Generation Kill - Umoja (Brad/Nate, OFC, ensemble)
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate, OFC, ensemble
Rated PG-13
For sparky77 and alethialia (Happy Birthday, A!)
Umoja
PROLOGUE
Nate is supposed to visit Brad for five days of sex, alcohol and surfing, but mostly sex and alcohol. The fact that Brad opens the door of his Newport Beach apartment holding a baby is most definitely not on Nate's agenda. Especially not when the baby is babbling at Brad and waving a plastic key ring around as though it's a hot grenade.
Nate drops his duffle on the doorstep as Brad hands him a wriggling, babbling little boy. "Hold this." The baby grins at Nate toothily, blue eyes wide, and whacks him on the arm with his key ring.
Nate just goes with it; he's got a lot of cousins.
After the baby is settled on his hip, Nate looks at Brad expectantly. "Was there a change in your life recently that you failed to tell me about?" he asks.
Brad grins. "I had no idea you were such a natural with kids," he says, picking up Nate's bag so Nate can step inside.
"Well, it was either that or drop him on the ground," Nate says, following Brad in the direction of the kitchen while trying to ignore the on-going attack by key ring.
"Of course," Brad mocks, pausing to toss Nate's bag in the bedroom. "Nate, this is Samuel, my nephew. Apparently, his parents needed an afternoon off to have fetishistic sex that I didn't want to know about, but since my mom's at her knitting circle, I got drafted. Sammy, this is Nate, say, 'Hi'."
Samuel gives Nate a drooling, gummy smile which Nate returns -- minus the drooling. He then pauses in the kitchen doorway to shift Samuel from one hip to the other and shield them both from possible attack.
There's a runny green mess all over everything in the kitchen; it looks as though The Exorcist was filmed between the counter and the refrigerator. There's also a high-chair lying on its side on the floor as though it just gave up the fight.
"What happened in here?" Nate doesn't bother to hide his incredulous tone.
"Lunchtime," Brad says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Nate looks from Brad to Samuel and then back again. "Did you manage to get any food in the baby, Brad?"
Brad looks up from wiping down the counters. "Have you ever tasted baby food, Nate? It tastes like reconstituted MRE ass that Person pissed in right after he had a combat jack."
"Language," Nate warns.
Samuel pulls on Nate's shirt, giggles, hiccups and then giggles some more. He pats at Nate's face with green, sticky fingers.
Brad smirks. "Cruel and unusual punishment, sir. The kind of thing you'd find at Gitmo." Sammy laughs riotously when Brad stops and makes a face in their direction. "After such a traumatic experience I had to promise Sammy his first beer."
"Not on top of the pureed peas, I hope," Nate says dryly.
Brad tosses several green paper towels in the trash. "No, we'll wait until he can speak for the lesson on domestic versus international," he says, taking Sammy from Nate and extracting the key ring, which has probably left bruises all over Nate.
Sammy pouts for three seconds and then busies himself with trying to stuff Brad's fingers in his mouth.
"You're good with him," Nate says curiously.
"You could sound less shocked."
"I just never took you for the parental type."
"Have you been thinking about me and kids, sir? I had no idea you'd gone all domestic on me."
Sammy gnaws toothlessly on Brad's index finger. "My parents are Baltimore liberals, Brad. They want grandkids; they don't care how it happens."
Brad pretends to think this over. "My family votes Republican, and my mom already has grandkids. See, I've got one right here." Brad bounces Sammy a little to prove his point, and Sammy laughs, drooling all the while.
Nate can't help himself. He picks up the keys and shakes them in Sammy's face and the baby grins happily. "People adopt from other countries all of the time. Somalia. China. Romania."
"You want us to adopt? You don't even live here," Brad says easily, calling Nate's bluff.
Nate blusters onward. "That's not what I said, that's what you inferred." And then it hits Nate what Brad's said, and he has to put a hand down on the counter for support. "Are you telling me that your only objection to us adopting a child, together, is that I live in Boston right now?"
Brad's smile is so enigmatic it makes Nate's brain hurt. "Maybe."
Samuel picks this time to vomit all over Brad's shirt.
Brad just shrugs. "What can you do?" he says to Nate, before turning to Sammy. "C'mon, little man, in the sink."
Nate doesn't even know where to begin. Babies? With Brad? "You can't wash him in the sink," he protests feebly, even as Brad's clearing out plates and turning on the water. "He's not dishes!"
Brad just glances up at him and smirks. "Lame, sir. So very lame."
"Are you going to call me 'sir' in front of our kids, because that's going to be a little confusing for them, you know."
Something flashes across Brad's face as he extracts Samuel from his filthy onesie. "Whatever you want, Nate."
What Nate wants is sex and alcohol; he didn't come here to think about babies. Fucking Brad.
Actually, no.
There'll be no fucking Brad until after Samuel goes home.
ACT I
She's almost two months old the first time they see her lying in a crib in the orphanage in Somalia. Her huge brown eyes are focused on the little fists she's waving around, but then she looks up at Brad and Nate, and that's it.
From the moment she focuses her eyes on them, they know she's going to be theirs.
The adoption takes another two months -- two white men adopting an African girl is not done. But it's already taken them eighteen months just to get to this point, between Nate moving to California, and them moving in together and negotiating jobs and Brad's motorcycle (which he is going to have to give up eventually as part of their agreement. If Brad dies in a fiery motorcycle accident and leaves Nate a single dad, Nate will be seriously displeased.)
And then there was finding an agency that would represent them.
At this point they have the money and the lawyers and the time. They can wait, and anything can be done if you know the right people; the Corps taught them that. So, they're patient. But every day they visit her, spending time reading her stories and telling her about their families, about the cousins she's going to have in Orange County, and her grandpa, the judge in Baltimore, who wants to take her to the aquarium and show her the sharks.
After the first few weeks the workers at the orphanage become less suspicious and allow them to take her for walks around the perimeter. She grips Brad's fingers tightly and likes to mouth at Nate's shirt. The baby drools on everything, smiles when Brad calls her 'beautiful' and laughs most of the time. They never hear her crying until they leave for the night, and then they go back to the American hotel where they're staying and watch poorly dubbed episodes of Seinfeld to pass the time.
The sex they have during these two months is rough, physical. It's aggressively tactile. They leave bruises and marks more than they ever have before. The waiting has left them in a sort of limbo and the sex reminds them that there is something more out there.
Somalia is barren, brown and dry. The sky is blue and goes on forever. The people are survivors; they're making a life under conditions no American would ever tolerate. It reminds Nate of Iraq. They'll bring her back here some day, when she's older. When they can explain better why her country is the way it is and why they chose to take her away from it. Nate hopes she'll understand.
The day they sign the papers, they finally pick a name -- Layla -- which means 'born at night' in Swahili. She was actually born at three in the afternoon according to her birth certificate, but they like the name so it doesn't matter.
Eric Clapton can kiss their ass.
ACT II
They bring her home on a Tuesday.
There's no such thing as a direct flight from Mogadishu, so they have to change planes several times. If it were just them it would be fine, but it's not. Layla takes it much better than they do. Then again, she's only four months and ten days old. Brad has to cram himself in his seats, and Nate's too tense to do much besides watch the way Layla smiles and tugs on Brad's ring finger.
After fifteen hours, they finally get their flight to Heathrow, which will get them back to Newport, via Baltimore. It's only after they're leaving London that Nate's able to breathe, to look down at Layla and believe that they're actually taking her home. He thought that being responsible for twenty-two men in Iraq would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do, but now they're responsible for Layla. This is going to be much harder.
Nate has to give the baby to Brad so he can go throw up in the bathroom.
His fingers are still twitching when he comes back to their seats, and Brad watches him piercingly, blue eyes studying him before giving Layla back.
"She'll be fine," Brad promises softly in his ear, but Nate can't look away from the baby in his arms. Layla just yawns, settling in.
Nate sighs low. "It's not her I'm worried about."
This time he looks up to Brad's mouth twisting at one corner. "We'll be fine," he corrects.
Nate's dubious look says it all.
Layla sleeps for the entire flight, except for the part with the turbulence. And the part where she has to be changed in the back where the flight attendants keep the soda. She's not particularly happy about that at all. The flight attendants alternate between smirking and staring at Brad with Layla, and Nate hovering nearby with baby wipes and Destin and five different sizes of Pampers because they had no idea what size she would be when they finally got to bring her home.
They take a six hour lay-over in Baltimore for the sake of all parties involved. Nate's parents are there with his sister to meet them, and apparently, they've brought a few extra people. Brad just raises an eyebrow and holds Layla a little tighter against his chest.
There are balloons and family friends that Nate hasn't seen since he graduated from high school. Layla takes one look at all the commotion and lets loose with an ear-piercing shriek; her grandparents fret, shaking different toys in her light of sight in hopes of placating her. Brad settles her on his shoulder, patting her back and promising her it'll be over soon. Layla whimpers and buries her face in Brad's neck. Her tears leave stains on his shirt.
"I know exactly how you feel," Brad says low enough for only Layla and Nate to hear him.
Brad's mom meets them at John Wayne Airport when they land in Newport. She's got stuffed toys and balloons, and Nate kind of feels like this just went through this part. Brad's sister, Sharon, is there too, and standing at her side is Samuel, who's about two-and-a-half now.
Nate carries Layla, while Brad sees to their bags. Layla seems much calmer this time around, and when Brad's mom coos at her and tells her how pretty she is, Layla just burbles as though the compliments are all old news by now.
Nate gets down on one knee so Samuel can see his cousin, and Samuel gives Layla a dubious look.
"She's too small," he complains to his mom. "I thought you said we could play."
Brad laughs. "You say that now, but when she gets older, she's going to kick your--"
"BRAD!" everyone says in tandem.
Brad doesn't even blink. "But she will," he promises.
When Nate looks back down, Layla's grasping three of Sammy's fingers. Sammy smiles when she blows several spit bubbles in his direction.
"I brought her a toy," he says proudly, holding up a very familiar plastic key ring.
Nate just laughs. "I'm sure it'll be her favorite toy ever."
He doesn't mean to yawn, it just happens. Layla yawns right after him, and Brad puts a hand on Nate's shoulder to steady him as he stands up.
"It's nice that you all want to spoil her to death," Brad tells his family. "I promise we're going to abuse your willingness to baby-sit until she's 95, but she's tired and we're tired, so how about we skip this family bullshit. In the morning we'll draw up a schedule of who gets to change her shitty diapers and when you can put her in all the embarrassing frilly things that Nate and I are never going to buy her, sound good?"
And then it hits Nate all over again: this is their daughter.
He says a silent prayer to that god they don't believe in:
Please don't let us fuck this up.
ACT III
Layla cries non-stop for the first two weeks. They try everything: toys, walks, warm bottles, slings, swaddling, long drives in the car (Brad's mom), strapping her in her car seat and sitting her on a running washing machine (Nate's mom), changing her formula. Nothing takes.
Nate puts their pediatrician on speed-dial, but Brad calls Doc Bryan instead, and when Doc hears what they've done, he just laughs. Brad hangs up on him, calls back, and Doc's still laughing.
He agrees to come over anyway.
Doc takes one look at Nate's frazzled state and Brad's tight jaw and shakes his head. Layla stops crying the minute Doc picks her up, and Doc just shakes his head. "Two Marines and a baby; it's like a bad punchline. Did you two retards think about this at all?"
They both stare at Doc wordlessly, and he shrugs, shifting Layla from one side of his chest to the other.
Nate's too tired to take the bait. "Is she okay?"
Doc rolls his eyes. "She's fine."
"But she's been crying, and she's not sleeping as much as she should. It could be colic or jaundice or some sort of internal digestive issues that we don't know about," Nate persists.
"So, you're going to be the over-protective mom," Doc says, before turning back to Brad. "That makes you the laid back one. Get him a sedative."
Brad's mouth twists at the corner. "I've been trying, it's not working."
Doc pats Layla on the back. "She's fine; she's just acclimatizing."
"Acclimatizing to what?"
"Orange County isn't Mogadishu," Doc says dryly.
Brad frowns.
"Is there anything we can do?" Nate asks.
Layla sniffles against Doc's neck, and Nate's chest goes tight. He should be the one comforting her. "Give her some time," Doc advises. "Be patient. You got one of those wind-up swings around here by any chance?"
"A swing?" Nate says.
Doc nods. "Kids love those. The noise, the motion, it's like two Ambien and a bottle of Jack Daniels for anybody under the age of one. And hold her over your heart, the heartbeat reminds them of being in the womb."
It seems like the most obvious thing ever.
Brad nods and takes Layla back in his arms. She seems marginally more subdued; it's a miracle. While Brad's showing Doc to the door, Nate goes over to his laptop and orders every book on parenting possible from Amazon.
He'd tried to do this before they left for Somalia, but Brad said it would be bad luck.
There is a mountain of clothing in their guest room for Layla, courtesy of their friends and family. An actual mountain of socks, onesies, blankets, pajamas with feet, dresses, two-piece outfits with snaps, night shirts, shoes, robes and more shoes and more dresses. And even more dresses. Not only have Layla's grandparents tried to buy her every item of clothing ever made -- Nate's had to give away the twenty-odd stuffed animals to charity -- but apparently the entire Recon community only knows how to buy clothing for girls in pink, purple or Disney-related.
Except for Ray Person, who sent a tiny camo shirt that said, "My Daddy Went to Iraq and All He Got Was My Other Daddy."
They only let Layla wear that one around the house, but it may be the only item of clothing that she wears more than twice.
The diaper thing is -- well, it has to be done.
Neither one of them is very good at it, but they get better by dint of practice. The dirty diapers smell worse than Nate after spending six weeks in the desert without a shower, surrounded by twenty other men who haven't showered either, but at least they know what they're getting with those.
The first time Brad changes Layla and she manages to pee all over him, Nate laughs so hard he ends up wheezing on the floor. His mother tried to warn him about the urine trajectory of girls, and he didn't believe her.
He believes her now.
Brad's mother and sister have been very good about leaving them alone and giving them time to get into some sense of order. They offer advice when asked, only drop by unannounced every other day, and occasionally intersperse the mountains of pink and purple frilly clothing they buy for Layla with items in yellow and green. The first time Brad calls his mother to watch Layla, she says "yes" before he's even managed to get the entire question out. Nate doesn't really agree with asking Brad's mom to baby-sit because they haven't found time to have sex in more than three days, but Brad says that emergencies like this are exactly why grandparents are so great.
Layla loves bath time. She doesn't particularly enjoy the washing part, but she certainly loves the toys and bubbles and the shower hand-off, which is something Brad and Nate learned about from Poke Espera's wife, Gina. Gina described the hand-off thusly over e-mail: "Daddy A gets in the shower with the baby, washes squirming baby under the shower -- try not to drop her -- hands her off to Daddy B, who's holding the towel, who then finishes by drying the baby while Daddy A finishes his shower."
It's a damn good plan as far as Nate can tell; he even gets to shower first. It's a shame Gina Espera wasn't in charge during the war, they might've actually gotten something done.
Brad Colbert is a Marine Corps Killer. Swift, silent, deadly, and currently sprawled on the sofa playing Peek-A-Boo with his daughter.
Nate freezes in the entryway to watch.
Brad covers Layla's eyes with her hands, which she seems to think is the most hysterical thing ever, says 'peek-a-boo' and then does the same by covering his own eyes with her hands again.
Layla bounces up and down on Brad's stomach like a jumping bean, laughing and giggling every time Brad uncovers her eyes and says "See you!"
It's -- it's not something Nate ever thought he would see.
It's completely incongruous with the face Brad shows the world, but it's perfect for his interaction with their daughter. The first time Brad's sister said he was a big girl, Nate thought it was a family joke, but he finally understands what she means. Not that Brad's a girl, but that he's perfectly in tune with his emotions. That he can give and be broken and still give more.
In fact, Brad's ex-fiancée sent around some toys for Layla when they first got home, and Brad called her up to thank her; Nate threw them in the trash. That part of Brad's life is over. This part, this new part, is finally giving Brad what he's always deserved.
It's pretty good for Nate too.
"Layla, do you see Daddy over there trying to sneak up on our position?"
Brad's voice breaks into Nate's thoughts.
He smiles as Brad turns Layla around so she can see him. Layla stuffs her fist in her mouth and drools. "Daddy's recon skills have gone completely POG," Brad says conversationally. "When you get older, I'll teach you how to be a real Recon Marine, none of that pus--
Nate opens his mouth and Brad smirks. "None of that stuff," he corrects on his own.
Layla just giggles and waves a slobbery fist in Nate's direction.
At six months old, Layla sleeps a lot. Not as much as she did when they first saw her, but enough to allow Brad and Nate to have actual conversations about things besides diapers and how much pink is too much pink, and whose parents are acting more obsessive about getting time with their granddaughter.
Her favorite place to take a nap seems to be on Brad's chest. Nate has a lot of photos that Brad's never seen of them together. Brad and Layla on the sofa, with Layla chewing on her fist and Brad's mouth wide-open snoring. Brad and Layla on their bed with Layla chewing on Brad's shirt and Brad drooling on himself. One of Nate's favorites is Brad sound asleep in the rocking chair his mom gave them, with Layla smiling at the camera.
Nate's seen Brad stay awake for more than thirty hours without sleep. He's been with Brad when they've gone weeks with only a few hours of rest put together, but put a baby into the picture who likes to sleep all day and stay awake all night and Brad's whipped.
Layla seems to be much more at ease with Brad than she is with Nate.
He wants to say that it doesn't bother him, but it kind of does. It's not that she objects to him holding her or feeding her or burping her, it's just that if Brad's around she tends to make her preference known, wriggling in Nate's arms and whimpering until Brad picks her up.
The books say these things happen, but Brad just rolls his eyes. "Those books are liberal-hippie propaganda written by celibate quacks," he points out, while bouncing Layla on his lap. "They wouldn't last five minutes with an actual baby."
Nate exhales through his nose and watches as Layla squeals happily when Brad tickles her. He wonders when she'll do that for him.
They try to take Layla running on the beach, but a stroller in the sand is disastrous, and strapping Layla into a sling is nothing like running with a 150 lb. pack on Nate's back. For one thing, he doesn't have to worry that he's going to shake a pack to death.
Since moving to Newport Beach, Nate's taken on some consulting for political campaigns. Before he came back to California -- back to be with Brad -- he'd planned on moving down to D.C. and taking a job on the Hill. Nate had his whole life mostly planned out, where he was going to run for city council, how that would become a congressional seat, parlaying that into the Senate. There was no place in his life for a partner or a daughter. Except they've been back in San Diego for more than two months and Nate hasn't bothered to call any of his clients back. He thinks about it, but then it'll be time to feed Layla or change her diaper or give her a bath and Nate forgets all about work. Then again, they saved up all of last year so that they could do this.
So that Brad could dump Layla on Nate's lap and run out to do errands.
Layla's fine until Brad's out of her line of sight, and then she starts whimpering. Nate picks her up and walks her around the room, but it doesn't seem to do any good. Her whimpering turns into these hiccups and then into crying.
Nate bounces Layla in his arms and flies her around like an airplane, which always works for Brad, but she's completely inconsolable.
Nate changes her diaper, offers her a bottle, tries the Sesame Street DVDs that Poke sent them and offers her the plastic key ring from Sammy that she loves to play with, but nothing seems to help. And then Layla's cries ratchet into full-blow shrieks, and Nate reaches the end of his rope.
"Please, Layla," he says. "Please, stop crying. I know you're mad that I'm not Daddy, but he'll be home soon. I promise."
Layla eyes Nate warily, hiccups twice, and then goes back to crying. There's snot bubbling from her nose and tears running down her face.
Nate sighs and goes back to pacing. They have music for this, whole iPod playlists with classical music and children's music, and today, Layla hates it all.
Nate only starts singing to her because he's tired of "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" too.
"I know I have a horrible singing voice," he tells Layla, halfway through the song, "but I'm trying. Please don't let Brad walk in here and see me singing Eric Clapton and you this way, he'll call Child Services."
Layla sniffles and buries her face in Nate's neck. He can feel the tears and the snot getting smeared all over him, but then a little arm wraps around his chest and he realizes she's stopped crying. Finally.
Nate drops down on the sofa in exhaustion and grabs a few baby wipes from the end table. Layla deigns to let him wipe her face but then her lower lip starts trembling, and Nate only starts singing again because that seemed to work last time.
Layla sniffles again, and then she smiles and he sees it.
She's teething.
Oh.
It has nothing to do with Brad.
The teething mess seems to go on forever. Brad's mom gifts them with six different kinds of teething ring, and Nate's mom insists they webcam every day so that she can see Layla's progress.
At one point, while Nate's mom is cooing at Layla on the laptop, Brad bends down and whispers in Nate's ear. "I bought this webcam so that we could have video sex while you were still in Cambridge, do you think your mom would stop calling so much if she knew that was its intended purpose?"
Nate coughs hard enough to startle Layla and himself.
"Nate, are you getting sick?" his mother asks. "Don't be around Layla if you're sick. Brad, put him in the guest room if he's getting sick, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Fick," Brad says politely, extricating Layla from Nate's arms and hefting her up. "C'mon, Nate, you heard your mom."
After they turn off the webcam, Brad laughs for a long time, and Layla joins in just because. She shrieks even louder when Nate tickles her. "What are you laughing at?" he mock grumbles.
Brad grins. "She thinks her dad is pretty funny; so do I."
Layla shrieks again, her arms waving at him in the unmistakable, 'hold me now' gesture. Brad hands her over easily, and Layla bounces in Nate's arms, wriggling and clapping like the happiest baby on earth.
Nate would be irritated if everyone else weren't so amused.
It is sort of funny.
Poke Espera comes down from Los Angeles to visit them a little after Layla turns seven months old. He and his wife sent down a huge box of games and toys when they first brought Layla home, which necessitated Brad calling Poke on the phone and giving him a running commentary on his thoughts on each and every item. Nate didn't know you could even do that with a Barbie car.
Poke shows up before noon with his two daughters, Lily, who's six, and Claudia, who's almost thirteen. The girls have brought Layla yet another pink frilly dress, which they apparently picked out themselves, and they coo over her in the way that only women, or in this case, girls seem capable of.
Nate gets drinks from the kitchen, and when he walks back into the living room Poke's bouncing Layla on his knee.
Poke glances up. "Don't worry, LT, I got two of my own. I ain't gonna drop her on her head or nothin'."
Brad snorts, but Layla just carries on drooling and clapping happily.
"You two doin' all right?" Poke says.
Nate glances over at Brad, who raises an eyebrow. "We haven't dropped her on her head yet," Brad mocks.
Poke just laughs as Nate hands over a cup of juice to Lily and Claudia each. "Uncle Brad," Lily says, spilling apple juice on her shirt, "why doesn't Layla look like you?"
The room gets very quiet, even as Claudia tells her sister to, "Shut up, god."
Nate and Brad share a look. It's not as though they haven't gotten the curious glances when they take Layla out. It's not as though they're blind or immune to the stares. They discussed what it would mean to adopt a child from Somalia or Cambodia, a child that doesn't look anything like them, and they decided it didn't matter. Because it doesn't.
"It's because she's adopted," Brad says. Nice and simple.
"And what did I tell you 'adopted' means," Poke adds.
All eyes focus on Lily, who looks as though she's thinking about this very hard. "That Layla picked Uncle Brad and Nate?"
Poke nods and Layla belches. Loudly. Well, that's one way to break the ice.
The rest of the visit has a lot fewer existential crises, and it's a little after four when Poke and his girls get ready to leave. They're standing at the front door, saying good-bye, Layla's in Nate's arms when Poke leans down and kisses her on her forehead.
"You know she needs people with melanin in her life," Poke says. "I'm expectin' y'all to bring her up to L.A. at least once a month so she can get some culture. Got her down here with all these white people, you know you're confusing the hell out of her."
Nate's mouth drops open a little, but Brad just laughs it off.
"I hate it when Poke's right about the oppression of the white man," Brad admits after he closes the door.
Nate sighs. "I know."
The first night they put Layla in her own room; Nate gets up to check on her eleven times between eight and ten p.m. Eventually, Brad has to physically restrain him from getting up again. "I know those books tell you it's okay to be obsessive, but even Dr. Spock would tell you it's time to remove the stick from your ass or I'll never get my dick up there."
"Why is she in her own room again?" Nate demands, ignoring Brad's leer.
"Because you refuse to suck my cock with our daughter in the room."
Nate doesn't even hide his disapproval. "Brad."
Brad rolls his eyes. "You weren't this much of a prude before Layla came along, you know."
Nate scowls. "Your seduction technique leaves a lot to be desired."
"We already have the kid; I didn't think I had to seduce you anymore."
"We fuck a couple of times, and now, you think I'm easy."
"Oh, now you're upset that I didn't make an honest man of you?" Brad laughs.
Nate crosses his arms. "Forget the seduction; we're never having sex again."
"That's not funny."
Nate gives Brad his most guileless look. "Who said I was joking?"
Nate's still laughing when Brad tackles him to the floor.
It's a few nights later that Nate's sitting in bed reading the latest issue of Parents magazine, which is hidden inside The Economist. He closes the magazine when Brad comes in from his shower… holding Layla.
"She's lonely," Brad says as though that explains everything.
"She was asleep fifteen minutes ago," Nate says suspiciously,
Brad shrugs; Layla yawns.
"Did you wake her up?" Nate asks
"Babies need to be near their parents," Brad intones before settling on the bed, holding Layla, who has clearly gone back to sleep.
Nate opens and closes his mouth, because he's read the books, he knows children need to see their parents. It creates a sense of security. He hates it when Brad uses the books against him.
"If you hold her so much, you're going to spoil her," Nate says.
Brad scoffs quietly. "This from the guy who refused to put her down long enough to answer the door this morning?"
"You have a key."
"I was holding four bags of groceries."
Nate makes a dismissive wave; Layla sleeps on.
Nate's completely unprepared for Brad to place Layla on the bed between them. "What are you doing?" he asks in a low tone as Layla settles effortlessly onto her stomach.
"She's going to sleep with us tonight."
They've done this before, but it still makes Nate nervous. "What if you squash her?"
Brad's grin is sharp. "What if you squash her?"
"That's not funny."
"Stop raising your tone, you're upsetting her."
"She's not even awake," Nate points out. "And put her on her back. Babies are supposed to sleep on their backs."
At this, Layla opens her eyes, screws up her face as though she's going to cry and then thinks better of it and goes back to sleep.
Nate doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until he looks up to see Brad doing the same thing.
"I keep telling you reading those books is bad for you," Brad says after a moment. "Layla agrees."
Nate frowns even as he pushes the magazines onto the floor and stretches out on the bed. Layla opens her eyes when he brushes her tiny fist with his hand. She grabs onto his index finger, her little brown fingers holding on for dear life.
He glances up as the bed shifts again as Brad curls up on Layla's other side. "She'll be fine," Brad promises, reaching back to turn off the lamp. "Go to sleep."
Nate doesn't think he'll sleep at all. He doesn't even realize he's closed his eyes until he wakes up a little after dawn to see Brad watching Layla trying to stuff Nate's finger in her mouth.
Brad's smile is soft. His edges have worn down since Layla came along. "I told you it would be fine," he says, but the mocking superiority isn't there. It's just the comfort of being right.
Layla has a nap every day between one and three o'clock. When Nate goes to wake her up one afternoon, she's not in her crib. He doesn't immediately panic, but it's close. He's been in their guest room/office on a conference call with Caroline Kennedy's people in New York; she's getting ready for her re-election to the Senate and they're looking for some outside consulting on her policies.
Rationally, Nate knows that Layla couldn't have left her crib on her own.
He also knows that Brad was working on his laptop when Nate went to take his call. After leaving the military, Brad's been alternating between consulting on computer work and teaching extreme sport classes. It works pretty well. The last time Nate checked, Brad was either hacking the security wall of one of his clients or making arrangements to take another client sky diving. The sky diving doesn't worry Nate nearly as much their missing daughter does.
Except that Brad's not at the kitchen table either, but the sliding doors are open and there's a breeze coming through the screen from the beach.
The breeze has this strange smell to it, like, like something's burning.
Nate nearly runs through the screen in his haste to get it open, because Brad's standing about twenty yards away, flinging things into a garbage can that's on fire, and he's got Layla strapped to his chest in her Baby Bjorn.
Maybe Brad's finally snapped.
Except it's Brad so -- what?
Nate's feet slip in the sand, and he's just rushing up when he overhears Brad talking. "…and that was the first time I saw your Daddy. He was pretty fucking hot, still is, but don't tell him I said that. His ears stick out enough without his head swelling up more."
Nate stops in the sand, watching as Brad unfastens the Baby Bjorn and pulls Layla out. "You know," Brad says conversationally, tucking Layla under his chin. Her eyes are wide and they zero in perfectly on Nate, who smiles at her. "If I'd known then that Operation Fuck Iraqi Freedom was going to be such a dick-swinging orgy, your dad and I could've just skipped it and adopted you a lot sooner."
Nate's been in love with Layla since he saw her; he's probably been in love with Brad since he saw him too. Right now, he thinks his heart might explode. "If we'd gone looking sooner, we wouldn't have her," he points out quietly. He should probably say something about Brad's language, but that doesn't matter. Not really.
Brad turns around leisurely. "Again with the POG recon skills, Nate?"
"What're you burning?" Nate counters.
And then he sees his copy of Raising Children Who Think for Themselves lying in the sand at Brad's feet.
"You're burning my parenting books?" his disbelief is obvious.
Brad doesn't bother to look guilty. "We don't like them, do we, Layla?" he says, turning slightly so that Nate can see Layla chewing on her fist quietly.
Nate steps closer to tug Layla's shirt down in the back. "We could've given them to the library," he says. Nate has no idea who sizes baby clothes, but they're clearly on crack. Layla's shirt is for a six-month old, but her pants are for a ten month-old. Yesterday, she couldn't fit into a dress for a one year-old.
Brad scoffs derisively. "And let them infect the feeble-minded, hippie parents of Layla's future minions? No."
Layla's future minions. Oh god, where to begin? "Are you saying I'm feeble-minded?" Nate prods.
Brad snorts. "Hardly. Just susceptible to over-analyzing."
"You could've just said you didn't like them."
"I did," Brad's tone is perfectly droll. "Repeatedly. You didn't listen; I had to take drastic measures."
Nate sticks his chin out defiantly. Brad just watches, his eyes tracking Nate curiously. He's clearly not expecting it when Nate grabs the collar of his tee shirt and hauls him in for a kiss. Nate isn't expecting it either, but it seems like the right thing to do.
Brad's mouth is soft but the kiss is deep and thorough, and when Nate pulls away, Brad licks his lips. "She should finish her nap," Brad says thoughtfully.
Nate 'hmm's in agreement.
"And we should have sex," Brad adds. "Now."
They're standing in the living room while Layla watches a video of Schoolhouse Rocks, which Mike Wynn and his wife sent them. They're arguing about something, whose turn it is to tell their parents to back off or organic versus non-organic or whether or not Layla's too young for that 'Adoptees and Their Gay Parents' playgroup that Brad's mom keeps harassing them about, when Nate sees something moving out the corner of his eye.
It's Layla. She's crawling. And right now she's heading towards Brad's running shoes.
"Brad," Nate interrupts what is, no doubt, Brad's very compelling argument. "Brad."
Brad frowns. "What?"
Nate points to where Layla is rapidly getting closer to Brad's sneakers. "She's going to die from the toxicity levels of your shoes; I know how your feet smell."
Brad smacks him on the ass and Nate twitches. "Kinky," he says, but neither one of them move, content to let Layla do what she wants.
"So," Brad says, getting Nate back on track. "Crawling child."
"When did that happen?" Nate asks, glancing over at Brad and then back to Layla, who is now chewing on one of Brad's shoelaces.
Brad grins. "Do you want to child-proof our porn, or should I?"
Nate punches him in the arm.
Brad just laughs.
Ray Person comes to visit, which isn't a point of debate, since it turns out to be a hit-and-run sort of conversation.
They're in the kitchen one morning, and Nate's trying to coax Layla into eating some organic pureed pears. Brad's on the phone in the other room, but he comes in to hang up the handset.
"Ray's coming to visit," he says thoughtfully.
Nate glances up, which gives Layla just enough time to take the food out of her mouth and smear it all over her hair. "When? I'll take Layla to visit my parents."
The doorbell rings.
Brad's smile is all teeth. "Now."
As an RTO, Nate admits that Ray Person is second to none. He's been a good friend to Brad, and on the third of every month he religiously sends Layla the most interesting presents any child under the age of 18 could possibly hope for. The pink leopard fur-lined handcuffs are most definitely never reaching their final destination.
As a self-proclaimed godfather to their daughter, however, Ray leaves a lot to be desired.
"So, I'm going to date your daughter in 18 years," Ray says that night at dinner. "Actually, more like 17 and some change. What's the age of consent in Cali, anyway?"
They're having pizza and beer; Layla is having pureed spinach, beef and apples. Not necessarily in that order.
Brad's feeding Layla, who seems much more interested in pulling Ray's finger than eating her food. Brad doesn't even bother to glance up. "The age of consent is me chopping off your dick and flushing it down the toilet if you so much as touch my child."
"The protective vibe," Ray says, winking at Layla. "I get it."
"Ray," Brad's tone makes it clear that jokes are not welcome about this subject.
Ray's lower lip juts out. "I was just kidding, damn."
Layla tugs harder on Ray's finger, and Ray leans in. "What's up, princess?" he says. "You need your Uncle Ray-Ray to bust you out of this prison? They got you doing hard time with that nasty baby food?"
Layla giggles.
Nate gives Brad a reproachful look, but Brad just shrugs.
"Don't worry, Layla," Ray carries on in a conspiratorial whisper. "I got your first beer all hooked up. Me and your Uncle Walt are gonna take you to Nashville and --"
Layla picks this moment to vomit pureed spinach and beef all over Ray. It looks about the same coming up as it did going down.
Ray just snorts. "Layla, how are you gonna do me like that?"
Nate swoops in and removes Layla from her high-chair. "Because she's daddy's girl, and she doesn't approve of your hedonistic ways."
"Hedonistic ways?" Ray marvels. "Is that what you call sticking your --"
"Ray!" Brad warns.
Ray crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't even worry about it, Layla," Ray calls, as Nate takes her away for a bath. "It's good practice for when you get older."
Ray stays for three days. Three very long days. Nate could complain, but it's clear that Ray dotes on Layla, and she seems to think Ray's the best thing since her plastic key ring. It probably has to do with them being around the same age mentally.
"What did you do to her hair?" Brad asks incredulously as Nate settles Layla in her stroller with her plastic key ring and a stuffed dragon that Rudy Reyes sent her two weeks ago.
Nate glances up. "What's wrong with her hair?"
"It -- Nate, you're not taking her out looking like that."
"It's got barrettes in it," Nate says defensively.
"She looks like she was electrocuted," Brad retorts, unsnapping Layla's belt and pulling her out.
"She's ten months old," Nate replies. "You should be happy I didn't let her go out with smashed bananas in her hair."
Brad just glares as he sets about making Layla more presentable.
When they first brought Layla home she had a head of curly baby fuzz, but as of late her hair is practically sprouting off of her head. This would be fine if Nate could manage to braid or style or do anything besides put in a ribbon. Brad, on the other hand, seems to have a natural affinity for doing Layla's hair. Maybe he really is a girl.
"We're two Marines with a baby," Brad says as though Nate might've forgotten. "We're not Brad and Angelina; it's not okay for our kid to look as though she stuck her finger in a light socket while we were fucking in the bathroom."
"Are you comparing us to Hollywood celebrities?" Nate doesn't even bother to hide his disbelief.
Brad finishes combing Layla's hair into something more appropriate and sighs. "What I'm saying is that life is going to be hard enough without us looking like we don't know what we're doing."
Nate rubs his forehead. "You never cared what other people thought before."
"And I don't care now," Brad says, resettling Layla in her stroller before standing up to face Nate. "But it's not just us anymore."
It's not Layla's hair that Brad's talking about, Nate's not stupid. What Brad's talking about is them, their family. Two white, middle-class guys raising an African girl. It's the kind of thing people make movies about; it's the kind of thing that people don't do in real life. Except this is their real life.
Strollers are the work of the devil. Okay, that's not what Nate means. Strollers are fantastic, life-altering contraptions, perfect for keeping babies, diapers and toys in one place, but pushing them around all day is bullshit. Especially when said baby isn't even in the stroller.
Right now, Layla is sitting on Brad's shoulders, laughing riotously and grabbing onto Brad's hair as though that's how he can be steered. Nate could probably say something about that, about how Brad's ears are a better bet, but this is their daughter.
They're walking back home from a trip to the playground that was supposed to wear Layla out, but, if anything, she seems even more keyed up. Brad's got a firm grip on Layla, and Nate shouldn't worry, but… "She's up too high."
Brad doesn't even look at him. "She's fine."
"If you run into something, I'll kill you."
Brad glances over at this declaration. "What's she going to run into on my shoulders? A street light?" Brad tilts his head back. "Your daddy is worrying again, sweetheart."
Layla burbles, slapping Brad on the face excitedly.
"I think she got me in the eye," Brad says thoughtfully.
"Brad, put her down."
"You are the most nagging husband ever, did you know that?"
Nate catches the eye of an older couple approaching that reminds him a little of his parents. Actually, the man looks a lot like his father; his dad has glasses like that and a jacket like that. And the woman, if Nate's mom has cut her hair -- it would be just like them to just show up one day as a surprise. Nate smiles and steps forward, but it's not his parents. And then the couple gives them the most disapproving glare. It takes Nate a moment to realize what's happened; he's normally much quicker at identifying people like this.
"Nate?" Brad's voice breaks through, and Nate shakes his head.
"We're not married," he says belatedly after the couple has passed by.
He stops when Brad grabs his arm. "What's wrong?"
Nate looks above Brad's head at where Layla's chewing on Brad's hair. "Nothing."
"Nate."
Nate sighs. "Really, it's fine."
Brad reaches up and lifts Layla off of his shoulders. "Here," he says, passing the baby to Nate. Nate cuddles Layla against his chest and she smiles up at him, showing off her little teeth and patting him happily on the face. He just kisses her on the forehead.
"Better now?" Brad asks, taking over stroller duty.
Nate hugs their daughter closer. "Yeah, I am."
"Some people are just fucking stupid," Brad says quietly. "Ignore them."
Nate shouldn't be surprised that Brad saw that, because Brad sees everything.
ACT IV
On Layla's first birthday the entire house is commandeered by Recon Marines and family. Mike Wynn comes up from Texas with his wife and daughter, and Poke drives down with his wife and their two girls. Ray flies in, having acquired Walt Hasser and Rudy on the way. Both sets of grandparents are there along with aunts and cousins and everybody short of Godfather and RCT-1.
Reporter's on assignment, but he sends a birthday video that says if Layla ever needs concert tickets she just has to call her Uncle Evan.
It's great to be surrounded by family and friends, to have so many people who love them and love Layla in one place, but their house isn't that big, and the only thing louder than a bunch of Recon Marines, is family. It doesn't take long for Nate's head to swim with too many people, doing too much stuff, and spending too much time getting in the way when all Layla wants to do is crawl and pull herself up on furniture and play with her toys.
He decides to kidnap his daughter and make a break for it.
They don't go far, just down to the water. Layla's wearing a pink dress with matching camo pants so that she doesn't get rug burn from all the crawling around. Brad picked out the pink camo by himself, even though he claims it arrived anonymously one day in the mail.
Layla babbles in Nate's ear as he tells her his favorite Winnie the Pooh story. He holds her carefully, letting her feet dangle where the tide comes in so she can get accustomed to the temperature.
She squeals, kicking water all over him when he finally lets her put her feet on the wet sand.
"I think she's about the right size for a surfboard, don't you?"
Nate smiles down at the top of Layla's head. "I think it might help if she could stand up on her own, first," he says, before looking up at Brad.
Brad's smile is wry. "I was informed that my husband had kidnapped our daughter."
Nate blinks. "That's the second time you've called me that."
Brad just shrugs. "It's what you are."
Nate looks down at Layla bouncing up and down on her knees and then back up at Brad, but Brad's face is giving nothing away. You'd think after all this time -- and a baby -- Nate could read him better. "I am?"
"Are you getting hung up on the semantics now, sir?" Layla's bouncing like a tennis ball. Any minute she's going to bounce right out of Nate's grasp. "Nate?"
"You want to get married?" he's confused. He didn't think that they -- that Brad…
"Not with all the flowers and girl bullshit, but I thought we could sign some papers or something," Brad says carefully. "Make it a little more legal than just our names on an adoption certificate and a lease for the house."
"We have Layla," Nate says a little desperately. "I didn't think you wanted to -- to do that."
Brad sighs. "My mom's mad that her granddaughter's a bastard."
Nate covers Layla's ears quickly. "She is not!"
"I was joking." Brad's mouth twitches a little.
Nate means to scowl, he does, but he finds himself smiling anyway.
"Did you want a ring?" Brad crouches down and picks up Layla. There goes Nate's diversion.
Nate does not gape, but he may stare a little. "Um," he says, standing up slowly.
"Do you need a minute to think about it?" Brad asks, tickling Layla's stomach when she grabs his nose.
Nate takes a deep breath. "No."
Brad cocks his head to the side. "You sure?"
Nate pretends to think it over for a moment, but then takes a step forward. "Yes."
"Dadadadadada," Layla babbles, reaching out toward Nate.
Nate looks at Brad, wide-eyed, and then back at Layla. She just babbles on, her little hands making that unmistakable grabbing motion, and Brad hands her over. "Well, she knows what she wants," he says. "She must get that from me."
Nate doesn't fumble Layla, but it's touch and go for a minute. His hands are shaking; it must be the adrenaline. "What do you think, sweetheart?" he asks, holding their daughter close. "Should I marry your Daddy?"
Layla bounces up and down in his arms. "Dadadadadadada," she says.
Nate bites his lip and looks up at Brad. "Well, you heard our daughter."
Brad's never been one for overt sentiment, but when he leans down and kisses Nate, Nate knows what it's supposed to mean. He can't remember them saying the words, but you don't adopt a baby with someone you don't love, that much has always been clear.
They're rudely interrupted by Layla loudly smacking Brad on the face. Somebody wants attention.
Brad pulls back and gives Layla a rueful look. "We need to teach somebody about Dad and Daddy time," he says, rubbing his face.
"I think she's saying that you have to wait until after the wedding," Nate says thoughtfully.
"Oh, I think it's a bit late for that," Brad says.
Layla smacks Nate on the neck this time and he winces. "Yeah, I think you're right about that."
-end-
Umoja means Unity. It stresses the importance of togetherness for the family and the community, which is reflected in the African saying, "I am We," or "I am because We are."
This story is for sparky77 and alethialia. Happy Birthday, A and Happy Surprise Day, S. Layla would never be around if it weren't for your prodding and that damn throw away comment in yuletide, which is why everybody should do yuletide!
However, the story never would have made it to posting without the beta love of issaro, who was all, "Sure, I'll read this story in this fandom I don't know… um, what fandom is this again? Who are these people? Can I get a primer? Some Cliffs Notes? Any identifying characteristics?!" Thank you, J, you're my favorite kinky girl.
Brad/Nate, OFC, ensemble
Rated PG-13
For sparky77 and alethialia (Happy Birthday, A!)
Umoja
PROLOGUE
Nate is supposed to visit Brad for five days of sex, alcohol and surfing, but mostly sex and alcohol. The fact that Brad opens the door of his Newport Beach apartment holding a baby is most definitely not on Nate's agenda. Especially not when the baby is babbling at Brad and waving a plastic key ring around as though it's a hot grenade.
Nate drops his duffle on the doorstep as Brad hands him a wriggling, babbling little boy. "Hold this." The baby grins at Nate toothily, blue eyes wide, and whacks him on the arm with his key ring.
Nate just goes with it; he's got a lot of cousins.
After the baby is settled on his hip, Nate looks at Brad expectantly. "Was there a change in your life recently that you failed to tell me about?" he asks.
Brad grins. "I had no idea you were such a natural with kids," he says, picking up Nate's bag so Nate can step inside.
"Well, it was either that or drop him on the ground," Nate says, following Brad in the direction of the kitchen while trying to ignore the on-going attack by key ring.
"Of course," Brad mocks, pausing to toss Nate's bag in the bedroom. "Nate, this is Samuel, my nephew. Apparently, his parents needed an afternoon off to have fetishistic sex that I didn't want to know about, but since my mom's at her knitting circle, I got drafted. Sammy, this is Nate, say, 'Hi'."
Samuel gives Nate a drooling, gummy smile which Nate returns -- minus the drooling. He then pauses in the kitchen doorway to shift Samuel from one hip to the other and shield them both from possible attack.
There's a runny green mess all over everything in the kitchen; it looks as though The Exorcist was filmed between the counter and the refrigerator. There's also a high-chair lying on its side on the floor as though it just gave up the fight.
"What happened in here?" Nate doesn't bother to hide his incredulous tone.
"Lunchtime," Brad says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world.
Nate looks from Brad to Samuel and then back again. "Did you manage to get any food in the baby, Brad?"
Brad looks up from wiping down the counters. "Have you ever tasted baby food, Nate? It tastes like reconstituted MRE ass that Person pissed in right after he had a combat jack."
"Language," Nate warns.
Samuel pulls on Nate's shirt, giggles, hiccups and then giggles some more. He pats at Nate's face with green, sticky fingers.
Brad smirks. "Cruel and unusual punishment, sir. The kind of thing you'd find at Gitmo." Sammy laughs riotously when Brad stops and makes a face in their direction. "After such a traumatic experience I had to promise Sammy his first beer."
"Not on top of the pureed peas, I hope," Nate says dryly.
Brad tosses several green paper towels in the trash. "No, we'll wait until he can speak for the lesson on domestic versus international," he says, taking Sammy from Nate and extracting the key ring, which has probably left bruises all over Nate.
Sammy pouts for three seconds and then busies himself with trying to stuff Brad's fingers in his mouth.
"You're good with him," Nate says curiously.
"You could sound less shocked."
"I just never took you for the parental type."
"Have you been thinking about me and kids, sir? I had no idea you'd gone all domestic on me."
Sammy gnaws toothlessly on Brad's index finger. "My parents are Baltimore liberals, Brad. They want grandkids; they don't care how it happens."
Brad pretends to think this over. "My family votes Republican, and my mom already has grandkids. See, I've got one right here." Brad bounces Sammy a little to prove his point, and Sammy laughs, drooling all the while.
Nate can't help himself. He picks up the keys and shakes them in Sammy's face and the baby grins happily. "People adopt from other countries all of the time. Somalia. China. Romania."
"You want us to adopt? You don't even live here," Brad says easily, calling Nate's bluff.
Nate blusters onward. "That's not what I said, that's what you inferred." And then it hits Nate what Brad's said, and he has to put a hand down on the counter for support. "Are you telling me that your only objection to us adopting a child, together, is that I live in Boston right now?"
Brad's smile is so enigmatic it makes Nate's brain hurt. "Maybe."
Samuel picks this time to vomit all over Brad's shirt.
Brad just shrugs. "What can you do?" he says to Nate, before turning to Sammy. "C'mon, little man, in the sink."
Nate doesn't even know where to begin. Babies? With Brad? "You can't wash him in the sink," he protests feebly, even as Brad's clearing out plates and turning on the water. "He's not dishes!"
Brad just glances up at him and smirks. "Lame, sir. So very lame."
"Are you going to call me 'sir' in front of our kids, because that's going to be a little confusing for them, you know."
Something flashes across Brad's face as he extracts Samuel from his filthy onesie. "Whatever you want, Nate."
What Nate wants is sex and alcohol; he didn't come here to think about babies. Fucking Brad.
Actually, no.
There'll be no fucking Brad until after Samuel goes home.
ACT I
She's almost two months old the first time they see her lying in a crib in the orphanage in Somalia. Her huge brown eyes are focused on the little fists she's waving around, but then she looks up at Brad and Nate, and that's it.
From the moment she focuses her eyes on them, they know she's going to be theirs.
The adoption takes another two months -- two white men adopting an African girl is not done. But it's already taken them eighteen months just to get to this point, between Nate moving to California, and them moving in together and negotiating jobs and Brad's motorcycle (which he is going to have to give up eventually as part of their agreement. If Brad dies in a fiery motorcycle accident and leaves Nate a single dad, Nate will be seriously displeased.)
And then there was finding an agency that would represent them.
At this point they have the money and the lawyers and the time. They can wait, and anything can be done if you know the right people; the Corps taught them that. So, they're patient. But every day they visit her, spending time reading her stories and telling her about their families, about the cousins she's going to have in Orange County, and her grandpa, the judge in Baltimore, who wants to take her to the aquarium and show her the sharks.
After the first few weeks the workers at the orphanage become less suspicious and allow them to take her for walks around the perimeter. She grips Brad's fingers tightly and likes to mouth at Nate's shirt. The baby drools on everything, smiles when Brad calls her 'beautiful' and laughs most of the time. They never hear her crying until they leave for the night, and then they go back to the American hotel where they're staying and watch poorly dubbed episodes of Seinfeld to pass the time.
The sex they have during these two months is rough, physical. It's aggressively tactile. They leave bruises and marks more than they ever have before. The waiting has left them in a sort of limbo and the sex reminds them that there is something more out there.
Somalia is barren, brown and dry. The sky is blue and goes on forever. The people are survivors; they're making a life under conditions no American would ever tolerate. It reminds Nate of Iraq. They'll bring her back here some day, when she's older. When they can explain better why her country is the way it is and why they chose to take her away from it. Nate hopes she'll understand.
The day they sign the papers, they finally pick a name -- Layla -- which means 'born at night' in Swahili. She was actually born at three in the afternoon according to her birth certificate, but they like the name so it doesn't matter.
Eric Clapton can kiss their ass.
ACT II
They bring her home on a Tuesday.
There's no such thing as a direct flight from Mogadishu, so they have to change planes several times. If it were just them it would be fine, but it's not. Layla takes it much better than they do. Then again, she's only four months and ten days old. Brad has to cram himself in his seats, and Nate's too tense to do much besides watch the way Layla smiles and tugs on Brad's ring finger.
After fifteen hours, they finally get their flight to Heathrow, which will get them back to Newport, via Baltimore. It's only after they're leaving London that Nate's able to breathe, to look down at Layla and believe that they're actually taking her home. He thought that being responsible for twenty-two men in Iraq would be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do, but now they're responsible for Layla. This is going to be much harder.
Nate has to give the baby to Brad so he can go throw up in the bathroom.
His fingers are still twitching when he comes back to their seats, and Brad watches him piercingly, blue eyes studying him before giving Layla back.
"She'll be fine," Brad promises softly in his ear, but Nate can't look away from the baby in his arms. Layla just yawns, settling in.
Nate sighs low. "It's not her I'm worried about."
This time he looks up to Brad's mouth twisting at one corner. "We'll be fine," he corrects.
Nate's dubious look says it all.
Layla sleeps for the entire flight, except for the part with the turbulence. And the part where she has to be changed in the back where the flight attendants keep the soda. She's not particularly happy about that at all. The flight attendants alternate between smirking and staring at Brad with Layla, and Nate hovering nearby with baby wipes and Destin and five different sizes of Pampers because they had no idea what size she would be when they finally got to bring her home.
They take a six hour lay-over in Baltimore for the sake of all parties involved. Nate's parents are there with his sister to meet them, and apparently, they've brought a few extra people. Brad just raises an eyebrow and holds Layla a little tighter against his chest.
There are balloons and family friends that Nate hasn't seen since he graduated from high school. Layla takes one look at all the commotion and lets loose with an ear-piercing shriek; her grandparents fret, shaking different toys in her light of sight in hopes of placating her. Brad settles her on his shoulder, patting her back and promising her it'll be over soon. Layla whimpers and buries her face in Brad's neck. Her tears leave stains on his shirt.
"I know exactly how you feel," Brad says low enough for only Layla and Nate to hear him.
Brad's mom meets them at John Wayne Airport when they land in Newport. She's got stuffed toys and balloons, and Nate kind of feels like this just went through this part. Brad's sister, Sharon, is there too, and standing at her side is Samuel, who's about two-and-a-half now.
Nate carries Layla, while Brad sees to their bags. Layla seems much calmer this time around, and when Brad's mom coos at her and tells her how pretty she is, Layla just burbles as though the compliments are all old news by now.
Nate gets down on one knee so Samuel can see his cousin, and Samuel gives Layla a dubious look.
"She's too small," he complains to his mom. "I thought you said we could play."
Brad laughs. "You say that now, but when she gets older, she's going to kick your--"
"BRAD!" everyone says in tandem.
Brad doesn't even blink. "But she will," he promises.
When Nate looks back down, Layla's grasping three of Sammy's fingers. Sammy smiles when she blows several spit bubbles in his direction.
"I brought her a toy," he says proudly, holding up a very familiar plastic key ring.
Nate just laughs. "I'm sure it'll be her favorite toy ever."
He doesn't mean to yawn, it just happens. Layla yawns right after him, and Brad puts a hand on Nate's shoulder to steady him as he stands up.
"It's nice that you all want to spoil her to death," Brad tells his family. "I promise we're going to abuse your willingness to baby-sit until she's 95, but she's tired and we're tired, so how about we skip this family bullshit. In the morning we'll draw up a schedule of who gets to change her shitty diapers and when you can put her in all the embarrassing frilly things that Nate and I are never going to buy her, sound good?"
And then it hits Nate all over again: this is their daughter.
He says a silent prayer to that god they don't believe in:
Please don't let us fuck this up.
ACT III
Layla cries non-stop for the first two weeks. They try everything: toys, walks, warm bottles, slings, swaddling, long drives in the car (Brad's mom), strapping her in her car seat and sitting her on a running washing machine (Nate's mom), changing her formula. Nothing takes.
Nate puts their pediatrician on speed-dial, but Brad calls Doc Bryan instead, and when Doc hears what they've done, he just laughs. Brad hangs up on him, calls back, and Doc's still laughing.
He agrees to come over anyway.
Doc takes one look at Nate's frazzled state and Brad's tight jaw and shakes his head. Layla stops crying the minute Doc picks her up, and Doc just shakes his head. "Two Marines and a baby; it's like a bad punchline. Did you two retards think about this at all?"
They both stare at Doc wordlessly, and he shrugs, shifting Layla from one side of his chest to the other.
Nate's too tired to take the bait. "Is she okay?"
Doc rolls his eyes. "She's fine."
"But she's been crying, and she's not sleeping as much as she should. It could be colic or jaundice or some sort of internal digestive issues that we don't know about," Nate persists.
"So, you're going to be the over-protective mom," Doc says, before turning back to Brad. "That makes you the laid back one. Get him a sedative."
Brad's mouth twists at the corner. "I've been trying, it's not working."
Doc pats Layla on the back. "She's fine; she's just acclimatizing."
"Acclimatizing to what?"
"Orange County isn't Mogadishu," Doc says dryly.
Brad frowns.
"Is there anything we can do?" Nate asks.
Layla sniffles against Doc's neck, and Nate's chest goes tight. He should be the one comforting her. "Give her some time," Doc advises. "Be patient. You got one of those wind-up swings around here by any chance?"
"A swing?" Nate says.
Doc nods. "Kids love those. The noise, the motion, it's like two Ambien and a bottle of Jack Daniels for anybody under the age of one. And hold her over your heart, the heartbeat reminds them of being in the womb."
It seems like the most obvious thing ever.
Brad nods and takes Layla back in his arms. She seems marginally more subdued; it's a miracle. While Brad's showing Doc to the door, Nate goes over to his laptop and orders every book on parenting possible from Amazon.
He'd tried to do this before they left for Somalia, but Brad said it would be bad luck.
There is a mountain of clothing in their guest room for Layla, courtesy of their friends and family. An actual mountain of socks, onesies, blankets, pajamas with feet, dresses, two-piece outfits with snaps, night shirts, shoes, robes and more shoes and more dresses. And even more dresses. Not only have Layla's grandparents tried to buy her every item of clothing ever made -- Nate's had to give away the twenty-odd stuffed animals to charity -- but apparently the entire Recon community only knows how to buy clothing for girls in pink, purple or Disney-related.
Except for Ray Person, who sent a tiny camo shirt that said, "My Daddy Went to Iraq and All He Got Was My Other Daddy."
They only let Layla wear that one around the house, but it may be the only item of clothing that she wears more than twice.
The diaper thing is -- well, it has to be done.
Neither one of them is very good at it, but they get better by dint of practice. The dirty diapers smell worse than Nate after spending six weeks in the desert without a shower, surrounded by twenty other men who haven't showered either, but at least they know what they're getting with those.
The first time Brad changes Layla and she manages to pee all over him, Nate laughs so hard he ends up wheezing on the floor. His mother tried to warn him about the urine trajectory of girls, and he didn't believe her.
He believes her now.
Brad's mother and sister have been very good about leaving them alone and giving them time to get into some sense of order. They offer advice when asked, only drop by unannounced every other day, and occasionally intersperse the mountains of pink and purple frilly clothing they buy for Layla with items in yellow and green. The first time Brad calls his mother to watch Layla, she says "yes" before he's even managed to get the entire question out. Nate doesn't really agree with asking Brad's mom to baby-sit because they haven't found time to have sex in more than three days, but Brad says that emergencies like this are exactly why grandparents are so great.
Layla loves bath time. She doesn't particularly enjoy the washing part, but she certainly loves the toys and bubbles and the shower hand-off, which is something Brad and Nate learned about from Poke Espera's wife, Gina. Gina described the hand-off thusly over e-mail: "Daddy A gets in the shower with the baby, washes squirming baby under the shower -- try not to drop her -- hands her off to Daddy B, who's holding the towel, who then finishes by drying the baby while Daddy A finishes his shower."
It's a damn good plan as far as Nate can tell; he even gets to shower first. It's a shame Gina Espera wasn't in charge during the war, they might've actually gotten something done.
Brad Colbert is a Marine Corps Killer. Swift, silent, deadly, and currently sprawled on the sofa playing Peek-A-Boo with his daughter.
Nate freezes in the entryway to watch.
Brad covers Layla's eyes with her hands, which she seems to think is the most hysterical thing ever, says 'peek-a-boo' and then does the same by covering his own eyes with her hands again.
Layla bounces up and down on Brad's stomach like a jumping bean, laughing and giggling every time Brad uncovers her eyes and says "See you!"
It's -- it's not something Nate ever thought he would see.
It's completely incongruous with the face Brad shows the world, but it's perfect for his interaction with their daughter. The first time Brad's sister said he was a big girl, Nate thought it was a family joke, but he finally understands what she means. Not that Brad's a girl, but that he's perfectly in tune with his emotions. That he can give and be broken and still give more.
In fact, Brad's ex-fiancée sent around some toys for Layla when they first got home, and Brad called her up to thank her; Nate threw them in the trash. That part of Brad's life is over. This part, this new part, is finally giving Brad what he's always deserved.
It's pretty good for Nate too.
"Layla, do you see Daddy over there trying to sneak up on our position?"
Brad's voice breaks into Nate's thoughts.
He smiles as Brad turns Layla around so she can see him. Layla stuffs her fist in her mouth and drools. "Daddy's recon skills have gone completely POG," Brad says conversationally. "When you get older, I'll teach you how to be a real Recon Marine, none of that pus--
Nate opens his mouth and Brad smirks. "None of that stuff," he corrects on his own.
Layla just giggles and waves a slobbery fist in Nate's direction.
At six months old, Layla sleeps a lot. Not as much as she did when they first saw her, but enough to allow Brad and Nate to have actual conversations about things besides diapers and how much pink is too much pink, and whose parents are acting more obsessive about getting time with their granddaughter.
Her favorite place to take a nap seems to be on Brad's chest. Nate has a lot of photos that Brad's never seen of them together. Brad and Layla on the sofa, with Layla chewing on her fist and Brad's mouth wide-open snoring. Brad and Layla on their bed with Layla chewing on Brad's shirt and Brad drooling on himself. One of Nate's favorites is Brad sound asleep in the rocking chair his mom gave them, with Layla smiling at the camera.
Nate's seen Brad stay awake for more than thirty hours without sleep. He's been with Brad when they've gone weeks with only a few hours of rest put together, but put a baby into the picture who likes to sleep all day and stay awake all night and Brad's whipped.
Layla seems to be much more at ease with Brad than she is with Nate.
He wants to say that it doesn't bother him, but it kind of does. It's not that she objects to him holding her or feeding her or burping her, it's just that if Brad's around she tends to make her preference known, wriggling in Nate's arms and whimpering until Brad picks her up.
The books say these things happen, but Brad just rolls his eyes. "Those books are liberal-hippie propaganda written by celibate quacks," he points out, while bouncing Layla on his lap. "They wouldn't last five minutes with an actual baby."
Nate exhales through his nose and watches as Layla squeals happily when Brad tickles her. He wonders when she'll do that for him.
They try to take Layla running on the beach, but a stroller in the sand is disastrous, and strapping Layla into a sling is nothing like running with a 150 lb. pack on Nate's back. For one thing, he doesn't have to worry that he's going to shake a pack to death.
Since moving to Newport Beach, Nate's taken on some consulting for political campaigns. Before he came back to California -- back to be with Brad -- he'd planned on moving down to D.C. and taking a job on the Hill. Nate had his whole life mostly planned out, where he was going to run for city council, how that would become a congressional seat, parlaying that into the Senate. There was no place in his life for a partner or a daughter. Except they've been back in San Diego for more than two months and Nate hasn't bothered to call any of his clients back. He thinks about it, but then it'll be time to feed Layla or change her diaper or give her a bath and Nate forgets all about work. Then again, they saved up all of last year so that they could do this.
So that Brad could dump Layla on Nate's lap and run out to do errands.
Layla's fine until Brad's out of her line of sight, and then she starts whimpering. Nate picks her up and walks her around the room, but it doesn't seem to do any good. Her whimpering turns into these hiccups and then into crying.
Nate bounces Layla in his arms and flies her around like an airplane, which always works for Brad, but she's completely inconsolable.
Nate changes her diaper, offers her a bottle, tries the Sesame Street DVDs that Poke sent them and offers her the plastic key ring from Sammy that she loves to play with, but nothing seems to help. And then Layla's cries ratchet into full-blow shrieks, and Nate reaches the end of his rope.
"Please, Layla," he says. "Please, stop crying. I know you're mad that I'm not Daddy, but he'll be home soon. I promise."
Layla eyes Nate warily, hiccups twice, and then goes back to crying. There's snot bubbling from her nose and tears running down her face.
Nate sighs and goes back to pacing. They have music for this, whole iPod playlists with classical music and children's music, and today, Layla hates it all.
Nate only starts singing to her because he's tired of "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" too.
"I know I have a horrible singing voice," he tells Layla, halfway through the song, "but I'm trying. Please don't let Brad walk in here and see me singing Eric Clapton and you this way, he'll call Child Services."
Layla sniffles and buries her face in Nate's neck. He can feel the tears and the snot getting smeared all over him, but then a little arm wraps around his chest and he realizes she's stopped crying. Finally.
Nate drops down on the sofa in exhaustion and grabs a few baby wipes from the end table. Layla deigns to let him wipe her face but then her lower lip starts trembling, and Nate only starts singing again because that seemed to work last time.
Layla sniffles again, and then she smiles and he sees it.
She's teething.
Oh.
It has nothing to do with Brad.
The teething mess seems to go on forever. Brad's mom gifts them with six different kinds of teething ring, and Nate's mom insists they webcam every day so that she can see Layla's progress.
At one point, while Nate's mom is cooing at Layla on the laptop, Brad bends down and whispers in Nate's ear. "I bought this webcam so that we could have video sex while you were still in Cambridge, do you think your mom would stop calling so much if she knew that was its intended purpose?"
Nate coughs hard enough to startle Layla and himself.
"Nate, are you getting sick?" his mother asks. "Don't be around Layla if you're sick. Brad, put him in the guest room if he's getting sick, do you hear me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Fick," Brad says politely, extricating Layla from Nate's arms and hefting her up. "C'mon, Nate, you heard your mom."
After they turn off the webcam, Brad laughs for a long time, and Layla joins in just because. She shrieks even louder when Nate tickles her. "What are you laughing at?" he mock grumbles.
Brad grins. "She thinks her dad is pretty funny; so do I."
Layla shrieks again, her arms waving at him in the unmistakable, 'hold me now' gesture. Brad hands her over easily, and Layla bounces in Nate's arms, wriggling and clapping like the happiest baby on earth.
Nate would be irritated if everyone else weren't so amused.
It is sort of funny.
Poke Espera comes down from Los Angeles to visit them a little after Layla turns seven months old. He and his wife sent down a huge box of games and toys when they first brought Layla home, which necessitated Brad calling Poke on the phone and giving him a running commentary on his thoughts on each and every item. Nate didn't know you could even do that with a Barbie car.
Poke shows up before noon with his two daughters, Lily, who's six, and Claudia, who's almost thirteen. The girls have brought Layla yet another pink frilly dress, which they apparently picked out themselves, and they coo over her in the way that only women, or in this case, girls seem capable of.
Nate gets drinks from the kitchen, and when he walks back into the living room Poke's bouncing Layla on his knee.
Poke glances up. "Don't worry, LT, I got two of my own. I ain't gonna drop her on her head or nothin'."
Brad snorts, but Layla just carries on drooling and clapping happily.
"You two doin' all right?" Poke says.
Nate glances over at Brad, who raises an eyebrow. "We haven't dropped her on her head yet," Brad mocks.
Poke just laughs as Nate hands over a cup of juice to Lily and Claudia each. "Uncle Brad," Lily says, spilling apple juice on her shirt, "why doesn't Layla look like you?"
The room gets very quiet, even as Claudia tells her sister to, "Shut up, god."
Nate and Brad share a look. It's not as though they haven't gotten the curious glances when they take Layla out. It's not as though they're blind or immune to the stares. They discussed what it would mean to adopt a child from Somalia or Cambodia, a child that doesn't look anything like them, and they decided it didn't matter. Because it doesn't.
"It's because she's adopted," Brad says. Nice and simple.
"And what did I tell you 'adopted' means," Poke adds.
All eyes focus on Lily, who looks as though she's thinking about this very hard. "That Layla picked Uncle Brad and Nate?"
Poke nods and Layla belches. Loudly. Well, that's one way to break the ice.
The rest of the visit has a lot fewer existential crises, and it's a little after four when Poke and his girls get ready to leave. They're standing at the front door, saying good-bye, Layla's in Nate's arms when Poke leans down and kisses her on her forehead.
"You know she needs people with melanin in her life," Poke says. "I'm expectin' y'all to bring her up to L.A. at least once a month so she can get some culture. Got her down here with all these white people, you know you're confusing the hell out of her."
Nate's mouth drops open a little, but Brad just laughs it off.
"I hate it when Poke's right about the oppression of the white man," Brad admits after he closes the door.
Nate sighs. "I know."
The first night they put Layla in her own room; Nate gets up to check on her eleven times between eight and ten p.m. Eventually, Brad has to physically restrain him from getting up again. "I know those books tell you it's okay to be obsessive, but even Dr. Spock would tell you it's time to remove the stick from your ass or I'll never get my dick up there."
"Why is she in her own room again?" Nate demands, ignoring Brad's leer.
"Because you refuse to suck my cock with our daughter in the room."
Nate doesn't even hide his disapproval. "Brad."
Brad rolls his eyes. "You weren't this much of a prude before Layla came along, you know."
Nate scowls. "Your seduction technique leaves a lot to be desired."
"We already have the kid; I didn't think I had to seduce you anymore."
"We fuck a couple of times, and now, you think I'm easy."
"Oh, now you're upset that I didn't make an honest man of you?" Brad laughs.
Nate crosses his arms. "Forget the seduction; we're never having sex again."
"That's not funny."
Nate gives Brad his most guileless look. "Who said I was joking?"
Nate's still laughing when Brad tackles him to the floor.
It's a few nights later that Nate's sitting in bed reading the latest issue of Parents magazine, which is hidden inside The Economist. He closes the magazine when Brad comes in from his shower… holding Layla.
"She's lonely," Brad says as though that explains everything.
"She was asleep fifteen minutes ago," Nate says suspiciously,
Brad shrugs; Layla yawns.
"Did you wake her up?" Nate asks
"Babies need to be near their parents," Brad intones before settling on the bed, holding Layla, who has clearly gone back to sleep.
Nate opens and closes his mouth, because he's read the books, he knows children need to see their parents. It creates a sense of security. He hates it when Brad uses the books against him.
"If you hold her so much, you're going to spoil her," Nate says.
Brad scoffs quietly. "This from the guy who refused to put her down long enough to answer the door this morning?"
"You have a key."
"I was holding four bags of groceries."
Nate makes a dismissive wave; Layla sleeps on.
Nate's completely unprepared for Brad to place Layla on the bed between them. "What are you doing?" he asks in a low tone as Layla settles effortlessly onto her stomach.
"She's going to sleep with us tonight."
They've done this before, but it still makes Nate nervous. "What if you squash her?"
Brad's grin is sharp. "What if you squash her?"
"That's not funny."
"Stop raising your tone, you're upsetting her."
"She's not even awake," Nate points out. "And put her on her back. Babies are supposed to sleep on their backs."
At this, Layla opens her eyes, screws up her face as though she's going to cry and then thinks better of it and goes back to sleep.
Nate doesn't even realize he's holding his breath until he looks up to see Brad doing the same thing.
"I keep telling you reading those books is bad for you," Brad says after a moment. "Layla agrees."
Nate frowns even as he pushes the magazines onto the floor and stretches out on the bed. Layla opens her eyes when he brushes her tiny fist with his hand. She grabs onto his index finger, her little brown fingers holding on for dear life.
He glances up as the bed shifts again as Brad curls up on Layla's other side. "She'll be fine," Brad promises, reaching back to turn off the lamp. "Go to sleep."
Nate doesn't think he'll sleep at all. He doesn't even realize he's closed his eyes until he wakes up a little after dawn to see Brad watching Layla trying to stuff Nate's finger in her mouth.
Brad's smile is soft. His edges have worn down since Layla came along. "I told you it would be fine," he says, but the mocking superiority isn't there. It's just the comfort of being right.
Layla has a nap every day between one and three o'clock. When Nate goes to wake her up one afternoon, she's not in her crib. He doesn't immediately panic, but it's close. He's been in their guest room/office on a conference call with Caroline Kennedy's people in New York; she's getting ready for her re-election to the Senate and they're looking for some outside consulting on her policies.
Rationally, Nate knows that Layla couldn't have left her crib on her own.
He also knows that Brad was working on his laptop when Nate went to take his call. After leaving the military, Brad's been alternating between consulting on computer work and teaching extreme sport classes. It works pretty well. The last time Nate checked, Brad was either hacking the security wall of one of his clients or making arrangements to take another client sky diving. The sky diving doesn't worry Nate nearly as much their missing daughter does.
Except that Brad's not at the kitchen table either, but the sliding doors are open and there's a breeze coming through the screen from the beach.
The breeze has this strange smell to it, like, like something's burning.
Nate nearly runs through the screen in his haste to get it open, because Brad's standing about twenty yards away, flinging things into a garbage can that's on fire, and he's got Layla strapped to his chest in her Baby Bjorn.
Maybe Brad's finally snapped.
Except it's Brad so -- what?
Nate's feet slip in the sand, and he's just rushing up when he overhears Brad talking. "…and that was the first time I saw your Daddy. He was pretty fucking hot, still is, but don't tell him I said that. His ears stick out enough without his head swelling up more."
Nate stops in the sand, watching as Brad unfastens the Baby Bjorn and pulls Layla out. "You know," Brad says conversationally, tucking Layla under his chin. Her eyes are wide and they zero in perfectly on Nate, who smiles at her. "If I'd known then that Operation Fuck Iraqi Freedom was going to be such a dick-swinging orgy, your dad and I could've just skipped it and adopted you a lot sooner."
Nate's been in love with Layla since he saw her; he's probably been in love with Brad since he saw him too. Right now, he thinks his heart might explode. "If we'd gone looking sooner, we wouldn't have her," he points out quietly. He should probably say something about Brad's language, but that doesn't matter. Not really.
Brad turns around leisurely. "Again with the POG recon skills, Nate?"
"What're you burning?" Nate counters.
And then he sees his copy of Raising Children Who Think for Themselves lying in the sand at Brad's feet.
"You're burning my parenting books?" his disbelief is obvious.
Brad doesn't bother to look guilty. "We don't like them, do we, Layla?" he says, turning slightly so that Nate can see Layla chewing on her fist quietly.
Nate steps closer to tug Layla's shirt down in the back. "We could've given them to the library," he says. Nate has no idea who sizes baby clothes, but they're clearly on crack. Layla's shirt is for a six-month old, but her pants are for a ten month-old. Yesterday, she couldn't fit into a dress for a one year-old.
Brad scoffs derisively. "And let them infect the feeble-minded, hippie parents of Layla's future minions? No."
Layla's future minions. Oh god, where to begin? "Are you saying I'm feeble-minded?" Nate prods.
Brad snorts. "Hardly. Just susceptible to over-analyzing."
"You could've just said you didn't like them."
"I did," Brad's tone is perfectly droll. "Repeatedly. You didn't listen; I had to take drastic measures."
Nate sticks his chin out defiantly. Brad just watches, his eyes tracking Nate curiously. He's clearly not expecting it when Nate grabs the collar of his tee shirt and hauls him in for a kiss. Nate isn't expecting it either, but it seems like the right thing to do.
Brad's mouth is soft but the kiss is deep and thorough, and when Nate pulls away, Brad licks his lips. "She should finish her nap," Brad says thoughtfully.
Nate 'hmm's in agreement.
"And we should have sex," Brad adds. "Now."
They're standing in the living room while Layla watches a video of Schoolhouse Rocks, which Mike Wynn and his wife sent them. They're arguing about something, whose turn it is to tell their parents to back off or organic versus non-organic or whether or not Layla's too young for that 'Adoptees and Their Gay Parents' playgroup that Brad's mom keeps harassing them about, when Nate sees something moving out the corner of his eye.
It's Layla. She's crawling. And right now she's heading towards Brad's running shoes.
"Brad," Nate interrupts what is, no doubt, Brad's very compelling argument. "Brad."
Brad frowns. "What?"
Nate points to where Layla is rapidly getting closer to Brad's sneakers. "She's going to die from the toxicity levels of your shoes; I know how your feet smell."
Brad smacks him on the ass and Nate twitches. "Kinky," he says, but neither one of them move, content to let Layla do what she wants.
"So," Brad says, getting Nate back on track. "Crawling child."
"When did that happen?" Nate asks, glancing over at Brad and then back to Layla, who is now chewing on one of Brad's shoelaces.
Brad grins. "Do you want to child-proof our porn, or should I?"
Nate punches him in the arm.
Brad just laughs.
Ray Person comes to visit, which isn't a point of debate, since it turns out to be a hit-and-run sort of conversation.
They're in the kitchen one morning, and Nate's trying to coax Layla into eating some organic pureed pears. Brad's on the phone in the other room, but he comes in to hang up the handset.
"Ray's coming to visit," he says thoughtfully.
Nate glances up, which gives Layla just enough time to take the food out of her mouth and smear it all over her hair. "When? I'll take Layla to visit my parents."
The doorbell rings.
Brad's smile is all teeth. "Now."
As an RTO, Nate admits that Ray Person is second to none. He's been a good friend to Brad, and on the third of every month he religiously sends Layla the most interesting presents any child under the age of 18 could possibly hope for. The pink leopard fur-lined handcuffs are most definitely never reaching their final destination.
As a self-proclaimed godfather to their daughter, however, Ray leaves a lot to be desired.
"So, I'm going to date your daughter in 18 years," Ray says that night at dinner. "Actually, more like 17 and some change. What's the age of consent in Cali, anyway?"
They're having pizza and beer; Layla is having pureed spinach, beef and apples. Not necessarily in that order.
Brad's feeding Layla, who seems much more interested in pulling Ray's finger than eating her food. Brad doesn't even bother to glance up. "The age of consent is me chopping off your dick and flushing it down the toilet if you so much as touch my child."
"The protective vibe," Ray says, winking at Layla. "I get it."
"Ray," Brad's tone makes it clear that jokes are not welcome about this subject.
Ray's lower lip juts out. "I was just kidding, damn."
Layla tugs harder on Ray's finger, and Ray leans in. "What's up, princess?" he says. "You need your Uncle Ray-Ray to bust you out of this prison? They got you doing hard time with that nasty baby food?"
Layla giggles.
Nate gives Brad a reproachful look, but Brad just shrugs.
"Don't worry, Layla," Ray carries on in a conspiratorial whisper. "I got your first beer all hooked up. Me and your Uncle Walt are gonna take you to Nashville and --"
Layla picks this moment to vomit pureed spinach and beef all over Ray. It looks about the same coming up as it did going down.
Ray just snorts. "Layla, how are you gonna do me like that?"
Nate swoops in and removes Layla from her high-chair. "Because she's daddy's girl, and she doesn't approve of your hedonistic ways."
"Hedonistic ways?" Ray marvels. "Is that what you call sticking your --"
"Ray!" Brad warns.
Ray crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't even worry about it, Layla," Ray calls, as Nate takes her away for a bath. "It's good practice for when you get older."
Ray stays for three days. Three very long days. Nate could complain, but it's clear that Ray dotes on Layla, and she seems to think Ray's the best thing since her plastic key ring. It probably has to do with them being around the same age mentally.
"What did you do to her hair?" Brad asks incredulously as Nate settles Layla in her stroller with her plastic key ring and a stuffed dragon that Rudy Reyes sent her two weeks ago.
Nate glances up. "What's wrong with her hair?"
"It -- Nate, you're not taking her out looking like that."
"It's got barrettes in it," Nate says defensively.
"She looks like she was electrocuted," Brad retorts, unsnapping Layla's belt and pulling her out.
"She's ten months old," Nate replies. "You should be happy I didn't let her go out with smashed bananas in her hair."
Brad just glares as he sets about making Layla more presentable.
When they first brought Layla home she had a head of curly baby fuzz, but as of late her hair is practically sprouting off of her head. This would be fine if Nate could manage to braid or style or do anything besides put in a ribbon. Brad, on the other hand, seems to have a natural affinity for doing Layla's hair. Maybe he really is a girl.
"We're two Marines with a baby," Brad says as though Nate might've forgotten. "We're not Brad and Angelina; it's not okay for our kid to look as though she stuck her finger in a light socket while we were fucking in the bathroom."
"Are you comparing us to Hollywood celebrities?" Nate doesn't even bother to hide his disbelief.
Brad finishes combing Layla's hair into something more appropriate and sighs. "What I'm saying is that life is going to be hard enough without us looking like we don't know what we're doing."
Nate rubs his forehead. "You never cared what other people thought before."
"And I don't care now," Brad says, resettling Layla in her stroller before standing up to face Nate. "But it's not just us anymore."
It's not Layla's hair that Brad's talking about, Nate's not stupid. What Brad's talking about is them, their family. Two white, middle-class guys raising an African girl. It's the kind of thing people make movies about; it's the kind of thing that people don't do in real life. Except this is their real life.
Strollers are the work of the devil. Okay, that's not what Nate means. Strollers are fantastic, life-altering contraptions, perfect for keeping babies, diapers and toys in one place, but pushing them around all day is bullshit. Especially when said baby isn't even in the stroller.
Right now, Layla is sitting on Brad's shoulders, laughing riotously and grabbing onto Brad's hair as though that's how he can be steered. Nate could probably say something about that, about how Brad's ears are a better bet, but this is their daughter.
They're walking back home from a trip to the playground that was supposed to wear Layla out, but, if anything, she seems even more keyed up. Brad's got a firm grip on Layla, and Nate shouldn't worry, but… "She's up too high."
Brad doesn't even look at him. "She's fine."
"If you run into something, I'll kill you."
Brad glances over at this declaration. "What's she going to run into on my shoulders? A street light?" Brad tilts his head back. "Your daddy is worrying again, sweetheart."
Layla burbles, slapping Brad on the face excitedly.
"I think she got me in the eye," Brad says thoughtfully.
"Brad, put her down."
"You are the most nagging husband ever, did you know that?"
Nate catches the eye of an older couple approaching that reminds him a little of his parents. Actually, the man looks a lot like his father; his dad has glasses like that and a jacket like that. And the woman, if Nate's mom has cut her hair -- it would be just like them to just show up one day as a surprise. Nate smiles and steps forward, but it's not his parents. And then the couple gives them the most disapproving glare. It takes Nate a moment to realize what's happened; he's normally much quicker at identifying people like this.
"Nate?" Brad's voice breaks through, and Nate shakes his head.
"We're not married," he says belatedly after the couple has passed by.
He stops when Brad grabs his arm. "What's wrong?"
Nate looks above Brad's head at where Layla's chewing on Brad's hair. "Nothing."
"Nate."
Nate sighs. "Really, it's fine."
Brad reaches up and lifts Layla off of his shoulders. "Here," he says, passing the baby to Nate. Nate cuddles Layla against his chest and she smiles up at him, showing off her little teeth and patting him happily on the face. He just kisses her on the forehead.
"Better now?" Brad asks, taking over stroller duty.
Nate hugs their daughter closer. "Yeah, I am."
"Some people are just fucking stupid," Brad says quietly. "Ignore them."
Nate shouldn't be surprised that Brad saw that, because Brad sees everything.
ACT IV
On Layla's first birthday the entire house is commandeered by Recon Marines and family. Mike Wynn comes up from Texas with his wife and daughter, and Poke drives down with his wife and their two girls. Ray flies in, having acquired Walt Hasser and Rudy on the way. Both sets of grandparents are there along with aunts and cousins and everybody short of Godfather and RCT-1.
Reporter's on assignment, but he sends a birthday video that says if Layla ever needs concert tickets she just has to call her Uncle Evan.
It's great to be surrounded by family and friends, to have so many people who love them and love Layla in one place, but their house isn't that big, and the only thing louder than a bunch of Recon Marines, is family. It doesn't take long for Nate's head to swim with too many people, doing too much stuff, and spending too much time getting in the way when all Layla wants to do is crawl and pull herself up on furniture and play with her toys.
He decides to kidnap his daughter and make a break for it.
They don't go far, just down to the water. Layla's wearing a pink dress with matching camo pants so that she doesn't get rug burn from all the crawling around. Brad picked out the pink camo by himself, even though he claims it arrived anonymously one day in the mail.
Layla babbles in Nate's ear as he tells her his favorite Winnie the Pooh story. He holds her carefully, letting her feet dangle where the tide comes in so she can get accustomed to the temperature.
She squeals, kicking water all over him when he finally lets her put her feet on the wet sand.
"I think she's about the right size for a surfboard, don't you?"
Nate smiles down at the top of Layla's head. "I think it might help if she could stand up on her own, first," he says, before looking up at Brad.
Brad's smile is wry. "I was informed that my husband had kidnapped our daughter."
Nate blinks. "That's the second time you've called me that."
Brad just shrugs. "It's what you are."
Nate looks down at Layla bouncing up and down on her knees and then back up at Brad, but Brad's face is giving nothing away. You'd think after all this time -- and a baby -- Nate could read him better. "I am?"
"Are you getting hung up on the semantics now, sir?" Layla's bouncing like a tennis ball. Any minute she's going to bounce right out of Nate's grasp. "Nate?"
"You want to get married?" he's confused. He didn't think that they -- that Brad…
"Not with all the flowers and girl bullshit, but I thought we could sign some papers or something," Brad says carefully. "Make it a little more legal than just our names on an adoption certificate and a lease for the house."
"We have Layla," Nate says a little desperately. "I didn't think you wanted to -- to do that."
Brad sighs. "My mom's mad that her granddaughter's a bastard."
Nate covers Layla's ears quickly. "She is not!"
"I was joking." Brad's mouth twitches a little.
Nate means to scowl, he does, but he finds himself smiling anyway.
"Did you want a ring?" Brad crouches down and picks up Layla. There goes Nate's diversion.
Nate does not gape, but he may stare a little. "Um," he says, standing up slowly.
"Do you need a minute to think about it?" Brad asks, tickling Layla's stomach when she grabs his nose.
Nate takes a deep breath. "No."
Brad cocks his head to the side. "You sure?"
Nate pretends to think it over for a moment, but then takes a step forward. "Yes."
"Dadadadadada," Layla babbles, reaching out toward Nate.
Nate looks at Brad, wide-eyed, and then back at Layla. She just babbles on, her little hands making that unmistakable grabbing motion, and Brad hands her over. "Well, she knows what she wants," he says. "She must get that from me."
Nate doesn't fumble Layla, but it's touch and go for a minute. His hands are shaking; it must be the adrenaline. "What do you think, sweetheart?" he asks, holding their daughter close. "Should I marry your Daddy?"
Layla bounces up and down in his arms. "Dadadadadadada," she says.
Nate bites his lip and looks up at Brad. "Well, you heard our daughter."
Brad's never been one for overt sentiment, but when he leans down and kisses Nate, Nate knows what it's supposed to mean. He can't remember them saying the words, but you don't adopt a baby with someone you don't love, that much has always been clear.
They're rudely interrupted by Layla loudly smacking Brad on the face. Somebody wants attention.
Brad pulls back and gives Layla a rueful look. "We need to teach somebody about Dad and Daddy time," he says, rubbing his face.
"I think she's saying that you have to wait until after the wedding," Nate says thoughtfully.
"Oh, I think it's a bit late for that," Brad says.
Layla smacks Nate on the neck this time and he winces. "Yeah, I think you're right about that."
-end-
Umoja means Unity. It stresses the importance of togetherness for the family and the community, which is reflected in the African saying, "I am We," or "I am because We are."
This story is for sparky77 and alethialia. Happy Birthday, A and Happy Surprise Day, S. Layla would never be around if it weren't for your prodding and that damn throw away comment in yuletide, which is why everybody should do yuletide!
However, the story never would have made it to posting without the beta love of issaro, who was all, "Sure, I'll read this story in this fandom I don't know… um, what fandom is this again? Who are these people? Can I get a primer? Some Cliffs Notes? Any identifying characteristics?!" Thank you, J, you're my favorite kinky girl.