hackthis_archive | Generation Kill – Sir, Not to Get Homoerotic About This… (Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, R)

I rewatched Generation Kill in its entirety for the first time since the series stopped last September and I have to say: it's even better than I remembered. That doesn't tend to happen to me, oh, ever. I know I've been pimping it for a full year now, well, consider me re-upped for another year. The layers, the characters, the way it's new and vibrant and earth-shattering all over again. The love I feel for those 22 men. Wow.

Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated R
For

romanticalgirl. Happy Early Birthday, L. ♥

Sir, Not to Get Homoerotic About This…

Brad's holding up the wall. His eyes are half-open, legs crossed at the ankle and shoulders pressed back against plaster and pale yellow paint as he scratches the side of his neck and watches his men fall by the wayside, one by one. Drunk and loud, they're passing out on Gunny's furniture and telling lies that would do Trombley proud, wherever he is now.

"You okay?" Brad looks down when Ray pokes him in the ribs.

Ray's grin is so wide his features are running together and Brad just rolls his eyes, takes another pull of his Sierra Nevada. "If you mean am I about to fall down drunk like the rest of you lightweight, trailer-park dwelling, rat-fucking retards – then the answer is no."

Ray snickers. "Cute, Brad, but that's not what I was talking about," he says, gesturing to the room at large. Or more precisely to the two men chatting in the corner. Or, to be perfectly precise, at the LT and Wynn commiserating and laughing together.

Brad looks at the relaxed slope of the LT's -– Captain's –- shoulders and the lazy smile on his face and there's an intense, stabbing pain near his left kidney. "Is there a point you're attempting to make in your Special Ed retardese, Ray, or do you just want me to flush your face down the toilet now?" Brad says blandly.

Ray makes a disapproving clicking noise with his tongue. "A thousand Jews are crying tonight and they don't know that it's because you're a fucking pussy," he says in a low tone.

Brad gives him a sharp look and Ray steps back. "I think Walt's calling me," he says beating a hasty retreat.

"Who's a fucking pussy now?" Brad calls after him.

Ray gives him the finger as he goes to hide. Brad goes back to his beer. Goes back to trying very hard not to think about what's coming now. Now that Nate's leaving him.

Okay, that's not true.

This paddle party is proof that Nate's not leaving Brad; Nate's leaving the Corps. He's leaving everyone -- but for once, Brad's not worried about everyone else. He's worried about himself.

He's known this was coming for a long time. He felt this as an ache in his bones when they were in the cigarette factory, when they sat up all night watching an amusement park and Nate gave Command one last fight.

If he's being honest he's know since that roadblock at Al Hayy. Since the first time Nate turned away from him because Encino Man was shilling his inbred, moto, 'be angry at the enemy and not at your fucking assbackward Command' bullshit and Brad had forgotten -- forgotten than Nate wasn't the guy next to him. Nate was part of that Command.

Brad's known Nate was going to leave them –- him -- since the first time Brad climbed out of the BRC practice pool at Oceanside, unzipped his wetsuit and saw his fresh-faced lieutenant standing off to the side, watching them all and smiling as though he had a secret that Brad would spend a war and a lifetime trying to find.

But the war is over, at least for Nate, and a lifetime is shorter than you'd think. Now, Nate's party is well into its seventh hour at Wynn's house and people are so drunk that slurring and whiskey tango Spanglish have started to become the chosen means of communication.

He takes a swallow from a bottle that turns out to be empty. He shakes his head in disgust and heads for the kitchen, trying not to look at Nate, because every time he does it's like someone's poking needles underneath his fingernails.

It's hard to be bitter and drunk without alcohol.

He's rummaging in Gunny's refrigerator for something that doesn't taste like backwash when a soft "hey" throws him off and he bangs the back of his head on the edge of the freezer door.

"Fuck!" he says, rubbing his skull as he backs up and turns around.

At least Nate has the decency to look embarrassed. "You okay?" Nate says, biting his lip, a grin threatening to spread across his face and kill them both. He's holding a shot of something gold-colored in each hand, although shots are perhaps too mild a descriptor.

Brad's seen 203 rounds that weren't this big.

"Sir, I hope you weren't planning on doing both of those by yourself," Brad says. "I'd hate to have to take you to the hospital for alcohol poisoning your first night as a civilian."

"No, one of these is for you." Nate's eyes are shining and slightly pink, his mouth red and slick from shoving god knows how many bottles between his lips. If Brad were counting, which he would never confess, Nate's had eight beers and twelve different kinds of shots.

Actually, if they hadn't eaten several dead cows and enough bread and corn to even satisfy their favorite Mexican cum Indian cum My People Were Here First and Don't You Bitches Forget it ATL – Brad might think they all needed to take a trip to the ER.

It helps to eat when you drink this long.

"Oh, so you thought we'd go to the hospital together. Sir, when I said I had complete faith in your abilities this isn't quite what I was talking about," Brad says, taking one of the glasses from Nate's hand, his fingers brushing against the tackiness of Nate's skin.

There've been a lot of shots. A lot of salt and limes and licking. Brad wouldn't mind licking a few more places, but Brad's been fighting that same undercurrent for a while now, and he's a very good swimmer. Besides, in three days Nate will leave for Cambridge and the undertow will stop trying to drag him under.

"Brad, I am assured that – that –"

Nate stops talking and Brad raises an eyebrow. "Having problems being verbal, sir?"

Nate blinks at Brad rapidly, and damn that motherfucker if he doesn't pout.

Brad's cock is still trying to process the patent unfairness of Nate doing that with his mouth when Nate tips back his shot and downs the whole thing. Brad watches the column of Nate's throat work, studies the flush that's taken over all of Nate's exposed skin from his cheeks down to his neck, over sunburned forearms and all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Nate wipes the back of his mouth when he's done and Brad's cock twitches as though he hasn't had at least ten beers himself. "What's wrong, Sergeant, my tequila not good enough for you?"

Nate's eyes are too focused. He's not that drunk. "It's fine, sir," Brad promises, trying to reassess what the hell is going on.

"So drink it."

Brad has always followed Nate's orders; why should tonight be any different? The glass clacks against his teeth a little and the liquor is bitter all the way down and burns in his chest long after it's gone.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Nate says, taking the glass away and crowding Brad's space to place both glasses in the sink.

Brad means to say something, but Nate's too close. His hand is on the counter by Brad's hip, and he's looking up at Brad, his face open and expectant.

There are all kinds of greens in the world, but Brad can't think of anything to compare Nate's eyes to. They're just there. Sharp and luminous.

"No cutting remark?" Nate mocks quietly, the low tone sending all sorts of inappropriate signals to Brad's rapidly stiffening dick. "No scathing dictate on the history of tequila being from the town of Tequila in Mexico or how harvesting the agave plant for mass consumption is tantamount to the Afghanis supplying the world with poppies and heroin?"

Brad swallows, wets his lips and gets the last of the tequila. "No."

Nate's eyes widen just that little bit and he inhales sharply.

"And that’s when I was like, 'Fuck that motherfucker!' White people always gotta be messin' with a brother." Stafford's voice precedes him into the kitchen by at least five seconds; Christeson is hot on his heels.

The ensuing bitchfest and prerequisite fawning over Nate by his kids allows plenty of time for Brad to slip away and lock himself in the Wynns' bathroom.

Brad is going to hell for jerking off in Mike and Clare's bathroom, but if ten bottles of beer and nine shots can't kill a Nate Fick-inspired hard-on, a peach-colored bathroom with shell soaps and frilly matching towels is nothing. Especially when you consider the incongruity of the eight beer bottles on the counter next to the sink, a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor and the toilet lid up. And there's something wet on the rim of the toilet bowl and the floor.

Brad's ashamed of his platoon's bad aim: you just can't take some people fucking anywhere.

Brad's fingers fumble the button and zipper of his shorts and it's just too time-consuming for him to get his briefs and his shorts down around his thighs. There are muffled voices coming through the door and if he focuses very hard he can find Nate's. It's faint and muddled, but Brad doesn't need the words, he just needs the tone. He jams his hand under the waistband of his briefs -- this will do just fine.

His cock is thick and heavy in his fingers, the head sticky and swollen. A groan forms in the back of his throat as he presses against the slit and his cock jerks in his hand, stiffening even more as he strains to follow Nate's voice.

Brad spreads the slickness around, fingers brushing damp, wiry hair as he gives himself a stroke and his fingers slide down the base. His fingertips brush his sac and Brad's head goes back hard, banging against the door, which is muted by the sound of something breaking and a very loud "Oh, shit."

Brad takes another stroke, spreads out his fingers more and tightens the grip hard. His hand could be Nate's hand, those long fingers cupping his balls, the heel of Nate's hand stroking the underside. Calluses from Nate's M16 rough against the head of Brad's cock.

Or this cock could be Nate's cock. God, Brad can just imagine the way Nate would suck his lower lip into his mouth, the way his eyelashes would flutter shut when Brad touched him. The little breathy moans that Brad could swallow from Nate's mouth, the way he would whimper and bury his face in Brad's neck as Brad jacked his cock, played with his balls, talked him through it. Talked about how gorgeous Nate is, how much Brad wants to fuck his perfect ass. How Nate could have anything from him. He wouldn't even have to ask, just a hint and Brad would do anything. Fingers, dildos, Brad would spread himself out on Nate's bed and finger himself open for an entire day if Nate asked.

Brad would be perfectly willing to bend himself in half just to feel Nate's cock up his ass.

Brad licks his lips again. There's salt in the right corner -- it could be salt from Nate's spunk. From Nate fucking Brad's mouth, from Brad swallowing Nate down as his fingers spread Nate wide, rubbing that tight furl of muscle, sliding one slick finger in and fucking that perfect ass open. Maybe two fingers instead of one; maybe three would be better than two.

Maybe Nate would already be slick and ready, his hole wet and puffy from being used by Brad's mouth. Brad's cock. Brad can just imagine Nate swollen and begging, the way he'd be so fucking tight around Brad's fingers. The way he'd arch and push back, greedy and wanting, desperate for more. For Brad.

It could be anything. It could be everything.

Brad bites down on his own lip hard enough to taste blood, speeds up strokes that are already too tight. There's a desperation to his movements that Brad only gets when he's been around Nate too long. When he's battled with himself and just can't fight it anymore. Brad was never a reluctant warrior until he met Nate Fick. Until he just wanted to give in to this one thing.

He's too drunk to come this hard, to feel the heat behind his eyes and down to his toes. He wants. Jesus, all he fucking wants is to lie down on the floor and fall asleep and get this night over with.

Instead he washes his hands and looks at his haggard face in the mirror. He's all red eyes and flushed cheeks. It could be from the alcohol. It could be from anything at all.

He unlocks the door and walks directly from the bathroom out the back door, letting the screen door close quietly behind him.

The night is cool around him, the ocean currents having blown away the desert heat from earlier today. The sky is bright overhead, a waning moon and a cadre of stars. Between that and jerking off in Mike's bathroom, Brad feels staggeringly sober. The Wynns' yard is full of patio furniture, children's toys and barbeque detritus that the guys abandoned a few hours ago.

There's a slight creak of the screen door opening again. "Hiding from me?" Nate's tone is all amused tolerance and Brad just chuckles to himself.

"You know how the children get when they don't have quality daddy time," Brad says as Nate appears at his elbow. "Besides, I have to make sure your recon skills haven't gone completely POG -- when you go to the Dark Side these things happen."

Nate's laugh ripples against Brad's skin. "The children will be fine without me," he says, bumping Brad's shoulder lightly. "And I'm not working for the Emperor just yet."

"It's only a matter of time," Brad says sagely. "The next time you come home they'll all be knocked up or on meth or fucking goats."

"Cambridge isn't that far. It's not the Deathstar."

Brad thinks his derisory snort says plenty.

"I thought you had faith in me," Nate protests around a yawn.

"I always have faith in you," Brad promises. "It's the rest of the unwashed, pot-smoking, obese, lazy socialist masses that are a cause for concern."

Nate's close. Brad can feel the heat from his arm eking into Brad's own skin. They stand in silence and Nate yawns again. Brad turns his head and studies Nate in profile: the hair that's just starting to outgrow his last regulation cut, the full mouth and small ears.

Brad digs his fingernails into his palms rather than reach out and trace the shell the way every fiber in his body wants him to.

"Go home," he says. "You're tired."

"Am not," Nate protests around his third yawn.

"I'm going to help Mike clean up," Brad insists. "Go home, sir."

Nate turns, his bicep brushing Brad's elbow. The brief touch is electric and all Brad wants is to feel it again. To shove Nate against Mike's wooden fence and do everything he thought about in the bathroom.

"You coming?" Nate checks.

Brad grins. "Well, since my parents have decided to give my room over the personality-deficient blobs they call grandkids, and there's no point in me spending my money on a hotel with no whore to use it with, I suppose I will. I'd have to show up at your house eventually just to get my fucking laptops. You can keep the clothes."

Nate's mouth turns up at the corners. "All right," he says. "I'll go put the computers on eBay as ransom just to be safe."

"Sir, that's blackmail," Brad says.

"It's not blackmail, Brad, it's insurance. What the hell would I do with two pairs of Chuck Taylors, a bunch of ratty shirts and board shorts?"

"You don't trust me? I think I'm hurt."

"I trust you more than anyone else," Nate promises.

The subsequent grin makes Brad's heart clench in his chest. He's not sure he can breathe enough to return it. Instead, he watches Nate walk away and tries not to remember that as of today, Nate is no longer synonymous with home.

Brad never quite makes it back to Nate's. He wants to. A lot. But he's drunk and Nate's drunk. And he's too drunk to be careful and not drunk enough to say what he really wants. Instead he sacks out on Mike's sofa after physically relocating Ray's ass to the floor.

He sleeps fitfully, waking up disoriented and warm before falling back asleep in stops and starts. Mike's couch is comfortable, but this isn't where he belongs: it's not a grave or the barracks or the inflatable bed that Nate bought eight months ago, apparently just for him to have a place to sleep when he was too drunk or tired or irritated to go back to base.

Brad finally gives up around six when the first rays of light push through the gauzy living room curtains. He eases off the sofa, avoiding the bodies littering the carpet. At some point somebody covered them all with blankets. It had to be Clare; Mike wouldn't give a shit.

Ray's drooling on the floor with Walt sleeping on his legs. Stafford even took his shoes off. Brad folds up the blanket that was draped over him and leaves, getting on his bike and riding around for a little while before heading back to Nate's.

Brad has a key, but he knocks anyway. He's still surprised when the door swings wide open. "I thought you'd still be asleep," he says.

Nate's smile breaks his heart. "Then why'd you knock? What happened to your keys?"

"I didn't want to disturb you; you might've had company."

Nate's eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. "I have company, but he didn't come home last night. What the hell was that about anyway?"

"I like Wynn's couch."

"I think my inflatable bed is insulted," Nate says, waving behind him to where Brad's taken over most of the living room. "You coming in or should I bring it out here, your highness?"

Brad smirks. "Shouldn't you be more hungover?"

Nate's cheeks color a little bit. Brad's intrigued. "It turns out that if you throw up in someone's azaleas that kind of takes care of that hangover thing," Nate says thoughtfully. "C'mon, I just put on a second pot of coffee."

Brad just shakes his head, the smile on his face a natural reaction to proximity to Nate. Brad's entire body primes to step inside and he falters. Nate's own smile falls away. "What's wrong?"

Brad looks away, but when he looks back, Nate's still there. That's – that's not going to happen for him anymore. "You can't leave me," he says, shocking himself when the words come out.

Nate's face stills, the upturn at his mouth straightens out, the light in his eyes goes dark. "I was just going in the house," he says gently, gesturing behind him. "I was going to make breakfast. Drinking requires bacon. Aren't you the one who made up that rule the last time you stayed at my house? Something about Talmudic tradition getting the bacon thing all wrong."

Brad blinks again. If he thinks about this it's not going to come out at all. "I don't want you to go," he blurts out. A pause. "Sir."

Nate's face goes through this mess of emotions, the most that Brad can pick out are the surprise and confusion. There's something like wariness. And possibly – just possibly hope. "I'm not your commanding officer anymore," he says softly. "I'm not 'sir.' I'm just Nate."

"Nate." Brad tries it out on his tongue. Tries to verbalize a name that's already burned into his frontal lobe and will probably never leave. It sounds off forming in his mouth, his voice scratchy, hoarse. He feels like – no, this is nothing like with Jenna. When she left him there was nothing but bitterness. He was numb.

Nate makes him feel like he's going to die.

Brad says his name again, and Nate's mouth falls open a little bit.

They always did their best communication with very little.

Brad has to kiss him. Just this once. Afterwards he'll apologize, go away, be what everybody else wants, but he needs this. He needs this more than anything else. He leans in, down just a fraction, and presses his lips against Nate's. Nate's mouth is soft, and Brad just stays there, pressing their lips together. And then Nate makes this noise, this very soft moan, and Brad has to respond, Brad has to taste him, trace the seam of his lips with his tongue.

He curls his hand around the back of Nate's skull, fingers brushing short hair. The palm of his hand presses against the shell of Nate's ear. Nate tilts his head up slightly, opens his mouth, and Brad groans, pulls Nate in just that little bit more.

Nate tastes like toothpaste and coffee, Brad probably tastes like the bottom of somebody's shoe. It doesn't stop him from sweeping his tongue inside Nate's mouth, from fucking Nate's mouth with a desperation that could only come from the potential of losing the only thing he really loves more than the Corps.

Nate makes another soft noise and Brad swallows it whole, locks it away inside his heart for another day. And then he kisses the side of Nate's mouth, his jaw, trails these long sucking kisses down the column of Nate's neck before returning to his mouth. That sinful, gorgeous mouth that has featured spectacularly in almost every last one of Brad's combat jacks and jerk-off sessions since Nate Fick showed up in Oceanside. The words from those lips have made him ache with anger and hurt and want in ways he was pretty sure he couldn't even muster up anymore.

He thought he was over this emotion shit -- apparently he was wrong.

A hand on his chest pushes him back and Brad steps away automatically. "Sir – Nate, I – shit -- " he begins, not sure what the hell he's supposed to say when he's faced with Nate's flushed cheeks and long column of throat. He should apologize. He should fucking run.

Nate licks his lips, his eyes wide and assessing. "I – I wasn't sure if you wanted this. If you wanted me."

The words parse in Brad's brain, but all he hears is 'want me.' "I do," he says automatically. "Just so that's clear."

Nate blinks. "Oh."

Yeah. Oh. That's about where Brad's at right now, too. "I – do – do you?" Great, Nate's made him regress to third grade.

Nate's smile is like – when they were in Iraq, Brad would spend time thinking about ways to make Nate smile like this. Hours could be devoted to a few insults or comments that could result in this, this broad, toothy grin that seems like pure happiness. "Yeah, I do," Nate says.

Nate's still touching Brad's chest, the heat from his hand burrowing its way far deeper than just Brad's tee shirt. Brad swallows, strokes his fingers along the tendons that lead from Nate's middle finger down to his wrist. He's… he's touching Nate. And Nate's letting him.

Jesus. He needs to sit down.

Nate clears his throat. "I don't object to your style," he says, "but maybe you could come inside first. My neighbors should have to pay to get this kind of show."

Brad's brain seems to be lagging a little behind, and he only steps into the house when Nate pulls back and moves out of the doorway to beckon him inside.

Brad looks around at his surroundings as though he's never been here before. As though he's never seen the bookcase with shelves threatening to collapse under the weight of too many military and historical tomes. As though he's never sprawled out on Nate's sofa and watched Apocalypse Now back-to-back with The Empire Strikes Back or cooked Nate breakfast at four o'clock in the afternoon before they go out to get drunk with Poke and Gunny.

There are moving boxes littered everywhere now: half-filled, taped up, stacked, still loose and leaning against the wall.

The sound of the door snicking closed behind Brad is like coming out of a stupor he didn't know he'd fallen into. It's darker inside the house, the curtains still drawn, and Brad looks everywhere but at Nate, because he has no idea what to do now.

Brad doesn't get the happy ending. That was set in stone a long time ago.

He sits down on the sofa because it seems like a better idea than standing around like the only tree in a forest. After a few moments, the cushions shift as Nate sits down beside him.

Brad can feel the heat from Nate's body seeping between them; he can smell the citrus shampoo and the oatmeal shaving cream that Nate uses. There's too much closeness. His entire body is thrumming with adrenaline and need. He can feel his muscles twitching. He is a Marine Corps fucking killer -- if he passes out because it's possible he might actually get what he wants, he's going to be pissed the fuck off.

He clears his throat as though making way for words, but there are none forthcoming.

The tension isn't between them, but between Brad and whatever he says next. Everything could be the wrong thing, and he has no idea what to say to make it right. His hands are shaking, and when he balls them into fists that just seems to make it worse.

Nate's right knee is a few inches away from Brad's left; Nate's hand is resting on his own thigh.

Brad looks down at Nate's long, pale fingers. At the square-cut nails that now have no traces of dirt underneath them. He thinks 'elegant' sounds a little gay, but 'gay' isn't really the issue right now. Or if it is, it's just one of many.

His hands are shaking when he traces the veins on the back of Nate's hand with his fingertips, strokes Nate's wrist and feels the fine hairs and muscles along his forearm. The more he does it, the more the tremors subside.

He watches his hands move over Nate's skin, looks at the paper cut on his own middle finger and the way the nail on his index finger is jagged. He looks up at Nate just once, just to make sure this is okay, and there's this look on his face that Brad's never seen before.

It's so far beyond words that Brad's breath gets caught. This is that secret he was always looking for.

He's been numb and wary and that seems stupid, now. If this all goes up in a claymore round, at least he has this moment. But he doesn't just want one moment: he wants them all.

That's what this is about.

He looks back down at Nate's hand and then Nate turns his hand palm up and Brad traces the lifelines he finds there.

When Brad presses their palms together, Nate laces their fingers and everything inside Brad cracks open, all the walls falling down around his knees. "You know I'm not good with this talking thing," he says, slouching down until his cheek is pressed against Nate's shoulder.

He can feel Nate's inhalation. "I don't know about that -- you always seem to have an opinion on everything. What's stopping you now?"

Nate's thumb brushes over the back of Brad's hand and Brad squeezes briefly. "I'd hate to say the wrong thing and run you off to some liberal shit-hole like Harvard," Brad says.

Brad can feel the laugh rack Nate's body and then there's something soft on the top of his hair. Something like a kiss that makes his whole body tingle. Something that makes him feel like this might actually be possible.

"That's understandable," Nate's words are muffled, but Brad can feel them against the crown of his head. "But I heard there are these new things called planes. They can take you anywhere you want."

"Or they can bring you back," Brad agrees.

"Yeah," Nate says. "They can do that, too."

Brad can feel his body molding itself to Nate's side, can feel his breathing slowing down to match Nate's own. There's a calm washing over him, the rightness that comes from knowing that Nate's got his six.

"Or we don't have to go anywhere," Brad says. "We could just sit here for a while."

Nate squeezes his hand back. "Yeah, we can do that."

-end-

Happy Birthday,

romanticalgirl, you bring so much joy and enthusiasm and awesome to everything I hope this can even bring you even a smidgen of that.

Special love to

alethialia and all her awesome beta skillz. ♥