fic: Watching the World Go Down
Watching the World Go Down
Generation Kill; Stafford/Christeson; R; 1,219 words
No, they can't catch us.
~*~
They travel for days, switching between on hoverboards and on foot. Actually, for nights-it's easier to get caught when it's brighter, so they set up camp during the day and sleep. John knows they're getting closer, but they're also running out of supplies. Without food or water purification tablets, they'll eventually die, except John doesn't want to conserve too much, because he could starve for longer that way. He knows Q-Tip knows this, too.
"Yo," Q-Tip says. "This stream looks okay." He eyes it carefully, like he's trying to see it from all different angles.
"There are no fish," John says. "Don't you think fish in it would mean it'd be safe to drink?"
Q-Tip huffs and mumbles something about looks being deceiving and fish not swimming in streams for years. "I heard people drank their piss," he suggests. "In ancient times. As a last resort."
"You're one nasty motherfucker," John tells him, which makes Q-Tip grin. If it came down to it, though...if that's what they had to do to survive in the wild, John's pretty sure he'd do it. He'd plug his nose, but he'd do it.
*
Lilley's instructions are pretty cryptic, mostly so they couldn't be deciphered if Specials found them. Q-Tip manages to figure them out well, though they do end up going down a couple of the wrong paths.
It's not much warmer at night than it is during the day, even with the fairly thick blankets and sleeping bags Q-Tip snagged from the dorm. A fire would draw way too much attention to their position, so normally bed is something makeshift, in a cave or by something that'll protect them from the wind, at least.
For warmth, John sleeps right next to Q-Tip, their bodies pressed close together even through the heavy fabric. It's surprisingly easy to pluck up the courage and kiss Q-Tip, who waits a minute before responding. It's the longest minute of John's life, but then Q-Tip sets his arm behind John's head and shifts them so he's on top.
John's more surprised than he probably should be. Q-Tip always has to be in charge, which is fine, though right now, John's not letting him run this by himself. He locks one arm around Q-Tip's waist and puts the other on his face, keeping him right where John wants him.
The fight for dominance doesn't feel all that different from their sparring sessions. For a second, John feels weird about mixing sex and violence, but the thought's quickly chased from his mind as Q-Tip bites down on John's lower lip.
"Motherfucker," John grunts, running his tongue over the blood. He bites Q-Tip back, and that's pretty much the end of it. What it's not the end of is the kissing: it's too cold for them to do much else, so they brave the temperature for a few minutes to zip their sleeping bags together. This time John makes sure he takes charge, tongue moving in Q-Tip's mouth like they're fucking.
Q-Tip tugs at John's hair like he's trying to pull their mouths closer together. He's hard against John's hip, lazily rubbing up against him. Not trying to get off, it doesn't seem like; he just wants John to know he's there.
"Later," John promises. "Later we'll..." his breath catches as his dick presses against Q-Tip's thigh. "Do this for real. I'm fuckin' tired right now."
*
The metal deposits get more scarce with every step they take going away from the 'ville. Boarding is quicker, but it looks like a lot of their journey will be on foot from now on. Luckily Q-Tip had the infinite wisdom to steal some hiking boots, which keep John's feet from falling off after nine straight hours of travel.
Still, John's sore all over when they set up their makeshift camp, wishing for a hot bath and a warm meal. All they have is SpagBol in little silver packets, though, and whatever water they can purify with the tablets left.
Depending on the campsite, they shower before bed, stripping down to their skivvies and using little slivers of soap to wash up in the creek or lake or whatever the fuck the fresh, running water is. John can tell it's not nearly clean enough to drink, but it does the job to keep their bodies sanitary.
Q-Tip likes to splash John at random, and it usually devolves into a full-out water fight that ends with one of them calling uncle and making a break for dry ground. Usually that person is John-no need to say anything nasty about it-and he'll watch from the edge while Q-Tip splashes around, water dripping off his chest. John licks his lips when Q-Tip ducks underwater, but doesn't say anything. They're not there yet.
*
Lilley never mentioned that there would be bumps in the road, so to speak-a plunge into the freezing cold ocean; the unregulated temperatures; the spooky ghost town they stumble upon about a mile into one night's journey.
John pulls out a flashlight, only to find that the town's completely fucking abandoned.
"Creepy," he says, shivering. Something about it just makes him feel cold.
It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in years. Many of the buildings are at least partially destroyed; some of them are just outlines of what used to be. There's no sound anywhere. No signs of life. Not even a fucking blade of grass.
On the outskirts, there's a broken-down ferris wheel, a kids' swing. The only thing that's missing are the actual kids. John can't shake the feeling that something really, really terrible happened here.
Almost everything's been wiped clean in the past few centuries-for a "fresh start", supposedly-but it looks like a few places were skipped over. John wonders if this happened everywhere, if it was the reason for the globe wipe.
"Let's bounce," he says to Q-Tip, who nods, grabbing their packs and hauling ass.
*
Somehow, the Specials get dangerously close to finding them, even though John and Q-Tip have been carefully covering their tracks. As the search light shines down, they try to dodge it, weaving in between trees and around rocks, trying to avoid crunching twigs beneath their feet.
John swears he sees the light brush over Q-Tip's neck, but then it darts away from them, illuminating foliage and dirt, but not their bodies.
"That was close," John whispers. Too close. He doesn't want to think about the punishment they'd both get for what they've done.
"Yeah," Q-Tip agrees. "Maybe we should call it a night. They're prob'ly gonna be on our asses for...who fuckin' knows how long. It might be a good idea just to pack it in, switch up our schedule and go during the day."
They make camp quick, hastily covering their tracks before slapping together a lean-to that'll keep them somewhat warm and dry. Q-Tip presses in closer than usual, sharp chin pushing down on John's shoulder. It's not exactly painful, but it's not comfortable enough for John to go right to sleep.
"You want to?" Q-Tip asks. John swallows hard and nods. He really wants to.
Generation Kill; Stafford/Christeson; R; 1,219 words
No, they can't catch us.
~*~
They travel for days, switching between on hoverboards and on foot. Actually, for nights-it's easier to get caught when it's brighter, so they set up camp during the day and sleep. John knows they're getting closer, but they're also running out of supplies. Without food or water purification tablets, they'll eventually die, except John doesn't want to conserve too much, because he could starve for longer that way. He knows Q-Tip knows this, too.
"Yo," Q-Tip says. "This stream looks okay." He eyes it carefully, like he's trying to see it from all different angles.
"There are no fish," John says. "Don't you think fish in it would mean it'd be safe to drink?"
Q-Tip huffs and mumbles something about looks being deceiving and fish not swimming in streams for years. "I heard people drank their piss," he suggests. "In ancient times. As a last resort."
"You're one nasty motherfucker," John tells him, which makes Q-Tip grin. If it came down to it, though...if that's what they had to do to survive in the wild, John's pretty sure he'd do it. He'd plug his nose, but he'd do it.
*
Lilley's instructions are pretty cryptic, mostly so they couldn't be deciphered if Specials found them. Q-Tip manages to figure them out well, though they do end up going down a couple of the wrong paths.
It's not much warmer at night than it is during the day, even with the fairly thick blankets and sleeping bags Q-Tip snagged from the dorm. A fire would draw way too much attention to their position, so normally bed is something makeshift, in a cave or by something that'll protect them from the wind, at least.
For warmth, John sleeps right next to Q-Tip, their bodies pressed close together even through the heavy fabric. It's surprisingly easy to pluck up the courage and kiss Q-Tip, who waits a minute before responding. It's the longest minute of John's life, but then Q-Tip sets his arm behind John's head and shifts them so he's on top.
John's more surprised than he probably should be. Q-Tip always has to be in charge, which is fine, though right now, John's not letting him run this by himself. He locks one arm around Q-Tip's waist and puts the other on his face, keeping him right where John wants him.
The fight for dominance doesn't feel all that different from their sparring sessions. For a second, John feels weird about mixing sex and violence, but the thought's quickly chased from his mind as Q-Tip bites down on John's lower lip.
"Motherfucker," John grunts, running his tongue over the blood. He bites Q-Tip back, and that's pretty much the end of it. What it's not the end of is the kissing: it's too cold for them to do much else, so they brave the temperature for a few minutes to zip their sleeping bags together. This time John makes sure he takes charge, tongue moving in Q-Tip's mouth like they're fucking.
Q-Tip tugs at John's hair like he's trying to pull their mouths closer together. He's hard against John's hip, lazily rubbing up against him. Not trying to get off, it doesn't seem like; he just wants John to know he's there.
"Later," John promises. "Later we'll..." his breath catches as his dick presses against Q-Tip's thigh. "Do this for real. I'm fuckin' tired right now."
*
The metal deposits get more scarce with every step they take going away from the 'ville. Boarding is quicker, but it looks like a lot of their journey will be on foot from now on. Luckily Q-Tip had the infinite wisdom to steal some hiking boots, which keep John's feet from falling off after nine straight hours of travel.
Still, John's sore all over when they set up their makeshift camp, wishing for a hot bath and a warm meal. All they have is SpagBol in little silver packets, though, and whatever water they can purify with the tablets left.
Depending on the campsite, they shower before bed, stripping down to their skivvies and using little slivers of soap to wash up in the creek or lake or whatever the fuck the fresh, running water is. John can tell it's not nearly clean enough to drink, but it does the job to keep their bodies sanitary.
Q-Tip likes to splash John at random, and it usually devolves into a full-out water fight that ends with one of them calling uncle and making a break for dry ground. Usually that person is John-no need to say anything nasty about it-and he'll watch from the edge while Q-Tip splashes around, water dripping off his chest. John licks his lips when Q-Tip ducks underwater, but doesn't say anything. They're not there yet.
*
Lilley never mentioned that there would be bumps in the road, so to speak-a plunge into the freezing cold ocean; the unregulated temperatures; the spooky ghost town they stumble upon about a mile into one night's journey.
John pulls out a flashlight, only to find that the town's completely fucking abandoned.
"Creepy," he says, shivering. Something about it just makes him feel cold.
It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in years. Many of the buildings are at least partially destroyed; some of them are just outlines of what used to be. There's no sound anywhere. No signs of life. Not even a fucking blade of grass.
On the outskirts, there's a broken-down ferris wheel, a kids' swing. The only thing that's missing are the actual kids. John can't shake the feeling that something really, really terrible happened here.
Almost everything's been wiped clean in the past few centuries-for a "fresh start", supposedly-but it looks like a few places were skipped over. John wonders if this happened everywhere, if it was the reason for the globe wipe.
"Let's bounce," he says to Q-Tip, who nods, grabbing their packs and hauling ass.
*
Somehow, the Specials get dangerously close to finding them, even though John and Q-Tip have been carefully covering their tracks. As the search light shines down, they try to dodge it, weaving in between trees and around rocks, trying to avoid crunching twigs beneath their feet.
John swears he sees the light brush over Q-Tip's neck, but then it darts away from them, illuminating foliage and dirt, but not their bodies.
"That was close," John whispers. Too close. He doesn't want to think about the punishment they'd both get for what they've done.
"Yeah," Q-Tip agrees. "Maybe we should call it a night. They're prob'ly gonna be on our asses for...who fuckin' knows how long. It might be a good idea just to pack it in, switch up our schedule and go during the day."
They make camp quick, hastily covering their tracks before slapping together a lean-to that'll keep them somewhat warm and dry. Q-Tip presses in closer than usual, sharp chin pushing down on John's shoulder. It's not exactly painful, but it's not comfortable enough for John to go right to sleep.
"You want to?" Q-Tip asks. John swallows hard and nods. He really wants to.