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fandomweekly2023-04-17 10:08 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2023-04-17 10:08 pm
Entry tags:
[#174] overheard and understood (mostly) [COD MW2]
Theme Prompt:
Title: overheard and understood (mostly)
Fandom: COD: MW2
Rating/Warnings: Teen, slight "slutshaming"
Bonus: No
Word Count: 973
Summary: Alejandro overhears a rumour about Rodolfo. Rodolfo, who is nothing but realistic about his chances of Alejandro loving him back, is only a little surprised.
Alejandro doesn’t drum his fingers against the table, but it’s a near thing. The speaker falters in his rote speech, his eyes darting nervously from the trembling middle distance to Alejandro before returning, and he tucks another pale notecard behind the never-decreasing pile in his hands before picking up the threads of his babble. The meeting is a pointless one, all meaningless bureaucracy meant to make things easier by introducing enough paperwork to drown them with, and Alejandro glances towards his left, at the space where Rodolfo should be.
It is still empty.
He’s not worrying. He isn’t.
He should be paying attention to the forms the wavering prayer candle of a man is now holding aloft in one quivering hand. If Rodolfo were here, Alejandro knows he’d be paying attention, skittering out notes with one hand even as he props his chin up with the other, his dark eyes likely half-lidded and calculating. Alejandro scrawls something on the notepad he brought with him, punctuating with a question mark that stabs through the paper to the sheet beneath. The speaker flinches.
Alejandro hadn’t made much of a habit of punctuality when he had been younger, always sliding into lessons a few minutes late with a grin and a wink, ensuring to wriggle into space that Rodolfo had kept for him. They hadn’t spoken on it, simply adjusting to the other like two planets locked in orbit, but with promotions came responsibility and with responsibility came the wide-eyed stares of men who wanted to emulate Alejandro like he is someone important, so he had to learn. Rodolfo had been benevolent in keeping his laughter mostly behind closed doors.
“Any questions?” The man says, his voice as tremulous as the fluttering of his hands.
“Yes. I was wondering—“
The rest of the sentence fades away into nothing but a dull roar as Alejandro turns, expectant, eager, delighted to see that his sergeant had returned to him. Rodolfo looks much the same as he always does, his uniform pressed and neat and a faint smudge of stubble over his cheeks, but it is the single irregularity on his neck that captures Alejandro’s attention. There is a bruise, dark and recent and high on his neck, just peeking over the edge of his collar.
Well.
Okay, then.
Alejandro catches Rodolfo’s eye, raises his eyebrow and grins. It’s an interesting enough development as he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the other man fresh out of someone else’s bed or even when he’d last seemed interested enough for a quick fling with someone. It is a good look on him, a hard-earned contentment and a faint flush to his cheeks.
“Look at that.” It isn’t the words but the tone that catches Alejandro’s attention, sticky and sour, said with a curled lip and a dismissive jerk of the head. The speaker isn’t a man Alejandro recognises at first glance, younger than himself, with the beginnings of sunburn around the edge of his collar and the tips of his ears. “He must be the easiest fuck on base.”
“Really?” The man’s companion tips back in his chair just enough to survey Rodolfo, his brow pinched. Alejandro glances as well, taking in the carefully blank expression Rodolfo wears, the facade only broken by the clenched muscle in his jaw. He can hear them. The meeting finishes and people begin to leave, chair scraping against the floor in their haste in case any other questions are asked.
“Really. I heard a rumour, buy him a drink and he’ll suck you off in the barracks.”
Something snaps in the back of Alejandro’s mind. He has always had a temper, a wildfire burning in his chest and only barely harnessed for fuel rather than destruction. He is a supernova, fated to burn himself out beneath the sheer fury he wields, and he strikes first.
“What unit are you?” Alejandro demands, twisting his pen between his fingers and feeling the plastic give beneath his grip. He won’t stab them with it. Rodolfo wouldn’t approve.
He barely waits for the man to answer before he speaks again, hammering each word home as bluntly as he can. “If you wish to gossip like abuelas, then you can work like one. The flagstones out front, clean them until I tell you to stop. Now.”
Alejandro can’t look at Rodolfo. His nails bite into his palms, somehow still finding the softer hollows to leave marks he knows will haunt him for the rest of the day. His breath comes too sharp, too fast, catching on the ragged edge of his snarl until it is guttural and not enough, his head spinning. The meeting room is nearly empty as they leave, heads down and tails between their legs, but Rodolfo steps forward, stretching down to card his fingers through Alejandro’s hair and tug on the shorn strands. He used to do it when they were younger, when Alejandro had full curls for him to scruff like a misbehaving cat.
“Ale,” Rodolfo murmurs, then stops. Alejandro tips his head to look at him, his gaze catching on the bite mark on Rodolfo’s neck before he meets his eyes. “What are you like, pendejo?”
It isn’t the bitemark or the nebulous someone somewhere. Alejandro never wants to deny Rudy any happiness. If the other man asks, he’d carve his own heart out of his ribcage and give it to him, still bloody, still beating, it would be worth it if it made Rodolfo smile.
“I’m like I’ve always been,” Alejandro answers, reaching up to squeeze Rodolfo’s hand with his own. He’s warm, like he always is, and Alejandro lingers for a moment to dispel the chill that had settled in his fingers over the course of the meeting. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” Rodolfo grins, crooked and distant. “Yeah, I do.”
Title: overheard and understood (mostly)
Fandom: COD: MW2
Rating/Warnings: Teen, slight "slutshaming"
Bonus: No
Word Count: 973
Summary: Alejandro overhears a rumour about Rodolfo. Rodolfo, who is nothing but realistic about his chances of Alejandro loving him back, is only a little surprised.
Alejandro doesn’t drum his fingers against the table, but it’s a near thing. The speaker falters in his rote speech, his eyes darting nervously from the trembling middle distance to Alejandro before returning, and he tucks another pale notecard behind the never-decreasing pile in his hands before picking up the threads of his babble. The meeting is a pointless one, all meaningless bureaucracy meant to make things easier by introducing enough paperwork to drown them with, and Alejandro glances towards his left, at the space where Rodolfo should be.
It is still empty.
He’s not worrying. He isn’t.
He should be paying attention to the forms the wavering prayer candle of a man is now holding aloft in one quivering hand. If Rodolfo were here, Alejandro knows he’d be paying attention, skittering out notes with one hand even as he props his chin up with the other, his dark eyes likely half-lidded and calculating. Alejandro scrawls something on the notepad he brought with him, punctuating with a question mark that stabs through the paper to the sheet beneath. The speaker flinches.
Alejandro hadn’t made much of a habit of punctuality when he had been younger, always sliding into lessons a few minutes late with a grin and a wink, ensuring to wriggle into space that Rodolfo had kept for him. They hadn’t spoken on it, simply adjusting to the other like two planets locked in orbit, but with promotions came responsibility and with responsibility came the wide-eyed stares of men who wanted to emulate Alejandro like he is someone important, so he had to learn. Rodolfo had been benevolent in keeping his laughter mostly behind closed doors.
“Any questions?” The man says, his voice as tremulous as the fluttering of his hands.
“Yes. I was wondering—“
The rest of the sentence fades away into nothing but a dull roar as Alejandro turns, expectant, eager, delighted to see that his sergeant had returned to him. Rodolfo looks much the same as he always does, his uniform pressed and neat and a faint smudge of stubble over his cheeks, but it is the single irregularity on his neck that captures Alejandro’s attention. There is a bruise, dark and recent and high on his neck, just peeking over the edge of his collar.
Well.
Okay, then.
Alejandro catches Rodolfo’s eye, raises his eyebrow and grins. It’s an interesting enough development as he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the other man fresh out of someone else’s bed or even when he’d last seemed interested enough for a quick fling with someone. It is a good look on him, a hard-earned contentment and a faint flush to his cheeks.
“Look at that.” It isn’t the words but the tone that catches Alejandro’s attention, sticky and sour, said with a curled lip and a dismissive jerk of the head. The speaker isn’t a man Alejandro recognises at first glance, younger than himself, with the beginnings of sunburn around the edge of his collar and the tips of his ears. “He must be the easiest fuck on base.”
“Really?” The man’s companion tips back in his chair just enough to survey Rodolfo, his brow pinched. Alejandro glances as well, taking in the carefully blank expression Rodolfo wears, the facade only broken by the clenched muscle in his jaw. He can hear them. The meeting finishes and people begin to leave, chair scraping against the floor in their haste in case any other questions are asked.
“Really. I heard a rumour, buy him a drink and he’ll suck you off in the barracks.”
Something snaps in the back of Alejandro’s mind. He has always had a temper, a wildfire burning in his chest and only barely harnessed for fuel rather than destruction. He is a supernova, fated to burn himself out beneath the sheer fury he wields, and he strikes first.
“What unit are you?” Alejandro demands, twisting his pen between his fingers and feeling the plastic give beneath his grip. He won’t stab them with it. Rodolfo wouldn’t approve.
He barely waits for the man to answer before he speaks again, hammering each word home as bluntly as he can. “If you wish to gossip like abuelas, then you can work like one. The flagstones out front, clean them until I tell you to stop. Now.”
Alejandro can’t look at Rodolfo. His nails bite into his palms, somehow still finding the softer hollows to leave marks he knows will haunt him for the rest of the day. His breath comes too sharp, too fast, catching on the ragged edge of his snarl until it is guttural and not enough, his head spinning. The meeting room is nearly empty as they leave, heads down and tails between their legs, but Rodolfo steps forward, stretching down to card his fingers through Alejandro’s hair and tug on the shorn strands. He used to do it when they were younger, when Alejandro had full curls for him to scruff like a misbehaving cat.
“Ale,” Rodolfo murmurs, then stops. Alejandro tips his head to look at him, his gaze catching on the bite mark on Rodolfo’s neck before he meets his eyes. “What are you like, pendejo?”
It isn’t the bitemark or the nebulous someone somewhere. Alejandro never wants to deny Rudy any happiness. If the other man asks, he’d carve his own heart out of his ribcage and give it to him, still bloody, still beating, it would be worth it if it made Rodolfo smile.
“I’m like I’ve always been,” Alejandro answers, reaching up to squeeze Rodolfo’s hand with his own. He’s warm, like he always is, and Alejandro lingers for a moment to dispel the chill that had settled in his fingers over the course of the meeting. “You know that.”
“Yeah.” Rodolfo grins, crooked and distant. “Yeah, I do.”