Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bradley knocked on the door again and checked his phone. Maybe Jake had turned up at the Hard Deck after all, and the apartment was empty. But there were no texts other than one from Nat asking if he had any updates. Bradley sighed and knocked harder, the door rattling in the frame.

“Seresin!” he called. He banged his fist against the door again. Maybe he wasn’t home at all. It’d been radio silence for three days now—which would’ve been nothing strange back in the day, but was weird enough now that after an hour into the groupchat-planned outing to the Hard Deck tonight, Nat had seized a handful of cocktail straws, cut one short, and gone about finding someone to designate as the official Hangman investigator. And here Bradley was, short straw still in his pocket. Javy was back home with his dying grandfather, but reported that he wasn’t getting answers out of Jake, either.

He was pretty sure Nat had rigged it, making sure he drew the short straw, given the knowing smirk she’d fixed him with when he held that two-inch piece of plastic up.

Bradley tried the doorknob again. He wasn’t actually going to be worried. Jake was like a house cat—when he wanted to be around, he was impossible to shake, but when he was aloof he was really, really aloof. There was no reason for Bradley's heart to be in his throat as he glanced between his unanswered texts and the blank face of Jake’s apartment door. There was no reason to be picturing a limp hand hanging off the edge of a mattress. No reason for the phantom smell of a hospital hallway in his nose or the ringing like a flatlined heart monitor in his ears.

He lifted his fist to bang against the door again when the door swung inwards and he stumbled forward, catching himself against the door frame. The apartment was dark inside, and Bradley blinked away the brightness of the lampposts outside until his eyes adjusted.

Jake was slumped in the doorway, propped up against the wall beside the door. He was a strange, pale, near-gray against the dark backdrop of his apartment, and he looked—well…

“You look like shit,” Bradley said, and Jake blinked. His under eyes were purplish, and his hair had the matted, heavy look of someone who hadn’t managed to wash it in days. His skin, where it wasn’t corpse-colored, was flushed red; splotches up his cheekbones and across his forehead.

Jake turned to walk into the apartment and immediately swayed, pausing mid-step until he steadied out again. Bradley stepped into the apartment and shut the door behind him. The apartment smelled tired, almost cave-like. It reminded Bradley of the smell of snow at nighttime. He braced a hand against Seresin’s shoulder until the other man slowly turned to look at him again.

“Are you good, man?” Bradley asked. “You haven’t been answering anyone’s texts.”

Jake swallowed—it looked like it took effort, his shoulders raising slightly—and nodded towards the couch. Bradley glanced over and saw a phone on the floor beside the couch, and he reached for it. He kept watch of Jake in his peripheral vision as he pressed the home button on the phone. Nothing.

“This is dead,” Bradley said, holding it up. Jake didn’t look over—he was making his way down a narrow hallway deeper into the apartment, one hand trailing against the wall. His clothes were rumpled and hung on him at odd, sharp angles: a well-worn Texas Rangers t-shirt and paint-stained gray sweatpants. His feet were bare, and Bradley’s chest panged until he shook it off. Jake was a grown man—he didn’t need someone finding socks for him to wear. Let alone the fuzzy, warm sort of socks that had immediately popped to Bradley’s mind.

There was a weak noise from a back room, and Bradley took off his shoes before padding down the hallway after Jake. He found him face-down on a bed, splayed across a crumpled top sheet. The bedroom was cold, and Bradley eyed the rumbling air conditioner warily. It was California, sure, but it was the middle of winter, and maybe in the fifties outside at the moment.

Bradley plugged Jake’s phone in by the bedside table before facing Jake again. Bradley edged closer and peered at Jake, whose face was twisted to the side and mashed against a crumpled pile of the sheet beneath him. His brow was furrowed, eyes squinted shut. Bradley reached out slowly and pressed the back of his hand to Seresin’s forehead.

“Fucking hell,” Bradley muttered, withdrawing his hand. He tended to run warm himself, so if he could feel the heat burning off of Jake, it couldn’t be good.

“Hey,” he said, crouching beside the bed. “Have you taken anything?”

Jake’s face contorted enough that Bradley was pretty sure he at least heard him, so he waited and asked again. “Did you take Tylenol? Nyquil?”

Jake shook his head minutely, and Bradley pushed himself to his feet.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay…” He peered around the room, trying to spot any pill bottles or blister packs. He wandered into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Nothing but fingernail clippers, a stick of deodorant, and a razor.

Bradley pulled out his phone and texted Nat. Hangman’s sick, he wrote. have to go to store. See u tomorrow

He went back to the bedroom. Jake hadn’t moved. “I’m going to the store,” he said. “You don’t have any medicine?”

Jake groaned.

“Right,” Bradley said. He headed back towards the front door, but paused at the archway to the kitchen. He slipped in, flipping on the overhead light. A loaf of bread was the only thing on the counter, half the slices out of the bag, like Jake had started making a sandwich and quit halfway through.

Bradley pulled open the fridge and crossed his arms. A pack of chicken breasts, an expired half-gallon of skim milk, and a bag of spinach that had nearly liquified. He scooped Jake’s keys off the hook by the front door and grabbed his shoes. He had some shopping to do.

—

Bradley kept one eye on the time as he shopped, and an eye out for any texts. He half-expected Jake to text him and tell him to fuck off and let him suffer in manly solidarity.

He was staring at a wall of Gatorade, but finally sighed and grabbed a pack of six blue ones and dumped it in his basket. The nearly-full basket. He had saltines, ginger ale, ice pops, nighttime cold and flu medicine, day time cold and flu medicine, Tylenol, Campbell’s chicken soup, a box of chamomile, honey, an ice pack, a loaf of bread, butter, cinnamon and sugar, a thermometer, and a pack of chocolate pudding.

He hadn’t been sick himself in nearly twenty years—that hardy Bradshaw immune system hadn’t let him down since he’d caught mono from his very first kiss. But he remembered being sick as a kid, vaguely, and what it was he was fed. Maybe it was a borderline-cartoonish mental image of what you were supposed to do for a sick person, but it had to be better than raw chicken, spoiled spinach, and stale bread.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he tugged it out as he walked towards checkout.

Javy, 10:31 pm: Heard Jake’s sick.

Bradley texted back one-handed. Affirmative

Javy replied almost immediately. Not good, he said. He takes shit care of himself when he’s sick

No shit, Bradley replied, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t even own Tylenol

The cashier waved him up and he checked his phone again once he was on the way to the parking lot, two bags looped over his arm.

Javy , 10:37 pm: Even if he seems bad, it’s probably ten times worse

Bradley sucked his teeth. If Jake was ten times worse than he looked, he would have to be on his death bed. He dumped the bags in the passenger seat of the Bronco and headed back towards Jake’s apartment, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“Hey,” Bradley said as he shouldered his way back into Jake’s apartment. “I got some food, cold medicine—”

There was a horrible noise from the back of the apartment, and Bradley paused, his breath catching in his chest. He’d—he’d heard that sound a hundred times. A thousand times. His mom had been on chemo for months, and every time she came home from another round, she was sick for days, barely keeping anything down. The noise came again and he winced, dropping the bags on the floor and kicking the door shut behind him.

He found Jake in the bathroom. He was crumpled over the toilet, his head hanging over the bowl, his hair lank, drooping towards the water, and his back was heaving.

“Hey,” Bradley said, crouching next to Jake. His hand hovered over his back until finally he lowered it, touching his palm against the too-tangible knobs of Jake’s spine. Even through the slightly sweat-damp t-shirt, he could feel the heat burning off Jake’s skin.

Jake’s arms were braced against the toilet seat, his fingers hanging limp off either side. He retched again, gagging and producing nothing. His legs, strewn below him in an awkward twist, slid against the tile. Bradley pressed his hand firmer, sliding it until he was holding Jake up, pulling him by the ribs.

“Hey,” Bradley said again, and Jake lifted his head slightly, laying his cheek against one arm. He stared foggily back at Bradley, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy.

“Let me get you the Tylenol,” Bradley said. “Let’s break your fever.”

He stood up carefully, making sure Jake wasn’t about to go slumping to the floor, and retrieved the thermometer, a Gatorade, and the bottle of Tylenol.

Jake was slightly more upright now, his elbows against the toilet seat and his head in his hands. His fingers were in his hair, gripping at the strands like that would help him hold himself together.

Bradley sat beside him and uncapped the Gatorade before handing over two Tylenols.

“C’mon,” he said, and Jake’s eyes flicked to Bradley’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll just puke it up again,” Jake croaked.

“He speaks!” Bradley said, and he held the Tylenol closer.

Jake closed his eyes for a moment but took the Tylenol, pressing the pills into his mouth with a shaky hand before accepting the Gatorade. Bradley reached out after him, helping the Gatorade actually reach his mouth, bracing one hand against the back of Jake’s head.

He set the Gatorade to the side and tore open the packaging for the thermometer.

“You make a better pilot than a nurse, Bradshaw,” Jake muttered. He opened his mouth obediently when Bradley lifted the thermometer.

“You make a better pilot than a patient, bud,” Bradley said, and he checked the thermometer. “One-oh-two. Jesus, Seresin.”

“Told you I was sick,” Jake said.

“No, you didn’t.”

Jake made a face and started to open his mouth when a pallid sheen returned to his face and he bent back over the toilet, gagging as the Gatorade—and Tylenol—came right back up.

“Shit,” Bradley said.

Jake let out a quieter hitching noise, and Bradley’s hand moved of its own accord, returning to the warm breadth of his shoulder blades. Jake’s face was crumpled, and Bradley watched as a tear ran down his nose and dripped into the toilet bowl.

“Okay,” Bradley said. “Let’s try—let’s try a bath.”

Jake laughed wetly and promptly retched again.

Bradley left him there by the toilet and stepped over him towards the tub to get the water running. He adjusted the water until it was cool but not too cold and pulled out his phone to text Nat. She had little siblings—she would know what to do, maybe.

Once the tub was half-full he turned the tap off and faced Jake again. He looked oddly…small, bent over the toilet, shining with days-old sweat.

“Alright, Seresin,” Bradley said, and he pried Jake upwards until he had him standing, swaying in place.

He peeled the Rangers shirt off, tossing it into the hallway, and matter-of-factly pulled the sweats down before he could start overthinking the whole undressing Hangman thing.

“Uh,” Bradley said, his hands frozen a few inches from the waistband of Jake’s boxers. “Do you want these…?”

“Please,” Jake said, his hands reaching weakly for Bradley’s until they landed, hot and clammy, against Bradley’s wrists and gripped there. “I’m a lady, Bradshaw.”

“You’re not funny,” Bradley said, but he let the boxers be and held Jake by the waist instead as he helped him step into the tub.

Jake sank low into the water, sliding deeper until the point that Bradley knelt beside the tub, figuring he better be close by in case a water rescue became necessary. The longest ends of Jake’s hair trailed in the water, and Bradley sighed, glancing at his phone to see if Nat had replied yet.

He reached for the bottle of shampoo beside the tub and squeezed some into his palm.

“Can you dunk?” Bradley asked, and Jake blinked a slow, skeptical stare up at him before gradually slipping lower into the water until his scalp submerged. A beat too long went by and Bradley slid a hand under one of Jake’s arms and pulled him back up. His hair hung wet in his eyes, and Bradley wiped his not-shampooed hand up Jake’s forehead, pushing it back again.

“Okay,” Bradley muttered, and scrubbed both hands into Jake’s hair.

Jake groaned weakly and sat up in the tub, curling forward over himself as Bradley washed his hair. Soap ran down his back and chest, and Bradley sighed.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?” he said, smoothing the soapy hair back so it wouldn’t drip into Jake’s eyes.

Jake just grunted, and Bradley pushed at his shoulder slightly until he could lean him back and rinse his hair out in the water, one palm full of water scooped at a time.

“Let’s try the Tylenol again,” Bradley said, propping Jake in a non-drownable position against the far wall of the tub before stretching across the bathroom to grab the Gatorade and Tylenol.

“I don’t want to puke in my tub,” Jake said, not even opening his eyes.

“I’ll get you a bucket,” Bradley replied, and Jake snorted.

“I feel my reputation being irrep— irr— irreparably damaged.”

“Big word for you,” Bradley said, and he snagged the plastic trash can from beside the toilet and set it next to the tub.

“I got an 800 SAT verbal score,” Jake said, his lips curling faintly.

“Oh, see,” Bradley said. “You’re acting like yourself. Reputation intact. Look at you, still full of shit.”

“I wanted to be a teacher,” Jake said.

“Should I be concerned that your fever is making you delirious?” Bradley asked.

“Just ask my sister,” Jake mumbled, pressing his face harder against the tile.

Bradley pressed a new two Tylenols against Jake’s mouth, followed by the Gatorade again.

“Why are you doing this?” Jake asked, pushing Bradley’s hand with the Gatorade away once he’d swallowed the pills.

“Trying to get you to take Tylenol?” Bradley asked, capping the bottle and setting it aside. “You know you have a fever, right?”

Jake pressed the heel of a hand to one eye, scrunching the rest of his face. “No,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Bradley tapped his fingers against the side of the tub. “We were all worried about you, Seresin,” he said.

Bradley’s phone buzzed—Nat calling. He quickly thumbed the call open and hit speaker.

“Hey, Nat,” he said.

Jake’s mouth was slowly going slack as he rested his head against the wall, and Bradley eased back from the tub to lean against the cabinet beneath the sink. Maybe he was falling asleep.

“Bradshaw,” Nat said. “How is he?”

“He’s currently in the bath,” Bradley said. “I’m trying to get some Tylenol into him.”

There was a pause. “You need help?”

“No, I think I got it,” Bradley said. “You know anything about breaking a fever, though?”

Nat hummed. “A cool bath and Tylenol seems like a good plan,” she said. “Maybe some cold compresses when he’s back in bed?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Bradley said.

“I don’t know much else,” she said. “Is it a stomach bug?”

“Dunno,” Bradley said. “Maybe. He’s puking a lot.”

“Well, try not to get sick yourself,” she said. “Don’t forget we have that meeting with Cyclone tomorrow morning.”

Bradley groaned. “Shit, I forgot about that.”

“See you at nine,” she said. “Try to get some sleep.”

He tossed his phone aside and crossed his arms. Jake was most definitely asleep.

Bradley stood up and stepped towards the door. “Don’t drown, Seresin,” he said, and headed into the bedroom to strip the bed. He found spare sheets in a linen closet in the hallway and fought a new fitted sheet onto the bed. He was shaking out a top sheet over the mattress when there was a clatter in the bathroom.

He stumbled around the corner, sliding in socked feet on the bathroom tile to find Jake’s torso hanging out of the tub as he clutched the bathroom trash can. Bradley sat beside the tub again and helped Jake lean back into the tub once the nausea passed.

“Just leave me alone,” Jake groaned, and Bradley rolled his eyes.

“I think at this point, leaving you would be some form of reckless endangerment,” Bradley said. He reached behind Jake and pulled the drain on the tub to make room to run some fresh, cooler water in.

“You don’t need to do this,” Jake said, and Bradley sighed.

“I don’t mind,” Bradley said, and he dug a washcloth out from a basket next to the tub and tucked it between Jake’s head and the edge of the tub.

Jake’s head lolled towards him. “You have better things to be doing.”

Bradley sank back onto his heels. “I really don’t,” he said.

Once Jake’s fingertips were pruney and the water tepid again, Bradley reached for a towel and grappled Jake into a standing position. Wrestling a wet, grumpy, feverish Jake Seresin from a bathtub to a bed wasn’t something Bradley had ever figured he’d have the privilege of doing.

“Do you want to stay soaking wet?” Bradley asked. Jake was half-sitting against the edge of his bed, his head hung low.

“Hmm?”

“Your boxers,” Bradley said. “Do you want these dry pants?”

Jake lifted his head and tugged the pajama pants from Bradley’s hand. “I don’t need your help, Bradshaw.”

Bradley stepped back, hands raised. “Go for it, man.”

He only half-left the room, cringing as Jake nearly face-planted, ready to lunge to catch him. Once Jake was in the clean pants and back on the bed, he lifted his legs into bed and retrieved everything he could think of—the Gatorade, the saltines, the bathroom trash can once he’d cleaned it out. He tossed the ice pack in the freezer, and when he returned to the bedroom, he found Jake asleep.

He sighed and set everything down. He found another washcloth and ran it under cold water before folding it across Jake's forehead along with the half-cold ice pack. Jake shifted slightly and groaned.

"Bradshaw," he murmured, throwing one arm up to splay over his head. Bradley waited for the rest of the sentence, but Jake's jaw went sleep-slack and he said nothing more.

Bradley retreated to the living room couch. Taking out his phone to set his alarm, he shot off a text to Javy. I don't think Seresin likes being taken care of, he wrote.

Javy replied quickly, even though it was past two a.m. Bradley snorted at his reply.

Javy, 2:23 a.m: Are you surprised?

—

The sun through the window woke him just before his alarm, and Bradley tiptoed to Jake’s bedroom to peer at him from the doorway. He was still asleep.

Bradley had about an hour to get back to his own home, change, and get to the meeting, which would probably take an hour itself. If Jake stayed asleep, it’d be like he was never gone, but if he woke up, that was two hours in which Jake could do something stupid.

Bradley walked over and tried Jake’s forehead. It wasn’t as scaldingly hot as it had been last night—so while he might still be pukey and exhausted when he woke, maybe he’d be with it enough to not try walking around or showering or anything stupid alone.

He was the last one to get to the meeting room, and he took the seat closest to the door with a grim nod towards Nat and a quick ‘sir’ in Cyclone’s direction. Cyclone cleared his throat to start, and the door banged open.

Bradley’s stomach dropped. Jake was standing in the doorway, dressed—a little sloppily—in his uniform. In the fluorescent lights on base, he looked even worse than he had in his dim apartment. His skin had an odd, green tone to it, and he wavered in the doorway before taking a step and then two, weaving slightly until he reached the table Bradley was sitting at.

Bradley stood, but Jake just sank into the chair next to him and peered forward at Cyclone like it was just another day.

Cyclone nodded, his forehead creased, and launched straight into business.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Bradley muttered under his breath, leaning into Jake’s side.

“I’m fine,” Jake said, his voice hoarse, and Bradley rolled his eyes.

“Right.”

“Lieutenants,” Cyclone snapped, and Bradley sat back upright in his seat.

He kept his eyes on Jake as Cyclone continued the brief, until finally chairs scraped against the floor and they were dismissed.

“You need to go back to bed,” Bradley hissed as Jake slowly pushed himself out of his seat and semi-upright.

Nat came over, already making a face. “What the hell are you doing here, Bagman?” she said, elbowing him gently in the side. “We already told Cyclone you weren’t gonna make it here. You should be sleeping.”

Jake sneered. “I don’t call out sick,” he said, and he pushed past Bradley towards the door.

He disappeared into the hallway, and Bradley met Nat’s eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, shaking his head.

He followed her into the hall. “I hope he didn’t drive here,” Bradley said. “He—”

Jake was just outside the room still, one hand braced against the wall and the other pressed against his chest, his face twisted.

“Jake?” Bradley said. “You good, man?”

Jake nodded stiffly, but his face was strained, his skin nearly gray.

“I’m fine,” he said faintly, and he took the bracing hand off the wall as he turned to face them fully. “I’m…”

Bradley could see what was about to happen in the instant before it did. A strange flutter went through Jake’s eyes, and Bradley found himself lunging forward, arms out just as Jake’s knees folded and he crumpled towards the floor.

“Christ!” Bradley grunted, half-catching Jake, the other half of him hitting the floor. “Nat, can you—”

She helped him ease Jake to the ground, where Bradley kept one hand between his skull and the cement floor. Footsteps thumped against the floor as the others appeared in the doorway beside them, and Fanboy squeezed out from between the others to kneel between Bradley and Nat.

He pressed fingers against Jake’s throat, feeling for his pulse, and Bradley let out a tense breath. At least someone here actually knew some medical skills—Fanboy had been trained as an EMT before becoming a pilot.

And said EMT looked—worried.

“Call someone,” Bradley said, his own voice ringing in his ears. Nobody moved, and he swallowed. “Nat, call someone.”

She shifted back and pulled out her phone.

“He’s—his heart is—” Fanboy made a face.

Bradley’s own heart dropped in his chest, and he leaned closer.

“I think he’s in some kind of arrhythmia,” Fanboy said, and he glanced anxiously over at Nat. “I think we should take him to the medical center.”

Payback stumbled up to them, holding out a first aid kit and an AED. “Got ‘em from the office,” he panted.

Bradley felt like someone was puppeting him from outside his body as he helped Payback, Fanboy, and Fritz carry Jake towards the parking lot. Nat rushed alongside them, talking rapidly on the phone, telling whoever she’d called that they were bringing him to the Naval Medical Center with an EMT on board.

Bradley felt…useless. He was in the flat trunk of Fritz’s SUV with Jake’s head in his lap, his shaking hands in soft hair, as Fanboy did—did something. Did paramedic-y stuff.

“Should I have—” Bradley’s voice choked off in his throat, and he cleared his throat harshly. “I didn’t know he was—”

“Hey,” Nat said, twisting around in the backseat. “He’s okay. He’s going to be fine.”

He didn’t look fine. He looked—

They jerked to a stop outside the emergency entrance of the medical center and Bradley’s limbs were moving again, helping slide Jake out to the stretcher the hospital staff already had ready and waiting for him. Fanboy started explaining the situation, and Bradley stumbled after them as they rolled the stretcher towards the entrance.

“He’s got a stomach flu of some kind,” Fanboy was saying, and someone was cutting Jake’s shirt off and pressing ecg leads to his chest, and Bradley found himself talking.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” he said, his fingers curling over one of the bars of Jake’s stretcher as they rolled past the check-in area. “He can’t—he can’t keep anything down. I tried—I tried—”

His ears were ringing, and then the nurses and doctors were gone, pulling Jake past the point any of them could follow. The hospital was strangely—strangely dark, around the edges, in the corners of the hallway he was in, and it smelled like his mother, like those last few weeks, and—

“Bradley. Bradley. Bradshaw.”

Hands were pulling against him, but his heartbeat and his breath, too fast and too hard, were echoing in his ears, and he found himself sinking towards the floor until the cold linoleum was against his knees and palms.

“You need to breathe,” the voice said. “They’re going to admit you, too, if you don’t start breathing.”

He couldn’t.

—

When things were clear again, Bradley found himself staring at three faces—Nat, Payback, and Fanboy. They were all crouching in front of him: two wide-eyed, and one with a worried squint.

“Do you want to wait somewhere else?” Nat asked, her frown casting deep divots into her forehead. “I know you don’t…like hospitals.”

Bradley bent over his knees and pressed his forehead into his hands. “No,” he said. “No. I need to—I need to stay here.”

Nat shifted until she was sitting beside him against the wall, and she worked her arm around his back. “Mav’s on his way.”

“What?” Bradley said. “Mav?”

“You asked for him,” she said, and Bradley huffed. Of course he did.

“Coyote’s coming, too,” Fanboy added, and Bradley lifted his head.

“What about his grandfather?”

“Died this morning,” Nat said crisply, and Bradley winced.

“Fuck,” he said.

“He seemed fine,” Nat said. “Guess the guy was nearly a hundred.”

“Doesn’t make it…”

Nat hummed. “No.”

“They won’t have an update for a while,” Fanboy said. “They think it’s myocarditis.”

“What?” Bradley asked, his head throbbing. “What is that?”

Fanboy winced and met Nat’s eye for a moment. “It’s inflammation of the muscles in the heart,” Fanboy said. “Some viruses can cause it.”

Bradley’s stomach twisted. “I should have brought him here last night,” he said, and he could feel his throat seizing, and he fought against the sob in his chest. “Fuck.”

“Let’s go to the waiting area, okay?” Nat said. “Mav will be here soon.”

“Okay,” Bradley said, and let himself be dragged to his feet.

They only sat in the friends and family waiting room for a few minutes before the door swung open and Maverick appeared in the doorway.

His face softened when he spotted Bradley. “Kid,” he said, and Fanboy stood to let Maverick take his seat on Bradley’s left. Maverick came over and set a hand on Bradley’s knee.

“Any updates yet?” Maverick murmured, and Bradley shook his head.

“You all want to get some coffee?” Nat said, standing up. Fanboy nodded, and the others slowly got to their feet, filing out until it was just Bradley and Maverick.

“You okay?” Maverick asked. “Phoenix said you had a panic attack.”

Bradley slumped back in his seat. “I should’ve known he needed help,” he said.

“You’re not a medical professional,” Maverick said. “It was good of you to help him last night.”

Bradley squinted at him. “Phoenix told me, when she called,” Maverick said.

“I should have stayed with him this morning,” Bradley said. He bolted upright, a jolt of adrenaline drilling through him. “Fuck, if he hadn’t shown up at the meeting, he would’ve—I would’ve—”

Maverick slipped off the chair and knelt on the floor in front of Bradley. “Hey, breathe, kid. That didn’t happen. He’s with some of the best doctors in the country right now.”

Bradley followed the slow, deliberate rise and fall of Maverick’s chest and shoulders, breathing along until his head stopped spinning.

“I just keep thinking of…”

“This isn’t the same as that,” Maverick said gently.

“I left her,” Bradley choked, and Maverick squeezed his shoulders.

“You were there for her when it mattered,” Maverick said. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to see the very end.”

Bradley squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging heat against the back of his eyelids. At the end, when his mom wasn’t leaving the hospital and he and Maverick were living in that room with her, he’d stepped outside to go get something to drink. A drink. So fucking stupid. He’d been standing blearily in front of a vending machine when the alarms had blared and he’d seen nurses rushing towards her room. He’d stood in the doorway as they clustered around her bed, checking her over but not—not able to actually do anything. He’d watched from feet away as Maverick clutched her hand and held her as she left.

The waiting room door banged open, and Bradley flinched.

“Hey,” Javy panted, his eyes manic. “Is he—?”

“They haven’t given any updates,” Maverick said, rising.

“How’d you get here so fast?” Bradley asked, and Javy gesticulated vaguely.

“Sped,” Javy said finally. “So he’s—what’s he—?”

“Fanboy can explain it better than I can,” Bradley said. Javy came into the room, shutting the door behind him, and dropped into a chair.

“I should’ve known something was up,” Javy said. “But he—he ignores texts all the time.” Javy scoffed, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “He’s so annoying.”

“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” Bradley said, and Javy looked towards him and shrugged slightly.

“It’s alright,” he said. “He’s been on his way out for a while now. He was…content. Lived long enough to be cracking jokes on his deathbed. Everyone’s just eating lasagnas the neighbors brought and trying to decide if any of the songs he requested for his service are too risque to play at church.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t take better care of Jake,” Bradley said, and fuck, his chest was getting tight again. Maverick’s hand was back on his shoulder immediately, squeezing against the tendons there, and his lungs loosened.

The door creaked open and a doctor stepped in. Bradley nearly tipped over trying to get to his feet, leaning heavily on Maverick.

The doctor blinked and adjusted her grip on the clipboard she held. “Are you the ones who brought Jake Seresin in?” she asked.

“Yes,” Javy said. “Is he…?”

“He’s going to be alright,” she said, and Bradley’s knees wobbled. Maverick steered him straight back into the chair he’d just left.

“There’s some superficial cardiac damage, but it hasn’t progressed past the point of a full recovery,” the doctor continued. “You’ll be able to visit him in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” Javy said, and Bradley dropped his head against the wall, his eyes falling shut.

“Has his family been contacted?” the doctor continued.

“I’m his emergency contact,” Javy said. “But I called his sister, so she knows.”

“Let’s chat outside,” the doctor said, and Bradley heard the soft click of the door.

“He’s going to be fine, kid,” Maverick said, and Bradley nodded. “He’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t sure how much time passed in that waiting room. Everyone came back with small paper cups of coffee, and Javy came back with a bit more detail from the doctor. Some god awful HGTV show flickered on the TV in the corner of the room, and a few house renovations went by before the door was opening again and a nurse was in the doorway, telling them that two people could come and see Jake.

“C’mon, Bradshaw,” Javy said immediately, and Bradley trudged after him, his stomach twisting.

The nurse led them to the hospital room, but Bradley’s feet were like lead beneath him once the room was in sight. He could hear the faint beeping of a heart monitor, and the smell of bleach and hand sanitizer and hospital, he couldn’t—

Then, the croaking sound of Jake’s voice, and Bradley stumbled into the room, dragged forward like the very sound of it was a fishing hook in his chest.

Jake was tucked into the hospital bed, a cannula under his nose and an IV in his arm, but he was—he was awake. He was almost smiling, his eyes soft as Javy spoke to him, but still oddly gaunt, a little gray around the edges with no trace of his usual gold.

“What the fuck, man,” Bradley blurted, and Jake’s gaze shifted to the doorway. To Bradley.

Javy suppressed a smirk and sat back in his seat.

“You could have died,” Bradley said. “What the fuck.”

Jake’s brow furrowed. “I’m not dead.”

Bradley stepped forward. “You can’t—you can’t do that. You could have— Why didn’t you—”

“You want some ice, Jake?” Javy asked, standing. “I’ll get you some ice. Bradshaw, sit down.”

Bradley found himself obeying, slumping into the seat to Jake’s left. He stared at Jake, at the purplish skin beneath his eyes and the hollowness to his cheeks.

“What, were you worried about me?” Jake asked, smirking slightly. The snark was undercut by the crackly faintness to his voice.

“Yes,” Bradley snapped, and Jake blinked. “I was— we were all goddamn— why didn’t you tell us you were sick earlier?”

Jake took a deep breath. “I don’t like needing…”

“What, help? Worry? Care?”

Jake seemed to sink lower into the pillows, and Bradley’s pulse thumped.

“We care about you whether you like it or not, Seresin,” he said. “I—I care. You can’t just…”

“Die?” Jake asked.

“Exactly!”

Javy reappeared, setting down a cup of ice at Jake’s bedside. “The nurse said we should let you sleep more,” he said, and Jake huffed.

“We’ll just be in the waiting room,” Javy said. “So don’t do anything stupid, or I’ll sic Bradshaw on you.”

—

Bradley wasn’t sure if he slept for the next few days. He let Nat drag him home after visiting hours ended that first day—not that the nurses were letting them see Jake any more than they had anyway. And she’d made sure he was alright before she left, but then he was alone, in his house, in his bed, staring at his phone, double-checking that the volume was up and do not disturb was off so that he’d hear it if any updates came in.

He’d tried to report to work the morning after Jake collapsed. He’d been met with a frown and a quick shake of the head—Bradshaw, you’ve been given a week of leave. He’d just sighed and texted Maverick to ask him what the hell strings he’d pulled since he didn’t have Ice anymore.

Maverick had immediately called him.

“Didn’t have to pull many strings,” Maverick had said. “Word got back to Cyclone about what happened in the hospital.”

“What happened in the…”

“Your panic attack,” Maverick said, softer. “With the history with your mom, he agreed with me that you’d be better off to take some time.”

Bradley had gritted his teeth and tried not to throw his phone. “This isn’t the same was with mom,” he said. “Jake’s not my…Jake’s a—”

“I know, kid,” Maverick said. “But I know you, and I know you feel like you took responsibility for him. I know you think it’s your fault—and it’s not—but that isn’t a mentality to go hop in a jet with, true or not.”

Bradley hadn’t known what to say to that.

So now, he didn’t have anything to do but visit the hospital and sleep, but the former made his blood pressure rise and the latter he seemed to be mostly incapable of. It wasn’t until Wednesday that he was finally stirred from a light doze by the chime of a text.

Javy, 7:45 a.m.: Jake’s getting discharged today. I have to go home for the funeral

He didn’t say anything else. Bradley frowned. He knew that Jake’s sister had gotten to town Monday morning and left again last night, but he’d assumed that she would be back to help Jake after he was discharged. He’d only met her briefly, and she’d seemed frazzled, and had mentioned her kids, so maybe she wasn’t coming back.

He cracked his neck and hoped he didn’t sound stupid for asking—does he need a ride home?

His phone immediately buzzed with a call.

“Hey, Javy,” he answered, sitting up in bed.

“Hey, man,” Javy said. There was a faint sound of traffic in the background.

“Are you already driving home?” Bradley asked.

“Yeah, I’m on my way now—listen, can you bring Jake home and make sure he’s alright? I would stay and crash with him for a few days, but, well.”

Bradley paused. Was Javy suggesting that he crash at Jake’s? Or was he just saying that’s what he would do?

“I know it’s not my apartment to invite you into, but fuck knows Jake isn’t going to extend the invitation, and he needs someone there,” Javy said. “They cleared him for discharge, but he’s on a shitload of meds for the next couple weeks and he lost like ten pounds or something. Knowing him, if there’s nobody there to stop him, he’ll probably try to go for a run the minute he can walk five steps in a straight line.”

“And you think the solution is subjecting him to my tender care and home cooking?”

“You’re a…an alright cook,” Javy said, and Bradley snorted.

“Right. I’ll see what I can get him to cooperate with,” Bradley said.

“Keep me posted,” Javy said. “I should be on my way back by Friday night.”

Bradley got dressed quickly, sure that if the hospital staff would let him, Jake would be out the door and walking home alone if nobody was there soon to chaperone.

When he got to his hospital room, he found Jake siting on the edge of his hospital bed in sweats and a baggy t-shirt, arms crossed tight.

“Nice duds,” Bradley said. “Where’d you get those?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Hospital issue. Someone cut my uniform in half.”

“Heard you’re getting discharged,” Bradley said, and Jake gestured matter-of-factly at his shoe-clad feet.

Jake started to stand, and like she’d been waiting for the moment, a nurse appeared in the door with a wheelchair. Jake groaned, and Bradley directed his smile towards the floor.

“I can walk,” Jake said, and the nurse smiled politely and shifted so that she and the chair blocked the entire doorway.

Jake scowled in Bradley’s direction as he stood; the scowl deepening when Bradley stepped to him and hovered behind him as he took the two steps over to the chair and dropped into it.

The actual discharging took a few minutes as the nurse reviewed what medicines Jake would be taking when. Bradley, standing behind Jake’s chair, jotted it all down in his notes app.

“Can he eat after taking that one?” Bradley asked, and Jake tipped his head up to stare incredulously up at Bradley, who decided to pretend he did not see him.

“Yes, he should eat when he takes it,” the nurse said.

“‘He’ is right here,” Jake said.

“Can I push him?” Bradley asked, and the nurse nodded.

“This must be what it’s like to be a WSO,” Jake muttered as Bradley rolled him towards the elevator, the nurse walking along beside them.

“Hey,” Bradley said, pushing the button that would take them to the parking level. “How long before you’ll be able to fly again, do you know?”

Jake was quiet for a beat. “I don’t know,” he said. “Could be—could be never.”

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. The nurse stepped out and waited for them beyond the doors, smiling pleasantly.

“Hello?” Jake said. “I know you’re slow, but the doors are going to—”

“Sorry,” Bradley said, rolling forward. “But you—you can’t never fly again.”

“I could if I never pass a physical again,” Jake said.

Bradley stopped by his car and stepped around to the front of the chair. “How are you so calm about the idea of being grounded?” Bradley demanded, and the nurse cleared her throat. Bradley sighed and opened the passenger side door, offering his arm as Jake stood. The arm was ignored, and Bradley lowered it and shut the door behind him.

“Let us know if there are any changes or if the nausea and vomiting returns,” the nurse said chipperly, and she rolled the chair back towards the elevator.

Bradley climbed into the driver’s side and turned the engine over, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Jake reached out and turned up the radio. Bradley faced him, but Jake turned in his seat to stare out the window.

"Right," Bradley muttered, and pulled out of the parking spot.

When he got to Jake's, he hurried out of the car to get to the passenger side before Jake could try to climb down on his own. He gripped one of Jake's arms and held his other hand against Jake's back.

"If you wanted to get your hands on me," Jake said, "you could've just asked."

"Perfect," Bradley said. "I’ll ask, then: Can I just carry you inside?"

Jake sucked his teeth.

"I'll take that as a no?"

"You're not carrying me, Bradshaw."

"I did the other day," Bradley said stiffly, opening the back door of his car to grab his backpack.

“What?”

Bradley nudged the door shut and met Jake’s strained gaze.

“Why did you carry me?” Jake asked incredulously.

Bradley scoffed and gestured for Jake to start walking towards his apartment. “You passed out in the middle of the base,” he said.

Jake went quiet until Bradley got them inside and was ushering him to the couch to sit.

“You look better,” Bradley said, squinting down at him once he was sprawled on the couch.

“Not ‘good’? Just ‘better’?”

Bradley pointed towards the kitchen. “If you eat a solid food, I’ll bust out the big boy compliments.”

Bradley busied himself heating up soup in the kitchen, listening for any rustling from the other room. When he returned to the sofa with a bowl of soup on a tray, he found Jake dozing, his head tipped against the back of the couch, mouth hanging open.

He took the soup back to the kitchen and set it on the counter to wait for a conscious recipient, and started organizing the kitchen in the meantime. He’d need to shop again, now that Jake—according to his nurses—was keeping down a bit of food.

The next time he peered around the corner, Jake was awake, squinting at something out of sight. Bradley brought the soup over—it was still passably warm—and sat beside Jake on the couch.

“Why do you have a backpack?” Jake asked.

“Javy asked me to stay with you until he gets back,” Bradley said, and he held the soup bowl out.

Jake stared at it, then at him.

“I’m not some charity case, Bradshaw,” he said.

Bradley held out the spoon with his other hand. “Never said you were.”

Jake stared. "Why are you the one stuck taking care of me, anyway?"

"I drew the short straw the other day," Bradley said. Jake's face was blank, and Bradley set the spoon back in the soup and dug in his pocket for the stub of straw that was still tucked in his jeans pocket. He held it up. "See?"

Jake's eyes went wide and dropped to the floor, and his brow creased.

“Just eat the damn soup, Jake,” Bradley said.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” Jake snapped, glaring now. “I’m fine on my own.”

Bradley set the soup bowl back down and sighed.

“You’re not,” he said.

“Do you have some kind of complex about sick people?” Jake asked venomously. “What, couldn’t nurse your mother back to health so I’m some kind of second chance, third-rate substitute?”

Bradley froze. Jake stared back at him, his jaw tensing.

“Right,” Bradley said. “I’ll go. Sue me for caring about you. Won't do it again.”

He grabbed his jacket and his keys. God, it was so fucking stupid that his throat was tight; that his hands were shaking. He needed to text someone—Nat, maybe; she’d always had thicker skin and a slower temper; she could come here and keep Jake alive as he tried his damnedest to die. He yanked open the front door.

“Bradshaw,” Jake said softly, behind him, and Bradley paused, his hand still on the doorknob.

Stupider than being upset was the fact that he wanted to let Jake undo it. He wanted to stay, and know that he was sorry, that he was capable of being sorry.

“Bradley.”

Bradley turned slightly, just enough to look back over his shoulder. Jake was standing a few feet back, his fists clenched at his sides, his jaw set.

“Stay,” he said, his eyes downcast. Bradley stared. “Please. I’m sorry.”

Bradley shut the door.

Jake’s eyes lifted, and his jaw shifted slightly, setting tighter.

“I…don’t mind you being here,” he said stiffly.

“You don’t mind?”

“I want you to be here,” Jake said.

Bradley raised his eyebrows. “And bringing up another one of my dead parents was…?”

“Stupid.” Jake scowled. “Let’s blame it on the fever.”

“You don’t have a fever anymore,” Bradley said, crossing his arms. “When you had a fever, you talked about SAT scores and were marginally a better patient.”

“I’ll eat the soup,” Jake said. “Just stay, alright?”

Bradley let his feet take him back to the couch, even as his head still throbbed with annoyance. Throwing a dead parent in your face once was callous and cruel, but twice? Fucking seriously?

As if he could feel the anger radiating off of Bradley, Jake cleared his throat and lowered the bowl of soup to his lap, frowning into space.

“I got real sick when I was a kid,” Jake said, and he blinked back clarity again, meeting Bradley’s eyes. “I had leukemia.”

He shrugged. “My parents ended up getting a divorce,” he said. “Me being sick was—too much, I guess. If they were fighting, I’d stay in my room, even if I knew something was wrong. If they were getting along, I’d do the same, since talking about me being sick was usually what started the fights.”

“Jake…”

“It’s not an excuse,” Jake said firmly. “I just…figured you ought to know.” Jake smirked halfheartedly. “Since you’re stuck with me as a patient and all.”

“You know how close you were to dying?” Bradley asked, and Jake flinched. “They said if you’d gone a couple more days without being able to eat or drink, it wouldn’t have been a mild arrhythmia and syncope. It would’ve been heart failure. Javy would’ve come back from his grandfather’s funeral and come here looking for you and found you dead.”

“Bradshaw…”

“If you hadn’t decided to swan over to the meeting like you weren’t hacking up your insides, you would’ve passed out here,” Bradley said, waving a hand at the living room. “I don’t know if—you would’ve been alright, by the time I got back.”

“None of that happened,” Jake said.

“But it could’ve,” Bradley said. “And I would’ve— We all would’ve—”

He cleared his throat, shaking it off. “You have to ask for help when you need it,” Bradley said. “We’re not your parents. Nobody’s going to resent you if you ask someone to bring you Tylenol and ginger ale. Do you know how most of us got so close to each other?”

Jake stirred his soup, staring down at the slow spiral of the spoon.

“It’s because we lean on each other,” Bradley said. “We’ve all asked each other for help a thousand times, and plenty of times it was help with things a lot more annoying than a stomach flu. I helped Payback address three hundred wedding invitations by hand. I’d rather hand-feed you soup for a month than do that shit again.”

Bradley pressed his hands against his knees and took a breath. “I’m glad you told me what happened when you were a kid. It makes—shit, a lot of sense. But regardless of any complex you have about people taking care of you, you need to at least tell someone what’s happening if you’re sick, or in trouble. I’ll be so—so pissed if you let yourself die.”

“Can’t have that,” Jake murmured, scooping up a chunk of carrot and letting it fall back into the broth.

“Now would you eat your goddamn soup and stop playing with it?”

—

The couch was approximately fifteen feet from Jake’s bed. Bradley could almost—almost hear him breathing from this distance, but not quite. He stared at the dark ceiling, waiting to fall asleep. It was ridiculous—not being able to sleep while Jake was still in the hospital was one thing, but the man was so close now that Bradley could ball up a sock, throw it down the hall, and probably hit him. And he’d been fine all day. Quiet, but fine—no puke, no fever, just dozing off on the couch and putting up with Bradley trying and failing to answer every question on Jeopardy.

Bradley threw back the blanket over him and sat up, drumming his fingers on his knees. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous.

He grabbed the blanket and the pillow and padded down the hallway. Jake’s door was half-open, and he slipped through silently.

He could hear Jake's breathing here. He dropped the pillow at the foot of the bed and laid down, perpendicular to Jake, parallel with the foot of the bedframe.

It was better here.

He was sure that he was able to fall asleep in the new spot because he startled awake in the dim light of early dawn to a kick in the side.

“What are you doing, Bradshaw?” Jake whispered, like there was anyone else he could possibly wake up.

Bradley squinted up at him. “I was sleeping,” he said.

“On the floor?”

Bradley sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He’d really been asleep. Fully, genuinely asleep.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Bradley said.

Jake held out a hand. “And being on the floor seemed like it would help you?”

“It did,” Bradley grumbled, but he accepted the hand and let Jake pull him up. He glanced out the window. “What time is it?”

“It’s four,” Jake said. “I heard a weird noise and got up. Turns out it was just your loud-ass breathing.”

“Oh,” Bradley said. “I can—I can go back to the couch.”

He could just stay up—a few hours of sleep was better than he’d gotten in days, anyway.

Jake frowned at him for a moment. “You can stay here,” Jake said, and Bradley glanced down at his pillow on the floor. A little more sleep did sound nice.

“Not on the floor, moron,” Jake said, and he pointed at the bed. “I’m probably not contagious anymore, and if I was, you would’ve caught it by now.”

Bradley stared at Jake, and at the bed. It was a queen, one side rumpled from Jake’s sleep, the other untouched.

“I can do that,” Bradley said dumbly, and Jake huffed, climbing back into the bed and immediately curling onto his side. Bradley trailed after him to the other side of the bed, pulling down the sheets slowly. He stood there for a moment, the sheets in one hand. With the sheets lifted up, he could just see the edge of the soft slope of Jake’s back where he lay on the other side.

“Would you get in?” Jake said, half-muffled by the pillow he’d twisted his face into. “You’re letting all the air in.”

Bradley slipped under the sheet and laid there on his back, hands on his stomach.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he awoke to the stark light of late morning and opened his eyes to find that Jake had rolled in his sleep and was facing him, hands resting against the mattress between them, one pinky close enough that Bradley could feel the warmth of it on the skin of his nose.

Jake’s eyes blinked open.

“You’re still here,” Jake croaked.

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Bradley said, and Jake’s eyebrows lifted, pulling together in the middle.

“Thanks for being here, Bradshaw,” Jake said softly, his eyes flicking across Bradley’s face. "I know you didn't really want to get saddled with this."

"If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here," Bradley said. He swallowed, thinking of Jake's face when he'd seen the literal short straw that had prompted Bradley here. "Short straw or not."

Jake bit his lip. "I’m sorry I’m not…easier.”

“I like you fine the way you are,” Bradley admitted. “It’s kind of annoying how much, actually.”

Jake frowned slightly, his eyes drifting lower. “If I didn’t have a horrible virus, I might do something stupid right now,” he said, and Bradley’s heart thudded in his throat.

“You’re always doing something stupid,” Bradley said. “What's one more thing?”

Jake smiled slightly and shook his head minutely. “I’m actually a little hungry, you know,” he said, sounding a little surprised.

Bradley huffed a laugh and pushed himself upright, rolling out his shoulders. “I can work with that,” he said. “Don’t have a wide variety on offer, unfortunately.”

He left Jake in the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. He set some bread to toast and leaned against the counter, waiting for it to brown.

Jake padded into the kitchen as he was shaking out cinnamon and sugar onto the buttered toast.

“What is it?” Jake asked, coming close enough that Bradley could feel the fabric of his shirt against the back of his arm.

“Cinnamon toast,” he said, cutting the bread into sticks. “My mom always made it for me when I was sick.”

He turned with the plate in hand and offered it out to Jake, who took one of the narrow pieces and bit into it slowly. Jake leaned against the counter beside him as he ate, his shoulder brushing Bradley’s until the plate was empty and Bradley set it aside.

“Time for meds,” he said, and turned to go get the bag of drugs from the living room. Jake’s warm hand caught his wrist, and he paused, glancing back. “What?”

Jake’s other hand came up to his cheek as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of Bradley’s mouth, just where the soft skin of his cheek met the furthest edge of his mustache. Bradley held himself still even as he could feel his blood race in his veins; careful not to take more than Jake was ready to offer.

“Thanks, Bradshaw,” Jake said, his hand lingering at Bradley’s jaw. “Really.”

Bradley blinked and let his wrist slide through Jake’s hand until they were palm to palm.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and when he squeezed Jake’s hand, just to make sure he was there, Jake squeezed back.