Work Text:
0800 — PHOENIX’S APARTMENT, WEDNESDAY
Nat was trying to read peacefully, feet up on an ottoman and a mug of coffee steaming on the side table beside her, slowly going cold, when her front door swung open, the knob knocking against the wall with its momentum. She sighed.
“I don’t get him,” Bradley said, swinging the door shut behind him with a kick of his foot.
Nat dropped her book pages-first to her lap, raising her gaze to meet Bradley’s frown.
“What’d he do now?”
Bradley threw up his hands and sank onto the couch beside her, crossing his arms across his chest once he was halfway horizontal into the cushions. “So—”
“How’d you get in anyway?” Nat cut in skeptically, certain beyond doubt that the door had, in fact, been locked. Bradley waved the question off. She closed her book and set it aside before shifting on the couch to face him.
“So I figured he’d kind of chill out after the whole saving-my-life thing, right?” Bradley said. “I mean, I heard from the other pilots who stayed back on deck that he was freaked out when my jet went down, right? He has a heart, somewhere in there?”
“What, you thought he’d be all sunshine and daffodils back on land?” Nat asked.
Bradley scoffed, and fucking sue him if an image of Seresin with a flower in his hair didn’t pop up in his mind’s eye like a botanical jump scare. “Not sunshine and daffodils, but maybe one or the other. I figured we’re all kind of linked by this fucked-up shit now, aren’t we? Thought it’d be more civil after all of that.”
“He’s been seeming pretty civil to me,” Nat said.
Bradley shook his head. “He never drops fucking anything. You know what it was today? My fucking shoes. I have very inoffensive shoes, Phoenix.”
Her eyes dropped to his feet, and her lip curled. “I guess.”
He swung his ankles back and forth, squinting at the sneakers. “They’re inoffensive. They’re fine.”
“Hangman doesn’t think so?”
“No! I mean, it’s like everything I do he has to pick at. Can’t leave anything be. My hair’s wrong, my shirt’s wrong, my fucking choice of Scrabble word is wrong.”
“I hate to ask, but have you met Hangman? Not seeing how this is so shocking.”
“It’s just—it’s driving me crazy, Nat,” Bradley said. He pushed to his feet. Checked his watch. “I gotta go meet Mav for breakfast.”
“Did you stop here on the way to see Mav literally just to break in, complain about Hangman, and leave?” Nat asked. Bradley huffed. “I know you’ve been hung up on him since—”
Bradley scoffed indignantly. He wasn’t hung up on anything. Least of all Jake goddamn Seresin. He was just…frustrated.
“—about 2010, but you could at least get some new material for your status reports, Bradshaw,” she said. Sometimes, Bradley wasn’t sure why he’d chosen her as his go-to confidante. “I want something juicy next time.”
“There’s not going to be anything juicy,” Bradley muttered. He turned to leave, but sighed. “It’d just be nice if he was nice once in a while, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Gotta say, this is a hundred times worse than your horny era,” Nat said, and Bradley stabbed a pointer finger at her.
“There was no horny era,” he said. “And—and I’m not hung up on him. He’s just—”
“‘Aggravating,’” Nat said, yanking the word out of his mouth. “I’ve heard it before. And you definitely are hung up on him. Are, have been, probably always will be. Maybe that’s the real reason his name’s Hang-man. Stringing you along without even realizing he’s doing it.”
“You’re hilarious,” Bradley said, and stepped back outside her apartment into the sunshine. To the side of her door, a patch of buttermilk-yellow flowers bobbed their heads in the breeze, and he scowled.
2300 — THE HARD DECK, FRIDAY
Bradley sighed when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His hair was never the neatest—nothing like Seresin’s ever-perfect coif—but right now it was particularly, aggressively disheveled. He turned the tap and swiped his fingertips under the water. He’d just run his damp fingers through his hair when the bathroom door swung open and Seresin strolled in.
“Bradshaw,” he said, sparing him a brief glance before he made his way over to the urinals. Bradley bit at the inside of his lip and focused on the discordant splay of his hair in the reflection, ignoring the out-of-focus view of Seresin’s broad back behind him in the mirror.
He’d managed about nothing on the hair front by the time Seresin sidled up beside him and started washing his hands at the sink next to him. Bradley smoothed a damp palm across his hair, rolling his eyes when it sprang right back to its original position. Seresin grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and dried his hands matter-of-factly before tossing the towels into the bin by the door. And he just stood there.
Bradley could feel the muscles in his neck starting to tense, now that Seresin was lingering. Bradley pinched one particularly unruly strand of hair and wound it around his finger, watching it recoil from his touch like it was determined to disobey.
“You should leave it,” Seresin said.
Bradley let his hands lower, and he squinted over at Seresin, who had his hip leaned against the sink and was watching him.
“It’s a mess,” Bradley said. Seresin shrugged. “It looks like I’ve been run through a wind tunnel. Or electrocuted.”
He wet his hands again, frowning at his reflection as he considered his next method of attack. He combed his fingers through harder now, tugging into place firmly, and the hair mostly stayed where he put it, slicked back though still stubbornly wavy.
Seresin stepped closer, sliding up behind him. Seresin’s head tipped, his eyes tracing against Bradley’s image in the mirror. He reached up and dug his fingers into Bradley’s hair, and Bradley felt the touch like he’d been dunked in ice water; the feeling shivering down his spine and into his fingertips, which he found he’d curled around the edges of the sink. Seresin still just stared steadily at him in the mirror as his fingers flexed and he ruffled Bradley’s hair back the way it had been—a mess. Bradley swallowed a groan, and Seresin’s hands dropped away.
His hair thoroughly mussed, Bradley ignored his own mottled-pink cheeks in the mirror to stare incredulously at Seresin, who was looking back at Bradley with a small, self-satisfied smile.
“You fucked it all up again,” Bradley said weakly, and Seresin’s eyes went bright, and he leaned closer, his cheek close enough to Bradley’s ear that he could feel the warmth. He could feel a hand against the nape of his neck, and Seresin’s fingers slid up into his hair and tugged slightly, tipping Bradley’s head back and to the side as he took in his handiwork in the mirror.
“It’s a mess,” Bradley said hoarsely.
“I like it that way,” Seresin said. “It looks good.” Then, his hand slid away and he was gone.
The door shutting with a thud was the only sign that he’d ever been there at all and the whole thing wasn’t just a very strange waking dream.
Bradley’s fingers slowly loosened from the porcelain and he shook his head. “What the fuck was that?” he muttered, grabbing a paper towel to dry his damp hands.
If he’d thought his hair looked mussed when he’d first come into the bathroom, this was something else entirely. His hair was worse now; caught in curling strands and patterns that suspiciously resembled a five-finger drag. Never mind the hair, he couldn’t seem to shake the wide-eyed look he was wearing, even when he tried to scowl back at himself. His skin was pink, the blush high on his cheeks, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
Nat was going to pick up on this the moment she saw him. She was going to have a field day.
1800 — JAVY’S APARTMENT, TUESDAY
Leave it to Javy to hang a dartboard in his rental. Leave it to the company he kept to somehow not make a single hole in the wall around said dartboard.
Bradley tossed another dart. He cracked his neck as he walked over to tug his darts out of the board. He was doing fine, but he wasn’t actually competing against anyone. It wasn’t against the rules to have a little warm-up before playing a real game.
“You shouldn’t lean into it so much.”
Bradley snatched the last dart out of the board and turned. Jake was leaning jauntily against the wall.
“I think I’ll be alright,” Bradley said, and he settled back to where he’d been standing and raised a dart.
Hands slid over his arms, and he flinched, instantly feeling blood rush to his face.
Jake tugged him slightly upright and slightly to one side, shifting his left hip closer to the board with a nudge to the back of his leg.
“Like that,” Jake said, and he stepped away, leaving half of Bradley’s body to go warm in the sudden absence.
Bradley threw, and the dart lodged into the wall below the board.
Jake whistled long and slow, and Bradley stalked over to snatch the dart. He ran his thumb over the hole in the plaster, wincing in Javy’s direction, hoping he hadn’t seen. Javy was looking his way with an unimpressed grimace, and Bradley made a face that he hoped said sorry in a way that didn’t imply he’d be doing any caulking to fix the hole.
“Clearly my stance was fine before,” Bradley muttered as he stepped back up beside Jake to throw again.
Jake hummed. “You know, it’s endearing how bad you are at this,” he said as the next dart found its way to the very edge of the board.
“Maybe it’s the six foot menace breathing over my shoulder that’s throwing me off,” Bradley snarked, throwing again.
“In that case, we should play a round,” Jake said, and his hand drifted by Bradley’s side as he squeezed past to go grab the darts Bradley had already thrown.
“No, I, uh, I’m good,” Bradley said, fairly confident he was a few heartbeats from burning up and crumbling to pieces.
“At darts?” Jake asked teasingly. “You usually are.”
“Could you fuck off?” Bradley said, too sharply. Jake blinked, his expression going blank.
“Sorry,” Bradley muttered.
“For what?” Jake said easily.
Bradley tapped the feathers of the darts against his fingertips, held them out for Jake to take. “Got a little too worked up.”
Jake shrugged, and he pulled the darts from Bradley’s hand, his fingers curling around Bradley’s for a beat too long.
“I don’t mind,” Jake said. “Kinda like you when you’re all riled up.”
He brushed a finger beneath Bradley’s chin with a smirk, dropped the darts on the side table by the couch, and he was gone.
Bradley stared after him as Jake walked straight over to Javy, who was leaned against the kitchen counter next to Nat, the two of them looking his way with their heads bent close. Great.
Nat pushed away from the counter and headed his way immediately, and Bradley rolled his eyes.
“Oh, yeah, roll your eyes, tough guy,” Nat said. “I could see you blushing from across the room.”
“Shut up,” Bradley mumbled, retrieving his beer from the small side-table he’d left it on.
“Ooh, Bradshaw, let me just show you how to throw a dart,” Nat said.
“He does not sound like that,” Bradley said, pointing at her.
“Oh, he doesn’t?” she said, leaning closer. “Do tell. Can I get a play-by-play?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Bradley muttered. She pinched his cheek.
1830 — THE BEACH, SATURDAY
Bradley was picking driftwood off the beach, looking for pieces dry enough to add to the fire, when he passed behind the chairs where Bob and Javy sat.
“Don’t take it personally, Bob,” Javy was saying. “You can usually take any negative comment from Jake to mean the opposite. He doesn’t bother picking on people he doesn’t like.”
Bradley frowned and leaned closer, trying to hear clearly over the noise around the bonfire.
“Well—okay,” Bob said.
“You only really have to worry if he says something that seems nice,” Javy said, and he laughed. “If you’re not picking up the sarcasm, it just means you’re not trying hard enough.”
“So if he’s rude, he likes you, if he’s nice, he hates you,” Bob said. “What if he doesn’t say anything at all?”
“Then you bore him,” Javy said. “Hey, I don’t make the rules, I’ve just known him long enough to figure them out.”
“So he actually likes my glasses, is what you’re telling me.”
“Well. I’m saying Jake wouldn’t know sincerity if it came up and bit him on the ass.”
Bradley shook his head and grabbed a chunk of driftwood from the sand. Kept walking.
He’d made it halfway down the beach and started back, seething silently, when a silhouette coming his way materialized into a person. Jake slowed to a stop as Bradley approached, squinting at him.
Jake glanced him up and down. “Nice sweater,” he said. “Not your usual look, Mr. Rogers.”
Bradley sighed, but part of him felt relieved at the jab. “It’s January.”
“It’s also the Cosby show, apparently.”
“Okay, I’ll take Mr. Rogers, but Cosby, really? I didn’t think the sweater was that bad.”
Jake shrugged slightly, smiling faintly. “It’s nice,” Jake said. “I’ve never seen you in a sweater before.”
Jake wandered away, heading over towards the bonfire, and Bradley smoothed a hand down his front. So, Jake clearly fucking hated his guts.
***
The fire was nothing but embers and the wind was blowing hard enough off the water that stray cups were tumbling across the sand. Bradley had spent most of the evening sitting with Bob, trying not to watch Jake but, admittedly, watching Jake. Jake had spent most of the night revolving around the bonfire like a roasted marshmallow or a particularly clingy moon, rotating around the fire depending on what direction the smoke was flowing, but always managing to stand in its glow in a way that made him half gold and half shadow.
“You and Hangman seem like you’re getting along better,” Bob hedged, and Bradley dropped his head to stare at his toes. He’d lost the battle on looking at Jake or thinking about Jake, but he’d done alright on not talking about Jake for the last couple hours.
“I dunno about that,” Bradley said, and a loud laugh from over by the bonfire—or what was left of it—had his gaze lifting again. Jake was crouched over the embers, holding his hands over their glow and grinning up at Coyote, who was in the middle of a story that involved an awful lot of arm-waving.
Even inches from the orange embers, Jake was visibly shivering, his teeth clenched too tight in his smile as he talked up at Coyote and Payback standing over him. Bradley rolled his eyes. He could’ve told him hours ago that wearing short sleeves to a beach at nighttime in January wasn’t a great idea, even in California.
Bob pushed himself to his feet and cracked his neck. “It’s nice, is all,” Bob said. “The two of you getting along a little.”
Bob walked back over to the fire, and Bradley sighed and stood up too, brushing sand off his ass. He turned, headed towards the cooler of beers, and promptly smacked into Jake, whose hands flew up to steady himself against Bradley.
“Fuck, Bradshaw,” Jake muttered, stepping back and crossing his arms tightly, hands clamped around his biceps. “You’re like a space heater.”
“Uh,” Bradley said, glancing down at himself. “Sorry?”
“It’s like, fifty out,” Jake said, scowling. “How are you so warm?” He sighed. “It must be nice.”
“It’s not my fault you’re cold-blooded, Seresin,” Bradley said. Jake huffed and crossed his arms tighter. Bradley followed the movement to the goosebumped skin across Jake’s arms.
“Your fingers are like, blue, man,” Bradley said, and before he could overthink it, he was peeling off his sweater and holding it out. The rush of cold air against his arms actually felt nice.
The sweater hung from his outstretched hand, and Jake stared at it, making no move to take it. Bradley shook it.
“C’mon, you’re bumming me out,” Bradley said. “It’s like one of those PETA commercials when the puppy’s soaking wet sitting in the snow. It’s tragic.”
Jake finally tugged the sweater out of Bradley’s hands and stared at it. His gaze lifted to Bradley’s and he smirked. “I remind you of a puppy?”
“Just put the sweater on, Seresin.”
Jake did, and he looked down at himself with a shake of his head.
“Think it suits you better,” he said, grinning.
He drifted back over to the fire, holding his palms out above it, and Bradley tried to ignore the pang in his chest.
2100—BRADSHAW’S HOUSE, SUNDAY
Bradley was considering turning in early when his doorbell rang. He found Jake standing on the front porch, Bradley’s sweater looped over one arm.
“Oh. Hey,” Bradley said.
“Seemed like a shame to wash it, you know,” Jake said offhandedly, folding the sweater over in his hands before holding it out.
Bradley squinted as he took the sweater. “What?”
Jake smirked and leaned against the doorframe. “Well, it smelled like you before,” he said. “Now it just smells like Tide.”
Bradley sighed and tossed the sweater onto the couch and waved vaguely for Jake to come in, since he clearly wasn’t in a hurry. “I’ll make a note to shower more often,” Bradley said. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate senses next time you get hypothermic.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad smell, Bradshaw,” Jake said, and he peered at the framed photos on the living room wall. He glanced over at Bradley, still smirking.
Bradley snatched the sweater back up to have something to focus on. He pressed it in half between his palms. It did smell like Tide.
When he glanced back up, he found Jake standing just in front of him. His mouth went dry, and he hugged the sweater against himself.
“What?” he said, and Jake shifted closer, leaning in close to the crook of Bradley’s neck. Bradley could feel the warmth of him against the side of his throat, and his shoulder jerked up, closing in the space reflexively. “What are you doing?”
Jake leaned back again, and his hand came up and pressed briefly against Bradley’s chest, the same offhand push he’d done on the carrier after the mission.
“You know what you smell like?” Jake asked, and Bradley reeled back, his ears burning.
“Um,” Bradley choked. “Old Spice?”
“You smell like pine trees,” Jake said, and Bradley made a face. “And vanilla, and salt.”
“What are you, a bloodhound?”
Jake tugged the sweater out of Bradley’s hands and held it to his face. “I’m just saying,” he said. “It’s a shame.”
“You didn’t—you didn’t have to wash it,” Bradley said. “It’s not like you stink or something.”
Jake pressed a hand to his heart. “You think I smell nice, Bradshaw?”
“I didn’t—” Bradley yanked the sweater back and scowled. “I didn’t say that.”
Jake pouted and leaned closer again. “You saying I smell bad?”
“Wha—you—you smell fine,” Bradley protested, and Jake’s mouth quirked to the side, amused.
Bradley’s pulse thudded in his ears and he twisted his fists in the sweater.
“What—what did Nat tell you?” Bradley asked. His breath caught. “Did she—what the fuck, are you screwing with me? Is this a game to you?”
Jake pulled back, his face going uncharacteristically slack. “What?”
“Did she put you on to this? Or—tell you something, and you’re dicking around?”
“What would she have told me?” Jake asked, and Bradley felt his blood pressure rise. Jake shook his head. “it doesn’t matter. Phoenix didn’t tell me anything, what are you even talking about?”
“You,” Bradley said pointedly, gesturing vaguely at him. “You—you’ve been acting weird. All—nice or something. It’s fucking weird.”
Jake blinked. He set his hands on his waist and glanced away, shaking his head again. “I’m going to kill Javy.”
“Javy?”
Jake shot an uneasy glance at him and waved it off. “Nothing to worry yourself about. I know you don’t have much room in that head of yours for any extra thoughts.”
Bradley huffed. At least he was sounding like the usual Hangman for now. Jake was texting someone, and Bradley craned his neck to see Javy’s name across the top.
“What do you mean about killing Javy?” Bradley asked. “What’d he do?”
Jake tilted his phone up until the screen was out of sight, and his mouth pinched.
“Nothing,” Jake said. “He just thought I ought to try being a little nicer.”
“You told Bob he looked like he was dressed for a blind kid’s Bat Mitzvah last night,” Bradley said.
“Not to Bob, moron,” Jake said. “To you.”
“What, because you thought you were hurting my feelings calling me stupid? I don’t think the kettle ever gets offended when the pot calls it black.”
Jake threw his hands up. “I don’t know. Last time I listen to Javy about fucking anything, that’s for sure.”
Bradley tapped his knuckles against his mouth. It was—suspicious. Javy and Nat had gotten plenty close over the last few months. Conspiratorial sort of close. And they’d been doing a lot of weird, whispery talking lately, pulled off to the corner of rooms staring out at the rest of them like they were lab rats.
“Fuck,” Bradley muttered.
Jake hummed questioningly.
“I told Nat that you could—you could stand to be a little nicer,” Bradley said, and Jake’s stare went dry and sardonic. “It was—rhetorical. I didn’t actually…”
“So Phoenix told Javy to tell me to be nicer,” Jake said.
“You’re the one who listened to him for some reason,” Bradley said.
"So you whined to Phoenix about me being too mean, and when I actually started being nicer, you’ve still got a problem?”
“I never had a—a problem,” Bradley protested.
“But you’d rather I continue being an asshole.”
“Well…yeah,” Bradley said, and Jake rolled his eyes. “It’s just—that’s who you are.”
“Gosh, thanks, Bradshaw.”
“No, I’m—I’m trying to pay you a compliment, Seresin,” Bradley said.
“You think calling me an asshole is a compliment?”
“Fuck, I don’t know, man, I’m saying I don’t mind when you’re—you.”
Jake stared.
“I liked you fine the way you were,” Bradley said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“You’d rather I be rude?”
“Well, from what Javy says, you’re only nice to people you hate,” Bradley said, and Jake reached out and tapped the tip of Bradley’s nose.
“I don’t like most people enough to be nice to them when they ask me to,” Jake said. “Or, well, when Javy tells me to ‘just trust him’ and that you’d like me better if I tried being nice.”
Bradley squinted. “Well—Okay. That’s—that’s— But the new—this nice shit is freaking me out.”
“What, you don’t like compliments?”
“It’s stressing me out,” Bradley said. “I turn around and you’re always, like, right there, telling me I have sparkly eyes or something. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
Jake squinted at him. His lips curved faintly. “You do have sparkly eyes, Bradshaw.”
Bradley felt his face go hot, and he tipped his head back to glare at the ceiling and will the blood back out of his cheeks.
“Well, see, Bradshaw, I never get reactions like that when I’m mean to you, you’re just mean back.”
Bradley shook his head. “Don’t start.”
“Why don’t you want me to be nice to you, Bradshaw?” Jake asked, strolling closer, his toes nudging Bradley’s. “It doesn’t seem like you really mind.”
“You’re just doing it so Javy and Nat don’t think you’re an ass,” Bradley said.
“What, you don’t think I mean it?” Jake asked. His lips pursed. “Bradshaw.”
“What?”
“Do you know why Javy knew I would want to know that you wanted me to be nicer to you?”
“I’m not sure I even know what you just said.”
“I like it when you like me, Bradshaw,” Jake said lowly. “If you prefer me mean, I can be as mean as you’d like.”
Bradley wasn’t really sure where this conversation had gone, exactly. How they’d ended up here. Why Jake was leaned in close to him, like he was sharing a secret, and telling him that he would be mean to him, if he wanted. Which—Bradley did, kind of. There was something slightly less too-much about fielding quips and barbs from Jake rather than soft, quick touches and flickering, almost fond eyes. But want... He wasn’t sure where what he wanted ended and what he desired began.
“You blush so pretty when I’m nice to you, though,” Jake said, and Bradley leaned back, thunking his head against the wall.
“Is that why you don’t like me being nice?” Jake asked. “Makes you all…flustered?”
“I’m not—I’m not flustered,” Bradley said.
“Don’t worry,” Jake said. “I like you flustered. It’s not a bad thing.”
“It’s—”
Jake leaned a hand against the wall beside Bradley’s shoulder, and Bradley’s gaze tripped over to follow his forearm to his wrist to his hand and stare there. Was he really—?
“Tell me if I’m wrong, Bradshaw,” Jake said, and Bradley’s breath was fluffy and unwieldy in his lungs.
“Wrong about what?” he managed, and Jake rolled his eyes.
“I know I said I’d be nicer to you, but it’s hard when you’re this thick, Bradshaw,” Jake said. “I’m saying I wanted to be nice to you when Javy suggested it because I like you, Bradley. I like how fucking uptight you are, and I like the way you like attention if it’s from a whole room but hate it when you’re not asking for it, and I like your ugly-ass mustache.”
Bradley could feel the blood rushing in again, pounding in his ears. He was really—
“I especially like how you turn so red right here,” Jake said, a finger running down Bradley’s throat. “I like how you distract me from everything else, even when I should really be paying attention. I like how stubborn you are about what matters to you.”
“You—stop,” Bradley said, his face hot enough to fry an egg, and Jake leaned back, his hand sliding down the wall. “It’s—too much.”
Jake smiled falteringly. “That’s the goal.”
“You hate me,” Bradley said.
“I used to hate how much I thought you hated me,” Jake offered.
“I don’t hate you,” Bradley said faintly.
“I can tell, now,” Jake said. He reached for Bradley, toying fingers through his hair. “You know, if you grew it out just a little, you could put it in pigtails. I could pull ‘em. Be real cliche.”
“You’ve been a cliche since you fell out of the womb, Seresin.”
Jake lowered his hand from Bradley’s hair and shook his head minutely.
“What?”
“You know, I’ve been trying to flirt with you for nearly a decade, Bradshaw,” Jake said gravely, and Bradley’s stomach twisted. Holy shit.
“What,” he said weakly, “by being mean to me?”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Was it working?”
“You know we’re grown men, right?”
“Most grown men would’ve figured out they were being flirted with about…” Jake checked his watch. “...Eight years ago.”
“Is it really on me if your idea of flirting is calling me a bad pilot?”
Jake tapped Bradley’s sternum. “That wasn’t flirting, that was gentle encouragement.”
“Gentle?”
Jake widened his eyes. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “Would you prefer it rough?”
Bradley lifted a hand to shove weakly at Jake’s chest, but his fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt instead.
“You’re not kidding,” Bradley said.
Jake shook his head.
“Not kidding.”
Bradley’s breath hitched. “Holy shit.”
“Holy shit bad or holy shit good?” Jake asked.
Bradley laughed incredulously. “Very good,” he said, and when Jake grinned, he kissed him.
0700 — PHOENIX’S APARTMENT
Nat reached for her phone, thumbing it open to the text notification that had just popped up.
B2: Status report
She replied slowly, still a little bleary-eyed from sleep. I already know about the sweater incident, Bradshaw. I told you I wanted something juicy
She went to set her phone back down when the screen lit up again, with a photo this time. She squinted at it. Rubbed at her eyes. That was definitely Hangman’s big dumb head resting on Bradshaw’s shoulder. Definitely Bradshaw’s ugly navy-blue bed sheets he’d been insisting were a classy color since about 2007. Definitely a massive hickey on Bradshaw’s throat.
Well, hell. She sent a laughing reaction to the image and switched over to her text thread with Javy to debrief. Maybe those two weren’t total morons.