REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way ,I love writing them all!)
🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟
You didn’t remember how you got to the couch. One minute, you were kissing in the kitchen, and the next,Danny’s strong hands were pushing you down, his body already hovering over yours, his mouth everywhere.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured between kisses, voice husky.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathed, tugging his shirt over his head.
His abs flexed as he straddled you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “Damn. Okay, bossy.”
“You love it,” you whispered, grabbing the waistband of his sweats.
He hissed between his teeth as your hand slid under. “Fuck, babe…”
Your name fell from his lips like a prayer. The pace between you two was desperate, needy, fast. You were already half-naked, thighs parted, back arching as he kissed down your chest, sucking a bruise right under your collarbone.
“Danny…”
“Say it again,” he muttered, tongue flicking over your nipple.
You gasped, threading your fingers through his hair. “Danny…Jesus”
His grin was smug. “He’s not the one making you moan like that.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you’re full of me in about… ten seconds,” he growled.
You giggled breathlessly. “Promise?”
He hooked your legs around his hips and grinded down against you, slow and deliberate. You let out a soft, needy sound, and his eyes rolled back for a second.
“Fuck, you’re unreal,” he whispered.
Just as he reached down, lining himself up—
BRRRRRING. BRRRRRING.
You both froze.
Danny's head dropped against your chest. “No way.”
BRRRRRING.
“Ignore it,” you groaned, pulling him back down. “Please.”
He reached for the phone just to hit Do Not Disturb,but paused.
You saw the look on his face and sat up. “Who is it?”
He turned the screen so you could see:
Mamá.
Your jaw dropped. “No way. Now?”
“She always knows,” he whispered, voice panicked. “She’s psychic.”
You tried not to laugh. “Are you seriously gonna answer?”
“She’ll think I’m dead!”
“She should hope you’re getting laid!”
He swiped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear, trying to clear his throat and talk like he wasn’t still rock hard and ready to absolutely wreck you.
“Hola, Mamá…”
You lay back, covering your face in the blanket so she wouldn’t hear you wheezing with laughter.
Danny cleared his throat again. “Sí, estoy bien… sí, comí… no, Mamá, I’m not in trouble.”
His hips were still between your legs, and you were still panting, watching his chest rise and fall. You gave him the look and slowly dragged your nails down his back.
He choked,literally choked,mid-sentence.
“Estoy bien!” he coughed, glaring at you.
You mouthed, Payback’s a bitch.
He turned slightly, as if that would help, and kept nodding. “Sí… no, no estoy solo.”
You froze.
He realized what he said too late.
There was a pause on the other end, and then:
“¿¡CON QUIÉN ESTÁS!?”
Danny flinched like he’d been slapped.
You burst into silent laughter.
“Uh,solo un,una amiga,” he stammered.
Ouch, you mouthed, pretending to clutch your heart. Friend?!
He held the phone away and whispered, “I’m so sorry. She’s gonna start asking questions.”
You licked your lips and leaned up to whisper in his ear, just loud enough.
“She doesn’t have to wonder. I can scream your name and confirm.”
His eyes widened.
You smirked and pulled him down again, hips shifting under him, just enough to make him twitch.
“Okay, Mamá,” he said shakily. “Sí, I’ll call you tomorrow. Te amo.”
He slammed the phone down.
You didn’t even finish your laugh before he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head. “You’re evil.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you teased. “Just… helped paint a picture.”
Danny kissed you, deep and hot and a little pissed off.
“‘A friend’?” you teased against his lips. “That what I am?”
“You’re gonna make me say it while my mom’s voice is still echoing in my head?”
“Mmhm.”
He kissed down your throat, teeth scraping your skin. “Fine. You’re my girl. My problem. My addiction.”
You arched against him. “Keep going.”
He slid inside you with a slow, deep thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He started moving, fast, punishing, like he needed to chase away every trace of that damn phone call. Your bodies moved in sync, messy and frantic. The couch creaked. The air was thick with heat and panting and your name falling from his lips again and again.
“Look at me,” he growled. “I wanna see you when you fall apart.”
You did. And when it happened, when your body clenched around him and you gasped his name, he followed right after, burying his face in your neck with a broken groan.
The room went quiet except for your heavy breathing and a little squeak from the couch springs.
Danny collapsed on top of you, still catching his breath. “If she calls again, I’m joining the priesthood.”
You laughed breathlessly. “You’d make a terrible priest.”
“I really would. I’m too into sin.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Next time, we put the phone on airplane mode.”
“Next time,” he whispered, “I’m throwing it out the fucking window.”
Warnings: Drunkenness/alcohol!! Other than that all fluff. Canon-typical asshole Hangman. established relationship and mentions of introverted girlfriend - no use of y/n
Description: While drinking at the Hard Deck with his fellow daggers, Fanboy finally gets to prove the origins of his callsigns through his drunken ramblings about his (civilian) girlfriend.
WC: 1,580
A/N: My first time posting fanfiction on this account!! Glad it’s dedicated to my underrated husband <33 - on that note, I did write this instead of studying (I’m mid exams) as a form of procrastination, and honestly a de-stressing exercise type thing lmao
“Earth to Garcia?” Mickey hears as he slowly raises his head from his phone, awaiting a text from his girlfriend after the string of ‘I miss you’ and ‘you won’t believe what Reuben just said’ messages.
“Huh? Did you say something?” Fanboy responds, unsure of who grabbed his attention.
“Man, what’s even so interesting on your phone? Come on! Live in the moment!” Javy disappointedly scolded him, gaining some nods and murmurs of agreement. Majority of the squadron were sitting in a spacious booth, various alcoholic drinks accompanying them. Fanboy was squished in between Payback and Hangman while sitting across from Phoenix, Bob and Coyote while Fritz and Rooster sat at the end in seperate chairs.
“Sorry I find my girlfriend more interesting than you guys.” Fanboy scoffed sarcastically.
“Really? Doesn’t seem like she’s responding anytime soon.” Hangman joked with that bothersome southern drawl, peering over to see Fanboy’s one sided conversation. He didn’t blame you, it was late. Really late. The daggers were given a day off and decided to celebrate, not having to worry about getting up early - despite the fact majority probably would anyways.
“She’s probably just asleep, she has exams.” Fanboy defended, he didn’t want the others to get the wrong idea, that he was needy or anything. Though, it didn’t really help. But he wasn’t lying, you were mid exam week in college and were conditioning yourself to a better sleep schedule, he would probably tell you to go to sleep if you did ever respond.
“Mhm… I’m starting to think she’s been made up.” Hangman mocked, no matter how much alcohol he has - he will always find a way to push someone’s buttons. If anything, the alcohol made him more irritating. But before Fanboy could interject, he was saved by his best friend.
“Trust me, she’s real.” Payback groaned. Fanboy wasn’t surprised that he backed him up, or that he seemed so annoyed about it. Reuben had nothing against you, to be honest, he hadn’t even met you in person. But, he did have the unfortunate role of being the closest to Mickey in every outburst he had when he was away from you for too long and needed to scroll through all your shared memories. Reuben had lost count of how many times Mickey showed him his favourite photo of you two right before he got called to Top Gun.
“Really? I need proof or I’m never believing you.” Hangman emphasised, more likely bored than actually unbelieving. Mickey was attractive, both physically and personality-wise, it’s no shocker he’s dating someone. But when your foundation is being a dickhead, and you add alcohol and boredom to the equation, you need someone to annoy. Fanboy was just the easiest target for Hangman given the situation.
“Haha, no chance.” Fanboy swiftly replied. He absolutely loved showing people photos of you. Displaying you with pride, like a toddler showing off their artwork. But when it came to people in the military, specifically other men in the military, he always felt icky. After hearing too much nasty locker room talk, he really only described you and your shared experiences, keeping away from physical depictions and photos. The only exceptions were guys he really trusted, like Reuben. And it’s not even that he doesn’t trust Jake, he just doesn’t want to risk you getting involved in his constant teasing.
“Come on, you always talk about her - just one photo!” Phoenix chimed in, genuinely curious. Fanboy took a second, he was always easy to persuade when he was drunk. But, he stuck to his values and faced his phone away from Jake while scrolling through his favourites album.
“Seriously?” Hangman bluntly groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. “I swear I wont actually say anything weird.” Hangman pleaded, that signature smile spread across his slightly flushed cheeks.
“No shot.” Mickey responded, clicking on one of his favourites of you. You were in a beautiful black dress with some light makeup, it was the one time he ever successfully persuaded you to go to a big party. You were smiling widely, holding onto Mickey while both of you were laughing your asses off. It was a candid one of your mutual friends took while you were both drunk out of your minds. Your hair was slightly tucked behind your ear, revealing an earplug. You were never good with loud noises or bustling groups, so Mickey bought you earplugs to colour match your jewellery. You seemed so happy, and Mickey couldn’t have been more relieved. He was terrified that he would finally get you to go out to a big party and you would hate it, so he sought to make you as comfortable as possible in the situation.
He proudly flipped his phone towards the other side of the booth, presenting you to Phoenix, Bob and Coyote while Rooster and Fritz peeked over. Just about everyone was curious at this point, they had always gotten bits and pieces of his ranting about you but never actually seen the face that matches the admiration.
“Aww!! She’s so pretty.” Bob reacted softly, trying not to overstep but also wanting to validate Fanboy.
“The dress is stunning on her.” Phoenix raved with an approving smile to Fanboy.
“I know, everything’s stunning on her.” He sighed thoughtfully. Despite the fact you were dating, he was still acting like a schoolgirl yearning over her celebrity crush. The others could only laugh at this, while Hangman just drank from his beer. He doesn’t usually feel left out due to his very extroverted and dominating personality, but this was an exception.
“Well that explains a lot.” Rooster chuckled.
“Huh?” Fanboy was seemingly brought out of his trance, tilting his head at Rooster’s comment.
“Your callsign, always wondered what warranted it.” Rooster elaborated, gaining a group-wide laugh. It was so true, he was full on fanboying over you.
His slight embarrassment to his exposure was quickly taken to a halt when his phone buzzed while Phoenix was holding his phone, admiring the photo.
“Mickey baby, you drinking responsibly or just drinking?” You texted. You couldn’t help but laugh at the seemingly millions of messages you had gotten while locked in studying - cramming - for your next exam in… about 7 hours.
Mickey chuckled at your message the moment he snatched his phone back. But, his remaining responsibility took control as he replied.
“You should be sleeping! I love youuuuuuuuuu1!1!1!! go to sleep!” He typed out, his heart sad that he knows he can’t keep you up. But, his last remaining brain cells were aware that you needed to sleep for your big exam in the morning.
“No fair, you texted me first.” You groaned, knowing he was right.
“Yeahhh but like…. I don’t have work in the morning.” He sighed, he was so excited for your exams to be over so he could endlessly bug you without feeling guilty about taking up your time.
“What’s going on now?” Hangman interjected, finally trying to weasel his way back into the conversation.
“I’m telling her to go to sleep, I wasn’t lying - she’s got exams.” Fanboy whined, he was desperate to talk to you - he was always extra clingy when drunk.
“Ooh that reminds me of this other photo.” He quickly switched up, you stopped replying so he could tell you got the message and (hopefully) went to sleep rather than uselessly cramming.
“Oh lord not again.” Reuben moaned, falling back into the seat while he had to sit through yet another rant about you.
“I took this one after the last one when we were in bed..” Mickey was swiftly cut off by some disapproving noises.
“No, no, not like that, it’s nothing sexual - it’s cute!” Mickey reassured, not surprised that his friends’ minds immediately went there.
He pulled up a photo of him lying on your chest while you were both pressed together on your sides, lipstick marks all over his face. He had about a dozen kisses on his face printed from your lipstick, and he couldn’t have been happier. He and you were both still clearly drunk - only the bottom half of your face in frame. Your hair was dangling onto Mickey while he was tucked just below your chin, leaning into your chest. Your smile was just in frame, while his was front and centre. He loved the photo not only for its contents, but also the fact that it was one of your favourites. Mickey explained to his friends the backstory, and how you never really liked seeing or taking photos of yourself. So the fact that you were only partially in frame yet your presence was one of the most significant aspects, it was perfect.
“Okay, okay, we get it - you’re an absolute fanboy. Can we talk about something else now?” Hangman complained, still excluded from the presentation.
“This is what you get for being such an asshole and taking advantage of any personal thing we tell you, Bagman.” Phoenix responded, utilising her daily humbling moment. With a few ‘karma’ and ‘deserved’ comments flying around alongside the comfortable laughter, Mickey couldn’t help but feel so at home. He missed you more than anything, and he couldn’t wait to introduce you to his friends.
“Good night baby ❤️ ❤️” you finally texted back.
“Were you studying just then??”
“I had to finish up!!”
“Yeah? Well good night sweetheart, sleep well ❤️” he replied, shaking his head with a small chuckle.
The bass was already hitting before they even got out of the Uber.
It thumped through the pavement, up their legs, like a second heartbeat under the streetlights. The whole squad piled out of the SUV, laughter spilling into the night. It was hot, humid, coastal air clinging to their skin, the kind that stuck to your clothes in all the right (and wrong) places.
Phoenix was the first out, pulling the door open with a grin. “If anyone leaves sober, I’m disowning you.”
Fanboy climbed out after her with a snort. “If I go missing, check the DJ booth.”
Payback pointed at him. “No, check the bar. That’s where your heart lives.”
Then came Bob—tall, quiet, awkward as hell in his fitted navy button-down and clean jeans, adjusting his glasses and scanning the building like he was about to walk into a mission briefing.
And then there was you—Whiskey—last one out.
You swung your legs out slow, like you knew every single person was already watching. Hair down. Lip gloss shimmering. Tight black dress that hugged your hips and stopped mid-thigh. Heels loud on the concrete as you stepped forward, eyes gleaming under the city lights.
Bob looked up at the sound of your heels and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Cyclone had approved a rare Friday night leave for all of you after a brutal round of training simulations, and you’d picked the club—a slightly off-the-radar, neon-lit spot downtown with just enough grime to feel cool and just enough glitter to feel dangerous.
The bouncer looked you all over—first with suspicion, then with a grin.
“Y’all Navy?” he asked, cocking his head.
Hangman clapped a hand to Bob’s shoulder and smirked. “You could say that.”
The velvet rope dropped.
Inside, the club pulsed—dim lights flickering pink, purple, gold. The bar to the left glowed like a spaceship, rows of bottles catching light as the bartenders moved like magicians. The dance floor was packed, hips grinding, drinks spilling, music vibrating through every surface. A full sensual hum of bass and breath and heat.
Phoenix whistled low. “Okay, okay. She doesn’t look like much outside, but she’s a whole mood in here.”
“Right?” you smirked, tugging her hand. “Come on. First round’s on me.”
Hangman muttered under his breath, “If this ends in a conga line, I’m out.”
The crew split naturally—Fanboy and Payback made a beeline for the bar to order drinks with way too much liquor and way too little class. Phoenix leaned into you, the two of you laughing as you started naming songs you wanted to hear. Your hips were already swaying before you made it to the bar. Music was your oxygen tonight.
Bob hovered by the edge of the group, a quiet current in a storm, eyes locked on you—how easily you moved, how alive you looked under colored lights, like you belonged in a music video or a fever dream.
“Whatcha drinkin’, Whiskey?” Phoenix yelled over the bass.
“Tequila and trouble,” you shot back with a wink.
Bob nearly choked on his own breath.
You turned toward him, as if you’d felt his eyes on you, and smiled softly. “You gonna stand there all night, Floyd, or are you gonna come get corrupted?”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
“I—I’m coming,” he stammered.
Hangman barked a laugh. “Not yet, I hope.”
You tossed your head back laughing. “Down, cowboy.”
Everyone grabbed drinks, shots, cocktails, beers. Toasts clinked. Someone shouted something about “to bad decisions” and Fanboy tried to start a chant that flopped so hard you all had to pretend it never happened.
Then—the DJ shifted tracks.
You knew it within five seconds.
You shrieked, “PHOENIX—IT’S PINK PONY CLUB!”
“Oh shit!” Phoenix screamed, slamming her shot glass down.
And like that, you were gone. Glasses abandoned, drinks forgotten, you both grabbed each other’s hands and hit the dance floor. You were singing every word at full volume, twirling under the strobes, laughing so hard you nearly fell.
Phoenix shouted to Hangman as she danced past, “Try to keep up, Texas!”
“Not with you two!” he shouted back. “You’ve got main character syndrome!”
Back at the table, Bob watched it all unfold like a man possessed.
You in that dress. You lit up. You singing every line to a glitter-pop anthem like you wrote it yourself. You locking eyes with him mid-chorus, tongue poking out between your teeth, daring him without a word.
He took a long sip of his drink and thought, Heaven help me.
You were just getting started.
———
The lights dimmed just a little deeper.
The beat slowed down.
That soft, sensual guitar riff slid through the speakers like honey. The kind of sound that curled low in your spine and made you sway before you even realized you were moving. And when Romeo Santos whispered the first line, you turned around slowly like you already knew the next chapter of your night had just arrived.
Hangman clocked it instantly. “Oh no.”
You grinned, stalking toward him with the dangerous confidence of a woman who knew what she was doing.
“Oh yes,” you purred.
“Whiskey,” he warned. “I don’t know how to dance to this. This is like… forbidden fruit music.”
“Then consider this your crash course,” you said, grabbing him by the hand. “C’mon, cowboy. I’ll lead.”
“You always do,” he muttered under his breath.
You dragged him onto the dance floor just as Usher’s verse slid in, and he stood there stiffly for a second like he was preparing for a goddamn duel.
“Relax,” you said, stepping in close—closer than close. Your palm landed gently on his shoulder, guiding him. “It’s just three steps. And hips. Always the hips.”
“I have hips,” he said, sounding personally offended.
“Prove it.”
You swayed.
He followed, stiff as a board, and you burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you move like a tax form.”
“Ma’am, this is harassment.”
“This is bachata,” you said, “and you’re doing it with me, so shut up and move your hips.”
Slowly, painfully, he started to get it. You led with subtle, practiced rhythm, rolling your hips just enough to make it dangerous. The beat was slow, romantic, every movement a suggestion instead of a shout. Your hands moved—up his arm, across his shoulder, back down again, always in time with the music.
And then you flipped it—your back to him, his hand on your hip.
He audibly swallowed.
“This feels illegal,” he whispered into your ear.
“Only if you’re doing it right,” you murmured, rocking your hips back into him.
Hangman froze. Fully froze.
You laughed and reached back to grab his hand. “Don’t lock up on me, Texas. Move with me.”
By the time the chorus hit, he’d stopped thinking. You had him—completely in your rhythm, moving like his bones belonged to you. A hand on your hip, the other brushing your arm, breath hot at your neck. He kept messing up the steps, but you didn’t care. He was trying. And he was sweating.
You leaned in and whispered, “You’re a little heavy on the lead, Lieutenant.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not used to dancing like this.”
“No one is. That’s why it works.”
And God, it worked.
By the time the song faded out, Hangman looked like he’d just run a marathon. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His eyes were wide. You turned around slowly, chest to chest, face inches from his, and grinned.
“Well?”
Hangman didn’t answer right away.
He just staggered off the dance floor, shoulders loose, lips parted, breathing like he needed a defibrillator. He got halfway back to the table where Bob, Payback, and Fanboy were watching with drinks in hand before he turned back and said—
“What the fuck? I’m never dancing bachata again. It was too much.”
Fanboy spit beer.
Payback howled.
Bob? Bob looked like he was experiencing a medical event.
Because the whole time Hangman had been struggling through that dance, Bob had been picturing himself in his place—your hips, your hands, your laugh, all pressed against someone else. And now that image was seared into his skull.
And the worst part? You looked even hotter walking off that dance floor, flushed and smiling, dress clinging to every curve like it had something to say.
Bob downed half his drink and prayed.
Hangman had barely recovered from his bachata-induced near-death experience when the speakers shifted again—this time, snapping into a sharp, punchy beat that practically demanded a comeback.
Phoenix grinned.
You turned to her like you were psychic.
“Oh hell yes,” you both said at the same time.
“New Rules.”
“I’ll get us shots,” Payback offered quickly, fully aware of what was about to happen.
Fanboy was already screaming. “OH THEY’RE ABOUT TO GET STUPID WITH IT—SOMEBODY GET A CAMERA.”
You didn’t even look back. You and Phoenix locked eyes, nodded like it was a military maneuver, and hit the floor hard—boots stomping, hips snapping, hair flying. It wasn’t sexy the way Promise had been. This was commanding. Sharp. Confident. Bitchy in the best way.
You knew every lyric.
So did she.
And together? Y’all were untouchable.
“I got new rules, I count ‘em—
One, don’t pick up the phone—”
You pointed at each other like backup dancers in formation. Phoenix spun, hair whipping around her shoulders as she mouthed every word. You dropped into a low shimmy, one hand dragging slowly down your body like a slow clap for your own damn self. The people around you started cheering.
Even the DJ hyped it.
Bob watched with his jaw slack, eyes laser-focused on you like you were some kind of divine punishment sent from heaven to wreck his life in real time.
Because God help him, when you danced like this—with that much joy, that much power, like the entire damn club was your personal runway—he couldn’t even breathe.
Fanboy leaned over. “She’s doing that on purpose.”
“I know,” Bob said quietly.
“She’s killing you.”
“I know.”
Payback slid in next to him. “This is like watching someone flirt by stepping on your throat.”
“I KNOW.”
You grabbed Phoenix’s hand and spun her under your arm like y’all were in a music video, then bumped hips dramatically as you shouted the chorus together—
“I gotta tell them to myself—
DON’T GET UNDER HIM!!”
You were laughing, singing, stomping, alive, and it was contagious. A group of girls joined you on the floor. Even a couple of guys followed your lead. It was a damn movement. You and Phoenix were at the center of it—two fighter pilots fully locked into your off-duty, out-of-uniform, hot girl night out energy.
The song ended in chaos.
Screaming. Clapping. One random girl hugged you and Phoenix like y’all had just saved her from her ex.
You stumbled back to the table, glowing and breathless, and collapsed onto the seat next to Bob.
“You good?” you asked, winking.
He didn’t answer at first. Just blinked slowly like someone rebooting after a blackout.
“…Fine.”
Your smirk turned dangerous.
“You sure? You look a little flushed.”
He was going to combust.
But before he could answer, the DJ clicked something low and filthy into the speakers.
The lights in the club shifted.
Dimmed low.
Tinted red.
Velvet and sin.
And then—
“You make it look like it’s magic…”
You froze mid-laugh.
Phoenix clutched your forearm with a gasp. “Oh my god.”
You looked at her.
She looked at you.
Fanboy looked between you both and whispered, “Uh oh.”
“Cause I see nobody, nobody but you…”
Phoenix started shaking your arm. “Please.”
“No.”
“Please, I’m begging.”
You were already smiling. “Phoenix—”
“Whiskey,” she said in full government tone. “Give me this.”
Bob’s mouth was dry.
Payback was suddenly on the edge of his seat. “Wait, wait, wait, is this happening—”
Phoenix stood and shouted, hands cupped around her mouth:
“ONE SOLO. THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING.”
People nearby turned. The group of girls who danced with you earlier screamed like they’d been waiting for this exact moment their whole lives.
You sipped your drink with faux innocence and turned toward Bob, voice sweet:
“You mind?”
He blinked. “Huh?”
“Phoenix wants a show.”
Bob opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Swallowed hard.
Phoenix shoved your drink out of your hand and dragged you to your feet before you could change your mind.
“You’re a menace,” you hissed at her as she pulled you to the middle of the floor.
“And you’re the main character,” she said proudly. “Go ruin someone’s life.”
“Girl you’re perfect… you’re always worth it…”
You started slow.
Hips swaying, back turned to the table. Hands sliding down the curves of your body like you were setting a fire only you could survive. You danced like honey off the comb—sweet, sensual, dangerous if taken too fast.
Bob was not breathing.
You turned your head just enough to catch him watching.
Frozen. Blushing. Swallowing hard.
“You earned it…”
Your hands lifted above your head. Eyes half-lidded, a little smile playing at your lips. You moved like the song had seeped under your skin—like temptation given form. Your fingers traced a lazy line down your neck, chest, hips. Every movement deliberate. Languid. Intimate.
The room around you blurred.
It wasn’t about the crowd.
It was about him.
And he knew it.
“On that lonely night…”
You turned toward him fully. Walked.
The crowd parted instinctively. Even Phoenix stepped back like she knew something sacred was about to go down.
Bob’s eyes widened as you sauntered closer.
You stopped right in front of him.
Bent just enough to whisper in his ear—
“I like when you look at me like that.”
He made a quiet, strangled sound that did things to your spine.
You pulled back, smirking.
Straightened.
Walked away before you could see his soul leave his body.
Phoenix screamed, “WHISKEY!!” and collapsed into the booth like she’d been tackled.
Payback stood up and fanned himself with a napkin.
Fanboy fell off the couch.
Bob hadn’t blinked in two full minutes.
You slid back into your seat like nothing happened.
Picked up your drink.
Took a sip.
Bob still hadn’t moved.
You leaned toward him and purred, “You doing okay, Lieutenant?”
His hand gripped the edge of the table like he was trying not to levitate.
“…Fine.”
———
The DJ fades into the next track — Neighbors Know My Name — and the booth erupts.
Phoenix throws her head back laughing. “Oh hell yes!” she yells, pounding the table like a judge handing down a sentence. “WHISKEY, PERFORMANCE. NOW.”
Fanboy nearly chokes on his drink. “This is not a drill—this is the horny Hunger Games!”
You stand without a word, just smirking, already moving toward Bob with purpose.
He’s stiff in the booth, hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing for impact.
You straddle him.
Dead silence at the table. Payback whispers, “He’s not surviving this.”
The first lyric hits:
“Soon as we get started making love, goin’ hard I hear a…
(Knock knock) knock knock, knock on the wall.”
Your hips roll against him, slow and controlled, dragging your hands up his chest like you’re carving your name into him.
Bob’s head drops back, a sharp exhale punching out of him.
“And as soon as I go deep, gettin’ it in then again
There goes the (knock knock) knock knock, knock on the wall.”
You mouth the words right in his ear, breath hot, your fingers threading through his hair while your hips grind a slow, relentless rhythm against him.
Bob groans — loud.
The table reacts like a sports bar watching a Hail Mary pass.
Fanboy stands and shouts, “REF! I’M CALLING A TIMEOUT! SHE’S KILLING HIM!”
Phoenix is doubled over, pounding the table again. “SHE’S LITERALLY ENDING HIS BLOODLINE.”
“Bet the neighbors know my name, They be stressin’ while we sexin’”
You whisper the line, and Bob shudders.
You lean back, still on him, your hands on your thighs now, chest heaving as you move to the music like you were born for this exact moment.
“Girl the love we make, gone keep banging on the wall”
Phoenix throws a fry at Fanboy. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”
“I CAN’T,” Fanboy yells. “I THINK I SAW HEAVEN.”
Bob grabs your waist now — tightly — and for a second, his lips almost crash into yours.
But you pull back, teasing, smirking. “You haven’t earned that yet.”
The table groans in sync.
Payback: “Okay but like… I’m a little in love with her too now.”
———
You hear the beat first — a deep dembow, hips-first kind of rhythm — and immediately your whole posture changes. The sway in your walk turns hypnotic. You’re not teasing anymore.
You’re showing off now.
Fanboy sees your face and literally gasps. “Oh no. Oh no. I know that look. That’s a heritage unlock.”
Payback holds up a napkin like a white flag. “I surrender. I can’t handle what’s coming.”
Phoenix leans back like she’s watching the climax of a telenovela. “Y’all. Watch this.”
You turn to Bob, lifting a single brow. “Can you keep up?”
He swallows. “I can try.”
You pull him to his feet like he’s being summoned by a goddess. The music crashes in fully — the percussion pounding, the lyrics fast, raw, spicy. You don’t just dance to this.
You embody it.
You roll your hips, fast and tight, your hands sliding along your waist as you move like you were born in the music. Bob’s behind you now — both of you dancing together, the heat between your bodies blazing.
The lyrics fly:
“Tú me pones mal, baby, con ese cuerpo criminal…”
You drop it low. He stutters. You throw your arm back and wrap it around his neck, winding your hips against him.
Bob’s jaw is clenched, knuckles white on your waist.
Fanboy is straight-up praying at the table. “Santa María, Madre de Dios—”
Phoenix smacks him. “SHUT UP AND LET HER COOK.”
You spin in Bob’s arms and let the beat take you — chest to chest, lips inches apart, and then…
You mouth the next lyric right at his lips, eyes dark, heat dripping from every syllable:
“Tú y yo no somos santos… pero eso es lo que me encanta.”
The tension’s nuclear now. His hands are everywhere — waist, hips, back — like he doesn’t know where to touch first, but he knows he can’t stop.
You’re a whole storm in a black dress.
And he’s drowning beautifully.
———
The lights dim just slightly. A familiar guitar riff slides into the speakers.
The gasps are immediate.
The beginning of “Ella y Yo” echoes through the club.
Phoenix goes, “No—NO. Don’t even think about it.”
You and Fanboy rise in sync from your chairs like you’ve rehearsed this for Broadway.
Whiskey’s jaw is tight, eyes narrowed.
Fanboy’s shaking his head, already pacing in a circle like he’s about to defend himself in court.
The squad? Losing it. Payback has tears forming already.
WHISKEY (storming forward, intense):
“Y te repito, lucha por amor…”
FANBOY (pointing a finger, defensive):
“No me aconsejes en tu posición.”
WHISKEY (mocking):
“Quizás su marido no mande en su corazón.”
FANBOY (louder now):
“No sabes quién es víctima en esta confusión!”
WHISKEY (arms flung wide, voice breaking):
“¡No seas tan tonto, lucha por amor!”
FANBOY (pacing in a full circle):
“No, no me aconsejes en tu posición.”
WHISKEY:
“Quizás ese tipo no mande en su corazón.”
FANBOY (stepping in close):
“Tú no sabes quién es víctima en esta confusión.”
You both pause.
The beat swells.
And then—
⸻
FANBOY (quiet, almost regretful):
“Amigo pido perdón, yo nunca te fallé…”
He grips an imaginary rosary as he continues:
“Me traicionaron las ganas de volverla a ver…”
WHISKEY is glaring, pacing behind him like a betrayed lover.
FANBOY (emotional):
“Y aunque todavía no puedo creer… lo que este amargo encuentro me hizo comprender…”
He turns to you with raw pain in his voice:
“Pues tú también llegaste a ese lugar…”
“Donde tantas veces yo la fui a buscar…”
Phoenix screams, “OH MY GODDDD!”
FANBOY (fully yelling now):
“Y aunque no es fácil lo que voy a hacer…”
“Admitiré que salí con tu mujer.”
⸻
WHISKEY (eyes wide):
“…¿QUÉ?!”
TOGETHER:
“Salí con tu mujer!
Salí con tu mujer!
Salí con tu mujer!”
The dance floor erupts. People are clapping, hooting, and a couple of strangers even join the dramatics like it’s a flash mob.
WHISKEY (gritted teeth, biting out every word):
“Que te perdone Dios, yo no lo voy a hacer…”
“Los perdí a los dos y a la misma vez…”
She spins, grabbing a beer bottle off the table like it’s a fake Oscar trophy.
“Ya veo que todo era mentira cuando ella me decía…”
“Que se iba pa’ Puerto Rico a vacaciones con su amiga…”
Fanboy winces.
Payback is curled in a ball, laughing.
“Me mintió, tú y ella en una cama, allá en Bayamón…”
“Quizás en Isla Verde o Carolina, ¡cuántos hoteles ensució!”
WHISKEY (pointing directly in Fanboy’s face):
“TÚ TAMBIÉN. LOS ODIO A LOS DOS!”
⸻
FANBOY (suddenly soft):
“(No me entiendes…)”
He clutches his chest.
“Que yo, soy quien más sufro con todo esto…”
“Me mata el dolor…”
“Fue una traición…”
“Perdí un amigo por la tentación…”
“…Perdón.”
He lowers his eyes and breathes the last word like a dagger:
“…Adiós.”
⸻
Silence.
Phoenix chokes on her drink.
The table is dead quiet.
The lights pulse purple, pink, and gold. The air’s thick with sweat, laughter, and the scent of overpriced tequila. Phones are still out, people still hollering from the last performance—“¡Eso fue una novela, carajo!”
But the DJ—cheeky bastard that he is—knows exactly what to do next.
The club falls silent for half a beat.
Then:
🎶 “Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…” 🎶
The first strum of Romeo Santos’ “Propuesta Indecente” slides over the speakers like silk.
Too late. She grabs his wrist and drags him back to the floor, hips already rolling with the beat, that devilish grin on her lips.
WHISKEY (singing, seductive, almost whispering):
“Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…”
“Si te robo un besito, a ver, ¿te enojas conmigo?”
Fanboy groans—playfully tortured. “You’re going to get me killed.”
FANBOY (singing, overly dramatic):
“¿Qué dirías si esta noche te seduzco en mi coche…”
“Que se empañen los vidrios y la regla es que goces?”
Their hips are already locked. Whiskey’s hands slide slowly up Fanboy’s chest. She spins, her back to him again, grinding low—
WHISKEY (teasing, turning her head over her shoulder):
“Si te falto el respeto y luego culpo al alcohol…”
“Si levanto tu falda, ¿me darías el derecho…”
FANBOY:
“…A medir tu sensatez?”
“Poner en juego tu cuerpo…”
“Si te parece prudente…”
BOTH (in sync, sultry as hell):
“Esta propuesta indecente…”
Phoenix SCREAMS and nearly knocks over her drink. Payback falls out of his seat. Even Bob chokes, eyes locked on Whiskey as her body moves like the music is built into her bones.
🎶 “Permíteme apreciar tu desnudez… (take it off)”
“Relájate…”
“Que este Martini calmará tu timidez…” (don’t be shy) 🎶
Whiskey whispers the words as she drapes herself over Fanboy, her hands slipping into his hair. He plays along, leaning into it—committed to the bit like a true drama kid.
WHISKEY (in his ear, breath hot):
“Y una aventura es más divertida…”
“Si huele a peligro…”
FANBOY (responding, grinning wide):
“Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…”
“Si te robo un besito, a ver, ¿te enojas conmigo?”
WHISKEY (face inches from his):
“¿Qué dirías si esta noche te seduzco en mi coche?”
“Que se empañen los vidrios y la regla es que goces…”
They sway. They grind. They turn the dance floor into satin sin. People are filming. Couples are making out in the shadows. The vibe is unholy and unstoppable.
🎶 “I’m back…”
“It feels good to be king…”
“Gostoso…”
“Hey…”
“Listen, I know what you like…” 🎶
Fanboy raises a brow. “This you?”
WHISKEY (mock-serious, with a wink):
“How ‘bout if you and I, me and you—bailamos bachata…”
She pulls him into another spin, now dragging the front of his shirt toward her.
WHISKEY (singing):
“¿Terminamo’ en la cama?”
(She grins, mouthing: “que rico.”)
FANBOY:
“How ‘bout if you and I, me and you…”
“¿Bailamos bachata?”
She lets him spin her out, then drags herself back into him, hips never stopping.
BOTH (loud, laughing, drenched in sweat):
“¿Terminamos en la cama?”
And they do it again. And again. And again. Until the whole club is either chanting along or begging them to get a room.
———
The bass drops like a body in the dark.
Whiskey turns slowly on her heel, drink in hand. the second she hears the track change—
She grins.
🎶 “Come and ride on me like the waves…”
Bob looks up from the table. She’s already walking toward him.
🎶 “I flip the pages ’cause I wrote the book on the way…”
“Whiskey,” he starts—warning? prayer? plea?—but she’s climbing right into his lap before he can finish the word.
One knee on each side. Body flush against his. Hands resting on his shoulders like she owns the air around him.
🎶 “How to sex you up, sex you up…”
She rolls her hips once, slow enough to be dangerous. His hands fly to her waist like instinct.
🎶 “We can do it like I’m on the stage, we’ll have an audience…”
He’s not breathing.
She mouths it against his ear—
“Baby, I’ll show you the way that I sex you up…”
He groans so softly it’s almost a whimper.
She leans in, soft and close enough to kiss—but doesn’t.
Instead, she whispers, “I’m not done with you yet.”
🎶 “Baby, just stay comfortable / I want you as you are…”
Bob swallows hard. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
🎶 “Let’s not get emotional / Let’s be who we are…”
She smiles sweetly. “Then don’t.”
🎶 “Keep your eyes closed ’til I roll through…”
Her hips roll again—lazy, slow, torturous.
🎶 “Somebody splittin’ your knees / Don’t worry, that’s me…”
Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback—they’re all frozen, pretending to drink or talk, pretending not to watch a public meltdown happen in real time.
Bob’s flushed. Breathing hard. Wholly undone.
🎶 “Baby, you ain’t gotta tell me what you want…”
———
The song winds down—
Usher’s last moaned lyric disappearing into the thud of the next beat. Bob looks wrecked. Flushed. Eyes heavy. Still gripping the edge of his seat like it’s the only thing tethering him to the floor.
Whiskey leans in one last time, her nose brushing his jaw, lips warm with tequila and trouble.
“Be right back,” she hums.
And just like that, she’s sliding off his lap—slowly, cruelly, like she knows exactly what kind of hell she’s leaving him in—and saunters off toward the bar.
Phoenix exhales hard. Fanboy whispers, “She did all that on a remix. God help us if the DJ ever plays ‘Wicked Games.’”
Bob’s hands are still in his lap. Fists clenched. He watches Whiskey disappear into the crowd, hips swaying with the same rhythm she used to ruin him.
He stands up.
The bartender is wiping down the counter when Whiskey slides into the empty space. She taps twice on the counter. “One more of whatever that cherry cinnamon thing was—”
“Whiskey.”
She turns.
Bob’s behind her. Eyes still dark, voice rougher than she’s ever heard it. He steps close—too close. One arm on the bar next to her, the other on her waist like he can’t stop himself anymore.
“Uh… you kinda need to stop,” Bob says, voice a little breathless, like he’s trying to keep it together but failing.
Whiskey blinks, surprised. “Wait. Did I just embarrass you?”
He scrambles for words, cheeks burning hotter. “Yeah. Kind of. But… not exactly the way you’d expect.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Whiskey says softly, the teasing edge melting away as guilt colors her tone. She bites her lip, suddenly aware of the heat radiating between them.
Then, almost without thinking, Bob reaches out, capturing her hand and sliding it down—right to where his body tells a very different story than his shy words.
Whiskey freezes, wide-eyed. Her breath catches, heart skipping. “Oh. OH!” she says, voice hushed but daring. “Well… do you want to go home and fix that?”
Bob’s eyes darken with something playful and a little dangerous. “Nope,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “I think I wanna suffer a little more.”
Whiskey grins, the kind of wicked smile that promises trouble. “Kinky,” she purrs.
The bar noise melts away around them. For a moment, it’s just the two of them—caught between fire and ice, and neither willing to back down.
Top Gun: Maverick - Fanboy x f!reader [no use of y/n]
7.2k | Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face. Today seemed as good a day as any. He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm. Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind. Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.
===
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort
CW: Mentions of Abuse and Stalking, Breaking of Restraining Order, one-sided bar fight, insults and confrontation by a past abuser (there is no mentions or illusions to physical abuse, but please handle anything to do with emotional/mental abuse, stalking, and breaking of restraining orders with care. If this story isn’t for you, that’s okay. Just be safe <3)
Author’s Note: I’m a sucker for the ‘who did this to you’ style fics or any kind of ‘you came? you called’ - also, sorry to any Brent’s who caught a stray today. || cross-posted on ao3
===
===
“I can’t name just one thing.”
Mickey laughed over the lip of his beer bottle. A quick sip to, hopefully, mask the pink gracing his cheeks, even though he knew the effort was futile at best. “You know that.”
Reuben wouldn’t listen. He never did. It was one of the many qualities that made him such a great friend at times, and such a frustrating one tonight. “One thing you like about her,” Payback pushed for an answer. “It’s not that difficult of a question, Mick.”
But it was.
They went through this once a week. Minimum. He and Payback skirted off base early - easier to secure a spot at the bar before the crowds rolled in - all to sip a few beers and lament over the fact that they both missed the clause in their kickass fighter pilot careers where it stated relationships wouldn’t fall into their laps. If anything, their chances at love were as out of reach as the horizon in front of them. They could speed towards it all they wanted. The line would still always be there, a hair’s breadth away.
Reuben often started. Making sure to take his time in overanalyzing every interaction he had that week with the woman who worked in the control tower. Fanboy could agree she had the voice of an angel. Payback’s infatuation was completely warranted. Even before they found out she also looked like an angel, Mickey could tell she was a good fit for his wingman. Reuben would flirt relentlessly and she, ever professional, would instruct them with a smile in her voice. Occasionally she’d joke around, but not enough for a week by week breakdown. Her clearing them for landing wasn’t the easiest thing to warp into a ‘dude, she likes you. You should totally ask her out.’
Creating a conversation around you took no effort for Fanboy at all.
“She’s like no one else I’ve ever met, Reuben.” Once Mickey got started, he couldn’t stop. His callsign hadn’t exactly spawned into existence because of his cool, detached, and nonchalant approach towards anything he remotely liked.
“I know what you mean,” Payback said.
He motioned to the bartender for another beer. Mav and Penny had a date tonight. Precisely why he and Mickey were sitting belly up to the bar so early on a Thursday afternoon. No eavesdropping from Penny. She was known for meddling if any of her regulars were remotely interested in each other.
“Day,” Payback sighed, “she has the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. You know what she did last week?”
Fanboy arched a brow. He did know what she did last week. The past few months of being stationed here sat in his mind, carefully cataloged away. From the batting eyelashes to the extremely obvious attempts to get Reuben to ask her out on a date. Mickey knew Day’s entire day all thanks to Payback’s crush. At this point, he felt like he knew her well enough to consider her a friend despite having never held a conversation with her.
Payback could easily do the same. There was one memory in particular Fanboy would break down again and again - Reuben truly had the patience of a saint.
“Does your mother call you Garcia?” You asked the first time he took you out for drinks.
The rest of the Dagger Squad milled about the bar. You all had shown up together, along with some of your fellow TOPGUN instructors, but somehow Mickey paid for everyone’s drinks that night. The two of you ended up tucked away in a booth by yourselves. He couldn’t help but to think of it as a date.
“No, she doesn’t.” He remembered how to form words somewhere between watching you polish off your drink and feeling you lean in closer to show your interest.
“Does she call you Fanboy?” A sheepish grin and a small shake of his head. “So what does she call you?”
He leaned closer to you, stopping just before your noses could touch. “She calls me Miguel.”
You tested the word out for yourself. Reuben swears that was the moment Mickey fell in love, and he wasn’t entirely wrong. Fanboy melted when he heard his name on your lips. This shift in power felt dangerous. At any point you could have this man in a puddle at your feet, willing to do anything for you. Yet, Mickey felt nothing but trust. You had never been one to abuse power - unless, of course, it was to give Hangman shit or get Payback back for something.
“But I can call you Mickey?” You smiled one of the most stunning smiles Fanboy ever saw out of you. How could he say no?
And that’s how you wormed your way into a first name basis. On top of becoming a featured subject for their Friday debriefs. If Payback took a shot every time Fanboy asked “Do you think her asking to call me Mickey was her way of hitting on me?” he’d have alcohol poisoning.
“Mickey!”
His head snapped towards the sound of your voice like a moth to a flame. Icarus to the sun. Maverick to bad decisions. Hangman to asshole comments. Thousands of similes all as timeless as the way his heart ached in your presence. A romance for the ages.
He only wished it could get off the ground.
Reuben slapped him on the shoulder. He passed Fanboy a tequila shot saying, “You need to make a move tonight.”
You moved towards the pair, splitting off from your friends. Surely that was something Mickey could overanalyze later tonight.
“Yeah,” he answered absentmindedly. “Sounds good.”
“Hi, Reuben.” You saddled up to the bar. Payback crushed you in a hug, and Mickey couldn’t ignore the jealousy flickering about in his chest. When would he build up the courage to greet you with a hug? Why couldn’t he approach anything that had to do with you with the same surefire confidence he could impart towards flying?
You squirmed in Payback’s grip. “Too tight,” you playfully choked out. “I’m dyin’ here.”
Payback released you, taking care to carefully shove you closer to Mickey, and laughed. “Good to see you too, Einstein.”
Both you and Mickey shot him a look. You’d been through your fair share of shitty callsigns. Mouth, which finally got axed after filing enough harassment claims, started because you’d mouthed off to your superior once during Plebe Summer and had your whole squad in the doghouse for two months. It took another two months for the disdain to finally drop off whenever someone called you. By then, though, people had been shifted around, and most at The Academy (those with extreme insecurity) didn’t appreciate having a woman attempting to be a future TOPGUN flier.
Needless to say, Mouth in the hands of young men with sexism at the forefront of their minds quickly became a problem. So the remainder of your time at The Academy, and sometime after, marked you as IKEA. I Know Everything Anyway. Not nearly as cool as Maverick, Slider, or Iceman, but you’d rather be known for your brain than your hotheadedness. Talking over everyone simply had to happen in class. Otherwise you weren’t going to be heard at all.
Einstein came later; from Iceman himself. He came to personally congratulate you on your perfect score. “You’re a regular Einstein, aren’t you?” He’d said, and it stuck. Sometimes spoken in awe, sometimes with disgust, but mostly in a playful manner like Payback always managed.
“Watch yourself, Payback.” You plucked the shot from Mickey’s fingertips. It was gone in a flash. “Can I have another round, please?” You asked the bartender, then turned towards Fanboy with a grin. “You’re having one with me, right? And one more, probably, to make things even.”
The one thing Reuben asked about earlier came to mind. Your refusal to take shit. That would have to be his favorite thing (in this moment because Fanboy knew he truly couldn’t choose a single aspect) about you.
“What’re you starin’ at?” How you tilted your head to scrutinize him reminded Mickey of his childhood dog. A stray his mother swore up and down would never come in the house, only to end up sleeping in bed with her each night. Kind of like you - except you snuck your way into his heart rather than his bed. “Are you okay?”
Mickey could feel the heat radiating off his face. In comparing you to his childhood dog, he had gotten the image of you in his bed stuck in his mind. What a dream, and not even in the typical horny way people used the term ‘in bed.’ Fanboy’s fantasy consisted of being able to hold you, talk to you for hours in the early hours of the morning, and revel in the knowledge that out of anyone in the world you could choose, you chose him. Anything more that came with a domestic love like that would be a bonus.
Of course, you weren’t a mind reader. Thank god for that. No stumbling apology would ever be enough to save Mickey from the embarrassment of daydreaming about you while you were next to him. This crush steadily reached towards schoolgirl doodling your joint married name in a notebook levels of delusion. Whoever said be friends with your crush never mentioned the crushing anxiety of ruining that friendship with any given misstep. When did Mickey know it was safe to take the next step?
“Hmmm?” The tips of his ears grew hot as you stared. Somehow he managed to grasp every chance to make a fool of himself around you. “Yeah,” he breathed, acutely aware of Payback’s smirk off to the side, “I’m fine.”
“Are you doing a tequila shot?”
“I don’t know about Mick here-” Reuben brought a hand down on Mickey’s shoulder- “but I will definitely be having one.” He turned his attention to the bartender pouring the shots. “Lime and salt too, please.”
Your eyebrows practically shot to your forehead. “You can’t handle a tequila shot? I would not have guessed that about you, Payback.”
If only she knew how Reuben truly partied. Fanboy knew him longest out of anyone on The Dagger Squad; they'd been a pair for most of his career.
Payback brought a hand to his chest. He gasped dramatically and Mickey rolled his eyes. “We call him Payback because of all the shots I paid for that he promised to pay me back for.”
“I did pay you back!”
“When?”
“How many times have I saved your life?”
You laughed, doing nothing for the heat still trapped in Mickey’s cheeks. “Isn’t that your job?”
“I could be shit at my job.” Payback shrugged. He shifted his position to reach for the salt on the table. All the confidence of a man who didn’t own this tab - Mickey, unfortunately, would be paying for more of the squad’s drinks tonight. “The lime and salt,” he explained, “are a part of the experience. There’s a comradery to a ritual done together. After this, we’re bonded for life.”
Long ago Fanboy used to be envious of the way people flocked to Payback. This simple act transformed into a performance. Storytelling was an art, and Reuben perfected it. He even had you succumbing to the supposed weakness of using a chaser.
To not stare you down while you licked your hand, Fanboy busied himself with the salt. However, his eyes flickered to you for the briefest of seconds. Right as he dragged his tongue over the fleshy part between his thumb and wrist. The want must have been apparent. He had always been the type to wear his emotions on his face.
But you weren’t. So when your eyes widened, Mickey paused. A horrible thing to do considering his current position. Your chest stilled for a second, eyes trained on him, and time stopped entirely. The knowledge that you might just want him too sent Fanboy crashing back to reality. He salted his hand with as steady a hand he could manage.
“A toast!” You cleared your throat, eyes darting around before settling pointedly not on Fanyboy. He could see your desperation for control. “Payback?”
Payback lifted his shot glass. The two of you followed suit. “May it always be the other guy who says 'This drink's on me.’”
Between Fanboy’s annoyance and your giggle Reuben licked the salt, threw back the shot, and grabbed a lime wedge to bite down on. He grinned around the peel. “I win.”
The competitive nature of fighter pilots took over. Mickey completed the sequence with ease. His bank account wouldn’t appreciate the smooth taste of the liquor but nearly dying those few months ago made him realize two things. One, he really didn’t want to spend all his time pining over you - he’d rather be with you. Two, he was getting too old for cheap liquor.
“That’s really- hey!” You felt around blindly on the counter. “Mickey, that's so not fair.”
He brandished your lime slice. “You’re supposed to do the shot, then complain about Payback. Everyone knows this.”
You stuck your bottom lip out in an overdramatic pout. “I wanted that.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sure, Fanboy may have deepened his voice slightly. He might have seized the opportunity to slide forward, closer to you. What was he supposed to do? Ignore your blatant attempts at flirting because someone else was standing right there? He’d been doing that for the entire time he’d known you. At some point the third wheel needed to read the room.
Placing the lime wedge between your lips helped Payback do precisely that. His gaze flicked back and forth between Fanboy and his thumb gently pushing the fruit to your mouth. “I, uh,” Reuben fumbled for words, “I’ll go over there.”
No one acknowledged his departure. Fanboy kept his eyes locked on yours. After all, you were the whole reason he was at the bar in the first place. You pulled the lime into your mouth, and he let his thumb linger on your bottom lip for a moment before leaning back on the bar stool.
“Done pouting?”
You popped the lime out of your mouth. “I wasn’t pouting.”
Being a gentleman became so much harder when you ran your tongue over your lips to lick up all the juice. The movement killed Fanboy’s ability to speak entirely. Your smirk confirmed what he already knew. You were well aware of his weaknesses.
“So, Mickey…”
Like the sound of his name falling from those very lips.
It had been a while since the two of you talked about something other than work. Hell, Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time you and him were one on one. A lie. Payback debriefed that last one on one conversation with Mickey a few days ago. He couldn’t help it. Every day you were gentle on his mind.
“What have you been fanboying over recently?” You toyed with the citrus peel. Focused intently on pushing the thing around the counter. “Anything interesting?”
“You mean other than you?”
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. His eyes locked on yours. Widening by the second with embarrassment. “I mean-”
A shy smile played on your lips. You looked pleased with yourself as you said, “Yeah, other than me. I try not to talk about myself too much. Don’t want to be Bagman Jr.”
Oh, Mickey could kiss you right now.
“Then what do you want to talk about?” He asked. Straightforward in the hopes of appearing more confident than he felt. Fanboy could face certain death, he could face Cyclone, and he could face Bob in poker. Your pretty face on the other hand almost always left him flustered.
You tapped a finger against your chin. Faking a deep concentration to pull a smile out of Mickey. “What was that TV show you’ve been dying to get everyone to watch, again?”
He instantly perked up. “You sure you want to open that door?”
“You’re right. Let’s have one more shot first,” you teased. Your hand rested on Mickey’s forearm. He tried hard not to stare at the headliner for flirty behavior and focused on your beautiful smile instead. The whole time his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. “I’m sure, Mickey. I like listening to you talk.”
And, damn, did Mickey talk. Somewhere in the midst of laughter, finding excuses to touch one another, and conversation the two limes turned into seven. The liquor worked any and all tension from Mickey. Tipsy - maybe leaning more on drunk - confidence coursed through him. Any flirty freudian slips he took in stride.
Tequila made a new man out of Fanboy. A closer version of himself, might be a better way to look at it. How he normally attempted to pick women up at bars. You weren’t any woman. Precisely why so many shots were necessary in the first place.
“Is it Thursday today?” You slurred your words together ever so slightly. The drinks brought a warmth to your cheeks that hadn’t been there earlier. Fanboy resisted the urge to reach out. Scared the slightest touch would shatter the illusion. “Thursday is darts day.”
“Thursday is karaoke day,” Mickey corrected, his sentence also fuzzy around the edges. “ ‘s why Coyote’s not here.”
He focused on the concentrated furrow between your brow. An expression that only ever came out when you were drinking. Sober you calculated everything immediately. A beer or two in a loading screen appeared while you clicked the pieces into place. “But Bob’s here.”
Bob and Javy often skipped Thursday’s at The Hard Deck. Karaoke was bad enough with sober people who couldn’t sing. Adding drunkenness to the equation ended in certain disaster. Case in point - Javy “Coyote” Machado almost became Javy “Wolf” Machado because of all the drunken howling he did onstage instead of singing.
He hadn’t shown his face at karaoke since.
“Bob is here at Phoenix’s request.” That request being he lost a bet, but semantics were lost on the squad. “My guess is she gets him to sing ‘Sweet Caroline.’”
“All that attention on him? He’d melt.”
Fanboy shook his head. Bob was shy, sure, but he could handle the spotlight with enough time to prepare. “No, but Rooster is absolutely going to take the next three slots after to prove he’s the better singer.”
You laughed, and Fanboy could have sworn you used that as an excuse to lean in close and squeeze his bicep. “Oh, I’m telling him you said that.” You swung around in your stool, using Mickey’s arm to stabilize yourself, and searched for Rooster in the sea of people.
In your time surveying the crowd, Fanboy traced the rim of his empty shot glass and reveled in being your rock. Could this be your future together? Inside jokes over drinks. Innocent touches with serious potential to transform into something more.
Tonight everything became clear. All questions would be answered - good or bad - Mickey decided. You were the brains. IKEA. You could tell him if you knew your feelings for him. If this pipedream had potential or would swirl down the drain.
Nails pricking skin pulled Fanboy from his thoughts. Your grip went stiff along with the rest of your body. Any traces of a buzz disappeared entirely in this strange rigid poster. He carefully pried your hand off him. “What is it?”
“Brent.” Your voice escaped you in a panicked whisper.
The name registered with Mickey briefly after wracking his tequila soaked brain for a moment longer than necessary. A few weeks ago, during downtime between practice hops, everyone traded stories about the worst ex they had. Payback shared his egregious tale about a girl he dated in high school stealing his dog when he didn’t ask her to prom, Phoenix told everyone how her blind date ended up storming into the kitchen of the restaurant they were at to cook his own meal, and Mickey gave the pared down version of his longest relationship ending when she moved halfway across the country to reunite with her… other boyfriend.
No one had anything nice to say. Except for you.
Your most recent ex, it seemed, had boundary issues that couldn’t be solved in a relationship with someone in the military. The constant reminders and communication simply weren’t compatible with where you were at in your career. Always moving around from base to base, fully prepared to be whisked away on a secret mission without a word of warning, didn’t bode well for the two of you. So, you split.
Everyone - Hangman - blatantly accused you of still having feelings for this man. Mickey couldn’t help but lean forward with interest, waiting for your answer. He prepared himself for crushing disappointment. You simply dismissed the notion with a gentle, “He’s not bad people. I wish him nothing but the best, and I hope that best for him is far, far away from me.”
But your body language conveyed the opposite. You stood, swaying on your feet, and shook your head. Mickey was immediately off the barstool. Buzz be damned. He let himself assume the worst and boost some adrenaline into his system. Overpowering the effects of the alcohol with stress always pulled Mickey’s mind back together. He called a constant state of anxiety home. Fight or flight was where he performed best. Fanboy had medals to prove it.
“Einstein? Are you okay?”
One arm wrapped around your waist. The look of shock on your face had Fanboy scared your legs would give out from beneath you at any given moment. His earlier thought of being your rock solidified in this storm. He wanted to be your constant, a source of comfort.
If only he knew how to help you.
For a second you didn’t answer him. Your eyes were locked on the man who had just passed through the threshold of The Hard Deck. Then you nodded. “Yeah.” You sounded far away. “Everything’s fine.”
Fanboy followed your gaze. He wanted to know exactly which man you side-eyed.
Smaller and skinnier than a lot of the men in the bar, expected from someone who wasn’t training with the Navy seven days a week. He appeared unassuming. Still, you knuckles were turning white from where you were gripping the counter. Unassuming didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of harm.
“What do you need from me?” He asked.
You swallowed, and your eyes finally met his. Mickey could have cried. You looked… small. The feared Naval aviator he knew so well had been replaced with someone else. Someone hurt, clearly because fear wasn’t an emotion you willingly showed. In all of a few seconds you’d become human.
“Einstein,” he repeated in a slow, gentle voice. “What do you need from me?”
“I have a restraining order on that man.” Shame, which Fanboy couldn’t comprehend why, lit your eyes. You turned back towards the bar. Eyes trained on the pile of lime peels. “For stalking.”
Boundary issues seemed like a serious downplay.
Mickey slid behind you to shield you from view of anyone approaching. He brought an arm around to rest against the bar. To anyone else, this would look flirty, but really Fanboy wanted to give you the ability to whisper to him without anyone else overhearing. “We should get you out of here.”
You shook your head. “I don’t know where he is.” The way your voice broke, broke Mickey’s heart. What did he do to you? “I don’t want to move if I don’t know where he is.”
“Okay.” Mickey nodded. “If I tell you where he’s at, then we’ll figure out if we’re using the back door or the front door.”
He keeps his eyes locked on yours, searching your face for any sign that you heard him. Gears turned behind your eyes. Emotions clicked away, compartmentalized to deal with later. You were using your training. Adrenaline killed if not dealt with effectively.
“You okay?” He whispered.
“I don’t want you to look away.” Selfishly, Mickey nodded. He didn’t want to look away until he felt confident he wasn’t leaving you to drift about in your anxiety alone. “I have to… to get myself under control.”
The bartender passed by without a glance in their direction. Conversation around them continued loudly. As far as Mickey could tell, no one paid you two any mind at all.
“You’re doing a great job.”
You closed your eyes. “Thank you, Mickey.” When you opened your eyes, any trace of fear vanished. Einstein, the Navy’s top aviator, would do what everyone else on a particularly traumatic mission did - deal with the emotional shit later, and eliminate the threat now. “Ready to go?”
Right now? He shouldn’t be shocked. When you were in action, you didn’t hesitate.
Mickey nodded. Now was as good a time as any. He held out a hand and helped you step around the barstool. You clung to him, the only impression that Brent’s appearance still had you rattled. It didn’t seem like a good time for Fanboy to peel himself away from you. Having a hand on you might be smart anyway. You wouldn’t get separated as you made your way through the crowd.
“There you are.”
Brent stood an uncomfortably close foot away. His teeth weren’t sharpened fangs, but his smile cut Mickey to the core regardless. This was worse case scenario - coffin corner. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but my calls go straight to voicemail.”
Hands still clasped, the two of you turned to face him. You stared straight past him, right over his shoulder. Only when it became clear you couldn’t pass by without him being able to lay a hand on you did you acknowledge him. “Brent.”
The grin grew. Mickey straightened to full height. He wished he had the intimidating extra few inches most of the others on Dagger Squad had. Brent’s eyes slid Mickey’s way, down to your enjoined hands, but snapped back up to Einstein quick. Like you’d vanish given the slightest opportunity.
“Please move.” Your voice gave no room for further conversation but Brent made an attempt anyway.
“Went by your place, but your windows were dark.”
A pit of unease grew in Mickey’s stomach. Einstein had been going through this all on her own. None of them knew the baggage she carried. Some squad they were. He glanced your way, but you had the same blank look on your face.
Brent barreled on. “Key didn’t work in the lock. The one you kept under that stupid garden decoration was gone.” His eyes bore into your face. Too aggressive to be considered making eye contact. Fanboy had only ever seen a power display like this in interrogation training. “Did you move or something?”
You lifted a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.”
The mere implication Brent was breaking his restraining order changed the set of his jaw. Muscles feathered and he pressed his lips together. “But,” he said around a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I’m here now. Look. This is the last time, I swear. I just need closure.”
“If you’d like to contact me, you’ll have to do so through my lawyer.” You gripped Mickey’s hand a bit tighter and moved to step around Brent, but he sidestepped in your way. “Please move.”
“It’s a public bar, darling. I can stand wherever I fucking please.” All attempts at playing nice slowly started to drip away. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
Darling. Mickey’s stomach rolled. He felt your hand jerk backwards but neither of you could back up without the bar digging into your back. Brent seemed well aware of such a fact. He took a lazy step forward. “Whenever you want to ditch this one-” he spoke about Fanboy without sparing him a glance- “I’d like to talk to you.”
Enough was enough. Fanboy stepped forward with intent. What exactly said intent was he would figure out halfway through the confrontation. He wasn’t exactly known for his foresight in his personal life. The only thing that stopped him was you tugging him back.
With one small squeeze, you removed your hand from Mickey’s.
“You can talk to my fucking lawyer.” You used the same sickly sweet voice Fanboy heard you use on higher up’s that refused to take you seriously. “Until then, you need to move. Now.”
“Can we just talk outside?” Brent asked. He reached out to grab for your arm, but you dodged his advances.
“Please, do not touch me.” Your words were firm and flat. “I don’t want you touching me.”
“You owe me the courtesy of a conversation.”
Mickey never wanted to white knight on your behalf, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to let this douchebag get anywhere near leaving his sight with you let alone get all the way to the front doors. He could handle you being mad at him for fighting a battle for you. He couldn’t handle what would happen if you took on a fight like this by yourself when you didn’t have to.
“Can we talk outside? Or are you going to keep letting your friends gaslight you into thinking I’m always the bad guy?”
When you failed to answer, Brent rephrased his question. It seemed your lack of emotional response wormed its way under his skin in a way he couldn’t hide.
“Can you stop being such a bitch and answer me?” He asked, reaching out once again to put his hands on you. A mistake.
Everyone in the bar fell silent at the dull ‘thack’ of your fist connecting with Brent’s cheek. Somewhere in the wide arsenal of cinema there was a scene just like this that ends in an all out brawl. Here Brent’s head snapped to the side thanks to the sheer force you packed in a single punch. He blinked in disbelief.
Mickey, on the other hand, saw the first forming a while ago. He wasn’t one for violence, but watching you remind everyone you weren’t one to take shit always made his mouth water. And watching you throw a punch may just be the hottest thing he’d seen all week.
Excusing, of course, the fact that your creep of an ex boyfriend still stood there in front of you with a dumbfounded look on his face like he had no clue what he could have done to deserve that.
You cleared your throat. “I asked you not to touch me, please.”
Fanboy grew tired of the niceties. The second you looked towards him for help, he was telling Brent to fuck off and he wouldn’t give him any choice but to listen.
Payback paced behind Brent. He inched close enough to catch Fanboy’s eye. Mickey and Reuben could always reasonably assume the other’s thoughts without words. Half the time they only talked because they liked to hear themselves speak. One look from Fanboy said everything, though. His wingman was headed out the front door on the phone with the cops in an instant.
All Fanboy had to do was keep things from escalating.
Brent straightened, eyes shifting around to all the Navy’s finest, and brought a hand up to where you punched him. For a second, Mickey foolishly thought he would swallow his pride. Brent looked ready to tuck his tail, turn on his heel, and run out of the Hard Deck.
No one said anything while they waited for Brent to respond. If he left, no one would bother him too badly. If he didn’t take the warning punch seriously, Mickey could almost bring himself to pity the poor fool. Almost, but not really.
Creepy smile devoid of emotion in place, Brent reached out politely once again and, this time, caught ahold of you. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”
At the sight of Brent gripping your arm, the sound of your first name falling from his lips, Fanboy’s self-control snapped. This thin string holding himself together split.
His fist flew up faster than he could process. Brent’s teeth clacked as his jaw came together. Fanboy clipped your ex’s chin in the perfect uppercut, and he dropped straight to the floor.
Unconscious.
You, who talked so highly of this ex those few weeks ago that Fanboy convinced himself you were still in love with him, turned to Mickey with panic written across your features.
“You punched him!” You shouted to Mickey, eyes flickering between your ex on the floor and Fanboy. The angle wasn’t the slightest bit flattering for the poor guy.
Fanboy couldn’t remember the last time he punched someone square in the face. He’d forgotten the way pain blossomed behind his knuckles and webbed its way up his arm. Assault and battery charges were the last thing on his mind. Honestly the only thing on his mind when he threw that punch was you.
“You punched him first.” Mickey shrugged. He shook his hand out in a gesture he hoped passed as nonchalant. Pain lingered, though, and he couldn’t help but grimace when he flexed his fingers.
“I had a reason.”
“So did I.” You crossed your arms and arched a brow. Mickey sighed and stepped over Brent’s unconscious body. “He didn’t respect you clearly stating you didn’t want to be touched.”
“I was handling it.”
“I know,” he said, and shrugged. “I just handled it with you.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but, when your gaze moved from Brent to Fanboy one more time, he could see gratefulness. “I have to call my lawyer.”
—
Those bright red knuckles of yours had yet to fade. From the sound of it, Mickey could guess you’d hit his cheek bone and would be sporting some nasty bruises for a while. He didn’t bother to look at his own hand. It throbbed to an annoying degree. The chances of his knuckle being split was exceptionally high, but your well being in the moment mattered far more.
Neither of you wanted ice for your hands. Fanboy hoped it would make him look tough. You had been more preoccupied with leaving a voicemail explaining Brent had broken his restraining order and the police had been called and “to please call me back as soon as humanly possible.”
Then you both collapsed in a booth in the furthest corner possible of the Hard Deck because you wanted to see when the cops walked through the door rather than tuck yourself in the back. Fanboy refused to stray far. You hadn’t asked him to leave, which he took as a good sign. At least you weren’t too mad at him for stepping in.
“That’s one hell of a right hook you’ve got there.”
He hoped to ease the tension with a teasing joke. In classic Fanboy fashion, he misread the timing.
“My lawyer is not going to like this one bit.” You dragged a hand over your face. The one with the angry knuckles. “She told me, ‘If he breaks his restraining order, you can’t just punch him. As much as he might deserve it.’”
Mickey smothered a grin. He wanted to throw out a joke about you being the only one to find a lawyer who talks like Bob, but instead he motioned for your hand.
“Here.” A towel of half-melted ice sat next to him, waiting for the opportune moment for Mickey to refuse to let you suffer any longer. You extended your hand across the table for him to grab. He set the ice down gently, muttering a soft “sorry” at your hiss of pain. “You handled yourself pretty well out there.”
You made no move to take the ice pack or your hand away from Mickey. So he sat there, icing your hand, and watched you wrestle with your reaction. Fear, anger, grief, aggravation. They all shuffled over your features like Payback trying to pick a song from the jukebox.
Eventually, you settled on a classic. Humor as deflection. “I think I’d feel better if my punch was a one and done.”
He lifted the makeshift ice pack and made a show of inspecting your knuckles. “I’d say you packed a pretty good punch.”
That same shy, flirty smile from earlier came back. “Thanks, Mickey.”
“Of course.” Any attempt to appear cool shattered the second he saw the gratefulness in your eyes. “I hope I didn’t overstep. I’m not really up to date on the laws surrounding restraining orders or stalker exes.”
You shook your head with a self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t think you would be. You don’t strike me as someone who would ever turn out like Brent.”
“If I do, you have full permission to punch me. Whether your lawyer advises it or not,” he teased, and relief flooded him when you laughed.
“It isn’t self-defense to punch someone violating their restraining order. No matter how scared I was seeing how he found me.”
The tone in the booth shifted towards seriousness. Any trace of a smile on your face vanished, and you curled your fingers around Mickey’s hand. “I used to live out in Texas. Stationed there so often, I rented out an apartment because living on base didn’t feel permanent. I wanted a place to call my own.”
Mickey glanced out towards the bar full of the Navy’s best. Payback stood watch over Brent, who had finally come to and was arguing with the wall that was Rooster, Hangman, and Bob.
“He followed you from Texas?” He asked.
You nodded. Whatever you attempted to say got lost in the tears welling up behind your eyes. “Sorry.” You swallowed and blinked rapidly to clear the emotion from your face. “I saw him around town a few times, but this was the first time I felt like he actually knew where I was. Like it was more than a coincidence. When he talked about coming around to my place… there’s this part of me that can’t tell if he was talking about back in Texas or where I live now. It’s terrifying.”
Fanboy hoped the cops would hurry up. The sooner Brent could get out of here, the better. One punch suddenly didn’t feel like enough, and if Mickey threw another he didn’t think he’d be able to stop.
“And there’s a good chance I’ll be charged for assault.” Your laughter was ice cold. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know better- god, I’m so fucking stupid.”
Mickey squeezed your hand, drawing your attention back to him, and shook his head. “You are not stupid. He put his hands on you.”
“That’s not self-defense either,” you sighed. “He wasn’t attacking. The cameras are going to show him reaching out with a smile and he’ll, at most, get a slap on his wrist. I’m screwed.”
“He was attacking.”
“Did you not hear what I just said? He wasn’t attacking.”
“He. Was. Attacking.” Fanboy emphasized every word, then gestured to the bar you were in. “There’s at least 20 people I can count who will give that same story without needing to be asked. I’m sure Phoenix and Bob are already out there waiting for the cops so they can be the first to let them know what he did.”
You turned to look at the crowd of people, mouth quirking up into a smile when you spotted the rest of the squad keeping Brent on the other side of The Hard Deck. Fanboy watched your gaze lock onto the camera capturing the man acting like a saint for the sake of the security camera in the corner of the room.
The smile faltered. “You really think so?”
“You’re one of us, Einstein. We don’t care what base you’re coming in from. You’re assigned to our squad and we take care of our own.”
Mickey moved the ice pack and released your hand back to you. “Don’t worry about the security cam footage, either. The cops tend to take our word at face value. Plus, Penny’s got a good reputation for not calling unless it’s warranted. There hasn’t been a single bar fight she hasn’t sorted out herself..”
“That feels…”
“Like how Maverick would handle something?” He supplied.
You nodded with a laugh. “Exactly.” Your eyes traveled over Mickey’s face. “I appreciate you handling things with me today. I’ve been dealing with this on my own for a few years now. I forgot what it’s like to know someone has my back on the ground instead of only in the sky.”
“I’ve always got your back, Einstein. Ground, sky, and all areas in between.”
The opening practically presented itself to him in the way you smiled at him.
“Look, I know this might not be the best time or anything…” Mickey trailed off. He cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his nerves at bay. What kind of moron decided to ask someone out immediately after an incident like this? “But, after all the statements are taken, would you, maybe, want to take a walk along the beach with me? Just get out of here, get your mind off everything?”
You sat up straighter in the booth. For once, Fanboy wished he wasn’t alone with you. If Payback were here, he could confirm if your eyes actually lit up at the proposition or if Mickey’s wishful thinking clouded his mind again.
“Are you asking me out on a date, Mickey?” You asked. His name passing over your lips, over the teasing smile spreading across your face, rendered him speechless.
He cringed. “I’m an idiot, right?” Nervous laughter escaped him. “I mean, I planned on asking you out tonight anyway. If that changes anything. I don’t want you to think I’m, like, stepping in to take advantage of a bad situation. You can tell me no, Einstein. I know it’s been a… I mean, the past hour has been a lot.
“But I don’t want you to be alone while you’re dealing with all of this.” He turned in his seat to glance around for Phoenix. “Should we call Nat over here? Would you rather talk to her? I’m serious, this doesn’t have to be a date. I didn’t mean to overstep… What? Why are you laughing at me?”
You sat across the seat, hand smothering the giggles slipping through your smile. “Am I rambling again?” He asked, and you nodded. “Sorry. I’m usually better at dealing with emotional situations like this.”
“I’d say you knocked it out of the park today,” you joked. Fanboy could only groan at the pun.
The two of you sat in silence for a bit. Mickey hoped the flush on his face appeared to be alcohol induced rather than his lapse of judgement. Your phone sat between them, screen still black while you waited for your lawyer to get the voicemail and call you back.
“It took you long enough.”
He tilted his head. Much like how you did when you first walked in today. “What?”
“Asking me out,” you clarified, “that took you a while.”
“Is that a yes?”
You threw your head back and laughed in a way Fanboy never heard you laugh before. A mix of elation and pure joy. Maybe the sound of your voice saying his name could be his second favorite sound. That laugh needed to be bottled away in his memories forever. “Yes,” you said. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”
“I really like you,” he said, then, after a moment’s consideration, he tacked your first name at the end of the sentence. It only felt fitting.
if you're okay with the other dagger members, "memorizing their favourite things and treating them when they have a bad day" with mickey (fanboy) please? :')
A/N: Surprise! I rewatched Top Gun: Maverick tonight and since falling in love with Joaquin from Marvel, I have also now totally fallen in love with Fanboy. I've had this request in my inbox for a long time – like the last time I wrote for Top Gun which was... 2023 or early 2024? I cannot remember. Anyway, I'm so sorry this took me forever to get around to, anon! I hope that if you're still around on my blog, you'll enjoy this fic now that I've finally written it. I'm definitely gonna be writing more for Fanboy and for the rest of the Top Gun crew cause my inspiration for writing them again is so strong at the moment. Anyway, enjoy – and remember my requests are always open!
In hindsight, Mickey Garcia should have asked for help getting everything from his car to the Hard Deck. He’d put a few things in a bag, but it was still incredibly awkward to hold it all and he could only hope that someone would be kind enough to open the door with him. He’d already had to kick the door to his truck shut with his foot.
The whole team was meeting up at the bar tonight, celebrating a successful training day – though it hadn’t been super successful for all of you. You’d made a mistake and been absolutely reamed by Maverick and Cyclone. It’d almost made you decide not to come out tonight, but Natasha had convinced you to come along, saying it’d help to be around your team rather than be alone.
Mickey had made his decision pretty quickly and as soon as you’d all been dismissed, he’d hopped into his truck and spent his few spare hours driving around the city and collecting things for you.
He’d been keeping a list in the notes section of his phone about things you deem your ‘favourite things in life’ ever since he first started falling for you. Considering how long ago that was, he long since should have confessed but when it came to you, well… the poor aviator was tongue tied more often than not.
Chocolate (specifically anything with caramel)
Iced Coffee (but not too much ice)
Romance books.
Sunflowers.
He’d selected a handful of things off your list and done his best to track them all down – even going so far as to arrange them in a small hamper. Well… it had meant to be small. But things had gotten a little out of hand at the bookstore and instead of leaving with one book like he’d planned, he’d ended up asking for recommendations and had left with four. That, along with three blocks of chocolate, a bouquet of sunflowers and an extra large iced coffee (without too much ice), were what he was attempting to safely get inside.
You were none the wiser to Fanboy’s plans, sitting in the corner with the other members of the team. Nat was sat beside you, nursing her first beer of the night, and Jake and Javy were just starting a game of pool with the others. It was difficult for you to really focus on your friends rather than the words swimming in your mind, berating you for your mistake.
Everyone said it was an easy enough mistake to make – it could’ve been anyone – but in the real world, not in a training exercise, you know it could’ve cost you or someone else their life.
You’re just about to get up and head to the bar to get your first drink of the night in an attempt to numb the thoughts in your head when you spot Fanboy making his way through the room. It’s not busy yet, but with what the man is carrying, he knocks into several people on his way over towards you.
“What the hell is he doing?” Nat says from beside you, beer paused halfway to her mouth.
“Has he organised a date or something?” Bob asks, sitting across the table from you, his eyes also focused on Fanboy. He looks just as confused as the rest of you do – your whole team now staring at him.
He stops when he reaches your table, huffs out a breath and then grins. “Hey guys.”
“You good, Fanboy?” Nat questions, motioning to the flowers, coffee and the bag in his hands.
“Yeah, I’m good!” He seems chirpy, as usual. He puts the bag down on the table, it making a thudding noise as it hits the wood. Whatever is in there must be pretty heavy. Then, he surprises you by making his way around the table to where you’re sitting. “So, this is for you.” He hands you the iced coffee he’s holding, as well as the incredibly large bouquet of sunflowers – your favourite.
“For me?” Your eyebrows almost hit the roof.
You wouldn’t be lying if you said you thought Mickey was cute. You had done ever since you’d first met him a long time ago now. Part of you had always wondered ‘What if?’ but the reasonable part of you that refused to let yourself date co-workers or fellow aviators won out every time. But here he was… delivering you flowers and iced coffee?
“Yeah, the ice might be a bit melted by now – it’s like a hundred degrees out there – but I blasted my air con the whole way here so I could try and keep it cool,” he explains, so incredibly nonchalantly despite the fact that he’s clearly gone out of his way to do this. “And I know sunflowers are your favourites so…”
“How do you know that?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I just remember you mentioning it one time.”
He figures you don’t need to know about the note on his phone – not just yet, anyway. He could save that for if he ever actually gets the courage to ask you on a date and confess his feelings to you. Right now, that would likely come across as a little creepy.
Nat pipes up. “What’s in the bag, Fanboy?”
“Oh, that!” He says, hurrying back over to the bag as if he’s forgotten it existed – truly, he kind of did. He was so focused on the look of pure happiness on your face that he forgot half your present was still waiting. “So, this…” He continues, carefully pulling the hamper out of the bag, “is also for you! I found you some books, I hope you haven’t read them yet.”
Before Mickey can even take a step towards you to give the hamper to you, you’re off your seat, hurrying over to him. He barely even has time to put the hamper on the table before you’re flinging yourself into his arms. He swears his heart stops and then re-starts at the sudden contact, the feeling of your body pressed into his.
Well… this is new.
“What the hell, Mickey?” Your voice is soft in his ear as you hug him tightly.
“I know you had a tough day so…” He mutters in reply.
“People usually just buy me a beer if I’ve had a tough day, they don’t go out and buy me all of my favourite things,” you laugh a little, pulling away from the hug. Mickey already misses the contact as you step away from him. “And you bought me books?”
You lean down to inspect the hamper on the table.
“Have you read any of them?” Mickey asks, watching you carefully. “If you have, I think I can exchange them. I kinda befriended the girl that works at the bookstore. She helped me pick them out.” She also definitely thought Mickey was buying books for his partner, so that was probably why she was so helpful – he knows that.
“No, but I’ve heard good things about this one!” You point at one of them, then turn back around to look at him. “You really didn’t have to do this, you know? I really would’ve been okay with a free beer and some good company.”
Mickey shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “You deserve it.”
“Okay, this is sweet and all,” Nat starts, immediately reminding both you and Mickey that you’re in the middle of a bar surrounded by your team and it’s not just the two of you. “But this does not mean you get to sit in the corner and read all night, okay? And I want a piece of that chocolate – the caramel swirl one.”
You laugh at her, shaking your head at how blunt she is, and turn back to Mickey. You surprise him again by reaching out your hand, taking his and giving it a squeeze. It’s like an electric shock travelling up his arm.
“Will you come sit with me?” You ask him. “We can read the summaries of all of the books you got me and you can help me decide which one to read first. Obviously when I get home, since I’ve been banned from reading here tonight.”
Mickey nods, already loving the idea just because it means he gets to sit next to you and spend more time with you. You don’t let go of his hand as you move back to where you were sitting before, making Nat shuffle up a bit so that Mickey can fit beside you on the booth.
“You really made my day, you know that?” You squeeze his hand again before letting go so you can grab the hamper and start to get the books out.
He can’t help the smile that comes to his face. “I’m glad I could make you smile.”
visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!
pairing: mickey “fanboy” garcia x fem!reader
summary: in which reader learns how to love again when mickey garcia wants to be more than friends with benefits
warnings: mentions of sex/sexual acts, alcohol consumption
word count: 1.9k
a/n: the papasito mv had me wanting to write something for danny, so here i am, enjoy😩
You hated to admit it but you were a sucker for a man in uniform.
And, living in the big, beautiful city of San Diego, California meant that you had more than your fill.
With servicemen constantly cycling between deployments and training, you never had trouble finding a guy or two to fool around with before things even had a chance to get serious.
Not that any of them minded. After months at sea, they were just as insatiable as you were, never thinking past the night in front of them.
It was practically a fact: Navy men were notoriously disloyal, always chasing flings, and you had the firsthand experience to prove it.
When you’d first moved to San Diego, fresh out of college and still a little naive, you’d fallen hard for a naval aviator.
And it hadn’t ended well.
He’d promised to keep in touch when he was inevitably stationed somewhere else, and for a while, he did.
But the texts got shorter, as the days went on. Less frequent. Until one day, they stopped entirely.
You found out why soon enough via a blurry Instagram post where he had his arm slung around some new girl, down in Florida.
You’d sworn then and there to never fall in love with a military man again.
And it was going pretty well for you.
Until you met Mickey Garcia.
You’d met him at The Hard Deck - an aptly named bar always buzzing with chatter of swaggering servicemen.
He was surrounded by a gaggle of aviators, laughing loud like they owned the place. And in San Diego, they practically did.
In spite of that, every few seconds, he was glancing your way, lingering on your legs for far too long. God bless the Californian heat for letting you show them off.
You could tell that he wanted you.
And how could you not want him?
Broad shoulders, a neat buzz cut, and the Navy service khaki uniform hugging his body. He looked disgustingly good in it and your eyes drank him in from across the floor.
You bided your time, watching him play pool for a while before heading over with your own friends, sliding up to the table next to his.
When it came to your turn, you fumbled clumsily with the cue stick, missing shots and laughing with false embarrassment as your friends jeered. And like a moth to a flame, he took the bait.
With a smirk and a quick nod to his boys, tossing his own cue to one of them, he stepped up beside you and asked, “Ma’am, you need some help there?”
You didn’t need his help. You’d been playing since you were twelve.
But you had a read on the guys at this bar, they couldn’t resist a pretty girl pretending not to know her way around a pool table, so you let him move closer and asked more about him
You quickly learned his call-sign, and the meaning behind it, when he slid his arm around your waist and leaned in so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear as he adjusted your aim.
He was all over you and you craved more.
Fanboy.
You were determined to make him a fan of you.
And it didn’t take long.
He bought you a drink, leaned in close to say things, he definitely didn’t need to be so close to say, and let his knee brush against yours with almost every word.
Even after you’d sent him back to his friends, with a playful order to “go be social”, he kept drifting back, always finding a reason to restart the conversation.
Eventually, the conversation stopped restarting, it just never ended.
He barely got the sentence out before you slid off your barstool, purse in hand, and slipped your fingers through his.
He grinned like the cat that got the cream, letting you pull him out of the bar like he was a lost kitten; only you could take him home.
Out in the car park, your eyebrows had shot up in surprise when he’d clicked his car keys and the headlights to a red Mustang had come to life.
Clearly, you were worse at profiling than you thought because this car did not match the image of Mickey Garcia that you’d built up.
He opened the door for you, guiding you down into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver’s side.
Sitting back against the headrest, you were about to give him directions to your place when he cut you off with a sly grin, turning the key in the ignition.
“I’m actually living off-base while I’m stationed here,” he’d explained, “I’m sure it’s quicker than heading to your place. Five minutes, tops.”
That was a refreshing change.
Most of the guys you’d been with insisted on coming back to your place, citing how you couldn’t get on base to theirs. Made you wonder how many of them were actually telling the truth versus those that just didn’t want you to know where they were staying.
You found yourself more and more curious about him. Mickey was honest and upfront. It felt treacherous to the image you’d come to know of a naval aviator.
For example, his call-sign. He hadn’t introduced himself as Fanboy, like some of the others you’d been with, who’d insisted you use their service-given nicknames, even in bed.
Despite that, you still couldn’t remember the blonde lieutenant from a few months back’s call-sign or even his real name, which told you everything you needed to know.
Mickey was different.
He didn’t disappear the next morning.
He stayed.
And kept coming back.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Until you lost count.
It becomes a rhythm: drinks, laughs, soft touches that linger too long to be accidental, late-night drives with the windows down and your legs propped on his dashboard, his hand resting dangerously high on your thigh.
A rhythm so steady, you almost forget how this all started with your personal vow to stay away from military men.
And then there’s tonight.
You’re back at The Hard Deck, dressed in something you only ever wear when you know he’ll be there.
A dress casual enough to pass for effortless, but short enough to make Mickey’s eyes drop from your smile to the curve of your thighs the second you walk in.
You’ve learned, over your more impassioned nights together, that he has a fixation with your thighs and you’re not above using that to your advantage.
Tonight, you’re on a mission.
He’s at the bar when you spot him, nursing a beer and leaning into a conversation with Payback, but the moment he senses you, his focus shifts.
You don’t even have to say a word, just a look and a tilt of your head, and he starts moving.
He slides up beside you at the bar like he’s done it a hundred times before, the grin he gives you still feeling brand new.
“You gonna let me buy you a drink, cari?” he asks, voice low and familiar.
Cari.
Short for Cariño.
That’s something else that was different about Mickey.
He’d started calling you that after what you’d both agreed was the first of many “not-dates”. The nights together that felt suspiciously romantic but neither of you dared to define.
And unlike the ick most guys gave you when they got too familiar too fast, his little nickname for you made you feel warm inside.
You give him a look, smiling coyly, “Have you ever known me to turn down a free drink?”
He chuckles, flagging down the bartender with two fingers before leaning in, his arm brushing yours as he rests it against the bar, “Never. But I like to ask. Makes me feel like a gentleman.”
You raise an eyebrow at him, smirking, “I’m pretty sure that ship sailed the night you left a hickey the size of Texas on my thigh.”
He cringes, eyes flicking away from yours to focus on the bartender shaking up your drink across the counter, “Yeah, right.”
It was subtle, but you’d noticed it more and more lately, how he seemed to flinch at any mention of sex. It was strange.
When you’d first met him, he’d thrived on the crass nature of conversation. He’d whisper the filthiest things in your ear in the middle of the bar, so vivid you’d be squirming in your seat.
But lately, something was different. A shift in the way he looked at you. Like he wasn’t just watching your lips when you spoke but listening.
That threw you off, and you didn’t like to be thrown.
You sip the drink he bought you, letting the citrus-y bite of tequila chase away the unease curling in your stomach.
“You okay?” he asks, quieter this time as he looks back at you. His eyes are on you, not your legs, not your lips, you. And that was the problem.
Your resolve was quickly crumbling.
You nod, deflecting with a sweet smile, “I’m just trying to figure out if I’m imagining things,” you say, keeping your tone light, “Or if you’re going soft on me.”
That earns a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m not going to apologise for it.”
He’s still close, his arm is brushing yours, his eyes are steady.
You set your glass down and lean in just slightly, “Mickey,” your voice is low as you test his name on your tongue.
His eyes lift to meet yours without a second thought.
“Yeah?”
“…What are we doing?”
The words hang heavily between you and you regret them the moment they leave your mouth.
You hadn’t meant to ask. Not really. You’d told yourself a hundred times not to ruin this with feelings but you’d asked anyways and you couldn’t take it back.
He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second, you feel stupid. Vulnerable. Exposed.
But then he sighs, like he’s been waiting for this conversation just as long as you’ve been avoiding it.
“I don’t know,” he admits, “Honestly? I’ve been trying to figure that out myself.”
You nod, swallowing hard, your lips pressing together in a thin line.
He notices.
“I just think that we both like being around each other,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “And I wouldn’t mind if things between us got serious.”
“It’d be difficult with me being away all of the time, but… cari, I really want this.”
You should roll your eyes. You should say something flippant and remind him that you don’t do relationships but instead, you only whisper:
“I know.”
A brief silence stretches between you.
Then, he steps closer, shielding you from view of the other servicemen as he slides an arm around your waist, trapping you against the bar, “You wanna get out of here?”
You raise an eyebrow, “To your place or mine?”
He smirks, “To talk, gatita.”
You blink, “Talk?”
The word shouldn’t feel so intimate, but somehow, with Mickey, it does.
His hand brushes yours on the bar, “We can do other things later, but, yeah. Talk first.”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath and pulling your hand away, “Jesus, who are you and what have you done with the Mickey Garcia I met at that pool table?”
He looks slightly hurt, but he doesn’t give in just yet. He takes your hand again, “He’s still here. He just wants a little more from you this time around.”
You turn to face him fully, and this time, when your eyes lock, you don’t feel like running. He’s completely serious, holding your gaze and looking with a determination that feels like he knows you, soul and all.
You want to say no, but you don’t.
Instead, you simply nod once.
“Alright,” you say softly, “Let’s talk.”
And as Mickey takes you back to his place, to talk, not fuck, for the first time in a long time, you feel loved.
Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader
Word count: 8081
CW: Shitty boyfriends, angst, fluff, slow burn.
Your boyfriend's callsign is Viper, which is fitting. Bradley doesn't know how much longer he can watch this man destroy you, but luckily for him, he doesn't have to wait too long.
Use of Y/N, but no description of reader. THIS IS A MULTI-PART FIC.
Part Two
Part Three
After another day of having your feelings totally ignored by your boyfriend, you were looking forward to some alone time. Elijah was so hot and cold that you felt as though you were in a constant state of fight or flight, just waiting for him to either make your day or ruin it completely. Most of the time, it was the latter, and although good days with him were few and far between, they were enough to make you stay. See, you didn’t half-ass anything—least of all relationships—so when you were in something, you were in it. You told Elijah that much after your first date. You’d been sitting in the front of his beemer eating ice cream, having the first of many deep talks. Between sweet, sticky kisses, you’d told him that you were dating to marry. He told you he was, too.
He said, ‘I’m yours if you’ll have me, Y/N.’ And that was that.
And it was almost a year ago. You’d survived a somewhat tumultuous winter with him, desperately trying to cling on to the version of him he’d been during the summer. As time went on, he stopped putting his mask on, secure enough in your relationship that he no longer felt the need to pretend to be caring and considerate. The days were starting to get longer, and the weather was warming up again, but Elijah was so far from the man he was at the start that you might as well have been in a relationship with a different person. Every morning, you woke up with no idea what personality to expect that day, whether or not he was going to take all his personal drama out on you, even though you only ever loved and supported him.
Today had been one of those days, and as you finished up with the F-18 engine currently in pieces in front of you, you silently prayed that he wouldn’t text you asking to come over. He was also a naval aviator, but you were working on different parts of the base today. Thank God. Elijah’s callsign was Viper, fitting since vipers prey on small animals by envenomating them and watching them die slowly.
Coyote appeared behind you, helmet tucked underneath his arm.
‘Hey, we’re all heading to The Hard Deck for beers,’ he told you. ‘You comin’?’
You grabbed a rag and made an attempt to wipe some of the oil off. ‘I don’t know,’ you sighed. ‘I want to, but then I’ll have to bring Elijah, and I don’t really wanna see him tonight.’
‘Why do you have to bring him?’ Coyote frowned. ‘He’s a lousy drunk and never lets you have any fun.’
‘If he finds out I went out with all you guys, he’ll think I’m up to something.’
‘Like gettin’ with me?’ He joked, wiggling his eyebrows.
‘Probably,’ you laughed. ‘You or one of the others. Or maybe he’ll accuse me of getting with all of you if he’s in a particularly bad mood.’
‘Listen, if you wanna come, you’re welcome. We’ll just make sure nobody posts about it, and we’ll get you a fake moustache or somethin’.’
It broke your heart to think about all your closest friends having a fun night without you. Over the past year, you’d lost count of the amount of experiences you’d missed out on because you didn’t want to make Elijah upset or angry with you. The worst part was it was a double standard. He went out without you all the time, didn’t tell you where he’d gone or who he was with, and expected you to be okay with it. If you weren’t, you could kiss your peace goodbye; he’d spend the next week making your life a living hell, ignoring you entirely until you apologised to him for being hurt by his actions.
‘You know what Javy? Count me in.’
He grinned. ‘Thatta girl.’
It was hard to regret coming out when you felt this good. It had been months since you’d gone on a night out without Elijah, which was to say it had been months since you last enjoyed yourself. As you sipped your second sex on the beach, you mused that some kind of higher power must have been looking out for you because you’d yet to receive a single text from your boyfriend. Most of the time, when you spent the night apart, he’d call you incessantly. It was annoying, sometimes bordering on obsessive, and you didn’t need him to tell you he was checking on you, or rather, checking that you were alone in your apartment. That much was obvious.
Dating an insecure man was not for the weak.
You were sat at one of the high tables next to the window watching Jake, Mickey, Javy, and Reuben play pool. Nat was opposite nursing a beer, glowing in the golden light of the evening. Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up, smiling at the notification.
‘Rooster’s on his way,’ she told you. ‘He wasn’t gonna come out tonight, but I told him he didn’t have a choice. It’s not every day Y/N Y/L/N leaves the comfort of her apartment.’
You scoffed. ‘That’s not exactly how I’d put it.’
‘No?’ Nat raised a brow.
You hadn’t drunk in months, and despite only being on your second drink, the booze had loosened your lips significantly.
‘No. It’s not that I’d rather stay home, it’s that staying home makes my life easier because then I don’t have Elijah breathing down my fucking neck.’
Little did you know, Javy had told everyone about your conversation earlier. Not because he was a gossip but because he was worried about you. It was rare for you to open up to the squad about your relationship, but it wasn’t hard to guess what happened behind closed doors. They all worked with Viper, for one, and they were familiar with his temperament. Not only that, but you dropped off the face of the Earth a few months after you started dating him, and it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
‘I don’t know why you’re still with him, Y/N. He’s an ass.’
‘I know,’ you sighed, frowning into your drink. ‘It’s just not as straightforward as just leaving. I still love him. If I can make this work, I don’t have to start all over again with someone else.’
Nat nodded in understanding. ‘I get wanting to make it work, but at what cost? You don’t see your friends, and he uses you as an emotional punching bag. You can’t even come to the beach with us without him checking on you every five minutes,’ she reached over the table and took your hand. ‘He’s killing you.’
This was the first time someone had spoken their mind to you about the situation. While you already knew all of it, hearing it from one of your best friends hit home. Vodka made you emotional, and if not for Bradley, you would have broken down there and then.
He walked up to the table and engulfed you in a hug, practically pulling you off your stool. You pressed your face into his shirt, inhaling the scent of clean cotton and sandalwood. Half expecting Elijah to spring out and catch you in the act, you reluctantly pulled away.
‘Hey, Bradley.’
‘Hey yourself, stranger. Can’t believe you’re gracing us with your presence.’
‘I know, it’s been a while.’
‘A while? Try six months,’ he glanced at your almost empty glass and Nat’s empty bottle of Heineken. ‘Can I buy you lovely ladies a drink?’
‘Do you even have to ask?’ Nat retorted.
‘What’re you drinking, darlin’?’ He asked you.
You smiled sheepishly. ‘Sex on the beach.’
‘I can make that happen.’ He smirked.
Luckily, you didn’t have to come up with a response to that remark because he turned around and headed to the bar. You locked eyes with Nat, and both of you burst out laughing.
Just like that, all the negativity you’d been feeling dissipated like rain against hot tarmac.
Bradley came back with the drinks, and the three of you took the opportunity to catch up while the others finished their pool game. You shouldn’t have been as surprised as you were to find out that you’d missed a lot. Bradley had started dating one of the medics, but the relationship had crashed and burned almost immediately. He hadn’t bothered trying to meet anyone else since. Nat, after watching all her friends have such bad experiences in the dating world, had decided she was better off alone.
‘Honestly, I don’t blame you.’ You told her.
‘You should dump Viper,’ she said with a devilish grin. ‘And we can have a hot girl summer.’
Bradley laughed. ‘Can’t say I ever imagined you saying that, Nix.’
‘Isn’t that what it’s called now? We can’t be that out of touch, surely.’
‘I don’t wanna think about how old I am.’ You said, picking up your phone to see if you’d missed any texts from Elijah. You hated to think what kind of argument missing one of his calls would start.
Nat and Rooster shared a knowing look. ‘It rings, you know? Out loud.’
Being this transparent was embarrassing.
‘I think I’m going to confiscate this for now.’ Ignoring your protests, Bradley swiped your phone and tucked it into his pocket. ‘If he calls or texts, I’ll let you know.’
You were tipsy enough not to try and take your phone back but not tipsy enough to be unbothered by the idea of Elijah calling and you not picking up.
‘If he calls, I need it back straight away,’ you told him sternly. ‘If I don’t pick up, I’ll never hear the end of it.’
Bradley rolled his eyes, but you knew it wasn’t aimed at you. He hated Elijah the most of all your friends. Perhaps sensing some tension, Nat slid off her stool and grabbed your arm, practically yanking you off yours.
‘Let’s go pick a song,’ she suggested. ‘We can get more drinks on the way back.’
Since it had been so long since you last visited The Hard Deck, she let you choose. You picked Rebel Yell by Billy Idol, your mum’s favourite. Admittedly, you’d been missing your home town a lot more than usual lately, perhaps because you were in such a weird place mentally. Things must be worse than you thought if you were considering running home with your tail between your legs.
As the night went on, you got drunker and drunker. Bradley watched with a bemused grin as you dragged Bob off to the jukebox again, since he was the easiest person to coerce into doing things. How Bradley wished it was him you were clinging to. Not that he was jealous of Bob—because that would be like being jealous of a puppy—he just desperately wanted to be the object of your affection.
While you and Bob went to change the music, Bradley struck up a conversation with Natasha and Reuben, who erupted into laughter when you pulled Bob’s arm so hard he almost toppled over.
‘It’s nice to have Y/N out, huh?’ He observed.
Nat looked at him like he was the biggest dickhead in the world. ‘Come on, Bradshaw. He might be an ass, but she’s got a boyfriend.’
Bradley sipped his beer, desperately trying to come up with a believable response. Reuben smirked knowingly, which only made Bradley more annoyed.
‘I don’t have a thing for Y/N.’
‘Whatever helps you sleep at night, man.’
‘Come on, Payback. You too?’
Reuben shrugged. ‘Doesn’t take a genius to work it out. You look at her like she’s God’s gift.’
The reason Bradley looked at you like you were God’s gift is because you were, but nobody was supposed to know that.
‘Why do women stay with guys that treat them like shit?’ Bradley asked.
‘Depends on the woman,’ Natasha started. ‘But if you mean Y/N, it’s because she can’t do anything halfway. She told me earlier that it’s because she doesn’t want to start over with someone new, but I don’t think that’s it. She just loves so hard, and it takes a lot out of her. Why would she wanna start the process all over again if she already has someone?’
Bradley was incredulous. ‘Erm, I don’t know, maybe because he’s emotionally abusing her.’
You and Nat were close. In a way, she knew you better than you knew yourself, so she was the best person for Bradley to ask about things. Now, however, he was kind of regretting opening his mouth. Knowing why you were staying with a guy who treated you so badly didn’t make it easier to accept like Bradley thought it would; it only filled him with white-hot rage.
‘It’s not as easy as just leaving. She has to come to it on her own.’
‘Yeah,’ Reuben chimed in. ‘You can’t convince Y/N of shit.’
Natasha scoffed. ‘Yup, and believe me, I’ve tried.’
‘So what, we just sit around and watch him ruin her?’
‘Y/N’s a smart cookie and one of the strongest people I know. She’ll come to her senses, and when she does, we’ll be here.’
‘You know, I read somewhere once that you can’t save anyone. You can only hold their hand while they save themselves.’
Nat raised a brow. ‘Damn, Payback. That might be the wisest thing you’ve ever said.’
‘Hey, why do you sound so surprised?’
‘You really want me to answer that?’
Bradley had a lot to think about. Realistically, he knew there was nothing he could do. His only option was to let things unfold naturally and have faith that things would work out exactly the way they were supposed to. The only problem was, that sounded too much like ‘sit back and do nothing,’ which didn’t feel right either.
Bradley needed another drink.
In fact, he was just about to head to the bar when you came bounding over, dragging poor Bob behind you.
‘Roooooooooster.’ You cooed.
His heart just about melted when you started batting your eyelashes at him.
‘What’s up, Y/CS?’
Everyone else was watching the interaction expectantly, waiting to hear what you were going to say next.
‘You’re really pretty.’
Bradley laughed, hoping you were too drunk to notice the blush he could feel creeping across his cheeks. ‘Thank you. You’re really pretty, too.’
Nat, sensing the need to intervene, came around and gently grabbed your arm. ‘Hey, let’s get you a glass of water, huh?’
‘But I need to tell Roo how pretty he looks.’
Bradley’s heart fluttered at your use of the pet name. He really didn’t want you to leave, but Nat was right. You needed some water and probably your bed.
‘You told him already, Y/N. And when you get back, you can tell him again.’
She started leading you away, and Bradley immediately missed your presence.
A very flushed-looking Bob took Nat’s empty stool. ‘That girl is somethin’ else.’ He murmured, pushing his glasses back up his nose. ‘I don’t think you should let her drink anymore.’
‘I’m not her keeper,’ Bradley responded. ‘Can’t stop her from doing anything.’
Bob shrugged. ‘Maybe so, but you’re all she talked about. You and the fact that there’s no Fall Out Boy in the jukebox. Pretty sure she called it a ‘fucking tragedy.’’
Bradley leaned forward. ‘What did she say about me?’
‘You know,’ Bob waved a hand dismissively. ‘You’re pretty. Her boyfriend is gonna kill her if he finds out she’s here with you because he thinks you have a thing for her.’
Bradley was at a loss for words. Reuben, however, was grinning like a fool. ‘What was that about not having a thing for her? Even her boyfriend’s caught on, man.’
‘How many times do I have to say I do not have a thing for-’
An annoyingly loud ringing sound interrupted Bradley’s sentence. It didn’t sound like his ringtone, but the noise was coming from his pocket. It took him too long to remember that he had your phone in his pocket, and that it was probably Viper calling. Sure enough, when he took out your phone, he was greeted by a sickeningly sweet photo of you and your boyfriend on the beach. You and Nat were still at the bar, and he knew he should just let it ring so you could call him back later.
But something had a hold of Bradley, and he answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear before he could really process what he was doing.
‘Y/N’s phone.’
A beat of silence, then some of the most colourful language Bradley had ever heard in his life.
‘Who the fuck is this, and why the fuck have you got my girlfriend’s phone?’
‘Y/N can’t come to the phone right now. She’s at the bar with her friend, gettin’ another round of drinks, and I just know hearing your voice would ruin her night. It’s ruined mine, that’s for sure. If you want, I can take a message, and she’ll get back to you in the morning.’
Reuben was nearly on the floor, trying desperately not to laugh in case Viper heard him. Bob had paled significantly, like he’d seen a ghost—or worse.
‘That you, Bradshaw? I just knew something was going on-’
Bradley hung up. The severity of the situation was beginning to hit, and despite the sick satisfaction he’d felt when he picked up the phone, he was regretting his decision already.
‘Y/N is gonna kill you, Rooster.’ Bob told him.
Nat made the sensible decision to cut you off, but she said you could stay out with them until closing if you promised to keep drinking water and stop fucking around with the jukebox. That was how you ended up in the corner of a booth with Bradley next to you to stop you from escaping.
Not that you’d want to escape.
Mickey had joined, and the guys were playing cards while you and Nat talked. She was catching you up on her life, and it made a change to think about someone other than Elijah for once.
That’s when it hit you.
You hadn’t checked your phone in hours, and you dreaded to think how many texts and calls you’d missed.
‘Bradley, can I have my phone?’
He set his hand of cards down on the table and reached into his pocket. When you reached out to take it, he pulled away.
‘Before I give this to you, I need to tell you something.’
A wave of nausea hit you.
‘What? What’s going on?’
‘Viper called about an hour ago. You were at the bar, and I didn’t know what to do, so I answered it.’
Reuben leaned forward in his seat. ‘Oh, this is about to be good.’
You thought you knew what panic felt like, but up until this very moment, you had no idea. Bradley was lucky you didn’t throw up in his lap from the nerves.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t thinking-’
You snatched your phone from him, ignoring the kicked-puppy expression he was sporting. A slew of angry text messages that were borderline abusive greeted you. You skimmed them quickly, not wanting to read too many in case you started crying in front of the entire squad.
What started out as the best night you’d had in a while quickly turned into the worst. Your boyfriend's hateful messages reminded you why you never went out and why this was the biggest mistake you could have made.
The worst part was you saw it coming.
‘Move,’ you said, grabbing your bag. ‘Bradley, let me out now.’
‘You can’t drive like this, Y/N. Let one of us take you home.’
Bradley sounded destroyed. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.
‘Move.’
He nudged Bob, who stood up so Bradley could climb out of the booth. You were close behind him, and when your feet touched the floor, you nearly keeled over. Bradley reached out to steady you, but you shook him off.
‘Y/N. You can’t leave like this. How are you gonna get home?’
Ignoring his pleas, you made a beeline for the exit. Nat shoved Reuben into Mickey, trying to hurry them out of the booth so she could follow you, but you were surprisingly fast for a drunk person. Bradley was right about one thing: there was no way you could drive in this state. You ducked around the corner so Nat couldn’t see you and sank to the floor. Hot tears prickled behind your eyes as you did the one thing you didn’t want to do, but the only thing you could do.
You called Elijah.
He didn’t answer the first, second, third, or fourth time.
Half an hour passed, and you didn’t move. At one point, you heard Bradley, Nat, and Reuben talking around the corner, coming up with a plan for where to look for you. They knew you were on foot because your car was still in the lot, and since you’d disappeared so quickly, you couldn’t have gotten far. If the situation weren’t so tragic, it would’ve been funny that you were hiding ten paces away, and none of them could find you.
It was getting very late. People were getting in their cars and leaving or jumping into Ubers. Soon, your Jeep would be the only car left. You couldn’t face the daggers, and you couldn’t drive home, so you picked yourself up and took a slow walk down the beach to where the water met the sand.
What a beautiful night to have your heart broken.
There was no way Elijah would ever forgive you for this, no way you’d ever be able to convince him that nothing had happened between you and Bradley. The sane part of you knew that it was crazy to feel guilty for simply enjoying a night out with your friends, but the sane part of you rarely won these days. The part of you that loved Elijah was always loudest and knew this could never have gone any other way.
You were just about to resign yourself to calling a cab when you heard someone yelling your name from the top of the beach.
You either had the best or worst luck in the world because it was Bradley.
He made short work of the distance, giving you no time to come up with something to say. He looked otherworldly in the pale moonlight. His hair was slightly mused, and the same insane part of you that loved what it loved was whispering at you to run your fingers through it.
‘We’ve been looking all over for you, Y/N.’ He sounded very concerned as he pulled out his phone and texted the others to let them know you were safe.
‘I’m sorry, I just needed to be alone.’
You hadn’t even realised you were shivering until Bradley draped his Levi jacket over your shoulders.
‘You needed to be alone, or you needed to call Viper back?’
The tears threatened to make another appearance. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘What makes you think it’s not my business? I care about you and don’t want to keep watching you get hurt.’
‘Then stop watching!’
Bradley recoiled, and you immediately felt awful. How Elijah spoke to you like that day in and day out without feeling guilty was a mystery to you.
‘I’m sorry, Bradley,’ you sighed, pulling his jacket tighter around you. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just very drunk and very emotional right now.’
He softened immediately and seemed torn about whether he should let you stand there freezing or pull you close. You hoped he wouldn’t try to pull you close because you didn’t think you’d have the guts to tell him no. Good feelings had been so incredibly hard to come by as of late.
‘Why are you still with him, Y/N?’ Bradley asked almost pleadingly.
Wow. He didn’t waste any time getting right to the point.
‘That’s a loaded question.’
‘I need you to explain it to me because it’s killing me.’
You thought about it for a moment, and Bradley waited with bated breath to hear what you had to say.
In the end, it was this: ‘I guess we accept the love we think we deserve.’
Until you said it out loud, this phrase held little meaning to you. Now that it was out in the open, it was very heavy. In the last few months you’d tried coming up with a decent explanation as to why you were staying with Elijah, and you fell short every time. Turns out all you needed to do was get drunk and have an honest conversation to figure it out.
Coming to the realisation that what you’d just said was true felt like being in freefall. Everything in your life was changing shape to fit around this ugly truth. The good things in your heart shied away in the face of this monstrous fact.
You didn’t think you deserved a healthy love.
Somehow, Bradley was more hurt by this than when you’d snapped at him earlier. He was staring at the ground, unable to meet your eye like you’d just told him he wasn’t worthy of love.
‘You don’t think you deserve to be happy?’
Hearing him say it was somehow even worse.
‘Apparently not.’
You were both quiet for a moment, and then, for whatever reason, you laughed.
‘This is news to me too.’
The waves crashed loudly, water lapping at your feet as the tide came in. You couldn’t stand out here having epiphanies all night.
‘Listen, Rooster, I need to go home. I’m sorry for snapping.’
‘I’ll take you home,’ he said quietly. ‘But we should talk tomorrow when you’re sober. Maybe we could get coffee.’
You shook your head. ‘After tonight, I don’t think that’s a smart idea. I’ll probably be spending tomorrow trying to salvage what’s left of my relationship.’
‘You’re not serious.’
‘I am.’
He opened his mouth to protest but then appeared to change his mind. You watched as all the fight he had left in him dissolved. There was nothing left for him to say, and he knew it.
The irritating birds that constantly chirped right outside your bedroom window woke you up. It was too damn early, and your head felt as though it was splitting open. When you sat up, you were hit by a wave of nausea so strong that you had no other choice but to sprint to the bathroom, smashing into the corner of your chest of drawers on the way.
Which was to say, it was a bad morning.
After you had puked up the entire contents of your stomach, you jumped straight in the shower, brushed your teeth, and did your skincare. At least if Elijah showed up at your front door, you wouldn’t look like you got super drunk last night, even though he’d probably already guessed.
When you checked your phone, there were still no notifications from him, and when you called, there was no answer. This wasn’t unlike him, but it had been almost twelve hours since Bradley picked up your phone, and you would have thought he’d have something to say by now.
To distract yourself from your impending doom, you threw open all the windows in your apartment, made your bed, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher—all the usual morning tasks. It seemed a shame to waste such a beautiful Saturday, but you doubted you’d enjoy any of your hobbies when you were this anxious and hungover.
With nothing else left to do, you set about making some breakfast.
Just as you put your bagel in the toaster, somebody knocked on the door.
Your stomach twisted itself into an impossibly tight knot. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move until whoever it was knocked a second time.
You looked through the peephole, expecting to see Elijah standing there with his dark eyebrows knitted together in frustration. It was the only scenario that had crossed your mind, so when you saw Bradley standing there, you were very surprised.
You took a deep breath and opened the door, greeted by the warm scent of sandalwood once again.
‘Bradley?’
He was holding two iced lattes, which you were betting were vanilla—your favourite. Elijah hadn’t done that for you since the first week of your relationship.
‘Hey, Y/N. Thought you could use this.’
He wasn’t wrong. You ushered him inside, and he headed to the kitchen, where he
perched himself on one of the stools at your kitchen island. This morning, he was sporting one of his more toned-down Hawaiian shirts and dark jeans. His eyelids drooped, and you wondered if he’d slept at all.
‘I was just about to make bagels. Want one?’
‘Sure, thank you.’
You busied yourself, putting bacon and eggs into a pan while he sipped his coffee. He eyed you with the curiosity of someone who had come over to check that you were all in one piece. Once he was satisfied that you were, he relaxed slightly.
‘Thank you for bringing me home last night. I really appreciate it.’ You told him earnestly.
‘You don’t need to thank me. You’d have done the same thing.’
‘True, but still. And I’m sorry for snapping at you.’
Last night was gradually coming back to you in flashes, like a supercut. Each time you remembered a new detail, you cringed internally.
‘You also don’t need to apologise. Has he called you?’
While the eggs and bacon were cooking, you toasted another bagel for Bradley and buttered yours. Even though you’d known him for years and been quite close until you got into a relationship, you were struggling to admit that you were pretty much being ghosted. It was already hard to walk around on base knowing that everybody was aware of how Elijah treated you. When you didn’t respond, Bradley took that as a no.
‘Well, that’s his problem,’ he spat. ‘You did absolutely nothing wrong. Maybe if he were less of a control freak, you would have felt like you could tell him you were out with us rather than hiding it, and then he wouldn’t have found out the way he did.’
The toaster popped, and you jumped. It felt like somebody had run a cheese grater over your nerves. Bradley ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath, clearly trying to reign in his anger.
‘I should apologise too,’ he continued. ‘I shouldn’t have answered your phone. It was a dick move, and I regretted it the instant I did it.’
You buttered the second bagel, put one egg on each of the bottom halves, and stacked two pieces of bacon on top before adding the top part. You didn’t say a word the entire time, and Bradley was starting to get antsy.
‘Y/N. Please talk to me.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Roo. I’m struggling even to think straight right now. He knows it drives me fucking crazy when he’s having a go at me and doesn’t respond. I don’t understand why he does it, knowing how it makes me feel.’
Bradley sighed. ‘Because he doesn’t give a shit how you feel. He doesn’t give a shit about anything other than himself and how he feels.’
This wasn’t news to you, but again, it was more impactful to hear someone else say it out loud. Really, how long could you keep this up? Whether you thought you deserved it or not, you were starting to wonder if you might be better off alone than with someone who made living feel like walking next to a cliff with your eyes closed.
You pushed Bradley’s plate across the counter and picked up your bagel. Eating felt impossible, but getting through the day with this headache would be excruciating if you didn’t at least try.
‘Come and sit down,’ Bradley said. ‘It’s not good to eat standing up.’
Despite everything, you managed to laugh. And this time, it was a real laugh. ‘Why?’
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I don’t know. My mum used to say it all the time.’
You did as you were told, and you walked around the island, taking the seat next to him. The two of you ate in companionable silence, periodically taking sips of your coffees. This was how easy it should have been with Elijah.
When you were both finished, Bradley put your plates, pan, and utensils into the dishwasher. You were too tired to tell him to stop.
‘Thanks for breakfast.’
You smiled. ‘Thanks for being you.’
Bradley’s smile mirrored your own. Unsaid words hung in the air, but you didn’t know what to say. His leaving didn’t feel right, but if he stayed and Elijah made an appearance, he’d most definitely break up with you.
But wasn’t this radio silence all the confirmation you needed that things were pretty much over, anyway? You were starting to wonder if this weekend had all happened exactly the way it was supposed to. Your eyes were indeed open, that was for sure. Of course, you’d known that the relationship wasn’t healthy, but this weekend had really driven the point home.
‘Do you wanna go for a walk along the beach?’ You asked, hopefully. ‘We could grab some ice cream at that little place next to the arcade.’
Bradley didn’t just look happy. He also looked relieved that you weren’t asking him to leave.
‘I’d love to.’
It was a beautiful Spring day, perfect walking weather. Honestly, it was the last thing Bradley expected you to suggest, so he jumped on the idea before you could change your mind and send him home.
Because he really didn’t want to go home.
He’d sensed that you didn’t want to talk about Viper, and you’d yet to bring up your conversation on the beach last night. Bradley was beginning to doubt that you even remembered everything you said—all that nonsense about not deserving a healthy love. Bradley didn’t take you as a liar, which meant you believed that you weren’t deserving of happiness. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite so sad and also angry at the same time. So many emotions were warring for the top spot in his heart, and as a result, his brain was incredibly foggy.
A walk along the beach with you was perhaps the only cure.
‘Did you hear about Hangman?’ Bradley assumed you hadn’t.
‘No?’
‘He’s getting deployed. He’s leaving next month.’
‘How long is he going for?’
‘Six months.’
You whistled lowly. ‘Damn.’
‘I know. I think he’s looking forward to it, though. I sure am.’
‘You know, I don’t think you hate him half as much as you say.’
Bradley chuckled. ‘Maybe not, but being nice to him wouldn’t feel right. Even after everything that happened on the mission.’
The two of you walked down the beach, chit-chatting about anything that came to mind. You were about halfway to the ice cream place when your phone pinged. Bradley guessed it would be Viper, but he never could have guessed what the message said.
It was a photo of you and Bradley walking down the beach, taken from behind. The picture had been forwarded to you from someone else.
E<3: always knew you were a slut.
You inhaled sharply, obviously hurt by the words on the screen. Not two seconds later, he sent another text.
E<3: PS: we’re fucking over.
The two of you had stopped walking. Bradley watched over your shoulder as you furiously typed a reply and deleted it again. You turned to face him, and his heart just about broke when he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks. You didn’t need to say a word. He pulled you close to him, wrapping you tightly in his arms. You stayed that way for a while, sobbing into his Hawaiian shirt as he rubbed your back soothingly. When you eventually pulled away, the first thing you did was apologise.
‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry for, sweet girl. He’s the one who should be sorry.’
You sniffled. ‘I don’t know what to reply.’
‘Leave it for now,’ he said. ‘We can go get ice cream, take a slow walk back to yours. Then I’ll help you think of something.’
‘I don’t know if I feel like ice cream anymore.’
‘Well, that’s too bad because I do. Ice cream is the best remedy for heartbreak.’
‘Did your mum tell you that too?’
‘She sure did.’
It turns out Bradley was right about ice cream being the best remedy for heartbreak. The two of you sat on the wall, watching the waves while he munched on a mint chocolate chip cone and you butterscotch. It was hard to tell whether it was the best ice cream you’d ever had or if it was because you were with Bradley. If you remembered correctly, you’d had ice cream from this same place with Elijah before, and it hadn’t been this nice.
Thinking back on your memories with him only made you want to cry, so you did your best to shove them to the back of your mind. Despite the fact that he was actually a very shitty person, he’d been a dream at the beginning, and that didn’t just go away. The happy moments didn’t just suddenly turn to ash, as much as you wished they would.
‘What are your plans for the rest of the night?’ Bradley asked around his ice cream cone.
‘I don’t know, Roo. I’m kinda working on a minute-to-minute basis right now.’
Bradley nodded. ‘Okay, well, what would you say to junk food run and a movie night?’
‘With you?
‘If you want to. I just don’t think it’s good for you to be alone.’
‘I don’t want you to feel like you have to babysit me.’
‘Is that what you think this is?’
‘No, but I don’t want to be a burden. Or a charity case.’
‘Y/N, you’re none of those things. I always want to spend time with you. Just so happens I have a good excuse today.’
You frowned into your ice cream. ‘Okay. As long as you’re sure.’
The two of you finished your ice cream and took a slow walk back to your apartment. When you got in, the first thing you noticed was a framed photograph of you and your now ex-boyfriend on the side table in the hallway. When your bottom lip started trembling, Bradley picked up the photo, put it face down, and then proceeded to run around your apartment and take down any others. It didn’t feel like the same place you’d left a few hours ago. It was haunted by memories that would never look right in the light of day. Even the happiest ones from the start were tainted with the ugliness of his cruel words and actions.
‘This place is so depressing.’ You grumbled.
Bradley stood in front of you with a stack of photos and one of Elijah’s t-shirts.
‘It’s not. It’s your home, Y/N. We just have to pack away his stuff and put it all in a box.’
‘An ex-boyfriend box.’
Bradley smiled sadly. ‘Yeah, exactly. It might be over, and he might be a dick, but it was still a big part of your life, and it’s important to keep the memories safe in case you wanna look back on them someday.’
‘Or in case I wanna burn them.’
‘That too.’ Bradley chuckled
So you helped him gather all the mementoes from your relationship and put them in an old Dr Martens box. It all looked pretty pathetic, packed away in a shoebox.
‘I found one of his hoodies and a few other things.’ You called from your bedroom. ‘Can you grab me a bin bag from the top of the fridge?’
You heard shuffling, and then Bradley was standing in the doorway holding out the bag you requested.
‘Damn, he doesn’t even get one of the nice Trader Joe's bags?’
‘No,’ you giggled. ‘He gets a trash bag because his stuff is trash, and he’s trash.’
You weren’t really at the stage where you believed that just yet, but saying it was really satisfying, and it felt good to laugh. Fake it till you make it or whatever.
‘Want me to give it to him tomorrow?’
‘Thanks, but I should really be the one to do it. I haven’t even texted him back.’ You thought about it for a moment and then continued. ‘Would it be cheeky of me to ask if you’ll come with me? Maybe Nat, too? I could use some moral support, and he’s less likely to make a scene if the two of you are there.’
‘Of course I’ll be there. I won’t say anything unless you need me to or unless he starts. I can’t make that same promise for Nix, though.’
‘I haven’t even told Nat yet,’ you sighed. ‘I don’t think I wanna talk about it right this second.’
‘I’ll text her. Don’t worry about it.’
From your spot on the floor, you looked up at Bradley. The evening sunlight was streaming in through the windows, casting an ethereal glow around him.
‘You should change your callsign to angel.’
A look of pleasant surprise flickered across his handsome features. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re literally my angel, Roo. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
Half an hour later, Bradley convinced you to go on a junk food run with him in the Bronco. He said tonight was a mandatory, post-breakup wallowing sesh because if you bottled up your feelings now, you’d explode later at a much more inconvenient time.
The two of you had been screaming along to all the classic breakup songs: All Too Well by Taylor Swift (yes, he knew all the words), Who Knew by Pink, What About Now by Daughtry… He’d driven the long way to the store because you got so into it.
Now, as you scanned the shelves in Target, you asked: ‘What is it about screaming sad songs that makes you feel better?’
‘It’s cathartic,’ Bradley explained. ‘Helps you relieve the strong feelings.’
‘You know a lot about heartbreak.’
‘Well, I’ve had my fair share of sadness.’
You froze. ‘That was insensitive of me, I’m sorry.’
Bradley took the packed of Reeses Pieces from your hands so he could hold them. ‘Can you make me a promise?’
‘What?’ You asked sceptically.
‘Promise you’re gonna stop apologising to me all the time. You have nothing to be sorry for.’
‘Sorry.’ You smiled sheepishly.
He shook his head. ‘That’s not what you’re supposed to say.’
‘Okay, fine,’ you huffed. ‘I promise to stop apologising all the time.’
‘Thank you,’ Bradley said, releasing your hands reluctantly. ‘Now, pick out five more things.’
‘Five? There’s already five things in the basket.’
‘Did I ask?’
‘I’m gonna get fat.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Wallowing means junk food, and I don’t know if you’re looking at the same basket I am, but that’s not enough junk food.’
‘Christ Almighty, okay.’
He helped you pick out five more things, and then you headed to check out.
‘What movies are good for wallowing?’ You asked.
‘Well, we have to start with a couple of sad ones and then finish with a happy one.’
The cashier told you your total, and Bradley tapped his card before you could even get yours out. You gave him a withering look.
‘I would’ve paid for that. You paid for the ice cream.’
‘So?’
‘So we should take it in turns.’
Obviously, he carried the bags as well, and as you walked back to the Bronco, he couldn’t help but wonder if Viper made you take it in turns. If you were his girl, you’d never have to tap your card.
‘What’s your favourite sad movie?’ He inquired.
You opened the trunk for him so he could put the bags in. ‘Technically, it’s not a sad movie. But there’s this part in Inside Out…Wait, have you watched it before? I don’t wanna spoil it for you.’
‘The part where Bing Bong gets forgotten?’
You gasped. ‘How did you know?’
‘Because it gets me every single time.’
The way you looked at him in that moment, like he had hung the moon in the sky—God, it was too much.
‘We’ll start with Inside Out,’ he told you, opening the passenger door so you could climb in. ‘And then we’ll think of something else.’
Without giving much thought to what he was doing, Bradley found himself buckling your seatbelt for you. You were holding your breath, and it dawned on him how easy it would be to kiss you if he were that sort of guy.
And as much as he wanted to kiss you, he was not that sort of guy. He wasn’t about to take advantage of the fact that some asshole had just taken a sledgehammer to your very beautiful heart.
‘Can we watch Bridge To Terabithia?’ You whispered.
Bradley hadn’t moved, and you were so close that he could feel your warm breath on his cheek.
‘Are you trying to break my heart, Y/N?’
‘Yes. I want you to feel my pain.’
He was grinning the whole way around the car to the driver’s side and still grinning when he got in the car. You already had his phone in your hand, searching for more sad songs so you could continue your car concert on the way back to your apartment. He drove the long way again so the two of you could finish your rendition of ‘I Don’t Love You’ by My Chemical Romance, which Bradley didn’t know the words to. He tried his best, though, because you seemed to love it, and he couldn’t deny you anything.
By the time you got home, the sun had almost entirely set. While he set the snacks out on the coffee table, you went around lighting candles and switching on fairy lights. He’d never seen your apartment in the dark, and it was incredibly cosy. Even though it was relatively warm, you dragged all your blankets and pillows from your bed and made a little nest on the sofa. You were so adorable, it was hard to believe that someone could treat you badly.
If you were his girl, every night would look like this—except you’d be a lot happier, and there would be no tears.
Halfway through Bridge To Terebitha, you fell asleep. Bradley had been trying to keep his distance despite wanting to wrap you up in his arms, yet somehow—in your sleep—you’d ended up with your legs in his lap. He’d frozen at first, but once he realised you were dead to the world, he allowed himself to rest his hands on your knees. Really, it was that or sit with his arms crossed, and that would be silly.
For the duration of the movie, his attention flickered between you and the TV. Every time he tried paying attention to what was happening, his eyes wandered back to your peaceful face. He marvelled at your astounding beauty, the delicate way your eyelashes rested against the tops of your rosy cheeks. Bradley had always admired you, and you’d been good friends for years, but what he felt in that moment was something else entirely. By the time the end credits started rolling, he knew without a doubt that he’d set whole cities ablaze to keep you warm. Feelings as rapidly growing as his should have been terrifying, but Bradley wasn’t scared. Falling in love with you seemed to be as easy as wading out into a calm ocean on a warm summer’s day.
He knew you’d yet to learn that falling in love and staying in love should always be this easy. He knew it was going to take some time to convince you that you deserved healthy love, that the right person would never run away from you and keep turning around to make sure you were chasing them.
But Bradley was a patient man, and he would wait as long as he had to.
