Generation Kill fic: last into the light
Title: last into the light
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Genre: First time, post series
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,104 words
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 alethialia for the super, last minute beta. Happy birthday, Laura - this is for you. ♥
It's afterwards, when everyone has gone, party over. It's late, but Nate still doesn't distinguish night and day the way he used to.
Mike's gone to bed. He showed Nate where to find the beer, then told him to pull the door shut when he left, so Nate's out in the garden on his own, just beer for company. He feels naked, out under the open skies with no combat gear, no Kevlar or weapons. Naked and scared, and somehow that's harder to deal with here, where there's no action to take, no protocols to follow. No men to look out for.
That's what it'll be like from now on.
He sits with his back to a tree, even though there's a bench, two deckchairs and a swing in the garden. The tree's sturdy, an old oak tree, gnarly and solid behind him. His paddle, photo side up, is on the ground beside him. It's too dark to see the figures in the photo, but he doesn't need to see them.
Everyone has gone. Brad's gone too, and Nate can't deny that's separate in his mind, different from everyone else leaving. Brad's gone, he's out of Nate's life now, and Nate's not sure how he's going to deal with that. He's known him less than a year, but it feels like half a lifetime, and the idea of a life without Brad feels as significant as leaving the Corps. More painful. Wrong.
He reaches down for the bottle he brought out with him. Cracks the top and takes a long pull. He looks up at the sky, but there's too much light pollution, the amber of streetlights a hazy glow that hides all but the brightest stars. He'll probably never see stars as bright as they were in Iraq, those few times the bombing quieted down, the sky too big out there in the desert.
Drink doesn't normally make him maudlin, but he's letting tonight be an exception. He takes another pull, and marvels at how perfectly cold it is, how good it tastes. And knows he'd swap it for ass water from the tanks in the back of his Humvee if he could take another tour with his men, if it didn't mean he'd have to send them out to die when that's what it took. He knows he can't, that he'd fail them if he stayed. That he doesn't want to become what it takes to be a great leader. Doesn't want to be ruthless.
He thinks now would be a good time to cry, but he doesn't. He ponders the random nature of tears, the insignificant things that can cause them, the huge things that don't.
He isn't quite drunk, but he's had enough to wonder if he's imagining things when he sees Brad standing in front of him. If it's wishful thinking when Brad sits down beside him, pulls the beer out of his hand and takes a swig. Nate doesn't protest, just watches the swallow of Brad's Adam's apple as he empties the bottle, follows the motion of his hand as he places it carefully on the grass.
"You left," Nate says, stupidly, because it's obvious, and equally obvious that Brad has now come back. Then he remembers. "You didn't say goodbye." An observation, not an accusation. Everyone else said goodbye, but Brad didn't, just left, a quiet nod as he slipped out the door. Nate had nodded back and Brad had looked at him either a fraction too long or nowhere near long enough, and then he'd gone.
"I'm not saying goodbye," Brad says, and he's got his hand on Nate's cheek, and he's moving forward, inside that line that everyone draws around themselves but Nate never has with Brad. He's moving in, and Nate's moving, and if Nate had to write up a report he couldn't say who kisses first. But it doesn't matter, because this is what Nate's missed, all this time. Crazy to miss something he's never had, Brad's lips against his, Brad's tongue slipping inside his mouth, the hard press of his shoulder against Nate's. But somewhere underneath, Nate thinks he'd been wanting this from the very start, had known. Sometimes, falling asleep at night, all he remembers is a dust brown land and roads that stretch forever, straight as a die while his life turned in shapes he doesn't think there's a mathematical name for. Other times, all he remembers is Brad, the way he looked at Nate in theater, the questions in his eyes that Nate had to fight not to answer out loud.
Nate's head is pressed against a knot of wood, and there's a tree root under his ass. Brad's a heavy weight against him and the angle's all wrong, but Nate doesn't move. It wouldn't be right if it were comfortable, but it's oddly easy. No thinking required, no second guessing, no anticipation of regrets.
"You're thinking too much, sir," Brad says, shifting against him, up onto his knees. His thumb brushes Nate's cheek, where his Kevlar strap should be. His other hand is tugging at Nate's shirt, still buttoned up and tucked neatly into his pants.
"One of my sins," Nate says, and he's not drunk, but he can't quite focus. Brad's hand is on his flank now, warm against skin chilled by the night air, and Nate wants Brad to touch him everywhere. Wants to touch Brad, too, and he lifts Brad's tee-shirt, hanging outside his jeans in violation of the grooming standard. Nate can't stop his mind going off on tangents, when all he wants is to concentrate on here and now: Brad lazily shifting in front of him, raising his arms so Nate can pull his shirt off; Brad kneeling in front of him, the planes of his hips cutting sharp lines, shadows showing where Nate wants to put his mouth; Brad's tongue wetting his lower lip, and his eyes dropping down Nate's body as he pulls Nate's shirt and undershirt off in turn.
The swaying of the swing in the breeze reminds him. "We're in Mike's backyard," Nate points out.
"Mike's three sheets to the wind like the pussy old man he is. And even if he woke, he's smart enough not to investigate. Besides," he says, "I can be quiet. The question is, can you, sir?"
"I will try my best not to dishonor the Corps and forget all my training," Nate says seriously.
Brad tilts his head. "Strictly speaking, what we're doing would be construed as dishonoring the Corps."
Nate doesn't give a damn about that. Not for himself. For Brad, though-
"We don't have to-" he starts, and Brad just stares at him, the look that plainly says his commanding officer has just spouted some Ivy League liberal dicksuck touchy-feely kumbaya horseshit and only Brad's years of training are keeping him silent. Nate's only had it directed at him on rare occasions. Normally Brad's response has been a stoic yes, sir that conveyed far more than two words should. More than anything, right now, Nate does not want to hear yes, sir, not to the out he's just offered.
Brad presses the heel of his hand against Nate's groin, and Nate bites back a groan. "Your dick thinks otherwise," he says, when he apparently feels Nate has gotten the message from his stare.
He drops his gaze down Brad's body, to the bulge in his jeans. Nate can feel the arousal building in him, too hard, too fast, because it's been fucking months that he's wanted this. He reaches out for Brad's belt, only to have Brad block him.
"I believe I get the first turn," Brad says. "Seeing as you were too pansy-ass to follow me out the door earlier. Can't reward that kind of behavior."
Nate would protest Brad's assessment of the situation - it was his paddle party, dammit, he couldn't just walk out - but Brad's undone his belt and working on his fly, and Nate won't protest that. Brad taps Nate on the side and Nate holds his hips up off the ground while Brad pulls his pants down. Nate's in regulation black briefs - he hasn't made time to shop for anything else.
Brad cups his hand around Nate's cock, the touch warm even through the cotton, then bends down and traces the outline with his tongue, slowly, up one side and down the other. Nate stays perfectly still, perfectly silent. He can feel his cock leaking, and he's aching for more, but he doesn't move.
When Brad looks up at him, it's hard for Nate to breathe. Brad's look is so focused, so intense, so full of desire Nate can't understand how he wasn't certain long before this. Why he didn't follow him out the door earlier. Doing this is the only thing that makes sense right now.
"Time to test your training," Brad says, and he smirks, that lopsided grin that always makes Nate giddy. He pulls Nate's briefs down, and swallows Nate's cock. No preamble or teasing. He sucks cock like he does everything, like he's born for it.
Nate let himself imagine this some nights, lying in his grave or under the Humvee, unable to sleep in case something happened in those minutes he was out of it. He imagined the heat of Brad's mouth, the feel of his fingers slipping behind his balls. The reality eviscerates his imagination and buries it in shame for the feeble thing it was. He never imagined this, the way Brad hums quietly as he twists his tongue around the head of Nate's cock, the way he takes him in so Nate hits the back of his throat, the way he keeps looking up at Nate, so fucking open.
Nate can't last long, not under such a concerted assault. He signals a warning, but Brad closes his eyes and ignores it, doesn't pull away until Nate's stopped trembling through his orgasm.
He expects Brad to spit, but he doesn't, just swallows. He licks his lips. "Can't leave a mess for Mike," he says practically.
"Such a considerate guest," Nate says, and pulls him up so they're chest to chest. Brad's still half clothed, and the denim is rough against Nate's spent cock. Nate tastes himself on Brad's tongue, and beer, and some of the spicy snacks Mike's wife made; he kisses Brad until all he can taste is Brad, and then he tugs at Brad's belt. He's clumsy all of a sudden, fumbling the buckle, and Brad takes over, undoes the buckle and buttons and pulls his jeans and briefs down around his thighs. Nate reaches out again, but Brad shakes his head.
"I want to watch you," he says, and he does. He fists his cock, rough and fast, and doesn't take his eyes off Nate, like Nate's the one putting on the show.
Nate watches in turn. Watches Brad's cock slipping through his hand, and Nate's seen Brad half-naked before, caught him in the middle of a combat jack one night in Baghdad, but this is completely different. Nate bites his lip and moves his hands under his thighs because he wants to touch. Aches to touch, but he lets Brad do this his way.
Brad leans over him when he comes, splattering Nate's chest. "Fuck," he swears, loudly, then curses again under his breath until he's finished.
"You broke protocol," Nate says, hiding a sly grin.
"I said I could be quiet. I didn't say I was going to be," Brad says, pussying out of the charge. He raises an eyebrow as though daring Nate to disagree.
Nate shakes his head, amused.
They clean up with Nate's undershirt, quick and efficient, and then Brad sits back down beside Nate. There's a streetlight at the bottom of the garden, but the branches of the tree cast a dappled shadow across Brad's face, and Nate can't tell what he's thinking.
The dark feels less like a protection now, a cocoon in which anything could happen, and more like a mask they've hidden under. It's less than three hours until dawn. Nate wants this to survive daylight.
"Tomorrow," he starts, then can't quite work out how to continue.
"You haven't lived until you've driven the San Diego Freeway fifty over the limit on an R1," Brad says, getting up and holding out a hand for Nate. Nate takes it, though he doesn't need it.
It's Saturday tomorrow. Technically, today. "I believe in living life to the full," Nate says.
"09.00," Brad says, and it's a promise. It's this in daylight.
Nate smiles his assent. "09.00," he confirms.
//
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Genre: First time, post series
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2,104 words
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 alethialia for the super, last minute beta. Happy birthday, Laura - this is for you. ♥
It's afterwards, when everyone has gone, party over. It's late, but Nate still doesn't distinguish night and day the way he used to.
Mike's gone to bed. He showed Nate where to find the beer, then told him to pull the door shut when he left, so Nate's out in the garden on his own, just beer for company. He feels naked, out under the open skies with no combat gear, no Kevlar or weapons. Naked and scared, and somehow that's harder to deal with here, where there's no action to take, no protocols to follow. No men to look out for.
That's what it'll be like from now on.
He sits with his back to a tree, even though there's a bench, two deckchairs and a swing in the garden. The tree's sturdy, an old oak tree, gnarly and solid behind him. His paddle, photo side up, is on the ground beside him. It's too dark to see the figures in the photo, but he doesn't need to see them.
Everyone has gone. Brad's gone too, and Nate can't deny that's separate in his mind, different from everyone else leaving. Brad's gone, he's out of Nate's life now, and Nate's not sure how he's going to deal with that. He's known him less than a year, but it feels like half a lifetime, and the idea of a life without Brad feels as significant as leaving the Corps. More painful. Wrong.
He reaches down for the bottle he brought out with him. Cracks the top and takes a long pull. He looks up at the sky, but there's too much light pollution, the amber of streetlights a hazy glow that hides all but the brightest stars. He'll probably never see stars as bright as they were in Iraq, those few times the bombing quieted down, the sky too big out there in the desert.
Drink doesn't normally make him maudlin, but he's letting tonight be an exception. He takes another pull, and marvels at how perfectly cold it is, how good it tastes. And knows he'd swap it for ass water from the tanks in the back of his Humvee if he could take another tour with his men, if it didn't mean he'd have to send them out to die when that's what it took. He knows he can't, that he'd fail them if he stayed. That he doesn't want to become what it takes to be a great leader. Doesn't want to be ruthless.
He thinks now would be a good time to cry, but he doesn't. He ponders the random nature of tears, the insignificant things that can cause them, the huge things that don't.
He isn't quite drunk, but he's had enough to wonder if he's imagining things when he sees Brad standing in front of him. If it's wishful thinking when Brad sits down beside him, pulls the beer out of his hand and takes a swig. Nate doesn't protest, just watches the swallow of Brad's Adam's apple as he empties the bottle, follows the motion of his hand as he places it carefully on the grass.
"You left," Nate says, stupidly, because it's obvious, and equally obvious that Brad has now come back. Then he remembers. "You didn't say goodbye." An observation, not an accusation. Everyone else said goodbye, but Brad didn't, just left, a quiet nod as he slipped out the door. Nate had nodded back and Brad had looked at him either a fraction too long or nowhere near long enough, and then he'd gone.
"I'm not saying goodbye," Brad says, and he's got his hand on Nate's cheek, and he's moving forward, inside that line that everyone draws around themselves but Nate never has with Brad. He's moving in, and Nate's moving, and if Nate had to write up a report he couldn't say who kisses first. But it doesn't matter, because this is what Nate's missed, all this time. Crazy to miss something he's never had, Brad's lips against his, Brad's tongue slipping inside his mouth, the hard press of his shoulder against Nate's. But somewhere underneath, Nate thinks he'd been wanting this from the very start, had known. Sometimes, falling asleep at night, all he remembers is a dust brown land and roads that stretch forever, straight as a die while his life turned in shapes he doesn't think there's a mathematical name for. Other times, all he remembers is Brad, the way he looked at Nate in theater, the questions in his eyes that Nate had to fight not to answer out loud.
Nate's head is pressed against a knot of wood, and there's a tree root under his ass. Brad's a heavy weight against him and the angle's all wrong, but Nate doesn't move. It wouldn't be right if it were comfortable, but it's oddly easy. No thinking required, no second guessing, no anticipation of regrets.
"You're thinking too much, sir," Brad says, shifting against him, up onto his knees. His thumb brushes Nate's cheek, where his Kevlar strap should be. His other hand is tugging at Nate's shirt, still buttoned up and tucked neatly into his pants.
"One of my sins," Nate says, and he's not drunk, but he can't quite focus. Brad's hand is on his flank now, warm against skin chilled by the night air, and Nate wants Brad to touch him everywhere. Wants to touch Brad, too, and he lifts Brad's tee-shirt, hanging outside his jeans in violation of the grooming standard. Nate can't stop his mind going off on tangents, when all he wants is to concentrate on here and now: Brad lazily shifting in front of him, raising his arms so Nate can pull his shirt off; Brad kneeling in front of him, the planes of his hips cutting sharp lines, shadows showing where Nate wants to put his mouth; Brad's tongue wetting his lower lip, and his eyes dropping down Nate's body as he pulls Nate's shirt and undershirt off in turn.
The swaying of the swing in the breeze reminds him. "We're in Mike's backyard," Nate points out.
"Mike's three sheets to the wind like the pussy old man he is. And even if he woke, he's smart enough not to investigate. Besides," he says, "I can be quiet. The question is, can you, sir?"
"I will try my best not to dishonor the Corps and forget all my training," Nate says seriously.
Brad tilts his head. "Strictly speaking, what we're doing would be construed as dishonoring the Corps."
Nate doesn't give a damn about that. Not for himself. For Brad, though-
"We don't have to-" he starts, and Brad just stares at him, the look that plainly says his commanding officer has just spouted some Ivy League liberal dicksuck touchy-feely kumbaya horseshit and only Brad's years of training are keeping him silent. Nate's only had it directed at him on rare occasions. Normally Brad's response has been a stoic yes, sir that conveyed far more than two words should. More than anything, right now, Nate does not want to hear yes, sir, not to the out he's just offered.
Brad presses the heel of his hand against Nate's groin, and Nate bites back a groan. "Your dick thinks otherwise," he says, when he apparently feels Nate has gotten the message from his stare.
He drops his gaze down Brad's body, to the bulge in his jeans. Nate can feel the arousal building in him, too hard, too fast, because it's been fucking months that he's wanted this. He reaches out for Brad's belt, only to have Brad block him.
"I believe I get the first turn," Brad says. "Seeing as you were too pansy-ass to follow me out the door earlier. Can't reward that kind of behavior."
Nate would protest Brad's assessment of the situation - it was his paddle party, dammit, he couldn't just walk out - but Brad's undone his belt and working on his fly, and Nate won't protest that. Brad taps Nate on the side and Nate holds his hips up off the ground while Brad pulls his pants down. Nate's in regulation black briefs - he hasn't made time to shop for anything else.
Brad cups his hand around Nate's cock, the touch warm even through the cotton, then bends down and traces the outline with his tongue, slowly, up one side and down the other. Nate stays perfectly still, perfectly silent. He can feel his cock leaking, and he's aching for more, but he doesn't move.
When Brad looks up at him, it's hard for Nate to breathe. Brad's look is so focused, so intense, so full of desire Nate can't understand how he wasn't certain long before this. Why he didn't follow him out the door earlier. Doing this is the only thing that makes sense right now.
"Time to test your training," Brad says, and he smirks, that lopsided grin that always makes Nate giddy. He pulls Nate's briefs down, and swallows Nate's cock. No preamble or teasing. He sucks cock like he does everything, like he's born for it.
Nate let himself imagine this some nights, lying in his grave or under the Humvee, unable to sleep in case something happened in those minutes he was out of it. He imagined the heat of Brad's mouth, the feel of his fingers slipping behind his balls. The reality eviscerates his imagination and buries it in shame for the feeble thing it was. He never imagined this, the way Brad hums quietly as he twists his tongue around the head of Nate's cock, the way he takes him in so Nate hits the back of his throat, the way he keeps looking up at Nate, so fucking open.
Nate can't last long, not under such a concerted assault. He signals a warning, but Brad closes his eyes and ignores it, doesn't pull away until Nate's stopped trembling through his orgasm.
He expects Brad to spit, but he doesn't, just swallows. He licks his lips. "Can't leave a mess for Mike," he says practically.
"Such a considerate guest," Nate says, and pulls him up so they're chest to chest. Brad's still half clothed, and the denim is rough against Nate's spent cock. Nate tastes himself on Brad's tongue, and beer, and some of the spicy snacks Mike's wife made; he kisses Brad until all he can taste is Brad, and then he tugs at Brad's belt. He's clumsy all of a sudden, fumbling the buckle, and Brad takes over, undoes the buckle and buttons and pulls his jeans and briefs down around his thighs. Nate reaches out again, but Brad shakes his head.
"I want to watch you," he says, and he does. He fists his cock, rough and fast, and doesn't take his eyes off Nate, like Nate's the one putting on the show.
Nate watches in turn. Watches Brad's cock slipping through his hand, and Nate's seen Brad half-naked before, caught him in the middle of a combat jack one night in Baghdad, but this is completely different. Nate bites his lip and moves his hands under his thighs because he wants to touch. Aches to touch, but he lets Brad do this his way.
Brad leans over him when he comes, splattering Nate's chest. "Fuck," he swears, loudly, then curses again under his breath until he's finished.
"You broke protocol," Nate says, hiding a sly grin.
"I said I could be quiet. I didn't say I was going to be," Brad says, pussying out of the charge. He raises an eyebrow as though daring Nate to disagree.
Nate shakes his head, amused.
They clean up with Nate's undershirt, quick and efficient, and then Brad sits back down beside Nate. There's a streetlight at the bottom of the garden, but the branches of the tree cast a dappled shadow across Brad's face, and Nate can't tell what he's thinking.
The dark feels less like a protection now, a cocoon in which anything could happen, and more like a mask they've hidden under. It's less than three hours until dawn. Nate wants this to survive daylight.
"Tomorrow," he starts, then can't quite work out how to continue.
"You haven't lived until you've driven the San Diego Freeway fifty over the limit on an R1," Brad says, getting up and holding out a hand for Nate. Nate takes it, though he doesn't need it.
It's Saturday tomorrow. Technically, today. "I believe in living life to the full," Nate says.
"09.00," Brad says, and it's a promise. It's this in daylight.
Nate smiles his assent. "09.00," he confirms.
//