fic: "These Tides Have Never Been Stranger"
recipient: timeofnoreply
author: salvadore_hart
title: These Tides Have Never Been Stranger
pairing: Ray/Walt
rating: PG-13
word count: 1,826 words
summary/warnings: After their tour Ray and Walt begin a life of domesticity. Until the day Walt wakes up and Ray is gone.
author notes: I really need to thank schlicky for being so ridiculously patient with me. Written for this picture and for the prompt; “It's things that we've both been through that makes me feel like I am upside down” - Lou Reed
Walt wakes up with the setting sun. The sheets are tangled around his ankles and the arm he has stretched beneath his pillow has fallen asleep. There are creases from the linens on his cheek and his eyes pull apart with great effort. He had pulled an all-nighter the night before, going through flashcards about brain chemistry and psychological vocabulary to help Ray prepare for his exams. When at last Walt had pushed himself up from the carpet and stumbled off to bed, Ray had still been immersed in black on white text and lines of highlighter. Before he had left the room, Walt had run his fingers through Ray's hair and had bent at the waist to murmur against Ray's ear.
“Come to bed soon, dickhead,” Walt had said fondly.
Sometime in the earliest hours Walt thought he had felt Ray beside him in the bed. The familiar weight of Ray's hand on his hip and ankles knocking against his own. But now it is late afternoon and the other side of the bed is long empty, and the sound of birds and cars is sneaking in through the gap between the door and the floor. There is a light on in the hallway getting in through the same gap but the bedroom is dimmed by the dark curtains pulled across the glass.
It's late enough that Ray should be back from class right now.
And it's strange, Walt thinks. That the bed is still empty even though Ray likes to soak in sleep like a cat, lounging against the sheets until Walt bodily drags him from it. He says that he is making up for lost time and Walt likes to tease that Ray is just lazy.
So why, Walt wonders as he squints at the room, is Ray gone.
He pads from the bedroom, carpet sliding under his bare feet as he moves slowly and stealthily from the bedroom and down the hall. The light in the hall is coming from the west facing front window casting long shadows in many of the rooms. The house has never felt more still and Walt's fingers itch for his KABAR, but it is locked in his bedside drawer like it is most nights and has been for the last three years. Walt balls his hands into fists as he turns the corner into the kitchen.
The tile is cold beneath his toes and he arches a little onto his toes.
The kitchen is just as empty as the hallway and the front room were and there is a staleness to the air that is too new. It is probably all in Walt's head, but the baby hairs at the back of his neck are standing to attention while he purveys their kitchen which isn't any more or less messy than usual. Something feels off and it's making Walt dig his finger nails into his palms. He can't decide if everything is off because Ray is gone or if Ray's absence is a symptom of a greater issue.
Things are much clearer when Walt sees the post-it note on the door of the fridge.
He wants to rage and he wants to rush from the house as he is; dressed in only a ratty pair of boxers with a weekends worth of scruff. The plan was to use his single week off to grow a beard, he had a bet with Garza and somehow it seems to frivolous. Because Ray with his dark eyes and his darker tattoos, unironic Doc Martins and tank tops is missing.
“Stupid Motherfucker,” Walt growls as he rips the note from the surface of the fridge.
Walt, baby, meet me in Nevada.
It's not hard to figure out that Ray meant Nevada, Missouri. Over the last few years Walt has flown back with Ray to visit his family, the first time with his hands tucked nervously in the pockets of his jeans while he stood on Mrs. Person's porch. Ray's grandmother, also Mrs. Person but who had called Walt 'dear' and asked that she be called Grandma Person.
With his fingers tapping nervously on the plastic arm rests while the plane goes through turbulence, Walt thinks about Grandma Person saying, despite Ray's protests, “I've had enough children having children that I've damn well earned the right to be called whatever I like.” Walt had gaped and Ray had laughed, head back the lines of his neck long with his Adam's apple bobbing around the sound. He looked the same as when, back in Brad's vector, he had loudly caterwauled his way through 'Sk8terboi.' And Walt, who had just dropped out of the corps to drive three thousand miles just to see Ray's fucked up smile, had been in love. He had wanted to kiss Ray.
Now he wants to kill him.
The plane won't land fast enough. Outside of the window there are green squares of farmland; the plane is still too far from the ground. What's worse is that Walt still has to drive from Kansas City to get to Nevada. Walt wouldn't call himself a suspicious man, outside of keeping Charms out of the humvee, but he nearly wants to cross his fingers and hope the stupid motherfucker he calls his boyfriend is at his mother's house. Because Mama and Grandma Person would be the only two people in the world who could stop Walt from giving Ray a black eye.
But Ray isn't in Nevada when Walt gets to town. He isn't even in Nevada when Walt's plane touches down on the tarmac, squealing and burning while Walt shifts around under his seat belt. Ray is over thirteen miles away, northward if you follow the main state highways. Or at least, that's what Mrs. Person tells Walt through the screen door, fanning her self with a leaflet while she peers past him into the afternoon sun. When she looks back at Walt with Ray's eyes and Ray's dimples she appears apologetic. But she won't give him any idea what is going on. It's humid in Missouri, sweat trickling down the line of Walt's spine as he stand on the porch. There is dirt on the old and weather wood that the porch is made of that Walt tracked with his worn running shoes. He longs, or at least feels melancholy to remember, heavy boots and Kevlar and the sun and sand of Iraq.
He wants Ray back.
“His grandfather owned property up by the great lakes,” Mrs. Person says, flapping her leaflet and shaking out her blouse. If Walt had accepted her offer of lemonade he could probably be inside, but he doesn't want to waste time. The rental car came with a GPS system, but Walt takes the old crinkled and pen-lined map that Mrs. Person offers and leaves it spread half open on the passenger seat beside him.
Walt drives straight through the night. The sun is rising when Walt drives the car slowly off of the main road and onto a smaller dirt road. The car shakes and Walt ducks his head so he can see under the low hanging branches of pine trees to the mostly concealed cabin. The map has slid from the seat to the floor and the very few things he managed to pack before running for the airport have fallen from the backseat to the floor.
But the only thing that is important is the dock visible from the drive way and the pale figure laid out on the wooden surface.
Walt slides out of the car and closes the door as quietly as he can behind him. Ray, if he notices Walt's arrival, doesn't turn around. He is dressed only in a pair of short, legs naked and all of his tattoos bare in the purple and red the light. There are storm clouds hanging low, and sliding soft and slow from one of the lake in the direction of the air. A cool enough breeze is whipping the strands of Ray's dark hair.
When Walt has reached the end of the dock he finally speaks. He calls Ray's name in a low voice, not even remotely close to the range or rage he wants to express.
Then Ray turns around and smiles, teeth and dimples bared as he stands still in front of Walt. It is the calmest Walt has probably ever scene Ray, but Ray does have an unhealthy relationship with caffeine products.
“You're pissed,” Ray says. A laugh almost escapes his lips and all of the panic Walt felt rages up and turns itself into locomotive energy. He sprints and tackles Ray to the pier, growling and shouting as he tries to pin Ray's shoulders. And Ray rolls with him, fighting with just as much force but with an air of amusement as opposed to anger.
“I hate you, you stupid motherfucker!” Walt shouts in Ray's face as he slams Ray's shoulders against the wood. The wind is picking up around them and the blue of the lake is turning black as the clouds cover the sky.
“Don't you ever fucking do that again,” Walt hisses. His fingernails are digging into the flesh of Ray's shoulders and he was just so scared. Five years, three of them in the same bed most nights, and Walt had never felt so separated from the man as he did in the last thirty-six hours. He bites at Ray's lips, working his way into the heat of Ray's mouth, working harder than he needs to because Ray willingly let's him in.
Ray's hands are familiar weights on Walt's back as he slides his thigh between Ray's legs. Ray's lips and teeth on Walt's neck are a godsend, but not as much as the moans and soft noises Walt rocks out of Ray. And there is usually too much spit because Ray likes his kisses wet and filthy, but now Ray's lips are chapped and his mouth is dry like he hasn't bee hydrating. Walt takes in the taste of stale breath and doesn't think about toothpaste but of how much the taste reminds Walt of the sweat smell that is so uniquely Ray that Walt only ever smells when his nose is behind Ray's ear. Ray's fingers slide into his back pocket, curling and squeezing at Walt's ass. He pulls Walt forward and Walt goes easily, pressing Ray down so he can be sure Ray won't wriggle away and make it halfway to Alaska.
There may or may not be thunder overhead when they shake against each other, coming like teenagers without even the touch of a hand. Walt's skin burns from the feel of Ray's scruff against his skin and he hopes Ray's skin is red and pained too. He wants some part of him to stay on Ray's skin, just in case Ray slips away in the night.
author: salvadore_hart
title: These Tides Have Never Been Stranger
pairing: Ray/Walt
rating: PG-13
word count: 1,826 words
summary/warnings: After their tour Ray and Walt begin a life of domesticity. Until the day Walt wakes up and Ray is gone.
author notes: I really need to thank schlicky for being so ridiculously patient with me. Written for this picture and for the prompt; “It's things that we've both been through that makes me feel like I am upside down” - Lou Reed
Walt wakes up with the setting sun. The sheets are tangled around his ankles and the arm he has stretched beneath his pillow has fallen asleep. There are creases from the linens on his cheek and his eyes pull apart with great effort. He had pulled an all-nighter the night before, going through flashcards about brain chemistry and psychological vocabulary to help Ray prepare for his exams. When at last Walt had pushed himself up from the carpet and stumbled off to bed, Ray had still been immersed in black on white text and lines of highlighter. Before he had left the room, Walt had run his fingers through Ray's hair and had bent at the waist to murmur against Ray's ear.
“Come to bed soon, dickhead,” Walt had said fondly.
Sometime in the earliest hours Walt thought he had felt Ray beside him in the bed. The familiar weight of Ray's hand on his hip and ankles knocking against his own. But now it is late afternoon and the other side of the bed is long empty, and the sound of birds and cars is sneaking in through the gap between the door and the floor. There is a light on in the hallway getting in through the same gap but the bedroom is dimmed by the dark curtains pulled across the glass.
It's late enough that Ray should be back from class right now.
And it's strange, Walt thinks. That the bed is still empty even though Ray likes to soak in sleep like a cat, lounging against the sheets until Walt bodily drags him from it. He says that he is making up for lost time and Walt likes to tease that Ray is just lazy.
So why, Walt wonders as he squints at the room, is Ray gone.
He pads from the bedroom, carpet sliding under his bare feet as he moves slowly and stealthily from the bedroom and down the hall. The light in the hall is coming from the west facing front window casting long shadows in many of the rooms. The house has never felt more still and Walt's fingers itch for his KABAR, but it is locked in his bedside drawer like it is most nights and has been for the last three years. Walt balls his hands into fists as he turns the corner into the kitchen.
The tile is cold beneath his toes and he arches a little onto his toes.
The kitchen is just as empty as the hallway and the front room were and there is a staleness to the air that is too new. It is probably all in Walt's head, but the baby hairs at the back of his neck are standing to attention while he purveys their kitchen which isn't any more or less messy than usual. Something feels off and it's making Walt dig his finger nails into his palms. He can't decide if everything is off because Ray is gone or if Ray's absence is a symptom of a greater issue.
Things are much clearer when Walt sees the post-it note on the door of the fridge.
He wants to rage and he wants to rush from the house as he is; dressed in only a ratty pair of boxers with a weekends worth of scruff. The plan was to use his single week off to grow a beard, he had a bet with Garza and somehow it seems to frivolous. Because Ray with his dark eyes and his darker tattoos, unironic Doc Martins and tank tops is missing.
“Stupid Motherfucker,” Walt growls as he rips the note from the surface of the fridge.
Walt, baby, meet me in Nevada.
It's not hard to figure out that Ray meant Nevada, Missouri. Over the last few years Walt has flown back with Ray to visit his family, the first time with his hands tucked nervously in the pockets of his jeans while he stood on Mrs. Person's porch. Ray's grandmother, also Mrs. Person but who had called Walt 'dear' and asked that she be called Grandma Person.
With his fingers tapping nervously on the plastic arm rests while the plane goes through turbulence, Walt thinks about Grandma Person saying, despite Ray's protests, “I've had enough children having children that I've damn well earned the right to be called whatever I like.” Walt had gaped and Ray had laughed, head back the lines of his neck long with his Adam's apple bobbing around the sound. He looked the same as when, back in Brad's vector, he had loudly caterwauled his way through 'Sk8terboi.' And Walt, who had just dropped out of the corps to drive three thousand miles just to see Ray's fucked up smile, had been in love. He had wanted to kiss Ray.
Now he wants to kill him.
The plane won't land fast enough. Outside of the window there are green squares of farmland; the plane is still too far from the ground. What's worse is that Walt still has to drive from Kansas City to get to Nevada. Walt wouldn't call himself a suspicious man, outside of keeping Charms out of the humvee, but he nearly wants to cross his fingers and hope the stupid motherfucker he calls his boyfriend is at his mother's house. Because Mama and Grandma Person would be the only two people in the world who could stop Walt from giving Ray a black eye.
But Ray isn't in Nevada when Walt gets to town. He isn't even in Nevada when Walt's plane touches down on the tarmac, squealing and burning while Walt shifts around under his seat belt. Ray is over thirteen miles away, northward if you follow the main state highways. Or at least, that's what Mrs. Person tells Walt through the screen door, fanning her self with a leaflet while she peers past him into the afternoon sun. When she looks back at Walt with Ray's eyes and Ray's dimples she appears apologetic. But she won't give him any idea what is going on. It's humid in Missouri, sweat trickling down the line of Walt's spine as he stand on the porch. There is dirt on the old and weather wood that the porch is made of that Walt tracked with his worn running shoes. He longs, or at least feels melancholy to remember, heavy boots and Kevlar and the sun and sand of Iraq.
He wants Ray back.
“His grandfather owned property up by the great lakes,” Mrs. Person says, flapping her leaflet and shaking out her blouse. If Walt had accepted her offer of lemonade he could probably be inside, but he doesn't want to waste time. The rental car came with a GPS system, but Walt takes the old crinkled and pen-lined map that Mrs. Person offers and leaves it spread half open on the passenger seat beside him.
Walt drives straight through the night. The sun is rising when Walt drives the car slowly off of the main road and onto a smaller dirt road. The car shakes and Walt ducks his head so he can see under the low hanging branches of pine trees to the mostly concealed cabin. The map has slid from the seat to the floor and the very few things he managed to pack before running for the airport have fallen from the backseat to the floor.
But the only thing that is important is the dock visible from the drive way and the pale figure laid out on the wooden surface.
Walt slides out of the car and closes the door as quietly as he can behind him. Ray, if he notices Walt's arrival, doesn't turn around. He is dressed only in a pair of short, legs naked and all of his tattoos bare in the purple and red the light. There are storm clouds hanging low, and sliding soft and slow from one of the lake in the direction of the air. A cool enough breeze is whipping the strands of Ray's dark hair.
When Walt has reached the end of the dock he finally speaks. He calls Ray's name in a low voice, not even remotely close to the range or rage he wants to express.
Then Ray turns around and smiles, teeth and dimples bared as he stands still in front of Walt. It is the calmest Walt has probably ever scene Ray, but Ray does have an unhealthy relationship with caffeine products.
“You're pissed,” Ray says. A laugh almost escapes his lips and all of the panic Walt felt rages up and turns itself into locomotive energy. He sprints and tackles Ray to the pier, growling and shouting as he tries to pin Ray's shoulders. And Ray rolls with him, fighting with just as much force but with an air of amusement as opposed to anger.
“I hate you, you stupid motherfucker!” Walt shouts in Ray's face as he slams Ray's shoulders against the wood. The wind is picking up around them and the blue of the lake is turning black as the clouds cover the sky.
“Don't you ever fucking do that again,” Walt hisses. His fingernails are digging into the flesh of Ray's shoulders and he was just so scared. Five years, three of them in the same bed most nights, and Walt had never felt so separated from the man as he did in the last thirty-six hours. He bites at Ray's lips, working his way into the heat of Ray's mouth, working harder than he needs to because Ray willingly let's him in.
Ray's hands are familiar weights on Walt's back as he slides his thigh between Ray's legs. Ray's lips and teeth on Walt's neck are a godsend, but not as much as the moans and soft noises Walt rocks out of Ray. And there is usually too much spit because Ray likes his kisses wet and filthy, but now Ray's lips are chapped and his mouth is dry like he hasn't bee hydrating. Walt takes in the taste of stale breath and doesn't think about toothpaste but of how much the taste reminds Walt of the sweat smell that is so uniquely Ray that Walt only ever smells when his nose is behind Ray's ear. Ray's fingers slide into his back pocket, curling and squeezing at Walt's ass. He pulls Walt forward and Walt goes easily, pressing Ray down so he can be sure Ray won't wriggle away and make it halfway to Alaska.
There may or may not be thunder overhead when they shake against each other, coming like teenagers without even the touch of a hand. Walt's skin burns from the feel of Ray's scruff against his skin and he hopes Ray's skin is red and pained too. He wants some part of him to stay on Ray's skin, just in case Ray slips away in the night.