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It happens under the sun. Not in a dark corner of the Hard Deck, not behind a closed door, not even in the mouth of a secret where they would be the only ones standing - it happens under the sun, between laughter and football and sticky wet sand.
The team is enjoying the last days of a hot and extraordinary summer. Rooster's just shouted to anyone who wants to follow him that they should catch Maverick and throw him into the sea - you know, just to try. Of course, Coyote and Fanboy are now running after their captain who's way too fast for his age - Phoenix cheers for them, and Hondo gets loud, thrilled to see his friend getting chased by younger studs who are dying to make him pay for his atrocious flying lessons. Payback simply lays on his back, laughing and watching.
And Hangman is about to follow Rooster and the others; sticking his tongue between his teeth and readjusting his sunglasses, he's ready to go. Yet, he doesn't.
A hand gently finds its way to his, barely touching, not holding him back at all. It's a timid thing, a soft thing - and he looks down, his jaw hanging low, for what he sees then are Bob's fingers shyly entwining themselves to his. The pale skin seems even lighter against his, which is tanned and rough. He knows he has calloused hands, palms a little too dry. He knows a lot of things - mostly that everything that he is made of is the complete opposite of what makes Bob, and that the simple sight of their joined hands shouldn't - couldn't possibly - be a nice thing.
And yet, here they are.
Looking up, his breath catches as he sees Bob's joyful grin, and the man's stupidly cute face watching the guys running in the waves like unsupervised kids on a week-end.
It's been two weeks now that Hangman's trying to make it up to Bob for being such a shitty colleague. The mission put everyone's perspective back into place, and Hangman's has been the hardest hit. Oh, he's still an asshole - but he's putting heart into it now, not ego or poison. Just heart.
And he's been giving a little more of that to one person in particular. Baby-On-Board deserves heart.
And Baby-On-Board is holding his hand right now, as if he's finally given in and has seen that Hangman's not playing anymore.
Hangman stares at the lovely idiot with sweaty curls perking up on his forehead and frankly, he hates the guy's t-shirt. It looks like an ugly reflective jacket and all, but the guy in it? Fuck, is he pretty.
And so, it happens under the sun.
Hangman's fingers twitch then hold on to Bob's more firmly, which draws the nerd's attention to their hands. There's a slight but fucking lovely blush spreading onto his cheeks and down his neck - and the last straw of Hangman's self-control snatches.
He smoothly turns around, getting closer and would you look at that, that's a pink Bob now gazing into his eyes -
His free hand reaches up to cup Bob's cheek. Panicky eyes flutter behind their pair of glasses but Hangman asks them a silent question they definitely don't say no to - Bob barely nods in acknowledgement, lips parted. And Hangman leans in, catches them between his. He swallows Bob's gasp and relieves in the man's other hand now grasping his t-shirt and clutching it over his chest.
What do we have here - a desperate, pretty man?
Bob all but throws himself at Hangman after a handful of seconds, dropping his hand to run it through Hangman's short hair, ever so gently pulling, which tears a deep moan from Jake's throat. My, my - Hangman briefly thinks of spending a night with this man in his sheets, and maybe, just maybe, will it be even more interesting than what he's thought about so far.
Breathless, Bob pants against his mouth - and Jake notices how much he's missed air himself, gasping and shaking slightly as his second hand comes up to hold the other side of Bob's face. Sparkly blue eyes and glistening pink lips - what a sight. A very small whine escapes Bob, but it makes Jake's entire body quake.
"M'sorry," Hangman's whispers against the corner of his mouth. "Didn't mean to get your knickers in a twist, Sir."
Bob chuckles, lips hovering on his and looking up, eyes unfocused yet wide-awake.
"And yet, you always manage," he whispers back.
Oh, the cheeky bastard. Jake grins - that's right, baby. And as he leans in again to kiss the hell out of this man, he hears the team cheer for them. Yeah - everything feels so much better when you give it a little heart. Or, in his case, the whole muscle and its arteries. He shouldn't, it's a dangerous affair, but he can't bring himself to care - Bob is the safest place his heart could have ever found.