Chapter Text
it's him who bob sees first, when he looks up from dusting peanut shells off his lap in the hard deck.
him, whose eyes linger just a bit longer than should be at bob’s lap and hands before they trail up to his face.
his eyes widen the slightest bit, cheeks speckling with pink when he realizes that blue eyes caught him staring – but a reassuring smile from bob has him smiling back sheepishly.
it's only after a few moments of silence that bob realizes all other eyes are on him, and that someone had asked a question.
he blinks once, twice,
“huh?”
“i asked: when did you get in?”
“oh, i– i’ve been here the whole time.”
“man’s a stealth pilot.”
he watches on as everyone else looks at the blonde, but not him, no.
he has his eyes stuck on bob – still.
head tilted to the side and with a soft quirk of his lips.
and bob can't help but widen his smile.
“literally.”
his gaze snaps back to the guy (coyote? if he remembers correctly) who asked the question earlier, shakes his head,
“uh… weapons system officer, actually.”
hangman (? someone had said bagman a while ago) blinks at him, before handing off the cue stick in his hands to the girl lieutenant (phoenix, he heard them say).
“with no sense of humor.”
his departure is met with an eye roll.
“what do they call you?”
“bob.”
“no, your call sign.”
he's still staring at bob, gaze never wavering, and it makes bob… embarrassed… to have to admit that he was never given a call sign by his previous squadron.
never quite important, never noticed enough or seen.
but, he figures, he can't – won't – lie to his new squadron.
especially not to this gorgeous puppy-eyed, sunshine-vibe boy.
so–
“uh… bob.”
and somehow, his reaction is the exact opposite of what bob expected.
their reaction, honestly.
he expected mocking laughter and sarcastic smiles, side eyes.
but phoenix acts unphased, the guy who asked for his call sign slipping away with a soft smile and a teasing pat on his waist.
(if you had asked reuben why he acted the way he did and did what he did, it's because he knows.
fanboy is transparent.
and he knows his backseater is crushing hard on this guy they just met.
so sue him, but he's just helping and being a wingman for his wizzo.)
while he just smiles wider, mouths bob’s name like he's testing how it feels like to call bob – and his cheeks flush with more color.
christ, he's so down bad for this guy, and he doesn't even know his name yet.
(he won't take just his call sign, not just fanboy, not when they're acting like this mere minutes after first meeting each other.)
“bob floyd. you're my new backseater? from lemoore?”
“looks like it.”
phoenix just looks at bob, like she's sizing him up, before she hands him the cue.
“nine-ball, bob. rack ‘em.”
he nods, reaches for the stick and sets aside his pack of peanuts before making his way to the billiards table.
he feels a warm presence bump into his arm as he walks, and glancing to his side has him biting back a smile.
he's shorter, bob realizes now that they're next to each other, skin a tan contrast to how pale his own is.
bob looks for a cue tip shaper and messes with the stick while revelling in the comfortable silence they have between them,
“so… i don't get to know the name of the guy who's been staring at me for the past few minutes?”
he chuckles, and bob decides then and there that he could listen to that sound all day.
“don't pretend like you could keep your eyes away from me either.”
bob raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side as if to say guilty, before turning to face him.
“i told them earlier, the name’s fanboy.”
“i'm uh… not taking a call sign for an answer.”
fanboy looks at him questioningly, leans his hip on the billiards table.
“yeah? and why's that?”
bob steps closer to him, just enough so fanboy has to tilt his head up the slightest bit to keep meeting the gaze of dark blue orbs,
“the way you're looking at me, and the way i'm looking at you? a call sign isn't enough for something like that.”
doe, brown eyes trail down to bob’s lips, the same time ocean eyes do the same.
“mickey. mickey garcia.”
“mhmm. robert floyd.”
mickey presses his lips into a line, and it looks like he's starting to lift himself onto his tip toes.
bob’s gaze stays stuck on his lips, and tilts his head to the side – leaning down the slightest bit.
“easy, fanboy. it's been like, five minutes, since you guys met and you're already game to suck face? didn't know you had it in you, mickey.”
mickey breathes in sharply, heels back flat on the ground as his chin drops to his chest.
bob blinks once, twice, before he starts chuckling – fanboy following shortly.
“fuck you, payback.”
“hey, i'm just looking out for you, man. don't get mad at me.”
suddenly, the cue stick is snatched from his hands, and he looks up flustered to see his frontseater looking at him with amusement on her face – hangman making his way around him and fanboy.
“damn, stealth pilot, i didn't take you for someone who's got much of a charisma to do something like that.”
“leave him alone, bagman.”
“still hangman to you, phoenix. but look at that! bradshaw. as i live and breathe.”
bob steps back and watches ahead, hand unconsciously, lightly touching mickey’s waist to guide him backwards.
“don't think too much of it, bobby. i think he's just like that by default.”
mickey whispers to him, glances reassuringly from the corner of his eye, and doesn't even comment about bob’s hand still on his waist.
bob though, focuses on the way bobby sounds in mickey’s sweet, honey voice. thinks of how comfortable they are so quickly, but that he likes it.
coyote, from beside them, hums affirmatively, then offers the spare bottle of beer he's got in his hand to bob – a peace offering for hangman’s behavior.
he takes it by the bottle neck and thanks coyote lowly, tilts the beer in mickey’s direction as he looks down at the shorter boy.
fanboy looks up at him, eyebrows raised up, so bob brings the bottle closer to mickey’s free hand – gestures for him to take it with a nudge of his chin.
mickey does, with a sweet smile sent to his direction, then takes a swig from the bottle.
they tune it just in time for hangman to continue his unexplained issue with the newcomer – bradshaw.
“no, mission's a mission. they don't confront me. what i want to know: who's gonna be team leader? and which one of y'all has what it takes to follow me?”
rooster looks down, then back up – challenging.
“hangman, the only place you'll lead anyone is an early grave.”
he hears mickey laugh from beside him, and bob turns his head just in time to see him take a sip – trying to hide his smile.
bob’s lips start quirking up, even with the tension in the room.
hangman pauses in readying to strike with the cue stick, straightens up and makes his way around phoenix and payback – so he's closer to bradshaw.
“well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel. but that's just you, ain't it, rooster?”
he moves closer to bradshaw with that shit-eating grin on his face.
“you’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment – that never comes.”
he smiles wider.
“i love this song!”
then walks away.
bob tries to follow hangman with his gaze, but when he sees mickey turn his head to look up at him from his peripherals, he shifts just enough to look down at fanboy.
he squeezes mickey’s waist with his hand that's still wrapped around him – breathes out a laugh when mickey jolts, elbows him playfully before walking closer to phoenix and trying to look closer at the sight of more people in uniform walking through the door.
“check it out. more patches.”
payback does just that, the same time that bob does to stay near mickey – hovering closely beside him.
“that’s harvard, yale, omaha. shit, that's fritz.”
mickey shakes his head minutely, eyebrows furrowed in worry.
“what the hell kind of mission is this?”
phoenix stays looking for a moment, before she turns to face them.
“that's not the question we should be asking. everyone here is the best there is – who the hell are they gonna get to teach us?”
he sees fanboy take a deep breath, hold it for a few beats, then exhale.
he's nervous, bob thinks, too in his head.
and maybe it's knowing that mickey, in his natural state, is sunshine incarnate – so he steps closer until he knows the warmth of his chest is felt by mickey, talks lowly in his ear,
“what do you say we take a walk along the beach, huh?”
mickey laughs, turns to look at him and encircles his wrist with his smaller hand.
“later, yeah?”
he leads them around the table to a seat near the window, while bob sits down and has to lean to the side when mickey surges forward to peer outside.
“still a bit too sunny.”
fanboy settles his weight back on his feet, but doesn't get too far with how bob has his hand making its way to mickey’s hip – index finger hooked onto one of his belt loops.
(near them, beside them, payback lifts his beer up to his lips, eyebrow raising when he sees the casual touch between the WSOs.
good for these two, honestly.
seems like he didn't need to do much wingman-ing at all.)
bob nudges his chin to the wall clock on a wooden post nearby,
“it's past four already though – nearing five, now.”
mickey gestures to the sky outside.
“yeah, but it's still sunny.”
“maybe i think you'll look great with the glow from the coming sunset.”
mickey tucks his chin to his chest, tries to bite back a smile.
and the glow even right now looks really good on him, bob thinks – what with how it's illuminating his skin and making the pinkish red tint to his cheeks more prominent to the eye,
“let's get out of here, c’mon.”
payback sputters beside them loudly, just in time for phoenix to call their attention with a soft hey guys, before making her way to the piano where rooster is sitting – mickey dragging him up and out of the chair by lacing his fingers with the ones that bob’s got by mickey’s hip.
he's barely out of his seat when a hand thumps strongly, smack-dab in the middle of his back.
bob ends up coughing a bit from the force, turning back to see payback grinning at him knowingly.
“didn't know you got some moves in you, floyd, but take it a bit slow for his sake, yeah? my sake too, because i don't need to see you guys making out too soon.”
bob pats payback’s shoulder reassuringly, speaks loudly enough so it's just out of hearing range for mickey,
“for him? anything.”
they squeeze their way past where phoenix is standing behind rooster – so they end up together on the side of the grand piano.
then the crowd is loud – screaming something again and again that he just can't find in himself to care about – and he thinks there are two people carrying someone else out of the hard deck,
but when his world focuses on and narrows down to mickey and how he's singing and dancing and having the time of his life to great balls of fire,
well, bob thinks there's no better way to spend the day he felt when his life started.