[ As always, hindsight is 20/20. But it doesn't mean the guilt goes away entirely, even as he manages to smile at Izzie's phone (he won't be surprised if she crops him out entirely), and especially when Sarah hands over the box with, here you go, honey and actually seems to mean the endearment this time around, her eyes crinkling in a smile. His quiet is thoughtful when they leave the establishment, both of his arms holding up the cake so as to minimize all possible risk. ]
Oh, is that what you were doing? [ he asks, in his version of a flat tone, as he fishes out his keys and tosses them over, mourning the perfect set-up he's got in terms of seating distance and back support; Hangman definitely doesn't seem to be the type who'd appreciate a ramrod straight seat while he's driving. ] Looking out for my speech skills?
[ Which just seems like a preparation overkill even to Bob, who genuinely likes the idea of structure and organizing his life to keep everything where it should be, but he's not surprised that Jake's mind works this way. He's just so confident that he has enough to share without asking permission. Bob doesn't think he minds it. Not yet, anyway.
The cake is settled on the floor of the backseat. When the car starts up, the radio is playing Dust in the Wind. ]
Let me pay you back for at least half.
[ It was his idea, after all. He figures it's only fair.
But if Jake's already thinking about Bob's promotion, then he's definitely thought of his own. He blinks over at the man fussing with seating angles and such while he waits with his seatbelt already on, hesitating before asking: ]
Who are you going to thank in your Captain speech?
[ 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. 41โ38 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 detachmentย 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. ]
[ His fingers tap inaudibly against the edges of the box - he's fully relaxed against his seat even if it might not look like it; sometimes he just needs to embody a roly poly, that's all. ]
The infamous Hangman not utilizing an opportunity to make a speech?
[ His incredulity is sincere, although there's a faint shadow of a grin on his face if Jake takes a look. The only way Bob's managed to thrive in the Navy is because he's always been ready to have his ego bruised and checked, whether from physical demands or the people around him. Hell, even his call name is a pretty damning representation of who he is at first glance, but it also means he's sort of used to Jake's favorite kind of ribbing. And up close, he's not so bad.
At least, since there's only one of him. Bob imagines what "the guys back in 151" might be like and a shiver goes down his spine when he imagines a whole group of Jakes. ]
I'm flattered you'd remember us at all.
[ Kinda like that Taylor Swift song - say you'll remember me - that Bob couldn't get out of his head for weeks. There's something else he wants to say too, but he debates whether he should or not just enough for the silence to stretch into awkward. In the end, he goes with it. ]
...thanks.
[ For coming, for paying. For being the instigator for a birthday that Payback is definitely not going to forget anytime soon, although Hangman probably won't take credit for it outright. Most people are good at pretending to be thoughtful, but Jake is some weird version of the opposite - making it happen while he's jazzing it up in the opposite direction like a magician's trick. ]
I have layers, Big Ol' Boy, [ Hangman says, breezily. ] Like a parfait.
[ There has never been a silence on God's green earth that Hangman has not seen fit to fill. Kansas is crooning on the radio and Jake, actually, keeps his eyes on the road. But he's a great pilot because he notices fucking everything, they all do, and his first weapon of choice is the exact angle of his genetically blessed jawline; his second is his perception.
It's not a chore to wait Bob out. Jake's rewarded with an easy if hesitant Thanks, and instead of puffing his chest at any amount of obviously-deserved gratitude or praise, he frowns down at the road. Whatever thoughts that are passing over his eyes are easily hidden by the reflective shine of his sunglasses. A muscle in his jaw jumps; another uncharacteristic beat of silence passes.
Eventually, he huffs out a scoff. Easy enough to read as arrogant, antagonistic — Nothing can happen without me, Bobby — but there is something pointedly serious in the way it comes across.
Cars, much like cockpits, are great places to have a conversation with no other witnesses. ]
Floyd, [ Jake starts slowly, as they pull up at a red light. He fixes Bob with a flat look above the rim of his Raybans. ] When you and Phoenix get picked for this thing, don't fuck it up.
[ He turns back to the road. The light changes to green. ]
—I don't want to have to tell Izzie she's tagged a dead man's instagram.
[ He's still grimacing about Big Ol' Boy and pondering Jake's ability to get them back without a GPS - at least the streets seem familiar? who's he kidding, it's San Diego, all the streets look the same - when the unexpected use of his last name gets his full attention.
A serious Jake isn't one he's ever expected to see, not now, not here, with just the two of them occupying this old, but reliable museum piece that he calls his car while he's stateside. It's not from a lack of self-esteem or a weird complex about being 'worthy enough' - Bob knows he's part of the best and no one can take that away from him. But this? This is a conversation that he'd expect Jake to have with Phoenix, or Payback. And maybe he will.
But warmth curls in his gut anyway, right around the heavy rock in his stomach that he's refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks, the one that keeps getting heavier with every new impossible parameter they're striving for. He doesn't ask how Jake knows they'll be picked, because it means more than enough that he believes in them. ]
I won't.
[ A slow exhale. Flying with Phoenix is the easiest it's ever been, and it scares him to death sometimes, because nothing in this line of work should ever be considered easy. But he does what he can and she takes care of the rest. That's all the mission has to be; teamwork and complete trust.
But. But. It doesn't mean he's not still terrified. There's a reason he prefers to be a backseater. ]
Nope. [ Again, that obnoxious p. ] And that's why I come back home.ย
[ย It's not an act. It's still even odds that Rooster's going to get tagged for this — Jake will chew off his own goddamn arm if that actually happens, considering the amount of shit Bradshaw's apparently got left to square away, like he's a fresh ensign with a dated pornstache and Hawaiian shirt — but it's what Jake believes. Fear isn't really an emotion that fits inside his breast. Worry, though โ that, unfortunately, is a switch he doesn't know how to throw off.
It's incredibly fucking annoying, honestly.
The car turns. Jake drives hugging the coastline, even though fucking all of San Diego is basically coastline. It's evident that he's heading towards the slightly nicer neighborhood that he lives in, swindled someway and somehow on the Navy's dime. ]
Look, Bob. Fear is what gets you killed. Maverick's the fucking same — he's still stuck making Captain because he won't ever stop flying. But he's alive to tell that story because that old fossil learned a long time ago what you and Phoenix and Payback are all learning right now. You fly afraid, we're all going to be attending more funerals we'd love to forget.
[ A pause. The words, honest and real, hang in the air.
Abruptly, Jake grins at Bob with a wide, toothy smile. His brows pinch in faux consideration as they both have to sit with this great advice he's just unleashed: ]
Be honest. Do you think I should start a podcast?
[ Dismissed, summarily, as the moment's declared well and truly over. ]
Not that Bob ever really could, but never has he, in his life, ever felt more tempted to reach over and do something drastic. Like give a flick or a mean pinch. He might have done it if he wasn't positive he'd end up injured by the toughness of Jake's bicep, or come away with far worse consequences - that slap on the back was no joke!
And if he were any pettier, he'd argue the point that doesn't really matter, that fear is actually the evolutionary response that keeps humankind alive. But nature probably didn't exactly intend for them to get into fighter jets that can go faster than they were ever meant to, and feel more gravitational force than the fight to get up every morning. They left the privilege of fear behind when they signed up for this.
Distantly, Bob knows that it'll be okay. The numbers weigh on him because the deadline feels like it's the ground coming up fast, too fast, while they get used to these new parameters. But they're flying this mission because it can be done. It has to be done. ]
No.
[ His answer is immediate, because Bob doesn't have to think about that. The reasoning is a little harder to pack into words. He tries anyway. ]
The guys who'll want to listen to you won't be like you.
[ Guys who consider themselves to be the best thing the male species has to offer because they're over 6'0 and make over six figures a year but don't even know how to wipe their own butts properly. Guys who'll listen to what Hangman has to say and never think to contextualize his experiences or think past the obvious arrogance. Some of them might get it, if they've served, but the rest? They'll be driving recklessly in the streets and calling that fearless. ]
[ Jake laughs. It's the kind of expression that he throws his head back for, loud over the rumble of the engine and the steady thump of tires. In most lights, it looks a lot more like antagonism. In the warm light of day, with him driving Big Ol' Boy's clunker of a machine that would bring Rooster's to shame, what it really is is surprise.
Everything's fair to Jake Seresin: pride and joy of Texas, the Navy's golden flyboy, and #1 natural success story of his orthodontist's office. But ain't it a hoot when Phoenix's wizzo is right on the money.
(He really is going to be fucking pissed off if either of them die.)
Uncharacteristically, Hangman settles into silence for the rest of the drive. The streets start getting homier, with picket fences and apartments right on the beachfront, or at least within walking distance. He pulls up to the curb of a block of four apartments smushed together, bright orange roofing and cream ivory stucco exteriors. The car lurches a little when Jake pulls the parking break up. And, promptly, sort of— just gets out of the car.
Rather than leave Bob in the lurch, he swings around passenger-side. Leans into his rolled down window, both elbows perched on the door frame. In what Jake clearly considers a show of team cohesion, he claps his hand, firmly but not violently, on Bob's shoulder. ]
Thanks for the ride, Bobby boy. [ And then he grins. A flash of white, and then he intones, very seriously: ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Oh, is that what you were doing? [ he asks, in his version of a flat tone, as he fishes out his keys and tosses them over, mourning the perfect set-up he's got in terms of seating distance and back support; Hangman definitely doesn't seem to be the type who'd appreciate a ramrod straight seat while he's driving. ] Looking out for my speech skills?
[ Which just seems like a preparation overkill even to Bob, who genuinely likes the idea of structure and organizing his life to keep everything where it should be, but he's not surprised that Jake's mind works this way. He's just so confident that he has enough to share without asking permission. Bob doesn't think he minds it. Not yet, anyway.
The cake is settled on the floor of the backseat. When the car starts up, the radio is playing Dust in the Wind. ]
Let me pay you back for at least half.
[ It was his idea, after all. He figures it's only fair.
But if Jake's already thinking about Bob's promotion, then he's definitely thought of his own. He blinks over at the man fussing with seating angles and such while he waits with his seatbelt already on, hesitating before asking: ]
Who are you going to thank in your Captain speech?
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. 41โ38 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 detachmentย 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 infamous Hangman not utilizing an opportunity to make a speech?
[ His incredulity is sincere, although there's a faint shadow of a grin on his face if Jake takes a look. The only way Bob's managed to thrive in the Navy is because he's always been ready to have his ego bruised and checked, whether from physical demands or the people around him. Hell, even his call name is a pretty damning representation of who he is at first glance, but it also means he's sort of used to Jake's favorite kind of ribbing. And up close, he's not so bad.
At least, since there's only one of him. Bob imagines what "the guys back in 151" might be like and a shiver goes down his spine when he imagines a whole group of Jakes. ]
I'm flattered you'd remember us at all.
[ Kinda like that Taylor Swift song - say you'll remember me - that Bob couldn't get out of his head for weeks. There's something else he wants to say too, but he debates whether he should or not just enough for the silence to stretch into awkward. In the end, he goes with it. ]
...thanks.
[ For coming, for paying. For being the instigator for a birthday that Payback is definitely not going to forget anytime soon, although Hangman probably won't take credit for it outright. Most people are good at pretending to be thoughtful, but Jake is some weird version of the opposite - making it happen while he's jazzing it up in the opposite direction like a magician's trick. ]
That wouldn't have happened without you.
no subject
[ There has never been a silence on God's green earth that Hangman has not seen fit to fill. Kansas is crooning on the radio and Jake, actually, keeps his eyes on the road. But he's a great pilot because he notices fucking everything, they all do, and his first weapon of choice is the exact angle of his genetically blessed jawline; his second is his perception.
It's not a chore to wait Bob out. Jake's rewarded with an easy if hesitant Thanks, and instead of puffing his chest at any amount of obviously-deserved gratitude or praise, he frowns down at the road. Whatever thoughts that are passing over his eyes are easily hidden by the reflective shine of his sunglasses. A muscle in his jaw jumps; another uncharacteristic beat of silence passes.
Eventually, he huffs out a scoff. Easy enough to read as arrogant, antagonistic — Nothing can happen without me, Bobby — but there is something pointedly serious in the way it comes across.
Cars, much like cockpits, are great places to have a conversation with no other witnesses. ]
Floyd, [ Jake starts slowly, as they pull up at a red light. He fixes Bob with a flat look above the rim of his Raybans. ] When you and Phoenix get picked for this thing, don't fuck it up.
[ He turns back to the road. The light changes to green. ]
—I don't want to have to tell Izzie she's tagged a dead man's instagram.
no subject
A serious Jake isn't one he's ever expected to see, not now, not here, with just the two of them occupying this old, but reliable museum piece that he calls his car while he's stateside. It's not from a lack of self-esteem or a weird complex about being 'worthy enough' - Bob knows he's part of the best and no one can take that away from him. But this? This is a conversation that he'd expect Jake to have with Phoenix, or Payback. And maybe he will.
But warmth curls in his gut anyway, right around the heavy rock in his stomach that he's refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks, the one that keeps getting heavier with every new impossible parameter they're striving for. He doesn't ask how Jake knows they'll be picked, because it means more than enough that he believes in them. ]
I won't.
[ A slow exhale. Flying with Phoenix is the easiest it's ever been, and it scares him to death sometimes, because nothing in this line of work should ever be considered easy. But he does what he can and she takes care of the rest. That's all the mission has to be; teamwork and complete trust.
But. But. It doesn't mean he's not still terrified. There's a reason he prefers to be a backseater. ]
How do you - don't you ever get scared?
no subject
Nope. [ Again, that obnoxious p. ] And that's why I come back home.ย
[ย It's not an act. It's still even odds that Rooster's going to get tagged for this — Jake will chew off his own goddamn arm if that actually happens, considering the amount of shit Bradshaw's apparently got left to square away, like he's a fresh ensign with a dated pornstache and Hawaiian shirt — but it's what Jake believes. Fear isn't really an emotion that fits inside his breast. Worry, though โ that, unfortunately, is a switch he doesn't know how to throw off.
It's incredibly fucking annoying, honestly.
The car turns. Jake drives hugging the coastline, even though fucking all of San Diego is basically coastline. It's evident that he's heading towards the slightly nicer neighborhood that he lives in, swindled someway and somehow on the Navy's dime. ]
Look, Bob. Fear is what gets you killed. Maverick's the fucking same — he's still stuck making Captain because he won't ever stop flying. But he's alive to tell that story because that old fossil learned a long time ago what you and Phoenix and Payback are all learning right now. You fly afraid, we're all going to be attending more funerals we'd love to forget.
[ A pause. The words, honest and real, hang in the air.
Abruptly, Jake grins at Bob with a wide, toothy smile. His brows pinch in faux consideration as they both have to sit with this great advice he's just unleashed: ]
Be honest. Do you think I should start a podcast?
[ Dismissed, summarily, as the moment's declared well and truly over. ]
no subject
Not that Bob ever really could, but never has he, in his life, ever felt more tempted to reach over and do something drastic. Like give a flick or a mean pinch. He might have done it if he wasn't positive he'd end up injured by the toughness of Jake's bicep, or come away with far worse consequences - that slap on the back was no joke!
And if he were any pettier, he'd argue the point that doesn't really matter, that fear is actually the evolutionary response that keeps humankind alive. But nature probably didn't exactly intend for them to get into fighter jets that can go faster than they were ever meant to, and feel more gravitational force than the fight to get up every morning. They left the privilege of fear behind when they signed up for this.
Distantly, Bob knows that it'll be okay. The numbers weigh on him because the deadline feels like it's the ground coming up fast, too fast, while they get used to these new parameters. But they're flying this mission because it can be done. It has to be done. ]
No.
[ His answer is immediate, because Bob doesn't have to think about that. The reasoning is a little harder to pack into words. He tries anyway. ]
The guys who'll want to listen to you won't be like you.
[ Guys who consider themselves to be the best thing the male species has to offer because they're over 6'0 and make over six figures a year but don't even know how to wipe their own butts properly. Guys who'll listen to what Hangman has to say and never think to contextualize his experiences or think past the obvious arrogance. Some of them might get it, if they've served, but the rest? They'll be driving recklessly in the streets and calling that fearless. ]
And it wouldn't be fair to you.
๐ perhaaaaps?
Everything's fair to Jake Seresin: pride and joy of Texas, the Navy's golden flyboy, and #1 natural success story of his orthodontist's office. But ain't it a hoot when Phoenix's wizzo is right on the money.
(He really is going to be fucking pissed off if either of them die.)
Uncharacteristically, Hangman settles into silence for the rest of the drive. The streets start getting homier, with picket fences and apartments right on the beachfront, or at least within walking distance. He pulls up to the curb of a block of four apartments smushed together, bright orange roofing and cream ivory stucco exteriors. The car lurches a little when Jake pulls the parking break up. And, promptly, sort of— just gets out of the car.
Rather than leave Bob in the lurch, he swings around passenger-side. Leans into his rolled down window, both elbows perched on the door frame. In what Jake clearly considers a show of team cohesion, he claps his hand, firmly but not violently, on Bob's shoulder. ]
Thanks for the ride, Bobby boy. [ And then he grins. A flash of white, and then he intones, very seriously: ]
You've still got my twenty, right?