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Growing up, family, to Bob, was a complicated thing. Slaps to the back were meant to hurt; they were to be delivered with a sting and an insult. Accomplishments didn't deserve praise, only silence or reminders to do better. Alcohol was not something to be enjoyed on a rare night out or for celebrations; it was a crutch, a medicine, a poison. Hugs? Touches? You keep them to yourself. They're not needed and certainly not wanted. And lastly, it was best to be seen and not heard, but better to be neither.
Bob takes these lessons, because that's what they were, into his career with the Navy, though not by his own choice. As much as he'd tried to distance himself from the people who had raised him, the broken home he'd limped away from, it never seemed to last long. He'd been made to relearn those lessons like some terrible loop he was destined to be stuck in—squad after squad, station after station, over and over.
But then comes The Mission. Then comes Phoenix, Rooster, Maverick, Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, hell, even Hangman, and a handful of other pilots. And suddenly, all the ways of existence Bob had ingrained into how he functioned around the world, because he knew the rules, didn't seem to work anymore.
The first lesson Bob unlearns is, funnily enough, the last he'd been taught, the one that seemed most enforced. Blend into the background. Don't speak, don't be seen, and you won't be a problem for anyone. He's a WSO; he doesn't need to stand out with the flyboys he works around. But then he's reassigned, pulled from Lamoore, and dropped back into Top Gun.
Phoenix pulls him under her wing, quite literally, and refuses to let him fall to the wayside. It's strange how in such a short time, a matter of weeks, Bob finds himself not wanting to. He quips, throws in against Hangman, and earns laughs. Bob is seen. For the first time, he starts to believe that maybe it's not such a bad thing.
Everything else comes in parts after that. After realizing he's not just Bob anymore but Bob and Phoenix. Bob and the Daggers.
His stomach no longer churns at the smell of beer or strong liquor. He still doesn't drink, won't let the stuff touch his lips, but he buys the team a round when it's his turn. Bob doesn't unconsciously count the bottles that pile up or get worried when Hangman starts to wobble because he knows that what happens next will be him falling on his ass or involve Coyote catching him and making him dance to Rooster's progressively sloppier piano music.
None of them offer Bob any either, all learning in their own way that he won't accept, even if they say they'll get him the top shelf. But they don't tease either. They don't make him feel like his refusal is a slap. Sometimes they even join him, swapping out vodka for sprite and whiskey for just plain coke. It feels like a tip of a hat, a silent "don't worry, we'll back you up."
They run a missile test, a training exercise. Bob has a dead eye, but he manages to save it; against all odds, he gets target lock. Phoenix is the only one to hit the mark.
When they land on the tarmac, Bob isn't expecting anything, not really, not anything that isn't a sharp look or some kind of feigned congratulations, at least. He knows the dissatisfaction of failing; he knows how bitter envy tastes. Phoenix is happy, so that's all Bob has to care about. When he sees Payback and Fanboy en route to meet them, there's a sudden pit in Bob's stomach.
It leaves just as suddenly, Fanboy slapping his shoulder, a wide grin splitting his face before looping his arm tight around Bob's neck and pulling him into a side hug. He's laughing.
"That was great, man! Thought no one wanna gonna hit the damn thing today!" Payback chuckles along with his WSO and knocks Bob's shoulder lightly with his own.
"First rounds on you guys!" They leave and scurry off after that, Phoenix calling expletives to their retreating figures before she's smiling at Bob too.
When Maverick pulls him aside later at the O-Club, presses a cold glass into his hand, Bob is confused and regretful, opening his mouth to decline the drink, but the older man cuts him off with a knowing twinkle in his eye.
"Rootbeer Bob, just made it look the part." Bob, surprised, lifts the pint to his nose and sniffs. He feels the carbonation against his nose and smells the vanilla. He can't help the way his mouth curls, bashful and pleased.
"Thank you, sir." Bob hadn't realized Maverick's hand had landed on his shoulder until he's jostling him good-natured.
"Heard you did good today, figured you earned it." If Bob walks away from the bartop with color on his cheeks and a warm feeling in his chest, then no one else has to know. Bob had done good. He'd done enough.
He sips his drink and laughs along with the other pilots around their usual pool table, especially when they point, confused, at his drink until he offers them a taste, and they only laugh harder.
Understanding slides home when Bob crosses the final hurdle of his long-held beliefs.
Bob had convinced himself that he wasn't someone who needed physical affection. He was fine sitting in his corner of the bar or at the edge of group huddles. More than that or the occasional pat on the arm? Bob was fine without it.
He tells himself that when he watches Rooster draw Phoenix or Coyote into ridiculously silly hugs, pulling them off the ground and spinning them around for the hell of it after a day on the beach. Or when they're at The Hard Deck and Halo gets dragged into a slow dance with Harvard and Yale.
Bob tries not to feel the itch under his skin when he watches Fanboy lean back into Payback's chest, an arm around the smaller man's waist. They all look so at ease, so comfortable, and Bob reminds himself that they wouldn't want him touching them like that. He has to so that the want doesn't burn too much.
Movie nights are hard. They pile into Maverick and Admiral Kazansky's house, drinks, snacks, and pizza on the way, squabbling over what genre they're going to pick. Bob likes to get there a little later, everyone else already filing into the living room, so he can find a space on the ground, usually off the side of one of the two recliners that Omaha and Fritz fight over.
He's pulling up later than normal, traffic slowing him down, and by the time he gets inside, everyone already sprawled around, greeting him with waves and smiles. Rooster is stationed cross-legged next to the closer chair, next to Maverick, who leans back between the Admiral's legs, so Bob steps his way over to claim his other spot. He's not expecting it when an arm shoots out and grabs his wrist, pulling him until his knees buckle and he's falling backward.
Bob lands on a solid lap with a yelp and fights to right himself. An arm is thrown over him, and a chin is hooked over his shoulder.
"Stop squirming," Hangman's voice is tired but amused, and Bob immediately stills. The blond doesn't offer anything else, and when Bob tries to shimmy off his lap one more time, the arm buckling him in only tightens. Then, before he can make a third attempt, a weight drops over the tops of his thighs. Bob blinks down and meets warm brown eyes. Phoenix offers him a quirk of her eyebrow and then turns to face the screen.
Bob is forced to sit there, a solid heat against his back and his pilot draped over him like it's easy, and he thinks... maybe it is. It's almost startling how unstartling it is. How they drag him into their pile of limbs, and after the initial surprise wears off, he doesn't think to shy away. He can't make himself.
Bob looks out over the bodies of the group he's been fitted into, this strange collection of clashing personalities that somehow works together seamlessly and relaxes back against Hangman's body. He's known it for a while now that they want him here, but the arm around his stomach, the hand on his lap, and the pressure of Fanboy leaning against his shins... he feels blanketed by them, enfolded into the system they've created.
Bob also knows the name for it, laughing along as Halo throws a fist full of popcorn at the screen when the love interests kiss.
It's family.