love me right • bradley bradshaw

01

The air surrounding the patrons of the Hard Deck was nearly stifling. It was almost uncomfortably warm, perhaps from the amount of breaths taken to keep a constant flow of conversation going. He hated that.
A statement that held no meaning, purpose, or value, only for the sake of not letting a conversation lie. Allowing an exchange of words to dwindle into a nothingness that was often termed "uncomfortable silence". Silence that he much preferred.

His green eyes watched the tan service uniforms scattered across the room, narrowing in on a familiar face, and reluctantly moving forward.

"—surprised you back." The voice murmured as he moved toward the pool table, shifting slightly on his feet. The woman turned, eyes glancing over his face before immediately darting back, widening immeasurably.

"Presley?" Phoenix questioned with a small laugh of disbelief. "It's—wow, it's so great to see you."

"Yeah," He began, nodding his head slowly, almost resigned. "You too."

"Did—Are you on the detachment team too?" She furrowed her brows, reeling back in slight confusion. He merely nodded his head.

"Gonna introduce me?" A mustached man tilted his head, leaning into the pool table. His voice was deep, a timber, with a rasp to match.

"Oh," Phoenix murmured dumbly, blinking in an attempt at recovery. "This is Presley. He and I were on a mission together a while back." She explained quietly, holding back, reluctant to say much else.
"Presley, Rooster." She introduced.

Rooster took off the sunglasses on his face, brows raising minutely as he hung the arm of the accessory on the neck of his shirt. He seemed to have clued in on what Phoenix wasn't willing to say, interest clearly piqued.

"Hey," The man had murmured with a respectful nod. Presley opened his mouth, set to reply in kind.

"Bradshaw," A tall blond came into view, a cocky smile plastered on his face. "As I live and breathe."

"Hangman," Rooster greeted back, eyes narrowing. Presley determined the nature of their relationship, or lack thereof, based on the tension immediately filling the space between them. "You look... good."

"I am good, Rooster." Hangman's smile seemed to widen, if that had been possible. "I'm very good. In fact," He snatched a pool cue from a nearby serviceman. "I'm just too good to be true."

Phoenix scoffed in response, shaking her head quietly as she eyed Rooster. Hangman seemed to snap out of his tunnel vision, taking in the others around him. He raised a brow at the newly arrived stranger, resting a hip at the side of the table as he leaned into his newly acquired cue.
"Another new guy?" He hummed, eyes darting to the glasses clad man he had previously stolen the cue from before watching Presley.

"Beck Parker," The pilot introduced himself, aching to do something with his hands as he shoved them swiftly into the pockets at the side of his slacks. Hangman kept his brow raised, fixing the others with a questioning stare.

"Presley," Phoenix supplied his call sign.

"Oh, shit, I know you!" Hangman shot out, pointing a finger of recognition his way. "They had you held up in Iran."

Presley stiffened as the revelation made its way throughout the group of servicemen. He felt himself drowning under the assessing eyes watching him, forcing himself to nod in confirmation.

"Dude," Phoenix muttered in reprimand, eyes cutting into Hangman.

It took Hangman a moment to realize his mistake, eyes widening.
"Oh, sorry," He began, straightening up. A placating hand raised in his direction given by Presley caused him to shut up.

"It's fine." Presley assured in promise.

Hangman sniffed, his now cocky demeanor faltering to portray unfamiliarity.
"Um, game of pool anyone?" He offered up in an attempt to make up for his slip.

Phoenix ignored him, tapping Rooster's shoulder before jerking her head toward an empty table a few feet away, eyes narrowing at Presley's own before stalking up the few steps that lead to the dining area. The blond reluctantly followed.

"Only been back, what, three months?" Phoenix whispered once he sat down in the booth, just across from her. He nodded slowly.

"They wanted the best for the detachment." He said, repeating what was told to him by his commanding officer, verbatim.

She scoffed, watching as Rooster brought over a few drinks, depositing them in front of the respective individuals before slumping into the seat beside Phoenix.

"Thanks," Presley murmured quietly, eyes darting up to watch Rooster's polite nod.

"So," Rooster began. "Phoenix told me a little about you."

Presley awaited the oncoming questions of how he survived eighteen months in Iran. How it happened, when it happened, if he had any cool scars. It was exhausting. But as he waited, picking carefully at the label on his beer, he was prepared for it.

"She said you're from Louisiana?" Rooster questioned, taking a small sip from his beer.

His head shot up, taken aback, but thankful all the same as he gave a small nod.
"Uh, yeah." He confirmed with a small shrug, eyeing the man before him.
"Lafayette."  He explained.

"I've never been south." Rooster mused.

"I don't think you could handle it." Phoenix jested, smile on her face, leaning back into her seat. "Too humid. Your mustache wouldn't survive."

Rooster rolled his eyes, a hand reaching up to scratch at the side of his face. His watchful eyes turned to Presley, arms moving to rest atop the table.

"So why do they call you Presley?" He questioned, brow raised.

Presley was surprised Phoenix hadn't told him, clearing his throat, and tugging his beer a little closer toward him.
"I, uh, I like music."

Phoenix's face betrayed a warm smile as she shot a hand out in gesture to him, turning to Rooster.
"He sings, and he's really good."

Presley internally found himself preening from the compliment, but outwardly, merely bit his lip, eyes darting between the two pilots in front of him.

"So..." Rooster began, amused. "From the south, you sing, even look a little like him too. Makes sense." He nodded, seemingly in thought.

Presley simply watched the other man, feeling uneasy. Talking, most especially explaining or elaborating, was never a strong suit. He remembered often being partial to telling stories, sharing jokes, but it felt like so long ago. He vaguely remembered when he'd last done something like that. It had been over a year ago, before his capture. It seemed that all the lively, enjoyable things about him had often been prevalent before his capture.
He wasn't entirely sure Phoenix recognized the man in front of her. He may as well have been a mask, or a hollow shell of someone she once remembered. She may have recognized his face, but undoubtedly, his personality was a stranger to her.

"We'll have to hear a few of your songs sometime." Phoenix began, smile never leaving her face. "Haven't heard any in a long time."

"They're—" Presley began in explanation, grappling for the proper words, and finding none. "They sound a little different now."

"Well, I want to hear them anyway." Phoenix pressed, her mind made up.

"I'm sure we'll like any way you want to sing them." Rooster tacked on afterward.

Presley looked up to meet his eyes, unsure. Confused at how a stranger who wasn't holding on to assumptions or past memories, willingly chose to spend time with a shell of a man.

He allowed himself to smile in response, the feeling almost foreign.