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This is Not a Love Song	By : thewayoutis Category: M through R > Reservoir Dogs Views: 1508 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Reservoir Dogs, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-This is Not a Love Song
- 1
I posted this on the LJ community (resdog_fic) a few months ago, and promptly forgot about it. Oh, and hay. HAY GUYZ. RESERVOIR DOGS, YEAH? NOT MINE.

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Being a cop, you tend to only think about death as something to be avoided. You never think about what it would be like, to actually be dying, because they never teach you that, no one ever tells you. If a perp has a gun, you try to reason with him, and if he doesn't listen, you shoot, you disable, you try not to kill - police brutality and all that.

Orange ... no, Freddy has never killed a perp before. Actually, he's never killed anyone. His aim is as close to perfect as one can get, and so whenever he's had to deal with a situation like that he's always been successful in getting himself and the perp out of it alive and, for the most part, well.

But he's gotten far far too caught up in this mess, and is thinking like he actually is one of them, so when he shoots the woman (point-blank, in the chest), he's not really sure just who the hell he is anymore. Then he falls to the ground, and realizes that he's been shot himself, and then reality cruelly crashes down around him - he's a cop, undercover, and in way too far over his head. Larry (funny how he could think of himself as Orange, even through all of this, but Larry remains Larry, and not White. He never did manage to condition himself to reflexively refer to Larry as Mr. White, and last night effectively shot that to hell) hauls him up from the ground, and shoves him as gently as he can into the backseat of the car, pulls the woman's body out and rather roughly shrugs it off onto the curb, and takes off in the car, clutching his gun in the same hand he's steering with, reaching back to offer Orange a hand, gripping rather tightly, though Orange himself can only manage to squeeze weakly. He's screaming his head off, he knows, ohgodI'mgonnafuckin'die and the like, his words running together. He's not really talking to Larry in particular - his voice seems to just be going off by itself, vocalizing whatever thoughts run through his head - but since Larry's there, he responds.

"Oh, excuse me! I didn't realize you had a degree in medicine! Are you a doctor?"

"No, I'm not! I'm not."

"Then you admit that you don't know what you're talking about!" He has to smile at that, though it probably looks more like a grimace than a smile. At least someone's keeping his wits about him in this pathetic hoedown. Of course it would be Larry. He's probably gotten through botched jobs before, but even if he hadn't he'd probably manage to keep his head straight anyway. It's just the way he is. He knew it the first time he saw him in that bar, whatever the fuck it was called.

He's still writhing around in the seat, his body instinctively trying to find someway to just make it stop fucking hurting, but there's no escaping pain that's caused by a bullet firmly lodged in your gut, he knows. He's trying to find some comfort in Larry's hand around his, his blunt and painfully straightforward words, and he figures that he'd be a lot worse off if Larry weren't here, so he guesses it's working.

He hears the transmission scream as Larry puts the car in park without really stopping, and looks out the window to see that they're at the rendezvous point. Huh. He's been too busy screaming with his eyes squeezed shut to really notice, probably. Larry's a little less rushed in his movements now, and is much gentler when pulling him out of the backseat, though Orange realizes that even he's shaking by now, has to make several attempts at gripping onto his collar, almost drops him when he doesn't quite manage to hook his arms under Orange's shoulders. But he catches him, even though Orange seriously doubts whether he would have felt anything beyond the blinding pain in his stomach. Except maybe more pain in that region.

He tries to walk with Larry, but he can't seem to make his legs move, so he just ends up letting himself be dragged into the warehouse. He's never felt this fucking helpless before, he realizes as Larry lowers him onto a ramp and starts pulling his shirt out from under the waistband of his pants, trying to get a look at the wound. With the loss of body contact, he realizes he's freezing fucking cold but he's sweating somehow. He closes his eyes as Larry starts to unbuckle his belt, feeling his fingers sort of probing the area around the entry wound. He tells him to quit banging his head, says he's going to put a hole in the floor. It makes him laugh for just a second, before the stark reminder from his stomach that he's fucking been shot. Larry's pulling him toward him, his head coming to rest in his lap. And as ridiculous as it sounds, he's asking Larry to hold him, telling him how fucking scared he is. He looks down at himself for the first time and sees that his white shirt is now completely stained red. Jesus. Jesus. To his surprise, Larry actually does pull him closer, dips his head down and whispers into his ear. He doesn't really hear, just feels lips against skin. He actually laughs again as Larry pulls his comb out of his jacket and starts brushing his hair back. So gentle while still being so god damned slick. He opens his eyes to see Larry flicking his lighter, lighting a cigarette. He takes a drag, then presses the cigarette to Orange's lips. He can't really take in more than a shallow breath, but he takes a drag the best he can. It calms his nerves at least a little. He can feel unconsciousness slowly creeping up on him. Larry's telling him something, and he hears that the gut is the most painful place to be shot, next to the knee, and he mutters, "No shit," mostly to himself. He hears that it takes days to die from a shot to the stomach. That sounds like a lie to him, but he nods anyway. He's afraid to lose consciousness, but maybe it's better if he does. There's a pressure on his lips, and he opens his eyes. It's Larry. Larry's kissing him, thumb stroking the side of his face. He closes his eyes again, his lips parting. He never was much for kissing or holding or being held, and it's strange as hell that he might not have minded at all with Larry, might have actually liked it. Strange because, for one thing, up until yesterday he had been almost certain he was about as straight as an arrow. But it wasn't really about gender with Larry, strangely enough, which was probably why it had been easier than he'd expected. And really, what's twenty years' difference anyway? Not a whole lot of anything, really. He doesn't really care, sure as hell doesn't regret it. A car door slams outside and Larry pulls away from him. Mr. Pink comes in, shoving the doors open so violently they slam against the walls behind them, and starts yammering immediately. What a fucking prick that guy is, he thinks as he starts slipping under. He doesn't really listen to what they're saying, because he has a feeling he knows anyway. He only starts panicking when Larry moves to get up. "No, Larry. Don't leave." Larry whispers to him, tells him he's going to be right there in the other room watching him.

He's cold again, and he hears them screaming at each other still. So he closes his eyes and he thinks. He thinks about last night.

Across from Karina's, going over The Plan. A few jokes, and then his suggestion that that girl's ass would be best situated right on his dick that sounded entirely too forced even as he said it. He didn't fail to notice Larry smirk at that, and then had had a sudden and painful attack of guilt. Not even thoughts of Dimick's long, long list of priors could help him shake that feeling. Larry pulled the car out of the empty lot across from the diamond wholesaler then, muttering that he was hungry and wanted a taco. Fine. Somehow, though, after that, they'd ended up in the same bar where he'd met with Joe and Eddie and ... Mr. White. He was definitely getting nervous by the time they pulled out of the taco joint, and so Larry had suggested some drinks, seeing as the joint they'd shared earlier hadn't really worked in calming him down.

"You're acting like this is your first job."

"Am I? It's not."

"So you're just a little nervous, then?"

"Not really."

"Bullshit." He'd laughed then, and so Orange did too. Maybe, he thinks, it was the way that even though the older man was clearly more experienced than he was, Larry still respected him. Respect isn't something Freddy gets too often. Larry is almost like a father, actually, which should be disturbing, but Orange still doesn't really care. They left the bar after a few rounds, a few hours, and Larry drove him back to his place. He'd invited him up then, still with nothing but platonic intentions. He had been really drunk then, and hadn't really paid attention to whatever it was they were talking about, whatever was on TV. He didn't really remember much of it, up until the point when Larry's arm found its way across his shoulders. And right after that, he'd kissed Larry, or Larry'd kissed him. Hell, he couldn't even remember who'd started it - probably him, though, because he gets really friendly and really honest when he gets drunk, which is why he doesn't do it often. And then Larry had asked him if he was sure about this, said he was kind of drunk and didn't want him to do anything he'd regret. He'd chuckled then, saying, "I'm not that drunk." And then Larry fucked him. He didn't rush it, even though he was horny as hell and Freddy'd known it. And had he said anything, shown even a little apprehension, he knew Larry would have backed off and not said a word more about it. He didn't really think it had been about feelings or any of that bullshit, although he does like Larry, at the very least. Probably Larry feels the same, but he can't be sure. He knows he would have done it again had he been given the chance.

It hadn't been magical or any of that shit, but it did make him feel okay - acceptable - though the feeling didn't last for too long as he'd watched Larry stand up and get dressed. He remembered the lies he was telling him, gaining his trust with the intent to use it against him. Dammit. He'd been warned about this. Been warned to think of them as criminals and not people. And he'd fucked it up.

He realized he was fast falling asleep when Larry grinned down at him and said, "G'night, kid," and he'd only managed a sleepy smile in reply. He watched Larry lock the doorknob and pull the door shut behind him as he left. He'd fallen asleep almost immediately after that, pulling a sheet over himself, not bothering to put any clothes on.

Joe had told him it was going to be a tough two minutes. When you have two minutes to do anything like what they were attempting, everything has to be absolutely fucking perfect. If it's not done perfectly and exactly as planned, things go to shit faster than you can control them.

Things had gone to shit. And now he's laying here, dying, trying not to pass out but not really succeeding. His vision's getting dark and fuzzy, and he still feels like he's freezing to death. He hears footsteps coming toward him again - probably Larry. He's closed his eyes by now and he feels a hand at his neck, checking for a pulse. Yeah, Larry, I'm still alive,, he doesn't say, and he hears Pink ask if he's dead. Larry doesn't respond and he asks again. "He ain't dead."

Suddenly he realizes that guilt works wonders for taking his mind off this fucking pain.
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This is Not a Love Song