FIC: In the Night
Title: In the Night
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Ratings: PG-13? Ish?
Pairings: Some Haine/Badou undertones.
Disclaimer: So very not mine it's painful to describe.
Feedback: Would be an excellent early christmas present.
The small, dingy room is next to pitch black, the only light coming in from where the sheet pinned up to the window has half fallen down. Haine has just broken into Badou’s flat, and is now staring intensely down at his partner’s sprawled, sleeping body.
It’s less creepy then it sounds. Really.
It’s not as if he didn’t try the door. And it’s not as if he didn’t try to wake Badou. In both cases, he could have forced a reaction, but doors and redheads don’t come equipped with magical fuckin’ collars that heal them after they’ve been sprayed full of lead.
In any case.
Badou, dead to the world asleep, is wearing the same clothes Haine last saw him in a few days [weeks?] ago, and is using his green coat, with that ridiculous furred collar, as a blanket. He’s lying on his stomach. Haine read once that people who sleep face down feel unsafe [he doubts that anyone in this whole goddamned city take their rest belly-up]. The ashtray on the floor next to the bed [as opposed to the two next to the couch, or the three in the bathroom] is not even overflowing it’s so full; the discarded, smoked up rolls of paper are sticking straight out, jammed in likes needles into a pin cushion.
There’s a cigarette on the lumpy, stained mattress as well, unlit. Sometimes Haine worries his partner will accidentally burn the whole damn building down [which is really just for the sake of the thing, as he's quite aware Badou would never, ever waste a good smoke like that].
The albino knows Badou inhales as much nicotine and smoke as he can before going to sleep. Otherwise, the night will end in screams and sobs and that terrifying, soul-twisting laughter [‘BrotherbrotherwhereartthouWHEREFUCKINGARTTHOU’]. Haine knows this because of all the times he’s kipped on the redhead’s shitty-ass, stuffed with rocks couch, and is there any piece of furniture in this godforsaken junkyard home that’s worth sitting on?
Still, this level of nicotine-comatose is just irresponsible. What if he were from one of the many [assorted, in all shapes, sizes and colours- take your fuckin’ pick] local gang members? Home security, to Badou, is the Mac 10s resting right next to the pincushion-ashtray, but what good are they if the asshole doesn’t even wake up with a shake to his shoulder and a kick to the mattress?
Haine is very tired, and honestly, it’s not as if he really needs fuckin’ permission. He shoves the redhead over with his knee, and climbs in beside him. It’s only a twin, and space is a premium. For once, Haine’s glad he isn’t as tall as Badou, who’s feet stick out over the edge.
There’s a groan, and a slight shifting of weight, and the albino finds himself face to face with the eye patch that neither of them ever [ever, ever] acknowledge. He’s only ever seen Badou without it a small handful of times, always by accident, and never very clearly [that long, thick red-orange hair acts like a bright shield between Badou and the rest of the world]. There’s an urge to flip it up and see that jagged, ugly scar properly, that suddenly becomes overwhelming. He knows he’s just that strange wired-tired he always is after a job [shit, that’s right, he forgot to wash the blood off his hands, oh well] and that it’s a stupid impulse. He shouldn’t do it, invade his partner’s [friend’s?] privacy like that. It’s just a low down thing to do.
So of course, he reaches out, closing that minimal space between the two of them. Pale fingers are just brushing the black fabric when suddenly, there’s a vice-like grip around his wrist that wasn’t there before. Haine looks away from the patch, and is pierced by a murky, grey-green eye [singular].
There is nothing but stillness for a long, long few moments.
“It’s just me,” says Haine, meaning for it to come out reassuring, peaceful. It ends up sounding flat and almost annoyed. That happens to him a lot.
The redhead’s painful grip on his wrist slackens just partially, but doesn’t let go. Haine abstractly wonders if he’s bruising, and how many seconds it would take for that bruise to fade. After another long pause, Badou lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he responds, voice raw from sleep and the ash that keeps him sane.
He wants to scold Badou for being so foolish, for letting his guard down, but he knows he’s lost the upper ground, being literally caught with his hand in the act. Something deeper inside him knows it’s been a bad dog [not that it cares]. Haine almost chokes a laugh. Instead, he mutters, “The church is already locked up.”
“Yeah,” sighs Badou again. He doesn’t need to tell Haine that he can stay the night. The fingers on his wrist loosen further, but still don’t let go. “You smell like-”
“I know.”
“How was it? You-”
Haine grunts, cutting him off again. Badou nods, almost imperceptibly. He needn’t have asked.
“You want a smoke?”
At that, his partner cracks a tired grin, closing his eye. Takes it for the apology it is. He always does. “Yeah. That’d be good.” He releases Haine, who fumbles on the floor until he comes up with a stray cigarette and a lighter. “Could you fix that sheet on the window, too?”
When the only light in the room is the soft, orange-yellow glow of Badou’s cigarette, Haine relaxes [finally, finally after all those days-or-maybe-it’s-weeks]. He pulls Badou’s fucking ridiculous green jacket higher, over the both of them. After a fleeting moment’s hesitation, he abruptly presses his nose into Badou’s neck. Breathes in safety and warmth and companionship.
Badou inhales smoke. Haine inhales Badou.
When the last of the cigarette’s embers extinguish and fade, Haine curls into Badou’s lanky body until they’re practically entwined, like pups in a litter; and oh, let the cold world be kind to stray dogs, sleeping in the night.
Fandom: DOGS/DOGS: Bullets and Carnage
Ratings: PG-13? Ish?
Pairings: Some Haine/Badou undertones.
Disclaimer: So very not mine it's painful to describe.
Feedback: Would be an excellent early christmas present.
The small, dingy room is next to pitch black, the only light coming in from where the sheet pinned up to the window has half fallen down. Haine has just broken into Badou’s flat, and is now staring intensely down at his partner’s sprawled, sleeping body.
It’s less creepy then it sounds. Really.
It’s not as if he didn’t try the door. And it’s not as if he didn’t try to wake Badou. In both cases, he could have forced a reaction, but doors and redheads don’t come equipped with magical fuckin’ collars that heal them after they’ve been sprayed full of lead.
In any case.
Badou, dead to the world asleep, is wearing the same clothes Haine last saw him in a few days [weeks?] ago, and is using his green coat, with that ridiculous furred collar, as a blanket. He’s lying on his stomach. Haine read once that people who sleep face down feel unsafe [he doubts that anyone in this whole goddamned city take their rest belly-up]. The ashtray on the floor next to the bed [as opposed to the two next to the couch, or the three in the bathroom] is not even overflowing it’s so full; the discarded, smoked up rolls of paper are sticking straight out, jammed in likes needles into a pin cushion.
There’s a cigarette on the lumpy, stained mattress as well, unlit. Sometimes Haine worries his partner will accidentally burn the whole damn building down [which is really just for the sake of the thing, as he's quite aware Badou would never, ever waste a good smoke like that].
The albino knows Badou inhales as much nicotine and smoke as he can before going to sleep. Otherwise, the night will end in screams and sobs and that terrifying, soul-twisting laughter [‘BrotherbrotherwhereartthouWHEREFUCKINGARTTHOU’]. Haine knows this because of all the times he’s kipped on the redhead’s shitty-ass, stuffed with rocks couch, and is there any piece of furniture in this godforsaken junkyard home that’s worth sitting on?
Still, this level of nicotine-comatose is just irresponsible. What if he were from one of the many [assorted, in all shapes, sizes and colours- take your fuckin’ pick] local gang members? Home security, to Badou, is the Mac 10s resting right next to the pincushion-ashtray, but what good are they if the asshole doesn’t even wake up with a shake to his shoulder and a kick to the mattress?
Haine is very tired, and honestly, it’s not as if he really needs fuckin’ permission. He shoves the redhead over with his knee, and climbs in beside him. It’s only a twin, and space is a premium. For once, Haine’s glad he isn’t as tall as Badou, who’s feet stick out over the edge.
There’s a groan, and a slight shifting of weight, and the albino finds himself face to face with the eye patch that neither of them ever [ever, ever] acknowledge. He’s only ever seen Badou without it a small handful of times, always by accident, and never very clearly [that long, thick red-orange hair acts like a bright shield between Badou and the rest of the world]. There’s an urge to flip it up and see that jagged, ugly scar properly, that suddenly becomes overwhelming. He knows he’s just that strange wired-tired he always is after a job [shit, that’s right, he forgot to wash the blood off his hands, oh well] and that it’s a stupid impulse. He shouldn’t do it, invade his partner’s [friend’s?] privacy like that. It’s just a low down thing to do.
So of course, he reaches out, closing that minimal space between the two of them. Pale fingers are just brushing the black fabric when suddenly, there’s a vice-like grip around his wrist that wasn’t there before. Haine looks away from the patch, and is pierced by a murky, grey-green eye [singular].
There is nothing but stillness for a long, long few moments.
“It’s just me,” says Haine, meaning for it to come out reassuring, peaceful. It ends up sounding flat and almost annoyed. That happens to him a lot.
The redhead’s painful grip on his wrist slackens just partially, but doesn’t let go. Haine abstractly wonders if he’s bruising, and how many seconds it would take for that bruise to fade. After another long pause, Badou lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he responds, voice raw from sleep and the ash that keeps him sane.
He wants to scold Badou for being so foolish, for letting his guard down, but he knows he’s lost the upper ground, being literally caught with his hand in the act. Something deeper inside him knows it’s been a bad dog [not that it cares]. Haine almost chokes a laugh. Instead, he mutters, “The church is already locked up.”
“Yeah,” sighs Badou again. He doesn’t need to tell Haine that he can stay the night. The fingers on his wrist loosen further, but still don’t let go. “You smell like-”
“I know.”
“How was it? You-”
Haine grunts, cutting him off again. Badou nods, almost imperceptibly. He needn’t have asked.
“You want a smoke?”
At that, his partner cracks a tired grin, closing his eye. Takes it for the apology it is. He always does. “Yeah. That’d be good.” He releases Haine, who fumbles on the floor until he comes up with a stray cigarette and a lighter. “Could you fix that sheet on the window, too?”
When the only light in the room is the soft, orange-yellow glow of Badou’s cigarette, Haine relaxes [finally, finally after all those days-or-maybe-it’s-weeks]. He pulls Badou’s fucking ridiculous green jacket higher, over the both of them. After a fleeting moment’s hesitation, he abruptly presses his nose into Badou’s neck. Breathes in safety and warmth and companionship.
Badou inhales smoke. Haine inhales Badou.
When the last of the cigarette’s embers extinguish and fade, Haine curls into Badou’s lanky body until they’re practically entwined, like pups in a litter; and oh, let the cold world be kind to stray dogs, sleeping in the night.