Generation Kill fic: Hamsters on Wheels (or Tales From a Humvee)
Title: Hamsters on Wheels (or Tales From a Humvee)
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Team 1, Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Genre: Boys being boys, and first time Brad/Nate
Word count: 2,628 words
Spoilers: Takes place pre-series through to episode 6, so spoilers up to and including episode 6.
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to shoshannagold for the super beta. ♥
i.
"I'm just saying, homes. Seriously. Beige? Beige is like the color other colors turn when they die. It's not a real color, it's- blah," Ray says, making a disgusted face that's presumably meant to define the word and illustrate his point. "And what are we mixing it with? Oh, yeah, shit and real nasty shit. Boring." Ray yawns pointedly at Brad, and slaps another splotch of greenish-brown camouflage on the humvee door; Nate assumes it's what Ray deems 'real nasty shit'.
Nate's already learned that letting Ray get bored is a bad idea.
"You want to go to war with panache, is that it, my little warrior?" Brad asks.
"Exactly. A little bit of showbiz, a little bit of pizzazz. We want to rock and roll into Iraq." Ray strikes a pose with his paintbrush.
I'd like to get to know ya, so I can show ya
Put the pussy on ya, like I told ya
Gimme all your numbers so I can phone ya.
A dribble of shit-brown paint splashes onto his teeshirt as he screeches out the song; he doesn't appear to notice.
"That ain't rock and roll," Garza shouts from under the humvee. He's checking fuel lines; Nate suspects it's an excuse to get out of painting.
Ray flips him, even though Garza can't see him.
Nate knows better than to point out that they want to be as invisible (and quiet) as possible when they reach Iraq. Five months of Corporal Ray Person, and Nate knows to take everything he says with a pinch of salt. Or a tablespoon. Or even the whole fucking canister.
Of course, he shouldn't encourage him either.
"I've got-" Nate pauses and pulls out his wallet and checks inside. He pulls out four bills and holds them out to Ray. "Eighty dollars. You want to go get some new paint? Whatever colors you want."
Brad looks up at him slowly. Nate ignores him and keeps a serious face turned towards Ray.
"Sir?" Ray says, like he's not certain if Nate's lost it.
"We could have a different scheme for each humvee. What do you think, Brad? What color should the lead humvee be?"
Ray looks between him and Brad, brow furrowed. There's a snort from Garza.
"Personally, I've always felt pink's had a unfair rep. And I believe Target has a range of glow-in-the-dark paint. We could stencil 'follow the leader' on the back of victor one," Brad suggests, apparently having decided that if eye-rolling won't shut Nate up, he might as well play along.
Nate hums and haws. "Maybe a bit risky," he says.
"But at least that way Poke wouldn't get lost. With Corporal Lilley behind the wheel, there's always that possibility."
"That's fucking libel," Lilley calls out. Poke's team are all eavesdropping from under the hood of their victor.
"Strictly, speaking, Corporal, that would be called slander, not libel," Brad shouts back. "But as it's perfectly true, it happens to be neither."
"Naw, dog, don't you listen to him," Poke says reassuringly, patting Lilley on the shoulder. "The man can't navigate an inch without his pussy sat nav system."
Nate interrupts. "Pros and cons," he says. "Easy recognition of our own victors, a pro. On the other hand, we don't want to make it too easy for the enemy."
"I can see us now," Brad says reflectively, "driving into battle in a glitter-covered, tinsel-laden, glow-in-the-fucking-dark gay-pride-parade-pink humvee. We'll be the pride of First Recon Battalion."
Nate coughs, hand over his mouth a moment while he deals with the image. He pictures Brad dressed to match his gay-pride-parade-pink humvee: tight cut-off jeans and a too-small wife beater. It should be ridiculous; it isn't. He bites his lip.
"Sir, with all due respect," Ray starts.
"Yes, Ray?" Nate says, glad to be distracted.
"You're crazier than me."
ii.
"God damn hamsters running around on plastic wheels could move this humvee faster than you're driving, Ray." Brad is frustrated.
"It's pitch black, my fucking NVG batteries are dying, and besides, if I go any faster we'll bounce so high over the fucking berms that Rolling Stone will be shitting himself."
"You wearing adult diapers, Reporter?" Brad calls over his shoulder.
"Um- No?" Brad ignores the unspoken 'should I?'
"Hamsters are really freaky. It's not natural, running in circles hour after hour, like they actually like it," Trombley says, like that's the only part of the conversation he's actually picked up on.
"You look like a hamster, you toothy little psycho," Ray says.
"I don't like hamsters." Trombley sounds disconsolate. Brad hopes he's not about to launch into some sick story about his father killing hamsters.
"Perhaps, Ray," Brad says before any hamster tales start, "if you spent less time thinking about Trombley's rat face-"
"Hamster face," Ray interrupts. "But rat face works too. They're skinnier - hamsters are all fat-faced, and Trombley's a skinny little whiskey tango bastard."
"As I was saying, Ray, when you so rudely interrupted. If you concentrate on the fucking ground ahead instead of the kids in the back, maybe we can go a little faster, and the war won't be over before we reach our objective. And if Rolling Stone shits his pants, that's just tough.
"He'd better not. I don't want to have to sit next to a shitty reporter all night. He'll stink."
"We all stink, Trombley," Walt points out. Ever the peacemaker.
"Yeah, but not like shit. That's just nasty."
"You're nasty," Ray says, and Brad rolls his eyes.
"Hitman Two One, this is Hitman Two Actual."
"Hitman Two One Actual."
"I need you to pick up the pace. How copy?"
"Roger. Solid copy." Brad turns to Ray. "See, even the LT thinks you're a pussy feeble-minded granny driver."
"Fuck you," Ray says, and puts his foot down. "If I drive straight into a wall because I can't see jack shit, never mind having anything close to depth, I hope I live long enough to see you go splat."
"I'm getting a woody," Trombley says. "Do you think it's the adrenaline? Or maybe all the bumping up and down?"
"It's the bumping up and down. Your brain probably thinks you've got a big fat cock up your ass, and that's what you're bouncing down on."
"I'm not gay, shit, man, no."
"See, Brad, this is all your fault. We've got Rolling Stone shitting himself, and Trombley with a gay ass hard on, and all because you've always gotta go faster."
"It is kind of cool, though, racing across a foreign country in the dark."
"Don't tell me you've got a woody, too, Walt?" Brad asks. "Not good for combat effectiveness."
"Hell, no." Brad thinks he sounds offended. Probably from being lumped in with Trombley. Walt's a good guy, and not just because the least appropriate things don't turn him on.
"You know where the next turn is, Ray?"
"Not a clue. I'm just driving fifty klicks an hour across a berm-ridden desert in the dark with no fucking idea where I'm going. Isn't that the fucking SOP?"
"Okay," Brad says.
"Shit, Brad. I mean it. I haven't a clue where we are. I need you."
"You always need me." Brad pokes at the Blue Force Tracker.
"Do you two have to be so fucking gay for each other?" Trombley asks.
"Kiss me, Ray." Ray puckers up and blows him a kiss. "Yeah, Trombley, we really do," Brad says. "Now shut the fuck up and let our fine driver do his job."
iii.
They've been kissing forever before Ray realizes something is wrong. No, not wrong, just puzzling. There's no wrong in kissing, not when they're sucking tongues and hands under shirts and any moment now clothes are going to come off and kissing's gonna turn into fucking. Nothing wrong, but he does have a question.
"I thought you were straight," he says. "When the fuck did you become gay, and why the fucking hell didn't you tell me? I'm hurt you never told me. Seriously hurt, man."
"I am straight." Brad makes it sound obvious, but it's really not fucking obvious at all. Ray's confused, and he doesn't like being confused, even if it means stopping the kissing to sort things out.
"Then what's this? This doesn't seem very straight to me. I mean, a handjob between buddies is one thing. A blowjob even, 'cause nothing gets you off to sleep better than getting your brains sucked out of your cock, so it's like, practical. But kissing? That's motherfucking gay, that's what it is."
"This is you and me, that's all. Nothing more, nothing less."
"You sound like a pussy liberal."
"Maybe there's a reason for that." Brad spreads his legs, and Ray goes down, and-
He stutters awake.
Brad's dozing in the seat next to him.
Fuck that.
He shakes Brad on the shoulder. "Brad, Brad, wake up. I dreamed you had a pussy. I was going down on you, but instead of a dick you had this shaggy bush and dripping wet pussy. And then I woke up. Fuck, I didn't even get to taste your pussy." Ray thinks about that in disgust. Fucking waste of a good porno dream. And okay, it was weird, but still, it's been months since he had any pussy. He'll take any pussy he can get, even if it's fake, dream pussy.
"Ray," Brad says, with a sharpness that tells Ray he doesn't appreciate being woken up to hear about Ray's dreams, least of all one in which he doesn't have a dick, "if you're hard because you've been dreaming I had a pussy, I'm going to raid your Ripped Fuel stash and make sure no one in the entire platoon will help you get any more. And then I'm gonna cut off your balls, so you'll never get hard again."
Brad's probably pissed off because he couldn't fuck the LT if he had a pussy. Not that Ray thinks Brad's fucking the LT, but he thinks Brad thinks about fucking the LT, which, face it, is as close as any of them get to fucking these days.
"I'm not hard. That'd be fucking inappropriate." Ray says, belatedly. Brad might not cut his balls off, but taking his Ripped Fuel would be almost as bad.
He is hard. Hard as nails, and he needs to jerk off, but of course now he's been a fucking idiot and denied it he can't just saunter off into the dark and have a quick combat jack. Fuck. He rubs himself surreptitiously and tries to get back to sleep.
Naturally, Brad notices. There's nothing Brad doesn't notice.
"Want a hand with that?" Brad asks, and his voice is higher than usual, all sultry like a porn star voice. It's dark, but Ray can see Brad's feeling himself up, hand between his legs, fingers in his pussy. He pulls them out, all wet and dripping and ready for Ray's cock.
"Fuck, yeah," Ray says.
iv.
"Brad, what is Corporal Person doing?"
Brad leans out of his window. "I believe he's lying on his face by the side of the MSR, sir."
"Thank you, Brad. This is why I value your recon skills so much - you're able to see what no one else can," Nate says, without a trace of sarcasm in his tone. He lets the words speak for themselves. "My question specifically, is regarding the reason Ray is lying there."
"With respect, sir, your question was 'what is he doing?', rather than 'why is he doing it?'." There's no actual challenge or disrespect in the statement, merely dry amusement. It's the nearest Brad gets to teasing.
Nate resists the temptation to roll his eyes - that will only encourage Brad. He stares him down instead. Not an easy task, but Nate has full confidence in his abilities.
It works. To a degree. "You don't want to know," Brad says, with a sad shake of his head. When Nate lifts an interrogative eyebrow, he repeats himself. "You really don't want to know."
If there's one thing Nate hates, it's being told he doesn't want to know when he does want to know. He narrows his eyes. "Fine, I'll go ask Ray."
Brad winces. "There isn't any chance you could ignore this?"
Nate is far too curious now. "No."
"In that case," Brad sighs. "Corporal Person, sir, is currently experiencing an orgasm."
Nate tilts his head to one side in thought, then stares over at Ray. He does look, well, beltfed. Even more than usual.
"It's the vibrations from the tanks," Brad clarifies. "Apparently it feels- good."
Nate can imagine. Unfortunately. Because now is not the time to be imagining how good the vibrations would feel against his dick. Any time he's near Brad is not the right time to be thinking about his dick. Or Brad's dick. "Apparently?" is all he says.
"So Ray informed Rolling Stone. Who concurred with Ray after a demonstration. I believe his words were, 'that was fucking amazing.' Besides, tanks are hot - it's a known fact." Brad grins.
"So tanks turn you on too?" Nate shouldn't be having this conversation, not when they're leaning on either side of Brad's door, almost cozy. Touching at the elbow. That shouldn't be as much of a turn on as tank vibrations.
"Tanks turn everyone on."
Nate doesn't look away. "I'm more of an infantry man myself," he offers.
"I believe it would be best if I didn't read that as infantrymen turn you on, sir," Brad says, sounding like he means the opposite.
"Read it in whatever way you wish, Brad," Nate says. He straightens up and walks away.
v.
Walt didn't mean to fall asleep over his Mk 19. It's clean and lubed, best as he can manage. He needs to mount it, dig himself a grave, and get a couple of hours shut eye lying down, not propped up against the humvee.
He's about to move when he hears voices on the other side of the humvee. Quiet voices, not carrying far, but he's close enough he can hear them clearly.
Brad and the LT.
The LT sounds furious.
"You fucking wake me, do you hear?"
"Sir."
"Do you hear, Sergeant?" Walt blinks. That's not a tone the LT takes with Brad. Usually, the LT just looks at Brad, and Brad looks back, and they tell each other everything they need to know that way. Even when the LT's issuing orders to Brad, it always sounds different from the way he orders the other TLs. Like he and Brad are sharing some private joke.
"Yes, Sir." There's a long pause, and then Brad sounds like he's reassuring the LT. "I can assure you," he says, slowly and carefully, "that if any such situation occurs again, I will wake you to check the orders."
Walt can hear the LT's sigh. He sounds exhausted. They all are, of course, even those who haven't got the shits, but the LT sounds like he's weighed down by the pain of all of them.
"I would never have sent you out there."
"I know you wouldn't."
"Jesus, Brad, I fell asleep for a few minutes and let Lovell's team get sent out on a pointless mission into a fucking swamp all because an asshole Gunny wants to prove he's got a bigger dick than me."
"I hope he hasn't."
There's what sounds almost like a laugh, bitten off. And then something else. Rustling sounds, someone bumps against the humvee, and Walt hears the LT, no more than a whisper. "Brad," he says, broken, like he can't help it. Then there are muffled grunts and a moan, stiffled quickly.
Took them long enough, Walt thinks, and closes his eyes. It won't hurt him to sleep sitting up this once.
//
Fandom: Generation Kill
Characters: Team 1, Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Genre: Boys being boys, and first time Brad/Nate
Word count: 2,628 words
Spoilers: Takes place pre-series through to episode 6, so spoilers up to and including episode 6.
Disclaimer: Based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, and not intended as any reflection on the real people bearing these names.
Notes: Thanks to shoshannagold for the super beta. ♥
i.
"I'm just saying, homes. Seriously. Beige? Beige is like the color other colors turn when they die. It's not a real color, it's- blah," Ray says, making a disgusted face that's presumably meant to define the word and illustrate his point. "And what are we mixing it with? Oh, yeah, shit and real nasty shit. Boring." Ray yawns pointedly at Brad, and slaps another splotch of greenish-brown camouflage on the humvee door; Nate assumes it's what Ray deems 'real nasty shit'.
Nate's already learned that letting Ray get bored is a bad idea.
"You want to go to war with panache, is that it, my little warrior?" Brad asks.
"Exactly. A little bit of showbiz, a little bit of pizzazz. We want to rock and roll into Iraq." Ray strikes a pose with his paintbrush.
I'd like to get to know ya, so I can show ya
Put the pussy on ya, like I told ya
Gimme all your numbers so I can phone ya.
A dribble of shit-brown paint splashes onto his teeshirt as he screeches out the song; he doesn't appear to notice.
"That ain't rock and roll," Garza shouts from under the humvee. He's checking fuel lines; Nate suspects it's an excuse to get out of painting.
Ray flips him, even though Garza can't see him.
Nate knows better than to point out that they want to be as invisible (and quiet) as possible when they reach Iraq. Five months of Corporal Ray Person, and Nate knows to take everything he says with a pinch of salt. Or a tablespoon. Or even the whole fucking canister.
Of course, he shouldn't encourage him either.
"I've got-" Nate pauses and pulls out his wallet and checks inside. He pulls out four bills and holds them out to Ray. "Eighty dollars. You want to go get some new paint? Whatever colors you want."
Brad looks up at him slowly. Nate ignores him and keeps a serious face turned towards Ray.
"Sir?" Ray says, like he's not certain if Nate's lost it.
"We could have a different scheme for each humvee. What do you think, Brad? What color should the lead humvee be?"
Ray looks between him and Brad, brow furrowed. There's a snort from Garza.
"Personally, I've always felt pink's had a unfair rep. And I believe Target has a range of glow-in-the-dark paint. We could stencil 'follow the leader' on the back of victor one," Brad suggests, apparently having decided that if eye-rolling won't shut Nate up, he might as well play along.
Nate hums and haws. "Maybe a bit risky," he says.
"But at least that way Poke wouldn't get lost. With Corporal Lilley behind the wheel, there's always that possibility."
"That's fucking libel," Lilley calls out. Poke's team are all eavesdropping from under the hood of their victor.
"Strictly, speaking, Corporal, that would be called slander, not libel," Brad shouts back. "But as it's perfectly true, it happens to be neither."
"Naw, dog, don't you listen to him," Poke says reassuringly, patting Lilley on the shoulder. "The man can't navigate an inch without his pussy sat nav system."
Nate interrupts. "Pros and cons," he says. "Easy recognition of our own victors, a pro. On the other hand, we don't want to make it too easy for the enemy."
"I can see us now," Brad says reflectively, "driving into battle in a glitter-covered, tinsel-laden, glow-in-the-fucking-dark gay-pride-parade-pink humvee. We'll be the pride of First Recon Battalion."
Nate coughs, hand over his mouth a moment while he deals with the image. He pictures Brad dressed to match his gay-pride-parade-pink humvee: tight cut-off jeans and a too-small wife beater. It should be ridiculous; it isn't. He bites his lip.
"Sir, with all due respect," Ray starts.
"Yes, Ray?" Nate says, glad to be distracted.
"You're crazier than me."
ii.
"God damn hamsters running around on plastic wheels could move this humvee faster than you're driving, Ray." Brad is frustrated.
"It's pitch black, my fucking NVG batteries are dying, and besides, if I go any faster we'll bounce so high over the fucking berms that Rolling Stone will be shitting himself."
"You wearing adult diapers, Reporter?" Brad calls over his shoulder.
"Um- No?" Brad ignores the unspoken 'should I?'
"Hamsters are really freaky. It's not natural, running in circles hour after hour, like they actually like it," Trombley says, like that's the only part of the conversation he's actually picked up on.
"You look like a hamster, you toothy little psycho," Ray says.
"I don't like hamsters." Trombley sounds disconsolate. Brad hopes he's not about to launch into some sick story about his father killing hamsters.
"Perhaps, Ray," Brad says before any hamster tales start, "if you spent less time thinking about Trombley's rat face-"
"Hamster face," Ray interrupts. "But rat face works too. They're skinnier - hamsters are all fat-faced, and Trombley's a skinny little whiskey tango bastard."
"As I was saying, Ray, when you so rudely interrupted. If you concentrate on the fucking ground ahead instead of the kids in the back, maybe we can go a little faster, and the war won't be over before we reach our objective. And if Rolling Stone shits his pants, that's just tough.
"He'd better not. I don't want to have to sit next to a shitty reporter all night. He'll stink."
"We all stink, Trombley," Walt points out. Ever the peacemaker.
"Yeah, but not like shit. That's just nasty."
"You're nasty," Ray says, and Brad rolls his eyes.
"Hitman Two One, this is Hitman Two Actual."
"Hitman Two One Actual."
"I need you to pick up the pace. How copy?"
"Roger. Solid copy." Brad turns to Ray. "See, even the LT thinks you're a pussy feeble-minded granny driver."
"Fuck you," Ray says, and puts his foot down. "If I drive straight into a wall because I can't see jack shit, never mind having anything close to depth, I hope I live long enough to see you go splat."
"I'm getting a woody," Trombley says. "Do you think it's the adrenaline? Or maybe all the bumping up and down?"
"It's the bumping up and down. Your brain probably thinks you've got a big fat cock up your ass, and that's what you're bouncing down on."
"I'm not gay, shit, man, no."
"See, Brad, this is all your fault. We've got Rolling Stone shitting himself, and Trombley with a gay ass hard on, and all because you've always gotta go faster."
"It is kind of cool, though, racing across a foreign country in the dark."
"Don't tell me you've got a woody, too, Walt?" Brad asks. "Not good for combat effectiveness."
"Hell, no." Brad thinks he sounds offended. Probably from being lumped in with Trombley. Walt's a good guy, and not just because the least appropriate things don't turn him on.
"You know where the next turn is, Ray?"
"Not a clue. I'm just driving fifty klicks an hour across a berm-ridden desert in the dark with no fucking idea where I'm going. Isn't that the fucking SOP?"
"Okay," Brad says.
"Shit, Brad. I mean it. I haven't a clue where we are. I need you."
"You always need me." Brad pokes at the Blue Force Tracker.
"Do you two have to be so fucking gay for each other?" Trombley asks.
"Kiss me, Ray." Ray puckers up and blows him a kiss. "Yeah, Trombley, we really do," Brad says. "Now shut the fuck up and let our fine driver do his job."
iii.
They've been kissing forever before Ray realizes something is wrong. No, not wrong, just puzzling. There's no wrong in kissing, not when they're sucking tongues and hands under shirts and any moment now clothes are going to come off and kissing's gonna turn into fucking. Nothing wrong, but he does have a question.
"I thought you were straight," he says. "When the fuck did you become gay, and why the fucking hell didn't you tell me? I'm hurt you never told me. Seriously hurt, man."
"I am straight." Brad makes it sound obvious, but it's really not fucking obvious at all. Ray's confused, and he doesn't like being confused, even if it means stopping the kissing to sort things out.
"Then what's this? This doesn't seem very straight to me. I mean, a handjob between buddies is one thing. A blowjob even, 'cause nothing gets you off to sleep better than getting your brains sucked out of your cock, so it's like, practical. But kissing? That's motherfucking gay, that's what it is."
"This is you and me, that's all. Nothing more, nothing less."
"You sound like a pussy liberal."
"Maybe there's a reason for that." Brad spreads his legs, and Ray goes down, and-
He stutters awake.
Brad's dozing in the seat next to him.
Fuck that.
He shakes Brad on the shoulder. "Brad, Brad, wake up. I dreamed you had a pussy. I was going down on you, but instead of a dick you had this shaggy bush and dripping wet pussy. And then I woke up. Fuck, I didn't even get to taste your pussy." Ray thinks about that in disgust. Fucking waste of a good porno dream. And okay, it was weird, but still, it's been months since he had any pussy. He'll take any pussy he can get, even if it's fake, dream pussy.
"Ray," Brad says, with a sharpness that tells Ray he doesn't appreciate being woken up to hear about Ray's dreams, least of all one in which he doesn't have a dick, "if you're hard because you've been dreaming I had a pussy, I'm going to raid your Ripped Fuel stash and make sure no one in the entire platoon will help you get any more. And then I'm gonna cut off your balls, so you'll never get hard again."
Brad's probably pissed off because he couldn't fuck the LT if he had a pussy. Not that Ray thinks Brad's fucking the LT, but he thinks Brad thinks about fucking the LT, which, face it, is as close as any of them get to fucking these days.
"I'm not hard. That'd be fucking inappropriate." Ray says, belatedly. Brad might not cut his balls off, but taking his Ripped Fuel would be almost as bad.
He is hard. Hard as nails, and he needs to jerk off, but of course now he's been a fucking idiot and denied it he can't just saunter off into the dark and have a quick combat jack. Fuck. He rubs himself surreptitiously and tries to get back to sleep.
Naturally, Brad notices. There's nothing Brad doesn't notice.
"Want a hand with that?" Brad asks, and his voice is higher than usual, all sultry like a porn star voice. It's dark, but Ray can see Brad's feeling himself up, hand between his legs, fingers in his pussy. He pulls them out, all wet and dripping and ready for Ray's cock.
"Fuck, yeah," Ray says.
iv.
"Brad, what is Corporal Person doing?"
Brad leans out of his window. "I believe he's lying on his face by the side of the MSR, sir."
"Thank you, Brad. This is why I value your recon skills so much - you're able to see what no one else can," Nate says, without a trace of sarcasm in his tone. He lets the words speak for themselves. "My question specifically, is regarding the reason Ray is lying there."
"With respect, sir, your question was 'what is he doing?', rather than 'why is he doing it?'." There's no actual challenge or disrespect in the statement, merely dry amusement. It's the nearest Brad gets to teasing.
Nate resists the temptation to roll his eyes - that will only encourage Brad. He stares him down instead. Not an easy task, but Nate has full confidence in his abilities.
It works. To a degree. "You don't want to know," Brad says, with a sad shake of his head. When Nate lifts an interrogative eyebrow, he repeats himself. "You really don't want to know."
If there's one thing Nate hates, it's being told he doesn't want to know when he does want to know. He narrows his eyes. "Fine, I'll go ask Ray."
Brad winces. "There isn't any chance you could ignore this?"
Nate is far too curious now. "No."
"In that case," Brad sighs. "Corporal Person, sir, is currently experiencing an orgasm."
Nate tilts his head to one side in thought, then stares over at Ray. He does look, well, beltfed. Even more than usual.
"It's the vibrations from the tanks," Brad clarifies. "Apparently it feels- good."
Nate can imagine. Unfortunately. Because now is not the time to be imagining how good the vibrations would feel against his dick. Any time he's near Brad is not the right time to be thinking about his dick. Or Brad's dick. "Apparently?" is all he says.
"So Ray informed Rolling Stone. Who concurred with Ray after a demonstration. I believe his words were, 'that was fucking amazing.' Besides, tanks are hot - it's a known fact." Brad grins.
"So tanks turn you on too?" Nate shouldn't be having this conversation, not when they're leaning on either side of Brad's door, almost cozy. Touching at the elbow. That shouldn't be as much of a turn on as tank vibrations.
"Tanks turn everyone on."
Nate doesn't look away. "I'm more of an infantry man myself," he offers.
"I believe it would be best if I didn't read that as infantrymen turn you on, sir," Brad says, sounding like he means the opposite.
"Read it in whatever way you wish, Brad," Nate says. He straightens up and walks away.
v.
Walt didn't mean to fall asleep over his Mk 19. It's clean and lubed, best as he can manage. He needs to mount it, dig himself a grave, and get a couple of hours shut eye lying down, not propped up against the humvee.
He's about to move when he hears voices on the other side of the humvee. Quiet voices, not carrying far, but he's close enough he can hear them clearly.
Brad and the LT.
The LT sounds furious.
"You fucking wake me, do you hear?"
"Sir."
"Do you hear, Sergeant?" Walt blinks. That's not a tone the LT takes with Brad. Usually, the LT just looks at Brad, and Brad looks back, and they tell each other everything they need to know that way. Even when the LT's issuing orders to Brad, it always sounds different from the way he orders the other TLs. Like he and Brad are sharing some private joke.
"Yes, Sir." There's a long pause, and then Brad sounds like he's reassuring the LT. "I can assure you," he says, slowly and carefully, "that if any such situation occurs again, I will wake you to check the orders."
Walt can hear the LT's sigh. He sounds exhausted. They all are, of course, even those who haven't got the shits, but the LT sounds like he's weighed down by the pain of all of them.
"I would never have sent you out there."
"I know you wouldn't."
"Jesus, Brad, I fell asleep for a few minutes and let Lovell's team get sent out on a pointless mission into a fucking swamp all because an asshole Gunny wants to prove he's got a bigger dick than me."
"I hope he hasn't."
There's what sounds almost like a laugh, bitten off. And then something else. Rustling sounds, someone bumps against the humvee, and Walt hears the LT, no more than a whisper. "Brad," he says, broken, like he can't help it. Then there are muffled grunts and a moan, stiffled quickly.
Took them long enough, Walt thinks, and closes his eyes. It won't hurt him to sleep sitting up this once.
//