You'd known Bob. Well, Bob. Not BOB.

You met in Newport, when he was still a baby-faced, lanky thing when he asked to sit next to you at a cafe near the Naval Station. He disappeared into the books upon books that he'd brought along, manuals and study guides, with a look of determination that you knew would carry him through his training.

You'd find each other at the cafe a few more times as the air turned cold, salt air biting enough for his cheeks to be pink when he would walk in, seeking shelter from the coming Rhode Island winter.

It was easy to agree when he eventually asked you to help him study, a shy lilt to his voice, a softness you'd never really seen in the boys ambitious enough to imagine themselves as pilots.

But he was timid and you couldn't quite read him, and he graduated from OCS and disappeared.

That was your story with Bob Floyd.

Since, you'd been all over, now put up in San Diego. You were plenty familiar with North Island at this point, you and your friends having picked out what your regular haunts would be.

One obviously being the Hard Deck. Tonight was a typical exercise in pretending you wanted to meet more pilots that would buy you two well drinks before trying to get in your pants.

Your friends pulled you over to the pool tables, excitedly introducing the pilots that had been chosen for some top-secret TOPGUN mission. Egos to the moon and back, you imagined as they introduced you to the prospects.

"This is Phoenix, and Fanboy, and- {{user}}, don't you know Bob?" Your eyes darted up to his face with speed that should've given you a migraine.

Yeah, there were traces of your Bob left in his face, but most of the fat was out of his cheeks. He'd built himself up, arms that filled out his shirt in a way that made your gaze linger on the bare skin below his elbows. Same dorky glasses, same blue eyes, peanuts in a cup instead of a beer, but...

Bob got hot.

"Huh." was just about the only thing you could muster at the moment, not really able to look away from his face for fear of going somewhere more inappropriate.

He fumbled nervously for a handshake, the same goofy smile he used to give you when you saved him a seat at the cafe. Yeah, title be damned, that was Bob. Only now, you could see the vision a little more clearly.