#-for your pilot and fuck regs for another while (sunnychip)

[pollyna]

Tw: contain slurs, it's a single word but it's there.

It's a rule not to talk to them. Nobody really knows who imposed that or why, but it's something everybody follows, religiously.

(The fact is they know pretty well why not to talk to any of them. Ask the sailor who ended up with two broken ribs or the pilot with the black eye and dislocated shoulder.)

The bigger group they see together is of four or five when the Admirality is feeling generous and the woman comes around. But it's not just the four of them, because an equally numbered group is in another carrier or country doing what that group is doing.

What precisely they are doing, all of them, is the real mystery.

(Every squadron that has them, as a couple or all four, spends weeks praying to not be in the same situation ever again. The situation is: jumping at three a.m. in your jet in your pyjamas, six am and running around the carrier, nine am and debriefing, and then hop on the jet again and again and again. There were no limits on how high or low they had to fly, and unmarked jets passing less than an inch from each other's wings. Everybody on the normal communication channel, if not them.)

The sailors don't know if they have names, and before the beginning of the mission, they all have to leave their dog tags with the captain. Nameless people, on nameless jets and in nameless, patchless, jumpsuits flying only God knows where.

(They know their callsigns, or at least a part of them. The four are Iceman, Maverick, Slider and Mother Goose. The other two couples are Wolfman, Hollywood, Sundown and Chipper.)

The woman's name is Carole and she kisses the two taller men when she comes around. A kiss on their lips and one on their cheeks.

(The real reason nobody's able to talk to them is because a sailor, some Matthews from Philly, once tried to insinuate that Carole was easy. You already share her, so one more won't hurt, wouldn't he? The same day, another one tried to call Ice faggot in front of an entire room of people and captains. What happened next is just speculations but, realistically speaking, a broken arm and a couple of bruises were probably what they got home with. Other than the longest disciplinary note in the history of notes.)

(Some tales say that the Iceman didn't have to open his mouth to kill the man; one look was enough. Others want that Matthews from Philly got slap in the face so hard he saw white for ten minutes.)

When they're on board, the entire crew reorganises itself. Iceman and Maverick have their own cabin, Slider and Goose have another one, and they get the bigger one if Carole is going to come around. The entire floor is to be clear and free two hours before they arrive, and the newbie refers to that deck as the Olympus.)

If all the stories are true, they must have felt like Gods. And sometimes Gods have privilges normal people can't dream about. Like kissing each other before going on the jet, having sex in the showers without being reported, or preparing breakfast for your pilot without sharing a little bit with anybody. Having visible tattoos, particularly colourful ones, under the jumpsuits.)

The only time they saw them all together was on land, in a bar in Miramar, where three carriers were sharing port for a week. All of them were sitting around a table, eating fries and burgers like normal people, so normal that, if you didn't know who they were, you couldn't even say what they did. What really leaves the entire bar without words is when Mother Goose sits in front of the piano and starts playing Great Balls of Fire!

It almost feels like any other night in San Diego. But almost is the key word.