For how often he found himself occupying aircraft carriers for an undetermined amount of time, Scott despised them. More specifically, he hated sleeping on them. Sea sickness wasn't a problem for the majority of passengers since the carrier was far too heavy, but in the evening, whether it be due to homesick blues, what have you, Scott found himself nauseous and determined to puke his guts out.

He groaned for the near twentieth time since they had boarded the floating rock of death. He also realized, as he eyed the wall inches away from his face, that he hated the bunks on carriers as well. He much preferred the cosy on-base housing he had back on North Island, where the only person he shared a living space with was his father. Where he wasn't forced to inhabit a large room with never ending rows of bunks that were three beds high. Thankfully his column only had one other occupant, and Bob being a very hospitable bunk-mate, allowed Mouse the bottom bed.

Mouse close his eyes in a grimace as the conversations milling around him were at an all time high. He reminded himself that curfew was in a few hours, maybe then they'd quiet down.

"You son of a—" A voice grunted out, louder than the rest. Mouse rolled over to lay at his back, his head protesting the movement, eyeing the conflict to find Coyote at the heart of it. The pilot was, by the looks of it, tugging a sailor into a playful headlock.

"Children," Phoenix muttered from the bunk at Mouse's feet, resting her arms atop her knees from where she sat.

"Cut it out," Hangman's voice muttered as he entered the bunk area. It was unlike him to put some fun, harmless or otherwise, to a stop, Mouse had thought and the rest of the group seemed to believe the same.

"Just cause your boyfriend has a headache doesn't mean you gotta be a buzzkill." Coyote had laughed, but his voice had become softer in response to the reprimand. He looked to Mouse, apologetic for the previous assault, to which the WSO raised his arm momentarily to give a 'thumbs up'.

Hangman didn't reply, at least not verbally. Mouse didn't have the energy to crane his neck, settling on dropping his hand to rest atop his chest. He swallowed around the pooling saliva in his mouth, frowning.

"Mav's choosing his flyers." Rooster called out, voice close to where Hangman's had been. When had he gotten here?

A hand shot out in front of his face that Mouse was tempted to ignore, but he reluctantly grabbed it. He found himself regretting his acceptance, immediately pulled upward, and onto his feet.

"Jesus, M, you need a Dramamine?" Rooster used his other hand to grip at Mouse's shoulder in an attempt to steady him.

"Do you have some?" Mouse's eyes widened, ready to commit any act necessary in return for the medication.
"Yeah," Rooster nodded, jerking his head toward the exit. "After." He explained. "You need help getting to Mav?"

Hangman appeared beside them, hand moving to rest at Mouse's lower back.
"I got him." He explained to Rooster pointedly. He feigned nonchalance, but his narrowed eyes betrayed his jealousy.

"Caveman," Rooster rolled his eyes, letting Mouse's hand go and dropping the grip he had on his shoulder.

"Hey," Phoenix smiled, clearly amused at the insult, as she led the way out of the bunk room. "That's a good one."

Hangman didn't reply, seemingly content in his victory of getting Rooster's paws off of Mouse. They walked beside each other, and though Mouse was feeling much better from the short walk, Hangman still kept a grounding hand on his back. He let his grip fall away as soon as they made it to the group of aviators beginning to line up, giving him a parting nod once he deposited the WSO next to Payback before moving to the front of the room.

Mouse watched his father move to stand and face the entire company, assessing eyes going over every individual occupying the space before him.

"It has been an honor flying with you." Maverick began. Mouse held his eyes on an unremarkable spot in the floor below him, apprehensive. The vice-like grip he held to keep his arms neatly behind him threatened to give way.
"Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission. My choice is a reflection of that and nothing more."

"Choose your two foxtrot teams." Cyclone ordered from beside the mission leader.

"Phoenix and Bob." Maverick voice filtered through the silent apprehension stifling the room. "Payback and Mouse."

Scott nearly flinched at the sound of his call sign, eyes darting up to look into Maverick's own. The moment lasted less than a second, but that's all they had needed.

"And your wingman." Cyclone's commanding voice startled Mouse out of his reverie. His gaze shifted to look toward Hangman, who stood rigid as he kept his head held up in confidence. Mouse looked just two rows behind the pilot to see Rooster's lowered head, expression blank.

"Rooster."

Mouse watched Rooster look up, that being his only sign of surprise before Mouse's eyes rushed to Hangman. The pilot's mouth opened just a fraction before closing, favoring for working the muscles in his jaws silently.

"The rest of you will stand by on the carrier for any reserve role that's required." Warlock instructed, voice even.
"Dismissed."

Mouse turned to Payback, shooting him an immediate nod, which the other soon reciprocated. A simple gesture that said "I'm scared as hell, but I've got your back". Rooster had just begun to shift away from where he had previously stood, but was quick to give Scott a nod that meant much the same once he noticed him watching.

Mouse then stood on his toes in an attempt to look through the milling aviators around him, attempting to find one final pilot in particular. He huffed, turning around to spot the man in question already stalking off. He jogged up to meet him, headache still reverberating through his skull.

"Hey," He called out, a few feet behind. Hangman showed no sign of hearing him.

Though he disliked the previous jabs about his height, how it made it difficult for him to keep up with Hangman, it was entirely true, clearly reflecting the current situation. He pushed himself to jog in an attempt to catch up.

"Hangman," He tried again, brows furrowing. Surely he had heard him that time.

Hangman had turned down a more or less quiet, y disturbed hallway when Mouse had finally caught up to him, walking just beside him.

"You all right?" Mouse asked finally, biting his bottom lip nervously as he looked up at the blond. Hangman ignored him, eyes kept straight ahead of them. He looked only when he had stopped in front of a nearby bathroom, fixing Mouse with an indecipherable look before shoving the door open. Mouse let it swing closed in face, sighing. He steeled his expression, before pushing the door open.

Hangman was at the counter, stood at the row of sinks, eyeing his reflection with a heated glare. His hands were resting at the edge of the counter, balled into white-knuckled fists.

"Hangman," He began, timid, and nearly unwilling to break the silence. He stayed near the door, unconsciously keeping close to the only exit.

"What, Scott?" Hangman bit out, keeping still. His voice didn't sound angry, not at Mouse at least. But he sounded bitter, irritated, exhausted. Mouse couldn't help but easily come to the conclusion that those emotions were surely directed at him.

Mouse couldn't help but flinch at his name being used in such a tone, frowning slightly.

"I just—" He started meekly, suddenly self-conscious. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea. "I wanted to check on you."

"Well," Hangman's voice was strained, deadly serious without his usual smirk. "You've done that. You can go now."

Mouse kept silent, stunned. He racked his brain for a different approach, opening his mouth before quickly shutting it again, sighing quietly.
"I know that... what happened was—"

"Stop—"

"Unexpected—" Mouse pressed on, determined.

"Talking. Jesus Christ, stop talking." The pilot raised his voice, flipping around to fix Mouse with an aggrieved expression.

Mouse reeled, unsure of how to react, how to make it right. He moved back, hand feeling for the door behind him.
"Okay." He murmured, placating. "I'm sorry. I'm going."

Hangman's irritation seemed to melt away into guilt as he took a quick step forward. He ran a hand through his previously kept hair.
"You don't get it." He urged, closing his eyes and heaving a grounding sigh, before opening them again.
"I don't give a shit about Bradshaw flying instead of me."

Mouse's expression morphed into one of quiet confusion, stepping away from the door and further toward the other aviator.

"I give a shit about you flying."

"I'm not following." Mouse murmured, eyes narrowing.

"Look," Hangman began, seemingly reluctant to share. "You flying training runs without me? I can barely handle it." He confessed, looking away as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"And flying this suicide mission, when I'm not there to watch you back? I can't take it."

Scott made the connection, embarrassed for not realizing sooner. The WSO took a few, measured steps to meet him. He set both his hands atop the forearms at Hangman's chest, lookin up at him. The pilot kept eye contact that time. His eyes looked sad, nearly desperate.

"I'll make it back." He murmured in quiet assurance.

"You know you can't promise that." Hangman sighed, frustrated.

"Well," Mouse began, pushing the palms of his hands down against the blond's arms, forcing them to fall away from his chest. Hangman, almost on instinct, moved to rest his free hands at Mouse's hips.
"Some guy promised me a date. I'll have to stick around and see if he's worth it."

Hangman's lips upturned slightly, his eyes growing fond. His usual witty comeback didn't make its appearance, but Mouse counted the encounter as a win all the same.