In My Flop Era.

Orientation never sat well with you. You stopped bothering to focus your vision on the pilots and WSO’s before you; To take in their faces or remember their names. It became a bad habit that morphed into second nature, instinctual to the very structure of your DNA. It was easier that way.

There was an eeriness to the echo of Maverick’s voice as it reverberated throughout the aircraft hangar, his eyes flickering to you for a moment. 

“This mission will be physically demanding on your bodies and minds. That is why we have brought in Lt. y/n “Angel” y/l/n.  One of the best flight surgeons the navy has to offer.” It’s all so formal that it feels forced. Undeserved. Unwarranted. 

The walk from the entrance of the hangar, to where Captain Mitchell stood was gruelling. You pictured yourself being ushered to the gallows, or maybe a pyre like a witch, either way, both of those situations seemed more appealing than this.

“Thank you.” you saluted back - It was muscle memory at this point, not respect. “It an honour to work with you Capt. Mitchell.”

“We’re down three of our best today to G-tolerance training. Don’t worry, you’ll get well acquainted soon enough.” he grins, looking your way for a moment. He could practically feel the tension radiating off your body in a cold heat. 

Orientation went by in a haze, you hadn’t paid much attention to the formalities and empty social interactions, not when everything in the very fabric of your being told you “No, you aren’t ready. Run. Run. Run.”

“Phoenix.” a firm, but eager hand reaches out to you, breaking your daze like a slap to the face. Your palm meets her’s and you think maybe, just maybe, you can do this. Maybe you can try. 

Before you are even aware you’ve spoken, you agree to meet at the Hard Deck for drinks. Then you remember you haven’t touched booze since you got so drunk they had to pump your stomach. Then you remember why you had gotten so drunk in the first place. Then you kind of want to scream, and you kind of want to cry.

But you don’t. You never do.

~~~~~~~~

A stale breeze ocelots throughout the room as you lay in the dark, alone in a loose tee and your underwear. Giving a grunt, you roll onto your back and run a finger across the creases of your sheets, that imprinted into the flesh of your cheek, pondering how you might muster the strength to get up and dress for the bar tonight. 

You move in thoughtless motion, tugging on the loose blue jeans that are too hot for California, and a white tee you’d probably stain at some point throughout the night. You take your time on the ride over, even the twinkling lights of gazebos and restaurant patio’s seem so bleak.

With a quick movement, you switch off the radio and settle for the sound of tires grinding against asphalt. Music wasn’t enjoyable anymore, not like it used to be, not when you were sixteen in your brothers jeep, cruising around with his best friend and it’s all so easy. 

Your eyes felt painfully heavy, you almost feel stupid for getting behind the wheel. You want to give in and close your eyes, to just float and forget.

~~~~~~~~~

“There you are, fuck! We were about to send out a search party,” Phoenix laughs as she slides of the barstool with a rum and Coke in hand. It’s all so exhausting. Socializing, growing close - friends even, and then the inevitable doom of being disappointed. 

“Hey.” You smile softly, suddenly feeling so small. The gazes of your new crew consumed you and you hold your breath. “Thank you for inviting me out, it’s nice to…”you wonder where exactly you were going with that sentence, then settle on sounding like a moron. “…get out.”

“No, thank you for being the one to lug one of our sorry asses out of the sea one of these days.” Laughs another, your eyes shift toward the name badge. Payback. “My bets on “ol Fanboy here.”

“You realize if she’s pulling my ass out of the water, you aren’t far behind.” Fanboy counters, elbowing his pilot in the ribs. “Right?”

“Hey Rooster!” Phoenix shouts over the loud chatter of the bar. “Come say hi to our new doc!”

You’d forgotten how ingrained peoples callsigns were into their identity. Land, sky, or sea, their callsign was more valuable then their real name.  It hadn’t been quite as intense when you were working in the hospital, but they did exist.

“Hu-heyyy,” he drawls out, a little drunk already no doubt. You couldn’t help but smile when you saw him. It were as if the literal sun had been captured in his body, its light threatening to rip through the seams of his tacky Hawaiian shirt. “Nice to meet ya!”

He looked for your name tag, only to realize you had been the only one not in uniform. Civvies was a strict rule you had made for yourself, no matter how tired you were, you never wore your uniform off the base. Plain and simple. 

You tell him your name, but he waits for the name that really counts. You clear your throat as you brace yourself with the back of a chair. “They call me Angel.”

“We gotta hear how you got that name.” Payback presses before taking a swig of beer. “I bet it’s one hell of a story.”

The politics of a call sign was just another example of military machismo. It made sense logically, why they were necessary but you had heard your fair share of awful ones to take them too seriously - T-bag, Tiny (last name Richard’s) and Hot crotch to name a few.

Truth is, Angel had been misogyny, thinly veiled as a joke. It’s such a clear memory, you remember it better than your cousin’s wedding that was only a few months ago. The men of the element you’d been assigned didn’t think of you as an equal, but a young, naive girl. 

A pet name. A patronizing pet name, the very same ones women had become accustomed to since the dawn of time. When you were quiet, wide eyed and new, you were “princess”, “baby face”, “darling”, “sweet cheeks”, when you stood up for yourself, or commanded the way the others had, suddenly you were “woman”, “bitch” or reduced to just simply “female”. 

Lieutenant James “Big Bird” Larson was the worst of them; his taunt’s never took a day off - you weren’t sure if he was capable of ever shutting the fuck up. It wasn’t until shrapnel blasted through his throat, slitting his carotid artery that he was quiet. The blood had spurted like an Italian fountain, the kind you would find in the romantic stretch of Venice that was riddled with wishes in the shape of coins. You had pinched the vein and listened to his gurgled prayers before his wound could be stabilized by back up medics on route.

They still called you Angel, but at least now they had a reason. At least it felt earned.

The comment lingers in the air, you avoid the bait like the plague before gladly taking the hard seltzer Phoenix handed your way. The burn made you cringe as it slithered down your throat like salt in a wound. The last time you’d drank alcohol also happened to be the first and last time you got wasted beyond comprehension.

“Well?” Urges fanboy - damn, so close - with a sigh you give in. 

“This guy was bleeding out, so I was pinching off the gash. If I let go he would’ve died…so he said I was his guardian angel.” You over simplified as per usual. “Just medical shenanigans.”

“Dope shit right there.” Fanboy beamed, grateful it wasn’t ironic or an omen that your platoons didn’t have a high rate of survival. 

Meandering chatter continued amongst your new comrades, your eyes flickering to the door here and there just to confirm you still had an exit. It felt…insincere. Somehow, you were doing them a disservice by pretending to be present. 

You wanted to care about the light hearted jokes, the pool games, the songs they sung at the top of their lungs, but it felt physically impossible. So, alone you sat at the table, more focused on the tiny bubbles of your drink that float periodically to the surface, than joining their game of pool. 

“Hangman! Coyote! Get over here so we can kick your ass at pool.” one of them shouts, it didn’t matter who had yelled the name, it mattered who answered the call.

“In your dreams, Rooster.” his voice is the same as you remember, still dripping with cockiness and oozing with cool. Your fingers curl around the cool glass in your hands, pressing your fingertips into it so hard your nails could have snapped clean off. 

Water blasts through the windows with a shriek of breaking glass, flooding the bar, uprooting chairs and tables, carrying bottles and bodies. It’s cold and all consuming, and you’re back. Most times it came to you whilst you slept, vulnerable and defenceless, that’s when those memories invaded your mind and possessed your body.

The water is red, a frighteningly, bright red, and it leaves the taste of pennies on your tongue. The body floats. You fought the water with every muscle in your body, and your throat burns as a mixture of salt water and blood sting your lungs. You nearly have him in your arms but it’s just so hard, you almost have him, his parachute ghosting at your finger tips as you reach, desperately trying to cling to him.

“No” It’s horrible the way it comes out, like a strangle in the back of your throat. “Please, no, please!”  And suddenly you’re praying, and wondering if God exists at all in the same breath.

“Angel, you good?” Phoenix asks, resting her chin on the que, concern washes over her face.

Hangman’s attention shifts from the pool game onto Phoenix for a moment, following her gaze he settled on you. A look of confusion falls into a soft, sullen look.

“No.” you squeak out, your head shaking ever so slightly. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t dare move until you do. Digging your heels into the varnished wood floor, your chair  screeches as you get to your feet. It’s more of a whisper this time, but it slips out again. “No.”

Jake Seresin had run through your life like a tornado through a small town, and you’d spend far too long digging through the debris and picking through the pieces that broke apart in the chaos , to put yourself through that again. You slap a five, or maybe it was a ten, you couldn’t be sure or really give a damn, down on the table. It’s a sickly feeling that creeps up from the pit of your stomach and radiated throughout yours nerves, seizing your spine and rendering you fingers numb.

“Sorry.” You choke, a lump forming in the back of your throat. “Sorry I just have a headache, erm, I guess I forgot to eat today.” You realize in that moment how terrible of a liar you are. Fibs never came easily to you, it was something you wished you worked on, like a fine skill you could hone when necessary.

Gently Bob taps the cup to your arm, now convinced you are famished beyond compare. You yield, taking a few peanuts in your hand.

“Thanks.” You don’t even like peanuts, but you force them into your mouth and chew, and chew and chew until it’s mush. Make them believe you take care of yourself, you remind yourself. “Hey tonight was really fun-” you begin, realistically you’d spent all of what you rounded up to as ten minutes at the Hard Deck. “But I’m not feeling so good, so I think I’ll just head home.”

“Yeah, no, no of course.” She knows it’s a lie, but she smiles anyways.

The second you slip out the back door you gasp for air, taking in as much as physically possible. It almost hurts how far you push your lungs. You brace yourself on the patio ledge, thankful for the privacy of such a pathetic moment. Your head pounded like you’d just been on a three day bender despite having but a lick of alcohol. The bile rises faster then you can even realize what’s happening. Emptying out what little you have, you stifle a sob and heave and heave and heave. 

Upside down, the world felt simpler somehow. Perhaps it was due to the fact you couldn’t physically think for a moment, but you weren’t going to waste a moment of peace going over the logistics.

The blood rushes back to your brain as you straighten up. Like divine intervention, your vision clears suddenly, and you set your sights on an unopened bottle of water. Had it not been screwed on so tight, you wouldn’t have trusted no one had put their lips to it. There were worse things, you thought, there were definitely worse things. Taking the warm water in your mouth, you swish it about and pretend it’s not the flavour of melted plastic in the California sun.

Your face buries into the palms of your hands as you lean your elbows on the rail, the sound of waves crashing  did well to ease some of your nerves that had been drawn taught.

~~~~~~~~~

Scrambling for your keys as you round the Hard Deck, you freeze just before the drop of the curb. He’s taller then you remember, but perhaps you’ve just forced him out of your mind so often, you simply forgot what he really looked like in person. Even the way he leans against your car is self righteous. It’s your beloved army green jeep, but Jake Seresin could have convinced you it belonged to him had he spoke it into existence.

“You’ve grown up. Christ it’s been forever hasn’t it?” The cool and collected nature of his tone had all but shrivelled and died, what was left was something you couldn’t quite decipher. “I thought our reunion would be a bit more explosive.”

“When have I ever been explosive?” You asked, patting around your jeans for your damn car keys.

“I can think of a few times.” He smirks, but it falls when he see’s how frantic you are to find a means of escape. “Really, are you that desperate to avoid me?”

You ignore him, patting at the denim of your pockets over and over as though the keys might magically appear. 

“Look at me, please.” Jake pleads, but you don’t.

It isn’t until you hear the sound of metal meeting metal that your eyes snap up to catch his gaze for the first time in two years, dangling the key ring in front of himself. Coaxing you to step closer like he were holding a string of yarn out to a kitten.

“You left them on the table inside.” He answered before you could even think to ask.

“Oh.” 

Twirling the key ring around his finger, he quickly retracts them into his palm. You couldn’t recall ever putting them down. “Can we at least talk?” 

“I’d rather not.” It’s empty. You’re empty. It physically pained him not to reach out, to touch and comfort you. He thinks of the Claremont Motel.

Jake’s jaw sets in a hard line, grinding his teeth ever so slightly. “You can’t avoid me forever. I’m inevitable.” His words struck you like a freight train, knocking the wind from your lungs.

“Why? What more is there to say?” You ask, the moon catching in the teary glow of your eyes. You leaned against the hood of your car, stabilizing yourself as the world spun and your stomach flipped.

“It doesn’t even have to about that. I just wan’t to talk. I literally would settle for a discussion about the goddamn weather…how’ve you been?”

“I’m fine.”

“God you’re such a shitty liar.” he conjures a low laugh, with a grin that stirred something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Fine, I’m not fine.” You shakily concede. The last time you’d been fine was a time you weren’t sure even existed. “Jake, I-I don’t know what you want from me? If you want to talk, there’s really nothing else to say.” Something clicks in your mind, like a puzzle piece you had spent ages trying to place in it’s spot, sliding into the curves and aligning the edges. “Nothing that couldn’t have been said two years ago.”

Jake had knocked the wind out of himself before, at least three times if he were to count, but this was nothing any physical push could cause. This was a wind he’d held onto in the chambers of his lungs for so long, never thinking it would be stirred again.

“I just want to talk. Please, can we just talk.” His walls are reinforcing, stubborn determination trickling through his demeanour. “Christ, I’ll settle for a chat about the weather…I just miss you.”

“No.” Your teeth grit together, ready to spit, throttle and scream at him. But you breathe out, it’s slow and focused. “The weather is lovely, with zero humidity and a light breeze, and you, Jake Seresin, do not miss me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Trust me,  I’ve spent a long time coming to terms with the ugly truth that you don’t.” It visceral, it’s somewhere between depressed and furious, but it’s so calm that it confuses him.  

Waiting, and waiting and waiting, so much time waiting on Jake.

You would have been happy with an e-mail, a voice mail or just any trace of proof that you weren’t just a vessel for his guilt for one night. You hated how badly you wanted him to want you - but you put that dream to rest. 

Dreams were silly, and you’d grown far too familiar with nightmares to really mourn the loss.

~~~~~~~~~

Drunk off boxed wine you picked up at a overpriced market on the way home, you sat on the floor of your bedroom, sinking into the lush, fluffy white rug you’d spent way too much money on. The pale blue glow of the television offering the only light you would allow. Anything could of been flashing across the screen, you would have been none the wiser. 

There’s a small part of you, it’s minuscule, but you find yourself praying to hear a knock at the door. To have someone hold you and let you sob. Your eyes close and you find yourself pretending the muffled voice on the tv are a crowded room, and you aren’t so incredibly alone.

~~~~~~~~~

Hangman fucked up. Badly.

It was such a small interaction but it stuck to him like glue. The smile your way, the the meeting of gazes, the air of hope that maybe, just maybe, you would give him an inch, but you resisted by a mile. To make matters worse, you’d been so excruciatingly warm to Fanboy. The pressure of G-force had royally wrecked his neck, and Jake could not tear his eyes away, watching as you pressed and prodded the tender flesh at the nape of his neck, feeling for displacement or injury that was worse for wear - you were practically jacking him off.

You even laughed at something he said. What the actual fuck?

It played over and over like a scratched disk, repeating and repeating, anxiety building in his chest. It was a stupid mistake, it was such a colossal rookie mistake. Nearly clipping Phoenix’s wing, Hangman lost control for a moment after getting caught in the  jet wash, descending into a terrifying flat spin. White noise fills his ears, the radio fell on deaf ears, someone was hollering his callsign frantically - Rooster maybe? No, no maybe it was Coyote, or Payback?

“Hangman pull the fuck up!” Alphabet’s voice jolts him back into a plane of existence neither here nor there, that for a moment he’s alive, and Hangman’s flying a two seater. “Pull-up!”

And he does. Just hardly recovering from the death spin.  

The debrief that followed was tense, uncomfortable and could have been avoided had he just focused. 

Had he not gotten Alphabet killed.

 Finally dismissed, his fellow TOPGUNS stretched and yawned as they rose from their seats,  meandering toward the exit but lingering about the room as they slipped into conversation. A chorus of  “I need a drink after that” and “Let’s get wasted” filtering out of their mouths.

It wasn’t often Hangman was criticized or his technique critiqued, more often than not because he didn’t screw up, but led by example. He couldn’t make anymore mistake from here on out, he refused to, but that started with you.

“You’re going to get me killed.” He sings, striding toward you with . there’s hint of anger interlaced with the smoothness of his voice. “But I guess you wouldn’t hate that, would you?”

You quirk a brow his way, hands deep in your medic bag. It’s so ridiculous you almost don’t acknowledge it. “Sorry?” 

“This whole cold shoulder shit? It’s getting in my head. We need to talk this shit out, right now” It’s just above a whisper, not wanting the others who lingered around to hear. 

“You can’t be serious.” You sigh, zipping up the bag without so much as meeting his eyes. 

“Look, I get it. You hate me. I’m a horrible person. But we need to leave that shit outside of the base, it’s affecting my work.”

“You are the one that keeps bringing it up. Just stick to your own shit and I’ll stick to mine.” your throw your hands up in bewilderment - It sounds simple in theory but it was far more complicated than that. “I’ve literally not said a word to you today.”

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” It’s louder than he’d hoped. Rooster’s attention now drawn to the two of you. Phoenix and Fanboy take notice soon after. Bob had noticed long before the others, but dare not get in the middle.

“You good over there?” Rooster asked as he stepped away from the group. 

“It’s nothing.” Hangman snaps, looking over his shoulder with a venomous look in his eyes.

“Look, if we’re going to be working together, we need to at least try to-to come to an understanding” he offers, the sound of his voice reverberating throughout the room as he focuses back on you. 

“Jake-“ you start, but he’s still going, wound up like a toy car that’s only started his race. 

“I mean, with all due respect, I just want to be able to do my job and not be distracted.” He continues, your knuckles pale at your sides as they ball up the material of your uniforms. 

“Jake.” You make another attempt, but it’s futile.

“But I can’t, because you’re acting like a child.” Now he’s really getting riled up, but you were no stranger to that. “You’re being selfish, you realize that don’t you? How long can you hate me for?”

“Hangman!” You bark it out like an order, and it takes him by surprise. You don’t give him a chance to overpower the conversation. “I don’t hate you.”

The truth punches him in the throat, you swear his face softens from the hardness he usually carries. 

“I never did,  but it’s so hard being near you. When I look at you, I see him dead. I hear him every day. I hear his screams. I hear the static of his com being crushed. I look at you and it all comes back.” The words break apart with a sob, you pout your lips with a twist - a feeble attempt to not cry. “When I look at you it makes me physically fucking sick.”

“Woah, woah guys, chill out!”  Phoenix advances on the situation, ready to pull you out. “It’s been a long day, let's just cool off.” Phoenix tries but you dodge her touch, swerving around her attempt to peace keep. 

“Hurting him wasn’t enough, was it?” you hiss - it’s cruel and you know it is. Protecting his conscience was no longer a concern.

~~~~~~~~~

The hot steam of the shower seemed to soothe the tension you’d developed in your muscles after your little run in with Jake, but the thought of him grazing near death today set your stomach in painful knots you were struggling to ignore. The cool tile brought relief to the headache you’d developed as you couldn’t stop reliving the horrible, stupid, awful fight in your head. The rhythmic thud-like heart beat in your temples was growing louder by the second.

Thud.Thud.Thud.

Pushing off the shower wall, you feel around for the tap, carefully listening as you weren’t sure if you were going crazy - sure it felt like a percussion was sounding off in your skull, but that was not just a headache.

Grabbing a towel, you quickly wrap around your check and tuck it into itself, securing it atop your breasts as you stumble out of the shower. Sliding your feet into the dry, cotton slippers you wore about the house post shower, and crept out of your bathroom. 

Your heart raced, keeping with the frantic pace of the knocking. “Hold on!” You holler, discreetly tip toeing around furniture so you didn’t alert whoever was waiting outside the door of your proximity - a skill you mastered from the countless times your neighbours tried to invite you over for wine.

 Peeking through the peep hole, you freeze.

“Jake?” You ask, the distorted fishbowl view of him was almost humorous. You unbolt the chain, and slide it across before turning the main lock. Just a crack, you open the door and peer out.  “Sorry I didn’t hear you over the shower…”

“Can I come in…and talk?” God, he really wanted to do that huh? 

“I’m not really dressed.” You almost laugh, but he’s so serious that you can’t bring yourself to. 

“Don’t worry, nothing I haven’t seen.” He purses his lips matter-o-factly to the side. He’s looking at you, waiting for permission, and against all better judgment you let him in.

“You-how do you know where I live?” It’s squeaky, not at all how you wanted to convey the question. 

“The jeep.” It’s not original to own a four door jeep in army green, not in a town that is etched into a naval base. But you know how he knows. It’s the same way dog tags all feel the same, but if you blindly felt through a pile of silver names, you could pick his out every time. You’re brother had that effect on people. His soul stashed away into little pieces of a life left behind. 

You linger in the entrance of your small apartment for a moment, not quite sure what to say or do. Protectively fingers clutch the tucked knot of towel, and you feel his eyes stealing glances.

The last and only time you’d been so naked in front of him was the night of the funeral. Both on grievance leave for the next three days, you decided to stay in a motel. You couldn’t handle being at home, not without your brother. It was so empty. The absence of his hollering laugh, or the sound of old sixties rock and roll blasting from his speakers as he’d roll up in his jeep - just coming home as you were waking up. It would kill you if you’d spent another second in that painfully quiet house. You were sure of it.

Your feet ached as you walked around the town you grew up in, leaning into Jake, passing back and forth a bottle of whiskey in a brown paper bag, searching for memories of your brother in the streets, and the stop signs he drove through, or in the tree’s he climbed when he was twelve and you were just nine, worrying yourself sick he’d fall and crack his skull. In truth you both drank that night, but not enough to get wasted, just enough to ease the sharpness that made a home for itself in your chest.

For weeks you’d thought about how he reclined you on the hotel mattress, lips on yours, a salty taste on your tongue as quiet tears slipped from his eyes and mixed with your own. His loose tie dangling down and sending shivers across your skin as it brushed your neck. For months you could feel the ghost of his touch climbing up your pantyhose clad thigh, slipping beneath the black skirt of your dress, slipping into you.

You’d spent so long believing he hadn’t given the night at the Claremont much thought, just another drunken escapade for the books, but Jake still felt the imprint of your heel that hooked around his leg when he kissed you against the motel room door; the husky moans that sung at the back of your throat as you ravaged each other in kisses. He closed his eyes more often then not, and tried to relive that moment, to memorize every detail and sensation, to chase that high for as long as possible. He thought about it when he climbed altitudes, he thought the higher he went the closer he’d get to that feeling again - not once, not even close. Not by a long shot.

You could hear the whispers of sweet nothings still humming in your ears when you tried to focus, when you tried to drown out the aching feeling that you couldn’t shake. You think of that dingy hotel room, lit by nothing but the milky glaze of moonlight and the “Vacancy” sign flickering in seedy neon reds. The feeling of his lips on your jaw, down your neck, peppering  across your breast, lower and lower, here and there and there.

“Why did you make me go through it alone?” it’s courage mixed with fear and it leaks through the cracks of your voice, like downpour on an old roof.

It’s so vivid in your mind; the morning haze bleeding through motel curtains, seeping onto your bare skin. The nervous excitement that settled in, as flashes of the night came crawling back into your consciousness like a hangover. It’s the devastation of his clothes not strewn about the room, entangles with yours, and the absence of a text - god, you hadn’t been worth a ten second text - and the absence that follows for months, dragged onto two years.

“Because I’m a coward.” It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said. The facade of top gun, machismo, ladies man surrendered, leaving behind the man who stood before you. It was almost voyeuristic, like a sight unseen - a sight you weren’t supposed to see, and yet there you were, baring witness. “I was scared. I couldn’t face you sober. If I stayed I thought you’d realize you hated me.” 

 His gaze is distant, like he doesn’t want to be there. He can’t be there. A raw pain simmering in the blue of his iris, he couldn’t face you then or and he couldn’t face you now

“I was such a fucking idiot back then.” He sighs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Slowly he nodded, settling on the statement. “I was being stupid and reckless, all for a stupid mission I didn’t even end up going on in the end.”

Rivalry was nurtured by the military, encouraged by old men who hadn’t put their lives on the line in decades. They made you feel like you had to be the best, it was terrifying to think you weren’t. It was unbearable how hard the pressure to be the top of the class became, but when Hangman was running out of chances, Alphabet was there to spare another life.

He had been warned they were too high, that the others weren’t on their asses anymore, but it was too late. Higher and higher he made them fly, he wouldn’t be shot down - he wouldn’t allow himself to lose. Jake had surrendered to G-LOC, they both had. 

While Jake came to, and ejected when it counted, it was too late for Zach, the timing was all wrong. Tangled in his parachute, slammed against the cliff sides, shattering bone on bone - it was all too gory to even imagine. He knew you didn’t have to though, and that’s what killed him.

“Honestly, I wish it was me.” He stifles a sob, pinching the bridge of his nose as he drops his head. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, it’s all so caring and sweet and he doesn’t deserve it. He knows it. “What I said before, about hurting him…it wasn’t fair.”

“I wish I could go back.”

“We can’t, Jake. We can’t. I think it’s time we stop trying to.” you reach for his hand, still clutching the towel with your other.

He finds himself pressing a kiss to the flesh of your knuckles, it’s hesitant, careful. You pull free before grabbing fabric of his shirt and putting all your faith in the towel, pulling him into you. Pull. Pull. Pull.

You’d spend so much time pushing, you couldn’t stand to waste another second of not being in his orbit. Your lips find his, and a cross between a moan and whine murmurs against your mouth vibrates. It’s messy at first, his reaction time off but he quickly comes to, a firm hand finds your waist and he walks you back. 

For so long you wanted to be numb, to rid yourself of feeling. Whether you’d achieved it through booze, or an edible here or there, as long as it let you forget, as long as it could lull you to sleep in the sanctity of your bedroom, that’s all that counted.

But now you wanted to feel everything. The sting of his teeth biting at your lip, the light tug at your hair, the taste of his tongue that had the lingering flavour of his favourite strawberry sports drink - everything, all at once. The strength of his grip dug into your waist, too afraid he’d lose you if he didn’t anchor you in place, he could’ve cried. 

“Promise me.” You murmur between breaths, his mouth finding your neck.

“Anything.” He breaks away, cupping your face in the palm of his hand.

“Promise me that you want me.” You almost weep, it’s such a terrifying thought. “That you want me, not just need me right now.”

“I want you,” he breathes, dragging the pads of his thumb along your cheeks as you clutch his wrists. “I want you so much that I can’t breathe.”

For the first time, in a long time, you could look at the man who made you feel this life altering fight or flight, and felt safe.

 As dawns kiss painted you in it’s pale golden light, wrapped and entangled sound Jake’s legs, he allowed himself a sliver of forgiveness. Your touch was healing, even in slumber, even when you didn’t try. 

There wasn’t a chance in hell that Jake “Hangman” Seresin was running away, not from this, not from you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~