Chapter Text
Bob lays down on his Mama’s life that it was only supposed to be a one time situation—a cop out so Hangman’s dignity remains in tact and Bob didn’t have to deal with seeing the cockiest man he knows alive in discomfort, cause that itself was disconcerting to Bob’s entire foundational belief of Hangman’s carefully crafted asshole-ry.
Naturally, the world sets out to remind him it has the humor of a child, and it is not a one time thing at all.
…
They’re in a Target of all places—near base and close to rush hour, when everyones just getting off of work and cramming in last minute grocery runs—on a mission to find Phoenix the snacks she’d demanded for, because in her words, she’d have rather let the birds take her into a mountain than be forced to suffer med-bay food a moments longer.
Bob thinks she’s being a little dramatic—he was in the same plane as her and all, but unlike her, he didn’t eject onto a cactus and had to deal with nurses plucking individual pins out of her shoulder while Hangman and Coyote snicker themselves hoarse.
Rooster, who’s designated himself as Phoenix’s babysitter for the time being (since absolutely no one trusts Phoenix not to sneak out of the hospital room in the middle of the night like they’ve learned she makes a stubborn routine out of doing), had promptly kicked Hangman and him out of the door, telling them under no certain terms would he be hearing her complain about the food for another hour, so they better come back with her favorite brand of chips, or Rooster will live up to his callsign and make their morning’s hell.
And Bob—who’s not a morning person and knows damn well how annoying Rooster can be with his obsession for having an alarm set for just about nearly every occasion—is not fucking dealing with that. So he puts on his big boy pants, throws himself into the passenger seat of Hangman’s truck, and goes to buy a girl her damn chips.
He even listens to Hangman’s terrible selection of pop music the whole time.
Which leads him to standing in front of the Pringles section in the snack aisle, realizing he’s never seen Phoenix eat any variety of chips in their short, but well-experienced time flying million dollar aircraft machines together.
It’s as he’s squinting dubiously at the pizza flavored can when his hears it—the unmistakable sound of Hangman’s slow, easy drawl, except there’s none of the usual cockiness that cloaks him like a devoted lover to it. If anything, Bob swears there’s a hint of panic creeping in to what otherwise would have been his signature, and down-right grating, self-assured tone.
He follows the source of the frankly unnerving sound. He’s somewhat able to make out Hangman’s form, frozen a couple distance down the aisle. There’s a shopping basket clutched in his right hand, while the other—
He might have lost his glasses in the 2nd birdstrike of his life (Fritz has taken to calling them the cursed flight hazard duo), but Bob doesn’t need superior eyesight to see how Jake’s hand is curled into a tight fist at his side. That itself has him frowning warily, turning himself toward the scene unfolding before him. Hangman’s looking at something to the left of him, head angled downwards, and Bob squints, trying to—
It’s a women—a small one. He’s barely able to see her, with how Hangman’s height towers over her and the angle that he’s working with, but she’s a pretty thing—all brown curls and soft doe eyes. Nothing about her inherently screams dangerous. Not anything, from what he could tell, to warrant Hangman’s worries.
But Bob hasn’t made it this far into the Navy as a WSO to not be able to read beyond the initial scan. He clocks in on the stiff line of Hangman’s shoulders and knows there’s more to this.
“Wow,” the woman says, a small, but openly pleased smile slowly spreading across her red tinted lips. “It really is you.”
He can’t tell what kind of expression Hangman’s making, but he bet it can’t be too friendly, with how hard and uninvitingly flat his response comes out.
“Jadie. Been a while, huh?”
“Whose fault is that?” Jadie replies. She takes a step closer to Hangman, and with that, Bob’s view of her. Only the tip of her head peaks up from Bob’s vantage point. “Still in the Navy, I bet.”
“What, you thought a little ol’ breakup during Valentines Day was going to make me quit? You give yourself too much credit, sweetie.”
Oh. Jesus. So it’s that kind of deal.
Did he walk straight into one of those rom-coms his Mama was obsessed with watching?
Bob gets the feeling he should not be hearing any of this right now.
It’s fascinating to see how Jadie’s earlier friendliness rapidly vanishes with a switch of a button the instant a nasty little laugh escapes her. “Oh, I don’t know ‘bout that, Jake. Something must have kept you captivated, or else you wouldn’t have exploded the way you did. Beautifully, too,” she emphasizes, shots firing with every pointed word.
It makes the skin at the base of Bob’s neck crawl uncomfortably, and he’s not even on the receiving end of it.
“How are you doing nowadays, hm? Found anyone willing to deal with your issues yet?” A cruel snicker follows. “Or are you still butt hurt about coming home to me and another man?”
Right. Okay. Bob’s only known Jadie for a minute and a half, but he knows with every fiber of his being she’s absolute scum and deserves a tone or two locked on her. Maybe three, if he could get away with the overkill.
If there’s one thing Bob hates (amongst a carefully curated list of the worst things on planet Earth), it’s cheaters. Any sort of them. Test takers, game players, a scumbag father who made his mother cry too often in the night while his older brother shielded his ears from their screaming fights. Cheaters can eat shit, Bob decided years ago. And Jadie’s landed herself a nice, comfortable spot on the podium of things Bob can’t stand for.
That’s his excuse—his sole, completely reasonable excuse—for closing the short distance between him and the duo having their little standoff, sliding his arm down the warm solid muscle of Hangman’s flank, and sending a short prayer to the man up in the clouds for him to not get punched for this possibly suicidal idea.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bob starts, letting the old southern twang that only raises on occasion draw out his vowels. If it’s even possible, Hangman’s body becomes more tense than it already was. Bob’s concerned with how he hasn’t gotten a cramp at this point.
He soldiers on regardless—he has a role to act, and he’s committed, damn it. He leans down a little, until his chin is brushing the soft cotton of Hangman’s shirt and the tip of his nose is shying the edge of a defined jaw, glad his glasses weren’t here to get in the way. “I know Nat said she wanted Pringles, but there’s, like, fifty different versions and I don’t know which one will make her less inclined to bite my head off if I presented it to her. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”
There’s a brief, single moment, where Bob life flashes before him and he thinks Hangman’s going to shove him off of him and demand to know what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.
But his worries are eased. Hangman’s sharp—they have to be, in their line of work, where one mishap could mean the possible death of another or themselves. Hangman reads in-between the lines faster than when the lines were laid to begin with, pinning sea green eyes widening just the slightest, before they smoothen out and glint in pure humor. It’s a blink from one second to the next, but that’s all it takes for him.
And suddenly, he’s got the whole weight of Hangman pressing back against his front, heating him up from top to toe. Hangman only has to turn his head a little to face him, their temples skimming, messy hair from when they’ve just left training in the fiasco of Phoenix’s stunt with the cactus tickling each other’s ears. Bob valiantly shoves the smell of him—something clean and pungent, with the slightest hint of smoke—out of his mind, right as Hangman’s gaze filters over him.
“Did you see a pizza flavored one?” Hangman asks—casual, light-hearted, as if it’s normal to have Bob caging him in with his arms on a Thursday afternoon.
Bob momentarily forgets the little shit-show they’re directing now that he knows Hangman’s not going to murder him, because no way is that Phoenix’s preferable taste of chips. He can’t be co-piloting with a pizza flavored Pringles lover. He can’t.
“I think Nat will drop me out of our plane herself if I bought her that.”
He’s never seen Hangman’s smirk up close as much as it is now. Somehow, it’s even more cocky.
“Which is totally why you should do it.”
His sigh is not entirely faked as he breathes it out. “You’ll be the death of me, you know that?”
Hangman winks. “No, think that’ll be Nat’s pleasure, not mine.”
Now’s a good time as any, right?
He roll his eyes, smiling as he looks away so that he’s not nose to nose with Hangman—not directly, anyway—and nails it when he feigns noticing Jadie for the first time since he’s approached Hangman pretty well, if he does say so himself. The gobsmacked look plastered across Jadie’s face is almost as satisfying as the day Bob got his acceptance letter into the academy.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He detaches himself from Hangman, but only about half an inch—just so they’re side by side, rather than glued front to back. He keeps an arm wrapped around Hangman’s waist and lets their shoulders brush. Jadie swallows down her sour expression quickly, but not before Bob sees how she’s glaring daggers at the space—or lack of it—between them. They say kill them with kindness (and maybe a little bit of pettiness), so Bob throws on his most polite and inviting smile he’s got in the back of his arsenal. “Was I interrupting something? This a friend of yours, sweetheart?”
Jadie’s mouth parts, no doubt wanting to burst the illusion of happy in-love couple to pieces with a sharpened pitchfork by mentioning that she used to date Hangman—but Hangman’s faster, leaving people in the dust, as always.
“Actually, sweet thing—” He can’t help flushing a little at the endearment. Hangman’s eyes narrow at his reddening ears, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt they’ll be revisiting this later. Hangman’s not exactly known for letting things go. For now, Hangman leans into his side and gestures at Jadie. “This is Jadie. She and I go back to high-school.”
Alright. There’s definitely much more history between the two than Bob’s warranted—nor does he want or need—to know.
He’s already too involved as it is.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jadie,” he says anyway. There’s absolutely no going back from this. “I’m Robert.”
“My partner,” Hangman tacks on, satisfaction rolling off his tongue.
Bob will give it to Jadie—she’s a quick one, mustering up an eager smile even when Bob can feel her immediate distain from a mile away. He’s quite used to dealing with being on the other end of dislike—you don’t get through flight school quiet, at the top of your class, and not garner some sort of repertoire of hate. But it’s usually not because of his relationship with Jake Seresin developed all in the span of five minutes.
“You’re tellin’ me you’ve roped someone into dating you, Jake?” Jadie teases, though it falls short to him. She looks a little too vindictive for a past friend meeting a significant other for the first time in a long while. “Poor thing must have a lot on his hands, managing you.”
Wow. Bob’s only heard this much passive aggressiveness when he went home on rare leaves for family gatherings, and Mama was duking it out with the in-laws over who’s lasagna was the better contender. He kind of pities Hangman now. He doesn’t want to imagine the fallout of the break up that left them in bad terms. Hangman’s already frowning, an unpleased crease to his brow Bob’s only ever seen—well, never.
Hangman doesn’t have tells—not ones Bob could recognize within the split look he chances over to him. He’s a carefully molded persona, built up from years of learning, flying, being the best at what he does. And there’s no doubt that Hangman’s the best, record holder or confirmed kills regardless. Not even when he was barking into Rooster’s face, crooning out insults to tick off the time bomb that was the conflicting past, did Bob think he’s ever lost his composure. Maybe for a moment, when Maverick went down and they all wondered if they just lost one of the best mentors their class had the honor to learn from—but even then, he’d face the full brunt of possibilities with an endless stream of confidence Bob both admires and envy.
Being confronted by Jadie knocked him off the pedestal he’d planted his roots in, and God does it bother Bob. Hangman’s not allowed to be shaken from a woman with a vendetta; he could be an annoying piece of work to deal with, but Bob would rather endure an overly self-assured Hangman over an uncertain one any day.
So he plays it up—ducks his head down to Hangman’s shoulder again, the way his older brother always said made the girls back home stutter in front of him, and smiles shyly. A perfect appearance of bashfulness.
“I don’t know about that,” he says softly—lovingly. “Waking up next to him ain’t too bad.”
He feels more than he hears the sharp inhale of breathe Hangman takes, firm muscles under his cheek rising and falling as quickly as it snuck up on him. He worries he’s overstepped something, crossed over the threshold too soon or too boldly.
The large hand that leaves a burning trail of warmth from the small of his back to the base of his neck stops him from teetering away in a round of questioning—grounds him to the person holding him up and peering down at him with something close to wonder.
“Ah, darlin’, you’re making me blush,” Hangman coos.
If Jadie gets any redder, Bob’s concerned she’ll pop. He won’t lie—he kinda wants to see that happen. Never let it be said Bob didn’t like the drama. He was raised on rom-coms.
Except he sort of inserted himself into the drama this time and made a production out of it—in the middle of a grocery aisle, no less. He needs to cut this short before the embarrassment creeps in and he’ll stay up all night anxiously running over every single one of his actions and what it reflects about him.
“Sweetheart, I know you’re catching up with Jadie and all… ” Bob trails off, smiling apologetically.
Hangman jerks his head in quick realization. “Right, right. Got people waiting for us. I’ll be right with you. Jadie—” He sends her a grin full of teeth. “Nice meeting you again. Good luck with… whatever you’re doing, but Robert and I need to skedaddle now. See ya ‘round, yeah?”
Bob couldn’t have been more relieved. He gets the feeling Hangman’s in the same boat, since the phony smile drops as soon as they’re spinning on their heels and not running—just walking very, very fast—down the aisle to get as far away from Jadie as possible. He ducks into the nearest aisle not overrun with haggard parents trying to find their kids favorite snacks, which ends up being the toiletries, and sighs his relief in front of the laundry detergents.
It’s only when he feels something shift under his hand does he realize he’s somehow migrated from Hangman’s waist to his palms, their fingers loosely interlocked. Flushing, Bob gently lets go.
Hangman’s leaning against a broomstick, looking like he’d just braved a storm with two failed engines and an empty tank of fuel. He meets Bob’s eyes squarely, tongue flicking the inside of his cheek like he’s missing his toothpick.
“So, Bobby Boy.”
Bob exhales heavily, the past few minutes dawning on him with iron-clad strength. “Yeah, I know.”
Hangman smirks, and it looks ten times more authentic than the one he was giving Jadie. Bob’s glad at least that’s back in working order, if he was finding amusement in Bob’s mortification. “Didn’t realize you had such deep, hidden feelings for me, baby on board.”
“Don’t worry,” Bob states dryly. “They’re all but gone now.”
“Breakin’ up with me already? Ouch. After I just rubbed it in Jadie’s face how I found a fine new partner, too,” Hangman grins.
The reminder of what he’d done—what he insinuated between then—has his guts squirming. “You’re not—I didn’t make you uncomfortable, or anything, right? I know I sort of just rushed in there—”
“Bob,” Hangman interrupts, his grin turning into a teasing smile. “You think I’d have stayed there in your honor-protecting arms if I was uncomfortable?”
Relieved, Bob shakes his head no. “Guess not. But I didn’t wanna assume stuff of you. Or say nothin’ that would offend you.”
“Trust me, darlin’.” There’s no reason for the endearment sound as smooth as it does coming out of Hangman’s mouth. “You can come in and save me anytime you’d like. Won’t leave you stumbling—not for this, at least.”
He can’t help laughing, part of it because he’s glad Hangman somewhat appreciated what he did, and the other part largely because he can’t believe hasn’t been punched by now.
“We can never let anyone know about this, understand? None of the others will ever let me live it down if it gets out.”
Hangman winks. “I won’t talk if you don’t.”
“Deal,” Bob agrees quickly, glad that Hangman hadn’t asked any questions he couldn’t evade. Burying this seems like the best solution possible.
And that’s that. One highly eventful day comes to an end. Hangman and Bob trudge it all the way back to Hangman’s Ford, which is the same moment Bob realizes they didn’t get a single snack for Phoenix and are at threat of immediate evisceration on the spot if they show up empty handed. Hangman makes the brilliant suggestion to go to the Walmart on the other side of town. Bob only agrees to go if doesn’t have to listen to another Mariah Carey song on the way there.
Hangman pouts the whole time he steers, but Bob doesn’t care. A win’s a win.
…
Bob didn’t expect anything to change after their impromptu display of sickeningly love. They’d gone back to base with a bag of food in hand and Hangman hadn’t acted any different, kicking back in the sofa tucked in the corner of the hospital room and placing his boots on Phoenix’s bed, much to her irritation.
Sometimes, Bob feels a heavy gaze settle across his shoulders as he’s overhearing the coms in the rec room, but he’s only ever found Hangman wiggling his brows at him, a toothpick in it’s rightful place between his teeth. The ongoings of their squadron continues, Maverick every now and then doing something absolutely bat-shit insane, and the rest of them copying him not even a week later because they’re faithful pupils.
It’s an easy kind of comfort that Bob feels every time he wakes up and step into his khakis. He does’t quite know when North Island’s become such a safe haven for him to come home to. The last time he was at TOP GUN, he was watching his back warily, never knowing if another pilot was about to give him shit just because he had the highest points wracked in the air and he didn’t have the ego of a damn mountain to show it off.
Then there’s the beloved ritual of going to the Hard Deck, which is basically an extension of their base now as much as the sky is to their ragtag group of fighter pilots. It’s where he finds himself now, graciously accepting the soda can Payback brings over to him, smiling at the outraged expression on his face when Phoenix tells him Coyote sunk another ball.
“Man, come on,” Payback whines, gravitating toward them. “Hangman, catch up already! I am not losing another twenty tonight.”
Halo snickers. “That’s what you get for thinking you could get tone on Maverick today. What, the thirty other times didn’t spell out your odds well enough?”
“Fuck you very much, too, Halo.”
Bob laughs with the others, shaking his head when Payback all but dances happily as Hangman gives him his much wanted point.
He’s taking a sip of his Sprite when it happens. The busy crowd of a Saturday night parts, and the entrance way brings in a string of more interlopers. Most of them are civilians, a couple colleagues Bob recognizes from base, and—
He swallows his drink roughly, nearly choking as it went down in a painful gulp.
Shit.
That is not Jadie approaching the bar, smiling at Penny sweetly. That is not.
Hangman scores again, with a loud cheer and a raise of his stick. Coyote slaps him on his shoulder and flips Phoenix off, who’s glaring as she digs into her pockets for her wallet, struggling only a tiny bit with the cast still wrapped around her wrist, to hand a whooping Payback his ever-so desired cash. Their antics garner quite a bit of looks their way—not helpful by their uniform, cause out of all of them, it’s only Rooster who has a deep hatred for anything but his Hawaiian shirts and jeans—but its Jadie he’s watching, all the way from his perch on the bar stool, that he keeps his sharp gaze on.
And because he’s watching, he sees the exact moment her eyes bounce over, shining with motive.
Bob’s already depositing his drink onto a nearby surface before Jadie’s even made her first step toward them.
He’ll give it to Hangman—he plays it cool. Doesn’t so much as startle or flinch when Bob all but throws himself at him, invading his space and getting a whiff of the clean smell of soap after a quick shower in the locker room. Doesn’t even glance around at their confused entourage, watching them with bewilderment—just locks his eyes on Bob, like they’re thousands of feet in the air and there’s only one mission parameter to succeed at. All Bob gets is a barely there tilt of his head and a questioning flicker in pretty greens.
And that’s all the confirmation needed for him. In the back of his racing mind, Bob calculates. The bar’s spacious, but it would only take Jadie less than thirty seconds to get to them. If he times it right, he thinks absently, one arm already finding it’s way around Hangman’s sturdy waist, then really all he has to do is—
Look up through his glasses, settle on Jadie’s approaching self, and put on his grandma charming smile—the one with dimples and everything.
Somewhere behind Hangman, Coyote spots what Bob’s looking at, and curses under his breath.
Rooster squints at them dubiously. “Uh, Bob, what—”
Bombs away.
“Jadie!” Bob says, purposely loud and cheery. Hangman tenses minutely in Bob’s hold, and it’s only with the slightest squeeze of Bob’s hand does he manage to relax—slowly, the rise of his chest coming and falling as he takes a minute to himself. All the while, Bob watches Jadie come closer, peering cautiously at the fleet of Navy pilots dressed in their service khakis. “Wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”
It’s been two weeks since the escape to Target and subsequent retreat, but it hasn’t been long enough, in Bob’s opinion.
Jadie returns his open greeting with grace, hiding behind the same veneer of friendliness she’d shown him at the grocery store. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cherry red lips shiny with gloss.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about this place,” Jadie says, inevitably finding herself locking pinning eyes on Hangman. The edge of her smile cuts deeper than blades. “Knew I’d run into some Navy people here and there. Didn’t expect you to be apart of them, Robert.”
“Ah.” Bob makes himself smaller, laughing weakly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, darlin’,” Hangman interjects, staring at Jadie with a steely gaze. He places his pool stick on the table and moves himself, fabric dragging across Bob’s palm as he steps away. His stomach clenches when the line of heat at his side disappears, his hand dangling empty now that Hangman’s not in it.
His minute of concern is swept aside as soon as Hangman presses up against his back, chin leaned down and digging slightly in his shoulder blade. Arms plant themselves on the pool table, bracketing Bob in, and barring him from an escape. Bob’s eyes dip to a striped ball as a smooth, velvet voice speaks close to his ear.
“Robert here is a WSO in our squadron. Highly decorated,” Hangman finishes. Bob valiantly tries to sort himself out in the trouble he’s worked into, mouth dry now that he as six feet of aviator enclosing all around him.
Much as she attempts it, Jadie can’t hide the flash of plain irritation in the face of Hangman’s spite.
“And the rest of you all?” She gestures to the circle of onlookers, pointedly looking back at Hangman. “Jake, won’t you introduce me?”
Bob knows that’s the last thing Hangman wants to do, but he does it anyway—for the sake of their scheme, probably.
“Guys, this is Jadie Wills.” Hangman clicks his tongue, and it makes Bob wonder where his toothpick’s gone. “We were high-school—”
“Sweethearts,” Jadie interrupts. Bob sucks in a breath at the sheer gall of the woman in front of them. “We were high-school sweethearts—got it printed out in a yearbook and everything, didn’t we, Jake?”
“Oh, that old thing?” Coyote shares a look with Hangman, all purposeful and snarky. If Bob had to take a guess, he’d think Coyote knew exactly who Jadie was, as the closest one to Hangman from their academy days. “Sorry man, think I accidentally threw it out with all the other spring cleaning trash we had put away.”
“None taken,” Hangman drawls. Bob tames the furious heat in his cheeks as Hangman tucks his face deeper into his neck. His lips graze skin in the barest of brushes as he says boldly and deliberately, “Besides, only sweetheart I belong to now is Bobby.”
Bob’s well trained eyes scope their squadron, quickly cataloguing the different ranges of expressions everyone’s sporting—Phoenix’s quirked brow, Rooster’s gaping mouth, Fanboy’s frozen drink halfway to its intended destination—but in the end, he lands on Jadie, who’s trying to gain the upper hand again.
Bob doesn’t want to let her.
“Ah, come on,” Bob says before Jadie could speak, remembering to tack on his accent to drag it out like he did at Target. “You’re just tryin’ to get out of losing to me at pool.”
“Excuse you.” Hangman plays up the affront. “I’m the best player here.”
“And that’s exactly why we don’t let the two of you team up anymore.” Phoenix takes a sip of her beer, inquisitive eyes analyzing Jadie like she’s an assignment pinned out on a board. Bob almost feels bad for Jadie. If there’s one person Jadie’s chirpy personality (fake as it was) won’t work on, it’s Phoenix and her intolerance for bullshit. It makes Bob grin, because from all the flying he’s done with her, this is where she shines most—on ground, trusting, always backing him up before he even knows he needs it.
Phoenix is a smart, smart woman, and she’s watching Jadie with rightful suspicion. “You must be new around here if this is the first time we’ve seen you.”
In the face of another woman, Jadie brightens, as if sensing safety. “Thought I’d do a little exploring of San Diego, since I just moved in.”
Hangman’s hand spasms where it’s nearly breaking wood. “Moved in, huh?”
“That’s right,” Jadie says, annoyingly pleased. “You’re looking at the newest nurse at the local hospital. Guess you’ll be seeing me around if you ever need a quick fixer-upper—until you two are deployed somewhere else, I guess.”
Bob doubts that’s happening anytime soon, what with the Dagger Squadron becoming more and more known for their prolific success rates at the riskiest of assignments. TOP GUN’s program for Weapons Fighter School is still active, but they’re becoming as notorious as the school itself, Maverick at the leading front of it and the Navy backing it up for the sake of reputation.
Except that’s not something Jadie needs to know, nor something Bob’s willing to disclose to her. All she needs is the superficial stuff—the things that take little to no effort for Bob to do and just a smidgen of context to sweeten the deal.
He centers his balance to his feet and sinks into Hangman’s grounding hold, almost overheating with the warmth that flows between their tightly enclosed bodies.
“We’re stationed here for a while.” Bob deepens his smile, knowing it makes him seem all the more friendly and innocent. “I think you’ll be seeing us more, if you’re new around here. The Hard Deck’s known for its hospitality.”
(“Am I drunk?” Payback whispers faintly. Rooster frantically slaps his arm, quieting him.)
“Me and Bobby won’t be goin’ no where,” Hangman says. “Ain’t that right, darlin’?”
Bob shrugs lightly, not wanting to dislodge Hangman’s hold. “Depends. You gonna buy me another Sprite, or what?”
The smug spark in Hangman’s voice returns. “‘Bout time I made a little visit to our lady Penny. Be good and stay right here for me, won’t you?”
Hangman, ever the pusher, can’t resist dropping a light kiss to the smooth skin at Bob’s neck, and it sends a jolt down his spine, feeling the press of soft lips drag along his shoulder, before trailing off and away from him. Bob blinks at the blond, catching the gleaming smirk Hangman throws over at him, right as he makes his way toward the bar counter and essentially leaving Bob stranded on his own.
That smart asshole. He’s all but feeding Bob to the wolf.
Said wolf is watching Bob, polite smile nearly painful with the amount of effort it’s taking her to keep it on.
“You know, I never did quite catch the story on how you two got together.” Jadie slinks closer to the pool table, sensing an opportunity and making her use of it.
Bob bites back a grimace and glances away. “Ah, yeah. Grocery stores aren’t exactly great places for that stuff, you know?”
“I’d love to hear about it now.”
Of course you would.
“Not much to tell, honestly.” Bob’s working with limited intel—he doesn’t know when Jadie and Hangman’s… involvement with one another ended, and he’s not about to make up a lie that would ring alarm bells in Jadie’s head and let her see the light of lies Bob’s been blinding her with. Best strategy is to keep it vague and private. Something he’s confident he can manage. “It’s the Navy. We go wherever they tell us to go. Guess I got lucky when he was here too.”
Jadie hides a disbelieving snort with a pale, slim hand. The sound of it doesn't sit right with Bob.
“Lucky? With Jake? Isn’t that cute.”
“Yeah?” Rooster pipes up with, frowning at Jadie. He examines her closely, his form seemingly languid if not for the straining of his pulse in his neck and the protectiveness he lends out to every member of the squadron—including Hangman, whether he wants it or not. They’ve got a history full of banter and snark, but when it comes to outsiders and their prickly opinions, Bob thinks fondly, Rooster sets it aside and puffs up, like a mother hen crouched over her little chicks. “Why’s that, if you don’t mind telling us?”
“Because the last word I’d use to describe anything involving Jake Seresin is lucky,” Jadie teases, as if there’s a humorous bone in her body. “I remember in high-school what a wild card that one was. Always rushing into a fight and breaking faces. Sometimes hearts, too.” She looks at Bob. “You understand, don’t you, Bobby?”
He’s tempted to snap back at her, It’s Robert, actually, except he’s halted by the feel of Coyote’s hand on his shoulder, a firm and supportive squeeze quelling his rising irritation.
“Don’t think he could.” Coyote grins as smoothly as he lies. “By the time we were done with the academy and packed off to flight school, Jake’s calmed down a little. Rowdy fucker stopped picking fights left and right; probably cause everybody realized he kept winning them.”
“Not all of them,” Rooster mutters.
Coyote shrugs, undetered. “Alright. Maybe some of them were fifty-fifty.”
“Fellas, ain’t anybody ever tell y’all it’s a scornful habit to gossip ‘bout people?”
Bob’s startled, as much as he’s relieved, at the return of the familiar voice at his ear and the wall of warmth that envelopes him from behind. A breath leaves him as arms once more find their way to his side, a cool can of soda presented to him proudly. Hangman smirks around a toothpick dug out of God knows where when Bob twists to face him.
“Sweetheart—” Bob lays it on thick, strong and slow. “Don’t you think it’s a little hypocritical to hear that from the biggest gossiper of them all?”
(“I’m definitely drunk.”
“Payback, man, shut the fuck up.”)
Bob isn’t the best to judge, but he thinks the laugh that bubbles up Hangman’s throat is the most authentic laugh he’s let out all night.
“I go off to brave the storm and get you your drink, and this is the thanks I get?”
“What, you want a kiss or something?”
Hangman’s teeth clenches on the end of his toothpick, eyes glinting as they consider Bob. “Depends, sweet thing. Are you offering?”
Bob shushes his drumming heart, only just managing to keep his composure tightly coiled within his prickling skin.
(“Oh my God,” Halo says.
“Holy shit,” Fanboy squeaks. “Fritz, what’s happening?”
“Hell if I know.”)
“Not with an audience,” Bob manages, smiling when Hangman huffs in complaint and theatrically slumps into him.
“That can easily be arranged,” Hangman murmurs.
“Not before I’ve had my turn at pool. Phoenix will kill me if I don’t get even with you.”
“Damn straight,” Phoenix says, pointing her stick at Bob. “Hop to it, back-seater. I want my twenty bucks back—with interest!”
Payback, snapping out of whatever daze he was in earlier, hastily intervenes. “Wait, no! Hangman, get him out of here!”
“You cheeky little shit,” Phoenix swears. “Hangman, don’t even think about—”
Bob will admit he’s a little distracted. Hangman flips his toothpick with an easy roll of the tip of his tongue, and it’s that he’s focusing on, right as Hangman hooks a finger through his belt loop and tugs.
He didn’t stand a chance.
There’s a myriad of voices behind them, Phoenix the loudest of them all. But Bob knows none of them are actually making an effort to chase them down. Hangman leads him through the crowd of bodies, until they’re out the doors and the night’s cool breeze washes over Bob’s skin, ruffling his hair. Hangman stops a step in front of him, swiveling around right as he’s got his breath steady from their impromptu escape.
“Really, darlin’,” he snickers. “We gotta stop meeting like this. Not healthy for a man’s heart.”
Bob doesn’t bother stifling his laugh—pointless, when it spills out of him like a handful of sand. “Guess the cats out of the bag, huh?”
“Yeah,” Hangman sighs. “Sorry about that, by the way.”
Bewildered, he tilts his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s weird coming from you. You don’t got anything to be sorry for, anyway.”
“No?” Hangman raises a brow, a thumb slanted to the Hard Deck they haven’t even gotten off the perimeter of. “Jadie showing up and ambushing our nightly outing not a good enough reason to apologize?”
“Shouldn’t be you apologizing, is what I mean.” Bob looks through the windows of the Hard Deck, and smiles as he sees Phoenix whacking a cackling Payback with the end of her much loved pool stick. Rooster winces in pain for the guy, since he’s not giving a care in the world, flapping his stack of cash like it’s a fan. Off to the side, Jadie stands, uncomfortable given that she doesn’t know a single person there and the target of her ire isn’t there to take her blows anymore. Bob feels immensely pleased at the turn of events. “I don’t gotta know the whole story to get that it’s not you stirring up trouble, Bagman.”
“Oh, so it’s Bagman now? What happened to sweetheart?”
“I’m off the clocks.” Bob shrugs. “You want me to keep playing lover boy, you better start paying.”
“Hm.” Hangman regards him closely, the corners of his eyes creasing. “How about ice cream from the finest place in town and the reason why we hate Jadie’s guts?”
Honestly. In the face of a grinning Hangman, blond hair free of gel and silhouette lined out by dim streetlights—who was Bob to resist? It’s basically a requirement in the Navy—you got to be a huge gossip to succeed.
…
“You’re lying,” Bob says around his vanilla cone. “Please tell me you’re lying.”
Hangman’s long legs nudge against his own under the park bench table they’ve stationed themselves at. He takes a scoop of strawberry cream from his cup, bringing it up to his amused smile.
A loud ding rings out from beneath the table, easily ignored by the both of them.
“Why? Don’t believe me?”
“Not at all,” Bob admits, unable to wrap his head around Jadie being the one to screw up a guy like Hangman. “You’re telling me she actually blamed you for her cheating… and you believed it?”
Hangman shrugs, seemingly unbothered—superficial surface letting everything slide off of him. But Bob likes to think he’s not dumb enough to fall for it; not after their shenanigans, in front of the rest of their squadron, no less.
“In her words, I wasn’t home enough. What did I expect?”
Bob frowns, displeased. “That’s stupid. I hope you know that. Completely stupid.”
Hangman leans his elbows on the rough top of the bench, peering at Bob curiously, like it’s almost fascinating for him to watch Bob be offended on his behalf. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Cause it ain’t nobody’s fault but hers,” Bob says with a kind of thoroughness that shows he means it. “It’s not like there was a gun to her head telling her to off with some other guy, Bagman.”
There’s no toothpick anymore; the tongue that rolls along the line of Hangman’s mouth clicks, his lips curling with the deepening of his smile. “Really, Bobby. Starting to think you’re a dashing hero, now, comin’ up all in my defense like that.”
Bob rolls his eyes, eating his ice-cream again. “You get on people’s nerves faster than you fly,” he says, ignoring the sleazy smirk Hangman sports at the nod to his skills, because of course he’ll take it as a compliment. “But I don’t think you’re so bad. Just a real headache most of the time.”
“Aww, Bobby. You’re just too sweet to me.”
Bob flicks his eyes over him—disheveled hair hanging over his forehead, cheeky grin flashing pure white teeth, lips shiny from his dessert—and snorts. “Yeah, you’re lookin’ real flattered right now.”
“You know, you keep surprising me,” Hangman says softly. “Being my beau once wasn’t enough for you?”
“Of course not. Had to come back a second time and really shove it in her face.”
“Why’s that, huh? Not that I don’t appreciate it.”
At his question, Bob shifts, dropping his gaze down to his ice cream cone. “I don’t like cheaters.”
Hangman quirks a brow. “Is that so? Any particular reason why?”
“Don’t think you want me to be spilling all my deep, dark secrets to you.” Bob laughs lightly. “Our ice creams will melt by then.”
“Hey, come on now. Least I could do after you’ve saved me from being eaten alive multiple times is lend a listening ear.” Hangman toasts him with his spoon. “Camaraderie, or whatever.”
Bob squints at him. “You don’t think that’s a little ironic, coming from you?”
Hangman pretends like he’s affronted with the very idea. “Excuse you. I’ve changed in my ways, thank you very much.”
“Didn’t you sit on Fritz’s when he was doing pushups yesterday?”
“A man can change a lot in twenty-four hours,” Hangman swears gravely.
“You’re so full of it.” Even so, Bob’s smiling. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?”
Hangman purses his lips. “Once or twice. It’s seems to be everyone’s favorite catchphrase for me.”
“Hey.” Bob knocks his knee against Hangman’s. “Better only be us calling you that. Pretty sure we all claim you as our resident asshole now.”
Hangman’s chin ducks, searching for something in his cup. “Yeah?” His head lifts again, sharp eyes roaming over Bob, making him flush and a pleased smile to etch itself on Hangman’s lips. “Does that make me your asshole?”
If he wasn’t already blushing, he’d definitely is now. Bob uses his ice cream cone as a distraction, the smooth, cooling flavor of vanilla coating his tongue and giving him a semblance of composure in the front of Hangman’s observation.
“As long as I’m not responsible for any of your actions,” Bob concedes.
Hangman cups his jaw in one hand, the other fiddling with his spoon. “So this is what it’s like to be a claimed man. Gotta say, it’s a different feeling.”
Another crisp ding cuts through the air. Hangman’s fingers twitch. Bob hides a smile with another bite of his cone.
Where the chiming had paused for a short while, now comes a barrage of them, one after the other. Hangman mutters a quiet curse, moving to wrestle his pocket with his unoccupied hand, reemerging with his smartphone. Bob only gets a split second look at the line of notifications filling up Hangman’s home screen of something big, white, and fluffy, before it’s slapped down on the bench table with a resounding bang.
Idly, Bob peers at him. “Gonna check that?”
Hangman shoots him a grimace. “How come you’re not being bombarded? What is this favoritism?”
“I invested in the Do Not Disturb function.” Bob nods at his phone. “What are they saying anyway?”
“Whole lotta demands, not enough answers.” Hangman throws him a measuring look. “Any idea what you want to tell them? Hiding it ain’t a viable option no more, darlin’.”
Bob ignores the nickname, busy with weighing the multitude of solutions in his head. Hangman wasn’t wrong—there’s no going back from what happened at the Hard Deck, and it’s not like shoving it all under the rug with the claim that everyone was drunk off their asses and seeing things would go over well with anyone in their unit. A bunch of hungry rapid fiends, the lot of them. Throw them a bone and they’ll gnaw it to dust, asking for leftovers not even a second later.
“Whatever you’re comfortable telling them,” Bob answers steadily—truthfully, because on this, he wants Hangman to know he’s serious on. “Not like the teasing will stop, either way.”
“I could threaten them,” Hangman says leisurely.
Bob laughs. “Yeah? With what? You’re as threatening as a little kitten, Bagman.” And he actually means it, too.
“Hey now,” Hangman frowns. He damn near pouts at Bob, lips jutting out in a comical display of hurt. “I’m plenty threatening. What’s that thing you said about me being an asshole again?”
“Being an asshole and being threatening are two different departments, neither of which your credentials will ever find qualified for the other.”
Hangman sniffs, miffed. “Ain’t you supposed to be sweet-talking me? Go back to calling me sweetheart, darlin’. I liked you better when you were swooning.”
“Alright, sweetheart,” Bob allows. “Why don’t we leave your chance to be all intimidating and threatening for another day, yeah? I’m sure your big brain can come up with something to tell all the folks draining your battery usage.”
Bob is man enough to admit it—the glint in Hangman’s eyes scares him a little, only because he knows whatever he has conspiring in his head will most definitely involve Bob in some matter, and will assuredly land him in trouble, as much as a bird striking out one of his engine would.
In the face of Bob’s wariness, Hangman only laughs, pretty gems for eyes gleaming. “Darlin’, have a little faith in me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Bob snorts. “Have at it, cowboy.”
…
daggers
payback
fellas
is it gay to embrace your brother in arms and call him darling?
fritz
not sure
gonna have to request a meeting with the council for this
REQUESTING COUNCIL MEMBERS
phoenix
all accounted for
i say gay
fellow council members?
halo
i’m gonna agree
very fucking gay of them indeed
fanboy
president of the council of gays here
the council would like to remind people that assuming one another’s relationships off of heteronormative standards is a big no no and severely frowned upon
that being said
y'all fuckers GAY
coyote
i don’t know guys
they were normal and very straight in my eyes
harvard
were your eyes accidentally poked out with a pool stick while you were there?
or are we just spieling out lies now?
yale
i do believe he’s a spitting liar
almost as much as judith was polluting the air with
joonie
jady
whatever her name was
phoenix
she was shady as fuck
halo
my bitch meter was dinging like crazy
rooster
HANGMAN OPEN UP DUMB FUCK
WHATD YOU DO TO BOB
payback
good lord man
cool it with the caps lock
fanboy
no don’t cool it
BAGMAN
FESS UP
IF YOU SPIKED HIS DRINK AND MADE HIM DRUNK OR SOMETHIN IM TELLING MAV
YOU KNOW HES HIS FAVORITE
halo
omg do it
pls
i wanna see this
phoenix
i can already see the betting pool
coyote
anybody ever tell you you got a gambling problem?
phoenix
🥰🔪
not at all
rooster
HANGMAN
OPEN YOUR PHONE U FUCKER
IM SERIOUS
phoenix
you better be taking care of my backseater
wherever you took him
rooster
IM TEXTING MAV
omaha
what the hell did i miss while i was in the bathroom
what’d hangman do???
harvard
he called bob darling
bob called him sweetheart
yale
then they ran off into the sunset with one another
omaha
HANGMAN WHAT DID YOU DO TO BOB
rooster
I TEXTED MAV
HANGMAN YOUR FUCKING SCREWED
hangman
*you’re 🤠
[Image Sent]
…
Later at his house, when Bob musters up the energy to scroll through every message he’s valiantly ignored and sees the image Hangman took before Bob could stop him, sent into the group chat—him wiping ice cream off his lips and glasses falling down the bridge of his nose, and Hangman’s hand in the corner holding up his spoon—he almost gags on his toothpaste laughing.
Yeah, alright. A picture's worth a thousand words, or whatever.
He likes Hangman’s message with a thumbs up and then tries to tell himself he’s not doomed as he’s rinsing his mouth.