Chapter Text
It takes no time at all for Bradley's sleep schedule to get fucked beyond belief. When Mav asks he blames jet lag. Neither of them mentions the fact that Belize is only two hours ahead of the west coast, or that he's already been back a week.
As much as it pains him to admit, puttering around the house on North Island is boring as hell. There is no amount of grunt work he can push through with Mav that makes the hours from seven to ten-thirty feel less depressing. It's partly why he's stuck around here so long; he worries that if he goes back to Virginia too soon, he'll lose his entire mind.
"Did you get any good pictures?" Mav asks one afternoon, grease streaked up his forearms from another hard day’s work.
"A couple." Bradley digs out his phone to show him some shots of the water, the sunset.
"It looks beautiful." Mav passes his phone back. "You should get that one framed."
It's a stunning shot from the bow of the boat. Looking at it makes Bradley's stomach hurt, the same way looking at the dozens of unread messages on his phone makes him feel sick.
"Yeah," he says, "maybe." Getting the picture printed sounds like a lot of effort, honestly.
"Looks like it was a great trip." Mav claps him on the back. "It was a good idea for you to go."
Bradley bristles at that. He's here, they're talking, but he's still not entirely cool with Mav having opinions about his life or his well-being or whatever. Especially not when he's not entirely sure the trip was a good idea at all.
He'd felt okay, at first, but the longer he's home, the more distance he puts between himself and the situation, the worse he feels. Jake and Natasha don't seem to having the same issues — they're both in the group chat, sending pictures (Jake, with his tongue out next to a field of horses; Jake, with his tongue out by a fire; Natasha, her middle finger up; Jake, with his tongue out; Jake; Jake; Jake), making jokes, checking in. Bradley had tried to keep up, honestly, he had, but the more they talk the harder it gets.
Sometimes he feels like he's imagined the trip, like everything that's happened that last week was some kind of coma dream. It's not like either Phoenix or Hangman are acknowledging it. They're so normal, it's like they were able to leave everything in Belize.
Bradley hasn't left any of it behind.
Maybe it only meant something to him, Bradley realizes. For them, it was just another post-mission debrief, a way to blow off steam before they had to get back to reality.
"What?" he asks, jolted out of his thoughts by Mav's elbow to his ribs.
"I asked if you had a favorite part."
"Of the trip?" Bradley reaches for a wrench to buy some time. He has a lot of favorite parts, but they're all things he's trying to bury deep in the recesses of his brain. "The beach, I guess." He tightens the bolts on the panel. "Sleeping."
Mav looks at him like he thinks Bradley's still cracked, but he doesn't say anything. How could he? They're both cracked, it's just that Mav's is from being insane about work and Bradley's is from being insane about a couple of people he works with.
**
In between everything else he doesn't have going on, Bradley studiously ignores the fact that he should be packing to get back to Virginia. He didn't bring all that much when he came west — only a couple of bags and whatever free-floating shit he could fit in the Bronco — but it's somehow spilled out across the house, into all the nooks and crannies.
This is what happens when he gets too comfortable.
He should've sold this place ages ago, but doing that would take a lot more work than he's ready for.
**
The notice comes right after Bradley's started shoving everything into his bags again: he's being reassigned. To North Island.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?"
"Probably," Mav says and then lobs him a screwdriver. Bradley's starting to suspect he comes in every night and undoes all their work, just to keep Bradley coming back every day. "You know they like to fuck with your head. It's the only way to keep you in line."
The thing is, Bradley had wanted to get reassigned. There had been an incredibly not-small part of him that was hoping he'd end up at Lemoore, forced to be in the same space as Nat and Jake and everyone else. He has friends at Oceana, sure, but…
He coughs, clearing his head. It's stupid. His whole life is in Virginia Beach. Was in Virginia Beach. Now it's here, apparently.
Bradley has three more weeks of leave left. He supposes he should be glad they told him before he drove clear across the country. Though now he has to find a way to get his shit out here, so. "BOHICA."
Mav hums in agreement.
**
He sees Phoenix in the cereal aisle at Ralph's. It's eleven o'clock on a Tuesday. Bradley has to blink four times before it occurs to him that he's not actually hallucinating.
"What are you doing here?"
She snorts. "Rooster. You look like an entire bag of ass."
He feels like it, too. It's probably why he can't stop himself from blurting out, "Do you want to get lunch?"
She looks at her shopping cart and then at her watch. She doesn't seem excited when she finally shrugs and says, "Sure. Just let me finish this?"
They agree to meet up in an hour at the burger joint down the road. Bradley spends the entire time convinced she won't show, right up until the minute she slides into the booth across from him.
"I was reassigned," she says right off the top. Bradley's stomach plummets. One of the silver linings of getting stuck out here was that it was closer to Lemoore. He'd been trying to think of ways to convince her to let him visit once the dust had settled. If it ever settled.
It feels like it's swirling now, a whole fucking desert storm between them.
When the waitress interrupts, Bradley orders a beer without a second thought. Sure, it's the middle of the day in the middle of the week, but the alternative is crawling out of his skin while he chokes on a glass of ice water.
Nat orders one, too. She's kind enough not to force him to drink alone.
"Where?" he asks, once they're alone. He tries to think of the worst-case scenario. "Bahrain?"
She looks at him like he's an idiot. It's weird how fond it makes him feel. "What? No. Are you serious? I knew you weren't reading your texts."
"Sorry," he says, thinking of the group chat and the number of unread messages that have increased every day. It had slowed, recently, only one or two messages coming in. Bradley had felt relieved when he noticed that. Now he wonders how Hangman reacted to the news, if he was disappointed, too.
"Whatever. I'm used to it." She sounds resigned, exhaling heavily before she says, "Here, Bradshaw. I got reassigned to North Island."
"Oh." His ears are ringing. He looks out the window, watching as cars drive past. He takes a sip of his beer. When he looks back, Natasha is still sitting there, waiting. "Seriously?"
"Why else would I be here?"
"I don't know." He hadn't thought about it. Seeing her was impossible enough.
His honesty makes her laugh. Or maybe it's his idiocy that does it. Who cares, as long as she's laughing, the lines on her face gone soft. For a moment, the dull ache of missing her is replaced by a sharp stab of want.
"I did, too," he says. "Got reassigned. To here."
She stops laughing and stares, disbelieving. "Shut up."
He shrugs.
"Shit."
"I know, right? Found out after I'd started packing, too. Motherfuckers."
She snorts and then their food comes and Bradley feels, for a few minutes at least, steady.
"Hey." Natasha reaches across the table to touch the back of his hand. Probably to shake Bradley out of his trance, but all it does is make him flinch away. He hates that she looks hurt by it.
"Sorry," he says, wishing she'd keep touching him. Wishing he could feel normal about it. "I — " he looks at the table, drawing shapes in the condensation while he considers what he's about to say. If he should say it at all. "I've really missed you."
He keeps his eyes trained on the table until he feels Natasha touch his hand again. "Yeah," she says, her fingertips drumming across his knuckles. "Me too."
Bradley wants to turn his palm over. He wants to hook his ankle around hers. He wants the easy comfort of Belize but he knows it's not something that can exist outside that bubble, so he reaches for his beer and decides to be glad that they're both here, talking.
It's better than nothing.
**
The problem with Phoenix being in town is that she wants to hang out and Bradley can't ignore her the way he can ignore her texts. It's starting to feel like exposure therapy. If he sees her often enough, eventually he'll start feeling less tragic about it.
"I hate this," he says, two miles into a six-mile run. He can't believe he let her talk him into this. He should've pretended he was dead.
"No, you don't," she says.
"I have four weeks of leave left. I should not have to be running."
"Please, you had tequila for lunch every day for three weeks. You should be running twice as much."
Bradley's glad he's behind her so she can't see what his face does or the way he flips her off.
**
"This is bullshit," Natasha says, letting her phone clatter to the table. "I'm gonna be stuck in this roach-ridden base housing forever."
"Stay with me." He wants to stuff the words back in his mouth the second they're out. Natasha stares at him like he's grown a second head.
"Rooster."
He tries not to flinch when she calls him that. He gets it. "Phoenix," he says, in the same tone. "I'm just saying. I have the space and it's quiet and the washing machine hasn't broken in like, six years." He knocks on wood at that, which makes her roll her eyes. "And there are no roaches."
When she doesn't say anything, he drops it and goes back to his eBay search for a belated Christmas present for Mav.
"Is that a good idea?" she asks, after so long that Bradley's nearly forgotten he offered.
"No," Bradley can't keep the doubt out of his voice, "but we're friends, aren't we?"
"Friends." She laughs hollowly. Bradley's heart sits in his throat. This is exactly what he didn't want to happen. Natasha laughs again, quieter this time, and shakes her head. The tiny smile on her face is unrecognizable, but it's something. "I'll do it. For now. Only until I find something else."
Bradley has to cough before his voice is steady enough to say, "Sure."
Natasha chews on her lip. After a minute she meets his gaze. Her voice is quiet when she says, "It won't be the same."
"I know." That's not why he offered. He doesn't expect it to. He doesn't know how it could be.
**
It takes time to learn how to be around each other again, to be friends the way they were. He is determined to get back to that, to be better, but sometimes Bradley will catch her in the early morning light, standing with one foot on top of the other, waiting for her coffee to finish brewing, and he'll be hit with a gust of longing so strong he feels like he can't breathe.
But as the days go by the moments… they don't go away, but they become more bearable. Nat goes to work; Bradley keeps busy. He focuses on the comfort of having someone around all the time. Before, he used to relish the dead silence of home, the way it was so different from being stuck on a carrier. It had always felt like a relief to have the time and space for his thoughts.
But Belize changed him, made him realize how boring it is to be left alone. That there's something to be said for watching TV while someone else reads on the same couch, even if that someone else likes to shove her cold toes under your thigh.
"Are you okay over there?" he asks, shifting to give her more room. She's taking up two-thirds of the couch and grumbling like she wants three-thirds. He wants to strangle her, but lovingly.
"What?" She looks up from her laptop. "Yeah, sorry, it's just work."
"Anything I can help with?" He's got two and a half weeks left. It's starting to feel interminable. He wonders, sometimes, how Hangman's handling it. If he's feeling equally stir-crazy. But Bradley's got enough on his plate here; it's easier if he doesn't reach out. Cleaner. He knows enough about Hangman to assume how it's going.
"It's classified." She smiles sweetly. Bradley narrows his eyes.
"Of course it is," he says and turns the TV up.
**
It's different now, their dynamic. He knows there are things Natasha's holding back — he can feel the way she watches him sometimes, can almost hear the questions she isn't asking — because they're the same things he's keeping for himself. They are careful to maintain the berm between them, a mutually beneficial defense mechanism.
They are so incredibly careful, which is why Bradley doesn't know how he ended up here, in Natasha's bed, sweat cooling on his skin and the sting of her teeth still fresh on his collarbone. He'd known it was a dumb idea to offer to make her a drink after a shitty day instead of dragging her out to the bar, but he'd thought he was smarter than this. Thought he was stronger than this.
He doesn't know why he thought that. History has shown it's categorically not true.
Not that he regrets any of it. It's just… Nat was right when she said it wouldn't be the same.
When he looks over, she's staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. There's a line of red across her chest from his mustache; Bradley can hear Jake in the recesses of his mind, mocking them both for it.
A large part of Bradley is screaming at him to run: get out, get dressed, if you're quick enough, you can pretend this never happened. But that will only put them back at square one, and the terror of that prospect is enough to have him reaching over, linking his fingers through Natasha's.
"Hey," she says, distracted. "Sorry, I…"
"Nah." There's nothing to be sorry for. "I get it."
They lie there in silence, their joined hands rising and falling on Natasha's stomach.
"Have you —" Bradley pauses, second-guessing himself before deciding they're already so beyond the pale what's another few feet, "have you heard from him at all?"
Natasha's answer is immediate. "Not in a couple weeks." She turns to Bradley. "He's such a dick."
It is so far from what he was expecting her to say, he starts laughing. She's right. Hangman's a fucking dick. They should send him a picture right now, it would serve him right.
"Oh my god, get out of my room," she tells him when Bradley says as much. "Don't you think we made enough bad decisions tonight?"
She's laughing though, rolling her eyes like she thinks he's an idiot but she's not mad at him about it.
"I just think," he finds his sweatpants under the comforter and tugs them on, "that if we keep at it, eventually we'll make enough bad decisions that they'll add up to one good one."
"Spoken like a true poli sci major."
**
Bradley may have majored in political science, but he understands the laws of physics. An object at rest will stay at rest.
Things have been strangely better since he and Nat fucked; it's like it was their private experiment and it confirmed their hypothesis that Belize was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and there's no point in trying to replicate it. Bradley still finds her entrancing, still wants to spend as much time with her as he can, still gets the urge to cop a feel when they're both moving around the kitchen, but it's muted now. Surmountable.
They needed the kick to get the ball rolling again.
He suspects Jake, wherever the hell he is, could use the same jumpstart.
It's why Bradley starts texting the group chat again, random things throughout the day. A picture of a dog he saw on his run, a retelling of one of Mav's horror stories from the 90s, dispatches from the grocery store.
The guy in front of me bought a pregnancy test and a snickers. Rough day
He follows that one up five minutes later with:
Just saw him eating the snickers in his car
It's a matter of minutes before Natasha responds, exactly like he knew she would. She can't resist criticizing the actions of random idiots. She comes in hot, with capslock and red-faced emojis, and Bradley laughs every time his phone vibrates the whole ride home. Nat's probably gonna be standing at the front door, ready to yell at him.
When Bradley stops the car, he's got twenty-some-odd texts; most are from Nat, but there are a few reactions from Jake, some emphasizing what Nat said, some liking photos from earlier in the day. He hasn't said anything, but Bradley still decides to consider it progress.
**
Slowly, Jake starts sending his own messages again, making jokes at Bradley's expense, sending pictures of wide open skies and picture-perfect lakes. Once, memorably, he sends a poorly-composed photo of an actual rooster perched on a chicken coop. The bird is secondary, though, because reflected in the mirror hanging from the eave of the coop is one-quarter of Jake's face. Bradley zooms in to confirm that he's laughing hard enough that his eye is a slit. He's got a hat on. Bradley stares for way too long
He responds by disliking the photo and sending the middle finger emoji, like that can disguise the sharp longing he feels looking at it.
Eventually, it will fade into the same eternal flame he's got burning for Natasha, something permanent but manageable.
Until then, they'll muster along, navigating their way to some new steady state. It's like they're all in an adult education class, figuring out how to translate the white-hot fire of what they had into something sustainable. Like they're learning friendship as a second language.
Every step forward is progress, even if Bradley's convinced each one feels like failure.
**
"Hey?" If he sounds confused when he answers Jake's FaceTime, it's because he is. He stops polishing his boots — his leave ends in five days — and asks, "Everything okay?"
"Are you talking to me?" Natasha asks from the doorway.
"Phoenix?"
"Oh shit," Nat says, and suddenly she's leaning into frame, crowding over the arm of the couch and Bradley's back so she can see. She immediately gestures to her own face. "What's all this?"
Jake rubs his palm over the five weeks of beard he's grown. "You like it?" He waggles his eyebrows. Bradley gets distracted by thoughts of beard burn.
"Please." Natasha rolls her eyes. Bradley and Jake make pointed eye contact — that's not a no.
"What's with this?" Jake draws a line back and forth between them. "Shouldn't you be headed back east, Bradshaw?"
"Not anymore." He feels bad, even as Natasha snorts at Jake's surprise. "Apparently I'm staying put."
"Huh." A dozen different looks cross his face, lighting quick, right before looks at Natasha. He lets his eyebrows ask his question for him.
She shrugs. "Rooster's letting me crash with him."
"Is he now?" Jake makes the most infuriating face. "How kind of him."
Bradley rubs his eyelid with his middle finger. Jake laughs. Natasha ignores them both, asking, "What about you, Bagman? What's the occasion?" She makes it sound like she's not as thrilled as Bradley is to be seeing his face right now. He'd believe it if she weren't glued to his back so she could get a better look at Jake on the screen.
"Accident." Jake shrugs. "Bradshaw here answered before I could hang up."
"I figured you needed bail."
"Over FaceTime?" The pitch of Natasha's incredulity is insulting. He elbows her; she elbows him right back, harder. He grunts and Jake laughs.
"Sorry to disappoint. Just a regular ol' fat finger mistake." He shakes his head like he can't believe it. Bradley wants to call him on the Texas twang, the silly-old-me act. But Jake's too fast, steamrolling right along, saying, "Didn't mean to interrupt. I'll let y'all get back to your day."
"It was good to see you," Natasha says before he can end the call. Bradley doesn't imagine the way Jake hesitates.
"Don't be a stranger," he tells him, because We miss you would sound desperate, even if it's the truth. Even if they don't talk about it.
"Yeah, yeah," Jake says. He gets in one last eye roll before he hangs up.
Natasha claps Bradley on the shoulder and leverages herself off the couch, leaving Bradley to wonder what Jake's been up to, if he was imagining the bags under his eyes, if he's as psyched to get back to work on Monday as Bradley is, or if he's disappointed he's going to be at Lemoore all alone.
Or worse, if he's relieved.
**
"Seriously?" Bradley stares at his phone as yet another notification rolls in.
"You started this," Natasha says, sounding torn between laughing and annoyed. "Sending all those pictures of dogs on skateboards until you wore him down."
"It was one dog and one cat." That's only two skateboards and honestly, the cat was insane. He needed to send that picture to someone as proof it had happened.
"And now we're being treated to by-the-minute updates of Hangman's packing process." They both look at their phones when another text comes through, something about how he has too much shit. Bradley doesn't know how. He'd seen all the bags that went with him to Texas. "You'd better not have stolen his shirt again."
"I didn't steal it the first time!"
"Oh, it just accidentally ended up in your bag?"
"Yes!" Bradley's so annoyed he's being accused of theft that he doesn't give a shit they're actually talking about Belize.
"Okay," Natasha snorts like she completely doesn't believe him.
Why is there sand in my bag???? Jake texts.
"Oh my god," Natasha says, her thumbs tapping. Seconds later her message comes through. Please tell me you did laundry between then and now
WTF Phoenix of course I did
That's why I can't figure out where tf the sand is coming from
Natasha wrinkles her nose. "Gross."
Rooster this is your fault Jake sends. Bradley spends the next thirty minutes defending his own honor.
**
Natasha brings home a pizza to celebrate Bradley's last Friday night of leave. To make it an actual celebration, he opens the nicest bottle of red wine that cost under twenty dollars.
"Hey, big spender."
Bradley withholds her glass. "Be nice to me. I haven't worked in months."
She rolls her eyes. "I know they didn't suspend your pay, Bradshaw."
"Yeah, that's why I bought two bottles."
Natasha presses her lips together, swallowing her laugh. Bradley warms to his toes, pleased like he'd cracked her up. He passes her her glass and waits for her to settle on the couch.
"Cheers." They clink glasses.
"Thanks," Bradley says, minutes and half a slice later. "For —" he gestures vaguely, at the pizza and everything beyond it, "all this."
Natasha nods. "Yeah, well, thanks for letting me stay here and… you know."
He can feel her watching him. It makes his skin prickle. Not in a bad way, just… It's noticeable, like everything else. Usually, he only has this level of situational awareness when he's flying.
Oh well. He swallows a mouthful of wine and figures that'll help.
**
"Don't," he struggles against the weight of her arm around his neck, his limbs gone loose with the second bottle of wine.
"Fine," Natasha huffs, her hold slackening, but that's not what he meant.
"Your arms are too short," Bradley manages to get the phone from her hand, "it's gonna look terrible. Here."
He isn't entirely sure why they're taking a selfie, they're dressed like slobs — Nat's shirt is easily two sizes too big, Bradley's is so threadbare it's developing holes — and their mouths are stained purple, both of them flushed and glassy-eyed. On TV, Guy Fieri is eating banh mi in Oklahoma. Nothing about this evening should be memorialized.
"Say cheese," he says anyway, laughing when Nat sticks out her tongue instead. Her face is pressed so close to his he can smell the pepperoni pizza on her breath. He can't tell if the picture comes out blurry or his vision's going. "Send it to me?"
"Yup." Natasha leans into him and Bradley moves to accommodate her, letting her slump against his side. He runs his fingertips through the ends of her ponytail once and then curls his hand into a fist so he won't do it again. From this angle, he can only see the tip of her nose, the dark curl of her eyelashes when she blinks. The jut of her shoulder where the collar of her shirt is gaping. Her bra is purple.
He thought all of this was getting easier, but four glasses of wine and he's right back where he started.
"Look," she says, gesturing to the TV, "he's gonna have to eat around that egg."
Bradley stops staring at her so he can watch Guy suffer. At least that bastard's getting paid for it.
**
He doesn't remember going to bed, but he wakes up in his room, alone, which is a personal victory.
He also feels like death, so. You win some, you lose some.
"You make breakfast," Natasha says, glaring and hoarse and prone on the couch. "I made dinner last night."
"I don't think 'buying a pizza' counts as making dinner."
"I provided dinner," she says, and it sounds so much like Jake that Bradley laughs. It only sounds a little jagged, and he can blame that on the hangover.
"Then I will provide breakfast." He's not cooking when the breakfast burrito place delivers.
He's getting out of the shower, feeling slightly more human, when she bangs on the door to tell him the food's here, and by the time he gets downstairs, she's eating over the sink like a goblin.
"We have plates, you know."
She grunts. Bradley has to reach over her to get his own food. He takes a bite, not bothering with his own plate, and closes his eyes, it tastes so good.
"Right?" she says, her mouth full.
They're still standing there, eating with such terrible manners that Bradley knows his mom is rolling in her grave, when the doorbell rings. They both look around the room like it might be coming from inside the house.
Bradley doesn't remember the last time someone actually rang the bell. Usually, they just leave the food on the welcome mat.
When he doesn't answer fast enough, whoever it is gets annoyed, leaning heavily on the bell.
"Jesus Christ, did you forget to tip the delivery guy or something?" he asks, yanking open the door, burrito still in hand. He stops short when he sees Jake there, in his sunglasses and a white tee. His hair is longer than Bradley's ever seen it.
Bradley is frozen in place. It's only because he's paralyzed that he doesn't drop his breakfast.
"I accept checks, cash, and nontraditional currencies." Jake counts the options on his fingers.
"What, like wampum?" Natasha snorts.
"I was thinking in a different direction, but sure." His smile is so bright Bradley needs sunglasses. He looks good.
"To get a tip you usually have to bring something," Bradley says.
"Am I not enough?" He's still in the doorway, leaning against the jamb like he's holding the whole house up. Like he's a load-bearing part of their lives.
Fuck. That's exactly what he is.
Bradley's brain feels broken.
"What are you doing here?" he asks. It comes out more annoyed than he means.
"Funny, I found out a few weeks back that I, too, got reassigned." He steps over the threshold, inviting himself in. "Sayonara, Lemoore, hello, North Island."
"Seriously?" Natasha sounds as confused as Bradley feels. Good. As long as he's not alone in this one. "And you didn't say?" She socks Jake in the arm and then hugs him. "What the fuck?"
"I had a lot going on, give me a break, Trace." He manages to sound petulant and apologetic at the same time, the words smushed by the way he's speaking directly into the top of her head.
Bradley lets the door swing shut. He should hug Jake, too. He wants to so badly, but he's still holding his burrito.
He walks away, taking his breakfast back to the kitchen. The distance helps. He can hear still hear them talking — about him, clearly, but about Jake's showing up here, and how he found the place, and did Natasha really not know that he was reassigned, too, what kind of bullshit is Cyclone up to — but he tunes it out, tries to take a minute to center himself.
"Got in early this morning, actually," Jake's saying when Bradley reappears. "I thought about coming by before but after that picture you sent I figured it was dicey."
"We went to bed at eleven o'clock!" Bradley says defensively, while his brain trips over itself thinking about why Natasha would send it to Jake in the first place. It definitely wasn't in the group chat.
Jake presses his palms together. "That does not help your defense."
"Alone!" Bradley clarifies.
"And it got worse." He's trying so hard not to laugh. Bradley's wheels are spinning. Jake looks at Natasha. "And you choose to live here?"
"You're choosing to live on base?" she asks, incredulous. Bradley remembers the pictures of roaches and shudders.
"Maybe." Jake shrugs. "I have to see what's around."
"Stay here," Nat says. "With us."
"Here?" He looks doubtful. "With you?"
She nods. "There's enough space."
"It's a three-bedroom," Bradley says. He thinks Jake's face falls, but he might be imagining it.
"You're sure?"
"Yes," Natasha says, but Jake's looking at Bradley. He doesn't move. He doesn't know what else to say. He can't remember the last time he was this close to something that should have been impossible.
Natasha reaches over, pinches Bradley's chin between her fingers, and moves his mouth. "Yes," she says, her voice deep.
It makes both of them laugh, Bradley swatting her hand away and reaching out in the same motion to haul them in, trying his best to get his arms around them both. It won't be the same, he knows nothing will ever come close, but…
"Stay," he says, his mouth against Jake's cheek. He can feel it when he smiles. He wants to press a kiss to his dimple.
"Thank god," Jake says, his breath gusting out. "All my shit's in the car. I didn't want to have to unpack twice because Bradshaw couldn't get with the program."
"Me?" Bradley pulls back, insulted.
"Yeah." Jake is unperturbed, smiling through it all. He is so annoying. Bradley cannot believe how much he likes him and still wants to wipe that grin off his face. "You are the densest motherfucker I've ever met."
Bradley looks at Natasha, hoping for some defense and finding none. "I mean…"
Bradley scoffs. "I can't believe this."
"You can't believe it?" Jake's fingers dig into Bradley's back, keeping him close. Bradley can smell his aftershave. He's still thinking about kissing his dimple. "We're the ones suffering."
Bradley changes course and bites the apple of Jake's cheek instead, drawing a shocked inhale out of him. It's electrifying. "You've never suffered a day in your life."
Jake raises an eyebrow. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish, Bradshaw."
His voice sends a line of heat down Bradley's spine. Natasha's already working her hand up the back of his shirt, the scratch of her nails making him shiver.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, and pulls away from them, heading deeper into the house.
He hopes they'll both follow.