fic: "Then It Gets Good"
recipient: asimplechord
author: timeofnoreply
title: Then It Gets Good
pairing: Ray/Walt
rating: PG-13
word count: 1,196
summary/warnings: Walt always has the same dream. He doesn't dream every night, but when he does, it's never any different.
author notes: Thanks to my beta reader, and to asimplechord: I hope you enjoy it! :-)
Walt always has the same dream. He doesn't dream every night, but when he does, it's never any different. If this were the movies or an epic first novel, Walt's dream would be about something ponderous and heavy - Trombley shooting that little shepherd boy, maybe, or himself fucking up that civilian car at the roadblock. Something really haunting, the stuff of Oscars and Pulitzers. But since this is real life, and Walt is a Reconnaissance Marine with a million dollars' worth of training and a slightly underdeveloped sense of regret, Walt's dream is completely mundane.
In his dream, he's always sitting on a cot at Camp Mathilda, trying to take his boots off so he can get a few hours of shut-eye before the morning comes. At Mathilda, nobody knows what the next day is going to bring: is it going to be another fourteen hours of drills and maneuvers, or are they going to get the order to move out, finally? The problem is, though, that his boots won't come off.
They're totally fucking stuck.
"Lousy fucking shitty-ass motherfuckers," Walt grunts, yanking at the toe of his left boot. It still doesn't budge. If anything, the goddamn thing gets tighter.
Then a familiar weight drops down onto the cot next to him. It's Ray, wearing his stupid Elvis sunglasses he'd found at a costume shop last Halloween, even though A) it is night time and B) they are inside. "Gee, Hasser, you should really work on adding in some more expletives. That just didn't have enough," he says.
"Go fuck yourself, Person." Walt decides to try the right boot instead.
"Well, that's a pretty good start," Ray answers conversationally, as if they're discussing the weather. "But there's definitely room for improvement there."
"How come you can't just be helpful for once?" he complains.
"What the fuck do you mean, 'helpful'? I'm keeping you company, homes. You mean that isn't enough?" Ray flashes a grin at him.
"I mean like, actually helpful." Walt gestures down to his feet; he could swear that the bootlaces have managed to work themselves into even more intricate knots than he'd tied them into this morning. In fact, he's pretty sure that these are some serious Navy knots.
"Jesus Christ, you're a fucking needy bastard."
Ray leans over - more like around Walt, if he wants to think about it that way - radiating warmth even though they aren't touching, and Walt can catch the scent of Rudy's gourmet espresso on Ray's breath under the gritty toothpaste they all hoard from the PX like a bunch of demented squirrels, knowing they won't get any more after they're sent over the border. It's a nice combination, if Walt ignores the scent of cheap tobacco clinging to Ray's hair. He must have bummed a Swisher from Poke at some point over the day; Walt reflects on second thought that knowing Espera, he probably only let Ray take the last few remaining puffs, when he was already almost done anyway. He guesses it's a good thing that Ray isn't super picky. Probably. At least he always trades whatever goods he's got for the peanut butter in the MRE that Walt always manages to draw somehow. It's always his luck to wind up with rotten fucking peanut butter. He'd never liked it even before he developed the allergy.
"Hasser, didn't your momma ever teach you how to tie your shoes properly? No wonder you can't get 'em off. You've got everything all kinds of fucked up here. Shit, even my mom showed me how to do up my laces before I hit kindergarten." Ray laughs, but he starts untangling everything anyway, his fingers weaving quick minarets up and down Walt's feet. Eventually, Ray has everything unfucked, and Walt breathes a sigh of relief.
"See? Nothing to it," Ray says with a crooked little grin when he's done.
"Easy for you to say, you fucking idiot savant," Walt answers. "They're gonna make Rain Man 2 and you're gonna be Dustin Hoffman's character, only with radios instead of cards."
"Doesn't that make you Tom Cruise?"
Walt ignores that particular question in favor of trying to extract his left foot from the boot yet again. Infuriatingly, the leather, which had loosened under Ray's touch, constricts the second he pulls at it, and he groans. "Oh, goddamnit."
"Gimme," Ray orders.
Walt shoves his feet into Ray's lap, and within seconds, his feet are wiggling free in their sweat-bleached socks, the boots discarded on the floor like empty beer cans. When he looks up to thank Ray for his help, Ray isn't there anymore, and Walt realizes that he's alone in the tent. It's at that point in Walt's dream that he always wakes up, surprised to find himself in a real bed.
He stretches his arms over his head, extending his legs as far as they’ll go, and luxuriates in the early-morning sunshine. It feels good in a way that it never did when he was at home in Virginia, more concentrated and far-reaching, somehow. The sunlight seems to pervade everything in southern California. Walt doesn’t bother to comment on that, though, just staring up at the pristine white ceiling with a little half-smile playing around the corners of his lips. As far as recurring dreams go, it could be a fuck of a lot worse, he thinks.
Eventually, Ray stirs next to him, fuzzing awake with the intensity of a baseball being lobbed at a person’s head, and makes an incredibly dissatisfied noise that only the uncaffeinated have perfected so far as Walt knows.
“Hey, darlin’,” he says, amused by the sight of Ray’s slitted eyes, glazed with too much bourbon and not enough sleep.
“Fuck you.” That looks like about all Ray can manage right now.
“You’re such a morning person.” Walt can’t resist reaching over and ruffling Ray’s hair.
“I hate you. Fuck off and die,” is the rather anticipated response Walt receives, much to his entertainment.
“You don’t hate me.”
“The fuck I don’t. You and your goddamn idea to celebrate the Kentucky Derby last night. Jesus,” Ray moans.
“I think you’ll be okay. I have a nice breakfast planned,” Walt tells him.
“Breakfast?” He sort of turns green at the idea of it.
“Biscuits and gravy. Homemade, of course. I can’t let it get around that I don’t know how to roll out a real biscuit,” Walt answers, smiling as he twirls a lock of Ray’s hair around his finger.
“That sounds great, but can you maybe let me die first?” Ray asks.
“I’ve got a better idea,” he says decisively, and rolls over some to wrap his arms around Ray’s waist, nuzzling the side of his neck; Walt is well aware that it drives Ray absolutely fucking crazy, which, of course, is what he hopes to achieve here.
“Oh?” It’s more of a soft moan than a real question.
“Mm-hm.” Walt smiles, nipping at the soft skin he finds at the base of Ray’s throat, eliciting a yelp of surprise. “Come on, Ray. What’s life without a little pain?”
Ray doesn’t have a whole fucking lot to complain about after what comes next.
author: timeofnoreply
title: Then It Gets Good
pairing: Ray/Walt
rating: PG-13
word count: 1,196
summary/warnings: Walt always has the same dream. He doesn't dream every night, but when he does, it's never any different.
author notes: Thanks to my beta reader, and to asimplechord: I hope you enjoy it! :-)
Walt always has the same dream. He doesn't dream every night, but when he does, it's never any different. If this were the movies or an epic first novel, Walt's dream would be about something ponderous and heavy - Trombley shooting that little shepherd boy, maybe, or himself fucking up that civilian car at the roadblock. Something really haunting, the stuff of Oscars and Pulitzers. But since this is real life, and Walt is a Reconnaissance Marine with a million dollars' worth of training and a slightly underdeveloped sense of regret, Walt's dream is completely mundane.
In his dream, he's always sitting on a cot at Camp Mathilda, trying to take his boots off so he can get a few hours of shut-eye before the morning comes. At Mathilda, nobody knows what the next day is going to bring: is it going to be another fourteen hours of drills and maneuvers, or are they going to get the order to move out, finally? The problem is, though, that his boots won't come off.
They're totally fucking stuck.
"Lousy fucking shitty-ass motherfuckers," Walt grunts, yanking at the toe of his left boot. It still doesn't budge. If anything, the goddamn thing gets tighter.
Then a familiar weight drops down onto the cot next to him. It's Ray, wearing his stupid Elvis sunglasses he'd found at a costume shop last Halloween, even though A) it is night time and B) they are inside. "Gee, Hasser, you should really work on adding in some more expletives. That just didn't have enough," he says.
"Go fuck yourself, Person." Walt decides to try the right boot instead.
"Well, that's a pretty good start," Ray answers conversationally, as if they're discussing the weather. "But there's definitely room for improvement there."
"How come you can't just be helpful for once?" he complains.
"What the fuck do you mean, 'helpful'? I'm keeping you company, homes. You mean that isn't enough?" Ray flashes a grin at him.
"I mean like, actually helpful." Walt gestures down to his feet; he could swear that the bootlaces have managed to work themselves into even more intricate knots than he'd tied them into this morning. In fact, he's pretty sure that these are some serious Navy knots.
"Jesus Christ, you're a fucking needy bastard."
Ray leans over - more like around Walt, if he wants to think about it that way - radiating warmth even though they aren't touching, and Walt can catch the scent of Rudy's gourmet espresso on Ray's breath under the gritty toothpaste they all hoard from the PX like a bunch of demented squirrels, knowing they won't get any more after they're sent over the border. It's a nice combination, if Walt ignores the scent of cheap tobacco clinging to Ray's hair. He must have bummed a Swisher from Poke at some point over the day; Walt reflects on second thought that knowing Espera, he probably only let Ray take the last few remaining puffs, when he was already almost done anyway. He guesses it's a good thing that Ray isn't super picky. Probably. At least he always trades whatever goods he's got for the peanut butter in the MRE that Walt always manages to draw somehow. It's always his luck to wind up with rotten fucking peanut butter. He'd never liked it even before he developed the allergy.
"Hasser, didn't your momma ever teach you how to tie your shoes properly? No wonder you can't get 'em off. You've got everything all kinds of fucked up here. Shit, even my mom showed me how to do up my laces before I hit kindergarten." Ray laughs, but he starts untangling everything anyway, his fingers weaving quick minarets up and down Walt's feet. Eventually, Ray has everything unfucked, and Walt breathes a sigh of relief.
"See? Nothing to it," Ray says with a crooked little grin when he's done.
"Easy for you to say, you fucking idiot savant," Walt answers. "They're gonna make Rain Man 2 and you're gonna be Dustin Hoffman's character, only with radios instead of cards."
"Doesn't that make you Tom Cruise?"
Walt ignores that particular question in favor of trying to extract his left foot from the boot yet again. Infuriatingly, the leather, which had loosened under Ray's touch, constricts the second he pulls at it, and he groans. "Oh, goddamnit."
"Gimme," Ray orders.
Walt shoves his feet into Ray's lap, and within seconds, his feet are wiggling free in their sweat-bleached socks, the boots discarded on the floor like empty beer cans. When he looks up to thank Ray for his help, Ray isn't there anymore, and Walt realizes that he's alone in the tent. It's at that point in Walt's dream that he always wakes up, surprised to find himself in a real bed.
He stretches his arms over his head, extending his legs as far as they’ll go, and luxuriates in the early-morning sunshine. It feels good in a way that it never did when he was at home in Virginia, more concentrated and far-reaching, somehow. The sunlight seems to pervade everything in southern California. Walt doesn’t bother to comment on that, though, just staring up at the pristine white ceiling with a little half-smile playing around the corners of his lips. As far as recurring dreams go, it could be a fuck of a lot worse, he thinks.
Eventually, Ray stirs next to him, fuzzing awake with the intensity of a baseball being lobbed at a person’s head, and makes an incredibly dissatisfied noise that only the uncaffeinated have perfected so far as Walt knows.
“Hey, darlin’,” he says, amused by the sight of Ray’s slitted eyes, glazed with too much bourbon and not enough sleep.
“Fuck you.” That looks like about all Ray can manage right now.
“You’re such a morning person.” Walt can’t resist reaching over and ruffling Ray’s hair.
“I hate you. Fuck off and die,” is the rather anticipated response Walt receives, much to his entertainment.
“You don’t hate me.”
“The fuck I don’t. You and your goddamn idea to celebrate the Kentucky Derby last night. Jesus,” Ray moans.
“I think you’ll be okay. I have a nice breakfast planned,” Walt tells him.
“Breakfast?” He sort of turns green at the idea of it.
“Biscuits and gravy. Homemade, of course. I can’t let it get around that I don’t know how to roll out a real biscuit,” Walt answers, smiling as he twirls a lock of Ray’s hair around his finger.
“That sounds great, but can you maybe let me die first?” Ray asks.
“I’ve got a better idea,” he says decisively, and rolls over some to wrap his arms around Ray’s waist, nuzzling the side of his neck; Walt is well aware that it drives Ray absolutely fucking crazy, which, of course, is what he hopes to achieve here.
“Oh?” It’s more of a soft moan than a real question.
“Mm-hm.” Walt smiles, nipping at the soft skin he finds at the base of Ray’s throat, eliciting a yelp of surprise. “Come on, Ray. What’s life without a little pain?”
Ray doesn’t have a whole fucking lot to complain about after what comes next.