Chapter Text
“Chalked yourself another kill” Rooster smirked at Hangman, hoping it would do. ‘Thank you for saving my life’ was implied, but he would never live it down if he spoke those words to the man with an overly-inflated ego and not-at-all-subtle god complex.
Hangman smirked back at him, raising an eyebrow. “That makes two of us”
He grinned toothily at Rooster before slipping away, immediately lost in the throng of incredulously jubilant crew. But his easy words hit Rooster harder than the SAM he’d taken an hour earlier and the F-14 crash-landing moments ago - combined.
He hadn’t thought about it in the moment - hell, he hadn’t thought at all, too hell-bent on doing whatever it took to save Maverick’s arse. But there was no denying it now - he had swooped in, getting tone on the assault helicopter and firing a missile in the blink of an eye as it was poised to strike. Glimpsed it explode into fiery demise as he’d peeled away, only for his own plane to meet the same fate.
There was no way anyone could have survived such an explosive direct hit, especially not at such low altitude. No, there was absolutely no denying it.
Rooster had gotten his first air-to-air kill.
To save Maverick, he reminded himself, stirring as a random hand clapped him exuberantly on the shoulder.
Maverick.
Rooster startled back to life, pushing any thoughts about what he’d done to the back of his mind as he weaved through the joyous crowd in search of the man himself.
His brain was beginning to feel like soup, adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the raucous chatter and whoops of joy clashing through his head as his mind reeled through what in the fresh hell they had just managed to pull off.
Maverick’s embrace choked a sob from Rooster’s throat, and he let numbness consume his mind - for now. This was what mattered, this was what he’d done it all for. To have Maverick standing here, firm and alive, on the carrier with them all - fuck.
They had done it. They had made it back alive.
——
Days passed by in a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline and debriefs and stern words and more congratulations than Rooster could keep track of, until mercifully, he found himself walking through his own front door. How many days exactly had passed since the mission from hell he couldn’t say - all Bradley knew was that he was finally home. Grateful was an understatement- exhausted was more of one, and he headed straight for the shower before collapsing into bed.
His own bed - it was pure bliss.
Bradley felt sleep tugging at the corners of his eyes immediately, and he let them fall closed with a sigh.
He half expected sleep to suddenly elude him. There had been no doubt that the reality of what he’d done during that mission had been a new battle to keep at bay. It had seemed to creep into every nook and cranny of his consciousness, sinking sharp teeth into the tender flesh of his fried brain, biting into his soul like a pesky mosquito that had to be quickly swatted away.
But no matter how quickly Rooster had shaken the thoughts away, they had always returned.
However, it seemed nothing could match true exhaustion, and Bradley felt a sense of giddy gratitude as he let his consciousness slide away.
——
Rooster was in the air, adrenaline firing through his veins as he fired enemy SAMs to their explosive demise. His heart wrenched as he watched Mav go down, blood rushing in his ears like he was marching to the gallows as he disobeyed direct orders and circled back…
The attack helo was poised to strike and Rooster didn’t hesitate to fire on it. But instead of swooping away to his own fiery demise, he found himself frozen, watching in visceral horror as the helo exploded, screams of agony and terror emanating from its depths. Something jolted Rooster to the side - hard, and then he was falling, free from the safety of his jet, laid bare without the encompassing cockpit to hide within. Falling through the fire and flames, burning hands reaching out to tear at him.
“Please! My daughter!” A faceless man wailed. “I can’t orphan her - please!”
“I’m sorry!” Bradley cried out, bitter, hopeless guilt balling in his chest. “I had to! I’m sorry!”
A burning man lunged at him, and Bradley fell back with a cry into the twisted, wrecked metal.
He pulled at his hand, but it was stuck, encased in a ring of white-hot iron. Bradley tugged harder, and a hollow laugh echoed through the room he suddenly realised he was sitting in as he finally made out what exactly was choking his wrist.
Shackles.
“Bradley Bradshaw” a booming voice announced from somewhere above him, and Bradley looked up to find a condemning judge leering down at him.
“This court has found you guilty of murder. You are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment, without parole.”
“What?!” Bradley cried, his voice weak and distant. “There wasn’t even a trial!”
“It doesn’t matter” the judge grinned devilishly, his face transforming into hallowed familiarity, although Bradley couldn’t place exactly who was now standing before him.
“You’re guilty. We all know it. You know it. You killed people. And now, you will get what you deserve.”
The shackles on his wrists shook violently and Bradley yelped as he found himself being thrown into a cell. He hit the floor hard, a broken sob wrenching itself from his chest as he scrambled into a corner.
“Howdy” a familiar voice greeted, and Bradley realised he wasn’t alone in the cell.
“Hangman?” He breathed incredulously, looking up to see the bane of his existence sitting idly in the other corner, smirking - unsurprisingly, like this was all a game to him.
“Uh uh” Hangman tutted, grinning toothily at Bradley. “We’re not ‘Rooster’ and ‘Hangman’ anymore, buddy. Don’t you get it? We’re nobody, now. Stripped of our ranks, commendations, everything. Just Jake and Bradley, now. Welcome to the club.”
“The club?” Bradley echoed mournfully.
Jake grinned even wider, brilliant white teeth flashing in a way that made Bradley’s skin crawl.
“The murderers club” Jake whispered theatrically, breaking into hysterical laughter at Bradley’s horrified face.
“Yeah, that’s right! And I’ve been here for years! Years! No one ever comes to visit, though. They never ask how I’m doing. They all talk about it from the outside, what I’ve done, but never to me. Was beginning to think I’d die alone in here.”
“Jake” Bradley whispered, suddenly feeling incredibly unsettled. “I thought you were - proud of it?”
Jake barked out a laugh, eyes dying as he fixed Bradley with a thousand-yard stare.
“Yeah, that’s what they all think, eh? Proud.” He spat, bitterness leaching like venom through his voice. “As if I could be proud of killin' folks. Even I’m not that big a monster.”
“Jake…” Bradley breathed again, watching the cocky ‘Hangman’ façade cracking before him like china under stress.
“Bradley” Jake returned, voice suddenly tiny and frail and distant, as if he were being pulled away. From somewhere behind him, a fiery glow had started up, and Bradley felt an overwhelming, crushing notion of veritable despair.
The bars of the cell were gone, replaced with shrieking cries and fiery bursts. Bradley gazed around, one horror slamming hard into another before his wretched eyes, skinning him to the bone, leaving him raw and ragged.
“Bradley” it was Jake’s voice again, hollow and empty. Bradley whirled around to find Jake slumped against the clutches of a shadowy figure, a noose draped threateningly around his neck.
“No!” Bradley yelled, scrambling forwards fruitlessly, suddenly unable to move. The figure behind Jake was fading, but the hollow despair in Jake’s oddly-dark eyes was not.
“Jake!” Bradley cried out, surprised at the emotion in his own voice. “Don’t - please!”
Jake lifted his head slowly, looking pointedly at Bradley and tightening the noose around his neck in one swift motion.
“Don’t you get it, Bradshaw?” He drawled. “This was here from the moment I pulled the damn trigger.”
Bradley started forward, determined to somehow reach Jake, to stop him from stepping off the precipice he teetered on the edge of. But he was yanked back by the neck, and his grasping hands felt out his very own noose. It wasn’t tight like Jake’s was - but it was there. Unshakable. Inevitable. Damning.
“Bradley” Jake whispered, terror suddenly blinding in the wringing silence of what seemed to be their own personal hell.
“Save me”
But Bradley couldn’t move, couldn’t speak - he could only watch as the swirling figure reappeared behind Jake, shrieking in glee as it shoved him, hard, from his perch.
Bradley watched in horror as Jake’s neck snapped, physical pain impaling his chest as he found himself screaming…
——
“No!” Bradley awoke with a yell, sitting bolt upright in bed as he thrashed at the sweat-drenched sweets holding him down. The room was spinning, images of burning soldiers and shackles and flames and Jake and -
Jake?
Bradley grasped at the glass of water he’d had the foresight to place on his bedside table, gulping it down like his life depended on it. He only realised when he set the near empty glass back down that his hands were violently trembling.
The images his own goddamn mind had conjured up wouldn’t leave and Bradley felt like he was drowning, gasping for each ragged breath, the world around him swirling. On autopilot, he fought his way from the twisted mess of sheets, stumbling unceremoniously down the hall to the bathroom. His legs were shaking so much they all but gave out when he burst through the door, his knees striking the hard floor with a jolt that sent pain flaring through his body. Bradley barely registered his stomach convulsing harshly, or the meal he’d forced down hours earlier splattering over the toilet bowl. He just couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find a way to dispel the utter panic coursing through his veins.
Bradley had no idea how he’d got there when he woke up god knows how long later, sprawled on the bathroom floor in the early-morning light. He felt groggy and ill, pain stabbing through his head as he attempted to blink away the fog. He winced, rolling stiffly onto his back and rubbing his eyes, a kaleidoscope of colourful shapes bursting across his vision.
Bradley lay there a moment longer, trying to place the unsettling dread drumming an imposing beat in his chest. Faintly, he registered a stabbing pain in his left knee, and with a rush, foggy images of sheer hell came flooding back to him.
Bradley groaned, forcing himself to sit upright. He felt awful, sticky and clammy and completely shaken. He had an uncomfortable idea of what had landed him - apparently very hard - on the floor of his own damn bathroom, but in a way that was becoming all too familiar of late, Bradley shoved the thought away. He probably shouldn’t - he should be dealing with whatever the hell was going on in a healthy and productive way, but that was far easier thought than done. So instead, Bradley pulled himself upright, flushed the toilet with a grimace, and peeled off his clothes, cranking the shower on to scalding, and hoping it would somehow wash his sins clean.
——
The shower was admittedly nice, even if it didn’t sanctify Bradley in the slightest. But it burned his skin red and dulled his fraught mind, and when he stepped out a good while later and aggressively toweled himself dry, he felt somewhat lighter.
It was almost 0800 when Bradley re-entered his bedroom, quickly pulling on a comfortable pair of shorts and plain tee shirt before stripping his bed, tossing the sweaty sheets into the laundry basket in the corner. Bradley winced as his knee bumped the wardrobe door while he tried to extricate fresh linen, and he bent down to inspect it. Both knees were sporting fresh bruises, blotching dark red and angry across his kneecaps like a cruel brand. Bradley sighed dejectedly, grabbing the clean sheets and lethargically remaking his bed, if only so that he could collapse onto it. He felt exhausted, but oddly wired, and at that very moment there seemed nothing better to do than stare at the ceiling.
When Bradley eventually reached for his phone, he felt shrewdly as if he was always going to end up here, scrolling through his messages for someone he hadn’t spoken to outside of forced interaction in a very long time. He just couldn’t shake the way the nightmare had shaken him, and despite the sharp details of it fading into hazy auras, the poignant terror, hopelessness - guilt, remained palpable.
So did the image of Hangman taking his callsign far too literally.
Bradley shuddered, drawing in a measured breath before typing out a message to the man himself. God, this was stupid - he wouldn’t even respond. He would laugh, actually, probably flaunt Bradley’s moment of weakness to the whole damn squadron at the bar that night. But still, despite having no idea what to do, Bradley knew he needed to do something.
And so, after typing and re-typing the same message, Bradley sucked in another breath and hit send.
Feeling somewhat alleviated by the action, Bradley felt his eyes slipping closed. Despite the lingering terror of potentially going through that fresh hell all over again, Bradley knew that logically, he couldn’t just avoid sleeping.
He was just drifting off when his phone, clutched in one hand on his chest, dinged loudly in the silence. Bradley startled awake, fumbling the device and blinking unbelievably at the screen.
Jake had replied.
And although he hadn’t said it outright, Bradley had a sneaking suspicion that Jake knew exactly why he’d messaged him, even if he had attempted (poorly) to sound chill.
Bradley stared at the screen, feeling a strange warmth that was normally reserved for people he actually liked and was definitely never associated with Hangman curling inside his chest. In the theme of the past few days, Bradley decided to stop thinking and just send the damn message he realised he had wanted to all along.
Can we talk?
He expected a scoff, a snarky, smart-ass reply, or even to be left on seen. Even with Jake’s previous quick response, he didn’t exactly have high hopes for another.
Again, Bradley was pleasantly surprised.
Sure. Beach?
Bradley felt himself smiling, tapping out a quick response.
Sounds good. In an hour alg?
The reply was instant.
See u there, Bradshaw
Bradley didn’t know why he was smiling, feeling suddenly as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. It would be nice, he mused, having Jake as a friend. Despite everything they’d been through, he didn’t like being actively unfriendly with anyone, and hell, if this meant Hangman was going to stop being a total dick to him at every available opportunity, Bradley was onboard.
In the solitude of his bedroom, Bradley huffed a small laugh.
“See you there, Jake."