Generation Kill fic: the ending earth
Title: the ending earth
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Genre: First time, set between Cradle of Civilization and Bomb in the Garden
Rating: R for language, NC-17 for porn
Word count: 5,150 words
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Beta thanks again to the wonderful romanticalgirl. Title borrowed from e. e. cummings. eta: Now with fabulous art by madnessisreal. ♥
"I'm shocked, Brad."
Brad hears Ray well before he sees him. He leans against the humvee, the LT next to him, map and red light in hand, and waits to find out what is horrific enough to shock Ray.
"Are you really sharing your first combat jack, and not with the finest practitioner of the art of combat jacks, your pal Ray-Ray? It'd better not be with some hippy-faggot, cock-sucking, nigga private from Bravo Three, because that'd be un-fucking-forgiveable. Also, if the two of you are having a combat jack together, that is beyond doubt the most motherfucking gay moment of this war to date," Ray says, as stupidly contradictory as ever. "And that includes that big gay fruitcake Rudy and his fucking touchy feely Neutrogena moments." Ray's talking so fast, and loud, that he gets all that out before he's fully rounded the humvee. He stutters into near silence when he comes into sight, lit up intermittently with illume. "Ah, um, sorry, Sir. I thought, um-"
"Actually, Ray, Brad and I were discussing the relative merits of comedies and revenge tragedies as a way of understanding the temperament and culture of the English Elizabethan and Jacobean era," the LT says, not a hint of a smile in his tone. "Brad is of the opinion that while tragedy might be considered a more valid art form by some - a view neither of us embrace - it, by its very nature, is so prone to excess that it cannot be successfully mined for information about the time period because it's impossible to filter out the excesses and determine the underlying truth."
Brad watches Ray. He doesn't need to see the LT to know his face will be as serious as if he's giving out field orders. But Ray's face is all over the place: bemusement, interspersed with quickly darting disbelief, coupled with a sort of glazed look over his eyes as the LT continues on with his made up Ivy League college shit. Brad's waiting to see if Ray will actually be crazy enough to call the LT on his bullshit.
He isn't. "Sir," Ray says weakly when the LT pauses, and then moves on, shaking his head like he's trying to shake the words out of his ears.
"Not to be inappropriate," Brad says, "but if we'd really been having that conversation, that would have been just as gay as jacking off together. If not more so."
"It did, however, successfully mute Corporal Person," the LT points out. He's grinning now, looking like a grubby schoolboy.
"Only temporarily, I can assure you." Brad knows exactly how much shit he's going to get from Ray once they're oscar mike.
"That's your problem, Sergeant," the LT says. Heartless bastard. "And I have full confidence in your abilities."
"Why, thank you, Sir." Brad doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm, and the LT doesn't bother to hide his renewed grin as he leaves.
Brad stays where he is, leaning against the humvee, and wonders when fucking with him became the LTs favorite activity. He doesn't try to question why he doesn't mind.
*
Some days it's the children. The mistakes. The senselessness of the commands.
Other days, it's the beauty that gets to Brad.
He'd expected a desert, and it is. It's mile after mile of sand, broken only by berms or ditches, pocked and scarred, and shabby little villages that spring up out of nowhere. It's canals dirty with sewage, and treacherous sobka fields, and palm trees on fire. And yet, for all that, it's still beautiful. Not an obvious beauty, maybe, but a timeless beauty that will survive what they're doing to it, until the scars are filled with sand and new palm trees grow up and it'll be a different kind of beautiful. Millennia of history, and the land tells it all.
Brad sees it. He knows the LT sees it too. It's in his eyes, when they stand side by side looking out over the plains, scoping out hamlets or R.P.G. teams. Brad sees it in the soft purse of the LT's lips when he looks at the land and sees what they're doing to it, the way he closes his eyes a fraction too long, like he hopes he'll open them and all the bullshit commands and the wrong calls will have blown away on the breeze. It's in the way he softens, relaxes a fraction when Brad stands in silent support beside him.
They never say anything. They never talk about the beauty and the waste, the things they long for and the things they ache for, because they can't. Brad's okay with that. They both know, both have fallen a little in love and a little in hate with this country, and they understand that's how it is. That's all that matters.
*
The LT has his fingers in his mouth. Brad is tempted to point out how unsanitary that is, but then he's certain the LT is well aware of the grimy state of his own hands. The other thought in Brad's head is one he's definitely not going to put into words.
"Injured, Sir?" he asks. "Need me to call Doc?"
The LT looks mildly embarrassed. "No," he says quickly. "Just a very minor burn."
Brad looks around. There's no fire, just a grenade on the ground that appears to have been dropped. He puts two and two together easily. "You picked up a grenade that was sitting in the sun?" he asks, knowing the answer.
The LT doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to - his wry expression says it all.
Brad shakes his head in disappointment. "Rookie error, Sir."
The LT takes his fingers out of his mouth, fiddles around in a box, and picks up a MRE packet. "Jalapeño and cheese," he offers.
"Are you trying to bribe me into silence?"
"That would be unbefitting an officer," the LT counters, and holds out the packet.
Brad takes it. Just like he's sure the LT knew he would.
*
Brad looks up from his grave at the sound of footsteps closing in. He wasn't asleep, wasn't even trying, just thought he'd stretch out horizontal as a change from being cooped up in the humvee. "They're bombing an imaginary target," he tells the LT. He can only hope they're churning up sand, not slaughtering a hamlet.
The LT nods, then sits down, back against victor one's tire. He's looking wearier than Brad's ever seen him, but so is everyone now the high of taking an airfield has worn off.
The LT doesn't speak for so long Brad thinks he must have fallen asleep. He's tilted slightly to the left, the way he'll fall if he relaxes too much in his sleep, so Brad gets up and sits beside him, close enough to prop him up.
"We keep doing this, Brad," the LT says, awake after all. "We keep doing this, and I don't know how to justify it."
Brad wishes he had an answer.
Neither of them move, and after a while Brad hears the slowed breathing that tells him the LT has fallen asleep. Brad stays put, his shoulder all he can offer, until the LT's comms come to life, a call for Hitman Two from Godfather. The LT stirs and answers, heading off out into the dark.
An hour and eleven minutes sleep. Better than nothing, though Brad wishes he could have given him more.
*
Brad waits at the Al Hayy roadblock. Waits and hopes.
He does his job, eyes on the road ahead, and prays that no one else will ignore their warning shots. He gets that wish, at least.
Not his other wish. He waits for the LT, stands alone to the side of the M.S.R. half the night, eyes on the turned over truck, hoping the LT will come and stand beside him. Brad doesn't need to talk, doesn't need reassuring, not really. He just wants the LT shoulder to shoulder with him a moment, a quiet moment so Brad knows they're still on the same page.
The LT doesn't come.
*
He does the next night. Bearing half a ration cup of scalding hot coffee, and Brad can't begin to imagine where he got it. He holds it out to Brad and Brad tips it down his throat, feeling the burn but not caring about it.
"I wish I could say I won't fuck up, Brad. I really wish I could say that. But I have, and I will again."
Brad hands back the empty container. "Thank you," he says, and lets it mean everything.
*
"What's this I hear, Brad?"
"Sir?"
"Oddly enough, and, I have to admit, quite disturbingly, I find myself thinking it might be true."
"Sir?" Brad's aware his interrogatives aren't getting him anywhere. The LT will tell him what the fuck he's on about when he's damn good and ready, and not a second before. Brad feels like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. It should disturb him. It doesn't. Apparently, he's a little bitch for being toyed with, and isn't that a piece of information he didn't wish to learn about himself.
"Did you grow too tall?"
"Would you say I'm too tall, Sir?" Brad feels some form of offensive is called for.
"Not too tall for anything I have planned for you." The LT fucking smirks at him.
And Brad's offense is shattered. He coughs, and decides not to give any of the first three responses that came to mind. He can't think of anything appropriate to say beyond, "I'm relieved."
"Maybe you just didn't feel sufficiently secure in your masculinity," the LT muses.
Brad considers it a miracle that he doesn't choke out loud. "I can assure you that I have no issues when it comes to my manhood, thank you." Not that he needs to defend anything to anyone, especially his lieutenant.
"I'm glad to hear that. So, if that wasn't the problem, what was it? Was it the tights?"
The conversation has now gone from bewildering to bizarre. "The tights?"
"Obviously there had to be some good reason you didn't become a ballerina."
Brad hates to think the LT has followed Captain America down the path to la-la land. Good platoon commanders are hard to come by. "A ballerina?" he asks. "Please, do tell me there's some sane reason for this question."
"I heard it was your dream. If you hadn't become a marine, you'd have become a ballerina." The side of the LT's mouth is twitching. The motherfucker.
Brad is going to eviscerate whoever fed the LT such a load of shit. Unless the LT is making it up completely; Brad doesn't think so, though.
"Actually, Sir, I believe that if you'd gathered more accurate intel, you would have discovered that was actually Sergeant Espera's dream. From childhood onwards. He had lessons until his mother couldn't afford them any longer, and then he used to practice alone in his bedroom, all those lonely, lonely nights. All the boys used to laugh at him, and the girls were too scared to dance with him, so he danced alone. If you ask him nicely, he might show you some moves."
The LT bites his lip, ducks his head forward like he can't help it, and then snorts out a laugh.
"That is one scary image," he says, and then Brad can't help but picture Poke in one of those pink tutu things little girl ballerinas wear. He can feel his growing grin cracking the dirt on his face.
"Request, Sir, that we never discuss this idea again."
"Request wholeheartedly granted." There's a moment where they're quiet, listening to mortar fire in the distance, watching Q-Tip attempting to shave without a mirror and Gabe swear as he breaks the lace on his boot; all the usual noise and bustle. "So, why were you dancing around with your arms in the air earlier?"
Brad refuses to answer. If the LT can't recognize plane arms when he sees them, he doesn't deserve an answer.
The LT claps him on the back and lopes off, his rangy gait casual-seeming but covering ground fast. Brad can't help but think that of any of them, the LT is the one with the grace and beauty.
He refuses to picture him in tights, though. Some danger Brad doesn't walk into.
*
The LT's rubbing his fingers through his hair. It's paler than it was yesterday, gingery blond now rather than the salty almost-gray they've all been sporting lately on the rare occasion they've been able to remove their Kevlars - he must have washed at least some of the dirt out of it. They're all a fraction cleaner since they dug in at the P.O.G. camp, though Brad's noticed the P.O.G.s still stay upwind of them. The smart ones, anyway.
The LT catches Brad watching.
"I'll be in violation of the grooming standard if I'm not careful," he says with a sardonic grin.
"Wouldn't do for the platoon commander to set us all a bad example. These things escalate. First it'll be you with your hair almost long enough to put in pigtails-" The LT snorts, but Brad carries on regardless. "Next thing we know, it'll be anarchy."
"Is that your subtle way of suggesting I should get my hair cut, Brad?"
"I wasn't aiming for subtle, Sir."
"A good thing, seeing as you would have failed dismally. Unfortunately, though, Gunny is otherwise engaged at the moment, and my personal barber has declined to make a house call."
"You Ivy League types. How do you survive in the Marines? Don't you know? Marine's make do."
There's a pause, as though the LT is waiting for Brad to say something else. Brad's not someone who can be forced into talking when he doesn't want to, or prodded into making a offer he wasn't planning on, but the LT looks at him, and Brad offers. "Give me a minute, I'll go fetch clippers," he says.
The LT is sitting on a munitions case, stripped to the waist, when Brad gets back, pale skin contrasting with the pink of his neck. They've most of them got farmer's tans, but it seems least appropriate for the LT. He looks almost slight without his gear, though Brad knows he isn't, knows he's all lean muscle and can run ten miles fully loaded with the best of them.
"I don't want anything fancy," the LT warns before Brad has a chance to raise the clippers. "No stripes, no designs. I don't want to have to wear my Kevlar 24/7 until it grows out."
"You do take all the fun out of life," Brad grumbles, but stands close behind the LT and carefully runs the clippers across the his head, forehead to nape. There's an impromptu obstacle race going on across the field, a bunch of P.O.G.s with nothing better to do, and someone is singing loudly and off-key about White America, and how Erica loves his shit, but all Brad's attention is on Nate and the soft sound of the clippers.
He startles himself and jolts the clippers. No damage done, not even a nick, but when the fuck he started thinking of his platoon commander by his given name, he doesn't know.
"You okay, Brad?" Nate asks, all concerned, like it wasn't his scalp that was in danger of getting bloody.
"Fine. Just making sure you were awake."
"I trust you, Brad. But not that much."
Brad grins, and resumes his task.
When he's finished, he resists the urge to brush away the soft clumps of hair that have landed on Nate's bare shoulders. "All good, Sir," he says, suddenly feeling the need to be formal, as if it'll in some way make up for the rebellion in his head. "Nothing for Sergeant Major Sixta to complain about now."
"And anarchy in the platoon is averted, thanks to the quick thinking and actions of the inestimable Sergeant Colbert."
"Will there be a medal for that?"
Nate pulls his teeshirt back on and pulls up his suspenders. "I'll consider a commendation, Sergeant."
*
His ROE have taken an unexpected turn. He's used to that, the ROE changing by the hour. Keep 200 meters from civilians, aid civilians; only engage if you're fired on first, engage anyone armed, it's a free kill zone. He's trained to deal with that, change his mindset like he's flipping a god damn switch.
But this line he's crossed has left him in the dark, out beyond any rules he's been given or self-imposed, and he can't seem to turn himself around. He sees his lieutenant and he sees Nate, and he's not sure which is foremost in his mind, the officer or the man.
*
"The latrines were every bit as good as you promised," Brad proffers as he walks up to Nate. He's sitting on the same munitions case he was using earlier, compass and notes of the gunners left and right lateral limits temporarily abandoned on another munitions case in front of him. Brad draws up a third case and sits down, close enough that they bump knees.
"I'm glad I was able to keep at least one of my promises," Nate replies. He has a packet of pound cake open in his hand, though he doesn't appear to be eating it. He breaks off a piece and hands it to Brad.
"You've kept the important one, Sir." The cake is even more tasteless than usual.
"Yeah?" Nate sounds too subdued, like he's losing faith in himself, like he doesn't trust himself any more. Brad'll have a word with Gunny in the morning.
No, fuck that. This needs fixing now.
"Yes." Brad nods vehemently.
"And what was that?" The question's quiet, almost as though Nate doesn't want Brad to hear.
"That you'd do your job. That you'd lead us in and lead us out the other side."
"And you think that's enough? When it's been dumb luck that's gotten us out the other side safely as often as skill. When we don't have the chance to do anything we've trained for."
"It's enough. It has to be, and you have to believe it is."
Nate bites his bottom lip hard enough to turn it red. He nods. "Ever wise, Brad."
Brad tries not to stare at Nate's lips. It's not the time or place to be distracted. "That's me. Fount of all fucking knowledge."
Nate shakes his head as though he's determined to forcibly shake off his own mood. He smiles, lips quirking and the humor almost reaching his eyes. "You didn't know about the latrines," he points out.
"Are you taking back your admiration of my incomparable wisdom, Sir? Because bestowing praise and then taking it back is not good for morale, not at all."
"I suppose you're allowed the occasional slip. Even the Iceman's human," Nate acknowledges.
"Beside, I said I was the fount of all fucking knowledge. My knowledge of fucking reigns supreme, I'll have you know."
Brad wouldn't swear to it - the sun's hot, and they're all reddening now they've had a day out of the humvees, and there's still grime caked on Nate's face that will take more than a few handfuls of water to scrub off - but he thinks Nate flushes at that. What he would swear to is that Nate's smile this time is genuine amusement, which means Brad's self-imposed mission is a success.
"I'll take that under advisement," is all Nate says. He hands Brad another chunk of pound cake, and actually eats some himself, and when Brad tells him the incredibly filthy joke Person told him earlier, Nate practically shits himself laughing.
*
It's almost too crowded at the P.O.G. camp for a combat jack, but Brad doesn't let that deter him. There are ways of making space, even when there isn't any. A stance that says keep away, a turned back and straight shoulders sufficient.
He has his suspenders hanging down, and his dick out, a comfortable weight in his hand. Something familiar in a country where the unfamiliar is the rule.
He's hard, even out here in the noisy dark, even with everything weighing down on him. His own tiredness, Trombley's psycho bravado and Walt's quiet pain, Ray's manic energy that's going to burn itself out soon. And the LT's problems. Of course, he would fucking spew at Brad for worrying about him, but Brad can't help it. He's almost proud he can get it up even with all that. Not that it's doing anything for the tension, the knots in his neck and shoulders making themselves felt.
He almost laughs, feeling it in his throat. He's supposed to be visualizing Jasmine, her sweet little ass and supremely hot rack, and instead he's got his dick in one hand and the weight of the world in the other. Not a great combination.
He gives up on Jasmine.
Except that turns out to be a mistake, because instead he sees Nate, face flushed like it was earlier, that look he gives Brad sometimes, like there's something more between them than commander and team leader.
Brad grunts into the movement of his hand, feeling the heat in his belly now, and isn't that all kinds of fucked up, that Jasmine can't keep his interest but Nate can.
He doesn't expect quiet footsteps behind him. Nothing urgent, or they'd call out for him. But whoever it is, they're not going away. Brad curses under his breath, but carries on, hand a little too tight, a little too fast, the way he likes it near the end.
The footsteps stop, right beside him. Brad knows who it is now, without needing to look. He swallows, but Nate hasn't said anything, so Brad doesn't stop.
"I used to think idealists could change the world," Nate says softly. "I was so fucking naïve."
Brad spills over his hand, his orgasm taking him by surprise. He bites his lip to keep silent until he's finished.
"You should never stop believing," he says eventually, struggling to keep his voice even as he processes the fact that the sound of Nate's voice was enough to make him come on cue.
"I believe in good men still," Nate says. "I have faith in you."
He clasps Brad briefly on the arm, turns around and walks away, while Brad stands weak-legged and alone and wonders when his world turned upside down.
*
They move on Baghdad in the morning, and set up billet in an abandoned cigarette factory.
It's strange at night, only the second time they've slept without digging graves first. It feels oddly exposed, sleeping on solid concrete. Less than four weeks, and Brad can't sleep without the expectation of mortar fragments flying through the air. He wanders around, wishing he had a recon, something to do, anything to curb the itch inside him.
Seems he's not the only one. Nate's sitting at the bottom of the staircase, motionless in the half-dark. He looks up as Brad approaches, and shifts across to make room for him.
"I was hoping you'd be getting some sleep," Nate says.
"I could say the same."
"I keep reaching for my E-tool, thinking I ought to be digging a grave." Nate smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes.
"We're pretty fucked up," Brad says. An understatement.
They're touching at the thigh, a position neither of them moves away from. The air is cool, but not cold like it is out in the desert, the heat retained better by the suburban sprawl. Brad hasn't heard sniper fire in over an hour, but other sounds of fighting come and go. They should be out there, doing something. They should have a mission, some purpose. And if Brad's thinking that, he knows Nate is thinking the same, worrying at the lack of cohesive purpose, worrying at all the mistakes they've made along the way, even more frustrated than Brad.
Brad knows what he can do. He knows for a certainty that if he moves, Nate won't move away, even though he would never make the first move. Brad hesitates though, because if this is going to happen, he doesn't want Nate to put it in the mistake column. That's already too long.
Brad has to do this right.
He slows his breathing down deliberately. Nate matches him, a second sense trained into them. Brad reaches out and places his hand lightly on Nate's thigh. Nate doesn't tense up, doesn't move towards him or away, doesn't even speed up his breathing. And to think they call Brad Iceman.
Brad wants to hear his lieutenant's breath stutter. He moves his hand up Nate's thigh, slow and deliberate. He doesn't look at Nate's face, just watches his own hand, sees the unmistakable sign that Nate wants this too.
No recon needed for the next move. The whole fucking war feels like it's been recon for this. Brad slides his hand higher, curves his fingers around the bulge of Nate's burgeoning erection, strong enough for Nate to feel but light enough to be no more than a tease. He isn't teasing though; he's offering, he's promising.
He looks up eventually, to find Nate staring at him, that intense look he gets when he's one hundred percent focused on the mission. Brad stares back, and Nate doesn't drop his eyes. Brad expected nothing less.
Brad squeezes Nate tighter, pulls at his cock through the layers of uniform, and watches his face. Nate's still breathing as steadily as if he's at parade rest, but his face is open wide, and that's what finally breaks Brad, those fucking beautiful eyes looking at him like he's something special, like he's the one thing right about this whole damn clusterfuck of a war.
"Fuck, Sir," Brad says, and leans in and kisses Nate. Nothing pansy-assed or half-hearted about it, because Brad doesn't do half measures, and Nate's a fucking hard ass Marine. It's hard and almost vicious, Nate biting into Brad's lip and Brad biting back in equal measure.
They'll be fucked if they're caught like this. There could be no pretense now that this is anything other than what it is, two Marines - and worse, an officer and an enlisted man - fucking all over each other, Nate groaning as Brad finds skin, and Brad fucking humping against Nate's thigh. There's no time for slow, even if either of them had the desire or the patience. No time for anything, for this at all, but they're making it, creating a moment in time where they live life like the cocky bastards Marines have to be, believing they're invulnerable, believing no one will catch them. So Brad reaches inside Nate's camo pants - Nate's free-balling, and isn't that a surprise - and jacks him off, feeling the rub of his calloused fingers against sweat-slicked sensitive skin, pushing Nate back into the stairs.
Nate must be uncomfortable, sharp-angled concrete digging into his back and half Brad's weight pushing against him, but there's no sign of it as he silently urges Brad on, hand around Brad's ass pulling him even closer.
It isn't enough, not really, but they make it work. Brad keeps tugging on Nate's cock, running his thumbnail just the wrong side of sharp down the underside and reveling in the little noises that elicits from Nate. Keeps kissing him, swallowing up those noises so they're all Brad's, nothing to escape to the outside world, kisses Nate like he can't get enough of the taste of stale breath and bland rations. Kisses him until Nate's shuddering under him, pulsing into Brad's hand, and Brad stops rubbing up against him and pulls back just far enough to watch Nate's eyes fall closed, squeezed tight like he can't bear it.
Brad wipes his hands on his camo pants, the smell blending in with the all pervasive odors of cordite and tobacco and sweat and exhaustion.
He's still hard and aching, the need worse now he's stilled, now that Nate's sprawled on the stairs, looking for all the world like a debauched boy with stolen weapons, lips swollen, visibly red even in the faint light. The tightness around his eyes that's been there since they left Qalat Sukhar has gone, replaced by something else that Brad hadn't fully realized how much he wanted to see until now.
Nate licks his lips, and Brad clenches his teeth, fighting back the desire to beg.
He doesn't have to. Nate leans across and undoes Brad's camo pants enough to pull out his cock. He pushes Brad into place then kneels down on the step below him.
Brad tries to stay alert, to listen for danger, but Nate's lips are closing around him, swallowing him down. It's clumsy, like Nate's never done this before, but that doesn't matter. If it ended now, it would still be the best fucking blow job Brad's ever had. It's sloppy and eager, and it's Nate, wanting this, and that makes it perfect.
Brad isn't going to last long. Not when Nate's got his hand behind Brad's balls, stroking him softly with one fingertip, which shouldn't feel as fucking fantastic as it does, but then his whole body is wired, about to come from any touch. Brad clenches his fists, torn between savoring the moment and wanting it to last, and needing to get the fuck off quickly in case they run out of time.
Urgency wins out in the end, that and too long without anyone else's hand on his cock, let alone a sweet mouth like Nate's. Nate takes it all, not flinching as Brad spills into his mouth, then spits to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There's a thin trail of come he's missed, and Brad can't resist the urge to reach out and wipe it off with the pad of his thumb. Nate swallows at the touch, like it's something more intimate than anything else they've just done, and there's a moment where they look at each other. Brad has never felt so fucked in his entire life.
There's a voice, footsteps approaching, two sets of boots. Brad jumps up and leans against the wall, while Nate pulls out his notebook and pen and stands on the stairs as though he's just arrived.
"We won't have the use of an interpreter tomorrow, Sergeant, so we're going to be limited," Nate says, picking up in the middle of an imaginary conversation.
"Yes, Sir," Brad answers.
Back to Sir and Sergeant. Their moment's broken for now, but there's a promise in Nate's gaze that isn't canceled out by the mundane nature of his words, and Brad knows he mirrors that promise. Maybe the war is coming to an end; their part is almost certainly over. But this new thing, it feels unending.
//
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Brad/Nate
Genre: First time, set between Cradle of Civilization and Bomb in the Garden
Rating: R for language, NC-17 for porn
Word count: 5,150 words
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Beta thanks again to the wonderful romanticalgirl. Title borrowed from e. e. cummings. eta: Now with fabulous art by madnessisreal. ♥
"I'm shocked, Brad."
Brad hears Ray well before he sees him. He leans against the humvee, the LT next to him, map and red light in hand, and waits to find out what is horrific enough to shock Ray.
"Are you really sharing your first combat jack, and not with the finest practitioner of the art of combat jacks, your pal Ray-Ray? It'd better not be with some hippy-faggot, cock-sucking, nigga private from Bravo Three, because that'd be un-fucking-forgiveable. Also, if the two of you are having a combat jack together, that is beyond doubt the most motherfucking gay moment of this war to date," Ray says, as stupidly contradictory as ever. "And that includes that big gay fruitcake Rudy and his fucking touchy feely Neutrogena moments." Ray's talking so fast, and loud, that he gets all that out before he's fully rounded the humvee. He stutters into near silence when he comes into sight, lit up intermittently with illume. "Ah, um, sorry, Sir. I thought, um-"
"Actually, Ray, Brad and I were discussing the relative merits of comedies and revenge tragedies as a way of understanding the temperament and culture of the English Elizabethan and Jacobean era," the LT says, not a hint of a smile in his tone. "Brad is of the opinion that while tragedy might be considered a more valid art form by some - a view neither of us embrace - it, by its very nature, is so prone to excess that it cannot be successfully mined for information about the time period because it's impossible to filter out the excesses and determine the underlying truth."
Brad watches Ray. He doesn't need to see the LT to know his face will be as serious as if he's giving out field orders. But Ray's face is all over the place: bemusement, interspersed with quickly darting disbelief, coupled with a sort of glazed look over his eyes as the LT continues on with his made up Ivy League college shit. Brad's waiting to see if Ray will actually be crazy enough to call the LT on his bullshit.
He isn't. "Sir," Ray says weakly when the LT pauses, and then moves on, shaking his head like he's trying to shake the words out of his ears.
"Not to be inappropriate," Brad says, "but if we'd really been having that conversation, that would have been just as gay as jacking off together. If not more so."
"It did, however, successfully mute Corporal Person," the LT points out. He's grinning now, looking like a grubby schoolboy.
"Only temporarily, I can assure you." Brad knows exactly how much shit he's going to get from Ray once they're oscar mike.
"That's your problem, Sergeant," the LT says. Heartless bastard. "And I have full confidence in your abilities."
"Why, thank you, Sir." Brad doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm, and the LT doesn't bother to hide his renewed grin as he leaves.
Brad stays where he is, leaning against the humvee, and wonders when fucking with him became the LTs favorite activity. He doesn't try to question why he doesn't mind.
*
Some days it's the children. The mistakes. The senselessness of the commands.
Other days, it's the beauty that gets to Brad.
He'd expected a desert, and it is. It's mile after mile of sand, broken only by berms or ditches, pocked and scarred, and shabby little villages that spring up out of nowhere. It's canals dirty with sewage, and treacherous sobka fields, and palm trees on fire. And yet, for all that, it's still beautiful. Not an obvious beauty, maybe, but a timeless beauty that will survive what they're doing to it, until the scars are filled with sand and new palm trees grow up and it'll be a different kind of beautiful. Millennia of history, and the land tells it all.
Brad sees it. He knows the LT sees it too. It's in his eyes, when they stand side by side looking out over the plains, scoping out hamlets or R.P.G. teams. Brad sees it in the soft purse of the LT's lips when he looks at the land and sees what they're doing to it, the way he closes his eyes a fraction too long, like he hopes he'll open them and all the bullshit commands and the wrong calls will have blown away on the breeze. It's in the way he softens, relaxes a fraction when Brad stands in silent support beside him.
They never say anything. They never talk about the beauty and the waste, the things they long for and the things they ache for, because they can't. Brad's okay with that. They both know, both have fallen a little in love and a little in hate with this country, and they understand that's how it is. That's all that matters.
*
The LT has his fingers in his mouth. Brad is tempted to point out how unsanitary that is, but then he's certain the LT is well aware of the grimy state of his own hands. The other thought in Brad's head is one he's definitely not going to put into words.
"Injured, Sir?" he asks. "Need me to call Doc?"
The LT looks mildly embarrassed. "No," he says quickly. "Just a very minor burn."
Brad looks around. There's no fire, just a grenade on the ground that appears to have been dropped. He puts two and two together easily. "You picked up a grenade that was sitting in the sun?" he asks, knowing the answer.
The LT doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to - his wry expression says it all.
Brad shakes his head in disappointment. "Rookie error, Sir."
The LT takes his fingers out of his mouth, fiddles around in a box, and picks up a MRE packet. "Jalapeño and cheese," he offers.
"Are you trying to bribe me into silence?"
"That would be unbefitting an officer," the LT counters, and holds out the packet.
Brad takes it. Just like he's sure the LT knew he would.
*
Brad looks up from his grave at the sound of footsteps closing in. He wasn't asleep, wasn't even trying, just thought he'd stretch out horizontal as a change from being cooped up in the humvee. "They're bombing an imaginary target," he tells the LT. He can only hope they're churning up sand, not slaughtering a hamlet.
The LT nods, then sits down, back against victor one's tire. He's looking wearier than Brad's ever seen him, but so is everyone now the high of taking an airfield has worn off.
The LT doesn't speak for so long Brad thinks he must have fallen asleep. He's tilted slightly to the left, the way he'll fall if he relaxes too much in his sleep, so Brad gets up and sits beside him, close enough to prop him up.
"We keep doing this, Brad," the LT says, awake after all. "We keep doing this, and I don't know how to justify it."
Brad wishes he had an answer.
Neither of them move, and after a while Brad hears the slowed breathing that tells him the LT has fallen asleep. Brad stays put, his shoulder all he can offer, until the LT's comms come to life, a call for Hitman Two from Godfather. The LT stirs and answers, heading off out into the dark.
An hour and eleven minutes sleep. Better than nothing, though Brad wishes he could have given him more.
*
Brad waits at the Al Hayy roadblock. Waits and hopes.
He does his job, eyes on the road ahead, and prays that no one else will ignore their warning shots. He gets that wish, at least.
Not his other wish. He waits for the LT, stands alone to the side of the M.S.R. half the night, eyes on the turned over truck, hoping the LT will come and stand beside him. Brad doesn't need to talk, doesn't need reassuring, not really. He just wants the LT shoulder to shoulder with him a moment, a quiet moment so Brad knows they're still on the same page.
The LT doesn't come.
*
He does the next night. Bearing half a ration cup of scalding hot coffee, and Brad can't begin to imagine where he got it. He holds it out to Brad and Brad tips it down his throat, feeling the burn but not caring about it.
"I wish I could say I won't fuck up, Brad. I really wish I could say that. But I have, and I will again."
Brad hands back the empty container. "Thank you," he says, and lets it mean everything.
*
"What's this I hear, Brad?"
"Sir?"
"Oddly enough, and, I have to admit, quite disturbingly, I find myself thinking it might be true."
"Sir?" Brad's aware his interrogatives aren't getting him anywhere. The LT will tell him what the fuck he's on about when he's damn good and ready, and not a second before. Brad feels like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. It should disturb him. It doesn't. Apparently, he's a little bitch for being toyed with, and isn't that a piece of information he didn't wish to learn about himself.
"Did you grow too tall?"
"Would you say I'm too tall, Sir?" Brad feels some form of offensive is called for.
"Not too tall for anything I have planned for you." The LT fucking smirks at him.
And Brad's offense is shattered. He coughs, and decides not to give any of the first three responses that came to mind. He can't think of anything appropriate to say beyond, "I'm relieved."
"Maybe you just didn't feel sufficiently secure in your masculinity," the LT muses.
Brad considers it a miracle that he doesn't choke out loud. "I can assure you that I have no issues when it comes to my manhood, thank you." Not that he needs to defend anything to anyone, especially his lieutenant.
"I'm glad to hear that. So, if that wasn't the problem, what was it? Was it the tights?"
The conversation has now gone from bewildering to bizarre. "The tights?"
"Obviously there had to be some good reason you didn't become a ballerina."
Brad hates to think the LT has followed Captain America down the path to la-la land. Good platoon commanders are hard to come by. "A ballerina?" he asks. "Please, do tell me there's some sane reason for this question."
"I heard it was your dream. If you hadn't become a marine, you'd have become a ballerina." The side of the LT's mouth is twitching. The motherfucker.
Brad is going to eviscerate whoever fed the LT such a load of shit. Unless the LT is making it up completely; Brad doesn't think so, though.
"Actually, Sir, I believe that if you'd gathered more accurate intel, you would have discovered that was actually Sergeant Espera's dream. From childhood onwards. He had lessons until his mother couldn't afford them any longer, and then he used to practice alone in his bedroom, all those lonely, lonely nights. All the boys used to laugh at him, and the girls were too scared to dance with him, so he danced alone. If you ask him nicely, he might show you some moves."
The LT bites his lip, ducks his head forward like he can't help it, and then snorts out a laugh.
"That is one scary image," he says, and then Brad can't help but picture Poke in one of those pink tutu things little girl ballerinas wear. He can feel his growing grin cracking the dirt on his face.
"Request, Sir, that we never discuss this idea again."
"Request wholeheartedly granted." There's a moment where they're quiet, listening to mortar fire in the distance, watching Q-Tip attempting to shave without a mirror and Gabe swear as he breaks the lace on his boot; all the usual noise and bustle. "So, why were you dancing around with your arms in the air earlier?"
Brad refuses to answer. If the LT can't recognize plane arms when he sees them, he doesn't deserve an answer.
The LT claps him on the back and lopes off, his rangy gait casual-seeming but covering ground fast. Brad can't help but think that of any of them, the LT is the one with the grace and beauty.
He refuses to picture him in tights, though. Some danger Brad doesn't walk into.
*
The LT's rubbing his fingers through his hair. It's paler than it was yesterday, gingery blond now rather than the salty almost-gray they've all been sporting lately on the rare occasion they've been able to remove their Kevlars - he must have washed at least some of the dirt out of it. They're all a fraction cleaner since they dug in at the P.O.G. camp, though Brad's noticed the P.O.G.s still stay upwind of them. The smart ones, anyway.
The LT catches Brad watching.
"I'll be in violation of the grooming standard if I'm not careful," he says with a sardonic grin.
"Wouldn't do for the platoon commander to set us all a bad example. These things escalate. First it'll be you with your hair almost long enough to put in pigtails-" The LT snorts, but Brad carries on regardless. "Next thing we know, it'll be anarchy."
"Is that your subtle way of suggesting I should get my hair cut, Brad?"
"I wasn't aiming for subtle, Sir."
"A good thing, seeing as you would have failed dismally. Unfortunately, though, Gunny is otherwise engaged at the moment, and my personal barber has declined to make a house call."
"You Ivy League types. How do you survive in the Marines? Don't you know? Marine's make do."
There's a pause, as though the LT is waiting for Brad to say something else. Brad's not someone who can be forced into talking when he doesn't want to, or prodded into making a offer he wasn't planning on, but the LT looks at him, and Brad offers. "Give me a minute, I'll go fetch clippers," he says.
The LT is sitting on a munitions case, stripped to the waist, when Brad gets back, pale skin contrasting with the pink of his neck. They've most of them got farmer's tans, but it seems least appropriate for the LT. He looks almost slight without his gear, though Brad knows he isn't, knows he's all lean muscle and can run ten miles fully loaded with the best of them.
"I don't want anything fancy," the LT warns before Brad has a chance to raise the clippers. "No stripes, no designs. I don't want to have to wear my Kevlar 24/7 until it grows out."
"You do take all the fun out of life," Brad grumbles, but stands close behind the LT and carefully runs the clippers across the his head, forehead to nape. There's an impromptu obstacle race going on across the field, a bunch of P.O.G.s with nothing better to do, and someone is singing loudly and off-key about White America, and how Erica loves his shit, but all Brad's attention is on Nate and the soft sound of the clippers.
He startles himself and jolts the clippers. No damage done, not even a nick, but when the fuck he started thinking of his platoon commander by his given name, he doesn't know.
"You okay, Brad?" Nate asks, all concerned, like it wasn't his scalp that was in danger of getting bloody.
"Fine. Just making sure you were awake."
"I trust you, Brad. But not that much."
Brad grins, and resumes his task.
When he's finished, he resists the urge to brush away the soft clumps of hair that have landed on Nate's bare shoulders. "All good, Sir," he says, suddenly feeling the need to be formal, as if it'll in some way make up for the rebellion in his head. "Nothing for Sergeant Major Sixta to complain about now."
"And anarchy in the platoon is averted, thanks to the quick thinking and actions of the inestimable Sergeant Colbert."
"Will there be a medal for that?"
Nate pulls his teeshirt back on and pulls up his suspenders. "I'll consider a commendation, Sergeant."
*
His ROE have taken an unexpected turn. He's used to that, the ROE changing by the hour. Keep 200 meters from civilians, aid civilians; only engage if you're fired on first, engage anyone armed, it's a free kill zone. He's trained to deal with that, change his mindset like he's flipping a god damn switch.
But this line he's crossed has left him in the dark, out beyond any rules he's been given or self-imposed, and he can't seem to turn himself around. He sees his lieutenant and he sees Nate, and he's not sure which is foremost in his mind, the officer or the man.
*
"The latrines were every bit as good as you promised," Brad proffers as he walks up to Nate. He's sitting on the same munitions case he was using earlier, compass and notes of the gunners left and right lateral limits temporarily abandoned on another munitions case in front of him. Brad draws up a third case and sits down, close enough that they bump knees.
"I'm glad I was able to keep at least one of my promises," Nate replies. He has a packet of pound cake open in his hand, though he doesn't appear to be eating it. He breaks off a piece and hands it to Brad.
"You've kept the important one, Sir." The cake is even more tasteless than usual.
"Yeah?" Nate sounds too subdued, like he's losing faith in himself, like he doesn't trust himself any more. Brad'll have a word with Gunny in the morning.
No, fuck that. This needs fixing now.
"Yes." Brad nods vehemently.
"And what was that?" The question's quiet, almost as though Nate doesn't want Brad to hear.
"That you'd do your job. That you'd lead us in and lead us out the other side."
"And you think that's enough? When it's been dumb luck that's gotten us out the other side safely as often as skill. When we don't have the chance to do anything we've trained for."
"It's enough. It has to be, and you have to believe it is."
Nate bites his bottom lip hard enough to turn it red. He nods. "Ever wise, Brad."
Brad tries not to stare at Nate's lips. It's not the time or place to be distracted. "That's me. Fount of all fucking knowledge."
Nate shakes his head as though he's determined to forcibly shake off his own mood. He smiles, lips quirking and the humor almost reaching his eyes. "You didn't know about the latrines," he points out.
"Are you taking back your admiration of my incomparable wisdom, Sir? Because bestowing praise and then taking it back is not good for morale, not at all."
"I suppose you're allowed the occasional slip. Even the Iceman's human," Nate acknowledges.
"Beside, I said I was the fount of all fucking knowledge. My knowledge of fucking reigns supreme, I'll have you know."
Brad wouldn't swear to it - the sun's hot, and they're all reddening now they've had a day out of the humvees, and there's still grime caked on Nate's face that will take more than a few handfuls of water to scrub off - but he thinks Nate flushes at that. What he would swear to is that Nate's smile this time is genuine amusement, which means Brad's self-imposed mission is a success.
"I'll take that under advisement," is all Nate says. He hands Brad another chunk of pound cake, and actually eats some himself, and when Brad tells him the incredibly filthy joke Person told him earlier, Nate practically shits himself laughing.
*
It's almost too crowded at the P.O.G. camp for a combat jack, but Brad doesn't let that deter him. There are ways of making space, even when there isn't any. A stance that says keep away, a turned back and straight shoulders sufficient.
He has his suspenders hanging down, and his dick out, a comfortable weight in his hand. Something familiar in a country where the unfamiliar is the rule.
He's hard, even out here in the noisy dark, even with everything weighing down on him. His own tiredness, Trombley's psycho bravado and Walt's quiet pain, Ray's manic energy that's going to burn itself out soon. And the LT's problems. Of course, he would fucking spew at Brad for worrying about him, but Brad can't help it. He's almost proud he can get it up even with all that. Not that it's doing anything for the tension, the knots in his neck and shoulders making themselves felt.
He almost laughs, feeling it in his throat. He's supposed to be visualizing Jasmine, her sweet little ass and supremely hot rack, and instead he's got his dick in one hand and the weight of the world in the other. Not a great combination.
He gives up on Jasmine.
Except that turns out to be a mistake, because instead he sees Nate, face flushed like it was earlier, that look he gives Brad sometimes, like there's something more between them than commander and team leader.
Brad grunts into the movement of his hand, feeling the heat in his belly now, and isn't that all kinds of fucked up, that Jasmine can't keep his interest but Nate can.
He doesn't expect quiet footsteps behind him. Nothing urgent, or they'd call out for him. But whoever it is, they're not going away. Brad curses under his breath, but carries on, hand a little too tight, a little too fast, the way he likes it near the end.
The footsteps stop, right beside him. Brad knows who it is now, without needing to look. He swallows, but Nate hasn't said anything, so Brad doesn't stop.
"I used to think idealists could change the world," Nate says softly. "I was so fucking naïve."
Brad spills over his hand, his orgasm taking him by surprise. He bites his lip to keep silent until he's finished.
"You should never stop believing," he says eventually, struggling to keep his voice even as he processes the fact that the sound of Nate's voice was enough to make him come on cue.
"I believe in good men still," Nate says. "I have faith in you."
He clasps Brad briefly on the arm, turns around and walks away, while Brad stands weak-legged and alone and wonders when his world turned upside down.
*
They move on Baghdad in the morning, and set up billet in an abandoned cigarette factory.
It's strange at night, only the second time they've slept without digging graves first. It feels oddly exposed, sleeping on solid concrete. Less than four weeks, and Brad can't sleep without the expectation of mortar fragments flying through the air. He wanders around, wishing he had a recon, something to do, anything to curb the itch inside him.
Seems he's not the only one. Nate's sitting at the bottom of the staircase, motionless in the half-dark. He looks up as Brad approaches, and shifts across to make room for him.
"I was hoping you'd be getting some sleep," Nate says.
"I could say the same."
"I keep reaching for my E-tool, thinking I ought to be digging a grave." Nate smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes.
"We're pretty fucked up," Brad says. An understatement.
They're touching at the thigh, a position neither of them moves away from. The air is cool, but not cold like it is out in the desert, the heat retained better by the suburban sprawl. Brad hasn't heard sniper fire in over an hour, but other sounds of fighting come and go. They should be out there, doing something. They should have a mission, some purpose. And if Brad's thinking that, he knows Nate is thinking the same, worrying at the lack of cohesive purpose, worrying at all the mistakes they've made along the way, even more frustrated than Brad.
Brad knows what he can do. He knows for a certainty that if he moves, Nate won't move away, even though he would never make the first move. Brad hesitates though, because if this is going to happen, he doesn't want Nate to put it in the mistake column. That's already too long.
Brad has to do this right.
He slows his breathing down deliberately. Nate matches him, a second sense trained into them. Brad reaches out and places his hand lightly on Nate's thigh. Nate doesn't tense up, doesn't move towards him or away, doesn't even speed up his breathing. And to think they call Brad Iceman.
Brad wants to hear his lieutenant's breath stutter. He moves his hand up Nate's thigh, slow and deliberate. He doesn't look at Nate's face, just watches his own hand, sees the unmistakable sign that Nate wants this too.
No recon needed for the next move. The whole fucking war feels like it's been recon for this. Brad slides his hand higher, curves his fingers around the bulge of Nate's burgeoning erection, strong enough for Nate to feel but light enough to be no more than a tease. He isn't teasing though; he's offering, he's promising.
He looks up eventually, to find Nate staring at him, that intense look he gets when he's one hundred percent focused on the mission. Brad stares back, and Nate doesn't drop his eyes. Brad expected nothing less.
Brad squeezes Nate tighter, pulls at his cock through the layers of uniform, and watches his face. Nate's still breathing as steadily as if he's at parade rest, but his face is open wide, and that's what finally breaks Brad, those fucking beautiful eyes looking at him like he's something special, like he's the one thing right about this whole damn clusterfuck of a war.
"Fuck, Sir," Brad says, and leans in and kisses Nate. Nothing pansy-assed or half-hearted about it, because Brad doesn't do half measures, and Nate's a fucking hard ass Marine. It's hard and almost vicious, Nate biting into Brad's lip and Brad biting back in equal measure.
They'll be fucked if they're caught like this. There could be no pretense now that this is anything other than what it is, two Marines - and worse, an officer and an enlisted man - fucking all over each other, Nate groaning as Brad finds skin, and Brad fucking humping against Nate's thigh. There's no time for slow, even if either of them had the desire or the patience. No time for anything, for this at all, but they're making it, creating a moment in time where they live life like the cocky bastards Marines have to be, believing they're invulnerable, believing no one will catch them. So Brad reaches inside Nate's camo pants - Nate's free-balling, and isn't that a surprise - and jacks him off, feeling the rub of his calloused fingers against sweat-slicked sensitive skin, pushing Nate back into the stairs.
Nate must be uncomfortable, sharp-angled concrete digging into his back and half Brad's weight pushing against him, but there's no sign of it as he silently urges Brad on, hand around Brad's ass pulling him even closer.
It isn't enough, not really, but they make it work. Brad keeps tugging on Nate's cock, running his thumbnail just the wrong side of sharp down the underside and reveling in the little noises that elicits from Nate. Keeps kissing him, swallowing up those noises so they're all Brad's, nothing to escape to the outside world, kisses Nate like he can't get enough of the taste of stale breath and bland rations. Kisses him until Nate's shuddering under him, pulsing into Brad's hand, and Brad stops rubbing up against him and pulls back just far enough to watch Nate's eyes fall closed, squeezed tight like he can't bear it.
Brad wipes his hands on his camo pants, the smell blending in with the all pervasive odors of cordite and tobacco and sweat and exhaustion.
He's still hard and aching, the need worse now he's stilled, now that Nate's sprawled on the stairs, looking for all the world like a debauched boy with stolen weapons, lips swollen, visibly red even in the faint light. The tightness around his eyes that's been there since they left Qalat Sukhar has gone, replaced by something else that Brad hadn't fully realized how much he wanted to see until now.
Nate licks his lips, and Brad clenches his teeth, fighting back the desire to beg.
He doesn't have to. Nate leans across and undoes Brad's camo pants enough to pull out his cock. He pushes Brad into place then kneels down on the step below him.
Brad tries to stay alert, to listen for danger, but Nate's lips are closing around him, swallowing him down. It's clumsy, like Nate's never done this before, but that doesn't matter. If it ended now, it would still be the best fucking blow job Brad's ever had. It's sloppy and eager, and it's Nate, wanting this, and that makes it perfect.
Brad isn't going to last long. Not when Nate's got his hand behind Brad's balls, stroking him softly with one fingertip, which shouldn't feel as fucking fantastic as it does, but then his whole body is wired, about to come from any touch. Brad clenches his fists, torn between savoring the moment and wanting it to last, and needing to get the fuck off quickly in case they run out of time.
Urgency wins out in the end, that and too long without anyone else's hand on his cock, let alone a sweet mouth like Nate's. Nate takes it all, not flinching as Brad spills into his mouth, then spits to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There's a thin trail of come he's missed, and Brad can't resist the urge to reach out and wipe it off with the pad of his thumb. Nate swallows at the touch, like it's something more intimate than anything else they've just done, and there's a moment where they look at each other. Brad has never felt so fucked in his entire life.
There's a voice, footsteps approaching, two sets of boots. Brad jumps up and leans against the wall, while Nate pulls out his notebook and pen and stands on the stairs as though he's just arrived.
"We won't have the use of an interpreter tomorrow, Sergeant, so we're going to be limited," Nate says, picking up in the middle of an imaginary conversation.
"Yes, Sir," Brad answers.
Back to Sir and Sergeant. Their moment's broken for now, but there's a promise in Nate's gaze that isn't canceled out by the mundane nature of his words, and Brad knows he mirrors that promise. Maybe the war is coming to an end; their part is almost certainly over. But this new thing, it feels unending.
//