Generation Kill fic: chasing shadows
I am stupidly in love with my new icon. That would be this one:
I just... *flails* His profile! ♥
Yes, I'm using it on a GK fic, even though it's the wrong character. I can pretend it's Nate gazing at Brad.
Title: chasing shadows
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,004
Pairing/Character(s): Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: A pinch-hit for battleofhydaspe (who gave wonderful prompts) in the yagkyas exchange - originally posted here. Thanks to shoshannagold and templemarker for the quick betas.
"Hey, Brad, did you know the fucking supply company POGs have gotten hold of some fucking machine - probably stole it, the shitfucks - that can seal up MREs? So they're opening the packs, skimming off all the good shit, and leaving us the peanut butter rations and all the other crap. That's why you're not getting any jalapeño and-"
Brad interrupts. He's not in the mood for one of Ray's rants tonight. "Ray, stop fucking making shit up."
"I'm not making shit up. You know why I'm not making shit up? Because I don't have to, that's why. This motherfucking war is so fucking crazy, I don't need to make shit up. It just rolls into my lap."
"Nobody's opening rations before they get to us," Brad says. He switches off his Blue Force Tracker and rubs his eyes. He's memorized as much of the AO as he can tonight.
"How do you know that, homes? There's no way you can tell. Hey, Poke, did you check the tape on the rations box before you opened it? Think it was tampered with?"
Poke looks like he's dozing with his eyes open. Brad envies him his apparent ability to filter out Ray. "What the fuck are you goin' on about now?" Poke asks, sounding as weary as Brad feels.
"Ray's got it into his tiny little monkey brain that there's a conspiracy against us, and that we're getting the really crappy MREs instead of the merely moderately crappy MREs because all the better ones are being skimmed off before they reach us," Brad says.
"Yeah, I heard that too, dawg. That's what you get for being on the front line - fucked from the rear. Surprised you don't like that, Ray, getting it up the ass from some fat, lazy POG. Thought that'd be right up your alley."
Ray grins, and gives Poke the finger.
Brad jumps to his feet. He shakes out his left leg - pins and needles from sitting still too long. Hours in a Humvee each day are playing havoc with his conditioning. He needs to run, long and hard, but he'll make do with a walk.
"Ray, get some sleep," he says, doing up the strap on his Kevlar. "You okay up there, Walt?"
"I'm good," Walt calls down. "Trombley said he'll take over in a couple of hours."
Trombley and the Reporter are in their graves, both snoring.
"Where're you off to?" Ray asks.
Somewhere in the back of the mind is the thought that he's going to go see the LT, though there's no particular reason for it, nothing he needs to query that won't wait until the morning. No need to tell Ray that. "Into town to get a blow job," he says instead.
"Be a buddy - get two, and come back and give one to your best pal." Ray waggles his eyebrows. Brad imagines he's aiming for lascivious, but he just looks like a Cat 9 moron with a twitch.
"You want me to give Poke a blow job?" Brad asks, straight-faced with just a subtle hint of bemusement.
Ray scrunches his forehead up in indignation. "Oh, so that's how we're playing it? I'm not your best buddy any more? I'm hurt."
Poke interrupts before Ray gets a chance to get too far into his drama queen routine. "I'm gonna go tuck my babies in, and then wait up for my blow job. Don't be late, honey." Poke winks and walks away.
Brad heads in the opposite direction. He takes a leak against a convenient tree on the camp perimeter. He's down to his last baby-wipe; he makes a mental note to trade for some more. Not that he's got much left worth trading, other than his secret stash of cans and porn mags, and those he isn't touching.
He gets challenged twice and nods to Kocher in passing, but he doesn't stop, just weaves his way past Humvees and graves, the LT the only destination in his mind. He catches random snatches of conversation.
"I'm telling you, man, it was this-"
"'You dirty rat!'" Someone's doing a passable impression of James Cagney. "Nah, it was 'that dirty, double-crossin' rat.'" "You sure?" "Sure, I'm sure."
"Unfuckingbelievable."
"Fuck, man, I miss tits." "Me, I miss-"
"I don't need nothing else, I got my-"
"He sure ain't no General Puller."
Brad slows down when he's gone nearly full circle. He's at the sector of the camp perimeter covered by Bravo Two's command vehicle. It's stupid - he should be picking up his pace and heading back. Nate's probably in his grave, or over at the command tent, or off dealing with whatever shit's landed on him today. If Brad has any sense, he'll go find his own grave and get some shut-eye.
There's someone standing near the stark remnants of an old tree, though, and Brad would recognize the line of those shoulders anywhere. He heads over silently and stands next to Nate.
"I thought Christeson was on watch, sir?"
"He is." Nate points, and now Brad knows where to look he can see Christeson leaning against a low berm, looking through his NVGs.
"So you're-"
"Watching the shadows."
"I see, sir," Brad says. Nate snorts, amused. "Okay," Brad admits, "I don't see, but I'm sure there's logic behind it."
Nate shakes his head ruefully. "Your faith is touching, but no, not really. Logic would dictate that I go crawl into my grave and get forty minutes of restless sleep before Mike wakes me up for the next emergency. Instead, I'm out here, looking for shapes in the shadows."
"And have you found any?"
"My own shadow remains obstinately the same, which simply reflects the fact that, other than to blink or scratch my nose, I haven't moved in the last ten minutes. But that tree," Nate nods unnecessarily towards the solitary tree in their line of sight, "has a weirdly fascinating shadow. Though it's probably more of a testament to how tired I am than the real entertainment value of the shadow," he adds, dryly self-mocking. Nate's words get slower, less crisp and distinct, when he's tired. When he's even more tired than usual, Brad corrects himself.
A cloud edges over the moon as Nate speaks, and blurs the edge of the shadow. For a moment, Brad thought it was his eyes losing focus.
"As long as you don't discharge your weapon at it," he says. "Or start chasing shadows."
"I'm tired, Brad, I haven't completely lost it." The tone is less sharp than the words.
"I'm glad to hear that, sir." Brad looks at the tree, nothing more than a broken trunk and a few leafless branches. "Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf," he says.
Nate tilts his head. "I can see the hood, I can't-oh, yeah, the wolf's snout. All this time, and I hadn't noticed that."
"It takes a special skill."
It makes Nate smile, not a wide smile, but genuine, his teeth white in the moonlight. Making Nate smile takes a special skill these days too.
There's a whole desert around them, and forty meters to the nearest Humvee, yet they're standing so close their elbows are touching. It wasn't intentional on Brad's part, standing this close. Just second nature, the way he always stands next to Nate when he's briefing them around the hood of his Humvee. The first time Brad noticed what he was doing he managed to kid himself that it was a protective stance, part of his duty. He doesn't pretend that's all it is now.
He doesn't move away either.
"The skinny is we're heading into Al Kut tomorrow," Brad says eventually, when he can't keep staring silently at the tree any longer. "Is that correct?"
Nate shakes his head. "The latest is we're staying put. Of course, it might have all changed by the morning. I'll update you as soon as I know anything concrete."
Brad nods.
"Were you heading anywhere in particular?" Nate asks.
"No, just walking."
"You know what Yogi Berra said. 'If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else.'" Nate manages to sound uncannily like the man himself. Brad never knew he was a baseball fan. There's a lot he doesn't know about Nate. He wants to know everything.
"I think I ended up where I was meant to," Brad says, because he's tired and sometimes when he's with Nate he forgets to police himself properly. Normally he catches himself in time, but for once he doesn't want to. He wants to leave the words out there and see what happens.
"Watching shadows with me." Nate doesn't say it like a joke. He says it as though it's only natural that Brad's found his way here, as though he was expecting to see him, waiting out here in the middle of the night, waiting for Brad to show up.
There's a chill in the air, but Brad feels warm. If he moves his right hand a fraction forward, it'll brush against Nate's. He moves it, just an inch, and leaves it there, the back of their hands touching.
"We shouldn't let this happen," Nate says, because he's never one to ignore the elephant in the room, but he's also Brad's commanding officer and Brad can guess how that works in Nate's head.
"Keep pretending?" Brad asks. He doesn't have to elaborate; they both know they've been pretending there's nothing between them.
"Yes." Nate has his chin up and jaw set, the way he does - probably unconsciously - whenever he gives commands he doesn't like, or whenever Encino Man's talking shit. Brad doesn't want that look, not now, not with him.
"I don't think I'm able to do that."
"Not able, or don't want to?"
Brad counters with another question. "Does it make a difference?"
Nate huffs a laugh. "Not really."
Nate's hand is cold. Brad's too. Brad moves in closer, pressing their hands between their thighs. Nothing anyone could see.
It isn't sufficient. Not when he wants to kiss Nate, strip him naked and fuck him, touch him everywhere, not just on the back of his goddamn hand, find out what makes him moan, learn how he looks and sounds when he comes. Nothing less than everything is going to feel like enough.
"Making do," Nate says, as though he's reading Brad's mind, and it's Brad's turn to laugh.
"It's what we trained for," he says.
The clouds are building up, heavier, blocking the moon and stars. There's no visible arty or illume tonight either, despite the constant low rumbling in the distance. No shadows to watch now. Even the tree is only barely visible, Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf fading into the night sky. They keep watching, though, almost asleep on their feet, leaning against each other. It's the most peaceful Brad's felt since they crossed the LOD.
"I'm gonna go make sure Walt wakes Trombley up for his watch," Brad says eventually, even though he's reluctant to move.
Nate nods. "I should go get some sleep," he says, and takes a step away. The loss of contact makes Brad ache out of all proportion to the measure of contact lost.
"I've also got to go give my ATL a blow job," he says, just before he turns to leave. He makes it sound like a normal part of his nighttime duties, and watches Nate's face carefully.
Nate stiffles his grin quickly, but not so fast that Brad doesn't catch it. He's two for two on making Nate smile tonight.
He stops by Poke's Humvee on his way back to his own grave. Poke's on watch, sitting on top of his Humvee with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
"You back from your white man walkabout?" Poke keeps his voice low, even though nothing short of a danger close strike would wake his men.
"Been chasing shadows," Brad replies.
"Caught any?"
Brad grins and nods. "Yeah," he says. "I caught one."
//
I just... *flails* His profile! ♥
Yes, I'm using it on a GK fic, even though it's the wrong character. I can pretend it's Nate gazing at Brad.
Title: chasing shadows
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,004
Pairing/Character(s): Brad/Nate, Ray, Poke
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: A pinch-hit for battleofhydaspe (who gave wonderful prompts) in the yagkyas exchange - originally posted here. Thanks to shoshannagold and templemarker for the quick betas.
"Hey, Brad, did you know the fucking supply company POGs have gotten hold of some fucking machine - probably stole it, the shitfucks - that can seal up MREs? So they're opening the packs, skimming off all the good shit, and leaving us the peanut butter rations and all the other crap. That's why you're not getting any jalapeño and-"
Brad interrupts. He's not in the mood for one of Ray's rants tonight. "Ray, stop fucking making shit up."
"I'm not making shit up. You know why I'm not making shit up? Because I don't have to, that's why. This motherfucking war is so fucking crazy, I don't need to make shit up. It just rolls into my lap."
"Nobody's opening rations before they get to us," Brad says. He switches off his Blue Force Tracker and rubs his eyes. He's memorized as much of the AO as he can tonight.
"How do you know that, homes? There's no way you can tell. Hey, Poke, did you check the tape on the rations box before you opened it? Think it was tampered with?"
Poke looks like he's dozing with his eyes open. Brad envies him his apparent ability to filter out Ray. "What the fuck are you goin' on about now?" Poke asks, sounding as weary as Brad feels.
"Ray's got it into his tiny little monkey brain that there's a conspiracy against us, and that we're getting the really crappy MREs instead of the merely moderately crappy MREs because all the better ones are being skimmed off before they reach us," Brad says.
"Yeah, I heard that too, dawg. That's what you get for being on the front line - fucked from the rear. Surprised you don't like that, Ray, getting it up the ass from some fat, lazy POG. Thought that'd be right up your alley."
Ray grins, and gives Poke the finger.
Brad jumps to his feet. He shakes out his left leg - pins and needles from sitting still too long. Hours in a Humvee each day are playing havoc with his conditioning. He needs to run, long and hard, but he'll make do with a walk.
"Ray, get some sleep," he says, doing up the strap on his Kevlar. "You okay up there, Walt?"
"I'm good," Walt calls down. "Trombley said he'll take over in a couple of hours."
Trombley and the Reporter are in their graves, both snoring.
"Where're you off to?" Ray asks.
Somewhere in the back of the mind is the thought that he's going to go see the LT, though there's no particular reason for it, nothing he needs to query that won't wait until the morning. No need to tell Ray that. "Into town to get a blow job," he says instead.
"Be a buddy - get two, and come back and give one to your best pal." Ray waggles his eyebrows. Brad imagines he's aiming for lascivious, but he just looks like a Cat 9 moron with a twitch.
"You want me to give Poke a blow job?" Brad asks, straight-faced with just a subtle hint of bemusement.
Ray scrunches his forehead up in indignation. "Oh, so that's how we're playing it? I'm not your best buddy any more? I'm hurt."
Poke interrupts before Ray gets a chance to get too far into his drama queen routine. "I'm gonna go tuck my babies in, and then wait up for my blow job. Don't be late, honey." Poke winks and walks away.
Brad heads in the opposite direction. He takes a leak against a convenient tree on the camp perimeter. He's down to his last baby-wipe; he makes a mental note to trade for some more. Not that he's got much left worth trading, other than his secret stash of cans and porn mags, and those he isn't touching.
He gets challenged twice and nods to Kocher in passing, but he doesn't stop, just weaves his way past Humvees and graves, the LT the only destination in his mind. He catches random snatches of conversation.
"I'm telling you, man, it was this-"
"'You dirty rat!'" Someone's doing a passable impression of James Cagney. "Nah, it was 'that dirty, double-crossin' rat.'" "You sure?" "Sure, I'm sure."
"Unfuckingbelievable."
"Fuck, man, I miss tits." "Me, I miss-"
"I don't need nothing else, I got my-"
"He sure ain't no General Puller."
Brad slows down when he's gone nearly full circle. He's at the sector of the camp perimeter covered by Bravo Two's command vehicle. It's stupid - he should be picking up his pace and heading back. Nate's probably in his grave, or over at the command tent, or off dealing with whatever shit's landed on him today. If Brad has any sense, he'll go find his own grave and get some shut-eye.
There's someone standing near the stark remnants of an old tree, though, and Brad would recognize the line of those shoulders anywhere. He heads over silently and stands next to Nate.
"I thought Christeson was on watch, sir?"
"He is." Nate points, and now Brad knows where to look he can see Christeson leaning against a low berm, looking through his NVGs.
"So you're-"
"Watching the shadows."
"I see, sir," Brad says. Nate snorts, amused. "Okay," Brad admits, "I don't see, but I'm sure there's logic behind it."
Nate shakes his head ruefully. "Your faith is touching, but no, not really. Logic would dictate that I go crawl into my grave and get forty minutes of restless sleep before Mike wakes me up for the next emergency. Instead, I'm out here, looking for shapes in the shadows."
"And have you found any?"
"My own shadow remains obstinately the same, which simply reflects the fact that, other than to blink or scratch my nose, I haven't moved in the last ten minutes. But that tree," Nate nods unnecessarily towards the solitary tree in their line of sight, "has a weirdly fascinating shadow. Though it's probably more of a testament to how tired I am than the real entertainment value of the shadow," he adds, dryly self-mocking. Nate's words get slower, less crisp and distinct, when he's tired. When he's even more tired than usual, Brad corrects himself.
A cloud edges over the moon as Nate speaks, and blurs the edge of the shadow. For a moment, Brad thought it was his eyes losing focus.
"As long as you don't discharge your weapon at it," he says. "Or start chasing shadows."
"I'm tired, Brad, I haven't completely lost it." The tone is less sharp than the words.
"I'm glad to hear that, sir." Brad looks at the tree, nothing more than a broken trunk and a few leafless branches. "Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf," he says.
Nate tilts his head. "I can see the hood, I can't-oh, yeah, the wolf's snout. All this time, and I hadn't noticed that."
"It takes a special skill."
It makes Nate smile, not a wide smile, but genuine, his teeth white in the moonlight. Making Nate smile takes a special skill these days too.
There's a whole desert around them, and forty meters to the nearest Humvee, yet they're standing so close their elbows are touching. It wasn't intentional on Brad's part, standing this close. Just second nature, the way he always stands next to Nate when he's briefing them around the hood of his Humvee. The first time Brad noticed what he was doing he managed to kid himself that it was a protective stance, part of his duty. He doesn't pretend that's all it is now.
He doesn't move away either.
"The skinny is we're heading into Al Kut tomorrow," Brad says eventually, when he can't keep staring silently at the tree any longer. "Is that correct?"
Nate shakes his head. "The latest is we're staying put. Of course, it might have all changed by the morning. I'll update you as soon as I know anything concrete."
Brad nods.
"Were you heading anywhere in particular?" Nate asks.
"No, just walking."
"You know what Yogi Berra said. 'If you don't know where you are going, you will wind up somewhere else.'" Nate manages to sound uncannily like the man himself. Brad never knew he was a baseball fan. There's a lot he doesn't know about Nate. He wants to know everything.
"I think I ended up where I was meant to," Brad says, because he's tired and sometimes when he's with Nate he forgets to police himself properly. Normally he catches himself in time, but for once he doesn't want to. He wants to leave the words out there and see what happens.
"Watching shadows with me." Nate doesn't say it like a joke. He says it as though it's only natural that Brad's found his way here, as though he was expecting to see him, waiting out here in the middle of the night, waiting for Brad to show up.
There's a chill in the air, but Brad feels warm. If he moves his right hand a fraction forward, it'll brush against Nate's. He moves it, just an inch, and leaves it there, the back of their hands touching.
"We shouldn't let this happen," Nate says, because he's never one to ignore the elephant in the room, but he's also Brad's commanding officer and Brad can guess how that works in Nate's head.
"Keep pretending?" Brad asks. He doesn't have to elaborate; they both know they've been pretending there's nothing between them.
"Yes." Nate has his chin up and jaw set, the way he does - probably unconsciously - whenever he gives commands he doesn't like, or whenever Encino Man's talking shit. Brad doesn't want that look, not now, not with him.
"I don't think I'm able to do that."
"Not able, or don't want to?"
Brad counters with another question. "Does it make a difference?"
Nate huffs a laugh. "Not really."
Nate's hand is cold. Brad's too. Brad moves in closer, pressing their hands between their thighs. Nothing anyone could see.
It isn't sufficient. Not when he wants to kiss Nate, strip him naked and fuck him, touch him everywhere, not just on the back of his goddamn hand, find out what makes him moan, learn how he looks and sounds when he comes. Nothing less than everything is going to feel like enough.
"Making do," Nate says, as though he's reading Brad's mind, and it's Brad's turn to laugh.
"It's what we trained for," he says.
The clouds are building up, heavier, blocking the moon and stars. There's no visible arty or illume tonight either, despite the constant low rumbling in the distance. No shadows to watch now. Even the tree is only barely visible, Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf fading into the night sky. They keep watching, though, almost asleep on their feet, leaning against each other. It's the most peaceful Brad's felt since they crossed the LOD.
"I'm gonna go make sure Walt wakes Trombley up for his watch," Brad says eventually, even though he's reluctant to move.
Nate nods. "I should go get some sleep," he says, and takes a step away. The loss of contact makes Brad ache out of all proportion to the measure of contact lost.
"I've also got to go give my ATL a blow job," he says, just before he turns to leave. He makes it sound like a normal part of his nighttime duties, and watches Nate's face carefully.
Nate stiffles his grin quickly, but not so fast that Brad doesn't catch it. He's two for two on making Nate smile tonight.
He stops by Poke's Humvee on his way back to his own grave. Poke's on watch, sitting on top of his Humvee with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
"You back from your white man walkabout?" Poke keeps his voice low, even though nothing short of a danger close strike would wake his men.
"Been chasing shadows," Brad replies.
"Caught any?"
Brad grins and nods. "Yeah," he says. "I caught one."
//