FIC: Ergo Sum (2/2) - Generation Kill

Apr 28, 2009 21:25

TITLE: Ergo Sum (2/2)
AUTHOR: Laura Smith
PAIRING: Colbert/Fick
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: A man without a mission
DISCLAIMER: Generation Kill and all the characters therein belong to people who are not me. I make no profit from this, I just like playing with them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks toinlovewithnight, as always. Previously known as "Brad goes to Boston".

Part One


Nate’s sitting on the edge of the couch again when Brad opens his eyes, but he actually looks refreshed, so Brad has to assume he got some sleep. He’s also freshly showered and dressed in worn jeans and a brown sweater that makes his eyes flash like fire. Brad sniffs and blinks and straightens, rubbing the back of his skull with his hand. “Morning.”

“You want coffee?”

“Is that really a question?” Brad arches his back, his hands braced on his hips until he feels the pressure build and break. He stands up and stretches, fingertips brushing Nate’s ceiling. “I should buy you breakfast.”

“I have food.”

“Yeah,” Brad follows Nate into the kitchen and snags one of the stools, curving his foot around the legs. “I’m sure you do. But, when I’m not starving on one MRE a day, I eat a lot.”

“I think I can handle your appetites, Colbert.” He sets a cup of coffee in front of Brad and leans back against the counter, picking up his own cup and sipping from it. “Unfortunately, I have to admit I already had a bowl of Wheaties.”

“Wheaties, huh?”

Nate nods toward the top of the refrigerator where the orange box is sitting, Andre Agassi on the cover. “Help yourself.”

“Yeah.” Brad drinks more of the coffee, the slightly bitter taste a sharp reminder that Nate hasn’t left all of the Marines behind. “You still make shit coffee, sir.”

“Yeah, well, I have to wake up somehow.” Nate drains his and rinses out his cup. “I can skip class.”

“No you can’t.” Brad doesn’t look at Nate, reaching across the counter to snag the morning paper. He ignores the news and flips to the technology section. “You have to go and get educated so you can get us out of this fucked up Jihad nightmare.”

“Somehow I doubt I’m going to be the one ending the war, Brad.”

“I don’t.” He skims the paper, making a ‘huh’ noise. “There an electronics shop around here?”

“Yeah. I’ll leave you directions.” Nate grabs a pad off the counter, sketching out a quick map. Brad watches with a wry grin, trying to get rid of it as Nate looks up suddenly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re grinning.”

“I’m not.” Brad presses his lips together, finding it harder and harder not to laugh given Nate’s annoyed gaze. “Okay, I am. It’s just…kittens, sir?”

“Kittens?”

Brad grabs the notepad and turns it around so he can look at it better, the precise map and directions spoiled by the big-eyed kittens on the top of the paper. “Kittens.”

“It’s…” Nate smiles. “It’s Dani’s. Sorry.” He rips the map off just below the kittens and hands it to Brad. “Try to remember you have to haul everything you buy back to England with you, okay? I’d hate to come home and find that you’ve bought out the entire store and I’m going to be stuck with the shipping bill.”

“Don’t worry. Nowadays all my technological needs are met with very small gadgets.” He sets the map on the paper. “You mind if I shower?”

“Make yourself at home. I’ll meet you at one for lunch if you want? There’s a good Greek place not too far from here.”

“I won’t be…” Brad stops, unsure how to continue his sentence tactfully, which surprises him that he even cares.

“No. You won’t be.” Nate opens one of the drawers and digs out a ring of keys, tossing it to Brad. “No pets. No parties and, if you have to bring a girl back to have sex with her, change the sheets.”

“I…”

“That last part was a joke,” Nate assures him before Brad can get anything more out.

“I don’t have to change the sheets?” Brad swallows at the look Nate gives him, feeling the far too familiar heat rising up again.

“No.” Nate smiles and shakes his head, all innocence. “Don’t find a girl.”

**

Brad levers himself off the stool as Nate heads out to classes, padding barefoot down the hall to the bathroom. The room smells like Nate’s aftershave or whatever it is that seems to cling to Brad’s shirt from the couch. He takes a deep breath then tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, turning on the faucet and dunking his head beneath the stream of water. He rubs his hands through his hair then looks at himself in the mirror, blue eyes too bright in the fluorescent light. Still rubbing his hand through his hair, he heads back out to the living room, water dripping down his bare chest. He bends over to get his kit out of his bag, straightening at the soft sound of movement.

“Nate, your ass is supposed to be in class, not here.” He straightens and looks to the left, eyes skirting up Dani’s long legs. She’s wearing jeans that hug her slim curves and a t-shirt that has to be Nate’s from the way it fits her, and a leather jacket he knows belongs to Nate. “Oh. Hey. Nate’s not here.” He curses himself silently. Chances are she knows her boyfriend isn’t home. Chances are she’s there to see him. “But you knew that.”

“No. I thought he might have cut classes to spend time with you.” She shrugs and looks toward the bedroom then at the throw blanket still askew on the couch from where Brad had thrown it back earlier to follow Nate. “How long are you staying?”

“I fly out on Monday.” He can feel the water trailing down his spine, pooling in the small of his back before sliding past the waistband of his jeans. “I’m heading out soon, trying to find a place to stay.”

“You can stay here.” She shakes her head. “If you don’t, Nate will get upset and brood.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she looks Brad over, her eyes appraising. He gets the feeling that she disapproves of him on more levels than just what part he played in Nate’s life, especially as her eyes graze over the hint of color at his hips, the edges of his tattoo fading like sunrise at the curve of his skin. “He’s got enough to deal with without that.” She grabs the blanket he’d used and starts folding it, keeping her hands busy. Her full concentration is on the fold and smooth motions. “Why are you here?”

“Just stopped to see Nate before I ship out again.”

Her mouth purses. “That war.”

“Yeah, well, not talking about it and not thinking about it doesn’t make it go away.” Brad rakes his hand through his short hair again then shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, the other curling tightly in the canvas of his kit bag. “Don’t worry, though. I’m not trying to drag him back with me.”

“You probably don’t even know what you’re fighting for, what this is all about.” She shakes her head, liberal rage flushing her skin pink. “I know how you people are.”

“You people?” He raises an eyebrow and straightens a little more. She grabs the pillow off the couch angrily and beats it between her hands, avoiding his gaze. “Which people is that? Marines? Republicans? Americans? Men? Was there a particular label you wanted to paint me with?” His voice is as cool as he can make it without slipping into the leveled, reasoned diatribes of the Iceman, throwing all her freedoms back in her face. This is why the real world seems wrong to him, where the rule of hate the sin and love the sinner falls apart because Brad’s got a gun in his hand and every bullet that kills a civilian had to come from him - his gun, his endorsement because he carries the same weapon. “And which of those groups, those people do you think Nate doesn’t belong to? Do you think that because he doesn’t wear the uniform any more that he’s not that man anymore? Do you think that when he put down his gun, he was absolved of all the crimes you’re standing here laying at my feet?”

Brad shakes his head and drops his kit into his bag, tugging a clean shirt out and pulling it on. It’s easy to snag the duffel and his jacket and dismiss her with a look on his way out the door.

“If you can find it in your liberal heart to do me a favor, tell Nate I’ll give him a call.”

**

He doesn’t go to the Greek place for lunch, and he finds different electronic store, just in case Nate thinks to look there. It’s easy for a Recon Marine to find someone, harder when the person he’s looking for is also a Recon Marine, and one who doesn’t want to be found.

He knows the electronics will give him away. Nate knows him well enough to know he’ll only go to the good places, the high end ones that give him what he pays for instead of whatever mega-monolithic chain store has the best sales this week. Hotels nearby are scarce enough, and he imagines he makes a good enough impression that if Nate wants to find him, he will. Even so, there’s no sound outside his door and no knock as it gets later, and so he channels his anger and frustration into his soldering gun and tools, focusing hard enough that a headache builds behind his eyes long before midnight.

He keeps working, not caring that his eyes are tired and parts of him he doesn’t want to catalogue hurt. This was what he expected, and he should have known better than to let his hopes lift simply because he wanted to believe things were actually going his way for once. He hasn’t eaten in hours and hunger is starting to gnaw at his stomach, growling loud enough to drown out whatever inane paid programming is yammering on his TV. He ignores it, because that’s what he’s trained to do, but his stomach reminds him that he’s not in the middle of the fucking desert, so maybe he could buy a fucking hamburger or something. He sighs and rolls his neck, listening to the joints crack and snap, feeling the muscles burn as he pulls and stretches them. Boosting himself off the floor, he grabs his jacket and opens the door, stopping at the sight of Nate, leaning against the opposite wall.

“Hey.”

“I’ve been standing here for an hour.”

“You could have knocked. I haven’t taken the Marines’ mind-reading course yet.” His mouth twitches and he wants to smile, but Nate has that look and, denials to the contrary, Brad does know how to read Nate’s mind. “I couldn’t stay.”

“Yes. You could.” Nate doesn’t move, his posture defensive enough that Brad feels defensive as well, like he’s done something wrong. “But I get why you didn’t.”

“Did she tell you I’d call?”

“She did. I figured that meant that maybe I’d hear from you after your next tour of Iraq was through. Or maybe the tour after that. Or maybe you’d call Ray who’d call Poke who’d call Mike Wynn who’d call me and tell me that you’d settled down about six years back and now had four kids and a pet turtle.”

“A turtle, sir?”

“Do I have to stand in the hallway all night?”

“Technically it’s morning.”

“Brad.”

He watches Nate’s face flush as he closes his eyes, temper boiling just below the surface. “Yeah. Sorry.” He steps back and tosses his jacket back over the chair, shutting the door behind Nate once he’s inside. “You hungry? I can order a pizza.”

“No, I ate…” Nate glances at his watch and frowns. “Okay, I ate about eight hours ago. Yeah. Food would be good.”

Brad leaves Nate to walk around the room while Brad calls the number on the card by the phone. Pizza seems safer, not quite a real meal, comforting without obligation. He doesn’t really know what Nate likes or how, given that most of the meals they’ve had together were either slopped onto trays or squeezed out of silver foil packets, but he sticks with scrambled eggs and calls it good. Nate’s looking down at the project Brad’s working on and frowning, his hands in his jacket pockets and his shoulders hunched. “You left.”

Brad straddles the arm of the chair, his long legs on either side for balance. He’s not sure if it’s a question really, if Nate expects an answer.

“I told you there was always a place for you, and you left.”

Brad looks down at his feet, his toes long and thin and sickly pale from too many days in boots. No matter how much time he spends barefoot or in the sun or on his board, they stay the same color. “I’m here for five days, Nate. The rest of your life, that’s going to go on without me. I don’t have the right to fuck up whatever it is you have going on.”

“You…” Nate shakes his head and paces the small room, refusing to look at Brad. “You are so fucking stubborn, so fucking sure you’re right. Maybe I want you to fuck up my life, Brad, did you ever think about that?”

“I know you’re trying to be supportive here, sir, but ‘fuck up my life’ isn’t exactly the terminology I’d use.” He watches Nate move, barely concealed frustration darkening his green eyes when he flicks them in Brad’s direction. “What good does it do to fuck up your life for a week, Nate? You’re going to have to deal with all of this when I’m gone. Your life is this now. School and politics and economics and girlfriends and showering every day and smelling like cologne and eating real meals and…and not fucking MREs and sleeping in graves and wearing the same stinking, sweat-crusted camouflage and bullshit leaders telling you to risk your life for a fucking diversionary tactic. This is what I’m talking about, Nate.”

“So you just let some girl run you off?”

“Not some girl, Nate, your girlfriend. Your…How can you be so fucking clueless?” Brad grabs Nate’s wrist. “You’re fucking Ivy League, Nate. Stop playing stupid.”

Nate looks down at Brad’s hand on his wrist and then up Brad’s arm until he’s looking Brad in the eye. “I left the Corps. I didn’t leave you.”

“I am the fucking Corps, Nate.”

“You went to England!”

“What reason was there to stay?”

“You’re going back.”

Brad shifts his grip on Nate’s wrist, his thumb stroking against the pounding pulse. “It’s my job, Nate. It’s who I am.” Millions of dollars of training keep them silent, no sound from either of them, even though he can see the rapid rise and fall of Nate’s chest. They stay motionless for a long time, staring at each other. Nate opens his mouth to speak and Brad jerks him forward, both of them tumbling back onto the chair. Nate sprawls against Brad, half on and half off the chair, and Brad can hear him breathing now, can feel Nate’s chest moving in rhythm with his.

Nate’s hand presses against the chair beside Brad’s head and braces himself, lifting off Brad slightly. They remain like that, neither moving, neither speaking, until Nate huffs a frustrated breath. “You’re more than just that.”

“Not as long as I’m enlisted.” Brad’s hands settle on Nate’s hips, fisted in his shirt to keep them still. “You’ve moved on, Nate, and I’m going back. Nothing changes that.”

“Why did you come to Boston then? To make sure? To…torment me?” Nate’s hand fists against the chair, his nails scratching at the fabric. “You came here to see me, Brad. Why?”

Brad slides his hands up Nate’s back and pulls him down, closing the distance between them, his mouth hungry for Nate, his tongue sliding past his parted lips. Nate groans in response and he settles against Brad, his hand sliding from the chair to Brad’s jaw, tracing it with his thumb. Brad’s hips angle upward, meeting the steady downward roll of Nate’s. He slides his hands down to catch Nate’s shirt and pushes it up, his palms sliding on Nate’s skin. It’s warm and smooth beneath his hands, and Brad can feel every hitch of Nate’s breath. He splays one hand at the small of Nate’s back as the other slides up his spine.

Nate pulls back enough to breathe, his lips swollen and damp from their kiss. Brad licks his own lips as he looks up at him, his breath caught in his chest. “Brad?”

“Am I out of line, sir?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “In your eyes, that is. Not in the eyes of the Corps or…am I out of line, Nate?”

Nate shakes his head, his thumb moving from Brad’s chin back to the slope of his jaw leading to his ear and then back. “I’ve been waiting for this. For you.” He leans in and kisses Brad slowly, exploring his mouth. His tongue tastes the faint trace of mint from Brad’s toothpaste, the rough hint of coffee. “Last night, I wanted…”

Brad kisses him again before wrapping his arm around Nate’s waist and straightening, hefting him as he stands. “You’ve gained weight, sir.”

“I don’t recall you manhandling me back in Iraq. How would you know?”

“Because, sir.” Brad carries him the short distance to the bed, dropping Nate down on the mattress. “I paid very close attention.”

Nate looks up at him, more in his eyes than Brad thinks he can handle. There’s too much emotion, too much possession, too much pride. “I’ll kick your ass if you get killed over there.”

“If I get killed over there, sir, you have my permission.” He kneels on the edge of the bed and braces himself over Nate on the mattress. “What about Dani?”

“Dani and I had a parting of the ways. I got tired of her insulting my friends. Insulting me. Tired of her looking at me and only seeing the things she wanted to see and pretending the rest didn’t exist.”

“I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”

Nate reaches up, his fingers smoothing along Brad’s jaw. “That’s because you’re very smart, Sergeant. Almost smart enough to be an officer.”

Brad kisses him softly, almost carefully, his voice teasing over Nate's lips. “You know, there’s no reason to be insulting.”

generation kill, fic - 04/09

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