HEARTFIRST (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader)

9.

The Hard Deck is packed, not unlike any other night, but tonight the air is electric. Whoops and hollers bounce off the walls, mixing with the music, men and women shouting to one another. You smile, basking in the warmth of the room as you push past bodies towards the mass of khaki uniforms in the familiar back corner of the bar.

Natasha's eyes light up as you emerge from the crowd, her smile stretching from one ear to the other. She drops the pool cue in her hand and throws her hands in the air, running to you. It's a warm embrace, the scent of her floral perfume swirling around you. You missed her. You missed this, of all things, being in this bar surrounded by khaki uniforms and classic rock music. The rest of the guys – Payback, Fanboy, and Bob – swarm you next, pulling you in and out of hugs. You're happy to see them, happy the mission was a success; that it brought them all back home.

Someone hands you a beer and you smile, tapping your bottle against theirs. A hand snakes around your waist, tugging you in for a hug before you have a chance to knock bottles with the rest of the team. Laughing, you breathe in the scent of Bradley's familiar cologne. He's solid beneath you, his arms squeezing you tightly, your breath catching in your throat as you try to exclaim.

He releases you after a moment and you finally get a chance to take him in. He looks the same: it had only been two weeks since you saw him – any of them. He looks refreshed, happy to be here, happy to have the pressure of the mission lifted from his shoulders. Smiling, he taps his beer bottle to yours and you both take a drink, your eyes holding one another's gaze.

"I told you I'd see you here," you say, swallowing your mouthful of beer. "I'm glad you're back."

"It's good to be back," he sighs.

You thought that maybe seeing him here tonight might be too much, even though the last time you spoke was entirely amicable. You love him. He loves you. That would be a constant for you. It just can't be. It won't be, and that's okay. Being here with him now, seeing him again, is just the same as seeing Natasha and the rest of the pilots: you're simply happy they're safe. Besides, it's not Bradley you left on bad terms with. It's not your conversation with him a couple of weeks ago that haunts you.

"Bradshaw!" an older man sitting at the bar shouts. Bradley tears his gaze from you to nod at the man, laughing as he waves him over. "Come here, I've been telling Penny all about you." Bradley shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders, placing his hand on the small of his back to pass by you.

"Good to see you, Bradley" you whisper as he moves through the crowd. You watch him as he moves between the bodies of the room and you scan the faces of each person he passes, your subconscious searching for the one person you've yet to find. Blonde hair. Piercing green eyes. That cocky, lop-sided, Ken doll smile. Any piece of him.

Sighing, you return to the group, your heart settling itself into its familiar home somewhere between your chest and your stomach. You hoped you'd find him here tonight: it was part of the reason you came at all. You wanted to apologize, to explain that what you did – leaving him that night – was wrong. To tell him that every moment you were apart, he consumed your every waking thought. You felt awful, leaving him like that before the biggest mission of his career and it killed you not knowing how he felt. It was, perhaps, your biggest regret. But, he clearly didn't want to see you; not now and not then.

"Jake, come on," you beg, banging your open palm against his bedroom door. "Open the door. Please."

The silence is deafening as it consumes you, swallowing you from all sides. There's not even a rustle of movement behind the door and somehow, that's worse than anything. It hurts more knowing he was already so set in his decision against you. Knowing that you'd fucked up everything in a matter of minutes, all because you'd been so desperate to see Bradley. If there was an inkling that Jake might still be deciding, that he was still making up his mind – the soft echo of footsteps as he paced the floor of his room or the jostle of the door handle – you could cling onto some sort of hope he might forgive you. But it's just silent.