Generation Kill | Brad/Nate | R
"Yo, homes, who the fuck's the Haji getting all up on the LT's face?"
At Ray's incredulous tone, Brad's eyes snap open, his gaze searching and soon landing on the familiar sight of Nate's cammie-clad figure. The large hangar is filled with grunts from several different units, most of Bravo Two is grouped together in preparation for the morning's patrol. On the other side of the cavernous space, standing opposite Nate, entirely too close to his LT and acting in a sort of aggressive manner that really isn't a smart idea in a place filled with trigger-happy Marines, is an Iraqi with a flushed face and a rumpled suit, gesticulating angrily while words spew forth from his mouth.
Brad is on his feet and moving towards the pair before consciously deciding to do so, his M4 settling into a familiar weight across his chest. Rationally, he knows there's no way anyone who could be considered any kind of threat could have managed to gain access to the power plant, but there are certain instincts that don't care about rationality.
Brad is still a few steps away when he notices the Iraqi has shut up and is staring at Nate with a defiant expression of his face.
"…don't pick a fight with me this morning, I'm too busy," Brad catches the tail end of Nate's response, the tone level but with an undercurrent of warning. Brad feels the side of his mouth wanting to twitch up in a smirk but he schools his face, finally drawing abreast of Nate and fixing the stranger with a chilly, measuring look while directing his words to his LT.
"Problem, sir?"
Nate sighs almost inaudibly and glances at Brad, and Brad swears if Nate wasn't an officer he'd be rolling his eyes just then.
"Stand down, Sergeant," he says instead, and nods at the Iraqi, dismissing him silently yet effectively. The man, now looking equal parts irate and uneasy, backs the fuck off and slinks away, stealing nervous looks at Brad all the way.
"Good work, Brad," Nate continues dryly once the man is out of ear-shot, "you have now effectively managed to terrify our interpreter for the day."
Brad might be worried if Nate's lips weren't threatening to widen into a grin. "Maybe we'll acquire more accurate information this way, less of the 'they are grateful to be liberated' moto bullshit Meesh has been instructed to feed us."
"No, I very much doubt you'll have to worry about hearing those words from Hammed."
"Well, then," Brad grins, "we might even get something useful done today."
+
By mid-morning, it's starting to seem Brad might as well resign himself to the fact that he'll spend the day worrying about the LT like someone's fucking Yenta grandmother. This is one of the things he definitely hates about the war allegedly being over; while they were rolling across Iraq, at least he saw Nate relatively protected by Kevlar, a flak vest and the steel and aluminum of the Humvee, not to mention Gunny Wynn, but now that they've supposedly shifted into the role of co-operators instead of invaders Nate is expected to show a degree of trust and goodwill by abandoning his M16 and his helmet.
Brad is grinding his teeth in frustration.
Before Nate goes to speak to the mullah, Brad catches Poke's eye; with a minute nod of his head, his ATL acknowledges his silent request and ambles up to stand by their LT, Poke's grasp on his rifle relaxed but ready.
Brad watches them talking to each other while waiting for the mullah's party, and something twists uncomfortably in his chest while Nate laughs at something Poke says.
"Jesus, Brad," Ray comes up beside him, "is this part of the martyr act again? Homes, that makes even the most cold-blooded Marine killer want to tear up, seeing our own Iceman so torn up and sacrificial and shit-"
"Ray, you incestuous, moronic, whiskey tango excuse for a human being" Brad grates out, "if you know what's good for your physical health, you'll shut up right the fuck now."
Ray's expression is capable of saying at least half of what he manages in actual words, which is why Brad doesn't look at him as he turns away and walks off.
It doesn't escape Brad's (nor, he suspects, Ray's) attention that his new position still enables him to maintain a direct line of vision to the LT.
+
Ray won't drop it. That night, he stops by where Brad is feigning sleep, and says, "Why is it so fucking bad?"
Brad would tell him to shut the fuck up again but the darkness of the hour and the lack of Ripped Fuel in Ray's system make the question sound somber in a way Ray rarely is.
Brad is silent for a long moment. "Because he's the LT," he says finally.
Ray keeps standing there, for once not saying anything. Either he gets it or he doesn't. After a while he moves off and Brad's left feeling unbalanced, reeling with excess adrenaline, gearing up for a rant or a debate that never materialized.
As if there's anything to debate about, even for Ray, who can argue that up is down when he feels like it, which is pretty much always. In this case, there are no fucking pros and cons to consider. Even without DADT and the small matter of Nate's own preferences (completely unknown for the tight lid he keeps on any personal admissions at all, let alone the potentially career-destroying ones) the line between grunts and CO's is there for a reason, and it's uncrossable. Offhanded, mutual admissions of trust are about as far as they can get.
+
Returning at EENT, they've been on edge for 36 hours straight. Such a short fucking time to try and make a difference in the shitty situation outside. After the numerous fuck-ups, the occasional sheer stupidity and meaninglessness of what they've been doing, getting rid of unexploded ordnance in one place and treating a badly injured Iraqi girl in another doesn't seem to cut it.
Letting go of the tension is hard, happens slow and incrementally. Brad feels tired and too energized at the same time.
He looks around the room where they're waiting for the debrief to start, the direction of his stare aimless until it stops on someone across the room. Nate has an unopened Coke in his hand, and he lifts it to briefly press it against the back of his neck, green eyes closing in pleasure even though the piece of shit fridge that stands whirring loudly in the corner probably keeps the cans only marginally cool.
Brad feels overheated as well, throat parched and tight, making him swallow heavily. Suddenly he sees himself next to Nate, stepping flush against him, stomach pressed tightly against Nate's arm, trapping it; removing the can from Nate's hand and bending down, letting his lips come rest on the cool patch left on sweaty skin.
He sees, very vividly, Nate tipping his head forward, maybe letting out a near-silent groan. Brad would let slip the stupid can from his fingers, and grasp Nate's jaw, let his thumb brush the clean, strong line of it.
His body's reaction to the images in his head makes him suddenly snap back to alertness. The others are talking sporadically, winding down, with low voices and wan grins. Nate is drinking from the can, his head tipped back, and Brad closes his eyes against the sight.
+
"And you failed to search the warehouses?"
Nate's eyes flash and his mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, only for a fraction of a second before he replies, "That's correct, sir. We ran out of time."
"I see."
Brad would like to make Encino Man see; would very much like to make him realize exactly how much his men don't respect him, how Nate has all their loyalty.
Not that their LT would let them do that, do anything for him; obsessed with fighting his own battles, and most of theirs, too. Brad's heard several different versions of the icy dressing-down Casey Kasem got for his goatfuck of a stunt, how livid Nate was, every story embellishing Nate's words more and more so that, in the end, the tamest variation had Nate pretty much threatening to cut the idiot with his own Ka-Bar if he pulled any shit again.
The debrief crawls by, and Encino Man holds Nate back even after dismissing the TL's. Brad can guess it's about the order Nate refused, and exchanges an apprehensive look with Wynn.
When Brad finds Nate later, his stance is yet tenser, the light in the green eyes that much more muted.
"I don't want to think treating Suhar was a mistake, Brad," Nate says, rare fragility in his tone. Brad doesn't have a response to give; he's said he trusts Nate's judgment, and he still does. Unequivocally. The only other comfort he could give is prickling on his palms, making the tips of his fingers turn numb from restraint.
+
Soon they hear their mission is over. The last few weeks are an exercise in futility, doing nothing, waiting around for a nonexistent last-minute Recon job to fall into their laps; Encino Man's bright idea for PT is taken unreceptively, to say the least; the story of their miniature form of mutiny spreads over Camp Paige. They feel smug for a while until the news trickle down that the captain was about to relieve Mike on completely fucking made-up bullshit, and Nate talked him out of it. They decide to tone it down afterwards.
Waiting, until there's nothing to wait for anymore, no mission for them; they're flown home, where the only thing Brad's missed is his bike. He thinks that this is how it will be now; he's managed to find something he wasn't even looking for and so he'll take from it whatever warmth it gives him, and the rest of the time keep a tight lid on himself.
Then, of course, Nate decides to leave the Corps.
+
"Thought you'd be happy, man."
Ray finds him outside, on Mike's patio, where Brad's having quality time with a beer or ten, pretending he doesn't crave a smoke.
"Happy that we're losing one of the few good ones?"
"You know what I mean, Brad."
Brad knows he's supposed to lay off the bitching and be serious when Ray Person is calling him by his given name. He just doesn't have a fucking thing to say. Yeah, his excuse is gone. At least the main one.
"We'll probably be back in Iraq in a couple of months-"
"That's fucking weak, man," Ray stops him before he gets any further. Fucking nosy, interfering midget.
"Mind your own business, Person."
Ray stomps back inside, huffing and complaining under his breath. He's done just what he meant to, though. Brad knows Ray knows that. Probably Ray knows that Brad knows-well, anyway.
He's called Brad on his bullshit. He's as much as said, are you going to be a fucking pussy or are you going to do something about it?
+
They're just heading down to the beach for training when Brad feels a prickle in the back of his head that he can't quite place in a non-war zone. Then he sees the car, and Morel slowing down next to it when Nate gets out. They only talk for a minute, but he sees Nate shaking his head.
When Morel gets moving again, Nate's gaze sweeps over the last of the platoon jogging out. He notices Brad and gives a smile and a nod. Not the strained smile that Nate used in theater to reassure them all of orders he didn't believe in; not the amused smile Nate tended to give Christeson and Stafford and their rapping and retarded antics; not even the wide, seemingly genuine one Brad got once or twice, late at night, on those nights of 25 per cent watch when they were able to talk for a while without having to keep it strictly related to LSA and batteries.
This smile is clearly, painfully of the bittersweet variety, and it makes the realization hit Brad in the gut like a baseball bat, the realization that Nate will really be a civilian in a few days. Nate will be a 26-year-old probably-student unconcerned with DADT or officer protocol; and he'll still be the most compelling individual Brad's ever met.
When he calls the next day, Nate sounds pleasantly surprised. The invitation to go out for drinks is accepted seemingly without hesitation. For once, maybe for the first time ever, Brad'll be taking a personal gamble, because in not taking it he'll already have lost.
Jesus Christ, Nate Fick has turned him into a fucking poetry-filled grade-A homosexual cliché. And Brad can't even make himself mind.
+
It shouldn't surprise him, but it does, how easy it it between them. How easily they fall into conversation. Except maybe it is a surprise, maybe it isn't a given, because this is a world away from Iraq; a world away from Camp Pendleton even, when you think about it.
But the rhythm into which they fall, that's the same.
"So, what's up, Brad?" Nate breaks the rhythm sooner than Brad knew to expect, although he feels familiarly caught by Nate's direct, questioning stare. They've had a couple of beers and talked seemingly without agenda, but Brad can guess how well Nate is able to read the anticipation in him when he isn't actively trying to tamp it down and hide it.
"I think you know. Nate," he says, laying weight on the name, on the act of saying it, and lets his voice roughen with intent.
Nate's eyes flash with heat. It's all the confirmation Brad needs right now, to know he didn't imagine the tension in their interactions throughout the tour, or, fuck, since day one, since meeting his LT and shaking his hand and from then on trying to navigate between giving this CO everything he had and trying not to think of his mouth while jacking off.
"You want to move this elsewhere?"
Brad's answer to Nate's low question is a sharp, wolfish grin.
+
They barely get through the door before they're on each other.
Brad crowds close to Nate, backing him into a wall with three frantic steps. Nate's back hits it and his mouth opens in a grunt, but Brad's lips are there to smother the sound.
Nate tastes like victory and release, his tongue touches the tip of Brad's, making a hot flush run up the length of his legs, ass and back. Brad grabs Nate's knee and hooks it up over his hip, pressing even closer, his hard-on nestling against Nate's and making him gasp.
Nate is saying something against his lips and Brad tries to zero in on the sound past the rush of blood in his ears. It's his name, low and rough, repeated breathlessly before Nate catches his mouth again.
Brad wants to fuck Nate against the wall, wants to pin his naked body between himself and the tapestry, wants to feel Nate's legs tightening around his waist, his fingers spasming and slipsliding on Brad's back. Brad sees it all even as he feels Nate still clothed in his arms, and his muscles are already trembling from the frenzied excitement and the fucking pathetic joy and will never be up to the task of holding up their combined weight this first time.
"Upstairs, Brad," Nate pants.
"No," Brad says, and lets his knees buckle, catching Nate in his lap as they slide down the wall and then laying him on his back on the floor. "No, too far."
They both grab the hem of Nate's shirt, needing skin on skin, all over, now, except Brad can't help himself and grabs Nate's forearms when the shirt is up over his head and twisted around his wrists. This is another thing he wants, later; Nate restrained, held down with smooth leather, not too tight but with no give in it. For now Brad makes do like any good Marine, his grip holding Nate's arms tight against the floor while he stretches over Nate, lips almost resting on lips, sharing the same bit of hot air, his tags slipping out from under his neckline to swing and brush against Nate's collarbone.
Nate gives a ragged moan and arches up, and Brad thinks he will lose his fucking mind if they are not both naked in the next ten seconds.
He tears Nate's shirt away the rest of the way and pulls off his own. Nate is taking admirable initiative, unbuckling his belt, and Brad freezes at the erotic picture of Nate's long fingers against the straining front of his jeans.
"Undress now, Sergeant, or I will finish this without you," Nate's voice is rough, hungry, the green of his eyes dark and gleaming.
"Yes, sir," Brad says, and doesn't think he's ever agreed with an order more whole-heartedly.
Nate pauses, though, and Brad can almost see his mind working, replaying the exchange. Before he can get to the second-guessing of himself, Brad takes his hands, abandoning their mutual struggle to get rid of their jeans, and bends down, speaking against Nate's mouth.
"Nate," he says, and catches Nate's lower lip between his teeth, "Nate," he repeats, licking the side of Nate's mouth, mouthing his jaw, his neck, "Nate, Nate," and finally, finally Nate gets back on with the program, angling his head to get Brad back on his lips and kissing him deep, wet.
Together they tug Nate's jeans and boxers down over his hips, Brad drawing back to slide them off Nate's long legs. Brad does the same with his own pair, throwing them over his shoulder. Nate's eyes are locked on to the wet patch on his briefs, and he comes forward, getting on his knees and starting to inch the last article of clothing between them down. Brad groans, his hands flying up to grab Nate's shoulders as Nate undresses him and then, then Nate's hand is on him, stroking firmly, and Brad rocks forward, ass and thighs clenching, desperate.
"We're going to need something more than spit to get this in me," Nate says, grinning wickedly, lips trembling the tiniest bit, and that's almost it for Brad.
Growling, he bowls Nate over, getting him flat on his back again. He belongs in that position, fucking undeniably, right there under Brad, both of them hard and leaking and making a mess of the clothes strewn around.
"Next time," he promises, cupping the back of Nate's head as he settles over him again, bracing himself on his elbow while taking both of them in his other hand. His elbow and his knees will be bruised but he doesn't fucking care when he's finally got Nate's legs wrapped around him, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, their cocks bumping together and burning in his hand.
Nate's cock is satiny-soft, and tracing the veins with a stray finger makes Nate gasp and buck up, and Brad has to take his mouth and suck on his tongue to ground him, and it's exactly like he couldn't have even imagined, Nate so free and delicious and responsive against him.
When Nate comes, his body jerks and tenses and he clutches Brad to him, triggering Brad's own release mostly with the sound he makes, needy and perfect and completely out of control. The pulsing seems to go on forever, Brad still fisting them together, every stroke lazier in the hot, spreading wetness between their stomachs.
Finally Nate goes limp, arms and legs falling from around Brad. Brad releases his hold on their dicks, fingers skating down the damp side before letting go, and Nate twitches and shivers, almost too sensitive. Brad should withdraw, get his breath back, assess the situation. Instead, he noses Nate's jaw one more time, drags his tongue along the underside of it. Nate shivers again. Brad kisses him and rolls off to the side.
Nate breaths deep; clears his throat. "Next time, you say?" He sounds like it would be a good thing, but not a foregone conclusion. Brad has to wonder about his previous opinion of Nate's high intellect if he actually thinks Brad would give this up after having it once.
"Yes. Next time." He draws himself up on a sore elbow, looking down at Nate. He's gorgeous. Relaxed, flushed, stained with sweat and come. And he meets Brad's eyes steadily.
The promise lies heavy and heady in the air between them.