Chapter Text
The bell above the door jingled, alerting Bradley that someone had entered the shop. He ducked out of the back room to find two brick walls worth of men shutting the door behind them. Sighing a little at the intrusion, despite it still being opening hours, Bradley took up position behind the counter and pasted on his best customer service smile.
"Hey man." One of them, a tall, Asian guy, approached Bradley whilst the other wandered over to the display wall to check out some of the designs. "Any chance you take walk-ins?"
Bradley felt his face twist as he prepared his standard apology spiel when display wall guy turned to join them and he just about swallowed his tongue. Never in his life before had he met someone so physically perfect. It was actually kind of unfair. A godlike Adonis of a man stood before him, all tanned skin and blond haired, with an excess of well-defined muscles that looked to have been genuinely developed from hard work rather than for the aesthetic, and he was supposed to just accept this? By the time he reached the counter Bradley had barely recovered enough to realise he'd never answered the first guy's question.
"Please tell me you got lucky here Fritz, I'm not traipsing around looking for another shop with you." His voice was smooth, with a slight southern twang that made Bradley want to melt into a puddle.
Fritz glared at him, breathing out an exasperated sigh before turning back to Bradley. "Help me out? Hangman here's gonna go spare if I eat into much more of his precious free time."
Bradley, who was still very much trying not to react to the idea of Adonis (otherwise apparently known as Hangman, which... interesting nickname?) getting lucky, smiled in a more genuine way this time. His boss would curse him for breaking policy, but no way were they leaving if Bradley had any choice in the matter.
"Well, we don't usually take walk-ins," he paused just for the sake of seeing Fritz deflate and Hangman look irritated, "but my four o'clock did cancel and I have nothing better to do, so sure." He looked Hangman dead in the eye before adding, "I'd hate for anyone's time to be wasted."
Almost preening under the weight of his stare, Bradley watched as Hangman looked him up and down and was rewarded with a darkening of eyes that told him the interest was at least somewhat mutual. Fritz, whether through obliviousness or long-suffering patience, didn't comment on the extended eye contact.
"So, what are we doing today?" Bradley asked, trying his best to address his question towards Fritz, the actual customer he would be working with.
His effort was wasted when Hangman cut in as he patted his friend's back. "Oh, Fritzy here just wants to fulfil military cliché number one."
"Fuck off, Phoenix said you have to be supportive."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Fritz didn't dignify that with a response (though the interaction did make Bradley revise his initial assumption that they were friends) as he pulled his wallet out the back pocket of his jeans and extracted a folded piece of paper from it which he opened onto the counter for Bradley to see.
It was a sketch of aviator wings with a date from a few years ago listed underneath. Nothing awful or gaudy, but, as Hangman had pointed out, absolutely a cliché. Especially in Fightertown, and especially when the shop was located so close to the naval base and air strip. Bradley could practically trace the shape of the wings with his eyes closed from the sheer the number of times he had tattooed this type of design onto someone's skin. Not that he would be telling Fritz that. The customer was always original and interesting and all that jazz. From the way Hangman smirked at him when he looked up however, he guessed his attempt at a positive reaction wasn’t fooling everyone.
“Fighter pilots?”
“That obvious?” Fritz asked, his pride over his chosen profession showing through.
“Nah, just more familiar with the navy than you might’ve guessed.” He filed away the spark of interest in Hangman’s gaze, aiming for suave and mysterious as he tried to be professional in his workplace. "Where do you want it? And how big?"
God, the slight innuendo behind the questions only occurred to him when Hangman's grin somehow grew more suggestive. Thankfully however, he refrained from commenting, moving instead to lean against the counter, his attention drawn to the jewellery displayed beneath the glass while Bradley and Fritz discussed logistics. It took every ounce of willpower Bradley had to stay present in the conversation with the way Hangman's biceps bulged when he rested his weight on his forearms.
Somehow Bradley managed to be a good employee as he whipped together a design on his tablet, incorporating the finer details Fritz specified with his own spin on the artwork. It might not be the most unique piece in the world, but Bradley was good at what he did and he'd never stoop so low as to mark someone else's skin with something he wasn't proud to claim as his own. Template printed and ready to be turned into a transfer, he handed over a pile of forms for Fritz to complete.
"You can fill those in over there," he said, dropping a pen on the counter as he nodded at the threadbare armchairs shoved into the corner by the door as a pseudo waiting area. "I'm just gonna set up out back so I'll be a couple minutes."
He didn't wait for any kind of acknowledgement, but did feel a set of eyes on him as he walked away, and might have sashayed his hips just a little bit to ensure that whoever was watching (Hangman, he hoped it was Hangman) enjoyed the show.
"So," the voice made Bradley jump as he pulled equipment out of the cupboard and went about setting up his station. He hadn't expected to be followed, but was unsurprised by how pleased he felt about it. "Am I allowed to ask about the artist's tattoos is that some kind of faux pas I don't know about?"
"More importantly, what made you think you're allowed back here?"
Hangman's grin was wolfish as he leant against the doorjamb. "Please, this is far more interesting than watching Fritz try and remember how to spell his own name."
Bradley just raised an eyebrow and started his disinfection routine, maybe stretching more than necessary when it came time to cover the leather chair with a disposable paper cover.
Sue him, he liked the attention he was getting.
"Seriously though, will you tell me about them?"
It felt like a genuine question, but it was a bit much for Bradley to go into when they had only just met. He had dozens of tattoos spanning across the entirety of his body and they made up for an eclectic mixture of dumb choices, passing whims, and personal anecdotes he had yet to have learnt how to summarise in a quick or dismissive way.
Most of the people he knew had lived through those experiences with him, he’d never had to justify them to a stranger.
"Why do you wanna know?"
"They're so detailed." Hangman gestured to where the lower half of Bradley's sleeves were visible thanks to the cut of his shirt. "Most of the guys on base are just as basic as Fritz, so it's not often I see actual art like that." It felt like it was supposed to be a compliment, but something about the disdain in his tone threw Bradley off for a second. Hangman shrugged without removing his shoulder from where it rested. "Usually means there's some kind of story behind it."
Rather than indulging him, Bradley sat up straighter on his wheelie stool and gave him another once over. He was dressed in deliciously tight Levi’s and a pristine white t-shirt. Wayfarers hung from his collar, but he was otherwise devoid of accessories. Suspicions near enough confirmed, Bradley turned to finish setting up his gun as he said, "you don't have any ink, do you," in a nonchalant way since he was almost certain he knew what the reply would be.
Hangman sniffed, "my body is a temple."
One I would love to worship at, Bradley thought, glad he was able to restrain himself before he said anything like that out loud.
"You sure have a lot of opinions for someone with such clean skin."
"Doesn't make me wrong."
"True, but who are we to judge what makes someone else happy?"
"There's such a thing as taste. Although," he quite visibly glanced at the shirt Bradley was wearing, "maybe not all of us have it."
Bradley chuckled taking no offence to the comment, long accustomed as he was to the marmite-esque reaction his clothes tended to receive (Hawaiian shirts were not for everybody, after all), and batted his eyes at Hangman. "I can take it off if it offends you that much," he said, revelling in the way Hangman's eyes darkened yet again at his suggestive tone.
Hangman didn't move as Bradley stood and walked towards the doorway, so he did the only thing he could reasonably be expected to do and brushed past him, trying (and probably failing) to act like he wasn't the slightest bit affected by the proximity.
Goddamn.
He caught a whiff of Hangman's cologne and, though he tried to act normal for Fritz's benefit if nothing else, his brain short-circuited and tried to convince him it would be totally acceptable to press back against him and get lost in that smell for the rest of the day.
Nope.
No.
Bad brain.
Not happening.
Paying customer in the building.
Jesus Christ, Bradley hoped he'd be able to concentrate once the real work began. Last thing he needed when armed with a tattoo gun and some innocent bystander's skin was the type of intoxicating distraction Hangman was shaping up to be.
After glancing over the forms for the sake of propriety, Bradley led Fritz, or rather Billy Avalone (who did in fact know how to spell his own name, thank you Hangman), to the back room and got him settled on the chair with his arm out on a rest to keep it steady whilst he worked. All the while distracted by thinking about what Hangman's real name was, and trying to work out whether there was a casual way that he could ask for it. Bradley knew enough about callsigns to recognise them for what they were now that he had the context they were both navy, he'd had his own one picked out for years back when he was a kid and still under the impression he'd enlist himself. It made him all the more curious about the man his dick had recently decided it would wither away and fall off because of if it didn't get his hands on it at some point in the very near future. Not that that was a helpful train of thought at all. His brain had long since checked out under the gaze of the most gorgeous person on the planet though, so maybe he wasn't using all his critical thinking skills this afternoon.
Trying not to feel too self-conscious as Hangman took up his earlier pose in the doorway, Bradley focused on applying the transfer to Fritz's inner bicep, angling it as instructed until he was happy with the placement.
"So, don't take this personally, because I have to ask, but do either of you have any issues with needles or blood? I'd just prefer the forewarning if you're gonna pass out on me."
He got scoffs and eye rolls from both of them as they replied in the negative, as if the concept that fighter pilots would be felled by something so mundane as that was insulting, and kept his opinions to himself as he huffed a laugh and picked up the gun to begin. Long ingrained client confidentiality held him back from commenting on how often tough looking guys like them got squeamish the moment they were sat in Fritz's exact position. Besides, none of them missed the way his jaw clenched as the first line was drawn, he didn’t need to be made to feel bad about it.
"What's worse, Fritz, this or two hundred push-ups?" Hangman asked after a few minutes as he moved to a closer vantage point.
It made Bradley wonder whether Hangman was just bored or if he was actually considerate enough to provide Fritz with a distraction as Bradley worked. Either way, the question was so specific it piqued Bradley's curiosity.
"Jesus, who'd you two piss off to get that kind of punishment?"
Fritz's laugh was punctuated with a wince, "not piss off so much as severely underwhelm our new CO-"
"You were underwhelming, I distinctly remember him saying I was good." Hangman interjected.
"Still got tone locked though, didn't you?" Fritz flipped off Hangman with his free hand before finishing his explanation to Bradley. "It was part of a bet someone in our cohort thought up for a training exercise, so not so much punishment as humiliation tactic. I mean, we figured at least some of us would be able to get the best of him-"
"Lord knows he needs the ego check." Hangman added.
"-but he's a fucking good pilot so we got our asses handed to us and ended up doing like a billion push-ups over the last few weeks."
"Huh," Bradley wiped over the part finished tattoo, hoping he didn't sound too patronising as he warned, "push-ups are gonna hurt like a bitch while this is healing."
"Oh, that's alright, we're just back from deployment, so no more training for a few weeks."
Bradley nodded, hiding his surprise as things clicked in his head. They must have been part of Mav's new squadron. He had been near tears from laughing when Mav had recounted the whole push-up bet story from his perspective at one of their recent family dinners. Obviously, he didn't know any details, but Mav had been beyond stressed about his latest mission and there had been a few days’ worth of worrying for both Bradley and uncle Ice as they waited for him to get home in one piece. Now he was at the start of the month long leave he had been forced into taking and was still at the point where he was pretending like he didn't enjoy having extra quality time with Bradley. They were supposed to be meeting later that evening to work on the Mustang in Mav's hangar and Bradley hoped they’d be able to take it out at least once before his leave ended.
Both pilots in front of him looked relaxed and well rested which helped reassure Bradley that the mission really had been as successful as Mav had led him to believe.
There weren't many times he regretted listening to Mav by not submitting his application to the naval academy when he was a teenager, but it hit him most often when Mav seemed wound so tight with stress that Bradley wished he was able to fly alongside him, to provide backup, to lighten the load at least a little. His mom had been so sick and he and Mav had had a long conversation about how life in the navy wasn't what she wanted for him. Mav had been honest in admitting she had wrangled a deathbed promise out of him to pull Bradley's papers if the application ever made it that far though, and that knowledge, coupled with the way Mav had held onto him so tightly like he might disappear when he had mentioned he’d been thinking about going to college instead, always helped to convince him he had made the right decisions.
He still flew, having gotten his civilian licence the second he was old enough to take the test, but only for pleasure, and to connect with Mav, Ice, and his dad in a way only pilots would ever be able to understand. He loved the life he had built for himself on the ground just as much, if not more, than he loved being in the air.
The other two continued to chat almost mindlessly as Bradley worked. He zoned in and out of the conversation, concentrating more on the finishing touches of his design. It was a quick job, no shading or colour-work to slow him down, so all too soon he was wiping away blood and excess ink for the final time and sitting back to examine his handiwork.
A low whistle stole his attention and he glanced up to see the appreciative look on Hangman's face as he too checked out the artwork now permanently marked on Fritz's skin. "I take it back," he said apropos of nothing, "you actually managed to make it look good." Had Bradley impressed the tattoo cynic? "I bet you'll have a ton of people from base lining up for one once word gets around."
Far too pleased with himself, Bradley helped Fritz to stand without straining his arm too much, and directed him towards the full-length mirror in the corner of the room so that he could see it for himself in all its glory. The little smile that showed itself at the corners of his lips was exactly the reason why Bradley tried not to get too frustrated by repetitively tattooing these types of designs. What was cliché and trite for him was unique and meaningful to the person who had to live with it for the rest of their life. Like he had said to Hangman earlier, who was he to judge if that was what made them happy?
"Phoenix'll shit a brick if you end up getting one too." Fritz joked, nodding his approval at Bradley who beckoned him back over so that he could wrap his arm.
"You couldn't pay me enough to ever get in one of those chairs."
Bradley just snorted, but Fritz kind of looked offended on his behalf. "Jeez Hangman, it's the dude's livelihood, take it easy."
"Nah, it's alright. They're not for everyone," Bradley said.
"I just find it a bit weird you're so against them."
"I'm actually not, you're just being dramatic."
Bradley had to rethink again whether they were friends, their dynamic was a bit too antagonistic for regular colleagues.
"Oh really? Because if not for the bet you literally never would've set foot in here."
"Wait, this was part of a bet?" Bradley tried not to look too disappointed - tattoo bets were one of his least favourite reasons to get a customer, second only to those trying to get inked while drunk - he hated the idea of having unknowingly being a part of it.
"Huh? Oh no, not this," Fritz clarified gesturing with his free hand towards his arm. "Hangman lost one though, it's the only reason he's here being his best supportive and sympathetic self."
"My showing up should count as supportive, but you lost any chance at sympathy when we had to visit multiple different shops because your disorganised ass didn't realise getting a tattoo usually involves booking ahead. You're lucky this guy was nice enough to let you stay."
"Bradley," he cut in, cringing at their instant confusion he clarified, "sorry, just occurred to me I never actually introduced myself."
The soft smile on Hangman's face saved him from feeling like he had put his foot too far into his mouth. He tried not to overanalyse the little glow in the pit of his stomach as Hangman returned the gesture with a murmured, "Jake. Likewise."
Their eye contact lasted just a smidge longer than was probably appropriate, but that didn't seem to deter Fritz or the argument he was making, unaware as he appeared to be of the growing tension between the other two people in the room. "Anyway, point is, you're only here because Phoenix whooped your ass at pool last night and then forced you into being a good friend. None of this was voluntary."
"I still think she cheated."
"Yeah, yeah, because the great Hangman could never be bested at nine-ball under normal circumstances."
Bradley snorted, finally understanding their relationship. More brothers than friends, hence the constant bickering.
"Are you really that hard to beat, or are you in denial about your abilities?"
"No, I really am that good," Jake (Bradley refused to think of him with his callsign when he'd been given the gift of his real name instead) said as he winked at Bradley. "Almost too good to be true if I'm being honest."
Based on Fritz's muttered "my god," Bradley assumed he had finally caught on to their quite blatant flirting. Between that and the sheer arrogance Jake exuded he felt his laughter was justified.
"And yet you wouldn't get in the chair?" He knew he was pushing; he couldn't help it. Jake was entitled to his opinions and Bradley would never be the type to force someone to do something they didn't want, but fuck if he wasn't curious about the man's principles.
Jake rested more of his weight against the wall he was leaning on as he crossed his arms with a sly grin. "Well, when you look this good, why would you ever need to make any changes?" Excellent point, Bradley had to concede, well argued. But then his demeanour changed as he shrugged, like he was trying to deflect the more serious answer he gave next. "Besides, I've never seen anything I like enough to want it on my body for the rest of my life."
"Challenge accepted."
Their next game of eye contact was interrupted by the now much more self-aware Fritz who pointedly cleared his throat to remind them both he was still in the room. As most of his station had been cleared during the intervening conversation, Bradley cocked his head at the door refusing to feel embarrassed at being caught staring. He led them both back towards the front of the shop, reeling off a list of care instructions for Fritz as they went, and rang up the charge on the till without any further fanfare.
It wasn't until after Fritz had paid that Bradley realised there was nothing else keeping them there.
Knowing he would regret letting Jake leave without saying anything, Bradley wracked his brains for some kind of idea to keep his attention just a bit longer. Nothing good came to him however, and his heart sank as Jake knocked on the counter in farewell and turned to leave behind Fritz.
"Hey, Jake," the words escaped from his mouth of their own volition. Bradley barely stopped himself from cringing as they both turned back to look at him. Leaning forward to rest on the counter in a show of confidence he didn't really feel, he proffered his unlocked phone. "I'll need your number. To send you those tattoo ideas."
A lazy grin spread across Jake's face. Bradley hoped that meant they were on the same page about what this really was.
"Tattoo ideas," he drawled as he approached the counter again, dutifully filling in his number and texting himself before handing Bradley his phone back. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Bradley stood smiling down at his phone after they had left, supremely pleased and not quite sure whether he hadn't just imagined that. He couldn't remember feeling this excited about meeting someone new in the longest time.
A text popped up on his chat with Jake telling him in no uncertain terms that he expected to be taken for dinner before he would ever entertain the thought of getting stuck by Bradley's needle. The innuendo was transparently clear, but Bradley knew he was so far gone on the guy he probably wouldn't even tease him about it.
Another text arrived before he could reply, this one from Mav confirming what time he was expected at the hangar later.
The kismet tasted so goddamn sweet.
Bradley grinned to himself as he replied to them both in turn, a list of questions already forming in the back of his mind on all the dirt he planned to dig for on Jake, straight from the mouth of his commanding officer.