In Which Brad and Mal Have Peru In Common
This chapter's a little longer than the others. It kind of got away from me...
Title: Beer and Nachos Fix Everything - Round Three
Authors: m_buggie and melliyna
Fandoms: “Band of Brothers”/”Generation Kill”/Saving Private Ryan
Pairings: obliquely implied Malarkey/Muck, mentions of past and eventual Colbert/Fick
Word Count: 1,292 for Round Three
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 Big Damn AU of Doom-verse…I think that says it all. The following is dedicated to foofighter0234, our ever-cheerful enabler.
~x~x~
“…so then she gets all worked up and starts yelling at me in Spanish or something.”
Everyone laughed at Mike Horvath, flailing his arms around and screeching out gibberish in a bad falsetto voice, mimicking the female customer who’d caused a commotion earlier that day for the benefit of Joy Toye, who’d missed it.
“No, I don’t think so, Mike,” Walt Hasser said from somewhere underneath a car hood, his Virginia drawl creeping through. “I’ve heard Spanish before and what that lady was talking didn’t sound like no Spanish to me.”
“Maybe it was Portuguese,” Joe offered. “You know, ‘cause Portuguese is kinda like Spanish but it ain’t.”
Mike Horvath rolled his eyes, more annoyed at having his story interrupted than at being corrected on its little details. “All right, look you uppity bastards, I don’t fucking know what language the lady was using but the bottom line is that she started screaming at me in it.”
“It was Tagalog,” Don Malarkey commented, passing blithely through the scene on his way to the coffee machine.
Five pairs of eyes looked over in Mal’s direction. Even Walt stuck his head out from under the Chevy hood.
“What?” Mike’s face scrunched up and for all his blustery over-forty ire he looked more like a puzzled eight-year-old than anything else at that moment. “What the hell are you talking about, Don?”
“The language that woman was railing at you in,” Mal explained, pouring himself a cup of something that was either cold coffee or warm motor oil. “It was Tagalog. They speak that in the Philippines.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What makes you so sure it was tag-along?”
Walt and Joe snickered at Mike’s mispronunciation of the language name.
“Because I used to hear it on a daily basis.”
Mike snorted. “What? You spend a lot of time in the Philippines or some shit?”
“Six months back in my Peace Corps days,” Mal replied glibly.
“He’s got you there, Mike,” Walt snickered.
“Shaddap,” Mike snapped at the boys, picking up his wrench. “All right, enough of this bullshit. We don’t get paid to stand around…”
Mal smirked and shook his head at Mike on his way to what was commonly referred to as “two-wheel territory” at the back of Caparzo & Son’s garage.
Brad Colbert was cleaning a motorcycle chain when Mal sat down not too far away.
“Peace Corps, huh?” Brad remarked off-handedly.
Mal nodded. “Yup.”
“How long?”
“About a year and a half.”
Brad raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in a way that gave Mal the impression that Iceman Colbert was impressed.
Mal set his mug aside and got back to work on a drive shaft that required his attention. Every now and then he’d say something to fill the silence, glancing over at Brad and continuing only if the taller man responded. He admitted that he’d met Skip and Penk - his infamous band/roommates - during his time in the Peace Corps, then rattled off a few of the locales he’d spent time in during his sixteen months abroad.
“I was in Peru once,” Brad commented, catching Mal completely off guard by not only speaking more than a few syllables at a time but divulging personal information in the shop setting. “I crewed a ship that had a drop-off/layover in Callao. Spent a few days there. Scenic place.”
Once Mal had gotten over his initial shock and remembered how to verbalize, he asked Brad, “You used to be a sailor?”
“United States Merchant Marines,” Brad replied. He met Mal’s gaze and added, “Five years nine months, in case you were wondering.”
“Wow.”
Mal nodded, turning this new piece to the puzzle over in his mind: Brad Colbert, ex-Merchant Marine. It made sense, really; even if Mal had secretly figured Brad to be more the Marine Corps type than anything else. This brought Mal’s tally on Things Known About Brad to seven. At this rate, he might need more than two hands to count them all by the end of November.
When five o’clock started closing in and everyone was getting ready to leave for the day, Don Malarkey turned to Brad Colbert and said, “So, it’s Thursday. Beer and nachos?”
Brad smirked. Colbert had this weird way of making it seem like he was doing you a favor by hanging out with you, but Malarkey had grown accustomed to that quirk a while ago and just waited for the other man to eventually nod and say, “Roger that.”
“Hey, look who’s back!” the bartender at This Ain’t Dallas greeted them with a smile as they sat down at what was quickly becoming their usual spot at the bar.
“Jeez, man, don’t you ever leave this place?” Malarkey teased.
“They let me off for good behavior sometimes,” the bartender laughed, adjusting his mottled green and brown plastic eyeglasses. “What’s your excuse?”
“We’re seeking a path to enlightenment through beer and nachos,” Brad declared grandiosely. “Both of which we require, post haste.”
“Ooh, that sounds like my kind of better living,” the bartender said. “What kind of beer do you want?”
“I’m thinking something German,” Mal responded.
“We’ve got Beck’s on tap.”
Brad voiced no objection so Mal said, “Groovy, we’ll take a pitcher.”
The bartender smiled again. “Excellent. By the way, guy, I’m Gabe.”
“I’m Don and that’s Brad,” Mal said as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you…well, nice to find out your name, anyway.”
Gabe laughed. “Yeah, well, you guys are here, like, every Thursday so I figured I ought to know your names by now. So, where do you guys work?”
Brad and Mal displayed the patches on their work jackets almost simultaneously.
Gabe laughed. “Oh, you’re with Caparzo’s? That’s cool. I brought my car over there once and some guy fixed it real good. I think his name was Walt. Nice guy.”
Brad gave a nod. “Walt is a nice guy.”
Gabe smiled again, as he was wont to do. “Next time you see Walt, tell him Gabe says that if he ever comes by between Thursday and Saturday, drinks are on me. Okay?”
“Sure thing,” Mal replied.
Gabe drifted away then to deal with other customers, returning only to set the nacho platter down and check if they needed a refill.
Brad and Mal settled into their routine of eating, drinking, and being quietly merry. They talked and as the last of the cheese was being scraped from the dish, Mal couldn’t help but comment on something he’d noted since they clocked in at the garage that morning.
“You seem like you’re in a good mood today,” Don Malarkey said.
Brad Colbert shrugged and grinned like a sphinx. “Everything is as it should be,” was all he said but there was a faint glimmer in his eyes that Mal had never seen before.
Malarkey nodded then let the issue drop. Who was he to pry? Whatever had happened since yesterday must’ve been good, judging by the way the Iceman seemed at peace with the world, but Mal wasn’t going to dig for details that Brad wasn’t going to share on his own.
They parted ways amicably after paying the bill and leaving a good tip for Gabe, who waved to them on their way out. They smirked and said, “see you tomorrow” before heading in their opposite directions as they always did.
When Don Malarkey got home his roommates asked him how his day was and gave the usual response of, “work was work, but the beer and nachos afterwards were good.” He never told Skip Muck or Alex Penkala anything more when it came to a particular towering co-worker and their Thursday night custom.
Somehow it felt right to respect whatever confidences Brad Colbert chose to let drop.
Title: Beer and Nachos Fix Everything - Round Three
Authors: m_buggie and melliyna
Fandoms: “Band of Brothers”/”Generation Kill”/Saving Private Ryan
Pairings: obliquely implied Malarkey/Muck, mentions of past and eventual Colbert/Fick
Word Count: 1,292 for Round Three
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 Big Damn AU of Doom-verse…I think that says it all. The following is dedicated to foofighter0234, our ever-cheerful enabler.
~x~x~
“…so then she gets all worked up and starts yelling at me in Spanish or something.”
Everyone laughed at Mike Horvath, flailing his arms around and screeching out gibberish in a bad falsetto voice, mimicking the female customer who’d caused a commotion earlier that day for the benefit of Joy Toye, who’d missed it.
“No, I don’t think so, Mike,” Walt Hasser said from somewhere underneath a car hood, his Virginia drawl creeping through. “I’ve heard Spanish before and what that lady was talking didn’t sound like no Spanish to me.”
“Maybe it was Portuguese,” Joe offered. “You know, ‘cause Portuguese is kinda like Spanish but it ain’t.”
Mike Horvath rolled his eyes, more annoyed at having his story interrupted than at being corrected on its little details. “All right, look you uppity bastards, I don’t fucking know what language the lady was using but the bottom line is that she started screaming at me in it.”
“It was Tagalog,” Don Malarkey commented, passing blithely through the scene on his way to the coffee machine.
Five pairs of eyes looked over in Mal’s direction. Even Walt stuck his head out from under the Chevy hood.
“What?” Mike’s face scrunched up and for all his blustery over-forty ire he looked more like a puzzled eight-year-old than anything else at that moment. “What the hell are you talking about, Don?”
“The language that woman was railing at you in,” Mal explained, pouring himself a cup of something that was either cold coffee or warm motor oil. “It was Tagalog. They speak that in the Philippines.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What makes you so sure it was tag-along?”
Walt and Joe snickered at Mike’s mispronunciation of the language name.
“Because I used to hear it on a daily basis.”
Mike snorted. “What? You spend a lot of time in the Philippines or some shit?”
“Six months back in my Peace Corps days,” Mal replied glibly.
“He’s got you there, Mike,” Walt snickered.
“Shaddap,” Mike snapped at the boys, picking up his wrench. “All right, enough of this bullshit. We don’t get paid to stand around…”
Mal smirked and shook his head at Mike on his way to what was commonly referred to as “two-wheel territory” at the back of Caparzo & Son’s garage.
Brad Colbert was cleaning a motorcycle chain when Mal sat down not too far away.
“Peace Corps, huh?” Brad remarked off-handedly.
Mal nodded. “Yup.”
“How long?”
“About a year and a half.”
Brad raised an eyebrow and tilted his head in a way that gave Mal the impression that Iceman Colbert was impressed.
Mal set his mug aside and got back to work on a drive shaft that required his attention. Every now and then he’d say something to fill the silence, glancing over at Brad and continuing only if the taller man responded. He admitted that he’d met Skip and Penk - his infamous band/roommates - during his time in the Peace Corps, then rattled off a few of the locales he’d spent time in during his sixteen months abroad.
“I was in Peru once,” Brad commented, catching Mal completely off guard by not only speaking more than a few syllables at a time but divulging personal information in the shop setting. “I crewed a ship that had a drop-off/layover in Callao. Spent a few days there. Scenic place.”
Once Mal had gotten over his initial shock and remembered how to verbalize, he asked Brad, “You used to be a sailor?”
“United States Merchant Marines,” Brad replied. He met Mal’s gaze and added, “Five years nine months, in case you were wondering.”
“Wow.”
Mal nodded, turning this new piece to the puzzle over in his mind: Brad Colbert, ex-Merchant Marine. It made sense, really; even if Mal had secretly figured Brad to be more the Marine Corps type than anything else. This brought Mal’s tally on Things Known About Brad to seven. At this rate, he might need more than two hands to count them all by the end of November.
When five o’clock started closing in and everyone was getting ready to leave for the day, Don Malarkey turned to Brad Colbert and said, “So, it’s Thursday. Beer and nachos?”
Brad smirked. Colbert had this weird way of making it seem like he was doing you a favor by hanging out with you, but Malarkey had grown accustomed to that quirk a while ago and just waited for the other man to eventually nod and say, “Roger that.”
“Hey, look who’s back!” the bartender at This Ain’t Dallas greeted them with a smile as they sat down at what was quickly becoming their usual spot at the bar.
“Jeez, man, don’t you ever leave this place?” Malarkey teased.
“They let me off for good behavior sometimes,” the bartender laughed, adjusting his mottled green and brown plastic eyeglasses. “What’s your excuse?”
“We’re seeking a path to enlightenment through beer and nachos,” Brad declared grandiosely. “Both of which we require, post haste.”
“Ooh, that sounds like my kind of better living,” the bartender said. “What kind of beer do you want?”
“I’m thinking something German,” Mal responded.
“We’ve got Beck’s on tap.”
Brad voiced no objection so Mal said, “Groovy, we’ll take a pitcher.”
The bartender smiled again. “Excellent. By the way, guy, I’m Gabe.”
“I’m Don and that’s Brad,” Mal said as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you…well, nice to find out your name, anyway.”
Gabe laughed. “Yeah, well, you guys are here, like, every Thursday so I figured I ought to know your names by now. So, where do you guys work?”
Brad and Mal displayed the patches on their work jackets almost simultaneously.
Gabe laughed. “Oh, you’re with Caparzo’s? That’s cool. I brought my car over there once and some guy fixed it real good. I think his name was Walt. Nice guy.”
Brad gave a nod. “Walt is a nice guy.”
Gabe smiled again, as he was wont to do. “Next time you see Walt, tell him Gabe says that if he ever comes by between Thursday and Saturday, drinks are on me. Okay?”
“Sure thing,” Mal replied.
Gabe drifted away then to deal with other customers, returning only to set the nacho platter down and check if they needed a refill.
Brad and Mal settled into their routine of eating, drinking, and being quietly merry. They talked and as the last of the cheese was being scraped from the dish, Mal couldn’t help but comment on something he’d noted since they clocked in at the garage that morning.
“You seem like you’re in a good mood today,” Don Malarkey said.
Brad Colbert shrugged and grinned like a sphinx. “Everything is as it should be,” was all he said but there was a faint glimmer in his eyes that Mal had never seen before.
Malarkey nodded then let the issue drop. Who was he to pry? Whatever had happened since yesterday must’ve been good, judging by the way the Iceman seemed at peace with the world, but Mal wasn’t going to dig for details that Brad wasn’t going to share on his own.
They parted ways amicably after paying the bill and leaving a good tip for Gabe, who waved to them on their way out. They smirked and said, “see you tomorrow” before heading in their opposite directions as they always did.
When Don Malarkey got home his roommates asked him how his day was and gave the usual response of, “work was work, but the beer and nachos afterwards were good.” He never told Skip Muck or Alex Penkala anything more when it came to a particular towering co-worker and their Thursday night custom.
Somehow it felt right to respect whatever confidences Brad Colbert chose to let drop.