[Generation Kill] [Ray/Walt] Square One.
Title: Square One.
Prompt: Behind enemy lines.
Bonus? Yes.
Word Count: 1321
Rating: PG-13
Original/Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairings (if any) Ray/Walt, implied Brad/Nate.
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc): ...Zombies?
Summary: Turns out that zombies don't care if you objectively thought they were cool, they still want to eat your brains.
Notes: Kind of me trying to write in something that isn't present tense (and failing miserably more than once) and kind of me trying to work on the verse for my warbigbang fic, spawned because of one throwaway sentence about Ray & Walt (Ray's road tripping with Walt, apparently they killed one this morning.)
Ray wasn't going to say he hadn't thought about zombies, because that would have been a lie. Heck, he'd thought about them a lot. They were kind of extremely fucking awesome, in the way only a reanimated corpse with a taste for brains could be. That didn't mean he wanted the zombie apocalypse to be an actual thing. Turns out that zombies don't care if you objectively thought they were cool, they still want to eat your brains.
Walt stole the Ripped Fuel, smuggled it out of the store deep down in his duffel bag next to a bunch of packets of potato chips and chocolate bars, toothpaste and aspirin. It had taken Ray three days to convince Walt that smashed open windows and blood on the floor and nobody manning the cash registers meant he didn't have to leave money behind. Their survival was more important than greedy ass corporations who probably started this entire fucking mess anyway.
He'd settled the tub between his thighs, slapped Ray's hands away when they grabbed for it.
"I fucking love you, Walt," he'd said, blowing irritatingly loud kisses across the center console. "We should get married."
"I'm going to ration you," Walt said, already unscrewing the cap. "You need to be awake but sweet Jesus I am not listening to you going on about fucking NAMBLA, Ray, I swear to God if you even mention NAMBLA, I'm throwing you out of the God damn car to fend for yourself." Ray didn't care. Ray just gulped down the two pills he'd been handed and tapped his hands against the steering wheel and waited for them to kick in.
Brad called occasionally, from wherever the fuck he was, off buttfucking Nate with intelligence for lube or what the fuck ever they did. Walt scowled at him when he said shit like that and then cuts off the supply of Ripped Fuel so Ray tried not to say it too often. He cracked jokes instead about Brad's phone bill, because calling Honduras can't be cheap.
There was less zombies in South America, the border control managing to slow them down a little, apparently. Zombies probably didn't have their paperwork with them. There was more donkeys though, and one particularly memorable zombie donkey that Ray hadn't really wanted to shoot because it was kind of adorable, coming at them with it's funny little face and craving their brains. In the space between noticing that the donkey was actually a fucking zombie and Walt shooting it, Ray had come up with a plan to call it Daisy and to take it on their journey to the end of the world (alternatively known as Argentina, unless Ray figured out how to pimp their ride into a boat). It hadn't quite worked out.
"Jesus, Walt," he cried, when the gun went off and there was a splatter of donkey blood and brains everywhere. "I was going to name it Daisy."
"Stop being such a hick," Walt muttered, pulling himself back into the car. "I know you miss goats but a zombie donkey is not a suitable replacement for a fuck buddy."
Walt kissed him in Colombia, held him tight and kissed him hard. Neither of them had brushed their teeth or shaved and they certainly hadn't showered, so it was pretty fucking disgusting but still, somehow, pretty fucking awesome.
"What," Ray said, when Walt pulled away, pulled backwards and into himself and tucked himself into the shadowy corner of his bed like he wanted to make pretend or something dumb. "What?"
"I don't know." Walt's voice was quiet, low and mumbly, the words melding together. "Shut up, Ray."
For once, Ray did.
In Peru, Ray made sure to brush his teeth until they were minty fucking fresh. He shaved, and even managed to dig up some deodorant from under one of the seats of the car. For the first time in a long time, he was something similar to clean.
He knew Walt noticed, knew from the way he glanced up from the bench he was sat on, the book he was reading for the third time because apparently the only books you could find
in South America were in languages Walt didn't speak.
"Got a hot date?" Walt said, folding his book closed and kicking his feet up onto the crate in front of him. "Is it with a llama, Ray, because I'm going to have to ask you to keep that shit out of the car. I'll turn a blind eye to livestock fucking, but I don't want to see it."
"Shut up, Walt." Jesus Christ, it felt good to be the one saying that. He hovered awkwardly above Walt, one knee against the bench, one hand against the back and for a moment, he thought that maybe this was a really fucking dumb idea.
Thankfully, he remembered that his entire life was a collection of really fucking dumb ideas, because leaving this shit undone would be an even dumber idea.
Walt made this noise when Ray kissed him, something like a whimper except badass killers do not do that sort of shit, they do not whimper like little girls, just like they do not get all decent smelling to make out. He held onto Ray's hips though, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. It was the first time in longer than Ray will admit to that there had been something close to meaning in all of the fucked up shit.
It was too cramped in the back seat with both of their bodies contorted, twisted into distinctly uncomfortable positions in an effort to fit the both of them. Ray's feet were propped against the window, one hand rested on Walt's shoulder. They weren't cuddling. Not even a little bit.
"Maybe Brad had the right idea," Ray said, eyes on the ceiling of the car. Walt sighed like he already knew what Ray was going to say. He probably did, Ray thought. He was Walt. "Fucking Nate."
"At least I'm not a llama." It was his long suffering voice, the one he always gave Ray, the one everyone always gave Ray.
"I think alpacas are more common here anyway."
They sat on the roof of the car with the sun setting behind them. They both had guns in their hands, a box of ammo between them, taking pot shots at zombies as they crawled towards them.
"What're we going to do?" Walt said, twisting his head to to blink out over the ocean. "We're at the end of the world. Sort of."
"I was thinking we could go back." They had enough Ripped Fuel for the trip back. Brad had said the Army had finally gotten their shit together the last time he called. Maybe they could settle down, a dysfunctional, full on homosexual zombie killing family. They could plant flowers. Donkey resistant flowers, because Ray still wanted Daisy.
He snorted at the idea, at the idea that Brad would even vaguely consider it.
"Can I drive?" Walt reloaded his gun, everything fitting together with a seamless click.
"Hell no, Walter." He laughed. A zombie screamed, blood curdling the first time he'd heard it, almost like a buzzing fly by now. Walt shrugged, nudged him in the elbow after he took a shot. He dropped to the ground, a small cloud of dust and spray billowing around his feet as he got back into the passenger side of the car. "Onwards, then," Ray said, clambering back over the car to his own side. "And I'm going to get me a fucking sombrero on the way back."
Prompt: Behind enemy lines.
Bonus? Yes.
Word Count: 1321
Rating: PG-13
Original/Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairings (if any) Ray/Walt, implied Brad/Nate.
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc): ...Zombies?
Summary: Turns out that zombies don't care if you objectively thought they were cool, they still want to eat your brains.
Notes: Kind of me trying to write in something that isn't present tense (and failing miserably more than once) and kind of me trying to work on the verse for my warbigbang fic, spawned because of one throwaway sentence about Ray & Walt (Ray's road tripping with Walt, apparently they killed one this morning.)
Ray wasn't going to say he hadn't thought about zombies, because that would have been a lie. Heck, he'd thought about them a lot. They were kind of extremely fucking awesome, in the way only a reanimated corpse with a taste for brains could be. That didn't mean he wanted the zombie apocalypse to be an actual thing. Turns out that zombies don't care if you objectively thought they were cool, they still want to eat your brains.
Walt stole the Ripped Fuel, smuggled it out of the store deep down in his duffel bag next to a bunch of packets of potato chips and chocolate bars, toothpaste and aspirin. It had taken Ray three days to convince Walt that smashed open windows and blood on the floor and nobody manning the cash registers meant he didn't have to leave money behind. Their survival was more important than greedy ass corporations who probably started this entire fucking mess anyway.
He'd settled the tub between his thighs, slapped Ray's hands away when they grabbed for it.
"I fucking love you, Walt," he'd said, blowing irritatingly loud kisses across the center console. "We should get married."
"I'm going to ration you," Walt said, already unscrewing the cap. "You need to be awake but sweet Jesus I am not listening to you going on about fucking NAMBLA, Ray, I swear to God if you even mention NAMBLA, I'm throwing you out of the God damn car to fend for yourself." Ray didn't care. Ray just gulped down the two pills he'd been handed and tapped his hands against the steering wheel and waited for them to kick in.
Brad called occasionally, from wherever the fuck he was, off buttfucking Nate with intelligence for lube or what the fuck ever they did. Walt scowled at him when he said shit like that and then cuts off the supply of Ripped Fuel so Ray tried not to say it too often. He cracked jokes instead about Brad's phone bill, because calling Honduras can't be cheap.
There was less zombies in South America, the border control managing to slow them down a little, apparently. Zombies probably didn't have their paperwork with them. There was more donkeys though, and one particularly memorable zombie donkey that Ray hadn't really wanted to shoot because it was kind of adorable, coming at them with it's funny little face and craving their brains. In the space between noticing that the donkey was actually a fucking zombie and Walt shooting it, Ray had come up with a plan to call it Daisy and to take it on their journey to the end of the world (alternatively known as Argentina, unless Ray figured out how to pimp their ride into a boat). It hadn't quite worked out.
"Jesus, Walt," he cried, when the gun went off and there was a splatter of donkey blood and brains everywhere. "I was going to name it Daisy."
"Stop being such a hick," Walt muttered, pulling himself back into the car. "I know you miss goats but a zombie donkey is not a suitable replacement for a fuck buddy."
Walt kissed him in Colombia, held him tight and kissed him hard. Neither of them had brushed their teeth or shaved and they certainly hadn't showered, so it was pretty fucking disgusting but still, somehow, pretty fucking awesome.
"What," Ray said, when Walt pulled away, pulled backwards and into himself and tucked himself into the shadowy corner of his bed like he wanted to make pretend or something dumb. "What?"
"I don't know." Walt's voice was quiet, low and mumbly, the words melding together. "Shut up, Ray."
For once, Ray did.
In Peru, Ray made sure to brush his teeth until they were minty fucking fresh. He shaved, and even managed to dig up some deodorant from under one of the seats of the car. For the first time in a long time, he was something similar to clean.
He knew Walt noticed, knew from the way he glanced up from the bench he was sat on, the book he was reading for the third time because apparently the only books you could find
in South America were in languages Walt didn't speak.
"Got a hot date?" Walt said, folding his book closed and kicking his feet up onto the crate in front of him. "Is it with a llama, Ray, because I'm going to have to ask you to keep that shit out of the car. I'll turn a blind eye to livestock fucking, but I don't want to see it."
"Shut up, Walt." Jesus Christ, it felt good to be the one saying that. He hovered awkwardly above Walt, one knee against the bench, one hand against the back and for a moment, he thought that maybe this was a really fucking dumb idea.
Thankfully, he remembered that his entire life was a collection of really fucking dumb ideas, because leaving this shit undone would be an even dumber idea.
Walt made this noise when Ray kissed him, something like a whimper except badass killers do not do that sort of shit, they do not whimper like little girls, just like they do not get all decent smelling to make out. He held onto Ray's hips though, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise. It was the first time in longer than Ray will admit to that there had been something close to meaning in all of the fucked up shit.
It was too cramped in the back seat with both of their bodies contorted, twisted into distinctly uncomfortable positions in an effort to fit the both of them. Ray's feet were propped against the window, one hand rested on Walt's shoulder. They weren't cuddling. Not even a little bit.
"Maybe Brad had the right idea," Ray said, eyes on the ceiling of the car. Walt sighed like he already knew what Ray was going to say. He probably did, Ray thought. He was Walt. "Fucking Nate."
"At least I'm not a llama." It was his long suffering voice, the one he always gave Ray, the one everyone always gave Ray.
"I think alpacas are more common here anyway."
They sat on the roof of the car with the sun setting behind them. They both had guns in their hands, a box of ammo between them, taking pot shots at zombies as they crawled towards them.
"What're we going to do?" Walt said, twisting his head to to blink out over the ocean. "We're at the end of the world. Sort of."
"I was thinking we could go back." They had enough Ripped Fuel for the trip back. Brad had said the Army had finally gotten their shit together the last time he called. Maybe they could settle down, a dysfunctional, full on homosexual zombie killing family. They could plant flowers. Donkey resistant flowers, because Ray still wanted Daisy.
He snorted at the idea, at the idea that Brad would even vaguely consider it.
"Can I drive?" Walt reloaded his gun, everything fitting together with a seamless click.
"Hell no, Walter." He laughed. A zombie screamed, blood curdling the first time he'd heard it, almost like a buzzing fly by now. Walt shrugged, nudged him in the elbow after he took a shot. He dropped to the ground, a small cloud of dust and spray billowing around his feet as he got back into the passenger side of the car. "Onwards, then," Ray said, clambering back over the car to his own side. "And I'm going to get me a fucking sombrero on the way back."