Generation Kill recs and fic: the glitter and fall
When it comes to Gen Kill, I'm all about the Brad/Nate. What with the officer/NCO divide, and DADT and all their silent communication, there's just so much potential. But there's been some great stuff in other pairings just lately, so here are three non-Brad/Nate recs:
You Who Are My Home by shoshannagold [Brad/Ray, NC-17, 18,500 words]
Not my pairing at all, but Shosh writes these two so well it's impossible not to care for them.
built to hold and fit by figletofvenice [Christeson/Stafford, NC-17, 1,518 words]
It's just so perfectly them - pitch-perfect dialogue. And there's no lovey-dovey moments - it's just two marines, one of whom wants to get off. Great stuff.
Sedation by mlyn [Doc Bryan/Eric Kocher, hard R, 2,000 words]
A second Porn Skirmish rec - it's bringing up some wonderful work. This lovely little story left me wanting so much more of these two.
More GK recs here.
And now fic. I'm kinda... embarrassed about this.
Title: the glitter and fall
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,375 words
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to romanticalgirl for the beta. Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt: Brad stumbles across Nate in the middle of what he thinks is a combat jack, but it turns out to be stress/exhaustion induced tears. Which Brad finds inexplicably arousing.
Brad could curse up a god damn shamal when he realizes the mistake he's made. But it's too late.
*
It's easy to get turned around in the dark. Eyes lie. Every sense lies, and no matter how well you're trained, how fucking brilliant you are at your job, it happens.
It's never happened to Brad.
Until now.
*
He has a message for the LT.
If it weren't important, he'd have stopped when he saw the LT on the wrong side of the berm, body shuddering slightly. Brad's brain doesn't need a second to process and identify the movement. A combat jack. The LT's more discreet about it than most of them, but it's not the first time Brad's seen the LT in the distance, heading somewhere private for a moment, or his back turned and arm working frantically. Brad always about-faces and tries to forget it. Most of all, he tries not to use that image in his own combat jacks.
He doesn't like to think how badly he's failing there.
So he doesn't. He concentrates on the moment. The orders are important and the LT's off comms, so Brad keeps walking, footsteps crunching in the rubble-strewn sand, deliberate noise that goes against all his instincts. He walks slow enough to give the LT time.
The LT doesn't turn around. Brad thought maybe he would tuck himself in, wipe his hands on his thighs and look around, a little sharp, a little frustrated, with that quiet self-mocking smile he has sometimes. A raised eyebrow maybe, or even a curse for Brad. Brad would have expected any of that, would have matched the smile.
He stops a step behind the LT. He's still now, but Brad can tell it's forced, tension holding him in place, not the easy stillness of a Marine on alert. Doesn't seem like the LT to get this worked up about being caught in a combat jack. This is theater, the usual rules don't apply. Marines make do, when and where, officers as well as grunts.
There's a small sound in front of him, bitten off, and Brad can't identify it. He knows it came from the LT, but it doesn't make sense. It sounds like a sob, but Brad can't equate that with anything he knows.
Brad takes one more step, draws level, then another step, too conscious of each one. He feels like he's trespassing, and it's enough to thoroughly piss him off, because they're at war here, and the LT's his leader. He shouldn't be making Brad feel like this, not when Brad's just doing his job.
He stands in front of the LT, all set to repel any sarcastic remark the LT might throw at him, but there's something incredibly wrong, because he's not looking at Brad, he's turning away, trying- trying to hide, and Brad's made a huge fucking mistake. Because even in the dark, even ducking his head, there's no mistaking the glitter of tears on Nate's face, pale streaks in the layered grime, eyes still full.
Brad swallows. He feels utterly lost.
"I'm-" Sorry? He has a message to deliver, but it isn't that important, not more important than whatever it is that has Nate Fick fucking crying out here in the dark.
Brad hears him take a deep breath. "Is there anything you need, Sergeant?" he asks, voice a little thicker than usual but otherwise almost normal. If there were a fraction less light bleeding across the plain from the air strike, his performance might even work. Brad might not have seen anything.
But he has, and he can't bring himself to pretend he hasn't. He can't walk away and leave Nate like this, holding onto his pride and his role, as if he'll fail Brad in some way if he doesn't. Brad knows officers like Nate, knows Nate, knows too well that god damn refusal to let anyone else share their burden.
"Sir." Brad falters again, because he doesn't have a clue what to say, what to ask. Brad doesn't do people and emotions and motivational speeches. He doesn't do touchy-feely or anything like this, and he knows Nate, knows for a certainty that he'd hate that. So Brad just reaches out, hand on a shoulder. Nothing too great or unforgivable. "Please," he says, and lets Nate work out what he's asking.
Nate just shakes his head. Brad can see Nate's biting his lip, willing himself under control, and Brad feels that surge of anger again, only this time it's at this fucking war, at the fucked up morons of commanders, at everything that's brought Nate to this. Brad forgets about what's appropriate or not, about what Nate will accept and what he won't - Brad's going to give Nate whatever he needs, whatever it takes.
He moves his hand from Nate's shoulder to his chin, tilting his face upward, and uses his other hand to brush away the salt tracks with his thumb. He won't let Nate deny that he's not okay, won't let Marine bravado or officer pride take over. He wipes first one cheek then the other. He can feel Nate rebelling against this, trying to move his head away, closing his eyes for a moment like he's a child again - if he can't see, then he can't be seen. Only a moment, though, and he opens his eyes again, steeling his jaw in Brad's grip, one more tear falling.
Brad wants to kiss it away, feels this weird jumble of tenderness and heat. He wants to fuck Nate, make him forget; wants to hold him until he's shaking for other reasons, better ones. Brad can feel his own arousal - he bites his lip and tries to ignore it. What he wants or needs is irrelevant. This is about Nate.
Brad wipes away the remaining tear, the calluses on his thumb rough against the ridiculous softness of Nate's cheek. Nate looks up, stares back at Brad, like he feels he has to redeem himself for a moment of weakness, stares with his face set and tough but his eyes so full of need that Brad can't help it. He leans in and kisses Nate, physically no more than a dry brush of dusty lips. But it's an offer.
He tries to put it into words, because he can't leave this to chance, can't just hope Nate understands what he's offering.
"You carry the weight of the whole fucking platoon on your shoulders, sir. Let me. Just- let me." Brad doesn't care that he's begging. This is Nate - Brad would do anything for him. Risk anything.
"I can't," Nate bites out, voice raw. He's staring at the ground now that Brad's let go of his chin, like he can't bear to let Brad look at him, like he's using the shadow of his Kevlar as a defense against more than the Haji. Like he's ashamed, and Brad won't stand for that.
"You can. It's okay," Brad whispers. "Just for now, just for a few minutes, just this one time."
Nate's shaking his head, but it's almost on Brad's shoulder now. Nate's close enough for Brad to reach out easily, hand around the back of Nate's neck, and pull him in those last few inches. Nate doesn't resist, just chokes back a breath or a sob or some sound that makes Brad's gut clench with the pain of it.
Nate's Kevlar is a hard line on Brad's shoulder, and when Brad takes the final half step that brings him fully chest to chest with Nate, they're still too far apart, flak jackets and LBVs and ammo between them. He keeps his hand on Nate's neck, fingers curled into the small dip at the base of Nate's skull, one small point of contact. Nate's skin is warm and sweaty and his hair is very soft. There's a dull pain in Brad's gut. He thinks he recognizes it.
They stand like that, silent, until Nate pulls back and stands up straight again, looks Brad firmly in the eye, and says, "You needed to speak to me?"
Brad nods and gives him the message, and they walk in step back to camp.
It isn't enough, but then in this war nothing is.
//
N.B. svilleficrecs gave the prompt, which I love to bits. And then gave me a detailed scenario of how it could all pan out. And I desperately wanted to write that, but I'd already written this, and I couldn't seem to write anything else. So this is it. And it's not even porny. Massive fail, Signe.
And now I need to go and drive a humvee into a building. Writing's fun!
You Who Are My Home by shoshannagold [Brad/Ray, NC-17, 18,500 words]
Not my pairing at all, but Shosh writes these two so well it's impossible not to care for them.
built to hold and fit by figletofvenice [Christeson/Stafford, NC-17, 1,518 words]
It's just so perfectly them - pitch-perfect dialogue. And there's no lovey-dovey moments - it's just two marines, one of whom wants to get off. Great stuff.
Sedation by mlyn [Doc Bryan/Eric Kocher, hard R, 2,000 words]
A second Porn Skirmish rec - it's bringing up some wonderful work. This lovely little story left me wanting so much more of these two.
More GK recs here.
And now fic. I'm kinda... embarrassed about this.
Title: the glitter and fall
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,375 words
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to romanticalgirl for the beta. Written for the Get Some Porn Skirmish, prompt: Brad stumbles across Nate in the middle of what he thinks is a combat jack, but it turns out to be stress/exhaustion induced tears. Which Brad finds inexplicably arousing.
Brad could curse up a god damn shamal when he realizes the mistake he's made. But it's too late.
*
It's easy to get turned around in the dark. Eyes lie. Every sense lies, and no matter how well you're trained, how fucking brilliant you are at your job, it happens.
It's never happened to Brad.
Until now.
*
He has a message for the LT.
If it weren't important, he'd have stopped when he saw the LT on the wrong side of the berm, body shuddering slightly. Brad's brain doesn't need a second to process and identify the movement. A combat jack. The LT's more discreet about it than most of them, but it's not the first time Brad's seen the LT in the distance, heading somewhere private for a moment, or his back turned and arm working frantically. Brad always about-faces and tries to forget it. Most of all, he tries not to use that image in his own combat jacks.
He doesn't like to think how badly he's failing there.
So he doesn't. He concentrates on the moment. The orders are important and the LT's off comms, so Brad keeps walking, footsteps crunching in the rubble-strewn sand, deliberate noise that goes against all his instincts. He walks slow enough to give the LT time.
The LT doesn't turn around. Brad thought maybe he would tuck himself in, wipe his hands on his thighs and look around, a little sharp, a little frustrated, with that quiet self-mocking smile he has sometimes. A raised eyebrow maybe, or even a curse for Brad. Brad would have expected any of that, would have matched the smile.
He stops a step behind the LT. He's still now, but Brad can tell it's forced, tension holding him in place, not the easy stillness of a Marine on alert. Doesn't seem like the LT to get this worked up about being caught in a combat jack. This is theater, the usual rules don't apply. Marines make do, when and where, officers as well as grunts.
There's a small sound in front of him, bitten off, and Brad can't identify it. He knows it came from the LT, but it doesn't make sense. It sounds like a sob, but Brad can't equate that with anything he knows.
Brad takes one more step, draws level, then another step, too conscious of each one. He feels like he's trespassing, and it's enough to thoroughly piss him off, because they're at war here, and the LT's his leader. He shouldn't be making Brad feel like this, not when Brad's just doing his job.
He stands in front of the LT, all set to repel any sarcastic remark the LT might throw at him, but there's something incredibly wrong, because he's not looking at Brad, he's turning away, trying- trying to hide, and Brad's made a huge fucking mistake. Because even in the dark, even ducking his head, there's no mistaking the glitter of tears on Nate's face, pale streaks in the layered grime, eyes still full.
Brad swallows. He feels utterly lost.
"I'm-" Sorry? He has a message to deliver, but it isn't that important, not more important than whatever it is that has Nate Fick fucking crying out here in the dark.
Brad hears him take a deep breath. "Is there anything you need, Sergeant?" he asks, voice a little thicker than usual but otherwise almost normal. If there were a fraction less light bleeding across the plain from the air strike, his performance might even work. Brad might not have seen anything.
But he has, and he can't bring himself to pretend he hasn't. He can't walk away and leave Nate like this, holding onto his pride and his role, as if he'll fail Brad in some way if he doesn't. Brad knows officers like Nate, knows Nate, knows too well that god damn refusal to let anyone else share their burden.
"Sir." Brad falters again, because he doesn't have a clue what to say, what to ask. Brad doesn't do people and emotions and motivational speeches. He doesn't do touchy-feely or anything like this, and he knows Nate, knows for a certainty that he'd hate that. So Brad just reaches out, hand on a shoulder. Nothing too great or unforgivable. "Please," he says, and lets Nate work out what he's asking.
Nate just shakes his head. Brad can see Nate's biting his lip, willing himself under control, and Brad feels that surge of anger again, only this time it's at this fucking war, at the fucked up morons of commanders, at everything that's brought Nate to this. Brad forgets about what's appropriate or not, about what Nate will accept and what he won't - Brad's going to give Nate whatever he needs, whatever it takes.
He moves his hand from Nate's shoulder to his chin, tilting his face upward, and uses his other hand to brush away the salt tracks with his thumb. He won't let Nate deny that he's not okay, won't let Marine bravado or officer pride take over. He wipes first one cheek then the other. He can feel Nate rebelling against this, trying to move his head away, closing his eyes for a moment like he's a child again - if he can't see, then he can't be seen. Only a moment, though, and he opens his eyes again, steeling his jaw in Brad's grip, one more tear falling.
Brad wants to kiss it away, feels this weird jumble of tenderness and heat. He wants to fuck Nate, make him forget; wants to hold him until he's shaking for other reasons, better ones. Brad can feel his own arousal - he bites his lip and tries to ignore it. What he wants or needs is irrelevant. This is about Nate.
Brad wipes away the remaining tear, the calluses on his thumb rough against the ridiculous softness of Nate's cheek. Nate looks up, stares back at Brad, like he feels he has to redeem himself for a moment of weakness, stares with his face set and tough but his eyes so full of need that Brad can't help it. He leans in and kisses Nate, physically no more than a dry brush of dusty lips. But it's an offer.
He tries to put it into words, because he can't leave this to chance, can't just hope Nate understands what he's offering.
"You carry the weight of the whole fucking platoon on your shoulders, sir. Let me. Just- let me." Brad doesn't care that he's begging. This is Nate - Brad would do anything for him. Risk anything.
"I can't," Nate bites out, voice raw. He's staring at the ground now that Brad's let go of his chin, like he can't bear to let Brad look at him, like he's using the shadow of his Kevlar as a defense against more than the Haji. Like he's ashamed, and Brad won't stand for that.
"You can. It's okay," Brad whispers. "Just for now, just for a few minutes, just this one time."
Nate's shaking his head, but it's almost on Brad's shoulder now. Nate's close enough for Brad to reach out easily, hand around the back of Nate's neck, and pull him in those last few inches. Nate doesn't resist, just chokes back a breath or a sob or some sound that makes Brad's gut clench with the pain of it.
Nate's Kevlar is a hard line on Brad's shoulder, and when Brad takes the final half step that brings him fully chest to chest with Nate, they're still too far apart, flak jackets and LBVs and ammo between them. He keeps his hand on Nate's neck, fingers curled into the small dip at the base of Nate's skull, one small point of contact. Nate's skin is warm and sweaty and his hair is very soft. There's a dull pain in Brad's gut. He thinks he recognizes it.
They stand like that, silent, until Nate pulls back and stands up straight again, looks Brad firmly in the eye, and says, "You needed to speak to me?"
Brad nods and gives him the message, and they walk in step back to camp.
It isn't enough, but then in this war nothing is.
//
N.B. svilleficrecs gave the prompt, which I love to bits. And then gave me a detailed scenario of how it could all pan out. And I desperately wanted to write that, but I'd already written this, and I couldn't seem to write anything else. So this is it. And it's not even porny. Massive fail, Signe.
And now I need to go and drive a humvee into a building. Writing's fun!