[Yami no Matsuei] "Gay-dar" (PG-13)
May. 26th, 2013 01:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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fic_promptly's Any, Any, "You know I'm really starting to enjoy being everyones first gay experience". Featuring a disgruntled Muraki.
A ten-car pile-up on the freeway, and the clinic was jammed with the casualties, some ranging bangs and bruises, to broken bones, and far more critical cases.
Somewhere in between the poles: a motorcycle gang kid whom the police and several witnesses accused of causing the wreck by weaving in and out between the cars, and who'd become a casualty of the disaster: compound fractures in his right arm and right leg, splinted and bandaged, but needing to be set properly. Other than that, the youth seemed fit as the proverbial fiddle, since he kept shouting at everyone who approached the gurney on which he lay. Given the way the orderlies had strapped him down, and the eagle eye which the police officer kept on the lad, he had already tried to get up.
"What the hell is this place, a hospital or a bondage dungeon?" the kid yelled, pulling on the straps that held him down.
"If you keep that up, I may have to muzzle you," the police officer said, calmly, yet Muraki could sense the woman's annoyance, as he approached.
Muraki could not resist the smirk that rose to his lips. "Come now, young man, if you keep thrashing around, you'll make your injuries worse: you could sever a nerve or a major blood vessel," he said.
"This one is lively: the EMTs had a horrible time trying to get the neck brace on him," the attendant nerve put in.
"I can imagine," Muraki said, starting to examine the young man's leg.
"Git that pale-faced freak away from me!" the patient snapped, moving his shackled and uninjured arm as if he would swat at Muraki. "I ain't gonna have no faggot groping my ass."
"I'm more interested in something further down, and I have to handle it if I'm to set that leg," Muraki said, drawing in a breath to keep from wincing at the pejorative. "Unless you'd rather spend the rest of your life walking with a limp."
"Don't care, long as I can ride," the thug snapped. "Just get some guy who'd rather have a set of melons than an eel."
"I think if you ask the nurses here, they could tell you that I'm fond of their company," Muraki said.
"Yeah, right," the thug snarled.
"Sato, could you bring the young man a sedative? He could use a nap to help the healing process," Muraki asked.
* * * *
Later that night, toward the wee hours of the morning, Sato, Muraki's partner found him in the alley behind the clinic, smoking a cigarette.
"The motorcycle kid got under your skin," Sato noted. He knew about Muraki's proclivities, but thought nothing of it: society might not approve, but it was none of his business.
"It gets tiring, being the first man of the rose tribe that some people meet. And especially when I trip their radar: I can't help but wonder if their hatred comes from hating something in themself and they've projected it onto their fellow man," Muraki said, dropping the stub of his cigarette to the pavement and grinding it out with his heel, as if he preferred to have the hoodlum's face under it.
"I'd tell you not to let it get to you, but I know you're tired of hearing that," Sato said.
"I'll live: words might hurt, but so do mosquito bites," Muraki said. "He didn't say anything I haven't heard before."
fic_promptly's Any, Any, "You know I'm really starting to enjoy being everyones first gay experience". Featuring a disgruntled Muraki.A ten-car pile-up on the freeway, and the clinic was jammed with the casualties, some ranging bangs and bruises, to broken bones, and far more critical cases.
Somewhere in between the poles: a motorcycle gang kid whom the police and several witnesses accused of causing the wreck by weaving in and out between the cars, and who'd become a casualty of the disaster: compound fractures in his right arm and right leg, splinted and bandaged, but needing to be set properly. Other than that, the youth seemed fit as the proverbial fiddle, since he kept shouting at everyone who approached the gurney on which he lay. Given the way the orderlies had strapped him down, and the eagle eye which the police officer kept on the lad, he had already tried to get up.
"What the hell is this place, a hospital or a bondage dungeon?" the kid yelled, pulling on the straps that held him down.
"If you keep that up, I may have to muzzle you," the police officer said, calmly, yet Muraki could sense the woman's annoyance, as he approached.
Muraki could not resist the smirk that rose to his lips. "Come now, young man, if you keep thrashing around, you'll make your injuries worse: you could sever a nerve or a major blood vessel," he said.
"This one is lively: the EMTs had a horrible time trying to get the neck brace on him," the attendant nerve put in.
"I can imagine," Muraki said, starting to examine the young man's leg.
"Git that pale-faced freak away from me!" the patient snapped, moving his shackled and uninjured arm as if he would swat at Muraki. "I ain't gonna have no faggot groping my ass."
"I'm more interested in something further down, and I have to handle it if I'm to set that leg," Muraki said, drawing in a breath to keep from wincing at the pejorative. "Unless you'd rather spend the rest of your life walking with a limp."
"Don't care, long as I can ride," the thug snapped. "Just get some guy who'd rather have a set of melons than an eel."
"I think if you ask the nurses here, they could tell you that I'm fond of their company," Muraki said.
"Yeah, right," the thug snarled.
"Sato, could you bring the young man a sedative? He could use a nap to help the healing process," Muraki asked.
* * * *
Later that night, toward the wee hours of the morning, Sato, Muraki's partner found him in the alley behind the clinic, smoking a cigarette.
"The motorcycle kid got under your skin," Sato noted. He knew about Muraki's proclivities, but thought nothing of it: society might not approve, but it was none of his business.
"It gets tiring, being the first man of the rose tribe that some people meet. And especially when I trip their radar: I can't help but wonder if their hatred comes from hating something in themself and they've projected it onto their fellow man," Muraki said, dropping the stub of his cigarette to the pavement and grinding it out with his heel, as if he preferred to have the hoodlum's face under it.
"I'd tell you not to let it get to you, but I know you're tired of hearing that," Sato said.
"I'll live: words might hurt, but so do mosquito bites," Muraki said. "He didn't say anything I haven't heard before."
