Fic

[3pipeproblem]

Boston Legal. No mention of Boston or the law.

Written for contrelamontre's "dream(s)" challenge. In 42 minutes, in my defense.

Alan/Brad. *hides*



“Taste this,” Alan said, and with the peculiar, almost offensive delicacy that characterized everything he did, collected a watery smear of blood on his finger and held it outstretched.

“No,” Brad snapped automatically, his crisp, scornful delivery of the word pleasing him so much that he repeated it before giving the other man’s arm a light shove. Alan Shore wasn’t suited to combat fatigues: the mottled greens and browns did little for his complexion and the cap perched atop his head looked more than faintly ridiculous.

It didn’t help that he was wearing it backwards.

Brad reached for the hat, relishing Alan’s momentary look of bewilderment, and turned it so it was facing the proper direction. It didn’t look right, but when dealing with Alan he’d learned to settle for less wrong.

“It’s not so bad,” Alan observed, glancing upwards and once more flipping his hat around. Brad sighed and took the opportunity to survey his own attire, straightening his shirt and absentmindedly dusting off his pants. Tasks complete, he nodded in satisfaction.

“What’s that?”

“Bleeding to death,” Alan said, shifting in the dirt so that Brad might observe the ever-expanding patch of red smeared over his midsection. “It could be worse, I suppose. You might be attempting to speak to me.”

“Guess so.” Alan’s voice rose and fell strangely, as though the other man was continually spiraling through puberty and then back again, and Brad found himself staring fixedly at inexorably seeping blood, waiting for Alan to speak again.

Alan said nothing, instead extracted from his pocket a dented flask from which he took a long swig. “Taste this.” His hand trembled, arm wavered at the effort of extending it, and Brad plucked it from his fingers before he could drop it then casually tossed it aside.

“How’d you get like this, soldier?” A question he’d been looking forward to asking for some time. He might have even practiced the sneer in the mirror. Just the once.

“You shot me,” Alan said, infuriatingly calm, as though recounting the weather forecast. His face was slightly paler beneath the half-moon shadow of his cap, his eyes perhaps slightly more resigned, but his tone contained not a hint of accusation.

It occurred to Brad that some effort to stop the bleeding ought to be made, but he relished the prospect of tending to a wounded Alan Shore much less than the prospect of lording the possibility of lending assistance over him. Still, a perfunctory glance around the foxhole was in order, yielding: dirt (a great deal of dirt), the half-buried butt of a pistol, and a pink tie that could only have been Alan’s.

“I’m considering throwing in the towel, buddy.” Brad crinkled his face in confusion and Alan’s eyebrows, which seemed to operate independent of pain or the direness of surrounding circumstances, shot up. “Did I word that properly? Is it in compliance with foxhole protocol?”

“What do you care?” Brad muttered. “Apply pressure to the wound. Do it.” Lo and behold, Alan chose instead to thoughtfully study the sky. “Are you even listening to me?”

While Alan was shaking his head, Brad grabbed the other man’s hand and pressed it to his stomach. It wouldn’t do anything, was like attempting to end a flood with a single paper towel, but…it was what you did when someone was shot. Surely that counted for something.

Alan’s hand was cold and clammy, the blood leaking from his body warm, at least for that initial moment it dribbled over Brad’s hands. “Pressure,” Brad repeated, and Alan squirmed in defiance of his touch.

“I’m trying to help,” Brad growled, and Alan must have been lightheaded—he couldn’t possibly have been amused—because he giggled in response. He slipped his hand from beneath Brad’s, leaving the other man to contend with the blood, and with a wince flickering briefly across his face, leaned towards the other man as though to deliver a secret.

“Taste this,” Alan said, pressing his lips to Brad’s.

And because there are no atheists in foxholes, Brad prayed he wouldn’t stop.

Comments

[moofoot.livejournal.com]

This, my friend, was much too amusing for it's own good. *evil cackling ensues w/ dramatic world takeover music*

Very, very amusing. Well done.

[3pipeproblem.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Writing it scared the crap out of me, mainly because at some point I came to the realization that the Brad Chase in my head is a homicidal lunatic prone to bouts of physical aggression.

You know--well, you might not watch the show, so maybe you don't--but you know he dreams about Alan.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_redcorvette/]

Wow.

.....


You've outdone yourself!

[3pipeproblem.livejournal.com]

Whatever that means. Damn. I'm at a loss without MSN smileys.