Team Day, Prompt: Collateral Damage, Brad is a Sneaky Recon Motherfucker
Title: Brad is a Sneaky Recon Motherfucker
By: passionofmind
Prompt: Collateral Damage - Damage that is unintended or incidental to the intended outcome.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Brad starts stealing kisses from Nate with no words or explanation and then acts like nothing happened. It's enough to make Nate think he's going insane.
A/N: Inspired by a prompt from last year’s Porn Skirmish, thank you svilleficrecs! Also big hugs to pjvilar for working this out with me when my story got stuck in sobka tar and to my fabulous betas egotists & chemfishee. I owe you guys.
The first time it happens, they’re stationed at Mathilda.
Lilley’s a casualty and Nate’s running through the after-action with his TLs. With Encino Man passing down information, this might be the only chance he’s got.
Brad suggests an alternate SOP that focuses more on the safety of his men without detracting from the mission and it’s fucking brilliant. Nate’s face lights up in approval, knows Brad can see he’s caught off-guard.
When he praises Brad’s suggestion, Brad reacts like a puppy, wagging his tail in delight. Nate shoots him a company line, “Just don’t let emotions get in the way,” as easy as he rattles off coordinates on the hook.
Nate alerts the TLs in front of him that they have thirty mikes until chow, effectively dismissing them. The disbanded Marines start hurriedly announcing that they are oscar mike to the rest of the platoon.
All except Brad, who is calm and collected even in the face of sloppy joes at the mess. Nate falls in step with him on the way back to their victors.
“Good work today on the FTX. Your plan for recovery of a casualty in a kill zone…” Nate pauses thoughtful. “I have absolute confidence in your abilities as team leader of my point victor.”
Brad leans in and kisses him chastely.
“Thank you, sir,” is all Brad says before turning on his heel and striding back to his Humvee.
Nate stands there dumbfounded, fingertips ghosting over his lips. His brain tries to convince him that it didn’t happen, that Brad didn’t just kiss him on the mouth in broad
daylight and walk away like it was nothing.
The tingling warmth where Brad pressed his lips suggests otherwise.
“Hey LT!” Stafford is leaning out of their victor. “Can we be oscar mike? I’m hungry, sir.”
“We’re oscar mike.” Nate jogs the rest of the way to the command vehicle.
###########
The next time it happens they’re in theatre, just when Nate’s beginning to wonder if Brad ever really kissed him.
Well, almost.
Alpha’s getting lit up like a Christmas tree, and his boys are getting restless, tired of idly watching the war pass them by. Brad approaches from his six.
Nate tries not to let his amusement show when Brad conversationally questions how long they’re going to sit exposed, balls out, getting schwacked without retaliation.
Nate exercises his sense of humor, lets him know that battalion fully intends on castrating the entire company by sending them over the bridge outside of Nasiriyah with Bravo Company on point.
“Shall we dig in, sir?”
“Not a bad idea.” Nate motions to move from their position crouched behind the wheel of the command victor, but Brad grips his MOPP sleeve tightly.
“You’ll come to find, sir, that I don’t have bad ideas.”
Brad leans forward, Nate’s body compensating for the sudden imbalance, his back pressed against the wheel of the Humvee. Brad’s lips are on his again and this time Nate responds, nipping at Brad’s mouth and gripping his flak jacket. Brad gets to a crouched position, Nate’s hands falling back to his sides and then all he can see is Brad’s retreating form before he follows in the opposite direction.
###########
When Walt’s Mk-19 jams, Brad pornographically requests lubricant, expressing a preference for KY. Nate pretends he doesn’t feel Brad’s gaze on his ass when he drops from the Humvee to the deck.
Nate implores Brad to make do, but procures an entire jar of LSA with three Pop-Tart MREs and a barely-thumbed Hustler on loan from Stafford.
Stafford will take the loss of Mercedes and Candi harder than Nate will.
Anticipation flutters through Nate’s stomach as he approaches Two-One’s Humvee.
“Present for you. LSA.” The grin that stretches across Brad’s face makes the grief Nate will get from Stafford, and probably Christeson, worth it.
“Sir, not to get homoerotic about this, but I could kiss you.”
For a few seconds, Nate thinks Brad might do just that. His brain goes into panic mode, but his flushing cheeks betray the fact that he wants Brad to close the distance between them.
Nate’s frozen there, leaning in the window with Brad’s gaze locked on him, predatory shark grin on his face. Nate’s fairly certain he’s the prey.
He rolls his eyes to break the moment, gazing once more at Brad before forcing himself to walk away.
Later that day, while Bravo strong points a hostile city near Al Kut, Brad scoots closer when Nate appears beside him. The sun is fiery red, the natives are chanting, and Nate’s body is thrumming from the close proximity.
“Sir, the scuttlebutt I’m hearing says you may be relieved of command.”
Brad is refreshingly persistent.
“Sir, it is in the opinion of this Marine that you are a Godsend from the heavens to get us through this invasion. To elaborate, in less than twenty-four hours you’ve managed to supply LSA even though there is a company-wide supply shortage, and you single-handedly unfucked Encino Man from dropping arty on his own fucking company. I wasn’t being facetious when I said I could kiss you.”
“So kiss me,” Nate says, barely a whisper, and Brad’s tongue is performing a recon mission of its own in Nate’s mouth. Their tongues touch, and it’s like liquid heat in Nate’s belly. Brad withdraws far too quickly, but not before taking a particularly possessive tug on Nate’s bottom lip.
“Sir, your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in.” Brad doesn’t retreat this time, just steadily gazes his endorsement.
Nate curses his pale skin, knowing the flush of his cheeks sticks out in sharp contrast, despite the setting sun.
Brad continues the conversation as if he didn’t just have his tongue down Nate’s throat. Brad always has his attention, but lately Nate’s more focused on the motion of his lips then what’s actually coming out of them.
Nate knows he’s got to get to his feet, get somewhere where he can’t slide Brad under the Humvee and work out his combat stress.
He tells Brad it’s going to be a long night, but that has more to do with the reconnaissance kissing than the conservation of firepower.
###########
The days following Trombley’s incidental shooting are not good ones.
Nate finds that he is forced to disobey command to guarantee the safety of his men at the cost of his own Godfather supplied verbal ass reaming.
Call Nate masochistic, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay.
Godfather’s looking at him, Schwetje’s looking at him, and Lord knows Griego’s always looking at him.
Nate over hears Patrick, and Espera talking about him like the fucking gossips they are and sets out to find Brad.
When he’s looped the camp, Gunny Wynn nods in the direction of a steady pounding, metal on metal, jarring Nate’s skull. He slips down into the dirt sliding under the Humvee.
Nate is immediately relieved to have the eyes off him and wonders if Brad feels the same.
“Hiding out?”
Brad doesn’t answer, just continues to chip away at the hard black grime in front of him.
Nate removes his Kevlar and props an arm behind his head, settling into the cool sand.
“Me too.”
Brad looks over curiously, one eye squinting against the setting sun. Nate closes his eyes, the hammering rhythm less jarring now, more comforting, assuring him of Brad’s presence.
“You should get some sleep, sir.” The voice comes from his right, and he rolls to that side. Brad has ceased banging.
Nate barks out a laugh. “I’m on watch tonight. Sleep isn’t in my near future. Go dig a grave, Brad. Get some sleep.”
“You’re on watch, LT?” Brad’s voice is wary. “Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to, like keeping command from killing all of us?”
Nate gives him the ghost of a smile.
“The dirt’s not fooling anyone. You look like shit. Get some sleep. Or do I have to dig the hole for you and throw you in?”
Brad returns the smile inches away, perfect white teeth in sharp contrast to the black filth covering his face.
“No, sir.”
“C’mere.”
“I’m covered in dirt,” Brad says weakly, although his eyes are focused, far from the vacant stare they held when Nate first ducked under the Humvee.
“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Nate breathes with a grin.
Brad closes the space between them briskly claiming Nate’s lips, hand holding Nate’s cheek. It’s more tender than the other kisses, comforting.
Nate’s face is warm under Brad’s hand.
Brad’s kisses are like hot cocoa on a snowy day in Hanover, warm sweetness spreading through Nate’s body, chasing away the traces of numbness.
When they part, Brad trails his knuckle across Nate’s cheekbone, “There’s dirt on your face.”
“Get some sleep, Sergeant. That’s an order.” Nate rolls out from under Team One’s Humvee and replaces his Kevlar.
He decides against raking the sleeve of his ACUs across his cheek. It will be dark soon, maybe another ten mikes, and he’s not quite ready to be rid of Brad’s handprint branding his skin.
###########
It’s been a particularly shitty day for Nate Fick. Griego’s going around calling him a pussy, Schwetje wants to play nice and work as a team, and Nate has to spin some moto bullshit to motivate his TLs despite his reservations about it being a suicide mission.
The knot tightens fiercely in Nate’s stomach as Patrick, Espera, and Colbert air their own reservations.
Nate shares the concerns of his men, knows they are legitimate. But this is a war, and Nate is a commanding officer. He has his orders. He’s already suspect with battalion for being insubordinate, not that he gives a shit, and he wouldn’t be helping either side by questioning them.
Nate knows there’s only one way to nip their hesitation in the bud, so he grits his teeth and chides his men.
“Quite frankly, gentlemen, I’m not hearing the aggressiveness I’d like.”
“Roger that, sir,” Colbert responds. There is betrayal behind his eyes.
Nate can’t linger. Brad will target the chinks in his armor if he gives him the opportunity.
“Prepare your teams to step off,” Nate orders before sauntering off, dread pooling in his belly.
His fears materialize when they get trapped in a kill zone, sitting ducks in a firefight.
Nate hopes that the bullets skittering past his feet will serve as an apology as he directs traffic, foot mobile in the chaos.
Muwaffaquiyah is an utter failure. A poorly constructed debacle. Nate knows it, his men know it, and he won’t insult their intelligence by pretending otherwise.
Brad calls him astute, but it’s not meant as a compliment. Coming from anyone else it would be out of line.
“I think we can take it from here, sir,” Brad says not unkindly.
Nate lets himself be dismissed.
###########
Nate takes his e-tool and digs out his frustrations, his anger, and his disillusionment with the Corps.
He climbs into his grave and tries to sleep, but it’s futile. Instead, he swallows another piece of his idealism down like a bitter pill.
Footsteps approach his grave, dirt slipping over the edges and into the hole, a dark shadow obscuring Nate’s view of the stars above.
“Sleeping with your eyes open, sir?”
Nate meets Brad’s eyes, still clear and blue despite the darkness.
Brad kneels, braces one hand on the side of the grave, leaning in to press a firm kiss to Nate’s lips.
Later, Nate will make excuses to himself that he was too exhausted, or irritated, or just too goddamned horny not to kiss back, but for now he responds.
He grips the rough fabric of Brad’s uniform tightly in his fists, pulling Brad the rest of the way into the grave to grind against him with intent. The friction is rough and delicious, the full length of Brad’s body against his own, Brad asserting control by pressing Nate down so there’s nowhere for him to go, nothing for him to do but arch up and let Brad manhandle him under the cover of darkness.
It doesn’t last more than thirty seconds tops, Nate hard and throbbing while Brad retreats to his position at the edge of the grave, kneeling to scrub dirt at the toe of his boot.
“What the fuck was that?” Nate is surprised that his voice comes out level.
An amused smile plays across Brad’s lips.
“Just following orders, sir.”
“I don’t recall giving an order to assault me.”
“I was being more aggressive, as requested. I hope you’re seeing aggressiveness to your liking, Lieutenant Fick.”
“Hey, Brad!”
Nate would know Corporal Person’s voice anywhere.
“I know I gave you a pass last time, but don’t forget that this is my game. I started it, and I intend on finishing it.” Brad grins wolfishly. “Evening, sir.”
Nate groans when Colbert’s footfalls are far enough away, before banging his head on the solid dirt beneath him.
He is assured that it is Sergeant Colbert’s independent recon mission to drive him slowly insane using only his mouth.
###########
The next day isn’t any easier.
Hostiles are mixed in with civilians; the men are hungry and running on nearly thirty hours without a decent amount of sleep, and Hasser, nerves fried, puts a bullet between the eyes of an Iraqi who froze like a deer in the proverbial headlights when faced with legitimate danger.
The sadists at the MRE factory could hand out Frappuccino MREs, and it still wouldn’t do anything to raise morale.
Gunny keeps on him, worse than Nate’s own goddamned mother, until his concern for the emotional state of his men overrides his desire to avoid Brad.
His worry is not unfounded. Brad hands the hook up to Trombley with a head tilt clearly indicating his desire for a private chat. This is possibly the last thing that Nate wants, but he finds himself walking in step with Brad until they reach the outer perimeter of the camp.
Brad leans in close, too near to be comfortable and Nate shifts his gaze towards sand and sky to alleviate the tension. He’s thankful the words coming out of Brad’s mouth are all business.
Every time Brad leans in to lower his voice or hone a point, Nate finds himself edging away from Brad as if he might be burned if their skin touches. Frankly, Nate’s not in the mood to find out.
He forcibly shifts his eyes back to Brad’s once more and notices his curious gaze.
“Something the matter, sir?” Brad asks, and he’s so close that Nate can feel warm breath against his face as he tries to maintain eye contact.
“Why do you ask, Sergeant?” he shoots back against his better judgment.
“You seem a bit unstrung at the moment.”
Nate’s not particularly fond of the pleased expression Brad is unsuccessfully trying to stifle.
“Make no mistake, Sergeant. I’m fully strung.”
“I am assured of this,” Brad teases with a grin that stretches across his dirt covered face. He looks positively gleeful.
Poke interrupts their conversation in what is meant to be a show of support for Walt’s actions. To say it backfires would be putting it mildly.
It’s clear that their private conversation is over, so Nate shoots Brad a pleading look and a relieved nod of thanks when Brad’s posture reflects his decision to back off.
For the moment at least.
As Nate heads off in the opposite direction, he vaguely hears Brad start in on Ray’s backwoods whiskey tango eating habits. He wonders idly if their encounter didn’t go the way Brad intended, if Nate’s lack of focus put a wrench in his plans.
Clearly Brad adapts by finding a whole new set of button to push with Ray Person.
###########
Nate can feel Brad’s eyes on him, burning a hole in the back of his head as he makes rounds through the night. It isn’t until they’re in the early hours of the morning, with Brad on twenty-five percent watch that they finally get a moment alone.
The sound of Person’s snoring carries through the driver’s side window of the Humvee as Brad offers up his frustrations at not being able to participate in one legitimate reconnaissance mission.
Nate chooses to placate Brad.
“This fucking POG camp we're in has a legit slit trench latrine.” Nate tilts his head with a smile as if to emphasize his point. “Really.”
The predatory smile that Brad returns fills Nate with unease. He has a feeling he’s just promised Brad more than he intended.
“That's my recon mission, then. Perhaps you’ll join me.”
Brad pushes off from the hood of his vehicle.
“Oh-three-hundred hours, Lieutenant,” Brad calls over his shoulder, a promise, before heading off in the direction of Poke’s vehicle.
Nate doesn’t have the grace to do anything but stand there flabbergasted. He says a silent prayer that for once, nobody is calling him over the comms.
###########
Nate finds himself glancing at his watch despite himself. He’s not entertaining thoughts of actually attending Brad’s proposed rendezvous. Nor is he considering thoughts of voluntary occupational suicide.
Until he is.
He hopes the walk will clear his head or that he’ll trip over something that forcibly knocks some sense into him.
He reaches the outer confines of the latrines unscathed. Nate takes a sigh of relief to dwell on the fact that he is, by all accounts, late and Brad is nowhere to be seen.
Just as Nate turns on his heel and begins to walk back, he is dragged into the shadows on the other side of the latrines and backed up against an outer wall.
“Going somewhere, sir?” Brad’s expression looks remarkably sharp.
“I decided this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“A little late for that.” Brad says steps into Nate’s space. “I hope I’m correct in my assumption that you didn’t pass on the intel you shared with me earlier to the entire platoon.”
Nate shoots him what he hopes is a stern look. “You would be correct.”
“Good, Lieutenant. That’s very good.” Brad’s tone is indulgent and thick, distracting enough that Nate literally jumps when he feels skin-on-skin contact. Brad’s fingers graze his abdomen.
Leave it to Brad Colbert to figure out how to get under a MOPP suit in thirty seconds flat.
Brad ducks in to claim his lips, but Nate avoids the contact.
“What are we doing, Brad?”
An amused look plays on Brad’s handsome features. “Well this is disappointing, sir. I wasn’t aware that you needed the Idiot’s Guide to Making Out. But I’m sure Reporter will be happy to lend you his copy.”
“I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Why are you doing this?” Nate says a bit helplessly, gesturing between them.
“Have you come down with a bad case of feelings since last time? I suppose I should have expected this from an overeducated Ivy silver spooner like yourself.” His grin is sharp and disingenuous. “I assure you, it’s just a way to pass the time. I don’t expect us to be holding hands in the Pride parade anytime soon.”
Assuaged, Nate loosens his grip and Brad’s lips assault his mouth. It’s the same and yet somehow different. The very specific Iceman control glaringly present in their past dalliances is nowhere to be found. Brad’s hands bracket Nate’s head on either side, barring him from a facile escape.
Their mouths move together familiarly, Brad’s tongue swiping against the roof of Nate’s mouth in the way that makes him let out a breathy huff, Nate’s fingers in the short hair at the nape of Brad’s neck.
Brad’s fingers move to stroke Nate’s belly, and it’s the first time anyone else has touched that stretch of skin since they left the States. Nate never even considered that to be a particularly pleasurable bit, but he has to revise that pretty fucking fast because the things Brad’s fingertips are doing to his skin are making him harder than when Ellie James sucked him off after the Spring Formal in the backseat of his mom’s Volvo.
He still has combat jacks about that particular mental image.
It’s the shuffling of feet that catches Nate’s attention. They’re too far away from where the others have dug in for the night; nobody should be walking around out here.
“Brad, stop,” Nate protests, turning his face from the onslaught.
Brad bites the juncture of his collarbone in retaliation, Nate swallowing down a long list of choice expletives.
The footfalls get closer, and Brad is suddenly deadly still.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Nate has a mini heart attack, thinking they’ve been caught and imagining the best way to announce his premature resignation before realizing the man is distracted by the prospect of actual latrines.
There is something to be said for the extended use of cat holes’ effect on combat readiness.
Brad shifts to put some space between them, Nate thankful that he no longer has Brad’s hot breath against the shell of his ear, just in case the explorer decides to walk around the structure. The ancient wood creaks audibly as he shifts.
Nate holds his breath. There’s no way the other man didn’t hear that.
“Someone out here? Seriously, Darnold, if that’s you fucking with me, I swear to God.”
The man’s radio crackles with static. “Three-two, going to need you to round up your TLs, over.”
“Copy that. Heading back to base, over.” Nate can hear him walking away from them.
Nate shoulders past Brad with a gritted, “Enough now.”
They need to get the fuck out of here before they both ruin their careers.
Nate starts moving with a brisk stride, but Brad catches up to him and wrenches his arm.
“We’re not finished.”
“Yes, we are.”
Brad grips his forearm hard. “Not until I say.”
Nate jerks free from Brad’s hold without another word, heading back towards camp. He can still feel the warmth of Brad’s fingertips through his MOPP suit.
###########
He’s able to effectively avoid further direct contact with Brad until they reach the outskirts of Baghdad.
Nate’s been in a pretty shitty mood; he’s got a journal of handwritten notes, requests from the sheiks, burning a hole in his pocket. He’s fairly certain that he’s the only one who will ever see its contents.
Iraqi males push around wounded children for prescription drugs and there is armed ordinance sitting in playgrounds and residential backyards.
Nate thought they hit madness a few clicks back, but he stands corrected.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Poke shaking his head and moving away from his vehicle with a det kit in hand. It doesn’t fill Nate with the confidence it should.
Upon closer inspection, Poke’s Humvee is deserted, so he closes the short distance to Two-One’s victor. He finds Ray, Walt, and Trombley inside.
“Care to join us, sir?” Ray asks holding out a tin of Cope which Nate declines with a polite shake of his head.
“Any idea where Two-One Actual might be?”
“Trying to blow himself up,” Ray says with one his trademark manic grins, “sir.”
“He’s what?”
“Sergeant Colbert is detonating ordinance to make greater Baghdad safe for children again. My hero.” Ray clutches his chest.
“Where?”
“Down that alley,” Walt points out helpfully.
Nate grabs Gunny for back-up before heading towards the indicated property.
He finds Brad crouched next to a missile lodged in a suburban yard. Poke watches skeptically.
“Get out of there, Brad,” Nate calls as soon as he’s within earshot. Just seeing Brad’s fingers skate over the neat lines of stamped text is making Nate’s skin twitch.
“Sir, we’ve got another Mark-82,” Brad protests.
Nate knows Brad’s appealing to his inherent nature, but the stakes are just too high this time. Nate’s already set his sights on returning to Oceanside with all twenty-three of his men physically unscathed. It’s a promise he’s dead set on keeping.
“That’s an order,” he says firmly.
It’s the first time in the whole invasion he’s given Brad a direct order.
“Sir, I strongly request-”
“I will not let you blow yourself up trying to maintain property values in Greater Baghdad. That's a no-go.”
Emotion punctuates each word that rolls off his tongue rapid fire and Nate is quickly overcome with the feeling that he’s said too much, left himself too exposed. Everything about this war is suddenly too personal.
He’s thankful when Gunny Wynn pipes in his two cents. “Up and out, Sergeant.”
“Get out of the hole,” Nate says, resorting to the raised eyebrows his mother used to strike fear into his childhood self.
It works like a charm.
Apparently adoptive Jewish mothers are just as well-versed in guilt trip and manipulation, because Colbert begrudgingly reaches for Poke’s extended hand, lips twisted in a pout.
“We’re done here, Brad,” Nate says quietly, almost unnecessarily, and Brad shoots him a sharp look.
He lets Poke and Gunny continue on towards the mouth of the alley before turning on his heel to face Brad.
“If you could make an effort to return home with all your limbs still attached as a personal favor to me, I would appreciate that.” Nate crosses his arms defensively.
Brad completely ignores the poorly disguised attempt at humor, stepping right into his space and forcing Nate to drop his arms.
“I thought I made it clear, Lieutenant Fick, that I’ll be the one to decide when we’re finished.”
Nate knows what happens next. He’s prepared for it and he isn’t.
The rough brush of Brad’s lips against his own, tongue pushing purposefully into Nate’s mouth, sliding like sparks and brushing against the back of his teeth. Nate kisses back because there’s simply not a good enough reason not to.
Nate can taste Brad’s emotions, mirroring his own.
Brad pulls away so roughly, it’s like some sort of mental command, lips brushing across Nate’s cheek.
“One more thing.” Nate raises an eyebrow in question. “Get in the way of me doing my job again and my response won’t be nearly as pleasant.”
Nate watches Brad stalk away in characteristic long strides until he has to squint into the sun to keep from losing him.
###########
The only thing that stands between Nate and a plane ride home is a mountain of paperwork and hours of cataloging inventory. He can’t get the forms filled out fast enough.
It seems that Colbert’s team has similar aspirations. When he approaches they are crouched around various forms of ammunition tallying down to the last bullet. Trombley is sucking down a pack of Charms, but it seems as long as he continues pitching in, Sergeant Colbert won’t reprimand him in the foreseeable future.
“Brad? You need to fill these DD-40s in triplicate for the shipping pallets.” Nate hands over the clipboard. Brad doesn’t make eye contact, just flips through the sheets.
“Yes, sir.” The response is perfunctory, lackluster. It gets under Nate’s skin.
Trombley asks the status of the casualties from Bravo Three who were injured in a minefield the night before, and Nate updates team two on the grisly details of their injuries.
“Any word on why Encino Man sent them out on orders that Alpha Company refused?” Brad asks, looking Nate square in the eye. Evidently, he isn’t quite finished trying to tear the last thread of Nate’s carefully-contained restraint.
Nate shoots him a look that illustrates all the contempt he feels at being asked such a question when Brad undoubtedly knows the answer. He turns on his heel, but stops abruptly, remembering one last bit of information he is supposed to circulate.
“Oh. This war has an official name now: Operation Iraqi Freedom.” Nate doesn’t even try to keep the look of disdain for the misnomer off his face.
Brad’s eyes follow him for a long distance before Nate changes course.
###########
Brad comes to him later, while he is sequestered in an abandoned office Encino Man has designated for Bravo’s obligatory paperwork. It was Schwetje’s first order of business upon reaching the soccer stadium, securing a location before “a bunch of POGs” could claim it for their own. Heaven forbid.
Brad places the clipboard on the desk, forms neatly aligned and impeccably completed, but Nate knows that’s not why he is here. They’ve been dancing around one another, closer and closer, until it was inevitable that it would come to this moment.
Nate watches as Brad situates himself on the edge of his desk, facing Nate.
“You’ve been stealing kisses from me,” Nate says evenly, flicking through the final pages of the paperwork in front of him.
Brad’s face is amused. He crosses his arms playfully. “Kisses, sir?”
“It’s Nate.”
“Nate,” Brad says pleasantly. Nate sets down the paperwork. Brad knows very well he’s not really reading it and there’s no reason to keep up the façade.
“Ever since Mathilda you’ve been driving me nuts. Making me wonder if I’m suffering from sort of kiss-related Pavlovian response. I can’t even look at a map without thinking about your mouth. Frankly, Sergeant, it’s distracting.”
“Well Nate, I’m sorry I’ve been such a distraction to you. It won’t happen again,” Brad makes a motion to move, but Nate keeps him pinned to the desk.
“No.”
Brad looks down at him; there is an expression Nate’s never seen before playing on his face.
“You’ve ruined me, Colbert,” Nate says, getting to his feet and bracing his palms on the desk on either side of Brad’s thighs. Nate kisses him, tongue slipping past Brad’s lips, and Brad’s hand fists the fabric of Nate’s blouse, rucking up the material so that Nate can feel cool air on his back.
Nate kisses him wet and aggressive, unhinged for the first time, tempting fate to catch them in flagrant violation of the officer code of conduct and caring fuck all about it.
Let them be discovered. It won’t be the poorest judgment call made in this occupation, not by a long shot.
Nate pulls back, breathless, placing one last kiss on the warm column of Brad’s throat.
Brad looks slightly dazed, eyes glassy and deeper blue, and Nate feels a swell of pride in his chest at finally seeing the Iceman off-balance, bested at his own game.
“You realize what you’re agreeing to,” Brad asks with some seriousness. “This is beyond necking like a couple of horny teenagers on a road trip. To be clear, this is your career you’re jeopardizing.”
“Isn’t it a little late in the game to be reading me the riot act?”
“All we’re talking about here is a couple of kisses.”
“Try and convince me that your intent was to steal a few innocent kisses from your commanding officer. Don’t be offended when I don’t believe a word of it.”
“I might be, arguably, one of the best damn members of the Reconnaissance Marines, but you’re overestimating my abilities if you thought I’d be reckless enough to try anything more, shall we say advanced. At least until we are stateside.”
“What’s different about stateside?”
“All bets are off.” Brad walks to the door. “We’re finished now. That is, of course, unless you don’t want to be. I trust that you’ll pass down the appropriate intel.”
Brad slips from the room quietly. Nate doesn’t follow. The truth is he’s made this decision back at Mathilda, the first time Brad pressed their lips together.
###########
It’s their last evening in Iraq.
Poke is trying to reconcile what he’s done in this country, whether or not the people he’s killed met a just ends at his hands.
Nate offers what he can, the steadfast rules of engagement, a means of simplifying right and wrong without dipping into the gray area that comes with too many sleepless nights and the many lost opportunities to do real good.
“All religious stuff aside, the fact is, people who can't kill will always be subject to those who can.” It’s the essence of Brad.
Nate knows he’s made the right decision, that the only choice is to finish what they started in Kuwait.
Lilley announces that his theatrical masterpiece is completed and ready for an audience, and most of them wander over to watch. Brad continues eating his beloved jalapeno and cheese, without a care in the world. Nate doesn’t budge an inch.
He waits until Gunny turns his face towards the Johnny Cash blaring through the tinny speakers and fixes his gaze on Brad, who looks up expectantly.
Nate’s expression is a slew of different emotions: hope. resignation. respect. contentment. They all mean the same thing.
With one small gesture, Nate gives Brad the answer he’s looking for. One nod and Nate’s unequivocally agreed to Brad’s terms.
Nate looks away quickly to see if Gunny saw the transaction, but Wynn’s attentions are focused on Lilley and his band of critics. He passes his gaze back to Brad’s once more, a sheepish smile playing on his lips before he walks away. Brad’s face gives nothing away except for the fact that the cracker he was about to devour still hovers inches from his lips.
What Nate doesn’t see is the look of astounded surprise as soon as he turns his back.
###########
Nate spends the twenty hour flight back to California working out all the different possible scenarios. Only one has the resolution he desires.
He spends the blissful moments of his first shower in longer than he can remember thinking of ways to break the news to Brad. Bluntness seems to be a rather appealing tactic when it comes to Brad Colbert.
He dresses in record time. Nate waits in the hallway for Brad to come out of the washroom so he can ambush him. He consults his watch a final time before he hears someone approaching.
Brad wears civvies, leather jacket in one arm and hair damp from the shower. Before he can react, Nate steps in front of him, blocking his path.
“You certainly don’t waste any time.” Brad is amused, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Although I might have something to say about your choice of location.”
“It’s not what you think. Brad, I’m…”
Person uses his spectacular timing to walk through the same door.
“Homes, you ready? You know how I feel about civilian food.” He notices Nate.
“Is LT coming too? Chicken fried steak, fries with gravy, and twenty three kinds of pie. You’re welcome to have a heart attack next to me, sir.”
Brad is biting the pad of his thumb to hold back a laugh.
“Thank you, gents, but I’ll leave you to decompress. Have a milkshake for me.”
Brad groans. “Did you see what became of the last milkshake Corporal Person consumed? We’re trying to blend in with the locals, not horrify them with Ray’s trailer park, cow-fucking eating habits.”
“Noted, Sergeant.” Nate smiles, raising a hand in a dismissive wave, before turning on his heel.
“Lieutenant Fick?”
Brad extends a hand. Nate shakes it, a piece of paper sliding into his palm.
“It’s been a pleasure.” Brad emphasizes the last word before turning to catch up with Ray.
Nate follows closely behind, fingers deftly unfolding the note.
It’s an address in Brad’s messy scrawl:
15 Breakwater Cove
10pm SHARP
I know you’re leaving the Corps.
“How the fuck did you--?” Nate nearly crashes into both Brad and Ray.
Ray looks like he’s been waiting for an appropriate time to share this particular diatribe.
“Have you met the Iceman, sir? Brad Colbert is the sneakiest motherfucker that ever lived. The Iceman knows what you’re doing before you even decide to do it. That’s some straight up Jedi mind trick fuckery if you ask me, sir.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Brad says, with a private smile.
Nate hears Ray bitching as the pair walk off toward Ray’s truck. “Brad, you’re fucking pathetic. We’re not even home two goddamned hours, and you’re already looking to go back.”
Nate laughs and shoves the note into the front pocket of his jeans. Sooner that you think, Ray.
Poll
By: passionofmind
Prompt: Collateral Damage - Damage that is unintended or incidental to the intended outcome.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Brad starts stealing kisses from Nate with no words or explanation and then acts like nothing happened. It's enough to make Nate think he's going insane.
A/N: Inspired by a prompt from last year’s Porn Skirmish, thank you svilleficrecs! Also big hugs to pjvilar for working this out with me when my story got stuck in sobka tar and to my fabulous betas egotists & chemfishee. I owe you guys.
The first time it happens, they’re stationed at Mathilda.
Lilley’s a casualty and Nate’s running through the after-action with his TLs. With Encino Man passing down information, this might be the only chance he’s got.
Brad suggests an alternate SOP that focuses more on the safety of his men without detracting from the mission and it’s fucking brilliant. Nate’s face lights up in approval, knows Brad can see he’s caught off-guard.
When he praises Brad’s suggestion, Brad reacts like a puppy, wagging his tail in delight. Nate shoots him a company line, “Just don’t let emotions get in the way,” as easy as he rattles off coordinates on the hook.
Nate alerts the TLs in front of him that they have thirty mikes until chow, effectively dismissing them. The disbanded Marines start hurriedly announcing that they are oscar mike to the rest of the platoon.
All except Brad, who is calm and collected even in the face of sloppy joes at the mess. Nate falls in step with him on the way back to their victors.
“Good work today on the FTX. Your plan for recovery of a casualty in a kill zone…” Nate pauses thoughtful. “I have absolute confidence in your abilities as team leader of my point victor.”
Brad leans in and kisses him chastely.
“Thank you, sir,” is all Brad says before turning on his heel and striding back to his Humvee.
Nate stands there dumbfounded, fingertips ghosting over his lips. His brain tries to convince him that it didn’t happen, that Brad didn’t just kiss him on the mouth in broad
daylight and walk away like it was nothing.
The tingling warmth where Brad pressed his lips suggests otherwise.
“Hey LT!” Stafford is leaning out of their victor. “Can we be oscar mike? I’m hungry, sir.”
“We’re oscar mike.” Nate jogs the rest of the way to the command vehicle.
###########
The next time it happens they’re in theatre, just when Nate’s beginning to wonder if Brad ever really kissed him.
Well, almost.
Alpha’s getting lit up like a Christmas tree, and his boys are getting restless, tired of idly watching the war pass them by. Brad approaches from his six.
Nate tries not to let his amusement show when Brad conversationally questions how long they’re going to sit exposed, balls out, getting schwacked without retaliation.
Nate exercises his sense of humor, lets him know that battalion fully intends on castrating the entire company by sending them over the bridge outside of Nasiriyah with Bravo Company on point.
“Shall we dig in, sir?”
“Not a bad idea.” Nate motions to move from their position crouched behind the wheel of the command victor, but Brad grips his MOPP sleeve tightly.
“You’ll come to find, sir, that I don’t have bad ideas.”
Brad leans forward, Nate’s body compensating for the sudden imbalance, his back pressed against the wheel of the Humvee. Brad’s lips are on his again and this time Nate responds, nipping at Brad’s mouth and gripping his flak jacket. Brad gets to a crouched position, Nate’s hands falling back to his sides and then all he can see is Brad’s retreating form before he follows in the opposite direction.
###########
When Walt’s Mk-19 jams, Brad pornographically requests lubricant, expressing a preference for KY. Nate pretends he doesn’t feel Brad’s gaze on his ass when he drops from the Humvee to the deck.
Nate implores Brad to make do, but procures an entire jar of LSA with three Pop-Tart MREs and a barely-thumbed Hustler on loan from Stafford.
Stafford will take the loss of Mercedes and Candi harder than Nate will.
Anticipation flutters through Nate’s stomach as he approaches Two-One’s Humvee.
“Present for you. LSA.” The grin that stretches across Brad’s face makes the grief Nate will get from Stafford, and probably Christeson, worth it.
“Sir, not to get homoerotic about this, but I could kiss you.”
For a few seconds, Nate thinks Brad might do just that. His brain goes into panic mode, but his flushing cheeks betray the fact that he wants Brad to close the distance between them.
Nate’s frozen there, leaning in the window with Brad’s gaze locked on him, predatory shark grin on his face. Nate’s fairly certain he’s the prey.
He rolls his eyes to break the moment, gazing once more at Brad before forcing himself to walk away.
Later that day, while Bravo strong points a hostile city near Al Kut, Brad scoots closer when Nate appears beside him. The sun is fiery red, the natives are chanting, and Nate’s body is thrumming from the close proximity.
“Sir, the scuttlebutt I’m hearing says you may be relieved of command.”
Brad is refreshingly persistent.
“Sir, it is in the opinion of this Marine that you are a Godsend from the heavens to get us through this invasion. To elaborate, in less than twenty-four hours you’ve managed to supply LSA even though there is a company-wide supply shortage, and you single-handedly unfucked Encino Man from dropping arty on his own fucking company. I wasn’t being facetious when I said I could kiss you.”
“So kiss me,” Nate says, barely a whisper, and Brad’s tongue is performing a recon mission of its own in Nate’s mouth. Their tongues touch, and it’s like liquid heat in Nate’s belly. Brad withdraws far too quickly, but not before taking a particularly possessive tug on Nate’s bottom lip.
“Sir, your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in.” Brad doesn’t retreat this time, just steadily gazes his endorsement.
Nate curses his pale skin, knowing the flush of his cheeks sticks out in sharp contrast, despite the setting sun.
Brad continues the conversation as if he didn’t just have his tongue down Nate’s throat. Brad always has his attention, but lately Nate’s more focused on the motion of his lips then what’s actually coming out of them.
Nate knows he’s got to get to his feet, get somewhere where he can’t slide Brad under the Humvee and work out his combat stress.
He tells Brad it’s going to be a long night, but that has more to do with the reconnaissance kissing than the conservation of firepower.
###########
The days following Trombley’s incidental shooting are not good ones.
Nate finds that he is forced to disobey command to guarantee the safety of his men at the cost of his own Godfather supplied verbal ass reaming.
Call Nate masochistic, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay.
Godfather’s looking at him, Schwetje’s looking at him, and Lord knows Griego’s always looking at him.
Nate over hears Patrick, and Espera talking about him like the fucking gossips they are and sets out to find Brad.
When he’s looped the camp, Gunny Wynn nods in the direction of a steady pounding, metal on metal, jarring Nate’s skull. He slips down into the dirt sliding under the Humvee.
Nate is immediately relieved to have the eyes off him and wonders if Brad feels the same.
“Hiding out?”
Brad doesn’t answer, just continues to chip away at the hard black grime in front of him.
Nate removes his Kevlar and props an arm behind his head, settling into the cool sand.
“Me too.”
Brad looks over curiously, one eye squinting against the setting sun. Nate closes his eyes, the hammering rhythm less jarring now, more comforting, assuring him of Brad’s presence.
“You should get some sleep, sir.” The voice comes from his right, and he rolls to that side. Brad has ceased banging.
Nate barks out a laugh. “I’m on watch tonight. Sleep isn’t in my near future. Go dig a grave, Brad. Get some sleep.”
“You’re on watch, LT?” Brad’s voice is wary. “Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to, like keeping command from killing all of us?”
Nate gives him the ghost of a smile.
“The dirt’s not fooling anyone. You look like shit. Get some sleep. Or do I have to dig the hole for you and throw you in?”
Brad returns the smile inches away, perfect white teeth in sharp contrast to the black filth covering his face.
“No, sir.”
“C’mere.”
“I’m covered in dirt,” Brad says weakly, although his eyes are focused, far from the vacant stare they held when Nate first ducked under the Humvee.
“Do I look like I give a fuck?” Nate breathes with a grin.
Brad closes the space between them briskly claiming Nate’s lips, hand holding Nate’s cheek. It’s more tender than the other kisses, comforting.
Nate’s face is warm under Brad’s hand.
Brad’s kisses are like hot cocoa on a snowy day in Hanover, warm sweetness spreading through Nate’s body, chasing away the traces of numbness.
When they part, Brad trails his knuckle across Nate’s cheekbone, “There’s dirt on your face.”
“Get some sleep, Sergeant. That’s an order.” Nate rolls out from under Team One’s Humvee and replaces his Kevlar.
He decides against raking the sleeve of his ACUs across his cheek. It will be dark soon, maybe another ten mikes, and he’s not quite ready to be rid of Brad’s handprint branding his skin.
###########
It’s been a particularly shitty day for Nate Fick. Griego’s going around calling him a pussy, Schwetje wants to play nice and work as a team, and Nate has to spin some moto bullshit to motivate his TLs despite his reservations about it being a suicide mission.
The knot tightens fiercely in Nate’s stomach as Patrick, Espera, and Colbert air their own reservations.
Nate shares the concerns of his men, knows they are legitimate. But this is a war, and Nate is a commanding officer. He has his orders. He’s already suspect with battalion for being insubordinate, not that he gives a shit, and he wouldn’t be helping either side by questioning them.
Nate knows there’s only one way to nip their hesitation in the bud, so he grits his teeth and chides his men.
“Quite frankly, gentlemen, I’m not hearing the aggressiveness I’d like.”
“Roger that, sir,” Colbert responds. There is betrayal behind his eyes.
Nate can’t linger. Brad will target the chinks in his armor if he gives him the opportunity.
“Prepare your teams to step off,” Nate orders before sauntering off, dread pooling in his belly.
His fears materialize when they get trapped in a kill zone, sitting ducks in a firefight.
Nate hopes that the bullets skittering past his feet will serve as an apology as he directs traffic, foot mobile in the chaos.
Muwaffaquiyah is an utter failure. A poorly constructed debacle. Nate knows it, his men know it, and he won’t insult their intelligence by pretending otherwise.
Brad calls him astute, but it’s not meant as a compliment. Coming from anyone else it would be out of line.
“I think we can take it from here, sir,” Brad says not unkindly.
Nate lets himself be dismissed.
###########
Nate takes his e-tool and digs out his frustrations, his anger, and his disillusionment with the Corps.
He climbs into his grave and tries to sleep, but it’s futile. Instead, he swallows another piece of his idealism down like a bitter pill.
Footsteps approach his grave, dirt slipping over the edges and into the hole, a dark shadow obscuring Nate’s view of the stars above.
“Sleeping with your eyes open, sir?”
Nate meets Brad’s eyes, still clear and blue despite the darkness.
Brad kneels, braces one hand on the side of the grave, leaning in to press a firm kiss to Nate’s lips.
Later, Nate will make excuses to himself that he was too exhausted, or irritated, or just too goddamned horny not to kiss back, but for now he responds.
He grips the rough fabric of Brad’s uniform tightly in his fists, pulling Brad the rest of the way into the grave to grind against him with intent. The friction is rough and delicious, the full length of Brad’s body against his own, Brad asserting control by pressing Nate down so there’s nowhere for him to go, nothing for him to do but arch up and let Brad manhandle him under the cover of darkness.
It doesn’t last more than thirty seconds tops, Nate hard and throbbing while Brad retreats to his position at the edge of the grave, kneeling to scrub dirt at the toe of his boot.
“What the fuck was that?” Nate is surprised that his voice comes out level.
An amused smile plays across Brad’s lips.
“Just following orders, sir.”
“I don’t recall giving an order to assault me.”
“I was being more aggressive, as requested. I hope you’re seeing aggressiveness to your liking, Lieutenant Fick.”
“Hey, Brad!”
Nate would know Corporal Person’s voice anywhere.
“I know I gave you a pass last time, but don’t forget that this is my game. I started it, and I intend on finishing it.” Brad grins wolfishly. “Evening, sir.”
Nate groans when Colbert’s footfalls are far enough away, before banging his head on the solid dirt beneath him.
He is assured that it is Sergeant Colbert’s independent recon mission to drive him slowly insane using only his mouth.
###########
The next day isn’t any easier.
Hostiles are mixed in with civilians; the men are hungry and running on nearly thirty hours without a decent amount of sleep, and Hasser, nerves fried, puts a bullet between the eyes of an Iraqi who froze like a deer in the proverbial headlights when faced with legitimate danger.
The sadists at the MRE factory could hand out Frappuccino MREs, and it still wouldn’t do anything to raise morale.
Gunny keeps on him, worse than Nate’s own goddamned mother, until his concern for the emotional state of his men overrides his desire to avoid Brad.
His worry is not unfounded. Brad hands the hook up to Trombley with a head tilt clearly indicating his desire for a private chat. This is possibly the last thing that Nate wants, but he finds himself walking in step with Brad until they reach the outer perimeter of the camp.
Brad leans in close, too near to be comfortable and Nate shifts his gaze towards sand and sky to alleviate the tension. He’s thankful the words coming out of Brad’s mouth are all business.
Every time Brad leans in to lower his voice or hone a point, Nate finds himself edging away from Brad as if he might be burned if their skin touches. Frankly, Nate’s not in the mood to find out.
He forcibly shifts his eyes back to Brad’s once more and notices his curious gaze.
“Something the matter, sir?” Brad asks, and he’s so close that Nate can feel warm breath against his face as he tries to maintain eye contact.
“Why do you ask, Sergeant?” he shoots back against his better judgment.
“You seem a bit unstrung at the moment.”
Nate’s not particularly fond of the pleased expression Brad is unsuccessfully trying to stifle.
“Make no mistake, Sergeant. I’m fully strung.”
“I am assured of this,” Brad teases with a grin that stretches across his dirt covered face. He looks positively gleeful.
Poke interrupts their conversation in what is meant to be a show of support for Walt’s actions. To say it backfires would be putting it mildly.
It’s clear that their private conversation is over, so Nate shoots Brad a pleading look and a relieved nod of thanks when Brad’s posture reflects his decision to back off.
For the moment at least.
As Nate heads off in the opposite direction, he vaguely hears Brad start in on Ray’s backwoods whiskey tango eating habits. He wonders idly if their encounter didn’t go the way Brad intended, if Nate’s lack of focus put a wrench in his plans.
Clearly Brad adapts by finding a whole new set of button to push with Ray Person.
###########
Nate can feel Brad’s eyes on him, burning a hole in the back of his head as he makes rounds through the night. It isn’t until they’re in the early hours of the morning, with Brad on twenty-five percent watch that they finally get a moment alone.
The sound of Person’s snoring carries through the driver’s side window of the Humvee as Brad offers up his frustrations at not being able to participate in one legitimate reconnaissance mission.
Nate chooses to placate Brad.
“This fucking POG camp we're in has a legit slit trench latrine.” Nate tilts his head with a smile as if to emphasize his point. “Really.”
The predatory smile that Brad returns fills Nate with unease. He has a feeling he’s just promised Brad more than he intended.
“That's my recon mission, then. Perhaps you’ll join me.”
Brad pushes off from the hood of his vehicle.
“Oh-three-hundred hours, Lieutenant,” Brad calls over his shoulder, a promise, before heading off in the direction of Poke’s vehicle.
Nate doesn’t have the grace to do anything but stand there flabbergasted. He says a silent prayer that for once, nobody is calling him over the comms.
###########
Nate finds himself glancing at his watch despite himself. He’s not entertaining thoughts of actually attending Brad’s proposed rendezvous. Nor is he considering thoughts of voluntary occupational suicide.
Until he is.
He hopes the walk will clear his head or that he’ll trip over something that forcibly knocks some sense into him.
He reaches the outer confines of the latrines unscathed. Nate takes a sigh of relief to dwell on the fact that he is, by all accounts, late and Brad is nowhere to be seen.
Just as Nate turns on his heel and begins to walk back, he is dragged into the shadows on the other side of the latrines and backed up against an outer wall.
“Going somewhere, sir?” Brad’s expression looks remarkably sharp.
“I decided this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“A little late for that.” Brad says steps into Nate’s space. “I hope I’m correct in my assumption that you didn’t pass on the intel you shared with me earlier to the entire platoon.”
Nate shoots him what he hopes is a stern look. “You would be correct.”
“Good, Lieutenant. That’s very good.” Brad’s tone is indulgent and thick, distracting enough that Nate literally jumps when he feels skin-on-skin contact. Brad’s fingers graze his abdomen.
Leave it to Brad Colbert to figure out how to get under a MOPP suit in thirty seconds flat.
Brad ducks in to claim his lips, but Nate avoids the contact.
“What are we doing, Brad?”
An amused look plays on Brad’s handsome features. “Well this is disappointing, sir. I wasn’t aware that you needed the Idiot’s Guide to Making Out. But I’m sure Reporter will be happy to lend you his copy.”
“I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Why are you doing this?” Nate says a bit helplessly, gesturing between them.
“Have you come down with a bad case of feelings since last time? I suppose I should have expected this from an overeducated Ivy silver spooner like yourself.” His grin is sharp and disingenuous. “I assure you, it’s just a way to pass the time. I don’t expect us to be holding hands in the Pride parade anytime soon.”
Assuaged, Nate loosens his grip and Brad’s lips assault his mouth. It’s the same and yet somehow different. The very specific Iceman control glaringly present in their past dalliances is nowhere to be found. Brad’s hands bracket Nate’s head on either side, barring him from a facile escape.
Their mouths move together familiarly, Brad’s tongue swiping against the roof of Nate’s mouth in the way that makes him let out a breathy huff, Nate’s fingers in the short hair at the nape of Brad’s neck.
Brad’s fingers move to stroke Nate’s belly, and it’s the first time anyone else has touched that stretch of skin since they left the States. Nate never even considered that to be a particularly pleasurable bit, but he has to revise that pretty fucking fast because the things Brad’s fingertips are doing to his skin are making him harder than when Ellie James sucked him off after the Spring Formal in the backseat of his mom’s Volvo.
He still has combat jacks about that particular mental image.
It’s the shuffling of feet that catches Nate’s attention. They’re too far away from where the others have dug in for the night; nobody should be walking around out here.
“Brad, stop,” Nate protests, turning his face from the onslaught.
Brad bites the juncture of his collarbone in retaliation, Nate swallowing down a long list of choice expletives.
The footfalls get closer, and Brad is suddenly deadly still.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Nate has a mini heart attack, thinking they’ve been caught and imagining the best way to announce his premature resignation before realizing the man is distracted by the prospect of actual latrines.
There is something to be said for the extended use of cat holes’ effect on combat readiness.
Brad shifts to put some space between them, Nate thankful that he no longer has Brad’s hot breath against the shell of his ear, just in case the explorer decides to walk around the structure. The ancient wood creaks audibly as he shifts.
Nate holds his breath. There’s no way the other man didn’t hear that.
“Someone out here? Seriously, Darnold, if that’s you fucking with me, I swear to God.”
The man’s radio crackles with static. “Three-two, going to need you to round up your TLs, over.”
“Copy that. Heading back to base, over.” Nate can hear him walking away from them.
Nate shoulders past Brad with a gritted, “Enough now.”
They need to get the fuck out of here before they both ruin their careers.
Nate starts moving with a brisk stride, but Brad catches up to him and wrenches his arm.
“We’re not finished.”
“Yes, we are.”
Brad grips his forearm hard. “Not until I say.”
Nate jerks free from Brad’s hold without another word, heading back towards camp. He can still feel the warmth of Brad’s fingertips through his MOPP suit.
###########
He’s able to effectively avoid further direct contact with Brad until they reach the outskirts of Baghdad.
Nate’s been in a pretty shitty mood; he’s got a journal of handwritten notes, requests from the sheiks, burning a hole in his pocket. He’s fairly certain that he’s the only one who will ever see its contents.
Iraqi males push around wounded children for prescription drugs and there is armed ordinance sitting in playgrounds and residential backyards.
Nate thought they hit madness a few clicks back, but he stands corrected.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Poke shaking his head and moving away from his vehicle with a det kit in hand. It doesn’t fill Nate with the confidence it should.
Upon closer inspection, Poke’s Humvee is deserted, so he closes the short distance to Two-One’s victor. He finds Ray, Walt, and Trombley inside.
“Care to join us, sir?” Ray asks holding out a tin of Cope which Nate declines with a polite shake of his head.
“Any idea where Two-One Actual might be?”
“Trying to blow himself up,” Ray says with one his trademark manic grins, “sir.”
“He’s what?”
“Sergeant Colbert is detonating ordinance to make greater Baghdad safe for children again. My hero.” Ray clutches his chest.
“Where?”
“Down that alley,” Walt points out helpfully.
Nate grabs Gunny for back-up before heading towards the indicated property.
He finds Brad crouched next to a missile lodged in a suburban yard. Poke watches skeptically.
“Get out of there, Brad,” Nate calls as soon as he’s within earshot. Just seeing Brad’s fingers skate over the neat lines of stamped text is making Nate’s skin twitch.
“Sir, we’ve got another Mark-82,” Brad protests.
Nate knows Brad’s appealing to his inherent nature, but the stakes are just too high this time. Nate’s already set his sights on returning to Oceanside with all twenty-three of his men physically unscathed. It’s a promise he’s dead set on keeping.
“That’s an order,” he says firmly.
It’s the first time in the whole invasion he’s given Brad a direct order.
“Sir, I strongly request-”
“I will not let you blow yourself up trying to maintain property values in Greater Baghdad. That's a no-go.”
Emotion punctuates each word that rolls off his tongue rapid fire and Nate is quickly overcome with the feeling that he’s said too much, left himself too exposed. Everything about this war is suddenly too personal.
He’s thankful when Gunny Wynn pipes in his two cents. “Up and out, Sergeant.”
“Get out of the hole,” Nate says, resorting to the raised eyebrows his mother used to strike fear into his childhood self.
It works like a charm.
Apparently adoptive Jewish mothers are just as well-versed in guilt trip and manipulation, because Colbert begrudgingly reaches for Poke’s extended hand, lips twisted in a pout.
“We’re done here, Brad,” Nate says quietly, almost unnecessarily, and Brad shoots him a sharp look.
He lets Poke and Gunny continue on towards the mouth of the alley before turning on his heel to face Brad.
“If you could make an effort to return home with all your limbs still attached as a personal favor to me, I would appreciate that.” Nate crosses his arms defensively.
Brad completely ignores the poorly disguised attempt at humor, stepping right into his space and forcing Nate to drop his arms.
“I thought I made it clear, Lieutenant Fick, that I’ll be the one to decide when we’re finished.”
Nate knows what happens next. He’s prepared for it and he isn’t.
The rough brush of Brad’s lips against his own, tongue pushing purposefully into Nate’s mouth, sliding like sparks and brushing against the back of his teeth. Nate kisses back because there’s simply not a good enough reason not to.
Nate can taste Brad’s emotions, mirroring his own.
Brad pulls away so roughly, it’s like some sort of mental command, lips brushing across Nate’s cheek.
“One more thing.” Nate raises an eyebrow in question. “Get in the way of me doing my job again and my response won’t be nearly as pleasant.”
Nate watches Brad stalk away in characteristic long strides until he has to squint into the sun to keep from losing him.
###########
The only thing that stands between Nate and a plane ride home is a mountain of paperwork and hours of cataloging inventory. He can’t get the forms filled out fast enough.
It seems that Colbert’s team has similar aspirations. When he approaches they are crouched around various forms of ammunition tallying down to the last bullet. Trombley is sucking down a pack of Charms, but it seems as long as he continues pitching in, Sergeant Colbert won’t reprimand him in the foreseeable future.
“Brad? You need to fill these DD-40s in triplicate for the shipping pallets.” Nate hands over the clipboard. Brad doesn’t make eye contact, just flips through the sheets.
“Yes, sir.” The response is perfunctory, lackluster. It gets under Nate’s skin.
Trombley asks the status of the casualties from Bravo Three who were injured in a minefield the night before, and Nate updates team two on the grisly details of their injuries.
“Any word on why Encino Man sent them out on orders that Alpha Company refused?” Brad asks, looking Nate square in the eye. Evidently, he isn’t quite finished trying to tear the last thread of Nate’s carefully-contained restraint.
Nate shoots him a look that illustrates all the contempt he feels at being asked such a question when Brad undoubtedly knows the answer. He turns on his heel, but stops abruptly, remembering one last bit of information he is supposed to circulate.
“Oh. This war has an official name now: Operation Iraqi Freedom.” Nate doesn’t even try to keep the look of disdain for the misnomer off his face.
Brad’s eyes follow him for a long distance before Nate changes course.
###########
Brad comes to him later, while he is sequestered in an abandoned office Encino Man has designated for Bravo’s obligatory paperwork. It was Schwetje’s first order of business upon reaching the soccer stadium, securing a location before “a bunch of POGs” could claim it for their own. Heaven forbid.
Brad places the clipboard on the desk, forms neatly aligned and impeccably completed, but Nate knows that’s not why he is here. They’ve been dancing around one another, closer and closer, until it was inevitable that it would come to this moment.
Nate watches as Brad situates himself on the edge of his desk, facing Nate.
“You’ve been stealing kisses from me,” Nate says evenly, flicking through the final pages of the paperwork in front of him.
Brad’s face is amused. He crosses his arms playfully. “Kisses, sir?”
“It’s Nate.”
“Nate,” Brad says pleasantly. Nate sets down the paperwork. Brad knows very well he’s not really reading it and there’s no reason to keep up the façade.
“Ever since Mathilda you’ve been driving me nuts. Making me wonder if I’m suffering from sort of kiss-related Pavlovian response. I can’t even look at a map without thinking about your mouth. Frankly, Sergeant, it’s distracting.”
“Well Nate, I’m sorry I’ve been such a distraction to you. It won’t happen again,” Brad makes a motion to move, but Nate keeps him pinned to the desk.
“No.”
Brad looks down at him; there is an expression Nate’s never seen before playing on his face.
“You’ve ruined me, Colbert,” Nate says, getting to his feet and bracing his palms on the desk on either side of Brad’s thighs. Nate kisses him, tongue slipping past Brad’s lips, and Brad’s hand fists the fabric of Nate’s blouse, rucking up the material so that Nate can feel cool air on his back.
Nate kisses him wet and aggressive, unhinged for the first time, tempting fate to catch them in flagrant violation of the officer code of conduct and caring fuck all about it.
Let them be discovered. It won’t be the poorest judgment call made in this occupation, not by a long shot.
Nate pulls back, breathless, placing one last kiss on the warm column of Brad’s throat.
Brad looks slightly dazed, eyes glassy and deeper blue, and Nate feels a swell of pride in his chest at finally seeing the Iceman off-balance, bested at his own game.
“You realize what you’re agreeing to,” Brad asks with some seriousness. “This is beyond necking like a couple of horny teenagers on a road trip. To be clear, this is your career you’re jeopardizing.”
“Isn’t it a little late in the game to be reading me the riot act?”
“All we’re talking about here is a couple of kisses.”
“Try and convince me that your intent was to steal a few innocent kisses from your commanding officer. Don’t be offended when I don’t believe a word of it.”
“I might be, arguably, one of the best damn members of the Reconnaissance Marines, but you’re overestimating my abilities if you thought I’d be reckless enough to try anything more, shall we say advanced. At least until we are stateside.”
“What’s different about stateside?”
“All bets are off.” Brad walks to the door. “We’re finished now. That is, of course, unless you don’t want to be. I trust that you’ll pass down the appropriate intel.”
Brad slips from the room quietly. Nate doesn’t follow. The truth is he’s made this decision back at Mathilda, the first time Brad pressed their lips together.
###########
It’s their last evening in Iraq.
Poke is trying to reconcile what he’s done in this country, whether or not the people he’s killed met a just ends at his hands.
Nate offers what he can, the steadfast rules of engagement, a means of simplifying right and wrong without dipping into the gray area that comes with too many sleepless nights and the many lost opportunities to do real good.
“All religious stuff aside, the fact is, people who can't kill will always be subject to those who can.” It’s the essence of Brad.
Nate knows he’s made the right decision, that the only choice is to finish what they started in Kuwait.
Lilley announces that his theatrical masterpiece is completed and ready for an audience, and most of them wander over to watch. Brad continues eating his beloved jalapeno and cheese, without a care in the world. Nate doesn’t budge an inch.
He waits until Gunny turns his face towards the Johnny Cash blaring through the tinny speakers and fixes his gaze on Brad, who looks up expectantly.
Nate’s expression is a slew of different emotions: hope. resignation. respect. contentment. They all mean the same thing.
With one small gesture, Nate gives Brad the answer he’s looking for. One nod and Nate’s unequivocally agreed to Brad’s terms.
Nate looks away quickly to see if Gunny saw the transaction, but Wynn’s attentions are focused on Lilley and his band of critics. He passes his gaze back to Brad’s once more, a sheepish smile playing on his lips before he walks away. Brad’s face gives nothing away except for the fact that the cracker he was about to devour still hovers inches from his lips.
What Nate doesn’t see is the look of astounded surprise as soon as he turns his back.
###########
Nate spends the twenty hour flight back to California working out all the different possible scenarios. Only one has the resolution he desires.
He spends the blissful moments of his first shower in longer than he can remember thinking of ways to break the news to Brad. Bluntness seems to be a rather appealing tactic when it comes to Brad Colbert.
He dresses in record time. Nate waits in the hallway for Brad to come out of the washroom so he can ambush him. He consults his watch a final time before he hears someone approaching.
Brad wears civvies, leather jacket in one arm and hair damp from the shower. Before he can react, Nate steps in front of him, blocking his path.
“You certainly don’t waste any time.” Brad is amused, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “Although I might have something to say about your choice of location.”
“It’s not what you think. Brad, I’m…”
Person uses his spectacular timing to walk through the same door.
“Homes, you ready? You know how I feel about civilian food.” He notices Nate.
“Is LT coming too? Chicken fried steak, fries with gravy, and twenty three kinds of pie. You’re welcome to have a heart attack next to me, sir.”
Brad is biting the pad of his thumb to hold back a laugh.
“Thank you, gents, but I’ll leave you to decompress. Have a milkshake for me.”
Brad groans. “Did you see what became of the last milkshake Corporal Person consumed? We’re trying to blend in with the locals, not horrify them with Ray’s trailer park, cow-fucking eating habits.”
“Noted, Sergeant.” Nate smiles, raising a hand in a dismissive wave, before turning on his heel.
“Lieutenant Fick?”
Brad extends a hand. Nate shakes it, a piece of paper sliding into his palm.
“It’s been a pleasure.” Brad emphasizes the last word before turning to catch up with Ray.
Nate follows closely behind, fingers deftly unfolding the note.
It’s an address in Brad’s messy scrawl:
15 Breakwater Cove
10pm SHARP
I know you’re leaving the Corps.
“How the fuck did you--?” Nate nearly crashes into both Brad and Ray.
Ray looks like he’s been waiting for an appropriate time to share this particular diatribe.
“Have you met the Iceman, sir? Brad Colbert is the sneakiest motherfucker that ever lived. The Iceman knows what you’re doing before you even decide to do it. That’s some straight up Jedi mind trick fuckery if you ask me, sir.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Brad says, with a private smile.
Nate hears Ray bitching as the pair walk off toward Ray’s truck. “Brad, you’re fucking pathetic. We’re not even home two goddamned hours, and you’re already looking to go back.”
Nate laughs and shoves the note into the front pocket of his jeans. Sooner that you think, Ray.
Poll