Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jake was ten the first time he heard the phrase, “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us,” but it wouldn’t be the last.

It started on the playground—dirt, sweat, and blood. The air was hot enough to taste, the kind of dry heat that left your mouth full of dust and your sneakers sticking to the mulch. Someone had dared Timmy Lacey to fight Marcus Doyle, and like moths to a flame, the whole fourth grade gathered in a sloppy circle around the monkey bars.

Jake hung back, hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo shorts, watching the crowd pick sides like dodgeball teams. Marcus was the obvious favorite, tall for his age, loud, good at kickball and making people laugh. Timmy? Just a wiry kid with big ears and bigger opinions. He talked back to teachers and always seemed one breath away from getting smacked. He didn’t have muscle, didn’t have friends. Just nerve. 

Sometimes that was enough. 

Not today.

By the end of recess, Timmy was face-down in the wood chips, snot mixing with blood, and Marcus stood over him with his fists raised like he’d just won the goddamn heavyweight title. Kids whooped and hollered, swarmed Marcus like he was a celebrity. Girls giggled behind their hands. A teacher whistled sharp and loud, but no one really got in trouble.

“You owned him, Marcus!” someone shouted, like it was gospel.

Timmy didn’t cry loud. Just blinked fast and crawled away, humiliated. He sat alone at lunch that day. And the day after. And the day after that.

Jake noticed.

Jake always noticed.

He didn’t sit with Timmy. He ate alone like always, but with his back to the wall and eyes on the room. Not because he didn’t care. He did care, in that small, boyish way kids do before they learn how to name it. But Timmy had already disappeared. And Jake? Jake wasn’t about to go with him.

He was quiet on the walk home, replaying the moment and how fast it all flipped. How one hit could change everything.

The living room was cool and dim when he got back. His mom had the windows open, the curtains breathing in the wind. The smell of onions and pork chops filled the house, settling him.

He sat cross-legged on the carpet, watching a dusty old cowboy movie on TV. Two men in worn hats and sun-creased faces staring each other down in a saloon.

Then came the line.

“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”

It wasn’t shouted. Just said with steel and drawl. It lingered in the air, mixed with his mother humming along to the radio in the kitchen.

Jake blinked. Sat up straighter.

It felt like more than something from a movie. It felt like a truth .

He chewed on it with his dinner of overcooked pork chops and mashed potatoes. 

His dad asked about school.

“Fine.”

His mom asked who he ate lunch with.

“No one.”

She gave him that soft sigh she always did when she didn’t know what else to say. “You should make more friends, Honey. You’re too quiet for your own good sometimes.”

Jake nodded. “I’ll try.”

He didn’t mean it.

That night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles above him, the phrase echoing through his skull like a song lyric he didn’t fully understand. It rattled around behind his ribs.

The next day, recess came, and Marcus was king of the monkey bars again. Kids hung around like flies, laughing at his jokes, following his lead.

Jake climbed up too.

He didn’t have a plan.

He just had that line in his head and something sharp stuck under his skin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Marcus sneered, perched like a lion at the top.

Jake hesitated for half a second. Then swung.

A punch. A shove. A body hitting metal and dust. Marcus came back swinging, but Jake ducked. Hit again. Harder this time. They tumbled off the bars and into the mulch. Jake took a knee to the stomach, got his lip split, but didn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. He didn’t even care if he won.

He just wanted to be seen.

When it was over, Marcus groaned in the dirt and Jake stood up, panting, his fists trembling at his sides from adrenaline.

The crowd didn’t cheer this time.

They just stared.

And someone, he doesn’t remember which teacher, said it.

“Go home, Jake.”

Not cruel. Just... impressed. Like a coronation.

He walked home again that day and by the time he made it, his hands had stopped shaking.

His mom gasped when she saw his face. His dad scowled.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Jake wiped the dried blood from his chin. “I won.”

It came out before he could swallow it. Just on the edge of pride and disbelief. 

“You’re grounded,” his dad snapped.

Jake just shrugged.

“You think this makes you tough ?”

Jake looked away. Felt the regret crawl up his spine before he forced it down.

He had the crown now. Invisible, yeah. But it was there. He could feel it. Heavy in his bones. Solid like steel.

While his mom talked about consequences and his dad lectured, he stared out the window. The town looked... small. Smaller than it ever had. Like a shoebox he’d outgrown.

He thought about Timmy Lacey. About how fast people forget you once you fall.

Something settled in Jake’s chest. Heavy. Permanent.

This town was only big enough for Jake.

And now that he’d tasted what it felt like to win, bloody and loud and undeniable, he didn’t want to give it up.

After his shower, he stared at his face in the mirror. Touched the bruise on his cheek with careful fingers. It hurt.

But at least they saw him.

The next morning, he walked into school taller. Not by much. But enough. Teachers looked at him longer. Kids parted when he passed.

He wasn’t quiet anymore. He was loud, and unafraid to take up space.

And now, people listened.

“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”  

Good thing Jake planned on being the only one left standing.

Chapter Text

Jake was twelve when Javy moved to town.

It was late August, the heat was dying down with summer coming to an end. But, it was always hot in Texas. The kind of heat that stuck to your skin and made the sky buzz like a live wire. The classroom fan clicked uselessly in the corner like it was trying to give up. Jake already had his seat—back row, near the window, legs kicked out like he owned the place. Because he did. He’d earned that invisible crown two years ago. Had kept it with smart mouth comments and I-dare-you stares, and no one had tried to knock it off since.

Then came Javy.

Tall. Confident. Clean sneakers and a dimpled smile that made half the girls in sixth grade suddenly forget how to talk. He had that effortless cool that made teachers grin and made Jake feel like he’d swallowed a nail.

Javy made people laugh in that easy, natural way that didn’t feel rehearsed. Even Mr. Green, the toughest math teacher at the school, chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder like they were old friends. Jake had spent two years figuring out how to manipulate Mr. Green. Javy did it in thirty seconds with only a smile.

Jake only made people laugh when he was making a joke at the expense of someone else. Jake had to try . Javy didn’t seem like he’d ever had to try for anything in his life.

By lunchtime, the cafeteria buzzed with new kid gossip. Jake sat at his usual spot—end of the table, back against the wall, tray untouched. He was mid-eye roll at something Marcus was saying when a shadow crossed the table.

“Hey. Mind if I sit here?” Javy asked, voice easy, warm like summer syrup. But Jake heard the edge beneath it. The challenge.

Jake shrugged, barely looking up. “Free country.”

Javy sat. No hesitation. Like it wasn’t even a question. He ate in silence. Jake didn’t offer conversation, and Javy didn’t push. He just chewed his pizza and glanced around like he was trying to memorize the room. Jake noticed that. Just like he noticed the tension in Javy’s shoulders—the way he hunched slightly when a group of kids passed by and clapped him on the back like they owned him.

That night, Jake lay in bed staring at the ceiling, sheets twisted around his legs. He could still hear the way Marcus said, “He’s chill. We’re playing basketball after school tomorrow.” The way Jake hadn’t been invited.

He hated the way it stung. Hated how familiar it felt. Like being ten years old again, last picked for dodgeball. Like being too loud at dinner and seeing his mom’s sad eyes when his dad looked up to start lecturing him.

—-----------------------------------------

The next day at recess, Jake stood on the edge of the blacktop, chewing the inside of his cheek. His mom called it a nasty habit. Said it made him look nervous. Jake figured better to look nervous than to feel it. But, he’d find a way to quit anyway. Anything for his mama.

“Yo, Seresin!” someone called, tossing him the ball. “You playing or what?”

Jake joined the game, jaw tight. He didn’t say much—just played hard. Shoved too rough. Didn’t pass. Scored three times and didn’t smile once.

Javy just laughed, hands on his knees.

“Didn’t know this was full contact.”

The others paused, glancing at Jake. But he didn’t look back. He was too far in his own head, chasing some kind of point no one else could see.

When the bell rang, he stalked off first. Left the ball bouncing behind him like it owed him something.

—----

Thursday. Same lunch spot. Same tray, half eaten.

Javy slid into the seat across from him, slower this time. Didn’t say anything at first. Just unwrapped his sandwich and let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it all day.

Jake glanced at him. “What?”

Javy shrugged. “Nothing. Just… thanks.”

Jake blinked. “For what?”

“For letting me sit here. It’s been kinda overwhelming.” Javy smiled, smaller this time. Quieter. Real. A dimple showed. “Everyone wants something. And, like, they don’t even know me, you know?”

Jake frowned. That hit harder than he wanted it to. He was the king. Untouchable. But suddenly it felt like they were both wearing masks too big for their faces.

“You don’t like the attention?” he muttered.

Javy shook his head. “Not really. I don’t mind it. But I don’t need to be the guy. You’ve already got that covered.”

Jake stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Javy tilted his head, unbothered. “Means I’m good being the sidekick, dude. You’ve got the whole lone cowboy thing going on already.”

Jake snorted. “You’re from Louisiana, man. What do you know about being a cowboy?”

Jake wasn’t sure when he’d learned Javy was from Louisiana. But he knew it. Like it had always been true. Observation skills seemed to be the only thing that remained of the Jake that had existed before becoming king.

Javy grinned. “Exactly. I’m just passin’ through.”

Jake wanted to laugh. 

He didn’t.

He thought about that old cowboy movie. The one where two men stood in a dust-covered saloon, guns drawn. Only room for one. That had always made sense to him. Someone wins, someone rides out alone. But Javy wasn’t gunning for anything. He didn’t want the crown.

He just wanted a seat at the table.

And, maybe, Jake thought, that’s what made it okay. Maybe, the town could be big enough after all, as long as it was just the two of them. And, as long as Javy was alright with Jake being number one.

Jake figured if Javy wanted to play sidekick, that was fine. That was safe.

But somewhere deep in his chest, a quiet voice whispered: What if he changes his mind?

They were only going to keep growing, and this town was already small enough.

It didn’t really matter, though.

Jake wasn’t going to be left behind.

Not again.

Chapter Text

Jake is fourteen when he tells Javy.

Not because he wants to. Not because he’s ready. But because it’s been sitting on his chest like a cinderblock for months, and if he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

They’re in Jake’s room, sprawled out on the floor with a bowl of popcorn between them and some dumb action movie playing low on the TV. It’s the kind of afternoon where the air conditioner rattles like it’s losing a battle, and the sun through the blinds stripes everything gold and sleepy.

Jake says it during a commercial break. Doesn’t look over. Doesn’t even blink.

“I like guys.”

Silence.

Popcorn crunches. The ceiling fan whirs. The world somehow keeps going.

Jake swallows. His throat’s dry. His heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch its way out.

“I mean—I know it’s not a big deal in, like, the city. Or on TV. But here?” He lets out a shaky breath. “It’s not something people talk about.”

His voice cracks. He wants to punch himself for it.

“My folks probably wouldn’t even care,” he adds, quieter. “Not really. But it still feels like it should be a secret. You know?”

Still no answer.

Jake finally glances at his friend. Javy’s staring at the screen, but he’s not watching. His eyes are distant. Somewhere else. Jake feels his stomach drop. Cold spreads through his chest.

He never should’ve said anything. Jake knows that Javy’s family is involved with the military. He knows what that means for people like him. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. And yet, here he is telling Javy.

Idiot.

Jake shifts. Clears his throat. Puts on that fake-casual voice he uses when he’s about to get hit or dumped or laughed at.

“If you think that’s gross or don’t wanna hang out cause it’s weird—”

“No,” Javy cuts in. Quiet but firm. “I’m just… processing.”

Jake’s chest squeezes.

Then Javy turns to him, and there’s no fear in his face. Just that steady calm he’s always had. The one that makes you believe things might actually be okay, even when they won’t be.

“Thanks for telling me,” he says. “I’m glad you did.”

Jake exhales. Slow. Shaky. His bones feel like they’re unclenching.

Then Javy nudges him with his elbow. Light. Easy. Like nothing’s changed. “C’mon. Let’s go toss the ball around.”

Jake frowns. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Javy grins. “Unless you wanna sit here and work up another dramatic monologue.”

Jake snorts. “You’re such a—”

“Careful,” Javy warns, already up and heading to the backyard. “I know your secret, now.”

And it should be terrifying. Should feel like the moment everything falls apart.

But… it’s only Javy.

So Jake laughs, grabs the football from under the bed, and follows.

Outside, the sky is turning that dusky pink that only happens in the hour before sunset. The air smells like cut grass and far-off barbecue smoke. They pass the ball back and forth in silence at first, letting the rhythm fill the gaps words can’t.

“Javy, honey!” Jake’s mom calls through the kitchen window. “You staying for dinner?”

“Yes, please, Mrs. Seresin.” Javy calls back, easy as breathing.

Jake’s fingers are steady. His chest is a little lighter.

If Javy can understand, maybe someone else can too. Someday.

But right now? This is enough.

Just two boys in a backyard under a wide, forgiving sky. Waiting for dinner and joking about tomorrow.

Tossing a football like nothing’s changed—because it hasn’t.

Chapter Text

Jake is freshly sixteen when Javy moves back to Louisiana.

They promise to talk every day and they mean it. Of course, they do. But Javy’s going home. And Jake—Jake stays behind in a town too small to hold him now, echoing with everything Javy isn’t saying.

The way he probably won’t come back.

That they might never see each other again.

As soon as Javy lands, Jake starts checking his phone like it’s a lifeline.

The texts come in. Every morning. Every night.

Javinator: Missed you today.

Jake’s fingers hover over the keyboard. I miss you — typed, then deleted. 

Jake: Football still sucks without you .

Javinator: That one teacher who always hated me? Still hates me.

Jake wants to say something. Anything. To show Javy how much it sucks that he’s gone. Instead, he sends a dumb meme.

Because that’s easier than owning up to his feelings.

The messages never stop. Javy is his best friend. Being in a different state won’t change that.

But the silence where Javy’s voice should be builds like static in Jake’s bones.

He goes a little crazy without Javy there to dull his edges.

Joins the football team. Starts picking fights in practice. Starts winning them too.

He gets louder. Sharper. Brighter.

Like if he burns hot enough, no one will see what’s missing.

No one will see him unraveling .

He becomes number one again.

He’d let it slip before. Hanging out with Javy had started to mean more than showing off.

But he’s back now. Running back. Homegrown hero. Golden boy.

The one who's so damn perfect there’s probably a Hallmark movie about his life.

Jake just smiles.

Javy taught him how.

“You ever heard that saying? You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

Jake’s smile is sharp. And, he uses it like a weapon.

The whispers start.

He’s too cocky.

He’s too pretty.

You know what they say about boys like that.

Jake just smiles wider. Lets them talk and spread whatever rumors they want about him. He’s already made peace with being a myth.

He plays football like he’ll die if he can’t. Like if he keeps moving fast enough, the loneliness won’t catch up.

Sometimes he throws the ball and hears Javy in his head:

Footwork, man. Tighten up. Good run. Good catch.

Just echoes—

The real thing is gone now. Miles away and probably playing his own game of football.

Over-the-phone connections are fine, but Jake misses his friend—even if he won’t admit it.

Some nights he lies awake, phone resting on his chest, screen gone dark.

The silence feels louder than any crowd he’s ever played for. 

When the ache doesn’t quiet, Jake finds other ways to stay loud.

All publicity is good publicity is something Jake learns pretty quickly.

He makes the paper three times in two months.

Once for a game-winning pass. Once for a scuffle on the sidelines. Once for something some dad said at a gas station—twisted into a rumor, soaked in gossip.

Jake doesn’t care. Not even when his parents sit him down and ask if there’s any truth to the rumors. If he’s alright.

He just laughs.

He’s got bigger things to worry about.

Like the scouts showing up with clipboards and polite smiles. 

“When do you graduate, son?”

Like the bottle of whiskey he swiped from the pantry.

Like the girl who keeps calling even though he’s never once called her first.

He dreams of planes sometimes. Something he picked up from Javy.

He dreams of flying so fast that nothing can catch him. Of a sky so wide and blue it swallows everything that hurts.

He dreams of Javy, too. Of the two of them reunited—older, cooler, better.

But that only happens in sleep.

In real life, it’s just the weekly phone call and the constant messages.

Javy’s doing fine. He’s always been the adaptable one.

Jake’s the one who needs structure, or everything falls apart.

He thinks about Javy’s calm. About the way he never flinched, never looked at Jake like he was too much.

Jake used to feel good around him. Now he feels like too damn much all the time.

The thing about becoming a myth? About being the best?

You don’t get to be soft and you don’t get to break.

You just do whatever it takes to win .

So Jake keeps throwing the ball. Keeps smiling like it doesn’t hurt. Keeps chasing that sky where nothing touches him.

And maybe, if he runs fast enough, he won’t have to feel it.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Jake is almost seventeen when his mom dies.

It hits like a lightning strike, sudden and bright, then everything goes dark. One day, she’s there, laughing in the kitchen, her voice filling the rooms like warm sunlight. The next, she’s gone. A sickness no one saw coming, a quick and quiet disappearance that leaves the house hollow.

Javy has been gone for six months. And if Jake thought he was struggling before, it’s nothing compared to now.

Two losses stacked on top of each other. Jake feels like he’s drowning in both, but there’s no time to collapse. Not yet.

Her favorite mug still sits on the kitchen table. Jake stares at it, almost reaching out—but he doesn’t touch it. It’s too much.

That night, Jake calls Javy. His voice is brittle, cracks in every word as he tells him. Explains how no one expected it, how the funeral is set for next month, the first Tuesday.

Javy’s voice comes steady, heavy with something Jake refuses to name.

“Oh, Jake. I’ll be there.”

Jake doesn’t let himself cry. Not yet.

The days stretch long and quiet. Jake and his dad spend time together, but it’s like sharing a room with ghosts. They sit in silence, the TV murmuring in the background filling the void where her humming would be. Takeout boxes pile up on the counter: pizza, Chinese, burgers. The only thing connecting them is the routine, the habit of eating because cooking feels impossible.

Jake catches his dad staring into space one evening. His dad catches Jake scrolling through his phone, ignoring Javy’s check-in messages.

They don’t talk about it.

At school, Jake goes wild. He’s loud. Reckless. The center of every scene, every fight. He’s a killer on the field and a magnet in the halls.

But the whispers follow him like shadows:

Too cocky.

Too aggressive.

Just wants attention.

Jake doesn’t care. He’s been through worse than whatever hurt their words could bring. 

Still, the calls to Javy grow more frequent.

One night, Jake calls, drunk and stumbling over his words.

The line crackles. Javy’s voice is low, steady.

“Go home, Jake.”

It’s not the first time Javy’s sounded worried. But it hits Jake harder than anything.

Home? Home feels empty. A shell that echoes with what used to be.

Football and school become his anchors. The only way he knows to keep moving is to throw himself into the game so hard, he forgets to stop.

The roar of the crowd drowns out the silence waiting for him at home.

The coach’s voice cuts through the noise—discipline, praise, pressure.

The bright lights try to burn away the dark.

But at night, when the world is quiet and his bed too big, Jake lets himself cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just quiet, desperate sobs that no one hears.

He stares at the ceiling, wishing for a sky wide enough to swallow all the pain.

Sometimes he reaches for his phone to call Javy.

But then he stops.

Because breaking down publicly means losing control. And Jake can’t do that. Not yet.

Jake wins the state championship.

He looks for his mom in the crowd, unthinkingly. 

She’s not there. 

Neither is Javy.

Just his dad, with a small, tired smile.

It’s not enough, Jake’s heart screams.

But it’s everything right now.

Chapter Text

Javy is sixteen going on seventeen when his phone rings.

He sees Jake’s name and answers without hesitation.

They’ve been doing this since Javy moved back to Louisiana-catching up like nothing really changed, like distance was just a glitch in the system.

But today, something’s different.

Jake’s voice is cracked and brittle, like it’s been stretched too thin.

“I… Mom’s gone, Javy.”

The words hit Javy like a punch to the chest.

He can almost feel Jake’s heartbreak vibrating through the line, a weight so heavy it makes Javy’s chest ache.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just listens. He hears the silence behind Jake’s words, the kind of silence that screams. 

Jake tells him the funeral is next month, the first Tuesday.

“Oh, Jake,” Javy says, voice weighed down with grief. “I’ll be there.”

Then, Javy tells his parents he’s going.

There’s no other option, he has to go. 

The funeral is an open casket.

Jake and his dad stand like statues, faces blank like they’re not seeing anything.

Javy watches from a few steps away until it’s his turn to pay his respects

He walks up to Mrs. Seresin.

She looks tired, the kind of tired that never really leaves, even in death.

Javy’s not very religious, but he sends up a little prayer, quiet and unspoken, but full of meaning.

Thank you, he thinks. For the dinners after football. For the support when Jake was too proud to ask. For loving me like I was Jake’s brother.

Then he sends up another prayer, this one heavier, for Jake and his father.

He knows Jake is broken right now and he won’t ask for help. That he’s probably going to end up doing more harm than good while he tries to cope.

But Javy has faith.

Faith that somehow, everything will work out.

Because that’s what you do when you love someone this much—you hold on.

And he wasn’t going to leave Jake hanging.

Chapter Text

Jake is eighteen when he enlists.

Two years of running wild, skipping curfews, picking fights, and earning his reputation like it's a badge of honor. Small-town legend. Big man on campus. All bark, all bite.

But lately? It feels like all static. Like he’s on stage for a show no one’s clapping for anymore.

Then Javy enlists.

Says it quietly over the phone, like it’s just something he had to do. Following in his grandfather’s footsteps. Doing something real with his life. 

“I wanna be a pilot, Jake.” Javy says, voice floaty and faraway. “I just… I have to do this.”

And when Jake hears it, something settles in his chest for the first time in years.

Not peace, exactly. Just… direction.

Javy had always made things make sense. Why should this be any different?

He signs up the next day.

Not because he wants the uniform. Not because he believes in the mission. Not even because he knows what the hell he’s doing.

But because wherever Javy’s going?

That’s where Jake needs to be.

He tells his dad three mornings before boot camp.

The sun’s barely up. The house is still and gray. Jake’s duffel is by the door, and his heart is already in the car parked outside.

His dad doesn’t say much. Just stands there in his faded flannel, blinking like he’s trying to rewind the years and find the right ones to rewatch.

Then, “remember to call home, Jake.”

Jake nods. “Yeah.” But what he means is, he won’t need to call. Home is waiting in the car and coming with him to basic.

Because that’s what home is now.

A shape in the driver’s seat.

A dimpled grin through the windshield.

A promise, waiting to be followed.

A damn good friend.

Twenty minutes later the car’s fully loaded and ready to go.

Javy waves to Jake’s dad for a minute before pulling out of the driveway. 

And, Jake knows he’s doing the right thing. That somehow this was where he was meant to be going. Off on a journey with his best friend. His brother. But watching the figure of his father fade in the rearview, Jake feels something ache in his chest.

He decides right there, that he’ll call his father any chance he gets.

Because while home might’ve been sitting next to him in the car singing along badly to Luke Bryan… family was walking back into an empty house in Texas.

Chapter Text

Jake plays football on the base like it means something.

Like it’s still Friday night under the lights. Like the world’s watching from the bleachers and every touchdown means he matters.

It doesn’t, obviously. But the body remembers.

The sharp cuts. The weight of pads. The hit that rattles your brain just enough to make you feel alive. It’s second nature, the way his cleats dig into the dirt like he’s still that kid with too much to prove and not enough ways to say it.

The guys love him.

He’s not a boy anymore, he’s a product. He’s swagger and sharp jawlines and toothpicks and bravado. And they eat it up. 

They say his name like it’s a brand. Seresin! Like it means something. Like he’s not just a kid playing pretend in camo and boots. He flashes that grin, throws the ball too hard, makes it all look easy. He’s loud. Fast. Competitive as hell. And, yeah, kind of an asshole.

They eat it up.

But sometimes, when the game winds down and his heart’s still thumping in his ears, Jake gets quiet. Leaves the smile on his face so no one will notice that he feels something.

Because it’s bittersweet , all of it.

Every pass, every cheer, every shoulder clap feels like a ghost.

He remembers the front lawn back home, the grass half-dead and patchy under his cleats. Javy darting past him, barefoot, laughing like a little shit. His mom yelling from the porch that dinner’s ready, and Jake yelling back that they’re not done yet . Not even close. Remember’s chewing his cheek and his mom gently tapping the back of his head, that’s a nasty habit Jake .

He remembers high school—the crowd, the ego, the mean streak he let grow teeth. He played like he had something to prove and nothing to lose. Hit like it might make someone love him harder. Finally quit biting his cheek, replacing that habit with drinking and chewing on his mouth guard.

And he remembers Javy. 

The one person who really saw him under all that swagger. Who never blinked when Jake got cruel with his words, or reckless with his heart. Who called him on his bullshit and stuck around anyway.

His best friend. His brother.

The only one who knows how to throw a perfect spiral and how to read the storm in Jake’s eyes.

No one here knows him like that. Not really.

They see the charm, the edge, the swagger. They don’t see the kid who still wakes up reaching for something that isn’t there anymore. The kid who signed up for a war he didn’t really believe in, just to chase a shadow. They see a guy who’s never without a toothpick in his mouth. Looks like an asshole and acts like one too but you just can’t stay away.

They don’t know that Jake Seresin is playing football in the navy, not because he loves the game…

But because it’s the last thing that really reminds him of when he felt close to home.

Chapter Text

Jake gets called into Top Gun at twenty years old. So does Javy. They pack their lives into duffel bags and fly to the place every cocky young pilot dreams about-the big leagues.

Jake calls his dad. 

“Good job, son. Make us proud.”

The conversation’s short, clipped. But Jake feels the emotion behind the words. The way his dad says us like his mom is still around. It’s enough.

Javy calls his folks too. His mom gets choked up and his sister screams in the background. They ask a thousand questions. Javy smiles like it hurts.

They make it onto base and Javy looks at the hangars with something close to awe. 

Jake looks at them like they’re already his. 

Jake grins as they drop their bags in their room. “God, I’m never leaving.”

He means it. And he’ll do whatever it takes to make it true.

“I miss home,” Javy says softly.

They haven’t even unpacked yet. The sun’s still hanging low over the runway outside, all gold and pink like a postcard, and Javy says it like a confession.

“I miss home.”

Jake doesn’t. Not yet. There’s too much to prove, too much to win. He’s still floating on his father’s words, the high of the invite, the honor, the chance to be the best.

“This feels like a crazy all-expenses-paid vacation,” Jake says, too loud, too bright. He throws himself onto the mattress like he’s not already calculating how he can win at Top Gun. The beds smell faintly of bleach, cleaned out before they’d arrived.

 Javy snorts, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Jake doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. He’s already planning how to stay here forever.

They’re still on the same side, for now. Still roommates. Wingmen. Brothers.

Jake knows eventually they’ll ship out to different places. He’s confident they’ll stay in contact. They’ve been through worse.

But, as he and Javy unpack, talking about everything and nothing, Jake feels a trail of sweat make its way down his back.

What happens now?

Chapter Text

There’s a wall near the mess hall covered in old photographs. Black-and-white first, then color. Rows of pilots standing stiff-backed, medals glinting, grins too sharp to be anything but arrogant.

Top Gun winners. 

Going back decades. Some of them before Jake was even a sparkle in his mama’s eye. Before she met his dad. Before he was anyone .

Jake stops in front of it sometimes, eyes scanning names and faces, trying to imagine himself in a picture next to theirs. Trying to imagine what kind of men they were. If they were like him—or better. 

He and Javy linger there one night, listening to a pair of lieutenants swap stories about last year’s class.

“Payback was solid,” one of them says. “But Bradshaw? Rooster had it.”

“Bradley Bradshaw,” Jake repeats under his breath, eyebrows lifting. “Sounds made up.”

“He’s a legacy,” the other says. “Spittin’ image of his dad. Flew like hell when he wanted to. Smart. Kinda quiet. Kinda not.”

Jake squints at the photo. The guy, Bradley, has a mustache that looks a little too old-school, like something from a football coach or a dad who grills in jorts. 

He’s the only one not smiling. Everyone else has a smirk on their face, but this guy just has the edge of his lips quirked up. He’s just there like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t care if you figure it out or not. 

He’s standing in the second row, hands loose at his sides. Everyone else is squared up, picture-perfect. But this guy, he looks like he already knows he doesn’t have to try that hard. Like he’s not performing for anyone.

Jake thinks the name’s stupid. But the guy?

Yeah, he’s vaguely attractive. In a kind of annoying way.

“What do you think his deal was?” Jake asks aloud.

Javy shrugs. “Some people are just built different.”

Jake hums. Doesn’t like that answer. Because he’s built different. So is Javy. So is every pilot who ever walked through these halls. But there’s something about this guy… 

Jake tilts his head. The guy doesn’t even have the sharpest jawline in the group and he’s not the best looking. But there’s something about him—like he’d still be the first one you notice walking into a room. Like the air bends a little different around him.

Javy watches Jake looking at the picture for longer than necessary. “You’re weird about hot guys.”

“I’m not weird and he’s not hot.”

“Sure.”

Jake wonders if they’ll remember his name one day. If he’d be up there, in uniform, framed and faded. If they’ll tell stories about him and what they would say.

Still, Jake stares longer than he means to. Something about that look in Bradshaw’s eyes, steady, unreadable, gets under his skin.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. The same way he studies jets, stats, tactics.

But jets don’t stare back.

“You gonna memorize the guy’s face or what?” Javy teases.

Jake snorts. “Just trying to figure out what made him special.”

“Might not be something you can copy,” Javy says, and walks away.

It stings and Jake turns away from the wall with a huff, still chewing on the name.

Bradley Bradshaw.

It sounds like something out of a bad movie.

The next morning when Jake wakes up, he barely remembers the conversation. He doesn’t remember the name. Not really. But that look—the one in Bradshaw’s eyes—stays with him. Long after he stops staring.

Chapter Text

Jake meets Natasha two days later. Something twists inside him—something sharp and unfamiliar. Not fear. Not quite. But a challenge.

And of course, he’d never let it show.

If Javy softened his edges, made him the guy you could call your buddy, even when he was being a pain in the ass, then Natasha? She was the whetstone to his blade, the friction that sharpened every part of him until he cut through everything with his bullshit like a hot knife through butter.

They clicked right away, but like magnets flipping poles, instant sparks with no warm feelings.

Jake craved being number one, the top dog everyone watched and whispered about. Natasha? She was the storm on his horizon, the one who told him, not today, cowboy.

He saunters up, cool like he owns the room, drops his name with that trademark smirk: “Jake Seresin.”

The arrogant, I’m sure you’ve heard of me, goes unsaid but understood. 

She doesn’t even glance back, just says, “Natasha Trace,” sharp as a razor, before pivoting on her heel and heading for the locker room like she’s already forgotten he exists.

Her exit leaves an echo of I don’t give a damn hanging in the air.

He expected a flicker, a glance, maybe even a scoff. Nothing. Natasha just left like he was background noise.

Jake stands there, eyebrow raised, watching her disappear down the hall. The spinning toothpick in his mouth the only indication of his stress.

That moment? It flipped something in Jake. He didn’t just want to win Top Gun anymore, he needed to beat Natasha.

Every flight drill, every training run, she’s there, a shadow breathing down his neck. Matching him move for move, smirking like she knows she’s the only one who’s fast enough, sharp enough, ruthless enough.

Javy’s good—really good—but even he can’t keep up.

Natasha is the ghost in his peripheral vision, the shadow that pushes him harder, faster, meaner.

It’s a pilot thing. The fierce, burning hunger to be the best. To outfly, outthink, and outlast everyone else while keeping your cool.

And Jake? He’s addicted to that fight, to the rush of clashing wills, to the roar of engines and the taste of competition slicing through the sky.

But there’s something deeper. Something he won’t say out loud.

More than the fight, more than the rivalry, there’s one thing Jake loves above all: Winning.

He is going to win that Top Gun trophy, no matter what it takes.

Chapter Text

Jake leans against the hangar wall, smirking like he owns the place as Natasha storms past, still steaming from a brutal flight.

“Hey, Trace. You planning to fly that trophy home or just pose for the cameras hoping they catch you while they snap my picture?” Jake’s voice is light, but his words land like a sucker punch.

Natasha stops dead, spins on her heel, eyes flashing fire. “Better watch your mouth, Seresin. That trophy’s mine.”

Jake grins wider.

Bring it on.

“Oh? Wanna put money on it?”

Her smirk cuts sharp, a knife wrapped in silk. “You’re on. Winner takes the damn trophy. Loser buys drinks. So, you better start saving, cowboy.”

The air between them thickens, a crackling storm of challenge. Two predators circling, waiting to strike.

Javy steps in, hand on Jake’s shoulder, playing referee. “Alright, chill. Y’all are acting like kids in a bar fight.”

Jake shrugs off Javy’s grip, eyes glinting with mischief. “Let her talk. I’m just having fun.”

Javy shakes his head, serious now. “You’re pushing too hard, man. This isn’t a game. One of you could get hurt doing this shit.”

Jake’s smile flickers, eyes softening for a second. Javy doesn’t get it. Not this time.

“Whatever,” Jake walks off before he can hear anything else.

Later, Javy corners Jake in the barracks, voice low and real.

“When’s the last time you called home? Or even talked to your dad?”

Jake snorts, bitter. “Home?”

“Yes.” Javy’s words are sharp, almost a plea. “When this is all over, you’re gonna wanna go see your dad. Or my folks. You need that, Jake.”

Jake laughs hollow. “I need that? Where even is home, Javy?”

Javy’s eyes are wide, patient. “Here. Me. My family. Your dad. Even Natasha… if either of you could see past the fighting, you’d realize you’re like siblings.”

Jake looks up at the ceiling, the silence thick. He’s an only child, no siblings to fight with or have his back. The closest thing he has to that is Javy. Home is supposed to be loud, messy, full of people who care.

“Me and Trace? We’ll never get along,” Jake says, shaking his head. Then, with a small shrug adds, “But… I’ll call my dad next chance I get. Promise.”

Javy’s smile lights up the room. Jake shoves him, half-laughing, half-shrugging off the feeling of unexpected warmth.

Home’s changed. It used to be four walls, with his parents and Javy inside. Now, it’s the people who stick around after the smoke clears, it’s the feeling of flying.

And that thought doesn’t feel bad.

Chapter Text

“Let’s go out,” Javy had said. “We need to let loose.” When no one answered, he added, “I’m buying.”

Three hours later they were at the bar. 

It was too loud, the lights were too dim, and the night was already three drinks past reasonable.

Javy slams back a shot, grinning like the devil just dared him to sin. “I’m just saying,” he drawls, finger pointed in the vague direction of the bar, “if anyone’s walking outta here with a phone number tonight, it’s me.”

Jake snorts. “Sure.”

That’s when it happens. The dare. The spark that lights the match.

Natasha arches a brow. “You? With the ‘guys let’s all go dance’ energy and enough dad jokes to fill a briefing binder? Actually, now that I’m saying it outloud you’re definitely a better option than Seresin.”

Jake’s vaguely offended but he’s buzzed enough that he takes it in stride. He throws down a twenty. “You get that bartender’s number? Drinks are on me next round. You fail? You’re buying until I black out.”

Javy salutes with a swagger only an immeasurable amount margaritas could cause. “You underestimate the Machado charm.”

Personally, Jake thinks Javy is underestimating just how broke he’s going to be tomorrow. Jake has a high alcohol tolerance and he doesn’t like losing. 

There’s no way Javy’s getting that number.

Javy slides out of the booth. Struts. Makes it to the bar. Then…

Trips over the stool leg. Faceplants into the counter like it personally insulted his honor. 

The bartender, completely unfazed, leans over the bar. 

“Honey, I do believe I just fell for you” Javy says through a groan, peeling himself from the countertop.

She stares at him a beat. Then, “You’re wild. I’ll give you that. But, you’re not getting much more from me.”

Javy just looks at her and cackles. A testament to how far gone he is, in Jake’s opinion, because sober Javy would never laugh this loud at something that isn’t even a joke.

 “Wild? He sounds like Wile.E.Coyote, maybe. Listen to his damn laugh.” The pilot next to Jake mutters through laughter.

Javy’s cackles only get louder as he trips over himself, making his way back to the group. Natasha nearly chokes on her drink. Jake just dies laughing right there in his chair. Nothing wrong with being carefree at the expense of your best friend’s humiliation. Javy falls into the booth with a sigh and pulls out his wallet, wincing as Jake and Natasha begin ordering drinks for the table, the two of them, for once, on the same page.

“Top shelf only. I’m feeling fancy.” Natasha tells their waitress

“And vengeful.” Jake notes.

Natasha snorts, shoving his shoulder playfully, “Obviously.”

Just for a moment, it’s like they’re all friends. It’s the closest he’s felt to family since he was sixteen.

Well, fuck. Ain’t that sad?

Jake’s pretty sure Javy blacks out somewhere between Jake’s fourth shot and his third beer. But Jake’s sober enough to get them all home relatively safely, in the back of an uber.

Jake wakes Javy up in his bunk at 7:00 AM the next morning. Javy looks like he got hit by a jet engine. One eye open. Head pounding. Mouth dry as a desert.

Jake’s been up for a while, way too chipper, spinning a toothpick between his lips. “Time to rise and regret, sunshine.”

Javy groans. “No. Nope.”

Natasha chooses that moment to walk by their open door with her coffee and smirks without looking up. “Too late, Coyote.”

Javy lets out a strangled noise and buries his head in his pillow. “Y’all are the worst.”

Jake just laughs. As far as callsigns go, Coyote isn’t a bad one. And the story that comes with it is pretty funny too.

Coyote.

Jake wonders what his own callsign will be. Somehow, he’s sure Natasha’s already decided to hate it. He wonders what they’ll call him. Wonders what it’ll say about him. Wonders if anyone will remember that before that name, there was Jake. And, that after that name, Jake will still be there.

Chapter Text

In the following days, everything goes back to normal. Which is to say: cutthroat, competitive, and just this side of dangerous.

Jake and Natasha are neck-and-neck on the Top Gun scoreboard. If she nails a low-altitude maneuver, he out-climbs her on the next flight. If he scores points for target acquisition, she shows him up in the sim. It’s a cold war with Gs and Glocks and invisible rules.

Neither of them has said anything about the bet, but they’re both gunning for the top, and each other.

They’ve been keeping their own score since the beginning. One eyebrow raise from her is worth ten points. One muttered curse from him under his breath? Twenty. It’s ridiculous. It’s petty. It’s the highlight of Jake’s day.

Until it isn’t.

They’re mid-exercise, weaving through the clouds like ghosts, when it happens.

“Trace, you’re on fire.”

The voice over comms is casual, but there’s static fuzz around the edges. Panic, maybe. Or disbelief. Jake doesn’t recognize it.

“Copy,” Natasha responds. “I see it. Engine 1’s gone. Trying to stabilize.”

Jake’s heart starts to drop. She sounds calm. Too calm. Like she’s trying not to scare anyone listening.

“Altitude dropping,” someone else mutters. “She’s losing it—”

The nose of Jake’s plane is already coming around. Peeling off from formation. Chasing smoke. It’s one thing to talk shit on the ground. It’s another to watch someone drop out of the sky.

Her jet spirals, fire licking across the wing like some kind of pyre. Jake’s coming for her. He’s almost there…then, he stops.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets there. 

There’s nothing he can do.

So he hangs back, waits to see what will happen now. There’s voices ringing in his ears, commands being barked at him and Natasha.

Then—

Pop.

Ejection.

The silence after the chute deploys is deafening. He’s still staring at the empty patch of sky long after the others begin to regroup. There’s no points on the board for this. No bragging rights. Just smoke and silence.

They cancel training for the rest of the day.

Jake finds himself walking the flight line without realizing it, just pacing the concrete like a caged dog. Someone claps him on the shoulder, tells him she’s okay. Banged up. Shaken. Alive.

That’s all that matters, they say. Jake’s not so sure.

All he keeps thinking about is how fast it happened. How if she’d pulled a second later, she might not have made it. How the sky just swallowed her up like she was nothing. Like any of them could be next.

He used to wish for that. For the sky to swallow him and all his problems whole. 

Now, it scares the shit out of him.

Chapter Text

Jake hovers outside the med bay door. Arms crossed. Back against the wall. Boots planted. He doesn’t go in.

He can’t.

He won’t.

Footsteps echo from down the hall, filling the tense silence in the hallway. Javy’s voice is tired, “You standing out here all night?”

Jake doesn’t answer. Just shifts his weight, shoulder rising like it might block whatever Javy’s about to say.

Javy sighs. “She’s fine, man. Go home.”

Jake doesn’t move. Just watches the crack of light under the med bay door.

“Jake,” Javy says. And it reminds him too much of when he was sixteen and he’d called Javy to tell him his world had just ended. Reminds him of that so much that Jake wrenches his gaze away from the sliver of light flickering under the door frame.

“Go home, buddy.” 

It should sound like pity. Hell, it feels like pity. But coming from Javy, Jake knows it’s just care. Jake won’t acknowledge it, and he knows that Javy knows that. But, he pushes off of the wall and stalks down the hallway towards their bunks.

The room feels too still when he walks in. The sheets are too cold when he lays down. His helmet’s on the hook like a damning reminder. He stares at it for a long time, letting the image of Natasha’s jet spiraling replay in his mind.

He plays the moment over and over, thinking about what he could’ve done differently. Cursing himself for stopping his plane before he got to her. Then cursing himself for being upset because there was nothing he could’ve done. Nothing anyone could’ve done.

“An accident.” Their instructor had said. “These things happen.”

Jake almost scoffs aloud. 

These things happen? Bullshit.

Jake rolls himself off of his bunk and takes a seat on Javy’s. He opens the drawer next to the bed, finds Javy’s beat up copy of their flight manual inside.

He opens it up and pretends to read, but the lights are off—he never turned them on when he walked in and his mind is far away.

A long time ago, before Jake decided he wanted to be a pilot, and before he even decided he needed to be number one.  Top Gun had an accident during training. It killed someone.

Jake remembers hearing the warnings, the horror stories, about what can happen when you fly. What did happen. Even in training. Even here.

The door to the room opens with a creak. Javy’s voice floats through as he enters, shutting the door behind him. “Guess what Trace said when she woke up?”

Jake doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look up. It looks like he doesn’t care, but really, he’s just…not sure he deserves to hear it.

“Told the doc she came out of the flames like a goddamn phoenix. He said she was lucky to have ejected when she did.”

Jake just snorts softly before moving from Javy’s bunk to his own.

“Phoenix,” Javy repeats, with a little awe in his voice. “Can you believe that?”

Jake feels it like a punch to the chest. Of course she would call herself that. Of course she’d be fine. Jake kind of hates her for it. He’s the one who’s meant to be invincible. He hates himself for feeling that way.

“She’s alright, Jake.” Javy says into the darkness.

Jake doesn’t answer, he’s too busy staring at the wall next to his bed and trying not to think about anything at all.

—-

Jake’s walking the line the next morning when he hears it over comms. “Phoenix, you’re clear for takeoff.”

His heart stutters. Just a second. Because she earned that name in fire. She saved herself. Came back to life like a goddamn phoenix. And that unsettles him more than he’ll ever admit.

What happens if next time it’s him that goes down? Would anyone even bother to visit him in the infirmary? Would anyone bring him that shitty herbal tea Javy drinks? Would anyone even care?

The scoreboard stays unchanged that whole day.

Phoenix: still in second.

Jake: still in first.

But it doesn’t feel like he’s winning… more like, he’s just waiting his turn.

Chapter Text

Phoenix sits up straighter in the hospital bed, legs stretched out in front of her, stiff under the scratchy blanket. Her shoulder aches like hell, ribs are probably bruised, face a little singed, but she’s alive. Breathing. Talking. Making jokes. She even threw a Jell-O cup at one of the pilots for calling her “crispy.”

The room is loud with voices, laughter, the buzzing energy of people who just witnessed something terrifying and are clinging to levity like it’s oxygen. She can still feel the adrenaline humming under her skin, hot and metallic, like her nerves haven’t gotten the memo that it’s over.

Then the door opens. Everyone turns.

Coyote steps in, grinning like the dumbass he is. There’s a split second where her eyes betray her— But no. Jake isn’t behind him. Just Coyote. Always reliable, always steady, always showing up. She isn’t quite sure why, but after their camaraderie the other night in the bar, she’d started to think of the three of them as friends.

Phoenix doesn’t let it show. She pastes on a smirk and tosses a grape at him. “Took you long enough.”

He catches it midair and pops it into his mouth. “Had to stop by the vending machine for snacks. Heard the nurse revoked your pudding privileges. Something about ‘menace to society’?”

She snorts. “I like my desserts with a little chaos.”

The others laugh. They tease her, toss around more dumb nicknames, and gradually peel away, filing out in twos and threes, until it’s just her and Javy. The door shuts behind the last one with a soft click. The silence that follows lands like a weight on her chest.

She doesn’t look at him when she says it. Just stares down at her scraped-up hands, flexing her fingers like she’s testing them for life. “He’s not coming.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a quiet blade.

Javy sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “No,” he says. Just that. No excuses. No lies. And that tells her everything she needs to know.

Phoenix finally looks up. “He was coming… then he stopped.”

Another blade, duller but deeper.

“Yeah,” Javy says softly. He pulls a chair closer to her bed, like he might be able to keep the silence from swallowing them whole.

She closes her eyes for a second, lets herself remember the heat, the smoke, the cockpit alarms shrieking in her ears. The sheer terror of ejecting. The second of stillness between sky and earth when she wasn’t sure if the chute would open.

Maybe Jake saw all of it. Maybe he thought she didn’t make it.

She gets it now. She really thinks she does. Jake isn’t here because he’s scared. Not of her, and not even of what happened. He’s scared. Scared of the silence. Of the helplessness. Of the fact that he stopped when maybe he could’ve saved her. For a man like Jake, that kind of fear hits worse than shrapnel.

She’s not even mad. That’s the messed up part. Because she’s starting to worry about him. Because Jake Seresin is a lot of things. Loud. Proud. Ruthless in the sky. But he is not good at hurting.

Something’s got to give eventually.

She leans back into the pillows, exhales slowly. “You’re here for both of you.”

Javy doesn’t respond, just adjusts the sheet around her waist like she’s not fully capable of doing it herself. She lets him. It’s the kind of care that doesn’t ask questions.

She glances sideways, eyes soft with the kind of affection that only comes from going to hell and back with someone. “You’re a damn good man, Coyote. How’d you end up with an asshole like him?”

Javy leans back, arms crossed. “He’s a good guy. It takes a while for people to see it. Lots of people never do. But if you give him enough chances… he’ll show you himself. Eventually.”

She nods, eyes far away now. That’s good enough. For now. “You know,” she says, voice drifting, “doc says I’m lucky to have so little damage.”

“Little?” Javy huffs. “You looked like barbecue five hours ago.”

She grins. “You wanna know what I said to him? I said, ‘I’m a goddamn phoenix. It takes more than a little fire to kill me.’”

Javy chuckles, and for a second, the heaviness lifts. It’s just the two of them again. Like it always seems to be these days.

Coyote and Phoenix.

Maybe Jake has some shit going on behind closed doors. Maybe there’s things he’s struggling with that he won’t tell anyone, not even Javy. Maybe he’s afraid.  Maybe he’s just an asshole like she initially thought he was.  But here, in the med bay, Natasha’s grateful to him.

Grateful that he somehow convinced Javy he was a good enough guy to stick around for and defend. Grateful he brought Javy into her life. She can’t think of a better person to sit with her here in the sick bay and shoot the shit with.

Phoenix and Coyote.

Chapter Text

Jake’s the last one to walk into the hangar.

Sunlight’s filtering in through the high windows, catching on metal and sweat. It’s between drills, the air loose and lazy, everyone off in their own rhythm. Nothing urgent. Nothing loud. He doesn’t expect to see her.

She’s leaning against her jet, arms crossed, one foot braced up behind her like she owns the place. Helmet beside her, visor down, reflecting the hangar floor like a mirror. Still. Calm. She doesn’t look at him.

Everyone’s always looking, watching him for his next move or comment. And something about that, about her not looking, grates at him.  Jake squares his shoulders. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s fixing it for no one. He makes his way over casually, like he’s got something clever loaded up just for fun.

“What?” he says, voice warm with practiced ease. “Got turned into a statue in the med bay?”

Still, she doesn’t bite. Doesn’t even blink. Just looks at him. Really looks. And what’s behind her eyes isn’t annoyance. It’s not amusement.

It’s pity. Like she’s seeing through him. Past him. Like she’s already said goodbye.

It unsettles him. So he leans into what he knows. “Playing lone ranger now?” he says, arms folding. His voice goes cocky. Loud in the silence. “Cowboy Phoenix?”

Her mouth quirks, but it’s not her usual smirk. No edge, no bite. “You’re late to the rodeo,” she says.

Soft.

It’s the softness that knocks the wind out of him. He’s never heard her voice like that. Not aimed at him. It’s like she’s not here to fight. Like she’s already done fighting.

“Phoenix,” he says, sharp now. Like her name’s an accusation. Like he’s trying to remind her, this is us. 

This is who we are. 

Sharp words, sharp edges, push and pull until someone bleeds.

But she just tilts her head, eyes distant. Like she’s already somewhere else.

Jake’s brain latches onto a memory without permission. The first week of Top Gun, mess hall, bad lighting, tray food, and Javy snorting into his mashed potatoes.

“Your favorite song is Phoenix by Fall Out Boy?” he’d said, mock-horrified.

Natasha had just grinned, unapologetic. “It’s good. Don’t hate.”

Jake blinks the memory away, jaw tight.

Fitting, he thinks bitterly, that she’d go and make that song title into her callsign. 

Phoenix. 

The one who burns and comes back better.

“You know,” he says, more to the walls than to her, “it kinda makes sense that song would be your favorite. Rise from the ashes and all that.”

Her eyes flick up, finally meeting his. “Rise, indeed.”

That’s all she says.

Because now she knows he knows.

And he knows that she knows.

It’s not a game anymore.

Not some banter-ridden rivalry. Not him and Javy trading hits while she snipes them both with one-liners. Not “Seresin, you wish” and “Coyote, you cheat.” It’s not that.

It’s a line in the sand. One she already crossed.

Jake steps back before she can say anything else. But her voice follows him anyway. Final.

“You still could be the hero, Jake.”

It guts him.

And she says it like it’s true. Like she believed him to be.

He keeps walking, but his mind’s reeling. Javy’s got his callsign. Phoenix has hers. And Jake? Still the golden boy with no name. Still gritting his teeth, trying to win every drill, afraid if he’s not perfect, they’ll slap him with something stupid. Something that sticks. Something he can’t outrun.

He hates that Phoenix came back with a callsign. Hates that she’s calm. That she’s different. But maybe worse, maybe what really eats at him, is that he's still the same. Still chasing validation. Still caught up in the scoreboard. Still stuck in some holding pattern of ego and fear, like if he just wins one more time, he’ll finally feel like enough.

He shakes it off. Shoulders set. Callsign or not, he’s going to win Top Gun.

Even if it kills him.

Chapter Text

The bar’s loud.

Not Top Gun loud, with the roaring engines and barking orders and adrenaline so thick it’s like breathing lightning. No, this is a different kind of loud. The floorboards hum with bass. Neon lights flicker across sweat-slicked bodies. Laughter spikes in tequila-tipped bursts. Somewhere, someone’s absolutely butchering “American Pie,” and someone else is trying to line dance in cowboy boots clearly bought for aesthetics, not function. It could be kind of fun.

Jake’s not here for any of it.

He’s here to drink.

Technically, they’re all out to celebrate Phoenix. Her first night back out since the accident. Javy had rallied the troops with his usual grin, “We gotta raise a glass to the woman who lived, dammit!,” and the squad had whooped and hollered like it was the Fourth of July.

But, Jake just needed the excuse.

He’s two drinks in before anyone orders food. Four before the buzz starts curling in the back of his throat. By the fifth, Javy’s watching him over his beer, eyebrows tight.

“You good, man?”

Jake flashes a grin. Shark-like. All teeth, no depth. “Never better.”

He doesn’t mean it. They all know he doesn’t mean it. But no one calls him on it. Not directly. They just… orbit around him. Like they can sense the explosion brewing and they don’t want to get caught in the blast radius.

But it’s easier than explaining the knot in his chest that’s been tightening since Phoenix looked through him in the hangar and Javy started treating him like something made of glass. And for once, Jake’s not even flirting.

He’s been brushing off attention all night like it physically pains him. One girl in a low-cut red dress grabbed his arm and purred, “C’mon, baby, dance with me.” He didn’t even flinch. Just mumbled something about not in the mood, and shook her off like an old jacket.

Because he’s not.

He doesn’t want to perform tonight. Doesn’t want to strut or smirk or prove. He just wants to sit in this crater of a feeling. Wants the whiskey to burn a hole in his chest big enough that something might finally spill out.

He slams another shot back.

He’s weaving back from the bathroom, eyes bleary, when he hears it. Just a comment, tossed too casually. A guy near the dartboard, leather jacket, shit-eating grin, elbowing his buddy like they’re sixteen and invincible.

Jake’s not even paying attention. Just vaguely annoyed that the dude’s wearing sunglasses indoors.

Then the guy says it.

“Figures. Place is crawling with flyboys and there’s still one of ‘em playing dress-up. Makes you wonder which team he’s batting for.”

It hits like a sucker punch to the gut. Jake stops walking. Dead still. A beat too long.

He doesn’t even know which part lit the fuse—the insult, the smirk, the implication. Maybe all of it. Maybe the part that hits a little too close. Maybe the way it was said like a joke, like something casual and forgettable.

He turns around. Slow.

“What’d you say?” Voice low. Flat. Dangerous.

The guy holds up both hands, grinning. “Relax, blondie. Just kidding.”

Jake doesn’t think. His fist moves before his brain does, right to the guy’s jaw. He drops like a sack of bricks. The sound echoes, a thunderclap over the music.

The guy’s friend lunges, takes a swing. Jake catches it with his face, stumbles back, lip split open, blood already on his tongue. Metallic and hot.

Shame-flavored.

And then the squad’s on him. Phoenix grabs his arm, voice tight and urgent. Coyote’s already yanking him back by the collar. The others swarm in, doing damage control, shielding the scene from the rest of the bar, from cell phones, from escalation.

Jake’s laughing.

God help him, he’s laughing. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s the only thing keeping him from screaming.

Phoenix drags him out onto the sidewalk, shoves the door shut behind them. Her face is flushed, her grip still on his arm. His head’s spinning. She stares at him like she’s seeing him. Really seeing him, it drives him insane.

“Jake…” she breathes.

No scolding. No anger. Just quiet disbelief. And somehow, that’s worse.

Because she knows. Not the punch. Not the fight. The why. What that punch cost him. What it meant.

What it exposed.

The look in her eyes says she's already reevaluating every interaction they’ve ever had under a new lens.

Jake jerks away from her touch. “Don’t.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. But she’s still looking at him like he’s cracked glass.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snaps, and it comes out louder than he meant.

Javy catches up, breathless, fury tucked behind concern. He grabs Jake by the arm again, firm. “Jesus Christ, Seresin.”

Jake wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip’s split, blood painting his knuckles.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “Let me go back in.”

Javy steps in front of him. “Go cool off, Jake.”

It’s not the words that sting.

It’s how he says them.

Like cool off means go home, you’re a liability.

Like go home means we don’t trust you right now.

Like maybe… maybe Jake is finally cracked, and they don’t want to know what’s underneath. Jake yanks his arm free, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Fine.

He’ll cool off. He’ll bleed in the goddamn parking lot if he has to.

Because he’s Jake fucking Seresin.

And nothing’s going to change that. Except maybe… Maybe something already did.

Chapter Text

Jake wakes up alone. 

Lip split. Knuckles stiff. Head pounding with the kind of ache that isn’t just from the booze.

The bar fight’s already legend. Top Gun’s golden boy shows his teeth. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t apologize. He knows how this game works. Let them spin their stories, he’ll pose for the pictures and read the headlines.

All publicity is good publicity.

That’s the script, anyway. He leans into it because it's easier than being questioned. Easier than explaining what set him off. Easier than trying to explain why he snapped. But under all of it, he’s hollow. There’s one line stuck in his head, looped and lodged like shards of glass under his skin.

Javy telling the other pilots to quit saying he killed the other guy in the bar fight. 

“He hasn't killed anyone.” 

Jake hears it over and over. Not the reassurance. The shadow behind it.

Not yet.

Jake wonders what they’d say if he ever did.

----- 

On base, it’s different. Not hostile, exactly. Just… shifted. Tilted. Wrong. Smiles don’t meet eyes. Conversations snap shut when he walks into a room. He knows how they see him now. Not the golden boy. Not even the villain. Just… a warning.

The instructors don’t care. They’ve got a mission to brief. Final sim. High stakes. Last shot at the leaderboard. There are more important things to discuss than rumors.

Jake knows the numbers. He’s one point behind Phoenix.

And Javy, his ride-or-die, his brother, his shadow, is sitting pretty in the perfect spot. All Jake has to do is fly like hell, let Javy draw the fire, and go for the kill shot.

It’s flawless. They’re flawless. The sim hums like muscle memory. Every move locked in.

But Jake’s not about to lose.

Sorry, Javy.

He peels away. Just enough. Leaves Javy hanging—exposed, vulnerable, bait.

The instructor takes it.

Jake circles back and nails the kill shot. Clean. Perfect. Flashy enough to distract from the cost.

He lands grinning. Helmet off, strut on. Wearing the win like armor.

But the silence on the tarmac isn’t awe. It's shock. Betrayal radiates off the squad. Confusion and disbelief.

“How could you leave him?” They say. “That’s your best friend. That’s Javy!” They say.

As if Jake doesn’t know that. As if Jake didn’t feel every inch of the betrayal as he pulled the trigger on their bond. He shrugs it off. Plays it cool. Throws out grins like confetti. Every one of them fake. Every one of them a shield.

He doesn’t look at Javy. Can’t. Because he already knows what he’ll see.

—--

Phoenix finds him after debrief.

Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t curse. Doesn’t even look angry.

She just claps him on the back. Dry. Sharp. Quiet enough to cut. “Nice one, Hangman.”

That’s it. That’s the moment.

Everyone hears it.

And by lunch? It’s gospel.

—-

The trophy ceremony is a formality. 

Jake wins. Of course he does. 

Holds the trophy high like a lifeline. Smiles for the camera. Says all the right things. Acts like it’s the best day of his life.

Phoenix doesn’t clap when they hand him the trophy.

Javy gives him a nod, but it’s not anger. It’s understanding and heartbreak all in one.

Jake tells himself winning matters more. That this was the point all along. That this is what they all signed up for. But it doesn’t land like it used to.

He’s standing on top of the podium and there’s a long way down.

—-

In his mind, he’s back at the start. That first week at Top Gun felt like an all expenses paid vacation, like he and Javy were gonna take on the world. Back when he didn’t know Phoenix yet. When he still thought winning didn’t have to come at a cost.

He thinks about Bradley Bradshaw. That photo on the wall, the one where he’s not smiling. Jake wonders how he felt when he won the trophy.

Did he have to sacrifice anything?

Did he have to sacrifice himself?

Somehow, Jake knows he didn’t.

Probably earned the win with nothing more than his own determination. And that thought festers like poison. Because Jake earned it too. But if he can’t even win a trophy without losing himself, then how is he supposed to be the best pilot in the Navy?

How is he supposed to live with himself?

—--

Later, in the quiet, Jake stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

His busted lip’s almost healed. But something in him isn’t. Something’s rotting. Something he can’t name. Something that smells like regret and burns like pride. He says it like a curse. Low at first. 

“Hangman.”

Then again, just a little louder. He’s not trying it out. He’s accepting it. The name fits too well. Like it was always there.

“Hangman.”

Armor and a noose in one.

The smile he gives the mirror is all mask. He’s been wearing it longer than the callsign’s been around.

He leans in, searching the face looking back.

And he wonders, not for the first time, when exactly he stopped being the hero.

When, exactly, he turned into the villain.

Chapter Text

Jake cries the night they graduate.

Not in front of anyone, of course. He’s still Jake fucking Seresin, still the guy who flashes a grin for the cameras and lifts the trophy like he didn’t carve it out of his own ribcage to earn it.

But, back in the barracks, lights out, uniform on the chair, silence settling in like dust?

He breaks.Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… slow. Tears leak out like a wound that never quite stopped bleeding. It’s the first time in years. Not since enlisting. Since his mom. Since the day he learned there’s more than one way to bury yourself.

And all he can think is… Hangman.

That’s what they call him now. Not Jake. Not “cowboy.” Not “pretty boy” or “Seresin.”

Just Hangman.

Like it’s not a name. Just a warning label. A caution sign nailed to his back: Do Not Approach. Do Not Trust.

The others keep their distance. Polite smiles. Careful words. No one wants to get too close, like they might catch whatever made Jake different.

But Phoenix still looks at him. Sometimes. There’s no anger in it. Not even disappointment. Just a kind of tired sadness, like she sees the hole he dug and knows there’s nothing to do but let him lie in it.

Hangman’s a noose.

Wrapped tight around his name, his neck, his soul. Just enough to remind him what it cost to win.

He’s the star of the class. The name on the plaque. The golden god at the podium. The instructors shake his hand a beat longer. The squad doesn’t say it, but he knows what they’re thinking. Look what it takes to win.

He fucking hates it.

On graduation day, Javy doesn’t say much. But across the courtyard, Jake catches his eye.

Javy nods.

Just a flick of the chin. A gesture that says: I saw it. I lived it. We’ll live with it.

And that’s something.

Phoenix hugs him. It’s stiff. Quick. But it’s still a hug.

She pulls back, eyes scanning his face like she’s trying to memorize the shape of him before it shifts again. Before he disappears behind Hangman forever.

“Try not to die out there,” she mutters.

Jake doesn’t answer. He’s not sure he can.

—-----------

They leave Top Gun with a truce.

Not forgiveness. Definitely no healing. Just a soft, uneasy reset. Like siblings after a fight so brutal they forgot what started it, too tired to stay mad, too hurt to pretend it didn’t matter.

It’s enough for now.

Jake doesn’t know where he’s headed next. Orders still pending. Assignment looming like storm clouds on the horizon.

All he knows is: he’s not the same man who walked into this program. And maybe that’s the real cost.

Not just the broken friendships. Not just jeopardizing Javy. Not even losing that potential with Phoenix.

But losing Jake.

Somewhere in all the sim scores and shootouts and spotlight grins, Jake Seresin stopped existing.

And Hangman took his place.

They say all the world’s a stage.

Well, Hangman’s a damn good actor.

And no one, not Phoenix, not Javy, not anyone, is ever going to see that this got to him.

Ever.

Chapter Text

Jake and Javy get their orders the next morning.

No fanfare. No warning. Just two sealed envelopes on their bunks, like fate slipped by on a clipboard and didn’t bother to knock.

Javy’s shipping out halfway across the world.

He slaps Jake on the back, grins like everything’s still golden. Like they didn’t just unravel years of brotherhood in a single sim.

“We’ll be home soon, Jake.”

There’s forgiveness in it. Soft and unspoken. Like Javy’s offering a rope back across the canyon Jake dug with his own damn hands.

Jake nods. Doesn’t speak.

Home is a word he doesn’t believe in anymore.

—--------------

Later, he passes the Top Gun photo wall.

His picture’s there now. Freshly framed. Hanging beside Bradshaw’s.

The infamous trophy boys.

Frozen in time. Forever victorious. Side by side—miles apart.

Jake stares at Rooster’s face. That unreadable stare. The absence of a smile that says more than any grin could.

Bradshaw didn’t smile in his photo. 

Jake did. 

But his smile is too wide. Too sharp. There’s no joy.

Maybe the plaque’s cursed.

He wonders, for the millionth time, if Rooster ever felt like this. Hollow. Weightless. Like victory should mean something, but just rings out empty.

He doubts it.

—---------------

The new squad greets him with smirks and sideways glances.

They’ve heard of Hangman. The stories got there before he did. Carved a legend in the clouds.

The asshole. The showboat. The pilot who makes the impossible shot and smirks while the smoke’s still rising. They already have expectations. Already have opinions. Jake doesn’t bother correcting them. He leans in.

Hangman’s a damn good show.

He’s charming when he needs to be. Sharp when it counts. Dangerous enough to keep people impressed, and just distant enough to keep them guessing. He plays the part like he was born for it. Smiles with teeth. Flies like a demon. Pretends it’s enough.

Kills the part of him that still wants to be understood.

Because people love Hangman.

But they hate him, too.

And maybe that’s the point.

—-----------

He calls his dad sometimes. Quick check-ins. A few words about flying, then a rushed excuse to hang up.

He calls Javy, too. Swaps light stories about their new squadrons. Keeps it breezy.

Never says how empty it feels.

Never says how far away home really is.

Chapter Text

Hangman meets Rooster almost three years later.

Jake’s twenty-three. Cocky. Dead-eyed.

Hangman is already a living legend.

They get stationed together. Just like that. No warning. No buildup. Just some higher power dropping a match on a pile of dry leaves to see what will happen.

Rooster walks onto the tarmac like he owns it. Aviators. Swagger. That signature calm like nothing in the world could shake him. He feels familiar.

Not in a “have we met?” kind of way. More like “you’re the ghost I’ve been chasing through my nightmares for three years and now you’re real.”

Jake clocks the callsign.

Rooster.

There’s always a story behind a name. Jake knows that better than anyone.

Hangman was earned. Sharp-edged. Bloody. Still echoing in whispered gossip and barely-masked side-eyes. He wonders what the hell Rooster means. Wonders what kind of guy ends up with something that sounds so… casual. Almost goofy.

Rooster doesn’t seem to need the theatrics. Doesn’t have to prove anything.

Jake hates that.

Hates him.

They circle each other like storm fronts.

Rooster’s friendly with everyone. Easy grin. Quick jokes. Makes people feel seen.

Hangman’s quick with a joke too, but his bite.

That’s the difference.

People like Rooster.

Jake finds out he’s close with Phoenix.

Javy tells him, one night over the phone. Half-laughing, totally unaware of the grenade he just lobbed.

“Rooster? Dude, that’s like Phoenix’s best friend.”

Jake swallows the information bitterly. He watches. Measures. Calculates.

And hates.

It feels like Rooster already has the upper hand. Like he’s been playing a game Jake didn’t even know existed.

Jake vaguely remembers wondering about him back at Top Gun. That photo on the wall. That look in his eyes.

Now? It’s a mission.

Prove he’s better. Better than the ghost. Better than the legacy. Better than the guy who didn’t have to burn everything down to win.

Hangman vs. Rooster.

This town ain’t big enough for the both of them.

And Jake Seresin never plays to lose.

Chapter Text

Hangman pushes Rooster’s buttons like it’s his god-given mission.

He calls it team bonding. Everyone else calls it relentless.

In the ready room, he throws out a casual, too-loud comment: “Hey Rooster, you fly slow on purpose or is it just a family trait?”

Laughter ripples across the room. Rooster doesn’t rise to it. Not today. The longer this goes on, the less he reacts. Just lifts an eyebrow, unreadable as ever, and turns back to his checklist. That should be the end of it.

But Jake can’t let it go.

He’s wound too tight. Strung out on adrenaline and insecurity and whatever the hell Rooster brings out of him. He leans in as they walk to the tarmac, voice low and lethal. “You ever think about how many better pilots never got the chance your daddy gave you?”

A whisper. Sharp enough to cut bone.

Rooster’s jaw flexes. No comeback, though there rarely is one these days. Just turns and stares. Heavy. Scalding. Final.

Jake pulls away first. Grin plastered on. He should feel like he won.

Instead, it curdles in his gut. He’s such an asshole.

—-

They get sent up on a mission.

Recon, then radio chatter turns frantic. Bogeys inbound. A real threat. Shit goes south real fast.

Jake's mind goes quiet. It’s like instinct takes over, this is what he was built for. This is the part he understands.

Rooster's on the left flank, voice steady as always, “I’ve got your six, Hangman.”

But Jake’s already breaking formation. Already chasing the glint of the enemy fighter banking hard left.

He gets tone. Missile lock. Fires.

The explosion lights up the sky.

Clean kill.

Jake breathes out, chest heaving. Heart racing like it’s trying to break out of his ribs.

The comms are yelling—cheers, disbelief, high fives over the radio.

“Holy shit, Hangman. A kill! Goddamn!”

He should feel something. Pride. Relief. Glory.

Instead? His fingers are numb. His mouth tastes like metal.

Javy's voice echoes through his head again, from years ago, as it always seems to do, "He hasn't killed anyone."

He watches the debris fall and thinks, this was supposed to mean more.

Through the noise, Rooster’s voice cuts in. Still calm, but cold. “Next time, maybe don’t leave your wingman.”

Jake says nothing.

—--------

Back on the carrier deck, the squad swarms him. Shouts for beer later. Slaps on the helmet.

“Fucking legend!”

“Textbook!”

“Golden boy does it again!”

Jake grins.

Plastic. Shiny. Hollow.

Like a goddamn Ken doll.

He feels the Hangman noose tighten again. He scans the deck, looking for something. Finds Rooster off to the side. Not smiling. Not clapping. Just watching. Like he’s trying to decide if Jake is a warning or a tragedy.

The applause gets louder and Jake can feel the Hangman legend being cemented. Jake plays along. Laughs. Tells the story. Spins the kill like it was a movie moment. Plays his part.

But Rooster’s silence booms through it all.

He’s never felt more like Hangman.

Not a hero. Not a man.

Just a mask with blood under it.

Just a noose that only ever pulls tighter.

Chapter Text

Hangman pushes Rooster’s buttons harder than ever after the mission.

He’s looking for something. Waiting for it. But Rooster doesn’t bite.

Jake brags about the kill like it’s a trophy, like the whole thing didn’t rattle him down to the marrow. The silence between his words is deafening, so he fills it. Nonstop talking. Swagger dialed to eleven. Still, he catches it sometimes, Rooster watching him in the rare moments when Jake’s not talking like his life depends on it.

A flicker in his eyes. A tension. Something that could almost be... attraction.

But Jake can’t afford to slow down and smell the roses. To find out what could happen if he would just shut up and take a breath. He’s Hangman. He’s number one. The king of the mountain. So he doesn’t let up. Pushes every boundary. Talks more shit. Acts like the cockiest bastard alive.

Does things that would have his mama rolling in her grave. Feels sick with it. But can’t quit.

Addicted to the rush, Javy would say.

Until Rooster snaps.

His voice cuts through the room like a blade:

“Fuck you, Hangman. Is this what you want?”

Jake freezes. Rooster’s in his face now. Close. Furious. Chest heaving. He looks wrecked in a way Jake’s never seen before. Like Jake found the one nerve no one touches, and hit it over and over.

Jake figured Rooster couldn’t break. Turns out he just hadn’t hit hard enough.

“Well?” Rooster spits.

Jake’s stunned. Off-script. Can’t move. Can’t speak. One minute he’s cracking jokes, the next he’s… this. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

He doesn’t answer.

That silence says everything.

Then a phone rings.

They both glance over.

Ice flashes on the screen.

Jake doesn’t move. Rooster doesn’t pick up.

Jake breaks the silence. “Not gonna answer?”

Rooster’s eyes flicker. Annoyance? Pain? He ignores the question. “You talk a lot of shit,” he says, low. Final. “But I’m done. Stop, alright?”

Jake doesn’t respond. Can’t.

He knows what Rooster means.

Stop pushing. Stop picking fights. Stop being Hangman.

Jake shoves away instead. Storms off, playing the part of pissed-off rival. Because he can’t stop.

His head is a storm.

He wanted the spotlight. And he got it. But Rooster’s the shadow in the corner. The voice in his head. The one that says, “This town isn’t big enough for the two of us.”

Jake’s throat tightens. He wishes Javy were here. Someone who knows all the pieces. Someone who’s seen the cracks behind the cocky act. Someone who could maybe pull him back from this edge. Because Jake’s standing at the cliff again.

And when he looks down, all he sees is emptiness.

And all he hears is Rooster’s voice, “I’m done.”

It echoes.

It haunts.

And Jake doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.

But it does.

Chapter Text

The next day, the news is everywhere. Rooster’s getting transferred somewhere far and fast.

Something about a family emergency, if you believed the gossip.

Jake doesn’t. He knows better than anyone what kind of shit people make up when they’re bored and bitter.

But it’s still true, that Rooster’s leaving. Six months, over, just like that. Rooster’s going home. Jake… Jake can’t remember the last time he went home. What home even feels like. He wonders what the real reason behind Rooster being transferred is. 

But when Jake catches him right before he leaves, he doesn't ask.

They're out by the hangar, a duffel slung over one of Rooster's shoulders. No fanfare.

It’s a standoff. Jake’s mind flashes the memory of two cowboys before him.

This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.

For once, Jake pushes the thought away.

Rooster breaks the silence first, voice dry, “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, but…”

Jake snorts, low. Barely a sound. “Go home, Bradshaw.”

Not Rooster.

Not the callsign. Not the rival. It’s the first time either of them have used something close to their real names. And it lands like a pebble in still water. Unexpected, gentle, and small but still significant.

Bradshaw pauses. Looks genuinely surprised Jake even knows he has a real name. And maybe it’s not the words themselves, but the way Jake says them.

Go home.

Soft. Careful. The closest thing to kindness Jake Seresin has offered in months. Maybe ever. Especially compared to yesterday’s explosion. But maybe that’s the point. Bradshaw asked him to stop. To back off. And what’s one time, compared to every other fucked-up interaction they’ve had?

Just this once, Jake can give him that. He can afford one moment of decency. Bradshaw’s leaving anyway.

He nods. Doesn’t smile or say goodbye. Just walks away.

At Top Gun, he had compared himself to Rooster a thousand times. In the past few months, he had compared himself to Rooster hundreds of times. He doesn't think about that now. He only watches until the silhouette fades. Feels something shift inside him. Nothing monumental. Just... settling. Like dust after a storm.

And he wonders—gets the feeling it won't be for the last time—Will I ever see him again?

Chapter Text

Bradley doesn’t plan on saying goodbye.

Not to him, anyway.

There’s too much mess between them. Too many nearlys. Too many things they both pretended weren’t real until it was too late to fix any of it. Too many times when Bradley had to stop himself from punching the little shit square in the jaw.

Besides, what would he even say?

“Thanks for the psychological warfare but next time just ask me to hookup instead of dragging me into your weird version of foreplay?” “Catch you in another life?” “Sorry you never figured out how to stop lighting yourself on fire just to feel warm?” 

No. Screw that.

So he just shoulders his duffel and heads for the hangar. Quiet. Efficient.

Like this is just another deployment and he’s not leaving anything behind.

And then—

He stops mid-step.

Turns his head. Slowly.

Hangman’s standing there. Loose-limbed. Mask on, but… cracked.

He’s not sure what to say. So he just voices the first thing that comes to mind, “I’d say it’s been a pleasure but…”

Hangman snorts softly. Barely there. “Go home, Bradshaw.”

And he said his name. Not “Rooster.” Not some bite disguised as banter.

Bradshaw.

The name feels weird coming from him. Weird and… soft?

It echoes in Bradley’s chest like a scream. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does. Because this...this is the first thing Hangman’s said to him that didn’t have claws in it. No game. No sharp edges. Just three words.

Go home, Bradshaw.

Bradley doesn’t respond. Not really, anyway. Just nods. Keeps walking. Because if he says anything now, if he breathes too deeply, he’s afraid he’ll turn around. And he can’t afford that. Not after Hangman finally heard him.

Because he had.

Hangman stopped. That’s the worst part. Right at the end, he stopped. Gave him that look like maybe he does regret it. Maybe he would’ve changed. If there was more time.

And Bradley can't find it in himself to pretend that he's lying.

But it doesn't matter. It would have, if there was more time. But there isn’t.

So Bradley walks away. And doesn’t look back. But he carries the sound of his name—Bradshaw, not Rooster—in the back pocket of his memory. Like a secret.

Like a wound.

And tries his best not to bleed out over something that never even happened.

Chapter Text

Another four years pass in a blur.

After Rooster leaves, Jake ends up stationed with Phoenix.

It feels like fate’s version of a cruel joke. He hears updates about Rooster through the base gossip. Tries his best not to remember every detail.

Jake gets stationed with Javy again, for a year. Long enough to remember what easy friendship feels like. Not long enough to stop missing it when it’s gone. They see each other on holidays. Sometimes.

He and Phoenix settle into their sibling rivalry. She’s there when Javy comes. And goes with him when he leaves. Jake stays.

By twenty-seven, Jake Seresin has the kind of reputation you can’t shake.

Golden boy. Hangman. Kill confirmed.

The only pilot from his generation with real blood on his hands.

People either want to be him, be with him, or beat him.

Jake embraces it all with a grin and a sly comment.

He meets Admiral Kazansky at a party.

Big Navy types everywhere. Tight smiles, stiffer drinks.

Jake’s not quite sure why he’s there, his leave starts immediately after this party ends, but he’s dying for attention.  So, of course, he slides into the admiral’s orbit like it’s his goddamn destiny. He doesn’t expect Iceman to humor him. But he does.

They talk. Or, Jake talks and Ice… tries. The words come slowly. Wrecked. Jake gets the gist. Enough to piece together the illness that’s been chewing through the admiral’s voice. Still, Ice watches him with this sharp, eerie calm. Like he’s looking through Jake. Past him. To something else.

“You remind me of someone,” Ice says eventually, after Jake finishes a story about one thing or another.

Jake smirks. “Funny, sir. I was about to say the same thing.”

They talk about pilots. About family. Ice mentions his nephew, vaguely. About how he won Top Gun right before Jake arrived. About how they don’t talk much anymore. Jake doesn’t press, knows all about broken families—

But then something clicks.

Rooster.

Jake would love to say he hadn’t thought about him in years, but…

The timelines. The phone call. The unspoken grief in Iceman’s eyes.

Jake connects the dots.

Doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t tell Ice that he knows. And when Ice doesn’t confirm it, Jake figures that it isn’t mercy to keep it to himself if no one knows about it.

Later, Ice claps a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Jake.”

He says it like a benediction. Like he knows something Jake doesn’t.

But Jake doesn’t have a home.

Javy’s deployed. His dad’s too far and the house is too broken to visit. Even Phoenix, if in some universe he could visit her, is off doing something classified. He’s got nowhere to be. No one waiting for him. But, he leaves anyway. 

Drives around. Ends up parked near an empty stretch of road and a diner that smells like burnt coffee.

He fiddles with the songs on the radio. Settling on a station that’s playing rock. He almost laughs when he realizes it’s Alice in Chains and the song is called Rooster.

He doesn’t know why he listens. But he does. 

Sits in the car and thinks that it’s funny.

Ice told him to go home. But Jake hasn’t figured out where that is.

Not yet.

He’s not sure he ever will.

Chapter Text

Jake is thirty when he and Javy get recalled to Top Gun.

Things are different this time. There's no competition, no scoreboard. Just weight, experience, and reputations that make them famous. They’re not the hotshots anymore. They’re the ones being watched by the brand new, hungry pilots. 

They get there early at Jake's insistence. He told Javy it was about prep, about wanting to get a lay of the land. But really, he just needed a few days without the noise. A few days where he and Javy could walk the old hangars, crack jokes that only land because they’ve known each other forever, breathe in the California air and remember who they used to be.

The place looks the same. But it feels different.

“It’s smaller than I remembered,” Jake says one morning, sipping coffee out of a chipped mug.

Javy shrugs. “That’s ‘cause we’re bigger now.”

Jake snorts. “Speak for yourself, I’m the same size.”

“Yeah, well. Your ego grew.”

“And your hairline receded.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too.”

It’s easy. Easier than anything has been in years.

Jake’s still Hangman, still smug and still sharp, but with Javy? He doesn’t have to wear it like armor. He can set it down for a few hours. Be Jake again. Just Jake.

And then, Phoenix walks in.

Javy spots her first and breaks into a grin.

She’s early too and Jake’s pretty sure Javy planned this as he watches his friend walk over to greet her. The two of them became close after their first round at Top Gun. Jake would be jealous if he wasn’t completely sure of his place in Javy’s life.

Jake turns, casual. But something in his chest tugs.

Natasha Trace. Same walk. Same eyes. Her smile is smaller than it used to be, but somehow more genuine. Like she’s stopped pretending to be bulletproof all the time. Jake almost wishes he could say the same.

She claps Javy on the back, pulls him into a hug. Jake watches from a few feet away, pretending to scroll on his phone.

“Too cool to say hi?” she says, looking right at him.

Jake smirks. “Nah. Just waiting on my entrance music.”

“You’re not that special.”

“I’m Hangman, baby.”

 “You’re thirty.”

 “So are you.”

Damn, we’re getting old.

But then she hugs him too. And it feels like something he didn’t know he needed.

For a second, it feels like home.

Everyone’s here.

Well—

Not everyone.

But it’s enough.

Even though Jake knows that in the next few days they’ll settle back into their routines. That it won’t be Natasha, but Phoenix. Not Javy, but Coyote.

It’s still enough.

Maybe not for Hangman, but enough for Jake.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Jake and Javy are throwing darts in the Hard Deck. Jake’s always been impossible to beat at bar games, but he humors Javy when he suggests a game. Nothing like beating your best friend at something to raise your spirits.

Then Javy turns and nudges him, “Look.”

Jake glances over to find Phoenix walking in like she owns the place.

“What do we have here?” Jake calls out. “If it ain’t Phoenix! And here I thought we were special, Coyote. Turns out the invite went out to anyone.” His voice is sharp, nothing like the few days before when they’d sat around Javy’s couch.

He catches the flash of disappointment in her eyes, that flicker of something between them that could be easy if only he’d let it.

But Phoenix is smart, she knows the drill. “Fellas, this here’s Bagman.”  Her voice is cool and a smirk settles on her face so quickly he's almost convinced it's always been there.

Jake’s fingers twitch, almost instinctively reaching for the Hangman mask he carries like armor. He pulls it on tight before she can try to make things easier on them.  “Hangman,” he says, voice low.

Phoenix rolls her eyes but doesn’t push. Instead, she snaps back, like she always does. “Whatever.” 

She turns to the two men with her, “You’re looking at the only naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill.”

“Stop,” Jake cuts her off playfully. 

This was what he did. Don’t get too close or you’ll get cut. Humor was a good distraction.

“Mind you,” she says, smirking despite herself, “the other guy was flying a museum piece from the Korean War.”

“Cold War,” Coyote corrects. He was good like that.

“Different wars, same century,” the tall man with Phoenix chimes in.

“Not this one,” the other adds, grinning.

Coyote raises a brow and Phoenix begins introductions. Jake pays just enough attention to register that the taller one is Payback and the shorter one is Fanboy, but making friends isn’t his scene.

“Hey, Coyote.” Phoenix greets Coyote like she hadn’t been passed out on his floor two days ago. 

“Hey,” he nods.

Jake gives Phoenix a look. This was typical of them, Coyote and Phoenix. Jake didn’t normally mind, but in front of strangers it was best to get ahead of the whole ‘you all know each other?’ bit. Not to say he and Phoenix were close. They weren’t. But having Javy as a mutual friend tends to dull the edges around anyone, even them.

“And who’s he?” she asks, rolling her eyes at Jake.

“Who’s who?” Coyote shrugs. Jake almost jumps when he turns and there’s suddenly finds a man sitting against the wall near them.

“When’d you get in?” Coyote asks, incredulously.

The man answers quietly, “Oh, I’ve been here the whole time.”

Jake eyes him like a ghost. “The man’s a stealth plot.”

“Literally,” Coyote adds with a grin.

The guy shrugs. “Weapons systems officer, actually.”

Jake gives a short sarcastic laugh. “With no sense of humor.”

The laugh dies quickly, and Jake pushes away from the table, heading to the bar. He grabs a toothpick from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers. He knows most people think it’s just some flashy move, but it isn’t really.

A habit is a more accurate description.

He’d picked it up when he quit drinking like he needed to make sure his liver was constantly soaked. A lifeline to keep himself steady, to distract from the nerves gnawing under his skin.

He can faintly hear the others continuing their conversation as he walks off, but he needs a drink if he’s gonna have to put up with this many people so early on. Seeing Javy before everyone else was a mistake, it always took Jake a while to get back into the Hangman groove.

Jake comes up to the bar, singsonging. “Penny, my dear.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll have four more on the old-timer.” He says, grinning at the older man sitting at the bar. He looks familiar, but Jake can't be bothered to remember from where. The guy’s face is flickering on the edges of his memory, like a half-remembered ghost from some distant corner of his past. 

Jake’s eyes drift back to Penny as Iceman’s voice drifts through his mind, cutting through the noise of the bar like a sharp wind.

“You remind me of my partner. Reckless. Dangerous, even... but a damn good pilot.” 

At the time, the words stung with truth and something else. Something like respect, maybe regret. Jake blinks and shakes his head to clear it. 

Not ready to unpack that just yet.

Before he can dive too far into the memory and why it chose this moment to decide to pop up, the door swings open.

“Bradshaw is that you?” Phoenix yells across the bar.

Rooster.

Jake freezes for a beat, hesitates. Something tight coils in his chest.

But if he’s gonna be Hangman?

Then hell, he’s going to be Hangman.

He grabs the beers from Penny and thanks her.

“Much obliged, Pops.” He winks at the guy at the bar and strides over to the jukebox with purpose, fingers brushing over the worn buttons. His gaze scans the list, landing on a song that’s equal parts swagger and suggestion.

Slow Ride.

The first notes fill the room, a low, sultry groove that pulls eyes without asking.

Jake wasn’t gonna play today. But his favorite game just walked in on a silver platter. 

Who can blame him?

Jake turns, locking eyes and grinning with whoever’s watching, then heads back to the pool table, beers in hand.

He might’ve given Rooster a break last time. But this time is going to be different.

He’s ready.

Chapter Text

Bradley walks into the Hard Deck and immediately starts searching for Natasha. The music is blasting and he already has plans to unplug the Jukebox when he hears her.

“Bradshaw is that you?” She shouts across the room.

He walks over casually and stops beside her, saying hey to the other pilots.

“This is how I find out you’re stateside?” Natasha asks him.

He grins, “I thought I’d surprise you.” 

He spots Coyote in the corner near Payback holding a pool cue. Bradley didn’t know they knew each other. 

But what he does know? 

If Coyote’s here, then Hangman isn’t far behind.

He met Coyote only once through their years of service. He was a good guy and fun to be around. Bradley still remembers the shock he felt when he found out Coyote was best friends with Hangman.

“He can be a good guy, man,” Coyote had laughed.

Bradley hadn’t been sure on whether or not to believe him.

He finds himself glancing around the bar involuntarily as Slow Ride fills the speakers. He tells himself he just wants to be prepared. But, honestly? Bradley’s not sure what to expect from Hangman this time around.

Natasha leans over to take a shot at one of the pool balls and hits him square in the stomach with her cue, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Guess I surprised you back.”

Bradley’s sure if she knew what he was thinking about she would’ve hit him harder. He can’t even remember how many rants he’d had to listen to about Hangman. 

“It’s good to see you.” Bradley wheezes, doubled over and holding the spot on his stomach that she’d hit.

Natasha just grins, “Good to see you, too.”

He stands up straight again and is just about to ask to join the next game when he’s interrupted.

“Bradshaw,” Hangman says, sauntering over. “As I live and breathe.”

Despite himself, Bradley finds his eyes roaming over Hangman’s face. It’s unfair that an asshole like him could be so… pretty. And have good friends like Coyote. It just didn’t make sense. Stopping himself from getting too far into his thoughts, Bradley answers. “Hangman you look… good.”

Bradley can feel Natasha’s eyes burning into the side of his head. He’s not sure why he said it. He probably shouldn’t have. He definitely shouldn’t have. 

Hangman’s eyebrow twitches like it wants to raise, but he just grins and walks forward, grabbing a pool cue from the hand of another pilot. “Well, I am good, Rooster. I’m very good.”

Hangman looks away from the table and miraculously makes the shot. Bradley can’t help but notice that he’s been demoted from Bradshaw. Then, Hangman tilts his head and practically purrs the last sentence, “In fact, I am too good to be true.”

Somehow, Bradley believes him.

Well, fuck!

He’s never seen this version of Hangman before. Bradley isn’t too sure what to do with it.

Thankfully, Payback cuts in, albeit awkwardly, “So… Anybody know what this special detachment is all about?”

Hangman answers before anyone else can, looking at the pool table and trying to decide his next move, “No, mission’s a mission. That don’t confront me. What I wanna know…”

He leans down and makes another shot, “Who’s gonna be team leader.” He grins up at Bradley from where he’s leaning, lining up his cue, “And, which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me.”

Bradley decides then and there that this new Hangman is worse than the last one. But, the best way to deal with him is probably still the same.

Bradley’s voice is dry as he answers, “Hangman, the only place you'll lead anyone is an early grave.”

It’s mean. Especially considering what he’s heard about Hangman through Natasha, and even Coyote, over the years. But, Hangman doesn’t play fair so neither will Bradley. A shorter man standing next to Payback whistles low under his breath and Bradley hears the others reacting to his words.

Hangman stands up from the pool table, moving towards Bradley.

Just poked the bear.

“Well,” Hangman says, smiling sharply. “Anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel.” He grins wider as he speaks, “But that’s just you ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment…”

Hangman is so close that Bradley’s forced to notice that his eyes are green.

Have they always been that color?

“…that never comes.”

Slow ride blasts in the back, interrupting the tense silence between them. Bradley’s eyes move without thinking, glancing down at the smile that’s edges look like they could cut diamonds.

Hangman’s eyes sparkle as he pushes away back towards the pool table, “I love this song!”

The others go back to the game too, but Bradley stays staring after Hangman.

“Well, he hasn’t changed.” Natasha sighs, coming up next to him.

“Nope,” Bradley answers. “Sure hasn’t.”

And, he’s not sure how to feel about that.