FIC: Dreaming
Title: Dreaming
Pairing: Brad/Ray
Rating: PG-15
Words: 622
Disclaimer: I do not own and never will
A/n: I wrote this at school after getting a plot bunny about Ray being drunk after the war. It’s Brad/Ray fluffy with angst.
Cross posted to generation_kill
Dreaming
Brad/Ray
The two men walked down the damp street; Brad stepping steadily, whereas Ray stumbled every now and again, bursting into song whenever the moment felt right.
For the third time this week, Brad had found him drunk in a bar, yelling about the pros and cons of gay bars and lesbians.
For the third time this week, Brad had hauled his ass outside and for the third time this week, Brad was taking him home.
‘When my band gets famous, homes, you’ll get in all the concerts for free.’
‘That’s nice, Ray,’ Brad replied, as they turned to walk down the garden path that led to Ray’s front door. Brad helped him step onto the porch, turning to put his hands in Ray’s jacket pockets.
‘Hey, this is abuse.... or harassment,’ he laughed, before Brad put his hand in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a set of keys. Unlocking the door, he flicked on the hallway light. ‘Do you want a drink, Brad?’ he asked, almost walking into the doorframe as he tottered into the kitchen.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ray,’ he replied, watching his friend pull open the refrigerator and peer inside.
‘How about a soda? Or Tropicana?’
‘C’mon, Ray; I think you should go to bed and sleep it off. You’re gonna have one helluva hang over in the morning.’
‘No shit, Iceman,’ he laughed, slamming the fridge shut and leaving the kitchen. They moved to the stairs, Brad gripping his elbow as they made their way up the steps. ‘Y’know, I sometimes wish that we were still in the war. It gave me a purpose. Man, I got to fire a gun. Shooting all the Haj- oh, shit!’ he stumbled and almost fell, but Brad was there to steady him. They made it to the top and he pushed Ray in the direction of the bedroom. ‘Hey, watch it, I’m fragile.’
‘You’re an idiot.’ Ray turned and grinned at him.
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ He sat down on his bum, pulling off his sneakers and yanking his jumper over his head. He clambered to his feet, jumped on the bed and snuggled into his pillows. Brad watched him for a moment, before he went to shut the door. ‘Don’t leave me, Brad.’ Ray’s voice was scarily sombre, a look of fear on his face. ‘Don’t make me dream of her again.’
‘Her?’ Brad frowned. Ray gave a nod.
‘Will you lie with me? Please?’ Brad moved across the room, kicking off his boots and walking to sit by Ray, who lay back, staring at the ceiling.
‘Who is her?’ Brad repeated. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Remember... when the reporter first came and there was that dead girl with her legs blown off?’
‘I remember,’ Brad replied.
‘I dream of her. I dream of her and all the other children who were killed because of this motherfucking war.’ Ray covered his eyes with one hand, exhaling loudly through his mouth. ‘They... they’re all playing in the sand. And I’m stood there and she’s waving at me. She has this little smile...’
Ray gave a derisive laugh. ‘She runs towards me; wanting to play, I guess. And I yell at her to stop because Encino Man’s setting up the mortar squads, but she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t listen.’ Ray let out a sob, rolling to push his head into Brad’s side. ‘And then they’re gone; scattered body parts and dust and fire and I couldn’t do a fucking thing.’
His words were muffled and Brad shifted to wrap an arm around him, holding him close.
That night, Ray dreamt of a little girl.
She turned and walked the other way.
##