cybercandy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cybercandy) wrote2013-01-04 10:31 pm
cybercandy) wrote2013-01-04 10:31 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: It's Not A Fashion Statement
Title: It’s not a fashion statement
Fandom(s): My Chemical Romance/Killjoys
Pairing(s): Party Poison gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 998 words
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: All lies.
Prompt: Five things Party Poison never leaves home without byakamine_chan in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bandom_meme
It’s like a ritual.
Gerard’s in his corner of the diner, getting ready to leave for a supply run with Frank. He’s mostly dressed, socks and pants and shirt, but the crucial things are still missing and he always tries to run through those final steps in the same order. Because it feels right this way. Because it’s his way of psyching himself up to get ready to face the fight. To face life in the Zones.
First, he pulls on his boots. He’s paid an insane amount of c’s for them, but they’re worth every single one. They’re black and heavy, the leather soft from wear. He can’t remember why he even thought that his favourite converse sneakers would last more than a week in the desert; they basically disintegrated as soon as the alkaline dust settled on the canvas. Not to mention that they didn’t offer the slightest bit of protection if someone stepped on your toes. Or Frank dropped a crowbar on your feet. He had a huge bruise on the top of his foot for weeks and Mikey did his best to kill Frank with his gaze whenever he saw him until Gerard was able to walk without flinching in pain again. Doc had a laughing fit when Gerard hobbled out of the car and sent them to a swap meet with the order not to return until they all had acquired appropriate footwear.
Next Gerard reaches for his gun and checks if the batteries are still full. In the beginning it had felt weird to carry a weapon - Gerard’s always regarded himself as a pacifist and would have solemnly sworn he’d never point a gun at a living being, let alone kill one. Then a Drac pointed a gun at Mikey’s head and Gerard pulled the trigger without the slightest bit of hesitation, glad that Show Pony had simply ignored his refusal to participate in the shooting lessons Dr. Death had tasked him with. Instead, Pony wordlessly pushed a gun into Gerard’s hand and made him take aim. Turned out he’s a pretty good shot.
Gerard wiggles his hips a few times to pull up his dirty white jeans. They’re tight, so tight that Frank claims he can see how happy Gerard is to see him, but Gerard thinks that’s wildly exaggerated. He takes the belt that holds his gun holster and weaves it through the belt hoops on his left. It hangs loose on his right hip, weighed down by the ray gun that he slides into the holster. He secures the thigh strap, making sure it sits tight enough not to slip and loose enough not to dig in and cut off circulation.
Then he grabs his jacket. It’s a hot and sunny day, like almost every day in the desert, and he’ll probably take it off when he gets in the car, but the desert is unpredictable and he’s learned to cater for all eventualities. It wouldn’t be the first time that what was meant to be a 2-hour trip turns into a three day mission and the temperature drops with the sun. He’s spent too many nights shivering in the cold, unable to light a fire because it wasn’t safe. And if worst comes to worst, his jacket offers at least some protection from burns, be it from gun rays or acid rain.
Next he picks up his red and black scarf and his goggles, shaking out the dust before he wraps both around his neck. Just like tanned skin and dust on their clothes, the colourful pieces of fabric and heavy duty goggles had been a defining feature of each and every ‘runner Gerard had seen in the city. He’d assumed it was a fashion statement that also served to hide their faces from BL/I’s ever present supervision, making them harder to identify in case there was a raid. Then he experienced his first white out. The wind suddenly picked up and from one moment to the next the air was so saturated with dust you couldn’t see further than your outstretched arm. They all coughed up mud for a week afterwards, not to mention the nosebleeds because the dust dried out the mucous membranes of their noses. It even blocked your tear ducts if you weren’t careful. Show Pony laughed and shook his head at their stupidity when they stopped by at Doc’s place a few days later, eyes red and barely able to speak, let alone breathe. Then he mixed up a salt water solution and made them rinse their noses and eyes with it. It tasted disgusting and felt even worse, but it had stopped the bleeding and cleared the irritation. Since then none of them walked out of the door without goggles and a scarf or a dust mask or, if the air was not only heavy with dust but also full of poison gas, a rebreather.
The last step is the most crucial one. It’s also the one the others always give Gerard stick over, even though he knows they do it, too. Gerard quickly checks if no one’s watching, then walks over to the mirror that’s propped up against a wall in the corner of the diner. The glass is cracked and it’s covered in a thin layer of dust, but he can see his reflection clear enough.
Black kick-ass boots. Tight dirty-white jeans. A gun on his hip, a jacket that’s got his name on it on his shoulders. Scarf hanging loose around his neck, goggles resting on top. Bright red hair falling into his eyes in greasy strands.
The man in front of the mirror may be Gerard, but the man that stares back at him running a hand through his hair and shooting him a dangerous smile is Party Poison. Killjoy. Badass.
“Poison, you’re ready?” Frank calls from outside. Gerard takes one last look at the guy in the mirror.
“Fuck yeah” he calls back and saunters out.
Fandom(s): My Chemical Romance/Killjoys
Pairing(s): Party Poison gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 998 words
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: All lies.
Prompt: Five things Party Poison never leaves home without by
akamine_chan in bandom_memeIt’s like a ritual.
Gerard’s in his corner of the diner, getting ready to leave for a supply run with Frank. He’s mostly dressed, socks and pants and shirt, but the crucial things are still missing and he always tries to run through those final steps in the same order. Because it feels right this way. Because it’s his way of psyching himself up to get ready to face the fight. To face life in the Zones.
First, he pulls on his boots. He’s paid an insane amount of c’s for them, but they’re worth every single one. They’re black and heavy, the leather soft from wear. He can’t remember why he even thought that his favourite converse sneakers would last more than a week in the desert; they basically disintegrated as soon as the alkaline dust settled on the canvas. Not to mention that they didn’t offer the slightest bit of protection if someone stepped on your toes. Or Frank dropped a crowbar on your feet. He had a huge bruise on the top of his foot for weeks and Mikey did his best to kill Frank with his gaze whenever he saw him until Gerard was able to walk without flinching in pain again. Doc had a laughing fit when Gerard hobbled out of the car and sent them to a swap meet with the order not to return until they all had acquired appropriate footwear.
Next Gerard reaches for his gun and checks if the batteries are still full. In the beginning it had felt weird to carry a weapon - Gerard’s always regarded himself as a pacifist and would have solemnly sworn he’d never point a gun at a living being, let alone kill one. Then a Drac pointed a gun at Mikey’s head and Gerard pulled the trigger without the slightest bit of hesitation, glad that Show Pony had simply ignored his refusal to participate in the shooting lessons Dr. Death had tasked him with. Instead, Pony wordlessly pushed a gun into Gerard’s hand and made him take aim. Turned out he’s a pretty good shot.
Gerard wiggles his hips a few times to pull up his dirty white jeans. They’re tight, so tight that Frank claims he can see how happy Gerard is to see him, but Gerard thinks that’s wildly exaggerated. He takes the belt that holds his gun holster and weaves it through the belt hoops on his left. It hangs loose on his right hip, weighed down by the ray gun that he slides into the holster. He secures the thigh strap, making sure it sits tight enough not to slip and loose enough not to dig in and cut off circulation.
Then he grabs his jacket. It’s a hot and sunny day, like almost every day in the desert, and he’ll probably take it off when he gets in the car, but the desert is unpredictable and he’s learned to cater for all eventualities. It wouldn’t be the first time that what was meant to be a 2-hour trip turns into a three day mission and the temperature drops with the sun. He’s spent too many nights shivering in the cold, unable to light a fire because it wasn’t safe. And if worst comes to worst, his jacket offers at least some protection from burns, be it from gun rays or acid rain.
Next he picks up his red and black scarf and his goggles, shaking out the dust before he wraps both around his neck. Just like tanned skin and dust on their clothes, the colourful pieces of fabric and heavy duty goggles had been a defining feature of each and every ‘runner Gerard had seen in the city. He’d assumed it was a fashion statement that also served to hide their faces from BL/I’s ever present supervision, making them harder to identify in case there was a raid. Then he experienced his first white out. The wind suddenly picked up and from one moment to the next the air was so saturated with dust you couldn’t see further than your outstretched arm. They all coughed up mud for a week afterwards, not to mention the nosebleeds because the dust dried out the mucous membranes of their noses. It even blocked your tear ducts if you weren’t careful. Show Pony laughed and shook his head at their stupidity when they stopped by at Doc’s place a few days later, eyes red and barely able to speak, let alone breathe. Then he mixed up a salt water solution and made them rinse their noses and eyes with it. It tasted disgusting and felt even worse, but it had stopped the bleeding and cleared the irritation. Since then none of them walked out of the door without goggles and a scarf or a dust mask or, if the air was not only heavy with dust but also full of poison gas, a rebreather.
The last step is the most crucial one. It’s also the one the others always give Gerard stick over, even though he knows they do it, too. Gerard quickly checks if no one’s watching, then walks over to the mirror that’s propped up against a wall in the corner of the diner. The glass is cracked and it’s covered in a thin layer of dust, but he can see his reflection clear enough.
Black kick-ass boots. Tight dirty-white jeans. A gun on his hip, a jacket that’s got his name on it on his shoulders. Scarf hanging loose around his neck, goggles resting on top. Bright red hair falling into his eyes in greasy strands.
The man in front of the mirror may be Gerard, but the man that stares back at him running a hand through his hair and shooting him a dangerous smile is Party Poison. Killjoy. Badass.
“Poison, you’re ready?” Frank calls from outside. Gerard takes one last look at the guy in the mirror.
“Fuck yeah” he calls back and saunters out.