#sershaw

Now he had bandages on the little cuts on his throat and face, but he was swaggering into the bar; loose and easy despite the bruises Jake knew must still be lingering. The corner the Daggers had claimed in the Hard Deck erupted into whistles and cheers, and Jake joined them. Rooster clocked his sharp wolf-whistle, and Jake didn't think he was imagining the pink flush it raised in his cheeks.

Phoenix had a beer ready to hand to Rooster—he must have let her know he was coming—but once he took it he ambled over to where Jake was leaning against the wall watching Bob and Coyote throwing darts. Bob was obliterating Coyote, as usual. He stood, close enough that their shoulders touched, and he smelled good. 

"Hangman," he said, and held his bottle up.

Jake raised his own beer, and clinked them together. They'd never done this before; the easygoing bar dynamic was not their usual. Jake tried to relax into it, but a thrum of adrenaline kept his brain ticking over because this close, he could smell Rooster's cologne. It was something expensive. Cardamom. Cedar. Leather. It smelled like firelight and green leaves in the night. Jake wasn't usually one to get poetic but he couldn't help himself; if he'd been a couple drinks deeper than he was, he might have leaned closer still. It smelled so damn good.

He saw Rooster noticing his distraction, so he took a swig of beer and reined himself in.

"Rooster, how's the body?"

"Battered, but not broken." Rooster laughed ruefully. "Thanks to you. Might need to change your callsign though. You didn't leave me—didn't leave us hanging."

Jake caught the slip, and it made something in his chest ache, but he let it go. Rooster wasn't the kind of man you put on the spot, not if you wanted the night to stay as warm and full of camaraderie as it was.

"Well, you know me. Always ready to rescue a damsel in distress." Jake winked, then dragged himself out of orbit from Rooster and his warm-spicy scent, and his dark eyes, and his scars. "Now, if you'll excuse me I need to remind Bob that he's not the only shark in the bar."

He bowed, kind of ostentatious, and it pulled a laugh from Rooster so it was worth it. Then he proceeded to wipe the floor with Bob, all while watching Rooster from the corner of his eye. 

But the thing was, more often than not when he glanced over at Rooster he was already looking at Jake. The whole night played out like that; looking and being caught looking, bumping shoulders, and more words passing between them than ever before. Jake wasn't sure what it meant but he liked it. He liked the way Rooster looked at him. He liked the way Rooster leaned close to gossip about Penny and Mav. He liked the way he could smell that cologne, and the beer on Rooster's breath. 

He didn't get drunk, but by the time Rooster clapped him on the shoulder before heading out—Phoenix was on driving duty for him—Jake was almost dizzy with it all.

Jake was halfway through his run—a 5 mile loop he followed most days he had the time—when another person appeared next to him. Close, not enough to touch but enough to make Jake aware of his presence even with music blasting in his ears and his eyes focused ahead.

Long legs, short shorts. Rooster.

Jake pulled out his headphones and glanced to the side, and there was Rooster was matching his pace in an easy lope. He wasn't bruised anymore, and his cuts had healed up over the last couple of weeks.

"Mornin'" Rooster said, and there was the curve of a smile on his face.

Jake didn't fumble his stride but it took deliberate effort. He looked back at the path ahead of them, breathed in through his nose, and shoved his headphones in his pocket.

"Hey, Rooster. New route?"

"Yeah, wanted a change of scenery. Coyote mentioned you had a preference for this circuit."

Jake glanced at him again, and found Rooster's eyes already on him. He was still smiling, too. Jake nodded and looked away. He wasn't used to being taken by surprise—he hadn't expected Javy would be giving Rooster the inside track on Jake's habits. He hadn't expected Rooster to go seeking that information. He'd have to recalculate. 

"There's a good view at the end."

Rooster hummed, and Jake could feel his gaze on the side of his face. 

"I bet," Rooster replied.

Jake had to focus on his pace again, and shoved back the way he wanted to obsessed over what that tone of voice meant.

It didn't take them long to reach the end of the route; the perfect spot with a view of the sea, a coffee shop across the road, and a bench to sit and enjoy both. Jake had found the cafe early on in his stay, and reverse-engineered his run so that he could make his daily target of miles and get the best coffee in town.

Rooster joined him in the queue for a drink, and kept pace when he walked to the bench as well. They sat down next to each other, and Rooster's shoulder was touching Jake's again; a sticky press of sweat and muscle that Jake couldn't find anything to complain about in.

"See?" Jake asked, and took a sip of his coffee. "Told you the view was worth it."

Beside him, Rooster shifted. Jake carefully kept his eyes ahead, but he could see Rooster's face turn to him in his peripheral.

"Definitely worth it," Rooster said. 

And it was obvious. It was so obvious and corny but Rooster made it smooth. Jake turned his own head and caught the open admiration on Rooster's face. He wasn't even trying to play it cool, just letting everything show on his face and Jake was sure he wasn't misreading it.

"What brought this on, Rooster?"

There was a beat of quiet, two. For a moment Jake wondered if he'd pushed too early, too fast. But he should have known better; Rooster was just biding his time, gathering his thoughts.

"Call it a change of perspective. Looking at things with a bit of clarity." Rooster glanced at the sea then back to Jake, and his eyes were bright and direct. "You were a dick. But this side of the mission I think I understand it. Do I?"

Jake didn't look away. Couldn't. He knew what Rooster was talking about, and he was right. But admitting it would mean exposing himself, and Jake wasn't a fan of that kind of vulnerability. Especially not with a fellow fucking pilot. If they had this conversation, then that would change things. 

There was a breeze off the ocean, salt and ozone, and Rooster was close enough that Jake could smell the lingering traces of that same cologne he'd worn the first night in the Hard Deck after the mission. Jake wanted things to change. 

"Yeah, I think you do understand."

Rooster nodded, kind of solemn, but then he was smiling and it was bright and broad. Jake had never had that smile directed at him and he was kind of glad he was sitting down because he might have stumbled if they'd still be running.

"Ok, good," Rooster said, bashful for a second before that smile sharpened up. "Let me walk you back?"

Jake couldn't help but grin back.

"Sure, some cool-company wouldn't be the worst."

It was neat, the way Rooster diverted them from heading back to Jake's base housing. He suggested breakfast, then reminded Jake his own house was closer, and then suddenly Jake was walking through the door of Rooster's home for the first time, and kicking off his running shoes.

It was cozy, bright, less old-fashioned than he'd imagined. But he didn't get much time to look around before Rooster turned and pressed him against the nearest wall.

"We can talk more later, right?" he asked, and he was all Jake could see. 

Jake nodded, not even bothering to hide his eagerness. "Yeah," he said, and put his hands to the sweat-damp cotton covering Rooster's shoulders. "Yeah, later."

Rooster sighed with relief and then pressed forward; bodily holding Jake against the wall while he cradled his face in big palms. The kiss, when it landed, was gentler than Jake had been expecting; it was a hit he couldn't have braced for, and it landed deep.

He grabbed at Rooster's shirt—a dumb cut-off t-shirt with too-big arm holes that showed Rooster's pecs, and too short hem that revealed the ridge of muscle above his hips—to pull him closer still. It took a heartbeat for that gentle, almost sweet kiss to evolve into open mouths and slick tongues.

Rooster pawed at his body, pulling him away from the wall, and walked him backwards. Jake didn't care where they were going, not with Rooster pressed all up against him. 

It was Rooster's bedroom, Jake realized, when the back of his knees hit the side of a bed and Rooster dropped him down into the soft comforter before climbing on top of him. They were both still hot from their run, and when they stripped off their shirts and fell back into a kiss, their skin brushed; warm and tacky with sweat.

Like this—deliciously pressed between Rooster's bedding and his body—Jake's senses filled with him. The heat of his skin, the weight of his body. The scent of him. Beneath Jake the impression of that cologne—smoky and spicy and bright. Above him, the sweet salt of clean sweat drying down on Rooster's skin.

He wrapped one thigh around Rooster's hips and used it to flip them. Once he settled his weight on Rooster's lap he couldn't help but grind down; both of them were hard in their running shorts. 

"Fuck," Rooster hissed.

Jake nodded, half-mindless already, and did it again. Then he ducked down and ran his nose up Rooster's throat.

"Why do you smell so fucking good?" Jake whined, not expecting an answer but having to ask the universe anyway.

Rooster huffed a laugh but tilted his head to give Jake easier access anyway.

"I don't know, why do you look so good, Hangman?"

Jake nipped at Rooster's jaw. "Don't call me Hangman right now, it's not—I'm not—"

"Jake," Rooster sighed, adapting immediately. "Get up here."

He cupped the back of Jake's head and pulled him up into another kiss, open and wet and drugging.

"You like the way I smell, huh?" he asked, and the teasing tone might have turned Jake off if it was anyone else. But not Rooster. Not Bradley. 

Jake grinned into the kiss, feeling shameless.

"Yeah, that scent you wear. Smells like campfires in the plains back home in the south."

Bradley sucked on Jake's tongue, and rolled his hips up. Then he took his big hands off Jake's body and laid them back on the bed above his own head. It stretched out his torso, pressed his pecs into Jake's, and exposed the soft skin and dark hair under his arms.

"Just the cologne?" he asked.

Jake swallowed hard, and wondered if Bradley could feel the way Jake's cock jumped in his shorts, wet at the head already. He hesitated.

Bradley just smiled, easy and relaxed, and bumped his hips up again. Maybe he had felt it.

Jake sighed, then leaned forward. He grazed Bradley's nipple with his lips first, then dragged his face to Bradley's pit. His skin was paler there, delicate and untouched by the sun. Jake ran his nose along the soft hollow and breathed in, deep. 

Heat, salt, the animal warmth of skin and hair and a man's sweat. 

It was like Bradley had been cooked up in a lab to appeal to all of Jake's senses, but the smell of him was the key in the lock to make Jake realize it. He bit at the tender skin, and grinned when it made Bradley jump and then moan low. Jake reached up, tangled their hands together, and licked. He had to hold Bradley down, lever his weight forward to stop him from squirming.

It didn't stop Bradley's hips from hitching, rolling their cocks together through their shorts, humping against each other. Desperate already, both of them, rutting like teenagers.

"Yeah?" Bradley asked, voice gravelly already.

"Mhmm," Jake hummed, and dragged his face away from Bradley's pit. 

Bradley squeezed their hands together, firming their clasp, and parted his lips. Begging for a kiss in everything but words. Jake couldn't help but indulge him, sighing at the easy way their mouths came together, at the way Bradley didn't flinch, just licked at the Jake's lips. Salt and sweet. Sweat and saliva. 

Jake's orgasm took him by surprise, creeping up and then washing over him, a wave of heat and spiraling pleasure. Bradley followed him over the edge with a guttural groan Jake felt in his own chest where they were pressed together. 

He kissed Bradley again, sipping at him like wine, then tucked his face under Bradley's chin to pant. Both of them were sweaty again, and the smell of sex was warm between them. 

Bradley wrapped his arms around him, and Jake breathed it in.

Read on Ao3

10th October prompts from this list 🖤

Nick nuzzled his face in his father's neck and gripped tighter onto Bingo’s tail as Jake started to climb the stairs. “Is daddy gonna read me a story?” 

“I’m sure he will, son," Jake cooed, peering around the corner. His words came soft and slow as he turned into the bedroom, drawing them out for signature dramatics, "looks like it," he whispered just in time to see Bradley pull open the blanket from the once neatly made bed. 

Jake stood still a moment to take it in; Bradley's hazel eyes flashed upward, a soft smile forming on his lips. He traded in his Hawaiian shirt that night for a dark gray Henley, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The blond's heart stopped for the briefest of moments as the yellow stars from Nick's night light danced across his husband's tanned skin. 

He wanted to make some snarky comment about all his Hawaiian shirts being dirty and earn a cold look from the older man. But he didn't, the want of savoring this moment outweighed any remark; he put it on file in his mind to bring out later. 

"How are you still awake?" Bradley sighed, smirking as he stood to full height. Nick turned in his dad's arms and shrugged before being sat down. "You're just like your dad," he remarked, covering Nick's legs with the blanket and pressing a scratchy kiss to his temple. 

"Seresin resilience," Jake winked. He lowered himself beside the child, his arm splayed across the pillows while Bradley sat at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. 

As the two men lowered their eyes at each other in trademark annoyance, Nick reached for the picture books resting on his lime green bedside table. He smiled as he flipped through them, ultimately landing one of his favorites. The book was written by a friend of his grandpa's, a vibrantly colored one all about unlikely friendships and how to work as a team. 

Nick looked up from the cover, his hazel eyes shifting between his two fathers. They did this a lot; staring at each other not knowing if tense words were going to be exchanged or a long slow kiss. He held the book against his chest as fell back against the pillows, rolling into Jake's side. "Dad…" the men broke out of their trance and immediately diverted their gaze, "Are you and daddy friends?" 

Friends. 

There was a small pause, the men’s faces slightly scrunching as they processed the question. “Well we’re married, son,” Jake avoided the answer. He didn’t really know the answer, he just hoped it was enough for the five-year-old; it was never enough for Nick, he was the type of kid who needed a solid yes or no answer, no highway option. 

The boy pouted and sunk lower into Jake’s side, “Well,” he sighed impatiently, “Rebecca's parents are married and she told me on the swings that they hate each other."

"We don't hate each other, Nicky," Bradley entered the conversation. 

"So are you friends?" Nick tilted his chin upward at Jake.

The world felt sour on Jake’s tongue. Friends. Were they friends? They’d known each other most of their adult lives and carried several titles in their relationship, Jake could even count most of them. Friends seemed like a gray area. 

The moment their eyes locked back in flight school, they were off. Flying after each other faster on the ground than in the air. Jake could remember him back then, thin and bare upper-lipped; he could vaguely remember how smooth it felt when Bradley kissed his neck. Were the late night rendezvous to watch television and make out sessions behind the planes enough to consider them friends? Lovers maybe? Lovers from the start. 

 But maybe they were friends at some point in their history somewhere in between quickies and long nights spent in messed up sheets. After training, most days, they'd sit in the bed of Jake's truck, limbs innocently tangled up in each other and looking up at the planes zooming past them thousands of feet in the air. Jake shared the stories of growing up in Texas, knee deep in old money he'd never receive a cent of. 

Bradley kept tight lipped about his past until a training detachment in San Diego when he nearly lost it. Tears threatened to fall from a young Bradley Bradshaw when his toes hit the sand of the beach his father took him as a child. The two men sat in the middle of the sand, Bradley's head on Jake's shoulder while he poured his heart out to him. Because that's what friends did. 

Jake snorted at the thought of them as "ex-friends", that was a better definition of their relationship. The fallout was bitter with scathing words they didn't mean and wounded prides. Bradley slammed the door so hard it came loose off the hinges while Jake opened it forcefully enough to rip it clean off chasing after him. Took years off their relationship; near death took them apart but it also put them back together. 

It was better that way. Easier for his brain to compute. Jake looked down at Nick who was looking up at him with wide hopeful eyes. He opened his mouth, prepared to fumble a sentence that would go right over the child's head. 

"Best friends," Bradley intercepted. Jake tried to hold onto a straight face, but the shock and awe of his face journey made his husband laugh. 

Nick smiled brightly and that was enough for his parents. He snuggled against Jake and held his plushie close to his chest, prompting the stunned blond to read. 

He was asleep by the third page. 

"So," Jake started as he closed the bedroom door behind him, taking one last look at their son before looking at Bradley with a signature cocky smirk, "Best friends, huh?" 

Bradley looked unimpressed, his lips dipped downward into an annoyed scowl. "You want a friendship bracelet or something?" He asked sarcastically as they walked down the hallway, his hand finding purchase on Jake's lower back. 

Jake playfully slapped Bradley's chest, "Yeah if fact I do. Yellow and red, like your helmet," he answered, taunting him.