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Bradley hadn't thought trying to arrange a fourteen-person Christmas party would be so hard. He supposes he should have known better, given the summer barbeque debacle a few months prior and the Thanksgiving disaster that had just happened at Ice and Mav's. Still, he'd been under some impression that the Christmas spirit would make the majority of his friends (his family, really) more manageable. By the fourth phone call in as many as two hours, Bradley is contemplating faking his death and having the entire thing called off.
He'd drawn the short straw out of the semi-permanent Daggers with a house large enough to use. Phoenix had done the barbeque since her and Bob's place had a pool, so it had been down to him, Javy, Billy and Callie, or Jake.
Now Bradley is paying the price.
At least Ice had taken pity on him and sent his carefully notated files containing everyone's allergies and preferences in the footnotes. Seeing his own had made his eyes misty, but Bradley had a job to do and pushed the warm, chest-tightening feeling aside to get the Instacart set up for the next day.
Then there was the issue with decorations.
For that, he'd had to brave the attic, boxes of his and his mom's old things packed away with crusted and peeling duct tape; seeing them had shot pain through Bradley's heart. The last time he'd even touched some of them had been when his mom was still alive, and he knows, based on the handwriting, that it was Mav who had packed it up when Bradley, hardly seventeen, couldn't make himself.
He's thankful he'd told his godfather and Ice that getting the house ready was something he'd wanted to do on his own. Even if it was frustrating and a bit heartbreaking, the plummets down memory lane were intercut with phone calls from Neil and Brigham confirming they'd be there, if not a couple of hours late. There was also Bob, thripple checking that Tomcat, his and Natasha's german shepherd puppy, could attend with them. Those little moments had grounded him, reminded him he wasn't alone anymore, and there were no other people in the world he'd rather show off his terribly made popsicle stick Christmas ornaments to.
His mom wouldn't have wanted them sitting in a box, never to see the light of day again. It would have made her sad.
By the time Bradley finishes, it's close to midnight, and the small Christmas tree he'd managed to acquire (he'd almost gotten into a fist fight with a soccer mom for it) is completely decked out in bobbles and tensile, lifted on to one of the smaller tables he wouldn't need for food. There are also red and green clothes on nearly every surface and lights strung up haphazardously on the walls and door banisters. There are a few final touches to complete, but it's mostly finished. He figures he can worry about the rest in the afternoon when Ice and Mav show up to help prepare food.
Instacart, Bradley is forced to realize, was a terrible idea. They didn't have at least a third of what was on his shopping list, and some of what they'd been able to substitute still wasn't exactly right. He was close to pulling his hair out, sorting through the grocery bags when Maverick and Ice let themselves in with the spare key Bradley hadn't had the heart to ask be returned to him years ago.
Ice takes one look at Bradley, still in sweats and a stained shirt, and seems to realize the level of distress he's dealing with. Like the Admiral he is, Ice holds out his hand and demands Bradley's original shopping list, noting what's already been crossed off and nodding.
"You two, get the snack trays done and the ham in the oven. I'll sort this out." He presses a kiss to Maverick's head and then all but shoves the shorter man towards Bradley.
"He's a lifesaver," Bradley says, staring after Ice's back until the door closes. Maverick's hand lands on his shoulder, and he hums.
"Don't I know it? Now," Maverick turns, and Bradley follows, looking at the mess of his kitchen counters. "Where do we start?"
By the time Ice comes back, shouting for them to help get the bags from the car, Bradley and Mav have managed to get the cheese platter and veggie trays done. They're arguing over cracker arrangement and whether or not to leave the fruit for the last minute when they break to do as Ice asks.
Twenty minutes until the guests are supposed to arrive, all the food is set out, the hot items carefully wrapped under tinfoil and away from the other things. It had been agreed to beforehand that they'd forego any attempts at a formal dinner since Thanksgiving had been such a mess. So instead, Bradley's dining table is pressed against the wall of his living room buffet-style, leaving space for mingling and dancing once the party gets going.
Ice is putting out the disposable plates, and plastic cutlery as Bradley and Maverick double-check his handiwork with the lights and decorations.
The older man carefully traces a finger over one of Bradley's messily panted airplane ornaments, and that choking feeling comes back when Maverick smiles up at him.
They don't need to say anything, not really, but Maverick still loops an arm over Bradley's shoulder and squeezes it.
"You did some good work."
Bradley is about to respond when the doorbell rings and cuts him off. Ice is closest, so he goes to answer, but Bradley still follows, he's the host, and it's his job.
It's Natasha and Bob, a yipping and excited Tomcat by their heels. The three of them are wearing matching sweaters, and Bradley wants to laugh, but he's smiling too hard, too delighted, to manage.
"It was Bob's idea," Natasha says as she greets Bradley with a kiss on his cheek and a quick hug. He doesn't believe the woman for a second, and he and Bob share a conspiratorial eye roll over her shoulder as they come inside.
Reuben and Mickey are the following people to show up, offering Bradley some wine to add to the healthy stockpile of champagne and cider they've already got. Most of the others filter in, and honestly, if it weren't for the dog and the unusually cold December chill, Bradley would leave the door open for the Daggers to come in as they please.
Fashionably late, as Bradley had expected them to be, are the last ones on the list of people who'd confirmed they'd show up. Javy and Jake stroll up the drive with smiles and a box of cookies.
"My Grans recipe," Javy offers when he passes over the tin to Bradley and slips inside. Bradley has just enough time to throw a 'thanks' over his shoulder at the other man when suddenly it's just him and Jake at the door. Bradley feels his smile soften into something small, and Jake's matches. The blond grabs him in a quick hug, and the only reason Bradley doesn't get distracted by the cinnamon and spice smell at his collar is that when Jake pulls him in, his bare arm touches the back of Bradley's neck and makes him jump.
"Christ, Jake, are you trying to turn into a popsicle before the years out?" Bradley pulls back and gets the other man inside where it's a reasonable temperature, noting finally that Jake is in a dark red polo and just that, no jacket in sight.
Bradley is shrugged off easily, but Jake doesn't step too far away.
"Was hoping Santa would bring me some better circulation for Christmas, but I guess not. I'm good, Roo," and Bradley's minor concern is dashed when Jake grins; he blows it all away.
"Well, Christmas isn't over yet. Pretty sure Santa's got a week left and everything." Bradley's smirk is wide and playful, and Jake knocks their shoulders together as a response when he passes to join the rest of the gang fully.
Bradley watches after him, and unconsciously, he lets out a wistful sigh.
"You gonna finally drop off your perch and do something about that, Rooster?" Natasha's voice directly behind him startles Bradley enough to jump, a curse bitten off behind his teeth. When he spins around, heat flooding his cheeks, she holds a cup of something bubbling for him. Bradley brings it to his mouth; it's champagne.
"I don't-" Bradley, almost conditioned, is about to say he has no idea what the woman is talking about, but they've known each other for a long time. She'd been with him over the months, watching as he and Jake danced around each other, so close that they almost tipped into the inevitability that anyone with eyes could see coming a mile off. It's been over a year since The Mission, the one that brought them together even more solidly, the one that saw half of them stationed in Fightertown as close to a permanent squadron as the Navy would allow, the other half on reserves if needed.
"I don't know." It's the closest to the truth he can get.
Bradley is saved from answering the tightening around Natasha's eyes when a round of hollering kicks up and draws their attention.
Maverick's got an arm around Penny's waist, hugging her from the side and planting the wettest kiss Bradley's ever seen on her cheek.
Shouts of "homewrecker!" and "cheater!" go up around them. It's all done in jest, light-hearted, as Penny smacks Maverick's shoulder and waltzes away, only for Ice to "accidentally" walk right through the doorway they were under and pull Mav into his own kiss, much less chaste, but met with an equal amount of cheers. Bradley is confused until his eyes drift up, and he freezes in disbelief.
"Who did it?" Bradley's tone is... not hard per se, but there's an intentional steadiness to it as he studies the buddle of mistletoe duct tapped to the wall right above the kitchen entrance.
"Pretty sure Callie smuggled it in, and Hondo got it up there while you were distracted."
Bradley should have known. He couldn't trust these meddling backstabbers with anything. He was going to have to watch his six the whole night.
"C'mon, Bradshaw, at least he can't punch you in the face if you go it, tradition and all that." Bradley checks her shoulder but doesn't protest further. He and Jake are definitely headed for something more than friendship but... between operations abroad and finding themselves solidly on middle ground, Bradley hasn't wanted to rush anything. He knows his friends mean well and aren't unfounded in their ridiculous attempts.
Regardless, he's not a kid anymore, and he's not that angry little boy trapped in a grown man's body, either. Bradley wants to be sure that whatever point he and Jake drop off from, it's steady and strong. And he believes Jake is thinking the same. It's not as though the blond had made his move either.
What they have now is comfortable and good, and while Bradley doesn't think it's going to take another decade for them to get their shit together, he's willing to wait for his right moment, surer than anything that this time it will come.
The night progresses in merry celebration. Bradley dances to hip-hop Christmas carol remixes that Billy has snuck into the shared playlist, spinning Mickey and Maverick around. Bradley even ends up swing dancing with a bright and glowing Jake up until the other nearly drops Bradley on his head, trying to dip him.
There's a moment when Bradley's lifted back up, chest to chest with the other man, everyone laughing and moving around them, that Bradley thinks about leaning in. Jake's got one palm flat against his heart, and it throws Bradley back fourteen months ago to the last time they were in a similar position. Logan knocks into them, though, two left feet as Callie dances circles around him, and the moment is broken.
As a group, they make it through three bottles of cider and two of champagne, everyone loose and a little tipsy. The food table is picked through by the time the evening winds down, and the cards are brought out, a silly game of team poker since there are too many people to play one-on-one. Pilots and WSO matched up, and the stragglers paired together.
Bradley ends up with Hondo, and while they win their fair share of hands, it's no contest with Amelia and Penny in the ring. The only other teams that stand a chance of saving the Hersey kisses they've been using as betting chips are Maverick and Ice and Javy and Jake.
After another five or so hands, Bradley and Hondo are out. And if they ate some of their chocolate as an excuse to save their pride and lose early, that was between them.
When Bradley gets off the ground to stretch his legs, he casts an accessing gaze around the living room. There's a split between people still fighting for the ultimate chocolate pot and a group in a heated debate over which Christmas main character would win in a fist-against-fist boxing match. Apparently, Jim Carrey's Grinch is in the lead, but Bob makes a valiant effort to defend his pick of Krampus.
Bradley looks over the hazardously spread-out pilots and civilians more carefully. They're all laughing and teetering, the sounds of their voices overlapping with the Christmas jingles fill Bradley with comfort he hasn't known in so long, and unconsciously, he searches for blond hair and sea-green eyes, coming up blank as he scans the room.
It's luck that Javy passes him by, heading for the downstairs bathroom.
"Hey, where's Jake at?"
The look the Javy levels Bradley with might have once made his hackles rise, the knowing, appraising eyes of the other man. But Bradley's attraction to Jake, and vice versa, is an open secret, and he's in much too good of a mood to try and pretend otherwise.
When Javy doesn't get the flustered reaction, he's so clearly looking for he sighs and smiles, good-natured.
"Think he said something about being cold, went looking for a blanket."
Bradley nods at that and goes to refill his cup with ice from the kitchen. When he returns, the poker games have all wrapped up, and his television is on, A Christmas Carol, playing for the overly relaxed bundle of people lying across the floor and piled onto his couch. It's nearing eleven, and a comfortable, almost hushed atmosphere has descended upon the group. Bradley can't help observing again, leaning up on the doorframe of the kitchen threshold.
That is when he hears footsteps coming down the second-story stairway, socked and careful in their descent. Bradley knows it's Jake before he even hits the ground level; that alone is enough to draw his eye. What keeps his attention, however, is what Jake is suddenly wearing.
The fabric of the jumper is loose around Jake's shoulders. Hell, it's half the reason Bradley loves wearing it so much since it's spacious on him as well. The color, a dark green, is striking on Jake's tan skin, the collar of his red polo peaking over the top, and when Jake's eyes meet Bradley's across the room, his face splitting into a smile, Bradley feels all the air leave his lungs in one go. Jake's eyes. They're more green than they've ever been, wrapped up in Bradley's sweater.
When Jake approaches, Bradley catches the way he has to push the long arms of the jumper up, and the warm heat in Bradley's chest rages into a fire so sudden it takes him by surprise.
Jake only takes two steps before Bradley is meeting him across the room and gets a hand on Jake's bicep.
"Sorry, couldn't find your linen closet. Hope you don't mind I-" Bradley jerks them both backward, and Jake, while obviously confused, catches the determined look in Bradley's eyes and doesn't stop him.
It's a testament to Bradley's knowledge of his own home that he gets himself and Jake under the kitchen doorway without tripping over something. Jake seems to realize where they're heading halfway through, and by the time he thinks to smirk, Bradley is already hauling him forward, dipping down to kiss the lingering taste of champagne off Jake's mouth as it parts easily beneath him.
Distantly, past where Bradley's senses are held captive by the thumping heartbeat under his palm, under his sweater, and in Jake's chest, past the way Jake is sighing against him, molding himself to Bradley's front, the brunet is sure he hears wolf whistles. They don't matter; nothing does, only how Jake clings to his shoulders and kisses him like he's a man drowning and Bradley's got all the air inside his lungs to share.
When they do part, it's done begrudgingly, and Bradley refuses to let them get too far. He drops his head to Jake's shoulder, half to catch his breath and half to hide from the eyes staring at them. It's a fight not to kiss at Jake's available throat when the other man slips a hand into Bradley's hair. They're in young company, however, and he doesn't intend to give his friends more of a show.
"Pretty sure kissing under the mistletoe only has to happen when it's an accident, Roo." Jake's voice is a smile, candlelight and Christmas cider, to Bradley's ears.
"Pretty sure you're in my house, wearing my clothes. Means I can kiss you when and where I want; traditions be damned." When Bradley looks back up, Jake is flushed but beaming, almost smug, but the corner of his mouth are too soft for the expression to stick.
"That so?" Jake's brow raises, and Bradley stands back to his full height, mirroring him.
"You complaining?" It feels familiar, the start to this banter, hell, even the stares Bradley can still feel, the hardly muffled gagging and giggling from the other side of the room.
"That you finally got off your perch? Never." Bradley doesn't fight the roll of his eyes, but his smile is still wide, nearly eclipsing his face as he pulls Jake tighter against him. Now that the floodgates of direct, shameless touch have been opened, he doesn't plan to stop anytime soon.
His moment had come.
Perfect or not, they can decide that later. But Bradley was done letting them hang in limbo.
"God, shut up, snowman," Bradley leans forward and nudges Jake's cheek with his nose, the skin a bit chilly.
"Hangma-"
Bradley kisses the protest right out of Jake's mouth, and it's a combination of their grinning and a couple of empty cups being tossed at them that makes them stop. When Bradley shuffles back to a respectable distance but laces his and Jake's right hands together, he almost opens himself up for more teasing, their age-old "you look good" on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he tugs Jake towards the group in front of the TV, smacking the ones who make obnoxious kissy faces at them, and pulls the blond nearly into his lap in front of where Ice and Mav are curled together on the sofa.
When they're comfortable, Jake tucked up against him, ignoring their friends' and teammates' watchful and amused eyes; Bradley turns to whisper in his ear.
"My mom loved this movie."
It earns him a gentle touch to his chin and a gentler peck on his lips.
Mav taps the back of their heads with his foot, and when Bradley shoots up a glare at him, the older man is smiling, closed-mouthed but satisfied, eyes turned toward the film.
Bradley and Jake follow suit.
"I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link and yard by yard. Is its pattern strange to you or would you know the length of the strong coils you bear yourself? It was as full, as heavy, as long as this seven Christmas Eves ago, you have labored on it since, it is a ponderous chain!"
Bradley strokes the back of Jake's hand where they're linked together with his thumb, their own metaphorical chain, and feels the soft wool of his sweater against Jake's skin. He hopes it will carry some of Jake's cologne with it if Bradley gets it back.
Though Bradley supposes there will be plenty more opportunities if it doesn't.
Bradley's got a lot of sweaters.