Chapter Text
One’s first impression of Robert “Bob” Floyd might be that he isn’t good with people. Sitting at the bar with his back towards it and munching on a cup of assorted nuts that you would find in your grandfather’s cupboard, one might even say that he is terrible with people.
Bob isn’t bothered by what people think of him. He can’t be bothered explaining that he just doesn’t know how to handle rambunctious people, and everyone else he knows how. Which is ironic, he thinks, since the whole job description for being a weapons system officer is explaining to your co-pilot. He picks out an almond from his cup and crunches on it as quietly as he possibly could. Bob wouldn’t call himself nosy, but he enjoyed listening to the sounds of life in his surroundings.
It wasn’t quite rush hour yet in the bar. There were hushed conversations happening in every corner, the clinking of cool beer bottles and soft laughter from the owner of the Hard Deck, Penny Benjamin. Bob wasn’t well acquainted with her, since he was familiar with the previous owner before he went into retirement. She had given him the sort of pitiful smile a mother gives to her child handing her an ugly drawing when Bob only ordered salted almonds. It was in no way mean-spirited, because Penny had obliged and even added extra nuts for him. Her good will made him miss home for a moment.
But nothing could beat the thrill of flying. Not even for plain and lacklustre Bob.
From the corner of his eyes, he noticed two pilots who were at the dart boards strolling to the pool table in front of him, completely oblivious to his stare. Bob didn’t recognise either of them, which didn’t surprise him because he found that he graduated sooner than most pilots his age (what could he say, sometimes being passive gets you places quicker). They always ended up being his juniors.
The shorter of the pair, whose name tag said “Machado”, looked like your typical high-achieving pilot. He was tall, but not so much that he towered over others' shadows. He held himself with strong confidence, but not the type that would have their ego shattered by a single rejection from a crush. So while he was better than most, unfortunately he wasn’t better than the best.
However, Bob could tell straight away that the other pilot was a standout. He was taller than his friend and had a sort of pompadour look to him, with his chest puffed out and sunglasses hanging from the collar of his uniform. When the two finished setting the coloured balls, he didn’t hesitate to snatch a cue stick and have the first hit. Bob watched in awe as almost half of fifteen coloured balls flew into the holes, and the man shrugged to Machado in a silent attempt to play it off as effortless.
Men who are arrogant yet almost deserving due to being the best in the class are what keep Top Gun afloat. And this “Seresin” was no doubt one of them.
Before Machado could play, Seresin looked at someone behind Bob, and a pleased smirk emerged on his face.
“What do we have here? If it ain’t Phoenix!” He said, almost in a cat-calling tone. Bob didn’t turn around, and instead watched a shorter woman come into his view with two men, all in pilot uniforms, following closely behind.
If Seresin was on one side of the perfect pilot scale, this woman was on the complete other side. The self-assurance she held compensated for her height. Her hair was tied so neatly in a bun that Bob swore he could not see a single hair awry. She was definitely an outstanding graduate of Top Gun.
“And here I thought we were special, Coyote.” Bob assumed it was the callsign of his friend. “Turns out the invite went to anyone.”
Seresin leaned back on the pool table as “Phoenix” stopped in front of him, almost as if he was trying to lower himself to her height in a condescending fashion. She folded her arms.
“Fellas,” She glanced at the two men behind her. “This here’s Bagman.”
Bagman?
“Hangman.” Seresin corrected.
Hangman?
“Whatever.” Phoenix was not hesitating on returning his condescension. “You’re looking at the only naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill.”
“Ha, stop.” He didn’t look like he wanted her to, basking in the sun of her compliment.
“Mind you, the other guy was in a museum piece from the Korean War.”
“The Cold War.” It was Coyote’s turn to correct her, since Hangman had not moved past the compliment. Bob continued to snack on his cup of nuts as he was learning about his new teammates through this eavesdropping.
“Different war. Same century.” The older man behind Phoenix spoke, his voice deep and composed.
“Not this one.” The younger man said in a more gloating tone.
“Who are your friends?” Coyote’s attention was still on Phoenix, but the men answered his question.
“Payback.”
“Fanboy.”
The smile on Phoenix’s face changed into something that could only be described as playful affection as she stared at Coyote for a moment.
“Hey, Coyote.”
“Hey.” Her warm expression was reciprocated by him.
“Who’s he?”
“Who’s who?”
The conversation came to a halt, and as Bob brushed some of the salt from the almonds off his pants, he suspected that she might have been talking about him. He looked up.
His suspicions were confirmed. All eyes were on him.
“When did you get in?” Coyote demanded.
“Oh,” Bob tried to hide his mortified expression. “I-I’ve been here the whole time.”
“The man’s a stealth pilot.” Hangman had already lost interest in him and turned back to the others. “Literally.”
“Weapons system officer, actually.” He blurted out, and when he finished he realised that Hangman was joking. It was too late. He had spoken.
“With no sense of humour.” He concluded, any lingering curiosity gone as he shoved the pool cue to Phoenix and left to buy more beer.
Bob wanted to kick himself. He was panicking under the sudden attention, and he didn’t like to be in the midst of it. Act natural, he thought. You’re going to have to work with them on this new mission.
“What do they call you?” She asked.
“Bob.”
“No,” Payback said. “Your callsign.”
“Uh,” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “B-Bob.”
It felt like he had passed all the pilot exams and failed the socialising section. Payback scoffed, going to find a seat, and Coyote turned back to the pool table. But this seemed to reignite Phoenix’s interest as her eyes lit up and she pointed at him.
“Bob Floyd.” It was not a question, but he nodded anyway. “You’re my new backseater? From Lemore?”
Bob wasn’t sure how she knew that, because he hadn’t been told which pilot he had been assigned to. This was not an unpleasant revelation to him though. In fact, it was the best thing to happen to him right now.
“Looks like it. Yeah.” He smiled, feeling a little reassured that being called back to Top Gun was not going to be an unfolding disaster. Both of the shorter pilots inspected him one final time with amused grins before Phoenix handed him the cue.
“Nine-ball, Bob.” She said. He must’ve looked reluctant, because she added, “Rack ‘em.”
“O-Okay.” He laughed nervously.
Bob weighed the pool cue in his right hand, and took a few steps towards the table. Phoenix took the other pool cue and drifted next to Payback, taking her time to scrutinise every detail on the table. As Bob waited for his turn, Fanboy took the opportunity to step forward.
“So, Bob.” He said. “You any good at this?”
“I’ve played a couple of times.” Bob lied. He was a common patron at the Hard Deck, but he had never played at the pool table, simply because it was never his place to be.
“I haven’t heard of you before. When’d you graduate?”
“Um, 2015. I think?”
“That’s so long ago.” Fanboy laughed. “You must be old then. Are you as old as Payback though?”
“Ignore him, please.” Payback piped up from the other side of the table. “He considers anyone a month older than him to be a dinosaur.”
“You are a dinosaur, brother. You’ve gotta accept it before the meteors hit you.” He snickered, his attention turning back to Bob. “So, nerd to nerd talk-“
“What makes you think I’m a nerd?” He asked.
“Come on. Your glasses betray you.”
Bob didn’t mean to feel embarrassed for having minor vision impairment, but he subconsciously fidgeted with the clear frames sitting on his nose.
“What do you like to consume, fellow filthy consumer?” Fanboy gently elbowed him. “Tell me your deepest darkest obsessions.”
“… Star Wars. It inspired me to fly.”
“Oh, you’re digging deep for that one!”
“The recent movies aren’t very good.” Bob admitted.
“No. Well, yes. You’re right. But it’s not the worst thing to find inspiration to fly.”
“What was your inspiration? Or one of them?”
“… Gundam Seed.” Fanboy saw his face turn to confusion and stammered. “I-It’s about giant robots fighting in, uh, space.“
“It’s a stupid anime.” Payback commented.
“It’s not stupid!”
“And that’s Fanboy for you.” Phoenix said disinterestedly, her eyes looking for something in the crowd that was beginning to drip into the entrance of the Hard Deck. It didn’t take long for her to find it. “Bradshaw! Is that you?”
Bob watched a young man swagger towards the pool table. He wasn’t wearing any uniform. Instead, the man wore a beige patterned shirt over a filthy white tank top, giving a sneak peek of his muscles underneath. When he got closer to the table, he could see bumpy scars on the man’s face, where a moustache sat on top of his lips. Overall, he had a tough and rugged appearance.
“Hey.” Bradshaw did a quick nod of acknowledgement to everyone and stopped behind Phoenix.
“This is how I find out you’re stateside?” She asked, bending down and aiming with the cue stick.
“Yeah,” He slid off his sunglasses and folded them up to hang it on his collar. “I just thought I’d surprise you.”
Phoenix swung the stick, unnecessarily flinging it back first and hitting Bradshaw right in the stomach. A loud and pained grunt left his mouth and he almost fell to his knees, but he managed to hold himself up. She spun around to face him, crossing her arms with a satisfied smirk.
“I guess I surprised you back.” She said. Bradshaw didn’t look angry or upset, instead shooting her a smile.
“It’s good to see you.” He wheezed out as he clutched onto his stomach with one arm for dear life.
“Good to see you too.” Phoenix looked triumphant as he used his other hand to pat her on the arm. He straightened up and moved to the centre of the table. He noticed a stranger.
“Who’s this then?” Bradshaw inspected Bob from head to toe with meticulous, squinted eyes, making him feel vulnerable like a prey animal in the open, waiting for a predator to pounce at him.
“That right there is Bob Floyd.” Phoenix sounded proud introducing him. His heart skipped a beat. “My new backseater.”
“Oh, well congrats.” He said to her before turning to him. “You better watch yourself. She might not look the part, but she’s a bit of a wild one.”
“Please. I am not wild.” She scoffed. “Bob, your turn.”
Bob looked down at the stick in his hands, and then at the balls on the table. There was no getting out of this now. He wasn’t about to admit that he didn’t know how to play. He just watched Hangman play, so holding it like he did, Bob lowered himself so his eye was level with the table. He felt Fanboy lower himself too, anticipating his play.
“Bradshaw. As I live and breathe.”
Bob’s hands became empty. He looked down at them, and then to his right. Walking past him, Hangman had taken the stick out of his hands without even batting an eye. A normal person would protest. But he just gritted his teeth and straightened back up, Fanboy giving him a pitiful pat.
Even Coyote seemed to feel bad for him, offering a beer. Bob respectfully declined. He was not a big fan of alcohol, especially the abrasive and intense taste of beer. Fanboy took it instead.
“Gonna need this.” He joked. At least Bob thought he was, but he was about to find out he was not.
“Hangman.” The cordial tone Rooster had before had dripped ice cold. “You look… good.”
“Well, I am good, Rooster. I’m very good. In fact,” Hangman leaned down for just a few seconds and thrusted the cue stick with ease. Two balls flew into holes. “I’m too good to be true.”
Bob could not believe this man. The others were equally unamused, perhaps except Coyote, who had a mischievous smirk. On the other hand, Phoenix slightly shook her head at Rooster, asking him not to engage with Hangman. Sensing the atmosphere growing sour, Payback stepped in.
“So…” He stretched out the ‘o’ sound. “Anyone know what this special detachment is all about?”
“No. A mission’s a mission. They don’t confront me.” Hangman said. He circled the pool table like a shark, his eyes fixed on the remaining balls on the table. “What I wanna know: who’s gonna be team leader?”
He bent down. With the swift thrust of the pool stick, the cue ball slammed into several coloured ones. Bouncing off of them one by one, they sank into the table pockets.
“And which one of y’all has what it takes, to follow me?”
Bob held back his laughter, although it was not a humorous one. He had met many assholes, and hell, even flew with a large number of them. It was the Navy after all. But he had never met one quite as able to show off as well as Hangman did. It was almost impressive, if he didn’t make Bob’s blood boil. He saw the cogs in Rooster’s brain turn with his head down. Rooster looked back up.
“Hangman,” He started. “The only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.”
Fanboy hooted next to Bob, but brought his beer to his mouth to hold it back as quickly as possible. Coyote shot him a criticising scowl. No one else found it as hilarious as he did. Especially Hangman. He frowned, somehow still with a stupid smirk on his face, and strided towards Rooster. He gave Phoenix a cheeky glance as he slid past her. She stared back, not of surprise, but full of disappointment.
Hangman stopped in front of Rooster, and even though he was shorter, Bob felt that the two were equals. Face to face. The buoyant space of the bar was not reaching the pool table. Everyone was tense. Their feet were frozen to the ground.
“Well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel.” He loosened his grip on the pool cue, and the tip dropped to the ground with a solid thud. “But that’s just you, aint it, Rooster?”
No response. Slow Ride was belting from the jukebox in the Hard Deck. The repeating of the lyrics “slow ride, take it easy” only intensified the tension between the two men.
Hangman leaned closer.
“You’re snug on that perch.” It was hushed, his Texan drawl emphasised. “Waiting for just the right moment… that never comes?”
Rooster kept his mouth shut with a forced smile, his jaw out and looking ready to throw a punch. But he didn’t. And Hangman knew he wouldn’t.
“I love this song.” Achieving what he set out to do, he departed from the table, leaving Rooster steaming by himself. Phoenix found that it was safe to step back out.
“Well, he hasn’t changed.” She sighed.
“Nope. Sure hasn’t.” He was still staring at where Hangman had left, and slowly started heading towards that direction. Hearing those words, Bob was reminded he didn’t belong in this group. He didn’t know any of them, and they didn’t know him.
“Check it out.” Fanboy snapped him out of his descent back into his hole. He was pointing at the entrance of the Hard Deck, where dozens upon dozens of patrons were filling in with the rush hour. “More patches.”
“That’s Harvard, Yale, Omaha.” Payback named each of them, none of which Bob recognised. More underlings. “Shit, that’s Fritz.”
“What the hell kind of mission is this?” Fanboy asked sternly, the jokester attitude he had before no longer present.
“That’s not the question we should be asking.” Phoenix argued, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. She looked away at the new group of pilots walking towards them with a pensive expression.
“Everyone here is the best that there is.” She continued. “Who the hell are they gonna get to teach us?”
The pilots stood still, pondering about Phoenix’s uncertainty. Bob was never close with his instructors at Top Gun, and he doubted Admiral Simpson was going to be their instructor for this mission. He didn’t even think Bates would do it.
The new arrival of Top Gun graduates gathered around the pool table, breaking the silence. They greeted each other with amicability, and Hangman returned from wherever he went to find a way to boast about himself again.
It was as if Bob had disappeared into thin air. No longer existing. As routine, he slid away from everyone and sat down on a chair. He felt comfortable. This is where he was supposed to be, he thought grimly. A speck of dust. Forgotten in the far corner of a little closet. Glamorous coats blocking the light from ever reaching it.
Bob clasped his hands together, feeling the world around him begin to fade. The loud chattering. The booming of the music box. It was diminishing into white noise.
“Bob!”
A hand landed on his shoulder. He jumped out of skin.
“Whoa, sorry.” It was Fanboy. He looked worried. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“N-No.” Bob could hear his voice shaking and cleared his throat. “I just zoned out for a second.”
“Oh, ok.” Fanboy’s jovial grin returned and nodded at the pilots behind them. “You don’t know any of them?”
“Um, no.” He replied. “Must all be younger.”
“You, must be older than you look.”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
Fanboy gasped and put a hand on his chest, steadying himself from the surprise on his face.
“What?” He exclaimed. “You’re the same age as me! I only graduated two years ago, which means you graduated when you were-“
“Twenty-two years old.” Bob finished his sentence. “Yeah, I’ve been flying for a while.”
“Dude. You are on another level!” Fanboy laughed and slapped him on the shoulder a little too hard. “Fucking respect! Should I call you senpai?”
Bob couldn’t help but laugh with him, feeling bashful from the praise. It felt nice that someone was acknowledging his skill, especially from fellow WSO. Sure he was humble. But everyone needs a compliment once in a while.
The music in the Hard Deck died, and was met with booing from the entire bar. Complaints and swear words were being thrown around as Bob heard a jazzy piano tune begin to play, cutting through the voices. Phoenix looked behind her and grinned from ear to ear. She recognised it.
“Come on.” She said to no one in particular, and skipped into the crowd.
“Come on.” Fanboy repeated to Bob. “Let’s leave this rotten table.”
Without arguing, he stood up and followed. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the dirty look Hangman had as he threw his hands up, clearly insulted at the fact his favourite song had been turned off and people were leaving him.
“You ever heard Rooster sing?” Payback asked behind Bob. It took him a second to realise he was directing this question at him.
“Uh, no. I didn’t know he could sing.” He didn’t know who Rooster was until a couple of minutes ago.
“You’re going to love it.” He herded Bob forward, where Rooster was sitting at a piano that he had never seen anyone play in the bar. With his sunglasses back on, his fingers glided over the keys as smooth as butter. Phoenix put her hand on his shoulder, sending some encouraging words at him.
Bob leaned against a pillar as Rooster began to sing. His voice was rough but strong, and he played the piano so vigorously that he was scared it might break. Rooster was able to bring every patron of the Hard Deck to his mercy and sing along. Bob wasn’t familiar with the song, but his performance was so powerfully captivating that he started swaying to the beat.
Fanboy banged the top of the piano on beat with Rooster, while the serious impression Bob had of Phoenix had all but disappeared as she screamed out the lyrics on the top of her lungs. In fact, she seemed like one of the few people who actually knew most of the song.
“Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!” He heard himself shout with the entire bar. Payback held up the tip of his beer to Bob’s mouth as if it was a microphone, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
As Rooster concluded his little concert, Bob applauded as the crowd chanted his name over and over again. Rooster busted out some absurd dance moves in rhythm with the chanting as Phoenix joined in at the side. Bob even saw the other candidates of their mission at the pool table cheer him on, who pushed up his sunglasses and looked satisfied.
Maybe this detachment won’t be a complete nightmare.