Grand Theft Auto: PART TWO
An Archwell Fanfic
You're probably asking yourself: "Where's the sex already, goddammit?"
Patience, young Jedi[1]. I'm getting there.
There's something you ought to know about Thomas Aimwell and Francis Archer before I go any further—before I even address the letter that Archer left poor Aimwell back in Selmer. Now, back in the day, the double-A's were army men fighting in the Korean War alongside their trusted friend, ally, and superior: Captain Charles Freeman.
Even the General said Freeman was the best shot they'd seen in over a decade. Every man in the battalion knew the story of when Freeman saved a young Private's life when he shot a six-foot python at the foot of a mountain from the top of the very same ridge. The poor Private couldn't have made any sudden movements, lest the snake bite and poison him. Thanks to Freeman, he was alive and kicking.
Young Aimwell had always admired Freeman, so he couldn't refuse when Freeman invited him and his pal Archer to the top of a small mountain to practice some sharp shooting.
It was twilight, late in the summer of '51, when they made the trek up the ridge. An old path wound the circumference of the mountain. The fading sunlight lit their way as evening fog rolled down the foothills.
It seemed a pleasant, quiet scene. Almost…
too quiet.
When they reached their destination, they dropped their bags and began assembling their weapons.
"You ever done this before?" Freeman inquired of Aimwell.
Aimwell shook his head sheepishly. "I mean, I've shot a gun before—obviously—I've never even tried sniping."
"Nothin' to it," Freeman said. "What about you, Archer?"
Archer laughed facetiously. "Please."
Freeman shrugged. "Aimwell, let's see what you've got."
Aimwell crouched beside a tripod and put his eye to the lens, combing the treetops for anything that moved. "I see something!" he exclaimed after a few minutes. "I think it's a gray squirrel."
Freeman kneeled next to him excitedly. "Great! Now here's the key…" Freeman placed his hand gently on top of Aimwell's, which was resting on the trigger. "Relax. You're carrying too much tension in your shoulders, it'll ruin the shot." With his free hand, Freeman eased Aimwell's shoulders to where they were resting. "That's better. Lower your head a bit, that's it. You're looking with your dominant eye, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Aimwell murmured.
"Good. That's the key. Are you relaxed?"
"Yes."
"I thought you said being relaxed was the key," Archer interrupted from behind. "You know you can only have one key, right? That's, like, the rule."
"Whenever you're ready," Freeman told Aimwell.
Aimwell fired. After a moment, he hopped up. "I think I got it!"
"Ah, well done! And on the first try, too," commended Freeman. "Archer, you're next?"
Archer shook his head. "Thank you, Captain, but I'll have to pass."
Aimwell shot him a look.
"What?" Archer said.
"Why won't you shoot?"
"It's all the same to me, really," Freeman drawled, drawing a cigarette from his box of Marlboros. "Shoot or don't shoot." He lit it swiftly with a match. "Sun'll be gone soon, anyhow." He took a long drag, and then passed it to Archer.
Archer took the cigarette with no complaint, and lit his own and one for Aimwell from the burning embers.
The three men stood in silence for a while, watching the sun sink below the horizon.
"As much as I love smoking," Archer mused, "It does leave me feeling a little thirsty."
Aimwell gave him a sidelong glance and pulled a flask from his back pocket.
"Aimwell, my dear, you've read my mind!"
"Don't I always?"
Freeman chuckled and drew his own flask from his jacket. "Cheers, gents."
"Cheers!" the A's agreed.
The musings of the next few hours were extensive and of a wide array, and to recount them all would take an age and a half. All you need to know is that they drank; they smoked, and drank some more until all three were shamelessly wasted, singing an old favorite of Archer's—something about if the ocean, whiskey, and ducks, et cetera.
"So I'll stick to wild women and just get fucked up!" sang the trio.
Aimwell giggled uncontrollably and took another swig from his flask. "Oh, golly," he mused, shaking his head.
"You ever been with a woman before, Tom?" Archer asked out of the blue.
Aimwell's eyes grew wide. "Who's askin'?"
"I'm askin'," Archer laughed.
Aimwell scoffed. "What, do you take me for a Catholic?"
"Out with it!" Freeman shoved him playfully in the shoulder.
Aimwell shrugged. "Well—not, you know, technically speaking—"
"What do you mean, technically speaking?" Freeman asked.
"Well—you know—I mean, yeah, kinda, just never, you know… there."
Archer burst out laughing, gasping for breath between phrases. "You mean to say—you never even—?"
"Like I said, not technically talking, it's just, like—"
"I'll stand up for you, friend, fear not," Freeman exclaimed. "Archer, I'd be the first to say that to go about the natural order of things there ain't as nice as other places, eh?"
Archer nodded, considering. "Six one way, half dozen to the other."
"There, now," Aimwell exclaimed. "Something we can all agree on."
Archer smirked. "I think we can all agree on quite a few things," he said, low enough so that only Aimwell could hear.
Freeman yawned. "Gotta piss, be back in a few," he slurred, then stumbled into the woods.
"Don't fall off the mountain!" Archer hollered.
"Trying my best!" Freeman's voice carried.
Archer took a wandering glance in Aimwell's direction. He studied his face closely in the pale light for a moment—though perhaps it was for more than a moment, as moments tend to pass slower when one is inebriated.
Aimwell peeked back at Archer. "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," Archer sneered.
"No, what?" Aimwell demanded.
Archer shrugged. "Come here."
"Huh?"
"Come here."
Aimwell shuffled toward Archer and took a seat next to him, bringing his knees up to keep himself steady.
"I'm here," he mumbled. Their shoulders brushed.
"Put out your cigarette, please," Archer said quietly.
Aimwell did as he was told. "There."
Archer nodded. "That'll make this a little easier."
"Make what—?"
Archer kissed him once, softly, and waited. His warm, damp hands rested on Aimwell's neck. They were close. If there was daylight, he could've counted every freckle on Aimwell's razor sharp cheekbones. He could hear Aimwell's heart beating in his chest, taste the smoke on his breath. His lips were chapped.
Archer waited.
And then Aimwell kissed him back.
Archer's hands were shaking, but before he knew it, his fingers were tangled in Aimwell's well-cut hair. Aimwell had one hand on his chest and another on his neck as their kissing went from gentle to forceful to ravenous in mere minutes.
Archer was just contemplating taking Aimwell's jacket off of him when he heard the crunching of leaves. He and Aimwell were frozen by fear as they turned and saw Captain Charles Freeman smoking a cigarette by a pine tree.
"Captain, I can explain—" Archer began.
"Oh, don't mind me," Freeman said. He grinned and winked. "As you were, gentlemen."
[1] If you're DJ, you probably don't understand this reference because you probably haven't seen Star Wars yet.
