Original ficcage!!
Title: Skull
Characters: Alverez, Bridge, Lt. Merritt [there and back again - original series.]
Prompt: 81. How?
Word Count: 449
Summary: Alverez wants a cow; Bridge thinks he’s an idiot.
Rating: PG [language, preslash]
Notes: Idiocy. Pure stupidity made me write this. A long time ago. ( my table )
skull
“Charlie, it’s like communism, I think. Looks real good on paper. Not so great when you work eighteen hour shifts and walk the four miles home with ninety cents in your pocket.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This idea’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous.” Charlie shot his partner a sparkling, lopsided grin. “Besides, how the hell else is it going to work? You want to lift this piece of shit up yourself, haul it into Falluja on your back?”
“Can’t be that heavy,” Jer mused, arms folded tightly across his chest.
“Yeah, a ton maybe. Maybe more.”
“Nah, not that heavy.”
“Yeah, babe, it’s got to be,” Charlie replied, nodding, his index fingers curled into his beltloops. He looked down into the smoldering ditch in fascinated disgust, an expression usually reserved for commonplace soldiers and grunts, not respectable staff sergeants such as himself.
“Don’t call me babe,” Jer said.
“Alright, hon.”
Jer threw up his hands in imminent defeat. “You know what, fine. Take your goddamn winch and pull that goddamned cow out yourself. I’m not helping you. Fucking dumbass, the thing’s half-dead anyways.”
“I knew you’d come round.” Charlie grinned, victorious.
His partner’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He glanced at the darkening horizon, at the writhing bull in the bomb-spotted ditch off on the shoulder, at the waiting Humvees, vibrating as their engines mewled and spat in the summer heat, at the Marines who took refuge in the vehicles’ long shadows. Jer toed at the loose gravel with the tip of his boot and scowled. “Make sure the Lieutenant knows what you want to do before you start hacking away at it.”
“Far out,” Charlie drawled, now gripping his rifle-he looked over at Lieutenant Merritt and called the older man’s name.
“What’s up, Sergeant?” Merritt called, hardly glancing up from the maps spread out on the hood of his Humvee.
“There’s a bull in the ditch, sir, and it’s still alive. Request to put it out of its misery?”
Lieutenant Merritt’s eyebrow raised in interest. “Its head intact?”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie responded, loyal, beaming.
“Check with Wendell and Weirs. Don’t need your bullet triggering an explosive or nothin’ , Al.”
“You want to pull that monster up for its head?!” Jer hissed, eyes wide, incredulous.
Charlie shrugged. “Well, for its skull actually. It’ll go on the wall.”
“That’s so sick, man, that’s so fucking sick.”
Lieutenant Merritt, who had joined them at the top of the ditch, clapped Alverez on the shoulder and looked down at the bloodied bull. He watched it passively, hitching up his trousers with a slender thumb and patting Alverez’s back with the other. “I think it’s kind of cool.”
Jer rolled his eyes. Iraq was for idiots.
Characters: Alverez, Bridge, Lt. Merritt [there and back again - original series.]
Prompt: 81. How?
Word Count: 449
Summary: Alverez wants a cow; Bridge thinks he’s an idiot.
Rating: PG [language, preslash]
Notes: Idiocy. Pure stupidity made me write this. A long time ago. ( my table )
skull
“Charlie, it’s like communism, I think. Looks real good on paper. Not so great when you work eighteen hour shifts and walk the four miles home with ninety cents in your pocket.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This idea’s beautiful, absolutely gorgeous.” Charlie shot his partner a sparkling, lopsided grin. “Besides, how the hell else is it going to work? You want to lift this piece of shit up yourself, haul it into Falluja on your back?”
“Can’t be that heavy,” Jer mused, arms folded tightly across his chest.
“Yeah, a ton maybe. Maybe more.”
“Nah, not that heavy.”
“Yeah, babe, it’s got to be,” Charlie replied, nodding, his index fingers curled into his beltloops. He looked down into the smoldering ditch in fascinated disgust, an expression usually reserved for commonplace soldiers and grunts, not respectable staff sergeants such as himself.
“Don’t call me babe,” Jer said.
“Alright, hon.”
Jer threw up his hands in imminent defeat. “You know what, fine. Take your goddamn winch and pull that goddamned cow out yourself. I’m not helping you. Fucking dumbass, the thing’s half-dead anyways.”
“I knew you’d come round.” Charlie grinned, victorious.
His partner’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He glanced at the darkening horizon, at the writhing bull in the bomb-spotted ditch off on the shoulder, at the waiting Humvees, vibrating as their engines mewled and spat in the summer heat, at the Marines who took refuge in the vehicles’ long shadows. Jer toed at the loose gravel with the tip of his boot and scowled. “Make sure the Lieutenant knows what you want to do before you start hacking away at it.”
“Far out,” Charlie drawled, now gripping his rifle-he looked over at Lieutenant Merritt and called the older man’s name.
“What’s up, Sergeant?” Merritt called, hardly glancing up from the maps spread out on the hood of his Humvee.
“There’s a bull in the ditch, sir, and it’s still alive. Request to put it out of its misery?”
Lieutenant Merritt’s eyebrow raised in interest. “Its head intact?”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie responded, loyal, beaming.
“Check with Wendell and Weirs. Don’t need your bullet triggering an explosive or nothin’ , Al.”
“You want to pull that monster up for its head?!” Jer hissed, eyes wide, incredulous.
Charlie shrugged. “Well, for its skull actually. It’ll go on the wall.”
“That’s so sick, man, that’s so fucking sick.”
Lieutenant Merritt, who had joined them at the top of the ditch, clapped Alverez on the shoulder and looked down at the bloodied bull. He watched it passively, hitching up his trousers with a slender thumb and patting Alverez’s back with the other. “I think it’s kind of cool.”
Jer rolled his eyes. Iraq was for idiots.