Chapter Text
Ray finds the dinged up external hard drive in one of the boxes he’s left shoved in a corner of the home gym/guest room. Almost a year since moving into Brad’s and he’s finally tackling the pile of boxes, duffles, and trash bags he brought with him from the barracks. Granted, it’s not like he owns a ton of stuff, but he’s procrastinated for too long. When Ray procrastinates, he stagnates. When he stagnates, he festers. And festering is very bad for him, Ray is learning to accept.
Ray is 6 weeks back in Oceanside from his “sabbatical” in San Francisco. He’s a month out from a long, serious Skype call with Brad, which had ultimately turned into a screaming match . Well, mostly Ray crashed out spectacularly , while Brad had watched him coolly from half the world away. In the end, Brad had stayed on the line with Ray as he had selected the most interesting looking name from the list of therapists from Tip Colbert that Brad had forwarded him during the call. Ray had left a truly surly voicemail for one Beth Bloom, LCSW-C, PhD , inquiring about scheduling a first appointment.
“ There ,” Ray had shouted, practically hurling his phone across the room. “Are you happy now, motherfucker?” Brad had smiled, triumphantly.
“Indeed, Person,” Brad had said, mildly. He wore a strange kind of smile- like he’s pleased with the victory, but not so pleased that it had escalated in the manner it had.
Ray has had two appointments with the headshrinker. Dr. Beth Bloom is not what Ray had expected. He had been banking on Dr. Bloom being some old hag in a drapey cardigan with too many turquoise necklaces, or even a severe Nurse Ratched type. Instead, Dr. Bloom (or Bloom as she gives Ray permission to call her) is probably in her early 40s, though it’s hard to tell. Her hair is mostly dark, but she’s greying at the temples. The first two sessions, she’s been wearing kelly green Chucks and the sparkly purple polish on her fingernails had been chipping around the cuticles. Her office is in a business park- a single small room in a suite of other headshrinkers and pill pushers. Ray had opted for her latest session time- hoping to avoid running into other clients in the shared waiting room.
The first session had been exhausting . The start time was 1900 and Ray had wandered out to his truck close to 2130. He had not been expecting the first appointment to be such a litany of questions. And inquiries that Ray had previously thought were simple became yarns under Bloom’s pointed questioning. Hell , Ray had to admit it had been sort of fun .
The way Bloom had asked him things ( ‘where did you grow up? What was that like? ’, ‘ how did your mom approach resolving conflict with you? Oh, there wasn’t a lot of fighting between you two? That’s interesting, why is that? ) are eerily similar to some of the psych screeners Ray remembers doing when getting ready for SERE. The queries are similar in their vaguely tactical, open ended phrasing; designed to extract as much information about him as possible in the brief time allotted.
But instead of engaging with Ray with bland, clinical indifference, Bloom is all warmth and genuine interest. Nothing like the cadres’ leading his courses. Even the setting is started to strike Ray with surreal absurdism half way through the interview.
Bloom’s office is like a living room- they sit across from each other on mismatched love seats. There’s a coffee table between them, with board games stacked on the bottom and a tiny, table top zen garden on the top. There’s bookshelves and a lumpy armchair in the corner. The file cabinets near the windows and the fax machine on top are the only items that seem incongruous.
After the appointment, Ray stops at Taco Bell and feels vaguely unwound . He’s remembered things, over the course of the interview, that he hadn’t thought about in ages . It’s not… scary per say. But it’s a little like Ray is looking through microfiche too fast and he finds he has to go straight to bed once he gets home.
The second time Ray sees Bloom, they play card games. Which is weird .
Ray isn’t quite sure what the clinical value of playing Uno with a therapist is, but notices that it’s easier to talk to Bloom when he’s simultaneously thinking of tactical ways to utilize his reverse and draw two cards against her.
Occasionally, as they play and Ray talks, Bloom will respond by telling Ray something about himself that she is noticing, or asking a question that makes him notice something about himself . It’s weird- it’s nothing Ray doesn’t inherently know to be true about himself. But the way she says it is kind of mind blowing.
“I imagine,” Bloom says, with about 15 minutes left in the session. “That it’s very challenging for you to find a good balance between getting your energy out, and making sure you’re resting enough.”
Ray shrugs, and keeps shuffling the cards. Fifteen minutes is plenty of time for at least one more round. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “I dunno if I’ve ever actually thought about it.” He pauses and reconsiders, then goes back to shuffling.
Bloom says, neutrally, “you’ve described a pattern to me that seems to be you giving all areas of your life 100%, until all of a sudden, you have to come to a halt. 0%.”
Ray shrugs again and starts dealing. “I guess you can put it that way.”
“I wonder, do you think striking a balance is possible?” Bloom is watching Ray deal the cards, her eyes flicking back and forth. Ray frowns.
“Dunno, isn’t it your job to help me figure that out?” Ray shoots back. Bloom just smiles at him.
“Sort of,” she picks up her hand and begins rearranging her cards. “Just interested in your perspective, is all. It’s your life.” She says the last bit pointedly, with something of a smirk.
Ray flips the first card from the deck and immediately drops a Draw Two on top. Bloom doesn’t sigh, or groan, or try to weasel out of the penalty- she just takes the two cards. They play in silence for a few minutes. There’s a run of passive aggressively placed penalty cards from both sides- the next time Ray speaks, they both have comically large fans of cards in their hands.
“I wish I knew how to be in the middle,” Ray says quietly. His hand is starting to cramp from holding all the cards and he puts them face down on the coffee table, starts cracking his knuckles to relieve the cramping. “I’m either too amped up to sleep and am doing everything , or I look at all the shit I have to do and I just… freeze .”
Bloom makes a neutral kind of ‘hm’ and sets her own cards down. “How long has this been your experience?”
Ray considers the question. “It wasn’t this bad in high school, but I can definitely remember doing the most … and then on breaks I would just totally crash out. Then in the Marines, I had shit to focus on. There was so much to do on a day to day basis, and then training schools… but I didn’t have to think about shit like what to wear or when to eat. How and when to show up somewhere. I just did . It never mattered if I was tired, or burnt out, I just kept on going. No other option. Then…” he trails off and finds it suddenly hard to look at Bloom. He trains his gaze on the potted Orchid on Bloom’s side table.
“Then you got out,” Bloom finishes, gently. “And now you have to figure it out on your own.” Shit. Ray feels his throat go tight. He doesn’t respond, watches the clock.
“Ray,” Bloom says gently, as the minute and second hand swing closer towards the end of the hour. “Something to consider this week as you move through your world- when is enough, enough?” Ray frowns a little, but nods when she doesn’t offer further explanation. Bloom smiles brightly. “Cool, I’ll see you next week?”
Ray mulls over the question as he drives home. When is enough, enough ?
Despite it being nearly 2030, Ray pours the last of the day old coffee into a mug and drinks it cold when he gets home. He rolls a joint and smokes half. He’s struck by the same, unwound and rushing feeling that had followed therapy the previous week.
Ray is too antsy to consider watching a movie or reading. He tries to play his guitar, but can’t focus. When is enough, enough ? Ray can’t help but snort at himself, once again struck by the absurdity of the torrent of mental bullshit that the shrink’s question had prompted.
He does what he always does when unsettled and unable to sink into something pleasurable: Ray goes to clean. Except the house is generally spotless , so it takes Ray ten minutes to sweep, wipe the kitchen counters, and take out the trash.
Ray considers working out- using the weight bench in the guestroom could be a way to redirect his nervous energy. When he thinks of the guestroom, it occurs to Ray that he hasn’t been going in there because of his stuff still sitting in there, all packed up.
Aside from pulling out his clothes, and favorite books and music, Ray has left his neat pile of personal belongings in the corner of the guest room for over a year at this point. It’s the final piece of moving in that Ray has been putting off to the point of forgetting .
So, Ray figures it's as good a task as any to knock off the infinite list of Things .
Ray starts with the duffle bag: he knows it’s likely just uniforms. After digging through to make sure nothing else is mixed in and grabbing a few forgotten but beloved items, Ray sets the bag aside. He figures he can throw it in the truck and bring it to the next Bravo gathering he gets invited to.
There’s another bag of civvies- Ray swings it into the hallway to put in the wash. Then, there’s the three remaining fifty-gal totes for Ray to consider. A part of him suggests stopping and going to start that load of wash. But the totes are closer . Ray goes for the nearest one.
It’s mostly books, which is sort of a relief- it strikes him as more fun than, say, having to go through paperwork . Ray feels himself slow down as he begins to sift through the books he’s forgotten about for over a year.
The books had been packed in carelessly- no mind paid to authors, titles, or genre. The chaos was clearly worsened by Ray’s careless picking through for his favorites when he first moved. Ray is quietly glad Brad is very far away- he gets embarrassed when he realizes that he has accidentally bought extras of several books he already owned over the past year. Ah, well .
The harddrive is near the bottom, caught between Ulyssesys and The Yellow Wallpaper . Ray holds the square of plastic in his hands and frowns. It’s scuffed and missing the connecting cable. No label, no marking to indicate what it contained. Ray tries to place the drive in his memories. Nothing clicks and Ray just shoves it in his back pocket.
Ray decides to drag the tote of books to the living room and start shelving. He kicks the bag of civvies further down the hall, closer to the machines. Then he shelves the books, tucking the old copies in with the accidental spares. Finally, Ray stands back and surveys his work.
“Well, I need more shelves,” Ray announces to the room. Then he washes his hands. Ray’s mind is quiet now. He’s alert- jittery - from the coffee, but it’s mostly physical . The cleaning and the organizing helped . Only, it’s approaching 2300 and Ray is not tired .
He has to consider the Rules. Because he has rules now . It’s a game - that’s how he and Brad decided it would probably work best .
When the sun is entirely down , Ray needs to dig in for the night . Id est, Ray doesn’t have to sleep, necessarily. He can stay up all fucking night if he needs to ( has to? chooses to? wants to? Ray sometimes wonders ). But: Ray will only get points awarded if he engages in the Rules.
The lower the energy required, the better. The less overhead lights are on, the better. The fewer cigarettes smoked, the better. Bonus points for staying in bed or on the couch all night, and putting on pajamas, and staying hydrated. Bonus- bonus points if Ray falls asleep for any length of time.
There’s other rules, but the nighttime ones are the biggest. Brad gets weird about Ray’s insomnia, and despite Ray being just as well trained as Brad is, he’s weird about Ray wandering around at night by himself.
( “How will you even know I’m doing most of this shit, dude?” Ray had asked Brad over Skype when they had made up the game. Despite being ‘down to clown’, as he had put it slightly sarcastically, Ray finds that part of himself is looking to poke holes in the plan. “I could just like, totally lie to you.”
Brad had fixed Ray with a look . Ray stayed put, slightly defiant.
“Well, Ray,” Brad had said, his tone practically professional. “I guess I would just be really disappointed in you.”
He said it, and it was like Ray had gotten shoved in the chest, back up against a wall. He had been pinned down by Brad’s gaze. Ray nods, after a moment.
“Good boy,” Brad said. And smiled. )
There are a thousand quiet little ways for Ray to occupy the night. He gets the other half of the joint and goes outside.
Ray remembers the hard drive when he bumps his skinny ass on the thing when he sits down on the porch. He pulls it out of his pocket and sets it on the table. He racks his brains a second time, trying to place it again. Gives up as the pot starts to wrap his brain in bubble wrap.
Ray decides he wants to know what's on the drive and when he’s done smoking, he sets himself to the task of finding a cable. Brad, the dork, has an entire draw of his workbench devoted to miscellaneous cables. It takes about two minutes for Ray to find what he needs.
Ray grabs the harddrive and his laptop. He crashes onto the couch and plugs in the drive. The drive is named “BOOGER AIDS 69_420$$” which makes Ray laugh as he doubleclicks the icon.
The drive is barely hitting 25% capacity in terms of volume of files. Ray scrolled through the files- a folder labelled ‘ INVOICES ’, several hundred jpegs, and about 100 .mp4s from ‘99-’00. Ray’s eyebrows fly up. He starts to grin. Oh, fuck yeah, homie . This is an excellent way to spend the night.
England
There’s a care package for Brad at mail call. It’s a surprise. Brad hasn’t been expecting anything- it’s nowhere near his birthday or the holidays. Ray hadn’t mentioned anything via email or on a call. His family is a bit too disorganized to put something together for him.
Brad is quietly thrilled as he signs for the parcel and he examines it as he walks to his room. The return address is Ray. Brad bites the inside of his cheek, but smiles anyway.
Brad’s been in a shit mood- the weather has been more miserable than usual, which means he’s homesick again. It happens in time with the weather and it was alarming enough at first that Brad had gone to sick call around New Years. He had thought the Doc had been making fun of him at first.
“Oh, yeah, seasonal affective disorder,” the guy- Henson- had said casually.
“S.A.D.?” Brad had asked, incredulously.
Henson paused, thought about what Brad had asked, then he chuckled. “Huh! That’s funny! Never put that together before,” he had grinned at Brad. Then had barrelled on, advising him to pick up some vitamin D3, get plenty of exercise, and spend as much time in the sun as possible.
Brad had responded to the last part with “ What sun?” Henson just laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder.
“That’s the spirit, eh?” He grinned. Then he sent Brad off with a pamphlet on Suicide Awareness.
Except, Brad had ultimately noticed the connection between the weather and his periods of deep, animalistic yearning for home . So, the package from Ray is definitely a welcome variable.
Brad sits at his desk and opens the airmail box with his pocket knife and digs through the crumples of newspaper.
Ray has been kind enough to mail Brad the following:
- A few tins of Cope
- An array of Slim Jims
- Jugs
- Virginia Woolf's Orlando
- A seashell (wrapped in a-thankfully clean- pair of standard issue socks)
- A note from Ray with a USB thumb drive taped to the bottom.
Brad!
A few American treats to remind you of your true home
Don’t forget to share, sweet Bradley. Have your new friends ever had a slim jim or perused the cultural masterpiece that is Jugs before?
Finally getting around to unpacking my shit in the guest room. I totally stole this book from my high school library, senior year. It’s fucking gay as fuck, dude.
Shell from the Strand.
The USB is a super special surprise for you- real vintage, collectible Ray Person memorabilia. DO NOT SHOW CONTENTS TO ANYONE ELSE. EVER. Not that you actually ever would. But for insurance purposes.
Miss you
xx
Ray
Brad unsticks the thumb drive from the paper and eyes it, suspiciously, as if he could divine the contents without plugging the thing in.
But , he considers, as he fetches his laptop. Ray would never purposefully send malware. Probably.
The drive is named THE VAULT which doesn’t really assuage Brad’s trepidation. There are 5 .mp4s, 20 .jpegs, and one .txt. The .txt is titled READ ME. Brad clicks it.
Bradley
Completely forgot that I had saved all the custom content I made back when I was being a camwhore. Unfortunately, most of the files got corrupted, since the external they were on was under about 50 pounds of books, and IDK maybe it got wet at some point???? anyway. These were the only files that made it.
Not organized in any particular order. Enjooooooy.
>;)
Ray-Ray
Brad has to re-read the note again and then has to collect himself. His heart is racing excitedly. After a moment of thought, Brad shuts his laptop for the time being. He wants to enjoy this little gift. He needs to pace himself. So, Brad goes and takes a shower. He grabs chow and even eats with some of the other NCOs. But he makes excuses and heads back to his room as soon as he can.
Brad is hard as a fucking rock by the time he shuts the door of his room and flips the clock with a definitive click .
There’s nothing he has to prove to himself, or lie to himself about: Brad misses Ray, really fucking bad . Brad misses Ray so fucking bad that he hasn’t even thought about trying to get some strange in the six-or-more months he’s been over here.
The Skype sex is fun- not that it would top actually touching the little perverted shithead, in Brad’s humble opinion. But it works in the overall impermanent situation they’ve found themselves in.
And Brad has been so fucking curious about Ray’s old side hustle. He feels his mood starting to shift, swinging towards positive . He gathers lube and a shirt from his laundry bag, gets down to his skivvies and shorts.
Brad settles down back at his computer and opens it up. Then, as a second thought, plugs in his headphones. He clicks ‘001.mv4’. Quicktime player opens and Brad hits play. He ignores the sweatiness of his palms and the sudden dryness of his mouth.