Chapter Text
The Hard Deck is filled with an almost somber mood.
The place is still warm and lively; drinks and glasses clattering across wooden table surfaces, the sound of the jukebox blasting old hits, the smell of alcohol and good times filling the air. Penny, as per usual, was giving those in attendance a party, gracefully swinging from visitor to visitor with a welcoming smile and laugh.
The place felt like a second home.
But with the looming departure for the mission on everyone’s minds, the usually rowdy and rambunctious atmosphere was turned down a few degrees. Of course, there’s still the usual pissing contest antics and lively competition around the dart board and pool tables, but with the thought of at least one of them not returning to all of this, rested heavily on their consciences.
In the past week, Bob has been pushed farther than he’s ever gone before; mentally, physically and emotionally.
The day after their bird strike incident, Phoenix had woken up, determined and ready to get up in the air. The two of them were still sore, but his pilot’s eagerness temporarily made him forget the ache in his abdomen and back as they had taxi’d out onto the runway.
Natasha had each given a big hug to Bradley and him before they had gone up, quietly thanking them for their support.
Their first flight of the day had been early in the morning, before they would get back to work on the mission course. Phoenix had wanted to fly out and get comfortable in the cockpit again, attempting at a few maneuvers to get some easy confidence back; all the while Rooster was not far on their wing, watching and talking her through it all.
It was all a mental game for her, and as soon as she had inverted over Bradley with a laugh, the sun beginning to cast its hot rays, Bob knew that Phoenix had risen from the ashes, reincarnated.
The following days had been jam packed, filled with a crescendo in rising tension as their departure neared. Even with their little beach day, and everyone finally gelling as a team, the pressure was mounting. The confidence Maverick gave them, even with them knowing that he would be up there leading the mission, didn’t completely dispel the fog of strain incessantly pulling at each of the aviators.
It felt like with each passing day, every single hour ticking down until they left, was just less and less time to what felt like an eventual funeral procession.
The sudden death and subsequent funeral of Admiral Kazansky didn’t help their mood either.
They all believed that it would be possible; it was just a matter of who would take the inevitable fall to get there.
The whole detachment had decided to go to the Hard Deck that night, all unanimously deciding to go out of their uniforms, opting to relish in what could possibly be the last night each of them would spend on American soil. Maverick, at the end of their last training debrief, had looked each of them in the eye, silent pride glowing behind his orbs, as he had vocally announced how each and every one of them had improved by leaps and bounds. The Captain had told them all that a round for them was due on his tab when they would drop into the bar later that night.
Later that evening, stumbling out of his housing room, clad in comfortable civilian attire, Bob meets Phoenix and Rooster outside of the latter’s Bronco. They’re both wearing comfortable clothes; Rooster opting for another loud Hawaiian shirt and Phoenix donning a simple white Navy tee.
As he clambers in the back, Bob can’t help but notice a grey sweater resting on the seat across from him. He smirks, subtly knowing that the piece of garment would eventually end up on Natasha one way or the other that night.
The drive down to the bar isn’t that long; but the mood in the car is considerably lighter compared to the choking atmosphere of pressure permeating each and every one of them the past few days.
It’s a breath of fresh air.
The three of them blast music down the highway, singing and mumbling to lyrics they may or may not know, basking in the present as Bradley bangs gears flying down the freeway.
Those fifteen minutes in the truck had centered him, giving him an odd sense of peace and calm before the inevitable storm.
Pulling up to the Hard Deck, Bob feels refreshed; more relaxed than he’s ever been in the past few weeks. Judging by the ever present smiles plastered on his two companions’ faces, he can confidently say that they are too.
Rooster swings open the door of the bar, letting the previously muffled music and chatter hit them with full force. Looking around as they saunter in, Bob clocks that the rest of the detachment had already made it and was occupying the pool tables, drinks already out and flowing. He sees Hangman already smacking Payback at 9 ball, making him chuckle at the stricken look on Fitch’s face every time his opponent shot true.
The night was well on its way to be a memorable one, that much he was sure.
Rooster and Phoenix slide away, opting to greet Penny and get themselves some drinks before they head over to the rest of the group. Bob doesn’t follow, deciding to sit beside Fanboy and Halo, who are animatedly talking about some obscure video game. He sits down and greets them with a smile, letting the interweaving chaos unfolding before him wash over his mind.
Despite the weight of the mission heavily resting on his shoulders, he finally feels wholly calm, even with the constant hustle and bustle occurring around him.
Fanboy suddenly turns to him, desperation palpable in his eyes as he practically whines to Bob about how apparently thick headed Halo is when it comes to old video games.
“Bob, dude, tell the heathen to shut up before my ears bleed.”
Bob snorts, looking between the pleading eyes of Fanboy who’s looking directly into his soul, and the daggered orbs Halo is currently sharpening with every second that passes.
These two idiots. Never has he gotten this close to those in his squadron; the constant moving after every deployment made him only formally meet people. He only knew them by their call signs, assignments and roles. But within the past two weeks, he’s gotten to know and beautifully paint out the people and stories behind each and every designation the Navy has gifted them. It was scary in a sick sort of way; the fear of losing these people around him only grew with each little stroke of the brush he added to their portraits in his mind.
For once, he’s not just there. He’s not just Bob the weapons systems officer. He’s known to the others as Robert “Bob” Floyd, the backseater with the eyes and mind of a hawk, always vigilant of those around him, physically, mentally and emotionally. For the first time in a long time, he truly feels like he belongs.
He glances at the two aviators competitively advocating for their own opinion and huffs. Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, Bob says dryly, “I haven’t had enough to drink for this.”
Fanboy and Halo groan, momentarily calling a truce as they call Bob a ‘killjoy’ and a ‘dummy’. He laughs, openly and heartily, fully believing that they don’t believe a single word that they’re saying at the moment.
The three of them settle down, opting for a more relaxed, less passionate topic to converse on, drinks in hand and basking in the company.
The bar is packed, more so than the night they had all arrived even. The windows have already been thrown open, letting the brisk ocean air flood through, allowing the hot air accumulating inside the building to escape. It’s not usually this busy at the Hard Deck, even on a Friday evening; virtually every chair is being occupied in one way or the other, leaving those unlucky enough to rest their legs with a seat, to resort to either standing or leaning against a wall or a table. Oddly enough, even with the environment being an introvert’s worst nightmare, Bob feels at home when he’s surrounded by his fellow aviators in this detachment. It’s a testament to how welcoming most of these pilots have been to him in the past couple of weeks.
Bob smiles.
Over the incessant drone of chatter, the jukebox stops. Automatically, he knows what’s going on. Come to think of it, Phoenix and Rooster hadn’t returned to the pool tables like they had said they would, apparently opting out to go and have a little performance with the piano Bradley was currently tinkling on. Bob rolls his eyes, following Fanboy, Halo, and the others as they slide over to the piano to see what the two have in store.
To his utter surprise, Bob doesn’t find Phoenix standing up beside the piano, raptly singing the lyrics to the tune Bradshaw was playing, but instead, finds her sitting right next to Bradley on the bench, playing a few keys in sync with the man beside her. It looks difficult if anything; the way they sync and play every off note the other purposefully abstains from playing is like a dance. Whenever Natasha plays, Bradley is soon to follow. When he continues and segues into another little section, she backs it up with notes accentuating Bradley’s lower keys.
It’s almost goddamn poetic.
The bar is already centering itself on the two performers, raptly listening to the magical tune they had slowly delved into. At first, like a warm up, the two of them began to play some fourth grader piece Bob recognized his old piano teacher used to teach him when he was younger. “Bouncin’ Boogie” fills the walls of the bar, making some of the detachment look at each other in confusion.
This was definitely new for everyone crowded around the piano and its smiling duo.
Phoenix suddenly hops off, letting Bradshaw transition out to another song as she clambers over to where Bob is standing in the crowd. Much to his protest, she hooks an arm around his shoulders (around the neck goes unsaid) and drags him over to where Rooster has already begun to play some old ass eighties song that Bob only faintly recognized.
Only a few people seem to catch the song Rooster and Phoenix had decided to play, initially only getting a handful singing along with them. However, by each lyric belted out from each of their mouths, more and more people begin to join, including those in their detachment. As more and more join the crescendo after each verse, the Hard Deck soon becomes one large drunken choir, capped off with Payback and Fanboy avidly screaming out the lyrics like they were live on stage.
Air Supply fills the building, laughter filling the atmosphere as the old love song is being practically yelled. As soon as they hit the chorus, the roof basically comes off. Bob himself is basically yelling too, now vaguely remembering where he had heard the tune back in his first deployment to Japan. “Even the nights are better!” could be heard all the way down to San Diego, almost making the lights of the bar glow brighter by the sheer force of their cheer.
He can’t tell if the salt dripping down his face is from tears of laughter or joy, but in all honesty, Bob could care less. So much stress is being released at this very moment that he couldn't give a single shit about who was watching. Not even Hangman, since he himself was singing along with just as much passion as the rest of them.
God , these guys were great.
As Phoenix and Rooster finish the song, the crowd cheers. Smiles are shot, drinks are passed, and whoops of laughter fill the air, already filling the energetic environment with more vigour.
The crowd disperses, leaving the detachment to slowly reel back on over to the pool tables as someone in the crowd hooks up and starts the jukebox once again. Music fills the air once more, letting the energetic atmosphere continue on in the background.
“I haven’t heard that one since Pensacola, Rooster.” Coyote notes with a smile, simultaneously chucking bottles of water at him and Phoenix as they sit down on the stools near the table. “Should’ve seen Jake’s face when you started it. Dude was giddy as hell.”
Hangman protests, much to everyone’s amusement.
“Had to run it back eventually.” Rooster chuckles, sipping on his bottle of water as he winks at Phoenix who simply rolls her eyes.
“Anymore surprises from you two?” Payback huffs, eyebrows cocked with a smirk. “In all my years knowing the both of you, I haven’t seen either of you pull that duet shit on the piano.”
“Nothing we haven’t seen before from them.” Halo smugly chimes in, nodding in their direction.
Phoenix quickly responds with a conspicuous smirk.
“We’ve had some time to practice.”
Everyone scoffs, shaking each of their heads as The Ivy Leagues decide to peel off and set up another game of pool.
Bob turns to Bradshaw and his front seater, slightly assessing each of them as they keep on bantering with Halo and Payback. Natasha is shooting every single suggestion about her and Rooster down with ease; she’s stoic and stubborn, not giving them any inch or modicum of opportunity. He catches Bradley glancing at her in awe, something heavy in his orbs as he watches the woman beside him coolly deflect every insinuation.
Bob rolls his eyes. The two of them were so infuriatingly obvious sometimes that a blind man could see it.
He decides not to comment, instead catching Hangman’s eye behind the couple’s heads, noting his shared exasperation over the two.
Huh. He never thought he’d be in the same boat as Bagman , but oddly enough, he finds that he’s okay with it. Knowing Seresin, the guy probably has had a whole game plan set up already from the jump.
Bob cocks his eyebrows in questioning, wondering if they’re thinking the same thing. His only response is a slight tick in the jaw in acknowledgement, as Hangman turns back to Coyote who is currently laughing his ass off over something with Fanboy.
Maybe with his help they could prod the two idiots to get off of their perches and move…
He snorts, swinging around to the commotion by the pool tables as Fritz instigates a petty argument between Harvard and Yale about who’s alma mater is better. All of them were idiots, and he unconsciously notes that he’s slowly turned into one himself, deviously getting up to join in and instigate as well. Talk about camaraderie , he hasn’t even known these people for more than two weeks and he’s already innocently joining in their pissing contests.
It’s a welcome change.
Not long after he and Fritz had successfully egged Yale and Harvard into a drinking contest, subsequently chasing the two to pass out cold on a few chairs in the corner, Bob clocks Rooster and Phoenix quietly slip on outside and onto the beach front. There’s wooden Adirondack chairs laying on the sand, unoccupied due to the chilly breeze outside. Looking on, he notices Bradley taking off, leaving Phoenix to find a seat on one of the chairs as she stares out into the night with her arms folded around her body.
She looks cold, and Bob almost shoots up out of his stool before he remembers the sweater laying in the back of Rooster’s Bronco.
Huh.
He sees Bradshaw run back around, jogging through the alleyway in between the Hard Deck and its neighbouring building with the aforementioned sweater in hand as well a wool blanket. Natasha clocks the man sauntering up to her with a soft smile, opening her arms up to catch the sweater Rooster tosses at her. She puts it on, swimming in sleeves that seem to be two sizes two big, as Bradley sits down, wrapping the blanket he had brought around their shoulders.
It’s cute, if anything.
To the untrained eye, the way the two of them inhabited each other's gravity seemed so normal. Maybe even to themselves it seemed normal, but the way they each knew what the other was thinking, the way they were so intertwined was anything but normal.
Ambiguous or romantic, the two of them were definitely more than just platonic somehow; even if the two of them ceased to admit it, even to themselves it seemed like.
Bob could see it with his own eyes, hell , even Bagman did. He wasn’t usually one to meddle, but he just knew that some kind of poking and prodding would pay dividends.
Bradley pulls out his phone, jumbling with a pair of wired earbuds as he connects it to his device and passes one to Natasha. They both share an infectious smile as they each plug one into their ears, listening to whatever music plays through Rooster’s phone.
Knowing the guy, he’d probably be playing some old classic from the eighties; one of the songs Bob doesn’t ever hear him stop humming when they’re in the locker room or strolling around on base.
Bob likes to think Rooster’s callsign doesn’t just come from his zen morning attitude, but from the way he’s always in tune with some kind of music. Even the way the man flies is like a piece of classical music; filled with fortissimos and pianos as he inverts and spins and dives. He flies at his own pace, never ceasing from the tempo he finds that fits, regardless of how slow or fast it is.
It’s another stroke of paint that he adds to the portrait that is his newfound friend.
He turns away, a serene smile on his face and is surprisingly met with the content faces of his fellow aviators, as almost all of them are caught gazing on at the quiet scene outside. For once, Phoenix and Rooster aren’t the subject of scrutiny or the butt of a joke. This time they’re the catalyst to an almost peaceful atmosphere in the detachments’ corner, letting true calm wash every single one of them as they slowly return back to what they were doing before.
Bob catches Payback’s eye and raises his eyebrows in query as if asking, ‘does this happen often?’ As the other man contentedly nods, a slight smirk adorning the older man’s face as he glances outside one last time. He turns away, gesturing for Bob to follow him to get some more drinks for the group from Penny.
It’s the calm before the storm, the inhale before the exhale, and the quiet before the roar. To Bob, this moment in time could simply be the last they’d all be together; here in a bar living the night away on home soil for what could potentially be the last time. They’ve all come to terms with their own mortality, that much is known, it’s the worry of what each of them would leave behind if they go is what their real concern is.
But despite all that, even with the reaper knocking at each of their doors, he knows that at this moment in time, as he follows Payback over to Penny, that none of them would have it any other way.
He pushes up his glasses and runs his hand through his hair. Bob silently takes it all in with a content smile.