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At half past ten, Bradley gets a phone call from Hangman.
The ringtone is foreign at first—some vintage country abomination that he set himself when he entered the rest of his contact information. Hangman's not one for phone calls just to chat. He's certainly not one for chatting with Bradley. His number is in Bradley's phone for work reasons, and to keep tabs on him when he tries to no-show on their squadron's nights out.
Why Hangman is so insistent upon Bradley showing up to their get-togethers, Bradley couldn't say, but it might have something to do with the rounds that they keep buying each other, the peacocking around the pool table, the quips that have started to veer closer to flirtatious than venomous, and the friendly press of their shoulders in greeting. He can't say he's complaining, but it's… it's an odd change of pace. A confusing one, too. Despite his better judgment, he's started to think of Hangman more as Seresin, and maybe in the privacy of his own head, Jake.
And so the call drops, and Bradley's phone sits silently on the coffee table like nothing's ever happened. Somewhere in his little spiral, around the time that he starts to think about Seresin's pretty pink lips and how his tongue darts out to wet them while he lines up a shot at the dartboard, it lights up again, undeniable. Bradley picks up on the second ring.
"Hangman? What do you need?" he asks, trying not to sound concerned or irritated—no need to make a hasty decision on which one he should be.
"Do you know how to drive in the snow?" comes Seresin's voice, a little broken up with the shoddy connection.
"What?"
"I asked you a question, Bradshaw," he grits out, and it's… oh, that's not a shoddy connection at all. His voice is shaking. "Do you—fuck—do you know how to drive in the snow?"
And that's… hmm. Well, this isn't Bradley's first time being stationed in New England, but it definitely is Seresin's. Seresin also drives an obnoxious little coupe with two-wheel drive that definitely does not handle well on slick roads. Bradley's stomach drops.
"I can manage alright, why?"
Jake lets out a defeated little sigh. "Got stuck just outside town. Can you—"
Oh, lord, of course. Immediately, Bradley's off the couch and tearing through the house, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. "Send me your location. I'll be there as soon as I can. You've got a blanket in your car, right?"
"Wh—No, I don't have a fucking blanket in my car. I don't sleep in there," he grouses, right at the moment that Bradley's phone pings with the cross-streets. He types them into Maps; seven minutes away, probably ten with the white-out conditions.
Bradley puts his phone on speaker and sets it on the dash while he shuts his door and backs out of the driveway. "Nobody told you to put any winter stuff in your trunk?"
Another one of those little huffs, as cute as it is worrying. "No."
It takes him nine minutes to reach Hangman, huddled up inside of his vehicle in an excess of winter gear. He looks every inch of the displaced Texan that everyone knows that he is, and as the cherry on top, he jumps when Bradley knocks on the window.
"You know there's a blizzard warning, right? No travel advised?" Bradley calls into his car, and Hangman cracks open the door to reply. A whole new set of shivers wracks his body when the wind hits him.
"Fuck off. I'm freezing," he grumbles.
Because he's so nice, Bradley opens the door the rest of the way and ushers Hangman to his own car, corralling him into the passenger side with a mumbled "c'mon, then."
The heated seats in his much newer Jeep suddenly seem completely worth it when Jake sinks into them with a huff. For a brief moment, he almost, almost doesn't miss the nicer days when he could take the Bronco out without the undercarriage getting rusted to shit by the road salt. These days, she's mostly garage-kept. The admittedly adorable view of Jake in his car snuffs out the passing thought.
"If you ask me nicely, I might even take you home," Bradley teases, sliding behind the wheel and shutting his own door as fast as he can. No need to make Jake any colder. As an afterthought, he pulls the spare camping blanket out of the backseat and tosses it over.
"Bradshaw," Jake warns, but the grouchiness on his face is offset by his blanket cocoon.
Bradley quirks an eyebrow at him.
"Bradley," Jake huffs and swallows his pride. "Please take me home."
A slow smile spreads across Bradley's face; he quite likes the shape of his name in Jake's mouth. Something new crackles and burns in the air between them like a fire on a hearth. There's an opportunity in it that he couldn't pass by if he tried, warmth blooming in his own chest. "Mine or yours?"
Jake's not really in a joking mood, if his defeated sigh is anything to go by. He's got his hat pulled low to cover his ears and a scarf pulled up over his nose. The ask is a gamble. But, like always, he's full of surprises. His head lolls back on the seat to look over at Bradley, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes are on full display, even if his smile is hidden.
"Whichever's closer. I'm fucking cold." As an afterthought, "Yours."
Jake picks the music; he settles on something soft and jazzy. Bradley offers his hand to warm Jake's own while he navigates through the snow-covered roads, half-blinded by it as more falls. Jake frees his arm just to take it.
Bradley gets a gentle kiss to his knuckles, sat in the driveway of his own house, for his troubles.