Chapter Text
It's only seven o'clock, but the bar is already noisy when they open the door. Natasha slips her cover under her belt and follows Steck's platinum blonde head through the crowd. She's already regretting her decision to come out tonight, but the guys spewed some kind of bullshit about camaraderie and celebrating victories as a team, and there's truly nothing better to do within walking distance of the base tonight, so here she is.
Steck and Drummond are already inseparable after only two weeks of introductory flight training, and it's as frustrating as it is sweet. It's not like she expected to waltz into flight school and pick up a wingman to exchange "BFF" necklaces with in the first month, but she expected the cohort to be more balanced, in a way. Like they're all in this together.
Instead the guys are off in their own world, and Henson wants nothing to do with the group outside of training. She's a good enough pilot (if two weeks of introductory training are anything to go by), but quiet as they come and stone cold in the face of any attempt at humor. Natasha might as well be talking to the instrument panel as trying to get anything beyond basic pleasantries out of her. To each her own, as they say.
Still, it was nice of Steck to invite them both along tonight, even knowing Henson had a snowball's chance in hell of accepting. The two of them are the only women in this training wave, but they're far from the first of anything in today's Navy. It's reassuring to know that this tiny piece of the unit is willing to treat them like any other trainee.
The crowd in the room is a mix of locals and uniforms, some in flight suits, some in khakis. Drummond shoulders his way to the bar and manages to flag down the bartender long enough to order 3 beers and exchange a few dollars for quarters.
It's quieter at the other end of the bar,where they find the pool table blessedly empty. Drummond tries to explain the intricacies of his version of 3-man pool, but by the time she sinks the wrong ball for the 3rd or 4th time, they've all but given up on actually keeping score. Natasha isn't particularly skilled at the game under normal rules, but she's afraid she might be if they keep up this routine of going straight from training to the bar on a Friday afternoon. It's nice though, having someone to talk about nothing with and a reason to get out of her apartment.
She begs off after a few games and goes back to her seat at the end of the bar to finish nursing her beer. It's warm now, and kind of disgusting, but it's something to do with her hands now that she's lost the pool cue. She hadn't wanted to finish her drink too quickly when they arrived (and it was actually cold)... her one-drink-with-strangers-or-in-uniform policy tends to invite a lot fewer questions when she has a bottle in hand, even if it stays half full all night. Her sister Lana calls this "paranoid" and "control freak tendencies", but whether she likes it or not, naval aviation still feels like a man's world. She's fully prepared to have to fight for every ounce of respect she gets and measure up to a higher unwritten standard than her male counterparts. So if someone is going to be watching and judging her every move, then she'd much rather be in control of the situation. And in the Navy, someone is always watching.
"Hey, you okay?"
Natasha startles and looks up to find a man looking down at her. leaning one elbow on the bar. A local, she guesses, from the sun-streaked hair, racoon-eye sunburn, and an unbuttoned shirt that looks like it was in fashion about 30 years ago. "Oh, yeah I'm good. Just spaced out for a second."
"Okay, cool. You looked super out of it, so I just wanted to check, you know?" He brings a hand up to the back of his neck and flushes a little darker behind the sunburn. "Actually, I just realized you're probably here with those guys, and they would probably notice if anything was actually wrong, and now you probably think this is super weird."
Alright, so maybe he's a beach bum, but at least he's a thoughtful one. She smiles and sticks out a hand. "Ensign Natasha Trace. I'm here with them, but I gave up trying to understand the bonkers rules they're using. Care to join me in the peanut gallery?"
He takes the proffered hand with a firm grip of his own and she breathes a little sign of relief. It's a small victory, but at least he's not another asshole who thinks grabbing the tips of her fingers is an appropriate handshake for a woman.
"Bradley Bradshaw"
A short laugh slips out before she can catch it. "Did your mother not like you or something?"
She's known him for all of 30 seconds, and here she is insulting his name. It fits though, somehow, a ridiculous name on top of the puppy-innocent eyes and outrageous Hawaiian print and gangly limbs. He makes a face like he's heard it before, but he takes a seat on the stool she kicks out for him.
While Bradshaw tries to catch the bartender's eye, she goes back to watching Steck and Drummond circling the pool table, far more occupied with talking trash than actually finishing a game at this point.
"So how do you know these geniuses anyway?" Drink finally in hand, he gestures carelessly at the game in front of them before taking a long swig.
She laughs. "They're not so bad. We just finished IFS, Steck and Drummond were part of my cohort. Henson's our fourth, but she called it an early night. Something about seeing enough of our ugly mugs this week." She could kick her herself for the phrase as soon as it slips out, but somehow, he doesn't take the bait to make a pass or comment on her looks, just hums noncommittally and watches the game unfold. It's more of a surprise than she'd like it to be.
There's a beat of silence before he pipes up again, "So you're gonna be a pilot?"
She tries to stop the grin spreading across her face, but it's a pointless effort. Just like every other time she gets to talk about flying."It's all I've ever wanted to do. I'm aiming for strike, but I think I'd even be happy puttering along flying cargo or something if they let me. I tried to get my private when I was home this summer, before I came down here. I never felt like I had time in school with classes and ROTC stuff or I would have done it sooner, but I only got 15 hours in before I got the call to come here. Hardly even soloed. It's just the best feeling in the world, you know? Being up there, it's like nothing else matters. It's just you and the sky and the feel of the air, and all I can think about is 'I want to feel like this forever'." She's just realized that she's rambling again, but Bradshaw doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he's staring at her like it's the most profound thing he's ever heard. Like he's trying to see into her soul.
She blushes and goes back to staring into space to break whatever kind of moment they were having. She does not need to be having moments with strangers in bars. "Anyway, it's a long road to get there. Lots of training to get through first."
"Don't I know it," he mumbles into the bottle as he's raising it again.
It takes her a minute to catch the implications of that. "You're a pilot too?"
"In the civilian world, yeah. But I enlisted and worked on the Rhino for a couple years. Finally got my degree, and now I guess I've convinced the Navy I should be trusted to fly for them too. I'm starting API on Monday." That grin comes creeping across his face again. "I guess we'll be seeing a lot more of each other, Trace."