Chapter Text
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Oh?” Jake leans back in his seat and looks at Rooster, curiosity nudging his brows up. “Sexual, I hope.”
The grin, the touch of tongue peeping through his teeth as Rooster shakes his head, is a pretty sweet sight. One to which Jake’s been getting far too addicted since they’ve been stationed together at China Lake, transfered to the testing program Hondo’s running now that Darkstar’s under Cain’s jurisdiction.
“Sartorial,” Rooster says. “There’s this, uh, thing I’m going to and I need to look good.” He’s rubbing his hand up the back of his head, not quite meeting Jake’s eye.
Interesting…
“What kind of thing?”
“Dinner. Nice restaurant.”
“With Mav?” Jake pushes, knowing that’s not the answer.
“What? No, not Mav.”
Shit, he’s blushing. This is adorable.
“Is it a date, Bradshaw?” Jake says, nudging his foot under the table, teasing the truth out of him. “You found someone all the way out here that you like enough to take somewhere fancier than the nearest bar?”
That’s exactly where they are now, sitting on patched-up vinyl in a booth by a window frosted with a coating of desert dust, obscuring the view of the parking lot outside. As venues for a hot date go, The Jackalope isn’t it.
“Maybe,” Rooster says, burnt butter brown seeping through the line of his lashes as he finally stops evading Jake’s gaze.
Oh. That’s… Huh.
Taking a swig of his drink gives Jake enough reason to look away as he berates himself for whatever this is: this deflated kind of turmoil. He’d literally been teasing Rooster for having a date – there’s no excuse for getting all weird now it’s confirmed.
“So what d’you need me for?” Jake says, careful to keep his tone as light as it was ten seconds ago.
“Help me figure out what to wear.”
“Can’t ask Mav?”
“Mav isn’t the one who tears me to shreds every time I change my shirt.”
“Aw, my opinion matters does it?”
“It’s starting to matter a lot less,” Rooster mutters. The look on his face isn’t quite as playful as it was to start with, and Jake feels a stab of dismay. They have a good thing going here – the last thing he wants is to fuck it up by getting possessive over a man he’s no right to claim.
Besides, Rooster might be taking some guy, girl, whoever, on a date, but he’s been flirting up a storm all week. No need for that to change.
“Alright then.” Jake reaches out and taps his bottle to Rooster’s. “My impeccable taste is at your disposal.” He flashes Rooster a grin. “But you’ll owe me one.”
“Sexual?” Rooster says, with the same mischievous tone as Jake.
Jake lifts his beer to his mouth and winks. “If that’s what you’re offering…”
Yeah, so long as Rooster keeps acting like this, they’re good.
***
Turns out Rooster’s date is in L.A. that Saturday, but after seeing the state of his wardrobe, Jake’s adamant they’ll need to go shopping. The plan is for Rooster to pick him up and drive the two hours it’ll take to get to the city, where they’ll spend the day in a decent mall and, by night, Rooster’ll go on his date and Jake…
Jake’ll figure it out.
He’s got friends he could call, or he could catch a movie on his own, maybe open up Grindr and spend the night in someone else’s bed. Whatever. Rooster’s his ride home and they’ll drive back Sunday. No need to think too hard about what – or who – Rooster’ll be doing between now and then.
The sun is early-morning bright when the Bronco rolls up, Rooster languishing with one arm resting on the open window as he watches Jake approach. Slinging his bag in the back, Jake climbs in and gives the signal for launch.
The drive is pleasant in a way that comes not as a surprise, but a reassurance. Two hours with only the other for company is a level up from the time they spend together in uniform or hanging out at the Jackalope. As it is, the talk flows easily, ebbing and flowing round the playlist Rooster’s lined up for the journey – a mix of tunes old and new, some a little mellow, others more upbeat, and a few classics that are impossible not to sing along to.
Down a stretch of road as straight as Cain’s sense of humor, the pair of them are full throttling, “Whoa-oh we’re halfway there…” when Rooster drops out and Jake turns, singing through a smile, to see him looking over, an indulgent curl to the line of his lips, eyes hidden behind the shade of his glasses.
“Whut?” Jake asks.
But Rooster just shakes his head and redirects his attention to the road ahead.
Jake stays watching him a moment longer grinning to himself before he turns and looks out the window.
An hour and a half later, having stopped for nothing but the lights, they pull up at a mall of Jake’s choice and head inside for a coffee. Or, in Rooster’s case a peach iced-tea, since the man values sugar over caffeine.
“So. The brief,” Jake says, lounging back in his plastic seat.
“The brief,” Rooster repeats very seriously, mirroring him.
“A decent button-down and some pants that ain’t denim.” Jake lists those two item on his fingers, then a hesitant third. “A jacket?” Rooster shrug-nods. “Shoes?” They both look down at the frayed and faded sneakers that look like he’s been wearing them since 2005. “Shoes.” Jake adds the affirmative. “Budget?”
“I don’t know, Hangman. However much it takes to make me look like someone you’d wanna fuck.”
Jake studies him a moment, washed-out blue jeans and a heather gray undershirt with little moth-bites nipped out of the seam of the collar. As if anyone wouldn’t fuck Rooster the way he looks right now.
“Get ready to max out your card,” Jake says.
The first store they head to isn’t so much about the clothes as the colors, and Rooster patiently endures Jake holding up an array of fabric to his face until he’s settled on a palette of blues and creams and acid-pop accents. Then they get serious. After twenty minutes in J.Crew – we’ll start with the classics – Jake’s selected an armful of shirts.
“You coming in?” Rooster asks, as they head for the changing room. “Saves me coming out and showing you each time.”
Shrugging, like getting an eyeful of a shirtless Bradley Bradshaw isn’t something he cares about one way or the other, Jake follows him in. Since there’s no one else around, he takes a seat on the stool in the cubicle opposite Rooster, neither bothering to shut the doors. Which means Jake gets front row seats as Rooster pulls his T-shirt off, exposing a constellation of moles curving round the bottom of his left shoulderblade and a coffee-splash birthmark that nudges up from the shadow of his jeans.
Getting his phone out to stop himself from staring, Jake only looks up when he hears his name.
“Not that one,” he says, casting his eye over the cut of the shoulders.
He vetoes the next three: too big; too shiny; the print hurts his eyes… and maybe he stops bothering with his phone by shirt number four, content to sit there and watch Rooster shuck one shirt off and another one on, the skin on his chest flushing a pleasant pink that’s spreading up to his cheeks.
“That one’s not bad.”
“I don’t like the collar.” Rooster tugs at it irritably.
“Come here.” Jake goes over to tuck his fingers between the warmth of Rooster’s neck and the cotton of the collar, smoothing it round and sorting it out. Although his eyes are cast down, concentrating on fixing the shirt, he can feel Rooster looking at him, can smell peach-sweet breath and thinks about what that would taste like if he…
“There,” he says. “How does that look?”
“Good.”
Jake flicks his attention up, catching Rooster’s gaze with his own. “I meant the shirt, asshole.” They stay like that a split second longer before Rooster turns away to check his reflection.
“Still don’t like the collar,” he says.
His hands goes to the topmost button deftly unbuttoning the front, and before Jake can return to where he’d been sitting, Rooster’s asking if he can pass him the final shirt. Which he does, holding it up like a jacket for Rooster to slide his arms into, Jake automatically turning him round to pull it on properly, reaching up to do the buttons.
“Didn’t realize the Seresin Personal Shopping experience would be so thorough,” Rooster murmurs.
“Only because the Bradshaw Buttoning Method takes three times longer to watch than to do,” Jake replies.
“No one said you had to watch.”
“As I recall,” Jake says with a smile, “you invited me in here to do just that.”
He finishes buttoning the shirt and steps back to admire the result. Not bad. This shirt – a blue that nudges the needle toward teal with a nice texture to the weave – is the best yet.
But Rooster’s undoing his belt, then the top couple of buttons of his jeans and—
“What are you doing?”
“Tucking it in.” Which he proceeds to do, giving Jake a glimpse of the band of his boxer briefs.
“Joe Boxer?” Jake says in disgust.
“Hm?” Rooster looks up.
“You’ve got a hot date and you’re wearing –” Jake reaches out to snap the waistband“– those?”
“Is that a problem?” For all he’s affecting innocence, there’s a playful glint in his eye, as if his underwear is bait and Jake’s the fish he was hoping to hook.
“Not if you’re fifteen and hoping for a handjob in the back row of the movie theater.”
“They’re fun.” Rooster lifts the shirt tails with one hand, pulling down his pants with the other. The lurid pattern of overlapping smiley faces isn’t enough to distract from the generous contours of what’s beneath.
“And here was me thinking your bad taste stopped at shirts.”
“You saying I should buy new underwear?”
“If y’actually want someone to take them off, then yeah.”
“You’re being very presumptuous about my intentions,” Rooster says, resuming the task of tucking in his shirt and buttoning his jeans back up.
“Given you told me your budget was however much it took for someone to want to fuck you…”
Rooster adjusts his shirt a little, tugs at the collar, turning this way and that, checking out his reflection.
“Well?” He meets Jake’s eye in the mirror. “Would you?”
“Not now I know what I’ll find if I try.”
“C’mon,” Rooster says. “Answer the question.”
I’d fuck you any which way I could get you.
Jesus Christ. He has got to get it together. This is Rooster. They are friends. He is literally helping him dress for a date with someone else.
“You can do better.”
“Than you?” Rooster’s eyebrows quirk up. “Seems unlikely.”
“Make sure to tell your date that.” Jake gives him a shove. “Change your shirt and we’ll try a different store.”
The next place is a step up, and when Rooster goes through to the changing rooms with a couple of shirts and some chinos, Jake automatically follows, taking a seat in the cubicle across from Rooster’s once more. This time he watches as he waits. The offensively bright (and nicely tight) boxer briefs get another showing as Rooster tries on the first pair of chinos (too tight over the thigh), then the second (too short) before cycling through the shirts with no better luck.
Maybe if Jake weren’t enjoying the view so much, then his pride might have taken a hit on the lack of success. As it is…
He watches as Rooster strips off the shirt, then the chinos to stand there in the changing room, hands on hips, in just his socks and briefs.
“What?” he says, catching Jake looking. “I’m too warm.”
There’s a slight sheen across his collarbones, skin flushed pink, but the way he’s standing, the pose… the view is better than it has any right to be.
“Get dressed,” Jake says. “Before your Joe Boxers burn a hole in my retina.”
After a swift, light lunch in the food court, Jake steers them to Saks. If they want to stand any chance of finding something suitable before the stores close, it seems they need access to more choice than a single brand has to offer. While he’s perusing the menswear, Jake loses sight of his client, only to find him standing on the far side of the store, a pack of Calvin Kleins in his hand and a frown on his face.
“I didn’t think underwear would cost as much as the shirt,” he grumbles as Jake approaches.
An assumption that’s way off the mark given the price of the shirts Jake’s found.
“Thought the budget was—”
“Yeah yeah.” Rooster rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Then he’s twisting round, presenting his back as he murmurs, “Can’t remember what size I’m wearing.”
“And?” Jake says.
Rooster tuts. “Check what it says on the label.”
Hefting the clothes he’s carrying over Rooster’s arm, with a muttered, “Hold those,” Jake leans in to hook a finger over the top of Rooster’s jeans and fold over the waistband of those ridiculous shorts.
He should be looking for the label. Instead his gaze settles on the slightly deeper tan of that birthmark as it flares out a little wider across the sloping swell of Rooster’s ass before tapering toward…
Jake redirects his gaze, forced to lean in closer to Rooster’s body to get a clear view of the writing on the label.
“Says here you’re a large.” He lets the elastic twang back with a snap, and steps away, throat dry, body flushed with a heat that has nothing to do with the temperature of the store. A heat that Rooster does nothing to cool when he turns and gives Jake a wicked little grin and a low, “Guess that figures.”
***
No one objects when Jake follows Rooster into the changing rooms, although the ones here are busier than in the other stores. The few cubicles that are free aren’t anywhere near each other.
“You wanna come in?” Rooster says, pulling the floor-length curtain back. “I’m gonna be here a while.”
Shrugging, Jake accepts, sitting on the little leather cube in the corner and watching as Rooster hangs up all the things he’s brought in: pants and shirts and a couple of sports jackets. When it comes to the Calvin Kleins, he hands the box over for Jake to hold.
“You not gonna try these on?” Jake says. “Make sure they’re large enough?”
But Rooster just grins, and starts stripping once more. Fuck he really is a fine-looking specimen, muscles rippling pleasantly as he stretches up to pull his T-shirt off, a little roll peeking over the elastic of his shorts as he folds over to take his pants off. Everything about him is an invitation for Jake to reach out and touch . To run his fingers up the ridges of his abs, to press the pad of his thumb a little harder over the ladder of his ribs and to lick—
No. This is a bad idea…
Jake knows he should stop, but he doesn’t – he can’t – sinking into a fantasy of what it would be like to have his mouth on those tits, to run his tongue over Rooster’s nipple, draw it between his lips, his teeth, listen to how his breathing changed, the way Jake’s name would sound as he—
“Jake?”
“Mm?”
Rooster gestures to the pants he’s wearing, still shirtless. “I like these. What do you think?”
“I think you should put a shirt on.” He points to the one he likes maybe third best of the bunch. “That one.”
Even the man’s back is nice to look at, and Jake suppresses the urge to crowd him up against the mirror and press his nose into the back of Rooster’s head and breathe him in, kissing, licking, his way down his spine, lower and lower and—
Get. A. Grip, Seresin.
The shirt isn’t right with the pants, neither is the next or the next, but then Rooster really likes that print, so maybe it’s the pants that aren’t right. But then he’s trying on another pair, and another. Keeping track of the combinations that work and the ones that don’t is tricky enough; trickier still with an eyeful of Rooster’s smiley-faced ass. (A sight that’s not as objectionable as Jake keeps pretending.) Nonetheless, Jake’s up to the challenge.
“These pants.” Jake hands over some blue slacks. “Then try those two shirts.”
Rooster does as he’s told, pants on, then shirt number one.
“So this date you’re going on.” Jake shifts in his seat. This is the first time he’s deigned to ask about it.
“What about it?” Rooster prompts.
Jake considers the things he wants to know – and the things he doesn’t.
“First date?”
Rooster nods.
“Which restaurant?”
“Somptueux – it opened at the start of the year and I saw some reviews that talked about the chef having trained in a Michelin-starred restaurant in London.”
Jake taps the name into Google and gives a low whistle when he sees the menu.
“You must like the guy.”
When Rooster doesn’t answer, Jake looks up from scrolling the entrées to see him looking at Jake in the mirror.
“I must,” he says, holding Jake’s gaze. “Given all the trouble I’m going to – buying an outfit, booking an expensive restaurant…”
“Don’t forget the hotel.” Jake pockets his phone and stands, beckoning Rooster to turn around. “You’ve buttoned it up wrong.”
He unbuttons the shirt, concentrating on what he’s doing, aware of Rooster watching him.
“Who said the hotel’s for my date? Maybe I want to enjoy a king size bed with crisp hotel linen all by myself.”
Finishing the buttons on the shirt, Jake turns Rooster by the shoulders until he’s facing the mirror.
“So you don’t plan on getting him acquainted with those Calvin Kleins?” His mouth is close enough to Rooster’s ear for his voice to be little more than a murmur and then, because it feels almost too easy when he’s speaking this quietly, when he’s only meeting Rooster’s eye in the mirror, Jake says, “Or what’s underneath ’em?”
The next breath Rooster draws seems to be a little deeper, his next blink a little slower.
“Now there’s a thought.”
Jake hums, considering, then steps back and reaches for the other shirt, holding it up and squinting at the result. “Now this.” Rather than stepping back, he waits as Rooster unbuttons his shirt, hands Jake the rejected one and takes the next. This is the one: graphic swirls in a garish shade of coral set against a pale blue that matches the tone of the slacks. Hideous in a classy kind of a way.
Automatically, he reaches to do the shirt up, tugging the revere collar open, carelessly running a thumb along the line of Rooster’s clavicle.
“You, uh… gonna help me tuck it in?” The look that accompanies that request is dark and almost too hot to hold. Almost.
Without opening the button on Rooster’s pants, Jake reaches round, sliding the material of the shirt beneath the waistband, feeling the heat of Rooster’s body through the thin cotton as Jake leans in close to tuck the shirt in at the back, then around his hips and the front.
“There.”
For a moment, Rooster’s gaze slips down to Jake’s lips, then, “Thanks.”
“Look in the mirror, Rooster.”
The shirt’s as perfect on his body as the pants, the colors fresh, the cut clean.
“Yeah,” Jake says with a smirk. “This fucks.”
“But would you though?”
Yes. Jesus, fucking Christ, he would, as if this whole afternoon hasn’t felt like one long and exquisite exercise in foreplay. They have never been this bad before, but a day of watching Rooster get half naked every other minute, of flirting in the most flagrant manner possible, has Jake wound tight enough that all he can think about is Rooster’s cock, what it looks like, what it would feel like, how maybe if they just got it over with he could chill the fuck out or…
Or.
“What’re you thinking, Jake?”
Rooster’s turned back around to face him, still with that look about him, heated and heavy, like he’s thinking the same things as Jake.
But he isn’t. He can’t be. Rooster’s the one with a date tonight and he’s spending all this money, making all this effort. Whatever Jake thinks he’s seeing is nothing more than his own desire projected onto the nearest reflective surface.
Desire that’s determined to find release.
“How long has it been?” Jake asks.
“How long has what been?” Rooster starts unbuttoning the pants, seeming confident enough that the decision’s been made.
“Since you got laid.”
Rooster shrugs, stepping out of his slacks and folding them neatly on top of the leather cube in the corner.
“A while,” he says, turning back. “Why?”
This time it’s Jake who shrugs, eyes running down Rooster’s body as he begins to unbutton his shirt. “Just thinkin’ that if everything goes to plan, you get this guy up to your room and things get interesting, then you don’t want to finish before you’ve got round to starting.”
Rooster steps closer, shirt unbuttoned all the way, the shadows inviting Jake to dip his hand in, run across the skin below. He resists.
“Oh?” Rooster says. “You seem very concerned about my date’s welfare.”
“Concerned for your pride.” Jake reaches up, pinching the edges of Rooster’s shirt and running his hands down the material. “Wouldn’t want all the effort I’ve put into helping you look fuckable to go to waste.”
Rooster’s smile is slow and he huffs out a laugh through his nose. “Any suggestions as to how I can avoid such a disastrous and humiliating conclusion?”
A dangerous question with a dangerous answer.
“Do something to take the edge off.”
Rooster tilts his head a touch, eyes dipping down to Jake’s mouth. He runs his tongue across his own lips before his eyes flick back up to meet Jake’s.
“And would you be offering to help with this something?”
“Do you want me to be?” They’re so close that Jake can feel Rooster’s every breath.
“Yeah,” Rooster whispers, nodding his head a touch, mustache brushing lightly over Jake’s top lip. “I do.”
And he reaches, just a fraction, an almost-kiss ghosting over Jake’s mouth. And then another.
“Rooster…”
“Want me to stop?”
Jake shakes his head, nose nudging against Rooster’s, their lips brushing.
“But a kiss won’t take the edge off.” Jake’s hand creeps forward the short distance it takes to feel Rooster’s cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs.
Rooster sighs; swallows, then, “What will?”
A syrup-slow smile eases its way over Jake’s face and he licks out at Rooster’s lip, encouraging him to open his mouth a little, allowing Jake to suck on his lower lip, drawing the tip of his tongue over the swell of it.
Rooster groans, low and longing, hips pressing his cock harder against Jake’s hand.
“You’d have to be quiet,” Jake whispers, releasing Rooster’s lip. “Don’t wanna get caught.”
“Caught doing what?”
“Taking the edge off…” Jake runs his lips over the line of the scar across Rooster’s chin, then sinks to his knees, pulling Rooster’s hideous boxer briefs down in one smooth movement. Lust lightning bolts a path from Jake’s navel to his dick as Rooster’s cock falls free, thick and enticing.
Taking him in hand, Jake looks up through his lashes as he opens his mouth, slow, purposeful, and presses his tongue below the head of Rooster’s cock in a firm, wet lick.
“Fuck…” Rooster draws out the ‘f’ on a slow hissing breath, the rest more sound than word. He’s quiet when he speaks. “God, you look good.”
Jake smiles, tongue coming out for a second lick.
“Do I feel good?” Jake murmurs and Rooster nods, his chest heaving as he breathes. “Want to feel even better?”
The noise Rooster makes is a strangled little, ‘Uh’ as Jake licks more of his length, pulling him deeper into Jake’s mouth, lips sealing him in, tongue working to make him wet. There’s movement, Rooster rocking his hips just a little, and Jake moves with him, blissed out at the feel, the taste.
There’s a dull thud from above and Jake glances up to see Rooster’s palm flat against the glass of the mirror, arm braced.
“Don’t stop,” Rooster whispers. His eyes are dark and his mouth hangs open a touch as he breathes.
Jake holds his gaze as he opens his throat up a little more and relaxes further forward onto Rooster’s cock, relishing the way Rooster bites down on his lip, nostrils flaring as he tries to control his breathing. The glide is smooth and Jake gets off on how fucking full he feels, each breath hard won as he takes Rooster as deep as he can, working him just a little faster.
“Jesus Christ, Jake.”
Jake pulls off, enjoying the peevish little frown that tugs at Rooster’s brows and the flush of red bleeding up from his chest to his neck to his cheeks. Jake lifts a finger to his lips. A signal for silence that Rooster answers with a nod, his free hand coming down to rake through Jake’s hair in a way that makes him want to groan at the touch.
Closing his eyes, Jake opens his mouth as Rooster tugs him back onto his cock. This time, Jake takes hold of the shaft, working his hand as he concentrates on licking, sucking, at the tip, knowing how good it feels from the strength of the grip on Jake’s hair.
“Excuse me?”
Rooster jerks in shock at the sound of the voice outside their cubicle, but Jake tightens his hold on Rooster’s dick and grins around the head.
“How y’all doing in there? Need any help?”
As Rooster opens his mouth to speak, Jake twists his fist, sucks a little harder.
“I—” A panicked drag of breath. “Nope. All good here.” A slightly strangled, “Thanks!” as Jake flicks his tongue across the underside of Rooster’s cock.
A couple of seconds and there’s a low murmur of “You fucker,” that Jake ignores in favor of going to town with his mouth, his hand. When he tastes the tang of precome, Jake hums in satisfaction, running his tongue hungrily back across the slit.
A gasp from above and Jake repeats the trick, teasing out a little more.
There’s an urgent couple of taps on his skull and Jake looks up.
“I’m gonna come.” The words are mouthed silently down at him, Rooster licking at his lips, eyes wild.
Jake holds his gaze and swirls his tongue, sweeps the circle he’s made of his fist up Rooster’s cock…
And winks.
He gets exactly the reaction he wants.
Rooster tenses, hand snapping up for him to bite down on his fist as he comes, and Jake swallows, buzzing with glee as he licks up every last drop. When his eyes flick up, Jake catches Rooster looking down at him, head hanging low, gaze soft and warm.
No. Jake squeezes his eyes shut. Just fucking no to that. But Jake can feel it already, the horror, the shame, at what he’s just done starting to bloom in his chest. Only Rooster’s reaching back down, thumb tracing a tender line across his cheekbone…
In an effort to shut this down, Jake stands, tugging Rooster’s boxers back up and tucking him away.
“We should—”
Rooster catches his mouth in a kiss, filthy and deep and slow, exactly how Jake wants to be kissed, and he moans as Rooster’s tongue licks across his own.
“Fuck, I taste good on you,” Rooster whispers, kissing Jake again, a brush of lips and a little more tongue.
“Rooster…”
“Jake.” He’s not listening. His voice is gravelly and slow, like someone fresh woken from a nap, and his hands, fuck , they’re big and warm, one running up under Jake’s shirt, the other curling round the back of his neck, drawing him in as Rooster presses open-mouthed kisses across Jake’s cheek and over the hard line of his jaw into the soft and sensitive skin below.
“Stop.” Jake catches him by the wrist, and rests his other hand flat on his chest, pushing him back and holding him there. Rooster’s cheeks are pink, lids hanging heavy, and his mouth – his lips, the way he’s resting the tip of his tongue just within view – god, he’s so fucking gorgeous that Jake rails at the injustice of it all, because whatever Rooster’s offering, Jake knows he can’t accept.
“I’ll see you out there,” he says.
And then he leaves.