Generation Kill fic: the geometry of life: a story in two parts
See part 1 for the header.
i. don't shit where you eat
ii. a bryd that retorneth agayn to his owene nest
England is a choice. Brad's staying with the Corps, but he doesn't have to stay here.
It's a two-year exchange. At the time, he's conscious of every minute of it.
*
On his first run ashore with his new troop, Brad teaches them Crud. Within five minutes they've broken the glass on a framed painting of the Spanish Armada, spilled the referee's lager, and amassed two casualties (walking wounded).
Two minutes later, they get thrown out of the pub.
Brad considers it an auspicious start.
*
Brad misses five things while he's in England:
Decent roads. Ones meant for driving, for the sheer joy of the open road.
Fried chicken.
NPR. He'd never admit this, but listening to Talk of the Nation or Fresh Air when he's driving the freeway is one of the things that makes him feel like he's home.
Late-night shopping for just about anything. Sometimes, Brad wants a memory module or a network card at eleven pm so he can say fuck you to insomnia.
California weather. British weather is fucking schizophrenic. It's crazier than his Uncle Will, and he's been on a psych ward ever since he ran out of his house at midnight, stark naked, swearing that aliens were climbing his drainpipe to come and kill him. California weather is predictable, and Brad appreciates having something in his life that is.
Brad doesn't miss people. Ray emails him every week - long rambling emails that make minimal sense - and Poke phones him every now and then. His parents are as much in his life as they've ever been - on the periphery. It's all good.
Brad doesn't think about Nate. He can't.
*
Brad's CO, Major Iain Mackie, is a stocky, taciturn guy in his thirties with a barely comprehensible accent. It's Glaswegian, apparently.
Major Mackie appears almost bored with his job and has a general air of indolence about him. Brad is certain it's a front. He's also reasonably certain that the Major plays up his accent whenever Brad's around, just to mess with him. Brad has no problem with that.
He gets confirmation that the Major's apparent lassitude is a front when Exercise Cetus goes bad.
Exercise Cetus is the troop's first big exercise since they returned from Iraq. It's a multi-national affair, America, Britain and other NATO countries working in various degrees of harmony. They're in Cyprus to practice covert beach reconnaissance.
Their first task is a submarine landing, transferring from the submarine to their boats and landing as quickly and quietly as possible.
Brad's in his element. This is what being a Marine is all about. This is what he's meant to be doing, not racing across the desert in a fucking Humvee.
Two of his team members, Bluey and Scott, both nineteen and Privates, have never been on an amphibious operation before. They're overexcited, Bluey jabbering so much that it feels like déjà vu. Only the hick accent is missing. The second they exit the submarine though, they go quiet. Brad counts a total of eight spoken words between the submarine and the landing. Afterwards, he tells them they were perfectly satisfactory, but his report is glowing.
The next night, it's infiltration via helicopter.
Brad's team is last to go, Brad the last to jump.
The water feels freezing in the dark, even though it's degrees warmer than the south coast of England. They're a mile off the coast, the craggy shoreline invisible in the dark. Brad groups his men, and their rehearsals have paid off; they're swimming quietly and efficiently in the right direction within seconds of hitting the water.
Scott is the first to see there's a problem. He signals to Brad. "Floater, eleven o'clock. One of ours, I think," he mouths. They all bear thirty degrees towards the dark mass on the water, following Brad.
Scott's right. It's Corporal Johns, from 40 Commando. Brad met him this morning. He didn't have a huge gash on the side of his head then.
Even in the focused red light of his flashlight, Brad can see it's serious. Johns is unconscious, and there's no way of telling how much blood he's lost in the water or how long he was facedown. Where the fuck the rest of his team is, Brad doesn't want to know.
Brad feels for a pulse. There isn't one.
He breaks radio silence and calls for aid, then starts resucitation. It's almost impossible to do properly while treading water, but he's damned if he's going to let a man die out here for lack of trying.
The Major is the first to reach them, his strokes strong and fast, his second-in-command unable to keep up with his pace. Mackie takes over first aid from Brad until the quiet thrum of a boat engine punctuates the arrival of Doc Warren. The Major keeps the exercise running, barks orders on his radio, deals with the men around him, keeps the youngsters calm. Brad's certain the Major saves Johns' life. He's quick and efficient and Brad understands why all his men like him.
Brad's glad to serve under him.
*
Brad's Lieutenant is so green he glows in the dark.
The less said about him the better.
*
He takes his libo in England. He might as well explore the island while he's here. He goes to the Lake District because Matty Johnson, Brad's Corporal, swears by the climbing there.
He didn't expect it to be so small.
The lakes are glorified ponds, and he barely has to tilt his head back to see the top of any of the 'mountains'. He emails Ray and tells him the Brits are shit-full of lies calling this a mountain range.
He covers fifteen peaks in his first day, without even trying. He doesn't work up much of a sweat, but it's warm enough that a cold drink at the little whitewashed pub in the valley is more than welcome.
There's a girl outside, sitting with a beer in her hand and her feet in the stream at the bottom of the pub garden. She's gorgeous, tall and blonde, with the sort of serious expression that Brad thinks might be a thin cover for a fabulous sense of humor. Or it might mean she's a miserable bitch - it could go either way.
Brad's willing to take a chance.
He sits down near her, pulling his boots and socks off and rolling up his pants legs so he can stick his own feet in the water. "Sorry if they stink," he says because that seems like an innocuous way to say hello.
"I think mine were worse," she says, lifting them and wriggling white toes in the air. When she smiles she shows all her teeth. The front ones are crooked.
Brad buys her next beer, sitting back down closer to her, and then she buys the third round, real ale this time. "Blencathra bitter, the perfect pint," she says, handing it over, and it's not bad. Better than the piss the Iraqis call beer.
Her name's Antonia and she's training to be a chartered tax advisor. "It's not as boring as it sounds," she says, and tells him stories about the stupid shit her coworkers get up to.
She confuses the Marines with the Army, but Brad doesn't hold it against her much. A nice pair of tits goes along way to making him feel forgiving, and he's pretty sure she's got a nice pair under her sports top. She's not wearing a bra.
When he stands up to leave, she stands too, and they walk out together. He doesn't even need to say anything. They go to her place, which turns out to be a one-man tent on the edge of a small camping site.
There's soft stubble on her thighs, under her hiking shorts.
"I wasn't planning on getting laid," she says when he runs his hand up against it, rubbing the short hairs the wrong way. "I just came up for the hiking."
So did Brad, but he's a good Marine, always prepared. He has condoms in his wallet.
He was right about her tits. They bounce when he pulls off her top and when she's riding him. She throws her head back and swears when he bites her nipples.
The next morning, he gives her his email address. He isn't drunk at the time or half asleep. He's fully aware of his actions.
He likes her.
*
They deploy to Afghanistan. Last time Brad was there, it was summer. This time, winter is approaching, and Royal Marines are as slow in equipping their men appropriately as Recon.
They get their winter gear three weeks after the first snowfall.
Brad spends his nights freezing his nuts off and his days getting them shot at.
Business as usual.
*
When they get back, he leads a training exercise on Dartmoor. It's the first week in February, and it rains non-stop, but it's a cakewalk after Afghanistan. The moor reminds him of sabka fields, the crusty surface and tufty grass hiding peat bogs. Scott loses one of his boots on the thirty-mile hike and has to finish it in his socks. At least he has the sense not to complain in front of Brad.
Their tents are exposed, nothing more than a few rocks to break the wind and lashing rain. Brad can't sleep. He listens to Matty's snoring for a while, then pulls on his outerwear and heads outside.
He doesn't go far. He pictures Antonia when he jacks off, imagines her bending over for him, pussy wet and dripping. He remembers the feel of stubble under his hands and long legs.
When he comes, it's Nate's name on his tongue.
*
Captain Mackie offers him an extended transfer. He calls it a mutually beneficial exchange of understanding and skills in considerably less accented English than usual. He's okayed the offer already.
All Brad would need to do is say yes. (And fill in a fuck-ton of paperwork, of course.)
He considers it.
*
Antonia visits him in Plymouth for a weekend in April. Brad rents a hotel room for them, and they fuck for the better part of twenty-four hours. On Sunday, they rent jet skis, and then they go back to the hotel and fuck again.
They dress up for dinner. He has steak, medium-rare, and she has lobster. The conversation's easy, but Brad wants to fake an emergency and run.
"How long are you in England?" she asks. She's wearing a halterneck, and Brad can see the little mole on her collarbone. There's the faintest mark above it where he bit her last night - she came seconds later, shuddering and gasping and calling his name.
Brad has nearly four months left. He said no to Captain Mackie's offer. "I'm leaving soon," he lies. "Any day now."
Her face falls, and she bites her lip. She looks like she wants to cry, and Brad feels like an jerk.
It's the right decision.
*
He decides to upgrade his phone. He doesn't keep his old number. He changes his email address too. He emails Ray and Poke and Mike and Eric - which is as good as emailing the whole of Bravo - and his parents, a cousin, and a couple of friends from home.
*
Afterwards, England rolls up into a neat package, a portion of his life completely separate from the rest. Two years when the rest of the world moves on without him.
When he gets home, it's as though he was never gone.
*
It starts with an email. It arrives the day Brad steps back on home soil. It doesn't say much, not in actual words, but then they never did say much in actual words.
Meet me, it says. Date, time, and place. Concise.
Nate always was concise.
*
They meet at the designated time and place. On the sea-front, early. The tourists and rollerbladers aren't around yet.
They walk along the shore. On the beach, they both take off their shoes and socks and roll up their pants. Brad's feet are tanned for all that he's spent the summer in England.
Nate's feet are shockingly pale in comparison. Brad points to them. "Your feet are as white as they were on deployment."
"At least they don't stink. You know, I still can't eat goat cheese. One whiff of the stuff, and it's like I've just taken my boots off."
Brad picks up a pebble and skims it across the water. It catches a wave on the second bounce and sinks. He doesn't know why he's here. Why Nate's here. He could turn around and head back to his bike and he doesn't think Nate would do anything to stop him. He doesn't know why he doesn't. He should. He should be the one to walk away for a change.
They buy ice cream from a vendor. It allows them to be silent.
Nate finishes his first. Brad's is melting, dripping down the side of the cone. The cone has gone soft by the time he gets to it, the texture of damp cardboard. He's eaten worse, but he can't bring himself to eat this. Instead, he throws it at a golden retriever that's just run out of the sea. The dog catches it midair and swallows it. The wretched creature will probably follow them now. Brad makes a sharp move towards it, get, go, and it slinks off. That's all it takes to get rid of it.
He wonders if he should try the same move on Nate. He'd just have to say the word, and Nate would leave.
"I needed to start something new," Nate says, stopping and staring out at the sea.
There's nothing Brad feels the need to say to that. It's stating the obvious. Out with the old, in with the new. The question is, why is he meeting the old now? This can't be part of his five-year plan or ten-year plan or whatever action plan Harvard graduates and fast-trackers have.
*
Nate's here for a week. He tells Brad this. He's booked his hotel room for seven nights.
Whatever his purpose in being here, he expects to execute it in seven days. Brad can't see that he's achieved anything at the end of his first day - he's walked with Brad, barely speaking, eaten ice cream and later a pretzel. Most of their conversations so far have revolved around people they both know: Nate's better informed than Brad these days, knows who's engaged and who's promoted and who's talking of buying an ostrich farm in Australia.
Brad doesn't have to sign in at base for another week. He doesn't believe in coincidences.
*
On the second day, Brad takes his bike out, lets rip along the I-15. He's been aching to do this for two years. Two years full of frustration at the smallness of English roads and the vigilance of English police.
He leaves his cellphone behind. He leaves everything behind. Just him and his bike.
He fills up the tank and heads north. He wants wide empty roads. He wants to go as fast as he can and still feel like he's not moving, the horizon stationary in front of him.
He's gotten used to the green of an English summer, everywhere fresh even when the locals are complaining of the drought. This feels right, land dark under the mounting heat haze, the sky impossibly blue. Everything bigger, brighter, more.
And yet. It isn't as satisfying as he expects.
*
On the third day, his phone rings at five am. It's light, just barely. He recognizes the number because he looked up the number of Nate's hotel the night before.
He lets it ring six times, then picks up.
"Yes?" he says, because if the person on the other end doesn't know who they're calling, they don't deserve to know.
"The surf's looking good. I'll be there in ten," Nate says, and hangs up.
Exactly ten minutes later, Brad opens the front door, board under his arm. Nate pulls up in his rental as Brad closes his door.
"Didn't know you surfed, sir," Brad says as he straps his board to the roof.
"I don't. But I'm willing to learn."
*
On the fourth day, Nate shows up without calling. It's six am, and Brad's still in bed. He answers the door naked, half asleep still. When he sleeps in his own bed it's the one time he allows himself to wake up slowly, gives into the weakness of needing caffeine to be fully alert.
Nate's in running shorts and a wife beater, sunblock thick and white over the sunburn across the back of his neck from the day before.
"Want me to make some coffee?" Nate asks, already moving into the kitchen. He clatters noisily around.
"Make it strong," Brad says. He wanders into his bedroom, picks up a pair of shorts from the day before, and puts them on. They feel too tight, or maybe it's that his balls feel too tight, his dick too heavy. He hasn't jacked off since he got home. He could get in the shower and do so now, but he doesn't. He drinks the coffee Nate places in front of him instead - black and strong - and the next one, and then they go for a run.
*
From his house, there's a circular route that he likes. Brad's measured it on his bike, fifteen miles exactly. It starts with a climb. They run the route, Nate letting Brad lead the way.
There's a viewpoint about eleven miles into the run. Brad's never stopped for it before. He doesn't need to now, but he thinks Nate does, although he isn't complaining.
Brad leans against a fence and looks out at the ocean. One of the things he loves about the ocean is how vast it is, how unknowable. How dangerous, even when it's at its most beautiful. Nate rests next to him, not quite touching at the elbows. His breath slows down after a couple of minutes.
"Good surfing weather again," Nate says eventually.
Brad nods. The waves are perfect, curling high and crashing down hard.
"I put the Combat Water Safety Swimmers Course down as my last choice for advanced training. I always hated being underwater. The thought of drowning."
"Let me guess," Brad snorts. "That's the course you got?"
Nate nods.
"Show a weakness in the Corps, and it'll get beaten out of you."
"I worked that out too late. What about you?" Nate asks.
"I didn't have a last choice." Brad would have done every single course ever offered if he'd been allowed.
"Nothing scared you?" Nate doesn't sound surprised, just curious.
"Nothing the Corps could throw at me, no."
"What does scare you?"
Brad swallows. "Questions like that," he says. Joking. Except it's the truth. Jumping from a helicopter is easy; driving into a firefight is easy; having this conversation is possibly the scariest thing he's ever done.
Nate smiles as though he understands. He probably does, as loud and clear as if Brad had said the words. "This," Nate says, and he motions between them, "this is part of a new start."
Brad doesn't say anything.
"You don't get it, do you?" Nate says quietly, a hint of exasperation creeping in. "Why I'm here."
Brad isn't accustomed to not understanding. He's used to being left behind but not like this. "No," he says. Belligerent, because he's pissed at himself and he's irrationally pissed at Nate for making him feel slow, for having a conversation in which Brad's two steps behind.
"Do you think Captain Fick could be anything more than friends with Sergeant Colbert?"
No, Brad doesn't think he could.
"But Nate and Brad? That's new. That can happen." Nate pauses. "If," he says, and leaves the word hanging. For Brad to pick up.
And Brad's there. He's caught up and ready to pick up.
"Yeah," he says, because he isn't really a coward, and that's when Nate turns to look at him. Brad's not sure what he sees.
Nate must be sure of what he sees because he kisses Brad.
This time it's not soft and gentle, and he doesn't walk away afterwards.
*
The fifth day starts well. Brad approves of waking up to Nate sucking his dick.
It's messy and inexpert and Brad's had better. Much better. They never felt this good though.
He must have given some sign that he's awake because Nate looks up from between his thighs. Nate's lips are stretched around his dick, spit-slick and shiny. His hair is ruffled and it makes Brad ache just to look at him like this. So eager and determined and fucking gorgeous.
Brad's never felt this self-aware. This isn't easy. This feels perilous. Like jumping off a cliff, only Brad's been trained to do that. That's something he knows. This is new, this uncertainty of where he should put his hands, what he'll say afterwards, what this means. This feeling in his gut, something like excitement and something like fear.
Brad bucks his hips up. Nate falters momentarily, but he's been tied wrist and ankle and thrown in a pool. He's drownproofed. He rallies, thumb and forefinger around the base of Brad's cock, squeezing and stroking as he sucks.
Brad comes faster than he did his first time, with Kelly Ortiz under the bleachers. No warning - his throat's too tight to try to give one. Maybe Brad's not drownproofed.
Nate wrinkles his face afterwards, slumping down on the pillow beside Brad. "I think I prefer coffee," he says, and Brad's laughing before he realizes the implication, and then he can't stop laughing anyway.
Nate's naked under the sheets. Brad kicks them off. Looks at them both, side by side. They're both wiry, lean but well muscled. He has a swimmer's tan, and Nate's almost winter pale. Brad's cock is mostly soft now. Nate's hard, his cock curving up towards his belly, the head sticky where he's leaking.
Last night, everything was fast and desperate. There's no rush this morning.
Brad trails his fingers between Nate's thighs. Nate lets them drop open, Brad's hand skimming the tender skin between. There's a bruise on Nate's hip, thumb-shaped. Brad made it last night. It looks better on Nate than any moto Marine tattoos possibly could.
Nate twitches impatiently as Brad explores. He's biting his lip.
Brad grins. "For someone who's been through SERE, you're remarkably lacking in patience."
"I wasn't aware that sex with you would amount to a torture session."
"It won't. If you're patient."
"Patience is an overrated quality."
"The youth of today," Brad sighs. "All about instant gratification."
"Fuck, Brad. I don't want instant gratification, I just want you to put your fucking hand on my fucking dick."
Brad swallows his smile at Nate's unaccustomed profanity and moves his hands. Just not where he's ordered. He rolls Nate's balls in his hands, feeling the velvety slide of them. Slips one finger further back until he finds the tight pucker of Nate's asshole. Nate hisses as Brad presses, eyes widening a fraction though he covers his surprise quickly. He really is totally new to this.
Brad reassesses. He'll keep it simple.
There's a tube of lotion in his nightstand. It'll do for now. He pours some on his hands and settles on his side. He rests one hand on Nate's flank, stroking. The other he wraps around Nate's shaft.
Nate responds to everything. Every twist and turn elicits new sounds, until he throws his arm over his face and tries to muffle them.
"Don't," Brad says. He stops.
Nate moves his arm away from his face. His bottom lip is red and swollen where he's bitten it, and soft when Brad kisses him.
It's the first time Brad has kissed him.
"I want to hear," Brad says. He wants to see him too, but one admission is enough for now.
Nate nods, flushed, then groans as Brad moves again, stroking down across his belly, along the cut of his hip bone. Taking him in hand again, firmer now, faster strokes, the kind Brad likes when he's getting close. Nate's face is naked, so open it's shocking. Brad feels his own cock stirring. He ignores it. Now is all about Nate.
Nate goes silent as he comes, his dick pulsing and heavy in Brad's hand. There are creamy-white splatters on his belly, on the wiry blond hair that trails up towards his belly button.
Brad reaches out blindly to the floor, feeling around until he grabs something. Nate's white cotton briefs. He uses them to wipe up the mess, ignoring Nate's faint look of disapproval.
"It's your turn to make the coffee," Nate retaliates.
*
"You were off in your estimation of time," Brad says, later. He'd eventually gotten up to make coffee, but Nate stayed where he was, so Brad ended up going back to bed with it. He can't remember the last time he lay in bed in the daylight. It feels indulgent, lazy.
"I hoped it wouldn't take the full seven days," Nate admits. "But I like to be prepared. I couldn't risk compromising my mission by underestimating the time it would take."
"You were confident you could achieve your objective in the time, though." Not a question.
"Even dealing with one of the most stubborn motherfuckers I've ever met, yes, I was confident."
"And this is a long-term objective?" This time it is a question.
Nate props himself up on one elbow. He's still naked, but he manages to look every inch the officer. "Damn, Brad, what do you think?"
Brad thinks it is. Hopes. He's already started mapping out changes, planning. "Yeah," he says, "I'm thinking long-term sounds good."
Brad lives dangerously and intends to die dangerously. They are two sure points in the geometry of his life.
Nate is another sure point. Has been from the start, if Brad had let himself consider it in more than a few unguarded moments. If he hadn't shut down the idea every time it surfaced. If he hadn't thrown a fucking smoke grenade and run under the cover, all the while convincing himself that Nate was the one running.
It's a good thing Nate's a stubborn motherfucker too.
Nate relaxes. He lies back down and starts to smile. "In the short-term, I'm thinking more coffee would be good."
"Really? You think I'm your bitch now?"
"Honestly? Yes." Nate smirks.
Ray always used to say that the innocent choirboy look was a front. Brad's going to make damn sure he never finds out he was right.
He swings his feet over the side of the bed and ignores Nate's laughter as he goes to make more coffee.
*
This is the story of two men. The one who stayed and the one who never truly left.
//
Notes: I owe a huge thank you to indyhat for going above and beyond with her audiencing/beta help, helping me make Ray sound more like Ray, and for persuading me to keep going with the story - it was *this* close to ending up on my growing mountain of scrapped fic. Thanks too to shoshannagold and lunasky for organising the challenge, and to godofwine for stepping in very last minute and sorting out my Briticisms.
The pub in the Lake District does exist, and the stream at the bottom of the garden is very nice for cooling your feet down after a long walk.
And for the curious, cat 9 is "a reference to someone as “beyond dumb” since Category 4 is the lowest of the scores on the entrance exams." Thanks to the US Marine Corp Dictionary for that one.
i. don't shit where you eat
ii. a bryd that retorneth agayn to his owene nest
England is a choice. Brad's staying with the Corps, but he doesn't have to stay here.
It's a two-year exchange. At the time, he's conscious of every minute of it.
*
On his first run ashore with his new troop, Brad teaches them Crud. Within five minutes they've broken the glass on a framed painting of the Spanish Armada, spilled the referee's lager, and amassed two casualties (walking wounded).
Two minutes later, they get thrown out of the pub.
Brad considers it an auspicious start.
*
Brad misses five things while he's in England:
Decent roads. Ones meant for driving, for the sheer joy of the open road.
Fried chicken.
NPR. He'd never admit this, but listening to Talk of the Nation or Fresh Air when he's driving the freeway is one of the things that makes him feel like he's home.
Late-night shopping for just about anything. Sometimes, Brad wants a memory module or a network card at eleven pm so he can say fuck you to insomnia.
California weather. British weather is fucking schizophrenic. It's crazier than his Uncle Will, and he's been on a psych ward ever since he ran out of his house at midnight, stark naked, swearing that aliens were climbing his drainpipe to come and kill him. California weather is predictable, and Brad appreciates having something in his life that is.
Brad doesn't miss people. Ray emails him every week - long rambling emails that make minimal sense - and Poke phones him every now and then. His parents are as much in his life as they've ever been - on the periphery. It's all good.
Brad doesn't think about Nate. He can't.
*
Brad's CO, Major Iain Mackie, is a stocky, taciturn guy in his thirties with a barely comprehensible accent. It's Glaswegian, apparently.
Major Mackie appears almost bored with his job and has a general air of indolence about him. Brad is certain it's a front. He's also reasonably certain that the Major plays up his accent whenever Brad's around, just to mess with him. Brad has no problem with that.
He gets confirmation that the Major's apparent lassitude is a front when Exercise Cetus goes bad.
Exercise Cetus is the troop's first big exercise since they returned from Iraq. It's a multi-national affair, America, Britain and other NATO countries working in various degrees of harmony. They're in Cyprus to practice covert beach reconnaissance.
Their first task is a submarine landing, transferring from the submarine to their boats and landing as quickly and quietly as possible.
Brad's in his element. This is what being a Marine is all about. This is what he's meant to be doing, not racing across the desert in a fucking Humvee.
Two of his team members, Bluey and Scott, both nineteen and Privates, have never been on an amphibious operation before. They're overexcited, Bluey jabbering so much that it feels like déjà vu. Only the hick accent is missing. The second they exit the submarine though, they go quiet. Brad counts a total of eight spoken words between the submarine and the landing. Afterwards, he tells them they were perfectly satisfactory, but his report is glowing.
The next night, it's infiltration via helicopter.
Brad's team is last to go, Brad the last to jump.
The water feels freezing in the dark, even though it's degrees warmer than the south coast of England. They're a mile off the coast, the craggy shoreline invisible in the dark. Brad groups his men, and their rehearsals have paid off; they're swimming quietly and efficiently in the right direction within seconds of hitting the water.
Scott is the first to see there's a problem. He signals to Brad. "Floater, eleven o'clock. One of ours, I think," he mouths. They all bear thirty degrees towards the dark mass on the water, following Brad.
Scott's right. It's Corporal Johns, from 40 Commando. Brad met him this morning. He didn't have a huge gash on the side of his head then.
Even in the focused red light of his flashlight, Brad can see it's serious. Johns is unconscious, and there's no way of telling how much blood he's lost in the water or how long he was facedown. Where the fuck the rest of his team is, Brad doesn't want to know.
Brad feels for a pulse. There isn't one.
He breaks radio silence and calls for aid, then starts resucitation. It's almost impossible to do properly while treading water, but he's damned if he's going to let a man die out here for lack of trying.
The Major is the first to reach them, his strokes strong and fast, his second-in-command unable to keep up with his pace. Mackie takes over first aid from Brad until the quiet thrum of a boat engine punctuates the arrival of Doc Warren. The Major keeps the exercise running, barks orders on his radio, deals with the men around him, keeps the youngsters calm. Brad's certain the Major saves Johns' life. He's quick and efficient and Brad understands why all his men like him.
Brad's glad to serve under him.
*
Brad's Lieutenant is so green he glows in the dark.
The less said about him the better.
*
He takes his libo in England. He might as well explore the island while he's here. He goes to the Lake District because Matty Johnson, Brad's Corporal, swears by the climbing there.
He didn't expect it to be so small.
The lakes are glorified ponds, and he barely has to tilt his head back to see the top of any of the 'mountains'. He emails Ray and tells him the Brits are shit-full of lies calling this a mountain range.
He covers fifteen peaks in his first day, without even trying. He doesn't work up much of a sweat, but it's warm enough that a cold drink at the little whitewashed pub in the valley is more than welcome.
There's a girl outside, sitting with a beer in her hand and her feet in the stream at the bottom of the pub garden. She's gorgeous, tall and blonde, with the sort of serious expression that Brad thinks might be a thin cover for a fabulous sense of humor. Or it might mean she's a miserable bitch - it could go either way.
Brad's willing to take a chance.
He sits down near her, pulling his boots and socks off and rolling up his pants legs so he can stick his own feet in the water. "Sorry if they stink," he says because that seems like an innocuous way to say hello.
"I think mine were worse," she says, lifting them and wriggling white toes in the air. When she smiles she shows all her teeth. The front ones are crooked.
Brad buys her next beer, sitting back down closer to her, and then she buys the third round, real ale this time. "Blencathra bitter, the perfect pint," she says, handing it over, and it's not bad. Better than the piss the Iraqis call beer.
Her name's Antonia and she's training to be a chartered tax advisor. "It's not as boring as it sounds," she says, and tells him stories about the stupid shit her coworkers get up to.
She confuses the Marines with the Army, but Brad doesn't hold it against her much. A nice pair of tits goes along way to making him feel forgiving, and he's pretty sure she's got a nice pair under her sports top. She's not wearing a bra.
When he stands up to leave, she stands too, and they walk out together. He doesn't even need to say anything. They go to her place, which turns out to be a one-man tent on the edge of a small camping site.
There's soft stubble on her thighs, under her hiking shorts.
"I wasn't planning on getting laid," she says when he runs his hand up against it, rubbing the short hairs the wrong way. "I just came up for the hiking."
So did Brad, but he's a good Marine, always prepared. He has condoms in his wallet.
He was right about her tits. They bounce when he pulls off her top and when she's riding him. She throws her head back and swears when he bites her nipples.
The next morning, he gives her his email address. He isn't drunk at the time or half asleep. He's fully aware of his actions.
He likes her.
*
They deploy to Afghanistan. Last time Brad was there, it was summer. This time, winter is approaching, and Royal Marines are as slow in equipping their men appropriately as Recon.
They get their winter gear three weeks after the first snowfall.
Brad spends his nights freezing his nuts off and his days getting them shot at.
Business as usual.
*
When they get back, he leads a training exercise on Dartmoor. It's the first week in February, and it rains non-stop, but it's a cakewalk after Afghanistan. The moor reminds him of sabka fields, the crusty surface and tufty grass hiding peat bogs. Scott loses one of his boots on the thirty-mile hike and has to finish it in his socks. At least he has the sense not to complain in front of Brad.
Their tents are exposed, nothing more than a few rocks to break the wind and lashing rain. Brad can't sleep. He listens to Matty's snoring for a while, then pulls on his outerwear and heads outside.
He doesn't go far. He pictures Antonia when he jacks off, imagines her bending over for him, pussy wet and dripping. He remembers the feel of stubble under his hands and long legs.
When he comes, it's Nate's name on his tongue.
*
Captain Mackie offers him an extended transfer. He calls it a mutually beneficial exchange of understanding and skills in considerably less accented English than usual. He's okayed the offer already.
All Brad would need to do is say yes. (And fill in a fuck-ton of paperwork, of course.)
He considers it.
*
Antonia visits him in Plymouth for a weekend in April. Brad rents a hotel room for them, and they fuck for the better part of twenty-four hours. On Sunday, they rent jet skis, and then they go back to the hotel and fuck again.
They dress up for dinner. He has steak, medium-rare, and she has lobster. The conversation's easy, but Brad wants to fake an emergency and run.
"How long are you in England?" she asks. She's wearing a halterneck, and Brad can see the little mole on her collarbone. There's the faintest mark above it where he bit her last night - she came seconds later, shuddering and gasping and calling his name.
Brad has nearly four months left. He said no to Captain Mackie's offer. "I'm leaving soon," he lies. "Any day now."
Her face falls, and she bites her lip. She looks like she wants to cry, and Brad feels like an jerk.
It's the right decision.
*
He decides to upgrade his phone. He doesn't keep his old number. He changes his email address too. He emails Ray and Poke and Mike and Eric - which is as good as emailing the whole of Bravo - and his parents, a cousin, and a couple of friends from home.
*
Afterwards, England rolls up into a neat package, a portion of his life completely separate from the rest. Two years when the rest of the world moves on without him.
When he gets home, it's as though he was never gone.
*
It starts with an email. It arrives the day Brad steps back on home soil. It doesn't say much, not in actual words, but then they never did say much in actual words.
Meet me, it says. Date, time, and place. Concise.
Nate always was concise.
*
They meet at the designated time and place. On the sea-front, early. The tourists and rollerbladers aren't around yet.
They walk along the shore. On the beach, they both take off their shoes and socks and roll up their pants. Brad's feet are tanned for all that he's spent the summer in England.
Nate's feet are shockingly pale in comparison. Brad points to them. "Your feet are as white as they were on deployment."
"At least they don't stink. You know, I still can't eat goat cheese. One whiff of the stuff, and it's like I've just taken my boots off."
Brad picks up a pebble and skims it across the water. It catches a wave on the second bounce and sinks. He doesn't know why he's here. Why Nate's here. He could turn around and head back to his bike and he doesn't think Nate would do anything to stop him. He doesn't know why he doesn't. He should. He should be the one to walk away for a change.
They buy ice cream from a vendor. It allows them to be silent.
Nate finishes his first. Brad's is melting, dripping down the side of the cone. The cone has gone soft by the time he gets to it, the texture of damp cardboard. He's eaten worse, but he can't bring himself to eat this. Instead, he throws it at a golden retriever that's just run out of the sea. The dog catches it midair and swallows it. The wretched creature will probably follow them now. Brad makes a sharp move towards it, get, go, and it slinks off. That's all it takes to get rid of it.
He wonders if he should try the same move on Nate. He'd just have to say the word, and Nate would leave.
"I needed to start something new," Nate says, stopping and staring out at the sea.
There's nothing Brad feels the need to say to that. It's stating the obvious. Out with the old, in with the new. The question is, why is he meeting the old now? This can't be part of his five-year plan or ten-year plan or whatever action plan Harvard graduates and fast-trackers have.
*
Nate's here for a week. He tells Brad this. He's booked his hotel room for seven nights.
Whatever his purpose in being here, he expects to execute it in seven days. Brad can't see that he's achieved anything at the end of his first day - he's walked with Brad, barely speaking, eaten ice cream and later a pretzel. Most of their conversations so far have revolved around people they both know: Nate's better informed than Brad these days, knows who's engaged and who's promoted and who's talking of buying an ostrich farm in Australia.
Brad doesn't have to sign in at base for another week. He doesn't believe in coincidences.
*
On the second day, Brad takes his bike out, lets rip along the I-15. He's been aching to do this for two years. Two years full of frustration at the smallness of English roads and the vigilance of English police.
He leaves his cellphone behind. He leaves everything behind. Just him and his bike.
He fills up the tank and heads north. He wants wide empty roads. He wants to go as fast as he can and still feel like he's not moving, the horizon stationary in front of him.
He's gotten used to the green of an English summer, everywhere fresh even when the locals are complaining of the drought. This feels right, land dark under the mounting heat haze, the sky impossibly blue. Everything bigger, brighter, more.
And yet. It isn't as satisfying as he expects.
*
On the third day, his phone rings at five am. It's light, just barely. He recognizes the number because he looked up the number of Nate's hotel the night before.
He lets it ring six times, then picks up.
"Yes?" he says, because if the person on the other end doesn't know who they're calling, they don't deserve to know.
"The surf's looking good. I'll be there in ten," Nate says, and hangs up.
Exactly ten minutes later, Brad opens the front door, board under his arm. Nate pulls up in his rental as Brad closes his door.
"Didn't know you surfed, sir," Brad says as he straps his board to the roof.
"I don't. But I'm willing to learn."
*
On the fourth day, Nate shows up without calling. It's six am, and Brad's still in bed. He answers the door naked, half asleep still. When he sleeps in his own bed it's the one time he allows himself to wake up slowly, gives into the weakness of needing caffeine to be fully alert.
Nate's in running shorts and a wife beater, sunblock thick and white over the sunburn across the back of his neck from the day before.
"Want me to make some coffee?" Nate asks, already moving into the kitchen. He clatters noisily around.
"Make it strong," Brad says. He wanders into his bedroom, picks up a pair of shorts from the day before, and puts them on. They feel too tight, or maybe it's that his balls feel too tight, his dick too heavy. He hasn't jacked off since he got home. He could get in the shower and do so now, but he doesn't. He drinks the coffee Nate places in front of him instead - black and strong - and the next one, and then they go for a run.
*
From his house, there's a circular route that he likes. Brad's measured it on his bike, fifteen miles exactly. It starts with a climb. They run the route, Nate letting Brad lead the way.
There's a viewpoint about eleven miles into the run. Brad's never stopped for it before. He doesn't need to now, but he thinks Nate does, although he isn't complaining.
Brad leans against a fence and looks out at the ocean. One of the things he loves about the ocean is how vast it is, how unknowable. How dangerous, even when it's at its most beautiful. Nate rests next to him, not quite touching at the elbows. His breath slows down after a couple of minutes.
"Good surfing weather again," Nate says eventually.
Brad nods. The waves are perfect, curling high and crashing down hard.
"I put the Combat Water Safety Swimmers Course down as my last choice for advanced training. I always hated being underwater. The thought of drowning."
"Let me guess," Brad snorts. "That's the course you got?"
Nate nods.
"Show a weakness in the Corps, and it'll get beaten out of you."
"I worked that out too late. What about you?" Nate asks.
"I didn't have a last choice." Brad would have done every single course ever offered if he'd been allowed.
"Nothing scared you?" Nate doesn't sound surprised, just curious.
"Nothing the Corps could throw at me, no."
"What does scare you?"
Brad swallows. "Questions like that," he says. Joking. Except it's the truth. Jumping from a helicopter is easy; driving into a firefight is easy; having this conversation is possibly the scariest thing he's ever done.
Nate smiles as though he understands. He probably does, as loud and clear as if Brad had said the words. "This," Nate says, and he motions between them, "this is part of a new start."
Brad doesn't say anything.
"You don't get it, do you?" Nate says quietly, a hint of exasperation creeping in. "Why I'm here."
Brad isn't accustomed to not understanding. He's used to being left behind but not like this. "No," he says. Belligerent, because he's pissed at himself and he's irrationally pissed at Nate for making him feel slow, for having a conversation in which Brad's two steps behind.
"Do you think Captain Fick could be anything more than friends with Sergeant Colbert?"
No, Brad doesn't think he could.
"But Nate and Brad? That's new. That can happen." Nate pauses. "If," he says, and leaves the word hanging. For Brad to pick up.
And Brad's there. He's caught up and ready to pick up.
"Yeah," he says, because he isn't really a coward, and that's when Nate turns to look at him. Brad's not sure what he sees.
Nate must be sure of what he sees because he kisses Brad.
This time it's not soft and gentle, and he doesn't walk away afterwards.
*
The fifth day starts well. Brad approves of waking up to Nate sucking his dick.
It's messy and inexpert and Brad's had better. Much better. They never felt this good though.
He must have given some sign that he's awake because Nate looks up from between his thighs. Nate's lips are stretched around his dick, spit-slick and shiny. His hair is ruffled and it makes Brad ache just to look at him like this. So eager and determined and fucking gorgeous.
Brad's never felt this self-aware. This isn't easy. This feels perilous. Like jumping off a cliff, only Brad's been trained to do that. That's something he knows. This is new, this uncertainty of where he should put his hands, what he'll say afterwards, what this means. This feeling in his gut, something like excitement and something like fear.
Brad bucks his hips up. Nate falters momentarily, but he's been tied wrist and ankle and thrown in a pool. He's drownproofed. He rallies, thumb and forefinger around the base of Brad's cock, squeezing and stroking as he sucks.
Brad comes faster than he did his first time, with Kelly Ortiz under the bleachers. No warning - his throat's too tight to try to give one. Maybe Brad's not drownproofed.
Nate wrinkles his face afterwards, slumping down on the pillow beside Brad. "I think I prefer coffee," he says, and Brad's laughing before he realizes the implication, and then he can't stop laughing anyway.
Nate's naked under the sheets. Brad kicks them off. Looks at them both, side by side. They're both wiry, lean but well muscled. He has a swimmer's tan, and Nate's almost winter pale. Brad's cock is mostly soft now. Nate's hard, his cock curving up towards his belly, the head sticky where he's leaking.
Last night, everything was fast and desperate. There's no rush this morning.
Brad trails his fingers between Nate's thighs. Nate lets them drop open, Brad's hand skimming the tender skin between. There's a bruise on Nate's hip, thumb-shaped. Brad made it last night. It looks better on Nate than any moto Marine tattoos possibly could.
Nate twitches impatiently as Brad explores. He's biting his lip.
Brad grins. "For someone who's been through SERE, you're remarkably lacking in patience."
"I wasn't aware that sex with you would amount to a torture session."
"It won't. If you're patient."
"Patience is an overrated quality."
"The youth of today," Brad sighs. "All about instant gratification."
"Fuck, Brad. I don't want instant gratification, I just want you to put your fucking hand on my fucking dick."
Brad swallows his smile at Nate's unaccustomed profanity and moves his hands. Just not where he's ordered. He rolls Nate's balls in his hands, feeling the velvety slide of them. Slips one finger further back until he finds the tight pucker of Nate's asshole. Nate hisses as Brad presses, eyes widening a fraction though he covers his surprise quickly. He really is totally new to this.
Brad reassesses. He'll keep it simple.
There's a tube of lotion in his nightstand. It'll do for now. He pours some on his hands and settles on his side. He rests one hand on Nate's flank, stroking. The other he wraps around Nate's shaft.
Nate responds to everything. Every twist and turn elicits new sounds, until he throws his arm over his face and tries to muffle them.
"Don't," Brad says. He stops.
Nate moves his arm away from his face. His bottom lip is red and swollen where he's bitten it, and soft when Brad kisses him.
It's the first time Brad has kissed him.
"I want to hear," Brad says. He wants to see him too, but one admission is enough for now.
Nate nods, flushed, then groans as Brad moves again, stroking down across his belly, along the cut of his hip bone. Taking him in hand again, firmer now, faster strokes, the kind Brad likes when he's getting close. Nate's face is naked, so open it's shocking. Brad feels his own cock stirring. He ignores it. Now is all about Nate.
Nate goes silent as he comes, his dick pulsing and heavy in Brad's hand. There are creamy-white splatters on his belly, on the wiry blond hair that trails up towards his belly button.
Brad reaches out blindly to the floor, feeling around until he grabs something. Nate's white cotton briefs. He uses them to wipe up the mess, ignoring Nate's faint look of disapproval.
"It's your turn to make the coffee," Nate retaliates.
*
"You were off in your estimation of time," Brad says, later. He'd eventually gotten up to make coffee, but Nate stayed where he was, so Brad ended up going back to bed with it. He can't remember the last time he lay in bed in the daylight. It feels indulgent, lazy.
"I hoped it wouldn't take the full seven days," Nate admits. "But I like to be prepared. I couldn't risk compromising my mission by underestimating the time it would take."
"You were confident you could achieve your objective in the time, though." Not a question.
"Even dealing with one of the most stubborn motherfuckers I've ever met, yes, I was confident."
"And this is a long-term objective?" This time it is a question.
Nate props himself up on one elbow. He's still naked, but he manages to look every inch the officer. "Damn, Brad, what do you think?"
Brad thinks it is. Hopes. He's already started mapping out changes, planning. "Yeah," he says, "I'm thinking long-term sounds good."
Brad lives dangerously and intends to die dangerously. They are two sure points in the geometry of his life.
Nate is another sure point. Has been from the start, if Brad had let himself consider it in more than a few unguarded moments. If he hadn't shut down the idea every time it surfaced. If he hadn't thrown a fucking smoke grenade and run under the cover, all the while convincing himself that Nate was the one running.
It's a good thing Nate's a stubborn motherfucker too.
Nate relaxes. He lies back down and starts to smile. "In the short-term, I'm thinking more coffee would be good."
"Really? You think I'm your bitch now?"
"Honestly? Yes." Nate smirks.
Ray always used to say that the innocent choirboy look was a front. Brad's going to make damn sure he never finds out he was right.
He swings his feet over the side of the bed and ignores Nate's laughter as he goes to make more coffee.
*
This is the story of two men. The one who stayed and the one who never truly left.
//
Notes: I owe a huge thank you to indyhat for going above and beyond with her audiencing/beta help, helping me make Ray sound more like Ray, and for persuading me to keep going with the story - it was *this* close to ending up on my growing mountain of scrapped fic. Thanks too to shoshannagold and lunasky for organising the challenge, and to godofwine for stepping in very last minute and sorting out my Briticisms.
The pub in the Lake District does exist, and the stream at the bottom of the garden is very nice for cooling your feet down after a long walk.
And for the curious, cat 9 is "a reference to someone as “beyond dumb” since Category 4 is the lowest of the scores on the entrance exams." Thanks to the US Marine Corp Dictionary for that one.