Chapter Text
"Whose he?"
"Whose who?"
Hangman, along with everyone else, follows Phoenix's gaze to his left where he finds a man he hadn't even noticed until that moment. He's wearing large glasses with thick lenses, and his blond hair gelled into a neat style not unlike his own. He has a youthful appearance to him, but Hangman can't tell if it's due to his age or the fact that he's brushing peanut shells off his lap like a child who can't help but make a mess. The kid looks up with wide eyes like a deer in headlights.
"When did you get in?" Coyote speaks up, taking the initiative to ask the guy what they're all thinking.
"Oh, I-I've been here the whole time." He says with a warm, slight southern drawl Hangman wasn't expecting. Being from the south himself he's curious to learn where the kid's from.
Instead of asking, what comes out is, "The mans a stealth pilot." Sarcasm being his preferred form of communication, especially when it comes to introductions. First impressions matter, after all.
"Uh, Weapon Systems Officer, actually."
That catches Hangman off guard. The sincerity on this one. "With no sense of humor."
He doesn't do well with these types of people, someone he always has to explain the joke to. He likes to surround himself with people who can keep up, both in the air and in conversation. And Hangman can tell you right now, he ain't gonna find that here.
So on that note, he passes his pool cue to Phoenix and heads to the bar.
~
As Hangman walks away, seemingly done with the conversation, Bob can't help but kick himself over his inability to understand a joke. He's never been any good at reading between the lines, and he fears its once again caused him to miss out on opportunities to, if not make friends, then at least be friendly. He came out tonight with that goal in mind and he seems to have beaten his all-time record for fastest worst first impression. And those are important. Maybe he should leave.
"What do they call you?"
Bob is pulled out of his spiral of self pity when Phoenix decides to throw him a lifeline. Good, something he knows how to answer.
"Bob." He says with the best smile he can manage. It's not great.
"No, your callsign." Says the taller man, Bob thinks his name is Payback.
"Uh," a silence. "Bob." He can feel the embarrassment at his collar. Introductions always go like this. Maybe he should start wearing his flight helmet everywhere.
"Bob Floyd. You're my new back seater? From LaMoore?" Behind Phoenix, Payback and Fanboy look at each other and smirk, holding back giggles. Bob wants to jump into a hole. He can't help but think he hears disappointment in her voice. Maybe she was hoping for someone more sociable. Someone cooler, more flashy. Like Hangman. Though after seeing how they interacted, immediately at each others throats, maybe not.
Despite the hurricane of insecurities and anxieties running rampant in his head, he's able to answer her in a tone that sounds so warm and unbothered, he almost fools himself. "Looks like it, yeah."
Phoenix stares at him for a long moment. He's not sure what she's looking for but ultimately seems to find it when she hold out the pool cue for him.
"Nine-ball, Bob."
He stares at it. She stares at him.
"Rack 'em.
~
After Hangman's obligatory failed attempt at flirting with Penny, and his less direct, more abrasive failed attempt at flirting with the hunky old-timer at the bar, he takes his comped drinks and heads back towards the group at the pool table. Only then does he spot the familiar face that's joined them. There's no going unnoticed with a pornstache like that. So he takes a detour to the jukebox, already playing out in his head exactly how this altercation is gonna go, and knows the perfect song to set the mood. After all, what's one more failed attempt under his belt tonight? Sure, Hangman can't stand the guy but that's never stopped him before.
After punching 8-6 into the old keypad, he turns back towards the group and his eyes find the kid again. He's now standing at the pool table, cue stick in hand, talking with Fanboy. Looks like he's giving the kid pointers on where to take the shot.
That was fast. He's gone two seconds and suddenly everybody's best friends. Even Coyote seems like he's warming up to him, watching over the game as well. Traitor.
Hangman can't seem to put a finger on why that annoys him, so instead he focuses on the task at hand. Bradshaw.
~
"Bradshaw. As I live and breath." Bob hears Hangman somewhere behind him, and just as he's about to make his shot, leaned over the pool table with Fanboy, his cue stick is swiped from his hands.
Its Hangman, of course, too wrapped up in a pissing contest with the guy he's come to learn goes by Rooster to see that he's interrupting a game. Or maybe he knows exactly what he's doing and just likes getting a rise out of people. That seems more likely to Bob.
As he watches their altercation from the sidelines, he genuinely can't tell if they want to fistfight in the parking lot or sleep together. Maybe both. But after a tongue-in-cheek remark about the song playing over the speakers, Hangman is walking away, and Bob can't help but to follow him with his eyes. He's never seen such a pure representation of a caricature of a high school bully. It's almost fascinating. The psychoanalyzer in Bob wants to pick him apart, see what's going on inside that Ken-doll of a head. But the part of Bob that has any sense of self-preservation is saying "Stay away! He's gonna give you a swirly and put gum in your hair!" So he decides that's the end of it. He'll keep his head down, do his job, and absolutely stay out of Hangman's way.