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Sep. 28th, 2013 05:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lit_galDesperate Measures.
I am buried in the nitty-gritty of edits (the unfun side of writing), so I indulged in a little fantasy. Enjoy.
Title: Desperate Measures
Pairing m/m
Rating: SAFE
Summary: Ex-Sergeant Peter Malimic has endured a hard year. Mental health issues played out on the public stage led to a slight case of public shaming and official discharge from the Army. He thought it couldn't get any worse. Then worse showed up on the bar stool next to him.
“Malimic?”
Peter Malimic looked up from his beer. As much as he wanted something stronger, he didn’t trust himself with the hard liquor right now. Unfortunately, that meant he wasn’t drunk enough to handle questions.
“Nope,” he answered.
Instead of going away, the guy leaned against the counter. His gray hair gave him a vague air of harmlessness, but Peter wasn’t buying it. The guy’s hand rested near his waist where a person might hide a weapon, and his eyes constantly scanned the bar. That’s exactly what Peter wanted to do, but he refused to give in to those instincts. Right. Instincts. The psychologist called his urges PTSD, and Peter couldn’t disagree. He was post-combat, and his temper was getting dangerously bat-shit crazy.
“That’s funny,” the guy said with an air of disinterest that Peter wasn’t buying. “You look exactly like the picture of Peter Malimic my boss gave me.”
Peter mentally reviewed his last court-ordered therapy session trying to decide if he’d said anything to make himself look particularly dangerous. “Is your boss a psychiatrist, psychologist, or other mental health related professional?”
The guy looked amused at that. He leaned close as though sharing a secret. “He’s more likely to cause mental breakdowns than cure them.” He sat back and offered his hand. “Ben Mallory.”
Peter eyed the man warily. Clearly he knew who Peter was, so denying it was pointless. Since he didn’t have a choice, Peter relented. “Peter Malimic,” he said as he took Ben’s hand and shook it.
“Nice to meet you Peter Malimic,” Ben said with a smile. Either the man had more mental health issues than Peter or he was one of those that hid his claws and fangs under a layer of class-clown harmlessness. Peter’s threat-assessment nerve was dancing.
“So.” Peter drew the word out, inviting Ben to speak his peace. The man had the audacity to just sit there and grin like he was enjoying it. Hell, he probably was. “Does your boss happen to run a mercenary service that is in need of someone whose life sucks bad enough that they might be willing to take on a suicide mission?” Peter asked. He was only ninety percent joking.
Ben laughed. “No, although his plans do seem to end up with more mayhem and chaos than I like.”
“So you want a gay soldier to cause mayhem by showing up during some protest?” Peter had trouble believing that. The gay movement kept as far away from him as they could.
He was Peter Malimic—the man who had gone crazy during a bank robbery and beat the shit out of two would-be hostage takers, all caught on the security footage. It had played nicely on television. Of course, that footage wasn’t played as often as the bits where he then started pounding on the police who swarmed the building. Two bullets and three tazers later, he’d gone down. He’d woken up to a medical discharge from the Army and a whole team of therapists dedicated to his recovery from uncontrollable anger.
“I saw Senator Clarkson’s speech,” Ben said.
“Would that be the one about how dangerous and impulsive gays are, complete with pictures of me as exhibit A?”
“Nah,” Ben said with a casual disregard that set Peter’s teeth on edge. “That was last week. This week he’s all about how gays are backstabbing, after all, look at how fast they turned on you. I swear, Malimic, is there anyone who hasn’t thrown you under the bus?”
“Nope,” Peter said. “So why don’t you tell me who your boss is and then I can get to some serious drinking.” To hell with keeping a level head, Peter needed booze. A lot of booze.
Ben’s face twisted with embarrassment. “Here’s the awkward thing. My boss said that I needed to bring you, whether you’re willing or not. He actually suggested that plan A would be a good kidnapping. I could wait until you were drunk and hit you with a tranq gun.” Ben said it all in such a perfectly normal tone of voice, that Peter thought he might be joking. However, that was not a joking expression. Hell, the man almost looked apologetic.
Peter stared at the guy, trying to come up with some sort of response to that level of stupidity. Ben still leaned against the counter like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Have you considered therapy?” Peter demanded.
Ben grinned at him. “I’ve got a standing appointment on Wednesdays. So, clearly I’m ignoring my boss because as smart as Edin is, he can also be an idiot. Kidnapping rarely leads to an amicable relationship.
“Does your boss care about an amicable relationship?” Peter asked. This was getting weird, even for him. He’d been stationed in Iraq, Germany, Afghanistan, and Japan, but in his entire military career, he’d never seen anything worth kidnapping him over. The weapons he handled were all standard issue. And while he was a damn good trainer, he taught BRM. Basic Rifle Marksmanship wasn’t exactly a high-profile or in-demand skill set.
“Yeah, he does,” Ben said. “The whole telling me to kidnap you thing is more about his basic paranoia.”
“Ah, so a paranoid man wants to kidnap an ex-sergeant first class? Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with that picture, not at all.” Peter grabbed his beer glass and debated whether he wanted to keep drinking. Drunk was better than this conversation, but if Ben was dangerous—and every instinct in Peter’s body said he was—then Peter couldn’t afford to dull his reflexes.
Ben spent some time watching the bar. The place was a dive, but then Peter wasn’t exactly welcome in most bars. Some bars politely asked him to leave out of some fear that he’d lose his mind and randomly start pounding on people. That really wasn’t fair considering that Peter had been provoked into losing his fucking mind during the robbery. Other bars had not-so-politely tossed him out on his ear for being publicly gay, despite the fact that he hadn’t asked to be outted and then used as a political exhibit. And Peter didn’t have the nerve to go anywhere near a military bar. He might be a masochist, but that was a level of self-hate he couldn’t face.
Peter sipped at his beer. He pulled a bowl of pretzels closer and worked on making sure he ate more than he drank. Pretzels weren’t ideal if a person was trying to get sober, but Peter sure as hell didn’t trust the kitchen in this place. “Are you staying here all night?” Peter finally demanded.
“Yep,” Ben agreed.
Peter studied him. “You’re not even going to pretend to drink, are you?”
“Nope.”
“So, are you sticking with your kidnapping plan?”
“Right now it seems like the best option,” Ben agreed. “Besides, I do want to check out the sweet new tranq gun Edin bought me.”
“I could call the police,” Peter warned.
Ben looked over and gave him a lazy grin. Yeah, Peter had already figured out that he wasn’t going to get much help from the cops. They might have thanked him for saving the hostages, but none of them would forget that he also beat the crap out of several of them. Besides, Peter had a definite credibility issue, and something told him that Ben would be able to charm most anyone. The gray hair, laugh lines, and bright blue eyes just screamed “friendly grandfather,” even if his body language hinted at a soldier’s wariness.
Ben reached over and stole a pretzel out of the bowl. “Do you have something better to do?”
“Better than being kidnapped?”
“Yeah.”
Peter thought about that. Other than reruns of Breaking Bad and therapy sessions, his life was devoid of better. Hell, he didn’t even have any moderately good in his life right now. “Not really,” he admitted.
“So why not consider it a free vacation?”
Part of Peter wanted to do it. He really did. As much as his life sucked right now, any sort of vacation would be good, even an involuntary one. However, there was suicidal and then there was stupidly suicidal. Peter might dance with that first one, but he wasn’t going to put himself into a situation where he couldn’t get out if he needed to.
“I’ll pass,” he said.
Ben shrugged. “Your choice.”
“Except that you’re still here and you still have a tranq gun.” Peter wanted a drink of his beer. The pretzels were salty and his mouth was dry; however, he didn’t want to risk having alcohol in his system if this all went FUBAR. Ben reached for another pretzel, and Peter slid the bowl away from him.
Ben had the nerve to grin.
“I could point out that I have a good twenty year advantage over you,” Peter said. He was coming up on thirty, and while he couldn’t party all night and then show up on the range in the morning like some of the new recruits, he could hold his own against someone who was clearly north of fifty.
Besides, Ben had that slightly soft middle that truly fit men got after then stopped working out quite as hard. Peter was still training hard every day. As a teen, he’d been tall but lanky. His friends had jokingly called him a scarecrow, either because of his build or because of his wild hair. Ten years later, PT had filled him out so he had a broader chest, even if he couldn’t make it as a body builder. His wild hair was gone too, a victim of male-pattern baldness, but Peter kept his hair cropped close enough that it wasn’t noticeable unless someone looked. In a fight, Peter would bet on himself.
However, Ben still sat there, unconcerned as he watched the crowd. It made him nervous.
“I’m thinking about shooting you and calling it a preemptive measure,” Peter warned him.
Ben laughed. “You like me too much to shoot me.”
“Says who?”
Ben turned and gave him another slow smile. “Everyone loves me.”
“Right now, I actively dislike you.”
Ben laughed. “Wait. I’ll grow on you. Then you’ll be sorry you killed me.”
“I didn’t say I’d kill you. I just threatened to shoot you. A bullet in the knee would slow you down.”
“With what gun?”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “I’m a weapons trainer.”
“Were. Past tense. Now you’re a walking public service announcement for PTSD, and the police have confiscated all your weapons.” Ben raised his eyebrows, clearly daring Peter to deny any of it.
“You assume I don’t have more.” Peter was really starting to get nervous, and his mouth was almost painfully dry.
“I don’t assume anything. I verify,” Ben said ominously.
Peter’s guts were really churning now. He slid off his stool, and nearly toppled right over onto the floor as his sense of balance failed him.
“Whoa, hey, careful there, Champ,” Ben said as he caught Peter by the arm.
“What?” Peter’s voice came out weak, and he was having trouble catching his breath.
“Calm down. It’s not dangerous, or I wouldn’t have eaten one,” Ben said as he propped Peter back up on the stool. Peter watched Ben grab the pretzels and upend the bowl onto the floor before crushing the pile under his boot. “You’re just going to be a little out of it for a while. It’s as good as being drunk with none of the nasty hangover the next morning,” Ben assured him.
“You drugged me,” Peter said. He was trying to say it loudly, to catch someone’s attention. However, everything was blurring and he couldn’t form the words easily.
“Yep,” Ben agreed. “You’re a bright one, aren’t you there, Sport? Okay, so this is the kidnapping part. Let’s get you out of the car.”
Peter tried to protest. He really did. A second man appeared, this one a younger black man with light brown eyes that stood out. Peter thought he might have called the man beautiful, but he wasn’t sure. Things were starting to go all dream-hazy.
“Come on,” Ben said. He got one side, and the new man took Peter’s other side. Despite putting real effort into fighting back, Peter found himself half carried and half guided out of the bar and to the SUV waiting on the curb.
“Should we restrain him?” the new man asked.
“Nah. Even he’s going to have to sleep off that dose. Let’s get to the airfield and load him up,” Ben answered.
Airfield? Peter should be panicking, but he couldn’t. He stared up at the roof of the SUV as someone rearranged his limbs for him.
“Welcome to a first class abduction. No blood, no mess, and no one to notice anything out of the ordinary, and by the way, thank you for choosing such an out of the way bar, because that will make all this so much harder to trace,” Ben said with a short of childlike glee that made Peter really regret not shooting him. The minute he got his hands on a gun, he was going to rectify that. The SUV pulled away from the curb, and Peter tilted his head to the side so he could look out the tinted window. Yep, this was an official kidnapping.
I am buried in the nitty-gritty of edits (the unfun side of writing), so I indulged in a little fantasy. Enjoy.
Title: Desperate Measures
Pairing m/m
Rating: SAFE
Summary: Ex-Sergeant Peter Malimic has endured a hard year. Mental health issues played out on the public stage led to a slight case of public shaming and official discharge from the Army. He thought it couldn't get any worse. Then worse showed up on the bar stool next to him.
“Malimic?”
Peter Malimic looked up from his beer. As much as he wanted something stronger, he didn’t trust himself with the hard liquor right now. Unfortunately, that meant he wasn’t drunk enough to handle questions.
“Nope,” he answered.
Instead of going away, the guy leaned against the counter. His gray hair gave him a vague air of harmlessness, but Peter wasn’t buying it. The guy’s hand rested near his waist where a person might hide a weapon, and his eyes constantly scanned the bar. That’s exactly what Peter wanted to do, but he refused to give in to those instincts. Right. Instincts. The psychologist called his urges PTSD, and Peter couldn’t disagree. He was post-combat, and his temper was getting dangerously bat-shit crazy.
“That’s funny,” the guy said with an air of disinterest that Peter wasn’t buying. “You look exactly like the picture of Peter Malimic my boss gave me.”
Peter mentally reviewed his last court-ordered therapy session trying to decide if he’d said anything to make himself look particularly dangerous. “Is your boss a psychiatrist, psychologist, or other mental health related professional?”
The guy looked amused at that. He leaned close as though sharing a secret. “He’s more likely to cause mental breakdowns than cure them.” He sat back and offered his hand. “Ben Mallory.”
Peter eyed the man warily. Clearly he knew who Peter was, so denying it was pointless. Since he didn’t have a choice, Peter relented. “Peter Malimic,” he said as he took Ben’s hand and shook it.
“Nice to meet you Peter Malimic,” Ben said with a smile. Either the man had more mental health issues than Peter or he was one of those that hid his claws and fangs under a layer of class-clown harmlessness. Peter’s threat-assessment nerve was dancing.
“So.” Peter drew the word out, inviting Ben to speak his peace. The man had the audacity to just sit there and grin like he was enjoying it. Hell, he probably was. “Does your boss happen to run a mercenary service that is in need of someone whose life sucks bad enough that they might be willing to take on a suicide mission?” Peter asked. He was only ninety percent joking.
Ben laughed. “No, although his plans do seem to end up with more mayhem and chaos than I like.”
“So you want a gay soldier to cause mayhem by showing up during some protest?” Peter had trouble believing that. The gay movement kept as far away from him as they could.
He was Peter Malimic—the man who had gone crazy during a bank robbery and beat the shit out of two would-be hostage takers, all caught on the security footage. It had played nicely on television. Of course, that footage wasn’t played as often as the bits where he then started pounding on the police who swarmed the building. Two bullets and three tazers later, he’d gone down. He’d woken up to a medical discharge from the Army and a whole team of therapists dedicated to his recovery from uncontrollable anger.
“I saw Senator Clarkson’s speech,” Ben said.
“Would that be the one about how dangerous and impulsive gays are, complete with pictures of me as exhibit A?”
“Nah,” Ben said with a casual disregard that set Peter’s teeth on edge. “That was last week. This week he’s all about how gays are backstabbing, after all, look at how fast they turned on you. I swear, Malimic, is there anyone who hasn’t thrown you under the bus?”
“Nope,” Peter said. “So why don’t you tell me who your boss is and then I can get to some serious drinking.” To hell with keeping a level head, Peter needed booze. A lot of booze.
Ben’s face twisted with embarrassment. “Here’s the awkward thing. My boss said that I needed to bring you, whether you’re willing or not. He actually suggested that plan A would be a good kidnapping. I could wait until you were drunk and hit you with a tranq gun.” Ben said it all in such a perfectly normal tone of voice, that Peter thought he might be joking. However, that was not a joking expression. Hell, the man almost looked apologetic.
Peter stared at the guy, trying to come up with some sort of response to that level of stupidity. Ben still leaned against the counter like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Have you considered therapy?” Peter demanded.
Ben grinned at him. “I’ve got a standing appointment on Wednesdays. So, clearly I’m ignoring my boss because as smart as Edin is, he can also be an idiot. Kidnapping rarely leads to an amicable relationship.
“Does your boss care about an amicable relationship?” Peter asked. This was getting weird, even for him. He’d been stationed in Iraq, Germany, Afghanistan, and Japan, but in his entire military career, he’d never seen anything worth kidnapping him over. The weapons he handled were all standard issue. And while he was a damn good trainer, he taught BRM. Basic Rifle Marksmanship wasn’t exactly a high-profile or in-demand skill set.
“Yeah, he does,” Ben said. “The whole telling me to kidnap you thing is more about his basic paranoia.”
“Ah, so a paranoid man wants to kidnap an ex-sergeant first class? Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with that picture, not at all.” Peter grabbed his beer glass and debated whether he wanted to keep drinking. Drunk was better than this conversation, but if Ben was dangerous—and every instinct in Peter’s body said he was—then Peter couldn’t afford to dull his reflexes.
Ben spent some time watching the bar. The place was a dive, but then Peter wasn’t exactly welcome in most bars. Some bars politely asked him to leave out of some fear that he’d lose his mind and randomly start pounding on people. That really wasn’t fair considering that Peter had been provoked into losing his fucking mind during the robbery. Other bars had not-so-politely tossed him out on his ear for being publicly gay, despite the fact that he hadn’t asked to be outted and then used as a political exhibit. And Peter didn’t have the nerve to go anywhere near a military bar. He might be a masochist, but that was a level of self-hate he couldn’t face.
Peter sipped at his beer. He pulled a bowl of pretzels closer and worked on making sure he ate more than he drank. Pretzels weren’t ideal if a person was trying to get sober, but Peter sure as hell didn’t trust the kitchen in this place. “Are you staying here all night?” Peter finally demanded.
“Yep,” Ben agreed.
Peter studied him. “You’re not even going to pretend to drink, are you?”
“Nope.”
“So, are you sticking with your kidnapping plan?”
“Right now it seems like the best option,” Ben agreed. “Besides, I do want to check out the sweet new tranq gun Edin bought me.”
“I could call the police,” Peter warned.
Ben looked over and gave him a lazy grin. Yeah, Peter had already figured out that he wasn’t going to get much help from the cops. They might have thanked him for saving the hostages, but none of them would forget that he also beat the crap out of several of them. Besides, Peter had a definite credibility issue, and something told him that Ben would be able to charm most anyone. The gray hair, laugh lines, and bright blue eyes just screamed “friendly grandfather,” even if his body language hinted at a soldier’s wariness.
Ben reached over and stole a pretzel out of the bowl. “Do you have something better to do?”
“Better than being kidnapped?”
“Yeah.”
Peter thought about that. Other than reruns of Breaking Bad and therapy sessions, his life was devoid of better. Hell, he didn’t even have any moderately good in his life right now. “Not really,” he admitted.
“So why not consider it a free vacation?”
Part of Peter wanted to do it. He really did. As much as his life sucked right now, any sort of vacation would be good, even an involuntary one. However, there was suicidal and then there was stupidly suicidal. Peter might dance with that first one, but he wasn’t going to put himself into a situation where he couldn’t get out if he needed to.
“I’ll pass,” he said.
Ben shrugged. “Your choice.”
“Except that you’re still here and you still have a tranq gun.” Peter wanted a drink of his beer. The pretzels were salty and his mouth was dry; however, he didn’t want to risk having alcohol in his system if this all went FUBAR. Ben reached for another pretzel, and Peter slid the bowl away from him.
Ben had the nerve to grin.
“I could point out that I have a good twenty year advantage over you,” Peter said. He was coming up on thirty, and while he couldn’t party all night and then show up on the range in the morning like some of the new recruits, he could hold his own against someone who was clearly north of fifty.
Besides, Ben had that slightly soft middle that truly fit men got after then stopped working out quite as hard. Peter was still training hard every day. As a teen, he’d been tall but lanky. His friends had jokingly called him a scarecrow, either because of his build or because of his wild hair. Ten years later, PT had filled him out so he had a broader chest, even if he couldn’t make it as a body builder. His wild hair was gone too, a victim of male-pattern baldness, but Peter kept his hair cropped close enough that it wasn’t noticeable unless someone looked. In a fight, Peter would bet on himself.
However, Ben still sat there, unconcerned as he watched the crowd. It made him nervous.
“I’m thinking about shooting you and calling it a preemptive measure,” Peter warned him.
Ben laughed. “You like me too much to shoot me.”
“Says who?”
Ben turned and gave him another slow smile. “Everyone loves me.”
“Right now, I actively dislike you.”
Ben laughed. “Wait. I’ll grow on you. Then you’ll be sorry you killed me.”
“I didn’t say I’d kill you. I just threatened to shoot you. A bullet in the knee would slow you down.”
“With what gun?”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “I’m a weapons trainer.”
“Were. Past tense. Now you’re a walking public service announcement for PTSD, and the police have confiscated all your weapons.” Ben raised his eyebrows, clearly daring Peter to deny any of it.
“You assume I don’t have more.” Peter was really starting to get nervous, and his mouth was almost painfully dry.
“I don’t assume anything. I verify,” Ben said ominously.
Peter’s guts were really churning now. He slid off his stool, and nearly toppled right over onto the floor as his sense of balance failed him.
“Whoa, hey, careful there, Champ,” Ben said as he caught Peter by the arm.
“What?” Peter’s voice came out weak, and he was having trouble catching his breath.
“Calm down. It’s not dangerous, or I wouldn’t have eaten one,” Ben said as he propped Peter back up on the stool. Peter watched Ben grab the pretzels and upend the bowl onto the floor before crushing the pile under his boot. “You’re just going to be a little out of it for a while. It’s as good as being drunk with none of the nasty hangover the next morning,” Ben assured him.
“You drugged me,” Peter said. He was trying to say it loudly, to catch someone’s attention. However, everything was blurring and he couldn’t form the words easily.
“Yep,” Ben agreed. “You’re a bright one, aren’t you there, Sport? Okay, so this is the kidnapping part. Let’s get you out of the car.”
Peter tried to protest. He really did. A second man appeared, this one a younger black man with light brown eyes that stood out. Peter thought he might have called the man beautiful, but he wasn’t sure. Things were starting to go all dream-hazy.
“Come on,” Ben said. He got one side, and the new man took Peter’s other side. Despite putting real effort into fighting back, Peter found himself half carried and half guided out of the bar and to the SUV waiting on the curb.
“Should we restrain him?” the new man asked.
“Nah. Even he’s going to have to sleep off that dose. Let’s get to the airfield and load him up,” Ben answered.
Airfield? Peter should be panicking, but he couldn’t. He stared up at the roof of the SUV as someone rearranged his limbs for him.
“Welcome to a first class abduction. No blood, no mess, and no one to notice anything out of the ordinary, and by the way, thank you for choosing such an out of the way bar, because that will make all this so much harder to trace,” Ben said with a short of childlike glee that made Peter really regret not shooting him. The minute he got his hands on a gun, he was going to rectify that. The SUV pulled away from the curb, and Peter tilted his head to the side so he could look out the tinted window. Yep, this was an official kidnapping.
