Hell yeah, cowboy!

                Did he… did he say something to Rooster to make him want to come home with Jake? He sucks in a deep breath, stomach churning as he considers the possibilities. Okay. It could be Payback. Unlikely, given how much he can’t shut up about his wife and kids. Still. Small chance. Rooster. Unfortunately high chance if he was around and Jake was past the point of no return with regards to alcohol consumption and his brain to mouth filter with his inconvenient crush that he has sworn Javy to secrecy about. There’s also a chance Jake brought home a complete stranger, but he hasn’t done that in years.

                He lies there and moves parts of his body ever so slightly, trying to gather clues as to what he maybe got up to last night. His feet aren’t sore, so he hasn’t walked on broken glass, which is something he’d rather do than deal with the fact Rooster is in his bed. His legs feel fine, normal, maybe a little tired from the run yesterday morning, which he’s glad he can clearly remember, but it’s not anything out of the ordinary. His stomach is not great, but he’s putting that down to the fact he’s the most hungover he’s ever felt.

                He hasn’t been fucked, his ass isn’t even tender, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t fucked Rooster. Or whoever it is lying beside him. Part of him, a large part, wants it to be Rooster because at least that would make him feel a tiny bit more okay, because he hasn’t ever really been okay with sex with no feelings. And there are definitely feelings between him and Rooster, even if they aren’t always particularly pretty ones.

                His lips feel raw. Like he rubbed them with sandpaper before he went to bed. He pauses his train of thought. Sandpaper? Or stubble? He’s spent enough time with Rooster now to know the other man sports a five o’clock shadow by lunch, and he’s never kissed him before, only imagined it, but… maybe?

                “Mmm. No. Stay…” the body mumbles, and it definitely sounds like Rooster and Jake throws himself out of the bed, toward the door to the bathroom, ignores the displeased grunt of the man he leaves behind him and pushes down the roiling in his stomach. He shuts the bathroom door and peers around, more light courtesy of the small, frosted window letting in early dawn light. He uses the toilet, washes his hands and looks into the mirror, sees his hair sticking up every which way and pulls a face. The clothes he was wearing last night are sitting in a pile on the floor by the washing basket and his brain stalls.

                Because that isn’t his washing basket. His is black, while this one is grey. It looks exactly the same, but it isn’t. He glances to the shower and blinks. None of his toiletries are sitting on the little shelf and he takes a deep breath, looks and sees a bright green toothbrush sitting in a cup. Jake’s current toothbrush is red.

                Oh fuck.

                It’s even worse than he thought.

                He was in Rooster’s bed.

                He’s in Rooster’s place.

                It’s familiar because they’re both in base housing.

                He reaches for the clothes on the floor, wondering if he can slip them on, discards the thought immediately when he realizes the clothes are wet and smell faintly of vomit. Okay then, that’s a little mortifying. He wonders if he can find some Tylenol or something to deal with the pounding behind his eyes. He needs to take the path of least resistance, and if his drunk self somehow talked its way into Rooster’s bed and Rooster let him then he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

                He steps closer to the mirror, pulls it open and sure enough finds a bottle of Tylenol, takes a couple using the cup with Rooster’s toothbrush to swallow them back. He looks in the mirror than and studies himself, his lips are red and raw looking, definitely look like they’ve been chewed on and maybe rubbed all over Rooster’s face and neck. He just doesn’t remember any of it and he’s a little pissed at himself.

                If he’d known Rooster would be… receptive to Jake making moves on him he would have done so long ago, rather than dragging out whatever the fuck weird tension-laden banter they’ve had going for years. He’d always thought it was all ego, but now… now he isn’t so sure. That said he’s not going to shy away from it now that he does know. Decision made he quickly brushes his teeth, uses Rooster’s toothbrush because their mouths have clearly been very well acquainted recently. Then he heads back to the bedroom, closing the door to the bathroom quietly and easing himself back into the bed, nestling closer to the warmth of Bradshaw’s body.

                “Wha?” Rooster mumbles in his sleep and Jake feels his heart squeeze and stutter as Bradshaw’s arm goes around him again, drawing Jake close so he can wrap himself around him better. Jake lets himself be manhandled, presses a kiss to the skin of Rooster’s neck and feels the rub of stubble against his sensitive lips, finds himself smiling against his neck.

                “Shh, go back to sleep baby…”

                “Mmm. Okay.”

…            …            …

                Hangman is asleep in his bed.

                Correction.

                Hangman is still asleep in his bed.

                Hangman who had turned up drunk off his face at nearly one o’clock this morning, making no fucking sense and rambling about needing a place to sleep and it needing to be in Bradley’s bed. He hadn’t managed to get more of an explanation, but he figured he kind of owed it to him, had let him inside and instantly regretted it when Hangman had then rushed for the bathroom and vomited. Bradley had forced some Gatorade into him, made him shower and then given him a clean pair of underwear to sleep in.

                He’d planned to put Hangman on the sofa, but he’d targeted Bradley’s bed with unerring accuracy and made himself immediately comfortable. Bradley sure as hell hadn’t been willing to sleep on the lumpy sofa which is probably older than him in his own damned assignment. Decided Hangman could deal with the uncomfortable realization he’d spent the night in Bradley’s bed. The night and most of the morning, given that it’s almost midday and he’s meant to be meeting Natasha for lunch at one.

                He grabs the dirty clothes and puts a load of washing on, knows the chance of Hangman leaving wearing anything but his own clothes are slim to zero. He stops briefly to take in the sight of Hangman’s fluffy hair sticking out everywhere and looking weirdly soft, not how Bradley has ever seen him before, even when they were sharing living spaces in the past. He turns the shower, hears a grumble from the direction of the bed but ignores it. Stepping into the shower he begins washing himself perfunctorily while his mind races through the potential reactions Hangman might have when he wakes up properly.

                Then he feels a hand on his hip and he jumps, then feels lips pressing kisses over his shoulders and he opens his mouth to say… what? Something? Anything? What the fuck? His brain is fixating on the fact that not only is Hangman in his shower, naked, but he’s lathered up his hands is washing Bradey’s back. What the fuck? He really wants to ask that out loud but he also doesn’t want to piss him off or for Hangman to stop washing his back, which has been difficult to reach with his ribs bruised as they are.

                “Uh. How did you sleep?”

                “Mmm. Better than I have in a long time. Thanks.”

                He doesn’t know what to say or do with that information, or the easy gratitude. He turns, needs to see that it is definitely Hangman in his shower with him. The kiss is a surprise, and he is still for a second before he’s kissing him back, brain now racing with a whole list of other scenarios. This was not in his list of potential reactions of Hangman waking up. Never in a million years. Hangman’s mouth feels hot and slick under the spray of water, his heart feels like it’s racing as he feels Hangman’s naked body press against his own.

                His cock is half hard and it feels incredibly intimate to be showering with each other, making out, but also feel like it’s not leading to sex. Instead it feels like simply an excuse to be close and since fucking when? He wonders if he's maybe dreaming or fallen into a coma, maybe an alternate timeline. He feels like he's missing a chunk of time, or an explanation. Both really. Anything that might explain what the fuck is happening right now.

                Maybe Hangman hit his head and thinks Bradley is his… boyfriend? They finish showering and Bradley pats himself dry carefully, vigorous rubbing making the scabs bleed a little still. Then Hangman is giving him shit about his lack of hair products and he's grateful because that as least feels normal. He makes an excuse about making coffee and flees to his kitchen, leaving Hangman fixing his hair in the mirror.

                His reprieve doesn't last long, not even five minutes later Hangman playfully bullies past him in his own fucking kitchen, pressing him against the kitchen counter, his hands finding purchase on Bradley's hips, fingertips seeking bare skin under his loose tank, stroking over the thin skin of his hips and making all the hair on his arms prickle with awareness.

                Bradley has no idea what the fuck is going on. He’d thought maybe Hangman was fucking with him, that's the only logical answer his tired brain can offer. But as minutes tick by Hangman continues to be weirdly soft and domestic, asking Bradley how he takes his coffee like it’s something he wants to know, it seems like an odd prank. Still, it's incredibly fucking strange.

                Whatever the hell is happening he's more than okay to go along with it.