Fic: Close Call
Apr. 20th, 2006 11:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knights_say_nihWritten pre-Ramon Sands blowup. A bit of a speculative situation that was niggling and I wanted to sketch out to see.
Not even a fic, really, just a mental image put down.
“Fuck you, Salazar.”
Neither barrel of either gun didn’t waver. Not the one pointed at Sands head, not the one pointed at Ramon’s heart.
“Put the gun down Sands.”
Click.
Ramon smirks, and Sands grimaces because of course the thing had to be empty. Never grab a stranger’s gun. Not off the floor of the house of people like Ramon and Random.
“Shouldn’t have picked up that one. One in the mantle has bullets, you know, but a bit late. Now, put your hands up.
The FBI agent sneers a refusal, and the Cartel Lord fires a warning shot. Perfectly accurate, an winging his shoulder, ripping the cloth of his shirt and embedding in the wood of the doorframe.
Three inches to the left of Random’s head.
Now it’s Ramon who drops the gun, staring at horror at his lover, who’s currently shaking furiously, clutching Martin tight to his chest. The baby is crying in fear, and Random’s hands hush him, cradling him quietly, but when he speaks his voice is steady.
“Both of you get the fuck out of my house. You can come back when you’re mature enough to not almost kill us all.”
Ramon hopes, at first, that he might not mean it, but the door slamming after him is quite convincing.
Sands stares after him, with a wince.
“Looks like you’re crashing at my place, amigo.”
Not even a fic, really, just a mental image put down.
“Fuck you, Salazar.”
Neither barrel of either gun didn’t waver. Not the one pointed at Sands head, not the one pointed at Ramon’s heart.
“Put the gun down Sands.”
Click.
Ramon smirks, and Sands grimaces because of course the thing had to be empty. Never grab a stranger’s gun. Not off the floor of the house of people like Ramon and Random.
“Shouldn’t have picked up that one. One in the mantle has bullets, you know, but a bit late. Now, put your hands up.
The FBI agent sneers a refusal, and the Cartel Lord fires a warning shot. Perfectly accurate, an winging his shoulder, ripping the cloth of his shirt and embedding in the wood of the doorframe.
Three inches to the left of Random’s head.
Now it’s Ramon who drops the gun, staring at horror at his lover, who’s currently shaking furiously, clutching Martin tight to his chest. The baby is crying in fear, and Random’s hands hush him, cradling him quietly, but when he speaks his voice is steady.
“Both of you get the fuck out of my house. You can come back when you’re mature enough to not almost kill us all.”
Ramon hopes, at first, that he might not mean it, but the door slamming after him is quite convincing.
Sands stares after him, with a wince.
“Looks like you’re crashing at my place, amigo.”
