The last thing Chick expected when he stepped into his local for his nightly drink was to see the very kid whose face he'd seen plastered across the front of that racing magazine. Yet here he was, in the flesh. Sitting in his spot at the end of the bar, no less. Though he didn't seem to be paying attention, instead swirling what was left in the bottom of a brown bottle around while he looked at the TV mounted to the wall behind the bar.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what to do. Kev, the bartender, would surely know something was up he he didn't go over and boot the kid from his spot, though. So in the end he decided to go over, and in a deliberate attempt to make him jump, tapped on his shoulder.
"Nice wings you got there, kid."
Sure enough, Ripslinger startled and dropped the bottle in his hand, narrowly avoiding sliding from the stool by gripping the edge of the bar. He almost fell again when he turned and they locked eyes.
"I- uh, I'm- thanks?" He stammered, completely caught off guard. Chick Hicks! Here! In person! He had quite a few more grey hairs than he remembered from when he was younger, but there was no mistaking it. As if anyone could have mistaken him for someone else.
It took the pilot a few seconds to pull himself together. He was supposed to be the most eligible bachelor in aerial racing; he didn't get that title by acting like a fool.
"So... you're a fan, are you?" He couldn't quite muster up his usual cockiness - his voice wavered slightly.
Chick snorted and gestured to Kev for a beer. "Drop the act. I wrote the damn book." He took the bottle brought to him, then gestured to the empty bottle currently laying on its side in a little puddle on the bar. "Bring one for the kid, too. On me."
"...thanks." Excitement gave way to nerves and confusion - he had said that he'd written the book on 'the act'. Was he not how his interviews had always made him seem? Rip's stomach tied itself into a knot. He couldn't let himself think there was any sort of chance.
"So what brings you to town?" The older man sat himself down on the next stool, taking a sip of his beer. Oh, he needed that.
"I've got a photoshoot. Some modelling job." He took the new bottle and sipped too, though he couldn't stop looking at Chick. It was surreal, actually sitting here next to him.
Chick had seen that look before. Never directed at him, of course, but racing fans often looked at Strip that way, and then later, Lightning too. It was the poorly disguised look of the starstruck.
"Quit looking at me like that." He grunted gruffly, looking to the TV just so he wouldn't have to see that expression directed at him. He wasn't worthy of it.
"Like what?" Playing dumb. Of course.
"Like you're my biggest fan."
That wasn't the answer he had expected. Chick turned back to look at him, one eyebrow raised incredulously.
"You were one of my biggest inspirations. I guess you still are, in a way." Rip turned away then, finding it easier to speak to the neck of his bottle. "You never took shit from anyone. People were too scared to give you shit. So yeah, I wanted to be like you." He shrugged, then sipped.
Chick stalled. He blinked at this kid, he couldn't be any more than 25, who wanted people to be scared of him. Enough to base a lot of his attitude on his own. Well, it made a whole lot more sense why he'd seen a lot of himself in him. It had been deliberate.
He never would have dreamed that someone could find his persona, his defense mechanism, appealing enough to want to copy it. He was am asshole on purpose. The aim was to stop people getting close to him. It worked! Or at least, he thought it had.
The moment couldn't have been any longer than a second, but it felt like an eternity.
"You painted your plane bright green, too. At least try to be subtle." He scoffed, though a lead weight had settled in his stomach.
There were so many good racers out there. Strip and Lightning jumped immediately (annoyingly) to mind, but there were far more than that. Why couldn't he have picked one of them? He didn't like the responsibility of propagating his toxic mindset through the racing world. How many impressionable young kids looked at Ripslinger the same way Ripslinger had seen him?
Chick's joke, while something he normally wouldn't have struggled to brush off, cut deep given that it was from him. He gave an awkward little chuckle, not wanting to be the guy who couldn't take a joke. Besides, he knew this guy was an asshole, that was the whole point!
So why did he have a horrible feeling of deja vu?
Ripslinger had been hoping for something to come of their chance meeting, but his admission and Chick's joke had ruined any chance of a connection they might have had.
They both left after finishing that beer, heading in opposite directions with an awkward goodbye, the same lingering feeling of self-loathing sitting in their chests.
