#bledsoul

❝ i can't even trust myself anymore. ❞

Bob's frustrated after a cluster fuck of day filled with too many wrongs. He and Nat can't seem to click as they have before; he calls three turns incorrectly before their flight time is called early. No use in wasting fuel. Post-flight review goes no better.

He returns home agitated, changes into an old shirt and running shorts, and pushes his usual five mile run into seven. It leaves him sweaty and aching, but still just as annoyed.

Tugging off his shirt, Bob flops on his bed, uncaring that he's sweaty. Then he thinks fuck it, shoves and kicks off his shorts, and gets a hand around himself as he reaches for his phone, thankful he hadn't chucked his airpods. If running didn't help, then maybe this will.

And then, five or ten minutes after, Bob isn't exactly tracking the time, his heart freezes in his chest and his hand stills as he becomes aware that his door is open and Jake's staring at him.

he cuts off a derisive snort, letting a scathing, ❛ 'under control,' mcgee? ❜ suffice instead. his gaze, however, is not on the agent in question but on the retreating backs of those he's sent in his stead. only with a silent prayer that they stay on task — and get it done quickly — does he turn shift his weight and turn to fix his stare upon mcgee instead. ❛ just what do you think you had under control? ❜

"hello mike ross." she could be subtle when she wanted to, when she needed to, she just didn't have any reason to be today. she didn't need to lie and say she was in the neighborhood when she already lived here. this wasn't her usual coffee spot, but she'd managed to find his. alice offered him a friendly smile. "violet says hi, by the way," she'd said she wouldn't but she did, thought it might jog his memory as to why she knew his name. "i thought i'd seen you here before. what's with the suit? you some big corporate boss guy now?" alice sipped her coffee, maybe that was too on the nose.

playing messenger wasn't really her speed either. she had shit to do, real actual mission leads she could be checking out instead of white collar crime, but instead she got the privilege of telling one of manhattan's leading law firms that one of their clients was under investigation. in person. now, normally, this was the type of thing where an agent sent a memorandum telling the firm that if anything turned up on their client the firm could be dragged into the mess. attorney client privilege meant the attorney couldn't say shit, but if they found out the firm had anything to do with the client's shady dealings they could open an investigation into them as well.

she was allowed up, and had the pleasure of meeting a very nice secretary who directed her to wait while the man she was there to see finished his meeting. as soon as he did, she waited for the client to leave before she stood. "harvey specter i assume, i'm agent alice gallagher from SHIELD," she took her badge out of her pocket and held it out to him. "we need to talk, you do have an office right?" she knew he did, it was glass with his name on the door and she could see it.

What Bob wasn't expecting, two months into their cohabitation, is just how pleasant it is. Hangman might party like a fratty ring knocker, but he doesn't live like one. They're eerily well matched in terms of cleaning habits, Bob doesn't think dust exists in their apartment at all, and if Hangman's annoyed that Bob tends to be a homebody save for a few nights out with the Daggers he's practically dragged to attend and long runs, nothing's been said to him.

Surprise, though, has yet to carry over to trust; there's something to be said about good behavior and grace periods. It's why Bob nearly jumps out of skin as the door bangs open Friday night. He rights the take out container balanced on his knee before peering over towards the entry way.

It starts up again, just as loud but more insistent. He's set on ignoring it, eyes squeezed shut as if Bradley can simply will it away, but it drags on and on. The loose thread tying him to sleep evaporates. Bradley's awake, and pissed.

He pushes himself off the couch and follows the noise to his front door, steps heavy. Bradley throws open the door. "What the hell is wrong with you," he demands.