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one.
Hangman's ready for it pretty much the second he steps outside the Hard Deck.
Truth be told, he already was. Truth be told, it's been buzzing along right under the surface of his skin ever since the moment he heard Phoenix shout Rooster's name, just about—ever since the first sharp bolt of heat shot down his spine.
Luck, maybe, that Rooster just so happened to be assigned to this top-secret special detachment. But it doesn't feel like luck to Hangman. It feels fucking perfect, preordained, like he should've known the second his orders came in.
And it's the same way for Rooster. It's got to be. The way he looked around, met Hangman's eyes—the way he said it, you look—good, like he'd wanted to come up with another word, something less telling, something less painfully fucking obvious, but with Hangman right in front of him, he couldn't.
Hangman's been riding the smug fucking certainty of it for hours. Yeah, all right, he was a little annoyed to be ditched so unceremoniously, a little frustrated that everybody'd abandoned the pool table for Rooster's dorky oldies singalong routine. But even then, it had been simmering away in his gut, that hot awareness that he was going to get what he wanted—that Rooster had practically fucking told him he could have it, right there in front of everyone.
And now everybody's headed back to the base, the whole crowd of them spilling out of the Hard Deck at once. Which makes it easy for him to let himself be pushed off to one side—and easy, beautifully goddamn easy, for him to snag Rooster's elbow, when Rooster comes out a handful of seconds later.
Rooster looks over like he's surprised, like he doesn't know who might have grabbed his arm; within an instant, though, he drops the act, draws in a sharp breath, and something passes across his face.
"Hangman," he says, low, a little wary.
Overthinking it, just like he always used to, pretty much every time they did this back in training. Hangman almost wants to roll his eyes, except Rooster can be a petty motherfucker when he wants to be, claimed more than once he wasn't in the mood anymore and Hangman could go ahead and suck his own dick if he was going to be such an asshole when he caught Hangman making faces at him back then, and—
And besides, Hangman's too worked up, too downright fucking pleased with himself, to mind too much.
"C'mon," he murmurs, low. "C'mon, the rest of 'em'll be gone in a minute. It's dark enough—nobody'll see."
Rooster presses his mouth into a line. "That's not even half of what it would take to make this a good idea," he mutters.
But he takes another step, when Hangman draws him along; another step, and another, until they're off around the corner of the bar, the far wall, everybody else's chatter and laughter turning fainter.
And Hangman wasn't improving on the truth, right there. It is dark out here, a handful of stars and the light spilling out of the Hard Deck's windows and nothing else. Dark; safe, or at least as safe as it gets to do a thing like this.
Worth it even if it weren't, in a lot of ways. There's just—there's nothing quite like it, Rooster still half-resisting, pushing back against Hangman's hands a little as Hangman crowds him in against the wall, the hot solid shape of him, and the—the knowing that it's him, Rooster, cautious serious Rooster who's always in his head about fucking everything, standing here letting Hangman touch him.
And Hangman can say that for sure, now. Back when they were doing this before, he hadn't thought on it all that hard, had wanted it because it was sex and it was fucking fantastic. But then, well—Rooster'd been posted overseas first, and Hangman hadn't gotten assigned to the same place, and that had been that, he'd figured. Every chance he and Rooster wouldn't ever be on the same continent at the same time again, at least not for a long, long while, which meant he'd have to find somebody else to fuck three or four times a week.
But somehow it hadn't been as easy as that made it sound. It hadn't been as easy, hadn't been as much fun, hadn't been—hadn't been as good, goddammit. And now that he's got a shot at having that back, he's kind of, maybe, a little bit, dying for it.
"Come on," he says again, coaxing, pushing closer, letting their thighs brush on the way. "Pretty sure somebody was telling me not three hours ago how good I look."
Rooster huffs a breath through his nose. "Got me there," he allows, and Hangman can only kind of see his face, a suggestion of deeper shadows here and there letting him pick out the contours of it, but he can catch the gleam of teeth, knows the shape of Rooster's face when Rooster's biting at his own mouth; and then, fucking finally, Rooster brings his hands up, catches Hangman at the waist, the warmth of his palms bleeding straight through Hangman's uniform.
"Hell yes, I do," Hangman murmurs, and catches his face, thumb finding the line of his jaw, swaying in the last two inches it takes to kiss him.
The pornstache is new; that part is different, the brush of it, the way it tickles along Hangman's mouth. But Rooster, the way he kisses—the way he needs to be pushed, needs to be asked, but then he opens right up for it, puts his whole body into it—that's the same as ever.
"Fuck," he says against Hangman's cheek after, breathless. "Fuck, how are you still so good at that?"
"Equal parts cultivated expertise and natural talent," Hangman tells him, grinning.
Rooster laughs, a quick short bark of it. "Jesus. You really haven't changed at all," he says; and then he goes quiet, the dim long shadow of his throat shifting, working. "I just—I don't know if it's really the right time to, um. To start doing this again."
He's got to be kidding. He doesn't feel like he is, the whole long line of him tense under Hangman's hands in that goddamn Hawaiian shirt he's wearing, but he has to be.
So Hangman ignores the weird cold clench in his guts, and says, "Oh, come on. Don't try to tell me you've gotten any lately."
"That's—really not the point—"
"Look, you want to, don't you?" Hangman tries.
And Rooster's never been shy about busting out a no when he means it—but he stands there, caged in against the wall, and he doesn't say a word.
"Great! Got good news for you: so do I," Hangman says. But there's no give in Rooster's body, no surrender; and Hangman doesn't know what else to do except, last-ditch, add, "Please."
It comes out all wrong: not warm and confident, not sure of its answer. He sounds stupid, strained. And there's a weird stretching moment where Rooster's just looking at him, mouth parted like he's startled, before he blows out a breath and says, "Jesus fucking Christ, you—" and hooks an arm around Hangman's shoulders, pulls him back in and licks his mouth open.
Thank god. Hangman leans into it for a second, relieved, and then breaks away long enough to say, "So that's what turns your crank these days, huh? Begging? I can work with that—not my usual arena, I'll grant you, but I am a man of many skills—"
"Except shutting up," Rooster says, "you kind of suck at that," but his voice is warm again, amused, and Hangman grins, pushes back into a kiss and drops his hand to Rooster's hip at the same time, follows the line of the waistband of his jeans to his fly.
He's not hard yet, but that's not a bad sign; he always has taken a little extra time to warm up, once he finally decides to quit thinking so hard and let himself have a good time. Hangman gives him some tongue, nice and dirty, and gets the button open, the zipper—gets his hand in there, and okay, there it is, something to work with, the hot line of Rooster's dick starting to curve up to meet him.
"Fuck," Rooster says into Hangman's mouth, sharp, when Hangman rubs it a little through his boxers, feeling it, groping at it, playing idly with the weight of it. "Fuck, yes, god—"
"Mm, just Jake, actually," Hangman murmurs, and Rooster snorts, lurches out of the kiss and slaps him in the back of the head for it, but he's—he's grinning, brief and dim in the darkness, and then he drags Hangman back in again, bends his head to kiss Hangman's jaw, to bite at the side of his throat, and okay, fuck, Hangman thinks vaguely, the weird skidding prickle of his stupid fucking mustache actually makes that feel really—really— "Shit," he hears himself say, thick, hoarse, and then Rooster's fumbling for the catch of his uniform slacks, and Hangman should be a little more chill about it, shouldn't be shoving his hips against Rooster's hand, but he's doing it anyway.
It's pretty predictable, from there. Predictable, and fast; but it was always going to be, considering how long it's been since last time, and it's—it only makes it better, in its way, to get to prove he still knows how to do this, what Rooster likes the best, what makes him squirm and pant, what makes him clutch at Hangman's shoulders and swear.
And it's even better than that to get handed the proof that Rooster remembers too. Because he does, he must. He doesn't hesitate for a second. Just the right grip, the weight in his hand, the pace he works over Hangman's cock, the press of his thumb along the underside in that way that always makes Hangman come like a fucking bomb going off. Even the—the shape of his hands, Hangman finds himself thinking dimly, the size of them; the exact length of his fingers, the tight circle they make, the gritty half-slide because Rooster didn't do more than lick them—
Not that most of that's anything Rooster's doing on purpose to make Hangman like being touched by those hands more. It's just happening anyway, because it's—because they're—because it's Rooster, fucking finally, and it's not that Hangman's been waiting for him except in every way he has been; stuck on it, twisted up with it, wanting something he couldn't get but now it's right in front of him, at last.
two.
It takes Hangman a hot minute to notice something's up with Rooster, after they go up against Maverick.
He didn't mean anything in particular by it, when he said it in the air. Same old Rooster. Because it was true—because Rooster always came so close to being fucking brilliant, so close he'd honest-to-god had Captain Mitchell in his sights; and then he fucked it up for himself, the same way he fucked it up for himself every time, hesitating right when he should've taken the shot instead.
It wasn't anything Hangman hadn't said to him before. And usually Rooster was kind of a bitch about it, maybe, glaring at Hangman for a few minutes, giving him the cold shoulder for a few hours, but. He always settled back into an even keel after a little while, always started letting Hangman push his buttons again like it had never happened.
So Hangman isn't expecting anything different this time, once they're back on the ground, once Rooster's reported to Hondo and done his pushups, had himself some time to cool off again.
But Hangman catches up to him before dinner that night, outside the hangar, and—well.
He's just sitting there, knees up, elbows around them. Not that weird, in and of itself. But he's looking away across the tarmac, as Hangman jogs up to him, and even after Hangman says, "Hey, got a minute?" in a leading tone Rooster is definitely going to recognize, it takes him kind of a while to look up.
And when he does, he doesn't do it for long. He doesn't really meet Hangman's eyes, either, looks away again after and says, flatly, "What."
Hangman tilts his head, and lets his eyes narrow the way they want to. "Getting the feeling I don't have your full attention, somehow."
But Rooster doesn't take the bait, doesn't start explaining what the hell his problem is. He just sits there a minute longer, huffs out a breath through his nose that doesn't sound all that much like a laugh, and mutters, "Figures."
"What?" Hangman says.
And Rooster looks at him again, aims a thin sharp smile at him that's just like that breath, not really a smile at all, and then—and then pushes himself up onto his knees.
"Who the fuck do you think you're kidding? You're not here for my full attention."
"Rooster," Hangman says, because he can't exactly deny it; because he's been riding the high of Rooster showing up at the Hard Deck, being here, weeks and weeks of fantastic sex he doesn't have to go through the whole dog-and-pony show of a hookup with a stranger for, stretching out ahead of him. But—
Rooster's mouth twists. "Like you give a shit," he says, soft and cold and even. "You got what you wanted up there, right? I got shot down, but not you. Congratulations. And you're getting what you want now, too," and he takes a knee-walked step forward, reaches out and hooks the waist of Hangman's uniform with two fingers.
"Yeah," Hangman says, a little too slowly. "Yeah, looks like I am."
He's never in his goddamn life turned down a blowjob, and he isn't going to figure out how to do it in the next five seconds—which is all he has before Rooster's got his top button open. But it doesn't—
It isn't right, somehow. He can't figure out why, what the fuck his own problem is. Rooster didn't used to get on his knees for Hangman all that often—liked to tell him he didn't need the encouragement, wouldn't be able to fit that ego in a cockpit anymore if Rooster fed it too much; so it should be good. It should be fucking fantastic: one hell of a view, and Rooster not even putting up a fight about it, going for it, that fast.
But suddenly, he finds he doesn't love it, having Rooster all the way down there. He doesn't love that he can't really see Rooster's face, can't look Rooster in the eye unless Rooster decides to glance up at him on purpose. He doesn't even love that it was so quick, because they're right around the corner of the hangar; there's nobody in Hangman's line of sight, and normally he'd be all for it, but normally Rooster would need some convincing to go along—would glare at him for even suggesting it, or maybe snort and say, Not on your life, man, are you nuts? Out here?
Rooster's got Hangman's slacks open, and Hangman—well, he had been half-hard, already thinking about it, as he'd jogged over here, on top of the fucking world. But he isn't anymore, not quite.
Rooster's mouth on him fixes that pretty fast, though. Hangman squeezes his eyes shut, hisses a breath out between his teeth that's half a curse, finds himself grabbing for Rooster's hair, and Rooster doesn't even pretend to threaten to bite his dick off for it. His mouth's hot, and wet, and he doesn't fuck around, never has, so at least that part is normal.
It's good. It's—it should be good. He shifts, sets his feet a little wider, slides his hand to the back of Rooster's head and pushes his cock a little further into Rooster's mouth, and Rooster lets him do that, too; so it's—
It's fucking stupid, really, that he just can't quite shake the feeling that he's being—shut out. Doesn't even make any sense, he tells himself, when Rooster opened right up for this, is kneeling there silently and taking Hangman's dick all the way down the back of his throat, letting Hangman grip his hair and fuck his mouth. When Rooster's right: he's getting exactly what he wants.
But it doesn't go away, that icy weight in his guts, a sick bitter taste climbing up the back of his throat.
All told, it takes him a lot longer than it should to come; and it's less of a pleasure and more of a relief. He gasps his way through it gratefully, and then he pulls away, lets his fingers slide out of Rooster's hair—because he's just about ready to drop down there and at least jerk Rooster off, get something out of him that isn't frigid and unreadable, slick as glass.
But Rooster twists away, spits in the grass and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Satisfied?" he says, sharp and level, and then he's—he pushes himself to his feet, and walks away.
No, Hangman wants to shout at his back, left standing there like a jackass with his dick out; but he's got no real reason not to be, nothing he can name, and the slow creeping feeling that Rooster wouldn't turn around anyway, if he did.
three.
Rooster's shove sends Hangman stumbling backward. His shoulder slams into a locker, the breath knocked right out of his chest. He fumbles, gets a palm flat against the metal, manages to get his feet back under him, but that's as far as he makes it before Rooster's caught up to him, lungeing in, putting his whole body weight behind the forearm he braces across Hangman's chest to push him back into the locker and pin him there.
Jesus, he's pissed. He's furious, dark eyes snapping, lip curling, teeth bared—so it wasn't a fluke, Hangman thinks dimly, a wave of heat sparking its way across his skin.
He'd been a little worried that it might've been. Back there, in the middle of Captain Mitchell's lecture, it had been—god, it had been so fucking gratifying. The way Rooster had looked at Hangman, the way Rooster had thrown himself at Hangman; and if only everybody else hadn't come to their feet at the same time, hadn't gotten in the way, Rooster would've had him. Rooster would've hit him, probably, would've tried to knock him down and pin him there, split his lip and bruise him up and make him—make him—
It hadn't happened, obviously. Not that Hangman would've let it, anyway, because Rooster has an inch on him at most, doesn't have the breadth or the mass to really fuck him up or anything.
And he'd figured, well. That was probably all he was going to get, wasn't it? You had to take Rooster by surprise if you wanted anything out of him, had to get whatever you could while you could get it, because if you gave him even a couple of minutes, he'd do that thing he did. He'd start thinking about it, whatever it was. He'd start second-guessing himself, and he'd talk himself out of whatever he'd been on the edge of; he'd snuff that spark right out, turn back into bland, unremarkable, easygoing Rooster, and any advantage you'd had, any chance of getting in under his skin and finding something real under there, would be gone again.
But apparently he's still got Rooster's full attention. Rooster's right here, raring to go, fucking incandescent with anger, every inch of him focused on Hangman and nothing else, and Hangman's practically dizzy with the gratification of it. Nobody else in here; nobody to get in the way, anymore. And if Rooster actually does it, lets himself all the way off the chain for once and—and takes what he wants—
Not that Hangman's going to let that happen, obviously. Never been his thing, letting somebody else hold him down and take him apart. He's just not that into it.
So he quits trying to picture it, ignores the hot prickling feeling in his stomach and the weird liquid weakness in his knees, and he raises an eyebrow and says, cool and taunting, "Easy there, tiger."
"Go fuck yourself," Rooster bites out, shoving at him as emphasis even though he can't go anywhere, crushing him a fraction harder into the locker behind him.
"Mm, don't see why I should, when I could have you do it for me," Hangman says.
It's reasonable enough. It's what they do: pick at each other, glare at each other, piss each other off, and then have sex about it. That's how this whole thing started, back in the day; they'd fucking hated each other, and they hadn't been allowed to kill each other, so they basically hadn't had any choice except to fuck instead. Not like today shouldn't be more of the same.
But Rooster's expression doesn't change. And then it does, but only because his mouth's twisting more, that bitter curl in his lip getting worse. His eyes are dark, hard, and—cold, Hangman grasps in a sudden nauseating rush.
Ten seconds ago, he'd've said Rooster didn't get mad cold. Rooster's always had a little bit of a temper, but a quick one, hot, gone almost as soon as it shows up. He's been angry with Hangman plenty—but never so angry he wouldn't still let Hangman get him off afterward.
But maybe Hangman should've known. This thing with Rooster's old man—with Maverick, the way he and Rooster are so stiff and sharp-edged with each other, pretty much the most unkind Hangman's ever seen Rooster be to anybody. He hadn't recognized it, hadn't understood it when he saw it, because he hadn't thought Rooster knew how to be angry like that, slow and deep and old, a glacier.
But he is. He is, and there's every chance he isn't going to get over it, isn't going to let it go. There's every chance he's going to turn around and walk away, and Hangman's going to be frozen out just as hard, just as thoroughly, as Captain Mitchell has been since he did whatever the fuck he did.
The silence is stretching, straining; suffocating. It's a relief, almost, when Rooster finally breaks it.
"Unbelievable."
"Rooster," Hangman says, a little too fast, a little too loud. "Rooster, come on, I didn't—"
"What?" Rooster says. It's even, calm, almost like he's actually asking; but Hangman's not stupid enough to think he is. "You didn't what? You didn't mean to throw my dad's death in my face in front of every single person on the squad?"
"Nah," Hangman says, because he's also not stupid enough to lie to Rooster right now. "You got me. That was definitely on purpose."
Rooster's face twists. "Jesus, you son of a bitch," he says softly.
"Well, you sure as shit weren't going to talk to me about it," Hangman says. "I wouldn't even have known if it weren't for that fucking photo in the lounge. Christ, you make it so fucking hard to—"
He stops, because he didn't even really mean to say that; because he doesn't know what word he was going to put next, and even if he had known, it would probably be better not to say it.
(so hard to know you—as if Hangman wants to, as if he gives a good goddamn about anything except how well Rooster flies—not as well as he does—and how dirty Rooster kisses—pretty good and dirty—and how easy Rooster is for sex with a guy he doesn't even like)
(so hard to get anywhere with you—as if Hangman hasn't gotten exactly as far as he'd like to, needs anything from Rooster he isn't getting from a roll of the eyes and an orgasm once or twice a week)
(so hard to figure out what the fuck even matters to you—because his scores sure don't seem to, considering how little he's ever cared when Hangman beats them; and the opinions of everybody around him don't seem to, considering the pornstache, the oldies, the unselfconscious way he throws his head back when he sings, like it somehow isn't important at all that he looks like an idiot; and it's certainly not like he's ever given half a shit about—about Hangman, not that he's ever had a reason to)
He keeps his mouth shut.
Rooster's expression doesn't really change, his whole face hard and closed off. But his eyes start to narrow, just a little; and then he presses his mouth into a line and lets out a short sharp breath through his nose, a scoff.
"That's the closest you can get to saying sorry, huh?"
"Not my style," Hangman says, and it comes out perfect, bland, no sign in it of the wave of sweet relief he's riding—because Rooster went for it, decided to stick around and pick at him instead of leaving him with nothing, and that's got to mean he has a chance. He takes advantage of the way the knot behind his ribs is loosening, moves against that forearm Rooster's pressing him into the locker with and shrugs. "I'm an asshole. What else is new?"
The line of Rooster's mouth slants sourly. "You sure are," he murmurs.
But he's relaxing, the iron force of his arm easing, and he's not forcing Hangman into the side of the locker anymore, just—holding him against it, crowding him in.
"Maybe you should see if you can make me sorry," Hangman suggests.
"Jesus," Rooster says, long-suffering. "You can't turn that off for two minutes, dickhead?"
"Hey, I get it, you're pissed off," Hangman tells him. "Sure, you could try to punch me in the face some more. Or you could take it out on me in a way that leaves you something pretty to look at next time, am I right?"
Rooster tilts his head. He's still—he's still angry, something sharp behind his eyes, something dangerous in his face. Hangman becomes aware, distantly, that his heart's pounding, and that maybe it has been for a minute or two already.
"Not that you need me to tell you this, I'm guessing, but I don't have to keep your face intact for that," Rooster says, and he doesn't move that arm across Hangman's chest, but he drops the other hand to Hangman's waist, pushes his uniform shirt up—bares his waist, half his abs, the lowest arc of rib as he sucks an involuntary breath in, and then looks down, deliberate, pointed. "You've got a few other parts that make for a pretty good view."
"Do I," Hangman murmurs, hoarse, and that's enough, thank god: Rooster grins at him, all teeth, and then switches gears, grabs his shoulder where there's still a slow dull ache from hitting the locker in the first place and muscles him around; reaches down, digs those long strong fingers into the meat of Hangman's ass, and squeezes.
"Yeah," he says against the nape of Hangman's neck, "you do."
It's not a good idea, fucking in there—actually fucking, the whole nine yards, when technically somebody could walk in any minute.
But it's enough, like this: Rooster crowding Hangman's feet together, yanking his slacks open and shoving them down out of his way, just enough room to push his cock in there between Hangman's trapped thighs. Hangman has to work to earn himself enough space to get a hand between his dick and the front of the locker Rooster's got him pinned up against, and he barely even needs it, achingly hard pretty much the moment Rooster started groping his ass.
Rooster's never—Rooster's never really done anything like this before. He's mostly just gone along, let Hangman tempt him into it; whatever it is Hangman wants to do to him, whatever Hangman decides to ask him for. But this is—it feels like—
Like he doesn't just want to come, isn't just taking what's in front of him because nobody else happens to be offering. Like he wants this, wants Hangman, even if it's only because Hangman's the one he's mad at right now.
But he didn't walk away; he went for it, he's taking what he wants, letting Hangman give it to him; and Hangman said it, next time, and Rooster didn't disagree.
four.
Dogfight football is hell.
Rooster's—fine. Rooster's fine, Rooster's good; he's laughing, smiling, cheering like a maniac, lifting fucking Bob up onto his shoulders after that admittedly excellent pass completion like it's easy. He's—
He's shirtless. Shirtless, sweaty, wet, sand sticking to the skin of his shoulders, grains caught in the dip at the cut of his hip, with the weight of those half-soaked jean shorts dragging them down low enough that the black waistband of his boxers is visible over the edge of them.
Hangman's good at football. He's so good at it that he averages out to pretty much fine, able to keep up as well as anybody without embarrassing himself, even with his pulse hammering in his ears, his throat squeezing itself shut, his eyes dragging themselves straight back to Rooster every time he takes his hand off the metaphorical stick long enough to let them.
He can't fucking stand it. He just—he needs—
The game starts to break up once the sun's really diving for the sea.
Nobody's paying attention to where the football is anymore. People are laughing, clapping each other on the back, starting to wander up the beach toward the Hard Deck in groups of three, four.
Hangman catches Rooster's arm before Phoenix or Bob can get close enough to do it.
And Rooster turns toward him and grins, wide, bright, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head like he doesn't care how stupid he looks. "Hey."
The beach stretches away nice and flat on one side, a handful of other people still fucking around in the surf. Nowhere to hide.
But there's a bluff rising up not too far away on the other side—good enough.
"Hey," Rooster says in a different tone, a little more confused, when Hangman starts pulling him off toward it. "Hey, don't you want to head in for a minute? Get a drink?"
"No," Hangman says shortly.
"What?" Rooster says.
The bluff rises up, a sandy curve taller than Rooster is. There's nobody in sight around the bend of it. Perfect.
Hangman drags Rooster around and then shoves him; his back hits the slope, the angle of the setting sun catching his knees, those fucking shorts, half his chest, with a flood of red-gold light, the angle of the bluff and the rise of the beach shading his ankles and his shoulders, his head, with deepening blue shadows.
"Hey," he says again, startled now. And then something else passes across his face, as he looks at Hangman more carefully. "Hangman? Jake, what—?"
But they don't need to talk about this. Which is great, because Hangman can't anyway, something lodged in his throat so tightly he can hardly figure out how to breathe around it.
He shakes his head, so Rooster will get the picture and shut up; and then he steps in, catches Rooster by the beltloops of the goddamn shorts, and drops unsteadily to his knees.
They're not that far from the water. The sand's wet under his shins, and sure enough, he's only kneeling there for a couple of seconds before a wave crashes somewhere behind him and sends surf seething up around his feet, his ankles, almost all the way up to Rooster's bare toes in front of him.
He looks up. Rooster's staring at him, which is fair enough. Hangman's only ever offered to blow him on certain specific occasions—usually when Hangman's already gotten off and is feeling particularly magnanimous.
"Uh," Rooster says.
Hangman swallows, lowers his eyes and concentrates on what's in front of him: he's undone Rooster's fly plenty of times, but for some reason right now it's kind of a puzzle, his thumbs weak and a little shaky, his fingers clumsier than usual.
"Wait," Rooster says next, right as the button finally gives way. "Wait, you—Jake, you don't have to, um."
"Let me," Hangman manages.
Rooster falls silent.
"Let me," Hangman says again, since it worked so well the first time. "I want to, so just shut the fuck up and let me."
Rooster lets out a breath, unsteady, half a laugh. "Real charmer, aren't you," he says quietly, but it's—low, a little hoarse. It's hot, his voice like that, teasing words he means and doesn't mean at the same time. And then he—
He does. He lets Hangman peel all that heavy wet denim down his thighs, and pull his boxers down along with it, an inch or two behind. He's not hard, but he's working on it, his cock already red and heavy against his thigh, coming up just enough that the head of it catches on the elastic of his boxers as Hangman drags them down, and Hangman's got to stretch the waistband out a little more than he had been to get around it.
Hangman also hasn't usually wasted a whole lot of time on Rooster's dick. He's a world-class cocksucker and no mistake, but most of the time he proves that by shooting Rooster a smirk and then swallowing him down, relaxing his throat a lot further than Rooster usually can when Rooster's the one on his knees, letting Rooster fuck as deep as he wants without hesitating. All told, it doesn't tend to take more than about two minutes for him to finish Rooster off like that.
But Rooster's dick is—Rooster's dick is pretty nice. Not all that thick, but decently long, kind of like the rest of him; and it curves more than Hangman's does, gets a lot darker at the head, a little bumpier and a little veinier, a little more inclined to leak.
Hangman rubs the backs of his fingers along the line of it, skims over the head very lightly with his knuckle where it's just starting to get shiny, and is rewarded with a breathless swear. He leans in and tilts his head, lets it slide along his cheek for a second and then mouths a little at the length of it as it gets harder, pushing up distinctly toward him; there's something absorbing about it, the unremarkable taste of soft hot skin getting saltier, more bitter, as he shifts his mouth up the line of it and then finally catches the head of it with his tongue.
Even then, there's so much detail to take in that it's kind of dizzying. The specific shape of it, against the roof of his mouth, and the way Rooster's weight shifts, the way his thighs shake, as Hangman presses his tongue up against it. The feeling of it, letting it push his mouth open as he takes it further, and the stretch in his jaw, so much more noticeable, weirdly hot, when he's doing it as slowly as this.
For basically the first time he can remember, he isn't ready to deepthroat it, too distracted, and he half-chokes for a second before he gets a grip and focuses; Rooster makes a sharp startled noise above him and clutches at his hair, says, "Jake, whoa, don't—" but Hangman ignores it, pushes forward under Rooster's hands and swallows around his dick properly, and that shuts him up pretty good.
It's the longest he's ever spent sucking Rooster off, and yet somehow it still doesn't seem like any time at all before it's over. He's got plenty of warning, at least; he recognizes the increase in the pace of Rooster's swearing, the thinness of his gasps, the way the slow shake in his thighs spreads up through him, down his arms and into his hands where they're still half-curled against Hangman's head.
Rooster staggers a little afterward, has to shift his hands to Hangman's shoulders to stay on his feet, and Hangman's still absently hanging onto Rooster's hips, tonguing idly at his mouth because it has that tender buzzing feeling to it that he actually kind of likes, when Rooster croaks, "Jesus Christ," and pushes at him.
"What?" Hangman says, and it comes out pretty rough—for obvious reasons, it's not like it's a surprise, but Rooster makes a noise like somebody punched him, and drops down.
Even with the way he tried to shove Hangman back a little, there's not a lot of room. His knees are crowded up between Hangman's, his shorts still trapped awkwardly around his thighs, his ass hanging out and his softening dick bare.
But he doesn't seem to care a whole hell of a lot. "So I guess these shorts really do it for you, huh," he says, breathless, catching Hangman's face in his hand.
"Yeah," Hangman says. "The shorts. For sure."
"Yeah," Rooster says, in a way that makes Hangman abruptly sure he knows damn well that that wasn't about the shorts, somehow; but then he's—he's swaying in, that hand against Hangman's cheek and the other one coming up to Hangman's jaw, stroking it, coaxing his mouth open even before Rooster actually starts kissing him, and Hangman decides dimly that he doesn't really want to break away, let go, long enough to make sure Rooster doesn't get the wrong idea here.
five.
"Hey," Rooster says, wary, hands up.
But that doesn't stop Hangman. He can't let it. He takes the last step between them, finds Rooster's shoulders with the heels of his hands, and the impact, the blow of it, the way Rooster staggers back into the hull of the carrier, should be satisfying but it isn't.
It isn't. It isn't half of what it should be. Hangman can barely feel it at all, compared to the knot in his gut—can barely hear a thing, over the ringing in his ears, over the sound of Captain Mitchell's voice in his head.
And your wingman.
Rooster.
God. God, it's such bullshit; it's ridiculous, it's idiotic. He didn't mean it. He can't have meant it. Not Rooster, for fuck's sake—Rooster, who always does the wrong thing at the one moment that matters the most; Rooster, who's going to sit up there second-guessing himself while the enemy lines up to shoot him out of the fucking sky—
"I get it," Rooster says, soft.
Hangman blinks. He didn't say anything; he's pretty sure he hasn't said anything. Then again, he's got Rooster backed up against the wall, and his hands on Rooster's shoulders have somehow twisted themselves around and fisted up tight in Rooster's uniform, so maybe Rooster does have a couple clues as to exactly how fucking pissed Hangman is, exactly how much he'd rather drag Rooster up on deck and throw him into the sea than watch him get into that plane with the guy who couldn't manage to keep Rooster's dad alive either.
He drags in a breath, and forces himself to focus. Rooster's looking at him, watching him; he brought his hands up, caught Hangman's wrists in them, but that's all. His expression seems calm, even if the set of his jaw is a little fixed, even if he's a little pale.
"I know you think it should've been you," Rooster adds.
Yes, it fucking should have. Hangman's ready to say it out loud, ready to agree—
"You think I'm not cut out for this. That's what you said. You think I can't do it."
And he—he did say it, he remembers dimly. That day, when he'd taunted Rooster and Captain Mitchell both about Rooster's old man; he'd been pleased with himself, in a hot vicious way that had been fucking addictive, for managing to finally hit Rooster somewhere it hurt, because god knew he'd never managed to leave a mark on Rooster before that. Rooster had shrugged off so many things, from how thoroughly Hangman could beat his times to how quickly Hangman could make him come—always the same old Rooster afterward, untouched.
But Hangman had finally fucking gotten to him, finally knew something about him that mattered. And Rooster wasn't cut out for it, would hesitate, would get himself killed just like his dad if Captain Mitchell told him to, so Captain Mitchell had better not tell him to—had better acknowledge as much, right then and there.
It's just that it doesn't sound quite the way Hangman had meant it, when Rooster says it like that.
But Hangman can't figure out how to tell him any of that, can't take it back either when his head is so full of that plane exploding with Rooster inside it that it feels like it's as good as done. He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.
"Listen," Rooster says.
Except there's nothing he can say that's going to fix this. He's not going to go to Maverick and ask to be taken off the mission; and that's the only thing Hangman's interested in hearing right now.
So Hangman doesn't listen to him. Hangman kisses him instead, catches Rooster's lip in his teeth and bites down to make him stop fucking trying to use it to keep talking, and fumbles his way down to shove a clumsy hand between Rooster's thighs.
It's basically all he's got: the only thing Rooster's ever actually wanted from him, the only way he has of getting any closer to Rooster than he already is.
Rooster jerks like he's surprised, breaks the kiss and drags his lip out from between Hangman's teeth and says, "Hangman—"
"Shut up," Hangman grits out, all he can manage, and then kisses him again, rubs firmly with his hand at the same time, and Rooster—
Rooster makes an uncertain noise into his mouth, and then moves, halting, like he can't quite believe Hangman's really asking him for this right now. But god, it's so fucking good, it's perfect: his body, his weight, hot and solid and responsive, alive; everything Hangman wants, everything he might be about to lose. He clutches at Rooster's back with his free hand, works his fingers harder against the shape of Rooster's cock in his slacks, and Rooster starts to go with it, easier, smoother—giving him what he's asking for, even if he can't possibly understand why.
Hangman goes back up on deck, after, and he spends a long, long time at the rail, staring out over the water without seeing anything.
Rooster gave him what he asked for. But Rooster wants something from him, too—and the clock's ticking down, unmerciful, to the last moment there's going to be for him to give it.
So he pulls himself together, and he crosses the deck to the runway, the waiting planes. And when Rooster starts walking across the tarmac, he's there.
You give 'em hell.
It's not much. Just words: the assertion that Rooster can give 'em hell, that all he has to do is decide to; that Hangman knows it, believes it.
But the way Rooster looks at him after he says it, the way Rooster's eyes flick across his face, tells him that for once, Rooster understands exactly what he means.
and one.
It works out, in the end.
Hangman has to save Rooster's and Maverick's stupid asses, obviously. Which is a surprise to Rooster and Maverick, and probably to everybody on deck who was on comms, who listened to him defy a direct order to do it, but—well.
He's been told, once or twice, that he's a selfish son of a bitch. And maybe he is; maybe he's much, much too selfish to settle for losing Rooster out there, when he could keep him instead.
Pulling it off doesn't feel as good as he's expecting. Not that it feels bad, but he's kind of—numb, or something, like the first shock of relief burned out his nerves somehow.
The handshake isn't half what he wants to do to Rooster in the middle of the deck, but it's as much as he's going to get away with, and that's probably for the best considering he can barely handle the quirk of those eyebrows, the staggering blow of an actual fucking smile aimed straight at him, without making an idiot out of himself.
There's all kinds of bullshit they have to go through afterward, all three of them—medical checks, since Rooster and Maverick ejected, and debriefings, and of course Hangman's got to go get himself ripped a new one for taking off like that without authorization. It's going on the half-hour mark before Maverick suddenly appears even though Hangman's pretty sure he should still be in the infirmary; Cyclone's fucking livid about the interruption, and Maverick catches Hangman's eye over his shoulder and—winks, which is all it takes for Hangman to catch the fuck up and realize he's got an opening here, and make a break for it.
He finds Rooster up on deck, leaning against one corner of the control tower; happens to be on the side away from the tarmac, which means there's parked planes and stacks of equipment to both sides, but Hangman's pretty sure he couldn't have figured out how to care about it if the whole crew had still been crowded around them watching, because—
Because Rooster sees him coming. Rooster sees him coming, and his whole goddamn face lights up, and just that fast, Hangman's heart has clenched into a fist in his chest.
Hangman rushes to him; Rooster catches him by the shoulders when he's close enough, and he's still in his sweaty fucking uniform, hasn't so much as gotten one of the flight crew to hose him down, but Hangman grabs at him, pushes both hands into his hair anyway, and kisses him.
Rooster hums into his mouth, warm, amused, and then twists away with a laugh. "Okay, okay, but maybe not on deck, jesus—"
Hangman ignores it; follows the shells of Rooster's ears with his thumbs, sliding his hands down to Rooster's face, his jaw, and pulls him back in—catches his mouth again, longer this time, deep and hot and fierce.
"Okay," Rooster repeats, after that one, catching his breath, blinking. "Or we could just, um."
"Yeah," Hangman says, hoarse, inane, and he can't—he has to—he presses his mouth to Rooster's one more time, because he can't not do it, but it's suddenly not the only thing he needs anymore. He gets one hand around the nape of Rooster's neck, and moves the other down—follows the line of Rooster's throat to his pulse, hard and strong and reassuring under Hangman's thumb, and then his chest, the barrel of his ribs under his uniform: the warm solid curves of bone, the arc of muscle over and around and between, the quick responsive motion of expansion, contraction, as Rooster breathes.
"Jake," Rooster says softly, against Hangman's cheek; and then he clears his throat, and adds, lighter, deliberate, "For the record, if you need to know when is a really good time to want to fuck me—right after saving my life is it."
He's joking. Or at least he's trying to. He's trying to make this easier, simpler.
But Hangman squeezes his eyes shut, breathes out a laugh and shakes his head at the same time, and it just fucking falls right out of his mouth: "I don't give a shit whether you ever let me fuck you again."
Rooster doesn't say anything, for a good long second. Hangman just hangs onto him, the miracle of him, alive, and waits.
"Hey."
A touch, gentle, along the line of his cheekbone. Asking him to open his eyes, Hangman grasps distantly, and does it.
Rooster's looking at him, eyes narrowed just a little, steady and searching.
And then, slowly, he starts to smile—not like he did before, on the tarmac right after he and Maverick came in for a landing; smaller than that, sweet and warm.
"Well, I will," he says. "Just FYI." He pauses for a second, and bites at his mouth. "I'd let you do pretty much anything you wanted, actually," he adds, softer, more serious. "I'm, um. I'm kind of—"
"Bullshit," Hangman croaks, before he has to actually listen to Rooster say what he is or isn't.
But Rooster just keeps smiling at him, expression going wry. "I mean, it took a while, I'll give you that," he allows. "I don't know if you know this, but you're kind of a dick. And then, well. You talk a pretty good game about how little this stuff means to you, how you're just looking to get your rocks off. So you can't blame a guy for figuring he's better off keeping his stupid mouth shut. I've hated you sometimes, and I won't pretend I didn't. But I, uh. I felt—I feel—a couple other things about you, too."
His tone gets quiet, grave and serious again, toward the end. He moves his hand again, after, touches Hangman's cheek some more like he—like he can't help himself.
So maybe he really is telling the truth.
Hangman swallows, once, twice, and lets their foreheads tip together. And it's hard, getting it out; he can't make it louder than a whisper, barely words at all: "Me too."
"Yeah," Rooster murmurs, warm. "Yeah, I think I've pretty much got the picture, now."
And he does, he must—because he's still there, hasn't moved away; holding on, like he knows exactly how badly Hangman wants him not to let go, as he kisses Hangman again.