GK, The places we've never been (but were always bound to end up), 1/3, R, Brad/Ray, 24,500 words

[sansdatelimite]

Master List

Monday

Ray knows he has company long before he hears the crunch of gravel on his drive or the low hum of an engine. The Jack Russell at his feet stops mouthing at her tennis ball to growl, ears flicking back and head turned towards the door. Ray has every intention of ignoring her, because she’ll growl at anything that comes within a hundred feet of the house. “Shut up, Gidget.” Ray says distractedly, poking her side with his toes.

Gidget nips at him, sitting up. By the time Ray can make out the sound of someone parking in his drive and turning the engine off, Gidget is on her feet and barking up a storm. Ray watches her as she practically bounces to the door, her bark echoing through the house. She nearly drowns out the sound of the knock on the door, and Ray wonders if he stays on the couch long enough whoever has showed up will just give up and leave. It’s only an idle thought though, because Ray’s positive the Jack Russell will bark herself to death if left to her own devices.

Ray mutes the TV, not that he can hear it over Gidget anyways, before making his way to the door. He nudges Gidget out of the way with his foot, careful not to hurt the small dog as he pushes her to the side. Ray doesn’t bother to check who it is before he pulls the door open, he never does. It’s the kind of thing Ray kind of wishes he was in the habit of when he sees who is on the other side, holding the battered screen door open awkwardly.

Brad’s staring at him, his expression unreadable. Brad is standing on Ray’s front porch, his skin pink and peeling from sunburn, wearing a threadbare shirt and the same stupid blue and white plaid shorts Ray used to make fun of him for wearing back in Oceanside. “Hi,” he says, the corner of his lips twitching up into a smile when his eyes meet Ray’s. It’s only for a brief moment though, and then Brad is looking away and staring at the Jack Russell bouncing excitedly at Ray’s side. “You have a dog.”

”Hi,” Ray says, automatically. He kneels down to pick Gidget up around her middle, pointedly ignoring the way Brad’s shorts pull across his thighs. When he stands up again, he rubs his fingers behind Gidget’s ears and she stops barking. Thankfully. “This is Gidget. She just kind of showed up one day.” Gidget licks at Ray’s jaw, and he smiles despite himself. He wants to say strays have a habit of finding their way to my door, apparently, but he resists the urge. Instead, he asks, “What brings you here?”

Brad quirks an eyebrow while he looks at Ray. His hand is hovering over Gidget’s head, but he doesn’t pet her until she licks his palm. “You aren’t going to invite me inside?” He asks, and he isn’t looking at Ray anymore. He’s staring intently at Gidget, a smile quirking the corner of his lips as she continues to lick him.

Ray feels like his dog has betrayed him, but there is no easy way to explain it. Especially not out loud. “Whatever, homes,” Ray says. He steps aside, holding the door open for Brad to walk through. He pretends he doesn’t see the crinkle of Brad’s nose when Brad notices the state of Ray’s home, and he kicks the door shut when Brad’s inside. Putting Gidget down, Ray scratches her behind the ears, muttering to her, “Be a good girl for daddy.”

”You talk to your dog,” Brad says, the expression on his face almost fond. He shoves his hands in his pockets and just stands in the middle of Ray’s living room. He doesn’t even kick off his sneakers, which Ray knows he would do if they went to anyone else’s place.

Really, Ray is insulted. Just because there are dishes and books and mail laying on top of everything, tee-shirts and socks scattered across the floor and a pile of mostly clean laundry laying on an arm chair doesn’t make his place unlivable. “Gidget’s - “ Ray starts, then pauses. “I don’t need to explain this to you. You’ll just mock me for it, and you can mock me all you want, but you leave my dog out of it.”

”I didn’t say anything," Brad says, crinkling his nose again. “I just - “ Sighing heavily, Brad shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He crouches down when Gidget makes her way over to Brad’s side, and he scratches behind her ears and along her spine. “She’s - “ Brad pauses, his gaze flicking up towards Ray, before he looks at the Jack Russell again. “Small.” He decides.

”She weighs like twelve pounds," Ray replies. “She’s tiny. I’m scared I’m going to roll over and crush her in my sleep half the time. Not that she wouldn’t try and bite my face off if I did. She’s a vicious little fucker when she wants to be.”

”Sounds like someone else I know,” Brad muses. He pats the top of Gidget’s head one last time before he stands up again. There’s a familiar grin on his face, one that still brings a smile to Ray’s face, even after years of being apart. “You look good.”

”You look like Hell," Ray counters. There is a lazy familiarity to this. It’s exactly the kind of thing Ray’s been hoping for for ages now. Now that he has it though, he doesn’t know what to do with it, because there is an underlying tension.

Brad’s been gone for two years, stopped talking to Ray at least a year before that. Fuck, they haven’t even been friends in almost five years. There doesn’t get to be a lazy, easy friendship between them anymore. Ray just wishes Brad had gotten the memo.

”I just got back from Afghanistan," Brad says by way of explanation. He rubs a hand over his face, the pink skin turning white momentarily when he presses against it, and he makes a face. “My tour with the RMC just ended. I just got off an eight hour flight, followed by a four hour one. I’ve been on the ground stateside for - “ Brad pauses to check his watch, huffing. “ - for two hours. Your house is really fucking hard to find, by the way.”

”Dude, what the fuck are you doing here?” Ray asks, incredulous. “Shouldn’t you be visiting your parents or your hookers or something?”

The look Brad is giving Ray so very clearly say you’re an idiot. “I missed you.”

Ray just stares. Gidget makes a snuffling sound, her nose cold against the back of Ray’s thigh, and Ray pushes her away without looking at her. Really, there is no SOP for situations like this. Brad doesn’t miss people, he doesn’t miss Ray. Ray wants to point this out, wants to call Brad on his shit, but the look Brad is shooting him is so open, so pathetic and hopeful and a little bit lost. “You’re a fucking freak," Ray says, almost fondly. “No one comes to Nevada, Missouri willingly.” He tries to ignore the spark of hope in the back of his heart, the one he thought he’d killed a long time ago. “How long do you even plan on staying? ‘cause I’m not going to play house wife to the big bad Marine. If you stick around, you’re cooking your own damned food and I’m not cleaning up after you.”

Brad shrugs a shoulder weakly. “You don’t clean up after yourself," He points out, and Ray scowls, because it’s kind of a low blow. “I like Chef Boyardee and I am capable of picking up my own clothes. And your dog likes me.”

”Gidget likes everybody," Ray counters. “She gets it from Walt. Stupid thing.” Ray’s not sure which one he is calling stupid, but Brad knows him well enough to know it’s affectionate. This is the part where he should probably kick Brad out, should lay down lines and rules, but there isn’t anything to really be said. This is Brad, he used to be Ray’s best friend. “You’re sleeping on the couch," Ray says. “And you’re not allowed to touch my computer.”

”These terms are acceptable," Brad says, nodding his head. He takes a step towards Ray, his hand raised. Ray doesn’t know if it’s because Brad wants to touch his arm or shoulder in appreciation or drag him into a hug, but Ray finds himself back stepping away from Brad and turning towards the kitchen.

”I’ll grab beer," Ray says, without looking at Brad. There’s a part of Ray that feels like this is a very bad idea but he drowns it out with the thought of how good a cold beer will feel in heat like this and the way Gidget’s claws sound as she scampers across the hardwood floor, racing Ray towards the back door. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

Ray makes spaghetti for dinner, because it’s the only thing he has ingredients for. Normally, he just downs Top Ramen and a beer for dinner, but Brad looks half-starved and there’s a part of Ray that hates that. Plus, if Ray makes spaghetti, he doesn’t have to admit he usually just goes to his mother’s house three or four times a week to score free food.

Ray really needs to go grocery shopping one of these days. There isn’t enough spaghetti for the both of them to be happy, but it’s all Ray has, and it’s enough to serve the purpose of getting them through the night. He only ever gets off his ass to go to the store when Gidget is out of food, and she’ll be good for another week or two. Ray really kind of hates shopping. He’ll take any excuse he can to avoid it.

They eat on the couch, because Ray can’t remember the last time he actually saw his crappy dinner table under an impressive pile of junk and dishes and mail. Considering Brad was reluctant to take his shoes off an hour ago, he doesn’t seem to have any problems practically dominating Ray’s couch now. He’s sprawled across the battered couch, Gidget curled up between his legs with a head on his thigh, and his plate balanced on his knee.

There’s a part of Ray that really wants Brad to look away for the three seconds it’ll take Gidget to completely devour the food on Brad’s plate. The tension between them is still there, low and heavy, and the silence is stretching on between them until it gets the point where talking would be more awkward than just sitting. At least if Gidget ate Brad’s dinner, Ray could maybe yell. He really wants to yell.

Instead, Ray pushes the last of his spaghetti around his plate forlornly and says, “I have work tomorrow.” It’s surprisingly hard not to fidget, and the wood floor is cold against the back of his thighs where his shorts have ridden up.

There’s a brief moment where Brad looks surprised, and he stops playing with Gidget’s ears long enough to look at Ray. He opens his mouth to say something before closing it again. He picks up his plate and starts to eat again. “What do you do?”

”I work at the one fucking auto shop in this town," Ray says easily. He twirls his fork to gather the last of his noodles, but he doesn’t feel like eating them. Ray puts his plate on the coffee table in front of him, balancing it precariously on a stack of DVDs and video games before he leans back to catch his weight on his palms. “It’s not bad, just never much to do. I’m pretty sure Henrickson - guy who owns the place - has been trying to fix up the same Mustang since I was a kid.”

Brad looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. Instead, he shakes his head and takes another bite of spaghetti. “How long are you going to be gone?”

”Eight to five," Ray says. “I’ll get an hour for lunch at like one if you want to - “ Ray doesn’t know what he means to say, there really isn’t much to do or see in this town. “There’s this diner. It’s not up to your Californian cock-sucking standards, but the fries are pretty good.”

”Are you asking me out, Ray?” Brad asks. There’s a thin, wry smile on his lips but there is something in his eyes that makes Ray feel the joke is more strained than he means it to be.

”Fuck no," Ray scoffs. There’s an ache in his chest, the one that won’t just fucking die already, but he ignores it. Ray always ignores it. The one time he didn’t ignore it didn’t end so well for him. “You’re buying your own goddamn food and I’m not putting out after, so you can forget about it.” He forces a lopsided smirk on his face, and Brad returns it.

For a moment, Brad just looks at Ray. Really looks at Ray, like he’s never seen him before. And maybe Brad hasn’t. Ray’s dropped another ten pounds since leaving the Corps and he’s grown his hair out, his skin an uneven tan from spending all day working on cars or lounging in the shade. Just as Ray’s about to open his mouth and ask what the fuck Brad is looking at, Brad looks away, a tired smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are you going to finish that?”

It takes Ray a minute to realize Brad means his spaghetti. “Help yourself," Ray says, sitting up to grab the plate to hand it over to Brad. Their fingers don’t bump and their eyes don’t meet. There’s absolutely nothing remarkable about this, but still Ray knows he’s fucking screwed. “It’s the only meal I’m cooking for you. Cherish it.”

There’s a mock solemn look on Brad’s face as he accepts the plate and nods his head. “I’ll be sure to remember this flavourless, meatless, limp noodled abomination for the rest of my life.”

”You’re an asshole," Ray says, and there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips against his will.

Ray doesn’t go running that night, even though he knows he probably should. He watches Gidget run around the living room, chasing a rubber green dinosaur thing that squeaks every time it bounces off of the hardwood floor. It’s annoying, but Ray’s gotten used to the constant noise since the Jack Russell showed up and subsequently refused to leave.

Brad seems a mixture of fascinated and absolutely charmed by Gidget. “My parents had cats when I was growing up," He says. He makes a face when Gidget shoves her toy between his knees, slobber dripping off of the smooth surface of it when he picks it up. “My mother is allergic to dogs.”

”I should have known you were a fucking cat person," Ray snorts. “It explains so much. Jesus. No wonder you’re such an anal retentive asshole.”

”Fuck you," Brad replies good-naturedly, chucking the sticky toy at Ray’s chest. He wipes his hand on his thigh, crinkling his nose at the slobber. “Cats are self-reliant. You don’t have to spend all your time keeping them company and they don’t piss on the floor if you don’t let them outside every once in a while.” He pauses, smirking at Ray. “Then again, I can see why you like dogs so much. You have a lot in common.”

”Fuck you, Brad,” Ray throws the toy back at Brad’s chest and laughs when it bounces off of him and across the room and Brad’s only reaction is a startled blinking as he watches Gidget chase the dinosaur thing eagerly. “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. Gidget usually sleeps on the couch, but if she gets to be a bitch then just toss her outside.”

Brad almost looks affronted at the thought of locking Gidget outside overnight. “Is she safe out there in the back by herself?” He looks at the Jack Russell, clearly sizing her up and whatever he sees makes him frown.

”She’s got a doghouse," Ray replies, shrugging. “This time of year it’s warm enough that it’s fine.” He pushes himself to his feet, and figures he really won’t be surprised if Brad just suffers through Gidget’s minute insanity instead of forcing her outside. Ray doesn’t care, it’s Brad’s decision.

”You don’t let her sleep in bed with you?” Brad asks. He picks Gidget up when she makes her way over towards him again, cradling her in his arm against his chest and the traitor just lets him. Brad plays with her floppy ears, a small smile on his lips.

”She kicks and steals all the covers," Ray says by way of answer. “There should be a quilt or two in the closet by the door. I don’t have any more pillows and you sure as fuck ain’t gettin’ one of mine.” He hesitates and rubs the back of his neck. “You can figure the rest of it out.”

Brad opens his mouth to say something, but stops. “Get some fucking sleep, Ray." he says eventually.

”You’re not the boss of me," Ray says petulantly, but he flips Brad off and goes to take a shower anyways. He can practically hear the roll of Brad’s eyes, and ignores the fact that Gidget has already decided Brad is her new favorite person ever. It’s worse than the time Walt visited and Gidget humped his leg. Ray’s afraid his dog might honestly love Brad.

It could be a familial thing, Ray thinks when he gets to his bathroom and starts stripping for his shower. Not that Ray’s in love with Brad, just. Overly fond, maybe? At least he had been, once. Overly fond and overly horny and just a little bit desperate for something, even if Ray isn’t entirely sure what.

The only thing Ray knows for sure is when he got drunk at Nate’s paddle party, he didn’t mean for Brad to have to take him home. Ray definitely didn’t mean to kiss Brad after Brad helped him stumble up into his apartment, ranting about how they lost the one competent fucking officer they were ever going to have one minute and trying to climb Brad like a tree the next. He doesn’t remember if there was an honest transition between the two, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t.

This is why Brad can’t be here now, because Brad pushed him away five years ago and looked so fucking disappointed in Ray that it still hurts just to think about. It’s worse than remembering Brad hiding under the Humvee after Trombley shot up those shepherds, because this time it’s him that Brad is disappointed in. Ray doesn’t have coping mechanisms for that. Brad’s been a lot of things with him - exasperated, irritated, annoyed, even a little threatening - but Ray’s never disappointed him before.

Yet here Brad is, sitting on Ray’s couch and playing with Ray’s dog and acting like everything is a-okay again, like they’re peachy and nothing was ever wrong. Ray has no idea what is going on in Brad’s head or if Ray is just hallucinating it all in the sticky heat of a Missouri summer, but he has no doubts that this isn’t a good thing because apparently it doesn’t matter that they haven’t seen each other in ages, as soon as Ray steps under the warm spray of water a low heat spreads through his system and his dick takes interest.

It’s not that Ray’s never jerked off while thinking about Brad before - hello, center of almost every combat jack while they were in Iraq because Brad looked fucking fantastic without a shirt on and an untold number of sessions since then - but he knows it’s a really fucking stupid thing to do when Brad is just a room away. Somehow, knowing this doesn’t stop Ray from rolling his balls in his hand before wrapping his fingers around his dick and stroking roughly.

Dropping his forearm against the tile wall of his shower, Ray rests his forehead on his arm and clenches his eyes shut. He pointedly tries not to think about anything while he strokes himself in quick, sharp jerks. His mind is a traitor though, and is more than willing to supply Ray with memories of Brad’s tan skin slick with sweat from the Iraqi sun, the bright colors of his tattoo standing out like a beacon. Ray really wants to lick that tattoo, to bite it and suck at the skin until Brad’s blood is raised to the surface and the colors stand out even brighter.

It doesn’t take Ray long to come, fist squeezed almost painfully tight around his shaft, his thumb sweeping across the head to smear the precum, biting his lip and groaning softly. For his own sake, Ray is determined to pretend he wasn’t thinking about how he wants to come all over Brad’s back, smearing the sticky mess over the lines of his ink and staining him, claiming him. He’s also ignoring the thick white streaks of come on his fist and the tile wall as he steps back and lets the water rush over him and wash away in evidence of it all.

It only takes a few moments to wash himself up after that, but the damage has already been done. Ray knows without a shadow of a doubt that as long as Brad stays here, sleeping on Ray’s couch, Ray’s going to keep jerking off in the shower and wanting him.

Ray has the distinct feeling that no matter what he does or takes, he’s not going to be getting any sleep that night.

Tuesday

The alarm on Ray’s nightstand goes off at 0630, loud and annoying. Ray rolls over to turn it off, grumbling out of habit more than anything else. He stares at the stupid plastic thing and debates throwing it against the wall. It’s the only thing he can think to do to maybe make himself feel better, if not less exhausted.

Ray doesn’t feel like he got any sleep last night. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but he knows he had to have at some point just because it’s light out now.

Ray glares at the crack in the blinds, just daring them to let in more light because he does not want to get up this morning. In fact, Ray would be more than happy to just spend the rest of his life curled up in bed and avoiding the rest of the world. Which, is a lie, because Ray imagines he’d get bored really quickly but that isn’t the point. The point is that Ray is pretty sure he didn’t hallucinate last night and that Brad is asleep on his couch.

Still, Ray knows he can’t avoid this forever - and he’s not a goddamn coward, thanks - so he rolls out of bed and stretches. He realizes he’s kind of screwed because all of his clean clothes are still in the arm chair in his living room, but Brad’s certainly seen Ray wear just his skivvies before. It doesn’t mean his cock isn’t very much interested in this turn of events though and Ray resists the urge to bang his head against the wall, because no, he can’t jerk off to Brad again. He won’t let himself.

The floorboards creak under Ray’s feet as he makes his way to the living room, but the sound isn’t enough to wake the man or the dog fast asleep on the couch. Brad’s knees are hooked over the arm, his toes only a few centimeters from brushing against the floor. He’s got one arm thrown over his face to block the light streaming in from the front windows and Gidget has made herself at home pressed between his Brad’s side and the crook of his elbow. Ray knew his dog was going to betray him.

Shaking his head, Ray mutters under his breath in annoyance and digs around through his pile of clean clothes until he finds jeans to pull on and an old, stained shirt. It’s got the logo of a band that was local when Ray was in high school, but Ray doesn’t actually know what ever happened to them, only that they never became famous. None of the bands he remembers watching live when he was younger ever became anything.

Brad looks so uncomfortable that Ray feels guilty enough to cross the room to close the blinds before he makes his way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. All he’s got is some crap Folgers his mother bought him for dirt cheap at Wal-Mart, but it’ll serve its purpose well enough. Ray’s certainly had worse coffee in his life before and not everyone can be Rudy fucking Reyes.

There’s a soft click-click-click as Gidget makes her way into the kitchen, blinking big brown eyes up at Ray slowly. She rubs her head against his leg before walking over to the backdoor and sitting down in front of it, sending Ray a pointed look.

Ray ducks down to scratch behind her ears before he opens the backdoor and lets her outside. The screen door wobbles uselessly, but Ray leaves the door itself open. There’s nothing to eat but some probably stale Pop Tarts, and Ray shoves some in the toaster before he goes back into the living room to stare at Brad.

Brad is exactly where he was before, still too big to be sleeping on Ray’s couch. Ray almost feels bad. Brad could have just slept on the floor, but, to each his own. Just staring at Brad while he sleeps is making Ray uncomfortable though, for various reasons, and he finds himself pulling a battered quilt out of the closet and draping it over Brad carefully to offer him some sort of comfort. It’ll be too hot for the quilt in an hour or so, but Ray feels marginally better now.

Never let it be said that Ray is a terrible host. He broke out a quilt his grandmother made for a guest and Ray doesn’t break out those atrocious things for any reason. Except for a shit-ton of snow in the middle of winter, but even then Ray thinks the bright colors will blind him. That, and Gidget keeps trying to eat them for some reason.

Ray only lets himself watch Brad for another minute or so before he makes his way back into the kitchen just in time for his toaster to pop. He pours himself a cup of coffee and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose in default disgust before he opens the screen door to let Gidget back into the house. This part of the morning he’s got down to a T, has just enough time to pour Gidget some kibble, to eat his Pop Tarts and drain the last of his coffee before he needs to find some socks and his sneakers and go to work.

He doesn’t bother to wake Brad up when he leaves, doesn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder to spare Brad one last glance before he’s closing the door behind himself and heading for his truck. Ray’s still holding out on this just being one very fucked up dream, even if he’s starting to get the feeling that it isn’t.

There’s an old Chevy truck at Henrickson’s garage. It took some damage in a crash, but it’s mostly aesthetic and most of the parts are still good. Ray spends all morning on his back underneath it trying to figure out what can be salvaged and what needs to be replaced if they want to get it running again. It beats standing out in the sun or spending time in the stifling heat of the shop itself and being yelled at by a belligerent old man.

For a few hours, Ray is able to just focus on the task at hand and forget about everything else. There’s something comforting about losing himself in mindless work, the humidity making it hard to breathe and the heat from the sun is making the sweat run off of Ray’s forehead and along the curve of his spine in bullets. It’s hot, but familiar and Ray easily loses track of time.

Ray nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone starts to vibrate against his hip at a little after noon. He narrowly avoids dropping a wrench on his face, cursing everything in existence under the summer sun while he fumbles to pull his phone out from his pocket and flip it open. “What the fuck do you want?” he asks without glancing at the collar ID.

”I do believe you promised me some goddamn fries," Brad replies easily, amused.

Ray swears under his breath, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes tiredly before he remembers his hand is dirty and catches himself. “No," Ray says slowly, “I said I knew this diner and you could buy your own goddamn fries because you’re not my responsibility.”

”So I’m paraphrasing." Brad says, his tone blasé. “It doesn’t change the fact there is nothing to do or eat in your house. This call was an offering. I’m getting food with or without your redneck ass.”

”When you put it so kindly, how the fuck am I supposed to refuse?” Ray asks, the sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. “It’s nice to know a tour with the RMC has turned you into such a fucking pussy you can’t eat lunch by yourself. Do you need me to go with the ladies’ room with you, too? You can tell me about all the cock you smoked over the pond.”

Brad laughs, easy and light, and the sound reminds Ray of so many good, happy memories that he finds himself smiling despite himself. “Food, Ray. Are we going to fucking eat or not?”

”Yeah, yeah, be a bitch about it," Ray says, shaking his head. Glancing at his watch, Ray says, “I can probably meet you in half an hour, assuming Henrickson isn’t tripping on acid and needs me to do some more bullshit work. It’s a bright red building on Franklin with the word diner painted on the side. Pretty hard to miss, even with those piece of shit NVGs.”

”The fries better be worth it," Brad comments idly, but he hangs up on Ray with a vague promise to see him soon and Ray is left staring up at the undercarriage of a truck and trying to decide what the fuck he’s getting himself into.

Ray ends up being late to lunch, because he makes the mistake of thinking he can maybe wash the oil and grease from his face and hands. He isn’t entirely sure why he bothers and it’s only a half-assed attempt that’s mostly a way to kill time.

There is a bell above the door in the diner that’s been there since Ray was a kid, and every single time he walks through the door he thinks about breaking it. Nothing that old should still be so loud and annoying. Ray figures it’ll probably set the mood for lunch though, if he’s already irritated.

Brad is waiting for Ray in a red vinyl booth towards the back of the diner, slouching and spread in his seat and looking near dead on his feet in the humid heat. The laminated menu keeps sticking to his fingers and arm whenever he touches it, and Brad uses it as a makeshift fan until he notices Ray. He doesn’t exactly smile, but he almost looks pleased to see Ray all the same.

”Hey," Ray says, dropping down into the booth across from Brad. He doesn’t have to look at the menu to know what he wants, but he picks it up and lets his eyes scan it idly anyway. The menu hasn’t changed once since Ray was a kid, with the exception of what kinds of pies are made during what time of year.

”You look like shit," Brad says.

And isn’t that just that the pot calling the kettle black? Ray thinks. Instead, he shrugs and slouches in his seat, his shirt sticking to the vinyl and riding up. Ray fixes it with a scowl, but freezes when Brad’s knee knocks against his under the table. He looks up at Brad, but there’s nothing on his face to give away his intentions of bumping against Ray, and Ray just sits up again. “So what the fuck have you been up to?” Ray asks, because it seems like a safe question.

”I taught your dog how to sit and heel," Brad replies, dropping the menu back onto the table. He rolls his shoulders, stretching, and drops his head to the back of the booth seat for a heartbeat. “She’s not very intelligent. Played Halo. Hasser was online. Said to tell your hick ass hello.”

Ray gets the feeling Brad’s not saying something, but he doesn’t know if he wants to know what that’s about. “No making fun of my dog," Ray says, sending Brad an annoyed look. “Gidget’s a good girl.”

”I never said she wasn’t," Brad says. His tone is blasé enough that Ray’s not sure if he’s serious or being an asshole, but before he can ask Brad is scowling at the table. “How long does it take to get some goddamn food here? There’s nothing to eat at your place but stale Pop Tarts and dog food.”

”Don’t be an asshole," Ray says, kicking at Brad’s ankle. “And don’t eat my Pop Tarts.”

Brad rolls his eyes, kicking Ray back under the table, harder than Ray kicked him. His knee knocks against Ray’s again, but this time, he does look at Ray, his expression unreadable. “I’m not nearly hungry enough to eat whatever expired food you’ve got in your pitiful excuse for a house.”

”You can always leave," Ray points out, scowling at Brad. “I don’t exactly remember inviting you over or asking you to stay, jackass. I’m pretty sure even in your liberal dick-suck California that kind of behavior is considered rude.”

”You don’t want me to leave," Brad says with smug certainty, and dammit if he isn’t right.

When Ray goes back to work, the first thing he does is climb back under the Chevy and avoid everyone and everything. If they want him, they know where he is.

It’s harder to concentrate this time, and there’s a strange niggling sensation in his knee. It takes Ray an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize it’s from Brad pressing their knees together under the table for forty-five minutes.

Ray has no idea what to do with that information now that he has it, and not even the monotony at toying around with the truck in the humid heat is enough to distract Ray now.

The first thing Ray realizes when he opens his front door is that something is wrong. Gidget still runs to great him, bouncing and barking at his heels until he stoops down to pick the Jack Russell up just to get her to shut up.

Then Ray realizes he can see his floor. His coffee table and the couches and chairs in his living room are cleared off of and the bookshelves in the corner are organized and the games and DVDs on them are lined up alphabetically. The throw rug Ray got to keep his feet from freezing in the winter is apparently dark blue when it’s not covered in dog hair.

”What the fuck?” Ray asks, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know Brad is leaning against the archway into the kitchen, watching him in mild amusement. “You sonuva bitch, you cleaned! I can’t believe you cleaned my house! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

”Most people would say thank you," Brad says wryly. “It’s not like I went out of my way to keep your house above the minimum standard of living and keep it from being condemned or anything.”

”You cleaned my house," Ray says again, pointing an accusing finger at Brad. “There is something seriously fucking wrong with you! What kind of messed up freak cleans another guy’s house?”

”What else was I supposed to do all day?” Brad asks, and he sounds more like a putout housewife than Ray is comfortable admitting. “It needed to be done, and Hasser logged off of Xbox Live.”

”You’re blaming Walt for your incessant need to be an anal retentive freak?” Ray asks incredulously. Gidget wiggles in his arm, clearly tired of being held, and Ray puts her back down with a soft apology before glaring at Brad again. “New rule, you’re not allowed to touch my computer, you’re sleeping on the couch, you’re not allowed to eat my Pop Tarts and you’re not allowed to clean anything!”

”Ray," Brad says, his tone clipped and his eyes narrowed. “Shut the fuck up.”

”This is a serious breach of trust! I can’t believe you would break into my house and start touching everything like this!” Ray continues. He drags his hands up to rub the heels of his palms into his eyes, and doesn’t even care that they’re filthy.

”Do you like fettuccini alfredo?” Brad asks, interrupting Ray and scowling.

”Do I what?” Ray asks, blinking in confusion.

”As long as you feel like being an ungrateful bitch, I also took the liberty to buy you some goddamn groceries," Brad says. “You owe me one hundred and seventeen dollars and thirty two cents. I’m hungry and you can’t fucking cook.”

”I don’t even have words for you right now," Ray says, and he finds himself trailing after Brad into the kitchen anyways. He ignores how much he reminds himself of Gidget, because if anyone is a puppy, it’s Walt, not Ray. “Where did you even learn how to cook?”

Brad smiles, a small fond thing that looks out of place on his face. “Bubbie," He says, pointedly not looking at Ray. “My grandmother taught me during summer breaks. It was supposed to keep me out of trouble.”

”Did it work?” Ray asks, leaning against the counter. He sends Brad a dark look when he spots his kitchen table, and it’s the first time he thinks he’s seen it since he moved in three years ago.

”Well," Brad starts, then pauses. He starts to pull things out of cabinets and Ray is going to pretend that he doesn’t notice that Brad’s reorganized his kitchen because they don’t need to have that particular fight. “Not really. But I do know how to make the best quiche in the universe.”

”Isn’t there bacon in quiche? Wouldn’t that make it non-kosher?” Ray asks, frowning at Brad. His stomach absolutely does not flutter when Brad winks at him and smiles again, his white teeth bright against his sunburnt skin. “You’re a terrible Jew.”

”Don’t tell my mother," Brad says, and he’s still smiling even as he starts banging pots and cabinet doors loud enough to make Gidget bark excitedly. “Make yourself useful and fill this with water.”

Ray accepts the pot as Brad shoves it towards him, because there is no reason not to do it. Also, because he is kind of hungry of eating diner food and the flavorless crap he knows how to cook, and Brad can’t possibly be any worse at this than Ray is.

Brad, it turns out is an impossibly good cook. Ray thinks he might have asked Brad to marry him and cook for him always, but he can’t remember much after the third plate of fettuccine alfredo.

”What do you usually do to pass time?” Brad asks when they’re washing dishes, elbow to elbow at the sink. He passes a plate to Ray to dry, and Ray’s so stuffed and warm and happy he can’t be bothered to yell at Brad for cleaning again, or for making Ray clean.

”I normally go for a run after dinner, sometime before I go to bed," Ray replies easily. He watches Brad’s hands as he scrubs at the banged up pot Ray inherited from his mother when she got herself a new stainless steel set, the way the suds stick to Brad’s wrist and arm until he turns the water back on. “I’ll take Gidget and we’ll just burn some fucking energy. It’s too hot to go during the day.”

”I should have known you’d make excuses for becoming soft after you left the Corps," Brad scoffs, smirking at Ray.

Ray feels no shame in splashing the water at Brad, smirking when Brad makes an indignant sound. “Shut the fuck up, the heat isn’t good for Gidget.”

”Of course," Brad says, mock seriously. “It’s the dog you’re worried about.” He turns on the faucet again and tilts the nozzle back, spraying Ray’s face with a shock of cold water.

The sound Ray makes is undignified and startled, but he’s too busy swiping out at Brad to care. The water is freezing, and he’s soaking wet, and Brad is laughing at him in a way that shouldn’t make Ray want to grin and remember the good times. “Fuck you, you fuckin’ asshole! What the fuck was that for?”

”I have no idea what you’re talking about," Brad says, laughing when Ray punches him in the shoulder. “Is that the best you can do?” He taunts, and he catches the next punch Ray throws at him easily. “We should go for a run.”

Ray blinks at Brad in confusion. “What, you mean right now?” He asks. When Brad just gives Ray a are you an idiot? look, Ray makes a face. “Dude, we just ate. I’m pretty sure that’s like, bad for your digestive system. I don’t want my stomach to explode. Gidget would eat me and so would the wild dogs and raccoons and -”

”Ray," Brad says, rolling his eyes. “Shut up before I spray you again.”

Ray shuts up. It occurs to him that Brad still has his fist, and when Ray tries to tug it back, Brad lets him. “Do we really have to go running?”

”Yes," Brad says. “We don’t want you to get fat.”

”Fuck you, Brad," Ray scowls, but he lets Brad shove him in the direction of his bedroom with the directions of finding some goddamn PT clothes. It takes Ray a few minutes to actually find his clothes, because everything is in drawers or in his closet now, and Ray is convinced there is something seriously wrong with Brad if he went through this much effort. On the other hand, Ray’s not sure whether to be embarrassed or turned on by Brad sorting and folding his skivvies.

Ray spends so much time contemplating it, that by the time he’s found a pair of shorts and one of his old PT tops with the Marine logo on it, Brad’s already changed. Ray blinks at him in confusion, because to get to the bathroom you have to go through Ray’s room, and Ray thinks he would have noticed if Brad walked in on him half naked.

Instead of pointing this out though, Ray shakes his head and says, “I’m not even going to ask.”

”Ask what?” Brad asks, quirking an eyebrow and shooting Ray a confused look. He’s crouching down and playing with Gidget’s ears and Ray thinks the Jack Russell is going to develop a complex from the amount of time Brad spends tugging at them. “Does your dog have a leash?”

”Gidget won’t run away," Ray says, which isn’t really an answer. He never puts a leash on Gidget when they go for a run, he doesn’t see why he should start now. Gidget knows exactly what’s going on when Ray and Brad make their way towards the door, and she bounces around their feet excitedly. Ray flashes Brad a quick smile, before holding the door open for him.

They don’t talk while they run, and they don’t run as fast as they could. Brad’s legs are longer than Ray’s, and while Gidget doesn’t have any trouble keeping up with Ray, it’d make her little heart explode to try and keep up with Brad. She leads the way happily, occasionally pausing to bark at something, and it’s the only sound other than the crickets and cicadas and the slapping of tennis shoes on concrete.

It’s not terrible as Ray thought it would be. His stomach is protesting running and he’s ninety nine percent sure he’s going to throw up the minute he stops, and his lungs are killing him from taking up smoking cigarettes again, but as long as Ray doesn’t focus on either of those things he should be fine. Just like as long as he doesn’t focus on the look of concentration on Brad’s face, or the way he quirks his lips into a small smile whenever he catches Ray looking at him.

Right. Easy easier said than done, Ray thinks bitterly. He ducks his head down to stare at his shoes, and the only thing Ray lets himself focus on is keeping pace with Brad and putting one foot in front of the other. No way is he going to show Brad that he’s maybe gotten a little soft since leaving the Marines.

When the house is in view again, Brad and Ray race towards the deck. There’s nothing on the line, and Ray doesn’t know what started it, just all of a sudden he’s putting forth everything he has into one last burst of speed and Brad is keeping up with him easily. Brad wins, because he’s a dick-sucking commie, and he plops down on the porch and sucks in a sharp breath in the humid air.

Both Ray and Gidget groan as they make it up the steps of the porch, and Ray stays on his feet long enough to let the Jack Russell in the front door before he collapses next to Brad. The sky is just starting to turn colors, the stars visible already on the pink-purple of the horizon.

”I spend so much time in the city, I forget what it’s like to see the stars sometimes," Brad says softly to Ray’s side, pillowing his head on his arms and smiling softly. “My grandfather used to take us camping, taught me the constellations. I always pretended I hated it.” Brad’s tone is neutral, and Ray has no idea what Brad is trying to share with him.

”My dad tried to teach me the constellations once," Ray says as the chorus of crickets and cicadas drown out the sound of his heartbeat and thoughts. “Back when he was still trying to be a good guy. He didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. He made up all these stories I thought were amazing, but then I got older and - dude, the shit he made up. It wasn’t even the Greek gods, it was just this total bullshit. The only one he got right was the Big Dipper.”

”You don’t talk about your dad," Brad says, rolling onto his side to face Ray, propping himself up on an elbow.

”No," Ray says, shaking his head. “I don’t.” He forces himself to his feet, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the pounding in his heart. Jesus, maybe he is a more than a little soft. “I’m going to take a shower and head to bed.”

Brad watches as Ray goes inside, Ray can feel Brad’s eyes on him, but Brad doesn’t say anything or ask Ray to stop, so Ray doesn’t. He stops by the kitchen long enough to make sure Gidget still has water in her bowl, filling it up in the sink. Her tail thwacks against his leg, and Ray scratches her behind the ears before he heads to take a shower.

He strips in his bedroom, lets his clothes stay where they fall because he honestly doesn’t care anymore. Just like he doesn’t care if Brad sees him naked, because the only thing Ray wants is to crawl under the hot spray of water and wash the sweat and grease and oil from his skin and just forget that his life sucks right now. His life sucks, except for the part where he actually feels kind of happy and likes having quiet moments with Brad. He likes that they’ve gone sort of domestic, which is probably the gayest thing Ray has ever thought - and Ray used to wonder what it would be like to suck Brad’s dick.

Ray doesn’t let his thoughts linger there, doesn’t pay attention to the interested twitch in his cock because Ray is not jerking off with Brad one thin wall away two nights in a row. He has more self-control than that. Even if Ray is starting to get the feeling that Brad might not mind as much as he once had, which is a mind fuck in and of itself. Ray doesn’t want to think about whether or not Brad’s had a change of heart. Ray doesn’t want to think about anything.

His shower is quick, perfunctory, and when he turns off the water Ray doesn’t bother to towel off before he leaves the bathroom and collapses in his bed, kicking at the blankets and sheets until he can curl up comfortably. The heat of the night will dry his skin soon enough, and Ray has to wash his sheets sooner or later, so it’s not like it’s a big deal.

Ray has almost managed to fall asleep when Brad knocks lightly on his bedroom door before pushing it open.

“Ray?” He asks the darkness, and Ray clenches his eyes shut and pretends to be asleep. He stands over by the door, before muttering something under his breath and closing the door behind him.

It takes Ray a moment to realize Brad has gone into the bathroom, doesn’t really occur to him until he hears the shower sputter to life. For a while Ray is content to just lay in the darkness and listen to the rush of water, so strange from this side of the door. Really, Ray has every intention of letting the sounds lull him to sleep, but there’s a soft moan from Brad’s side, barely audible over the groaning of the shower head.

Ray’s already hard and imagining Brad jerking off in his shower before Ray even realizes what’s happening. This is what he gets for not jerking off when he was in the shower earlier, Ray thinks, but it doesn’t stop him from sliding a hand between his thighs and stroking his cock lazily anyways.

The thought of Brad naked isn’t exactly a hard image to conjure up. Ray’s seen Brad’s junk before, though not on purpose and not stiff and in Brad’s hands. Ray wonders if Brad likes hard, relentless strokes or if he takes his time, teasing his balls and the head of his cock before he comes with a bitten of groan. Ray doesn’t care, he’d give Brad whichever one he wanted if it meant getting to touch and rub himself all over Brad.

Closing his eyes, Ray strains his ears to hear any other signs that Brad might be jerking off right now in Ray’s shower. Ray won’t hold out for Brad imagining him, but Ray’s cock is more than willing to pretend that Brad is. The water is too loud, the chirp of the crickets and cicadas too deafening, and the only thing Ray can hear is his own labored breathing as he thumbs the head of his cock and comes with a strangled whimper.

The shower clicks off not long after, and Ray wipes himself off with his sheet idly before rolling onto his stomach and pretending to be asleep again. Brad takes a few minutes to open the door, and the steam billows out into Ray’s room in a way that would make him bitch if he wasn’t pretending to be asleep. There’s another awkward moment where Ray gets the feeling Brad is watching him, but he doesn’t say anything and he closes the door to Ray’s bedroom behind himself quietly when he leaves.

It takes Ray forever to get to sleep after that.

Part Two