fic: To Bring the Second-Coming Quicker
Title: To Bring the Second-Coming Quicker
Author: attempt-unique
Characters/Pairing: Sgt. Antonio “Poke” Espera
Rating/Warnings: PG13 - If you could handle the series, you can handle this fic
Disclaimer: This fic is based on the characters as portrayed in the miniseries Generation Kill. The characters do not belong to me, and I borrowed the names of Poke's wife and child from Hackthis' fic. Title is from lyrics to Lupe Fiasco's "American Terrorist"
Thanks: Much thanks to the amazingly awesome beta skills of everywherestars for whipping my tenses into shape.
Recipient: inlovewithnight
Prompt: Sgt. Antonio “Poke” Espera. A slice of his family life, before or after the war.
Poke drums his fingers on the counter before opening his e-mail account. He isn't sure whether or not he really wants to read it. He's been avoiding the phone since the first commiserating calls started coming in, and knows he will face more of the same in his inbox. You aren't some fucking mailman, you have faced fire. You can open up your e-mail.
The first thing, even before the ads trying to sell him a bigger dick or someplace to use it, is a message from Brad.
fucking bullshit.
Always fucking eloquent, Brad. His message could mean that word has traveled through the grapevine all the way to fucking England. Of course, it could also refer to just about anything. There was plenty of fucking bullshit in the world, and Brad was never one to let it pass. But it was easy enough to reply to.
Motherfuckers are steeped in shit, for real this time.
He skims through the next few messages, a couple of bills, a few coupons, and then something from the reporter. He reads through it, and isn't surprised at what he sees. Self-flagellating fucking bullshit, stuff about anonymity and not-censoring the reality. Bullshit really was everywhere. Why the fuck should the reporter have censored him. Poke knew what he was saying when he said it. He owned his words. Fucking bullshit.
Poke leans back in the chair, the squeaky wheel shrieking at him in protest. He is almost grateful for the sound. "Too fucking quiet," he whispers to himself. He considers putting something on the T.V., maybe turning on the radio. He has options, all these fucking first world, paid for opportunities to make some noise.
He doesn't actually need to use them though, because in the door comes the noisiest thing he has ever had in his life. Lily runs into the room in a burst of sound and color. He gets out of the chair to block her path to the T.V.. Poke considers sweeping her up into his arms, even though she has started objecting to it. He crouches down though, because he wants to see that beautiful face. Best fucking thing in the world right there.
"Hey, slow down for a second and tell your father about your day." She gives him a smile, but keeps peeking over his shoulder at the television, trying to will it on with the power of her mind. When she looks at him he pulls a ridiculous face, puffing out his cheeks so wide the skin on his face feels tight before dropping his mouth into an exaggerated pout, earning himself a laugh. "I see how it is, you think you're too grown up to talk to your old man."
She starts babbling out a monologue that would put one of Person's to shame, though with considerably less profanity and porn. It involves her friend Tonya and a fierce battle over who would get to use the swing on the left side of the set, as apparently it was far superior. Poke doesn't have to contribute much to the conversation, only nod a few times, or murmur a question.
After spouting out a tangent about a younger girl who had tried to follow them around, she seems to lose steam. "Alright niña," he says, standing up, pointedly leaving her sight-lines open to the TV. He shakes his legs out. Going fucking soft here at home. He should be, has been, able to hold harder positions than that for hours.
Glancing up at the clock, he decides against sitting back down to the laptop. He needs to get some food ready for his girls. Poke laughs at himself as he walks into the kitchen area. He is a highly trained fucking hunter, a killer of men, turned maker of (mostly) nutritional meals. Marine turned damn house husband.
Dinner is ready to go on the table when Gina walks in. He drops his handful of silverware on the table, heading towards her. Lily hasn't noticed yet, so he puts a finger up to his lips while approaching. He wraps his arms around her and leans his head into her neck, relaxing down into the scent and feel of her.
Poke stays there for a minute, resting until he hears the bright squeal that means Lily has spotted her mother. When he pulls back he sees a concerned frown marring Gina's face. Too fucking smart, the women in his life. He shakes his head a little, nodding towards Lily, who has come up to get herself a hug.
They don't get a chance to talk about it for hours, past dinner and after Lily reads out a chapter of her book to them. Her young voice is soothing, and Poke only has to help her sound out a few words. His baby girl is a fucking genius. He stays for a few minutes after she is out, just taking her in before going out to face his wife.
Gina is sitting down on the couch. She spots him and quickly flicks the channel away from the news. More motherfucking liberals and motherfucking conservatives debating the war like it was an abstract, like it wasn't already happening. Fucking bullshit. He says it out loud, though softly.
"Fucking bullshit." Normally he tries to keep the swearing down to a minimum at the house, tries to keep it all away. That isn't going to fucking happen today.
"Antonio." Her voice is soft, but oh so firm. No getting out of talking here.
"So I go into the C.O.'s office today. The fucker decided he has had enough of my bullshit. Not that I have given him any fucking bullshit, because I can be just as subservient as the next motherfucker in the Marines. But see, now he knows I have thoughts. He knows I have fucking opinions about officers and warfare. And, oh yeah, I don't subscribe to that fucking Sesame Street bullshit ignorance. Because I have fucking eyes and can see that people actually are different colors, and sometimes everyone, including Uncle Sam, treats them differently."
Poke glares at the framed article hanging on the wall, in pride of place next to the picture of Lily on her first day of school. He wants to grab it, throw it, break the glass so her can tear at the laminated paper inside it. "Fucking bullshit. Apparently because I have these fucking opinions, I am not only a racist motherfucker, I am a coward." He clenches his hands into fists, because he doesn't do that shit here. This is his home, his family doesn't need his bullshit anger. "I'm being assigned away from combat for fucking cowardice. Apparently now I am a P.O.G."
Poke feels like his anger should be spent after getting the words out. That was how anger works here in A-fucking-merica. You talked it out and the anger was supposed to leave, and then you were clean. Fucking bullshit. He is still angry.
"I am not a fucking coward. That is just a fucking bullshit lie because they don't want to tell the brown man that he is a racist. And fuck that, if I am racist, than they are just as fucking racist, and rather than admit that there even is racism, they slap together a fucking lie and call me a coward."
He is struggling his voice down, aware even in his anger that his little girl is still sleeping a room away. Rather than yelling, he gulps down a large lungful of air. The sound is harsh enough to be called a gasp, and his throat feels scratchy, as irritated as if he was still surrounded by sand.
Gina looks at him calmly "Good."
Poke blinks back at her, waiting for an explanation.
"I know you aren't a coward, and it sucks that some dipshit is calling you one, but I don't fucking care." She is shrugging her shoulders, and she doesn't sound as calm any more. "They are keeping you here. You are staying with us longer, and I cannot get mad about that, even if it is fucking bullshit."
Gina walks towards him. She is going slowly, like she thinks moving to quickly will spook him. Maybe it would. She gently places a hand on his shoulder, and just like that the tension in his body vanishes, pooling down to the floor. Like she had water to wash away the gritty layers of anger just streaming out of her body and pouring into his.
Poke leans forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss. He is gentle, can be gentle, now.
He is home. Maybe he doesn't mind staying a little longer.
Author: attempt-unique
Characters/Pairing: Sgt. Antonio “Poke” Espera
Rating/Warnings: PG13 - If you could handle the series, you can handle this fic
Disclaimer: This fic is based on the characters as portrayed in the miniseries Generation Kill. The characters do not belong to me, and I borrowed the names of Poke's wife and child from Hackthis' fic. Title is from lyrics to Lupe Fiasco's "American Terrorist"
Thanks: Much thanks to the amazingly awesome beta skills of everywherestars for whipping my tenses into shape.
Recipient: inlovewithnight
Prompt: Sgt. Antonio “Poke” Espera. A slice of his family life, before or after the war.
Poke drums his fingers on the counter before opening his e-mail account. He isn't sure whether or not he really wants to read it. He's been avoiding the phone since the first commiserating calls started coming in, and knows he will face more of the same in his inbox. You aren't some fucking mailman, you have faced fire. You can open up your e-mail.
The first thing, even before the ads trying to sell him a bigger dick or someplace to use it, is a message from Brad.
fucking bullshit.
Always fucking eloquent, Brad. His message could mean that word has traveled through the grapevine all the way to fucking England. Of course, it could also refer to just about anything. There was plenty of fucking bullshit in the world, and Brad was never one to let it pass. But it was easy enough to reply to.
Motherfuckers are steeped in shit, for real this time.
He skims through the next few messages, a couple of bills, a few coupons, and then something from the reporter. He reads through it, and isn't surprised at what he sees. Self-flagellating fucking bullshit, stuff about anonymity and not-censoring the reality. Bullshit really was everywhere. Why the fuck should the reporter have censored him. Poke knew what he was saying when he said it. He owned his words. Fucking bullshit.
Poke leans back in the chair, the squeaky wheel shrieking at him in protest. He is almost grateful for the sound. "Too fucking quiet," he whispers to himself. He considers putting something on the T.V., maybe turning on the radio. He has options, all these fucking first world, paid for opportunities to make some noise.
He doesn't actually need to use them though, because in the door comes the noisiest thing he has ever had in his life. Lily runs into the room in a burst of sound and color. He gets out of the chair to block her path to the T.V.. Poke considers sweeping her up into his arms, even though she has started objecting to it. He crouches down though, because he wants to see that beautiful face. Best fucking thing in the world right there.
"Hey, slow down for a second and tell your father about your day." She gives him a smile, but keeps peeking over his shoulder at the television, trying to will it on with the power of her mind. When she looks at him he pulls a ridiculous face, puffing out his cheeks so wide the skin on his face feels tight before dropping his mouth into an exaggerated pout, earning himself a laugh. "I see how it is, you think you're too grown up to talk to your old man."
She starts babbling out a monologue that would put one of Person's to shame, though with considerably less profanity and porn. It involves her friend Tonya and a fierce battle over who would get to use the swing on the left side of the set, as apparently it was far superior. Poke doesn't have to contribute much to the conversation, only nod a few times, or murmur a question.
After spouting out a tangent about a younger girl who had tried to follow them around, she seems to lose steam. "Alright niña," he says, standing up, pointedly leaving her sight-lines open to the TV. He shakes his legs out. Going fucking soft here at home. He should be, has been, able to hold harder positions than that for hours.
Glancing up at the clock, he decides against sitting back down to the laptop. He needs to get some food ready for his girls. Poke laughs at himself as he walks into the kitchen area. He is a highly trained fucking hunter, a killer of men, turned maker of (mostly) nutritional meals. Marine turned damn house husband.
Dinner is ready to go on the table when Gina walks in. He drops his handful of silverware on the table, heading towards her. Lily hasn't noticed yet, so he puts a finger up to his lips while approaching. He wraps his arms around her and leans his head into her neck, relaxing down into the scent and feel of her.
Poke stays there for a minute, resting until he hears the bright squeal that means Lily has spotted her mother. When he pulls back he sees a concerned frown marring Gina's face. Too fucking smart, the women in his life. He shakes his head a little, nodding towards Lily, who has come up to get herself a hug.
They don't get a chance to talk about it for hours, past dinner and after Lily reads out a chapter of her book to them. Her young voice is soothing, and Poke only has to help her sound out a few words. His baby girl is a fucking genius. He stays for a few minutes after she is out, just taking her in before going out to face his wife.
Gina is sitting down on the couch. She spots him and quickly flicks the channel away from the news. More motherfucking liberals and motherfucking conservatives debating the war like it was an abstract, like it wasn't already happening. Fucking bullshit. He says it out loud, though softly.
"Fucking bullshit." Normally he tries to keep the swearing down to a minimum at the house, tries to keep it all away. That isn't going to fucking happen today.
"Antonio." Her voice is soft, but oh so firm. No getting out of talking here.
"So I go into the C.O.'s office today. The fucker decided he has had enough of my bullshit. Not that I have given him any fucking bullshit, because I can be just as subservient as the next motherfucker in the Marines. But see, now he knows I have thoughts. He knows I have fucking opinions about officers and warfare. And, oh yeah, I don't subscribe to that fucking Sesame Street bullshit ignorance. Because I have fucking eyes and can see that people actually are different colors, and sometimes everyone, including Uncle Sam, treats them differently."
Poke glares at the framed article hanging on the wall, in pride of place next to the picture of Lily on her first day of school. He wants to grab it, throw it, break the glass so her can tear at the laminated paper inside it. "Fucking bullshit. Apparently because I have these fucking opinions, I am not only a racist motherfucker, I am a coward." He clenches his hands into fists, because he doesn't do that shit here. This is his home, his family doesn't need his bullshit anger. "I'm being assigned away from combat for fucking cowardice. Apparently now I am a P.O.G."
Poke feels like his anger should be spent after getting the words out. That was how anger works here in A-fucking-merica. You talked it out and the anger was supposed to leave, and then you were clean. Fucking bullshit. He is still angry.
"I am not a fucking coward. That is just a fucking bullshit lie because they don't want to tell the brown man that he is a racist. And fuck that, if I am racist, than they are just as fucking racist, and rather than admit that there even is racism, they slap together a fucking lie and call me a coward."
He is struggling his voice down, aware even in his anger that his little girl is still sleeping a room away. Rather than yelling, he gulps down a large lungful of air. The sound is harsh enough to be called a gasp, and his throat feels scratchy, as irritated as if he was still surrounded by sand.
Gina looks at him calmly "Good."
Poke blinks back at her, waiting for an explanation.
"I know you aren't a coward, and it sucks that some dipshit is calling you one, but I don't fucking care." She is shrugging her shoulders, and she doesn't sound as calm any more. "They are keeping you here. You are staying with us longer, and I cannot get mad about that, even if it is fucking bullshit."
Gina walks towards him. She is going slowly, like she thinks moving to quickly will spook him. Maybe it would. She gently places a hand on his shoulder, and just like that the tension in his body vanishes, pooling down to the floor. Like she had water to wash away the gritty layers of anger just streaming out of her body and pouring into his.
Poke leans forward, capturing her mouth in a kiss. He is gentle, can be gentle, now.
He is home. Maybe he doesn't mind staying a little longer.