Generation Kill AU - The Road Not Taken (Nate/Brad, NC-17, 1/3)
There is not going to be a High School AU, there is this. This is WAY better.
Generation Kill
Nate Fick/Brad Colbert, ensemble
Alternate Universe, NC-17
Word Count: 25,054
The Road Not Taken
Dartmouth College
Hanover, NH
Winter 1998
Nate's pretty sure that most Marine Corps recruitment drives don't include lusting after your potential Marine brothers, but it's not Nate's fault. He's not even sure he's interested in joining the Marines. He's a year away from getting his philosophy degree and he's pretty sure that free thinking is discouraged in the military. Ever since he heard Tom Ricks, the Pentagon correspondent for the Wall Street Journal, speak the other day though, he's been thinking about joining up. Actually, he's been thinking about it a lot.
People don't really talk about duty anymore.
And maybe, if he hadn't seen that flyer posted up by the student lounge, he could've let the whole thing go. Eventually, maybe, this desire to be part of something greater would fade away. Or maybe not.
It's just that he was walking by the student lounge and there was this Marine Corps flyer posted. One thing led to another, and then Nate was sitting in one of the halls as guy after guy in uniform or dress blues or camouflage gave a speech about how great it was to join the Corps, which was pretty much the standard party line he's expected, but there was this one guy… Sgt. Brad Colbert, a Recon Marine, who seemed determined to talk the entire audience out of joining up.
Nate's never heard of Recon, but apparently, they're the Navy Seals of the Marines, and apparently, when you're the best, you're entitled to be an asshole.
On a very shallow level, Nate's never seen a Marine that looks like a Viking god, but if they all look like this Colbert guy then he's joining up first thing in the morning. Okay, that's not true at all, but the thought is starting to swirl around his head a little bit more than it should.
After the speeches are given, Nate even finds himself loitering on the side of the stage talking to one of the officers, a Sergeant Davis, who is telling Nate how many of their officers come from the Ivy League and how the Corps is a breeding ground for great leaders.
Nate listens patiently and then asks the question he really wants an answer to. "What about the Recon Marines? How many Ivy League graduates do they have?"
Sergeant Davis raises an eyebrow. "Enjoyed Sergeant Colbert's inspirational speech, huh?"
Nate scoffs a little. "I don't know if 'you're all inferior hippie waste unworthy of being called Marines' would be called a pep talk."
"No, what I said was that all coddled, wine-sipping, communist hippies, who haven't been weaned from your mother's tits shouldn’t bother," a voice corrects from behind Nate, and the pleasant expression on Sergeant Davis' face widens into a huge grin.
"We're trying to bring them in, Colbert, not drive them away."
And when Nate turns around there's that Viking Marine again: Sergeant Brad Colbert.
"Davis, haven't you ever heard of Darwinism?" Colbert says. "Survival of the fittest. It means that because we're fit, we ensure that this fine, upstanding young man, who probably couldn’t outrun my grandma in her motorized wheelchair, will live a long time and prosper, while you and I die in the desert."
Davis makes a tsking noise. "Believe it or not, Nate, Brad's actually one of the more well-mannered Recon Marines you'll ever meet. He's only here 'cause he owes me a favor, though, you sure you want to even talk to him? He might eat you alive."
Colbert's glance is perfunctory, and it's all Nate needs to urge him on. "He doesn't scare me."
Davis and Colbert both laugh. "You're a lot braver than I thought," Davis says clapping Nate on the shoulder before walking away.
Colbert's smile is all teeth. "A lot braver or a lot stupider," he amends.
Nate narrows his eyes. "You underestimate me," he says.
Colbert snorts. "Fine, impress me."
They're sitting in a diner off campus, talking about Lord of the Flies and the G.I. Joe cartoon from the 1980s; Nate has no idea how they've even gotten here. Just that Colbert thought he was a weakling, so Nate challenged him to a race and then they were tearing through the Dartmouth campus after dark, slipping on ice patches, sliding on melted snow and making huge messes in soggy, muddy patches of grass.
They were just supposed to race across the Quad, but Colbert matched Nate's every stride as though they were the invading hordes set free, and then Colbert managed to vault over an entirely full bike rack and Nate wants to be able to do that.
The race didn't end as much as Nate put on this massive burst of speed as they were tearing down Wheelock Street, knocking people over and running in the grass, and then Colbert grabbed him right before he ran out into traffic and got himself killed.
Nate's shirt is ripped at the seams where Colbert grabbed him and he's probably going to have bruises on his bicep, but that was the most fun he's had in a while.
"So, Sergeant Colbert, can all Recon Marines leap bike racks in a single bound?" Nate says, dumping sugar into his second cup of coffee.
Colbert looks up from his third slice of pie, his mouth twitching. "I think, since I saved your life, you can call me Brad."
"I thought saving my life meant that you were responsible for it now," Nate says.
Brad's grin is sharp. "That's an interesting offer you're making."
Nate can feel the heat in his cheeks. He pushes his hair behind his left ear to have something to do. "That's not what I meant."
"Too bad."
Nate gives Brad a sharp look, but Brad's busy with his pie and humming along to the Journey song playing over the speakers. Nate refuses to feel disappointed. "Brad, huh?"
"Got a problem with my name, Nate?"
Nate laughs. "No, not really. Brad just doesn't seem like a very Viking name."
Brad licks the corner of his mouth, and Nate sits up straighter. His chinos seem strangely tight. "I must have missed the Viking part of the conversation."
Nate bites his lip. "I didn't mean to say that," he says, taking a sip of his coffee.
"It's okay, I know it's a WASP thing," Brad says dismissively. Nate chokes on his coffee.
The grin Brad gives him is different from the one earlier, before they raced. Nate didn't know a grin could say so much. This one seems to be less of the 'you are inferior and unworthy of my time' one and more of an 'underestimate my intelligence at your own peril' one.
"I'm Jewish," Brad says. "Or I was before I decided that organized religion was nothing more than a glorified cult with better coffers and more mitzvahs. I would assume you know what Jews are, but I know Episcopalians can be elitist."
Nate rolls his eyes. "I'm not Episcopalian; I'm an atheist."
Brad chuckles around a mouthful of pie. "I didn't know that was allowed in New England."
Nate sets his coffee on the table. "Why are you a Marine? Aren't they just an organized religion with government coffers?"
Brad's mouth quirks at the right corner. "Why do you go to college?"
Nate blinks. "I asked you first."
"Yes, and I shouldn't answer a question with a question. So?"
"Because it's what you do, you go to college to learn."
Brad nods his head. "It's the same reason you join the Marines - to learn. We just learn in different ways. You learn by book, I learn by action."
Nate drinks his coffee and thinks about this.
"Do you have brothers, Nate?"
"Sisters, two of them."
"Same here. So, obviously I joined the Corps for male company." Nate coughs in his coffee again. Brad chuckles, apparently delighted with Nate's response. "I can see how fucking with you could be very entertaining. Hours of just messing with your head for my entertainment - it could be my new pasttime."
Nate snorts softly. "I'm glad I entertain you."
Brad's responding smile makes Nate's mouth go dry, and he swallows down more coffee to quench his sudden thirst.
"'One man in a thousand, Solomon said, will stick more close than a brother'," Brad quotes. "I've got 21 of them. They're all whiskey tango fuck-ups, but the military doesn't have an IQ prerequisite. They just prefer trailer-park dwellers."
Nate raises an eyebrow. He has no idea what 'whiskey tango' means, but he would bet that Brad's never seen a trailer park in his life. "I didn't know Kipling was talking about the military."
Brad smirks. "Neither did he."
Nate sets his mug down. "I can't figure out if you're trying to recruit me or not; I can only assume this is a part of the Colbert plan to confuse and entrap the young and impressionable."
"You're not that young, are you?"
Nate blinks, he doesn't think they're talking about the same thing, and then Brad pushes his pie away and looks up at Nate. "For the record: I'm not trying to recruit you."
Nate doesn't both to hide his consternation. "You're not?"
"No."
"Why not?" Nate retorts, slightly annoyed. "You think I can't do it? You think I'm too much of a liberal brat?"
He thought they were having a decent conversation. He thought that Brad was trying to feel him up - out, not up. Jesus.
"Irritated's a good look on you," Brad says conversationally. Nate can't figure out this grin immediately, at least his brain can't, but when Brad leans across the table, Nate doesn't even realize he's met him halfway until he's looking at a faded scar just above Brad's right eyebrow.
"Do you want to be a Marine or do you just want me to fuck you?" Brad says.
Nate's brain makes a noise, his mouth says, "Why can't I have both?"
"Because men like you get men like me killed."
Nate's too startled to hide it well. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that your idealism needs to be someplace like Capitol Hill and not at Pendleton getting disassembled piece-by-piece by the incompetence of people who don't give a shit how smart you are." Brad's very close to him, and when he speaks Nate can feel the warm air brushing across his cheeks.
"Nate, if you want to change the world, do it somewhere where you can actually be heard."
Nate narrows his eyes. "And this is your assessment of me: that I'm too much of an idealistic pussy for the military."
"No," Brad says, pulling out his wallet and slipping a twenty dollar bill on the counter. "If I wanted pussy, I wouldn't be paying for your coffee."
Nate Fick does not bring strange men in uniform that he picks up at military recruitment drives back to his room. And he certainly doesn't introduce them to his friends when they meet on the stairs, wishing that his friends would hurry the fuck up and go away.
In fact, when Nate lets Sergeant Brad Colbert into his dorm room he has absolutely no plans to kiss him. And then Brad shoves Nate against the door, knocking over the robes and hoodies that hang there, and Nate thinks he might need to stop lying to himself. Especially since Brad's kissing him like it might be the last kiss ever recorded on earth.
Brad's hands are callused, his fingers are long, and they get tangled in Nate's hair that needed to be cut three weeks ago.
Brad's kisses are paralyzing for almost twenty whole seconds, with the way his tongue is mapping Nate's mouth and the way he keeps pulling back and diving back in. And then all Nate can do is yank at Brad's uniform and try to figure out how the hell to get it off. Brad's mouth nips along Nate's jaw, his lips brushing against Nate's ear. "I like your eagerness."
There's no reason for Nate to be breathing as fast as he is, but it might have something to do with Brad's leg wedged between his thighs and the way he's shamelessly rubbing his cock against the groove of Brad's hip.
His body is totally betraying him, especially his fingers, which have abandoned trying to get past Brad's jacket and suspenders and shirt and are now just trying to get inside his pants. "I've heard the military appreciates enthusiasm," Nate says a little breathily.
"Right now, I don't give a shit about the Corps," Brad says, sliding down Nate's body and away from Nate's grasping fingers. "I care about getting your clothes off."
And then Brad's doing just that, pushing up the hem of Nate's shirt, unbuttoning his chinos and sliding them down his hips. "I care about your pretty mouth," Brad says, pausing to remove Nate's sneakers one by one, followed by his socks. "I care about how good it's going to look wrapped around my cock."
Nate makes a strangled noise, and Brad's head snaps up from what he's doing. "That noise is the one you're going to make for me when I fuck you into those cheap mattresses that the Ivy League buys from the same wholesaler who gives the military their cheap bullshit."
Nate makes another noise, and Brad's smile is amazing. It takes Nate a minute to realize that Brad's bared him from the waist down, and he only notices this because Brad's fingers trail along the outside of his thigh when he stands up.
Brad's fingers are painting his memory all over Nate, and Nate grabs him by the collar, hauling him down a few inches to kiss him. It should be hard and fast, a brief stop. It shouldn't be deep and decadent, with Brad pressing him against the door and Nate rubbing himself against Brad like some wanton whore, the head of his cock pressing against the worn USMC uniform. It's just a kiss, it shouldn't leave Nate feeling like he's floating a few centimeters above the ground.
Brad's eyes are dark when he pulls away, and he stares hard at Nate as though he's trying to figure something out. Nate's arms go up automatically as Brad tugs his shirt over his head, and then Nate's naked and Brad's still clothed, and Nate has no idea what the fuck is happening.
The care Brad's taking with him, with his clothes, this is nothing like any one night stand Nate's ever had. They should be fucking on the furniture right now, loud and obnoxious. At this point, Brad should have Nate bent over his desk with his pants around his ankles. Hell, the last time Nate did this he pulled up his pants afterwards and went to study for a few hours.
But this is nothing like that because there's this random Marine standing in the middle of Nate's room, which is filled with Foucault, microwavable Chef Boyardee and ramen noodles on the shelves and The Notorious B.I.G. in the CD player, and Nate feels like he's blotting out everything else in existence.
"Brad," Nate says conversationally. "You're wearing a lot of clothes."
There's that grin again, the predatory one, and one minute Brad's dressed, the next, he's kicking off boots that look like they should take twenty minutes just to put on. "You want some help there?" Nate says, stepping away from the door.
"Stay where you are," Brad orders, and Nate's cock jerks hard.
He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes himself, watching Brad take off his clothes. Brad's body is one long expanse of tan skin and lean muscle. There are faint scars and scattered bruises in different colors as though Brad's body's been fighting a war all its own. Nate wets his lips in anticipation; he wants to put his mouth all over Brad. Behind Brad's right ear, in the divot between his collarbones, the hollow of his navel and right at that ripple of Brad's obliques that only comes with true dedication to being in shape.
Brad's pants pool around his ankles as he stands up, his eyes focused on Nate's hand, and then Nate's being slammed against the door again. This is more like what he thought he would be getting in the first place.
"Don't join the Marines," Brad says, his right hand covering Nate's own.
Brad's pinning him to the door with his left hand on the juncture of Nate's shoulder and neck, his fingers brushing along the nape of Nate's neck, and Nate groans when Brad speeds up the rhythm. "Can't we talk about this later?" he grits out.
"No." Brad's thumb is ghosting over the head of Nate's cock, a swipe at the underside, and right now, Nate might agree to anything. Really.
"I -- god," Nate moans when Brad stills their motions.
"I don't think he's here right now."
"You think you're funny, don't you?"
"You like me."
"Strangely enough," Nate grits out when Brad's thumb strokes along their clasped hands.
"Give me your word," Brad prompts, his grasp going uncomfortably tight.
Nate bangs his head against the door. "Brad, please."
Brad's eyes narrow slightly, and he starts moving their hands again. "I want your word."
Nate's not whimpering. Okay, he might be a little bit. "If I give you my word, how do you know I'll keep it?" he says, turning his head to the side as Brad nuzzles his temple and his lips ghost over Nate's cheekbone.
Brad's laugh is dry and throaty. "I trust you," he says, and then he does this thing with his wrist and Nate's coming apart in pieces he may never find again.
He probably didn't really want to join the Marines anyway.
University of California, Oceanside
Spring Semester, 2009
Nate writes across the blackboard with swift, sharp strokes. First, the title of the course, and then, his name. Chalk dust floats down as he writes, landing on the toes of his dark brown loafers.
When he's done, he places the chalk back in the holder, wipes the dust off on his jeans and turns back around.
His students are paying a marginal amount of interest, which is more than he's come to expect on the first day from any class. Especially a class that's apparently going to be all male.
He smiles, more to himself than them, and begins. "All right, in case you didn’t get the memo, this is English 203: The Fraternity of Men. I'm your professor, Nate Fick. You can call me Nate, Professor Fick or Your Worshipfulness, whatever works for you."
There's a snort from the back. A wiry, white guy with black hair, who's tapping his leg like he's on speed, snorts and is summarily whacked on the back of the head by a corn-fed poster child sitting next to him.
"Damn, I didn't even say anything yet!" the dark-haired man says.
"Ray, don't make me break something off in your ass," says a man with a shaved head sitting two seats ahead of Ray.
Ray. Check. Troublemaker? Probably.
"Poke, I know all your talk about the oppression of the white man is really just a cover-up for how much you want my pasty ass." Ray shifts in his seat, thrusting out one hip. "Come on, big boy, show me what you got."
Poke. Check.
"Just like the white man to talk shit about a brother because of his whiskey tango tiny-dick inferiority complex," Poke says, turning around.
Nate blinks. This may turn out to be more of a sociology experiment than an English class.
"Poke, I know you get confused about this shit sometimes, but you're Mexican, not black. Now, if T starts waving his dick around I might need an eye patch," Ray gestures to the young man sitting a few seats to his left, "but, if it's just you, I'm straight -- but I got a microscope just in case."
Nate probably shouldn't laugh, but he can't help it. He looks forward to the first day of the semester like most people look forward to the first day of summer break.
After five years of teaching, including three at UCO, he should probably be a lot more jaded than he is, but he genuinely likes what he does. He's not a big fan of the political hierarchy that runs the English Department, but he likes his students and he loves his course material. Plus, this is the first year he's been allowed to teach a course he created.
Nate's laughter gets noticed, and eleven sets of eyes turn back to the front of the room. He has their attention now. He can try to start earning their respect or he can fuck up this entire thing.
"Guys, as entertaining as I find your pissing contest," he says with a grin, "why don't I lay down a few measurement rules first? I'd hate to have to get eye patches for the whole class."
Ray snorts, but Poke just gives Nate a nod. "It's your class, sir."
"It is until Brad gets here," Ray corrects.
Nate raises an eyebrow. "I don’t know who Brad is, Ray, but I'm pretty sure this'll be my class after he arrives too. Unless you're planning a coup, in which case I should tell you that I know a couple of retired Marines who could probably kick your ass."
There are several whistles and cat-calls, and Ray grins broadly at Nate. "All due respect, Nate, but I'm gonna assume you didn't get the memo that you've got a whole class full of ex-Recon Marines here. So, I'm sure the POGs you know are really nice, dickless boys, who fuck missionary style, but unless you want their asses kicked on your behalf -"
Ray's words are muffled by the blond next to him slapping a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, about him Professor Fick," the young man apologizes. "Sometimes he forgets he's not in the military anymore. He's got ADD, not Tourette's, despite what you might think."
Ray says something muffled; Nate just shakes his head. "Why don’t you guys pass the syllabus around and we can discuss Ray's afflictions later," he says, handing Poke several pages of Xeroxed paper.
English 203: The Fraternity of Men
Professor Nathaniel Fick
Tuesday & Thursday 10:30am-12:00pm
Course Materials/Subject Matter: Homer: The Iliad, Alexander the Great Trilogy by Valerio Manfredi, The Once and Future King, Othello, Henry V, Lord of the Flies, Apocalypse Now (DVD) and Band of Brothers (DVD and book)
Requirements: Three papers (length to be determined) and one 10 minute presentation (subject of choice)
While the papers are being handed out, Nate digs out his register. After all these years, Nate has no idea why he expects his class lists to be in some sort of alphabetical order. Professor's Schwetje's assistant is supposed to take care of Nate's requests, but apparently he's as allergic to alphabetical order as he is to ordering office supplies.
"James Trombley," Nate reads out.
A shrewish-looking guy raises his hand.
"Evan Stafford."
"Q-Tip," a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man with a rag on his head says.
Q-Tip. Nate makes a mental note.
Mike Christenson. Jason Lilley. "Rudy Reyes?"
"Here, sir."
Nate looks up. Whoa.
"It's okay if you think Rudy's hot, sir," Ray calls out. "Everyone else does."
Nate's starting to think that the best way to cope with Ray is to ignore him.
"Josh Person." Nate looks around. Ray's eyeballing him, but Nate's busy. "Does anybody know Josh?"
"The only person who calls me Josh is my mom," Ray says. "So unless you got some tits hiding under there, Ray'll do.
Nate makes a show of checking inside his shirt. "No, Ray, no tits here, but if there were, they wouldn't be for you."
Ray smirks, and Nate just shakes his head. Oceanside has a heavy military presence and Nate's had to adapt just to keep up.
Walt Hasser is Ray's little blond keeper. Gabe Garza seems more interested in Walt than Ray. Poke is apparently Antonio Espera. There's another James (Chaffin) and a Teren Holsey and -
"BRAD!" Ray's voice interrupts Nate's roll call.
"Ray, do you need a muzzle?" Nate asks with some sincerity, but Ray's not looking at him. In fact, everybody's looking at the door, and it takes Nate a moment to process what he's seeing.
He looks at the lithe frame filling the doorway and then back down at his list.
Colbert, Brad
Nate blinks at the list and then back at the doorway. There have to be millions of Brad Colberts in the world. What's the likelihood of this Brad Colbert being that Brad Colbert?
And then the Brad in the doorway smiles. "Hello, Professor Fick," he says lightly.
Nate nods his head in acknowledgement, praying for a miracle to that god he doesn't even believe in. When the paper with the class listing slips out of Nate's hand, he doesn't think anyone else notices, but when he crouches down to pick it up someone's hand is there first.
Brad's blonder and tanner, his hair longer than Marine-regulation, but some people you never forget. Especially when they grin at you like that.
Nate stares at the paper when Brad offers it. "I think you dropped this, sir," Brad says as they stand up. "Sorry, I'm late, I got lost."
Sir. Sir? Nate's brain is useless, but at least his fingers know to take the paper back.
"That's some bullshit," Ray says, filling the silence. "How the hell are you going to get lost when the world revolves around you, Brad? That's like the sun rising in the west because the earth forgot which way it rotates. Shit, next the birds'll be fucking the fish and there'll be peace on earth. How am I gonna get my rocks off then?"
Brad shoots a grin at the room before sliding into a seat right in front of Nate's desk. "Ray, stop your crack-addled, rabbit-fucking stuttering and let the man teach."
Behind Brad, Poke laughs. "All y'all motherfuckers are in trouble now, Daddy's home."
Is it a fact of university life that the youngest professors get assigned the worst offices, which is why Nate's office is on the top floor of the Mattis Building at the very end of the hall in a space that quite possibly used to be the janitor's closet.
After three years, Nate's used to walking up the five flights of stairs and walking past every other office to get to his own. In fact, he's come to think of his office as a sort of sanctuary, away from the horrors of the main office on the second floor and the political clusterfuck of tenured professors on the third floor. It doesn't hurt that Nate's neighbors are Mike Wynn, Pappy Patrick and Eric Kocher.
Mike, Pappy and Eric have all been at UCO a lot longer than Nate and they could move to other offices, even to other floors, but with Craig Schwetje and Dave McGraw terrorizing the fourth floor and Godfather on the third floor, the fifth floor is practically a safe haven at this point.
Mike's door is open, and Nate sticks his head in for a brief moment. "I'm fucked," he says succinctly.
Mike peeks around the side of his computer monitor and then glances at the clock on the wall. "It's not even one o'clock on the first day," he says, raising a barely discernable blond eyebrow. "I think you've set a record."
Nate leans against the door frame of Mike's office. "I should get a medal," he agrees.
"How much shit could you possibly be in already?" Mike asks, clacking away at his computer.
Nate glances behind him to make sure nobody's in the halls. "Depends on how much shit you get in for sleeping with your students."
There's a silence and then Mike's moving. Nate can hear the wheels of Mike's chair moving before he's moved around his computer. Hell, people in India can hear Mike's wheels moving.
Mike has six different kinds of wheel lubricant for his chair, and it still squeaks as though it's being murdered. Eric and Pappy once stole the wheels from Mike's chair in an effort to keep the volume down. Mike went and bought new ones and they're just as loud.
Last year, they tried to have an intervention, but Mike refuses to part with his chair because it was a gift from his wife, Tara. He's more afraid of her than he is of them.
Mike clears his throat, he's sitting on the edge of his desk, a green stress ball feebly trying to escape his grasp. Nate snaps back to reality. "I saw you about two hours ago, right?" Mike prods.
Nate glances out into the hallway again and then steps inside Mike's office, shutting the door behind him. "Yeah."
"And you just had a class, right? First one of the semester?"
Nate nods.
"What the hell are you teachin'?!" Mike says, disbelief etched in every word. "I thought Sex Ed was taught in the Psych building. Are we having more practical class work all of a sudden, 'cause I'm teachin' MacBeth this semester and I don’t need a bunch of girls with blood on their hands."
Nate snorts. "It didn't happen today."
"Well it sure as hell didn't happen last night," Mike says with some authority since last night Tara and Mike had had Nate, Eric and Pappy over for barbeque and beer. Lots of beer. "So, when the hell did you debauch a student and is she pregnant?"
"He wasn't a student when we fucked," Nate says evenly.
Mike doesn't miss a beat when he throws the stress ball at Nate's head. Nate feels the breeze when it hits the wall next to his ear, bounces off his shoulder and flops onto the floor. "Then what the fuck are you worryin' me for? Dammit, Nate, I was thinkin' I was gonna have to sneak your ass out of town or something."
Nate rolls his eyes, kicking at the stress ball with the toe of his right loafer. "Your support is touching."
Mike leans back and grabs something off his desk. It's a Saran-wrapped sandwich. "Look, if he wasn't a student when it happened, then it doesn't count."
"You think the administration would see it that way?"
Mike pauses in freeing his sandwich. "Are you gonna tell them?"
Nate raises an eyebrow. "No. Are you?"
Mike snorts. "Wasn't plannin' on it, no," he says, going back to his sandwich.
Nate sighs. "Okay, that still doesn't get him out of my class though."
"Do you want him out of your class?" Mike asks curiously.
"Yes!"
Mike's look is all incredulousness. "Aren't you supposed to be the adult here?"
Nate doesn't scowl. Okay, maybe he does a little bit. "So what do I do?" he asks, kicking Mike in the shin.
"Well, the first thing you do is stop kicking me, asshole," Mike says, handing Nate half of his sandwich. It's tuna with lettuce on rye that's amazingly not soggy. Nate needs a wife to make him lunch. Half the time he forgets to eat at all. "And the rest depends."
"Depends on what?" Nate says around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Are you plannin' on doing it again?"
Nate thinks he might actually be shocked by that question. He almost chokes on his sandwich. "No!"
Mike shakes his head, puts his sandwich down, goes around his desk and pulls out the emergency bottle of vodka from his bottom drawer. The top spins off easily as though they do this all the time. Which they do, but normally, it's after the Wednesday afternoon staff meeting.
Nate sighs to the ceiling as Mike offers him the bottle. "Stop being a fucking pussy," Mike orders when Nate tries to wave off the alcohol.
"I've got a class at three," Nate protests.
"I've got a class in twenty minutes, what's your point?" Mike studies Nate intently for a moment and then he laughs. "You're not mad that you fucked him before, you're mad that he's in your class so you can't fuck him now."
Nate definitely scowls this time, even as he snatches the bottle of vodka away and takes a swig.
Mike grins triumphantly; Nate takes another swig and ignores him. A dark shadow passes by the frosted glass on Mike's office door and Nate pauses. The only people on this end are he, Mike and Eric. Eric's got a class, and he and Mike are in here. He hasn't even posted his office hours on his door yet. Somebody's probably lost.
The dark shadow passes by again heading the other direction. Definitely lost then.
"It's been ten years," he complains eventually.
"Oh, c'mon," Mike says. "Ten years? That doesn't even count at this point."
"Yes, it does."
"That only counts if you want it to count," Mike corrects. He's looking closely at Nate again. Nate tries very hard not to look away.
"Nate, come on. Life is short, make him drop the class."
"I can't do that," Nate protests.
Mike shakes his head. "You're too fucking honorable. It's admirable, but not very practical."
Nate eats more of his sandwich, ruminating while watching Mike eat and gather papers for his class. "Did you ever sleep with a student?" Nate asks eventually.
Mike smirks at him. "You've met my wife, right?"
"Before you married Tara."
Mike looks at Nate as though he might be stupid. "How do you think I met Tara?"
The sun is sitting low in the sky, but at 4:30 in the afternoon it still has to be at least 75 degrees. Nate's polo shirt is starting to stick to his lower back and he can feel the sweat around his hairline. He takes the steps up to his apartment two at a time, digging in his briefcase for his keys and very much not thinking about Brad, because he hasn't thought about Brad in years. Months. At least since last week.
What Nate's thinking about now is the long run he's going to go on, and the beer he's going to ingest after that run, and the fact that he might not have enough beer in the house for all the beer he's going to want later on tonight.
He's just sliding his key in the lock when an elderly voice calls out to him. "Hola, Nathaniel," is followed by a sharp bark and a whine.
Nate turns towards his left and smiles broadly at Mrs. Gonzales in her fuchsia, floral muumuu. "Hola, senora," he says with a wave. Mrs. Gonzales waves back, and her boxer, Ripley, tugs on her leash and whines at Nate again.
Nate laughs and sets down his briefcase before walking towards Mrs. Gonzales' end of the hallway. "Hey, you," he says as Ripley barks and paws at his leg.
"Somebody didn't get her walk today," Mrs. Gonzales says thoughtfully.
"It's the first day of the semester," Nate says apologetically, scratching behind Ripley's ears. "I didn't have time this morning, but I can take her out now."
Mrs. Gonzales smiles broadly, her dentures clacking together briefly. "I told Roberto he should have gotten me a fish," she says with a shake of her head. "But why would he want to listen to his mama? He's a big man, off to Afghanistan, has to get me a dog younger than the teeth in my mouth."
Nate laughs. "Boys like doing things for their mothers, we can't help it."
Mrs. Gonzales clucks her tongue. "I bet you wouldn't buy your mother a dog if she said she wanted a fish, would you?"
"No, but my mother doesn't accept gifts from us. She's a social worker; she makes us donate to charity on her birthday instead."
Mrs. Gonzales pats Nate's cheek. "You’re a good boy, Nathaniel, you talk to my Roberto when he gets back, tell him Ripley needs a real home. None of this apartment living for pobrecita, right?"
Ripley barks enthusiastically when Mrs. Gonzales pats her head and then proceeds to slobber all over her hand.
There's no way Mrs. Gonzales would ever part with Ripley, Nate's not fooled. "Just give me a few minutes," he says. "I need to change."
"You take your time," Mrs. Gonzales calls as Nate walks back to his apartment, retrieves his briefcase and steps inside. "You work too hard."
Nate's building is typical Californian -- which means it's much wider than it is tall and has a courtyard that echoes sound throughout every apartment in the complex.
Nate, at least, has an apartment on the top floor with plenty of windows. His place will never win any design awards, it was built in the 1950s, but he's doesn't teach to make money and his belongings reflect that. Still, everything works and is comfortable, and he's got a balcony that affords him a view of all there is to see in Oceanside, which boils down to trees, sky and the buildings of the two major Oceanside institutions: Camp Pendleton, the West Coast training facility for the United States Marines Corps, and the University of California at Oceanside.
Nate kicks his shoes off by the door, dumps his briefcase on the kitchen table and pulls off his shirt en route to the bedroom. It takes him ninety seconds to change into his running clothes and then he's back in the hallway, grabbing his keys.
His running sneakers have a permanent home by the door, and his feet slide into them easily.
Mrs. Gonzales is still where he left her, and she smiles at him broadly. "I told you there was no rush, mi'jo." Ripley barks at Nate, tugging at her leash when Mrs. Gonzales hands it over.
"I think Ripley would disagree," Nate says with good-humor. Ripley barks again, tugging harder. "We'll be back in an hour or two," Nate promises as Ripley starts trying to drag him away.
"Don't let her boss you around," Mrs. Gonzales calls to him. "You let them take an inch and it's all over."
Nate laughs all the way down the stairs, pausing to push open the front door and let them out into the world. The sun is slowly setting in the sky, and there's a slight breeze coming in from somewhere.
Ripley tugs Nate in the direction of Pendleton and the beach, and Nate goes with it. And then they're off, sneakers and paws hitting the asphalt, and Nate doesn't think of Brad Colbert for the first time in hours.
"The Iliad is about this Suzie Rottencrotch, who had a shotgun wedding to some guy old enough to be her granddad, and because she wanted some young dick she ran off with this Orlando Bloom wannabe, and that started some family shit, because you know how those inbred, royal dick-smokers are and then everybody dies over a piece of ass."
Ray pauses in his summation of Homer's work. "It's just like Iraq again."
Nate leans on the edge of his desk, very much ignoring the proximity of Brad's legs to his own, and covers his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn't know whether to laugh, cry or applaud. Of course Ray Person would turn out to be brilliant. In his own, Marine-translated way.
"I think it's about some other things besides that," Nate hedges. "There's the wrath of the Greek gods. The battle between Hector and Achilles…"
"Who was pissed the fuck off because Hector killed his man, Patroclus," Ray interjects. "Yet more fighting over ass. I'm telling you, sir, it all comes back to sex."
Brad chooses this time to clear his throat; Nate rolls his eyes. He's trying to run a class here. And, of course, a brief glance at Brad shows nothing more than the passive look Brad's been sporting since the first day of class, as though he's just gracing the rest of the world with his presence.
In the first three weeks of this seminar, Brad has been nothing but a model student. He shows up, he does his reading, he participates in class conversation -- if only to tell everyone else how inferior they are or to debate race with Poke -- and then he leaves.
He doesn't openly undermine Nate's authority, if anything the fact that Brad pays attention seems to encourage everyone else to pay attention as well. And if Nate could stick Brad in the back of the class, then it would be ideal, like Brad wasn't there at all. But Nate can’t ignore Brad, although god knows he's trying. At the very least, he's trying to be as detached as Brad is. Or as detached as Brad is pretending to be.
Every class, Brad sits in the first seat right in front of Nate's desk. He sprawls his legs out and chews on his pens while Nate lectures, which for three classes forced Nate to stay in the area between the blackboard and the desk, because continually stepping over Brad's legs or waiting for Brad to move was driving him crazy.
Once he realized Brad was doing this on purpose, he took back his space. It's also possible that Brad Colbert is a sadist. It would go a long way to explaining the not-so-subtle glances and the way Brad keeps licking his lips.
"Sir," Brad says, "I think what Ray is trying to say, although you can't really tell with his Wal-Mart inflection and whiskey tango inbred lisp, is that The Iliad isn't that different from most literature. In the end, everything is about sex or death."
"Or money," Ray agrees. "But mostly just ass."
Nate just chuckles. "I haven't heard it put that way before."
"Well, sir," Rudy Reyes speaks up. "Marines like to tell it like it is. No bullshit. Unless your name is Ray, and then, all you can do is bullshit."
"Hey!" Ray actually seems offended by this, and Nate's mouth twitches in amusement.
He likes Rudy, and it has nothing to do with his biceps.
He pushes himself away from his desk, steps over Brad's sneaker-clad feet, walks back to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk, but instead of writing with it he turns back the guys.
"You all went to Iraq together?" he asks. "All of you?"
"First Platoon, Bravo Company," Poke affirms.
"And now we're all here," Rudy says, "Gotta love that GI Bill, sir."
Nate shakes his head. "You know you can call me 'Nate', right?"
Rudy shakes his head. "Brad calls you 'sir', we call you 'sir'."
"So, this is your fault," he says, addressing Brad directly, which he tries to do as rarely as possible, because this whole situation is awkward. It’s not as though they've discussed whatever the hell is going on. Or was going on. Or not going on. No, nothing going on.
Brad just smiles. "You save some retards from a mortar or two and they follow you around for the rest of your life. I've been trying to dispose of them, but they keep coming back like cockroaches."
"You know you love your Ray-Ray," Ray hollers from the back of the room.
"Like a STD," Brad says magnanimously.
Nate rubs his forehead; he supposes this is better than being ignored. "Okay, let's try and look at this another way," he says, rolling the chalk between his fingers. "Let's assume that Helen of Troy is … J. Lo. And she's decided to run off to Iraq with Brad Pitt."
"Angelina would whoop her ass," Ray says factually, "and that's a lot of ass to whoop. You know if you hit that from the back you might not get to the front until five minutes later."
"Thank you, Ray," Nate interrupts. "I think we all know Angelina kicks ass. Now, when J Lo. runs off with Brad -- not you," Nate says, pointing to Brad, "Angelina gets a little upset. So she calls her people... who happen to be Ray and Poke."
"That's what I'm talking about," Ray says.
"Don't tell my wife," Poke says.
"We'll keep it between us," Nate offers. "And then Ray and Poke call up Walt and Gabe… and Lilley and Rudy. And then they call up James -- both of you -- and Teren."
"Do we get paid in pussy, sir?" James Chaffin interrupts.
"That's between you and Angelina," Nate answers. "So, you've gathered all your friends, because that's what friends do. That's loyalty. That's when you have someone's back. And, eventually, the entire USMC follows Angelina into battle, because why?"
"Because she's Angelina Jolie," Ray scoffs.
"Exactly," Nate says with a smile. "Because she is a figurehead and people pay attention to figureheads. They follow them. The Iliad is as much about a group of men following a figurehead, as it is -- as Ray so concisely put it -- a piece of ass."
Nate sets the chalk down in the holder and looks back at his class. They seem... pleased.
Nate glances at Brad, and for the first time since Brad walked back into his class, and back into his head, he's not sprawled out, observing everything around him with vague disdain. In fact, Brad's sitting up, not just watching Nate but actively looking at him, a small smile at the corners of his mouth.
Nate hasn't seen that smile since a very early morning in December of 1998, when he woke up tangled in his sheets, with the sun just peeking through the cheap blinds in his dorm room and a persistent erection trapped between him and his bed. His ass was sore, his skull ached with lockjaw and his mouth was stretched in a grin before he'd even fully opened his eyes and seen Brad Colbert propped up in bed beside him on one elbow, watching him wake up.
Nate had thought this was behind him. Them.
It's been ten years and seven weeks now. It seems like it was yesterday.
He clears his throat to dismiss the class, but Poke speaks over him. "Angelina's too fucking skinny," he says dismissively. "J. Lo's got mad ass. Y'all can save that bony white chick, I'm fightin' for some Puerto Rican booty."
"They're fucking idiots," Eric Kocher moans, leaning against the door frame of Nate's office. A 30-something ex-Marine with dark hair and sharp blue eyes, Eric has been teaching at UCO for five years now. His intolerance for stupidity is legendary, mostly owing to his being a Teaching Assistant for Professor Dave McGraw, or as Mike and Eric like to call him Captain America.
Nate's never quite understood the nickname himself, but apparently it has something to do with Professor McGraw's obsessive nationalism. It's either that or just because he's an idiot.
It's never been made very clear.
"They're not fucking idiots," Nate says, poking through his drawers for a Power Bar or instant ramen. Anything that he can eat now or make with the half-full bottle of water that he's supposed to be giving to his spider plant in the corner. "They're students."
"Which is synonymous with idiots," Eric says triumphantly.
Nate gives Eric an amused grin and goes back to scrounging through endless rubber bands, coffee receipts, dried out pens, old papers and ravaged paperbacks. Nate's been using the same books since he started, because he makes notes in the margins. And every year he reads the books with his classes and finds new things to talk about and ponder.
And his sister said that a philosophy degree wasn’t going to be good for anything.
"Not only are they stupid," Kocher carries on, "but some of them are marginally hot. And I think one of them might actually have a brain."
"Don't let your girlfriend hear you talking like that," Nate teases. "You know there's nothing more dangerous than a hot student with a brain."
"I know," Eric moans. "Hot or smart, not both. That's just cruel. Plus, I get older and they stay young."
Nate pauses in what he's doing. "I know you're not lusting after your students, I've seen Deb."
"I see Deb every day," Eric says. "But every new semester it's like Hugh fucking Hefner's auditioning for Playboy bunnies in my fucking classroom."
"Most men -- and probably a few women -- would be happy about that."
"The tits on this one junior," Eric complains. "Nate, you don't even know."
Nate raises an eyebrow. "I know you're not talking about what I think you're talking about."
Eric snorts. "Relax, I was just fucking with you."
Nate's not buying this. "Did Mike say something to you?"
Eric pushes up from the door. "Mike didn't say anything to me. Why? Is there something to say to me?"
Or maybe he's just being paranoid.
"No," Nate says, finally scrounging up some peanut butter crackers. "You want one?" he says, opening the packet and offering one to Eric.
Eric waves him off. "No, Deb's making me dinner tonight, I'm not going to waste that on stale crackers that are probably older than your mom."
Nate glances at the three clocks on his wall -- he likes to be on time. "You don't even know if they're stale." Nate eats one. "Okay, definitely stale."
"Join the military and get one meal a day, you'll learn how to wait."
Nate rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I thought about it once, but it didn't pan out."
"That's too bad," Eric says, "you probably would've been a good Marine, but the bureaucracy would've killed you."
Nate smirks. "Yeah, I heard that too."
"You mean your recruitment officer was actually honest with you?" Eric seems moderately surprised. "I know he didn't last long at that job."
Nate chuckles. "I got a second opinion before I signed up."
"Corps' loss," Eric says.
"What was the Corps' loss?" a vaguely familiar voice asks from behind Eric.
Nate stands up to try to look around Eric and is greeted with a shaved head and a wry grin, but before he can speak Eric and Poke are having words.
"What the fuck, Kocher?" Poke says, slapping Eric on the shoulder. "Why the fuck didn't you come out last week? You know somebody has to control Dirty Earl's ass. Your man was wild."
"I told you, my old lady wasn't feeling the Corps love last week. Something about me drinking with you retards too much."
"How's she gonna do us like that? It's cause she's Asian, innit? Doesn't want you associating with us dirty spics."
Eric laughs. "The next time you want Deb cursing your ass out in better Mexican than you speak, you just let me know."
Poke shakes his head. "Fucking up the blood lines. She's Mexican and Filipino, fucking your white ass, y'all'll probably have a fucking black kid who speaks Hebrew or some shit."
Nate clears his throat. "So, you two know each other I take it. Outside of school parameters."
Eric rolls his eyes. "Nate, grunts in the Marines don't have parameters. Inside, outside, everybody's the same. Boundaries are a civilian thing."
"You've been out for years," Nate points out. "You're a civilian now."
"No," Eric corrects, "I'm a retired Marine."
"Once a Marine, always a Marine," Poke agrees, before slapping Eric on the back, hard. "Hell, can your cracker ass even spell 'boundaries' Kocher?"
Poke turns to Nate. "We were in the same company, Brad and us were Bravo Platoon, he was Charlie. Had one of the most fuckin' retarded CO's ever. It's a wonder we all still have arms and legs," Poke says, adding on the "sir" a moment after.
Eric throws an arm around Poke's shoulder, clapping him hard on the head. "You know you don't have to call his civilian ass 'sir', right?"
"Brad calls him 'sir,' we call him sir," Poke says.
Eric raises an eyebrow. "You have Brad Colbert in your class?" he pauses, and then he starts laughing riotously.
Nate's lungs feel tight in his chest. "What's wrong with Brad?" he asks. There should be no timbre of defensiveness to his voice. He's probably just imagining it.
"Do you know about Brad Colbert?" Eric mocks. "Let us tell you about Brad Colbert."
"He climbed fuckin' Everest with a broken foot one time," Poke says.
"He once gave away all of Hitman 2-1's water to a bunch of civilians because he decided they need to be hydrated," Eric adds.
"He brought Beefaroni and skin mags as presents for when the babies were good."
"And totally took responsibility for that thing with Trombley."
"What thing with Trombley?" Nate interrupts their litany.
Poke shakes his head, and he and Eric and share a look. "Couldn't do nothin' about that," Poke apologizes. "You know family always has that fucked up kid they keep in the basement; I don't know who the fuck let Trombley's ass out, but they got some shit to answer for."
"What 'thing' with Trombley?" Nate repeats.
"I don't know many guys who could force command to cas-evac a kid who'd been shot by one of their own guys," Eric says. "That's all I have to say about Brad."
Nate eyes them both warily. He's been working around Marines for three years now, he knows their ways. They're probably just talking trash. From what Nate knows of the military, you can't force them to do anything. "I'll just assume you're screwing with my head."
They both shrug simultaneously. "Whatever works for you," Eric says. "Just don't let Trombley near any guns, dogs or camels."
"Camels?" Nate asks with suspicion, before deciding to think better of it. UCO may be heavily Marine populated, but he doesn't share their history. He'll take Trombley on his own merits or faults.
Poke and Eric are talking happily amongst themselves when Nate interrupts. "I'm sorry, Poke, was there something you needed? Do you have some questions about class?"
"Yeah," Poke says. "I was thinking about what you said about everybody following Angelina Jolie's bony ass into battle, and it makes sense."
Nate smiles. "I'm glad you think so."
Eric raise an eyebrow. "Angelina Jolie?"
"It's an analogy," Nate explains. "We're reading The Iliad."
Eric just shakes his head. "The Iliad? By choice? Do you hate them?" Eric turns towards Poke. "Does he hate you guys? What the hell'd you do? Nate's, like, the nicest guy ever."
Nate tosses a stale cracker at Eric. Eric just grins.
"Nate's really cool," Poke says to Eric, before turning back to Nate. "You're real cool, sir, don't let Person's screwby ass get to you, he was born like that."
"I'll try," Nate says with a smile.
"I was thinkin'," Poke says, "about your boy, Hector. I mean you got this man who doesn't want to fight, but who gets pulled into it because his people need him, and he's honorable, so he goes, but then shit just gets ill, sir."
"But that's what happens," Nate says, after a moment. "Hector is you, and Eric and Brad and every Marine who went off to war to try to make things better for their country. Maybe you wanted to go, maybe you didn't, but you went for your country and for your fellow Marines. And that's what this book is about, at heart, it's a book about brotherhood and doing things you may not want to, but that you feel compelled to do to make things better."
Nate can see the wheels turning in Poke's head, considering this. And then Poke nods. "Brad was right, sir."
Oh dear god. "Brad was right about what?" Nate says.
"You're a really good teacher."
He wasn't expecting that. He doesn't bother to hide the strength of his smile. "I'm glad you think so."
Next to Poke, Eric nods approvingly. "Maybe I'll just drop my Shakespearean-defiling retards and come sit in your class."
Nate is teaching four classes this semester. Two introductory English classes, which he won't be allowed to shake for another two years, an intermediate course on 20th Century Lit, which he likes because he gets to mindfuck his students by making them read A Catcher in the Rye, The Color Purple and Harry Potter in the same month, and his new seminar, which Brad and Ray aside, is easily his favorite of the four.
He reminds himself of his pride in this seminar, of how happy he was to talk to Poke about Hector, when Ray makes him want to bang his head against the wall and Brad scratches the side of his neck leaving long, pink lines that Nate wants to lick away-- Jesus Christ, his repression has picked a fine time to break down.
Yes, it's entirely possible that Nate came out to Oceanside as part of some latent Marine wish-fulfillment that was stirred up again after his time in Washington D.C. left him disillusioned enough to take an offer halfway across the country.
Or it's just as possible that after the Congressman he worked for got caught taking bribes, Nate decided that politics were bullshit and he needed a vacation.
It seems like the vacation is over.
Part II
Generation Kill
Nate Fick/Brad Colbert, ensemble
Alternate Universe, NC-17
Word Count: 25,054
The Road Not Taken
Dartmouth College
Hanover, NH
Winter 1998
Nate's pretty sure that most Marine Corps recruitment drives don't include lusting after your potential Marine brothers, but it's not Nate's fault. He's not even sure he's interested in joining the Marines. He's a year away from getting his philosophy degree and he's pretty sure that free thinking is discouraged in the military. Ever since he heard Tom Ricks, the Pentagon correspondent for the Wall Street Journal, speak the other day though, he's been thinking about joining up. Actually, he's been thinking about it a lot.
People don't really talk about duty anymore.
And maybe, if he hadn't seen that flyer posted up by the student lounge, he could've let the whole thing go. Eventually, maybe, this desire to be part of something greater would fade away. Or maybe not.
It's just that he was walking by the student lounge and there was this Marine Corps flyer posted. One thing led to another, and then Nate was sitting in one of the halls as guy after guy in uniform or dress blues or camouflage gave a speech about how great it was to join the Corps, which was pretty much the standard party line he's expected, but there was this one guy… Sgt. Brad Colbert, a Recon Marine, who seemed determined to talk the entire audience out of joining up.
Nate's never heard of Recon, but apparently, they're the Navy Seals of the Marines, and apparently, when you're the best, you're entitled to be an asshole.
On a very shallow level, Nate's never seen a Marine that looks like a Viking god, but if they all look like this Colbert guy then he's joining up first thing in the morning. Okay, that's not true at all, but the thought is starting to swirl around his head a little bit more than it should.
After the speeches are given, Nate even finds himself loitering on the side of the stage talking to one of the officers, a Sergeant Davis, who is telling Nate how many of their officers come from the Ivy League and how the Corps is a breeding ground for great leaders.
Nate listens patiently and then asks the question he really wants an answer to. "What about the Recon Marines? How many Ivy League graduates do they have?"
Sergeant Davis raises an eyebrow. "Enjoyed Sergeant Colbert's inspirational speech, huh?"
Nate scoffs a little. "I don't know if 'you're all inferior hippie waste unworthy of being called Marines' would be called a pep talk."
"No, what I said was that all coddled, wine-sipping, communist hippies, who haven't been weaned from your mother's tits shouldn’t bother," a voice corrects from behind Nate, and the pleasant expression on Sergeant Davis' face widens into a huge grin.
"We're trying to bring them in, Colbert, not drive them away."
And when Nate turns around there's that Viking Marine again: Sergeant Brad Colbert.
"Davis, haven't you ever heard of Darwinism?" Colbert says. "Survival of the fittest. It means that because we're fit, we ensure that this fine, upstanding young man, who probably couldn’t outrun my grandma in her motorized wheelchair, will live a long time and prosper, while you and I die in the desert."
Davis makes a tsking noise. "Believe it or not, Nate, Brad's actually one of the more well-mannered Recon Marines you'll ever meet. He's only here 'cause he owes me a favor, though, you sure you want to even talk to him? He might eat you alive."
Colbert's glance is perfunctory, and it's all Nate needs to urge him on. "He doesn't scare me."
Davis and Colbert both laugh. "You're a lot braver than I thought," Davis says clapping Nate on the shoulder before walking away.
Colbert's smile is all teeth. "A lot braver or a lot stupider," he amends.
Nate narrows his eyes. "You underestimate me," he says.
Colbert snorts. "Fine, impress me."
They're sitting in a diner off campus, talking about Lord of the Flies and the G.I. Joe cartoon from the 1980s; Nate has no idea how they've even gotten here. Just that Colbert thought he was a weakling, so Nate challenged him to a race and then they were tearing through the Dartmouth campus after dark, slipping on ice patches, sliding on melted snow and making huge messes in soggy, muddy patches of grass.
They were just supposed to race across the Quad, but Colbert matched Nate's every stride as though they were the invading hordes set free, and then Colbert managed to vault over an entirely full bike rack and Nate wants to be able to do that.
The race didn't end as much as Nate put on this massive burst of speed as they were tearing down Wheelock Street, knocking people over and running in the grass, and then Colbert grabbed him right before he ran out into traffic and got himself killed.
Nate's shirt is ripped at the seams where Colbert grabbed him and he's probably going to have bruises on his bicep, but that was the most fun he's had in a while.
"So, Sergeant Colbert, can all Recon Marines leap bike racks in a single bound?" Nate says, dumping sugar into his second cup of coffee.
Colbert looks up from his third slice of pie, his mouth twitching. "I think, since I saved your life, you can call me Brad."
"I thought saving my life meant that you were responsible for it now," Nate says.
Brad's grin is sharp. "That's an interesting offer you're making."
Nate can feel the heat in his cheeks. He pushes his hair behind his left ear to have something to do. "That's not what I meant."
"Too bad."
Nate gives Brad a sharp look, but Brad's busy with his pie and humming along to the Journey song playing over the speakers. Nate refuses to feel disappointed. "Brad, huh?"
"Got a problem with my name, Nate?"
Nate laughs. "No, not really. Brad just doesn't seem like a very Viking name."
Brad licks the corner of his mouth, and Nate sits up straighter. His chinos seem strangely tight. "I must have missed the Viking part of the conversation."
Nate bites his lip. "I didn't mean to say that," he says, taking a sip of his coffee.
"It's okay, I know it's a WASP thing," Brad says dismissively. Nate chokes on his coffee.
The grin Brad gives him is different from the one earlier, before they raced. Nate didn't know a grin could say so much. This one seems to be less of the 'you are inferior and unworthy of my time' one and more of an 'underestimate my intelligence at your own peril' one.
"I'm Jewish," Brad says. "Or I was before I decided that organized religion was nothing more than a glorified cult with better coffers and more mitzvahs. I would assume you know what Jews are, but I know Episcopalians can be elitist."
Nate rolls his eyes. "I'm not Episcopalian; I'm an atheist."
Brad chuckles around a mouthful of pie. "I didn't know that was allowed in New England."
Nate sets his coffee on the table. "Why are you a Marine? Aren't they just an organized religion with government coffers?"
Brad's mouth quirks at the right corner. "Why do you go to college?"
Nate blinks. "I asked you first."
"Yes, and I shouldn't answer a question with a question. So?"
"Because it's what you do, you go to college to learn."
Brad nods his head. "It's the same reason you join the Marines - to learn. We just learn in different ways. You learn by book, I learn by action."
Nate drinks his coffee and thinks about this.
"Do you have brothers, Nate?"
"Sisters, two of them."
"Same here. So, obviously I joined the Corps for male company." Nate coughs in his coffee again. Brad chuckles, apparently delighted with Nate's response. "I can see how fucking with you could be very entertaining. Hours of just messing with your head for my entertainment - it could be my new pasttime."
Nate snorts softly. "I'm glad I entertain you."
Brad's responding smile makes Nate's mouth go dry, and he swallows down more coffee to quench his sudden thirst.
"'One man in a thousand, Solomon said, will stick more close than a brother'," Brad quotes. "I've got 21 of them. They're all whiskey tango fuck-ups, but the military doesn't have an IQ prerequisite. They just prefer trailer-park dwellers."
Nate raises an eyebrow. He has no idea what 'whiskey tango' means, but he would bet that Brad's never seen a trailer park in his life. "I didn't know Kipling was talking about the military."
Brad smirks. "Neither did he."
Nate sets his mug down. "I can't figure out if you're trying to recruit me or not; I can only assume this is a part of the Colbert plan to confuse and entrap the young and impressionable."
"You're not that young, are you?"
Nate blinks, he doesn't think they're talking about the same thing, and then Brad pushes his pie away and looks up at Nate. "For the record: I'm not trying to recruit you."
Nate doesn't both to hide his consternation. "You're not?"
"No."
"Why not?" Nate retorts, slightly annoyed. "You think I can't do it? You think I'm too much of a liberal brat?"
He thought they were having a decent conversation. He thought that Brad was trying to feel him up - out, not up. Jesus.
"Irritated's a good look on you," Brad says conversationally. Nate can't figure out this grin immediately, at least his brain can't, but when Brad leans across the table, Nate doesn't even realize he's met him halfway until he's looking at a faded scar just above Brad's right eyebrow.
"Do you want to be a Marine or do you just want me to fuck you?" Brad says.
Nate's brain makes a noise, his mouth says, "Why can't I have both?"
"Because men like you get men like me killed."
Nate's too startled to hide it well. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that your idealism needs to be someplace like Capitol Hill and not at Pendleton getting disassembled piece-by-piece by the incompetence of people who don't give a shit how smart you are." Brad's very close to him, and when he speaks Nate can feel the warm air brushing across his cheeks.
"Nate, if you want to change the world, do it somewhere where you can actually be heard."
Nate narrows his eyes. "And this is your assessment of me: that I'm too much of an idealistic pussy for the military."
"No," Brad says, pulling out his wallet and slipping a twenty dollar bill on the counter. "If I wanted pussy, I wouldn't be paying for your coffee."
Nate Fick does not bring strange men in uniform that he picks up at military recruitment drives back to his room. And he certainly doesn't introduce them to his friends when they meet on the stairs, wishing that his friends would hurry the fuck up and go away.
In fact, when Nate lets Sergeant Brad Colbert into his dorm room he has absolutely no plans to kiss him. And then Brad shoves Nate against the door, knocking over the robes and hoodies that hang there, and Nate thinks he might need to stop lying to himself. Especially since Brad's kissing him like it might be the last kiss ever recorded on earth.
Brad's hands are callused, his fingers are long, and they get tangled in Nate's hair that needed to be cut three weeks ago.
Brad's kisses are paralyzing for almost twenty whole seconds, with the way his tongue is mapping Nate's mouth and the way he keeps pulling back and diving back in. And then all Nate can do is yank at Brad's uniform and try to figure out how the hell to get it off. Brad's mouth nips along Nate's jaw, his lips brushing against Nate's ear. "I like your eagerness."
There's no reason for Nate to be breathing as fast as he is, but it might have something to do with Brad's leg wedged between his thighs and the way he's shamelessly rubbing his cock against the groove of Brad's hip.
His body is totally betraying him, especially his fingers, which have abandoned trying to get past Brad's jacket and suspenders and shirt and are now just trying to get inside his pants. "I've heard the military appreciates enthusiasm," Nate says a little breathily.
"Right now, I don't give a shit about the Corps," Brad says, sliding down Nate's body and away from Nate's grasping fingers. "I care about getting your clothes off."
And then Brad's doing just that, pushing up the hem of Nate's shirt, unbuttoning his chinos and sliding them down his hips. "I care about your pretty mouth," Brad says, pausing to remove Nate's sneakers one by one, followed by his socks. "I care about how good it's going to look wrapped around my cock."
Nate makes a strangled noise, and Brad's head snaps up from what he's doing. "That noise is the one you're going to make for me when I fuck you into those cheap mattresses that the Ivy League buys from the same wholesaler who gives the military their cheap bullshit."
Nate makes another noise, and Brad's smile is amazing. It takes Nate a minute to realize that Brad's bared him from the waist down, and he only notices this because Brad's fingers trail along the outside of his thigh when he stands up.
Brad's fingers are painting his memory all over Nate, and Nate grabs him by the collar, hauling him down a few inches to kiss him. It should be hard and fast, a brief stop. It shouldn't be deep and decadent, with Brad pressing him against the door and Nate rubbing himself against Brad like some wanton whore, the head of his cock pressing against the worn USMC uniform. It's just a kiss, it shouldn't leave Nate feeling like he's floating a few centimeters above the ground.
Brad's eyes are dark when he pulls away, and he stares hard at Nate as though he's trying to figure something out. Nate's arms go up automatically as Brad tugs his shirt over his head, and then Nate's naked and Brad's still clothed, and Nate has no idea what the fuck is happening.
The care Brad's taking with him, with his clothes, this is nothing like any one night stand Nate's ever had. They should be fucking on the furniture right now, loud and obnoxious. At this point, Brad should have Nate bent over his desk with his pants around his ankles. Hell, the last time Nate did this he pulled up his pants afterwards and went to study for a few hours.
But this is nothing like that because there's this random Marine standing in the middle of Nate's room, which is filled with Foucault, microwavable Chef Boyardee and ramen noodles on the shelves and The Notorious B.I.G. in the CD player, and Nate feels like he's blotting out everything else in existence.
"Brad," Nate says conversationally. "You're wearing a lot of clothes."
There's that grin again, the predatory one, and one minute Brad's dressed, the next, he's kicking off boots that look like they should take twenty minutes just to put on. "You want some help there?" Nate says, stepping away from the door.
"Stay where you are," Brad orders, and Nate's cock jerks hard.
He wraps a hand around his dick and strokes himself, watching Brad take off his clothes. Brad's body is one long expanse of tan skin and lean muscle. There are faint scars and scattered bruises in different colors as though Brad's body's been fighting a war all its own. Nate wets his lips in anticipation; he wants to put his mouth all over Brad. Behind Brad's right ear, in the divot between his collarbones, the hollow of his navel and right at that ripple of Brad's obliques that only comes with true dedication to being in shape.
Brad's pants pool around his ankles as he stands up, his eyes focused on Nate's hand, and then Nate's being slammed against the door again. This is more like what he thought he would be getting in the first place.
"Don't join the Marines," Brad says, his right hand covering Nate's own.
Brad's pinning him to the door with his left hand on the juncture of Nate's shoulder and neck, his fingers brushing along the nape of Nate's neck, and Nate groans when Brad speeds up the rhythm. "Can't we talk about this later?" he grits out.
"No." Brad's thumb is ghosting over the head of Nate's cock, a swipe at the underside, and right now, Nate might agree to anything. Really.
"I -- god," Nate moans when Brad stills their motions.
"I don't think he's here right now."
"You think you're funny, don't you?"
"You like me."
"Strangely enough," Nate grits out when Brad's thumb strokes along their clasped hands.
"Give me your word," Brad prompts, his grasp going uncomfortably tight.
Nate bangs his head against the door. "Brad, please."
Brad's eyes narrow slightly, and he starts moving their hands again. "I want your word."
Nate's not whimpering. Okay, he might be a little bit. "If I give you my word, how do you know I'll keep it?" he says, turning his head to the side as Brad nuzzles his temple and his lips ghost over Nate's cheekbone.
Brad's laugh is dry and throaty. "I trust you," he says, and then he does this thing with his wrist and Nate's coming apart in pieces he may never find again.
He probably didn't really want to join the Marines anyway.
University of California, Oceanside
Spring Semester, 2009
Nate writes across the blackboard with swift, sharp strokes. First, the title of the course, and then, his name. Chalk dust floats down as he writes, landing on the toes of his dark brown loafers.
When he's done, he places the chalk back in the holder, wipes the dust off on his jeans and turns back around.
His students are paying a marginal amount of interest, which is more than he's come to expect on the first day from any class. Especially a class that's apparently going to be all male.
He smiles, more to himself than them, and begins. "All right, in case you didn’t get the memo, this is English 203: The Fraternity of Men. I'm your professor, Nate Fick. You can call me Nate, Professor Fick or Your Worshipfulness, whatever works for you."
There's a snort from the back. A wiry, white guy with black hair, who's tapping his leg like he's on speed, snorts and is summarily whacked on the back of the head by a corn-fed poster child sitting next to him.
"Damn, I didn't even say anything yet!" the dark-haired man says.
"Ray, don't make me break something off in your ass," says a man with a shaved head sitting two seats ahead of Ray.
Ray. Check. Troublemaker? Probably.
"Poke, I know all your talk about the oppression of the white man is really just a cover-up for how much you want my pasty ass." Ray shifts in his seat, thrusting out one hip. "Come on, big boy, show me what you got."
Poke. Check.
"Just like the white man to talk shit about a brother because of his whiskey tango tiny-dick inferiority complex," Poke says, turning around.
Nate blinks. This may turn out to be more of a sociology experiment than an English class.
"Poke, I know you get confused about this shit sometimes, but you're Mexican, not black. Now, if T starts waving his dick around I might need an eye patch," Ray gestures to the young man sitting a few seats to his left, "but, if it's just you, I'm straight -- but I got a microscope just in case."
Nate probably shouldn't laugh, but he can't help it. He looks forward to the first day of the semester like most people look forward to the first day of summer break.
After five years of teaching, including three at UCO, he should probably be a lot more jaded than he is, but he genuinely likes what he does. He's not a big fan of the political hierarchy that runs the English Department, but he likes his students and he loves his course material. Plus, this is the first year he's been allowed to teach a course he created.
Nate's laughter gets noticed, and eleven sets of eyes turn back to the front of the room. He has their attention now. He can try to start earning their respect or he can fuck up this entire thing.
"Guys, as entertaining as I find your pissing contest," he says with a grin, "why don't I lay down a few measurement rules first? I'd hate to have to get eye patches for the whole class."
Ray snorts, but Poke just gives Nate a nod. "It's your class, sir."
"It is until Brad gets here," Ray corrects.
Nate raises an eyebrow. "I don’t know who Brad is, Ray, but I'm pretty sure this'll be my class after he arrives too. Unless you're planning a coup, in which case I should tell you that I know a couple of retired Marines who could probably kick your ass."
There are several whistles and cat-calls, and Ray grins broadly at Nate. "All due respect, Nate, but I'm gonna assume you didn't get the memo that you've got a whole class full of ex-Recon Marines here. So, I'm sure the POGs you know are really nice, dickless boys, who fuck missionary style, but unless you want their asses kicked on your behalf -"
Ray's words are muffled by the blond next to him slapping a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry, about him Professor Fick," the young man apologizes. "Sometimes he forgets he's not in the military anymore. He's got ADD, not Tourette's, despite what you might think."
Ray says something muffled; Nate just shakes his head. "Why don’t you guys pass the syllabus around and we can discuss Ray's afflictions later," he says, handing Poke several pages of Xeroxed paper.
English 203: The Fraternity of Men
Professor Nathaniel Fick
Tuesday & Thursday 10:30am-12:00pm
Course Materials/Subject Matter: Homer: The Iliad, Alexander the Great Trilogy by Valerio Manfredi, The Once and Future King, Othello, Henry V, Lord of the Flies, Apocalypse Now (DVD) and Band of Brothers (DVD and book)
Requirements: Three papers (length to be determined) and one 10 minute presentation (subject of choice)
While the papers are being handed out, Nate digs out his register. After all these years, Nate has no idea why he expects his class lists to be in some sort of alphabetical order. Professor's Schwetje's assistant is supposed to take care of Nate's requests, but apparently he's as allergic to alphabetical order as he is to ordering office supplies.
"James Trombley," Nate reads out.
A shrewish-looking guy raises his hand.
"Evan Stafford."
"Q-Tip," a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man with a rag on his head says.
Q-Tip. Nate makes a mental note.
Mike Christenson. Jason Lilley. "Rudy Reyes?"
"Here, sir."
Nate looks up. Whoa.
"It's okay if you think Rudy's hot, sir," Ray calls out. "Everyone else does."
Nate's starting to think that the best way to cope with Ray is to ignore him.
"Josh Person." Nate looks around. Ray's eyeballing him, but Nate's busy. "Does anybody know Josh?"
"The only person who calls me Josh is my mom," Ray says. "So unless you got some tits hiding under there, Ray'll do.
Nate makes a show of checking inside his shirt. "No, Ray, no tits here, but if there were, they wouldn't be for you."
Ray smirks, and Nate just shakes his head. Oceanside has a heavy military presence and Nate's had to adapt just to keep up.
Walt Hasser is Ray's little blond keeper. Gabe Garza seems more interested in Walt than Ray. Poke is apparently Antonio Espera. There's another James (Chaffin) and a Teren Holsey and -
"BRAD!" Ray's voice interrupts Nate's roll call.
"Ray, do you need a muzzle?" Nate asks with some sincerity, but Ray's not looking at him. In fact, everybody's looking at the door, and it takes Nate a moment to process what he's seeing.
He looks at the lithe frame filling the doorway and then back down at his list.
Colbert, Brad
Nate blinks at the list and then back at the doorway. There have to be millions of Brad Colberts in the world. What's the likelihood of this Brad Colbert being that Brad Colbert?
And then the Brad in the doorway smiles. "Hello, Professor Fick," he says lightly.
Nate nods his head in acknowledgement, praying for a miracle to that god he doesn't even believe in. When the paper with the class listing slips out of Nate's hand, he doesn't think anyone else notices, but when he crouches down to pick it up someone's hand is there first.
Brad's blonder and tanner, his hair longer than Marine-regulation, but some people you never forget. Especially when they grin at you like that.
Nate stares at the paper when Brad offers it. "I think you dropped this, sir," Brad says as they stand up. "Sorry, I'm late, I got lost."
Sir. Sir? Nate's brain is useless, but at least his fingers know to take the paper back.
"That's some bullshit," Ray says, filling the silence. "How the hell are you going to get lost when the world revolves around you, Brad? That's like the sun rising in the west because the earth forgot which way it rotates. Shit, next the birds'll be fucking the fish and there'll be peace on earth. How am I gonna get my rocks off then?"
Brad shoots a grin at the room before sliding into a seat right in front of Nate's desk. "Ray, stop your crack-addled, rabbit-fucking stuttering and let the man teach."
Behind Brad, Poke laughs. "All y'all motherfuckers are in trouble now, Daddy's home."
Is it a fact of university life that the youngest professors get assigned the worst offices, which is why Nate's office is on the top floor of the Mattis Building at the very end of the hall in a space that quite possibly used to be the janitor's closet.
After three years, Nate's used to walking up the five flights of stairs and walking past every other office to get to his own. In fact, he's come to think of his office as a sort of sanctuary, away from the horrors of the main office on the second floor and the political clusterfuck of tenured professors on the third floor. It doesn't hurt that Nate's neighbors are Mike Wynn, Pappy Patrick and Eric Kocher.
Mike, Pappy and Eric have all been at UCO a lot longer than Nate and they could move to other offices, even to other floors, but with Craig Schwetje and Dave McGraw terrorizing the fourth floor and Godfather on the third floor, the fifth floor is practically a safe haven at this point.
Mike's door is open, and Nate sticks his head in for a brief moment. "I'm fucked," he says succinctly.
Mike peeks around the side of his computer monitor and then glances at the clock on the wall. "It's not even one o'clock on the first day," he says, raising a barely discernable blond eyebrow. "I think you've set a record."
Nate leans against the door frame of Mike's office. "I should get a medal," he agrees.
"How much shit could you possibly be in already?" Mike asks, clacking away at his computer.
Nate glances behind him to make sure nobody's in the halls. "Depends on how much shit you get in for sleeping with your students."
There's a silence and then Mike's moving. Nate can hear the wheels of Mike's chair moving before he's moved around his computer. Hell, people in India can hear Mike's wheels moving.
Mike has six different kinds of wheel lubricant for his chair, and it still squeaks as though it's being murdered. Eric and Pappy once stole the wheels from Mike's chair in an effort to keep the volume down. Mike went and bought new ones and they're just as loud.
Last year, they tried to have an intervention, but Mike refuses to part with his chair because it was a gift from his wife, Tara. He's more afraid of her than he is of them.
Mike clears his throat, he's sitting on the edge of his desk, a green stress ball feebly trying to escape his grasp. Nate snaps back to reality. "I saw you about two hours ago, right?" Mike prods.
Nate glances out into the hallway again and then steps inside Mike's office, shutting the door behind him. "Yeah."
"And you just had a class, right? First one of the semester?"
Nate nods.
"What the hell are you teachin'?!" Mike says, disbelief etched in every word. "I thought Sex Ed was taught in the Psych building. Are we having more practical class work all of a sudden, 'cause I'm teachin' MacBeth this semester and I don’t need a bunch of girls with blood on their hands."
Nate snorts. "It didn't happen today."
"Well it sure as hell didn't happen last night," Mike says with some authority since last night Tara and Mike had had Nate, Eric and Pappy over for barbeque and beer. Lots of beer. "So, when the hell did you debauch a student and is she pregnant?"
"He wasn't a student when we fucked," Nate says evenly.
Mike doesn't miss a beat when he throws the stress ball at Nate's head. Nate feels the breeze when it hits the wall next to his ear, bounces off his shoulder and flops onto the floor. "Then what the fuck are you worryin' me for? Dammit, Nate, I was thinkin' I was gonna have to sneak your ass out of town or something."
Nate rolls his eyes, kicking at the stress ball with the toe of his right loafer. "Your support is touching."
Mike leans back and grabs something off his desk. It's a Saran-wrapped sandwich. "Look, if he wasn't a student when it happened, then it doesn't count."
"You think the administration would see it that way?"
Mike pauses in freeing his sandwich. "Are you gonna tell them?"
Nate raises an eyebrow. "No. Are you?"
Mike snorts. "Wasn't plannin' on it, no," he says, going back to his sandwich.
Nate sighs. "Okay, that still doesn't get him out of my class though."
"Do you want him out of your class?" Mike asks curiously.
"Yes!"
Mike's look is all incredulousness. "Aren't you supposed to be the adult here?"
Nate doesn't scowl. Okay, maybe he does a little bit. "So what do I do?" he asks, kicking Mike in the shin.
"Well, the first thing you do is stop kicking me, asshole," Mike says, handing Nate half of his sandwich. It's tuna with lettuce on rye that's amazingly not soggy. Nate needs a wife to make him lunch. Half the time he forgets to eat at all. "And the rest depends."
"Depends on what?" Nate says around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Are you plannin' on doing it again?"
Nate thinks he might actually be shocked by that question. He almost chokes on his sandwich. "No!"
Mike shakes his head, puts his sandwich down, goes around his desk and pulls out the emergency bottle of vodka from his bottom drawer. The top spins off easily as though they do this all the time. Which they do, but normally, it's after the Wednesday afternoon staff meeting.
Nate sighs to the ceiling as Mike offers him the bottle. "Stop being a fucking pussy," Mike orders when Nate tries to wave off the alcohol.
"I've got a class at three," Nate protests.
"I've got a class in twenty minutes, what's your point?" Mike studies Nate intently for a moment and then he laughs. "You're not mad that you fucked him before, you're mad that he's in your class so you can't fuck him now."
Nate definitely scowls this time, even as he snatches the bottle of vodka away and takes a swig.
Mike grins triumphantly; Nate takes another swig and ignores him. A dark shadow passes by the frosted glass on Mike's office door and Nate pauses. The only people on this end are he, Mike and Eric. Eric's got a class, and he and Mike are in here. He hasn't even posted his office hours on his door yet. Somebody's probably lost.
The dark shadow passes by again heading the other direction. Definitely lost then.
"It's been ten years," he complains eventually.
"Oh, c'mon," Mike says. "Ten years? That doesn't even count at this point."
"Yes, it does."
"That only counts if you want it to count," Mike corrects. He's looking closely at Nate again. Nate tries very hard not to look away.
"Nate, come on. Life is short, make him drop the class."
"I can't do that," Nate protests.
Mike shakes his head. "You're too fucking honorable. It's admirable, but not very practical."
Nate eats more of his sandwich, ruminating while watching Mike eat and gather papers for his class. "Did you ever sleep with a student?" Nate asks eventually.
Mike smirks at him. "You've met my wife, right?"
"Before you married Tara."
Mike looks at Nate as though he might be stupid. "How do you think I met Tara?"
The sun is sitting low in the sky, but at 4:30 in the afternoon it still has to be at least 75 degrees. Nate's polo shirt is starting to stick to his lower back and he can feel the sweat around his hairline. He takes the steps up to his apartment two at a time, digging in his briefcase for his keys and very much not thinking about Brad, because he hasn't thought about Brad in years. Months. At least since last week.
What Nate's thinking about now is the long run he's going to go on, and the beer he's going to ingest after that run, and the fact that he might not have enough beer in the house for all the beer he's going to want later on tonight.
He's just sliding his key in the lock when an elderly voice calls out to him. "Hola, Nathaniel," is followed by a sharp bark and a whine.
Nate turns towards his left and smiles broadly at Mrs. Gonzales in her fuchsia, floral muumuu. "Hola, senora," he says with a wave. Mrs. Gonzales waves back, and her boxer, Ripley, tugs on her leash and whines at Nate again.
Nate laughs and sets down his briefcase before walking towards Mrs. Gonzales' end of the hallway. "Hey, you," he says as Ripley barks and paws at his leg.
"Somebody didn't get her walk today," Mrs. Gonzales says thoughtfully.
"It's the first day of the semester," Nate says apologetically, scratching behind Ripley's ears. "I didn't have time this morning, but I can take her out now."
Mrs. Gonzales smiles broadly, her dentures clacking together briefly. "I told Roberto he should have gotten me a fish," she says with a shake of her head. "But why would he want to listen to his mama? He's a big man, off to Afghanistan, has to get me a dog younger than the teeth in my mouth."
Nate laughs. "Boys like doing things for their mothers, we can't help it."
Mrs. Gonzales clucks her tongue. "I bet you wouldn't buy your mother a dog if she said she wanted a fish, would you?"
"No, but my mother doesn't accept gifts from us. She's a social worker; she makes us donate to charity on her birthday instead."
Mrs. Gonzales pats Nate's cheek. "You’re a good boy, Nathaniel, you talk to my Roberto when he gets back, tell him Ripley needs a real home. None of this apartment living for pobrecita, right?"
Ripley barks enthusiastically when Mrs. Gonzales pats her head and then proceeds to slobber all over her hand.
There's no way Mrs. Gonzales would ever part with Ripley, Nate's not fooled. "Just give me a few minutes," he says. "I need to change."
"You take your time," Mrs. Gonzales calls as Nate walks back to his apartment, retrieves his briefcase and steps inside. "You work too hard."
Nate's building is typical Californian -- which means it's much wider than it is tall and has a courtyard that echoes sound throughout every apartment in the complex.
Nate, at least, has an apartment on the top floor with plenty of windows. His place will never win any design awards, it was built in the 1950s, but he's doesn't teach to make money and his belongings reflect that. Still, everything works and is comfortable, and he's got a balcony that affords him a view of all there is to see in Oceanside, which boils down to trees, sky and the buildings of the two major Oceanside institutions: Camp Pendleton, the West Coast training facility for the United States Marines Corps, and the University of California at Oceanside.
Nate kicks his shoes off by the door, dumps his briefcase on the kitchen table and pulls off his shirt en route to the bedroom. It takes him ninety seconds to change into his running clothes and then he's back in the hallway, grabbing his keys.
His running sneakers have a permanent home by the door, and his feet slide into them easily.
Mrs. Gonzales is still where he left her, and she smiles at him broadly. "I told you there was no rush, mi'jo." Ripley barks at Nate, tugging at her leash when Mrs. Gonzales hands it over.
"I think Ripley would disagree," Nate says with good-humor. Ripley barks again, tugging harder. "We'll be back in an hour or two," Nate promises as Ripley starts trying to drag him away.
"Don't let her boss you around," Mrs. Gonzales calls to him. "You let them take an inch and it's all over."
Nate laughs all the way down the stairs, pausing to push open the front door and let them out into the world. The sun is slowly setting in the sky, and there's a slight breeze coming in from somewhere.
Ripley tugs Nate in the direction of Pendleton and the beach, and Nate goes with it. And then they're off, sneakers and paws hitting the asphalt, and Nate doesn't think of Brad Colbert for the first time in hours.
"The Iliad is about this Suzie Rottencrotch, who had a shotgun wedding to some guy old enough to be her granddad, and because she wanted some young dick she ran off with this Orlando Bloom wannabe, and that started some family shit, because you know how those inbred, royal dick-smokers are and then everybody dies over a piece of ass."
Ray pauses in his summation of Homer's work. "It's just like Iraq again."
Nate leans on the edge of his desk, very much ignoring the proximity of Brad's legs to his own, and covers his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn't know whether to laugh, cry or applaud. Of course Ray Person would turn out to be brilliant. In his own, Marine-translated way.
"I think it's about some other things besides that," Nate hedges. "There's the wrath of the Greek gods. The battle between Hector and Achilles…"
"Who was pissed the fuck off because Hector killed his man, Patroclus," Ray interjects. "Yet more fighting over ass. I'm telling you, sir, it all comes back to sex."
Brad chooses this time to clear his throat; Nate rolls his eyes. He's trying to run a class here. And, of course, a brief glance at Brad shows nothing more than the passive look Brad's been sporting since the first day of class, as though he's just gracing the rest of the world with his presence.
In the first three weeks of this seminar, Brad has been nothing but a model student. He shows up, he does his reading, he participates in class conversation -- if only to tell everyone else how inferior they are or to debate race with Poke -- and then he leaves.
He doesn't openly undermine Nate's authority, if anything the fact that Brad pays attention seems to encourage everyone else to pay attention as well. And if Nate could stick Brad in the back of the class, then it would be ideal, like Brad wasn't there at all. But Nate can’t ignore Brad, although god knows he's trying. At the very least, he's trying to be as detached as Brad is. Or as detached as Brad is pretending to be.
Every class, Brad sits in the first seat right in front of Nate's desk. He sprawls his legs out and chews on his pens while Nate lectures, which for three classes forced Nate to stay in the area between the blackboard and the desk, because continually stepping over Brad's legs or waiting for Brad to move was driving him crazy.
Once he realized Brad was doing this on purpose, he took back his space. It's also possible that Brad Colbert is a sadist. It would go a long way to explaining the not-so-subtle glances and the way Brad keeps licking his lips.
"Sir," Brad says, "I think what Ray is trying to say, although you can't really tell with his Wal-Mart inflection and whiskey tango inbred lisp, is that The Iliad isn't that different from most literature. In the end, everything is about sex or death."
"Or money," Ray agrees. "But mostly just ass."
Nate just chuckles. "I haven't heard it put that way before."
"Well, sir," Rudy Reyes speaks up. "Marines like to tell it like it is. No bullshit. Unless your name is Ray, and then, all you can do is bullshit."
"Hey!" Ray actually seems offended by this, and Nate's mouth twitches in amusement.
He likes Rudy, and it has nothing to do with his biceps.
He pushes himself away from his desk, steps over Brad's sneaker-clad feet, walks back to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk, but instead of writing with it he turns back the guys.
"You all went to Iraq together?" he asks. "All of you?"
"First Platoon, Bravo Company," Poke affirms.
"And now we're all here," Rudy says, "Gotta love that GI Bill, sir."
Nate shakes his head. "You know you can call me 'Nate', right?"
Rudy shakes his head. "Brad calls you 'sir', we call you 'sir'."
"So, this is your fault," he says, addressing Brad directly, which he tries to do as rarely as possible, because this whole situation is awkward. It’s not as though they've discussed whatever the hell is going on. Or was going on. Or not going on. No, nothing going on.
Brad just smiles. "You save some retards from a mortar or two and they follow you around for the rest of your life. I've been trying to dispose of them, but they keep coming back like cockroaches."
"You know you love your Ray-Ray," Ray hollers from the back of the room.
"Like a STD," Brad says magnanimously.
Nate rubs his forehead; he supposes this is better than being ignored. "Okay, let's try and look at this another way," he says, rolling the chalk between his fingers. "Let's assume that Helen of Troy is … J. Lo. And she's decided to run off to Iraq with Brad Pitt."
"Angelina would whoop her ass," Ray says factually, "and that's a lot of ass to whoop. You know if you hit that from the back you might not get to the front until five minutes later."
"Thank you, Ray," Nate interrupts. "I think we all know Angelina kicks ass. Now, when J Lo. runs off with Brad -- not you," Nate says, pointing to Brad, "Angelina gets a little upset. So she calls her people... who happen to be Ray and Poke."
"That's what I'm talking about," Ray says.
"Don't tell my wife," Poke says.
"We'll keep it between us," Nate offers. "And then Ray and Poke call up Walt and Gabe… and Lilley and Rudy. And then they call up James -- both of you -- and Teren."
"Do we get paid in pussy, sir?" James Chaffin interrupts.
"That's between you and Angelina," Nate answers. "So, you've gathered all your friends, because that's what friends do. That's loyalty. That's when you have someone's back. And, eventually, the entire USMC follows Angelina into battle, because why?"
"Because she's Angelina Jolie," Ray scoffs.
"Exactly," Nate says with a smile. "Because she is a figurehead and people pay attention to figureheads. They follow them. The Iliad is as much about a group of men following a figurehead, as it is -- as Ray so concisely put it -- a piece of ass."
Nate sets the chalk down in the holder and looks back at his class. They seem... pleased.
Nate glances at Brad, and for the first time since Brad walked back into his class, and back into his head, he's not sprawled out, observing everything around him with vague disdain. In fact, Brad's sitting up, not just watching Nate but actively looking at him, a small smile at the corners of his mouth.
Nate hasn't seen that smile since a very early morning in December of 1998, when he woke up tangled in his sheets, with the sun just peeking through the cheap blinds in his dorm room and a persistent erection trapped between him and his bed. His ass was sore, his skull ached with lockjaw and his mouth was stretched in a grin before he'd even fully opened his eyes and seen Brad Colbert propped up in bed beside him on one elbow, watching him wake up.
Nate had thought this was behind him. Them.
It's been ten years and seven weeks now. It seems like it was yesterday.
He clears his throat to dismiss the class, but Poke speaks over him. "Angelina's too fucking skinny," he says dismissively. "J. Lo's got mad ass. Y'all can save that bony white chick, I'm fightin' for some Puerto Rican booty."
"They're fucking idiots," Eric Kocher moans, leaning against the door frame of Nate's office. A 30-something ex-Marine with dark hair and sharp blue eyes, Eric has been teaching at UCO for five years now. His intolerance for stupidity is legendary, mostly owing to his being a Teaching Assistant for Professor Dave McGraw, or as Mike and Eric like to call him Captain America.
Nate's never quite understood the nickname himself, but apparently it has something to do with Professor McGraw's obsessive nationalism. It's either that or just because he's an idiot.
It's never been made very clear.
"They're not fucking idiots," Nate says, poking through his drawers for a Power Bar or instant ramen. Anything that he can eat now or make with the half-full bottle of water that he's supposed to be giving to his spider plant in the corner. "They're students."
"Which is synonymous with idiots," Eric says triumphantly.
Nate gives Eric an amused grin and goes back to scrounging through endless rubber bands, coffee receipts, dried out pens, old papers and ravaged paperbacks. Nate's been using the same books since he started, because he makes notes in the margins. And every year he reads the books with his classes and finds new things to talk about and ponder.
And his sister said that a philosophy degree wasn’t going to be good for anything.
"Not only are they stupid," Kocher carries on, "but some of them are marginally hot. And I think one of them might actually have a brain."
"Don't let your girlfriend hear you talking like that," Nate teases. "You know there's nothing more dangerous than a hot student with a brain."
"I know," Eric moans. "Hot or smart, not both. That's just cruel. Plus, I get older and they stay young."
Nate pauses in what he's doing. "I know you're not lusting after your students, I've seen Deb."
"I see Deb every day," Eric says. "But every new semester it's like Hugh fucking Hefner's auditioning for Playboy bunnies in my fucking classroom."
"Most men -- and probably a few women -- would be happy about that."
"The tits on this one junior," Eric complains. "Nate, you don't even know."
Nate raises an eyebrow. "I know you're not talking about what I think you're talking about."
Eric snorts. "Relax, I was just fucking with you."
Nate's not buying this. "Did Mike say something to you?"
Eric pushes up from the door. "Mike didn't say anything to me. Why? Is there something to say to me?"
Or maybe he's just being paranoid.
"No," Nate says, finally scrounging up some peanut butter crackers. "You want one?" he says, opening the packet and offering one to Eric.
Eric waves him off. "No, Deb's making me dinner tonight, I'm not going to waste that on stale crackers that are probably older than your mom."
Nate glances at the three clocks on his wall -- he likes to be on time. "You don't even know if they're stale." Nate eats one. "Okay, definitely stale."
"Join the military and get one meal a day, you'll learn how to wait."
Nate rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I thought about it once, but it didn't pan out."
"That's too bad," Eric says, "you probably would've been a good Marine, but the bureaucracy would've killed you."
Nate smirks. "Yeah, I heard that too."
"You mean your recruitment officer was actually honest with you?" Eric seems moderately surprised. "I know he didn't last long at that job."
Nate chuckles. "I got a second opinion before I signed up."
"Corps' loss," Eric says.
"What was the Corps' loss?" a vaguely familiar voice asks from behind Eric.
Nate stands up to try to look around Eric and is greeted with a shaved head and a wry grin, but before he can speak Eric and Poke are having words.
"What the fuck, Kocher?" Poke says, slapping Eric on the shoulder. "Why the fuck didn't you come out last week? You know somebody has to control Dirty Earl's ass. Your man was wild."
"I told you, my old lady wasn't feeling the Corps love last week. Something about me drinking with you retards too much."
"How's she gonna do us like that? It's cause she's Asian, innit? Doesn't want you associating with us dirty spics."
Eric laughs. "The next time you want Deb cursing your ass out in better Mexican than you speak, you just let me know."
Poke shakes his head. "Fucking up the blood lines. She's Mexican and Filipino, fucking your white ass, y'all'll probably have a fucking black kid who speaks Hebrew or some shit."
Nate clears his throat. "So, you two know each other I take it. Outside of school parameters."
Eric rolls his eyes. "Nate, grunts in the Marines don't have parameters. Inside, outside, everybody's the same. Boundaries are a civilian thing."
"You've been out for years," Nate points out. "You're a civilian now."
"No," Eric corrects, "I'm a retired Marine."
"Once a Marine, always a Marine," Poke agrees, before slapping Eric on the back, hard. "Hell, can your cracker ass even spell 'boundaries' Kocher?"
Poke turns to Nate. "We were in the same company, Brad and us were Bravo Platoon, he was Charlie. Had one of the most fuckin' retarded CO's ever. It's a wonder we all still have arms and legs," Poke says, adding on the "sir" a moment after.
Eric throws an arm around Poke's shoulder, clapping him hard on the head. "You know you don't have to call his civilian ass 'sir', right?"
"Brad calls him 'sir,' we call him sir," Poke says.
Eric raises an eyebrow. "You have Brad Colbert in your class?" he pauses, and then he starts laughing riotously.
Nate's lungs feel tight in his chest. "What's wrong with Brad?" he asks. There should be no timbre of defensiveness to his voice. He's probably just imagining it.
"Do you know about Brad Colbert?" Eric mocks. "Let us tell you about Brad Colbert."
"He climbed fuckin' Everest with a broken foot one time," Poke says.
"He once gave away all of Hitman 2-1's water to a bunch of civilians because he decided they need to be hydrated," Eric adds.
"He brought Beefaroni and skin mags as presents for when the babies were good."
"And totally took responsibility for that thing with Trombley."
"What thing with Trombley?" Nate interrupts their litany.
Poke shakes his head, and he and Eric and share a look. "Couldn't do nothin' about that," Poke apologizes. "You know family always has that fucked up kid they keep in the basement; I don't know who the fuck let Trombley's ass out, but they got some shit to answer for."
"What 'thing' with Trombley?" Nate repeats.
"I don't know many guys who could force command to cas-evac a kid who'd been shot by one of their own guys," Eric says. "That's all I have to say about Brad."
Nate eyes them both warily. He's been working around Marines for three years now, he knows their ways. They're probably just talking trash. From what Nate knows of the military, you can't force them to do anything. "I'll just assume you're screwing with my head."
They both shrug simultaneously. "Whatever works for you," Eric says. "Just don't let Trombley near any guns, dogs or camels."
"Camels?" Nate asks with suspicion, before deciding to think better of it. UCO may be heavily Marine populated, but he doesn't share their history. He'll take Trombley on his own merits or faults.
Poke and Eric are talking happily amongst themselves when Nate interrupts. "I'm sorry, Poke, was there something you needed? Do you have some questions about class?"
"Yeah," Poke says. "I was thinking about what you said about everybody following Angelina Jolie's bony ass into battle, and it makes sense."
Nate smiles. "I'm glad you think so."
Eric raise an eyebrow. "Angelina Jolie?"
"It's an analogy," Nate explains. "We're reading The Iliad."
Eric just shakes his head. "The Iliad? By choice? Do you hate them?" Eric turns towards Poke. "Does he hate you guys? What the hell'd you do? Nate's, like, the nicest guy ever."
Nate tosses a stale cracker at Eric. Eric just grins.
"Nate's really cool," Poke says to Eric, before turning back to Nate. "You're real cool, sir, don't let Person's screwby ass get to you, he was born like that."
"I'll try," Nate says with a smile.
"I was thinkin'," Poke says, "about your boy, Hector. I mean you got this man who doesn't want to fight, but who gets pulled into it because his people need him, and he's honorable, so he goes, but then shit just gets ill, sir."
"But that's what happens," Nate says, after a moment. "Hector is you, and Eric and Brad and every Marine who went off to war to try to make things better for their country. Maybe you wanted to go, maybe you didn't, but you went for your country and for your fellow Marines. And that's what this book is about, at heart, it's a book about brotherhood and doing things you may not want to, but that you feel compelled to do to make things better."
Nate can see the wheels turning in Poke's head, considering this. And then Poke nods. "Brad was right, sir."
Oh dear god. "Brad was right about what?" Nate says.
"You're a really good teacher."
He wasn't expecting that. He doesn't bother to hide the strength of his smile. "I'm glad you think so."
Next to Poke, Eric nods approvingly. "Maybe I'll just drop my Shakespearean-defiling retards and come sit in your class."
Nate is teaching four classes this semester. Two introductory English classes, which he won't be allowed to shake for another two years, an intermediate course on 20th Century Lit, which he likes because he gets to mindfuck his students by making them read A Catcher in the Rye, The Color Purple and Harry Potter in the same month, and his new seminar, which Brad and Ray aside, is easily his favorite of the four.
He reminds himself of his pride in this seminar, of how happy he was to talk to Poke about Hector, when Ray makes him want to bang his head against the wall and Brad scratches the side of his neck leaving long, pink lines that Nate wants to lick away-- Jesus Christ, his repression has picked a fine time to break down.
Yes, it's entirely possible that Nate came out to Oceanside as part of some latent Marine wish-fulfillment that was stirred up again after his time in Washington D.C. left him disillusioned enough to take an offer halfway across the country.
Or it's just as possible that after the Congressman he worked for got caught taking bribes, Nate decided that politics were bullshit and he needed a vacation.
It seems like the vacation is over.
Part II