Archive of Our Own

Bradley lets Hangman take him home. 

He wants to say he isn’t sure why, but with all that they’ve just gotten back from, lying to himself is something that’s gotten a lot harder ever since he and Maverick sat down and had the heart to heart they’ve both been putting off having for the past decade. 

He lets Hangman take him home because he’s tired. Sleep has also gotten a lot harder lately. Visions of bombs and bloodshed put quick ends to most rest not brought about by the mind-numbing effects of the painkillers he’d been given upon being cleared by the carrier doctors— to return to his bunk, not to fly. The stateside doctors that’d checked his head and ribs over following the speech Warlock had given the squad to let them know they’d exceeded his expectations made that clear enough. 

Bradley actually finds it a little unfair that he’s the only one having to jump through these hoops. Somehow, Maverick has managed to evade them, though really that’s not all that surprising. Maverick has never been one to adhere to any sort of rules, and in all fairness, Bradley was the one bleeding when they landed. Crashed. Whatever. 

Thanks to that, it takes a good half hour extra after everyone else has been dismissed for Bradley to make it out of the building. Hangman is still on the bench outside the doors— the last man left standing. 

Or in this case, sitting. 

“Got any wild victory parties planned now that we’re back on dry land?”

Bradley is surprised to see him, and even more surprised to hear him speak as soon as Bradley passes in front of him. It gives the impression he was waiting for him.

Hangman doesn’t wait for anyone. That much Bradley knows. And yet, here he is looking up at Bradley, expression expectant as he waits for an answer to his question. Hangman doesn’t make small talk either. 

There has to be an ulterior motive behind the setup Bradley is beginning to suspect he’s just walked into. He pushes his hands further into his pockets and tries to push away the funny feeling that’s stirred up by the realization that this is the first time he’s seen Hangman in civilian clothing since the day they’d all spent running around the beach. 

It’s just blue jeans and a leather jacket, but it makes Hangman look almost… normal. Human. Like someone who would make small talk without any catastrophes following the conversation. 

“Nothing wild,” Bradley says honestly. “Unless you consider power-napping a scandalous activity.” He leaves out the part about not being sure if he’ll actually be able to fall asleep. That's a little too honest. 

“Right now, that sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day. Javy and some of the others went straight to the Hard Deck.” Hangman is watching him and Bradley doesn’t know what to do with it other than look away. That doesn’t keep Hangman’s voice from following him. “You look dead on your feet. Trying to undo all my hard work already?”

“You barely got off your ass, Dagger Spare.”  There’s no real heat behind it. 

Hangman huffs, pushing up off the bench and shouldering his duffel. “Since you’re critiquing my work, I guess I’ll do my due diligence for the public’s safety by keeping you off the road. Wouldn’t want you to keep up your streak of crashing and burning, would we?”

Bradley frowns, not sure what Hangman means. He doesn’t get a chance to ask before Hangman is reaching out and plucking his keys from his hand without warning. He opens his mouth to protest only for Hangman to beat him to that punch as well. 

“I’m not gonna hurt your precious truck, Bradshaw. Relax.” He takes a step towards it that Bradley doesn’t follow. 

What the hell is Hangman playing at? 

He stands, frozen in place, for what could either be ten seconds or ten minutes. Hangman has already made it to the Bronco by the time he next calls Bradley’s name. 

“Bradshaw. You coming or am I about to commit grand theft auto?” When Bradley looks over at him, Hangman is popping the driver’s side door open. “Not that I’d care enough to steal this antique of yours.”

Bradley scowls, the insult finally spurring him to move. “Don’t talk about my baby like that when you drive a Chevy.” 

“Oh, so you’re one of those Ford guys.” 

“It’s called loyalty. Look it up.”

Bradley rounds the side of the truck to slide into the passenger seat. There’s something a bit demeaning about being forced to ride shotgun in his own vehicle, but Hangman— infuriating as it is— is right. He’s still a dick, even after saving Bradley’s life. Unfortunately, he’s also got a point. 

Bradley is exhausted. There’s a dull ache spread throughout his entire body that not even the painkillers have been able to fully take away and he hasn’t gotten a proper night’s rest in days. As things are, the thought of having to drive sounds about as appealing as having to eject from his jet a second time. 

Hangman hadn’t asked for permission, but he also hadn’t made Bradley ask for his help. That probably means something— or it would if they were anyone else. 

Hangman starts the truck. Bradley’s eyes catch on his hand as it curls around the gear shift just long enough to notice Hangman isn’t wearing his Academy ring, or even his watch. There’s a band of skin paler than the rest that shows where it’s supposed to sit on his wrist.  

It’s odd, seeing him bared of both. Something funny twists in Bradley’s chest and he tries to ignore it, reaching out to switch the radio on just so to make the silence less stifling. It’s set to his usual station, classic rock and soul. A Foreigner song is playing and Hangman begins humming along almost immediately. 

“I know how to get to the neighborhood,” he says after a minute. “You’ll just have to tell me which house to turn at.”

“Yeah.” It’ll be at least another ten minutes before they get to that point. Bradley takes the opportunity to close his eyes and lean his head against the window. 

It’s just a ride home. Maybe it really can be that simple. 

-

“I’m surprised Phoenix isn’t already over here preparing you a home cooked meal,” Hangman comments as the truck rolls to a stop in the driveway. 

Bradley stares at him, unsure of whether or not that’s a joke. Phoenix and cooking are about as foreign of a combination as what he thinks Hangman is trying to suggest the two of them are. “Not even being shot down is enough to get her to do that.”

Hangman snorts and pulls the keys out of the ignition. “I’m messing with you, man.”

“If she heard you say that shit, she’d kick your ass,” Bradley says, leaning into the backseat and tugging his bag up to hide the flush he knows has crept into his cheeks. 

“Probably.” 

“Definitely.” Bradley reaches for the door handle but doesn’t pull it, hesitating for a reason isn’t sure of. 

Hangman isn’t staying on the same street as him, but since the Navy had been the one to shell out for their accommodations, his place isn’t that far away. It can’t be more than two blocks over. He could easily walk, which is what Bradley assumes his plan was when deciding to drive him home in the first place. 

This is Hangman, though. Like Maverick, he tends not to adhere to what other people think. 

“You like Thai food?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s this little hole in the wall place on that shopping strip across from the light. You been yet?” Bradley shakes his head and Hangman tilts his. “I think they do delivery.”

Just like in the parking lot, he isn’t outright asking or even really offering. He’s just putting it out there. 

Bradley swallows. “I guess that’d beat microwaving another TV dinner.”

It’s possible the exhaustion is dulling his judgment. It’s also possible he doesn’t want to be alone, and as strange as it may be, Hangman is the one that’s here with him. He let Hangman drive him home because he’s tired. How much different would it really be to let him stay because he’s hungry too?

“I’ll give you a few minutes to look at the menu,” Hangman says, tossing the keys to land in Bradley’s lap as he pops his door open. He has it pulled up on his phone by the time they make it up the steps and onto the stoop, passing it over for Bradley to take. “Got any beer in this place?”

“In the fridge.” Bradley drops his bag by the door. It only takes away some of the weight sitting on his shoulders. 

Hangman moves past Bradley through the living room and into the kitchen like he owns the place. The sound of the fridge opening and shutting is quickly followed by Hangman coming back out with two Bud Lights in hand. He offers one to Bradley in exchange for his phone. 

Being treated like a guest in what’s technically his own house. He isn’t sure if he should be annoyed or fascinated by Hangman’s ability to be entirely at ease no matter where he goes. This is supposed to be Bradley’s space, so why is it Bradley who’s throat tightens just watching him walk around?

“I’ll just get the Pad Thai. I’m gonna— I’ll be right back.” He hopes his voice doesn’t come across as hoarse as it sounds in his own ears. He avoids meeting Hangman’s gaze as he abandons his unopened beer on the end table beside the sofa and makes a break for the hall, not wanting to read whatever might be written across it.

It’s a cowardly move coming from someone who just stares death in the face only a matter of days ago. It’s himself that Bradley ends up staring at a few moments later, hands braced on the bathroom sink and eyes locked in on his own reflection in the mirror. 

Hangman was right in saying he looks like hell. The circles under his eyes are almost as dark as the bruises that peek out from under the edge of his shirt. He knows without looking that they wrap around his shoulders, his chest, even his thighs. All the places where the straps of his parachute harness dug in while ejecting. 

There’s a long, thin scratch that starts at his back and ends just above his hip bone. Bradley doesn’t know what that one’s from. The sheer adrenaline of trying to stay alive had staved off the pain for so long it had taken the one of the carrier nurses applying antiseptic for him to even register the sting. 

He guesses it probably happened sometime while he was hurtling through the treetops towards the ground, same as the cuts on his throat. Those ones are deep enough that they’ll probably scar. As if he doesn’t already have enough of those marking him. 

Bradley touches his fingers to the bandage that covers the one on the left side. It doesn’t hurt until he presses down— it’s not even that hard, but his neck is still so stiff from the whiplash that the gesture sends a bolt of white-hot pain down the back of it. He makes a sound that he assumes the closed door will keep from traveling down the hall. 

Except this is Hangman, and they’ve already established that assumptions are just another thing he likes to disregard. Along with common etiquette, personal space, and apparently the boundary of a closed door. 

Bradley gets two sharp knocks and a total of five seconds to prepare himself before Hangman barges right on in. “What the hell, man?” 

Hangman takes a step inside and stops, eyebrows raised and gaze locked on where Bradley has a hand curled protectively around the side of his neck. “I was coming to ask if you wanted to split an order of spring rolls.”

“That sounds good,” Bradley says. He doesn’t really care. Right now, he’d be willing to say just about anything to make Hangman go away. 

Of course, it doesn’t work, because again: this is Hangman. He punches a button on his phone, then goes right back to looking Bradley over. “What are you doing?”

Inexplicably, Bradley finds himself embarrassed to admit to the truth of what Hangman’s just caught him doing. Having been heard whimpering like some sort of kicked puppy is humiliating enough, so he goes with a half-truth instead of the whole one. 

“I was about to change my bandages.” 

Hangman’s eyes lower to Bradley’s torso like he’s trying to picture what sort of state he’s in underneath his shirt. “Stuff to do it with still in your bag?”

So much for a believable excuse. “Uh, yeah.”

For reasons unknown, Hangman doesn’t call him out on the obvious lie. He disappears back into the hall without another word instead. Bradley considers shutting the door again— and locking it this time— but Hangman is back before he can bring himself to move. He has the paper bag Bradley’d been given by the doctor in hand.

He holds it out and Bradley eyes it warily before taking it. Hangman seems determined to insert himself into every bit of Bradley’s space tonight. His truck, his house, and now his bag.  

“Thanks,” he says anyways.

Hangman only hums in response to the stiff gratitude. “I’m surprised Phoenix and Maverick let you come home to do this on your own.”

I’m not on my own, am I? Bradley bites his tongue to avoid making that retort out loud. “I’m fine.” There’s also the part where he hasn’t really shown either of them what his injuries look like. He doesn’t say any of that out loud either. “They don’t need to worry about me.”

“Pretty sure those two do what they want.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“If you wanna finish this up before the food gets here you should probably let me help.”

Help? “Help?” he repeats just to make sure he hasn’t heard him wrong. 

Hangman nods towards Bradley’s arms, which he’d crossed over his torso sometime during Hangman’s trip back out into the hall. “You think twisting around is gonna make your back hurt any less? I can see the way you’re holding yourself, you know.”

I know it hurts. He doesn’t say it, but it hangs off the end of his statement anyways. 

He’s right. Again. 

He sighs when Bradley’s silence stretches on through another awkward moment. “It’s not like I’m offering to stitch you up or something. I’m just saying, you look like you could use a hand.”

Bradley’s mind flits back to the carrier and the solid grip of Hangman’s hand grasping his own. “I can handle it myself,” he says, because it’s true. It would hurt more and take longer, but handling things himself is what he’s used to. Not whatever it is that Hangman is offering. 

“I know.” Hangman sounds more amused by the rebuff than anything. It makes Bradley feel like he should be bristling, but he’s so fucking tired, and Hangman is taking a step closer with a hand outstretched that would suggest he’s approaching a scared animal rather than a grown man who has already lashed out at him once before. 

Admittedly, under the circumstances, he’d deserved it. Pride set aside, Bradley knows Hangman would agree with him on that. An unspoken truce of sorts. It’s why he hasn’t said sorry and why Bradley hasn’t made him. 

“I don’t want your help if you’re going to be a dick about it,” Bradley says. His voice comes out softer than intended. 

“I make no promises about my bedside manner, but my mom was a nurse and I’m the oldest of four. I’ve been through this rodeo a couple times already.” 

The paper bag crinkles as Bradley lets Hangman take it. “I’ll do the ones on my neck. There’s, uh—“ He wets his lips and gestures towards his side. “There’s a few scrapes down here but the only one that really needed covering up is on my back.”

“Guess you should take your shirt off, then.” Hangman’s voice and expression are both even. 

There’s nothing that indicates— well, Bradley doesn’t know what there would be to indicate. He’s the one making this into more than it has to be, just like always. 

“Alright,” he exhales after a moment, fingers finding the hem of his shirt to tug it over his head, movement slow because of how sore he still is. 

While he’s folding it to set on the closed toilet seat, Hangman takes another step forward until he’s crowded beside him at the sink. Their elbows bump together as he reaches for the soap and begins thoroughly washing his hands, package tucked under his arm. 

“Easiest way to do this would be while you’re still standing.” Once he’s finished, Hangman unfolds the top of the bag to pull out the necessary items. “You can lean against the sink if you need.”

“I’m not gonna keel over,” Bradley says, even as he’s settling his hands around the edge of the counter. It puts him right back in front of the mirror. This time, he pointedly avoids making eye contact with his own reflection, as well as Hangman’s. 

He doesn’t have to worry about that second part for long. Hangman drops to his knees while still in the middle of scoffing. “Don’t jinx yourself.”

Bradley feels even more on edge now that he can’t see what Hangman’s doing. He would turn around to watch him, but that would defeat the whole purpose of why they’re doing this. And there is a reason, even if he has to fight to remember it once Hangman raises a hand to ghost over his side. 

He lets out a whistle, low and almost impressed. Bradley refuses to let himself be mollified by it. “Shit, Bradley. They let you go looking like this?”

“It looks worse than it feels.” 

Hangman hums like he doesn’t believe him and Bradley has to hold himself deliberately still to keep from shivering— at the use of his name or the brush over Hangman’s fingertips over his skin, he isn’t sure. Both feel intimate. Vulnerable. 

A few weeks ago— hell, a few days ago— Bradley would’ve rather taken a nosedive in his jet than let Hangman have his six, but now, here they are; crammed into Bradley’s bathroom with Hangman at his back. 

Bradley still wouldn’t say that he trusts him, but Hangman did save his life. Maybe that’s why Bradley is letting him do this. Hangman kept him from dying. The least Bradley can do is let him look and see it was a job well done. And it was, even if Bradley is a bit banged up. He’s alive. That’s what matters the most, so everyone keeps telling him.

“Guess this is what you get for getting shot down over a fuckin’ forest,” Hangman remarks. 

Bradley feels more alive than ever with the way Hangman’s keeping him on edge. He tries to keep that from showing through in his tone, but he can’t do anything about the goosebumps pricking down his arms. “Remember what I said about you being a dick?”

“I’m just making an observation.”

“That’s not what you’re here for.”

That gets him another hum and more of Hangman’s fingers brushing over where the bruises must bloom across his skin. Bradley can only imagine what it looks like— and he also can’t wait for Hangman to get on with it. He’s holding back, which Bradley is more used to being his thing; hovering so much that Bradley’s impatience wins out and his body responds on instinct. 

His hips tilt of their own accord, pushing back until Hangman’s hands are on him properly. His grip on the counter tightens after his brain catches up with the rest of him. 

As far as he can tell, Hangman doesn’t have much of a reaction. For all of Bradley’s anxious anticipation, his touch is clinical as he finally gets to work. He’s uncharacteristically quiet during it save for one moment where Bradley tenses up at the slight sting of the antiseptic being applied and shifts on his feet.

“Relax,” he murmurs, one hand steadying Bradley by the hip, which makes him want to do the exact opposite of what he’s just been told. 

How is he supposed to relax like this? With Hangman so close, he’s quite literally breathing down Bradley’s back?

“I’ll relax when you’re finished,” he says shortly. “Just get on with it.”

There’s a beat of silence that passes as Hangman continues switching the bandages out, and then—

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Bradley sighs. “Do what?”

“Pretend everything is normal. You almost died.” Another beat of silence follows that somehow feels more stifling, or maybe that’s just Bradley’s throat going tight. 

It’s not that he didn’t know already. He’s exhausted by the inability to forget. It’s just— most people avoid saying it like that. He’s heard it almost every other way these past few days. It was a close call. We thought we lost you. It’s been dubbed the miracle mission for a reason, the main one being his and Maverick’s return from the dead. Leave it to Hangman to sweep in with his usual inconvenient candor. 

“And you killed someone,” he says. It comes out hollow. He’s not saying it to hurt him or even to fight back. It’s just how things are. 

Hangman must know that, because he huffs. “For a greater purpose.” Warm fingertips slide over the soft swell of skin that sits above where his waistband pulls tight, and this time Bradley does shiver. “Saved your ass, didn’t I?”

“Thank you.” It rips out of Bradley’s chest, leaving something exposed that feels so raw Bradley’s shoulders hunch in. “I know I didn’t say that before. So— thank you. For saving us.”

“I should be thanking you for giving me the chance to play hero.”

Bradley closes his eyes. “Could you just say you’re welcome like a normal person?”

“Normalcy is overrated.” Hangman smooths down one end of the bandage and holds the other steady to begin pressing down. “Besides, I was really doing myself a favor. With you gone, I might get bored.”

“Then I’m glad you decided to keep me around,” Bradley says quietly. The rhythm of their back and forth falters as Hangman pauses, both with his words and his fingers. 

“Me too.” His voice is hushed, almost like a confession.

Between the two of them, it is one. They’re supposed to despise each other. Rooster, hating Hangman for his arrogance, and Hangman hating Rooster for his habit of hesitating. It’s how it’s always been, since that very first day Bradley stuck him with his callsign. 

But maybe, it’s not how things always have to be. Maybe the second chance the mission has given Bradley doesn’t just have to do with Maverick. He has a long history with them both, packed full of hurt and anger and missed chances at forgiveness. 

There’s none of that here. Only the reverent brush of Hangman’s fingers and Bradley’s eyes opening to catch sight of the way his expression softens in the mirror at the same time Hangman leans forward and presses his lips in a gentle kiss at the bottom of his spine. 

Every other touch has felt electric. This one is different. The warmth it ignores is steadier, a flame in comparison to a spark. 

“Jake,” is all he manages to get out before it feels like it consumes him.

It’s enough to make Jake rise to his feet, and from there, all that’s left is for Bradley to turn around so they can meet in the middle. Jake’s hands settle back on his hips and Bradley’s find his cheeks, hands desperate where the kiss is slow and so achingly sweet Bradley feels like his entire body buzzes with this thing that’s been building between them for longer than either of them have been able to acknowledge. 

There’s no good word for it. Nothing could capture how it feels. If Bradley were to try, he would call it inevitable, cathartic, right– but he doesn’t need to try, because the way Jake kisses him speaks for itself. 

When he finally does speak, it’s with their mouths only an inch apart. “You scared the shit out of me,” he whispers, spoken like a secret between the cradle of Bradley’s palms still on his cheeks. “Jesus. I thought—“ He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them until Bradley responds with a whisper of his own.

“Sorry.”

Jake slides a hand around to the small of his back, sweeping his thumb over the spot where his mouth had been only a minute before. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” Bradley agrees. “I’m not.” He can’t be, when it’s what it’d taken to keep him and Maverick together.

Jake sighs, but then he’s smiling too. “Always the martyr.” 

“Says the one with the savior complex.” 

“What a pair we make, huh?” Jake murmurs, tipping their foreheads together.

The martyr and the savior. The hero and the executioner. It’s poetic, in a way, but Bradley doesn’t really give a shit about that as long as he has Jake right here in front of him. 

“Is that what we are?” he asks quietly.

“We can be whatever you want.” Jake lets go of his hip and raises his hand to stroke the back of it down the line of Bradley’s neck, stopping just below where the bandage covering it ends. Bradley lowers his own hand to place over it, intertwining their fingers as he lets Jake nuzzle in to kiss him again. 

Whatever this is, it’s a good start. A new beginning. More than anything, what Bradley wants is for them to be able to stay like this. 

Safe. Together. 

When the kiss breaks, Jake nudges his nose against Bradley’s cheek. “Think you’d be okay with me taking a look at your neck now?”

“If you insist.” Bradley squints at Jake as he pulls back. “You planning on doing this every day?”

“If you let me.”

Bradley already knows that he will.