Bob
It was funny that they were both stationed at the same base but never really crossed paths. She had seen his name on the stat board, but that was about it.
Bob was another odd bird. He stuck out like a sore thumb—once you actually noticed him.
Bob had surprised her. She knew he was a more than competent WSO, the fact that he graduated Top Gun of course told her that, but having him in the backseat showed her.
They clicked well together up there in the air.
Outside the cockpit he also surprised her too, but in ways she had not expected.
It was little things.
Like not talking over her as her male counterparts tended to do.
Like holding the door open for her and standing when she entered a room he also happened to be in.
Natasha had been conditioned to take exception to these old-fashioned, gentlemanly courtesies that, had been anyone else, she would have taken extreme exception to it.
But, Bob could get away with it … because he was Bob. There was nothing patronizing about it. She was even a little flattered. It took a few days for him to stop calling her "ma'am". That she had to put the kibosh on.
"We're the same rank, Lieutenant. And you're making me feel old."
"Sorry, force of habit," he'd said sheepishly.
It took a little coaxing at first to get him talking, but once he got started he could talk just as much as Rooster, but without the sense that he was holding something back. The man was an open book.
… Which made him an easy target for Hangman. Fortunately, Jake mostly left him alone since he wasn't in direct competition for flight leader.
But Bob got his own in on Hangman a few times.
"See you in the afterlife, Bagman."
"Yet you always manage to offend …"
After that first "kill" by Maverick Natasha had gone to the gym and taken her frustration and embarrassment out on the punching bag. Her core and arms were still shaking from the two-hundred push-ups.
After a few punches a pair of hands suddenly grabbed the bag and steadied it. Natasha poked her head around to see Bob on the other side. He gave her a small, sympathetic smile and a nod.
She gave him an answering smile of thanks and went back to punching.
"How did you get your call-sign, Bob?" She couldn't help but ask between swings.
"It's not a good story."
"Fair enough." She spent a few more minutes jabbing and Bob held the bag steady. "Hey, after this you wanna grab a beer at the Hard Deck?"
"I'd like that. But just a mock-tail for me, if you don't mind."
"I noticed you not drinking before. Are you not good with alcohol?"
"No, I'm fine."
Natasha gave a chuckle. "Then what are you a Baptist or something?"
"Actually, yes."
Phoenix froze.
"Oh. I didn't mean—"
Bob's blue eyes twinkled in amusement. He chuckled and gave her a reassuring grin. "I'm not offended. Really. I actually get that a lot."
"Next you'll be telling me you're a PK." She threw another punch.
When Bob didn't instantly answer, she looked sharply at him. He was wearing a sheepish expression. "Well …"
Natasha leaned her forehead against the bag. "Oh, my G … you are a pastor's kid."
Bob gave a proper belly-laugh this time.
"Oh, shut up!" Natasha gave the bag a good punch and she heard Bob's laugh cut off with an "oof!"
She poked head around and smirked. "And you're one of nine kids, right?" She asked sarcastically.
"Six," Bob wheezed.
"Ok. I'm gonna stop talking now." Natasha went back to punching but Bob continued to make conversation.
"What about you? Got any siblings?"
"Yeah." Punch. "A sister and a brother." Punch. Punch. "I'm the oldest." Punch.
"So … where'd the last name Trace come from?"
"My Dad."
"Well, obviously, but … I mean …"
Natasha tilted her head to look at him, an eyebrow raised. "You mean I don't look like a 'Trace'."
Now it was Bob who was talking himself into an embarrassing corner. She wanted to tease him some more, but he looked so sincerely apologetic she didn't have the heart. She went back to punching the bag.
"My mother is part Navajo, part Mexican. My great, great, grandparents came out of Baja California to Arizona and mixed with the pueblo Indians. What about you, Bob? Where you from?"
Bob fleetingly thought that those two ethnic origins didn't sound like they belonged to the surname "Trace", but maybe he was just being ignorant.
"Well, originally, Huntsville, Alabama," he answered.
"Ah, Rocket City, U.S.A. …"
"Yup."
So that's where the accent's from?
"What made you want to join the Navy? There's no naval bases in Alabama."
"Well, when I said I was a pastor's kid, that's technically true, I guess. My dad's a Navy Chaplain. We're originally from Huntsville, but then we moved to Virginia Beach
"Ah. So, he got stationed there. Oceana?"
"Yeah. But my uncle, my Dad's older brother, he's an engineer, he works on missiles and rockets back in Huntsville."
Natasha tilted her head as she digested the information. "So … I guess I can see how those two areas come together in you. But why not fly in a Hawkeye or be a part of the techs in the radar room?"
Bob shrugged, then smiled slightly to himself. "Well, I've always loved fighter planes. The sound, the way they move and look …"
"So why not become a fighter pilot?"
Bob ducked his head slightly, a sign that he was starting to feel a bit self-conscious . "Well, I … uh … my reaction time and coordination didn't quite make the grade."
Natasha winced in sympathy. "Oh."
"But, you know, it's actually okay. God works in mysterious ways. It made me realize I'm actually happier being a back-seat driver, pun completely intended." Bob gave her a crooked grin. "And I still get to be in the middle of the action."
Natasha looked at him as she unwrapped her hands. She felt the stress in her chest uncoil.
"Let's go for that drink, Bob."
"Yes, ma'am."
Natasha swatted him in the shoulder. "Hey, what did I say about that?"
Bob threw his head back and laughed, and then opened the door for her.
