Numbers: Repost from Oct 20, 2010.
You've heard about today, if you're reading this LJ, and I'd like to thank Kiernan for opening her day up so we could all celebrate the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell, and Lt. Choi's re-enlistment. (Scroll down for links to news stories!)
I don't have any characters that are in the army, but I made up a new short story regardless. Worksafe, sadly. ;)
I hope this day finds you as bouncy as I am!
Numbers
The cards kept blurring out of focus. He blinked, staring at them, trying to notice what he held.
A pair, and useless additional cards of each color. His mind skittered off the cards before he could take in the numbers.
They swam in front of his eyes to the beat of his heart. His skin flushed under the sun. A drumroll hammered in his ears; thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. His mind was filled and blank, all at once. He'd been in battle, had survived gunfire and bombs.
"Drake?"
His head snapped up. Around the trunk they were using as a table, five pairs of eyes watched him.
He looked back down at his hand, at fingers wrapped around slim pieces of brightly painted, waxed cardboard. The numbers and images ran together. Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, catching in the indent of his spine and speeding up until it hit the waistband of his camos.
"Hey. You okay, man?"
He looked up again, catching Marshall's pale eyes in a windburned face. Blondes didn't do well, here. They burned and blistered under the desert sun. He glanced around, at more faces. They'd been in battle with him. Hauling his ass out of the way when he tripped, covering him as he went in, trusting him to cover them. Hot days of playing poker around a trunk, waiting for something to happen. That's all war was. Waiting and waiting and waiting before hell rained down.
Hell was about to rain down. Each breath was hotter than the last, lungs sucking in the parched air and expelling it again.
"Drake--"
Marshall's hand touched his arm, heavily callused, grip firm as if going to pull him upward if he didn't respond. No gentle shaking, here. He yanked away as if scalded, and the words came tumbling out. "I'm gay."
Marshall rocked back.
Four pairs of eyes stared at him, while Marshall's blues looked anywhere else.
Drake laughed, high and tight, without humor. He couldn't quite stop it. He dropped his cards. Stood. "I'm sorry." He didn't even know why he was apologizing. Don't Ask, Don't Tell had been lifted. They'd all heard it. They'd been briefed that if they were having problems they should talk to their squad leader, or maybe the pastor.
That didn't mean gays were welcome.
He stood, and turned, and walked away. He still couldn't breathe. The sun hammered down on him, uncaring who or what he was, just trying to leach the color from his skin in the same way it leached color from bones.
"Drake!" Three steps. A hand on his shoulder. He nearly flinched, wondering if now he'd get the shit kicked out of him. If they'd accuse him of looking, when sex was the farthest thing from his mind -- a long, long way behind survival. But the hand pulled him around, turned him until he looked at dark eyes under black brows, at dark skin pulled tight over high cheekbones. "Hey, man." Salas gave him a crooked smile, filled with uncertainty. "We were playing poker. You just gonna wander off? We got a game to finish."
Drake looked past him, at the men sitting around the trunk. Two pairs of eyes met his own, even if the others didn't quite make it. Drake took a breath. Another. Each came more easily than the last. The blood still pounded a drumroll into his ears, but he could hear other things around it, now. "Yeah," he said, the word barely making it past dry lips.
"Shit." Marshall drew the word out, 'Sheeee-it,' and threw his cards down. One man stood and walked away, throwing a glare behind him while the others sat, clearly uncomfortable.
Drake swallowed bile.
"Come on." Two words, so simply put. Salas gave him a tug, then tugged harder, refusing to take no for an answer.
"You can take Marshall's cards," Wallace said, though he still refused to meet Drake's eyes. "We saw your hand when you dropped it."
Shaking, Drake sat. He felt under fire, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely it wasn't this easy. His aching ears searched for noise, and he could hear voices, behind him. Marshall. "--fucking fag in our bunks--"
Salas rapped against the trunk. "Focus on the game, Drake. It's your turn."
He picked up Marshall's cards. They still swam front of him, as badly as his own had. He looked up. Marshall had raised his voice, but was clearly moving away. Around the trunk, three pairs of eyes looked at him, while one studied thin, waxed cardboard.
"Jesus," Wallace muttered, looking toward the pale blue sky as if asking for patience. Finally, he looked at Drake. "Would you please fucking go? So you're gay. Get on with it." Despite obvious unease, he gave Drake a glower. "You're holding up the game."
"Right," Drake murmured. Four pairs of eyes watched him, four men he'd bled and prayed with relaxing slowly in his presence. The cards came into focus at last, slowly.
Five cards. A royal flush.
I don't have any characters that are in the army, but I made up a new short story regardless. Worksafe, sadly. ;)
I hope this day finds you as bouncy as I am!
Numbers
The cards kept blurring out of focus. He blinked, staring at them, trying to notice what he held.
A pair, and useless additional cards of each color. His mind skittered off the cards before he could take in the numbers.
They swam in front of his eyes to the beat of his heart. His skin flushed under the sun. A drumroll hammered in his ears; thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. Thrum-thrum. His mind was filled and blank, all at once. He'd been in battle, had survived gunfire and bombs.
"Drake?"
His head snapped up. Around the trunk they were using as a table, five pairs of eyes watched him.
He looked back down at his hand, at fingers wrapped around slim pieces of brightly painted, waxed cardboard. The numbers and images ran together. Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, catching in the indent of his spine and speeding up until it hit the waistband of his camos.
"Hey. You okay, man?"
He looked up again, catching Marshall's pale eyes in a windburned face. Blondes didn't do well, here. They burned and blistered under the desert sun. He glanced around, at more faces. They'd been in battle with him. Hauling his ass out of the way when he tripped, covering him as he went in, trusting him to cover them. Hot days of playing poker around a trunk, waiting for something to happen. That's all war was. Waiting and waiting and waiting before hell rained down.
Hell was about to rain down. Each breath was hotter than the last, lungs sucking in the parched air and expelling it again.
"Drake--"
Marshall's hand touched his arm, heavily callused, grip firm as if going to pull him upward if he didn't respond. No gentle shaking, here. He yanked away as if scalded, and the words came tumbling out. "I'm gay."
Marshall rocked back.
Four pairs of eyes stared at him, while Marshall's blues looked anywhere else.
Drake laughed, high and tight, without humor. He couldn't quite stop it. He dropped his cards. Stood. "I'm sorry." He didn't even know why he was apologizing. Don't Ask, Don't Tell had been lifted. They'd all heard it. They'd been briefed that if they were having problems they should talk to their squad leader, or maybe the pastor.
That didn't mean gays were welcome.
He stood, and turned, and walked away. He still couldn't breathe. The sun hammered down on him, uncaring who or what he was, just trying to leach the color from his skin in the same way it leached color from bones.
"Drake!" Three steps. A hand on his shoulder. He nearly flinched, wondering if now he'd get the shit kicked out of him. If they'd accuse him of looking, when sex was the farthest thing from his mind -- a long, long way behind survival. But the hand pulled him around, turned him until he looked at dark eyes under black brows, at dark skin pulled tight over high cheekbones. "Hey, man." Salas gave him a crooked smile, filled with uncertainty. "We were playing poker. You just gonna wander off? We got a game to finish."
Drake looked past him, at the men sitting around the trunk. Two pairs of eyes met his own, even if the others didn't quite make it. Drake took a breath. Another. Each came more easily than the last. The blood still pounded a drumroll into his ears, but he could hear other things around it, now. "Yeah," he said, the word barely making it past dry lips.
"Shit." Marshall drew the word out, 'Sheeee-it,' and threw his cards down. One man stood and walked away, throwing a glare behind him while the others sat, clearly uncomfortable.
Drake swallowed bile.
"Come on." Two words, so simply put. Salas gave him a tug, then tugged harder, refusing to take no for an answer.
"You can take Marshall's cards," Wallace said, though he still refused to meet Drake's eyes. "We saw your hand when you dropped it."
Shaking, Drake sat. He felt under fire, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Surely it wasn't this easy. His aching ears searched for noise, and he could hear voices, behind him. Marshall. "--fucking fag in our bunks--"
Salas rapped against the trunk. "Focus on the game, Drake. It's your turn."
He picked up Marshall's cards. They still swam front of him, as badly as his own had. He looked up. Marshall had raised his voice, but was clearly moving away. Around the trunk, three pairs of eyes looked at him, while one studied thin, waxed cardboard.
"Jesus," Wallace muttered, looking toward the pale blue sky as if asking for patience. Finally, he looked at Drake. "Would you please fucking go? So you're gay. Get on with it." Despite obvious unease, he gave Drake a glower. "You're holding up the game."
"Right," Drake murmured. Four pairs of eyes watched him, four men he'd bled and prayed with relaxing slowly in his presence. The cards came into focus at last, slowly.
Five cards. A royal flush.