Promissum
Title: Promissum (AO3)
Summary: Inspired by don't miss anything from home by pticha21 (Deviantart).
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Brad/Nate
Genre: Angst, romance
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; swearing
Word Count: 778
Author's Notes: For etacanis, because she did a Stark Sands appreciation post. I actually really love this piece <3
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard and Stark Sands in the HBO miniseries, not the real people.
Nate's holed himself up in a deserted part of the cigarette factory, away from his men and his superiors. He likes this "office" of his. It's sparse, with a desk and several dusty olive green boxes marked with 'Property of US Marine Corps' on some makeshift shelves.
He likes the paperwork less. Nate can hear the sounds of yelling and banter outside the window, as well as the frequent bursts of mortars and gunfire. He can't help but grin; he's a million miles away from Camp Pendleton, in the middle of a country ravaged by a war that they've barely won, and he's doing paperwork.
The door creaks open, and Nate immediately reaches for his M-16, leaning against his chair.
"Hey, LT." Brad slips into the room, and Nate's suddenly aware of how fucking small the place is. The dust, the walls, the shelves all press in on him, and Nate hides from the pressure in his chest by nodding at Brad and turning back to his goddamn paperwork.
He doesn't look up even as Brad takes a seat on the other side of the desk. He doesn't need to look up to know that Brad's eyeing him with that speculative look of his.
He doesn't want to talk to Brad, not really, not now. Not ever. Because this, this is wrong. This goes against protocol, against all the SOPs he's ever been taught. This is the combination of all the stares they've exchanged silently for the past few weeks, the mutual reassurances that they're not fucking things up even though they are, the knowledge in each other's eyes that they want (need) something more than what they have.
This is a promise Nate had made to Brad hurriedly after a long tired night that they'd talk. Eventually. Because Ray knows something is up, and Mike sure as hell suspects, and they're surrounded by Recon Marines who know shit from bullshit.
"Nate."
Surprisingly, it's no struggle to lift his head from staring at the same page. He looks into Brad's eyes and swallows, and tries to not laugh hysterically, because he's managed to dodge death a hundred times over and still afraid of talking about… them.
"Brad." It's almost a warning, but Brad doesn't stop or look away as he stands up and strides over to Nate's side of the desk. "Sergeant."
"I prefer Brad," he says, mouth twitching, and Nate can't help but smile a little. "Sir."
Nate can't quite remember when he stood up, but his back is suddenly against the brick wall, and he's blinking up at Brad's smirking face. The smallest things come into focus: the faded 'Colbert' on Brad's shirt, the dust clinging onto Brad's eyelashes, the smudges of dirt and oil on Brad's face.
"Brad."
"I know my own name, sir." He says it mockingly, almost, left hand reaching out to grab Nate's right sleeve. "You promised. And I'm always assured of your commitments, sir."
Nate swallows and it feels like he's swallowing half the sand in Iraq, his throat's so dry. "I… This can't… You're…"
And then Brad's left hand is cupping his cheek, and Nate stops talking altogether. He can argue with Schwetje and Griego at length, give some motivational bullshit speech to his men, talk about political realism and international relations to people who'd listen, but this? This he can't do.
Brad's face is achingly near and his eyes bear some kind of hurt and frustration that Nate wishes he could erase. Then there is the contrast of Brad's warm forehead against his own, the nudge of Brad's nose teasing against Nate's bridge. Brad's mouth is inches away, and Nate can't help but realise that this is them all the way through Iraq: close yet distant.
It feels sad, and Nate tries to look away, focusing his sight on the nearest box on the shelf next to them.
"I'll wait." Brad's voice is scratchy but firm. "I swear to you, Nate, I'll wait till you're ready, when we're both clear to disobey any stupid law that's stopping you. I assure you, Nate."
It feels like the entire world has shrunk down into this small place with boxes and walls, down to the warm press of Brad against Nate, down to the light stroking of Brad's thumb against Nate's forefinger.
Nate nods in silent acknowledgement and a promise of his own, feels Brad's eyelashes close, feels the pressure in his chest coil and dip down.
It feels right, and Nate can't breathe, can't move for fear of dislodging this, this frozen moment in time and space, lit up by the blaze of the sun through the big windows behind Brad.
Summary: Inspired by don't miss anything from home by pticha21 (Deviantart).
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters/Pairings: Brad/Nate
Genre: Angst, romance
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; swearing
Word Count: 778
Author's Notes: For etacanis, because she did a Stark Sands appreciation post. I actually really love this piece <3
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard and Stark Sands in the HBO miniseries, not the real people.
Nate's holed himself up in a deserted part of the cigarette factory, away from his men and his superiors. He likes this "office" of his. It's sparse, with a desk and several dusty olive green boxes marked with 'Property of US Marine Corps' on some makeshift shelves.
He likes the paperwork less. Nate can hear the sounds of yelling and banter outside the window, as well as the frequent bursts of mortars and gunfire. He can't help but grin; he's a million miles away from Camp Pendleton, in the middle of a country ravaged by a war that they've barely won, and he's doing paperwork.
The door creaks open, and Nate immediately reaches for his M-16, leaning against his chair.
"Hey, LT." Brad slips into the room, and Nate's suddenly aware of how fucking small the place is. The dust, the walls, the shelves all press in on him, and Nate hides from the pressure in his chest by nodding at Brad and turning back to his goddamn paperwork.
He doesn't look up even as Brad takes a seat on the other side of the desk. He doesn't need to look up to know that Brad's eyeing him with that speculative look of his.
He doesn't want to talk to Brad, not really, not now. Not ever. Because this, this is wrong. This goes against protocol, against all the SOPs he's ever been taught. This is the combination of all the stares they've exchanged silently for the past few weeks, the mutual reassurances that they're not fucking things up even though they are, the knowledge in each other's eyes that they want (need) something more than what they have.
This is a promise Nate had made to Brad hurriedly after a long tired night that they'd talk. Eventually. Because Ray knows something is up, and Mike sure as hell suspects, and they're surrounded by Recon Marines who know shit from bullshit.
"Nate."
Surprisingly, it's no struggle to lift his head from staring at the same page. He looks into Brad's eyes and swallows, and tries to not laugh hysterically, because he's managed to dodge death a hundred times over and still afraid of talking about… them.
"Brad." It's almost a warning, but Brad doesn't stop or look away as he stands up and strides over to Nate's side of the desk. "Sergeant."
"I prefer Brad," he says, mouth twitching, and Nate can't help but smile a little. "Sir."
Nate can't quite remember when he stood up, but his back is suddenly against the brick wall, and he's blinking up at Brad's smirking face. The smallest things come into focus: the faded 'Colbert' on Brad's shirt, the dust clinging onto Brad's eyelashes, the smudges of dirt and oil on Brad's face.
"Brad."
"I know my own name, sir." He says it mockingly, almost, left hand reaching out to grab Nate's right sleeve. "You promised. And I'm always assured of your commitments, sir."
Nate swallows and it feels like he's swallowing half the sand in Iraq, his throat's so dry. "I… This can't… You're…"
And then Brad's left hand is cupping his cheek, and Nate stops talking altogether. He can argue with Schwetje and Griego at length, give some motivational bullshit speech to his men, talk about political realism and international relations to people who'd listen, but this? This he can't do.
Brad's face is achingly near and his eyes bear some kind of hurt and frustration that Nate wishes he could erase. Then there is the contrast of Brad's warm forehead against his own, the nudge of Brad's nose teasing against Nate's bridge. Brad's mouth is inches away, and Nate can't help but realise that this is them all the way through Iraq: close yet distant.
It feels sad, and Nate tries to look away, focusing his sight on the nearest box on the shelf next to them.
"I'll wait." Brad's voice is scratchy but firm. "I swear to you, Nate, I'll wait till you're ready, when we're both clear to disobey any stupid law that's stopping you. I assure you, Nate."
It feels like the entire world has shrunk down into this small place with boxes and walls, down to the warm press of Brad against Nate, down to the light stroking of Brad's thumb against Nate's forefinger.
Nate nods in silent acknowledgement and a promise of his own, feels Brad's eyelashes close, feels the pressure in his chest coil and dip down.
It feels right, and Nate can't breathe, can't move for fear of dislodging this, this frozen moment in time and space, lit up by the blaze of the sun through the big windows behind Brad.