Generation Kill - one equal temper of heroic hearts (Nate/Brad, PG)
For L, who inspired me to write something for a change.
Generation Kill
Nate Fick/Brad Colbert
Rated PG
one equal temper of heroic hearts
The stop and start of the traffic to the high school football field is interminable. Nate stares at the chain link fence that lines the dirt road he's on and sighs. The same fence surrounds a parking lot already distended and bloated with flatbed trucks and SUVs.
The lights above the football parking lot are blueish white halos in the blood orange sky.
If Nate reaches out of the driver's side window he can touch the rusting links. Instead he raps along with Talib Kweli in his CD player, talking about waking up this morning and having goals of finding something better.
Nate's voice breaks over 'highs' and he messes up the tempo on 'soul.'
He's not really paying attention to the music or to the setting sun.
The car ahead of him is covered with USMC bumper stickers and yellow ribbons. His headlights are reflected back at him in the eyes of the children looking out the back window.
Little hands wave at him furiously and he waves back.
It's important to wave back.
Talib becomes Mos Def becomes The Roots. Black Thought tells Nate that everybody is a star. I love you for who you are.
Nate looks up at the ceiling of his late model Jetta and decides to open the moon roof.
The stars are much more visible once you leave Los Angeles. Less smog. Less everything.
The sky seemed to get bluer the further Nate drove down the 5. The closer Nate got to Oceanside and this moment that he's been waiting for for a very long time.
He blinks up at the sky and the little flashing lights that make up the planes that are taking off and landing nearby. Theoretically, Brad's on one of those planes.
Theoretically.
There are people everywhere. Crowding together on the bleachers that line one side of the football field. Standing in groups by the 50 yard-line. Between the children shrieking and women chattering there are voices blending together into a feverish excitement.
The bleachers are creaking under the combined weight of hopes and expectations and prayers of the families waiting for the school buses to bring their loved ones home.
Nate sits in his parked car and raps along with A Tribe Called Quest.
Nate was 16 when the Midnight Marauders album was released in 1993.
Brad was 18 going on 19.
Some things are classic though. They never get old.
Some people you never outgrow.
Brad's been gone 18 months. Some days it's felt like 18 years; some days Nate can't even remember what it was like when Brad was there.
The scent of Brad began to fade in the first week. Nate couldn't even pretend anymore after the second month.
Nate gets out of the car when the mixed CD goes back to the beginning.
The grass is patchy and brown underneath his feet and his sneakers slip on the gravel.
He changed his outfit three times before he hung everything back up and pulled on a pair of khakis and a faded Dartmouth shirt with a missing 't' and a faded 'd'.
It's cold at night this close to the Pacific, though, and underneath his Dartmouth shirt Nate's wearing a too-big-in-the-shoulders long sleeve shirt that says 'Colbert' in regulation lettering across the sternum.
Nate doesn't hover with the wives, husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends. He keeps moving around the perimeter, studying the AO. It's nerves - Nate just can't figure out if he's stressed because he hates waiting or because he's being waiting so long he's not sure what to do now that it's almost over.
Brad was deployed six weeks after they finally got their act together. That only took them five years.
Brad's been gone seventy weeks longer than they were together in the first place.
There's a tension thrumming through the crowd in ways Nate's only felt before riots.
Children run around him as though he's a tree for tag and he finds himself standing still near the edge of the bleachers, humming quietly. He doesn't know when The Roots became Journey, but it's an earworm that won't go away. The music is nothing compared to the babbling permeating the air over his head.
"Are you nervous? I'm so nervous I think I'm gonna vomit."
Nate looks over at the woman -- girl -- standing near his elbow. She's small with long brown hair pulled back and black square frames. Nate smiles blandly as the girl practically vibrates with nervous energy. "Not really," he lies.
"Oh," she says, deflating slightly, her fingers twisting around the tiny American flag in her right hand. "You must've done this before."
Nate considers this. "Once or twice," he says politely.
"This is Tommy's first deployment," the girl carries on. "I miss him so much I don't think I've talked about much else." A second later, she adds hopefully, "It gets easier though, right?"
"It can," Nate says.
"You seem mighty calm," the girl agrees. "I came up from Dallas after graduation -- I went to UT -- and then we got married. And then Tommy got sent off to Afghanistan and it's just been me here and --"
Whatever Nate's new friend is babbling about is cut off by a collective scream renting the air. "They're here! They're here!"
There's a process to Marines being released.
Disembarkation from the plane. Busing to an agreed upon location. A band playing. And then everyone is dismissed.
This is the first time Nate's been on the waiting end of this process. This is the first time Nate's been cocooned by crying babies and crying men and silent women with tears streaming down their faces. Nate doesn't cry. His fingers just curl into his palms as everyone is released.
People surge around Nate, the girl beside him tearing off into the melee of Marines calling "Tommy!" at the top of her lungs.
Nate takes one step forward and then he fights what’s left of the crowd to take two steps back. There are too many people. There's too much going on. Brad is in there somewhere and Nate…
Nate needs to sit down.
It's been 537 days, nineteen hours, thirty-eight minutes and fourteen seconds.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
The bleachers are cold through Nate's khakis; it makes his toes curl in his socks. He's just going to sit here and wait until the crowd thins out a little bit more. Nate knows when he's outnumbered.
Brad's calculator watch tells him that it's been seventy-two seconds since Brad's arrived. That's seventy-two seconds that Nate’s missed out on. He licks his lips and unclenches his fists.
The bleachers rattle as someone drops down beside Nate. A heavy shoulder deliberately bumps into him. "Hey."
Nate turns his head and stares into bright eyes and a face smudged with dirt. He tries to speak, but his throat is too dry and his ‘hey’ barely materializes between them.
Brad blinks. His eyelashes have gotten longer since he's been away or maybe it's just the dust caught between them. Nate licks his lips and tries again. "Hey."
Brad's eyes dart down to Nate's mouth. "Thanks for picking me up," he says evenly.
Nate rubs his hands on his pants because his palms feel damp. "Don’t mention it."
Brad nods, shifting a little beside Nate until his thigh is pressed against Nate's own. The touch is electric and Nate strangles a soft moan in his throat.
Children are yelling joyfully around them, but it's all white noise compared to the pounding of the blood rushing through Nate's ears.
Brad's fingers brush over Nate's wrist and all Nate wants is to get more. To strip down and feel Brad's fingers everywhere: brushing over his mouth, ghosting over his hips, wrapped around his knees and pulling on his shoulders.
"What happened to your hands?" Brad prompts.
Nate has no idea what he's talking about, but he turns his hands palm up at Brad's urging and sees eight little crescent cuts in his palms, blood smeared where the nails cut into his skin.
"It's okay," Nate says perfunctorily, glancing around at the rapidly emptying football field.
Brad's mouth thins into a line as he looks from Nate's hands back up to Nate's face. When Brad strokes his palm, Nate's hand closes automatically over his fingertips.
Nate takes a deep inhalation at the same time that Brad sighs. "You smell terrible," Nate offers feebly as Brad stands up and pulls Nate to his feet. "When was the last time you showered?"
Brad's mouth curls at the left corner. "I just spent three days getting home and you're telling me I smell?"
When Brad exhales the warm air rushes over Nate's face. They're standing close. Far too close to be around all these people.
Nate doesn't think he cares. "I - uh -"
Brad squeezes his hand once more before letting go. "Yeah," he says, nodding for Nate to follow him as though he's come to collect Nate.
It makes sense in a way.
"I know," Brad says, falling into step with Nate.
"You know?" Nate's not sure what Brad knows.
And then Brad's fingers brush against the back of Nate's hand again and he gets it.
Brad knows what it's been like for Nate. How much he's been missed.
"I did," Nate confesses.
"Yeah," Brad repeats. "I did too."
-end-
Beta by romanticalgirl.
Generation Kill
Nate Fick/Brad Colbert
Rated PG
one equal temper of heroic hearts
The stop and start of the traffic to the high school football field is interminable. Nate stares at the chain link fence that lines the dirt road he's on and sighs. The same fence surrounds a parking lot already distended and bloated with flatbed trucks and SUVs.
The lights above the football parking lot are blueish white halos in the blood orange sky.
If Nate reaches out of the driver's side window he can touch the rusting links. Instead he raps along with Talib Kweli in his CD player, talking about waking up this morning and having goals of finding something better.
Nate's voice breaks over 'highs' and he messes up the tempo on 'soul.'
He's not really paying attention to the music or to the setting sun.
The car ahead of him is covered with USMC bumper stickers and yellow ribbons. His headlights are reflected back at him in the eyes of the children looking out the back window.
Little hands wave at him furiously and he waves back.
It's important to wave back.
Talib becomes Mos Def becomes The Roots. Black Thought tells Nate that everybody is a star. I love you for who you are.
Nate looks up at the ceiling of his late model Jetta and decides to open the moon roof.
The stars are much more visible once you leave Los Angeles. Less smog. Less everything.
The sky seemed to get bluer the further Nate drove down the 5. The closer Nate got to Oceanside and this moment that he's been waiting for for a very long time.
He blinks up at the sky and the little flashing lights that make up the planes that are taking off and landing nearby. Theoretically, Brad's on one of those planes.
Theoretically.
There are people everywhere. Crowding together on the bleachers that line one side of the football field. Standing in groups by the 50 yard-line. Between the children shrieking and women chattering there are voices blending together into a feverish excitement.
The bleachers are creaking under the combined weight of hopes and expectations and prayers of the families waiting for the school buses to bring their loved ones home.
Nate sits in his parked car and raps along with A Tribe Called Quest.
Nate was 16 when the Midnight Marauders album was released in 1993.
Brad was 18 going on 19.
Some things are classic though. They never get old.
Some people you never outgrow.
Brad's been gone 18 months. Some days it's felt like 18 years; some days Nate can't even remember what it was like when Brad was there.
The scent of Brad began to fade in the first week. Nate couldn't even pretend anymore after the second month.
Nate gets out of the car when the mixed CD goes back to the beginning.
The grass is patchy and brown underneath his feet and his sneakers slip on the gravel.
He changed his outfit three times before he hung everything back up and pulled on a pair of khakis and a faded Dartmouth shirt with a missing 't' and a faded 'd'.
It's cold at night this close to the Pacific, though, and underneath his Dartmouth shirt Nate's wearing a too-big-in-the-shoulders long sleeve shirt that says 'Colbert' in regulation lettering across the sternum.
Nate doesn't hover with the wives, husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends. He keeps moving around the perimeter, studying the AO. It's nerves - Nate just can't figure out if he's stressed because he hates waiting or because he's being waiting so long he's not sure what to do now that it's almost over.
Brad was deployed six weeks after they finally got their act together. That only took them five years.
Brad's been gone seventy weeks longer than they were together in the first place.
There's a tension thrumming through the crowd in ways Nate's only felt before riots.
Children run around him as though he's a tree for tag and he finds himself standing still near the edge of the bleachers, humming quietly. He doesn't know when The Roots became Journey, but it's an earworm that won't go away. The music is nothing compared to the babbling permeating the air over his head.
"Are you nervous? I'm so nervous I think I'm gonna vomit."
Nate looks over at the woman -- girl -- standing near his elbow. She's small with long brown hair pulled back and black square frames. Nate smiles blandly as the girl practically vibrates with nervous energy. "Not really," he lies.
"Oh," she says, deflating slightly, her fingers twisting around the tiny American flag in her right hand. "You must've done this before."
Nate considers this. "Once or twice," he says politely.
"This is Tommy's first deployment," the girl carries on. "I miss him so much I don't think I've talked about much else." A second later, she adds hopefully, "It gets easier though, right?"
"It can," Nate says.
"You seem mighty calm," the girl agrees. "I came up from Dallas after graduation -- I went to UT -- and then we got married. And then Tommy got sent off to Afghanistan and it's just been me here and --"
Whatever Nate's new friend is babbling about is cut off by a collective scream renting the air. "They're here! They're here!"
There's a process to Marines being released.
Disembarkation from the plane. Busing to an agreed upon location. A band playing. And then everyone is dismissed.
This is the first time Nate's been on the waiting end of this process. This is the first time Nate's been cocooned by crying babies and crying men and silent women with tears streaming down their faces. Nate doesn't cry. His fingers just curl into his palms as everyone is released.
People surge around Nate, the girl beside him tearing off into the melee of Marines calling "Tommy!" at the top of her lungs.
Nate takes one step forward and then he fights what’s left of the crowd to take two steps back. There are too many people. There's too much going on. Brad is in there somewhere and Nate…
Nate needs to sit down.
It's been 537 days, nineteen hours, thirty-eight minutes and fourteen seconds.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
The bleachers are cold through Nate's khakis; it makes his toes curl in his socks. He's just going to sit here and wait until the crowd thins out a little bit more. Nate knows when he's outnumbered.
Brad's calculator watch tells him that it's been seventy-two seconds since Brad's arrived. That's seventy-two seconds that Nate’s missed out on. He licks his lips and unclenches his fists.
The bleachers rattle as someone drops down beside Nate. A heavy shoulder deliberately bumps into him. "Hey."
Nate turns his head and stares into bright eyes and a face smudged with dirt. He tries to speak, but his throat is too dry and his ‘hey’ barely materializes between them.
Brad blinks. His eyelashes have gotten longer since he's been away or maybe it's just the dust caught between them. Nate licks his lips and tries again. "Hey."
Brad's eyes dart down to Nate's mouth. "Thanks for picking me up," he says evenly.
Nate rubs his hands on his pants because his palms feel damp. "Don’t mention it."
Brad nods, shifting a little beside Nate until his thigh is pressed against Nate's own. The touch is electric and Nate strangles a soft moan in his throat.
Children are yelling joyfully around them, but it's all white noise compared to the pounding of the blood rushing through Nate's ears.
Brad's fingers brush over Nate's wrist and all Nate wants is to get more. To strip down and feel Brad's fingers everywhere: brushing over his mouth, ghosting over his hips, wrapped around his knees and pulling on his shoulders.
"What happened to your hands?" Brad prompts.
Nate has no idea what he's talking about, but he turns his hands palm up at Brad's urging and sees eight little crescent cuts in his palms, blood smeared where the nails cut into his skin.
"It's okay," Nate says perfunctorily, glancing around at the rapidly emptying football field.
Brad's mouth thins into a line as he looks from Nate's hands back up to Nate's face. When Brad strokes his palm, Nate's hand closes automatically over his fingertips.
Nate takes a deep inhalation at the same time that Brad sighs. "You smell terrible," Nate offers feebly as Brad stands up and pulls Nate to his feet. "When was the last time you showered?"
Brad's mouth curls at the left corner. "I just spent three days getting home and you're telling me I smell?"
When Brad exhales the warm air rushes over Nate's face. They're standing close. Far too close to be around all these people.
Nate doesn't think he cares. "I - uh -"
Brad squeezes his hand once more before letting go. "Yeah," he says, nodding for Nate to follow him as though he's come to collect Nate.
It makes sense in a way.
"I know," Brad says, falling into step with Nate.
"You know?" Nate's not sure what Brad knows.
And then Brad's fingers brush against the back of Nate's hand again and he gets it.
Brad knows what it's been like for Nate. How much he's been missed.
"I did," Nate confesses.
"Yeah," Brad repeats. "I did too."
-end-
Beta by romanticalgirl.