Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia laid eyes on Robert "Bob" Floyd, he didn't think much of him.

Quiet. Reserved. Glasses perched on his nose like he was about to start tutoring someone instead of flying multi-million-dollar jets. Fanboy had snuck a look at the roster before this new mission started, and honestly, "Bob" barely registered.

But then Bob walked into the Hard Deck.

And he had the audacity to look good.

Fanboy was leaning againts the bar, laughing at something Payback said, when Bob stepped inside. He was already in his flight suit, sleeves rolled up just enough to show surprisingly strong forearms. The man moved like he wasn't used to attention, but when he took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, Fanboy felt something like a spark zip down his spine.

"Oh, no. No, no, no."

Bob wasn't his type, or at least, that's what he told himself. But then Phoenix spotted him, waved him over.

"What do they call you?" Phoenix asked.

"Bob."

"No, your call sign."

"Uhm, Bob."

"Bob Floyd. You're my new backseater? From Lemoore?"

"Looks like it. Yeah."

Fanboy grinned, intrigued.

Weeks into training, Fanboy had to admit—Bob was good. Like, really good. His quiet confidence in the air made up for his unassuming nature on the ground. And somewhere between mission planning, late-night debriefs, and the occasional bar hangout, Fanboy found himself gravitating toward Bob.

One night, after a particularly grueling simulation, they found themselves alone in the locker room.

Fanboy leaned against the bench, watching as Bob pulled off his flight suit, leaving him in just a tight undershirt and briefs. It was the first time Fanboy really noticed the way Bob filled out his uniform—lean but built in a way that suggested surprising strength.

Bob caught him staring. "Something on your mind?"

Fanboy smirked. "Just surprised, is all."

"By what?"

"You."

Bob raised an eyebrow, amused. "That's vague."

Fanboy stepped closer, emboldened. "I mean, you come off all quiet, glasses and all, but then I see you in the air, and you’ve got this whole other side to you. It’s kinda hot."

Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look away. Instead, he tilted his head, considering. Then, with a small, knowing smile, he stepped closer too.

"Fanboy, are you flirting with me?"

Fanboy grinned. "Would it work?"

Bob hummed, pretending to think. Then, in a move that completely threw Fanboy off, Bob reached out, tracing his fingertips just barely along Fanboy’s wrist. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a rush of heat through him.

"Maybe," Bob said, voice low. "Try harder."

Fanboy exhaled sharply, feeling his heart pound. He hadn’t expected that.

But damn, he was so ready to take that challenge.

Chapter Text

Bob’s fingers barely lingered on Fanboy’s wrist before he stepped back, reaching for his towel like nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Fanboy was reeling.

"Try harder?" he echoed, watching as Bob slung the towel around his neck. "Since when do you have game?"

Bob gave him a slow, almost lazy smirk. "I don’t. You’re just easy to fluster."

Flustered? Him? No way.

Fanboy straightened, closing the gap between them again, this time standing just a little too close. Close enough to smell the mix of sweat and jet fuel on Bob’s skin. Close enough to see the way his pupils darkened behind those stupidly cute glasses.

"Okay," Fanboy murmured, lowering his voice just enough to make it dangerous. "How about now?"

Bob swallowed, and that was the reaction Fanboy was looking for.

A silent beat stretched between them, heat crackling in the air like the moments before takeoff. Fanboy could feel it—the way Bob was debating something in his head, the way his lips parted just slightly, like he wanted to say something but stopped himself.

Then, finally, Bob exhaled and shook his head with a chuckle.

"You’re ridiculous," he said, moving past him toward the showers.

Fanboy watched him go, unable to stop himself from grinning.

"Oh yeah. This is gonna be fun."

The thing about Bob? Once he let his guard down, he really let his guard down.

A few nights later, after a long day of drills, Fanboy found himself in Bob’s dorm, both of them sprawled out on the floor, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between them. It had started as a casual drink, but now they were laughing over some dumb story about Phoenix nearly punching Hangman for eating her fries.

Bob, already a little loose from the alcohol, had his head tipped back against the bed, glasses slightly askew, his laugh deep and unrestrained.

Fanboy watched him, warmth spreading through his chest—and not from the whiskey.

"You know," Fanboy said, leaning in, "you’re kinda hot when you’re not overthinking things."

Bob turned his head lazily, raising an eyebrow. "Are you always this blunt?"

Fanboy grinned. "Only when I really want something."

Bob held his gaze for a long moment, and this time, he didn’t look away. Instead, he reached up, pulling his glasses off and setting them on the nightstand. The small act made something tighten in Fanboy’s stomach.

"I’m not as quiet as you think I am," Bob murmured.

Fanboy swallowed. "Oh?"

Bob’s hand skimmed along Fanboy’s forearm, slow and deliberate, the callouses on his fingers sending shivers up his spine. Then, before Fanboy could even think of a cocky reply, Bob leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first, almost teasing, but when Fanboy made a low sound in his throat and tilted his head, Bob deepened it, fingers tangling in his hair. Fanboy’s hands found Bob’s waist, gripping tight, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt.

When they finally broke apart, Fanboy was breathless.

"Okay," he panted, grinning. "Yeah, you definitely have game."

Bob chuckled, pressing his forehead to Fanboy’s. "Told you."

Fanboy just smirked and pulled him back in.

This mission was gonna be so worth it.

Chapter Text

Bob kissed like he flew—steady, controlled, but when he really got into it? Damn.

Fanboy had always been the cocky one, the one who flirted shamelessly, but now? Now he was on his back, Bob above him, fingers pressing into his waist like he was staking a claim.

"You're quiet," Bob murmured against his lips, amusement laced in his voice. "Didn't expect that from you."

Fanboy exhaled a shaky laugh. "I—ah—was just giving you the lead, y'know?"

Bob smirked, dragging his mouth down to Fanboy’s jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along his throat. "That so?"

Fanboy swallowed hard, fingers tightening in Bob’s shirt. He hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected Bob to take control like this—calm, collected, but with an intensity that sent heat pooling low in his stomach.

"I think you like it," Bob murmured, breath warm against his skin.

Fanboy’s laugh was breathless. "Okay, maybe a little."

Bob chuckled, pulling back just enough to look at him. His blue eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide, and Fanboy couldn’t help but stare.

"You good?" Bob asked, quieter this time, the teasing edge in his voice softening.

Fanboy's chest clenched—because of course Bob would check in. Of course he’d make sure they were on the same page, even with all this heat between them.

"Yeah," Fanboy breathed, reaching up to cup Bob’s face. "More than good."

Bob leaned into the touch for a second before tilting his head, brushing his lips over Fanboy’s again—slower, deeper, like he wanted to memorize this.

And Fanboy? He was so gone for him.

Chapter Text

Fanboy woke up to sunlight filtering through the blinds, his body tangled with Bob’s.

For a second, he just lay there, taking it in.

Bob, still half-asleep, had an arm slung over his waist, his face tucked against Fanboy’s shoulder. His glasses were on the nightstand, and his hair—usually neat and tucked under his cap—was a total mess.

Fanboy grinned. Yeah, this was a good look for him.

Carefully, he reached over, brushing a few strands of hair out of Bob’s face. He should probably get up, sneak back to his own room before anyone noticed, but... he kinda didn’t want to.

Bob stirred slightly, blinking up at him with sleepy blue eyes.

Fanboy smirked. "Morning, sunshine."

Bob just hummed, voice rough with sleep. "Too early for you to be this smug."

Fanboy laughed. "You love it."

Bob rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. He shifted closer, pressing his face into the crook of Fanboy’s neck, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "shut up" against his skin.

Fanboy just grinned wider, arms tightening around him.

Yeah. He could get used to this.

Chapter Text

The mission was over. They had made it back.

Fanboy should have felt relief, but all he felt was the lingering weight of almost losing Bob.

He still saw it—still felt the cold spike of fear from watching Bob’s jet spiral after they took enemy fire. The comms had gone to static, and for a few agonizing seconds, he thought Bob was gone.

Fanboy had never flown angrier in his life. He barely remembered the rest of the fight, barely remembered landing—just the roaring in his ears and the desperate need to see Bob in one piece.

Now, hours later, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving exhaustion in its place. The pilots were celebrating at the Hard Deck, but Fanboy couldn’t bring himself to join. Instead, he stood outside, leaning against the railing, staring out at the dark ocean.

"Figured I’d find you out here."

Fanboy turned at the sound of Bob’s voice. He was still in his flight suit, unzipped halfway, the undershirt beneath it clinging to his frame. His face was tired but intact—alive.

Fanboy exhaled, shaking his head. "You should be inside. Everyone’s celebrating."

Bob stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "Yeah, well. Wasn’t really in the mood."

Fanboy swallowed, forcing out a chuckle. "What, you don’t like watching Hangman talk about how he singlehandedly saved us all?"

Bob huffed a quiet laugh. "Not really." His voice was softer when he added, "Was more worried about you."

Fanboy’s throat tightened. He should joke, should throw out something cocky, but he couldn’t. Not after today.

Instead, he looked away, fingers tightening around the railing. "I thought I lost you, man."

Bob was silent for a second. Then, carefully, he stepped beside Fanboy, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

"I know," he admitted. "I heard it in your voice over the comms."

Fanboy clenched his jaw, remembering how wrecked he must have sounded. "Yeah, well. You scared the hell out of me, Bob."

Bob exhaled slowly. "I know."

Another silence. The sound of waves crashing filled the space between them.

Then, after a long pause, Bob reached out—tentative at first—fingers brushing over Fanboy’s hand before linking them together. The touch was grounding, solid, and exactly what Fanboy needed.

Fanboy didn’t pull away.

Instead, he squeezed back.

"You’re stuck with me, Mickey," Bob murmured. "I’m not going anywhere."

Fanboy let out a shaky breath, nodding. "Yeah. Good."

They stood there like that for a while, hands clasped, neither of them needing to say anything else.

They were alive. They were together. That was enough.

For now.

Chapter Text

The Hard Deck was still buzzing behind them, laughter and music filtering through the open doors, but Fanboy barely heard it. Not when Bob was standing so close, their fingers still loosely intertwined.

It should have felt strange—this, them. Holding hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But it didn’t.

Not after the way his heart had nearly stopped when he thought Bob was dead. Not after feeling that awful, hollow space in his chest, the kind that only vanished when he saw Bob alive on the carrier deck.

Not after realizing that whatever this was between them? It wasn’t just flirting anymore.

Bob let out a quiet breath. "Mickey."

Fanboy glanced at him. Bob was watching him carefully, blue eyes steady but a little unsure, like he was trying to figure something out.

"Look," Bob started, shifting on his feet. "I know we’ve been... something. But today, when I heard you on the comms—" He stopped, exhaling through his nose. "It made me realize I don’t wanna keep pretending this isn’t real."

Fanboy felt something in his chest tighten.

"You think we’ve been pretending?" he asked, voice quieter than usual.

Bob huffed a short laugh. "Maybe not pretending. More like... avoiding."

Fanboy bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t argue with that. The teasing, the flirting, the way they gravitated toward each other—it had always been there. But they never said anything about it. Never admitted it out loud.

Until now.

Fanboy shifted, turning to fully face him. "So," he started, forcing himself to keep it light, "what, you wanna make it official? Get matching call sign tattoos?"

Bob snorted, shaking his head. "You’re ridiculous."

Fanboy grinned, but it softened at the edges. He squeezed Bob’s hand again, more intentional this time. "I’m serious, though. If you want this—" He gestured between them. "I do too."

Bob searched his face, like he was making sure. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I want this."

Fanboy felt something warm settle in his chest.

"Cool," he said, bumping his shoulder against Bob’s. "But just so you know, I’m still gonna flirt shamelessly with you."

Bob smirked. "Wouldn’t expect anything less."

Fanboy laughed, and for the first time since the mission, the tightness in his chest eased.

Yeah. This was something real.

And he wasn’t letting it go.

Chapter Text

Fanboy had a flawless plan.

Keep it low-key. Play it cool. Ease into this whole being a thing with Bob situation without making it a big deal.

The plan lasted exactly three days.

It all went downhill at the Hard Deck (again), because of course it did.

They had been getting away with little moments—small touches in passing, sitting closer than necessary in briefings, silent looks that meant everything.

But then Bob—sweet, reserved, I-don’t-seek-attention Bob—had to go and absolutely wreck Fanboy’s ability to be normal.

It happened while they were playing pool, the whole squad crowded around, beers in hand. Fanboy was leaning over the table, lining up a shot, when Bob casually walked by and—without warning—ran a slow hand down Fanboy’s back.

Not obvious. Not showy. Just a brief touch, but intentional.

And Fanboy? Gone. Absolutely done for.

The shot went wide, the cue ball clattering uselessly against the rail.

"What the hell was that?" Phoenix snorted.

Fanboy blinked, snapping back to reality. "What?"

"You just scratched badly," Payback said, laughing. "That’s rookie-level embarrassment, man."

Fanboy tried to recover, clearing his throat. "Yeah, well, I—uh, the lighting in here sucks."

Hangman smirked, tilting his beer toward Bob. "Must be some really bad lighting, considering Bob’s the one messing with you."

Silence.

Fanboy froze. Bob blinked.

The rest of the squad exchanged very interested glances.

Bob, the traitor, just sipped his water like nothing had happened.

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute."

Fanboy coughed. "What?"

"Did you two—" She gestured between them. "Are you—?"

Fanboy opened his mouth. Closed it. Shit.

Then Bob, calm as ever, casually took another cug of his water and said, "Yeah."

Silence.

And then—chaos.

"No. No." Hangman slammed his drink down. "Are you telling me Bob pulled before I did?"

Phoenix cackled. "This is the best day of my life."

"Oh my God," Payback wheezed. "Bob? You?"

Bob just shrugged, looking smug as hell.

Fanboy groaned, dropping his head against the pool table. "I hate all of you."

"Buddy," Phoenix grinned, clapping him on the back, "this is literally the best thing that’s ever happened."

Hangman, still recovering, shook his head in disbelief. "Bob. You gotta tell me—how?"

Bob just smirked, adjusting his glasses.

"Try harder," he said simply.

Fanboy died on the spot.

And Bob? Absolutely no regrets.