brianbradley

[brianbradley]

There's a flash of familiar annoyance on Bradley's face at Hyde's, "You might want to take this more seriously." A familiar annoyance that Bradley's shown Hyde so many times before but now feels — no longer right. They're no longer friends. They're no longer on the force. (They're no longer more than friends, if they ever even were more than friends.) They're nothing more than acquaintances, now, with a history of backstabbing and betrayal that hadn't necessarily been backstabbing and betrayal but had hurt Hyde no differently than if it had been. It isn't right of Bradley, then, to be annoyed by and angry with Hyde. And it isn't right of Bradley to be annoyed by and angry with Hyde regardless of the situation when Hyde is in the right. It isn't a road trip — Hyde is on the run with Bradley, now, from Nile. Hyde had become a willing participant in the cat and mouse search, but Bradley hadn't necessarily dissuaded Hyde from becoming involved, nor had Bradley's note persuaded Hyde into leaving Nile, into leaving him, behind. No, Bradley had betrayed himself and his note left at Hotel Dusk and had all but persuaded Hyde into tracing Nile, into tracing him, back to Spearfish, South Dakota. "Thanks for reminding me," is Bradley's response, however, even-tempered but with an edge that Hyde will notice. Bradley knows Hyde will notice, and Bradley's annoyed by that, too, by how attuned to him and his emotions Hyde is, even now. Even now, with Hyde holding the Red Crown coat to Bradley and helping Bradley into it before smoothing and squeezing Bradley's now-coated shoulder. And even now, Bradley's heart hurts at the familiarity of that, too, the silent apology and the silent forgiveness etched in Hyde's hands and in Bradley's eyes, in Bradley's small, "Thanks," and in Bradley's moving of the Red Crown coat in closer to breathe in the still lingering scent of Hyde. And then, the moment of familiarity fades. Hyde walks by the bathroom, "You sure you want to keep these? Maybe you should just toss them" about the clothes Bradley'd been wearing before, a black shirt and blue jeans, and Bradley hums a noncommittal hum. "Throwing 'em away here would be for the best. Don't think the blood'll ever come out." Should the clothes be disposed of here in the hotel, Nile likely wouldn't be able to locate them. Not that Bradley's discarded clothes would be much of a lead, if a lead at all, but the thought of discarding the clothes in a hotel with confidentiality alleviates Bradley's ridiculous and irrational concern. Bradley walks to the bathroom and sets a hand against Hyde's shoulder. "But, hey, let me brush my teeth first before we leave, unless you want to smell my morning breath the entire ride." Teeth brushed, bathroom used, and face and hands washed, Bradley and Hyde exit the room and leave the hotel behind, with Bradley bidding a farewell to the girl — somewhere, Bradley thinks, between fifteen and seventeen — from the night before and whispering to Hyde with a bump to the shoulder, "Wasn't that the girl from the night before? Isn't that, like, child labor or something?" The girl had grunted and said, "I'm eighteen," and Bradley's sure she'd rolled her eyes as the door shut behind him. And with Hyde in the driver's seat and Bradley in the passenger's, Hyde's car is pulling out of the hotel parking lot. "If you're really going to make me take pain pills," Bradley says, buckling the seatbelt. "Wait until we're out of town to pick some up. Preferably out of state. I'm not in that much pain. I can sleep." He turns toward and smiles wryly but almost tenderly at Hyde. "And you don't have to tell me twice — I'll be a passenger princess and sleep. But I am driving at some point." And then plays with the radio, turning knobs and dials. "And play something on the radio, so you don't sit there in silence and listen to me sleep."

Of course I remembered.

It's the first thought that comes to mind, but Kyle doesn't voice it. Because it's not that obvious at all. His memory was always bad. There is a reason he carries a notebook anywhere he goes after all, but when it came to Bradley, Kyle never had any trouble recalling his coffee order, or the way he liked his food cooked. Kyle likes to pretend it's because Bradley specifically likes things in a way Kyle doesn't. And Kyle still bristles at the way Bradley drinks his coffee.

That's not coffee, that's coffee-flavored milk with sugar.

It's a debate they've had for as long as they've known eachother and Kyle still isn't convinced Bradley isn't doing all of this on purpose. Kyle would order his fries with mayo, Bradley wanted ketchup. Kyle drinks whiskey neat, Bradley would order a frilly drink just to piss him off. And of course the tiny umbrella from Bradley's drink always ended up in Kyle's glass somehow, because Bradley loved to mess with him and wouldn't ever led him brood in peace.

— I'm not brooding.

— Tell that to your face, pal.

Same old same old.

Kyle joins Bradley on the bed and together they make short work of the breakfast. Kyle wrinkles his nose at the sugary concoction he had to order for Bradley, but the smile on his partner's face does pacify him. Still, he can't let him get away with it. "Always with the excuses." Kyle retorts before turning back to his own food. "Just drink your milk." He says with a shake of his head, smiling into his own black coffee.

Reality comes knocking in the shape of the news. A murder investigation pulls them back to it. Nothing about it suggests Nile specifically, but he can practically feel the tension that's crept into Bradley from where he is sitting. Kyle glances at Bradley a few times throughout their shared meal, brows drawing together in worry when he keeps wincing and shifting in pain.

You don't need sugar and calcium, you need painkillers and preferably another 20 hours of sleep. He thinks, but then watches as Bradley stands with some difficulty.

We're headed to California?

Kyle nods. "Yeah, unless you have a better idea." But it's the only place they can go really. The only place Kyle can provide Bradley the quiet and safety he needs right now, or so he hopes. It's true that Nile has been making themselves scarce for about a year now, but Kyle just pulled a person of interest from their cluches, he doubts they'll let this one slide just like that. With some luck they may even be able to find some help in Ed. But after this stunt Kyle pulled with abandoning the assigned job and now days of radio silence he doubts it will be easy to get him on their side.

He really needs to call Rachel and Ed, but for now Bradley is still his highest priority.

Bradley, who seems to be a little to happy, too excited to come back with him to Los Angeles. It makes his gutt twist in a way that makes him wary. Despite the previous night he'll make sure to keep an eye on Bradley in case he plans on doing something stupid, like giving him the slip again.

But he keeps his suspicions to himself. "You might want to take this more seriously. It's not exactly just some roadtrip." They're on the run after all. But admittedly, in all ways except the reason for driving to L. A. it may as well be a roadtrip. "It'll take us about three days worth of driving and no, I'm not letting you drive while high on the painmeds I intent to get you."

Maybe Bradley will manage to sleep some more in the car, too. Not the most comfortable of places for it, but better than nothing.

Kyle gets to his feet now and finally collects his notebook off the beside table. He shoves it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. When he looks back up it seems his words have struck a chord, because the previous smile on Bradley's face has faded, the light in his eyes once again dimmed with something Kyle suspects to be guilt or something similar.

Kyle realizes he must have come across harsher than intended. It's still true, but maybe he shouldn't have said it, and instead let Bradley have a modicum of normalcy for now.

He takes a few steps towards Bradley, pulling the Red Crown jacket from the back of one of the chairs. He holds it up to help Bradley into it, a peace offering. An excuse to touch him. He smoothes the jacket out across Bradley's shoulders when he slips into it and then gives his one of them a light squeeze, because he doesn't know how to diffuse this odd tension otherwise.

Then, he lets up and collects the rest of his things. When he passes the bathroom he sees Bradley's clothes still hanging in there. "You sure you want to keep these? Maybe you should just toss them."

[brianbradley]

Vibrator, Ryuichi Hiroki (2003)

[brianbradley]

There’s a sigh of relief from Bradley as Hyde says that breakfast had been ordered. (If only breakfast had arrived before Bradley was awake, but Bradley had waited for three days — what’s thirty more minutes?) “Hey, thanks,” Bradley says, accepting Hyde’s offering of a shirt and a pair of pants. The shirt and the pair of pants that Bradley had been wearing are likely still wet and, well, unwearable, having been hung to dry in the bathroom and not the balcony. “I’m not sure if my handwashing from last night worked …” He smiles slightly, somewhat pathetically, before standing. And holy shit is standing painful. He breathes in sharply at the bone deep aches and pains of a bruised ankle, a strained back, and a sprained shoulder. “... Shit, it sucks getting older.” As if it’s Bradley’s age that’s to blame for the pain, not Nile’s days long torture, not the nonstop deprivation of the senses and bone chilling cold.

“I slept well, though,” Bradley says, with a surely pathetic smile, now, and pulls on the shirt and the pair of pants. “Better than I have in a while.” With the situation Bradley was in not even eleven hours before, it isn’t suspicious to say. Sleeping in a dumpster would’ve been better than sleeping in a warehouse with Nile an ever impending presence and doom. But having Hyde in bed with him, sharing body heat, was unbelievably and embarrassingly the best he’s had in half a decade — the best sleep he’s had in half a decade, the best night he’s had in half a decade. And how pathetic is that?

Clothed, now, Bradley sits back down, cringing as he does so, onto the bed and beneath the covers. “Tired of the cold, though, I thought I wouldn’t be bothered by it, but the cold’s a fuckin’ nightmare here.” They’ll be driving down to California, Bradley thinks. Down to Los Angeles, California, down to Hyde’s hometown. (Hyde wasn’t much of a New Yorker, Bradley’s thought that for years.) And the thought of it is bizarrely — touching, as though they’re driving down to Los Angeles, California, for a tour of Hyde’s hometown and not to hide from Nile. But Nile’s in California, too. Nile’s in New York. Nile’s in Washington state, Washington D.C. Nile’s in South Dakota. Where the hell isn’t Nile?

They arrive in California, then what? But breakfast is on the table, and then breakfast is in bed, and Bradley’s smiling down at the eggs benedict and the breakfast potatoes on the plate, at the cup of coffee with cream and sugar and the paper carton of orange juice, that Hyde’d ordered a dozen times half a decade back and before then. “You remembered, huh?” Bradley smiles, sipping coffee. Hyde hadn’t missed a beat. “Even down to the coffee. Thanks for ordering it, even though I know you still hate it like this.” Setting the cup of coffee onto the nightstand, he shrugs and, cutting into the eggs benedict and still smiling, says, “But, hey, I need the sugar and the calcium — now more than ever.”

And breakfast is mostly silent, although Bradley turns on the television for the morning news, mouth twisting at the mention of a murder in Sioux Falls, as if Nile would be featured in the headlines. But Nile’s lying low. South Dakota isn’t their territory. New York is Nile’s territory, and so is —

“... We’re headed to California?” Bradley’s standing, wincing, to set what’s left of breakfast — not much — onto the table. “It’ll be a long drive.” Bradley would know, having driven from New York to Tennessee, from Tennessee to Kansas, from Kansas to California, and then from California to Washington, to Wyoming, to South Dakota in rental cars. (He’d had to ditch his car, a Chevrolet Chevelle Laguna, in California, thirty minutes from Los Angeles at an airport, so long ago.)

“But it’ll be nice to finally see what California’s all about.” To finally see the hometown that Hyde’d moved away from at ten years old but held dearly enough to return to almost thirty years later. To finally see the memories of Hyde’s childhood, before he was Detective Hyde, before he worked Red Crown. “Didn’t really have the chance to be a tourist the last time I was there, you know.”

It’ll be nice to finally see Kyle again.

When Kyle wakes he does so to the gentle rhythm of a heartbeat beneath his ear and the slow rise and fall of Bradley's chest. It takes him a while to fully realize where he is and who is with, but only in terms of conscious thought. It seems his subconscious is very aware that he's with Bradley. He has his scent in his nose, the solid line of his body pressed against his and the small almost inaudible sound of relaxed breathing just above him.

Bradley's arms are wrapped around him, one of Kyle's arms slung over Bradley's middle, the other wedged between them. He feels warm and comfortable in a way he hasn't in years and it's unsettling how familiar this feels, even though he cannot recall a time where they'd been tangled like this.

Full consciousness comes to him all at once when Bradley moves beneath him, not so much to suggest that he is waking up, but enough that Kyle can feel his leg shifting between his own. He also feels his hand winding into his hair and his hold tightening somewhat on his form as if Kyle's nothing more than an overgrown stuffed toy to snuggle up to.

It would be endearing, if Kyle didn't feel the entirely inappropriate sparks of sensation travelling up and down his spine at Bradley's unconscious touch. He swallows thickly, angling his body away as best he can to not have this day start with more awkwardness than necessary. A part of him wants to just stay where he is, warm and comfortable and held in a way he hasn't been in well over a decade. His last relationship is well in the past at this point.

Kyle squeezes his eyes shut and bites down on the inside of his cheek when thinking of Bradley and a relationship within the same moment makes his gutt tighten and his heart flutter. That feeling is quickly replaced by a sense of guilt at taking advantage of his sleeping friend to combat his own touch starvation. He can't look too closely into this. Can't allow himself to even consider what this means.

It means nothing. He reminds himself. It's winter. Bradley was shivering like a leaf and Kyle isn't willing to blame their current situation on anything other than them migrating together to combat the cold.

But to avoid having to explain any of this to Bradley or himself, Kyle carefully extracts himself from Bradley's hold, making sure not to pause and marvel at the peaceful expression on his face.

Kyle manages to get out of the bed and to his feet without disturbing Bradley overly much. In fact, after the other man turns over after Kyle got up he doesn't make any indication at waking anytime soon. And this time Kyle does look at his face, chuckling quietly at the small furrow between his brows. His lips arepursed in a slight pout, too after being robbed of his source of warmth and Kyle almost feels bad for it, although it really couldn't be helped.

Kyle tucks the previously disturbed blanket closer around Bradley's form again and watches as the other man burries deeper into the covers again.

He tears his eyes away when his pager starts beeping faintly in the pocket of his suit jacket which he left over by the chairs. He hurries over to silence the little device, only glancing at the display. Rachel. Of course.

Shit... How is he going to explain all this to her? And Ed. Especially Ed. He'd basically just dropped everything on his previous job when some things about Bradley's whereabouts started to fall into place, and now he'd been ignoring the pager for almost three days. Ed would have his head for this. Or maybe he'd fire him again... who knows?

He glances at the bed again and with one look at Bradley's peaceful expression he decides that whatever tongue-lashing Ed's got in store for him, it can wait another few hours. And it will be worth it, too, because otherwise he'd not be here, he'd not be able to see Bradley peacefully sleeping in that bed.

He still goes to pick up the receiver of the phone, to dial the front desk. He figures he may as well order them the breakfast that's included in their stay. He paid good money for it after all.

The conversation is brief and quiet, but he gets confirmation that they'll be around with the food before long and Kyle can already hear his stomach grumbling in return.

Once that's done, he walks over to his suitcase, rummaging around in there for something Bradley can wear. It's still chilly, the winter air makes him shiver, despite the fact that he didn't even change from the clothes he was wearing the day before. He looks it, too, the shirt crumbled and pulled from his pants in some places. But nothing that can't be hid by his suit jacket or coat.

So, he decides to just keep wearing this set of clothes, which leaves Bradley to wear his spare shirt and pants. After having decided this, Kyle moves to the bathroom to splash some water in his face and brush his teeth. This hotel provides some of those disposable toothbrushes with toothpaste already on it, too, which comes in handy because he forgot his own is still tucked away in his suitcase and wandering back and forth too often would likely wake up Bradley and he'd rather let him sleep as long as possible.

But it seems Kyle is worrying too much, because by the time he gets back Bradley is still sleeping soundly. He really must have been exhausted. No wonder, considering, but it only supports Kyle's claim from the day before, Bradley would not have made it far if he ran from him. They may have to get him checked out at a doctor, maybe get something stronger for the pain those bruises likely cause him.

Bradley only stirs when Kyle eventually makes his way back to the bed to pick up his notebook, meaning to gather his things so they can leave swiftly after breakfast and be on the road as soon as possible. He stops by the side of the bed.

"Morning." Kyle says, the warm smile on Bradley's face enough to pull the corners of his lips upward as well. "A while." He answers honestly and with a shrug of his shoulders.

Kyle's smile widens when Bradley asks about breakfast. "Way ahead of you. Someone should be round with some grub soon." He leaves the notebook for now when he sees Bradley sit up in bed, upper body still bare, instead moving to hand him some clothes to put on.

"Here." He says. "Put these on before you catch your death." He puts the pants and shirt on the bed between them. "You sleep alright?"

[brianbradley]

Dreamlessly, Bradley sleeps for — how long? No longer than an hour, surely, before Bradley's stirring at the sound of Hyde swearing, something Bradley slept through before but is now drowsily alerted by. He blinks, but with the bough of sleep now broken, he's half-asleep and unable to speak, and he's half-worried and half-bewildered that he's unable to speak (how deep had he been sleeping?) and wholly worried that Hyde's awake and on alert. But Hyde's hand is tucking a lock of Bradley's hair behind his ear, is tracing Bradley's cheekbone around the edges of the bruising, and Bradley's eyelids become heavier and heavier, eyelashes fluttering. And, finally, no longer fighting, he's asleep again. And it's then that Bradley dreams in a blur of delirium, domesticity, and dread. Dreams of memories with Hyde. (Drinking beer at a bar in downtown New York, Bradley's thigh against Hyde's and smiling. Hyde, haloed in the low light, smiling back, and Bradley laughing at how beautiful Hyde is and how ridiculous of a thought that is.) Dreams of false memories with Hyde, flashes of fooling around with Hyde that would render Bradley flushed and flustered — and having to hide in the bathroom for fifteen minutes — if it hadn't been so fleeting, because Bradley's in a warehouse with Nile, now, a nightmare Bradley isn't able to wake up from and a nightmare that doesn't end as soon as the dreams before. Even while sleeping, Bradley isn't able to escape from Nile. And with every nightmare of Nile, and he's imagined it all, it's as if it's the first time: it's fucking terrifying. Hyde being there, though, in the warehouse in the Bronx that Bradley dreams of time and time again, is new. Tied down in a dark and dank warehouse with a molar missing and some teeth loose, drenched wet with sweat, with water, with blood and bleach, and trembling from the cold. Hyde's in the corner of the warehouse but too blurred and too distorted in the half-blind dark. He tries to call out to Hyde but a hand seizes his throat from behind and — Hyde being there, in bed with Bradley, as Bradley starts awake, though, is also new. It's still dark. The digital clock sitting on the nightstand reads four forty-five in the morning. The sun won't be rising for another hour and a half, and Bradley's strangely relieved. Strangely relieved, strangely safe, and, beyond strangely, beneath the weight of half of Hyde's body and soothed by it. Hyde's head is against his chest, against his surely racing heart, and Hyde's all but crushing him, and he's embracing him, resting his head against his, and he's still shaking but not as badly as before. Hyde breathes in, and Bradley breathes out. Hyde breathes out, and Bradley breathes in. With a hand trailing up and down, up and down, Hyde's clothed back and to the steady sound of Hyde's even breathing, Bradley, again blaming teary eyes on exhaustion, is lulled into and slips back into a state of blissful, unemotional sleep. (Ever so slightly, he's still trembling.) The third time that Bradley's startled from sleep, it's the morning, ten thirty in the morning, and Hyde's not in bed but is standing by the table near the bed. He's still tired, but not so tired that he's having to fight too terribly hard to not fall back asleep. He's still tired, though, and he's starving, too, and thirsty, three days of minimal water and protein bars finally hitting and hitting hard. "Hey," he says, moaning in pain and in reluctance as he pushes himself up and into a sitting position in bed. Hyde's haloed in the morning sunlight, spilling into the hotel room from the window and highlighting Hyde's mousy brown hair into bronzes and almost golds, and Bradley smiles slightly, sleepily, at the sight. "You been awake for long?" He blinks away sleep, scrubs his face with his hand. It's domestic, so domestic that he almost forgets why they're there. "... We should order breakfast or something, by the way." But he's too damned hungry to be bothered by it.

Kyle watches Bradley turn around, his words ringing in his ears. He can hear the strain in Bradley's voice, the emotion, and he isn't surprised by it one bit, nor by the fact he is trying to hide the way he is on the verge of breaking down, too tired to keep up appearances, too exhausted to do anything but turn over because he doesn't want Kyle to see. And Kyle has seen this before, too. In others hit by tragedy and violence, in people that aren't Bradley, and if it tugs on his heartstrings to see a stranger fall apart, then there are no words to describe what he feels when he sees his best friend do the same.

And Kyle does still consider him his best friend even after the betrayal, even after years of absence. It's so easy to see in their banter, to feel in their interactions. They may have changed and each in their own way over the time that's passed, but together they're still like them, like the two upstart cops from New York willing to take on the world. They're still Bradley and Hyde. They can be.

Or so he hopes.

Kyle doesn't reach for Bradley, even though he really wants to. What he does instead is turn unto his back, now looking up at the ceiling instead of at the back of his ex-partner's head. He also uses the motion to shift ever so much closer to Bradley, hoping to provide more of the warmth he needs so desperately that it is enough to invite Kyle into his bed, even though he's clearly uncomfortable with their proximity now.

Kyle's fingers twitch where they lie between them on the mattress, just a few inches from the skin of Bradley's lower back. He wants to touch him, wants to make certain he's really there.

But he doesn't. Doesn't move at all and just listens to Bradley's breathing slowly evening out. Kyle is still too awake to let sleep claim him, but he doesn't want to move from the bed until Bradley is properly warmed through.

Meanwhile, Kyle's thoughts are spinning, impressions from today swirling around in his mind, making him dizzy and his head feel too full. He needs to write bis thoughts down. He'll forget them otherwise. And so, roughly 10 minutes after he is certain Bradley has sunk into a deep enough slumber that he won't be waking up by Kyle moving around, Kyle shifts to a seated position, his back resting against the fancy headboard of the bed. His movements result in the blanket shifting lower from were Bradley was covered, a shoulder now exposed.

It's the one with the scar. Kyle thinks and hesitates briefly. He meant to pull the blanket up to cover Bradley's form again, but now he feels compelled to reach out and run his fingertips over the marred skin. He doesn't. But it is a close call.

He tucks Bradley in, careful not to disturb him and is pleased when Bradley only burries deeper into the pillow. Kyle turns attention away from him and towards his notebook instead. Still meaning to jot down some notes and thoughts from earlier to clear his head.

He isn't entirely sure how much time passes before he feels Bradley shift beside him and he's surprised when the other man turns around entirely, hugging the pillow close to his face, lips slightly parted, hair in disarray, his features relaxed and actually making him look that much younger.

Kyle stares.There is no other word for it.

He can count the times he has seen Bradley this unburdened on one hand and all of them were before. Seeing him like this now tightens his throat and makes his chest ache with something awfully close to longing and once again he has to fight the urge to reach for him.

Instead, he flips a page in his notebook, arriving on an empty one. Kyle's hand begins moving across the paper, not jotting down words, but sharp lines, lines with purpose. He's sketching, and this, too, feels familiar, even though he hasn't drawn Bradley in years. And the times he did (which were quite a few back in the day) he kept hidden as best he could. Not because he was ashamed of them, but people tended to talk and ask questions and some things just can't be explained away in a way that makes sense.

But he always liked drawing Bradley. There was a time just after he fell into the Hudson and disappeared when Kyle was afraid he'd forget how to, that he'd forget what he looks like. He spent nearly an entire night sketching him from memory back then, only to shove all of the sketches into his desk afterwards, the last one the impression of him at the docks, his back half turned and his face cast in shadow sitting atop all of the ones that came from good memories instead. But of course the last one is the one that burned itself into his mind. There was something in his eyes Kyle couldn't decipher in his rage back then. He should have tried, he should have known. Bradley's eyes were always so expressive, he should have known, but he'd been so angry that he couldn't see. It took him years to figure out what really happened and then he spent another year not looking for him at all, because Bradley told him to. He tried to move on. He tried. But he couldn't.

He brings a hand up to his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Goddammit Hyde, keep it together." He whispers under his breath, but Bradley stirrs beside him anyway and Kyle jumps, caught up in his memory as he was the pen halted on the page a while ago and he just kept looking at the sleeping form of his partner now edged into the page. He shuts the notebook when open curiosity makes its way across Bradley's sleepy features and he shakes his head.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." He turns to set the notebook aside, then looks at Bradley who still seems to be more asleep than awake, but his features draw together in worry and Kyle can't have that. It's late. Kyle should get some shut eye as well. "Everything is fine. Just go back to sleep." He tells him and then chuckles quietly when he sees the other man struggle against sleep overtaking him again. Barely a sliver of green can be seen as Bradley fights to keep his eyes open.

Kyle reaches out then, thumb and index finger brushing against soft strands of hair as he shifts them behind Bradley's ear to see him better, then he can't help the urge to trace his cheekbone with his thumb, careful to not disturb any bruising as he does so. Bradley's expression softens and his lids flutter shut again and Kyle's foolish heart yearns.

He ignores it and pulls his hand away, then shifts to turn off the lamp on the bedside table, leaving them in darkness. He lies down again, once again on his back. He listens to Bradley's breathing and slowly but surely the familiar rhythm pulls him under as well.

He missed this, more than he has any right to.

[brianbradley]

the closest i'll have to a live action fc ... now i need to playthrough phantom pain with this mod & THAT is ( phantom ) pain.

[brianbradley]

[text ID: You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel. /end ID]

[brianbradley]

CLOSED STARTER.ㅤㅤ@sioraiocht.ㅤㅤJAMES TAYLOR.

THE PINK PONY CLUB ISN'T NOT BRADLEY'S STYLE, but it, well, isn't somewhere Bradley's been before. It's all sweaty, seedy bars that Bradley's been to, shoulder to shoulder with loud, drunk guys, sloshing beer and gawking at the women who walk through the door. The Pink Pony Club's different. Much nicer than a performatively masculine hole in the wall bar. Less sweaty, too, and sweet liquor and almost lavender scented. But he's long-since become accustomed to those sweaty, seedy, performatively masculine bars, where he'd sit with his head down to drown himself in scotch whiskey, to hide the pretty boy face he's been called out on one too many times. He has to seem suspicious, then, sitting by himself, far from other patrons, and hiding his face. That has to be why he's approached by someone who appears to the a security guard. (He sure as hell must seem awkward, if not suspicious.) He glances at the security guard and offers a smile. The security guard's good looking. Former police, too. He'd recognize that severity anywhere. He knows how to weasel his way out of this, then, if he needs to. "Hi," he says, sipping whiskey. "Is there a problem or something?"

[brianbradley]

Although he's exhausted, he isn't exhausted enough to not be embarrassed by the feeling of the back of Hyde's hand brushing against his face. "I don't have a fever. I'm fine." But he's a bit feverish, now, from embarrassment. He's almost too embarrassed, in fact, to allow Hyde into the bed. He becomes what's essentially dead weight, then, to lighten the mood by teasing Hyde, and even laughs, "Are you even trying?," before having mercy on Hyde, eventually, by moving to the other side of the bed. "Not my fault that you weren't trying hard enough. I'm not that fragile." The bruises on his body, however, say otherwise. "But this's better." Even if Bradley's heart is beating a bit too hard, it is better. Even if Bradley's bewildered by the situation at hand, by how the situation at hand even happened. Half a decade on the run, and Bradley's not only in a hotel room with Hyde, now, but Bradley's in bed with Hyde, now, twelve days before Christmas, to share body heat through the night, to share — comfort and solace through the night. Because Bradley's seemingly ceaseless shivering isn't only from the cold. And that's embarrassing, too. Thirty-three and too scared to sleep alone, too scared that the Boogeyman will appear out of thin air in their hotel room. But he's safe with Hyde. But he's always been safe with Hyde. And why the hell is that? (The late nights at Hyde's in Manhattan, fighting sleep to finish a case but still managing to fall asleep at the table after a midnight snack of breakfast foods that Bradley'd cook, because Hyde'd tried cooking by microwaving bacon before and it'd been such a fucking nightmare — they had to flush the burnt bacon down the toilet, for fuck's sake — that Bradley'd banned Hyde from cooking, "How do you fuck up bacon that badly?" The late nights in hotel rooms, where they'd watch re-runs of Columbo after working on a case: "Come on, you do the whole 'one more thing' thing all the time. You're Columbo. I'm Mannix," Bradley'd said, to which Hyde chuckled, "What, because you play pool?" They'd sleep together, half-touching, with Bradley's hand sometimes searching for Hyde's in the night, with Hyde's hand sometimes against Bradley's shoulder.) He shouldn't contemplate why that is, not now, not with Hyde so close. (Not when he knows why.) "Thanks for, uh, getting me out of that warehouse, by the way," Bradley says, glancing at Hyde, green eyes staring into gray, for no more than a second before turning onto his side. (Thanks for never giving up on me, is what Bradley doesn't say.) With his back turned to Hyde, now, he smiles a bit wryly, biting his bottom lip, and says, "I'll sleep better than I have in—" Half a decade. "—three days." He closes his eyes, blaming how teary-eyed he is and how badly his throat burns on the exhaustion. He coughs a bit, hand clenching into the blankets. "... Night."

Bradley shrugging off his hand and heading for the bathroom without so much as another word or glance has Kyle feeling oddly bereft of warmth. He stares at the closed door for a long moment before he eventually moves to shrug out of his coat and toe off his shoes and socks. He takes his notebook out of his inner coat pocket, pulls out the pen, too to jot down a few things he doesn't want to forget about what he saw in the warehouse earlier. But overall he is just trying to busy himself while Bradley is in the other room.

He's here, he truly is. Kyle found him, after years of chasing shadows, of believing the worst for months at a time before another flicker of hope showed itself in the smallest of clues, the smallest of indications that Bradley was still out there, still breathing.

Kyle stops what he is doing a few times just to make sure the water is still running and Bradley is still there, that he didn't do something ridiculous like climb out the bathroom window. But there is always a small sound that tells him he is in fact still in there. A cough, the sound of water splashing, eventually his bare feet making noise on the tiles as Bradley moves around. It helps to put his mind at ease for now. Bradley isn't running, at least not right now.

When Bradley eventually emerges, Kyle has a hard time to not blatantly stare. He winces at the colorful mess of bruises painted across Bradley's body and still can't help the fact that his throat goes dry as he watches him bend over and rummage through his suitcase in search of something to wear. He watches his muscles shift and work, his wet hair leaving droplets of water running down the curve if his spine, but then his eyes are drawn to the scar and the images of that night come back to him in a flash as they always do. The gunshot rings in his ears as his mind matches the scar to the bullet burrying itself in Bradley's shoulder and going straight through.

He did that.

The guilt hits him like a punch to the face. He put that mark there. And it blends so perfectly with the rest of the abuse he can still see on Bradley's skin. Kyle's throat tightens, his breathing hitches. He is so out of it with conflicting emotions that he doesn't even comment on Bradley still having no respect for Kyle's belongings, simply going through them as if it is his suitcase rather than Kyle's. But he likely wouldn't have stopped him if his mind wasn't currently occupied either. Hell, during their time on the force most of Kyle's stationary ended up on Bradley's desk within the week of him getting new things.

Bradley straightens himself up and turns to face him, but Kyle looks away and clears his throat, fearing his voice would give his thoughts away otherwise. He makes a vague gesture towards the clean underwear Bradley means to put on. "Knock yourself out." He says, trying not too look too closely into the notion of gratification that overcomes him at seeing Bradley wear his things.

What the hell, Kyle?

It leaves him... feeling a bit lost when Bradley sinks into the bed and lets out a drawn out sound of relief as he burries beneath the covers. Kyle runs a hand over his face and takes a deeper breath, fighting the urge to pinch himself, because after nearly 5 years of separation, of looking for the man currently stretching himself out like a cat in a warm ray of sunlight, all of this... it just doesn't seem quite real.

And none of the things Bradley does and says right now quite serve to calm him or his accelerated heartbeat either. He isn't even quite sure what it is he is feeling, nor does he know what he is supposed to be feeling.

All of this is a whole lot more confusing than he thought it would be. During the first few months after Bradley vanished Kyle had been angry, he'd felt betrayed and like someone had pulled the ground from beneath his feet. Gone was the one person who knew him better than anyone else and every time he thought of him he ached.

He still does, but it's no longer anger that lodges itself inside his throat, it's there of course, but that anger is no longer directed at Bradley, it hasn't been for a long time. No, what he feels towards his ex-partner is far from what he is supposed to feel, for sure. The furthest from the hatred people always assume he is harbouring, too. But there is no room to address this. There never has been room to address this and where Kyle is concerned there never will be. Sitting down and dissecting his feelings has never done him any good and he doubts Bradley wants to hear it anyway.

Except, when he looks at him now, expression slack with exhaustion, looking no longer as tense after a hot shower and with his green eyes looking so pleading that Kyle bites down on the sarcastic comment that's on the tip of his tongue and instead just makes his way over to the bed.

For a moment he just stands beside it, reaching out to brush the back of his hand against Bradley's face and then moves it to his shoulder. He's still far colder than he should be and Kyle realizes that he's still shivering, too.

"That bad, huh?" He asks, although it is more of a statement than it is a question. Bradley does a decent enough job at hiding it, but Kyle knows what loneliness looks like. He has seen it staring back at him from the mirror for five years now.

So, he sets his notebook and pen down on the bedside table, and pushes at Bradley's shoulder to have him make room. "Come on, move over." He says when Bradley doesn't immediately react and rolls his eyes when he feels him purposely make himself heavy. Kyle is forced to use both hands to maneuver the other man aside, digging his fingers into his side to make him jump in retaliation. Eventually, he huffs out a breath when he gets him to act less like a starfish and more like a human being.

"Menace." Kyle grouches even as he pulls the blanket over both of them, ignoring the tightness in his throat born from their proximity. His brows are still furrowed as he turns to face Bradley fully, but that does little to hide his concern. "There. Better?" He asks as he feels the warmth sink into his own tired limbs beneath the shared cover.

[brianbradley]

he is a whore and he is so proud of that

[brianbradley]

"Playing tennis in the jungle is just not fair. Too many cheetahs." badum tss.

BRADLEY SNORTS AT THAT. All right, sue him. He's amused. "I appreciate the Boston accent. I have an uncle who talks just like that. Heard a lot about cheetahs in Blackjack." A beat. "But I definitely don't sound like that."

[brianbradley]

how about a little starter call to start off here ?

[brianbradley]

re-downloading cyberpunk because i had a dream about it and bradley in a cyberpunk verse ...

[brianbradley]

D.M. Aderibigbe. from “Letter from My Father, Odysseus“

[brianbradley]

"Of course, you were always the crazy one."

[brianbradley]

Hyde's intuitive. Hyde's incredibly intuitive. Half a decade since Hyde'd left the eighty-ninth precinct and the badge behind, but the instincts of a private investigator still plow on in there. While Bradley was the precinct's resident — and unofficial — cryptologist, Hyde was the precinct's most talented investigator, solving cases entirely on the so-called 'sneaking suspicions' that would piss Bradley off to no end. ("You had a 'hunch' that he was our man? What the hell does that even mean, Hyde?" Bradley would complain, but Bradley would chuckle and say, "Well, shit, if this private investigator gig goes south, you should be a fortune teller.") It was impressive, how Hyde'd uncover the truth from the smallest of crumbs and with such accuracy. But Bradley's the one on trial, now, and it's mortifying, mortifying because Hyde's on the money: Bradley needed Hyde. Bradley needed Hyde badly. Hell, Bradley needs Hyde now. And Hyde's here because of Bradley, because Bradley needs him. And it's so mortifying, Bradley wishes he could wither away and die right then and there. But Hyde, that bastard, won't let him leave — there's no way Hyde's letting him curl into a ball and die. And the lighter is no conciliation, but the thought that Hyde cared to hold onto the lighter is. He takes it, then, and turns it in his hand. "Thanks for holding onto it," is all Bradley's able to say before sniffing, nose burning, and shrugging Hyde's hand off of his shoulder. He stands and sets the lighter onto the nightstand. "I need to shower." And shuts himself in the bathroom. In the bathroom and with the water on, Bradley stares at the blood and the bruises — the purples and the blues of a bruise not healed — in the mirror, and Bradley stares at the embarrassment and the mortification and the torment etched into a black eye and a bloodied mouth and how it becomes blurred the longer he stares. He blinks it away before stripping and stepping into the shower, where he washes with sea salt scented soap, blood and dirt washing away and down the drain, and sits to stretch an aching, strained body. "It was never really about what I wanted." Hyde is bearing the brunt of the responsibility and the burden that is Bradley, that is a former friend turned betrayer. Bradley knows that. So why does it hurt? Drying off with a towel, Bradley fills the bath to rinse and dredge the blood-stained shirt and pair of pants, with socks and underwear, in soapy water before hanging them to dry. He's warmer, now, but starting to shiver as he steps into the room with only a towel. "I should probably borrow a pair of sweatpants," Bradley says, almost smiling and sounding so tired. "I'm a little too shy to sleep naked. You have some with you?" Bradley searches through Hyde's suitcase — "I washed my clothes in the bathtub, I think they're drying in there" — and doesn't procure a pair of sweatpants but a pair of boxers. Bradley shrugs and, although a little bit awkward and with an absolutely awkward, sidelong look at Hyde for approval, slips into them. "Sorry." He drapes the towel onto the back of the chair at the table. And finally, finally, Bradley lies, fragile and fatigued, down onto the bed, onto soft sheets and beneath a warm, fleece blanket, and sighs. "Ah, fuck. This's good." It beats sitting in a steel chair in a cold, gross warehouse. "I'm sure the four star sofa's good, too, but get in bed with me." He's too tired — too cold, too worn out, too guilty and too tired of feeling guilty — to give a shit that he sounds weird, to give a shit that he is weird for wanting to be close to Hyde. "It's cold. You'll freeze." He missed Hyde. He missed traveling with Hyde. He missed sharing a bed in a seedy, cheap hotel with Hyde to save money. He missed talking to Hyde. He missed looking at Hyde. He missed him. He missed him, and he still misses him. And he's beyond the brave face of acting like he's fine.

"Right." Kyle scoffs. "You might wanna stop acting like one then." But the statement lacks real heat and he knows that whatever Bradley says to him now he shouldn't let it get to him. He's completely out of it, hurt, malnourished and dehydrated, stressed out of his mind, too. But how can Kyle not? Bradley always had a way of getting under his skin like no one else could, pushed his buttons until it hurt, until he blew a fuse. And sometimes that was necessary, because Kyle is too closed off. And that's always been true, too. He let cases eat at him until there was hardly anything left and that was usually when Bradley swooped in, all cocky smiles and irritating jabs. Ticked Kyle off beyond believe when they were first assigned partners too,, but over time — far less than one would think — Bradley expertly worked his way into his mind, his heart, too, otherwise his betrayal wouldn't have hurt in the way it did.

But Kyle isn't the only one who needed balancing out. Bradley in all of his need for martyrdom and readiness to throw himself into danger needed Kyle to keep him grounded. And that clearly hasn't changed either.

So, it's to no one's surprise when the self-deprecating, self-sacrificing bullshit comes out, that Kyle's temper flares anew.

"Yeah, you sure as hell should have talked to me!" Kyle spats. "Instead of shouldering all of this shit on your own, you should have given me something, anything to go off of instead of making me think that my best friend betrayed me!" His voice climbs in volume and fills with emotion without him meaning to. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, to keep a level head, but he can't keep it from wavering as he exhales. He casts his eyes down to the floor. Years upon years of anger he thought managed and handled threatening to overtake him now. But rather than give into the kindling flame, he shakes his head and sighs.

"Could have spared both of us a lot of grief."

He moves closer to the bed, watching Bradley make himself small, far smaller than a man of his height should have any right to look. "I'm really tired of people telling me I should hate you." He says after and then it's quiet for a while. The tension heavy and thick between them.

Eventually, Bradley speaks up again and Kyle has a hard time not going back to yelling. He bites down on his tongue, keeps himself in check. "You're a moron." Kyle says quietly and it doesn't even begin to vent all the conflicting emotions trapped in his chest. He wrinkles his nose. "—And you definitely need a shower."

When Bradley doesn't react to his jab he sits down next to him. A beat, and then: "You really don't get it, even after all this time, do you? After what you did?" Bradley still doesn't look at him and Kyle is almost relieved that he doesn't. He looks straight ahead next, eyes glazing over with memories. "I don't exactly blame you. Took me a long time to realize, too."

He continues on. "But you wanna know what I think? You deliberately left clues for me to be able to follow you around, led me to a hotel in the middle of nowhere so I could figure out what the hell happened in New York because you — for some reason — weren't able to tell me yourself."

Hyde pulls something from the pocket of his coat, something small. A metallic rectangle reflects the few traces of sunlight peeking through the curtains. Bradley's lighter. He picked it up during his stay at Hotel Dusk and never let it go afterwards. Bradley never went anywhere without it. So, when Kyle found it he realized that he would have to give it back to him. It was a sign and one he wasn't silling to ignore.

"You left traces of yourself all over, like breadcrumbs in a dark forest I had to follow around to find you." He flicks the lid of the lighter, and clicks it shut again like he has seen Bradley do countless times back when they were still cops. The familiar sound rings loud and hollow into the silence that forms between them.

"For me it was never really about what I wanted." Kyle reaches out a hand, the one closest to Bradley, and gently places it against his trembling shoulder. "I knew you wanted me to find you, despite that letter, despite keeping me at arms length all this time." He gently squeezes Bradley's shoulder and shifts the other hand with the lighter into Bradley's field of view, offering it out to him.

"I knew you needed me, so here I am." He shrugs one shoulder. "Took me roughly five years, but hey, better late than never, right?"

[brianbradley]

As though Bradley is a victim of a senseless crime and not a convict who'd murdered two men, Hyde advances in such an unassuming conduct that Bradley almost smiles. A cornered animal, Bradley smiles a half-snarl, though, and says, "I'm not some victim here." Bradley's a victim of the consequence of the actions committed against Nile: stolen cash, stolen art, shooting Norman dead. Bradley isn't a victim. Jenny Smith is a victim. Mila Evans is a victim. (Mila Bradley was a victim, too.) Kyle Hyde is a victim. Not Bradley. Not Bradley. Bradley's a victim of the consequence of the actions committed against Nile, and Bradley's a victim of the consequence of betraying the man he claimed to love. The bruises, the sprained shoulder, the burns, the split lip — the consequences, the well-deserved consequences, of betrayal. Bradley isn't a victim. Bradley doesn't need to be approached as a victim, with hands held up in an attempt at conciliation and appeasement. But Bradley startles back as Hyde's steps closer, back colliding against the wooden door with a thud, and turns the door handle twice. "Door is locked, buddy." But he turns the door handle again, harder, now, as if he'd be able to break the lock if he turned the handle harder and harder and with more weight to it. He bares his teeth, heart beating harder, now, too, as his anxiety is permeated with anger. "I'm not panicking over nothing!" But Bradley knows, rationally, that Hyde is right. The thought of Nile materializing into the hotel room is — ridiculous. If Nile did, somehow, realize where Hyde and Bradley had run off to, Hyde'd rented the room under an alias. But there is no rational thought, not now, because Bradley's terrified. He's so terrified for Hyde that he's in almost hysterics, trembling movements and rough breathing. "You're going to wrestle me back to bed and, what, hold me hostage?" Bradley's so terrified for himself that he's in almost hysterics, trembling moments and rough breathing, because he doesn't want to go back there. "— And then what? Wait for Nile to scoop you off the pavement?" Hyde's right again. Bradley's in no state to run. But rational thought's out the window and, in an attempt against the selfishness of self-preservation, Bradley attempts to slip by Hyde — because the only thing worse than going back there would be Hyde going back there and being tortured the same way he was — but is seized by the wrist before he's able to. And he's silent, staring at Hyde in horror, abject horror, and despair, for a beat. But he's unwavering when he says, "Why?" "Why do you want to help me? After what I did to you —" If Nile deserved to torture Bradley for Evans's death, an eye for an eye, then Hyde sure as hell deserved to shoot Bradley half a decade ago on the docks, a tooth for a tooth. "You should want me dead." Bradley breathes in. "I should've listened to you. I should've told you something." With the last bit of his strength, Bradley wrenches his hand away from Hyde's, but it isn't back to the door Bradley walks away to: It's to the bed, where he sits with a sigh, breath hitching, and a scowl. "I thought the least I could do was ... not drag you down with me." Head in hands, Bradley breathes in again. "I don't know what the fuck you want from me, Kyle —" And breathes out. "— or from any of this, but I know I don't want to go back there." His voice almost breaks. He's sick to his stomach from the blood in his mouth, from the horror and the humiliation and the heartache. "... I need a fuckin' shower." He's been alone for too long.

Kyle has seen enough victims of abuse in his day and was assigned watch over quite a few individuals after they escaped their kidnappers to know the signs of someone teetering on the edge of a breakdown. The thousand yard stare, the tension, the jumping at noises others would consider an everyday occurrence. Kyle just didn't think he'd ever have to see these symptoms on his partner. Well, ex-partner. Lets not get carried away here.

It's why he locked the door and kept the keys on himself. Yes, to keep the world and any potential threats out, but also to keep Bradley from attempting to give him the slip. He's good at that. Good at running, always at least two paces ahead of him, and not only in the figurative sense, even during his prime Kyle rarely was able to keep up with him when Bradley put his mind to chasing something or someone. It's not that Kyle is particularly slow or unfit, but Bradley was always an entirely different beast.

A cornered one, now. There is a wild look to his startling green eyes, hair falling into his face and Kyle watches as the snarl that contorts Bradley's features causes the split in his lip to start bleeding again.

You'll wind up dead, too.

"Been five years and I'm still standing, aren't I?" He shoots back, and he knows it's not that easy. He knows that if Nile wanted him dead he likely would be, but right now that's not important, because Bradley isn't being rational either. He's breaking down, and the only thing Kyle can do is wait for him to shatter and then make to pick up the pieces.

Kyle raises his hands, showing no ill intent or weaponry as he slowly advances towards his partner. I'm not a dog. Bradley told him just now, but he definitely looks like one now, like one beaten by his former master, hackles raised, body wound tight like a bowstring about to snap and absolutely ready to bite the hand that is trying to feed him.

"Calm down, Bradley." Hyde soothes, trying to keep any emotion from his words, trying to sound firm and certain even though it hurts and agitates him to see him like this. Kyle even has to put in some extra effort to not have his voice waver on Bradley's name. "Even if they're already looking for you they won't come barging in here just like that. We'd hear them coming."

He takes another step, but stops again when Bradley flinches away and his back hits the door. The door handle rattles as Bradley turns it a few more times, his eyes never leaving Kyle's.

Kyle's expression softens. "Door is locked, buddy." He takes a deeper breath. "Come on. You're panicking over nothing and you know it."

It's not that Kyle doesn't take this seriously, but he knows that even though it may seem that way at times, Nile's people aren't omniscient. It would take them time to find them. They can spare a few hours. Hell, they might even have as much as a day or two, although Kyle isn't willing to risk it.

Still, he plants himself firmly infront of Bradley, ready to get him to comply by force, although he's mostly just making ready to catch him should his strength begin to leave him again and judging by the trembling of his body it wouldn't take long for him to lose the battle against his exhaustion.

"Want me to wrestle you back to the bed? Because I will. You wouldn't stand a chance right now and we both know it." The lack of proper force in the shoves Bradley subjected him to just now are proof enough. But Bradley doesn't let up, doesn't let his guard down and Kyle can feel the agitation rise within him. "Look at you, you'd not make it two steps out of this building before collapsing, and then what? Wait for Nile to scoop you off the pavement?"

This time Kyle does take the last few steps that seperate them and catches Bradley's wrist as he tries to wind himself out of his reach.

"Fuck's sake, Bradley. Just let me help you!"

The words fall between them like a brick through glass. Sharp, loud and the latter part of the sentence is maybe a tad more desperate than Kyle intends it to be. But five years of frustration and helplessness and not knowing where to look next, afraid that one day he'd find Bradley and it would be too late, that he'd find him in a puddle of his own blood, eyes empty and devoid of life... it gets to a man. It definitely has gotten to Kyle. Hell, he's had nightmares about that day at the docks more times than he can count and that is only the tip of the iceberg of crap he's been pushing down for years at this point.

But fuck if this right here isn't all he could have hoped for. Half a decade of chasing shadows and he will not let him slip through his fingers now that he has finally found him. Nile be damned. The danger he puts himself in be damned. He is not letting him go again.

[brianbradley]

OOC: all that happens in the games is canon, right? Well, I just sketched Brian Bradley into Hyde's notebook. In game. It's canon. Well, for me at least.