Logistics
Title: Logistics
Summary: Between Ray's coffee addiction, Sixta's penchant for the Grooming Standard, and the new babyfaced detective working on the Godfather case and almost getting killed, Sergeant Brad Colbert has his hands full. Oh, and by the way, Encino Man fucked them over with the budget again.
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Brad, Ray, Nate, Sixta, Walt(Ray/Walt)
Genre: Gen, NYPD AU [Fidelis ad Mortem]
Rating: PG-13; swearing
Warnings: Offensive language
Word Count: 1440
Author's Notes: For Challenge #12 at writerverse. Prompts used were "when in danger or doubt, run around in circles and scream", and "happily, with abundant dark clouds, may I walk".
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters as played by Alexander Skarsgard, PJ Ransone, Stark Sands, and Pawel Szajda in the HBO miniseries, not the real people.
It's Friday, but that doesn't make anything better. He gets off in 12 hours, and from now till then he has to deal with a mountain piled high with bullshit. At least it will end with some semblance of a social life, although Brad really doubts if going to the nearest bar with Ray and Walt count as a social life.
"Hey, Brad. Hey!" Person is a big metaphorical pain in the ass most of the time, but his degree of assholery gets blown sky high with every cup of coffee he consumes from that hippie place down the road known as Starbucks, and, judging by his pupils, Ray has already had three. "Walt and I aren't going to babysit your ass tonight. I've got Halo back from Lilley, that motherfucker, so you're all alone raking your shag rug unless you get your balls back and ask the detective t- fuck!"
The reason why Brad always has a box of tissues at his desk has nothing to do with Ray's lurid fantasies of Brad jerking off during his coffee break. It's because stuffing a wad of Kleenex into Ray's mouth to literally shut him up is a satisfying tactical maneuver that works every damned fucking time.
"Shut up, Ray," he says unnecessarily, and grins as Detective Fick walks by. Fick's eyes are tired, and he's wearing the same clothes as the day before, but Brad's always been a keen observer. There is no logical reason for his pulse to quicken when Fick smiles back at him though.
Ray glares at him, and goes off on a rant about abuse in the workplace, which only stops when Walt brings in new information about their latest case from the lab. Brad doesn't look up when Ray's voice stops its yapping and miraculously shifts to a more pleasing banter with Walt's soft-spoken insults. He does stand up suddenly when the DNA results click in his head. "Quit flirting with Hasser, Ray. Time to visit our old friend Captain America."
*
By the time they finish with Dave McGraw, Brad is suffering from a migraine. They'd chased the fucker down five streets, tackled him to the ground too close to a fruitstand (oranges fucking hurt when a whole crate tumbles down on you), and brought him back to the station for questioning. Captain America is one crazy motherfucker, Brad thinks as he massages his neck. He'd rambled on about alien conspiracy theories (which set Ray off, which set Brad's migraine off) but had finally cracked when Brad leaned forward and "did his Iceman shindig", according to Ray.
There's a pounding in his temples, and he takes some aspirin, glad that it's his lunch break, but then Ray is hauled in by Sixta and Brad thinks that this day is the essence of hell.
"Officer Person, what manner of dressing do y'all calls this?" Sixta jabs a finger sharply into Ray's chest; Brad catches Ray's eye to say that he should just play along and not talk back, and definitely no kicking Sixta in the crotch. "Y'alls are officers of the law. Fucking act like y'alls got dicks in your pants! I don't need rookies shot straight out from the academy in this here station!"
Ray buttons his shirt properly and arranges his badges and pins with a sullen face. Sixta moves to go after Pappy for his moustache - Brad doesn't understand why Larry doesn't just shave the fucking thing off and drop the hairs in Sixta's coffee - for the fourth time this week.
"Buttfucking asshole," Ray says, slumping against Brad's desk. He's scowling. Of course he's scowling.
The aspirin is kicking in, thank fuck. "Well, Ray, if you would just learn how to use your opposable thumbs like evolution gave us, you wouldn't be constantly mistaken for an undersized primate that tries to cross-breed with donkeys." They walk out to get some lunch. They end up stopping a gangfight instead.
*
"Brad." He looks up from his paperwork at the familiar voice. Fick is smiling down on him and holding a box that smells of pizza. "Could I see you and Person in my office?"
Ray eyes Fick suspiciously and glances at Brad. They don't really work with Fick; he's new and working on the Godfather case. Brad may have the best arrest record in the station, but Schwetje being Schwetje means that he's forbidden Brad and Ray to go near the high profile case, citing bullshit reasons like Brad's inability to work with the press, and Ray's prowess at pointing out the flaws in the system.
"I've got Hawaiian here. Pepperoni in there. Cleared shit with the brass, don't worry."
Well then. Technically, technically, Brad and Ray don't have to listen to Fick, because he might have a higher pay grade and an office for his investigative shit, but he can't order them around. But he's working on the Godfather case and he has pizza.
Fick's office is sparse. His desk is covered with files and papers, and his tie is draped over his chair. Brad moves a mug full of red pens aside to look at the intel, and Fick moves the mug right back with a smirk. Ray goes straight for the Hawaiian and lets out a groan as he starts wolfing the slices down. At least Ray's quick on his feet and on the draw and comes up with good strategies to help solve cases. It almost makes up for his chronic allergy to table manners.
"Eat first, Brad," Fick says, sitting down in his chair. "Intel later." He starts shuffling the papers around until Brad points out that his stomach's growling. Brad has keen hearing; it's an ability that is very much involuntary, even though Ray didn't seem to notice. They eat the pizza in relative silence, and then they talk.
They cover the case details even though everyone and their grandmother already know about the murder of Stephen Ferrando and his stepson, Bryan Patterson. Brad examines the CS report thoroughly, piecing the scene together in his head. Ray talks to Fick about the witnesses, serious with a belly full of pizza and no caffeine. Fick recites the facts off like he's memorized them by heart. Brad doesn't like his monotone.
The clock ticks its way towards the end of their shift, and Ray zips off like the motherfucker he is for his date with Walt. Brad knows it's a date. He knows they're together, because Ray drunk-dialed him once on New Year's just to let him know that they're doing it like horny teenage girls. It doesn't matter; their friendship didn't change none, and Ray is still a major shit even though Walt is one of the nicest guys Brad knows.
"Hey," Brad says awkwardly, as they're packing up, "want to grab a bite? Person and Hasser and I usually go down to Matilda's for drinks and what passes for food, but now that the two hicks are off playing their childhood wet dream on their Xbox, I figured we could get some overtime off duty. Plus, I owe you for lunch."
*
They end up talking about their hometowns. Brad describes the beaches of California and Nate (who'd insisted on first names with a set jaw and steely eyes) reminisces wistfully about his mother's cooking back in Baltimore. Brad learns that Nate's Ivy League but isn't surprised, and pokes fun at his liberal dicksuck education because it feels comfortable and he likes to see Nate smile even though he very logically files the information under Detective Fick: Background and not Nate.
After a couple of beers, Brad shares about Jessie and Sam and how they collaboratively fucked him over six ways to Sunday, not literally, because Nate showed him a picture of his daughter and told him about how his ex-wife has Billie for a two-week holiday. Nate doesn't need to say anything but Brad sees the hurt and pain in his green eyes and orders another round.
That night he speculates that maybe Fridays aren't too bad when they're spent in good company, and doesn't think about the way Nate laughed when Brad told him about the time Ray lost an argument with a five-year-old boy. He does go to bed with a ridiculous grin on his own goddamned face though, but luckily it's wiped off when Ray calls to tell him that he and Walt have managed to beat Brad's high scores on Halo 3. He dreams of Nate as an Elite and himself as the Master Chief, and wakes up at six on Saturday with a slight hangover and plans to murder Ray in his sleep.
Summary: Between Ray's coffee addiction, Sixta's penchant for the Grooming Standard, and the new babyfaced detective working on the Godfather case and almost getting killed, Sergeant Brad Colbert has his hands full. Oh, and by the way, Encino Man fucked them over with the budget again.
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Brad, Ray, Nate, Sixta, Walt(Ray/Walt)
Genre: Gen, NYPD AU [Fidelis ad Mortem]
Rating: PG-13; swearing
Warnings: Offensive language
Word Count: 1440
Author's Notes: For Challenge #12 at writerverse. Prompts used were "when in danger or doubt, run around in circles and scream", and "happily, with abundant dark clouds, may I walk".
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters as played by Alexander Skarsgard, PJ Ransone, Stark Sands, and Pawel Szajda in the HBO miniseries, not the real people.
It's Friday, but that doesn't make anything better. He gets off in 12 hours, and from now till then he has to deal with a mountain piled high with bullshit. At least it will end with some semblance of a social life, although Brad really doubts if going to the nearest bar with Ray and Walt count as a social life.
"Hey, Brad. Hey!" Person is a big metaphorical pain in the ass most of the time, but his degree of assholery gets blown sky high with every cup of coffee he consumes from that hippie place down the road known as Starbucks, and, judging by his pupils, Ray has already had three. "Walt and I aren't going to babysit your ass tonight. I've got Halo back from Lilley, that motherfucker, so you're all alone raking your shag rug unless you get your balls back and ask the detective t- fuck!"
The reason why Brad always has a box of tissues at his desk has nothing to do with Ray's lurid fantasies of Brad jerking off during his coffee break. It's because stuffing a wad of Kleenex into Ray's mouth to literally shut him up is a satisfying tactical maneuver that works every damned fucking time.
"Shut up, Ray," he says unnecessarily, and grins as Detective Fick walks by. Fick's eyes are tired, and he's wearing the same clothes as the day before, but Brad's always been a keen observer. There is no logical reason for his pulse to quicken when Fick smiles back at him though.
Ray glares at him, and goes off on a rant about abuse in the workplace, which only stops when Walt brings in new information about their latest case from the lab. Brad doesn't look up when Ray's voice stops its yapping and miraculously shifts to a more pleasing banter with Walt's soft-spoken insults. He does stand up suddenly when the DNA results click in his head. "Quit flirting with Hasser, Ray. Time to visit our old friend Captain America."
*
By the time they finish with Dave McGraw, Brad is suffering from a migraine. They'd chased the fucker down five streets, tackled him to the ground too close to a fruitstand (oranges fucking hurt when a whole crate tumbles down on you), and brought him back to the station for questioning. Captain America is one crazy motherfucker, Brad thinks as he massages his neck. He'd rambled on about alien conspiracy theories (which set Ray off, which set Brad's migraine off) but had finally cracked when Brad leaned forward and "did his Iceman shindig", according to Ray.
There's a pounding in his temples, and he takes some aspirin, glad that it's his lunch break, but then Ray is hauled in by Sixta and Brad thinks that this day is the essence of hell.
"Officer Person, what manner of dressing do y'all calls this?" Sixta jabs a finger sharply into Ray's chest; Brad catches Ray's eye to say that he should just play along and not talk back, and definitely no kicking Sixta in the crotch. "Y'alls are officers of the law. Fucking act like y'alls got dicks in your pants! I don't need rookies shot straight out from the academy in this here station!"
Ray buttons his shirt properly and arranges his badges and pins with a sullen face. Sixta moves to go after Pappy for his moustache - Brad doesn't understand why Larry doesn't just shave the fucking thing off and drop the hairs in Sixta's coffee - for the fourth time this week.
"Buttfucking asshole," Ray says, slumping against Brad's desk. He's scowling. Of course he's scowling.
The aspirin is kicking in, thank fuck. "Well, Ray, if you would just learn how to use your opposable thumbs like evolution gave us, you wouldn't be constantly mistaken for an undersized primate that tries to cross-breed with donkeys." They walk out to get some lunch. They end up stopping a gangfight instead.
*
"Brad." He looks up from his paperwork at the familiar voice. Fick is smiling down on him and holding a box that smells of pizza. "Could I see you and Person in my office?"
Ray eyes Fick suspiciously and glances at Brad. They don't really work with Fick; he's new and working on the Godfather case. Brad may have the best arrest record in the station, but Schwetje being Schwetje means that he's forbidden Brad and Ray to go near the high profile case, citing bullshit reasons like Brad's inability to work with the press, and Ray's prowess at pointing out the flaws in the system.
"I've got Hawaiian here. Pepperoni in there. Cleared shit with the brass, don't worry."
Well then. Technically, technically, Brad and Ray don't have to listen to Fick, because he might have a higher pay grade and an office for his investigative shit, but he can't order them around. But he's working on the Godfather case and he has pizza.
Fick's office is sparse. His desk is covered with files and papers, and his tie is draped over his chair. Brad moves a mug full of red pens aside to look at the intel, and Fick moves the mug right back with a smirk. Ray goes straight for the Hawaiian and lets out a groan as he starts wolfing the slices down. At least Ray's quick on his feet and on the draw and comes up with good strategies to help solve cases. It almost makes up for his chronic allergy to table manners.
"Eat first, Brad," Fick says, sitting down in his chair. "Intel later." He starts shuffling the papers around until Brad points out that his stomach's growling. Brad has keen hearing; it's an ability that is very much involuntary, even though Ray didn't seem to notice. They eat the pizza in relative silence, and then they talk.
They cover the case details even though everyone and their grandmother already know about the murder of Stephen Ferrando and his stepson, Bryan Patterson. Brad examines the CS report thoroughly, piecing the scene together in his head. Ray talks to Fick about the witnesses, serious with a belly full of pizza and no caffeine. Fick recites the facts off like he's memorized them by heart. Brad doesn't like his monotone.
The clock ticks its way towards the end of their shift, and Ray zips off like the motherfucker he is for his date with Walt. Brad knows it's a date. He knows they're together, because Ray drunk-dialed him once on New Year's just to let him know that they're doing it like horny teenage girls. It doesn't matter; their friendship didn't change none, and Ray is still a major shit even though Walt is one of the nicest guys Brad knows.
"Hey," Brad says awkwardly, as they're packing up, "want to grab a bite? Person and Hasser and I usually go down to Matilda's for drinks and what passes for food, but now that the two hicks are off playing their childhood wet dream on their Xbox, I figured we could get some overtime off duty. Plus, I owe you for lunch."
*
They end up talking about their hometowns. Brad describes the beaches of California and Nate (who'd insisted on first names with a set jaw and steely eyes) reminisces wistfully about his mother's cooking back in Baltimore. Brad learns that Nate's Ivy League but isn't surprised, and pokes fun at his liberal dicksuck education because it feels comfortable and he likes to see Nate smile even though he very logically files the information under Detective Fick: Background and not Nate.
After a couple of beers, Brad shares about Jessie and Sam and how they collaboratively fucked him over six ways to Sunday, not literally, because Nate showed him a picture of his daughter and told him about how his ex-wife has Billie for a two-week holiday. Nate doesn't need to say anything but Brad sees the hurt and pain in his green eyes and orders another round.
That night he speculates that maybe Fridays aren't too bad when they're spent in good company, and doesn't think about the way Nate laughed when Brad told him about the time Ray lost an argument with a five-year-old boy. He does go to bed with a ridiculous grin on his own goddamned face though, but luckily it's wiped off when Ray calls to tell him that he and Walt have managed to beat Brad's high scores on Halo 3. He dreams of Nate as an Elite and himself as the Master Chief, and wakes up at six on Saturday with a slight hangover and plans to murder Ray in his sleep.