No Hateful Song To Sing
Title: No Hateful Song To Sing
Authors: m_buggie and melliyna
Fandoms: Generation Kill,Band of Brothers, West Wing
Pairings: Nixon/Winters, Colbert/Fick
Word Count: 2,000
Rating: R
Standard Disclaimer: This is based off performances in the HBO miniseries, not the actual soldiers. The only thing I own is the computer I wrote this on. I make no profit and mean no disrespect so please don’t sue.
Author’s Note: This takes place in the world of the Big Damn Modern Day Crossover AU of Doom-verse…I think that says it all. Also, please don't kill me *hides self in preparation* And m_buggie, thank you.
~x~x~
Eleanor Nixon-Winters was almost six years old - five years and eleven months old, to be exact. She made a point of stating this with great importance. Her birthday loomed a mere month away and everything was a source of excitement now that she was old enough to understand that with birthdays came parties and with parties came cake and ice cream and friends. These were all things that she loved very much.
Another thing that she loved was receiving letters. The joy of envelopes and parcels arriving in the mail with her name on them had been introduced to Ella by her uncle, Ronald Speirs. Though not related to her by blood, Speirs was a close friend of the family and adored her as if she were his own. He held a job that required him to travel a great deal and began sending her postcards and letters from the various corners of the globe he visited as a means of keeping in touch with the little girl who missed him. Ella was still a little fuzzy on the exact places, but she loved to try and find them on the giant map tacked up to one of the walls in her room. She stuck little stars on all the places that Uncle Speirs had visited and then read about them with the help of her parents.
As it was, Uncle Speirs was going to be away on business until the month after Ella’s sixth birthday so he promised to send her a present and birthday card by mail. Ballet shoes: that was what he’d promised her. The previous Christmas they’d all gone to see a performance of “The Nutcracker” and little Ella had become so enamored with the show that she’d expressed an interest in learning how to dance. Uncle Speirs promised that he would get her ballet slippers for her next birthday and not just any pair, either; he was going to get her ballet shoes from Paris, France. Uncle Speirs always kept his promises. So Ella awaited his package eagerly every day, hoping that one of her fathers would return from checking the mailbox to announce that her very special birthday ballet shoes from Paris, France had come.
It was the last week of May when a box finally appeared. Ella whooped and cheered and grabbed the package, skipping into the living room to open it.
“Papa! Look what I got!”
She clutched the box with her little arms, grinning proudly.
Richard Winters eyed the parcel, frowning lightly. The writing on the brown paper wrapping wasn’t recognizable as Ron Speirs’ nor did it look like the penmanship of Ron’s husband, Carwood Lipton.
But Ella had already torn open the package, anxious to get to her long-anticipated Parisian French ballet slippers. Wrapping, packaging was entirely incidental in this regard, as was the more than slightly anxious looks that her parents were exchanging. Though they hadn't talked about it, the media interest in Ella had begun to worry them. Ever since those fist fuzzy photos from a trip to the Zoo had been splashed across the blogsphere and then the society pages, the mainstream press their little family had become a talking point. There was the fact that her 'fairy godfather' as one commentator had sarcastically put it, was a high profile, visible and controversial candidate for office but also that one of her fathers was the scion of one Americas wealthiest and most prominent families, with a scandalous past of his own to be gossiped about.
There were plenty of reasons to be worried, not even taking in to account the Lambs of God. But no one had expected what happened next. Ella had been in the throes of the kind of happiness that only comes with the excited receiving of a wished for gift, as she pulled away the last piece of wrapping, to open the box, but somehow, it had changed. And her hands were red, when she lifted them out.
"Daddy, Papa. Uncle Speirs sent me a doll instead of shoes. But it's a messy doll," she said, looking worriedly down at her hands, then in to the box. Then her lower lip trembled, she dropped the box and ran off in the direction of her room, not looking back. The doll fell out, the knife still stuck through it, a message pinned underneath it.
"What happens to bad little girls who don't know God"
Lewis Nixon read it, feeling his hands tremble with something between rage and fear. He looked for his husband, but he'd already gone after Ella. Nix would go as well, in a moment. When he could be sure that he could speak without letting any of the anger he was feeling seep in to his voice and body language when talking to his daughter. And there was a phone call that had to be made, first. To the police, yes, but also to the Fick and Colbert household, to make sure they knew, among other things, that the blame should only be thrown in one direction here. Not towards anyone whom his little girl happily included in her drawings of her family, in excited stories of show and tell.
~
Brad Colbert, it should never be forgotten, could be terrifying when it came to it. He was six feet four inches of muscle, paramilitary training, and determination that did not take kindly to anyone or anything that dared strike against those few he loved. As a teenager he’d earned himself the nickname Iceman at the military academy, something that carried through to his time with the Merchant Marines. No matter how hard the going got or what kind of trouble was at hand, Brad remained cool and composed. Even in the moments when his infamous temper did flare and make itself known, it was in measured bursts. Brad was always in control.
But control, as it turned out, was only an illusion. This was never clearer to Brad as when he heard the news about what had happened to Ella. Something changed in him, a switch was thrown. The Iceman set in. Perhaps he could count those he loved - those whom he would lay down his life for - on hand and still have fingers left over, but that didn't make the sentiment any less intense. Or heartfelt. An attack against any of them was an attack against him and that just would not stand. Brad looked over at his husband and saw the same feeling reflected as Nate Fick turned upon his heel and marched towards Henry Jones IV and Josh Lyman like a soldier heading to war.
Brad had seen a lot in his life. The Colbert family might have lived in a comfortable Greenwich, Connecticut home designed by his successful architect father but Brad was by no means spoiled or sheltered. He didn’t think there’d be anything that could surprise him, let alone shake him up. But “surprised” and “shaken up” didn’t even begin to cover how he felt the day Nathaniel Fick received his first death threat in the mail. There wasn’t much in Brad’s repertoire that could’ve prepared him for seeing his husband, the love of his life, become the target of such hatred and bigotry. And there was absolutely nothing that could’ve prepared him for now, for seeing the sweet child who was the apple of his eye look up at him, Nate, and her parents with such confusion and fear.
Poor innocent Ella, looking very small; she heard the sentiment of the adults’ tone of voices, after the package had been given to them, if not the words. It upset her that they were upset and somehow she thought it was all her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, crying because it was all so overwhelming. “I'm sorry, Uncle Brad. I didn’t mean it. Uncle Nate, don’t be mad. I didn't mean it. I’m sorry."
Which only served to break Brad’s heart further because the situation was anything but Ella’s fault. He hugs her, fiercely but gently, because he can't do anything else, until her parents come back in to lead her back to her room and to her toys and a favourite story, while the adults have a strategy meeting in which they try and keep their voices low, even, reasonable. It does not entirely succeed. But they do hug Ella, her godparents and her parents. There are songs sung, played and stories told, until she falls in to an uneasy nap and they close the door of her room, softly.
"Henry, call Josh. Do it yesterday." Nate Fick, Nate Fick was all anger, now, as Henry Jones walked in the door, in answer to a summons. "We're going in to the office."
~
"I'm going out there, Henry. Call in the press, right fucking now."
Nathaniel Fick may have been a New York Congressional candidate but he looked more like an angel with all the righteous fury of the heavens behind him. Henry Jones IV and Josh Lyman stood rooted in place by the sheer force of Nate’s anger.
"They are going to listen and they are going to learn. Do not fuck with my family."
He stopped a moment, struggling for words, struggling not to put his fists through a wall.
"Do you what it means to have to explain to Ella why someone hates her family? Why someone hates her?” he went on to ask in a semi-rhetorical manner. He looked from Henry to Josh: challenging them with one breath and pouring his heart out with the next. “Because I had to do that today. Do you have any idea how painful that was? For me? For her? She's not even six years old this is the kind of bullshit that she has to deal with? I don’t think so. This fuckery will not go unpunished."
Josh looked like he was going to say something, but didn't. Henry thought about saying something, but didn't. Perhaps another staffer would have thought about political cost benefit analysis, about whether a speech to the press would go down well with moderate 'values voters' who might vote for Nate, but didn't want his family visible. Not Josh or Henry - this was their friend, as well as their candidate and both had seen what hatred could do, what it could break apart. And there was Ella, a little girl who should never have to deal with such things. Yes, Josh Lyman and Henry Jones were calling in the press, so Nate Fick could call out who he need to. You'd better believe it.
Authors: m_buggie and melliyna
Fandoms: Generation Kill,Band of Brothers, West Wing
Pairings: Nixon/Winters, Colbert/Fick
Word Count: 2,000
Rating: R
Standard Disclaimer: This is based off performances in the HBO miniseries, not the actual soldiers. The only thing I own is the computer I wrote this on. I make no profit and mean no disrespect so please don’t sue.
Author’s Note: This takes place in the world of the Big Damn Modern Day Crossover AU of Doom-verse…I think that says it all. Also, please don't kill me *hides self in preparation* And m_buggie, thank you.
~x~x~
Eleanor Nixon-Winters was almost six years old - five years and eleven months old, to be exact. She made a point of stating this with great importance. Her birthday loomed a mere month away and everything was a source of excitement now that she was old enough to understand that with birthdays came parties and with parties came cake and ice cream and friends. These were all things that she loved very much.
Another thing that she loved was receiving letters. The joy of envelopes and parcels arriving in the mail with her name on them had been introduced to Ella by her uncle, Ronald Speirs. Though not related to her by blood, Speirs was a close friend of the family and adored her as if she were his own. He held a job that required him to travel a great deal and began sending her postcards and letters from the various corners of the globe he visited as a means of keeping in touch with the little girl who missed him. Ella was still a little fuzzy on the exact places, but she loved to try and find them on the giant map tacked up to one of the walls in her room. She stuck little stars on all the places that Uncle Speirs had visited and then read about them with the help of her parents.
As it was, Uncle Speirs was going to be away on business until the month after Ella’s sixth birthday so he promised to send her a present and birthday card by mail. Ballet shoes: that was what he’d promised her. The previous Christmas they’d all gone to see a performance of “The Nutcracker” and little Ella had become so enamored with the show that she’d expressed an interest in learning how to dance. Uncle Speirs promised that he would get her ballet slippers for her next birthday and not just any pair, either; he was going to get her ballet shoes from Paris, France. Uncle Speirs always kept his promises. So Ella awaited his package eagerly every day, hoping that one of her fathers would return from checking the mailbox to announce that her very special birthday ballet shoes from Paris, France had come.
It was the last week of May when a box finally appeared. Ella whooped and cheered and grabbed the package, skipping into the living room to open it.
“Papa! Look what I got!”
She clutched the box with her little arms, grinning proudly.
Richard Winters eyed the parcel, frowning lightly. The writing on the brown paper wrapping wasn’t recognizable as Ron Speirs’ nor did it look like the penmanship of Ron’s husband, Carwood Lipton.
But Ella had already torn open the package, anxious to get to her long-anticipated Parisian French ballet slippers. Wrapping, packaging was entirely incidental in this regard, as was the more than slightly anxious looks that her parents were exchanging. Though they hadn't talked about it, the media interest in Ella had begun to worry them. Ever since those fist fuzzy photos from a trip to the Zoo had been splashed across the blogsphere and then the society pages, the mainstream press their little family had become a talking point. There was the fact that her 'fairy godfather' as one commentator had sarcastically put it, was a high profile, visible and controversial candidate for office but also that one of her fathers was the scion of one Americas wealthiest and most prominent families, with a scandalous past of his own to be gossiped about.
There were plenty of reasons to be worried, not even taking in to account the Lambs of God. But no one had expected what happened next. Ella had been in the throes of the kind of happiness that only comes with the excited receiving of a wished for gift, as she pulled away the last piece of wrapping, to open the box, but somehow, it had changed. And her hands were red, when she lifted them out.
"Daddy, Papa. Uncle Speirs sent me a doll instead of shoes. But it's a messy doll," she said, looking worriedly down at her hands, then in to the box. Then her lower lip trembled, she dropped the box and ran off in the direction of her room, not looking back. The doll fell out, the knife still stuck through it, a message pinned underneath it.
"What happens to bad little girls who don't know God"
Lewis Nixon read it, feeling his hands tremble with something between rage and fear. He looked for his husband, but he'd already gone after Ella. Nix would go as well, in a moment. When he could be sure that he could speak without letting any of the anger he was feeling seep in to his voice and body language when talking to his daughter. And there was a phone call that had to be made, first. To the police, yes, but also to the Fick and Colbert household, to make sure they knew, among other things, that the blame should only be thrown in one direction here. Not towards anyone whom his little girl happily included in her drawings of her family, in excited stories of show and tell.
~
Brad Colbert, it should never be forgotten, could be terrifying when it came to it. He was six feet four inches of muscle, paramilitary training, and determination that did not take kindly to anyone or anything that dared strike against those few he loved. As a teenager he’d earned himself the nickname Iceman at the military academy, something that carried through to his time with the Merchant Marines. No matter how hard the going got or what kind of trouble was at hand, Brad remained cool and composed. Even in the moments when his infamous temper did flare and make itself known, it was in measured bursts. Brad was always in control.
But control, as it turned out, was only an illusion. This was never clearer to Brad as when he heard the news about what had happened to Ella. Something changed in him, a switch was thrown. The Iceman set in. Perhaps he could count those he loved - those whom he would lay down his life for - on hand and still have fingers left over, but that didn't make the sentiment any less intense. Or heartfelt. An attack against any of them was an attack against him and that just would not stand. Brad looked over at his husband and saw the same feeling reflected as Nate Fick turned upon his heel and marched towards Henry Jones IV and Josh Lyman like a soldier heading to war.
Brad had seen a lot in his life. The Colbert family might have lived in a comfortable Greenwich, Connecticut home designed by his successful architect father but Brad was by no means spoiled or sheltered. He didn’t think there’d be anything that could surprise him, let alone shake him up. But “surprised” and “shaken up” didn’t even begin to cover how he felt the day Nathaniel Fick received his first death threat in the mail. There wasn’t much in Brad’s repertoire that could’ve prepared him for seeing his husband, the love of his life, become the target of such hatred and bigotry. And there was absolutely nothing that could’ve prepared him for now, for seeing the sweet child who was the apple of his eye look up at him, Nate, and her parents with such confusion and fear.
Poor innocent Ella, looking very small; she heard the sentiment of the adults’ tone of voices, after the package had been given to them, if not the words. It upset her that they were upset and somehow she thought it was all her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, crying because it was all so overwhelming. “I'm sorry, Uncle Brad. I didn’t mean it. Uncle Nate, don’t be mad. I didn't mean it. I’m sorry."
Which only served to break Brad’s heart further because the situation was anything but Ella’s fault. He hugs her, fiercely but gently, because he can't do anything else, until her parents come back in to lead her back to her room and to her toys and a favourite story, while the adults have a strategy meeting in which they try and keep their voices low, even, reasonable. It does not entirely succeed. But they do hug Ella, her godparents and her parents. There are songs sung, played and stories told, until she falls in to an uneasy nap and they close the door of her room, softly.
"Henry, call Josh. Do it yesterday." Nate Fick, Nate Fick was all anger, now, as Henry Jones walked in the door, in answer to a summons. "We're going in to the office."
~
"I'm going out there, Henry. Call in the press, right fucking now."
Nathaniel Fick may have been a New York Congressional candidate but he looked more like an angel with all the righteous fury of the heavens behind him. Henry Jones IV and Josh Lyman stood rooted in place by the sheer force of Nate’s anger.
"They are going to listen and they are going to learn. Do not fuck with my family."
He stopped a moment, struggling for words, struggling not to put his fists through a wall.
"Do you what it means to have to explain to Ella why someone hates her family? Why someone hates her?” he went on to ask in a semi-rhetorical manner. He looked from Henry to Josh: challenging them with one breath and pouring his heart out with the next. “Because I had to do that today. Do you have any idea how painful that was? For me? For her? She's not even six years old this is the kind of bullshit that she has to deal with? I don’t think so. This fuckery will not go unpunished."
Josh looked like he was going to say something, but didn't. Henry thought about saying something, but didn't. Perhaps another staffer would have thought about political cost benefit analysis, about whether a speech to the press would go down well with moderate 'values voters' who might vote for Nate, but didn't want his family visible. Not Josh or Henry - this was their friend, as well as their candidate and both had seen what hatred could do, what it could break apart. And there was Ella, a little girl who should never have to deal with such things. Yes, Josh Lyman and Henry Jones were calling in the press, so Nate Fick could call out who he need to. You'd better believe it.