Chapter Text
There wasn’t a single thought that entered Hangman’s mind when it was discovered that Rooster and Maverick were still alive. Alive and on an antique F-14. Alive and being actively pursued, miles away from returning. He didn’t think twice after the signal was confirmed to be them. He didn’t hear Cyclone shout about where he was going. He didn’t see Hondo tell the flight engineers to prepare the tarmac.
Rooster and Maverick were alive. They were alive and coming home and Hangman could help.
After the celebration and festivities of Rooster and Maverick’s harrowing escape from enemy territory, Hangman was called into Cyclone’s office. Cabin. Whichever of the two.
“You went against a direct order.”
Cyclone’s hands were steepled and tense, probably the only thing holding him back from snapping at Hangman’s insubordination. Vice Admiral Simpson, callsign Cyclone, always took his job seriously. It was one of the main reasons the man detested the old captain Maverick. There was a man, talented in a plane, with a charisma to charm and lead anyone into his suicidal fantasies. Many like the admiral believed that Maverick’s inhuman talent and charm had corrupted the guy into becoming an egotistical showman. It was not like the old timer did much to refute them. He knew his skills and wasn’t afraid to show off, but the problem always came when Maverick and the higher ranked clashed on their priorities. It also didn’t help that Maverick was proven right majority of the time
(Hangman read about how Captain Mitchell, in defiance of Admiral Cain’s shutdown of a new aerospace prototype, bumped up the station’s final test an hour before the admiral's arrival. The test was a success, leaving Cain no choice but to continue the project. And after eavesdropping on Cyclone and Warlock’s conversation weeks ago, Jake found that Maverick would have been skinned alive if not for his “guardian angel”.)
“I did.”
“Are you aware that your actions could have jeopardized the mission even further?”
“With all due respect, sir.” Hangman tightened his posture as he looked directly in Admiral Simpson’s eyes. “Without my involvement, Rooster and Maverick would not be here.”
Admiral Simpson breathed out through his nose, eyes flashing. His hands were still steepled, but his face was pushed closer, nose squished to the right.
“You still disobeyed.”
Hangman wanted to stomp his foot, throw up his hands, maybe even roll his eyes because was this really all that the admiral was hung up about? Couldn’t he have been happy and relieved that no men died on his watch? That his pilots cared about everyone returning in one piece?
“Didn’t have time to think about the consequences.”
Admiral Simpson snorted. It was hollow and with a hint of exhaustion but there was a small smile hiding behind the admiral's fingers.
“Seems like no one in this squad could.”
Well, he got them there. Maverick shielding Rooster before crashing, Rooster going back for Maverick, and then there was Hangman. Hangman or Jake Seresin from his friends and family or Bagman if you knew him in flight school. Hangman, who knew he was the best of the best and yet placed as the spare. Hangman, who couldn’t stand watching Rooster drag his feet in the sky, who was picked instead of him. Hangman, who should despise and detest Rooster because that’s what they did, that was their MO.
Hangman, who without being told, raced back to his plane and shot off into the sky after the two suicidal idiots to save their sorry asses.
“I’ll make sure to think about it next time.”
Admiral Simpson sighed and muttered something almost like a prayer.
“See that you do.”
He was dismissed a little later, and looking around the empty hallway, noted how sparse and quiet everything was. Mere hours ago, it was loud with people shouting and screaming, hooting and hollering. He knew the mess hall was in a right state since Hondo had found the special stash of champagne. Maverick fiddled with opening the bottle, hands a little shaky, telling the head nurse that he felt great. It was there that Rooster snatched the bottle, shaking it so that when the cork popped off, streaks of fizzy wine sprayed everywhere. Hangman didn’t have to be a detective to know the floors were sticky from the event.
There were a couple people still around, stragglers and loiters. Not yet ready to go to bed, the excitement and stress still there.
“Hey, Bagman!”
Phoenix walked over from one of the benches, a grin fixed on her face. It seemed throughout the festivities, her bun had loosened into a thin ponytail, but that didn’t faze her. And if it weren’t for the fact that he knew the only alcohol on this ship was the champagne, he’d believe the woman was drunk given how she tugged at Hangman with no fear or annoyance, giggling as she went, leading him to the rest of the (still awake) Dagger Squad.
“And he lives!” is shouted from Payback, arms hung comfortably on Fanboy’s shoulder. “Cyclone let you off easy then?”
Hangman shrugged. “Something like that.”
Despite the admiral’s displeasure and frustration at Hangman’s disobedience, the pilot was only grounded for a couple weeks. Though punishment ended up being null and void since anyone involved in the Dagger mission was given a month’s leave as Fanboy made sure to tell Hangman. Though, he will admit, privately, that he probably would have attempted to fly around Top Gun’s perimeter just for the fun of it. Deployment or no, Hangman could never shake the itch to fly. With his grounding, Hangman was barred, but at least he could still hang around the Hard Deck, beat Javy at darts while the man tried to sabotage him, and…maybe read?
He’ll figure out all the kinks once the carrier docks back on base.
“I’m impressed, Bagman,” Phoenix teased, leaning back against the bench as her eyes gleamed. “Another active duty kill, being the knight in shining armor, and getting off an easy punishment, yet no gloating at all. Are we sure you’re the real Hangman?”
He gave her a sharp smirk. “You know there ain’t nothing like me.”
Payback snorted. “Yeah that’s him alright.”
Phoenix didn’t say anything for a minute, narrowing her eyes as she checked the pilot out. For a moment, Hangman was concerned that the woman truly believed he had been replaced, but then she smiled and threw a light punch to his shoulder.
“Good, you might be a grade A asshole, but you're our asshole, got it?”
Hangman choked out a laugh and blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected the declaration, or even getting one from Phoenix of all people. He shook his head and thanked her, waving the rest off as he exited the mess hall. The excitement of the success really seemed to affect everybody’s state of mind, he mused to himself, yet that warm feeling he felt before, when Phoenix seemed to have let him in, almost consumed him. Having everyone’s eyes on him and smiling, feeling comfortable near him, being friendly.
He needed some air.
Walking through the ship’s empty halls with nothing but his heart hammering in his chest, Hangman was sure he looked nothing less than a madman. It was a good thing Javy wasn’t near or at the cafeteria with Phoenix. His old friend would have clocked Hangman’s growing panic in an instant, pulled him aside and looked at him— stern but not harsh, never harsh— and asked if Hangman was Up for Honesty.
It was their little game, founded long before either pilot was in the academy. Back when Hangman was just Jake. Scrawny but quick and smart-mouthed Jake, who had a penchant of getting kicked out of his house more often than not. He and Javy were juniors then, laying their backs on the bed of Mr. Machado’s pickup, talking about everything and nothing and then of their future.
“My dad was an air force pilot back in the day.” Jake was looking up at the stars as he spoke, too sprung up by the story to even look at his best friend. “Pretty sure he loved the clouds more than his marriage, not that he put much thought into it anyway.”
Javy said nothing. Just hummed as Jake, a horrible lightweight after one bottle of beer, aired out details the friend knew Jake kept locked tight. He talked about his father, mother, his siblings all spread out over the state with the exception of the oldest, lucky enough to leave the whole country and move to Ireland. When the tale was done, the two laid still as the cicadas sang and a coyote howled. Jake was stumbling for another bottle when Javy spoke up.
“Are you up for another tale or some honesty?”
Jake had laughed, called him a try-hard poet, but Javy smiled. It reminded Jake of how a coyote bared its teeth after a howl. Teeth and fangs glowing in the moonlight. Dangerous and lithe on its feet, but Jake was a sucker for danger.
“Honesty is fine.”
He popped the cap off while Javy told him of his own fucked up family where the love was still there, but it could not save anyone from being stifled by it. He told Jake about his abuela, who required everyone to call her Doña Imelda, and how she took center stage in raising him and his cousins whose parents worked, how she taught him the differences between weaknesses and strengths, how she both supported him while keeping him and his family on a tight leash until her death. How the power vacuum grew into a blackhole a week after her funeral with almost every adult vying for her seat.
The morning after, neither spoke a word of their drunken conversations but like clockwork, both teens met up in Mr. Machado’s pickup the next week and repeated the same ordeal. Are You Up For Honesty: their staple late night game. Just for them. Didn’t matter who said it first, but an answer had to be given. The fact that the game was played at their most vulnerable moments was something Hangman feigned as a coincidence.
He didn’t mean to end up at the medbay. Hangman walked to end up nowhere, but his feet took turns that brought him here. At least, it wasn’t Javy’s bunk.
It was late. Almost one in the morning from the clock he spied in an open room. He wouldn’t be surprised if the two idiots inside were fast asleep. Sleep was the least they could do from what Hangman overheard from the medics hours prior. Maverick downplaying his old bones and Rooster focusing too much on Maverick’s health. He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, their whole weird, estranged relationship from start to finish, but that would mean being caught by the gossiping medics and Hangman only needed one bout of irony.
“Are you going to hover or come inside like a normal person?”
Of course Rooster was still awake.
“Pretty sure Dr. Hale prescribed you with a good night’s sleep.”
“Nothing good about seeing a shadow hovering over the door.”
Well, Hangman couldn’t argue with that.
“I see the captain’s following orders for once.” Hangman stopped near Rooster’s bed, nodding to the prone, old man.
Maverick was out. Eyes closed, relaxed, slow breathing in and out. His chest was wrapped in bandages— none of them bloody, must be internal. His head was propped up with two pillows and an IV cord stuck into his left arm. Captain Invincible, Maverick the Untouchable, finally looking his age, looking mortal for once, and all it took was a hospital bed.
Rooster raised a bow, motioning to the bandages and IV as if that answered the captain’s compliance (it did). There was a lull before Rooster spoke again.
“Weird hour to gloat.”
Hangman snorted “What, you don’t like my regular hours?”
“You didn’t do much of it during them.”
He wasn’t wrong, but Rooster and Maverick almost died. All the celebration was based on the fact that Rooster and Maverick survived. That they lived. He saved them, yes, but only because he got there in time. Two seconds less. If Hangman had waited for Cyclone’s approval like any good soldier, they would have been goners. Hangman did not regret it when he pulled Hondo aside to clear him for take-off before dashing towards his plane.
“I didn’t become the best and not understand when bragging has a time and place.”
Rooster stared, examining Hangman for all he was, and the man tried not to squirm under it. He was used to Rooster’s stares, the burning, hot and laser focused way his eyes took you in. He was used to the way they would briefly check him out in the hallways, the locker rooms, and whenever he entered the Hard Deck. Hangman knew those stares, reveled in them even when it was facing Rooster’s anger and rivalry.
“What are you really doing here?”
“Boredom.”
“Boredom?”
Hangman drew up a long yeeeeep! before taking a small step back. His hands strained as he keeped them tightly clasped behind him. Maybe running into Javy wouldn’t have been half as bad.
“Come on, man.”
“Sure you’re up for the honesty, Bradshaw?”
Rooster— Bradley — gave him a weird look, but Hangman kept his focus on the wall. Gray steel with bolts almost stitched into its metallic skin. He tried to remember his old engineering lecture about welding steel (was this even considered welding? That must be a separate topic). The professor lacked the same energy and enthusiasm that his physics professor did, making the class drop to his least favorite of that semester.
“It’s not weird that you cared.” Now Bradley wasn’t looking at him. Jaw set and eyes up to the dull ceiling as he spoke, “You’re a fucking asshole…and an egotistical dick, but that doesn’t have to mean you don’t care if people die. This mission was…we weren’t all expected to survive, and you knew that. But even still you came to our aid.”
“Yeah well, everyone’s human.”
“Yeah, sure.”
There was a faint snort or maybe a cut-off snore coming from Maverick’s bed. No one said anything, watching the captain shift in his sleep, listening to him breathe slowly in and out.
“Is he gonna be alright?”
Bradley took careful time in examining his (mentor? father? old family friend? something?) uncle, his fist flexing open and closed.
“Yeah.” It was said in a whisper, almost a prayer, but Hangman knew Bradley wasn’t a religious man. “Broken ribs, some gashes, but some stitches and drugs and antibodies should be enough.”
It was odd seeing Bradley like this. He spoke methodically (mechanically more like it) and there was no real change to his face, but maybe Hangman was looking too deep into the way Bradley was strung up too tight. His brow twitched for only a second but Hangman watched it as Bradley saw Maverick's breaths stutter. He couldn’t look at the bed for too long, then couldn’t look at Maverick’s face, then the IV, then the bandaged chest, then the wall then the bed then the—
“What about you?”
Bradley started, cycle broken as he gazed up at Hangman who was still here (he should really go back to his bunk, why was he still here, why was he just standing here like an idiot).
“What about me?”
“Well”— Hangman sat at the edge of the bed, his legs were complaining too much and he may have locked the knees for too long— “Mav’s not the only idiot who got stranded on enemy territory.”
“'m fine, only a couple cuts from some branches.”
“You know what I mean, Bradley.” Hangman rolled his eyes. “It’s over, the mission was a success. No need to keep up that front anymore.”
“I am fine, Sere–”
“You’re as stiff as a porcelain doll, you haven’t stopped clenching your fists since I got here”— (Bradley’s fist clenched harder at that)— “not to mention that you’re two seconds away from a panic attack: you’re not fine. You and Mav almost died who knows how many times out there. Those kinds of things stick with you.”
Bradley exhaled through his nose. “Finished?”
“I mean, there are more issues going on, but I was being kind with my observations.”
“Kind?”
“Point is”— he coughed— “don’t lie to the doctors and nurses when they check on you because you may not be as banged up as Maverick, but you’re still hurt. Don’t be a dumbass.”
There was a scoff and then, “You’re something, Seresin.”
Christ, that smile, Hangman was trying real hard to be nice and maybe even friendly because Bradley deserved some generosity after almost dying. But, then Bradley did shit like this. He shook his head all fond and smiled up at you like he saw something worth smiling at, and Jake had only seen it directed at others. Phoenix probably got that smile loads of times and so have all his exes and maybe Maverick was privy to some before their fallout, but never Jake. Sure, he could count that moment on the beach with the captain’s bonding attempt with a botched version of football, but everyone was smiling and happy and didn’t care who they were looking at.
But now it was night, probably past 1:30, and Bradley was smiling at him. Small dimples peeked under his cheekbones and Jake struggled to breathe for just a second. Bradley said he was something. Something without his usual annoyance and contempt. Something new and fond and friendly. A branch offering.
Jake would be stupid to ignore it.
He winked. “One of a kind, sweetheart.”
The moment the carrier docked and the pilots were allowed off, talks and plans of throwing another bigger celebration for a job well done commenced. The “Dagger Squad” group chat was constantly buzzing about the perfect date and time and place (Thursday, 4:30pm, Hard Deck), and it got livelier when Phoenix and Payback added the rest of the Top Gun candidates who stayed on the ground. Hangman was appreciative of everyone’s excitement, but would prefer if it didn’t hinder his own sleep schedule.
“I’ll kill them,” he said to Javy one day.
The two decided to go out to a sandwich shop. Javy’s idea since neither pilot would need to be deployed for some time. Jake’s grounding started the day the carrier docked, and unlike his “on-leave” compatriots, Jake was barred from leaving the base until his grounding was over (which ended in 12 days and 5 hours).
“You know you can set your phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’?”
“It’s the principle!” He stressed, waving the BLT with his hands. “Why should I silence my phone because they forgot that sleep was a thing that existed? I swear Trace has responded to every text on there.”
Javy let out a snort before biting into his tuna wrap. Jake had half a mind to point his finger at Javy as well since his friend was another one of the culprits who constantly texted during the witching hours. The hours Jake preferred to be left undisturbed.
“You could always leave the chat?” They both knew Javy was kidding. Maybe Jake would have left the chat before everything but not anymore. Javy broke out a teasing grin. “But there ain’t nothing wrong with muting it.”
Jake hummed and rolled his eyes, having another bite of the sandwich than to respond.
“Pretty sure Bradshaw has it muted.”
Jake choked on some bacon.
“Swore the guy left a day after the spamming began, but nope, he’s still listed on there. Got a red, crossed out bell and everything. Wouldn’t put it past him for muting all the sub-groups too.”
“You can do that?”
“Sometimes, I forget that as proficient in planes as you are, you’re like a fossil with everything else.”
“Hey!” He pointed the last corner of the sandwich at Javy (who was grinning like an idiot, the bastard). “Glass house over there, sweetcheeks.”
Javy just grinned wider.
“Go on, throw your pebbles.”
Late Thursday afternoon saw the Hard Deck full of every Top Gun pilot that was called at the start of this mission. Entering the bar at 4:30 sharp beelining to the dart board brought Jake a big sense of deja-vu as Javy clapped him on the back and went to Penny for their drinks. It was so similar to 3 weeks before, down to who arrived at the Hard Deck first (Bob).
“I swear, you cannot do something like that consistently,” Javy groaned as Jake, once again, hit a bullseye blind for the fourth time.
“I’m just that good.”
“It’s gotta be sorcery.”
“I am offended! You would think I’d need magic to be that good?”
Javy grumbled some more as he took a swig of the bottle to his right. It was actually Jake’s, but he didn’t mind. He’s spent enough time with Javy to be used to the man constantly encroaching on his boundaries. It used to be a halt in their friendship, Javy so ready and free with his affection towards the people he loved and cared for while Jake found the mere idea of touch to be alien.
“Well if it ain’t Hangman!” Phoenix waltzed up to the two of them, Fanboy and Payback following behind just like before.
Jake almost asked Javy to pinch him. He would rather everything be a dream than to ever experience a loop to the start of the mission again.
“Phoenix!” He grunted a surprise when the woman pulled him into a quick hug. “Late to your own party?”
“Can it, Bagman,” she sniffed, “You didn’t even confirm your attendance!”
He patted Javy's chest with a smile. “That's why I have this guy.”
“It’s the principle, Jake.”
He did not look back at Javy when the man cackled in response. Traitor.
It didn’t take long for everyone else to walk in and join the five who had taken control of the whole back of the bar. So far, Jake had beaten Javy, Payback, and Phoenix at darts (with Bob almost breaking his streak), then Halo, Yale, and Harvard at pool. The atmosphere was lively and full of excited conversation, everyone just happy and relaxed after three weeks of training for a mission that did not guarantee a 100% survival and yet here they were, all alive.
Though, there was still one more pilot missing.
“I never did thank you.” Maverick fiddled with his half empty glass. The old captain had arrived only fifteen minutes ago, waving as the pilots cheered and whistled at his entrance, then sliding into a bar stool, smiling at Penny who had the man’s drink already filled. Hangman had only come over to refill his and some other pilots’ drinks, but found himself staying longer to catch up with the old man. “For saving my life, you know.”
Hangman shrugged. “You would have done the same.”
Maverick hummed, not bothering to argue because he would. He almost died shielding Rooster, and maybe it could be argued that Bradley was family to him, but he also saved Javy’s life when his friend was stuck in GLOC. Maverick didn’t know Javy. Not completely. He didn’t spend his teenage years driving around San Antonio with the guy just to avoid their personal drama. He didn’t make a pact with Javy to stick together despite the odds. And yet, Maverick did his best to save him.
“Though”— Hangman cleared his throat, pointedly looking away from Maverick— “I am curious. After everything, why Rooster?”
Maverick stopped fiddling with his glass and just stared. He didn’t want to admit it, but the captain’s look was so similar to Bradley’s. A little uncanny in a way that made his skin crawl. How many habits and behaviors of Bradley were a product of the old man?
“I needed a wingman I knew wouldn’t leave me behind.”
And there it was.
He nodded at Maverick when Penny handed Jake his order, no more words needing to be said, and Jake stalled enough. He couldn’t say he was surprised by Maverick’s answer. Though, in Hangman’s defense, Maverick was not supposed to be team leader when the training began, but that still didn’t take away from the captain’s reason.
Javy pulled Jake over to where Phoenix was preening while Fanboy and Halo mourned their losses, with the pool table as their crime scene. Phoenix gave Jake a quick side hug before taking a pint from his hands.
“Didn’t think I’d come back to a murder, Trace.”
“What can I say,” she said, flashing Jake a teasing grin, “you’re a good warm up.”
“Warm up?”
Phoenix leaned onto the pool table, a challenge clear in her eyes. Jake would be lying if he claimed he didn’t feel the slightest bit of intimidation. A lot of people forget why Natasha Trace was given the callsign Phoenix, but Jake was there. How she took in all the reprimands by the instructors who tried their best to snuff her out from the academy because of one mistake. How she kept a stone cold face until it was her turn to try the track again and obtained a perfect score. Neither instructor could argue against passing her, especially when Admiral Kazansky was present.
He chuckled, handing the rest of the pints over to Javy (who slinked away with a sadistic grin). “Is this how it feels to be used?”
“Doesn’t feel so good on the other side, eh?”
Jake didn’t bother hiding his laugh. It was loud and he had to hold onto Natasha for balance.
“Holy shit, you broke him.”
“Did not!” she sniffed, keeping one hand on Jake’s own, steadying him. “I just know what buttons to push.”
Jake breathed in deep. He hadn’t laughed that hard in years. It felt nice, refreshing. He could hardly believe that a week ago something like this was unfathomable to him. To have a team, people he trusted to stay by him and people he would come back to. People he could loosen around weren't just Javy.
It was nice.
“And the man of the hour finally arrives!”
Everyone turned to see who Fanboy called to. There, standing at the threshold of the Hard Deck’s doors, was Bradley Bradshaw, horrible Hawaiian button up and orange tee. So reminiscent of when the same man waltzed into the Hard Deck at the start of all of this. Same cocky smile, same gaudy sandals, same everything. The setting sun peaked from the blinds and shined rays of gold, the man’s own personal spotlight. Jake coughed, hoping it would clear away the tightness in his throat and the sunny illusion that coated Bradley in a golden halo. But, Bradley was still there, the Hard Deck was still around him, the sun was still shining on him, and this was no dream.
Phoenix was the first to be snapped out of Bradley’s spell, skipping over to throw an arm around broad shoulders.
“You’re late.”
“Overslept,” was his reply. Nobody bothered to argue on why. “Hope I didn’t miss too much?”
“Bradshaw!” Jake’s voice cutting in before Phoenix could respond. The cue stick spun in a slow circle as he walked towards the duo, pool table being their only barrier. “As I live and breathe.”
Bradley’s eyes raked down then up before meeting Jake head on. He kept a tight grip on the cue, resisting the urge to look away. This was a common game the two played, both waiting for the other to squirm first. In the past, their staring contest was met with animosity and contempt. This one, he found, was different. There was still a charge of something, something new. Jake didn’t have much time to think too deep into it because there was still a game to play. Jake rarely lost and he’d be damned if he lost another.
“Seresin,” Bradley nodded, breaking the connection to give another sweep down and up and Jake felt his skin prickle wherever Bradley’s eyes landed. “You look…good.”
A smile broke out of Jake. He liked this game.
“I am good, Bradshaw.” He made sure to spin the cue just so before positioning himself near the pool table’s surface, cue pulled back and ready to shoot. “I’m very good.”
THWACK!
Three stripes sailed from where the white ball hit and cleanly fell into the corner pockets.
“I’m just too good to be true.”
Bradley just smiled, dimples and freckles as clear as day, accentuated further by the golden hour. It was unfair, he thought, bringing his eyes back to the table as Phoenix lined up her shot. It was so unfair how no matter Bradshaw’s attire, the sun and the breeze and the bar’s own lighting showed off this man’s best features. He should look silly with the tacky Hawaiian shirt and saturated orange tee. He should look dumb with his shades above his head and his goofy mustache.
Jake shot two more stripes into the pockets and Phoenix whined out a curse. He ignored how much Bradley’s laugh made his hands stutter. He ignored how the congratulatory pat on his shoulder burned through his polo while Bradley brushed past, feet taking the man to the upright piano. He ignored them all even when he felt suffocated by them. It was annoying. Jake knew he was attracted, he’d be stupid not to, but it never had such an effect.
“Up for a Tale?” Javy clinked his bottle with Jake’s own. It was empty and he knew he should throw it away, but it gave Jake’s hands something to do. Something that wasn’t grabbing Bradshaw by the collar while the idiot was playing “Don’t Bring Me Down” and smiling wide and feral, shades sliding down the bridge of his nose, and sweat beading down from his temple to his throat.
“You know I love your stories.”
He ignored the look Javy was giving him, brows raised and eyes knowing, but Javy was always too good to him and didn’t call Jake out on it. He brought the empty bottle to his lips as Javy began a Tale about some armadillo and a coyote when Jake felt a sharp nick at his throat. Barely anything, and it should have been nothing, but when Jake cleared his throat, it was like he swallowed a bucket of sand.
“Hey man,” Javy stopped his story, hovering over Jake while he hacked out some coughs. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Jake croaked, coughing out one for time for good measure. “Must’ve swallowed something wrong.”
“Yeah, yeah let me go get you some water.”
Javy took the empty bottle from Jake’s hands, already bee-lining to Penny. Water sounded really good right then, and Jake didn’t bother to deny it as another tickle of something creeped up his throat. He turned away to cough some more. God, it sounded so dry and ugly, but the relief he felt when whatever was stuck in his throat got hacked out. It was slimy and he almost gagged at the texture of it. Looking down, Jake forced himself not to stiffen as he spotted speckles of blood on his hand that appeared to clump up more inside his fist. Taking a deep breath, he unclenched the bloody fist, swallowing the gag that followed, and paused.
There, at the center of his palm, was a petal. A bloody, beautiful, flower petal.