Chapter Text
Two months.
That was how long it had been since the mission that was never supposed to be survivable. Two months since Rooster felt the rush of his F/A-18 rattling beneath him as missiles screamed past, since both of them should have died and instead— because of Hangman—hadn’t.
Two months of enforced leave, courtesy of Cyclone and the rest of the brass, who had looked at the battered, half-broken pilots in front of them and decided they’d earned the right to stop flying for a while. Officially it was for recovery. Unofficially, everyone knew it was because no one wanted to be the one to tell Admiral Kazansky that Maverick and Rooster had been pushed back into a cockpit before their bones had fully knitted back together.
For Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, those months had been equal parts strange and grounding. He’d spent the first few weeks at home with Carole’s old piano, fingers stumbling over keys as he tried to summon a piece of her through the music. Then, when the silence of his empty house grew too heavy, he drifted back to base—back to the Daggers, who were rapidly becoming his family.
It still amazed him sometimes. A group of hotshots thrown together for a mission that was basically a suicide note, and somehow, they’d all survived. And now? They weren’t just a temporary squad. Cyclone had told them straight: the Navy wanted the Daggers permanent. A strike team of the best, called in for the jobs nobody else could—or would—touch.
Rooster was thrilled. Not just because it meant keeping his wingmen close, but because it meant more time with Maverick. More time to mend years of resentment, to discover the man behind the ghost of his father’s best friend. And, maybe most surprisingly of all, more time with Hangman.
Jake.
The guy he’d once sworn he’d never get along with had turned out to be… complicated. Infuriating, yes. Arrogant, absolutely. But also… sincere in a way Rooster hadn’t expected. The apology Jake had given him after the med bay was one of the few times Bradley had seen the man stripped of bravado. It had stuck with him. And though he’d never admit it out loud—not to the team, not to Maverick, and sure as hell not to Jake—Rooster had started to look forward to his company.
Not that anyone needed him to admit it. Everyone already saw it.
Which was how he found himself tonight, standing in the warm, neon-lit haze of the Hard Deck, pool cue balanced in one hand, trying to look like he wasn’t just waiting for Jake to inevitably orbit into his space.
The Daggers had agreed weeks ago: one night a week, Hard Deck, no exceptions. Their squad tradition. Payback and Fanboy had framed it as “team bonding.” Phoenix had smirked and called it “group therapy.” Whatever it was, it worked. Tonight was no different—Penny’s bar was alive with laughter, the clink of bottles, and a few off-key voices singing along with the jukebox.
“Bradshaw, you’re up,” Phoenix called from across the pool table, gesturing to the balls spread out like a puzzle waiting for his move.
Rooster chalked his cue, leaned over, and lined up his shot. A clean break had given him stripes, and he sank one with a satisfying *thunk*. He straightened, smirking a little at the groans from Fanboy, who’d been betting against him all night.
But before he could line up again, a familiar presence sidled up next to him. Too close. Always too close.
“Not bad, Roo,” Jake drawled, sipping from a longneck. “Almost like you know what you’re doing. Almost.”
Rooster didn’t need to look at him to know Jake’s grin was sharp enough to cut glass. He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the tiniest twitch upward.
“You volunteering to play, Bagman?” Rooster shot back, using the nickname with deliberate bite. “Or just here to heckle?”
Jake leaned an elbow on the table, posture loose and infuriatingly confident. “Oh, I’ll play. I just didn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends. Again.”
“Funny,” Rooster said flatly, lining up another shot. “I don’t remember you winning last week.”
“That’s because I let you win,” Jake said smoothly. “Had to build up your confidence somehow. Otherwise you’ll start sulking, and trust me—nobody wants that.”
Rooster sank another ball with more force than necessary, straightened, and gave him a look that was half irritation, half amusement. “You talk a lot of shit for someone who got his ass handed to him by Phoenix two games in a row.”
Phoenix, sitting nearby with a beer, raised her bottle. “Still one of my proudest moments.”
The rest of the squad roared with laughter. Even Bob, quiet as always, shook his head with a soft smile.
Jake, though, didn’t miss a beat. “I was distracted,” he said.
“By what?” Fanboy asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Jake’s eyes flicked—just for a second—toward Rooster. Then back to the table. His grin widened. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Rooster felt heat climb up his neck. He busied himself chalking the cue again, ignoring the way his heart decided to pound like it was back in the cockpit.
“Distracted, huh?” Payback said, smirking. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
“Sounds like bullshit,” Phoenix added.
Jake only shrugged, unbothered. “Believe what you want.”
The game went on, but Rooster was acutely aware of Jake’s gaze lingering every time he bent over the table, of the sly comments slipped between turns. It was the same dance they’d been doing for weeks—barbs traded like currency, each one edged with something unspoken.
And everyone saw it.
When Rooster finally sank the eight ball, ending the game, Jake clapped slowly, sarcastically, before pushing off the table.
“Alright, Rooster,” he said. “Let’s see if you can handle playing against me instead of poor Bob.”
Bob raised an eyebrow. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
“Exactly,” Jake said, already racking the balls.
Rooster sighed, but the truth was he wanted this. Wanted to lean into the back-and-forth, to test himself against Hangman in this safe little arena where the stakes were nothing but pride.
They circled the table like predators, trading shots and insults. Rooster accused Jake of overcompensating; Jake shot back that Rooster was too cautious, even in pool. Each jibe was followed by laughter—sometimes from the squad, sometimes just from each other.
By the time the game ended—Jake sinking the eight with a flourish—the bar had shifted into late-night ease. Some of the Daggers were playing darts, others were huddled in a booth.
Rooster set his cue aside and moved toward the bar, needing a drink. Of course, Jake followed.
“Don’t take it too hard, Bradshaw,” he said, leaning against the counter next to him. “Losing builds character.”
Rooster glanced at him, exasperated but unable to hide the spark in his eyes. “I’ve got plenty of character, thanks.”
Jake leaned in, close enough that Rooster could smell the mix of beer and cologne. “Yeah, you do,” he said softly, almost sincerely—before adding, “Shame it doesn’t help your aim.”
Rooster barked a laugh despite himself. He shook his head, signaling Penny for another round.
Behind them, Phoenix muttered something that made Fanboy snort, and Rooster caught just enough to know it was about him and Jake. He turned, ready to shut it down, but Jake was already grinning at their teammates like he knew exactly what they were thinking.
Which, of course, he did.
Because they all thought the same thing: that this wasn’t rivalry anymore. It wasn’t even friendship. It was something teetering on the edge, charged and reckless, waiting for one of them to make a move.
Rooster just wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop it.
And judging by the way Jake’s hand brushed his when Penny slid the beers over, Jake wasn’t either.
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The night stretched on—laughter, jukebox songs, another round of pool. By the time they spilled out into the warm night air, the Daggers were loose with alcohol and camaraderie, voices carrying down the street.
Rooster hung back near the door, watching as Phoenix wrangled Fanboy and Payback into walking straight. Bob was already halfway to the barracks, hands in his pockets.
Jake lingered too, like he always did.
“Hell of a night,” he said casually, tucking his hands into his jeans.
Rooster hummed in agreement. The ocean breeze carried salt and the faint hum of waves. He felt… lighter. Which was rare, these days.
Jake glanced at him, smirk softer than usual. “You know, Bradshaw, if you keep hanging around me like this, people are gonna talk.”
Rooster gave him a sideways look, lips quirking. “Pretty sure they already are.”
Jake chuckled, and for a moment, the bravado slipped again, replaced with something more real. Something Rooster wasn’t ready to name.
They stood there in silence for a beat, the noise of their squad fading into the distance. Then Jake nudged his shoulder lightly.
“Same time next week?” he asked.
Rooster rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Yeah. Same time.”