hackthis_archive | Generation Kill - The Messenger (Rated PG, Warning for Character Death)

I want to make it very clear upfront that this is not my fault. You can blame

romanticalgirl. There was some question about whether or not I could angst with the best of them. As someone who used to kill people for sport (Harry Potter people know exactly what I'm talking about) I take great offense to this.

So. This is a writing exercise to see how badly this could possibly this hurt. I had to get it done. I never said I wasn't a little sadistic (masochistic).

Generation Kill
Rated PG
Warning: Character Death
The Messenger

Brad's working on the specs for one of his client's when there's scrabbling at the lock on the front door. The door swings open a little violently, ricocheting off the wall.

That must've been one hell of a meeting.

Brad scratches at his temple, pulls his glasses off and sets them next to the notes he's scribbled down on how Initech's entire firewall could be hacked by a chimpanzee on Jolly Ranchers.

It's not Nate that's on the doorstep though.

"You know you don't live here," Brad says to Ray. "What did I tell you about stealing the spare key?"

Ray's laugh is weak. "Then you shouldn't leave it where anybody can find it, asshole."

"Burglary isn't a real concern in my house," Brad says wryly, waiting for Ray to come inside.

Ray keeps loitering on the doorstep though, and behind him, Brad can see the Henderson girls on their pink bikes, streamers flying as they sail past.

Brad glances at the corner of his laptop screen: it's 4:56 p.m. on a Tuesday afternoon.

He watches Ray shift from foot-to-foot the way he does when Walt's locked him out because Ray pissed him off again and Ray doesn't want to climb the drainpipe to get back into their apartment.

The corner of Brad's mouth quirks up at the left corner. "The homeless shelter is around the corner, Person. You might want to get there before Nate gets home. He's still pissed about the Super Glue on the toilet lid."

Ray blinks. "Yeah. I -- Brad."

Brad narrows his eyes. Something's -- something's very wrong.

He stands up fast enough that his chair tips over behind him. "What?"

"There -- there was this accident," Ray says, hands flying around as he talks. "A car accident."

Brad's across the room in seconds, invading Ray's air space like Napalm. "You had an accident in Hasser's car?" he says in disbelief. "You know Walt's going to --"

"BRAD!"

Brad's words die off like they just got hit by the 50 cal. Ray's eyes are too big, his face too pale. Even for his whiskey tango ass. He's not looking at Brad as much as he's looking over his right shoulder.

Brad waits for it. Waits more. Recon Marines can wait forever if they have to.

He should just wait this one out. "Say it, Ray," he grits out anyway.

Ray swallows and looks away. And that's when Brad starts to lose the feeling in his toes.

Ray always looks him in the eye, bitching the entire time when he does about how Brad's fucking Hebrew ancestors were probably fucking giraffes in their downtime.

"Ray."

He doesn't know what's in his voice, couldn't define the tone with a thesaurus. He can hear the break though. He can feel it in his throat.

Ray swallows again; Brad can see his hands balling into fists. And then there are those eyes. The last time Brad saw Ray with this much despair he was detoxing from six weeks on Ripped Fuel.

"It's Nate," Ray says bluntly.

Brad blinks.

And then he blinks some more. He thought Ray was going to say Walt. He thought...

"Nate what?" he says roughly, his hands curling in on themselves. Ray's eyes are shining. Brad can't believe he didn't notice the redness before. "Say it!" he barks out.

For the first time since he showed up, Ray looks him in the eye. "Nate's gone, Brad. There was a pile up on the 5. Some big-rig tractor turned over..."

Brad cocks his head to the side as Ray's words die off. Brad can feel the pull in the tendons in his neck. His fingertips feel numb. "Someone would've called me," he says evenly.

"He was -- he was talking to Walt when it happened," Ray blurts out. "They -- there was supposed to be a surprise party for your birthday, and --

Brad is not going to apologize for punching Ray in the mouth.

He's not.

The messenger is the one that always gets it the worst, anybody who says otherwise is a liar.

So, Brad's just going to ignore these lies. Instead, he's going to go sit back down at his desk and go back to work. He's going to finish this assessment for that job he promised Nate he would finish. And then he's going to go turn the oven on so it'll get hot for the fish he's been marinating for dinner tonight.

In an hour or so, Nate'll get home from that pointless fucking fire drill that he got called back to L.A. for. Brad'll tell him about this sick fucking joke that Person pulled, and Nate'll ask why the hell Brad and Ray are friends at all.

They have this conversation at least every six months, sometimes more, sometimes less.

But in the meantime, Brad's just going to sit down here on the doorstep and wait.

Because that's what he and Nate do: they wait for each other.

They wait for the war to be over. They wait for Brad to come back from the UK. They wait for fucking DADT to be repealed so they can finally live together in this house that still has boxes in the garage.

So, Brad will sit here and wait for Nate to come home, because that's what Nate would want.

-end-