Chapter Text
Bob and Phoenix were released after overnight observation, and for a while, he thought he was going to be fine. He’s had to bail out of planes before, been injured in a few of those. He got off this time without more than a few scratches. The problem with this time was it was the first major problem while he was flying wingman.
He’s been flying wingman on and off for years. As a WSO he can pilot, and he’s damned good. He’s simply the best when it comes to weapon systems and navigation, so he always gets selected as a WSO over being a pilot, and in general that works perfectly for him. He enjoys the organization of it, how he gets to play wingman and not worry about his own plane. He gets to be focused on radar and comms and weaponry. The biggest issue with it was his lack of control. He was completely dependant on Phoenix while they were up together, and while he couldn’t fault a single thing she did the whole way through, it didn’t change the blind fear he felt when she was jerking the steering around and it suddenly went slack, no control whatsoever before they finally had to eject.
At night, once he was released from Medical and got to finish training for that day in their new F-18, he couldn’t sleep. In Medical he couldn’t sleep, either, but then he was able to excuse it with the nurses coming in every thirty minutes to check his vitals and signs for a possible head injury. Now, it was him, alone, in his quiet base apartment, no one popping in to bother him, and he couldn’t sleep.
His throat was so tight he felt like he was going to throw up.
After ten minutes of determined deep breaths and his fist clenched so tight around his thumb it hurt, he finally gave up. He bolted out of bed and threw up in the toilet. He dry heaved for two solid minutes before he got control of himself and stumbled to the sink. He washed his mouth out before brushing his teeth, pointedly avoiding his own gaze in the mirror.
He wandered into his living room/kitchen combination. He hadn’t done anything to personalize the space. The posting was so sudden, and the amount of training they’ve been doing made it difficult to do anything to decorate or even unpack. It just made the place feel foreign and disconcerting, a stranger’s apartment. He grabbed a jacket and his keys, shoving his feet into some shitty Nike slides that he’s had since high school, and strode out of his apartment and to the elevator.
Bob held himself still as it slowly traveled down, his heartbeat loud, and made a promise to himself to take the stairs up and down after this. His keys dug into his palm and he let the pain ground him. The elevator dinged and he rushed out of the washed-out blueish light of the metal box he had just been standing in and jogged outside.
It was Southern California at night so it was still humid and warm, but the air movement felt good against his clammy skin and the warmth kept him from realizing he was in his sleep shorts and a threadbare t-shirt. He decided right was as good a direction as any and started walking down the street.
The apartment was on base, so there was little going on at night. A few MPs wandered around. He smiled and nodded at them woodenly. They paid him little mind. People really don’t take notice of him. He liked that. Growing up, he was able to skate by with minimal harassment at the various group homes he lived at, and in the Air Force people underestimated him so much they almost didn’t notice when he graduated at top of his class.
The noise of his shoes against his feet and the ground, and the ever-present noise of the nearby ocean kept him company. He realized he was walking toward the shore. It would take a little while to actually get there, but he was close enough to see the shine of the moon against the water and that was nice.
This late, a few places were still open. Top Gun attracted a lot of ‘live fast’ kind of people, and so a few restaurants, bars, and stores stayed open all night. He found the nearest convenience store, went directly to the front counter, bought two packs of Marlboro Reds and a set of four lighters, and left again.
He found a bench, away from the patrols of the MPs, and lit a cigarette, leaving it on the stone bench and sighing as the smell made him finally feel settled. It was familiar, unlike so many things in his life, this was something he could always recognize.
The lighters had designs on them, none of them matching. The one in his hand had a sprinkle pattern on it, like a donut. It was odd. He flicked the lighter, watching it spark and catch, before letting off the little trigger and extinguishing it. He passed the time just doing that, the little click of the wheel soothing. The cigarette burned down and he nudged it onto the ground, stomped it out, and lit another one.
At first, Bob wasn’t even aware that someone was talking. He was so zoned out the new noise didn’t even register for a while until it got close enough he startled.
“Bob! Oh, shit. Calm down man, it’s me,” Hangman said, suddenly in front of Bob on the street.
Bob blinked, chest tight again. “Oh…it’s you.” He settled back on the bench, trying to seem nonchalant.
Hangman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. I saw you over here and- do you smoke?”
“No,” Bob replied, rolling the cigarette off on the ground and stubbing it out. He lit the next one and set it on the bench.
Hangman stared. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m sitting down, what does it look like?” Bob asked, confused.
Hangman closed his eyes for a second. “I mean what are you doing with the cigarettes?”
“Oh,” Bob said. He was still flicking the lighter. “I like the smell.”
It was quiet, Hangman waiting for something else. When nothing came he spoke again: “Uh. Anyways. What are you doing out here, man? It's like 0300. We have training at like 0700 when the sun’s up. Aren’t you tired?”
“No.” Bob finally looked at him. Hangman was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. “What about you? You’re up, too.”
Hangman snorted. “Guilty. I was at someone’s place. They snored like a woodchipper so I left.” Bob hummed. Hangman looked him over. He was wearing a hoodie and some shorts. He almost looked like he was doing a walk of shame, too, if not for the thousand-yard stare and weird as fuck cigarette routine. “You alright?”
Bob focused on Hangman again and shrugged. “I guess.”
Hangman nodded. “You and Nix got released from Medical. All good?”
Bob nodded once. “Fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”
Hangman looked down and his eyes caught on something he wasn’t expecting. He squinted. “Dude…do you have something on your leg?”
Bob frowned and looked. “My tattoo.”
Hangman snorted. “You have ink?”
Bob startled when Hangman crouched in front of him and peered at it. About half of the tattoo was visible with how his shorts rode up when he sat. “Locations, for my assignments over the years. Nothin’ special,” Bob explained. His head was beginning to hurt, and he felt weird and numb. He didn’t want to sleep but he did sort of want to lay down on the bench. Hangman would probably make some comment, so he decided against it.
Hangman hummed. “Pretty sweet.” He was still crouched in front of Bob. He looked at the cigarette that was halfway burnt down. “You know those things will kill you.”
Bob, strangely, felt himself snort at that. When Hangman raised a brow, Bob said: “So can flying fighter jets. You seem to be a fan of that.”
Hangman blinked at Bob a second before snorting, too, his face splitting into a grin. “Yeah, you got a point there.” He chuckled a moment. His head tilted as he pat Bob on the knee. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you to bed.”
Bob’s face turned down into a frown but he let himself be helped up, the remaining cigarettes and lighters stowed in his jacket pocket, and Hangman leading him back toward the apartment building with a hand on his upper back. “Why are you leading me back to my apartment? I know where it is,” Bob pointed out as they neared the doors of the building.
Hangman scoffed a laugh. “Could’a fooled me, the way you were sitting on that bench.”
Bob frowned deeper. “I was there by choice.”
Hangman shook his head, looking amused and Bob could not figure out why. “Go to bed, man. See you in a few hours.”
Bob trudged back upstairs, avoiding the elevator. His head was still hurting, his thoughts fogged up and murky. He tried to think about the possible ramifications this time with Hangman might create. What teasing or jibes he might have to endure, but the thoughts slipped from his mind like sand.