That Which Is Experienced
Chickensssssssss.
Final Word Count: 5,054
———
It takes them longer than it probably should for either of them to get out of the bed. Ryan manages it first, after being drawn into a few more kisses and affectionate touches, a moth to the flame, and he when Ryan scoops him up to carry him out to the car, half an hour later. It’s not exactly something that happens with a high degree of dignity on his part, but by that point Ryan’s managed to find his painkillers and feed him two more with some water and crackers, so it’s not like he’s in the best place to argue over it.
They’re definitely toeing the line on ‘four a day’ but they’re criminals, who cares.
Turns out he does, when most of the next few hours haze out into bouts of sleeping with spotty memories of Ryan’s arms around him, accompanied by the occasional soft crowing or the rumble of engines. When he finally comes to anything resembling full lucidity again, he recognizes where he is, which is great, and not even a little bit of how he got there, which is less than great. Upside, Ryan’s sprawled in the bed beside him, arm thrown carefully over his waist like a big weird ice pack. He roots around a little bit in the covers, chasing after the hint of warmth always lurking somewhere deep within that chill, always calling to him like a siren song, and when he looks up again Ryan’s watching him with a smile. Because right, he doesn’t technically need to sleep. He just does sometimes because he likes to. He blinks up at him, Ryan doesn’t do the same back down.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Good to see you’re awake.”
That’s maybe not the best sign.
“Time’s it?”
He watches Ryan’s eyes flicker over his shoulder to where the window is, watches the gears turn.
“Little past noon? We’ve been back in town about four hours. Had time to get a really loose pen set up for the new family member. It’ll be fun getting him acclimated. You’re welcome to come sit with me while I work on it if you think you can handle it after lunch?”
Maybe it’s because it’s been a little while since he’s actually gotten to se the girls, maybe it’s because of the pain or the warmth or the fact that he’s actually somewhere he wants to be and not in anonymous country hell, but fuck the fact that Ryan’s holding him and talking to him gently and softly and back to normal again hits him like a wave. He chokes on it a little, blinks away tears and presses his face into Ryan’s collarbone, pretending the slur of the words is just the muffling of the fabric and not the sudden rush in his chest.
“I’m gonna sit in the girls’ pen.”
“That’s fine. You’ll be able to see me. We’ll be playing a little fast and loose here with usual introduction rules, but the girls are quiet enough that I think it’ll be okay.”
“Okay.”
Ryan presses a kiss to the top of his skull, pets a thumb gently across his ear. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move to stand, content to stay bundled around him. They’ve never done this before, shared a bed, not in all the time they’ve known each other, but somehow it fits, somehow they just match together in perfect synchronicity. He finds himself drifting again, not quite sleeping but content, the aches soothed by Ryan’s cool touch. He’s not aware of time passing again until Ryan gently cups his chin, encourages them apart.
“Let’s eat, yeah? And you could probably do with another pill.”
Sitting up makes his head throb, trying to stand even worse, so Ryan just scoops him up again, bundled in the blanket, and carries him out to the living room, setting him down in the soft couch warmed by the light of the wrought iron skylight. He doesn’t mind it in the least, feeling a certain weight in his bones, like managing on his own the last few days is suddenly catching up with him. He can see a little bit of the kitchen from where he’s sitting, hear it just fine, and it’s enough for Ryan to ramble aimlessly about introducing Scratch to the girls while he whips up lunch for them, the scent of it nearly overpowering after four days of boxed meals and canned goods. He’s not going to cry over his plate of grilled cheese, but he certainly comes close when Ryan tucks it into his blanket so he can eat it with his good hand. It’s laden with the herbs Ryan grows and the cheese is probably some weird shit he picked up at a market stall and it’s so fucking good.
He’s so happy to be here, to be back with people and things and sound and senses.
They eat their sandwiches in comfortable silence, basking in the early afternoon sun through the rose above, Ryan on the floor below him, and he barely has time to think once they’re done before there’s a fresh glass of water and a new pill being pressed into his hand.
“I didn’t really think about it but did you want me to get you some clothes that would fit you at some point?”
“Dunno where my keys are.”
Ryan shrugs, settling into the couch beside him and nudging him to finish off the glass.
“I broke the lock on the window of that safehouse to get into it, if you don’t mind me busting your door I could do that too. Can pretty much guarantee no one will be able to get into it after me unless they’ve got a battering ram.”
He has to take a second to breathe, throwing a half-hearted glare at Ryan.
“Can’t say shit like that. Not when I’m like this.”
Ryan just smiles at him, too-white too-sharp teeth against a too-dark mouth.
“Promise to make it up to you.”
He groans, half a laugh mixed in there.
“This is the reason I can’t be naked around anyone anymore. You think you’re funny.”
“You haven’t complained.”
“Ugh. Stop. Let me sit here until everything goes fuzzy and then take me to my girls. You can go break into my apartment and steal my clothes later.”
Ryan doesn’t disagree, though he does plant a playfully toothy kiss at the wrist of his good arm when hands the empty glass back, leaving just a hint of a dark stain. Fucking shameless.
He’s actually functional enough to walk on his own two feet when they finally stand up and go outside, the pain distant and blockaded, Ryan making a quick detour to deal with their dishes as he pretty much immediately just stumbles his ass over to the coop to see the girls, safety and propriety be damned. They seem suitably curious about the new noisemaker on the other side of the yard, but he’s enough of a distance away that it doesn’t seem to be causing too much mayhem. He settles himself down right inside the gate and tucks his slung arm up against his body, holding out the other for the nearest fluffy creature. It’s not exactly a shock when Crush, beautiful lady that she is, comes right up and plops down in his lap, content as can be. Lady, demon-spawn from hell, clucks at him from her spot beneath the mister and makes no attempts to move. Her crest is in her eyes again, the tie nowhere to be seen. Unsurprising.
The makeshift chicken prison set up on the other end of the yard looks like it’s mostly made out of leftover wiring from the coop, plus some slabs of plexiglass or similar, probably from when he was working on the house, to make it a little harder for he and the girls to see each other. He knows for a fact that Ryan doesn’t get hot, so he definitely didn’t need to lose his shirt before he came outside to start working on it again, but he’s appreciative all the same. He can just make out Scratch running around Ryan’s feet as he sets up perches and digs at the dirt to make a good place to set in a dust bath. Unsurprisingly, it seems like the two of them have already started bonding well, with Ryan occasionally reaching over to pet him or scratch his back and Scratch crowing up at him, delighted with the attention.
“So where did you buy him then Jer?”
His voice carries easily, the backyard quiet despite the distant rumble of the city. They don’t even have to raise their voices.
“There was a fair, drove to it. He was one of the show roosters and apparently he was bad at it and a baby, so they let me buy him.”
Ryan snorts, starts putting a layer of fencing above the original low fencing, wiring it together, making it higher, harder to get over.
“Of course you drove somewhere. It’s good that I came to get you, going around a fair all day is probably why you’re in such a bad shape now.”
That’s probably fair. He definitely feels worse today than he did before yesterday. He scratches Crush’s neck, listens to her coo. Ryan’s pale skin catches the light, the edges of his muscles shadowing as he works.
“It’s good to know that he was a show rooster though. It means he’s probably got a clean bill of health, and it means that I can probably track down the breeder to ask some follow-up questions before I take him to the vet. Still going to keep him under quarantine for awhile, but I think we’ll manage. The girls might not approve of a maturing rooster right away, but that’s what introduction pens are for.”
He starts bending the fencing over, making a little makeshift roof, a little rooster home instead of a prison, then plops down to pick up Scratch and pet him with the full force of his affection when he’s done.
It’s a good afternoon.
He dozes off a little in the coop at some point while petting Crush, wakes up half an hour later with Lady attempting to push herself into his lap as well, nearly dislodging the rightful possessor of his warmth, and so he has to resettle himself to hold both girls with only one arm. He can hear water moving, can see Ryan’s back as he hauls a bucket laden with rocks from one end of the pond to another, rearranging some of the plant life, no doubt wrapping up what he was doing when they were on the phone yesterday. It clearly doesn’t strain him, little does, but it does make his body stretch and shift in a mockery of effort, the bones beneath pressing against his skin in a way that nearly reveals their hue.
He swallows, turns his focus back onto the girls. Takes a breath through his nose. It’s a little unfair, the things that get him worked up with Ryan. They really shouldn’t. It always makes him a little more curious than it should, in a way that brings on even more dangerous thoughts. Thoughts of teeth and knives.
When he’s finally done for the day Ryan comes to get him, all wet jeans and pale muscles and just all around deeply horribly troublesome, temporary rooster home completed and dinosaur pond maintained, coop already taken care of the day before. He goes to lie down on the couch when Ryan helps him free of the girls and makes to strip out of his pants because frankly he’s going to overload something at this point. It’s not even necessarily on purpose. Ryan’s just like this.
God he’s so fucking happy he’s back to normal.
Ryan takes a shower, then gets his address and nudges him into the frankly oversized bathroom to take one of his own while he goes and raids his apartment. It remains an unpleasant experience while managing his bandages, something Ryan’s left gracefully in his purview with a shrug and a comment about having little idea how to bandage properly, but it gives him something to focus on while he cleans up, wrapping himself with the most comically oversized towel he’s ever had the grace to come across afterwards and debating internally if the stain on the side of the bath means Ryan’s dozed off and drooled on it before. Probably.
Then he takes his toweled ass right back to bed, claiming it as his own. Ryan doesn’t bother trying to make him get back up again when he comes back, just tosses him some pajama pants from the bag he packed so he can wriggle into them before unpacking the rest and laying them out on one side of the room for easy access. He also pulls out a tablet he found and hands it over with a proud little grin. He doesn’t have a TV in his room, probably because he doesn’t see the necessity, but he’s got damn good wi-fi throughout the house, and his tablet’s full of shit to do because he, unlike Ryan, is not old as fuck. He cradles it like a child and Ryan laughs at him, then flops down and settles in beside him. They watch a movie, something pointless and violent, then another, something that Ryan suggests offhand, much shorter and silent except for music, a comedy. It’s pretty funny, watching all the over-the-top expressions and exaggerated drunken stumbling, and Ryan snorts now and again in an vaguely fond sort of way. When it’s over, he tilts his head, like he’s thinking.
“Don’t think I’ve actually seen that since it was in theaters, now that I think about it.”
It’s rare Ryan talks about his past without prompting, and fuck he wants to ask. He tries not to make a big deal of it.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. One of the last things all of us went to see together. Came out a few months before the draft, just after they said we’d join the war.”
It’s strange then. For a second, just a second, the man at his side doesn’t look like Ryan. He looks younger, clearer in the eyes, the type of straight-laced kid someone might see in an old black-and-white, like the one on the wall in the sitting room, the one he’s never gotten a good look at. The one he’s never tried to get a good look at. Then he shakes his head and it’s gone.
“Think I’m going to order out for dinner, got a preference?”
“Uh...I could kill for some tacos right now I’ll be real.”
Ryan laughs, and goes for his phone. They don’t watch another movie that night. They eat tacos in bed and Ryan takes longer than he should retrieving a book from the sitting room and they don’t talk about it. He takes another pill before bed and Ryan wraps an arm around him as he gets comfortable. He’s not dumb enough to think he stays there the whole night, but he’s there until he passes out and he’s there when he wakes up, and that’s enough.
They fall pretty easily into a system after that. Ryan goes out, does jobs or whatever else he needs to, comes back with food sometimes and sometimes just with whatever scraped together heap of his body is left. Half the time it’s not even his car he’s returning with, the soft blue Tornado left somewhere it wasn’t going to be bled all over to be picked up later. He finds out that Ryan’s garage, which he never really bothered with beforehand, doesn’t technically have space for two cars despite outwards appearances. It has space for the Tornado, should it ever need to be stored away, along with a few shelves of things that make it clear that a lot of the repair and upgrade work has been done by Ryan himself, but the other half is all tarps and plastic lining, speakers screwed into the walls that he can plug his phone into to have something to listen to while he heals up, should his injuries still be particularly messy by the time he makes it back home. He finds him there more than once, poking at some flayed-off part of himself like that’ll make it knit together faster, the stench of concentrated copper nearly overwhelming but never escaping the cool concrete confines. Every time when it’s all said and done, Ryan bundles up whatever is soaked through the worst and throws it out, replaces it, then goes to pick up his car if need be. It’s remarkably self-aware for someone who seems allergic to the concept of stairs.
It’s also a little disheartening, in its own strange way. Ryan puts effort beyond effort into caring for him, for the girls, for Teddy and Scratch, but when it comes to himself he’ll sit happily on concrete and plastic until the black-stained length of his femur layers over again with tar and a false mockery of flesh, effluvia gushing out around him. He never interrupts, never makes himself known, these seem like quiet moments, moments just for Ryan, but they always seem so melancholy. He does his best to make it better otherwise, making haphazard dinner with what little energy he has, offering up another movie for them to watch, offering just himself as a point of warmth and comfort when they’re laying together, something along those lines.
He wishes there was something he could do, but he knows what Ryan wants most right now is for him not to push himself like he did by going to the fair. He’s still feeling the ripples of that even days afterwards. So he just keeps doing what he does best, and soaks in the way he can make Ryan laugh.
Ryan keeps working, and he keeps trying to get better.
All in all it really shouldn’t come as a shock when someone breaks the door down about halfway through the week.
It’s a sturdy door too, it’s pretty fucking impressive they get it on the first try. They’re standing in the kitchen and Ryan looks hopelessly to the ceiling, muttering something about how he knew he needed to check those hinges. Then he pats away the flour on his hands, asks him if he’d mind staying in the kitchen for a minute, and leaves the room.
And okay, here’s the thing about this. He’s never actually seen Ryan fight. They’re coming up on a year of knowing each other, and they’ve just never been in a scenario where it’s been relevant. Ryan decided long before they met that he wouldn’t work with the crew, and for the first six months they knew each other they just chatted when they crossed paths, occasionally fucked. Since then they’ve just added hanging out at the house into the mix. Sure he saw his blasé interactions with cops on the news, but that was always over by the time he came to pick him up. It’s never been a particularly conscious form of separation, but it’s always been there.
This though, this is different.
He leans out of the archway just enough to see into the living room, to see the thugs currently trampling their way into the house, Ryan moving to interrupt them.
Ryan’s never quite moved like a human. Enough to pass sure, but there’s always been something just a little off, just this side of too-sudden, eerily reminiscent of puppetry, every movement at a pace just beyond what it should be. Now he moves like a predator, like there’s something else entirely moving his bones rapidly out of sync with the rest of him, too fluid, too eager to feast. He can feel the ferocity of the movement in the air, and it’s clear the thugs can too.
Two of them open fire, clean shots that hit him right in the torso.
He barely twitches, just keeps on moving. The scent of copper hits the air, far too strong. Even from his angle, he can see everyone in the group suddenly tense and realize just who they trespassed upon.
“Oh fu-“
The rest duck out of the way, bolt to cover, but that one doesn’t quite manage, not with Ryan’s hand closing around his throat, crushing it with a meaty pop. Someone’s shitty trigger discipline lets loose a spray of fire into the wall, some at Ryan but most not, and he makes the executive decision to duck back into the kitchen and see if he can knead bread one-handed.
There’s a lot of screaming in the next few minutes, and a lot of really wet crunching.
His attempts at kneading are not going well. It’s really fucking hard to do with one hand. He gives up after about ten minutes of limited progress, washing off his shame in the sink. He leans back out into the living room. There’s no one in it anymore, just some mangled meat that used to be people. He can see puddles from where Ryan oozed onto the glossy wood, the soft carpet of the rug. He steps out, goes to nudge one of the piles with his foot, and that’s when the last thug comes careening back out of the hallway, freezing at the sight of him. And then there’s Ryan. Ryan, who is dripping viscous black from a dozen different holes, including one punched right through his cheek, and who wasn’t standing at the man’s shoulder mere seconds before. When he talks, black comes out like tar around his tongue, slipping around his teeth and out through the jagged gap, down his frowning lips.
“Don’t appreciate trespassers y’know. Going to have to replace a whole hell of a lot of my flooring, and that shit takes time. Not to mention having to clean up your greasy carcasses.”
The thug spins, stumbles, trips, falls, scrambles to get back to his feet even though there’s nowhere to go but further into the slaughter, never taking his eyes off of Ryan. Ryan laughs, a bubbling wet sort of sound, smiles. His teeth are still gleaming white.
Then he darts forward, no indication of movement other than that he suddenly is, his hand wrapping around the thug’s thigh, seemingly gently if not for the fact that now the man’s wriggling like a fish on a hook, unable to get free, his hands clawing for purchase on the viscera slick ground.
“So, let’s discuss what you’re doing in my home, yeah?”
The thug swears at him. Ryan tilts his head, his cheek healing up as he thinks. Then his hand tenses and the thug screams as his thigh becomes little more than ground meat.
“Let’s try again. Why are you in my house.”
It’s not a question this time. The thug knows better than to hem and haw.
“One of the boys saw the Fake who’s face’s all over the news get driven up here! Thought it’d be good money! Saw his guard leave! Fuck!”
Young crew then. Didn’t know any better, didn’t see Ryan come back with groceries an hour ago. Bunch of idiots. What a waste. It’s clear Ryan’s thinking the same thing.
“Anyone outside of this little bunch here?”
“No! We didn’t know the fucking Vagabond would be here! We just thought it would be some fuckin’ safehouse or some shit!”
“Hm. Well, thank you for your honesty.”
He lets go of what’s left of the thigh, reaches up instead. The thug screams, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere. It’s over with one more wet crunch. Ryan looks up to him, vaguely apologetic, then looks down, and the apology turns to amusement. He turns around.
“I’m going back to the kitchen.”
“Jeremy.”
“Fuck off.”
“Jeremy.”
“Go to hell, I’m going back to my bread.”
He’s much better at one-handed kneading when trying to work off some very particular frustration, who knew?
Ryan still laughs at him when he comes back, showered and freshly off the phone with a cleaner, bemoaning the loss of yet another one of his good shirts. He tells him it’s very normal for people like them to be attracted to violence and that there’s no shame in it. He doesn’t feel like explaining that it’s only like a quarter of the violence and the rest is just him, he doesn’t need to get into it, not now, not ever. They finish making the bread together and he hangs out by the oven when Ryan goes to cheerily greet the cleaner and their crew, letting them handle the remains. They don’t need to know he’s here. It is interesting that they seem to know Ryan to a degree, enough to know to tell their crew to simply mop up the worst of the black sludge and not bother trying to rinse the stains out. He pays them dutifully and waves them out, then comes back to sit with him, examining his phone as they wait for the timer to ding.
“Need to order new flooring again, always such a hassle.”
“Not the first time?”
He shrugs, half-hearted.
“Teddy ate a foot last time, so we’re technically running a better success rate this time around, and I know how to replace my own damn floor, but getting it shipped in takes time and I know some of it definitely stained. And I liked that one rug too.”
Aww, he’s pouting. But wait.
“Teddy ate a foot?”
Ryan looks up at him over his phone, lifts an eyebrow like he’s surprised that he’s surprised.
“Yeah. Idiot slipped and landed in the shallows. Nearly right on him. Bit right through the ankle. Bled out in the yard long before I realized he was there. Neighbors probably would have called the association if the General didn’t have the world’s ugliest crow. Probably thought it was him.”
There’s so much to process in that statement. First of all, fucking Christ as if he needed more proof that Teddy is an actual fucking dinosaur that Ryan just has living in his backyard. Secondly-
“Ryan, we’re internationally wanted criminals. Why are you worried about the association.”
“I’m still a legal homeowner Jeremy. Keep up.”
The timer dings. He gives up, writes the whole day off entirely. It’s for the best that way.
No one else assaults the home. Ryan orders new flooring, pays extra to get it there a little faster, frowns at the black marks that somehow managed to stain even the sealed and coated wood. It’s genuinely hilarious. They curl up on the couch and look at new rugs, a few different recipes for more bread. Ryan decides the rest of his jobs can fucking wait until his house is cleaned up, and he’s not complaining there.
He barely even realizes it’s been a week until a phone rings in the middle of helping Ryan finally plaster over the bullet holes in the wall, having completed the adventure of finding matching paint the day before. He’s never letting Ryan go alone to a hardware store again, he gets distracted way too easily. He somehow came back with even more plants. He doesn’t even realize it’s his phone at first. He just thinks something’s ringing, but to be fair, he slept badly and took two pills less than an hour ago.
“That’s you Jer.”
“Oh.”
He hasn’t used the cheap phone he got since he used it to call Ryan. It’s just been sitting plugged in on the table and he has to put everything down to go get it.
“‘Lo?”
“Jeremy! Where the fuck are you?!”
It takes him a second to register that the voice is Jack. It takes him another to register that her voice is frantic. He looks over at Ryan, who stops working at the plaster to look back at him, curious.
“Uh...Los Santos?”
“How the...Jeremy why the fuck aren’t you at the safehouse? Why didn’t you call one of us? We just got a call from your pick up telling us that there was no one there and that one of the window locks was busted. It had been nearly forced off its fucking hinges Jeremy!”
“Well I mean yeah, s’not like he had a key.”
Ryan’s head drops, his shoulders shaking in a valiant attempt at holding back laughter. He has no doubt his face is showing every single bit of it. He shrugs, even though Ryan isn’t looking. It’s just a fact. There’s a lot of spluttering on the other end of the line.
“We thought you’d been kidnapped!”
“I mean, you called me so clearly not.”
Ryan can’t actually hold back his laugh this time, the sound bright and echoing into the high rafters of his home. He feels an idiot grin burst across his face, his heart reaching out and clawing that sound close, greedy for all it can receive. The phone against his ear verges on icy.
“Jeremy...Are you still...with whoever picked you up?”
“Well yeah, he didn’t want me where I could hurt myself by being an idiot alone and besides he busted the door on my apartment getting me clothes so it’s not like I’m staying there right now.”
Jack sounds physically pained.
“Jeremy.”
“Don’t worry about it Jack, m’safe here. It’s already been a week, I’ll heal up and then drop by the penthouse. Talk to you later!”
“Wait wait J-“
He hangs up, frowns at the phone when it almost immediately starts ringing again.
“Ryannnn.”
He laughs at him again, holds out his hand. It crushes easily to pieces in his grip.
“Take it this means you’re staying longer than a week then.”
“If you’ll have me.”
Ryan grins, scoops him up and carries his protesting form to the kitchen. Apparently they’re done plastering for now.
“Y’know I’m not a good barometer for when you’re healed right? Might keep you around longer than I should.”
He shrugs, settling in on the counter as Ryan goes fishing for a pan.
“Sucks to be me I guess.”
Ryan rolls his eyes at him, affectionate and warm, and when he holds out his arms again he comes easily, lets himself be dragged in and kissed in the afternoon sun, pan and all.
They are home.