the gentle art of making enemies (generation kill hitman!AU, brad/ray-ish)
Title: the gentle art of making enemies
Author: Jess (swear_jar).
Rating: R.
Fandom: Generation Kill.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Brad & Ray (perhaps mildly Brad/Ray).
Warning: Violence.
Disclaimer: Obviously this isn't intended to be an accurate depiction of the real people who were first written about in a book and then turned into a TV show.
Notes: AU. To be more specific, hitman!AU. Though I think if I wrote more in this ‘verse, and it’s clearly a larger ‘verse than just this (it has been brought to my attention that this is clearly an opening scene), I’d call it a mob!AU, probably. Maybe. Irritatingly, there are a lot of little details and fragments for this that didn’t fit in here, particularly about Ray, which means I have the vague urge already to write more. Oh god. Also, it’s Batman’s fault I wrote this. No, not that Batman: godiseven who keeps throwing pretty pictures of PJ at my face and yelled DO IT at just the right moment. Many slobbery thanks to apiphile for the speedy beta.
Summary: Brad and Ray are good at their job (also, see foreboding title).
"Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies!"
"Swing a left at the next intersection," Brad says, because they've switched the voice off on the shitty civilian GPS. Ray doesn't need the competition.
"I think about you all the tiii-iime," Ray sings off-key and loudly, indicates and turns.
Brad sees the house across the road. It’s a two-story monstrosity surrounded by an eight-foot brick fence with gaudy white lions on top. It looks uglier in the daytime. The huge wrought-iron gates are swung wide open, which saves some scrambling and wastes Brad's little plan about scaling the conveniently located pine in the front yard.
"I really wish I had my bike," Brad says, cutting Ray off, "because not only would I not have to suffer you wailing like a retarded teenage girl, but your skinny whiskey tango ass, which for the record compares about as well to Beyonce as your singing does, would be riding bitch bitch. Where you belong."
Ray glances over and smiles, taking a hand off the wheel to point at Brad before he screws up his eyes and belts out: "I see you in my dreaaams."
"Nightmares," Brad mutters, and turns his head because he can't keep the smile off his face. "Turn into the drive, park them in. Wife's car's not here."
Good.
"Whatever you say, Iceman," Ray says. They park in the middle of the driveway, and Ray’s still humming loud enough Brad can't tune it out as they both wordlessly make final weapons checks and click of safeties. Brad holsters his old M9, checks his ankle for his knife, and shoves his M9A1 into the back of his belt as he unfolds himself from the frankly disgraceful car they'd been given.
They catch each other's eyes over the roof of the car and Brad doesn't feel the need to ask if Ray's ready. He's ready. Brad's ready. Time to get some. Ray opens his mouth, but Brad holds up a hand. Ray's mouth snaps shut.
"No more singing. You got your phone?"
"Yep," Ray says, patting his pockets. "Come on Brad, you know you want to be the Jay-Z to my Beyonce."
"Ray, I'm not sure how to break this to you, but,” Brad pauses for dramatic effect, “you're a homosexual.”
He rests his hand against the butt of his gun when they reach the front door, and Ray puts a hand on his own, shooting Brad a glance with his eyebrows raised.
They read each other well. Brad's never known anymore who reads him as well as Ray. Professionally, it's perfect, but depending on his mood it still makes him feel... unsettled, when he opens his mouth to ask for something and Ray's already asking, or giving. Iceman's his nickname for a reason.
Brad nods. Ray knocks.
"You know who's a homosexual?" Ray asks. The door swings open and a large man in a leather jacket widens his dull eyes at them slowly, Ray and Brad are both pointing guns at him before he can do more than open his mouth. Brad puts a finger to his lips over a smile. The man raises his hands.
"Quentin Tarantino," Ray says, talking out of the side of his mouth, eyes front.
"What?" Brad says.
“I-“
“No one’s talking to you, fucknuts,” Ray says. “Hands behind your head.”
Brad gestures for the man to walk backwards with a twitch of his gun.
They walk him backwards down the hallway, keeping their eyes on him. Ray quiets as soon as they enter the house, but every time they pause so Brad can check each room they pass, Brad can hear Ray's foot tapping triple time against the marble floor as he keeps an eye and his gun on their prisoner. The incessant beat is a comforting counterpart to Brad’s own heart.
They secure two more men on their sweep through the house, before finding their main target smoking a cigar poolside and marching them all inside. Ray covers him and Brad takes his time doing a proper job of taping each man to dining chairs around a huge table, humming under his breath. The same fucking Beyonce song Ray had been singing in the car. Of course.
The room is all high ceilings and ugly art, continuing the decorative theme of too-rich-for-taste.
Brad stands and surveys their work. The three expendable men are on one side of the long dining table, and their man on the other side. It's theatrical in a way Brad wouldn't personally choose to be, but he can't say the neatness isn’t pleasing. What he thinks isn't relevant to the situation, however. They're here to make a point for Nate.
If they'd just wanted rid of the asshole whose shoulder Brad has his hand on, no doubt they could have had Rudy and Pappy take him out from a literal mile away.
The whole thing has taken less than ten minutes. Brad's torn between pride and disgust at the blatant unprofessionalism of the three useless piles of muscle who have presumably been screwing the man they're after out of his money by pretending to be actual bodyguards.
"Looks like a really perverted family dinner," Ray says.
Brad grins a little. It really does.
"So Quentin Tarantino,” Ray says, “the man is gay as fuck." Ray nods like Brad actually cares to continue that conversation right now. "Everyone knows that motherfucker likes feet."
"Ray."
"Stay with me, Brad," Ray wanders around the table gesturing with the hand he's not holding his gun in. "He likes feet and you know what all pervert foot licking motherfuckers love most? Huge fucking feet. So he's got this thing for Uma Thurman, right, and this chick has huge fucking hoofs. Bitch is like a giant size hobbit with enough cash for electrolysis, but that isn't the point. The point, Brad, is that have you ever really looked at Uma Hobbit Feet Thurman? She looks, to me, like she could have been a man in a former life, all broad shoulders and huge feet and shit. So what she is, is the camouflaged representation of Quentin's true desires, which are obviously to chow down on some fucking cock," Ray flicks the safety back on his M9 with his thumb, and actually puts it in mouth and hollows his cheeks and sucks for a few blindingly obscene seconds.
Brad is torn between wincing and, and then Ray’s talking again:
"Then draw a pair of fuckin' jizz socks onto some dude's hairy toes. But Uma, right, she’s there because it’s got to be a chick, right? Because it's Hollywood, and I mean, not even fucking liberal dick suck Sean Penn's Oscar speech Hollywood, I’m talking back in the early 90s." A symphony of mmphs from stuffed and taped mouths accompany Ray's aria of bullshit. “Uma Thurman’s a fucking beard, Brad.” Ray gestures wildly with his empty hand but keeps his gun down, apparently all for proper gun safety when he’s not fellating the fucking thing.
Brad jumps in the second Ray takes a breath. He could have jumped in while Ray had his mouth full, but for reasons he chooses not to examine, ever, it hadn't actually occurred to him
"Ray."
Ray's made his way round the table and is tapping his fingers on the head of the man tied on his lonesome between them. The man flinches with big wincing blinks every time Ray's fingers touch his hair.
"And because I know you, Brad, and you're always with the 'what evidence exactly do you base that fucked up assumption on Ray', to which I say Reservoir fucking badass homo dicksuck love story Dogs--"
"Ray! We are not here to--"
"-- Talk them to death, I know Brad."
He should be able to finish that sentence, Brad thinks, the amount of times Brad's had to remind him that they have guns for a reason, Ray.
"Ray, exactly how much speed are you on right now." Brad doesn't make it a question.
"Guess." Ray raises his eyebrows and there’s a not entirely natural gleam in his wide brown eyes.
It's bordering on cold in the dining room, the whole house is air conditioned right up to the high ceilings, but Brad sees sweat trickle down the side of Ray's face. It's not fear sweat. Ray is one of the few people Brad has ever worked with who doesn't seem to have any discernable reaction to this kind of work. Even Brad feels the change in himself when he’s working. Ray is always Ray.
Ray's rambling, too. Of course, Ray still does that when he's not high, but it's not constant and it tends to have both coherency and the semblance of an actual point when he isn't.
Oh yes, Ray is high as fuck.
And they do not have anymore time for fucking storytime right now.
Ray is still talking.
Brad grabs his chin with his free hand, tilts Ray's head up and tightens his fingers against unevenly-shaved skin, until Ray ends up trying to grin though a fish-lipped pout. He always forgets how short Ray is, not only because in comparison to himself almost everyone is short, but because Ray fills enough space with his energy for someone twice his size.
Until he’s looking down at Ray like this.
"Ray. Are you done?" Brad says, staring intently.
"Yeshth?" Ray spits.
"Shut up and do your job, please."
"Okay Brad."
Brad lets him go.
Rays spins on his heel, levels his M9 and shoots the three men in quick succession, three pops, one for each broad chest. Little bursts of blood puff out like pollen from a bumped flower, a few heartbeats rush free, then a trickle.
He reverses the order and fires a second round into each man’s chest. Ray's a good shot and Brad doesn't trust anyone more, but it's a rule. Always double tap. Bullets aren't as costly as mistakes.
"Thank you, Ray," Brad says. He glances at his watch.
Brad lays his hands on the shoulders on the man seated in front of him. He's breathing heavily though his nose and flinches when Brad touches him. Good. Brad digs his fingers in, not painfully, just enough.
"Now. I’m going to take the gag off. I want you to understand that pleading is pointless and bribery will insult my honour. Nod if you understand." The man nods. "Good." Brad rips the tape off his mouth and pulls the piece of cloth from his mouth. The man pants like a nervous dog.
"I--" he starts.
"Shut the fuck up," Brad says without any particular inflection. The man’s staring dead ahead at the blood-flecked corpse strapped to the middle chair. His eyes are wet, but he isn’t crying. Good for him, Brad thinks. Then Brad glances at Ray, which is a mistake.
Ray's tapping his foot again and clearly itching to speak, but he doesn't. Instead he pushes a hand through his already slicked back hair, then glances at Brad under his lashes and holds out a plastic flower he must have stolen from one of the fuckugly arrangements around the room. He bats his eyelashes sadly. Brad does not laugh. He will get Ray back for that one later.
Ray's phone rings loudly with the strains of what Brad will never admit to recognizing as Lady GaGa. Impeccable timing. Ray pulls the phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen before tossing it to Brad.
"That's for you, dickbrain," Ray says to the man in the chair.
Brad answers it.
"Nate. Yes. One second," he presses it to the man's ear. "Shut the fuck up and listen."
The man mumbles yes, then yes again, then yes more loudly, still staring straight ahead, voice cracking. Then he tells Nate he understands and nods violently as if Nate can see him.
Brad takes the phone away and throws it back to Ray.
"Let's go."
“Hey,” the man says, sounding like he’s got something caught in his throat. “Hey, are you going to untie me? Plea-“ he cuts himself off, face blotchy with anger and fear, apparently remembering Brad’s words. “Could you.”
Brad ignores him.
"No, no, don't get up on our account," Ray says sarcastically, making a little bow as they make to go.
They leave the man staring at his three dead bodyguards. He won't be able to untie himself (Brad is sure of his work), but he'll be found soon enough. Meanwhile, he'll have a lot of time to think, and a deeply appropriate view.
As far as lessons go, Brad admits it's a sound one. Nate can be surprisingly cruel for someone who looks like the all-American boy next door. Brad assumes that comes from being a cop in a former life.
"I'm right about Tarantino," Ray says. He peels out of the driveway a little faster than is strictly necessary and Brad watches his fingers tap the wheel hyperactively. "Walt agrees."
"Walt agrees to shut you the fuck up, Ray,” Brad says. He unpacks all the metal on his body and reaches down between his legs for the inconspicuous black pack, formerly a camera bad. He curses the ridiculously tiny car again as he nearly knees himself in the nose.
"Walt knows I'm right. Toe-sucking pervert is gay as the day is long, homes."
"Ray, you could make eating pussy gay."
"Well, it's pretty fuckin' gay if a chick does it."
"Point," Brad says. Can't argue with that. He zips the little camera bag and does not feel lighter without the weight of his weapons.
“You think Meesh’d have any coke?” Ray asks, glancing between Brad and the road a little too rapidly.
“Ray. Debrief first. Party second. Driving now.”
When Brad looks over again Ray is grinning unevenly, half his face lit up by the sunset. The light paints him orange, yellow and grey, and makes Brad think of a muzzle flash in the dark.
Author: Jess (swear_jar).
Rating: R.
Fandom: Generation Kill.
Pairing(s)/character(s): Brad & Ray (perhaps mildly Brad/Ray).
Warning: Violence.
Disclaimer: Obviously this isn't intended to be an accurate depiction of the real people who were first written about in a book and then turned into a TV show.
Notes: AU. To be more specific, hitman!AU. Though I think if I wrote more in this ‘verse, and it’s clearly a larger ‘verse than just this (it has been brought to my attention that this is clearly an opening scene), I’d call it a mob!AU, probably. Maybe. Irritatingly, there are a lot of little details and fragments for this that didn’t fit in here, particularly about Ray, which means I have the vague urge already to write more. Oh god. Also, it’s Batman’s fault I wrote this. No, not that Batman: godiseven who keeps throwing pretty pictures of PJ at my face and yelled DO IT at just the right moment. Many slobbery thanks to apiphile for the speedy beta.
Summary: Brad and Ray are good at their job (also, see foreboding title).
"Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies!"
"Swing a left at the next intersection," Brad says, because they've switched the voice off on the shitty civilian GPS. Ray doesn't need the competition.
"I think about you all the tiii-iime," Ray sings off-key and loudly, indicates and turns.
Brad sees the house across the road. It’s a two-story monstrosity surrounded by an eight-foot brick fence with gaudy white lions on top. It looks uglier in the daytime. The huge wrought-iron gates are swung wide open, which saves some scrambling and wastes Brad's little plan about scaling the conveniently located pine in the front yard.
"I really wish I had my bike," Brad says, cutting Ray off, "because not only would I not have to suffer you wailing like a retarded teenage girl, but your skinny whiskey tango ass, which for the record compares about as well to Beyonce as your singing does, would be riding bitch bitch. Where you belong."
Ray glances over and smiles, taking a hand off the wheel to point at Brad before he screws up his eyes and belts out: "I see you in my dreaaams."
"Nightmares," Brad mutters, and turns his head because he can't keep the smile off his face. "Turn into the drive, park them in. Wife's car's not here."
Good.
"Whatever you say, Iceman," Ray says. They park in the middle of the driveway, and Ray’s still humming loud enough Brad can't tune it out as they both wordlessly make final weapons checks and click of safeties. Brad holsters his old M9, checks his ankle for his knife, and shoves his M9A1 into the back of his belt as he unfolds himself from the frankly disgraceful car they'd been given.
They catch each other's eyes over the roof of the car and Brad doesn't feel the need to ask if Ray's ready. He's ready. Brad's ready. Time to get some. Ray opens his mouth, but Brad holds up a hand. Ray's mouth snaps shut.
"No more singing. You got your phone?"
"Yep," Ray says, patting his pockets. "Come on Brad, you know you want to be the Jay-Z to my Beyonce."
"Ray, I'm not sure how to break this to you, but,” Brad pauses for dramatic effect, “you're a homosexual.”
He rests his hand against the butt of his gun when they reach the front door, and Ray puts a hand on his own, shooting Brad a glance with his eyebrows raised.
They read each other well. Brad's never known anymore who reads him as well as Ray. Professionally, it's perfect, but depending on his mood it still makes him feel... unsettled, when he opens his mouth to ask for something and Ray's already asking, or giving. Iceman's his nickname for a reason.
Brad nods. Ray knocks.
"You know who's a homosexual?" Ray asks. The door swings open and a large man in a leather jacket widens his dull eyes at them slowly, Ray and Brad are both pointing guns at him before he can do more than open his mouth. Brad puts a finger to his lips over a smile. The man raises his hands.
"Quentin Tarantino," Ray says, talking out of the side of his mouth, eyes front.
"What?" Brad says.
“I-“
“No one’s talking to you, fucknuts,” Ray says. “Hands behind your head.”
Brad gestures for the man to walk backwards with a twitch of his gun.
They walk him backwards down the hallway, keeping their eyes on him. Ray quiets as soon as they enter the house, but every time they pause so Brad can check each room they pass, Brad can hear Ray's foot tapping triple time against the marble floor as he keeps an eye and his gun on their prisoner. The incessant beat is a comforting counterpart to Brad’s own heart.
They secure two more men on their sweep through the house, before finding their main target smoking a cigar poolside and marching them all inside. Ray covers him and Brad takes his time doing a proper job of taping each man to dining chairs around a huge table, humming under his breath. The same fucking Beyonce song Ray had been singing in the car. Of course.
The room is all high ceilings and ugly art, continuing the decorative theme of too-rich-for-taste.
Brad stands and surveys their work. The three expendable men are on one side of the long dining table, and their man on the other side. It's theatrical in a way Brad wouldn't personally choose to be, but he can't say the neatness isn’t pleasing. What he thinks isn't relevant to the situation, however. They're here to make a point for Nate.
If they'd just wanted rid of the asshole whose shoulder Brad has his hand on, no doubt they could have had Rudy and Pappy take him out from a literal mile away.
The whole thing has taken less than ten minutes. Brad's torn between pride and disgust at the blatant unprofessionalism of the three useless piles of muscle who have presumably been screwing the man they're after out of his money by pretending to be actual bodyguards.
"Looks like a really perverted family dinner," Ray says.
Brad grins a little. It really does.
"So Quentin Tarantino,” Ray says, “the man is gay as fuck." Ray nods like Brad actually cares to continue that conversation right now. "Everyone knows that motherfucker likes feet."
"Ray."
"Stay with me, Brad," Ray wanders around the table gesturing with the hand he's not holding his gun in. "He likes feet and you know what all pervert foot licking motherfuckers love most? Huge fucking feet. So he's got this thing for Uma Thurman, right, and this chick has huge fucking hoofs. Bitch is like a giant size hobbit with enough cash for electrolysis, but that isn't the point. The point, Brad, is that have you ever really looked at Uma Hobbit Feet Thurman? She looks, to me, like she could have been a man in a former life, all broad shoulders and huge feet and shit. So what she is, is the camouflaged representation of Quentin's true desires, which are obviously to chow down on some fucking cock," Ray flicks the safety back on his M9 with his thumb, and actually puts it in mouth and hollows his cheeks and sucks for a few blindingly obscene seconds.
Brad is torn between wincing and, and then Ray’s talking again:
"Then draw a pair of fuckin' jizz socks onto some dude's hairy toes. But Uma, right, she’s there because it’s got to be a chick, right? Because it's Hollywood, and I mean, not even fucking liberal dick suck Sean Penn's Oscar speech Hollywood, I’m talking back in the early 90s." A symphony of mmphs from stuffed and taped mouths accompany Ray's aria of bullshit. “Uma Thurman’s a fucking beard, Brad.” Ray gestures wildly with his empty hand but keeps his gun down, apparently all for proper gun safety when he’s not fellating the fucking thing.
Brad jumps in the second Ray takes a breath. He could have jumped in while Ray had his mouth full, but for reasons he chooses not to examine, ever, it hadn't actually occurred to him
"Ray."
Ray's made his way round the table and is tapping his fingers on the head of the man tied on his lonesome between them. The man flinches with big wincing blinks every time Ray's fingers touch his hair.
"And because I know you, Brad, and you're always with the 'what evidence exactly do you base that fucked up assumption on Ray', to which I say Reservoir fucking badass homo dicksuck love story Dogs--"
"Ray! We are not here to--"
"-- Talk them to death, I know Brad."
He should be able to finish that sentence, Brad thinks, the amount of times Brad's had to remind him that they have guns for a reason, Ray.
"Ray, exactly how much speed are you on right now." Brad doesn't make it a question.
"Guess." Ray raises his eyebrows and there’s a not entirely natural gleam in his wide brown eyes.
It's bordering on cold in the dining room, the whole house is air conditioned right up to the high ceilings, but Brad sees sweat trickle down the side of Ray's face. It's not fear sweat. Ray is one of the few people Brad has ever worked with who doesn't seem to have any discernable reaction to this kind of work. Even Brad feels the change in himself when he’s working. Ray is always Ray.
Ray's rambling, too. Of course, Ray still does that when he's not high, but it's not constant and it tends to have both coherency and the semblance of an actual point when he isn't.
Oh yes, Ray is high as fuck.
And they do not have anymore time for fucking storytime right now.
Ray is still talking.
Brad grabs his chin with his free hand, tilts Ray's head up and tightens his fingers against unevenly-shaved skin, until Ray ends up trying to grin though a fish-lipped pout. He always forgets how short Ray is, not only because in comparison to himself almost everyone is short, but because Ray fills enough space with his energy for someone twice his size.
Until he’s looking down at Ray like this.
"Ray. Are you done?" Brad says, staring intently.
"Yeshth?" Ray spits.
"Shut up and do your job, please."
"Okay Brad."
Brad lets him go.
Rays spins on his heel, levels his M9 and shoots the three men in quick succession, three pops, one for each broad chest. Little bursts of blood puff out like pollen from a bumped flower, a few heartbeats rush free, then a trickle.
He reverses the order and fires a second round into each man’s chest. Ray's a good shot and Brad doesn't trust anyone more, but it's a rule. Always double tap. Bullets aren't as costly as mistakes.
"Thank you, Ray," Brad says. He glances at his watch.
Brad lays his hands on the shoulders on the man seated in front of him. He's breathing heavily though his nose and flinches when Brad touches him. Good. Brad digs his fingers in, not painfully, just enough.
"Now. I’m going to take the gag off. I want you to understand that pleading is pointless and bribery will insult my honour. Nod if you understand." The man nods. "Good." Brad rips the tape off his mouth and pulls the piece of cloth from his mouth. The man pants like a nervous dog.
"I--" he starts.
"Shut the fuck up," Brad says without any particular inflection. The man’s staring dead ahead at the blood-flecked corpse strapped to the middle chair. His eyes are wet, but he isn’t crying. Good for him, Brad thinks. Then Brad glances at Ray, which is a mistake.
Ray's tapping his foot again and clearly itching to speak, but he doesn't. Instead he pushes a hand through his already slicked back hair, then glances at Brad under his lashes and holds out a plastic flower he must have stolen from one of the fuckugly arrangements around the room. He bats his eyelashes sadly. Brad does not laugh. He will get Ray back for that one later.
Ray's phone rings loudly with the strains of what Brad will never admit to recognizing as Lady GaGa. Impeccable timing. Ray pulls the phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen before tossing it to Brad.
"That's for you, dickbrain," Ray says to the man in the chair.
Brad answers it.
"Nate. Yes. One second," he presses it to the man's ear. "Shut the fuck up and listen."
The man mumbles yes, then yes again, then yes more loudly, still staring straight ahead, voice cracking. Then he tells Nate he understands and nods violently as if Nate can see him.
Brad takes the phone away and throws it back to Ray.
"Let's go."
“Hey,” the man says, sounding like he’s got something caught in his throat. “Hey, are you going to untie me? Plea-“ he cuts himself off, face blotchy with anger and fear, apparently remembering Brad’s words. “Could you.”
Brad ignores him.
"No, no, don't get up on our account," Ray says sarcastically, making a little bow as they make to go.
They leave the man staring at his three dead bodyguards. He won't be able to untie himself (Brad is sure of his work), but he'll be found soon enough. Meanwhile, he'll have a lot of time to think, and a deeply appropriate view.
As far as lessons go, Brad admits it's a sound one. Nate can be surprisingly cruel for someone who looks like the all-American boy next door. Brad assumes that comes from being a cop in a former life.
"I'm right about Tarantino," Ray says. He peels out of the driveway a little faster than is strictly necessary and Brad watches his fingers tap the wheel hyperactively. "Walt agrees."
"Walt agrees to shut you the fuck up, Ray,” Brad says. He unpacks all the metal on his body and reaches down between his legs for the inconspicuous black pack, formerly a camera bad. He curses the ridiculously tiny car again as he nearly knees himself in the nose.
"Walt knows I'm right. Toe-sucking pervert is gay as the day is long, homes."
"Ray, you could make eating pussy gay."
"Well, it's pretty fuckin' gay if a chick does it."
"Point," Brad says. Can't argue with that. He zips the little camera bag and does not feel lighter without the weight of his weapons.
“You think Meesh’d have any coke?” Ray asks, glancing between Brad and the road a little too rapidly.
“Ray. Debrief first. Party second. Driving now.”
When Brad looks over again Ray is grinning unevenly, half his face lit up by the sunset. The light paints him orange, yellow and grey, and makes Brad think of a muzzle flash in the dark.