Brad, Ray And A Directed Road Trip
Title: Direction To Perfection
Author: melliyna
Fandom: Band of Brothers/Generation Kill
Pairing: Colbert/Fick, Nixon/Winters (and Ray, Poke, Popeye)
Rating R
Word Count: 3,000
Disclaimer:Not mine, not real, no profit made or disrespect meant
Warnings/Timelines/Spoilers: Violence, themes, language
A/N: Title from All These Things That I've Done by The Killers, quotations from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Dedicated to m_buggie without whom none of this would have been possible and to othersideoftime for creative input/inspiration.
It's not like they haven't had conversations in all kinds of directions. Circular, angular, metaphorical, In Front Of Ella, We Use The Euphemisms, Brad (except when she's bright enough to look them up) but sometimes, conversation doesn't work and it's easier just to hug and to meld their bodies together in various combinations, including fornication. Somehow, fornication works because Brad Colbert may be profane but he is the most gentlemanly and romantic husband one could wish for.
Just, right now, Nate Fick needs to be alone with his scars, to prove he can overcome them alone. It still itches, sometimes gives nasty twinges and though actually, the healing holes from the IV lines hurt me on a day to day basis, it's the scar that keeps getting returned to. That he can see Brad trying not to trace, to touch and poke, to take care of. Brad, who is far more on guard than ever he was - a warrior in defence of his loved ones.
Ella, gone with her parents to the Welsh's for a while had felt it - in the phone calls that were a little too much. They both had hugs that you could tell Brad Colbert didn't want to let go of and while he didn't conduct quizzes or safety drills, he did talk to the agents who had become a constant shadow.
"I don't want him to worry so much he forgets about me" Ella had said to him, with a half smile, before she left with her parents and it had made sense to Nate, because he felt the same way. And both of them knew, it doesn't make it any easier to say - I need some space, I need some time to be able to have the strength to heal. And I need to know that you trust that I wouldn't leave.
And so, as they lie entwined, Nate Fick breaks convention and starts a conversation again.
"Brad, I'm going to go to Maryland but more importantly, you need to take a roadtrip somewhere. Take Ray and go out in to the wilderness and have the full experience, but have a vacation."
"Or alternatively Nathaniel, I could take a vacation to Maryland with you. We could even reconnoitre by the beach somewhere."
And Nate Fick takes a deep breath. "You can't, if you trust me at all." He'd been going to try cryptic, but that wasn't right. "Brad, I wear your ring and I would never leave but, I need some time to heal for myself alone. And honestly, I think you need some time to heal yourself - to learn to be less bodyguard, more husband." Nate looks up at Brad's face, can see a world of hurt.
"Nathaniel, I vowed to keep you safe. I promised your father I'd take care of his one and only son. And I vowed that there will not be a world without you."
"And you forget, I'm not made of glass. Brad, I won't shatter at the least impact and I have my own strength to bring to bear. This is about realising that. " There's more Nate wants to say, but he thinks Brad understands at least a little, because the arms around him loosen enough to allow him to wrap his around his husband, to do his own tracing of lines of ink. Of words inscribed upon the skin. It has been little more than two weeks since Nate Fick walked in to an ordinary apartment, to normal sheets and beds and no monitors or doctors. If he's honest, he still can't quite believe it himself and its frustrating, this slow return to normality. Especially for someone who had never broken a bone before this moment but then, one thing that Nate Fick had walked out of that hospital room and brush with mortality with, other than the scars was the final realisation of just how blessed a life he had lead.
"Thou art the noblest Roman of them all, Nate."
"Brad, we've travelled the morbius strip back to Shakespeare now?"
"It's Brutus, the warrior. Who had the strength to make the choice he did and the gentle balance to regret it's necessity. " He kisses the top of Nate's forehead. "Farewell, for two weeks then, in advance."
-
It's a crowded table scene, in a non chain diner, somewhere on route to a place by the beach in Maine.
Contrasting to Ray and Poke and Popeye, Cap Strider and Brad were somewhat like islands of silence, around a sea of noise and competition for food, as the Captain and his former First Mate presided, almost like a pair of alpha dogs watching a pack of noisy, over-excitable puppies who had not yet been housebroken out of making a mess on the floor and digging up trash cans. Maximum noise, maximum jostling for attention - through at least you could say it was entertaining banter and for Brad, it was a welcome break. Ray Person, perhaps the most unexpected comrade in arms to Colbert's Victorian gentleman biker, but perhaps not so unexpected when you considered that they both had an unique take on language that combined eloquence with profanity underpinned by brains, both could have unexpected glimpses of a softer side and both of them would have died for each other in a heartbeat. And they were both a bit of a social square peg in a round hole, just for Ray Person, it was stream of interesting verbage.
"Goddamnit, you leave me with these! These fries are cold."
"You lose, pimp specs man. Or should I say...."
"Listen, Poke, you give me any shit about my skin, I swear, I will personally make sure that every that I put your name up on 'everygoddamnfetishinvolvingscatandfatboys.com' I do so swear"
"You'd know, wouldn't you dawg. I bet you eat that shit up and beg for more."
How they made it to Maine without homicide, let alone how they'd remained friends for so long, remained a mystery to outsiders.
-
It's night at their destination and the others have long since drifted away and Colbert and Strider remain. They talk of the sea, of it's hold and of the way the land tugs Brad Colbert back now, of Strider's attachment to this corner of Maine and his fishing boat, which keeps the restlessness at bay. How he gets the feeling that it's not so much place, but person, that ties his former First Mate to the land. Of crazy stories and the Legend Of Jamaica, how it's still told in every damn merchant marine, dockside bar and tavern they know - whether there was bribery, intimidation or somewhat more. Whether that much structual damage was genuinely possible, the saga of the Crazy Chick From Hawaii and then eventually, Brad Colbert flips his wallet out and hands some photos over to Strider, from a not so obvious pocket in its' depths.
He looks at the photographs, somehow different from when he looked at Espera's, whom he'd always expected to pull himself up and find a classy lady to manage him and two little girls, who are grown up enough for him to glare about boys and curfews. Or Ray, who likes to keep tallies and is still a puppy. Or a puppy with a filthy mouth, anyway. Popeye Wynn, the damn good man with the unfortunate weakness in the ass. Though they were all good men, in their own ways, but Brad Colbert most of all, in the Captains' eyes. And here he is, showing off pictures of a wedding, of a child he adores as his own and a true love, with arresting green eyes. He can see now, the look in Brad Colberts' eyes and there's a part of him that exhults, that wants to give his damn blessing. Desires to say, "well done, my boy."
Strider doesn't say this, but he does look across the fire and snorts, as he replies. "Listen, if you ain't careful you'll get too caught by the damn rip and it won't give a shit how much you care, it pulls you and them under anyway." He looks at the photos again of the laughing girl and laughing hubsand. "They'll pull you in to the shoals, Colbert."
"And a good Captain goes down with his ship, because that which he loves makes it worthwhile." Brad said, his passion evident, as he looked at the stars, still cradling a beer. He's got a film reel in his head - straight off prime time. The kind of archival footage the networks pull out so the slavering public can masturbate over grief and the emotional porn of watching people grieve in public. Baby pictures, childhood pictures, pictures of college graduations and first days. Snapshots with dearest child, with spouse. Weddings and anniversaries - guaranteed to make the average middle class demographic eagerly reach for more, for funeral film. For grave dirt and trauma.
"You're not there though, you're here, Colbert. Why?" Strider asked him directly, breaking the pause in the conversation that followed.
"What happened? I remembered my Nathaniel is also a soldier." Brad Colbert, sipping a beer thoughtfully, answered with conviction, even conviction. "And he is only mine, as much I am his."
"He sounds a strong man, Brad. And a good one."
There was matter of factness in the older sailors voice, with just a hint of warm approval mixed in, if you knew how to listen. Truth be told, Nikolai Strider wasn't a man to spell things out, but Brad Colbert knew how to listen. In the background, another log fell from the fire, synchronising with a loud Person snore from some distance away. It seemed like another world, away from the two of them and this fire. It had been like this on the boat, in a thousand late nights, miserable as nights with no fucking, pulling against and with the weather and the sea. That was the trick they had, not of conquering the ocean entire, but knowing what they could master. And it had always worked.
"I'd be honoured if you'd pay a visit to New York City to meet him. To meet Ella."
It's as close to a declaration of feeling as Brad Colbert often gets and when Strider nods an affirmative, there's a declaration there.
-
When Brad Colbert returns with Strider, his husband is waiting for them, alongside the Nixon-Winters family who are dropping in on their way home from their own holiday.
Nate Fick looks more than a bit tired - he's still got the air of a long car journey about him, Dartmouth shirt and rumpled cargoes and Brad can almost see the pile of unpacked bags sitting on the apartment floor, though no doubt organised in a practical way, briefcase among them. The old messenger bag was given as a gift to the girl he is hugging - close up Ella and Nate both look better, healthier. More of themselves and not that he can make out words, but he's sure Nate is teasing that she's nearly as tall as him now and is that fair Ella-Bella? Floppy hair, just a shade over-long, those green eyes and Brad Colbert thinks of beaches, of dancing with a toddler. Of weddings and warriors, of a leather jacket cut to ribbons and covered in body fluids that he'll never wear again. Of breaking the damn futon, bed, other futon, daybed and couch and other long term trends of the Colbert/Fick relationship. And of two things more precious, than jewels or gold beneath the earth, tired and hugging.
"You've got yourself a damn good deal, Colbert."
"I do, Cap. "
"And so does that husband of yours."
'That husband of yours' walks over then, hand still in Ella's, who is looking suddenly shy and tired, but finds herself introduced, in between hugs for Brad, hugs for both Brad and Nate and then letting go, as Brad and Nate kiss, hold each other like you should when you are married. And she looks happy, slightly embarrassed by parental figure displays of affection, but also reassured, because her family is together and secure. And somehow, she and Strider share a mutual look, the beginnings of an understanding. He is briefly introduced to her parents - finds himself charmed in spite of himself by Lewis Nixon, approving of Richard Winters, whom he is impressed by. Then there is Nathaniel Fick and a handshake, firm and assured and not in fact, what he was expecting.
Nikolai Strider, who was thinking and expecting to melt away in to the distance finds himself invited out to dinner (as the handshake is completed and the Nixon-Winters family pile in to their car and leave for home), "I'll just clean myself up - come inside and sit down while you wait" in no uncertain terms and finds himself once again unconsciously approving - maybe not of the idea of a relationship between two men as such, but in the specifics of Brad and Nate, in the way Nate is good for Brad, as well as being a danger - the air of competence and quiet strength in the young man with such an air of command, who can truly own a room. He hasn't let himself be swept up by such a storm, even around Cape Horn and he thinks, oddly, of ancient gods of the deep ocean - beautiful, wise, kind and yet terrible when they were roused. There is something of this, in this politician of Brad's, who isn't like any damn politician that Strider has met, that's for damn sure. And so he walks in, to a comfortable apartment, one that looks more lived in than he'd ever have expected from Brad Colbert the Spartan. Mugs, paintings, huge cushions and shelves of books. There's a cat, perched on one of the bookcases, that he's fairly sure belongs to Nate, not Brad and photo frames everywhere. There's a life here and as a sea-dog, he's not sure he should or wants to belong to this, to this family that his First Mate has found for himself.
Except he can't stop the damn urge to smile, to think of getting to know a certain little girl, of teaching her the way of the sea. Of watching Brad Colberts' happiness. And damn, over a decent beer, in a New York City restaurant that is good without being pretentious about it, in which the waiter tells Brad, who walked in after him and Nate "Your father is just over there Sir" and neither of them make a comment otherwise. It's almost like having a ship again, in a strange way - there's all the attachments, complications, storms on the horizon. And joy, too, of obstacles conquered and discoveries to come. Besides, the steak is damn good, Strider thinks and definitely worth coming back for.
Author: melliyna
Fandom: Band of Brothers/Generation Kill
Pairing: Colbert/Fick, Nixon/Winters (and Ray, Poke, Popeye)
Rating R
Word Count: 3,000
Disclaimer:Not mine, not real, no profit made or disrespect meant
Warnings/Timelines/Spoilers: Violence, themes, language
A/N: Title from All These Things That I've Done by The Killers, quotations from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Dedicated to m_buggie without whom none of this would have been possible and to othersideoftime for creative input/inspiration.
It's not like they haven't had conversations in all kinds of directions. Circular, angular, metaphorical, In Front Of Ella, We Use The Euphemisms, Brad (except when she's bright enough to look them up) but sometimes, conversation doesn't work and it's easier just to hug and to meld their bodies together in various combinations, including fornication. Somehow, fornication works because Brad Colbert may be profane but he is the most gentlemanly and romantic husband one could wish for.
Just, right now, Nate Fick needs to be alone with his scars, to prove he can overcome them alone. It still itches, sometimes gives nasty twinges and though actually, the healing holes from the IV lines hurt me on a day to day basis, it's the scar that keeps getting returned to. That he can see Brad trying not to trace, to touch and poke, to take care of. Brad, who is far more on guard than ever he was - a warrior in defence of his loved ones.
Ella, gone with her parents to the Welsh's for a while had felt it - in the phone calls that were a little too much. They both had hugs that you could tell Brad Colbert didn't want to let go of and while he didn't conduct quizzes or safety drills, he did talk to the agents who had become a constant shadow.
"I don't want him to worry so much he forgets about me" Ella had said to him, with a half smile, before she left with her parents and it had made sense to Nate, because he felt the same way. And both of them knew, it doesn't make it any easier to say - I need some space, I need some time to be able to have the strength to heal. And I need to know that you trust that I wouldn't leave.
And so, as they lie entwined, Nate Fick breaks convention and starts a conversation again.
"Brad, I'm going to go to Maryland but more importantly, you need to take a roadtrip somewhere. Take Ray and go out in to the wilderness and have the full experience, but have a vacation."
"Or alternatively Nathaniel, I could take a vacation to Maryland with you. We could even reconnoitre by the beach somewhere."
And Nate Fick takes a deep breath. "You can't, if you trust me at all." He'd been going to try cryptic, but that wasn't right. "Brad, I wear your ring and I would never leave but, I need some time to heal for myself alone. And honestly, I think you need some time to heal yourself - to learn to be less bodyguard, more husband." Nate looks up at Brad's face, can see a world of hurt.
"Nathaniel, I vowed to keep you safe. I promised your father I'd take care of his one and only son. And I vowed that there will not be a world without you."
"And you forget, I'm not made of glass. Brad, I won't shatter at the least impact and I have my own strength to bring to bear. This is about realising that. " There's more Nate wants to say, but he thinks Brad understands at least a little, because the arms around him loosen enough to allow him to wrap his around his husband, to do his own tracing of lines of ink. Of words inscribed upon the skin. It has been little more than two weeks since Nate Fick walked in to an ordinary apartment, to normal sheets and beds and no monitors or doctors. If he's honest, he still can't quite believe it himself and its frustrating, this slow return to normality. Especially for someone who had never broken a bone before this moment but then, one thing that Nate Fick had walked out of that hospital room and brush with mortality with, other than the scars was the final realisation of just how blessed a life he had lead.
"Thou art the noblest Roman of them all, Nate."
"Brad, we've travelled the morbius strip back to Shakespeare now?"
"It's Brutus, the warrior. Who had the strength to make the choice he did and the gentle balance to regret it's necessity. " He kisses the top of Nate's forehead. "Farewell, for two weeks then, in advance."
-
It's a crowded table scene, in a non chain diner, somewhere on route to a place by the beach in Maine.
Contrasting to Ray and Poke and Popeye, Cap Strider and Brad were somewhat like islands of silence, around a sea of noise and competition for food, as the Captain and his former First Mate presided, almost like a pair of alpha dogs watching a pack of noisy, over-excitable puppies who had not yet been housebroken out of making a mess on the floor and digging up trash cans. Maximum noise, maximum jostling for attention - through at least you could say it was entertaining banter and for Brad, it was a welcome break. Ray Person, perhaps the most unexpected comrade in arms to Colbert's Victorian gentleman biker, but perhaps not so unexpected when you considered that they both had an unique take on language that combined eloquence with profanity underpinned by brains, both could have unexpected glimpses of a softer side and both of them would have died for each other in a heartbeat. And they were both a bit of a social square peg in a round hole, just for Ray Person, it was stream of interesting verbage.
"Goddamnit, you leave me with these! These fries are cold."
"You lose, pimp specs man. Or should I say...."
"Listen, Poke, you give me any shit about my skin, I swear, I will personally make sure that every that I put your name up on 'everygoddamnfetishinvolvingscatandfatboys.com' I do so swear"
"You'd know, wouldn't you dawg. I bet you eat that shit up and beg for more."
How they made it to Maine without homicide, let alone how they'd remained friends for so long, remained a mystery to outsiders.
-
It's night at their destination and the others have long since drifted away and Colbert and Strider remain. They talk of the sea, of it's hold and of the way the land tugs Brad Colbert back now, of Strider's attachment to this corner of Maine and his fishing boat, which keeps the restlessness at bay. How he gets the feeling that it's not so much place, but person, that ties his former First Mate to the land. Of crazy stories and the Legend Of Jamaica, how it's still told in every damn merchant marine, dockside bar and tavern they know - whether there was bribery, intimidation or somewhat more. Whether that much structual damage was genuinely possible, the saga of the Crazy Chick From Hawaii and then eventually, Brad Colbert flips his wallet out and hands some photos over to Strider, from a not so obvious pocket in its' depths.
He looks at the photographs, somehow different from when he looked at Espera's, whom he'd always expected to pull himself up and find a classy lady to manage him and two little girls, who are grown up enough for him to glare about boys and curfews. Or Ray, who likes to keep tallies and is still a puppy. Or a puppy with a filthy mouth, anyway. Popeye Wynn, the damn good man with the unfortunate weakness in the ass. Though they were all good men, in their own ways, but Brad Colbert most of all, in the Captains' eyes. And here he is, showing off pictures of a wedding, of a child he adores as his own and a true love, with arresting green eyes. He can see now, the look in Brad Colberts' eyes and there's a part of him that exhults, that wants to give his damn blessing. Desires to say, "well done, my boy."
Strider doesn't say this, but he does look across the fire and snorts, as he replies. "Listen, if you ain't careful you'll get too caught by the damn rip and it won't give a shit how much you care, it pulls you and them under anyway." He looks at the photos again of the laughing girl and laughing hubsand. "They'll pull you in to the shoals, Colbert."
"And a good Captain goes down with his ship, because that which he loves makes it worthwhile." Brad said, his passion evident, as he looked at the stars, still cradling a beer. He's got a film reel in his head - straight off prime time. The kind of archival footage the networks pull out so the slavering public can masturbate over grief and the emotional porn of watching people grieve in public. Baby pictures, childhood pictures, pictures of college graduations and first days. Snapshots with dearest child, with spouse. Weddings and anniversaries - guaranteed to make the average middle class demographic eagerly reach for more, for funeral film. For grave dirt and trauma.
"You're not there though, you're here, Colbert. Why?" Strider asked him directly, breaking the pause in the conversation that followed.
"What happened? I remembered my Nathaniel is also a soldier." Brad Colbert, sipping a beer thoughtfully, answered with conviction, even conviction. "And he is only mine, as much I am his."
"He sounds a strong man, Brad. And a good one."
There was matter of factness in the older sailors voice, with just a hint of warm approval mixed in, if you knew how to listen. Truth be told, Nikolai Strider wasn't a man to spell things out, but Brad Colbert knew how to listen. In the background, another log fell from the fire, synchronising with a loud Person snore from some distance away. It seemed like another world, away from the two of them and this fire. It had been like this on the boat, in a thousand late nights, miserable as nights with no fucking, pulling against and with the weather and the sea. That was the trick they had, not of conquering the ocean entire, but knowing what they could master. And it had always worked.
"I'd be honoured if you'd pay a visit to New York City to meet him. To meet Ella."
It's as close to a declaration of feeling as Brad Colbert often gets and when Strider nods an affirmative, there's a declaration there.
-
When Brad Colbert returns with Strider, his husband is waiting for them, alongside the Nixon-Winters family who are dropping in on their way home from their own holiday.
Nate Fick looks more than a bit tired - he's still got the air of a long car journey about him, Dartmouth shirt and rumpled cargoes and Brad can almost see the pile of unpacked bags sitting on the apartment floor, though no doubt organised in a practical way, briefcase among them. The old messenger bag was given as a gift to the girl he is hugging - close up Ella and Nate both look better, healthier. More of themselves and not that he can make out words, but he's sure Nate is teasing that she's nearly as tall as him now and is that fair Ella-Bella? Floppy hair, just a shade over-long, those green eyes and Brad Colbert thinks of beaches, of dancing with a toddler. Of weddings and warriors, of a leather jacket cut to ribbons and covered in body fluids that he'll never wear again. Of breaking the damn futon, bed, other futon, daybed and couch and other long term trends of the Colbert/Fick relationship. And of two things more precious, than jewels or gold beneath the earth, tired and hugging.
"You've got yourself a damn good deal, Colbert."
"I do, Cap. "
"And so does that husband of yours."
'That husband of yours' walks over then, hand still in Ella's, who is looking suddenly shy and tired, but finds herself introduced, in between hugs for Brad, hugs for both Brad and Nate and then letting go, as Brad and Nate kiss, hold each other like you should when you are married. And she looks happy, slightly embarrassed by parental figure displays of affection, but also reassured, because her family is together and secure. And somehow, she and Strider share a mutual look, the beginnings of an understanding. He is briefly introduced to her parents - finds himself charmed in spite of himself by Lewis Nixon, approving of Richard Winters, whom he is impressed by. Then there is Nathaniel Fick and a handshake, firm and assured and not in fact, what he was expecting.
Nikolai Strider, who was thinking and expecting to melt away in to the distance finds himself invited out to dinner (as the handshake is completed and the Nixon-Winters family pile in to their car and leave for home), "I'll just clean myself up - come inside and sit down while you wait" in no uncertain terms and finds himself once again unconsciously approving - maybe not of the idea of a relationship between two men as such, but in the specifics of Brad and Nate, in the way Nate is good for Brad, as well as being a danger - the air of competence and quiet strength in the young man with such an air of command, who can truly own a room. He hasn't let himself be swept up by such a storm, even around Cape Horn and he thinks, oddly, of ancient gods of the deep ocean - beautiful, wise, kind and yet terrible when they were roused. There is something of this, in this politician of Brad's, who isn't like any damn politician that Strider has met, that's for damn sure. And so he walks in, to a comfortable apartment, one that looks more lived in than he'd ever have expected from Brad Colbert the Spartan. Mugs, paintings, huge cushions and shelves of books. There's a cat, perched on one of the bookcases, that he's fairly sure belongs to Nate, not Brad and photo frames everywhere. There's a life here and as a sea-dog, he's not sure he should or wants to belong to this, to this family that his First Mate has found for himself.
Except he can't stop the damn urge to smile, to think of getting to know a certain little girl, of teaching her the way of the sea. Of watching Brad Colberts' happiness. And damn, over a decent beer, in a New York City restaurant that is good without being pretentious about it, in which the waiter tells Brad, who walked in after him and Nate "Your father is just over there Sir" and neither of them make a comment otherwise. It's almost like having a ship again, in a strange way - there's all the attachments, complications, storms on the horizon. And joy, too, of obstacles conquered and discoveries to come. Besides, the steak is damn good, Strider thinks and definitely worth coming back for.