fic: Lost Coastlines
Lost Coastlines
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; R; 2,351 words
"And no one will be suspicious at all?"
For oxoniensis's prompt at my advent calender. Thanks to opheliahyde for looking it over.
~*~
Once, after OIF, Nate seriously considers leaving the Corps. It's the idiocy of the whole thing, an air strike being called in on a hamlet while a snatch-and-grab request is denied. Civilians dying while Nate's men drive through the country in open Humvees, wasting millions of government dollars. Budding young Marines like Christeson being ignored while Nate's CO ass-kisses in hopes of moving up a pay grade.
And then Brad tells him what Nate's been waiting-hoping, if he's honest with himself-to hear since Camp Margarita, and it feels like a weight's been lifted off Nate's shoulders.
They don't fuck right away. Nate's only ever hooked up with guys in college, drunk or high or just adrenaline fueled, and nothing serious. Nothing serious. And Brad-Brad, who Nate thought would've at least experimented a bit in military school...not even a kiss, he says, and Nate believes him.
Except that makes Nate feel really weird and uncomfortable about, for lack of better phrasing, popping Brad's gay cherry. It takes months. Months. Ray won't stop bitching about how tense Brad is, about how much he needs to get laid, and that just stresses Nate out more.
He starts with touches, casual ones when they're alone together, one hand skimming over Brad's shoulder or the small of his back; gently bumping arms or legs together during a movie. When Brad doesn't punch Nate or get the fuck out of the situation, Nate goes in for a kiss, so light he's not sure his lips even touched Brad's. Kissing is good. Nate's always liked it, just being that close to someone without having to go any further.
But Brad seems to want to go further. A week after their first kiss he shows up at Nate's apartment with a six-pack, a toothbrush, and clean pairs of boxers and socks. "Can I come in?" he asks, like he genuinely isn't sure what Nate will say. Halfway through the beer, Brad's the one who initiates contact.
The TV goes ignored in the background, as do the spilled drinks. Brad's jerking off right next to Nate, who's doing the same. Only their thighs are touching, and the occasional mid-movement brush of an arm, but Nate can't feel any space between them.
It goes on like this for a while. Jerking off in front of the other. Handjobs. Dry humping. Dry humping with no clothes on. Intercrural. Blowjobs. Fingering. Rimming. Discovering what Brad likes and doesn't like is great, really, but by the time they've worked their way through everything besides anal, Nate feels like he's going to explode.
Three days before Brad's scheduled to fly to Britain, it happens. Nate's mountain of paperwork takes him until seven to finish; as soon as he walks through the door he's pinned to it.
"You're such a goddamn tease," Brad growls. "I thought we were going to fuck, not pussy around."
"There's been no pussy involved," Nate quips. "I am assured of this."
Brad huffs in frustration, or maybe amusement. It's hard to tell. "We're going to go into the bedroom," he says. "I'm going to take off your clothes, one piece at a time. I'm going to suck you off but not let you come, so you'll be so ready by the time I get you all stretched out that it'll hardly even hurt. And then I'll jack you off just the way you like it."
They don't make it quite that far before Nate, with three of Brad's fingers working him open, grits out, "Just fuck me already," when he'd barely adjusted to that pain. It hurts like nothing else Nate's ever felt-he only did this once before, sophomore year at Dartmouth, so drunk and stoned that all of Isaac's touches made Nate's nerve endings light up with pleasure. He bites his lip bloody, though, and takes it like a Marine. He wants it, and he knows it won't hurt the whole time. It gets infinitely better when Brad wraps his wet fingers around Nate and starts stroking him.
Minus prep time, it only takes twelve minutes for Nate to come after Brad first pushes into him.
He leaves two days later. Nate spends the night alone, drinking Brad's favorite whiskey.
*
He goes running and swimming and even attempts to surf before going to see his parents; he talks to his dad about the paperwork that's half-filled out and sitting on Nate's desk, and their discussion makes him want to stay. There'll be bureaucratic bullshit wherever he goes, but maybe he can do something to reduce the level of it.
He's changed so much since Dartmouth. Without a more advanced degree in Classics, his B.A. won't let him go too far, and he's too young to run for office yet. Even with his military experience, his age makes the odds of getting a job in government or consulting low. He doesn't hate being a Marine, not at all. He does love it, despite some of the aspects of what he does day to day. But when he helps save the lives of civilians or his platoon gets a confirmed kill, Nate feels like he's walking on air.
So he's not going to give up just yet. That's not what he does. That's not what his training taught him to do.
*
Now, there are times when Nate regrets not getting out when he first had the chance. Not because of the bullshit (the levels of which he didn't have much effect in reducing) or how demanding it is or the cocky young privates who think they're the shit, but because of DADT. He and Brad have been together nine years (six of them "officially") and their relationship has had to be hidden all those years, at all costs.
This isn't self-pity or anger-they both knew the policy and what the consequences would be if something happened-but it is frustrating. Ray married his girlfriend and they adopted an adorable little Chinese girl. Walt's wedding followed not much later. His wife had a baby and then another and another. Stafford can't make his relationship permanent but he's happy in it.
Luckily, Lilley's wife didn't end up joining the Marines after all, but they did split up. In court, Jacks' wife got sole custody of their children. Wynn took his twenty and picked up a job as an independent contractor, which meant fewer risks, more time with his family, and a nice raise. Enough for his kids to attend decent colleges. True to his word, Espera threatened the first boys who asked his daughters out with a few casual mentions of his old job.
And Brad and Nate have been there. For everything. Most days Nate's sure Brad doesn't want kids (and he's positive Brad doesn't want a big, over-the top gay wedding), but there are other things they do want. Visitation rights of one of them gets injured, or even the ability to write real letters to each other without fear of being discovered. To go to the USMC ball without a couple of Nate's old college friends acting as their dates. Nate's never been good at compartmentalizing his life, and he worries he'll accidently slip up after over two days without sleep.
"You're home early," Nate says, looking up from the salad he was tossing to give Brad a quick peck on the lips.
"So are you," Brad replies. "Not that I'm complaining. Dinner does look edible, after all. Slightly better than Marine food."
Nate swats him with the spoon. "My cooking is excellent and you know it, asshole. I actually managed to finish up assessments early so I booked it. I knew they'd find something else for me to do if I was just sitting at my desk looking bored." Pointing Brad towards the stove, he says, "Stir that, will you? Oh! And Espera's having a cookout next Saturday. Apparently it's a required event and he expects you to be there, smiling, with some kind of appetizer."
"Fucking great. I'll have to sit through another one of Chaffin's drunk-ass, offensive rants and let Poke's demon spawn climb all over me. Looking forward to it." Brad's face is deadpan, but Nate can see the tiny hint of a smile. He'd never admit it, but Brad actually thinks Poke's kids are adorable. And Mike's. Nate's with him in hoping Ray never gets his wife pregnant, though. Ellie suffers enough without Ray's DNA to make matters worse.
"It'll be fine," Nate says. "Doc and Pappy are both going to be there. Kocher, too, if he's up for the trip. I know you'd much rather hang out with them. There's always plenty of beer, and I'll even make something to bring so you don't have to."
Brad's face brightens. "Crab-stuffed mushrooms?" He loves Nate's crab-stuffed mushrooms. It's Nate's mom's recipe, actually, given to her by her mom. Nate resents the fact that Brad could charm it from her when her own son couldn't. On top of that, it took some convincing on Nate's part to coax the recipe from Brad.
"If that's what you want." Luckily they're not that hard to make, and Nate always samples a few before bringing them somewhere, just as a quality check.
"What's the catch?" Brad asks coolly, like he'd known all along that there would be one.
The tips of Nate's ears flush. He can't help it; it always happens when he doesn't tell the whole truth. As a kid, he never got away with lying to his parents because of it. "Just be on your best behavior," he says. "And no jokes about me or my mouth."
"And what's the real catch?"
Fuck. He was planning to wait another few weeks to tell Brad, but there's no time like the present, apparently. "Dartmouth's having a forum next month," he starts. "It's what inspired me to join the Corps, and they want to have me back to speak, along with a couple guys from other branches. They asked if I have any friends who aren't officers, just in case some student wants to enlist with a degree from a top school. I volunteered you." When Brad opens his mouth to protest, Nate cuts him off. "Would you really want someone like Trombley-who's either a great Marine or a perfect sociopath-doing this? Feel free to suggest one of your new guys with much less experience than you. I'm sure they would do well inspiring the possible next generation of Marines."
"And no one there will be suspicious at all?"
"I doubt they'd care, but not unless you grope me onstage. They're college students, Brad, not First Recon."
Brad huffs uncooperatively, but it's clear to both of them that he'll be going to Hanover with Nate. He'll get a few days' pass, and Nate will probably spring for a nice hotel room and then spend the better part of an afternoon with his wrists tied to the bedposts.
*
When Brad deployed to Iraq with the BRM, Nate got word that they were only about seventy-five klicks apart. That was brutal. He hadn't seen Brad in over ten months and still couldn't, despite the short distance between them.
Sometimes their deployments match up; sometimes they don't. When Nate's in theater, he doesn't have much time to worry about Brad, but the less sleep he gets, the higher the chances are of accidently saying something that could ruin them both.
The higher-up the officer, the less time in battle he sees, Nate soon learned. Instead, he does more paperwork than he ever did at Dartmouth. Most of his time is spent at FOBs, providing intelligence and support. He's only been in actual combat twice since 2003, and he and Brad were never in the same unit again: something Nate had mixed emotions about.
As often as he can, he writes letters to Brad. There are two kinds of letters, and he always mails them at least two weeks apart. The first kind are from Nate Fick to Brad Colbert, his friend and former TL, and that's it. He calls Brad 'Colbert' and talks about his deployment if he's away, the base if he's not. Those letters are short and slightly impersonal, almost like they're keeping up perfunctorily more than anything else.
The other letters are from Brad's 'girlfriend', Kristin. With her permission, Nate borrows a few photos from a Harvard friend, Lucy, to send to Brad; he knows Brad won't be jerking off to them. It's a good cover, but not a great one, since none of Brad's colleagues have never met 'Kristin' and he rarely talks about her (though most of them have somehow heard about Julie and chalk Brad's reluctance to talk up to that).
It's what they have to do. When they're both home, they fuck, order in, and fuck again; no sense wasting what little time they have on other things. Nate doesn't like how utilitarian it seems, but he's always willing to push that thought aside for how good it feels when Brad bites his shoulder or presses fingers into him or fucks him, hard and fast and just what Nate's been missing all this time.
They'll do it as long as they have to. They can. They've outlasted Chaffin and Jacks and the marriages of plenty of guys from Brad's companies. It's only a matter of time.
"If you set a date and the date is too soon, your enemy will wait you out. And if you set a date and it's too far away, they'll drive you out." Brad fucking hates that quote-"generals don't know shit, especially generals from the nineteen-fucking-fifties"-but Kelley was right.
Brad and Nate have a little house with an extra bedroom and plenty of unpacked boxes, but they'll wait it out. Nate knows DADT will be repealed. Dartmouth bred some great thinkers in Nate's class. Some of them are heading up grassroots organizations. People are trying to do this.
He knows.
So he'll wait.
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; R; 2,351 words
"And no one will be suspicious at all?"
For oxoniensis's prompt at my advent calender. Thanks to opheliahyde for looking it over.
~*~
Once, after OIF, Nate seriously considers leaving the Corps. It's the idiocy of the whole thing, an air strike being called in on a hamlet while a snatch-and-grab request is denied. Civilians dying while Nate's men drive through the country in open Humvees, wasting millions of government dollars. Budding young Marines like Christeson being ignored while Nate's CO ass-kisses in hopes of moving up a pay grade.
And then Brad tells him what Nate's been waiting-hoping, if he's honest with himself-to hear since Camp Margarita, and it feels like a weight's been lifted off Nate's shoulders.
They don't fuck right away. Nate's only ever hooked up with guys in college, drunk or high or just adrenaline fueled, and nothing serious. Nothing serious. And Brad-Brad, who Nate thought would've at least experimented a bit in military school...not even a kiss, he says, and Nate believes him.
Except that makes Nate feel really weird and uncomfortable about, for lack of better phrasing, popping Brad's gay cherry. It takes months. Months. Ray won't stop bitching about how tense Brad is, about how much he needs to get laid, and that just stresses Nate out more.
He starts with touches, casual ones when they're alone together, one hand skimming over Brad's shoulder or the small of his back; gently bumping arms or legs together during a movie. When Brad doesn't punch Nate or get the fuck out of the situation, Nate goes in for a kiss, so light he's not sure his lips even touched Brad's. Kissing is good. Nate's always liked it, just being that close to someone without having to go any further.
But Brad seems to want to go further. A week after their first kiss he shows up at Nate's apartment with a six-pack, a toothbrush, and clean pairs of boxers and socks. "Can I come in?" he asks, like he genuinely isn't sure what Nate will say. Halfway through the beer, Brad's the one who initiates contact.
The TV goes ignored in the background, as do the spilled drinks. Brad's jerking off right next to Nate, who's doing the same. Only their thighs are touching, and the occasional mid-movement brush of an arm, but Nate can't feel any space between them.
It goes on like this for a while. Jerking off in front of the other. Handjobs. Dry humping. Dry humping with no clothes on. Intercrural. Blowjobs. Fingering. Rimming. Discovering what Brad likes and doesn't like is great, really, but by the time they've worked their way through everything besides anal, Nate feels like he's going to explode.
Three days before Brad's scheduled to fly to Britain, it happens. Nate's mountain of paperwork takes him until seven to finish; as soon as he walks through the door he's pinned to it.
"You're such a goddamn tease," Brad growls. "I thought we were going to fuck, not pussy around."
"There's been no pussy involved," Nate quips. "I am assured of this."
Brad huffs in frustration, or maybe amusement. It's hard to tell. "We're going to go into the bedroom," he says. "I'm going to take off your clothes, one piece at a time. I'm going to suck you off but not let you come, so you'll be so ready by the time I get you all stretched out that it'll hardly even hurt. And then I'll jack you off just the way you like it."
They don't make it quite that far before Nate, with three of Brad's fingers working him open, grits out, "Just fuck me already," when he'd barely adjusted to that pain. It hurts like nothing else Nate's ever felt-he only did this once before, sophomore year at Dartmouth, so drunk and stoned that all of Isaac's touches made Nate's nerve endings light up with pleasure. He bites his lip bloody, though, and takes it like a Marine. He wants it, and he knows it won't hurt the whole time. It gets infinitely better when Brad wraps his wet fingers around Nate and starts stroking him.
Minus prep time, it only takes twelve minutes for Nate to come after Brad first pushes into him.
He leaves two days later. Nate spends the night alone, drinking Brad's favorite whiskey.
*
He goes running and swimming and even attempts to surf before going to see his parents; he talks to his dad about the paperwork that's half-filled out and sitting on Nate's desk, and their discussion makes him want to stay. There'll be bureaucratic bullshit wherever he goes, but maybe he can do something to reduce the level of it.
He's changed so much since Dartmouth. Without a more advanced degree in Classics, his B.A. won't let him go too far, and he's too young to run for office yet. Even with his military experience, his age makes the odds of getting a job in government or consulting low. He doesn't hate being a Marine, not at all. He does love it, despite some of the aspects of what he does day to day. But when he helps save the lives of civilians or his platoon gets a confirmed kill, Nate feels like he's walking on air.
So he's not going to give up just yet. That's not what he does. That's not what his training taught him to do.
*
Now, there are times when Nate regrets not getting out when he first had the chance. Not because of the bullshit (the levels of which he didn't have much effect in reducing) or how demanding it is or the cocky young privates who think they're the shit, but because of DADT. He and Brad have been together nine years (six of them "officially") and their relationship has had to be hidden all those years, at all costs.
This isn't self-pity or anger-they both knew the policy and what the consequences would be if something happened-but it is frustrating. Ray married his girlfriend and they adopted an adorable little Chinese girl. Walt's wedding followed not much later. His wife had a baby and then another and another. Stafford can't make his relationship permanent but he's happy in it.
Luckily, Lilley's wife didn't end up joining the Marines after all, but they did split up. In court, Jacks' wife got sole custody of their children. Wynn took his twenty and picked up a job as an independent contractor, which meant fewer risks, more time with his family, and a nice raise. Enough for his kids to attend decent colleges. True to his word, Espera threatened the first boys who asked his daughters out with a few casual mentions of his old job.
And Brad and Nate have been there. For everything. Most days Nate's sure Brad doesn't want kids (and he's positive Brad doesn't want a big, over-the top gay wedding), but there are other things they do want. Visitation rights of one of them gets injured, or even the ability to write real letters to each other without fear of being discovered. To go to the USMC ball without a couple of Nate's old college friends acting as their dates. Nate's never been good at compartmentalizing his life, and he worries he'll accidently slip up after over two days without sleep.
"You're home early," Nate says, looking up from the salad he was tossing to give Brad a quick peck on the lips.
"So are you," Brad replies. "Not that I'm complaining. Dinner does look edible, after all. Slightly better than Marine food."
Nate swats him with the spoon. "My cooking is excellent and you know it, asshole. I actually managed to finish up assessments early so I booked it. I knew they'd find something else for me to do if I was just sitting at my desk looking bored." Pointing Brad towards the stove, he says, "Stir that, will you? Oh! And Espera's having a cookout next Saturday. Apparently it's a required event and he expects you to be there, smiling, with some kind of appetizer."
"Fucking great. I'll have to sit through another one of Chaffin's drunk-ass, offensive rants and let Poke's demon spawn climb all over me. Looking forward to it." Brad's face is deadpan, but Nate can see the tiny hint of a smile. He'd never admit it, but Brad actually thinks Poke's kids are adorable. And Mike's. Nate's with him in hoping Ray never gets his wife pregnant, though. Ellie suffers enough without Ray's DNA to make matters worse.
"It'll be fine," Nate says. "Doc and Pappy are both going to be there. Kocher, too, if he's up for the trip. I know you'd much rather hang out with them. There's always plenty of beer, and I'll even make something to bring so you don't have to."
Brad's face brightens. "Crab-stuffed mushrooms?" He loves Nate's crab-stuffed mushrooms. It's Nate's mom's recipe, actually, given to her by her mom. Nate resents the fact that Brad could charm it from her when her own son couldn't. On top of that, it took some convincing on Nate's part to coax the recipe from Brad.
"If that's what you want." Luckily they're not that hard to make, and Nate always samples a few before bringing them somewhere, just as a quality check.
"What's the catch?" Brad asks coolly, like he'd known all along that there would be one.
The tips of Nate's ears flush. He can't help it; it always happens when he doesn't tell the whole truth. As a kid, he never got away with lying to his parents because of it. "Just be on your best behavior," he says. "And no jokes about me or my mouth."
"And what's the real catch?"
Fuck. He was planning to wait another few weeks to tell Brad, but there's no time like the present, apparently. "Dartmouth's having a forum next month," he starts. "It's what inspired me to join the Corps, and they want to have me back to speak, along with a couple guys from other branches. They asked if I have any friends who aren't officers, just in case some student wants to enlist with a degree from a top school. I volunteered you." When Brad opens his mouth to protest, Nate cuts him off. "Would you really want someone like Trombley-who's either a great Marine or a perfect sociopath-doing this? Feel free to suggest one of your new guys with much less experience than you. I'm sure they would do well inspiring the possible next generation of Marines."
"And no one there will be suspicious at all?"
"I doubt they'd care, but not unless you grope me onstage. They're college students, Brad, not First Recon."
Brad huffs uncooperatively, but it's clear to both of them that he'll be going to Hanover with Nate. He'll get a few days' pass, and Nate will probably spring for a nice hotel room and then spend the better part of an afternoon with his wrists tied to the bedposts.
*
When Brad deployed to Iraq with the BRM, Nate got word that they were only about seventy-five klicks apart. That was brutal. He hadn't seen Brad in over ten months and still couldn't, despite the short distance between them.
Sometimes their deployments match up; sometimes they don't. When Nate's in theater, he doesn't have much time to worry about Brad, but the less sleep he gets, the higher the chances are of accidently saying something that could ruin them both.
The higher-up the officer, the less time in battle he sees, Nate soon learned. Instead, he does more paperwork than he ever did at Dartmouth. Most of his time is spent at FOBs, providing intelligence and support. He's only been in actual combat twice since 2003, and he and Brad were never in the same unit again: something Nate had mixed emotions about.
As often as he can, he writes letters to Brad. There are two kinds of letters, and he always mails them at least two weeks apart. The first kind are from Nate Fick to Brad Colbert, his friend and former TL, and that's it. He calls Brad 'Colbert' and talks about his deployment if he's away, the base if he's not. Those letters are short and slightly impersonal, almost like they're keeping up perfunctorily more than anything else.
The other letters are from Brad's 'girlfriend', Kristin. With her permission, Nate borrows a few photos from a Harvard friend, Lucy, to send to Brad; he knows Brad won't be jerking off to them. It's a good cover, but not a great one, since none of Brad's colleagues have never met 'Kristin' and he rarely talks about her (though most of them have somehow heard about Julie and chalk Brad's reluctance to talk up to that).
It's what they have to do. When they're both home, they fuck, order in, and fuck again; no sense wasting what little time they have on other things. Nate doesn't like how utilitarian it seems, but he's always willing to push that thought aside for how good it feels when Brad bites his shoulder or presses fingers into him or fucks him, hard and fast and just what Nate's been missing all this time.
They'll do it as long as they have to. They can. They've outlasted Chaffin and Jacks and the marriages of plenty of guys from Brad's companies. It's only a matter of time.
"If you set a date and the date is too soon, your enemy will wait you out. And if you set a date and it's too far away, they'll drive you out." Brad fucking hates that quote-"generals don't know shit, especially generals from the nineteen-fucking-fifties"-but Kelley was right.
Brad and Nate have a little house with an extra bedroom and plenty of unpacked boxes, but they'll wait it out. Nate knows DADT will be repealed. Dartmouth bred some great thinkers in Nate's class. Some of them are heading up grassroots organizations. People are trying to do this.
He knows.
So he'll wait.