Archive of Our Own

Shit! I’m out of flares!

Hangman, evade, evade!

I can’t shake them!

Hold tight.

Bradley, no!

Bradley comes to with a start.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings. His head is pounding. His side aches. Snow is falling on his face, and a blurry line of trees comes into slow focus. There’s a sudden shift in the noise around him as the whir of a helicopter cuts through his lagging thoughts.

Bradley’s up and running before he even thinks it through, he unclips his parachute in a rush as he stumbles forward. He only just manages to find cover behind a fallen tree, but the strafing bullets rip through mercilessly, sending splinters everywhere.

He braces himself, closing his eyes tightly.

The helicopter’s abrupt explosion is as spectacular as it is unexpected—Hangman’s F-18 swooping through the flames. Bradley’s immediate burst of relief is short-lived when the SAMs engage and the Super Hornet takes a direct hit; his chest jolts painfully, entire body flinching back from the sight. He watches helplessly with his heart lodged in his throat as a parachute deploys.

Bradley gets up again, limbs shaky and nerves lit up with terror and runs in Jake’s direction towards the thick line of pines—ejections have always set him on edge.

It’s slow going. He sinks into the snow with every step but he keeps running until his lungs burn. Bradley doesn’t even register the wind or the branches whipping at his face just keeps racing forward until he finally sees him. A relieved refrain of alive alive alive beats through him.

Hangman is in one piece, packing away his parachute like it’s a routine drill.

But when he turns towards Bradley, he’s wild-eyed, frantically looking him over.

Bradley doesn’t even stop, doesn’t say anything, just uses the momentum to charge at him until he’s knocked Hangman down in the snow.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he shouts, trying to catch his breath.

“What the hell is your problem, Bradshaw?” Hangman shouts back as he rises to his feet.

“You! You’re my problem, Seresin! You were supposed to be back on the carrier by now!”

“Yeah?” Hangman yells, getting up in Bradley’s face. “And you were supposed to fly like hell and come back. What the fuck did you think I’d do?!”

Bradley shoves him again, and again, vainly trying to break his composure. Hangman pushes him back just as hard, and the sudden sharp pain in his ribs at the contact cuts through his anger.

Hangman notices, because of course he fucking does, and has the gall to look worried. He steps closer and runs his hands down Bradley’s chest. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Bradley brushes him off. “I’m fine.”

He is, mostly. It was a rough landing. Nothing’s broken, but he’s probably going to be sore all over if they get out of this. Hangman is undeterred; he presses a hand gently against Bradley’s aching ribs, peers closely at his neck, reaches out to touch a cut, judging by the way the contact stings.

“I told you I’m fine,” Bradley repeats stubbornly.

Hangman finally seems satisfied with the inspection because he pulls back, flips Bradley the bird and asks, irritated, “Yeah, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Bradley rolls his eyes and knocks his hand down. There’s a stretch of silence as they take stock of their surroundings.

“It’s good to see you,” he says at last, relieved.

“It’s good to see you too, Rooster.” Hangman echoes.

“What’s the plan then?” Bradley asks expectantly.

Hangman looks caught off guard. “What?”

“The plan. You know, what the hell did you think you’d do after coming to get me?” There’s no room for anyone else in the single-seaters.

Hangman shrugs. “Didn’t get that far.”

“You didn’t get that far,” he repeats flatly, watching the annoyance flare on Hangman’s face again.

“What was your fucking plan when you took fire,” Hangman snaps, and Bradley can see him practically swallowing down the for me over his rising anger, “and crash landed here?”

Bradley averts his gaze, but Hangman reads him immediately, judging by his hissed “Jesus Christ!”

The thing is, Bradley didn’t think he’d get here. Maybe he’d die in the crash or in the ejection or at the hands of the enemy; he’d resigned himself to that. The Navy drilled instincts endlessly into them—it was a lesson hard learned for Bradley, who always preferred to know all the exits. But when it came down to the wire, getting between Jake’s jet and the SAM’s fire was the most basic instinct he possessed.

It was a safe decision, in its own way. He’d trusted that Hangman would never turn around. Except that he had, and now here they were, and Bradley didn’t really see a way out.

Maybe it had been instinct for Jake, too, but he didn’t have the nerve to ask.

Bradley hazards a glance at him. Hangman is staring straight ahead, eyes thunderous, jaw working.

They’re saved from another inevitable fight by the sound of choppers cutting through the air. Judging by their direction, they’re probably flying in to check on the now destroyed facility. The trees provide enough cover to obscure them from view, but they duck down anyway.

He’s about to suggest they head for higher ground to assess the situation further when he notices the considering expression on Hangman’s face. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says with a sinking feeling.

“It’s genius,” Hangman replies with a glint in his eyes.

“No, it’s insane.”

Hangman makes a sweeping gesture with his arms. “If you want to build a canoe and paddle it home, by all means, be my guest.”

“That airbase has to be crawling with personnel,” he protests.

“And they’re all a little busy right now.”

“Yeah, because the Tomahawks destroyed their reserves.” But even as he says it, he knows it’s pointless to argue.

“If you’ve got any better ideas, Rooster, I’m all ears.”

Bradley doesn’t. He concedes, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that there isn’t a better alternative, but he’s not going to give Hangman the satisfaction.

Truth be told, Bradley hadn’t been expecting to be team leader. Given Maverick’s continued criticism of his flying and the shit Bradley had said to him—it had startled him to be Maverick’s choice. It had startled Hangman too, judging by the way his jaw had tightened and how he’d looked away, avoiding Bradley’s eyes during the briefing. Bradley should have been ready for Hangman’s reaction after everything that had happened between them, but it had still stung.

He’d tried to put it out of his mind during the mission, but he’d gotten lost in his own head until Maverick’s words finally took root. Once he’d gotten into gear, Hangman's approval had washed over him through the comms. “That’s more like it, Rooster.”

He’d followed Bradley’s every lead and order during the run, whooping loudly in victory when Bradley had gotten the hit on the facility blind. Their exhilarating success had settled something inside Bradley up until the ugly moment when Hangman had run out of flares.

Hangman may officially be Dagger Two, but he’s already taking charge here. Bradley watches in growing bewilderment as he tallies their supplies: flashlights, folding knives, emergency mylar blankets, standard issue SIG Sauers—Bradley’s tempted to ask him if he plans to go in guns blazing but doesn’t want to give him any ideas—and he frowns disapprovingly when Bradley points vaguely in the distance to indicate his long lost parachute.

They chart their direction solely on memory of the mission’s topography briefings, and Hangman leads the way, peering at his compass and muttering about heading due east towards the base.

“Should be about 20 miles, doable in a day and a half even with the terrain and conditions,” he says cheerfully.

‘Terrain’ being forest and rocky outcroppings and ‘conditions’ being a foot of snow and overnight freezing temperatures, Bradley thinks doubtfully.

The sun is setting fast, and the events of the day, or week if he’s being honest, are catching up with him. He feels like one giant bruise, and he’s getting winded, trudging through the snow. He’s trying to hide it, but Hangman must notice the way he lags because he declares that they’re stopping for the night.

“I can keep going,” Bradley insists, stubborn to the last, even though he knows pushing on in the dark would be beyond stupid. It’s not like they can use their flashlights, unless they want to signal their presence, and it’s fucking cold, the wind picking up.

“Well, maybe I can’t,” Hangman snaps.

“Fuck.” Bradley stops short. “Are you alright?” He’d seemed fine earlier, improbably alive and untouched as ever.

“Darlin’,” he drawls sarcastically, “didn’t know you cared.”

“Jake,” Bradley says in warning.

“I’m fine,” he replies with a roll of his eyes, “it’s just that some oaf pushed me around after an emergency ejection.”

Bradley feels a rush of regret at his earlier childishness. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, but part of him is still pissed that Hangman’s even down here with him.

They’re as far as they’re going to get from the crash site and the burning wreckage of the F-18s; might as well shelter here before they stumble into who knows what in the dark.

Bradley considers where they’ve stopped—a small clearing hidden by trees with snow thick on the ground. There’s enough room to pin the emergency thermal blankets and build a makeshift windbreak between the two closest pines. The thermals are made to be reflective so that whoever has them can easily be found by S&R. He can only hope no one comes looking for them in the night.

By mutual agreement, they decide it’s too risky to build a fire even though it’s cold enough that they can see their breaths in the fading light.

They get to work, dividing tasks without speaking, survival training kicking in. Bradley ties one end of the mylar blanket to the tree and pins the other ends as deep as he can in the ground as Hangman cuts and deposits a growing stack of pine boughs beside him. Bradley lays the branches down as evenly as he can under the wind break so their bodies will be insulated from the snow, and they won’t lose too much heat lying on the ground. He covers it with the second blanket he had in his vest although it’s a bitch getting the thin material to stay in place.

Bradley’s taking off his vest and harness, rolling them up to stash in his helmet, when he notices Hangman staring stonily ahead at the makeshift shelter as if it’s personally offended him.

“Come on, get in,” Bradley coaxes, “it won’t bite.”

Hangman looks like he’d rather spend the night out in the snow.

Bradley sighs, “Get in or we’ll get hypothermia, and your big heroic gesture will be unappreciated by everyone.”

He scowls at Bradley with lips set thin but crawls in and curls on his side facing outward, knees tight against his body. Bradley follows him in, lying gingerly on his unbruised side. There’s not much space for two grown men. This is not the option Bradley would have chosen either, but it’s huddling together or actually freezing to death.

It takes them a few shuffling moments to settle into a comfortable position: chest to chest, their knees slotting together. The mylar crinkles loudly as they move. There was a time when this would have been second nature. Hangman holds himself stiffly and away, arms rigid at his sides even as he shivers through gritted teeth. An uncomfortable and tense silence descends.

He doesn’t need much light to tell that Jake’s face is set in a deep frown. Bradley knows all of his expressions, he can see them very clearly in his mind.

Bradley reaches for Hangman’s arm because frankly he’s being ridiculous. This isn’t the time to be prudish. He swears in surprise. “Fuck, your hands are freezing.”

Withdrawing his arm, Bradley removes his own gloves and then pulls off Jake’s fingerless flight gloves in turn. He slowly rubs Jake’s chilled hands between his own and brings them up to his lips to blow air over their fingers until warmth returns to them. Jake goes even more rigid despite the fine tremors wracking through him. Bradley lets go of him briefly and unfastens his flight suit and then reaches for Jake’s zipper.

“What are you doing Bradshaw?” he finally asks, clipped, moving away from Bradley’s touch.

Bradley doesn’t bother answering, just pulls Jake’s hands against his chest and slips his own inside Jake’s flight suit, settling them low on his clothed back. “Better?”

Jake grudgingly hums in agreement, and Bradley knows not to expect a thank you. It takes a while but he relaxes against Bradley in increments, palms settling on Bradley’s chest.

It’s quiet and dark. With the benefit of their shared body heat and the thermals Bradley begins to warm up. He lets out a shaky breath, exhaustion catching up with him.

He shifts lower until he can bury his face into the column of Jake’s throat. The smell of smoke and sweat and jet fuel is a familiar comfort in the crisp night air. Bradley's hand is caught between the muscles of Jake's back and the material of his flight suit. He breathes in deeply as he runs his thumb absentmindedly over the line of Jake’s spine in a rhythmic and settling back and forth swipe.

“Can you stop?” Jake grits out.

Bradley realizes what he’s been doing and stills his hand immediately.

“Fuck, sorry. Habit.” He could kick himself as soon as he says it. This is the elephant in the room they’ve been pushing and shoving each other around.

Jake lets out a wry snort but doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t push Bradley away.

They lie in silence as the wind whistles through the trees. The noises outside are eerie and unfamiliar, not the usual hum of the carrier or the rumbling of cars going past.

Bradley focuses on Jake’s even breathing, the steady pressure of his hands on his chest, the movement of his throat against Bradley’s forehead, and feels himself drift off into a heavy sleep.

Awareness comes to him slowly, the events of the past day flashing through his mind. He becomes aware of Jake’s cheek resting on the crown of his head and his arms tight around Bradley, but as soon as Bradley instinctively shifts to burrow into his warmth, Jake’s arms loosen and Bradley’s stomach twists sourly.

He gets up, bones creaking in protest and muscles stiff, glances at his watch and takes in their surroundings. It doesn’t look like it snowed overnight, but the trees stretch out forbiddingly in the gray gloom.

Hangman rolls out after him, stretching like a cat and cracking his spine. “I’m never complaining about the carrier bunks again.”

Bradley’s body aches in agreement. Even the tiny, lumpy bunks would be preferable to lying on branches in the cold after an ejection and 10G’s of force. He finds a painkiller in one of his vest pockets and bites down on it, offering the other half to Hangman who gulps it down with a swig from his water bottle.

As they pack up the mylar blankets, Bradley debates dispersing the branches so that it won’t be obvious someone camped out here if anyone comes across them but gives it up as pointless. It’s not like they saw any footsteps in the snow during yesterday’s hike, and he doubts anyone comes out this far from the base to enjoy the scenery.

Hangman glares when he sees Bradley grab his fingerless gloves and slip them on, but it's a relief when he takes Bradley's gloves without complaint.

They’re just buckling on their gear, getting ready to set out when Bradley’s stomach gives a loud and unwelcome rumble. The days without food were always his least favorite parts of Basic but if they keep hydrated—his thoughts are interrupted by Hangman lobbing a First Strike bar at his head. He only just catches it.

“Here, you can have cranberry,” Hangman announces.

“Thanks dear,” Bradley returns sarcastically, covering his surprise. “So thoughtful.”

He takes a bite—and yep, it tastes like fruit flavored sawdust but it hits the spot. “How many of these do you have?”

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to chew and talk at the same time?”

Bradley opens his mouth mid-chew, smiling, to provoke Hangman’s exaggerated disgust.

He grumbles, “Four, now. And you’re not getting the chocolate ones.”

Bradley’s not above some blackmail, so he goes for his best puppy-dog eyes. “I saved your life.”

“No. I saved yours and came prepared.”

Bradley rolls his eyes; as always Jake is immune to him. He wishes he had Jake’s resolve. “You’re a model boy scout.”

Hangman flashes up the three-finger salute with a smirk.

They sink into a not-uncomfortable silence as they carefully savor their bars. Bradley doesn’t think he’s ever eaten so little food so slowly before. Hangman’s continuing self-assurance—and unexpected preparedness, all boy scout digs aside—eases the part of Bradley’s brain that would be freaking out if he was here alone.

Hangman breaks the calm. “I’m sorry…for what I said.”

Bradley raises a confused eyebrow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“About your dad. That was,“ he inhales sharply, actually looking apologetic, “completely out of line.”

Bradley nods in agreement. They’ve said some shitty things to each other over the years. When he thinks about it, Hangman’s words in the classroom probably weren't even the worst of it. Bradley tamps down on that particular memory. Besides he’s not proud of himself either; he should have known better than to rise to Hangman’s baiting.

“I stand by everything else though.” It’s so typical of Jake that it startles a laugh out of Bradley. Jake's mouth quirks into an answering grin.

“Your apologies need work.” Jake will recognize it for the acceptance that it is; they never did need many words to understand one another.

“It was a thing of beauty to see you fly like that,” Jake says wistfully, then cringes at the memory, “right up until you got shot down.”

“Your compliments need work too.”

He smirks, some of his earlier seriousness dissipating. “Calling it like I see it, Bradshaw.”

“You’re right here on the ground with me, hotshot. Couldn’t let yourself be outdone?” Bradley asks with no real heat.

Jake tilts his head in consideration, giving him a small smile. “Something like that.”

They keep up a steady pace throughout the morning.

Bradley’s headache is gone and the throb of his ribs is manageable; his fingertips are numb, but at least Hangman won’t be getting frostbite.

Despite the unevenness of the terrain, it’s a slow incline and the snow doesn't seem as deep the higher up they go. The sun filters through the trees dappling the ground and it’s warm enough that Bradley’s beginning to feel a prickle of uncomfortable heat under his flight suit.

They find a stream lined with thin delicate ice and big flat boulders flanking its banks. Watching the clear, rushing water reminds Bradley of how uncomfortably itchy his skin feels with dried sweat and grime.

Hangman must have the same idea because he starts slipping off his gear, rolling his flight suit to his hips and pulling off his thermal shirts. Bradley admires the play of sunlight along the planes of his strong back until he catches himself and quickly looks away, getting to work on removing his own clothes.

He dips the undershirt he was wearing into the freezing water and runs it over his overheated chest and arms, goosebumps rising across his skin with every chilled swipe. Then Bradley uses the soaked material as a makeshift compress against the vivid red bruise overlying his ribs. He's shivering by the end but feels a lot more human.

The cuts on his neck sting, and he doesn’t want to reopen them by clumsily trying to clean what he can’t see.

“Hey.” He turns to Hangman, vaguely gesturing to his neck. “Could you?”

Hangman steps closer behind Bradley, flight suit undone but shirts back on. He gently runs the cool cloth over the back of Bradley’s neck and then steps around to face him. Hangman’s eyes dart to Bradley’s bruised torso with a hard look but he doesn’t say anything, just angles Bradley’s head so that he can get to the cuts on the side of his neck too.

Bradley watches Hangman work. His tongue pushes against his lower lip as he concentrates, his touch gentle.

“Good as new-ish,” Hangman declares, lifting his head. He seems to realize there’s not much space between them just as Bradley’s eyes zero in on his shiny bottom lip.

He takes a step back, but Bradley reaches for him, seizing Jake’s hand.

“Thank you for coming back. I don’t…” he stumbles over the words, “I’m glad I’m not alone.”

Jake’s face is solemn. “What other option was there?”

“Because I took fire for you?”

“Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You know why.”

Bradley’s frustration mounts. Jake has spent the past two weeks gleefully pointing out Bradley’s every failing, every direct hit a reminder of how little he cares. “No, I don’t think I do.”

Jake takes a rough breath in. “There was no other choice.”

Then, tugging out of Bradley’s grip and avoiding his eyes, he turns away.

He may be slow in the air, but the pieces are starting to come together now. Bradley had never lost a wingman before and to have it be Jake had been inconceivable. He wonders again if Jake had felt as equally incapable of leaving Bradley behind, of letting him crash and burn.

Bradley calls after him, “Jake… Jake, I—”

Hangman ignores him, continuing on. “Come on, we’re burning daylight.”

Bradley hurriedly pulls on his shirt and scrambles up the rocks after him. “Don’t walk away, Jake—”

Jake whirls around, eyes blazing. “No, that’s your job right, Rooster? First sign of trouble, you tuck tail and run.”

“That’s not fair,” Bradley protests reflexively, immediately wishing he could take the lie back at the look on Jake’s face.

It hadn’t been easy or smooth, they were both too strong-willed for that, but when they had finally come together after years of posturing and competition it had worked. Seemed like one day they were at each other’s throats and the next day, inseparable. It wasn’t the speed that had worried Bradley, even with his deserved reputation for a slow and steady approach.

The problem was that Bradley had always felt too much, emotions brimming close to the surface and it had been heady and terrifying to be so exposed under Jake’s knowing gaze. Meanwhile Jake had seemed absolutely untouchable and unbreakable, perfect and composed in the air and on the ground.

Bradley had found himself standing at the edge of a precipice a few months in, had known there was no coming back from it if he went over. He hadn’t believed he could trust a man notorious for leaving others hanging to catch him when he fell. It had been equal amounts of self-preservation and cowardice on his part.

Hangman intrudes on his thoughts with a pertinent reminder, “This is no time to be thinking about the past, Rooster.”

Bradley watches him walk away at a fast clip, the line of his shoulders tensed. He doesn’t bother to wait for Bradley to catch up.

It’s gone midday by the time they crest the ridge above the air base in strained silence. The runway is a cratered, smoldering mess of gray smoke and rubble. Klaxons blare loudly and lights flash. There’s a panicked urgency to the people running to and fro like busy ants.

He feels Hangman shift forward with interest beside him. Bradley raises his binoculars in the same direction searching for anything airworthy. His disbelief ratchets up. Hangman cannot be serious.

“No.” He does not like the grim determination set on Hangman’s face. “No, no, no. We don’t even know if that bag of ass can fly.”

“Only one way to find out, Rooster.”

“Can you even fly an F-14?” he asks incredulously.

Hangman drops the binoculars and turns to look at him, deeply offended.

“Of course I can,” then taking in Bradley's raised eyebrows and doubtful expression, he shrugs casually and adds a worryingly uncertain, “probably.”

He claps what he no doubt thinks is a reassuring hand on Bradley’s bicep as Bradley lets out a long suffering groan. They lie on their stomachs observing the base and compiling a mental sitrep before they agree that trying to commandeer the F-14 at dawn is their best chance.

The spot they settle on for the night isn’t far from the airbase, heavily wooded with snow thick on the ground. Bradley’s trying and failing not to think about how there’s no plan B as he watches the plumes of smoke in the distance.

Everything seems to be catching up with him, all the fear and stress and failure of the last few weeks. Not for the first time, he envies Hangman for his effortless confidence.

“You were right,” Bradley says sullenly.

“Why, thank you, Rooster,” Hangman replies, accent thickening with insincerity, “what was I right about this time?”

“I couldn’t cut it.”

“Bullshit.” He states fiercely.

“You said it yourself! And when push came to shove—”

“You trusted your instincts and flew like a bat out of hell,” Hangman interrupts, rising in volume.

Bradley ignores him, too lost in his own escalating thoughts. “I got us into this mess.”

“If you think I’m not here because I chose to be, you’re really fucking slow.” His voice has gone hard and his eyes flash in anger. “You just needed a push.”

Bradley can’t believe him. “That was your idea of a push?”

“As soon as I saw the brief I knew someone wouldn’t be coming back.”

“And that someone was going to be me,” Bradley says, resigned to this old fight.

“Yes! If you didn’t let go of whatever was holding you back and…” he trails off.

“And?” Bradley prompts.

Jake hesitates. It’s unusual for him to hesitate about anything.

“I knew you’d never leave anyone behind, not even Maverick, and what did you do on day one?” he asks with a pointed look.

Bradley had taken the tone lock Maverick had intended for Payback and Fanboy. He’s not quite sure he shares Jake’s conviction about his willingness for self-sacrifice, especially when it comes to Maverick.

“He pulled my papers to the Academy,” Bradley shares quietly. Unexpectedly, the betrayal doesn’t sting as much as it used to.

Jake is taken aback. “What? Why?” He then shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, you would have gone back for him anyway.”

“I still don’t know why he did it. We were going to talk after the mission.”

Maverick had looked like he’d been going to his own death when he’d wished Bradley good luck, mouth pinched and eyes tight. He’s probably wracked with guilt and worry right now after having listened to them get shot down, helpless to do anything.

Jake seems to be thinking it over. “Maybe he was afraid.”

“Afraid?” he echoes. His first reaction is dismissive. Maverick’s never been afraid of anything in his life. But he’s lost as much as Bradley—and lately even more. Bradley’s no stranger to how much grief can twist you up.

“Of losing you,” Jake answers quietly, meeting Bradley’s eyes after a brief pause. “Maybe he went about it the wrong way.”

Fuck.

The sinking feeling that he’d gotten Jake all wrong claws at him.

They’d been good, too good almost, at knowing what the other meant without needing many words at all—an instinctual language for only them—but Bradley is realizing now that something crucial and fundamental must have been misplaced along the way, stranding them at cross-purposes.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come back,” he confides as Jake stares stonily ahead.

He doesn’t just mean yesterday and wonders if Jake is still fluent enough to hear it. There was a time he had thought Jake would be true to his callsign no matter what Bradley did, but in the end when he’d been relying on that for his own peace of mind Jake had shocked him. “I was counting on it. That you’d make it back.”

“Yeah, well, the irony isn’t lost on me,” Jake says bitterly, voice thick with regret, “that you got shot down because of me.” His face twists unhappily. “Guess you were right after all.”

Bradley remembers standing in Jake’s tiny kitchen as they both screamed at each other, Jake furious and Bradley red-faced.

“You’re too slow and conservative, Rooster,” Jake had sneered, “you can’t keep up while sitting snug on your perch.”

Bradley had heard loud and clear what Jake had really been saying: you can’t keep up with me and I won’t wait for you.

“How can I when you go too fast?” Bradley had shouted back in his face with creeping detachment. “You’ll lead me into an early grave.”

Seething, he hadn’t stuck around after Jake’s face had frozen over. Besides, apologies always seemed to get stuck in his throat.

As soon as he’d had enough time and distance to reconsider his words in the sleepless weeks that followed, it had been too late. Jake had cut him out with unforgiving efficiency. In the aftermath, and every meeting since, it hadn’t felt like Bradley had spared himself any heartbreak after all. Jake always found every sore spot with sharp precision, spinning farther and farther from Bradley’s reach.

It’s unsettling now to see Jake’s composure falter, a doubtful and self-recriminating look on his face. Bradley hates himself for dredging all of this up, for washing out in the first place.

“I also wouldn’t be alive right now without you. Wouldn’t have gotten far at all,” Bradley says, hoping his complete faith in Jake shines through. “And I sure as fuck wouldn’t be marching on to an enemy airbase to commandeer an F-14.”

“Yeah, well, you always did lack imagination,” Jake shoots back wryly, regaining some of his usual cocky attitude.

That’s more like it, Bradley smiles fondly at him. “That’s what I had you for.”

Something unreadable flashes across Jake's face, there and gone, as he returns the smile, eyes crinkling. Bradley feels his breath catch; there you are. It’s been a long time since he’s seen that smile directed at him. Like staring into the sun—it warms him right through.

They take their time building another rudimentary shelter although this one is somewhat bigger than the rushed job from last night. By the time they settle inside, as close to each other as they can get, it’s still light outside.

Jake’s hair gleams flaxen in the sun. Their little refuge is fragrant from the crushed pines beneath them. Bradley watches Jake’s face openly in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He tells himself that he’s not trying to get his fill of Jake in case this is all the time they have left together.

Bradley reaches out and cups Jake’s cheek. Emboldened when Jake softens into the touch he reacquaints himself with Jake’s face—traces over the curve of his eyebrows, the crinkles at the edges of his eyes, the slope of his nose, and his strong, stubbled jaw.

As if he could ever get his fill of this.

Jake grasps his hand, but instead of pulling away like Bradley was half-dreading he presses a kiss to his palm.

“We might die tomorrow—”

“You’re so dramatic,” Jake says easily and Bradley grins, feeling swept up in his closeness. “We’re not going to die.”

“Still, don’t want to without—” Bradley closes the space between them with a kiss. It’s slow and languid, as if they’re back in the bed they used to share and not stranded in an inhospitable wilderness with almost certain death on either side.

Jake’s lips are chapped from the cold, but they open easily for him with a swipe of Bradley’s tongue. His mouth is warm and sweet, and he pulls Bradley closer to him with a hand at the back of his head. Bradley feels Jake unfold before him in the dying light.

“I missed you,” Bradley whispers.

“I’m right here.” Bradley’s about to protest, about to say what he really means when Jake concedes quietly, “Yeah, me too.”

By the time they break apart again Jake’s lips are red and slick, a flush rising to his cheeks. Bradley suddenly can’t bear to be away from him. He presses kisses to the places where his fingers traced along Jake’s face until Jake impatiently claims his mouth again.

When Jake rolls his hips, Bradley lets out a hiss at the pressure against his cock even through all the layers separating them. Jake dips his head, nosing at Bradley’s jaw, mouth wandering lower until he sucks a bruise into the tender skin of his neck.

“Can I?” Bradley whispers; anything louder seems an intrusion.

“Yes,” he feels Jake nod, “anything.”

He manages to unzip Jake’s flight suit despite the cramped space, rucking up the shirts he's wearing underneath then running his hands all over Jake’s exposed chest. Bradley follows the path made by his hands with his mouth, trailing wet heat as he goes.

Jake's hands go to the back of Bradley’s head, carding through his hair and pulling him up until he can crush their mouths together. Bradley slips his hands underneath the flight suit to feel the firm muscles of Jake’s back flexing beneath his touch. His hands wander lower, and he palms Jake’s ass as he arches against him while grinding his hardness into Bradley’s thigh.

When Jake pulls away, raising himself up on his elbow, Bradley misses the heat of him as cold air rushes in. He unzips Bradley’s flight suit all the way down, and his hand is hot and rough on Bradley’s cock. Bradley’s hips twitch up into his grasp instantly. The angle is awkward but Jake’s grip is tight, his strokes sure and steady. Bradley feels like he’s burning up.

Bradley lifts his head, intending to press another fervent kiss to Jake’s mouth. He’s too far away so Bradley tugs him forwards disregarding his protesting ribs until Jake is a heavy and warm weight on top of him. There’s really not enough room to maneuver like this but Bradley replaces Jake’s hand with his own, bringing their cocks together, gratified by Jake’s choked off swearing.

They move against each other exchanging uncoordinated kisses as Bradley’s hand works between them. It doesn't take more than a handful of strokes for Bradley to come with a broken cry, spilling on Jake’s bare stomach, swallowing down his breathy moans. Jake is still panting above him, moving into his hand frantically.

“C’mon, sweetheart, come for me,” Bradley urges, increasing the pace until Jake shudders against him with a long and low moan.

He rests his clean hand on Jake’s lower back, thumb running along the groove of his spine in familiar motions. They’re both breathing hard, sweat-damp foreheads resting together. Bradley moves first, wiping them both down and tossing his undershirt away carelessly.

Once he settles back again Jake moves them until Bradley’s head is pillowed against his chest, body held tight in Jake’s arms. They lie in comfortable silence. Bradley listens to Jake’s rushing heartbeat gradually calm and watches as his breaths condense in the cold air around them even while they press closer together.

“We’re not going to die,” Jake repeats, an edge of finality in his tone.

Bradley’s not going to argue.

Bradley’s woken by a gentle touch on his shoulder and a quiet “Come on Rooster, time to go.” As he’s stirring Jake’s arms tighten around him once, and Bradley feels lips press against his curls before Jake releases his hold.

The light is barely shifting to gray outside and the ground is crunchy and white. He can see his breath as they slip the harnesses and buckles on. Jake winces as he swings his parachute over his shoulder and Bradley glances at him in concern.

“Think I might have pulled something,” Jake says, grimacing. “Could you take it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Bradley grabs and clips the chute into his harness.

They devour their remaining energy bars. Bradley savors the taste of chocolate and tries to gather up his reserves of courage.

Jake catches his eye and reaches towards him to untangle one of the vest’s twisted clasps, resting his hand over Bradley’s heart for a moment before he tugs Bradley’s hand into his own.

They begin the descent.

Miraculously, there’s no one around. They load their guns in silence as a precaution and are about to slip down and across the runway when Bradley grabs the collar of Jake’s flight suit, bunching it in his hand and fits their mouths together.

Their helmets clank awkwardly, but Bradley pours everything he has into the lingering and defiant kiss.

It’s not a goodbye.

Afterwards, it takes minimal effort to slip into the hangar with the F-14. Bradley’s beginning to lose count of the number of miracles they’ve had in the past few days.

It takes them a nerve-wrackingly long time to figure out how the hell they should get the damn thing airborne. Eventually Jake jumps into the cockpit as Bradley fires up the gauge and pulls the pins once it hits 120, climbing in after him. Working together comes easily, like muscle memory.

It’s a lot less seamless when he gets into the backseat and is faced with a baffling array of switches. “What the hell do any of these do?”

“No idea.” Jake shrugs. “Wasn’t your dad a backseater?”

“It’s not genetic,” Bradley grumbles. Talk to me dad. With renewed determination, he assures Jake, “I’ll figure it out.”

Jake seems to be having his own issues, tapping gauges and flipping controls until the engines finally engage and they roll out onto the taxiway.

That’s when Bradley notices the wings coming out.

“Jake. Jake,” he says, panicked. “Why are the wings coming out?”

“Have a little faith, Rooster.”

“This is a taxiway, not a runway. This is a very short taxiway, Jake,” he repeats.

“Buckle up darlin’,” Jake drawls with confidence, “it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”

He’s not kidding; Bradley's stomach roils at the turbulence. Improbably Jake succeeds in getting them airborne in the tin can though they lose the landing gear in the process. Bradley’s not sure if the circuit breakers he’s just flipped do anything, but at least he’s turned on his signal. It’s no use getting this far to be shot down by the US Navy.

The real trouble starts when the bandits spot them and aren’t convinced by their idiotic waving. Jake makes short work of the first one but the second is harder to hit. Bradley keeps an eye out for missiles as they dodge and weave through the air with the bandit on their tail. At last, he’s able to shout a warning in time for Jake to down the Fifth Gen with a spray of bullets.

Bradley’s heart is beating frantically with adrenaline, and he’s buzzing with pride like a live wire.

“Oh, you are good Hangman,” he praises around his grin.

“Too good to be true Bradshaw.” Bradley can hear the deep hum of satisfaction in Jake’s voice.

Their victory is short lived because as soon as they hit open water another Fifth Gen comes out nowhere. Jake evades while Bradley fires flares, taking down a missile that would have blown them out of the sky.

It buys them time, but they're hopelessly outmatched and outgunned. With no ammunition or flares left, even Jake’s impressive skills are no match for a Fifth Gen.

“Any more bright ideas?” Bradley yells over the noise of the engines.

“Just the one.” Bradley sits up, wondering what Jake has up his sleeve. “When I tell you to, you're going to pull the ejection handles.”

“Fuck that.”

“Bradley—”

“No, absolutely not.” It’s unthinkable. “I’m not leaving you.” He wishes they weren’t so far from each other, separated by cold steel and glass.

Jake’s voice falters and cracks. “Bradley, I'm sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Bradley extends an arm and leans forward, grasping Jake’s shoulder in a tight and bruising grip.

“Jake, I—” his words are swallowed up in the deafening roar of the jets, but he raises his voice so that it reaches Jake and repeats them over and over again.

They’re the last words he’ll ever say.

It’s a shock when the Fifth Gen explodes behind them. An F-18 flies through the smoke, Maverick’s voice piercing through the comms.

“Looks like you needed some help, gentlemen,” Mav says, artfully casual.

Hangman recovers first while Bradley’s still processing that they’re not dead. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Pops.”

Mav chuckles in response. “Bradley?” he asks tentatively, eyes on him through the canopy.

He finds his voice, hoarse from shouting. “I’m here Mav, I’m okay.”

A relieved sigh carries through the radio. “Roger that. I’ll see you both back on deck.” He gives them a thumbs up and brief wave as he peels off.

It’s not a smooth touch down without the landing gear and the nets have to catch most of the jet's momentum, but they’re on home ground. As soon as the canopy pops open they’re swarmed by the medical team and whisked away separately for a check up.

Bradley tries to reach for Jake but he’s pulled away.

He has what feels like every test known to man performed on him. When they’re on dry land a day later, the medical staff on base run some more for good measure. Bradley’s really not that badly banged up all things considered—bruised ribs, a few scrapes, a hell of an appetite, but no concussion and no broken bones.

Maverick, because rules don’t apply to him, sneaks into Bradley’s room on the second night looking like he’s aged ten years since Bradley last saw him. It’s full of stops and starts, but they have their first real conversation in years. The bitter air between them clears, and it finally feels like things are on the mend. By the time the nurse Mav had charmed into letting him into the room coughs discreetly at the door, Bradley’s made a promise to come by the hangar once he’s discharged.

He has another restless afternoon under observation because of his ribs. Bradley is brimming with impatience and worry to see Jake—Maverick had had no details on his status—when Cyclone and Warlock drop by for an unofficial debrief before he’s discharged.

Cyclone looks like a stiff breeze would blow him over and Warlock’s not doing much better. Bradley dutifully relates what happened with more detail than the barebones account he’d given Mav.

“We’re glad you made it back to us Lieutenant and I’ll be recommending a full—”

Bradley’s had enough. “Lieutenant Seresin, sir…”

Cyclone’s tired face flashes in irritation at the interruption. “What about him?”

He hesitates briefly. “I’d like to see him, sir. In medical, I mean.”

“Lieutenant Seresin was released yesterday with a clean bill of health,” Warlock says, brows furrowed.

Bradley must do a bad job of hiding his surprise because Cyclone looks at him like he’s about to speak when Bradley interrupts again. If Cyclone wants to charge him with insubordination Bradley can’t be bothered to care.

“May I be dismissed, sir? I’m still tired.” It’s a half-hearted lie, but he’s pretty sure he looks shitty enough to pull it off.

The room is even more stifling than usual.

Cyclone mercifully obliges, and he’s dismissed with a month's leave and orders to attend an official debrief.

Bradley gets home, checks his phone, and takes a scalding shower before crawling into his own bed.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

The next day when there’s nothing—Bradley checks his phone obsessively even though the volume is on the highest setting—he goes through every room cracking open the windows to let out the stale air. He putters around restlessly tidying and rearranging things. He gets groceries and changes the sheets optimistically. He tries hard not to think about what he’s doing and the room he’s making for someone else.

By evening there’s still no contact. Despite the busy day he spends the night tossing and turning in his comfortable bed.

In the morning Bradley scrubs his face with cold water and scowls when he catches his tired reflection in the mirror. His fingers go to the bruise in the shape of Jake’s mouth on his neck. He doesn’t bother checking his phone anymore, a plan taking form in his mind.

He tries to keep busy again, but his list of household chores is exhausted. Even though he goes for a slow run his ribs are sore; he gives it up as hopeless.

The hours tick by agonizingly slowly. It’s not even half past six when Bradley settles in for a long wait, stewing, chasing his own thoughts round and round in circles.

Around midnight Bradley gets into the Bronco and drives over to Hangman’s base housing. Jake had once accused him of being too slow in waiting for the perfect moment, but he’s done waiting now.

He’s neither subtle nor quiet about banging on the door and listens to a shouted “Coming!” and the crash of something as Jake lets out a string of loud curses.

The door opens. Jake is haloed in the light behind him, wearing sleep shorts and a faded Longhorns tee, tired face registering surprise. Bradley brushes past him as he enters, not bothering to wait for an invitation.

He cuts to the chase. “Couldn’t sleep, and I figured you wouldn’t be able to avoid me this way.”

Jake looks like he’s about to say something.

“Don’t deny it,” Bradley adds angrily.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t going to.”

“Do you want to tell me,” Bradley asks, the words grating as they come out of him, “why I had to find out from Warlock that you’d been discharged?”

Jake’s silent, but Bradley can wait. He’s good at that; it’s his crutch and his cross.

Finally Jake speaks, voice and eyes steady on Bradley. “A man might do and say a lot of things when he thinks he might not live. Thought I’d give you space.”

Christ, if that doesn’t hit Bradley like a punch to the solar plexus.

Maybe he can spend the next month with Mav and then ship out as far as possible from wherever Jake is, even as a part of him knows that the distance didn’t do shit all last time. It’s strange, he thinks distantly; he’d felt a lot more certain of things in the air than he does on solid ground.

Anger, what little he can summon right now, is a familiar friend. “You sure know how to let a guy down easy.”

“What?”

“Why did you even bother coming back?” Bradley’s trying for vicious, but it sounds wounded even to his own ears.

Jake looks miserable. “You know why.”

“Would have been cleaner just to let me—”

“Would you fucking stop?” Jake yells, eyes going hard, and then continues quietly, “I told you it wasn’t an option. There was no other choice.”

“But you have lots of those,” Bradley says furiously, spitting out the words, finding his anger again. “I’m just a mistake you made when you thought there weren’t any other ones.”

“I meant you, asshole,” Jake retorts sharply, color rising to his cheeks, eyes on fire. “That you might have said things you didn’t mean, that it was going too fast.”

Bradley’s rage dies in his throat.

He blinks a few times, trying to catch his breath, giving Jake a careful once over as something occurs to him. “How’s your shoulder?”

Jake’s taken aback by the change in subject. “What? Fine, why?”

“You gave me your parachute because your shoulder was hurt,” Bradley says with a horrible dawning realization.

Jake looks uncomfortable, running a hand through his hair.

Bradley can’t believe he ever thought this man wouldn’t hold right on to him, be right by his side as they both fell off the edge.

He shores himself up, ready to trust his instincts again; it’s gotten him this far. “If you’re over it—”

Jake lets out a humorless laugh.

“What,” Jake says enunciating each word as if Bradley’s especially slow, “about the last two weeks, hell, or even the last five days makes you think I’m over it?”

“And what,” Bradley repeats, mirroring his tone and carefully stepping closer, “about the words I said in the cockpit makes you think I want space?”

“I still go too fast,” Jake says quietly, like Bradley’s going to change his mind.

“I was afraid you’d leave me behind.” He reaches a hand to cup Jake’s jaw and bring their mouths close. “But you’d never leave me hanging, would you?”

“No,” Jake whispers against his lips and closes the distance between them with a gentle, lingering kiss. It’s not tentative—they know each other too well for that, but it’s deep and tender and has an edge of certainty to it.

Jake raises his hands to cradle Bradley’s face, thumbs pressing lightly on the bags underneath his eyes in question. Bradley ducks his head to press a kiss to the pulse point of Jake’s wrist.

They stay there, holding on to each other, just sharing breath until Jake pulls away and leads him to the dimly lit bedroom. The bed is too small, but they curl around each other anyway.

Bradley lets Jake’s steady breath lull him to sleep.

When he wakes up the sun is high in the sky, and Jake is propped up on an elbow beside him idly tracing patterns on his chest.

Jake’s expression is entirely unguarded and his voice is sleep-rough as he teases, “Thought you’d be up at dawn, Rooster.”

Bradley drinks him in with a blooming warmth in his chest, feels his face split into a smile he doesn’t bother to hide.

“You know that’s not why I got the callsign,” he says with a leer.

Jake runs a heated gaze over Bradley. “Maybe I need a reminder?”

Bradley surges forward until he’s got Jake pinned below him, hands bracketed on either side of him to keep his weight off Jake’s body.

“A whole month of leave ahead of us, what should we do?”

Jake rolls his hips up in suggestion, curling his arms around Bradley’s neck. “We could go camping?”

Bradley laughs so hard that he almost collapses into him. “How about after this—”

“After what, Bradshaw?” Jake asks coyly, eyes bright, smiling, “I’m still lying here waiting for my reminder.”

“After this,” Bradley says, fixing him with a stern look that’s really not worth much with the way his body is responding to Jake’s proximity, “we could go back to my place and take it from there?”

Jake searches his face in surprise. “Moving kinda fast there, Rooster.”

Bradley starts speaking. He’s had several days to get his arguments ready, but Jake’s faster.

“Yes, yes,” he murmurs, pulling Bradley down.