Re: Apocalypse 3/4
anonymous
March 28 2010, 20:38:13 UTC
Walt hums Waylon Jennings, thinks about beating off to stay awake, thinks about how he’s never going to be able to smell himself without wincing again.
After what feels like two hours, but may be 30 minutes or may be a lifetime, he puts a grimy hand on Ray’s cheek, which is bristly with four days of stubble. Ray mumbles something sleepily, turns over, brings his hand up to meet Walt’s, strokes his thumb over the ridges of Walt’s knuckles.
“Dude, when all this is over, I’m gonna cook so much you’re gonna be fat. You’re gonna be one of those people at the feed store driving around in the electric wheelchairs, needing those claw grip things to reach stuff off high shelves,” Ray says.
“Yeah,” Walt says, “OK.”
Walt wakes to the feel of Ray’s Ka-Bar on his skin, to the sound of Ray saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Walt, Jesus.”
There are lights behind Ray, the sun maybe. It’s dazzling. Walt can only see the outline of Ray’s head, because all there is is this white light and a ringing like the aftershock of artillery shells in his ears.
Walt’s stomach roils. The adrenaline has left him with a constant bitter taste at the back of his mouth. He can gulp water, smoke and chew dip, but it’s always there. Komodo, he thinks, something that poisons and waits.
“Walt, Walt, Walt,” Ray is slapping his face. “You got shot, buddy.”
Walt tries to feel some pain somewhere, but it’s a distant thing, like hearing singing from another room.
He feels heavy, his limbs torpid. Ray’s face slowly comes into focus, but there’s still an otherworldly quality to it, like the pain has transmuted to something that makes Walt see things as they actually are.
“Your face is wet,” Walt says, reaching out. Has it been raining?
“Yeah, buddy, my face is wet,” Ray says. He grips Walt’s hand, hard, the skin going white even under the dirt. “Can you walk? We gotta go.”
Walt looks down at himself. Ray has severed the duct tape that was sealing his MOPP against his boots and gloves. The pants are in shreds and there’s a giant bolt sticking out of the flesh of his left thigh.
Re: Apocalypse 4/4
anonymous
March 28 2010, 20:39:30 UTC
“I don’t know,” Walt says.
Ray hoists him up, throws Walt’s left arm over his shoulders. “All right,” he says, “Lead with your good leg up and your bad leg going down.”
Their progress is slow. Whatever threat there was seems to have dissipated into the green and red blood spatter on Ray’s forearms. They find a hill with several large boulders on it, forming a kind of shelter. There’s an honest-to-God stream running by. Ray’s got both their packs and is hauling Walt. He’s huffing.
“You want me to get one of those?” Walt asks.
“Nah, homes, I’ll be OK,” Ray says. He drops the packs, one-two, then eases Walt down onto the cool surface of a rock. “What the fuck we’re gonna do about that?” he says, gesturing to the bolt.
“Doesn’t seem to have hit anything major,” Walt says.
“Other than your leg,” Ray says. “Does it hurt?”
“I can’t, I can’t really tell,” Walt says.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Ray says. He fumbles in his pack and pulls out a whole lot of gauze, a tourniquet, an orange prescription bottle with someone else’s name on it. “All the fucking redneck assholes already stole all the oxycontin, so the best I got is Tylenol 3.”
Ray scoops some water from the stream into a canteen, makes Walt drink and swallow pills. The water tastes minerally and cold - less likely to be infected with fecal bacteria, more likely to kill him from toxins.
“You’re gonna need to pull this bolt,” Walt says, head feeling clearer. The pain in his leg has announced itself, a hot stabbing wound. “And then you’re gonna need to cauterize it. And you’re gonna need to duct tape it. And then you’re gonna leave here and leave me here.”
“The fuck I am,” Ray says. “We’re gonna find a doctor and fix it.”
“Ray,” Walt says, “I’ll be fine. This is where I’m from. I’m OK here.”
Somewhere in the chase, Ray’s lost his sunglasses. He’s squinting against the midday sun. His lips are chapped and his breathe stinks of tobacco, of life outdoors, of whatever canned food he’d eaten while on watch. He kisses the edge of Walt’s mouth, fingers splayed on Walt’s cheek.
Re: Apocalypse 4/4
anonymous
March 28 2010, 23:55:27 UTC
Don't worry, this was absolutely perfect! ♥ Apocalypse fic is my shit, so I don't care for the lack of porn :P Anyway, this was amazing, amazing, AMAAAZING!!! And the ending, OH MY HEART!! ♥!
Re: Apocalypse 4/4sharksdontsleepMarch 29 2010, 02:12:46 UTC
Thanks for reading! I'm not sure how I managed to write almost gen for a kink meme, but then again Ray makes all-the-way gen impossible. Here's the permanent link: http://sharksdontsleep.livejournal.com/1981.html#cutid1.
After what feels like two hours, but may be 30 minutes or may be a lifetime, he puts a grimy hand on Ray’s cheek, which is bristly with four days of stubble. Ray mumbles something sleepily, turns over, brings his hand up to meet Walt’s, strokes his thumb over the ridges of Walt’s knuckles.
“Dude, when all this is over, I’m gonna cook so much you’re gonna be fat. You’re gonna be one of those people at the feed store driving around in the electric wheelchairs, needing those claw grip things to reach stuff off high shelves,” Ray says.
“Yeah,” Walt says, “OK.”
Walt wakes to the feel of Ray’s Ka-Bar on his skin, to the sound of Ray saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Walt, Jesus.”
There are lights behind Ray, the sun maybe. It’s dazzling. Walt can only see the outline of Ray’s head, because all there is is this white light and a ringing like the aftershock of artillery shells in his ears.
Walt’s stomach roils. The adrenaline has left him with a constant bitter taste at the back of his mouth. He can gulp water, smoke and chew dip, but it’s always there. Komodo, he thinks, something that poisons and waits.
“Walt, Walt, Walt,” Ray is slapping his face. “You got shot, buddy.”
Walt tries to feel some pain somewhere, but it’s a distant thing, like hearing singing from another room.
He feels heavy, his limbs torpid. Ray’s face slowly comes into focus, but there’s still an otherworldly quality to it, like the pain has transmuted to something that makes Walt see things as they actually are.
“Your face is wet,” Walt says, reaching out. Has it been raining?
“Yeah, buddy, my face is wet,” Ray says. He grips Walt’s hand, hard, the skin going white even under the dirt. “Can you walk? We gotta go.”
Walt looks down at himself. Ray has severed the duct tape that was sealing his MOPP against his boots and gloves. The pants are in shreds and there’s a giant bolt sticking out of the flesh of his left thigh.
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Ray hoists him up, throws Walt’s left arm over his shoulders. “All right,” he says, “Lead with your good leg up and your bad leg going down.”
Their progress is slow. Whatever threat there was seems to have dissipated into the green and red blood spatter on Ray’s forearms. They find a hill with several large boulders on it, forming a kind of shelter. There’s an honest-to-God stream running by. Ray’s got both their packs and is hauling Walt. He’s huffing.
“You want me to get one of those?” Walt asks.
“Nah, homes, I’ll be OK,” Ray says. He drops the packs, one-two, then eases Walt down onto the cool surface of a rock. “What the fuck we’re gonna do about that?” he says, gesturing to the bolt.
“Doesn’t seem to have hit anything major,” Walt says.
“Other than your leg,” Ray says. “Does it hurt?”
“I can’t, I can’t really tell,” Walt says.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Ray says. He fumbles in his pack and pulls out a whole lot of gauze, a tourniquet, an orange prescription bottle with someone else’s name on it. “All the fucking redneck assholes already stole all the oxycontin, so the best I got is Tylenol 3.”
Ray scoops some water from the stream into a canteen, makes Walt drink and swallow pills. The water tastes minerally and cold - less likely to be infected with fecal bacteria, more likely to kill him from toxins.
“You’re gonna need to pull this bolt,” Walt says, head feeling clearer. The pain in his leg has announced itself, a hot stabbing wound. “And then you’re gonna need to cauterize it. And you’re gonna need to duct tape it. And then you’re gonna leave here and leave me here.”
“The fuck I am,” Ray says. “We’re gonna find a doctor and fix it.”
“Ray,” Walt says, “I’ll be fine. This is where I’m from. I’m OK here.”
Somewhere in the chase, Ray’s lost his sunglasses. He’s squinting against the midday sun. His lips are chapped and his breathe stinks of tobacco, of life outdoors, of whatever canned food he’d eaten while on watch. He kisses the edge of Walt’s mouth, fingers splayed on Walt’s cheek.
“Walt,” he says, “Walt.”
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As for the ending, I'm glad you liked it - I wasn't to sure if Walt came off as in shock enough. Again, sorry for the lack of nekkedness. :)
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*flail*
I love this so much. I can't actually say much more about it except for it's pretty much my favourite thing right now.
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