fic: it's howling right outside
it's howling right outside
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; pg-13; 561 words
Nothing's black and white anymore.
For idrilka.
~*~
"I think it's over," Brad whispers. His voice is scratchy, and unusually cautious. He doesn't dare lift his head from the pillow.
Outside, it's quiet, which is odd for what the sky indicates is morning. The sounds of birds chirping and neighborhood kids playing have long been replaced, looters and bombs (both crude and government-made) taking over dominant background noise. But now all Nate can hear is Brad's breathing and the steady drip of icicles melting.
They've gotten used to the cold, mostly, though Nate pulls the blanket a little tighter around him.
"We made it," Nate says, incredulous.
He's more surprised than he should be, or maybe less. He doesn't really know how to feel. They're Recon Marines, no matter that he's been out for years and Brad's...lapsed. They survived the fall of society. Before, Brad probably would have said that the former required the latter, but nothing's black and white anymore.
From here on out, it'll be anything but easy, Nate knows. A few days ago, their world was in a state of complete anarchy. Maybe his degree in government will lead him to a position of power; maybe it'll get him killed; or maybe it'll just be as useless as his iPhone, broken down piece by piece by Brad for anything useful.
They have more practical needs. Clean water. Food. Transportation. Their rations are running out. Winter could be permanent, and if it is, their best bet is probably to find a major military base and ransack it for weather-appropriate gear.
Underneath the blanket, Brad touches Nate's hip. "You're thinking too much." His lips are so chapped they're raw, new skin unprepared for the brutal cold. He wants to kiss Brad, but knows not to, at least until the skin's a few days older.
"One minute," Nate says. He ducks under the blanket to check Brad's dressings so he doesn't have to expose either of them to the cold. The fight happened about a week ago-that's Nate's best guess, anyway. They haven't been keeping track of days since the Golden Gate fell.
Some fucking idiot thought he could take Brad, and panicked when he realized he couldn't. Brad got knifed in the stomach over a battery charger; Nate had put the guy in a sleeper hold and left him there, barely able to fireman's carry Brad back to base.
The field first aid that Doc Bryan taught them just before OIF had grown rusty, and the fear of losing Brad was probably what allowed Nate to push through sewing up the wound. He'll have a scar, though. The stitches did the job, but they weren't neat.
It's warm and dry, just like it should be, and there's no oozing-a welcome change.
"You're healing up well," he tells Brad, who responds of course I am. Neither of them mention the threat of infection that's still looming overhead. But he's doing well, and that's what matters. Not the argument they had last night about putting out a signal if the radio static clears up.
"We should do it in military code," Brad says, like he's read Nate's mind. "Jesus, Ray'll have an aneurysm." If he's still alive. "Hundred bucks says he'll say it's a NAMBLA conspiracy." Money's worthless now, except for kindling. Not that it matters.
Nate laughs. "Let's get breakfast. Oatmeal or canned tuna?"
Generation Kill; Brad/Nate; pg-13; 561 words
Nothing's black and white anymore.
For idrilka.
~*~
"I think it's over," Brad whispers. His voice is scratchy, and unusually cautious. He doesn't dare lift his head from the pillow.
Outside, it's quiet, which is odd for what the sky indicates is morning. The sounds of birds chirping and neighborhood kids playing have long been replaced, looters and bombs (both crude and government-made) taking over dominant background noise. But now all Nate can hear is Brad's breathing and the steady drip of icicles melting.
They've gotten used to the cold, mostly, though Nate pulls the blanket a little tighter around him.
"We made it," Nate says, incredulous.
He's more surprised than he should be, or maybe less. He doesn't really know how to feel. They're Recon Marines, no matter that he's been out for years and Brad's...lapsed. They survived the fall of society. Before, Brad probably would have said that the former required the latter, but nothing's black and white anymore.
From here on out, it'll be anything but easy, Nate knows. A few days ago, their world was in a state of complete anarchy. Maybe his degree in government will lead him to a position of power; maybe it'll get him killed; or maybe it'll just be as useless as his iPhone, broken down piece by piece by Brad for anything useful.
They have more practical needs. Clean water. Food. Transportation. Their rations are running out. Winter could be permanent, and if it is, their best bet is probably to find a major military base and ransack it for weather-appropriate gear.
Underneath the blanket, Brad touches Nate's hip. "You're thinking too much." His lips are so chapped they're raw, new skin unprepared for the brutal cold. He wants to kiss Brad, but knows not to, at least until the skin's a few days older.
"One minute," Nate says. He ducks under the blanket to check Brad's dressings so he doesn't have to expose either of them to the cold. The fight happened about a week ago-that's Nate's best guess, anyway. They haven't been keeping track of days since the Golden Gate fell.
Some fucking idiot thought he could take Brad, and panicked when he realized he couldn't. Brad got knifed in the stomach over a battery charger; Nate had put the guy in a sleeper hold and left him there, barely able to fireman's carry Brad back to base.
The field first aid that Doc Bryan taught them just before OIF had grown rusty, and the fear of losing Brad was probably what allowed Nate to push through sewing up the wound. He'll have a scar, though. The stitches did the job, but they weren't neat.
It's warm and dry, just like it should be, and there's no oozing-a welcome change.
"You're healing up well," he tells Brad, who responds of course I am. Neither of them mention the threat of infection that's still looming overhead. But he's doing well, and that's what matters. Not the argument they had last night about putting out a signal if the radio static clears up.
"We should do it in military code," Brad says, like he's read Nate's mind. "Jesus, Ray'll have an aneurysm." If he's still alive. "Hundred bucks says he'll say it's a NAMBLA conspiracy." Money's worthless now, except for kindling. Not that it matters.
Nate laughs. "Let's get breakfast. Oatmeal or canned tuna?"