Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part Three
Read Part One and Two
Part 4 Coming Soon (Like really soon)
Prompt from THIS ASK
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU
Word Count: 4800+
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearing, Crying, History, Beau being a Good Dad, Icemav is here, Still No Bobby
The wind whips past us, the warm California sun dusting over my skin. I can feel the undersides of my eyes and down my cheeks beginning to chap with the newfound wind against my tear washed skin. I can't help the continued scrunch of my eyes as we walk. Between the sun and the stinging of my skin, my expression stays wrinkled tight with distaste.
Though I've been on more air fields than I can remember, I still feel like a stranger here. Amongst the jets and the pilots, the mechanics and the helicopters, I feel so small. Like the ground could open up and swallow me whole with no consequence. I know I don't belong, but I walk along anyway, step for step with my father who practically owns the ground we walk on and the skies above.
The hanger is large and imposing, just as they always are. Tall buildings meant to swallow jets, blocks wide and just as deep. The hanger is painted that same sad taupe hinted gray color as everything else, yet it's more imposing than the rest. There's a metaphor here, somewhere. Something about soulmates and their ability to blend into the background until they are standing right in front of you, suddenly the only thing in your view. Yet, the only thing that my mind can fixate on is the stuttering of my heart and the sweat collecting in my palms.
A section of the hanger is set up with tables and chairs, all perfectly pushed in and lined up. It's a classroom of sorts, the fresh air carried in through the open doors of the hanger. If I cared about this part of the world, the Navy that is, I could get lost in the diagrams scrawled across chalk boards scattered around the space. I could zone in on something to distract from the tension in my body, though it seems to be the only thing keeping me standing. It takes an extra moment for me to pull myself back to reality.
At the front of the room, a man leans up against a table, back to us while another man sits in front of him, legs up on the table. They are both in uniform, though their body language is excessively causal. They don't notice as we approach, too wrapped up in each other to care about how their conversation carries through the hanger.
"I know it's going to be a change, Mav, but it's going to be good,"
"You know me, Ice, I'm not good at staying in one place,"
Then, my father coughs, a subtle way to express our presence. He's always been a man of subtly if he could help it. That has the pair turning to us, their conversation now on hold. The man sitting doesn't get up, but he pulls his feet down from the table. His mop of brown hair is un-styled and no doubt out of regulation, but the Captain's bars sit dutifully upon his collar speak louder. The other man is all striking eyes and light hair, face full of wrinkles but in the way well conditioned leather is. Warn and loved. I would recognize him anywhere, though our history is nothing more than brief snippets of memories now, of history past and gone.
"Excuse us, Captain Mitchell," My father sounds all business, and then his eyes catch the blond man, "Admiral Kazansky, sir," I seem to be the only one who picks up the waver in his voice.
"Cyclone," The pair speak in time. Their eyes flash to me then back to my father, their expressions natural. I focus in on Kazansky. His lip twitches just a bit, almost cracking into a grin. But he's better than that, the COMPACFLT is much too skilled in the interpersonal relationships that come with his position to let a smile slip. The three men bounce glances between them. The stern expression that Captain Mitchell once held is breaking, eyes twinkling as a subtle smirk curls across his lips.
"Oh!" My father almost exclaims, turning to me, "This is my Daughter. Birdie, this is Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, and the Commander of the Pacific Fleet, Admiral Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky,"
The introduction has the Captain rising form his seat. He leans over the table, one hand planted firmly to the top whilst the other extends my direction. There is no care for the files spread out over the top, just his palm pressed firmly to the surface. His smile is all crooked teeth and kindness. I return the smile, ignoring the way my father fights off a grimace. The Captain commands the room, from the angle of his shoulders to the way confidence bleeds from him. He thrives with each new set of eyes directed straight at him, and I am no exception.
"It's nice to officially meet you, Pete," I shake his hand firmly. I hope he can't feel the layer of sweat that coats my palm. If he does, he doesn't mention it. There is no questioning of my phrase, either, like it's almost expected that people know him, officially and otherwise. I can no longer hide my own smirk, as incomplete pictures from my memory are snapping together, finally whole. This is Pete, Tom's soulmate, his husband, his wingman. After this brief introduction, the pieces are falling into place. I have heard my fair share of stories about this very man, but nothing like what someone might expect. Where there are usually tales of heroics and jets, Tom has filled those spaces with tells of their private life.
I know that Pete texts Tom constantly, even though Tom hates anything having to do with cellphones. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell drinks whole milk, something that Tom can't wrap his brain around. He washes the dishes with wash cloths instead of sponges. Little details, intimate but not private information, and it rolls around somewhere in the back of my head.
"The pleasure is all mine, Birdie," I believe him wholly, no question in my mind that he takes pleasure in meeting me- in watching my father squirm. His smile only grows. His eyes are flicking between me and my father who is standing just over my shoulder, a foot or two away. I turn my attention to the man next to Pete. Tom, as he introduced himself to me when he first met, is nothing but shinning eyes and a grin of ambrosia. He rolled his eyes at me, a laugh dancing from his lips the first time I called him Admiral Kazansky. I never have quite figured out the humor there.
"It's great to see you again, Tom," I ignore the confused glances as I greet him, stretching my hand out towards him. He rolls his eyes fondly.
"Get that hand out of here!" Tom chuckles, pushing himself off of the table, "Who do you think I am? Come around here and give me a hug, Little Bird!"
He embraces me, taking me into the fullness of his hug. He bleeds warmth in the way Pete bleeds confidence. I take it in, letting it swallow me whole. There's a scent that clings to Tom's clothes, something that I've never quite been able to place. It's rich and clove full, over taking my senses. There is something special about a hug from the Iceman. He asks how I've been, his lips pressing into my hair. I'm still smiling, somehow impossibly wider as I pull back to meet his eyes once more.
"Well, Tom," I chuckle in turn as he takes my hands in his own. "I-" There's a hesitation. Even with the adrenalin of reuniting, anxiety still has it's claws dug deep into my skin. I drag my teeth over the fullness of my bottom lip before continuing. "It happened, and I'm..."
"Somewhere between bargaining and boycotting?" His eyes scrunch at the corners, long lines of skin creasing with knowledge and understanding. There's such a kindness in his eyes and it threatens to break me open. Tom has always been able to read me like this. It used to freak me out, in the beginning. He could look at me for less than a minute and surmise just what was thrumming through me, even if confusion seemed to cloud my own understanding.
"Cut that out!" I laugh gently, squeezing at his hands with my own. He squeezes back, that knowing look plastered behind his glasses. "I hate it when you do that, you know," I don't.
"What can I say," he winks. He still holds me close, closer than any newly introduced folks should. I dodge the rhetorical, focusing my sights elsewhere.
"With everything you've told me, your soulmate being the man who irritates my father to high heaven really makes sense," I shoot a look over to Pete. He quirks an eyebrow. I can feel my father's eyes square and solid between my shoulder blades. The Admiral is laughing, the sound a bit scratchy against his throat, but it's whole and happy. "How's your health?"
God, that's a scary question, but I can't keep it tucked under my tongue. His expression goes soft, soft in the way melted candles are when their wax is hardening after the flame is blown out. There's a strength being regained there, beneath it all, cooling. I can see the ice cold, no mistakes veil flicker behind his eyes and it's a comfort. a familiarity from long time past.
"I'm good, Little Bird," He grips my hands a little tighter, thumbs pressing into the tops of my hands, "Scans are clear, have been for a few months now. I'm good,"
"I am so beyond happy for you, Tom," I pull him into another hug, tighter this time. I mumble into his collar, for the both of you. He squeezes me tighter. It's a thank you, if I've ever felt one. It only lasts a moment before my father is clearing his throat again, no doubt confused and likely feeling awkward watching his daughter embrace one of his heroes so freely. I look at Pete first, who looks confused too, but more interested than anything, before turning to meet my father's eyes.
My father looks like he's ready to speak, but his mouth only opens and closes a few times before he scrunches his whole expression. No words are said. I stand next to Tom, wanting to bounce on the balls of my feet out of pure nervousness. I don't. Mostly because I don't want my father to give me that disapproving look- and because standing next to Tom is more comforting than I remember it being.
"Are either of you gonna clue us in?" Pete supplies, a hint of joy behind his voice. Between the look on Tom's face, all kind and warm, and the look on my father's, confused and frustrated, there's no doubt in my mind that Pete is having an absolute hay day with all of this.
"I worked at the USO in Pensacola, and did stints out in D.C, and Maryland with the org too, and Tom just so happens to spend a lot of time stuck at the USO," I giggle a bit, nervousness bubbling through the explanation.
"Little Bird and I have spent a lot of time together over the last couple of years, over cold sodas and prepackaged food," Tom laughs at the memory, "I don't think anyone plays a better game of Pinochle than this young woman right here,"
"I've had a lot of practice, thanks to you, Tom,"
My father, with still furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line, gives us a curt nod of understanding, signaling his readiness to move onto a new subject. As fun as it to watch my father wriggle under the intense stares of the other men, I still smile sheepishly at him. I know this is not even close to why we walked all the way out here in the first place. My nerves are shot, thinking about it all. I don't know how much longer I can smile and pretend that my thoughts aren't racing a thousand miles an hour over this whole situation.
"What brings you two out to the hanger this afternoon?" Tom asks, lacing his hands politely in front of him. Pete sits atop the desk now, looking just as interested to help as Tom does.
"Mav, roster up," My father directs, cutting to the chase. His features are stern and even, leaving nothing to be deciphered through them. Maverick quirks a brow.
"What?" Maverick asks with a cock of his head.
"I'll explain when you're through," Dad waves his hand non committedly, "Roster up"
"Bradshaw, Seresin, Tra-"
"With first names, if you could, please, Maverick," My father interrupts with a mildly defeated sigh.
"Do you want them in alphabetical order too?" Pete asks, smirking. My father just shoots him one of those looks. Tom and I both bite back chuckles. Mine is nervous, Tom's is nothing but bright.
"Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Sersein," Maverick starts slow, pretending like he is trying to remember just to get further under my father's skin. He even counts them off on his fingers. "Natasha Trace, Rueben Fitch, Javy Machado. They are our main pilots, with Robert Floyd and Mickey Garcia as our main WSO's. We also have a backup team that we call in from other detachments if-"
"Robert Floyd," The words are directed at me, cutting Maverick off. He's spoken the name like an Epiphone. My father's eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised. "I told you there was no Rhett,"
"But I know what I saw, Dad, and Rhett is in that photograph," I counter back feeling defensive and confused, but I know what I saw. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, even as I bury my face in my hands. It shouldn't be this hard; Rhett is in that photograph, even if they want to fight me on it. I'd die on this hill.
"Rhett?" Maverick interjects. A hand is placed on my shoulder. I pull my gaze from my hands. The hand belongs to Maverick. He's leaning towards Tom and I, hand on my shoulder to offer a sort of comfort. "Rhett Floyd? Bob's twin brother?"
Consider me wrong... and dead. Dead wrong.
"Oh, for fucks sake," My face is landing right back into my hands as I sink to the ground. The tension in my body is no longer enough to keep me standing. Pete is over the table in a second, sinking down to the floor next to me. Tom's hand is planted firmly over the lip of the tabletop above my head to keep me from smacking my skull against it.
"Birdie?" Pete asks gently, putting his hand back onto my shoulder. I can't find the words or the heart to explain it all again.
"This Bob," I sniffle, my voice still muffled by my hands, "Does he know Hagman?"
"Hangman" My father corrects.
"Yeah, they know each other," Pete confirms, his voice softer than before. I lean my head against Tom's thigh as my father pulls a chair out to sit, to be closer to my level.
"Want to tell us more, kid?" Tom's voice is low, gravely and it wraps around me like a warm wind.
The words are stuck in my throat, the letters making a home in the folds of my vocal cords. I want to speak. I want to pick the words from the swollen flesh of my throat and piece them together in some sort of serial killer magazine cut-out letter for the world to read. Maybe they could print it in the paper. The carbon smudges and inky fingerprints could then find their way to Bob. To Jake. To Rhett. To the men who sit with me now and wait so patiently for me to put my own tongue on a plate for their sheer understanding.
These men, Pete, Tom, and my father have taken so much grace with me and with this whirlwind of a shit show. Tears swim behind my eyelids, threatening to roll down my cheeks. My tongue is still at home behind my teeth, but somehow words are creeping up coated in bile and anxiety.
"I met Jake and Rhett at the airport in Dallas this morning," I manage after a few moments. I've spread the whole interaction out in my brain, cutting pieces like I'm editing an old film reel. Cut this, keep that. If only there was a way to reshoot a scene, cut something better than the flimsy film I lived. I can't speak another word, instead I thread my fingers into the neck of my t-shirt. With an uneven sigh, I pull the neck down, revealing the sentence scrawled delicately across my collarbone.
Oh, it's just Bob.
Tom doesn't look. I don't either, but my father and Pete are focused in on the ink. There's a beat of silence, like everyone is holding their breath at the same time. Nobody dares say anything. I just burry my face in my hands again.
"And you've never heard this before?" Tom inquires, assessing all of the details. I can only shake my head no. My less than dignified response is met with hums of understanding.
"Did it feel like this with you guys?" I ask the room, "So... fucked?"
And then Pete laughs. He fucking laughs. There's the swift sound of a hand hitting the back of a head, and then Pete counters back with a groan. I can hear my father fighting back a giggle, but I don't pull my hands away to see anything. I can hear enough; the darkness of my caged fingers seems to be the only thing to keep the drowning feeling from taking over again.
"Oh, kid, you've got no idea" Pete is chuckling again. No hand smack to the back of the head this time. That gets me to peek out from behind my fingers. "Picture this," Pete makes a dramatic gesture outwards with his hands, setting the scene, "It's 1986, night before we are to report to TOPGUN and Goose and I were at the O Club. It's a bar- and back then, people were smoking inside-"
"Get to the point, Captain," My father mutters.
"Anyway, I'd know Goose for forever by that point. We were in that damn bar for the first time, talking like usual and he looks at me and goes You wanna know who the best is? and I swear all the color drained from my face in that moment. We had gone to that bar to let loose before training started and instead of getting to drink and relax, Goose had to mother me,"
I can't lie and say that Mav's story doesn't make me feel a bit better but all I can manage is a hum in acknowledgement. No more words come.
"I had the pleasure of finding out moments before, that same night," Tom chimes in from above me, my head still laid against his thigh. "Slider, my RIO, found out that Mav and Goose slid into the class at the last second. I didn't have any idea that it would have turned out the way that it did. Not with my sentence."
"Hey, we did not slide in," Maverick's voice goes slightly tighter, laced with annoyance.
"Sliders words, not mine, first of all. And second, Slider had pointed across the room and told me he had to go accost the new guys, then pointed to you and Goose. I'd known about Goose through Slider, but when I asked him who else he was going to torment he looked at me and said the hot brunette."
The laugh that escapes my lips catches us all off guard. My father is laughing too, right along with me. Tom joins in a second later, a chorus of laugher around a smug Maverick who's mumbling about still being hot.
The wind shuffles through the large open door of the hanger, lukewarm by the time it reaches us. But Maverick's hand on my shoulder is warm, as is Tom's thigh beneath my cheek. My father looks at me as if I were the sun. His eyes not quite meeting my own. His narrow eyes crease the skin around them, a shallow biological attempt at reflecting some of my emotion right back at me. It's stifling, even under the abnormally chill of the fall evening as we are tucked into the back of the hanger.
It's safe here, if only for a fleeting moment. My heart broke open next to my severed tongue, both resting atop a sliver platter. But these men are not vultures, they are not here for the taking. Instead, they are art restorers and surgeons and everything soft, comforting and warm. They serve only to take the broken and severed pieces of myself and repair them. To put them back into the cavernous spaces of my body that yearn to have them back. The same parts that yearn for bourbon, God, and Bob.
And maybe that says something about me; the inability to keep my own broken parts together and how they cut into my skin when they were mine and mine only to hold. But here and now, these men holding pieces of me with gentle hands whilst they share pieces of themselves. It gives me hope. Hope that everything is going to be alright. It can be heard in the laughter.
"Hey Dad, Pops, Cyclone and... stranger? What's all the laughing about, and why are you on the ground?" A new voice breaks us out of our haze of laughter. I'm wiping at my eyes, a bit startled at the presence of a new person. He's tall, mustache clad and pure muscle. He saunters over to us, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his flight suit.
This man carries himself with the kind of confidence only overly cautious people exude. Shoulders square but slumped in on himself. His steps have a small hang-up when he catches my eyes, a wariness stemming from somewhere unseen. Maybe it's the way I, a stranger, am triangulated between his superiors all too casually.
"Hey Baby Goose," Mav greets him, warm crooked smile and squinted eyes. It's fonder than the smile I received. "What are you doing here?" The first questions from the stranger was dashed- but the nickname connects another set of dots in my brain. I look up at Tom and mouth Bradley? in silent question. It's met with a proud smile and a nod. I know of Bradley. Of course I know of Bradley.
I know of him in the same way I know of Pete, little fragments of information in the back of my brain. He likes mustard, a lot. Has an affinity for terrible Hawaiian shirts. Flies just like Mav, though Tom only admitted that after he'd been awake for a little over thirty hours. An ex college baseball player, and a current baseball fanatic. Bradley Bradshaw is Tom Kazansky's pride and joy.
"I'm here for the hop you schedualed," Bradley says like it's obvious knowledge, "Oh, and Hangman made it back this morning. He's in the locker room getting changed. I think I saw Phoenix and Bob pull in too,"
"The hop?" Tom asks.
"The hop?" Pete asks too, a little more urgently. Those two little words are bathed in question and a bit of panic.
"Yeah... The hop that you schedualed? Are you okay, Mav?" Bradley asks, eyes focused on Pete. The older man just nods, his eyes darting around like he's trying to remember scheduling the hop in the first place.
"He's fine, Baby Goose," Tom reassures his son, but doesn't clue him in to anything else.
"Bob is here?" My father asks, suddenly swerving the conversation in a whole new direction. Of course my father would be the one to speak up about the fact turned issue that we all clocked the moment the words left Bradley's lips. Ever the mediator and coraller of the vagary, Cyclone makes my business his business, even more than it already had been. My father's always been able to make sense of the world, even when I can barely tell left from right.
And right now, left abandoned me somewhere between the airport and the gate to base. No doubt forgotten like a wallet in between the seats of the taxi. Right, as far as I'm concerned, has achieved sentience and think's it's main objective is to tell up or down apart and its bad at it's job.
"Yes, Bob is here. Everyone should be here this evening. Are you here to observe the hop, Admiral?" There is a confusion to Bradley's voice. It sounds like he is doing his best to act casual, yet professional in front of his superiors.
"Not exactly, Lieutenant Bradshaw," My father sighs, pointing a finger towards me, "The woman between your fathers is my daughter Birdie, and we are..." He trails off, trying to find the words. With a roll of my eyes, I stick my hands out in an attempt to ask for help getting to get to my feet. Bradley takes the hint, stepping forward to grasp my hands and pull me up from the ground.
This close, Bradley is all tepid touches and musk. A small hickey peaks out from under the collar of his flight suit, but it looks like it was made half hearted- left pink and speckled rather than bruised dark and purple with passion. Bradley holds my hand an extra second or two, maybe longer. I'm lost in the pattern of his skin for a moment as he steadies me on my feet.
A squeeze of my hands before he releases them brings me back around.
"Thanks, Bradley," My soft smile is met with his confused look. Eyebrows are dropped low over narrowed eyes.
"How do you know my name?" The question is clipped short by the tightening of his throat.Definitely anxiety masked as confidence.
"I know a lot about you, Bradley," I chuckle. As stressed out as I am, even with the run down feeling weighing at my shoulders I still find it somewhere within me to make jokes. "Tell me, Bradley, do you still have that blanket with the awful duck pattern all over it?"
I watch Bradley's eyes go wide, mouth falling open. There's stunned, there's scared, and then there is whatever look Bradley Bradshaw is giving me right now. I'm barely keeping it together, but Tom and Pete are losing it. Big, loud laughter fills the air.
"They're," Is all Bradley can manage after a moment, his eyes scanning my face feverishly, "...geese"
The look on his face is good, but the worry flashing behind his eyes makes me ease up.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry! I'm friends with Tom! He likes to talk about you, a lot, and I saw my chance to fuck with you and I took it, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you!" I finally apologize, the look on Bradley's face becoming too much to take. I do giggle, though.
Bradley looks over my shoulder at Tom with narrow eyes, "I hate you, for the record,"
"I know you do,"
"Who do we hate?" Fuck, I know that voice. I recoil a bit at it, my face scrunching up as far as it can. I bristle but I stand strong.
"My Pops," There's faux anger in Bradley's voice, "He's letting his friends use personal information against me,"
"Oh, in that case, I'm sure you deserve it, Roos," Jake jokes, "Who's the-" Then his eyes meet mine as he appears from behind Bradley. "Birdie!?"
"Wait, you're Rooster?" The nickname clicks.
Bradley exclaims at the same time, "You're Birdie?!"
"God, this world is too fucking small!" I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. I turn to look at Pete and Tom. Tom shrugs while Pete just chuckles on. It's like they both know, or knew, something I don't and are basking in the pure knowledge of it.
"You okay, Birdie?" My father asks, pushing himself up from his seat.
"I'm okay, Dad," I reassure him. He lowers his voice when he gets closer, asking again if I'm really okay. I shrug, but nod, doing my best to flash him my most convincing smile.
"You're Cyclone's kid? Cyclone's Birdie?" Bradley asks, "The woman Jake met this morning?" I nod in acknowledgment, my smile faltering. "Oh my God, that means you're Bob's-!" Bradley's words are halted by a swift elbow to the ribs. I swear I can feel the pain of it too, radiating somewhere between my ribs. Maybe it's just the anxiety.
"You told him?"
"I did, I'm sorry," Jake starts, almost tripping over his words. "Can we talk? Privately?"
"We better," I counter back, no venom but all bite. Jake and I break away from the group, walking away from the classroom set up. Eyes linger on us for only a moment. The lukewarm air blowing in from the open hanger door is cooling the closer we get to the exit. He takes me by the elbow, leading me out of the hanger and down the sidewalk. We finally stop between the hanger and another small building near the gate to the airfield.
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