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Jake lands on the carrier in a daze.
He failed.
He went against orders, broke rank, and risked his career all to fail when it really counted. He was placed in the reserve role, not to be sent out unless something had gone horribly and terribly wrong. It was a simple job: fly like a bat out of hell when shit's fucked. That's what he's best at, after all. Maverick gave him the role, and he intended to fulfill it as needed.
Somehow, someway, Jake fucked it up.
Now, all he has left are the panicked cries of the men he was supposed to save in his ears and the memory of the F-14 going up smoke. Jake pulls his helmet off with shaking hands, inhaling shakily in an effort to keep from puking in the cockpit. Two confirmed kills under his belt, and both of them are worthless. He couldn't save his wingman back then, and now Rooster and Mav paid the price for his inadequacy.
Jake climbs from the cockpit on wobbling legs, clinging to the ladder. It doesn't matter in the end. One hand grips too tight, a foot refuses to move properly, and the next thing he knows, he's laying on the deck while the world spins around him, head pounding. There's a lot of yelling, but before he can make any of it out, a ear-rending screech drowns it all.
The last thing he sees is Phoenix, her hands on either side of his face while she shouts at him. He can't hear her, but he can imagine her voice. Come on, Bagman! Jake! Talk to me!
Everything turns dark.
When he comes around again, everything feels cloudy and muffled. His head hurts. It hurts a lot. Jake lifts a hand to rub it only to be met with a soft metallic clinking sound as his hand stops not even six inches off the bed. A whine rises in his throat when he realizes something thick and soft surrounds his wrist, stopping him. He tries the other hand, meeting similar resistance. Panic unfurls in his chest as he fails to wriggle loose.
"Whoa, Jake. Slow down, man," a familiar voice says, too loud for his pounding head. The face belonging to the voice is blurry, but Jake would know Javy anywhere. "Take it easy. You're recovering from a Grade 3 concussion."
Concussion?
"You knocked yourself unconscious getting out of your jet, Jake. Conked your forehead on the ladder, then smacked the back of your head on the deck. Do you remember?"
Jake doesn't remember, but he does remember what came before. Eyes filling with tears, he shakes his head. Even that much motion hurts.
"Okay. That's okay, Jake. The docs all say that's normal."
Swallowing down a sob, Jake works his right wrist in the restraints, asking a wordless question because the idea of speaking at all makes his skull throb something fierce. Why does it hurt so much? Javy told him, didn't he?
"You've been awake before. A couple days ago," Javy says. Jake wishes he would tone down the volume. Any louder and he's going to puke. "You were freaking out and the medical team was afraid you were going to hurt yourself, but they didn't want to sedate you too deeply with your concussion. The risk of you not waking up again was too high. You ran a fever. They think it was stress-induced."
He's been in here for days?
Jake whines again, lost and confused. He's in pain and he can't remember why even though he's absolutely positive he must've asked Javy already. Processing everything takes too much work while his skull pulses in time with his heartbeat, his brain trying harder with each passing moment to spill out through his ears.
"Just close your eyes, Jake. Rest. You'll feel better."
Unfortunately, Jake highly doubts he's going to feel better anytime soon. He has no doubt in his mind Cyclone will take his wings for launching against orders. If he'd saved Maverick and Rooster, then maybe there would've been a reprieve, but he didn't. If Jake can't push hard enough when it really counts, maybe he never deserved his wings in the first place.
He falls asleep with a pounding head and ringing ears, his only friend at a loss beside him.
The next time he's awake, things don't hurt quite as badly, but he can't bring himself to do much else besides lie there and stare at Phoenix staring at him. He also can't seem to stop crying, so he doesn't bother trying past the first couple minutes. Phoenix doesn't ask him anything, hardly speaks to him at all, but she takes his cuffed hand in hers. Just that fact that he's still cuffed leads him to believe he's been conscious in between Phoenix and Javy's visits and less than amicable, and it scares him that he doesn't remember. Phoenix's slim hand is a comfort. It's almost enough—almost, right up until he remembers that his failure to act quickly enough stole her best friend away from her. Jake turns his head away, lets go of her hand, and cries himself to sleep.
The third time he wakes, he feels much better physically, but the vision he opens his eyes to is, however, nothing short of horrible. Maverick and Rooster lounge in a pair of chairs around his bed, chatting softly enough that he can't make out what they're saying. They look so damn happy, but Jake knows that's impossible.
Jake doesn't dare make a sound, watching them. One of Maverick's hands is twined with Rooster's, never once moving away no matter how he gestures wildly and excitedly with his free hand. Rooster listens intently, his knees tilted awkwardly so he can sit crisscrossed in the chair. That can't be comfortable.
Not that comfortable matters to a ghost.
Maverick's eyes land on Jake after a few moments of silence between the two and he nudges Rooster, lifting his voice so Jake can hear but not enough to hurt. "Hey, kiddo."
Kiddo? Jake frowns. He has to try a couple times to speak, his throat dry. "Pops?"
Rooster turns in his chair, reaching for the cup of water on the stand. Jake is only mildly surprised his hand doesn't go straight through it. "Drink."
"Roo. Pops," Jake croaks again, blinking tiredly. "S-shouldn't you be off... splashin' spooky bogies?"
Maverick arches a brow, joining Rooster at Jake's bedside. "Spooky bogies?"
"The...." Jake grasps for the proper words, but for some reason, they escape him, so all he says is, "Boo."
Rooster's eyebrow jumps up in an eerily similar fashion to Maverick's. "Uh...."
Frowning lightly, Maverick steps around the other side of the bed, touching a hand to Jake's forehead. His skin feels cool. Jake whines in relief, pressing into the touch. Ghost or no ghost, that's nice.
"You have a fever, Jake."
"S'fine," Jake mumbles. He doesn't move an inch in the hopes that Maverick will stay put. "Good."
Maverick, unfortunately, is not of the same opinion. "No, not good, Jake. They've got you on some good meds. That fever was supposed to have gone down by now. Brads-"
"I've got it, dad," Rooster answers, slipping out of the room.
Did Rooster just call Maverick dad?
"M' I sick?"
"Yeah, kiddo. You're sick. But it's gonna be fine. The docs are taking good care of you and the rest of the team has been in and out all day to keep an eye on you in the meantime."
Jake shudders when Maverick rubs his thumb back and forth along his hairline, the gentle touch easing his aches. "What about you?" Jake croaks. "You could be... off. Happy. Doing..., I dunno, whatever it is dreamworld ghosts do with Rooster. Don' gotta be watchin' me."
Maverick frowns more heavily this time, and Jake doesn't like it. "Bud.... Jake, you're not dreaming."
Oh. So, he's hallucinating. That's much worse. He thinks it might be best to keep that little tidbit to himself for the moment. Unfortunately for him, Maverick seems to see right through it. The old man gives him a long look.
"What?"
"Kid, you're awake right now." Maverick takes his hand, squeezing. "Fully conscious. You're recovering from a Grade 3 concussion. Did you know that?"
Jake frowns, thinking back. His memory of the last however long is too blurry to make sense of, but he tries his best. "Sounds vaguely familiar."
"Did you know that when the medical staff assessed you the first time you regained consciousness, you didn't know what year it was?"
No, Jake did not know.
His silence seems to encourage Maverick to continue. "Javy said you couldn't remember what happened, and everyone since then seems to be under the impression that you're in too much pain to talk to them." He squeezes Jake's hand tighter, insistently and almost enough to hurt. "I've read your file, kid. I have a hunch about what happened out there and you're either going to be grateful or hate yourself for it. You want to hear or does your head hurt too much to want to listen to me talk much more?"
Jake frowns. "Like listenin' to you, Pops. S' nice. Wish I'd done better so you could stay."
Maverick softens on him. "You did just fine, kiddo."
"Think so?"
"I know so, Jake. I'm not going anywhere, and neither is Bradley." Maverick brushes a hand over his forehead again, hushing him when he shudders. "From what you've said and what I've gathered, you think we died."
Jake's brow furrows and he ignores the ache it causes. "You did. I saw it."
The older aviator shakes his head. He releases Jake's right hand from its cuff, lifting it to rest over his heart. "No, Jake. Bradley and I lived. You made it in time."
Hope pangs through Jake so hard that it hurts. No way could a ghost uncuff him. "But I- No, I remember...."
Maverick nods solemnly. "Yeah, you do. You remember your first wingman, the one you lost right before your first confirmed kill." He swipes tears from under Jake's eyes with tender fingers, their pads rough and dry. They feel real, present. "You had a flashback up there, kiddo, and then you got concussed before you had a chance to come out of it. It wasn't real. Bradley and I are... well, not entirely fine, but we're alive."
Jake turns his hand over in Maverick's grip, squeezing back for the first time. "You're hurt?"
"Some busted ribs, bumps and bruises, and one annoyed WRO on my ass every hour, but other than that, I'm okay. Bradley has a couple broken toes, a lot of bruising, and a minor concussion. His wasn't nearly as dangerous as yours." Maverick smiles reassuringly. "No TBI for you, but we think that was more luck than anything else."
Relief floods through Jake's chest and he chokes on a sob. Maverick helps him sit up when he starts struggling, freeing his other hand and letting the kid latch onto him. Distantly, Jake is aware that it's incredibly inappropriate to be hugging his CO like this, but he can't bring himself to give a shit. Maverick obviously doesn't care. As long as his ribs go undisturbed, Jake doesn't think Mav will push him away.
"You're really okay?" Jake breathes softly, hardly believing it.
"We are, Jake," Maverick promises, rubbing his back in soothing circles. "You did it."
Jake trembles and sobs into his superior's chest like a seven-year-old. "I did it," he wheezes, the words coming out of him with a slightly hysterical edge. "I did it."
He's laughing by the time a nurse comes in to check his temperature, Rooster at his heels. Maverick simply grins at him, patient as the day is long. Rooster clocks the way Maverick holds Jake's hand near-instantly, a smile tilting his lips. The nurse declares that his temperature is slightly elevated, but nothing to be concerned about. His head, pounding now after all the excitement, disagrees, but he doesn't care.
"Thank you, Jake," Maverick says, sincerity lining each word. "For everything."
"No problem, Pops," Jake croaks.
For the first time since his newly confirmed kill, Jake breathes without the weight of grief squeezing his lungs. Jake is good.
He's very good.