[Generation Kill] [Ray] become a storm
Title: become a storm
Subject: Generation Kill | Ray
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. | Ray, post-Iraq.
Notes: For this prompt.
WC: 445
Ray wakes quickly, he's asleep and then he's not, he's wide awake and half out of bed, reaching for a gun that's not there, not even bothering to try and figure out what woke him up because he's so used to the answer being danger.
It takes him a moment, a moment of scrambling at his side and feeling air and not dirt and being naked, not in a MOPP suit, but he remembers that he's home. He's safe, safeish, safer because this neighbourhood isn't great but it's definitely not Iraq.
He misses waking up slowly. He misses waking up beside somebody, but he can't share a bed anymore, not yet at least, he tells himself it's a not yet because hell no, he is not letting the Corps fuck up the rest of his life.
It's still dark outside, but he's wide awake now. There's no point in going back to sleep. There's things to do - jobs to look for, moms to convince that everything's okay, ex-comrades to send emails that aren't funny to.
His roommate has left dishes on the side again. Ray can't find it in him to care. He used to care, because his momma had instilled a habit in him. He glances again, three plates, stacked by the sink. It doesn't seem worth the effort to care. His phone's blinking at him from where he'd left it last night, red light accusatory, bad friend, bad son, pull yourself together but it's just a photo of some chick's tits from Walt and two missed calls from his mom.
The news tells him about Iraq, pert blonde woman who's probably never seen anything more horrifying than a sad kitten reeling of a list of the dead with less concern than she'd have for her nails. Ray wants to punch her, he wants to pull her extensions out, he wants to make her fucking care.
That scares him. He was never a violent person. He never hit anyone until he joined the Corps. He'd been angry, sure, but he wasn't violent.
He turns to QVC, then he turns the TV off. Outside, something rackets the trash cans and a car backfires and his muscles tense and it's like he's waking up again, the mix of dejection and rage clouding his mind parting to make way for instinct until he smothers it down again, reminds himself he's not in fucking Iraq anymore.
Danger doesn't exist anymore, not in the way it had in Iraq, now the danger is him-fucking-self.
He wasn't trained to handle that.
Subject: Generation Kill | Ray
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. | Ray, post-Iraq.
Notes: For this prompt.
WC: 445
Ray wakes quickly, he's asleep and then he's not, he's wide awake and half out of bed, reaching for a gun that's not there, not even bothering to try and figure out what woke him up because he's so used to the answer being danger.
It takes him a moment, a moment of scrambling at his side and feeling air and not dirt and being naked, not in a MOPP suit, but he remembers that he's home. He's safe, safeish, safer because this neighbourhood isn't great but it's definitely not Iraq.
He misses waking up slowly. He misses waking up beside somebody, but he can't share a bed anymore, not yet at least, he tells himself it's a not yet because hell no, he is not letting the Corps fuck up the rest of his life.
It's still dark outside, but he's wide awake now. There's no point in going back to sleep. There's things to do - jobs to look for, moms to convince that everything's okay, ex-comrades to send emails that aren't funny to.
His roommate has left dishes on the side again. Ray can't find it in him to care. He used to care, because his momma had instilled a habit in him. He glances again, three plates, stacked by the sink. It doesn't seem worth the effort to care. His phone's blinking at him from where he'd left it last night, red light accusatory, bad friend, bad son, pull yourself together but it's just a photo of some chick's tits from Walt and two missed calls from his mom.
The news tells him about Iraq, pert blonde woman who's probably never seen anything more horrifying than a sad kitten reeling of a list of the dead with less concern than she'd have for her nails. Ray wants to punch her, he wants to pull her extensions out, he wants to make her fucking care.
That scares him. He was never a violent person. He never hit anyone until he joined the Corps. He'd been angry, sure, but he wasn't violent.
He turns to QVC, then he turns the TV off. Outside, something rackets the trash cans and a car backfires and his muscles tense and it's like he's waking up again, the mix of dejection and rage clouding his mind parting to make way for instinct until he smothers it down again, reminds himself he's not in fucking Iraq anymore.
Danger doesn't exist anymore, not in the way it had in Iraq, now the danger is him-fucking-self.
He wasn't trained to handle that.