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Bobby Floyd never learned how to throw a punch.
Hell, he’s always been able to get himself out of a bind just fine – the Floyds are a resourceful sort. He remembers Dad used to tell this story about how he visited his sister in Chicago when she was at college and a guy tried to carjack him, and he panicked and started speaking French, and the would-be carjacker was so confused he gave up. Bob doesn’t know the legitimacy of the anecdote – Aunt Margaret says it’s true, even though she wasn’t actually there – but he likes the story, so he chooses to believe it happened. He likes to believe a lot of Dad’s stories, especially since he passed away. Feels like keeping part of him alive.
He’s sure anyone would have been able to guess that he was a scrawny kid just by looking at his school photo anyway, the one Mom still has on the mantle from sixth grade picture day – if the milk-bottle glasses and middle part didn’t give it away, he’s pretty sure the checked shirt buttoned up to the collar clinches it.
“I still can’t believe you let me wear a button-down to picture day,” he remarks, two decades later, when he’s home on leave in Dodge City before heading back to Top Gun. He’s staring at the photograph with a glass of lemonade in his hand. Every other kid was wearing Pokemon shirts and new Jordans.
“Aw, honey, why?” Mom replies from the kitchen. “You were so excited to dress like your father.”
Bob looks over at the photo of Dad, wearing almost exactly the same outfit and goofy expression, next to his atop the fireplace. It was taken in a Sears after he got his doctorate in computer engineering; he missed graduation because he had an ear infection (classic Floyd behaviour) so Mom made him go get a nice photo taken the next month. Bob’s heard the story a hundred times. He still thinks it’s hilarious.
“Yeah, but as a parent, weren’t you supposed to, like, protect me from decisions which would make it easier for the other kids to pick on me?”
It’s not like they ever really needed an excuse. On any given day his classmates found a reason to single him out: too short (then too tall); weird glasses; too smart; wrong sneakers. Even when he was good at things (running track, circumventing the school’s internet firewall, figuring out the codes to hack the vending machines) the other kids retained their pack mentality – any grace period was fleeting. It was never awful, but it was never great. He couldn’t wait to get out of there. The second his early admission to MIT came through Dodge City couldn’t see him for dust.
Mom pokes her head around the doorframe.
“Well, who got the last laugh?” she shrugs, mixing brownie batter with a wooden spoon. “Bobby Floyd’s just been recalled for a special secret navy mission, and…God, what was that kid’s name? The one who always wore t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and didn’t invite you to his pool party for middle school graduation?”
“Flint Wexler.”
“Right. Where’s Flint Wexler!”
It’s a rhetorical question, but his well-maintained Instagram presence means Bob knows the answer: Flint Wexler is divorced with three kids and he’s the assistant warehouse manager at a Piggly Wiggly outside of Wichita. He thinks better of telling Mom this and just shrugs his shoulders.
“I know school was really tough for you, sweetie,” She fixes him with a sympathetic smile. “But you turned out so great. You showed those kids. And I’m so proud of you for never letting them win.”
A blush creeps in at the tip of his ears, and Bob grins into his lemonade. “Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome,” she says. “Now stop gawping at photos of yourself and come help me put these brownies in the oven.”
He considers the instruction for a moment.
“...Can I lick the spoon?”
He’s managed to get to thirty without it mattering that he never got a handle on self-defence. Or self-offence. He’s a WSO, he’s Top Gun, he’s one of a very, very small number of people who can do what he does. Most of the time, it really does not matter to Bob Floyd that he never got around to taking those boxing classes he swore he was going to enrol in after he saw Raging Bull at the cinema with Dad when he was thirteen.
Most of the time.
Bob thought he had the measure of Jake Seresin from the first night they met: Texan rich boy, never known a single day of suffering yet decided to inflict it upon others. Irritatingly good at everything, irritatingly handsome, total pain in the ass despite having no reason to be.
“He has his moments,” Phoenix had said with a shrug, one afternoon in the cafeteria. “But yeah, mostly you just have to ignore his bullshit and remember he literally only cares about himself.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” Bob muttered, pushing meatballs around his plate.
“He is,” Phoenix agreed, reaching over to steal one of his fries. “That’s the problem.”
Miramar feels pretty quiet now most of their number have shipped out on their next assignments. They trickled out one by one, after all the celebrating was done, and even if it was inevitable, it’s not any easier. Bob’s counting his blessings that the group that flew the mission got an extra fortnight to “recuperate” – which in reality has translated to a lot of hiking, beach trips, basketball tournaments and, naturally, propping up the bar at The Hard Deck. Maverick left on a sailing trip with Penny and Amelia last week, and Payback and Fanboy took “recuperation time” to mean “EDM festival time”, so it’s just the four of them this weekend: Rooster, Hangman, Phoenix and Bob.
It’s wild to think that would have been an actual nightmare a few weeks ago; the constant sniping between Rooster and Hangman, Phoenix having to play mediator, Bob only addressed when Hangman had a backhanded compliment or straight-up insult disguised under his perfect smile. But things…changed. Even before they all neatly died. Things changed after Rooster and Hangman nearly got into that fight over Nick Bradshaw, things changed after that game of dogfight football (which, incidentally, remains the only time anyone has celebrated Bob scoring a goal). Hangman started to sit with them at lunch. Hangman’s smile seemed to suddenly reach his eyes in a way it didn’t before. Hangman’s pool smack talk wasn’t quite as biting – if you squinted, it was actually affectionate.
Of course it’s not gone unnoticed that the biggest change came with Hangman’s decision to directly defy Cyclone’s orders to assist Maverick and Rooster, but it’s almost like acknowledging it too much might ruin the magic. Or, like, maybe just give Hangman an ego boost he definitely doesn’t need, because yeah, he’s a better version of himself now, but he’s very much still Jake Seresin. Even so, Bob’s glad they’re a family now. A team. It’s going to hurt saying goodbye when that day comes. He’s trying not to think about it too much.
Since Penny’s away and The Hard Deck’s closed for a week, they decide to try a different bar. They play Rock Paper Scissors to decide on the designated, and Jake bitches because it’s not fair that they always know he goes for scissors. Rooster bitches a little because the second they walk in he realises the new place doesn’t have a piano, which the rest of them find hilarious.
“I’m so sorry Elton John,” Tasha grins around her beer. “I’ll do better next time. We’ll have a baby grand installed ahead of your arrival.”
“I’d prefer a Steinway,” Rooster says as he’s flipping her the bird. It’s weird – Bob still can’t get used to calling him Bradley. Same way he’d never call Maverick Pete. Phoenix became Tasha pretty quickly and even Hangman is Jake more often than not, but Rooster is always Rooster.
They all laugh. It’s a nice place. Not a navy bar, so a lot of tourists, a lot of townies. Bob doesn’t recognise anyone outside their group, which is its own kind of novelty.
“Hey,” Jake taps him on the shoulder, jerking his head over at the vacant pool table. “You wanna rack 'em?”
Bob doesn’t need telling twice. He’s good at pool. It’s really a game of geometry, which he’s attempted to explain several times before, but he’s aware of how people’s faces glaze over, like he’s just started speaking in a dead language. So fine. He’ll keep his pool mastery secrets to himself, thank you very much.
They’re two games in when things start to go south, starting with the guy who hip checks Jake when he’s carrying their next round back from the bar. Bob watches the exchange from the side of the pool table while Tasha’s watching Rooster line up his next shot. He doesn’t know what’s being said, but he knows there’s something he doesn’t like about the way the guy looks at Jake.
“What was that about?” he asks when Jake makes it back to them.
“Nothing,” Jake just shakes his head and grins. “Just some guy with a chip on his shoulder.”
That should be the end of it, but Bob’s acutely aware of the guy and his buddies staring at them from the end of the bar, glaring daggers as Jake’s trying to pocket a particularly tricky ball. Ordinarily, Bob would be more interested in giving Jake advice than watching someone else, but there’s something about the way the guys are looking at them that sets him on edge. Doesn’t matter anyway; not like they’ve noticed him watching them. No one really notices Bob, which is a blessing and a curse depending on which day of the week it is.
“Earth to Bob,” Tasha says, waving her hand in front of his face. “You’re up.” She hands over the cue they’re sharing for doubles and he sighs, sliding off his bar stool to make the next play. It’s a good distraction; he concentrates and manages to send another of the striped balls home.
“We’ve gotta stop letting you two work together,” Rooster leans on his cue and shakes his head. “This is painful.”
Bob grins and looks over to where Jake had been sat, but he’s gone – when he finds him in the crowd, he’s squaring off against the guy from earlier, and it doesn’t look like the conversation is particularly friendly. Without even thinking about it, he hands off the cue to Tasha and wanders over to see what’s happening.
“Gentlemen,” he says, putting a hand on Jake’s shoulder, who turns a little and looks at him. “Is there some sort of problem here?”
The stranger sneers. He’s wearing a faded Dodgers shirt and ugly shorts that go down to his knees. He looks around their age, with a notch cut into his eyebrow and a mean glint in his dark eyes, but there’s something off about him, like the molecules of the universe around him are vibrating at a higher frequency.
“This your boyfriend come to check up on you?” He says to Jake, not even looking at Bob. “How adorable.”
Bob’s about to say something but Jake beats him to it. “So what if he was, bozo? It’s 2022, who the fuck cares about any of that?”
Bob can feel heat climbing in his cheeks from the way Jake is so totally unbothered by the (unfounded) suggestion they’re in a relationship. He removes his hand from Jake’s shoulder but doesn’t move away.
The man scoffs. “I knew it from the second you walked in,” he looks Jake up and down. “Sauntering around like you own the place. This ain’t your bar. Your kind already got half of California, how’s about you leave the rest for real men?”
It would be laughable if Bob didn’t have a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He clenches his jaw.
“Real men?” Bob takes a step closer, which the man seems to ignore. “Care to elaborate on that?“ he asks even though he has a pretty good idea of what’s coming.
“You know what I mean,” Dodgers guy hisses. He gestures a hand towards Jake. “We ain’t the kind of place for faggots.”
It’s like an out-of-body experience, socking the guy in the face. One minute Bob’s standing there and the next his right hand is curling into a fist, he’s lunging forward and he’s punching the guy right in the mouth. The bigot sways on his feet, clearly not expecting the push back, and lifts a hand to his mouth. His fingertips come away red. Other people are shouting, but Bob doesn’t hear what they’re saying. He doesn’t know what’s going on until he becomes aware of a fist in his face and suddenly there’s blood in his eye. A lot of people are shouting, but Bob bolsters himself and swings again and his fist connects with the guy’s nose.
Then, he’s very conscious of someone dragging him backwards - wait, no, two people.
Phoenix and Rooster.
Suddenly they’re in the parking lot, and Tasha is yelling, and Rooster is yelling, and Bob’s standing there bleeding, and Jake…Jake is weirdly quiet. He’s watching Bob with this curious expression on his face.
“I’ll get him home,” Bob hears him say. “You guys go smooth things out with the bartender, make sure we’re not banned for life, go on.”
Bob’s not entirely sure what’s happening – he’s high on adrenaline and a little woozy from the blood – but he lets Jake manhandle him into the passenger seat of his rental Lexus and hand him a wad of tissues to hold up to his eyebrow.
“Please try not to bleed on the seats,” Jake says, as he’s pulling out of the lot. “I really don’t want to pay a cleaning fee.”
“I’ll do my best,” Bob scoffs, but he’s holding the tissues up to his eye pretty dutifully.
Neither of them says anything else for a long moment, until the bar is in the rearview and they’re on the road.
“So, that was…”
Embarrassing? Unnecessary? The kind of stunt that gets guys a citation? Bob cringes, waiting for Jake to admonish him.
“...Maybe the coolest thing you’ve ever done.”
He peers over at Jake from behind his tissue compress, and he’s grinning. Bob grins too, even though it kind of hurts to move his face at all.
“Wasn’t anything,” he shrugs gently. “Tasha or Rooster would’ve done the same. You would’ve done the same.”
“Mm, well, I probably would’ve gone for the soft tissue,” Jake says. “But yeah. I would’ve if you hadn’t busted in there like Rocky Marciano the second that asshole got his mouth around a slur.”
Bob chuckles softly.
“Honestly didn’t think you cared about me like that.”
“What?” Bob frowns. “Of course I do. You’re an asshole Jake, but like…you’re my asshole.” He realises he should course-correct. “Our asshole.”
Jake pulls off the road into a space outside a 7-Eleven. “I’ll be two minutes,” he says, as he’s unclipping his belt. “Think you can hold off on starting any fist fights until I get back?”
Bob sucks in a breath through his teeth like he’s considering it. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Attaboy.” Jake winks at him. Bob tries not to think on that too much, as he watches him disappear inside the convenience store. He lets out a sigh and rests his head against the car window. It was out of character for him. Bob’s always been the sort of guy to avoid a fight at any cost, turn away from danger like a prey animal with half a survival instinct. It’s not like tough guys haven’t tried to pick a fight with him before. Hell, the second any Kansas blockhead finds out he’s a Navy man, they want to try out their right hook and earn themselves the most minute of bragging rights. That’s without even thinking about the internal dick-swinging. Bob’s frequently thought the navy is only one group viewing of Fight Club away from fully embracing Tyler Durden as some sort of folk hero.
He’s shaken out of it by Jake tapping on the window. He’s got a bag of ice and packet of paper towels in his arms and a bag of peanut butter M&Ms lodged between his teeth, which are fixed in a grin.
Bob winds down the window to take ownership of both.
“Hey, these are my favourite,” he says as he looks at the candy.
“I know,” Jake nods. “Wrap some of that ice in a towel. Constricts blood flow.”
“Yeah, I was in the Boy Scouts too y’know,” Bob grouses, even as he does as he’s told. Jake just laughs and goes to get back in the driver’s side.
“Jesus Christ, your hand too?”
Bob looks at the hand he’s holding the makeshift ice pack with. He’d assumed the blood on his knuckles was from the other guy, but he must have caught them on his teeth when he hit him in the mouth. Two of them are split and the others aren’t in much better shape.
“Oops,” Bob murmurs.
“I’ll give you oops, you slugger,” Jake clucks, reaching over to sort out the ice himself. He packs ice cubes into two separate paper towels, then lays Bob’s injured hand flat against his thigh, resting one of the compresses against it. Then he takes Bob’s free hand and gives him the other, so he can hold it against his eye, which has just about stopped bleeding.
“Try not to fall apart anymore before we get home,” Jake says, in the authoritative but pleasant cadence of a nursemaid. It makes Bob smile a little, despite his embarrassment.
“Thank you,” he says.
“And thank you for defending my honour,” Jake smiles back.
Bob pretends, not for the first time, that the blush creeping into his cheeks has nothing to do with the man sitting next to him, and fixes his gaze on the windshield instead.
It takes fifteen minutes to get back to the apartment Hangman’s renting, which is way nicer than Bob’s quarters back on base. They’d all ripped the shit out of him when they found out Hangman thought he was above regulation accommodation, but since then it’s become the de-facto spot for after-hours hangouts, and in this particular instance, when Bob would sooner die on the spot than risk getting caught slinking back into base with a very obvious brawling injury by Warlock or Cyclone, he’s grateful that Hangman’s an exacting sort who won’t deign to sleep on a twin bed for any length of time.
Jake holds the door open for him, even though he’s got his hands full with the leftover ice and paper towels. Bob trots inside with his damp compresses and M&Ms, toeing off his sneakers by the doormat.
“Go through to the kitchen,” Jake says. “You can sit by the sink. I’m gonna go get the first aid kit.”
He nods dumbly, a little bemused by the idea Jake Seresin is the sort of forward planner who thinks to have medical supplies in his rental house but does as he’s told. He dumps the wet stack of ice cubes and slightly bloody towels into the sink, and hops up on to the counter. He opens the M&Ms and eats a couple; his blood sugar has had chance to tank by now, so he’s grateful for Jake’s…foresight, was it? Did he just want M&Ms? Reading too much into that tiny gesture might give him a headache, so he just sighs flatly and shoves another candy into his mouth.
Jake reappears a moment later with an honest-to-God bottle green zip-up supply kit, which he places on the counter next to Bob, and starts rifling through. Bob watches with quiet amazement as he pulls out cotton pads, alcohol wipes, Steri-Strips, gauze. It’s a sort of competence Bob would usually associate with…well, himself, if he's brutally honest. After he’s laid them out, Jake reaches into a cupboard under the sink and pulls out a glass bowl, which he fills with the remainder of the ice and some water from the faucet, before he places it next to Bob’s injured hand and gestures for him to put it in.
Bob winces at the feeling of the cold against his skin; the shock to his system is enough that he barely registers the way Jake nudges his legs apart so he can stand between them and assess the damage. He’s so close Bob can smell his cologne; smoky, sort of fruity, expensive. Like him Bob thinks idly, watching the expression on Jake’s face – his furrowed eyebrows as he looks at the cut on Bob’s temple.
“I think you’re gonna live,” Jake says, as he’s tearing open the alcohol wipe. “But this is probably going to suck. You’ve got to work on your form, Bobby, you could’ve broken your hand.”
“I was literally in a plane crash a month ago,” Bob reminds him with a scoff. “I think I can– ow! Hey!”
Okay, Jake was right, having someone dab at an open wound does suck. When he and Tash had ended up in the hospital after the bird strike incident, they got away with superficial cuts and bruises. Funny he’s banged up more from stepping to some barfly asshole than hitting birds going faster than the speed of sound.
Jake just chuckles, the bastard. “Told you.” But he squeezes Bob’s thigh gently with his free hand, like he’s trying to console him, as he cleans him up.
“I gotta say,” Bob admits after a few seconds pass in companionable silence. “This feels out of character for you.”
“What, having rudimentary first aid skills?” Jake says, as he puts the wipe down and reaches for the Steri-Strips. “We did a whole course on it at the academy. And in flight school. And survival skills.”
“Yeah, I know,” Bob rolls his eyes. “But knowing how to do something and actually choosing to do it are two very different things.”
“What, like knowing how to throw a punch and actually throwing one?”
Jake, the fucker, is grinning.
“Okay, you know what, next time some guy’s being an asshole to you I’m going to let them. In fact, I’m actively going to encourage them.” Bob tries to make it sound like a threat, but Jake laughs, and then Bob laughs because Jake’s laughing.
“Hold still, Bobby, let me finish this up. Let me take care of you.” Jake’s hand moves from his thigh to his chin, tilting it up slightly so he can get a better look at the cut he’s trying to fix up. It’s uncomfortable, but he only squirms a little, and then Jake pats him lightly on the cheek.
“All done. Good boy.”
That specific turn of phrase does something to Bob’s insides, which are already threatening to liquefy under Jake’s nursemaid routine, but he manages to just give a stoic grin.
“Okay, we gotta see to that hand,” he says, and gently lifts it out of the cold water, tinged slightly pink by now. Bob wiggles his fingers and scrunches his nose when it hurts.
“You know how we always said you were a pain in the ass?” he says to Jake. “Now you’re a pain in my hand too. Funny, that.”
“You’re so sweet, defending my honour only to come back to my house and insult me,” Jake coos, as he’s pouring TCP on cotton wool. He pulls Bob’s hand onto his thigh, propping his warmer one beneath it to stop Bob from pulling away when he at the cuts with the cotton ball.
“You bring out the best in me,” Bob sighs, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sting.
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Jake chuckles.
He watches how gently Jake dabs at the wounds, which feels like a contrast from how he lives the rest of his life. No one would ever accuse Seresin of being gentle in the cockpit of an F-18, or in the classroom, or even when he’s playing darts. The more time Bob spends around him, the more he thinks Jake’s got a lot of secrets and finds it easier to try and convince everyone he doesn’t than risk letting anyone in.
“I’m serious, Jake,” Bob says softly. “How’d you get so good at this?” Jake looks at him. “Taking care of people.”
There’s a long pause, and Bob thinks he’s not going to get an answer before Jake seems to relent. He sighs a little and resumes dabbing gently at Bob’s hand before he discards the cotton and picks up the dressing pad.
“I’ve got three little sisters,” he says. “And six nieces – soon to be seven. And we grew up on a ranch, we all rode horses, dirtbikes…so I spent a lot of time as a teenager patching up scraped knees, elbows, referring fights. Spend a fair amount of time doing the same thing now whenever I’m back in Texas.” There’s a flash of something fond across his face, and Bob smiles softly, charmed by it.
“Plus…it’s never a bad thing, is it?” he glances at Bob, as he’s wrapping gauze around his hand, over the dressing pad he’s just secured into place. “Knowing how to patch people up.”
Bob hums in agreement.
“More importantly…why’d you punch that guy, Bobby?” Jake tilts his head a little and fixes him with a curious look. “You know I didn’t care what bullshit he was spouting.”
Bob looks down at his freshly-bandaged hand. He chews his bottom lip, acutely aware that Jake is still standing between his legs, radiating warmth in a way that feels strange and familiar all at once.
“I don’t like bullies,” he admits softly. “‘Specially not bigoted ones. And I really don’t like bullies who do my job for me.”
Jake grins.
“You mean insulting me?”
“Well, I wouldn’t ever use the word he used,” Bob pulls a face. “But yeah. Only people who get to fuck with Dagger Team are Dagger Team. And Hondo, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Jake nods, still smiling.
“I don’t, see it as an insult, y’know,” Jake says quietly. “What he said. I know that’s how he meant it, but…” He shrugs his shoulders gently and there's something expectant about the way he's looking at him.
Bob thinks about how quick Jake had been when the guy asked if Bob was his boyfriend, and how his first thought had been that Jake responded like that because it was such a ridiculous statement. Then he thinks about the flash of something he couldn’t quite place on Jake’s face in the parking lot, and him sending Tash and Rooster back inside. And the M&Ms.
And standing between his legs in the kitchen, gently cleaning him up.
“Oh,” he says softly, looking at Jake.
“Oh,” Jake repeats.
It’s not like he hasn’t thought about this moment, but Bob never thought about it happening like this. Never in his wildest dreams did he think it might involve a bar fight, and the astringent smell of TCP, and the taste of peanut butter M&Ms, as Jake kisses him, right there, on his kitchen counter. Bob wraps his legs around the back of his thighs and his good hand goes to Jake’s jaw, thumb tracing the sharp line of it. There’s a hand in his hair and one on his thigh and it feels so good he forgets to breathe until they pull apart. Smiling.
“I meant what I said, y’know,” Jake murmurs, as he presses a gentle kiss to Bob’s temple. “It was very cool when you hit that guy in the face because he called me gay.”
“Do you think we should send him flowers?” Bob ponders, his hand slipping to Jake’s waist, holding him close.
Jake seems to consider it for a moment, as he’s pushing Bob’s hair out of his face.
“I think we should maybe pay for your boxing lessons first.”
Bob kicks him best he can with his foot hooked around the back of his thigh.
“Very funny.”
Jake flashes his teeth when he grins.
“I try.”
“Can you try getting me to the bathroom so I can wash the blood out of my hair?”
“Mm,” Jake considers it, as he plants his hands against Bob’s thighs, resting their foreheads together. He kisses him again, and Bob melts beneath his touch. That much he’d nailed in the fantasies.
“You know, I can probably help you with that too,” he murmurs against Bob’s mouth. “Wouldn’t want you getting your bandages wet.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Bob comments, warmth radiating through his body.
“I said I’d take care of you,” Jake reminds him gently.
“Yeah,” Bob pulls back a little and looks at him. Looks into those sea glass green eyes, and knows, in every single possible version of the future, he’ll punch anyone who tries to fuck with Jake Seresin. And now, blissfully, he knows Jake will be there to berate him on technique and clean his wounds.
“You did.”