Fic: The Light Is Perfect (Bob/Ray, PG-13)
Title : The Light Is Perfect
Author: Arlyn Jayde (atomichatred82)
Pairing: Bob/Ray
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,346
Disclaimer: Here be lies, untruths, and reckless imagination.
Author's Note: Requested by zephyrina. Prompt: Bob/Ray, domestic and in love.
They get home with spring chasing after them, Jersey streets gone slippery with melted snow under a harsh grey sky.
Bob's exhausted to his bones, the dull ache in his wrists flaring up as they tend to do after lengthy flights, so he's more than happy to let Ray drive them home, navigating the slick asphalt with the knowing expertise of a true local.
In about a month's time, the Belleville skyline will erupt with cherry blossoms, a riot of pink-white flowers blooming on dark, low branches, but they won't be there to see it. They'll be away on yet another tour, the last one this time we swear it's the last one, the long overdue last hurrah for The Black Parade before hammering the coffin lid shut, finally, at Madison Square Garden.
"You wanna stop to grab a bite to eat?" Ray asks as they wait for the lights to change at an intersection.
"M'not hungry," Bob mutters sleepily, his eyes falling shut.
"You will be in a few hours, and then you'll raid my fridge and get cranky at me for having nothing in it."
Bob chuckles despite his fatigue, pulling the brim of his beanie further down onto his forehead. "Promise I won't,"
"Huh, we'll have to see about that," Ray says mock-indignantly.
"Come on, I'm still your favorite houseguest, right?"
"You're my least troublesome houseguest," Ray corrects him. "With Frank in the mix, it's hardly a contest."
Bob reaches out to bump his braced hand against Ray's knee. "Keep saying things like that and you can forget about getting laid, ever again."
It's Ray's turn to laugh softly. "Dude, you're the one who's sleeping in my bed. Trust me, I have ways of making you put out."
Bob scowls. "The way I feel right now? You're lucky if you can get me through the front door without falling asleep."
"I wouldn't worry about doing anything tonight. We have time," Ray says.
"Not that much," Bob says.
"Just enough," Ray says amicably, ever the optimist, and Bob's not gonna argue with that.
They drive quietly after that, the radio tuned into a generic rock station at a moderate volume, the sound of it registering as little more than white noise in Bob's exhausted brain, and he's almost asleep when Ray suddenly makes a sharp left turn, tires screeching as Bob jars awake, and then the seatbelt bites into his shoulder as the car grinds to a full stop.
"What the--Toro, what the fuck?" he looks around dizzily. "Did you hit something?"
"No," Ray says, one arm reaching into the back seat. "Look..."
Bob follows Ray's other hand to the direction it's pointing, out of the passenger side window.
They seem to have found themselves in the deserted parking lot of a run-down 24-hour diner, a squat brick building straight out of American nostalgia, its neon sign flickering in the bleak dusk. There are no other cars parked in the lot though the diner itself seems to be at least halfway operational, a battered 'open' sign hanging over the doorway.
"Ray, what--" Bob turns to ask Ray what the hell they're doing here, but he stops mid-sentence when he sees that Ray has grabbed his camera bag from the backseat, grinning sheepishly.
Bob groans, throwing his head back against the headrest. "You crazy motherfucker,"
"Sorry, I couldn't resist it," Ray says, sounding not the least bit apologetic. "Open your window,"
With much grumbling, Bob complies, tilting his seat back so Ray can lean across the passenger side, across Bob's lap, balancing his precious Nikon in one hand as he braces his other hand on Bob's thigh.
"The things you do for a photograph," Bob mutters under his breath.
"I'm not gonna get any good if I don't take every chance I can, Bryar," Ray says reasonably, shoulder pushing against Bob's chest.
Bob closes his eyes and listens to the familiar whir of Ray's lens, breathing in the smell of Ray so close to him, the edges of his unruly curls tickling at Bob's nose. Truth be told, he won't mind staying like this for as long as Ray needs to take his goddamn picture, the feeling of being crowded over by everything that was Ray fucking Toro until there's nothing left to see or smell or touch, just Ray, and Bob can't think of any other place he'd rather be.
"Can you even...is there enough light? It's getting dark out there," Bob says.
"The light's perfect," Ray says. "As long as I keep the camera really still, I should get a decent shot."
There's a bit of shuffling as Ray balances the bottom of the camera against the window frame, bracing his arms out to the sides in lieu of a proper tripod. Bob knows that Ray's tripod is folded and packed into the very same camera bag, but Ray doesn't seem to be in a mood to take it out or set it up. They're losing more and more of the light with every passing minute, and Bob rests his head on Ray's shoulder as he hears the shutter click, several times in uneven intervals.
Ray pulls back after a while, kneeling on the driver's seat with most of his body still in Bob's space, scrolling through the resulting images on his camera.
"There," Ray says as he proudly shows Bob the LCD screen. "Told you, the light's perfect."
Bob knows jackshit about photography, and Ray will be the first to admit that he doesn't know that much either, but the image really is rather neat. The diner seems all the more lonesome and deserted surrounded by the empty parking lot, the sky darkening into a gray-greenish haze behind it, the neon lights unnaturally bright against the dark splotches of clouds. Ray's been using a lens that makes the horizons of his pictures droop slightly on either end, something he calls a 'fisheye', and the distortion in this one makes the scene feel rather surreal.
"Cool," Bob says. "Like something out of a horror movie teaser,"
Ray smiles, turns the camera off and leans in closer to Bob, stealing a small kiss that feels warm and wet on Bob's chapped lips.
"Thanks..."
Bob blinks. "What for?"
"For putting up with all this...you know. The shit I sometimes do just to get a picture," Ray looks genuinely embarrassed, his cheeks flushing, and he looks so sincere and earnest and so Ray that Bob leans forward to kiss him again, longer, molding his lips against the curve of Ray's mouth, the scratch of day-old stubble coarse and comforting against his beard. The camera is pressing into Bob's stomach, the weight of it settling on his lap, but he doesn't really care.
"It's worth it," Bob whispers when he finally lets go. "It's a good picture."
Ray rubs his thumb along Bob's lower lip, keeping their faces close. "Maybe I'll get good enough to take a picture of you someday."
"Yeah?" Bob smiles. "Get us home, and maybe I'll let you."
Ray pulls back, the warmth of his body still lingering on Bob, already missing it.
They reach Ray's house without further incident, getting just the necessary things out of the trunk and leaving the rest for tomorrow or whenever they feel less like the walking dead to properly unpack. True to Ray's prediction, Bob does start to feel hungry after a while, but the weariness in his joints and bones far outweighs any desire to eat.
He manages to kick off his shoes and pull off his beanie and hoodie before faceplanting on Ray's bed, breathing the slightly musty smell of sheets that haven't been slept on for months, and he feels home, finally, when Ray crawls on the mattress beside him and pulls him back against Ray's chest, strong arm draping across his stomach.
"We should shower," Bob mutters sleepily.
"We should change our clothes, at least." Ray says.
Neither of them move. Neither of them will, and that's just the way Bob likes it.
Author: Arlyn Jayde (atomichatred82)
Pairing: Bob/Ray
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,346
Disclaimer: Here be lies, untruths, and reckless imagination.
Author's Note: Requested by zephyrina. Prompt: Bob/Ray, domestic and in love.
They get home with spring chasing after them, Jersey streets gone slippery with melted snow under a harsh grey sky.
Bob's exhausted to his bones, the dull ache in his wrists flaring up as they tend to do after lengthy flights, so he's more than happy to let Ray drive them home, navigating the slick asphalt with the knowing expertise of a true local.
In about a month's time, the Belleville skyline will erupt with cherry blossoms, a riot of pink-white flowers blooming on dark, low branches, but they won't be there to see it. They'll be away on yet another tour, the last one this time we swear it's the last one, the long overdue last hurrah for The Black Parade before hammering the coffin lid shut, finally, at Madison Square Garden.
"You wanna stop to grab a bite to eat?" Ray asks as they wait for the lights to change at an intersection.
"M'not hungry," Bob mutters sleepily, his eyes falling shut.
"You will be in a few hours, and then you'll raid my fridge and get cranky at me for having nothing in it."
Bob chuckles despite his fatigue, pulling the brim of his beanie further down onto his forehead. "Promise I won't,"
"Huh, we'll have to see about that," Ray says mock-indignantly.
"Come on, I'm still your favorite houseguest, right?"
"You're my least troublesome houseguest," Ray corrects him. "With Frank in the mix, it's hardly a contest."
Bob reaches out to bump his braced hand against Ray's knee. "Keep saying things like that and you can forget about getting laid, ever again."
It's Ray's turn to laugh softly. "Dude, you're the one who's sleeping in my bed. Trust me, I have ways of making you put out."
Bob scowls. "The way I feel right now? You're lucky if you can get me through the front door without falling asleep."
"I wouldn't worry about doing anything tonight. We have time," Ray says.
"Not that much," Bob says.
"Just enough," Ray says amicably, ever the optimist, and Bob's not gonna argue with that.
They drive quietly after that, the radio tuned into a generic rock station at a moderate volume, the sound of it registering as little more than white noise in Bob's exhausted brain, and he's almost asleep when Ray suddenly makes a sharp left turn, tires screeching as Bob jars awake, and then the seatbelt bites into his shoulder as the car grinds to a full stop.
"What the--Toro, what the fuck?" he looks around dizzily. "Did you hit something?"
"No," Ray says, one arm reaching into the back seat. "Look..."
Bob follows Ray's other hand to the direction it's pointing, out of the passenger side window.
They seem to have found themselves in the deserted parking lot of a run-down 24-hour diner, a squat brick building straight out of American nostalgia, its neon sign flickering in the bleak dusk. There are no other cars parked in the lot though the diner itself seems to be at least halfway operational, a battered 'open' sign hanging over the doorway.
"Ray, what--" Bob turns to ask Ray what the hell they're doing here, but he stops mid-sentence when he sees that Ray has grabbed his camera bag from the backseat, grinning sheepishly.
Bob groans, throwing his head back against the headrest. "You crazy motherfucker,"
"Sorry, I couldn't resist it," Ray says, sounding not the least bit apologetic. "Open your window,"
With much grumbling, Bob complies, tilting his seat back so Ray can lean across the passenger side, across Bob's lap, balancing his precious Nikon in one hand as he braces his other hand on Bob's thigh.
"The things you do for a photograph," Bob mutters under his breath.
"I'm not gonna get any good if I don't take every chance I can, Bryar," Ray says reasonably, shoulder pushing against Bob's chest.
Bob closes his eyes and listens to the familiar whir of Ray's lens, breathing in the smell of Ray so close to him, the edges of his unruly curls tickling at Bob's nose. Truth be told, he won't mind staying like this for as long as Ray needs to take his goddamn picture, the feeling of being crowded over by everything that was Ray fucking Toro until there's nothing left to see or smell or touch, just Ray, and Bob can't think of any other place he'd rather be.
"Can you even...is there enough light? It's getting dark out there," Bob says.
"The light's perfect," Ray says. "As long as I keep the camera really still, I should get a decent shot."
There's a bit of shuffling as Ray balances the bottom of the camera against the window frame, bracing his arms out to the sides in lieu of a proper tripod. Bob knows that Ray's tripod is folded and packed into the very same camera bag, but Ray doesn't seem to be in a mood to take it out or set it up. They're losing more and more of the light with every passing minute, and Bob rests his head on Ray's shoulder as he hears the shutter click, several times in uneven intervals.
Ray pulls back after a while, kneeling on the driver's seat with most of his body still in Bob's space, scrolling through the resulting images on his camera.
"There," Ray says as he proudly shows Bob the LCD screen. "Told you, the light's perfect."
Bob knows jackshit about photography, and Ray will be the first to admit that he doesn't know that much either, but the image really is rather neat. The diner seems all the more lonesome and deserted surrounded by the empty parking lot, the sky darkening into a gray-greenish haze behind it, the neon lights unnaturally bright against the dark splotches of clouds. Ray's been using a lens that makes the horizons of his pictures droop slightly on either end, something he calls a 'fisheye', and the distortion in this one makes the scene feel rather surreal.
"Cool," Bob says. "Like something out of a horror movie teaser,"
Ray smiles, turns the camera off and leans in closer to Bob, stealing a small kiss that feels warm and wet on Bob's chapped lips.
"Thanks..."
Bob blinks. "What for?"
"For putting up with all this...you know. The shit I sometimes do just to get a picture," Ray looks genuinely embarrassed, his cheeks flushing, and he looks so sincere and earnest and so Ray that Bob leans forward to kiss him again, longer, molding his lips against the curve of Ray's mouth, the scratch of day-old stubble coarse and comforting against his beard. The camera is pressing into Bob's stomach, the weight of it settling on his lap, but he doesn't really care.
"It's worth it," Bob whispers when he finally lets go. "It's a good picture."
Ray rubs his thumb along Bob's lower lip, keeping their faces close. "Maybe I'll get good enough to take a picture of you someday."
"Yeah?" Bob smiles. "Get us home, and maybe I'll let you."
Ray pulls back, the warmth of his body still lingering on Bob, already missing it.
They reach Ray's house without further incident, getting just the necessary things out of the trunk and leaving the rest for tomorrow or whenever they feel less like the walking dead to properly unpack. True to Ray's prediction, Bob does start to feel hungry after a while, but the weariness in his joints and bones far outweighs any desire to eat.
He manages to kick off his shoes and pull off his beanie and hoodie before faceplanting on Ray's bed, breathing the slightly musty smell of sheets that haven't been slept on for months, and he feels home, finally, when Ray crawls on the mattress beside him and pulls him back against Ray's chest, strong arm draping across his stomach.
"We should shower," Bob mutters sleepily.
"We should change our clothes, at least." Ray says.
Neither of them move. Neither of them will, and that's just the way Bob likes it.