Chapter Text
Following Cipher through hell was easy. Filling in the hole left by his former wingman through said hell, not as much. He could defend and attack for Galm one as much as he’d like, but after Pixy’s disappearance, the other pilot was tired and dispassionate. He still fought like no other, taking out targets with such speed and precision that PJ himself could barely keep up with, but on the ground he was an entirely different man. He had hoped to help, in some small, pointless way, but he doesn’t think he succeeded. There was a deep sense of loss that surrounded Cipher, one that he could only imagine was similar to losing someone you loved.
PJ would never bring up the relationship that joined Galm one and two before he took up the mantle of the latter, except to his own lovers. To be entirely fair, he wasn’t going to bring it up at all, but the two of them could all but smell the dreariness that rubbed off on him after a long day at the base.
“You’re good at cheering people up.” His boyfriend would supply, back facing him as he focused on the pot in front of him, stirring the contents as they cooked. A soup he liked to make on the nights they needed some comfort, more than the easy warmth of the human pile they deemed “cuddling.” A creamy, spiced broth, filled with sausage and tortellini; its scent warms his soul as his partner fusses over the meal.
“He’s right.” The third part of their little bunch swoops in behind him, leaving a kiss on his cheek as she passes him. “Just do what you do best. If his wingman’s really gone, he’ll need someone to help him.” She meanders behind the kitchen island, leaning over their lover’s back and gazing into the pot.
PJ sighed, running a hand down his face before setting his chin in his hand. “I don’t think it’s enough. What he needs is Pixy, but lord knows what’s become of him.” He says miserably.
Isaac shakes his head and glances at Delilah over his shoulder, then lets his gaze fall on PJ sitting on one of the barstools on the opposite side of the island. Isaac hands her the spoon in his hand, running a hand around her waist to guide her in front of their stovetop and step towards PJ.
He stops about halfway, turning back to Delilah and staring at her with a shocking intensity. “Do not burn my soup, I swear to god.” He points at her, humorless over soup in a way only he could be. Not backing down, even when he sees Delilah’s affronted look in response.
“I’m not gonna burn your soup!” She nearly yells, beyond offended at the accusation. Issac keeps glaring, and she angrily mutters “again,” putting the spoon back in the pot and continuing to stir.
The sight makes him chuckle weakly, amusement still dulled by his own gloomy work life. The war itself was enough to weigh him down, but the addition of disappearances and questionable orders made every sortie feel like ten missions in one. Following Cipher was an honor he didn’t take lightly- well, he didn’t take it as lightly as he took most other things, which should still count- but he couldn’t deny how different it felt from Crow squadron.
Issac smiles at him softly, pulling out the barstool next to PJ and sitting down, legs bumping into each other with their proximity. “Look, you’re not gonna replace Pixy.” He rips the bandage off, though it’s one he already knew. “The way you described it, they were closer than just friends. And, hate to break it to you, I think four would be a bit of a crowd for us.” He teases, leaning closer while also glancing at Delilah’s back, watching her jostle with muted laughter.
It’s infectious; he finds himself smiling alongside the two of them, shaking his head at Isaac’s antics. “Dumbass.” PJ murmurs fondly at his lover, proud of the laugh it gets out of the other.
“Yours.” He responds, then sighs, more serious than before. “Sure, you can’t give him back what he lost. But you can be there for him, help him through it.” A hand lands on his thigh, soft and comforting, Isaac’s eyes are kind. “If you’re anything like you are on the ground, I’m sure you’re a hell of a good wingman.”
The two of them had tag teamed him; harassment he would cry after dinner, as his two lovers corralled him into bed for an early night. But neither of them were wrong, whispering their reassurances in the pitch black of night.
Maybe Cipher noticed when he pushed himself harder during their missions, lingered around him on the ground, or maybe he didn’t. He tried, and regardless of Galm one’s recognition PJ could see a bit of weight lift off him when he didn’t have to dodge as many missiles during a sortie. That could have been enough, but his lovers would never describe him as half-hearted.
He remembers their final mission, flying through a low canyon and losing other pilots left and right, passing under bridges and dodging missiles, all to reach the Avalon Dam. Cipher’s speed was unmatched, beyond what he’s seen before. Each missile that hit home, every target wiped off the radar, he felt he could breathe easier. Maybe he should have expected something to go wrong, anything to go wrong. When has anything been easy for them?
He remembers relief and joy and months worth of anxiety dissipating all at once, flying alongside Cipher and rambling on about the future. He really was planning on proposing to Isaac and Delilah, thinking about their warm smiles and loving touches. Next thing he knew, a shouted warning was filling their cockpits and Cipher’s jet was slamming into his own.
It was a blur in the moment, too stunned with the overwhelming fear and confusion to acknowledge anything more than pain, but now, after the fact, he could still hear those blaring warnings, the whiplash that came from a burning light tearing through his wing- he was not Pixy, he could not fly with only one- how his head had only barely cleared enough to remember to eject before his jet crumpled against the barren landscape. He was low, far too low for a good ejection, but he wasn’t dead the second he hit the ground, so that had to be something.
Whatever it was would have hit him head on, had Cipher not risked his own death just to push him out of the way.
Neither of them were dead, but now one was grounded and the other was left to face whatever the hell it was alone.
Some wingman he was. Watching from the ground as Cipher evaded its attacks; whatever it was, it was fast and deadly. The two jets danced across the sky in a way he could only describe as hate and longing engulfed all in one, a terrifying and equally compelling show that enraptured him from the ground.
It distracted him from his own pain. The quickly rising aches, the various sprains and tears no doubt littering his body. He thinks he can feel blood dripping down his temple, but he didn’t want to worry about that right now.
How long did it take, in the end, for the two of them to finish their duel? It all went by so fast- the glowing split in the sky as a blinding light barrels towards its target, a multitude of distant bangs and rattles as missiles and bullets sank into metal frames, the piercing cry of engines entwined in an endless melody- how could he ever hope to keep up from the ground?
Two final missiles drop from Cipher’s wings, a near miss as the two jets pass with barely any space between them, but they find their target in the air intakes of whatever the hell is flying against him. A flash of fire and smoke, whatever it was hurled down to the ground with a speed that rivaled his own descent.
Something his lovers would also say about him was that he was too curious for his own good. But he had fuck else to do, and unless Cipher managed to spot his chute while he was heavily occupied in his fight against the other jet, he had a very long time before he was getting anywhere close to home. So, with little thought behind the action, he began to trek towards the rising smoke that acted like a beacon towards whatever it was that tried to kill him and Cipher.
Now that he thought about it, already on his way towards the thing, this probably was a bad idea. God knows what- or who, he guesses- it was. All he knew was that it wanted him dead for one reason or another, and that it had failed. And now he was giving it a second chance. Great. He’s sure his partners will love hearing about this, if he fucking lives.
The trek takes longer than he’d like it to, considering how barren the landscape was and his own aching body protesting with every step. But on one hand, he’s almost entirely certain his transponder was useless, and unless search and rescue was coming anytime soon- god, he hopes Cipher had some sort of trust in his survival, and requested SAR, otherwise getting home was gonna be a hell of a lot harder for him- he wasn’t overly keen on using up his flares just in case A World With No Bounderies decided they wanted to squash one last pilot before fading away.
What the hell did he have to gain from this? He sighs and grunts, nearly tripping as a few rocks slide under his weight. He’s finally made some progress, at least, being able to clearly see the wreckage; it honestly could have been a hell of a lot worse. There was fire, yes, but it wasn’t in the cockpit, and it seemed by some small miracle whoever piloted the thing managed to pull up enough that the jet didn’t plummet straight into the ground, more like a horribly executed slide.
Maybe by some act of god the pilot survived. Great, an even better chance he’s gonna get shot the second he gets near the wreckage, just what he needed. His steps are heavy, but he moves on regardless of any possible dangers that he could face. Was it potentially suicidal? Extremely so. But at the same time there was a minuscule chance whoever was flying it was stuck in there, either dead or dying, and truthfully he couldn’t bring himself to ignore that.
“You care.” Delilah had told him that same night they discussed Galm one, curled up in his arms as one of her hands reached behind him to hold hands with Isaac. “It’s what we love about you.”
Damn it all, that didn’t mean he had to care about this terrorist who had, only moments prior, tried to take him and Cipher out. He thinks he’d rather let the bastard die, bitterly, hissing as a single step turns his ankle in just the wrong way. So that was probably fucked, definitely not the best idea to be walking on it. Whatever.
The crash is only a few feet in front of him now, and he can feel the heat radiating off of it. Scorch marks line its deep gray metal, and no matter what angle he looks at it from, there’s no hope in determining what type of jet it is. Experimental, he guesses. That would explain whatever laser beam it equipped itself with.
The canopy is cracked and covered in a layer of black, charred material making it impossible to gaze through and determine the condition of the pilot. He sighs again, decides he’s traveled all this way, and forces his gloved fingers in between where glass meets steel. Whatever god was out there must have been on his side, because the impact fucked with the mechanisms and made it thankfully easy to raise the canopy- easier than it would have been if it wasn’t broken, he still struggled to fight against the mechanics of it.
He takes one look into the cockpit, and stares.
“Son of a bitch.” PJ mutters incredulously, glaring down at the positively still figure of Pixy lying in the pilot’s seat. Yeah he had a helmet on, but he could tell by that fuck ass scruff he liked to call a beard and the Galm squadron patch still stuck to his flight suit. It takes a second too long before he thinks “ oh shit, is Cipher’s boyfriend dead ?” and reaches into the confined space to pull at the man’s collar, laying two fingers roughly around where someone is supposed to feel for a pulse.
“Ah, damn it.” He pulls back suddenly and throws off his gloves, not having felt a thing beneath his fingers, before trying to find his pulse again. It takes a moment of searching before- there .
Weaker than a pulse probably should be, but a pulse nonetheless. PJ internally celebrates this small victory of not touching a corpse and then promptly realizes he actually needs to do something now. He can’t just sit around hoping Cipher called SAR- Cipher would, right? He’s like, almost 100% sure Cipher would. He’s angsty, but not an asshole- Now he’s actually gotta find someone to help them, or more specifically, help Pixy.
Jesus, yeah Hoffnung was ass and everything kinda sucked afterwards, but that didn’t mean he had to kill PJ over it. Why was he helping him again?
“Because you don’t do things by halves.” Isaac whispers into the back of his neck, smiling softly as his hand cards through Delilah’s raven hair.
Damnit, why did his partners have to be so insightful? He can’t just leave the man here to die- because he probably would, looking around now. What else is here?
The other man is knocked the hell out, however, and that makes things even more challenging than they already are. PJ groans, rubbing his bare hands against his face and trying to take a deep breath. Everything is starting to hurt a lot more than it did when he first landed, adrenaline wearing off and bruises starting to form on his skin. The blood from whatever wound he got on his head leaves dried flakes peeling off in the wake of his hands. Lovely. Everything is great.
He leans against the jet for a moment, just staring into its cockpit, before deciding to bite the bullet and get on with it. Beginning to undo the harnesses across his chest, he focuses on getting Pixy out first and foremost. God only knows what he’s gonna do once he succeeds.
Which takes a frustratingly long time. Whatever fuck ass engineer designed this thing wanted to make sure whoever was in it fucking stayed in, that’s for sure. Not to mention that Pixy was heavy, and adding the weakened state of his muscles due to his own not so graceful landing, pulling out Pixy was quite possibly the bitchiest of situations he’s had to deal with in a while.
He was getting pissy, that’s what Delilah would say if she heard the entire monologue that just went through his head. Which was true, but he deserves to be while he saves the man that tried to kill him. He’s been kinda rubbing that point in, but it was a valid point, so he wasn’t gonna stop.
He hauls the unconscious man out of the ruined frame and onto the rocky ground, practically following him down with how weak his legs felt afterwards. Pixy lays in a heap, and besides him, he isn’t faring much better.
Why is he so lightheaded? He was hungry and thirsty, his head was starting to pound, and every one of his muscles shook. He felt like shit, and with who knows what surrounding them, he didn’t know what to do.
The sky was getting darker- or was that his vision- and he had nowhere to go, no radio to call for help, he was starting to feel weak. He didn’t want to get up, drag Pixy around and hope.
Shit- he needed to lay down, just for a few minutes, to get his strength back. Yeah. Yeah that sounded fucking nice. He deserved a break.
PJ’s back meets the dusty ground; his eyes were shut before he even landed.