Work Text:
There is something about surviving a suicide mission that makes you wonder what the hell you’re doing in life. It only hits Bob much later, after the party and the escorting his drunk squad home. It hits him as he lies curled up on his bed, alone. He has a sneaking suspicion that quite a few of his fellow aviators that he didn’t escort home, were secort to bed by someone. Halo had definitely gone home with Payback and if Phoenix and Rooster hadn’t walked off then Bob needed to upgrade his glasses prescription.
But it doesn’t detract from the thoughts that crush his lungs until he’s rolled up in a fetal position. They were sent like lambs to slaughter. He’d talked with his commanding officer before he left. Word was that this was a mission someone was never going to come back from. And it almost happened, Maverick and Rooster were so close…
Now all he can think about is the fact that he’s a part of an industry that makes those sacrifices. And he knows this, Bob has always known this. But now it’s different. Maverick had to break the rules and steal a jet to show them that it was possible or they’d have never made it to the target on time. And if they hadn’t…then they really would have walked away with one less aviator, maybe more.
The thought holds Bob frozen against his bedsheets, still done from this morning. He can’t move, not even when there’s a knock on his door.
“Bobby,” Hangman’s voice is surprisingly whiney. He’s still drunk. But more to the point, he somehow made it to Bob’s housing. “BOB!”
He wants to answer, he wants to get up but he can’t. He’s stuck.
“It’s open,” he croaks. Exhaustion had put him straight on his bed, he hadn’t even undressed yet. The door handle clicks and Hangman steps inside.
“Wassup?” He stumbles over to Bob’s bed and sits down, flopping on his back at Bob’s feet.
“Why aren’t you in your own room?” He feels a hand smack clumsily against his shin.
“You looked sad,” Hangman mumbles sleepily. “At the Hard Deck.”
“Not sad,” Bob assures. “Just confused.”
“About your ses-uality?” Hangman slurs.
That is enough to get Bob to sit up against what feels like concrete in his bones. “ No, no that is not what I’m confused about Jake.”
Hangman throws his hands in the air drunkenly. “What else would you be confused about?”
He sighs and smacks Hangman lightly. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. “I’m confused about…about whether to take the transfer like Cyclone said, I’m confused about whether I should stay enlisted. Or…I don’t know. Everything.”
Hangman looks at Bob with the degree of cognitive function only someone who’s been drinking double jack and cokes all night. “So you’re not gay?”
“No,” Bob insists. Not as far as you’re concerned .
“So why do you wanna leave?”
Bob shrugs. “I don’t. The Navy is where I feel like I belong, or felt like I belonged. But now…”
With surprising sobriety, Hangman puts a hand on Bob’s knee. “Give it a few weeks. You’re coming down from all that adrenaline, Rooster and Mav…Just let yourself get back to normal, and if you can’t…” He pauses. “Then you did good, you didn really good.”
They find themselves lying back. Despite everything jab and jibe between them, Bob doesn’t mind the fact Hangman turned up on his doorstep then just let himself in. He’ll find out in the morning, but for now, he doesn’t mind the company that keeps all the thoughts away.