#blah blah blah Bradley hugs Jake the end

[overwhelmed-alien]

“Overwhelmed”

Inspired by a random tiktok I saw today at work (I was working really hard, promise!). Yet another take on the recurring theme in the TG:M fandom of Jake having crap parents. Also just a shameless, self-indulgent “hurt Jake a bit so Bradley can hug the shit out of him” guilty pleasure. Because Rooster looks like his hugs could end wars and bring world peace.

TW: an ED is eluded to but not really expounded on. Vague mentions of dissociative behavior. And Jake’s crap parents, and the consequences thereof. But in the end Rooster makes up for all the bad.

You don’t grow up the way Jake Seresin did and still have the ability to react to situations normally.

His parents weren’t violent. They weren’t physical. He didn’t get beaten or neglected. This was how he justified his childhood. At least they didn’t hit me, right? It’s fine.

The frantic drive for perfection stemmed from something different. Something more subtle than a smack to the face. His mother’s offhand, biting comments about his weight. His appearance. His father’s deep sighs when he brought home an A-. When he didn’t score the winning touchdown. When he was accidentally outted. Little niggling things that, through the years, piled up like bits of rubble and built a wall around his heart, but unfortunately left his nerves frayed and exposed and vulnerable.

“You’re getting those pudgy love handles again, Jacob, maybe you should lay off the carbs. You’re so much more handsome when you’re thinner.” He’d ended up in the ER after fainting at school, the third day he’d eaten nothing.

“How do you expect to get into an Ivy League with grades this disgraceful, son?” He didn’t think a 94 was disgraceful. It was the highest score in his calculus class. He’d ended up in the ER after fainting at football practice, the third day he’d stayed up all night studying instead of sleeping.

“This room is a pigsty, Jake. You’re going to have to get rid of some of this crap.” The shelf of trophies. The little stuffed Bear his grandmama gave him. The poster of some obscure Dallas player. He’d learned that material objects held no value, even if he cherished them. A barren room couldn’t be cluttered and unsightly, and perhaps in an empty room there would be a little space for affection some day.

He’d learned that to be the best of the best meant sacrifice. It meant there was no room for hugs. No room for cheat meals. No room for fun or for love. That greatness was always just there, an unreachable, unattainable goal for everyone else, yet always expected of him. That love was very much conditional, only given when he did his part, and never received because he never could quite meet the goals placed before him.

Failures like him didn’t deserve love or kindness or compassion.

So when Bradley - sweet, endearing Bradley, who’d been raised by a mom so loving she practically glowed - began to shower him with warmth and affection that hadn’t been earned, he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what to do.

At first he balked. He dug his heels in and fought meanly. The resolute confusion he felt under that warm honey gaze made him upset and uncomfortable. It angered him.

It angered him when Bradshaw bought him the little stuffed rooster “because this place needs some kind of personal touch, Seresin, damn.” But “things” were bad. Things sitting around meant clutter, and clutter meant he didn’t deserve love.

It angered him when Bradley started bringing him doughnuts or chocolate with his coffee every morning “because you need a little sweetening up, sourpuss.” Sugar meant more time spent at the gym. Another night with no dinner, because the more weight he gained, the more value he lost.

It used to anger him when Bradley would wrap his whole body around him like a clinging, weighted blanket when he’s shaking to pieces with anxiety, when his mind is telling him he sucks, he’s unlovable, he’s a piece of shit nothing who would never amount to anything.

He used to hate that. Until…

Bradley is at war with Jake’s beautiful, self-depreciating, self-destructive brain. He hates the taunting voices that he knows sound like Mr. and Mrs. Seresin echoing constantly in that pretty head of his, telling him he’s not good enough.

Jake has always had walls. He’s always seemed spiky and snappy and unapproachable, even the moments he’s writhing in pleasure underneath him, he’s something far away, incorporeal, like a mirage in a desert.

It starts to make sense when Bradley meets Jake’s parents at a banquet. The awful, hurtful, stinging things rolled off their tongues as easily as they roll off Hangman’s. There was a difference, though. Every biting comment Hangman uttered in the air and on the ground was a push to do better. A round-about, waspish way of saying “hey, I know you’re better than this, push yourself harder and do what needs to be done”. Bradley saw his cocky aggression for what it was: a plea. Do better so you don’t die.

The words he heard Jake’s parents say clearly said something different. They said - politely, with no regard or hesitation or aggression - we know you can’t do any better, son. Because you don’t have it in you. Because you just aren’t good enough.

And when Jake -because he was Jake then, not Hangman - beautiful, larger than life Jake Seresin curled in on himself, eyes unfocused, hands trembling, arms hugging his own sides in his sharp dress whites, simply nodded in silence, Bradley saw red.

This was Jake. This was THE Hangman, one of the youngest Top Gun graduates ever, the top one percent, one of the best aviators the Navy had to offer, untouchable, heroic Jake. Jake, who’d just gotten an award, the same as him, and while Mav and Ice had gushed and beamed over him, over their entire squad, Jake’s parents simply dismissed him. That was the moment Bradley was called to a new mission, the most important one he’s ever done: to smother Jake with as much love and affection as he could muster.

A car door slammed outside, harder than usual, jolting Bradley out of his reverie.

It had been three years since that award ceremony following the Mission. Two since he presented a ring got a teary “yes” in response. One since the happiest day of his life, when Jake Seresin became Jake Bradshaw. In those three years there were dozens of therapy visits and arguments and make-ups, and an all-encompassing collection of the sweetest, most joyful moments in Bradley’s life. The highs were so high, the lows were still low, but they were manageable now. Jake still shook to pieces sometimes when Bradley lost his temper, raised his voice. But now he saw it for what it was - an argument, all couples argue occasionally. He knew now that it wasn’t Bradley hating him, or leaving him, or withholding affection because he didn’t deserve it. Bradley was trying, too. He was going to therapy, too. The arguments were few and far between these days, and these days Bradley was pleased he saw glimpses of a fierce, self-assured Hangman in them, especially when he knew he was right and Bradley was wrong (which was often enough, Bradley could admit). Their home was pleasantly lived-in and cheerful, not the sterile wasteland Jake’s house used to be. It still held warm touches from his mom and dad when they’d lived here decades ago. Little knickknacks Jake first tolerated, now cherished. The little stuffed rooster bought when they weren’t even dating yet had a permanent home on their couch in the living room, just because. They had tried, hard, and they had finally succeeded.

Bradley knew his husband was having a hard time with this new class. Hell, they all were, but Jake took it to heart. On his way out he’d caught a glimpse of Jake tearing down the hallway to Cyclone’s office, blond hair in disarray. He’d had a flustered, frustrated look about him that Bradley was seeing more and more lately. He was going to have a chat with Beau next week. This batch of kids were giving Jake hell. He gave as good as he got in front of them, he WAS Hangman after all, but behind closed doors that far-away look was beginning to come back. Bradley didn’t remember ever being that young and dumb and cocky, although when he brought that up to Mav the old man had laughed his ass off. But beyond that, he was sure jealousy was making them meaner. Hangman was more of a peer than an instructor, at least in age, and he was still simply the best. Bradley would be damned if he lets a bunch of snotty baby pilots undo all the hard work they’d done.

He had come home early - Jake stuck in meetings the rest of the evening and then running a few errands after - and had started a simple chicken and rice and veggie dinner he knew Jake would eat this late without balking too much. He still didn’t eat enough to satisfy Bradley. One of his love-languages was food, second only to touch. But they were working on that, too, and making great strides. God, he was so proud of him. Of them.

He heard a muffled thunk on the deck beyond the kitchen door. A curse. Another. “Bradley!”

He reached over and turned the stove off, moved the pot to a cool burner. “Roo! Shit, B please!” Bradley opened the door immediately and stepped out onto the deck.

One might think that affection could potentially be a finite thing. That once it hits the precipice it might just begin to dwindle, to fizzle out into nothing. Maybe into resentment or indifference. But every single time Bradley Bradshaw laid eyes on this amazing, beautiful man, he could feel love and affection bubbling forth from what was certainly a bottomless well deep inside him. One day he was going to simply burst from it, and he was okay with that.

“Oh, honey,” Bradley cooed gently. Jake was on scuffed knees on the top step, open briefcase dumped out onto the deck, the broken latch lying uselessly beside it. The uniform he’d picked up from the cleaners was on the ground in a rumpled heap. He was a shivery mess, hands almost vibrating as he tried to collect the flurry of paper scattering in the warm ocean breeze.

He looked up at Bradley with sad, defeated eyes that threatened to spill over. His voice, as strong as ever these days, warbled a bit. “I’ve had a really shitty day.”

“Come’ere sweetheart,” Bradley reached down and hauled him into his arms. Arms that wrapped fully, bodily around Jake and squeezed just the right side of too tight, the mess on the deck forgotten for a time. Bradley’s warm hand guided Jake’s pinched face to hide in the crook of his neck and then stayed tangled in his hair, hips starting a gentle sway that Jake naturally fell into. The sigh that followed came from Jake’s toes, deep and rattling. And then he melted against him. Into him. He simply held his precious boy for a while, guiding him in a sweet almost-dance on the deck in the quiet twilight of their back yard. “I’ll get this stuff, baby,” he murmured into Jake’s ear after a while, kissed it. Jake melted even further. “Why don’t you go grab a quick shower, huh? Then we’ll curl up on the couch and watch that crazy show you like so much.” He felt the beginnings of a grin against his neck, one of the cute ones that crinkled his cheeks. “I made some chicken and rice, I’ll fix us a bowl and get the tv ready. What season are we on, hmm? Forty two?”

That did get a chuckle out of Jake. He sighed again, this one more of a gentle release, and pulled away from the safe haven of his Roo’s neck, swiping at his eyes. He made no move to back out of the arms still caging him in, still holding him together after he almost fell apart. Like always. “Season twelve. Housewives of Beverly Hills isn’t that crazy. They make me feel normal.”

“You are normal, honey.” Bradley smiled down at him and dropped a quick peck to Jake’s pout, running fingers through the tousled, gorgeous blond hair. “You’re the most normal housewife on the block, I guarantee it.”

A strangled guffaw burst out of Jake’s mouth and he began to laugh in earnest. Bradley followed, dropping a few more quick kisses to his husband’s face, making sure his mustache tickled.

Jake no longer had that haunted, spaced out look in his eyes. No longer quivered with anxiety and frustration. “Just for that I’m stealing your hoodie again.”

“Baby, I’d be worried if you didn’t. Now scoot,” he said with a quick swat to Jake’s backside. Jake grinned and swatted him back, but did as he was told, easing the sliding door back to go inside.

“Hey, J?” He called after him, and waited until Jake turned back to him. “I love you, sweetheart.”

Jake’s smile reached his eyes. “I love you, too, B.”

…Until. Until a honey warm, raspy voice finally overwhelmed and drowned out the cold, biting ones in his head with so much love he thought he might burst from it. Until he finally started believing he deserved it.