GK fic: Rolling Down
I've realized that I forgot to post my yagkyas story here. Oops.
Also: I should really write something new...
Rolling Down
rating: R
wordcount: 1039
character(s): Tim Bryan, mostly; Ray, Nate, Lovell, ensemble
notes: written for surexit for yagkyas 2011 holiday exchange.
disclaimer: This story is based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries Generation Kill. It's fiction, that's all.
warnings: Doc swears a lot.
summary: Tim sometimes wonders if he made a right decision.
I should have chosen fucking SEALs, Tim thinks to himself more times than he would like.
"Devil Dogs," he mutters quietly, trying to dig his grave in the middle of the fucking Iraqi fucking desert. "Stupid motherfuckers."
"You all right, brother?" Lovell asks him, stopping on the way back from the T-L meeting. He looks like they all do. Tired as fuck, dirty and losing weight.
"Perfect," Tim answers, thrusting the shovel harder into the sand. Everything is fucking perfect.
*
The invasion starts off badly and doesn't get any better after that. Tim is constantly pissed off and he's not sure if it helps or tires him out even more, but it's not like he can exactly help it.
Underneath every "This is not what we trained for" lies "This is not what I came here for. This is not what I wanted to do". Tim hears it loud and clear, because he says and means the same. He wanted to serve his country, not to watch innocent children get blown up or shot.
"I should have chosen the fucking SEALs" quickly becomes his silent mantra, so he doesn't have to say more.
*
But regardless of what Rudy Reyes would like the world to believe, mantras, meditation and being fucking Zen usually don't work that well in the face of the craziness they encounter during this war.
"Dumb motherfucker, sir. Even the most boot-fucked Marine knows danger-close."
He should have been NJP'd after that and he knows this, just like everybody else fucking knows. And fuck, maybe there is a part of him that wanted that. Tell them all to kiss his ass and go back to the States, away from this madness.
But the bigger part of him wanted something different. A different end. Different commander. Different… something.
"Timothy!" Person greets him, leaning against the door of the humvee where Tim is sitting and checking his gun for the twentieth time.
"Joshua," he answers without looking up. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"
Person shrugs.
"Don't be like that, Doc," he says, grinning. "I just wanted to salute you. Heard about the dramatic scene with our beloved company commander."
Of course he did. The Marines gossip worse than his mother and her sisters and that is something.
"No drama," he says, looking up at Person and shrugging. "We've got lucky and there was no fire mission. End of story."
"We've got lucky for once, true. That's great. Wonderful. Good for us. Go us. Go Bravo Two. But I've also heard that you got personal with the one and only Encino Man." He leans closer and makes a bad impression of conspiratorial whispering that's probably in the hearing range of everyone in the platoon. "Tell me all about it, Tim. Don't hold back on me."
"Person, do me a favor and shut up, okay?" he says seriously. He feels edgy. The adrenaline from the scene with Encino Man has left him, leaving behind weariness and a headache.
"Yes, sir," Person says, mock-saluting, and walks away.
Tim stands up and turns in the direction of the command vehicle, but he can't see the LT anywhere. Gunny is talking with Poke and Lilley and at the back of the humvee there are two pairs of legs sticking out. From the lack of the constant noise, he supposes the inseparable duo is most likely unconscious. They are on the fifty percent watch, so the lieutenant must be awake. But he could be anywhere and Tim will prolong the inevitable for as long as he can.
He checks his gun again.
*
Fick doesn't NJP him.
"But you have to watch yourself, Tim," he says, when they stand next to the supply truck, half-hidden from the others. "You can't say things like that or there will be consequences."
"I know," he nods. "I'm sorry, sir," he adds, and it's true. Maybe not for the reasons he should be, but it doesn't really matter. There are still quite a few reasons worth being sorry.
But then the kid with their fucking bullets in his stomach shows up and Tim forgets about everything else. He hates it, he hates this whole fucking thing and he wants to punch someone, anyone.
He doesn't, though. The kid gets med-evaced and there are Person's allergies, Baptista's stomach rebellion and Pappy's insomnia to deal with.
They roll further inside the madness and Tim sometimes finds himself not caring anymore.
*
Baghdad is, not at all surprisingly, a fucking mess. Their stay in the city feels like a prolonged ending to a bad movie. Tim thought it was over before, but now they still have to play the part, conquering heroes, mighty saviors, infidels, murderers, enemies, whatever works at any given point. One thing they always are: rich Americans with clean water, food and good drugs.
He puts the bandage around another boy's foot and he wants to scream. A couple hundred meters from them a bomb goes off and the boy does it for him, kicking him in the process. His mother standing behind him starts to say something, apologize maybe, but he nods and waves her off. He doesn't apologize to her for destroying her homeland, after all.
*
The grass is so green it looks painted. But Tim is so sick of yellows and greys of this world that he would fucking paint the ground himself. He would do graffiti on the sand, a huge fucking painting of solid green.
It is entirely possible he is a little drunk. Sun and alcohol don't mix well.
They got the news that they're leaving tomorrow and the whole platoon is gathered around the campfire now, telling stories of the first thing they're going to do back home. They are filthy and hungry, beyond tired, but no one leaves the circle.
Tim looks up at the sky and thinks he may even miss these stars.
*
A few months later, they ask him if he wants to stay in Recon. He spends half an hour staring at the papers and thinks about the fact that maybe he should have chosen SEALs, but didn't.
He signs his name on the dotted line. He's not done yet.
Also: I should really write something new...
Rolling Down
rating: R
wordcount: 1039
character(s): Tim Bryan, mostly; Ray, Nate, Lovell, ensemble
notes: written for surexit for yagkyas 2011 holiday exchange.
disclaimer: This story is based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries Generation Kill. It's fiction, that's all.
warnings: Doc swears a lot.
summary: Tim sometimes wonders if he made a right decision.
I should have chosen fucking SEALs, Tim thinks to himself more times than he would like.
"Devil Dogs," he mutters quietly, trying to dig his grave in the middle of the fucking Iraqi fucking desert. "Stupid motherfuckers."
"You all right, brother?" Lovell asks him, stopping on the way back from the T-L meeting. He looks like they all do. Tired as fuck, dirty and losing weight.
"Perfect," Tim answers, thrusting the shovel harder into the sand. Everything is fucking perfect.
*
The invasion starts off badly and doesn't get any better after that. Tim is constantly pissed off and he's not sure if it helps or tires him out even more, but it's not like he can exactly help it.
Underneath every "This is not what we trained for" lies "This is not what I came here for. This is not what I wanted to do". Tim hears it loud and clear, because he says and means the same. He wanted to serve his country, not to watch innocent children get blown up or shot.
"I should have chosen the fucking SEALs" quickly becomes his silent mantra, so he doesn't have to say more.
*
But regardless of what Rudy Reyes would like the world to believe, mantras, meditation and being fucking Zen usually don't work that well in the face of the craziness they encounter during this war.
"Dumb motherfucker, sir. Even the most boot-fucked Marine knows danger-close."
He should have been NJP'd after that and he knows this, just like everybody else fucking knows. And fuck, maybe there is a part of him that wanted that. Tell them all to kiss his ass and go back to the States, away from this madness.
But the bigger part of him wanted something different. A different end. Different commander. Different… something.
"Timothy!" Person greets him, leaning against the door of the humvee where Tim is sitting and checking his gun for the twentieth time.
"Joshua," he answers without looking up. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"
Person shrugs.
"Don't be like that, Doc," he says, grinning. "I just wanted to salute you. Heard about the dramatic scene with our beloved company commander."
Of course he did. The Marines gossip worse than his mother and her sisters and that is something.
"No drama," he says, looking up at Person and shrugging. "We've got lucky and there was no fire mission. End of story."
"We've got lucky for once, true. That's great. Wonderful. Good for us. Go us. Go Bravo Two. But I've also heard that you got personal with the one and only Encino Man." He leans closer and makes a bad impression of conspiratorial whispering that's probably in the hearing range of everyone in the platoon. "Tell me all about it, Tim. Don't hold back on me."
"Person, do me a favor and shut up, okay?" he says seriously. He feels edgy. The adrenaline from the scene with Encino Man has left him, leaving behind weariness and a headache.
"Yes, sir," Person says, mock-saluting, and walks away.
Tim stands up and turns in the direction of the command vehicle, but he can't see the LT anywhere. Gunny is talking with Poke and Lilley and at the back of the humvee there are two pairs of legs sticking out. From the lack of the constant noise, he supposes the inseparable duo is most likely unconscious. They are on the fifty percent watch, so the lieutenant must be awake. But he could be anywhere and Tim will prolong the inevitable for as long as he can.
He checks his gun again.
*
Fick doesn't NJP him.
"But you have to watch yourself, Tim," he says, when they stand next to the supply truck, half-hidden from the others. "You can't say things like that or there will be consequences."
"I know," he nods. "I'm sorry, sir," he adds, and it's true. Maybe not for the reasons he should be, but it doesn't really matter. There are still quite a few reasons worth being sorry.
But then the kid with their fucking bullets in his stomach shows up and Tim forgets about everything else. He hates it, he hates this whole fucking thing and he wants to punch someone, anyone.
He doesn't, though. The kid gets med-evaced and there are Person's allergies, Baptista's stomach rebellion and Pappy's insomnia to deal with.
They roll further inside the madness and Tim sometimes finds himself not caring anymore.
*
Baghdad is, not at all surprisingly, a fucking mess. Their stay in the city feels like a prolonged ending to a bad movie. Tim thought it was over before, but now they still have to play the part, conquering heroes, mighty saviors, infidels, murderers, enemies, whatever works at any given point. One thing they always are: rich Americans with clean water, food and good drugs.
He puts the bandage around another boy's foot and he wants to scream. A couple hundred meters from them a bomb goes off and the boy does it for him, kicking him in the process. His mother standing behind him starts to say something, apologize maybe, but he nods and waves her off. He doesn't apologize to her for destroying her homeland, after all.
*
The grass is so green it looks painted. But Tim is so sick of yellows and greys of this world that he would fucking paint the ground himself. He would do graffiti on the sand, a huge fucking painting of solid green.
It is entirely possible he is a little drunk. Sun and alcohol don't mix well.
They got the news that they're leaving tomorrow and the whole platoon is gathered around the campfire now, telling stories of the first thing they're going to do back home. They are filthy and hungry, beyond tired, but no one leaves the circle.
Tim looks up at the sky and thinks he may even miss these stars.
*
A few months later, they ask him if he wants to stay in Recon. He spends half an hour staring at the papers and thinks about the fact that maybe he should have chosen SEALs, but didn't.
He signs his name on the dotted line. He's not done yet.