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In hindsight, Bradley’s thinking that it might’ve been smart just biting the bullet.
When the adrenaline drained and the cheers wore off, Bradley had snuck away in all the chaos of bodies back to their bunks with the intent of fixing himself up. He’d figured a couple bruises, maybe a scrape from the tree branch he thought he’d caught on the way down, but when he’d finally dragged himself over to the mirror he could feel that he might be a little in over his head.
The left arm of his flight suit is shredded in ice-cold clumps; blood peeks out from the visible holes and cakes the edges of the fabric, and Bradley can feel the tug of dried blood against the hair on his arms every time he moves. His ribs ache something utterly, horribly fierce— not broken, if he remembers his first-year accident correctly, but bruised past a point that Bradley had really expected. The first-aid kit that he’d managed to snag seems woefully under stocked now that he’s thinking about it, but every time he imagines admitting defeat, he sees—
white walls, white tiles, the smell of antiseptic and the drip of the IV. He sees his mom pulling her sweater up and over her port, the sad lump of sandwiches wrapped in cellophane that Ice always brought up, the tray table full of uneaten food that Maverick always ended up dumping.
(The rattle of his mom’s breathing. The sound of a flatline, loud and clear at age sixteen.)
He just hadn’t quite realized the reality of trying to stitch himself up until the needle and thread were already in his shaking hands. The kit was barren of anything to dull the ache of the gash save for a few ibuprofen tablets, and Bradley was left gritting his teeth in the collar of his own flight suit as he pushed the needle through his skin. Part of his training had come in handy at least– 90 degree angle, don’t go below the fat, keep the needle straight across the wound and repeat.
He didn’t consider the reality, he didn’t really think at all– now he’s shaking against the sink in their locker room, vision blurring with tears as he tries to steady his hand. “C’mon,” he murmurs, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the fog settling into his awareness. “C’mon, fuck–”
“As I live and breathe,” a voice interrupts, and Bradley nearly drops the needle with the sigh that makes its way out of him.
“Seresin,” he grumbles, all the acknowledgment he offers.
“You might muster up a little extra enthusiasm,” Jake replies, and Bradley shuts his eyes to stave off the wave of dizziness as Jake takes another step forward. “Pretend that you’re at least a little grateful to see your savior.”
“You’re never gonna let me live that one down, are you?” Bradley sighs, and Jake lets out an amused hum.
“One victory lap is all I’ll take, cross my heart,” and Bradley looks up just in time to see the mimicry of a crossing motion Jake makes over his chest. Quiet lapses between them for another few moments as Jake steps over to where Bradley leans over the sink, his brow furrowing when his eyes drift down to Bradley’s shoulder. “Trying to undo my hard work?”
“It’s just a scratch. Nothing to write home about,” Bradley replies, but Jake doesn’t seem satisfied by it. He reaches out to touch the skin just above the gash – long and diagonal down the curve of Bradley’s bicep, presumably from the tree he’d caught on the way down from his ejection – thumbing over the smear of blood from Bradley’s own sloppy touches. There’s a reddened, irritated mark from where Bradley had first attempted to bandage it before realizing it was deeper than he’d anticipated, and Bradley shivers when Jake’s finger brushes over it.
“You are aware we have a trained medical staff, right?” Jake says, his eyes shifting from the wound to meet Bradley’s gaze. “Kinda their job to fix up this stuff, probably looking for you right now.”
Bradley’s chest tightens at the thought of the medical wing, white walls and curtain dividers and doctors, tests and IVs and—
He takes a shuddering inhale, breaking their gaze to look down at the blood smeared over his hands, sticky and clumped. “I, uh— it’s fine,” he starts, shaking his head again. There’s a dull throb spreading its way through his arm, pounding in his head in a way that clouds his senses. “I don’t need to bother them, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
He hates how his voice shakes, but he doesn’t have it in him to explain. Can’t find the words through the adrenaline crash for how to explain to Jake — who he’d done nothing but fight will until he saw him grinning through the smudged double-glass of their F-14 — how the feeling of hospital sheets under his fingers could only transport him back to chemo round visits after school.
(How he could only hear the sound of his mother crying when she thought Bradley was too far past the door to the room to hear. Maverick’s resigned expression, Ice’s failed attempts at keeping him away from the worst of her pain.)
Jake, though, doesn’t push— just gives Bradley a long, searching look until he seems to find whatever he’s looking for. He turns away from Bradley to reach over the sink, and Bradley watches as he picks up the peroxide and slips the needle out of Bradley’s hands.
Somewhere deep in his thoughts, Bradley’s grateful that Jake doesn’t mention the visible shake in his fingertips.
“Well, you’re doing a shit job of handling it,” Jake retorts, gently pinching his fingers at the hook. “Can’t have you done in by an infection, can we?”
“And you’re so much better?”
“I’ve got experience,” Jake says, sterilizing the needle with a cotton dipped in the peroxide. “Javy ate it running with me from a house party that got busted, took a sharp rock to the shin. Neither of us wanted to admit where we’d been to the parents.”
Bradley huffs out a laugh, but his voice comes out apprehensive. “You’re under no obligation,” he mumbles. “I’m supposed to do the mother hen bullshit.”
“I don’t do anything that I don’t want to do, Bradshaw,” Jake replies, and when Bradley meets his eyes, all he sees is a tentative honesty that feels so different from Hangman. It’s enough to shock him into silence, and Jake seems to take it enough as permission to tilt the needle and pick up where Bradley had left off.
It doesn’t hurt any less, and Bradley keeps flinching despite his best efforts not to— hissing as the needle makes fresh holes on each side of the gash. Jake gives him a harsh glare when he moves his arm enough to tug at the thread, and Bradley tries a little harder after that to grip the sink enough to stay still.
By the time Jake reaches for the scissors to cut and tie the string, Bradley feels woozy— his head tilts sideways against the cabinet, eyes closed in an effort to stave off the tunnel vision. Jake must try to get his attention a few times before Bradley finally pries his eyes open, seeing Jake’s hand reach up to cup his jaw. He tilts Bradley’s face side to side, assumedly checking him for signs of a concussion. “Look,” Jake starts, his voice gentler than before. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. But– I’d feel better if you let me make sure there’s nothing else you’re gonna try to fix yourself.”
Bradley’s confused at first by what Jake means, but the confusion clears when he feels Jake’s hand at the hem of his shirt, tugging with a gentle indicator that he means to take it off.
(Not how I wanted this to go for the first time, Bradley thinks, bubbling up from deep down.)
He wants to say no. He wants to insist that Jake get out of here, he wants to push him to get back on deck with the rest of the celebration and leave him to his own devices. Bradley knows he could dress up the rest if he tried hard enough – albeit less graceful, probably with more pain – and he could get away with it enough to steer clear of medical until they only needed him for a cursory once-over. He could spend the night alone, collapse into his bed and try to stave off the phantom smell of fuel and smoke from his senses.
Or, his traitorous mind starts, you could keep Jake’s hands on you, give yourself a break.
Jake’s expression shifting from hopeful to something that seems a little like pleading is what ultimately seals the deal. Bradley can only muster up a nod in reply, gesturing to give Jake permission to lift up his shirt. Jake takes his time, careful to mind the fresh stitches as he hikes the sleeve up over Bradley’s shoulder.
Bradley’s expecting a bit of a shock at the reveal of the extent of the bruising. The severity of their whiplash upon landing left angry imprints on his chest; mottled purples and blues are spread across his skin from the effects of his ejection, and he knows there’s definitely bruising on his ribs. His knees hurt, his neck hurts, and there’s a fatigue settling in his bones that weighs him down in a painful kind of way. And he’s right, at first– shock does appear first on Jake’s face as his hands hover over the skin.
Bradley’s taken aback, though, by the way the shock morphs into something akin to pain. Jake’s lips are downturned in a saddened frown, his brows are pinched– his fingers trace over the bruises in a way that seems almost mindless until Bradley twitches away from his touch.
It seems to snap Jake out of his thoughts, a red flush spreading over his cheeks as he pulls his hand away, reaching again for the first-aid kit. “Really did a number on yourself, Bradshaw,” Jake says, pulling out the wrap meant for ribs and a bruise cream that Bradley hadn’t noticed. “Don’t they teach us to try to stick the landing?”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the next time I crash over a snowy forest,” Bradley grumbles. “Wasn’t exactly thinking about where I was landing so long as I did land.” Jake only hums in response, positioning Bradley up against the sink and urging his back up straight. He weaves the wrap around Bradley’s torso with a practiced, careful ease, and Bradley fights hard to suppress the shudder that wracks through him. It hurts when Jake secures it snugly, pressing against more than just the obvious bruising, but the supportive sit of the bandage helps take some of the weight off his shoulders, and he relaxes back against the cabinet with a shaky sigh.
“All done,” Jake murmurs, but he doesn’t move away. Bradley’s breath catches in his throat as Jake rests both hands at his hips, one sliding up to rest just over his heart– the beat of it thrums hard within Bradley’s chest and he worries, for a moment, if Jake can feel how harshly it kicks up. His eyes are still trained on Bradley’s sternum, squeezing shut for a moment like he’s forcing himself to calm down.
Bradley reaches up, covers Jake’s hand with his own over his chest, and waits for Jake’s next move when he hears Jake’s shaky exhale.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jake whispers, blinking back up to meet Bradley’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re– that you’re alive.”
“All thanks to you,” Bradley replies, squeezing his fingers over Jake’s. “Thank you, by the way. I never got a chance to say that.”
“Don’t need to thank me,” Jake retorts. He takes a step closer, their eyes level with each other’s with the way Bradley slumps down. “It’s– I couldn’t have just left you there. None of us could.”
Bradley quirks his brow, but his eyes are too honest for it to come across as a jab. “Didn’t know you cared that much,” he says, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he knows they aren’t necessarily true.
(Jake’s been showing care in his own way this whole time; Bradley had finally gotten him figured out. The near-brawl after their training sim, the way Jake’s eyes had flashed with a too-honest snap of concern. The sharp, choking way Jake had told him afterwards in the locker room to fly faster, to come home.
The pools of emotion deep in Jake’s eyes when they’d met on the carrier, minutes before Bradley had left.
Give ‘em hell.)
“I never wanted you hurt,” Jake says. “I needed you to come back.”
(I needed you, I needed us, I needed this to be something we could try again. I needed a second chance, I needed to give you one.)
“Here I am,” Bradley breathes, and his head dips down until their nose almost touch. “Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me,” Jake repeats back, a little too awestruck.
Bradley kisses him. He does it without fear, without hesitation— some part of him knows, really, that Jake won’t pull back. That this has been a long time coming since he heard Bradshaw, as I live and breathe and a song too familiar to miss, since far before and something Bradley knows will be here long after. Jake kisses back like he feels it too, and they slump together like that in the low light of the bathroom until Jake pulls back for air.
Bradley has one hand gripping gently at Jake’s shoulder for balance, the other cupped at the back of his neck, thumb brushing over the soft hair at his nape. Jake has one hand flattened over the wrap at his ribs — not pressing, merely resting — and he leans heavily into Bradley’s space so that their foreheads remain pressed together.
***
It’s another ten minutes before Jake deems him good enough to walk back to their bunks, and it’s a slower walk after that just to get Bradley there. The adrenaline and the giddiness have left him completely— all that remains is a hollow kind of tiredness with the echoes of aches and bruises all over his body.
(There’s a love, too, taking root again in his chest. It never left.)
Jake helps him into the bunk that Bradley had claimed as his own, but he hovers long enough that Bradley tugs on his wrist and gestures to the sliver of a spot right next to him. “I’ll barely fit,” Jake mumbles, but Bradley can see the hope in his eyes. “You need to be able to spread out, your bandages—”
“Jake,” Bradley interrupts, tugging harder. “Please. Stay.” He watches the war of expressions on Jake’s face as he stands over the bunk, keeping their gazes locked.
Jake doesn’t protest again as he slips into the bunk next to Bradley, ginger with his movements to prevent the jostling of his injuries. Bradley waits for him to situate himself, then reaches across their bodies to tug Jake closer to his chest. He hears a frustrated huff of laughter before Jake aquieses, rolling over gently to tuck himself against Bradley’s side.
There’s an ache from where Jake’s hip presses up against the bruises on Bradley’s waist; his knees twinge uncomfortably when their legs tangle together, and his head’s starting to hurt now that the ibuprofen is wearing off.
But there’s also the puff of Jake’s breath above his collarbone, steady and evening out the longer they lay together. There’s the soft fabric of Jake’s shirt beneath his fingertips where they rest over Jake’s spine; there’s the warmth of Jake’s thighs and the gentleness of their hands tangled together over his heart. There’s the steady bubbling of a funny feeling down deep in Bradley’s chest, a four-letter word that he’s been pushing down since he saw the headlights of a Ford truck pulling out of his driveway— since a trick shot over a pool table four years later.
Bradley draws patterns over the knobs of Jake’s spine and the muscle over his shoulder. He spells it out— L-O-V-E when he knows Jake’s breathing has tapered off into sleep. The words don’t fit right in his mouth just yet, not without some practice, but he thinks he can get there. Jake’s on his wing; they’ll get there when they get there.