Good To Be Him
Oct. 29th, 2010 09:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: none
Rating: pg
Warnings: none
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Can I have some more badass Face, please? Like maybe when he's first put into prison, and the other prisoners disregard his tattoo and think his pretty face means he's easy meat. (Yeah, I know he's 6ft something and *built*, but there are a lot bigger guys out there.)
I'd like a different pov than Face's if you can, anon. Maybe another prisoner, or a guard who witnesses the fight. (But if you'd rather do it from Face's pov that's okay too :)
Somebody questions Face's sexuality in prison. An ass-beating ensues.
“Mind if I sit here?”
I looked up from my book.
Oh. That guy.
A pair of unnecessary reading glasses hung at an odd angle from his nose, and his fingers buried in the most recent issue of GQ that the library had. I knew who he was. We all knew who he was.
“I think I already read this one,” he went on, a whine in the words. “And that is something we’re going to have to fix.”
“The magazines?”
He just grinned.
He’d only been here in Florida a week, and already he was making friends, sourcing out better varieties of everything they served at mess, whining about trivial bullshit, banging the one hot lieutenant Kelly who worked in the administration office, if the rumors were true. The man preened, pouted, shmoozed or downright bullshitted his way through just about damn near everything.
Totally at ease. Lucky bastard.
“Must be nice to be Templeton Peck,” I muttered to myself.
“Hey,” he said, rapping my on the arm with a light hand. “Who’s that guy?”
I tried to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. We all knew who that dude was, too.
“Davidson,” I said with a groan, watching the other man make a beeline for our position from across the room.
Davidson had gone through Green Beret Selection five times. Davidson had landed himself here for fighting or drugs or something like that. Davidson was a meathead, and if Peck was going to get in some kind of trouble, Davidson starting it made all kinds of sense. From what I’d heard, he’d been after Peck all week, trying to start something, but the guy was slippery, you know? Kept worming his way out of it. I prayed that he’d worm out of it now.
“Hey, pretty boy. How you gettin’ along in here?”
The man hated officers. He hated Special Forces.
Peck looked up from his magazine with those glasses sliding down his nose. “Can’t complain, honey,” he said sweetly. “Although the mattresses are a little hard, don’t you think?”
“I think you’d like a little pain in your backside,” Davidson snapped, drawing chuckles from a couple of his gang, who were slowly massing up behind him.
Peck flipped back to last month’s GQ. “Sorry, man, I don’t date enlisted.”
Didn’t seem much like worming to me. What the hell was he thinking?
“What’d you say to me?” the other man thundered, and stood up. He ripped the magazine away, and grabbed both the arms of Peck’s chair.
You didn’t talk to Davidson like that. Man was generally feared by most of the population, and now here he was, staring down at the former lieutenant. Peck wasn’t a small guy, by any means. Davidson was bigger, though, and Davidson was pissed.
“I mean, I know we don’t have rank in here, and I’m not one to pull it, but I’m trying to let you down easy, man. Come on, don’t be like that,” Peck said, folding the magazine away, and patted one of Davidson’s hands with his own. “Just so we all know what’s what.”
“You some kind of fairy, Peck?”
That... wasn’t going to be good.
“A gentleman doesn’t ask,” Peck said, lifting that hand away and sliding out of the chair, under Davidson’s arm. He tsked. “And a gentleman doesn’t tell. It’s very rude.”
“He look like a fairy to any of you?” Davidson asked his guys, and one of them started snickering. There were five, no, six. Six of them, plus Davidson, plus one studiously unphased lieutenant who was standing there in his prison uniform as comfortable and easy as if he’d been buying a coffee at the local Starbucks. “I think they agree with me. You look like a goddamn faggot to me, Peck.”
“Well, you are the expert,” the lieutenant told him patiently, and planted a sloppy kiss on the man’s cheek, and patted him on the shoulder. “I am so sorry to disappoint.” And he made as if to leave.
Davidson was turning a pale shade of red. I kept hoping the chair would just swallow me whole. Other people in the room were watching now. Utter silence. And everybody, everybody but Peck knew how this was going to end.
“That tattoo means fuck-all, Peck!” the former sergeant said, rubbing a hand roughly down his face to wipe off the spit. “In here, none of that shit matters!”
“Well, I was kind of drunk when I got it!” Peck called back, not even bothering to look.
So, Davidson tried again. “Tell me, Peck, Colonel Smith like you taking him up the ass?”
The lieutenant stopped, a few paces away. He turned, and there was something in his expression, the way his eye furrowed down, the way his stance hardened just a little, the way his left foot shifted and his right hand tightened, that made me seriously question everything I’d heard about this guy around here. I started thinking about some of the stuff I'd heard about him on my last deployment. About some of the missions he'd pulled. About how he was all the more dangerous because you never knew when the conman switched off and the Ranger switched on.
In that split second, I wondered how much of a facade Peck could have.
A second later, I got my answer.
Almost too quick to follow, Peck closed the distance back again, his fist making hard contact with the other man’s solar plexus, then closing down around this neck and forcing Davidson down over his knee. Hard. Once, twice, and on the third time, Peck got him in the back of the neck, then the kidney as Davidson low-tackled him and slammed him back against a bookshelf.
“Oh, there’s that ass pain I like so much!” Peck quipped, and Davidson looked up to see a hardback slamming into his face.
Bleeding now, the sergeant roared and dragged Peck to the ground. The element of surprise had been on the lieutenant’s side before, but now he had two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of angry Georgian on top of him, and Davidson was starting to get in some good hits. All Peck could do was keep his hands up like he was doing, I thought, and pray that the guards would do something before Davidson pummeled him to death.
Then Davidson had a hand on Peck’s throat.
Then Peck did some kind of distract and lift with his hips, and he was the one straddling the other man’s chest. “I like it better like this,” he said, but unlike his previous jokes, there was no humor in this at all, and as Davidson tried to throw him off, Peck hooked a leg in, twisted off the side, kicked against Davidson with his other, reared back with a hand on the sergeant’s left arm, and the room was filled with a sickening crunch as he snapped bone in three different places, shattered a couple of ribs, and tore the shoulder out of joint.
Davidson started screaming, and then nobody else saw what happened next except me. Peck brought one of his legs up to kick the prone man in the neck, something that would have definitely put him down, probably would have killed him, and then stopped. The other man’s head lolled against the cold floor, eyes rolling up as the pain overwhelming
The effect could not have been more pronounced if you’d sucked the air from the room.
Nobody moved, except Peck, who rolled himself into a sitting position, and dabbed gingerly at a nasty gash on his cheekbone. A huge black bruise was rising out of his neck, his hands were bleeding and he was soaked in sweat. He was grinning, almost laughing to himself, but the humor still hadn’t come back in his face, and you could tell, just then, that this was a guy who’d done stuff, killed people, had seen a little of the world’s ugliness in his life.
The lieutenant winked at me, and that facade of his slammed back down. The Ranger was gone. He was grinning again. What was it they called him, Face?
He just nudged Davidson’s senseless body over with his boot. “Put down by a faggot? And, like, the bottom-man, too. Man, wouldn’t this be so much less embarrassing if you hadn’t asked about all that stuff? See rude of you that was?” he asked the man, his tone easy again, conversational.
The guards, who’d either finally caught on or were on some kind of orders not to interfer, grabbed him from behind, forcing him back up on his feet.
“That’s enough, Peck,” one of them said, prodding him with a nightstick.
“Come on, private. You know the rules. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”
We could hear him still arguing light-heartedly with the guards as they hauled him off.
The Commandant didn’t like fighting much. After they took him to the clinic to get patched up from the brawl, they threw him in solitary. But then, rumor was that he already had an X-Box and a sixty-inch plasma TV in there, so when he showed back up a week later looking relaxed and happy, none of us were too surprised. We just pulled out a chair for him and he pulled out a deck of cards and cleaned us all out in poker, and none of us minded because it was such a good time.
Even in jail, it must be good to be Templeton Peck.
Rating: pg
Warnings: none
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Can I have some more badass Face, please? Like maybe when he's first put into prison, and the other prisoners disregard his tattoo and think his pretty face means he's easy meat. (Yeah, I know he's 6ft something and *built*, but there are a lot bigger guys out there.)
I'd like a different pov than Face's if you can, anon. Maybe another prisoner, or a guard who witnesses the fight. (But if you'd rather do it from Face's pov that's okay too :)
Somebody questions Face's sexuality in prison. An ass-beating ensues.
“Mind if I sit here?”
I looked up from my book.
Oh. That guy.
A pair of unnecessary reading glasses hung at an odd angle from his nose, and his fingers buried in the most recent issue of GQ that the library had. I knew who he was. We all knew who he was.
“I think I already read this one,” he went on, a whine in the words. “And that is something we’re going to have to fix.”
“The magazines?”
He just grinned.
He’d only been here in Florida a week, and already he was making friends, sourcing out better varieties of everything they served at mess, whining about trivial bullshit, banging the one hot lieutenant Kelly who worked in the administration office, if the rumors were true. The man preened, pouted, shmoozed or downright bullshitted his way through just about damn near everything.
Totally at ease. Lucky bastard.
“Must be nice to be Templeton Peck,” I muttered to myself.
“Hey,” he said, rapping my on the arm with a light hand. “Who’s that guy?”
I tried to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. We all knew who that dude was, too.
“Davidson,” I said with a groan, watching the other man make a beeline for our position from across the room.
Davidson had gone through Green Beret Selection five times. Davidson had landed himself here for fighting or drugs or something like that. Davidson was a meathead, and if Peck was going to get in some kind of trouble, Davidson starting it made all kinds of sense. From what I’d heard, he’d been after Peck all week, trying to start something, but the guy was slippery, you know? Kept worming his way out of it. I prayed that he’d worm out of it now.
“Hey, pretty boy. How you gettin’ along in here?”
The man hated officers. He hated Special Forces.
Peck looked up from his magazine with those glasses sliding down his nose. “Can’t complain, honey,” he said sweetly. “Although the mattresses are a little hard, don’t you think?”
“I think you’d like a little pain in your backside,” Davidson snapped, drawing chuckles from a couple of his gang, who were slowly massing up behind him.
Peck flipped back to last month’s GQ. “Sorry, man, I don’t date enlisted.”
Didn’t seem much like worming to me. What the hell was he thinking?
“What’d you say to me?” the other man thundered, and stood up. He ripped the magazine away, and grabbed both the arms of Peck’s chair.
You didn’t talk to Davidson like that. Man was generally feared by most of the population, and now here he was, staring down at the former lieutenant. Peck wasn’t a small guy, by any means. Davidson was bigger, though, and Davidson was pissed.
“I mean, I know we don’t have rank in here, and I’m not one to pull it, but I’m trying to let you down easy, man. Come on, don’t be like that,” Peck said, folding the magazine away, and patted one of Davidson’s hands with his own. “Just so we all know what’s what.”
“You some kind of fairy, Peck?”
That... wasn’t going to be good.
“A gentleman doesn’t ask,” Peck said, lifting that hand away and sliding out of the chair, under Davidson’s arm. He tsked. “And a gentleman doesn’t tell. It’s very rude.”
“He look like a fairy to any of you?” Davidson asked his guys, and one of them started snickering. There were five, no, six. Six of them, plus Davidson, plus one studiously unphased lieutenant who was standing there in his prison uniform as comfortable and easy as if he’d been buying a coffee at the local Starbucks. “I think they agree with me. You look like a goddamn faggot to me, Peck.”
“Well, you are the expert,” the lieutenant told him patiently, and planted a sloppy kiss on the man’s cheek, and patted him on the shoulder. “I am so sorry to disappoint.” And he made as if to leave.
Davidson was turning a pale shade of red. I kept hoping the chair would just swallow me whole. Other people in the room were watching now. Utter silence. And everybody, everybody but Peck knew how this was going to end.
“That tattoo means fuck-all, Peck!” the former sergeant said, rubbing a hand roughly down his face to wipe off the spit. “In here, none of that shit matters!”
“Well, I was kind of drunk when I got it!” Peck called back, not even bothering to look.
So, Davidson tried again. “Tell me, Peck, Colonel Smith like you taking him up the ass?”
The lieutenant stopped, a few paces away. He turned, and there was something in his expression, the way his eye furrowed down, the way his stance hardened just a little, the way his left foot shifted and his right hand tightened, that made me seriously question everything I’d heard about this guy around here. I started thinking about some of the stuff I'd heard about him on my last deployment. About some of the missions he'd pulled. About how he was all the more dangerous because you never knew when the conman switched off and the Ranger switched on.
In that split second, I wondered how much of a facade Peck could have.
A second later, I got my answer.
Almost too quick to follow, Peck closed the distance back again, his fist making hard contact with the other man’s solar plexus, then closing down around this neck and forcing Davidson down over his knee. Hard. Once, twice, and on the third time, Peck got him in the back of the neck, then the kidney as Davidson low-tackled him and slammed him back against a bookshelf.
“Oh, there’s that ass pain I like so much!” Peck quipped, and Davidson looked up to see a hardback slamming into his face.
Bleeding now, the sergeant roared and dragged Peck to the ground. The element of surprise had been on the lieutenant’s side before, but now he had two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of angry Georgian on top of him, and Davidson was starting to get in some good hits. All Peck could do was keep his hands up like he was doing, I thought, and pray that the guards would do something before Davidson pummeled him to death.
Then Davidson had a hand on Peck’s throat.
Then Peck did some kind of distract and lift with his hips, and he was the one straddling the other man’s chest. “I like it better like this,” he said, but unlike his previous jokes, there was no humor in this at all, and as Davidson tried to throw him off, Peck hooked a leg in, twisted off the side, kicked against Davidson with his other, reared back with a hand on the sergeant’s left arm, and the room was filled with a sickening crunch as he snapped bone in three different places, shattered a couple of ribs, and tore the shoulder out of joint.
Davidson started screaming, and then nobody else saw what happened next except me. Peck brought one of his legs up to kick the prone man in the neck, something that would have definitely put him down, probably would have killed him, and then stopped. The other man’s head lolled against the cold floor, eyes rolling up as the pain overwhelming
The effect could not have been more pronounced if you’d sucked the air from the room.
Nobody moved, except Peck, who rolled himself into a sitting position, and dabbed gingerly at a nasty gash on his cheekbone. A huge black bruise was rising out of his neck, his hands were bleeding and he was soaked in sweat. He was grinning, almost laughing to himself, but the humor still hadn’t come back in his face, and you could tell, just then, that this was a guy who’d done stuff, killed people, had seen a little of the world’s ugliness in his life.
The lieutenant winked at me, and that facade of his slammed back down. The Ranger was gone. He was grinning again. What was it they called him, Face?
He just nudged Davidson’s senseless body over with his boot. “Put down by a faggot? And, like, the bottom-man, too. Man, wouldn’t this be so much less embarrassing if you hadn’t asked about all that stuff? See rude of you that was?” he asked the man, his tone easy again, conversational.
The guards, who’d either finally caught on or were on some kind of orders not to interfer, grabbed him from behind, forcing him back up on his feet.
“That’s enough, Peck,” one of them said, prodding him with a nightstick.
“Come on, private. You know the rules. Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”
We could hear him still arguing light-heartedly with the guards as they hauled him off.
The Commandant didn’t like fighting much. After they took him to the clinic to get patched up from the brawl, they threw him in solitary. But then, rumor was that he already had an X-Box and a sixty-inch plasma TV in there, so when he showed back up a week later looking relaxed and happy, none of us were too surprised. We just pulled out a chair for him and he pulled out a deck of cards and cleaned us all out in poker, and none of us minded because it was such a good time.
Even in jail, it must be good to be Templeton Peck.
