Chapter Text
One week into his new assignment in Italy with Hangman, and Bob has already learned more about him than he’d ever thought he needed to know. Turns out, Hangman is a rambler. Especially when it comes to rambling about himself.
In Bob’s humble opinion, Hangman has too many words and not enough substance to back them up. Bob’s someone who speaks only when he’s absolutely certain he means what he’s saying. Hangman speaks because his mouth desires the company of something more concrete than the taste of a toothpick.
Speaking of which.
“And then he had the audacity to tell me that I was wrong!” Hangman takes six steps forward and two steps back, to match Bob’s much slower pace. To be fair, Hangman is practically skipping. “Who does he think he is? He thinks he’s all that because his daddy’s an admiral—”
Bob squints somewhere in the general direction of the sun. It’s almost midday, and they’re due back at base at 1330.
“—but let me tell you,” Hangman crows, wagging a finger in the air for emphasis. “I heard the brass talking about how they’re planning on sending him away to Norfolk. Norfolk! Imagine getting Naples and getting booted right back to Norfolk.”
Even Bob winces in sympathy for that. Italian olive oil is something those at Norfolk can only dream of.
“I mean, Naples isn’t as great as Sigonella, sure, or Japan, but Norfolk. That’s rough, man. Hey, Bobster, what’s your favourite assignment?”
“San Diego,” Bob replies, after a slight hesitation.
Hangman nods violently. “San Diego, or Pearl Harbour. Or Japan, of course. Some people like Spain, but I got my finger broken at a bar fight there, so I don’t mind staying away. Hey, there’s the place I was talking about.” Bob follows Hangman’s non-broken finger to a dingy-looking restaurant with a painted sign that reads Peppino’s. “Let’s go.”
Bob trails after Hangman. “Are you sure about this place?”
“It’ll be fine!” Hangman declares, with an impressive amount of enthusiasm. “I’ll just order for you, since the owners don’t speak English.”
“I know a bit of Italian,” Bob says, but his voice sounds doubtful even to his own ears.
Hangman arches an eyebrow. “No, you don’t. That mini Italian to English dictionary I see in your pocket doesn’t count, Bobby boy.” Then he strolls past the doorway and yells something in Italian.
An answering call rings back. Bob concedes that his Italian is, at most, at the level of a three-year-old child.
A granny with her hands on her hips and an apron around her neck steps out of the kitchen and says, “Jake!” before descending into rapid-fire Italian. Bob can only stare, dumbfounded, as Hangman replies in equally rapid-fire Italian before he puts a hand on Bob’s shoulder and steers him to one of the tables.
“I thought you only got here a week before I did?” Bob mumbles to Hangman.
“Yep.” Hangman takes the seat across from Bob and stretches out his legs, bumping them into Bob’s. Bob moves his legs out of the way. “I ordered for you, by the way. You’ll see when it arrives.”
“You already know the owners?”
“The week before you got here was so boring. All everyone wanted to know was, oh, are you the one with two kills, oh, are you the Hangman? But you—” Hangman levels a fork at Bob. “—you don’t ask questions. I like that.”
“I was at the debriefing after it happened,” Bob points out. “I already know.”
“ Anyway, people were being annoying and constantly pushing up in my space, and like, I appreciate that, y’know, but then they started asking me over comms, and then the brass started getting pissed, so I decided to just hide out here for a while. It’s a nice place.” Hangman brushes a hand across the red-and-white checkered tablecloth with a brown sauce stain on it. “Like I said. Nice place.”
Bob thinks back. “I haven’t seen you talking to anyone else.”
“S’cause you’re a smoke screen, Bob, and people don’t see me when I’m with you. Or rather, they’re too intimidated by you,” Hangman says, seriously. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s true, you’re intimidating, you just don’t know it. I’m a jovial creature, and you’re Mr. Serious all day long, doesn’t it get tiring?”
Jovial is not the word Bob would have used to describe Hangman. Intimidating is not the word Bob would have used to describe himself, either.
“No?”
“Shame you don’t see it. I overheard some of them talking yesterday, and they were like, Bob’s so intimidating! It’s the glasses, I think. People don’t like to mess with you.”
Bob’s pretty sure the only reason he hasn’t been bothered all week is because of the pilot named Hangman perching at his shoulder, glaring at anyone who dares to come near, and not at all because he’s intimidating. It’s somewhat of a welcome relief, to be completely honest.
“I don’t think that’s it.”
“It is, really. People stopped bothering me the second you got here. It’s a win-win for us, see? I get to avoid all my admirers, and you get to talk to me. I’m awesome. What more could you want?”
“If you say so.”
“Really. There was a rumour going around before you got here that I was keeping a pet cactus,” Hangman says, so seriously that Bob can’t tell if he’s joking. “People kept trying to sneak into my room to have a look. But of course I don’t, why would I?”
“I don’t know.”
Hangman shakes his head with a ferocity that scares Bob, almost. “People are actually crazy. This reminds me of the last time I was in—” he wrinkles his nose. “Norfolk, and the person I roomed with just refused to stay in his own space, and I spent the entire time hiding my shit away in these tiny boxes. It was terrible, and the locks kept breaking, and I swear he was stealing my stuff. I hate that place.”
Bob doesn’t know what to say to that.
“And I was brand new back then, and he had like four years on me, so obviously everyone listened to him when I complained. My first assignment was fucking Norfolk, what’d I do to deserve that?”
The food arrives before Bob can reply. “How’d you know I like stuffed shells?”
Hangman shrugs, anger forgotten. “Phoenix has a photo of you eating them on her instagram. Pass me the salt, would you?”
Bob passes Hangman the salt.
“Thanks, Bobby. Love ya.” Hangman flashes Bob a smile, all teeth.
Bob blinks down at the stuffed shells on his plate and thinks that maybe hanging out with Hangman isn’t all that bad.