Generation Kill: If the Shoe Fits
I WROTE SOMETHING! HOLY SHIT. I wrote this for a prompt on the now-ancient YAGKYAS USMC Birthday Good Cookie thread, which I blame on 
templemarker because she posted some fills of her own and sent me in that direction, and it's always safest to assume her intentions are nefarious in all things. <3
680 unedited words of a Brad/Nate Cinderella story with drunk shenanigans:
Mid-afternoon on November 11th, Brad was roused from his coma by what turned out to be someone leaning on the doorbell. He was only halfway on his bed, so he slid the rest of the way out, noted with some triumph that he was wearing pants, and staggered to the front door with a heart full of hatred.
It was Nate, his expression pleasantly blank. He at least was wearing sunglasses even though it was overcast. Even the mighty had fallen.
"Afternoon, Brad."
Brad managed a 'hi' and maybe even muttered out the 'sir' afterward.
"Sorry to interrupt your hangover," Nate went on, his voice oddly low and soothing to Brad's ears, "but I had an inquiry to make." And he held up a scuffed, black dress shoe.
Brad stared at it.
"Is this yours?" Nate prompted.
"Is that my shoe?" Brad echoed, squinting.
"It got left at my house last night after the after-party broke up," said Nate. "I found it at three o'clock this morning halfway under my sofa and I've been trying to find its owner ever since."
Brad would have thought, before this moment, that if he ever lost a shoe from his dress uniform, he'd remember. "I have no idea," he said after a moment, honestly. Then the rest of his wits arrived on the scene. "Let me check," he added, leaving the door open for Nate and wandering back to his bedroom.
"I've asked like five guys already today, but it doesn't belong to any of them. I tried to call you before I came over but you weren't answering your phone," Nate called after him, apparently coming inside but not actually following past the front hallway.
Brad spotted his phone lying in front of the hamper in his closet, apparently thrown there in disgust earlier. "Yeah, I didn't get your call," Brad said over his shoulder. He found his dress uniform pieces draped over the back of a chair, where he'd apparently slung them all with some vague evidence of care before falling into bed last night (practice pays off), and looked through the pile of trappings. Sure enough, he could only find one of his shoes. He picked it up and carried it out into the hallway.
Nate smirked at it and handed over its mate. "Ray said last night that it was probably yours."
"How the fuck would Ray know that?" Brad looked down at his battle-worn dress shoes and then set them on the floor out of the way, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Nate shoved his hands amiably in the pockets of his jeans.
"He said something about how I should have been able to guess how big your feet are by now," said Nate, looking politely puzzled. Brad had the exposure to Ray to realize right away exactly what he'd been trying to imply, and tried not to choke on his own tongue. Nate went on, apparently oblivious to his embarassment: "But then he and Hasser hailed a cop car like they thought it was a cab when they left my house, so it's safe to say he was past making sense by then." He shrugged. "How the fuck did you get yourself home with only one shoe on without noticing something was wrong?"
At a loss for any excuse, Brad said, "I wish I knew, sir."
"How much do you remember?" Nate grinned knowingly.
Brad thought. "Past leaving the Ball, not a lot."
"So you don't remember the part where we slow-danced in my living room?"
Brad sputtered. "Together?" So much for the hope that he'd at least made it through the night without groping his CO, in the face of all the other indignities.
But Nate was laughing. "I'm just fucking with you, Colbert."
"That's hilarious, sir." Brad breathed in through his nose, trying to will his heart rate back down.
Nate was still cackling as he turned to leave. "Maybe next year," he called over his shoulder, but the front door was shutting behind him before Brad could respond.
This entry was originally posted at http://waketosleep.dreamwidth.org/63677.html. (
comments)
templemarker because she posted some fills of her own and sent me in that direction, and it's always safest to assume her intentions are nefarious in all things. <3
680 unedited words of a Brad/Nate Cinderella story with drunk shenanigans:
Mid-afternoon on November 11th, Brad was roused from his coma by what turned out to be someone leaning on the doorbell. He was only halfway on his bed, so he slid the rest of the way out, noted with some triumph that he was wearing pants, and staggered to the front door with a heart full of hatred.
It was Nate, his expression pleasantly blank. He at least was wearing sunglasses even though it was overcast. Even the mighty had fallen.
"Afternoon, Brad."
Brad managed a 'hi' and maybe even muttered out the 'sir' afterward.
"Sorry to interrupt your hangover," Nate went on, his voice oddly low and soothing to Brad's ears, "but I had an inquiry to make." And he held up a scuffed, black dress shoe.
Brad stared at it.
"Is this yours?" Nate prompted.
"Is that my shoe?" Brad echoed, squinting.
"It got left at my house last night after the after-party broke up," said Nate. "I found it at three o'clock this morning halfway under my sofa and I've been trying to find its owner ever since."
Brad would have thought, before this moment, that if he ever lost a shoe from his dress uniform, he'd remember. "I have no idea," he said after a moment, honestly. Then the rest of his wits arrived on the scene. "Let me check," he added, leaving the door open for Nate and wandering back to his bedroom.
"I've asked like five guys already today, but it doesn't belong to any of them. I tried to call you before I came over but you weren't answering your phone," Nate called after him, apparently coming inside but not actually following past the front hallway.
Brad spotted his phone lying in front of the hamper in his closet, apparently thrown there in disgust earlier. "Yeah, I didn't get your call," Brad said over his shoulder. He found his dress uniform pieces draped over the back of a chair, where he'd apparently slung them all with some vague evidence of care before falling into bed last night (practice pays off), and looked through the pile of trappings. Sure enough, he could only find one of his shoes. He picked it up and carried it out into the hallway.
Nate smirked at it and handed over its mate. "Ray said last night that it was probably yours."
"How the fuck would Ray know that?" Brad looked down at his battle-worn dress shoes and then set them on the floor out of the way, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Nate shoved his hands amiably in the pockets of his jeans.
"He said something about how I should have been able to guess how big your feet are by now," said Nate, looking politely puzzled. Brad had the exposure to Ray to realize right away exactly what he'd been trying to imply, and tried not to choke on his own tongue. Nate went on, apparently oblivious to his embarassment: "But then he and Hasser hailed a cop car like they thought it was a cab when they left my house, so it's safe to say he was past making sense by then." He shrugged. "How the fuck did you get yourself home with only one shoe on without noticing something was wrong?"
At a loss for any excuse, Brad said, "I wish I knew, sir."
"How much do you remember?" Nate grinned knowingly.
Brad thought. "Past leaving the Ball, not a lot."
"So you don't remember the part where we slow-danced in my living room?"
Brad sputtered. "Together?" So much for the hope that he'd at least made it through the night without groping his CO, in the face of all the other indignities.
But Nate was laughing. "I'm just fucking with you, Colbert."
"That's hilarious, sir." Brad breathed in through his nose, trying to will his heart rate back down.
Nate was still cackling as he turned to leave. "Maybe next year," he called over his shoulder, but the front door was shutting behind him before Brad could respond.
This entry was originally posted at http://waketosleep.dreamwidth.org/63677.html. (
comments)