riptide_asylum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
riptide_asylum) wrote2012-12-20 07:05 pm
riptide_asylum) wrote2012-12-20 07:05 pm
Entry tags:
"Blue Hawaii" (Dreamtime, 2010)
Title: Blue Hawaii
Rating: PG
Summary: It's 2010, and Nick Ryder's having difficulty falling asleep, just before Christmas. Cody, by contrast, is sleeping like a log.
It's not the Riptide, but it's home. Theirs, the second boat they refurbished together, and even if they didn't win the High Tide in a poker game, Nick still thinks they hit the jackpot.
It's gone 11pm, which in their small corner of the world, their small and misty marina, means lights-out. The only problem is, Nick can't sleep.
He glances over at Cody, sprawled contentedly across the queen-sized bed in their stateroom, red-and-gold comforter reduced to shades of gray in the weak moonlight seeping in through the windows. It's gotten rucked down to his waist, bunched and bundled, and Nick reaches over to pull it back up to Cody's chest, gentle enough that Cody doesn't even stir, just nuzzles his pillow with a quick frown, then sighs himself back to sleep. Nick stares up at the ceiling.
They had some of their best years on board the Riptide, living easy and broke, playing at war with the bad guys, Murray just down the hall bringing twelve kinds of mayhem to their door. But Nick's starting to think their best years are still ahead, here in the quiet and the dark. He likes quiet and dark. Even at this time of year -- maybe this time of year especially.
Nick resists the urge to look at the clock and thinks instead about the Riptide.
The Riptide, with its broken port-side door and half the lowlifes in King Harbor redecorating the place in Ransacked Modern, with wayward Contessans bouncing over at the end of Mama Jo's leash -- half the time it didn't even seem real, like it was theirs. Every time the two of them woke up to find Murray’s girl of the week sobbing her eyes out in the salon, or a client sitting in the stern, waiting to tell them half-truths, it became harder to remember that was their boat. Their boat. The one they'd spent a long, over-hot summer rebuilding from the waterline, the one Nick had almost electrocuted himself fitting with extra outlets in the head. The one with Cody's blood on the engine compartment lid, after he'd decided to fix the hinges himself. The one they always dreamed of sailing to Hawaii.
But the High Tide now, she’s something else. For every leak in the Riptide’s hull, every time she threw her breakers or ran out of hot water, the High Tide has an answer. Nick made sure of it when they were pulling her back together, because he wanted this to be their last boat. The boat he could be sure would keep Cody and him comfortable, and safe. Sure, they haven’t made it to Hawaii yet, but the doors all lock and she’s as sound as they come, with a pair of Hercules Q series that Nick keeps purring, even if they never go farther than Santa Barbara, nowadays, and then only when Murray doesn’t feel like driving. The Riptide was an adventure and a distraction, their reward for not cracking up when they both made it back Stateside. Our excuse for sticking together, Nick thinks, back when we didn’t know the words for what we wanted.
The High Tide, now this is what forever sounds like. They’re neither of them getting any younger, and more than anything, Nick wants Cody not to worry. Wants him to be safe and feel safe. Wants him happy and comfortable and unworried.
Nick’s fingers find the slight rise of scar tissue just above Cody’s heart. Where the doctors made Cody’s heart keep beating that one time. Nick’s too, come to think of it.
Cody huffs a protest and rolls away, curling up on his side. He snorts softly, then settles.
Nick follows, slipping his arm up under Cody’s, curling in tight, nuzzling Cody’s shoulder, relaxing into the smell of him, the soft familiarity of the sweatshirt Cody wears to bed in winter, breathing deeply.
This, of course, wakes Cody.
He rolls over onto his back and squints through the darkness, stifling a yawn.
Nick draws an all-clear sign on Cody’s belly, but for some reason this brings Cody fully awake. His snort this time is one of pique, but before Nick can protest, he’s being rolled on top of, borne down onto the mattress under Cody’s familiar, welcome weight. There’s some resettling to be done, and Cody winds up half-sprawled across Nick, his other excessively long leg kicked out in the opposite direction, socked foot peeking out from under the covers. How the hell did we get by for so long jumping each other in those tiny bunks? Nick wonders.
Another change from the Riptide is the 21” flat-screen mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed. Cody rolls away to get the remote and flicks it on. ESPN, basketball highlights with the sound off, comforting images of Americana as a nightlight. Cody puts the remote back on his nightstand and rolls back into Nick, straddling Nick’s thigh and burrowing a hand under the covers, pinging the drawstring of Nick’s sweats undone. He’s not getting fresh, they just both like the contact of skin. Cody’s thumb twitches spasmodically over Nick’s hipbone at intervals as the Bulls struggle with the Grizzlies; that thumb reminds Nick of a cat’s tail, the way it moves sometimes even when you’d swear the cat it was attached to was fast asleep.
Nick’s eyelids are growing heavy. They seem to only open now when Cody moves his thumb.
The commercials come on. Something about escaping the winter blues with a cruise to Hawaii. Celebrating the holidays there. A big white whale of a ship lies motionless on-screen, the size of a city block. Nick closes his eyes. Why the hell would you wanna go to Hawaii with all those other people? he thinks, just before he sleeps. A trip’s all about who you take with you, at least as much as where you end up...
Cody’s thumb moves again, slower now, gentle reassuring circles.
They like staying home for the holidays, no matter what the commercials say, and for Nick, home will always be Cody.
Rating: PG
Summary: It's 2010, and Nick Ryder's having difficulty falling asleep, just before Christmas. Cody, by contrast, is sleeping like a log.
It's not the Riptide, but it's home. Theirs, the second boat they refurbished together, and even if they didn't win the High Tide in a poker game, Nick still thinks they hit the jackpot.
It's gone 11pm, which in their small corner of the world, their small and misty marina, means lights-out. The only problem is, Nick can't sleep.
He glances over at Cody, sprawled contentedly across the queen-sized bed in their stateroom, red-and-gold comforter reduced to shades of gray in the weak moonlight seeping in through the windows. It's gotten rucked down to his waist, bunched and bundled, and Nick reaches over to pull it back up to Cody's chest, gentle enough that Cody doesn't even stir, just nuzzles his pillow with a quick frown, then sighs himself back to sleep. Nick stares up at the ceiling.
They had some of their best years on board the Riptide, living easy and broke, playing at war with the bad guys, Murray just down the hall bringing twelve kinds of mayhem to their door. But Nick's starting to think their best years are still ahead, here in the quiet and the dark. He likes quiet and dark. Even at this time of year -- maybe this time of year especially.
Nick resists the urge to look at the clock and thinks instead about the Riptide.
The Riptide, with its broken port-side door and half the lowlifes in King Harbor redecorating the place in Ransacked Modern, with wayward Contessans bouncing over at the end of Mama Jo's leash -- half the time it didn't even seem real, like it was theirs. Every time the two of them woke up to find Murray’s girl of the week sobbing her eyes out in the salon, or a client sitting in the stern, waiting to tell them half-truths, it became harder to remember that was their boat. Their boat. The one they'd spent a long, over-hot summer rebuilding from the waterline, the one Nick had almost electrocuted himself fitting with extra outlets in the head. The one with Cody's blood on the engine compartment lid, after he'd decided to fix the hinges himself. The one they always dreamed of sailing to Hawaii.
But the High Tide now, she’s something else. For every leak in the Riptide’s hull, every time she threw her breakers or ran out of hot water, the High Tide has an answer. Nick made sure of it when they were pulling her back together, because he wanted this to be their last boat. The boat he could be sure would keep Cody and him comfortable, and safe. Sure, they haven’t made it to Hawaii yet, but the doors all lock and she’s as sound as they come, with a pair of Hercules Q series that Nick keeps purring, even if they never go farther than Santa Barbara, nowadays, and then only when Murray doesn’t feel like driving. The Riptide was an adventure and a distraction, their reward for not cracking up when they both made it back Stateside. Our excuse for sticking together, Nick thinks, back when we didn’t know the words for what we wanted.
The High Tide, now this is what forever sounds like. They’re neither of them getting any younger, and more than anything, Nick wants Cody not to worry. Wants him to be safe and feel safe. Wants him happy and comfortable and unworried.
Nick’s fingers find the slight rise of scar tissue just above Cody’s heart. Where the doctors made Cody’s heart keep beating that one time. Nick’s too, come to think of it.
Cody huffs a protest and rolls away, curling up on his side. He snorts softly, then settles.
Nick follows, slipping his arm up under Cody’s, curling in tight, nuzzling Cody’s shoulder, relaxing into the smell of him, the soft familiarity of the sweatshirt Cody wears to bed in winter, breathing deeply.
This, of course, wakes Cody.
He rolls over onto his back and squints through the darkness, stifling a yawn.
Nick draws an all-clear sign on Cody’s belly, but for some reason this brings Cody fully awake. His snort this time is one of pique, but before Nick can protest, he’s being rolled on top of, borne down onto the mattress under Cody’s familiar, welcome weight. There’s some resettling to be done, and Cody winds up half-sprawled across Nick, his other excessively long leg kicked out in the opposite direction, socked foot peeking out from under the covers. How the hell did we get by for so long jumping each other in those tiny bunks? Nick wonders.
Another change from the Riptide is the 21” flat-screen mounted on the wall at the foot of the bed. Cody rolls away to get the remote and flicks it on. ESPN, basketball highlights with the sound off, comforting images of Americana as a nightlight. Cody puts the remote back on his nightstand and rolls back into Nick, straddling Nick’s thigh and burrowing a hand under the covers, pinging the drawstring of Nick’s sweats undone. He’s not getting fresh, they just both like the contact of skin. Cody’s thumb twitches spasmodically over Nick’s hipbone at intervals as the Bulls struggle with the Grizzlies; that thumb reminds Nick of a cat’s tail, the way it moves sometimes even when you’d swear the cat it was attached to was fast asleep.
Nick’s eyelids are growing heavy. They seem to only open now when Cody moves his thumb.
The commercials come on. Something about escaping the winter blues with a cruise to Hawaii. Celebrating the holidays there. A big white whale of a ship lies motionless on-screen, the size of a city block. Nick closes his eyes. Why the hell would you wanna go to Hawaii with all those other people? he thinks, just before he sleeps. A trip’s all about who you take with you, at least as much as where you end up...
Cody’s thumb moves again, slower now, gentle reassuring circles.
They like staying home for the holidays, no matter what the commercials say, and for Nick, home will always be Cody.
no subject
Glad to see someone still writing "Riptide" slash, by the way!
Thanks so much for sharing!
(May I Friend you???)
no subject
I'd be so honored if you'd friend me. Thanks!