Work Text:
The A is late again. The unfortunate reality of working late and missing his usual train is setting in as he kicks a crumpled receipt in the empty subway terminal on Fulton Street. Jake doesn’t mind waiting, hell, ever since he moved to New York all those years ago, all he’s done is go, with no regard for a break or a breather. But internally, he mourns the loss of his evening eye candy.
The Subway Guy, aptly named by Javy during one of their late-night tequila escapades on the balcony of his house in Rockaway, has been a constant fixture of his life for a couple of months now. His broad shoulders, long legs, curly hair, ugly pornstache, and unfairly large, brown, beautiful eyes have been in Jake’s periphery every time he catches the train down to Queens. Jake’s always on before him. When he finally gets on, he's either standing near the doors or, if there is a seat available, taking a spot across from Jake like it’s preordained around the time the train reaches Lafayette. From what Jake has gathered, he’s a chef of some kind, always in a sleek black outfit, trimmed with a dark teal and somehow with garish palms engraved into the hemline. It seems custom, along with most of the other jackets he rotates, all accented with some atrocious pattern that hasn’t been fashionable since the ‘80s. He doesn’t seem much older than Jake, maybe by a couple years, faint scars mar his cheek and chin. He looks rugged, like Tom Selleck, Jake’s never too sober to admit a crush, and he often has trouble not staring.
Subway guy has caught him a few times, raising an eyebrow or flashing him a pleasant smile, but it never goes much further than that. Jake pushes up his glasses and reabsorbs himself in whatever book he’s brought along, cheeks flushed, until he reaches his stop on Beach 105th Street and hurries off. The guy is always still on the train, which means his stop is Rockaway Park, only a few blocks from him, close enough to touch. But the two of them stand at a stalemate; they don’t talk or anything, just steal glances. Javy has been pushing him to say something for around 3 weeks now, and he has yet to work up the courage.
The whirr of the tracks and the woosh of wind tell him the train has finally come before he sees it. It's around 8, so as the train screeches to a halt in front of him, he’s not greeted with the usual crowds of the 6 pm rush. What is surprising is that the Subway guy is there, already on the train in a heated discussion with the woman next to him, she is shorter than both of them by a mile, but her face is contorted in an expression that he’s immediately intimidated by. They both turn to the doors as he steps into the near empty train car. He grips his messenger bag tightly as he sits across from them and pulls out his well-worn copy of The Martian. The woman raises an eyebrow and looks between him and the subway guy, even from over his book, he can see the flush on his cheeks and the twitch of his mustache.
“You’re blondie.” The woman states matter-of-factly, looking at him determinedly.
Now that's something. He whips his head from his book a little too quickly to seem nonchalant about this whole thing, “What?”
“You’re the guy Bradley can’t stop talking about, holy shit, what a coincidence.” The woman laughs brightly as Subway guy, Bradley, hisses out a barely whispered, “Natasha, what the fuck.”
It’s Jake’s turn to blush, his cheeks flush what he knows is a ruddy red from all the pictures he and Javy take when they are both blackout drunk, and adjusts his glasses. He really doesn’t know what to say; he’s saved by Natasha, wickedly grinning at him and saying with no pause or fear, “Natasha Trace, nice to meet you! Bradley and I were gonna hit up the Bayhouse for dinner, but I forgot I had something to do, so why don’t you go with him?”
It’s only from Jake’s years of practice in his personal and professional life that he can school his expression from getting more dumbstruck and dopey. He smirks, purposefully accentuating his drawl as he leans back in the crappy plastic seats to better look at both of them.
“And what’s in it for me?”
Bradley speaks up this time, clearing his throat and giving him a deliberate once over, “Free dinner, decent company, and some fun at the end of the night?” Wow, ok, that was forward, Jake thinks, as his cheeks heat up again. He wasn’t expecting confidence to take over so quickly, but he doesn’t mind; in fact, he relishes the attention. He realizes he’s taken a little too long to respond when Bradley raises an eyebrow in anticipation of his answer. Usually, he’s the one taking initiative when asking for things, so this is entirely unexpected, even though it wasn’t necessarily initiated by Bradley either.
He outstretches his hand and leans across the subway car, “Jake Seresin, those terms seem amenable, I suppose."
The man smiles, brown eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes his hand and shakes it, his palms are rough with calluses, “Bradley Bradshaw.”
Bradley Bradshaw? Jake chuckles a little at that, pulling his hand away and stuffing his abandoned book back into his messenger bag in between the mess of paperwork and his laptop, “Were your parents drunk when they named you?”
Bradley scoffs, Jake thinks for a second that he took offense to the comment, but there is a teasing glint in his eye, “You’re gonna need better material than that if we’re going out.”
Natasha groans loudly. Jake had honestly forgotten she was there, too busy taking Bradley’s ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and tank top off in his mind and imagining the golden skin underneath.
“God, you two are already insufferable,” she says, her tone a little petulant. The train has just crossed the inlet, the lights of the city are so distant and hazy in the dark he can barely make out the Empire State, the water below is dark and murky, the cold of Late October seeps through the subway car, causing him to shiver, although it might also be the attention he’s being paid by Bradley.
The train pulls into Beach 98th Street, and Bradley and Natasha go to stand as the car screeches to a stop. Jake raises an eyebrow at both of them, “thought your stop was later,” pointedly looking at Bradley as he gets up to follow them.
“It is,” Bradley says, shrugging a black coat over his Hawaiian button-up and tugging it closed, “ I was going to give Nat a ride home today, so I drove up here.” Bradley shifts on his feet. They are standing close under the covered platform, Natasha an arm’s length away, tapping at her phone. “You don’t have to tag along, y’know,” he says suddenly, voice rasping and just a touch shier than it was in the train car a bit ago. This close to him, he has to crane his neck up to look in Bradley’s eyes; in the dark, they’re almost black.
“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy,” Jake drawls, pushing at his shoulder and giving Bradley his most reassuring smile. “Now let’s get going, darlin’. Don’t want to miss our reservation, do we?” He shouts out into the night, turning around and beginning the trek off the platform. Bradley lets out a startled laugh in response. Natasha bounds up to him as he arrives at the terminal stairs, hooking her arm around Jake’s, as she leads them to where he assumes Bradley’s car is parked. Bradley himself is a couple paces behind, half running to catch up to the two of them.
“Now Jakey,” she says, a little too sweet for his liking, “what are your intentions with my Bradley?”
“All impure and entirely sexual, I assure you,” Jake jokes, stage whispering into her ear so Bradley can overhear as he finally catches up to them.
“Thought our after-dinner plans were private,” Bradley rasps into his ear, closer than he thought from the footsteps behind them, his deep voice racks a shiver up his spine.
“Ugh, you perv,” Nat says, rolling her eyes and placing some well-timed smacks against Bradley’s shoulder. Bradley springs away laughing, fumbling in his coat pocket for his keys when they reach a bright blue Ford Bronco parked in the shade of the underpass. The three of them pile inside; it’s an older model, probably late ‘80s, but it’s meticulously upkept, almost new. They talk for a little while about nothing important until they reach a small apartment just off the beach. Nat waves both of them off with a smile, bounding inside with a stern look at Bradley and a promise to keep her updated.
She slams the car door shut, leaving the car caked in silence. Bradley fiddles with his phone for a bit, popping on a playlist, classic rock filters through the speakers as he backs out and onto the main road.
“So…” Bradley says, drumming his fingers to the tune of the Fleetwood Mac song playing, “why didn’t you say anything before?”
Jake looks out the window at the Halloween-decorated houses, the orange lights, and cartoonish skeletons offer a needed break from Bradley’s strong profile, only lit by the streetlights around them. “Why didn’t you?” It comes out harsher than expected, so he mutters a sincere apology before explaining, “Javy, my best friend, has been trying to convince me to make a move for weeks, I guess I was too nervous, thought you would reject me and I wouldn’t see you again.” he says honestly, looking back at Bradley who has stopped the dance of his fingers to place a large hand on his thigh, Jake shudders at the contact.
“Javy?” Bradley asks, he sounds a bit weird, “Javier Machado?”
Jake raises an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes at Bradley, “Yeah, why?”
“Oh my god, he’s my tattoo artist.” Bradley says, “he’s been trying to set me up with some blond guy for weeks. I held out because I couldn’t figure out how to tell you how I feel; he would always brush it off.”
“Son of a bitch, you’re Rooster.” Jake laughs, pulling out his phone and quickly texting Javy the news, “he’s mentioned you a bunch.”
“God, that’s such a shitty nickname, it’s not my fault the one time I go to someone else, they botch my request.” Bradley groans.
Jake laughs, moving his hand on top of Bradley’s on his thigh. He flips it over and intertwines their fingers, “I thought it was a funny story.”
“Of course you did, it’s not permanently on your body,” Bradley sighs fondly, squeezing his hand as he lets go to shift gears as they pull into the parking lot of the Bayhouse. The soft sound of waves lapping at the shore fills the space between them as they walk up the sea-worn wooden steps to the restaurant. Despite the late night and cold weather, the inside is packed with patrons, the voices filter through the door as Bradley holds it and they step inside.
The waitress quickly leads them to their table once Bradley gives his name, his hand finding the small of Jake’s back as they navigate the cramped dining room. The table is tucked in a quiet corner next to large windows looking out onto the brilliant Manhattan skyline, the lights twinkle like stars over the bay. Once they order, he realizes he doesn’t find it hard to talk to Bradley; they laugh for hours about common friends, trading work stories, and subway horrors. They talk about football and the movies, what books Jake has been reading on the train; Bradley admitted, while deeply pained, that he has been picking up the books he’s seen in Jake’s hand during their journeys down to Rockaway. It’s surprising to see he keeps up with them heartily, pulling out his own copy of The Martian from his glovebox when dinner is all said and done and they pile back into the Bronco.
He feels like he should find it weird, being so intertwined with a stranger already, even if he’s been fantasizing about him for weeks, but it’s not. Bradley has fit into his psyche so perfectly that it's hard to keep away, sliding as close as the passenger's seat allows and sliding his fingers back into Bradley’s once he shifts up a gear as they careen closer to Breezy Point. The Broncos' headlights cut through the darkness and dim moonlight as they pull off the main road and down a side street toward a group of houses meters from the beach. The roar of the waves is closer as they park at a house at the end of the road; the lawn is sandy yet meticulously manicured with the brush and reeds from the surrounding dunes, the brick facade is weathered, the white wood above it is slightly tattered from the salt of the sea, the porch is littered with flowerpots filled with marigolds. The large bay window gives a glimpse into Bradley’s life, Jake’s not sure he’s ready to see. Bradley hops out of the driver's seat and jogs to the passenger door, opening it with a flourish and a wink.
“What a gentleman,” Jake snarks, sliding out and starting his trek to the house, but he is pulled off to the side by a hand threading back into his own.
“Not yet, I wanna show you something.” Bradley leads the way to the water as if by memory; the moonlight guides them over the crest of a dune, blocking their view of the Rockaway Inlet. The lights that mark Brooklyn in the distance shimmer over the dusky water, the soft roll of waves breaking the pattern of the pale moon dancing along them. He lets the scene wash over him, lets Bradley guide him to sit in the sand, knocking their knees together, uncaring about how he’s wearing his favorite pair of slacks. They sit in a comfortable silence until the waves start lapping higher and higher, signifying the change of the tide.
“It’s beautiful.” Jake finally breathes between them, “Thank you.” He turns to Bradley, watches the slope of his nose, now lit by the moonlight. Bradley meets his gaze with a warmth in his eyes that sends another shiver through Jake. Maybe the chill of the New York Fall is finally getting to him.
“I had fun tonight,” Bradley mumbles, hooking his pinky in Jake’s under the sand, edging closer. Their breaths mingle, warming his lips from the chill of the wind rolling over the bay. Jake closes the distance. Bradley tastes like cider, sand, and the sea. They trade kisses in the moonlight until the water reaches his boots, darkening the leather.
“Come back to mine?” Bradley asks softly.
“In a minute,” Jake replies, kissing him soundly in witness of the moon, sliding further together until the tide washes up at their ankles. He couldn’t ask for anything more.