GK fic: All Those People That You Know
C+Ped from gk_remix. This story...it's something else, which of course means I think it's cool and everyone else will hate it and/or me. Hahahaha...oh god.
Title: All Those People That You Know
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nate Fick/Brad Colbert
Word Count: 5452
Summary: Nate Fick wasn’t always a Marine and he won’t always be one.
Notes: Written for gk_remix’s Modest Mouse challenge, specifically “The Devil’s Workday.” Thanks to snglesrvngfrend and fosfomifira for doing reading and beta work and to amberlynne for finding quotes even when I refused to tell her what I was writing about. Title from, of course, “The Devil’s Workday” By Modest Mouse.
Nate wasn’t always a Marine, but it comes naturally to him. Standing here talking to one of his own, laying down the law for this battle, he feels right at home. He only talks to this one for a moment, to make sure everything is on track for the coming days. It is. At this point failure is impossible.
Nate has doubted this warrior in the past, but should not have. The work of his brother has always been impeccable, quick and devastating. He never admits he’s wrong though. Doing so would be beneath him. So he sends the second away unthanked, thinking of trading peace for a sword. He turns back toward camp.
The next move is in the hands of the men.
*
It’s so hot it feels like Iraq will burn to a crisp. Nate can feel the heat dripping off his soft cover, down to his shoulders, his back hot like a rock. He’s used to it these days, so he’s not even sweating.
The sun does bother him though. It’s so bright and clear. There’s almost nowhere to hide from the light, except for tents and the shadows of men. Nate walks across the hot sand, exposed for God and Marines to see until he gets to a clump of shadows to stand in.
The shadows belong to Colbert and his little gang, shooting the shit and complaining about the invasion even though it hasn’t begun yet. Nate smiles at them.
“LT,” Person says, “it is too fucking hot,” like Nate will do something about it.
“I’ve seen hotter,” Nate says.
Person considers while sweat trickles down his temple. “Maybe you’re right. I went to Jamaica once. It was hot and fucking humid. This isn’t so bad.”
“Eyes on the prize, Person,” Nate assures him, stepping back, half out of their shadows.
“We could use some weed though,” Person tells him.
Nate laughs as he steps into the light and Espera says, “Drugs. That’s exactly what we need for this war. Lots and lots of ganja.”
Nate turns away from them, smiling still. This war doesn’t need drugs, but they’d be a nice touch.
*
If you ask anyone about Nate Fick, they’ll look at you like you’re stupid. He’s the LT, they say, a good guy in a sea of rotten dicks. He makes sure shit gets done.
If you ask where he comes from they’ll say, I dunno. He’s always been there. It’s a strange thing to say.
Luckily, no one asks.
*
The only upside to the slow starting invasion is it gives Nate a chance to find out who he’s working with.
Ferrando is hell-bent not only on getting this invasion going, but also on them succeeding as a team, like this is a game and the reward is honor. Nate figures he can be left to his own devices; their goals are similar. Sixta is an afterthought, mean but useless, only good in that he makes Nate look sensible. The same goes for Schwetje, although his bumbling offends Nate’s sense of elegance.
His superior officers and immediate peers hold less interest than those he commands. It takes Nate four days to commit them all to memory, and the only reason he takes that long because he’s savoring them.
Espera, confident in his abilities but already guilt-ridden. Person, devious as a demon and here for no real reason. Hasser, so good he must make Person itch. Trombley, aching to kill.
All of them, so dirty and rich, so human and ready to believe in what they’re doing. Nate’s always loved soldiers and their convictions.
*
On the dry run Lilley dies and all the men hesitate, even if they don’t stop. Nate can see it in the slight turns of the Humvee tires. They want to go with their man, even if the worst thing wrong with him is the need to shit.
Touching rocks, Colbert outlines a plan where someone could go back for him, to save him if they could, even if it means putting themselves at risk.
Nate reminds him that that plan only works if you don’t care. Colbert squints up at him and puts the rock down.
*
Brad Colbert is different. He's marked by his Judaism, no matter how lapsed he claims to be, and Nate's interested by that, but this is not like older times, when a man's religion had real consequences.
More than that, Brad is so very human, more than the others. Nate will use them to do his work but he sees potential in Brad. Something tender and exploitable lives inside of Brad Colbert, waiting for clever fingers to pull the cracked shell apart to get at the meat.
Nate watches him go about his business, razzing Person, griping over his seemingly unsalvageable Humvee, looking over at Nate and looking away when he's caught. Brad’s frustrated desires are so obvious. He’s so human, but he tries so hard not to be.
*
Everyone in Mathilda is wound tight waiting for it to happen. It. That’s what the men call it, like it’s too filthy or sacred. They perform better than humans can, striving for perfection and then lapping up the faint praise they get and move on to the next goal, moaning all the while about how ill-equipped they are.
Person is right. It’s supposed to make them angry and ready to kill. The Romans marching and sleeping on the dirt did the same thing. And they did so well.
Nate plays his part, assuring their frustrations, but barely, looking like his hands are tied and he can’t stand it.
*
The pizza has nothing to do with Nate, but it might be an even better touch than drugs. Each box has eight greasy, diarrhea-inducing slices of home in it. The men cram themselves full and then look sick. Nate hears word of a kick-off and it’s all he can do to not slap the pizza out of Schwetje’s hands, crush some of his bones and yell that they have work to do. But Wynn is there and the pizza is serving its purpose so Nate stands down. He does not have long to wait.
*
Chaos is part of Nate’s livelihood, but there is only so much even he can take. Stupid men are part of the plan, but taping up all your Humvee windows is too much.
But before Nate can even contemplate a punishment Brad is there, bristling, edging out of his place, and doing so not only because Schwetje is a moron.
“We're getting ready to invade a country, and this is what our leader offers us. Mustaches.” Brad sounds angry when he says it, but Nate knows he’s not without some hope of validation.
Nate reminds him to hold onto his personal feelings but the name he uses is no mistake and it does not go unnoticed.
*
The moment the invasion kicks off is luxurious for Nate. He loves all earthly pleasures, pizza, sex, mischief, but war is maybe the best of all the things humans do. Harsh, pointless and devastating, it's like breathing blood and smoke. Nate can feel the hugeness of this one that’s just about to break. It's been years since Nate felt one like this.
Sitting in the Humvee while Wynn drives across the border, Nate is so aroused he can barely stop his body from splitting at the seams. He looks through the sight on his rifle and steadies his breath forcibly. Out at the front of the platoon, riding alongside Brad’s Humvee Nate can see the glint of a sword and the shine of a red flank in the dust that’s kicked up. The Humvee’s tires hit a berm and Nate jolts, a noise hooking out of him.
"I know," Wynn says soothingly, mistaking his excitement for something else, "I know."
*
The first time Nate went to war it wasn’t really a war but he paid for it dearly. He was never forgiven and he’ll never forget that.
*
Nate has been here for a while, just feeling the air and the earth and all the souls, the black demon ones he knows are nearby and the light ones of the humans. Inside, he’s empty.
"Speak of the devil."
Nate’s concentration breaks and his view of the world slips back behind human eyes. He turns around to see Person and Brad walking toward him. He nods his hello.
"He's not the officer we need to find?" Person asks Brad.
"No."
"Lucky coincidence, then."
"You're looking for someone?" Nate asks. They stop a few feet away, shuffling straps and feet.
"Yeah, some officer can't wipe his own-"
Brad subtly shoulders him. "An officer lost his way."
"Yeah, and isn't getting enough lutein or some shit so we have to look for him.”
Brad rolls his eyes. "Everyone pitches in, Ray."
Person looks at him. "Look at you, toeing the party line." He looks at Nate then, cutting a glance that connects Brad's demeanor to his first comments. "I am too tired to toe the line."
"It's only going to get worse," Nate says. "The war has barely started and you're tired already?"
"There are almost no women, sir. Of course I'm tired of the war. War is great, but sex is better."
Nate nods. "So some say."
Brad says nothing, looking over Nate's shoulder to the horizon, scanning for a missing officer or just not looking. "We should go," he says absently. "He won't find himself."
"Yeah," Person says, sounding like he'd rather stay and chat. "Maybe he's back already."
"Maybe," Brad replies, drifting around Nate. Person goes around his other side and they meet up again away from Nate.
He hears Person say, "Or maybe he's dead," hopefully and Brad's half-hearted admonishment.
Nate knows he's not. He's about a klick to the east, walking in a circle with a wedgie. Nate goes back to the camp, minding his own business.
*
Things are bad, as they should be. War is not worth it if it’s not hard. Men should feel it, Nate thinks, truly feel it. He thinks every second should last forever, like it does in Hell.
But a hard war is not only for hurt. A hard war makes men hard but it also makes them remember the good and easy parts all the more.
So when he steps up on Brad’s Humvee and listens to his request for LSA tucked in a filthy sentence he says no and reminds Brad of how the Corps works.
But it’s not so unreasonable, a little lube. It might even be a nice gift, the perfect thing to get Brad’s thoughts tumbling.
He waits until nightfall, which is the best time for him to act unnoticed. He wanders around the camp saying hello and goodnight until he gets to Brad and his men.
He calls them gentlemen in his best friendly officer voice and looks at them all, lingering as he asks for updates, not doing his best to listen. The men are comfortable though, chatting with him.
“And you, sir?” Brad asks.
“Could always be better,” Nate answers, leaving the how open. Brad nods but doesn’t ask, taking the bag of Skittles from someone else and pouring some out, bringing his hand to his mouth.
Nate smiles and nods at him, turning around, thinking hard as he walks between tents. He walks away from the camp, still thinking, until he gets far enough away that no one will see him.
He bends down, crouching on top of the sand. He feels around until he gets to the warm spot, then digs out a scoop of sand, then another. He puts down his gun so he can dig with two hands, extending himself to the men of RCT-1, smoothing out their memories to include a favour.
What he wants is small and easy to procure, so he only has to dig maybe a foot down. His middle finger hits it first and then it's only a few more handfuls until he has it: a new tub of lubricant.
He shakes the sand off it and tucks it into his vest. It's still warm.
*
It’s just a tub of LSA but Brad’s face glows when Nate gives it to him. The light is human happiness. Nate wants to suck it out of him, drink it down until Brad’s dry. Instead he just grins at Brad, incapable of feeling the way he feels.
*
Nate's body is his. According to human legend and television, demons take over human bodies, crush the spirits living within and then drive their meat around, but this is rarely true, at least in this day and age. When Nate started walking he'd had to improvise and so was fleetingly recognized, but now no one ever knows where he walks unless he lets them know.
Nate crafted this body, this boyish-looking man's body, out of past sinners after they'd been torn to shreds. He searched for pieces as news of the impending war came to him, looking for the perfect idealistic eyes and generous mouth. When it was done he sealed up the cracks and tried his suit on. It fit like a glove. Then he walked until he came out the other side, striding along the sand and into a tent to see his men.
*
This human body, it wants things. Things Nate knows how to give it.
*
Sometimes, while they drive, Nate blurs the landscapes. It helps him see better, to remove the berms and skimpy trees, just leave behind the humans. It helps him keep the men safe.
The blur affects human sight too. They just don’t know it. So Trombley has no idea he’s done anything wrong when he fires on the children. He sees what he sees and fires.
Nate feels the two little plucks, but a child’s soul feels the same to him as an adult and by now the constantly snapping strings of souls is just a fact of his consciousness. Anything less than a thousand souls at once is like blinking for a human. Reflex.
The pain of children is different. Nate feels that acutely, and their fear. He stops breathing and instead feels their breath, each gasp. Children die everyday. Nate rarely sees their souls. He hates Limbo, never goes there.
He feels the children struggling and the Marines’ heavy hearts. There are tears on Brad’s face, shining in the sun. Nate forces Ferrando’s will just so he can fill his own lungs again.
*
That night, Nate leaves his body to go walking. His human skin sleeps on after he has stepped out. Without him it's nothing, barely capable of breathing. It does not dream.
Nate listens to the faint sound of its heart beating as he walks, light as a shadow, across the cooling sand. Now he is not boyish or sweet looking. He does not look at all. Humans cannot see him, except for maybe in the corner of their weak eyes, if he moves just right. But they can feel him, their skin startling when he passes. Tonight all the real human hearts are sleeping though, dreaming of better places.
Walking up a berm Nate looks at the moon wash across the sand, the slur of the grey clouds in the sky. He is not wandering idly though. Nate saw one of his own today, edging around the platoon, struggling to stay in the shadows, lest the light reveal his shape.
He listens for the pad of black paws coming under the sound of hearts. He does not wait long before the shape comes to him.
This one is blacker than black, and huge, something of a behemoth. He half-forms for Nate and bows deeply before slipping back into his cloudy demon form.
I thought it was you, Nate says, or does not say, because he is not truly speaking, and not speaking any language a human would ever pray to understand.
The demon gives off the sensation of having nodded. Sire.
It brings news of the discord in the Americas, the chafing in Europe, the already-occurring wars in the other parts of the world.
Nate listens, pleased by all the work being done. He asks after Hella and Crowley, and if there is word from above. If demons could smile, then this one before Nate would be.
No word. They might as well be alone down here in the mud with the monkeys, free to run it all to hell.
Nate could glow he's so happy. He does not though, because that would be a waste of energy. Instead he concentrates briefly and then tells the demon of a stash of good vodka and pistols outside of a shabby building in Moscow and the demon practically purrs before it vanishes.
In the distance Nate hears Sir, really being said, in human language. He blinks and opens his eyes to see what Brad wants. When he opens his mouth he exhales a little sulphur.
Brad is leaning over him and his eye barely twitches when he smells Nate's breath. He looks as though he has been walking too.
"Sir."
"Yes?" Nate sits up. Brad moves to accommodate him and offers a hand. He doesn't offer to explain his appearance at Nate's grave and Nate doesn't bother to ask. He can read Brad like a book, his courage and his lust, kept locked up tight during the day but let out at night so Brad can try and find his peace.
The good news has Nate more than willing to engage in some sinning. He even lets Brad lead, walking sideways up a berm, looking out. Nate hears the sounds of the night and puts his hand on Brad's back to hear the spike of his heart and smell the spice of his arousal.
Nate knows his human body is doing the same thing, running on hot hellish happiness. He propels Brad along, mind running over how he wants his sins. Hands and mouths are popular with soldiers, always have been. They're quick and dirty and it's easy to pretend that no one's been emasculated.
Through the rough fabric of Brad's suit Nate can feel how hot his back is. He thinks about the bend of a back and sweaty hot heat, the taboo that lives on. But he knows that would be too much of a push and Brad would not do it of his own free will, not tonight.
So he takes his hand away. Brad looks back at him, still laser-sharp even though Nate can smell his cock. Nate uses his hand to gesture to a high berm, his finger curving up. Brad nods, still looking at Nate's hand.
The sand is cool on the other side, and they slide down a few inches when they kneel, forced to dig in with their boots. Nate lets himself go lower than Brad to give the illusion of power.
But still, Brad looks down on him and his lips go thin. "What are we doing?" he asks.
"Whatever you want," Nate replies, searching for the zipper on his suit. Brad stares after his fingers again. His gaze shifts with the zipper, following it down. He grunts.
"It's good for you," Nate tells him, digging into the sand, into his own suit. It's work to get at his cock but worth it for the zing of human pleasure. He sighs and Brad looks at his face, full of longing.
Nate peels back as much of his suit as possible with his free hand, so Brad can watch, if that's all he's going to do. This body hasn't seen sex yet but it likes it, the hips thrusting up, the left leg twitching when he plucks at the testicles.
Nate swallows. "It's fine, Brad," he whispers roughly, stroking the head of his cock. Brad nods woodenly, his eyes glued to Nate's hand on his cock. All he does is pluck at the crotch of his suit.
His cock is so hard. Nate knows it, can smell his precome, can just see into his mind and the images there, the loop of his hand and his cock, Brad's panting feelings, the lust and the shame.
Nate doesn't draw it out. His body is begging for release and Brad seems tortured by it, even though he won't move or look away. His orgasm is as sweet as an apple. Nate looks down at his own cock as he comes, watching it, gritting his teeth so he's quiet. He feels flush after, still wringing droplets of semen out of his cock, panting. His jaw sore from holding in his noise.
When he feels settled he looks up at Brad with some knowledge of the picture he makes. Brad looks pained, still staring at Nate's hips. All his muscles are rigid in the sand. Nate murmurs his name, feeling it leave him smoothly and Brad looks up at Nate. When he finally lets his breath go he shakes.
*
Hasser kills an innocent man and Nate has nothing to do with it. He doesn't even see it coming. One moment the car is coming and the next it's not, the man's thoughts shot and his soul gone.
It's chaos for a second. No one knows where to look except Brad who yells and draws everyone's attention. When their eyes hit Hasser he sputters, saying he kept comin'. Brad hustles him to sit in the truck and says things, calming things.
Nate looks at the dead man, his corpse. There's no man there anymore. It's very bright out today. Nate can see the last wisps of soul in the air. He feels strange.
*
The dead man's soul is not for Nate, he knows that and that's fine by him. Bigger fish, he thinks, walking around camp. Even talking to Wynn he's looking for Hasser. He finds him by the sound of Person's voice. Hasser is sitting on the ground, trying to write his report. Person is bothering him out of a misguided sense of brotherhood.
“Finish your report and get it to me ASAP,” Nate tells Hasser, who’s gripping his pen too tight. “You did nothing wrong, but we’ll see if there’s a better way to stop these cars.”
Person makes a quip about Hasser’s way of stopping cars. Hasser cringes, his thumb smearing his report.
Nate has nothing else to offer so he starts to leave. Brad follows him.
“Sir, it's vital. Hasser will write his way clear, but we're fast becoming an army occupation. We can't just shoot these civilians like we're doing.”
They will. “Marines aren’t cops, Brad. We’re an aggressive force. That said, we’ll see what we can do.”
Brad’s eyes are clear and serious. He’s not done with the conversation but Espera breaks in and explosions and Trombley follow. Nate walks away and Brad goes the other way, but Nate feels his unrest like a touch.
Later he will read a report written in childish writing full of I thinks and wasn't sures and he will sign off on it to keep Hasser's conscience light and the war machine chugging smoothly. Nothing will happen to Hasser. Nate knows that much. He was surprised Hasser did it but once he looked at the dead man he knew nothing would happen to Hasser. Shit happens in a war.
Nate walks and he ends up in the shade of his truck, Gunny Wynn off nursing some grunts, Stafford and Christeson somewhere else. His human self is hungry.
He fishes out an MRE and rips the silver top off. It's all dried garbage, even the pastry, but Nate eats that, breaking off little pieces so it doesn't bother his teeth. Some of the ones in the back are starting to get loose. Just a few.
The wind picks up, swirling the smell of piss and oil, bringing him the quickly approaching scent of Brad. Nate crumples the foil the pastry came in and licks the crumbs off his lips as Brad rounds the back of the truck. Brad looks at his mouth and then at his eyes.
"Sir," he says.
Nate drops the MRE next to his boot. "Brad," he replies, pushing outward with his mind so no one comes near. If they come within thirty feet of the truck they'll find themselves suddenly in need of their E-tool and some toilet paper.
Brad stops, too close. "Any news?"
"No," Nate says, because he has no idea. “Not since ten minutes ago.” He licks one of his loose teeth and keeps his eyes on Brad's.
Brad nods in that final way of his, but doesn't move. "Walt is..." he starts.
Nate holds up a hand. "Walt will be fine. What happened was unfortunate but not uncommon."
Brad squints, thinking only of Trombley, not wider wars. But he nods again. His smell is dark and confusing, telling of other reasons for coming. Nate looks at him evenly. Brad moves his rifle and swallows, a long dry sound. He looks around, at all the empty space.
Nate quirks his mouth. "Something else?"
His eyebrows going tight and then forcefully smooth Brad doesn't nod or shake his head. He cocks it while his body flushes in his suit.
Something inside Nate rumbles. His demon self is hungry too.
He steps closer and Brad's nostrils flare, his mouth opening to say something. Nate catches him like that, mouth parted, in a kiss, quick and firm, the toes of their boots touching. Brad breathes out into his mouth.
Nate chokes on his breath, demon gunk caught in his human lungs, stopping him up, pulling out a cough. Brad is still staring at him, slack-jawed in the sun. He gulps a breath and Nate kisses him again.
This time it’s a real kiss, the kind men running out of time share. Nate pushes too much - he knows it - but Brad does not run. He gives of his free will, his mouth yielding to Nate’s, his lips going soft and his tongue coming forward.
Nate knows his mouth tastes like sugar and dirt. He doesn’t know what Brad’s mouth tastes like because he can taste beyond that. He can taste Brad’s soul even though it’s buried deep. It’s smoky and thick, tasting like gunfire.
Nate sucks on Brad’s tongue, gripping his hip harder than he needs to. He tastes as deep as he can, high off this closeness, this human lust.
After a long time Brad pulls away to breathe. Nate barely bothers. He looks at Brad’s mouth instead, the spit and stubble-scrape.
Brad looks around for anyone. They’re alone. Nate wouldn’t have let them come close even if they tried. Brad rubs his mouth, looking at Nate balefully.
“Goddamn,” he says. “What was that?”
“If I have to tell you…”
Brad shakes his head, smirking. “No. I meant…We’re basically in the middle of Hell right now and you kissed me.”
“There was more than that.”
Brad shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah.” He looks away then back again. “I’m not…”
Nate looks at him. He hasn’t looked away. His eyeballs itch until he forces himself to blink. “Oh,” he says.
“You’re not either,” Brad insists, looking away again, maybe suspicious about people not passing by. Nate eases up on the space restrictions.
Nate nods mildly, shifting his rifle. “Maybe,” he says.
Brad’s eyes snap back, searching the side of Nate’s face. He swallows and the sound is so loud.
Gunny Wynn breaks the bubble, walking past the truck. He waves and Nate waves back.
Nate shoulders his rifle and takes a step away from Brad. “Don’t worry about it,” he says softly to Brad, knowing he looks contrite. Brad’s face turns to the truck carefully.
Nate walks after Wynn, making his shoulders slump even as he tastes the lingering tang of all the light and love that have been denied to him.
*
Nate is so happy he spares a thought to filling Person’s pill bottle and a disproportionate amount of MREs with jalapeno and cheese.
*
Brad avoids him, but life and war continue on. Nate leads the way he’s supposed to: with unfailing idealism, even when he’s frustrated. Whenever Brad comes around Nate bows out of conversations because he can’t see Brad’s carefully blank face and his eyes that give it all away without grinning so hard his loose teeth might fall out.
*
This human body, it still wants. Nate understands it, this sack of meat that lives a thousand times faster than a regular human body. It wants sex and greasy food. Nate wants other things.
The compromise is masturbation far away from the camp, in the dead of the night. He pretends to patrol and instead jerks off to try and curb the wild heat inside of him.
It’s a shitty compromise. Nate’s not a great masturbator and this body knows it. He imagines other hands, wide and dirty, and that helps.
When he turns around to go back to camp it’s a little too still and there’s the smell of ashamed voyeurism on the air. Brad is back in his grave when Nate walks by, his hands flat on his thighs.
*
Nate’s been in countless wars, sad and angry, hoping to make a difference by fucking with humanity, helping them do all the terrible things they were built to do. No one ever pays him much attention but he keeps going to war anyway.
*
Schwetje tells him to recon burning Baghdad neighborhoods and he says no. There’s no reason in particular, not the men’s safety or his ulterior motives. The stars just align that way and he says no. The humans are doing enough damage as it is. None of these men need to die tonight.
For once he does not hide his feelings in idealism. He lets his human face show his tiredness. It has been a long day and he still wishes he could crush Schwetje’s bones.
Nate kills his radio. “They want me to be more aggressive. Send the men into this. For what? So I can come home with twenty-one men instead of twenty-two? For what?”
Beside him Brad’s soul hums and his breath is slow as he watches Baghdad get bombed. He is very focused on the horizon but Nate knows him better by now, knows he’s working on something deep inside of himself.
Nate looks at the bomb-light. He lets himself recede a little, just for a second, down into the darkness of himself. Then he surfaces again, just in time to hear Brad say, “I trust your judgment, sir.”
It’s almost impossible to hear it with his human ears because Brad’s soul is flapping madly around inside him, crashing into walls. He has to really focus to separate the coolness of Brad’s voice and the frenetic pounding of his inner being.
He hears it though, the way Brad says it, from that deep, hidden place inside himself. The place no one’s ever seen. Nate’s stomach flips. It’s an oddly human reaction for him to have, thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I can be wrong. A platoon commander's situational awareness doesn't extend very far,” he says, feeling sour.
“Far enough, sir,” Brad says.
Eventually the reporter goes away. Nate is not sure when. He’s receded again, testing his body, which is rotting from the inside out. Very soon it will burn up completely and Nate will have to find another role to play, another life to live.
He is clearing black muck from his intestines when Brad asks him what he will do later, when this is over.
“Over?” Nate croaks. He clears his throat. His voice going rusty when unused- that’s new. Maybe his vocal cords are collapsing.
“We’ll be out of here soon,” Brad says. “War’s almost over.”
“You think?” Nate asks, smoothing out his voice.
Brad shrugs with one shoulder. “Yeah, probably. I wouldn’t mind.” He lets the rest of his thought float, endless. Nate senses it anyway, but says nothing.
“You goin’ back East?” Brad asks, finally.
Nate shrugs. “Maybe, after a while.”
Brad’s soul is still going, arching around brightly. “We should go out for a beer, if you end up back in Oceanside.” His voice is very flat except for the word if.
Nate looks away from Baghdad, to Brad’s dirty face. His human body breathes faster, its muddy blood pumping harder, dying a little quicker. Nate remembers the taste of Brad’s soul, so pure and doomed.
“I’d like that,” he says, smiling. Brad smiles too, his weird, caught-out smile, and they both look back at the destruction. It’s still dark out but the Morning Star will be rising soon.
Title: All Those People That You Know
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nate Fick/Brad Colbert
Word Count: 5452
Summary: Nate Fick wasn’t always a Marine and he won’t always be one.
Notes: Written for gk_remix’s Modest Mouse challenge, specifically “The Devil’s Workday.” Thanks to snglesrvngfrend and fosfomifira for doing reading and beta work and to amberlynne for finding quotes even when I refused to tell her what I was writing about. Title from, of course, “The Devil’s Workday” By Modest Mouse.
Nate wasn’t always a Marine, but it comes naturally to him. Standing here talking to one of his own, laying down the law for this battle, he feels right at home. He only talks to this one for a moment, to make sure everything is on track for the coming days. It is. At this point failure is impossible.
Nate has doubted this warrior in the past, but should not have. The work of his brother has always been impeccable, quick and devastating. He never admits he’s wrong though. Doing so would be beneath him. So he sends the second away unthanked, thinking of trading peace for a sword. He turns back toward camp.
The next move is in the hands of the men.
*
It’s so hot it feels like Iraq will burn to a crisp. Nate can feel the heat dripping off his soft cover, down to his shoulders, his back hot like a rock. He’s used to it these days, so he’s not even sweating.
The sun does bother him though. It’s so bright and clear. There’s almost nowhere to hide from the light, except for tents and the shadows of men. Nate walks across the hot sand, exposed for God and Marines to see until he gets to a clump of shadows to stand in.
The shadows belong to Colbert and his little gang, shooting the shit and complaining about the invasion even though it hasn’t begun yet. Nate smiles at them.
“LT,” Person says, “it is too fucking hot,” like Nate will do something about it.
“I’ve seen hotter,” Nate says.
Person considers while sweat trickles down his temple. “Maybe you’re right. I went to Jamaica once. It was hot and fucking humid. This isn’t so bad.”
“Eyes on the prize, Person,” Nate assures him, stepping back, half out of their shadows.
“We could use some weed though,” Person tells him.
Nate laughs as he steps into the light and Espera says, “Drugs. That’s exactly what we need for this war. Lots and lots of ganja.”
Nate turns away from them, smiling still. This war doesn’t need drugs, but they’d be a nice touch.
*
If you ask anyone about Nate Fick, they’ll look at you like you’re stupid. He’s the LT, they say, a good guy in a sea of rotten dicks. He makes sure shit gets done.
If you ask where he comes from they’ll say, I dunno. He’s always been there. It’s a strange thing to say.
Luckily, no one asks.
*
The only upside to the slow starting invasion is it gives Nate a chance to find out who he’s working with.
Ferrando is hell-bent not only on getting this invasion going, but also on them succeeding as a team, like this is a game and the reward is honor. Nate figures he can be left to his own devices; their goals are similar. Sixta is an afterthought, mean but useless, only good in that he makes Nate look sensible. The same goes for Schwetje, although his bumbling offends Nate’s sense of elegance.
His superior officers and immediate peers hold less interest than those he commands. It takes Nate four days to commit them all to memory, and the only reason he takes that long because he’s savoring them.
Espera, confident in his abilities but already guilt-ridden. Person, devious as a demon and here for no real reason. Hasser, so good he must make Person itch. Trombley, aching to kill.
All of them, so dirty and rich, so human and ready to believe in what they’re doing. Nate’s always loved soldiers and their convictions.
*
On the dry run Lilley dies and all the men hesitate, even if they don’t stop. Nate can see it in the slight turns of the Humvee tires. They want to go with their man, even if the worst thing wrong with him is the need to shit.
Touching rocks, Colbert outlines a plan where someone could go back for him, to save him if they could, even if it means putting themselves at risk.
Nate reminds him that that plan only works if you don’t care. Colbert squints up at him and puts the rock down.
*
Brad Colbert is different. He's marked by his Judaism, no matter how lapsed he claims to be, and Nate's interested by that, but this is not like older times, when a man's religion had real consequences.
More than that, Brad is so very human, more than the others. Nate will use them to do his work but he sees potential in Brad. Something tender and exploitable lives inside of Brad Colbert, waiting for clever fingers to pull the cracked shell apart to get at the meat.
Nate watches him go about his business, razzing Person, griping over his seemingly unsalvageable Humvee, looking over at Nate and looking away when he's caught. Brad’s frustrated desires are so obvious. He’s so human, but he tries so hard not to be.
*
Everyone in Mathilda is wound tight waiting for it to happen. It. That’s what the men call it, like it’s too filthy or sacred. They perform better than humans can, striving for perfection and then lapping up the faint praise they get and move on to the next goal, moaning all the while about how ill-equipped they are.
Person is right. It’s supposed to make them angry and ready to kill. The Romans marching and sleeping on the dirt did the same thing. And they did so well.
Nate plays his part, assuring their frustrations, but barely, looking like his hands are tied and he can’t stand it.
*
The pizza has nothing to do with Nate, but it might be an even better touch than drugs. Each box has eight greasy, diarrhea-inducing slices of home in it. The men cram themselves full and then look sick. Nate hears word of a kick-off and it’s all he can do to not slap the pizza out of Schwetje’s hands, crush some of his bones and yell that they have work to do. But Wynn is there and the pizza is serving its purpose so Nate stands down. He does not have long to wait.
*
Chaos is part of Nate’s livelihood, but there is only so much even he can take. Stupid men are part of the plan, but taping up all your Humvee windows is too much.
But before Nate can even contemplate a punishment Brad is there, bristling, edging out of his place, and doing so not only because Schwetje is a moron.
“We're getting ready to invade a country, and this is what our leader offers us. Mustaches.” Brad sounds angry when he says it, but Nate knows he’s not without some hope of validation.
Nate reminds him to hold onto his personal feelings but the name he uses is no mistake and it does not go unnoticed.
*
The moment the invasion kicks off is luxurious for Nate. He loves all earthly pleasures, pizza, sex, mischief, but war is maybe the best of all the things humans do. Harsh, pointless and devastating, it's like breathing blood and smoke. Nate can feel the hugeness of this one that’s just about to break. It's been years since Nate felt one like this.
Sitting in the Humvee while Wynn drives across the border, Nate is so aroused he can barely stop his body from splitting at the seams. He looks through the sight on his rifle and steadies his breath forcibly. Out at the front of the platoon, riding alongside Brad’s Humvee Nate can see the glint of a sword and the shine of a red flank in the dust that’s kicked up. The Humvee’s tires hit a berm and Nate jolts, a noise hooking out of him.
"I know," Wynn says soothingly, mistaking his excitement for something else, "I know."
*
The first time Nate went to war it wasn’t really a war but he paid for it dearly. He was never forgiven and he’ll never forget that.
*
Nate has been here for a while, just feeling the air and the earth and all the souls, the black demon ones he knows are nearby and the light ones of the humans. Inside, he’s empty.
"Speak of the devil."
Nate’s concentration breaks and his view of the world slips back behind human eyes. He turns around to see Person and Brad walking toward him. He nods his hello.
"He's not the officer we need to find?" Person asks Brad.
"No."
"Lucky coincidence, then."
"You're looking for someone?" Nate asks. They stop a few feet away, shuffling straps and feet.
"Yeah, some officer can't wipe his own-"
Brad subtly shoulders him. "An officer lost his way."
"Yeah, and isn't getting enough lutein or some shit so we have to look for him.”
Brad rolls his eyes. "Everyone pitches in, Ray."
Person looks at him. "Look at you, toeing the party line." He looks at Nate then, cutting a glance that connects Brad's demeanor to his first comments. "I am too tired to toe the line."
"It's only going to get worse," Nate says. "The war has barely started and you're tired already?"
"There are almost no women, sir. Of course I'm tired of the war. War is great, but sex is better."
Nate nods. "So some say."
Brad says nothing, looking over Nate's shoulder to the horizon, scanning for a missing officer or just not looking. "We should go," he says absently. "He won't find himself."
"Yeah," Person says, sounding like he'd rather stay and chat. "Maybe he's back already."
"Maybe," Brad replies, drifting around Nate. Person goes around his other side and they meet up again away from Nate.
He hears Person say, "Or maybe he's dead," hopefully and Brad's half-hearted admonishment.
Nate knows he's not. He's about a klick to the east, walking in a circle with a wedgie. Nate goes back to the camp, minding his own business.
*
Things are bad, as they should be. War is not worth it if it’s not hard. Men should feel it, Nate thinks, truly feel it. He thinks every second should last forever, like it does in Hell.
But a hard war is not only for hurt. A hard war makes men hard but it also makes them remember the good and easy parts all the more.
So when he steps up on Brad’s Humvee and listens to his request for LSA tucked in a filthy sentence he says no and reminds Brad of how the Corps works.
But it’s not so unreasonable, a little lube. It might even be a nice gift, the perfect thing to get Brad’s thoughts tumbling.
He waits until nightfall, which is the best time for him to act unnoticed. He wanders around the camp saying hello and goodnight until he gets to Brad and his men.
He calls them gentlemen in his best friendly officer voice and looks at them all, lingering as he asks for updates, not doing his best to listen. The men are comfortable though, chatting with him.
“And you, sir?” Brad asks.
“Could always be better,” Nate answers, leaving the how open. Brad nods but doesn’t ask, taking the bag of Skittles from someone else and pouring some out, bringing his hand to his mouth.
Nate smiles and nods at him, turning around, thinking hard as he walks between tents. He walks away from the camp, still thinking, until he gets far enough away that no one will see him.
He bends down, crouching on top of the sand. He feels around until he gets to the warm spot, then digs out a scoop of sand, then another. He puts down his gun so he can dig with two hands, extending himself to the men of RCT-1, smoothing out their memories to include a favour.
What he wants is small and easy to procure, so he only has to dig maybe a foot down. His middle finger hits it first and then it's only a few more handfuls until he has it: a new tub of lubricant.
He shakes the sand off it and tucks it into his vest. It's still warm.
*
It’s just a tub of LSA but Brad’s face glows when Nate gives it to him. The light is human happiness. Nate wants to suck it out of him, drink it down until Brad’s dry. Instead he just grins at Brad, incapable of feeling the way he feels.
*
Nate's body is his. According to human legend and television, demons take over human bodies, crush the spirits living within and then drive their meat around, but this is rarely true, at least in this day and age. When Nate started walking he'd had to improvise and so was fleetingly recognized, but now no one ever knows where he walks unless he lets them know.
Nate crafted this body, this boyish-looking man's body, out of past sinners after they'd been torn to shreds. He searched for pieces as news of the impending war came to him, looking for the perfect idealistic eyes and generous mouth. When it was done he sealed up the cracks and tried his suit on. It fit like a glove. Then he walked until he came out the other side, striding along the sand and into a tent to see his men.
*
This human body, it wants things. Things Nate knows how to give it.
*
Sometimes, while they drive, Nate blurs the landscapes. It helps him see better, to remove the berms and skimpy trees, just leave behind the humans. It helps him keep the men safe.
The blur affects human sight too. They just don’t know it. So Trombley has no idea he’s done anything wrong when he fires on the children. He sees what he sees and fires.
Nate feels the two little plucks, but a child’s soul feels the same to him as an adult and by now the constantly snapping strings of souls is just a fact of his consciousness. Anything less than a thousand souls at once is like blinking for a human. Reflex.
The pain of children is different. Nate feels that acutely, and their fear. He stops breathing and instead feels their breath, each gasp. Children die everyday. Nate rarely sees their souls. He hates Limbo, never goes there.
He feels the children struggling and the Marines’ heavy hearts. There are tears on Brad’s face, shining in the sun. Nate forces Ferrando’s will just so he can fill his own lungs again.
*
That night, Nate leaves his body to go walking. His human skin sleeps on after he has stepped out. Without him it's nothing, barely capable of breathing. It does not dream.
Nate listens to the faint sound of its heart beating as he walks, light as a shadow, across the cooling sand. Now he is not boyish or sweet looking. He does not look at all. Humans cannot see him, except for maybe in the corner of their weak eyes, if he moves just right. But they can feel him, their skin startling when he passes. Tonight all the real human hearts are sleeping though, dreaming of better places.
Walking up a berm Nate looks at the moon wash across the sand, the slur of the grey clouds in the sky. He is not wandering idly though. Nate saw one of his own today, edging around the platoon, struggling to stay in the shadows, lest the light reveal his shape.
He listens for the pad of black paws coming under the sound of hearts. He does not wait long before the shape comes to him.
This one is blacker than black, and huge, something of a behemoth. He half-forms for Nate and bows deeply before slipping back into his cloudy demon form.
I thought it was you, Nate says, or does not say, because he is not truly speaking, and not speaking any language a human would ever pray to understand.
The demon gives off the sensation of having nodded. Sire.
It brings news of the discord in the Americas, the chafing in Europe, the already-occurring wars in the other parts of the world.
Nate listens, pleased by all the work being done. He asks after Hella and Crowley, and if there is word from above. If demons could smile, then this one before Nate would be.
No word. They might as well be alone down here in the mud with the monkeys, free to run it all to hell.
Nate could glow he's so happy. He does not though, because that would be a waste of energy. Instead he concentrates briefly and then tells the demon of a stash of good vodka and pistols outside of a shabby building in Moscow and the demon practically purrs before it vanishes.
In the distance Nate hears Sir, really being said, in human language. He blinks and opens his eyes to see what Brad wants. When he opens his mouth he exhales a little sulphur.
Brad is leaning over him and his eye barely twitches when he smells Nate's breath. He looks as though he has been walking too.
"Sir."
"Yes?" Nate sits up. Brad moves to accommodate him and offers a hand. He doesn't offer to explain his appearance at Nate's grave and Nate doesn't bother to ask. He can read Brad like a book, his courage and his lust, kept locked up tight during the day but let out at night so Brad can try and find his peace.
The good news has Nate more than willing to engage in some sinning. He even lets Brad lead, walking sideways up a berm, looking out. Nate hears the sounds of the night and puts his hand on Brad's back to hear the spike of his heart and smell the spice of his arousal.
Nate knows his human body is doing the same thing, running on hot hellish happiness. He propels Brad along, mind running over how he wants his sins. Hands and mouths are popular with soldiers, always have been. They're quick and dirty and it's easy to pretend that no one's been emasculated.
Through the rough fabric of Brad's suit Nate can feel how hot his back is. He thinks about the bend of a back and sweaty hot heat, the taboo that lives on. But he knows that would be too much of a push and Brad would not do it of his own free will, not tonight.
So he takes his hand away. Brad looks back at him, still laser-sharp even though Nate can smell his cock. Nate uses his hand to gesture to a high berm, his finger curving up. Brad nods, still looking at Nate's hand.
The sand is cool on the other side, and they slide down a few inches when they kneel, forced to dig in with their boots. Nate lets himself go lower than Brad to give the illusion of power.
But still, Brad looks down on him and his lips go thin. "What are we doing?" he asks.
"Whatever you want," Nate replies, searching for the zipper on his suit. Brad stares after his fingers again. His gaze shifts with the zipper, following it down. He grunts.
"It's good for you," Nate tells him, digging into the sand, into his own suit. It's work to get at his cock but worth it for the zing of human pleasure. He sighs and Brad looks at his face, full of longing.
Nate peels back as much of his suit as possible with his free hand, so Brad can watch, if that's all he's going to do. This body hasn't seen sex yet but it likes it, the hips thrusting up, the left leg twitching when he plucks at the testicles.
Nate swallows. "It's fine, Brad," he whispers roughly, stroking the head of his cock. Brad nods woodenly, his eyes glued to Nate's hand on his cock. All he does is pluck at the crotch of his suit.
His cock is so hard. Nate knows it, can smell his precome, can just see into his mind and the images there, the loop of his hand and his cock, Brad's panting feelings, the lust and the shame.
Nate doesn't draw it out. His body is begging for release and Brad seems tortured by it, even though he won't move or look away. His orgasm is as sweet as an apple. Nate looks down at his own cock as he comes, watching it, gritting his teeth so he's quiet. He feels flush after, still wringing droplets of semen out of his cock, panting. His jaw sore from holding in his noise.
When he feels settled he looks up at Brad with some knowledge of the picture he makes. Brad looks pained, still staring at Nate's hips. All his muscles are rigid in the sand. Nate murmurs his name, feeling it leave him smoothly and Brad looks up at Nate. When he finally lets his breath go he shakes.
*
Hasser kills an innocent man and Nate has nothing to do with it. He doesn't even see it coming. One moment the car is coming and the next it's not, the man's thoughts shot and his soul gone.
It's chaos for a second. No one knows where to look except Brad who yells and draws everyone's attention. When their eyes hit Hasser he sputters, saying he kept comin'. Brad hustles him to sit in the truck and says things, calming things.
Nate looks at the dead man, his corpse. There's no man there anymore. It's very bright out today. Nate can see the last wisps of soul in the air. He feels strange.
*
The dead man's soul is not for Nate, he knows that and that's fine by him. Bigger fish, he thinks, walking around camp. Even talking to Wynn he's looking for Hasser. He finds him by the sound of Person's voice. Hasser is sitting on the ground, trying to write his report. Person is bothering him out of a misguided sense of brotherhood.
“Finish your report and get it to me ASAP,” Nate tells Hasser, who’s gripping his pen too tight. “You did nothing wrong, but we’ll see if there’s a better way to stop these cars.”
Person makes a quip about Hasser’s way of stopping cars. Hasser cringes, his thumb smearing his report.
Nate has nothing else to offer so he starts to leave. Brad follows him.
“Sir, it's vital. Hasser will write his way clear, but we're fast becoming an army occupation. We can't just shoot these civilians like we're doing.”
They will. “Marines aren’t cops, Brad. We’re an aggressive force. That said, we’ll see what we can do.”
Brad’s eyes are clear and serious. He’s not done with the conversation but Espera breaks in and explosions and Trombley follow. Nate walks away and Brad goes the other way, but Nate feels his unrest like a touch.
Later he will read a report written in childish writing full of I thinks and wasn't sures and he will sign off on it to keep Hasser's conscience light and the war machine chugging smoothly. Nothing will happen to Hasser. Nate knows that much. He was surprised Hasser did it but once he looked at the dead man he knew nothing would happen to Hasser. Shit happens in a war.
Nate walks and he ends up in the shade of his truck, Gunny Wynn off nursing some grunts, Stafford and Christeson somewhere else. His human self is hungry.
He fishes out an MRE and rips the silver top off. It's all dried garbage, even the pastry, but Nate eats that, breaking off little pieces so it doesn't bother his teeth. Some of the ones in the back are starting to get loose. Just a few.
The wind picks up, swirling the smell of piss and oil, bringing him the quickly approaching scent of Brad. Nate crumples the foil the pastry came in and licks the crumbs off his lips as Brad rounds the back of the truck. Brad looks at his mouth and then at his eyes.
"Sir," he says.
Nate drops the MRE next to his boot. "Brad," he replies, pushing outward with his mind so no one comes near. If they come within thirty feet of the truck they'll find themselves suddenly in need of their E-tool and some toilet paper.
Brad stops, too close. "Any news?"
"No," Nate says, because he has no idea. “Not since ten minutes ago.” He licks one of his loose teeth and keeps his eyes on Brad's.
Brad nods in that final way of his, but doesn't move. "Walt is..." he starts.
Nate holds up a hand. "Walt will be fine. What happened was unfortunate but not uncommon."
Brad squints, thinking only of Trombley, not wider wars. But he nods again. His smell is dark and confusing, telling of other reasons for coming. Nate looks at him evenly. Brad moves his rifle and swallows, a long dry sound. He looks around, at all the empty space.
Nate quirks his mouth. "Something else?"
His eyebrows going tight and then forcefully smooth Brad doesn't nod or shake his head. He cocks it while his body flushes in his suit.
Something inside Nate rumbles. His demon self is hungry too.
He steps closer and Brad's nostrils flare, his mouth opening to say something. Nate catches him like that, mouth parted, in a kiss, quick and firm, the toes of their boots touching. Brad breathes out into his mouth.
Nate chokes on his breath, demon gunk caught in his human lungs, stopping him up, pulling out a cough. Brad is still staring at him, slack-jawed in the sun. He gulps a breath and Nate kisses him again.
This time it’s a real kiss, the kind men running out of time share. Nate pushes too much - he knows it - but Brad does not run. He gives of his free will, his mouth yielding to Nate’s, his lips going soft and his tongue coming forward.
Nate knows his mouth tastes like sugar and dirt. He doesn’t know what Brad’s mouth tastes like because he can taste beyond that. He can taste Brad’s soul even though it’s buried deep. It’s smoky and thick, tasting like gunfire.
Nate sucks on Brad’s tongue, gripping his hip harder than he needs to. He tastes as deep as he can, high off this closeness, this human lust.
After a long time Brad pulls away to breathe. Nate barely bothers. He looks at Brad’s mouth instead, the spit and stubble-scrape.
Brad looks around for anyone. They’re alone. Nate wouldn’t have let them come close even if they tried. Brad rubs his mouth, looking at Nate balefully.
“Goddamn,” he says. “What was that?”
“If I have to tell you…”
Brad shakes his head, smirking. “No. I meant…We’re basically in the middle of Hell right now and you kissed me.”
“There was more than that.”
Brad shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah.” He looks away then back again. “I’m not…”
Nate looks at him. He hasn’t looked away. His eyeballs itch until he forces himself to blink. “Oh,” he says.
“You’re not either,” Brad insists, looking away again, maybe suspicious about people not passing by. Nate eases up on the space restrictions.
Nate nods mildly, shifting his rifle. “Maybe,” he says.
Brad’s eyes snap back, searching the side of Nate’s face. He swallows and the sound is so loud.
Gunny Wynn breaks the bubble, walking past the truck. He waves and Nate waves back.
Nate shoulders his rifle and takes a step away from Brad. “Don’t worry about it,” he says softly to Brad, knowing he looks contrite. Brad’s face turns to the truck carefully.
Nate walks after Wynn, making his shoulders slump even as he tastes the lingering tang of all the light and love that have been denied to him.
*
Nate is so happy he spares a thought to filling Person’s pill bottle and a disproportionate amount of MREs with jalapeno and cheese.
*
Brad avoids him, but life and war continue on. Nate leads the way he’s supposed to: with unfailing idealism, even when he’s frustrated. Whenever Brad comes around Nate bows out of conversations because he can’t see Brad’s carefully blank face and his eyes that give it all away without grinning so hard his loose teeth might fall out.
*
This human body, it still wants. Nate understands it, this sack of meat that lives a thousand times faster than a regular human body. It wants sex and greasy food. Nate wants other things.
The compromise is masturbation far away from the camp, in the dead of the night. He pretends to patrol and instead jerks off to try and curb the wild heat inside of him.
It’s a shitty compromise. Nate’s not a great masturbator and this body knows it. He imagines other hands, wide and dirty, and that helps.
When he turns around to go back to camp it’s a little too still and there’s the smell of ashamed voyeurism on the air. Brad is back in his grave when Nate walks by, his hands flat on his thighs.
*
Nate’s been in countless wars, sad and angry, hoping to make a difference by fucking with humanity, helping them do all the terrible things they were built to do. No one ever pays him much attention but he keeps going to war anyway.
*
Schwetje tells him to recon burning Baghdad neighborhoods and he says no. There’s no reason in particular, not the men’s safety or his ulterior motives. The stars just align that way and he says no. The humans are doing enough damage as it is. None of these men need to die tonight.
For once he does not hide his feelings in idealism. He lets his human face show his tiredness. It has been a long day and he still wishes he could crush Schwetje’s bones.
Nate kills his radio. “They want me to be more aggressive. Send the men into this. For what? So I can come home with twenty-one men instead of twenty-two? For what?”
Beside him Brad’s soul hums and his breath is slow as he watches Baghdad get bombed. He is very focused on the horizon but Nate knows him better by now, knows he’s working on something deep inside of himself.
Nate looks at the bomb-light. He lets himself recede a little, just for a second, down into the darkness of himself. Then he surfaces again, just in time to hear Brad say, “I trust your judgment, sir.”
It’s almost impossible to hear it with his human ears because Brad’s soul is flapping madly around inside him, crashing into walls. He has to really focus to separate the coolness of Brad’s voice and the frenetic pounding of his inner being.
He hears it though, the way Brad says it, from that deep, hidden place inside himself. The place no one’s ever seen. Nate’s stomach flips. It’s an oddly human reaction for him to have, thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I can be wrong. A platoon commander's situational awareness doesn't extend very far,” he says, feeling sour.
“Far enough, sir,” Brad says.
Eventually the reporter goes away. Nate is not sure when. He’s receded again, testing his body, which is rotting from the inside out. Very soon it will burn up completely and Nate will have to find another role to play, another life to live.
He is clearing black muck from his intestines when Brad asks him what he will do later, when this is over.
“Over?” Nate croaks. He clears his throat. His voice going rusty when unused- that’s new. Maybe his vocal cords are collapsing.
“We’ll be out of here soon,” Brad says. “War’s almost over.”
“You think?” Nate asks, smoothing out his voice.
Brad shrugs with one shoulder. “Yeah, probably. I wouldn’t mind.” He lets the rest of his thought float, endless. Nate senses it anyway, but says nothing.
“You goin’ back East?” Brad asks, finally.
Nate shrugs. “Maybe, after a while.”
Brad’s soul is still going, arching around brightly. “We should go out for a beer, if you end up back in Oceanside.” His voice is very flat except for the word if.
Nate looks away from Baghdad, to Brad’s dirty face. His human body breathes faster, its muddy blood pumping harder, dying a little quicker. Nate remembers the taste of Brad’s soul, so pure and doomed.
“I’d like that,” he says, smiling. Brad smiles too, his weird, caught-out smile, and they both look back at the destruction. It’s still dark out but the Morning Star will be rising soon.