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: ]
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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?