|crowgirl13 (crowgirl13) wrote,|
@ 2008-07-02 19:52:00
|Entry tags:||fall out boy, my chemical romance, series: pedestrian wolves, writing: bandom|
Scene/ficlet: Nape of the Neck, Slip of the Tongue
Title: Nape of the Neck, Slip of the Tongue
Character/s: Ray Toro, Bob Bryar
Fandom: Bandom [MCR]
Verse: Pedestrian Wolves. Closed 'Verse.
Summary: As warnings went, this was particularly vague, but Ray had learned the hard way that not paying attention to even the most obscure warning would bring nothing but trouble.
Prompt: 19 ‘Exhausted’.
A/N and disclaimer: I'm writing about werewolves. Obviously this is fiction! Unbetaed. Please comment with any mistakes. Thanks for reading!
To say that Ray knew what Bob Bryar was from the first moment their lives collided would be wrong. The first time Ray saw Bob, all he registered through his tour induced exhaustion was the wide span of shoulders as the other man hunched down in concentration over a mixing board. He was just another tech guy, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, dressed like everyone else. His stockiness made him stand out a little, as did the brightness of his pale hair, but the adoption of the accepted tech uniform and his natural stillness caused the blonde to slip into the background. Sure, his stillness was unusual in the chaos of the tour, but not different enough to stand out in the milling crowd. So yeah, there were small discrepancies, snags in normalcy that had Ray glancing over at the mixing board, trying to see…something, he wasn’t sure what. What he did know was the hair at the nape of his neck was prickling, a prickle that gained sharpness when Ray looked across the venue at the board. As warnings went, this was particularly vague, but Ray had learned the hard way that not paying attention to even the most obscure warning would bring nothing but trouble. The last thing they needed on this tour was more trouble. So he watched the sound tech, cataloging the characteristics that he could see across the distance between stage and board.
//short blonde hair, the scruff of a neglect-grown beard, glint of metal at the lip//
It wasn’t much, wasn’t enough, but it helped quiet his unease.
There’s an additional whisper in his mind the next morning, a murmur of unease that distracts as Ray crosses to the food tent. He’s groggy, his thoughts mired down by a blend of hangover and exhaustion – it’s been a week and half since he’s been able to get more than three restless hours of sleep- so he’s not paying attention to his surroundings as he walks towards the food tent. A warm hand on his shoulder stops him. But Ray stumbles, inertia still propelling him forward. Another hand appears at eye level, wrapping around the metal pole he’d not seen in his sleep-deprived haze. Ray’s forehead hits the hand hard enough to earn himself a knuckle dig to the temple.
“Easy.” The word is breathed in Ray’s ear.
He startles back, turns his head and finds himself staring into sharp eyes.
Electric blue stares back, watching. This close, Ray can see how the sunburn on his rescuer’s nose is peeling, how the red is fading to freckles on his cheeks.
For a brief instant, all Ray can smell is pine and the sharp bite of new snow. All the hair along his neck prickles – he can only imagine what his hair looks like.
“Thanks. I’m not really awake…” He manages. Ray’s tongue still feels thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth, slurring his words.
The blonde watches him, the right corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement. “I figured.”
Ray finds himself staring at the other man’s lip ring and feels heat rise on his cheeks. “Thanks for the save.” He repeats, words tumbling out past the embarrassment. “ I’m Ray Toro-Ortiz…”
This time he’s given an actual smile. “Of My Chemical Romance. Yeah, I know. I did your sound last night. I’m Bob, Bob Bryar.” He held out his hand and the smile widened into an easy grin.
In the background, Ray heard whoops and the flash of bare skin as a group of local musicians ran past, super soakers in hand. He grinned at Bob and took the offered hand. Callus rasped against callus, and Ray opened his mouth to ask Bob what he played… but then he felt a familiar ghostly brush of fur against his palm. Suddenly the unease of the previous night made sense.
“Oh.” He said, taking a deep breath and inhaling the tang of ozone and musk. “Lobo.”
Bob’s fingers tightened around his hand, as gold flared bright in the blue neon of his gaze.
“What?!” He hissed.
Ray blinked, cursing his lack of filters. He was so tired. Looking into Bob’s face, a ready denial settled onto his tongue…but there was something in that intense stare that prompted honesty instead.
“I didn’t expect to find a lobo hombre on tour…” Ray said, and shook his head, seeing the snap of red-brown curls at the edge of his vision. “It makes sense, though.”
Bob still clung to his hand. Ray felt the bones of his index and middle fingers grind together and hissed at the bright burst of pain. Bob blinked, looked at their hands and stepped back, putting several feet between them.
Ray frowned as he realized the tension, the spark-edged unease that had sat in him over the past 24 hours had vanished. He looked at Bob, and felt the same low awareness of the other man that defined his band. Bob felt like Frank and Gee and Mikey… He spread his hands wide, remembering the summer he’d spent earning the friendship of his neighbor’s dog, a half feral pit bull named Jasmine. He smiled, careful to not show his teeth.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ray’s not sure if it’s the gesture or the even cadence of his voice, but Bob’s shoulders slowly relax. He doesn’t answer, not with words – simply ducks his head and turns towards the food table. It’s enough for Ray. He falls into step, strides matching Bob’s without thought.