Archive of Our Own

It’s in the middle of July and the Daggers are all celebrating the accomplishment of their most recent mission.

The Dagger Squadron stays as a permanent strike force after the mission and Jake can’t find any reason to complain.

The finicky brass was highly pleased with their completion of the uranium mission and figured it’d be a good idea to let them continue as a team.

Captain Mitchell has taken a backseat, finally retiring from flying— fighter jets to be exact because god knows Maverick and flying are inseparable— to settling down in sunny California.

Jake has to admit that he misses flying with the old man. Yes, he’d grown closer to the squadron these past few months but it’s nothing compared to the relationship he has now with Maverick.

It’s silly, but Jake thought Mav would have never forgiven him for snooping around and bringing up his old and dead RIO in front of the entire squadron just to rile up Bradshaw.

It’s behind them now, Maverick easily forgiving Jake. Of course he does, if he could forgive Bradshaw for abandoning him for over a decade, this little mistake is not even a little pebble in Maverick’s long road of problems.

But Jake guesses saving your godson’s life on top of your own helps somewhat.

From then on, the blonde has been going to the older man not only for aviation advice but even inviting him out for drinks at bars other than the Hard Deck. He’s learnt a lot from the experienced aviator; not just every trick in the book on dogfighting but also Mav’s life growing up.

One night, Jake learns about Duke Mitchell and Nick Bradshaw— the way their lives and deaths impacted him.

Jake thinks it might have been the drinks but he opens up slightly about his own life growing up— it’s both terrifying and cathartic, sharing things about his personal life, even if he hadn’t said anything too important.

“I grew up rather lonely but I got used to it,” he told Mav, shrugging.

The patrons serried around them are jovial and loud, unperturbed by the quiet conversation they’re having. When Jake raises his head and lifts his gaze from where he’s been staring holes into his empty glass, he meets Maverick’s eyes.

There’s a look on his face that Jake can’t decipher.

(He doesn't understand it now but he will later.)

The older pilot pats him on the arm and they close their tabs for the night.

Come the next day when the squadron’s assembled back in Lemoore NAS, preparing for another mission, Mav declared was going to retire from the Navy; right before announcing that Hangman would be taking over him as squadron leader for the mission.

He remembers feeling outright tense by this decision.

So he stayed in the room after the briefing, everyone else leaving the two alone. Hangman remembers the door clicking shut and the great silence that came subsequently.

“Sir, as much as I’m honoured, I don’t-” he pauses, brows furrowed in confusion.

He licks his dry lips and adjusts his stance, chin up, chest out, spine straight, shoulders back, arms the sides. He licks his dry lips again before opening his mouth to speak.

“I just don’t understand why.”

He forces himself to stare just a couple of inches above Maverick’s eyes, examining every other feature except that scrutinising gaze.

“I’ve been nothing but a problem, I’m a great pilot, I know, but I’m not-”

A good leader. A good teammate. A good friend.

(A good person.)

Hell, I’m not even decent, so why in the absolute fuck would you think I should get this responsibility when someone else would be a better choice? Why not Bradshaw? Why not Natasha? Or Javy? Bob? What about Reuben or Mickey?

Why me?

He sucks in a breath, fingernails digging crescent shapes into his palms.

“The team doesn’t trust me, so how can I lead them?”

Mav just puts a hand on his shoulder; a simple gesture of assurance that has Jake wanting more. It takes a few good seconds for Jake to meet his eyes and when he does, he’s met with a pool of empathy and pride from his captain— Jake feels a little light-headed.

“I can see your scepticism but I assure you, you’re a good man, Jake.”

The sentence itself makes a wave of nausea wash over him. He snaps his eyes back up to look past Pete Mitchell, unable to hold eye contact.

Maverick lets his hand slip back to his own side. “I know people like you, our struggles are of the same kind,” he tells the younger aviator.
The shorter man ambles past Jake to lean against the closed door, speaking as he does so.

Mav tilts his head back as it thuds softly against the wooden door. “We’re brash and... unpredictable up in the air. We fly like we’ve got something to prove and act like nothing really matters on the ground. The bravado that we put on, it makes us complex.”

“People see the pride, the arrogance,” Mav says, “they don’t see the rest, they can’t make sense of it.”

“And that makes us unfavourable to others—because people hate what they don’t know, what they can’t figure out.” He concludes.

“And you’ve got me all figured out, sir?” Jake raises an eyebrow and Maverick grins.

“I’d like to hope I do, even if it’s a little bit.”

“This is my advice, Hangman.” Maverick starts again, hand reaching for the door handle. “Show them you can be loyal and stop doubting your capability as a good teammate— I’m all too familiar with that.”

“Self-doubt has never ended well for people like us.” He smiles wistfully at Jake.

“Don’t think, just do.”

So Jake agreed to be Dagger-01 for that mission.

Turns out, he isn’t such a bad leader or teammate or friend. He’s still aware everyone refers to him and thinks of him as the resident dickhead, but it’s changed from being one of being a little disparaging to one of being a bit fond and light-hearted.

Returning to the present, Jake looks at the team gathered around the pool table from where he’s at; waiting as Penny refills his glass. They’ve just returned from another long and uneventful deployment and like a tradition, have settled down at the Hard Deck to unwind.

Jake winks in appreciation at Penny before striding across the bar, a beer in each hand, one for himself and one for Coyote.

He makes his way through the crowd, and beelines back to the group, to discover them in an exultant state; more so than usual. All are cheering, Payback and Fanboy are slapping Rooster on the back while Halo ruffles Phoenix’s hair a bit too aggressively— both victims trying to fend off their assailants.

“What did I miss?” he asks in amusement, passing a beer to Javy who thanks him idly.

“Apparently, our two lil’ birdies have been getting real comfy with each other if you get my drift,” Payback says, wiggling his eyebrows while putting Bradshaw in a headlock.

Jake’s gaze lands on the two pilots, who are red in the face and he knows it’s not just from the alcohol. Something twists uglily in him, a strange tug on his heart that leaves him queasy.

He watches as Nat helps Bradshaw out of Reuben’s grasp. He watches them lean into each other, as Rooster puts his arm around Phoenix’s waist. He watches as she does the same, the motion easy and fluid; as if they’ve done this a hundred times over.

Oh.

And something vile rips from within him and Jake’s mildly aware of his grip on his glass— so tight he’s sure it was going to shatter in his hand.

He watches as Nat and Bradley sit shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh next to each other on the stools.

They look good together and Jake feels so violently jealous that the sheer magnitude of its revelation nearly makes him stumble backwards from where he’s standing.

Oh.

He’s been in love with Bradley Bradshaw this entire time.

It makes sense now.

Bradley Bradshaw has always captivated him. The man plays the piano and belts out songs like it’s his last day on earth. He has brown eyes that express so much emotion and a pornstache that really shouldn’t be allowed to exist in the 21st century. He wears gaudy Hawaiian shirts when he’s out of uniform which makes Jake’s eyes hurt. He’s taller than the blonde by one or two inches and older by four years.

Bradley Bradshaw’s entire being frustrates him to the point where the blonde can’t help but rib him at every opportunity.

But where others would back down at such comments, Rooster did not. He’d always rebuke them, eye for an eye, blow for blow, tit for tat.

Push and pull, push and pull. That was their own dance for two.

“Bradshaw! As I live and breathe.”

“Hangman, you look... good.”

He should hate him till death does him in. They’re too different.

Jake should hate him.

But Bradley Bradshaw has always captivated him. The man cares for his fellow aviators and ground crew; always a tad too kind to people he’s just met. He scrunches his nose when he’s frustrated and cracks his knuckles when he’s nervous. He’s loud and boisterous when he’s the centre of attention but is calm and modest when he’s not.

He’s always flying so carefully.

Up in the skies, he’s the opposite of Hangman who’s messy and impulsive, intense and demanding.

Jake should hate him but he’s never been really good at sticking to plans.

“You better stop pulling my pigtails, Seresin or I might think you’re in love with me,” Bradley says teasingly, eyes twinkling with amusement.

Jake smirks at him playfully.

“Keep dreaming Bradshaw ‘cuz never in a million years would someone like me fall for someone like you.”

He clenches his jaws, just realising how badly his head is pounding.

Admittedly, he’s imagined them together more than he’d like to. For a long time, whenever feeling a little more lonely than usual he’d daydream and pine over what it’d be like to date Bradley Bradshaw like a little teenage kid; his own guilty secret.

Would Bradshaw’s hand fit nicely in his? I bet he’s a human furnace, that’d be nice to snuggle up to in the winter. God, he has such a nice face. I want to kiss him.

I want him so bad.

He just assumed it was an odd thing; to have such childlike feelings for Bradshaw.

He’s too old, he says to himself; to have butterflies in his stomach and sweaty palms and all that jazz. At what point do you have to stop yourself? These feelings aren’t serious, there’s no hurting in a fun little crushing, he’d tell himself.

So he’s always shrugged it off, telling himself that the feeling will pass.

He guesses he’s been shrugging it off for years.

Self-doubt has never ended well for people like us.

Jake slowly takes a sip of the ale, hands slightly shaky as he brings the glass up to his lips— the familiar bitter flavour provides no comfort in his new discovery. He closes his eyes, thinking of what to say next.

His glass hits the wooden surface with a soft clink as he wrenches his gaze to look at Rooster directly in his eyes.

He looks the same as always, just a little older, a little more tired, a little more worn out.

But he looks happier too. There’s a kind life to his eyes now, something that Rooster was void of back during their days in flight school and early in their careers.

“When did it happen?” Jake hopes that he genuinely sounds curious and adds a head tilt just to sell it.

And he guesses it works because Rooster raises an eyebrow at him in surprise and some delight, probably expecting some sort of sarcastic quip.

Rooster shrugs before talking, “sometime after the entire suicide mission.”

“We weren't really hiding it, just wanted to see how long you guys would take to find out,” Phoenix adds.

Jake can’t help but look at the way Bradshaw takes Traces’ hand and rubs comforting circles on the back of her palm.

The sight of it makes his heart ache and Jake can’t help the thought of it being him— Jake Seresin being loved.

“Guess the whole ‘nearly dying’ thing made me realise life’s too short to live with regrets, so I took the shot to confess straight after the mission,” Rooster states simply.

Bradley presses a kiss to Nat’s hand and she smacks him on the back of the head lightly with her free one, rolling her eyes after she does so, not making any attempt to pull away.

He can hear a few of his teammates' fake gagging sounds and can see Javy roll his eyes from the corner of his eyes but Jake ignores all of them. He focuses on the way they look at each other with so much love and affection, downright saccharine with the way they make heart-eyes to each other.

Jake tries for his usual grin but all he can manage to do is a small smile.

“Congrats, you two.”

||

Jake isn’t sure how much longer he can put up with this act— this act of being the same Hangman. The same old routine of showing cockiness and preening all around up in the sky and on the ground whenever he’s surrounded by the squad.

It’s like he sees Bradley and Natasha in every corner he turns; like the universe enjoys seeing Jake suffer.

The couple isn’t overly into PDA, just gentle touches here and there and soft kisses when they think no one’s looking.

Jake’s slightly grateful for that but when he sees them looking so longingly at each other— he isn’t too sure if it’s any better.

Jake thought he knew the pain. He’s lived with different versions of it growing up. Jake’s familiar with the pain of being beaten and bruised, the pain of aching muscles and broken bones. He knew the pain of being neglected and left alone by his parents, the pain of loneliness when no one wanted to be his friend growing up. The pain of shame and embarrassment in each and every one of his failures— from getting a B- on his report card to ejecting his jet in a simple training exercise.

Jake thought he knew pain, thought he’d be desensitised to it by now.

So the idea of being heartbroken, never particularly worried him, never particularly concerned him.

He wishes he knew he’d be so, so wrong.

Because maybe he could have prepared himself for this kind of pain.

Because this kind of pain— it’s new. It’s threading through uncharted territories. It's new, it’s fresh, it’s unfamiliar, it’s nauseating.

And every time he acknowledges this newly-discovered pain, he says to himself, stop it right now. He’s thirty-three for god’s sake.

Laughable.

Thirty-three and acting like it’s the end of the world.

Laughable.

Stop it right this instance, Jacob Seresin. You and Bradshaw?

Laughable.

You two could never have made it. He’d never think of you in that way because he deserves more. He deserves someone like Nat, he deserves someone who is good and right, pretty and kind, someone who could love him properly.

(But couldn’t you have done the same?)

Stop it, Jake.

(Isn’t that why it hurts? Because maybe, if you had realised earlier, if you realised the potential the two of you could have had, maybe if you had tried, it would be your hand he’s holding right now.)

(Your hand and not hers.)

(Maybe, you could have been loved.)

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

(It’s over now, Jake.)

He stands alone in the locker room, head bowed down like a defeated dog. Everyone’s left and the only sound that fills the air is the buzzing of the light overhead and the sound of Jake’s shallow breathing.

Everyone’s left and he’s alone but the room is so loud.

(No one will ever love you.)

It’s over, Jake.

He has always been derisive and parochial of heartbreaks. He's seen in television and movies. He’d witnessed it first hand when dad left mom, left her all alone and made her an empty shell of herself— no longer full of life, either weeping on the dirty floor or staring straight into the horizon from where she stood on the porch.

Insensitive as it was, he’d laugh at them; successful people blown out of the water and for what? Because they couldn’t stand rejection? Couldn’t stand not being alone? Not being loved? Christ, stop being so childish.

Jake slams his locker shut and the sheet of metal reverberates under his palms with a shrill.

God damnit.

He gets it now and he wishes he didn’t.

How long more does he have to pretend that everything’s fine and dandy when the walls of his facade he’s so precariously spent his entire life building are falling apart— his hard work disintegrating right in front of his very eyes.

Why the hell is this finality of never being able to belong making him spiral when he’s been fine living with solitude his entire life?

He presses his forehead to the locker in front, the surface cold to the touch against his sweaty and hot and uncomfortable skin.

In his pocket, his phone starts to buzz. Jake sighs, fishing out the device from his back pocket. There are some unread messages from various people. He clicks the most recent chat, compromising of his previous squadron; all who have so graciously decided against kicking him out of it.

[VFA-151: Vigilantes, FIGHT UGLY!]
SHOTGUN: ISTG why do they keep sending incapable twats, I’m so close to purposely crash my jet into his
SHOTGUN: BTW if I do go through with it, you guys will be freed from further agony so you’re welcome and make sure to cry profusely at my funeral
BADGER: Lololol thanks bro
VALKYRIE: Please refrain from doing so, Mark. I am not willing to be with you in hell for eternity just yet.
SHOTGUN: Wow Val, after all we’ve been through? [unamused face emoji]

Jake manages a grim smile at the exchange between the pilot and his WSO.

HANGMAN: Bet y’all are really starting to miss lil old me, huh? [smirking face emoji]

The next response comes almost immediately.

HONEY: !!! omg its jake!!!!!! you have no idea man [crying face emoji] [crying face emoji] [crying face emoji]
HONEY: new guy fkin sucks!!! like REALLY sucks ugh
HONEY: miss flying with you man [tearful face emoji] [broken heart emoji]

Jake frowns, it must be bad if even Henry can’t stand the newbie.

THE FULCRUM: Hi Jake! He’s not as bad as the previous pilot but still, I think we’re gonna have to request a change
THE FULCRUM: It’s frustrating for all of us, but I’m sure we’ll get there
SHOTGUN: Well we better get there soon, for the sake of all our sanities... God save us all…
VALKYRIE: Mark, you’re an atheist.

Jake gnaws his lips as he types out his next message, deletes it and types it out again. He hesitates at pressing send.

Admittedly, he’s missed his old team. After being passed around states like a shared bottle of wine to different strike teams, they were the first squadron to accept how he flew— even if there were a few quarrels and near fistfights in the beginning.

They are great pilots, a capable team with Fulcrum to lead them. He works well with them, and they like him beyond what he is as an aviator.

Jake thinks of their last meeting together, back at Val’s place a week after getting the news of him being transferred into the Dagger Squadron.

They’re both celebrating and mourning Jake’s new arrangement with a Texan-style barbeque and lots of beer in honour of the news.

He’s halfway into the driver’s seat of his truck when Fulcrum yells for him from where she and the others are standing on the front porch of Val’s home.

“Hangman!” Fulcrum calls out.

When he turns, he sees all of them dressed down and leaning onto one another for support, faces varying in shades of red after too many rounds of alcohol.

It’s an endearing sight, he’ll admit— a sight that gets him all warm and fuzzy on the inside.

“You’ll always be welcomed to come fly with us!” his young captain hollers earnestly.

The sound of cicadas and laughter from that night echoes in Jake’s head from where he still stands in the dingy and suffocating room.

There’s nothing stopping him from coming back.

(This is your opportunity to run.)

(So you better leave while the pain is still bearable, Hangman.)

He chews on the inside of his cheek.

Well, he’s always known to do things by the seat of his pants.

He hits send.

HANGMAN: I’m not promising anything but y’all still got enough room for an old friend?

SHOTGUN, HONEY and 6 others are typing...

||

Even in the air-conditioned conference room, Jake’s sweating profusely under his khakis when he meets Cyclone and Warlock the first thing the next morning to request a transfer.

The lights above are teetering on the edge of being too bright and the room is far too big for just three people to be occupying it; there’s nowhere to hide.

They’re reasonably taken aback, Cyclone and Warlock look at each other simultaneously, with raised eyebrows and wide eyes.

Cyclone turns his head back and stares quizzically at Jake.

His voice is rough yet steady as he asks, “Lieutenant Seresin, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, sir.” Jake doesn’t need to think twice.

“The Dagger Squadron have been performing exceedingly well so far so pardon me for being a little surprised,” Warlock begins, “is there any reason why you’d like to be transferred back?” He asks kindly.

Jake nods his head.

He tries for his usual suave voice, “I’ve heard from the Vigilantes that things haven’t exactly been smooth sailing on their end with finding my replacement. I’d figure I’d save them the trouble, sirs.”

It’s a convincing reason and it’s not a total lie either. He likes the team but if it weren’t for his current predicament, he’d been totally fine staying with the daggers.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

(You’re one fake fuckin’ bastard, Seresin.)

“Lieutenant.” Cyclone’s voice snaps Jake back to reality from his digressive thoughts. “Is there... anything bothering you lately?” Cyclone asks politely.

Yeah, Jake thinks.

One of my good friends is happily attached to the man I’ve been hopelessly in love with for years— something I only found out recently— and it’s tearing me apart whenever I see them together, knowing I will never have that. It’s fucking me up.

It’s fucking me up so I need to leave.

God, please just let me leave.

He stares back at Cyclone’s shrewd gaze.

“No, sir,” Jake grins easily, “everything’s just peachy.”

Both men look at him, not entirely believing Jake but they nod their heads anyway.

“We will call you back to get everything finalised. You can take it easy for now”

“Thank you, sirs.” Jake’s earnest in his words.

Warlock nods and both men start to get up from their seats, extending their arms to shake Jake’s hand from across the table. “Thank you for your work here, lieutenant, and we wish you luck for your future endeavours,” Admiral Bates says, his hold solid and nearly crushing.

“That is all,” Cyclone states after shaking Jake’s hand. “Godspeed, Lieutenant Seresin.”

Jake salutes before making his way out, slow enough to not arouse any worry or suspicion from the men who are most definitely watching him as he leaves.

When the door of the conference room shuts behind him, Jake lets out a breath and hurriedly makes his way down the halls, straight back to his living quarters. His heart is pounding so frantically, in such an anxious rhythm and it feels like Jake’s 23 again, taking off in a super hornet for the very first time.

There should be at least a modicum of relief but all that fills his gut is dread.

There’s a part of Jake that’s screaming at him, telling him to turn back, to say that it’s all a mistake. To say that he didn’t mean it. To say that he likes being here with them— all of them.

He’s lying face up on his bed for what feels like hours, formulating how he should break the news to the squad.

He sighs and sits up, scrubbing his face, trying to rid of that exhaustion. He drags his phone from under his pillows and there’s a mountain pile of unread and unlooked notifications that light up his lock screen. He ignores all of them except one.

MAVERICK: I heard from Cyclone and Warlock.
MAVERICK: Let’s have a chat. Just you and me. Tonight, 8pm, my place.

Jake could say no, could come up with some lame excuse.

He could make up some bullshit and say he’s got a family emergency and fly off and spend the rest of his leave back in Texas or Washington or New York or any other goddamn state.

He could say he’s feeling sick and not willing to risk passing his germs to such an “old” and vulnerable man.

He could simply say no and Mav would be okay with that.

HANGMAN: I'll be there 8pm sharp

||

It’s always nice to come to Mav’s place. It’s rather small but beautiful— homely. It’s a little secluded from the town, in favour of being a little closer to the old naval hangar Mav has.

He approaches from the back, the gates to Mav’s house already unlocked by the time he arrives. Jake takes his time as he paces through his crowded flower garden. The poppies he’d helped Mav plant are beautifully in bloom.

The ardent orange-gold of the petals stands out even at night. There’s something so holy in the way the flowers are so still yet vehement on a cold night. Jake thinks it’s nice the fragile plants are in good hands.

(He thinks it’s nice the team will continue to have Maverick even when Jake’s gone.)

When he pulls the door open, the heat from the Mav’s house besets him and Jake walks in, enticed by the warmth that swiftly dissipates the chill from the night air outside.

He hears Mav yell an ‘over here!’ from the living room and the blonde follows the sound of his voice, steps soft on Mav’s carpeted floor.

Jake stares diligently ahead of him as he walks towards the little couch and table set up Mav’s got— ignoring all the hung-up and framed pictures where a certain brunette is present.

Mav twists around from where he’s sat on the end of the couch as soon as he hears Jake’s footsteps approaching. The older man offers a polite smile and pats the empty spot next to him, urging the younger pilot to take a seat.

Mav’s got a hot mug of coffee placed on the table in front of him— two sugars and a touch of milk. The thoughtfulness comforts Jake a little and lightens his mood for the heavy topic he knows they’re about to broach.

“You wanted to talk?” Jake asks and Maverick nods.

“You aren’t going to try and persuade me to stay, are you? ‘Cuz it’d be a lot of wasted effort for the admirals to retract their request and I ain’t gonna be too happy with their frustration,” Jake tries to joke.

Maverick chuckles but there’s no mirth behind it.

“I want to but I know better not to,” Mav says. “You’re old enough to make your own choices, bad or good– well that’s entirely up to you and how you perceive things right?”

Jake hums in agreement and raises the mug to take a sip of coffee, the temperature just below scalding as it hits his lips.

“I wanted to apologise to you,” Mav abruptly says and the younger man nearly chokes on the liquid.

He sets his mug down and looks wide-eyed at Maverick who’s frowning, deep in thought.

“I’m sorry,” Mav apologises as he lifts his gaze up from where he’s been blankly staring down on the floor to look at Jake.

“I should have checked in on you.”

And he knows Mav’s words are true. The man would mollycoddle any of them as if they were twelve but still, Jake’s not used to being on the receiving end of such treatment.

There’s regret and a plaintive look in those pairs of muted green eyes and Jake tries not to do anything to indicate his discomfort. He clears his throat.

“You don’t have to,” Jake responds, “I’m old enough remember?”

“Maybe.” Mav looks at him, eyes softening. “But it feels nice when someone does, doesn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer back and opts to turn his head and peer someplace else, observing asininely at the black screen of the TV.

“It’s Bradley isn’t it?” Maverick says not a moment after. Jake’s breath hitches and he shifts as he continues to stare at the screen. The brunette doesn’t even wait for a confirmation nor a denial— there’s no need for one when it’s practically the truth, an axiom.

“He’s been telling me you’ve been pulling away more than usual.” Mav continues.
“He thinks it’s because you’re jealous of him. But I know it’s not like that.”

“There’s a certain look when you’re in love with another.” Jake grits his teeth. “I’ve seen it a lot in my life,” Mav says.

“I know because I’ve seen it when Goose looked at Carole. I’ve seen it when Penny looks at me. I’ve seen it when Rooster looks at Phoenix and I’ve seen it when you look at him.”

There’s a lump in Jake’s throat. He’s stunned into silence because what do you say? What can you say in a moment like this? When you’re flensed and carved from the front that has protected you all this time; raw and defenceless in front of a man who’s omniscient and armed.

There’s a lump in his throat and a knot in his stomach but Jake huffs and smirks at Mav, trying to keep it casual; trying to act as if everything’s normal, scrambling for any remnants of Hangman still left in him.

“Seems like you do have me all figured out,” he tries to joke but it falls flat.

The tranquillity of the night takes over and Jake uses the opportunity to curl in from where he’s seated on the sofa, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.

“I-” he looks up at Mav who’s patiently waiting for Jake to finish his sentence. There’s no judgement on his face. Jake imagines the poppies outside— ever so steady.

Jake croaks, “I love him, I-”

I think?

No.

I know.

I love him, I know it.

Mav doesn’t look shocked.

“Y’know Mav,” he says, “it really fuckin’ hurts.”

Like a dam broken, Jake starts spewing the first words that pop into his head and Maverick remains mute as he hears him do so.

“And I should be thanking the high fucking heavens that Bradley fuckin’ Bradshaw isn’t in love with me because wouldn’t that be a shitshow? Can you imagine?” he laughs hollowly.

“It should be a good thing but-” he bites down on his lips.

“It hurts, Mav.” His voice is scratchy and he hates the way he doesn’t sound like him— like Jacob “Hangman” Seresin.

So he clears his throat once again and tilts his head to grin weakly at Maverick who sits patiently like a saint yet looking forlorn like a guilty sinner. “Hurts like a bitch.”

Mav shuffles closer and reaches out to rub slow circles on his back.

They don’t say anything for a minute, listening to the muffled whisper of the wind and singing of the crickets outside.

The coffee’s still hot; steam rising from within the mug.

It’s Maverick who disturbs the silence once again.

“Yeah, Jake,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”

And it’s a simple statement but something in Jake cracks— the way Mav looks at him with so much empathy and sorrow. It’s like Mav knows there’s nothing he can do; no words of comfort he can say, nothing or no one he can fight to help Jake abate this haunting feeling.

Like there’s no hope for any sort of happy ending for the two of them.

I know people like you, our struggles are of the same kind.

He looks back down to where he’s now placed both clenched fists on top of his lap— not daring to look his mentor in the eyes.

Jake thinks this would be an appropriate time to be full-on sobbing, to cry the hardest he’s ever cried in his life but he doesn’t do so, he just can’t.

Years and years of being reprimanded for showing such weakness and then years and years of burying such weakness have made it impossible to do so; the only thing he can manage is a few stray tears that dampens his cheeks.

It makes him angry and bitter that when he’s finally made such an attempt at being vulnerable, such an attempt has been stripped away from him.

So he tries another way to find that release— he starts begging.

“I have to go,” he says with a strained tone. “It hurts so much, Mav. And- and I don’t know why,” he clenches his jaw, trying to steady his voice.

“I don’t know why but I know I need- I need to leave. I can’t stay. Don’t make me stay, please,” he heaves out.

He looks back up to see Maverick’s sad gaze, brows upturned and pinched together, mouth pursed in a straight line, eyes glassy.

“Mav, help me, please help me, it hurts, it fucking hurts.”

Mav doesn’t say anything, just pulls Jake in for a proper hug.

||

He breaks the news to the rest of the crew a few nights later when they’re all gathered at the Hard Deck. It’s their last day off, and tomorrow, the daggers will be back on the Roosevelt, everyone except Jake.

The night’s long and cold as they slowly deplete Penny’s alcohol stash, still selfishly claiming the area around the pool table. Jake watches them closely. They’re having fun and he dredges the moment he’s going to have to sour the mood.

Payback, Fanboy and Coyote are doing shots after shots— faces scrunched up after downing the odd concoctions they’ve made themselves.

Halo, Bob, Yale and Harvard are in an intense four v. two debate against Fritz and Omaha on the topic of pizza toppings— pool game abandoned.

Rooster and Phoenix are talking privately to each other in a hushed tone— never once leaving the other by themselves through the night.

Jake says aloud before he can think, “I’m staying here in Cali.”

Everything seems to come to a screeching halt and he finds 12 pairs of eyes looking at him, all of them floundered and surprised. He takes a deep breath. Here it goes.

“I’m being transferred,” he admits. “Back to my old squadron.”

His teammates are speechless— the only sound that fills the space comes from the chatter of other patrons and Engelbert on the Jukebox.

“Shit, I’m sure Cyclone would change his mind if we gave some sort of input,” Mickey remarks, finally ending the inexorable quietness.

Jake shakes his head and chuckles. “No, no.”

“I’m the one who requested it,” he confesses.

“What?” Multiple voices say all at once.

They are a loud group of people, Jake can’t help but think as he sips the last of his drink. Because when no one is speaking, even the sound of the rowdy crowd around them seems so peaceful.

He does a quick sweep at their expressions. In short, everyone is shocked; the surprise slowly teetering towards the side of betrayal. There’s hurt in Coyote’s and Phoenix’s eyes. Payback and Fanboy are slack-jawed. Bob looks solemn and in deep thought.

Jake recognises the similarity between all of them— an underlying anger beneath all of their varying emotions.

They’re all angry.

But Bradley-

Bradley looks furious.

All at once, everyone’s speaking over everyone else. There are various demanding why’s and crossed what the fuck’s and everything else in between.

“Enough,” he says, voice loud enough to cut through the stampede of questions coupled with a force that shuts the team up, “it’s been decided.”

“They’ve been struggling to find someone that can fit the team.” He tries to mollify the situation. “They know me, they know how I fly, they trust it,” he concludes.

“They need me,” he says with all the certainty he can muster.

And all of you don’t.

(You don’t need them either, Hangman.)

He can still taste the whiskey on his tongue. He’s still relatively sober.

No one says anything and Engelbert is still playing in the background.

“It was nice to be part of this team,” he says truthfully, “thank you.” Jake gets up from the high stool, dusting his pants and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry as he walks past them.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry as he goes to close his tab.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry before he leaves.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry but he hopes they know he is.

||

Jake makes it halfway to his Camaro when Rooster approaches from behind him.

“What the hell are you trying to pull, Seresin?” He hears Rooster half-yell before his forearm is tugged by the taller man.

He’s faced first with Bradshaw, that same seething look plastered on his face. “Bradley-”

“-It’s Rooster, Hangman.” The man cuts him off with such wrath and spite, it’s almost hard to believe that it’s Bradshaw that is standing here in front of him.

Ah. There it is, Jake thinks bitterly.

It's the end of whatever friendliness they had left. The end of a proper camaraderie that had just started; after years and years of that push and pull game.

Because as immature as it may seem to outsiders, callsigns have always meant more to the two. To everyone else, Rooster and Hangman are more peculiar nicknames than anything.

But to them, Bradley Bradshaw and Rooster are two different people. Jake Seresin and Hangman are no exceptions.

Bradley: Kind, innocuous, genial.

Rooster: Temperate, circumspect, critical.

Jake: Flirtatious, deft, reticent.

Hangman: Hubristic, cunning, callous.

It's a privilege— a privilege to refer to the other either by Bradley or Jake.

Because Rooster and Hangman are always at each other’s throats. Because when it’s Rooster and Hangman, it’s hostile and rotten and repugnant.

When it’s Rooster and Hangman, it’s raw and violent.

But it’s banter and guffaws when it’s just Bradley and Jake— all quick quips and sarcastic comments.

Soft punches to each others’ shoulders, rolling their eyes, debating childishly on who’s the better pilot; that’s Bradley and Jake.

And now, Bradley and Jake can no longer exist.

Rooster’s acknowledgement of such an idea, its hope sealed shut in a coffin and buried a thousand feet underneath their feet at this very moment.

Bradshaw doesn’t let Jake get a word in; beginning his harsh philippic. “I didn’t expect you to be this cowardly y’know?”

“I see the way you look at us— jealousy at its fuckin’ finest if I’ve ever seen it. Maybe Nat didn’t notice but I did.” He accuses.

Jake’s clammy hands shake while Bradley continues to power through.

“You kept distancing yourself more and more, and at first I thought, ‘it’s nothing, he’s probably feeling under the weather’ but all this time it’s just been you pining over my girl,” he says in a near growl.

Wow, is all Jake can think. His chest constricts painfully.

My girl.

“We may not have been friends but you and Nat are. She’s happy-” Bradley closes his eyes and takes a deep breath— trying to calm himself down to stop himself from outright lashing out at Jake.

Bradley’s fists are at his side, clenching and unclenching in agitation.

“-we’re happy. So for once, why can’t you put others first instead of yourself?”

There’s something morose and sour looking at the man in front of him. The man he loves; loathsome and hateful in his stance and visage. The anger that Bradshaw so hates to hold on to.

He’s done that.

“Rooster,” he voices out with as much calmness as he can muster, “I think you’ve got it all wrong.”

The glare Bradley Bradshaw throws his way makes Jake want the ground to swallow him whole.

He scoffs. “Then fucking enlighten me. Are you seriously that pathetic? Running away because you don’t know what to do when you don’t have it your way?”

Bradshaw doesn’t stop there and his tirade continues, like an enfilade aimed right at Jake's heart, “they’re all upset y’know? We fly well together and now you get up and throw everything away all because of what? Because of a tiny little heartbreak?”

At that, Jake grits his teeth. It’s not. It’s not just a little heartbreak, he wants to argue. It’s so much worse than that.

It’s defeat.

It’s pathetic defeat and his pathetic acceptance that he’s tired of it.

“Well I’m sorry that Nat and I love each other,” Rooster says even though there's no apologetic tone in his rough voice. “I’m sorry that Nat doesn’t love you.”

There’s only the mix of heavy breathing coming from Rooster and a shallow one from Hangman.

A grim languor enshrouds their little bubble.

Jake opens his mouth, not knowing what to say, probably looking like a fish out of water and Bradley looks expectantly at him— mouth downturned into a snarl, shoulders squared and tense, eyes rabid and containing a fury he’s never seen in Rooster before.

All because Bradshaw thinks he’s in love with Natasha.

Without being able to stop himself, Jake grins.

He can feel his grin widen before letting out a short self-deprecating laugh at Bradley, who looks a second away from putting him on the ground. He chuckles once then once more and it repeats until he’s bending over, straight up guffawing at the situation.

He manages to see the pure rage on Bradshaw’s handsome features before being promptly shoved against the wall, the action knocking more air out of his lungs.

Now Bradley’s actually yelling, “You think it’s a fucking joke?”

Jake can’t control the way his laughter morphs into something more panicked; he struggles to keep his breathing in check, struggles as the laughter becomes hurried pants.

He can feel Bradley’s grip loosen just a tiny bit before the man completely lets him go. Jake falls like a marionette with its strings unexpectedly cut; knees thudding heavily first to the ground. His hands form claws, nails digging into the rough macadam beneath him.

His eyes are burning and wet, hot tears threatening to escape them. It takes a moment, Jake breathing deeply through his nose and releasing that breath through his mouth.

When he takes a glance at Bradley, the aviator looks less enraged and more confused, wary and worried.

Bradley speaks up, “Hang-”

Jake cuts him off, shaking his head.

“It’s not Nat,” he rasps out. “I’ve always loved her like a sister.”

“It’s not Nat,” he repeats and laughs emptily before looking back down. His eyes are still wet— whether from the hysterical laughing fit he just had or his own despair, he’s not too sure of it.

“It’s you, you fucking asshole,” he spits out.

Jake can hear the man stumble back like he’s been hit and Jake finally peels himself off the floor.

When he takes in the sight of Rooster, he can see an entire scale of emotions that run through him; shock then confusion and finally, he’s wide-eyed with something akin to horror.

“Jake, I-”

He knows it’s petulant but the unadulterated rage that spikes through his veins is what gets him into gear; that temporary need to take control of this mess of a situation and get in at least one blow in— Jake cuts him off immediately.

“It’s Hangman, Bradshaw.” He snarls.

It works. Rooster flinches and instantly, there’s a look of guilt stapled on his face, his eyes glisten with fear and regret under the shoddy parking lot light. The hurt on his rival’s face should satisfy Jake but for some reason, it only makes him feel worse.

“Right,” he swallows heavily, “Hangman.”

“I-” Rooster says. “Why? I thought you- well we’ve never really seen eye-to-eye, y’know? I’ve always thought you hated me and I just never would have guessed...” he stumbles carelessly over his words.

Since that night at the bar, he’s had weeks and days and hours and seconds to himself just thinking about why and how this happened.

“That’s what you think,” Jake begins, words prepared and calculated.

“It’s funny ‘cuz all I ever did was call you slow but-” he laughs once again.

“I liked you because you were the only one who could keep up.”

He doesn’t say anything else, the silence between them is tense but not quite awkward. Jake feels like he’s been here for hours. He’s so tired.

He sees Rooster’s distraught gaze and sighs heavily, trying to pass it off like all this was just some insignificant complication.

“You might not understand it, and I don’t expect you to but I have to leave.” Jake’s calm when he talks, wanting everything to tide over into nothingness and a distant memory.

“Rooster,” he says, barely audible. He meets his eyes and the same pain in his heart is back.

“It hurts just to look at you.” His voice cracks.

Rooster opens his mouth to speak, “I-”

He shuts his mouth.

“I-” he starts again. Rooster’s eyes are glassy now, no doubt from the culpability he’s feeling; starting from the accusatory statement to this misconception of Jake’s feelings.

Rooster looks at him almost pleadingly and Jake knows he wants so desperately to fix that bridge he’s just burnt. To fix that bridge he burnt and crushed and spat on not just five minutes ago.

It’s over though.

What little they had of Bradley and Jake is over.

Jake continues to stare at Bradshaw with a hardened gaze. Don’t do this, Rooster. Don’t hold out that olive branch you so desperately want to. Please don’t make me fight you, Rooster. God damnit, don’t make me fight you.

He seems to get it because Bradshaw responds with a simple and soft, “Ok.”

Jake shuts his eyes. It’s done. It’s over.

He sighs once again and pats the man on the shoulder, in an effort to lighten the situation. “Don’t blame yourself, Rooster. It wasn’t your fault that I fucked up,” he reassures.

Rooster nods but his agreement with Jake’s opinion fails to look convincing. Jake begins walking back to his car, Rooster quietly walking beside him. They plod past the other cars, each step heavy with melancholy.

It’s when they’re standing abreast of Jake’s car on the driver's side of the door, that’s when Bradley starts to talk.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself either, y’know? You shouldn’t be afraid to love.”

“I wasn’t afraid, Rooster,” he responds, unlocking the Stygian car.

(I am now.)

They don’t acknowledge that fact.

“You can’t tell Nat,” he says before entering the vehicle and settling down in the cushioned seat, not yet shutting the door.

He hears Bradshaw speak over the rumbling of the old engines when Jake starts the vehicle up, “don’t you think she deserves to know?”

“Knowing her, she’d try and set me up,” he jokes. I don’t want her heart broken too, goes unspoken.

“Just tell her I left ‘cuz I’m an asshole!” He barks out loud before grinning wryly. Rooster doesn’t return it, lips still pursed into a straight line.

He puts the gear into reverse. “Take care of each other,” he tells him before shutting the door and pulling out of the lot.

The car goes slow as Jake makes his way out of the establishment completely. He manages to take a glimpse of Bradshaw one last time in his rear-view mirror; left alone and cold.

(Left hanging.)

Jake fixes his attention back to the road ahead.

It’s over, Jake.

Good job.

(Good job, Hangman.)

||

It’s in December later that year when Jake sees Maverick again. Just the two of them. He’s just back from another deployment, he doesn’t know where the Daggers are.

It doesn't snow in the area he’s in. It doesn’t snow but it’s just as cold as the states that do. Cold. Unbothered. Unwavering. Unhurried. Jake’s steps are heavy; nearly trudging up the worn-out white steps leading up to Mav’s front porch.

The lights are on, the yellow hue seeping through the gaps of the blinds. Jake checks his phone. 1830 on the dot.

He brings his arms up to knock twice on the mahogany door. The sound it makes is loud against the silence. Not even a minute later, the door creaks open and Maverick is standing gallantly in front of Jake, all five foot seven of him.

They exchange smiles and Mav opens the door wider to let Jake in, patting him on the shoulder as the blonde walks past him.

They make it to the couch where they engage in small talk. How have you been? What have you been doing? How are the Vigilantes? How’s Penny?

Again, there are two cups of coffee set in front of them; white smoke visible even after they’ve exhausted the questions.

“So who was it?” Jake asks after a beat. He mentally shrugs, no point in beating around the bush or not addressing the elephant in the room. Besides, he’s been curious for months.

Mav rolls his eyes, expecting his question.

“Admiral Kazanky, the Iceman himself.” Maverick takes another sip of his drink.

“Shit,” Jake says, somewhat breathless with awe.

It’s not unsurprising, Jake supposes— with that large framed photo of him and a young Admiral Kazanksy in the 80s hanging up in the front of the foyer, Maverick looking all love-struck at his venerable wingman.

The older man huffs. “Yeah, I was– well beyond in love with him.”

“You still are, aren't you?” Jake questions.

“I love Penny, yes, but–” Mav pauses. “It’s not the same– she gets it, I’m lucky she does.” He tells Jake.

“Tell me the truth, Mav,” Jake says. “Did it ever get easier?”

Mav doesn’t say anything. Instead, he raises his glass to Jake before downing the hot liquid in one go.

“People like us,” he says, “people like us, don’t have it easy.”

“Till this day, I still love Ice all the same,” Mav confesses. “And it still hurts the same.”

Jake turns to look at Mav who’s bathed in the orange glow of the sun from where it has begun to descend down west. He’s got a forlorn look; like he’s longing after something— maybe even mourning after it.

Jake wonders if he’ll look as tired when he’s sixty.

“It hurts the same but you’ll get used to it.”

||

Years later when Jake meets them again, Natasha has a different last name.

He snorts— arms crossed and beer in hand from where he’s standing in the corner of the Hard Deck— watching Bradley play the piano, serenading Natasha with the cheesiest love song.

They’re both smiling at each other and Jake finds him smiling too.

Years later Jake finds it silly that he’d doubt what Maverick said.

It’s silly because what Mav said was true.

||

Years later and it hurts the same.

It hurts the same but he’s used to it now.

||

Years later and it’s a lie both he and Maverick tell themselves.

Fin.