Fic : Been a Long Day | Brad/Nate
Title: Been A Long Day
Prompt: High and Right - Losing one's temper or rationality; from the common error of a poorshooter to jerk the trigger and impact the upper right side of a target.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Potentially triggering subjects dealing with PTSD.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. The story is fictional and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Summary: The war has only just begun for Nate.
A/N: Written for combat_jack. This story was inspired by Rosi Golan's Been a Long Day, a beautiful song that I had on repeat throughout this entire process. You can listen to it here. I would also like to note that absolutely no disrespect was meant by the theme of this sensitive topic. I tried very hard to deal with it in a realistic manner that would maintain due respect for the subject at hand, and I hope it came across that way. A big thank you to lunasky and noted for being willing to read this over for me, I appreciate it! Also a big thank you to team day for your support and awesomeness!
The entire war has been like one long, never ending day. Suffocating emotionally and physically, sticky and permanent. Even at home Nate doesn't feel a difference, doesn't quite see the separation between here and now... and then, back there in the desert. The green of trees and grass are a small comfort, but even the flowers along the sidewalk to his front door are dead, their leafs a taunting sandy brown.
Nothing's changed, dust is the only resident, curling over picture frames and counter tops. The fridge is empty, just like he left it, and Nate wonders just how the world has managed to go on while the war is a constant living thing right inside his chest.
He can't sleep, not with the stale sheets and pillows that smell like he used to. The fabric beneath him has the scent of pine, his deodorant, and the cinnamon gum he always used to chew. Just the thought of it brings the taste to his mouth, dry but spiced and so warm. It's a welcome change to the stale tang of Iraq, one that he enjoys even for the brief few minutes that it survives.
Nate's not sure when the night comes, doesn't even realize that the sun's gone down before it's back again. He goes to the store, buys things he forgot he needed in this too calm day-to-day. It's all a blur of slow activity, even when he runs so fast along the busy streets, sweat dripping from his desert-tanned skin.
There's a rhythm he falls into like he always has, routine providing a solid protection just like his MOPP suit. A day goes by, and at some point a week. It's a month later when he comes home from a run, the pain in his legs throbbing with a familiar sort of burn. When he walks into the house, drenched through the thin layer of his clothes it's like walking back into the desert. Something about the brown of the old chairs, the smell of the air, the way the fan is twisting around without providing any sort of breeze makes it all so real, like he can touch the dirt and sand, smell the oil and a not too far off stench from a corpse.
He's there again, a place he knows somewhere in the bowels of a Iraq, a barely there memory without a name. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he's physically still in his apartment, but maybe this place was always his home.
The body is there on his floor, this naked blur of flesh that exists without any definite edges. It's not man nor woman, child or adult. More like the entire war stretched out across his floor. He walks closer, the fog in his mind clearing with each step. Nate can feel the tug in his stomach, the way bile rises in his throat, the anger and pain rising with it and burning the thin walls of his esophagus.
Inches away, he can reach out and touch, and it's then that he can make out the lines of the face, distinct and familiar. His body starts to shake before he fully processes the image, the way he sees himself laying so completely lifeless. There's no mistaking it, even with skin so pale it's nearly transparent, blood painting the dip of his forehead and nose.
Yesterday comes back, and the day before that, all the wasted time just sitting restlessly in his mind. He can feel the weeks coming at him, and the guilt of realizing he left a part of himself in Iraq. An irreplaceable, tiny but important part of his soul.
The weight of emotion against his carefully built walls is too much to bare, and like a deep breath in, everything comes tumbling out. Nate can feel himself moving, and when he blinks there's blood on his knuckles, a fist-shaped hole in the wall next to his head. There's nothing there, on the floor in his living room, no body or desert ground. He turns to the mess around him, this mess that he's created with his own two hands. Papers are ripped and scattered, the couch is practically torn apart and the lamp is broken, surrounded by glass from the light that's never going to shine again.
At some point he picks up the phone, doesn't know what he says to the person on the other line. The day passes into night, and morning comes again with him sitting in the middle of his personal chaos. There's a weight in the back of his eyes, and he can practically feel each second moving throughout his veins.
There's a knock in the distance, heavy and repetitive against the thick door. The sound breaches the silence, and his legs shake beneath him as he gets to his feet. When he opens the door Brad's on the other side, lines under his eyes so thick they rival Nate's own. He can see the exhaustion he feels in Brad, so incredibly transparent and there, but Brad's still so alive and it's the realest thing Nate's ever seen.
He can feel the way Brad's eyes scan the apartment, take in the destruction and come back to rest on him. There's no pity in the look, no promises or excuses in the slow curve of Brad's lips. It's refreshing the way Brad looks at him, honest and like Nate's quite simply human.
"It's been a long day," Nate says, but he means something more like a long year, a long time, a long long journey to get here.
Brad's hand is at the back of his head, pulling him in and holding him tight as he breaks.
"I know," he can hear Brad whisper against his neck, "I know."
Prompt: High and Right - Losing one's temper or rationality; from the common error of a poorshooter to jerk the trigger and impact the upper right side of a target.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Potentially triggering subjects dealing with PTSD.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. The story is fictional and any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Summary: The war has only just begun for Nate.
A/N: Written for combat_jack. This story was inspired by Rosi Golan's Been a Long Day, a beautiful song that I had on repeat throughout this entire process. You can listen to it here. I would also like to note that absolutely no disrespect was meant by the theme of this sensitive topic. I tried very hard to deal with it in a realistic manner that would maintain due respect for the subject at hand, and I hope it came across that way. A big thank you to lunasky and noted for being willing to read this over for me, I appreciate it! Also a big thank you to team day for your support and awesomeness!
The entire war has been like one long, never ending day. Suffocating emotionally and physically, sticky and permanent. Even at home Nate doesn't feel a difference, doesn't quite see the separation between here and now... and then, back there in the desert. The green of trees and grass are a small comfort, but even the flowers along the sidewalk to his front door are dead, their leafs a taunting sandy brown.
Nothing's changed, dust is the only resident, curling over picture frames and counter tops. The fridge is empty, just like he left it, and Nate wonders just how the world has managed to go on while the war is a constant living thing right inside his chest.
He can't sleep, not with the stale sheets and pillows that smell like he used to. The fabric beneath him has the scent of pine, his deodorant, and the cinnamon gum he always used to chew. Just the thought of it brings the taste to his mouth, dry but spiced and so warm. It's a welcome change to the stale tang of Iraq, one that he enjoys even for the brief few minutes that it survives.
Nate's not sure when the night comes, doesn't even realize that the sun's gone down before it's back again. He goes to the store, buys things he forgot he needed in this too calm day-to-day. It's all a blur of slow activity, even when he runs so fast along the busy streets, sweat dripping from his desert-tanned skin.
There's a rhythm he falls into like he always has, routine providing a solid protection just like his MOPP suit. A day goes by, and at some point a week. It's a month later when he comes home from a run, the pain in his legs throbbing with a familiar sort of burn. When he walks into the house, drenched through the thin layer of his clothes it's like walking back into the desert. Something about the brown of the old chairs, the smell of the air, the way the fan is twisting around without providing any sort of breeze makes it all so real, like he can touch the dirt and sand, smell the oil and a not too far off stench from a corpse.
He's there again, a place he knows somewhere in the bowels of a Iraq, a barely there memory without a name. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he's physically still in his apartment, but maybe this place was always his home.
The body is there on his floor, this naked blur of flesh that exists without any definite edges. It's not man nor woman, child or adult. More like the entire war stretched out across his floor. He walks closer, the fog in his mind clearing with each step. Nate can feel the tug in his stomach, the way bile rises in his throat, the anger and pain rising with it and burning the thin walls of his esophagus.
Inches away, he can reach out and touch, and it's then that he can make out the lines of the face, distinct and familiar. His body starts to shake before he fully processes the image, the way he sees himself laying so completely lifeless. There's no mistaking it, even with skin so pale it's nearly transparent, blood painting the dip of his forehead and nose.
Yesterday comes back, and the day before that, all the wasted time just sitting restlessly in his mind. He can feel the weeks coming at him, and the guilt of realizing he left a part of himself in Iraq. An irreplaceable, tiny but important part of his soul.
The weight of emotion against his carefully built walls is too much to bare, and like a deep breath in, everything comes tumbling out. Nate can feel himself moving, and when he blinks there's blood on his knuckles, a fist-shaped hole in the wall next to his head. There's nothing there, on the floor in his living room, no body or desert ground. He turns to the mess around him, this mess that he's created with his own two hands. Papers are ripped and scattered, the couch is practically torn apart and the lamp is broken, surrounded by glass from the light that's never going to shine again.
At some point he picks up the phone, doesn't know what he says to the person on the other line. The day passes into night, and morning comes again with him sitting in the middle of his personal chaos. There's a weight in the back of his eyes, and he can practically feel each second moving throughout his veins.
There's a knock in the distance, heavy and repetitive against the thick door. The sound breaches the silence, and his legs shake beneath him as he gets to his feet. When he opens the door Brad's on the other side, lines under his eyes so thick they rival Nate's own. He can see the exhaustion he feels in Brad, so incredibly transparent and there, but Brad's still so alive and it's the realest thing Nate's ever seen.
He can feel the way Brad's eyes scan the apartment, take in the destruction and come back to rest on him. There's no pity in the look, no promises or excuses in the slow curve of Brad's lips. It's refreshing the way Brad looks at him, honest and like Nate's quite simply human.
"It's been a long day," Nate says, but he means something more like a long year, a long time, a long long journey to get here.
Brad's hand is at the back of his head, pulling him in and holding him tight as he breaks.
"I know," he can hear Brad whisper against his neck, "I know."