angelic around you

by jireusang

Summary:

He holds up a large brown paper bag, drawing Bradley’s eyes. Hangman shakes it as if it contains all of Bradley’s answers.

“Bandages,” Hangman tells him, shrugging again. Inadvertently, Bradley reaches up and runs his fingers over the creased gauze on his neck. “Nurse said you should change them every 24 hours, starting tonight. Supplies in the bag.”

“That’s something I can do myself,” Bradley responds, trying to pour as much assertiveness as he can into the statement. He thinks, maybe, if he meets Hangman at the same level of confidence he’s been showcasing, Hangman will feel threatened enough to leave. But Hangman, as nothing ever rattles him, stands unperturbed.

“Even the ones on your back?” Hangman asks, still lazy, yet never missing a beat.

This—right here, sitting RIO behind Maverick—might be the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to Rooster.

He means, his dad dying was unspeakably bad, and Mav pulling his papers was frustratingly bad, and being sent on a practical suicide mission through a canyon with more speed than ceiling is not your ideal workday. 

But the immediate aftermath of that said suicide mission is pretty fucking bad. Sitting in the backseat of an F-14 with Mav, desperately trying to find the right button in a sea of them, unintentionally shadowing his father from 30 years back while Mav barks orders is bad.

“Smoke in the air! Rooster, flares!” Maverick shouts. The world behind the windows spins. 

Rooster does as he’s told, but soon, the old switch clicks empty. “We’re out of flares, Mav.” He tries to ignore the cursing and the fear Maverick thinks he’s been hiding.

“This is not good.” (What Rooster’s been saying.)

The planes continue to swirl, though the bogey is relentless, and something terrible settles in Rooster. 

Maverick breathes in a way that feels like defeat. “We can’t outrun this guy, Rooster. We’ve got to eject,” he says. Blood rushes to Rooster’s head. Rooster wonders if this feels all too familiar for the pilot in front of him. 

Rooster grips the ejection handles even though his mind is screaming. Because they weren’t even sure if this old-ass Tomcat would fly, so there is no way to know if the ejection handles will even pull; no way to know if the canopy will fall the right way; no way to know if Rooster’s fate was to follow his father’s footsteps, even if the path is straight down. He wonders if you can bury three for three Bradshaws and still keep your head straight. He tells himself to not think that. 

Mav steers them upward, gaining altitude for an ejection that they might not even survive (because, as a hostile pilot who just got their secret runway blown up, what really stops you from sending a missile into the parachutes of the guys who did it?). Rooster still has his hands on the handles, and pulls like hell when Maverick commands, “Eject, eject, eject!”

When nothing happens—no click from the handles, no pop from the canopy, no swoosh of the parachutes—Maverick calls again. “Rooster! Pull the handle!”

“It’s not working!” Rooster yells back. He’s never heard his voice coated in so much desperation. He wonders if this is what his father sounded like. He tells himself he really needs to stop thinking these things. 

For the first time in the last five minutes, the F-14 is absolutely quiet as Rooster feels the plane halt in its climb. Maverick whispers an apology, and Rooster isn’t quite sure which bird he’s truly addressing. The silence seems to block out even the roar of the engine even as the plane starts to dip. Rooster barely registers the explosion behind them. 

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking,” cuts through to his brain, and Rooster wonders for a second if heaven is a giant, commercial airplane. Once the actual sense kicks back in, he vows to never tell Jake fucking Seresin he thought his voice on the comm was the voice of an angel. 

“Please fasten your seat belts, return your tray tables to their locked and upright positions, and prepare for landing,” Hangman says as he laughs at his own joke, loud and clear and deep.

It might be the best fucking thing Rooster’s ever heard.

***

Surviving two crash landings and the sheer amount of dogfighting Rooster and Maverick did in what a nurse tells Bradley is being referred to as the miracle mission (much more optimistic than the Daggers’ suicide) makes you indescribably tired. 

Or at least it makes Bradley indescribably tired. Maverick walks in just three days, the same amount of time it takes Bradley to wake up without feeling like he weighs a million pounds. 

By the fourth day, Bradley’s pretty much done with hospital life. It’s been doctors clicking down the hall, beeping machines in a stark room, and nurses in and out. The constant care is starting to get stuffy, and whatever fabric-bandage is taped to his neck is starting to get plain annoying. Bradley’s ready to drive home, sit on the beach, and eat a meal without a red jello cup. He ignores the fact that he can still barely lift his arms. 

“Only a rib broken and a finger fractured, can you believe it?” Mav shows off the splint on his left hand. He looks lively and bright, and Bradley almost feels like he and Maverick didn’t survive the same event. Ace for his air kills; should be ace for his luck. “I’ve got some bruising from the parachute, of course, but nothing unsurvivable,” Mav continues, only stopping when Iceman interrupts him from the doorway.

“God, Mav, will you stop bragging to the kid?” Ice says, glaring at Maverick from across the room. “He doesn’t want to hear about how mild your injuries are.” 

Something warm settles in Bradley’s chest. It’s been way too long since he, Ice, and Mav were in a room full of meaningless bickering instead of tense silence. Even if he had held onto his grudge—even if he managed not to drop it in the crash, or when the F-14 stopped climbing—Bradley’s not sure he would be able to hold it up now. He’s too tired to fight anything that looks like love. 

“So Mav’s getting discharged?” Bradley asks, shifting his eyes to Iceman now that Maverick has quieted. 

Ice takes his hands out of his jacket’s pockets and steps closer to Mav and the bed. “You are, too, you know,” he says. Bradley blinks. Ice shrugs. “At least, discharged on condition that someone’s there to help you out for the next few weeks, which is why I’m here with Mav. Better than laying here, I assume, though” Ice explains, gesturing to the hospital bed and the white sheets that rest up to Bradley’s torso. 

Ice freezes for a moment, before saying, softer than anything else earlier, “Was a close call, Bradley.”

Bradley blinks again, not sure how to respond to such feathery language. He opts to fill the silence. “Am I going with you and Mav?”

A muscle in Ice’s eyebrow twitches, and he looks away for a second before meeting Bradley’s eyes. “No. I was told not to try to handle both of you at once.” Ice smiles a bit, but continues on when Bradley feels his eyebrows start to knit. “But I told someone to come pick you up. One of those Daggers,” he explains, taking a step back from where Bradley lays, pulling back from the softness.

“Natasha?” Bradley asks. 

Ice furrows his eyebrows in a moment of thought, but shakes his head. “No, some guy. And don’t ask me which one—there’s too many,” he says, laughing when Bradley quickly closes his mouth. “I think I saw him right outside, actually. Want me to let him in, and let you get out of here?” he asks. Ice doesn’t wait for an answer, though, and already starts to usher Maverick to the door.

Bradley answers anyway. “Yeah, please.”

Ice waves a quick goodbye, and Mav follows suit. To the guy in the hall, Bradley hears something quiet from Ice and something louder from Maverick, but both are too far for the words to be clear. Ice props the hospital door open, and another hand reaches out to grab it. 

Bradley prays for Fanboy. He prays for Bob. He prays for Coyote.

Jake fucking Seresin walks through the door—and now twice has he appeared under angelic circumstances. Bradley thinks it’s got to be a devilish trick at this point.

“Bradshaw! As I live and breathe,” Hangman exclaims, starting the dance they always do as if he is totally unfazed by the situation they were living in the last time they saw each other. Knowing Hangman, though, he probably is unfazed. 

“Hangman,” Bradley plays along. “You look good.” 

He never lies when he says this part. Hangman’s hair is spiked the way it always is, and he stands at the end of Bradley’s bed in a white t-shirt and sweatpants with the silver chain of his dog tags peeking up from under his collar. It might be the first time Bradley’s seen him in civilians exempt from the Daggers’ game of beach football. It’s only when the light shines a certain way does Bradley notice the smallest bags forming under Hangman’s eyes. 

Hangman makes a show out of looking Bradley up and down before responding, “You look… like you could be better.” When Bradley gives him nothing but deadpan, Hangman smiles and tries again. “You look like you’re ready to get out of here.”

Bradley weighs his options. Hangman is probably the worst case scenario: he’s brazen and bold and from what Bradley can tell, has no understanding of what “careful” and “healing” even mean. He’s almost sure Hangman doesn’t have the capacity to be any type of gentle, considering his own callsign is a reminder of his harsh habit of leaving wingmen in the dust. 

On top of all that, Hangman is just plain annoying, and Bradley isn’t sure how much he could take without at least trying to throw a punch his way, even if there is any type of neutrality between them after the mission. Bradley wants to say no to Hangman, say no to the help. Bradley wants to walk out of the hospital himself and end up in his own bed somehow. The thought only reminds Bradley of how he might need Hangman to get those two things to connect.

Hangman raises his eyebrows, and Bradley decides that he really wants to be home. He really wants to be home, and Hangman has car keys, some level of willingfulness, and working arms. And anyway, Bradley can always steal Hangman’s move and ditch him the next day. 

“I really am,” Bradley answers slowly, giving into whatever Hangman’s offering in exchange for a way home. 

Hangman smiles in the sly way he does, spinning his keys around his finger and letting them jangle. He pulls a small backpack off his shoulder that Bradley hadn’t even noticed he was wearing, and tosses it onto the bed as Bradley starts to shift to stand up. (Let it be noted that as Bradley attempts to stand and walk for the first time in four days, Hangman makes no move closer to help—already reaffirming, to Bradley, his reluctance to Hangman’s aid.)

The bag unzips smoothly, and Bradley pulls out a familiar and worn, pale Hawaiian button up (thank God—Bradley’s not sure he would’ve been able to lift a t-shirt over his head) and real pants. Bradley holds the shirt out to Hangman the best he can, and slowly asks, “Were you in my house?”

Hangman shrugs like it’s something he does all the time—because the man is never uncomfortable. “Admiral Iceman passed me his set of your keys when he asked me to pick you up. Don’t want your bare ass legs on my leather seats while you’re wearing those stupid hospital gowns,” Hangman scoffs. “I made sure to pick the ugliest shirt in your closet, which happens to be the one you wear the most.”

“It’s not like I’ll get to wear it long, anyway, considering your driving is going to get us killed,” Bradley tries, finally pulling himself to stand upright. The bandages on his abdomen crinkle and fold in an uncomfortable way; his legs feel weak and wobbly, yet it seems to raise no alarm in Hangman. If Bradley is a rooster on his perch, then Hangman is an owl with his still body and sharp eyes, simply observing.

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who crashed and burned last mission, so I feel like I’m the most qualified here,” Hangman hits back—that stupid smirk on his face—and Bradley wonders just how many insults Hangman will be able to make from the miracle mission alone.

Bradley can’t really argue with that, though. Hangman knows.

He turns to the door and leaves Bradley to catch up.

***

“You’re slow,” Hangman had told him. “I can’t be the only one who knows that Maverick flew with his old man.” His eyes had crinkled in a way that didn’t quite replicate regular joy. “Or that Maverick was flying when his old man…” 

Bradley can’t even remember when he first really met Hangman, because every interaction they’ve ever had feels the same. Intense, cutting, and sometimes, just plain cruel. Rooster’s not innocent. He gave Hangman the callsign he hated and the nickname for it that he probably hated more. Rooster might not have thrown straight oil into the fire, but he helped stoke the flames. 

The shift of going from Hangman telling Rooster he won’t come home from the mission with the way he flies, to Hangman picking Bradley up from the hospital is a change way too indigestible for Bradley to be contemplating right now—even with whatever weird truce was formed when Hangman put on his halo and helmet and got in the sky. 

That’s maybe why it feels so weird to have Hangman driving him home.

Rooster, with his walls still up, and Hangman, over them easily anyway.

The car jolts slightly as Hangman pushes it into park. Bradley feels like he blinked the hour-long drive away in a second. He still feels indescribably tired.

Bradley opens the car door and the cool evening air hits him like a punch, which isn’t exactly bad considering the most fresh air he got in the last four days was from a nurse who cracked his window open after multiple asks. Out of pity, Bradley was sure. Open window, nonetheless.

The porch is dark, with two envelopes sitting on the steps, and three cobwebs in the ceiling corners. It is actually physically jarring when Hangman walks up the steps, picks up the letters, and slots Ice’s key into the door, as if he’s lived there all his life. Bradley drops his jaw in both shock and in an attempt to stop whatever the hell Hangman thinks he’s doing—though he eventually just shuts his mouth. He’s really just got to start expecting Hangman to carelessly cross the lines Bradley swears have been drawn. Maybe Hangman just never looks down. 

Bradley follows Hangman—slower than he wants to admit—and watches in some sort of terror as Hangman drops his car keys and the mail onto the side table by the door like he owns the place. 

“One visit to my house and it already feels like you’re paying the mortgage,” Bradley comments, voice slightly strained, and only half joking.

Hangman smiles—because he’s got to know exactly what he’s doing, right?—and says coyly, “What’s yours is mine, Rooster.” (That is definitely not true.) And Bradley watches in now, just pure confusion as Hangman walks the opposite way of out-the-door and instead, down the hall.

When he doesn’t hear Bradley’s slow footsteps behind him, he lazily pivots in his spot. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks, like he has a million other things to do and this just happens to be at the top of his list. 

Out of the handful of questions that have been swirling through Bradley’s head tonight, he’s really not sure which to ask first. Why did you come get me from the hospital? Why did you drive me home and come in? Why aren’t you being Hangman and ditching your wingman? 

Hangman doesn’t wait for Bradley to vocalize any of his questions, though. He holds up a large brown paper bag, drawing Bradley’s eyes. Hangman shakes it as if it contains all of Bradley’s answers. He hadn't even noticed Hangman was carrying it—Bradley considers that the fatigue might be really getting to him. 

“Bandages,” Hangman tells him, shrugging again. Inadvertently, Bradley reaches up and runs his fingers over the creased gauze on his neck. “Nurse said you should change them every 24 hours, starting tonight. Supplies in the bag.”

“That’s something I can do myself,” Bradley responds, trying to pour as much assertiveness as he can into the statement. He thinks, maybe, if he meets Hangman at the same level of confidence he’s been showcasing, Hangman will feel threatened enough to leave. But Hangman, as nothing ever rattles him, stands unperturbed. 

“Even the ones on your back?” Hangman asks, still lazy, yet never missing a beat. Bradley shifts his shoulders and feels the crinkle of medical tape and gauze. It’s almost infuriating how Hangman knows more about Bradley’s injuries than he should.

Bradley purses his lips, and Hangman laughs. “It’s not like it’s surgery. I’m not sticking my hands into your guts, okay? I’m taping cotton to your back, man.” Hangman breathes. Bradley blinks. “You do your chest, I do your back. Fifty-fifty,” he offers.

“Forty-sixty. I do my neck,” Bradley counters. Hangman rolls his eyes and starts back down the hall for the main bedroom, this time, with Bradley’s slow footsteps behind him.

There are three things Hangman is for certain: hard to beat, hard to get along with, and hard to kill (he has two air-to-air kills and so far, no scratches; a very telling ratio). Bradley starts to hope he won’t be hard to get rid of as well. Watching Hangman line up everything he needs from the paper bag onto Bradley’s bed—gauze, medical tape, some nondescript ointment—stirs something in Bradley’s stomach. He’s never seen Hangman so domesticated. It’s almost angelic how Hangman stands washed in the golden glow of the seeping hallway lights, contrasting the dark background of Bradley’s room. Key word: Almost. 

Standing in the door frame, Bradley gauges he could make a decent break to the bathroom and lock the door behind him. Hangman’s quick and Bradley’s been slow, but Bradley has the geographical advantage, and if Hangman didn’t notice for the first few seconds, Bradley could—

“Okay,” Hangman says, looking back to Bradley. “Hit the lights for me, will ya?”

Bradley clenches his jaw. He flicks on the switch on the wall.

Bradley himself hasn’t even really examined his injuries. He doesn’t know how deep the cuts under the dressings are. He doesn’t know how bad the bruising he can feel in his shoulders is. He doesn’t know how he feels about Hangman being the first to see them.

Hangman runs his hand through his hair and gestures to the edge of the bed. “Sit down, Bradshaw. Gonna wash my hands.” On his way up and out of the bedroom, he suddenly adds, “Oh, and take your shirt off, too.”

It’s frustrating to continuously be surrounded by things you want to fight, yet be too tired to. 

The supplies Hangman laid out shift as Bradley puts his weight on the bed. He immediately feels the squeeze in his legs soften. While the sink runs in the other room, Bradley unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off his shoulders, breathing slow and sharp. 

On his front, there’s a total of three taped-on gauzes, including the small one on his neck, many little scratches, and one dark line of bruising on each shoulder. Bradley doesn’t know what’s on his back. He runs his finger ever so lightly over the contusion on his right side, worse than the left, where the straps of the parachute’s harness dug into his skin. It’s, at least, a reminder of still being alive.

Bradley carefully starts to pick the tape off his abdomen, but Hangman’s return makes him jump.

“Starting without me?” Hangman asks. He rubs his washed hands together, and takes a seat behind Bradley, clearing not giving up the forty percent Bradley begrudgingly gave him.

Bradley sighs and tries not to recoil when Hangman’s cool hands touch his back. At first, he tries to count the pieces of tape Hangman pulls off—trying to know what Hangman is seeing back there—but he eventually gives up, and goes back to removing the bandages from his front.

The cuts really aren’t too bad, Bradley thinks. The tape leaves slightly sticky residue, and the cold air makes the sensitive skin around his wounds sting, but they really don’t look too bad considering. The gauze on his abdomen concealed a long scrape from some branch he hit on the way down, which seems deep, but it looks as if a scab layer is starting to form. On his pectoral, there’s another deep scrape, though smaller in length. Multiple, more trivial scratches are scattered around. His neck, he can’t see, but by the strong scab he can feel on top, Bradley assumes it’s probably the most shallow of the main three.

Either there’s less injuries on his back, or Hangman simply works fast, because Bradley already hears the cap of the ointment pop open. Knowing what’s coming doesn’t stop Bradley from jolting and sucking in sharply through his teeth when the medicine makes contact. Yet Hangman’s hands stay steady and consistent. It’s not quite… gentle, but the way Hangman executes quick, clean stripes of ointment down his back feels like there’s sturdiness and experience in his movements.

“Have you done this before?” Bradley asks, trying to level out his voice from the effect of the cold medicine.

Hangman swipes his back again. Bradley still shivers. “Got a little sister who used to run like the wind,” he replies. “Track and cross country when she was older, but all around the woods when she was young. You’ve got to have some basic medical skills to deal with a kid like that,” Hangman says. Bradley hears the ointment bottle’s cap click, and grabs it as Hangman offers it over Bradley’s shoulder.

Hangman doesn’t say anything else—his voice replaced by the sound of ripping tape for new gauze—and Bradley doesn’t ask anything else. Instead, he opts to focus on spreading ointment on the injuries he insisted he’d deal with.

Bradley comes to the conclusion that the wounds on his back can’t possibly be as bad as the ones on his front, because what he felt when Hangman was applying the medicine—cold and uncomfortable, but otherwise, not pain—does not translate over to Bradley’s work on his chest. He tries to copy Hangman’s strategy; be quick and precise and consistent, but it doesn’t stop him from breathing through clenched teeth. It also doesn’t help his concentration to constantly feel the touch of fabric and the brush of Hangman’s fingers pushing tape onto his back. In fact, Hangman’s graze is really fucking distracting for some reason.

By the time Bradley is finally and painstakingly done, his wounds shine with ointment, and Hangman’s already finished with the bandages behind.

He’s able to cover the first two injuries well, though Bradley still feels the squeeze in his arms when he reaches to dress the wound on his pec. Hangman’s presence continues to loom over him.

When it’s time to cover the one on his neck, Bradley quickly realizes it’s not the easiest thing in the world to try and dress a wound blind. He has to keep feeling for the scab to line up the gauze, then line up the tape to press it down. Two times he thinks about getting up to use the bathroom mirror, but he’s really not sure how much weight his legs can keep holding at his energy level. The constant movement creates small blooms of pain around the cut.

“Fuck,” he whispers when he pushes into the bandage too hard. He feels the mattress shift under him, and he prays that Hangman doesn’t offer to help. The line between not wanting to depend on Hangman and just being too exhausted to fight it is starting to blur. Bradley wonders if he’d even be able to override his tired body and refuse if Hangman offered.

He rips off another piece of tape, and reaches back up to prod his neck again for the edge of the bandage. He’s so close to being done. His luck doesn’t improve.

Bradley accidentally jabs the end of the wound, causing him to suck a sharp breath in. The reaction is louder than he wished for. A ghost of a sting still throbs under the half-done bandage.

“Rooster,” Hangman finally speaks. “Turn around.”

“No, I’ve got it,” Bradley insists. He hears Hangman sigh behind him. 

Hangman’s hand comes out of the blue and lands on Bradley’s shoulder as Hangman tries to push Bradley to face him. His touch is still chilly. Bradley tries not to react, and holds his ground.

“Just turn, man. It’s not gonna heal as fast if you keep poking it.”

Bradley’s jaw is clenched. “I’m not trying to,” he pushes out.

He finally gets the last piece of tape down without any more obstacles, and turns to face Hangman, who has a lack of expression, but still that owl-like observance on his face.

“Already done,” Bradley assures him. He hopes it comes out as more of a brag than a comfort—still trying to match Hangman’s comfortability. 

Hangman tilts his head lazily, but doesn’t push or say anything back. He just glances up and down at Bradley’s handiwork, and Bradley guesses it must pass his judgment because he stands up like he has a tight schedule. Bradley feels a small, cold breeze pass as Hangman’s body moves.

“Okay,” Hangman says. He flicks a piece of paper onto Bradley’s nightstand, and starts to toss the medical supplies back into the brown bag. “I’m leaving for the night, then. I’ll come by tomorrow morning. My number’s on the note,” he says, with nothing behind it—no pressure, no instructions. He just states a fact. 

Bradley feels like he just exhaled. It’s the Hangman distance that he’s used to again.

Hangman drops the bag next to Bradley’s bed, smiles, and tilts his head. Bradley can’t tell if this is a new habit or not. He realizes that he’s never really interacted with Hangman in such a straight-on, tunnel-vision way.

“Night,” Hangman simply says.

Bradley gently lowers himself down onto the bed (there are so many bandages and bruises and pains to be wary of), and listens to Hangman in the hall. He hears him click every light switch until the house outside his bedroom is dark. He hears Hangman’s keys jangle and the door quietly creak open. He considers turning off the bedroom light, considers actually getting under the covers on his bed, but any attempt falls in vain.

Bradley barely hears Hangman’s car engine wake before he’s out.

***

“Out” is a pretty vague descriptor. 

There’s definitely sleep. Sleep better than in the uncomfortable hospital bed, at least. Sleep better than in the carrier ship pre-mission while everyone was uneasy, at least. But there are other things, too.

There’s seeping light from the overhead bulb that he never shut off. There are flashes of the sky, and jolts of adrenaline. There are ghost fingers on his back, which make him question how awake he really is. And when Bradley is definitively conscious again while the world outside his window is still dark, there’s a sharp, stinging pain on his back.

Bradley ignores it at first. It’s annoying, but it’s a bug, and it’ll go away. It’s not worth the hassle to get up and check if it’s so trivial. But the pain is there, and it’s consistent. 

Bradley groans in irritation. The feeling isn’t fading, and the red numbers on his bedside clock keep growing. 

He turns to lay on his stomach and to smush his head into the pillow—still hoping he’ll fall back asleep—but it only makes things worse, because the medical tape on his back must be snagged on the sheets, and all his moving does is pull tape off his back, rub the gauze against his wound, and blast his skin with the cold air around him. In other words, it’s a jet-wash spin into a bad ejection. He pushes his head into the pillow. In other, other words, it was just an idiotic move.

Bradley gives in—because he just can’t stop doing that today. 

The hallway leading to the rest of the house is pitch black to Bradley’s un-dilated eyes when he peeks down it. The connected bathroom’s light still feels as bright as a spotlight when he flicks it on. There, Bradley sees himself for the first time in four days.

Suddenly, Hangman’s “You look like you could be better,” makes a lot more sense.

In his reflection, Bradley sees deep bags resting under his eyes, tousled hair that makes it look like he survived a hurricane, and the purple bruises with the handful of stark white bandages scattered on his abdomen don’t help his case. He turns to examine Hangman’s handiwork on his back and sees that not only is Hangman’s craft much more precise than his own, but that the bandage covering a scabbed scrape on his back has pulled off. The wound and the pink skin around it shines from any un-smeared ointment. 

Bradley groans again and goes back for the brown bag Hangman left by the bed. 

Turns out, gauze and medical tape don’t help much if you can’t even properly reach the damn place you want to cover in the first place. Bradley tries for maybe longer than he should, anyway.

He can get the gauze over the scrape and hold it without too much pain, but it’s the tape that’s the real problem. He tries to go from the side, go over the opposite shoulder, even tries to just stick in from behind his head and just hope he hits the edge of the gauze and not the middle of the injury. It’s like trying to stick the tail on the donkey with a blindfold on. 

Bradley can see the red ‘3:47 AM’ blink in the mirror behind him.

He slams the gauze onto the counter. It’s so stupid. It is putting a bandage on his own back. Now Bradley’s just annoyed. The scab on his back still stings from the air around him. He’ll sleep on his stomach. It’s got to suck a little less, at least.

A little white piece of paper glints from the bedside table.

He runs his thumb over the numbers scribbled in Hangman’s effortless handwriting. Hangman puts the little loop in his twos. It’s almost irritating. Bradley decides he can hold his own; he’ll get the bandage over in the morning. Calling Hangman is unnecessary—not just because the reason for calling would be idiotic, but because Bradley figures he’ll be at his top again once he’s fully rested.

Bradley gets back into bed, and faces away from the bedside table. He tells himself that he’ll feel better tomorrow, that everything will be easier tomorrow, when he’s gotten some good shut-eye. The pain that sting lingers on his back tends to disagree. He doesn’t turn to face the paper.

He just ignores it—the paper, the pain. It works eventually. There’s definitely sleep again, at least.

***

He hears clanging in the kitchen when he wakes up. 

Sunlight seeping through the blinds creates stripes on the floor and makes Bradley sleepy again, but the noise of pans and plates keeps him still awake. He thinks Hangman must have no awareness of his surroundings—of Bradley in the other room.

Though there’s still a prominent ache in his muscles when he pushes himself up and off the bed, he has to admit, he feels better than all of the days he woke up in the hospital. Whatever he’s feeling must translate to the physical because Bradley is slightly more pleased with what the mirror reflects—though his hair is still upstanding.

Bradley washes his face (cold), tries to wash his hair (colder), and brushes his teeth (minty). The feel of water helps him feel more alive, more real. Except the hair washing kind of just makes his back hurt more than it already does. He’s not willing to go through the pain of letting water fall over the mess of.. him, but the discomfort of leaning over the tub isn’t fun either. The injuries and bandages scattered over him don’t tend to allow for the most fluid of movement. Bradley does his best.

When he finally staggers into the kitchen, Hangman is sitting at the end of the island counter, leaning over a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs. One of the kitchen windows is cracked open, and the small breeze feels crisp, especially against Bradley’s damp hair. 

“Bradshaw, as I live and breathe,” Hangman says smoothly. “Slept for a while, huh, cowboy?” His voice is unmistakably sweet, but Bradley can see in his eyes, the playful taunting. He’s really got to get Ice’s spare keys back.

Hangman gestures to the seat across from him. Pushed to Bradley’s side of the counter is an identical plate of scrambled eggs with cooked sausages on the side.

Bradley is very sure he did not have either of those foods in his fridge before the Daggers took off for their mission. He’s not exactly sure what that means about both those ingredients seeming to arrive with Hangman. He’s also not sure about the nickname Hangman used on him.

“You’re the Texan,” Bradley says, yawning. He eyes the plate. He can feel Hangman watching him. He doesn’t sit.

“And you’re the one who passed out last night like you downed five drinks at a Texan bar,” Hangman tells him, tilting his head. He stops though, suddenly entranced by something else. He looks Bradley up and down—not in the dramatic way he did yesterday at the hospital—in a seemingly thorough way as his eyes flick over him. It’s like being studied under a microscope. “Are you missing a bandaid?” Hangman finally asks.

Bradley shrugs, not sure how much of anything he’s willing to give away to Hangman.“Must’ve come off while I was asleep,” he explains. When Hangman looks like he’s going to ask another question, Bradley takes his seat at the counter, and starts to shovel food in his mouth. A meal without a red jello cup—noted. “Eggs are good,” he compliments.

Hangman nods, still searching for something. His owl eyes don’t waver.

“Must be hard,” Hangman starts, “to re-bandage anything on your own back. Difficult to hold anything up there, you know?”

Bradley eats his eggs. “Wouldn’t know. Didn’t try.” He doesn’t know exactly what Hangman wants out of him, but the tactics make him more determined to not give it to him. Whatever it is.

Hangman nods. Bradley watches his eyes squint. “Okay. Well, if it happens again, my phone’s not on silent.”

It’s a vague offer, but Bradley immediately decides against it in his mind. Invite Hangman to his house? It’s worse than waking up to him already here. At least this way he can tell Phoenix it’s a more of a kidnapping situation. He crumples the white slip of paper in his mind. 

Hangman goes back to eating his eggs as well.

The rest of the day goes by in a sort of blur.

Bradley mostly just lays on the couch, flipping through whatever movies happen to come on. He doesn’t pay much mind to Hangman, who tends to blend into the background—Bradley didn’t know that was even possible for him, as loud as he is.

Bradley gets through Looper, the last thirty minutes of Titanic, the first two Mission: Impossibles, and a phone call with Ice. During commercial breaks, he watches Hangman around the house. Hangman reads, messes around in the fridge, catches the last ten minutes of Titanic, and otherwise, just seems to quietly float around. He even gets up to busy himself somewhere else when Bradley picks up Ice’s call during the second Mission: Impossible.

“Mav told me Seresin’s the one you butt heads with. Sorry for sending the one kid you tried to punch.”

“I can hear you smiling,” Bradley grumbles to him. “But it’s fine. He’s also the one kid who saved my life, so… I don’t know. It’s fine.”

Ice chuckles. “Sorry,” he apologizes again. “It’s only because it reminds me so much of Mav and I, especially at TOPGUN. I landed at least one good punch on you, right, Mav?”

Bradley can hear Maverick in the background. “No, I got a good punch on you .”

“No, that’s not true,” Ice says. “Anyway, Bradley, how are you feeling? That’s the real reason I called.”

Bradley thinks. “Feeling okay. Feeling better. Everything hurts, but I guess that’s what you get when you crash your plane.”

“Have you been eating?”

Bradley laughs. “Yes, Admiral. Seresin made eggs this morning. Better than Mav’s.”

“That’s good—Shut up, Pete. Sorry, he’s trying to argue with me. I got him riled up,” Ice explains. Bradley can practically see the expression he must be wearing. The cold eyes, but the hint of a smile on his face.  

“No, but I did hit you,” Maverick insists. “Remember? Because right after that, Slider tried to tackle me. I remember because I yelled for Goose to help and all he did was throw the ball at Slider! And not even that hard!”

Ice sighs. “That was because you were a sore loser about Slider and I getting game point on you in volleyball. It was a little deserved. And I vividly remember you missing that swing.” 

Bradley wouldn’t be surprised if the two forgot about him on the line completely. He doesn’t mind.

He hears Maverick scoff. “Yeah, sure. Was that before or after you had the hots for me?”

Okay. Now Bradley minds a little. Maverick’s strategy has always been to confuse and provoke.

When you win an argument against Maverick, he’ll give you a hail-mary string of speech. When you win an argument against Iceman, he gives you what he’s named after. Right now, there’s only silence on the line.

Mav laughs, and Ice just sighs. “Sometimes the people you butt heads with end up being actually okay,” he tells Bradley. “Obviously that didn’t work out for me, but, I don’t know. And if not, you’ve survived Mav, so…”

Bradley chuckles, and Ice wraps it all up. “Alright then. Bradley, take care, and we’ll see you soon.”

Hangman’s by the couch again as soon as the line disconnects. He places a bottle of painkillers on the coffee table. When Bradley looks up at him, questioning, Hangman shrugs. “You talk loud,” he simply says.

With Hangman’s owl eyes, panther presence, and nosy ears of a bat, Bradley can’t believe that out of the two of them, he got the animal callsign.

Bradley goes back to watching Ethan Hunt ride a motorcycle like a maniac. 

Dinner is just takeout from the Thai place on the other street. Bradley feels a kick of exhaustion by the time he finishes, either from the warm noodles or simply the clock hitting eight. When Bradley puts his plate in the sink and finally gets to retire back to his bedroom, Hangman follows just behind.

Bradley’s got to ditch him.

Hangman beats him to the punch. “Bandaids again,” he says, pulling the brown bag from the floor and placing it on the bed. 

Bradley sighs and sits down, mimicking his position from the night before. Hangman sits behind him again. He’s got to do this fast. Bradley’s almost sure if he feels Hangman’s touch on his back again—he’s really not sure what it is about it—he won’t be able to say anything to him.

“You really don’t have to, Hangman,” he says. “I can do it.” He feels soft, but he puts confidence into his voice. He keeps steady, keeps assertive. He’s expecting pushback. He’s expecting a fight. He’s expecting a ‘but.’

“Okay.” Hangman’s hands don’t touch his back.

Bradley purses his lips. He doesn’t breathe for a moment—Hangman is always catching him by surprise. Bradley breathes again, and starts to peel the wrinkled gauze off his skin. This is what he wanted, so it doesn’t matter how easy it was to make Hangman forfeit tonight. It doesn’t matter that Hangman’s behind him, probably blinking slow, hands to himself.

The front is both the obvious place to start, and the easiest spot to deal with. He copies what he felt Hangman do last night: He rips the bandages off in what are supposed to be swift motions, he applies the ointment with confidence instead of shaky hands, he smoothes out the medical tape. It all gives him more time to think about how he’s really going to handle his back. 

The gauze is a simple task. Bradley’s aware that feeling for the fabric and pulling in whatever direction works is a slightly aggressive strategy, but it works, and if Hangman has comments, he doesn’t vocalize. 

The medicine part is a bit harder. By the bandages felt, there are about four main wounds on his back. Three are smaller and shallow, similar to the cut on his neck—the one smack in the middle of his back being the wound uncovered last night. But the fourth is deep. Reaching back, Bradley can feel the edges of the scab as the wound runs down his shoulder.

He’s able to spread ointment on the two smaller ones positioned on his low back relatively easily. He even goes ahead and replaces the gauze and tape on those two as well. He’s through five; two to go.

There’s two main things. One, being that Bradley, despite what he thought, still cannot effectively cover the wound of which the bandage came off of last night. In this case, trying to do it at a normal time instead of three in the morning does not change the outcome. A rarity.

 Two, being that the wound on his shoulder is worse, because Bradley can barely even reach it in the first place, let alone rub and hold and tape anything on it. It doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Rooster.” 

He almost completely forgot about Hangman being behind him. 

Bradley shushes him. “It’s fine.”

“Rooster, come on,” Hangman says. 

Bradley really can’t explain it. Letting Hangman help is the obvious solution. Flying fast is the obvious solution. He doesn’t know why he won’t just let Hangman help. He doesn’t know why he thinks that if Hangman touches him, he’ll melt. He doesn’t know if that melting is good or bad. Not thinking is the obvious solution.

Too many years on his own. Too many years without parents, too many years fighting with Mav, too many years alone in the sky because he thinks too much. Letting anyone help—let alone Jake fucking Seresin—feels like it’s been wired out of him.

Bradley has one more piece of fight in him. “I’ve got it.”

He hears Hangman sigh. He can feel the face Hangman’s making, and he can feel the skepticism Hangman has in his words. He knows Hangman is done.

“Bradshaw,” Hangman says. “You can’t even reach the damn cut, man. Just let me do the last two. What is it then, thirty-seventy?” he recounts.

Bradley doesn’t say anything. But he drops his hands and he pulls them to the front, and it’s all the motion Hangman needs.

Like the night before, Hangman works fast and concise. And like Bradley suspected, he caves to Hangman’s touch. It’s such a strange sensation—it’s soft but firm, and quick but precise. It’s even stranger because it's the exact type of touch Bradley had assumed Hangman didn’t know how to have. He’s such a wild flyer; it’s weird to watch (feel) him color inside in the lines.

Hangman is finished with both wounds in a fraction of the time it took Bradley to do one (showoff). He pats Bradley on his good shoulder and stands. His hair and his silver chain shine from the overhead light.

For a second, Bradley thinks Hangman is going to say something. His eyes glint in that curious way, and Bradley waits for whatever he’ll do that will shock him next. But he only says, “Night, Rooster,” and is gone. The lights in the rest of the house click off as Hangman makes his way to the door. 

When Bradley wakes up again in the middle of the night, there’s a similar pain in his back. He decides to skip the busywork and straight-up ignore it this time. Except when he turns over to his stomach—because he didn’t learn his lesson the first time—something must catch, but this time, it’s worse. For a split second, it feels like a knife has been plunged in and then ripped out of his body.

Bradley pushes himself up. There’s a deep pulsing in his back. There’s something dripping down. There’s a dizzy throbbing in his head.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly Bradley reaches for the piece of paper Hangman left on the nightstand. All this energy he spent working against him. At any other time, Bradley would be worrying about how stupid he feels and how Hangman could hold this over his head. But being in pain cancels out anything else Bradley might feel about this.

“What’s wrong?” Hangman asks when the ringing in Bradley’s ear clicks off. He doesn’t sound alarmed. Just calm, tired, and a little groggy.

Bradley’s tired, too. “Something’s bleeding. My back. Bandage off, I don’t know.”

He hears shuffling on the other end, and then, Hangman’s car keys’ unmistakable jingle. “I’ll be there,” he says, yawning, and then hanging up.

“It’s really not that bad,” Hangman says. His hands are on Bradley’s back again. Bradley leans over the bathroom counter, flexing his fingers in reaction to all the proding. Hangman stands at his side. “You just tore some of the scab off. How aggressively do you sleep, Bradshaw?” 

Hangman chuckles when Bradley groans. “I usually sleep better without someone taking over my home. I know you put your keys in my key bowl,” Bradley tells him. He heard the jangle and the clank the metal made when they dropped.

Hangman playfully scoffs. “Taking over? Don’t be so territorial, Rooster. Plus, you pretty much invited me this time,” he states. “And anyway, you can’t even wrap your own wounds. I’m being a good person,” Hangman explains, purposely poking at the scab on Bradley’s shoulder as he places new gauze on top.

“Jesus, Seresin!” Bradley yells as he inadvertently pushes into the counter. Any move he can make to get his skin away from Hangman’s stupid, stupid hands.

“Sorry,” is all he gets in return. He knows he doesn’t mean it. He knows Hangman has some shit-eating grin on his face.

“Good person, my ass…” Bradley grumbles, letting Hangman coax him back closer so he can continue.

When his work is done, Hangman yawns again. Bradley doesn’t blame him. 

“I’m crashing on your couch,” he says. It’s not a confident question—it’s a full-on statement. One thing Hangman’s done that hasn’t surprised Bradley. He might’ve been playing soft for the last while, but he’s still Hangman underneath.

The lights all flick off again, and Bradley falls back into bed. It definitely is not weird and definitely does not weigh on his mind to have Hangman sleeping in his living room.

Ghost fingers on his back again tonight. Bradley doesn’t know what his mind wants from him.

***

“So, what, he’s living with you?”

“Not cool, Phoenix,” Bradley says, rubbing his hand over his face. The coffee isn’t doing anything. “He slept here once, okay?”

Natasha smiles. “Yeah. Right here, probably,” she says, shifting in her seat on the couch. “Where is he, anyway?”

Bradley shrugs, and takes another sip. “He dipped after breakfast. Should I change the locks?” he jokes.

“Don’t tell me he made you breakfast,” Natasha says. When Bradley is silent for longer than appropriate, she rolls her eyes. “You know, I thought you two might kill each other before we even got to fly the damn mission. And now he’s wining and dining you, breakfast style.”

“Shut up, Nat,” Bradley huffs. He pushes his back into the couch. “He’s not wining and dining me. He’s just… here, I don’t know.”

Natasha ignores Bradley’s shushing. “Is it weird?” she asks, bluntly. 

He purses his lips. Hasn’t everything with Hangman always been weird?

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot, trust me,” he tells her.

When she doesn’t say anything more, he takes the hint to keep talking. “It’s just strange. He’s always been so… Hangman , you know. He’s brash and he’s quick and he’s a little mean. And that’s what I expected when he followed me home. But he’s been soft and quiet and… actually, still kind of mean,” he admits. “I don’t know.”

Natasha blinks, taking in the information handed to her. “Yeah, that is kind of hard to believe,” she says. She seems to think it over. “Maybe he’s one of those people who act completely different when they’re not flying. Like you,” she starts. “Up there, you’re a great naval pilot. And down here you’re just plain annoying. Crazy how that works,” she jokes, fighting back a smile. Her poker face is strong, but Bradley can see through it.

“I hate you. Remind me why you’re in my house?”

Natasha’s eyes light as her mind switches paths. “Oh, right. Maverick asked me to stop by. He and Admiral Kazansky are getting the Daggers together tonight on the beach. Football, volleyball, beer.”

“I don’t know if Maverick can handle sitting on the sidelines if you guys play volleyball,” Bradley laughs.

Natasha shrugs. “I think everyone would just really like seeing you,” she admits before pausing. “Plus, you’ve got no excuse to be antisocial. ‘ My arms hurt, I’m too tired…’ ” she teases. “You’ve got your own personal driver, now.” 

She stops as a pair of keys jingle from the front door, and she raises her eyebrows at Bradley as the lock turns. “Speak of the devil,” she whispers.

When Hangman walks in the door, he’s carrying two plastic bags and the same black backpack that he had transported Bradley’s clothes to the hospital with. His skin glistens from the heat outside, and Bradley notices he’s wearing different clothes than what he left in. 

Hangman doesn’t seem fazed to suddenly see Phoenix sitting on the couch, and he doesn’t miss a beat before saying, “My two favorite birds!” 

Hangman winks at Bradley, Bradley rolls his eyes, and Natasha laughs into her coffee cup (she thinks about hitting him with a “Hey, Bagman,” but decides to play nice. He has been—although uncharacteristically—seemingly caring toward Rooster. She’ll let it slide). 

Instead, Phoenix opts for, “What’d you buy, Seresin?” She ignores whatever type of glance Bradley sends her way. What, she’s curious. 

“Well, Trace, mighty kind of you to ask,” he responds, letting his accent slip. He drops the backpack, sets the bags on Bradley’s counter, and starts to pull groceries out as he lists them. “One pack of beer for tonight, another pack of beer for tonight, and smooth peanut butter.” The list ends sooner than expected.

Hangman looks proud at his three bought items. Bradley reiterates, “Smooth peanut butter?”

Hangman shrugs. “You only have crunchy.”

Bradley wants to say something. You cook in my home, you put your keys in my key bowl, you buy your peanut butter for my kitchen— He doesn’t say anything. 

Two reasons. One, Hangman was right. Bradley had technically invited him over last night, and battering him now would be hypocritical. Plus, Bradley is still sure Phoenix would have a field day knowing that, and Hangman would probably enjoy her teasing. 

Two, if he’s being deeply honest, the type of honest he’s not even sure he’d tell Natasha, so deeply honest he himself feels barely aware of it, Hangman being here has been… better. Better than what it might’ve been. And it’s only, like, day seven of being awake and day three of Hangman sticking around.

Bradley can go a little longer, he decides. Or, at least, his subconscious seems to decide. Bradley feels something shift up there. He’s not quite yet sure what that means.

“Oh, good. That means you already know about Mav and the Admiral’s invite,” Phoenix says. Turning to Bradley, she then says, “And that means now you really have no excuse!” She slaps the couch in her epiphany. “Hangman already bought the beer. That counts as an RSVP.”

Hangman nods in Bradley’s peripheral. 

“It’s hard to be friends with you when you team up with him,” Bradley tells Natasha.

Hangman laughs in the kitchen and Natasha smiles as she stands up. She works her way to where Hangman is by the counter, quickly downs the rest of her coffee, and sets the mug on the island.

“Thanks for coffee, Rooster,” she calls out. She starts to slip her shoes on.“I’ll see you tonight. I have so much to buy.”

“Please don’t go overboard,” Bradley yells after her. “Hangman already bought two packs of beer.”

Natasha scoffs. The door creaks as she swings it open. “And you think that’s enough?” The door shuts behind her, leaving Bradley’s plea in the dust.

Bradley looks to Hangman to give him an exasperated shrug, but pauses when he realizes Hangman’s eyes are already on him. Bradley waits for Hangman to say something, and Hangman seems to wait for… God knows what. Rich, coming from the guy that likes to jump into everything head first.

When his eye contact breaks and Hangman looks away, Bradley feels a little more hollow. Though he’s sure it’s just Natasha’s presence now missing.

___

This—right here, sitting shotgun beside Hangman—might be the best fucking thing that Rooster’s ever experienced. 

Hangman’s got every window in his car rolled down as low as they’ll go, and the breeze gifted through them makes Bradley want to hunt Ice down and profusely thank him for getting him discharged from the hospital. Well, he’ll be seeing him at the beach in just a few minutes, anyway.

The California sun is slowly falling to the west, but it still makes Bradley feel warm and content, in that almost sleepy-like way. So warm that Bradley almost forgets that it’s Hangman next to him, driving, blasting his music. 

Bradley ignores it. He’s starting to notice the annoyance he’s been feeling for Hangman in his space has been slowly seeping away, replaced by something new that he can’t quite pin down.

He lets Hangman drive on, leaving all of that and any of the other strange things Hangman has caused in his house this week behind in the dust.

“Did you take that from my closet?” Bradley asks, pointing at the shirt Hangman’s sporting as he shoves his packs of beer in the backseat of his car. His keys jangle in his pocket.

Hangman’s wearing light shorts with a dark green t-shirt (Bradley’s still not sure if he’s used to seeing Hangman in civilians…). Bradley doesn’t immediately think that it’s his, but he has a good memory, and it’s definitely not the shirt Hangman had on when he got back from his three-item shopping spree.

Hangman looks down at it and pulls at the fabric a bit.  “Nah. You don’t have anything in your closet as good as this,” he says, setting sunlight glinting in his eyes.

When Bradley deadpans, he cracks a smile and keeps talking. “Threw some of my clothes in my bag earlier this morning. Need stuff like that if I’m gonna be crashing on your couch,” he says, shrugging like everything in the world is easy. Shrugging like Bradley wasn’t hyper-aware of Hangman just a wall or two away last night until he drifted off.

Bradley runs the last sentence over in his mind.

It means a few things: That Hangman is, at least, intending to stick around for a little while longer; that Bradley will have to continue sleeping at night with ghost hands on his back and an almost angel in his living room; and that Phoenix might as well have been damn right when she asked if the two pilots were living together. It’s really starting to feel that way.

Bradley waits for the fighting spirit in him to insist that Hangman’s effort is really quite unnecessary. He waits for the urge to straight-up sucker punch the guy. He waits for the annoyance of Hangman’s general presence to drape over his expression.

None of it comes. Bradley can’t pin-point exactly what that’s supposed to mean.

Hangman’s eyes are still on him when he comes back to, head tilted with a light smile. “Ready to go?” he asks. 

And then there’s wind through the windows and the sunset on the horizon and, again, Bradley’s thoughts in the dust.

“Rooster!” Phoenix screams from the coast as soon as Bradley and Hangman hit the sand. Her yelling causes a domino effect of exclaims and stampedes of aviators that rush their way. Bradley has to remind them all that he’s still slightly injured, just to make sure the Daggers don’t tackle and crush him.

There’s greetings and yelling and hugs, though through all the noise, Bradley still notices how Hangman moves out of the crowd and over to Mav and Ice a few feet away. (Phoenix would say that this is as polite as Hangman gets, plus he’s been hogging Rooster for the past few days, anyway. But Bradley still feels as though something just slipped through his fingers.)

He can’t focus on Hangman for too long, though, because there are Daggers all around him. They hit from every angle like an ambush in the air, and it’s probably the best kind of overwhelming.

“Nice to see you again!” Phoenix says, hitting him on the forearm with the hand that isn’t holding her beer.

“We’re glad you’re okay,” Bob tells him, eyes wide and excited.

He even gets a “Good job, man,” and a pat on his good shoulder from Coyote before he runs off to Hangman.

Bradley continues to get little tidbits of conversation from each pilot for the next handful of minutes, but then, someone yells about beach volleyball, and Bradley ends up in a chair in the sand to watch.

Three beach chairs were preemptively set out, though only two are being taken at the moment. Bradley sits in the one closest to the volleyball court with a beer in his hand (that he’s, honestly, barely drinking) and his eyes on the players. Ice is in the other chair, yelling at Maverick, asking him to please sit down. That’s why the third chair’s empty—Maverick insists on watching the game from as close as he can get, shouting about digs and spikes and points.

Bradley laughs. “He wants to play so bad.”

Ice sighs. “He’s so stubborn.”

“He looks pretty good, health wise,” Bradley comments. “He really can’t play?”

Ice rolls his eyes. “He acts pretty good, health wise. But every night, he whines about the bruising on his sides,” he tattles. “One ball to the stomach and he’ll crumble. I’m tempted to let him play just so he can prove my point himself,” Ice admits, gaining a laugh out of Bradley. “But how are you?” Ice asks.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Bradley says, lightly running his hand over the bandage that peeks out from his collar. 

“How’s Seresin?”

Bradley breathes in. He turns to watch Hangman spike the volleyball down onto Phoenix’s side of the court before cheering and slapping a high-five into Coyote’s hand . He watches Hangman take a sip of the beer that’s resting on the side lines. He watches Hangman run a hand through his hair as he looks over and locks eyes with Bradley. Bradley has no words to describe whatever swirls in his chest.

He eventually just says, “He’s been helpful.”

Ice either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the long silence Bradley created between the two sentences. But he doesn’t prod (the exact opposite action of what Mav would’ve done. If he wasn’t so busy cheering for every point scored in Hangman’s game right now). 

Ice smiles and takes a sip of his drink. “That’s nice. I was slightly worried that I left you to him when Maverick told me about your fights during training. With the way he had volunteered to help you out, I assumed he was one of your WSOs or something.”

Bradley rips his gaze away from the court to look at Ice directly. “He volunteered?”

“First to reply to my message,” Ice easily confirms.

Bradley blinks. He looks back to the court.

Maybe it’s the new, interesting information, or maybe it’s the lower evening sun, but, to Bradley, Hangman looks like he’s shining as he slams another ball over the net. The way his smile looks looser due to the beach or the beer or the company. His hair is ruffled and his dog tags have bounced up from under his collar, now sparkling against his shirt with the way he’s moving. And the way he always seems to look to the side to catch Bradley staring. It all makes that unidentifiable feeling surge around his head.

Bradley turns back to the Admiral. Hopefully the ice he’s known for will rub off on himself and cool him down. He needs to get himself together. 

For the rest of the party, Bradley chats with whatever pilots hang by him while out of game, while simultaneously trying to recover from whatever psychic attack he must be suffering.

Hangman is a setback and does not help at all. The way he turns to point at Bradley each time he and Coyote earn a point—a way to gloat, maybe?—actively makes it harder for Bradley to get through his conversations with Fanboy, Bob, Halo…

This time, Bradley’s not sure if Hangman knows exactly what he’s doing.

***

Hangman yawns when they get back to the house.

From the games to the sun to the beers, Bradley assumes Hangman must be absolutely exhausted. And though he’s at Bradley’s heels as soon as they’re in through the door, ushering Bradley to the bedroom where the paper bag of medical supplies lives, Bradley can still feel his fatigue.

Bradley abruptly turns in the hall, and Hangman almost walks right into the good arm Bradley extends to grab onto his bedroom’s door frame. See, even his usually sharp reflexes are exhausted.

“You should go to bed,” Bradley says, hoping that a tired Hangman is less of a fighter than the Hangman that picked him up from the hospital. He mentally picks Hangman up from the hook and drops him onto the couch. 

His inner scenario doesn’t translate to the physical world, though, because Hangman rolls his eyes and argues back. “Nah, I’m alright,” he says. He tries to walk through Bradley’s arm.

Bradley shifts more into Hangman’s path, holding his ground. “You’re tired,” he insists.

“You’re injured.”

“Barely anymore,” Bradley responds. But it must be the incorrect thing to say because the other pilot immediately reaches out and mildly pinches at Bradley’s bad shoulder, where they both know reminiscences of parachute bruising still lay. 

There’s a push of pain as Hangman’s fingers slightly squeeze down, and Bradley can’t help the way he yelps and jolts out of the touch. Alright. He gets the point.

“Fuck, okay,” he manages to push out, good arm dropping from the doorway. Hangman saunters through the opening.

They’ve gotten pretty good at this.

Bradley still works at a snail’s pace compared to Hangman, but they’re both efficient nonetheless, and the peeling tape and cold ointment barely bother Bradley anymore. Hangman’s hands are a different story, but Bradley tries to ignore the shivers they pull out of him. Tries to ignore everything about them completely. For someone who likes to think, Hangman sure causes him to push a lot of stuff out of his mind.

He feels Hangman’s hands smooth down the last piece and tape and lift from his skin. Bradley quickly secures down the last bandage on his designated side, and turns from the edge of his bed to face Hangman.

Hangman’s silver tag chain glints in the overhead light, and there’s a stripe of dust from the coast’s sand on his cheek. Hangman’s hair is still messy, and the longest strands have long fallen from the gel hold and now rest slightly over his eyes. It doesn’t conceal the way his eyebrows lazily raise in reaction to Bradley’s sudden movement, meeting Bradley’s eyes as soon as he can.

“Hey, Roos,” he says, voice tired and worn down. He’s blinking slowly, his voice is low, and though he’s very obviously fighting to stay awake, his hands on Bradley's back still felt precise and exact. And even though Bradley had, moments before, been victim to Hangman purposely poking at his bruises, all the previous factors work to cancel it out. They then add together to form the idea that this is Hangman gentle. 

That thought about domestication that Bradley had the first time they did this medical care dance comes whispering back. And though, the first time, it had not brought anything to Bradley but confusion, after days and days of this, something seems to finally slot into place.

Right here, Hangman’s tousled hair and the way he’s his own type of kind and his own type of gentle with Bradley post-mission is a sight to behold.

Bradley knows he’s tired. But that does not seem to hinder the fact that Hangman still looks as alive as ever. His chest rises and falls with his breaths, his eyelashes flutter up and down as he blinks ever so often, his cheeks still hold a bit of flush from the Daggers’ volleyball. Bradley realizes that of course the one to pull Maverick and him from the edge would’ve been the one brimming with the most life. This time, he seriously considers if he’s been fighting against an angel this whole time.

Bradley breathes in. He’s suddenly aware that there are a lot of things he could say to Hangman right now. The way Hangman lazily holds eye contact, waiting for Bradley to think through his response, also does not help.

He realizes he cannot think too deeply with Hangman’s eyes on him like this.

So instead of anything profound or deep or worthy of the time Bradley spent thinking, what comes out of his mouth is a blunt, “Why did you volunteer to help me?”

For a second, Bradley thinks Hangman’s eyes open a bit wider, but he doubts it. Hangman is forever unfazed. 

He laughs a little, maybe because of the beers he nursed, maybe just because of Bradley’s seriousness. “Mm, did Admiral Iceman tattle?”

“Yeah.” Bradley blinks. “So why?”

Hangman shrugs, like he’s never thought that hard about any of the things he’s done this week (and Bradley wouldn’t be surprised if that’s fucking true). “Just wanted to see if you’d let me,” he finally says.

He’s fidgeting with his hands in his lap, drawing circles on his thumb with middle finger. Bradley wonders if it’s actually soothing. If Hangman’s ghost of a touch could be.

Bradley purses his lips. “Let you what?”

“Let me take care of you,” Hangman tells him, eyes fluttering as he continues to fight for consciousness. Bradley waits and expects him to say more, but Hangman seems to be finished as he cracks into another, small yawn. “I’m really tired,” is all he adds.

Bradley doesn’t push further. He lets Hangman head for the couch.

“Night, cowboy,” Hangman says, tilting his head when he gets to the doorway. 

The unidentifiable feeling stirs again. Though Bradley can feel the name for it on the tip of his tongue.

Like every night, ghost hands on his back, a (maybe real?) angel in his living room, and strange thoughts spinning in his mind. It’s clockwork at this point. Bradley passes out anyway.

***

Bradley spends the whole next day lost in thought.

He thinks through Hangman’s breakfast, Hangman’s lunch, and more Thai dinner (Phoenix might have been right about this, too. Is this wining and dining?).

He remembers Maverick’s don’t think, just do motto, but he ignores it. Though piloting a fighter jet and interacting with Jake fucking Seresin bring the same amount of uncertainty, they are different fundamentally, he thinks. Bradley can approach this his way.

Hangman’s doing his own thing, anyway, seeming to be fully recovered from the tiring night before. Though Bradley’s not exactly sure what his own thing exactly is. He can only tell that the way Hangman slinks around the house and busies himself with whatever doesn’t really bother Bradley in the same way it did before. He finds he doesn’t really mind anymore when Hangman catches fifteen minutes of a movie or makes another sandwich with his god-awful smooth peanut butter.

There’s a lot Bradley needs to go over anyway.

One, there’s the fact that Hangman volunteered for this job. Which isn’t inherently bad in any sense, but Bradley still finds it strange. Bradley gave him a mean callsign, he tried to punch him on multiple occasions, they fought through Dagger training… Hangman saves his life once and suddenly that’s enough for Hangman to let the rest go? And, of course, by making this decision, that would mean Hangman completely ignored the fact that Bradley might not have let the rest go. Though maybe Hangman didn’t care.

Two, there’s the whole let me take care of you thing. Bradley barely wants to go over that. Not only has Hangman’s physical gentleness been a surprise to Bradley, who was genuinely planning to ditch him after the first day or two due to his (and their) track record, but he’s also never seen Hangman speak in a way such as that. You survive in the air with sharp movements and quick thinking, yet there Hangman had been, speaking slowly and being lazily honest.

There’s a lot of things it could mean. There’s a lot of things it might not mean. There’s a lot of things Hangman could want. There’s a lot of things he might not want. There’s now a lot of things Bradley can say to him. 

It’s slightly terrifying, Bradley thinks. They each have their walls—though Hangman had always been good at climbing over Bradley’s—but in that moment, it felt like Hangman had dropped all of his. He let them crumble to the floor. Bradley hasn’t done enough research in the field today to know if Hangman has built them back up quite yet.

With new information though, Bradley can now update some notes: Hangman is, definitively, hard to beat, hard to get along with, hard to kill, hard to get rid of, and hard to understand. He also might be hard to take your eyes off of, but Bradley feels those stirring feelings rise again at the thought of mentally jotting that down, and that’s enough to make him scrap it completely.

Hangman swats him on his good shoulder and brings his attention back to the real world. 

“Hey,” he says, body language relaxed and unfazed and unreadable as always. “Bandages?”

Bradley really hadn’t thought he had been in his own head that long, but as he blinks, he sees the windows are cracked with night air coming in and the streetlights shining bright through half-closed blinds. 

He feels that cool breeze stronger when they move to his room and he can pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the other side of the bed. The overhead light is off; the only source fighting the dark moon outside is a lamp on the bedside table. 

Hangman takes his place behind Bradley, and the wash of movement is so familiar that Bradley realizes Hangman has not once given up the fifty percent he has been begrudgingly provided with.

Bradley starts the ever so known routine on his front of peeling off tape and gauze to discard. He has to admit, his wounds, although still not completely healed, look much better. Especially compared to the memory of the first morning, standing in the bathroom mirror, looking like he survived a hurricane.

He can’t appreciate the healing for too long though, because Hangman starts to pull bandages off his back and, well… It’s pointless to describe what that does to Bradley at this point.

There’s something about tonight, though.

All the other times they’ve done this, there was some sort of annoyance floating around Bradley’s mind in reaction to Hangman’s hands. Directed at either the physical act of touch or at the way Bradley mentally could not piece himself together during it, he’s not sure. But tonight, he gives in a bit. He lets the fire of Hangman’s hands swiping medicine and smoothing down tape melt him a bit.

Bradley wonders how many branches Hangman’s sister would’ve had to have been running into for Hangman to get this good at his craft. It’s almost repetitive, his touch, but it’s just that damn consistent. 

Fingers ghosting down his back, big featherly wings resting behind Hangman, Bradley’s sure. It takes all the power in Bradley’s body to stop himself from turning around and pushing Hangman away and down.

In an effort to get Hangman’s touch off of him or in an effort to get Hangman, for once, under him, Bradley’s not sure.

Bradley bites his lip. In his mind, he takes a big permanent marker and draws a million scribbles over that last thought, burying it under ink. 

When Hangman’s finished with his back, Bradley’s done one single bandage on his front, and sighs. 

He turns around to Hangman (but doesn’t push him), who has one leg tucked in a triangle and one leg dangling off the bed. He curiously tilts his head as he glances down at Bradley’s work. Or lack thereof.

Bradley’s not sure where the sudden fatigue he’s starting to feel is coming from. Surely doing nothing but thinking all day can’t make you tired…?

“Will you finish?” Bradley asks.

Hangman has that look in his stupid eyes like he wants to tease, but doesn’t. He nods. He steals from Bradley’s pile of supplies and starts to replicate his work from Bradley’s back to Bradley’s front.

“For someone who was real adamant about doing all this work himself, you sure gave it up that easy,” Hangman comments, accent slightly lacing his words. It just makes him sound all the more smug.

Bradley rolls his eyes. So maybe it was too early to judge that Hangman wasn’t going to sit here and make fun of him. 

Bradley doesn’t say anything back, and Hangman probably doesn’t expect him to. 

Hangman’s fingers flitter over the gauze pressed onto Bradley’s scrapes. He smoothes cleany-ripped tape over the edges. He brushes over the still dark bruise that lays on Bradley’s shoulder, the same one he pinched for (maybe) the greater good. Though Bradley gave in, he still thought he was in decent control of his reactions. But obviously not with the way he shivers when Hangman’s hand runs over him. 

“See?” Hangman says against his skin. “It’s still a bit bad. You just need some good ol’ TLC, Roos.”

Bradley can’t possibly fathom why Hangman is sticking with any of the nicknames he’s made up for him in the past week. 

Hangman raises his head back up when he’s done bandaging, done inspecting, and his eyes meet Bradley’s.

Bradley blinks.

Hangman’s eyes are light with that constant glint he holds in them, and his eyelashes flutter as he blinks back. He’s got that staple color in his face that makes him seem like life itself, and Bradley can’t understand how he could be shining like this with the sun tucked away to the other side of the planet. Unlike last night, Hangman’s hair has been neaty pushed back all day, and even now, it sits pretty and out of his face. Bradley considers methods he could follow to get that perfectly placed hair all riled and messed up again.

Bradley mentally picks up his marker to scribble out that thought too, but before he can start drawing, Hangman starts to ever so slowly inch closer, and all the thoughts and plans that ever lived in Bradley’s head immediately abandon him.

Hangman tilts his head a bit as he leans closer, lazily watching for whatever move Bradley will make in response, and Bradley… Bradley doesn’t move away.

Bradley sharply breathes out. “I think you’re driving me insane,” he says bluntly, and Hangman’s only reaction to that information seems to be a soft eyebrow raise and a quiet, “Hm?”

Bradley starts to copy Hangman’s movements, slowly coming in, like a small plane in a soft landing. “Can I?” he asks, sounding as serious as he is yet as vague as he can be.

Hangman knows what he means, anyway. Hangman always seems to know what he means. “Yeah,” he breathes out, and it’s all either of them needs.

It’s beautifully careful how Hangman moves his hands around in order to not snag any of Bradley’s new bandages, but, other than that, there is nothing careful about the way they crash into each other.

Hangman’s hand ends up on the side of Bradley with the least amount of injuries. Bradley immediately shoves his hands up into Hangman’s stupid flawless hair, now in a position to get it the way he likes with Hangman’s lips on his.

The gentleness Hangman exhibited all week seems to easily slide away, and a more familiar energy emerges, just in a very new way. 

Hangman runs his hands up Bradley’s back, expertly missing every wound as he pushes into Bradley and bites at his lips.

Hangman tastes like some sort of beachy sandalwood, and Bradley can’t understand why he’s ever held back anything in his life if this was something he could’ve been doing a whole lot sooner. Though the beauty of it is maybe they couldn’t have been doing this sooner. Only right now.

Bradley thinks again, hard, about pushing Hangman down and under, and this time, he doesn’t let his brain scribble it out. It’s almost freeing to simply act and topple Hangman over. Hangman making some sort of sound when his back hits the mattress is an added bonus, and Bradley curses to himself. Don’t think, just do coming in clutch once again. He’s really got to start taking advice more often.

There’s an urge to keep pushing into Hangman—as if the way he has him pinned, legs tangled in each other, isn’t enough—to draw out anything else, any other noises from him. But Hangman taps at his hip, and so Bradley breaks them up.

There’s a hue of pink that litters Hangman’s face, and he breathes in and out in long pants that make Bradley want to surge down again before he can finish catching his breath. But Hangman’s hair is his saving grace, as it’s messy and tousled and falling into his eyes just as Bradley had wished it would. It’s a big enough distraction.

“Hey, cowboy,” Hangman says with a sly, flirty smile, as if he isn’t on his back and breathing hard, perfect physical image ruined. 

“Hey, Jake,” Bradley tries back, and this time, Hangman’s eyes widen for real. 

He gives Bradley barely any time to examine his reaction before he surges up and connects them once again.

Like mentioned, Hangman’s—Jake’s—gentle, Bradley-geared persona has practically melted. He kisses in a way that could only belong to a pre-mission Jake: rough, sharp, and with, probably, not a lot of thought. 

Bradley doesn’t really mind the way Jake scrapes at his lips or works Bradley’s mouth open ever so slightly. He can’t really mind when it’s this fucking good.

The unidentifiable feeling—Bradley can sure as hell pin it now. 

He pulls up a bit to catch a breath, but oxygen does absolutely nothing for him when he looks down at Jake and sees low eyes and ruined lips. It takes everything in Bradley to not explode right then and there.

Jake snakes his hand up his nape and twines it into his curls, and Bradley is back down in an instant.

“Why’d you actually volunteer?” Bradley manages to get out. Though it’s definitely a fight with the way Jake is stealing all his breath. 

“Just needed to make sure my job was fully done,” Jake says against his lips, referencing the miracle mission and the old Tomcat and his divine intervention.

“How angelic,” Bradley mutters, trying to keep his voice even as Jake curls his hair through his fingers and lightly pulls at the longer pieces. “Was this part of your plan to make sure I lived?” he asks, referencing the bandages, the absolute stubbornness to stick around, and now, the pure making out.

Jakes hums against his lips. “I figured if you asked kindly, it could be.”

Bradley’s brain threatens to short circuit. Bradley shuts Jake up.

Suddenly, Jake shoots up, hands on Bradley’s chest to softly push him up and to the side, though his lips never truly part from Bradley’s skin. As soon as Bradley’s no longer on top of him, he climbs over the other pilot's body, successfully switching their positions.

Bradley’s propping himself up on his forearms, but immediately sinks down when Jake’s weight is on top of him, hands in his hair to help push his head into the pillow. In some creepy expertise, throughout this whole shift, Jake managed to not snag any of Bradley’s bandages (a skill that they both know Bradley does not have himself). 

Now with the higher ground, Jake goes for his neck. 

Bradley feels a rush of heat swirl around his face. He very forcefully holds all noises in the back of his throat, determined to never let it reach any ears. Bradley thinks about firmly warning Jake about how he doesn’t need any more marks or scrapes to bandage up, but Jake proves to make it very difficult to focus right now.

Bradley unconsciously squeezes at Jake’s waist. 

“And did I?” Bradley chokes out. “Ask kindly?”

He feels Jake’s teeth before he raises his head up to look Bradley in the eyes. Part of Bradley feels mortified to be seen like this, especially by Jake fucking Seresin, but the bigger part of Bradley gives no care in the world. 

“I’m assumin’ as kindly as you can manage, yeah,” Jake tells him, and it makes Bradley want to swat at him.

But Jake’s lips are back on his, smiling against him, so what else can he really do?

It doesn’t really matter to Bradley how long they go on like this. He realizes now that he would let Jake do this, and honestly, almost anything else, for as long as he ever wanted. It’s rich to know that now, considering the way he was both so sure of Hangman’s qualities and so determined to get rid of him just a week before. 

He couldn’t get rid of him now. He can’t even send him to the couch.

“Don’t sleep in the living room tonight,” Bradley pushes out against Jake’s lips.

Jake gives him a small peck before responding, “Why? You tryin’ to get some, Bradshaw?”

Bradley pushes Jake off of him, which only makes Jake laugh hard. Bradley hits the lamp on the nightstand off, letting the moon envelop the last part of the house. The slip of paper with Jake’s scribbled phone number with his dumb loopy twos still lives there.

“Go to bed,” he says firmly, staying still on his back and closing his eyes to show how serious he is right now.

Jake just laughs again and says, “Whatever.” If he tries to sound annoyed or frustrated at all, none of it comes through. 

He feels Jake’s arm slink across his chest, and he cracks his eyes open to sneak a peek at the Hangman who might’ve just actually taken orders.

Jake’s turned onto his stomach, and his head is facing the other side of the room, but his arm is draped over Bradley and, by extension, all the words he could say drape over Bradley as well.

“I can feel you staring, Bradley,” Jake mutters, muffled by the pillow. 

“Whatever,” Bradley says back. The end of the word gets interrupted by a yawn though, which just makes Jake’s hand pat at Bradley’s body in a smug, take your own advice and go to bed type of movement. Snarky even without words, Jake is.

Bradley falls asleep once the little swirls in his head stop fluttering in reaction to Jake’s skin on his. 

Tonight, Hangman’s physical touch on his body, a weirdly definite angel sleeping right beside him, and a mind beautifully blank. 

___

“Hey, cowboy,” Jake says, breathing hard from the volleyball game he just ditched to be over here at their beach chairs. 

“You’re the Texan,” Bradley hits back, only half-heartedly, as Jake presses a slightly sandy kiss into his cheek. The amount of things Bradley doesn’t mind now that it’s Hangman is really a shock.

“Fine. Then hey, babe,” he says, pecking Bradley quickly on the lips before focusing the rest of his efforts down his lover's face. He flutters kisses from his jaw to his neck, which works at both making Bradley swoon all stupidly while also feeling terribly mortified.

“Ew, alright, go away,” Bradley says, pushing off of Jake’s sun-loved chest. Bradley’s sure he’s got to be flushing some shade of red due to the respected Admiral ‘Iceman’ Kazansky and the sometimes-stupid Captain ‘Maverick’ Mitchell sitting right fucking next to them (Ice finally convinced Mav to sit down. Bradley realizes now that he wishes Ice hadn’t).

Jake just smiles, forever unfazed. “Watch me, though. I’m about to crush poor Phoenix and Halo,” he promises, running off back to the courts as Coyote yells for his teammate and Phoenix calls out childish taunts and teases.

Ice is smiling when Bradley slowly looks over. 

“What did I tell you?” he says, slipping his subtle type of smugness into his tone. “Sometimes the people you butt heads with end up being actually okay,” he recites, and Bradley has never wanted to die more.

 It’s one thing that he just got boyfriend-attacked in front of the U.S. Pacific Fleet Commander and… whatever Maverick is now, but it’s a whole other thing when it’s in front of the two guys who practically raised him. It’s just Bradley’s luck that those are one in the same.

Though, as promised, they watch Coyote set Hangman up with a beautifully clean and high ball, and Hangman spikes it down with force that even Phoenix can’t dig under. The sight of this makes the feeling of wanting to die fade out a little, replaced by a twinge of goddamn instead.

As soon as Bob calls it a game, Jake’s right in front of the three aviators again, pressing wet kisses into the side of Bradley’s face that’s not facing their mentors. The feeling of wanting to die comes back ever so slightly as Ice turns to give them as much privacy as he can, and then quietly yells at Maverick to turn as well.

“My uncles are right there,” Bradley hisses, though his subconscious forces him to say it softer, slightly hoping that Jake’s stubbornness will keep him doing this forever. 

“Shuddup, baby,” Jake whispers back. “Let me love you. Let me take care of you,” he jokes, and Bradley has never wanted to simultaneously slap him away yet make out with him right here as much as he does now. Though he’s sure they’ll be more times down the road.

Jake pulls away (and Bradley immediately misses him). 

“Sirs,” he says with his lieutenant voice, greeting the two men who have, as it was very aware to Bradley, been here the whole time. “I would love to take your nephew just right over there by the ocean to get a beer. No funny business, and I’ll have him home by curfew,” he jokes, accent slipping into his words.

Bradley groans, but Ice and Mav chuckle and give him the green light.

Jake grabs his hand, and Bradley’s up as fast as he can be. 

Maybe Bradley had gotten it wrong. Maybe Jake isn’t an angel. Bradley’s pretty sure angels aren’t supposed to tease or embarrass you the way Jake does to him every chance he can get.

Though, Bradley will admit, when Jake catches his lips in a quick, searing kiss like the one he goes in for right now, he does seem pretty damn angelic.

Notes:

i hope everyone understands the demons i fought to stop myself from naming this "i can be your angle or yuor devil" LMFAO

anyway, i missed writing for these losers, i love seeing them happy... leave a comment if you want to chat! thanks for reading :)