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hackthis_archive) wrote2009-07-30 03:07 pm
hackthis_archive) wrote2009-07-30 03:07 pm
Entry tags:
Generation Kill - The Messenger (Rated PG, Warning for Character Death)
I want to make it very clear upfront that this is not my fault. You can blame ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alethialia and romanticalgirl. There was some question about whether or not I could angst with the best of them. As someone who used to kill people for sport (Harry Potter people know exactly what I'm talking about) I take great offense to this.
So. This is a writing exercise to see how badly this could possibly this hurt. I had to get it done. I never said I wasn't a little sadistic (masochistic).
Generation Kill
Rated PG
Warning: Character Death
The Messenger
Brad's working on the specs for one of his client's when there's scrabbling at the lock on the front door. The door swings open a little violently, ricocheting off the wall.
That must've been one hell of a meeting.
Brad scratches at his temple, pulls his glasses off and sets them next to the notes he's scribbled down on how Initech's entire firewall could be hacked by a chimpanzee on Jolly Ranchers.
It's not Nate that's on the doorstep though.
"You know you don't live here," Brad says to Ray. "What did I tell you about stealing the spare key?"
Ray's laugh is weak. "Then you shouldn't leave it where anybody can find it, asshole."
"Burglary isn't a real concern in my house," Brad says wryly, waiting for Ray to come inside.
Ray keeps loitering on the doorstep though, and behind him, Brad can see the Henderson girls on their pink bikes, streamers flying as they sail past.
Brad glances at the corner of his laptop screen: it's 4:56 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon.
He watches Ray shift from foot-to-foot the way he does when Walt's locked him out because Ray pissed him off again and Ray doesn't want to climb the drainpipe to get back into their apartment.
The corner of Brad's mouth quirks up at the left corner. "The homeless shelter is around the corner, Person. You might want to get there before Nate gets home. He's still pissed about the Super Glue on the toilet lid."
Ray blinks. "Yeah. I -- Brad."
Brad narrows his eyes. Something's -- something's very wrong.
He stands up fast enough that his chair tips over behind him. "What?"
"There -- there was this accident," Ray says, hands flying around as he talks. "A car accident."
Brad's across the room in seconds, invading Ray's air space like Napalm. "You had an accident in Hasser's car?" he says in disbelief. "You know Walt's going to --"
"BRAD!"
Brad's words die off like they just got hit by the 50 cal. Ray's eyes are too big, his face too pale. Even for his whiskey tango ass. He's not looking at Brad as much as he's looking over his right shoulder.
Brad waits for it. Waits more. Recon Marines can wait forever if they have to.
He should just wait this one out. "Say it, Ray," he grits out anyway.
Ray swallows and looks away. And that's when Brad starts to lose the feeling in his toes.
Ray always looks him in the eye, bitching the entire time when he does about how Brad's fucking Hebrew ancestors were probably fucking giraffes in their downtime.
"Ray."
He doesn't know what's in his voice, couldn't define the tone with a thesaurus. He can hear the break though. He can feel it in his throat.
Ray swallows again; Brad can see his hands balling into fists. And then there are those eyes. The last time Brad saw Ray with this much despair he was detoxing from six weeks on Ripped Fuel.
"It's Nate," Ray says bluntly.
Brad blinks.
And then he blinks some more. He thought Ray was going to say Walt. He thought...
"Nate what?" he says roughly, his hands curling in on themselves. Ray's eyes are shining. Brad can't believe he didn't notice the redness before. "Say it!" he barks out.
For the first time since he showed up, Ray looks him in the eye. "Nate's gone, Brad. There was a pile up on the 5. Some big-rig tractor turned over..."
Brad cocks his head to the side as Ray's words die off. Brad can feel the pull in the tendons in his neck. His fingertips feel numb. "Someone would've called me," he says evenly.
"He was -- he was talking to Walt when it happened," Ray blurts out. "They -- there was supposed to be a surprise party for your birthday, and --
Brad is not going to apologize for punching Ray in the mouth.
He's not.
The messenger is the one that always gets it the worst, anybody who says otherwise is a liar.
So, Brad's just going to ignore these lies. Instead, he's going to go sit back down at his desk and go back to work. He's going to finish this assessment for that job he promised Nate he would finish. And then he's going to go turn the oven on so it'll get hot for the fish he's been marinating for dinner tonight.
In an hour or so, Nate'll get home from that pointless fucking fire drill that he got called back to L.A. for. Brad'll tell him about this sick fucking joke that Person pulled, and Nate'll ask why the hell Brad and Ray are friends at all.
They have this conversation at least every six months, sometimes more, sometimes less.
But in the meantime, Brad's just going to sit down here on the doorstep and wait.
Because that's what he and Nate do: they wait for each other.
They wait for the war to be over. They wait for Brad to come back from the UK. They wait for fucking DADT to be repealed so they can finally live together in this house that still has boxes in the garage.
So, Brad will sit here and wait for Nate to come home, because that's what Nate would want.
-end-
alethialia and romanticalgirl. There was some question about whether or not I could angst with the best of them. As someone who used to kill people for sport (Harry Potter people know exactly what I'm talking about) I take great offense to this.So. This is a writing exercise to see how badly this could possibly this hurt. I had to get it done. I never said I wasn't a little sadistic (masochistic).
Generation Kill
Rated PG
Warning: Character Death
Brad's working on the specs for one of his client's when there's scrabbling at the lock on the front door. The door swings open a little violently, ricocheting off the wall.
That must've been one hell of a meeting.
Brad scratches at his temple, pulls his glasses off and sets them next to the notes he's scribbled down on how Initech's entire firewall could be hacked by a chimpanzee on Jolly Ranchers.
It's not Nate that's on the doorstep though.
"You know you don't live here," Brad says to Ray. "What did I tell you about stealing the spare key?"
Ray's laugh is weak. "Then you shouldn't leave it where anybody can find it, asshole."
"Burglary isn't a real concern in my house," Brad says wryly, waiting for Ray to come inside.
Ray keeps loitering on the doorstep though, and behind him, Brad can see the Henderson girls on their pink bikes, streamers flying as they sail past.
Brad glances at the corner of his laptop screen: it's 4:56 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon.
He watches Ray shift from foot-to-foot the way he does when Walt's locked him out because Ray pissed him off again and Ray doesn't want to climb the drainpipe to get back into their apartment.
The corner of Brad's mouth quirks up at the left corner. "The homeless shelter is around the corner, Person. You might want to get there before Nate gets home. He's still pissed about the Super Glue on the toilet lid."
Ray blinks. "Yeah. I -- Brad."
Brad narrows his eyes. Something's -- something's very wrong.
He stands up fast enough that his chair tips over behind him. "What?"
"There -- there was this accident," Ray says, hands flying around as he talks. "A car accident."
Brad's across the room in seconds, invading Ray's air space like Napalm. "You had an accident in Hasser's car?" he says in disbelief. "You know Walt's going to --"
"BRAD!"
Brad's words die off like they just got hit by the 50 cal. Ray's eyes are too big, his face too pale. Even for his whiskey tango ass. He's not looking at Brad as much as he's looking over his right shoulder.
Brad waits for it. Waits more. Recon Marines can wait forever if they have to.
He should just wait this one out. "Say it, Ray," he grits out anyway.
Ray swallows and looks away. And that's when Brad starts to lose the feeling in his toes.
Ray always looks him in the eye, bitching the entire time when he does about how Brad's fucking Hebrew ancestors were probably fucking giraffes in their downtime.
"Ray."
He doesn't know what's in his voice, couldn't define the tone with a thesaurus. He can hear the break though. He can feel it in his throat.
Ray swallows again; Brad can see his hands balling into fists. And then there are those eyes. The last time Brad saw Ray with this much despair he was detoxing from six weeks on Ripped Fuel.
"It's Nate," Ray says bluntly.
Brad blinks.
And then he blinks some more. He thought Ray was going to say Walt. He thought...
"Nate what?" he says roughly, his hands curling in on themselves. Ray's eyes are shining. Brad can't believe he didn't notice the redness before. "Say it!" he barks out.
For the first time since he showed up, Ray looks him in the eye. "Nate's gone, Brad. There was a pile up on the 5. Some big-rig tractor turned over..."
Brad cocks his head to the side as Ray's words die off. Brad can feel the pull in the tendons in his neck. His fingertips feel numb. "Someone would've called me," he says evenly.
"He was -- he was talking to Walt when it happened," Ray blurts out. "They -- there was supposed to be a surprise party for your birthday, and --
Brad is not going to apologize for punching Ray in the mouth.
He's not.
The messenger is the one that always gets it the worst, anybody who says otherwise is a liar.
So, Brad's just going to ignore these lies. Instead, he's going to go sit back down at his desk and go back to work. He's going to finish this assessment for that job he promised Nate he would finish. And then he's going to go turn the oven on so it'll get hot for the fish he's been marinating for dinner tonight.
In an hour or so, Nate'll get home from that pointless fucking fire drill that he got called back to L.A. for. Brad'll tell him about this sick fucking joke that Person pulled, and Nate'll ask why the hell Brad and Ray are friends at all.
They have this conversation at least every six months, sometimes more, sometimes less.
But in the meantime, Brad's just going to sit down here on the doorstep and wait.
Because that's what he and Nate do: they wait for each other.
They wait for the war to be over. They wait for Brad to come back from the UK. They wait for fucking DADT to be repealed so they can finally live together in this house that still has boxes in the garage.
So, Brad will sit here and wait for Nate to come home, because that's what Nate would want.
-end-
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But yeah, I'm working on the porn. Jeez.
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And... um... Ray/Walt! Moring after sex! Or, you know, whatever you want as long as its happy.
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Either way, his head feels like there were all of those things, which means he kind of wants to stick it under a faucet and see how long it takes to drown. The only problem is that he can't get out of the bed, because Ray Person is not only lying next to him, but his head is resting on Walt's chest like it's some sort of personal pillow.
"Ray." He whispers the word because it seems prudent to be a little discreet when he a) doesn't remember most of the night before and b) wakes up in bed with another guy and c) for all he knows he's in Brad Colbert's mom's guest bedroom. Any and all are reason enough to be wary, as far as he concerned. "Ray."
"Shut the fuck up, Hasser," Ray mumbles against Walt's chest, smearing what feels like a night's worth of drool on his skin. "It's too fucking early."
"Ray."
"Shut up," Ray's voice is more of a groan now, filled with unhappiness. "Just a few more minutes and then I promise I'll blow you again."
"Blo...what?" Walt sits up sharply, dumping Ray unceremoniously on the mattress. "What?"
Ray groans and manages to sit up as well, rubbing his head and then his eye. "What the fuck?"
"Blow me?"
"Yeah." Ray scratches his chest next and Walt realizes that Ray's chest is bare. As is his own chest. He reaches down and lifts up the sheet and realizes his chest isn't the only thing. "Last night that's all you wanted. 'Fuck, Ray. Yes, God, fuck yes. Suck me, you fucking cocksucker'. You were pretty fucking vocal. It was awesome."
"I wouldn't do that."
"You would. You did." Ray grins at him, impish and for a second Walt things yeah, okay, he would, but he shakes it off. "You were up to your eyeballs in tequila and someone put some fucking country music on the jukebox, you started singing and Brad told you whatever you wanted to stop the caterwauling he'd make it happen. You said you wanted me to suck your dick."
"No I didn't."
"Dude. We're naked in bed together. Would I fucking lie about this?"
"YES!" Walt gets out of bed and then crawls back in immediately, pulling the sheet up over himself. "You would. In fact, lying about this would be one of your favorite things to do. Christ." Walt shakes his head, burying it in his hands. "No more tequila. Ever."
"You know, if you keep this up, you're totally going to hurt my feelings." Ray shifts on the bed and leans against the headboard, pillows shoved behind his back. He grabs Walt's wrist and tugs his hand away from his face, bending his head so Walt has no choice but to look at him. "Hey, Hasser."
"What?"
Ray rolls his eyes and tugs Walt toward him hard enough that Walt sprawls across his chest. "Let's think for a minute here, okay? Who's a big, bad-ass Marine?"
"Brad."
Ray smirks. "Okay, in this bed we're in, who is a big, bad-ass Marine?"
"I'm assuming that you want me to say you?" Walt tries to pull away, but Ray's grip is unrelenting. "Okay. Okay. You."
"And, even though you're also a bad-ass Marine, do you really think that you could, drunker on tequila than the fucking worm in the bottle, coerce me into blowing you if I didn't fucking want to?" Walt opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out and Ray smiles triumphantly. "So, go back to sleep for another fucking hour or so and then I'll blow you again."
"But..."
"Christ on a fucking cracker, Walt." Ray wraps his hand around the back of Walt's neck, fingers almost tight enough to hurt. He pulls Walt in and holds him a breath away. "Shut up and kiss me, okay? We'll deal with blow jobs later."
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Also, next has to be the Walt and Ray in Vegas thing. I'll see if I can't work on that a little today. :)
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(Okay, I'm totally just fucking with you).
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::waits for Ben details::
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