Feathers Of The Phoenix

Fic: Not Always Romantic - This Guy Will Keep You On Your Toes

2012-02-25T18:59:43Z

Title: Not Always Romantic - This Guy Will Keep You On Your Toes
Series: Not Always Romantic
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: M (language)
Word Count: 1106 (this chapter)
Pairing/Character(s): Jason Lilley/Gabe Garza
Warnings: Bad language and excessive fluff
Summary: Inspired by a bunch of posts on the website Not Always Romantic. Little snippets that are completely unrelated to each other, only passingly related to source material, and largely for the lulz/cutes. Some unintentionally rather violet prose, I suspect. Snippets are named after the original post.
In this chapter: Jason can't dance. Gabe doesn't care. Nobody else notices...
Disclaimer: Based on the miniseries (which doesn’t belong to me), and the portrayals therein. No disrespect is intended to the real men.

---

This Guy Will Keep You On Your Toes

If there was one thing about Bravo, Jason muses absent-mindedly as takes another pull of his fourth – or maybe fifth? – beer, was that they invariably picked the best bars. Perhaps it was just luck. God only knew, and he sure as fuck isn’t complaining.

“Heeeey Lilleeeeey,” slurs Nathan as he slides the booth that Team 1-Bravo has unofficially claimed. Hector is already semi-comatose in one corner, staring fixatedly at the bar – or maybe the girl barista. Jason doesn’t give a fuck. Nathan tugs his sleeve. “You wannnna dance?”

“Fuck, no,” Jason snaps, “I can’t fuckin’ dance.”

“Oh. Okay,” says Nathan, apparently too drunk to give a shit. He turns to Hector. “Hec – Hect’r. Hec. Leon. Come dance wi’ me.” He tugs Leon’s sleeve, now, and drags him along the bench towards him. Hector mumbles something unintelligible and unprintable, but stumblingly follows Christopher towards the dance floor.

Jason sniggers into his beer as he watches Hector and Nathan make attempts at dancing. They’re fuckin’ horrible – electrocuted retarded chimps could do better. He takes another pull of beer, and abruptly realizes that there’s no more. And that the pitcher is empty. “Fuckballs,” he mumbles, and is about to lever himself up and off towards the bar when Gabe slides onto the bench next to him.

“We needed another pitcher, got one,” he says, briefly, and without even waiting for an invitation, fills up Jason’s mug. “Need good beer, after the horse piss that Chaff’s been extollin’ the virtues of all night.”

“Christ, yeah,” agrees Jason. “What the fuck was that, anyway?” He takes a pull on the new beer – Gabe’s good at pouring, this one has a nice head but not too much – and looks down in surprise. There’s no mistaking that thick, rich taste, the deep brown. Guinness? “Fuck, you suddenly go get taste, you crazy spic? This stuff’s expensive!”

“Yeah, but it’s worth every dollar,” grins Gabe. “An’ that’s why we are not sharing it, either,” he adds, looking darkly over at the dance floor.

“Mmm,” Jason agrees, taking another, smaller sip. This beer deserved to be savoured. “Fuck, this is good.” He looks up to see Gabe grinning at him, “What?”

“You gotta moos-tache,” Gabe grins, pronouncing it the same way Sixta did when he was pissed at them for breaking the grooming standard.

Hastily, Jason licks his lips, and is startled to see Gabe’s eyes darken for a second. “Got it?” he asks, trying not to think about what that means. What it could mean. What he wants it to mean.

Gabe hesitates a couple of seconds before replying, “Yeah,” quiet and almost gentle.

Jason has no idea what to say to that, suddenly terrified that he’s going to say the wrong thing – whatever the wrong thing is – and make this go away. He’s blushing, heating up, uncertain if it’s the drink or something else.

He’s unexpectedly saved by Hector and Nathan’s return, swaying, arms around each other and dragging a trail of Marines. They’re singing along with whatever godawful pop monstrosity is currently playing, which involves some words and loud ‘LA LA LAAAAAA’ at the bits they don’t know – which is about ninety percent.

“Christ, guys, learn the fuckin’ words or fuckin’ shut your hick-ass cakeholes,” snaps Jason, irrationally annoyed at them for interrupting whatever’s going on here. Even if he had no idea what to say next.

“You should comma dance, Gabe,” says Hector, grabbing Gabe’s sleeve. “Com’on.” He’s grinning, and looks much happier than when he was near-comatose on the bench.

Gabe shakes his head, slipping out of Hector’s uncertain grip. “Nah, I’ve got a pitcher to drain,” he grins, “And before you ask, none for you.” His smile takes the sting out of his words, if Hector had been sober enough to notice.

“Jase? You come dance,” Gabe’s refusal had just redirected Hector’s attention.

“Can’t dance,” Jase shakes his head, throwing a grin at Gabe. Their teammates are persistent, if nothing else. Gabe’s returned smile has his cheeks tinged red.

“Prove it! Come on, prove it!” says Nathan, his expression a drunken parody of suspicion. “I think you an’ Gabe jus’ wanna be gayasses an’ cuddle in th’ corner.”

Jason laughs – it’s stupid and funny and he can’t help it, because that’s the most retarded suggestion ever, even if it’s not far off his silent wishes – and puts his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine!” He stands, moving past Gabe.

He has a moment to realize that this is a bad idea – but he’s already committed. It’s strange and crazy as he shuffles awkwardly past Gabe, those brushing points of contact are suddenly hot and wanting, and he can’t have a crisis, not here and certainly not now. Self-awareness is a bitch.

“Dance, monkey, dance!” Nathan is crowing, clapping totally out of time with the beat, and Jason throws himself into moving to banish the thoughts in his head.

He doesn’t know how long it is before he straightens and stops, but Nathan and Hector – and half of Bravo – are watching. And Gabe is laughing, the son-of-a-bitch. Jason kind of just wants to curl into a ball and make it go away, embarrassed and rapidly heading for humiliated.

“Fuck, man, you weren’t kiddin’,” says Hector, evidently stunned by the complete idiocy of what he’s just seen. He claps a hand on Jason’s shoulder, expression as solemn as his lack of sobriety permits. “I hereby exclude you from all dancing, forever,” he says, and hiccups. Abruptly, he looks very green, and stumbles in the direction of the toilets.

“Leon’s gonna BARF!” someone is yelling – probably Manimal – and the audience of Marines disappears in five seconds flat.

Gabe’s grinning up at him from the bench. “That’s gotta be one of the least sexy things you’ve ever done,” he says, eyes dark and laughing. That dispels the humiliation like that, and Jason can’t help but wonder if Gabe’s been noticing the sexy things he’s done.

“Really?” He grins, sitting down beside Gabe. “What’re the top five least sexy things I’ve done?”

Gabe laughs again, “I think that was all five of them!” He’s looking Jason right in the eye, gaze unwavering. There’s fear there. Fear, hope, uncertainty.

Everything Jason’s been feeling.

“Do you have a top five most sexy things?” he asks quietly, hoping. Most of all, he just wants to know for certain.

Gabe nods, “Yeah, I do.” And there’s a wash of happiness brightening his eyes to warm chocolate, and Jason just wants to watch, loving that smile.

“Good,” says Jason quietly, smiling wide, and when Gabe’s hand sneaks over to catch his under the table, he twines their fingers together.

Fic: Not Always Romantic - Obviously Oblivious

2012-02-01T09:10:55Z

Title: Not Always Romantic - Obviously Oblivious
Series: Not Always Romantic
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: M (language)
Word Count: ~1225 (this chapter)
Pairing/Character(s): Brad/Nate
Warnings: Bad language and excessive fluff
Summary: Inspired by a bunch of posts on the website Not Always Romantic. Little snippets that are completely unrelated to each other, only passingly related to source material, and largely for the lulz/cutes. Some unintentionally rather violet prose, I suspect. Snippets are named after the original post.
In this chapter: Nate is oblivious to Brad's plans...
Disclaimer: Based on the miniseries (which doesn’t belong to me), and the portrayals therein. No disrespect is intended to the real men.

-----

Obviously Oblivious

Nate scrubs a hand through his hair as he stacks his notes together. It was an honor, obviously, to be a guest lecturer for his alma mater, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t hard work. The Q&A had been interesting, even if it wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Happy for it to be over, Nate?” Tom Ricks asks, grinning at Nate from the front row. He’d sat in on the lecture ‘for my own amusement, Nate, don’t be so suspicious’. Nate had noticed that he was smiling a lot more than usual, but had put it aside, intending to ask once they were out of here.

“I enjoy lecturing, you know that,” Nate replies, with a smile. “But I will be perfectly happy to go home, have a beer and watch Brad grill up something.” He smiles, still warmly happy every time he thinks of Brad and the life they’ve made together since DADT was repealed. He turns back to the desk, dropping the folder of notes in his briefcase, pulling on his winter coat and wrapping his favorite green scarf around his neck.

Suddenly, there’s a tingle on the back of his neck; something warning, the hint of someone watching, that sixth sense that he’d developed in theater in Afghanistan and Iraq. Immediately, he straightens and turns, sweeping a look across the lecture theater. There are still a few students there, quietly discussing the lecture or tidying notes or putting away laptops – and catches a flicker of movement at one of the doors as someone moves.

His eyes narrow with suspicion, even as he questions what he saw. That back view is unmistakable to any Marine – blue trousers with bloodstripe, sword, navy jacket and white belt, white gloves, white cover. Dress Blues? And at Dartmouth?

He flicks a look down at Tom, and Tom is grinning, closely resembling the Cheshire Cat. Suspicions confirmed, Nate growls, “I knew you had ulterior motives.” There’s a student girl coming forward, looking so hopeful and young, and Nate adds, “You can answer the questions, Ricks. I’ll be back shortly for my briefcase.” It’s an order. He’s not angry, just vaguely annoyed and slightly worried.

Tiredness is forgotten as Marine training kicks back in instinctively. His breathing evens out, and he steps into motion, taking the stairs two at a time, up and out, and yes, that was Dress Blues – disappearing around the corner of the corridor.

Striding out, he makes his way through the few, scattered students that are still here after six. Always, those Dress Blues are just out of sight. He can’t shake the feeling that something big is happening – Tom and Marines are involved, there’s bound to be shit-stirring going on – but he has no idea what it is.

As he rounds the corner, the Marine is trotting down the stairs. At the foot of the stairs is another Marine in Blues – who looks up, and Nate recognizes Hasser. Clearly realizing he’s been seen, Hasser ducks his head and follows the other Marine out. Nate pauses, confused. Walt Hasser? He was never been much of a troublemaker – why is he invol- wait, the other Marine was short and lean, with dark hair. Ray. Nate grins, almost involuntarily. Ray Person was one of the greatest shit-stirrers that the Marine Corps had ever had the displeasure of enlisting. If Ray was involved… Well, at least this is going to be good.

He heads down the stairs, pushing open the doors and emerging to early-winter chill and leaden skies that smell of snow. Walt and Ray are walking quickly along one of the paths across the snow-dusted Green, and Nate keeps up easily – and then sees where they’re going. Marines in Dress Blues are lined up in an aisle from the path to a particular tree – one of the great old elms opposite the Baker Library, the Century Elm.

He knows what that tree is traditionally the site for – proposals.

His steps slow as he takes in what’s happening. There’s a small crowd around, obviously drawn by the dress uniforms and the Century Elm. His heart is swelling, full, and the winter cold is falling away in the warmth of the love that is burning in him. He knows he’s smiling – grinning fit to burst – but he’d always relegated this day to something that would never happen. DADT had meant his and Brad’s relationship was a secret, and even when DADT was gone, they’d had trouble deciding if they were even going to live together. Brad had never been much for marriage, for obvious reasons, and Nate had never pushed him. Marriage was too big, too much, for them to even contemplate.

Nate had never been happier to be wrong.

He pauses at the end of the aisle. Ray and Walt are there, have slipped into formation, and Ray flicks a quick wink at Nate – and behind him, Reporter snaps a picture. Nate raises an eyebrow, and Wright just grins.

“Platoon, draw SWORDS!” comes the bellow from the other end of the line – the unmistakable rumble of Mike Wynn’s voice. Nate has had too much amazement for the last few minutes to even be surprised. The Marines draw as one, and for a moment, Nate remembers watch them practice this, one balmy afternoon before Iraq. “Platoon, ATTEN-HUT!” They all snap to attention – smart, precise, and Nate’s pride swells for his men. “Present ARMS!”

Swords snap out and up, saluting, and for the first time, he looks down the aisle. There at the other end is Brad, in Dress Blues and the most handsome man on the planet. Nate admits he’s biased, but those broad shoulders and narrow hips are exactly what the uniform was designed for. The bloodstripe on his trousers is endless red, belt and cover sparkling white, sword at his side as befits a warrior.

Nate has never felt so in love, wanting so badly, overwhelmed by how much he needs this man. He takes the first step down the aisle of his Marines, passing their smiling, proud faces, and then he’s in front of Brad. Brad is smiling, and hope and fear are warring in his eyes. Nate reaches out, Brad takes his hand, and there’s electricity in the contact – as there always is.

Somewhere behind them, Mike is calling Parade Rest, but Nate doesn’t care. Brad is here, and this is one of the most important moments of his life.

And then Brad drops to one knee, looking up at Nate with clear eyes. “Nate. I love you and want to be with you. Will you marry me?” It’s in a tone Nate has never heard before – laced with hope and love, foundationed with absolute surety that this is the right thing.

Nate smiles, and reaches down, sliding cold fingers across Brad’s jawline. “Yes,” he says, completely sure.

Brad stands, and his smile could have lit a thousand suns. His hand lifts, tilting Nate’s chin up. His eyes are blazing blue, and totally consuming – and Nate leans into him, kissing him with all his heart and all the heat in his blood.

It’s an endless, perfect few seconds.

A cold drop hits his face – and they look up, to see the snow beginning to fall, fat white flakes. Brad huffs out a laugh, and Nate smiles with him, because it doesn’t matter – they’re warm.

Fic: Not Always Romantic - Sharing The Caring: A National Service

2012-01-27T08:29:39Z

Title: Not Always Romantic - Sharing The Caring: A National Service
Series: Not Always Romantic
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: M (language)
Word Count: ~975 (this chapter)
Pairing/Character(s): Brad/Ray and Stafford/Christeson
Warnings: Bad language and excessive fluff
Summary: Inspired by a bunch of posts on the website Not Always Romantic. Little snippets that are completely unrelated to each other, only passingly related to source material, and largely for the lulz/cutes. Some unintentionally rather violet prose, I suspect. Snippets are named after the original post.
In this chapter: Ray meets Brad at the airport and meets someone unexpected. Brad/Ray, Stafford/Christeson.
Disclaimer: Based on the miniseries (which doesn’t belong to me), and the portrayals therein. No disrespect is intended to the real men.

-----

Sharing the Caring: A National Service

Ray hates airports. It’s just one of those things, like the way he hates slow drivers and cold tacos and sand in his buttcrack and idiotic officers (admittedly, he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore, Brad’s the unlucky bastard who has to suffer that now. He shares it with Ray extensively). The hurry-up-and-wait gets on his nerves, inevitably reminding him of waiting for jumpoff in Kuwait – possibly the longest hours of his life. If Brad hadn’t been away nine months… well.

He drums his fingers on the sign he’s readied, throwing a glance down at it and suppressing a snigger. It’s eye-blinding fluoro yellow, with WELCOME HOME BRAD written in equally terrifying highlighter pink, surrounded by flowers, hearts and rainbows. He’d enlisted the assistance of his three-year-old niece Kaitlyn to assist, so it’s drowned in glitter and has blue macaroni glued on at random intervals.

A kid jogs up, panting. He frantically looks around, looks up at the Arrivals board, and breathes out a long sigh of relief. He slumps down in the seat next to Ray, breathing hard, and pulls off his maroon do-rag to wipe his forehead. He’s dressed in gangsta clothes, despite the fact that he’s whiter than a vanilla milkshake. Ray raises an eyebrow, and the kid turns to look at him, seemingly feeling his scrutiny.

He’s got a good stare on him, and Ray’s about to make a smart remark about wiggers when he notices something. The kid has a sign too – white with simple blue marker, reading John, I think you are really cool. Will you go to prom with me?.

Ray’s jaw drops for a second, disbelieving, and then he looks up at the kid, who meets his gaze with a clenched jaw and defiant eyes.

“Nah, chill it, man,” says Ray, picking up his own sign. The kid tilts his head sideways to read it, and then starts to grin.

“Nice art,” he says, tone laced with sarcasm, “You do it all by yourself?”

Ray laughs – this kid has balls and a smart-ass mouth. “I did the writing, but my three-year-old niece did the rest.” The kid grins.

There’s a crackle over the airport speakers, announcing Brad’s flight, and Ray’s heart jumps. Without thought, he’s on his feet. Men in uniform and civilians start to file out the gate, and Ray’s looking everywhere at once, looking for Brad – and there he is, head and shoulders above everyone else. He’s looking the wrong way, so Ray sticks the sign up and starts waving it madly. He knows he’s grinning like a loon, but he can’t help it, his heart beating so fast and he’s so happy that Brad is right there.

And then Brad sees him, and the smile that dawns on his face punches through the loneliness of the last nine months, and Brad’s walking over – those long strides – and dropping his seabag and Ray is finally warm again as Brad hugs him, tight, like he’s never going to let go, and Ray would really like that, thank you very much.

Eventually they loosen off a little, and Ray nuzzles Brad’s shoulder. “God, I missed you, you crazy Viking,” he mumbles, overwhelmed by the smell of sweat and sand and canned airplane air and Brad.

“Why exactly do you have a sign that looks like a unicorn shat on it?” asks Brad into Ray’s hair, bemused and a little choked up.

“Because Kaitlyn saw it on TV and wanted to make one for you,” replies Ray, not even caring that he might have damp eyes, just a little. “C’mon, let’s go home,” he adds, stepping back, gripping Brad’s fatigues and impatient to get home and strip Brad down and suck his brains out his cock.

“Mmmyep,” says Brad, leaning down to give Ray a single kiss, and the promise that burns hot in his eyes only makes Ray more impatient. Ray crouches to pick up the hideous yellow sign, and looks up to see the kid grinning at him, sign in his hands. He freezes for a moment, and then stands.

Brad’s clearly followed Ray’s line of sight, and as Ray looks up, there’s an odd look on Brad’s face for a moment. It clears, and he grins. “Good luck, kid,” Brad nods approvingly.

The kid tilts his head, clearly not sure what to make of the giant Marine encouraging his love life. He stands, nodding, “Thank you, sir. Kinda nervous he’s gonna say no, but hey, gotta try.”

“Yeah,” Ray grins, “You gotta try.”

The kid nods, and then his gaze flicks over Brad’s shoulder and he starts to grin like crazy. “’Scuse me, gotta go. Thank you for your service, sir.” He quickly shakes Brad and Ray’s hands, and then darts off, lifting his sign.

“Cute,” grins Ray, and then cuts a look up to Brad. “But how come they never call me sir?”

“Because you’re not in the Marines any more, Ray,” Brad replies, affectionate rather than snarky. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

-----

“Hey, Ray!” comes a yell from the lounge.

“Yes, your Royal Princessness?” Ray hollers back. “Do you want more juice? Because fucked if I’m getting it for you, even if you have a fuckin’ broken foot. Which was your own stupid fault.” He heads out to the lounge, though, because despite Brad being a horrible patient, he loves him and doesn’t mind catering to his whims occasionally.

Brad waves the paper at him, folded over to a particular section. He’s grinning in that slightly-devious way that makes Ray suspicious, but as Ray scans the section – Births, Deaths and Marriages – he sees the photo that Brad’s wanting him to look at. Two men in dress blues under a sword arch.

Sgt. Evan Stafford and Cpl. John Christeson married at Oceanside Rose Gardens…

“Huh. Guess the sign worked,” says Ray, and laughs.

Fic: Diamond Eyes: Part II

2011-12-29T12:59:53Z

Part I

-----

The next week is smooth and easy, and despite Nate’s misgivings about potentially becoming involved with the Bulldogs, he can’t bring himself to back off. The time in the workshop is peppered with little touches and looks. Brad would have to be blind to miss it, and he teases them both mercilessly for a couple of days.

One night, as they’re closing up, Brad wanders over to where Nate is just wheeling in a bike. “Hey, Nate – come back to the clubhouse when you’re done.”

Nate looks up at him, worried, and Brad just grins and walks off. Suspicion piques in Nate’s brain, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up – Why does Brad want me in the clubhouse? I’m not a Bulldog… – and then he realizes: it’s got to be something to do with Ray. He’s apprehensive, but if Ray needs him, he’ll be there.

Ray’s disappeared by the time Nate goes over to the clubhouse. He finds the front door of the clubhouse open and goes in, expecting Ray to be waiting for him – but he isn’t. Nate frowns, but follows the murmur of talk to the nearest door, opening the door.

It’s a big room. Brad is propped on the edge of a table at the end of the room, arms crossed, and he gestures for Nate to enter. Poke and Pappy Patrick are sprawled at the corners of one couch, Doc and Garza opposite on the other. Manimal and Christopher are propped in one corner by another door, talking quietly, Lilley sitting on the couch arm nearest them and occasionally interrupting. Lovell and Holsey are leaning against the wall behind Brad. Ray isn’t there. When Nate enters the room, the talk dies and suddenly everyone is staring at him.

“Nate. Have a seat.”

Brad’s voice is perfectly level, pleasant, and there’s a slight smirk in one corner of his lips as he gestures to a chair that’s set in the middle of the room. He knows that Nate’s been through SERE and BRC, knows that he isn’t going to be intimidated. Nate sits, looking around the room and setting it in his mind, and then turning back to Brad. “I asked you to come here for two reasons. First, Ray. Second, the Bulldogs.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence.

Poke shifts in his seat, leaning forward. “What the Prez means is that Ray’s our brother. You fuck with him, you fuck with us. You hurt him, we hurt you.” He grins, and there’s something shark-like about it, cold and predatory. “You got that, dawg?”

“Yeah, I get it,” returns Nate, quiet, allowing a slight smile to tilt his mouth. This feels like it’s for form’s sake, and there is slight awkwardness in the way a couple of the guys are holding themselves – and he suddenly gets it. This is the kind of speech they’d give a guy who was dating one of their daughters. And it’s for Ray. He fights the smirk, manages to keep a straight face. Brad’s smirk widens, and Nate knows that Brad clocked his realization. He’s very observant, he must’ve been a good Marine.

“Second, the Bulldogs,” says Doc. Nate looks over to him. Doc is someone who’s struck him as holding himself away from things, slightly aloof – but he has a certain authority to him. His face is absolutely serious, and Nate’s smile fades. This is more important. “The Bulldogs have certain … trade secrets. You will not talk about them.” There’s a note to his voice that is totally sincere, completely hard, and in an instant Nate knows that these are the kind of ‘trade secrets’ that people kill over.

“Okay,” he says quietly, holding Doc’s gaze. “Understood and accepted,” he adds, just to make sure.

Brad leans forward. “Now, I’d ask you if you want to be a Prospect, but I think – given your previously stated opinions – that you wouldn’t be interested in that.” The smirk is curved into a wicked, hard-edged grin, and Nate knows that Brad is just yanking his chain.

He returns a wry smile. “You’d be right,” he replies. “You know – or can guess – my reasoning already. I don’t need to spell it out to you. I won’t be one of you, but I will keep your activities and movements quiet.” He looks around the room, meeting each man’s eyes deliberately, almost challenging them to object.

“Good,” says Brad, after a minute, and the hard edge drops off his smile. He pushes off the table, stepping over to Nate’s chair. Nate stands as he approaches, looking up at the tall, blond man. “Understand, Nate, that this is absolutely serious, and there are consequences.”

“Fatal, I’m guessing,” replies Nate, his tone bland. “I understand.”

“Good,” Brad says, his voice low, practically a purr. He steps into Nate’s personal space – a common intimidation tactic, especially when you’re as tall as Brad is. Nate’s seen – felt – it before. “Just because you are involved with Ray does not preclude you from punishment.”

Nate nods, chin tilted up and shoulders thrown back, absolutely not moving. You’re not getting to me like that, he thinks. Judging by the smirk that’s back on Brad’s lips, he knows it too.

After a moment of silent staring, Brad steps back, gesturing to the door. “You’re welcome in the clubhouse, and of course the workshop,” he says, “Thank you for your time.”

Nate nods and turns, skirting around the chair and leaving, closing the door quietly behind him.

He feels overwhelmed – he hadn’t expected that. He’s quietly glad that the Bulldogs care enough about Ray to give that kind of speech to him. He understands about the Bulldogs’ secrets needing to be kept, but Ray had come first. He smiles as he walks through the back lot to the workshop, going finish some cleanup while he waits for Ray.

-----

“Ray, come in.” Ray hears Brad’s call, and he does so, coming past Manimal and Christopher. “Well, that went well,” he says, smiling over at Ray. It’s an actual smile, the Iceman façade down for a moment, and Ray is suddenly encouraged.

Poke is grinning, “You got a good man there, dawg. Smart, and he’s got balls.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, grudging on a couple of parts, but there. Ray returns the grin, relaxing immediately; his brothers’ approval and support means a lot. Of course Nate hadn’t had any problems with the Bulldogs, he’d been a Recon Marine – but it hadn’t stopped Ray from worrying from the moment he’d heard the other door creak open. He looks around – the guys are smiling, or at least neutral.

“Ray,” says Doc, and Ray turns to him. His face falls as he realizes that Doc is wearing a serious expression. “You keep him away from the gun runs. He doesn’t even hear about it. You don’t mention it – don’t even think about it around him. In fact, you don’t mention Club business at all.”

Ray nods, suddenly aware of exactly what he’s doing. “Okay,” he says through a dry mouth. “I can do that.” He looks over at Brad, who nods just once, his eyes giving his response.

Doc’s face clears, and he says, “Go after him.” He’s wearing a small smile, and Ray reads a little hope in it. It’s rare for Doc to smile, and – right now – it’s welcome.

Ray grins in response. “Great – I’ll see you later,” he says, and turns, heading out of the clubhouse. He dashes across the backlot, heading for the workshop.

“Nate!” he yells.

Nate’s head pops out from the backroom. “Yeah?” He’s wearing a wide grin, his eyes sparkling green; so handsome. Ray charges in, catching him around the waist and crowding into his space and kissing him. Nate laughs as the kiss breaks, and says, “You heard the Inquisition?”

“Yeah,” Ray rolls his eyes, “And before you ask, I didn’t put them up to it, Brad thought of it all by himself.”

Nate cocks an eyebrow, “He’s the MC President, yes?”

Ray nods. “He’s a badass motherfucker. Don’t cross him.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Nate replies, “Don’t we have somewhere to be?” His smile is mischievous and makes the non-sequitur an invitation.

“We do now,” grins Ray.

-----

Days come and go, and despite Nate working hard at the plant and at the workshop, he never really feels tired. Ray’s firecracker energy feeds his, and he can always go another round with him. Their relationship is a give-and-take that is full of both Ray’s quick energy and Nate’s steady brightness. In bed, Nate dominates and Ray lets him but gives as good as he gets, and sometimes Nate will submit. Ray pushes him down into the mattress, pins him, and Nate feels owned – controlled. They always fuck hard, leaving marks sometimes, and Walt raises an eyebrow every time Nate comes into the office wearing a morning-after smile.

They never say ‘I love you’ or make hollow promises, because this is just a transitory thing, and they both know it. Accept it.

Ignore it, because it’s all about the here and now.

It’s a pretty good way to go along, and Nate’s desperately trying to ignore the fact that his time here in Mathilda is ticking down. He’s happy to indulge himself with Ray as long as possible and see if something else can happen later. Increasingly, he hopes that something does – but that’s something that can be discussed later.

Until, suddenly, it can’t.

He’s in the backroom of the workshop, just changed out of his work suit into jeans and t-shirt, flicking through the manual for the Harley Fat Boy as he waits for Ray to finish ‘business’ in the clubhouse with Brad. He hears voices in the workshop, and is about to step out when he recognizes the voices – Poke and Trombley. He’s been wary of Trombley ever since he’d put him on his ass, and he shakes his head, deciding that staying in here and not unintentionally provoking him would be better.

It’s been five minutes before he catches the word guns. He closes the manual, listening in. Horror dawns as he realizes that they’re talking about gun-running – the Bulldogs doing it – a shipment they’d undercut the Russians on – scheduled for this week.

Drawing on all his Recon silence, he stills himself, waiting for them to leave.

Ray had to have known. Had to.

It seems like an eternity before they leave, and Nate stays hidden, left alone with his thoughts. He’s utterly furious at Ray – boiling with anger, ice-cold with betrayal, sick to his stomach – at Brad, too, for making Ray keep quiet, because he must have – horrified that the Bulldogs do that – regretful and angry at himself that he got involved in the first place.

Five minutes after they’ve left, Nate stirs, getting up.

He looks around – looking at his suit, neatly folded on the chair by the toilet door. It looks out-of-place, like Nate suddenly feels.

He walks out of the workshop, out onto the street. It’s quiet at this time of night. He looks one way, then the other, contemplating, and then turns in the direction of his house.

He runs in a way that he hasn’t run since Iraq – hard-out, pushing, focused on nothing but the flex and stretch of his muscles. The three miles melt away, and it’s too soon when he’s home.

The house is quiet and dark. Walt must be working late, his mind supplies, but he puts it aside – it doesn’t matter. He pulls off his boots, padding into the lounge, sitting down and waiting.

It’s barely fifteen minutes before he hears the roar of an engine in the driveway. He’d know that sound anywhere – it’s Avril.

There’s a pounding on the front door – “Nate? Nate, are you okay?!” Ray sounds worried, desperate. Then the front door creaks, and there’s footsteps in the hall. “Nate?”

“In here,” says Nate, suddenly weary for the first time since he’d first kissed Ray. Exhaustion floods his bones, and he aches with tiredness.

Ray comes in, flicking the light on, and in two strides he’s kneeling in front of Nate. “Fuck, Nate, you scared me, your suit was in the workshop, but you weren’t, and Poke and Trombley said they hadn’t seen you when they went through. Are you okay?” He begins looking Nate over, obvious in his concern.

“Physically, I’m fine.” Nate forces his voice into steel, and Ray flinches back. “Mentally, not so much.”

Ray looks up sharply, “Why?” he snaps. “I swear to Christ, if that homophobe Trombley has been insulting you, I’ll cut his balls off –”

“Gun-running.”

He sees Ray’s face change, sees the knowledge there, the realization. Ray is involved in the operation, would be participating. Nate’s heart sinks – apparently, some small part of him had still hoped that it was a Bulldogs operation that Ray wasn’t involved in at all.

It doesn’t make this any easier. “I can’t do this, Ray, not while I know that you’re involved in that.” Abruptly, he realizes his voice is softening, and he puts the steel back, hardening his expression, drawing on all his training to remain unyielding. “I can’t do that.”

Ray makes an inarticulate noise of pain, and rears back, standing. Nate can see him trying to form words, and failing, breathing hard and ragged, fists clenched. Seeing verbose Ray – so gifted with words – silent because of him is strange.

“It would only have been another week anyway,” he says, quietly, trying to soften the blow.

“I don’t give a shit!” snaps out Ray. “Nate, I want to be with you! I’ve kept out, because I didn’t want you involved, but they need me now, just this once, for this. And just so you know, I was considering moving to L.A. for you!”

“For what, to open an L.A. Chapter?” Nate snarls, and he knows it’s below the belt, even before Ray’s eyes narrow. “Fuck, Ray, you’re risking your life! I heard what Trombley said about the Russians!”

Ray growls, “You risked your life as a Marine, I don’t think you can talk.” His hands clench and unclench, a quick motion full of helpless anger.

Nate pushes himself up off the chair, incensed, white-hot with fury. “I didn’t have anyone at that point. If you want me to rephrase it – I can’t be with someone who’s risking their life for something so stupid!” he snaps.

“Stupid?! Protecting our Second Amendment rights is stupid?!” snarls Ray. His eyes are hot with rage, the heat almost the same as when he’s aroused – and yet, so different.

“AK-47s do not constitute suitable Second Amendment weapons,” Nate snaps. “And illegal weaponry is not protecting our rights, it’s making it harder to keep the Amendment in place.”

“Fuckin’ liberals taking away our rights –” starts Ray, and it’s a rant Nate has heard before. He had little patience for the argument then, and none now.

“We’re not doing this, Ray. We are not. You will get out of my house, now. I will not speak of this to anyone – I don’t want you hurt,” – and that much is completely true – “But I won’t see you again.”

“What?!” Ray gasps, and the anger is gone, replaced by disbelief. “You can’t …”

“I can and I will. Goodbye, Ray.” Nate puts all the steel and command-tone in his voice that he can, making it an implacable order.

Ray just stares for a moment, dark eyes hot and full of pain, and then steps forward, catching Nate’s chin and kissing him hard and fierce, taking everything he can. He nips at Nate’s lower lip, and then pulls away.

It takes everything Nate has not to step forward and kiss him back. He can’t let Ray back in. Not now. He lets his anger rise, heat, lets it show.

Ray lets out a long breath, almost a sob, turns, and strides out.

The front door closes with a thump.

Something in Nate’s chest tears wide open as the noise echoes around the house, and he thinks it might be his heart.

-----

Ray wakes in the morning still half-expecting Nate to be in his bed. It’s about two minutes of happy ignorance, and then everything comes crashing down. He feels ripped to pieces and numb at the same time. Mechanically, he gets up, eats, showers and dresses, and then goes to the workshop. He feels like a robot, a bike running on only half of its cylinders

He works for about an hour – silent and totally focused, unlike him – before Brad gets the story out of him. His brow wrinkles in concern. “Ray, you should go home, or … or something. You’re distracting me. I can’t work like this – you can’t work like this.”

“No. This makes me focus, so I don’t have to feel it,” says Ray, quiet. “You should know that – after Julie.”

Brad had been engaged to a girl, but she’d gone to L.A. to go to college and simply hadn’t come back. The ring had arrived at the workshop in a FedEx box with no return address and a note that Brad told Ray about, but never showed to him.

Brad snorts, claps him on the shoulder, “I’m here if you need me,” and goes off to change the transmission oil on a classic Chevy Suburban.

At about noon, a car pulls up in the front lot. Ray isn’t paying attention, so Walt is already in the workshop before he notices. Brad is walking at his side, both silent and solemn, and Walt comes out of the backroom carrying Nate’s suit, still perfectly folded.

Ray gets to his feet, stepping into their path. Walt’s expression as he looks at Ray is pained and sad, similar but not the same as when they’d broken up.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and steps forward, enfolding Ray in a one-armed hug. Ray drops his head onto Walt’s shoulder, trying to ignore the similarity of his clean, warm scent to Nate’s.

-----

Walt drops the folded suit on Nate’s desk. Nate looks up, noting Walt’s expression – tired, sad. “Thank you, Walt,” he says quietly, hoping that that would be that, and Walt would just go and leave him alone. There’s nothing he can say, and he just wants to go back to work finish this plant upgrade so he can go home and forget that Mathilda – and Ray – even exist.

Walt’s eyes are defiant, and he takes a breath, and Nate knows what’s coming. “You aren’t going to ask, Nate, so I’ll tell you. He looks like shit, and I know he feels like shit too.”

“I didn’t ask,” sighs Nate. “Look, Walt, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

Walt shakes his head, “God knows that sending me to get your suit was a coward’s move.”

That touches off the still-burning anger deep in Nate’s chest. He stands slowly, and he can’t suppress the anger – despite the fact that Walt is blameless in all of this, he’s a target. “I thought that Ray might not want to see me. I did what was right in breaking up with him, Walt. I can’t tell you why.”

“That’s no excuse for making me take flak for you,” says Walt, and there’s a mutinous twist to his mouth.

Nate’s about to reply – heatedly – when there’s a cough at the door, and they turn to see the Plant Manager, Mike Wynn. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” He looks slightly concerned.

“Personal, Mike, I assure you,” says Nate quickly, but he can’t hide the roughness in his voice.

“I see,” says Mike, and there’s some skepticism in his expression. “Well, as long as it’s not interfering with the upgrade. I came to let you know that we’ve done the first circuit-board print test, and the new machine appears to be doing well. Did you want to look it over?”

“Yes, of course,” says Nate quickly, picking up a notepad and pen and heading over to the door. “I’ll check it out, the boards are crucial to the upgrade.” He flicks a look back at Walt, who is still wearing a displeased expression.

“We’ll discuss this later, Nate,” he says, and there’s an undercurrent of anger in the calm words.

Nate nods, and follows Mike out the door.

The discussion doesn’t eventuate that day, or the next – everything is crazily busy with countdown to completion of the upgrade – and Nate is quietly relieved. He throws himself into his work, trying to forget and ignore.

It doesn’t work.

-----

“…we do the pickup with the Irishmen, then we head back here,” instructs Brad. “We’ll If there’s any trouble – the Irishmen, anyone – we split, hide up somewhere, meet back here at 0600. Doc, Pappy, you’re the rear outriders, cover and try to draw them away from the truck. Poke, you’ve got Lilley and Garza to cover your rear, Christopher as alternate driver. Follow my lead – if I get taken out, follow Ray.” There’s nods around the circle, the eight who are doing the operation surrounded by the rest of the men. “Bulldogs staying here – be ready for trouble.”

Poke and Christopher swing up into the front of the big, black Ford F150 truck that will transport the haul. Brad gives a last check of the sliding false bottom of the tray and the wrecked bike that’s tied down on the tray as disguise. Lilley and Garza are crowing out the windows, clearly thrilled to be going on their first real operation. Doc and Pappy are already on their black Harley Fat Boys, waiting.

Brad pulls on his black helmet, swinging a leg over his black Yamaha R1. Quickly, Ray follows suit, mounting up on his black-and-green Kawasaki Z1000.

All the Bulldogs are in black leathers, the patch large and visible on their backs. They all wear balaclavas, a pointed gesture of anonymity despite the distinctive bikes. The green splashes on Ray’s bike – and his matching green-patterned helmet – are the only color in the convoy.

“All ready, gentlemen?” Brad yells, the wide, wild grin visible even under his full-face helmet. Ray knows that look, and as he looks around, he sees it echoed in the faces of the Bulldogs around him – adrenaline, anticipation, confidence and readiness. He’s starting to catch it himself, the anger, sadness and numbness of the last couple of days chased away by the sudden thrill of action.

“Get some!” yells Lilley as they start their engines and turn on the lights. Brad’s R1 screams as he revs it up, a howling note over the deep rumble of the Ford and the two Harleys. Ray’s bike cuts in with another note, and it’s all noise and dust as they peel out, back past the clubhouse onto the back road.

They race along the backroads as night falls, lights brilliant and engines roaring. Ray is enclosed in his own little bubble of light, seeing Brad up ahead, the lights of the truck xenon-white in the mirrors. He feels insulated, like the world could just go away, leave him alone with himself. Thoughts of Nate rise, and he crushes them viciously, letting the anger and adrenaline erase all else, focusing totally on the mission.

The route Brad takes is roundabout, deliberately confusing, but Ray follows it on the map in his head – so when they pull off the highway into a big graveled turnout surrounded by trees, Ray knows exactly where they are.

Waiting for them is a nondescript white minivan and a pair of bikes, a dark blue Harley and a distinctive Buell Firebolt – the signature bike of one of the Lieutenants of the Irishmen, Young Paddy. The tall man is standing by his machine, and raises a hand in greeting as the Bulldogs pull into the turnout. The three other Irishmen are grouped by the minivan, armed, balaclavas covering their faces, watching warily.

Brad and Ray park up facing the road, ready to go at a moment’s notice, Doc and Pappy pulling up behind them. Poke pulls the truck up beside the minivan, leaving its lights on. Lilley and Garza jump out, weapons at the ready, covering the area. Tension is thick in the air – the first gun run was always going to be a risky business for both sides, neither knowing if the other is going to front up with the goods or try to play them blind.

Ray is concentrating completely, losing himself in the moment. He has to be there for his brothers, he can’t afford to fuck up. He flicks looks around the perimeter, worried and antsy.

Brad and Young Paddy are talking quietly; Brad has pulled off his balaclava. Young Paddy gestures to the minivan.

“Show him the goods,” he barks; two of the Irishmen open the back, pulling out a long thin case. They carry it over to where Brad and Paddy are standing, dropping it on the ground and opening it. There are two AK-47s there, nestled in packaging, sickle clips detached and sitting in beside the muzzles. Brad grins widely, gesturing to Poke and Christopher in the truck. Poke reaches into the footwell, bringing out a suitcase and reluctantly handing it over to Paddy.

The transfer of the boxed guns is quick. Christopher, Pappy and Poke assist the Irishmen, and the AKs’ boxes slip neatly into the hidden compartment. Ray, watching the perimeter, is starting to feel cold as the adrenaline of the run begins to pall.

Brad and Young Paddy have been watching the transfer, and now, as the compartment is slid back in and locked, they pull their balaclavas back on, readying to go. They all mount up, getting into cars and onto bikes – and there’s a moment of silence where they all hear a sudden, unnatural crunching sound off to their left, in the undergrowth.

“There are men in the trees,” says Brad, calm and utterly clear, and Ray has a moment wonder why – and then the night splits with fire as the people in the trees open up.

“GO GO GO!” There’s a flurry of noise, screaming engines, and there’s three trucks pulling up in front of the turnout, men jumping out, firing at them. The Irishmen have piled back into their minivan – there’s a split moment when Ray realizes that there are two men firing out of the back windows, who hadn’t been there before – and Garza and Lilley are already in the truck, firing back.

Ray guns the Z1000, kicking it into gear and screaming forward towards the trucks. He’s not scared – he’s running on pure adrenaline – going from cold and slightly antsy to totally wired in a split second. One of the gunmen crouched beside the trucks leaps out of the way, firing at him – some kind of sub-machine gun – and Ray sees the flash of a patch with Cyrillic writing on it before he splits between two of the trucks and screams away.

Behind him, he hears the roar of the F150’s engine, and a rending crunch as Poke guns it forward – into a vehicle? – and then the xenons are in his mirrors, and he feels a surge of fierce joy – they’d gotten away. They scream around a corner, and he sees the flash of two bikes’ lights behind the truck – Pappy and Doc had gotten away too. He snarls out his exultation – they’d pulled it off, despite the Russians.

The Russians are Brad’s problem, and he grins viciously, knowing that their President would want payback.

In front of him, Brad has lifted his hand, waving back and forth, the sign for them to split. Ray grins wildly, and takes the next highway corner fast, splitting off from the convoy. They roar past as Ray pauses at the side of the road, watching for pursuit. The Irishmen’s minivan screams past a minute later – there are extra men hanging out the windows. He waits.

Five minutes pass, and he’s starting to feel tired as the buzz wears off. There’s an ache in his right side, and as he lifts his right arm to pull out his cellphone, it flares into a crippling pain. Involuntarily, he curls down over it, gasping, helmet clunking against the tank, and groans out the pain. Breathing deep, he pushes himself upright, looking down. There’s a ragged hole in his right side, a long rent about an inch wide and six inches long, under his ribcage. The leather is splayed outwards and it looks sticky, messy, meaty in the space between.

All of a sudden, it’s difficult to breathe. Gingerly, he pulls off his left glove and touches the wound. A burning, screaming pain spirals through him. His vision fuzzes for a moment, and when it comes back, the bike is tilting off to the left and he has to scramble to upright it. The stretch of muscles is a terrifying ache down his side, but it pushes a second more of adrenaline through his system.

His hand is red as he pulls out his cell left-handed – staining the silver case – and he rapidly texts Brad – No pursuit. Hurt, goin 2 safe plce, c u 0600.

He shoves his cell and glove back in his pocket, gritting his teeth against the pain that provokes. I can’t take my jacket off, I’ll pass out. The voice of reason and calm in his head sounds strangely like Nate. Suddenly, there’s only one thought in his head – Nate. I have to get to Nate.

-----

BAM-BAM-BAM! Nate looks up, almost startled. He pushes back from the kitchen table, closing his laptop, worry and a sense of foreboding creeping up. People don’t bash on your door at midnight if things are okay. BAM-BAM-BAM!

He walks down the hallway, unconsciously shifting into combat stance – on the balls of his toes, body tensed and ready to fight. He steadies his breathing, and pulls open the door.

Ray’s hand slides down off the door, and he looks up at Nate from where he is propped against the doorframe.

“Hey.” Ray is pale, and he’s trying his best to project that bright, laughing smile, but it just looks twisted and rueful. His left arm is wrapped around himself, clenched hard – and Nate’s heart misses a beat when he sees the bright red staining wrist and glove.

“Jesus, get inside,” he snaps out, stepping forward and catching Ray’s shoulder as he leans forward, almost rolling off the doorframe.

Sizing up Ray’s injury – no, wound – he checks the rest of him, unaccountably relieved. A treacherous part of him says that that’s because he never really acknowledged exactly what he felt for Ray. He shoves it away, focusing on the moment and what he needs to do now.

Ray is leaning against the wall in the hallway as Nate closes the door, ignoring the red smudge that now disfigures the dingy white-painted wood. “Bathroom. Now.”

He catches Ray under his arms, hauling him up bodily, throwing his arm over his shoulder, ignoring – trying to ignore – the scent of leather, blood and Ray. Ray’s movement becomes slower, weaker, as they move – almost as if now that he’s here, he’s okay.

Walt stumbles out of his bedroom in trackpants, blinking. “Whazzamatta?” he mumbles, but then the red on Ray’s hands – now on Nate’s shirt – penetrates, and he steps back to let them pass, his eyes widening as he mutters, “Shit.”

They get to the bathroom, and Nate carefully lowers Ray to the floor, propping him up against the bathtub. Ray whimpers, pained but trying to keep it in check, and Nate winces, feeling pained himself, but he can’t give in to it. He has to act, to do, be the Marine officer he’s trained to be, and take command. He turns to Walt, who’s hovering in the doorway, snapping out, “The first-aid kit. Laundry. Towel and cloth, run hot water over it. And bring the shears too.”

Ray is still whimpering – almost as if he doesn’t realize it, little moaning breaths that cut right through Nate. He’s paler now, eyes closed, mouth slack. Nate pats his cheek, voice strong despite himself. “Ray, stay with me. I’m gonna get you out of your jacket now, and your shirt.” Ray looks up at him, brown eyes hazed, and smiles. It’s weak, but Nate can’t help respond, cupping his cheek lightly for a second, letting Ray know that he’s safe.

“Okay, gonna get you out of your jacket. Lean forward.” Talking distracts, according to the Marine First Aid Instructor. He kneels beside Ray, pulling him into his own body, leaning him forward. Ray is trying to help, pushing his arms back, weakly trying to free his arms from the constraints of his sleeves. Nate unzips the sleeves and in one smooth movement pulls the jacket down and off, ignoring the armor, throwing it to one side.

Walt bustles back into the room, kneeling and wordlessly holding out the shears. Ray only has on a black wifebeater under his jacket, and one side of that is ripped to hell. “You do it,” Nate instructs, feeling Ray leaning hard up against him, obviously weakening. Walt’s eyes widen, but he does as instructed, cutting off Ray’s shirt with shaking hands.

“Walt, hold Ray while I clean him up. Sit on his left side, hold his right arm out of the way.”

Nate’s down to orders now, and it’s helping him cope with the nearly-limp, low-response Ray slumped against him. He moves carefully, switching out with Walt, and opens the first-aid kit, picking up the damp cloth Walt had brought.

Nate switches off his emotions for the next few minutes as he cleans Ray’s wound. His thoughts are clean, clinical, focused – they have to be. The wound is from front to back, an inch wide, six inches long, about half an inch deep, slightly higher at the front. It has two distinct channels, and is red and brown with cauterization and seeping blood. As he cleans it, Ray shudders and flinches, and Nate tries to be gentle, but there’s only so much he can do and still be effective. He slathers it in antiseptic cream, tapes over surgical pads, putting cotton wadding over the top and bandaging it down.

As he finishes the dressing, he looks up at Ray’s face. He’s pale, still only half-conscious, but he’s looking down at Nate with a shaky smile. Nate smiles back, relieved that he’s still at least a little lucid. Fishing in the first-aid kit, he retrieves a couple of codeine, gets water and forces them down Ray’s throat. “Bed now. Walt, I need you to help me lift him.”

Walt nods, determination and worry clear in his face. Carefully, they slip their arms around Ray, under his armpits, and – “On three.” – they lift him. Ray groans, and staggers, clearly light-headed. There’s a moment of panic as he lurches unsteadily, but then they recover and Nate starts to move gingerly forward. Walt follows; Ray’s trying to help, but his faltering step is hard to judge, and it’s very nearly a miracle that they get him down the hallway and into the bedroom.

They carefully lower Ray to sit on the bed, Nate throwing the covers aside. “Towels, Walt. In case.” Walt races out of the room, while Nate stands over Ray, holding him up by the simple expedient of pressing Ray into himself – steadying Ray with his body. He’s suddenly struck by how similar it felt just over a week ago, when he was in pretty much this same position – but Ray wasn’t weak and wounded, he was full of life, dark and mercurial.

Walt bustles in with the towels, and they lay Ray down. Immediately, he sighs and relaxes a little. Nate and Walt share a glance, immeasurably relieved. Quickly and efficiently, they divest him of boots and pants – and Nate thinks wryly, I guess we have both had practice…

“I’m gonna go clean up the bathroom,” says Walt, tactfully, and disappears out the door, pulling off his bloodied shirt as he does so.

Nate pulls the covers up and sucks in a pained breath as he sees how pale Ray is, against the white sheets. He fusses with the covers a moment, and then sighs. It’s hopeless – he knows what he wants to touch. He brushes his fingertips over Ray’s cheek, ever so gentle, and Ray’s eyelids flutter a little.

He sits gingerly down on the bed, looking down at Ray as he begins to relax into sleep. His heart is rebelling. He tries to suppress it, to push it away, and while his mind knows that this wound was gotten in the gun run – and he tries, tries so hard to be angry about it – his heart is too busy being relieved that Ray is alive. He shakes his head, caressing Ray’s cheek.

He desperately wants to keep running, like he had been doing, but the depth of his feelings for Ray are now clear, and they shake him to his core. He’d had plenty of relationships, but never had he felt so caught up, so relentlessly drawn to someone – despite how clearly bad for him it is. Or is it? He asks himself. Ray always made him feel better, like he was capable of so much more, ten feet tall and invincible. He’d never felt so confident, even at the height of his Recon career.

The feeling terrifies and empowers at the same time. I guess that’s love, then. Gently, he leans down and kisses Ray, simple and chaste.

BAM-BAM-BAM! He’s startled out of reverie by someone trying to beat the front door down – for the second time tonight. That’s not good. The Bulldogs probably wouldn’t’ve knocked.

He intercepts Walt in the hallway. “If it’s the Bulldogs, hold them at the door while I shed this shirt and wash my arms,” he hisses. “If it’s anyone else… hold them, too.” BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

“Coming, coming,” calls Walt, obviously, as Nate slips back down the hallway. Nate hears a surprised exclamation, and then the murmur of talk – growing more heated. Hurriedly, he dries his hands and throws his shirt in the washing hamper. The worry that had been temporarily suppressed is coming back – in spades.

As he comes down the hallway, he can see two men at the door – and neither are Bulldogs. They’re both big and menacing, in leather jackets and jeans – a parody of bikers. He flicks his eyes over them, sizing them up and looking for identifying marks. There – one of them has a tattoo in Cyrillic – Russians. They’re both carrying shoulder-holstered pistols, too. Shit, this could get messy.

“You the Bulldog?” snaps out the bigger one, sneering.

“I’m not a Bulldog, no,” replies Nate, levelly, keeping the same tone that he’d used when Schwetje was being especially obtuse. He flicks a look at Walt, who is backing away slowly.

The other one tries to mimic the other’s sneer, but just comes out looking stupid. “Well whose bike is that in the driveway? And why do you have blood on your front door?”

Nate smiles self-effacingly, his mind ticking over crazily. How could he get rid of them? “It’s my bike, and blood noses are quite painful.”

The first Russian looks down at him, and his lips widen in a vicious smile. “Well, never mind. You know the Bulldogs, that’s good enough for me. Tell your President that the Russians are in charge of the gun trade now.”

Nate nods, his calm exterior belying the fight-or-flight that’s starting to rise. “I … guess I can pass on that message; I don’t know where they hang out, so I guess I’ll have to ask around.” He smiles pleasantly.

The Russians nod, smiling cruelly between them, and turn. Nate nods, and quietly closes the door behind them –

– the door bursts open again, and the Russians burst in, pistols raised –

– Nate deflects one pistol, punching the wielder with a hard gut shot, but he doesn’t go down –

– the other pistol is raised and pointed at him. He knocks it away –

– the first pistol comes up again –

BANG!

It’s loud in the enclosed space.

Then Russians have turned and are running.

Nate gasps as the pain sudden rears itself up, and looks down. There’s a chunk of inner-thigh missing, and there’s a steady, pulsing drip of blood. He reaches up for his tourniquet, and it’s not there – because he’s not wearing his tac vest.

Shit.

-----

Ray wakes with a jolt.

Muzzily, he registers that he’s in Nate’s bed – and remembers the reasons.

There’s someone yelling in the front hall, and it sounds like Walt. “Shit, Nate! Nate!” He sounds worried. For Nate. Ray’s stomach drops – Walt doesn’t get unnecessarily worried.

“I’ll be OK,” says Nate – and Ray knows that tone. It’s the reassuring one, where Nate’s trying to make sure that no-one should be panicking, when it’s deserved. Suddenly unaccountably terrified, Ray hauls himself upright. He very nearly cries out in pain, and suddenly feels distinctly dizzy. He must have lost a lot of blood.

He staggers into the hall, and Nate’s lying on the ground, his right thigh a mess of blood and flesh. Ray collapses beside him, looking up at Walt – whose eyes are stark blue, terrified – and his hands hard against Nate’s thigh, his fingers twined with Nate’s on the wound, thick with pulsing red.

Nate’s voice is still terribly calm. “Ray – I need you to press on the top of my thigh now – tourniquet – blood loss –” Not knowing what else to do, Ray follows the instructions, pressing into the crease of Nate’s thigh as hard as he can.

Walt is grabbing the hallway phone with one hand, fingers punching red splotches on 9-1-1. His voice is a hum in the background as Ray presses as hard as he can. Then the phone cord is circling Nate’s thigh, and Walt is saying something.

Nate’s face is losing its color, his hands – the long, elegant hands – fluttering uselessly down onto his chest.

Ray’s totally terrified. He knows what this means.

He’s fighting for Nate, and he’s losing.

“Nate, I love you, I love you, stay with me, stay – have to stay – fuck, you can’t leave me now!”

Nate smiles, the full, always-so-pink lips beginning to go pale. “Love you, Ray.” His hands have caught the silver horseshoe that sits around his neck, and he holds it out. “For you. Be better.”

Ray knows what he means – but that doesn’t mean he’s going to accept it. “No, no! You’re going to be okay, Nate! You have to be okay! Nate! Fuck! FUCK, NATE! Stay with me, fucker!”

He grabs Nate’s hand as he sees his eyelids flutter down, “NATE!”

Nate looks up at him, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Ray.”

The green eyes go dark.

-----

The trip to Camp Pendleton on the back of Brad’s bike is the most painful and most necessary trip that Ray has taken – changing himself, closing chapters – becoming better.

The Bulldogs and the Irishmen had taken their revenge on the Russians; the plant upgrade is done; the gun runs have been scaled back. Everything of his old life is done.

He burns inside now, the hollowness left by Nate’s death slowly filling with the determination to do better – Nate’s dying wish. He’d never been sentimental, but this, for all it sounded that way, wasn’t. Nate always wanted the best for everyone, and Ray knows that meant him too. And Ray should have died, not Nate; he owes it to Nate to carry on for him.

The funeral had only set his resolve.

They climb off the Harley, Ray pulling off the green-patterned helmet that he hadn’t worn since the night of the gun run. He locks it onto the grab bar, and steps up in front of Brad.

They trade a long, long look, full of the unspoken regret, the loss, the sadness. Finally, Ray sighs, and sticks out his hand. Brad takes it, and pulls him into a one-sided hug.

They let go, and stand there for another few seconds before Ray nods, turns, and begins walking.

“Ray!” Ray turns back at Brad’s shout, wondering what Brad has forgotten. “Good luck,” is all Brad says, “Hope you… hope your life gets better.” Ray can hear the raggedness in Brad’s voice, knows that the man who is – was – more-or-less his brother is hurting too, but it’s nothing in the face of his own pain.

“Thanks, Brad,” he says, quiet, because that much was true. He was thankful that Brad had backed him. “Bye.”

He squares his shoulders and walks through the gate, not looking back. He hears the rumble of the Harley as Brad turns out, and there’s a second where he wants to turn, watch as his brother leaves him for the last time, but he resists. He’s leaving that behind; leaving the Bulldogs and everything they meant. He touches the silver horseshoe, reminding that this is the first step. He’s going to make himself a better man – for Nate.

-----
Diamond Eyes Playlist on YouTube

Workshop Theme – ACDC – Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
CEEM Office – Apocalyptica – Plays Metallica: Welcome Home (Sanitarium)
Meeting the Bulldogs – Guns ‘n Roses – Welcome to the Jungle
Confirmation – Curtis Stigers and the Forest Rangers – This Life (Sons of Anarchy Theme)
Dropping off Jeannie – Dope – You Spin Me Right Round (American Psycho OST)
Compromise / Resisting – ACDC – Highway to Hell
Repeal – Triumph – Fight the Good Fight
Deal – Cage the Elephant – Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked
On the Workshop Bench – Metallica – Carpe Diem Baby
“Hurt him, we hurt you.” / “He doesn’t even hear about it.” – Nine Inch Nails – Metal
Overheard – Marilyn Manson – Tainted Love
Trying Not To Feel / Trying Not To Feel Guilty – Johnny Cash - Hurt
Gun Run – Grendel – Soilbleed v3
Ray Runs to Nate’s – Daughtry – Renegade
Horseshoe – BattleMe – Hey Hey, My My (Sons of Anarchy Episode Theme S3E13)
New Road – Shinedown – Diamond Eyes (The Expendables OST)
Prompt Theme – Bon Iver – Holocene

Fic: Diamond Eyes: Part I

2011-12-29T12:48:37Z

Title: Diamond Eyes
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: R
Word Count: Approx 17,000
Pairing/Character(s): Nate/Ray
Warnings: Graphic violence, graphic sex, character death
Summary:
Out on the front line / don't worry I'll be fine / the story is just beginning / I say goodbye to my weakness / so long to the regret / and now I see the world through diamond eyes
Nate rides into Ray’s workshop one day, and gets tangled up more than he knows how to deal with.
My first yagkyas fic. Prompt is ‘And at once I knew I was not magnificent’. A Sons of Anarchy-style AU (as per the wildcard), but as I haven’t watched much SoA I can’t speak to the accuracy of tone. I’m quite terrified to be writing for eudaimon, whose work I admire a great deal; I hope this is suitable! Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta, looleebelle, who made all the difference.
For those who like listening while they read, here's the Diamond Eyes Playlist on YouTube. Full tracklisting at the end of the work.
Disclaimer: Based on the miniseries (which doesn’t belong to me), and the portrayals therein. No disrespect is intended to the real men.

-----

Ray is wrist-deep in kerosene, scrubbing the fuck out of a linkage that’s clogged with old oil and grime. An early-autumn, early-morning wind is coming through the big roller doors, and the workshop radio is cranking out Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. Ray hums along, belting out the chorus with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

“Ray, for chrissakes learn to carry a fuckin’ tune, or shut your goddamn cakehole!” Brad yells from the backroom, then there’s a metallic whang. “Jesusfuck, OW!”

Ray snickers and yells in reply, “People should learn to use a fuckin’ spanner before criticizing other people who can fuckin’ multitask, you gigantic crazy Viking!” There’s an inarticulate mumble in response, most likely unprintable, and Ray laughs, knowing that Brad doesn’t have an answer. “And being able to swear and breathe at the same time doesn’t count! … done dirt cheap – concrete shoes – cyanide – T.N.T – done dirt cheap!” he howls out, just to annoy Brad.

“Fuck you, you crazy faggot,” grumps Brad affectionately, grinning, as he comes out of the backroom, wrapping a rag around his palm.

“Now, now, what did I tell you? Your monster cock is just too big for my svelte frame to take,” laughs Ray, wiggling his eyebrows as he puts his hands on his hips and poses exaggeratedly.

A growling engine at the entrance interrupts whatever it is Brad’s going to say, and they both turn at the unusual sound. Ray’s eyebrows lift as he sees the bike – a bright orange Triumph Speed Triple. The three-cylinder motor snarls to a stop as the rider flicks the killswitch. He’s a much the same height as Ray, and he has the lean frame of a fighter, emphasized strongly by his well-cut leathers. Ray licks his lips as the man comes forward, moving with quick grace as he pulls off his helmet, revealing sandy-brown hair with just a hint of red, smooth tan skin, and bright, piercingly-green eyes. Then the guy smiles, and it’s like the sun just came out. Ray catches himself gaping, recovers, and blurts out, “Who are you, and what’re you doing here?”

The man quirks an eyebrow, and then laughs, seemingly tickled by Ray’s bluntness. “I’ve moved into town for a while, and I was looking around – my baby here needs a service,” he replies, gesturing to the bike. He’s got a smooth East Coast accent, a bit off to Ray’s California ear.

“We don’t do that kind of bike –” starts Brad, but Ray talks over top of him.

“Don’t be a dumbass, Brad, we’re gonna make an exception, she’s a beautiful lady.” He hustles around the taller man, going past the man to look over the bike – because checking out the bike was a lot safer than checking out its owner. “Don’t see many Triumphs out this corner of the world – the new ones, anyway – lots of Harleys and Victories and stuff, big bikes, lots of sportsbikes too, but not really the nakeds. Really like the setup you’ve got here,” – he crouches, looking up and down, inspecting the bike close-up. It’s all spotless, and despite being unfamiliar with the particulars, Ray notices a couple of parts that are obviously custom, but perfectly paint-matched. It’s a hot bike for a hot guy, and they don’t get that too often around here – Ray’s got to make the most of it.

The guy is looking at him, slightly bemused, but it’s not until Brad laughs that Ray realizes he said that aloud. For a second, he stops, embarrassed and feeling a bit stupid. There’s only one course of action that he can take that won’t make him look like a complete dick: brazen it out.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Brad, but there just ain’t any eyecandy around here, guys are either too old or too hick for my discerning tastes,” he snaps out, the first thing he can think of. “And you don’t count, you terminally straight bastard,” he adds, as Brad opens his mouth, grinning, ready to interject.

The newcomer cocks his head to one side, grinning, as Ray continues, “Y’see, Brad and I grew up together, he’s practically my brother, and when I was a teenager I got this massive crush on him, you can see why,” – he gestures up at Brad, indicating his height and build – “But Brad had a total hard-on for this cheerleader chick, wouldn’t even consider me. I was heartbroken. For about ten minutes, then decided that there were other pretty blonde boys who weren’t the offspring of a giraffe and a Viking, and went after them instead. You’ll come crying to me one of these days, Brad, I swear,” he wags a finger at Brad, who has the temerity to laugh.

The new guy laughs too, interrupting whatever it is that Brad is about to say - and no, Ray does not find that ridiculously fucking hot, not at all – and says, “Yeah, sometimes there’s very slim pickings out in the backblocks. I’m Nate, by the way.” He gives another blinding smile, and Ray feels a flush of heat.

“Uh, yeah,” says Ray, feeling kind of dumb again – and it wasn’t very often that someone made him feel like that. He stands, sticking out his hand, still damp with kero. “I’m Ray. Ray Person. And this overgrown freak here is Brad Colbert.” Nate shakes his hand, seemingly unfazed by the grime.

“You really have a thing about my height today, don’t you, Ray? Feeling short or something?” says Brad as he shakes Nate’s hand, and adds, “Welcome to Mathilda, and Bulldogs Mechanical Services. You were wanting a service?”

“Fuck yeah he is,” Ray jumps in, “Because Bulldogs is the best, and he knows it. But not from your gigantic ass, motherfucker – because clearly,” – he gestures to the Triumph – “He has taste, style, and wants only the best. And that is where I come in.” He grins.

“Yeah, I was,” replies Nate, with an answering grin, and the two of them quickly start discussing prices for a service. Brad rolls his eyes and is goes over to the bike, looking her over with an expert’s eye.

“She’s a beauty,” Brad comments after a couple of minutes. “Custom parts, I assume?”

Nate nods, “Jeannie is my favourite of my three girls, and I spend more money on her than I perhaps should.” He laughs wryly.

“I’m told girls like having money spent on them,” says Ray, wanting to reclaim Nate’s attention. “It’s part of the reason that I don’t go for them. My mother is the rest of it.”

“You subscribe to nurture rather than nature, I take it?” Nate grins. “Though Freud would have something to say about your mother.”

Ray’s eyebrows lift. “My mother and the Oedipus Complex have no relation to each other,” he grins, suddenly hopeful that Nate might be around here more often. The two of them already have an easy banter going, and Nate’s quick enough to challenge Ray – something that doesn’t happen to him very often.

Brad is grinning at the two of them, and puts in, “Something to do with your obsession with bikes, then?”

They talk for a bit, Nate hitting it off well with Brad as well as Ray. Nate says that he would be living here for the next three months, helping with upgrades to the electronics plant. Ray’s heart leaps – and something pulls, deep in his gut. He’s staggered by his reaction. Just as easy as that, this guy had waltzed in and inserted himself into Ray’s consciousness, and now Ray wants him – badly.

Eventually, Nate declares that he needs to be going. “I’ll drop her off in the morning, maybe Thursday? I can walk to the plant from here.”

Brad raises an eyebrow, “That’s a good five miles.”

“Yeah, I know,” replies Nate, pulling on his helmet. “I was a Marine Lieutenant,” He says, as explanation. He gives a sharp, edged grin, and Ray feels that pull in his gut again. “Hope to see you again,” he adds, as he pulls the bike around, nods to Brad, and then to Ray. There’s something in his expression that makes Ray’s heart speed a little.

The Triple roars into life, and Nate gives a quick wave as he peels out into the street.

“Well that was interesting,” says Brad, with a raised eyebrow at Ray. His expression is questioning, but Ray doesn’t want to respond. He doesn’t have any words for this, not yet – he’d talk when he did.

“Yeah,” he replies, not sure what else to say, and turns, going back to the bucket of kero. He doesn’t see the momentary concern on Brad’s face, or the shake of his head before he goes back out to the workshop.

-----

Nate stares at his laptop, his brow furrowed; there’s not much more he can add to the report, but he has to make sure he’s covered all the bases. California Electronics and Electrical Manufacturing, Incorporated, is paying him to oversee the modernization of the Mathilda plant from top to bottom, and he can’t afford to fuck it up. At all.

After making one of his erstwhile superiors look stupid in front of a Board, he’d been sent on forced leave and then shunted out to the back end of California to manage a project that could have been left in the hands of the perfectly capable Plant Manager, Mike Wynn. Nate’s just a little resentful about that. He swears quietly, distracted. Schwetje is stupid, and didn’t know when to drop a point. Unfortunately, he was sufficiently well-connected to the new CEO, Mr. Mattis, that he could drop Nate in it with little repercussion.

“Nate?” There’s a knock on the door, and then a tousled blond head pokes in. “Are you done with that report?” Walt asks, “You need to email it off ASAP, I just had Barrett on the line, and apparently Patterson’s getting some flak from McGraw about your supposed ‘incompetence’.”

Nate sighs, and lets his head drop, clicking on the laptop’s keyboard. “Yeah, I guess I’m done,” he says, slightly muffled. “Bryan shouldn’t be getting stick for me.”

Walt steps in, and closes the door quietly behind him. “That bad? I swear, you’re stressing over nothing. You’ve gone over it, I’ve gone over it, Wynn’s gone over it, hell, Rudy’s gone over it and can’t find a thing wrong with it.” He grins sunnily. “Wish we had Rudy here, to give you a massage and ‘re-align your chakras’. Maybe I should try some Feng Shui in here.”

Nate lifts his head to look up at the other man, and laughs, knowing that Walt is pulling his leg. Rudy, the firm’s quirky Environmental Monitoring Manager is a former Recon Marine, like Nate, but is strongly into natural therapies and homeopathy. Nate doesn’t begrudge him that; Rudy is well-liked by everyone, and has a calming effect on anyone who spends more than five minutes in his presence.

He shakes his head. “Okay. If you insist.” He saves the document, opens an email, and types a quick message. “I told McGraw that I’d have it to Patterson before tomorrow, we only got the last of the data this morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, he’s a useless fuckwit,” says Walt. “I don’t even know how he got his position.”

“I do,” replies Nate grimly, attaching the file and clicking ‘Send’. “The same way Schwetje did; knowing the right people and not drooling too much during the interview.” There’s a bitter silence for a moment, and then Nate sighs again. “Anyway, more pleasant things; how is it coming home?”

Walt laughs, “It’s not really home any more; my parents moved out of town five years ago and I haven’t been back here since. But the old place hasn’t changed much.” He rolls his eyes, “I kept thinking about my first day of school, and high school, and everything else. We drove past the spot where I had my first kiss, and stuff like that. It’s kinda weird.”

Nate raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. “You know anything about Bulldogs Mechanical Services? I was thinking about taking Jeannie in for a service there.”

Walt’s face does a weird contortion, and then he laughs, almost disbelievingly. “Bulldogs? Really?”

“Yeah,” says Nate, his eyebrows lifting. “I met two guys – Ray and Brad – they seemed okay. Ray hit on me.” He grins, unexpectedly warmed by the thought of the dark-haired man; Ray’s first remark had been seemingly involuntary, and inadvertently charming. And then he’d revealed himself to be smart, quick, and with a great sense of humor. The dark, sharp good looks were a nice extra, not to mention the tattoos and the lean, muscular body.

Walt laughs. “He would,” he says quietly. Nate gives him a quizzical look. Walt can clearly see his confusion, and clarifies, “Ray was my first boyfriend.” He smiles wryly. “I left for college, and we kinda drifted apart. We broke up about six months before you and I first started dating.”

“Huh, okay,” says Nate, raising his eyebrows. “Guess you know him quite well then.” Perhaps he could pick Walt’s brain about Ray. It would make certain things easier…

There’s a sly grin creeping onto Walt’s lips, and he snickers. “I know that look,” he says, and leans over the desk to slap Nate on the shoulder. “He’s a good guy, you could do worse.” There’s something in his eyes, something shuttered, but Nate ignores it, busy being embarrassed at being caught.

He shakes his head. “It was just a passing thought, nothing serious.” He looks up at Walt, momentary melancholy – and curiosity – flickering through him. “Do you ever regret that we didn’t work out?”

“The past is the past, Nate,” replies the blond with a smile that dips into sadness for a second. “We can’t change it. I wasn’t happy that we didn’t work out, but I don’t regret that we broke up. It was the right time, the right thing to do.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” nods Nate, and stands, massaging his temples with one hand. “Sorry, the stress is getting to me.”

“And some things you second-guess yourself on, I know,” says Walt. “Don’t worry,” he says, and leans over the desk again, this time folding an arm around Nate’s shoulder in a comforting half-hug. “It’s done, it was for the best, and now you can move on and get to enjoy Ray’s truly excellent blowjobs.”

“Wha-? Walt!” gasps Nate, and then curiosity overwhelms embarrassment – because he had been wondering what Ray’s mobile mouth would be like around his cock. “Wait, they are? He does?” and then his brain catches up and he sputters again, going bright red.

Walt laughs, clearly delighted to have discomforted Nate. “Yep. Now, the other thing I came to tell you was that Wynn wanted to talk to you about the timeline for equipment replacement.” He leans over and shuts the laptop with a click.

“I’ll get you back for this, you know,” says Nate, wryly, coming around the desk and punching Walt on the shoulder.

“I fully expect this to be the case,” is the laughing reply as they go out the door.

-----

Nate’s stomach grumbles as he walks out of the plant. Shut up, he tells it. You survived perfectly well on an MRE a day not so long ago. His stomach grumbles again, and he sighs, remembering that he’d had a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast for breakfast, and no lunch. Well, I guess I could do with some food.

Riding through town, he looks around for somewhere he could get a meal. There was the ubiquitous McDonalds, a run-down diner, and a place that looked like some kind of bar. He shakes his head ruefully; he’d honestly been expecting a bit more choice – L.A. had clearly spoiled him. McDonalds is always dubious food quality at best, and the diner looks a little too run-down for him to chance, so that left the bar. It has a fair number of cars and bikes parked outside, so it seems like a decent bet.

BRAVO Bar and Grill announces the sign above the door. It’s a classic adobe building, with a wide verandah and plants climbing up its sides. He can’t see in the windows, but there’s a tasty smell emanating and the low sound of talk drifting out the open door.

He steps forward, going to enter, and is almost flattened by Ray Person barreling out the door, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen to the guy following him. Recon reflexes save him, and he exclaims, “Ray!”

“– and clearly he’s a total dickface… hey, Nate!” Ray turns back, words coming to a stop, a wide grin splitting his mobile face. “You here for food?”

Nate’s stomach growls loudly, and Nate ducks his head, a bit embarrassed, “Yeah, I am.”

“Awesome, homes!” says Ray, stepping back and punching Nate on the arm enthusiastically. It shouldn’t make Nate feel warm inside, but it does. He grins in response. “Let’s get you some ribs and a burger, and hey, the beer is pretty good, so you should totally have some of that too, they have this fantastic local brew thing that some hippy guy down the road does. Wait, did you ride? You shouldn’t ride after you’ve been drinking, that’s just asking for trouble –”

“Ray, cool it,” says the guy behind him, grinning widely. “Ray wouldn’t know how to shut up if you fuckin’ gagged him.” He sticks out a hand. “Hey there, I’m Poke.”

“Nate Fick. I’m here helping with the upgrade of the CEEM plant,” says Nate, shaking Poke’s hand firmly, trying not to be too distracted by the image of Ray bound and gagged. “I ride, I took my bike into Bulldogs to ask about a service. I met Ray and Brad.”

Poke’s eyebrows raise, “Oh, so you’re the guy with the orange Triumph.” There’s a hint of something in his tone that Nate can’t read, and he flicks a brief look over at Ray. His expression hardens slightly, a little suspicious and slightly closed.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” says Ray, catching the look. “Nate’s a good dude, and he has a sweet-ass bike. C’mon, Nate, we gonna feed you!” He catches Nate’s shoulder, gripping and pulling him back into the bar.

The table Nate is dragged over is the biggest one in the place, at the back around a corner. Clearly, it’s reserved – and as Nate flicks a look around at the guys at the table, it becomes clear why. They’re all dressed in leather, dark denim and camo of various types; most have at least one tattoo visible, and they wear kuttes with a prominent patch – BULLDOGS MC.

It’s their faces that Nate zeroes in on; there’s a hardness to their expressions. As they see Ray and Poke returning with Nate, their eyes turn and reveal the same. It’s something Nate has seen in the eyes of experienced Marines, sailors and soldiers – people who have been under fire, who have done battle. A suspicion is forming, but he can’t voice it out loud here.

Ray is already introducing him, and Nate does his best to look harmless and friendly. “Hey guys, this is Nate, he’s the dude with the orange Triumph I was talking about. He’s in charge of the modernization of the electronics plant.”

“Hey, Nate,” says Brad from one corner, and Nate nods a greeting. “Didn’t think you’d be back anywhere in the vicinity of this degenerate by choice, you must have come here for some other reason.”

“Just came in for a meal,” Nate grins, and flicks a look over at Ray; there’s a hint of uncertainty in Ray’s eyes, and Nate adds, “I thought he was just going to feed me and send me on my way, didn’t mention meeting anyone.”

Ray’s eyes darken for a second, and then he laughs, “Had to introduce you to the guys! Right, I’ll see about that food.” He slides away, and Nate watches him go with a grin.

“Have a seat,” says Poke, dragging out a chair. He’s smiling, but there’s a tension in his frame.

“But he can’t,” protests a younger man from the other side of the table. “He’s not a brother.” Oh, that’s what it is, realizes Nate, his suspicion rising again.

Nate turns to him, fixing him with a clear gaze. “Oh?” he says, in the mild tone he’d used with troublesome Privates. “A brother?”

“Trombley, shut up,” snaps one of the other guys, a younger Hispanic man with glasses. He gestures to the chair Poke is still holding. “Have a seat.” The young man, Trombley, makes an unhappy noise, but ducks his head, clearly conceding. He doesn’t watch as Nate takes a seat.

“Kitty says it’ll be about fifteen minutes, maybe twenty,” says Ray, reappearing with two beer mugs in hand and breaking the awkward silence. He plunks one down in front of Nate, “Taste this, it’s the best shit, I seriously have no idea how that old dude makes this stuff.”

Nate raises an eyebrow at him, but does as he’s instructed. As advertised, it’s good – a dark malt, rich and flavorful. His eyebrows raise again, “Huh, you’re right, it is good.”

“Ha! Told you, Garza,” crows Ray, pointing to the young man who’d silenced Trombley. “Beer can be good!”

“Just because I said I liked tequila better than beer, doesn’t mean I don’t know a good beer when I taste one, you uneducated white trash fuck,” laughs Garza, “Now, if you’d just say that tequila can be good too…” There’s a ripple of laughter around the table as Ray makes an exaggeratedly disgusted face.

The food, when it comes, is good too. The smell makes Nate realize just how hungry he is, and he devours the burger in about five minutes. By this time, talk has resumed, the awkwardness dissipated. It reminds Nate sharply of time with his Marines, especially with the number of f-bombs dropped. The logic of this feeling turns out to be correct – about half of the men are veterans; Marines, Army and one Navy. It’s comfortably familiar. If it wasn’t for the discomfort of Trombley shooting him poisonous looks across the table, and the suspicions he held, Nate would have said that this was one of the most pleasant evenings he’d had in a while. Guys come and go, but Ray stays with Nate, and Brad snarks at the both of them across the table.

When he eventually stands to go, Ray stands too, saying that he could give him a ride home. Nate protests, but Ray insists; Nate laughs and concedes gracefully. He turns around to say goodbye to the Bulldogs, and finds himself confronted.

Trombley’s fists are clenched, anger dark on his face. He doesn’t say anything, but Nate can read body language to know exactly what he wants.

“Nate, what -?” says Ray, stepping up beside him. “Trombley, what are you doing?” Nate flicks a look back, and lifts his hand, indicating that Ray should leave this to him.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says to Trombley, putting all the command tone he has into the statement. A vicious grin splits Trombley’s face, and he lunges forward, right fist straight for Nate’s chest.

Marine training kicks in, and Nate’s movement is swift. He deflects the blow and steps aside. The guys are starting to rise at the table, calling for Trombley to stop. Ray is yelling behind Nate, swearing. Trombley is still attacking, driving towards him. I have to end this myself, is the only thought Nate has, ice-cold within the ball of silence that is combat focus.

Trombley overextends on his next punch, and Nate goes from defensive to offensive in a moment. His hand closes around Trombley’s wrist, pulls, and using Trombley’s momentum against him, he drops him to the floor. His hand is still around Trombley’s wrist, bending it in a certain way and applying a firm pressure that will become agonizing pain if Trombley so much as moves. After a couple of seconds, when he’s sure that the other man isn’t getting back up, he straightens and stands, letting go.

He’s abruptly aware of complete silence, and looks up to see all the men staring at him. He looks up at Ray just as he exclaims, “Holy fuck, homes, how’d you do that?!”

Nate just grins, adrenaline still darting through his blood. “Recon Marine, Ray.” He steps back from Trombley, who’s cradling his wrist to his chest. Turning to the rest of the guys, he nods, “Anyway, gentlemen, good night; I hope to see you again.”

And he walks out, high on adrenaline, slightly dismayed, and knowing that he was in the right. He is followed by Ray, and the burst of noise generated by that simple statement.

-----

Walt steps into the office, lugging a two-inch-thick stack of paper. “Nate, the proofs have arrived. You need to check out the key pages – the yellow Post-Its – and sign them.”

“M-hmm,” says Nate, not entirely focused on what Walt is saying. “Drop it on the desk. I’ll check it once I’ve done this set of purchase order checks.” The wad of paper drops on the desk, followed by Walt sitting down on the edge of the desk, turned towards him. “You’re sitting on my environmental impact report, Walt,” says Nate mildly, pulling at the chunk of paper until Walt lifts his ass and he can pull it out.

“Nate, you’ve been off the last couple of days,” says Walt, and the honest concern in his voice makes Nate look up, half-startled. “And don’t tell me it’s nothing; I know when you’re worried and trying to ignore it.”

Nate looks at him steadily for a long moment – Walt begins to fidget – and then Nate sighs, carding a hand through his hair and resting his chin on it, looking off to one side so he doesn’t have to see the concern in Walt’s eyes. “Yeah, I’m worried – or rather, suspicious and not sure what I should do about it. I don’t have enough intel on the situation.”

“Yeah?” asks Walt. “I’ve got a fair idea what this is about – Ray.”

“I went to BRAVO to grab a bite, I ran into him – almost literally,” says Nate, quietly. “He insisted on me sitting down with the Bulldogs, bought me dinner.” Walt snorts at that, and Nate flicks him a displeased look. “A guy called Trombley tried to jump me, but I got the drop on him and put him on the ground, didn’t hurt him. The way they were dressed, the language they used, the patches – Walt, the Bulldogs are a motorcycle gang, aren’t they?”

He looks up at Walt, and there’s something in Walt’s expression that is shuttered and closed – reminding Nate of nothing so much as Poke’s expression when Ray had first introduced him. Nate holds his gaze, and after a moment Walt’s eyes drop. “Yes.”

Nate sits back, a rush of emotions flooding through him. He’d been too distracted by Ray the first time they’d met to have made the connection, but now that he was thinking back, the markers had been there. Something in him is disappointed – betrayed – frustrated, but there’s nothing he can do. He liked Ray, was interested in him, and to hear that he was part of that kind of life was both worrying and hard to hear. “Why is Ray part of it?” he asks, almost to himself.

“I don’t know,” replies Walt quietly, a tone that is close to shame. “He was never involved when we were at high school, unlike Trombley and Garza – I wouldn’t have been involved with him if he had been.”

Nate nods. “I thought that might be it.” Walt always had been a law-abiding type of person. It didn’t explain why Ray was a member of the Bulldogs, though. “I already booked in Jeannie for the service, though. They’ll be suspicious if I suddenly decide I don’t want it.”

“Bulldogs do do good mechanical service, I can say that much,” says Walt, his expression a bit shamefaced. “They’re the best mechanics in town, so they do a lot of stuff.”

“I guess once won’t hurt,” says Nate, shrugging.

-----

When the orange Triumph rolls into the lot at Bulldogs early on Thursday morning, Ray’s head lifts and he grins widely, putting down the oil filter he’d been about to fit to Doc’s Harley. “Fuck yeah,” he mutters when he sees Nate climb off, his jeans hugging tight.

“Ray, you degenerate, stop ogling the nice customer’s ass and go wheel the bike into the workshop,” snaps Brad as he passes with an armful of exhaust pipes.

“Fuck you, Brad, you’re just hatin’ on us gays,” says Ray, winding up for a rant. “Like Poke says, minorities are always targeted because they can be easily removed. And because we’re an ‘other’, it’s easy to make us seem undesirable –”

“No, Ray, I want to you go and help Nate get his bike in so we can work on it,” replies Brad, perfectly levelly, as he drops the pipes onto the appropriate shelf.

“C’mon, Iceman,” Ray whines, and then continues. “Anyway, as I was saying, gay guys get ‘othered’ and made undesirable because society needs someone to hate. It always has to be ‘us versus them’; humans are just wired like that.” He does go out to the yard, though, meeting Nate as he comes in through the roller door.

“Interesting theory,” says Nate as Ray ushers him in, “I booked in Jeannie for a service for today, did Brad tell you about it?”

Ray grins, “Yeah, I got the memo.” He points to a blackboard over by the small workshop office. Lines mark off days of the week, and neat printing at the bottom of Thursday reads ‘0730 –Nate Fick – Jeannie, Triumph Speed Triple’. “I’ll have her in. Keys?”

Nate pulls the key off the ring, handing it to Ray. He holds it out, and Ray takes it, their fingertips brushing for a second. Something arcs between them, and Nate’s eyes flick up to see Ray watching him intently. For a moment, they just stand there – brown meeting green, heat building between them – and then Brad yells from the back of the workshop, “I don’t hear an engine, Ray.”

Both of them startle, and Ray yells out, “Yeah, a minute, Brad!” There’s a second of silence between them, and then Ray turns away, heading out to the Triumph. In a second, the growl of the Triple engine echoes through the garage, and the orange bike glides into the workshop.

Brad comes forward as Ray pushes the Triumph up on the bike lift, wiping his hand on a rag, nods a greeting in Nate’s direction. “Nate. We’ll take good care of this lady. Were you wanting to pick her up this afternoon?” He grins, “Because we’ll be heading down to BRAVO at about six for chow. You could come.”

Nate turns, looking over at Ray, and sees Ray’s eyes the same nerves and hope that are rushing through him. The moment stretches, and then Nate nods. Once won’t hurt. Seeing the smile dawning in Ray’s eyes is amazing, lighting up his whole face, and Nate feels his insides light up in synch.

“Fuck yeah, homes!” says Ray, and Nate knows Ray can see how his pleasure lights him up, too.

-----

The afternoons grow shorter as autumn draws to a close, but the time that Nate spends at Bulldogs lengthens. After a month, it’s normal for Nate to turn up once or twice a week, and then go with Brad and Ray to BRAVO afterwards.

Nate keeps telling himself he can’t get involved with a biker gang, but Ray is hard to resist – he’s smart and funny, and it’s just too much fun to be around him, debates, arguments, crazy rants and all. Brad is snarky and sometimes harsh, and has a vicious sense of humor. The rest of the Bulldogs are military in thought even if they’ve never been in, and it’s good to be around them and enjoy time with people who think alike. It had been a very long time since Nate had just spent time with people because they were fun to be around. He excuses it to himself; he’s leaving town in less than two months and it wouldn’t do any harm, just hanging out with them. It’s not like a Recon Marine couldn’t hold his own amongst them – he’d proved that the first time that he met the Bulldogs – but even within the privacy of his own head, it sounds weak.

He tries – there is a week where he doesn’t go anywhere near Bulldogs or BRAVO. The truth of it – coming back to the ancient rented house which he’s sharing with Walt, silent and cold, can’t hold a candle to the warmth and companionship of the workshop or the bar. Even when Walt has cooked dinner, and he has a good book or there’s something good on TV, he still feels lonely, wanting to talk to Ray.

Ray’s casual grace and lean body are still as gorgeous as when Nate first saw him, but enhanced now that he knows the intelligence and laughter Ray has in him.

The looks, the touches, the invitations are so hard to ignore. He’s sure he’s not misinterpreting. Ray must know the messages he’s sending, must know that Nate’s trying his best to resist, despite the depth of temptation.

He’s glad that Ray hasn’t pushed it.

At least he can have the friendship.

-----

Ray’s gotten used to having Nate around. The workshop is always a warmer place, brighter and louder. Seeing Nate handle car and bike parts is a joy to behold, those long, capable fingers solid on metal and rubber. He learns fast, and it’s not long before he’s assisting Ray with a cylinder re-bore and full sparkplug changes. The competence is really hot, Ray has to admit; he can just imagine how it would be, Nate learning his body, playing off his tells, closing that gorgeous full mouth around his cock and looking up at him with those green eyes… He’d rubbed one out to that fantasy more than once.

And Nate is smart. Ray hasn’t had debates this good since high school – being able to reference literature, the Classics, science, and knowing that Nate will be able to pick it up and run with it.

He really wants to ask Nate for a date, a fuck, but Nate’s holding himself away from Ray, deliberately. Unconsciously, he still tilts his body towards Ray, smiles wider to him, but whenever he catches himself doing it, he stops immediately and polices his movement very carefully for the rest of the day. Ray understands – really he does – Nate’s leaving town in just over a month, and Ray knows that he’s figured out what the Bulldogs MC really is.

So he respects the distance Nate creates, and holds himself back, settling for friendship.

-----

“…so yeah, it’s just stupid. Look at the fuckin’ UK, they have gay guys and girls in and their politicians don’t lose their shit over it like those dumbshits up in DC – hand me the small monkey wrench.” Nate reaches under Ray’s Harley Rocker, handing him the tool. “Nearly done, Avril baby,” Ray coos to the bike, stroking its electric-blue tank as he picks up where he left off. “I mean, seriously, it’s no different to having women, it’s not like they’re fucking guys all over the place.”

Nate snorts as he hands Ray the new oil filter. “Operational stability is key to the mindset of Command, Ray – and to their minds, letting gay people be open about their sexuality would disrupt that.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” says Ray, confidently. “C’mon, if you’re in the military, you’re not going to be a pussy. Not like you’re gonna get drag queens.”

Nate raises an eyebrow, unseen by Ray. “Thank you for that image, Ray.”

“Would you two lovebirds stop debating and get on with the oil change, we have other bikes to look at,” grumbles Brad from across the workshop. “The DADT Repeal’s going through soon, anyway.”

There’s a moment of shock as the two of them absorb the words, then Ray’s head pops up from behind the bike. “What?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” says Brad, and his smug grin tells them that he’s well-pleased to have been the one to break the news to them and see their reactions. “I thought that was why you were debating it.”

Nate’s emotions are roiling and strange. On one hand, it was only right and just – but on the other, it would completely change what the military was like to people like him.

Then cautious hope wakes.

One of the major reasons he’d left the Marines full time was that he was growing increasingly paranoid about someone discovering his sexuality. He could go back in without fear if they repealed DADT … Something wanting, something that craves the easy companionship and brotherhood of the Marines rises in his mind –

“Holy shit, Brad, you know what that means?” Ray blurts out, and Nate looks up at him. There’s a light in his eyes that has nothing to do with Nate. “Holy fuck, I could join the Marines.”

Nate makes an involuntary noise, suddenly worried for Ray – he’s almost certain the Marines would bust the life out of Ray, banish the crazily erudite diatribes and the frustration-filled rants, put the talented hands put to other uses. Ray wouldn’t be Ray any more, just another grunt, this time Ray-shaped.

Ray looks over at him, must see the fear in his eyes; he lifts his chin, and grins cheekily. “The Marines won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Damn straight,” mutters Brad. “God help them all if you enlist, Ray,” and just like that – Nate’s fear goes away. Ray was forever himself, and he’d still be Ray, no matter what the Marines trained into – and out of – him. He can’t help staring at Ray over Avril, frozen. Brad makes an annoyed noise, then says, “Ray, I’m gonna be out back.”

There is a gaping hole of silence left in the room as Brad strides out. Ray’s face shows all the feelings Nate’s swamped in – and more.

“It’s not easy,” says Nate quietly. “Trust me on this – the Marines are hard, they’ll break you and remake you how they want you.” There’s a flash of the pain and hardship of Basic, then BRC, and he lets it show, lets Ray see what he means.

Ray laughs quickly, not intimidated, but his voice rings over-confident as he replies, “I’ll take what they give out and give it back to them double.” Then the bravado fades. “Dad always said that Basic was the best and worst experience a man could have – and that he was a waste of space until he’d served.”

There is a raw pain in his voice, and suddenly Nate understands, his heart sinking. Ray had always been told he was worth less because he hadn’t – couldn’t – serve his country.

“Ray…” says Nate, quiet, reaching out.

“I mean, you did it,” replies Ray, even quieter, and he leans over the blue bike, eyes boring into Nate’s, intensity hard in his voice. “You did it! – Recon even! – and look at what you achieved. You survived Afghanistan, Iraq, amongst the toughest guys out there. You’re proof that guys like us can survive in a place like that.” His gaze full of determination, strength; there is a solid decision there. “If you can do it, Nate, then so can I.”

Nate can do nothing but nod, knowing that Ray will follow through. He feels a rush of worry and fear for Ray, intertwined with joy and an inexplicable pride that Ray will finally get to fulfill that part of himself – that missing dream that he’d never had a chance at.

And he says the only thing he can. “Yes, Ray, you can.”

-----

The clubhouse for Bulldogs MC is behind the workshop, a house that had been the original garage owner’s, a low California Bungalow with wide verandahs, dark brown and white. After Nate’s left, Ray heads out there. Ray knows something’s up. There’s something unusual about Brad giving them space, especially over something that was fantastic ammo for Brad to give him shit about. Brad was as good as a brother to him, and never missed a chance – and Ray was the same for Brad.

One of the rooms in the clubhouse is the President’s office, filled with memorabilia and walls covered with photos. Ray knocks and enters without waiting for an answer, strolls over to the big desk that dominates the room, and cocks a hip to sit on the edge.

“Yes, Ray?” Brad asks, looking up from the rifle he’s cleaning. Laid out on oilcloth in neat order are an M1 Garand, a Browning High Power, an M16, and a KA-BAR. Brad clicks in the last part of the M1, and then tests the bolt’s action. It’s clean and smooth as always. Brad cleans weapons when he’s frustrated or angry – and it’s better to just leave him to it until he’s done.

“Sorry to interrupt you cleaning Daddy’s weapons, Brad, but seriously, what the fuck?!” snaps Ray, meeting Brad’s eyes. He’s boiling with anger, confusion, and yeah, maybe a little frustration at Nate having left without Ray managing to ask him – again.

“You always wanted to be a Marine, Ray,” says Brad levelly, dropping his eyes to the weapon in his hands. “Every time one of the Original Twelve told you a story about Vietnam, you hung on their words, you wanted so bad. But you’re gay, and openly so, and therefore you couldn’t do it.” His gaze flicks up, and there’s some heat there. “I seriously thought you’d have heard, but no, you had to get too wrapped up in your boyfriend not to notice when something really fuckin’ important to you happens!”

Ray shakes his head, suddenly getting it. Brad is disappointed in him. “It’s nothing to do with Nate, Brad – and he’s not my boyfriend. I am interested in him, yes … But seriously, it doesn’t make a difference that I didn’t know before, I know now, and I can enlist the moment they repeal it.”

Brad makes an inarticulate, frustrated sound, and puts down the M1. “Fine,” He sighs, takes a deep breath. “Anyway, you need to know – I made a deal with the Ferrandos. I bought the stock in from the Irishmen; three-quarters to go to the Ferrandos, quarter to go to The One-Nine. Pieces and ammo.”

Ray frowns – something sounds very weird about that, because – “I thought that the Russians were supplying arms to the Ferrandos now?”

“We undercut them on this shipment,” grins Brad. “Future shipments won’t be this cheap, but our overhead is less than theirs, so we can charge less in the long run.”

“Okaaaay,” says Ray, drawing it out, “The Russians are vicious fuckers, though. Cutting in on their territory is bad shit if they take it wrong. Are you sure?”

Brad nods. “I spoke to the local Gospodin; he was okay with losing the contract, as long as we stop hunting out the local drug boys and leave them to the Russians. He wants safer, more secure avenues of income, and is okay with us taking the risks instead.”

Ray laughs, “Guess that makes sense,” he grins. “I’d be happy with other people taking the risks instead of me.”

“You don’t get to do that, Ray,” grins Brad, crooked, and everything is suddenly back to normal. “Just think about it, we’re gonna be doing full-out gun runs for the first time since Daddy died.” His eyes spark with anticipation, and Ray knows exactly why.

“You’re such a fuckin’ adrenaline junkie, Brad,” Ray leans over and punches him on the arm. “You should’ve stayed in the Marines; you’d be in Iraq getting your fill of weapons.”

“Ask your boyfriend how the Marines are about discipline and disobedience,” smirks Brad; Ray shoots him an annoyed look. “Speaking of him, he does not, repeat does not hear about this shit. Or any of the Bulldogs’ business.” Brad’s tone is firm and no-nonsense, and doesn’t allow any argument.“Understood?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ray replies, “I’m not stupid, Brad, I know how a civilian would react to that shit.”

“Good,” is the satisfied reply.

-----

It’s another late night at the workshop. Ray is busy giving Christopher’s Victory Vegas Jackpot one last clean. It’s the bike’s first service, and Ray has been grinning since he first got his hands on it; he’s honored to have been trusted with its first service. He’s done services on hundreds of bikes and cars, but every time he gets his hands on a new vehicle, there’s a new thrill – there’s nothing quite like it.

Nate wanders into the workshop, wiping his hands on his black t-shirt, his silver horseshoe bouncing on his chest. He still comes to the workshop in suits, straight from the plant, but changes into jeans and a t-shirt the moment he’s there. Ray doesn’t know which he likes better, perfectly-tailored suits or greased-up jeans, but each look fits Nate perfectly and is totally hot, so he’s not complaining.

“Done with the Jackpot, Ray?” he asks, grinning down at the gold bike, and Ray on its other side.

“Yeah. Fuck, I’d love to get my hands on one of these babies – she’s gorgeous,” says Ray, looking up to meet Nate’s eyes.

Nate runs a light touch over the teardrop tank, tracing the black-and-white designs. “Yeah, me too. But I’ve got three bikes already, and the girls would get jealous – I’m likely to ending up eating blacktop if I spread myself too thin.” He smiles down at Ray, his body angled towards him. Seeing Nate’s crotch right at his eye level, a pulse of heat fires through Ray’s body. He flicks his gaze back up, meets Nate’s – and knows suddenly that Nate already knows exactly what he was thinking.

There’s a beat of silence, the want hanging between them.

Brad interrupts, coming in from the backlot, “You can never have too many bikes.” He’s pulling on his patched leather jacket as he passes them, Kevlar jeans hanging low on his hips. “Ray, I’m going now, if you could close up …?”

“Yeah, sure, Iceman, no problem,” replies Ray, standing. “I’ve just finished up Christopher’s girl. Is he getting her tonight or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” replies Brad, “So if you want to lock up now, it’s good.” He throws a slightly predatory smile at Ray, “Don’t make too much of a mess.”

“The fuck, Brad?!” yells Ray after him, but Brad just waves over his shoulder and throws a leg over his Harley. “Fucker,” Ray mutters, knowing exactly what Brad’s getting at; he glares after Brad, then turns to Nate, smiling awkwardly. “Right! Let’s pack it all up.”

He smiles, and Nate returns it, bright but with brittle edges. In that moment, Ray realizes just how close they’re standing, only the bike between them. He starts leaning in, helpless against the want – the need.

Nate takes a deep breath, and steps away. Ray huffs out a breath, disappointed, but Nate shakes his head once and says, “I’ll wheel the bikes in.”

Ray watches as he turns away, but the sight of Nate’s swagger only makes his desire linger. Frustrated, he kicks the workbench leg and turns, stomping over to the back roller door and checks over the cars out back, making sure each one is locked. The closing-up seems to take longer than usual without the usual banter, and he feels full to bursting, hot and frustrated and wanting, and there’s despair creeping in too, despair that he’s never going to get to touch Nate, that he’ll be left alone.

Nate is wheeling in the bikes, and the competence and careful strength that Nate shows only frustrates Ray further. He wants that focused on him – he knows it’s selfish, but he can’t think of anything he wants more, has ever wanted more.

It seems an eternity before close-up’s done. Nate is washing his hands in the workshop tub, soaping away the grease and grime that he’s collected in the last couple of hours. Ray comes up behind him, watching the movement of Nate’s hands, the long, elegant fingers. So many of his fantasies over the last few weeks have involved those hands on him, holding him, tangled in his hair … wrapped around his cock.

Fuck this, I have to do something. Ray knows that he wants Nate, and badly. He can’t just wait, he has to push – and if Nate rejects him, so be it, but he has to try. There’s so much to gain, and nothing to lose. He’s tense with nerves; his pulse is speeding up, heat spreading as adrenaline and desire rise.

He sucks in a breath, and he sees Nate tense, suddenly aware of his proximity.

He steps in, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from Nate’s back, almost touching but not quite. Lifting his hands, he slides them down Nate’s sides, until they rest on his hips.

“Nate …” he says, so quiet, so nervous. “I … I have to ask. I have to try.” He knows Nate understands – knows what he’s asking. “I want … I want you.”

Nate is still stiff against him – and then, suddenly, he gives a single, full-body shudder, as though he’d been hit by a cold breeze. Slowly, as though reluctant, he turns around, letting Ray’s hands remain where they rest on his hips. His own hands fall at his sides, and Ray had never wanted someone to touch him as much as he does right now.

They’re almost of a height; Nate just a little taller than Ray, and as he looks down, there’s a shadow in his face. His eyes are deep green, absolutely clear, but something flickers there.

“Ray…” he breathes, and Ray knows in an instant that Nate wants him, as much as Ray wants Nate – and he’s fighting it, fighting so hard.

“Ray, I’m leaving in a month, this won’t be a relationship,” he says, clearly trying to be reasonable and sensible, but his eyes show that he wants.

“Yeah, I know. I just want to fuck you – have you fuck me. Whatever.” Ray huffs out a breath, holding Nate’s gaze straight and sure. “And you know what the Bulldogs are, you don’t want to get involved. Fuck, Nate, you’re a smart man – you have no idea how hot that is – you know that they won’t go anywhere near you if you don’t want it, they respect you …” he trails off as Nate’s eyes darken, as something solidifies in his expression but then he’s spun around, pressed hard up against the workbench by six feet of Recon Marine, and Nate’s expression is suddenly torn wide open. Ray is momentarily stunned by the naked desire he can see there, the want that mirrors Ray’s own. “Yeah, I’ll fuck you,” growls Nate, deep and low, and Ray’s about to answer when Nate kisses him.

Nate kisses like he’s invading – tongue deep and quick, thoroughly claiming him, covering every angle and completely, absolutely, marking Ray as his. Ray responds, licking into Nate’s mouth, fighting for dominance – knowing that he’s losing and loving it. Nate’s fingers dig into Ray’s sides and ass, holding him exactly where he wants him. Ray can feel Nate’s cock up against his own, rapidly hardening.

Ray feels like he’s melting, burnt by Nate’s sudden fire. He reaches up, cupping the back of Nate’s head. Nate snarls again, and his mouth moves, no longer assaulting Ray’s, nipping and licking the side of his neck and his earlobe. Ray gasps at the sensations, undone, rock-hard in his pants and wanting Nate so badly. It’s been too long since he’s had sex, so long since he had someone touch him.

Nate must be psychic, because suddenly there’s a brush of cool air against Ray’s belly as Nate pushes up his t-shirt, those long fingers brushing just under the top of his jeans. It’s torture, feeling the pressure moving, and Ray gasps out, “Cocktease!”

Nate pulls back, and his eyes are deep forest-green, dark with desire, his mouth red and curved in a wicked smile. “It’s not a tease if I’m intending to do something about it,” he says, voice silky, and slowly, so slowly, his thumb pops the jeans button. The rasp of the zipper as it drops is the longest moment in Ray’s life, and then he feels the touch of a single finger, sliding so slowly up the cotton of his boxer-briefs. He gasps, feeling a bead of precome damping the fabric, his entire world focused on his dick, and his hips roll forward, almost unconsciously.

Ray closes his eyes, feeling heated to bursting point, about to cream his pants like a teenager, but he can’t help it. Nate is stroking him slowly, up and down, “God, just touch me – please – Nate – please …” He’d do anything, anything at all.

He hears a puff of breath, and then Nate is kissing him again, invading him, taking over. His hand slides inside Ray’s boxer-briefs, actually touching him, sliding around him, stroking slowly, torturously. The strokes are just fast enough to keep him on the edge, just slow enough that he can’t get there. He moans, totally frustrated and utterly delirious at the same time.

Nate’s mouth leaves his, his hand stills for a second. Ray’s eyes pop open, and there is steel in Nate’s eyes, boring through Ray like a laser. He just wants to drop to his knees in front of Nate, do anything he wants. “Ask, Ray,” he says, and there is steel in his voice too, total command.

Ray breathes out, “Please – let me come – Nate… sir,” and the words are sweet. He’s never wanted obey so much.

“Good,” whispers Nate, and his mouth descends on Ray’s again, his hand moving again. The strokes are still torturously slow, but slowly increasing in speed – and Ray groans into Nate’s mouth as the edge approaches.

Suddenly Nate’s grip tightens, and the stroke speeds up. Ray stiffens, pulling away from his kiss, “Ah, fuck, Nate, fuck, f… fu… fuuuuuuck.” His vision whites for a long moment, his dick pulsing, everything drowned in pleasure. Everything is utterly oversensitized; he can feel every inch of Nate’s body against him, the workbench against his ass, the puff off Nate’s breath against his neck.

He comes back slowly through the aftershocks, loose-limbed with pleasure, and he opens his eyes to Nate’s brilliant green gaze. There is approval there, the command satisfied. “God, Nate,” he groans, totally satisfied, and kisses him, licking deep into his mouth.

Nate’s dick is still hard against his, and after a moment, he slides down to his knees, following the impulse that he’d had when he was kneeling beside the Jackpot. He nuzzles in, mouthing at Nate’s cock through two layers of fabric, and then pulls away for a second, looking up. There is an approving look on Nate’s face, and then a smile dawns – “Good boy, Ray,” he says, completely the satisfied dominant – it’s a good look on him, Ray’s cock stirs again – and he cups Ray’s face with one hand, thumb stroking the sensitive spot at the hinge of his jaw.

“I am not a good boy,” says Ray, half-indignant, half-pleased, his fingers working quickly to unfasten and pull down Nate’s jeans and briefs. He eases Nate’s dick out, heavy and hard and red. “I am a very, very bad boy, and that is why I know how to do this –” He licks around the head, and then takes Nate in his mouth, licking down slowly in one long slide. He hears Nate gasp above him, and swallows, tilts his head up to let Nate go as deep as possible. He wants this to be the best Nate’s ever had; he wants to satisfy him so much.

Backing off, Ray licks and sucks, grasping the base of Nate’s cock, setting a counterpoint with his hand and mouth. Carefully he teases around the head, tonguing the thick vein on the underside. He’s enjoying this, messy and enthusiastic and happy to serve. He keeps going, rolling Nate’s balls with the other hand. Nate’s hand comes down on his head, tangling in his hair and pressing him into a rhythm which Ray is quite happy to follow. He takes Nate deep again, feeling the flutter of muscles in Nate’s thighs as he swallows, his throat closing around Nate’s cock.

“Ray,” gasps Nate in a warning tone, and Ray pulls back, but not fully. He sucks hard, giving a couple more strokes, and then Nate comes with a long groan, come splashing bitter across Ray’s tongue. Ray sucks him through it, milking him, and then as Nate pulls back, licks him clean. He sits back on his heels, looking up.

Nate is leaned over him, braced against the workbench, and he has color high on his cheeks, an expression of ecstasy still there on his face. It’s one of the most amazing sights Ray’s seen in a long time – and perhaps that’s the endorphins talking, because that’s way too soppy for him.

Carefully, Ray tucks Nate back into his jeans – Nate hisses, oversensitive, and Ray just grins and zips up the jeans. He tucks himself back in – ignoring his still half-hard cock – and slowly stands up, willingly trapping himself between Nate and the workbench.

“Fuck, Ray,” says Nate, after a long moment of them just staring at each other. He looks utterly blown to pieces, and Ray would bet that’s his first blowjob in a long time.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” grins Ray, fronting the smile and hoping.

The moments tick on, and doubt rises – but then Nate grins, wide and happy. “Yeah, guess I am,” he returns, and kisses Ray, hard and still-hungry.

Ray grins into the kiss, totally happy.

-----Part II

EPIC SQUEE.

2011-11-30T12:50:45Z

...or Why Castle Is AWESOME And I Should Have Started Watching It Earlier Despite The Fact It Might Not Have Made Sense - Oh Never Mind.

OK ANYWAY I JUST SQUEED SO HARD (Literally. Ask the flatmates.).

THIS IS WHY (Part One):

THIS IS WHY (Part Two):

YES I'M LATE TO THE PARTY IDGAF. ALSO YES I KNOW CASTLE WAS IN MAL'S GEAR BUT I THINK THIS IS AWESOMER.

(Also, GO AWAY Fic Muse, I'm in the middle of YAGKYAS and two other fics.)

YAGKYAS: Dear Santa

2011-11-02T14:30:03Z

Dear ~~Santa~~ ~~YAGKYAS~~ ~~writer~~ person of awesomeness:

First-up, THANKS! Because I am looking forward to this enormously, and I am SO HUGELY EXCITED that SOMEONE IS WRITING ME FIC! *happydances*

Second - I really hope I didn't throw you for a loop with the randomness of the requests!

I asked for Ray/Walt, because I love their dynamic. Not only are they the BAMF Recon Marines, they are fun and snarky and smart, and Walt is the cutest thing EVAR while still being able to kill you with his little finger (I dunno. It's hot). Ray, Doc, Rudy, and Brad all have one thing in common - they have depths that can be explored.

I'd love really meaty character-based fic, if you feel like exploring one of these boys. I love how they work together, their ups and downs, the way they interact. Equally - as you might have picked from the prompt - I do like my humour! There's so much in the series, and I really love it. :) Angst and UST and sexytimes are all awesome! Uniforms/ knives/ guns guaranteed kink, LOL I love this fandom.

The Wildcard is Transformers - and I really feel I should apologise! It's there because the day before the signups, I watched the first Transformers film, and my first thought upon completion of the movie was that it would have been SO MUCH BETTER with the GK boys! I mean, can you imagine Ray snarking at Brad all the way through the fight with Scorpinok? And what Poke would have to say about them keeping Megatron locked away? Also, my childhood, I've love the Transformers since I was a small thing. :)

ANYWAY I AM NOW RAMBLING. I LOVE YOU FOR WRITING FOR ME.

<3

Phoenix

Fic: Chicken Soup for the Soul

2011-05-25T04:22:55Z

Title: Chicken Soup for the Soul
Fandom: Generation Kill
Word Count: ~2,500
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Rating: M (language)
Warnings: Cheese.
Summary: Prompt!Fic, written for the RUNNING HOT Multifandom Fever Fic CommentFic Meme. This started as Comment!Fic and, um, exploded. Possibly too canon-based and not slashy enough, with epically cheesy ending. Anyway, hope you like! :)
Prompt: Generation Kill, any rating, Brad/Nate. Nate loses appetite when he gets fever. He rarely tries to eat (even refuses to eat) and Brad starts to worry about it. (bonus point: Brad cooking for Nate!)

Disclaimer: Not mine, please don't sue me. Based on the HBO series and the portrayals by the actors there. If the real Iceman is reading this, please don't kill me. <_<

Bam! Bam!

The sudden shots got Nate awake and moving in an instant. He got his eyes open and was halfway out of the bed before his body caught up with him and vetoed everything. His muscles seized, his head throbbed, and he started coughing, collapsing back on the bed, shivering with chill.

Bam! Bam! Belatedly, Nate realised that they weren't shots. They were someone banging on his front door. "'M coming," he called out hoarsely, and folded into another coughing fit.

Once recovered, he dragged the duvet off his bed, wrapped himself up and dragged himself out of bed and down the corridor to where whoever-it-was was bashing on the door - again. His head throbbed. It took two tries to work the chain, and then he had the door open.

"Hello, sir -" came a familiar voice as soon as the door swung open. The suntanned features of one Sgt. Brad Colbert met his gaze, and Nate belatedly realised that today must have been that day that Brad was in Washington, and was going to visit. "Christ, you look like hammered shit."

"Yeah," croaked Nate. "Flu. I forgot you were coming today, sorry, fever put me a couple of days out." He coughed again, standing back, "Fuck, sorry, come in, I'll try not to breathe on you."

The familiar smirk twitched the corner of Brad's mouth, and he replied, "Haven't been taking very good care of yourself, sir, getting flu." He slid past Nate, into the corridor, and sauntered down towards the kitchen. Nate watched him for a moment - the same fluid warrior's grace, as ever - before turning back to fiddle with the door, getting the chain on the first attempt this time. He followed.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Brad had dropped his backpack and had ensconced himself on one of the bar stools at the counter, and had grabbed the latest paper - three days ago. "Would you like something to drink? Or eat?" Nate asked as he entered, managing to suppress a cough.

"I can take care of myself - you should go back to bed," replied Brad, one eyebrow arching as Nate had to support himself on the doorframe.

"I'm fine, really, Brad," Nate replied - and a full-body shiver passed over him, giving the reassurance the lie.

"You aren't." Bard's tone was flat, and his expression had morphed into the implacable facade of the Iceman - except for his eyes, which held worry. "You should go to bed."

Nate shook his head, "You made the effort to visit me, I should really try, I mean we haven't seen each other in - how long? I can't remember the last time I saw you, Brad, and I don't want to waste that time." He really didn't. He missed that smirk, the smart-ass remarks, the casual grace and deadliness and sheer sexiness that Brad exuded without even realising. After he'd left the platoon, it'd taken him a short time to realise - and a long time to admit - that he was attracted to his lead TL. He didn't want to waste what little time he had with Brad being sick, of all things.

"Just fuckin’ go to bed, Nate," says Brad, his tone almost snappy, and he's up and hustling Nate towards the bedroom before the former officer can react.

Brad, too, didn't want to waste time. He'd come expecting the usual firm, sometimes-michievous, totally-in-control Nate, with the winning smile and laughing green eyes - and had been greeted by this pale wraith wracked by coughs and shaking with chill. After Nate had left the unit, he'd felt antsy, agitated, constantly wondering and worrying after his former LT. He was quite self-aware, and in Iraq he'd realised that been attracted to the LT. 'The Rules', DADT, and his duty to his country had held him back. Only now, when it was actually possible with the repeal of DADT, had he gathered the courage up and asked to visit. He was somewhat bewildered by this unexpected turn of events, and quite uncertain - totally out-of-character for the Iceman.

Nate protested weakly against his strong-arming, but followed his lead and stumbled down the corridor. Brad had to catch him a couple of times, and when he slumped down on the bed, he looked totally exhausted. One side of the duvet slid off completely as Nate lay back, revealing a long strip of waist and torso; interest stirred as Brad noted that he'd not lost any of the muscles that the Marine Corps had given him. He quashed it - now was not the time, with Nate as sick as he obviously was.

"Right," he said, taking charge of the officer. "How long's this been going on? Have you seen a doctor? How's your hydration? Have you eaten lately?"

Nate lifted his hands in surrender, replying hoarsely, "Been actually sick three days now – and saw the doctor the yesterday, said that I just needed rest and some antivirals. Gave me some," he gestures weakly to the side table, where a bottle of pills and an empty carafe of water sit.

"When did you last fill that?" Brad asks, worried. If Nate hadn’t been drinking, then the flu would be taking that much more of a toll – dehydration was the last thing he needed.

"Can’t remember – this morning, I think?" Nate looks to be trying to think, and failing. "Um… I haven’t eaten – nausea."

"Since the first day?" Brad frowns, and receiving a nod in reply, glares at Nate, saying without heat, "Dumbass. Get into bed." He grabs the carafe and stalks off to the kitchen, feeling worried and irrationally angry. Nate had done perfectly well before, surely, but got sick now, of all times? And then didn’t look after himself at all? But he hadn’t needed Brad to hold his dick for him in the years since he’d left the Corps, he sure as fuck didn’t need him to now – right?

He headed back, plunking the carafe back on the side table and watching Nate struggle with the covers for a moment before sighing in disgust, bodily lifting him off the bed and dropping him on his feet. The smaller man only had time to gasp, his reactions shot to hell, before a shocked "What?!" as Brad yanked the duvet out of his grasp, throwing it over the bed and turning back -

- and suddenly realizing that Nate had been naked under the covers. He shivered, that full-body motion again.

"Shit!" Brad swore, and then pulled back the covers. Nate took the invitation and stumbled over, into bed, where Brad pulled up the covers, tucking him in. "Shit, sorry sir, didn’t realise –"

Nate submitted to his ministrations for a moment, before smiling weakly. "I haven’t been tucked in since I was ten, Brad. And please, stop calling me ‘sir’, I’m not an officer anymore."

Brad sighed, sitting down on the side of the bed and putting a hand to Nate's forehead. It was burning hot, belying the shivers that Nate had. "Okay, I won’t. If you fuckin’ eat something and remember to hydrate." He received a mumbled reply that might have been either positive or negative, but was certainly mutinous. He looked down, into a green-eyed glare, arching an eyebrow. "What was that… sir?"

"Alright. Al-fucking-right, Colbert," was the snappy reply.

"Good," replied Brad, with an evil grin and malicious cheer, "Because I’m going to make sure you do. Where’s the nearest Wal-Mart?"

After Brad had left ‘for supplies’, a phrase which was suitably ambiguous enough to slightly worry Nate (taking the spare key and joking about cutting another to stalk Nate), he lay awake, trying to figure out how he felt about this turn of events. He’d been looking forward to Brad’s visit since he’d received that first email. Now, he was sick, and between being high on painkillers and sacked out on the antivirals, had managed to completely forget about everything for the last two days – even this. He shook his head, and then grinned wryly. Just his luck – just when he’d been planning on… well, feeling out how Brad felt about things… he wasn’t any fit state for anything.

Eventually he drifted off.

---

Brad grinned down at the stove, gratified that his cooking skills had evidently survived his last tour. Sure, they weren’t Michelin-star stuff, but they were pretty shit-hot for a Recon Marine who ate MREs 60% of the time, barracks food 30%, and takeout the other 10%. Chicken soup simmered in a pot, vegetables steamed over another, and rice sat steaming in a bowl. He dished up some small portions for Nate, and bigger ones for himself, setting his on the counter and heading down the corridor with the others.

Nate was curled up in a ball beneath the covers, snuffling in his sleep. He looked even more absurdly young than he had in Iraq, his face relaxed. But his skin is pale, brightened only by the hectic colour on those perfect cheekbones, his breath rasping as he snores, and Brad found himself wanting to wrap himself around Nate and hold him until he got better.

Sternly, he reminded himself that he didn’t know how Nate felt, and that this was no time to be dwelling on that. He couldn’t help but remember back to Nate’s naked form, suddenly disrobed – by him. Nate had kept in shape well, and again, there is the flicker of interest. If Nate wanted -

Now was not the time.

He set the food down, and gently shook Nate’s shoulder. Nate came awake slowly, and God, it was beautiful – slow stretch, those bright (fever-bright) green eyes blinking open, a slight sigh and yawn. Brad thought, for an insane moment, that he shouldn’t have woken Nate, and then Nate focussed on him, and the slow, unguarded, warm smile that he gave Brad blew everything away. All of Brad’s objections melted in that one instant, in the light of that perfect smile that he’d never seen before.

He reached out, touching Nate’s cheek gently. "Hey."

"Mmm. Brad?" Nate sounded confused for a second, then smiled again, more guarded this time, and Brad snatched his hand away, pretending that he was just waking him up. No more.

"Uh, yeah. I… I brought you food. You should eat," he says, trying to distract himself from other thoughts. "There’s chicken soup, and veges, and rice. Have some – and there’s water, gotta keep hydrated…" He shuts his mouth. He was babbling like Ray on Ripped Fuel. Why in the name of Christ, Buddha, and Mohammed did Nate Fick have to have this effect on him now, of all times? He’d managed to keep his cool in Iraq…

"Mmmkay, I’ll eat," said Nate, still sleepy, and Brad nodded, pleased.

"Well, I’ll leave it there for you," he added, "I’ve got a couple of things to do, then I’ll be back to check on you. I’ll take the key again."

There was a mumbled assent from under the covers, and Brad laughed.

---

When Brad got back in the evening, the food was untouched. Nate seemed to have moved somewhat – the covers disturbed – but he hadn’t eaten or drank. Fuming, Brad took it back to the kitchen, reheated the soup, and poured a glass of juice, hoping it would tempt Nate. It wasn’t that he was upset that Nate had turned his nose up at the food Brad had made for him, it was that he’d thought that Nate knew better. Nobody could get well with no fuel for their body, and if Nate wasn’t eating, he wasn’t going to get better anytime soon.

He plunked down the soup and juice, and sat heavily on the side of the bed, jolting it enough that Nate came awake when he touched his shoulder. "Nate, you need to eat." He knew he sounded like a mother hen, but he was worried.

Nate shook his head sleepily, which was the final straw. "Do I have to force-feed you, you dumbfuck?! Nate, you have to eat, or you won’t get better! You know that as well as I do!"

"Godsake, Brad," Nate moaned, turning over, "I’ll eat when I have to, I don’t feel well now, leave it…"

"So I have to force-feed you?" said Brad, and there was something dangerous in his eyes. "Because, Nate, I’m perfectly willing to do it." He brushed back the covers, grasped Nate’s shoulders, and lifted him up to a sitting position, reaching over to the side table.

"Would you stop picking me up and moving me around?" snapped Nate. "I’m perfectly capable of moving myself!"

"I am assured of this," snarked Brad. He handed the soup bowl to Nate. "Just eat, Nate. Please?" He hadn’t intended it to come out pleading, but it did.

Nate looked over at Brad, grumpiness fading as he took in the worried look on Brad’s face. Brad was serious – actually seriously worried about Nate’s condition – and something clicked. "You’re… worried about me?" he asks, ducking his head and looking into the bowl as though it contained tea leaves to read a fortune in. Why did Brad care so much? And why had he come now, only now? The pieces were starting to fall together, and he wasn’t sure if he was looking at the right picture. He hoped he was.

"Yes, you dumbshit. Of course I am!" Brad huffed, and then frowned over at Nate, who had picked up the spoon and was starting to eat. He only got about halfway through, with his tender stomach, but that was further than Brad had expected.

Nate set the bowl aside, and smiled. "Thanks… you’re looking after me better than I am, I guess." The smile turned rueful. "Guess I need more looking after than I expected. Useless officer and all."

Brad grinned at the weak joke, patting Nate’s shoulder. "No big problem. I don’t mind looking after you." They stayed there for a second, and then Nate leaned his cheek against Brad’s hand, looking up at him quietly and smiling.

It was always that unguarded smile and those brilliant green eyes that undid Brad – that he dreamed of, combat-jacked to, felt watching him. Now was no different, as he moved his hand to cup Nate’s cheek. Nate leaned forward, winding his arms around Brad, resting his head against Brad’s shoulder in a simple hug which Brad can’t help but return. They stayed there a long time – just holding each other – and both felt better than they had in a long time.

"Need to go back to sleep now," Nate mumbled into Brad’s shoulder. "'M tired."

"Okay," Brad replied, and watched as Nate settled himself under the covers again. He walked out to the kitchen to retrieve his laptop, and then settled beside Nate on the bed. The startup sound woke Nate out of his doze, and he looked up at Brad with those sleepy green eyes that Brad could really get used to (and God, that was so gay, but he'd given up on caring about that fuckin' ages ago). He smiles down at Nate, feeling warmer inside.

This kind of stuff was chicken soup for the soul.

Spirit Day

2010-10-05T19:30:55Z

I'll be wearing purple.

No matter how you feel about a person's orientation (and whether you believe it is nature, nurture or choice), it is not okay for these teenagers to have died. It is wrong for them to have died simply because they were different.

May they be at peace... and may those who are in the same situation have hope.

Originally posted by neo_prodigy at Spirit Day

It’s been decided. On October 20th, 2010, we will wear purple in honor of the 6 gay boys who committed suicide in recent weeks/months due to homophobic abuse in their homes and at their schools. Purple represents Spirit on the LGBTQ flag and that’s exactly what we’d like all of you to have with you: spirit. Please know that times will get better and that you will meet people who will love you and respect you for who you are, no matter your sexuality. Please wear purple on October 20th. Tell your friends, family, co-workers, neighbors and schools.

RIP Tyler Clementi, Seth Walsh (top)
RIP Justin Aaberg, Raymond Chase (middle)
RIP Asher Brown and Billy Lucas. (bottom)

REBLOG to spread a message of love, unity and peace.

Fanfiction: Babylon 5: Sins

2010-08-10T13:28:18Z

Title: Sins
Author: _steelphoenix_
Pairing: mentions of John/Delenn
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: None major - to mid-Season 3
Summary: A set of seven 100(ish)-word drabbles, each focussing on one of the Seven Deadly Sins and a person in Babylon 5 who embodies it, or is strongly affected by it, at one point or another. Vague links, if you look for them. Quite dark in tone. No warnings, apart from Garibaldi's potty mouth.
Disclaimer: Babylon 5 is not mine; this is purely for fun.

Wrath

Anger was a fitting feeling for a warrior. G’Kar knew wrath; it was his old, familiar friend and companion. And so justified and right towards the Centauri, those barbaric bastards who had enslaved the Narn people…

"I will confess that I look forward to the day when we have cleansed the Universe of the Centauri…”

And yet, as he watched his planet fall to the Shadows, watched the sacrifice of noble pilots to save females and children, wrath transformed to the white-hot of a nova… and died.

Wrath had passed from G’Kar, and what was left was much more terrible.

Gluttony

There was a burst of laughter in the corner, cutting the gentle hum of conversation in the bar, and Garibaldi wondere what they have to laugh about on this shithole filled with assholes floating in the ass-end of space.

Wait… he was supposed to be going, wasn’t he? People were after him… he should finish the drink, and go. He swigged the last of it, letting the thick liquid slip down his throat, burning all the way down.

He wavered out the door, and sobriety – in the form of a baton – hit.

Inside the cell, Garibaldi lay on the bed, and laughed mirthlessly.

Greed

There was just so much that he wanted. So much that he could have… if he just pulled the right strings. So much power, prestige, wine and women and song…

(Perhaps not the women. Wives were so difficult. At least he was only afflicted with Timov now, and only sometimes…)

Londo settled himself on his couch, pouring himself a drink, sipping as he thought what move to make next in the great game.

It tasted sour. Sour and thick on his tongue, not pleasant at all. Londo grimaced, and put the drink aside.

Perhaps it would taste better with dinner.

Pride

He was proud of his station; the efficiency, the orderliness. The loyalty of the crew. Even the Zocalo and Downbelow and the craziness of dealing with the Ambassadors…

He smiled wryly. The Ambassadors were the point of the station; he should really remind himself of that more.

The Minbari were half the reason the station existed.

Sheridan Starkiller.

Something told him that that was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

Forcibly, he turned his thoughts back to more pleasant things. With this station and this crew, with his own experience, there was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Lust

This new hybrid body, so different and yet so familiar, made every day a new adventure, and Delenn revelled in the experience. Something about the sheer newness of everything and the difference in the senses made everything sharper and just… more.

And Sheridan Starkiller was one of those things that was… more.

Even within her own mind, recriminations were piling up; she could here her mentors’ voices, her former friends, and they disapproved.

But in the face of the feelings and the blazing senses, they melted.

Never before had she had such a lust for life, and she was going to grab it with both hands.

Envy

A stiff, tight smile is all that Linnear can give. Delenn seemed so happy, but he could not share it. Her dreamy smile, the palpable joy even in her serenity... she was brighter now that she had acknowledged her feelings…

Sheridan Starkiller, of all men. A warrior, a strong man, but the maker of so many Minbari deaths.

Valen give him strength, Linnear can do nothing but envy him.

His heart cries that he must kill the man, but his honour holds him back. One day, perhaps? But not now… not in her service…

So he can do nothing but watch, and envy.

Sloth

Bester had always felt bound by the Corps. Bound in a service that was unstinting and complete… he gave his best. Nobody could accuse him of less, indeed, he could imagine nothing else.

The Corps was Mother. The Corps was Father.

He was provided for, given training and companionship… a purpose in life.

So he had to serve. Sometimes, he was not entirely sure of the rightness of the action, but that was not for him to decide.

He saw the power corrupting slowly, but did nothing.

After all, there was nothing he could do.

There was nothing anyone could do.

Writing: Ume

2009-01-09T02:01:24Z

Dashed off in ten minutes, between calls.

---

Someone brought a bucket of plums to work - 'Plums, free to good mouth'. I take three. They are ridiculously overripe, one bird-pecked, but the scent is rich and warm, and as I bite into one, juice dribbles thickly. I giggle, wiping the juice off with a hand.

The phone beeps, and I quickly wipe my hands. I dash off the familiar greeting, but there is silence on the end of the line. Plum juice is still thick in my mouth, and behind the too-sweet ripeness is the tang of the pip and the firmer flesh. I lick my lips, waiting for a response, but there is none. "As you are not responding, I will have to terminate this call..."

I steal another bite of plum, revelling in the sticky syrup, and the phone beeps again.

WHUT.

2008-12-06T16:46:38Z

SRSLY, WHAT THE FUCK.

Anyone with a weak stomach, do not click. I warn you now. Srsly. Got from weepingcock (original post here).

...the intertrons gets even weirder at a sleep-deprived 0545 at work.

News...

2008-11-08T02:20:32Z

Just to let you all know, I'm moving... from Kawiti Avenue to David's place. Anyone who doesn't know where this is and needs details, txt/email me. :)

Oh, and I managed to miss an exam: the one on Thursday, I thought was on Friday. Go me. Applied for a special pass, and with A and A- in the internals (essays), I think I'll do OK. Hopefully. *crosses fingers*

5am and all's well...

2008-08-16T17:11:07Z

3am brings on odd reflections, especially when one is very tired. Namely that one should not do nightshift and attempt to have a daylife as well. Don't know how Batman does it.

Oh, yes, I'm at work; had a 11pm-7am shift both Friday night and Saturday night. Slept 0830-1700 Saturday, got up to go see Dark Knight with Ruth - and yes, she did enjoy it (!) - and then wombled off to work. I'll be off to MOTAT once I've finished work to help the guys steam up for the running day (yay caffiene), and then will be off home to sleep, and then to David's...

Weekends are supposed to be relaxing...

Oh well, I can sleep when I'm dead.

Study

2008-07-30T23:46:41Z

So. I'm back at University (hence lack of commentage in other people's journal).

It's hard work, as expected; high amounts of readings, essays due in a couple of weeks. But I'm comfortable with it. The subject itself is interesting and I find the concepts both easy to grasp and extrapolate on. As long as I effectively research my essays, I'll do well on them, and study should certainly see to the exams, despite how much I dislike exams.

Overall, it's looking positive.

In other news, I'm going down to Ohakune next week for the Centenary of the North Island Main Trunk Line; we got the L-Class train done, and she's looking really swish. Hopefully you'll see her on TV when the Parlimentary Special goes through. Got an Edwardian outfit in progress, including massive hat.

Sarah's birthday went off really well, and everyone had heaps of fun. Nishiki once again did extremely well with lovely Japanese cuisine, and I scored myself some lovely sake to take home.

Saw The Mordavian Truth on Monday; it was really well-done, and I like the positive perspective taken. Somewhat pleased with my own appearances, but I could have tried to sound less retarded at one particular point... :P

For those who don't already know, Whiskey (one of our cats) was run over on Monday night. We think/hope it was quick.

SQUEE!

2008-07-26T02:12:41Z

Went to see The Dark Knight yesterday.

Was incoherent with squee for most of the next half-hour.

I shall say no spoilers, just that the plot and characterisation were fantastic, there were explosions and cool toys, Batty goodness, sick-and-twisted stuff, half-naked Christian Bale, great one-liners, and yet more plot, characterisation, and twists.

Ledger fully deserves an Oscar for his performance. Seldom does a movie live up to its hype, and I think this does. It's totally awesome.

Seven Songs

2008-07-18T20:38:57Z

Being tagged by

harvest17, I felt the need to add this meme. Also, I'm sitting at work on a Saturday morning, and have had the grand total of three calls in the last hour-and-a-half (may it continue).

Seven songs that I have been interested in/preoccupied with/obsessing over lately. In no particular order.

Katy Perry - I Kissed A Girl
Originally sent by Deb; this makes me giggle, and is bouncy and fun, which is all good.

ACDC - Back In Black
Music for when I know I need a kick in the ass. Also good to just randomly rock out to.

Linkin Park - Bleed It Out
Also kick-in-the-ass, though kinda morbid. 'Go out and kill things' music. :P

Michael W Smith - Freedom
A great orchestral piece; a soaring flight of music, a triumphant song, a call to war.

Iron Man Soundtrack - Merchant of Death
Just recently got the soundtrack for Iron Man, and really like the whole thing; this just happens to be my favourite.

Bomfunk MCs - Freestyler
I have... well, let's call it 'eclectic', tastes. Occasionally, a hip-hop or rap song will appeal; for some reason, this is one of them. Probably the beat.

Shihad - Beautiful Machine
Heard this on the radio and liked it; keep hearing snippets, still like it. :)

No particular tagging; if you're interested, do it. :)

Hey there; long time no see!

2008-07-07T10:36:10Z

Apparently, work (in its wisdom) has seen fit to give me back LJ. Thus, here I is. I realise I haven't posted in ages; so here's a big update. :)

General
Going back to Uni 21st July. Am absolutely petrified, but I'm sure I'll be okay. Have put in my resignation at work; they're happy to have me on as a casual over the holidays, yay!

Health/Fitness
Generally okay, apart from the permanent cold I have in winter. :P Taking iron supplements; apparently I was borderline anaemic (21 on a scale of 20-160), which doesn't help the chronic fatigue any. That particular blood test, I managed not to pass out, thanks to an anaesthetic patches on the draw site. Ha, take that, damsel-in-distress!
Have gone back to walking to work, having been okayed (again) by the physio, and feeling very unfit.! :( Continuing the exercises.

Love Life
No primary but plenty of people to fool around with. :P Happy as it is (simpler?).

Art/Writing
By the wayside at the moment, largely. Currently plotting a steampunk novel, featuring recognisable portraitures of varying friends/aquaintances as characters. :P
In the process of planning a couple of large paintings.

Costuming/Projects
If I haven't inflicted the piccies on you already... I finished both a Victorian dress and a Sharpe jacket.
I don't think many of you have seen the Victorian dress, though some of you saw the jacket at Zara's 21st. Here they are for those of you who haven't. I'm in the process of fixing the collar on the jacket so that it sits properly.
Next up on the costuming front: Catwoman catsuit for Scott's 'Villains' party, then an Edwardian outfit for the centenary of the Main Trunk Line (our MOTAT team has been working on L207, one of the key locomotives in the ceremony).

(I swear, I have to get a better picture of that jacket. I really do)

RP/LARP
No current tabletop RPs, but am planning on coming to the next St Wolfgang's game, having been persuaded by Lucy. I shall be a widowed lady who became a nun. :D

In other news: I hate Stagecoach. Second time in three weeks that the bus has just not appeared. *mutter* Laid a complaint and waited an hour for the next bus; thank god I'd planned to go early so that I could pop past Spotlight.

Ramblings: Music

2008-06-09T11:10:37Z

(Braindump, guys. Not particularly interesting. In other news, I still exist, work and life go okay, except for the depression coming back, and I'm going back to Uni next semester.)

Pink, Michael W. Smith, Evermore, and Goodnight Nurse share Firefox tabs with Iron Man fanfic and chainmaille weaves, and the Transformers score and Justice League sit on WMP, waiting.

My mind dwells on a certain subject; right now, it's hard to get off it.

I flip between up and down, depressed and manic, high and utterly low, stratosphere to Marianas Trench. Went to see a doctor about that, last Saturday; she wants bloods before she prescribes me anything drastic.

We are the Night. What I originally heard as 'We are the knights', and immediately began plotting a Batman video to; oddly out of character for the Dark Knight, more fitting to his apprentices. The sheer sense of wanting the freedom and life to be with people I enjoy/love/have fun with.

God is a DJ. Freedom. Light Surrounding You.

Bounce and spirit and fire; glory, strength, a call to war; longing, love and need.

How easy to let my music do my expression for me.

In Which It Is Discovered That Coal Dust Is Difficult To Remove

2008-04-06T04:15:36Z

Okay, so I haven't posted in god-knows-how-long, but I thought I'd do it now because I actually have something to write about. :)

Oh, on the health front, I've had an intestine infection, been on and off for the last couple of weeks. Augmentin is rapidly putting paid to that, which is good. I think I may have said this before, but anyway.

So, to the subject up there (*points to title*). It begins with me going to the MOTAT Military Weekend, wombling around the vehicles and chatting to the re-enactors and soldiers (including Reuben and one of his mates, with the nickname of 'Nightie' :P ) and so on and generally having a ball. I then went over to the rail-shed, intent on getting a squiz at the trains, because, y'know, they were there.

I chatted to one of the guys for a while, and (after a ride in the cab of the train), he told me that you could volunteer with the Rail Section. Naturally, I leapt at the chance. So, last Wednesday, I went along.

It was excellent, all-in-all. I was fully expecting to get dirty, and boy, did I ever! I cleaned out the firebox and smokebox on the Y-Class, and polished it up with a mix of oil and kerosene. I came out black as can be, but grinning fit to burst (which, it was remarked, looked very odd, teeth very white in a soot-stained face). I then helped with rolling the wheels under the latest train that's being restored, and then attaching them. Went home feeling very satisfied with myself.

Only when I got home did I discover exactly how 'sticky' coal dust is. It took the best part of twenty minutes in the shower, with heavy-duty soap and exfoliating scrubs and pumice to get most of it out - and even then there were still some stubborn sections that refused to shift! Barrier cream and overalls shall be purchased for next time.

Weird...

2008-03-31T04:48:31Z

Just reading my f-list, and an entry stephanie_peggput up really stunned me. Apparently, Amazon is cutting off features for small publishers. This is just... stunning in its stupidity, given how many small publishers use Amazon as a primary point-of-sale.

XXXIV

2008-03-30T11:25:06Z

I call Rule 34 on this.

Also this piece of crackfic skirts pretty close (people who are fans of the original DC universe might not like this :P ).

snerkle

2008-03-20T23:45:49Z

I Am A: Neutral Good Human Druid (3rd Level)

Ability Scores:

Strength-13

Dexterity-14

Constitution-13

Intelligence-12

Wisdom-12

Charisma-12

Alignment:
Neutral Good A neutral good character does the best that a good person can do. He is devoted to helping others. He works with kings and magistrates but does not feel beholden to them. Neutral good is the best alignment you can be because it means doing what is good without bias for or against order. However, neutral good can be a dangerous alignment because it advances mediocrity by limiting the actions of the truly capable.

Race:
Humans are the most adaptable of the common races. Short generations and a penchant for migration and conquest have made them physically diverse as well. Humans are often unorthodox in their dress, sporting unusual hairstyles, fanciful clothes, tattoos, and the like.

Class:
Druids gain power not by ruling nature but by being at one with it. They hate the unnatural, including aberrations or undead, and destroy them where possible. Druids receive divine spells from nature, not the gods, and can gain an array of powers as they gain experience, including the ability to take the shapes of animals. The weapons and armor of a druid are restricted by their traditional oaths, not simply training. A druid's Wisdom score should be high, as this determines the maximum spell level that they can cast.

Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)

A Druid... I expected a Ranger, actually. :P But I'm not unhappy with that at all.

On a completely different note, I went to see I Am Legend on the IMAX screen last night, having been wanting to see it for ages and picking IMAX because *blush* you got to see the Dark Knight prologue, unlike on the normal screen. Trailers: Iron Man looks awesome, and Spiderwick intriguing, if a kid's movie.

The Dark Knight prologue... *squees happily* I really, really like this Joker, already (disturbing, I know).
Goon: "Well, the Boss told me to kill the other guys, so, I'm guessin' you gonna try to kill me." *points gun*
Joker (wearing face-concealing mask): "No, no... I kill the bus driver."
Goon: "What?" *school bus crashes through wall and runs him over*
Dammit. Have to wait until July. *growls*

Anyway, the movie: great stuff - Will Smith does a guy cracking up very (scarily) well, and... well, I liked the ending (heh, which I can't tell you because I hate spoilers). The premise was good too: a scientist invents a viral cure for cancer, which (unsurprisingly) runs rampant and creates 'vampires'. I enjoyed it a lot, and actually ended up in tears at one point, which is unusal for me. If you haven't already, I recommend it.

Excessive Information

2008-03-05T01:27:44Z

Right... so a guy who has insurance with our people calls up because he hit a dog last night, and was concerned that his car might be damaged. Ok, sure. I'll transfer you through to insurance, you may want to go see your local mechanic...

He didn't need to explain the incident again.

Most especially, I did not need to know that the incident was terminated by the dog's owner cutting its throat with a Stanley knife.

*flail*

GAH!

2008-03-01T20:43:25Z

So... I had to catch the 7:40 bus this morning. Went to bus stop at 7:35, and waited. And waited, and waited. Didn't turn up. Called Maxx; they didn't help. Called the depot; no answer. Gave up at half past eight, walked up to the shops, and called a taxi; even if the 8:40 bus did come, I'd be ten minutes late to work. Taxi arrived, and I got to work at 8:50.

Cost: $20. Stress level: through the roof.

There's good reason people have cars in Auckland. Glad I'm getting one shortly.

Feathers Of The Phoenix

Fic: Not Always Romantic - This Guy Will Keep You On Your Toes

Fic: Not Always Romantic - Obviously Oblivious

Fic: Not Always Romantic - Sharing The Caring: A National Service

Fic: Diamond Eyes: Part II

Fic: Diamond Eyes: Part I

EPIC SQUEE.

YAGKYAS: Dear Santa

Fic: Chicken Soup for the Soul

Spirit Day

Fanfiction: Babylon 5: Sins

Writing: Ume

WHUT.

News...

5am and all's well...

Study

*SQUEE!*

Seven Songs

Hey there; long time no see!

Ramblings: Music

In Which It Is Discovered That Coal Dust Is Difficult To Remove

Weird...

XXXIV

*snerkle*

Excessive Information

GAH!

SQUEE!

snerkle