"Ah, not..." Not enough to be incoherent, had been his intention of saying, but Rip understands this is no measure of success for the ordinary man.
"Precisely as much as you see." A moment. "And... Sara and I were drinking before you woke up. So I suppose a bit more than two bottles."
But again, his physiology's been messed with to hell and back. The Rip that Ray speaks to now is, actually, quite normal, save for the lower tone and the slight rasp in his throat.
And the fact Ray's grip has him exhaling softly.
"Listen," he says, thumb brushing over Ray's knuckles. "You need to rest. We've got to get our ducks in a row later, and I need you at 100% for that."
"Doesn't make me not worried," Ray points out, soft, and his other hand comes up to touch a few knuckles, gently, to Rip's jaw, grazing the scruff before he drops his arm. Shame isn't exactly right, but realizing he may have crossed boundaries.
He drops his eyes, too. "I know." And he does, intellectually speaking. But he's not so tired that he'll crash, now, and he's worried, and he wants Rip to rest. "...Will you do me a favor and lay with me for a bit?"
"What?" He sounds surprised. Kind of confused. Looks it, too.
"That..." He notices their joined hands and gently pulls away, giving a soft pat to Ray's arm before he shakes his head. "I'm not tired yet, Raymond. There's no need to worry."
There's something about being looked at by those big, brown eyes, and the most earnest expression in the world. Rip isn't necessarily weak to it, strictly speaking, but Ray's extensive well-meaning is something he hasn't experienced in a long time.
(Not since Miranda.)
He exhales, slowly. "...besides. I have to shower and brush my teeth first anyway, lest you smell like whiskey yourself."
If he wasn't so concerned, Ray would have laughed at what? just because of the purity of it. He lets Rip pry his hands away, though, folds them in his lap and then, nervously, tucks them under his thighs like he's ashamed of them.
"Okay." Right. Don't be fucking needy. Don't be clingy. Let Rip live his damn life, he's your Captain, not your alpha - it's not his job to fix you, Raymond.
He smiles, exhales to try to settle himself. "Yeah. Okay. I'm sorry. This whole thing just --" Freaked him out.
"...mm." He may not be wholly inebriated, but he's drank enough that it takes maybe a few more moments to catch up to what it is Ray was leading to.
Of course he's scared. That's what torture is supposed to do to a person, isn't it?
So Rip pats a hand on Ray's head (something he would never do without the whiskey, frankly), and then murmurs a quick 'wait'. Then he grabs some clothes from his wardrobe and disappears into the bathroom.
It's maybe five or so minutes later that he comes out looking much the same, save for the washed face and the fact his hair's been combed through with his fingers. Rip hasn't showered, per se, but he has brushed his teeth, and then subsequently washed his hands with something vanilla-scented.
He picks up the earbud left behind at the desk first, then backtracks to the bed.
Ray blinks stupidly at him, for patting his head - and he immediately wants to get up and run off, but he does not (if only because, frankly, the Waverider isn't that big, and it's not like Gideon won't rat him out.) He's not even mortified, but he feels bad, and he feels like he's done something inherently wrong - he's not sure what it is, but he doesn't like it.
He likes that Rip comes back, though. Looks relieved, tension falling out of his shoulders like a dropped weight. He smiles, then - obedient, scoots.
Ray wants to apologize, but he isn't sure what for. Instead, he rolls over a little to watch him. "Sorry for interrupting your stuff," he says, finally. That seems fine.
"Bah," Rip says, waving a hand whilst the other rests on his hip. "It's quite all right, Raymond. I realised it was significantly hypocritical of me to tell you to rest if I couldn't do it myself."
But he's still got an earbud in, and the second one will follow suit. For now, though, it stays in his pocket, and when Rip moves to lie down at Ray's side, he spares a glance at how much farther Ray's legs reach down the mattress and raises a brow at them.
Ah, well. No matter.
"Besides." He shifts, turns slightly so he's looking at Ray-- they're at total eye-level now, lying down instead of standing. "I wouldn't want to run out of whiskey before the next landing."
Edited (ok im done i swear) 2020-01-24 05:03 (UTC)
"You're not wrong," Ray agrees, and when he draws his legs up it's not really intending to look smaller, but that's what he accomplishes. At some point, he picked the pillow back up and has it tucked to his chest again, like a security blanket in the face of all this.
He opens his mouth to ask a question, then closes it again. Reconsiders. Takes a breath. "Do you always drink this much?"
Stop worrying, he tells himself, and promptly ignores his own advice in favor of furrowing his brow at Rip. Easier to worry about someone else, not himself; Ray drags both hands over his face. "I swear, I'll stop. I trust your judgment, I do --" He does. Ray chews at the cut in his lip until it opens up again.
Rip barely even gives an answer and Ray's already regretting speaking. His brows furrow when scabbed over skin opens, blood dripping, and he reaches out with one hand to press the pad of his thumb over the open wound to swipe it off.
"You're just worried," he says, sounding lucid despite himself, and he brings his own thumb up to lick the blood there clean. "Wrongfully so-- I'm quite capable of handling myself, you know-- but.
"That's what friends do, isn't it?"
He lets out a short huff of a laugh through his nose. "The answer is no.
"I drink more."
Is that better? Worse? Rip doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care.
It's worse, if the way Ray looks is any indication, with his face creased by a frown and his eyes fixed on his captain's face. He barely registers the thumb sweeping blood off his lip, his brain had short circuited so quickly.
"I know you can handle yourself, you know, I just... wow."
"That's not something you typically 'wow', Raymond." But Rip is reaching out again, and with both hands he takes Ray's cheeks and carefully smooths all the lines away with his fingers. It's such a juvenile thing to do, stupid, and while he may not be drunk, he's certainly had enough that Ray-- the one he'd nearly lost to blood loss, internal bleeding, and broken bones-- is someone he'd love to be sure was real, just in case.
Oh, he's home. And he's safe. But is he Ray? Their Ray? Rip's Ray?
This Ray keeps frowning in worry. It's a pretty damn close call.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"Precisely as much as you see." A moment. "And... Sara and I were drinking before you woke up. So I suppose a bit more than two bottles."
But again, his physiology's been messed with to hell and back. The Rip that Ray speaks to now is, actually, quite normal, save for the lower tone and the slight rasp in his throat.
And the fact Ray's grip has him exhaling softly.
"Listen," he says, thumb brushing over Ray's knuckles. "You need to rest. We've got to get our ducks in a row later, and I need you at 100% for that."
no subject
He drops his eyes, too. "I know." And he does, intellectually speaking. But he's not so tired that he'll crash, now, and he's worried, and he wants Rip to rest. "...Will you do me a favor and lay with me for a bit?"
no subject
"That..." He notices their joined hands and gently pulls away, giving a soft pat to Ray's arm before he shakes his head. "I'm not tired yet, Raymond. There's no need to worry."
There's something about being looked at by those big, brown eyes, and the most earnest expression in the world. Rip isn't necessarily weak to it, strictly speaking, but Ray's extensive well-meaning is something he hasn't experienced in a long time.
(Not since Miranda.)
He exhales, slowly. "...besides. I have to shower and brush my teeth first anyway, lest you smell like whiskey yourself."
no subject
"Okay." Right. Don't be fucking needy. Don't be clingy. Let Rip live his damn life, he's your Captain, not your alpha - it's not his job to fix you, Raymond.
He smiles, exhales to try to settle himself. "Yeah. Okay. I'm sorry. This whole thing just --" Freaked him out.
no subject
Of course he's scared. That's what torture is supposed to do to a person, isn't it?
So Rip pats a hand on Ray's head (something he would never do without the whiskey, frankly), and then murmurs a quick 'wait'. Then he grabs some clothes from his wardrobe and disappears into the bathroom.
It's maybe five or so minutes later that he comes out looking much the same, save for the washed face and the fact his hair's been combed through with his fingers. Rip hasn't showered, per se, but he has brushed his teeth, and then subsequently washed his hands with something vanilla-scented.
He picks up the earbud left behind at the desk first, then backtracks to the bed.
"Scoot," he says, simple.
no subject
He likes that Rip comes back, though. Looks relieved, tension falling out of his shoulders like a dropped weight. He smiles, then - obedient, scoots.
Ray wants to apologize, but he isn't sure what for. Instead, he rolls over a little to watch him. "Sorry for interrupting your stuff," he says, finally. That seems fine.
no subject
But he's still got an earbud in, and the second one will follow suit. For now, though, it stays in his pocket, and when Rip moves to lie down at Ray's side, he spares a glance at how much farther Ray's legs reach down the mattress and raises a brow at them.
Ah, well. No matter.
"Besides." He shifts, turns slightly so he's looking at Ray-- they're at total eye-level now, lying down instead of standing. "I wouldn't want to run out of whiskey before the next landing."
no subject
He opens his mouth to ask a question, then closes it again. Reconsiders. Takes a breath. "Do you always drink this much?"
Stop worrying, he tells himself, and promptly ignores his own advice in favor of furrowing his brow at Rip. Easier to worry about someone else, not himself; Ray drags both hands over his face. "I swear, I'll stop. I trust your judgment, I do --" He does. Ray chews at the cut in his lip until it opens up again.
no subject
"You're just worried," he says, sounding lucid despite himself, and he brings his own thumb up to lick the blood there clean. "Wrongfully so-- I'm quite capable of handling myself, you know-- but.
"That's what friends do, isn't it?"
He lets out a short huff of a laugh through his nose. "The answer is no.
"I drink more."
Is that better? Worse? Rip doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care.
no subject
It's worse, if the way Ray looks is any indication, with his face creased by a frown and his eyes fixed on his captain's face. He barely registers the thumb sweeping blood off his lip, his brain had short circuited so quickly.
"I know you can handle yourself, you know, I just... wow."
hey this tag's a whole loada nothing
"That's not something you typically 'wow', Raymond." But Rip is reaching out again, and with both hands he takes Ray's cheeks and carefully smooths all the lines away with his fingers. It's such a juvenile thing to do, stupid, and while he may not be drunk, he's certainly had enough that Ray-- the one he'd nearly lost to blood loss, internal bleeding, and broken bones-- is someone he'd love to be sure was real, just in case.
Oh, he's home. And he's safe. But is he Ray? Their Ray? Rip's Ray?
This Ray keeps frowning in worry. It's a pretty damn close call.
"...don't sound so sad for me."