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bedlamsbardWell, I should have been working on Snafu 15, but...well, actually I couldn't figure out how to start it. Hospital bed? Funeral? Bed, period? At the moment, I'm going with the funeral of several NYPD officers. No, I'm not saying who. It could be Crehan and Jarensky, it could be Danny and Aiden, it could be Mac after Amarelli bashed his head in with a garlic masher.
So, I was randomly inspired to move over to the other side of the USA (the West Coast, my coast) and write SWAT fic. SWAT, based lightly off the TV series of the same name, for those that don't know, stars Colin Farrell as Jim Street and Samuel L. Jackson as Sergeant "Hondo" Harrelson. It also happens to be one of my favorite movies, and the one that originally started up my cop obsession. It was one of those movies where, you see it once, you go out and buy the DVD without thinking twice. It ranks just behind Miracle as one of my favorite movies.
The movie broke my heart.
Now, you wouldn't think a PG-13 guns! action! hot guys! hot girls! movie would do that, but, well, it did. It happens to be one of the slashiest movies I've ever seen, and the fandom quota for this movie? Something close to zip. Also, there are handcuffs, and that is one of the moments that broke my brain.
So, slashfic, not very good, because I'm transcribing from what I scribbled out during class today.
Jim's partner is dead.
Dead, and by Jim's hand, and there's nothing he can do about it. Dead, and Jim would do it again, and he chose the Job over his partner both times.
He and Brian were partners the first time they saw each other, in an airy classroom full of wannabe LAPD officers, and still partners when Jim slammed him beneath an oncoming train. Fight or flight, Jim thinks, and knows he'd do the same thing a thousand times over.
They were partners in more ways than one, in uniform and out. He remembers fucking in a patrol car on the beach, when it was a hundred and two degrees if it was twenty, and the sweat pooled in every nook and cranny of his body. Brian had pushed him down on his back in the back seat, kissed him in a sloppy dance of teeth and tongue and lips over every inch of exposed skin, licking the sweat from the base of Jim's neck as Jim groaed and wrapped arms and legs around him like a starfish. He remembers Brian pushing him up against a bay of lockers and kissing him hard and fast and thorough when nobody was looking. Remembers a dark smoky bar and the curl of Brian's mouth on his, and Brian stroking his dick beneath the table with gun-callused hands that are as familiar as his service pistol.
Remembers: Brian shoving him back so hard that the mirror behind him cracks and shatters when his head hits. Remembers Brian: Fuck you and SWAT. Remembers: the fierce need in Brian's voice: You with me, partner? Remembers: Brian's hands and the cuffs that chained him to the Job and the SWAT SUV. Remembers: the insanity in Brian's eyes and the gun he shoved in Jim's face.
Remembers: the blood on his hands and the way Brian's body jerked as the train decapitated him.
Remembers: he chose the Job over his partner, and he wonders if he made the right choice.
The movie doesn't go in-depth at all, but Colin Farrell, at least in this movie, is one hell of an actor and so is Jeremy Renner, the guy who plays Brian Gamble, Street's ex-partner. I don't know if they meant the movie to come across the way I understood it, but - Jesus Christ. The insanity is there. The partnership, the betrayal, the way Street's still hanging on till that last moment. And the sense, at the end of the movie, that the only thing Street has left is SWAT. There's the same sense at the beginning of the movie, but in a more hopeful way: maybe Brian will come back, maybe he hasn't left for good, he's still alive. And at the end of the movie, Street's a SWAT officer.
And that's all.
SWAT is the only thing he has left.
He forgets that he gave Brian a key, and freezes in surprise when he walks in the door and sees his partner sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette and curling his fingers in McNamara's fur.
"Jimmy," Brian murmurs, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray Jim's left for him. Mac growls and slinks off, tail beating furiously as he pushes through the door to the bedroom.
"Brian," Jim says in faint surprise. He slings his duffel off his shoulderl; it hits the floor with a dull thud. Brian's eyes flicker toward it. "What're you doing here?"
Brian moves in a sudden surge of motion, pinning Jim against the door. Jim's taller and maybe stronger, and he oculd get free if he tries, but he doesn't try. The cut on the back of his head aches like flame-flicked gasoline.
"Tell me you left, partner," Brian growls, the sound vibrating against Jim's face. "Tell me you left, said fuck SWAT and walked out the door." He watches Jim's face. "Fuck you, James Street," he says and shoves Jim farther back against the door.
His mouth is searing, teeth clicking together, lips and tongues fighting with bruising force. Jim kisses him back desperately, fingers scrabbling under Brian's shirt, tracing patterns of old history on scarred skin. Brian's hard-on presses against his thigh, familiar, like the crackle of the radio and the backlash of an M-16.
Brian pulls away suddenly. "You didn't leave," he says very softly, more softly than Jim's ever heard him before. He slams a fist into the wall beside Jim's head, and the whole apartment vibrates with his rage. "You didn't fucking leave."
"Brian -" Jim says. "Don't -"
"Fuck you," Brian says, pushing him aside. He hesitates as he pulls the door. "If you ever get the hell out of SWAT and the LAPD, look me up, partner."
When the door closes, Jim sinks down against the wall and throws his head back in despair.
So, I was randomly inspired to move over to the other side of the USA (the West Coast, my coast) and write SWAT fic. SWAT, based lightly off the TV series of the same name, for those that don't know, stars Colin Farrell as Jim Street and Samuel L. Jackson as Sergeant "Hondo" Harrelson. It also happens to be one of my favorite movies, and the one that originally started up my cop obsession. It was one of those movies where, you see it once, you go out and buy the DVD without thinking twice. It ranks just behind Miracle as one of my favorite movies.
The movie broke my heart.
Now, you wouldn't think a PG-13 guns! action! hot guys! hot girls! movie would do that, but, well, it did. It happens to be one of the slashiest movies I've ever seen, and the fandom quota for this movie? Something close to zip. Also, there are handcuffs, and that is one of the moments that broke my brain.
So, slashfic, not very good, because I'm transcribing from what I scribbled out during class today.
Jim's partner is dead.
Dead, and by Jim's hand, and there's nothing he can do about it. Dead, and Jim would do it again, and he chose the Job over his partner both times.
He and Brian were partners the first time they saw each other, in an airy classroom full of wannabe LAPD officers, and still partners when Jim slammed him beneath an oncoming train. Fight or flight, Jim thinks, and knows he'd do the same thing a thousand times over.
They were partners in more ways than one, in uniform and out. He remembers fucking in a patrol car on the beach, when it was a hundred and two degrees if it was twenty, and the sweat pooled in every nook and cranny of his body. Brian had pushed him down on his back in the back seat, kissed him in a sloppy dance of teeth and tongue and lips over every inch of exposed skin, licking the sweat from the base of Jim's neck as Jim groaed and wrapped arms and legs around him like a starfish. He remembers Brian pushing him up against a bay of lockers and kissing him hard and fast and thorough when nobody was looking. Remembers a dark smoky bar and the curl of Brian's mouth on his, and Brian stroking his dick beneath the table with gun-callused hands that are as familiar as his service pistol.
Remembers: Brian shoving him back so hard that the mirror behind him cracks and shatters when his head hits. Remembers Brian: Fuck you and SWAT. Remembers: the fierce need in Brian's voice: You with me, partner? Remembers: Brian's hands and the cuffs that chained him to the Job and the SWAT SUV. Remembers: the insanity in Brian's eyes and the gun he shoved in Jim's face.
Remembers: the blood on his hands and the way Brian's body jerked as the train decapitated him.
Remembers: he chose the Job over his partner, and he wonders if he made the right choice.
The movie doesn't go in-depth at all, but Colin Farrell, at least in this movie, is one hell of an actor and so is Jeremy Renner, the guy who plays Brian Gamble, Street's ex-partner. I don't know if they meant the movie to come across the way I understood it, but - Jesus Christ. The insanity is there. The partnership, the betrayal, the way Street's still hanging on till that last moment. And the sense, at the end of the movie, that the only thing Street has left is SWAT. There's the same sense at the beginning of the movie, but in a more hopeful way: maybe Brian will come back, maybe he hasn't left for good, he's still alive. And at the end of the movie, Street's a SWAT officer.
And that's all.
SWAT is the only thing he has left.
He forgets that he gave Brian a key, and freezes in surprise when he walks in the door and sees his partner sitting by the window, smoking a cigarette and curling his fingers in McNamara's fur.
"Jimmy," Brian murmurs, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray Jim's left for him. Mac growls and slinks off, tail beating furiously as he pushes through the door to the bedroom.
"Brian," Jim says in faint surprise. He slings his duffel off his shoulderl; it hits the floor with a dull thud. Brian's eyes flicker toward it. "What're you doing here?"
Brian moves in a sudden surge of motion, pinning Jim against the door. Jim's taller and maybe stronger, and he oculd get free if he tries, but he doesn't try. The cut on the back of his head aches like flame-flicked gasoline.
"Tell me you left, partner," Brian growls, the sound vibrating against Jim's face. "Tell me you left, said fuck SWAT and walked out the door." He watches Jim's face. "Fuck you, James Street," he says and shoves Jim farther back against the door.
His mouth is searing, teeth clicking together, lips and tongues fighting with bruising force. Jim kisses him back desperately, fingers scrabbling under Brian's shirt, tracing patterns of old history on scarred skin. Brian's hard-on presses against his thigh, familiar, like the crackle of the radio and the backlash of an M-16.
Brian pulls away suddenly. "You didn't leave," he says very softly, more softly than Jim's ever heard him before. He slams a fist into the wall beside Jim's head, and the whole apartment vibrates with his rage. "You didn't fucking leave."
"Brian -" Jim says. "Don't -"
"Fuck you," Brian says, pushing him aside. He hesitates as he pulls the door. "If you ever get the hell out of SWAT and the LAPD, look me up, partner."
When the door closes, Jim sinks down against the wall and throws his head back in despair.