Generation Kill - The Same Things As Everyone (Colbert/Fick, PG)
This started as comment fic in alethialia's journal for this photo and then I cleaned it up (and expanded it) a bit (a lot bit) because, well, I really like it. I don't tend to write from Brad's POV. I should do more work on this exercise.
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated PG-13 (language)
The Same Things As Everyone
"Hey."
Brad's spine stiffens. It's not the only thing. He plasters on his most innocuous smile. "Hey," he says, glancing up at Nate. Brad feels perfectly calm, except for his sky rocketing heart rate. He always did like Nate in his navy pinstripe suit.
He can see why nobody bothered to tell him about this.
Him being Brad and nobody meaning every last ball-licking, goat-fucking, special Ed retard in his goddamn platoon. If someone had told him that attending Wynn's anniversary party would've required him to see Nate again...
No wonder Person was so fucking insistent that he come. Ray is definitely going to hear about this shit later. At length.
Judging by the way both Ray and Walt have suddenly disappeared from the Austin Marriott ballroom, they know this.
They should be afraid. Very fucking afraid.
Brad can feel Nate's eyes on him. Feel them sweeping over his face, his neck, the collar of his white shirt, the lapels of his gray suit.
Fuck -- if Brad wasn't already sitting down he might actually have to. His legs feel strange, numb. This never happens to him in theater.
His head is swimming where moments before his only thoughts were 'beer' and 'more needed'.
It's been months.
He wants to look away, but he can't. Nate's eyes always do that to him: make him look even when he doesn't want to. In Iraq, Nate's voice made him focus on long eyelashes casting shadows on sunburned skin even when he was subsisting on one meal a day and pumped full of his daily vitamins of Ripped Fuel and Skoal dip. Even when Brad didn't have the fucking energy to waste thinking about Nate's skin under his cracked hands.
Especially then.
Nate's tongue darts out, slicks over his top lip. "This seat taken?" he says, gesturing to the seat beside Brad.
Brad shrugs. "No."
The seat isn't as close to Brad as Nate makes it. Before there had to be two feet between Brad and said chair, now it's more like 20 inches instead of 24.
Nate sucks on his lower lip, which makes Brad's cock twitch. Everything about Nate makes Brad's cock twitch. Fucking Pavlovian response.
There are all kinds of break-ups in the world. Messy. Amicable. The ones that are so long in coming that it's a relief when they're finally over. The ones that are such a shock that people walk around in a daze for weeks... months... years later.
And then there are the break-ups that don't quite fall under the heading of 'break-up' because there was nothing to break up anyway. Nothing verbally confirmed to end in the first place. Or something so secretive and hidden that even the parties involved didn't realize it was over until it was too late to fix what broke.
Brad's always believed that you can't fix what's been destroyed. You can go back to the same place, but you can't go back to the same time. You can't go back and fix what's been done; you can only try to repair the damage from the first time around. Or the second time. Or the third.
This holds true for Becca and Sam. It holds true for Iraq. It should hold true for Nate -- but there's always the exception that makes the rule pointless.
Brad focuses on something halfway across the room: the mirrorball casting shadows on the eggshell paint. The couples holding tight and swaying to sappy 80s music. The way Tanya laughs when Wynn whispers in her ear. The way their daughter clutches at their waists, red patent leather Mary Janes firmly planted on her parents' feet.
They sit there in silence for hours… days. At least that's the way it feels. It can't be more than a minute or two before Nate clears his throat. "You," is all he gets out, before Brad stands up and walks out.
Brad moves by instinct. Not fleeing, just going. Out of the ballroom exit doors. Through the door marked Employees Only. Down a hall, down another hall, through one set of doors and then another until he's emptied into the Austin twlight. Cornered in a fence-enclosed area full of garbage dumpsters.
He has no idea why he's surprised that Nate's right on his heels when he turns around. Brad's eyes sweep over him once. It's all he needs to take in the shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The wide green eyes and hint of dark circles. The hands in Nate's pockets.
He can feel own skin is heating up, his hormonal response completely overriding his head. His neck is started to itch, and there's a patch behind his ear that's going hot. Supernova, someone just spent half an hour carefully marking that area of skin hot.
Nate did that to him once, pinned Brad down even though Brad was perfectly willing, and held him there as Nate worked him over. Nate's fingers laced through his own, Brad's head turned to the side as Nate bit at his earlobe, nuzzled his neck, soft lips brushing the column of his throat, teeth grazing his skin as Nate's cock left wet smears on his stomach and his own cock slid between the cheeks of Nate's ass.
As he willingly submitted to something much greater than him.
"No," Brad says, taking a step back. There's no shame in tactical retreat.
Nate purses his lips. "I didn't say anything yet."
"I don't have anything to say to you," Brad insists stubbornly. He gets this from his mom apparently --the ability to carry on a conversation and finish it before anybody's even said anything.
"You stopped taking my calls," Nate persists, jaw set. "Why?"
Brad turns away. It smells like shit out here, and he knows exactly what shit smells like. He's expecting something forceful, a hand on the arm, a blow to the face; he's not expecting a finger under his chin turning him in Nate's direction.
It slays him faster than any other sword Nate could weld.
"Why?" Nate repeats. It's plaintive. Honest.
Like he actually cares. That's what Brad was afraid of before.
"You like Harvard?" Brad asks with real curiosity. "You like the liberal dick smokers who think that what I do - what you did - is on par with genocide, killing baby seals and blowing up towers?"
Nate's forehead furrows. "What the hell -- did somebody say something to you the last time you were in Cambridge? Is that what this is about?"
Brad can see the fury building behind Nate's eyes. The fury he honestly wasn't sure he would get if he said something. He didn't want to rock the boat. That's not his world. Except he didn't say anything and look where that's gotten them.
He shrugs because it almost seems stupid now. But it's not.
"And you listened to them?" Nate says incredulously. "Since when do you give a shit what some fat hippy fuck who couldn't fire off a 203 with laminated instructions and a X on the trigger thinks?" he snaps, the finger on Brad's chin becoming the fist wrapped in the collar of his shirt, pulling him near, keeping him close.
He just blinks down at Nate.
"Don't you dare give me the stoic face, Brad!" Nate rails. "You have more brains than 99.9% of that school. What the hell made you think something so stupid?"
Brad swallows, disentangles Nate's fingers from his shirt but can't seem to shake Nate's fingers tangling with his own. "Just 99.9%? I think I've been insulted," he mocks.
"Well, you're clearly not as smart as I am," Nate says mulishly, "because I know better than to listen to that shit."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Excuse me if I thought you wouldn't want me around fucking up the future career of the next President of the United States."
The anger in Nate's face dissipates just as quickly as it appeared, and Brad's now faced with Nate's forehead on his shoulder and a crown of glossy, sandy brown hair that hasn't seen regulation length in a year. "You are a fucking idiot," Nate says to Brad's bicep.
Brad tenses up. "I'm an idiot, because I want what's best for you and your future?"
Nate lifts his head, licks his lips. "No, you're an idiot if you think I want a future without you in it."
Brad stares. Knows he's staring, but can't help it. There's something in his stomach, a sinking sensation followed by this indescribable warmth. It's what happens to him when he gets to do water recon. When he gets to do something he loves, understands. When things seem to fall into place.
Nate doesn't kiss Brad as much as he yanks Brad down to his level and mashes their mouths together. Frankly, Nate's a much better kisser than this, but it's clear that he's not going for finesse here.
This is about intent.
Brad's hand cups the back of Nate's head, fingers sliding through his hair. "Can't believe you," Nate breathes against Brad's mouth. "Why - why would you think I would ever be like that?"
"You're surrounded by liberal, tofu-eating, wheatgrass smoking communists," Brad says. "Shit like that is contagious."
"Athlete's foot is contagious," Nate corrects, "that's just. I know better. You know I know better."
"People change their minds."
Nate pulls back, smoothes out the wrinkles in Brad's shirt with his palm. "Not about this."
Brad swallows. "This what?"
There's a clatter at the door behind them and two guys in Marriott uniforms clamber out laughing, cigarettes in their mouths. They give Brad and Nate a brief curious glance before lighting up and going back to their conversation.
Brad exhales through his nose. Civilian timing is shit.
Nate gives them a dismissive look, nods back towards the hotel. "You coming?" he says, tone perfectly mild as he walks off.
Brad follows because that's what he does.
Soon enough they're in the hallway outside the ballroom. Cut-glass chandeliers overhead and fake Persian carpeting lining the way. Brad's hand is on the door, but he's stopped by Nate's fingers on his wrist. A muscle in Brad's forearm twitches as Nate strokes the inside of his wrist.
"Brad," Nate says his namely softly. The way he did when he wanted Brad to wake up, because he'd fallen asleep drooling on Nate chest and nearly crushed his lungs again.
Brad looks from their hands, along Nate's arm and back up. He's missed this.
"I don't need you to be a martyr for me," Nate says. "I've made my choice."
"Yeah?" Brad's voice is raspy in his throat. He knows what happens when people make choices concerning him: they marry his best friend.
Nate's hand clamps down hard, his fingernails digging into the thin skin of Brad's wrist. They break the skin, but the pain is fleeting, nothing compared to the heat in Nate's eyes, the color in his face when he turns Brad to face him. "I choose you," he says roughly. "You're just going to have to deal with it."
"What if I don’t want you to choose me?" Brad presses.
"Too fucking bad - the decision's already been made."
"Nate."
"I'm not going to run off with your best friend - just because one person fucks up doesn't mean we all do. I'm shocked the Corps didn't teach you better than that."
"Sir, I'm appalled -- are you insinuating that the Marine Corps makes mistakes?"
Nate's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, his grip on Brad's hand loosening until they're just standing there, the backs of their hands pressed together. "If Harvard is full of narrow-minded hippie fucknuts, I'm sure even the Corps has got a retard or two."
"The Ivy League isn't perfect?" Brad says in horror. "I'm shocked."
"I admit the Ivy League has its faults, but it's good at teaching about depraved sexual acts under the guise of Greek and Latin classics."
"Really?"
Nate nods. "We should go up to my room so I can show you," he says, walking away.
Brad's already thinking about Nate naked, but he takes a moment to look at Nate's ass as he walks away. "You think Gunny'll mind us running out?" he says as they wait for the elevator.
"Since when do you care about other people's anniversaries?" Nate is all disbelief.
"I don’t" Brad says, smiling toothily as he puts his lips near Nate's ear. "I'm just making conversation, unless you really want everyone in the lobby to hear about my plans to tie you to the bed and rim your ass until you're sobbing for me to fuck you into the mattress."
The elevator dings, the doors opening on a family of five with twin girls. They stand to the side to allow the family to exit, two perfectly harmless Marine Corps killers in suits sans ties.
Nate grins up at Brad as the family passes by. "Don't worry about what anybody else says," he says, "you fit the depraved Ivy League mould just fine."
-end-
For A.
Also, for all of those not following the tomricks feed I set up, please take a few minutes to read this story as well.
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated PG-13 (language)
The Same Things As Everyone
"Hey."
Brad's spine stiffens. It's not the only thing. He plasters on his most innocuous smile. "Hey," he says, glancing up at Nate. Brad feels perfectly calm, except for his sky rocketing heart rate. He always did like Nate in his navy pinstripe suit.
He can see why nobody bothered to tell him about this.
Him being Brad and nobody meaning every last ball-licking, goat-fucking, special Ed retard in his goddamn platoon. If someone had told him that attending Wynn's anniversary party would've required him to see Nate again...
No wonder Person was so fucking insistent that he come. Ray is definitely going to hear about this shit later. At length.
Judging by the way both Ray and Walt have suddenly disappeared from the Austin Marriott ballroom, they know this.
They should be afraid. Very fucking afraid.
Brad can feel Nate's eyes on him. Feel them sweeping over his face, his neck, the collar of his white shirt, the lapels of his gray suit.
Fuck -- if Brad wasn't already sitting down he might actually have to. His legs feel strange, numb. This never happens to him in theater.
His head is swimming where moments before his only thoughts were 'beer' and 'more needed'.
It's been months.
He wants to look away, but he can't. Nate's eyes always do that to him: make him look even when he doesn't want to. In Iraq, Nate's voice made him focus on long eyelashes casting shadows on sunburned skin even when he was subsisting on one meal a day and pumped full of his daily vitamins of Ripped Fuel and Skoal dip. Even when Brad didn't have the fucking energy to waste thinking about Nate's skin under his cracked hands.
Especially then.
Nate's tongue darts out, slicks over his top lip. "This seat taken?" he says, gesturing to the seat beside Brad.
Brad shrugs. "No."
The seat isn't as close to Brad as Nate makes it. Before there had to be two feet between Brad and said chair, now it's more like 20 inches instead of 24.
Nate sucks on his lower lip, which makes Brad's cock twitch. Everything about Nate makes Brad's cock twitch. Fucking Pavlovian response.
There are all kinds of break-ups in the world. Messy. Amicable. The ones that are so long in coming that it's a relief when they're finally over. The ones that are such a shock that people walk around in a daze for weeks... months... years later.
And then there are the break-ups that don't quite fall under the heading of 'break-up' because there was nothing to break up anyway. Nothing verbally confirmed to end in the first place. Or something so secretive and hidden that even the parties involved didn't realize it was over until it was too late to fix what broke.
Brad's always believed that you can't fix what's been destroyed. You can go back to the same place, but you can't go back to the same time. You can't go back and fix what's been done; you can only try to repair the damage from the first time around. Or the second time. Or the third.
This holds true for Becca and Sam. It holds true for Iraq. It should hold true for Nate -- but there's always the exception that makes the rule pointless.
Brad focuses on something halfway across the room: the mirrorball casting shadows on the eggshell paint. The couples holding tight and swaying to sappy 80s music. The way Tanya laughs when Wynn whispers in her ear. The way their daughter clutches at their waists, red patent leather Mary Janes firmly planted on her parents' feet.
They sit there in silence for hours… days. At least that's the way it feels. It can't be more than a minute or two before Nate clears his throat. "You," is all he gets out, before Brad stands up and walks out.
Brad moves by instinct. Not fleeing, just going. Out of the ballroom exit doors. Through the door marked Employees Only. Down a hall, down another hall, through one set of doors and then another until he's emptied into the Austin twlight. Cornered in a fence-enclosed area full of garbage dumpsters.
He has no idea why he's surprised that Nate's right on his heels when he turns around. Brad's eyes sweep over him once. It's all he needs to take in the shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The wide green eyes and hint of dark circles. The hands in Nate's pockets.
He can feel own skin is heating up, his hormonal response completely overriding his head. His neck is started to itch, and there's a patch behind his ear that's going hot. Supernova, someone just spent half an hour carefully marking that area of skin hot.
Nate did that to him once, pinned Brad down even though Brad was perfectly willing, and held him there as Nate worked him over. Nate's fingers laced through his own, Brad's head turned to the side as Nate bit at his earlobe, nuzzled his neck, soft lips brushing the column of his throat, teeth grazing his skin as Nate's cock left wet smears on his stomach and his own cock slid between the cheeks of Nate's ass.
As he willingly submitted to something much greater than him.
"No," Brad says, taking a step back. There's no shame in tactical retreat.
Nate purses his lips. "I didn't say anything yet."
"I don't have anything to say to you," Brad insists stubbornly. He gets this from his mom apparently --the ability to carry on a conversation and finish it before anybody's even said anything.
"You stopped taking my calls," Nate persists, jaw set. "Why?"
Brad turns away. It smells like shit out here, and he knows exactly what shit smells like. He's expecting something forceful, a hand on the arm, a blow to the face; he's not expecting a finger under his chin turning him in Nate's direction.
It slays him faster than any other sword Nate could weld.
"Why?" Nate repeats. It's plaintive. Honest.
Like he actually cares. That's what Brad was afraid of before.
"You like Harvard?" Brad asks with real curiosity. "You like the liberal dick smokers who think that what I do - what you did - is on par with genocide, killing baby seals and blowing up towers?"
Nate's forehead furrows. "What the hell -- did somebody say something to you the last time you were in Cambridge? Is that what this is about?"
Brad can see the fury building behind Nate's eyes. The fury he honestly wasn't sure he would get if he said something. He didn't want to rock the boat. That's not his world. Except he didn't say anything and look where that's gotten them.
He shrugs because it almost seems stupid now. But it's not.
"And you listened to them?" Nate says incredulously. "Since when do you give a shit what some fat hippy fuck who couldn't fire off a 203 with laminated instructions and a X on the trigger thinks?" he snaps, the finger on Brad's chin becoming the fist wrapped in the collar of his shirt, pulling him near, keeping him close.
He just blinks down at Nate.
"Don't you dare give me the stoic face, Brad!" Nate rails. "You have more brains than 99.9% of that school. What the hell made you think something so stupid?"
Brad swallows, disentangles Nate's fingers from his shirt but can't seem to shake Nate's fingers tangling with his own. "Just 99.9%? I think I've been insulted," he mocks.
"Well, you're clearly not as smart as I am," Nate says mulishly, "because I know better than to listen to that shit."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Excuse me if I thought you wouldn't want me around fucking up the future career of the next President of the United States."
The anger in Nate's face dissipates just as quickly as it appeared, and Brad's now faced with Nate's forehead on his shoulder and a crown of glossy, sandy brown hair that hasn't seen regulation length in a year. "You are a fucking idiot," Nate says to Brad's bicep.
Brad tenses up. "I'm an idiot, because I want what's best for you and your future?"
Nate lifts his head, licks his lips. "No, you're an idiot if you think I want a future without you in it."
Brad stares. Knows he's staring, but can't help it. There's something in his stomach, a sinking sensation followed by this indescribable warmth. It's what happens to him when he gets to do water recon. When he gets to do something he loves, understands. When things seem to fall into place.
Nate doesn't kiss Brad as much as he yanks Brad down to his level and mashes their mouths together. Frankly, Nate's a much better kisser than this, but it's clear that he's not going for finesse here.
This is about intent.
Brad's hand cups the back of Nate's head, fingers sliding through his hair. "Can't believe you," Nate breathes against Brad's mouth. "Why - why would you think I would ever be like that?"
"You're surrounded by liberal, tofu-eating, wheatgrass smoking communists," Brad says. "Shit like that is contagious."
"Athlete's foot is contagious," Nate corrects, "that's just. I know better. You know I know better."
"People change their minds."
Nate pulls back, smoothes out the wrinkles in Brad's shirt with his palm. "Not about this."
Brad swallows. "This what?"
There's a clatter at the door behind them and two guys in Marriott uniforms clamber out laughing, cigarettes in their mouths. They give Brad and Nate a brief curious glance before lighting up and going back to their conversation.
Brad exhales through his nose. Civilian timing is shit.
Nate gives them a dismissive look, nods back towards the hotel. "You coming?" he says, tone perfectly mild as he walks off.
Brad follows because that's what he does.
Soon enough they're in the hallway outside the ballroom. Cut-glass chandeliers overhead and fake Persian carpeting lining the way. Brad's hand is on the door, but he's stopped by Nate's fingers on his wrist. A muscle in Brad's forearm twitches as Nate strokes the inside of his wrist.
"Brad," Nate says his namely softly. The way he did when he wanted Brad to wake up, because he'd fallen asleep drooling on Nate chest and nearly crushed his lungs again.
Brad looks from their hands, along Nate's arm and back up. He's missed this.
"I don't need you to be a martyr for me," Nate says. "I've made my choice."
"Yeah?" Brad's voice is raspy in his throat. He knows what happens when people make choices concerning him: they marry his best friend.
Nate's hand clamps down hard, his fingernails digging into the thin skin of Brad's wrist. They break the skin, but the pain is fleeting, nothing compared to the heat in Nate's eyes, the color in his face when he turns Brad to face him. "I choose you," he says roughly. "You're just going to have to deal with it."
"What if I don’t want you to choose me?" Brad presses.
"Too fucking bad - the decision's already been made."
"Nate."
"I'm not going to run off with your best friend - just because one person fucks up doesn't mean we all do. I'm shocked the Corps didn't teach you better than that."
"Sir, I'm appalled -- are you insinuating that the Marine Corps makes mistakes?"
Nate's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, his grip on Brad's hand loosening until they're just standing there, the backs of their hands pressed together. "If Harvard is full of narrow-minded hippie fucknuts, I'm sure even the Corps has got a retard or two."
"The Ivy League isn't perfect?" Brad says in horror. "I'm shocked."
"I admit the Ivy League has its faults, but it's good at teaching about depraved sexual acts under the guise of Greek and Latin classics."
"Really?"
Nate nods. "We should go up to my room so I can show you," he says, walking away.
Brad's already thinking about Nate naked, but he takes a moment to look at Nate's ass as he walks away. "You think Gunny'll mind us running out?" he says as they wait for the elevator.
"Since when do you care about other people's anniversaries?" Nate is all disbelief.
"I don’t" Brad says, smiling toothily as he puts his lips near Nate's ear. "I'm just making conversation, unless you really want everyone in the lobby to hear about my plans to tie you to the bed and rim your ass until you're sobbing for me to fuck you into the mattress."
The elevator dings, the doors opening on a family of five with twin girls. They stand to the side to allow the family to exit, two perfectly harmless Marine Corps killers in suits sans ties.
Nate grins up at Brad as the family passes by. "Don't worry about what anybody else says," he says, "you fit the depraved Ivy League mould just fine."
-end-
For A.
Also, for all of those not following the tomricks feed I set up, please take a few minutes to read this story as well.