[Generation Kill] [Ray/Walt] Wishbone
Title: Wishbone
Subject: Generation Kill | Walt, Ray, kinda Ray/Walt
Rating: PG
Summary: He's probably just projecting.
Notes: Weird format, weird verse, I'm not even sorry. For a combination of prompts: “I know you're fine, but what do I do?" & gif & art. Last two from delamuse.
WC: 432
The gas mask has left bruises on Ray's face, wide strips of not-quite blue cupping the side of his face like hands.
They're like rough kisses of safety, Walt thinks. Because his momma used to hold him there and kiss his forehead. Years ago now.
The mask's in his hands now, swinging loosely, barely resting on his finger tips, swaying, desolate and hopeful all in one go.
He's probably just projecting.
The bunker is cold and later, they'll press together, feet against calves and arms so tangled they won't know which belongs to who, save for the black markings on one set and the innocent, naive paleness of the other. It will be for warmth, not romance, but it's easy to pretend when your breath is mingling and it's like you're the only two people left alive -
That might be the case these days. He doesn't think about that.
It's not romance and it never will be romance but Walt's downfall always was his imagination, bullet wounds blooming into something else, images trapped behind his eyelids, technicolour wonder.
He blames Iraq for the way he feels. Not the way anything that sounds like a gun makes him twitch or the way he wakes up shaking more often than not, still. He doesn't blame Iraq for that. He blames Iraq for the way looking at Ray is like curling up in a patch of sunlight and having the shit kicked out of him at the same time.
Ray's quieter these days. War and Ripped Fuel and alcohol and drugs will do that to you. He doesn't talk so much, doesn't ramble on. He speaks when he's spoken to and he'll share thoughts but there's a reason for everything.
Walt longs for a conspiracy theory in the same way he longs for everything to be some fucked up nightmare.
It doesn't help that most days, they keep their gas masks on nearly twenty hours a day. They were rusty at first, but the old training kicked in, into a gas mask in less than ten seconds. The alarms still work and maybe they don't need masks in a shelter, but they wear them anyway. Ray doesn't trust the ventilation.
Walt doesn't trust the government.
They sleep curled around each other, gas masks clenched in hands and Walt falls asleep to the sound of Ray's deep breathing, secure in the knowledge that Ray, at least, is okay.
Walt isn't.
Subject: Generation Kill | Walt, Ray, kinda Ray/Walt
Rating: PG
Summary: He's probably just projecting.
Notes: Weird format, weird verse, I'm not even sorry. For a combination of prompts: “I know you're fine, but what do I do?" & gif & art. Last two from delamuse.
WC: 432
The gas mask has left bruises on Ray's face, wide strips of not-quite blue cupping the side of his face like hands.
They're like rough kisses of safety, Walt thinks. Because his momma used to hold him there and kiss his forehead. Years ago now.
The mask's in his hands now, swinging loosely, barely resting on his finger tips, swaying, desolate and hopeful all in one go.
He's probably just projecting.
The bunker is cold and later, they'll press together, feet against calves and arms so tangled they won't know which belongs to who, save for the black markings on one set and the innocent, naive paleness of the other. It will be for warmth, not romance, but it's easy to pretend when your breath is mingling and it's like you're the only two people left alive -
That might be the case these days. He doesn't think about that.
It's not romance and it never will be romance but Walt's downfall always was his imagination, bullet wounds blooming into something else, images trapped behind his eyelids, technicolour wonder.
He blames Iraq for the way he feels. Not the way anything that sounds like a gun makes him twitch or the way he wakes up shaking more often than not, still. He doesn't blame Iraq for that. He blames Iraq for the way looking at Ray is like curling up in a patch of sunlight and having the shit kicked out of him at the same time.
Ray's quieter these days. War and Ripped Fuel and alcohol and drugs will do that to you. He doesn't talk so much, doesn't ramble on. He speaks when he's spoken to and he'll share thoughts but there's a reason for everything.
Walt longs for a conspiracy theory in the same way he longs for everything to be some fucked up nightmare.
It doesn't help that most days, they keep their gas masks on nearly twenty hours a day. They were rusty at first, but the old training kicked in, into a gas mask in less than ten seconds. The alarms still work and maybe they don't need masks in a shelter, but they wear them anyway. Ray doesn't trust the ventilation.
Walt doesn't trust the government.
They sleep curled around each other, gas masks clenched in hands and Walt falls asleep to the sound of Ray's deep breathing, secure in the knowledge that Ray, at least, is okay.
Walt isn't.