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Chapter Text

Jake Seresin is the best of the best. He’s always been, because he hadn’t ever let himself be anything else.

In high school, that meant being the varsity swim team captain and graduating top of his class. At the Naval Academy, that meant being the fastest 200 meter freestyle swimmer they’d ever seen, meant being Valedictorian of his class and graduating with an aerospace engineering degree. At the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station, it meant getting the top scores, it meant being sent to Top Gun. In the Navy, it meant being the only current generation Navy pilot to have a confirmed air combat kill since Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell.

He’s worked hard to be where he’s at today and he’s never been afraid to flaunt it.

Even if it means that his only constant, his only comfort, is the ghosts of the people he’s lost that dog his every move.

–

He loses his older brother, Connor, when he’s 17.

It’s mid-October and he comes home from swim practice to find his mom sobbing in the living room and his father getting drunk in the kitchen. He’s standing in the entryway of the house, petrified to move further, to confirm what he’s already suspecting, when his father spots him and sneers. His father spills his whiskey glass when he slams it on the kitchen counter, but ignores it in favor of advancing on Jake with a snarl. “Where the hell have you been?”

“At…at swim practice,” Jake answers, eyes darting between his father’s bloodshot ones.

His father stumbles as he approaches Jake, veering into the wall and causing a picture frame to crash to the ground. Jake is unable to stop himself from flinching at the sound, but thankfully his father is too drunk to really do anything about it. “Go comfort your mother,” his father slurs out, already spinning to head back into the kitchen.

So Jake follows his orders and sits on the couch next to his mother, who tells him through hitching sobs that his brother has died in only his third Navy SEAL mission.

A week later, they’re accepting and burying an empty coffin at Dallas-Fort Worth National Cemetery. None of his brother’s squadron are able to attend, as they’re still on their mission, but the Captain of his brother’s squadron and the Admiral in charge make the effort to fly down to give Lieutenant Connor Seresin a proper Navy send-off.

And sitting there, on a bench a ways away as his mother and father accept the flag from the Naval Guard, as the Captain punches his SEAL pin into the black coffin, Admiral Charlie Terk walks up to him and sits down right next to him with a sigh. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the Admiral starts, mouth pinched. “Your brother was a great man. Always was able to put a smile on his team’s faces no matter the odds they were facing.”

“Yeah,” Jake whispers, staring straight ahead and feeling so, so numb.

“If you ever need anything,” Admiral Terk says, holding out a stark-white business card to Jake, “do not hesitate to call me. You’re strong, kid, and the Navy takes care of its own.”

Jake looks down at the card, frowning at the Navy symbol and the jargon underneath it before zeroing in on the barely-decipherable numbers written out at the bottom preceded by the word ‘Personal.’ He glances back up at the Admiral, surprise and grief sneaking past his numbing wall as his eyes burn with unshed tears. “Sir?”

“I mean it,” Admiral Terk says with a sad smile. “You’re about to graduate, right?” At Jake’s nod, he continues. “If you’re interested in joining the Navy yourself, let me know and I’ll get you linked to the right people.”

“Thank you,” Jake says, quiet and reverent as he holds the business card like it’s his only tether.

–

Jake’s father dies a month later, from getting drunk and driving his car straight into a tree without a seatbelt, because Connor Seresin was his pride and joy and Jake Seresin was the family disappointment.

Jake calls the Admiral the next morning, while his mother is chain-smoking and drinking on the back patio, and asks him about applying to the Naval Academy.

–

Jake receives his acceptance letter in May.

The first person he tells is Admiral Terk, now Charlie after their frequent correspondences over the last six months, over a frantic phone call as he opens the letter in the privacy of his car in a Whattaburger parking lot. It’s then that Jake tells him he wants to be a fighter pilot, which Charlie sighs and bemoans, because the SEALs are better, but being a pilot wouldn’t be the worst thing he could do, and that’s how Jake get’s Rear Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky as a contact.

–

He hides his Naval Academy acceptance letter from his mom for three whole weeks.

She’s become a shell of herself after losing her oldest and her husband, someone Jake has to care for when he comes home, because she isn’t caring for herself. He breaks the news to her in June, two months before he ships out to Annapolis, and it’s the first and only time she lays a hand on him, slapping him across the face in a grief-stricken rage.

Unsurprisingly, Jake finds himself arriving at the Academy that August, alone with only a duffel bag to his name.

–

His mom is diagnosed with lung cancer two years later during Jake’s second semester of sophomore year. He finds out from a brief phone call from her, perfunctory and blunt that let’s Jake know she doesn’t really care, and ends up spending the rest of the day in his dorm. His roommate, one Javy Machado, finds him, numb and aching where he’s curled up on the bed, and shoves him over enough to lay down next to him and hold him as he cries.

Jake spends the entire summer between his sophomore and junior year accompanying her to the hospital and caring for her at home. It’s obvious to him, though, that she has no more fight left in her with how much she’s wasting away under the chemo treatments. He can’t lie and say he’s surprised when she passes at the end of July, hand gripped tightly in his from his spot next to her hospital bed.

She’s buried next to Jake’s father by the end of the week and Admiral Charlie Terk and Javy Machado fly down to attend and help him settle all her affairs. He ends up taking only a few things, like the family photo album, his parents’ wedding rings, his grandfather’s aviator watch from World War II, his brother’s Purple Heart Medal, his father’s Stetson, and his mother’s gold cross, before he sells the land and house and everything inside.

It’s that night he calls up Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky for the second time and asks him about getting into one of the Navy’s flight schools for a fighter pilot position.

–

His senior year at the Naval Academy has him finally taking notice of one Bradley Bradshaw, because the guy has sneaked up on Jake’s position as number one in his graduating class. It’s then he starts spending more time bugging the slightly older man, because, even though he’s got a baby face and is Jake’s new competition, Jake finds himself attracted to him in a way he hasn’t been attracted to anyone in a while. So he ends up shooting his shot in the only way he knows how, with barbs and insults and roasts, which makes Bradley ignore him harder, which makes Jake push harder until Javy is begging him to stop because he’s looking pathetic.

Jake caves, because, yeah, he’s pining after a guy who won’t even give him the time of day.

He ends up graduating top of his class in aerospace engineering, followed very closely by Bradley Bradshaw, Natasha Trace, and Javy Machado. Jake gets a call from Iceman that evening when he and Javy are out on the town letting him know personally that he is being stationed at Corpus Christi for F-18 slots, along with a few others from his class, but not to spread the news just yet because it hasn’t been officially released.

Jake spills the beans to Javy immediately and gets so shit-faced he has to be carried home.

Two months later, Jake, Javy, Bradley, and Natasha all end up stationed at Corpus Christi, Texas and personally welcomed there by one Vice Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky.

Jake spies the tension in Bradley’s shoulder when Iceman welcomes them, sees the pinch of his mouth and clench of his jaw as Iceman’s eyes melt when they make contact with Bradley’s, and wonders what history they have to make such an interaction. He vows to get the story out of one of them by the end of their two years here and just greets Iceman himself with a strong handshake and an easy smile.

–

It doesn’t take long for Jake to finally get the story.

Only three months later, Admiral Charlie Terk is retiring in San Diego, California and Jake pulls enough strings to be able to fly out there and attend. When he arrives, dressed in his dress-whites, he runs into Iceman and finally gets the story out of him after the ceremony is over. Ice keeps it vague enough that Jake doesn’t know any names, doesn’t know all the details, but Jake’s also a smart man and can piece together the puzzle with the crumbs he was given.

Bradley’s got major beef with his godfather, who happens to be Ice’s best friend, who were both parental figures to Bradley growing up after his father died and then even more so after his mother passed. Something happened between Bradley’s mother dying and going to the Naval Academy, Jake knows, but he can’t pry the information from Ice’s tightly-sealed lips and gives up after the twentieth try. He knows now why Ice is called Iceman, based on the exasperated and stone-cold glare he keeps getting when he tries to push.

“You remind me of someone,” Ice sighs out over a whisky while the attendees mingle.

“Oh yeah?” Jake asks, already smiling into his glass.

“Never knows when to stop,” Ice shakes his head, but Jake can spot the way his lips are twitching up at the corners and knows it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

And when Jake is leaving, ready to head back to Corpus Christi for more training, Ice pulls him to the side and gives him a long look before asking him the one thing Jake isn’t sure he can do.

“Watch over Bradley, will you?”

But Jake caves anyway, nodding and swallowing past the uneasiness in his stomach. “Of course, sir.”

–

Because of who he is, Jake continues to push and push Bradley, try to get him out of his comfort zone, try to push him to be better competition as they finish up flight school. He tells himself it’s because of Ice’s request, but Jake never knows when to stop and never knows how to avoid unmarked landmines and finds himself at the receiving end of Bradley Bradshaw’s fury after Jake tells him: “You’re not ready for the real world if you keep flying like that.” Because, the thing is, Bradley flies slow, flies careful, and Jake knows that’s a sure-fire way to end up dead when you’re dogfighting in the open sky and Jake’s taken it upon himself to make sure Bradley is good enough to stay alive, if only because Iceman asked him to.

Jake gets a bloody nose for his efforts and a sharp hiss from Natasha later to keep what happened to himself and never speak to Bradley again.

So he doesn’t. He tells Ice what happened through clenched teeth and a forced smile, avoids Bradley at all costs until they graduate and get stationed across the globe from each other. But the world is small, and the US Navy is smaller, because he ends up running into the guy again when he’s called to Top Gun.

By then, he’s known as Hangman and Javy’s known as Coyote, and they run into Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw and Natasha “Phoenix” Trace on their first day. It’s 16 weeks packed full of competition, arguments, sleepless nights, and grueling training, but Charlie and his wife Kathleen are there to give Jake much needed weekend breaks and home cooked meals when he’s “looking a little too skinny.” And Ice is there too, checking in every once and a while. Jake knows Ice is using him to spy on Bradley from the ground, but Jake doesn’t mind if it means his wife, Sarah, bakes him his favorite cowboy cookies and sends him off with extra for Javy as well.

It also doesn’t help that Jake’s definitely a little bit in love with Rooster, who is the only person he’s ever encountered that gave as good as he got, and doesn’t mind talking nonstop about him to Ice (because Javy is getting annoyed with his little crush). Jake knows Ice has figured it out when his face settles into something like a mix between pitying and empathy, something along the lines of “I’ve been there and I know the pain.” It takes longer for Jake to pry the story out of him, but he does when he brings by a photo from the Top Gun school (that he definitely stole off the wall but will definitely be returning) and asks Ice about the other man in the picture.

And so Ice tells him about Maverick, about their relationship before it ended because it was the 80’s and Ice fell in love with Sarah. And Jake puts together more puzzle pieces the next day, when he finds Ice’s class photo in Top Gun and spots one ‘Nick “Goose” Bradshaw’ standing next to one ‘Pete “Maverick” Mitchel.’ It takes one Google search to finally figure out the backstory of Bradley Bradshaw and fall a little bit more in love with him.

It’s just too bad Rooster hates his guts.

–

Jake graduates the top of his class at Top Gun, scoring higher than Bradley by only one point, and doesn’t waste any time leaving behind the hell hole that is NAS North Island. He says a quick goodbye to Ice at the ceremony, followed by a much longer one with Javy with promises to keep in touch, followed by a very nice dinner hosted at Charlie’s house where he and Kathleen spoil him rotten with burgers and dessert and a nice bed to sleep.

The next morning, Jake flies to NAS Oceana at Virginia Beach and hopes being a whole country away from Rooster will allow Jake to forget about him.

It doesn’t, but it was worth a shot.

—

Jake gets deployed to Afghanistan during his assignment at NAS Oceana along with one other Lieutenant Junior Grade officer. The guy’s name is Dave, callsign Sunshine, and he’s got a smile that lights up a room to back it up. They’re not necessarily close, but it’s comforting to have someone you’ve known for a couple months deploy with you out into the war.

They’re only supposed to be there for a year. It ends up being cut in half when they’re asked to assist along the front lines with air support.

Hangman’s in the lead with Sunshine and a woman named Vulture flanking him. They’re only supposed to provide cover for the ground team of SEALs moving in to remove some hostages, only supposed to shoot bullets and distract the enemy and then fly back to base.

Instead, there’s machine guns shooting them from the ground and one bogey flying in fast.

Hangman immediately banks left while Sunshine follows, distracting the enemy on the ground long enough for Vulture to send off a missile and explode the machine gun, leaving only the enemy aircraft to deal with. It’s what should be an easy dogfight, letting the enemy F-16 waste its flares so Hangman can get a lock and take it down as it trails after Vulture. It explodes on contact and goes careening towards the destroyed town below, no parachute in sight as it crashes and burns.

But then Sunshine’s shouting in the comms, something about a tone, despite nothing on the radar, before his plane goes down in flames.

“Sunshine!” Hangman calls into the comms, staring out the side of his canopy as the F-18 Super Hornet plummets to the ground in pieces. There’s no response, no chute, no ejection that he can see, and Vulture’s voice is shaky as she calls after him too.

Hangman gets a tone sounding through his cockpit then and deploys his flares as he dodges out of the way of an incoming missile. It explodes on contact with the flares, leaving him breathing heavily as he loops back around and over the destroyed town searching for the culprit.

“Hangman, it’s SAMs. Posted at–”

“I see them,” he snarls, already locking and dropping his last missile onto the encampment.

He can’t watch as they explode, as the tiny figures that are human beings scramble away and don’t make it. He’s nauseous, reeling, and numb because Sunshine’s locator hasn’t been activated and his plane is still burning on the dirt below.

“Hangman and Vulture requesting permission to land and search for Sunshine,” Vulture’s voice comes through the comms. “Enemy defenses are down for the time being.”

“Negative,” the voice of their Commander says through the comms. “Return to base.”

“Sir–”

“Return to base, Hangman,” Commander Stevens says. “The SEAL team will check the wreckage once the mission is complete.”

“Yes, sir,” Hangman and Vulture answer, already maneuvering the planes towards the military base they’re stationed at.

When they walk into the Commander’s office and spot his facial expression, they already know the answer to their unspoken question. “There’s no easy way to tell you this,” Stevens starts, mouth pinched and eyes haunted. “But Sunshine’s body was recovered from the crash site by another detachment we had near the area.” Vulture sucks in a sharp breath, shoulders tensing as she locks her knees. Hangman can’t stop his hands from shaking where they’re gripping his helmet in front of him. “However, by taking out that enemy pilot and detachment manning the SAMs, you saved the lives of the SEAL team and the hostages and, for that, Hangman, the Navy thanks you.”

Jake drops his head, if only to hide the fact that he needs to squeeze his eyes shut against the burn of tears. “Thank you, sir,” he whispers.

Commander Stevens rounds his desk and places his hands on both their shoulders, squeezing gently. “I know we lost one of our own,” he says quietly, “but you both saved 11 people today. Sunshine would be proud of you both.”

And Jake can’t agree with that, can’t accept that, because he’s lost a friend with a family back home, with a wife waiting for him to never return. He can’t celebrate or even be grateful for the lives saved when he can only think about the one lost.

“You’re both dismissed and being grounded for the time being to see Captain Fonds,” Stevens says, rounding his desk to sit down with a sigh. Jake can hear the unspoken ‘for a psych eval’ Stevens isn’t saying, because Vulture and him both just lost a squadmate and killed people and that’s a lot to live with when you’re only 25 and 26 respectively.

That week, he’s evaluated by the shrink on base and determined fit to fly as long as he keeps seeing her on a weekly basis for the rest of his deployment. He receives an Air Medal and ribbon for what he did, for being the first pilot in the current generation of Naval aviators to obtain an air-combat kill and for dispatching the enemy cell. It feels like a hollow victory, an added weight onto Jake’s shoulders, and he keeps the medal in its box stuffed at the bottom of his duffel so he doesn’t have to look at it like he has to look at the ribbons on his chest.

Ice calls him that week, not even trying with a preamble before diving right in to the root of Jake’s current problems, providing a support system from someone who understands exactly what Jake’s going through. It helps get him through the rest of his deployment, because Ice shoots him little texts, either checking in or sending him pictures of his kids or memes that only a dad would find funny. Ice also encourages him to continue seeing the therapist on base, if only for someone to talk to that’s not his squadron, and Jake does so because he trusts Ice as much as he trusts Javy and Charlie.

And while the shrink visits do help him more than he thought they could, Captain Fonds still orders him at the end of his deployment to continue seeing someone once he’s back stateside on threat of a very long phone call from her to the Admiral at NAS Oceana. He accepts her terms and conditions with a laugh, promising her he’ll continue as he leaves her office for the very last time.

—

A year and a half passes and Jake is stationed at Sigonella in Italy when he gets a call from Kathleen, Charlie’s wife.

He lets it ring four times before finally picking up, hand shaking as he lifts his cell to his ear to hear the news he doesn’t want to.

Charlie passed away last night from a massive stroke.

“I…I know you’re overseas,” Kathleen stutters through her hitching cries. “B-but his fu-funeral…” She pauses and Jake can hear her trying to breathe through the sobs. “I scheduled his funeral for this Saturday.”

“I’ll be there,” Jake tells her through the tightening of his throat. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be granted the time off, but he doesn’t give a shit if he will because he’ll go anyway.

That next morning, after his duffel is packed, he stalks to his Commander’s office only to be stopped in his tracks right at the door. “Admiral Kazansky already called,” his Commander says, glancing up from his paperwork to stare at Jake with a frown. “The Hop leaves at 1200 hours. I expect you back Monday morning.”

And Jake can’t help but be frozen in place, because he didn’t think Ice would handle something like this for him, not when the older man’s just been diagnosed with stage two throat cancer and has bigger things to be worrying about. His Commander dismisses him with a sad smile, waving him away to go pack, so Jake heads back to his lodging and shoots Ice a simple text to say thank you.

The Hop only takes him to Maryland, where he has to board another Hop to North Island where Ice is already waiting with a furrowed brow and a frown. Jake can’t help but fling himself at the man, tears already dripping down his cheeks as he buries himself in Ice’s arms and breaks apart. Iceman holds him close, letting Jake soak his shoulder and running a hand soothingly down his back like his own father never did.

Ice brings him back to his house, where Sarah sighs out an “Oh, honey,” before pulling him close and hugging him tightly. Sam and Sky bombard him from the sides, locking him into a group hug that has him crying all over again.

He stays there for the next two days, helping around the house and driving down to help Kathleen set up the funeral. By the time Saturday hits and the Kazansky’s and him are attending the funeral, Jake feels dead on his feet, exhausted in a way that leaves him floating through life on autopilot, chest tight and eyes aching as the Navy Honor Guard performs the rifle send off. Jets fly overhead afterwards, in the missing man formation, as the Honor Guard folds the American Flag from Charlie’s coffin and places it in Kathleen’s hands.

The funeral is the largest one Jake’s ever attended, the crowd surrounding the black coffin is a sea of white dress uniforms and gold stars, all the people Charlie touched during his time in the Navy, just like that little 17 year old scrawny Texan boy Charlie saw potential in.

Seeing that black coffin being lowered into the ground hurts more than it did when his parents went into the earth and Jake can’t find it in himself to feel guilty about it.

Chapter Text

The call to come back to Top Gun is a surprise.

It’s an even bigger surprise to meet up with Javy at the Hard Deck and find that one Lieutenant Natasha “Phoenix” Trace, certified best friend to Lieutenant Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, is among the group standing around the pool table.

“And what do we have here?” Jake calls out to them. “And here I thought we were special.”

“Fellas,” Natasha snarks back, turning to the two guys behind her. “This here is Bagman.”

“Hangman.”

“Whatever.”

Not even ten minutes later, Bradley fucking Bradshaw saunters up to their pool table, wearing one of his standard eye-sore Hawaiian shirts. Jake steals the pool cue from Bob with a wink, circling the table as Bradshaw stops across from him. He leans over the billiard table, knowing it makes his ass look fantastic, and looks up. “Bradley Bradshaw, as I live and breathe,” Jake drawls out with a smirk.

“Hangman,” Rooster greets, eyes flickering towards Jake’s ass before settling on his face. “You look…good.”

“Well, I am good, Rooster,” Jake taunts, sinking one of the solids in while staring straight into Bradley’s warm brown eyes. “I am very good.” He walks around the billiard table, tongue peaking out to lick at his lips as he leans over again to sink another solid in half-blind. “In fact, I am too good to be true.”

Phoenix scoffs and rolls her eyes at him, turning Rooster’s sweet-hot gaze away from him, and Jake hands the pool cue back to whoever and heads for the bar. Javy follows him, cocking his hips against the wood as Jake orders two more beers. “So…still haven’t gotten over that crush, have ya?”

“Shut up,” Jake mutters, sliding the second beer over to him.

Javy raises his hands in surrender, chuckling as Jake downs a solid third of the beer in one go. “Come on,” Javy says, heading back to their group's little corner. Jake stops only to change the song at the jukebox, playing Foghat’s ‘Slow Ride’ if only to piss off Rooster even more.

“Do we know what the hell kind of mission this is?” one of the guys asks as the two of them return. Jake doesn’t recognize him but catches sight of his nametag. Garcia.

“I don’t know. But everyone here is the best there is,” Phoenix says. “Who the hell are they gonna get to teach us?”

“What I want to know is: who’s gonna be team leader?” Jake cuts in, cocking an eyebrow. “And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?”

Rooster doesn’t hesitate to cut in, face stony. “Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone’s an early grave.”

And Rooster’s…not wrong. It’s something Jake lives with, always slinking about in the back of his mind, because Jake’s lost and lost and lost people to the cold grip of death and there’s a reason his callsign is what it is, even if he was the only one to realize it.

Jake steps closer to Rooster, smirk firmly in place to hide the fact that those words have definitely hit harder than the asshole probably thought they would. He feels his own venomous defense sliding up his throat and is helpless to stop it. “Well, anyone that follows you is just gonna run outta fuel,” he bites back, his smile all teeth. “That’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? Snug up on that perch, waiting for just the right moment…” he widens his smirk and leans forward a little. “That never comes.” He can see the words landing, blow for blow, and leans back to give the slightly taller man some air to recover like the nice guy he is. “I love this song,” he tells him as the chorus to ‘Slow Ride’ sounds out throughout the Hard Deck, punctuating his jab perfectly.

Rooster shakes his head and leaves, either moving towards the bar or, god forsake him, the piano. Jake doesn’t care to look, doesn’t dare to follow, and instead downs the rest of his beer and leaves the bar.

Javy follows and it’s not the first time Jake wonders why Javy, the kindest man he knows, is friends with a jackass man like him.

“You okay?” Javy asks when Jake stops just short of the water.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, knowing that Javy will see through the lie no matter what.

Javy lets the waves fill the silence between them and that’s what Jake’s always loved about his friend. Quiet, but an unwavering pillar of strength and support no matter what and always able to read in between the lines. “We’ve got an early day tomorrow,” Javy tells him as the bar behind them breaks out in ‘Great Balls of Fire!’

“Yeah,” Jake agrees and doesn’t fight it when Javy drags him over to his car.

–

The next morning, Jake discovers their teacher for this mission is none other than Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, the very same man he threw out of the Hard Deck last night, the very same man Iceman talked about fondly, the very godfather of Rooster.

The guy lives up to his name, though, when he dumps the book on F-18’s into the trash, tells them the mission parameters, and orders them to ready themselves for a day in the air of dogfighting. Jake can’t stop the smirk from pulling at his lips, because he can see why Ice fell for this guy.

–

Training ends up being brutal over the course of the next few days. Maverick proves himself to be one of the best pilots Hangman’s ever flown with, always using different tactics and the other pilot’s weaknesses against them. It’s inspiring and it pushes Hangman to fly higher, further, faster, be even better than he was before, and it shows in their training.

Rooster can’t let go of the fact that to get Maverick, Hangman let Phoenix and Bob get toned.

And in a moment of defense, because Rooster’s slow flying is going to get him and his wingmen killed if they go on this mission, Jake throws what he’s learned so far right back in Rooster’s stupid, smug face. Everything he’s pieced together about his dad, about his connection with Maverick, about why he flies the way he does (perfect but cautious and too damn slow to survive in the real world). It makes Rooster launch at him, face red and eyes blazing as his fist is only stopped by Natasha bodily throwing herself against him and holding him back.

It’s simultaneously both satisfying and nauseating to watch Rooster storm off, have Maverick read Jake to filth, and then follow his godson out the door.

Then Jake’s getting a text from Ice, lecturing him up and down a wall, because that’s not how you treat the man you want to be your wingman. “Trust me,” the final message reads. “I would know.” Jake caves then and there, because it takes a lot for Ice to really call him out like this, and shoots him a text back saying he’ll apologize.

He waits another day, though, so that Rooster can cool off enough to not punch Jake in the face as soon as he sees him. He says it quick, mouth firm and eyes locked on the ground in a sign of respect, and takes what he’s given when Rooster just nods and walks away.

Another day passes in dogfighting simulation before Maverick is calling them to the Hard Deck for a day of bonding.

It’s to play dogfight-football on the beach, in the sun, drinking beers and having fun.

It’s different, it’s weird, and Admiral Simpson is definitely scowling at them from his spot next to Maverick well into their third game of the day, but it must work, because the next day they’re flying more cohesively and Maverick doesn’t hesitate to comment on it. But then the day after that has Coyote going into G-LOC and then a bird strike that takes out Phoenix’s and Bob’s engines, forcing them to eject.

It’s scary, it’s real, and it fucks with the team’s heads more than they’re willing to admit.

Jake can lie to everyone around him but he can’t lie to himself, can’t lie past the near-panic attack he has when Coyote won’t respond while he’s nose-diving, can’t rid himself of the tremors and the ache in his jaw from clenching it so hard. Jake has already lost enough people; he’s not ready to lose Coyote, not ready to lose any more squadmates. When Javy’s feet hit the tarmac, eyes panicked as he tugs his helmet off, Jake’s right there to haul him close and not let go for longer than is probably appropriate.

But then things only get worse when word comes in that Admiral Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, Commander of the Pacific Fleet, wingman to Maverick, friend of Jake and Bradley, has died of throat cancer.

The news comes from Warlock, who’s eyes flicker between Maverick, Bradley, and Jake like a pinball machine. Jake can’t breathe, can’t inhale any air past his tightening chest and the burn in his eyes, and Maverick is storming out, and Bradley is following, looking absolutely gutted, and—

“Jake, hey,” Javy is saying, sitting next to him and shaking his shoulder.

But Jake can’t register it, can’t do much other than feel the Earth grinding to a stop and leaving him off balance, because he’s already lost Charlie and now he’s lost Ice and who’s gonna be next? Because there’s always going to be the next one, because Jake Seresin doesn’t get to keep people he cares about. If life taught him one thing, it’s that Jake Seresin doesn’t get to love someone and keep them.

He brushes off Javy’s increasingly concerned looks in a daze, standing and leaving the hangar on autopilot. He finds himself walking to the tarmac, to his assigned F-18, where he curls against the front landing gear and breaks.

Ice’s death is another weight to Jake’s shoulders, weights Jake puts there himself because he doesn’t know anything else, doesn’t know how to live without the crushing expanse of everything he’s lost to get where he is today.

The next day, the Navy holds the funeral at Fort Rosecrans, with all the top brass and bells and whistles pulled out for their Pacific Fleet Commander. Jake hates it, hates the familiarity he has with these types of operations, having been to more funerals than he can count on one hand. They never fail to leave him hollow and shaking, a little bit emptier and heavier than he was before attending. And watching Mav punch his wings into Iceman’s casket, so similar to when he laid his own brother’s empty casket in the ground and watched his Captain punch his SEAL pin into the wood, it causes his stomach to roil so hard he stumbles back, away from the group, away from the scene to hide, because he can’t breathe and he’s definitely going to vomit and–

“Breathe with me, Jake,” Javy is saying, sitting in front of him at the base of the nearest tree. His hand is being laid flat on Javy’s dress-white chest that’s moving in exaggerated breaths so Jake can do his best to follow. It’s difficult, with the taste of bile still in his throat and tears pouring from the corners of his eyes as he clenches them shut, but he eventually is able to take steadier breaths and pull back. “You with me?”

Jake nods, wiping at his cheeks with shaking hands. Someone comes up beside them, holding out a water bottle and, oh, it’s Bob, and that’s so surprising that Jake is left dumbly staring at the outstretched plastic like it’s alien. Javy ends up taking it from Bob, who ends up sitting down next to Jake, pressing close enough that his arm is brushing Jake’s, and Jake’s fucking crying again like a little baby.

He can’t stop the tears, though, no matter how hard he tries. Bob’s shoulder is pressing into his, Javy’s hands are gripping at Jake’s calves, and Jake doesn’t know how to handle the support other than pure panic and breaking down, because he’s already emotionally drained from losing another person and having the flashback to his brother’s funeral. He feels too weak to posture that he’s just fine, thank you very much, no need to worry about him and all his issues. And maybe this is all the shit he’s bottled up since he was a kid watching that empty casket be lowered and all the comfort he never received from either parent. Maybe it’s the sickening numbness thawing out from when he watched his mom’s casket being covered in dirt. Maybe it’s the pain he shoved down when he watched his squadmate, Sunshine, get blown to pieces in a war no one wanted. Maybe it’s the grief he ignored when he lost the only real father figure in his life. Maybe it's all the panic finally spilling out because Javy and Bob both could have died yesterday and Jake’s the one losing his shit at the funeral of a man he called a friend and a mentor.

And maybe Jake’s the constant here, the harbinger of death, the man readying the nooses on the gallows for everyone to step into.

Javy pushes the water bottle in his hands when the hitching sobs finally stop, so Jake forces himself to drink some before facing the two that have just seen him lose his shit in the middle of a graveyard. “Thank you,” he tells them, shifting already to move away.

Javy’s hands push him back down, mouth set firm. “Jake.”

“Fuck,” he groans, because Javy’s giving him the look that says ‘you need to start talking.’

And yeah, it’s confirmed as soon as Javy opens his mouth. “Jake, this…you should really talk to someone. It doesn’t need to be us, it can be a therapist, but fuck, dude, this isn’t–”

“I already do,” Jake finally bursts, plastic crinkling under his grip. “Mandated. It doesn’t stop funerals from being fucking–” he cuts himself off, angrily wiping at his eyes. “I’ve lost basically everyone I’ve ever given a shit about and I almost lost you yesterday. I can’t—“ he cuts himself off again, biting his lip before whispering his own damnation. “I can’t lose any more people.”

I won’t survive losing anymore.

It’s quiet for a minute, other than the murmurs of the ceremony still going on some distance behind them. “I lost my mom when her submarine was hit,” Bob says, taking off his glasses and fiddling with them. “Had panic attacks for years after. Still get them sometimes, if I’m in the water. It’s why I became a pilot.” Jake reads between the lines, the ‘I know what you’re saying and I’ve felt it too.’ It’s a type of camaraderie he hasn’t experienced yet, one he hadn’t known he needed, so he nudges his shoulder into Bob’s and keeps it there.

Javy doesn’t say anything, hasn’t lost someone close to him like that, but he sits there, steady as a rock like always, and waits until they’re ready to move back to the ceremony.

When it’s over, Jake gathers the courage to go up to Sarah Kazansky and her two kids and hug them close, telling them that if they need anything at all, Jake will do anything in his power to help. It leads to more tears and more hugs before Sarah is gripping his shoulders tight and telling him: “He’s so proud of you.”

It sets off more waterworks, leaves Jake grasping for some semblance of control before he says his goodbyes and makes his way towards the car park with Javy at his side. Surprisingly, on the way out, Jake gets a pat on the back from Fanboy, a squeeze on the shoulder from Payback, and even concerned looks from Admirals Simpson and Bates. He waves them all off, because it’s obvious that Mav and Rooster and the Kazansky’s are the ones most in need of support and comfort right now, not him, but he’s grateful all the same.

–

They’re given a day off to recuperate after the funeral and Jake finds himself back at the hangar, walking the tarmac between the F-18’s and thinking hard, because the biggest issue with his squad is the fact that this mission has been portrayed as impossible and banking on miracles alone. So when he runs into Mav that early morning of the day they’re supposed to be back to work, he tells it straight to the man’s face.

“Let me run the course and I can get it done in the time needed,” Hangman tells Maverick, jaw set. “Everyone in there,” he punctuates the point by jabbing his finger in the direction of the classroom they’ve been in, “has been made to believe this mission is impossible to do within your specs and still come home. Let me prove them wrong.”

Maverick just sighs, rubbing his forehead before leveling Jake a look. “I’m not the one to be asking,” he eventually admits.

“What?”

“Cyclone’s replacing me with himself,” Mav explains, frowning. “He wants to set the timer to 4 minutes and the max speed to 450 knots within the canyon.”

“We’ll die out there,” Jake says, shocked.

“I know that!” Mav snaps back at him. “But I’ve been grounded by two Admirals now, with no wingman to save my ass this time. I don’t have a say anymore.”

“But I do,” Jake tells him, already turning to head towards the locker room.

“Hangman–”

“Let me show him he’s wrong,” Jake pleads, turning to face Mav again. “I’m not gonna have those idiots in there dying because some Admiral wants to make the mission itself less risky by slowing them down and getting them killed on the way back home.”

Maverick doesn’t say anything for a minute, just watches him, before he finally nods and motions for Jake to continue to the locker room. “I’ll get Hondo to ready the runway.”

“Thanks, Mav,” Jake shoots him a smile, saluting him jauntily as he pushes open the locker room’s door.

He’s in the cockpit only 20 minutes later, just a couple minutes before class is about to start, and takes off into the air with a whoop. Mav’s on the comms with him, watching from below, and starts the timer when Hangman hits the first part of the course.

He pushes himself, harder than he has before, because he has things to prove now, people to watch out for, and if he can go on this mission that means keeping at least one other person safe and the rest of the team safer because Hangman’s going to get them home whether they like it or not. The first part is easy, pulling fast turns and high G’s to avoid the simulated canyon walls. Then there’s a straight shot, where he gets to full throttle it and make up any time he can before he’s lifting the plane up, pulling probably 7 G’s as he crests the mountain top and flies down the other side inverted. He flips over, readies the fake bomb on the bottom of his F-18, lines the shot, and drops it before he’s taking off towards the sky once more, climbing higher and higher and pulling so many G’s his vision is blacking around the edges and the plane is groaning slightly.

But he pulls out of it when he crests the top, hearing Maverick’s cheers over the radio because he hit the target and made it out at 2 minutes 15 seconds, faster than the time Maverick had allotted for them, and cheers himself as he flies the plane back to base.

He lands with a grin, driving the F-18 into its spot and popping the canopy, ready to discuss pointers and tips with Maverick. However, he catches sight of Admiral Simpson fucking stomping towards him and feels the grin slide right off his face, ice pouring down his back, because that’s the same look his father used to give him right before–

“Lieutenant Seresin,” he barks as Jake climbs down the ladder. “What the absolute hell were you thinking?”

“Sir–”

“You just flew an unauthorized flight, stealing a million dollar piece of equipment and then pushing it past its safety limits, effectively ruining it for future flight until we can get it checked–”

“Sir, if I may,” Maverick runs up to them, cutting off the Admiral. “Hangman here’s just proven this mission can be done in the parameters I set that allow the team the greatest chance of survival.”

“You’re not on this mission, Maverick–”

“I know–”

“So I don’t want to hear whatever it is–”

“You’re setting these kids up to die if you go forward with your parameters,” Maverick snarls at the man. “I can’t let you do that.”

It’s quiet, then, the only sound being the others murmuring from their places barely even 50 feet away. Simpson is fuming, eyes dancing between Jake’s, before he points a finger towards the hangar. “Get out of my sight.”

“Sir–”

“Now,” Admiral Simpson spits.

Jake salutes and doesn’t hesitate to run for the hangar, past the others and all the way to the locker room where he collapses on one of the benches. His heart is pounding, and he’s probably just ruined his entire Navy career, but at least he made his fucking point so that whoever goes on this mission doesn’t have to die like everyone else in his life–

“Hangman, what the fuck was that,” Rooster asks, slamming open the locker room door with a scowl.

Hangman moves to stand, moves to face Rooster head on, but is stopped when Rooster’s fist gathers in the collar of his flight suit and slams him against the lockers. Jake can’t stop the flinch, can’t stop the fear pouring down his spine, because Jake grew up with this and knows what comes next–

“Why do you have to constantly prove you’re the fucking best, like you haven’t told us a million times before–”

“Rooster–”

“Risking your fucking career to make a point isn’t gonna get you shit but–”

“Rooster, let go of me–”

“-a court martial and dishonorable discharge, you fucking idiot–”

“Bradley, please,” Jake gulps, hands shoving at Bradley’s stupidly broad chest as his heart pounds. Bradley seems to realize the position he’s in then and steps back immediately, face no longer angry but a little terrified. Jake shakes himself, ridding his hands of their tremors before meeting Bradley’s eyes. “I did it because Simpson wasn’t going to listen.”

“You don’t–”

“I do,” Jake interrupts him. “Simpson was gonna send us out there to get the mission done and then die, and I’m not letting any of you fuckers die on my watch, we clear? Not when it fucking matters.” And Bradley’s staring at him, so Jake’s mouth just starts rambling. “Why do you think I’m such an asshole to you? You fly slow out there and the enemy’s gonna shoot you down and who do you think will be left to tell your family you’re gone?! Huh?! Who’s gonna be left with the fallout?!” Jake snarls, moving a step forward towards Bradley.

Bradley looks stricken, like Jake’s just torn the rug out from under him and turned the world upside down. He doesn’t say anything, so Jake turns around and begins stripping off his gear and shoving it into his locker. By the time he’s done and slams his locker shut, Bradley’s gone and the locker room is empty.

When Jake exits, it’s to Javy leaning against the wall, looking unsure and a little bit worried as Jake enters his line of sight. “Admiral Simpson wants you in his office.”

He nods, clapping Javy on the shoulder with a forced grin. “Thanks,” he calls as he heads down the hallway.

He finds Mav in the Admiral’s office, standing, while Admiral Bates sits across from Simpson. They’re all frowning, so Jake’s expecting the worst until Simpson opens his mouth and says, “We’re making you team leader.”

Jake’s floored, blood frozen, thawed, then frozen again, thoughts screeching to a halt like he’s just slammed into the dirt, because what the absolute fuck. They should be kicking his ass so far out of the Navy he ends up in space. He should be getting court martialed three ways to Sunday without Ice to save his ass. He should be getting stripped of all his ribbons, not promoted–

“Although what you did was reckless and defying orders, you’ve proven to us and your squad that this mission can be done and that our pilots can make it home safely,” Bates says, lips twitching into a smirk.

“Sirs?” he finally gets out, looking at all of them.

Mav chuckles then, which Simpson glares at before scowling at Jake. “Your risk paid off this time, Lieutenant, but don’t expect this to happen again, and don’t ever even think about attempting what you did ever again. Understood?”

Jake nods, swallowing past the anxiety in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ve got a team picked out for you, but I want your approval before I tell the rest of your squad,” Mav moves forward, holding out a sheet of paper with his messy scrawl on it.

Jake takes it, brows furrowing as he tries to decipher the first few names and–

Phoenix, Bob, Payback, Fanboy, and Rooster.

Jake wishes he could see Coyote’s name on there instead of Rooster, wishes that dumbass didn’t get G-LOC’d and basically disqualified himself from the mission, but he can’t say that to his superiors. He’s already pushed them so far past their limits and back that he's on dangerously thin ice, so he hands the sheet back to Mav with a nod and a smirk. “Couldn’t have picked better myself.”

Mav grins at him and, ope, yep, Simpson is definitely rolling his eyes behind his hand while he pretends to rub his brows, and Bates is no longer bothering to hide his smile. Jake shoots them all his patented grin, saluting as they dismiss him and leaving the room.

Just before the door shuts, he hears Simpson mutter, “I need to retire. I can’t handle another you,” followed by Maverick’s cackle. Jake grins to himself, shaking his head as he makes his way down to the classroom.

“I’m guessing by that smile you’ve got plastered on your face, you’re not getting kicked out?” Javy asks as he enters the main hangar area.

“They couldn’t very well just let their best pilot go,” Jake grins, plastering on his usual cocky exterior. It earns him a couple eye rolls, but something must have changed in these last couple days. Like Phoenix isn’t glaring at him, Payback and Fanboy are just chuckling, Bob’s shaking his head, and Rooster…Rooster isn’t even looking at him.

He doesn't know how to feel about that.

(That’s a lie. He does and he’s hurt.)

When the Admirals and Mav come out to spill the news to the squad, no one puts up any complaints, no one really says much of anything, just moves when they’re dismissed for more flight training.

–

The following week goes on like that, dogfighting and running the course over and over to make sure they’re prepped for what’s going to happen. They work out whatever kinks are left in their team, with Hangman communicating plans and changes more and the others thinking on their feet and pushing him harder. And when they board the carrier and ship out into the Pacific, their squad finally feels like the team they’re meant to be, even if they’re staring down their own reapers as they grow closer and closer to international waters.

When the day comes, Rooster meets him out on the deck between their two Hornets with a look that tells Jake he wants to do something but he’s not sure he’s got the courage to.

“What is it?” Jake asks him, having to speak up a little over the wind.

Bradley just looks at him some more, eyes raking over his face, and finally snaps out of whatever reprieve he was in. “Don’t leave us hangin’ out there.”

And Jake can’t help the twinge that sends through him, because he thought this last week had proven he wouldn’t, but he forces through it and sets his shoulders back with a cocky smirk. “Only if you step off that perch.”

“Hangman–”

“Don’t think, Bradley,” Jake tells him, sobering up a little as the technician calls him over to his plane. “Just do.” Bradley doesn’t say anything, stuck in his own head like always, so Jake turns and leaves him.

Chapter Text

Hangman will admit it: his heart’s nearly beating out of his chest.

By some fucking miracle, Rooster sped up, stopped thinking, caught up to him and Dagger 3 with Dagger 4 not far behind. By another miracle, Rooster’s missile drop hits without Bob’s laser.

That seems to be where their miracles end.

Because they’re flying, Hangman’s hauling massive ass and making sure the others are too. But they’re running out of flares to dodge the SAM’s, and then they’re running out of missiles as the bogeys fly in, and one of those bogeys gets hit when Phoenix and Bob get them in their sights, and then Rooster, because of course it’s fucking Rooster, gets the other on his tail and has nothing to dodge the missile coming at him and can’t outrun the Russian 5th Gen Su-57.

Hangman, for the first time in his flight career, actually thinks while he’s in the air.

He thinks of Lieutenant Bradley fucking Bradshaw, stupidest name in the entire world, with his stupid pornstache and beautiful tan and ugly ass Hawaiian shirts. He thinks of Bradshaw’s face when he launched that low blow about his father and Maverick right in his face, when he tried to goad the stupid asshole into being a better, faster pilot because, if he was going on this mission, he needed to get out alive, because that’s what Jake promised Ice all those years ago. He thinks about how his stupid face fell slack when he finally realized Jake actually did give a shit. He thinks about the lost look he had when Jake said those words to him on the deck of their carrier.

Jake doesn’t really have people to mourn him. Bradley does.

He pulls up, flaring the ailerons and elevators of his F-18 so that the plane nearly goes vertical, slowing so fast his body pushes uncomfortably tight against the straps of his seat in the cockpit. Rooster’s Super Hornet shoots out from below him, into safety, as the tone of an incoming missile sounds from Hangman’s dash. He doesn’t waste time to think now, catching sight and zoning in on the bogey above him, and fires his last missile at the remaining Russian jet just before his own gets hit.

He jolts in his seat at the impact, forcing himself to try to stay relaxed, not tense up, as his jet goes careening towards the snowy ground. He licks his lips, glancing out his canopy as the trees grow closer and closer, sees the enemy fighter go down in pieces, no chute in sight, and grins, because that puts him at 2 confirmed air-combat kills, secures his spot as the best Navy pilot since Maverick. He can’t hear much past the ringing in his ears, just the loudness of his teammates screaming, so he goes for the ejection lever and pulls it once, twice, three times before realizing the thing is jammed.

He’s trapped in his own coffin.

His teammates are screaming at him to eject, get out of there, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of tears starting. And the last thing he hears just before his plane nose dives into the frozen ground is Rooster’s voice cracking over his callsign.

He’s just glad they’ll make it out alive.

–

Hangman wakes to heat and the sound of helicopter blades in the distance.

He’s surprised he even woke up. His head aches and his thoughts are foggy, like they’re coming through layers and layers of cotton only to bounce off brick walls and fall back into nothingness. He doesn’t move, barely breathes past the pain in his chest, as the helicopter grows closer and the blades chop chop chop fill the entire space around him.

They’re checking to make sure he’s dead.

He wishes he was, but he won’t let them believe otherwise.

By some miracle, and damn if Hangman isn’t one lucky bastard, the helicopter circles the plane once and flies off, leaving Hangman to face his namesake alone.

Because even though the crash didn’t kill him, trying to get back home probably will.

The heat at his back is becoming unbearable, so he forces his sluggish hands to grapple at his straps, tugging and unclipping until he’s free to unlock the canopy. It’s stuck, because of course it is, and it takes him bodily throwing himself against it for it to creak open enough to crawl out. He falls to the snow with a grunt, unable to catch himself from toppling over as his legs give out and eyesight spins. One glance at the back of the plane has him trying to scramble up, scramble away, because those flames are dangerously close to the emergency fuel tank and–

An explosion rips apart the Super Hornet, throwing Hangman forward with the momentum of heat and debris and shrapnel piercing into his back. He lands on his front with a gasp, ribs screaming and head hurting and blacks out again.

–

He doesn't know how long he was out that time, only that it’s still light out from what he can see past the blood spatter on his visor. A glance at his watch shows him that two hours have passed since they took off the carrier at the start of the mission, which bodes poorly for the possibility of being rescued. He tugs off his mask finally, grimacing at the tugging sensation he feels as he pulls it from where it dug itself into his skin. Next is his helmet, which is cracked in the back and sticks to his hair and scalp in a hot, wet, disgusting sensation as he pulls it off. He fingers the back of his head and holds his hand in front of him, frowning at the glistening red that coats his fingertips.

Concussion for sure. Every breath he takes is like someone stabbing a knife into his side, meaning broken ribs at the very least. No rattle, though, so no puncture for now.

He twists, trying to stand, and grapples to feel a hot spot somewhere in his lower back. He slices his hand on a piece of metal sticking out and, against every medic’s judgement probably, he tugs the thing out. It comes out immediately and easily and when he brings it round to inspect, he sees only about an inch is coated in blood, so at least it wasn’t too deep. He chucks it to the side and forces himself to stand then, groaning at the aches and pains making themselves very known to his brain as he wobbles on his two feet. At least his legs seem to be in working order, he thinks, already grappling at his pockets for his survival gear.

He doesn’t have much. Just a couple rations, water, a compass, a map, his radar tag, his grandfather’s watch, his mother’s cross, and a gun. He’s not sure how much use the Glock 19 will be other than to shoot himself in the head if the enemy comes back, but that’s not a thought he needs to be thinking right now.

He needs a plan. “Talk to me, Ice,” he whispers into the frigid air.

“Hydrate then list out your options,” the Ice in his head whispers back. He nods to himself, pulling out his canteen and sipping at the tepid water as he goes through his options.

He can kill himself, get it over with. He can wait it out some more, wait to see if the Navy will send a retrieval for his body. Or he can find a way out of this damn country and back into the air.

Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but he’d rather die trying to get out than sit around and wait.

He pulls out his compass and the map, checking for where the hell he could be and where that damn enemy airfield is. He knows he’s definitely South of the airfield, so he packs his water and begins walking.

It takes 10 minutes for him to correctly orient himself, change course, and then another half-hour to actually reach the enemy air base.

It’s still burning.

The runway is a mess of concrete and craters. All the planes are either destroyed or damaged beyond repair. It’s by a massive stroke of luck (and another goddamn miracle…Jake’s beginning to wonder who the hell did he please so much to survive all this) that there’s a fucking F-14 Tomcat sitting, undamaged and untouched, in a covered hangar.

Rooster’s voice is laughing in his head as he eyeballs it from his hiding spot up the hill. “Do you even know how to fly that thing?”

Jake rolls his eyes at himself. Theoretically, he knew the F-14 inside and out. One of his professors at Corpus Christi had made it a point that his class knew all active jets and knew how to fly them, because they never knew what would happen and when that knowledge would be useful. Doesn’t mean he’ll actually be able to fly the damn thing, or get it off the ground with the state of the runway, but anything’s better than hanging around and waiting for the fucking Russian military to shoot his ass.

On the slide down towards the battered runway where people are still running about through the smoke and flames, he catches sight of one undamaged strip of concrete that’s going to be his ticket off this shithole. Only issue is that it’s short and there’s massive water towers sitting at the end of it.

“There’s no fucking way you’re making that,” Rooster wheedles in his head.

“Fucking Christ,” Jake mutters to himself, walking purposefully across the tarmac, helmet tucked under his arm to hide the design as Russians jog from one place to another through the smoke. By another goddamned miracle, Jake makes it to the Tomcat’s bay without anyone noticing him. The fuel pump whirs to life after he fiddles with it and then he’s waiting for it to finish fueling while he gets the Tomcat ready for flight. He tucks the ladder in, tears off all the tags, goes through his typical flight check-out as the fuel pumps and clicks off when it’s full. He drops it to the ground, hurried and panicked as he vaults himself into the cockpit with a muffled grunt of pain. There’s blood in his mouth now, from where he’s bitten his cheek to stop thinking about his ribs.

He swallows past it, tugging on his helmet and mask, clicking into the oxygen tank and clipping into the seat before sending a prayer to a god he may actually be starting to believe in and turning on the plane.

It rumbles to life and Hangman lets out the shakiest breath as his hands fly over the console, turning on systems, readying the plane, checking sensors before he moves it out from its hangar. It’s surprisingly familiar to the F-15, something he actually has flown, so it’s not too hard to get it rolling out. None of the Russians pay him too much attention, probably thinking it’s one of their own, heading after the enemy like a good soldier. He doesn’t really know, doesn’t care, because he’s launching himself down the abysmally short side-way as fast as he can, pulling up the ailerons and elevators so the Tomcat pulls off the ground and barely misses the two tanks at the end. He only loses the landing gear from his stunt, but he’s in the air and he can’t help but let out the biggest shout of his life because holy shit, he’s just escaped enemy territory and certain death and he’s coming home.

The biggest issue is this plane is fucking ancient by aeronautical standards. There’s no readouts or display or radar for him to use while he’s in the air, because there’s an empty seat behind him that’s meant to be his lookout and WSO. As soon as he levels out, he turns on his own GPS locator and begins to fiddle with the comms, because he’s in an unmarked, unidentified relic with no landing gear and he doesn’t think the Navy will be too pleased with him trying to land it on their carrier with no tail-catch either.

His luck must be running out, though, because the comms won’t turn on and two fucking more Su-57’s start gunning for him when they won’t fall for his ‘I’m smiling and waving because there’s no comms. What’s up? Nothing’s wrong here’ rouse.

It’s another dogfight, and definitely pushing Hangman’s limits, because his head fucking hurts and he can barely breathe and now there’s asshole Russians trying to take him down again. He’s got two missiles, two packs of flares, and 142 bullets loaded onto this fossil and he knows he won’t be able to take on 5th generation fighters and come out in one piece with this hunk of junk in the open air. He immediately cuts down into the canyon they came in on, pulling out all the tricks in his book to dodge/flare the enemies’ missiles and use one of his own to take down one of the Su-57s.

3 kills now under Hangman’s name.

He loses the other bogey by the time he breaks out over the ocean, punching it full throttle to get the fuck away from Russia and back to international waters. He thinks he’s fine, maybe that last bogey gave up on him, thought hey, that hottie with a body in that piece of shit plane deserves a chance to live after all the shit he’s been through, sure, it’ll be fine–

The sensors start beeping at him, indicating a missile’s locked on him, and he uses his last flares to explode it before it reaches the Tomcat.

He attempts to missile lock the Su-57 and curses when the plane fucking rotates in the air, like a whole 360 degrees in all degrees of freedom, so the missile flies past and doesn’t explode on proximity. Then the asshole is gunning it for Hangman head on, and all Hangman has are 142 bullets, which are slowly depleting, and he’s getting hit and ole reliable here can’t handle much more when an F-18 zooms past him and takes out the 5th gen jet in an explosion that has Hangman shuddering out a breath.

The Super Hornet pulls up next to him in the air, close enough that he can see Rooster’s stupid face making stupid expressions when Hangman’s comms suddenly crackle to life.

“Good afternoon aviator,” Rooster grins at him. “This is your savior speaking. Please return your tray table to the upright position as we prepare for landing.”

Hangman laughs then coughs then grunts as his ribs flare up in pain. Rooster’s giving him a look across the air now, so Hangman wheezes until the pain fades a little and speaks. “This dinosaur’s got no landin’ gear.”

“Rooster, come in for landing. We’ll set up a net to catch you, Hangman. Make sure to come in real slow,” Maverick’s voice calls out over the comms.

“Will do,” he tells the captain before a grin splits across his face. “Slow ride, take it easy,” Jake taunts quietly.

Rooster huffs a laugh over the comms before his Hornet speeds ahead. Hangman follows at a slower pace, biding time, and when he gets to the carrier the F-18 has already landed and is being taxi’d off. He circles the carrier slowly, watching as the crew pulls out a massive net and flashes at him the go-ahead when it’s ready.

He slows down as much as he’s able, circling the carrier one last time before slamming into the surface and skidding down the runway while flaring all the ailerons to increase drag. The hard stop of the net makes his straps cut into his chest and Hangman almost blacks out once more from the pain. He doesn’t, though, holds on to consciousness because he fucking made it back, he got two kills while doing so, and he’s not dead. He wants the glory he earned.

He tears off his mask and pops the canopy, inhaling a painful, shuddering breath full of fumes and salty-ocean air, and laughs. Someone leans over him, blocking the sunlight, and Jake focuses on the dumbass above him.

“Hangman, Hangman, holy shit,” Bradley is rambling, hands scrambling for a place to land over Jake’s limp body.

He grins up at the man, eyes shutting as his head spins. “Yer a sight for sore eyes,” he tries to say, suavely, but he’s pretty sure he misses the mark because he’s slurring his words. He reaches up to the seat’s harness buckles, weakly trying to unclip himself so he can get out of this stupid fucking fossil and then go sleep for a week, but he keeps failing to fully unclasp it.

Rooster’s hands bat his out of the way, reaching low to do the work for him and then grasp his hand and pull him up. Jake can’t counterbalance the momentum, can’t stop himself from wobbling straight into Rooster’s stupidly strong body, can’t stop the cry of pain as his ribs make themselves known once more. “You hurt?” Rooster asks, arms already bracketing and holding Jake steady. He nods into Rooster’s shoulder, hissing in pain as one of Rooster’s hands finds the wet-sticky spot on his back. Rooster tenses then, because, yeah, Hangman’s been bleeding sluggishly from that wound this whole time probably and the hot-wet-stickiness has spread from his back down the back of one of his legs too. “We need a medic!” Rooster yells past the shouting, the cheering, and Jake’s starting to realize that all the noise isn’t in his head, in the ringing still happening in his ears. It’s a crowd of the carrier crew, surrounding his stolen F-14 Tomcat, cheering and happy that he made it back.

The crowd starts going silent at Rooster’s shout, then it becomes like a ghost town after he shouts for medics again as he helps Hangman down the ladder and onto the ship deck. Rooster, no, Bradley, this is definitely Bradley with his stupid, big, brown, doe eyes shining all worried, takes Jake’s helmet off when he’s steady, face contorting from worry to straight up panic when he catches sight of the back of Jake’s head.

“Hangman, what the fuck,” Bradley mutters, holding him steady and reaching for Jake’s face. “How the fuck did you fly back like this?”

“I’m jus’ tha’ good,” Jake slurs with a smirk. “V’ry good.” He sways to the side as the boat moves under him, head screwed up enough he can’t slip into his sea legs as easily as he normally can. Bradley holds him firmer, hands probably leaving bruises where they’re gripping at his shoulders. Jake finds he doesn’t mind. “I din’ leave you,” he murmurs, head tilting forward to rest on Bradley’s shoulder.

“What?”

“Din’ leave you hangin’.”

And then medical is on them.

He’s pulled away from Bradley and, yeah, he’s concussed and has blood loss and is delirious from the pain, but Bradley’s got the most kicked puppy dog sad look on his face and Jake doesn’t understand why. All Bradley ever gave him shit for, and Natasha and Javy and everyone else, is that Jake had a problem of leaving others in the dust when they wouldn’t step up and get with the program quick enough. Phoenix and Rooster had called him a dick for it. Coyote always said it was Jake’s fear of failure, not wanting to even have the opportunity to let a wingman down when he could just be better on his own. So he doesn’t get why, after he basically gave his life for his wingman, why said wingman would look so hurt by Jake’s words.

The medics are firmly directing his limbs onto a stretcher now, despite him telling them he “can walk, jus’ fine.” He’s strapped down and lifted away, stretcher jostling only slightly with the steps the medics make, and Bradley doesn’t follow.

In the medbay, they want to cut off his flight suit and he bitches to them so much about it they let him just unzip and tug it off. He concedes when they want to cut open his shirt, because he doesn’t think he can lift his arms up right now if he tried, and lets them cut off his boxers and dress him in a hospital gown with the back open. The next eternity is spent cleaning all the caked blood, grime, and dirt off of him, revealing the myriad of bruises, cuts, and injuries he actually has.

His ribs are wrapped and his back wound is stitched up, followed by butterfly bandages being put over the shallow cuts on his face. The back of his head is cleaned up and left alone, because although it bled a lot, it was a minor scrape from the back of his helmet. The x-rays reveal his skull is fine, he’s got 4 broken ribs, and no broken bones elsewhere.

He’s left alone then with what are definitely threats from the nurses that they’ll be checking on him every so often to make sure he’s not dying or slipping into a coma. He glances at the door, frowning because no one has stepped in yet to check on him, he hasn’t heard any of the nurses mention anyone trying to get their way in here. “See, Bradley?” he thinks to himself. “Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin doesn’t have people to mourn him.”

Maybe he should have stayed dead out there in the Russian wilderness.

–

Jake dreams.

He dreams of Iceman, hair coiffed like always and blue eyes piercing, sitting beside him in a cockpit only made for one, guiding his targeting system to lock on that bogey as his own F-18 went down in flames.

He dreams of his older brother, screaming over his limp body, trying to keep the flames back and wake Jake the fuck up so he can make it out of this metal death-trap alive.

He dreams of Charlie shoving him away from the blast as the F-18 finally exploded.

He dreams of a dirty blonde, mustached man with dark eyes, who looks so much like Bradley it hurts, fiddling in the empty seat of that fucking F-14, flicking one switch so the comms spring to life when Hangman thought they were dead.

He dreams of his mom, curling her small, delicate fingers through his hair, standing over his hospital bed with a smile he never saw after the age of 17.

–

He wakes to someone gently tapping on his shoulder and another squeezing his hand.

“Lieutenant? You with me?” a woman is asking.

“Mom?” he calls, confused as he’s pulled from the very vivid dream.

“You’re in medbay,” the woman, a nurse, tells him.

He tries to pull away, because running’s the only thing that ever keeps people from asking too many questions, but doesn’t get far before the pain in his torso flares so badly he gasps. Hands firmly push him back into the cot, holding him steady as he tries to breathe through it. He cracks his eyes open, grimacing as the white lights of medbay pierce straight into his skull. The nurse moves in front of him, checking his pupils with her flashlight and nodding to herself before giving him the okay to go back to sleep.

She leaves, but someone is still holding his hand, so he turns to find Javy sitting next to him, looking scared and relieved and worried all in one. “Hey, Coyote,” Jake murmurs, pulling his lips into a smirk.

“Fuck, Hangman,” Javy lets out in a rush. “You had us scared there. We thought you were dead.”

Jake widens his smirk, leaning his head back against the surprisingly soft pillow. “I’m too good to die from a mission like that,” he teases.

“Jake,” Javy starts, serious and low and Jake can’t help but look at him, growing a little weary. “I thought I lost you. Then you fucking come back from the dead, only to stumble out of a fucking Tomcat looking like death warmed over.”

Jake squeezes his best friend’s hand, dropping the smirk finally, because there apparently was one person alive who would mourn him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I…I didn’t want to leave anyone hanging out to dry.”

“Fuck,” Javy mutters, leaning forward to rest his forehead against their clasped hands. He doesn’t say anything else for a while, long enough that Jake’s starting to doze off. He’s almost asleep by the time Javy pulls up and wipes at his face. He forces his eyes open as Javy stands and his other hand moves to brush through Jake’s hair and cup the side of his face. “You’re my best friend, asshole,” Javy tells him. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Understood?”

“Understood,” Jake replies, letting the tears fall.

–

The second time he wakes, the lights are off in the medbay. The nurse is quick, rousing him and handing him some water before leaving with a firm squeeze on his foot and a smile.

As Jake drinks, he looks at the two people now sitting next to him. Payback and Fanboy are sitting in the chairs next to his bed, cards held in their hands and a stack resting next to Jake’s thigh. Reuben shoots him a grin, slapping Mickey in the shoulder as he sets his cards face-down on the bedding and gives Jake’s arm a little shake.

“The man awakens!” Reuben cheers.

“Nice to see you too, Payback,” Jake smiles.

“Glad you’re still with us,” Mickey tells him with a squeeze to his knee.

“Me too,” Jake admits softly, eyes already drooping from the pain meds. They must be on a timer, or something, because it’s feeling like it’s hitting hard. “Where…where’s–”

“We sent Javy back to his room to sleep,” Payback tells him.

“It’s like midnight,” Fanboy fills in.

“Thank you,” Jake hums, shutting his eyes.

“For what?” Payback asks.

Jake thinks it's the drugs and the sleep overcoming him, but he finds himself being more honest than he would ever usually let himself be when he mumbles a “Don’ like bein’ alone,” before he drifts off.

–

The next time he wakes to the nurse’s gentle shaking, she’s giving him a pretty smile and telling him it’s the last time she’ll wake him up until they hit shore. He chuckles quietly and thanks her, good mannered like the Southern boy his mamma raised him to be, and looks at who’s at his bedside this time.

He’s expecting Javy again, since a quick glance at the clock on the wall shows 0600. But he’s met with the sight of Bob sleeping on Natasha’s shoulder while Natasha sets down her tablet in her lap. “Hey, Bagman,” she greets him quietly.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he murmurs, wincing when he shifts to sit up more.

She gives him a look, one that is different from her usual ‘I can see right through all your bullshit.’ It’s coming across something like pity, something like sadness, and her hand is reaching for his and holding tightly. “‘Course I am,” she whispers. “You saved my best friend’s life out there.”

His brain is still too jumbled to think of anything snarky to keep her outside his walls. “Didn’t need Mav losin’ anymore family,” he tells her, thinking of those dreams, crystal clear still, of Iceman right next to him and Nick Bradshaw right behind him. Her brows furrow as she stares at him, like him being honest is a sign he’s dying all over again. Or maybe it’s because he shouldn’t know that, even though it wasn’t hard to piece together when he knew Iceman as well as he did.

“What happened out there, Jake?” she asks, shifting as Bob sits up and rubs his eyes under his glasses.

He looks away from her, staring at the ceiling before shutting his eyes against the glare of the lights. “My ejection seat failed,” he tells her quietly, hearing her suck in a sharp breath. “Woke up to the plane burning. Barely made it out before it exploded.” He opens his eyes and glances at them. Bob looks sickeningly pale under the fluorescent lights. Natasha looks like she’s talking to a ghost. “Made it to the airfield Cyclone Tomahawk’d, found a plane, made it out.”

“Fuck,” Bob breathes out.

It startles Jake so much he laughs and immediately regrets it. Pain flares in his chest and he wheezes past it, groaning as it takes a while to subside. “Fuck, don’t make me laugh, Bob,” he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“You’ve got some guardian angels, Hangman,” Natasha tells him, squeezing his hand again.

And Jake’s thinking of those ghosts in his dream, those familiar faces so crystal clear, ones he had thought he lost to grief and time, and gives her a smile. “I think I do.”

They lapse into silence for a little, with Bob handing Jake his phone which had been on the table next to his cot, fully charged. He opens it and is greeted with absolutely no notifications, unsurprising, but both Natasha and Bob are looking a little too smirky for him to not be suspicious. “What did you guys do?”

“Not us,” Bob says with a smile.

“Check the photos,” Natasha tells him, biting her lower lip to hold back the shit-eating grin.

He opens his photos, immediately rolling his eyes when he finds like 100 new ones. Most are of Fanboy and Payback, doing funny poses around him and dressing him up ridiculous in the hospital garb. There’s a few of Javy snoring at his bedside too. He shakes his head with a grin, setting his phone to the side. “I told you not to make me laugh,” he gripes.

“You told Bob not to make you laugh,” Natasha snarks back.

“Laughter is the best medicine,” a new voice calls out from the doorway.

“Not for someone with a broken ribcage,” Jake grumbles, watching Maverick make his way to the end of his bed.

“How you feelin’, kiddo?” Maverick asks.

“Alive,” Jake answers.

“Good,” Maverick grins at him. “They feeding you in this hellhole?”

“No.”

“Mav, it’s not even 7–”

“I got you a banana,” Mav cuts off Natasha, holding out the glorious yellow fruit with a grin.

Jake doesn’t hesitate to grab it and tear into it, groaning at the wonderful taste that washes out the shitty morning breath he definitely had and whatever metallic taste was leftover from his brush with death. “Thank you,” he tells Mav with a full mouth and grins when Natasha scoffs and slaps his shoulder.

“The Admirals are gonna be down here in a couple hours. They’re gonna want the story,” Mav says, eyeing him.

“Thanks for the heads up,” he tells the Captain with a nod, finishing his banana.

“Uh…” Maverick looks unsure now, lost as he shifts from foot to foot. “Phoenix, Bob, would you mind if I have a moment alone with Hangman?” The two pilots nod and leave the medbay, footsteps echoing down the metal hallway as they move away. Mav moves to take Natasha’s abandoned seat, looking tired and very much his age.

“Everything alright?” Jake asks, shifting a little as he watches Mav.

“Just wanted to say thank you,” Mav starts, clasping his hands together. “For saving Bradley’s life out there.”

“Of course,” Jake frowns.

Mav stares at him then, eyes flickering back and forth between Jake’s before he sighs. “Is there a reason Coyote is your emergency contact?” Mav asks before shaking his head with a frown. “Of course there’s a reason. I guess what I’m asking is…what is the reason?”

Jake grimaces, jaw clenching as he looks at the Captain in front of him. “He’s…he’s the only person I got.”

Mav looks gutted at that. “You know that’s not true anymore, right?” Jake doesn’t answer, just stares at Mav, because where the hell is this guy going with this? Mav frowns deeper at his lack of an answer. “We’ll be getting to the coast tomorrow so, uh, if you need anything.” He hands Jake a piece of paper with 10 digits written on it. “Don’t hesitate to call or text, okay?”

Jake’s staring at the paper still as Mav stands, thoughts frozen as deja-vu pours through him. He calls out before Mav gets to the door. “Mav!” The Captain turns, hazel eyes a little sad and a lotta hopeful as they zero in on Jake. “Thank you,” he says, holding the paper up with a smile.

Mav smiles back. “No problem, kid.”

Bob and Natasha come back a couple minutes later, breakfasts in hand. They set down a tray in front of Jake, forcing him to eat the oatmeal even though he already had a banana. Then Bob’s forcing him up and around, making him lap medbay a couple times with a firm glare that makes Jake want to laugh again. Javy joins them soon after that, holding out a stack of cards so they can play Rummy while they wait for the Admirals to show.

At 0900 on the dot, the two older men step through the door and stand at the end of Jake’s bed, asking him to recount, in detail, what he went through. He does, trying to explain what happened as clinically and detailed as possible, watching as Bates is scribbling down on his notepad every word he’s saying.

When he’s done, the Admirals give him their well wishes, telling him he’s expected at the base hospital in ten days to get the stitches out and that he’s on medical leave for the next two months until his ribs heal up. He sends them off with a smirk, waving again when Natasha and Bob follow them out, leaving Jake alone with Javy.

“You know,” Javy starts, sorting the cards and putting them away. “Rooster’s real torn up about what happened.”

“What? Why?” Jake asks.

“I think you’re gonna have to ask him that yourself,” Javy smirks, motioning with his head towards the door.

It’s empty, so Jake turns a confused glare at him. “You expect me, the injured one, to get up and go find that loser?”

Javy laughs, head thrown back. “Rooster will never be the one to make the first move, Jake. That’s on you.”

“I’ve tried,” Jake definitely does not whine. “He’s never–”

“You’ve pulled his pigtails for long enough,” Javy cuts him off. “That man needs a sign from God to get it through his thick skull that you’re in love with him.” Jake opens his mouth to retort, causing Javy to smack his arm. “And no, apparently sacrificing yourself for him is not the sign from God he needs.”

Jake groans. “Go get me some actual pants then. I’m not walking the ship in this damn paper sheet.”

Javy does as he’s told, leaving medbay and returning five minutes later with a pair of Navy sweatpants and a shirt. Jake doesn’t waste any time tugging them on, only grimacing slightly as he forces the shirt past his shoulders. Then Javy’s hand is on his back, gently directing him out and towards the crew quarters with a smirk. Jake lets himself be led all the way to Rooster’s door, where Javy drops him off like a mom dropping their kid off for school and leaves with a grin.

Bradley opens the door after a couple knocks, brows furrowed in confusion when he catches sight of Jake standing barefoot and in pajamas in the middle of the hallway. “You gonna let an injured pilot stand out in the cold?” Jake snarks when Bradley doesn’t move.

Bradley steps back, still looking confused and a little flabbergasted as Jake steps inside and shuts the door behind him. “Why…why aren’t you in medbay? Hangman, you’re still healing–”

“Because,” Jake cuts him off with a glare. “You haven’t come to see me yet. Like, damn, you’re really gonna make the guy with the broken ribs do all the work?”

Oh no, that might’ve been too harsh, too much too fast, because Bradley’s looking like a kicked puppy. “I’m sor–”

“Bradley,” Jake interrupts him. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do, though,” he says, sitting on his bed. Jake lowers himself next to Bradley gently, waiting for Bradley to pull his thoughts together. “You saved my life out there,” Bradley tells him. “Then you went down…and I didn’t go back for you.”

“Rooster–”

“I left you hanging,” Bradley cuts him off, running a hand through his hair.

“You didn’t, though,” Jake murmurs. “The fact that I survived that crash is…unbelievable. I shouldn’t have. You were right to head back here, get back to safety.” Bradley still isn’t looking at him, still is looking crushed, so Jake continues, nudging his shoulder into Bradley’s. “You came back to me when I really needed you. Saved my life right back, right there at the end.” Bradley finally looks at him and, oh, those are tears pooling beneath those pretty brown eyes. Jake can’t help himself and his battered heart, just reaches up and brushes his thumb under Rooster’s eye when they finally spill over. “I’m here, darlin’,” Jake whispers to him.

“I almost lost you,” Bradley whispers back, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“But you didn’t,” Jake tells him. “I made it back.”

Bradley’s hand moves up to cradle Jake’s against his cheek, holding it there like it’s his only lifeline, and Jake begins to wonder how many people this man next to him has also lost. “I’m so glad you did,” Bradley murmurs, pressing his lips into the meat of Jake’s palm. “I can’t lose anymore–”

“Just kiss me, you big idiot,” Jake blurts out.

Bradley’s eyes zero in on his and, upon seeing the fondness that Jake’s sure is written across his face, leans forward and presses his lips to his. It’s the tenderest kiss Jake’s ever experienced, honey-sweet and gentle and full of so many emotions that it’s overwhelming. It feels like the first time Jake stepped foot in a jet, the first time he went supersonic, the first drop of his stomach and the heat of the sun blazing across his skin and the joy seeping into his soul.

They pull away slightly only moments later, both panting like they’ve just run miles and a pretty, pretty blush spilling across Bradley’s cheeks. Jake rests his forehead against Bradley’s with a grin, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”

Bradley pushes forward at that, kissing him deeper and harder, one hand cradling that back of Jake’s head and burying his fingers into his hair. It’s heady and Jake’s already addicted to the feel of Bradley’s lips on his, moving in that slow, precise way of his and taking Jake apart at the seams. He pulls back as soon as Jake releases a sound, something mixed between a grunt of pain and a moan, because his ribs are still hurting like a bitch and breathing is the biggest issue here.

“Sorry,” Bradley murmurs to him. His hand leaves Jake’s hair and ends up skating down his arm to his other hand. “I just can’t get enough of you.”

Jake’s face splits into a grin at that and he can already feel the heat as his cheeks grow pink from the compliment. “Well, I don’t plan on leavin’ anytime soon,'' Jake tells him, thumb tracing circles into Bradley’s hand.

“Good,” Bradley smiles back before pressing honey-sweet kiss after honey-sweet kiss into his lips.