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By the time the whole squad is piling into three cars, squabbling and shoving, Jake already knows this is going to get delightfully competitive. Phoenix was the one who’d found the laser tag place and bullied them all into finding—or making—a free afternoon, in what was possibly a world first for group chats everywhere.
Well, almost all of them. One Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw is conspicuously absent, but if nobody else is questioning it, neither is Jake. Just this morning, he’d cracked a joke about Rooster and earned himself nothing but an eye roll from Javy: a sure sign that Jake’s focus has been too narrow lately.
It happens. It's been happening since he and Rooster first clashed as younger men with much more to prove. There’s just something deeply satisfying about sinking his teeth in Bradley’s throat, metaphorically speaking. But Jake’s known Javy a long time, and it’s easy to tell when he’s maybe two Bradshaw comments away from losing his patience and pulling out the same well-worn plea: fight him or fuck him, Jake, but please find literally anything else to talk about.
Jake can take a hint. He’s a considerate friend.
He called shotgun, obviously, and he takes control of the aux while Payback and Fanboy sprawl in the backseat, already talking winning strategies and throwing around loser’s penalties. You’d think they might have learned by now, but if they want to suffer, who’s Jake to stop them?
“You could save yourself a lot of trouble by putting everything on me and Javy,” Jake says, stretching his arm across the center console for a fistbump. “We're unstoppable.”
“Champions,” Javy confirms, and they share a grin. There’d been a laser tag place in Annapolis they’d frequented together, tiny kings in a black-and-neon kingdom, victors more often than not.
“We’ll see about that,” Payback snorts, unimpressed.
“Yes you will,” Jake drawls, and flicks the volume up as Javy starts the engine and pulls out. They drive as a little convoy behind Phoenix, cheerfully talking shit and letting the breeze from the rolled-down windows flick through their hair.
The laser tag place is in a sprawling, warehouse-like building that’s not much to look at from the outside. From the inside, it’s also not much to look at, but at least it’s air-conditioned. A painfully retro carpet is faded with time and dirty soles. One side of the building holds mostly empty bowling lanes; the other presumably houses the laser tag course. Between them is a long reception desk, a cramped snack counter, and a scattering of arcade machines wedged wherever they’ll fit.
While they crowd near the front desk—Javy already doing his best to chat up the bored-looking woman behind a chunky, outdated monitor—Rooster rocks up.
“Nice of you to join us, Bradshaw,” Phoenix says sardonically, but Bradley only grins at her, sliding his glasses off and hooking them onto his shirt.
“What, you didn't want to carpool with the rest of us?” Jake asks, zeroing in on Rooster without hesitation. He deliberately avoids glancing at Javy, hoping that he’s far enough from the group to feel victimized by Jake’s laser focus. “Too precious about your Bronco?”
“If you wanted a ride, Hangman, all you had to do was ask,” Rooster shoots back, his tone low and smooth. Jake snorts.
“You know, just because a car’s old doesn’t make it a classic.”
Bradley's moustache twitches in amusement, and he doesn't bite back. Which is… disappointing.
“I wasn't on base,” he says, and doesn't bother clarifying before wandering past them to peer into a claw machine that looks like it’s had the same plushies littering the bottom of it for the past fifteen years.
“They pushed our booking half an hour,” Javy says, jogging back over from the reception desk.
“Oh, come on,” Jake says with an impatient sigh, already pushing past him. “Machado, you couldn’t charm a rock. I’ll do it.”
“Kid threw up in there, apparently,” Javy says.
“I say we take the delay with grace,” Jake says without missing a beat, turning on his heel and striding toward a large booth.
They crowd around the slightly tacky table, order overpriced beers and baskets of fries that aren’t quite crispy, and get the shit-talking started early. Through it all, Bradshaw sits with his arms stretched over the back of the booth, stupid shirt unbuttoned all the way down, amusement tucked into the corners of his moustache. Like he doesn't care about winning at all.
It's driving Jake crazy.
Rooster's always been a step behind—but he's always been the competition. It’s familiar. Routine. So his utter apathy in the face of Jake’s goading is galling.
“What do you say, Rooster. Want to make it fun?” he asks, irritation finally wearing his restraint thin.
“Sounds like it's plenty fun already.” Bradshaw says. “What's the pool at?”
“350 for the highest scorer,” says Payback. “And losing team buys dinner.”
Bradley gestures, one hand flicking up briefly from the dark blue pleather, as if to say see?
“Betting on the winning team is all very well,” Jake drawls. “But I'm talking about something a little more… personal.”
Bradley raises an eyebrow, and waits patiently. Someone mutters Jesus Christ, and Jake ignores them.
“You and me. Most points wins.”
“Wins what?”
Money is passé. Drinks are standard. Dinner's taken care of, one way or the other. Jake turns the question between his teeth like a toothpick.
“How about a day of peace and quiet,” Javy grumbles, loud enough only for Jake to hear. Jake's smile sharpens.
“Bragging rights,” he decides.
That, finally, seems to pique Bradshaw’s interest. For the first time since he'd sprawled himself down, he unhooks an arm and leans forward, fingers tapping against the table consideringly. His brown eyes hold Jake's with that unerring focus that he gets when he's thinking too hard. Which is to say, most of the time.
“Alright,” he says. “Bragging rights. You're on.”
Jake's got this in the bag, he knows, but winning isn’t really the point. The point is that he wants Bradshaw focused on him, but he’s falling behind and needs someone to kick his ass into re-engaging. Again. There’s a pressing worry at the back of Jake’s mind that Rooster’s already proved everything he needed to. Doesn’t need this anymore. Doesn’t need him.
Hell, maybe even that he’ll walk away from it all.
Jake thrives on competition. Doesn't want to lose his edge. That's all this is. Rooster's the one who drives it, all due respect to his fellow aviators.
Bradshaw pulls a basket of fries towards him, seemingly unbothered by the fact that they were only warm to start with, and have now been abandoned as a lost cause. He tips a handful back into his mouth and sucks the pad of his thumb into his mouth to wipe off the grease, attention already diverted by the rowdy conversation of the table.
And that’s something, sure, but the ease with which Bradley’s attention drifts away sends a sharp spike of frustration through Jake.
Whatever Jake’s about to say or do, leaning forward, eyes fixed hard on Rooster’s face, Javy’s fingers closing around his arm prevents him.
“Let’s go, Seresin,” Javy says, knowing amusement tucked at the corner of his mouth, crinkling the edges of his eyes. “Time to suit up.”
They separate into teams, the only major squabble who’s going to get Bob: Phoenix, of course, wins out by rolling her eyes and shoving red-team equipment straight into his bemused hands before propelling him towards Jake and the other reds.
They stand impatiently through the safety briefing, paying as little attention as possible—compared to their everyday hazards, tripping in the dark barely registers as a threat.
When they’re ushered onwards, Jake ignores Phoenix’s taunting laughter, Harvard cupping his hands as he calls out his predictions, Bob’s overtly wholesome,“Well, good luck!”. Instead, he focuses on Bradley's face, eyes narrowing at the easy expression there. No tension. No challenge. Just a guy out to have some fun with his friends.
Which is, technically, the point, but it still sends fury spiking through Jake’s veins. Because this is more than that, for them. This is competition—rivalry—everything that’s defined them from the moment they met right up to that handshake on the carrier deck. Is that where it had all gone downhill?
He nods, once, and just about manages to stop himself from doing something embarrassing like gesturing I'm watching you. Rooster's smile ticks up in the corner of his mouth, barely visible but for the twitch of his moustache, and then he's gone.
Jake's still fuming as they ready up in the small, dark room that acts as an airlock between the lobby and the course.
"No mercy," he calls out to the rest of his team, restless and ready to go. "We gottem."
There's whoops and hollers and a damn straight! from Javy, and then the doors open, and they're off.
It's dark inside—black walls,ceiling, floor—broken only by strips of reflective tape glowing neon under the blacklights, outlining the corners and blocking obstacles scattered through the rooms of the course.
Jake's on high alert, eyes darting this way and that for the tell-tale glow of blue targets moving through the space. Behind him, he hears his teammates exchange strategy, but he leaves them hanging. They’ll expect it of him anyway. This is about him and Rooster.
Sure, he could win without ever tagging Rooster himself—but where’s the fun in that? It’s been a while since he’s seen Bradshaw get worked up, brows low, cheeks flushed, those big brown eyes locked on Jake, bright with dislike.
A nagging thought keeps telling him that he might never see that again. Which would be a damn shame. If Bradley’s finally done carrying that chip on his shoulder, Jake’s just going to have to find something new to pry at.
He takes out Yale once and Harvard once on his way to seek out Bradley, ducking behind cover whenever he hears approaching footsteps. They're not playing particularly seriously. Somewhere, he can hear Payback and Fanboy yelling out iconic action lines amid peals of laughter, and at least one scuffle has broken out where people are using any means necessary to prevent someone else from getting the shot of them. It's against the rules, but they're grown men and women, and not above a little cheating where necessary.
He swings around a corner at the sound of approaching footsteps, hammering the trigger and laughing brightly when Omaha's vest lights up with a series of flashes to mark the hit.
"God damn it," Omaha scowls, and then he's off, disappearing in the darkness to wait out his vest and soothe his pride.
Jake snickers to himself, and convinces himself that maybe he can still have fun, even with Rooster's sudden lack of engagement. It's not like it should surprise him, anyway: Rooster's back up on his perch and he's comfortable there. He's got, very technically, one air-to-air kill under his belt—if a practically stationary helicopter hovering just above the ground even counts—and a refreshing dose of family reunion, or whatever.
He's found what he wants.
So Jake should probably let it go. Be happy for him. Accept that he’s going to outclass everyone without challenge, no matter how bitter the pill.
It's as he's stewing on this that he hears two whoops, two sets of footsteps barreling towards him: one from ahead, one from behind.
Jake curses low under his breath, pressing himself up against a wall. One of these groups, statistically, will be his team. Which would be all well and good if he could guess which direction they’ll be coming from. Right now, it’s a 50/50 shot he’s about to get hit from behind. He’s made it this far without taking a single hit, and he’d kind of like to keep it that way. Gotta maintain his aura of mystery somehow.
He shuffles along the wall, tips his head up in the futile hope that he might be able to drag himself up onto the second level that runs over parts of the course, and then makes a bitten-off, strangled noise when a hand closes over his arm and yanks him into a narrow hallway half-hidden in shadow.
“What the hell, Bradshaw,” he demands breathlessly—because of course, it’s Bradshaw.
Rooster lifts a finger to his lips and tips his head. They stand chest-to-chest, and listen to the sudden frantic hammering of plastic triggers, whoops of delight and cries of defeat, the thump-thump–thump of running footsteps over the shitty electronica getting piped in over the speakers.
“You’re welcome,” Rooster says smugly.
“What is your game, Bradshaw?” Jake demands.
“Laser tag,” Bradley deadpans. “Same as you.”
Jake’s eyes narrow. He’s not buying it. Whatever their newfound truce may mean, Jake can’t believe it stretches this far.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t see why I should,” Jake snorts.
Bradshaw’s hand lands on the wall just next to his head. He’s barely taller than Jake, but in the tight space it doesn’t matter; Jake suddenly feels like he’s being crowded. He backs up half a step, but that just lands his spine right up against the wall, and that’s not any better because Bradshaw closes the space between them until the plastic of the chest targets clatter together.
“Then why are you still here?” Bradley asks.
Jake opens his mouth, and—despite the dark, he sees it. Bradley’s gaze dropping. Just for a moment.
And, okay, it’s not the first time he’s seen that, but usually Rooster is staring at his mouth because he’s willing him to shut it. This time, though, Bradshaw’s the one goading him. It’s a relief, after his earlier refusal to engage.
So. Fight’s on. Turn and burn.
“You like to pretend you know so much, Rooster. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me?”
Jake taps the plastic of his laser gun against the wall twice where it’s hanging at his side, leans his head back against the wall, gaze still fixed on Rooster like a dare. C’mon, Rooster. Take the bait. You want to go, let’s go.
The heat of a hand pressing at his hip is the only warning he gets before Rooster’s mouth is against his.
He freezes up for a second, dumbfounded in a way he hasn’t been since he came in second on their very first TOPGUN exercise.
Bradshaw doesn’t hesitate. Their vests knock together, plastic clattering softly, but nothing about it feels awkward. He tilts his head, slants their mouths together, close and sure, and Jake’s brain shorts out completely. The feel of him, the smell of him—
Oh.
He grabs blindly for the strap of Bradley’s vest, and kisses him back.
It’s Jake who parts his lips, but Bradley is already there, tongue pressing hot and confident against his own. Jake’s breath catches somewhere between his ribs. The solid weight of Bradshaw against him is the only thing keeping him grounded. When teeth graze his lower lip, he whimpers. There’s no way Bradley heard it, not above the low thud of the music, but maybe he feels it because he chases it up with a repeat performance.
It’s infuriatingly good. Ridiculously good. His heart is in his throat, his grip white-knuckled, and when Bradley pulls back, Jake barely manages to keep his eyes open.
“You lose, Seresin,” Bradley murmurs against his mouth.
Jake blinks. “You sure about that?”
Whatever this is, it doesn’t feel much like losing.
“Pretty sure.”
He looks down just in time to see the barrel of Bradshaw’s gun pressed directly up against his vest.
“Son of a—”
The lights on his vest flash and the plastic buzzes dully against him: once, twice, three times. Direct hit. As if he didn’t already know.
It’s a dirty trick. The dirtiest. The kind that ought to make him furious. Jake’s gearing up for it when Bradshaw leans back in, bites at his jaw, presses a kiss at the corner of it—then laughs, low and and warm against Jake’s skin, sinking right down to his bones like heavy bass.
And then he’s gone, swallowed by the black and the neon and shitty, tinny music and the shouts of his squad.
Jake ought to chase him. Ought to catch up the second his vest stops flashing red, pump the trigger without mercy. Ought to pin Bradshaw down in some corner and hit him again and again and again until he admits, out loud, who won the bet.
His skin stills feel hot where Bradley touched him: the memory of a hand at his hip, his mouth still burning, the kiss he left on his jaw like a brand that won’t fade. Jake slips out of the hall, and goes on the hunt.
He gets his fair share of shots in, takes just as many. At some point he links up with Javy, and then all bets are off: they advance around the course like two men who’ve played too much laser tag and think this counts as divine purpose.
And he never sees Bradshaw. Not once. No matter how hard he looks. Rooster might as well be a ghost, because Jake feels haunted. More than once, he flinches at imagined breath playing across his ear, at laughter he doesn’t hear sliding down his spine.
When the buzzer sounds and the lights come up, he’s sweaty, keyed up, laughing too loud.
He doesn’t scare easy—c’mon, look at him—but as the lights reveal the course for what it really is (shoddily painted wood, roughly chipped edges, peeling reflective tape) he feels something unfamiliar tighten in his chest. It’s nothing, he tells himself. He’ll walk out there, tell Rooster nice try, shame it didn’t work out for you.
And then he’ll make the best of those bragging rights. Like he always does.
He and Javy high five on the way out, high then low. Javy whoops. They pile into the lobby, tugging at straps and dumping plastic guns onto the equipment return, laughing and shoving, a mess of people and plastic ricocheting off each other.
Finally, Jake catches sight of Rooster. He’s already pulled his harness off, has it dangling over his shoulder, and he smirks when he catches Jake watching him. Jake rolls his eyes, exaggerated enough to count as a performance, and Bradshaw just laughs, easy as anything, before ducking his head to Phoenix at his side. She says something that makes him wrinkle his nose, shove her away as she laughs with sparkling eyes.
An employee herds them toward a big screen on the wall where red wars against blue in a constant back-and-forth, tracking every hit and every point over the course of their game. They’re rowdy, cheering and shouting like they might still be able to affect the outcome. It’s close, but when the colours settle, red wins. Jake and Javy throw their arms up at the same time, crowing their victory, and the room dissolves into shoving and good-natured insults.
“Suck it,” Javy exclaims, pointing directly at Phoenix. She smacks him in the stomach without hesitation, and while he’s doubled over with the wind knocked out of him, she hooks him into a headlock, too.
“Jake—” Javy wheezes, scrabbling against Phoenix ineffectually.
“Sorry, bud,” Jake shrugs, because if there’s one member of this squad he wouldn’t bet against in a fight regardless of size or appearance, it’s Phoenix. “You’re on your own with this one.”
“Damn right,” Phoenix says, and then releases Javy by shoving him in Jake’s direction. Jake catches him, laughing, and slaps him on the shoulder in consolation. Wallets are already coming out and money is being handed over. Nobody’s particularly keeping track to see if everyone’s staying honest, but it doesn’t really matter in the end, anyway.
Jake turns—and there’s Rooster again, leaning against the wall, thumbs hooked in his pockets, watching it all with that stupid, fond smile. Jake doesn’t like that he’s off to one side, removed from it all. The familiar flicker of worry stirs in his belly.
“Well, Bradshaw,” he drawls, pitching his voice just loud enough to pull everyone’s attention. “Guess those bragging rights are mine, huh?”
“This wasn’t our bet, Seresin.” Bradshaw tips his chin back at the board, where individual scores begin flipping onto the screen, lowest to highest. They’d put their callsigns in instead of their names, and if the staff had thought it was weird, they hadn’t said anything.
The ribbing begins almost immediately.
“Can’t aim for shit, huh, Payback?”
“Hey, I’m a lover not a fighter, Fritz.”
“You’re literally a fighter pilot, you dipshit.”
The names continue to roll until there’s just the top three spots left, and they all flash up at the top of the screen at once.
3RD PLACE: HANGMAN | 2ND PLACE: ROOSTER | 1ST PLACE: BOB
When Jake’s callsign flashes up before Rooster’s his stomach drops—but then everyone’s looking at Bob, and just like that, the moment’s gone.
“Bob?” Jake laughs, and punches the WSO’s shoulder. Bob’s smiling genially, even as everyone descends on him. It’s just like dogfight football all over again. Phoenix gets her arms around him, arms pinned to his sides by her grip, and manages to hoist him off the ground for a good second.
“Just lucky I guess,” Bob says, when he’s set back down and his shoulders are thoroughly slapped, his hair thoroughly ruffled.
They pour out of the place, laughing, because the weather’s great and the lobby smells like stale sweat and spilled beer and shitty food. Spilling into the parking lot, the hubbub continues.
But if he was counting on the ongoing mystery of Bob to distract everyone from Rooster’s win, Jake’s shit out of luck.
“How are those bragging rights feeling, Bradshaw?” Phoenix asks, elbowing him not-so-gently in the side. Bradley laughs and shoves her head away, the two of them squabbling like siblings.
They still bicker plenty, Jake notices bitterly. But then again, there’s never been any real heat to their back-and-forth. Not like him and Bradshaw.
“He doesn’t get bragging rights,” Jake says. “He cheated.”
There’s a collective ooooh as the group closes in, always ready to watch Hangman and Rooster square up to each other. No matter how many times Jakes comes out the victor.
“How the hell do you cheat at laser tag?” Javy asks traitorously, because he’s the worst best friend a man could ever have.
“Yeah, Jake,” Bradley says, a crooked smile tipping one side of that stupid moustache up. Jake resolutely does not think about the way it had felt against his own upper lip. “How did I cheat at laser tag? Do tell.”
There’s a taunting edge to his voice, a dare tucked away behind the words. Jake’s so grateful for the pushback that he doesn’t stop for a second to consider all the dreadful ways in which this conversation could go.
Jake stalks forward and jabs a finger into Bradshaw’s chest. “You exploited an unfair distraction.”
“Unfair?” Bradshaw says, all innocence. Like butter wouldn’t melt.
“You went against the rules of the bet.”
“I don’t recall there being any rules discussed.”
“Fine, you went against the spirit of the bet,” Jake snaps. He’s floundering. It’s usually easier than this; Rooster’s the one who gets all wound up while Jake stays cool. He rallies. “You disobey direct orders once, and suddenly you’re a loose cannon, huh?”
“Only when it works,” Bradshaw says, easily. And then, without ever looking away from Jake, he addresses the rest of the squad. “Can I get a third-party ruling, here? I’m starving.”
“Suck it up, Seresin,” Phoenix advises. “God, no surprise that you’re a sore loser.”
The group starts drifting towards the cars they arrived in, still boisterous. Bradshaw doesn’t move. He just quirks an eyebrow at Jake, smug and delighted.
“You lose, Seresin,” he says softly.
The same words he’d spoken right up against Jake’s mouth earlier. Jake swears he can still feel them ghosting hot across his lips, shaking him up like jetwash. Rooster’s watching him, eyes pinning him in place.
“This was supposed to be about laser tag,” Jake mutters.
“I don’t care about laser tag.”
Then Bradshaw’s arm is around his waist, pulling him close, and he kisses Jake with the same infuriating confidence he’d worn in the dark. Jake’s hands land on his chest, briefly, and then he’s grabbing two handfuls of his shirt instead, spine arching back over Bradley’s broad hand at the small of his back as the kiss deepens.
Chaos erupts behind him. Someone whoops, there’s a catcall, a sound that might be Halo choking half to death on a mouthful of warm Diet Pepsi. He barely hears it, because the roar in his ears is as loud as a jet engine.
“What the hell was that for?” Jake demands when Rooster finally pulls back. The anger in his voice doesn’t land. For one thing, one of his hands has released its handful of shirt in favour of curling firmly at the back of Bradshaw’s neck, keeping him from moving more than an inch away.
Bradshaw grins.
“Bragging rights.”
“You’re supposed to brag about winning the game,” Jake chokes out.
“Should have specified,” Bradshaw says with a wink, letting go of Jake’s waist. He drapes an arm over his shoulders instead, fingers hanging loose, possessive and sure of it. Jake tries not to feel pleased about the hot line of Bradshaw’s body pressed against his side, because that feels a little too much like losing twice in one day.
Javy’s giving him the crazy eyes that mean we are talking about this, later, and everyone else is laughing and chattering and watching them, bright-eyed and intrigued. Dinner conversation is going to be about one thing and one thing only. Rooster doesn’t seem to care. He just steers Jake toward the Bronco, across the parking lot from the rest of the cars, already pulling up directions to the diner on his phone.
“You chose a hell of a time to climb down off that perch of yours, Rooster,” Jake grumbles as, more because he needs something to say than because it makes any kind of sense.
“Get your ass in the car,” is all that Bradshaw says.
They separate long enough for Jake to round to the passenger side, and he’s grateful for the space. He gets one calming breath, maybe two, before they’re settled. Rooster slots his phone into the cradle on the dash. Jake sprawls low in his seat with his arms folded across his chest, still trying to work out how he feels about this whole thing.
Bradshaw reaches out. His hand bypasses the shifter, sliding onto Jake’s leg, just above the knee.
Jake looks down. Looks back up at Bradley’s tipped head and quirked mouth. And then gives the fuck up with a sigh.
“And here I thought you’d given up on me, Rooster,” he says, mock weariness intact.
“You should be so lucky,” Rooster squeezes Jake’s leg once, and then finally turns his attention to the car instead. Javy’s pulls out in front of them, horn honking, and Rooster flips him off with a laugh.
No I wouldn’t, Jake thinks. It would fucking suck.
“This does not mean I’m gonna to take it easy on you, you know,” Jake says.
“Good.”
Bradshaw’s phone lights up, the word COYOTE emblazoned across the screen in blocky letters. No contact photo. He swipes the call away and pulls out of the parking lot, the last one to leave. Jake’s own phone buzzes. Javy’s face fills the screen. He holds it up for Bradshaw to see.
“Tell him my intentions are purely dishonourable,” Bradshaw says, and it almost sounds true—until his expression softens and he adds, “but I will make you breakfast tomorrow.”
And yeah, okay. Sometimes even when you lose, you win.