Nightlight
Summary: A moment on the edge with Bradley.
Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x Reader
Warnings: References to sex, mild angst
A/N: I wrote this after reading @roosterscock's piece about Bradley soothing the reader to sleep. It came out sadder than I meant it to, whoops. Tagging a few people who commented/reblogged the last thing I wrote. Sorry if you're a diehard Jake girlie! @gretagerwigsmuse @sometimesanalice @teacupsandtopgun @roleycoleyreccenter @blue-aconite @sebsxphia @anniesocsandgeneralstore @callsignvalley @seriouslyseresin @almostgenerallyalways @bradshawburner @seresinhangmanjake @discount-shades @theharddeck
You’re right on the edge of sleep when Bradley stirs, moving his arm from where it’s slung around your waist and flopping onto his back. A cool wash of air slips between the two of you.
(It’s been an ongoing debate between the two of you – Bradley likes to sleep naked, and likes for you to sleep naked too. Your arms get cold if they aren’t covered, and you think it’s unhygienic for your bare behinds to flop around on the sheets all night. Bradley points out that your bare behinds flop around on the sheets plenty already, and you certainly never complain about that. You remind him that you always have to change the sheets after flopping sessions. The two of you have compromised, so you wear one of his old shirts to sleep and he wears boxers. At least to start. Anyway.)
You make an inquiring noise, not quite ready to come to the surface.
“Are you awake?” Bradley whispers. You are now, but you’re too sleepy to be annoyed about it.
You don’t bother asking him what’s keeping him up. There’s a deployment coming soon, and Bradley isn’t satisfied with his squadron’s cohesion. Natasha, who is normally the one who talks him through Navy/flying + perfectionism issues, has been distracted with her own deployment (with Hangman, poor woman). He’s going to be fine – he’s always fine (he must be fine), but pre deployment jitters come for everyone. You’ve talked about it in the daylight hours, and in some of the small, dark ones too over the past few weeks. But. Nighttime hours are for sleeping.
You roll onto your back beside him, listening to him breathe as he listens to you. The noise machine on your bedside table grumbles soothingly. There’s nothing more to be said.
You reach for your Bradley, tugging until he’s draped halfway over your chest. Heavy, but you can take it.
You wait for him to settle. Then, one of your hands comes up, weaving into the curls on the back of his head. Your fingertips scratch gently across his skull and the nape of his neck. He sighs, sinking more of his weight onto you. The pressure is reassuring (he’s here, he’s still here).
“Sleep,” you croon. The rhythmic motions soothe you both. Bradley eventually goes boneless, Morpheus pulling him down. You stare at the ceiling, at the old water stain right above your heads, at the dim slats of light coming through the blinds from the streetlight outside, at the barely discernible shadows of the paintings on your walls. You’ll get to know these nighttime landmarks very well over the next few months.
Sleep is a long time coming.
