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heartsofminds · 2 years

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Blooming (II)

So instead he settles for an affectionate squeeze to the right side of her face with his palm. “I wish you weren’t so young.” or Bradley Bradshaw is emotionally immature and he knows it, but she just wants to kiss him.

Warning: Contains curse words, a failed age-gapped relationship, and sexual connotations. 18+ readers, only.

A/N: Welcome to part two of my new series, Blooming. Here we learn about Rooster and Hangman’s past and his lack of emotional stability. Stay awhile, and enjoy 9.1k words in honor of our favorite aviator’s birthday.

Read Blooming and Blooming III here.

Bradley knows he has a temper.

One that makes his face hot and his chest flush a deep pink. His ears are always scarlet and the vein in the side of his neck attempts to become four-dimensional. The voices of everyone around him become muffled and he breathes deeply through his nose. His view of his immediate surroundings becomes blurred; almost as if he’s underwater and opening his eyes without goggles.

And although Bradley knows he has a horrible temper, he also knows that he desperately needs to work on keeping it in check. It’s been a long time since he’s blown up. It’s been an even longer time since he’s felt so angry that he couldn’t breathe; his lungs feeling crushed and like he’s up in the air with no oxygen.

He doesn’t know who he inherited his short fuse from. His mother was the most patient and kindhearted woman on Earth and his father, from what he had been told, was an oddball who was so obnoxiously goofy that nothing would ever be taken seriously enough by him to set him off in such a volatile way.

And then there was Bradley.

Bradley Bradshaw, who already had a chip on his shoulder from his father’s reputation, his mother’s death, and the fact that his beloved godfather didn’t believe in him enough to hold his own that he pulled his papers from the Academy the first time he applied and refused to acknowledge why Bradley was so pissed at what he had done.

So that’s how he found himself in a class with people younger than him, literal infants in his humble opinion, and was embarrassed knowing that he stuck out the minute someone asked him how old he is.

He made friends there, of course. He even had himself something sort of a girlfriend too. Her name was Tanner, and she was a knockout; tan skin and curly red hair with freckles that dotted her skin like how craters kiss the moon. But she was only nineteen and here he was at twenty-four; hopelessly in love with her and treading in the dangerous waters of knowing that their relationship was going to inevitably end. Mostly because they lived in such different worlds.

Venus always looks close to Mercury until you realize that they orbit at different speeds.

And despite it all, he was ready to bite the bullet for her. He was ready to settle down the minute she said: “Go.” He was ready to do any and everything she wanted if she just as much as felt the need to ask him. She was his everything because he had nothing and he knew it was a dangerous game to be playing; putting all that trust and responsibility in a person, let alone a nineteen-year-old girl. But Bradley pushed this fear aside and realized that this was his new normal. With his mom dead and Maverick out of the picture, she was the sole proprietor of his grounding and he assumed that he would be her’s as well.

Bradley knew that he liked being comfortable and because he loved this girl so much, he was willing to swim in a sea of unknowns and discomfort. It was uncharted territory but it couldn’t be so bad. And boy, how that came back to bite him in the ass.

While he did trust her fully (well, three-quarters of the way if you were to be exact), Rooster knew that they probably were not on the same page. Reading the same book? Yes. On the same page? Maybe sometimes, but definitely not reading the same paragraph and he’s for certain they’re not comprehending any of the words the same way.

He knew she was young and still in college, a breeding ground for meaningless hookups and boozy frat parties, but he never wanted to be too controlling. He had seen enough of that bullshit in his fellow midshipmen. He had witnessed the kicking of walls when their significant others pissed them off or even the disgusting “locker room talk” that he assumed all guys grew out of after they graduated high school. But with each “Her tits are huge!” and “God damn I’d do anything to fuck her!”’s he hears when getting dressed after an intense training session, he realizes that a lot of the people he’s around are still boys and teenaged ones, at that.

And then the realization clicks again that man, sometimes it fucking sucks being so old.

But despite it all, Bradley knew that he wasn’t in control of her and couldn’t make himself have the heart to if he tried. So he didn’t loom over her the way that he would’ve liked to sometimes and understandably, he did get rather jealous every now and then. And he was working on being more open and communicating what he’s feeling when he’s feeling it or whatever his friend Phoenix was always on about when he came to her with relationship troubles.

While Phoenix’s advice did work and he had admitted to himself that the female pilot is more emotionally intelligent and sensitive than she ever let on, the fights and disagreements still happened despite him using her tactics. Sometimes he would find himself shouting hurtful things at her or refusing to speak whenever she was attempting to rile him up so he would yell at Tanner. She had told him once during a late night pillow talking session that she picked fights with him so she would have some reason to actually be mad at him.

But whenever he felt his cheeks get hot and his ears turn red while arguing with her about spending too much time with one of her male friends (for what feels like the eightieth time in the nine months they had been dating), Rooster remembered that he was yelling at a nineteen-year-old girl, with turquoise bedsheets and fairy lights all around him in a shitty dorm room with a nosy roommate on the other side of the door.

So while Bradley does have a temper, he learned rather quickly when to pick his battles. He took deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. He clenched his fists at his sides and closed his eyes. His thumb rubbed circular motions over his pointer fingers and he would picture his mom’s face, bleach blonde hair, and ocean blue eyes giving him a soft smile and saying, “You’re alright! Just calm down, babycakes.”

When he would get like that he would always think of what his mom would do and he knew that his mother was the kindest woman in history and that she raised him well. He would always see women as an extension of themselves and not an extension of him.

Girls have their own brains and own consciousnesses and own sets of morals. Bradley recognized that keeping his unwarranted thoughts to himself was easier than letting them out and causing an F6 tornado of problems that were just a poor projection of his own unhealed trauma and insecurities.

And while this along with Phoenix’s pep talks helped him be the best man and boyfriend he thought he could manage to be at the ripe age of twenty-four, Rooster realized that he had some shortcomings and that he kept failing to realize one thing: That not every girl he’s with is meant to be his.

One thing that routinely had Rooster seeing red regardless of how much self-soothing or how much he tried to focus on his mother’s voice in the back of his head is whenever Tanner would visit him on base.

Jake Seresin was not shy in the slightest and Bradley was (and still definitely is) convinced that God put him on this Earth to see if he had a hidden brain aneurysm because he’s sure one will erupt from how much stress the blond regularly puts him through. And yeah, Hangman’s annoying, and yes, Rooster is definitely not one of his biggest fans, but his girlfriend’s wandering eyes on the younger pilot wasn’t Jake’s fault in the slightest. But since he can’t force himself to be angry with Tanner, he settled for directing his anger towards Hangman and God, did that make his blood boil.

He had already brought it up to her numerous times before; telling her that he wasn’t trying to be a dick or prove that he was an Alpha male. Just that the idea that she always seemed more intrigued in what Jake had to say or was doing whenever she comes around bothers him like no other. Of course, that started a screaming match with her face as red as a tomato and his breathing resembling that of a woman experiencing contractions, but he had thought they worked it out.

Well, shit, the make-up sex they had after was enough of an agreement, he had thought, but obviously not because it was happened again and this time, it was enough to make Bradley lose it entirely.

Bradley knew that their relationship was probably coming to a close soon. He had a sixth sense for these kinds of things and he didn’t know if his intuition was really strong or if he just had a propensity to worry himself to death, but he felt like he could always tell when people’s feelings about him had shifted.

Well that, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Tanner was losing interest. She didn’t remember the small things he had told her in passing like she used to and she never divulged much into her daily life with him over the phone anymore. She always sounded tired. Bored, even, and he couldn’t tell if she was bored of the conversation or bored of him.

He chose to ignore it. He chose to ignore the sounds of unfamiliar voices in the back of their phone calls. He chose to ignore the fake interest she had while giving him the little reactions people usually have when you’re talking to them. He had caught her a few times laughing at morbid things he would say, which proved his theory that she was hearing him but never really listening. He chose to ignore the fact that she never told him she missed him anymore or that all the letters she would send would be signed with her name neatly at the bottom.

She clearly had surpassed the need to declare her love for him with a comma following her signature on a piece of stationery paper.

Bradley chose to ignore all of this because living in denial is always better than having the burden of proof thrown in your face for you to forcefully accept it.

So as a last-ditch effort to mend the relationship before biting the bullet and calling it quits with her, he invited her to the base to visit him. He made a deal with himself; if it went well, he would leave it alone but if she seemed like she’d rather be strangled with barbed wire than be there with him, he would let her go.

When Tanner arrived, it was all butterflies and rainbows. She engulfed him in a hug and kissed his face like crazy. He didn’t remember her being such a fan of lipgloss when he had seen her two months prior, but he figures a lot can change about someone when you very rarely see them. So when she laid sticky cherry flavored kisses on his cheeks and neck, he didn’t question her on it and relished in the fact that she was there with him and that maybe, quite possibly, she was still in love and that this was it for him.

She’s eager to hold his hand and to listen to his stories about whatever bullshit he has going on at the moment. She even gives him a rundown of her current friend group at college and what drama is brewing between whichever group of people and how she found out about it and what she intends to do to prevent things from getting so insanely messy.

She’s basically glued to his hip the entire weekend. Her hand is always twisting their fingers together and the band of her purity ring (which has definitely been rendered useless since she’s been dating Bradley) rubs against the junction between Bradley’s thumb and pointer finger and fits like a cog in a wheel; as if it had always belonged there. She smiles sweetly at him, and he has her full attention whenever he speaks or walks into a room.

When Tanner asks to use the bathroom and insists that she can find it herself without his help, Bradley doesn't think anything of it. She’s a big girl and as much as he wanted to go with her so he could soak up every second of the limited time they had together, he had to be laissez-faire. He couldn’t control her and he knew that lurking around every corner would make her feel like a child.

So Bradley settled on passing the time by sitting down and relaxing. He leaned forward slightly, his elbows rested on his knees and his legs were spread enough to be proportionate with his torso. He tapped his feet, drummed his fingers on his legs, and fiddled with his watch. He knew that she was a slow walker with zero sense of urgency to her. There were some exceptions to that; those only being if she was running late for class and she had an exam that specific period or if she was horny beyond belief and was begging him to “fuck the shit” out of her on a shitty ass college dorm mattress.

It didn’t seem weird that fifteen minutes had passed and there was still no sign of her. As a means to prevent himself from worrying to death or pacing around the base like a fucking lunatic, Bradley decided to busy his mind by going over his ever-growing “to-do” list that he kept in the back of his head.

Despite all the mundane tasks and intrusive and borderline obnoxious thoughts he had going a mile a minute in his brain, Bradley was surprisingly an organized thinker when it came to remembering all the things that he had to do. He carefully sifted through his responsibilities and assigned them blocks of time and where they would fit in his day before he checked his watch again and realized that an entire forty minutes had passed since he had last seen his girlfriend.

Something was off, and the familiar impending pit of doom that often plagued his stomach made a reappearance as he sped walked up and down the hallways of the base.

She’s fine, right? The base is huge and she’s terrible with directions so she may have just gotten lost, right? And figured that he would come looking for her, right? She’s fine. She had to be.

And when Bradley rounded a corner and was met with a supply closet at a dead end, he paused at a loud thump that followed a high-pitched moan.

“Oh God!” he heard a breathy squeak from a female voice, “Harder, daddy. Please, I’ve been so good!”

The pit in Rooster’s stomach turned into a ball of fire. He recognized that wheezy gasp anywhere. Hell, he had heard it two nights ago when he had her face down in the backseat of her 2002 Ford Focus.

He should be the only person eliciting those kinds of sounds from her. He had a death wish for whoever was on the other side of that metal door, because one thing about Bradley Bradshaw was that you never messed with anything that was his.

Rooster kicked open the door with his fists clenched to his side. He knew his ears were bright red and he felt himself starting to sweat bullets through his uniform shirt. The anger was hot as hell, and if he was in a better mood, he would make the joke that hell was right in front of him.

Her blouse was unbuttoned and it's been shifted over to one side of her chest, her nipple poking out through the gaped hole the button was supposed to secure. Her bra had long been taken off of her and the denim shorts she had worn to the base are hanging off of a random filing cabinet that was stored in there; showing that they were taken off in a frenzy.

And low and behold, the man of his disdain (even more so now than ever before) was in front of her, hoisting her up around his waist and fucking into her relentlessly. His uniform top was unbuttoned and his slacks were limp around his hips.

The sudden kick of the door opening did little to interrupt them, but Jake noticed Bradley standing in front of them; a damn near homicidal gleam in his eye and his entire body flushed pink with red hot anger. And like the asshole that Hangman is, he sent him a smirk and a wink before leaning forward to suck a hickey behind the redhead's ear.

“You son of a bitch!” Bradley screeched, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

He barreled his way into the small and rather dingy supply closet. Bradley grabbed Jake by the collar of his shirt and pushed him into the wall. Jake sputtered a cough; the wind knocked completely out of him.

His girlfriend (or soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, really) shrieked and gawked her eyes in horror at the scene taking place in front of her. Bradley wasn’t supposed to find them, and he wasn’t supposed to know that the reason for their break up was because she was unfaithfully faithfully fucking another man.

Tanner buttoned her blouse as fast as she could and pushed her denim shorts up her legs speedily. She had been embarrassed and ashamed before, but this was a whole new level. Not only had she been caught red-handed, but caught doing something dirty and quite possibly something illegal.

Hangman had finally caught his breath. His blue eyes gazed up at Rooster with a gleam of mischief. He knew that there was no way for him to charm himself out of this one, and if he was gonna get his ass beat, the least he could do was have some fun with it.

Jake sits up, tightening his belt his head, a smirk still on his face as he pulls up his pants and tightens his belt. “Oh look, it’s Chicken,” he scoffs, “I mean Rooster. How are you, man?”

Bradley seethed with rage. His fist went straight to Jake’s eye, the impact making the blond pilot stumble back a bit. Jake had to admit, Bradley was one strong mother fucker and his eye swelling shut definitely proved his realization right.

Bradley paused, trying to calm his breathing a bit before speaking. He knew that if he didn’t get himself under control, he may actually fucking murder Jake Seresin and although that wouldn’t be half bad, he worked too goddamn hard to get kicked out of the Navy and face criminal charges on the base.

His ears were still glowing red and his breathing even heavier than before. Tanner stood in the doorway of the supply closet in shock and utter panic.

“Ooh, you’re lucky you didn’t get my good side, Bradshaw,” Jake taunted, “But I’m sure Tan over there thinks every side is my good side. Don’t ya, baby?”

And oh shit, Jacob Michael Seresin did have a fucking death wish and in that moment, it was evident that he really didn’t give a fuck what Bradley could do to him. Any opportunity to get underneath Bradshaw’s skin was a golden one, and Jake just couldn’t bring himself to not be an asshole.

And oh, how Bradley fucking hated that. He grabbed the blond pilot by the collar and yanks him up to stand. He was too angry to speak. Shit, his brain was so fried from all the heat his body was exuding that he couldn’t even begin to think of words to put into sentences that would even make any fucking sense.

“Bradley, stop! Let him go!” Tanner yelled, and all of his senses in his body are turned off except for his tunnel vision sight and his sense of touch. That was made unmistakably apparent as each blow delivered to Hangman’s face and torso kept coming and coming and coming.

Jake’s face was black and blue and he’s sure he has baseball sized bruises all up and down his upper body, but he didn’t care. He finally had another missile to add to his arsenal of things to fuck with Bradley’s head. The result of that alone outweighed the healing time he would need.

Eventually, a commander walks by and pulls Rooster off of Hangman, and that was how he and Jake and Tanner all found themselves outside of Admiral Gadson’s office to tell their accounts of why Tanner’s bra was in the hallway and why Bradley’s face was beet red and why Jake’s right eye was swollen beyond belief.

Rooster sat straight up and looked ahead, choosing to ignore the sounds of Tanner and Jake’s hushed conversation beside him.

So that’s how Rooster found himself on garbage duty (”indefinitely”, Admiral Gadson had said, but he liked the kid and felt bad for him, so really, he said it meaning two weeks) and with no girlfriend.

And yeah, Bradley Bradshaw definitely had a temper and was definitely naive. And as he’s picking up orange peels and scrubbing dried piss off of toilet bowls, he made note of two things: One, he desperately needed to keep his temper in check and two, he would never make the same mistake to trust a young girl like that ever again.

Man, does it fucking suck being so fucking old.

ii.

(Y/N)’s body is on fire.

She’s not particularly hot, per se, but she most certainly is flustered. And for once, the source of her panic isn’t from a deadline or an application or some bill she had to have transferred over from her college apartment to the new one she would be living in come fall semester for law school.

No, (Y/N) is on fire because of the sandy-haired pilot beneath her right now.

Bradley Bradshaw’s old Bronco was a lot roomier than she ever anticipated it being, but then again, she wasn’t that great with dimensions (Damn you, astigmatisms.) and she wasn’t big on cars or motorcycles or boats or planes or anything that supplied humans with transportation, really.

She had just been responsible for closing the Hard Deck by herself again and like clockwork, the handsome aviator wandered his way inside to tell her about how he had misplaced his sunglasses and despite the fact that they were closed, he just had to find them tonight.

(Y/N) knew it was a ploy for him to get to talk to her alone. The mischievous glint in his eye when the words came out of his mouth told her so and besides, his beloved aviator shades were practically glued to his face. So how the hell did he manage to lose them?

“Crazy how they’re basically glued to your damn head and you managed to lose them,” (Y/N) teases, rounding out from behind the bar to help Bradley search for the glasses, ”How the hell are you a pilot? Get lost often, too?”

Rooster shakes his head, his gaze falling on the floor and his hands finding the sanctuary of his front pockets. The smile on his face gives his true intentions away, but he’s unaware that (Y/N) notices this.

“Directions are different than placement,” he jokes, “I do happen to be smarter than a fifth-grader, you know.”

The joke sits in the air for a few seconds before (Y/N) realizes that she has a stupid grin on her face and that damn, he looks really good in the lighting of Hard Deck.

“Obviously not because you can’t do simple math,” she chides, “I’m twenty-one. Not ten, jackass.”

“Hmm,” he leans on the side of the bar top with a smug look on his face, “Couldn’t tell. That baby face of yours says otherwise. I think it’s the dimples.”

She scoffs and puts her hand to her chest. “Jesus, Bradshaw. Weren’t you just trying to take me out on a date last week? Now I’m in fifth grade?” she starts looking around the bar floor for his sunglasses, “Seems pretty fucked up for a Navy man, don’t you think?”

“Pretty fucked up that you know I’m in the Navy and have a rank but refuse to use it when you address me,” Rooster quips. He starts to look on the floor of the booths near the area (Y/N) is searching.

(Y/N) stands up straight and crosses her arms. She takes a deep breath before approaching Bradley, putting a hand on his chest and giving him her doe eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” she adds extra thirst to her tone, ” How could I ever can I make it up to you? I’m just so young that I don’t know any better.”

Bradley grins and takes (Y/N)’s hand on his chest in his and entangles their fingers. He looks down at their conjoined hands, his pointer finger running across her newly obtained class ring.

His tongue comes out to lick at his bottom lip before his gaze shifts from their hands to (Y/N)’s face.

“I can think of a few things.”

He reaches up to grab the side of her face and pulls her in for a kiss. It’s soft, sweet even. It reminds her of how grooms kiss their brides during their wedding ceremonies. His lips are soft and plush, she thinks, and that was the best goddamn kiss she’s ever had in her entire life.

(Y/N) detaches their lips and reaches up, taking both of her arms and looping them around Bradley’s neck. His hands move to her waist and he leans down to kiss her once more. This time he deepens it. The kisses are still soft and on target, never leaving her lips once at all. He’s not messy or miscalculated. It’s almost eerie, how his kisses are deep and starting to get rough but yet he was still thoughtful and delicate with her.

His tongue swipes against (Y/N)’s top lip, and she opens her mouth to let it enter. (Y/N)’s not super experienced. She’s only ever kissed her college ex-boyfriend like this and they had broken up the summer going into her Junior year so it’s safe to say that it’s been a while.

The sparkle in both of their eyes says the same thing, and she’s taking his hand in hers and leading him out of the front door of Hard Deck. He hugs her from behind as she struggles to lock the door, the kisses he’s planting on her neck making her giggle and lose focus.

“Stop it, Bradshaw,” she says between laughs, ‘Penny’ll kill me if this door doesn’t get locked which means you can’t keep coming back to get me alone because I won’t be allowed to close by myself again.”

Rooster giggles into her neck, his chuckle and the hairs from his mustache tickling her neck.

“I bet I could sweet talk her,” he says, landing another kiss on the dip of skin just behind her earlobe, “She doesn’t call me sweet pea, for nothin’.”

(Y/N) turns around and kisses him on the lips. “You stole my nickname, you fucker, so matter of fact, maybe I won’t lock the door because you can’t be trusted anymore.”

Rooster brings her face closer to his again. His teeth tug on her bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make her wince.

“She was my aunt before she was yours,” he says, lips grazing over hers, “Remember to respect your elders, chick.”

“Well if you’re going off of that guise, I’m not sure how Penny would feel watching us make out in front of the door when she watches the cameras back tomorrow morning.”

(Y/N)’s statement makes Rooster back up and embarrassment washes over his face. (Y/N) had only ever seen the pilot with a smirk on his face; confidence and glee the primary emotions energizing his expression. To see him embarrassed was a sight for sore eyes.

“Let’s move our transaction to my car, hmm?” he asks, hands finding her hips. (Y/N) nods eagerly and Bradley takes her to the beloved 1977 baby blue Ford Bronco that he had inherited from his father when he had turned sixteen many moons ago.

He opens the passenger door for her before walking to the driver’s side. (Y/N) climbs in and shuts it, and the soft sound of metal falling on the floor of the car can be heard. She cranes her neck and moves her knees to the side to retrieve whatever had fallen from the force of the door closing.

And fuck, Bradley Bradshaw was either blind or a liar because low and behold, his “lost” sunglasses are in her hand.

He shuts the door to his side of the vehicle and a small smile is on his face. He doesn’t turn to face her just yet. He knows that she’s found them and if he’s starting to figure her out as well as he thinks he is, he knows that her voice will be pipping up from the right side of his car in three, two, one-

“You know, if you wanted to make out with me, Bradshaw you could’ve just asked,” she says, placing the aviators in his cupholder, “I’m not a floozy, but I wouldn’t have said no to you.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks, turning to face her head-on, “And I don’t think you’re a floozy, baby. If so, only for me, right?”

He gives her a smile and the inky blue of the California night sky paints a mural for her eyes. She never thought she would be into pilots, let alone older men, but yet, here she is in the passenger seat of a Ford Bronco, trying to debate if she should leave him hanging and only make out with him, or go all the way.

He’s so damn fit and such a good kisser. The way he looks at her makes her mouth water and the way he teases her makes her so fucking wet. The ball is in her court and the hard part isn’t playing, but deciding when to start.

(Y/N) leans over to kiss him again and this time, she grabs his face with both hands. There’s a warmth in the pit of her stomach and a hunger in her eyes. Bradley reclines his seat with one hand and guides her over to straddle his lap with the other.

He thought he was way past the need for messy sex in the driver’s seat of his car, but you can never set expectations without some minor setback now, can you?

(Y/N) is so goddamn horny and ready for him. She can’t remember being this desperate for anyone, really, and of course, she’s had sex before but she never remembers it being exceptionally good. It was just okay enough to get by and she always figured that she had enough time to have all the mind-blowing sex in the world the older she got. She was only twenty-one now, for fucks sake.

Bradley’s as hard as a fucking rock and he doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline pumping through his veins at fucking in the parking lot of such a popular place or if it’s exciting because he has a knockout sitting in his lap, her clothed cunt (that he knows has to be absolutely soaked for him) grinding like hell over his growing erection.

He’s not been this horny since high school and if he was in a clearer state of mind (and maybe a better man too, he thinks) he would’ve opted to have taken her to dinner and then back to his place. At least there he had a bed and a couch they could fuck like rabbits on. Both pieces of furniture are government property technically, but then again, so is he until his service duty is up, so what even is the big deal?

“Fuck, chick,” he breathes, grabbing her hips to push her down on his hardened clothed cock even more, “You’re such a good kisser.”

She giggles into his mouth and fuck, he’s a goner.

‘Yeah?” she asks, grinding herself even more onto his erection. She lets out a small moan (one that she thought Bradley couldn’t hear but his slight chuckle of amusement lets her know that she’s been caught) as the layers separating her bare pussy from his denim-clad package catches on her clit just right.

“Yeah, baby. You’re a fucking knockout.”

This makes her smile even more. Their kisses are sloppy now, the constant grinding crafting a veil of ecstasy around them both.

“(Y/N)?” he asks. His fingers unbutton her shorts and starts to slide them down her legs.

“Yeah?” she answers. Her cut-offs are completely off her legs and on the floor near Bradley’s feet. The lilac-colored panties she had on were completely soaked where her weepy hole sat.

If it was under any other circumstance or with any other person, she would find herself flushing pink and attempting to hide her face in her hands. But her arousal and also the fact that she feels so secure in what Bradley is doing with her prevents that.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer him, just continues to move her hips in circles in his lap. Her head is thrown back and the pressure and slight burn his jeans are providing her hardened clit feels like a slice of heaven.

“Sweet pea? Are you awake?” he asks again, but this time, his voice doesn’t sound like his.

It’s too high pitched; too womanly.

“What the fuck?” she questions and then she hears it again, and the view of her surroundings starts to blur and everything starts to fade.

She’s completely pantless standing in a sea of black and then she hears it again.

“(Y/N )? I’m headed out. Text me if you need anything!” and she recognizes it as her godmother’s voice. And then it clicks, and holy hell, the idea of Penny finding her like this terrifies her.

(Y/N) shoots up in her bed, the sleep shirt she had worn completely soaked through with sweat.

“Jesus Christ,” she sighs to herself, palms rubbing at her eyes to help process what the actual fuck just happened.

And as she stands in the shower with the cold water running and the sunlight shining through the stained glass window Penny had in her guest bathroom, she feels ashamed.

She just had a wet dream about Bradley Bradshaw like a fucking teenager and shit, maybe he was right. She was too young for him to take her out.

iii.

Bradley was always surprisingly nervous.

As a pilot, he was a total adrenaline junkie and small things that make his heart race satiate him enough to get through the day. He was naturally inclined to panic but every time his stomach dropped or he felt like his heart would stop from how hard the muscle was pumping, it filled him with a sense of euphoria.

Pilots can’t be nervous wrecks. Especially naval pilots, and that was a lesson he had learned rather early. He picked this up through recounts of his Uncle Mav and Uncle Ice’s stories when they would be in charge of watching him while his mom worked the night shift. The mission impossible-like stories replaced his bedtime stories when his mom wasn’t home and Bradley never had the heart to tell her, but he would rather listen to Maverick and Iceman before he ever heard her rendition of “Goodnight, Moon” ever again.

But one thing was sure and that one thing stuck with him forever. Pilots can’t be nervous. Getting nervous would get you killed; whether that be shot down, captured, or ejected from your aircraft was up to the pilot and the cockpit was already small enough as is. There is absolutely no room for such a large feeling like nervousness.

So his entire life up to this point at thirty-five years old, he always found a way to dodge his nervousness. Is it healthy? Not really. Does it help? Well, not really either but he doesn’t really have much of a choice now.

Wanting to ask a girl he liked out on a date? Oh, the fast beating of his heart when he approached her wasn’t nerves, it was just because he liked her so much. She thought that him saying his heart “Beats louder for you because it wants you to hear how much you mean to me,” was endearing and Bradley knew he was lying and he was literally about to shit himself from the anxiety looming in his chest.

He was the starting pitcher for the boy’s high school state game? He wasn’t nervous, just excited, he would say even though the blown look of his pupils and the gnarly sweat stains near his armpits told everyone else otherwise.

He was getting ready for his promotion to Junior Lieutenant and had to be absolutely perfect and could not afford to fuck up under any circumstances? Bradley wasn’t nervous. He was just so undeniably ready to work his way up the ranks. But really, his palms were so goddamn sweaty he’s sure that he grossed out two Captains and one Admiral when he went to shake their hands.

And there are so many other instances that he could name and correct his nervousness for another feeling, perhaps.

Unbeknownst to him, Rooster Bradshaw never really knew that thinking about his feelings this way was unhealthy and was probably (well definitely, really) preventing him from being a fully emotionally intelligent man the way his mother would have liked him to be.

So no, Bradley Bradshaw didn’t get nervous per se but when the dark-haired pilot walks into a room filled with twelve of the best naval fighter pilots in the nation, he’s alarmed. Bradley is competitive, no doubt about that, but at the end of the day he can’t help but remain the team player his parents had raised him to be.

His “no man left behind” mentality had gotten him caught up numerous times before and his need to ensure that everything was fair made him known to be a stickler.

But is he nervous? Hell no. Just slightly worried; scared, even because when the nation’s best is sitting in a squad room with their flight suits on and no information about what was going on, whatever was to come had to be huge; even bigger than all their egos totaled together.

Hangman makes some shitty joke about Bob’s glasses; something along the lines of “four eyes” and how the Navy doesn’t need satellite cameras to spy on people. They could just look through Bob’s glasses and see all that they need to see.

It earns a few chuckles from the other pilots sitting around and even if Rooster was itching to talk or do something to occupy his mind, he absolutely refused to acknowledge Jake Seresin more than what was necessary.

Phoenix walks to her seat and “trips” on Hangman’s chair, tugging the leg back not enough to pull him out from under completely, but enough to startle him and make him choke on the words he was fixing to leave his mouth.

Everyone chuckles a bit before they’re made aware of Admirals Simpson and Bates coming to speak to them. Bradley straightens up in his seat. He was always so painfully self-aware and he didn’t need something else to pick apart about the interactions he had had today while he lays in bed at night.

They’re given the run down of why they’re all there which, in Rooster’s mind, is always the same.

They get told how talented they are and how well they perform in their roles. It’s always one big confidence boost before getting pushed off the cliff to the reality of the situation. Because they’re so good they’re going to be shipped off to play mission impossible, and because it’s mission impossible, there’s an even larger chance that they won’t make it back alive.

Rooster’s had at least twelve of these talks in the last ten years he’s been flying and before, the thought of being up in the air, unaware if clouds and a blue sky were the last things he would ever see scared him.

But then he kept making it back and he kept getting “invited” (more like ordered) to carry out more prestigious and dangerous missions. So no, Rooster isn’t nervous at all. There’s nothing new to the expectations he and his fellow pilots are under. The word “curveball” ceases to exist in the Navy’s vocabulary, anyway.

And as much as he tries to be respectful and attentive, his mind starts to wander and the evasive thoughts that he usually has take precedence over what’s currently unfolding in front of him.

He looks the Admirals in the eye, but little did they know that his mind was far from the pupils of the respected Navy men in front of him.

It’s not until he hears the word that he freezes. His heart stops. His blood runs cold. His ears start to glow red and he has to flex his fingers on both hands repeatedly to keep it together. He’s not felt like this since high school when he had to give his Valedictorian speech.

“Maverick.”

He didn’t know that the word alone would make his blood run cold, but it does.

It’s then when he realizes that fuck, he should’ve allowed himself to feel nervous every once in a while because he’s not even sure what feeling he’s feeling right now is even called.

He’s scared. He’s angry. He’s hurt. He’s saddened. He’s resentful, and he guesses that all of this can be added up and made to equal out to simply being nervous.

Bradley figures that Maverick feels the same way too because it’s obvious that his gaze refuses to catch his the entire time he’s speaking. He hadn’t seen his Uncle Mav in years, and he certainly wasn’t planning on the first time he saw him being today of all days.

It’s hard to believe that he was his stand in dad for so much of his life. He was the guy that attended his Kindergarten graduation. The guy who taught him how to shave his face and how to talk to girls. He was the guy who came to as many baseball games that he was able to fit into his busy military schedule and the guy who he practiced his Valedictorian speech in front of for weeks. He was the same guy who held him when his mother finally passed away and the same guy who let him sleep in his bed while he slept on the floor when he had nightmares after her death.

Maverick encapsulates what Bradley’s childhood was and even though he can’t help it and wants to hate him, he can’t stop himself from looking at his godfather with child-like wonder.

But then Bradley shuts that down as soon as it enters his mind.

Fuck that.

He was Bradley then. He’s Rooster now, and Maverick had his chance and blew it.

Pilots don’t get nervous because it can get you killed. But what they don’t clarify is that you can be killed physically or emotionally and Bradley is too damn prideful to figure out which one they really meant.

iv.

It’s been two days since (Y/N) found herself closing the Hard Deck by herself with the unwarranted help of Bradley Bradshaw.

It’s been forty-eight hours since he flirted with her and offered to take her out on a date. It’s been two-thousand eight-hundred and eighty minutes since he smiled at her and asked her how old she was. And it’s been one-hundred seventy-two thousand eight hundred seconds since he laughed at her and told her that she was too young.

And although two days isn’t a long time (unless you’re five years old and your perception of one minute is a literal fucking second) it feels like a lifetime and God, the counting and the flashbacks and the remembering has been eating her alive; even more so than her being bored.

The embarrassment of her recent wet dream is all consuming too, but she knows she’s too shy to ever utter that admission out loud. It’s one less thing she has to worry about, but five new insecurities and emotions she has to face now.

(Y/N)’s kept her eye out for Bradley the entire night.

She had seen the familiar gang of Navy pilots come in. Hangman had come in and sat with her at the bar for a little bit, telling her about his day and throwing in some cheap flirtatious remarks here and there. She has half the mind to ask him where his friend is, but from the interactions between the two she had clocked from the corner of her eye two days prior, she knows better than to do so.

Jake would probably laugh in her face and accuse her of having some school girl crush on Bradley. The blond was relentless with his teasing, and if he had come across a weak spot, he would use it until the river of discomfort it caused the other person ran dry.

“Don’t look so sad, pretty girl. I’m here now,” he had said, and all (Y/N) could offer him was a free beer and a soft smile.

But that was two hours ago and the fleet of Navy pilots had long since left Hard Deck. Jake had mentioned something about early training tomorrow morning and how he had to leave so it left no surprise that once he headed out, everyone else who was in Miramar for the same mission followed.

(Y/N) is slightly relieved that she didn’t have to face Bradley tonight. She knows that she has a tendency to ramble when she gets extremely nervous and the fact that she dreamt about dry humping him in the driver’s seat of his car definitely adds fuel to the fire of embarrassment that burns deep in the pit of her stomach.

It’s a Monday night and the bar closes at midnight rather than its usual 1 AM. Aunt Penny had let (Y/N) close the bar by herself for the past two nights so when she had slipped out with some excuse about Amelia (which (Y/N) knows is bullshit and that her godmother was really going to visit Maverick, but nevertheless she doesn’t call her out on it) it was decided that (Y/N) was responsible and ready enough to close on her own.

Even though the bar has been closed since midnight, (Y/N) can’t help but take her time shutting down for the night with hopes that the brunette pilot would show face before she turned the lights off and locked the door.

The jukebox had been unplugged and the glasses had been washed and set out to dry. The bar top had been scrubbed clean and all the napkin dispensers were full. (Y/N) even went the extra mile and made sure all the bathrooms had soap and paper towel because she was that desperate for stupid Bradley Bradshaw to come in and kiss her breathless.

She doesn’t think of herself to be a hopeless romantic, but she does have a tendency to hope for the best and sometimes the best isn’t realistic in the slightest. She would probably never see him again and he probably was turned off by how young she was. He was probably ready to settle down soon and get married and be a homeowner and have kids and the thought of something so permanent made (Y/N) a little nauseous.

Sure, she wanted to be a wife and a mom and a homeowner but that’s some day and not any day soon. She hadn’t even gotten a chance to live by herself with no roommates yet, so how could she possibly be ready for marriage or kids?

(Y/N) then realizes that she’s being extremely theoretical and that she should just turn her brain off and stop being delusional. Bradley Bradshaw was not walking through those doors tonight and Bradley Bradshaw was definitely not thinking about her the same way she was thinking about him.

So as she scrubs the bar top counter one last time before she gets ready to leave, she hears the bell above the front door go off. She has half the mind to look up and to yell out that they’re closed, but she stays quiet. She figures the person who walked in would take the hint and see the bar basically abandoned and would turn on their heel and walk right back out.

But when (Y/N) doesn’t hear the bell ding again signaling that the person had left, she puts the rag down and looks up.

And holy shit, it’s Bradley standing right in front of her with his arms outstretched and leaning on the bar.

He’s wearing a gray t-shirt with “NAVY” written in the middle and black running shorts. He has on Birkenstocks and his sunglasses are pushed up to rest on the top of his head.

“Penny here?” he asks, “It’s kinda urgent.” His eyes look around, taking in the surroundings of the bar and fuck, he may be too late. Matter of fact, he knows that he’s too late.

(Y/N) shakes her head. “We close at midnight during the week and it’s,” she looks at her watch, “Nearing one-thirty. You missed her by like two hours, Bradley. Sorry.”

Bradley shakes his head and locks eyes with her. His eyes are filed with so much emotion and she can almost see his subconscious drowning in whatever sorrows he was battling with internally. He looks hurt, scared even. It was totally opposite the fire and childish twinkle they held two days prior as he mindlessly flirted with her when searching for his wallet.

(Y/N) knows something had happened but she figures that it’s not her right to pry. She’s quite a private person herself and knows how annoying it is when people try and get into her head.

Some things just aren’t for other people to know.

“Hey, why don’t we go for a walk or something as soon as I close this place up?” she offers.

She only does because she knows that he needs someone to talk to and something to take his mind off of whatever was troubling him, but she also does it selfishly; knowing that this was also an opportunity for her to get him alone and actually get to know who Bradley Bradshaw is.

He offers her a soft smile. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his pointer finger and thumb, “I would like that. A lot.”

(Y/N) offers a grin and a light laugh before exiting the bar and turning off the lights. He opens the door for her and she locks it, putting the keys in her car before they head out to the beach near the strip of buildings where the Hard Deck is located.

The inky blue sky takes (Y/N) back to her rather embarrassing but hot dream about the Lieutenant and she feels her cheeks getting pink. She thanks God that they’re outside and that it’s dark and that he’s not really looking at her because her sudden flush would be hard to explain.

While they walk down the beach they talk about any and everything.

She tells him how she choked on a Lifesaver once in first grade and cried so hard that she threw it up. He tells her about how he sliced the back of his ear open in third grade from climbing on top of his kitchen counter and banging his head on the door to his mom’s spice cabinet. She talks about how she had totaled her first car when she was sixteen because she was riding an old lady’s ass and didn’t have enough time to brake before a turn. He tells her about the time he concussed himself from hitting his head on the glass of his aircraft because he wasn’t strapped in tight enough.

The silences in between stories is comfortable and his voice soothes her. Her heart isn’t beating out of her chest like she thought it would be doing. She’s not anxious or panicked. She’s relaxed and she realizes then that that’s what Bradley Bradshaw’s aura does to her.

They walk back to the parking lot of Hard Deck and he walks her back to her car.

He opens her car door for her and she teasingly gasps, “Oh, what a gentleman, Bradshaw.”

Bradley gives her a grin, “Can say my momma raised me right. Nothing but the best for you, chick.”

Chick.

It makes her tingly inside that he calls her that. It’s her nickname for him and although it’s kind of funky, it’s sweet, in a way. Well, she relishes in the fact that Penny calls her sweet pea still so chick can’t be so bad in comparison to that. Besides, what else did she expect from a guy who goes by “Rooster” casually?

“Told you I wasn’t cheap, Bradley. None of this should be a surprise to you.” She smiles at him and he steps closer to her.

He looks down into her eyes and his hands go up to cup the side of her face and for a second, (Y/N)’s heart stops. Is this really happening, or is this some plot to another one of her embarrassing wet dreams again?

Bradley wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her so fucking bad but it’s almost like there’s some invisible force preventing him from moving. He knows that that’s not true and that the force is himself because he tends to be his own worst enemy in situations like this.

So instead he settles for an affectionate squeeze to the right side of her face with his palm. “I wish you weren’t so young.”

And with that, he walks to his car and shuts the door, starting his car and sitting in it until (Y/N) decides to pull out of the Hard Deck parking lot.

He wishes she wasn’t so young and that he wasn’t so old as he drives back to his government supplied housing and little does he know is that (Y/N) lays in bed with a frown on her face thinking the opposite.

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heartsofminds · 2 years

Text

Blooming (III)

“Scoot over then.”

(Y/N)’s eyes almost explode out of her skull. “You want me to what?”

“Jesus, chick. It was just a suggestion,” he chides, “Getting your panties all in a twist because I won’t sleep but then won’t let me sleep? Kinda counterintuitive, don’t you think?” or Rooster gets caught up from a hospital bracelet and she finally gets that kiss she wanted.

Warning: Contains curse words and mentions of an age gap.

A/N: Welcome back to part three of the Blooming series! I’m so incredibly excited to share this with you all. Thank you much for your continued support and patience. Stay tuned for more of the Blooming-verse as part four will be out soon! But for now, enjoy 10.8k words about the story of Rooster Bradshaw facing his relationship fears.

Blooming, Blooming II

(Y/N) considers herself to be a private person.

She’s an extremely private person, actually. But that’s only until someone wants to get information out of her and gives her that look. You know, the pointed one with the raised eyebrows and the slight smirk, the corners of their mouths serving as picks to the lock of all her inner thoughts.

She swore she could give Ella Enchanted a run for her money by how quickly she would fess up if simply asked for the truth.

(Y/N) partly blames herself but mostly blames her parents. Growing up in a military household with a greatly admired and high-ranked father meant that honesty and excellence were never not expected from her. And after the dissolution of her parents’ marriage, growing up with her helicopter mother who didn’t believe in keeping secrets put a nail in the coffin for her sub rosa thoughts and actions.

Her high school friends joked around with her saying that they could never sneak out or drink or do anything outside of the agenda she had told her mother before leaving the house because the minute that someone with authority asked her for the truth, (Y/N)’s mouth was running a mile a minute with the hurried apologies following suit after. She simply couldn’t help it, and her upbringing paired with her innate desire to always do good and always do what was expected of her cemented her truth telling tendencies even farther.

And so when she comes home in a stormy mood after being out past three AM and slams Penny’s guest bedroom door shut (waking Amelia up in the process who had school in the morning), her god sister knew something was up and was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Amelia is mischievous and so fucking precocious. She had been raised around adults all her life so how could she not be?

She didn’t know what the kids table at Thanksgiving looked like or what watching cartoons on a Saturday morning felt like. Hell, (Y/N) doesn’t think Amelia has ever played with a goddamn Barbie doll ever in her life, let alone relished in the thrill of going to a Build-a-Bear Workshop.

She, much like her twenty-one year old god sister, liked the more “classic” things in life. They liked Raisin Bran and sudoku puzzles. They liked older 80s movies in comparison to their more modern remakes. They liked playing Scrabble and checkers.

And while (Y/N)’s “refined” taste (which, the more she thought about it, really happened to emulate all that of an eighty year old man who resided in a nursing home) came from her own father and didn’t make an evident appearance until she was an older teenager, Amelia had always been this way.

Because of that, Amelia was a bit of an odd ball to her peers but (Y/N) loved it. Her parents had split when she was eight and because of her father’s age and her mother’s anxiety towards parenting, they never dared having another kid after (Y/N). So when her Aunt Penny announced that she was having a baby,(Y/N) was more than ecstatic.

She still remembers damn near exploding from joy when she found out Amelia was going to be a girl.

Amelia was the closest thing (Y/N) has to a sibling and despite the seven year age gap, they’re so extremely close. It’s unusual; to have someone so much younger than you somehow be on the same page all the time but with (Y/N) and Amelia, there are no questions or genuine thinking required to read each other’s minds.

They just knew how to.

And despite how much (Y/N) adores Amelia or how much Amelia looks up to (Y/N), they irritate each other like no other. Getting under each other’s skin is each of their favorite pastimes and in true sister fashion, they go from ruthless screaming matches to braiding each other’s hair while sharing funny stories about their day.

When the fighting gets really bad, (Y/N) usually drives to the closest Dunkin Donuts and buys Amelia her usual; wordlessly leaving it outside of her bedroom door. Amelia usually slips a note under (Y/N)’s door with a “One free ‘Yell at me’ coupon,” which makes (Y/N) laugh and embrace her in a huge hug stating, “I only yell with love,” which makes both of them bust out laughing at how ridiculous they both are.

Even though Amelia is rather mature for a fourteen year old and her and (Y/N) basically share the same brain cells (even though they both joke about letting the other have ownership over them the day of a huge exam), she’s still a kid. And boy, does Amelia do all the shit that kid sisters tend to do.

She doesn’t mean to be, but Amelia is fucking nosy. She’s always hated being out of the loop. In her humble opinion (which, okay she does admit that she’s only fourteen and that her credentials in the age category aren’t looking too hot), being the last to know is the deadliest punch in the gut. Being blindsided is the absolute worst, and if she can do anything to prevent it, she will.

So as she lies in bed at three fifteen in the morning because (Y/N) came home pissed and slammed her door shut, Amelia knew something was up. (Y/N) had big emotions, but not big actions. Someone or something must have had to really piss her off for her to act that way and because she’s so goddamn private, Amelia knows that she won’t spill unless she absolutely has to and she won’t unless she’s made to sweat.

And that’s what Amelia plans to do.

The younger girl is spitting her toothpaste in the sink of the bathroom that stands between her bedroom and the guest bedroom when she notices that (Y/N)’s sour mood carries over to that morning.

The door is closed and there’s no sign of life other than the faint sound of ocean waves in the background that (Y/N) has to put on in order to calm her mind to be able to sleep. It’s a quarter till eight, and (Y/N) being in bed still is extremely odd.

Amelia knows that (Y/N) is usually up and awake by now; having done her morning run or sunrise yoga or whatever the hell she usually does before Amelia gets ready to leave for school. She’s usually sitting on the porch with her mom by now, those ceramic mugs that have some cringey ass quip printed on them and sipping raspberry tea while they gab about life and college and boys.

But she isn’t, and Amelia almost convinces herself it’s a good idea to knock and see if her god sister is awake before she chickens out. Her thoughts are interrupted by (Y/N) swinging the door open harshly.

Her hair is thrown up messily and the dark circles under her eyes say that the ocean wave white noise she had on did little to assist her into slumber. The collar of the gray USD Law sweatshirt she has on sat crooked on her shoulder and her sleeping shorts are twisted. Another noticeable sign that it was a more than rough night is shown through the one sock on (Y/N)’s foot and the other being bare.

She rubs at her face with her sweatshirt sleeve and shoots daggers at Amelia with her eyes; as if she was saying “I dare you to fucking speak to me right now” to her god sister. (Y/N) brushes by without as much of a wave or a “Good morning.”

So yeah, she’s fucking pissed and cranky.

And Amelia is clever but sometimes her curiosity goes against her own best interest. Was it smart to follow (Y/N) to the kitchen when she had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed? Absolutely not, but Amelia always claimed that smart was something that she is occasionally, and not something that she is all the time.

Also, she just had to get to the bottom of this.

The honey-blonde teenager holds her breath as she waltzes into the kitchen, finding (Y/N) aggressively shaking the bag of Special K cereal into a ceramic bowl. Amelia goes to the fridge and gets out the almond milk. She shakes it and puts it next to (Y/N) who mumbles out a weak, “Thanks.” before filling her bowl and stabbing at her cereal with her spoon.

Amelia leans on the counter, eyes lasered in on the back of the older girl’s head. She was gonna get her to talk and the only way to do so is to corner her. But right now her god sister’s rage emulates that of a rabid raccoon and she’s animal control with no equipment.

She knows she’ll get her head bit off, but the void she has in her life that’s absent of her own drama desperately needs to be filled and she’ll be damned before she’s left out of anything going on with the people living in her own house.

“Are you gonna fucking speak, Meals? Or are you just gonna stare laser beams in the back of my fucking skull like a dumbass?” (Y/N) grumbles and she knows that what she said is mean and uncalled for, but she’s just really not in the mood for her kid sister’s shenanigans today.

Bradley Bradshaw really pissed her off last night and the feelings she feels are burning her up from the inside out. (Y/N)’s hurt, embarrassed, even because who the fuck does that? Who flirts and flirts and flirts and then unloads all their childhood stories before almost kissing her goodnight and then dipping out because she’s “too young”?

“Too young” her ass. She’s a woman, for Christ’s sake. A smart, likable, kind (okay, well maybe not right now with how she just answered Amelia, but usually she is) young woman who is going to law school and is a college graduate.

She’s not too young. Amelia is too young; especially to be butting her nose into (Y/N)’s business the way she is.

(Y/N) knows that Amelia is just dying to ask her what’s wrong; hopeful to get a taste of whatever drama is brewing in the older girl’s life. She can see it now - the slightly upturned eyebrows and the small open mouthed gasp that Amelia does when she’e intently listening. She also folds her hands together in front of her and hangs on to every word that’s being said because Amelia ponders long and hard over what she hears and psychoanalyzes everything about it.

(Y/N) would say that she hates that about Amelia but can never find herself to because she knows that she’s the same exact way. Her god sister’s nosy tendencies are simply learned behavior.

So as she stabs at her cereal and almost grinds her teeth as she chews because of how angry she is, she tries to find it within herself to withhold taking out her anger on Amelia. She almost throws her a bone and lets her in on what had happened, but realized that she’d have to omit so many details that Amelia would never be satisfied and would keep picking and picking and picking until she finally broke and (Y/N)’s just not ready for that. She’s not letting her fourteen year old god sister know how embarrassed she is. She’s not letting her know how little sleep she got over the entire situation or how irritated and disrespected she feels.

“Wow. Aren’t you a goddamn ray of sunshine this morning,” Amelia snarls back, already having enough of (Y/N)’s piss poor attitude. (Y/N) may be pissed, but she’s not the one who got woken up at three in the morning because of some hissy fitted rage party. .

(Y/N) drops the cereal off of her spoon back into the abyss of milk. She sets her utensil down before turning her head to the side, adjusting her vision so she can see Amelia a little bit better.

“Language. You know how your mom and I feel about you cussing,” is all she can manage to say and seriously, when did Amelia get so sassy?

Amelia rolls her eyes. She may be younger than (Y/N), but she’s certainly not a child. She’s always been told she’s mature for her age, so why is her god sister acting like the seven year age gap is a big deal now? And besides, she already has a mom and a dad.

She doesn’t need (Y/N) trying to fill in for what’s missing.

“So it’s okay for you to say an entire dictionary of cuss words but the second I say some “is it or not” cuss word you’re lecturing me?”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes. She’s totally, absolutely, positively not in the mood today. “If you’re trying to be nosy and play Nancy Drew or whatever you’re doing, please don’t try it,” she snaps, “M’not putting up with your bullshit today, Meals. Go find something else to do.”

Amelia raises her eyebrows. “Seriously?” she quips, “You wanna be like that with me when I’m not the one who pissed you off?”

(Y/N) groans because great; not only is she pissed, but now her appetite is ruined. “You’re pissing me off right now because you won’t butt out. Leave me the fuck alone.” She slides the stool away from the bar top counter and puts her bowl in the sink.

She’ll just come back and clean it later. She just seriously needs to get away from Amelia right now because she’ll explode if she’s around her pestering god sister for any longer.

“And you’re pissing me off because someone obviously peed in your Cheerios and you’re making it everyone else’s problem.”

(Y/N) rolls her eyes again and starts to stalk back up the stairs. She knows that she’s being childish and she can’t believe that she’s about to argue with a fucking middle schooler, but she’s standing her ground. The last thing she needs is Amelia teasing her relentlessly about Bradley Bradshaw and how he basically curved the fuck out of her the night prior.

Amelia follows her. (Y/N)’s not getting away from her without any answers just yet; especially taking into account that she really just wants to know what’s wrong with (Y/N) and how she can help. She may be nosy, but she also has a conscience.

“Can’t you just leave me alone?” (Y/N) damn near growls. God, why did Amelia have to be so damn stubborn? “I’m obviously mad and you’re not making my day any better!”

“Can’t you just not get all pissy and aggravated and slam doors at fucking-” (Y/N) shoots her a death glare before Amelia corrects herself.

The cussing, right.

“Freaking. I meant freaking. You can’t just be all mad and slam doors at freaking three AM when I have school and you know I was asleep,” Amelia continues, “That’s just crappy, (Y/N), and I would never do that to you.”

(Y/N) stands at the top of the stairs and angrily huffs. Amelia has a point and a pretty fair one at that but she’d rather die than back down now. That’s (Y/N)’s problem in a nutshell; she’s too goddamn hardheaded but also strives on being a people pleaser and if you asked her (or anyone on the street, really) that would be considered a combination for disaster.

“And I would never put my nose in business that’s clearly yours. Fuck off, Meals.”

(Y/N) stomps back to her bedroom and slams the door even harder than she had the night previously. She’s so enraged and she feels so stupid. She’s never been this embarrassed over a boy since she was a freshman in high school and she knows she’s being childish and she knows that what she said to Amelia isn’t fair or kind in the slightest, but she can’t help but fall back into that “being mad at the world” teenage narrative she had thought she left behind.

Hell, she’s only not been a teenager for two years but the amount of growth that she’s done since then has just drastically taken a decline. She feels like she’s sixteen again and fighting with her mother about a stupid boy who convinced her to sneak out or break her curfew or lie about where she was going or whatever melodramatic teenage drama bullshit that seems like a big deal at the time but ceases to pose a real threat the minute you move out of your parents’ home.

Amelia groans in frustration before turning on her heel. She’s not sure if her irritation is because of her lack of sleep or because (Y/N) is being, for lack of better term, a total bitch right now. The teenager slings her backpack over her shoulder, and stomps obnoxiously to her front door.

(Y/N) lays on her stomach and puts back on the ocean wave sounds she had turned on late last night and her stomach drops when she realizes that that was the background noise to the memory that had Bradley Bradshaw cupping her face and telling her that she’s too young.

ii.

Jake Seresin had really done it this time.

It wasn’t a secret that him and Bradley weren’t the greatest of friends.

Well, actually, scratch that.

Rooster and Hangman weren’t friends at all and that fact was made so obviously apparent to anyone who found themselves in the same room with the two pilots for longer than fifteen seconds.

The constant banter and low blows, the “joking” that wasn’t really a joke, the more than aggressively sarcastic handshakes and back pats; it was a limbo contest of who could go the lowest without one of them jumping up and trying to beat the brakes off the other.

It’s stupid, they know, but what else is expected when you’ve been told you were great all your life? Competition obviously rises and “survival of the fittest” starts to kick in and the sooner you can push someone out, the sooner you can be pushed into the vacancy that person had left.

Jake is charismatic and can get anyone to do his bidding if he so much as put his hand on their shoulder and stared deep into their eyes. He has a talent for getting anyone to follow him, but he’s selfish and extremely reckless. Jumping off the bridge is certainly his idea until his loyal followers do so, and then he bails after realizing how stupid the idea was in the first place. He’s a leader who never asks for a crowd, and that’s evident once he leaves them hanging.

Hence, the call sign, Hangman, but that doesn’t take a genius to decipher.

And call Bradley old school but that’s definitely not how military men should be and it drives him absolutely insane.

Bradley is more calm and is the literal epitome of a dad, but a good one. He listens intently and gives everyone his full attention. He’s stubborn but adaptable. He takes his time and plays it safe always, even when he knows that he should take a risk every now and then. He’s always looking out for other people and is constantly sacrificing his happiness and successes for the well-being of others.

Bradley is a skilled pilot; the patience and meticulous practice made him so whereas Jake was good because he was a natural (by some freakish fluke of nature). The difference between the two is their confidence and Bradley can’t wrap his head around how Jake gets a thrill from putting himself and his team in constant danger, and Jake can’t understand why Bradley acts as if he’ll spontaneously combust every time his F-18 goes up in the air.

Bradley has a tendency to parent everyone else and he never means to, and it always just sort of happens, but being told what to do (which makes joining the Navy an odd career path for him) is one of Jake’s biggest pet peeves. It’s just annoying, Hangman thinks, how Rooster corrals everyone and is constantly playing dad.

Jake already has a father; he doesn’t need a guy who’s only four years older than him trying to parent him.

Their rivalry started as just friction. They have vastly different personalities and it’s not like any of that isn’t okay. It wasn’t like either of them had to be best friends after graduation. But then Jake realized that “Holy fuck,” Rooster was good and then Rooster realized that “Holy shit,” Jake was good.

And the innate, primal need to succeed, to prove who was better and who would come out on top, just started one day and it never stopped. It was a conscious effort at first, but then it spiraled into a muscle memory-like performance.

They competed over everything. They competed over who could get their flight gear on the fastest. They competed on who could lift heavier and for longer durations of time. They even fucking competed to see who could complete a crossword puzzle fastest.

Jake and Bradley know that they’re ridiculous and that the dick measuring contests that they always seemed to be having were quite childish for grown men. They shouldn’t be fighting like rowdy first graders at recess after eating a lunch packed full of sugar, but they can’t help it and they would rather die than lose and let the other having bragging rights.

But then somewhere along the road the competition changed into an uncontrollable beast; a means to be watching each other constantly to see what could make the other tick and thus a new game was created: Who could make who lose their composure first?

To be totally fair, Bradley started the war by moving Jake’s things one day after a training session. He hadn’t meant to move the items in a way that would’ve set the pilot off, but he did and then Jake came barreling in and freaking the fuck out because his water bottle and shirt were placed in a different stall than he had originally put them. The thought to fess up and apologize definitely crossed Bradley’s mind, but he withheld.

He liked seeing Jake frantic and upset. He liked knowing that he could toy with him and that he could make the blond sweat if he truly wanted. Bradley was raised better than that, he had known, and he’s sure his mother and father were looking down on him with some disappointment about being so mean, but fuck it.

Jake Seresin was like a canker sore when you’re eating salt and vinegar chips; annoying and downright painful to be around.

Over the years and time spent freakishly observing each other, they had learned quite a bit. Bradley hated the sound of teeth scraping against utensils and Jake made sure to find a seat near Bradley but never next to him, and would bite the hell out of his fork whenever he ate his dinner. Jake loathed the sound of styrofoam rubbing together, so whenever Bradley would get handed a styrofoam to go box, he always made sure to be around Jake before opening and closing the box repeatedly. Jake knew he was doing it on purpose but couldn’t help but wonder how the hell someone could find the willpower to open and shut a fucking takeaway box over and over and over again.

And yes it was annoying and yes it garnered many eye rolls from their friends, but it was entertaining and always kept the pair busy. If anything, it was like a big brother, little brother relationship; irritating the hell out of each other but never going too far.

Except this wasn’t a big brother, little brother relationship and that they were both, in fact, fighting to be the big brother because big brothers always have more respect.

And they usually never went too far until one day, Jake just did.

He was raised by a more than conservative Baptist pastor in Texas, and Jake knew that his parents would have a cow if they ever pieced together that he was having premarital sex; let alone, premarital sex that was with someone else’s girlfriend. He was raised better and he knew it, but he was also raised in a family full of sisters and if there’s one thing he learned from having five older ones, everything was an eye-for-an-eye.

So when Bradley off-handedly joked about fucking Jake’s ex-girlfriend one day, he couldn’t help but let the comment grind his gears until his gears started turning on the perfect way to get back at the brunette pilot.

While what Bradley said was a joke and was exactly just that, Jake was plotting, and he wasn’t joking in the slightest. So the true hatred and resentment started when a leggy red-head (That amazed Jake with how flexible she was because goddamn, girls can bend like that?) was scratching at his back and calling him “daddy” in a supply closet, and he can truly say that that exact moment was when he knew that there were no limits to the competition he and Bradley Bradshaw had.

“An eye for an eye” it was, and “an eye for an eye” it would always be.

So when he notices the tension between Captain Mitchell and Rooster, Hangman can’t help but find him studying the two. He notices the golfball like bulge that emerges from Rooster’s jaw whenever he has to speak to Maverick. He notices how Maverick’s eyes nervously dart across Rooster’s face; as if he’s searching for answers in the younger man’s features without having to ask him questions.

Jake is always looking and always scheming; even going as far to ask Phoenix if she thinks Bradley is acting weird to which she rolls her eyes and says, “If this is you trying to get under his skin, please leave me out of it. Had enough of you two dumbasses in flight school. I don’t need this shit now.” And then she slammed her locker shut before slinging her duffle bag over her shoulder and leaving the base for the day.

But little to her knowledge did she know that her answer gave Jake all the information he needed. Phoenix had a protective streak to her, but she never stuck up for someone unless she felt they couldn’t do it themselves. So with the aggravated body language coming from Rooster and Maverick’s interactions in the past two days they had been training and Natasha’s head biting whenever he asked her a simple question, Jake Seresin had an sparkle in his eye and his smirk saying that he was up to no good.

He snoops around the headquarters for more evidence to further solidify his suspicion and what he finds truly falls upon him like a lucky accident.

It manifests itself as a labeled picture on the wall with Maverick Mitchell and Goose Bradshaw, arms slung across the back of each other’s necks along with Admiral Kazansky and various other pilots whom he’d encountered from his time floating from base to base; the Top Gun class of 1986.

And holy fucking shit, did Seresin have some ammunition for Bradshaw.

He likes to play dumb; like all he happens to be is a pretty face with a hot body but no one is that dense to not give Hangman credit for being intelligent. So he waits to unleash his findings until he knows Rooster is at one of his most vulnerable moments.

He waits and waits and waits and then he strikes, which sends the entire fleet of pilots into a fit of gasps and has Bradley beet red and ready to wring his neck.

Jake Seresin wasn’t afraid of many things, but the absolute anger and rage encapsulated in Bradley Bradshaw’s face was a look he had never seen before; even when he had been caught fucking that red head all those moons ago. This was different and he swears Bradley’s eyes are completely black with fury and his body emitting so much heat that Jake feels like he’s on fire himself the minute the other pilot has him by his collar.

The knife was already plunged and it was too late to back out now; no matter how truly terrified he was of Bradley in that moment. He knows he should quit, but a job half done isn’t a job well done.

And in true asshole-ish Hangman fashion, he has to be calm and collected and to twist the knife even more he adds a, “You know he’s not cut out for this mission,” which makes Bradley completely seethe and molt into one with his anger.

Jake softly grins to himself as soon as the altercation is broken up and Maverick announces that they’re done for the day. He knows that he won and Bradley lost.

Bradley can feel it too and he’s so inexplicably pissed, but nothing makes him feel more angered than the deceased father he never had the pleasure of getting to know and the stand-in, who let him down and let an entire fifteen years pass with Bradley thinking he didn’t believe in him.

iii.

(Y/N) likes to tell herself that she doesn’t hold grudges; that she’s understanding and empathetic and “noble.”

Her entire life was wrapped up in achieving the nirvana of selflessness and she doesn’t know if it’s because she was raised by such charitable and giving people or if she was born with some freakish gene that always made herself put her well-being last no matter what.

She was the kindergartener who would cry in solidarity whenever a kid scraped their knee on the playground. She was the third-grader who donated all her birthday presents to kids whose families were in need. She was the middle schooler who still invited everyone in the class to her birthday parties (even if they were weird or cruel or just downright annoying, but she could never find herself rejecting anyone). She was the high schooler who offered everyone rides home after soccer practice despite her mother yelling at her for “wasting” her gas.

She was the girl who was always said to be kind and helpful with a sweet heart and bright eyes.

But here she is on a Tuesday night at 11 PM about to crush a shot glass in her bare hand because of some stupid comment some pilot said about her age. If she could punch Bradley Bradshaw square in the face and break his stupid aviator sunglasses (and maybe his nose too, but then she figures that that’s too much harm to wish on someone), she would with no hesitation.

The main problem she’s finding with directing her anger is that Bradley wasn’t rude about it. What he said about her being too young wasn’t some idiotic flirtatious remark that came off creepy. It wasn’t an insult. It wasn’t even a true comment, and from the way he said it, it almost seemed like it was a thought he had had that was never supposed to grace her ears; as if he was thinking hard and his thoughts were too loud for his liking.

There are better things to be upset about and she knows this, but she still can’t help but feel the hot anger in her chest. It’s the same kind of anger that flourishes when you’re just on the cusp of getting what you want and it’s pulled away from you; taunting you as the picture of it grows blurrier and blurrier and you’re left screaming because you’re so damn frustrated; because you were so fucking close.

And yeah, (Y/N) does admit she’s being dramatic, but she can’t remember ever wanting someone’s attention so badly before. The last boy who she found enticing cheated on her after two and a half years together, and that was during the summer of her Junior year of college. Nevertheless, the disrespect still hurts her feelings if she thinks about it too hard and the lack of sex she’s had since then was almost insulting.

So sue her if she was hoping Bradley could provide her with a few orgasms and some cuddles. He also wasn’t a bad storyteller and despite her anger, she wasn’t blind. He was hot as hell, too.

But she just can’t get over the way he held her cheek that night. The way that his hazel eyes found her’s; searching for a reason to say what he said. She can still feel the gentle squeeze of his palm on her face. Her ex-boyfriend had tried to make that their “thing” when they had first started dating and it always made her uncomfortable.

He was too rough, too unthoughtful, and ultimately too unfaithful. She thinks her feeling borderline disgusted by her ex cupping her cheek was a foreshadowing of him cheating on her. It was ironic how he was holding her face with that same hand and then smushing the face of another girl into a pillow soon after.

But Bradley was different.

His actions were slow and thoughtful. He was gentle, almost like a child holding his mother’s good China and not wanting to drop it. Bradley was cautious and sweet and that was something that (Y/N) had never truly experienced with a man; no matter how interested or in love with her she thought he was.

She was dying for him to kiss her and dead she is because he didn’t.

“You’re too young.”

It echoes in her head and she finds her face growing hotter and her knuckles getting more white the harder she squeezed the shot glass she had in her hand. Her age and Bradley’s disdain for it rings in her ears as if it's a fact and it is one, which is the shittiest part about it all.

“You’re too young,” patronizes her mind as if she wasn’t successful and brilliant and mature.

“You’re too young,” taunts her and embarrasses her, as if she’s ten years old again and being banished to the kids’ table at Thanksgiving.

“You’re too young,” screams at her as if her lack of experience and lack of opening herself up to the world is the reasoning behind why things never seemed to ever work out for her.

And the pressure of the thoughts her mind is bogging her brain down with starts to shut off her oxygen. She can’t see the empty bar. She can’t feel the shot glass in her hand. She can’t even feel her heart beating.

Her knuckles are white from trying to hold on for some explanation, some reason, why she can’t seem to shake this statement and there’s no other thoughts floating around in her brain that allow her to dislodge it.

“Fuck you, Bradley Bradshaw,” she thinks.

And she squeezes her hands together so tight that she’s snapped out of her hateful thoughts when she feels a shooting pain in her left hand and oh fuck.

The scarlet flowing from her palm sends her into a panic and her face turns white.

Holy shit, there’s no way this is happening.

There’s no way this is happening at 11:15 PM on a Tuesday night while she’s closing at the Hard Deck with no one else around.

“Penny is gonna fucking skin me alive,” she thinks, the blood dripping down her baby blue tube top-covered torso the closer she pushes her wound to her chest. The fabric is stained purple from how quickly her blood is absorbing into it.

Napkins, she needs napkins.

And she frantically scans the bar for a table that has a dispenser on it, knowing that Penny doesn’t keep any at the bar top. Her eyes look around almost comically before landing on the man of the goddamn hour: Bradley fuckface Bradshaw who has his eyes wide and his mouth gaped open.

“Holy shit! What did you do?”

iv.

Bradley knows he should stop coming to the Hard Deck when they close, but he needs to see Penny.

He figures showing up unannounced at her house isn’t the best way to go; especially considering he hadn’t been there in close to fifteen years. It doesn’t matter if he sends her a Mother’s Day card each year or knows that she would never turn him away. Something about it doesn’t sit right with his soul.

He tends to not do a lot of things if it doesn’t settle right in his stomach.

He’s usually calm. He’s usually collected. He usually has it all together but ever since he received orders to come back to Miramar, he’s been losing it. The bags underneath his eyes are prominent and he’s been averaging a total of four hours and twenty-two minutes of sleep each night (per the Sleep Cycle app on his phone which he knows isn’t very accurate but he can certainly feel the exhaustion so he’ll let it slide).

Bradley was really set off today with Jake and Maverick and the lack of sleep he’s been experiencing. He needed guidance. Truthfully, he needed his mother and he would have rather died than admit that when she was still alive and he was a prideful eighteen-year-old, but here he is now at thirty-five with an ache in his chest and a hole he’s not quite figured out how to fill.

Penny Benjamin, his old babysitter, is the closest thing he had to a mother now and he just has to find her.

So Bradley barrels into the Hard Deck and slams the door open on his quest to find Penny and figure out why the fuck he’s feeling this way.

The jukebox has been turned off and all the stools are stacked on the tables. The Hard Deck is a sorry excuse for a hangout spot at this hour and the smell of draft beer and scotch that usually soaked the atmosphere was gone; dried up like water spilled on the sidewalk on a hot day.

Bradley wrinkles his nose, using his curved pointer finger to roughly rub the end of it; a nervous tick he developed when he was a kid.

He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous to see Penny. She was comforting and sweet; the best kind of woman and someone who Bradley could say he trusted with his entire life. He used to say the same about his Uncle Maverick, but like they say, things change.

And things change indeed when he bursts through the doors and sees Penny nowhere in sight.

Well, fuck. (Y/N) is Penny’s replacement, he guesses.

The avalanche of actions tumbles down on him the minute he sees her; baby blue tube top sitting perfectly pretty on her body and her shoulders slightly shiny from either sweat or leftover tanning oil she may have put on earlier in the day. The sight makes Bradley’s mouth water with want and dry with embarrassment, simultaneously. His eyes drink in the sight of her face and his palms can feel the ghost of her cheek he held the night before.

(Y/N) has a frown on her face and is dissociating. The shot glass in her hand and the purple rag she has in the other serve as simple distractions for her hands. Bradley takes in how she doesn’t look up at him and how white her knuckles are - almost like she’s holding onto dear life to keep her from spazzing out.

And then it clicks that she’s probably angry with him and Bradley, despite his better judgment, decides that he needs to do some damage control.

He’s such a fuck up, he thinks, and he can’t afford to fuck someone else up in the process too.

“(Y/N)?” he asks softly, cautiously approaching the bar top; eyes swimming in her appearance to see if she was okay.

She doesn’t meet his gaze. She just stares ahead, her fingers gripping the glass in her hand so hard that her arms are shaking.

“Hey! Are you okay?” Bradley asks again, footsteps approaching her cautiously.

A small pop, a sound that could be made by someone stepping on some small fragments of glass with their boots on, can be heard and Bradley is just astonished. The crimson falling from her hand gives proof of what she had just done; her eyes widening comically and her face looking solemn like a child who had just been caught stealing cookies from the jar.

Her face is drained of color and Bradley figures it still hasn’t clicked that he’s in front of her. She clutches her hand to her chest and the fabric of her shirt is covered in blood. Bradley’s never done well with blood and other things like that; almost threw up all over himself whenever he would skin his knees when he was little.

But his instincts kick in and he lives up to his call sign: Rooster. He’s about to corral her and protect her the best he can. He has to.

“Holy shit! What did you do?” he yells, rushing towards her.

She looks at him wide-eyed and no words can rush out of her gaping mouth. She looks fearful and shocked. While he suspects her injury isn’t extremely drastic (okay well getting a shot glass crushed in your hand has to hurt like a bitch, he admits), she’s bleeding a lot and she’ll definitely need stitches.

“I-I don’t know. Fuck, my hand,” she pauses before turning to him again, “Fuck! Penny’s gonna kill me! I got blood all over the bar. Oh my God, she’s gonna skin me!”

Rooster shrugs off his Hawaiian shirt and pulls the white tank top underneath off by its straps. He needed to get her something to help her apply pressure and absorb the blood. He knows that the thin, poor excuses for napkins Penny has at the bar won’t do much to help, and asking her to take her tube top off to wrap around her hand would be a little too much.

She definitely can’t have on a bra with that top. He had been around enough girls in his life to know that for a fact and besides, it wasn’t like he was here to make her uncomfortable purposely.

“No she won’t,” he comforts. He has his shirt in one hand and folds it vertically to maximize the surface area.

“Here,” he directs, taking her arm gently and inspecting her wound, and God, did that glass cut fucking deep.

Two deep cuts carved their way into her left hand and the pools of crimson flowing from them tell Bradley all that he needs to know.

She indefinitely needs stitches.

Bradley wraps the tank top around her palm and instructs her to hold it tight. She presses her lips in a faint line and tries to calm herself.

One deep breath in, one deep breath out. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, the-

“Where’s your purse? I’m taking you to the ER.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Now he wants to play hero, she thinks. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be in this situation at all.

“I can drive myself,” she snaps.

He chuckles and shakes his head and she instantly feels patronized. It was the kind of laugh her babysitters used to do whenever she asked if ten was a grown-up age. Newsflash, it wasn’t and she came to know that pretty quickly, but not before she felt the fury and embarrassment of being chortled at; especially when she had done nothing amusing.

“Really? You want blood all over your car? And what’re you gonna do about using your turn signals,” he tries to reason, “You don’t have the fingers to do that, chick.”

And God, does she want to punch him in his stupid, handsome face.

“Fuck you,” she mumbles underneath her breath. No matter how upset she was, she couldn’t not agree that he had some valid points. Being a bitch got Amelia pissed at her earlier. The last thing she needs is to be left hanging with glass in her hand with no ride home because of her own childish emotions.

Thank God he didn’t hear her.

“Where’s your purse? I’m locking up and taking you to the hospital.” She opens her mouth to argue with him again, to insist that she can call an Uber or Penny, but Bradley shuts her down.

“Non-negotiable.”

She puts her head down like a scolded puppy and points to the back by the kitchen with her uninjured hand.

Rooster offers her a warm smile. “Good girl,” he says, patting her shoulder as he walks past her to grab the bag from the back.

He tosses the keys to his Bronco on the bar top. “If you want, you can start the car. Just promise not to drive off with it?” He offers her a weak smile.

(Y/N) puffs and exhales her annoyance. “Can’t promise I’ll be there still once you lock up.”

Bradley knows that she won’t take off. She can be snippy and has proven it to him time and time again with her quick remarks and her attitude toward him right now, but to her core, she’s a good person. She would never intentionally do something like that to anyone; no matter how pissed off they had made her.

As he hears the front door to the Hard Deck open and close with (Y/N)’s exit, he looks up at the clock. It reads 11:30 PM and fuck, waking up tomorrow is gonna be a pain in the ass, he knows. But he would rather have a late night with her than his own thoughts.

And yeah, Bradley Bradshaw thinks he can start to get used to the smart ass girl sitting in the passenger seat of his car right now.

“Are you planning on buttoning up your shirt anytime soon? I’m sick of the nurses coming by and gawking at you,” (Y/N) gripes, “Giving you all the attention when I’m the one with my hand damn near hanging off.”

Bradley scoffs. “You’re being dramatic. And besides, this is kind of your own fault. No one told you to turn into the Incredible Hulk and crush a shot glass with your bare hand.”

The emergency room is bustling with people; moms in labor, car accidents left and right, and people coming in screaming in pain. There’s no way her low “high” maintenance stitches would be taken care of any sooner than later. That was predetermined the minute they decided to drive instead of calling an ambulance.

It’s nearing 2 AM and (Y/N) is still clutching Rooster’s white (well, dark red now) tank top in her left hand and with a sulky frown on her face. Her ass hurts from the vinyl plastic that serves as an awful mattress that makes up an ER bed. She knows that Bradley is more than uncomfortable from the way he shifts constantly in the mossy blue chair next to her bedside.

She ignores his statement. What she had done was rather childish and she can’t come to grips with it herself, so what does she look like telling the person who caused her rage-induced tantrum?

“You’re sunburnt,” she states. That’ll have to do for now. Bradley already knows a lot about her. He doesn’t need to know everything.

“In a sexy Baywatch kinda way?” he jokingly asks and (Y/N) gives him a soft laugh.

“No. Your chest is pink,” she continues, “More of a Patrick Star kind of way.”

“You like it though.”

“We’re here to fix my hand. Not your self-confidence.”

Bradley laughs before starting to button his shirt up. “You’re a hoot, chick.”

(Y/N) raises her eyebrows. In the past two and some hours she’s spent with Bradley Bradshaw (and the various other times she’s been with him, but she’s not sure that those can actually count for something) she’s learned a lot about his mannerisms.

He’s always tapping his foot or rubbing his hands up and down his thighs when he’s sitting down. He uses old people's jargon. He leans on his right arm more than his left and he’s always checking his watch. When he gets tired he mumbles and then swipes his hand over his face before sitting up straighter.

A big yawn comes from his pink lips and (Y/N) knows that she should speak up. He has to be up at five AM tomorrow morning for training at six. He should at least be able to go home and get some sleep.

“Bradley?” she softly asks.

“Hmm?” he answers, slouching down in his seat a little bit more but instantly shooting up to sit straight.

(Y/N) chuckles softly and Bradley can’t deny that the sound makes his heart melt the smallest bit.

“You can go home if you need to. I’ll get stitched up and figure out a ride.”

Rooster sits up straighter; confusion plaguing his features. “Why would I leave you here?”

Her eyes widen. Holy shit, he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

“You have to be up early tomorrow. Just go home. I’m a big girl,” she flexes the small and albeit mushy muscles of her right arm, “I can handle it.”

“Are you kidding? A shot glass took you out. No way I’m leaving you at the hospital by yourself.”

And like how it was at the Hard Deck, the look he shoots her tells her that what he said is “non-negotiable.” He was staying, driving her home, and that was final.

“You need sleep, Bradley. You can’t just pull an all-nighter and then go and operate a plane. That’s just dangerous,” she lectures and Bradley lets out a yawn during her sentence.

She almost says some snide remark about him being rude and how she’s not that boring but Bradley beats her to fill the silence with his voice.

“Scoot over then.”

(Y/N)’s eyes almost explode out of her skull. “You want me to what?”

“Jesus, chick. It was just a suggestion,” he chides, “Getting your panties all in a twist because I won’t sleep but then won’t let me sleep? Kinda counterintuitive, don’t you think?”

She’s at a loss for words but he can’t have the final say. No one else could ever have the final say with her.

“Be my guest,” she says as she scoots over on the ER cot and makes enough space for him to lay down.

Rooster smirks to himself. He didn’t think that would work, let alone work on her. She doesn’t know it and he sure as hell will never tell her, but his heart was racing during that entire interaction. The rejection would have been rather embarrassing; especially considering they didn’t know how soon she could get stitched up and that he promised to drop her off at home.

He slides onto the bed next to her but he’s too broad. His shoulder is nudging her off the bed and he knows that she’s uncomfortable but is such a giver that she won’t say so and would let him fall asleep like that if he really wanted to.

But Bradley’s not an asshole (at least he isn’t one consciously) so he speaks up after he clears his throat.

“Yeah, this isn’t gonna work. Not at all,” he says and turns his head to the side to look at her. Her eyes tell him that “Well no dip, shit.” but he knows that she wouldn’t dare say it out loud. Not right now when she feels indebted to him for driving her to the hospital and staying with her while she waits.

He nudges her shoulder before sliding back out of the bed. Bradley reaches for her right hand. “Here, budge up.”

He pulls her up as if she weighs nothing and she stands in awe as he lays down first on the bed but spreads his legs. And oh, now she knows what he’s doing.

“Come lay down with me. You deserve to sleep some, too,” he says and she cautiously meanders her way to lay between his legs; her back pressed to his chest and her head falling into the crevice between his neck and shoulder.

“Won’t your arm fall asleep or something? I just don’t wanna be a bother.”

Bradley lets out a puff of air before wrapping both his arms around her front. His hands are joined together beneath her sternum.

“(Y/N)?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and go to bed.”

She rolls her eyes but she can’t fight him on it. And as they lay there she can hear the soft snores of the older man laying behind her and allows herself to drift off to a comatose state as well.

vi.

The doctor comes in about an hour after they doze off.

She’s a short woman with dark hair and tan skin; some crow's feet by her eyes and the skin on her hands slightly thinned. She looked kind and motherly and as she pulls the curtain back softly, she finds the two dead to the world in their slumber.

Doctor Tharp has to stop herself from audibly cooing.

The position (Y/N) and Bradley are in makes her think of her and her husband years ago. Lovebirds, she thinks, and while she would rather sit there and stare at them in awe, she knows that she has to get this poor girl stitched up and sent on her way home as soon as she can.

She nearly had a cow when she had heard that they had been waiting to see a doctor for stitches since 11:30 the night before. How the hell they had slipped through the cracks? She doesn’t know, but she makes a mental note to be extra kind to them while she performs her services.

Doctor Tharp gently shakes (Y/N) awake; the younger girl stirring with a gasp and some anxiousness before a hand is placed on her shoulder.

“Good morning, (Y/N). Have a good rest?” the doctor asks and (Y/N) hopes that this is who is going to stitch her up and send her on her merry way.

“It was okay. Would’ve been better if bozo here wasn’t snoring in my ear the entire time,” she answers and that makes Doctor Tharp laugh softly.

“Let’s get you stitched up,” she says, and (Y/N) unwraps Bradley’s arms from around her midsection and scoots closer down the bed to be near the tray that holds the instruments needed for her stitches.

Doctor Tharp numbs the area with lidocaine and asks her to move her fingers and her thumb on her left hand and as she starts suturing the wound and picking out the shards of glass left in her skin, she finds things to talk about with the younger girl.

(Y/N) tells her the basics that she’s seemed to be telling everyone older than the age of twenty-one these days; that she just graduated from undergrad and that she was going to law school in the fall, that she’s not from here and visiting her godmother, that she loves California and doesn’t know why she left it.

And Doctor Tharp knows she shouldn’t and it goes against her own beliefs but she just has to know who the young man sitting behind (Y/N) is and wants to comment on how sweetly he was holding her just a few moments prior.

“You and that boy are such a sweet couple,” she says and (Y/N)’s eyes bulge out of her skull.

“Oh me and Bradley? No. No, no,” she starts and she knows that she’s rambling. She does it quite a bit when she gets nervous and doesn’t know what to say.

Her damn Ella Enchanted gene is kicking in.

“We’re just friends. Sorta just met a week and some change ago,” she answers and while what she said wasn’t a lie in the slightest (they were friends and they did just meet not that long ago) she can’t help but feel the ache in her heart that adds that she wants more than a friendship from him.

But she can’t risk sounding ridiculous or getting ahead of herself before the race even starts, so she leaves her statement at that; just a statement and not a wish.

“Well, you’re quite cute friends, then.” Doctor Tharp says. She can tell that what she had said had made (Y/N) uncomfortable.

Too far.

It takes (Y/N) all of ten minutes to get stitched up before Doctor Tharp pats her arm with a smile and tells her that she’ll have the papers for proper care at the front desk.

“You take care. Of yourself and your heart,” the older woman says and (Y/N) knows that she should find some wisdom in her words, but they almost sound like a sort of doomed prophecy.

Whatever, she thinks. She’s just excited to get home and to sleep in the comfort of her own bed.

“Bradley,” (Y/N) whispers, shaking his bicep to get him to stir. He’s like a lump on a log, soft snores coming from his mouth and his head thrown back. His arms have crossed themselves over each other and made a home on his chest to replace the space (Y/N) had taken up before she moved.

“Bradley!” (Y/N) shakes him again.

He still sits asleep; completely dead to the world.

(Y/N) twists his nipple through his shirt and bingo. He wakes up with a scream and shoots daggers at her with his glassy eyes.

“M’all stitched up. We can go now,” she says and they exit the stall and make their way to the front desk where the charge nurse goes over how to properly clean her stitches and that she’d need to be back at the hospital in a week to get them removed.

She gives the charge nurse a weak smile and her and Bradley walk back outside to his parked Bronco; the ocean breeze making the night sky chilly and (Y/N) shivers. He notices as he opens the passenger door to let her in.

He rounds his way to the front and locks the doors before sliding into his seat.

“Cold?” he questions and she gives him a slight nod.

He purses his lips before turning the key in the ignition and starting the car. His hand instantly finds the heat dial and turns it up and they pull out of the parking lot.

“Penny’s house. Right?” he breaks the silence again and (Y/N) nods, leaning her head on his window.

The fifteen-minute ride from the hospital to Penny’s driveway is quick; the stillness of the night comfortable and washing them in warmth.

His Bronco is parked in the driveway before (Y/N) turns to him again.

“Before I go, I have to ask one more favor,” she says and Bradley raises his eyebrows in amusement.

“Not gonna ask me to donate a kidney to you or something like that. Right?” he jokes and she playfully rolls her eyes at him.

“No, you dinky dink. I just need you to rip my hospital bracelet off. They put it on my right hand and I can’t use my left to cut it off.”

Bradley reaches over and takes her hand without hesitation and pulls at the plastic band wrapped around her wrist.

“Thank you,” she sheepishly praises, “Thank you for everything. I could never owe you enough.”

Rooster grins, all the anguish of the day forgotten with the dopey-eyed grin he gives her.

He doesn’t say anything. He just holds her palm in his hand; the action muscle memory and leans forward; their forehead resting against each others.

Her breath hitches in her throat because she swears to God if he doesn’t kiss her tonight she might rip out her stitches with her teeth and jump off of Penny’s goddamn roof.

“Please,” (Y/N) whimpers and she didn’t mean for her request to be said out loud.

Thankfully, Bradley ignores her words. She doesn’t know how she would live down the embarrassment of that one if he did manage to bring it up just then.

He presses their lips together. His lips are plush and soft; the right amount of dry and moist. They move in sync with hers, molding together like the perfect puzzle. His kiss is deep but gentle, all-consuming but allowing her space if she wanted it. He kisses her once. Twice. Three times. And then he pulls away, his hand still on her cheek as he licks his slips subtly.

She’s certain Bradley Bradshaw needs to add “perfect kisser” to his resume if he hasn’t already.

“Didn’t take you as a beggar, chick,” he says, and fuck, there it is. That smart alecky remark she was waiting for.

“If that’s the case, I’ll go inside and not give you my number,” she teases and Bradley feigns a gasp.

“You wouldn’t. Don’t leave me out to dry now. Your blood was all over my shirt at some point. Too late to turn back now.”

She gives him a toothy smile; one that’s reserved for her happiest and flirtiest moments.

(Y/N)’s grabbing a napkin from the middle counsel of his car and a pen from his cupholder. She scribbles her phone number down on the napkin with a cute, “Text me! :)” written after it.

She gets out of the Bronco and shuts the door, damn near running inside and waving at Bradley through the window of the living room where she can see his car in view.

Bradley just shakes his head and smiles with glee.

vii.

One thing Natasha Trace was proud of was how well she could read people.

Any boyfriends her sisters ever brought home didn’t have to get the stamp of approval from her father. Oh no, they had to get the stamp of approval from her.

And she had always been right. She knew the ones who lied about their jobs or the ones who were chronic cheaters (because they had done it so much they were pros at hiding it, just not from Natasha) or the ones who were just downright fucking nuts.

So if she can read people she had barely spent ten minutes with and could draw up a pretty good judgment of character, she knew that her analysis of people she knew well was never wrong.

When Bradley Bradshaw, her right-hand man and one of her best friends, pulls up to her government-supplied housing in his Bronco at 5:25 the morning after his huge blowup at Hangman, she knew something was off.

He didn’t have that shitty cassette mixed tape playing like he usually does and he’s basically inhaling a peach-flavored Red Bull. The thing about Bradley and energy drinks was that Bradley never drank them unless he was about dead from exhaustion.

And from their text exchange last night, he was home at 8 PM and had all the intentions of going to bed soon.

And well shit, that was apparent to be a lie.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. Rooster wasn’t a morning person but once he was awake, he was awake and was always ready to chat which drove Phoenix absolutely crazy, but the silence they’re sitting in on their way to base is deafening. She knows something is up, yet she can’t quite put her finger on it.

“Good sleep?” she asks, testing the waters to see if Bradley would lie to her.

He curves his pointer finger and rubs it against the tip of his nose. This bastard was about to lie to her.

She can feel it.

“Great, actually,” he says with no delay so she knows that he’s not telling the truth.

Phoenix knows that Rooster doesn’t do well with confrontation. He’s a born people-pleaser and anything that wasn’t able to be handled maturely made him want to get up and flee. She’d save calling him out for later.

Besides, they had bigger shit to worry about for the time being; one of those being the fact that they’re being sent on a suicide mission in three weeks.

Natasha turns her body to the side of the car and looks out the window until something catches her eye. She turns to look at Bradley and sees that his eyes are cemented on the road. She bends down to pick it up swiftly; her movements so fast and contained that from Bradley’s peripheral vision, it just looked like she moved a little bit to get comfortable.

It’s a fucking hospital bracelet and as she turns it around to read what’s on it, she sees a name she doesn’t recognize and her eyes nearly bulge out of her skull when she sees the birth year.

The year starts with a 20 and she feels sick to her stomach.

There’s no way Rooster had a little girl in here. There’s no way that that’s the reason he’s acting so weird. There can’t be.

And then she starts counting the current year from the year on the bracelet, and then it clicks that, “Oh shit, this chick isn’t underaged.”

She’s just young, and math has never been Natasha’s strong suit.

She audibly exhales which makes Bradley turn his head to look at her and she stuffs the bracelet underneath her thigh before snaking it down to her pocket.

“You okay?” he asks and Natasha eagerly nods.

“Yeah, just a little jittery,” she answers and Bradley nods in agreeance.

He brings his Red Bull back up to his lips before taking a swig and placing it back down in the cup holder.

“Me too.”

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