Chapter Text
Jake and his massive body trap Mav against the bathroom sink though without any threat to it. The big, hard muscles seem content with gentle gestures and precise, almost shy attentions - the fact they could certainly knock down a wall or two but decide not to takes Mav's breath away for a wild second.
Ever since The Mission, a warm and tickling sense of safety settles in Mav's bones whenever Jake's around - he's got that aura singing, luring Mav in, taming his demons and passing through all of his well-built defences. Where Mav would have bared his teeth or ground his claws in the past, today all he wants to do is close his eyes and enjoy that warmth - strong and unapologetic. Heady, steady, steamy-
The damp smell lingering in the room reveals to him that Jake must've showered less than an hour ago. He recognizes the scent of a citrus shampoo or shower gel, probably grapefruit, acid and sweet, and a lighter but nevertheless underlying, inevitable spicy scent.
To imagine Hangman in such a mundane situation, so devoid of aggression and tension and play-
Mav finds himself gripping the sink a little too hard, suddenly dizzy.
"Damn. Nasty cut you got there, champ," Hangman whispers, a thumb delicately brushing over Mav's swollen lip.
The pain - it must be the pain - sends a muted zip of lightning down his spine that has him straightening up, his body almost lining itself to Jake's, their chest brushing.
"Shouldn't you have left bar fights behind 'bout four decades ago, sir?" the blonde teases, clearly amused by Mav's stupidity tonight.
But the only thought Mav's able to form is just-
Where the hell was that kid four decades ago?
Not even existing yet. Not even taking the tiniest of space in this world. When now Mav can't even do such a thing as breathing without being aware of that kid who's not been a kid for a couple of decades anymore, of that man who's not been a man for a single second in his life and just born to be something else entirely; when now he's just-
Glowing. Stealing every single other thing's shine without even trying.
Right? Or it's just Mav and his old age getting to his head, his stupid nervous system desperate to experience adrenaline once more, grasp something golden at his fingertips again.
When he looks up at the younger man, holding his breath and unable to settle on a point on that face, Mav finds that Jake's eyes have a strange glint to them from up close, like some kind of haunting ghostly secret. They look a little wary, and a little sad studying his split lip.
"You should check on the other guy," Mav's voice cracks as nimble fingers snake gently under his jaw. So fucking gentle. So fucking warm.
_____
Rubbing his eyes just accentuates the blurred lines of the room around him after a few blinks.
♪ Oh, darling, please believe me
I'll never do you no harm- ♪
And there's that godforsaken Beatles song that's been stuck in his head for days.
Maverick has been losing sleep for the past couple of months, precious hours that he was already counting down to a trickle, dismantling bikes and cars to the ground, only working on the P-51 for so long now that it was fully restored - he's been goddamn reading for fuck's sake and he doesn't understand where it's coming from. Everything's good, really. His new job, his new jet, his old housing, Bradley, his young team - really, he doesn't get it, 'cause in the history of his life's mediocre highs and center-of-the-earth lows, he's never reached a higher normal. Ever. It's sky-reaching.
Yet, it seems that his brain is trying to ruin it all, sending him a message, most of it the opposite of loud and clear. And Maverick's getting annoyed at his own brain.
♪ Oh, darling, if you leave me
I'll never make it alone- ♪
It happens a lot, he ain't an overthinker withdrawn from society for nothing, he's accepted it, but he tries, from the wisdom of his fifty-seven years of age, to be a good boy now and listen to his body.
Doesn't mean he understands shit of what it needs and what it wants.
"Jesus, wha' happened to you, capt'n?" Hangman whistles as soon as he enters the office.
Mav's eyes manage to escape the void all of a sudden, landing on Hangman's tall figure and ever-amused face. His motorcycle jacket, a healthy black with no patches, hugs his shoulders to millimeter perfection, its weight lightly pulling the collar of the white t-shirt just below. Mav considers the sample of tanned collarbone for a second or two before getting lost in the young man's tousled locks.
Texan boy, corn-fed and sun-kissed.
Surprisingly, the man's accent always gets thicker in the mornings, voice rough enough to make anyone realize that he's fairly human-made and not a goddam robot - even though Rooster and Phoenix may have strong opinions on said matter.
But that's bullshit. Mav doesn't question the pulsing muscle in the man's chest for one second. It's the reason why Bradley and he are alive after all.
Tearing his eyes away with a heavy sigh, he feels a little more awake now in the presence of someone else. He must admit, focusing on people has always allowed him to ignore his spiraling thoughts, or physical pain even.
Ice's eyeing him blankly behind his back.
Ok, Mav will also admit that Hangman has, somehow, become the best of distractions, all right. Always yapping and claiming the room's attention, just one look at him will make you smile or shake your head. He's just a human disco ball, you know? Catching light and making it dance around him. He can't help it.
"Bad night," Mav sighs again, stretching on his chair a bit, lower back complaining, and hoping then that he's more smiling than grimacing.
Jake lifts a questioning eyebrow. Stupidly elegant, somehow. Does he pluck those things?
"Considerin' you ain't covered in blood again, I guess it wasn't that bad. Guzzle that, Pops."
A tall cup of coffee drops onto his desk and that gets him to blink up at the younger man - also, he almost asks Hangman how the hell he manages to look so neat, so perfect at any given moment of the day. He knows better than to feed the man's ego of course, and so he shuts his mouth, accepting the caffeine wholeheartedly.
"Thanks," he says before taking a large sip and closing his eyes, humming slightly. "And I wasn't covered in blood. T'was just a scratch."
"Sure thing, sir."
♪ Oh, darlin'- ♪
Heat coils deep in Mav's guts.
"Don't call me sir. You're a captain now."
Cracking one eye open, he discreetly delights in Hangman's contagious grin. The guy's not often the most humble of the squad, not to say never, but since The Mission, well. He's openly kind, still an asshole throwing shit at everyone but... it's nice, seeing him put down the armors for them.
He looks... soft, like that, for lack of better word.
He's quickly becoming everyone's favorite, and Maverick is aware of Coyote's relief in meeting rooms and at parties. Must have been lonely being the only person to truly know the brainless golden retriever hidden behind the mean parading peacock.
"What should I call you, then?" the blonde asks after a handful of seconds, as low as an afterthought.
He's looking away, almost sheepishly, seizing a memory that Mav tries to ignore, and Mav doesn't answer right away, watches as Hangman bites the inside of his cheek before looking back at him.
Makes him look younger, that carefree glow he's cultivating. Like he's some kind of flower.
Shit. Those thoughts are getting stupid.
Carnivorous flower, all right. There.
Anyway. Coherent thoughts aren't on the menu for Mav today, but.
The blonde's quite frankly blooming these days. The cold exterior, the snark and the bite, the smooth uniforms, the coiffed hair - he's traded it all for warm greetings, genuine smiles and advice, windswept golden looks, without mentioning the black leather jacket and the Lexmoto Texan 125 he's been working is ass off on putting back together for the past year.
Mav even helped him fix the motor a few weeks back. Heard about the story.
Damn, what a beaut.
And, there, Maverick forgets himself, including his own name for a total of twelve seconds, which is, quite honestly, downright ridiculous.
"Mitchell?" Hangman tries.
A blink.
Uh. Why is he calling him like that?
Oh, right. The sir thing.
Well.
Mitchell sounds wrong and Hangman must agree because he's immediately trying something else.
"Nah. Pete?"
His mouth turns dry. The pure jade green shade of Hangman's eyes glows like the gem would in the early sun filtering through the curtains, and Maverick blinks again like his brain's leaking from his ears.
It must show because Hangman smirks and silence's dragging.
"Yeah. I like it," he says, voice soft, before taking a step back. "See ya later, Pete," and he walks out of the room, ever so nonchalantly.
And Pete fucking blinks, coffee in hand.
Pete doesn't say a single word, nor does he move for the next ten minutes.
He can almost hear Ice's mocking voice behind him: "What in the flying fuck was that, Mitchell?"
_____
The sun licks a thick, hot feeling up Jake's spine, then warmth settles inside his body like sticky sweet honey drops pearling and rolling along his vertebrae. It makes him flush all over, nourishing the fire settled deep in his bones, the one he doesn't know how to kill - doesn't want to.
♪ Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad
I'm hot for teacher- ♪
The moment he's brave enough, and Lord knows he's trying, he turns around, stupid football snug under his arm, and can't help sticking out his chest, working the muscles in his shoulders.
What's wrong with a little showing off anyway?
Sure as hell won't be Jake who's gonna tell you.
Especially not when he meets Mav's eyes, Mav who's been walking with Trace a little behind the team, unaware of the magnetic field circling him. The man's as hot as the oldest naked firefighter on a best-selling charity calendar, and honestly? For all the times Jake's stared up at the sun in his life, this feels just a little too good.
Which gives him an idea.
They definitely should do a photoshoot and make their own charity calendar. But, let it be just Maverick posing and each month dropping a new piece of clothing on the floor. Also, fuck charity, it'd be all for Jake's locker. He needs four of them.
"Hey, Blondie!" Payback shouts a little further down the beach. "Hurry bringing us those balls, man!"
Body still facing Mav, Jake cranes his neck, smirking at the guys.
"Careful what ya wish for, baby! Got the whole package there," he singsongs, moving his hips shamelessly just the once.
Groans rise up from the group as he snickers.
"Dude, gross!"
"Fucking hell, Bagman," Rooster shakes his head. "Keep your balls to yourself and give mine back!"
The Californian idiot drops his head in defeat as soon as the words leave his even more idiotic mouth. "Ah, shit."
Oh, it's too damn easy with that one, Jake revels. "Why, Rooster," he taunts, his laugh hidden at the back of his throat. "I always knew you 'ere missin' something!"
"Alright, alright, shut the fuck up," Bradshaw complains though he's chuckling to himself.
Jake keeps laughing, even as Phoenix walks past him, hitting the football with one of her hands and catching it with the other one. "Moron," she ends up muttering with a fond smirk, bringing the ball to its rightful owner.
Most surprising upgrade of being nice to people? Jake can easily answer that with:
C'mon, dude, I'm two steps away from braiding my hair with that fire-breathing flipping bird of a woman! Ain't gonna fuck that up, Rooster, move away from my bff-to-be, please. Thanks, Chickie.
Well, that, and the captain's favors.
Which are totally platonic, of course.
Which is a route Jake cannot correct anymore but, hey.
He's a big boy, all that jazz. He'll get over it.
It's just a crush. 'Cause he's a schoolgirl obviously.
The thing is, Maverick's shirtless today and Jake kinda loses his mind every two minutes because of it. How is he so damn fine? Jake thinks a little too much about how a glass or two of champagne would taste when poured over Maverick's naked body and how it would feel to run his tongue from his belly button to the hollow of his neck for all that to be considered healthy.
So when Maverick is about to bypass him, in all that shirtless glory Jake's been drooling over, Jake starts moving again, casually bumping his shoulder to his. It all lasts two seconds in total, but Jake fully takes advantage of it, his hand coming to rest upon and vaguely grip Mav's large fucking bicep in a well-orchestrated attempt to stay upright during a false loss of balance.
But it's all worth it when the older man looks at him again, this time from up close, making Jake feel like he's the only person in the world. 'Cause there's something about those eyes. Somehow tired yet full of life, somehow uninterested yet widening and drinking in every detail.
And Jake loves to live in denial.
"Whoops, sorry, Pops," Jake plays innocent, even though he knows he lays it on thick but no matter how thick it gets, Mav never seems to get trapped into acknowledging it.
Now the shorter man has stopped moving, his hands still in the air in an aborted move to catch themselves on Jake's own shoulders.
Damn. So close to feel those strong hands on him. Just missin' a few inches-
Anyway.
Mav blinks up at him owlishly, a little disoriented probably, then green eyes search for something that Jake tries to write on his face - big letters in red neon light - but, his precious captain is way too slow on the ground and once again doesn't get the memo. Or refuses to read it.
Which is a little too sad and too hopeful, so, moving on.
"'t's alright," Mav says softly, eyes dropping to Jake's jaw, then lower on his collarbone.
Sending those same mixed signals as always.
Fuck, Jake breathes in. He really doesn't know what he does to me.
And the sun licks at Jake's skin again, slow and delicate, making him ready to drop to his knees. And when the sun walks away again, Jake swallows the weight stuck down his throat.
It heavily ends up behind his ribs, sour and untouched - as always these days.
He doesn't think he'll survive being walked past once more but, if anything, Jake's a proud man. He'll keep his head up, his smile on, while his lungs will be collecting the falling pieces of his heart.
* * *
Mav's skin tickles at first, like a mosquito bite about where Hangman's touched his arm.
Then, it burns so deep within his flesh that he has to close his eyes during the football game and force himself to breathe properly. He makes his team lose a round, as he expected, aware of his poor aim today.
"You okay, captain?"
Fanboy's frowning at him, and Mav catches Hangman's eyes just above his shoulder. Sweat's making his skin shine like gold.
"Y-yeah," he manages to croak out, waving him off. "I'm good, I'm good. Sorry about that."
It must be a nasty sunburn forming. A dull heat stroke, maybe.
But then, Mav loses his foot after a not so complicated sprint a few minutes later and Hangman helps him get up from the sand, holding out his hand to him.
All he sees for a short moment are the blonde dog tags hanging from his neck like the pendant of some medium about to hypnotize him, and the name pressed on them echoes in his head for the rest of the day.
Jake Seresin. Hangman.
It's getting recurrent.
Mav frowns at the name, then stares at the man.
It's getting disturbing even. But Jake "Hangman" Seresin is becoming everyone's favorite golden boy, right. Not just Mav's. And he's distracting, it's all right. He's shiny and new and loud. It'll pass.
It'll pass.
_____
Staring at the screens where Hangman's name is displayed in big white letters and steadily moving along the trajectory of Darksun in real time, Maverick stops breathing, all too aware of the air lacking from his head to his toes as the seconds tick by. His whitened fists by his sides mute the urge to reach for something, anything. The space all around the darkened monitoring room has turned heavy and thick way too fast, like a heat wave knocking everyone's sanity down, crawling up Mav's spine like a snake on the hunt. Each tiny led of the panels feels too bright, the red ones as menacing as devils' eyes.
He's got trouble understanding what he's feeling, all over again because of the same kid.
People are tense, Mav senses it. How could they not be? Back straight, neck locked, eyes transfixed, whole body functioning with the lowest levels of oxygen. No one's speaking, as if experiencing some sort religious event. The thing is, Mav knows, nobody's even praying. No, as long as Hangman's name keeps shining bright and clear, and keeps accelerating, they'll forget how and who to pray.
The obnoxious, boastful, horribly gifted arrogant young bastard is giving them all a show they'll probably never see again, a show they will not forget anytime soon, Maverick included, and they're all as terrified as they're in awe - Maverick fucking included.
Not a sound's being uttered nor made except for the light breath of the A/C at the top of the walls and the reassuring, steady beep of Hondo's control panel - the one constantly communicating on the state of Hangman's super-jet.
But all those damn numbers keep getting higher. Hondo shakes his head.
"Captain Jake Seresin playing god, live on your TV screen," the CWO dares to murmur to himself.
Mav swallows the weak sound that was about to escape his throat.
Or maybe, Hangman's been playing human all this time, Mav thinks and shudders at the fact that's a recurring thought.
One year ago, Maverick had been the one up there, flying his sweetheart on last time - his beauty of a Darkstar - then crashing her down, once again stuck in his arrogance because of the thrill of being the fastest man alive, because he couldn't help push the limits of the human mind and body, because he can't do anything else than disobey when he's so close to a miracle-
He quickly got back to earth though, didn't dare to dream to reach that level again.
But now, here he is, standing in the Room Where It Happens as a consultant, flanked by a skeptical Rear Admiral Cain and a grumpy Vice Admiral Simpson.
He's standing in the room, reading Hangman's name over and over along every single piece of data the blonde is generating.
Because Hangman is flying Darksun - the brand new beauty he's been training to fly for the past six months. Each month a little harder, a little further.
And he's killing it.
Hangman's cold, and calculated, so ridiculously stellar and so insanely skilled that every single person in the room thinks he's the worst monster ever created.
Golden boy turned uraniferous god, and the concept makes Mav feel hot all over.
When Hangman eventually reaches Mach 10.8 successfully, as effortlessly as ever, while the goal was simply 0,1 under Mav's record, the whole room shifts. People gasp, horrified and disbelieving, and Hondo slumps in his chair, dumbfounded. Someone a few tables further down leans forwards and throws up in their trash can. Next to him, Mav absentmindedly hears Cain pulling a chair to him to sit down, probably weak in the knees.
"What the fuck," Cyclone whispers, arms crossed like he's shielding himself from the sheer madness of what he's witnessing.
Maverick? Well, Hondo turns around to look at him but Maverick is too entranced to look back and share this moment, mouth hanging low.
It feels unreal - the flesh clenching around his bones, the song of his heart hammering against his eardrums, Hangman's record marked on the screen.
Mav had reached Mach 10.4 by mistake and almost died.
But Hangman's laughing in his mic, fucking laughing, slowing down ever so gently, as easily as a kid stops playing with a tiny toy car.
That man's not a monster, Mav lucidly thinks. He's an angel.
He closes his mouth as the room erupts in cheers and applause, roaring so loud the floor trembles and decibels so high it saturates Mav's ears.
As everyone leaves to run to the tarmac as soon as Hangman lands a few minutes later, there's a single burning tear rolling down Mav's face and he stares at the name. Thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
So do Cain and Cyclone, surely.
"What the fuck." The latter says again.
Cain grumbles after a while, just before leaving. "Psychotic motherfuckers."
Well, maybe not.