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Where's The Foxtrot?

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It bothers Holster beyond all reason, that there is no Foxtrot. It ITCHES.

He surveys the frogpoles, but it’s true, none of them is Foxtrot. The name is going to have to be earned, and it doesn’t fit any of them, and this is a Problem.

He’s driving Ransom nuts with it.

Ransom won’t admit that it bothers him, too, because that would just encourage him.

Holster is occasionally seen sitting on the front porch, scowling, beer in hand, muttering, “Foxtrot” under his breath. Bitty brings him pie, but it doesn’t fix the problem.

It is an enormous fucking relief in recruiting season, when he’s skimming down the list of high school seniors there for a tour, to find a kid named Fox. His excitement is frankly excessive. He follows Bitty to the rink, giddy with anticipation.

Lardo sees him coming, and points the kid out with a silent nod.

Trying to act casual and be subtle, he slides up to the kid and says, “Fox, right?”

The kid startles, because Holster is large and loud and not subtle at all, and Holster can see a dozen walls fly up. “Yes, my mother was an X-files fan, and if you call me Mulder I will fucking cut you.”

“Mu… Shit, man, no. You don’t understand. We NEED you.”

“You don’t even know how I play,” the kid says.

“You’re good, I saw your tapes,” Holster says.

“I’m not good enough for you to look that excited, dude.”

Holster’s voice drops into a whisper. “We already have a Whiskey and a Tango on the team. We need you. We’ve needed you since before we knew you were you.”

“You’re a senior, you won’t even be here next year.”

“You’ll never be Mulder again. And it doesn’t matter if I’m here, the team needs you.”

“Foxtrot, eh?” the kid says, a slow smile starting.

“It’s badass when you think about what it stands for. Complete the sentence. We had a guy named Shitty here for four years, and the dude is a legend.”

“Yeah, alright,” the kid says. “This was my first choice anyway. What the hell.”

“WTF, man, WTF,” Holster says, with a giant, pleased grin.