#birdstruck

There's an itch under his skin, anxiety and fear and anger, that Maverick's feeble attempt at reassurance only inflamed rather than soothed. Despite the late hour and clear exhaustion, he sets a punishing pace on the treadmill, hoping his loud heartbeat will drown out the worst of his swirling thoughts. He showers, but the water only washes away the sweat sticking to his skin, not the lingering anxiety.

Sleep too offers no relief and after an hour of useless tossing and turning in a bed that isn't his, he forces himself up. Pulling on clothes, dirty from the floor (a classic Bradshaw move), he knows the only thing that will dampen the mess in his head, the itch under his skin, is seeing Natasha, and Bob, whole and fine with his own eyes.

A charming, tired smile gets a nod from one of the nurses to head on back when he reaches the hospital. It doesn't get him directions; after all, he's not family - he's not supposed to be here so late.

"Uh, sorry," he says, two steps into the room and feeling caught by Bob's gaze. "I thought you were Tasha," Bradley admits softly with a hint of a sheepish smile. It's a shitty thing to say, but it's at least true. Natasha would give him shit for not seeing her first - or shit for thinking she needed to be checked up on her at all. It's hard to say sometimes with her. He doesn't share the same history with Bob. Doesn't know how Natasha's done it, either, being able to trust a back-seater she hardly knows.

Bradley only knows the feeling of Bob's sun-warmed skin under his hands, on his shoulders, and a few vague, but good, impressions that come with first meeting someone.