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.
[ 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 — 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
[ 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.
[ 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 — 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.
🎀 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?