Mickey’s a bit of a fanboy. Paparazzi is too.
pairing: lt. mickey “fanboy” garcia x fellow wso reader [second person, no y/n – callsign: paparazzi]
warnings: probably inaccurate pilot/in-sky jargon, profanity, alcohol consumption, no beta / real editing, ambiguous ending…
a/n: I thought my overly-top-gun-obsessed days were long behind me (in the days of 2022/2023) but one of my two film classes said “NO! go back to hyperfixating on lewis pullman and danny ramirez in the midst of your james mcavoy obsession.” and here we are, folks.
[good god I went through a whole tizzy trying to figure out what exactly I wanted the reader’s callsign to be. “paparazzi?” no, that’s plural! “paparazzo?” grammatically correct, but solely masculine. “paparazza?” feminine-aligning in the native language but not everyone is solely feminine (myself included). I gave up and just went with the grammatically incorrect “paparazzi” because then it doesn’t have to be a gender thing – I already have enough trouble figuring out what gender I am, I don’t need this to send me down another rabbit hole. ... ANYWAY that was my little rant about the callsign. I have a whole list, because, let’s face it: are you really a top gun fan if you’ve never thought about what your own callsign might be?]
4/14/25 update: UM as of posting this, this was actually started a really long time ago and I kinda gave up on the ending so either it’s bittersweet and ends here or I can write a part two if anyone really wants it lmao… but i’m back to obsessing over romance games and mythic quest again so that’s a thing! I literally just finished my s1-s3 rewatch and started s4 right before I saw jessie ennis' story about how it got cancelled bro 💔💔
“Comms check. This is Paparazzi, filling in for Harvard, behind Yale. Yale, Fanboy, Payback, do you copy? Over.”
“Payback here, I can hear you loud and clear. Over.”
“Yale reporting for duty. Over.”
[paparazzi] “Fanboy, do you copy?”
[fanboy] “No, Paparazzi, I do not copy.”
[paparazzi] “Payback, tell Fanboy to check his comms.”
[fanboy] “Checking ‘em right now.”
[payback] “Fanboy, you can’t hear us?”
[paparazzi] “He’s fucking with us, isn’t he?”
You turn your head to the left to look at Payback and Fanboy’s F/A-18, flying parallel to your and Yale’s own aircraft. He’s already looking back at you.
“Sorry, Paparazzi. The opportunity was too good to pass up.” Fanboy’s laugh crackles over the radio as you flip him the bird.
“What a gentleman.” You scoff, knocking your knuckles on the back of Mickey’s blue-streaked helmet.
He clearly wasn’t expecting it from the way his neck gives way at the contact. You two walk side by side on the tarmac after the exercise with Reuben [Payback] and Logan [Yale].
“I hadn’t realized this conversation was suddenly about Bob.” He chuckles, before trying to knock your own helmet out of your hands by smacking it.
Your grip falters slightly but instead moves the helmet to rest against the side of your stomach furthest from Mickey.
“My tone would be different if it were actually about Bob. Not that I expect you to know the difference between jokes and seriousness.”
“I do, too! You play too much.” He says dismissively, as if actually offended at your comment.
“I play too much? Are you hearing yourself right now?” You laugh incredulously into your mask.
Fanboy’s F-35 flies somewhere slightly behind yours. You, Bob, Halo, and he are engaged in a pretty routine individual speed drill. Being WSO’s, you don’t get as much flying time as your respective partners, but still need the practice just as much.
“No, actually, I can’t. It’s pretty hard, since, we’re, you know, in planes right now?”
You roll your eyes behind your tinted visor – not like he can see it anyway.
“Break right!” Bob’s voice rings clear over the radio.
You see him, at the front of the line, start to turn, soon followed by Halo, who flies directly in front of you. Your gloved hands move along the plane’s controls to follow the two of them.
“Leaving me on heard? Real cool of you, Pap.”
Beneath your mask, your lips press themselves into a thin line. You bite your tongue for the time being, knowing you all need to finish the drill on time or Mav (and Hangman) would be on your asses about it. Fanboy’s taunts can wait.
“Break left!” Bob instructs. “We need to speed up a little, guys. Increase after the turn.”
All four of you follow suit. Turning left, then pushing the thrusters. Pulling G’s makes your body ache a little, your head feel like it’s under a weighted blanket (not in a good way!), and your stomach turn ever-so-slightly. Your mind goes blank, thoughts drowned out by the engines’ rumbling.
“Mark!” Halo calls, breaking you out of your trance. “We got two minutes, forty-seven seconds. Better than last time.”
The four of you slow and align into a horizontal line rather than a vertical one, now flying side by side.
“Good run, guys.” Bob says into the radio.
You can’t see his face, but you can tell he’s smiling when he says it.
You’re packing up your duffel bag in the common room, waving goodbye to Cassie [Halo] as she leaves, when Mickey exits the mens’ lockers and enters the room. You try ignoring him at first, but he initiates conversation regardless.
“What happened up there, Pap? Did pulling G’s fog your brain up so much you couldn’t come up with a decent response?” He sets his own bag down on the pool table as he folds one of his shirts.
“Stop saying ‘Pap’ like it’s a good nickname.”
“Doesn’t mean anything bad.”
“It sounds like a… fuckin’ pap smear or something.”
“That…” He tucks the shirt into his bag. “Oh.”
You roll your eyes for the “who-knows-how-many”-th time of the day and harshly zip your bag closed. The heels of your shoes resounded muffled clicks on the carpet as you went to leave.
“Hey, wait, I, uh, I know I’ve been particularly annoying today,” Mickey stutters over his words as he throws his bag over his shoulder and runs to catch up. “But do you wanna go to The Hard Deck?”
“So you’re aware of it?” You scoff, continuing to walk towards the door – click clack, click clack.
He chuckles sheepishly, now walking at your side. “Maybe a little. But really, you wanna come with me?”
You hum hesitantly. He hums eagerly back. There’s a moment of silence before he breaks.
The footfalls finally stop as you both reach the door.
And that’s how you end up four beers deep at The Hard Deck, sitting across from Mickey at a small table on the outside patio overlooking the beach. The sun’s gone down a long time ago, the brisk, salty air is chilling the tips of your nose and fingertips, and your beer bottles are empty. You and Mickey sit in a quiet, slightly-drunk stupor together. Looking at the ocean together only furthers the warm feeling that pools in your stomach from all the alcohol.
“I’m gonna go pay now, be right back,” Mickey’s words slur together slightly as he stands up and takes his wallet out of his pocket.
You hum in acknowledgement and slump down, arms folded over the table and head resting on top. The door opens, then shuts, as you hear Mickey go inside. The cold air prompts you to close your eyes – for just a second. Or, at least, what feels like a second.
When you open them, you’re met with Mickey’s curious and playful gaze. His face is still relatively far away from yours but you make eye contact because he’s leaned down to look at you. It’s almost as if you’ve grazed hands or held onto an embrace for too long. He smiles, in a surprisingly meek fashion, before gently nudging your arm.
“Wake up, soñolienta.” [“Wake up, sleepy.”]
You hum, before sitting up. The beer bottles are all cleared from the table and the bar is mostly empty, like the patio had always been. Penny stands behind the bar, wiping the counter. Jimmy sits across from a young man at a table on the side, talking while drying now-clean glasses. A few random customers are dispersed around the edges of the room but whatever party had been in the room earlier was clearly over.
“No problem,” he responds softly before going back to sit down in his chair on the opposite side of the table.
There’s a comfortable pause.
You rest your chin on your hands. “You’re actually kinda nice when you choose to stop being so damn annoying.”
You both laugh, another bout of warm silence – contrasting the chill of the sea air – following soon after. Your eyes lazily trace the surroundings. Where the sky meets the sea; Where the sea meets the sand; Where the sand meets the patio. The sand bleeds onto the sun-bleached wood. The patio meets the rest of the building, its sliding-glass doors, and the warm-toned LED globe lights that are suspended on the overhang (you and Bob had gotten into a pretty interesting conversation about lights with Penny, the two of you eventually convincing her to buy LEDs instead of using the old incandescent bulbs she previously used). The few speakers that are attached to the underside of the roof’s overhang play some random radio station. The tune doesn’t sound familiar, until the first song ends and a new one starts.
“Hey, I like this song,” You mumble absentmindedly.
Mickey perks up upon your mention of the music – he pauses to listen with you.
A surprised smile sneaks its way onto your lips.
“Duh,” He teases. “Who doesn’t?”
“I’m just surprised. I don’t know what kind of music you listen to, besides the stuff you post on your Instagram stories,” You chuckle. “Which is mostly rap or really random hype music.” [shoutout to the danny ramirez instagram follower gang, his stories make me giggle bc he’s just such a boy and always posting about the miami canes and random selfies and stuff – I feel like a lot of danny’s personality bleeds into his characters (joaquin torres especially) so I tied this in with mickey…]
“I gotta keep up appearances, you know? Can’t be posting random pop and alt when people want the manly…” He motions around aimlessly with his hands while he looks for the words. “Hype stuff. I don’t know.”
“Sounds to me like you just don’t want to admit you have any semblance of decent music taste.”
“I can tell a lot of thought went into that. Great comeback.”
“Too bad you couldn’t come up with one when we were in the air.” He raises his eyebrows and cocks his head slightly in your direction with a toothy grin.
“Whatever. Just let me enjoy the radio in peace.”
Another eye roll added to the count. And yet, you can’t help the slight upturn of your lips as you look away in an attempt to seem aloof – key word being ‘attempt;’ it doesn’t work.
“I actually really like ‘Go for It,’” Mickey suddenly says.
His admission is another pleasant surprise.
“Damn, maybe you are a real fan.”
“It’s all in the name, sweetheart.”
You try to ignore the way your heart leaps into your throat at the nickname, a slightly flustered scoff working its way past your lips. The beer still sits in your stomach, but instead of providing warmth, it now feels stagnant. You glance over at Mickey as he checks his phone for a moment.
Was he always this cute? Or is it just the way he stands out against the night sky under the yellowing light? The way the outer edges of his eyes are threatening to press together as a content smile sits on his closed lips? It could just be the fact that his mouth is closed, for all you know. You don’t know, but it’s making you rethink everything. It’s… not a great feeling.
He must notice your smile drop as you space out, staring blankly in his direction, because he turns his phone off and looks back at you.
Shaken from your daze, your jaw goes slack for a moment before you press your lips together and turn away. Your ears barely register the nickname.
“Oh, yeah, sorry, just… thinking.”
Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “About what?”
“You.” Is what you want to say.
The name of the song he mentioned seems to mock you. ‘Go for It?’ Yeah, right. You’d settle for biting your tongue instead of dying of embarrassment right here on the beach.
“Just work stuff,” You shrug it off – it’s technically not a lie if you’re thinking about your co-worker.
Mickey hums in understanding. “I get that. I feel like work follows me off-base, home, more often than I’d like.”
You glance back at him now. His face is to the ocean, so you only see his side profile, similar to when he was on his phone. Any semblance of the smile he usually wears is completely gone. His sobriety is… sobering, to say the least. It’s not often he drops the jokester persona. It almost tugs at your heartstrings a little bit.
“You wanna talk about it?” You tread lightly.
Mickey pauses. “Nah, it’s okay. Just tired right now, I think. Just… ‘work stuff.’”
You both chuckle halfheartedly at that. The sea air grows stale as the silence grows.
“I should, uh, get home,” He suddenly clears his throat and throws his hoodie on.
A sense of panic arises in you as he finishes tugging the grey material down his torso. Say something or let him leave.
Say something? Or let him leave?
