[ Who the hell drives like this? is a thought Hangman thinks to verbalize, but does not, because all of his (not insignificant) brain power is dedicated to adjusting this seat the moment he hops into it. Jesus, what is it with WSOs and two-seaters? Do all of them just never believe in appropriate leg room? Where are they, in a car for ants?
The seat goes forward. Backward. Forward again. Squinting at the little side lever, it takes Jake an appropriate age and a half to fuss to his hearts content and comfort. Billion dollar F18s, and Bob's car is evidently the thing that's going to keep him up at night.
When the car finally starts up, the radio is playing Dust in the Wind. The driver's side window immediately rolls fully down. Seatbelt clips on. Jake slings a casual arm over the back of the seat as he reverses, humming along with the undefeatable grace that's normally reserved for anytime the 2006 Longhorns game at the Rose Bowl is brought up in conversation. 41–38 against a 34-game winning streak, y'all. ]
Nope. [ Obnoxiously, he pops the p. ] I'm good.
[ Re: being paid back half. What, like they're going to argue over venmo? Please.
Bob's second question gives him a little pause. Not a lot, but enough to get back on the road, where they are heading— wherever Jake's decided that they're heading. ]
I'm not making a speech, [ he concedes. ] But if I were, I'm thanking my parents. My sisters. The guys back in 151. [ As in, VFA-151. Vigilantes all day, every day. Fight ugly, baby. Casually, he adds, almost like an afterthought: ] Probably everybody else in this detachment for showing me exactly what not to do.
[ It's thrown out a little too casually, that Hangman of all people might hold literally any of them in high enough esteem for public acknowledgement. Credit where credit's due: he drives bang on the speed limit, too. If only for the precious cargo. ]
no subject
The seat goes forward. Backward. Forward again. Squinting at the little side lever, it takes Jake an appropriate age and a half to fuss to his hearts content and comfort. Billion dollar F18s, and Bob's car is evidently the thing that's going to keep him up at night.
When the car finally starts up, the radio is playing Dust in the Wind. The driver's side window immediately rolls fully down. Seatbelt clips on. Jake slings a casual arm over the back of the seat as he reverses, humming along with the undefeatable grace that's normally reserved for anytime the 2006 Longhorns game at the Rose Bowl is brought up in conversation. 41–38 against a 34-game winning streak, y'all. ]
Nope. [ Obnoxiously, he pops the p. ] I'm good.
[ Re: being paid back half. What, like they're going to argue over venmo? Please.
Bob's second question gives him a little pause. Not a lot, but enough to get back on the road, where they are heading— wherever Jake's decided that they're heading. ]
I'm not making a speech, [ he concedes. ] But if I were, I'm thanking my parents. My sisters. The guys back in 151. [ As in, VFA-151. Vigilantes all day, every day. Fight ugly, baby. Casually, he adds, almost like an afterthought: ] Probably everybody else in this detachment for showing me exactly what not to do.
[ It's thrown out a little too casually, that Hangman of all people might hold literally any of them in high enough esteem for public acknowledgement. Credit where credit's due: he drives bang on the speed limit, too. If only for the precious cargo. ]