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Chipper wasn’t much of a drinker until he met Sundown. He’d always been a bit too straight-laced, too serious — partly how he got his callsign — and wasn’t a fan of letting loose. Preferred to live his life in the slow lane, taking it easy and only taking it when needed.
Marlboro’s were always enough for him; that slow drag, a break or two away from all the shit, and the spins, the rare instances he even got them anymore.
But then he’d joined the Navy, and then he’d met LTJG Marcus Williams, callsign Sundown.
Sundown was full throttle, Mach 2.4 and climbing, eyes in the sun and getting the shot anyways. Decisive and sharp eyed, it was a wonder he wasn’t a pilot with the full-on attitude he had.
Not that he was complaining about getting the guy as a RIO — it was the pilot's seat for him only, and Sundown had been the kick up the ass he’d really needed — but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to fly side by side with him. Chipper trusts him in a way that nears instinct no matter where they are, what trouble they’re kicking up.
Sundown says hard left, he goes hard left. Sundown says brake, he brakes. Not that he’s a robot or anything, but Sundown’s his better half, and the man’s no joker. Chipper’s flown with RIO’s who’ll tell you hard right just to see if you’ll do it, just to laugh at the look on your face when you’re back groundside.
Sundown’s not one of them, and Chipper’s grateful for it. They’re chosen for TOP GUN for a reason, best of their squadron by a decent enough leeway that it’s no contest who’s getting picked.
They celebrate by vowing to put the fucking work in, of course, because unlike half of the pricks in their class they’re actually here to learn, not to fight or swing dicks. But they also celebrate by getting drunk. They’ve been pilot and RIO long enough that it’s a well trodden dance at this point, always Sundown with the reins, dragging Chipper to whatever bar or pub or disco he can, pressing bottles into his hands and keeping real close.
They’re a few weeks into their TOP GUN course, and it’s Miramar’s Officers Club tonight, again, because going out to a civilian bar is a pain in the ass. They’re both pristine in their summer whites except for the way their feet stumble beneath them.
Chipper’s always thought that Sundown cleans up real well in his summer whites. Nice shoulders, ladykiller arms. Sundown’s a handsy drunk, and he’s pressed up against Chipper’s side right now, an arm around his shoulder, all warm heat in the already warm bar.
“Come on,” Sundown goads, smile bright and easy, jostling him in his hold, “just try it, man.”
Always trying to expand his horizons, Sundown is. Says he can’t fly with a pilot who can’t tell a good beer from piss. Chipper gives in, like he always does, lets Sundown press the bottle to his lips and sucks it down. The taste takes a moment to register; it’s shit, and he draws back, spluttering.
“Fuck,” he coughs, “what is your problem, asshole?”
“Oh come on, man, it’s good!” Sundown insists, like he always does. Jesus, but he always picks the most disgusting shit. Chipper would think he was being fucked with if Sundown weren’t so damn earnest. He’d not been much of a drinker until Sunny came into his life, but the bastard barely smokes, and Chipper’s easy for anything he suggests, so drinking it is.
“The only good thing you’ve made me drink is Budweiser, Sunny,” he says, pressing himself closer into Sundown’s side. The night is getting to the point where alcohol is starting to make him more sleepy than excitable, though he’s not about to admit it out loud.
“Man, you’re plainer than bread.” Sunny says, but he’s still grinning. Chipper squints, looking up into those mirrored aviators he’s got on, trying to see past them but only getting his own bug-eyed reflection.
“Hey, at least I don’t wear glasses indoors,” he says, pointedly.
“Oh, so now my glasses are the problem? You don’t like my beer, you don’t like my glasses…”
Chipper frowns. He doesn’t have a problem, it’s just weird. They’re inside, for Christ’s sake. He tells Sundown that. Doesn’t tell him that he likes being able to see his eyes, because even drunk he knows that’d be a real weird thing to say. It’s a real weird thing to think.
“Well, keep your ‘not-problem’ to yourself then, your mama never teach you that it’s rude to stare?”
Ignoring him, Chipper says, “Seriously, how do you even see, man, it’s like a dungeon in here.”
“It’s not that dark, you retard. I see fine.”
“Y’know, I think you’re having me on. How many fingers am I holding up?” Chipper holds up three fingers.
“Oh what do you know, ain’t never seen you wearing aviators in my life, Charles,” Sundown says, flicking him on the shoulder.
Chipper hiccups. “Don’t call me Charles, you’re not my mother. And you didn’t answer the question, asshole. You can’t see, can you!”
“Hey, I’ll call you whatever I want, Charlie. RIO privilege. And I don’t answer stupid questions, you know that.”
“Fuck you,” Chipper replies without heat, scrunching his nose. Sundown just laughs, but he picks up Chipper’s unfinished beer and starts drinking it. Never a wasteful man, Sundown. He’s got a stronger stomach for alcohol, too, one that he’s determined to instil in Chipper. Attempts mostly unsuccessful, but they’re working on it.
“Come on,” Sundown says, when he’s done, “let’s blow this joint.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Chipper says, always following.
They make it out of the O Club without incident, hollering a few goodbyes here and there before making their way towards the back end of the parking lot. Chipper’s Oldsmobile is parked perfectly straight in a corner bay, wedged in on one side by some drunkards diagonal Ford pickup.
“I’m about to fall asleep, man, you drive,” Chipper groans. They’d always argued about this when they first met — he’d been protective of his well-maintained Oldsmobile, his baby, and it had taken endless nagging for Sundown to wear him down. Now, Chipper tosses him the keys without a second thought.
Not without some ribbing during the drive, of course, Chipper’s no pushover. Sundown’s a smooth driver, is the thing. But he’s also a slow driver. If you didn’t know the man personally you’d never guess he backseated fighter jets for a living, considering he drives like he’s someone’s legally blind Grandma.
It takes them longer to get back than it should, see: Sundown’s driving, but it’s nights like these Chipper’s grateful they’re at Miramar. The barracks are an absolute dream compared to bunking on a carrier. They share a bathroom and a kitchen with Cowboy and Woody, who are some of the filthiest animals to grace the planet, but they’ve got a room to themselves otherwise, one with beds that are almost a decent size. It’s the best heaven he’s got access to.
Sundown pulls into a park, slowly and carefully. Chipper takes mercy and keeps his mouth shut, but Sundown scoffs anyway.
“Acting like you want me to dent your baby.”
“Were you born an asshole or did the Navy make you one?”
They manage to stumble the block down to their barracks without incident, keeping purposefully out of the dull yellow spill of the street lamps. Their door is a welcome sight, and he’s never been more grateful for being assigned a ground floor dorm than he is when he’s coming home on a night like this.
“You are useless, man,” Chipper says, watching Sundown fumble with the keys, “how the hell’d you get us home when you can’t even put keys in a damn door?”
“Shut up, Chipper, you’re drunker than a skunk.”
Sundown gets the door open with a victorious smirk and promptly disappears through the shared common area and into the bathroom. Chipper makes sure to shut the dorm door softly before barging into their shared bedroom and falling back on his bed with a woomph and a pained groan.
“Fucking hell,” he grits, rolling onto his side and mentally cursing out the Navy’s cheap-ass mattresses.
The toilet in the bathroom flushes and Chipper’s gaze tracks down from the ceiling to where Sundown walks back into their room, stopping between the beds.
“Jesus! You are still wearing those fucking aviators!”
Sundown laughs. “What is your problem, man? I wear ‘em all the damn time, what crawled up your ass tonight?”
“Take em off, Christ.”
“No can do, white boy, your pasty ass will make me blind.”
“Oh, you’re always holding out on me, Sunny,” Chipper moans.
He’s too tired to get up and change, but Sundown is clearly still full of life, the bastard; Chipper tracks him moving around the room, watching with half lidded eyes as he starts to undress, untucking his crisp uniform shirt and fiddling with his belt.
Chipper wolf whistles, salacious and way too loud for the time of night.
“Now, what have I said about buying me dinner before I put out, Sundown? You know I’m not that type of girl.”
“Well you’re no respectable dame,” Sundown shoots back, raising a brow. He doesn’t have a response to that, just watches as Sundown fumbles with the buttons on his polo.
“Jesus, can’t believe they let a schmuck like you into flight school,” he grouses, leveraging himself off the bed and asserting himself into Sundown’s space, batting away his hands and replacing them with his own.
The buttons are quick work; pilot training has made his hands steady, even when drunk.
Sundown doesn’t know how to take a hand lying down, though, because he says; “Wow, Chip, now you’re the one trying to get into my pants. Thought I had to buy you dinner first.”
Jesus, Chipper hates this guy. He can feel his cheeks burning, but he doesn’t step away.
“You wish, Sunny. I’m no easy lay.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sundown says, like it’s a challenge.
He feels wired, suddenly, like there’s lightning in the atmosphere aiming right between them. They’re stood so close together he can see the fine hairs on Sundown’s upper lip, breathing each other’s air.
Chipper rests his hands on Sundown’s chest, buttons undone. Sundown’s got an undershirt on under his whites, like any sane man, but he’s a little disappointed all the same.
“Yeah. Gotta buy me dinner first, honey,” Chipper says, laying it on thick like always. Wanting, like always.
“What about all those drinks I just bought you, they don’t count for nothin’?”
“Well, Marcus, if I’d known you were trying to take me out I would’ve asked you to buy me something nicer.”
“Well, Charlie, if I’d known you were such a high maintenance girl, I would’ve taken you somewhere fancier. You really can’t forgive an honest guy like me?”
“I might be able to make an exception,” he says, heart beginning to thud in his ears. They rarely toe the line like this, so close to crossing it.
It’s worse, really, that he can only see his own want reflected back in Sunny’s stupid aviators; can’t tell what he’s really feeling. If he’s just playing along and Chipper’s about to cross a line that’ll get him court martialed.
He reaches up and takes the aviator’s off of Sundown’s face, folds them neatly and chucks them to the side.
Chipper’s not a hesitant guy. You can’t be, when you pilot fighter jets for a living. But compared to Sundown, he can be… short-sighted. Easily satiated, able to content himself when he could go for more.
It’s why they work so well, he’s always thought. Sundown’s always pushing them higher, further, never satisfied with what they're given. Chipper can’t imagine where he’d be without him; not here, that’s for sure. And, shit, given Sundown wasn’t born yesterday and he hasn’t backed off yet, hasn’t pushed Chipper away in disgust, well.
Maybe it’s his turn to push for once.
“You trust me?” he says, almost can’t believe the words make it past his lips.
Sundown just looks at him, searching his face for something. They’re breathing each other's air standing this close, and if he were so inclined he could count the number of hairs on Sundown’s upper lip.
Sundown murmurs, “What am I always saying about stupid questions?” and Chipper kisses him.
The instant headspin he gets from it is better than any drag. Sundown is warm under his hands, even through the undershirt, and he kisses Chipper back like he’s been wanting it his whole life. It would make them two of a kind, really.
His hands go to Sundown’s jaw, near out of his control, and Sundown’s hands go to his waist and turn them around. He’s too focused on the heat of them, on the taste of his mouth, to register he’s being walked backwards until he’s already up against the door.
He wants a thousand wordless things. Sundown presses him back, bullies his thigh between his legs and Chipper forgets all of them.
The sound of a door opening and slamming shut startles them apart, frozen. The soundproofing in these shitty old barracks is notorious for its nonexistence, and it makes Cowboy and Woody’s voices carry like they’re in the room with them.
“You sonuvabitch, Woody, you wouldn’t know an honest interested woman from a telemarketer—”
“No, man, I’m telling ya, she was all over me!”
“Well where is she now, then, huh? She was all over the drinks you were buying her!”
The sound of their door shutting across the hall muffles Woody’s reply, and Chipper deflates like a puppet with cut strings. His whole body is trembling like he’s just gotten the scrape on a bandit.
Sundown looks equally as spooked when they make eye contact, but it’s him that laughs first, a shocked chuckle that sounds like it’s been punched out of him. Chipper can’t help grinning, and all it takes is Sundown mouthing the word ‘telemarketer’, and they’re both bent double, howling.
Chipper's legs are still weak from the shock of adrenaline. He lets them give out underneath him, sliding until he’s sitting on the floor, giggling all the while. Sundown follows him down, a warm weight at his side again, like always.
There’s an edge of mania to their laughter, and Chipper feels nearly breathless with it.
“Jesus,” Chipper huffs, dragging a shaking hand over his jaw, nearly calmed down. But then he catches Sundown’s eye, and they’re both laughing again.
“I hate the Navy,” he says, finally, when they’ve stopped setting each other off.
“Man, tell me about it,” Sunny agrees, elbowing him over and settling in more comfortably by his side. Chipper just scoffs, and says nothing. Sundown, apparently, has nothing to say either. Sitting there in silence except for the sound of their breathing would turn awkward fast with anybody else.
Sometimes, because he’s always been the lighter sleeper, he would hold his breath while lying awake at night, just to hear Sundown’s across the room.
And then, because it’s still his turn, Chipper says, “How about I tell you about it over the dinner you owe me?” which is nonsensical, because he doesn’t need a dinner to complain about the things he hates about the Navy, but it gets Sundown to scoff.
“Oh, the dinner I owe you? What about all the drinks you owe me?”
“Alright, asshole, I’ll buy the drinks and you buy the dinner. Deal?”
“I don’t know, man, I’ve bought you a lot of drinks,” Sundown says, easy as anything, “might need more than one dinner.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Chipper grins, finally turning to look at Sundown, only to find he’s already looking back.