Advent Calendar Day Four - Generation Kill fic: they said a hundred times I should have died
Day One | Avalanche, Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, R, 400 words | for pjvilar
Day Two | No Fu Manchu, Hawaii Five-0, Danny, Steve, PG, 803 words | for laceymcbain
Day Three | running away from nothing real, Inception, Eames/Ariadne, R, 1,358 words | for vinylroad
they said a hundred times I should have died [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC-17, 1,192 words, for pau494, prompt: Las Vegas, baby. Beta thanks to pjvilar. Title from Like A Soldier by Johnny Cash.]
There's a strippergram exiting the elevator as they go up. She's mostly put back together, but there's a ten dollar bill in the top of her stocking, and the coat doesn't really hide the lack of clothes underneath. It's all very Vegas.
The elevator is quiet. The noise from the hotel lobby cuts out the instant the door thumps closed, a startling absence. Vegas is noisy, everything too big and too loud. It's so like Iraq - and at the same time so utterly unlike Iraq - and this brief interlude of silence is refreshing.
It isn't unsettling, standing here with Brad, two feet apart, going to Nate's hotel room in the middle of the afternoon. Perhaps it should be, but it isn't.
When the elevator doors hiss open on their floor, the noise bursts back in. There's a party going on along the corridor, music and people spilling out of a room, the people drunk already.
Nate turns left towards his room and Brad follows. The key card doesn't work the first time Nate swipes it. Not because his hands are shaking - they aren't - but simply because there's a long scratch across the magnetic strip. It works the second time so they don't have to go back down and ask reception for a new card. Nate wouldn't appreciate the delay, even if it were just another ten minutes. He's patiently waited for five years and two months. While he knows ten minutes in comparison is nothing, it's still longer than he cares to wait.
They haven't discussed this. Nothing more than brief emails, Nate saying he would be here and when, and Brad saying he'd be there. There's been nothing said that could lead Nate to the conclusion that they're about to fuck. There never was anything said.
Nate is certain of what is about to happen here, though, and knows with equal conviction that Brad is too. Considering how easy it's proving to be, it's ridiculous that they've taken so long. Nate huffs a laugh.
"What?" Brad says, the first word he's spoken since they entered the hotel.
Nate says what he's thinking. "It's crazy that we've taken so long to get around to this."
"Officers aren't always that quick on the uptake, I find," Brad says, unzipping his leather jacket and dropping it on the chair. He must have a room somewhere in Vegas - his tee-shirt's too clean and pressed for him to have just gotten straight off his bike. He won't need that room.
"Some, maybe," Nate says, shedding his own jacket. He raises Brad a shirt and Brad follows suit. "Not all."
"Not all," Brad agrees, kicking off his boots and undoing his belt. Nate unlaces his shoes and pushes them out of the way.
They're half-naked now, and that's the point, but Nate's not satisfied. He doesn't want to watch. He's never been the kind of guy who sat back and watched the action, not when he could be right in the middle of it.
He takes both ends of Brad's belt and pulls Brad closer, just one step. Then begins unbuttoning Brad's jeans, slowly, letting the belt hang loose as he works. "'My present miracle,'" Nate mutters under his breath. Just saying the words, not singing them.
"'Is that you're here beside me,'" Brad quotes back. He knows his Johnny Cash.
"I'm not getting sentimental," Nate says. To reassure Brad. "I don't think this is anything more than it is."
Brad tenses a moment - Nate feels it under his palm as he's pulling Brad's jeans down - but it's so brief it could mean anything. Nate chooses to assume it's relief.
Brad's brought lube and condoms. Between them - Nate came prepared too - they have enough to stay in the room for a week. Maybe they will. Fuck all this out of their system.
He shifts up a gear. Pulls the bedding off and keeps just one pillow. "How do you want me?" he asks. (He wants to fuck Brad, but he won't ask for that. Not when Brad's still only one step away from calling him sir.)
"On your front," Brad says, somewhere between a request and an order.
"Okay," Nate says, and lies down on his stomach. The sheets are cool, and his skin feels hot. Hotter still when he feels Brad's hands spreading his ass, working a finger inside. It's been forever since Nate did this, but he lets Brad hear his impatience when Brad starts working a third finger in.
Brad's cock is a burn inside him, too much, but Nate takes it, breathing deep into the pillow, stuffing his face down so nothing escapes. Brad notices though, stills. Holds still for a count of ten.
That's all Nate needs. He turns his head, just enough to speak. "What are you waiting for, Marine?" he asks, arching up against Brad, and there's no more waiting.
The headboard hits the wall, thump thump thump, and the music from the party drifts in from the open windows. When Nate was in Iraq he wanted to slam Brad up against a bullet-ridden Humvee, kick his legs open and tongue his ass until Brad begged Nate to fuck him. Nate leaned against a shattered palm tree one night, hand cupping his own dick through the rough fabric of his MOPP suit and imagined Brad on his knees in front of him, mouth stretched around Nate's cock. He wanted Brad in all that dirt and chaos, and now he needs to feel the scrape of Brad's nails on his flank, the thick weight of Brad's cock in his ass, the hot huff of Brad's breath on his shoulder. He needs to know it's real this time.
They wake up still in the same bed, too much light blazing in through the windows. Nate's leg is hanging over the edge, but the two of them are sufficiently entwined to know that they're both still naked and neither hard. Brad's breath is slightly sour and Nate's sure his own is too, but he kisses Brad anyway.
It surprises Brad - his eyes open wide afterwards - and it surprises Nate, but not as much.
"Thought you weren't going to get sentimental," Brad points out. Throwing Nate's own words back at him is fighting dirty.
"I lied," Nate admits.
"Want to tell the truth now?" Brad asks.
"What's the question?"
Brad pushes himself up on one elbow and regards Nate carefully. "What do you want?"
"I want to fuck you," Nate says.
"How about the whole truth," Brad prompts.
Nate bites his bottom lip. In Afghanistan, his lower lip used to bleed from how often he'd worry it with his teeth. He trained himself out of the habit. Or he thought he had.
"I want-you," he says, deciding the simplest answer is the most honest he can be.
"You don't plan on leaving Vegas and forgetting Vegas?"
Nate had planned on leaving everything behind him here. Forgetting, no, but he'd had no hopes that he could ever take this with him.
He shakes his head. "I want everything," he says, and this time it's no surprise to either of them when Brad kisses him.
//
Day Two | No Fu Manchu, Hawaii Five-0, Danny, Steve, PG, 803 words | for laceymcbain
Day Three | running away from nothing real, Inception, Eames/Ariadne, R, 1,358 words | for vinylroad
they said a hundred times I should have died [Generation Kill, Brad/Nate, NC-17, 1,192 words, for pau494, prompt: Las Vegas, baby. Beta thanks to pjvilar. Title from Like A Soldier by Johnny Cash.]
There's a strippergram exiting the elevator as they go up. She's mostly put back together, but there's a ten dollar bill in the top of her stocking, and the coat doesn't really hide the lack of clothes underneath. It's all very Vegas.
The elevator is quiet. The noise from the hotel lobby cuts out the instant the door thumps closed, a startling absence. Vegas is noisy, everything too big and too loud. It's so like Iraq - and at the same time so utterly unlike Iraq - and this brief interlude of silence is refreshing.
It isn't unsettling, standing here with Brad, two feet apart, going to Nate's hotel room in the middle of the afternoon. Perhaps it should be, but it isn't.
When the elevator doors hiss open on their floor, the noise bursts back in. There's a party going on along the corridor, music and people spilling out of a room, the people drunk already.
Nate turns left towards his room and Brad follows. The key card doesn't work the first time Nate swipes it. Not because his hands are shaking - they aren't - but simply because there's a long scratch across the magnetic strip. It works the second time so they don't have to go back down and ask reception for a new card. Nate wouldn't appreciate the delay, even if it were just another ten minutes. He's patiently waited for five years and two months. While he knows ten minutes in comparison is nothing, it's still longer than he cares to wait.
They haven't discussed this. Nothing more than brief emails, Nate saying he would be here and when, and Brad saying he'd be there. There's been nothing said that could lead Nate to the conclusion that they're about to fuck. There never was anything said.
Nate is certain of what is about to happen here, though, and knows with equal conviction that Brad is too. Considering how easy it's proving to be, it's ridiculous that they've taken so long. Nate huffs a laugh.
"What?" Brad says, the first word he's spoken since they entered the hotel.
Nate says what he's thinking. "It's crazy that we've taken so long to get around to this."
"Officers aren't always that quick on the uptake, I find," Brad says, unzipping his leather jacket and dropping it on the chair. He must have a room somewhere in Vegas - his tee-shirt's too clean and pressed for him to have just gotten straight off his bike. He won't need that room.
"Some, maybe," Nate says, shedding his own jacket. He raises Brad a shirt and Brad follows suit. "Not all."
"Not all," Brad agrees, kicking off his boots and undoing his belt. Nate unlaces his shoes and pushes them out of the way.
They're half-naked now, and that's the point, but Nate's not satisfied. He doesn't want to watch. He's never been the kind of guy who sat back and watched the action, not when he could be right in the middle of it.
He takes both ends of Brad's belt and pulls Brad closer, just one step. Then begins unbuttoning Brad's jeans, slowly, letting the belt hang loose as he works. "'My present miracle,'" Nate mutters under his breath. Just saying the words, not singing them.
"'Is that you're here beside me,'" Brad quotes back. He knows his Johnny Cash.
"I'm not getting sentimental," Nate says. To reassure Brad. "I don't think this is anything more than it is."
Brad tenses a moment - Nate feels it under his palm as he's pulling Brad's jeans down - but it's so brief it could mean anything. Nate chooses to assume it's relief.
Brad's brought lube and condoms. Between them - Nate came prepared too - they have enough to stay in the room for a week. Maybe they will. Fuck all this out of their system.
He shifts up a gear. Pulls the bedding off and keeps just one pillow. "How do you want me?" he asks. (He wants to fuck Brad, but he won't ask for that. Not when Brad's still only one step away from calling him sir.)
"On your front," Brad says, somewhere between a request and an order.
"Okay," Nate says, and lies down on his stomach. The sheets are cool, and his skin feels hot. Hotter still when he feels Brad's hands spreading his ass, working a finger inside. It's been forever since Nate did this, but he lets Brad hear his impatience when Brad starts working a third finger in.
Brad's cock is a burn inside him, too much, but Nate takes it, breathing deep into the pillow, stuffing his face down so nothing escapes. Brad notices though, stills. Holds still for a count of ten.
That's all Nate needs. He turns his head, just enough to speak. "What are you waiting for, Marine?" he asks, arching up against Brad, and there's no more waiting.
The headboard hits the wall, thump thump thump, and the music from the party drifts in from the open windows. When Nate was in Iraq he wanted to slam Brad up against a bullet-ridden Humvee, kick his legs open and tongue his ass until Brad begged Nate to fuck him. Nate leaned against a shattered palm tree one night, hand cupping his own dick through the rough fabric of his MOPP suit and imagined Brad on his knees in front of him, mouth stretched around Nate's cock. He wanted Brad in all that dirt and chaos, and now he needs to feel the scrape of Brad's nails on his flank, the thick weight of Brad's cock in his ass, the hot huff of Brad's breath on his shoulder. He needs to know it's real this time.
They wake up still in the same bed, too much light blazing in through the windows. Nate's leg is hanging over the edge, but the two of them are sufficiently entwined to know that they're both still naked and neither hard. Brad's breath is slightly sour and Nate's sure his own is too, but he kisses Brad anyway.
It surprises Brad - his eyes open wide afterwards - and it surprises Nate, but not as much.
"Thought you weren't going to get sentimental," Brad points out. Throwing Nate's own words back at him is fighting dirty.
"I lied," Nate admits.
"Want to tell the truth now?" Brad asks.
"What's the question?"
Brad pushes himself up on one elbow and regards Nate carefully. "What do you want?"
"I want to fuck you," Nate says.
"How about the whole truth," Brad prompts.
Nate bites his bottom lip. In Afghanistan, his lower lip used to bleed from how often he'd worry it with his teeth. He trained himself out of the habit. Or he thought he had.
"I want-you," he says, deciding the simplest answer is the most honest he can be.
"You don't plan on leaving Vegas and forgetting Vegas?"
Nate had planned on leaving everything behind him here. Forgetting, no, but he'd had no hopes that he could ever take this with him.
He shakes his head. "I want everything," he says, and this time it's no surprise to either of them when Brad kisses him.
//