Chapter Text
Bradley Bradshaw hates Jake Seresin.
He hates his perfect hair, never once out of place even after a dogfight. He hates the gleam in Jake’s eye while talking up just another woman at the bar. He hates the curve of Jake’s perfect lips into that dumb smirk that keeps him up at night.
With hate.
Nothing else.
Nothing that causes a pang in his stomach when he watches the other man pick up a girl, or worse, leave with one. Even if a pang like that was to exist, which it didn’t, it would be jealousy, perhaps, at Jake feeling even a little joy.
Bradley Bradshaw’s hate is bone deep.
They had met before this, formal and insignificant to an outsider’s standpoint. The hate had built as quickly as their eyes had met, crackling between the two like electricity, an omen of impending storms. A Navy ball, treacherous.
Jake’s Greek statue shoulders were only accented by the sharply tailored Navy Whites, and it made Bradley’s blood boil. This man had known who he was without introduction, which unsettled him. Bradley did not like to be preceded by his reputation.
Perfect white teeth gleamed as his callsign was mouthed.
Rooster.
Bradley considered whether he could ever hear it said again without thinking back to this moment.
He asked a friend the Blonde man’s name later. Jake Seresin, he now knows. Jake “Hangman” Seresin. A foreboding perfect callsign for a dangerously perfect face.
And Bradley hated it.
— — — — — —
Bradley sauntered into the bar, the Hard Deck, confidence dripping from his perfectly polished aviators. Misplaced confidence? Maybe. But he was here for a job, to consider his competition and potential wingmen, and Bradley Bradshaw is always focused on a job.
“Bradshaw! Is that you?” A voice rang out across the already bustling bar. His shadowed gaze landed on a group of Naval aviators, like himself. The woman who had called his name was Natasha “Phoenix” Trace. A friend.
They had met in flight school. She was a good person but a better pilot. Bradley has been known to let his guard down around her occasionally.
He continued his walk, stinking of artificial swagger. He stopped by a pool table, his shoes sticking slightly against the floor.
Naval Aviators never change.
“This is how I find out you’re stateside?” Her voice was light, teasing. Bradley missed it. He felt warm, less alone than he would have been in his dismal standard-issue quarters. He laughed and removed his aviators, tucking them into the neck of his perfectly white tank top.
A cliché, maybe, for a military guy to be so consistently precise in the state of his clothing, but old habits die hard. So sue him for wanting to look put together, even if he was wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt that would have made his mother smile.
“I wanted to surprise you.” he smiled, white teeth and an easy charm flowing as naturally as the beer that invaded the air, alongside the scent of sweat and victory. The mission hadn’t even begun, how could victory be so prevalent? Bradley had believed he had false confidence, but the truth was entirely the opposite.
Phoenix leaned down to line up a shot with her cue, facing off against a quiet man with oversized wire-frame glasses and a general aura of a wish to go unnoticed. She drew the cue back, hitting him squarely in the stomach. He doubled over, clutching his stomach and groaning as she hit the balls into the pockets with a practiced grace.
“I guess I surprised you back.” She turned, tilting her head, in a similar fashion as when facing a problem. Bradley decided not to consider this too deeply.
She smiled. He could handle smiles. He smiled back, slowly drawing up to his full height.
“It’s good to see you.”
He meant it.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
He hoped she meant it too.
He patted her arm, a parting signal of goodwill, and rounded out to cross the corner of the bar, to the other side of the pool table. The music changed from a gentle lull of trumpets to something with guitar, something familiar. Bowie, maybe? As he resigned himself to watching the silent man with the large glasses take a shot, he heard his name again.
“Bradshaw. As I live and breathe.”
Bradley knew that voice. He could recall that voice in his sleep. It came back to him, haunting him more proficiently than any awry mission could. That voice, that curled around his name so deliciously that he could have broken his nose.
Jake “Hangman” Seresin.
He looked up at him through his eyelashes, a wry smile only just gracing his lips.
“You look… good.” Bradley managed. He hoped that the tremble in his voice was in his head. Something in the gleam of Jake’s perfect eyes made him think it wasn’t.
“Well, I am good, Rooster.” Bradley hated the twist in his gut. Rage, he decided. Rage was easy.
“I’m very good.” Jake stole the cue from the aviator with glasses.
Asshole.
“In fact, I’m too good to be true.”
Phoenix looked at him, and shook her head. A warning, or a ‘can you believe this guy?’, maybe.
At least he wasn’t the only one who felt an angry heat in his chest. Bradley had to physically tear his gaze away from Jake’s.
“So, uh, anybody know what this special detachment is all about?” Payback interjected. Thank god.
“No, mission’s a mission.” Hangman. Jesus Christ. “They don’t confront me.”
God, this guy-
“What I want to know: who’s gonna be team leader? And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?”
The wheels in Bradley’s head turned quickly, a fortunate bonus that came with being an excellent pilot. Humility, unfortunately, was often not included.
“Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.”
He enjoyed the wince on Jake’s face. Hate was easy.
The wince vanished as soon as it had appeared. Fuck hate, apparently.
“But that’s just it, isn’t it, Rooster?” Goddammit. “You’re always waiting too long for these things. Never pulling the trigger on time, right? Is an early grave any worse than never leaving the ground at all?”
He looked at Natasha with distaste, as Jake got closer to his face. He could see every imperfection in those green eyes.
“Man, I love this song.” Jake looked up at him through barely-there blonde eyelashes before pushing away, leaving a searing sensation in his absence. Bradley put it down as loathing.
Natasha’s face reflected every single thought inside his head, except maybe those about Jake’s eyes.
“He hasn’t changed.”
“No he has not.” Bradley slowly replaced the aviators on his face, letting them rest gracefully on the bridge of his nose.
His eyes followed Jake’s figure walking up to the bar, noting the confidence in the set of his shoulders, and the subtle tick of his jaw, a slight thrill moving up his spine at the implication that he was the one to cause that reaction. He pushed that thrill into the depths of hell.
The lull of jukebox music shifted from the sweet tones of Bowie to some unplayable bullshit. No matter the circumstance, Bradley would not stand for that. He strode to the box like a man on a mission, and patted his pockets.
No quarters. Fantastic.
He unplugged the machine, eyeing the piano across the bar. He sat down, pointedly ignoring annoyed groans from the large crowd that had accumulated on the floor.
He didn’t know if Jake was watching. He definitely didn’t care. And if the image of the tick in that beautiful jaw kept him up late that night long past a reasonable hour, then that was Bradley’s business, and his alone.