister’s wedding. Hope you like giant family gatherings and BBQ.”
Penny’s still on the other side of the room. He drums his fingers against the countertop. He watches Penny's progress as she pours green tea shots, one after the other after the other, for the horde of college-age girls that have gathered before her. Jake didn't even know this place kept peach schnapps on hand. Fucking summer break.
For some reason, Javy keeps talking.
“Maybe not a real relationship,” he elaborates, unhelpful. “But you don’t need it to be real, do you? Just something that looks real enough to get the family off your back.”
As he talks, Jake turns to face him, horror dawning along with the comprehension of what his friend is suggesting. He can feel the expression on his own face – his eyes wide and disbelieving.
“A fake relationship, you mean,” he says, slowly. The idea is so nonsensical, even the words coming out of his own mouth don’t sound real. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Javy says it like it’s easy - like it’s the most logical solution in the world. “Bring a friend, make a trip out of it. It could be fun!”
There’s no way.
“I don’t suppose you’re offering,” Jake says, deadpan. Not that his parents would buy it, anyway - Javy’s straightness has been a topic of discussion with his matchmaking mother more times than he can count. She still insists he shouldn’t give up on the possibility.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Javy winks, and this time Jake does shove him. “Nah, I can’t. I’m shipping back out on Monday, remember?”
He does. Jake huffs and turns his eyes toward the ceiling. The mugs and model planes hanging from the rafters don’t offer an escape from this conversation, though. “Then who else would you suggest?”
“Trace, maybe?”
“Yeah, right, like she’d –“
“Like I’d what?”
Not for the first time, Jake thinks that Natasha’s uncanny ability to insert herself into a conversation at the exact, wrong moment should be studied. She stands at his elbow now, eyebrow raised and a smirk on her lips.
“Nothing,” he starts to say, but Javy beats him to the punch.
“Jake needs a date to his sister’s wedding,” he says, ignoring the way that Jake’s trying to glare him into silence. “It’s next weekend, and he just lied and said he’s got someone to bring.”
Jake wants to bang his head on the bartop, but that would probably cost him a round, somehow, and he still owes from the last time. Nat’s grinning at him like this is the funniest thing she’s heard all week. That’s becoming a recurring theme for the night, apparently.
“I thought you didn’t do relationships, Seresin,” she teases. He grits his teeth.
“I don’t.”
“Which is why,” Javy continues. “I made the brilliant suggestion that he find a friend to bring, instead. A little showmance for the family to get them off his back. No harm, no foul.”
Now both of Natasha’s eyebrows are threatening to disappear into her hairline.
“And you thought I could be the unlucky lady?”
“That’s not -” Jake raises his hands, prepared to defend himself, but thankfully she just laughs.
“No, it’s fine,” she cuts him off, putting Jake out of his misery. Maybe she does have a heart. “I’m flattered, but Bob and I have to report to Oceana by Monday.”
“Which takes me out of the running, too,” Bob supplies from behind Javy’s shoulder, making them both jump. Nat's the only one unperturbed by her WSO's sudden appearance. Jake didn’t even notice his approach - fucking stealth pilot.
“What’s going on?” Now Mickey has joined the fray, too. He’s holding a round of beers on a plastic platter, balanced on his shoulder, and Jake is thankful for the distraction.
“Jake’s –“ Bob starts, but Jake is already rising to his feet.
“Can we not rehash this right here?” He interrupts, taking one of the pints from the tray.
Clearly, there’s no getting out of this conversation though, not entirely, so he inclines his head to the booth that the rest of their cohort is still huddled around. “I’d rather be embarrassed in the comfort of semi-privacy.”
At least his friends have the good sense to follow his lead. Back at the table, he’s able to slide into the booth without disturbing the topic of discussion at hand. There’s a debate happening between Neil and Fritz, their voices rising to be heard over the general din of the room. If he’s lucky, he can slip right into the current conversation and this whole thing will be –
“So, who’s going to take one for the team and date Jake?” Natasha announces to the group at large, interrupting Fritz mid-sentence. All eyes are on him in an instant.
“I thought Jake didn’t date,” Callie frowns. A muscle in Jake’s jaw ticks.
“I –“
“Not a real date,” Javy supplies, cutting straight to the chase, and Jake resigns himself to his fate. “Fake dating for the purposes of his sister’s wedding next weekend. Any volunteers?”
Things devolve from there. Jake can’t seem to get a word in edgewise as the conversation takes a decided turn away from him.
“It’s in Texas, right?” Neil asks. “In the middle of the summer? Pass.”
Fair point. Not that Jake thought he would volunteer, anyway.
“Can’t,” Logan at least sounds sympathetic when he answers for himself and Brigham. As usual. “We’ve got plans this weekend.”
“Callie?” Natasha asks, and she sounds hopeful. Jake didn’t realize she actually gave a shit beyond humiliating him.
“Sorry, Jake,” she gives him an apologetic smile. “My parents are coming into town that weekend.”
“It’s fine,” he insists, and then addresses the group at large. “Really. I’ll just tell everyone it didn’t work out.”
Honestly, it’s a relief - now he has an excuse not to drag any of his friends into this. He watches as Javy scans the bar, no doubt preparing to offer up another solution, drag a complete stranger into this, but Jake doesn’t want to hear it. The whole thing is already embarrassing enough without bringing -
“What didn’t work out?”
Jake stiffens. Bracketed in by Javy to his left and Fritz to his right, there’s no easy escape.
Bradshaw’s back early from a weekend in China Lake, he looks - impossibly - taller than usual as he pulls a stool up to their table. He’s got a pale blue Hawaiian shirt draped over a tight, white tank top, the pattern subtle and floral in a way that draws the eye. The contrast against his skin makes him look even tanner than the last time he saw him. Not that Jake would notice. Not that he cares.
He must be staring, though, because when he finally lifts his eyes from the collar of his shirt and the hint of chest hair he finds there, up the column of his throat, past the scar on his chin, he finds Bradshaw smirking at him. He’s got an eyebrow quirked and Jake just frowns.
“Nothing,” he tries to insist, but apparently it’s Callie’s turn to explain this whole debacle.
“Jake needs a date to his sister’s wedding next weekend since he lied and said he was bringing someone,” she says, straight to the point. “We were trying to figure out which one of us could go with him, but none of our schedules line up.”
Bradley’s eyebrow inches even higher, his smirk growing. Jake is reminded why he and Nat are friends - smug bastards, the both of them. “Oh?”
“Forget it,” Jake waves his hand, dismissive. “Look, if I buy the next round can we all pretend none of this ever happened?”
He can feel Bradley’s eyes on him as he glances around the group, helpless. There’s a traitorous warmth threatening to rise to his cheeks, and he’s this close to hopping straight over the table and making a run for it. Why the hell he even let the conversation get this far, he doesn’t know, but -
“Is it in Texas?”
The words coming out of Bradshaw’s mouth make no sense. Jake blinks at him. “What?”
“The wedding,” Bradley repeats slowly, enunciating his words like Jake is being obnoxiously slow. “Is it back in Texas?”
“Uh,” Jake blinks again. “Yes?”
“Open bar?”
The group around them has gone quiet. Javy’s knee nudges his beneath the table.
“I think so.”
Bradley shrugs. “Cover my flight and suit and you’ve got yourself a date.”
He can’t be serious.
“You can’t be serious.”
As if on cue, the jukebox in the corner starts up a new song and a cheer goes up at the bar, patrons filing out onto the makeshift dance floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Natasha nudge Bob, and then they’re slipping out of the booth. One-by-one, the rest of the group follows their lead.
Jake’s too busy staring at Bradley to protest the desertion. Bradley’s staring right back at him. There’s a careful evenness to his expression. Hazel eyes flick down to Jake’s mouth and then back up to his eyes. It feels like a challenge.
“Why not?” Bradley shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Like any of this is normal. “I’m not doing anything else.”
Jake has to look away, then, his mind spinning. He takes a long pull from his beer, regretting, now, that he never did get that second shot. When he looks back to him, Bradley’s keen gaze is still trained on his face. It feels like a sick joke.
“Why?”
There’s a pause as Bradley considers his words.
“That’s what friends do, right? Help each other out?”
They hit their mark with precision.
A half-hearted laugh punches itself free from Jake’s throat. “Right.”
After the suicide mission, when the medical exams and the debriefings had finished, after the celebration in the mess and the order for lights out, Jake had found himself on the deck of the carrier. Unmoored. Bradley had found him there: just as unable to sleep, still cresting the waves of adrenaline. There, they’d made their truce. They settled on friends. After everything, it felt like the least they could do. It was a start.
The reminder stops Jake cold. Bradley’s offering an olive branch, a chance to actually be friends for the first time since their agreement, and he can’t very well turn him down now when he’s the only one who stands to gain from this.
He's still looking at him with that infuriating evenness. It makes Jake's skin crawl: he’s not used to Bradley being the reasonable one, here. Not for as long as he’s known him.
“Fine,” he says, eventually. “But you’re not going to embarrass me, alright? You’re wearing a suit - a decent one -” Jake holds up a finger when he tries to interject. “And you’re playing nice with my family. I’m not bringing home a boyfriend - real or not - that they’d hate. Got it?”
There’s a smirk tugging at his lips now, Jake can see a hint of it in the twitch of his mustache, a twinkle in his eyes, but Bradley just shrugs. “Okay.”
None of this should be this easy. He presses on.
“And if we’re doing this, we’re doing the whole thing. Bachelor party, rehearsal dinner, the whole nine. No backing out on any of it. You're going to be the best goddamn partner a guy could ask for.”
The smirk grows. “Okay.”
It still feels like a trap, but Jake isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. And who knows - with any luck, Bradley will come to his senses before they’re set to leave and Jake can pretend none of this ever happened.
He extends his hand across the table anyway. “Deal?”
Bradley meets him in the middle, his grip firm. “Deal.”
Jake withdraws his hand before the touch can linger, letting out a long breath between his teeth before he’s slipping out of the booth. “I need a drink.”
Bradley’s low laugh follows him across the bar.
Two hours later, he’s drunk enough to bum a cigarette from an older pilot out front and pretend the whole thing never happened.
Two days later, and Jake has pretty much managed to convince himself it really didn’t happen. That is, until he gets a call.
In the middle of putting away groceries in his tiny kitchen, he doesn’t even bother to check the caller ID as he brings the phone to his cheek. It’s probably Alane, anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Bradley says. “What are the colors for the wedding? I want to make sure we match.”
Jake goes still, frozen in front of his open fridge door with his hands full of a carton of eggs and a tub of Greek yogurt, his phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder. On the other end of the line, he thinks he can hear hangers sliding across a metal rod, the rustle of fabric-on-fabric.
“What?”
“Your sister’s colors,” Bradley repeats, a note of annoyance in his voice. “Or better yet - what’s your suit look like? We should probably coordinate.”
He must be silent for a while, because Bradley’s speaking again, this time a note of concern in his voice: “Jake?”
“You don’t –“ Jake shakes his head, clears his throat. The yogurt and eggs end up shoved in the crisper tray. He shuts the door carefully. It has a tendency to fall off it's hinges if he slams it. “You don’t have to do that.”
A scoff on the other end of the line. “You said I needed a suit.”
“Yeah, but,” he exhales a helpless little laugh. He transfers the phone from one ear to the other like that half-second interruption will give him time to think. It doesn’t. “I didn’t think you were actually going to follow through.”
“We shook on it, didn’t we?”
“I know, but -”
“Jake,” Bradley interrupts him before Jake can verbalize his internal freak out. “We’re doing this. We’re friends. I’m just doing this to help out my friend, alright?”
Jake pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales, exhales. “Alright.”
“Good,” Bradley says, like it’s settled, and Jake can’t figure out a way to argue any more. The rhythmic clink of hanger against hanger resumes. “Now just tell me what the colors are.”
Jake groans. There’s no easy way to explain this. No matter how he says it, Bradley’s going to laugh.
“Burnt orange and ivory with sage green,” he says, as evenly matter-of-factas he can.
There’s a pause. He can practically picture Bradley’s eyes widening.
“What?”
He heard him, Jake knows he did, but he repeats it anyway, slower this time. “Burnt orange and iv-”
“Orange and white,” Bradley says, and there it is: he can hear the laugh in his voice. “Seriously?”
Nonsensically, Jake can feel the smile threatening at the corners of his own mouth. He covers his eyes with his hand and groans. “Shut up.”
“Remind me where you’re from again?”
Bradley’s full-on laughing now. Jake realizes with a start that he can’t remember the last time he heard that sound. It was probably -
He cuts that thought off at the knees. “I’ve never claimed my family was anything less than a Texas stereotype,” he says instead and rolls his eyes, unapologetic. “Alane and her fiancé met at UT.”
It takes another minute, but Bradley’s laughter eventually subsides. Jake rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to scrub off the smile, as he leans his hip against the kitchen counter.
“Okay,” he says, finally. “So, what, they’re putting you in an orange suit?”
“God, no,” Jake makes a face. “Could you imagine? No, she’s leaning into the green for the bridal party. So, it’s ‘sage,’ I guess.”
Bradley hums, and Jake can tell he’s trying to imagine it.
“I can send you a picture,” he offers. “Then you can just pick out something neutral and, I don’t know, a tie or a pocket square to match.”
It sounds ridiculous, when he puts it like that. Coordinating his outfit with Bradley fucking Bradshaw. Like they’re going to the Navy ball, or some shit.
“Yeah, that could work,” Bradley says, instead, and Jake is relieved. “Don't forget that you're reimbursing me for the suit.”
It feels like a return to normalcy, and he’s thankful for it. Still, he rolls his eyes. “Duh,” Jake says. “But you’re getting that shit tailored. I don’t want to pull up with a date that looks like he’s attending his freshman year Spring Formal.”
The low chuckle that Bradley makes zips through Jake’s nervous system, and he tries not to notice it. He can hear when Bradley resumes rifling through the clothes racks. “Fine. Have you booked the flight yet?”
“Not yet,” Jake follows his lead, putting away the box of cereal he’s been fiddling with for the last two minutes. “I can do that today and send over the info?”
“Sure,” Bradley agrees, and he sounds distracted. “Premium economy or better, though - I need the leg room.”
Jake snorts. “Seriously? You’re a brat.”
“Yeah, well. Beggars can’t be choosers,” but Jake can hear the grin in his voice. “I’ll let you go. Send me that picture.”
“Okay,” he agrees. And then, belatedly: “Talk to you later.”
“Later,” Bradley agrees, and the line goes dead.
As promised, Jake sends over the picture. It’s the same selfie in the tailor’s mirror that he’d sent to his sister for her approval. A minute later, Bradley replies:
“Not as bad as I imagined,” the text says. And then, another minute later: “Do you think I could pull off an orange suit?”
Jake laughs despite himself. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
Jake books their flights and sends over the boarding pass. Bradley sends over the receipts for his suit and the tailoring, and Jake Venmos him back. It feels transactional in a way that makes his skin crawl, but there's nothing to be done about that. Even if they're "friends" now, the occasion is little more than a deal, whether or not there's money being exchanged for Bradley's services.
For the next week, Jake finds himself in a sort of uncanny valley between his typical "relationship" with Bradley, and their soon-to-be fake relationship. They talk more than they have, well, ever. Phone calls and text exchanges about the wedding and their trip details invariably transition to conversations about what Jake is making for dinner or the Phillies game Bradley is watching. It's weird, but even weirder is the fact that it doesn't necessarily feel weird. After everything they've been through, Jake realizes he knows Bradley Bradshaw better than he thought he did. They're both on shore leave, spinning their wheels until their next assignments, so Jake doesn't have much to focus on besides packing for the trip and a seemingly-endless string of phone calls with Alane, re-hashing the details of his flight or his suit or any other wedding party detail she can think of.
Even worse are the phone calls with his parents, though. Now that they've been informed about the existence of his "boyfriend," his mom seems hell-bent on getting as many details out of him as she can.
"Remind me, sweetheart, does Bradley have any allergies?" or "He's not a vegetarian, is he? Because I don't think your father-" or "Have you met his parents yet?"
That last one led to an, understandably, awkward conversation and a mutual decision not to bring up the Bradshaws unless Bradley himself mentioned them.
And Jake knows she means well, God knows she does, but he would feel a lot better about the whole thing if it weren't all a massive lie. He hasn't lied to his mom about anything of consequence since he snuck out of the house for a party when he was sixteen. More than once, he considers calling the whole thing off, but then he imagines the sympathetic looks he'd get attending such a romantic occasion fresh on the heels of a break-up, and decides it's the lesser of two evils.
The next time he sees Bradley is at their gate. True to form, Bradley's in his own personal uniform of a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. There's a garment bag slung over his shoulder and two Starbucks cups in his hands.
"Oh," Jake says, accepting the tall, black coffee passed his way. "Thanks."
"No problem."
The knowledge of how, exactly, Bradley knows his coffee order hangs between them. Jake doesn't acknowledge it.
"Thanks again for doing this," he says instead. "But just a warning - my mom is chomping at the bit to meet you."
"Of course she is," Bradley grins, easy as anything. "I'm a delight."
Jake doesn't get a chance to retort before their boarding group is called. (Priority, of course. Jake's never going to pass up on the Active Duty benefits.)
Bradley insists on the aisle seat, citing his longer legs, and Jake is magnanimous enough not to point out he's only got an inch of height on him. Besides, he's always preferred the window seat himself. It isn't until they reach cruising altitude that Jake brings up the topic at hand again.
"Okay," he starts. "We've got three hours to go over the ground rules."
That obnoxious eyebrow lifts again. "Ground rules?"
"Yep, ground rules. And then we'll go over the family. You didn't think I'd bring you home without talking this through, did you?"
When he opens his mouth to retort, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, Jake cuts him off.
"Don't answer that."
To his surprise, Bradley bites back his smile and nods. There's a glint in his eye that tells Jake he's still - silently, at least - amused, but he chooses to ignore it.
He's had this discussion planned out in his head for the better part of a week now, but now that they're here, and this is really happening, it feels ridiculous to put any of his thoughts into words. Best to get the hard part out of the way first, he decides.
"What are your thoughts on PDA?"
If Bradley is surprised by the abrupt question, he doesn't show it beyond a slow blink. There's an extended moment of silence as he picks his words, and Jake picks at the paper label of his coffee cup, fidgety.
"Not really my style," he says, finally. "But I'm assuming we'll need at least some of it if we want to make this believable."
Jake couldn't agree more. He lets out a slow breath and nods.
"Right. I was thinking hand-holding, above-the-waist touching, the occasional kiss-"
"You were thinking about kissing me?"
Jake frowns at him. Bradley bites down on his grin.
"On the cheek, temple, or top of head as the situation dictates. On the mouth limited to closed-mouth, and only if we really need to sell it."
Bradley looks like he's struggling not to laugh at him, but he nods. "Sounds fair."
"Any hard-nos?"
That does make him laugh. "Now that sounds like a different conversation entirely."
Jake grits his teeth. "Bradley."
"Sorry, sorry," but the asshole is still grinning. "No, I'm easy. I assume arm around your waist or hand on the small of your back is acceptable? Some hugging and light cuddling?"
He refuses to blush at that idea. After all, it isn't as if they haven't-
"Of course."
"Do you have any other boundaries?" And, surprisingly, he sounds sincere. Jake shakes his head.
"No, I think that about covers it."
Bradley nods. Now that that's out of the way, Jake finds he can relax, his shoulders dropping minutely.
"Alright," he shifts in his seat, letting his legs spread just enough that his thigh presses lightly against Bradley's. Better to get used to the proximity now, he figures. Bradley doesn't move away. "Now the rest of the ground rules. My mom is expecting a nice boy," he shoots Bradley a significant look. "Do you think you can pretend to be one for a few days?"
That draws another laugh from him, this one a full, head-tipped-back guffaw that Jake tries and fails not to feel too proud of. Really, he's glad that Bradley's not offended by the suggestion he isn't a "nice guy." They both know better than that.
"I figured as much. You wouldn't be bringing home some asshole," he says instead. "How besotted with each other are we going for?"
"I've been saying we've been together for... two months? So still in the, uh, honeymoon stage but more comfortable. Settled."
Bradley shrugs. "I'll take your word for it."
Jake wouldn't know, either. He's never had a relationship anywhere near that long. He presses on.
"What information do you need from me to make that believable?"
As Jake watches, Bradley tilts his head and lift his eyes to the "fasten seatbelt" sign above their heads as he considers. Jake remembers his freshman psychology study guide that mentioned that, if someone rolls their eyes to the top of their head, they're remembering.
"You're from Austin, you were on the football team all four years of high school. Then you went to the Academy," he starts, and Jake is about to interrupt him to say that all of that is superficial, but he continues on. "You're a morning person - annoyingly so - who goes on a run first thing every day. You take your coffee black, and you try to avoid gluten. Your cheat meal is barbecue but you say there's no good place to get it in California."
Bradley's eyes meet his, questioning, and Jake nods for him to continue. His chest feels tight.
"Your family is the most important thing to the world in you, right above flying, hence why we're doing all of this. Your best friend is Javy, but back at the Academy -"
Jake stops him there. Bradley bites his lip like he realizes he was about to overstep.
"I think that, uh, sums it up."
They stare at each other for an extended moment as Jake grapples with the uncomfortable feeling that Bradley has been noticing him just as much as Jake has noticed him. He clears his throat. When Bradley raises his eyebrows subtly, Jake takes the silent prompt.
"You grew up in Virginia, raised by your mom and your Godfather. You went to the University of Virginia where you did NROTC. Then you enlisted."
Bradley's watching him with that disarmingly even gaze. Jake focuses on the cup in his hands again and the small pile of paper shreds growing on his tray table beside it.
"You're not a morning person, hence the callsign," a huff of a laugh beside him. "You ruin your coffee with a stupid amount of milk and sugar. Usually almond milk, because you're lactose intolerant. But that doesn't always stop you. You like Thai food, and know all the best places to get it wherever you're stationed."
"You're loyal to a fault, and stubborn," Bradley's knees nudges him, and Jake fights back a smile. "But so am I."
He feels like he's in free fall, plummeting dangerously close to something they don't let themselves acknowledge anymore. There's an alarm in his head - "pull up, pull up, pull up."
"Right," Bradley says into the silence, and clears his throat. "I think we've got that covered. Time for the family rundown?"
Jake grabs onto the change of topic with both hands.
"Yeah," he nods. "Let me know if I need to slow down - there's a lot to get through."
"Should I take notes?"
He tells him no, but it probably wouldn't hurt. For the rest of the flight, Jake gives him the cliffsnotes on the entire Seresin clan, starting with his immediate family, then branching out to the aunts, uncles, and cousins on both sides. It's a lot - he knows it is - but he figures that Bradley at least deserves a briefing on what he's getting into before walking straight into the crucible that will be the big day.
"Okay," Bradley says finally, when Jake's done explaining the second cousins. He looks a little shellshocked and Jake can't blame him. "There's no way I'm remembering all of that, but let me make sure I've got the big ones down, at least."
Jake nods. "Go ahead."
"Your parents are Susan and Jacob - are you a junior? I didn't know that," Jake nods again, encouraging him to continue. "She was a teacher until she retired a few years ago, he works the ranch along with your uncle and a bunch of cousins. You're the middle child of your two sisters - Alane, who's getting married to Chris, is two years older. Your younger sister is Taylor, and she's home for the summer after her first year at UT. And that makes her... how much younger than you?"
Honestly, he's impressed so far. "Ten years," he explains. "She's the baby of the family."
Bradley's gaze is too-keen. "You all spoil her, don't you?"
"Endlessly. Keep going."
He's a little shakier on the intricacies of the extended family, but he hits the highlights. By the time they touch down, Jake is beginning to think that they might just be able to pull this off.
As they deplane, he takes his phone off of airplane mode, and is immediately greeted by a string of vibrations. Bradley raises an eyebrow at it.
"Taylor," he explains, "Is a notorious multi-texter. She's parked out front."
They wind their way out of Austin-Bergstrom, Bradley navigating them both to baggage claim while Jake does his best to interpret his younger sister's messages. It's always a shock to be confronted by the reality that he's not as connected with the modern lingo as he thinks he is.
"Looks like you're escaping the full welcome wagon," he explains as Bradley pulls their bags off the carousel. "It's just Taylor. Everyone else got called away on some urgent floral emergency."
It's probably a good thing - Jake wasn't particularly looking forward to making a scene right here at the arrivals gate, well-intentioned or not.
The '86 Chevy Silverado is hard to miss, cherry-red and idling against the curb with her hazards on. As soon as Jake and Bradley step out of the sliding doors and into the familiar, late-summer Austin humidity, Taylor is climbing out of the cab and rounding the bed to greet them, moving so fast she’s reduced to the orange streak of her oversized UT t-shirt.
"Jake!" She grins, throwing her arms wide, and Jake can't help it - he lifts her in the air and spins her around even as she bats at his arm to get him to stop. "Asshole," she laughs when he finally sets her down, red Converse hitting the pavement. "How was the flight?"
Taylor is the sole member of the Seresin clan not to receive the height gene, but she’s got everything else. She comes up to just his shoulder. Her long, blonde hair is tied back from her face, and her green eyes are crinkled up at the edges as she grins at him. More than once, he’s been told it’s almost uncanny how similar they look – like she’s his smaller, female twin, down to the squared edges of her jaw.
"Good," he holds his hand out for the car keys, on instinct, and she drops them into his waiting palm without hesitation. "How's your summer?"
A soft throat-clearing reminds him: he should probably introduce his boyfriend to his little sister. Taylor looks over his shoulder, and he watches as her eyes go wide for just a moment before she schools her expression back to evenness.
"You must be Bradley," she says, neatly side-stepping her brother and holding out her hand. "I'm Taylor."
"Nice to meet you, Taylor," he says, and sounds sincere. "Jake has told me so much about you."
As soon as she drops his hand, Bradley is stepping closer to Jake. When his hand finds the small of his back, it takes a concerted effort not to jump at the touch.
“That’s not fair,” she shoots her brother an accusatory look, but her tone is teasing. “He’s told us nothing about you.”
"We should probably get going," Jake interrupts, eyeing the line of vehicles stretched down the drop-off zone.
They load their baggage into the bed, and then Jake is slipping into the driver's seat. There's an indulgent smile on his lips as he runs his hands over the steering wheel, admiring the familiar rattle of the engine beneath him.
"This is his truck," he hears Taylor explaining. He hadn't noticed them sliding into the single cab beside him. It's Bradley's leg pressed against him, hip to knee, on the bench seat. Taylor's got the passenger side. "Mom and dad keep it around for him, and sometimes I think he loves it more than me."
"Not true," Jake says, distracted, as he puts it into gear. He doesn't have to look to know that Bradley and his sister are exchanging a significant look. That wasn't a team-up he expected. “I love her just as much as you.”
Taylor and Bradley talk about the flight, voices low, as he navigates them out of traffic and onto the highway out of town. The Seresin Ranch is just outside the city limits - close enough for all the amenities of Austin, but with the added bonus of acres and acres of private Texas real estate. The closer they get, the more he can feel his shoulders relaxing. He cracks a window and the familiar heat soothes an ache he didn't even realize he was feeling.
"How's Alane doing?" He asks, and apparently it's the question Taylor has been waiting for - she launches into an impassioned speech about what a hassle this whole thing is, how much work she's having to put in as the Maid of Honor, and how ready she is for the whole thing to be done.
She's mid-rant about the dress-buying process when he chances a glance at Bradley. When he does, he finds that Bradley's already looking at him, an amused quirk to his lips. Jake shrugs, helpless.
"I tried to warn you," he mouths, and Bradley's grin widens when he shrugs back.
Taylor's voice fills the cab the rest of the drive, interrupted only by the occasional, empathetic hum, or a murmured "yeah, that sucks." It isn't until they're pulling onto the dirt path that leads up to the house that she changes her tune.
"Don't get me wrong," she insists, wide-eyed, to Bradley. "She's great. I'm not trying to say she's, like, a bridezilla or anything, but this shit is exhausting."
"No, I get it," he assures her. His hand lands on Jake's thigh, just above his knee. Jake hopes Taylor doesn't notice the way he goes still. "This kind of thing is a lot of work."
"Looks like they beat us back," Jake observes as the house comes into view, Alane’s SUV among the line of vehicles parked out front.
Jacob Seresin Sr., the oldest of his brothers, inherited the ranch house from his parents before Jake was born. It's a long, squat building of limewashed brick covered by a navy-blue roof, pieced together by many an extension over the years. Above the front door, the A-frame roof is high and inviting. The sight of it brings a swell of peace to Jake's chest, just as it always does.
He parks the truck in the drive and kills the engine. Beside him, Bradley is silent, and when Jake looks at him he realizes he's staring at the building with wide, almost disbelieving eyes. Taylor is already hopping out and moving around to the bed of the pickup.
"You with me, Bradshaw?" He ventures.
Is Bradley finally realizing the absurdity of what they're doing here?
"I didn't realize you were, like, rich-rich."
Jake snorts. Is that really what he's concerned about?
"I wouldn't say my parents are rich," he argues. "They're -"
"If you say 'comfortable,' I'll hit you," Bradley turns to look at him, and Jake realizes he's smiling. "That's what rich people say."
He flushes. That's exactly what he was going to say.
"Sorry," he says, instead. "It was my grandparents' ranch. My grandpa had been buying up land since, like, the forties and left it to the kids. That's why they all still work it."
"Real cowboy shit, huh?"
He's misreading that glint in his eye. He has to be.
"Are you coming, or not?"
Taylor's voice at his window startles Jake out of the stare down he didn't realize he and Bradley were in the middle of, but he refuses to be embarrassed.
"Comin'."
Bradley follows him out of the truck. For a moment, he pauses, hands on his hips, and surveys his surroundings. The sight of him - Hawaiian shirt and all - is so out of place here in Jake's space that it makes his head spin. A sense of foreboding hardens in his gut. Why is he doing this? Why did Bradley agree to go along with it? What does he stand to gain by lying to all of his loved ones like this?
Jake shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, and distracts himself by helping Taylor with their luggage.
As they approach the front door, Bradley's hand on his elbow stops him.
"Here," he says, reaching for the strap of the bag in Jake's hand and taking it from him, then transferring it to his other. He doesn't have a chance to question the gesture before Bradley's hand is slipping into his own. Ah. Bradley gives him a little, helpless shrug..
"Right," Jake nods, grateful that at least one of them has the good sense to make this believable. "Thanks."
"Look who I found!" Taylor calls as she steps through the front door.
There's a flurry of activity as Jake and Bradley follow her inside. He gets only a vague impression of the front room and the way it's been overtaken by floral arrangements and orange and green fabric before his mother is descending upon him.
"Jake!" She smiles, tugging him into her arms. The movement forces him to drop Bradley's hand, and he finds that he misses it.
"Hey, ma," he laughs, wrapping his arms around her. "How are you?"
Susan Seresin is, in Jake's opinion, the best woman in the world. She stands at barely five feet - the source of Taylor's own shortness - with a cropped, brown bob and sturdy build. Jake presses his lips to the top of her head and breathes in deep, letting the familiar scent of her sink into his bones and release at least a portion of the anxiousness in his gut.
"Better, now that all my kids are home," she says. When she pulls back, holding him at arms length, Jake is treated to a wide, straight grin. At the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth, her crows feet and smile lines are deep and defined. Evidence of a happy life, she always says.
"A pleasure to meet you, sir," Bradley says at his side, and Jake realizes that his father is already introducing himself to his "boyfriend." He just hopes that Bradley has the good sense to keep his handshake firm.
When he looks, he finds that his father's expression is carefully neutral. That's a good sign, actually.
"Mom," he says, releasing her, but not entirely. He keeps a hand on her arm, unwilling to part from her just yet. He's never denied the mama's boy accusations. "This is Bradley."
"Bradley," she says, and Jake watches as her eyes go even softer. "Welcome to our home. But I have to warn you, I am a hugger."
Bradley's smile only widens, growing impossibly more sincere. Jake is struck dumb by the sight of it.
"Of course not, Mrs. Seresin. I am, too."
She laughs, stepping away from her son to pull Bradley into a tight hug. His cheek finds the top of her head as she pats his back. It's another good sign.
"I wish I could say that Jake has told us all about you," she says when they finally part. "But he didn't even let it slip that you were together until just last week."
Susan shoots her son an accusatory look, but Bradley is intercepting it smoothly before Jake has a chance to respond.
"It's all still pretty new, ma'am," he explains, and he seems genuinely abashed when his arm slips back around Jake's waist. He can see his mother melting for it in a heartbeat. "But I'm looking forward to getting to know your family this weekend."
God, he's good at this.
"How was your flight, son?"
Sometimes, when Jake looks at his father, he's relieved to know that he's going to age well. Jacob Seresin Sr. could be Jake's doppelganger - just add on another thirty years. He's got the same full, blonde head of hair, and the same green eyes - just creased a little deeper at the corners. The flannel button-up he's wearing is probably older than Jake is, faded and soft-looking. Jake grins and accepts his handshake.
"Good, just a little turbulence outside of Phoenix, but nothing crazy," he explains.
Before his father inherited the ranch, he had dreams of being a pilot, too.
"How's the planning going?" He asks, and watches as his father rolls his eyes. Jake laughs. He's never been the kind of man to enjoy this kind of thing.
"Oh, you know," he starts.
"Hey, Jake," Alane interrupts, inserting herself into the conversation to tug Jake into a hug. "Welcome home."
Alane, like her siblings, is another near carbon-copy of her father, the only difference being she received their mother's warm, brown eyes. Unlike Taylor, she's nearly Jake's height, maybe an inch shorter.
"Hey, you," he smiles and presses a kiss to her temple. "Getting cold feet yet?"
His sister bats at his arm as she releases him, laughing. "No, but Chris might be. I think this is the longest continued exposure to the family he's gotten yet."
Over her shoulder, Jake catches the eye of his future brother-in-law. Chris puts a hand on the small of his fiancee's back, reaching around her to shake Jake's hand. He shrugs. "She's not wrong." The laugh in his voice says he's kidding, though.
Jake likes Chris. With his dark features and warm smile, he's the same kind of social butterfly she is, always ready for whatever kind of adventure she dreams up. Truly, he's ridiculously excited for them. But, since she's his older sister, he can't let her in on that little secret.
"Now, I bet y'all are exhausted," he realizes his mother is addressing him and Bradley, and Jake finds that he's - once again - abandoned his new "boyfriend" to his family. He rectifies that by stepping closer to him, and is surprised when Bradley drapes an arm over his shoulders. He tamps down the instinctive urge to step away, forcing himself to lean into his side instead. Susan's smile grows even warmer. "How about you two go get situated and freshen up, dinner will be ready in an hour."
"Which guest room are we putting Bradley up in?" He brings up an arm to wrap around Bradley's waist. There's a second where he stiffens, then relaxes again. Did he forget to mention that they weren't going to be staying in a hotel?
"Jake," his mom tsks, rolling her eyes. "You're grown men, we're not idiots. You'll be just fine together in your room."
It takes an immense amount of willpower not to blanch at his mother's words. Thankfully, his cheeks choose to flush pink instead. At least that's a more reasonable response.
"Uh," he stammers, clears his throat. "Right. Thanks, mom."
He steps out from Bradley's arm, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. "This way, babe."
Behind him, he hears Bradley murmuring a soft "pleasure to meet you," to his mother before he's following him down the hall. It's only when Jake gets the door to his childhood bedroom shut behind them that he turns to face him.
"I am so sorry," he says, hands help up between them and eyes wide. "I thought they'd make you take the guest room. They didn't let Chris stay in the same room as Alane until they were engaged, I didn't think -"
"It's fine," Bradley cuts him off. Jake blinks at him - he's laughing. "I don't mind."
"I can take the floor," Jake offers. His Full-sized bed sits, accusingly, in the middle of the room.
"Don't worry about it," he waves a hand through the air. "Besides, it's not like we've never slept in the same bed before, right?"
He notices the careful choice of words, and resolutely chooses not to call him out on them. They don't talk about that. In fact, it's the first time they've come anywhere close to broaching that subject in years. To do so now...
Jake refuses to let his thoughts travel down that path. He nods.
"Fine," he says, ultimately. "But if you hog the covers I'm kicking your oversized ass off."
Bradley grins at him, and Jake has to occupy himself unpacking his things.
While he works, he can sense Bradley taking in his surroundings. He settles on the edge of the bed, hands braced behind himself on the pale-blue comforter as he looks around the room. Jake feels a distinct discomfort as all of his childhood belongings are laid bare before him, like he's a bug beneath a magnifying glass, being scrutinized by those considering, hazel eyes.
There's a wide window to the east across from the bed, draped in pale, gauzy curtains. Beneath it sits his desk - cluttered with pictures of his family, his high school football team, his graduating class at the Academy, Javy. Jake bypasses it to tug open a drawer on his dresser, and feels Bradley's gaze skate past him to the bookshelf in the corner.
The thing is weighted down with trophies, ribbons, and an amalgamation of books. They range from his early peewee football days, to his brief stint on the track and field team in junior high, to his extensive collection of rodeo ribbons. Overlooking it all is a model F-18, poised with its nose in the air on it's metal stand at the very top of the shelf. His dad bought it for him on their first trip down to Ft Worth to see the Blue Angels when he was ten.
When he turns around, he finds Bradley's eyes on it. Jake grabs the garment bag Bradley had laid over the foot of the bed, detouring to the closet to hang it up.
"Anything I need to clarify?" Jake says to break the silence.
"Hm? Oh," Bradley seems like he was distracted by something. Jake itches to ask what he's thinking, but doesn't. "No. I think I've got the family down." And then, he surprises him. "You look a lot like your mom."
Jake freezes, his hands on the shirt he was about to pull from its hanger. "What?" No one's ever said that, before. Not when his dad is the more obvious comparison.
"You look like your mom," he repeats, and Jake has to be imagining the pink tinge to his cheeks. "When you smile, specifically. It's the same one."
For a moment, he can only blink at him. "Oh," he says, eventually. "Uh, thanks."
Bradley looks uncomfortable. That makes two of them.
"I'm gonna hit the bathroom," Jake says, desperate to diffuse the odd moment. "Just, uh, make yourself comfortable. The second drawer is empty, and there's space in the closet."
He nods, and Jake gathers his things to beat a hasty retreat.
When he emerges, face washed and changed into one of his oldest, softest plaid shirts and an equally-worn pair of jeans, Bradley has changed, too. He stands at Jake's bookshelf, thumbing through an old USNA yearbook, wearing a deep gray button-up and khakis.
"Ready for dinner?" He asks, and Bradley jumps. Jake bites down a grin.
"Yep," Bradley smiles back, and the awkward tension from earlier seems to be gone.
Dinner at the Seresin Ranch is a, predictably, loud affair. Susan has pulled out all the stops - the table loaded with all of her specialties. Ribs and fried chicken feature prominently, along with all the sides and fixings one could imagine. Jake and Bradley end up beside each other on the low bench seating. When their thighs press against each other beneath the table, invisible to the rest of the family, he finds he doesn't mind it anymore.
Conversation flows freely - voices mixing and rising over each other, sidebars breaking out, merging, collapsing, and starting up again. To Jake's surprise, Bradley seems to be handling his own. He gets pulled into a conversation with Chris while Jake argues with Taylor, and before he knows it a half hour has passed and the conversation is winding down.
Jake sets down his napkin and leans back from the table, contented. Without even looking at him, Bradley's hand finds his. He's really, really good at this.
Across the table, Jake watches as his mother clocks the connection. She meets his gaze and raises her eyebrows. Jake sticks his tongue out at her.
"Anyone save room for dessert?"
No one did, but they all know better than to try to pass when Mama Seresin is offering.
The party migrates to the living room, nursing their bowls of ice cream and cobbler. Jake finds himself on the couch with Alane, nodding dutifully as she catches him up on his duties for the week. Bradley is intercepted by Taylor, and they sit with their heads ducked together on the brick in front of the fireplace. Jake tries not to dread whatever it is they're talking about. Or, perhaps more accurately, scheming.
It's late when everyone finally disperses. His mother presses a kiss to the top of his head on her way past, murmuring that he found a good one, and Jake flushes pink. Even his father claps a hand to his shoulder as he follows his wife to bed.
He waits for the awkwardness to descend again when he and Bradley finds themselves - alone - in his room once more, but it doesn't. Not entirely, at least. Jake brushes his teeth first, and when he returns Bradley says he's going to take a shower. The space at the foot of his bed is tight enough that they're shoulders brush when Bradley moves around him. The contact tingles.
The day of travel must finally catch up to him, because Jake doesn't even wake when he returns. Bradley slips under the covers at his side and leans over Jake's prone form to turn off the lamp on his bedside table.
Chapter Text
The first few rays of sunshine slip over the foot of Jake's bed, honey-gold and insubstantial. They filter through the thin curtains and paint the room in warmth. It's warm under the comforter, and in the distance Jake can hear the crow of his mom's prized rooster. It's time for chores. For a moment, he's transported back to his childhood, back to the summers of working the farm from dawn to dusk, meals around the kitchen table, falling asleep with a satisfying, bone-deep soreness, and then doing it all again the next morning.
Even though he's only home for the weekend, he'll be expected to help the rest of the guys with their chores, anyway. The work is never done, not really. Still, for a moment he lets himself savor the way his limbs sink into the familiar mattress, easing away a stiffness he didn't know he was still carrying. It isn't until he shifts that he remembers he isn't alone in the bed.
Bradley's arm is around his waist. They'd fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, but sometime in the night he must have moved, because now Jake can feel the weight of his forearm around him. In fact, Bradley's pressed along almost the entire length of his back, snoring softly in his ear. No wonder it's so hot - the man is a human furnace.
Now he really has to move.
It takes some effort, starting and stopping when Bradley's arm instinctively tightens, but Jake manages to free himself from the sleeping man's grip. He slips off the edge of the mattress and turns to look. Luckily, Bradley doesn't stir with the loss - he snuffles and shifts to fill the space Jake has just left, pulling the comforter to his chest and curling around it. A wrinkle appears between his brows, then disappears. Jake's not sure why it's so important that he doesn't disturb his sleep, but it felt like an imperative at the time.
Looking at him like this is easier. Without those too-intelligent hazel eyes trained back at him, Jake can appreciate the soft shape of his mouth, parted as he breathes, and the way his eyelashes fan across his cheekbones. His hair is mussed, bronze curls flying in every direction from where he'd gone to bed with it still damp. He's not wearing a shirt. Jake's eyes trace the line from his jaw, down his throat, along his collarbone and...
There's a soft knock at the door. "Jake?"
It's his father - come to collect him for their morning duties.
He blinks, clears his throat. "Coming," Jake whispers, just loud enough to be heard. Bradley doesn't stir.
It's still technically morning by the time they return from their work. Jake's covered in a satisfying layer of dirt and sweat, body odor, manure, and soil mingling in his nostrils. Every muscle in his body is sore and he can't stop grinning. As much as he loves his job, loves his life in the air and on the sea, there's nothing like the warm glow of satisfaction that physical labor can provide. It sits in his chest and radiates out from there.
"Your dad's been bitching about that fencepost for a month," his cousin Mike is saying, slapping Jake on the shoulder as they knock the earth from their boots in the mudroom. His mom will kill them if they track anything in on her clean, wood floors. "Thanks for taking care of it."
"No problem," he grins. Sufficiently de-mudded, they slip off their boots and start making their way toward the kitchen. The promising scent of breakfast wafts toward them, pancakes and bacon and coffee. "I'm just glad he didn't-"
"Which is why Jake doesn't let me cook," Bradley's voice reaches Jake as he rounds the corner. It's low, the roughness of sleep still smoothing the edges of it. He hears his mom laugh.
"There they are," she says as he and Mike appear. "Have a seat, breakfast is almost ready. Are the rest of the guys finishing up?"
It's a good thing Mike is there to respond to her, because Jake finds himself momentarily at a loss for words. Bradley's standing at the center island, a whisk and a bowl of batter in his hands. He's wearing one of Jake's old UT shirts, the fabric tight across his shoulders. There's a smudge of flour across his cheek. He looks up at Jake and smiles.
"Morning."
Jake has to force himself to move, to behave as if any of this is normal, as he crosses the room to his faux-boyfriend. He can feel his mom's eyes on him, as much as she's pretending to fuss over the potatoes sizzling on the stove. The smell of burning hits him as he nears.
"Did you burn something?"
He laughs, stepping into Bradley's space. Act normal. He holds Bradley's gaze - a silent request for permission - and he dips his chin in a barely-there nod. Jake brushes the flour off of his cheek, then keeps his hand there, cupping his jaw in a lingering touch. The smile on his lips feels forced, unnatural, and he hopes the other two in the room aren't looking too closely.
"The first round of pancakes," he admits, bashful. "Susan isn't letting me try again."
Bradley's earlier words stir a memory: Jake returning from a jog, Bradley in his kitchen surrounded by a cloud of smoke, pancake bits scraped into a trash can. He forces another laugh.
"It's a good thing at least one of us can cook," Jake smiles, leaning up to press their lips together in a brief kiss before he can overthink it. Bradley blinks when he pulls away.
It's a relief to step back, putting distance between them as quickly as he can. He keeps his voice breezy, addressing his mom as he goes to the sink to wash his hands. "Anything I can help with?"
"No, no," she insists. "You've already been working all morning. Take a seat, I'll get you some coffee."
He knows better than to argue when she dotes like this. Instead, Jake settles at the table with a groan, pressing a kiss to her cheek when she brings him the mug. He wraps his hands around it, grateful, and greedily inhales the steam rising from the dark liquid. Somehow, Folgers never smells as good as it does when she makes it.
The rest of the crew trickles in slowly, and the quiet peace of the morning flees in their wake. Breakfast is a loud affair - cousins and uncles joining the milieu along with his siblings. He ends up squished between Alane and another cousin, jostling for enough elbow room to get his fork to his eggs. Bradley, wisely, perches on a barstool at the center island with Taylor, watching the mayhem from a distance.
Once their meal is finished, dishes cleaned and kitchen tidied, it's time to divide and conquer. It's Friday, and the big day is on Sunday. Between now and then, there's a barn to clear for the reception, an aisle and seating to be set up in one of the pastures, and a whole host of decorations to be put up. Not to mention the bachelor party that evening and the rehearsal on Saturday.
"Jake, you're going to help the boys and I clear the barn," his dad is saying, and Jake nods.
"Yes, sir."
"Bradley, can you drive a manual? We need the truck to pick up the flowers, but the girls and I need to pick up our dresses too and we can't all fit in the cab," Alane asks. Before Jake can intercept, Bradley is already nodding.
"Sure."
"I-"
His older sister shuts him up with a look, then turns her sunniest smile back to Bradley. "Great! We'll make a day of it and get lunch while we're out."
There's a break as the girls go to get ready. Jake follows Bradley back to the bedroom.
"You don't have to go with them," he says. "Every one of them can drive stick. It's just an excuse to get you alone and grill you about..." he gestures between them. "This."
Bradley laughs. "I know."
From his spot by the door, Jake watches as Bradley tugs off the t-shirt, then rifles through his drawer in the dresser. The muscles in his back flex as he does, tendons rippling beneath golden skin in a manner that's so distracting Jake can't seem to look away. As many times as he's seen Bradley's body, in the locker room, at the beach, and then the one less-than-innocent occasion, it's still distracting. It seems like an eternity before he decides on a navy blue button-up and shrugs it on. By the time he turns, long fingers working up the buttons, Jake has managed to school his expression back to evenness.
"That's part of this whole thing, isn't it? They're going to buy it a lot more easily if they hear it from me."
He's so casual about this whole charade that Jake gets the distinct impression that it's all some big, elaborate prank that he's the victim of. What's Bradley getting out of this, anyway?
"How did we meet?" He says, instead. Blurts out, more like.
Bradley frowns. "What?"
"We should probably have a story about how we met," he elaborates, forcing his shoulders down in a mimicry of ease he doesn't feel. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. "They're going to ask."
They probably should have established this on the plane, but better late than never.
"Oh, uh," Bradley's hands settle on his hips, and he bites his lip. "It's probably easier to mostly stick to the truth, right?"
Fair. Jake nods and waits for him to continue.
From here, he can practically see the way Bradley’s working through his thoughts. It’s almost as if he’s sitting in a cockpit, an enemy aircraft in his sights. He’s meticulous. The slow, methodical way he processes information had infuriated him at Top Gun. No time to think when your life is on the line. But, here, it’s almost fascinating.
"We met in Honolulu on my first assignment, your second. We were assigned the same squadron. You hated me, I hated you."
It's obvious he's being careful with his words. Jake refuses to be the one to acknowledge the part he's leaving out.
"We kept getting split up and then put back together over the years. Different ports, different ships," there's a quirk to his mustache, now - the hint of a smile. He’s getting somewhere, now. "Eventually, that hatred started to thaw."
No, now he's just making stuff up. He wants to argue but, Jake knows, his mom and sisters will eat it up. He’s been forced to sit through many a conversation about the “enemies to lovers” trope, whatever the fuck that is.
"And then?"
"And then we ended up back in Miramar." They're staring at each other. Jake can't look away. "You kicked my ass into shape when I let personal shit get in the way of my training, and we survived the suicide mission. You saved my life. After that, I found you on the deck of the Roosevelt, and I finally got up the nerve to ask you out."
Something stirs in Jake's gut. Anxiousness, nerves, dread. Whatever it is, he can't put a name to it. He needs to end this conversation. He forces himself to nod.
"Okay."
Bradley nods, too. “Okay.”
By the time the barn is cleared - the decades-old farm equipment moved out, rows of tables and chairs moved in - Jake is left wishing for the, at least familiar, chores he's accustomed to. Even mucking out stalls would be better than this. He's moved so much rusty metal today, he's considering heading into town for a tetanus shot.
He gave up on his shirt hours ago. The white tank hangs from his waistband, soaked in so much sweat, dust, and rust that he's debating if it's even worth salvaging.
"This looks great!" Alane says when their party arrives back at the ranch. Beside her, Chris is holding a teetering stack of boxes - tablecloths and placemats and centerpieces. Behind them, Bradley, Taylor, and a couple of cousins and friends are carting in flowers by the armful. "I'd give you a hug, but you look like you stink."
He can't blame her - Jake doesn't think he's looked forward to anything as much as he's looking forward to the shower he's about to take.
Now that the hard part is done, Jake and his crew are - thankfully - dismissed so Alane and her minions can set to work decorating the place. By the time Jake emerges from his shower, steam practically rising from his skin and scrubbing at his hair with a towel, Bradley is waiting for him.
"Think you'll be alright for the party tonight?" He asks, and Jake is surprised by the concern in his gaze. To be fair, he did nearly fall asleep under the hot spray just a few minutes ago.
"I'll be fine," he insists, but his words are cut off by a yawn. Bradley looks skeptical.
"How about you take a nap," Bradley offers. "We've got a few hours before we have to leave and you've been working since sunrise."
Jake hesitates. He can't remember the last time he took a nap, of all things, but the idea of heading to the bar with Chris and his friends tonight is growing less appealing by the minute. Maybe if he gets a few hours of shut-eye...
"What will you do?"
"Alane kicked me out of the decorating committee," he shrugs. "And your mom is supervising the ceremony set-up. I figured I'd just hang around. Maybe read."
There's a battered paperback resting on Jake's nightstand. The idea of Bradley just sitting around, reading, while he sleeps is a little weird, but. Well. He can't quite stifle the next yawn as it comes.
"Okay," he says, eventually. "Can you wake me up in time to get ready?"
"Sure."
"Yeah, he's fine. Just tired," a low voice penetrates his dreams. It's nearby, but not quite enough to wake him fully. Jake's thoughts are still muzzy, cottony, warm.
A murmur from further away. He can't make it out. There's a hushed laugh, and it sounds fond. He thinks he feels gentle fingers pushing through his hair.
"I know. I can never get him to rest, either. He must really need it today - I'm gonna give him another hour."
A door clicks shut. Jake turns toward the warmth, burrowing closer.
"Jake?" Bradley's voice is low, but insistent. He feels a hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him toward wakefulness. "It's time to get up."
He cracks his eyes to find Bradley leaning over him. He's kneeling by the side of the bed, and there's a smile tugging up the corners of his mustache. Jake has the bizarre urge to kiss him.
"What time is it?" He mumbles, instead.
"Almost six," he says. "I let you sleep in a little longer, but we've got to start getting ready."
It's warm in the room, but luckily the sun sets on the other side of the house so it's not unbearable. When Jake sits up, he gets a head rush. His cheeks feel flushed. Too much body heat trapped under the covers, leaving him overheated. That would explain his brief delusion. Bradley is watching him closely.
"You alright?"
He nods. "I hate naps."
By the time they're dressed and ready to go, though, Jake feels alert and well-rested. Maybe he really did need that nap. If Bradley shoots him a knowing look as they dress, he at least doesn't voice his thoughts.
They've rented out a bar in town for the occasion - an old dive Jake and his cousins have frequented since he got his first fake ID. There's a mechanical bull and a jukebox with every country hit from the last forty years on rotation. So, Jake's darkest wash jeans, a pale green flannel shirt that passes for "dressy," and his nicest boots it is. This pair is a deep, brown leather - so dark they're almost black. They fit his thighs like a dream. Bradley doesn't even comment on the ensemble until he's topping off the outfit with the hat that matches the boots.
"Seriously?" He asks, and he's grinning.
Bradley seems to have gotten the memo that the bachelor party will be a casual affair, so he's dressed in jeans and the same blue button-up from earlier. Once again, Jake is struck by how tan the color makes him look. But this is Jake's world.
"You laugh now," Jake insists. "But just wait - I'm not going to be the one that looks out of place." He glances down at Bradley's clean, white sneakers. "And don't you bitch at me when those things are scuffed to shit at the end of the night."
They join the caravan headed to the bar in Jake's truck. Since it's just the two of them, Bradley takes the spot by the window instead of pressed up against him. Jake is grateful for the distance, as fleeting as it is.
He has to circle the block twice before he can find a place to park. When they step out, Bradley's eyes go wide.
The crowd milling around downtown are dressed, as expected, just like Jake. There are boots and hats in every shade, shape, and size, not to mention fringes and cow hide prints. There's even some chaps intermingled. To Jake, it's normal, a way of life, but Bradley wasn't raised around this crowd. The only cowboy boots he had regular exposure to was the tacky red pair Jake saw in some old pictures of Maverick.
He valiantly resists the urge to tell him "I told you so."
The thought must show on his face, though, because Bradley knocks their shoulders together. "Shut up." But, then he takes Jake's hand, and any trace of smugness flees from his thoughts. As much as he should have expected this gesture, the ease with which Bradley is handling their showmance continues to surprise him. Bradley's palm is warm against his.
As they push their way into the bar, they find that the party is already in full swing. The Chicks are playing overhead, and a raucous cheer rises from the bar area. A couple of the cousins immediately pull Jake into the fray, and he's happy to let himself be tugged out of Bradley's grip and toward the line of shots waiting on the bar top.
He loses track of his "boyfriend" for a while, after that. A few times, he catches sight of him across the crowded bar, cheeks flushed from the heat of the room and a drink in his hand while he laughs with Mike, or explains something to Chris with lots of expressive hand movements, or leans across the bar to talk with the bartender. It looks like he's enjoying himself, though, so Jake doesn't feel bad about leaving him to his own devices. Couples do that too, right?
It's an hour or two later, and Jake is mopping the floor with anyone dumb or drunk enough to try and beat him at pool when Bradley finds him, waiting for his turn to break.
"Hey," he says, stepping in beside him and slipping an arm around Jake's waist. Even in the over-heated room, his touch sears. "I heard a rumor."
Bradley has to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd, and Jake instinctively turns his head toward him. This close, he can see the sweat gathering in his mustache. His tongue slips out, wetting his lip, and Jake forces his gaze away. "What did you hear?"
There's a discomfiting gleam in those hazel eyes, mischievous even in the dim light. Jake's suspicion grows.
"One of your cousins - I can't remember which one, they all look the same. Maybe Chad?" He's leaning in close now, his breath ghosting across the shell of Jake's ear. A shudder trips down his spine.
"Chet," he corrects, absentmindedly.
"Chet, right," Bradley chuckles. "He said that you hold the record on that thing."
He points across the room, and Jake follows the line of his finger. The mechanical bull sits in the center of the dance floor, currently abandoned. The crowd isn't quite drunk enough to partake quite yet, but give them another round or two -
"Chet has a big mouth," he says, evasive. It doesn't work.
"So it's true?" Bradley's grinning now - like it's the best news he's gotten all week. "Come on, you've got to let me see you do that."
"Oh fuck, no," Jake laughs, and it's genuine. He nudges Bradley in the ribs. "One, I'm not nearly drunk enough for that. And two..." He trails off. He doesn't have a two.
Bradley's grin only widens. "That can be arranged. What do you want?"
Jake's shaking his head before he even finishes his sentence. "Nope. Not a chance. One of us has to be sober enough to get us home, and I'm not leaving the truck here tonight."
"I can get us home."
"You're already drinking," Jake frowns, pointing to the glass in his hand.
"Just Coke," he shrugs. "Swear. Here."
It's not that Jake doesn't believe him, but he accepts a sip anyway. Sure enough, he doesn't taste any alcohol. So, Bradley's not even drunk. Which means he's just... like this. Bubbly and sociable. Jake supposes he's seen it before, at the Hard Deck and any other local dive their cohort has descended upon. Any place with a piano, really. But, he's never really let himself be on the receiving end of it. He's still getting used to a Bradley that he's not fighting with every second of every day, and now he's being presented with one that he finds he could actually enjoy the company of. It's jarring.
Suddenly, he really does need a drink.
"Get me a vodka soda. But," he raises a finger, stern. "I'm not making any promises I'm getting on that thing."
Bradley laughs and presses a kiss to his temple. "Deal," he says against his skin. Jake can feel the smile on his lips.
Like a man on a mission, Bradley continues to ply him with drink after drink while Jake focuses his attention on taking down any adversary he's faced with in the form of the pool table or the dartboard on the wall. By the third drink, there's a pleasant warmth suffusing his bones, vibrating just beneath his skin. Not enough to say he's drunk, but he's on his way.
He's leaning over the felt, cue in hand, when Bradley re-joins the assembled crowd. The familiar shape of him is hard to miss even amongst the swarm of bodies. Jake's in the middle of saying something - talking shit, probably - when he glances up and locks eyes with him. He fumbles his grip on the stick in his hands. The cue ball sinks into the pocket.
"Ha, scratch," Chris grins.
Jake never scratches. He swears and straightens.
"I'm out," he laughs, exaggerating his steps to blame his slip-up on the alcohol in his system. There's some good-natured ribbing, some accusations of bad sportsmanship, but he waves them off and passes the cue to someone nearby, he doesn't notice who. Then, he slips through the crowd to Bradley and holds up his latest empty glass accusingly. "You're a menace."
It's scarily natural to slip his arms around his waist, plastering himself to his front. Maybe he is drunker than he thought. Bradley's arms twist around his shoulders. He hums. "Told you I wanted to see you ride."
The filthy double entendre would be enough to make him flush and shove him away were he more sober, but Jake just laughs and presses a kiss to the edge of his jaw. Drunken, public displays of affection are normal, right? It'd be weirder if he wasn't touching his boyfriend while he's got this much alcohol in his system, he tells himself.
"I still haven't agreed to anything, yet."
As if on cue, a cowbell rings through the crowded bar - loud and attention grabbing. A cheer goes up from the crowd. Bradley lifts an eyebrow at him. "Is that what I think it is?"
Jake groans. "Yeah."
Soon enough, the crowd dispersed throughout the bar has gathered around the dance floor and the bull at its center. Bradley leaves his side only long enough to grab him another drink - a beer this time, and Jake's thankful for it. Their fingers brush as he takes it from him. This time, Bradley's arm settles over his shoulders, and it's easier than ever to relax into his side.
"Who's up first?" He asks, voice low and right in his ear.
"Mike," he explains, eyes on his cousin as he steps through the padded door and up to the contraption at the center of the ring. He's noticeably unsteady on his feet. "I give him four seconds."
The DJ-slash-bull operator is on the microphone now, encouraging the crowd's cheers as Mike takes his place atop the bull. With the leather strap twisted around one hand, the other lifts his hat over his head in a salute. Everyone joins together for the countdown and then it starts to move.
The red numbers on the wall barely get to three before he's sliding right off, landing in a heap at the base. The operator wasn't even making it tough on him, yet. The crowd groans. Bradley's laugh slips straight through to Jake's gut, and he hides his answering grin around the mouth of the bottle in his hands.
One after the other, the next riders take their turns on the bull. They're varying levels of mediocre, in Jake's opinion, but he's at least charitable to chalk the majority of their failings up to drunkenness. Chris manages to hold his own for a solid eight seconds, and Jake mentally applauds his sister's choice.
"C'mon," Chris wheedles, finding Jake in the crowd. His brother-in-law grabs his shoulder with both hands and gives him a shake. Jake rolls his eyes, dramatically over-exaggerated, but he's grinning. "You've got to get up there. Show the rest of us how it's done."
He wants to resist, demur a little, but at some point over the course of the evening his shirt has untucked itself from the waistband of his pants, and Bradley's grip has shifted from his shoulders to around his waist. Jake's not sure if he notices the way his thumb has slipped beneath the edge of them hem, brushing against the bare skin of his hip. Between that and the alcohol in his system, he's verging on overheated. So, he drains the last, warm dregs of his beer and passes the bottle over to his companion.
"Fine," he says, trying for long-suffering. A whoop goes up from the people within earshot, Bradley among them, and he can't fight back his grin. "I'll give it a shot."
Before he can walk away, though, Bradley is snagging him by the wrist and pulling him back in. He presses their lips together.
"For luck," he murmurs against his lips. Jake smiles and kisses him again.
"Thanks, babe."
Should he be worried about how easy playing into this charade is becoming? He'll blame it on the alcohol in the morning. For now, it's kind of nice.
He's never been good at playing humble, though. As he steps up to the padded area, he points to the operator, all swagger and confidence in his gait.
"Go easy on me this time, Jim. It's been a while."
"Fat chance, Seresin," he shoots back.
Jake takes his time climbing up onto the bull and getting himself situated. His thighs stretch wide over the faux hide, and he can feel the lingering burn from his long day of work. Probably not a good sign for his personal record here, but that's alright. There's enough alcohol floating through his bloodstream that he doesn't think it matters much, anyway. He wraps the strap around his hand and tugs, then shifts his weight til he feels like he's got a good balance. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his other hand in the air.
Surprisingly, Jim does go easy on him - at first, at least. The bull rocks slowly down, and then back up, and Jake rocks his hips with it. Like riding a bike. He lifts his gaze to the crowd and finds Bradley instantly. Their eyes lock, and Bradley cups a hand around his mouth to shout an encouraging "you got it, baby." Jake's grin widens.
Jim ups the ante for him, then. The bull jerks and spins beneath him, and Jake holds on, tightening his grip on the strap and his thighs around the body. His lips part with the exertion of staying put, his free hand holding onto his hat to keep it from flying off. He can feel the hem of his shirt riding up his belly. His hips are working overtime. Time slows, seconds ticking by like minutes, muscles straining, until finally his grip gives out. Jake hits the padding.
The wind is knocked from his chest, but a second later he's laughing. He rises to his feet, arms raised high above his head in his triumph.
"Twelve point six seconds, ladies and gentlemen!" Jim calls, and a roar goes up from the crowd. It's not his best, but it's better than anyone else by a mile.
Jake is pulled into a round of back-slapping hugs as soon as he's within arms reach. Chris and his cousins jostle for their turn, the volume rising exponentially. All Jake can do is laugh and thank his admirers, shoving them away when they try to noogie him through his hat. He's saved when "Boot Scootin' Boogie" comes on - the crowd disappearing to take to the dance floor in an instant.
He's about to join in on the fray when strong arms wrap around his waist from behind.
"That was insane," Bradley murmurs into his ear. There's no one within earshot, and even if they were his voice is too low for anyone else to hear. Jake bites his lip and lets his hands settle over Bradley's where they rest on his lower stomach.
It's still a part of the act, Jake knows it, but that doesn't stop the kernel of arousal hardening in his stomach when Bradley's lips press just behind his ear.
"Do you know this dance?" He blurts out. In one move, he steps forward, peeling Bradley's hands off of him. But, he doesn't drop them - instead, he turns to face him. No one's watching, but they could be. He brings Bradley's knuckles up to his lips and presses a kiss there. Just in case.
"Uh," Bradley looks out at the dance floor - the crowd of people moving as one. His eyes widen. "No?"
Jake grins. "I'll teach you, then."
With his grip on his hand, Jake drags Bradley to the one, sparsely populated corner of the floor. He places Bradley a foot to his right and takes his position, feet spread and hands on his hips. The rest of the bar is already well into their third wall, but that's alright.
"Just follow my lead, okay?"
As far as line dances go, the Boot Scoot is a pretty easy one. That doesn't stop Bradley from tripping over his own feet as Jake tries to lead him through the simple kicks and into the grapevine.
"And turn," Jake directs, joining the rest of the party in hopping ninety degrees to the left. Bradley swears, and Jake laughs.
There's a few sympathetic looks tossed over shoulders in his direction, but mostly more laughter. When it's time to hop back, Jake finds himself backing straight into Bradley's chest when he doesn't get the memo. Strong hands land on his hips and they both laugh.
"I'm awful at this," Bradley groans.
"Do your kicks," Jake instructs, pulling away from him.
By the time the song finishes, Bradley's cheeks are flushed and his shoes are - predictably - scuffed. Still, the dancers around them clap him on the shoulder and tell him how well he did for a first try. Jake's not as generous, but he does smile when Bradley pulls him in for a hug and presses a kiss to his temple.
"There's going to be more of this at the wedding," he warns. "You're gonna have to practice."
Another cheer erupts as the first chords of "Achy Breaky Heart" filter through the speakers. Jake's eyes go wide, excited, but Bradley is already shaking his head and begging off.
"I'll go get us some water, instead," he pleads. "You go have fun."
A few songs later, the dance floor thins out and Jim announces last call. Jake's pleasantly flushed and sweaty, and he stops to drop a twenty in the tip jar before setting off in search of Bradley.
He's not hard to find. Along with Chris and Mike, he's commandeered a table near the floor. The sealed bottle of water sitting in front of him is so cold it's dripping condensation, and it's the most enticing thing Jake has ever seen.
There isn't a spare seat at the table, though. And, immersed in his conversation, Bradley doesn't even seem to notice his arrival. He's got one elbow braced on the table, legs spread wide in front of him as he turns his upper half to talk to Chris. The alcohol in him Jake doesn't let himself overthink it - he settles himself on Bradley's lap.
If it's crossing a line, Bradley doesn't show it. He doesn't even pause his conversation. Instead, his arm slips around Jake's waist, pulling him more comfortably and securely onto him. It leaves him practically straddling his thigh. No one's paying attention to him, though, and he hopes the flush in his cheeks can be chalked up to his exertion on the dance floor. He cracks open the water bottle and downs half of it in one go.
It's easy enough to slip into the conversation, once he's sated his thirst. They're talking football and Jake is more than happy to talk at length about his Cowboys. Bradley is a Steelers fan, and he and Chris take great pleasure in teaming up against him in their shit-talk.
He doesn't even notice he's leaning back against Bradley's chest, hat abandoned on the table to tuck his head under his chin, until the house lights come on. Bradley's thumb goes still where it's rubbing in slow circles along the soft skin of his stomach, just beneath the hem of his shirt.
"Shit," Chris laughs, checking his watch. "That late already?"
They join the herd trickling out of the bar, fingers twined loosely between them. Bradley pauses to deposit Jake in his truck before making sure the rest of their group is safely divided up with the appropriate designated drivers. By the time he returns, Jake's head is lolling against the window.
"Let's get you to bed," he chuckles.
Jake hums his agreement and promptly falls asleep.
It's a good thing the normal ranch duties have been suspended for the wedding weekend, because by the time Jake wakes the next morning, the clock on his bedside table tells him it's nearing ten o'clock. The bed is empty, the spot beside him cool to the touch, but when he lifts his head he finds a glass of water and a couple of tablets of aspirin waiting for him.
His stomach rebels at the idea of following the scent of bacon and eggs to the kitchen, so he detours to the shower first.
The kitchen is quiet when he finally emerges. Bradley's at the island again, bare feet balanced on the ledge of the stool beneath the frayed edges of his sweatpants. There's a mug of coffee between his hands as he talks with Jake's mom.
"Hey, sweetheart," Bradley spots him first. He extends an arm to him, and Jake has no choice but to shuffle into it. He presses a kiss to the top of his head, achingly gentle. "How're you feeling?"
"M'okay," he says. And it's true - there's barely a headache, and the nausea from a few minutes ago is already subsiding. He has a vague memory of Bradley making him down another bottle of water before getting into bed last night, and is thankful for it. "Where's everyone else?"
"Most of the boys are still asleep," his mom says, and Jake realizes he sort of forgot she was there. When he looks at her, there's a knowing smile on her lips. "Alane and the girls are finishing up the ceremony space before they go and get their nails done. Your father and I are going to pick up everything for dinner in a few hours."
They're getting actual caterers for the wedding tomorrow, but for the rehearsal tonight they're doing a family-style potluck-slash-barbecue on the back patio.
"Oh," he says, feeling a little guilty. "Anything we can help with?"
Susan laughs. "Not particularly. You can head down there and see if they need any help, but just about everything's ready for the rehearsal."
After getting dressed, he and Bradley do. They could take his truck or one of the quads the half-mile down the trail to get to the secluded spot Alane picked out for the ceremony, but it's - for once - not blisteringly hot outside, so they decide to walk. On the way there, Bradley asks about the ranch.
"So, you grew up here?" His voice is low, like he's trying not to disturb the peace between them. "This place is, like, straight out of a coming-of-age movie."
Jake nods, hands shoved in his pockets as he tips his face up to let the sun warm his skin. He can feel the contented smile on his lips and doesn't even try to hide it.
"Yep," he gestures with his elbow toward the giant oak tree standing near the creek, and the fraying piece of rope tied to one if its branches. "We used to have a tire swing on that branch. It was always a competition who could get the most air off of it."
He scrutinizes the shallow water and the steep, wall of rock beside it. "Surprised no one ever broke their neck doing that."
"Nah, but Chet broke his arm once."
By the time they make it to the makeshift aisle, bracketed by cedar elm and row after row of chairs, he's told Bradley every significant childhood story he can think of that involves the ranch. Including that his first kiss happened in the bed of his truck in the far reaches of the property, overlooking a bluff.
As they near, Bradley takes his hand.
"There you are," Alane calls, hands on her hips. "We need your help."
Turns out, they're putting the finishing touches on the arbor that will serve as their altar - covering the thing from the base up in ribbon and flowers. But, they neglected to bring a ladder. Cue Bradley and his impressive reach.
To his credit, he does a pretty impressive job positioning the flowers and ribbons to the bride's specifications. Jake takes a seat in one of the chairs nearby and provides moral support. Mostly.
By the time she's satisfied, it's getting dangerously close to the all-important nail appointment. She thanks Bradley with a kiss on the cheek before the girls are loading up in her car and setting off. Bradley takes the seat beside Jake to admire his handiwork.
"Thanks for doing all of this," Jake finds himself saying when the quiet stretches out between them. "But you might be a little too good at it. It's going to break my mom's heart when I have to tell her we broke up."
He means it as a joke, and Bradley laughs.
"Sorry," but he doesn't sound apologetic. "It's... fun, actually. Your family's pretty great."
Jake knows that, but it means a lot to hear anyway. He nods. "I know."
They're quiet on the walk back to the house.
The actual rehearsal is limited to the members of the wedding party, so Bradley is recruited to help with the dinner prep while Jake fulfills his groomsman duties. Alane takes advantage of the occasion to lean hard into the orange theme.
"Don't laugh," he grouses as he straightens the collar of his UT-orange, button-up shirt. Together with his khakis, he feels utterly ridiculous.
Bradley, far less obnoxiously-colored in a black v-neck, lounges across his bed. He's grinning. "I'm not," he says, which Jake thinks is a technicality. "You look good."
"No one looks good in orange," he rolls his eyes. "This is why I'm thankful I didn't end up at UT."
"UVA's colors were blue and orange," Bradley shrugs. "You get used to it."
The wedding party is heading to the ceremony space together, so Jake and Bradley join the rest of the family in the foyer. At least Jake isn't the only one at Alane's mercy - even Chris has been forced into a burnt orange jacket. The bride herself is in a white cocktail dress, while her bridesmaids look normal enough in their green sundresses. He reminds himself that he loves his sister.
"We'll be back in two hours," his mom is telling Bradley, who has somehow been promoted to chief of the dinner operation. "Call me if you need any help."
"Yes, ma'am."
Luckily, some of the more kitchen-capable cousins are sticking around to help, too, so it's unlikely they'll return to a pile of burning rubble and a fire brigade. Still, Jake feels the need to make sure of it.
"Please don't catch anything on fire," he pleads. There's a stray hair on the collar of Bradley's shirt, and he steps in close to pick it off. It isn't until Bradley touches his hip that he realizes how close he's gotten. Jake lifts his head, and he smiles at him.
"I'll do my best," he promises, and leans in to kiss him.
It's brief and chaste, but his mom still sends him a significant look when Jake steps away. He sticks his tongue out at her again.
To his surprise, the rehearsal is actually a pretty good time. Alane's maid of honor, Mary, is also a professional wedding planner. She's also been around the Seresins since she was in diapers - her mother being Jake's mom's best friend. Which, for their purposes, means she doesn't give a shit about being polite and whips them into shape in record time.
"Mr. Seresin, you know I love you with all my heart, but if you can't handle a simple step-together-step-together with your daughter, I'm replacing you."
They walk through processional twice for good measure, and then Chris and Alane breeze through their vows, and they're finished.
"Good enough," Mary says, and Jake knows that means - in Mary terms - they've done a great job. "Let's go eat."
"Thank God," the bridesmaid that Jake has been paired up with for the big day - a college friend of Alane's (what’s her name again? Emily or Evelyn or Emma?) - sighs. She tugs her arm from his and slips out of her heels.
Privately, he’s inclined to agree.
They make it back to the house to find that Bradley and the cousins had managed to put together a pretty decent feast. The assembled family and friends are spill out from the kitchen, across the back patio, and into the yard. Like any other Seresin gathering, it's a loud affair. There's kids tearing their way up and down the drive, and raucous laughter and the occasional raised voice competes with the built-in speakers playing a stream of country music.
The weather is perfect for the occasion, too. Even the humidity has let up for the evening. The familiar scent of citronella, the candles placed strategically around the porch and down to the lawn, keep the bugs away. It's nearing eight in the evening and the sun is just starting to sink beneath the horizon.
Jake's nursing a beer, pleasantly full of barbecue, in a lawn chair out back, and enjoying a moment of quiet away from the fray. Every few minutes, he hears Bradley's voice, or his laugh, and is reassured that he's holding his own. It's disarming, how well he's fitting in.
"How you doin' out here, kiddo?" His mom finds him there, but he doesn't mind the interruption. She pauses to wrap her arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his forehead, before taking the seat beside him. There's a glass of wine in her hand and a contented smile on her lips. He knows she's in her element like this, entertaining their loved ones.
"I'm good," he says, and for the first time in a long time he really means it.
Despite the growing guilt over the lie he's performing for all of his loved ones, it's nice to be home. Jake wouldn't trade his career for the world, but sometimes it's easy to forget how good this kind of life can be, too. It’s nice to imagine that the sound of cicadas and the satisfying, bone-deep ache of a hard day’s labor waits for him after he hangs up his wings, one day.
One of the cousins' kids streaks past them, light-up shoes pounding across the dirt. He follows their progress with his eyes, grinning.
"You seem good," she says. Jake looks back to her and finds his mother watching him with a small, knowing smile. "He makes you really happy, doesn't he?"
She doesn't have to elaborate for Jake to know who she means. Of course she doesn’t. He ducks his head; hopefully she'll interpret the gesture as bashfulness. He forces a smile into his voice.
"Yeah," he says. "He's pretty great, isn't he?"
"He is," Susan agrees. She sounds thoughtful. There's a pause, weighted and drawn-out enough that he has to look at her again. When he does, he finds she's still watching him with that knowing smile. "Do you ever notice the way he watches you?"
Jake's brow creases. "What?"
She laughs. “No, I didn't think you did," there's a smug twist to her lips as she leans back in her chair and takes a sip of her wine. Jake's reminded of Bradley's words: that he looks like her. He can see it, in this moment. It’s as if Bradley’s sitting beside him, nudging him knowingly in the ribs. He forces the thought away.
"When you're not looking, I suppose, he watches you with this kind of," she swirls her glass in the air, searching for the word. Thankfully, his distraction goes unnoticed. "Intensity, I suppose. Like he's watching every move you make."
Jake blinks. "Oh."
"Not in a bad way!" She hurries to add. "In fact, it's kind of sweet. It's like he's fascinated by you, like he can't quite get enough of trying to figure you out. And the way he lights up when you laugh..."
She trails off, a dreamy little smile on her lips, and now Jake feels really uncomfortable. "That's..." his voice comes out choked, and he clears his throat. "That's really sweet."
They're quiet for another moment, and then his mom laughs. "Oh, don't mind me. You know how sappy I get when I've had a couple of glasses." She rises to her feet, grabbing his hand to tug him up for a hug. He goes willingly, wrapping his arms around her tight as she rests her cheek on his chest and pats at his shoulder. "I'm just happy you've found someone who makes you this happy," Susan murmurs. Guilt swirls in his gut. "You deserve it, kiddo."
When he finds Bradley again, he's migrated to the living room with some of the guys. ESPN is on the TV and they're talking over it. Jake is too preoccupied by his own thoughts to bother joining in on the conversation. Still, he takes the empty stretch of couch beside his “boyfriend.”
"I'm just saying, I don't think he's a franchise QB," Bradley's saying. Without pausing, he transfers his beer from his left hand to his right, where it sits on the armrest, and lifts his arm in invitation. Jake tucks himself against his side, settling into the warm, firm line of him. "For that pick, they're better off going for a kicker."
“Sure,” Chet is saying. “But what about…”
The conversation flows around them, and Jake picks at the paper label of his beer bottle. He's dangerously close to a mental spiral, his mother's words playing on repeat in his mind.
She's so happy for him, and it's all one big lie. What would she say if she found out it was all a ruse? What will she do when he tells her they broke up? Will it be better if he drags it out longer, mentions his non-existent boyfriend from time to time even when they’re serving on opposite sides of the country and haven’t spoken in weeks, or if he drops the news just days after he gets back home? And how long would Bradley be willing to keep this up, if he asked him to? They’re friends, sure, but it’s not as if he’s getting anything out of this. Even bringing him along on this trip is already asking so much of him. It’s their last free weekend before their next assignments. Bradley could be spending that time with people he actually cares about, doing the things that he wants to do before duty calls him away again.
Bradley's fingers tighten on his shoulder. A pointed squeeze. He lifts his gaze and finds that he’s being watched. There's a question in the crease of his brow. He doesn't say a word, but Jake knows what he's asking: "are you okay?"
"I'm okay," he says aloud, voice pitched low and just for his ears. “Just been a long day.”
The worst part is, when he presses a kiss to the corner of Bradley's mouth, it's not even a lie. Not when he's looking at him like that.
He refuses to acknowledge where that thought just came from.
Bradley smiles and tugs him in closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. Jake has to remind himself that they’re being watched. That’s all this is for.
He has to take a long pull from his drink to wet his suddenly-dry throat. “What we really need is a tight end,” Jake says, picking up on the dropped thread of conversation.
“The only good one is going to go too high,” Chet or Mike or Chris says. Jake doesn’t really care who, he’s already stopped paying attention again. “The entire offensive draft class is dookie this season.”
Bradley’s thumb is rubbing in slow, meticulous circles against his skin, just under the hem of his sleeve. Jake drops his hand to Bradley’s upper thigh, just resting there. He can feel the warmth of his skin through the denim. It’s a show. It’s all a show.
Chapter Text
The morning of the wedding dawns bright and early. Jake wakes once more buried beneath Bradley's arm, his soft snores close enough to his ear to vibrate the short hairs at his temple. It’s worryingly comfortable, natural, to feel Bradley’s weight against him, reassuringly bracketed in by his hold. Jake can’t stand it. He slips out from beneath him and decides he needs to get out of the house.
Bradley stirs once when Jake closes the dresser drawer a little too loudly, but then he’s huffing out a contented breath and turning back over in his sleep. Jake lets himself out quietly.
By the time he returns from his jog, flushed, sweaty, and riding his runner's high, the wedding operation is in full swing in the kitchen. A buffet of bagels, kolaches, and breakfast tacos is spread across the island for ease of access. His mother and Taylor are operating the coffee bar. The whole thing is like an assembly line designed to get the family fed and on their way to the more important wedding chores: a demonstration of the kind of efficiency the Seresin clan is capable of.
"There you are," Mary's saying. She already looks vaguely frazzled. "Hurry up and get some breakfast, we need to get down to the barn to help the caterers set up the buffet and finish the decorations."
"Yes, ma'am," he salutes.
Once he loads up his paper plate, he finds Bradley perched on the end of the kitchen table. There's two cups of coffee waiting beside him and a smear of cream cheese on his cheek. He figures he may as well take advantage of it while he can.
"Morning," he greets, stopping a foot in front of him. "You've got a little..."
He raises his hand between them, a question, and Bradley nods. Jake realizes, suddenly, that he's going to miss that trust. With his thumb, he swipes off the remnants of his breakfast and pops his thumb between his lips to clean it off. Bradley watches the whole thing.
"Thanks," Bradley smiles. He leans back against the table and spreads his legs wide, an invitation for Jake to step between them. "C'mere."
Jake makes a face. "I'm sweaty."
"Don't care."
Bradley's hand is on his hip, then, and Jake has no choice but to step into his space. He finds himself half-leaning against one of Bradley's spread thighs, accepting the cup of coffee when it's offered to him. No one's paying attention to them - not really - and it feels like an excruciatingly excessive display of PDA. Nonetheless, he doesn't move away. Already finished with his own meal, Bradley scrolls his phone while Jake eats. The whole thing is so unbearably intimate it makes his skin crawl.
"I probably won't see you much until the reception," Jake says, sucking the last dregs off hot sauce off his fingers and setting his plate aside. "Think you can manage to make yourself presentable without my help?"
"I'll figure it out," he laughs. This close to him, Jake's eyes fix on the dimple creasing his cheek. "I think I'm being put to work helping the valets set up. That's more rich people shit, by the way. A whole-ass private valet and shuttle system because your property is too big for people to just, y'know, walk to the ceremony space? Unreal."
He's got a point. Jake shrugs. "I just live here."
Spying his empty plate, Mary swoops in: no time to linger today.
"Alright," the planner says, snagging his coffee from his hands. "Go get your suit, we're all getting dressed in the guest house after we're finished in the barn, so we won't have time to come back here."
Jake frowns. "Don't I at least get a chance to shower?"
"You can shower after the set-up is done." He's no stranger to getting bossed around by his older sister's friend, but this is another level. Jake can see Bradley biting back his grin. Fucker. "Now, shoo. Oh! And don't forget your shoes."
The rest of the morning and early afternoon passes in a blur of set-up and vendors, interspersed with moments of standing around while Mary and Alane discuss exactly what needs to go where. Jake and his fellow groomsmen, in particular, are tasked with moving heavy things from one place to another, and then to a different place, and then back to where it was originally. He doesn't mind, though: this is his sister's day, and he's just here to make sure it goes just how she wants it.
When the party finally arrives at the guest house, the bride and her bridesmaids are sequestered to the top floor, while Chris and his groomsmen take the bottom. Jake calls first dibs on the shower.
There's a photographer here, now, and Jake and the rest of the guys dutifully pose as they're directed. A bottle of whiskey gets passed around, and they end up cheersing three shots' worth before the angle is good enough. It's all a kind of controlled chaos.
It isn't until he's shrugging into his shirt (ivory, to Alane's specifications) that Jake realizes he’s missing something. Mary's gonna kill him.
"Shit."
Upstairs is even more chaotic than it is down below when Jake gets up the nerve to poke his head into the master bedroom that's been designated Bridal HQ (there's even a sign on the door). The whole place smells like flowers, hairspray, and perfume that he assumes is probably nice but just gives him a headache. There's a bridesmaid kneeling over a satiny, green dress with a hairdryer. Alane is surround by a veritable team of hair and makeup artists. Miley Cyrus is blasting from someone's phone.
"Mary," he hisses, trying to spot her amongst the swarm of girls. "Help."
She detaches herself from the mirror she was using to pin up her hair and spears him with a deadly look. "What?"
Jake feels, stupidly, like he's back in junior high and trying to get up the nerve to tell his dad they need to turn the car around because he left his science project at home. "I forgot my cufflinks. Do I have enough time to go back for them?"
"Fuck no," she frowns. In an instant, she's on her phone. "I'll have them send a runner. Go back downstairs."
Well, that interaction went better than he expected. He's more than happy to flee back to safety.
Surprisingly, the groomsmen finish getting ready with plenty of time to spare. They mill around, sipping at their glasses of whiskey and talking about football while they wait for the car to arrive to take them to the ceremony. Jake tries not to pace. Five minutes before they're scheduled to depart, there's a knock on the door.
Bradley had sent Jake a picture of his suit for final approval before he'd purchased it, but nothing could prepare him for the sight of it on him. It's stupid, because Jake has seen Bradley in his dress blues or summer whites more times than he can count, but something about this suit takes his breath away.
He decided on a brown suit with a subtle, pale pinstripe. The color of brown is a shade that brings out the copper in his hair and in his eyes. Compared to it, the ivory of his dress shirt looks creamy and expensive. The tailoring is perfection. It hugs his broad shoulders and the expanse of his chest, tapering down to accentuate his slim waist. His pants, too, hug every inch of his legs like a lover's embrace. Overall, the outfit has the stunning effect of making him look both impossibly broader and staggeringly tall. He's not wearing a tie, and the collar of the shirt sits open - drawing the eye to the golden valley of his clavicle and just a touch of dark, wiry chest hair. At his breast, he wears a pocket square that matches the deep, sage green of Jake's suit to perfection.
"Jake?"
He doesn't know how long he's been staring. When he tears his eyes from Bradley's body long enough to meet his gaze, there's an amused quirk to the corner of his lips. He holds up the velvet box between them.
Jake practically sighs in relief. "Thank you."
When he reaches for the box, though, Bradley pulls away.
"Here," he says instead, holding out his hand. "Let me."
There's no point arguing. Jake ignores the heat in his cheeks as he holds out his wrist for him.
If Bradley thinks the tiny, sterling silver F-18s are funny, he doesn't say. Jake is frozen, transfixed on the small, secret smile on Bradley's lips as he attaches first one and then the other to the open wrists of his dress shirt. When he's finished, he doesn't drop Jake's hand. Instead, his thumb brushes over the miniature jet.
Jake clears his throat. "Thank you," he says again.
There's no one nearby. Not a soul to see them. Which means there's no reason for Bradley to be looking at him like -
"Break a leg out there," Bradley murmurs.
Bradley ducks in for a kiss - pressing their lips together briefly, heartbreakingly chaste. Before Jake can react, he's already pulling away. He tosses him a wink before he's turning on his heel and climbing into the cab of Jake's waiting truck.
The ceremony is perfect. The bridal party hits all of their marks, the officiant is funny and affable without making any jokes that would offend anyone, not even Chris' uptight grandparents, and Alane is gorgeous. Jake only cries a little bit when he sees his sister - Chris cries, well, a lot. In the front row, Susan and Chris' mother are inconsolable.
Once, he glances into the audience and finds Bradley. There, he discovers his eyes are already on Jake. He flushes and looks back to the happy couple.
Overall, it's a rousing success.
After the recessional, they're still not free. Jake and the rest of the wedding party are subjected to an endless round of pictures in every imaginable combination of friends and family members. By the time they’re given the all-clear, his cheeks hurt from smiling. Then - finally - it's time for the grand entrance into the reception.
"I already paid off the bartender to keep the gin and tonics coming," the bridesmaid on his arm - Emma, he's decided - is whispering in his ear. "Tell him I sent you and he'll hook you up."
Jake laughs. It's an open bar, so it's probably not necessary, but he appreciates her foresight anyway. "Noted."
They're standing out front of the barn, lined up in pairs with Alane and Chris at the rear. The bride has already changed into her ivory cocktail dress and orange Converse, ready to kick off the night with a bang. Jake is just thankful Taylor managed to talk her out of the flash mob entrance early on in the planning stages.
"Ready?" His younger sister turns to ask them, her bouquet held in front of her and her arm through that of one of Chris' brothers. "Mary's going to cue us in now."
He nods. "Ready."
The DJ - Jim, again - cues up the music, and even from outside Jake can hear the collective chatter of their waiting guests fade. With as much pomp and circumstance as can be expected, the wedding party is introduced. On his arm, Emma waves her bouquet and lets out a cheer, blowing kisses to the assembled guests. Jake just grins and lets her do her thing. He's ready to find a drink and then Bradley in that order.
They gather around the DJ booth, bridesmaids, groomsmen, and the mother and fathers of the bride and groom. There's an expectant hum in the room.
"And now," Jim says, really laying it on thick. "I'm honored to be the first to present the new Mr. and Mrs. Chris and Alane Rogers!"
The crowd erupts as Alane and her new husband make their appearance. She's beaming, and so is he. They step onto the dance floor, and she tugs him into a kiss - he obediently dips her while their audience roars. Jake is so goddamn happy for her. The clapping goes on for so long his hands start to hurt.
Eventually, they've had enough, and everyone is released to mingle until it's time for dinner. Jake goes to withdraw his arm from Emma's and finds himself held fast. Since when was she standing so close to him? Her hand lands on his chest, adjusting the floral boutonniere that he's pretty sure is sitting just fine in his breast pocket.
"Promise you'll save me a dance, Jake?" She asks, honest-to-God batting her eyelashes.
"Uh."
He's saved from having to respond by a familiar, strong arm slipping around his waist, subtly tugging him away from her. A cold glass is passed into his hand.
"There you are, baby," Bradley smiles, his attention solely on Jake. "Figured you'd probably need a drink."
It's a ham-fisted interruption, and Jake couldn't be more pleased by it. He tips his head up for a kiss, and Bradley obliges, this one lingering. By the time they pull apart, Emma is gone.
"Too much?" Bradley asks, his lips near Jake's ear. He shakes his head.
"No. Perfect," he takes a sip of the vodka soda in his hand and groans in relief. "Thank you."
The next hour is an endless processional of mingling. To his credit, Bradley plays his role perfectly. He shakes hands and introduces himself to any family member that he hasn't had the pleasure of meeting yet. He charms the shit out of aunts and friends of Jake's mother, and talks shop and sports with his father's good-ol'-boy buddies. The only time he stops touching Jake - whether it be an arm around his waist or a hand on the small of his back - is when he goes to get them new drinks.
"He's a keeper, Jake," his Aunt Janet tells him as soon as Bradley is out of earshot. "So handsome, and so attentive to you!"
He flushes. "I know." He does.
Soon enough, they're being ordered back to their seats for dinner. Thank God - Jake hasn't had the chance to eat anything besides a couple of carrot sticks off the groomsmen's veggie platter since breakfast. The cocktail hour hors d'oeuvres were long gone by the time they finished with the photoshoot.
And, bless his sister's heart, she catered in Franklin BBQ - an Austin staple.
"Don't you even think about judging me," he warns Bradley as he loads up his plate at the buffet.
"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."
Later, Jake groans, satisfied, as he wipes BBQ sauce from the corner of his mouth and sets down his napkin. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bradley grinning at him. "I think this is the only good wedding I've ever been to," he laments.
Across the table, Taylor laughs.
"She ordered Homeslice for the after-party, too."
"Our sister rocks."
"Yeah, she does."
While everyone digests their dinner, it's time for the toasts. It seems as if just about every member of the bridal party gets up to say a few words - they range from laughter-inducing to tear-jerking. From their sweetheart table at the front of the room, Jake watches as Alane leans over to whisper something in her husband's ear. They share a private smile.
"Thank you, Chet," Jim is saying. "That was, uh, moving. And now, the brother of the bride - get on up here, Jake."
There's a notecard in his pocket - a speech he'd written out back in Miramar designed to embarrass his sister as much as possible. It mentions her teenage infatuation with boybands, and her brief but intense conviction that she would get a spot on the Dallas Cowboys cheer squad and marry the backup QB. Now, though, it feels intensely juvenile. There's a smattering of polite applause as he steps up to the mic and clears his throat.
"Hey, uh, I'm Jake," he starts, and there's a ripple of laughter through the crowd. He probably should have thought this through sooner. Might as well be honest, he decides. "Look, I'm the younger brother, so I had this whole speech written planned out that was going to embarrass the shit out of Alane, which is kind of my job."
There's some more laughter, and he can pick out Bradley's in the midst of all of it. Their eyes find each other across the room. Jake is so, so screwed.
"But," he tears his gaze away, finding Alane instead. "After watching that ceremony and seeing these two together all weekend, I don't have it in me to be the asshole, for once." She rolls her eyes at him, and Jake's grin widens. "Alane, you are the best older sister a guy could ask for. I could thank you endlessly for showing me the way through life, and being a fucking bad ass while you do it. Oops, should I not swear? Sorry."
He glances toward the flower girl - one of Chris' nieces - she's too busy coloring to pay him any attention.
"I'm so happy to be your brother. And I'm so happy to see that you've found someone just as cool as you are. Chris," he lifts his glass to his brother-in-law, and Chris smiles at him. "Welcome to the family, man. It's so surreal to finally have a brother. I don't think I could've picked anyone better for the role if I tried. Thanks for taking care of Alane - not that she needs it - and agreeing to take on the adventure of being her partner."
As Jake watches, Alane tips toward her husband, resting her head on his shoulder. They're wearing the same smile. It makes his throat tighten.
"I can only hope that the rest of us here can be as lucky as you two are," he says, embarrassingly choked. "To Alane and Chris."
"Alane and Chris!" The rest of the room echoes.
When he returns to his seat, Bradley hooks his foot around the leg of his chair and scoots him in close. When his arm slips around his shoulders, Jake lets himself melt against his side.
"That was really sweet," he murmurs, a smile in his voice. "Didn't know you had it in you."
Jake laughs. "Me neither."
Once the speeches are done and the tables cleared, the evening can really begin.
"Now if I could have your attention, ladies and gentlemen: it's time for Alane and Chris' first dance as husband and wife!"
Bradley stands, offering his hand to Jake, and together they join the group assembling at the edges of the dance floor. Somehow, they end up with Jake's back to Bradley's chest, his arms looped around his waist and his chin on his shoulder. Jake is reminded how good of an actor he is.
He puts it out of his mind, though, to appreciate his sister's dance. It's, predictably, an old country ballad - something their grandpa probably played on his old record player in the corner of the living room, growing up. Jake finds himself swaying to the music, Bradley moving with him.
It's going to be weird, he thinks, when they go back to being practical strangers.
The song ends, and Jake joins the round of applause a half-second too late.
"Beautiful, just beautiful," the DJ is saying. "But now, I think it's time we get this party going for real. What do y'all say?"
It's predictable, but nothing gets a group of Texans up and moving, ready to party, like "Boot Scootin' Boogie." The music starts, and it's a race to take to the dance floor. Jake laughs, tipping his head back to be heard over the noise.
"I won't make you embarrass yourself again," he promises. "You can sit this one out."
"Hell no," he grins, and Jake stares at him. "I didn't make Taylor practice with me for hours for nothin'. We're doing this."
Jake laughs, a disbelieving noise. "What?"
"C'mon."
Before he knows it, Jake finds himself at the center of the crowded floor - Bradley to his left, and Taylor to his right.
"You knew about this?" He says, practically yelling over the music. She just shrugs.
"Only you could find a boyfriend that's just as stubborn as you are."
By the time they're halfway through the song, Jake is laughing so hard he can hardly breathe. Bradley isn't particularly graceful, nor does he know the steps that well, but he makes up for it with his sheer enthusiasm. His heel kicks are hilariously energetic, and he swings his pretend-lasso through the air with a kind of vigor that Jake can't get enough of. He finds himself stumbling through his own steps, too distracted by Bradley to keep up with the rhythm. It's Bradley who steps backward into him this time, when Jake doesn't move back quick enough.
"Watch your step, sweetheart," he winks over his shoulder.
When the song finishes, there's a polite smattering of applause and a few stray "whoops." Jake, impulsively, steps into Bradley's space. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and tugs him down for a kiss. It's sloppy, though - rushed with the way they're both laughing into it.
"Did I surprise you?" He grins, and Jake nods.
It's the only one he's practiced, though, so the next couple of songs aren't quite as successful for Bradley. Still, he tries his best - stumbling his way through "Copperhead Road" and "Any Man of Mine," but he tries his best, and Jake and Taylor are patient (even if they laugh at him the entire time). By the time "Cotton Eyed Joe" starts up, even Jake has to beg off for a drink.
Bradley joins him, and together they find a couple of chairs at the edges of the floor, nursing their drinks. When Bradley discards his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, it takes a not-insignificant amount of Jake's willpower to keep himself from staring. Especially when one of those toned, hairy arms settles - like it belongs - around his shoulders.
"You didn't have to do that, you know," he says, into the quiet that settles between them, almost discomfortingly easy.
"What?" Bradley murmurs.
"Learn the dance," he elaborates. His cheeks feel warm. "No one would have minded you sitting out."
"I know," he says. His thumbnail traces along the seam of Jake's sleeve. His eyes are on Jake's lips. He darts his tongue out to wet them, experimental, and watches as Bradley tracks the movement. "But I wanted to dance with you."
"Oh."
This time, when Bradley kisses him, it doesn't feel like an act, and it terrifies him. His tongue traces the seam of Jake's lips, questioning, and Jake parts them for him, opening for his exploration. Bradley groans lowly as he presses inside.
It feels like the first time they kissed. His hand finds Bradley's jaw, cupping his face, and for a moment they’re back in Honolulu.
Bradley kissed him for the first time on the beach. Jake remembers high tide rushing over his feet, Bradley's grip on his waist the only thing keeping him from being swept out to sea. The bar at his back is crowded with sailors and pilots, loud and boisterous and drunk, voices and music and the clink of glasses spilling out toward them. He's drunk too, he thinks, or maybe it's just the feeling of Bradley's skin through the thin, white cotton of his undershirt.
"Your place or mine?" He'd murmured, the corners of his mustache twitching up with his grin. So help him, Jake has never found a mustache so fucking sexy before.
"Mine."
Here, back in Texas, Jake pulls away. He's not about to be chastised for making out with his boyfriend in front of God and all of his family. A helpless laugh bubbles up from his throat as the music changes. A slow dance.
"Then dance with me."
Bradley's mustache twitches. "Okay."
Jake kisses the smile off his lips. He pauses only long enough to strip off his jacket, too, before he takes his hand to drag him back out into the fray.
One song fades into the next, and then the next. Jake's head finds it's way to Bradley's shoulder, and Bradley's hands find their way to the small of his back. He knows he can feel the sweat there, the way the fine material sticks to his undershirt where it's nearly soaked-through, but it doesn't matter. The solid, warm weight of Bradley in his arms is intoxicating.
Eventually, their steps slow, until they're just rocking in place at the center of the dance floor. When Jake raises his head, he finds that - unbeknownst to the two of them - the evening has wound down around them. They're the only two left. Before he can step away, Bradley cups his cheek, searching for something in his eyes. Whatever it is he finds, he smiles, and Jake is granted another spine-melting kiss.
Luckily, Jim is the only witness left - the rest of the stragglers are crowded around the boxes of pizza that just got delivered. Jake clears his throat.
"Thanks, Jim," he waves. The DJ laughs and waves him off. When he starts to cue up some early-2000s club hits, Jake decides that's their cue to leave.
"Ready to get out of here?"
"Sure."
The bus is still running, shuttling the stragglers back to the big house and the waiting valet team, but they decide to walk. It’s a silent, but mutual decision. Jake hopes that - just maybe - the quarter-mile trek in the cool evening will defuse some of the tension he can feel simmering between them.
It doesn’t.
They’ve both got their jackets slung over a shoulder. They make it ten yards down the path and Jake decides he’s done with his dress shoes and the way they’re pinching his toes. Bradley waits patiently as he toes them off, then hooks his fingers in the heels to carry them back. It leaves both of his hands occupied. Would Bradley try to hold one if it wasn’t?
Perhaps unsurprisingly, that doesn’t stop Bradley from touching him. He walks close enough that, every few steps, his shoulder brushes against Jake’s. It’s maddening. With every bit of contact, innocent as it is, he can feel anticipation ratcheting like a vice in his gut.
They don’t talk. When he glances at Bradley, he’s got his head tipped up toward the sky. Jake nearly stumbles over his own feet when he dares to look at the exposed column of his throat. He keeps his gaze dead ahead, after that.
The house is quiet when they get back. If he strains, he thinks he can hear his parents’ low voices from the direction of their room on the opposite side of the house from Jake’s. Taylor was still at the reception, last Jake saw her, and Alane and Chris will be spending the night at the guest house. He chances a glance at Bradley and sees him doing the same mental math.
God, he’s really doing this.
“Come on,” he whispers. Bradley’s palm is warm against his when he takes his hand.
All of this should feel weirder, he thinks as he leads him to his childhood bedroom. He hasn’t taken a lover there since he was in high school – and even that was some above-the-shirt fondling. (He lost his virginity in the bed of his truck, parked down by the lake.) But, after two days of sharing the space, it no longer feels like it’s just his own. Really, it feels perfectly normal to lead Bradley inside and let the door click shut behind him.
He leans against it, now, letting the solid wood behind him keep him upright. He presses his palms to it to feel the cool grain beneath his fingers.
Bradley’s looking at him intently – his entire focus seemingly narrowed down to Jake alone. That gaze is a heady thing. Jake wants to sink into it and never come up for air. He never wants to let it go, to hoard it for him alone. Every qualm, every ounce of doubt, shrinks away in the face of it. Jake’s mind goes blissfully blank with the exception of one, overwhelming need: his desire.
“Please kiss me,” he says.
Bradley smiles.
Big, warm hands cup his face. They cradle his jaw like he’s a precious thing, fragile and irreplaceable. Jake shudders, full-body, and tips his chin up. He doesn’t want to beg, but he will. Bradley doesn’t make him.
This kiss picks up right where the last left off.
Bradley kisses with a kind of single-minded intensity that Jake is helpless in the face of. He's seen it before, many times, but to be on the receiving end of it still leaves him breathless. In the air or on the tarmac or squaring off in a classroom is one thing, Bradley's tongue pressing between his lips, hell-bent on taking him apart, is another entirely.
Jake's hands find their way to Bradley's chest, fisting in the fabric of his shirt. He moans, and the sound is swallowed down in an instant. Bradley's thumb finds the hinge of his jaw, encouraging him to open further for him, and his knees nearly give out.
"I didn't get a chance to tell you," Bradley starts, pulling back. Jake takes the opportunity to suck down greedy lungfuls of air. He moves away from his lips, mouthing along his jaw and nosing his way up to the shell of his ear. "How stupidly beautiful you look tonight."
The choice of word - beautiful - sucks the air right back out of his lungs. Jake tips his head back against the wood, helpless against the flush rising to his cheeks. "Then tell me now."
He feels Bradley smile against his skin. His hands slip down from his jaw, tracing down his throat, his thumb sliding over his adam's apple, until he reaches his collar.
"Well," he starts, measuring his words. Jake waits. "Your jacket, first of all. Even that picture you sent me couldn't prepare me for how golden that shade makes your skin."
Bradley's nose drags along the thin skin just above his ear, through the short hairs just above it. Warm breath ghosts over his ear, making him shudder.
"And I think I owe your tailor a favor," he continues. "For making your shoulders look that broad," he drags his hands along them, in demonstration. "And your waist so goddamn tiny. And I'm not even to your ass yet."
Jake knows all of that, but it's good to hear anyway. He hums his agreement.
He's expecting Bradley to start at the buttons at the top of his dress shirt, but he detours. Instead, his hands skate down the lengths of his arms. He follows the line of them down to his elbows, then back up to his hands where they rest on Bradley's own chest. They're pressed forehead-to-forehead, now.
"Then there's this shirt," he murmurs. "So soft. I couldn't get enough of touching you."
Gently, his hands encircle Jake's wrists, gently turning them over so he can admire the cufflinks.
"And then these..." he trails off, huffing a laugh, and shakes his head. He doesn't finish that thought.
Bradley's fingers are gentle as he carefully unclasps the backing and removes the tiny planes. Then, he places them on the nearby bookshelf. Jake's throat tightens at the pointed display of care.
He remains there only long enough to press a kiss, lingering, to the inside of Jake's wrist before he's returning his hands to his own chest. Then, finally, he moves to the placket of Jake's shirt.
"I don't think you need me to tell you how green your eyes looked today, either," he continues as his fingers carefully work open the buttons. "But I will anyway. I couldn't look away from you that entire fucking ceremony - they were so bright."
Their eyes are locked now. Green and hazel. If anyone should be waxing poetic about beautiful eyes, he thinks, it should be him. Bradley keeps going.
"And don't even get me started on your lips."
He's finished with the buttons of his shirt. When he slips his hands beneath the fine, ivory material to spread across his ribcage, his touch is searingly warm even through his undershirt. Jake gasps, and Bradley takes the opportunity to claim his mouth in another kiss. When he shoves, pointedly, at the fabric, Jake helps rid himself of the excessive material. The shirt lands in a pile at their feet.
Bradley wastes no time slipping his hands beneath the waistband of Jake's undershirt. Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss, and it joins his dress shirt on the carpet.
He pulls back to look at him, then - lips parted and slick with spit as his eyes trace over every inch of him. Jake's chest heaves under his inspection. He searches for it, but Jake can find no hint of shame or hesitation inside of him. There's only that ever-growing want.
"I didn't get a chance to admire this part tonight," Bradley admits, chuckling. "But believe me, I was still imagining it."
He cups Jake's pecs with both hands, carefully avoiding his nipples - a tease - as he massages his thumbs over the shape of him. Then, he's slipping them down his chest. He traces over the defined cut of his abs one-by-one. It's a slow, meticulous inspection, and by the time he reaches his waist Jake is struggling to stay still beneath it.
It's only when Bradley's thumbs tease at the waistband of his slacks that Jake lets himself feel just how much his body has reacted to Bradley's perusal. He's so obviously hard, lewdly tenting the front of his trousers. When Bradley - finally - glances down between them, he smirks.
"Not there yet, baby."
To his surprise, he pulls back then. Bradley uses the grip on his waist to turn him around - and Jake is too startle to protest. Before he knows it, his front is against the door, hands pressed flat against the wood to either side of his face to catch himself. His startled gasp quickly morphs into a moan as the hard line of Bradley's body molds itself to his backside.
"I told you we'd get to your ass," he murmurs against Jake's ear, startling a breathless laugh from him.
Even through the layers of fabric, he can feel the shape of Bradley's cock against his ass. When Bradley shifts his hips, it skirts along the cleft of his ass. Jake's mouth waters - the memory of just how big he is stirring in his mind.
"Did you notice me staring at it all night?" He murmurs, once again mouthing along the shell of his ear. His hands cup his ass, one on each cheek, and he squeezes. Jake shakes his head. "Damn, thought I was obvious." He's still rocking himself against him.
Slowly, as if he's reluctant to move his hands from where he wants them most, Bradley's fingers trail their way back up to his waistband. Jake's got his cheek pressed against the door now, lips parted as he pants. He won't beg. He won't.
Bradley's moving so goddamn slowly, though. It feels like an eternity before his fingers finally work their way back around to the fly of his pants. Jake angles his hips back, pressing his ass against Bradley's clothed cock to give him more space at his fly, and they both groan.
"Easy, sweetheart," he chuckles. "I'm going to take care of you. I promise."
Not any time soon, though, it seems, because he refuses to touch Jake where he wants him most. Instead, he deftly works open the button fly and eases down the zipper without giving Jake even a hint of relief. His grip returns to his waistband, and together they shimmy the material down his legs. Jake kicks the slacks aside when they fall to his ankles.
Bare to just his briefs, Jake shivers at the feeling of being so entirely exposed. Paradoxical, given the fact he's coated in a full-body sheen of sweat from his and Bradley's combined body heat. There's a moment of relief when Bradley pulls away, but he mourns the loss of him anyway. There's a rustling noise as more fabric hits the floor. He returns, and his bare skin is slick where it presses against Jake's back.
"C'mere," Bradley orders, and Jake pushes himself away from the door just enough to meet him in an awkward, over-the-shoulder kiss. He smiles into it, pushing his fingers through Jake's hair briefly. "Thank you."
Then, in one practiced move, Bradley is sinking to his knees. Jake swears lowly.
His shoes already abandoned, Jake feels gentle fingers encircle one of his ankles. Bradley encourages him to lift one foot and then the other, working off his socks in the process. Jake is left in nothing but his briefs. He has a sneaking suspicion that if he looked, he'd find the front of them growing transparent as his cock leaks pre-come, but he doesn't dare. Even without a verbal command, he has a feeling that Bradley wants to keep him just like this - hands on the wood, hips angled far enough away that he can't give himself any sort of relief.
"Beautiful, baby," Bradley reiterates. His hands slip up his calfs, skating along the sensitive spots behind his knees, and to his calves. His thumbs spread his ass cheeks lightly on their way up to his hips. It's only when he feels Bradley's breath ghost along the small of his back that he realizes he's risen back up to his knees behind him.
The light scratch of Bradley's mustache against the sensitive skin of his lower back sends a shiver rocketing through Jake's body. He presses a kiss to first one dimple and then the other. Then, finally, his fingers hook in the elastic of his briefs.
It takes all of Jake's remaining mental capacity - the rest of the blood in his body currently diverted decidedly southward - to balance on one leg and then the other long enough for Bradley to work the underwear off of him. The cool air of the room feels like a physical caress against his overheated cock, and he has to bite his lip against a frankly embarrassing noise when Bradley's hands cup his asscheeks and spread them wide.
"This still okay?" He asks, and Jake huffs out a laugh. What a ridiculous question.
"It will be when you finally fucking touch me," he complains, trying and failing to glare at him over his shoulder. He feels Bradley's laugh ghost over his hole.
"I am touching you," he teases. His thumbs skate along his crack demonstrably. "See?"
"Brad..." he starts, finally on the verge of begging.
The word doesn't even finish leaving his lips, though, before he feels Bradley's broad, flat tongue trace a line from his taint to his whole. A yelp wrenches itself free from his throat.
"Shit-" he swears. Bradley smiles against him.
Jake can't remember the last time he's been eaten out, and never with this kind of... enthusiasm. Bradley's hands on his cheeks keep him right where he wants him, spread wide, as he laps at his rim. For an extended moment, he teases at the edges of the tight muscle, encouraging him to loosen before he's pressing inside of him. Jake melts against the door.
"Oh, fuck," he groans, low and drawn-out. Hopefully his sister hasn't made it home, yet.
Time stretches, gooey and elastic, as Bradley works him over with his tongue. Every scratch of his mustache is eased by a soothing, wet stripe of saliva, but Jake knows he'll be left red-raw anyway. He doesn't let him relax into it, either - as soon as Jake gets used to his tongue inside of him, working as deep as he can get, he switches to teasing little laps against the rim. When the pleasure from that treatment starts growing in his gut, his hips working back against him, Bradley switches it up again - this time broad, decadent stripes that stretch from the back of his balls nearly to the small of his back.
It's maddening, delicious torture, and Jake can only take it. He can feel his cock leaking pre-come now, wetting the head and dripping down his length, but Bradley's grip prevents him from seeking any sort of relief. Molten desire grows in his gut, dissipates, and re-forms over and over again. It could be minutes or hours like this and Jake wouldn't know.
Finally, though, Bradley seems satisfied with his work. Or maybe he just can't take it anymore, either. He presses one last, sucking kiss to the globe of Jake's ass before he's rising to his feet once more.
"Bradley," he gasps. "Please."
Their lips meet again, sloppy and uncoordinated, and Jake finds he doesn't even mind the taste of himself on Bradley's tongue. The sound of Bradley's zipper is loud even over the sound of their mouths. His pants hit the floor. One of his hands tightens on his hip once more.
"Fuck, baby," Bradley groans. Jake feels Bradley's cock nestle between his asscheeks. "Your body..."
A helpless laugh punches itself from Jake's throat.
Bradley withdraws, slowly, until just the head of his dick is hovering above Jake's skin. Then, he slides it back against him. It glides against him without pause, still slick from Bradley's saliva. They groan in tandem.
Bradley fucking the crack of his ass is, without a doubt, the hottest thing that Jake's ever experienced. He builds up his pace slowly, meticulously, until the sound of his hips slamming against Jake's ass is loud in the quiet of the room. The arm not on his hip slips around his midsection, pulling him back until his back is against Bradley's chest. When the head of his cock catches agains this rim, they both swear.
He still hasn't touched him where he needs it the most. Jake feels like he's going to explode.
"Jake," he gasps, and Jake mentally files away the sound for later. "'M close."
Jake can only nod, frantic, and turn his head to watch. "Please," he asks. "Please come."
The angle is awkward, but even from here he gets the impression of a furrow forming between Bradley's brows, his mouth puckered in a tight little "o" as he finally comes. His arms tighten, a fine tremor lacing through his body. Hot come spatters against his lower back. Jake moans.
For a moment, Bradley pauses to catch his breath, his forehead pressed to Jake's shoulder. His dick is still nestled in the cleft of Jake's ass. He's so turned on he could vibrate out of his skin.
"Bradley," he whines, a tremor in his voice. "Please."
A huff of warm air ghosts over his skin. "You're so good, sweetheart."
Once more, a strong grip on his hips forces him to turn around. Bradley's lips crush against his own, and Jake could sob. It's not enough. He arches up wantonly, desperately trying to press his needy cock against the flat of Bradley's stomach, the sharp cut of his hip, anywhere that could offer him relief, but Bradley has other plans.
"I've got you," he promises, his voice a low rumble, before he's sinking to his knees.
Jake's not as big as Bradley, not quite, but it's still an impressive feat when Bradley sinks the length of him down his throat in one, easy motion. Arousal flashes through Jake's body so quickly it's overwhelming. His fingers scrabble at Bradley's shoulder, his cheek, his hair, torn between shoving him off and pulling him closer. The back of his head hits the door with a thud.
"Oh fuck," he chokes out. "Bradley-"
He's hellbent on getting him off now, apparently. Bradley's throat works around him, his eyes trained on Jake's face with clear intent. When he groans, the noise vibrates down the length of Jake's cock and it's all over. Tears spring to Jake's eyes as he finally, finally comes.
Maybe he blacks out, because the next thing he knows he's sunk to the bottom of the door, legs braced in front of him and ass flat on the ground. Bradley's fingers push through his hair as he murmurs something soothing. Jake blinks at him.
"What the hell."
Bradley takes that for the compliment it is. He laughs, and Jake joins in. They’re both smiling when he presses their lips together.
It takes some work to get Jake back on his feet and over to the bed, but between the two of them they manage. Bradley encourages him to lie on his stomach, murmuring something about the sheets. Jake shifts, then pulls a face as the movement tugs at the sticky mess drying on the small of his back: it's not nearly as sexy now that the high of arousal has faded.
He gets the vague sense of fingers pushing through his hair, lips pressed against his temple. "I'll be right back."
Jake cracks an eye and watches, blearily, as Bradley pulls on a discarded pair of boxers and slips out the door. He returns a minute later with a warm, wet washcloth.
As Bradley wipes him down, first cleaning the sheen of sweat and saliva from his back, then his own come, Jake entertains a delirious thought: he wishes he were lucid enough to fully appreciate this moment. It’s so unexpectedly tender it makes something tighten in his chest. But, soon enough, it's over. Bradley discards the rag and joins him in bed, pulling him snug against his side. Jake tips his head up for a kiss and is obliged. Then, he pillows his head on Bradley’s chest and lets sleep drag him under.
Chapter Text
Regret sinks in with the cold light of day. Bradley’s arm around his bare waist feels almost chokingly claustrophobic. Jake stares at the ceiling and curses himself for making the same mistake twice. No use dwelling on it now, though. For the last time, he slips his way out from under Bradley’s grip. As he dresses, pulling on a loose t-shirt and jogging shorts, his stomach churns. He feels like he’s going to be sick. It isn’t until mile six or seven that the vice of disgust and shame loosens enough for him to breathe.
There’s a unanimous decision that the chores can wait a day, he finds, because when he gets home the kitchen is deserted. The house is almost eerily silent, all of its occupants still asleep.
He takes his time fixing his coffee and tries not to think about what’s waiting for him in his room. It isn’t until he’s drained his second cup to the dregs that he gets up the nerve to return. There’s a layer of sweat drying over every inch of his body and he’s desperate to scrub it off.
For a moment, he thinks he might be able to avoid what he knows is coming. The body in the bed doesn’t stir as he eases open the door. Jake turns his back to the bed to pull open one of his dresser drawers, and it squeaks, loud in the quiet room. Fabric rustles behind him. There’s an intake of breath. He freezes.
“Hey,” Bradley’s voice is rough with disuse. Jake’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “You’re back already.”
“It’s nearly ten,” he points out, casual as he can.
“Shit, really?” Bradley laughs, Jake can hear him feeling around in the sheets for his phone.
He still hasn’t turned to look at him, can’t bring himself to. He digs around blindly for something – anything – clean.
“What time’s our flight?”
“Three.”
Bradley hums. Jake hears the sheets move again, the bed frame creaking, and then feet hitting the floor. Soft footsteps approach from behind.
“Then it sounds like we’ve got some time to kill…”
For just a second, Jake imagines giving in. He considers letting himself fall for this again, pressing back against the solid wall of heat at his back, giving himself over to Bradley. They’re going their separate ways as soon as they get back to Miramar, anyway. Maybe he could just let it be just sex, like Bradley wants. Maybe it’s alright. It’s so, so fucking tempting –
His fingers close around the nearest bundle of fabric, and he steps toward the door, neatly ducking away from him. Toward safety. Jake’s heart hammers in his chest.
“I don’t think so,” he laughs, forcing an ease into his voice that he doesn’t feel. When he finally lets himself look at Bradley, Jake’s face is a mask of cool indifference. They may as well be talking about the weather, for all he cares.
Bradley’s brow creases. “I- okay,” Jake watches as he searches his face. He won’t find anything. “Did I do something wrong?”
Jake blinks at him. “No.”
“Do you… want to talk about it?”
A short, wry laugh wrenches free from his chest. “I don’t know what there is to talk about,” he shrugs. “I just didn’t think there would be a repeat performance.”
Something skitters across Bradley's features, something there-and-gone before Jake can track it down, trace it to its source. The only indication that remains is a tiny crease between his brows.
"Oh," he says, slowly. Then: "Okay."
Good, Jake thinks. No harm, no foul. Maybe they can walk away from this still friends. That doesn't make it any easier.
"Sorry I dragged you into this," Jake says, eventually, when the silence stretches on unbearably. "I wouldn't have done it if I knew it was all going to be this... messy."
There's a wry twist to Bradley's lips, but he's not looking at him anymore. His eyes are trained on the horizon line visible from Jake's bedroom window. Even from here, Jake can see that they're carefully blank. It's disconcerting, not being able to get a sense of what he's thinking. Jake didn't realize he'd grown so used to reading his every emotion play out through his eyes until that connection was abruptly severed.
Maybe he should have waited until they were back home to do this. Is it asking too much to keep playing pretend, now that he's made his intentions clear? Did he mislead him?
He lingers, uncertain.
"It's fine," Bradley's tone is so pointedly neutral, Jake almost recoils from it. "I know what I signed up for. I can pretend for a couple more hours."
If Jake expected to feel relieved by his reassurance, he doesn't. Still, he nods.
"Thanks."
The shower doesn't help, either. Even when he's scrubbed himself clean of any last trace of Bradley, he can't shake the way their conversation has left him feeling dirty. The face staring back at him in the mirror doesn't look particularly happy to see him.
True to Bradley's word, though, their conversation stays right where it was. Jake finds Bradley in the kitchen with his mother. They're talking about the wedding, going through a play-by-play of who did what and what they were wearing. He's too exhausted to try to participate, but when he steps up to Bradley's side where he sits at the counter, an arm slips around his waist. Bradley doesn't look at him.
"She probably should have been cut off," he's laughing. "But no one got hurt, at least."
"Did you have a good time, Jake?"
"Hm? Oh," he nods. He was zoning out, gazing at the pattern of the marble countertop. "It was perfect."
Briefly, he feels Bradley's gaze on the side of the face. It's gone quickly, though. Jake watches as they share a significant look before the conversation is moving on without them. He gives it a few minutes before he's making an excuse - something about needing to finish packing - and slipping away.
"Don't be a stranger, alright?" Taylor is saying as Jake pulls the last of their bags from the bed of his truck. Monday afternoon at Austin-Bergstrom is unusually quiet, so they linger for a moment. His old girl's hazards blink slowly in the deserted drop-off zone.
He turns to promise her he won't, but finds that his sister had been addressing Bradley. They share a smile.
"I won't," he promises.
When he holds out his arms, Taylor steps into his embrace like they've been doing it all their life. Her arms wrap around his waist as his envelop her shoulders. Jake's left speechless as she lifts up on her tiptoes to murmur something in his ear. He laughs, and shakes his head. Bradley whispers something back, then presses a kiss to her temple and releases her.
What the fuck?
He doesn't get a chance to linger, though, before his sister is rounding on him for a hug, too.
"Don't screw this up with him," she warns him, and Jake freezes. "He's a good one."
He presses a kiss to the crown of her head to hide his frown. "I won't. Promise."
When she pulls away, she looks like she doesn't believe him. There's a frown tugging at her lips. Still, she sounds sincere when she says: "I love you, Jake."
"Love you too, kiddo."
Bradley's hand finds his, fingers laced together for what Jake knows to be the last time as they watch his sister climb back into the cab. They wave as she pulls away. Then, as soon as she's out of sight, he drops the facade. Jake can't tell if he's grateful to be done with it or not. It doesn't feel like it. Mostly, his chest feels tight with guilt and self-disgust.
"C'mon," Bradley says, shouldering his backpack. He just looks tired, Jake realizes. "Let's get home."
Jake buys him a peace offering by way of an overpriced coffee. Bradley thanks him for it and even spares him a smile.
By the time they're taking their seats on the plane back to San Diego, it feels as if a renewed understanding has settled between them. They don't talk this time, though: there's nothing to say. Instead, Bradley pulls out his paperback, and Jake rests his head against the window frame and closes his eyes.
"Jake," Bradley's voice wakes him when the landing doesn't. "Time to get up."
They join the herd shuffling off the plane in silence. The hour and a half of sleep must have messed with Jake's system, because he can barely keep his eyes open. It isn't until they're standing in front of the carousel, waiting on their baggage, that Bradley speaks again. Jake looks up to find him fixated on the phone in his hand, a crease between his eyebrows.
"Did you get your orders yet?"
The wakes him some. Jake shakes his head and pulls out his own phone to check. His inbox is empty.
"Nope," he says, frowning and pulling down on the screen to refresh. Still nothing.
"S'posed to come in today," Bradley frowns, then shrugs and pockets the thing as suitcases start cascading down the chute.
Jake's Uber makes it to the arrivals loading zone first. There's an awkward moment after Bradley helps him load his bags into the trunk. He doesn't know what to say. Thankfully Bradley at least has some idea.
"I'll see you around, then," he says, holding out his hand. Jake shakes it firmly.
"Thanks again," Jake's voice comes out rushed. "For doing this. It made it a lot easier." Until it didn't. He doesn't mention that part.
"Don't worry about it," Bradley waves him off. "Just do me a favor - when we break up, at least let it be amicable. I don't want to break Susan's heart."
Jake sputters out a helpless laugh. "Deal."
He's falling asleep in front of the Astros game when his phone vibrates with an incoming e-mail. When he scrubs at his eyes, he finds that his orders are to report to NAS Oceana by Friday morning. Jake yawns and pushes himself to his feet, stretching his hands over his head.
Good, he thinks. He'll be a continent away from Bradley Bradshaw, a built-in excuse for a breakup the next time his mom calls, and then he can pretend this whole thing never happened.
When he climbs into bed that night, his thoughts are - mercifully - consumed by the daunting amount of packing he'll need to get done by Friday and not big, strong hands and the scratch of a mustache against his skin.
Jake's going to miss it when his next orders move him away from Honolulu. In his brief career thus far, he's had the chance to run on some pretty impressive beaches, to see the sunrise over the Atlantic, the Pacific, even the Indian, but nothing beats the white sands and palms of Hawaii.
Or maybe that's just the runner's high mingling with the endorphins left in his body from the really, truly, fantastic fuck he had last night.
He pauses in front of the door to his housing, stretching out the cramp in his side and bending down to touch his toes. He takes a deep, satisfying lung full of air. That's when the scent of burning hits him.
"What the hell?" Jake pulls open the door. It only takes three steps around the corner and he's in the tiny kitchenette. There, he finds chaos.
Bradley hasn't bothered to dress from the night before, yet - wearing nothing but boxers (Jake's) and the mustache on his face. His face is flushed an endearing shade of red as he uses the spatula in his hand to scrape the burnt bits of pancake out of the pan and into the trash. Smoke twists and coils in the air, held captive by the lack of central A/C.
The whole scene is the funniest thing Jake's seen all week.
"Holy shit," he says. Bradley looks up, finally noticing his presence, and grins. It lights his features up all the way to his eyes. For a moment, they stare at each other. Jake laughs.
Then, they're both laughing.
It's not even that funny, really, but Jake finds himself hunched over himself, clutching at his stomach. When he glances up again, he finds Bradley wiping a tear from his eye with his wrist, still struggling to discharge the black mess in his hands. It sends him into another fit.
"Sorry," Bradley says between chuckles, his voice shaky. "I was trying to have something ready when you got back."
He's still laughing when he crosses the space to open a window, flapping his hand through the air in an effort to encourage the smoke out of his space. Already, he knows he's going to be smelling burnt pancake on every piece of fabric in the place for the next week.
"It's alright," he says, shaking his head. Now that he's not worried about the fire alarm being triggered and the subsequent evacuation of the entire housing block, he steps away from the window.
It only takes a few steps to cross the small space and take the spatula and pan from Bradley's hands. He lets them go willingly, and Jake sets the dishes in the sink. He can deal with them later. Right now...
"Maybe I should be the one to handle cooking," he grins.
Bradley's watching him intently, a smile tugging at his lips. Jake takes his hands and brings them to his own waist as he steps in close. When he rises up on the balls of his feet to press his mouth to Bradley's, they both groan lowly. It doesn't take long for things to get hot and heavy - picking up right where they left off last night.
Jake had woken up hard thinking about the things they had gotten up to the night before. Bradley's tongue, his fingers... and now, or maybe tonight, he wants....
Their lips part with a soft, wet noise that goes straight to Jake's gut.
"Or maybe you can make it up to me with dinner tonight?"
Bradley blinks at him. He feels his hands spasm on his waist. Jake frowns.
"What?"
"Nothing," Bradley says, a little too hurried. "It's just."
Clearly it's something. He trails off, but Jake waits him out, slowly withdrawing his hands from his chest and taking a half-step back. As he watches, a frown flits across Bradley's lips, and he looks away from him - over Jake's shoulder to the blank wall behind him.
"Sorry. I thought I was more transparent," he says, eventually. His hands finally fall from Jake's hips and he crosses his arms over his chest, leaning his hip against the counter. Even though Bradley is the one half-naked, Jake feels suddenly exposed: he senses where this is going. "I'm not really looking for anything, like, serious right now. And dinner sounds like-"
"I don't remember saying anything about serious, Bradley," he snaps, a little too quick and a little too harsh. He can feel his cheeks pinking and desperately tries to tamp it down, cool his tone. God, could he have been more obvious? "I just said dinner. But it's fine."
Bradley searches his face. "Okay," he says slowly, annoyingly placating. "Good."
"So pancakes were just an attempt to, what, guarantee a repeat performance?" Jake's words are carefully, studiously unbothered, even as he arches an eyebrow at him. There's at least a small, mean bit of satisfaction to be gained watching him shift from foot to foot.
"I, uh," Bradley shrugs. "I don't know."
Jake huffs out a laugh, short and humorless. "I'm just fucking with you," he lies. With as unbothered a shrug as he can manage, he turns to the sink and twists the handle for the faucet. The burnt bits are going to be impossible to scrape out if he lets them dry any longer. "But now that we've sufficiently ruined the mood, you can probably go now."
He feels more than sees Bradley hesitating, but after a moment's consideration he clears his throat. "Alright."
Bradley disappears back into the bedroom to dress. By the time he emerges, Jake is toweling the pan dry. He lifts his eyes just long enough to give Bradley a polite, if distant, smile.
"See you around?"
Jake thought that growing up in Texas had prepared him for any type of humidity the world could throw at him. He was wrong. As he steps out of the NAS Oceana Passenger Terminal, he feels his khakis sticking to every inch of his body as if he’s been vacuum-sealed. It doesn't help that it's nearing seven o’clock at night - a hellish number even when you account for the time difference working in his favor, considering he dropped off his keys at the housing office back in Miramar at three a.m. to get to the airport in time. He can practically feel his bad mood hanging from his shoulders, heavy as the bag he's carrying. It’s been a day of delays, layovers, and cancellations, and now Jake wants nothing more than to get his head onto the nearest pillow and pass the fuck out.
That doesn’t happen, though. It’s another half an hour before the shuttle arrives to take him to the base proper, and another hour after that before he’s finished with his paperwork and gets handed the keys to his new place. No sooner has he dropped his duffel onto the bed with its disappointingly thing mattress (but at least this place doesn’t reek of stale cigarettes), he’s getting a text:
“You still coming out tonight?” Natasha’s message reads.
Jake swears.
The morning after he’d gotten his orders, he’d remembered that Trace and Floyd are stationed out here too. Jake had sent them the head’s up to share the good news. Bob had done some digging into it (read: eavesdropping. He’s scarily good at listening in on conversations, unnoticed) and it turns out they’re going to be flying in the same squadron. It’s great news. For as much shit as Jake had given her in their time at Top Gun, he knows now that she’s the best of them.
Which is why he’s hesitating over the invitation now, instead of turning it down outright. When they’d heard the news, Nat had immediately set to work establishing a pre-flight get together at the local dive with the rest of the Black Aces. A chance for Jake to get to know the rest of the men and women he’s going to be flying with before they’re introduced in an official capacity on Friday morning.
It’s not a requirement, he knows, but even after a day of nightmare travel it’s never a good look to flake out like this.
“Just got in,” he sends back. “Gonna change and then I’ll head right back out.”
“Sweet,” Natasha even sends a smiley face. “The three of us are here, and the rest of the squad is on their way.”
He’s not sure who the last member of their party would be beyond Tasha and Bob, but he doesn’t really think much of it. Unpacking will have to wait for later: he grabs whatever’s sitting at the top of his duffel.
Half an hour later, he’s pulling open the door to the dive Natasha sent him the address of. The kinds of places Naval aviators frequent are, more often than not, pretty much the same no matter where you go. Memorabilia on the wall, a surly old fart behind the bar, and a pool table in the corner. The smell of sour, stale beer and BO hits him, and Jake releases a sigh of relief.
It wasn’t until he got out the door that he realized the shirt he grabbed was the same orange UT tee that Bradley had borrowed from him the other day. The smell of his cologne, spice and musk, follows him like a vapor trail. Inescapable. Along with his softest, most comfortable jeans and an old pair of Chuck Taylors, he feels like he’s flying under the radar as he cranes his neck past the crowd of uniforms.
"Jake!" Trace's voice carries across the crowded bar. She's standing up from her seat in a corner booth, waving him over. He grins and waves back.
A quick detour to the bar later - elbowing past the tourists to flag down the bartender for a beer - he makes his way back to the table. It’s crowded with his new peers, about ten of them in total. Conversation ping-pongs from one end of the table to the other. They seem like a tight bunch and Jake takes a moment to feel the bubble of excitement in his belly. It’s a lot easier to fly with men and women you get along with, and he already feels like this is a tight bunch.
Slipping in to the empty standing-room spot beside Bob, Jake scans the group for familiar faces. It never fails that there’s at least someone you recognize from a previous assignment, at least in passing. He gets halfway around the group before he spots him. Bradley is already looking at him. Jake freezes.
“Oh,” he says, stupidly.
“You didn’t tell him?”
Too quick for her own good, Natasha is already looking between Jake and Bradley. She sounds confused. He can imagine the familiar pinch to her brow, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the man across from him to see it for himself. Is he imagining the way Bradley’s cheeks have gone pink?
“Didn’t get a chance,” Bradley mumbles, muffled against the mouth of his beer bottle enough so that Jake can barely hear him.
Jake could laugh. Is this the universe’s idea of a sick joke? His mind races.
“It’s been a hectic week,” he says, as smoothly as he can manage. He turns to look at Tasha and fixes the grin on his face. “I know I only just had enough time to finish packing before coming out here. It’s all good.”
Despite the fog of exhaustion coating Jake’s consciousness, the reality of his situation clicks into place rapidly. If he’s going to be working with Bradley for the foreseeable future, they need to make a real go at being friends. For real, this time. And that includes excusing away Bradley’s lack of forewarning: because, clearly, he knew Jake was coming, too, and didn’t give him the courtesy of a heads-up.
Bradley seems to sense the lifeline Jake is throwing him. “But we’re here now, right?”
Jake nods. “Right.”
"Hey," the man beside Jake offers his hands - effectively cutting off the conversation. Perfect timing. "I'm Strap."
"Hangman," he grins, shaking his hand firmly. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Glad to have you on the team - Rooster's been telling us all about how you saved his ass."
Is that so? Jake shrugs. "All in a day's work."
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and conversation. By the end of it, he's got about half of their names down, but it's a good start. There's Hall and Oats - a clean-cut duo that remind Jake of Yale and Harvard, with the way they're attached at the hip. There's Bones, who seems serious and severe. Jake doesn't see him crack a single smile the entire time they talk. Bones' WSO, on the other hand, is a wisecracking, chatterbox of a dude named Bingo who doesn't seem to stop trying.
As the introductions peter out, Jake finds himself drawn into conversation with Strap. He's older, graying just slightly at the temples, and Jake likes him already. There's a kind of gravitas to him that reminds Jake of the pilots of old, the kind of guys in Maverick's generation. They swap war stories, and when Jake's first air-to-air inevitably comes up, Strap's hand lands on his shoulder.
"You're that kid I read about in the Naval Times," he says, grinning. "Shit, you're a legend."
He flushes. "The poor fucker was in a museum piece," he demurs. "Not all that impressive."
"Sure," Strap rolls his eyes, like he doesn't buy his faux-modesty. "But you did take down a fifth-gen to save Rooster's ass, didn't you?"
Bradley must hear his name, because Jake can feel his gaze on the side of his face. But yeah, okay, he can't really downplay that one. He grins. "Yeah."
Not too long after that, he starts making his excuses. It's getting late, and they have an early muster time in the morning, but the group still gives him some good-natured shit as he goes to pay his tab and take his leave. Tasha tugs him into a hug, and Bob shakes his hand. So does Strap. He doesn't let himself look at Bradley.
He should've known, though, that he wouldn't get out that easy. His voice follows behind him as Jake jogs down the steps of the bar's patio.
"Hey, Jake," Bradley calls. "Wait up."
Jake does. When he turns, he finds Bradley following him down the steps. He's back in a Hawaiian shirt today. It's leaves, this time - long, wide fronds in a light, sage green over a pale background. His eyes linger on it, for a moment, before he can bring his gaze up to Bradley's face. He's surprised to find a kind of hesitant concern in his eyes.
"Are you mad?" Bradley asks.
He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it probably wasn't that. Jake frowns. "What?"
"Are you mad at me," he repeats. "For not warning you about this."
Ah. For a second, Jake considers:
He could be, he thinks, if he tried, but what's the point? It's not like there's any getting out of the assignment, and even if he had a heads-up the only thing it would have done is make him stress. Besides, they've worked together before, and after their truce on the deck of the Roosevelt, he's more confident than ever they can do it again and do it well.
"No," is his eventual answer. "We're friends, remember?"
The reminder seems to loosen the concern that Bradley's carrying in his shoulders. They sag, and Jake feels a twinge of guilt that he made him worry like that. He should've never let himself get carried away the night of-
"Friends," Bradley agrees.
For a stupid, ill-advised second, they just grin at each other.
"Where are you staying?"
The question takes a second to register. Jake blinks and shakes his head to clear it. "Uh," he gestures vaguely in the right direction, and gives him the name of the building. Bradley nods.
"I'm in the one next door," he says. "Wanna walk together?"
There's no reason to say no, no matter what his gut instinct is telling him. Jake nods. "Sure."
He was right. Flying with Bradley now that they don’t actively want to rip each other’s throats out is… it’s next level. It’s undeniable.
“On your six, Hangman,” Bradley calls. Jake can hear the smile in his voice even over the radio static.
“Got it,” he replies, banking hard to the left. Bradley shoots past him - a blur of silver against the blinding, blue sky.
Jake doesn’t even have to look: he knows his pursuers have followed him. There’s a brief beep as someone gets tone on him, but he cuts his yoke to the right and the sound fades.
“What are they doing?” Bones’ voice cuts through. Does he sound frazzled? Jake grins. There’s a crackle over the line as Phoenix starts to respond, but it’s already too late.
“That’s tone,” Bradley calls, triumphant, and Jake can hear it beneath his voice. Music to his goddamn ears.
“Shit,” Bingo swears. There’s a laugh in his voice, though. “‘Nix, how the fuck did you put up with these two on the West Coast?”
Tasha has kept the details of their previous, tumultuous relationship under wraps. Jake can practically hear her eye roll. “I ask myself that every day.”
Jake’s cruising, spinning his wheels and letting the Virginia coastline sail by beneath his belly as the radio chatter continues without him. There’s a heady knot of satisfaction burning away in his chest and he doesn’t want to let it fade.
“You with me, Hangman?”
Bradley’s voice over the comms interrupts him. Jake glances to the right, and finds that he’s pulled his jet alongside Jake’s, right off his wing. Their eyes meet through the twin, thick layers of acrylic and polyurethane. They share a grin.
“You know it,” he tosses him a mock salute. Even with his mouth covered by his respirator, Jake can see the edges of Bradley’s mustache twitch.
“I’m gonna RTB,” he says. “You comin’ with?”
“On your six.”
“Yeah, yep, uh huh,” Jake leans against the wood siding of the bar, his phone pressed to his cheek. The rest of the team is inside, wiling away their Friday night and spare change on the jukebox. His mom isn’t quite getting the hint that he’d like to join them.
They’ve been in Oceana for a month, now, and the team has settled in together nicely. Their CO is impressed, and there are talks of getting the whole lot of them out on the road to teach dogfighting to the masses. Jake and Bradley, in particular, are being eyed by the brass with some serious consideration for promotions. Jake’s grateful for the peacetime, because he knows otherwise they’d be on the first flight out to the Pacific to put their skills to some serious action.
He’d made it a week without telling his mom the “good news” about him and Bradley. Susan had been over the moon about her son and his boyfriend being stationed together. Frankly, he’s surprised she hasn’t started hounding him about a potential engagement yet, no matter that they’ve only been “together” for a month and a half.
“Give Bradley my love, okay?” She’s saying, finally. “And let him know that he’s more than welcome to come down with you for Thanksgiving if you get the time off. God knows we have the space, and I know he doesn’t have much of a family to go home to.”
Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s going to have to drop the news about their breakup at some point - preferably sooner rather than later - but he can’t quite get up the nerve to. The long distance angle getting squashed is making it difficult.
A/C washes over him from the front door opening, then shutting. Jake’s watching the parking lot and willing this conversation to be over.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll let him know.”
“Give him our love,” she adds. “Love you, sweetheart. Take care.”
“Love you too, mom.”
As soon as he hangs up, the soft chuckle beside him makes him jump. He turns, and finds Bradley leaning against the railing opposite him. His arms are crossed in front of him, casual. The “NAVY” lettering of his t-shirt is stretched indecently tight over his broad chest.
Jake pockets his phone and refuses to feel embarrassed.
“Hey,” he says. Casual. “Has Strap started in at the pool table?”
“Not yet,” Bradley’s watching him patiently. “We haven’t broken up, have we?”
When Jake searches his face, though, he finds that Bradley isn’t annoyed. In fact, if anything, he just looks amused. A traitorous laugh bubbles up from Jake’s chest.
“No,” he admits. “I was kind of banking on the long-distance thing as an excuse, but then I mentioned you when I was talking about that hop last week,” he refuses to feel embarrassed for admitting he was talking about Bradley. Refuses. “And I didn’t have a good excuse for a breakup. Not when we were so… y’know.”
Bradley’s still watching him with that annoyingly patient gaze. Jake wants to run and hide from it. “Happy?” He supplies.
“Yeah,” Jake clears his throat. “Hard to explain how we can go from that to a breakup in a month.”
“I get it,” he says, mercifully. “I don’t mind.”
Jake nods. “Thanks,” he says, lamely.
He’s still watching him, though. Like he’s waiting on something, expectant. Jake doesn’t know what it is. He opens his mouth, prepared to squash the silence, but Bradley’s already starting to say something when the door swings open with a bang. Jake jumps and turns to look at the intrusion.
“There you are, Hangy,” Strap’s by his side in a second, throwing an arm over his shoulder. Jake doesn’t think he’s completely drunk yet, but he’s well on his way there - there’s whiskey on his breath. It makes him grin. “You promised me a round.”
“Sorry,” he laughs, letting the bigger guy take all of his weight as he manhandles him toward the door. “Got a call from back home.”
“Aw, how sweet. And here I thought you were cheatin’ on me,” he teases. “You comin’ with, Bradshaw?” Strap directs the question his way.
“Nah, I’ll follow you in a little bit.”
Before the door closes behind him, he chances a glance back over his shoulder and finds that Bradley isn’t even looking at them. He’s got his head turned toward the parking lot, fingers tapping on the railing that he’s leaning on and his lips twisted down. Jake gets the distinct impression that he just missed out on something vital.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see what you’ve got. Time for the p-p-p power hour.”
Jake can’t help it - he laughs, cheesy as the words filtering through the static are. It’s a blindingly clear morning over the coast of Virginia. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and Jake has to squint - even with his aviators on - just to make out the horizon line. He’s in the air with Rooster, Bones, and Phoenix yet again. This time, it’s Phoenix and Bob on his flank, Rooster and Bones his adversaries for the day. Strap is playing shock-jock DJ on the radio back at base.
“He’s going to get his ass a write up,” Rooster grumbles. Bones makes an agreeing noise. Jake rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. There’s been a stick up Bradley’s ass for the past two days and he’s not sure what caused it.
“How we lookin’, Bob?” He says instead.
“Heading’s good,” he observes. “We can probably turn put our noses thirty degrees south and hit the thrust a little. I think our friends are heading toward open water.”
“Copy that,” Jake agrees.
Sure enough, they find the other two pilots further out to sea. Hangman and Phoenix approach from their four o’clock. Rooster and Bones are practically idling, coasting, and Jake grins. Anticipation bubbles in his gut. It’s a trap, but the best kind of a trap: Bradley’s giving him an engraved invitation for a dogfight.
“Say, Rooster,” he calls over the radio, nothing but idle curiosity in his tone. “What do you say we show our friends what we picked up on in Miramar?”
“If you think you’re up for it, Hangman,” and Jake can hear the smirk in his voice. That’s more like it. “Fight’s on?”
“Fight’s on,” he agrees.
In an instant, Rooster is turning his nose straight up to the sky. Jake even hears his grunt of exertion as he pulls the sticks straight back. He doesn’t let himself get distracted by that sound. Instead, he follows his lead.
This far out, they can really open up the throttle. Bradley doesn’t hold back. Neither does Jake. It’s more of a chase than a dogfight, but that’s alright, too. He’s right on his tail - every twitch of the yoke that Bradley makes immediately echoed by Jake at his six. When he pulls them down into a dive, Jake’s gut soars and he lets out a giddy, breathless laugh. Bradley’s heavy breathing is loud in his ear.
“This all you go, Bradshaw?” He asks.
“Not even close, Seresin.”
Bradley throws himself into a barrel roll, and Jake follows suit - arcing high and wide over him. When he pulls out of it, Bradley hits the thrust again. Jake grins, preparing to do the same, and -
There’s a thud, and then a bang, and Jake’s entire jet shudders.
“Shit,” he swears.
When he looks to his left, he finds his wing has all-but disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Flames lick at the edges of where his engine used to be.
“I’m hit,” he calls.
A kind of cool, icy calm washes through him. He tries the fire suppressant.
“Jake?” Bradley’s voice tugs at the edges of his mental lockdown. “Jake, what happened?”
He glances up, but Bradley’s jet is little more than a dot on the horizon. No wonder, with the speed that they were at. It looks like he’s turning around, but it’s not going to help him any. Phoenix and Bones are miles back, by now.
The suppressant didn’t work. He tries again. And again.
“I think it was a bird strike,” Jake says, as calmly as he can.
This far out, any bird he may have hit would have to be big. An albatross, maybe. And at the speed he was going, it’s not a good sign for his engine. The thing must have torn the rotor blades to bits on the way through.
“Seresin, can you hear me?” It’s Strap’s voice that reaches him, now - cutting through the anxious chatter of the rest of his teammates.
“Affirmative,” he says. The fire isn’t responding.
“Good, stay with me,” the man sounds calm, in-control. Jake lets it seep into his bones and keep him in the right headspace. He can’t afford to panic. “Have you lost an engine?”
“Think so,” he agrees, through gritted teeth. His jet shakes and rattles beneath him. “I’m going to have to put her down.”
“Okay,” Strap trusts his judgement implicitly. “Give me your location - we’ll get the Coast Guard out there as soon as we can.”
Jake nods to himself and rattles off as much information as he can. Heading, altitude, the bit of coastline he can see to the west. He cuts the other engine, preparing to glide closer to the choppy surface beneath him before he has to make his escape. There’s static on the other end of the line, now - voices overlapping, cutting each other off. He tunes it out.
“See you on the other side, everyone.”
"Jake-"
He passes out when he hits the water. At least, he’s pretty sure he does. If not, his brain does a marvelous job of trauma-blocking, because the next thing he knows he’s waking up in the hospital bed. Not a single memory of floating in a sea of fluorescent green dye, or the water churning around him beneath the blades of the rescue chopper, or even of the Coast Guard lowering himself down to him.
If he searches his memory, really searches it, he thinks he remembers seeing a jet circling above him - silver against the pale blue sky.
The scent of disinfectant stings his nose, and it’s all too bright. There’s a persistent beeping from somewhere to his left and every muscle in his body aches. His very bones ache. Jake cracks his eyes, squinting against the halos of light and the too-white ceiling above him, and gives up. He closes them again.
“How you doin’, kiddo?”
Strap’s voice is close by. Jake turns his head, rolling against the flat pillow beneath him, and squints in the direction the noise came from. A familiar shape, blurry at the edges, comes into view.
“Feel like I just crashed a jet into the ocean,” he says, and tries to smile. The attempt makes even his cheek muscles hurt, though, so he gives that up with a groan.
“I’ll bet.”
Jake closes his eyes again. Strap’s chair squeaks, and Jake can imagine him leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. As happy as he is to see him, one thought pounds against his temple even harder than the headache lurking there:
“Where’s Bradley?”
Strap chuckles like he was expecting that question.
“Debrief,” he says. “The brass isn’t letting him go until they’ve got everything they need from him.”
Jake frowns, and it hurts even more than smiling. He forces his eyes open again to search the man’s face. “What for? He didn’t do anything.”
“No,” Strap agrees. “But you know how this shit works - dotting their ‘i’s’ and crossing their ‘t’s.’”
He does. That doesn’t mean that Jake has to like it. He chokes down on the desperate urge to see Bradley with his own eyes. It doesn’t matter that Jake was the one who hit the water, he still needs to make sure he’s alright.
“Let me talk to them. He didn’t do anything, and I-”
“Fuck, no,” he cuts him off. “You’re not doing anything in any official capacity for at least a week. Two, if I can help it.”
He’s not their CO, but the way that Strap works - bending the rules of the air station to his will - Jake wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to keep him out of a cockpit for a month.
“I’m fine,” he insists anyway.
“Fractured rib, sprained shoulder, facial lacerations,” he lists Jake’s injuries, ticking them off his fingers. “And, you’re in concussion protocol. That’s not fine, Jake.”
He huffs, rolling his head back up to face the ceiling. He’s fine. And he’ll be even better if he sees -
“Can I at least go home?” He says. Jake can’t stand hospitals: they make him twitchy.
There’s a moment of silence, nothing but the beep of a distant monitor and Jake’s breathing. Finally, he sighs.
“I’ll go talk to the nurse.”
Jake's never been more grateful for his buddy's ability to charm any official or bend any rule to his whim as he is when, an hour later, he's discharged. Of course, it comes with strict instructions for monitoring, and he's expected back to the base hospital first thing in the morning for a follow-up, but at least if he's going to be suffering he'll get to do it in his own bed. His mattress isn't great, but it's better than the hospital's.
Luckily, he’d left a set of gym clothes in his locker at work and a runner had been sent to fetch them for him. He’s wearing loose basketball shorts and a tank top and spares a moment to be thankful it’s not a hospital gown.
"Thank you," he tells Strap for at least the fifth time as he helps him out of his car. "I owe you one."
"You've said that already."
Did he? His head is pounding too much for him to be sure. He shrugs.
Inside, they get Jake situated on the couch.
"I'm going to order us some food and let Jen know I won't be home tonight," Strap tells him, tuning the radio he never uses in the corner to the Padres game. Jake isn't allowed to watch TV. "Stay here."
It hurts too much to nod, so Jake just hums an agreement and lets his head fall - carefully - back against the cushion.
"-his place," Jake's already swimming out of consciousness. Is that a bad thing? He can't remember what the nurses said. That was Strap's job to pay attention to. "I know. Just don't- don't make a big scene. He's pretty out of it." A long pause. "Alright. Yeah. Bye."
Time gets slippery, after that. There’s a warm, cottony haze to his thoughts, and Jake decides not to fight against it. Maybe he sleeps, because he dreams about hazel eyes and strong arms wrapping around his waist.
Seconds or minutes or an eternity later, he hears a knock at the door. When did Strap join him in the living room? He rises from the loveseat before Jake can even lift his head. "Don't get up," he reiterates. Really, he wasn’t even going to try to. It's probably their dinner. He hears low voices. It sounds like arguing. Jake frowns – he can’t make them out. Strap sighs.
“Fine,” he says. It sounds like he’s coming nearer. “Just wait here a second.”
Jake lifts his head as he rounds the corner.
“What’s going on?”
“You’ve got a visitor,” he says, slowly, and Jake’s heart kicks up a notch. A surge of hope nearly chokes him before he can suppress it. “But -” Strap holds up a finger. “The doctor gave me strict instructions that you need to stay calm. No big surges of emotions, no activity that could elevate your heart rate.”
What the fuck does he mean by that?
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Strap huffs and rubs a hand over his face. The events of today have aged him five years - the gray in his hair and his beard, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead more prominent than they were this morning. Was it really just this morning? Jake’s not sure anymore.
“Just… try, alright?” He half turns, glancing over his shoulder. “Come on in, before you glare a hole through my head.”
Bradley rounds the corner, and Jake realizes what Strap was talking about: his heart kicks so hard in his chest, he feels even more light-headed than he already was.
He looks rough. Rougher than Jake feels, even. His auburn curls are flung every which way, as if he’s been running his hands through his hair for hours, and there are deep, heavy bags under his eyes. The gray, Navy t-shirt and jeans he’s wearing are the same ones Jake saw him in before the hop. There’s a tension in his shoulders that makes Jake ache - like he’s carrying the weight of the world on them.
Their eyes meet, and Jake has the privilege of watching all of that anxiety melt away before his very eyes.
“Jake,” Bradley says, and Jake nearly sobs.
“Hi.”
He crosses the room to him in two, long strides. Jake starts to rise to meet him, but a stern look stops him in his tracks. Instead, Bradley settles on his knees before him where he sits on the couch, kneeling between Jake’s legs. Familiar, strong hands cup his face. Bradley’s thumb brushes over the cut on his cheek, and he can’t help it - he winces away.
“Shit, sorry -” Bradley tries to release him, but Jake catches a wrist and holds fast, even as the movement tugs at his sore shoulder.
“No,” he says. “Please. Don’t go.”
The desperation in his tone stuns them both. For a moment, they stare at each other. Bradley’s gaze darts over his face. He catalogues the cuts, the laceration on his eyebrow that will surely leave a scar, the broken blood vessel in his left eye and the bruise at his left temple that’s already turning a deep, vivid purple.
Jake watches the emotions play across his face. There’s fear, and anger, maybe, and maybe revulsion. Shame. He’s studied Bradley for so long, he can see every single one of them tick through his mind - he’s catalogued every single micro-expression.
It should terrify him, Jake thinks vaguely, but it doesn’t.
“What are you talking about?” He laughs, helpless, and Jake realizes that his eyes are red-rimmed and watery. “I’m not going anywhere.”
This time, when Bradley kisses him, it’s entirely new. Their lips brush together, barely there, and Jake is still left breathless. When Bradley pulls back - too soon - Jake goes to follow. Too fast. His head spins, and he lets out a pained noise.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Bradley looks pained, too. He pets the short hairs just above Jake’s right ear. It’s one of the few spots that doesn’t hurt. “Easy.”
From the doorway, Strap clears his throat, and Jake startles. He forget he was here.
“I’m gonna head out,” he says, a little awkward. Jake feels heat rise to his cheeks. “Give me a call if you need anything, alright?”
Jake nods carefully, his head still held between Bradley’s hands.
“Can I have a word, Bradshaw?”
Bradley looks to Jake, as if for approval, and he nearly laughs. “Go ahead.”
It’s probably only a minute or two that Jake has to wait while Bradley walks him to the door, but it feels like forever. When he returns, there’s a wry quirk to his lips. He settles carefully on the couch beside Jake.
“What was that about?” Jake asks. His hand finds Bradley’s, and he tangles their fingers together.
“I just got the shovel talk from my own coworker,” he admits, shaking his head. “Your dad didn’t even give me that.”
Jake chokes on a laugh. “Really?”
“Yeah,” the whole situation is absurd, Jake is almost glad he can blame the head-spinning on the concussion. “And to think, this morning I was worried that you two were sleeping together.”
Jake blinks at him, stunned. “Bradley. He’s married. With kids.”
“I know that now,” Bradley’s cheeks are pink. He’s staring at their joined hands, and Jake squeezes gently. “But you two got so close, so fast, I thought…”
“Stop,” Jake cuts him off. “I don’t want to even think about that.”
Bradley’s grin widens. “Alright.”
They’re quiet for a while, after that. Bradley traces the bandages on the back of his Jake’s hand where his IV had been earlier that day. This close to him, Jake can practically see the worry building again - the crease deepens between his brows.
“Bradley,” he says, slowly. “Talk to me.”
A wry smile twists his lips.
“I was trying to decide if it was fair to ask you if this is real or not while you’re, y’know, concussed.”
Jake blinks. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
Bradley shifts on the couch - tucking his leg up underneath him so he can face Jake head-on. He’s cupping Jake’s hand with both of his, now, and lifts it to press his knuckles to his own lips. His heart stutters in chest again.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t mean,” he starts, and he’s serious, now. Jake wonders how long he’s been planning his words. “And I’m not here right now to do anything but take care of you, but if that makes you uncomfortable I’ll call Strap back here in a second.”
“Bradley..” he starts to interrupt, but he shakes his head.
“Just let me finish,” Bradley takes a deep, steadying breath. Jake can’t look away from his eyes - enraptured by his sincerity. “I came so close to losing you today, Jake, and I almost lost it. You can ask the others about it - it wasn’t pretty. I circled the spot you went down until I nearly ran out of fuel. The air boss threatened me with a court marshal because I wouldn’t let up until the Coast Guard arrived. They wouldn’t let me in to see you at the hospital because they were afraid I’d do something drastic and freak you out, mess up your recovery.”
“Oh,” he says, the only thing he can think to say. His eyes are wide.
“They kept me in the debrief room for hours, making me talk through what happened over and over,” his voice breaks. Jake squeezes his hand. “No one would give me any updates, not really. It wasn’t until Tasha forced her way in that I even knew you were alright.”
He can picture it: Bradley, eyes wild with fear, his leg bouncing anxiously as he talks through the bird strike, Jake hitting the water. He imagines himself in his place, and the thought makes him nauseous.
“The only thing I kept thinking,” he continues, forcing the words out like he needs to say them before he loses the nerve. Bradley closes his eyes. “Is that, if I didn’t get a chance to tell you how I feel, I’d never forgive myself.”
Strap is never going to forgive him, either, when Jake’s heart gives out. It hammers away in his chest, sending blood pulsing up to his bruised brain. He has to know, though.
“And how do you feel about me, Bradley?”
A tear slips from Bradley’s eye, and he uses their joined hands to wipe it away. Sympathetic wetness wells in Jake’s eyes, too.
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
Jake bites his lip against his smile. He nods. Bradley doesn’t even hesitate:
“I’m in love with you, Jake. You have to know that.”
Jake grins. “I had a guess.”
This time, when Bradley kisses him, they’re both laughing into it. Jake can’t help it: there’s so much joy inside of him, it feels like he’s going to burst at the seams from it.
Bradley doesn’t let Jake deepen the kiss, though, and so the moment doesn’t last long. Jake’s cracked rib makes it hard to take a full breath, so he has to break away to pull in short, unsatisfying little breaths. Bradley's still looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon in the sky, though, so Jake pulls him in for another. He doesn't protest.
“I love you, too,” he says, when the lightheadedness finally grows too much. “And not because I’m concussed.”
The smile on Bradley’s face almost makes the pain worth it.
"I would have done the same, though," Jake confesses, hours later.
Bradley had managed to make them dinner without burning the house down - soup that he'd picked up on the way over that he just had to reheat on the stove, but Jake isn't quibbling. Now, they're in Jake's bed. It had take plenty of maneuvering, and more than a few grunts of pain and whispered apologies, but they managed to find a comfortable way to lay that doesn't bother any of Jake's copious cuts and bruises.
(Bradley had gone pale when he helped Jake out of his shirt and found the purple-and-green bruising scattered across his ribcage and down his flank. Jake had to tug him into a kiss to distract him.)
"What's that?" Bradley murmurs. His finger is tracing the line of Jake's lips, slow and meticulous.
"Freaked out. Thrown a shit fit," he laughs. Bradley looks at him like he's still not following. "If you had been the one to go down," Jake clarifies. "I already saved your life once: I shouldn't have to do it again."
They both laugh at that, but Jake knows that he'd two it a million times over. He still remembers the anxiety pulsing in his gut when he'd seen the fifth-gen locking onto their F-14. The first time he killed a man, he'd hesitated. The second time, he hadn't.
"We should probably call your sister," Bradley whispers.
"What?" It's such a non-sequitur that Jake knows he did it on purpose. It works - pulling him straight out of his maudlin thoughts. His brow furrows, and the movement sends a jolt of pain through his forehead when it pulls at his suture. Bradley hums soothingly and brushes his thumb over the spot.
"Taylor," he clarifies. "She'll be thrilled that I finally got up the nerve to tell you how I feel."
That clears up nothing. "What?"
He chuckles, pressing his lips to Jake's good temple. "She clocked us from the moment she picked us up at the airport," he explains. "And confronted me that night, but I made her promise not to tell you we didn't fool her."
Jake blinks stupidly.
"Oh," memories start to piece themselves together. "Is that why you two were always hanging out together?"
"More or less," his words are non-committal though. Jake knows there's more.
"Bradley..."
He sighs, but continues. "I told her that I had a crush on you."
Jake's eyes go wide, but Bradley doesn't give him the chance to interrupt.
"But that I had fucked it up way back then, and there was no chance in hell that you would give me a second chance. And then you - sort of - did, but I was too chickenshit to talk it through with you when you turned me down the next morning."
"Babe..." Jake tries to speak, but guilt thickens in his throat and leaves him choked. Bradley just shakes his head.
"It's okay," he chuckles, unendingly fond. "But, really," he kisses the tip of Jake's nose, fingers pushing a strand of hair away from his face. "Why else would I agree to that batshit plan of yours?"
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