Chapter Text
Bradley Bradshaw returns to consciousness with a gasp, hand going to his side, where a searing pain makes itself known.
"-ster, hey," Jake snaps, holds his face in both hands and forces him to look his way, "breathe."
Bradley does as he's told, as painful as it is, and his vision clears somewhat. Jake's crouched beside him, concern etched on his face, and what happened comes back to him in flashes.
The mission going sideways at every possible turn, seeing Jake's plane get shot down in the sky, the less than smooth emergency landing in the woods that followed.
"You okay?"
Jake stares at him like he's grown two heads. "I'm not the one who was out cold for over ten minutes."
Bradley winces. "That's not ideal."
"No," Jake looks, and sounds, pissed as he says it, "no it's not. You feeling dizzy? Nauseous?"
He shakes his head, then regrets it when his vision swims.
Jake, the bastard, clocks it immediately and rolls his eyes. Doesn't comment on it though.
"I don't have a concussion," he tells him stubbornly.
"Sure you don't." He stands up, turns around as if he can't look at him for one more second, and Bradley does not stare at the way his flight suit stretches across his shoulders, and he definitely does not stare at his ass.
He closes his eyes. Maybe he does have a concussion after all.
.
Bradley stumbles after Jake, who seems to have chosen to ignore him once he was sure he wasn't going to keel over.
He's so busy staring daggers at his back that he doesn't really pay attention to where he's walking, and ends up falling face first into a pile of leaves. He groans miserably, pushes off the ground in an attempt to sit up, then thinks better of it and collapses back onto his back, staring at the sky, wondering what would happen if he lay there and just- didn't move.
Bradley closes his eyes against a bout of vertigo, trying to keep the dizziness at bay, but nothing helps.
Certainly not his teammates, who stares down at him with a raised eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something, but Bradley beats him to it. "If you say anything," he threatens, "I will throw up on you."
Jake lifts his hands up, in mocking surrender, then offers him a hand to help him up. Bradley considers swatting the hand away, but ultimately decides he can't afford to, not sure if he can actually move without any help. He winces, hand going to his temple as the sudden change in position makes his head pound harder. "You good?"
He squints one eye open. "I am good, Hangman," he says sarcastically, "in fact, I am too good to be true."
Jake's only response is a roll of his eyes.
.
Bradley's ashamed to say it takes him more than two hours to notice the blood on Jake’s shirt, or the way he's favoring his left side. And he’s equally pissed off at Jake for hiding it.
"Sit down."
"Hell no," Jake hisses, "we're sitting ducks out here, Rooster."
"You're hurt," he insists.
"So are you," Jake counters, eyes blazing. "Now, let's go."
"At least let me look at it."
"No."
"Jake," he says softly, desperately, "please."
It stops him dead in his tracks, and when he turns to look at him, Bradley can see the desperation on every inch of his face. "There's nothing you can do, Roo. I'm fine-"
"-like hell you are-"
"-and we need to get you out of here."
Get you out.
Bradley's heart drops downright to his toes, freezes as he looks at him with wide, terrified eyes. "You son of a-"
The sound of gunshots cuts him off.
Jake's hand comes down onto his shoulder, hard, and he pushes him to run, covering his back. Bradley tries to switch their positions, but Jake pushes him forcefully, as if he can read his thoughts.
"Jake-"
"Left, left, go left!" He screams at him, and Bradley listens automatically, ducking to the left. It takes him ten seconds to realize Jake's not behind him.
He looks back, just in time to see him running in the other direction. He curses, preparing to go after him when he sees three armed men headed in the same direction Jake went. He realizes then that Jake had planned this, and is more pissed off at him than he knows how to deal with.
He's also absolutely terrified.
He takes his gun out of its holster, hands steady despite the pain in his side, and goes after Jake.
He's barely taken a step when one single gunshot pierces through the silence.
Jake.
He's uncomfortably numb, unable to think, unable to move, for a moment. The first thing he feels, once the numbness fades, is heartbreak.
The second is regret.
The third is anger.
His grip tightens on his gun.
Dead or alive, he's gonna bring Jake Seresin home. He won't leave him.
Not ever again.