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Rooster hates the medical wing. It reminds him too much of the hospital, the sickly sterile walls and the coughing that reverberated against his ears, the dull tone of a flatline as his mother’s hand slips from his own, as the cancer finally overcomes her body, as if she hadn’t been fighting for years to take control, to stamp it out.
It’s less like a hospital here, however. There is equipment, yes, but the walls are brown, the curtains are dirty and stained, and the sheet reeks of blood and sweat and tears. Maverick has been taken to an actual hospital; Rooster chose to stay behind, fought tooth and nail to not be brought into the hall of death, not when everything is so raw and fresh and raw, brought back into his mind after the events of the mission.
He could have died. He would have ended up like his mother, like his father; killed in action. No wife, no children, no one back home to mourn him when you burn in. Isn’t that what he said to Maverick, when the anger had bubbled in his chest, burning in his veins and clogging up his arteries? Syrupy and sticky and boiling, pent up from years and years of no communication, of harbouring grudges that seem so silly now?
(He’s lived over a decade longer than his father, and something in his chest stings with that knowledge. The knowledge that he is living the life that his father had never gotten the chance to have, the knowledge that he’d almost died on the mission, flying with Maverick, just likes his father; a life cut short, the cruel hands of Fate wielding silver scissors, a resounding snip of the string of life.
He doesn’t know how to feel about that. he feels relief, but also that familiar anger, a secondary emotion to the grief that wells up in his chest, threatening to choke him, to snap his neck and leave him gently drifting into the ocean. He has tried so hard to keep it buried, to not think about it, but he’s sore and tender, skinned open for everyone to see, to stare and whisper and give their false apologies, affectionate words that mean nothing to them, to him.)
He’s deep in his head, careening into a ditch, losing control of his plane and hurtling towards the ground; the cobra manoeuvre failed, and he is burning in.
He is burning in, and he is lost in the smoke and the heat that licks at his fingertips, scalds him through his gear and cooks him from the inside out. There’s no one in the room to ground him – the nurse had left moments before his slow descent, itching to go grab a watery, yet over-caffeinated coffee – and he’s alone again, left to rot in a bed that doesn’t belong to him.
A rapping at the door, so faint that Rooster barely registers it, brings him back to himself. He’s expecting Phoenix, or maybe even Bob, but the door cracks open and he is met with the sight of viridian eyes, a smug smile and perfectly kempt hair, a clean white tee-shirt tucked into his pants. “Bradshaw,” Hangman starts, slipping fully into the room, gnawing on the thin sliver of wood in his mouth, “as I live and breathe.”
It’s tradition, Rooster supposes, to start out any conversations they have with the same old quips; something special, between the two of them, that curls up in his chest and settles deep into his heart, never to leave. It quells the budding panic that threatens to pull him under the waves, and for that, he is grateful. “Hangman, you look good.”
It’s not a lie, truly. He certainly looks better than Rooster feels by an astronomical amount, freshly cleaned and holding himself with the cockiness he always does (though this time, it seems a little forced).
Hangman steps further into the room, perching on the edge of the bed and trading the chewed toothpick in his mouth for a newer one. “I am good, Rooster. I’m very good.” he retorts, but it sounds different, an underlying meaning in which Rooster is too tired, too achey to decipher.
“What, you aren’t too good to be true?” Rooster snarks, biting back a hiss of pain as something in his chest pulls, and Hangman crosses one leg over the other, leaning his elbow on his knees and gazing at Rooster, something soft and foreign in his gaze, sweet and sticky, brown sugar and cinnamon in the morning, golden honey sunlight peering through the cracks in the blinds.
He doesn’t answer the question, rhetorical as it may be, and Rooster fists his hands in the sheet, bunching it between his fingers and smoothing it out underneath his palms, averting his gaze before his breath hitches in his throat, before he loses all of his tightly wound constraint, throws caution to the wind and does something that may jeopardise this tentative friendship so carefully crafted between the two.
Before he can stop himself, he chokes out, “Thank you, Hangman. For saving Mav’s life, and mine.” His voice is strained and he twists the sheet in his hands again, the notion of being genuine with Hangman something alien, odd, something that he hasn’t done in a long time.
The room is quiet, for a moment, stiff and deafening and tense, for some reason. Rooster feels as though he’s forgotten to breathe, but the pain that pulsates through his chest makes it impossible for him to not. Hangman is staring at him, intently, searching his eyes and his soul to decipher if his words are full of sarcasm, dry and unmeaning.
How could they be? ‘Hangman; he’ll always leave you out to dry.’ Except he didn’t, not when it mattered most. Not when the missile deployed, not when Rooster was choking on his own panic, the words he so desperately wanted to say lodged in his throat, not when smoke was in the air and tone is echoing throughout their ears, the whistling of the missile that is making its way to shoot them down, their own guns clicking with no ammo, hopeless, dead. The sun shone down on them mercilessly, blinding Rooster; Icarus, flying too close to the sun, and yet, and yet–
Hangman had appeared out of thin air, another miracle neither him nor Maverick had expected. another confirmed air-to-air kill, and yet Hangman had not gloated, bragged about his second kill, he had called himself their saviour, had flown with them back to the boat, had waited on the tarmac until they were safely out of the F-14.
So, no. There’s no way that Rooster’s words are loaded, and as Hangman continues to search, he seems to find what he’s looking for. “Well, I’ll be right damned, Bradshaw.” He grins, – an actual grin, not the mask he wears to protect himself – flipping the toothpick that always seems to be lodged between his teeth, “Never thought I’d see the day I got an actual ‘thank you’ from you, Roo.”
Rooster rolls his eyes, shifts in the bed he’s been ordered to stay in. The white sheets are uncomfortable, the mattress creaking underneath his weight, the curtains flowing with the wind, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Hangman is staring at him like that, barely encased concern lingering in his eyes at every minute wince Rooster can’t keep contained.
“You saved my life, Seresin, unless you’ve already forgotten.” He coughs, crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring how his muscles press into the bruises his straps left on him, mottling his skin, painting him shades of blues and purples. They’ll level out to yellows and greens before they fade away completely, but he’ll still have the reminders of the mission on his body and in his mind, haunting his subconscious.
A suicide mission, is what they called it. They’d expected to lose some of their pilots; Rooster and Maverick would have died, if Hangman had not burst through the clouds, shooting the enemy’s fifth generation fighter planes down without wasting a breath. Not that Rooster regrets going on the mission, — he doesn’t, how could he, when he signed up for this? When he did something good? — but the implications of it makes something ugly rear its head inside of his skull, bashing at the walls of his cranium, begging to be released.
Or maybe that’s just the pounding headache. Who knows.
“C’mon, Roo, I would’a done it for anyone. Don’t think you’re so special, now.” Hangman says, but his body language betrays him. He’s tense, eyes wracking over the white that peeks out of his shirt, the colours that delicately marr the pale backdrop of his epidermis; his concern is now visible, and Rooster doesn’t know how to feel about that, about the genuine emotion not well hidden in his eyes.
So he does what he does best; ruins the moment so Hangman doesn’t have to see him break apart, doesn’t have to see the pieces that fracture off of him fall onto the floor, drifting into the sea never to return, slicing himself on broken glass and swallowing back the sea of salt that threatens to seep from his eyes, dripping wet tracks down his cheeks.
“Yeah, I know you would’ve,” He murmurs, voice thick, “wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to have another kill under your belt, much less flaunt yourself and be called a hero, now, would’ya?”
Hangman opens his mouth in Rooster’s periphery, closes it. Closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose as if he’s trying to steady himself. “I didn’t do it for the glory, or whatever your adrenaline-fucked brain tries to convince you to believe.” is all he says, flipping that damned toothpick in his mouth, and Rooster–
Rooster believes it. Believes him, the words he says. Something in his tone, his face, his posture is saturated in sincerity, a gentle push and pull of waves that lick at his ankles and soak his bones in cold; this is not Hangman, Rooster thinks, this is Jake.
(Jake Seresin, with a heart of gold he keeps carefully covered up, sealed and wrapped away because he is vulnerable; Jake Seresin, who grew up bruised and bloody and unloved, cowering in a corner, hands trembling as he tries to steady himself. ‘It makes you stronger,’ he tries to tell himself, tries to pretend as though scathing words and the imprints of hands left on his face don’t hurt. Jake Seresin, who built himself a cocky, egotistical mask to wear, to contain how much he cares, how much he loves, because loving only ends in him getting hurt.)
(Just like he is Bradley, not Rooster. Bradley Bradshaw, who is slow and methodical, spitefully so, an approach that would kill him in the air. Bradley Bradshaw, who is a cheap imitation of his father, a man he never got to make much memories with. Bradley Bradshaw, with anger coursing through his veins, hot and molten, who has to take hold and never let go of the people he wants to keep because he has lost everyone. Bradley Bradshaw, with apologies on the tip of his tongue that people will never hear, because he is too late, snug on his perch and waiting for the perfect moment that never comes.)
They are both ruthless in their words, cold and cruel and callous to each other, yet they still find solace in the other’s company. No matter how hard Hangman scratches and tears and bites and pushes, Rooster is ready and willing to push back, never once settling down without a fight. They orbit each other like the moon orbits the earth, steadily revolving like a vulture that circles its food, like a dog kneeling for a treat.
Perhaps that’s the reason they meld together so well, an amalgamation of colours that settles nicely against an atricolour abyss, oranges and pinks against the line where the sky meets the sea, purples and whites and blues and yellows of the horizon. They never back down from each other, even when the past is thrown in their face, the worst parts of themselves used against them. Even when they don’t expect the pushback, the fallout is all the same.
Jake sighs, a soft, forceful exhale, and suddenly he looks older than he is. Weary, with the weight of the mission on his shoulders; his 5 o’clock shadow visible in the dimmed lights of the infirmary, eyes reddened and shining, as if he’s holding back the urge to cry. “I almost lost you, Bradley.” he says, and it’s not Rooster, not Bradshaw. it’s Bradley.
(He says his name reverently, as if it’s something holy, something worthy of being worshiped, and Bradley pretends as though his breath didn’t hitch in his throat, unwilling to move.)
“I didn’t do it for the glory, or to– to boost my own ego, or whatever. I did it because,” Jake scrubs a hand down his face, clearly uncomfortable being this sincere in a room people could just walk into, “I did it because I could’a lost y’all. And I almost did, if I hadn’t got there fast enough. But that ain’t the point, now, the point is that I couldn’t– I can’t lose any of you.”
Oh.
Oh.
That makes something warm and fluttery curl up in his chest, sealing the cracks in his heart and filling him with a bubbly glee, sickly sweet and saccharine. He’s stunned silent for a moment, Jake’s words cloying in his brain, but then he shifts, pushes himself further up off the bed until he’s sitting up, those seafoam eyes staring at him in confusion. He reaches out, his hand trembling, and slides his palm into Jake’s own, interlocking their fingers and aligning their pulse points.
“You’re not gonna lose me, Jake.” He manages to muster, after the shock of Jake’s unusual honesty wears off. “I’m here now, aren’t I? Soon enough, I’m gonna be back in the air, and I’m not planning on leaving anytime soon.”
Jake wipes at his eyes. Bradley pretends he doesn’t see, but squeezes his hand all the same, a thousand words in that small action that he wishes he had the courage to say, but not here, not yet. Not in the dingy infirmary, not after this mission, not after everything they had before crashed and burned, not with his brain jumbled, unsure and tentative and confused. It’s a promise, painfully obvious so. He moves, curls his other hand against the nape of Jake’s neck, thumb brushing against his carotid and feeling the gentle, rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat against the pad of his finger.
He’s always felt some twisted sort of affection swell in his chest for Hangman, since he’s being honest with himself. On the surface level, Hangman is attractive – sandy blond hair, perfectly tousled and easily windswept, muscles that bulge against the fabric of his uniform, sea-glass green eyes that sparkle in the morning light. He’d be a fool not to acknowledge that, but there’s also his personality, his smarts; it’s hard to see, on account that Jake makes it hard for people to know him, but once you peer through the blinds, the knowledge of how Jake truly is will never leave the mind.
(But Bradley has to think, is this real? Are his feelings (his thoughts and emotions that clash and collide, burn brighter and brighter, a powerful, luminous explosion, a core-collapse), are they real? He’s thrown his heart and soul, everything he is into hating Hangman. Is the passion that he does it with, the fire that threatens to consume him, is it confusing him? Bradley has pushed away the people closest to him, anger and rage that bubbles and boils and implodes inside his chest, leaving him hollow; he’s rejected affection for so long, and now that he’s receiving it, from Jake, no less, is it some sort of Pavlovian response?
Is he just clinging to the trainwreck of emotions, endorphins and dopamine and serotonin typhooning through his veins, to remind himself that he’s alive, he lived, he’s here? Or perhaps a result of entrusting someone with his life? It’s only natural to be fond of the person you’ve put your life into the hands of. He’s fooling himself, he thinks, or is he? The dim light of the medical wing makes him shudder, this bed is uncomfortable, lumpy and crust flaking off under his fingers; perhaps he’s simply tired, and his mind is confused.
‘Don’t think, just do.’ Is that not what Maverick tells him? Bradley doesn’t know how not to think.)
Bradley’s mom had told him something similar about his father; late at night, her fingers intertwined with his own, voice rasping, her eyes drooping. He’d laugh and joke, she’d say, his eyes would shine and he’d be happy, but he didn’t enjoy being known, you know? He was loved, and he loved, but being known was strange, foreign to him, and only a minute amount of people had the opportunity, the honour, to know Nick Bradshaw.
But his mom and dad had cultivated something incredible. They’d created diamonds out of ash, had found someone in their life that they simply fit with, as if they were puzzle pieces that were always made to slot into place side-by-side, until the separation would be impossible, like the roots of a hundred year old tree. The only way to separate it from the ground would be to uproot it completely, leaving nothing but destruction and an empty hole.
He longs for something like that, sweet and sour and so, so saccharine. Something beautiful and ugly, worse than love and yet better than love, something that is love in every way imaginable.
“I think you mean more to me than I know what to do with, Seresin.” Bradley murmurs quietly. Brushes off the sharp inhale that Jake takes, continues talking. “And it terrifies me, more than being in the air does. more than dying, sometimes.”
And it’s true, so strikingly, horrifically true. Bradley thinks he would rip his heart from his chest, tear open his ribcage and present the still-beating organ to Jake if that’s what he asked for. It isn’t normal for someone with their dynamic, barely-friends as they are, attempting to fix what they broke years afterwards, but it’s true.
Amber light spills through the blinds like liquor from a knocked-over cup, casting a sticky, honey glaze against Jake’s face. He’s illuminated with the shine of the sun, syrupy orange reflecting off of that seafoam green that haunts Bradley’s subconscious (for whatever reason), off of the tanned skin from their day at the beach, showcasing the gloriously soft expression that graces Jake’s face nicely.
“Well,” drawls Jake, voice thick, “ain’t you a flatterer.” He’s trying to maintain his steadily breaking façade, trying desperately to reclip the slipping mask, but Bradley can tell that his words have struck deep, deeper than the fear lodging in his chest.
(If Jake had left any later than he did, they’d be fishing Maverick and Bradley’s bodies out of the ocean. He allows himself to wonder, for a brief moment, if Maverick would have held him like he did his father in their last moments, cradling his face so tenderly.)
Expelling that train of thought quickly, he turns his attention back to Jake; he’s staring through the window, eyes squinting as the sun’s rays filter in. He’d dropped Bradley’s hand a while ago, twining his fingers in between each other so tightly that his knuckles are blanched, bleached white, and the tension in his shoulders is back, hunched and close to his ears.
‘Don’t think, just do.’ Bradley doesn’t know how not to think. It’s something that has been engrained in his mind from such a young age, considering every possibility, every topic of conversation, anything that can and might and will go wrong. He’s been this way for so long that he can’t recall a time where he hasn’t thought, besides turning back to save Maverick.
But, in this dimmed room, that mantra replays in his head, looping like a melody stuck in his mind, a broken record that skips and grinds that sentence until it sticks. Don’t think, just do.
He reaches out, grabs Jake’s hand once more. Jake stiffens at the touch, but doesn’t withdraw like he did before. Bradley smiles, and his exhaustion must show on his face, because Jake chuckles softly, rolls his eyes and stands, pressing him back into the bed.
“Go t’ sleep, Roo. The others’ll come ‘nd check on you in the mornin’.” He chides, but makes no move to leave, simply standing over Bradley, most likely in an attempt to see if he’ll actually commit to sleeping. Bradley’s head hits the pillow and stays there; he does not have the energy to push himself up, lethargy soaking through his bones and into his marrow.
Jake squeezes his hand as he falls deeper into the all-encompassing hold of sleep, and he refuses to admit that the simple gesture brings him peace, cuts through the thick fog of panic, of choking on smoke and the rancid smell of burning jet fuel. For that, he is eternally grateful; the words refuse to leave his mouth, however much he wants to say them.
(Before he finally manages to pass out, the sun has gone down. Jake trails his fingers up, presses them against his radial artery, feels the steady thrum of his still-beating heart. He hears a sigh, quiet but echoing, relief radiating through the simple sound.
Soft footsteps, then the door opening and closing. He assumes Jake had already thought he was asleep, but the action means more to him than he can even acknowledge. He doesn’t have the chance to give it much thought, returning to the dream of slumber that offers him respite from wakefulness.)