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hackthis_archiveToday is kind of disastrous. I wrote this for me. And for L. Happy Birthday (again), bb.
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated R
The (Reluctant) Courtship of Sgt. Brad Colbert
The LT's standing in the entranceway of the platoon tent at Mathilda. His soft cover is clutched in his hand, long fingers tangled in rough cotton, eyes scanning for someone or something and that's when Brad has his revelation.
He knows how this is going to end already.
Brad shifts his weight, not closing in on himself, just… moving. Moving back. He's sprawled out in his rack, laptop on his stomach, the webpage for FedEx refreshing for a sixteenth time today. Brad is nothing if not persistent.
Three feet away Person's annoying Walt about the letter he just got that smells like a fifteen year old-hooker went crazy at the perfume counter at Wal-Mart. Rudy's by Pappy's rack, prepping for his run and making previously heterosexual men question their sexuality.
And the LT… the LT is looking for him.
Brad waits, watches, studies the LT's lightly sunburned skin and tiny ears. Looks at the curve of his jaw and when the LT spots him he sits up a bit straighter. He's already looking for a box to set the laptop on when the LT kneels down at his feet. "Brad, I –"
"You want to look at the maps of the AO, sir," Brad finishes before the LT has a chance. The LT ducks his head a little, gives Brad this small smile that makes something tiny rumble in Brad's brain. In his chest. And then he shakes it off and rights an empty box, sets Doris on top.
Brad doesn't know when he named the laptop Doris. Just that he did. Doris was the name of his grandmother. She taught him all the Yiddish he knows. She also taught him all the curse words he knows. Well, most of them. Person can be very knowledgeable when he wants to be.
Brad shifts in his rack. Makes a little bit more space between himself and the LT and then he toggles two keys together and turns Doris around. "Mesopotamia," he says, proudly showing the LT the screen.
The LT smiles. Shakes his head. "I meant a map from this millennium, Brad."
Brad clasps his hand to his chest mock dramatically. "Well, sir, if you're not specific, I can't read your mind."
"Really? You seem to have done a good job up to this point."
Brad blinks. The LT just gives him an innocent look.
Asshole.
"You don't want to read his mind," Person calls over, clearly missing part of the exchange. "All those love letters to his dick and his motorcycle would scar you irreparably, sir! Next you'd be talking about going back to Israel and finding the nearest computer shop."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad says mildly, the reply as automatic as breathing as he turns the screen and toggles a few windows again. "Better, sir?" he says, gripping the computer and turning it back.
"Yeah," the LT says, looking nowhere near the laptop screen. "Better."
Brad can feel something flare hot in his chest. He ignores it.
"Sir, how exactly did you procure that LSA?"
The LT looks up from the maps he's studying on the hood of his Victor.
"Excuse me, Brad?"
"The LSA for the Mark 19," Brad repeats. "Where did you get it?"
The LT's mouth quirks at one side. "Didn't anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
Brad shifts his weight. "That's why I don't ride horses, sir."
"Point made, Brad."
"Sir."
The LT raises an eyebrow. "Brad, I can assure you that my chastity was not impugned, my good name not sullied – that I didn’t do anything for that LSA that would cause you to think less of me."
Brad leans in a little. "Sir, whomever told you I was thinking about you is a dirty liar."
The LT's smile has too many teeth. "Oh, then I guess that was just wishful thinking."
Brad looks around just to make sure Lilley's not taping him, because the LT is clearly fucking with him.
The invasion is total bullshit.
It is such bullshit that if it were any other invading force on Earth, Brad would just laugh. If he were playing RISK with one of his cousins he would just raise an eyebrow and ask if they wanted to forfeit now or carry on with this three-legged dog fuck pretense of authority.
In what fucked up timeline do you spend more time in camp than you do fighting the enemy? In what war do you spend all your time commuting to the fucking action? Air field raid aside, in what world do warriors shoot children because they’re that desperate to get a round off?
This is an affront to everything Brad learned in military school. In SERE. In BRC.
Long after Rudy moves out from underneath his Victor, Brad's still there. Still chiseling away at tar and dreck and history. At the thought that this… this isn't what his life is supposed to be like.
"If you're sabotaging your Victor, don't tell me about it," the LT's voice is soft, personable. And right fucking next to Brad. Jesus fuck, why didn't Brad notice his approach? Goddamn Recon Marines.
"Sir, my basic familiarity with 'don't ask, don't tell' doesn't permit me to acknowledge that question," Brad says.
The sand shifts around Brad. The LT is on the move. Brad pauses his chiseling when the LT's elbow bumps his arm.
"Sir, is there some reason you're invading hostile terrain without protection?" Brad says, before going back to banging at a particularly vicious bit of tar on one of the transmission lines.
"I like to live dangerously," is the reply.
"Well, sir, then I'm pretty sure you're in the right place."
Brad only stops moving when the LT's hand stills his motions.
"Brad."
Brad swallows and studies the underside of the Humvee – or he tries to, but his eyes can't look away from the long, filthy fingers curling lightly over his wrist. "Sir."
Brad can feel the LT's eyes on the side of the face. The sweeping look that's like a breath on his skin. Gentle in ways a shamal or Noelle's fingers could never be. "It's not your fault."
The grains of sand are digging into Brad's neck, and when he turns he can feel them falling away from his skin, sliding under his collar. Grating in places they don't belong.
He doesn't think they're talking about Trombley. Or not just about Trombley.
The LT is the LT except for when he's Nate. He's not Nate often. Actually, Brad's never called the LT 'Nate' at all. It's always 'sir.'
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
Whatever you say, sir.
Except then they go to Iraq. And what was before isn't the same as what is now. The LT is Nate and Brad is Brad. And Brad forgets that before he was Nate he was the LT. Forgets that he is the LT and not just Nate. Not just another grunt. Not just another cog in the wheel of the motherfucking Strategic Plan.
The first time the LT walks away from him, after that fucking weakass, retarded moto bullshit speech by Encino Man, Brad has to stop and remind himself of this.
And then it just goes downhill from there.
Something goes wrong after the danger close fiasco. After the roadblock at Al Hayy. Brad doesn't know what he did. Or what he didn't do. Just that the LT started turning away from him. The tone in his voice, the tenor of their relationship.
It's like someone shut a door that Brad didn't even know was open.
They're all on watch after the Al Muwaffaqiyah disaster. Everyone is jittery. Tense. The adrenaline rushes are coming down and in some way it's worse than right after their retreat. They're alive, but they're sitting ducks.
"This is the most fucked up, retard, duck fucking, excuse for a retreat I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of," Ray laments. "At least when we did this shit at school we got cookies and juice afterwards."
"At least if we were fucking ducks we'd be doing something," Reporter says helpfully.
"You fuck ducks?!" Ray and Trombley say in tandem. Their mutual disgust and glee at finding a weak point perfectly apparent.
Brad shakes his head. He opens the door and climbs out of the Humvee. "Where the fuck are you going?" Ray calls. "You can't run home to Mommy now, Brad."
"Actually, I was going home to fuck your mom," Brad tosses over his shoulder. "You want to come? Groups of three or more get a discount rate."
There's a moment of silence. "I'm going to remember this affront to my parentage later!" Ray hollers after him.
Brad cradles his M4 protectively, walking toward the back of the formation and honing in on the Command vehicle by instinct. The LT is talking to Gunny, but he glances up briefly when Brad approaches. Brad doesn't listen in on the conversation between them, just bides his time until Wynn looks over at him and nods before walking off.
The LT looks tired. There are circles under his eyes and dirt smeared all over his face. He left his Victor and nearly got killed. Brad is not okay with this. Brad cradles his weapon, careful to point the muzzle away from his commanding officer.
"Sir," Brad begins, not sure where this sentence is going.
The LT sighs. He's exhausted. It's etched into every line on his face, the youthfulness of his features muted by the life they've chosen. "Yes, Brad?"
"Sir, you can't do that."
The LT blinks. His eyes are just a white contrast to the smears on his face in the dark night. "Excuse me?" His words are polite, but his tone -- there's a wariness bordering on something prickly.
Brad looks down between them. The distance seems smaller than it really is. "Sir, you can't get out of your Humvee during a fucking ambush and run around like this is the end zone at a Dartmouth football game. You can't almost get yourself killed," he says firmly. "I can't allow that."
The LT narrows his eyes. "Allow that, Sergeant?"
Brad shakes his head. "No, Nate." Brad never quite understood all the power of a name until now.
There's a sharp inhale followed by a rough exhalation. "Brad." There's not a word to describe the emotion in Nate's voice and a long fissure appears somewhere deep in Brad's chest.
This is what Brad saw at Mathilda. That it would be so easy for him to fall for Nate Fick. That Nate was already on his way along that fucked up road of pot holes and IEDs and broken hearts and somebody was going to have to get them out of this mess.
That somebody was going to have to make the decision not to take them down this road. This road ends up like the ambush they were just in. Brad won't do that again. He's making that choice now.
"No, Nate," Brad repeats again, his voice rougher. More hoarse. There's a physical ache radiating from every part of his body.
And then he turns around and walks away.
Nate is full of shit. The team leader meeting for the push to Al Kut is just proof that Brad made the right choice, because Brad would never fall for some dickless, inbred choir boy who spouted moto bullshit about burning dogs. So it doesn't even matter that Brad's so disgusted he actually gives Nate lip. It really doesn't. Except if he really thinks Nate's so full of shit, why even bother to be angry with him in the first fucking place? God, he hates it when he sounds like his mom in his head.
They're in a POG camp on 25% watch, the battle is over, the war is won, the kids are asleep and Brad shouldn't be surprised when Nate shows up. He knows this. Except he is. He thought this was over. He thought they were over this. He thought he was over this.
And then Nate sidles up to Brad's half-open passenger door and clears his throat. Every nerve in Brad's body tenses and he looks up at the ceiling before turning his head. "LT."
"Sergeant."
There's a too-long pause with Nate standing at the door and Brad looking somewhere near his left ear. Brad has to make eye contact eventually; when he does it's like a punch in the throat. Nate's sucking on his lower lip, eyes intent, watching. Waiting. Brad can feel his own eyes widening. He swallows. He doesn't want to go through this again – but he's not sure he has much choice.
Nate inclines his head, and Brad automatically climbs out of the Humvee and follows him to the front of the Victor. Nate leans back against the grille and gives Brad a smile that makes Brad sway a little on his feet. Brad puts his hand down on the hood to steady himself and licks his lips.
Nate's eyes automatically go downward and Brad sighs softly to himself. "Sir."
"Yes?" Nate coaxes.
Brad snorts softly to himself. "I can't believe we're in a fucking POG camp."
Nate's laugh is low and warm and all Brad wants is to hear it again.
The resulting conversation about warriors and latrines has absolutely nothing to do with either one at all.
The cigarette factory is a gift from somebody. Brad doesn't believe in God, so he'll just have to thank Saddam's hopefully dead-and-dismembered-by-now sons. Eight floors. 32 offices per floor. It takes Brad thirty-seven minutes to find Nate, because far be it from Nate to be obvious and choose a fucking office. Instead, he's in what looks like a computer room on the fifth floor. No windows, one door only slightly ajar.
It's cooler inside here than any other place Brad's checked, and there's Nate, sprawled out against one wall, surrounded by binders and a few yellowing envelopes.
Brad looks at the crown of his head, the very tips of his ears and the shorn hair and the notebook paper held gently between his fingers.
"Reading letters from Suzie Rottencrotch back home?" he says a little harshly. The thought streaking through his mind has honestly never occurred to him before. Clearly it should have.
"Don’t call my sister names," Nate says mildly without lifting his head.
Brad exhales and steps inside. The door clicks closed behind him. "Sorry, sir."
Nate folds up the letter and sets it aside before looking up. "Did you check to make sure you didn't just lock us in here, Sergeant?"
Brad blinks. Nate gazes back. "You're fucking with me."
Nate's smile is enormous. "And for a second you bought it."
"Being misled by Command is my favorite hobby." Brad says drolly as he sets his weapon alongside Nate's before taking the steps necessary to enter Nate's space. He pauses long enough to straddle Nate's legs and then sit down on his thighs, trapping Nate against the wall.
There's a long moment where Brad just looks at Nate, studies the wide, lush mouth and the dark circles. Tries to figure out how he found a way into Brad's heart where everybody else just fucking failed.
The whites of Nate's eyes are bright. "You're heavy," he says conversationally as he tugs Brad closer, his fingers splaying over Brad's back.
"Is that a fat joke?" Brad says, accepting a very soft brush of Nate's mouth against his own. "I think I'm offended."
"Just observing the terrain," Nate says, kissing Brad slowly, his tongue sliding between Brad's lips effortlessly. Brad sucks on it, uses his teeth. When he pulls away, Nate's mouth is slick, wet. "Just thinking about all the ways I'm going to defile you when we get stateside."
Brad makes a 'hmm'ing noise. "I'd be interested in hearing about that," he says while conducting his detailed study of Nate's features. He runs the tips of his fingers over Nate's forehead, jaw, the bridge of his noise, nuzzles Nate's temple, feeling it when Nate's fingers dig into his hips.
"I know you would," Nate says, nipping at Brad's bottom lip. "You want all the details of me spreading you out on my bed, kissing you here, and here, and here and here." Nate punctuates each 'here' with a stroke of his fingers over a particular body part. The small of Brad's back. The inside of his elbow. The side of his neck.
"I know you want me to tell you about how I'm going to lick you open, fuck you with my fingers so slowly that you're in agony. How I'm going to fuck your perfect hole until it's swollen and puffy and then I'm going to lick you open again and you're going to come for me again and again without even touching yourself."
Brad shifts on Nate's lap, leisurely rubbing his cock against Nate's stomach through four layers of clothes. "Sounds like a good plan, sir." A beat. "Somewhere down the line."
Nate pulls back, banging his head on the wall. Brad shakes his head, cups Nate's skull with his fingers to keep future injuries at bay. "Somewhere down the line?" Nate repeats incredulously.
"You haven't even bought me a drink yet. I'm not that cheap, sir."
Nate laughs low. "No, you're definitely not cheap, Brad. But you're worth the effort."
"You think so?" Brad's voice is so thin that he barely hears himself speak.
"Yes," Nate says bluntly.
Brad's eyes are drawn down by Nate's fingers on his chin. "Yes," Nate repeats again. "You're worth it."
Brad shivers. When Nate says it… he almost thinks it's true. Maybe it is.
"But we're not fucking in here," Nate says, ghosting his thumb over Brad's right cheekbone. "Don't get your hopes up."
Brad sighs dramatically. "Well, at least this time I have advance notice of being screwed by Command."
"Brad, when I fuck you, you're going to beg for it."
"Is that a fact, sir?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" Brad persists. "I wouldn’t want your personal feelings to get in the way of your performance."
Nate grins. "I think it's too late for that, don't you?"
Brad nods. "I am assured of this."
-end-
Author's Note: It occurred to me that an overwhelming amount of my stories were about Brad pursuing Nate. I wanted to see it on the other foot for a change. It almost made me get in an accident this morning thinking about it.
Yet, another present for L. Ilu![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
romanticalgirl. It's terrible this birthday thing, isn't it?
Beta by the always fabulousalethialia
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated R
The LT's standing in the entranceway of the platoon tent at Mathilda. His soft cover is clutched in his hand, long fingers tangled in rough cotton, eyes scanning for someone or something and that's when Brad has his revelation.
He knows how this is going to end already.
Brad shifts his weight, not closing in on himself, just… moving. Moving back. He's sprawled out in his rack, laptop on his stomach, the webpage for FedEx refreshing for a sixteenth time today. Brad is nothing if not persistent.
Three feet away Person's annoying Walt about the letter he just got that smells like a fifteen year old-hooker went crazy at the perfume counter at Wal-Mart. Rudy's by Pappy's rack, prepping for his run and making previously heterosexual men question their sexuality.
And the LT… the LT is looking for him.
Brad waits, watches, studies the LT's lightly sunburned skin and tiny ears. Looks at the curve of his jaw and when the LT spots him he sits up a bit straighter. He's already looking for a box to set the laptop on when the LT kneels down at his feet. "Brad, I –"
"You want to look at the maps of the AO, sir," Brad finishes before the LT has a chance. The LT ducks his head a little, gives Brad this small smile that makes something tiny rumble in Brad's brain. In his chest. And then he shakes it off and rights an empty box, sets Doris on top.
Brad doesn't know when he named the laptop Doris. Just that he did. Doris was the name of his grandmother. She taught him all the Yiddish he knows. She also taught him all the curse words he knows. Well, most of them. Person can be very knowledgeable when he wants to be.
Brad shifts in his rack. Makes a little bit more space between himself and the LT and then he toggles two keys together and turns Doris around. "Mesopotamia," he says, proudly showing the LT the screen.
The LT smiles. Shakes his head. "I meant a map from this millennium, Brad."
Brad clasps his hand to his chest mock dramatically. "Well, sir, if you're not specific, I can't read your mind."
"Really? You seem to have done a good job up to this point."
Brad blinks. The LT just gives him an innocent look.
Asshole.
"You don't want to read his mind," Person calls over, clearly missing part of the exchange. "All those love letters to his dick and his motorcycle would scar you irreparably, sir! Next you'd be talking about going back to Israel and finding the nearest computer shop."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad says mildly, the reply as automatic as breathing as he turns the screen and toggles a few windows again. "Better, sir?" he says, gripping the computer and turning it back.
"Yeah," the LT says, looking nowhere near the laptop screen. "Better."
Brad can feel something flare hot in his chest. He ignores it.
"Sir, how exactly did you procure that LSA?"
The LT looks up from the maps he's studying on the hood of his Victor.
"Excuse me, Brad?"
"The LSA for the Mark 19," Brad repeats. "Where did you get it?"
The LT's mouth quirks at one side. "Didn't anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
Brad shifts his weight. "That's why I don't ride horses, sir."
"Point made, Brad."
"Sir."
The LT raises an eyebrow. "Brad, I can assure you that my chastity was not impugned, my good name not sullied – that I didn’t do anything for that LSA that would cause you to think less of me."
Brad leans in a little. "Sir, whomever told you I was thinking about you is a dirty liar."
The LT's smile has too many teeth. "Oh, then I guess that was just wishful thinking."
Brad looks around just to make sure Lilley's not taping him, because the LT is clearly fucking with him.
The invasion is total bullshit.
It is such bullshit that if it were any other invading force on Earth, Brad would just laugh. If he were playing RISK with one of his cousins he would just raise an eyebrow and ask if they wanted to forfeit now or carry on with this three-legged dog fuck pretense of authority.
In what fucked up timeline do you spend more time in camp than you do fighting the enemy? In what war do you spend all your time commuting to the fucking action? Air field raid aside, in what world do warriors shoot children because they’re that desperate to get a round off?
This is an affront to everything Brad learned in military school. In SERE. In BRC.
Long after Rudy moves out from underneath his Victor, Brad's still there. Still chiseling away at tar and dreck and history. At the thought that this… this isn't what his life is supposed to be like.
"If you're sabotaging your Victor, don't tell me about it," the LT's voice is soft, personable. And right fucking next to Brad. Jesus fuck, why didn't Brad notice his approach? Goddamn Recon Marines.
"Sir, my basic familiarity with 'don't ask, don't tell' doesn't permit me to acknowledge that question," Brad says.
The sand shifts around Brad. The LT is on the move. Brad pauses his chiseling when the LT's elbow bumps his arm.
"Sir, is there some reason you're invading hostile terrain without protection?" Brad says, before going back to banging at a particularly vicious bit of tar on one of the transmission lines.
"I like to live dangerously," is the reply.
"Well, sir, then I'm pretty sure you're in the right place."
Brad only stops moving when the LT's hand stills his motions.
"Brad."
Brad swallows and studies the underside of the Humvee – or he tries to, but his eyes can't look away from the long, filthy fingers curling lightly over his wrist. "Sir."
Brad can feel the LT's eyes on the side of the face. The sweeping look that's like a breath on his skin. Gentle in ways a shamal or Noelle's fingers could never be. "It's not your fault."
The grains of sand are digging into Brad's neck, and when he turns he can feel them falling away from his skin, sliding under his collar. Grating in places they don't belong.
He doesn't think they're talking about Trombley. Or not just about Trombley.
The LT is the LT except for when he's Nate. He's not Nate often. Actually, Brad's never called the LT 'Nate' at all. It's always 'sir.'
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
Whatever you say, sir.
Except then they go to Iraq. And what was before isn't the same as what is now. The LT is Nate and Brad is Brad. And Brad forgets that before he was Nate he was the LT. Forgets that he is the LT and not just Nate. Not just another grunt. Not just another cog in the wheel of the motherfucking Strategic Plan.
The first time the LT walks away from him, after that fucking weakass, retarded moto bullshit speech by Encino Man, Brad has to stop and remind himself of this.
And then it just goes downhill from there.
Something goes wrong after the danger close fiasco. After the roadblock at Al Hayy. Brad doesn't know what he did. Or what he didn't do. Just that the LT started turning away from him. The tone in his voice, the tenor of their relationship.
It's like someone shut a door that Brad didn't even know was open.
They're all on watch after the Al Muwaffaqiyah disaster. Everyone is jittery. Tense. The adrenaline rushes are coming down and in some way it's worse than right after their retreat. They're alive, but they're sitting ducks.
"This is the most fucked up, retard, duck fucking, excuse for a retreat I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of," Ray laments. "At least when we did this shit at school we got cookies and juice afterwards."
"At least if we were fucking ducks we'd be doing something," Reporter says helpfully.
"You fuck ducks?!" Ray and Trombley say in tandem. Their mutual disgust and glee at finding a weak point perfectly apparent.
Brad shakes his head. He opens the door and climbs out of the Humvee. "Where the fuck are you going?" Ray calls. "You can't run home to Mommy now, Brad."
"Actually, I was going home to fuck your mom," Brad tosses over his shoulder. "You want to come? Groups of three or more get a discount rate."
There's a moment of silence. "I'm going to remember this affront to my parentage later!" Ray hollers after him.
Brad cradles his M4 protectively, walking toward the back of the formation and honing in on the Command vehicle by instinct. The LT is talking to Gunny, but he glances up briefly when Brad approaches. Brad doesn't listen in on the conversation between them, just bides his time until Wynn looks over at him and nods before walking off.
The LT looks tired. There are circles under his eyes and dirt smeared all over his face. He left his Victor and nearly got killed. Brad is not okay with this. Brad cradles his weapon, careful to point the muzzle away from his commanding officer.
"Sir," Brad begins, not sure where this sentence is going.
The LT sighs. He's exhausted. It's etched into every line on his face, the youthfulness of his features muted by the life they've chosen. "Yes, Brad?"
"Sir, you can't do that."
The LT blinks. His eyes are just a white contrast to the smears on his face in the dark night. "Excuse me?" His words are polite, but his tone -- there's a wariness bordering on something prickly.
Brad looks down between them. The distance seems smaller than it really is. "Sir, you can't get out of your Humvee during a fucking ambush and run around like this is the end zone at a Dartmouth football game. You can't almost get yourself killed," he says firmly. "I can't allow that."
The LT narrows his eyes. "Allow that, Sergeant?"
Brad shakes his head. "No, Nate." Brad never quite understood all the power of a name until now.
There's a sharp inhale followed by a rough exhalation. "Brad." There's not a word to describe the emotion in Nate's voice and a long fissure appears somewhere deep in Brad's chest.
This is what Brad saw at Mathilda. That it would be so easy for him to fall for Nate Fick. That Nate was already on his way along that fucked up road of pot holes and IEDs and broken hearts and somebody was going to have to get them out of this mess.
That somebody was going to have to make the decision not to take them down this road. This road ends up like the ambush they were just in. Brad won't do that again. He's making that choice now.
"No, Nate," Brad repeats again, his voice rougher. More hoarse. There's a physical ache radiating from every part of his body.
And then he turns around and walks away.
Nate is full of shit. The team leader meeting for the push to Al Kut is just proof that Brad made the right choice, because Brad would never fall for some dickless, inbred choir boy who spouted moto bullshit about burning dogs. So it doesn't even matter that Brad's so disgusted he actually gives Nate lip. It really doesn't. Except if he really thinks Nate's so full of shit, why even bother to be angry with him in the first fucking place? God, he hates it when he sounds like his mom in his head.
They're in a POG camp on 25% watch, the battle is over, the war is won, the kids are asleep and Brad shouldn't be surprised when Nate shows up. He knows this. Except he is. He thought this was over. He thought they were over this. He thought he was over this.
And then Nate sidles up to Brad's half-open passenger door and clears his throat. Every nerve in Brad's body tenses and he looks up at the ceiling before turning his head. "LT."
"Sergeant."
There's a too-long pause with Nate standing at the door and Brad looking somewhere near his left ear. Brad has to make eye contact eventually; when he does it's like a punch in the throat. Nate's sucking on his lower lip, eyes intent, watching. Waiting. Brad can feel his own eyes widening. He swallows. He doesn't want to go through this again – but he's not sure he has much choice.
Nate inclines his head, and Brad automatically climbs out of the Humvee and follows him to the front of the Victor. Nate leans back against the grille and gives Brad a smile that makes Brad sway a little on his feet. Brad puts his hand down on the hood to steady himself and licks his lips.
Nate's eyes automatically go downward and Brad sighs softly to himself. "Sir."
"Yes?" Nate coaxes.
Brad snorts softly to himself. "I can't believe we're in a fucking POG camp."
Nate's laugh is low and warm and all Brad wants is to hear it again.
The resulting conversation about warriors and latrines has absolutely nothing to do with either one at all.
The cigarette factory is a gift from somebody. Brad doesn't believe in God, so he'll just have to thank Saddam's hopefully dead-and-dismembered-by-now sons. Eight floors. 32 offices per floor. It takes Brad thirty-seven minutes to find Nate, because far be it from Nate to be obvious and choose a fucking office. Instead, he's in what looks like a computer room on the fifth floor. No windows, one door only slightly ajar.
It's cooler inside here than any other place Brad's checked, and there's Nate, sprawled out against one wall, surrounded by binders and a few yellowing envelopes.
Brad looks at the crown of his head, the very tips of his ears and the shorn hair and the notebook paper held gently between his fingers.
"Reading letters from Suzie Rottencrotch back home?" he says a little harshly. The thought streaking through his mind has honestly never occurred to him before. Clearly it should have.
"Don’t call my sister names," Nate says mildly without lifting his head.
Brad exhales and steps inside. The door clicks closed behind him. "Sorry, sir."
Nate folds up the letter and sets it aside before looking up. "Did you check to make sure you didn't just lock us in here, Sergeant?"
Brad blinks. Nate gazes back. "You're fucking with me."
Nate's smile is enormous. "And for a second you bought it."
"Being misled by Command is my favorite hobby." Brad says drolly as he sets his weapon alongside Nate's before taking the steps necessary to enter Nate's space. He pauses long enough to straddle Nate's legs and then sit down on his thighs, trapping Nate against the wall.
There's a long moment where Brad just looks at Nate, studies the wide, lush mouth and the dark circles. Tries to figure out how he found a way into Brad's heart where everybody else just fucking failed.
The whites of Nate's eyes are bright. "You're heavy," he says conversationally as he tugs Brad closer, his fingers splaying over Brad's back.
"Is that a fat joke?" Brad says, accepting a very soft brush of Nate's mouth against his own. "I think I'm offended."
"Just observing the terrain," Nate says, kissing Brad slowly, his tongue sliding between Brad's lips effortlessly. Brad sucks on it, uses his teeth. When he pulls away, Nate's mouth is slick, wet. "Just thinking about all the ways I'm going to defile you when we get stateside."
Brad makes a 'hmm'ing noise. "I'd be interested in hearing about that," he says while conducting his detailed study of Nate's features. He runs the tips of his fingers over Nate's forehead, jaw, the bridge of his noise, nuzzles Nate's temple, feeling it when Nate's fingers dig into his hips.
"I know you would," Nate says, nipping at Brad's bottom lip. "You want all the details of me spreading you out on my bed, kissing you here, and here, and here and here." Nate punctuates each 'here' with a stroke of his fingers over a particular body part. The small of Brad's back. The inside of his elbow. The side of his neck.
"I know you want me to tell you about how I'm going to lick you open, fuck you with my fingers so slowly that you're in agony. How I'm going to fuck your perfect hole until it's swollen and puffy and then I'm going to lick you open again and you're going to come for me again and again without even touching yourself."
Brad shifts on Nate's lap, leisurely rubbing his cock against Nate's stomach through four layers of clothes. "Sounds like a good plan, sir." A beat. "Somewhere down the line."
Nate pulls back, banging his head on the wall. Brad shakes his head, cups Nate's skull with his fingers to keep future injuries at bay. "Somewhere down the line?" Nate repeats incredulously.
"You haven't even bought me a drink yet. I'm not that cheap, sir."
Nate laughs low. "No, you're definitely not cheap, Brad. But you're worth the effort."
"You think so?" Brad's voice is so thin that he barely hears himself speak.
"Yes," Nate says bluntly.
Brad's eyes are drawn down by Nate's fingers on his chin. "Yes," Nate repeats again. "You're worth it."
Brad shivers. When Nate says it… he almost thinks it's true. Maybe it is.
"But we're not fucking in here," Nate says, ghosting his thumb over Brad's right cheekbone. "Don't get your hopes up."
Brad sighs dramatically. "Well, at least this time I have advance notice of being screwed by Command."
"Brad, when I fuck you, you're going to beg for it."
"Is that a fact, sir?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" Brad persists. "I wouldn’t want your personal feelings to get in the way of your performance."
Nate grins. "I think it's too late for that, don't you?"
Brad nods. "I am assured of this."
-end-
Author's Note: It occurred to me that an overwhelming amount of my stories were about Brad pursuing Nate. I wanted to see it on the other foot for a change. It almost made me get in an accident this morning thinking about it.
Yet, another present for L. Ilu
romanticalgirl. It's terrible this birthday thing, isn't it?Beta by the always fabulous
alethialia
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Date: 2009-09-01 03:42 pm (UTC)This is something that's been percolating in my head a lot: all the little pieces that make Brad Brad. The fact that he's adopted, that he was sent to military school for being wild, the fact that the woman he loves left him for his best friend, the fact that he's a Republican, the fact that he has to be one of the softest touches ever (his one bag of personal items is stuff for his team). And I don't see an Iceman, but I do see a very good man. A very conflicted one, who believes in what he does, but not necessarily the way in which he does it. Fuck, I sound like Nate. It's like I said above, this nickname has nothing to do with Brad, and everything to do with the way he's percieved. I remember this line the most from
I think I shall call the story The Deconstruction of a Melting Wall.
The other thing I'm finding interesting at the moment is that Nate seems to have a really ruthless streak -- like when he was concerned about the 'humanitarian shit' interfering with the mission when they were escorting the refugees on the road.
Do you know what my immediate gut response is to this? Brad's not the Iceman, Nate is. Nate is the one who clamps down on the bitching, who won't let his men speak up on his behalf. He snaps when there's not enough 'aggressiveness' in their voices. He refuses to let anybody help him shoulder his burden. You can see him buckling under the weight, and maybe because he's pretty they think he's soft, but Nate... Nate's a lot harder than anybody (except Brad) gives him credit for.
And yet the underlying theme for all of this is the ways that Brad and Nate adopt these personas (nicknamed or not) and the way they hide behind them. The fact that when they're together, there's almost this desperation of "don't see that, see me". Which is why I think they belong together. And why clearly they need to be petted, like consistently. Drinking too much Kool-Aid what?
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Date: 2009-09-01 04:18 pm (UTC)You have made me ponder this. And if you think about it, who perpetrates the Iceman myth? Ain't Brad. It's Poke. He's the one talking about the cold Iceman shit Brad pulls, that Iceman sees you before you know you're there. It could be a bit of hero worship. But it'd be really interesting if Poke were perpetrating this stone-cold-killer myth *because* he knows how deeply Brad feels things.
Also, the nickname comes from his *actions* - in combat, he's completely calm, cold, collected. He has a sixth sense about what the bad guys are doing. But then that somehow got spun out to describe Brad's *personality*...despite the fact that he's hardly cold.
And word on Nate. Nate is a badass of epic proportions.
The fact that when they're together, there's almost this desperation of "don't see that, see me". Which is why I think they belong together. And why clearly they need to be petted, like consistently.
LOVE! And trufax.
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Date: 2009-09-01 04:25 pm (UTC)::notes for inevitable story:: Oh my god, this is totally Poke's way of protecting Brad! Ray just yells at other people a lot. Poke... Poke creates this wall for Brad which he can hide behind though. OMG! So much love! I'm all tingly with love for Poke again. Shut up, not like that. Okay, kinda like that.
And you know my feelings on Nate as a badass. He's going to grow up to be the most amazing assassin ever. ;-) But seriously, aside from that, the whole 'see me' thing is what I find so damn compelling about them. They're trying to be all things to all people and then they get around each other and the facade... it's like they see it and they're both like, no, you don't need that around me at all. Which causes a great deal of wariness and want. There's this sense of freedom when they're together, and then there are those occasions when they *do* run into the facades, Nate going all 'iceman' and Brad snapping back when Nate pulls the Command card.
Does that make sense? I am thinking way too hard.
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Date: 2009-09-01 11:15 pm (UTC)My point exactly! It's already canon that Poke does shit even if Brad disagrees/tells him not to/gets pissed for it (i.e. becoming his friend just to piss him off). He'd totally spread the Legend of Iceman far and wide if he thought it was good for Brad. And the fact that Brad doesn't get up in his face about it...on some level Brad recognizes that it is good for him (perhaps not consciously; maybe he's just amused by the whole thing, more proof that humanity is full of sheep). And Poke's just like, 'whatever, Iceman, I'm helping you out even though you can't see it, just like the white man not to see the contributions of the brown folk among you.'
OMG! So much love! I'm all tingly with love for Poke again. Shut up, not like that. Okay, kinda like that.
Oh, we all love and want to have Poke's babies, c'mon.
On some level I think Nate just CAN'T keep up the facade with Brad. That probably pisses him the fuck off. Because he's trying to protect Brad, he's trying to shield him from all the bullshit rolling downhill, and Brad's not having that at ALL. But at the same time he's so attracted to it because a) Brad's hot and b) he can be real with Brad in a way he can't with anyone else. So he's attracted and mad at himself. Nate's Conflicted, yo. Shocker.
Brad hates the Command card because it's such Encino Man bullshit. He'll do anything for Nate; Nate should know this. Even if Nate said, 'this is crap, we all know it, we gotta do it anyway, let's figure out how,' the guys would still follow him. But after Encino Man reached out to him, Nate felt honor-bound *personally* to try and support the party line.
It's Nate not distinguishing between the man and the uniform at that moment. You can respect the man (though he doesn't, but he really would like to be able to) and not the office or the orders. Honestly, I think that's Nate's last gasp of idealism - like one last desperate hope that there's something about his superior officer he can maybe respect. He's wrong, of course, and it's painful to watch...but it's very, very Nate.
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Date: 2009-09-02 03:48 am (UTC)You all know of my belief that Brad feels more than most every single one, but he's so mired in what everyone else thinks of him - and he uses it as protection - that he holds himself in check so much sometimes he forgets how to let it all go, which is why Nate sometimes scares the hell out of him. He wants to believe in Nate so much, but he's so afraid of being hurt again, of not knowing how to handle it if Nate is the one that does it to him that he holds back even more.
Oh, boys.
It's also possible that I overidentify with Brad. what?
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Date: 2009-09-02 04:01 am (UTC)I believe I have heard this song before ;-) Shall we send Nate to pet you too?
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Date: 2009-09-02 04:06 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2009-09-02 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 04:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 06:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2009-09-02 11:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-02 05:02 pm (UTC)Poke's a big softie, taking care of Brad like that. This gives even more support for my Poke-and-Ray-get-Brad-and-Nate together story. They're both caretakers! They just want to see Brad happyyyyy.
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Date: 2009-09-02 11:11 am (UTC)Awww -- I never connected that that was his one bag of personal items. Brad!! You big softie!
I remember this line the most from tevere's story something about being gay in the military would force you to be the best, to become something cold, like an iceman. I have to figure out how I want to approach that in a story, but alas, you've seen all my cards now. Oh, poo.
I loved that line!! And I would love to read that story - to see the process of Brad creating that persona and then perhaps the process of Nate dismantling it. It could be kind of a scary experience for Brad.
I've been poking (really unsuccessfully) at a story that comes from kind of the opposite direction. This metaphor where Brad is a robot (starts out as the Iceman), and he secretly thinks he must be malfunctioning because he's experiencing the 'wrong' emotions and thinking the wrong thoughts (about Nate!).
Do you know what my immediate gut response is to this? Brad's not the Iceman, Nate is. Nate is the one who clamps down on the bitching, who won't let his men speak up on his behalf. He snaps when there's not enough 'aggressiveness' in their voices. He refuses to let anybody help him shoulder his burden. You can see him buckling under the weight, and maybe because he's pretty they think he's soft, but Nate... Nate's a lot harder than anybody (except Brad) gives him credit for.
I LOVE the idea of Nate as the real Iceman. I wonder if that's how he's able to stay so poised when he's dealing with all of the moronity. Nate Fick: such a tight reign on his emotions that he can be polite to Captain America with a straight face.
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Date: 2009-09-02 04:40 pm (UTC)The idea is already writing itself in my head (this happens) and it's a join effort by Poke and Ray to help Brad create it -- in fact, in my head, the first time Poke calls Brad the Iceman is when they get back from Afghanistan and he's introducing Brad to his family, and he hands Brad his year old daughter to hold, and Brad's like "No, Poke" and he's got this little girl tucking her head under his chin and petting his neck and he's totally undone and Poke's like yeah, you're the Iceman, totally being ironic, except later it's not.
And then Nate just comes along and starts removing little bricks and peeking inside this supposed ice wall and Brad's like "I'm exposed! stop it!" And Nate's all "I want to see who you are" and Brad's like "I am ice cold. Even though I like you. And you are kind of hot" and Nate's like "That's a lie, I know you think she broke you, but that's not true" although this really does seem to be the (sub) text of every story I write about them, but I think it's important to address how messed up Brad is over this -- every time someone says to me, "Well one person can't mess you up that much, I laugh hollowly and say, "You obviously have not yet met this person."
I've been poking (really unsuccessfully) at a story that comes from kind of the opposite direction. This metaphor where Brad is a robot (starts out as the Iceman), and he secretly thinks he must be malfunctioning because he's experiencing the 'wrong' emotions and thinking the wrong thoughts (about Nate!).
I think this sounds AWESOME.
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Date: 2009-09-02 05:05 pm (UTC)That image. DAMN, woman.
Poke's like yeah, you're the Iceman, totally being ironic, except later it's not.
Ilu Poke! And I love this as the genesis of the nickname. Omg.
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Date: 2009-09-02 06:12 pm (UTC)That image. DAMN, woman.
I try. This is like the prologue to the story, the name baptism if you will, so you already know this isn't what you think it is. And of course this is right on the heels of Brad finding out about Susie and Brian, so he's a total wreck. I think they sent him a letter, you know, so he wouldn't be surprised, and it arrived right before he got home so to get home and see Poke with what he thought he was going to get? Devastating. And then here's Lily with her sticky fingers totally happy and patting his face and babbling Iceman.
Ice pick to the heart.
Also,
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Date: 2009-09-02 06:35 pm (UTC)I think they sent him a letter, you know, so he wouldn't be surprised, and it arrived right before he got home so to get home and see Poke with what he thought he was going to get? Devastating.
Yeah, ouch.
then here's Lily with her sticky fingers totally happy and patting his face and babbling Iceman.
OMG! Total icepick to the heart. But - but - Nate's not even around yet to make it all better! Why you gotta hurt Brad like that?
Do Poke and Angela know about this? 'Cause I think they'd pick up on it pretty fucking fast. Or she would, at least.
to second what A said, if you need some people to bounce ideas off we are very good about that. Very enthusiastic.
Like a pack of rabid dogs.
...what, too far?
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Date: 2009-09-02 09:01 pm (UTC)I think Poke knows something's up. Everybody's all excited to get home, they get back and Brad's just at ends, so you know how Poke is. He totally is all, you're coming to stay with us and he and Gina have this quick convo in Spanish and Brad's like you know I can figure out what you're saying, I'm not a fucking gringo idiota and Poke's like shut up, here, have a baby. Which is when we see Brad with Lily and that's the end of the prologue and then we fast forward to Brad meeting Nate, and then Ray talking at length about the new cocksucker and Brad walking out and Ray being all HMMM, and then Brad and Nate start to bond, and then there's Iraq and we know how *that* bonding goes and I think Brad assumed after they get stateside and Nate gets his promotion, he'll pull a Susie, but they just keep ending up in the same air space and eventually Nate's like, you know, you've been running a long time, my feet are starting to hurt, and Brad's all, sitting behind a desk, sir, trying to play dumb and then Nate touches him, nothing overtly sexual, but very intimate, maybe a few fingers on his jaw and Brad's like, don't do this to me. I have this life now. And Nate's all, no, you have this persona that everybody's made for you, but it's not who you are. And Brad's trying to be defiant, but Nate's touching him, it makes him a little wobbly, and he's all okay, then who am I. and Nate's like, the guy that I'm applying to Harvard for. And Brad's like, the hell? You're leaving?! And Nate's like, the ends'll make it worth it if you'll stay with me until I'm done. and Brad's like you want me to commit to you? You haven't even kissed me yet. Except it comes out weird and hoarse, because he can't enunciate with his heart in his throat.
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Date: 2009-09-10 04:09 am (UTC)maybe a few fingers on his jaw and Brad's like, don't do this to me. I have this life now. And Nate's all, no, you have this persona that everybody's made for you, but it's not who you are.
::is dead::
Brad's like you want me to commit to you? You haven't even kissed me yet. Except it comes out weird and hoarse, because he can't enunciate with his heart in his throat.
Aww, boys!!!
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Date: 2009-09-03 12:20 pm (UTC)So is there an event that forces Poke and Ray's hands and makes them Brad construct the Iceman? I'm trying to picture what a not-Iceman Brad meltdown might look like -- in a professional or libo context. Scary!
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Date: 2009-09-02 05:04 pm (UTC)::flails:: SO AWESOME! MUST HAVE MORE!
But srsly, if you need people to bounce ideas off of, we are here for you.
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Date: 2009-09-03 12:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-03 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-04 09:52 am (UTC)And then wants to be a *real boy*. ::hearts::
late teen Brad - chooses to be augmented into a cyborg because he loves the Marines and he thinks he needs to reshape all the parts of himself that don't fit into the mold. (And then he meets Nate.)
And that would totally fuck with what he thinks is the perfect Marine. ::hearts more::
...yeah. Love.