oom: on the uss torchwood
Nov. 18th, 2010 11:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cupisempty“You know,” Rooney says, “I couldn't do this.”
“Do what?” Sully looks over, squinting against the unaccustomed sun.
“Be posted on a boat.”
It's their second day on the USS Torchwood. No twisted jungle of buildings, no mines, no RPGs, no scanning for snipers or just dumb fucks with a rifle and ammo. No one is trying to kill them.
It's great.
It's fucking eerie.
(They're going home)
“...you're in the fucking Marines.” This comes from Chandra, who has stripped down to shorts and her regulation black bra and is lying belly-down on the deck, baring the coloured ink on her back to the actually-mostly-blue sky above.
“So? I didn't sign up for being on any boats.”
“Ships,” Chandra says, her voice making clear that behind her sunglasses, the sergeant is rolling her eyes.
“Whatever,” Rooney says, just loud enough for some of Torchwood's crew to hear. Sully thinks about throwing something at him, but there is nothing close enough. And whatever he throws might end up getting thrown too far and bouncing into the ocean or is it the sea? He is suddenly struck that he doesn't know the difference, except maybe one is bigger than the other, but who decides this bit is what, because it's not like a country where there are borders on a freaking map, instead of just 'hi, here is blue and we shall call this bit the Pacific and this bit the Gulf of Whatever and he'd always heard Golf when he was a kid, which confused him and gave him images of a sea of golf balls, but they just stick the label in the middle of the map without defining borders so he isn't, all of a sudden, entirely sure what he'd hit if he threw something into the water or, more importantly, exactly where he is.
Except on a ship.
With his company.
And there is his sergeant and platoon-leader sprawled out with blue-skinned and multi-armed Kali wielding swords and heads on her back, and there is Rooney who is normally on the main gun in their vehicle when they have one and Hutch who sits behind Sully is over there using Sullivan as a pillow, and Sullivan sits behind Sergeant Garcia in the third vehicle whenever they are in convey and okay, he knows where he is now.
It's just his brain, being all post-stims and post-adrenaline (and post-war) and stupid, so he rolls to his feet.
“Jake, what the fuck?” Chandra asks, glancing up at him through her sunglasses.
“Just getting some rack.”
“Sure. That's what they all say,” she says, but he can hear the edge of concern in her voice. “Hope you have fun with your right hand.”
He makes a face at her and makes his way inside and down a few levels to where they are all berthed. He's managed to be stuck with the bottom bunk, but whatever. It's only a few inches to the floor if he gets tossed out. Which he shouldn't because the sea is all calm and shit, and he can deal with this gentle roll of the floor.
In fact, it actually manages to get his brain to calm down (or...fizz out into another thought-generated static so it's like the mirror-image of calm and has the same function) enough so he can start to get to sleep.
No one's shooting at him.
He's not shooting at anyone.
They are going home and it's all going to be just fine.
As soon as he actually sleeps, it's all going to be just. fucking. fine.
“Do what?” Sully looks over, squinting against the unaccustomed sun.
“Be posted on a boat.”
It's their second day on the USS Torchwood. No twisted jungle of buildings, no mines, no RPGs, no scanning for snipers or just dumb fucks with a rifle and ammo. No one is trying to kill them.
It's great.
It's fucking eerie.
(They're going home)
“...you're in the fucking Marines.” This comes from Chandra, who has stripped down to shorts and her regulation black bra and is lying belly-down on the deck, baring the coloured ink on her back to the actually-mostly-blue sky above.
“So? I didn't sign up for being on any boats.”
“Ships,” Chandra says, her voice making clear that behind her sunglasses, the sergeant is rolling her eyes.
“Whatever,” Rooney says, just loud enough for some of Torchwood's crew to hear. Sully thinks about throwing something at him, but there is nothing close enough. And whatever he throws might end up getting thrown too far and bouncing into the ocean or is it the sea? He is suddenly struck that he doesn't know the difference, except maybe one is bigger than the other, but who decides this bit is what, because it's not like a country where there are borders on a freaking map, instead of just 'hi, here is blue and we shall call this bit the Pacific and this bit the Gulf of Whatever and he'd always heard Golf when he was a kid, which confused him and gave him images of a sea of golf balls, but they just stick the label in the middle of the map without defining borders so he isn't, all of a sudden, entirely sure what he'd hit if he threw something into the water or, more importantly, exactly where he is.
Except on a ship.
With his company.
And there is his sergeant and platoon-leader sprawled out with blue-skinned and multi-armed Kali wielding swords and heads on her back, and there is Rooney who is normally on the main gun in their vehicle when they have one and Hutch who sits behind Sully is over there using Sullivan as a pillow, and Sullivan sits behind Sergeant Garcia in the third vehicle whenever they are in convey and okay, he knows where he is now.
It's just his brain, being all post-stims and post-adrenaline (and post-war) and stupid, so he rolls to his feet.
“Jake, what the fuck?” Chandra asks, glancing up at him through her sunglasses.
“Just getting some rack.”
“Sure. That's what they all say,” she says, but he can hear the edge of concern in her voice. “Hope you have fun with your right hand.”
He makes a face at her and makes his way inside and down a few levels to where they are all berthed. He's managed to be stuck with the bottom bunk, but whatever. It's only a few inches to the floor if he gets tossed out. Which he shouldn't because the sea is all calm and shit, and he can deal with this gentle roll of the floor.
In fact, it actually manages to get his brain to calm down (or...fizz out into another thought-generated static so it's like the mirror-image of calm and has the same function) enough so he can start to get to sleep.
No one's shooting at him.
He's not shooting at anyone.
They are going home and it's all going to be just fine.
As soon as he actually sleeps, it's all going to be just. fucking. fine.
