Chapter 1: Something Sweet
Chapter Text
Something Sweet
As Bob takes in the scene around him, he inhales deeply, breathing in the smell of salt air and spilled beer. The seat that he’s found himself perched on is sticky, which, for the moment he’s definitely choosing to ignore. And the bar, it’s loud. Not just in volume, but in presence.
Bob surveys the cluster of pilots around him. Their bodies crash together like the waves on the beach – laughter rising and falling through the air in a chaotic thrumming rhythm. Somewhere behind him, Bob swears that he catches an argument about dogfights and a bet that had been started over a game of pool.
And Bob? He does his best to blend in.
But that’s the part that has never really been hard for him, the whole "blending in" thing.
You see, Bob Floyd comes from a small town in Indiana. It’s flat and quiet - exactly the type of place that someone both dreams to leave while also failing to ever imagine actually getting out of. And Bob never really thought about ever getting out. He always thought that he would be perfectly content being trapped in his small town, with the mournful gas station on the corner and the old drug store where you could still buy candy for a nickel down the street.
In Bob’s mind, he would have been satisfied with getting his master’s degree in something quiet and scholarly, maybe Physics or English. He would’ve felt fulfilled with a teaching career, wrapped in worn, soft cardigans, asking thoughtful questions about books and the universe, enriching young minds and probing them for deeper thoughts, deeper answers.
But, for Bob’s father, staying in Indiana made you a failure. You were either going places or going nowhere. And Bob? He had never been particularly interested in chasing something just to prove that he could.
Bob’s father use to say that a man was only worth what he could endure. He was only as strong as the stoic face that he put on, only as brave as the hurt that he could push past. Real strength came from grit – from shutting your mouth, showing up, and getting the job done without complaint. It definitely didn’t come from getting top marks in your honors physics courses or ending up on the top of the dean’s list at the end of every semester.
And luckily for Bob, his older brother Wyatt, took to their father’s expectations like a moth to a flame – complete and utter adoration even if it would burn him in the end. He was the golden boy with a square jaw and a booming laugh, always itching for a fight, always wanting to be the first to throw a punch even if he didn’t need to, always needing to have the last word even if it wasn’t worth it.
And Bob, he was the opposite. It wasn’t that he didn’t stare in wonder at his father’s flame, a quiet fascination. It was just, he wanted to learn more, he wanted to know if the fire was really worth it, if his only destiny was burning - being consumed by the flame, or he was able to do something greater, something better than spontaneous combustion.
So Bob was quiet, deliberate, much more interested in reading manuals and putting things together than decimating them and breaking them apart. He didn’t shine under their father’s gaze so much as shrink beneath it. But, when Wyatt enlisted, their father beamed. He gave him a firm pat on the back and muttered something that sounded like, “I’m proud of you,” and that, those words, lit a new type of spark, a new flame, that glowed dangerously in front of Bob, drawing him closer.
So, it was a simple decision when Bob followed in his brother’s footsteps a few years later. Not exactly because he wanted to serve, but because he wanted to hear his father say those words.
So yeah, Bob had learned how to blend in long before he ever put on a flight suit. And now, as he aimlessly swirled the cup of peanuts in his hand, he had assumed that he was doing an excellent job of doing just that. And sure, he was watching other pilots exchange quips and cues, but that’s all that he was doing, you know...watching.
That was, until five pairs of eyes met his hiding spot near the pool table. And he realized that among his watching, he had somehow now become the focal point of their conversation.
Bob met the intrigued eyes around him. And one pair in particular stuck out.
They were warm, brown, and belonging to the shortest man out of the bunch of aviators. A red lollipop hung from his lips like temptation on a cardboard stick and his mouth cracked into a beaming smile, a smile that was directed right in Bob’s direction. Bob finds himself gulping from his seat in the chair, eyes wide as he takes in the man’s tan skin and easy confidence. And then, a question is directed at him, from one of the other aviators that have gathered around Bob.
“When did you come in?” One of the other pilots ask, the tilt of his head teasing.
And Bob, who forces himself to tear his focus away from the shorter pilot to meet the eyes of the tall man who asked him the question, mutters out with complete sincerity, “Oh, uh, I’ve been here the whole time.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Bob swears that it’s so quiet that he can hear the sound of his own blinking behind his wide-rimmed glasses. And then, there’s a small laugh, a slight chuckle coming from the direction of the shorter pilot, the lollipop between his lips bobbing up and down with the sound.
Bob quirks his lips, his own smile widening on his face. He notices that when he makes eye contact with the laughing pilot, that the other man’s cheeks blush in response, transitioning to the same tinge as the sucker in his mouth.
Another chirp comes from near the pool table, this time, from a tall blonde with green eyes that seem to sparkle with mischief and something dangerous. “Well, the man’s a stealth pilot. Literally.”
And something in the way that he says it reminds Bob of his father – always finding a way to make Bob seem smaller, to make him stand out, but not in a good way, in a way that reminds him that he’s better at just blending in.
Bob feels the need to defend himself, to prove that he belongs at the bar, to prove that he belongs back at Top Gun, like he was chosen to train for this mission for a reason. His words come out sharper than he wants them to, “Weapons Systems Officer, actually.”
The blonde’s ego seems to deflate with Bob’s failure to rise to his level, to take the dangling bait of his humiliation.
So, he levels a dry, “Apparently, with no sense of humor” in Bob’s direction before walking away towards the bar and badgering the bartender for another round for himself and his fellow pilots.
As Bob watches the man walk away, something like pride warms in his chest. And when his eyes flash back to the tan pilot with the warm brown eyes, well his cheeks get a little warmer as well, especially with the bright smile that he’s still flashing in Bob’s direction.
Then, the woman next to the shorter pilot speaks, she’s commanding in a way that Bob knows means business. But her tone is still cordial, when she asks, “So, what do they call you?”
Her fingers fiddle with the cue chalk that she rubs against the top of the pool stick that she carries in her other hand. She’s clearly trying to look distracted, drawing her attention away from Bob, like she already knows that Bob is more likely to answer her question without her prying eyes on him.
And the thing is, she’s right. He responds with no hesitation.
“Bob”.
Only, his answer doesn’t seem to satisfy her. Or, as a matter of fact, seem to satisfy any of the pilots that have gathered around him. The man standing behind the shorter pilot opens his mouth to speak this time, his hand halfway to his mouth with his beer bottle.
“No, dude. Like, what’s your call sign.”
Now, it’s Bob’s turn to blush. He tucks his head down to his chest, suddenly becoming very interested in the plastic cup of peanuts that he still has tucked into his hand. Bob’s voice croaks slightly when he responds and he begins to wish that the dirty, sticky floor of the bar would swallow him whole.
“Uh…Bob.” He gulps with his answer, scanning the faces of the other pilots for their reactions.
The taller pilot who asked Bob the question just stares back at him, the bottle of beer reaching his lips as he takes a long sip. He reaches down to pat the smaller pilot at his side on the back, nudging him gently with an elbow. It’s an unspoken gesture, but the shorter pilot shrugs him off, his focus never leaving Bob.
And speaking of the shorter pilot, the one that Bob can’t seem to take his eyes off of, he just chuckles again. Except, Bob can tell that he’s not laughing at him – it’s more like he’s trying to make Bob comfortable, trying to make him feel seen. It makes something stir in Bob’s chest, something warm and flickering. And just as quickly, that warmth is swallowed by the sharp, assessing eyes of the female pilot beside him.
Her head tilts, almost like she’s sizing Bob up from his chair, from his peanuts in his hands to the wire-rim glasses perched on his nose.
With a click of her tongue she announces, “Wait a minute. You’re Bob, Bob Floyd.” She pauses, her smile growing larger, “You’re my new back-seater? From Lemoore?”
Bob finds his own smile growing along with hers. Although he's still slightly wary of the female pilot’s headstrong attitude and confidence, there’s something about her personality that Bob finds charming. Like maybe his calculated quietness could mesh perfectly with her sharp and daring attitude once they get up in the air.
“That must make you Natasha Trace, huh?” Bob responds, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He hopes his voice sounds steady – sure enough to make him seem like someone Natasha would want to trust in the sky.
Bob waits in silence, the sounds of the jukebox muffling in his ears. It feels like minutes as he waits for Natasha to respond, and unfortunately, there’s no way for Bob to tell what the female pilot thinks of him. Her attention drifts back to the pool stick in her hand, unreadable. And then, with a calm clarity and an easy smile, she extends the stick back to Bob.
“Alright then. Nine ball, Bob. Rack ‘em.”
He can’t help the grin that pulls at his mouth. He extends one hand out to take the pool stick from his new co-pilot, dusting the leftover peanut shells from his lap with the other. His eyes flicker from Natasha’s to meet the tan pilot’s – those warm brown eyes that he keeps coming back to.
As Bob rises, he notices that the other man seems to drift closer to him, taking a few small steps to close the gap between them. When he finally gets close enough, he bumps his hip against Bobs. The touch is light, easy, unexpectedly familiar.
With the knock of his hip, the other pilot flashes a bright smile up at Bob, his eyes gleaming slightly under the bar’s dim lights.
“So…Bob, huh?”
And sure, it’s not the best introduction that the pair could have had, but the way that the other pilot has to tilt his chin up to meet Bob’s eyes behind his glasses makes Bob forget about the embarrassing moment earlier. For a second, all he can focus on is that smile, bright and lopsided, somehow too warm for a bar that’s this dim.
Bob nods down at him, his glasses dipping down his nose slightly with the movement. He pushes them back up with his finger as he replies, “You know, I’m feeling a little at a disadvantage here.” He grins back down at the pilot next to him, hip still firmly attached to his own. “With what, you knowing my name and I still don’t know yours.”
The tan pilot’s smile quirks again, he extends a hand out to Bob, staging an introduction that is way too formal for the dingy bar that said introduction is taking place in.
“Mickey Garcia, at your service”. He quips, his smile growing larger when Bob takes his hand in his own. For just meeting, something about it feels right – their hands in each other’s grip, long fingers intertwining with one another, tough calluses brushing against the other’s palm.
A suspiciously dry cough breaks the two from their moment.
They both turn to meet the waiting eyes of both of their co-pilots. Natasha’s eyebrow quirks up in an inquisitive manner while Mickey’s co-pilot seems to mutter something into the neck of his beer bottle.
Bob shakes his head subtly, his grip tightening on the pool stick in his other hand. “Right, nine ball.”
He stands, grabbing the triangle from its nail on the wall. Then, he kneels by the table to set up the rack, carefully lining up the balls like its second nature – which it sort of it. Bob’s always enjoyed the small rituals in things, quiet moments with clear rules, easy outcomes and routine. When he’s done, each ball is set in perfect formation and the numbers are neatly facing upwards, he offers the break with a small nod towards Mickey.
The other pilot waves him off, leaning against his cue with an easy grin directed upwards at Bob. When he speaks, his tone is light, teasing, “Nah, you go first, Bob. I’m feeling generous," he leans in a little closer, delivering the next line, "and you know, I’ve gotta see what I’m up against.”
Bob raises an eyebrow at that. He can tell that it’s not mocking, but curious. Almost like Mickey has already decided that Bob is worth watching.
So, he steps in close to the pool table, takes a breath, pulls the stick back, and drives it forward, sinking two balls with a clean crack of the cue. He tries to hide his satisfied smile with the purse of his lips, but when he hears Mickey whistle low from behind him, his smile breaks through anyways.
“Damn Bobby! You sure you’re not a pool hustler pretending to be a back seater?”
Mickey lines up his own stick with the ball, leaning over the table slightly, one of his forearms bracing himself on the table. Bob does his best not to draw his attention to the firm lines of muscle in Mickey’s arm and wills himself instead to say something witty back to Mickey’s comment. What he lands on is:
“Well, actually, it’s um all just physics really – pool, I mean. There’s angles and force, momentum and energy…math.” Bob feels him blush with the comment, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.
And to Bob’s surprise, Mickey just grins up at him from his position hunched over the pool table. “Math huh? Well, maybe that why I’m so bad at it.” And almost as if to demonstrate this point, Mickey lets his stick slide forward, poorly scuffing against the white ball, sending it wildly across the table.
Bob tries to bite back a laugh, but he lets out a snort when he meets Mickey’s eyes – still warm, now a little more wild.
And Bob can’t help himself from walking over to the man, bumping his own hip against Mickey’s by the table as he takes the pool stick from him.
“You know,” Bob begins, his head tilting back up at Mickey’s grin from beside him. He returns his attention to the cue ball in front of him, fingers curling around the pole, “You can actually control whether the cue ball follows through or stops based on where you hit it vertically.”
As if to prove his point, he draws his hand back and then forward, pushing the cue ball forwards to collide with another ball, sinking it effortlessly into the net. As Bob stands back up, he pushes his glasses back up his nose, “It’s all about rotational friction. If you strike it low, you get backspin, and it pulls back after the shot.”
Mickey just blinks, his eyes flickering from the white ball still rolling on the table and then back to Bob’s clear blue ones, slightly enlarged from their place behind his glasses. His tongue darts out quickly to wet his bottom lip, “So, you’re saying it’s all physics.”
And Mickey swears that he sees Bob’s smile grow larger, “Friction, torque, angular momentum – take your pick.”
As Mickey prepares his own stick, he sets his eyes on the green ball that he wants to hit, tongue slipping out of the side of his mouth in focus. As he pulls his hand back to hit the ball, he feels Bob’s touch on his hand, redirecting his aim. Before Mickey can question it, he hears Bob’s voice from beside him,
“You know, the angle of reflection always equals the angle of incidence, right?” As Bob talks, he moves Mickey’s stick gently, realigning it with the cue ball. “It’s just basic geometry. Ball goes in at twenty degrees, bounces off at twenty.” And with that, he lets Mickey’s wrist go, allowing him to take the shot – which, not to his surprise, lands perfectly in the net.
As Bob backs away, Mickey already feels himself missing the touch, the warmth of Bob’s hand against his wrist. When he looks back at Bob, he finds that Bob is already looking at him, blushing slightly in the dim bar lights.
Mickey’s voice is light when he responds, “You know, geometry was never my strong suit.”
They fall into an easy rhythm for the rest of the night. Shots are taken, Mickey absolutely does not get better, but he might be purposefully aiming poorly to get Bob’s hand on his own again. And as the game winds down, the pair finds that they actually fall into a comfortable sort of silence. As Bob expertly sinks the final ball, he notices that Mickey has once again glued himself to his side.
“So, just curious,” Mickey begins, his tone light, “Are you always this quiet?”
Bob looks down at him, shrugging slightly as he wipes leftover chalk onto his pant leg. “I mean, only when I really don’t have anything worth saying.”
“Huh”, Mickey tilts his head slightly, almost studying Bob. “That’s uh, actually kind of refreshing. I mean, most people I fly with can’t stop talking.”
Bob gestures towards Mickey’s co-pilot, who he has now learned is named Reuben, with his pool stick, “What, he really talks that much?”
Mickey grins in response, his eyes sparking almost mischievously, “You kidding?" He pauses for a sort of dramatic effect, :Dude, I am the talker. That’s why they stuck me with Payback back at Top Gun. He sort of evens me out I guess. But you…” He gestures with his hands, it’s a wild mix of jazz hands and finger waggling, “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who needs someone to talk over you. You just like, listen.”
And Bob, he doesn’t really know what to say. Not at first. It’s not that he thinks that Mickey’s observation is a bad thing, it’s just, Bob doesn’t usually get noticed at all. And when he does, it’s usually not for his listening skills. He looks down to the table and then back at Mickey with a soft smile,
“Yeah, I guess I try to.”
And suddenly, Bob feels like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or like any other part of his body. All he can focus on is the way that one side of Mickey’s smile draws up a little bit higher than the other. His brain finally sparks with something close to a thought as he grabs the cup of peanuts that he had previously discarded.
“Do you want one?”
Bob tilts the cup towards Mickey, shaking it slightly in the direction of the other man. Peanuts tumbling against the rim.
Mickey smiles up at him, but instead of reaching for a peanut out of Bob’s cup, he slips his hand into his own pocket. With a practiced ease, he pulls out a single red Jolly Rancher and firmly presses into Bob’s hand instead. His fingers are warm, his touch quick but deliberate.
“Trade”, Mickey says simply, like it makes perfect sense.
Bob blinks, his eyes following the motion, eyebrows scrunching slightly in confusion as he examines the candy in his hand. “A…a candy?” Bob’s voice echoes his confusion, but lifts at the end, signifying his enjoyment as well.
Mickey just shrugs, a half-smirk playing on his lips. “You looked like you could use one.”
Bob stares a second longer. Then, to his own surprise, he lets out a quiet laugh – small and startled, like it escaped from him before he could stop it. He flips the candy over in his palm, watching how the bar lights seem to reflect the red candy.
It’s not exactly what he expected, but then again, it seems like Mickey isn’t either.
“Is this a pilot thing?” Bob asks, doing his best to keep his voice serious, he fails.
Mickey leans in a little closer, looking up at Bob through his eyelashes, “Nope.” He pops the “P” for emphasis. “Just a me thing.” He finishes with a shrug, his shoulder colliding with Bob’s next to him.
Bob doesn’t say anything right away, but he notices himself leaning into Mickey’s touch, searching for his shoulder once he brings it back down to his side. And then, he tucks the candy into the pocket of his uniform – like it’s something worth keeping.
He looks back at Mickey, smile pulling soft at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”
Mickey bumps his shoulder once more, the spark in his eyes clear, like he’s quietly pleased, “Anytime, Bob.”
Bob watches as Mickey turns back towards the table, that easy grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth, like nothing just happened. But Bob, he stays still for a beat longer, his fingers brushing the edge of the candy through his pocket, the wrapper crinkling softly under his palm. It’s nothing, really. Just sugar, just a small, square gesture. And yet. The warmth in his chest unfurls a little more.
The jukebox still hums behind him, and it seems as though more pilots may have joined their small circle. But Bob, his eyes are still on the short tan one, bouncing on his heels with energy as he strides back over to his co-pilot, seemingly talking the other man’s ear off.
And for Bob, it feels like something’s shifted. Just a little. Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, Bob doesn’t feel like he’s orbiting the room alone, like he needs to keep blending in. So with a new "Jolly Rancher" fueled wave of courage, he straightens up, shoulders just a bit looser, and steps up to the table with a quiet kind of certainty.
He makes his way back over to Mickey, tapping his shoulder with the pool stick that he’s still carrying in his hand. With the sensation, Mickey turns around, his eyes sparkling as they meet Bob’s.
Bob wills his voice to be steady as he says, “Alright, you break Mickey.”
And when Mickey nods back at Bob, his own crooked smile flashing across his face, Bob thinks this might be the start of something good, possibly the start of something sweet.
Chapter 2: Pretty Special
Chapter Text
Pretty Special
The walk back from the Hard Deck is a little bit louder and a lot less coordinated than it should be for a group of elite aviators.
Someone is carrying leftover fries in a to-go box, that at this point has been dropped on the ground so many times that the fries have to be flavored with more sand than salt. Nonetheless, this hasn’t stopped Reuben from continuing to try and balance the to-go box on his head – again - after it’s fallen off for the fifth time.
Javy and Bradley are singing a duet to the lyrics of a song that neither of them actually knows completely. The duet is complete with faux-electric guitar playing from Javy accompanied by finger-waggling that’s supposed to be key-board playing from Bradley. Natasha has her phone out and is making sure to film the chaos for all possible future blackmail material.
The night air is still warm – still clinging to the heat of the sunbaked tarmac, but the breeze that rolls in from the coast makes it bearable. It smells like jet fuel, salt, and whatever is left from the coconut sunscreen that Bob applied to his face before arriving earlier.
The group of aviators are heading for the communal lounge on base – which is less of a lounge and more of a beat-up hangar-turned-rec room with a mismatched array of couches, a scattering of fold out tables, and a fridge that never seems to work no matter how many pilots have kicked it. It wasn’t exactly clear how they had all ended up here, but someone had had the great idea to keep the night going once the bar had cut them off, and none of the pilots had the heart nor the sobriety to disagree.
Bob walks a little behind the others, still nursing his cup of peanuts from earlier and the familiar ache of slight overstimulation. The bar had been fun, no doubt about it, but just a little bit louder than he would have liked, and possibly too many new faces to memorize.
Except one.
One face stuck out among the rest - one with warm brown eyes and a sparkling crooked smile. Mickey had stuck close to Bob for the rest of the night after their pool game. Not hovering or overbearing, just – there, easy company. A steady presence that made all of the bar’s noise feel a little more like background instead of something that Bob had to brace against.
Now, with the stars spilling across the dark night sky and his ears still ringing faintly from the jukebox and laughter, Bob’s almost comfortable.
And he’s not really sure how they all ended up here – back at the base, peeling off worn boots and flopping onto old couches like they do this every night, like they could keep doing this for the rest of their lives. But the room is full of warm lights and warmer voices, and Mickey has decided to perch himself right on the arm of the couch next to Bob, close enough that their shoulders bump into each other every time that someone makes the group laugh.
And when Natasha tosses an empty bottle onto the coffee table, sending it clattering in a circle between the group of aviators, Bob doesn’t even think about getting up to leave.
Instead, he meets Natasha’s eyes from where she lounges in a large, lazy-boy reclining chair. When his gaze meets hers, her eyes narrow into something cat-like, something that Bob can’t help but see a little bit of danger in. And when she opens her mouth, Bob can tell that his read was one hundred percent correct.
“Alright my fellow aviators,” Natasha begins, her voice syrupy sweet, “We are going to play a game of truth or call sign.” She points to the bottle on the floor, “If it lands on you, then you have to answer a truth, or explain your call sign – no dodging.”
“Or do a dare,” Reuben adds from his place on the floor, stretching his legs out further like the rug is from his own living room. “Those are definitely still on the table.”
“Since when are there dares?” Mickey chirps from his place beside Bob, gently leaning his body weight into the man’s next to him.
“Since I’m bored, and I want someone to embarrass themselves. And, if Phoenix here gets to come up with her own rules, then I get to come up with some of mine.” Reuben replies, grinning.
Mickey laughs and leans a little closer into Bob, his shoulder brushing against his again and his voice warm against the shell of his ear, “Heads up. He always goes for the dare that gets someone shirtless.”
“Noted”, Bob says dry, but he can’t stop the smile that’s tugging at his lips. His fingers sneak down to his pocket to loosely curl around the Jolly Rancher that’s still in his pocket. And sure, it’s a little dumb – sweet, sticky, and small – but it keeps catching his focus like a center of gravity, amongst the noise and the laughter of the lounge.
The sound of the bottle rattling around on the table breaks Bob from his trance. He watches as it spins languidly in a circle, slowly coming to a stop in his direction. As the neck of the bottle points at Mickey next to him, Bob lets out a breath that he didn’t even realize that he was holding.
Mickey’s less timid than Bob though, and his smile seems to just grow when he notices that the bottle has landed on him.
Reuben’s eyes flicker to Mickey’s dangerously, he quirks his eyebrow up at his back-seater. “Alright, Fanboy,” his tone is teasing when he says Mickey’s call sign. “Truth or call sign?”
There’s a beat, a collective pause, and then Mickey leans back with a theatrical sigh. “Fine. Call sign.”
Everyone perks up. Bob does too, even if he tries not to show it. He meets Fanboys warm gaze with a more inquisitive one of his own.
“Okay,” Mickey begins leaning back on the armrest slightly, his weight once again drifting back to rest on Bob, “It’s Fanboy because I grew up watching Lord of the Rings like obsessively. I practically have all of the movies memorized and my first cat was named Gandalf." He pauses as if thinking of more embarrassingly, nerdy details to reveal, "Oh, I can also do a killer Gollum impression – that no, I will not be doing now. I am far too sober for that sort of embarrassment.”
Despite already knowing this story, Reuben is choking back a laugh into his fist, his eyes gleaming up at his blushing co-pilot. And Bob, Bob is trying to hold back his own smile with the story, thinking about the worn copy of “The Fellowship of the Ring” that he has tucked away in his bag back in his own bunk.
“You sure you don’t want to do that Gollum impression right now?” Jake asks, his voice sarcastic as usual as he takes a sip from his own beer bottle.
Mickey’s ears turn a bright red as he chokes out a “Nope, absolutely not,” into his own cup.
Bob looks up to Mickey from his spot next to him on the sofa, his voice is soft when he leans into Mickey’s space, “What um, what happened to Gandalf?”
Mickey tilts his head back down to Bob, “Gone to ld age, but you know what they say… A wizard is never late,”
“Nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to,” Bob finishes. His eyes never leaving Mickey’s, his own smiling growing to match the pilot’s looking back at him.
Bradley’s voice is sharp, breaking through their moment, his eyebrows raised at the pair of boys, “You know, that might have been one of the nerdiest things that I have ever seen in my entire life.”
Mickey draws his attention away from Bob to narrow his eyes in Bradley’s direction, “Alright Rooster”, his eyebrows wiggling at the mustached man, “Your turn - truth or call sign?”
Rooster tilts his head to the side and clicks his tongue in a “well-played” motion, “So, back at Top Gun, I use to wake up waybefore everyone else. And I thought that I was being stealthy about it – like some kind of super spy or something. Turns out, I was probably the loudest person alive before sunrise. Clattering around, singing in the shower, the whole thing. So eventually, someone joked that I was crowing at dawn and thus Rooster was born.”
Jake laughs from his place beside Bradley on one of the lumpy couches. “And let me tell you all, as someone who was a victim of Mr. Rooster over here, this man does not have the voice of an angel. Crowing would definitely be the right word to describe it.”
Bradley reaches over to rub a fist into Jake’s hair with one hand, using his other hand to spin the bottle on the table. It spins in one full rotation before stopping in front of Reuben’s spot on the carpet.
“Yes finally!” He silently cheers from his spot, legs still splayed out in front of him.
“Oh, you were just waiting for a chance to embarrass me, huh?” Mickey calls out, shuffling slightly from his place next to Bob, almost tucking his shoulder fully into the crease of Bob’s arm.
Bob looks down at him, confusion clear on his face, his glasses slipping down his nose slightly. Mickey meets his curious gaze with a raise of his own eyebrows, something about his expression says, “Just you wait for it.”
“So, it all started our first year at Top Gun,” Reuben presses his fingertips together like an evil mastermind, “Mickey and I bunked together and decided to engage in,” he pauses to add emphasis, “the greatest prank war of all time.”
From beside him, Bob sees Mickey duck his head down to his chest, letting out a huff of breath in seemingly embarrassment. Bob nudges his shoulder into Mickey slightly, who looks up from his chest to meet his eyes, and from the look on his face, Bob can tell that he’s in for a good story.
“And you see,” Reuben continues from his place on the floor, “our dear friend Mickey here thought that he had won after hiding about twenty-five different alarms in our room. He was all Mr. Cool Guy - that was, until he learned about the Nair that I slipped into his shampoo bottle.”
Bob looks back over at a laughing Mickey, his whole body shaking with the laughter, shoulder knocking further up into Bob’s side. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, it comes out slightly dry with a dying laugh, “Dude, it literally took me two years for all of my hair to grow back.”
Reuben just shrugs, a brilliant smile breaking out onto his face, “So, I guess you can say that I got my payback.”
Laughter erupts throughout the room, mostly at Mickey’s expense. But he seems to take it like a champ, his crooked smile wide on his face. And then, Bob feels the weight of his eyes on him. He looks back up at Mickey beside him, and notices that Mickey’s brown eyes have already found his clear blue ones, wide behind his glasses.
Bob feels his breath catch slightly, like he’s being studied under a microscope, but gently. Carefully, like Mickey knows that he’s a tough nut to crack, and yet that still doesn’t matter because Mickey wants to do it anyways. And Bob, he’s not used to being on display, but Mickey’s gaze doesn’t feel like pressure. Instead, it feels like interest, like real, steady interest.
And when Mickey opens his mouth to speak, it’s teasing, but still fond.
“So, Bob,” and Bob’s stomach does a little flip when his name slips from Mickey’s lips, “do we get to learn a little more about that?”
Bob rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, his lip slipping between his teeth before responding, “I mean…It’s actually just my name.”
That response earns a chorus of groans and boos from the rest of the aviators. Natasha’s hand flies up from beside her like an excited student in a classroom. “You know, Lieutenant, that is not how call signs work. There is always a story.”
“There’s not,” Bob insisted, hoping to sound convincing. Except, the tips of his ears had turned a ruddy pink color and his interest was suddenly directed right back to the cup of peanuts in his hands. “I mean, it’s just short for Robert Floyd, so…”
“Alright, I’ll bite,” Reuben begins, “Why Bob? I mean, we could’ve called you Robbie. Or Rob. Or Floyd. Or literally anything else.”
And Bob begins to let out a sigh, a tiny puff of air that leaned a little towards the sound of defeat. And when he looks up at Mickey, the light shining in his eyes is enough to keep him talking.
“So, my first year at the Academy, they paired us off for PT drills, and my partner, he kept forgetting my name. The first day he called me Rob. The second day, Bob. And then the third day it was Rob again. It just kept switching, and then somehow, they just stuck with Bob.”
From beside him, Mickey’s laugh broke through the silence of the room – a warm, unguarded sort of sound. And Bob’s eyes flickered towards him like he had been waiting for that reaction.
Natasha, every the perceptive one, raises an eyebrow as she shoots a look across the circle to Reuben. Are you seeing what I’m seeing? Her questioning gaze seems to ask. Reuben just smirked, leaning back against his elbows like he had front-row seats to something that was definitely about to get interesting.
Bob raises his hands in a display that can only be described as a shy version of jazz hands as he says, “See, not the most exciting thing in the world.”
And as he says it, Bob swears that he hears Mickey murmur, “Debatable,” from the space beside him, his shoulder knocking once more into Bob’s own.
It’s the kind of throwaway comment that probably shouldn’t make his ears heat, but it does anyway. Bob doesn’t look over – afraid that Mickey will catch the expression that he can feel tugging at the edges of his mouth – but, he’s suddenly a lot more aware of how close they’re sitting on the edge of the couch.
As more stories get told and, much to Reuben’s disappointment, no shirts end up being removed, the groups’ laughs begin to turn into deep yawns. Bradley keeps blinking the sleep from his eyes, his head drifting closer and closer to Jake’s shoulder next to him. And even Natasha’s beginning to stand up to turn in for the night.
As aviators stand to go, pulling boots back on and zipping up jackets, Mickey takes a look over at Bob by his side.
Although Bob seems to be caught in his own moment, sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as he ties his laces, he can feel the warm gaze of the pilot sitting next to him. And when he finishes, he’s not surprised to see Mickey already flashing a crooked smile in his direction.
“So”, Mickey begins as he stands from the couch’s armrest, “I think we’re headed in the same direction. Would you, maybe want to walk back with me?”
Bob hesitates for a fraction, and then finds himself nodding up in the direction of Mickey’s smile, feeling a little thrill. He stands and pulls on his jacket, grateful when Mickey holds the door open for him as they step out into the sand together. Each grain of sand beneath their feet seems to sparkle in the moonlight and the crash of the waves on the shore seemed to be the perfect background noise for the boy’s quiet conversation.
“So,” Bob finds himself beginning, surprised by his confidence around the other man, almost as if Mickey’s charisma has started rubbing off on him. “Am I going to get any bonus points if I show you my signed copy of The Fellowship of the Ring?”
Mickey stops in his tracks behind Bob, looking momentarily stunned by the question. And then, without warning, Mickey grabs onto Bob’s arm gently but firm, giving it a playful shake that makes Bob laugh in surprise.
“Oh, Robert Floyd, I knew I was right about you.” Each words seems to be punctuated with another shake of Bob’s arm. He does his best to free it from Mickey’s grip, but it seems like his strength is strong despite his smaller frame.
“What on earth does that mean?” Bob asks, cheeks flushing and slightly flustered - whether it’s from their close proximity or Mickey’s previous comment isn’t exactly clear.
“It’s just,” Mickey stops his shaking to look up at Bob, the moon reflecting in his eyes, one squinting slightly as if he’s analyzing the man in front of him, “I don’t know…you seem, pretty special.”
Bob blinks, caught off guard by the sincerity in Mickey’s voice. The teasing warmth shifting into something quieter, more vulnerable. For a moment, Bob feels seen in a way that he’s not entirely used to. He swallows and finally meets Mickey’s gaze fully.
“Special, huh?” Bob murmurs, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know, that’s not exactly something that I hear every day.”
Mickey shrugs, still holding onto Bob’s arm lightly, like he’s reluctant to let go. “Well, you are.” And then, as if saying those words were as natural as breathing, he slips his hand into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out another Jolly Rancher, this time it’s blue. He offers it to Bob, the candy sparkling slightly, just like his eyes.
Bob’s gaze flickers back and forth between the other man and the candy. His mouth drops open slightly in confusion. “Where on Earth…” he draws off, the corners of his mouth drawing up higher as he met Mickey’s large grin.
“Remember? It’s just a me thing.” Mickey responds lightly, already placing the candy into Bob’s hand before taking a step forward, returning to their walk on the beach.
Bob takes a second to place the candy in his pocket, his fingers lightly grazing the plastic wrapper of the other candy that rests there from earlier. He smiles to himself softly before taking a few large steps forward, eager to catch up with the shorter man.
And this time, when they walk together, they seem to find a comfortable sort of silence. With every few steps their shoulders brush up against each other’s, and each tap would seem to be punctuated with Mickey’s mouth tipping upwards into a half-smile that he didn’t bother explaining. And more often than not, Bob found himself smiling back before he could even think better of it. Each touch is light, but the contact still feels electric – a quiet echo of all of the other silent moments that they’ve shared tonight.
When they’ve finally reached their bunks, Bob grins as Mickey gives him one last wave - just a slight wiggle of three fingers - before he flashes him a bright smile and turns the corner.
Bob watches him as he leaves, his fingers returning to the candy in his pocket. As the wrapper makes a soft crinkle into the air, it seems to mingle with the collision of the waves on the shore. Bob breathes out his own sound into the silence. Something that sounds like,
“You know what, Mickey? I think you’re pretty special too.”
Chapter 3: Tootsie (Rock and) Roll
Chapter Text
Tootsie (Rock and) Roll
The next morning, the air is bright with the early morning heat – the smooth, black asphalt of the tarmac soaking up the sun’s rays like a dark mirror. The breeze carries the faint tang of jet fuel and the soft cries from the sea gulls that fly up above.
Underneath the bird calls and the distant roar of idling engines, there’s another current to the air: the low, nervous hum of pilots talking in small groups, their voices threading through the breeze.
Spread throughout the ready room, the members of last night’s festivities hang around in small clusters, some doing a better job at hiding their budding nerves than others. Despite the buzz of anxious energy, everyone still does their best to look a little sharper than usual, their pressed uniforms a stark comparison to the stumbling messes that they were the night before.
Jake was already holding court near the hangar doors, toothpick pressed between his white teeth and flashing a movie star grin at anyone within range. Bradley and Natasha stand a few feet away, deep in conversation. Natasha’s brows are furrowed, her expression sharp with concentration, but she still takes a second to straighten out the lapels of Bradley’s flight suit. He swats her hands away with the exaggerated irritation of a son brushing off his overly doting mother, but the smirk tugging at his mouth ruins the act.
Reuben and Mickey have also claimed a corner, locked in a seemingly one-sided exchange. And true to Mickey’s claim last night, he may be the back seater in the air, but here he’s clearly in the “pilot seat” of the conversation – his hands slicing through the air as he talks, words tumbling over each other in quick bursts. Despite the dramatics, Reuben doesn’t seem to be annoyed by the antics of the smaller pilot, instead, his eyes are wide, fixed on Mickey like he's hanging on to every word.
The low murmur of the rooms folds around Bob, an almost constant static of quips, speculation, and silent evaluations. He catches glances being traded, the subtle up-and-downs as pilots size each other up, guessing how they’ll fly just based on how they carry themselves.
Bob feels himself straighten unconsciously, rolling his shoulders back firmly until they settle in his sockets. The scene feels familiar – almost uncomfortably so. It’s the same restless air, the same buzzing anticipation that he remembers feeling on the first day of school. Everyone else seems to know where they belong, and here’s Bob, the new kid standing at the edge of the playground, notebook in hand, trying to read the room before the bell rang.
The same nervous butterflies seem to flutter around his stomach – a heavy mixture of anxiety and anticipation beating hard against his ribs.
I mean, Bob knew that he was good; years of training and flight hours had earned him that confidence. But the thing was, being good in Crane, Indiana was not the same thing as being good in Miramar. And as Bob looked around at the rest of the aviators in the ready room, he could tell that they all were all used to being good as well, all used to being the best – and that, that did very little to quell the growing pit in his stomach.
Rather than overthink himself into oblivion, one of his more honed talents, Bob dropped down into one of the briefing chairs that were placed in straight rows in the room. From the pocket of his flight suit, he pulled out a very battered Moleskine notebook, the pages heavily dog-eared and the sides overflowing with different colored sticky notes. The weight of it in his hands is familiar, comforting – it gives Bob a second to clear his head, breathing in the scent of jet fuel lingering in the air and out the coiled tension in his chest.
This, this notebook had been Bob’s survival guide for years, a sort of college-ruled lifeline amidst the chaos of the Naval Academy. The pages were lined with his tight, precise handwriting in neat columns, each section titled with the subject and date of each entry. The notebook is full of different things, like diagrams of maneuvers squeezed into margins, the wind patterns of certain training areas, and even dogfight notes, down to the pilots in each seat.
It was anything but concise, but it was color coded, so Bob believed that that had to stand for something. Not that he ever flaunted it. It was more something that he just liked to keep close, an anchor when things got too chaotic in the sky. Honestly, he didn’t even have to look at the pages anymore to know what was on them, he could basically recite them from memory.
Regardless, he still found himself looking. It was a habit, and he found habits to be one of the most grounding things that a person could have.
Bob begins to flip a pen between his fingers, his eyes watch the lazy pattern that the pen takes as it moves in circles between his pointer finger and thumb. And suddenly, the pen stops mid-spin, hovering slightly in the air before it’s snatched from his fingertips. Bob’s finger twitch around empty air for a second, before he follows the tan hand that now holds his pen captive.
Mickey’s easy grin captures his attention as soon as he looks up to see the other pilot, Bob’s pen now being tucked into the pocket of the other man’s flight suit. Mickey leans forward casually, as if he steals his coworker’s pens on a daily basis, his palms pressing against the desk portion of the briefing chair. The faint scent of coffee and sea salt clung to him, and his smile carried the kind of light that could burn straight through the morning haze.
“You know,” Mickey begins, his tone light as his eyes trace Bob’s posture, “You look like you’re about to take a physics exam. Got the puzzled expression on your face and array of notes in front of you.” Mickey raises his eyebrow, peeking down at Bob’s notebook, his grin getting larger when he sees the numerous colored tabs sticking out between the sheets.
“Well, uh, you know what they say, you can never be too prepared?” Bob finds the words rolling off his tongue with a lame attempt at confidence. His fingers fiddling with the edge of a blue sticky note, rubbing over the frayed edge like a well-worn worry stone – muscle memory born from hundreds of passes over the same path.
“What do you have like, everyone’s Social Security numbers in there?” Mickey begins, his fingers beginning to drum on the desk, mouth twitching. “Because I think that might qualify as being overprepared, maybe even premeditated.
And Bob, never the apt pupil when it came to registering sarcasm in someone’s tone, responds with brutal honesty, his fingertips easily flipping through the notebook to find the page that details his pre-flight ritual checklist, “Oh no. Nothing like that. Just, you know, optimal maneuver notes, aircraft specs, and weather condition adjustments.”
His eyes flit over the checklist on the page, the edges worn and crinkled with years of examination – each item printed in small, deliberate handwriting. Bullet points march down the page in ruler straight lines. Some numbers are underlined twice in blue ink – things like, right sock before left and double check that your boots are double knotted, whereas others are circled in red, the occasional exclamation mark pressed hard enough to leave an indent in the paper underneath. The page is less of a list and more of a fingerprint: a map of his habits, a record of hundreds of pre-flight moments where discipline met quiet superstition.
Mickey’s eyes widen from his place above Bob, “You’re telling me, that you have all of that, in this tiny little book?”
His voice is more wonder than mockery, though for a split-second Bob braces for a jab. But when he meets Mickey’s eyes, all he sees is genuine fascination.
“Well, uh, yeah?” Bob begins, his smile growing slightly, “I guess it helps me think less when I’m up in the sky?”
Mickey lets out a laugh, rolling back on his heels as he crosses his arms in front of him, “You’re telling me you don’t think in the sky?”
“Oh no, I think!” Bob says quickly, “It’s just more like, when I’m flying I can see the calculations in my head as they’re written in my notebook. And I trust them, because I’ve already worked them out. So I act without second-guessing. Then later, I’ll go over it – figure out if the math held up, if the flight felt right. It’s almost like…thinking one step ahead, and then moving forward without even thinking about the step that you took.”
Bob trails off, realizing that he’s been rambling, his hands gesturing in the air in an attempt to convey the abstract thought as it tumbles from his lips.
“So, it’s sort of like music?” Mickey questions, his attention laser focused on the way that Bob’s hands fly through the air. “Like, how each calculation follows the next in succession, but you know it so well that you don’t have to think about what comes next? Like when you listen to a song so much, you can feel yourself singing along without realizing that you know the lyrics.”
Bob’s mouth parts – half in surprise, half in cautious wonder. And sure, he might not have worded it in the same way that Mickey did, but something about it still clicks, like the two pilots are speaking their own versions of the same language.
Bob nods his head up and down, his smile growing wider on his face. “Is that… how you approach flying?”
Mickey’s grin mirrors his. “Oh, absolutely not. I mean, I love music – I’ve basically got a soundtrack running 24/7.” As if to prove his point, Mickey pats the tangled cord of headphones in his flight suit pocket.
“But in the air?” He shakes his head, “I guess there isn’t much organization.”
Mickey pauses, his eyes veering to the side like he’s deep in thought before he begins again, “If flying was like music, I bet you would fly like a classical piece: technical, precise, but there’s still a conversation between the different parts and pieces." He stops, gauging Bob's reaction before continuing, "Me? I’m more… jazz-fusion.”
Bob’s brow furrows, head tilting just enough to make Mickey smirk. He pulls the headphones out of his pocket, extending one of the earbuds in Bob’s direction.
“Here.”
Bob takes it gingerly, tucking it into his ear as Mickey thumbs through his phone. A moment later sound blooms -
It begins with something smooth, the crisp sounds of saxophone blending into a strong drumbeat, the kind of groove that could carry for miles. Then, without warning, it splinters into chaos: drums tumbling over themselves, brass and bass darting in every direction.
And when Bob meets Mickey’s face, his eyes alight with the energy of the music, Bob seems to understand him completely.
“So, you see,” Mickey begins again as Bob slips the earbud free, “I talk about anything and everything up in the sky. A song lyric pops into my head? Boom, I’ll sing it to myself. I spy a bogey at my 5’o’clock? Boom, I’ll talk about that next. It’s sort of like a regular radio show with me.” Mickey shrugs, his fingers still drumming the song’s rhythm onto the desk.
Bob laughs, the sound catching him off guard. Mickey seems to live in the moment, speaking without filtering, and Bob honestly finds it kind of refreshing. Especially when his own brain is practically an engine that never stops running.
“And uh, how does your co-pilot like your radio show? Is he your number one fan?” Bob teases, picking up on the easy, close bond between Mickey and Reuben.
“Oh, for sure!” Mickey begins shooting his co-pilot a quick look over his shoulder. “I mean, him and I, we’re practically family. At least, we honestly see each other more than we see our own folks. But, between you and me, maybe I should get a notebook of my own - save Reub a little bit from my endless stream of thoughts and stories.”
Bob feels his nerves drifting away the longer that the pair continue to talk, Mickey’s easy confidence and attitude is like a soft blanket over Bob’s anxious shoulders. He bites his lip, to hold back the grin that’s growing on his face, “Might be a good idea. You never know when one of your stories will push him over the edge and force drastic measures… like the Nair.”
Mickey’s eye flash dangerously with mischief as he gives Bob’s shoulder a light shove, his grin stretching wide, “Hey, until you’ve experienced the trauma of being as bald as a newborn baby, you cannot joke about it.”
A comfortable silence settles between them as Mickey’s gaze goes back to scanning the straight lines of Bob’s notebook. He lets a small laugh pass through his lips as he reads – Do not change radio frequency with your left hand, unless absolutely necessary, with a double red line under the last word.
“So, who are you flying with today?” Mickey questions, his fingers once again returning to their silent drumming besides Bob.
Bob leaned back slightly in his chair, nervously biting his lip, “Phoenix”, Bob replies, nodding towards the female pilot who was smirking in an easy conversation with Bradley.
Mickey’s eyebrows went up and a slow grin followed, “Oh, so a hot start for the new guy.”
Bob rolled his eyes, though not in an impolite way. “Oh, come on, I’m not new. Just…you know, haven’t flown with her before.”
“Mm-hm.” Mickey’s tone had the kind of knowing drawl that made it clear that he had heard that one before. “Well, her reputation definitely precedes her. She’s sharp, efficient, can basically thread a needle in a headwind.”
Bob lets out a low laugh from his place beside him as Mickey continues, his expression softened, sincere now, “But hey, like I said the other night, you’re special. You’ll do great.”
The easy smile that Mickey flashes in Bob’s direction makes him believe it a little bit more.
Suddenly Mickey chimes in again, his tone joking. “And if all else fails, you’ve got a notebook full of quadratic equations and physics formulas. Nothing to worry about.”
Bob’s smile is bright when he meets Mickey’s mirthful grin, rapping a fist against the notebook that’s still spread on the desk.
The pair are still smirking when the door at the front of the ready room swung open. The low hum of conversation thinned out instantly as groups of pilots hustled to sit down, chairs scraping against the floor as everyone straightened. Mickey falls easily into the desk next to Bob, his own fingers now fiddling with the pen that he had nabbed off Bob minutes ago.
ice Admiral Beau “Cyclone” Simpson strode in, his own flight suit zipped, sturdy clipboard in hand, and the kind of presence that made all of the aviators sit up straight in their seats. He set the clipboard down on the podium and swept the room with a glance that felt like it weighed each pilot in turn.
“Alright aviators,” Cyclone began, his voice carrying easily through the ready room. “This morning is not about records or points. While we prepare for the details of the mission, I want each and every one of you to return to square one. Today’s about shaking of the dust and getting your heads back in the game.”
He tapped the clipboard in his hand. “To begin, we’ll be running multiple sets of one-on-one dogfight drills. Short engagements, quick resets. Pairings have been selected and are listed here.” The room seems to grow even quieter as the pilots await directions, each eye carefully affixed to the instructor.
“Phoenix and Bob will be flying together with Rooster as their additional crew member. In the second group, Fritz and Harvard will team up with Hangman as their crew.”
Bob fought to keep his nerves steady. But his shoulders still tense as his name is called. His fingers are quick to smooth the non-existent creases from the pants of his flight suit, an excuse to rub the sweat from his palms.
Cyclone continues from his place at the front of the ready room, “All of the other groups, please check the board here for your assignments while the first groups are up in the air. Good luck.”
With Cyclone’s move to leave the room, the other aviators take this as their cue to prepare for their exercises. Jake was already striding towards Billy and Brigham, greeting them with a blinding smile and strong handshake, a perfect mix of confidence and cockiness.
Bob feels himself swallow dryly, willing himself to stand up from his seat to find his own co-pilot before they set off for the sky.
But before Bob can command his legs to rise beneath him, he feels the steady warmth of a familiar gaze of a besides him. Turning his head, he’s not surprised to see that Mickey is already looking right back at him.
Bob is also not surprised to see that Mickey is already digging into his flight suit pocket and pulling out a Tootsie-Roll. He watches as Mickey presses the piece of candy into his hand, his fingers curling around the treat like instinct.
Mickey’s smile is easy, and his tone is light when Bob’s gaze finally meets his, “For your nerves.”
And with that, as though the one small piece of candy carried the secrets of the universe, Mickey stood up and walked away towards Reuben.
Bob watched him go with a curious smile on his lips before looking back down to the candy in his hand. He unwrapped it, maybe just so that he had something to do with his nervously trembling hands and popped the Tootsie-Roll into his mouth. The sugar hit his tongue, sharp and sweet, and for a second, Bob felt the tension in his shoulders loosening.
As Bob finally stands to find his co-pilot and slips his notebook back into his pocket, he covertly scans the room for his candy benefactor. Across the way, Mickey catches his eye and flashes him a knowing smile before popping a Tootsie-Roll of his own into his mouth.
Bob can’t help but smile back at the crooked grin that was growing on Mickey’s face.
A firm hand on his shoulder pulled Bob from his reverie. He turns to meet the cat-like eyes of Natasha Trace, a sly smile of her own already spread across her features.
“Alright Bob,” she began, her helmet tucked under her arm, the other hand spinning a pen of her own between her fingers. “You ready to dance?” She quirked an eyebrow in a dangerous way, one that made Bob feel somehow both a little braver and a little more nervous, all at the same time.
Bob adjusted his grip on his own helmet, “Ready,” he responded. And sure, the word may have come out steadier than he felt, but the still sweet taste of the candy on his tongue gave him a quiet boost of confidence.
“Good. Since we have a dogfight victory with our names on it,” and for a sentence that should have sounded cocky coming from her lips, Natasha had a certain composure to her that made it sound like the truth.
She nodded towards the doorway and began to walk towards their jet, a firmness in her movements that had Bob following behind her without a second thought.
At the plane, they began their preflight routine. Bob worked with a perfect precision and tailored specificity, each strap tightened just right and each frequency dial impeccably straight. Natasha moved with her own type of precision – her actions and checks flowing in such a sequence that is almost felt choreographed. Together, the pair seemed to fall into an easy rhythm, matching each other’s quirks in perfect harmony.
As they finished their final pre-checks and began to step into their plane, strapping into their seats, a voice calls out from across the hangar - it’s light and joking, and unmistakably Mickey’s.
“Give em’ hell Tootsie Roll!”
Bob hands pause mid motion – chest strap slightly pulled across his stomach. He feels his cheeks warm slightly from beneath his helmet. And when he finally wills himself to look up in the direction of Mickey’s affectionate call, he finds that Mickey is already looking at him, giving Bob one final wave before the canopy of his own planes comes to a close.
Still trying to will the blush away, Bob hears Natasha’s prying voice comes from the front of their plane, “So, when do I get to learn what that was about?”
As she adjusts the control surfaces on the jet’s wings, Bob finds a burst of confidence flowing through his veins. He allows himself to breath in the sharp scent of jet fuel and hot air, to feel the thrum of the jet’s engine beneath him, and the smooth weight of the radio dials beneath his fingertips.
Laughing, he replied, “You know what? I’ll let you know after we win this dog fight.”
Bob hears Natasha let out a chuckle from the his headset, “Alright Bob. I’m going to hold you to that.”
The canopy locks shut with a satisfying thunk, sunlight splintering across the glass. The engines roar to life, vibrating through the jet’s frame, and within moments they were airborne.
Natasha’s grin flashes in the front seat, and Bob can feel her energy radiating through the comms even before she speaks.
“Go time Bob,” she drawls, “let’s light em’ up.”
Bradley’s voice crackles in their ears from the single-seat jet flying alongside them, “Time to turn and burn Phoenix?”
Bob can hear the fond roll of her eyes as Natasha as she maneuvered them into position in the sky, “Try to keep up Rooster.”
Billy and Brigham’s plane slices into view below, with Jake drifting high above them like a circling shark.
And suddenly, the fight is on.
The world compresses into golden rays of sunlight, puffs of clouds, and the vibrating hum of the engine under Bob’s boots. Natasha dips the jet downwards, peeling low as Bradley takes the high line. They cross paths in a blur of contrails and sun glare, boxing in their target.
“Fritz is coming around, nine o’clock”, Bob calls, his eyes firmly locked on the radar.
Natasha banks hard, pulling the handle towards her as the G-forces pins them to their seats, “Not for long.”
The nose of their own jet swings around, putting Billy and Brigham’s plane right in front of them. The unforgiving tone of missile lock ringing into their headsets as Bob locked onto their competitors.
“Aw come on!” Bingham groans over the radio, laughter bubbling in his voice.
Jake swoops in from above like he’s been waiting all day for this, and suddenly the trio are dancing – split-second rolls, high climbs, and dives that steal the breath from Bob’s chest. His fingers are quick, and his brain is quicker, thinking of his next steps before they even become necessary.
Still in the middle of their game of “cat-and-mouse”, Natasha breaks left and Bradley breaks right, forcing Jake to choose. He follows Natasha’s plane in a predictable swoop and Bradley slides right in on his tail, calling the shot.
“Splash one,” Bradley says smugly once he gets missile lock on Jake’s jet.
And for a moment, the skies are theirs. Bob can feel the rush humming in his bones, the thin line between flying and freedom. And he remembers why he loves it – not just the flying, but the game.
As their plane descends, wheels kissing the tarmac with a soft thud, Bob watches Mickey and Reuben’s jet take off, ascending towards the clear blue sky.
Back inside the ready room, Bob stood with his helmet still tucked under his arm, Natasha leaning casually against the wall by his side.
Mickey’s voice crackles in through the radio, already beginning to chirp within seconds of the pair taking flight.
“Alright Payback, are we gonna win this or are you gonna be daydreaming again?”
Bob can almost hear Reuben’s eyes roll from his place in front of Mickey in the jet, “Please, I’m the one stuck here babysitting you.”
And suddenly, they bank hard, wings biting into the air.
Bob watches the pair take to the sky like they own it.
It’s not brute force, not the sharp, in-your-face, cocky aggression of Jake nor the needlepoint, fiery precision of Natasha.
Mickey’s flying is almost lyrical. Something smooth and layered, a constantly evolving rhythm that looks like it’s been practiced for years, yet still never loses the edge of improvisation. And in front of him, Reuben is his perfect counterpoint – a crisp and methodical beat, almost the steady percussion to Mickey’s endlessly changing melody.
Their opponents – Halo and Omaha – don’t stand much of a chance. One moment the pair is right in their sights, and the next they’re gone, slipping out of the cone of fire like water through their fingers. Reuben cuts across the sky in a high-G turn that should have thrown them wide, but Mickey’s coordination snaps them right back into the offensive.
It’s almost frustrating to watch – for anyone who isn’t on their team anyways.
But Bob can’t help but smile as he hears Mickey rapidly shift from humming under his breath to calling out the position of enemy fire in the air. And as he watches the pair descend, touching down on the tarmac, he finds it mesmerizing in a way, like watching someone write music in the sky – ever maneuver a note, every counter a harmony.
The dogfights continue into the heat of the afternoon, Bob’s early morning nerves slipping away to the swoop of sustained G’s and swan dives. And suddenly, he’s watching the last group take to the skies from his position in the ready room.
Bob hears the steady footsteps of someone bounding into the room, and as the floorboards creak besides him, he barely has to look down before Mickey materializes right at his side.
Mickey’s smile is easy and his voice almost bubbles with joy as he leans one shoulder against the window.
“Dude, what were you even nervous about! I knew you could fly, but damn Bob, you can really fly!”
Then, he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper between them. “Maybe I’ve got to steal that little notebook and learn all the secrets of Mr. Back-seat Extraordinaire.”
Bob laughs, a puff of air leaving his lips as they stretch into a smile. The adrenaline still runs through his veins, making his head feel pleasantly loose, like he’s still riding the high of the sky.
“You’d be wasting your time,” Bob begins, tapping a finger to the side of his head, “All the good details are up here. The pages just have the formulas.”
Mickey flashes him a confident smile. And Bob finds the words tumbling from his lips before he can stop them.
“Besides…you were right. The sugar helped me focus a little bit, took me out of my head.”
If it was even possible, Bob swears that Mickey’s grin gets even wider – bright enough to feel like it it’s aimed straight at him.
“Hey, it’s the least that I can do for a –“ Mickey pauses for half a heartbeat, the word teetering on the edge like he’s weighing it, “Friend”.
His shoulder bumps up against Bob’s, it’s a casual touch but the warmth still lingers
Bob doesn’t answer right away, but the corner of his mouth tugs upwards as he looks down at Mickey. His own cheeks dusting with a tinge of pink beneath the rays of sun slipping through the window.
The two of them fall into a comfortable silence as they watch streams of jets dance through the air – each one a quiet dance of power and grace.
It’s not the kind of moment that needs more words.
Not when the air between them already says everything – quiet, steady, and as bright as the day outside.
Chapter 4: Sweet Dreams, Starburst
Chapter Text
Sweet Dreams, Starburst
The room hums with a low, steady undercurrent of tension – an invisible threat that sharpens every word, draws every spine a little straighter, and makes the air feel a little stiffer than it should.
Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell stands tall at the front of the room, shoulders squared, the faint glint in his eyes at odds with the rigid set in his posture. Twelve of the Navy’s best watch him from their seats, their expression a careful mix of anticipation and calculation – pens anxiously twirling in restless fingers, Bob’s notebook fluttering open in preparation, even Jake’s smile seems a little more stiff than usual.
Just days ago, the pilots had learned that Maverick would be the man leading this mission – one whose parameters had sounded improbable, if not outright impossible, when he had first laid them out. It seemed as though even yesterday’s lively round of dogfighting had done little to quiet anyone’s doubts, and judging by the steel in Maverick’s gaze now, whatever came next wasn’t going to make things any easier.
Bob takes a break from shuffling through pages of his notebook – still searching for a clean sheet that hadn't yet been sacrificed to the straight columns of neat handwriting and sharp diagrams – to let his eyes wander around the room.
His teammates are wearing what look like stoic, neutral expression, though Bob knows better than to take them at face value. Years of reading pilots in a cockpit or briefing room have taught him that posture often speaks louder than words. That's his job as a WSO: to be a second pair of eyes for his pilot, to keep a clear eye out for things that could slip beneath the radar, to watch. So, that's what Bob did - he watched.
For example, he first notices the rigid posture of Bradley, his shoulders way too stiff in their sockets to just be the result of Jake’s carefree attitude. Beside him, even Natasha’s sharp eyes seem to glint with worry, a very small crease beginning to form between her eyebrows, like a crease in paper that won’t smooth out.
Then, Bob’s gaze slides over to the corner desks where Mickey and Reuben have staked their claim. And when his eyes find the pilots in their seats, he notices something curious about the pair.
Reuben sits properly, his lips pursed in an unreadable expression, and his attention dutifully focused on their mission instructor. But Mickey on the other hand…well, that’s when Bob noticed something unusual.
The smaller pilot’s head was tilted downwards, bent low over his desk. It appeared as though his focus was trained not on the instructor, but on a notebook of his own – an oddity in itself. And Bob, although he had only known Mickey for a week or two, he was sure that he had never brought out a notebook for previous briefing meetings. In fact, his hands were typically too busy drumming elaborate rapid-fire rhythms on the desk in front of him to be capable of doing any sort of writing.
But despite this fact, despite Mickey's lack of note-taking habits during previous meetings, here he was. Sitting in his desk, notebook open in front of him, and a pen grasped between his fingers.
A very familiar pen.
Bob’s pen.
The one that belonged to himself just days ago before it was snatched by the current owner and never returned. He recognizes it immediately – the scuffed blue barrel, the bite mark near the clip from when Bob tried to figure out a particularly difficult physics algorithm a week ago.
Curiosity gets the better of him, and Bob’s eyes trace the line of Mickey’s hand, fingers tightly holding onto the pen, in an attempt to sneak a glimpse of the notes that the other pilot seems to be so diligently writing. But, despite his prying eyes, Mickey’s neck seems to be craned too far down for Bob to peek, his curls covering the page of notes like a curtain.
As if feeling the heavy weight of Bob’s staring, Mickey’s head pops up, catching Bob right in the act.
Heat prickles up his neck and he feels the non-discrete flush of his cheeks warming up as he does his best to force his face into a small smile. The kind that hopefully says, “I was not staring creepily at you. You see, I was really just trying to figure out how the hell we are supposed to complete this mission.”
And judging by the lopsided grin that Mickey throws back in his direction, Bob figures that his message was received loud and clear. Instead of looking disturbed by the attention, Mickey just tilts his head towards Bob’s stolen pen and pushes his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout – a poor man’s attempt at puppy-dog eyes. A look that Bob suspects is meant to say, “Sorry for stealing your pen. Actually, I’m not really sorry at all, but hopefully my big brown eyes distract you enough that you’ll forget it was yours in the first place.”
Well, actually, Bob isn’t one hundred percent sure if that’s the message that Mickey is trying to convey, but it’s the one that his brain unhelpfully supplies. He doesn’t get too long to ponder the expression nor his own translation of it before the affirmative voice of Captain Mitchell breaks through his thoughts.
“Phase one of the mission will be a low-level ingress, attacking in two-plane teams. You’ll fly along this narrow canyon to your target. Radar guided surface-to-air missiles defend the area”.
Maverick’s voice is steady, but there’s a charge to it – like the hum of a storm in the distance. As he gestures to the screen behind him, the map blooms in glowing reds and yellows, terrain lines cutting sharp edges through the projection. The colors almost seem to pulse in time with Bob’s heartbeat. He lets out a breath that he didn’t even realize that he was holding, tracing the twisting route with his eyes. The turns look too tight, too sudden. His stomach clenches with fear as he realizes that him and Natasha are going to have to practically thread a needle at Mach speeds.
Undeterred by the apprehensive faces of the pilots, Maverick continues, “These SAMs are lethal, but they were designed to protect the skies above.” A glint seems to flash in his eyes – one that screams of danger and recklessness. The kind of glint that says Captain Mitchell has made bad ideas work before, and he intends to do it again. “They weren’t designed to protect the ground…nor the canyon below.”
The silence that follows is uneasy, the kind that makes you acutely aware of the sound of your own breathing – or at least that’s how Bob seems to feel, stunned in his seat.
Bradley’s the first to speak up, leaning back with disbelief etched into every line of his face. “That’s because the enemy knows no one is insane enough to navigate terrain that low at those high speeds.”
Maverick doesn’t even let the words finish hanging in the air before he delivers a fiery countenance.
“And that’s exactly what I’m going to train you to do.”
The hangar swallows up the sound again, even quieter this time - heavier. Bob throws a cautious glance in Natasha’s direction beside him. She meets him with a look of her own, the signs of worry beginning to dance across her face, that crease between her eyebrows etching even deeper. She turns back to the front before he can think of anything remotely comforting to say.
Maverick continues to relay the details of the mission, his hand tracing the animation on the screen as it displays two planes zigzagging through a narrow valley.
“Your altitude on the day will be one hundred feet…maximum. Exceed that and radar spots you. And then, well,” He pauses just long enough for the tension to bite. “You’re dead.”
Bob’s grip tightens around his pen. The period that he just pressed into the notebook page on his desk begins to bleed into the sheet behind it. A movement from a few seats over catches his attention. Bob relaxes his grip on the pen as he allows himself to sneak another look back in Mickey’s direction.
From what Bob can see, the other man seems equally stunned by the mission details. His own pen has stilled over the small notebook on his desk. As Mickey lifts his head, his jaw works like he’s chewing over the numbers and odds in his head, the tension pulling tightly at his features. From this angle, Bob can also see the contents of the other pilot’s notebooks spread out in front of him. He quirks an eyebrow of his own as he takes in the series of doodles spread throughout the margin, even a game of hang man seems to be abandoned in one of the corners.
Bob’s stomach floods with a flurry of emotion – something crossed between relief at seeing the nerves spread across the other man’s face, accompanied by something warmer at the thought of him doodling idly somehow in the middle of all this.
A nudge to his shoulder pulls him back. Natasha. A subtle jut of her chin towards the screen says that she caught him looking elsewhere. Bob straightens in his seat and drags his attention back to Maverick, though the warmth still lingers from a few seats over.
“Speed on the day will be 860 knots. Minimum. The time to target is set at two and a half minutes.”
Bob jots the numbers in his notebook, the odds seeming even more impossible as he carefully lists them. His brain already begins computing, entering the details into complicated formulas that fly through his head relentlessly. As twisted as it sounds, the calculations help – gives his nerves a shape, some structure – something more concrete than the fears that's gnawing in his gut.
“The faster you navigate the narrow turns of this canyon, the harder it will be to stay under enemy radar. The deeper you fly, the slimmer your margin of error. But," Maverick stops, almost allowing the pilots time to prepare themselves for the figurative boom that he was about to drop, "the tighter the turns, the more intensely the force of gravity on your body multiplies.”
Captain Mitchell shifts to point at various turns on the canyon map, each one looking more dangerous than the last.
“You’ve all faced sustained G’s before. But this…” His voice dips, almost reverent. “This will take you and your aircraft to the breaking point.”
The words hand like smoke in the air, and the irony isn’t lost on the aviators. Each of them seem to tense with the probable danger that they’ll face. The promise of grueling training runs, the pressure of expectations, and throughout all of it, the deadly reminder that they just might not make it back.
It’s, well, it’s more than a lot to take in, and Bob begins to wish that he could be swallowed whole by the columns of numbers and equations on the desk in front of him.
Then, with the same enthusiasm of a teacher on the first day of school – and not someone who just gave a group of people a near death sentence – Maverick claps his hands together.
“For today’s exercise, we’ll start easy. You’ll be flying a route on your navigation system that will simulate the valley. Maximum ceiling: three hundred feet. Time to target: three minutes.” He scopes the blank faces of the aviators before flashing them one last bright smile.
“Good luck”.
The first training run is rough. And sure, absolutely no one thought it would be a cake walk, but it was practically a brutal baptism by fire.
Even knowing it’s a simulation, the canyon still feels unforgiving. It might have only existed as lines and numbers in the pilot’s navigation system, but once they’re skimming the deck, every second feels perilously real. And for the pilots, every second counted.
As Bob and Natasha bank sharply around the narrow bends, the world begins to tilt and spin, the horizon becoming a dizzying blur of rocks and sky.
When you’re flying at three hundred feet, with barely any room to breathe, the jet responds to every twitch of the controls with a merciless sort of precision. Just one wrong move and you risk losing altitude or overshooting a turn – mistakes that could cost them the mission, or something much worse.
The tight turns crush the aviator’s lungs, their bodies collapsing as though they were being squeezed by invisible hands. The relentless pressure of gravity threatening to crush them in their seats, battling the weight of force versus the necessity to keep their eyes opened. Up in the sky, it seemed as though the steady thrum of the engine and the hiss of wind were the only sounds that could cut through the adrenaline-fueled haze.
Bob watches as pilots drop out one by one. First, Omaha and Halo are caught by altitude alarms, forcing them to pull up and bow out. Next, Rooster misses the tight timing window that Maverick had set, an unforgiving sort of checkpoint. Amongst all the pilots, the frustration was tangible. It seemed to seep through the air, mixing with the weight of exhaustion and the sharp sting of disappointment.
Somehow, Bob and Natasha make it through. But, unfortunately, when Bob finally touches down, the sweat slicking to his skin, it all seemed to be a brutal reminder of just how far they still had to go.
He met Natasha’s flushed face beside him, a single dark strand of hair slipping from her tight bun at the back of her head. Despite her sweat streaked face and ruddy cheeks, her eyes remained determined. It seemed as though there would be no celebrating their subtle success of today’s run – especially with the quiet knowledge that the next run would be even harder.
The weight of the day seems to settle over Bob as he tirelessly makes his way back to his bunk after their grueling flight. The hum of the base begins to quiet around him, softening into its evening rhythms - the chatter of other aviators, the faint sounds of showers starting – warming up long enough just to never actually get hot. But Bob barely seems to hear any of it.
Instead, inside of Bob’s mind, the canyon is still there. The numbers from today’s flight seem to dance around relentlessly. Altitudes, speeds, turn radii – all sorts of equations looping through his brain in an endless pattern.
He throws his helmet back beside his bunk, a pleasant thud sounding out into the still silence of the room. From his flight suit pocket, he pulls out his notebook and spreads the pages flat on the bed - bending the spine with a practiced sort of precision, as he collapses onto the bunk beside it.
With the pages spread in front of him, Bob begins to flip through them, his fingers easily finding the blank pages that he had reserved for tonight’s reflections. The ink was still damp in some spots, formulas and sketches sprawled across the paper in tight, deliberate handwriting. A poorly drawn plane is crammed into one corner, the wings bent at horribly odd angles that would stand no chance against an actual canyon. Each line across the pages were a reminder – that this mission wasn’t just a test of skill, but of precision, nerve, and sheer will.
As he sat cross-legged on the edge of his bunk – eyes scanning his notes and trying to make sense of today’s brutal lessons, a soft knock came at the door.
Bob’s head lifted at the noise, surprised by the interruption. And for a moment, the quiet tension of the day gave away to something warmer, something like anticipation.
“Come in,” Bob calls out, his voice wavering with a mixture of fatigue and interest.
The door creaks open and a familiar face pops in, one with warm brown eyes and a bright smile. Mickey remains in the doorway for a second, his shoulder leaning against the door frame, his own flight bag still grasped firmly in his hand. He raises one hand in a friendly wave, a small flutter of four fingers.
“Hey there. I hope I’m not interrupting your late-night math party,” Mickey jokes. Despite his tone, he remains in the doorway, clearly waiting for the other man to invite him in.
Bob feels his mouth open and close for a second, searching for words - his brain annoyingly occupied by the sight of Mickey leaning against his doorframe: curls still perfectly windswept, the collar of his flight suit askew.
“Oh - uh, no not at all! I’m just trying to make sense of everything that Maverick threw at us today.” Bob smiles, feeling the warmth of company, despite the long day.
And that seemed to be enough. With the invitation now in the air, Mickey comes into the room, discarding his flight bag right next to Bob’s as he rests his own bodyweight on the mattress bedside him. As if proving his point, Bob raises a finger to lightly rap it against the open page of his notebook that rests between the two men.
With his finger still pressed to the slightly smeared equation on the page, Bob looks up at Mickey besides him. His tongue slips between his lips before he gives himself enough courage to ask, “Would you – uh - sometimes it helps if I think things out loud?”
Mickey’s smile doesn’t falter. He just nods, easy and agreeable. “Oh no problem! As long as there’s no quiz at the end of this.”
Bob lets a chuckle out, low and under his breath. When he looks back to at Mickey, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “Well, I guess the quiz is the mission…” Bob begins to trail off, his smile quirking up high on the right side.
Mickey rolls his eyes fondly, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Yeah yeah, but there’s no numbers in the sky. You know, I’m not great with those.”
Bob’s smile continues to grow wider as his eyes flick down to the bulge in the pocket of Mickey’s flight suit. “Well, if you’re no good with numbers, then what could you possibly have in that?" He raises an eyebrow towards the suspiciously-notebook shaped lump, "Don’t tell me that you’re going around stealing Social Security numbers after lecturing me about it.”
His tone is all tease, and Mickey lets out a puff of laughter before slipping a hand into his pocket. He pulls out the notebook and spread it onto the bunk right beside Bob’s, the placement almost mirroring the way that the two men are sitting. When he opens to one of the first pages, Bob can’t help but smile.
Numbers are scattered here and there; Mickey’s chicken scratch of so-called handwriting is a stark contrast to Bob’s neatly printed columns. But Bob’s gaze skips right past the list of time limits and gravitational forces, instead his attention is pulled to the spattering of doodles that litter the page.
There’s a small, sharp-lined airplane on one page, a neat drawing that makes Bob’s sketch from earlier look elementary in comparison. The plane seems to be performing an elaborate maneuver as it scales a mountain, navigating the narrow turns that the pair was forced to trace in their own jets earlier.
“Alright Picasso,” Bob whispers into the comfortable silence of the room. And when he meets Mickey’s eyes, he swears that he can see a light dusting of blush across his cheeks, a glint of bashfulness in his eyes.
“Yeah yeah - speak for yourself Einstein,” Mickey responds playfully, his fingers tracing one of Bob’s lengthy equations on the page, the pad of his finger running over the smudge of graphite. “How about we work through this one together?”
Bob glances at where Mickey’s pointing – the turn radius formula scrawled in tight, precise handwriting.
R = v2/g . tanx
Where v is velocity, g is gravitational acceleration, and x is bank angle. The numbers seem to find their place in Bob’s brain, manifesting into formulas and equations before he has time to fully process it happening.
“Alright”, Bob begins, leaning into Mickey’s space so their shoulders brush, “say we’re at 480 knots, banking at sixty degrees…”
Bob’s hands seem to move automatically, reaching for a pen that he’d tossed aside when Mickey had come in. He scribbles the numbers onto the blank sheet of paper, the rush of adrenaline skewing his handwriting slightly to the right, deviating from the neat columns scattered amongst the previous pages.
He speaks into the comfortable silence between them, relaxed in the space that the two have created. “So, that’s v = 247m/s, g = 9.81, x = 60º, which makes tan about 1.73, give or take a few units.” As Bob’s thoughts and computing spill out onto the paper beneath his fingers, Mickey watches in awe. His smile seems to spread even wider as Bob bites his lip in concentration.
With a final tap of his pen against the paper, Bob underlines the answer that he has come to before looking up at Mickey with bright eyes. “So then, that puts our turn radius at about 3,630 meters.” His smile is wide as he looks up at Mickey, an unreadable expression on the other pilot’s face.
“That was, kinda remarkable.” Mickey speaks so softly that it might be considered a whisper. His eyes keep flickering between the solved equation on the page and Bob’s blue ones, wide behind his glasses and filled with a joyful gleam of their own.
“I mean, it’s not bad,” Bob replies with a faint smile. “But, if we hit that angle just a fraction sooner, we can cut it by a hundred meters, give or take?”
Mickey seems to mull over the answer for a moment or two, his lips pursing in concentration. Finally, his face breaks into a wide grin, “Well, we would also have to keep Maverick off our backs for at least five minutes.”
Bob finds his mouth splitting into a smile of his own, “Yeah, well, then I guess it’s back to the drawing board.”
The next half hour seems to melt away. Bob walks Mickey through other equations, breaking them down into simpler, more manageable steps. Mickey chimes in every now and then with teasing observations of his own and the occasional, “wait, explain that again,” but mostly he listens. Somewhere between lift coefficients and bank angles, Bob realizes that he’s enjoying himself more than he has in weeks.
After a while, the pair lie side by side on the bunk, propped on their forearms, notebooks spread out before them. Bob’s finger traces a slow, deliberate path along a diagram. Mickey watches carefully, his eyes dutifully following the path of Bob’s finger as it circles a specific equation.
From the corner of his eye, he catches Mickey’s steady nod, curls bouncing against his forehead with the motion. More than that, Bob notices that the other man has taken to chewing on the end of his pen thoughtfully as he works through the newest formula – a blue pen, with a scuff mark, once again, a pen that Bob would recognize anywhere. His pen.
The realization halts Bob mid explanation. His words falter, his eyes flickering between the pen that’s resting lightly between Mickey’s lips and the thoughtful expression on his face.
As his eyes trace the curve of Mickey’s cupid bow, pursed over the nub of the pen, he realizes how close the two pilots have gotten while on the bunk. They sit shoulder to shoulder, his face close enough to count the tiny constellation of moles scattered across Mickey’s cheek. Bob swears that he can feel the warmth radiating from Mickey, even though the flight jacket that he wears. His brain finds itself pulled in two directions – one half still in the math, and the other seems to be captured in the pull of something that he doesn’t dare name yet.
Suddenly, Mickey glances up at him, their eyes locking for just a beat too long – like the equation between them has solved into something else entirely.
Bob feels his cheeks flush, a slow bloom of heat rising as Mickey’s lips quirk into a smile around the pen. Bob swallows, licking his lip and wills his brain to say something, but Mickey beats him to the punch – an easy confidence in his voice breaking the quiet tension.
“You know, you’re actually pretty good at this,” he begins, the pen slipping from his lips to point at the formula on the page.
“Huh, math?” Is what Bob manages to stutter out in response, although the words seem to blend together in a embarrassing mumble that sounds like “humph”.
“No, no,” Mickey shakes his head, his expression earnest, “Teaching. I’m not ready to say that I completely understand what you’re talking about but, I’m starting to realize that these aren’t just random letters thrown onto a page.”
It takes Bob a second to register the compliment. The way in which it seems genuine rather than the sort of casual, throwaway ones that he's used to. He blinks for a second, caught off guard as something warm begins to unfurl in his chest.
When he opens his mouth in response the words seem to slip out softer than he had intended for them to be. “Oh, I uh…wanted to be a teacher when I was a kid,” he admits, “Before, you know, the plane stuff happened.”
Mickey smiles - no teasing this time, just quiet and genuine, in a way that makes Bob feel seen. “You’d have been good at it. Still are, I mean.”
Bob’s first instinct is to deflect, to point out all of the reasons why he wouldn’t. But it seems as though Mickey is already looking at him like he’s proven it. Like the neat handwriting in the margins of his notebook and the patient way that he had walked the other man through physics problems were all the proof that he needed.
“I dunno,” Bob says, a little shyly, his gaze drifting back down to the notebook pages between them. “I guess, I still get to teach in small ways.”
“Guess so,” Mickey replies, his voice dipping softer. Then, with a gentle bump of his shoulder, he nudges Bob to look up and meet his warm gaze, “Lucky me.”
Bob’s smile is genuine when he looks to Mickey, the steady warmth in his chest continue to grow. And then, a yawn escapes him, soft and unguarded. He jostles Mickey’s arm lightly, raising a hand to cover his mouth. Mickey’s own arm raises to check the time on a leather watch strapped around his wrist. As he notices how late it is, he lays back on his knees, rising from the bed.
“I totally lost track of time! If either of us are going to utilize these equations successfully tomorrow than I think we better call it a night.” Mickey says softly, his hands rubbing the tiredness from his own eyes. If Bob searches deeply into the other man’s voice, he swears that he can hear something akin to disappointment at the thought of their evening ending.
Bob does his best to keep the reluctance from his own voice as he jokes, “Yeah well, I guess even Einstein needs his beauty rest.”
He leans back on his own knees as he watches Mickey rise from the bed, grabbing his helmet bag from the space next to the bunk. As Mickey lifts it, he seems to hesitate for a moment, then a spark of excitement flickers across his face.
“Oh!” Mickey brightens, turning back to where Bob is still seated atop of his bunk. “I almost forgot.” He reaches into his helmet bag to pull out a single pink Starburst, slightly smushed from its time crammed into the bag.
He places the candy into Bob’s hand, the crooked smile on his face warm, despite the sleep in his eyes. “For all the tutoring tonight.”
Bob accepts the candy gratefully, his hand curling around the sweet. When their fingertips brush in the exchange, he feels a quiet thrill and fights the urge to smile even wider.
“It was really nothing. Honestly.” Bob begins, hoping that the statement captures the genuineness that he feels. And as he watches Mickey turn his back to him, moving slowly towards the door, Bob feels himself grow a little bolder, “This was fun.”
Mickey pauses mid-step, his hand resting softly on the curve of the doorknob. He turns his head slightly, a warm smile spreading onto his features, brown eyes crinkling at the corners. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he replies fondly, “It was.”
As he twists the knob and takes one step out into the hallway, Mickey glances back one last time at Bob, still seated on the bunk. His eyes flicker to the pink candy that’s still resting in his hand, fingertips curled around the sweet like it’s sacred. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he adds, “Sweet dreams, Starburst,” before turning down the hall and closing the door quietly behind him.
Bob watches the door shut; his eyes still glued to the place where the other man just stood. A slow smile blooms across his face, and he tucks his chin to his chest in embarrassment – despite himself being the only one in the room to see the flush on his cheeks. As he glances down, he looks once more at the candy in his hand and then back to the door.
He rolls the Starburst between his fingers once… then twice, before setting it carefully on the open page of his notebook, right next to the last equation that they solved together. Bob stares at it for a long moment, that silly, hopeful grin still tugging at his lips, before flipping the notebook closed.
He feels a little like a schoolboy with a diary - but, something about it: the candy, the quiet, the sweet moment shared between the two…it feels precious. It seems like something to hold close to his chest, something that’s worth keeping safe.
Chapter 5: Cinna"meant" to Be
Notes:
Hi Everyone!
I hope that you are all doing well! I just wanted to let you know that I have moved back into school and have started student teaching! I will still be uploading new chapters as soon as possible, but I wanted to let you know that that is the reason why my updating schedule is a little different right now!
Now, back to the good stuff!!
Chapter Text
Cinna-meant To Be
Bob sat at his desk, the soft glow of the lamp painting the room in shades of warm amber. The light caught the curve of his pen as it slowed in his hand, his handwriting beginning to trail off until the words blurred at the edges. His eyes felt heavy, the kind of blink that made the room seem quieter, smaller, maybe a little stuffy.
With a sigh, he set the pen down beside the half-written letter, stretching until each of his vertebrae popped behind him. A yawn caught him mid-motion, and he reached up to cover it with his hand. It was late – late enough that the air felt hushed, late enough for the hallway outside of his room to be dark and still. Late enough that going to bed would have been the sensible choice.
But first, the letter.
Bob smooths his palm over the paper, folding it neatly, pressing each crease between his thumb and forefinger until the edges aligned. His gaze lingered on the black ink as the lines disappeared beneath each intricate fold – his own tidy script vanishing into the paper’s shadows.
It was a letter for his mom. One of those letters that were meant just for her. One that Bob both silently hoped his father wouldn’t read, and one that he was also pretty confident that his father wouldn’t want to read anyways.
It wasn’t like Bob’s relationship with his father was bad. It was just…different.
He had done hundreds of things to impress his father and spent years trying to measure up to the impressive presence of a man that was his dad. He joined an ROTC youth program in high school when he would have rather joined the environmental club, he took a pretty, smiling Southern girl to his senior prom when he would have rather not gone at all, he even joined the Naval Academy when he would have been perfectly content keeping both feet on the ground for the rest of his life.
But despite these sacrifices, earning the respect of Bob’s father would always remain just out of reach.
Especially with his brother Wyatt in the picture. You see, if Bob had done hundreds of things to gain his father’s approval, Wyatt had done millions.
So, it wasn’t that Bob felt as though his father wouldn’t be proud of him, or that him and his father weren’t close. It was just, that Bob and his mother had a better understanding of each other.
Where Bob had to press and peel himself into smaller pieces in order to gain the approval of his father, his mom didn’t need him to change shape to fit the requirements for her love. She was the one who welcomed him home with open arms and a smile that softened the edges of the day. She was a safe place for Bob to be himself, and to a place that made him feel as though being himself was still good enough.
While his father taught Wyatt how to knock beer cans off the porch railing with a handgun, Bob sat at the kitchen table, reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe as his mom worked tirelessly on a Dutch apple pie. The scent of cinnamon and butter curling through the air with the faint sound of her humming as Bob became lost within the pages of his book. And honestly, Bob preferred that – the solitude, the gentle silence, the warmth of both the preheating oven and his mother’s smile.
And this, this was the difference.
His father’s respect was always something that had to be earned, something that could have been taken away just as quickly as it was handed out. But his mother’s love? No, that was something that was always given.
So, Bob wrote to his mother in long, uneven bursts.
There are paragraphs that detail his mission assignment and the almost impossible configurations that both himself and his aircraft would have to push through in order to successfully complete it. There’s a short aside about the miserable food that the aviators were forced to stomach on the base, including a confession about how he’s been dreaming about his mom’s meatloaf, or really any one of her home-cooked meals. And then there were the pages about the people; endless descriptions of all the new faces that he’s met. Natasha’s fierce spirit and fiery look of determination in her eyes. Mickey’s warm smile and the series of late nights that they’ve shared bent over notebooks reviewing equations. Slowly, each and every aviator found its way into the letter.
He kept writing until his hand cramped, or the pull of sleep became too heavy to ignore. He used one hand to slip the folded letter into an envelope, already marked with the address of his childhood home, and used the other to pull on his desk lamp’s chain – effectively submitting the room to the darkness of the night.
Bob rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness settle into them, and reached for a small canvas bag of toiletries waiting by the bed. His eyelids were heavy, his steps were slow, but there was one thing that Bob Floyd never skipped – no matter the hour – and that was brushing his teeth.
The corridor beyond his door was cool and dim, the low hum of the building filling the space between his footsteps as he padded towards the bathroom.
When he stepped inside, the harsh glare of military-grade bathroom lighting hit Bob full force. It was an unwelcoming sensation, especially after his trip through the dark, lowly lit hallway. Bob removes his glasses from his nose to blink some of the sensitivity from his eyes, his eyelashes fluttering shut and nose scrunching in protest.
By the time his eyes have adjusted enough to reopen, Bob notices that he’s no longer alone in the harshly lit bathroom.
Without his glasses, the figure coming through the doorway was a little more than a blur – dark hair sticking up in uneven tufts, like its owner had just rolled out of bed or waken up from a nap. But when the man-shaped blur tilted its head and offered him a warm, easy smile, Bob didn’t need perfect vision in order to recognize him.
He slipped his glasses back on, the world sharpening into focus.
Mickey stood beside him at the bathroom sink, still smiling. There were shadows under his eyes, deep enough to speak of too many late nights, but his grin was wide enough to crinkle the corners anyway, like his face simply wasn’t built to contain a grin so large.
Bob allows his gaze to slip from Mickey’s smile to the tube of toothpaste in his hand. He squeezes a generous dallop – bright red - onto the blue toothbrush. Bob’s eyes widen slightly as he glanced down to read the toothpaste’s label, already preparing himself for whatever unconventional horror that Mickey is about to brush his teeth with.
Crest. Cinnamon.
A laugh slipped out before he could stop it, breaking the quiet between two tired aviators.
Mickey meet’s Bob slightly horrified, slightly humorous face in the bathroom mirror, one of his own eyebrows raising in speculation.
Bob gestures to the tube of red toothpaste in Mickey’s hand, his finger pointing at the label almost accusatory, “That right there, is an abomination. A crime against humanity." He pauses, giving a disapproving nod of his head, "There is absolutely nothing permissible about cinnamon flavored toothpaste.”
Mickey pretends to be offended, forcing his eyebrows to crease together, but his smile gives him away. “Excuse me - some of us like flavor.”
“That” Bob points his own toothbrush in the direction of the monstrosity on Mickey’s, “is absolutely not flavor. It’s regret. In paste form.”
Before Mickey can come up with a response, Bob has begun his own toothbrushing ritual. He turns the water on first, squeezes a small amount of his own mint toothpaste – a completely respectable flavor choice – onto the bristles, rinses it once more before placing it into his mouth. Then, with a meticulous sort of precision, he moves the brush in small circles around each tooth, starting with his molars and slowly moving towards the front of his mouth.
Mickey watches for a beat, his eyes following the other man’s meticulousness, his own toothbrush forgotten in his hand.
“God, you brush your teeth like you’re defusing a bomb," a lilt of teasing in his voice.
“Dude,” Bob says, his words slightly muffled from a mouth full of mint-flavored foam. “We are in the military; in case you forgot.”
Mickey purses his lips, clearly surprised by the other man’s quick wit. He tilts his head to the one side, amused, his hand reaching out to turn on the faucet.
“So, what, if I look in that little notebook of yours, am I gonna find the quadratic equation that prevents cavities?”
Bob meets Mickey’s teasing look in the mirror and rolls his eyes fondly, his toothbrush still tracing a persistent pattern around his incisor. Then, he notices that Mickey still hasn’t turned off the faucet, despite his own toothbrush now being placed into his mouth.
Bob tucks his toothbrush into his cheek, holding it in place with his tongue as he reaches out to shut off the flow of water. Mickey seems to notice his hand’s plan and catches Bob’s wrist softly, meeting his questioning gaze with an inquisitive one of his own.
Bob spat a mouthful of mint-flavored foam into the sink in front of him, his wrist still held captive by Mickey’s gentle hold. He rubs his free hand against his mouth before announcing, “You know, you’re wasting water.”
Mickey simply huffs around his own toothbrush, although he does release his grasp on Bob’s wrist.
From here, the two fall into an easy rhythm – Bob takes his glasses off once more to rub a warm washcloth over his face, allowing himself to bask in the soothing steam, while Mickey finishes brushing his teeth, finally turning the faucet off after spitting into the sink one last time. When Bob places his glasses back on, he sees Mickey’s smiling, golden face in the mirror.
And then Bob notices it, his lips quirking slightly, “You’ve got…” And his voice comes out bolder than he wanted it to, somehow standing out in the gentle quiet of the bathroom.
Mickey turns to him, his eyebrow raising as he reads Bob’s vivacious expression, “What?”
Bob finds himself blinking once before he gestures vaguely to Mickey’s mouth, “Toothpaste.”
Mickey moves to wipe it away, his hand reaching up to his mouth, but Bob beats him to it, reaching out without thinking. And then, before his brain can tell him that this is probably a bad idea, Bob’s thumb brushes across the corner of Mickey’s lip. It’s quick, barely a touch, but it leaves the air a little heavier than before.
Mickey’s eyes linger on him for a beat, the corner of his mouth curling. “Guess I owe you one.”
Bob huffs a laugh as he pulls his hand back. He knows that it’s in his head, but he swears that he can still feel the warmth of Mickey’s skin on his fingertips. “Just, uh, doing my part for dental hygiene.”
Mickey leans forward on the sink, his expression is easy and something about it makes the nerves building in Bob’s stomach relax a little bit. ““My mom would be proud of you. She’s really big on making sure that people don’t look foolish walking around with toothbrush on their face.”
That pulls a small, crooked smile out of Bob, thinking about his own mother and the letter that he left behind on his desk. “She sounds like a smart woman.”
“She is,” Mickey says, slowly putting his toothbrush and abominably flavored toothpaste back into his bag. “She’s the reason that I’ve been stuck with cinnamon toothpaste since I was like, eight. Swears mint tastes like medicine.”
Bob laughs, shaking his head. “You know, that actually explains a lot.”
There’s a beat before Mickey starts again, “This,” he nods his head towards Bob and their shared toiletry bags on the sink, “it all sort of reminds me of home.”
Bob glances at him in the mirror, his own toothbrush still in his hand. “Yeah? Big fan of military-grade lighting back home?”
Mickey snorts and Bob feels something warm stirring in his chest at the sound. “No. But, crowded bathrooms, elbows knocking, fighting for the mirror. That sort of stuff.”
Bob turns around to face him, leaning his weight back against the sink, “So, I’m guessing you have a big family?”
Mickey’s smile grows even larger, “Oh yeah, huge. I’ve got lots of siblings, cousins too. You couldn’t really do anything in peace if your life depended on it.”
It sounds like a hassle, but Bob can tell from the blissful expression on Mickey’s face that it’s really anything but.
Bob tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “How many are we talking?”
Mickey mirrors his position, leaning back casually as well. He tips his chin upwards to meet Bob’s questioning gaze. “Depends on who you count. I’ve got five younger brothers, three little sisters, and a rotating cast of cousins who basically lived with us. It was busy.”
Bob huffs a soft laugh. “That’s…a lot of toothpaste.”
“Oh yeah, and a lot of yelling to hurry up,” Mickey says with a grin. “But also, a lot of late-night talking over the sink, sort of just like this. You’d be brushing your teeth next to someone and somehow end up telling them about your day, your plans, your…whatever.”
Bob listens quietly for a moment, the corners of his mouth softening. It sounds different from his own childhood – almost impossibly so. In his version, there weren’t late-night conversations about your days or your dreams. There wasn’t toothpaste covered smiles and knocking elbows around the sink. Just a lot of “yes sirs” and goodnight kisses on the forehead.
A quiet sort of submission.
The softness of his voice surprises him when he speaks, “That sounds… loud.”
Mickey tilts his head, seeming to consider it for a moment, “Yeah,” he admits after a beat. “But it’s home,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. “Big, loud, messy, but home.”
Bob nods slowly, his eyes drifting away for a moment before returning to meet Mickey’s at his side. “I think I would have liked some of that. The loud and big part, anyway, maybe not the messy.”
Mickey studies him for a second, chewing lightly at his lip, and then closes the distance between them, their shoulders brushing in a casual press that still manages to send a ripple of warmth through Bob.
“I miss them a lot when I’m out here. They you know, keep me grounded, helped to make me who I am.” Mickey shrugs into the bulk of Bob’s shoulder, he finds the presence comforting.
Bob glances down at the contact, at how easily Mickey settles there, before looking up. “That must be hard,” he says softly, “to be the oldest. Especially of that many. That’s a whole lot of responsibility.”
Mickey’s smile grows a little wider, fondness coloring his expression “Yeah, I guess. But I wouldn’t trade it. I actually joined the Navy for them – first generation, you know? I wanted them to be proud. To know that their big brother was strong, so maybe it’d help them feel strong too.”
In the bathroom’s unforgiving light, Bob catches the faint glisten in Mickey’s eyes, the ways his shoulders seem to hold both the weight and pride of it all, of expectation. His gaze lingers on Mickey’s face, admiring the quiet strength there. “That’s, that’s really something.” Bob says at last, “I’m sure they’re really proud of you.”
Mickey turns his head to Bob, the emotion clear on his face. He swallows, offering Bob a small smile, before his lips quirk back into their typical lively grin. “Well, it also means that I’m used to rounding people up and making sure that they don’t get into too much trouble.”
The wheels begin to turn in a Bob’s mind, and suddenly he feels as though he’s connected the dots on a mystery that he didn’t even know he was trying to solve. He turns to Mickey, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion, “Is that why you’re always carrying around candy?”
Mickey’s twinkle with a mixture of amusement and quiet pride, before he makes a playful miming motion of locking his lips and tossing out the key. “A good babysitter never reveals his secrets.”
They share a soft laugh, the tension from the day slowly unspooling between them in the small shared space.
Bob leans a little closer, the edge of the sink cool beneath his palms. He’s not usually one to talk about his family – those conversations tend to stay locked away, filed under too much or not for now. But with Mickey standing beside him, his reflection easy and unguarded in the mirror, the usual weight of his chest feels lighter. The warm presence at his side, the quiet hum of shared space, the faint scent of toothpaste and soap – it all weaves together into something sacred. Without quite meaning to, Bob feels a wall inside him loosen, a brick shifting free.
“My house was pretty quiet,” Bob says at last, voice low like he’s testing the sound of it. “Or at least my mom was. She’s who I tried to spend most of my time with.”
When he looks up from his hands to meet Mickey’s warm gaze, he feels lighter and finds himself carrying on.
“My dad and my brother – they were loud. Like two forces that seemed to constantly collide and create commotion. They were like each other: a little angry, a little stern, a little careless. But my mom… she was more like me.”
Mickey nods at his side like he gets it. When he speaks, his voice is soft, earnest like he cares what Bob has to say, “What was she like?”
Bob smiles quietly to himself, picturing her clearly - her hair always tied in a simple plait, the blonde hair almost glowing in the sunlight. Her hands, rough and calloused from years of housework, but still gentle as they turned the pages of the books they would read together.
“She was warm, gentle. But she was also sharp, had this sort of whip-smart humor that would surprise you out of nowhere. And she cared. She cared more than anyone I’ve ever met. She cared about me, she cared about my shitty dad, she even cared about the stray cats that would come into the barn at night and kill our chickens.”
Bob finds himself laughing slightly, the sound soft but tinged with something like a bittersweet ache resting deep in his throat.
“She sounds like a remarkable woman.” Mickey’s voice is low beside him, but his body is warm at his side. It’s grounding and Bob finds himself subconsciously leaning into it.
He exhales slowly, eyes meeting Mickey’s gentle gaze, “She is. I actually wrote her a letter tonight. It’s easier that way. Than writing to my dad. She just…she gets me.”
Mickey nods thoughtfully, a quiet understanding in his eyes. After a moment, he offers, “Sometimes, the people we choose to be our family are the ones that really see us.”
Bob smiles softly, feeling the weight of those words settle between them.
He hears a rustle beside him and sees that Mickey is looking in the direction of the clock nailed on the bathroom wall. The quiet tick of the second hand feels amplified in the stillness between them.
“We sure do make it a habit of messing up each other's sleep schedules,” Mickey jokes, the statement light, as though he doesn't actually care about either of them getting a good night's sleep if it was at the expense of spending more time together. "But, we should probably get to sleep", Mickey continues, his voice low and careful. “We’ve got another long day tomorrow.”
Bob shakes his head slowly, warmth still glowing in his chest like a quiet ember. He watches as Mickey gathers his bag and begins to walk towards the bathroom door, he already misses the heat of the body next to him.
He turns to pack his own toiletries into his bag, the motions slow and deliberate. He catches his reflection in the mirror and notices that Mickey hasn’t moved very far. Instead, he’s lingering in the doorway, body relaxed but eyes still fixed on Bob, as if waiting for something unspoken – perhaps the invitation to stay a little longer.
Their eyes meet in the glass, and Bob feels a quiet smile rise from somewhere deep within. It’s soft, genuine – an unguarded expression.
“I’m glad that you stopped by.” Bob says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of everything that’s been said tonight.
Mickey’s face splits into a grin of his own, and Bob swears that he can see the beginning of blush spreading on the other man’s cheeks.
“Me too”.
They share one last look in the mirror – one that’s quiet, comfortable, and full on unspoken understanding. Then, with a gentle nod, Mickey turns on his heel and steps into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him.
Bob stands frozen for a moment, his toiletry bag in his hand, just staring at the empty space that Mickey left behind. The faint scene of cinnamon toothpaste lingers in the air, warm and sort of stubborn, a reminder of the space they had just shared.
And as Bob inhales, he finds that he doesn’t really find cinnamon toothpaste to be that bad at all.
Chapter 6: M&M's or Mornings & Mickey
Notes:
I had to look up SO much plane jargon for this one. Which, to be honest, I am still not sure if it is all 100% correct. So, bear with me and please don't complete these tasks in this order if you were planning on piloting a fighter jet any time soon.
Chapter Text
M&M’s - or – Mornings & Mickey
The hangar was still caught somewhere in the bleary mixture between night and day. Bob’s ears filled with the faint hum of the overhead lights mixing with the slow, steady whir of the ground crew in the distance. The air carries the unmistakable mixture of jet fuel and coffee, sharp and rich all at once. A pleasant smell filling Bob’s nose, almost like the calming scent of coming home after a long trip away.
Bob was already there, perched on the edge of a workbench towards the back of the briefing room. His small Moleskine notebook was balanced on his knee, only shaking slightly as his leg bounced up and down, an unpleasant mixture of being undercaffeinated and overly anxious for the long day of grueling training up ahead.
But before any sort of training could be accomplished, Bob had been tasked with completing a series of pre-flight checklists. His head was bent, pen scratching steadily across the page open on his lap. His eyes flicked over the laminated pre-flight checklist beside him, as he organized each item from highest to lowest priority. Sure, it wasn’t completely necessary, but it made Bob feel a little more prepared for the day ahead.
Suddenly, between deciding whether or not checking the multi-function display should be listed before or after the weapon systems check, Bob hears the creak of the hangar door and the sound of footsteps behind him, a lazy unhurried gait.
“Now that,” Mickey’s voice carried a grin even before Bob looked up from his notebook, “is a face I don’t mind getting up early to see.”
Bob glanced over the top of his glasses, one eyebrow raising in a quiet sort of amusement. He hopes the way that his voice cracks in embarrassment can be concealed by the early hour as he replies, “Morning”.
Mickey tugged one earbud free, the faint thumb of something with a heavy bassline spilling into the quiet of the hangar before he stuffed it into his pocket. He crossed the floor towards Bob, his eyes a little bleary with sleep but still bright despite the hour.
“You know, you don’t get bonus points for showing up before the coffee cart is even set up.” Mickey’s tone is light, jesting as he settles besides Bob on the workbench, their shoulders finding a comfortable sort of closeness.
“Just – you know – wanted to double check some things,” Bob replies, tapping the pen against his notebook. He finally decides that the multi-function display should be checked before the weapons system and pencils that into his checklist.
Mickey lets out a small laugh as he sees Bob make this decision and jerks his chin towards the lone coffee urn on a folding table in the corner. “Well, where does getting coffee fall on your list of priorities? I’m hoping that it’s above the countermeasures test?”
Bob laughs under his breath but allows himself to be pulled up by the shorter pilot. Together, they walk side by side, shoulders almost brushing on their way to the makeshift coffee station in the corner. They keep their voices low, almost to match the sleepy hum of the space around them, full of pilots and machines that are still waking up.
Bob reaches for the coffee pot first, pouring a very full cup for himself in one of the disposable cups that are left by the urn. Mickey lets out a low whistle, his eyes flashing mischievously at Bob's black coffee preference, “Mmm, so you’re pretty hardcore huh?”
“Just efficient,” Bob corrects, stepping aside slightly so that Mickey could fill his own cup.
Bob takes a sip, allowing the bitter taste to fill house mouth. He closes his eyes, savoring the warmth for just a moment. It reminds him of quiet mornings spent with his mom, neither of them talking, just his mother’s quiet humming and the soft flutter of pages turning in both of their books at the kitchen table.
When he opens his eyes again, he watches Mickey dump two sugar packets into his own cup, before pouring in a reckless amount of creamer. As Mickey notices Bob carefully watching him at his side, he just smirks, giving the mixture one more stir before bringing it up to his own lips. When he brings the cup away from his mouth, he licks his lips and hums in satisfaction.
“You know, with all the candy, I shouldn’t be surprised that you take it sweet.” Bob smirks faintly over the lid of his own cup, his tone slipping towards teasing.
“Sounds like you’re a little jealous there, with you plain old, sad, boring, black coffee,” Mickey purses his lips, his voice dropping a little lower.
Bob smile grows larger before he turns on his heel, beginning to walk back in the direction of his notebook and checklist forgotten back on the workbench. He hears the rushed footsteps of Mickey hot on his tail, before he feels a hand gingerly pressed against the back of his head near the nape of his neck.
The touch was quick, fleeting, almost casual – but the warmth still lingered.
“There,” Mickey says, his voice as warm as the early rays of sunlight breaking through the windows of the hangar. “Didn’t want you starting that checklist with a bad case of bed head.”
Bob’s footsteps stutter slightly with the other aviator’s gentle touch, and he finds himself subconsciously leaning back into it, as if chasing the subtle heat of Mickey’s prying fingers. But, with seemingly no regard for Bob's subconscious, Mickey has already caught back up to him, taking slightly larger strides to match Bob’s pace - almost as though he didn't just casually thread his fingers through the other man's hair.
Together, they step out into the cool morning air, the sky still a little more grey than blue, but a few rays from the early sunrise begin to peak out from behind the clouds. The ramp stretches ahead of them, a few rows of F/A-18s gleaming under the floodlights, their canopies fogged faintly from the early morning chill. The two find an easy step together, hands shoved into pockets, grins on their faces as they brush shoulders with each other every few steps.
Out in the sunlight, Bob finally takes a good look at Mickey. The warmth on his skin and the first few sips of coffee ease the last edges of sleep from his mind. In the glow of the morning – Bob notices something new.
It appeared as though in the blur of late-night notebooks debriefs and too-early training calls, Mickey had skipped a day of shaving.
It’s barely noticeable, just the faintest shadow along his jaw, but somehow Bob’s hand moves before his sleep-deprived brain catches up. His fingers find the edge of Mickey’s jaw, skimming from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth in a light, deliberate brush.
Mickey’s eyes meet his, curious. Bob’s voice drops low, barely above a whisper. “Guess we’re going for the rugged look today?”
Bob’s hand leaves Mickey’s jaw just as quickly as it had found purchase, but he does slightly revel in the way that the other pilot’s cheeks seem to flush in the early morning light.
A small chuckle leaves Mickey’s lips as one of his own hands drift upwards to touch the space where Bob’s fingers just were. The two smirk at each other softly, before Bob lifts his coffee cup up to his lips, hiding his grin behind the cup’s lid.
Mickey touches his own tongue to the roof of his mouth, clicking in a sort of accepting way before tilting his head in the direction of the first jet.
“Alright, let’s get started.”
Bob’s lips twitch as he nods his head, hoping to hide his pleasure with the way that’s managed to render the shorter pilot a little speechless.
They began their walk-around inspection with Bob crouching low to the ground to check the tires and landing gear. His attention is focused as his hands trace over the tire, examining it closely for any sort of holes or scuffs that would render the jet unflyable.
With a soft hum, he made a precise checkmark on his list next to the step, before rising to his feet and moving towards the pitot tube. Mickey’s gaze followed his pen as he pencils in the checkmark, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched Bob work.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you have a checklist,” Mickey remarks somewhere between tenderness and teasing, “and yet, here I am.”
Bob looks up at him, glasses catching the sunlight, his eyes squinting slightly, “Hey, at least it’s not alphabetized. And” he pauses for a second, a playful tuck of his tongue behind his teeth, “at least I’m the one actually doing what we’re supposed to be doing.”
Mickey feigns offense as he peers over Bob’s shoulder to look at the checklist, eager to appear useful. He scans the list and catches the two exclamation points that Bob had listed by “Examine the control surfaces.” With a quiet chuckle, he made his way down towards the jet’s wings to get a better look at the flaps, ailerons, and rudder. He hummed softly as he ran his fingertips along the edges, searching for dents, scratches, and other damage.
“Control surfaces look good,” Mickey calls back, voice carrying lightly over the hum of the hangar, eyes flicking downwards to where Bob was still crouched, focused and meticulous as he peered into the air intake and engine inlets, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Mickey smiles to himself as he watches Bob work, the shadow of the jet catching in the frames of his glasses.
Bob makes a low grunt in Mickey’s direction, that he assumes means that Bob is satisfied with his evaluation of the jet’s wings. He then mutters half to himself, half to the checklist in his hand, “No dents, no cracks, no birds.”
“Birds?” Mickey echoes, crouching down beside him, invading his space just slightly. “What, like…you’ve actually found one in there before?”
“Once,” Bob says flatly, then smirks without looking up. “Not my finest moment. It unfortunately smelled like burnt chicken for the entire flight.”
Mickey barks out a laugh, it sounds a little bit like music to Bob’s ears, meshing with the beginning of the morning bird’s songs. “I bet the guy in the back loved that.”
“The guy in the back was me,” Bob deadpans. Although, when he finally looks up towards Mickey, a bright smile has spread across his features.
Mickey extends a hand for Bob to take as he rises to his feet. It’s not necessary, but Mickey does it anyway, and something about it sends a flutter down Bob’s spine, all the way down to his double-knotted work boots.
They circle towards the back of the aircraft, their boots crunching against the tarmac. Mickey ducks down to check the jet’s tailhook. He runs a gloved hand along the metal before giving it a firm tug. Once satisfied, he lets Bob know his findings, “Tailhook’s good. No rust, no damage.”
Bob scribbles another check into his notebook, his pen moving with the same sort of precise movements that Mickey has grown accustomed to over a series of late-night note sessions – tender moments where the pair sit shoulder to shoulder across Bob’s bunk, notebooks spread between them in the soft glow of Bob’s desk lamp.
“You know…you’re handsome like this. All focused.” Mickey says, voice carrying from the tailhook.
Bob feels the familiar heat of blush spreading up the back of his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. He hopes that the sun’s bright rays will obscure his pink skin from the other pilot, but he knows that it’s futile. Instead, Bob allows himself to concede to his fate and squeaks out something that he hopes sounds like,
“The engine here looks good.”
Even from his position beside the plane, Bob doesn’t miss the way that Mickey’s eyes seem to trace his form, from his laced boots to his slightly askew glasses. He also doesn’t miss the other pilot’s coy reply. A warm, almost flirting, “Yep, it sure does.”
If possible, Bob feels his blush deepen, his ears prickling with heat. As he rises, he does his best not to bump his head against the engine that he’s examining. Instead, he meets Mickey’s easygoing grin and gentle brown eyes, and despite himself, he can’t resist throwing a smile back, feeling a thrill at how effortlessly the other man’s attention makes him feel seen.
Together, they move towards the fuel vent. Bob crouches, shining a small flashlight into the inlet, checking for any signs of leakage. “Fuel lines look clean, “ he murmurs, ticking another box on his list.
Mickey leans over his shoulder, hand brushing briefly against Bob’s as he points towards the vent cover. Bob does his best not to tense his shoulders at the touch, as well as when Mickey’s soft voice comes from the space right above his ear.
“You know, you’re very thorough,” Mickey claims, a tell-tale grin evident in his voice.
Bob turns his head in the direction of the other pilot, a soft grin tugging at his lips, “Well, someone has to make sure that we don’t have any surprises up in the air.” He gives one firm tap to the fuel line with his finger, reveling in the way that Mickey’s own grin seems to grow as he looks back at him.
Mickey stands on his tiptoes to peer over Bob’s shoulder, looking down at the checklist that he holds in his hand. Bob blinks as he feels Mickey’s warm breath against his neck, a faint flush creeping onto his cheeks. “Everything looks good to go,” Mickey breathes out beside Bob’s ear.
“Looks like it,” Bob exhales, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart in his chest. “I guess we survived the pre-flight inspection. Not bad for an early morning.”
Mickey laughs softly from his place at Bob’s side, a calm and steady presence in the sunlight and quiet hum of the hangar. “I’m glad that I’m not doing this alone.”
“Me too,” Bob replies, giving the other aviator a friendly nod, “Made the morning a whole lot easier.”
Together, they pack Bob’s pen and notebook away, embracing the quiet and comfortable presence that they’ve come to share. Mickey’s shoulder brushes his briefly as they wander to the outside of the hangar, letting the quiet stretch of early day settle around them. The hum of the morning and the faint scent of jet fuel lingered behind them, but out here, it felt calm – like the world had paused for just a moment.
The pair sank down onto one of the benches outside, their arms still firmly pressed against each other, despite the ample room on the seat. Bob turned to his side to see Mickey close his eyes, his legs extending out in front of him, sighing softly as he let the first glimpses of sun cross his face.
From his side, Mickey must sense the weight of Bob’s gaze against his face, and cracks open one eye – blue meeting brown under the warmth of the sun. With a small smile, Mickey reaches into his pocket and pulls out the set of earbuds that he had squirrelled away earlier. He places one of the buds into his right ear and extends the other one in Bob’s direction. “Here,” he says, his hand beginning to drum a soft rhythm onto his thigh. “You can have a listen. Just…feel the morning with me.”
Bob took the earbud, placing it gently into his ear, he shuffles a little closer to Mickey so the string between them isn’t pulled too taught. Music begins to flow softly between them, carrying a light rhythm that matched the tapping of Mickey’s finger. It’s not a song that Bob has heard before, something possibly Latin or merengue, but he finds himself quickly falling into the beats, his foot tapping along with the rhythm.
As Bob’s foot taps along, he found himself watching the other man, noting the way that the light seemed to catch the stray curls at the nape of Mickey’s neck, the way that his brow seemed to furrow slightly in concentration even while the rest of his posture remains so relaxed, and the fast flutter of his fingers, each one engaged in a miniature drum solo on his thigh.
And then, Bob noticed something else, a smudge of blue ink across the back of Mickey’s currently drumming hand. The letters and lines were curling in handwriting that Bob had begun to recognize as Mickey’s after examining it in his notebook for countless nights.
He hesitated for only a moment before reaching across his body to catch Mickey’s wrist in his hand, tilting it towards him just enough to get a closer look at the sprawl of writing.
“What’s it say?” He asked, his voice bright with curiosity.
Mickey’s eyes twinkled as he shook his hand gently from Bob’s grip, smudging the ink a little further. “Not telling,” he said with a small grin, a teasing lilt in his voice.
Bob raised an eyebrow in Mickey’s direction, reveling in the way that the other man’s grin seemed to pull even wider at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll just figure it out eventually.”
Mickey just gave a playful shrug, his shoulder knocking against Bob’s with the motion. “Well, Mr. Floyd, you can have your checklists,” he says, tapping a finger to his own hand, “and I’ll have mine.”
Bob took another glance down at the scrawled words, trying once more to make some sense of them. He huffs a small laugh at the comparison of his lists and the seemingly three words that Mickey had written on the back of his hand. “That’s not even close to a checklist,” he begins lightly, “It’s maybe like…one bullet point.”
Mickey lets out a soft laugh of his own, the sound blending with the faint strains of music shared between them. “Exactly. It’s a very important bullet point”.
Bob shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. He let his gaze wander to the horizon, the sunlight bathing the tarmac and the edges of the hangar in a warm glow. And then, an idea sprung into his mind. Something that he remembered being hidden away in the corner of Mickey’s notebook once upon a time.
With the toe of his boot, Bob began to draw two neat horizontal lines in the dirt, intersecting them with two vertical ones. The sound of Mickey’s rhythmic drumming slowed, then stopped, as he leaned in just enough to watch. His brow arched, curiousity tugging at his expression, and then – when Bob dragged his boot to mark an X right in the center square – Mickey let out a quiet laugh.
“Really? Tic-tac-toe?” Mickey’s tone carried that familiar edge of gentle teasing.
Bob didn’t look over, just let the first slants of sunlight hit his face, warming his skin. “What? You too scared to play me?”
Mickey made a noise in the back of his throat – half scoff, half amusement – as he shifted forward and crouched enough to draw an O in the top right corner. “Oh, Floyd, you are so on.”
“Big talk,” Bob murmured, nudging another X into place with the slow, deliberate precision of someone who was clearly pretending not to care about the outcome.
“Strategic play,” Mickey countered, eyes flicking between the dirt and Bob’s face like he was trying to read both at the same time.
It didn’t take long for the board to be filled with marks, dust scuffed under their boots and curling up into the lazy haze of the morning air. Bob won the first game, grinning triumphantly to Mickey’s avail. Despite the teasing banter in which Mickey accused Bob of cheating in order to win, he can’t help but smile fondly at the way Bob seems to smirk in reply.
Suddenly, the chatter of their fellow aviators seems to awaken the tarmac – their soft solace being broken by the early teasing between Jake and Bradley as they made their way into the ready room.
Bob and Mickey share a look, one that captured the disappointment in their gentle morning coming to an end. But, before Bob could tear his gaze away from the pilot beside him, he watched as Mickey reached down into his helmet bag at his feet, rummaging for something unseen.
When his hand emerged from the bag, tucked into Mickey’s grasp was a small, snack-sized bag of peanut M&M’s. By now, Bob was getting used to this odd, sweet-swapping ritual that Mickey had made a habit of, but he couldn’t help but smile back at Mickey when he placed the small bag into his hand, a familiar warmth arising in his chest.
Mickey knocked his shoulder lightly against Bob’s, nodding his head downwards towards the faint lines of their abandoned tic-tac-toe game. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he teases, “You know, I’ll get you next time peanut.”
Bob huffs a laugh in response, the sound low in his chest, as he tore open the small bag of M&M’s. The crinkle of the wrapper was soft against the hum of the waking base, a sound that he found himself oddly content with. Rising from the bench, he fell into step beside Mickey without thinking, like his feet already knew where they belonged.
He popped one of the candies into his mouth, letting the peanut butter and chocolate mingle on his tongue, slightly warm from sitting in Mickey’s bag. Beside him, Mickey adjusted his helmet under his arm, still wearing that crooked smile that Bob was growing unbelievably fond of. The rest of the team moved ahead, voices carrying towards the hangar, but Bob found himself matching his pace to Mickey’s instead.
The tic-tac-toe lines that they’d left behind the dirt were already fading in the morning breeze, the X and O slightly smudged but still there – just like the easy rhythm that the pair had been building since day one.
Before entering the hangar, Bob cast one last glance at Mickey beside him - catching the way that the sunlight bounced off the edges of Mickey’s grin, the way that Mickey’s warm brown eyes were already looking back at him, and he decided that maybe mornings weren’t so bad after all.
In fact, they may have just gotten a whole lot sweeter.
Chapter 7: Lollipops: Lessons in Color Theory
Chapter Text
Lollipops: Lessons in Color Theory
Jake is halfway out of his flight suit, his arms crossed easily across his chest, tan forearms standing out against the stark white of his t-shirt. He leans back against the wall of lockers like he owns the place, a toothpick already wedged firmly between his teeth, shark-like smile on display. To no one’s surprise, his cocky smirk and jabs are aimed directly at Bradley’s changing back from across the room.
“I’m just saying”, Jake begins languidly, “if we’re counting actual confirmed hits, that’s two for me, one for you.”
Bradley does his best not to take the bait, but based on the way that his shoulders tense and back muscles flex, it's not that easy. He peels his gloves off with more force than necessary, throwing them into his locker with a snarky, “You grazed me Hangman. That doesn’t count.”
Jake seems to relish in the way that he gets under Bradley’s skin, his grin only getting wider, almost wide enough to be dangerous. “Bullet’s a bullet, Rooster.”
Across the room, Bob focuses on his own battle: his flight suit.
After a grueling morning of dogfighting and far too many sustained G’s pulled to count, he was more than ready to shovel down a sandwich and collapse into his stiff bunk, at least until he could finally hold his head up long enough to catch a quick shower. But it seemed as though his suit had other plans.
Instead of easing down the zipper at his shoulder, a motion that Bob had practically done thousands of times, it seemed to have other ideas - stuck and jammed in the material. He continued pulling desperately with his left hand because of course it just had to be his right shoulder that got stuck in the material.
As Bob struggled, he tried to shift away from the arguing aviators, hoping that the other pilots would be too preoccupied with Jake and Bradley’s peacocking to notice his flailing in the corner of the locker room. He wriggled one shoulder, than the other, silently pleading with the universe – and the stubborn zipper – that it would give way. A glance around the room confirmed that, yes, luck was at least partially on his side: almost everyone was distracted by the bickering duo across the room – everyone, that is, except one pilot in particular.
From across the locker room, Mickey’s eyes found him, and that single glance was enough to stop Bob mid-pull. Right arm pinned awkwardly behind him like a hapless escapee from some ridiculous straitjacket, Bob’s limbs twisted in protest, and yet Mickey only grinned in his direction, cherry lollipop tucked in the pocket of his cheek, stick bobbing slightly as his smirk stretched wider.
Bob had started to get used to it – the other aviator’s affinity for having some sort of candy either on him or with at all times. Actually, Bob was almost starting to get too used to it. Too use to the feeling in his chest that he got when he saw Mickey’s crooked grin, too use to the “sugar rush” that seemed to surge straight into his chest.
It had started simple enough with a single Jolly Rancher their first night at the Hard Deck. Bob had assumed that it was a cordial gesture, a sort of “we both don’t know very many people here, so let’s get to know each other” peace-offering. But now, after early morning pre-flights and late-night note sessions, Bob had almost started to associate the satisfaction of sweetness on his tongue with the shorter pilot. As soon as he saw Mickey’s figure or heard his voice wafting across the hangar, Bob found himself getting giddy, his heart beginning to pick up in his chest. And here, one arm pinned behind his back, his whole body pinned under the weight of Mickey’s gaze from across the locker room, he felt that tell-tale flutter hit behind his ribs.
From the corner of his eye, Bob caught Mickey taking a deliberate step closer, his lips slightly stained red, lollipop stick bobbing up and down with his smirk. Bob’s fingers twitched against the stuck zipper, half in frustration, half in an attempt to reclaim some sense of control. He tried to direct his attention back to the dog-fight related squabbling, Bradley’s loud voice, or Jake’s teasing remarks – but it was impossible. Every small movement Mickey made closer to Bob's direction drew his gaze like gravity, a slow, inexorable pull.
“You all saw it – tell him a graze doesn’t count,” Bradley throws an incredulous look towards the other pilots at their lockers. For a moment, the rooms stayed quiet, everyone avoiding picking a side, until Natasha throws her own response into the mix from the corner.
“Well, you both missed me so, I don’t really care,” she calls, the teasing tone in her voice impossible to ignore.
Bob chuckles, recalling the hell of a good flight that him and Nat had had, the way their jet had danced in formation, almost so good that he had forgotten the strain of pulling sustained G’s - almost. The laugh loosened something in his chest, and as he glanced round the room, his eyes caught Mickey’s.
Bob swears he can hear the other pilot thinking of some sort of sly response before it even leaves his lips, his eyes glinting under the yellow lights on the ceiling as he continues his slow creep towards Bob’s locker.
The lollipop stick bobs in his mouth as Mickey chirps, “I agree with Bradley on this one. You see, a graze doesn’t count on the Bob-approved checklist of acceptable wins.”
Before Bob could process the statement – or the sudden closeness – Mickey leans against the locker beside him, somehow bridging the space between them effortlessly. His eyes narrow in mild amusement as he watches Bob struggle with his zipper, almost like a cat caught in a grocery bag.
Bob bites back a smile, sticking a blue-raspberry stained tongue out in Mickey’s direction – curtesy of his own Mickey-given post-flight lollipop. He huffs under his breath, soft enough for only the still-smirking pilot beside him to hear, “You’re not helping.”
Despite his hushed tone, Jake seems to catch the exchange and points in Bob and Mickey’s direction, “See? Even our resident Baby on Board over there agrees with me.”
Bradley snorts in response, his arms crossing against his own chest in an attempt to maintain some semblance of composire, “You’re just mad because I had you in my sights the whole time.”
Jake’s eyes seem to light up with this dig, like a cat that’s finally got the cream, “Had”, he begins, purposefully drawling out the word. “Past tense. Therefore, I won.”
The argument continues to spiral as aviators exit the locker room. There are choruses of “By default” – “By skill” – “By pure dumb luck” from Natasha – until Reuben chimes in with his own jabs, reminding everyone of the time that Jake stalled out midair and Bradley blazed right on past him without hesitation.
Eventually, everyone clears out laughing, only leaving behind an easy camaraderie and the faint smell of jet fuel in their wake. Well… almost everyone.
Bob, meanwhile, is still stuck wrestling with his suit, his arm hopelessly twisted in the lining. He does his best to continue pulling on the zipper, jaw tightening with each futile attempt. His patience was wearing thin, frayed by the morning’s training and the lingering heat of the locker room – but his efforts are only further impaired by Mickey’s intense, unwavering gaze at his side. The shorter pilot hadn’t offered to help yet, but by the tilt of his head, the slight smirk on his lips, and the way he leaned casually against the locker beside Bob it was painfully clear that he was enjoying the show.
“You know, if this is the new sanctioned way to wear these, you sure do pull it off well”, Mickey declares from his position leaning against the locker right next to Bob. He finally takes the lollipop stick from his mouth and discards it into his pants pocket. His cherry-stained lips glinted under the harsh overhead lights. Bob did his best to look at anything but them, forcing his attention back to his tangled arm as though the problem could be solved by sheer will alone.
“I’m fine,” Bob mumbles, voice tight, trying to sound unconcerned. His words are barely convincing, not that it mattered - his cheeks have already gone pink from a combination of the heat and the jostling that he’s been doing trying to get unstuck. And now, with Mickey’s shadow falling over him, his blush only deepens into something warmer, something impossible to ignore.
From his side, Bob can feel Mickey’s eyebrow raise in his direction, the subtle twitch of his fingers at his side, like he’s itching to reach out and intervene. He’s close enough that Bob can catch the faint sweetness of cherry sugar under the sharp tang of sweat and jet fuel, a scent that makes Bob’s pulse spike in a way that he was not entirely prepared to acknowledge.
“You sure? ‘Cause from here it looks like the suit’s winning.” Mickey teases.
Finally, Bob’s patience dissolves. He can no longer feel his right arm properly, the zipper has claimed a valiant victory, and he has long since exhausted every self-respecting method of escape. With a soft, reluctant groan, he turned to Mickey. The blue tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth, a gesture both helpless and mischievous.
“Can you just…can you just help me?” He asks, voice soft, nearly a whisper. He’s not exactly begging but it’s close.
Mickey looks upwards at him, shoulder still leaning against the locker, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Sure,” he begins, tilting his head further towards Bob, “but, only if you admit that cinnamon toothpaste is a valid choice – not, oh what were your words the other day?” Mickey pauses and pretends to reflect, one brow raised, “Ah yes… an abomination.”
Bob gives him a flat look, the tingling in his shoulder beginning to spread to his fingers, “You’re evil.”
“I could just leave you stuck here,” Mickey replies, his voice drifting into a sing-song tone.
Bob purses his lips slightly, his eyes narrowing, “You wouldn’t”.
Mickey’s smile tipped lazily and knowing, “Yeah… you’re right. I wouldn’t”.
With the faintest of shifts, Mickey used his shoulder to push himself off of the locker, his hand drifting upwards to find the edge of the suit’s lining. His fingers brush against Bob’s shoulder, working carefully – almost too carefully, like he was drawing the moment on purpose.
Mickey’s fingers slide over Bob’s shoulder, searching for the snag with patient precision. His touch was deliberate, slow, as if he was making absolutely sure to check every possible angle. He finds the fold at Bob’s side and eased it loose, his fingertips brushing down Bob’s upper arm – leaving a faint trail of goosebumps in their wake. The movement was slow enough that Bob felt the warmth spread from his shoulder through his chest, a mix of relief and something more electric that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
Bob shifted slightly, rolling his shoulder, the previously trapped arm finally liberated. A soft exhale escapes him, almost a laugh, almost a groan, as the tension drained out in waves. Then, instead of yanking the fabric free, Mickey followed the suit’s seam to where it was twisted around Bob’s ribs. His hand curved gently around the side, brushing knuckles over the soft curve just above Bob’s waist, careful not to tug too harshly.
Bob’s breath suddenly catches, taking a sharp inhale through his lips.
Mickey noticed – of course he did – and the corner of his mouth curved. “Ticklish?” he asks, his tone teasing, almost as light as his touch against Bob’s skin.
“No”, Bob blurts out automatically, although the light blush dusting his cheeks said otherwise.
“Mm”, Mickey hummed, clearly not buying it. His voice dipped just enough for Bob to hear. “Guess I’ll skip adding that to the pre-flight checklist then.”
Bob froze, his cheeks burning hotter. They both knew exactly which “checklist” Mickey meant. The one that they had started weeks ago during a night spent crouched over notebooks atop of Bob’s bunk. They had been running through systems in the methodical way that Mickey had come to associate with the other pilot when he had started throwing out absurd “essentials” just to see if he could make Bob smile.
Mickey’s grin softened, nostalgic, as he continued to pull the flight suit down. He noticed that the tag from the suit seemed to be removed, carefully snipped out by the pilot that was currently trapped inside of it. Rather than pry, Mickey decided to pocket that information for later – storing it somewhere in the “How to Handle Bob Floyd” files of his brain.
Mickey’s hands continue their path, letting his touch linger in the barest of ways – the drag of his fingertips along Bob’s ribs, the graze of his palm against the inside of his forearm. He watched as the flush bloomed from Bob’s chest, slowly creeping up to his neck.
His voice was soft, almost a murmur as he joked, “You’re blushing Lieutenant.”
Bob’s response was similarly strained, his flustered state clear from the way his voice cracked, “You are not helping, Lieutenant.”
Mickey chuckled under his breath, going back to work on the sleeve. The stubborn fabric gave an inch, then another. Each movement brought Mickey’s hands over warm skin, grazing the inside of Bob’s arm, the dip of his side, the back of his shoulder.
Finally, with a swift pull, the sleeve slipped free. The motion left Bob standing in just his undershirt, the air cool against his skin – the skin that still felt marked by the trail of Mickey’s gentle fingertips.
Mickey didn’t let go right away. His hand stayed wrapped around Bob’s wrist, his thumb brushing once across the skin there, slowly, like he wasn’t quite ready to step back.
And then he did – just enough to create space, but not too much. He flashed a gentle smirk up at Bob, the kind of grin that teased without breaking the building tension in the room.
“There,” Mickey breathed out, soft voice breaking the silence, “Good as new.”
Bob met his eyes for half a second too long, his own eyes wide behind his glasses, his cheeks still warm with fading blush. The room felt smaller now, air between them electric, every breath shared and full of unspoken things.
Mickey leaned back against the locker beside him, his tongue – still stained red from his lollipop – darted out to wet his lips. Bob watched the motion, unable to keep his gaze away from the shorter pilot.
“You know,” Mickey begins, his voice light, but deliberate, “if getting stuck in a flight suit is your way of getting my attention, I think you’re overcomplicating things.”
Bob freezes, a small, disbelieving smile creeping onto his face, “I – what?” He whispers into the space between them, caught in the space between flustered and uncertain.
Mickey reached out between them and grabbed onto Bob’s wrist, the one that was previously intertwined in layers of flight suit fabric. With a gentle tug, he pulls Bob closer towards him. Bob goes willingly, his feet stuttering slightly towards the shorter pilot, his knees feeling like jelly.
Mickey looks up at him, brown eyes flashing deviously, “Just saying, Lieutenant. Could’ve saved yourself the shoulder pain…and me a lot of fun.”
Bob’s heart thudded in his chest, heavy and fast, and he became painfully aware of every detail: the faint sweetness of Mickey lingering in the air, the warmth of his hand, the way his own, blue-stained tongue pressed lightly against his lips. His head spun slightly, caught between wanting to retreat and leaning into the magnetic pull between them.
Mickey mirrored him, closing the gap carefully, inch by inch, until the space was too small to ignore. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, he leaned closer. Their lips brushing in a soft, questioning press, hesitant and tentative, like they were testing the waters, testing the strength of their bond, of something new, something entirely their own.
Bob’s breath hitched; his heart thudded in his chest – loud enough that he was sure that Mickey could hear. Then, the kiss deepened fractionally, just enough for the warmth to settle between them, leaving a faint, electric trace of connection. Neither moved too fast, and neither pulled away too soon, suspended in a delicate balance between curiosity, excitement, and the beginning of something that neither of them had expected, but both had desperately wanted.
It was the culmination of silent nights spent bent over notebooks and diagrams. It was the result of quiet mornings spent together, enjoying each other’s presence just as much as they were enjoying the warmth of the early sunlight. And it was the product of traded sweets, candy passed from palm to palm, just like the passion passed from their lips in this moment.
Mickey’s hand slid from Bob’s wrist, lingering along his forearm in a gentle, feather-light caress – almost tracing the same path that it traveled just minutes ago as he freed Bob from his sleeve. Bob felt the heat climb his neck, tickling at his ears, spreading along his cheeks. He could taste the subtle sweetness of cherry, still echoing on Mickey’s lips, mixing with the sugary taste of blue raspberry that lingered on his own tongue.
When they finally pulled away from each other, it was slow, reluctant, as if savoring their connection for a heartbeat longer. Their foreheads hovered near one another, breaths still mingling, eyes wide with the thrill of discovery.
As Mickey opened his eyes, looking up into Bob’s, he noticed that the other man’s glasses had been knocked askew, the frames beginning to slip down his nose. He chuckled to himself slightly before reaching a hand up between them to gently nudge them back into place, the knuckle of his hand brushing a soft line across his temple.
“There,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, “Back in order.”
Bob exhaled, a small shaky laugh escaping him before it grew into something richer, lighter, full of relief and warmth. Mickey looked up at him, one of his eyebrows raising in confusion. As Bob’s laughter came to end and he opened his mouth to explain, Mickey noticed something peculiar about the other man’s tongue – or rather the color of it. And if he had to bet, he was almost certain that his was a similar shade.
Purple.
A smirk tugged at Mickey’s lips as he looked up at Bob across from him, “You know,” he drawled, eyes glinting, “your tongue is purple right?”
Bob’s voice was teasing as he looked down at Mickey, a grin pulling at the corners of his own mouth, “Oh really?” he replied, voice low and playful, “And who’s fault is that?”
Mickey pretends ponder, his lips pursing in confusion. “Well, kiss me if I’m wrong, but I think when you mix red and blue, you get green?”
Bob bit his bottom lip to suppress a laugh, his heart picking up in his chest. He wanted to rib Mickey back, to tease him for being childish, but the look that the shorter pilot was giving him – eyes bright, lips curved into a crooked grin – was too tempting to resist.
And besides, Mickey did tell Bob to kiss him if he was wrong, and Bob was nothing but a stickler for facts.
Slowly, he reaches down to cup the curve of Mickey’s jaw, relishing in the large smile that he earns from Mickey in return. Then, he dipped his head down, pressing his lips firmly against Mickey’s once more. His hand slipped from Mickey’s jaw down to his undershirt, fingers gently tracing the curve of his collar. A soft sigh escaped from Mickey’s mouth and into Bob’s lips, encouraging his finger to rest against the other man’s collarbone. It was another perfect kiss – the flutter of tongues, a soft press of lips, the light shuffle of hands.
When they broke apart once more, the air was warm between them, a safe space with shared laughter and shaking breaths.
The pair stepped away from each other, still close enough for Mickey’s hand to linger on Bob’s wrist, as though he was worried that the other man would flee from the locker room now that he had escaped from his flight suit. The gesture was subtle, grounding, a tether between them even as their hearts race. Bob let himself settle beside Mickey, the touch of his fingers a quiet reassurance that the world outside their bubble could wait.
Mickey’s eyes roamed casually over the locker room before landing on something in Bob’s locker – a photograph that he had always been curious about. His tone was light, not prodding, but inviting, hoping that a distraction might help Bob get out of his head.
“So,” Mickey began, nudging his shoulder against Bob’s as he leaned closer on the bench, “is there something about the price of unleaded diesel that makes you nostalgic?”
From beside him on the bench, Mickey can feel Bob’s shoulder shake with the laugh that leaves his mouth. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Mickey begins to smile, nudging his shoulder into Bob’s body weight beside him, gesturing to the photo taped inside Bob’s locker. His fingers brush lightly along Bob’s arm, a casual touch that made the other man swallow hard. “That”, he said, voice low, “that little gas station of yous.”
Bob clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Mickey spots a faint blush creeping across his cheeks from beside him. “It’s just…a place from home. My mom used to take me there when Wyatt and Dad were out hunting. We would buy pretzel rods for five cents apiece. It was like…our little secret.”
Bob’s voice softens with the memory as he continues, “It’s not like I miss it exactly. Just… I guess it’s a reminder of sorts. Of where I started, of how far I’ve come.”
Mickey’s fingers brush along Bob’s arm again, as if to underline the moment. “I get that.” Mickey murmurs, “Sometimes it’s the little things that keep you grounded.”
A small laugh escaped Bob, a mixture of nerves and relief as he finds himself leaning even closer into Mickey’s side, “Yeah, I guess. I mean…I’m not sure if most people would understand.”
There’s a shuffling at Bob’s side as Mickey reaches down to his flight bag at their feet. Bob watches from the bench, confusion making its way onto his features as Mickey pulls the bag onto their laps, opening it so the contents are exposed. The bag spilled open to reveal a chaotic collection of candies, a riot of wrappers, colors, and shapes strewn across the fabric. Bob’s eyes widen as he raises them up from the bag to meet Mickey’s gaze, catching the mischievous warmth in the other pilot’s brown eyes.
“It started as gifts for my siblings.” Mickey explained, a small laugh escaping him. “I memorized their favorite candies and made sure to always have them on me just in case. And then I kept the habit up when I went to Navy, tucking their favorites everywhere so it feels like they’re around, even when I’m not at home.”
Bob’s eyebrows lift, a faint smile tugging at his own lips. “You memorize their favorites huh?” He jostles his shoulder against Mickey’s side, his tone slipping towards teasing, “Is that what you’re trying to do with me?”
Mickey’s smirk is sly, just enough to make Bob’s heart skip a beat. “Maybe”, he says lightly, as though the idea itself was a secret between the pair. “Or maybe I just like seeing that look on your face.”
Bob rolled his eyes, though the pink tint on his cheeks betrayed him. “You know, you’re evil.”
Mickey’s thumb brushed across the back of Bob’s hand, gentle but deliberate. “Nah,” he said, shrugging with an easy grin. “I just care. And maybe it’s fun to keep you on your toes.”
Bob looked down to where their hands touched on their laps, Mickey’s thumb tracing gentle patterns across his own, as though he was trying to memorize the new space that he was allowed to touch. After a second, he looked back up, his eyes meeting Mickey’s from behind his glasses. As he looked into the other man’s brown eyes, the corner’s creasing with the crooked smile on his face, Bob found himself smiling back, his chest warming with the gesture.
Mickey’s grinned softened into something almost shy, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “Alright, I also like seeing you smile.”
Bob couldn’t help the growing grin that spread across his face, fluttering in his chest. “Well…mission accomplished then.”
They lingered on the bench for a few more minutes, sharing small jokes and tender touches, letting the quiet hum of the locker room fill the space around them. Bob found himself noticing the little things – the way Mickey’s lollipop-stained grin somehow was a perfect match to the charmingly reckless control that he maintained during flight, or the faint warmth of his hand brushing against his own as they laughed about the absurdity of their morning. Every little exchange felt lighter now, more intimate, a gentle easing into something that neither of them felt the need to rush.
Finally, Mickey stood, extending a hand down to Bob with that mischievous tilt of his head. “Come on, Lieutenant. You and I have a sad-looking peanut butter and jelly waiting with our names on it.”
Bob took the other man’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Their hands lingered together for a fraction longer than necessary, a silent promise to the new developments in their relationship, before reluctantly letting go.
“Alright,” Bob said, voice a little shy but with a spark of humor, “as long as the peanut butter’s crunchy.”
The words seem to surprise Mickey, his step faltering slightly as they exited the locker room together. He looked up to Bob beside him, noticing the faint purple stain still on his tongue from the lollipop, and his grin widened. “You know,” he said, voice teasing, “you are so lucky that you’re cute.”
Bob chuckled, warmth rising in his chest, and brushed his hand lightly against Mickey’s as they walked towards the cafeteria. The chatter of other pilots faded into background noise along with the hum of jets up above; all that he could focus on was the steady rhythm of Mickey beside him, the subtle weight of presence that somehow made the morning feel softer.
For a moment, Bob let his imagination run wild – allowing himself to envision a slower life, one filled with mornings like this: unrushed, filled with laughter, small teasing, and quiet touches that lingered longer than necessary. He felt something tender settle in his chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the boy walking beside him.
Sure, the morning had started with chaos, laughter, and the blush of embarrassment – but now, side by side with Mickey, it felt like the perfect kind of beginning.
And with this beginning, Bob allowed himself a small secret though, one for just his own speculation: that maybe, just maybe, getting stuck in his flight suit wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Chapter 8: The Gummy Worm Intervention
Chapter Text
The Gummy Worm Intervention
The Hard Deck is alive with the clatter of pool sticks against cue balls and the chatter of intoxicated aviators. The elite Dagger team has been granted a rare morning off from their grueling training schedule, which means two dangerous things: the combination of unrestricted alcohol limits and completely out-of-control, competitive pilots.
The result? Predictable chaos. Billy has started shouting bets from across the room, Jake has claimed the pool table like it’s a battlefield, and Bradley has begun to do his best at out-singing the jukebox.
And yet, in the far corner booth, there’s an entirely different game being played. One that’s far less chaotic, possibly a little bit quieter, but still, no less captivating.
Bob is tucked into the corner of the booth, his shoulders slouched comfortably against the wall, long legs bent awkwardly beneath the table. His hands are occupied with a mission of their own – methodically sorting gummy worms into neat little color-coded piles – while his eyes are busy elsewhere. Across from him, Mickey is halfway through some winding story, words tumbling fast, hands carving shapes into the air as if he needs every gesture to keep pace with his thoughts.
Bob doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t even look away. He just listens, gaze steady, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like Mickey’s energy is its own kind of gravity. Without hesitation, Bob places the red and blue worms in a pile in front of himself, sliding the yellows across the table in Mickey’s direction, the ritual as easy as breathing.
It’s a small orbit, just the two of them. Just sugar-coated fingertips, the prickle of sour on their tongues, and the bright plastic candy bag split between them. But anyone watching even semi-closely can see the gravitational pull between them.
And from their vantage point at their high-top chairs by the bar, Natasha and Reuben are most definitely watching.
“Ladies and gentlemen, pilots and WSO’s,” Natasha begins dryly from her barstool perch, her tone pitched like a bored sport’s game announcer, “your attention please. In tonight’s corner, we have Floyd and Garcia. Watch closely – this round features shared gummy worms.”
Reuben leans into her, holding the neck of his beer bottle up to his mouth like it’s a microphone, “That’s right folks. One bag, two pilots, four gummy worm flavors. Floyd has already separated the blue and red ones, and word on the street is – those are the best flavors.”
Natasha makes a hum of displeasure, “Rookie mistake. Floyd is giving away preference, possibly broadcasting weakness.”
“Or showing strategy,” Reuben shoot back, his eyes flicking to where Bob, quiet as ever, is passing off the yellow worms without complaint. “Look at him,” he points the bottle towards the pair of men in the corner, “Cool, calm, collected. The man is playing the long game”.
They watch as Bob leans forward, drawn closer and closer into Mickey’s orbit, his gaze fixed on the frantic choreography of hands that punctuate Mickey’s ramble.
“Note how he leans in to listen to him. Minimal space. Zero tactical awareness of how close they are.” Natasha clicks her tongue, pointing in the direction of the pilots, “Now remember, these are weapon systems officer’s – they know spatial awareness like the back of their hands. Which means this? This is deliberate..”
Reuben begins to nod his head in agreement, his own eyes watching his back seater make a fool of himself over a pile of assorted gummy worms. He watches Mickey’s knee collide with Bob’s as if he can’t possibly keep his limbs from touching the other man’s. “Oh!” Reuben half whispers, half shouts to the pilot next to him, “Garcia goes for the knee-bump, once again. That’s his third tonight, folks, which is frankly excessive by regulation standards.”
As Natasha watches Bob’s eyes widen behind his glasses, the look on his face more similar to a lovesick teenager’s than the cool and collected man that she’s familiar with sharing her cockpit, she rubs a palm against her forehead, “You know what, this is getting embarrassing. I say we step in.”
Reuben mock gasps beside her, his eyes never leaving the dopey smile that Mickey throws in Bob’s direction as he passes him another green gummy worm, “I say we wait at least until halftime.”
Natasha sighs, already propelling herself from her bar stool, “Alright, but if that’s the case, then I’m getting another drink.”
From across the room, their subjects remain blissfully unaware that their entire love life has been broadcasted as though it were the Super Bowl for the last 20 minutes. In fact, with their knees pressed close to each other’s under the booth and hands brushing unconsciously as they grab from the bag of gummy worms that’s spread between them, it doesn’t seem as though they’re aware of anything besides the other.
Mickey pauses mid-story, taking another long sip from his drink before finally surrendering to whatever sour-gummy-worm conspiracy that Bob was concocting on the bar table. His grin grows wider as he watches Bob slide another green worm across to him, while popping a red one into his own mouth like nothing’s suspicious.
It takes him a second to notice the organized piles in front of them: green and yellow stacked on his side, blue and red neatly placed in front of Bob. He quirks a brow. “You know,” Mickey begins, his voice teasing, “you’re stealing all of the good ones for yourself.”
Bob’s voice is soft when he replies, but still laced with something devilish, “Artificial coloring doesn’t actually alter the taste.” He takes a red worm in his fingers, dangling it in front of Mickey’s face as if to prove his point, “It’s just a placebo effect. Visual association.”
Mickey blinks at him once, then bursts out laughing. “You just,” he stops, raising one of his own green worms in disbelief, “You just took all of the magic out of gummy worms.”
Bob only shrugs as though crushing candy-fueled fantasies is a personal hobby, but the smirk that appears on his face betrays him.
Mickey leans in and swipes one of the blue worms from Bob’s neat little stash. Bob gasps in a mock sort of protest before throwing a playful swipe at the stolen worm in Mickey’s hand.
“You are lucky that I like you,” Bob begins, his voice dropping low, deadly serious, “because that was treason.”
Mickey bites back his own life, shrugging a shoulder nonchalantly before tossing the stolen worm into his mouth. Bob’s gaze catches on the bob of his throat as he swallows, then higher, back to see the quick dart of Mickey’s tongue across his lip, catching stray sugar. Except he misses, leaving a faint dusting at the corner of his mouth.
Bob raises an eyebrow, his eyes tracking the upwards movement of Mickey’s lips, voice quieter now, “You, uh - missed a spot.”
Mickey feigns oblivion, his hand coming up to wipe the sugar from various locations on his face. From the crooked quirk of his lips and the warmth in his eyes, it’s clear what his motive is.
And Bob – well, Bob only has so much restraint. Rolling his eyes fondly, he reaches one of his own hands out to trace the line of Mickey’s lip, collecting the sugar that rests there.
Natasha and Reuben watch the entire sickeningly sweet scene play out, from the artificial food coloring debate to the tender sugar dusting spectacle.
Reuben drums one hand against the bar top, creating a soft puttering sound as he announces, “And there it is folks – Garcia with the bold play. Hand to mouth, lingering contact, five second hold – I would say that is a victory.”
Natasha scoffs at the remark – sure the scene that they’re watching is endearing, but if she watches it any longer than she might get a stomachache from all the sweetness. “Alright,” she mutters, rolling her shoulders back like she’s about to enter a fight ring, “Time to save our boys from themselves.”
Reuben arches a brow, but he’s already on his feet. “Fine. But we’re doing this clean,” He begins, all too familiar with Natasha’s fierceness in the air, “No casualties.”
They shift off their barstools together, their own drinks seemingly abandoned in their pursuit of co-piloting their back seater’s love lives. They cross the floor together, slowly encroaching on the other men’s shared space in the corner.
Even as Natasha and Reuben approach them, Mickey and Bob remain oblivious, their attention fixated on whatever fun fact Bob is spinning about gummy worms this time.
Reuben leans down between them first, snatching a gummy worm of his own between his fingers. He pops it into his mouth before announcing – too loud on purpose, “Hey, Mick – c’mon, gotta borrow you. Groom speech practice, you’ll thank me later.”
Mickey groans in protest, whether or not it’s from being pulled away from Bob or from the gummy worm thievery is unknown. His reply is tinted with suspicion, “What are you even talking – “
Reuben doesn’t even let him finish, hooking his arm around Mickey’s shoulder and using his size to haul the shorter pilot from his seat. Mickey begins to resist, throwing a desperate look in both Bob and Natasha’s direction, but as he is lifted to his feet, he begins to go willingly, a laugh leaving his lips, loosened from the pleasant combination of sugar and alcohol.
Reuben huffs as he places Mickey into a seat by the dartboard, then sprawls across the chair beside him like he owns the place. Arms folded, posture loose, expression casual – except for the smirk tugging at his mouth. Mickey knows that smirk far too well, and it sets his nerves humming.
“So,” Reuben begins, one brow arched, “when’s the wedding?”
Mickey nearly chokes, his elbow slipping off of the table, “The what?!”
“Oh, do not play dumb with me man.” He leans in, grinning like a shark. “Tash and I had front-row tickets to the Bob Floyd Show tonight. And the way that you were looking at him?” Reuben pauses, relishing slightly in the way that his co-pilot’s cheeks begin to flush, “It’s criminal.”
Mickey begins to sputter an excuse, his hands darting through the air in a lame attempt to cover the sugar-coated escapade from earlier.
Reuben presses on, not allowing the other man to backpedal, “I just want to know if I’m gonna be the best man. Because, honestly? My speech is gonna kill. I’m thinking something heartfelt, like that time you nearly cried when you ran out of Skittles on deployment. Some real moving stuff.”
Mickey shoves him, groaning in response, “You know, you’re like, the worst.”
Reuben seems to soften with the shove, his voice suddenly dropping too low for the environment that they’re in. “Look, Mick. I’ve known you long enough to see when something’s real.”
Heat rushes to Mickey’s face, and his eyes betray him – sliding across the room until they catch Bob. The other man seems to be deep in conversation with his own co-pilot, a conversation that Mickey assumes is very similar to the one that he’s currently having.
Reuben begins again, directing Mickey’s attention away from the adorable crease between Bob’s eyebrows as he listens to Natasha’s lecture. “Bob listens to you. Like, he actually listens. Which is saying something, considering you basically never shut up.”
Mickey snaps his head around, ready with a retort, but it dies in his throat. Reuben is looking at him with open fondness, the kind that slips past all the bravado.
“So, this is me telling you to go for it.” Reuben nods in the direction of Bob, “Or else I will deliver that speech.”
From across the room, Bob watches as Natasha slides into Mickey’s recently abandoned seat across from him. She tilts her head like it’s casual, but her eyes are anything but – sharp, narrow, teasing.
Bob clears his throat, his voice is cautious as he asks, “Did I, like, do something wrong?”
Natasha tilts her head towards Mickey across the room, her voice cool, “You’ve got a tell, Floyd. You hover.”
Bob frowns in response, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion, “I…I what?”
“Hover,” Natasha responds, flatly, “He laughs, you lean closer. He talks, you watch like you’re memorizing every syllable. Case in point: you hover.”
Bob feels a heat prickle up his neck, a tell-tale sign that his ears were beginning to flush pink. “That’s not, it’s not like that. He’s just, he’s… you know, he’s Mickey.”
Natasha leans in, her voice softening, “Look Bob. You have this habit of thinking that you don’t deserve things. Like it’s second nature to shrink, to blend in.” She jerks her chin towards Mickey, who’s laughing too loudly with Reuben by the dart board, “But Mickey, he looks at you like blending in is impossible, like, you deserve to stand out.”
Bob can’t contain the smile that spreads across his face. He reaches out to fiddle with a gummy worm from one of the piles in front of him, hoping to release some nervous energy into the sugary insect.
“So, what I’m trying to say, because I’m your co-pilot and I’m going to always have your back. I think you deserve to be seen too. So, let him see you.”
And then she’s gone, slipping back towards the chaos with practiced ease. Bob remains frozen in her wake, heat prickling at his ears and gummy worm between his fingers.
And then, a jostling of movement distracts Bob from the red worm in his hands. He looks up to see Reuben steering Mickey back across the floor, one steadying hand between his shoulder blades. Mickey goes willingly enough, still chuckling at something Reuben muttered, something that sounded suspiciously like, “Don’t forget about the Skittles,”. The moment the pair reaches Bob’s table, he drops Mickey neatly back into his seat at Bob’s side.
Reuben flashes him a grin, one that implies that he knows too much, “Return to sender.”
Mickey immediately slumps against the back of his chair, his knee bumping against Bob’s under the table like it belongs there, his fingers loosely tangling with Bob’s atop of the table, the gummy worm long discarded back into it’s proper pile.
Reuben pats Bob’s shoulder in mock sympathy, then slips back through the crowd. He’s quickly intercepted by Natasha – ever a woman on a mission. She leans in close, her beer bottle directed towards their co-pilots. “Well?” She asks, her tone purely teasing.
Reuben smirks beside her, his gaze still glued to his drunk back-seater and the flirtatious antics that he’s gotten up to in the two minutes that he’s left him alone, “He’s gone. Head over heels.”
Natasha laughs, her own eyebrow raising as she watches the fond smile that Bob throws in Mickey’s direction, “So, are we thinking Spring or Fall wedding?”
With a clink of their beer bottles together, they decide that Fall would have a better color scheme, and that Natasha’s bachelor’s party would knock the socks off of the one that Reuben plans.
Back at the table, Bob feels the full weight of Mickey’s shoulder pressing into his own. The other man’s laughter has softened to lazy hums, his stories becoming slightly more erratic and scrambled, more often than not, the stories end up unfinished as Mickey breaks off into fits of giggles. Bob finds it adorable, each giggle making Bob’s heart skip a beat inside his chest.
Mickey’s hand keeps drifting onto Bob’s arm, brushing the fabric of his sleeve as he tugged it toward himself like it was the most natural thing in the world. At some point, Mickey’s hand stops its tugging at Bob’s sleeve to sneak towards the abandoned gummy worms on the table. He clumsily grabs at red one, dangling it in the air before dropping it into his mouth.
“I’m still upset that you got all the good ones.” Mickey pauses to chew, before immediately correcting himself, “Alright, I lied. I can’t get upset with you. I like you too much.”
Bob swallowed, trying not to groan aloud at how ridiculously fond he already felt, even as Mickey leaned against him like a human pillow. “Mickey, you’re dunk”, he said gently, guiding Mickey upright with both hands on his waist.
“Mmm, maybe it’s all just a really good strategy,” Mickey smirks clumsily, his curls stick down slightly to the sweat across his forehead, “You know, to get your hands on my waist.”
Bob blinks, unsure whether to laugh or melt entirely. His ears burn as he replies, “Alright,” voice low, his hand grabbing a little more firmly onto Mickey’s waist, “Let’s get you back home.”
Mickey let’s out a dramatic sigh from Bob’s side, wrapping an arm lazily around the taller man’s neck, “Only if you come with me.”
“That’s the plan,” Bob replies, cheeks flaming. He ignores Mickey’s soft, “Yippee!” at his side as he helps him rise from the table. He plants his hands on each side of Mickey’s waist, as the other man leans into him, his head bumping against Bob’s chest. Bob is acutely aware of Mickey’s warmth, his shoulder wedged firmly within his own, the light smell of beer and sugar lingering between them.
Together, they exit the bar, the night air hitting them crisp and forgiving. From his side, Mickey mutters something incoherent but satisfied, his hands tightening slightly around Bob’s side. Bob guides them both gently, a mixture of both caution and protectiveness.
As Mickey’s grip tightens against Bob’s side, his fingers grabbing at the fabric near Bob’s hip, Bob laughs out an accusing, “You are not that drunk,” down towards Mickey’s ear at Bob’s chest.
Bob feels the rumble of Mickey’s laugh as it leaves his lips. “Are you calling me a light weight, Floyd?”
Bob rolls his eyes fondly, rubbing the hand placed at Mickey’s back for support in a gentle circle against Mickey’s shoulder, “I’m accusing you of being handsy.”
Mickey doesn’t argue with that, instead he hums in agreement, nuzzling his cheek a little deeper into Bob’s chest.
The buzz of the Hard Deck slips away behind them, leaving only the soft sound of their feet on the corridor floor, and the quiet, sweet warmth of intimacy that had been building between the pair for weeks.
Finally, the pair make it to Mickey’s bunk – or at least, Bob leads them both to Mickey’s bunk, the shorter pilot simply stumbles along, his laughter spreading between the two of them with each step.
Bob pushes the door open, leaning slightly to guide Mickey inside. The shorter pilot stumbles just a fraction, his weight tilting against Bob as he tried to keep his balance. Bob’s hands instinctively find Mickey’s shoulders and upper back, steadying him, letting him lean a little without letting him fall.
“You’re…surprisingly heavy for someone so short,” Bob mutters, his voice half teasing, mostly fond.
“I’m not heavy… I’m just, a lot of awesomeness concentrated in a small package.” Mickey responds, his words slightly slurred as he looks up at Bob.
Bob rolls his eyes but can’t suppress a soft laugh, “Yeah sure. You mean a lot of alcohol concentrated in a small package.”
From his side, Mickey pretends to act offended, his eyes widen as he looks up at Bob, mischievous grin plastered across his face, “I’m fine! Totally sober actually.” He nods, as though the gesture will distract Bob from the swaying that the rest of his body is doing.
Bob arched an eyebrow, “You know, you just tripped three times on our walk here.”
“Pfft. Totally tactical stumble. Military-grade reflex test,” Mickey insisted, attempting to regain his balance by standing on one leg, then wobbling dramatically, his fingers clinging onto Bob’s shirt. “See? Perfectly fine.”
Bob couldn’t help the exasperated chuckle that escaped him. “If I agree with you, will you get into bed?”
“No, no,” Mickey begins, his fingers suddenly reaching to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, undoing one after the other with a flourish.
Bob blinks for a second, stunned by the other pilot’s sudden urgency to take off his clothes, as well, as the tan expanse of collarbone that Mickey reveals as his shirt begins to slip off his shoulder.
“Mickey,” Bob begins, his voice wavering slightly, from a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, “what on earth does taking your shirt off have to do proving that your sober?”
Mickey looks up at Bob, his eyebrows raising as though Bob asked him why the sky is blue. “Um, bed maneuverability, duh?”
Bob blinked, cheeks still warming, “Bed…maneuverability?”
Mickey nods seriously, then continues loosening his shirt, wiggling as it begins to slip from his shoulders, “You see, you can’t exactly execute tactical rolls and maneuvers fully clothed.”
Bob swallowed hard, doing his best to direct his focus onto anything but Mickey’s chest. “Uh…tactical, right.” Bob nods slowly, ears prickling, “But…why are you stripping?”
Mickey grinned up at him, even more lopsided and teasing in his drunken state, “What? Aren’t you enjoying the show?”
“I mean, I am,” Bob stammers, “But, you’re…you’re drunk”.
“I’m not!” Mickey shoots back, gesturing wildly as if to prove it. He missteps slightly, falling directly into Bob’s chest. The warmth of him pressed against Bob’s torso and the faint scent of beer mixed with sugary candy making Bob acutely aware of every inch of proximity between them.
“See? Totally fine,” Mickey murmurs, wiggling closer, clearly testing the limits of “maneuverability”. Bob’s hands hover, one on Mickey’s hip, the other finding purchase at his shoulder. He’s unsure where to rest them, torn between steadying the other man and wanting to feel the closeness.
With a slight push backwards into the bunk, Mickey collapses onto his mattress with a dramatic flop, burying his face deep into the pillows as though the act alone proved his sobriety. Bob shook his head, amused despite himself, and carefully adjusted the blanket over him.
“Noooo,” Mickey immediately protested from his place in the pillow, his words muffled but insistent. “I run hot; I don’t need a blanket.”
Bob leaned down; his hands firm yet careful as he smoothed the covers into place. “Thermoregulation,” he said dryly, “is not up for debate. It’s bedtime protocol.”
Mickey wriggled under the weight of the blanket, humming in mock defeat before tilting his head upwards, eyes half-lidded but glittering with mischief. “You like this,” he teased, his voice low, sing-song, “Admit it.”
Bob’s hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary on Mickey’s shoulder as he tucked him in – gentle, measured, almost disastrously fond. Mickey took full advantage of the other man’s touch, nuzzling closer and pressing lightly against Bob’s side. His next murmur warm and flirtatious, tumbling straight into the silence between them. Bob’s heart stuttered, caught between the tenderness of the moment and the dangerous edge of it.
Before he could stop himself, Bob leaned down, brushing a feather-light kiss across Mickey’s forehead, his lips tickling as they touched one of Mickey’s unruly curls. The touch lingered just a beat too long, as though sealing the warmth of the moment into place. Mickey’s lashes fluttered, his lips curving into the faintest smile as he settled deeper into the bed.
Bob straightened, retreating to the doorway, though his chest felt unwilling to move with him. He lingered there, watching Mickey breathe evenly, his body twitching suptly beneath the blanket. The steady warmth blooming in Bob’s chest seemed to root him into place.
Mickey’s voice drifted through the quiet, soft and drowsy, just loud enough to reach him, “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
Bob gave a small, knowing smile, feigning a shuffle of his feet though he had no intention of leaving. “Nope,” he said quietly, letting the intimacy stretch, long and unhurried, between them.
Mickey let out a soft, satisfied hum, nuzzling deeper into the blankets. “Good,” he murmured, voice drowsy and teasing, “cause I’m not letting you leave either.”
Bob stifled a laugh, shaking his head with mock exasperation, but he couldn’t hide the slow smile that spread across his face. He stayed in the doorway, watching, savoring the quiet closeness, the simple comfort of being there for Mickey – knowing that, for now, the outside world could wait – because, truth be told, there was nothing sweeter than this.
Chapter 9: Sweet Enough
Chapter Text
Sweet Enough
Bob slid into the seat next to Mickey in the ready room, his notebook balanced neatly on the desk in front of him, pen hovering like a poised conductor over the lined pages. His notes were already organized into neat columns, arrows and eyes tracing Maverick’s every motion at the front of the room as he goes over the next obstacles in their mission.
Mickey, by contrast, is slouched casually in his chair, his own notebook open but scattered with half-scribbled lines, a few playful sketches of stick-figure pilots mid-looping maneuvers, and a smudged doodle of Bob with exaggerated glasses writing furiously in the corner. His pen flipped idly between his fingers, sometimes tapping the table, sometimes hovering in the air, drawing abstract shapes that meandered across the page.
Their knees brushed once, twice under the table, a fleeting contact that was almost accidental – but still enough to make Bob pause mid-line, a small smile tugging at his lips. Mickey, of course, notices immediately, a mischievous quirk of his own brow, and leaned just slightly toward Bob as if daring him to look up. Bob did, and caught the smirk, eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds before returning to his notes.
Occasionally, Bob murmured a quiet confirmation under his breath, half to Maverick, half to Mickey – a whisper that carried more warmth than explanation. Mickey’s eyes flicked towards him each time, grinning, giving Bob space to write whatever mathematical equation had come into his head, but making sure that space wasn’t too far.
And then, Mickey reached out, dragging his pen against Bob’s page. Before Bob could even process the flurry of Mickey’s fingers and frantic scribbling, he sees that a small doodle of a cartoon jet with oversized wings peeks out from the corner of his page – a little piece of Mickey’s unpredictable energy finding their way onto the pages of Bob’s notebook.
The slight overlap of doodle, the accidental smudge of a finger against Bob’s page, the way that their shoulders edged close in the narrow classroom space – it was a delicate orbit, a tiny choreography that neither were fully aware of, but each were both instinctively following.
Even as Maverick’s voice carried instructions of flight paths and formations, Bob’s attention often strayed back to the other pilot beside him, cataloging more than just words – but watching the tilt of his head, the curve of his smile, the casual way that he gestured with his pen. Bob’s gaze flicked back to Maverick’s position at the front of the room as he dropped the next plan in their grueling training plan.
“We have one week left to focus on phase two – the most difficult stage of the mission,” Maverick’s voice carried, and a collective murmur ran through the room, almost a gasp as the pilots absorbed the words. “A pop-up strike with a steep dive requiring nothing less than two consecutive miracles.”
The screen behind Maverick flickered to life, the simulation projecting two mountains with a dotted line drawn between them to display the lowest possible altitude that the pilots would be allowed to fly. The aircraft in the simulation climb up high, following the curve of the peaks, rolling onto their backs at the peak, before falling into an upside down dive, a steep descend.
Maverick continues, gesturing to the pair of aircraft on the screen, “The two-seat aircraft will paint the target with a laser bullseye.”
Bob shifts in his seat beside Mickey, his note taking accelerating as he learns his responsibilities for the mission. Mickey’s eyes lingered on Bob’s focus, noting the way he bit the corner of his lip and adjusted his glasses mid-note. For a brief second, Mickey’s hand twitched, hovering over his own notebook, as though tempted to reach out and nudge Bob’s shoulder just to see if he would react.
“The lead single seat will breach the reactor by dropping a laser-guided bomb through an exposed ventilation shaft on the surface.”
A few of the other pilots let out low whistles; some exchange tense glances, their laughs nervous. Reuben mutters something that sounds like, “Yeah, right, two miracles. Good luck with that.”
Bob’s eyes flickered over to them briefly, noting the mixture of bravado and apprehension, before returning to Mickey at his side. Mickey’s smirk softened into something closer to admiration, almost protective, as he watched Bob absorb the information with that methodical, meticulous intensity.
Maverick’s voice grew sharper. “If you can’t hold your dive, if you lose your laser lock, you’ll miss”.
Bob’s pen paused mid-stroke; his jaw tightened slightly, the weight of responsibility pressing into his chest. Mickey noticed immediately and gave him a light nudge under the table with his knee, just enough to ground him without breaking focus. Bob’s lips twitch into a faint, grateful smile, and Mickey’s chest loosens with a quiet exhale.
Around them, the room was tense. A few pilots exchanged careless bets on who would throw up first during the dive; Natasha muttered about practicing loops in the simulator until she could fly blindfolded. But for Bob and Mickey, the chaos of the room faded slightly – they shared a small orbit of attention, balancing nervous excitement, trust, and unspoken camaraderie.
Bob’s hand drifted to Mickey’s doodle at the corner of the page – the tiny jet with oversized wings – and added a second, smaller figure beside it, his only little doodle, in a way, a silent acknowledgement of Mickey.
Mickey catches the gesture and flashes Bob a brief, crooked grin, before looking back at the screen.
Maverick’s voice cut through the tension one last time, still stern, but somehow laced with something like excitement, “Alright. That’s phase two. Study the simulation, review your notes, and we’ll hit the air in ten minutes.”
A collective shuffle rose from the room as pilots packed up their gear and chatted to each other, half-excitement, half-dread. Bob closed his notebook with a quiet snap, glancing up to find Mickey already rising to his feet, his own notebook long forgotten. Their eyes meet, and for a brief second, a private smile passed between them, something that dulled the fluttering nerves in Bob’s stomach.
“You ready?” Bob asked, sliding his helmet bag over one shoulder, easily finding his place at Mickey’s side.
The other pilot grinned up at him, crooked smile flashing mischievously, “As I’ll ever be.”
The pair fall into an easy step together, weaving through the sea of pilots making their way to their jets, their elbows burshing just often enough to make Bob’s heart thump just a little faster in his chest.
As they walked, his mind almost automatically jumped to the assortment of candy that made its home inside of Mickey’s helmet bag. Well, more accurately, Bob was thinking about which candy Mickey would choose to give him today, the thought of sweetness on his tongue almost a soothing balm to his pre-flight nerves. It had become a familiar ritual, almost a sickingly-sweet routine between the two boys. And for Bob, it had become a quiet comfort, something steady in the chaos, and already he felt the flurry of anticipation, a small smile tugging at his lips just thinking about it.
At his side, Mickey glanced up at him, he had a knowing expression on his face, as though he could read Bob’s mind just based on the way that he chewed his bottom lip between his teeth. He brought a gentle elbow up to nudge into Bob’s side, “Don’t think too much,” Mickey murmured under his breath, voice carrying only for Bob. “You’ll overthink the dive and end up dizzy on the way down.”
Bob chuckled softly, shaking his head, “Ten dollars that you’ll be the one that gets dizzy on the way down.”
Mickey froze mid-step, tongue-in-cheek to hold back his grin, “Oh Robert. You are so on”.
Their quiet exchange was interrupted as Reuben appeared rather suddenly from behind them, stepping in between the pair. By the rise in his voice, it was urgent. “Mick, the laser’s acting up again. We should take a look at it before we fly. You know, miracle number one and all.”
Bob looked to Mickey, his eyebrows raised, voice catching slightly in panic, “I, wait – “
But Mickey was already being tugged away, his hand giving Bob a quick, apologetic squeeze before he was gone. Bob’s chest tightened in a mix of anxiety and frusteration as he watched Mickey get swept up in a flurry of movement, and the anticipatory sweetness suddenly felt sour on his tongue.
A moment later, Natasha appeared at his side, a firm handle settling on his shoulder, “You ready, Floyd?”
Bob swallowed, his eyes flicking in the direction of Mickey’s disappearing back and then reverting them back to his co-pilot. “Yeah… yeah, I think so,” he muttered, trying to ground himself as they headed towards their jet.
Even as he moved in step with Natasha, the empty thought of the candy tugged at him, a reminder that rituals, no matter how small and quiet they may seem, can carry a weight all on their own.
Bob settled into the cockpit, strapping in with practiced hands, doing his best to distract himself with the routine that he had established years ago. He went through the motions – flipping switches, running checks, hearing Natasha’s calm, steady voice in his ear from the front of the plane. Everything was as it should be – everything except the one small thing that Bob couldn’t help but feel was missing. There was no candy tucked into his palm, no sugary comfort to anchor him.
It was stupid, he knew. Just sugar really. Just a small habit. But it was starting to feel like more than that. It was Mickey’s way of saying, “I see you. You’ve got this.” And without it, the hum of the jet beneath him felt louder, the cockpit around him felt a little colder.
Natasha’s voice cuts through the comm in his ear, “You good, Bob?”
He cleared his throat, swallowing the nerves back down, “Yeah. Good.” A little too quickly, a little too light.
Then the engines beneath him roared, the jet surging forward, and Bob did his best to focus his attention outward. Their takeoff was smooth, muscle memory kicking in as soon as the carrier fell away beneath them. They climbed together, watching as the horizon widened in their windows, blue stretching endlessly in every direction. For a moment, with the sunlight flaring off the glass and the sea glittering below, it was almost easy to forget. Almost.
Time began to blur into the rhythm of training runs. Bob’s eyes focused on the radar and terrain around them. Natasha expertly handling the controls and executing a perfect dive down the mountain. Their jet was diving, weaving, pushing the limits. In his ear, other calls filled the comms – Mickey’s chaotic calls, Reuben’s alternatively clipped commentary, Jake’s smug asides particularly at Bradley’s expense. The usual noise of the squad. Everything is going well, even Javy is settling back into the sky after falling into gridlock during his last flight.
And then –
A flash. A white streak of movement, of feathers and wings. The sharp crack of impact.
Bob barely had time to register the streaks of white past the glass of his canopy before the bird collided into the jet’s engine. The cockpit shuddered violently, alarms screaming, the red “FIRE” lights flashing across his console. As Bob turned his head to look back at the left engine behind him, he was already preparing for the worst.
As Bob alerted Natasha to the fire, he heard her swear, sharp and immediate. She reached down to grab the console, forcing the jet to move upwards – releasing a shuddering noise and plumes of smoke.
Bob’s hands moved on instinct, rattling through emergency procedures, his eyes frantically flicking between each red light flashing on his radar. But it was no use – the jet was already losing altitude, shaking hard enough to rattle his teeth as it descended towards the mountains below. The sky and the sea begin to blur together from outside his canopy, the horizon tilting at a sickening angle.
As they fell, a dark thought began to creep into Bob’s mind, one that he couldn’t stop from circulating in his brain despite the chaos that surrounded him.
If Mickey had been there – if he had given him his candy – if they completed their ritual – this never would have happened.
From in front of him, Natasha’s voice tore through his headset, urgent and raw, “Eject, eject, eject!”
Bob forced himself to cast the thought from his mind, for there was no time to second-guess. Bob reached above his head for the ejection handles and yanked hard –
And the world exploded upwards. The canopy blew away, wind suddenly able to tear at his helmet, his body recklessly wrenched violently into the open sky. For a single, dizzying heartbeat, Bob was weightless. He forgot about the candy, he had forgotten about the ritual, he had even forgotten about the mission. As the chute deployed behind him, the only thing that Bob could think about was a pair of warm brown eyes and a crooked smiling flashing at him.
And then it all went dark.
When Bob awoke, his vision was filled with white ceiling tiles, the hiss of machines and the sharp sound of beeping filled his ears, and the slow burn of oxygen began to fill his lungs.
His eyes flickered open to the med bay, the world hazy and swimming. For a quick second, he almost thought that he was still falling, the world spinning around him in a swirl of smoke and fire. The blanket that covered him was too scratchy at his neck, too tight around his feet, practically holding him in place on the cot.
Hi throat was raw, his neck sore, and his vision slightly blurry without his glasses perched upon his nose. Something shuffled beside Bob, drifting his focus from the ache in his neck to the slumped figure in the chair next to the cot. An even without his glasses, Bob could easily make out the shape of the man at his bedside.
Mickey’s shoulders were curled forward, his flight suit hastily unzipped at his waist, hands practically gripping the mattress, as though he could hold Bob there by the sheer force of his own will.
Bob blinked at the figure in the chair – from the loose curl that slipped onto his forehead, hair still askew from his helmet to the way that his lips parted slightly, blowing out small puffs of air in his sleep – and something in him shifted. Even half-awake, half-falling from the sky, Bob felt it, almost as though the ritual that they missed was completed. Like it didn’t matter that Bob never received the candy because Mickey had always been here, right here, right at his side. And it didn’t look like he was letting go.
The quiet broke when Mickey stirred, his head jerking up from its resting place against his chest, his fingers still gripping onto the cot in front of him. As his dark eyes snapped open, they instantly landed on bob, relief washing over his face so fierce that it seemed to possess him.
“Bob”, Mickey rasped, his voice raw with a mixture of sleep and stress. He leaned forward, already reaching a hand out to Bob’s where it rest under the scratchy blanket, “Oh, thank God – you’re awake.”
Mickey’s hand hovered for only a second before it dug beneath the blanket, scratchiness an afterthought, before finding Bob’s wrist, grounding and warm. His thumb clumsily found Bob’s pulse, frantically brushing over it as though he needed to feel the beat of it just to believe that the man in front of him was really ok.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Mickey murmured, the words breaking on a breathy laugh, almost in disbelief, “I felt so helpless, I…” His fingers lock onto Bob’s wrist right by his pulse-point, “Don’t ever – don’t ever do that again, okay?”
Bob blinks, the corner of his lips curling up into a small smile, “Yeah I’ll – I’ll make sure to let every bird in the sky know that they aren’t allowed to hit my jet ever again”.
Mickey rolled his eyes fondly, but the grip that he had on Bob’s wrist never faltered.
For a long moment, they just stayed like that – Mickey bent forward, his forehead almost touching Bob’s arm. Bob reached out to brush the curl from the sweaty skin there, his fingers threading through Mickey’s helmet-unkempt hair. Mickey tilted his head into the touch, his eyes closing softly with the sensation. And after a moment, Bob let his eyes close too – comforted by the nearness, by the feeling of being back on steady ground, by being by Mickey’s side again.
“Have you been here the whole time?” Bob asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.” Mickey didn’t even hesitate in his response. “Since they brought you in. I practically trampled Reub as I scampered out of the cockpit. We had barely touched down before I was unstrapping myself.” Mickey’s cheeks flush with the confession, before shrugging, as though the decision was simple, “And then I got here.”
Bob huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, “Lieutenant, you know, that’s not regulation.”
Mickey smiled weakly, though the quiver in his voice was still present, “Sue me.”
Bob would have fired another quip back in Mickey’s direction if not for the way the other aviator’s fingers curled around his wrist tighter, as though clinging onto Bob was the only way to stop him from flying away. The silence that followed wasn’t as heavy, but it shifted into something that was less frantic relief and more weighted satisfaction. It may not have been as burdensome on the mood, but it still set a different sort of ache on Bob’s chest.
Then, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore, Mickey’s gaze fell down to where his fingers met Bob’s wrist, his voice thinning, “I…I should have been there, earlier…you know, before the mission. The candy – I got pulled away and… you know, if I hadn’t then maybe…”
Bob shook his head immediately as the words left Mickey’s lips, as though each shake of his head could convince the other man that he was wrong. “No. Don’t,” he whispered, firm despite the rasp. “That wasn’t you. It could never be your fault.”
“But it’s our thing,” Mickey pressed, his voice cracking just slightly, finger brushing once more over Bob’s pulse at his wrist, “It always makes you steadier. And today – today, I let you down.”
Bob’s lips parted, his brow knitting together – not in frustration, but in concern. He turned his hand in Mickey’s grip, enlacing his fingers with the other man’s, “You didn’t let me down. You’ve never let me down.” And then softer, “You couldn’t. Ever.”
Mickey swallowed hard, the words landing deeper than Bob probably even realized.
“Besides,” Bob added softly, his eyes bleary with the shine of tears, “I wasn’t thinking about the candy when it happened. I…I was thinking about getting back to you.”
And that, that broke something in Mickey. He dropped his forehead briefly to the bed, muffling a sound that could have been a laugh, could have been something else. Despite it all, he never let go of Bob’s hand. When he lifted his head again, his own eyes were red-rimmed, but steadier, softer.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Bob gave him a tired smile, his eyes squinting slightly to focus on Mickey’s brown eyes, “Sue me.”
Mickey leaned back in his seat finally, possibly giving Bob space to breath, despite his hand still being firmly held by his own. And that, that’s when he noticed – Bob was squinting faintly at him, blinking as though the edges of the world wouldn’t quite settle.
‘Wait a second,” Mickey muttered, biting his lip to hold back his growing smile. He reached for the side table where Bob’s things had been piled in a neat, impersonal stack by the Navy’s nurses. His fingers closed around the familiar frames, “You can’t even see me can you?”
Bob flushed, embarrassed, the tips of his ears turning pink as Mickey placed the wire frames over them. “I was, you know, getting by.”
“Not good enough,” Mickey said softly. He slid the glasses carefully onto Bob’s face, his knuckles bushing over Bob’s cheekbone in the process, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Then whispered softly into their shared space, “There. That’s better. I want you looking at me when I’m talking to you.”
Bob looked up at him from under his lashes, his vision finally clear to see Mickey’s crooked smile flashing back at him. He fondly replied, “You know, I’m always looking at you.”
The room felt smaller after that, warmer, the scratchiness of the blanket long forgotten on top of Bob’s skin. Mickey’s hand found its way back into Bob’s, as though gravity pulled them back to each other even after Bob’s fall.
The silent spell broke with a knock at the doorframe.
“Mick, buddy,” Reuben’s voice was low but insistent as he stepped inside the med bay. “C’mon, man, you’ve been camped out in here for hours. Let him rest.”
Mickey didn’t even look away, his eyes still locked onto Bob’s. “He is resting.”
Bob opened his mouth to respond before Reuben spoke again, “You need to eat. Shower. Something. You know, you’re no good to him if you pass out on the floor.”
“You know, him is right here? And can speak?” Bob replies, his voice cracking slightly.
Mickey still keeps his eyes on Bob, raising the water cup from the tray beside Bob’s cot to bring it up to Bob’s lips. Then, his gaze flicked to Reuben, defiant in a way that Bob rarely saw, “I’m not leaving him.”
Reuben sighed, raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck, clearly torn between dragging him out and respecting his co-pilot’s boundaries. His eyes cut to Bob, like maybe he would be the one to talk sense into Mickey.
But Bob just looked at Mickey, his glasses still perched crookedly where his hands had left them, and whispered, still hoarse but more steady, “Let him stay.”
Reuben lingered in the door just a minute longer, then shook his head with a half-smile that said more than words. “Fine. But,” he raises one hand in a sarcastic salute in the Mickey’s direction before retreating, “don’t come crying to me when the nurses kick you out.”
The door clicked shut, leaving quiet in its wake. Mickey placed the water cup back on the tray and sagged back into his chair. For the first time in hours, it seemed as though the tension had drained from his shoulders. That’s when he noticed the little plastic cup of hospital-issue Jell-O at Bob’s beside. He grabbed it in his hand, the one not holding onto Bob’s, and placed it on the tray in front of Bob, the red mixture wobbling faintly as Mickey nudged it closer. He peeled back the foil with a grin, his eyes warm.
“You know,” Mickey began, scooping a spoon into the cup, “it’s not candy.” He brought the spoon up to Bob’s already smiling mouth, “But it’s sweet enough.”
Bob gave a hoarse little laugh, the sound edged with relief. He leaned forward just enough to meet the spoon, lips brushing against the cool metal held in between Mickey’s fingers. “Sweet enough”, he agreed, voice low.
They shared the cup between them in small, unhurried bites. A strange, tender quiet filling the room – one that was less the silence of worry and more the hush of something fragile but steady, something holding fast in the aftermath of chaos.
By the time the Jell-O was scrapped clean, Mickey was still at Bob’s side, their hands resting together between them, the world outside the med bay kept out for just a little longer. All that they needed was each other, and that, that was sweet enough.
Chapter 10: Home "Sweet" Home
Chapter Text
Home “Sweet” Home
The hum of fluorescent lights overhead filters in through Bob's ears as he pushes open the bathroom door. The air smells faintly of soap, the sharp bite of cinnamon toothpaste, and something indescribably like Mickey. Bob blinks back against the bathroom’s brightness after the dim hallway, raising a hand to adjust his glasses on his nose, his heart beginning to beat faster with the anticipation of the person he knows he’ll see once he enters the room.
And just as Bob had thought, Mickey’s already there. He’s leaning over the sink, the sleeves of his shirt shoved up to his elbows. In the mirror, his eyes catch Mickey's in the glare, capturing his own gaze looking back at him in the reflection. The other man’s toothbrush was placed in his mouth and his hair was still slightly damp from a quick shower, wet curls flattened slightly against Mickey’s tan forehead.
For a second, Bob hesitates in the doorway, caught under Mickey’s warm gaze, almost fixed in place by the domesticity of the scene in front of him – like this is normal, like they do this every night. He forces his feet to move, stuttering to life underneath him as he crosses the sink to stand beside Mickey, setting down his things carefully on the counter, finding a place right at home beside the other man’s belongings.
Mickey watched Bob from the mirror, his eyes crinkling at their corners as Bob shifted beside him. He doesn’t pause in his brushing, but he does wink one of his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling even with the toothbrush wedged in there.
Bob hopes that the steam from Mickey’s shower has still fogged up the mirror enough to cover the blush rising to his cheeks. But, regardless, he feels a smile of his own tugging at his own lips before he can stop it.
Allowing the domesticity to soften the moment, Bob begins his own nighttime rituals, settling his hip right into the space beside Mickey. He starts by taking his glasses of to wash his face and then begins to brush his teeth – taking his time to brush over each tooth with devoted care and precision. He doesn’t say anything – and he doesn’t need to, neither of them does. Instead, the soft, rhythm that they find themselves in is steady, grounding. And after a moment, almost without realizing it, Bob finds a low hum threading through his chest.
It was a habit, another one that he picked up from his mother years ago. When he was child, seated around the kitchen table as his mom washed carrots or peeled potatoes for dinner, she would hum a tune to herself. Not typically one that Bob would be able to recognize, but something light, something that he found to be both calming for himself and for his mother.
And so, here, in the bright bathroom lighting, toothbrush in his mouth, Bob finds himself humming a tune - something that’s been rumbling around in his head and heart for a while now. It’s a song that Mickey had played for him once, during one of the nights when they had stayed up too late reviewing debrief notes and were too wired to sleep. Bob doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it until Mickey’s head turns, his eyes narrowing faintly in recognition.
As Bob is brushing, he feels the weight of Mickey’s gaze at his side – and as he turns to face the other man, he feels his cheeks warm. He raises an eyebrow towards Mickey, as though questioning his sudden interest in Bob’s toothbrushing technique.
Mickey pulls his toothbrush free, tilting his head. His voice is rough around a mouthful of toothpaste when he mumbles, “You know, you hum with you brush.” It doesn’t sound accusing, but just being under speculation makes Bob a little more nervous.
“Oh, yeah – I do it so often that I guess I sort of forget.” Bob wipes a hand across his mouth to collect the foam that had dripped out, “I can stop if it’s annoying you or something?”
Mickey almost chokes on his toothpaste, the words bursting out of him before Bob could even finish, “No! No, it’s not annoying. Not even close.” He waves his toothbrush in the air for emphasis. His grin is sheepish, toothpaste threatening to dribble down his chin. “It’s uh, kinda nice, actually.”
Bob blinks at him, uncertain. “Nice?”
“Yeah,” Mickey says quickly, softer now like he doesn’t want to spook him. “I mean, I didn’t even realize what you were humming at first but…” He trails off, head tipping, and then it clicks. His breath catches. “Wait. That’s – holy shit, that’s the song I showed you, isn’t it?”
Bob immediately feels his cheeks flush, his eyes flicking away like he’s been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Guess it got stuck.”
Something warm floods through Mickey, chest going soft in a way that feels dangerous. Fondness, affection – whatever it is, it leaves him standing there with toothpaste foam in the corner of his mouth and the dumbest grin he’s ever worn. He can’t help it.
As Bob resumes to his humming, the atmosphere settles, comfortable in its own way. It begins to blend with the scrape of toothbrushes, the quiet running of the faucet – a habit that Mickey will not break despite Bob’s reminder that he’s wasting water.
Finally, after Mickey spits a mouthful of foam into the sink and reaches to shut the faucet off, he points his toothbrush in Bob’s direction, his eyebrow raised in a way that prepares Bob for whatever words are about to leave Mickey’s mouth.
“Do you think that penguins have knees?”
Well, ok – maybe not whatever words.
Bob stops mid-brush, staring at him through the mirror.
Mickey grins, utterly unbothered. “No, seriously. Like, I’ve been thinking about it. You never see them bend. They just waddle. So, what’s the deal?”
Bob tries to suppress a laugh, but because of the toothbrush still in his mouth, it comes out a more muffled, helpless huff of air through his nose. He shakes his head in exasperation, spits into the sink and rinses his mouth, before turning to Mickey.
“Dude,” Bob starts, his voice low, “What on earth goes through your brain.”
Mickey just shrugs in response, his grin as brilliant as ever, “Well, we’ve been cooped up on this base for months. I think I’m starting to go crazy.”
Bob huffs a quiet laugh, knocking his hip into the man’s beside him, his tone is soft when he replies, “You know, that sure does explain a lot.”
“Yeah?” Mickey starts, his voice light, then he turns leaning against the counter, grinning, “Alright, fine. If you weren’t stuck here, where would you go?”
For the second time in minutes, the words that leave Mickey’s lips catch him off guard. He straightens a little, placing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “If I could go anywhere?”
“Anywhere,” Mickey gestures wide with his toothbrush, like he’s presenting him with an entire globe. “No rules. Free pass.”
Bob considers it for a second, his brow furrowing in thought before raising one shoulder in a shrug, “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” He stops before smirking back in Mickey’s direction, “Have you? You know, thought about it? At least when you’re not too busy thinking about penguins.”
Mickey grins back at him, the creases by his eyes deepening at Bob’s joke. “Well of course I have,” he begins, and then as though there was no superior answer in the world, he responded, “Middle Earth, duh.”
Bob isn’t sure why he’s surprised. Mickey’s answer is almost inexplicably him. But still, he can’t help but tease the other man. “You know, that’s not even real.”
Mickey shrugs, unapologetic. “Didn’t say it had to be. You gave me a free pass, I’m taking it. Dragons, lembas bread, oh the Shire. I think you would just love it there.”
Bob lets out a laugh, gesturing downwards to his rather “long” physique. “I’m not sure that I’d fit in.”
“I guess you'd be the tallest hobbit in the entire village," Mickey laughs under his breath at the image. “But you’d for sure win them over. Knowing you and your equations, I’d bet you would invent better farming equipment.”
That earns another quiet laugh from Bob, this one lingering. Something warm blooming in his chest at the thought of Mickey knowing so much about Bob that he understands all of these little parts of him – like he’s looked so closely into his soul and learned every piece. He shakes his head, softer this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Your turn,” Mickey prods, leaning a shoulder against Bob’s at the sink, “Where would you go?”
Bob hesitates, gaze dropping down to the sink before he answers, quiet but steady, “I think I would go home.”
Mickey tilts his head, making sure to rest more of his body weight against Bob next to him, hoping the other man will find it grounding. He questions, but doesn’t pry, “Home?”
“Yeah.” Bob presses his lips together, a small smile growing. “It’s a little simple. But it’s familiar. Seeing the stars on clear night, feeding cattle in the early sunshine of the mornings, my Mom’s cooking. Oh my goodness, do I miss my mom’s cooking.” He exhales, his smile growing even larger. “So I guess, it’s kind of boring, but…it’s home.”
Mickey just watches him for a moment, the grin on his face slipping into something gentler. “I don’t think that’s boring at all,” he begins, his voice soft and fond, “I think it makes sense. I mean, I think that you would fit in there better than anywhere else.”
That earns Mickey a quick, startled glance – Bob blinks back at him, like he doesn’t know exactly what to do with that kind of honesty. But then, there’s that warmth again, flickering once more. It’s clear, Mickey sees him. Mickey wants to see him. He wants to learn every part of himself that Bob wants to offer.
And if Mickey wants to see Bob, all of him, then he’ll let him. He’ll give up little pieces, little bits of himself as though it’s the simplest decision in the world.
“I think you’d like it there too.” Bob begins earnestly, his eyes meeting Mickey’s. “I’d have my mom make her meatloaf,” and then softer, “And I’d make sure that you got a slice too.”
The corners of Mickey’s mouth twitch like he’s trying not to grin. “You’d feed me mystery meat? Out of all the things in the world?” He adds, voice teasing, “I’m starting to wonder if you really like me.”
“Hey, don’t knock it.” Bob playfully swipes a hand across Mickey’s shoulder, resting there for a second too long, “It’s good. Trust men.” He pauses, then adds, almost shy, “You know, she’d probably even like you.”
Mickey doesn’t know if his grin could get any larger. “Alright, alright. If we’re talking about food – you have got to try my abuela’s enchiladas. When I was a kid, I’d literally be in tears ‘cause they were too spicy.” He closes his eyes, as though trying to taste the heat across his tongue. “Now? I think I’d cry happy tears to have them again. To eat food with flavor. Actual flavor.”
Bob smiles, faint but genuine. “Sure does sound better than base food.”
Mickey shoots him a smirk, his eyes glinting mischievously, “Better than mystery meatloaf, too.”
Bob scoffs, turning to pack up his kit. “I’ll have you know that it’s not mystery meat – it’s just beef…” and then he adds, less sure. “I think.”
“Oh, sure.” Mickey squints at him like he’s plotting, then pounces. “Wait. Be honest. You drown it in ketchup, don’t you?”
Bob freezes, busted, he knows his cheeks are pink without even having to look up at his reflection in the mirror, “…Yeah?”
Mickey groans like it’s a personal betrayal. Bob swears that he sees him sink downwards slightly on the sink, leaning his head back like a damsel in distress, “God. Ketchup. I should have known.” He pauses, opening one eye to skeptically look back at Bob, “You’re one of those people who probably think ketchup belongs on eggs, too.”
Bob’s lips twitch again, turning his body to face Mickey’s, “It does.”
“Oh my god.” Mickey presses a hand to his heart like he’s mortally wounded. “You can’t be serious. I take back every nice thing I’ve ever thought about you.”
Bob rolls his eyes fondly, throwing a warm glance in Mickey’s direction. “Guess I’ve got to win you back with meatloaf.”
“You know, just because it’s you I might let the ketchup slide,” Mickey replies, just as fond. Then he shakes his head, exasperated but grinning. “Now that I know your taste is permanently broken, I’ve gotta ask a serious question.”
Bob glances at him warily, tongue in cheek as he looks at the smirk on Mickey’s face, “…Okay?”
“Cereal.” Mickey leans in like he’s delivering a classified briefing. “Soup or not soup?”
Bob chokes on a laugh, nodding his head in disbelief. No matter how much time he spends with the other man, he’s starting to learn that he will simply never know what’s going to come out of Mickey’s mouth.
Mickey’s grinning like he’s already won. “So that’s a yes. Silence is an agreement.”
Bob sticks his tongue out in Mickey’s direction, his shoulder resting firmly against the shorter man’s. “I was still thinking!! No, I don’t think that cereal is a soup.”
Mickey leans into the weight, his side pressed into the crease of Bob’s, finding a home in the curve of his waist. “How is it not? Liquid base, chunks floating in it – textbook definition of soup.”
Bob presses his weight off of the sink, shaking his head in disapproval. He begins to head towards the bathroom door, the sound of Mickey’s footsteps against the tiles let him know that the other man isn't too far away. He turns back around, doing his best to look contemplative, but the small tug at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Mick, that is not the definition of soup.”
Mickey matches his strides with Bob, his shoulder bumps against the other man’s, the jostle almost encouraging him to keep going. “Okay then professor,” Mickey looks up at Bob with a crooked grin, “Define soup.”
Bob exhales through his nose, pretending to think deeply as their footsteps echo on the way back to their bunks. “Soup is…warm”.
Mickey’s footsteps stutter, a light chuckle leaving his lips. “That’s your definition?” He says, pretending to be offended. “Warm?”
“It’s a good one,” Bob insists, fighting a smile.
By the time they reach the door to Bob’s bunk, Mickey is still poking holes in Bob’s logic, animated hands painting invisible diagrams in the air. And Bob – Bob keeps answering, because as much as he pretends to protest, he doesn’t want the conversation to end either.
Bob pushes the door open to his room before stepping inside – without hesitation, he holds the door open for Mickey, encouraging him to enter as well.
“Come on, we’ve still got to get to the bottom of this extremely important debate.” His voice is quiet, but firm, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He hopes that despite the childish nature of the topic at hand, Mickey knows that he’s serious about him staying, that he’s serious about him.
Mickey hesitates only a beat before slipping past him, his hand reaches out to touch Bob’s on the door handle, fingers tangling together. The room is small, barely enough for a bed and the standard-issue dresser, but it feels bigger with the sound of Bob’s laugh still hanging in the air from their walk back. And sure, Mickey’s been in Bob’s room before, but this, this was different – a moment more intimate than nights spent with notebooks and debriefs.
Bob toes off his shoes and drops onto the bunk with a sort of ease that suggests routine. The he shifts over, a subtle invitation, and pats the space beside him. He hopes that Mickey can’t hear the rapid thumping of his heart when he says, “Might as well sit. No point in standing guard.”
Mickey smirks, but he sits – then immediately stretches out on his back like he owns the place, arms folded behind his head. And then the mattress dips at his side as Bob follows suit, laying down so their shoulders touch.
The room is dim and still, their laughter lingering, but settling into something softer. For a moment, all Bob can hear is the faint hum of the base through the walls and Mickey’s steady breathing beside him. And then, Mickey’s voice breaks through the silence, warm and soft.
“So, what, you’re telling me gazpacho doesn’t exist? Cold soup is still soup.”
Bob places his glasses on the nightstand next to the bunk before he rolls over, tucking one elbow under his head to face Mickey, focusing on the bright shine of his smile even through the blurriness of his vision. “That’s an exception, not the rule.”
“Oh, exceptions now?” Mickey turns himself over, mirroring Bob’s position. Somehow, this forces them even closer, sharing each other’s space, taking in each other’s oxygen. “That’s some weak logic, Lieutenant.”
Bob hides a smile as he burrows the side of his head into the pillow, sliding under the thin blanket. “Better logic than calling Frosted Flakes a bisque.”
Mickey snorts so loud it echoes. “Okay, now that I’m gonna use. Frosted Flakes bisque. I’m putting that on a menu someday.”
The lights are already dimmed low, but their voices linger in the soft glow like a thread stretched between bunks. Bob picks up the blanket slightly, indicating with his head for Mickey to get under. Then, as though remembering their last “night” in bed together, Bob goes to place the blanket back down, “Almost forgot about your hate for thermoregulation.”
But Mickey reaches out, grabbing Bob’s hand in his own, keeping the blanket lofted in the air, “No, I’ll share,” He throws Bob a tender smile, “Thermoregulation or not.”
Bob blinks once before letting the blanket drop back over Mickey. His throat works around a swallow, nerves sparking hot and tight, but the weight of Mickey’s hand still wrapped around his steadies him in a way that he doesn’t expect.
For a beat, Bob just lies there, staring at the dim outline of the ceiling. Then, carefully and hesitant, he reaches out to Mickey, placing one hand on his shoulder. When Mickey doesn’t pull away, Bob pulls him closer as Mickey turns around, bringing the other man’s back up against his chest.
His arm hovers uncertain, until Mickey makes the choice for him: he gives Bob’s hand a small tug and tucks it snug against his own chest, like it belongs there.
Bob exhales, shaky but soft, and finally settles in, curving himself around Mickey’s smaller frame. The nerves don’t go away, not fully, but they ease into something warmer – something good, something that only Mickey seems to bring out in him.
Mickey lets out a low hum of approval, eyes slipping shut as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “See?” he murmurs, voice muffled against the pillow. “told you I’d share.”
Bob’s heart hammers in his chest, strong against his ribs, and he’s sure that Mickey can feel it from their closeness. As if sensing it, Mickey just nuzzles closer – thermoregulation be darned. The room goes quieter then, but not in a bad way—just that soft quiet of people running out of words but not ready to let go yet.
Bob wakes slowly, pulled from sleep by the steady weight that’s pressed up against him. For a second, he doesn’t recognize the warmth slung over his chest – but he savors it. Bob has always run cold, especially when he sleeps, so the heat of the body next to him is a welcome surprise, something that nuzzles closer into. When he blinks into the dim gray of the early morning and remembers that it’s Mickey, well then he just pulls him even closer.
The other man is sprawled out sideways, the blanket tangled somewhere around his knees, one arm draped heavily across Bob’s chest – his own weighted blanket in a sense. His fingers twitch now and then, his legs kicking faintly as if he’s chasing something in a dream, as though even in his sleeps he’s unable to stop his limbs from telling a story.
And Bob, he doesn’t move. He wouldn’t dare.
He hears Mickey mutter at his side, his face burrowed into the crease of Bob’s neck. The words are low and half-formed, almost tumbling from his mouth like static. “No, Bob’s got it. He’s good. He’s really good.”
Bob’s breath catches. His chest tightens – not in panic this time, but in a way that feels almost unbearably tender. Carefully, as though he’s scared to break the fragile, warmth, he lays a hand over Mickey’s restless arm, his thumb brushing a small arc against warm skin. The other man’s twitching quiets, though not completely.
Then, Mickey shifts again, murmuring something indecipherable before he noses closer into the curve of Bob’s shoulder, like gravity pulls him there, like even the chemical pulls of the earth know that the two men belong close to each other.
And Bob – he lets his eyes fall shut, his body sinking back into the mattress – feeling more comfortable than it has in all of the weeks that they’ve been on base. Because this – this right here, the warmth pressed against his side, a soft voice tangled with dreams, the trust of someone reaching for him even in his sleep.
Bob thinks back to the question that Mickey asked him earlier, about where he could go if he was able to go anywhere in the world.
And this, this right here is perfect. It’s exactly where he wants to be.
This right here, this is home.