Work Text:
Three Times Ray Almost Tells Brad 'I Love You'
I
"I said pass the popcorn, not throw it at me, fuckhead." There's no way in hell Ray is ever going to figure out where all the pieces of popcorn went. "Dude, you got that shit down my shirt. If I had tits, there'd be popcorn in my cleavage."
Brad hooks a finger in the collar of Ray's shirt and leans over to try to peer down it.
"Hey, hey!" Ray bats Brad's hand away. He presses his own palm flat against the collar of his t-shirt, shooting Brad a mock-scandalized look. "That wasn't an invitation."
Brad looks unimpressed and in no way apologetic. "That's debatable," he says. He moves the excessively large bowl of popcorn he's been balancing on his knee away from Ray when Ray reaches for it. "I can't believe I'm stuck watching Jeopardy! re-runs with your whiskey tango ass on a Friday night."
Ray rolls his eyes and practically climbs into Brad's lap to get to the popcorn bowl. "Don't lie, homes. You fuckin' like my ass," he says and plants a sloppy, noisy kiss on Brad's lips.
The corner of Brad's mouth twitches the slightest bit, so Ray knows he's fighting a smile. "I ought to sell your sorry ass up the river for a fifth of tequila, but I'm not sure that it would garner much interest."
Ray squawks with feigned indignation. "You're such a fucking asshole," he tells him, poking Brad hard in the collarbone. "You know what, you dumb Hebrew motherfucker? You're just goddamn lucky I - " Ray's interrupted when Brad's phone starts lighting up and vibrating, and Brad slaps one of his hands over Ray's mouth so that he can answer it.
Brad doesn't even flinch when Ray starts making out with his hand. "Yeah," he says into the phone. "We'll be there in fifteen." He clicks his phone shut and lets his hand drop away from Ray's mouth. "Come on, we're meeting Poke at the bar."
Ray reluctantly climbs off Brad, resigned to the fact that their quiet night at home is officially over. "Sure."
II
"Don't be such a fucking baby, Bradley."
"Ray, don't - ow!"
Ray rolls his eyes and tightens his grip on Brad's ankle. "Homes, I told you not to walk into the kitchen, but you did it anyway. So quit your fucking bitching and let me get the glass out." He moves the tweezers in his hand closer to Brad's foot, which twitches in his grip. He shoots Brad a dark look. "God, you're worse than your five-year-old niece."
Brad scrunches his nose up and crosses his arms over his chest.
"Yeah, that's mature." Ray can't help but smile a little, because Brad pouting is sort of adorable. "You are the saddest, sorriest motherfucking excuse for a cold-blooded killer I've ever seen," he tells him. "I can't believe they send your pansy ass to battle."
"Stop poking at it and just fucking pull it out."
Ray snorts. "That's what she said."
"Ray."
"Yeah, yeah." Ray makes the mistake of looking up at Brad again. Every muscle in Brad's upper body is tense, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line, but he's watching Ray with such a close, intent stare that it sort of makes Ray's breath catch in his throat. "You know, Brad," he begins, turning his gaze back down to Brad's foot in his lap. "This might sound really motherfucking gay, but I kind of lo - " All of the breath rushes out of him in a completely different way, because Brad jerks violently when he pulls the shard of glass out, and it knocks him clear off his perch on the edge of the coffee table. "Fuck, dude."
Brad's got his ankle propped up on his other knee, pressing a wad of paper towels against the cut on his foot. He manages to at least look a little embarrassed. "Sorry."
Ray rolls his eyes and picks up the small, inch-long shard of glass, depositing it in the ceramic ashtray on the table so that there isn't another incident. "Whatever, you asshat."
Brad snorts a laugh, blue eyes flicking over to him. "What were you gonna say?"
"Nothin'." Ray shrugs his shoulders. "It wasn't important."
III
When Brad is deployed, Ray makes it a point to always answer his phone, especially if it's a number he doesn't recognize. He keeps the ringer on at night so that he'll wake up if it goes off. So when it rings, Ray sticks a finger in one ear and holds his phone up to the other. "Hello?"
"Hi."
Ray's chest tightens at the sound of Brad's voice. He looks up to catch Nate's eye and makes a vague gesture toward the front of the bar, and almost misses Nate's nod because he's already moving. He doesn't need the help of music and the white noise of too many people trying to talk at once drowning Brad out. The fuzzy reception is bad enough. "Hey," he returns.
"Hi," Brad says again, but it sounds different - softer, more fond. "I don't have a lot of time."
Ray can hear the utter exhaustion in Brad's voice, filling every syllable. "I know," he replies, because if Brad manages to call him, it's never more than a handful of minutes long. So Ray doesn't bother asking questions that don't fucking matter. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," Brad says, and then there's a stretch of silence.
Ray just closes his eyes and listens to Brad's breathing on the other end of the line. Just being able to hear that is sort of calming. His stomach is churning and he's glad his eyes are closed because that's probably the only thing keeping him from totally losing it. "Brad, I - "
Brad sighs quietly, interrupting him. "I've got to go."
"Okay. Look, Brad, just." Ray presses the heel of his free hand into his eye, hoping he doesn't sound as upset as he feels. "Be safe."
It almost sounds like Brad laughs. "Of course. I'll be home soon."
Ray tries to swallow. "Brad, before you go," he says quickly, and hears Brad's quiet, "Hm?" "I just wanted to tell you - " Ray's voice cracks and he takes a second to try to pull himself together. "I wanted you to know I lo - " He hears a click, and the silence on the other end changes to the kind that accompanies a dead line. He spends a couple of minutes sitting outside, trying to regain control of himself.
Nate is waiting for him when he finally walks back into the bar, and he extends one of the double shots he's holding. "Brad?"
"Brad," Ray confirms. He knocks the shot back and slams the empty glass on the bar, signaling the bartender for another round.
(And One Time Brad Tells Ray)
IV
Every window in the house is open as Brad makes his way up the sidewalk, and he can hear the music playing at an extremely high volume well before he hits the front door. The door is unlocked, and Brad shuts it quietly behind him, dropping his things in the front hallway. He listens as Bob Marley's "I Shot The Sheriff" slides into "Is This Love" - Ray never listens to an album in the order it's meant to be in. Brad walks slowly through the house toward the open sliding glass door and the small stone patio out back.
Ray's standing on the outer edge of the patio, hip cocked, and his shirtless back to the door. The lawn sprinkler is in the middle of the yard, arcing water across the grass.
Brad can hear him singing along, though it's not with his usual boisterous enthusiasm. It's a soft sound that makes Brad's stomach knot up. He spots a blue cooler next to one of the lawn chairs, which tells him Ray's been out here for a while. "You're getting a sunburn," he says over the music.
Ray startles, though the only outward reaction is the tensing of the muscles in his back, and he turns his head to look at Brad over his shoulder. "Hey."
Brad smiles at the grin that spreads across Ray's face a moment later, when he seems to fully register the fact that Brad's really standing on the porch. "Hi," Brad returns. His eyes track Ray's movements as the other man pulls a second beer out of the cooler. He reaches out when Ray extends it toward him, but he curls his fingers around Ray's wrist instead of the beer, pulling him in close. "I see you didn't kill the lawn this time."
Ray lets himself be pulled into Brad's body, and he laughs. "You bitched nonstop for nearly a week, homes. I didn't want to have to listen to that shit again."
Brad shifts the hand not holding Ray's wrist to the small of Ray's back, resting in the thin layer of sweat collecting on Ray's skin. "Ah, of course." Brad starts to move slowly, smiling when Ray arches his eyebrows. "What?"
"Are you fucking dancing with me, Colbert?" Ray asks. He sounds incredulous, but the expression on his face tells Brad he doesn't mind in the slightest.
"Mm-hm." Brad dips his head to kiss Ray lightly. When he pulls away, he tugs Ray in closer. He presses a kiss to the damp skin just below his ear and starts singing along softly to the music. "I wanna love you - I wanna love and treat you - love and treat you right. I wanna love you every day and every night. We'll be together with the roof right over our heads. We'll share the shelter of my single bed - "
Ray pulls away so that he can look up at him, grinning so widely that Brad thinks his face must be hurting. "Brad," he begins, voice thick with emotion. "You're a horrible singer."
Brad just laughs and palms the back of Ray's neck, kissing him thoroughly.