Chapter Text
Whenever Bradley tells people he works for the Smithsonian, he’s always met with the same response.
It’s usually some form of openmouthed shock, with reactions ranging from Wow, that’s so cool! to I didn’t know that was something you could do.
His official job title is Field Trip Educator Contractor at the Hirshhorn Museum, which only confuses people further, because he’s 6’2” with no special interest in the arts. He does, however, have a poli-sci degree and a background in Little League coaching and summer-camp counseling, which clearly was good enough for the museum. Bradley doesn’t know if he should be proud or worried.
Were there other things he could be doing with his degree? Sure, but in a city like DC you took whatever you could get. Just like the hiring process, it wasn’t what you learned at your position, but who you met while you were there. Bradley figured having some friends at the Smithsonian wouldn’t hurt him in the long run.
It isn’t so bad. For the most part, Bradley gets to write and lead the field trips for the 6th-8th grade groups. He’s the one middle schools email, he’s the first person the teachers see the morning of the field trip, and he’s the one who takes them through the galleries for an hour or two. Apparently the museum had had a really hard time finding someone to fill that role, since that age group was always deemed the ‘cursed’ group. While they certainly did have their challenges, Bradley isn’t afraid of a couple dozen 13-year-olds (though, one memorable time, a blushing 8th grade girl had asked if he had Snapchat, to which he breezily replied that he didn’t have a phone).
He loves actively doing field trips; he loves when even the too-cool kids tune in to something he’s talking about in the gallery, even for a few minutes. He loves when he gets to read the student evaluation forms afterward and a majority of them say they had a great time, or they learned something about art or the museum that they didn’t know before.
Yeah, he loves all that.
The admin work that comes with it -- not so much.
Bradley loves getting to have control over what he does for his field trips, but writing them is an absolute nightmare. He’s never been good at sitting still, so more often than not he finds himself in his absolute shoebox of an office at a standstill, staring blankly at an empty Word doc, flipping idly through his email and the digital museum catalog as though inspiration would magically jump out. It was hell. It was his job. The emails and the day-of teacher cancellations were just the icing on bureaucratic hell cake.
There was one other contractor in the department, which was Bob, who handled the elementary school programs. They reported to the same supervisor, Penny Benjamin (who had, once upon a time, been more than a little involved with Bradley’s godfather, who had coincidentally forwarded the job opening to him last year). Penny Benjamin reminded Bradley of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde -- she had that teacher-type of face you couldn’t help but trust, but she also somehow managed to put the fear of God into you, too.
Bradley’s real problem was her supervisor: Beau Simpson, Director of Visitor Engagement.
Any and all programs that Bradley and Bob wrote had to be sent to Penny, with Beau copied into the email. As much as Bradley would love to just improvise his way through the galleries, federal jobs loved rules and hard copies and scripts. Nothing was ever good enough, at least not on the first try; everything was always sent back with copious suggestions in the margins of the Google Doc, to the point where Bradley and Bob had started calling him “No” Simpson.
Penny always tried to tell them it’s only because they’re one of the most public faces of the museum, and Beau just wants to make sure everything is the best it can be. Bradley thinks he might just have it out for him specifically.
Exhibit A: this is the third time Bradley’s pay has been late because his invoice has been ‘misplaced.’ He’s not sure how the hell Beau could somehow misplace a digital file, but he knows it’s not by accident.
Exhibit B: Bradley’s badge has never worked in the elevator. You had to tap on the scanner inside to get up to the offices, and Bradley’s been here for over a year and it’s never worked once. It’s humiliating to have to ask security to tap him up, only amplified tenfold when they look at his usual Hawaiian-shirt ensembles and think he’s some kind of deranged tourist sneaking up to the 4th floor offices.
The point is, Bradley’s job drives him fucking nuts.
The silver lining? The museum has a cafe inside. Nothing a good iced oat latte couldn’t fix, and his employee discount made it that much better. It was almost like the caffeine stabilized the static in his brain just long enough to get him to write something that wasn’t complete garbage to send to Beau.
Today, he’s tied up in meetings from the second he steps off the elevator. 9 AM is a meeting with finance, and 10 AM is a meeting with marketing about their Teen Newsletter. In both, he’s pretty much just a sentient zombie, zoning in and out and doodling little zigzags in the margins of his notebook. The second meeting wraps a little early at 10:50, so he has just enough time to run downstairs for his little coffee break before his final meeting at 11 -- with Beau and the rest of education, coincidentally.
The museum has only been open for 45 minutes, but there’s already a line of visitors awaiting their caffeine fix. No doubt that later on security will yell at them for trying to go up the escalators with their $8 lattes in hand.
“Hi.” Bradley gives a tight little smile to the cashier. She doesn’t recognize him -- must be new. She’ll remember him soon enough. “Iced oat latte, please. The larger size.”
“Right-o, that’ll be …” she punches in his discount, “$7.78.”
Bradley nods and reaches for his wallet.
His pocket is empty.
He reaches for the other pocket.
Also empty.
He performs the macarena of tapping every pocket he has, speedrunning each stage of grief in the process.
“...Shit,” he sighs. “Look, I don’t have my wallet on me right now.”
She just stares blankly back.
Bradley becomes acutely aware of the line forming behind him. “I hate to be that guy,” he says, his tone just short of pleading --- hell, he was ready to get on his hands and knees right now, in the middle of the lobby. “But I have a meeting in like, zero point two seconds, so it’d be a really big help if you could just like, save it in the system, and then in an hour I could come back and then I could ---”
“Don’t worry about it.” An arm appears just below Bradley’s line of sight. It’s holding a black Amex card. “Could you add an iced oat matcha, and a latte with whole milk to that, please? Thanks.”
Before Bradley could object, the card taps, and the reader chirps an approval.
“You’re all set,” the cashier says, giving Bradley a look that tells him she’s trying so very hard to not roll her eyes. “Your drinks will come out at the end of the bar.”
Bradley and Mr. Black Amex head off to the side, where a small cluster of people have already gathered.
“Hey, thanks for that.” Bradley turns to his savior, contemplating on perhaps giving him his first born child. “I just -- I’ve been totally scrambled lately, and I left my wallet up--”
“Yeah, okay.” The guy doesn’t look up from his phone. “You’re not the only one with a meeting in 10 minutes, alright?”
Bradley blinks. Never mind on the child thing, then.
“Oh -- sure.”
“You with exhibits or something?” The guy gives him a once-over, and Bradley doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on his arms. “Cuz if you are, Melissa’s been going bananas over the new installation on the third floor, FYI. Might wanna get your little minions on that.”
“No,” Bradley says, annoyance starting to fill the vacuum as his shock ebbed away. “I’m in Education.”
The guy scoffs, the hand holding his phone going limp. “No kidding. Are you Bob or, uh …” he makes a motion with his other hand, like he’s trying to speed up his thought process.
“Bradley.”
“Bradley!” the guy repeats, shooting him a finger gun. Bradley isn’t sure how this guy made a finger gun seem insincere, but he did. “Right. But either way, you’re one of the guys who writes a grant proposal every quarter asking for more money to buy out an entire art-supply store.”
Bradley makes a noise in the back of his throat. He couldn’t believe someone could be this big of an ass. Well, he could--- some degree of assness was required just to survive in DC. He just couldn’t believe that he might be speaking to a certain one-of-a-kind ass. “Yeah, because … investing in good supplies for our programs is really important?” He raises one eyebrow. “Because a lot of our programs are free and a lot of these kids don’t have access to good supplies?”
“Yeah, okay, hotshot. Melissa’s not made of money.”
“I think she literally is.”
Something shifts behind the guy’s eyes. “Insider secret, Bradley. You know reading and processing your proposals takes the longest because it’s deemed inessential compared to the other departments? The others get priority, yours gets bottom of the stack.”
Bradley scowls. “Huh. Wonder who’s putting it there.”
“Point is, we’re trying to focus more on donor attention. It’s easier, quicker, more money all at once.” His eyebrows turn up in a textbook imitation of sympathy; if Bradley weren’t so fucking pissed at him, he might’ve called his green eyes pretty. “But we do appreciate your long game with education, though.”
Bradley tilts his head. He can feel his chest getting hotter and hotter by the second. “Did you know that field trips are one of the biggest moneymakers in the museum--- ”
“Just one of them.”
“--- and the biggest form of free publicity we can get?” The guy’s eyebrows pitch up in a form of interest that looks so polite, Bradley is actually a little insulted. “Visitorship has skyrocketed since Bob started the Storytime, and I’ve been doing more field trips. It gets kids and families to wanna come back. Repeat local visitors should be our bread and butter--- not tourists or donors who only come once a year.”
The guy just smiles --- a borderline coquettish smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’ll try to keep all that in mind, sweetheart.”
“Order for Jake!”
Both their heads jerk up; on the countertop are three drinks. One is green, one is in a hot cup, and one is in the larger iced cup.
The guy, Jake, flashes the barista another smile. It’s a different kind of smile than the coy one he’d been giving Bradley just moments before, but even so, it’s still schmoozy and salacious, a smile that he’s clearly used in his favor over and over. “Thank you as always, Amy. I’ll see you next time, huh?” he raps his knuckles on the counter before scooping up the drinks. He brushes past Bradley, and his eyes dip over him in a not-so-casual once-over.
“See you upstairs,” he says, the same smile still plastered across his lips, and fuck, fuck.
As in, fuck that Jake guy. Definitely not, fuck, comma, that Jake guy.
And the worst part? Bradley contemplates this as he swirls his iced latte in his hand, watching him go.
He really does have a one-of-a-kind ass.
Bradley doesn’t see Jake for the rest of the day, which is fine-just-fine with him. After his meeting (during which Beau tells him to ‘ refocus on DCPS 6th grade standards ’) it’s a long day back in front of his computer, with the occasional ding from his email to break up the silence. It helps that his office is tucked so far into the depths of the Education Department, that it’s technically listed on the official museum floor plan as a tornado safety room.
He’s still stewing over the whole thing when he leaves, though, and it spills over into the next morning. Because … just, what the fuck?! How could somebody talk to him like that? And the director’s assistant, too?!
As he pushes through the revolving doors of the staff entrance, he bats any thoughts of Jake from his mind, and plasters on his best please-like-me smile. “‘Morning, Yolanda!”
Yolanda could have been 32 or 82, or maybe she’s actually some ageless, primordial being. Whatever she is, she guards the one and only museum elevator with the gravity of Oedipus’ Sphinx. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning she stares at Bradley as though she’s never seen him before in her life, and he practically has to beg her to let him and his useless badge upstairs.
Today is no different. She affixes him with eyes that look like they’ve seen the invasion of Carthage. “Can I help you?”
Bradley clasps his hands together. “Yes, actually, I was just wondering if you could tap your badge so I could get upstairs? Mine doesn’t work yet, so.”
She raises one eyebrow, but otherwise her expression doesn’t change. “Let me see your badge.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s…” he taps his pocket.
Empty.
Taps the other pocket.
Empty.
This has got to stop happening to him.
Yolanda stares at him, a sphinx ready to pounce. Bradley clasps the strap of his bag.
“Yeah, so, um, I actually forgot my badge today ---”
“Then I can’t let you up.”
“And I -- I respect that, but, Yolanda, I’ve been here since last February so I just think that--”
“You got a supervisor or something who could come get you?”
Bradley flushes. Tuesday is Penny’s telework day, and he is not about to call Beau to ask to tap him up.
“Look, you saw me last week ---”
“Rules are the rules. I can’t let anyone without a badge up.”
“Just this once, do you think you c---”
“Ms. Yolanda!” Another voice calls from the revolving door, and Bradley looks up, and he can tell his morning is about to get so much worse.
“Jake, my sweetie pie!” Yolanda says in a voice that Bradley had been sure she’d been unable to produce prior to this moment. “You thought you could sneak on by without saying good morning---”
“Aw, I wouldn’t dream of it, sugar cube.” Jake smiles that same little smile and his voice twangs with something he can’t quite put his finger on. “Be any sweeter, and the bees will get jealous, you hear me?”
“Oh, hush, you!”
Right as Bradley is contemplating whether it’s even worth it to run to the lobby trash cans to throw up, or if he should just do it right there on Jake’s shiny Oxfords, their gazes invariably meet. Jake looks at him with an unreadable expression.
“Bradley,” he says. Not unpleasant, but not all that nice either.
Bradley matches his tone. “Jake.”
Yolanda chuckles, another sound that Bradley had thought her incapable of making. “Oh, you know Jake? Well, why didn’t you say so, I would’ve let you up no problem!”
Bradley wants to die. “Thanks, Yolanda. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The corner of Jake’s lip twitches up ever so slightly. “You don’t have your badge?” When Bradley doesn’t reply, he jerks his head in the direction of the elevator, fishing his own lanyard out of his pocket. “Here, hitch a ride with me. Later, Yolanda!”
“Alright, sweet pea. Take care!”
Bradley grinds his teeth and only punches the call button even harder, willing DC’s slowest elevator to save him.
“You know, I think maybe it’s time you invest in one of those phone-wallet things,” Jake says as they step inside. Bradley watches, mildly envious, as Jake taps his badge and the scanner turns green. “Since you keep forgetting all your big-boy cards everywhere.”
“Mmm.” Bradley watches Jake spin his lanyard around his finger, and imagines strangling him with it.
Jake looks over at him, and again Bradley feels his eyes drop over his body--- and he hates the little shiver that runs down along with them. It’s cold in here. He’s cold, that’s all.
“You don’t actually wear that every day, right?”
“Not your business.”
Silence.
“Any more thought to your quarterly proposal?”
“Also not your business.”
“I mean, it kinda will be ---”
“I thought mine go to the bottom of the stack.” Bradley shoots him an icy glare.
Jake presses his lips together. “Look, I---”
The elevator dings, and before the doors even have a chance to properly split open, Bradley’s already shot through the gap with a barely concealed eyeroll.
Fuck that Jake guy. Seriously.
Bob tells him not to worry about it.
“Jake? Yeah, he’s Melissa’s new assistant … he’s kind of a douchebag. But it’s cool he bought you coffee!” Leave it to Bob to always find the positive in every situation. Small wonder, then, that he was the elementary educator.
“Yeah, but …” Bradley frowns as he drops another carpet square on the gallery floor. He was helping Bob set up for one of his many weekly programs, Storytime. It was always a slam dunk, but lately the groups were getting bigger and bigger and Bob was having to pull Bradley from his shoebox office more frequently. Not that he minded, of course. It was a nice change of pace. “He was definitely shit-talking us. Basically saying what we do isn’t as important as what goes on in the rest of the museum.”
Bob quirks up a corner of his mouth as he thumbs through a picture book about Yayoi Kusama. “Ah, well. People like you and me aren’t in this for the money, or the notoriety.” He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “It’s a calling, and you answered. It’s as simple as that. I mean, what calling is Jake answering by being Melissa’s lapdog?”
Bradley sits against the wall and mulls this over as Bob sorts through his crate of books. He’s suffered through dozens of I-didn’t-know-that-job-had-to-exist conversations before this; why did Jake irritate him this much? It was almost a talent, how he seemed to enjoy it, like it was all just a game to him. Like Bradley is the button panel in the elevator, and Jake is a kid who just enjoyed pushing all of them for the hell of it.
It intrigues him.
It infuriates him.
He massages a point in the center of his forehead. He was already stressed out enough, he couldn’t let a pair of catlike green eyes be the thing that finally knocks him off-balance.
“Hey, guys.”
Beau’s voice echoes in the empty gallery, and Bradley’s head snaps up. Every time he sees Beau he’s reminded that some people can indeed look punchable. The feeling is only multiplied tenfold when his eyes slide over to the slightly shorter frame next to him.
“This is Jake.” Beau claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder, like they’re pals or something. “Maybe you’ve seen him around? I know Melissa has him running around doing a bit of everything ---”
A muscle twitches in Bradley’s jaw.
“--- But he’s gonna be helping out today, just taking some photos of Storytime for the website. You guys don’t mind, right?”
Bob shakes his head. “No, of course not. Do you mind, Bradley?”
Bradley minds very much, actually, but he only shrugs. “Hey, it’s Bob’s program. If it’s cool with him, it’s cool with me.”
“Great. Well, I’ll go ahead and get out of your hair ---”
“Oh, wait, sir ---!” Bob looks up at him. “Did you see the proposal I sent? The one about getting more supplies?”
A look of consternation flits across their supervisor’s face. He glances at the supply cart that’s loaded with old Tupperwares and scratched-up acrylic bins full of decrepit crayons and broken pencils. “Yes,” he says, drawing out the word for several seconds.
“Any luck on it?” The look of hope on Bob’s face is almost pitiful.
Beau sighs. “We’re doing our best, Bob. But with two new exhibits opening in the fall, our proposal just isn’t the most pressing right now--- ”
Bob’s face falls, and honestly to Bradley it’s as if he’s just watched Beau kick a puppy.
“It’s harder to do our jobs without the right tools,” he interjects. “The kids don’t feel empowered if we don’t support them ---”
“Look, you guys will figure it out. Making things work, that’s what we do best. Right?” Beau offers them a tight little smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
Bradley watches his retreating back, and wonders how much he’d have to pay maintenance to unscrew the light fixture above his desk just enough.
“Looking forward to working with you guys today,” Jake says placidly.
Bradley lets out a long exhale.
Ever the peacekeeper, Bob asks: “Jake, have you ever seen a Storytime?” Jake shakes his head. “Well, it’s pretty straightforward. We look at one artwork and talk about it, then we read a book about the artist together, then we make an artwork in the same style. And sometimes we dance! It’s pretty fun, honestly.”
“Sounds like a real riot,” Jake says in that same dry tone, and Bradley rolls his eyes so far he swears he can see the back of his skull.
“Just stay out of the way, alright?” he snaps. “Get your shots. You don’t have to pretend you’re actually interested in this or anything. Then you can run back off to Melissa or whatever it is that you do.”
Jake purses his lips, and Bradley braces himself for some remark, another button to be pushed. But Jake just shoots off a two-fingered salute. “You got it, Captain. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”
“Promise?” Bradley mumbles, and Bob shoots him a look.
The kids start trickling in at around 10:15. By 10:30, the gallery is swarming with kids ranging from toddlers to fourth-graders, their caretakers gathering in a knot at the back of the group, relinquishing all and any control to Bob.
Seeing this many tiny humans freaks Bradley out. They’re not like his middle-schoolers, who can form complex thoughts and tell him exactly what they want and can generally look after themselves. But this is Bob’s turf, and Bob is a natural with them, leading them into a discussion about Niki de Saint-Phalle and childhood and abstraction in a lets-get-excited! voice. In his Storytime that follows, the kids listen with rapt attention as he reads them Rosie Revere, Engineer, and they all gasp and laugh in all the right places. Bradley plays along, trying to lead by example, and of course support the success of Bob’s program.
And the whole time, Bradley tries not to notice Jake.
But that’s the thing about Jake. He can’t not be noticed. From the way some of the moms and aunties giggle and blush when he takes his photos, Bradley isn’t the only one who feels hyper aware of his presence. Isn’t the only one whose eyes keep drifting over in his direction.
Regardless, when it’s time for the art-making (drawing a self-portrait in the style of de Saint-Phalle), he thinks he’s done a pretty good job. This is where support is most critical, anyway -- making sure the kids don’t make too big of a mess, getting to stop and chat with each kid, and have a catch-up with their caretakers. It builds a personal relationship between the families and the museum that wouldn’t have happened otherwise.
After a very intense conversation with a five-year-old girl about choosing just the right shade of skin tone with the very limited color crayons they had (mental note to add that to the grant proposal) Bradley heaves himself up off the floor and looks around. There was pretty much an 100% engagement rate, with kids and caretakers alike bent over their papers on the ground, clearly engrossed in the project. That was good. Bob’s programs are always good.
He looks for Jake --- before remembering he wasn’t supposed to be looking for him. But he can’t help the way his chest deflates when he doesn’t spot him right away. When had he left? Was it before the craft had started? That would be really lame, since the best pictures always came from the craft time ---
He spots a head of dark blond hair kneeling on the ground, next to a kid, and his heart stutters in his chest.
Bradley quickly moves closer, but not too quick so as not to accidentally create a flurry. He pretends to lean over another family’s artwork, making the most idle of small talk, ears straining over the cacophony to hear what Jake and the girl were saying.
“ … Aw, what’samatter, honey?”
Bradley freezes. It was Jake. It wasn’t Jake. It was Jake if he were holding a spoonful of sugar in front of his lips, his voice twanging in a way that makes Bradley teeter on the tightrope he already walks when it comes to him.
On the floor, the girl sighs. “None of these markers are good.”
Bradley smiles in spite of himself. The markers were the shitty Roseart kind, and who knows how long those had been in service since the last supply order.
“Huh.” A squeaking followed, which could only be the sound of the marker tip rubbing as hard as possible on the paper. “Well, let’s look for a good one together. We’ll make it work. ‘kay?”
The girl beams. “Okay!”
Bradley risks a glance over.
The director’s assistant was an arrogant douchebag. The director’s assistant had his head up his own ass and didn’t bother to give a lick of consideration to the other departments, least of all Education. The director’s assistant …
Bradley feels his brain go fuzzy.
The director’s assistant is helping a little girl color her drawing, with a voice he doesn’t recognize, with a smile he doesn’t recognize.
One that reaches his eyes.
Christ alive, he even has dimples.
Fuck. That. Jake guy.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: Storytime pics
Attachments: [133]
Hey guys,
Here’s the pics from today’s Storytime. I tried to get ones that didn’t show the kids’ faces too much.
I noticed some of the supplies were a little gross and the kids were having a hard time making them work. I’ll add that to this quarter’s budget.
Best,
Jake
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Cc: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
Re: Subject: Storytime pics
Jake, these are simply adorable! I love that you got great shots of Bradley and Bob, too. These are lovely photos to not only show off our world-class programs, but also our hardworking team. I’ll pass these on to Public Affairs.
All my best,
Melissa
The next week, when Bradley walks into the Education office, Bob is unpacking three large boxes.
“Hey, check it out! New art stuff!” He brandishes a case of 120 markers. And not just any markers, but ---
“ Crayola ?!” Bradley gasps.
“I know, right?!” Bob’s eyes are just as wide as his. “It’s like, the good shit! And look ---”
Bradley looks. Inside the box are cases of colored pencils, crayons, more markers, even a dozen or so watercolor sets, all with the yellow-and-green chevron Crayola branding. And, by God, was that ---
“Skin color crayons,” Bradley says softly, reverently, as he holds up the box.
“Wow,” Bob says. “I think I’m gonna cry.”
Bradley smiles. “I’m gonna put my stuff down, okay? Then we’re gonna figure out what we’re gonna do with all of this.” The influx of supplies is nice, but now the new struggle-du-jour is figuring out how to Tetris them in their limited storage cabinet space.
Bradley rounds the corner and flicks on the light to his cave office. Windowless, fluorescent-yellow hell, cluttered with papers and playtested art projects and art supplies. Half-office, half supply closet. Home sweet home.
He’s waiting for his slow-as-balls monitor to power up when he hears a commotion on the other wall.
“Whoa! Jesus Christ, Bob, give a guy a warning ---”
“Sorry, Jake, I didn’t see you --- but check out all these new s ---”
“That’s great, Bob, super, but I’m in a little bit of a rush so ---” Jake’s voice gets louder and when Bradley looks up, he finds himself looking dead into those pretty green eyes. He’s holding two coffees. One is in a hot cup, and the other is in a large iced cup.
What the fuck.
What. The. Fuck.
Bradley stares at him. “Uh. Hey.”
Jake stares back at him as if this isn’t his office. Like he’s trying to gaslight him or something into thinking it’s someone else’s --- as if anyone else would take this closet with barely any cell reception for a workspace.
Jake nods slowly. “So … this is awkward.”
“Uh-huh.” Bradley leans back in his chair. “Wanna explain what the hell you’re doing in my office at 9 AM?”
“Jesus Christ, this is your office?”
Bradley makes like he’s going to get up.
“Wait, wait, wait! Okay. Okay. Sorry.” The word sounds strange coming from Jake, but it’s enough to make Bradley settle back down in his chair.
“I’m … sorry,” Jake says again. “I think we … really got off to the wrong start last week. You had a meeting and I had a meeting and we were both scrambled up so … here.” Jake places the larger iced up on his desk like it’s a land mine. “Large iced oat latte.”
Bradley lifts an eyebrow. “What, are you bribing me?”
“No, no. Just --- setting the scene. I had a whole plan to leave this here and surprise you with this note but Amy was a little behind this morning so now I have to use my contingency plan. So just play along with me, please.”
With that, Jake backs out of the room. Bradley watches the empty doorway, bewildered. A few moments later he reappears, smiling, all dimples, sauntering in with what Bradley believed the kids called swagger.
“Hey, hotshot,” he says. He shoots him a finger gun, and even Bradley can’t squelch the grin that unfurls across his face. “Are you in exhibits? ‘Cuz I’d like to look at you all day long.”
Bradley gapes at him, a breathless sort of chuckle bubbling up out of him before he can stop it. Of course this would happen to him. This would happen to him in his pathetic, moronic life.
“Did you just hit on me?”
Jake tilts his head, weighing his options. Clearly this wasn’t the response he’d been anticipating. “...Yes?”
Bradley nods. “Right. Okay.” He pulls himself closer to his monitor and opens a new browser window.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to see if I remember the link to the Title IX complaint form.”
“You’re going to report me?!”
Bradley shoots him a look, but the ghost of his smile on his lips gives him away.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You meant to hit on me that day --”
“Uh-huh.”
“-- but you were cranky because you had a meeting --”
“Uh-huh.”
“And so you were a bitch instead?”
Jake shrugs, swirls his latte. “Crossed wires and all that. And you were holding up that line.”
Bradley throws his eyes up to heaven. Dad, are you seeing this shit? Another thought occurs to him. “Can I ask you something else?”
“If it’s my info for the complaint, then no.”
“It’s not that.” He shifts in his chair. “Did you… put our grant proposal through?”
Jake stiffens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
Jake scoffs. Bradley has found that he has such a specific way of huffing --- like he’s a kid who’s just been caught pulling the pigtails of the girl he likes. “Look, I don’t enjoy being an asshole, believe it or not. I felt like shit after … what happened.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Naw… naw.” Jake leans against his desk. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled up to his elbow; did he always have such nice forearms? “I meant what I said. Scrambled up, crossed wires. You know when you’re late to something, and everybody in your way feels like the enemy?”
Bradley winces. Just that morning he’d been held up on the Metro by a group of tourists that were oh-so-inconveniently blocking both sides of the escalator, forcing him to endure the entire 15 second ride. And in that 15 seconds, he’d seriously considered committing something truly heinous.
Though Bradley hadn’t said anything, Jake still nods. “Yeah, exactly. Point is … that’s why I wanted a do-over. So …” he holds out his hand. “Hi. Jake. Assistant to the Director. Broncos fan. ”
Bradley smiles in spite of himself.
“Bradley. Field Trip Educator. Sour Patch addict.” He wrinkles his nose. “The Broncos, man?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
They shake. Jake’s hand is warm in his.
“What’re you doing for lunch?” He smiles. Not a smirk or a schmooze, but an honest to god smile. It’s the same smile that had stopped Bradley in his tracks during Storytime yesterday.
God, he really is cute.
Bradley shrugs. He runs his hand across his face, if only to hide the blush that’s spreading up from his neck and onto his cheeks. How embarrassing. “Food truck, probably. Gonna get out and get my 30 minutes of Vitamin D. Photosynthesize.”
“Cool. Wanna go to that falafel food truck and photosynthesize together, then?”
Bradley laughs softly. “Sure.”
The moment rises and falls between them, each waiting for the other to say something else. When it doesn’t come, Jake pushes himself off Bradley’s desk, and slaps the wall of the doorway.
“Well. I’d better get going. Gotta read the rest of those quarterly grant proposals and all.”
Bradley nods. He’s only a little disappointed that Jake is heading out. “Right. Oh, hey, did you see? We got an assload of new supplies in. Crayola, too.”
Jake waggles his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his coffee, turns to head out. “Damn, that’s crazy!” he says, and Bradley hangs his head with a chuckle. “See you later, plant boy.”
“See you later,” Bradley echoes, more to himself than anything. After a few moments, he shakes his head, heart pitter-pattering at the edge of … something. It fizzes in him like a shaken-up soda can, bubbling with anticipation.
Fuck you, Jake.
But he doesn’t mean that. Not really.
+
He’s flipping through his emails when Bob comes in, balancing boxes of what looked like construction paper in his arms. “So what did Jake want?”
Bradley doesn’t look away from his monitor, only quirks his mouth in an upside-down pout. “Uhh, nothing. Just brought me coffee again.”
“Cool,” Bob says, somewhat absently as he searches for nonexistent space on the shelves. “Hey, Bradley, do you think there’s any room for the ---”
“Oh! There you guys are!” Penny’s smiling face rounds the corner of Bradley’s office. “I figured you guys would be in here. That’s quite an impressive haul, huh? They must’ve processed our grant pretty quick this time!”
“Yeah, it’s a miracle,” Bob agrees, shifting the boxes in his arms. “What can we do you for, Penny?”
At this, Penny positively beams. “Bob, I know you’ve been needing some extra help running the elementary programs, so I’m really happy to introduce you to our newest hire, Natasha! She’ll be shadowing you these next few days, really learning the lay of the land around here.”
Bradley looks up. From behind Penny steps out a petite young woman with her dark hair pulled back into a low bun. She was really more handsome than pretty, and there’s a flame of something imperceptible behind her eyes.
“Natasha Trace,” she smiles, stepping forward with her hand extended to Bob. “You must be Bob. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Bob drops the boxes.