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withimpunityTitle: And This One Time In Iraq
Pairing: Brad/Ray
Rating: R
Words: 531
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, just like to dig my feet in sometimes.
A/n: Just a wee drabble coz I miss my boys like whoooa.
"Dude, I think I might have that PSTD shit." Ray's standing in the breezeway smoking some cheap cigarette when Brad opens the door. He's wearing those ridiculous fucking Elvis glasses and a t-shirt turned inside out, which explains the smell at least. Brad scowls when Ray flicks ashes onto his welcome mat, which okay, isn't so much a welcome mat as it is a wipe-the-shit-off-your-feet mat; Brad's not exactly the welcoming type.
"Ray." Brad shuts his eyes, hoping that when he opens them again, this will all have been some elaborate, sleep deprived hallucination. "Why are you here?"
"See, this was always our problem. You never listen to me, homes." Ray pushes inside the apartment, tossing the butt of his cigarette on the concrete.
"Ray, it is three in the god damned morning. I have to be up in less than one point five hours. Go. Away." But he shuts the door behind them anyway, staring at Ray as he sifts through the drawers in his kitchen, grinning when he finds a bag of skittles and tears it open with his teeth.
"Seriously, dude." Ray says, picking out the green ones. "I can't sleep, and not in the fun, let's-play-what-color-our-MOPP-suits-really-are way. More like the waking up on the shoulder of the freeeway wondering how the hell you got there and whose car you're driving way."
"Jesus, Ray."
"Chill dude, it was only once. Twice maybe, I'm still not sure if I dreamed that or not."
"Sit down."
"Why? Are we going to talk and tell war stories and hug it out and sing kumbayah?"
"No, sit down because your pacing and its fucking annoying."
"Oh. Well. Want my green skittles?"
"Sure, why not." Brad sighs, holding out his hand as Ray sat down on the couch next to him. "Now, since I'm completely fucking awake with no chance of getting back to sleep anytime soon, what's the deal exactly?"
Ray shrugs. "Oh you know, the usual. Can't sleep, no appetite." Brad can see the myriad of colors painted on Ray's tongue when he speaks. "I miss all the noise, the bombs and shit. And that time you jerked me off behind that berm, I kinda miss that too. That was pretty fucking awesome."
A beat. Brad blinks.
"Stress relief technique. You were my RTO. All of our lives-"
"And that time you blew me at that Hadji cigarette factory?"
"You wouldn't shut the hell up. It was distracting. Obviously, I was forced to result to drastic measures."
"Yeah? What about that time you fucked my tight, virgin ass, Brad?"
Brad's eyebrows pull together. "I don't recall ever doing that, Ray," he says slowly, lowering his eyes. "I believe I'd remember that."
Ray licks his lips; Brad bets they taste like orange skittles, Ray's favorite. Then Ray raises one of his eyebrows and his eyes fall down the length of Brad's body and Brad says, "oh," when it finally sinks in, and shifts against the couch.
"Seriously?" He says. "You seriously want me to fuck you or is this some retarded post traumatic thing?"
Ray rolls his eyes. "I don't have PTSD, fucknut. I've wanted to ride your dick since Matilda." And then, just when Brad looks like he's about to lose his shit entirely, "Got lube?"
Pairing: Brad/Ray
Rating: R
Words: 531
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, just like to dig my feet in sometimes.
A/n: Just a wee drabble coz I miss my boys like whoooa.
"Dude, I think I might have that PSTD shit." Ray's standing in the breezeway smoking some cheap cigarette when Brad opens the door. He's wearing those ridiculous fucking Elvis glasses and a t-shirt turned inside out, which explains the smell at least. Brad scowls when Ray flicks ashes onto his welcome mat, which okay, isn't so much a welcome mat as it is a wipe-the-shit-off-your-feet mat; Brad's not exactly the welcoming type.
"Ray." Brad shuts his eyes, hoping that when he opens them again, this will all have been some elaborate, sleep deprived hallucination. "Why are you here?"
"See, this was always our problem. You never listen to me, homes." Ray pushes inside the apartment, tossing the butt of his cigarette on the concrete.
"Ray, it is three in the god damned morning. I have to be up in less than one point five hours. Go. Away." But he shuts the door behind them anyway, staring at Ray as he sifts through the drawers in his kitchen, grinning when he finds a bag of skittles and tears it open with his teeth.
"Seriously, dude." Ray says, picking out the green ones. "I can't sleep, and not in the fun, let's-play-what-color-our-MOPP-suits-really-are way. More like the waking up on the shoulder of the freeeway wondering how the hell you got there and whose car you're driving way."
"Jesus, Ray."
"Chill dude, it was only once. Twice maybe, I'm still not sure if I dreamed that or not."
"Sit down."
"Why? Are we going to talk and tell war stories and hug it out and sing kumbayah?"
"No, sit down because your pacing and its fucking annoying."
"Oh. Well. Want my green skittles?"
"Sure, why not." Brad sighs, holding out his hand as Ray sat down on the couch next to him. "Now, since I'm completely fucking awake with no chance of getting back to sleep anytime soon, what's the deal exactly?"
Ray shrugs. "Oh you know, the usual. Can't sleep, no appetite." Brad can see the myriad of colors painted on Ray's tongue when he speaks. "I miss all the noise, the bombs and shit. And that time you jerked me off behind that berm, I kinda miss that too. That was pretty fucking awesome."
A beat. Brad blinks.
"Stress relief technique. You were my RTO. All of our lives-"
"And that time you blew me at that Hadji cigarette factory?"
"You wouldn't shut the hell up. It was distracting. Obviously, I was forced to result to drastic measures."
"Yeah? What about that time you fucked my tight, virgin ass, Brad?"
Brad's eyebrows pull together. "I don't recall ever doing that, Ray," he says slowly, lowering his eyes. "I believe I'd remember that."
Ray licks his lips; Brad bets they taste like orange skittles, Ray's favorite. Then Ray raises one of his eyebrows and his eyes fall down the length of Brad's body and Brad says, "oh," when it finally sinks in, and shifts against the couch.
"Seriously?" He says. "You seriously want me to fuck you or is this some retarded post traumatic thing?"
Ray rolls his eyes. "I don't have PTSD, fucknut. I've wanted to ride your dick since Matilda." And then, just when Brad looks like he's about to lose his shit entirely, "Got lube?"
