perpetual_motion: tony and steve are besties (totally holding hands behind the shield)
[personal profile] perpetual_motion
Title: And Now I Don't Want for Anything
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Ray/Walt
Rating: PG
Summary: Ray, Walt, and a healthy helping of lovey-dovey stuff.

Dis: Lies and bullshit.

Author's Notes: For [personal profile] wildmachinery, who requested it. I hope you like it! Title from the Proclaimers song, "I'm on My Way," and self-betaed, so there may be typos ahead.


And Now I Don't Want for Anything
By Perpetual Motion

Walt smells like sweat and engine oil. Ray leans over him as Walt tweaks a bolt somewhere deep in the recesses of the car he’s tinkering with and buries his nose in the crook of Walt’s neck.

“Need something?” Walt asks, amused. His shoulder flexes as he works the bolt, and Ray presses his hand to the muscle lightly. Not enough to hamper Walt’s movement, but enough to feel the slide of Walt’s arm.

“Fucking missed you,” Ray says, sliding his mouth from Walt’s neck to Walt’s shoulder and across the top of Walt’s bare back. There’s a greasy handprint on Walt’s left shoulder, like he reached over with his right hand to scratch an itch. Ray slides his nails through the handprint.

“I’ve been here all day,” Walt says. “Hell, I’ve been here a week.”

“You know what I mean,” Ray tells him.

Walt hums in agreement. Months out on missions, and now he’s home for awhile, going into base every day to get shit handled and coming home every night to Ray and a hot meal before Ray settles in to study and write papers on fancy education shit and Walt reads the trashy action novels he never takes with him when he’s gone. It’s their first Saturday together since Walt’s gotten back, and he knows that when Ray says he’s missed him, he means these sorts of days, when they’re both free of responsibilities and can do whatever they want.

“Any word?” Ray asks against his back.

“Not yet,” Walt says. He doesn’t have to remind Ray that could change as soon as the phone rings. Ray knows it. “You want to do something?”

“Nah.” Ray slides an arm around his waist, leans hard against him for a minute, the warmth of him making sweat rise up on Walt’s back. “Just gonna hang.”

“Right there?” Walt asks, smiling.

“Maybe.” Ray mouths Walt’s shoulder blade. “You mind?”

“I’m trying to tighten bolts here.”

“So? You can do that while I’m here.”

Walt shrugs, and it sends Ray back half an inch. “Suppose so.” He leans down again, hunting the next bolt he needs to check. Ray doesn’t lean down with him, but his hands trail down Walt’s back, along the line of his waistband, and then they curl over Walt’s hips, not moving him, just holding.

“I have to leave again,” Walt says quietly as he straightens up.

“I know,” Ray answers.

With anyone else, Walt thinks, the conversation would turn into a fight. Walt’s high enough ranked now that he could train the kids on base and stay close by, come home every night to hot food and Ray’s studying and his shitty action novels. But it won’t be a fight, because he knows Ray knows how it feels to be out there, the rush and the sense of responsibility. Ray’s studying writing, planning to freelance, and Walt knows it’s partly to give him a reason to be on the road a lot, get back some of that feeling of going places and seeing things even if he won’t be blowing shit up.

“Wanna go out for dinner tonight?” Ray asks. “There’s a new sandwich place I haven’t tried.”

Walt doesn’t ask how long it’s been open, how long Ray’s waited to try it so Walt can try it with him. “Sounds good. Too fucking hot to cook.”

“Yeah,” Ray agrees, and he backs away, pulls his shirt over his head in an undignified set of tugs that leaves his hair wild. He uses his shirt as a rag, swiping under his arms and down his chest. “Need help with that?”

“Sure.” Walt looks around the garage—it’s been reorganized since he was home last—and he spots the tire ramps in the far corner. “Help me drag those out, and we’ll get the car up. You can change the oil.”

Ray follows him, lifts his share of the weight, and Walt tosses him the keys to start the car. The sun is blinding bright on the drive, and Walt shields his eyes with his hand as he leads Ray forward with a wave of his hand, making sure he’s lined up properly before Ray drives the car up and kills the engine.

Walt thinks of Iraq, frantically working on his Victor and gun, Ray one Victor over, swearing and laughing with Garza. He remembers looking over and watching Ray throw back his head and laugh. Remembers a few combat jacks where he pictured that moment, Ray smiling, face thrown back towards the sky. When he’d gotten moved over to Ray’s Victor—Brad was team leader, sure, but it was always Ray’s Victor—Walt hadn’t been absolutely certain his heart wasn’t about to explode.

Now, in the sun and heat of a cul-de-sac, Walt grabs Ray when he gets out of the car, and he kisses him on the mouth, holds him still and tilts his head and kisses him until Ray’s scratching down his sides and whimpering a little and pulling at Walt’s waistband with fumbling fingers.

“The hell was that?” Ray asks, grinning. He adjusts himself without shame, brushes his hand over Walt’s crotch when he’s finished.

“Early warning,” Walt tells him. “For later.”

“The sandwich place delivers.”

“I’ll think about it,” Walt promises. It’s tempting to stay in with Ray, fuck like mad and order food. But it’s equally tempting to go out and sit around other people, watch Ray order off a menu and mock the other patrons. They can always fuck later. He’s home until tomorrow, at least.

“Gonna grab the oil pan,” Ray says. He backs away slowly, hand skimming over Walt’s wrist.

Walt watches him walk away, all swagger and pride. How the hell, he wonders, did he end up here? How the hell does Ray keep waiting for him like it’s no big thing, like he’s not totally aware that Walt’s going out and trying not to get killed?

“I’m grabbing a beer!” Ray yells. “You want one?”

“Yeah,” Walt shouts in reply. He looks at the car, at the tools scattered around, at the house Ray picked out without his input but has felt like home even when Walt couldn’t find the coffee mugs. The grass needs mowing, and he knows Ray will end up studying at least some tonight. He’s nearly finished with his current shitty action novel, and he considers going to the library before they go to dinner, finding something new to read that Ray might like to hear out loud.

Ray walks out of the house with two beers, pitches one to Walt, who catches it one-handed. “What?” Ray asks, reading Walt’s face like he always has, like he did that one night in Iraq when he’d caught Walt post-jack, flushed and embarrassed because he’d been thinking of Ray. Ray’d kissed him then, Brad just in the front seat, Trombley and Reporter asleep, the whole goddamned battalion within hearing distance, within seeing distance if any of them had thought to look over. Reckless fuck, Walt had muttered, and Ray had just grinned, his teeth bright in the dark, dark night.

“I’m glad I’m here,” Walt says.

Ray beams. “Goddamn right you are.”

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