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Never Work a Day in Your Life

Summary:

Bradley loves his job.

He loves his job. He loves his job. He loves his job.

If he keeps repeating it to himself like a mantra, eventually, it will have to be true.

 

[Art by jayjaythejetplane]

Notes:

ReformedTsundere: I am not a piercer. I have never had a tongue piercing. I did my best. Also this was totally inspired by Jay's amazing art that was incidentally inspired by my feral Tumblr ask.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Bradley loves his job.

He loves his job. He loves his job. He loves his job.

If he keeps repeating it to himself like a mantra, eventually, it will have to be true. Ignore the fact he's been on his feet for the last hour and is battling a perfume-induced headache because a sweet sixteen party has descended onto the parlor like a pack of pink, feral buzzards, smearing the glass cases around his station with overly curious fingers and whining to the two long-suffering adults pulling up the rear, haunted looks in their eyes, their hands unconsciously going to their wallets.

By the time they're all checked out, Bradley has done twelve piercings, repeated the same care instructions as many times, and has allowed himself to be photographed once to the chorus of ear-splitting giggles. The only saving grace is the appropriately large tip he watches the mother of the birthday girl write out, her face a mix of relief with the whole ordeal being over and increasing nausea with each digit penned. He might feel worse for her if it weren't for the crash that punctuates the end of their visit, his display of custom resin gauges tipped onto its side. The clear plastic case has popped open from the impact, spilling roughly forty pieces of jewelry across his station.

"Uh...sorry?"

At least the teenager looks as mortified as the adults do as she and the rest of her flock are ushered out, a crumpled ten-dollar bill thrown on top of the credit card receipt in apology as they all make their escape.

When the front door closes, the loose glass shaking, Bradley finally allows himself to slump, his frown deep and his skull pounding. From behind him, Natasha Trace, friend, co-owner, and the best damn tattoo artist Bradley's ever worked with, doubles over in peeling laughter. He doesn't need to turn to know that she's clutching her stomach, tears probably welling up her eyes as she brays at Bradley's expense.

Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose, sidesteps the mess of his jewelry on his way to his desk, and blindly digs around his messy drawer for a half-full bottle of Midol, Natasha not letting up for a second until he whirls and throws the cap at her, missing by a mile and scowling even harder as she struggles to breathe through her petering giggles.

"Sorry, sorry," Natasha waves a hand in Bradley's direction as he takes three pills dry, clearly not sorry at all. When she finally looks at him, she breaks into another, shorter fit, then forcibly takes a breath, fixing the ring in her nose as she wipes her eyes, smearing the dark liner but not looking worse for it. "Your face, Bradshaw."

Bradley glares harder.

"You wanna help me clean this up?

Before Natasha can answer, the door to the parlor swings open, the cowbell above the entrance clinking, heralding a new arrival. Thankfully, it's just Bob.

Though their receptionist isn't working on what should have been a slow walk-in only Tuesday afternoon, it's not surprising to see him, even less so when Bradley spots the two plastic bags of takeout under his arms and the endearing little smile he shoots Natasha over Bradley's shoulder.

"Well, you know I would..." Natasha sing-songs as she claps Bradley on the shoulder, sliding around him and then around the cashier's desk to meet Bob on the other side. "But," she turns to grin at Bradley, unrepentant, "I just clocked out for lunch."

Bradley loves his job, and he loves his friends. He loves his job, and he loves his friends.

Bob at least looks a little apologetic for Natasha's behavior and his bad timing, though he couldn't have known. It'll have to do.

"Flip the sign on your way out." Bradley waves them off and waits until they're gone before he slumps for a second time, further than before, until he's bent over far enough to rest his head on his arms and heave the hardest sigh he can manage, his chest hurting from the force of it.

There's nothing Bradley would change about his life. Not the half-finished engineering degree, flunking out of flight school, or all the metal stamped through his face. He's found his place in the world, as small and cluttered as it can be sometimes, but it's still his.

That doesn't mean he wouldn't rearrange the order he got here, though. Or the store's policies on group walk-ins.

God, Bradley needs a drink. He settles for tugging his phone out of his back pocket, struggling to swipe in the passcode and not chip his cracked screen even more.

To: Nat

bring me back a monster. full sugar. not that zero bullshit.

No sooner than the little whoosh of his text being sent pings distorted from Bradley's cell does he hear a familiar double-beat vibration and chime from Natasha's workstation. Bradley doesn't want to look. He knows what he'll see, and the willful ignorance is too sweet to let go of right away. Eventually, though, Bradley has to.

No points for him when his eyes swivel in the direction the chime had come from. Right on top of Natasha's rolling cart, next to her clean tattoo gun, Bradley can just make out the cherry-red case of her Android.

"Son of a fucking bitch ." It takes a real effort to not slam his fist on the display case beneath him, but Bradley can't entirely help himself and ends up slapping the still smudgy glass instead, the impact across his palm a pleasant, distracting sting.

What is not pleasant is the reminder that his gauge case is still knocked open, and he's got merchandise to clean up.

Crouching to his knees, Bradley begins systematically picking up the resin jewelry. The gauges had spread like spilled marbles, their light material letting them happily bounce across the store's laminate flooring. There's no doubt in Bradley's mind he'll be writing at least three pairs off entirely, lost forever to the underbelly of cabinets that he has no interest in trying to move.

When he's almost done, two handfuls of gauges collected for future sanitization, he hears the small cowbell above the door go off and rolls his eyes. He doesn't bother getting off the ground as his fingers just curl around the last gauge that found its way under his display case.

"You left your phone next to your gun."

The footsteps that had been growing steadily closer slow to a stop. Bradley hardly notices, slowly inching the gauge closer until he can get his fist around it.

"Not that I'm questioning your authority, but last I checked, my phone's in my back pocket." An unfamiliar voice. Very amused, very male, very not Natasha.

Bradley bites his tongue in his surprise and sits up to look over the counter so quickly that his blood rushes uncomfortably through his head. "And though I'm sure the accent might give you all kinds of misconceptions, I do adhere to all of California's firearms policies."

Blond. Tall. Fit, though Bradley's more or less guessing based on the strong jaw and nice hands, seeing as the guy blinking down at Bradley from behind smart-looking glasses is dressed in a black button-down and a cardigan. He's got a leather satchel over one shoulder, and Bradley will eat the gauge in his hand if the guy's not wearing loafers that match.

There's a little smirk quirking the corner of the man's mouth, and Bradley feels a quick burn of irritation at the expression. It's strong enough that what little good business sense Bradley can usually scrounge up in the face of paying customers decides to fuck right off.

"A regular comedian," he deadpans, dropping the last gauge onto the glass, and lets its one-two bounce mark exactly how unimpressed he is.

That tiny smirk only gets wider, and damn Bradley's brain if his anger doesn't skip right across the metaphorical bridge to where his libido lives just because some hot asshole who sticks out like a sore thumb in Bradley's shop makes 'cocky dickhead' look good.

When the man doesn't say anything, just waits, half-smiling and staring at Bradley with the kind of patience that gets under Bradley's skin, Bradley clears his throat and throws a pointed look toward the door where, as he'd asked Natasha to do, the hours sign is flipped around so that the OPEN faces in.

"Not sure if you saw, but we're closed for lunch."

The man doesn't break eye contact or drop his easy confidence.

"Sorry," he doesn't sound like he is, "guess I must have missed that. Don't suppose I could ask you to work anyway?"

The presumption is almost impressive, so much so that Bradley doesn't immediately throw the guy out on his adult Abercrombie model ass.

Bradley lays his palms flat on the display case, mindful of the loose gauges piled up, and makes an overt show of looking the man up and down, slow but with as flat of an expression as he can manage. He doesn't spot a blot of ink or the glint of a piercing anywhere that's not swathed in clothing. And fuck him if that doesn't make Bradley more curious than mad.

When he finally drags his eyes back up to the man's face, Bradley feels heat splashing up his neck because he's still being watched, the man's blue-green eyes unashamed with their staring.

Bradley's not ignorant of how he looks. He's got an out-of-date mustache, an unkempt mullet growing curly just past his ears, the same ears that have bars, and hoops, and studs up and down both shells. There's enough metal in Bradley's face alone, what with the multiple eyebrow piercings, the stud in his nostril, and his labret, that going through metal detectors is a process, and that's not even starting on his fashion sense (or lack of one) and all the tattoos it shows off. But Bradley also knows he looks good, that he keeps clean and keeps in shape, that Natasha, who's been inking him since their apprenticeships almost a decade ago, does good fucking work. The real question is whether the man is staring because he doesn't know what else to do or because he likes it.

That curiosity is going to be Bradley's excuse for why a denial of service isn't the next thing out of his mouth.

"What were you wanting to get done? Our tattoo artist won't be back for at least another half hour." It's not an agreement, but going by the dialed-up brightness on the blond's face, it's as good as one.

"Well, then I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're the man I was hoping to see when I walked in."

Bradley hopes the mood lighting of the parlor helps tamp down on some of the color burning his traitor of a face because the man speaks a little like he's flirting and a little like he's being sincere. Bradley feels the words like an overly friendly touch he wouldn't mind experiencing a hundred more times.

"You're making a lot of assumptions. I could be a receptionist, and like I said, technically, we're closed."

"I'm a decent betting man," the blond shrugs, not deterred in the slightest, "and ten to one tells me you've done at least half the work on that pretty face of yours."

Bradley's stomach flips, but he forces his mouth to stay flat despite how he can feel his splotchy flush working double time to give him away.

"Does this kind of sweet talk usually get you what you want?"

"Not sure, you'll have to tell me."

Fuck Bradley sideways. It's not not working, and he hates himself for it, just a little.

"You still haven't told me what you're actually looking for." Bradley grabs for anything to draw out the fact he's going to give in and knows it. This guy is hot and wants to pay Bradley to put a hole somewhere through his body. He'd like to see anyone else do a better job resisting.

The man grins like he knows he's got Bradley's number, dead to fucking rights. Then, because, of course, this is Bradley's life, the guy sticks out his tongue and points at it, like Bradley's not smart enough to figure the implication all on his own.

Bradley swallows, the motion catching halfway down his throat; his fingers twitch where they're still splayed on the counter.

"I'll have to check your anatomy," Bradley says automatically once he can manage, internally wincing after the fact. There's avoiding the setup, and though Bradley's known this guy for a total of five minutes flat, he doesn't miss a beat.

"Sure you do."

"Christ," Bradley fights not to groan aloud, " do you want this piercing or not?"

The man raises his hands in surrender, and Bradley huffs out a breath, turning to grab one of the consent forms from the stack he keeps by his pricing chart.

"Fill this out."

The paper is taken from him, and Bradley thinks he'll have at least a couple of minutes to get his defenses back up. Only the guy looks up from the sheet just before Bradley can pretend to be busy a few feet away and asks a little mirthfully, "Thought you needed to check out my anatomy first?"

If Bradley bites his tongue any harder, he's going to have his own new piercing to fit metal through.

"I'm sure your's'll be just fine."

The blond smiles, clearly pleased with having won, and then fishes a pen from his satchel like Bradley doesn't have a solo cup full of cheap ones for him to use. The motion flips the bag around just enough that Bradley catches the flash of a badge in a clear plastic holder clipped just below the body strap. Bradley recognizes the USC logo on the badge reel and manages to read the Faculty/Staff at the bottom before it's gone again.

When Bradley snags the corner of the filled-out consent form with a single finger and slides it back toward himself, he sees in neatly printed script 'Jake Seresin' at the bottom, the signature a mess of too many loops for a name without any Os.

"I'm gonna need to scan your ID, but you can go and have a seat while I do it." Bradley nods toward his workstation and takes the plastic card from Jake when it's handed over to him.

Bradley is unsurprised that by the time he's finished scanning the ID and the consent form into his files Jake hasn't actually sat down while waiting, but is instead poking his nose around Bradley's area. His hands, Bradley is happy to see, are clasped behind his back, though.

At least that's one less mess waiting to happen.

Jake is looking at Bradley's piercing license, and when he notices Bradley's approach, accepting the card Bradley hands back to him, he lets out a tiny laugh, straightening up and going to the chair like Bradley asked him to do. Bradley raises an eyebrow at him, too curious for his own good, as he goes to get his box of gloves and his rollcart.

"What?"

Jake shrugs, hopping up effortlessly onto Bradley's chair, legs splayed like a too-good invitation, dark jeans hugging solid thighs.

"Just trying to figure out if your parents were comedy geniuses or cruel. Name like Bradley Bradshaw, must'a been hell growing up."

Bradley snorts and shakes his head, sliding over to where he keeps his tools, grabbing everything he'll need to load up his tray before saying over his shoulder, "Well, I'd ask them for you if either of them were still alive. Guess we'll just never know."

Without missing a beat and not sounding too pitying, Jake hums a soft "Shame," and Bradley kind of loves him for it. In the way one can love a stranger for knowing when and when not to be overly sympathetic. Bradley's been on the wrong end of too much of that kind of smothering understanding enough times that even a hint tends to grate on him, so Jake's easy mirroring of Bradley's nonchalance, given the subject matter, is refreshing.

Bradley situates himself and his cart in front of Jake, mindful not to get any closer than strictly necessary, and with a measured breath, as neutrally as he can, says, "I'm gonna need you to stick your tongue out as far as you can for me, then curl it back and hold it with your top teeth so I can check the arteries."

Given that Jake's been nothing but a cocky flirt, Bradley's a little surprised that his instructions are followed without showmanship, slow enough that Bradley sees what he needs to. Bradley thinks, just for the briefest of seconds while double checking that there won't be a risk of piercing through anything vital, that his comment about Jake flirting to just get what he'd wanted hadn't been too far off, but it lasts only long enough for Jake to relax when Bradley tells him he can.

"So, how's it looking? Good?" All open, unrepentant innuendo.

The image that 'good' and Jake's tongue make has Bradley hot under the loose collar of his tank top. He'd probably feel worse if Jake didn't look so smug about it. Maybe Jake gets off on harassing unsuspecting piercers. Before Bradley can ask about that or anything else that might get Jake off, he grabs the ready-made pack of toothpaste capsule, cheap toothbrush, floss pick, and a shot of mouthwash, pushing it into Jake's chest.

"At least a minute for each. Bathroom's the door between stations."

Bradley relishes in the few minutes of silence he gets while Jake cleans his mouth and uses the time to remind himself that he is a goddamn professional and that as much as it seems he's being welcomed to do so, flirting with a client is not appropriate. Others in his line of work might not be so uptight about similar situations, but Bradley's mom had broken her back in customer service, shared 'funny' stories about the men who'd invited her out on the town, and even as young as Bradley had been when he'd first heard them, it had never sat right with him. The roles might be reversed, and Bradley might not mind all that much, but he can feel the ghost of Carol Bradshaw over his shoulder, reminding him to be mindful.

Jake walks out of the bathroom looking like a Colgate commercial just as Bradley's snapping on a new pair of gloves, and that better part of his brain throwing around words like 'unethical' and 'ammunition for Natasha to mock you later' gets real quiet. He'll say an extra prayer to his mom for being a bad son later.

Still, Bradley's got a job to do, and the shop won't be closed for lunch indefinitely, so he nods Jake back to the chair and grabs his caliper, holding it up. "I'm gonna measure and mark the placement."

Jake, getting comfortable again on the chair and without being prompted, opens his lips and lets his tongue lull out, keeping it still with kind consideration as Bradley brings up his tool and surgical pen. He does his work carefully and competently, trying his hardest not to imagine what it might look like to put other things on and around Jake Seresin's tongue.

Thankfully, it only takes the one go for Jake to be happy with Bradley's placement. Bradley had half-expected him to drag out the process a little more, just to drive Bradley up the wall, but all he does is make a couple of silly faces in the mirror that Bradley hands him and then waggles his tongue a bit when he catches Bradley looking, eyes gleaming and amused.

Bradley almost smiles but stops himself just before he can. He has a bit of dignity to hold on to, after all.

"You want the care lecture now or after? Because once this needle," Bradley picks up his cannula needle for emphasis, "goes in. I get paid either way."

Jake makes a show of rolling his eyes, his perpetual smirk still infuriatingly attractive.

"We can save it for the afterglow. This ain't my first rodeo." And doesn't that just inspire some questions Bradley really can't ask unprompted?

"Suit yourself," Bradley says, a bit choked, fighting to keep his tone nonplussed as he picks up his sterile forceps and steps in between Jake's legs, adjusting the height of the chair just enough that he can line his tool up with the mark made on the underside of Jake's tongue.

Bradley takes a steadying breath and notices, as he carefully brings the needle close, that Jake does the same.

"That's good," Bradley mutters without thinking, eyes narrowing in on his target, his hands as steady as they've always been, "you take a nice deep breath for me and let it out real slow."

Bradley lets everything that isn't his job fall away as much as he can, the heat of Jake's legs on either side of him, the way Jake's eyes look bright and focused just behind his glasses as he looks up at Bradley; he zones it all out. He feels Jake inhale and shifts with the minute motion of Jake's shoulders rising on the outskirts of Bradley's periphery. When Jake lets out the breath, Bradley feeling the damp heat of it against his gloved fingers, he presses the needle through in one, smooth push, ignoring Jake's tiny jolt and the sound that's stopped short in his throat by a click- a gasp of pain, maybe a moan.

Bradley removes the needle just as steadily, the plastic sheath in place to insert the titanium body of the piercing seconds later. Once that's done, he withdraws the small tube and the forceps, eyes never leaving Jake's tongue, hardly even blinking, as he grabs the tiny metal ball blindly and screws it carefully into the end of the jewelry.

The process takes all of two minutes, but by the end of it, Bradley feels a bit like he's buzzing, as if some of the residual shock response Jake's likely experiencing has rubbed off on him.

"How's that feel?" Bradley asks, doing his best to look at Jake's piercing with his eyes and not his hands, only risking looking away once he's positive he hasn't done any damage, "Feel alright?"

Jake's cheeks are flushed from pain or something else, Bradley doesn't know which, but it makes an already pretty picture damn near perfect. He has to step back, snapping off his gloves and throwing them away as an excuse to make his hasty retreat look more natural than it feels.

"Feels about as good as getting a hole punched through you can," Jake says, the sounds already starting to slur from his tongue swelling. It makes his soft southern accent a little more pronounced, a little more endearing. A lot more like something Bradley doesn't need to be thinking about now that their interaction is almost done. He doesn't bother mentioning that for some people, getting that hole punched can feel pretty damn sublime.

Bradley busies himself by cleaning up his rolling tray and rattling off the care instructions as succinctly as he can, letting Jake take a minute to adjust to the piercing and steady himself if he needs it. When Bradley finishes, no more excuses to keep his eyes to himself or his attention off of Jake, Jake looks as cool and collected as he did when he walked in. It's another check in the 'this is not how a man who looks like that should be acting' collum of Bradley's mental checklist.

"Any questions?"

Jake smiles. Bradley sees the smallest peak of the bar, and his pulse jumps.

"You prefer cash or card?"

Bradley leads Jake back to the cash register, taking the six twenty-dollar bills Jake offers him. It's absurd (Bradley can't remember the last time someone handed him paper money that wasn't just a tip), but of all the other absurdity Bradley thinks he's been subjected to over his workday, it's the least questionable, so he rings Jake up without comment, and only blinks a little dumbly when Jake tells him to keep the change. Bradley's not usually one to second-guess tips over thirty percent, but when they start creeping closer to forty, he hesitates (and carefully runs the bills over his forgery pad just to check).

"For the trouble," Jake reassures, like he knows what Bradley's thinking. Bradley has half a mind to tell Jake there hadn't been trouble at all, maybe let his eyes get a little droopy the way Natasha enjoys mocking, calling it Bradley's personal version of batting his eyelashes and twirling his hair. But he thinks about the fact that Jake's going to be flatlining off the good endorphins pretty soon, and Natasha is bound to show up eventually, get one hint of tension in the air, and absolutely take the opportunity to expose Bradley for the rat-man he, unfortunately, can be. Not optimal.

"You're gonna have to come back in a week to get it sized down unless you're a fan of talking funny longer than necessary." Bradley passes over the redundant care brochure and a little bottle of mouthwash, because he's a flirt in his own way, and when Jake takes them from him, there's no mistaking how intentionally he slides his and Bradley's fingers together, dragging out the shivering point of contact for as long as he can.

"Lookin' forward to it."

Each word flashes Bradley with the evidence of his handiwork, a tantalizing tease of dark metal and hot pink tongue. Bradley has a wild urge to stick his fingers into Jake's mouth, press his thumb to the side of the bar through Jake's tongue, and see how it moves. He sticks his hands in his ripped jeans instead, letting Jake's hand fall away from him.

"Yeah. Same."

Jake smiles as he moves away from the counter, walking backward like he wants to keep looking at Bradley just a bit longer; then, when Jake gets halfway toward the door, he winks and pivots on his heel, satchel bag slapping against his hip.

Bradley watches Jake leave, eyes lower than is probably appropriate, and doesn't think he imagines the extra bit of swagger in the other man's strut.

When Jake's on the other side of the glass, then entirely out of sight, Bradley, in a reflection of how he was roughly half an hour before, drops his forearms on the register desk and buries his head in them. He'll be thinking about those eyes behind clean-cut frames, a cardigan that has no place in a ratty parlor like this, and a smirk that could cut right through him every day leading up to when Jake inevitably has to come back. And he'll suffer each one because he's an idiot who sticks up where he's comfortable, even in the face of what had to be a sure thing.

The door jangles open, and Bradley doesn't bother standing up to see who it is.

"Are you still moping over those kids?"

Bradley makes a noise that could be likened to a dying goose and points half-heartedly toward Natasha's station.

"You left your phone next to your gun."

Natasha hums a little "huh" and bypasses Bradley's one-man pity party. For a blessed moment, everything in the shop is quiet, even Natasha getting her stuff set back up for whatever customers the rest of their shift will bring in. Then, she makes another thoughtful sound and calls out across the room.

"Hey, did you take someone while I was gone? There was this guy in the lot when I was walking back. He looked pretty... interesting."

It's clear from how Natasha says it that she means a different word entirely.

Bradley muffles a groan with his arm.

He loves his job. He loves his job. He loves his job.

Notes:

ReformedTsundere: Come check me out over at Film-In-My-Soul over on Tumblr!

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