Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian RoulidrilkaDecember 19 2010, 15:37:12 UTC
They’re plying him with beer and tequila and whiskey, and Brad thinks that he spots a bottle of vodka somewhere in the mix at one point, and the LT-Captain-Nate-for once doesn’t try to protest, just knocks back the shots handed to him, like he doesn’t have to care about conduct becoming of an officer of the United States Marine Corps. (Well, he doesn’t, not anymore.)
Brad has to admit, Nate saying fuck you to the rules of proper behavior is, in a way, a thing of beauty. He is also drunk.
Brad, on the other hand, is stone cold sober this time. He’s had one beer after he arrived at Gunny Wynn’s house, but that’s all. This is so contrary to his SOP that he doesn’t even know how to begin to explain it-coming to Nate’s paddle party, he was intent on getting tanked and forgetting everything, especially the way Nate looked so accessible in his civvies, just within an arm’s reach and not like his commanding officer at all. But then-then he got there and, after Mike tried to hand him another bottle of Corona, Brad said no.
There’s something twisting in his stomach.
It’s around three in the morning when Mike comes to find Brad, who is sitting in the corner of the room by himself, observing everything and admiring nothing. (Maybe apart from Nate.) The other guys have reached various states of piss-poor drunk and unconscious by that time, and only Ray is still holding court in the middle of the living room, drinking straight from the bottle and moving swiftly from one rant to another. Brad is kind of impressed by Person’s coherence, considering the state he’s in.
“Brad, you’re sober, right?” Mike asks in a hushed voice.
“Like a baby, Gunny.” Brad grins, but he thinks he knows what happens next, and something heavy settles in his chest.
“Good. Can you…” Mike gestures with his head in the direction of Nate, who’s sitting slumped in the armchair, his head tilted back and his eyes glazed over.
Brad stands up.
“No worries, Gunny, I got him.” He gives him a nod. “You make sure those sister-fucking inbred morons don’t choke on their own vomit. I’ll take it from here.”
Nate is surprisingly pliant in his grip when Brad leads him out the door and down the front steps. They stand there for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Brad hopes it’ll help Nate clear his head, and he waits for him to say something, but Nate stays silent.
“Come on,” Brad whispers, breaking the silence, and tugs at Nate’s sleeve. “Let’s get you home.”
Nate doesn’t say a word the entire way to his apartment, tucked safely in the seat of Brad’s car, watching the road through the passenger window, his eyes half-closed, maybe dozing off for a minute or two, but every time Brad glances at him, he’s awake and alert.
“Keys, sir,” Brad says one he’s parked in front of Nate’s building.
“I’m fine, Brad, you don’t have to come up.” It’s the first time Nate says anything. The words come out a little slurred and Brad can see he’s trying to focus his eyes on one point and failing. There’s no way he’s going to let Nate go alone.
“Like hell I don’t. Now, hand me the keys, sir.”
Nate obediently fishes the keys out of the front pocket of his jeans, fumbling with them for a moment, then passes them on to Brad.
“Forty-one. My apartment,” he says in a soft voice. When they get out of the car, in the soft, yellow streetlamp light Nate looks almost unearthly, like a vision, and Jesus fucking Christ, when did Brad become a fucking crappy teenage wannabe poet with a crush?
He’s never been to Nate’s apartment before, and by the time they get to the fourth floor, Nate grows even more drowsy, leaning against Brad as he tries to open the door. There are at least ten keys on the key ring, and it takes Brad a moment to figure out which to use, while Nate is anything but helpful. The body heat he radiates does nothing to help Brad’s concentration.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” Nate whispers with his mouth against Brad’s neck once they’re in, and Brad shudders when the warm air hits his skin. It’s a good thing he’s sober. At least he can control himself. “My eyes…”
Re: Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian idrilkaDecember 19 2010, 15:37:34 UTC
Brad considers it for a moment, but it’s too dark in the apartment to do anything, and he doesn’t know the layout, so he turns on the tall lamp standing in the far corner of the room, which giving off soft, mellow light that won’t hurt Nate’s eyes.
“Thank you,” he says, tugging Brad by the wrist until he sits on the couch beside Nate.
This is when Nate leans in and kisses him, soft and sloppy, and when he moves back, he looks equally scared and fucked up. His lips are even more red when he licks them, like he’s chasing the taste of Brad with his tongue.
“I had to,” he explains in a broken voice, “just this once, before… I had to. I’m sorry.”
Brad feels like he can’t breathe for a moment. The words he can’t say are choking him.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he tells him instead.
Nate looks like he wants to say something or do something, but he doesn’t protest when Brad leads him to his bedroom and starts to undress him, carefully avoiding his eyes.
“Sleep it off, Nate,” he says then and leaves the apartment.
He spends the next few hours quietly freaking out on Mike Wynn’s front porch.
He never considered that. That Nate might want him, too. That Nate might feel guilty about that. As if you could know Nate and not want him. Laughable, really.
Brad knows there’s a number of reasons why this is a bad idea. He might get burned again. There’s DADT. He doesn’t want to fuck up Nate’s life, it’s complicated enough as it is.
But it’s Nate. Brad has learned not to want a lot from life, but this-if he can have it-this is something he wants. It is so simple.
So come morning, he refuses Mike’s offer of coffee and toast and drives back to Nate’s apartment. He still has the keys stuffed in his pocket-he forgot to hand them back to Nate once they came in, and then he run, incapable of thinking at all.
Nate is still asleep, so Brad closes his bedroom door and, as quietly as he can, he makes two cups of coffee and one egg white omelet. He couldn’t eat anything right now anyway, his stomach is in knots.
“Nate, your breakfast is ready,” he says quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and he dips his head to press his lips to the corner of Nate’s mouth, then watches him stir on the bed for a moment before he finally opens his eyes.
Brad kisses him then, while his heart is pounding so hard that the sound is nearly deafening in his ears, but his lips are sure, because he needs Nate to understand.
When he moves away, Nate’s eyes are huge and green, staring at him without blinking.
“Brad?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here? I thought you-”
Brad swallows and thinks of all the things he thought he couldn’t say, of all the things he thought he didn’t know how to say. Maybe he could find the right words after all.
Re: Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian lickingbeadsDecember 19 2010, 19:29:55 UTC
Oooooooohh god. THIS WASN'T HERE THIS MORNING. BUT I FOUND IT. And. And. This is, seriously, THE fucking paddle party fic I've been waiting for all this time. Nate drunk and vulnerable and wanting to--just once--and Brad, quietly freaking out on Mike Wynn’s front porch.
Besides, the first part is hitting my Brad-taking-care-of-Nate vanilla kink so fucking hard. Nnnghghg. Have I ever, by chance, told you how freaking much I love the way you write B/N? ♥
As if you could know Nate and not want him. Laughable, really. Truer words. Mmmm.
Re: Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian idrilkaDecember 21 2010, 00:14:40 UTC
I was still asleep in the morning. XD Oh God, honey, thank you so much, I'm so happy that you liked it. I have such a soft spot fot Brad taking care of Nate, too, and I simply couldn't resist. And I love the idea of Gunny Wynn, the ultimate mother hen and matchmaker extraordinaire, so yeah, Mike's front porch was the only real choice here, as far as Brad's freakout was concerned. ;)
Have I ever, by chance, told you how freaking much I love the way you write B/N? ♥ I'm grinning so hard right now, you have no idea. Thank you. ♥
Re: Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian wearemanyDecember 19 2010, 21:05:23 UTC
oh man, i love this so much. i love how brad won't let him go up alone, and won't stay, but still has to come back. and i love how it never occurred to him to think it might be mutual.
Re: Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian ringheledielDecember 20 2010, 16:51:23 UTC
This is five million kinds of perfect *headdesks* (Brad running away and coming back to make brekkie...I can't even start to explain how adorkable that is)
Re: Colbert/Fick - “When I can’t bring myself to say what I need to do / my heart plays Russian idrilkaDecember 21 2010, 00:20:48 UTC
Thank you so much! I'm glad you liked it. And, well, Brad needed some peace and quiet to freak out about the fact that he might get his wish after all (sometimes it's scary at first), but then he got his shit together and did the right thing. :D And given that my Brad can be pretty retarded at times, that has to count for something. XD
Brad has to admit, Nate saying fuck you to the rules of proper behavior is, in a way, a thing of beauty. He is also drunk.
Brad, on the other hand, is stone cold sober this time. He’s had one beer after he arrived at Gunny Wynn’s house, but that’s all. This is so contrary to his SOP that he doesn’t even know how to begin to explain it-coming to Nate’s paddle party, he was intent on getting tanked and forgetting everything, especially the way Nate looked so accessible in his civvies, just within an arm’s reach and not like his commanding officer at all. But then-then he got there and, after Mike tried to hand him another bottle of Corona, Brad said no.
There’s something twisting in his stomach.
It’s around three in the morning when Mike comes to find Brad, who is sitting in the corner of the room by himself, observing everything and admiring nothing. (Maybe apart from Nate.) The other guys have reached various states of piss-poor drunk and unconscious by that time, and only Ray is still holding court in the middle of the living room, drinking straight from the bottle and moving swiftly from one rant to another. Brad is kind of impressed by Person’s coherence, considering the state he’s in.
“Brad, you’re sober, right?” Mike asks in a hushed voice.
“Like a baby, Gunny.” Brad grins, but he thinks he knows what happens next, and something heavy settles in his chest.
“Good. Can you…” Mike gestures with his head in the direction of Nate, who’s sitting slumped in the armchair, his head tilted back and his eyes glazed over.
Brad stands up.
“No worries, Gunny, I got him.” He gives him a nod. “You make sure those sister-fucking inbred morons don’t choke on their own vomit. I’ll take it from here.”
Nate is surprisingly pliant in his grip when Brad leads him out the door and down the front steps. They stand there for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Brad hopes it’ll help Nate clear his head, and he waits for him to say something, but Nate stays silent.
“Come on,” Brad whispers, breaking the silence, and tugs at Nate’s sleeve. “Let’s get you home.”
Nate doesn’t say a word the entire way to his apartment, tucked safely in the seat of Brad’s car, watching the road through the passenger window, his eyes half-closed, maybe dozing off for a minute or two, but every time Brad glances at him, he’s awake and alert.
“Keys, sir,” Brad says one he’s parked in front of Nate’s building.
“I’m fine, Brad, you don’t have to come up.” It’s the first time Nate says anything. The words come out a little slurred and Brad can see he’s trying to focus his eyes on one point and failing. There’s no way he’s going to let Nate go alone.
“Like hell I don’t. Now, hand me the keys, sir.”
Nate obediently fishes the keys out of the front pocket of his jeans, fumbling with them for a moment, then passes them on to Brad.
“Forty-one. My apartment,” he says in a soft voice. When they get out of the car, in the soft, yellow streetlamp light Nate looks almost unearthly, like a vision, and Jesus fucking Christ, when did Brad become a fucking crappy teenage wannabe poet with a crush?
He’s never been to Nate’s apartment before, and by the time they get to the fourth floor, Nate grows even more drowsy, leaning against Brad as he tries to open the door. There are at least ten keys on the key ring, and it takes Brad a moment to figure out which to use, while Nate is anything but helpful. The body heat he radiates does nothing to help Brad’s concentration.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” Nate whispers with his mouth against Brad’s neck once they’re in, and Brad shudders when the warm air hits his skin. It’s a good thing he’s sober. At least he can control himself. “My eyes…”
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“Thank you,” he says, tugging Brad by the wrist until he sits on the couch beside Nate.
This is when Nate leans in and kisses him, soft and sloppy, and when he moves back, he looks equally scared and fucked up. His lips are even more red when he licks them, like he’s chasing the taste of Brad with his tongue.
“I had to,” he explains in a broken voice, “just this once, before… I had to. I’m sorry.”
Brad feels like he can’t breathe for a moment. The words he can’t say are choking him.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he tells him instead.
Nate looks like he wants to say something or do something, but he doesn’t protest when Brad leads him to his bedroom and starts to undress him, carefully avoiding his eyes.
“Sleep it off, Nate,” he says then and leaves the apartment.
He spends the next few hours quietly freaking out on Mike Wynn’s front porch.
He never considered that. That Nate might want him, too. That Nate might feel guilty about that. As if you could know Nate and not want him. Laughable, really.
Brad knows there’s a number of reasons why this is a bad idea. He might get burned again. There’s DADT. He doesn’t want to fuck up Nate’s life, it’s complicated enough as it is.
But it’s Nate. Brad has learned not to want a lot from life, but this-if he can have it-this is something he wants. It is so simple.
So come morning, he refuses Mike’s offer of coffee and toast and drives back to Nate’s apartment. He still has the keys stuffed in his pocket-he forgot to hand them back to Nate once they came in, and then he run, incapable of thinking at all.
Nate is still asleep, so Brad closes his bedroom door and, as quietly as he can, he makes two cups of coffee and one egg white omelet. He couldn’t eat anything right now anyway, his stomach is in knots.
“Nate, your breakfast is ready,” he says quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and he dips his head to press his lips to the corner of Nate’s mouth, then watches him stir on the bed for a moment before he finally opens his eyes.
Brad kisses him then, while his heart is pounding so hard that the sound is nearly deafening in his ears, but his lips are sure, because he needs Nate to understand.
When he moves away, Nate’s eyes are huge and green, staring at him without blinking.
“Brad?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “What are you doing here? I thought you-”
Brad swallows and thinks of all the things he thought he couldn’t say, of all the things he thought he didn’t know how to say. Maybe he could find the right words after all.
“Yeah, I did,” he admits. “But I came back.”
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Mike, the matchmaker = ♥
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Brad Colbert, the blindest Recon Marine ever. :)
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Besides, the first part is hitting my Brad-taking-care-of-Nate vanilla kink so fucking hard. Nnnghghg. Have I ever, by chance, told you how freaking much I love the way you write B/N? ♥
As if you could know Nate and not want him. Laughable, really.
Truer words. Mmmm.
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Have I ever, by chance, told you how freaking much I love the way you write B/N? ♥
I'm grinning so hard right now, you have no idea. Thank you. ♥
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