(no subject)
*
The thing is, most of the time, Brad’s job consists primarily of pointing a gun out the window and analyzing random bits of roadside refuse.
Stray thoughts are discouraged. Brad saves his musings over Nate for the calm minutes after they finish setting up camp. It usually doesn’t last very long.
Outside Baghdad though, they dig in with an entire regiment between them and the parameter. They’re pushing zero percent watch. Brad has plenty of time.
In the stillness of the camp, Nate’s familiar gait is eye-catching. It’s brisk but unhurried. Against the still-warm hood of the humvee, Brad waits for him.
It’s a warm night for a change. The stars are out in full glory. Most of the battalion is taking the opportunity to catch up on some much needed shut-eye. Brad should be doing the same, but his skin is buzzing, not with adrenaline, but the habit of anticipation.
Nate’s stretched out in a long, loose lean next to him, his breathing steady enough for Brad to count. When Nate speaks, his voice is soft and lazy.
Even with a humvee full of kids asleep behind them, it’s achingly close to what Brad wants.
This relaxed, he can believe the war’s over for them. He wishes there was a bit more time, one clean mission he can take home. He tells Nate this.
Against the crisp night sky, Brad can see Nate’s eyelashes flutter in a blink. When Nate responds, it’s not meant to be reassuring. It’s honest. He says, “I’m glad it’s over.”
*
Afterwards, Brad’s first recon target is not the luxury of the slit-trench latrine but a piece of palm grove where he knows he can be alone.
It’s not his first combat jack of the invasion, but it’s his first one with purpose.
The process of getting to his dick is perfunctory enough, but it’s nice to have time for a change. He lets himself enjoy it. The first touch, a slow slide against the head, a longer one from base to tip to get it going.
He doesn’t try to imagine that it’s Nate hand instead of his own, but he does think of Nate. Nate’s mouth is obvious enough, the way his lips curve as he gives them another unrepentant order, as he smiles.
Brad’s hard already, leaking for it a little. The pleasure from his hand is disjointed from the pleasure of his memories, but they are both good.
There are probably miles of regs against this, but then, Brad thinks, there are regs against killing civilians too. Here, social regulations, like the ROE, are as solid as the shifting shamal sands.
For a moment, he tries to remember what Nate looked liked the last time he took off his kevlar, but it’s incongruent with the Nate he knows. Without the bulk, Nate looks young, like the stranger that greeted him with a smile at Pendleton.
He thinks about Nate’s hands instead, moving across a map of the AO. The way Nate’s fingers traced a line of the MSR, the scrap of dry skin alongside a thumbnail.
He thinks about the sweep of Nate’s eyelashes, the timbre of Nate’s laugh, the fierceness of Nate’s devotion.
When he comes, his vision goes white behind his eyelids. It’s almost like the slow sink of the first hundred feet of a dive.
*
The thing is, most of the time, Brad’s job consists primarily of pointing a gun out the window and analyzing random bits of roadside refuse.
Stray thoughts are discouraged. Brad saves his musings over Nate for the calm minutes after they finish setting up camp. It usually doesn’t last very long.
Outside Baghdad though, they dig in with an entire regiment between them and the parameter. They’re pushing zero percent watch. Brad has plenty of time.
In the stillness of the camp, Nate’s familiar gait is eye-catching. It’s brisk but unhurried. Against the still-warm hood of the humvee, Brad waits for him.
It’s a warm night for a change. The stars are out in full glory. Most of the battalion is taking the opportunity to catch up on some much needed shut-eye. Brad should be doing the same, but his skin is buzzing, not with adrenaline, but the habit of anticipation.
Nate’s stretched out in a long, loose lean next to him, his breathing steady enough for Brad to count. When Nate speaks, his voice is soft and lazy.
Even with a humvee full of kids asleep behind them, it’s achingly close to what Brad wants.
This relaxed, he can believe the war’s over for them. He wishes there was a bit more time, one clean mission he can take home. He tells Nate this.
Against the crisp night sky, Brad can see Nate’s eyelashes flutter in a blink. When Nate responds, it’s not meant to be reassuring. It’s honest. He says, “I’m glad it’s over.”
*
Afterwards, Brad’s first recon target is not the luxury of the slit-trench latrine but a piece of palm grove where he knows he can be alone.
It’s not his first combat jack of the invasion, but it’s his first one with purpose.
The process of getting to his dick is perfunctory enough, but it’s nice to have time for a change. He lets himself enjoy it. The first touch, a slow slide against the head, a longer one from base to tip to get it going.
He doesn’t try to imagine that it’s Nate hand instead of his own, but he does think of Nate. Nate’s mouth is obvious enough, the way his lips curve as he gives them another unrepentant order, as he smiles.
Brad’s hard already, leaking for it a little. The pleasure from his hand is disjointed from the pleasure of his memories, but they are both good.
There are probably miles of regs against this, but then, Brad thinks, there are regs against killing civilians too. Here, social regulations, like the ROE, are as solid as the shifting shamal sands.
For a moment, he tries to remember what Nate looked liked the last time he took off his kevlar, but it’s incongruent with the Nate he knows. Without the bulk, Nate looks young, like the stranger that greeted him with a smile at Pendleton.
He thinks about Nate’s hands instead, moving across a map of the AO. The way Nate’s fingers traced a line of the MSR, the scrap of dry skin alongside a thumbnail.
He thinks about the sweep of Nate’s eyelashes, the timbre of Nate’s laugh, the fierceness of Nate’s devotion.
When he comes, his vision goes white behind his eyelids. It’s almost like the slow sink of the first hundred feet of a dive.
*