"Memorial Day" (Sunfish, 2007)
May. 31st, 2014 08:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
riptide_asylumTitle: Memorial Day
Rating: PG
Summary: For veterans, Memorial Day can be complicated.
“Let’s barbecue, Nick. I’ll cook.”
Nick opened his eyes into a blazing hot Southern California afternoon. Blinking away sleep, he struggled to a sitting position. “Mmph,” he managed.
“C’mon, Nick. We’ve earned it. Tell me we haven’t. Our work on the last three cases alone should set us up for the next six months!”
The afternoon swam into focus. The Riptide, docked at her berth in King Harbor, bobbed gently with the tide. Memorial Day weekend was in full swing and tourists thronged the walkways, shops and restaurants of the Harbor, bustling about like ants with fanny packs. Somewhere nearby, canned soft rock played out over the water. Someone kept running, it kept him running. Funny, Nick felt the same way.
“Nick!”
“I heard you the first time, babe.” Nick eased himself down over the edge of the deck adjoining the Riptide’s wheelhouse and drank in the sight of his partner, tan, tall and shirtless and gesturing on the stern banquette. Nick took the beer Cody proffered, droplets of condensation wetting his fingers. They had earned it, it was true. The Riptide Detective Agency always seemed to be out on a case, chasing bad guys, getting shot at, being kidnapped…
Nick frowned, the beer turning bitter in his throat. He handed the bottle back to Cody. “I’m in. Put me down for kielbasa.” He stared out over the port side as a trio of kids skateboarded along the mezzanine past a sign showing a skateboard inside a red circle. A red slash bisected the board. Lieutenant Jo Parisi walked leisurely after them, arm in arm with a shapely brunette whose curly, shoulder-length hair bounced merrily as she walked. Nick froze. It couldn’t be. Not this far from Washington. Not without some kind of warning, at least.
“Okay, Nick, kielbasa it is.”
Nick spun around to find Cody had already fired up the grill on deck, and Nick’s sausages sizzled merrily next to hamburger patties and chicken breasts already speckled with char from the glowing coals. It was a far cry from their usual cold cuts and lite beer. Nick’s frown deepened. “Cody, when did you--”
“Check it out, Nick: Murray’s brought Gloria. And veggie burgers!”
And sure enough, there was Murray and his long-term flame Gloria, laying cardboard-colored circles next to the chicken, burgers and kielbasa.
“Not just any veggie burgers, Cody. These are genetically engineered to expand when you cook them, both in terms of size and nutrition. The longer you cook ‘em, the better they are for you.”
“That’s great, Murray, just great.” Cody patted Murray on the back. “But how do they taste?”
Murray pushed up his glasses. “How do they…. well, you know Cody, I don’t think I’d gotten that far with testing! But I’m sure they’ll taste great, just great! There’s no way that much nutrition can taste anything but amazing!”
Nick watched as one of the veggie burgers oozed across the surface of the grill, absorbing first a chicken breast, then a hamburger. He wondered whether he should say anything.
“If you say so, buddy,” Cody was saying. Nick turned back around. Cody was squeezing one of Murray’s shoulders while Gloria launched into a history of plant-based industrial food production. Behind them, beneath the Stars n’ Stripes that graced the Riptide’s stern, a stealthy figure clad in black pajamas, flip-flops and a conical bamboo hat climbed silently over the gunwale, a PPSh-41 slung over one shoulder.
Then everything seemed to happen in slow-motion.
Nick leaped for Cody and Murray, clawing his way across the deck like he was fighting through jello. The flames from the barbecue grew higher and the tang of smoke hung heavy in Nick’s nostrils. The VC slipped his gun into firing position just as Nick dropped a hand on Cody’s shoulder, mouth open and choked with smothered yells.
Cody tilted his head to one side. “Nick?”
“Nick?”
The VC opened fire through a haze of dancing flames and Nick’s whole world began to explode before his eyes.
“Nick!”
With a start, Nick came to.
He was sitting out on deck with Cody shaking him awake. Fighting through the dream-sickness, Nick dropped a heavy hand on Cody’s wrist anchoring it to his shoulder. “Cody,” he growled.
“Nick,” Cody said more softly, “come on back to me, buddy. Everyone’s gone home.” Cody sketched their all-clear sign into Nick’s shoulder -- once, twice, then a third time.
Three times. That was bad.
Nick didn’t know how long he’d been dozing, but he struggled to re-orient himself to the here and now. Him and Cody, and the Hightide, not the Riptide, grill slowly cooling in her stern, still festooned with burger grease and smoking lazily. “Cody,” Nick tried again.
“I’m here, Nick,” Cody murmured. He swam into view as himself; an older, silver-haired grizzled version of the golden youth Nick had loved and protected across two continents. He opened his mouth to explain, embarrassed to emit only a squeak.
Cody kissed him, slow, sweet and gentle. Lightly, like Nick was something fine and delicate, instead of a dumb Army grunt who drank too much at their Memorial Day barbecues, fell asleep and woke up unable to remember what year it was, or which boat he was on. Nick gripped Cody’s waist, holding on tight. “M’sorry,” he said.
“You and Overbeck both,” Cody rejoined lightly. “We’ll be having a guest for breakfast again, if he doesn’t just decide to sleep it off.”
And sure enough when Nick looked over at the marina parking lot there was Overbeck’s big Ford, dark and silent. A fellow vet, Overbeck was a frequent guest at Nick and Cody’s poker nights, and all of a sudden the Memorial Day barbecue swam into sharp focus: half a dozen men, all vets, laughing and drinking around a smoking grill. Meat, beer and a weak sun fighting through the fog that routinely hung over the marina this far north along the coast.
A quiet priaow and Nick felt something slink along his ankles. Cody’s latest project, a stringy little kitten they’d rescued, who turned out to be what even Nick could admit was an affectionate homebody. Nancy made a figure-8 around Nick’s ankles, then a second one, in case he hadn’t gotten the message.
Stupid cat.
Stupid, cute little cat who Cody had found (with Nick’s help) and who slept on the edge of their bed most nights and gave Quinn, their elderly tom, sixteen different conniption fits a day. Nick stuck a hand down absent-mindedly for her to rub against. “I’m sorry, babe.”
Cody’s kiss quieted Nick; it grounded him and made his heart beat, in case anyone was asking.
Nick leaned in until his forehead touched Cody’s own. They’d gotten so old. Sixty. Back in Nam, sixty had been a joke, a fairytale. They’d routinely come back from patrol wearing bits of the grunts who’d set out with them, good men who’d played cards and laughed long, hard and well the night before. Back in-country, they’d chosen the hardest, stupidest job they could find, putting them in the regular path of a whole herd of bullets. Sixty was something set aside for other people.
“Bedtime,” Cody said softly.
Nick let him lead the way below.
It hadn’t been the beer. Maybe it had been the grill, or the holiday or the presence of other vets -- the luckless Overbeck, and McAllister, Johns and Lopez, Farrell and Hidalgo. But as Cody tucked Nick in for the night, curling in beside him and turning SportsCenter on low, his clever, welcome hands surging their way up Nick’s neck to cup the back of his skull, Nick knew it was simply this: that they had made it. Against so many odds, they had this: a boat, a barbecue with friends and a bed. Things that alone, Nick would never’ve dreamed of. Things he’d promised Cody forty years and a thousand lifetimes away.
They were real. They were here. And Nick was way too tired and buzzed to think about them, even if his hand did manage to settle unerringly on Cody’s thigh.
Cody kissed the top of his head and signed all-clear on his chest, making Nick’s heart soar. All-clear. That was them.
Nick rolled gracelessly into Cody’s lap, gratified to feel Cody’s ridiculous fingers find the places in his neck he hadn’t even known needed rubbing. Settled into the domestic glow of the tv bolted into its enclosure. Felt the warmth of Cody’s limbs against his own, the full measure of it fighting back the nightmare from earlier.
“Hey Cody,” Nick whispered.
“Yeah, pal?”
“What d’you think Overbeck wants in his omelet?”
Cody clucked softly and Nick let go, falling into the spell, feeling their boat rock with the ocean and a tide conceived of by a time that had no meaning in his life. Just before he fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep, Nick registered the distinctive weight of Nancy settling down between their feet.
Rating: PG
Summary: For veterans, Memorial Day can be complicated.
“Let’s barbecue, Nick. I’ll cook.”
Nick opened his eyes into a blazing hot Southern California afternoon. Blinking away sleep, he struggled to a sitting position. “Mmph,” he managed.
“C’mon, Nick. We’ve earned it. Tell me we haven’t. Our work on the last three cases alone should set us up for the next six months!”
The afternoon swam into focus. The Riptide, docked at her berth in King Harbor, bobbed gently with the tide. Memorial Day weekend was in full swing and tourists thronged the walkways, shops and restaurants of the Harbor, bustling about like ants with fanny packs. Somewhere nearby, canned soft rock played out over the water. Someone kept running, it kept him running. Funny, Nick felt the same way.
“Nick!”
“I heard you the first time, babe.” Nick eased himself down over the edge of the deck adjoining the Riptide’s wheelhouse and drank in the sight of his partner, tan, tall and shirtless and gesturing on the stern banquette. Nick took the beer Cody proffered, droplets of condensation wetting his fingers. They had earned it, it was true. The Riptide Detective Agency always seemed to be out on a case, chasing bad guys, getting shot at, being kidnapped…
Nick frowned, the beer turning bitter in his throat. He handed the bottle back to Cody. “I’m in. Put me down for kielbasa.” He stared out over the port side as a trio of kids skateboarded along the mezzanine past a sign showing a skateboard inside a red circle. A red slash bisected the board. Lieutenant Jo Parisi walked leisurely after them, arm in arm with a shapely brunette whose curly, shoulder-length hair bounced merrily as she walked. Nick froze. It couldn’t be. Not this far from Washington. Not without some kind of warning, at least.
“Okay, Nick, kielbasa it is.”
Nick spun around to find Cody had already fired up the grill on deck, and Nick’s sausages sizzled merrily next to hamburger patties and chicken breasts already speckled with char from the glowing coals. It was a far cry from their usual cold cuts and lite beer. Nick’s frown deepened. “Cody, when did you--”
“Check it out, Nick: Murray’s brought Gloria. And veggie burgers!”
And sure enough, there was Murray and his long-term flame Gloria, laying cardboard-colored circles next to the chicken, burgers and kielbasa.
“Not just any veggie burgers, Cody. These are genetically engineered to expand when you cook them, both in terms of size and nutrition. The longer you cook ‘em, the better they are for you.”
“That’s great, Murray, just great.” Cody patted Murray on the back. “But how do they taste?”
Murray pushed up his glasses. “How do they…. well, you know Cody, I don’t think I’d gotten that far with testing! But I’m sure they’ll taste great, just great! There’s no way that much nutrition can taste anything but amazing!”
Nick watched as one of the veggie burgers oozed across the surface of the grill, absorbing first a chicken breast, then a hamburger. He wondered whether he should say anything.
“If you say so, buddy,” Cody was saying. Nick turned back around. Cody was squeezing one of Murray’s shoulders while Gloria launched into a history of plant-based industrial food production. Behind them, beneath the Stars n’ Stripes that graced the Riptide’s stern, a stealthy figure clad in black pajamas, flip-flops and a conical bamboo hat climbed silently over the gunwale, a PPSh-41 slung over one shoulder.
Then everything seemed to happen in slow-motion.
Nick leaped for Cody and Murray, clawing his way across the deck like he was fighting through jello. The flames from the barbecue grew higher and the tang of smoke hung heavy in Nick’s nostrils. The VC slipped his gun into firing position just as Nick dropped a hand on Cody’s shoulder, mouth open and choked with smothered yells.
Cody tilted his head to one side. “Nick?”
“Nick?”
The VC opened fire through a haze of dancing flames and Nick’s whole world began to explode before his eyes.
“Nick!”
With a start, Nick came to.
He was sitting out on deck with Cody shaking him awake. Fighting through the dream-sickness, Nick dropped a heavy hand on Cody’s wrist anchoring it to his shoulder. “Cody,” he growled.
“Nick,” Cody said more softly, “come on back to me, buddy. Everyone’s gone home.” Cody sketched their all-clear sign into Nick’s shoulder -- once, twice, then a third time.
Three times. That was bad.
Nick didn’t know how long he’d been dozing, but he struggled to re-orient himself to the here and now. Him and Cody, and the Hightide, not the Riptide, grill slowly cooling in her stern, still festooned with burger grease and smoking lazily. “Cody,” Nick tried again.
“I’m here, Nick,” Cody murmured. He swam into view as himself; an older, silver-haired grizzled version of the golden youth Nick had loved and protected across two continents. He opened his mouth to explain, embarrassed to emit only a squeak.
Cody kissed him, slow, sweet and gentle. Lightly, like Nick was something fine and delicate, instead of a dumb Army grunt who drank too much at their Memorial Day barbecues, fell asleep and woke up unable to remember what year it was, or which boat he was on. Nick gripped Cody’s waist, holding on tight. “M’sorry,” he said.
“You and Overbeck both,” Cody rejoined lightly. “We’ll be having a guest for breakfast again, if he doesn’t just decide to sleep it off.”
And sure enough when Nick looked over at the marina parking lot there was Overbeck’s big Ford, dark and silent. A fellow vet, Overbeck was a frequent guest at Nick and Cody’s poker nights, and all of a sudden the Memorial Day barbecue swam into sharp focus: half a dozen men, all vets, laughing and drinking around a smoking grill. Meat, beer and a weak sun fighting through the fog that routinely hung over the marina this far north along the coast.
A quiet priaow and Nick felt something slink along his ankles. Cody’s latest project, a stringy little kitten they’d rescued, who turned out to be what even Nick could admit was an affectionate homebody. Nancy made a figure-8 around Nick’s ankles, then a second one, in case he hadn’t gotten the message.
Stupid cat.
Stupid, cute little cat who Cody had found (with Nick’s help) and who slept on the edge of their bed most nights and gave Quinn, their elderly tom, sixteen different conniption fits a day. Nick stuck a hand down absent-mindedly for her to rub against. “I’m sorry, babe.”
Cody’s kiss quieted Nick; it grounded him and made his heart beat, in case anyone was asking.
Nick leaned in until his forehead touched Cody’s own. They’d gotten so old. Sixty. Back in Nam, sixty had been a joke, a fairytale. They’d routinely come back from patrol wearing bits of the grunts who’d set out with them, good men who’d played cards and laughed long, hard and well the night before. Back in-country, they’d chosen the hardest, stupidest job they could find, putting them in the regular path of a whole herd of bullets. Sixty was something set aside for other people.
“Bedtime,” Cody said softly.
Nick let him lead the way below.
It hadn’t been the beer. Maybe it had been the grill, or the holiday or the presence of other vets -- the luckless Overbeck, and McAllister, Johns and Lopez, Farrell and Hidalgo. But as Cody tucked Nick in for the night, curling in beside him and turning SportsCenter on low, his clever, welcome hands surging their way up Nick’s neck to cup the back of his skull, Nick knew it was simply this: that they had made it. Against so many odds, they had this: a boat, a barbecue with friends and a bed. Things that alone, Nick would never’ve dreamed of. Things he’d promised Cody forty years and a thousand lifetimes away.
They were real. They were here. And Nick was way too tired and buzzed to think about them, even if his hand did manage to settle unerringly on Cody’s thigh.
Cody kissed the top of his head and signed all-clear on his chest, making Nick’s heart soar. All-clear. That was them.
Nick rolled gracelessly into Cody’s lap, gratified to feel Cody’s ridiculous fingers find the places in his neck he hadn’t even known needed rubbing. Settled into the domestic glow of the tv bolted into its enclosure. Felt the warmth of Cody’s limbs against his own, the full measure of it fighting back the nightmare from earlier.
“Hey Cody,” Nick whispered.
“Yeah, pal?”
“What d’you think Overbeck wants in his omelet?”
Cody clucked softly and Nick let go, falling into the spell, feeling their boat rock with the ocean and a tide conceived of by a time that had no meaning in his life. Just before he fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep, Nick registered the distinctive weight of Nancy settling down between their feet.
