change has its enemies (robert kennedy spoke true)
Title: Standing In The Way Of The Establishment
Author: melliyna
Fandom: Band of Brothers/Generation Kill/West Wing
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Rating R
Word Count: 1,500
Disclaimer:Not mine, not real, no profit made or disrespect meant
Warnings/Timelines/Spoilers: Sexual content,themes, big damn au verse
A/N: This is the fuller version of a piece posted for oxoniensis's porn battle (Title is taken from Standing In The Way Of Control by Gossip. Dedicated to m_buggie for many reasons, but mostly, just because it's her.
It should have been a cliché. He'd watched enough movies over the years to know that one - the world should stop, stricken. He should stop entirely but instead Henry buys coffee, picks up his early morning packet of Reeses Pieces and goes in to work. And the clerks, his fellow customers waiting in line - cell phones to their ears, in conversation or standing silently, they go on. Even the stockbroker who lives near his apartment manages to knock in to Henry Jones IV when their morning commute intersects. The world keeps it up and Mr Jones isn't sure whether it's cowardice, bravery, numbness/delayed shock, denial or if it's answer g, all of the above but he's keeping things shipshape and ongoing in the Fick campaign offices, in his morning routine, in the way he talks and interacts and organises. Some of the younger interns and newer campaign staff look at him strangely, that undertone of 'but...his best friend' is pretty readily apparent when he walks in to a room.
But this is how Henry Jones IV faces the world. He still can't face the TV news - truthfully the TV in his apartment has been firmly and decidedly switched to off lately. Watching movies is all kinds of out the question. Too many associations with popcorn, debates and being entirely comfortable with whatever twists and turns a conversation might take in the end because of the person you are having it with. When he finds himself going out of his way to avoid looking at newspaper headlines and it's been a week, Henry knows that theoretically he should see someone but a) Mr Jones is fairly sure if anyone deserves help, he is the last person in line thank you very much and b) as something of an emerging political veteran he definitely knows that the scandal to positive story ratio would be entirely upset if he did see someone. So he keeps up the research, the strategy, the press releases and what ad buys they can get and works out events according to when Nate can return and books interviews and appearances. Which was when Sam Seaborn turned up, oh so quietly and took notes from the media for him. He even remembered the colour code that Henry liked to use when highlighting articles. Yellow for issues, green for positive policy mentions, orange for scandals and so forth. He took up Henry's appearances on the talk shows and in a silent, kind of unspoken way, Henry deduces that it's because Sam was Henry, worrying about a best friend, not so long ago. Not so long ago for Sam, anyway.
They both have scars in common to worry over, on skin that is not theirs. Also, Henry works out around the end of the second week, a knowledge of a realised fear that will not leave. There might have been fears about a best friend before, in the back of the mind but it's never a real worry until an event makes it so. Which maybe, is why Henry found it easier to read the letters, the threats and the abuse than the letters and expressions of genuine sympathy that he now finds in the campaign office as well. Because those, those are symptoms of the world as it is now, with Nate Fick and his scars. With fear made manifest. With the knowledge that in this moment, no matter even what Colbert said, Henry most definitely reached the conclusion of how much he blames himself. For presuming to be best friends. Because he'd taken that DC internship that had belonged to Nate, in truth, which had lead to him getting Nate in to this storm. To the memory of Brad's face, Ella's face.
Hell, his own face, if Henry had thought he deserved to think about how he had taken it.
-
When it comes to heroics - political and otherwise and indeed life, Nate Fick can take care of himself, thank you very fucking much. The way he looks just shy of adolescence in certain lights, the green eyes, the now civilian floppy hair, the way he can be so ridiculously Ivy League polite and good natured is, Brad once remarked, just a nefarious disguise for the Batman beneath. Though there's a high probability he's gotten his superhero canon all wrong. Blonde hair, green eyes and jail bait but not looks much better in red, blue and heroic martyrdom anyway.
He's definitely husband material, but surprisingly, revelatory Nathaniel Fick can be the kind of sexual partner that you'd think would charge a thousand an hour just for the make-out session, let alone the deep throating gang bang to follow. And he wears Brad Colberts ring. And with those vows come protection, come care and obedience and the clause in which Nate does not walk alone in to the shadows.
When he looks at the bandage, let alone the scars he can see there's an obscure sense of betrayal that he can't quite place, except it's nagged him ever since Nate took the first step in to the political arena. Lights, camera, campaign and made for TV shooter porn. Followed by emotional porn - the endless parade of photographs of Ella and Nate, of childhood Nate, of weddings and vacations for the general public to consume and gasp, in collective wankery as they trace the nearest and dearest trying to heal.
So, psychologically, it's the king of obvious inference that in response to this fuckery he's got Nate nicely against the wall. Rough kisses, alternating words of tenderness with making more bruises. Warmth of Nate's lips around his cock, flashes with the brief coldness of them, in that hospital bed, the way he looks so obscenely alive - green eyes, small moans, that eloquent mouth shaping filthy syllables and begging, when it's not sucking. Moving against fingers and then, on the floor, holding him down.
Take care of Nate, for him, as much as anyone.
-
Ironically, Evan Wright writes his best pieces to a cheerful beat. So, he's writing about this event to the strain of bouncy pop songs, something about half pony, half monkey beings and this bizarre song about giant scissors he remembers from an amazing band that played at the end of an otherwise mediocre gig. He really needs to look them up, when he's finished with this on how the underbelly follows humanity, wherever it may spread. So it is articulated, in his notes anyway, though of course there's more subtlety than that in the way he'll put together a narrative arc. Evan, who wouldn't quite say he feels more at home with words than human beings, because after all he needs the society and the people for the words to come, but he's more comfortable articulating and observing the world in the scope of a print on the page.
There's the best friend with the obscene mouth and the debater manner. The other best friend, with the glasses and the blame and the ability and strength to drive himself on, even as he accuses himself of all manner of sins. The husband, disliked but devoted. The friend infused with Zen, the other with the privilege of an uncomfortable, well known and wealthy name. A little girl, already learning to listen, holding to her likeness to her god-father, even as she's still a little girl, scared by the world, by the immediacy of the events that have touched her family.
Evan of now, barely back from foreign shores, surrounded by an apartment that is tidy from not being lived in and immersed in cheerful music, doesn't know them, but he will capture them upon a page.
Author: melliyna
Fandom: Band of Brothers/Generation Kill/West Wing
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Rating R
Word Count: 1,500
Disclaimer:Not mine, not real, no profit made or disrespect meant
Warnings/Timelines/Spoilers: Sexual content,themes, big damn au verse
A/N: This is the fuller version of a piece posted for oxoniensis's porn battle (Title is taken from Standing In The Way Of Control by Gossip. Dedicated to m_buggie for many reasons, but mostly, just because it's her.
It should have been a cliché. He'd watched enough movies over the years to know that one - the world should stop, stricken. He should stop entirely but instead Henry buys coffee, picks up his early morning packet of Reeses Pieces and goes in to work. And the clerks, his fellow customers waiting in line - cell phones to their ears, in conversation or standing silently, they go on. Even the stockbroker who lives near his apartment manages to knock in to Henry Jones IV when their morning commute intersects. The world keeps it up and Mr Jones isn't sure whether it's cowardice, bravery, numbness/delayed shock, denial or if it's answer g, all of the above but he's keeping things shipshape and ongoing in the Fick campaign offices, in his morning routine, in the way he talks and interacts and organises. Some of the younger interns and newer campaign staff look at him strangely, that undertone of 'but...his best friend' is pretty readily apparent when he walks in to a room.
But this is how Henry Jones IV faces the world. He still can't face the TV news - truthfully the TV in his apartment has been firmly and decidedly switched to off lately. Watching movies is all kinds of out the question. Too many associations with popcorn, debates and being entirely comfortable with whatever twists and turns a conversation might take in the end because of the person you are having it with. When he finds himself going out of his way to avoid looking at newspaper headlines and it's been a week, Henry knows that theoretically he should see someone but a) Mr Jones is fairly sure if anyone deserves help, he is the last person in line thank you very much and b) as something of an emerging political veteran he definitely knows that the scandal to positive story ratio would be entirely upset if he did see someone. So he keeps up the research, the strategy, the press releases and what ad buys they can get and works out events according to when Nate can return and books interviews and appearances. Which was when Sam Seaborn turned up, oh so quietly and took notes from the media for him. He even remembered the colour code that Henry liked to use when highlighting articles. Yellow for issues, green for positive policy mentions, orange for scandals and so forth. He took up Henry's appearances on the talk shows and in a silent, kind of unspoken way, Henry deduces that it's because Sam was Henry, worrying about a best friend, not so long ago. Not so long ago for Sam, anyway.
They both have scars in common to worry over, on skin that is not theirs. Also, Henry works out around the end of the second week, a knowledge of a realised fear that will not leave. There might have been fears about a best friend before, in the back of the mind but it's never a real worry until an event makes it so. Which maybe, is why Henry found it easier to read the letters, the threats and the abuse than the letters and expressions of genuine sympathy that he now finds in the campaign office as well. Because those, those are symptoms of the world as it is now, with Nate Fick and his scars. With fear made manifest. With the knowledge that in this moment, no matter even what Colbert said, Henry most definitely reached the conclusion of how much he blames himself. For presuming to be best friends. Because he'd taken that DC internship that had belonged to Nate, in truth, which had lead to him getting Nate in to this storm. To the memory of Brad's face, Ella's face.
Hell, his own face, if Henry had thought he deserved to think about how he had taken it.
-
When it comes to heroics - political and otherwise and indeed life, Nate Fick can take care of himself, thank you very fucking much. The way he looks just shy of adolescence in certain lights, the green eyes, the now civilian floppy hair, the way he can be so ridiculously Ivy League polite and good natured is, Brad once remarked, just a nefarious disguise for the Batman beneath. Though there's a high probability he's gotten his superhero canon all wrong. Blonde hair, green eyes and jail bait but not looks much better in red, blue and heroic martyrdom anyway.
He's definitely husband material, but surprisingly, revelatory Nathaniel Fick can be the kind of sexual partner that you'd think would charge a thousand an hour just for the make-out session, let alone the deep throating gang bang to follow. And he wears Brad Colberts ring. And with those vows come protection, come care and obedience and the clause in which Nate does not walk alone in to the shadows.
When he looks at the bandage, let alone the scars he can see there's an obscure sense of betrayal that he can't quite place, except it's nagged him ever since Nate took the first step in to the political arena. Lights, camera, campaign and made for TV shooter porn. Followed by emotional porn - the endless parade of photographs of Ella and Nate, of childhood Nate, of weddings and vacations for the general public to consume and gasp, in collective wankery as they trace the nearest and dearest trying to heal.
So, psychologically, it's the king of obvious inference that in response to this fuckery he's got Nate nicely against the wall. Rough kisses, alternating words of tenderness with making more bruises. Warmth of Nate's lips around his cock, flashes with the brief coldness of them, in that hospital bed, the way he looks so obscenely alive - green eyes, small moans, that eloquent mouth shaping filthy syllables and begging, when it's not sucking. Moving against fingers and then, on the floor, holding him down.
Take care of Nate, for him, as much as anyone.
-
Ironically, Evan Wright writes his best pieces to a cheerful beat. So, he's writing about this event to the strain of bouncy pop songs, something about half pony, half monkey beings and this bizarre song about giant scissors he remembers from an amazing band that played at the end of an otherwise mediocre gig. He really needs to look them up, when he's finished with this on how the underbelly follows humanity, wherever it may spread. So it is articulated, in his notes anyway, though of course there's more subtlety than that in the way he'll put together a narrative arc. Evan, who wouldn't quite say he feels more at home with words than human beings, because after all he needs the society and the people for the words to come, but he's more comfortable articulating and observing the world in the scope of a print on the page.
There's the best friend with the obscene mouth and the debater manner. The other best friend, with the glasses and the blame and the ability and strength to drive himself on, even as he accuses himself of all manner of sins. The husband, disliked but devoted. The friend infused with Zen, the other with the privilege of an uncomfortable, well known and wealthy name. A little girl, already learning to listen, holding to her likeness to her god-father, even as she's still a little girl, scared by the world, by the immediacy of the events that have touched her family.
Evan of now, barely back from foreign shores, surrounded by an apartment that is tidy from not being lived in and immersed in cheerful music, doesn't know them, but he will capture them upon a page.