hackthis_archive | 10 Items or Less: A Love Story in Bullets About Ray Person and Walt Hasser (Ray/Walt, PG-13)

For

sparky77.

Generation Kill
Ray Person/Walt Hasser
Rated PG-13

10 Items or Less:
A Love Story in Bullets About Ray Person and Walt Hasser

Being in theater makes Ray think about shit he shouldn't be thinking about. Like Walt Hasser.

Hasser is pretty. Too fucking pretty. He's not pretty like the LT; Ray's not sure he could cope with that shit being waved in his face on a daily basis. But Walt's got these huge blue eyes, and this straw colored hair and these kind of stubby fingers with dirt under the nails and tiny cuts on the knuckles from the Mark-19. It's confusing. Typically, Ray doesn't notice anybody's hands unless they're jerking him off or offering him food. Or maybe jerking him off with food.

Now there's a thought. A fucking gross thought, but still a thought.

Ray doesn't fuck guys. Except for that one time after that debate club match in high school, and it wasn't even really fucking because he just got his cock sucked. And that is totally not sex. Even President Clinton would agree with him.

Ray loved Clinton, anybody who was crazy enough to ask what 'is' and 'alone' mean in an effort to pretend he didn't come all over some chick's face is totally a pimp.

Walt has the voice of an angel. A whiskey-drinking, chain-smoking angel with a porn star tongue. Ray doesn't even fucking know what a porn star tongue is, or why or how he made it up, he just did. What else could he do, given that Hasser totally has this need to stick out his tongue when he's thinking or farting or scratching his balls and Ray can't help but notice because it's so pink and slick. This line of thinking is about as straight-up Special Olympics, homosexual gay as it gets; Ray blames Brad.

If Brad hadn't banned singing country music in the Victor then Walt probably wouldn't dig his ranger graves singing Johnny Cash's 'Six White Horses' or Willie Nelson's 'Marie' and then Ray wouldn't strain his ears to listen instead of paying attention to Captain America taking a combat jack over the comms he hadn't bothered to turn off (which is still the funniest shit ever).

It's not the singing that gets under Ray's skin (actually it does); it's the way that between songs, Walt stops and licks his lips.

How the fuck is Ray supposed to pay attention to the war with that going on?

Hasser wants to suck Ray's cock. Actually, Ray has no idea if that's true, but it's around the time that Walt blows that guy's head up like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Guy exploding in Ghostbusters that Ray realizes he is pretty fucking into Walt.

He probably wants to suck Walt's cock.

Ray couldn't say why Hasser's the one for him and not somebody else. He just knows that it couldn't be Brad, because, well fuck that. No. And The LT. No, definitely not. Unless he wants Brad to kick his ass.

Everybody else is too whiskey tango, too inbred, too fucking stupid. But Walt... Walt's not. And Ray wants to make Walt happy. Walt deserves to be happy, and it's fucking clear that nobody else can do it.

Plus, humping Hasser's neck doesn't really get Ray's rocks off, so he's going to have to come up with something else.

The fact that Walt has some Susie Rottencrotch back in the States that sends him letters that smell like ass and toilet water is totally irrelevant. The fact that she dumps Hasser when they're on libo in Australia is anything but. You have to be seriously brain-damaged to reject somebody like Hasser.

Even Brad would agree with Ray if he weren't off fucking the LT's brains out at some random Motel 6 in Sydney. (Ray can't believe Brad thinks he doesn't know. Of course Ray knows. Ray fucking knows everything.)

After they get back to Pendleton, Ray waits twenty-three whole hours before he hunts down Hasser and makes his move. Nobody can refuse pancakes and hash browns from McDonald's. It's a scientific fact.

Hasser may not be gay; he may not even like Ray much, but nobody can resist free food. Even when it's delivered by Ray in brand new clothes and shoes that pinch his toes. The fake GQ-looking clothes are bullshit, but the look of suspicion and shock on Hasser's face are worth it. He invites Ray into his apartment anyway.

They're mid-way through half a gallon of orange juice, four stacks of pancakes and six hash browns when things break down.

"Did you put your dick in the hash browns?" Walt asks, fried potato halfway to his mouth.

Ray rolls his eyes, grabs Walt's wrist and redirects the food to his own mouth. "Stop being so fucking suspicious, Hasser," Ray says, potato chunks flying everywhere.

Hasser does volunteer work at a local church. Sometimes he works at a soup kitchen. Sometimes he reads at Sunday School. Sometimes he brings his guitar along and sings about Jesus and lions and Jonah and the whale. It has to be that Midwestern upbringing, because if Walt's religious, Ray'll join a fucking monastery.

The last time Ray was at church, he got thrown out for trying to stick his dick in the offering plate. He was twelve.

After doing recon on the situation, though, Ray honestly can't help himself. The morning he shows up at at the Sunday School door, Walt's eyes nearly pop out of his head. It's good enough for Ray.

Ray introduces himself to Dorothy, the older woman who runs the Sunday School, moves the ankle-biters around a bit and sits down to get educated.

It takes the rugrats about eight minutes to fall in love with Ray and it only takes that long because he's trying to be good for Walt. Ray's good with kids, always has been: they speak the same language. The next thing he knows they're climbing on him and pulling his hair and begging for stories. Ray totally behaves himself until Dorothy and Walt leave to get the cookies and juice for snacktime and then he teaches them the words to Johnny's Cash's "Cocaine Blues."

Fuck, it's not like he's teaching them The Thong Song.

Brad thinks that Ray trying to seduce Walt is the funniest thing ever, but Brad's got it all wrong. Ray's not trying anything. This isn't the Army; Ray's a goddamn Marine – he's going to fucking succeed on this shit.

They're watching The Hangover late one night. The carnage of four burritos, a bag of tortilla chips and a case of Corona are strung around the room like a Mexican food IED went off. Walt looks over at Ray as though he's never even seen him before. "Why are you here, Ray?"

Ray rolls his eyes. "I thought that was pretty obvious." Walt's forehead furrows. Ray gets to his feet with a shake of his head. "You're real smart, Hasser, but sometimes you don't get it at all."

It's raining when Ray leaves Walt's place, which is bullshit, because it doesn't rain in Southern California. Didn't anybody get the fucking memo?

Ray's doorbell rings at three a.m. He ignores it. And then someone starts pounding on the door. Ray pulls a pillow over his head. If he can sleep through bombings, this is nothing. And then there are rocks being thrown at Ray's window. The rocks are the last straw. When he yanks open his front door, he's half-hard, naked and holding the 9mm that belonged to his step-dad. "What, motherfucker?" he demands, aiming straight ahead.

It's still raining outside and Ray's pointing a gun about three-fourths of an inch to the left of Walt Hasser's heart.

Walt blinks through the water running down his face. "You couldn't just say you like me? You are so fucking retarded, Ray."

Ray slips the safety back on the gun and lowers it. "Fuck you, Walt."

Walt's tongue flickers over the corner of his mouth and then he looks Ray up and down boldly. "Can I come in first or did you want to do it out here in the rain?"

It turns out Walt's tongue isn't the only porn star thing about him.

A week later, Ray starts talking about them moving in together because all the walking back and forth to get laid is just wasting time that could be spent with his cock up Walt's ass or Walt's cock in his mouth or lying in bed sticky and spent, eating Cocoa Puffs from the box and watching reruns of The Smurfs on cable.

Two months into whatever the fuck is going on, Walt goes to visit his family in Missouri. Ray tags along because he requires sex on a regular basis and nobody is fucking with that.

Walt's family talks so much they put Ray to shame. When Ray points this out, Walt just laughs. "This is why I can handle your ass, because I grew up with people who never shut up."

"I can shut up," Ray protests.

"Only when I fuck you senseless."

Ray opens his mouth and then smiles crookedly. "You haven't done that in a while," he says thoughtfully.

"And it's not happening in my mom's house either," Walt says, "so stop thinking about it."

Ray frowns and looks out the second-story window of Walt's boyhood bedroom. And then he smiles.

The garage isn't technically the house.

They go tubing down the river with some of Walt's cousins on his dad's side, which has to be the most redneck activity possible. They even get inner tubes for their beer so that they don't have to stop drinking. Ray gets sunburned and drinks so much he has to vomit in the grass after his third pass down the river. Walt's cousins think he's the funniest thing ever; Walt just laughs. They stay until after dark and on their way back to the truck, Ray drags Walt behind a tree and kisses him until Ray sees spots behind his eyelids.

Ray's favorite picture of Walt is one Walt's mom showed him of Walt when he was two years old. Walt had invaded the pantry, taking no prisoners. In the photo there's dry macaroni all over the floor, Walt's diaper is down around his ankles and he's wearing an empty cookie tin (the ones butter cookies come in) on his head like a hat. It's like a blue shiny crown over half his face and covering one ear. Walt's holding it up just enough that you can see the wide-eyed look on his face, like "It wasn't me!"

Ray is the kind of guy who takes as many items as possible through the 10 Items or Less lane at the local Dillons when Walt's mom sends them to get groceries for dinner.

Walt is the kind of guy who disapproves of this. "No, Ray."

"Why?" Ray protests, gesturing to the mostly deserted store and the bored checker picking at her nail polish. "Because there are so many other people waiting?"

Walt purses his lips. "Because I said so."

Ray is not going to sulk. Ray is not going to sulk.

Walt snickers. "Are you really sulking? You are a sad ass Marine. Wait til I tell Brad."

"That's fucked up. You'd tell Brad on me?"

Walt's grin is huge. "Use that 10 Items or Less lane and find out."

"I don't know why I like you so much," Ray bitches.

Walt's laugh is low and husky. It makes Ray's cock twitch. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."

Long-term parking at Santa Ana is prohibitive. Ray bitches about it all the way back to Oceanside and right to the front of Walt's apartment building. He bitches about it right until Walt kisses him quiet and presses something small and cool into the palm of Ray's right hand. Ray has to pull away from Walt's mouth to look at the tiny brass key. It takes a few tries.

"What the fuck is this?" he asks bluntly.

Walt shakes his head before he leans in and kisses Ray on the forehead. "That's the key to my apartment. Anytime you want to stop talking long enough to move in, just let me know."

Ray actually has to take a minute to think of the right thing to say. "Get the fuck out the car," he orders.

Walt stares at him in confusion.

"My porn collection rides shotgun," Ray says, waving Walt out of the car rapidly. "And there's not enough room in here for you and it."

"Is this your way of saying you want to move in with me?"

Ray laughs. "This is my way of saying you might want to go upstairs and get rid of anything you don't want broken when I fuck you on every piece of furniture you own."

Walt swipes his tongue over his lower lip. "Close enough."

-end-

For my IT guru,

sparky77. Thank you, bb.

Ghostbusters reference is a shoutout to

moneyfolder.

Thanks to the most fabulous

romanticalgirl for beta duty.