[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Anywhere But Here
Title: Anywhere But Here
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG
Summary: It's easier to pretend there was nothing between them when Brad stays in the corps and Nate doesn't
Notes: Written pretty much over a 12 hour span. Started it last night, didn't think I'd finish it this morning, ended up getting inspired randomly by pointblankdarcy's flawlessness. One of those kind of patchwork fics. Inspired by The Wild Geese by Mary Oliver.
They didn't do anything in Iraq, no matter what Ray says when he's drunk (don't tell me you didn't at least suck the LT's cock, Brad, he got you fucking lube). Brad never bothers to remind him that Nat was just a good person, a great officer, one of the few who actually gave a shit about his men because whenever he thinks it, it sounds kind of...gay.
They didn't do anything with their feet firmly back on home soil either, because it's easier to pretend there was nothing between them when Brad stays in the corps and Nate doesn't, when Nate leaves and goes to college and they aren't even in the same world anymore because Nate's a civilian and Brad is not.
They email occasionally, Nate tells Brad all the things he'd hate about Harvard and Brad reminds Nate of how fucking retarded the Corps are and that's okay. It's an appropriate relationship for two not-quite-friends. Brad emails lots of people.
There's no reason to talk about anything personal. Brad doesn't talk about the surprisingly smart, surprisingly witty hooker he...met. Just like Nate doesn't tell Brad about the woman he's kind of seeing, the one who is anti-war but doesn't see him as one of those guys, the kind who enjoy killing. There's no reason to think about how much Brad'd hate her, even though she's clever and funny and gorgeous, but he doesn't tell Brad and he does think it. He tells himself it's just not relevant, that he's still used to needing to know what Brad thinks. He knows that's complete bullshit.
Clara breaks up with him anyway. Ray's passing through - off on some great adventure or just desperate to get away from his mom ,Nate doesn't ask - and needs a place to crash for the night and Nate has a sofa. They go for drinks, Nate and Ray and Clara and before they're even out of the door, Nate knows it's a bad idea. Ray's barely finished mentioning, not even ranting about, Iraq and Clara's giving Nate a look.
Four days later she says maybe we're not the right people for each other and Nate finally mentions her to Brad, sends an email that reads My girlfriend met Ray and broke up with me right after. Surprised?
It's another four days before he gets a response and all it says is Ray said she was a bitch anyway. Nate deletes it and doesn't think about it.
"I'm going to be in California for a couple of weeks," Nate says, phone pressed to his ear. It's the first time he's talked to Brad in too long, with words and voices. Brad hasn't said anything except for hey yet. He sounds tired. Nate doesn't know why he still knows that, what Brad sounds like when he's tired. "If I pass through, do you want to grab a beer?" He presses the phone to his ear with his shoulder, reaches for the remote and switches away from the news. More war. Too much war.
"Sure." It sounds like Brad's watching TV too, a low hum in the background, words Nate can't quite pick out. "If you need a place to stay, my spare room's available."
"It'll just be for a night." He pauses, settles on reruns of Simpsons before he talks again. "If it's not a problem."
"It's not a problem."
Brad claps him on the back, laughs and mutters civvy when Nate flinches, just slightly. He laughs harder when Nate blames it on how loud the music is. For a second, Nate thinks it's nice to hear Brad laugh. He pushes that thought away, stamps it down and chooses a table that gives Brad a wall at his back and decent sightlines. Brad smirks, but he doesn't laugh, just settles down in the chair and stares at Nate.
"You look like a civilian," Bad says, eventually. It blindsides Nate for a moment, because when he looks in the mirror he still sees the same man that came back from Iraq, just cleaner.
"You look...tan," he says and it's so ridiculous but Brad just smiles and says something about surfing and fuck, Nate thinks, this was a terrible idea.
He drinks more than he should, and Brad barely drinks anything. He's not drunk when Brad steers him out of the bar, one hand on his shoulder, but he's not sober. He's not drunk, but Brad smells faintly of salt and fuck, Nate wants to kiss him.
He doesn't, he gives Brad the keys to his car and sits in the passenger seat with his hands in his lap and he stares out into the dark. Brad turns the music off the second the engine starts, but he doesn't insult it like he normally would and somehow that makes everything worse.
It's barely a few minutes drive to Brad's house, it's right on the beach and it's exactly the kind of house Nate could imagine Brad living in, a large garage, a surfboard on the porch, sand embedded into the wooden steps.
Brad stays ahead, letting Nate follow behind. The house is dark, but he mutters directions to the spare room, the bathroom, there's towels if you need them and he disappears into a room, sucked into the darkness. For a moment, Nate stands there, hanging in the hallway like he's lost. He hears a light click on, sees the dull yellow through the crack beneath the door. He listens to the movement, shuffling footsteps, a chair scraping backwards. When bed springs creak, he steps back, makes his way in what he hopes is the direction he should be going.
When Nate wakes up, there's coffee on his bed table, his duffel bag at the foot of his bed, the bedroom door open a crack. He'd slept in his jeans, his belt still on, the buckle digging into his stomach.
Brad's on the sofa when Nate leaves the bedroom in fresh clothes and decently caffeinated. The TV is on, set to mute, and there's a newspaper on the table.
"You've gotten soft," Brad says, doesn't even look at Nate. "You didn't even stir when I came in."
"Don't be humble." There's too much space between them when Nate sits down, opposite ends of the couch. "You're the Iceman."
"Guess so." Nate drums his fingers against his thigh, Brad looks out of the window, a bird swoops past, the vague shimmer of the sea, just out of sight. "Why did you come here, Nate?" For a moment, Nate thinks of just catching up and it's been a while.
"I don't know," he says, his voice too loud in the quiet. "I wanted to."
"Yeah?" He nods. Brad still isn't looking. "It's good to see you."
The distance between them feels smaller.
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG
Summary: It's easier to pretend there was nothing between them when Brad stays in the corps and Nate doesn't
Notes: Written pretty much over a 12 hour span. Started it last night, didn't think I'd finish it this morning, ended up getting inspired randomly by pointblankdarcy's flawlessness. One of those kind of patchwork fics. Inspired by The Wild Geese by Mary Oliver.
They didn't do anything in Iraq, no matter what Ray says when he's drunk (don't tell me you didn't at least suck the LT's cock, Brad, he got you fucking lube). Brad never bothers to remind him that Nat was just a good person, a great officer, one of the few who actually gave a shit about his men because whenever he thinks it, it sounds kind of...gay.
They didn't do anything with their feet firmly back on home soil either, because it's easier to pretend there was nothing between them when Brad stays in the corps and Nate doesn't, when Nate leaves and goes to college and they aren't even in the same world anymore because Nate's a civilian and Brad is not.
They email occasionally, Nate tells Brad all the things he'd hate about Harvard and Brad reminds Nate of how fucking retarded the Corps are and that's okay. It's an appropriate relationship for two not-quite-friends. Brad emails lots of people.
There's no reason to talk about anything personal. Brad doesn't talk about the surprisingly smart, surprisingly witty hooker he...met. Just like Nate doesn't tell Brad about the woman he's kind of seeing, the one who is anti-war but doesn't see him as one of those guys, the kind who enjoy killing. There's no reason to think about how much Brad'd hate her, even though she's clever and funny and gorgeous, but he doesn't tell Brad and he does think it. He tells himself it's just not relevant, that he's still used to needing to know what Brad thinks. He knows that's complete bullshit.
Clara breaks up with him anyway. Ray's passing through - off on some great adventure or just desperate to get away from his mom ,Nate doesn't ask - and needs a place to crash for the night and Nate has a sofa. They go for drinks, Nate and Ray and Clara and before they're even out of the door, Nate knows it's a bad idea. Ray's barely finished mentioning, not even ranting about, Iraq and Clara's giving Nate a look.
Four days later she says maybe we're not the right people for each other and Nate finally mentions her to Brad, sends an email that reads My girlfriend met Ray and broke up with me right after. Surprised?
It's another four days before he gets a response and all it says is Ray said she was a bitch anyway. Nate deletes it and doesn't think about it.
"I'm going to be in California for a couple of weeks," Nate says, phone pressed to his ear. It's the first time he's talked to Brad in too long, with words and voices. Brad hasn't said anything except for hey yet. He sounds tired. Nate doesn't know why he still knows that, what Brad sounds like when he's tired. "If I pass through, do you want to grab a beer?" He presses the phone to his ear with his shoulder, reaches for the remote and switches away from the news. More war. Too much war.
"Sure." It sounds like Brad's watching TV too, a low hum in the background, words Nate can't quite pick out. "If you need a place to stay, my spare room's available."
"It'll just be for a night." He pauses, settles on reruns of Simpsons before he talks again. "If it's not a problem."
"It's not a problem."
Brad claps him on the back, laughs and mutters civvy when Nate flinches, just slightly. He laughs harder when Nate blames it on how loud the music is. For a second, Nate thinks it's nice to hear Brad laugh. He pushes that thought away, stamps it down and chooses a table that gives Brad a wall at his back and decent sightlines. Brad smirks, but he doesn't laugh, just settles down in the chair and stares at Nate.
"You look like a civilian," Bad says, eventually. It blindsides Nate for a moment, because when he looks in the mirror he still sees the same man that came back from Iraq, just cleaner.
"You look...tan," he says and it's so ridiculous but Brad just smiles and says something about surfing and fuck, Nate thinks, this was a terrible idea.
He drinks more than he should, and Brad barely drinks anything. He's not drunk when Brad steers him out of the bar, one hand on his shoulder, but he's not sober. He's not drunk, but Brad smells faintly of salt and fuck, Nate wants to kiss him.
He doesn't, he gives Brad the keys to his car and sits in the passenger seat with his hands in his lap and he stares out into the dark. Brad turns the music off the second the engine starts, but he doesn't insult it like he normally would and somehow that makes everything worse.
It's barely a few minutes drive to Brad's house, it's right on the beach and it's exactly the kind of house Nate could imagine Brad living in, a large garage, a surfboard on the porch, sand embedded into the wooden steps.
Brad stays ahead, letting Nate follow behind. The house is dark, but he mutters directions to the spare room, the bathroom, there's towels if you need them and he disappears into a room, sucked into the darkness. For a moment, Nate stands there, hanging in the hallway like he's lost. He hears a light click on, sees the dull yellow through the crack beneath the door. He listens to the movement, shuffling footsteps, a chair scraping backwards. When bed springs creak, he steps back, makes his way in what he hopes is the direction he should be going.
When Nate wakes up, there's coffee on his bed table, his duffel bag at the foot of his bed, the bedroom door open a crack. He'd slept in his jeans, his belt still on, the buckle digging into his stomach.
Brad's on the sofa when Nate leaves the bedroom in fresh clothes and decently caffeinated. The TV is on, set to mute, and there's a newspaper on the table.
"You've gotten soft," Brad says, doesn't even look at Nate. "You didn't even stir when I came in."
"Don't be humble." There's too much space between them when Nate sits down, opposite ends of the couch. "You're the Iceman."
"Guess so." Nate drums his fingers against his thigh, Brad looks out of the window, a bird swoops past, the vague shimmer of the sea, just out of sight. "Why did you come here, Nate?" For a moment, Nate thinks of just catching up and it's been a while.
"I don't know," he says, his voice too loud in the quiet. "I wanted to."
"Yeah?" He nods. Brad still isn't looking. "It's good to see you."
The distance between them feels smaller.