Archive of Our Own

When he shakes Rooster’s hand on the tarmac, the adrenaline is still rushing through his veins.

Having Rooster’s hand in his, warm with life and sweaty beyond belief, the relief mixes with the adrenaline.

Jake feels like every nerve in his body is alight, feeling more alive than he has since his first time in a jet, and so damn glad Bradley’s cheesing it up right in front of him.

So damn glad he took Jake’s hand.

They’re not done — they just bombed an illegal uranium-enrichment plant created by a country labeled as a State of Concern by the U.S. military, and Mav and Rooster just stole one of their F-14s right from under their noses after using their taxiway to get away. A taxiway that the Navy bombed.

Things are so not done.

The flight crews work to refuel the jets, load back up on ammo, and start fixing jet parts that were damaged or worn out during the mission.

While that’s happening, those on the Dagger Squad who were grounded during the mission stand waiting as the next line of defense. Mav, Rooster, Jake, Phoenix, and Bob are led to medical, but are still on call in case Dagger Reserve needs extra air support.

They’re on call for the next few hours, listening to the radios and watching monitors as Dagger Reserve flies circles around the skies to check the perimeter. When no immediate threat or retaliation arises, Cyclone sends off Dagger Line 1 to sleep. 

Jake hardly sees any of Rooster once they’re out of medical, but he notices how, wherever Rooster is, Mav is right there beside him. 

Jake gets a full night’s sleep that night, which means there was no retaliation from their State of Concern. By the time the Daggers get out of bed and into the mess hall for breakfast, the 24 hour watch will have passed. They’re more than likely in the clear, at least from an immediate attack.

Jake spends quite a bit of time staring at the ceiling of his bunk, listening to the soft snores and sounds of breathing of his crewmates around him.

They’re alive — all of them. He was so sure they’d lost Mav, and before Jake could even process the violent feeling of devastation at the news, Rooster was going AWOL and getting shot down, too.

They’d all thought they’d lost two men that afternoon. Jake thought— he thought he’d listened live to Rooster’s death. Losing Mav would have been horrible, but Rooster…

Jake presses his palms to his eyes and digs in.

He and Rooster had never really gotten past their not-breakup after their first go-around at TOPGUN. Fooling around to let off steam, messy feelings that both of them had and neither wanted to act on, hiding behind passionate nights in their on-base housings or quick and dirty hook-ups in bar bathrooms. 

They both knew it would come to an end when they graduated from TOPGUN, but Rooster had been the one to sever it officially. Jake was too afraid. Or maybe too hopeful.

They were both assholes, Rooster too angry and Jake too cocky. The whole friends with benefits thing worked for them. It worked really fucking well. And then it blew up in their faces, like they always knew it would.

Seeing Rooster at the Hard Deck for the first time since then, that fateful night when they were all called back to TOPGUN, had ignited the competitive fire in Jake’s blood that always spurred Rooster on, always led to a frantic make-out session with their hands in their pants like they weren’t twenty-something and decorated Naval lieutenants. 

Jake’s so glad they called the truce right before the mission. If Rooster really had gone down, and he would have died still hating Jake…

He lifts his hands away from his eyes when the dark black void starts to become too colorful with floaters. He blinks his vision back to normal, then slowly turns onto his side, careful not to make too much noise and wake the people around him.

Rooster is two beds down from him, fast asleep. One leg is hanging off the bunk, the other bent at the knee. His mouth is open, snoring away, and he’s got one arm thrown over his face. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths. Only living people breathe. 

Jake can’t believe he almost lost him.

In the bunk below Rooster is Phoenix, flat on her stomach with her arms buried beneath her pillow. Bob is on the lower bunk beside her, and Coyote is on the top bunk above him, right beside Jake. All of them, together. All of them alive.

So he’s not sure why he feels like his chest is caving in.

No one really talks in the mess hall for breakfast. Normally, it’s loud with rancorous laughter and chirping, money on tables for bets made for hops and shouts of indignation over teammate bet betrayals. 

It’s nothing more than a quiet murmur today. Fanboy and Payback are sitting close together near Halo, Yale, Harvard, and the rest of the team that made up Dagger Reserve yesterday. They were probably on shift late into the night, so Dagger Line 1 had time to get some rest. 

They look exhausted from their late night — Halo keeps yawning in four-second intervals, and Payback’s got a thousand-yard stare as he shovels oatmeal into his mouth on autopilot. Omaha and Fritz are lying head-to-shoulder on each other, plates cleaned up in font of them.

Fanboy is half asleep, chin propped up on his hand, but his head is, unknowingly, slowly inching towards his bowl as he drifts closer to unconsciousness. He’ll probably faceplant in the next minute or so if he doesn’t wake up.

Jake considers going over there to save him, but when his eyes fall on Rooster sitting on the other side of the cafeteria, looking more awake than anyone else in the room, Jake feels inexplicably drawn to him, and finds himself approaching the table.

Coyote, who is not sitting at Rooster’s table, raises his eyebrows in silent question. Jake just shrugs at him and plops down right next to Phoenix, across from Rooster.

Phoenix, for her part, doesn’t give him shit for it, and goes back to letting Bob feed her pieces of fruit, her head pillowed on her crossed arms pressed against the table.

Rooster, on the other hand, stares at Jake in surprise. Jake glares at him, daring him to say something. When he doesn’t, Jake goes back to his oatmeal, slowly shoveling in spoonful after spoonful. His arm feels so heavy. He’s not sure he’s ever been this tired in his life.

“Morning,” Rooster says, apparently shaken himself out of his stupor.

Jake rests his creek on his left hand, grumbling back a response that might be in English. Rooster doesn’t take offense, thankfully, and just snickers to himself. After a minute, though, he gets up and leaves the table.

Something in Jake’s chest jolts in panic, and he forces himself to not look back and follow Rooster’s path. Whatever weird feelings the Mission is bringing up again, Jake does not need to feed into it.

Instead, he continues to eat his oatmeal and minds his business. He’s probably just going to see Mav.

Something ugly curls in Jake’s gut.

There’s a small clunk as a mug is set down in front of Jake, right beside his bowl. Jake blinks, then tilts his head up on his hand just a bit to look at who it is.

Rooster.

“His highness hasn’t had his morning coffee,” Rooster says, sitting back down in the seat he’d vacated. He’s smirking a little, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Can’t talk to anyone until after his first cup.”

Jake’s stomach lurches in a way that can only be described as fond. It’s been a quirk Jake’s had since hid very first cup of coffee at fourteen years old. He was never a morning person despite always waking early, and he can never form or comprehend a full sentence until he’s had at least one cup of coffee in his body, if not more.

It’s not a secret, and it’s pretty common in the Navy. But Jake is a grown ass man — a lieutenant, for God’s sake. He can get his own coffee. Rooster and Phoenix never get each other’s food, and he and Coyote sure never did either.

But Rooster remembered Jake’s inability to form sentences in the mornings, so he brought him coffee.

Jake thinks he’s going to vomit.

He takes a few sips, brain working in overdrive to come up with a retort despite the little brain capacity functioning at the moment.

“That includes you,” he mumbles, though doesn’t really mean it, “and your fuckin’ court jester moustache.”

Rooster laughs again, slicing his fork through his pancakes. Jake closes his eyes and lets his laughter wash over him. If he hadn’t been faster yesterday, he might never have heard it again.

Across the room, the sound of Fanboy’s face smacking into his bowl of oatmeal clatters through the cafeteria. The room erupts into laughter, Rooster included. Jake presses the mug to his lips and smiles.

There are no hops or other forms of practice today, as they’re now post-mission, and the flight crew are handling all of the jet tests. 

There are, however, a series of interviews that are mandated by the government that everyone has to go through after a mission. Aside from the reports they have to write, dictating every single second of the Mission, they also have to restate it back to their COs in person.

Jake understands why they have to do it — making sure everything was legal (it was not), everyone did what they were supposed to (they did not), and everyone is telling the truth (they will).

Really, Rooster’s the only one who could end up in big trouble. Mav made a sacrificing play that saved a team member’s life, a move that actually wasn’t illegal, but Rooster going after him meant he refused to comply to a commanding officer’s direct order. That’s a big fuckin’ deal.

Thankfully, Cyclone doesn’t think Rooster will get into much trouble. It saved Maverick’s life and didn’t jeopardize the mission, the safety of the soldiers on the ship, or the safety of the U.S. people, so Cyclone thinks the higher brass will let it slide.

“Nepotism plays a big part in it,” Cyclone had told the team honestly, mostly to reassure them that Rooster would be fine.

Rooster said nothing, but looked pleased, like he was getting by without even a slap on the wrist. Jake forgets that Rooster doesn’t just have ties to Maverick — he’s got ties to almost everyone.

Admiral Kazansky, being the big one, and even though he’s died, that still brings pull. Ron “Slider” Kerner, by default, and anyone else in the brass who flew with Admiral Kazansky or Maverick. Friends of his father, wives of the brass who knew his mother.

Yeah. Rooster could do all but commit a war crime and he’d skate by like nobody’s business.

But interviews take all day, since there’s twelve of them plus Maverick that need to be met with. Jake’s one of the first ones to go, for obvious reasons, so he spends most of the day sleeping and lying around in the lounge room, watching Rooster’s every move.

They’ve got weeks to go before they’re back on solid ground. Jake is itching for a pool cue and a bottle of beer.

Alas, alcohol isn’t allowed on the ship, so when most of the team meets in the lounge after dinner, Jake finds himself nursing a bottle of water like it’s beer.

There’s no pool table, and he doesn’t want to interfere in the game of darts that’s already halfway through, and he needs to do something with his hands.

He feels strange. Unsettled. He doesn’t know why. He’s fine. Rooster and Mav are fine. Phoenix and Bob are fine. Dagger Line 2 is fine. The ship is fine. Everyone and everything is fine.

He feels like his insides are fraying.

He turns to Javy, who’s standing beside him, cheering on Bob who’s neck-in-neck with Halo in darts. He opens his mouth to tell Javy that he’s heading back to his room, but of course, before he can get a word out, Rooster strolls into the lounge with a grin so wide on his face, Jake thinks it might split his head apart.

“That look tells me someone just got off scot-free,” Phoenix says from where she’s sitting on top of the large dining table. Beside her, Yale scoffs.

“We all knew he would,” Yale remarks, good-natured. Rooster winks, so cocky and sure of himself, secure in his title as a military nepo-baby.

Jake wants to climb him like a tree.

Instead, he sinks back into the couch, taking a long sip of his water like it might turn into alcohol if he prays hard enough. (It doesn’t.) There’s a jittery feeling buzzing under his skin, and he can’t figure out why.

Of course, Rooster falls down in the spot next to him, eyes across the room at the game of darts. “Who’s winning?”

It takes Jake a moment to realize that Rooster is talking to him and not Javy. Rooster isn’t looking at him, but he’s leaned his head in just a bit, to talk to Jake.

“Bob, by one point,” he replies when he can find his voice. He swallows thickly, hoping it can’t be heard. “He and Halo knocked out Harvard and Phoenix a while ago.”

Rooster does look at him, then. The attention makes Jake’s hair stand on end, heart kickstarting in his chest. Fuck, fuck, what the fuck. He hasn’t felt like this since… since he first saw Rooster at the Hard Deck all those weeks ago, for the first time in over a year.

“You’re not playing?” Rooster questions, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. 

Jake loves darts almost as much as he loves pool. Really, he loves any chance to show off. Now would be a perfect opportunity to do so, because Jake is fantastic at darts.

But he hasn’t really been able to think straight since he climbed out of the jet yesterday, and he doesn’t want to be responsible for someone on the team taking a dart to the eye.

Jake shrugs. “Not really in the mood.” He scratches at an itch on the edge of his eyebrow. Then at a spot on his ribs.

He still feels a little tired despite a three hour nap today and a full night’s sleep last night. He wants to say it’s the adrenaline from yesterday wearing out his body today. But it’s as much bullshit as it sounds.

Rooster doesn’t say anything. Jake refuses to look at him. He can see Rooster staring at him in his peripherals, so Jake keeps his eyes firmly on Bob and Halo and the dart board. He’s afraid of what Rooster might find if he looks over.

After a few moments, Rooster finally looks away. Jake blows out a long breath, feeling a little dizzy. Was he holding that? Why is his heartbeat going so fast?

“Remember when you won five hundred bucks in a single dart game in our first year at TOPGUN?” Rooster asks.

Jake snorts, feeling his chest loosen a little at the memory. “Hell yeah I do,” he confirms. 

The guy he was competing against was too drunk and too big for his britches for his own good. Two double-or-nothings and an extra hundred in a state of fury left Jake five hundred dollars richer and an even bigger ego than when the night began. “That guy couldn’t shut up to save his life.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Rooster retorts, a wry, teasing smile on his face. “But that’s not the part I’m talking about.”

All of the air leaves Jake’s lungs at once.

Jake had been at the bar with a bunch of the TOPGUN recruits, one of which was Rooster. When Jake had sauntered out of his car, Rooster had followed. It was their cat-and-mouse chase they’d play, back when they were hooking up on the regular.

Jake’s entire body goes hot, and his pants get just a little bit tighter.

What is… is Rooster trying to start something?

Rooster shifts, sliding down the couch just a hair more. His long legs fall open, his right knee bumping into Jake’s left. Ordinarily, Jake would make fun of him being the epitome of manspreading, but it’s so damn hot that he can’t bring himself to comment on it.

Across the room, Halo makes a bullseye and takes the lead. A few of their teammates bang on the tables in excitement. They’ve got a lot of money riding on the outcome, probably.

Jake should go over there. He should integrate himself back into the group, maybe take the spot beside Phoenix and challenge her to a game when Bob and Halo wrap up.

But Jake can feel the warmth radiating off Rooster beside him; that’s how close he is. He can hear Rooster’s steady breathing, see the way his arm comes up to bend behind his head. It makes his shoulders look even broader. 

He tries to tell himself that it’s just Rooster being Rooster, cocksure and confident in everything he does, but there’s a part of his brain lighting up with old memories that makes him think that Rooster is doing this with a purpose.

So Jake stays.

They watch as Bob makes another bullseye. Half the group cheers, and half the group collapses in despair. They each have two darts left.

Jake’s head feels a little fuzzy from Rooster’s proximity. He’s wearing cologne— or maybe it’s aftershave. Whatever it is smells incredible, and it floods Jake’s senses and makes him dizzy. 

“I think Halo’s got this in the bag,” Rooster mumbles conspiratorially. The rumble of his voice, low in Jake’s ear, makes a flood of warmth rush through his body. “What d’you think?”

Jake can’t speak. His mouth has gone dry as the fucking desert. He goes to take another sip of his water, but finds it empty. He bites back a swear and stands abruptly, moving past Rooster a few steps to toss the bottle in the trash can by the doorway. His legs feel a little wobbly, like they’re going to give out at the knees.

For a moment, Jake thinks about booking it back to the bunks; but before he can, a shadow falls over him, and he turns around to find Rooster standing right behind him, barely a foot of space between them. He’s looking at Jake like he’s figured out some sort of puzzle.

“Baby,” Rooster says gently. 

Jake’s entire body locks up, stunned.

They used to do this. Back when they would fool around, they had these little games they’d play. There were three. 

The first was something fiercely competitive. Burning heat, battling to prove who was the better pilot out of the two of them. They’d get fired up all day, sometimes for weeks on end, pushing and pushing until they fell over the edge. Smashing mouths and bloody lips and hard, aggressive fucking that was only saved for when they were on the ground, where they had the bubble of privacy in their houses.

The second was more hate-filled. If his and Rooster’s relationship was hot and cold, it was the cold. Rooster’s infamous anger would meet Jake’s immovable wall of selfishness and pride. Rooster was mean, and Jake fought back. Rooster would spit vile insults that, on a normal day, would have Jake punching him in the face. But in bed, it turned Jake into a dizzy, mouthy brat, and Rooster gave it to him good.

The third was the hot of the hot-and-cold. Jake would never call it soft — they didn’t do that kind of thing. But it was low tones and careful touches, pet names whispered into dark rooms and warm skin. Jake felt small, and Bradley was gentle. The world was reduced to their room, and nothing outside of it could get them. Not in the darkness, with the door locked, with Bradley overtop him.

This was the third.

Bradley wraps his fingers around Jake’s arm, loose and unrestrictive, a single point of contact that has Jake’s blood singing. His body zings like he’s going Mach 10 — pulse ricocheting against his ribs, hands clammy, excitement mingling with the fear in a heady concoction that makes him feel weak and dizzy on his feet.

“Baby,” Bradley says again. 

Jake feels his shoulders slumping, each of his muscles loosening. One word, one single tone of voice, has Jake ready to fall to his knees.

He’s always been willing to follow Bradley, anywhere.

“Bradley,” Jake whispers. 

It’s barely audible over the rancor from their teammates over the dart game. But Bradley must hear it, because a soft smile spreads across his face like butter, and he lifts his free hand to brush his thumb across Jake’s jaw.

“There’s my baby,” Bradley says quietly, still smiling. “You trust me?”

Jake killed someone for this man. There’s no one he trusts more.

He doesn’t say that, of course. So he just nods, and lets Bradley take his hand and gently lead him out of the lounge. Helplessly, Jake looks behind him at the door as it gets smaller and smaller. “What about the others?”

Bradley shushes him softly. “They’re all too busy with the competition to notice,” he assures. “No one saw.” 

Jake wants to argue, but there’s no fight in him. He said that he trusts Bradley, and he meant it. No reason to second guess that now.

“Okay,” Jake says. His skin feels too tight.

He thinks they’re going to their bunks, because that’s where the beds are, but Bradley steers Jake past the door to their rooms and farther down the hall. Jake follows, holding onto Bradley’s hand like it’s the only tether keeping Jake from flying away.

His hand is warm. Alive. Bradley is alive.

They take a left and go down, a little ways more, until they come to a stop outside a room that Jake has never been in. The hallway is a bit wider than the hall outside the bunks, but no fancier than the boring walls that surround the rest of the ship.

“Where are we?” Jake asks. That antsy feeling starts back up in his chest, and he rubs against his sternum absentmindedly.

Bradley slides a key out of his pocket and slips it into the lock, turning the knob open with a single move. “This is Mav’s room,” Bradley answers, leading Jake inside. 

Jake’s eyebrows furrow as he takes in the small but homey room. Despite there being an actual mattress, the blankets and pillows are the same standard issue that the rest of the team has. There’s a small porthole on the far wall, a bedside table with a framed photo of Mav and Bradley when he was a child, and a book with his sunglasses inside as a bookmark.

“Mav?” Jake questions as Bradley shuts the door. And locks it. Jake wants to fight.

“He’s at dinner with the other COs. He won’t be back for a while,” Bradley tells him, walking over. He slides his arms around Jake’s middle from behind, curling his hands together where they rest against the flat of Jake’s pelvis. “It was the only place I knew where we could have some privacy.”

Privacy. Jake’s heart launches itself into his throat. He presses back against Bradley, just a bit. He feels Bradley smile against the side of his neck. 

“Bradley…”

“You haven’t been like this for a while,” Bradley murmurs, pressing his nose into the spot where Jake’s neck meets his shoulder. 

Like this. Vulnerable. Small. Feeling off his tether and needing a grounding touch. Jake’s a damn decorated Naval lieutenant, and he feels ready to fly apart at the seams.

Jake closes his eyes. “You hate me.”

For a moment, Bradley does nothing. Then he takes Jake gently by his arms and spins him around. Jake straightens up, refusing to look as meek as he feels. 

“I do not,” Bradley remarks. 

Which, okay. Hate is a strong word. Their handshake yesterday on the tarmac was enough to tell Jake that Bradley didn’t hate him. Their truce from that afternoon was proof. But still. They haven’t done this since they were in TOPGUN as students. Bradley doesn’t exactly like him.

“You don’t like me,” says Jake.

Bradley’s eyes narrow a little. “I very much do.” Simple as that.

Jake doesn’t know what to say to that.

“You’re an asshole,” Bradley says, which, ouch. Sure, Jake knows, but is now really the best time to mention it? “But you’ve always been an asshole, and I still fucked your pretty hole until you cried back then. Just like I’m gonna do now.”

Jake’s breath hitches. Bradley wraps an arm around Jake’s waist and drags him forward until their bodies are pressed together. Jake puts a hand over Bradley’s heart and feels the steady thump thump thump of a living, breathing person.

“Tell me what’s the matter, baby,” Bradley coos.

Jake closes his eyes. “You’re alive,” he croaks.

It’s not quite what Bradley was asking, but Bradley understands. Of course he does. He’s so good when he’s like this, dripping with confidence and safety, like he can take care of anything. 

“I’m alive,” Bradley agrees, “thanks to you.” He lifts Jake’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You’re so good, baby.”

A breath punches itself out of Jake, and Bradley seals their lips together with a kiss. 

God, Jake hasn’t kissed him in so long. It’s like coming home — his lips are just as soft, his pace just as caring. The only difference is his moustache is much fuller now than it was at TOPGUN. The bristles tickle Jake’s upper lip, but he doesn’t care.

“Let me take care of you,” Bradley asks when they pull away.

Jake is dazed, head fuzzy and light, like it’ll float off his neck at any moment. He stares blearily at Bradley’s lips, wanting them back, and manages a slow nod.

Bradley takes him full-body, hands between his shoulders and at the small of his back, and lays him down on the bed. He has no time to feel weird about being in Maverick’s bed because Bradley leans down and kisses him again, dog tags jingling between them. 

Jake feels himself melting back into the sheets. If he could do one thing for the rest of his life— well, actually, it would be flying. No doubt about it. But if he could only do two things for the rest of his life, it would be flying and kissing Bradley.

Jake’s kissed a lot of people in his life. None of them have ever been as good as Bradley.

When Bradley pulls away, Jake whines in protest, wrenching his eyes open despite the difficulty. The room is dim, and the shadow of Bradley’s form above him, bracketing him in and towering over him, makes Jake’s cock twitch in his pants.

Bradley makes a quiet noise in response to Jake’s whine. “I’ve always loved how vocal you are,” he says, the words hanging between them. 

Jake’s mouthy in bed. He spews lines of filth when he’s with women. He’d snap insults when he and Bradley would go hard at each other, dying for a fight. He’d egg Bradley on sometimes, taking jabs at his ego to get what he wanted — that all you got and getting bored here, Bradshaw.

But when they’re like this, the whole world turns on its head — Jake shuts the fuck up. He struggles with words, or struggles with the strength to say them. But he’s very, very loud.

It always drove Bradley insane.

“What do you say when you want to stop?” Bradley asks.

Jake blinks the fuzz from his vision, trying hard to hone in on Bradley’s words. “Uh,” he bumbles, then remembers, “red.”

Bradley nods. “If you want to slow down?”

Jake knows this. “Yellow.”

“If you’re good to keep going?”

“Green.”

Bradley smiles, warm and proud, and Jake’s chest flutters. “Good boy,” Bradley murmurs, leaning in again. Jake tilts his head up to meet him, capturing his lips again.

Jake will never tire of kissing Bradley. It was one of the best parts of hooking up with him. Jake found himself thinking about kissing Bradley on more than one occasion outside of the bedroom, but he never got to act on it unless they were in one of these gentle moods. They never kissed when they fucked after competition, and the kisses when they had hate sex were too harsh.

This, though — Bradley in control, manipulating Jake’s lips in soft, deep, heady motions — this was the kind of kiss Jake longed for after they broke things off.

“Baby,” Bradley breathes into his mouth. Jake digs his nails into his palms to keep from coming right there.

Bradley smiles against his lips, then pulls away so that he can pull Jake up gently by the arms. He makes quick work of getting off Jake’s shirt and lays him back down, before taking his own off. Their dog tags jangle now that they’re no longer confined behind the fabrics.

Bradley slides off the bed and stands. Jake makes a noise in the back of his throat that Bradley soothes with a quiet shush, thumbing open the button on his pants and shucking them from his legs.

Jake watches from under lidded eyes, cock throbbing as Bradley crawls up the bed, taking back his spot hovering over Jake. Jake’s arms flail weakly as he tries to get his pants off, but Bradley bats his hands away. He undoes Jake’s pants with quick, deft fingers and slides off his pants and underwear in one go, dropping them on the floor somewhere.

“There you are, my handsome boy,” Bradley says. Jake can hear the smile in his voice. 

Jake wraps his legs around Bradley’s waist, pulling him close. “Hurry,” he chokes out, all he can manage with the heavy weight in his brain.

“Shh,” Bradley hushes, bending down to kiss Jake’s sternum, right in the middle. “I told you I’d take care of you.”

There’s a light snick that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. Bradley backs up a bit, letting Jake’s legs fall open around his thighs, and suddenly there’s a cool, wet finger at Jake’s rim.

Instinctively, he tenses. It’s been a while since he’s bottomed. The feeling isn’t foreign, but it is startling. Bradley hums, a low baritone sound that rumbles through him, and he takes Jake’s lips with his own again. His dog tags hang down between them.

Jake presses his mouth upwards, desperate to get drunk on Bradley’s kisses. He doesn’t realize that he’s relaxed a little until Bradley’s finger slips inside him.

Bradley soothes him with gentle nudges of his nose against the line of Jake’s hair on his forehead, lips ghosting over his skin. Jake closes his eyes, moaning as Bradley’s finger starts a steady rhythm.

“There you go,” Bradley says, praise in his voice that washes over Jake like a post-hop shower. He slips in a second finger without warning. When Jake doesn’t tense up, Bradley rewards him with another sweet kiss.

Jake’s legs fall open farther, letting Bradley in. Two fingers press down onto his prostate, and stars light up behind his eyes, pleasure zinging up his body. He moans, a breathless, “Shit,” escaping, then moans louder when Bradley rubs back and forth against the spot.

“Bradley,” Jake says, scarily close to sounding like he’s begging, “c’mon.”

“Almost there, honey,” Bradley assures, probing at Jake’s hole with a third finger before pushing it inside. 

There’s a bit of a burn that Jake winces away. His fingers spread and fan out inside of him, curling and rubbing and driving Jake insane. He works himself into a pant, little “ah”s and moans falling from his lips that Bradley kisses away.

“I’m— I’m good,” Jake chokes out. 

Bradley frowns down at him. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he replies. “Just a little more—”

“Please,” Jake whines, fully begging at this point. He needs Bradley inside him more than he ever has. He needs it, needs to feel it, needs the burn. Needs Bradley holding onto him and making sounds in his ear and breathing heavy and breathing breathing breathing.

Jake must have a look on his face that looks as wild as he feels, because Bradley immediately pulls his fingers out and lines himself up. 

Jake moans in anticipation, the tightness in his chest easing just a little as Bradley’s arms bracket beside Jake’s head, creating a firm, solid wall of muscle. 

“That’s it,” Bradley rumbles, nosing along Jake’s jaw. He lifts his head to meet Jake’s eyes, hands sliding under Jake’s thighs to keep them apart. “Keep your eyes on me, honey.”

The blunt head of Bradley’s cock bumps against Jake’s rim, then carefully slides inside. Jake inhales sharply through his nose, hips tilting upwards as he arches a bit, but he fights against the urge to close his eyes. Bradley told him to look at him.

“Fuck, baby,” Bradley groans. Jake’s mouth falls open when he pushes in to the hilt. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

Jake feels his eyes well up with tears. His chest clenches painfully. He wraps his arms around Bradley’s body, lifting himself up so he can press their naked chests together. He needs to have Bradley close, as close as he can.

“I’ve got you,” Bradley promises, starting up a steady rhythm that has Jake biting his lip to muffle his sounds. “That’s right, baby, that’s right.”

He reaches between them and thumbs Jake’s lips out from between his teeth. “Let me hear you, honey,” he says. “Give it to me good.”

Jake lets out a punched-out moan, wrapping an arm around Bradley’s neck to hold on and keep them flush together. Bradley keeps his right hand braced to the bed, and the other comes up to hold Jake at the small of his back. He thrusts in like that, over and over with deadly precision that has Jake’s head falling back on his shoulders.

“Uhn, fuck, fuck,” Jake moans. He digs his nails into Bradley’s shoulder when Bradley shifts a little to get more force from his thighs, still holding onto Jake, and changes speed. Quick, sharp thrusts become long, hard snaps of his hips.

“Look at you,” Bradley huffs lowly, forehead resting on Jake’s shoulder so he can see down between them. “Just as gorgeous as the last time I had you laid out for me.”

There’s a tell-tale tingle in his nose that has Jake blinking back the tears beading in his eyes. Jake missed this so fucking much. The bitterness that ate away at him when seeing Bradley again at the start of the Mission, that made him mean and cruel and dangerous, is gone. He’s got Bradley here, right here. There’s nothing he wanted more.

Bradley moves again, laying Jake back against the bed, but bearing his weight down. A heady rush floods Jake’s head. He wiggles a hand between their bodies and gets a hand on his leaking cock. Bradley starts back up again with the fast, sharp, hard rhythm that punches little “ah, ah, ah”s out of Jake on every thrust.

Sweat is beading on Bradley’s temples. Jake can see it, and the thin sheen of sweat that glistens over his body. Heavy breathing, low moans, wet where their bodies meet. Bradley’s here. Jake’s got him back.

The thought is too much. 

The tears pour out of his eyes before he can stop them. Jake’s hips twitch on a well-timed thrust that has him crying out. Without thinking, Jake sobs out, “I– I almost lost you.”

Bradley’s hips stutter with a stifled gasp. “I’m right here,” he promises, voice rough like gravel and thick with emotion. “I’m right here, honey.”

Jake makes an ugly noise, curling his legs around Bradley’s waist again. “Show me,” he chokes. “Please, please.”

Bradley tosses his head back, hands sliding up to Jake’s waist to hold him tightly. He sets up a punishing rhythm, one that Jake feels down to the tips of his toes. His entire body is alight, every nerve raw. Pleasure rackets up to Jake’s head with every thrust. 

He feels alive, and Bradley does, too.

Jake’s fingers scrabble for purchase against Bradley’s skin, nails digging in and dragging as he desperately tries to cling on. He doesn’t realize how loud he’s being until Bradley covers his mouth with a broad palm and whispers, “Just a little quieter, baby. Don’t want the brass to hear.”

Jake’s eyes roll into the back of his head. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the feeling of Bradley thrusting in and out of him, body limp as a ragdoll, only held together by Bradley’s hands and his cock. 

The rope in his gut gets tighter, pressure building and building as Bradley nails that perfect spot over and over again. Bradley grunts and moans in his ear, trying hard to keep himself quiet, too. 

“Jake,” Bradley groans like it hurts, and the rope snaps apart. 

White-hot starbursts explode across Jake’s body, and he comes between them. He arches hard, moaning sharply into Bradley’s hand loud enough that he could call it a scream if it wasn’t muffled.

“Oh fuck,” Bradley says sharply, slamming hard once, twice, three times into Jake with a sharp inhale, “fuck, shit,” and follows Jake over the edge. He huffs out a tired moan, pressing his face into Jake’s neck, and stays there for a bit.

Bradley’s hand falls away from his mouth. Jake pants hard, trying to catch his breath, as the rush of warmth and endorphins wash over him. He closes his eyes, leaning more into Bradley’s body, soaking up the afterglow.

Jake must doze off, or maybe he’s just out of it, because the next time he’s aware, there’s something cold wiping him down. Jake makes an unhappy noise, flinching at the coldness, and makes another one when he realizes Bradley is no longer beside him.

“Hang on, you big baby,” Bradley says, fond. “Gotta take care of you, remember?”

He cleans Jake up until he feels squeaky clean, then tosses the wipe in the trash can by the bed. Blessedly, he climbs right back under the covers beside Jake, wrapping him up in his arms and dragging him close.

Jake sighs contentedly, pressing his face against Bradley’s chest. His arms are pinned between them, so Jake sweeps his thumb over one of Bradley’s pecs, copying the rhythm that Bradley is rubbing circles into Jake’s back.

“Back with me?” Bradley asks.

Jake knows he means back to awareness, back from the blank, dizzy space in his head. But for a moment, it sounds like he’s asking— asking that Jake made it back. That he made it back to Bradley.

He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth to keep from saying something stupid, like I’d never forgive myself if I hadn’t made it in time.

Bradley doesn’t say anything, but he’s good. He knows.

“You got us back,” Bradley whispers into Jake’s hair. “You did that.”

There are a lot of things they have to talk about. Legal things. Feelings. Expectations. But for now, Jake is content with laying here, ear pressed up against Bradley’s chest, listening to the steady thump thump thump of Bradley’s living, beating heart.