Work Text:
Bradley Bradshaw wakes on December 25th to the sound of tiny feet pounding down the hallway—and then the familiar shriek:
“Daddy, Daddy, wake up! It’s Christmas!”
Before he can react, two small bodies launch themselves onto his bed. The mattress dips under their weight, little knees and elbows everywhere. Bradley presses his smile into the pillow, smothers it, and lets out a long, theatrical groan as he drags the covers over his head. He’s never been a morning person—a fact his entire family knows well—but if he had to choose a reason to wake up early, this would win every time.
Two sets of giggles erupt beside him and then small hands start tugging insistently at the blankets.
“No, Daddy!” Emerson squeals. “You can’t go back to sleep!”
“Yeah, Daddy!” Logan chimes in. “Papa said it’s time to get up!”
Bradley flings the covers away like he’s been dramatically summoned back to life. He shoots upright in bed and grabs both twins as they shriek and laugh, pulling them into his lap. He peppers their cheeks with loud kisses, ignoring every attempt they make to squirm free.
When he finally looks up, Jake is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a soft smirk that Bradley feels all the way down to his ribs.
“Is that right, Papa?” Bradley asks, raising a brow.
Jake hums. “These little guys helped me make breakfast—”
“I cracked an egg!” Logan interrupts proudly.
“Me too!” Emerson adds instantly, unwilling to be outdone.
Bradley takes them in—matching Christmas pajamas, hair rumpled from sleep, faces lit with pure triumph—and then lifts his gaze back to Jake. Jake is already praising them, hand over his heart like he trained a pair of prodigy chefs. Over the kids’ heads, he mouths waffles.
“Alright, munchkins,” Bradley says, shifting and sliding out from under the covers. He scoops the twins up—one in each arm, held by the stomach like a pair of squirmy ragdolls—and stands. They squeal, delighted.
“Guess we better go test those waffles,” he says as he carefully maneuvers around the bed.
Jake stands up straight as Bradley approaches, uncrossing his arms. Bradley pauses right in front of him, tilts down, and kisses him softly—brief, but enough to warm his spine. The twins giggle like they’re witnessing something scandalous.
Emerson pipes up, “How’d you know we made waffles?”
Bradley watches Jake laugh under his breath. He grins.
“I’m psychic.”
Logan frowns, serious as only a four-year-old can be. “Daddy, what’s ‘psychic’?”
Bradley turns sideways to fit all three of them through the doorway, answering, “Let’s ask Grandpa Mav when he gets here for presents.”
At the word presents, both kids instantly forget whatever they were thinking. They begin kicking their legs in excitement, struggling to get down.
“Okay, okay, go,” Bradley laughs, first setting Emerson down, then Logan.
They hit the hallway floor running—literally—and disappear downstairs, no doubt heading for the kitchen because they’ve been lectured enough years in a row to know: breakfast comes before gifts.
Once the house goes quiet(er), Bradley looks back at Jake. Sleep-rumpled, wearing worn flannel pajama pants, eyes still soft from the morning. A man who spent the dawn making waffles with two enthusiastic, destructive little sous-chefs.
Bradley’s chest tightens with something warm and steady.
“Happy Christmas,” he says softly. “And… thank you. For making breakfast with them.”
Jake’s mouth tips into his familiar, crooked smirk. “Happy Christmas, Daddy.”
Bradley groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t get me—”
Jake is already walking toward the top of the staircase. “And just wait till you try the waffles,” he calls over his shoulder. “Not sure I got out all the bits of shell Logan dropped in the bowl.”
Bradley laughs, shaking his head as he follows him out of the room.
Downstairs, the twins are already vibrating with impatience, perched at the table with their little legs swinging. Bradley sits and takes an exaggeratedly slow bite of his waffles—complete with extra calcium courtesy of Logan’s egg-cracking skills. He chews loudly, dramatically, like he’s savoring a five-star meal. Across the table, Logan and Emerson practically vibrate.
“Daddy, hurry!” Emerson pleads, gripping the edge of the table.
“You’re eating so slow,” Logan groans, flopping over his plate like he’s seconds from perishing.
Bradley bites back a laugh and takes an even slower bite, eyes sparkling. Breakfast devolves into light chaos—Logan accidentally catapulting a blueberry into his glass of milk, Emerson tattling, Jake snorting into his coffee.
Then, a knock at the front door.
Jake wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Emmy girl,” he says, “why don’t you take your brother and see who it is while I make Daddy clean up the table?”
Emerson immediately seizes Logan’s hand and drags him from his chair. Bradley listens to the patter of their feet and their high-pitched squeals as the door opens. Then the warm, unmistakable voices of Mav— and Jake’s parents— drift back toward the kitchen.
Jake glances over his shoulder at Bradley with a knowing little smile. “Mav texted earlier,” he says quietly. “He said he’d swing by the hotel and bring my parents with him so they could all get here together for presents.” He bumps Bradley’s hip with his own, soft and domestic. “Woulda told you, but you were sleeping.”
With Jake drying and Bradley rinsing, cleanup goes fast. Together they head into the den, where Emerson is perched on Mav’s lap, chattering away about how she hopes she’s getting a pony, and Logan sits happily between Nora and Matthew, stretching out his pajama top to point out the little snowmen and their candy canes on it.
Jake stands tall beside the tree, and Bradley rests a hand at the small of his back, grounding.
Jake claps his hands once. “Who’s ready for presents?”
The twins erupt. Bradley looks at Jake’s profile, then at their little family gathered in the soft morning light. He’s already mourning the future when the twins won’t care about this magic anymore. But watching them tear into their gifts now, joy exploding across their faces—God, it’s worth everything.