FIC: Untitled (Thunderheart, Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse, PG-13)
TITLE: Untitled
RATING: PG-13
PAIRING: Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse
SUMMARY: Roughhousing. For cottoncandy_bingo prompt play-fighting.
The sky was dark when they got home, even though they’d gone in before dawn. Part of that was the season-the hoarfrost crunched beneath their feet as they walked from their cruisers to the door-and part of it was half the sheriff’s department out sick with some stomach thing.
There was a nursery rhyme Walter had some dim recollection of, about a man and his wife. They’d both been real poor, but he was thin and she was fat. Probably it had some secret meaning about the British patriarchy, or the nature of poverty, but what it reminded Walter of was him and Ray. In times of stress, Ray shut that part of himself off, growing lean as a jackal, sharp-boned. Walter ate.
Walter mused over this as currents of warmth and savory aroma drifted up to him from the stove. Ray had only made it as far as the couch, where he lay on his back, his icy-wet sneakers up on the arm, getting water and muck everywhere, not like he hadn’t been told one thousand times to keep his shoes off the upholstery. He had one arm slung over his eyes, and his chest was moving so slow and steady Walter wondered if maybe he wasn’t really asleep.
“Soup’s on,” Walter said, and took the pot off the burner. On the couch, Ray’s muscles tensed just enough to let Walter know he was playing possum. “Raymond.”
“Not hungry.”
Walter frowned. This was week two of the two of them working like they were five people, and he could count Ray’s ribs just by sight when he took his shirt off.
“Well, I made supper for you, anyway. You don’t want to let it go to waste, do you?”
Ray didn’t move an inch. Walter decided to give him a minute. He carefully laid out the table, and then he arranged the food artfully on their plates. He glanced over to Ray, still on the couch, still with his arm over his eyes.
Walter crossed the room. Ray tensed a little as he heard the boots on the hardwood, but that was all. Unacceptable. Walter swatted at Ray’s sneakers hard enough to dislodge them from the couch; Ray’s legs went to the floor and the rest of him jumped up, flushed and startled.
“Told you to keep your feet off the couch,” Walter said. “C’mon, supper’s ready.”
“I said I wasn’t hungry,” Ray said. He bent to slip off his shoes.
“And I said I didn’t care,” Walter said, and grabbed Ray’s arm to pull him to his feet.
Ray’s eyes narrowed.
It was only a second, and Walter felt his heart crash through his stomach. Then a moment of suspension, of his feet off the ground and gravity greedy to have him back, and suddenly he was looking up at Ray from the flat of his back.
Ray had one eyebrow slightly arched, and he was smiling, self-satisfied as Jimmy when he found unguarded leftovers.
That wouldn’t do.
Walter stayed on his back until Ray started away to the bedroom. The second he wasn’t being guarded anymore, Walter grabbed Ray around the middle and tackled him to the floor. Ray squirmed, and Walter watched the big muscles in Ray’s shoulders flex beneath the skin, like watching a racehorse run, as he bucked him off. Deciding to forfeit pride for the upper hand, Walter dove, catching Ray around the knees. He tripped and fell to the floor, grunting as he crashed down into the hardwood.
Walter stroked his hand over Ray’s short-cropped, wheat-gold hair. “I’m sorry, honey. You hurt?”
Ray was still for a moment, and quiet. Walter let go of him, and half-stood, bending over to help Ray up.
This was the moment Ray had been waiting for, and he jumped up-completely unscathed, and laughing-and sprinted away. Walter cursed. The oldest trick in the book. He ran after Ray, but Ray was fast, and tore through the house like a young buck, all energy and long limbs. Eventually, Walter stopped chasing him and leaned, panting, against the kitchen counter. And waited.
After a moment, Ray came galloping past him again, his feet light on the linoleum. Walter rushed him while he was in the air, driving him against the wall, pinning him.
Ray was barely breathing heavy, but he was red-cheeked, and now that he had his hands on him, Walter could see he was sweating. He bucked, but he was tired from running, and Walter had a good hold on him, his hands pinning Ray’s wrists and his broader body boxing him in.
“Lemme go,” Ray said.
Walter chuckled. “And why would I do that?”
Ray frowned, but Walter eased it from his face pretty quick, leaning in to kiss him, rough. Ray arched every inch of his body up against Walter’s, greedy.
“Eager, there, aren’t we?” Walter breathed.
“Touch me,” Ray begged, and Walter let one of Ray’s hands free to undo Ray’s fly. He thought at first that Ray might bolt again, but he stayed perfectly-obediently-still, up against the wall.
Walter kissed him again, softer this time, and worked his hand down into Ray’s jeans.
“You gonna be good?” he asked.
Ray’s eyes squeezed closed, and he bucked against Walter’s hand. “Yes, Walter, I promise-I’ll be good, just . . . please . . .”
Walter believed him. What he couldn’t believe was how sexy Ray was all pressed up against the wall and being still, obeying.
Walter wondered what other orders Ray would obey.
“We’re gonna have fun tonight,” Walter said, and Ray just nodded along, compliant, in response.