almostgenerallyalways

[almostgenerallyalways]

Loved this! So evocative and bittersweet

MELROSE AVENUE

summary - an ill-advised phone call to your ex.

pairing - jake seresin x (fem!)reader

word count - 3.3k

rating - not 18+, but mdni!

content warnings & tags - no use of (y/n) / angst / post-breakup blues / calling your ex / mutual pining / drinking / implied rebounding? / lmk if i missed anything!

a/n: title comes from the song 'promise' by laufey. this one is for all my fellow angst™️ lovers. reblogs, comments, and likes super appreciated!

TOP GUN MASTERLIST / LIBRARY BLOG

"That guy has been eyeing you the entire time we've been here," Lana says. Your wonderful friend dragged you out for a drink, making apparent that your hermit-like behavior since returning to the city is disconcerting.

You’re fine. Well, you will be. Eventually. Maybe.

"I know."

She leans back in her seat, making zero attempt at hiding the fact that she's looking at him. "He's cute.”

You blithely return, "I noticed."

Before you can stop her, she slides off her stool, taking her purse and coat off of it, "I'm going to go to the bathroom."

"Lan-" you sigh, beginning to protest, but she's already weaving through tables.

The man who's slid into your friend's recently surrendered seat—apparently you “need to get back out there”—gives you a smile as he flags down the bartender.

He’s cute, even more so up close; you'll give him that.

A broad smile that fits in with the rest of his features and enough charm to put you at ease—it rouses memories of you in a similar position only three years ago—and then he speaks, and the southern twang to his flirtation promptly drills a pit into your stomach. You’re starting to think the universe may genuinely have it out for you.

Hyde, he introduces himself as. He very formally holds out his hand for you to shake, large and warm around your own, offering him your name as he leisurely releases you with a squeeze. You refrain from making a Jekyll joke, sure that he’s dead tired of hearing them, instead, you ask him where about he’s from.

Georgia, he says. 

At least it’s not fucking Texas.

You accept his offer of a drink, telling him your order with a smile that you hope comes off as happy to be here, definitely not devastated!

And If there’s one thing you know it’s that Jake isn’t lamenting the end of your relationship, turning down flirtations from pretty women.

He no longer has reason to. And neither do you.

He has to keep pushing his hair back from where it falls attractively into his face, curling up at his neck. And as you get into the groove of getting to know a new person, you begin to think that you can do this, live without him. He offers the basics about himself, and you internally sigh in relief that he’s a firefighter. You have a new rule: no military, not ever again.

Halfway through your Manhattan, he grips the lip of your stool and pulls it flush with his own, cheekily murmuring with a smile that makes you feel a little fuzzy, maybe it’s just the gin, “Want you closer.”

If it was any other night, you’d find the move unbearably corny and far too much far too soon, but he’s pretty and affable enough that he can pull it off. So, you let the outside of your thigh press to his, feel the denim of his jeans against your skin. And you're surprised to find yourself excited, marginally.

You should bring him home. Let him, anyone, touch you. Maybe sparking intimacy with a new person will push you past all this—

Maybe.

A half hour later and numbers exchanged, he waits with you out on the sidewalk for your Uber. He's angled his body so his broad shoulders block you from the light wind, the night air cooling your heated skin. It’s sweet, he's sweet, you think.

Jesus, you’re a lightweight now. Those three drinks are hitting you a little too hard to be cute. Lana waves bye to you as she nearly skips down the street, inordinately smug.

You look back up at him, hands fidgeting slightly as you worry your cuticles—you're out of practice at this, you hope it's not off-putting—an uncertain edge to your voice, “Alright, well, call me.”

But he takes your nervy manner in stride. He tips his head, a soft smile on his face as he looks down at you, swinging open the car door for you. “Yes, ma'am.”

A different timber, but the same southern twang echoes in your head again. You freeze for just a moment. Luckily, he hasn’t seemed to catch your brief deer-in-the-headlights look. You send a small wave goodbye as you duck into the car, letting out a long breath as the driver pulls away.

Dropped off, it’s on your three-story walk-up that you let the three drinks you had back at the bar influence your actions. It’s as good of an excuse as any.

Pulling out your phone, you scroll through your contacts and hit the call button beside the one marked; Hangman (do not answer). You let out a sad little laugh at that.

You had changed it to his callsign a week after the breakup, or back to his callsign, back to a stranger. Seeing his name every time you pathetically agonized over calling or texting him became too painful. The “do not answer” now lingers ironically. The wall of silence finally broken by you; no attempts at contact from his side. Only his right as the dumped party, you suppose.

The line rings, the sound echoing around the concrete stairwell as you finally step foot on the landing of your floor. It continues to ring while you heft open the metal door to your hallway. A thought runs through your head, he’s not going to answer.

You calculate the time difference: 2 a.m. in New York, 11 p.m. in San Diego. 

Which means that he’s probably at the Hard Deck, sidling up to some woman, shooting her a smile and a line. And, just like you once were, completely defenseless against his square jaw and green eyes, he’s charming his way into her pants. His phone is probably buzzing away against his ass and he’s ignoring it in favor of pressing her up against the siding of the bar.

You're sure there are still suspiciously you shaped clearings in the dust there.

You unlock your front door with a sour taste crawling up your throat. You're about to let reason win out, take the hint, let the scab go unpicked—then the line clicks, connecting.

In your front hallway, you’re rendered stock still, mind racing to catch up to the fact that he did, against all reason and odds, answer. A sharp spike hits your chest, and you bring a hand up to soothe it away, fingers pressing hard at your sternum. The discomfort pulls you back down.

A groggy voice, his voice, comes crackling through the line, “Hello?”

Then you hear a shifting of sheets, a heavy sigh, and a yawn that recedes as the phone is pulled from his ear—the sound stops abruptly. Clear-cut silence remains.

You hazard he must’ve checked the caller I.D.

For one very long second, you wonder if he’s simply hung up on you, but the rustling of sheets on the other end confirms that you are still very much drunk dialing your ex.

Your name is whispered as a question—like he can’t quite square that you’re calling him. Fair, the ending felt pretty definitive. Moving across the country doesn’t scream open to reconciliation. And you aren’t. You think.

You shouldn’t be, at least.

Intaking one large breath, you answer as you release it, “Yeah.”

“Uh, did you mean to-” he cuts himself off, then says as though you’re not aware, “This is Jake. Are you alright?”

The genuine concern in his voice makes emotion work its way up your throat, a thickness taking hold of your vocal cords. You miss him. You cough, clearing the feeling away. “Yeah.”

He’s rendered you monosyllabic.

“Yeah, you meant to call me? Or yeah, you’re alright?” His voice comes through so crisply—if you closed your eyes, you could pretend he was here. You try to ignore that.

Leaning back to rest against the wall, you whisper to the hallway, “Both,” you clear your throat, “I guess.”

“Oh.”

He doesn't seem to know what to do with that. And in his defense, you're not being very fair, you know that. You're just prolonging the amount of time it's going to take to get over him.

But you can’t help yourself from inquiring, “You're not out?”

“Haven’t been in the mood.” Then, he asks as though it takes incredible effort to do so, “Have you?”

It’s clear to you that he’s trying to suss out both whether this call is the result of alcohol—it is—and if you’ve been out on a date—not intentionally.

You continue your streak of being vague, “Sort of.” You clear your throat, deciding to offer up, “Lana and me went out for a drink.”

“A, as in singular?” He teases.

You blow out a long breath, your shoulders loosening at his tone, the familiarity therein. “…Maybe a bit more than a.”

There’s a short silence. But there’s no bitter aftertaste to it when he says, “I figured.”

“How are things there?”

His eyes land on the empty space beside him. “Quiet.”

Your eyes scan the moving boxes still piled high in the living room. The way your loneliness, now that you aren’t really distracted from it, seems to seep into every dark corner of the room.

Ignoring any possible subtext—easy enough, as tipsy as you are—you take the most straightforward meaning of his answer.

“Good, that’s good.”

Blowing out a long breath, you peel yourself from the floor, teetering on unsteady feet as you make your way into the kitchen. Setting your phone on the counter, tapping the speaker button. You blindly fumble in a cabinet for a glass. Knocking the tap on, you watch as it fills.

Jake tries to settle into a steady rhythm of catching up, it’s easy to pretend you’re just old friends. Well, not easy. But certainly easier than acknowledging all the baggage that rests between you.

“You settling in over there?”

Turning the tap off, you look about your apartment as you take a sip.

Again, the boxes. Still packed high, still taped shut.

You hum, “Forgot what a pain moving is,” adding after a moment of thought, “Can’t find my fucking silverware.”

His laugh rumbles through the speaker, you share in it with him lightly. The sound mixes nostalgically.

You pick up the phone, holding it to your ear as you lean your elbows on the counter. And not that you would ever admit, you let your own laughter quiet, get a clearer ear of his.

You know in one of those boxes—you didn’t mark which one, idiot—is a collection of photographs, photobooth strips and polaroids snapshots and underexposed disposable camera film. There’s probably one too many in there where Jake is the sole subject, him squinting against the sun on the towel next to you or the silhouette of him moving through waves. You can't make many excuses for why you took them.

The ones that are worse on your heart are the ones you squirreled away of just the two of you—his chin resting on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your middle. Another of you resting on his shoulders in Penny’s pool, haphazardly trying to push Mickey off of Reuben and into the water. Laughter echoing through time. 

The one Nat snuck of the two of you, sequestered in your own little world at Penny and Mav’s reception—his arm along the back of your chair, fingers gently running along your bicep. Private smiles and quiet conversation. Dreaming of something stupid.

All some hazy, happy memories.

Preemptive grief—that’s what runs through your body, leadens your chest. He’s still there, in your ear. But soon, he won't be. It’s odd to consider how every second is memory—sand in an hourglass. It's unlikely you’ll ever cross paths again.

It’s for the best.

Those words drag at the bottom of your stomach. It’s a cliche you’re tired of clinging to. 

Without it, you might go insane.

“Would you tell your mom hi for me?”

“I-“ he sighs. Maybe it’s too weird, too familiar, too soon.

“What?” After another little drag, “Jake?” It comes to you in the silence: “You haven’t told her yet.”

The knowledge hurts. He’s been putting it off. And so your mind plants a horrible, viscous little thought, maybe he thought he wouldn't have to. You swallow it down. 

“Hadn’t gotten around to it.”

His mother will take one look at him and just know—he fucked it up.

It wasn't mutual. Not really. 

You’re blameless. Jake was lacking. As always.

His mother loves him despite his flaws. Despite the way that sometimes his voice hits his ears and all he hears is his old man. That old need to pick at and put down—he’s no Freud, but he knows where he learned it. 

That man infected him.

You're the first person who didn’t seem to love him out of some sort of obligation. And he fucked it up. 

He only went to see that therapist twice—then the conversation landed one too many times on his father, his childhood in that house, and he still hasn’t gone back. Keeps paying the no-show fee, week after week, just in case. 

“I need to know how you're doing.” It’s probably a streak of sadomasochism that makes you ask it. But part of you needs to know if this has all hit him as horribly as it has you.

“Bad.” He laughs a little as he says it. In your head, you can picture the bittersweet smile on his face.

You take short, torturous breaths through your nose. Like you're trying to shove down every terrible, misguided, pathetic impulse that ultimately leads you to say the one thing above all else you shouldn’t, “I miss you.”

It’s an admission of defeat to yourself. Cringing, you bite down hard on your cheek in punishment for letting that last line of defense slip, waiting with bated breath for his response.

On the other end of the line, Jake attempts to compartmentalize.

Pulling the phone from his ear, it digs into the side of his temple as he curses—hopefully quietly enough that his phone doesn't catch it. 

Closing himself off to unpleasant feelings is second nature—guilt, anger, fear, inadequacy—switch on, switch off. The therapist Reuben recommended to him after you left tells him it’s a coping mechanism—an unhealthy one, her voice echoes in his head. It’s not working as well this go-around.

Alone in his bedroom, he has to swallow down the horrid lump crawling up his throat in order to speak, hoping you don’t hear the shudder in his chest.

“You're gonna be so happy,” he says. “You’ll get over this,” him, “I promise.”

He speaks to you as though you’re a friend. It’s all he can do.

With you, he had proven to himself, once and for all, that he’s incapable of being in a relationship, he can’t make anyone happy, not for very long at least. But in that short moment where he did make you happy, he’d convinced himself it wouldn't be just that—short. Delusionally, selfishly, wrongly.

He convinced himself it was for the long haul.

And he didn’t appreciate it well enough, didn't burn those early mornings and late nights and gentle affection into his memory. He remembers plenty of it, his fuckups, especially, have played over and over in his head ad nauseam as he’s drifted to sleep these past few weeks. But he wishes he remembered every second.

This is another one, right now, another second with you that he’ll tuck away.

It was over two months ago now—after a nauseatingly quiet fight that ended with you shutting yourself away in the bathroom till you’d assumed that he’d fallen asleep, tentatively slipping under the sheets—that he answered a question for himself: can someone be the one if it’s clear you're not theirs?

So Jake did what he does best—what branded him with his call sign to begin with—he left you out to dry. A gradual distancing over a few weeks. Not making plans as often and spending the night at his own place. Worse, even, that it felt like you were expecting it—already at acceptance, just passively coming to terms with the end of your relationship. You were expecting him to fuck it all up that it didn't even come as a shock.

All a long time coming.

With wringing hands, you’d given him a sit-down and the stock standard, ‘this isn’t working anymore’. It was over so quickly, simple agreement and a bag packed in all of fifteen minutes. You didn’t even look up as he closed the door behind him.

Jake still fantasizes about a scenario in which he put up a fight.

His words ring hollow in your ears. You feel like this ache has imprinted itself in your heart. You swallow down your disappointment. Even though it wouldn’t change anything, you wanted to hear him say, I miss you, too.

Because you miss his eyes and his broad shoulders and his deep dimples. You miss his bright, eye-crinkling laugh, his yes, ma’ams’, and the way he softly hums old country tunes while he cooks. You miss the way that genuinely, for a moment, you thought he might be it. Something as silly as “the one”.

Forever is now a word, a concept, that makes you feel unbearably naive. Like a child who still believes in Santa Claus far too late. Like a joke you weren’t in on. Like every time some friend of a friend, always a few years your senior, seemed to doubt the longevity of your relationship, you should have heeded their cynicism.

You just wonder, retrospectively, how much of it was rose-colored glasses, if the good of your relationship was really as good as you remember it. 

It was so far from you the moment it was over, you’re left unable to trust your own recollection. Disdain and sentiment and remorse clouding every moment brought to mind.

You’re still learning how to square it all in your mind. The before and the after.

Despite the fact that he pushed you to the breakup, you were still the one to put an end to it. Take the relationship out back and shoot it. He doesn't really owe you- no goodwill, no kind words. And yet he extends them anyway.

“It’s probably time for me to let you go,” he says as though he were the one who initiated this.

There’ll be no “I’ll see you around” or “I’ll talk to you later”.

“Yeah. I, uh…” you can’t bring yourself to say it, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. “Goodnight, Jake.”

His name still sounds so familiar in your mouth. You wonder if your body will ever really forget him—or if some form of muscle memory will always recall the way you loved him, will always paint him with a fond brushstroke.

“Get some rest, alright?”

You force a hum out of your chest, take a shaky inhale through your nose. This is where you should hang up. 

You know that. But you make no move to do so.

All you want is another minute. So you stay on the line, unable or unwilling to be the one to press the end call button. For a moment, all you hear is his gentle breathing through the speaker and wonder if he feels the same.

It doesn't matter much anymore. This is a bookend. No point in settling the minutiae any longer.

Back in San Diego, Jake counts off to five in his head, then ten. Renegotiates to fifteen. 

It's for the best. 

Three sharp beeps and you're left in the echoing quiet of your apartment. You stay standing in the half-dark kitchen for a long time after.

The sounds of the city leech into the space. You'll find a new dream, a new future. It'll just take you a little while to let go of the old one.

On the other side of the country, Jake comes to the realization that he’s alone once again—as he always was before you and will be after you.

e/n: i might've also written an alternate ending to this one if anyone is interested. thank you for reading!

[almostgenerallyalways]

me having a weird time: man this weird time sucks! i don't feel like myself! i wish i was having a normal time!

me having a normal time: well the weird time did have a certain je ne sais quoi...

[almostgenerallyalways]

grief is so crazy like what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. does she know i loved her. i miss her so much. i catch myself doing things she used to do. i wish i could call her. i miss her so much. i do a crossword puzzle. i cry while washing the dishes. does she know i loved her? my heart feels like a hummingbird. i miss her so much. what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. what if i forget.

[almostgenerallyalways]

I loved this !

Engine Parts: Tyler Owens x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @hunterthecharmer @heylookwhoitis @shakespeareanwannabe

Companion piece to:

The Mechanic - Tyler faces a problem when Boone brings his mechanic ex girlfriend back into the fold.

Rigs -Tyler reflects on history with you

Ford Mustang - Tyler extends an olive branch.

The garage is a minefield of memories for Tyler, everything from the song on the sound system to Ford Mustang you’re still working on because it required ‘extensive restoration’. The thing had barely been more than a shell before he’d helped you tow it home. Now all it needs is a little more work on the engine and a new paint job.

Four years is how long you’d estimated it would take to fix up if the two of you worked on it together. Even then you were thinking in the long term, and it turns out he was too.

It’s why he bought that ring when he was passing through Arkansas, the one with three sapphires embedded in the silver band because he was paranoid that any stone that stuck out would get caught when you were wrist deep in engine parts. He’d carried it around for weeks, waiting for the right moment and then it was gone in the blink of an eye, swept away by the harsh winds of the tornado that almost killed you both. He wonders if anyone ever found it, if his misfortune gave way to someone else’s happiness.

When he sees you working there inside the garage, your upper body tucked under the hood, singing along to Zach Bryan’s ‘Sun To Me’  it takes him back to the weekends you spent teaching him how to take apart an engine. His thoughts slip to the evenings sat on the picnic bench out back, sipping beers and staring up at the stars, the nights he spent tangled up in your sheets, whispering sweet nothings against your skin.

Time hasn’t dulled any of those memories, in fact it’s sharpened them because Tyler re-lives every detail of your relationship when he’s alone those motel rooms. It’s you he thinks of when he looks in the mirror and sees those scars that linger on his own skin, the ones from the rodeo and the ones that came after.

“Sophie.” He says softly so he doesn’t startle you. “Can we talk?”

You don’t say anything as you use that rag to clean your hands. Instead you open the old refrigerator tucked alongside the work bench and take out two beers, snapping off their caps with the magnetic bottle opener, before drift past him and head towards the picnic table around the back. Tyler follows a step behind, the scent of orange blossoms and motor oil flooding his senses.

“You wanted to talk.” You say as you take a seat on the bench. “So talk.”

He doesn’t know what to say as he sits down, there are so many thoughts, so many feelings riling up inside of him, he finds it difficult to articulate. He should outline the program, tell you the work he’s been up to, explain why they need you on this project but being back here, it fucks with him. It brings back everything he’s spent the past three years trying to shove into a box inside his head.

“You left.” He says abruptly as you raise the beer to your lips and you pause before you set it back down and meet his gaze.

“And you didn’t follow.” You say, shrugging your shoulders. “I guess there are somethings that just aren’t worth chasing.”

Your words, they eviscerate him. They cut like a knife into his chest, tearing out his insides until all he can feel is the agony spilling out of him.

“Is that what you think?” He asks you, his voice raw with emotion. “That it didn’t mean anything to me, that you didn’t mean anything to me.”

You don’t answer and he understands in that moment that he fucked up back then, that he’s been fucking up ever since.

“Sophie…” He begins, his hand reaching out for yours. “Something awful happened to you, something traumatic and I was responsible for that. I…” He trails off, his eyes stinging as he gropes for the words. “I thought you needed a clean break, away from me, from the Wranglers.”

“I left because I didn’t want to chase anymore.” You tell him as his thumb strokes over the hollow of your wrist. “I needed to come home and recover, I wanted you to come with me, to take some time away from it so we could do that together but…”

“But I needed to face it.” He says quietly. “Because if I hadn’t I would have never gone back.”

“I can’t go back.” You tell him. “If I do this, I can’t chase. I’m happy to work with your crew, maintain the rigs either here or out there but I’m not heading into the storm with you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He tells you, squeezing your hand lightly. “You’d be support only, tailoring the rigs to what we need, ensuring that they can function under intense conditions. Those are the only things that I’d ask of you, I promise.”

It’s his sincerity that convinces you, the intensity in his eyes as he studies your features. He’s willing to try to make this work and you guess you can too because the goal here, it’s so much bigger than the both of you. The project he’s apart of, it saved lives a couple of months ago, it’ll do it again with the right equipment.

“No cameras.” You say as you pull away, your fingers slipping out from underneath his. “You can take videos of the rigs, the workshop, the alterations that have been done. I’ll even coach Dani or Boone to explain it but I don’t want to be camera. It’s taken long enough for the people in this town to get used to the way I look, I don’t need it to be a topic of conversation on the internet.”

His jaw clenches as his eyes linger on the scar. To him it’s a symbol of your resilience, your strength. You took on Mother Nature and you lived to tell the tale. It’s only now that he realises how self-conscious you are, how much of your confidence has been stripped away.

“Alright.” He promises you as he takes a sip of his beer. “No cameras.”

Love Tyler? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[almostgenerallyalways]

yo mr white … you ever get the vibe that saul is haunted by the ghosts of his past. Bitch

[almostgenerallyalways]

“writing fanfics is something I do in my free time for fun. I will not treat it like a job and will instead treat it like a hobby because that’s what it is.”

also how it feels being a fanfic writer:

[almostgenerallyalways]

[almostgenerallyalways]

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky. 

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely. 

Total quiet. 

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?” 

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?” 

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?” 

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…” 

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?” 

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.” 

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.” 

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh. 

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated. 

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry. 

“Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?” 

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?” 

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups. 

“Where are you?” 

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him. 

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.” 

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?” 

“Where was I?” 

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed. 

“Still where?” 

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.” 

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.” 

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.” 

“…What?” 

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.” 

“I annoy people.” 

“You don’t annoy me.” 

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here. 

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?” 

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection. 

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?” 

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly. 

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?” 

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.” 

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says. 

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room. 

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark. 

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly. 

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!” 

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer. 

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask. 

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again. 

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.” 

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath. 

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers. 

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year. 

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.” 

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.” 

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!” 

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity. 

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.” 

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly. 

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says. 

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway. 

“I don’t want to be alone forever.” 

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates? 

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess. 

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.” 

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol. 

“She kind of looked like you.” 

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

“Is that why you make all your jokes?” 

“What jokes, babe?” 

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.” 

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” 

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.” 

“Spencer, you remember everything.” 

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.” 

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him. 

You’re happy to. 

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled. 

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse. 

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully. 

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally. 

“Can I come home with you?” he asks. 

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.” 

— — 

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.” 

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.” 

“So you want three?” 

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.” 

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time. 

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?” 

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him. 

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory. 

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that. 

The avocado is making him feel sick. 

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?” 

“I think I'm gonna throw up.” 

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes. 

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button. 

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.” 

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.” 

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.” 

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now. 

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said. 

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say. 

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again. 

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.” 

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. 

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask. 

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

[almostgenerallyalways]

me: checking every day whether the fix im super invested in has been updated

Also me: hasn’t updated my own multipart fic in a year

[almostgenerallyalways]

Yes I like fictional characters a very normal amount. Don’t look at my blog.

[almostgenerallyalways]

I wish you would write a fic where...

Send me an anymous (or not) summary of the fic you wish I would write. (maybe I will write a tidbit)

[almostgenerallyalways]

mens thighs.

[almostgenerallyalways]

crazy how fanfic authors drop the most beautiful and gorgeous pieces of work ever, leaving you speechless and sobbing at three in the morning as you quietly contemplate the masterpiece you just read

and they don’t get paid for it they just do it because they’re having fun and they want to share their joy with you

like I would literally die for all of you fanfic authors out there reblog to swear your allegiance to fanfic authors

[almostgenerallyalways]

me, reading my own incomplete writing : *gasp* and then what happened?

[almostgenerallyalways]

rereading Jake and Julie a year later bc I love them so much

i'll carry my bags just until i can hold you again // masterpost

the post with to all things tied to this fic 💙

pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Julie Floyd

summary: Six months after they break up, Jake shows up at Julie's Family thanksgiving. A second chance holiday romance with fake dating, family drama, and fall festivities.

length: 19.2k and counting

rating: E

chapter one / chapter two / chapter three / chapter four / chapter five

moodboard

read on ao3

(un)friendly reminder that my page and works are not suitable for minors, due to mature elements. this fic includes swearing and explicit smut—more warnings specifically on chapters four and five.

[almostgenerallyalways]

to absent friends and those at sea

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x fem reader Category: angst / fluff Word count: 6,2K CW: language, don't know how the navy works, maybe workplace bullying, this is a 'there's only one bed' fic that got out of control

Summary: Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

2023

“Your flight is about to get canceled.”

You start, thrown by the appearance of Hangman at your side, interrupting your intense scrutiny of the departures board where another forty minutes have just been added to the already considerable delay of your outbound flight to Seattle.

“What are you still doing here?” You eye him suspiciously, adjusting your duffel bag over your shoulder.

“Nice to see you too, Mir.” He smiles, completely unperturbed as always. “I stayed back to hang out with Coyote. Haven’t seen him much since he was transferred. He left this morning.” He pauses for a moment, indifferently examining his fingernails. “You?”

You sigh. “I thought I’d take advantage of being in the Rockies to hike.”

The man next to you smirks. “In other words, you got drenched.”

“More or less.”

Two days ago, Saturday, had been a beautiful, sunny day for a wedding: Every circumstance had been perfect to reunite most of your Top Gun class, gathered with assorted family, friends and colleagues of the happy couple, to watch Halo say yes to her wife.

You’d enjoyed yourself immensely; the majestic scenery of Halo’s remote hometown in the Colorado mountains, the beautiful venue and decorations, and best of all: being with one of your best friends on the happiest day of her life.

Then the next day, as you’d rolled out of bed bright and early, only slightly hungover, you’d opened the curtains of your hotel room to unannounced streaks of rain.

Not put off by a little change in weather, you’d checked if there were any safety warnings for the trail you’d chosen, and set out in spite of the adverse conditions. The experience had been less enjoyable than anticipated: the beautiful views over the Rockies obscured by a thick layer of fog, you’d returned to your room early last night, chilled to the bone, every stitch of clothing you’d been wearing soaked through.

Another announcement pings over the speakers, interrupting your reflections. The status next to your flight number and destination now blinks in bold, red typeface: CANCELED.

“Told you.” Your unwanted companion grins helpfully.

Around you, people are starting to move, expressing their panicked complaints. You groan as you realise you are going to be stuck here overnight: it is almost 8 PM, and with the rain and mist not letting up, there’s no way another flight is leaving this small airport tonight.

“Listen, Mir,” Hangman says, expression more sober now, “My flight to San Diego was canceled, and I just stood in line for two hours to get a room for tonight. You’ll be here for hours if you have to get one.”

He considers you, any trace of mockery gone from his face for once. “You wanna crash with me?”

Pressure starts to build behind your temples, as you quickly consider your options. On the one hand, you are tired and cranky and in desperate need of sleep: having been one of the last guests shutting down the wedding in the late hours of Saturday night, and having spent most of your Sunday hiking up a non-rewarding mountain in the pouring rain, you’d love to avoid spending hours in the line that you see the crowd of weary and pissed-off people scramble to form, leading up to the United desk.

On the other hand: Hangman.

He smiles tentatively, as if he can read your thoughts on your face. He probably can. “It’s a double.”

You close your eyes, feeling like you might live to regret this decision: “Okay. Fine. Thanks.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

Top Gun is a dream and an outright nightmare.

Brought in two weeks after the start of the program to replace someone who was summarily discharged, you’re determined to prove your worth.

When you are first introduced to the men and women (woman, singular, you correct yourself) who are to be your classmates and competition, it’s clear the group dynamics have already been cemented. Some eye you suspiciously, leaning back in their chairs, trying to get a read on the late addition. Some don’t even bother to look.

A blonde pilot in the second row scoffs when the instructor reads a short overview of your scant accomplishments, and another man sitting next to him laughs in response, poorly covering it up with a cough.

It takes everything you have to tough it out. They’re throwing you in the deep end, barely allowing any time or grace to make up for the hours and hours of valuable technical and practical training you’ve missed.

On day eight, though, you execute your first successful stealth manoeuvre, getting the upper hand over one of the instructors. As the details in the move are analysed in front of the class, for the first time, you feel a begrudging respect from some of them.

Not everyone, though. Two seats to your left, Seresin makes a show of studying his cuticles.

* * *

Halo is your lifeline. As the only two women in the class, you gravitate towards each other, finding some respite from the hyper-masculine bullshit of the rest of the group.

Or maybe she’s an angel, as her recently coined callsign suggests.

You’re lounging on the rec room couch with Halo’s feet in your lap, debriefing the day’s hop, when Seresin and two of his usual hangers-on walk in. (Their names are Miller and Wozniak. Halo and you have taken to referring to them as Crabbe and Goyle.)

“Ladies.” He grins, flashing you a smile with no warmth behind it.

A feeling of dread gathers in your stomach.

He casually picks an apple out of the fruit bowl and pretends to inspect it as he comments: “Poor showing out there today. You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna play in the big leagues with the boys.”

Halo, laid back on the couch, rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Jake.”

He grins at her and takes a bite, crunching loudly. “You know, Halo, it’s not so much you I’m worried about. But this one-” He gestures at you with the piece of fruit. He has never referred to you by your name. “Is on thin ice, I hear. Heard they’re regretting calling her up.”

At this, Halo sits up, looking like she wants to give him a piece of her mind, but you stop her with a touch to her arm. “Forget it, Callie.”

* * *

You’re breathing heavy, blood rushing in your ears as your body is pushed to its physical limits, your F-18 protesting as you accelerate into a sharp turn curving around a particularly treacherous stretch of the San Jacinto mountains.

Your gamble has paid off, though, as you come out right on top of your prey. You can taste bile in the back of your throat as you lock tone on Fanboy’s jet.

It tastes like victory.

Back on the tarmac, peeling off the top half of your sweat-drenched flight suit, Halo throws her arms around your neck as Fanboy shakes your hand, a bemused smile on his face. “Nice work out there. Never even saw you coming.”

Later, at the Hard Deck, one pilot after another buys you drinks as you finally earn your callsign: Mirage.

* * *

It gets easier from there on out, and it doesn’t.

On the one hand, you don’t feel like you constantly have to defend your place anymore. After you score big in the mountains, Hangman finally has the decency to shut his mouth around you. You’ve found a natural understanding with most of the other pilots – the competition is fierce, but nights at the bar bring everyone back on equal footing.

Yet as the program ramps up to its conclusion, so does the pressure. Some mornings you can’t choke down breakfast, your stomach seized up into a knot of nerves and anticipation.

In week ten, you’re having so much trouble with a simulation that you, your wingman and his backseater get shot down six times in a row. Your arms burn with the hundreds of push-ups you’re grinding into the blistering tarmac, your CO never running out of the torrent of abuse he’s heaping onto your back.

You can’t sleep that night, keep seeing the disappointed look on your wingman’s face as you’d fucked up again and again. Around three in the morning, you give up on sleep and head to the on-base gym.

You crank a treadmill up to high and you run, run, run until your lungs are burning and your mouth tastes like metal. Rivulets of sweat drip down your back, down your face, mingling with tears you didn’t realise you’d been holding back, until finally your legs are screaming at you to stop, and you sit down at the end of another treadmill, your shoulders shaking, cradling your face in your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you know it’s not fully morning yet when a pair of white sneakers appears in your line of vision.

“Mir?”

Of course it had to be him, of all people, seeing you at your worst and most vulnerable.

“Go away.” You manage to grunt.

He doesn’t. Instead, he sits down next to you, hovering at a distance – still too close.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and if you weren’t burning with embarrassment and rage, his hesitant tone might give you pause.

You lift your face from your knees, steeling yourself. You must look ridiculous, you think, a sweaty heap of a girl having a mental breakdown at the bottom of some exercise equipment. You refuse to look at him. “I’m fine.”

He reaches out tentatively, trying to brush away a strand of hair that’s plastered to the side of your face, and you all but jump back: “Goddamn it, Seresin, don’t touch me.”

Finding the strength to push yourself up, you turn to him: “Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, don’t come anywhere near me.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

When Koehler is discharged, Jake Seresin feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under him.

They came up together through the Academy, and while Jake isn’t sure he would’ve called him a friend in any other circumstances, at least… At least he was an ally. Familiar. Someone who saw through his cocky bullshit and gave as good as he got.

The chances of both of them getting into Top Gun were astronomically small – and then Koehler immediately went and fucked it up. Jake cannot comprehend it.

He feels off-kilter, his only confidant having made a spectacularly embarrassing exit from the program. He can feel the rest of the class watching him, like sharks who’ve smelled blood in the water, waiting for him to make a deadly mistake too.

But Jake didn’t come here to screw up. He came here to win. So he does the only thing he knows how to do – he ramps it up, builds his walls higher, needles people harder – gets under their skin before they can get under his.

He knows it’s not making him many friends – but it works. People don’t question him. He takes no prisoners, flies like he’s the only one out there, puts himself first always – and is ranked near the top of the class for doing so.

When you’re introduced as Koehler’s replacement, he can’t believe it. It feels like adding salt to the wound, bringing in someone who didn’t even make the cut-off on their own merit. So if you get it a little worse than the others – well.

He sees you struggling, those first weeks, and it only confirms his thinking.

One scorching afternoon, after a long series of dogfights ends in embarrassment for half the class, he’s in the rec room pressing a cold compress to his face, discussing the day’s events with Wozniak: “I mean, did you see her out there? That’s what happens when you pull the B-team off the bench. She’s got no business being here. She’s dragging everyone down.”

Wozniak doesn’t immediately respond, and Jake looks up to find you standing in the doorway, looking caught off guard. You recover after a second, straightening your back, and grab a water from the cooler, studiously not looking at him.

You never look at him, after that.

But he looks at you.

* * *

You have bags under your eyes. The line of your jaw has gotten a little sharper. You get a little quieter, even more so than before.

He notices these things just like he notices the redoubled resolve stiffening your spine.

You start creeping up in the rankings, slowly, point by point, and while he doesn’t like that, he respects it.

After the mountains, where you pull a trick out of the bag that takes him completely by surprise, he lines up to congratulate you. Fanboy takes it on the chin, he’s a good guy, and Jake claps him on the back before turning to you, Halo still at your side. But you won’t look at him, and ignore his outstretched hand.

He supposes he deserves that.

* * *

A few weeks later, he wakes up earlier than usual after a night of fitful sleep, his body still processing the adrenaline from an open-sea simulation the day before. Jake came out on top, though he ditched his wingman to do so. Several others didn’t manage to complete the exercise, a crucial barrier for the last stretch of the thirteen-week program.

After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, the light outside his cracked window starting to shift incrementally from pitch black to indigo blue, he decides to head to the gym.

When he steps into the cavernous, air-conditioned room, he immediately senses someone else’s presence, though he can’t see anyone using any of the rows and rows of equipment. It’s not until he rounds into a stretch of treadmills that he spots you, hunched over into your bare knees.

“Mir?” He approaches hesitantly, noting the flushed skin of your back, your hair matted with sweat.

“Go away.” He gets in response, but he can’t, not when you’re sitting there trembling.

“Are you alright?” He asks, even though he can clearly see that you’re not.

You lift your face, surreptitiously swiping at your eyes with your palm. “I’m fine.”

Still not looking at him. Never looking at him.

He reaches out a hand, tentatively; he wants to make this better –

He has to make this better, make you feel–

- but you recoil from him, and he sits there for a long time after you’ve banged the door shut behind you like you couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Sits there for a good long while, with the ghost of your presence.

* * *

Jake wins the trophy.

It’s a raucous night at the Hard Deck and he feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. Sure, he doesn’t know where they’re shipping him off next week – but for now, he has won and no one can take that away from him, not the pilots giving him sideways glances at the bar, not his father, no one.

Fanboy bumps his shoulder and hands him what must be his fifth or sixth beer of the night. Over on the jukebox, Son of a Preacher Man starts playing and he glances over to see you throw your arms around Halo’s shoulders, laughing, dancing her around the crowded room a little unsteadily. You look lighter, happier than he’s ever seen you.

He watches for long moment, transfixed, until he realises Mickey is talking to him.

Mickey turns around, trying to follow Jake’s line of sight, and finds you. “Oh, dude.” He turns back, clinks Jake’s beer with his own. “I’m sorry to tell you, I think that ship has sailed, man.”

Right, Jake thinks, taking a long pull of his beer. And why should he care? He’s got what he came to North Island for.

No one can take that away.

* * *

2018

He doesn’t see you again for two years. Two years of him being shipped from base to base, coast to coast and back again, the Navy’s prize pony, getting new orders every few months.

He shows up in Oceana, papers in hand; greets familiar faces at The Admiral’s and trades stories over the sound of classic rock and the clicking of pool cues.

Then he turns around and bumps into – you.

It puts him on the back foot, coming face to face with you unexpectedly. You look like you’re caught off guard, too, but you recover quickly. “Hangman.”

“Mirage.” He smirks, defences slotting into place. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You look a little bit older, sharper in ways, your watchful eyes clearly on guard as he leans against the bartop, giving you a once-over. It’s a tactical mistake, on his part – it only serves to ignite something warm deep inside of him.

“Gonna be here for a while. Think we can kiss and make up?”

You shoot him a withering glance, like you expected better out of him. “In your dreams, Bagman.”

The bartender brings you your drink, and you smile sweetly at him. “Terry, put one of whatever he’s having on my card, will you? Fucking new guy’s gonna need it.”

* * *

And it’s fine, it’s perfectly fine. You work perfectly well together. 

It’s just that –

No matter how much he needles and cajoles, flirts or tries to rile you up, you only ever treat him as –

A colleague. Which is what he is, sure, but –

He doesn’t ever get that part of you, the part that laughs easy with Fanboy or does shots with Bambi, the part of you that bodily holds up Halo after she gets the call that her childhood dog has died, the part of you that sits next to the radio, fists clenched with anticipation when someone is flying a tough hop, the part of you that envelops them into a full body hug after.

The part of you that has your eyes light up when you look at someone, instead of straight through him.

And no matter how many times he tells himself to move on, he never quite stops wanting it.

* * *

2021

Deployed in the South China Sea, he flies one of the more difficult, harebrained missions of his life with you.

He finds you, after, where you’re slumped against a steel wall on deck, your flight suit half off, trying to catch your breath; and hands you a Sprite.

You consider him for a moment before taking the soda. It feels a little like you’re really looking at him for the first time.

“This is my favourite.”

He sits down, not close, exactly, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. “Yeah.”

A beat passes. You open the can with a hiss, and he exhales: “Nice work back there.”

“You too, Bagman.”

The wind whips across the deck, but you’re sheltered from it by the structure, leaving only the noise.

“Do you know where you’re headed after this?” he asks.

“Back to Bahrain, still got another fourteen months there. You?”

“San Diego.”

You give a little quirk of your mouth. “Lucky.”

“I thought you’d be stateside. I thought you might have…” He holds up his right hand, indicates his ring finger. “That guy in Fallon. Search & Rescue with the dark eyes.”

You take a sip of your drink. “You noticed his eyes?”

Jake shrugs.

You look at the wide expanse of ocean churning beyond the flanks of the carrier. “No. He was… He wanted to settle in Nevada, have kids.” You give him a wry smile that doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Wasn’t ready to give all this up.”

“Ah.” Jake says, his throat a little dry. It feels like the realest conversation he’s ever had with you, and yet, he can’t think what to say.

You sit there for a while, in what feels like something close to companiable silence, until it’s time to debrief.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

2023

The receptionist looks up apologetically from her sleek desk. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Seresin. Because of all the delayed passengers, we’re getting a lot of demand for double rooms for families. Is there any way you would take a single? We can offer you complimentary breakfast.”

Jake looks at you hesitantly, shifting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder.

You rub your temples, doing nothing to alleviate the increasing pounding in your skull. Of course this was going to happen. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

“I can, uh,” You see him looking around for a sofa, but there isn’t one.

You sigh, letting your bag drop onto the plush grey-green carpet. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve shared worse sleeping arrangements.”

These have usually involved a barracks or an aircraft carrier, and between twenty to two hundred of your coworkers, but who’s counting.

“I suppose that’s true.” He replies, staring at the bed.

At least it’s big, you think, and you can’t wait to plop your head down on one of its crisp white pillows. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

* * *

After your shower, you’re in bed, waiting with no small amount of apprehension for Hangman to emerge from his turn in the bathroom.

When he does, in boxers and a t-shirt, his normally slicked-back hair slightly peaky and darkened by the water, he looks younger than he is. He looks a little like he did when you first knew him.

He pulls back the covers and settles against the pillows on his side, the mattress dipping with the weight of him. He’s heavier than he looks – you’re always a little surprised by the lean, solid mass of him. It’s a byproduct, you suppose, of years of studiously not looking at him when you can avoid it.

“I guess that’s goodnight, Mir.”

You look up at him, facing you. The proximity of him is unfamiliar, and a little unnerving.

You have to close your eyes against it.

“Night, Hangman.”

When you open your eyes again, he considers you for a moment with an expression you can’t place.

“I wanted to talk to you, you know, at the wedding, but you kept disappearing on me.”

You don’t really know what to say in response. “I didn’t realise we had much to say to each other.”

His face shutters, and you feel a little pang of guilt. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

He shifts onto his back. “You looked beautiful. Just wanted to say that.”

You can’t help but be a little taken aback, and it takes you a second to reply, guardedly: “Thanks. You didn’t look too bad yourself.”

But then he never does, does he? Jake Seresin, golden boy, never a hair out of place.

He doesn’t respond, and you burrow into your pillow, determined to let sleep take you over as soon as possible.

* * *

You wake from a fitful sleep to movement beside you. It takes you a second or two to remember where you are, and with whom, before you realise that the man next to you is breathing in wheezy stops and starts, a low, panicked murmur emanating from his throat.

You hesitate for an instant before propping yourself up on your arm, using your free hand to lightly shake his shoulder. “Bagman. Hey. Seresin, wake up.” He’s breathing hard, radiating heat. “Hey. Jake.”

He comes to, slowly, gasping for air, as if emerging from deep below the surface of a rough sea. His skin, where you are holding onto him, is overly hot, the fabric of his t-shirt damp. He scrambles to prop himself up, causing you to pull back your hand, but he grabs your wrist hard before you can fully pull away.

“What,” He manages, the look in his eyes still wild and unfocused, roaming over you. It takes a second, two, three, before realization dawns, and he starts to calm down. His tight grip on your wrist eases slightly.

Despite the low light of the dark room, you see a flush start to creep up the skin of his throat. “Mir. I’m sorry. I was…”

For the first time, you feel something akin to tenderness for him. You try to sweep some of the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, hindered by his continued grasp on your arm. “It’s okay. You’re fine.” You pause, feeling a little awkward. “Could’ve just as well been me.”

At that, he lets go of your wrist, letting himself drop back onto the pillow. He stares at the ceiling, and you let yourself settle back onto your side, watching the steadily slowing rise and fall of his chest.

Just as you wonder whether you should just go back to sleep, let the both of you pretend this never happened, he says, “They’re always the same. Me, trying to save one of you, and failing. It’s getting better, they used to be much more frequent, I’m talking to someone, but…”

“I stop sleeping.” The words are out of your mouth before you realize you’re saying them. “When it gets really bad.” 

You have never shared this broken, faulty part of yourself with anyone, but somehow, looking at the shadowy form of Hangman’s shoulder two inches from your face, it tumbles out.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t function, I fly like a zombie. Sometimes I genuinely worry they’re going to ground me.”

You see his little smirk appear, even in the dark. “I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen you fly badly.”

“Oh, fuck off, Bagman.” You say it without venom, thumping his stomach lightly. “That’s certainly not what you used to say.” On the rebound, he catches your hand, cradling it just below his ribs.

You don’t pull it back.

A few minutes go by in silence, and you just when you start thinking he may have fallen asleep, he says: “Mir.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you ever…?” He exhales a puff of breath. “Will you ever forgive me?”

You fold your arm under your pillow, wary, and consider your answer for a moment. “I forgave you a long time ago.” You pause, scared to say too much. “I just… don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m twenty-three again, always having to prove myself because I’m not good enough.”

You watch his chest rise as he inhales, fall again with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like that. I can’t excuse it. From the beginning I blamed you for replacing Koehler when it had nothing to do with you.”

His voice drops a little bit. “To be honest, I was scared I wouldn’t make it without him.”

Now it’s your turn to smirk. “The great Hangman Seresin, scared?”

He turns onto his side to face you, his expression solemn. “Seriously, Mir. I was insecure and I covered it up by being a dick. Maybe I still do, to some extent.”

His eyes turn downwards, to the space between your bodies. “But I feel like I’ve been trying to make things right with you for a while.”

You can’t deny this. You’ve always rebuffed any attempt on his part to approach you beyond what was strictly necessary.

“I guess I’m a champion grudge holder.”

He looks back up to meet your eyes, a crooked smile appearing on his face. “Seven years and two entire deployments together, though?”

You scoff, realising how ridiculous this sounds, but you can’t help it – it felt very personal to you. “You don’t know what it was like. I didn’t make the initial cut. By the time I got to San Diego I was two weeks behind everyone, one of only two women, and on top of that you, the class golden boy, hated me being there.”

You pause, inhaling to steady yourself. “I felt like I was under so much pressure, it fucked me up.”

When you meet Hangman’s eyes again, something in his face has softened.

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your hand, the skin of his palm rough.

You take in the sharp lines and smooth planes of his face, hair in disarray from a sweaty, restless sleep. He’s very close, and you don’t know if it’s the weird, suspended-in-time quality of this darkened room, or the weight that’s been lifted off your shoulders through this little exchange, weight you hadn’t even realised was there; but for the first time you feel like you might like Hangman.

Not Hangman, Jake, brass and bravado stripped away, looking at you like you’re something precious, something he’s a little bit afraid of.

It's a lot of things to feel, in the middle of the night, after seven years of cold war.

You clear your throat, but your voice still comes out a little raspier than you intend to: “Alright then, Bagman. Détente?”

Out comes that crooked little quirk of his lips again: “Alright, Mirage. Détente.”

He’s still holding on to your hand, and he pulls it a little closer into his body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake wakes up to the frantic buzzing of his phone and reaches for it on the nightstand, the endeavour complicated by your head weighing down his other arm. The crisp first light of day is seeping through a gap in the curtains, framing a picture of you sleeping curled into his chest so pointedly he almost has to assume he’s still asleep.

After a second or two, this assumption is dispelled by a very chipper United rep talking away at him, informing him that he’s booked onto a flight to San Diego at 10:45.

“Okay, uh, that works,” He manages, trying to keep his voice down so that you don’t wake up, but it’s too late: already you’re looking up at him, blinking sleep out of your eyes.

He ends the call, puts the phone down, and after a second’s hesitation, returns his arm to its place around your waist.

He looks down at you, not even sure what he’s asking: Is this okay? Do you still hate me?

Do you realize I’ve wanted this for years?

Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

You shift slightly, and he reflexively tightens his fingers into the fabric of your shirt. He sees your pupils go wide, and it’s stupid, the jolt he feels at that – it goes straight to his gut.

Then your phone rings, too, and the moment bursts like a soap bubble. You prop yourself up, pulling away from him to answer it.

When you’re done arranging your flight, he can feel the atmosphere has shifted. You don’t look at him when you say: “We should probably start packing up, huh?”

“Mir, wait,” He says, and he knows he sounds a little desperate, but there’s so many things he wants to say, finally, if this is the best chance he’ll get.

“Jake,” you interrupt, and the pleading tone of your voice shuts him up.

Later, on his flight, he’ll think about falling asleep with your hand in his, and his heart will break a little.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halo calls you, ten days into the honeymoon, to exalt Jess, marriage, and Hawaii, in that order.

You’re at home, cooking dinner, a Motown playlist on in the background while she details all the kayaking, wine tasting and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes they’ve been doing. Your heart swells at her happiness. “I’m so glad you guys are having a great time.”

She asks how your hike went, and you end up telling her what happened – the canceled flight, Hangman, all of it.

Halo snorts. “Oh, poor guy. I’m not sure his outsize ego will recover from this.” She pauses to say something to Jess. “Though I’d feel more sorry for him if he hadn’t literally waited for an adverse weather event to try to tell you how he feels.”

You plop down on the couch with your plate of pasta. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“Come on, dude. He’s been in love with you for years.”

“Huh.” You say, eloquently.

* * *

You book a ticket to San Diego. You take four days’ leave, and you’re not even sure Jake is there. If he isn’t, you think, clicking to skip the seat selection, you’ll take it as a sign.

Which is stupid. You don’t believe in that kind of thing. Maybe this entire idea is stupid, you consider, as you board your flight at SeaTac.

When you walk into the Hard Deck on Friday night, it feels a little like the first time: You’re nervous, your hands clammy as you run them down your shorts. Penny waves you over and pours you a tequila soda, which you accept gratefully. People you know start noticing your presence, coming up to catch up at the bar.

You’re talking to Fritz, who’s already a little worse for wear, when Jake comes in. He catches sight of you and stops short. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

Fritz turns around and clocks him, shooting you a wide grin. “Ah. Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

He comes up next to you at the bar, taking the place Fritz vacates. “Hey. No one told me you were gonna be in town.”

He looks good, if a little tired: sun kissed skin and slightly deeper lines in the corners of his eyes when he gives you a smile that feels perfunctory. He’s wearing his khakis, in pristine condition, though he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Penny has already put a beer in front of him, and he takes a long pull on it before really looking at you.

The look in his eyes feels like the confirmation you needed.

“Last minute decision.” You say, inclining your head in the direction of the back exit. “Would you mind if we talked somewhere quieter?”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t question it, and he follows you out to the back porch.

It’s a warm night, late summer – the kind you love.

You set your drink down on the railing, suddenly nervous, and turn around, leaning back against the salt-weathered wood to face Jake. The music filters out from the bar, muted by the windows – a moody Tom Waits song.

“I’m sorry.” You start, “For leaving the way I did in Colorado. I think I was overwhelmed, by you, by what I was feeling- I got scared.”

“By what you were feeling,” He says, like he needs to repeat it to be sure.

You nod, willing yourself to be brave this time. “Yeah. I spent seven years keeping up my defences around you and then I wake up once with your arms around me and I’m like oh, fuck and-” You stop yourself, looking out at the calm ocean waves in the distance, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon. “Fuck, I’m not explaining this very well.”

Jake’s face shows the beginning of a smile. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say.”

He steps in closer to you, and your hands go to his waist. You feel a little lightheaded with him so close, but you’re determined to continue. “And I didn’t know what to make of it. You looking at me like that. I told myself it wasn’t real so I could go back to where I was comfortable – not thinking about you.”

He closes the gap between you, an arm around your shoulder, tucking his face into your hair. “I assure you, Mir, that the way I feel about you is very real.”

His voice in your ear feels like a balm, and you tighten your fingers into his shirt, bringing your body flush with his. It’s still overwhelming – how he’s familiar and new at once, the scent of his warm skin and pressed uniform, the feeling of his lips against your temple. “Yeah, well. Not thinking about you wasn’t going very well.”

He lifts you up to sit on the railing, bringing your face level with his, and steadies you with his hands on your waist. “Mir. Did you come out here for me?”

You place your hands on his shoulders, running your thumbs up the sloped curve to his neck, and smile at the visible reaction this has on him. “Yes, Bagman.”

He kisses you then, and it feels like the solution to a problem you hadn’t even realised had been weighing on you – tangling your fingers into his hair, drawing him in closer between your knees. He keeps repeating your name, like he can’t quite believe you, and you keep answering him with more kisses, needing him to know – what?

That you’ve caught up with him. That you’re here now.

You both slow down when you simultaneously become aware that there’s a small crowd on the other side of the windows, gawking at you. You think you see an open-mouthed Mickey, pool cue still in hand. At the moment, you don’t have it in you to care.

“How long are you staying?” Jake murmurs into your neck, his arms around you.

“Monday.” You breathe, resting your chin on the top of his head. “But I’ll be back soon.”

*******

end notes: omg sorry i didn't write anything for so long - life's just been A LOT. i hope you enjoyed it. check out my masterlist <3 title from the royal navy toasts

[almostgenerallyalways]

summer is for staying up until 3 am reading fanfiction even if youre an adult that isnt in school and has a job to go to in 3 hours. i dont make the rules, sorry