Title: Free Falling Through the Nighttime Sky |
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Prolog—Do ya feel lucky? The ground vibrates like an earthquake as the shamal twists overhead. Nate digs deeper into his Ranger Grave. The sand storm has blocked out the coming dawn and the only sound he can hear is the occasional mortar round dropping close by. It's like he's on the edge of a precipice; his whole body vibrating because of nerves, adrenaline and boredom. His men are within a hundred foot perimeter, but the sand stifles all noise so that his breath echoes loudly in his ears. Seems like he's the only person left on earth. An enemy mortar drops a little closer, and finally, he can hear someone, Person he thinks, shouting into the night. "Is that the best you can do?" Laughter rises up from the sand. The storm is too strong for the enemy to have spotters out. Whether they live or die right now, it's all up to luck. Nate opens a package of coffee crystals and sucks them back, chasing them quickly with a swig of foul smelling water. All that runs through his mind, over and over again, is a quote from Dirty Harry. 'You've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?'
Nate had always assumed that the desert would have an abundance of stars visible at night, but though the shamal and rain have passed, he can hardly see any at all. It occurs to him that they're probably here—he just can't tell at the moment because the artillery is blowing the shit out of Al Gharraf a few kilometers south of their position. He takes a deep breath and tries to relax. The ground is hard on his back, but in the past, stargazing has always given him a sense of peace. He has to admit that in this case, a good dousing of artillery is probably more conducive for his peace of mind. Something draws his gaze to the right. Silhouetted by the orange puffs of light behind him, Nate can tell its Brad coming up the berm. Not just by shape, but the pacing of his footsteps, the tilt of the head and the utter silence as he walks towards him. Surprisingly, Nate's temporary calm dissolves like sand through his hands. Brad hunkers on down next to him in the sand. "Lovely evening, sir." Nate tries not to smile. Being in Brad's company always gives him a mixture of nervousness and relief. "We're alive so I suppose it is." "True enough. I see, sir, that you're still on comms." The receiver clipped to his webbing squawks in his ear. The volume's on low, but the near-constant chatter has actually been soothing. Dave's been seeing ghosts in the wind and his hysteria has been assuring Nate that there's actually nothing to worry about. Not that he can tell Brad that. "I think it's important for me to be contactable, don't you?" "I do, sir. In fact, I've been trying to contact you for some time, but apparently you've been ignoring me." The wind picks up and Nate huddles a little closer into the sand. The truth is he couldn't ignore Brad even if he wanted to. He shakes his head. "No, not really. Just after everything we've been through today, I didn't want to talk about the Grooming Standard. I figured you'd understand." Brad turns a little and Nate can see his face for the first time. There's a wry smile on his lips. "Sir, that's precisely why I wanted to talk about it. We drove though two kilometers of some serious shit today and we only had one working Mark-19. RCT-1 didn't want to go into that town because of all that shit, but we drove through it in open Humvees? For what?" "I can't answer that—" Nate starts, but Brad interrupts with a wave of his hand. "I know. I know. We're all doing what we're told. But my point is, don't we have better things to worry about than mustaches? Everyone's so hopped up on Ripped Fuel and adrenaline that when they try and shave, they cut their neck to pieces." If Brad weren't telling the truth, Nate would probably laugh. Instead, he sighs and leans up on his elbows. Unfortunately, mustaches aren't the only stupid thing they have to deal with, and the others are much more life-threatening. The reason Nate is here and not at the command tent tonight is because Craig was going over the mission orders with his map. When Nate left, Craig had already spent twenty minutes looking at the wrong map, trying to find their objective. For the first time since coming here, Nate thought about his career before opening his mouth and decided it would be best if he just went for a walk instead. Another thing he can't tell Brad about. Besides, someone's bound to point the CO in the right direction before they step off in the morning, right? They sit in silence for a minute, but as near as Nate can tell, Brad doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave. It's strange to realize, but it feels nice not to be sitting alone. He lets the quiet moment linger until his guilt builds up to an uncomfortable level. He shouldn't be enjoying Brad's company as much as he is. "Anything I can actually help you with?" Brad smiles and hands something toward him and Nate realizes he's been holding it since he got there. The wind teases his nose with the warm, amazing smell of coffee. Nate forgets his guilt and sits up. "For me?" "Rudy made it, and I'm currently in my happy place. Not too high, not too low. Wouldn't want to mess with the balance and there's no reason for a perfectly good brew of Costa Rican beans to go to waste." The sudden ache for real coffee is almost unbearable. Nate grimaces. "You should give that to one of your men." Brad rolls his eyes and pushes the cup towards him, again. "Those louts are fine now. Besides, Rudy would be hurt if I tell him you turned it down. So you'd better take it. For his sake, you know." Nate smiles and gives in. Bringing the mug to his lips, the freshly brewed coffee tastes nothing like the powered shit they've been living off of for the last two weeks. He closes his eyes and tries to taste every single nuance he can while holding the mug tight so Brad can't see his hands shake. They've been shaking off and on since Al Gharraf and it's yet another thing he should keep from Brad. Nate doesn't have much here in the desert, but he can still cling to the feeble ideal of what an officer should be. "So what are you doing up here, sir?" Brad asks after half of the mug is gone. Nate can't explain it, but he feels downright giddy. A silly grin breaks out on his face as he basks in Brad's company. "Besides ignoring you?" "Besides that, yes." He shrugs. "Just trying to relax." Brad lies down next to where Nate was lying moments ago, looks up at the sky and then over to the burning city. Nate's radio receiver squawks loudly again as Dave thinks he sees enemy coming up the road. Activity picks up in camp as Dave proceeds to order his platoon to the ready. Unfortunately, they don't need the radio to hear Dave's hysteria but it does lend a stereo sort of effect. "This doesn't seem very relaxing," Brad says after Kocher's team finally gets up and moves slowly to the road. The complaints from the men rise up in harmony to the artillery blasts still falling. Nate knows he should do something. Either support his fellow officer and order his men to join in, or pull Dave aside and calm him the fuck down. The problem is he no longer knows which option a 'good' officer would take. Communication over the radio from the sentries up the road indicate no enemy force is moving toward them but Dave's already got everything in motion. Beside him, Brad sighs but doesn't get up either. "This is as relaxing as it gets, I'm afraid," Nate says as they watch Bravo-three set up position a hundred meters from the camp. "So you picked this place for its ambiance then," Brad says, turning his head to face him when the movement settles down. Bravo-three is watching the road, and yet the rest of the battalion is going about their regular business. It seems no one else is willing to stop or humor Dave, either. Nate carries on the conversation. "Where else can you be cold, tired and miserable?" Brad nods. "Fine piece of real-estate you've got then. And for the added bonus, it's lonely up here, too." Glancing over, Nate catches Brad watching him a little closer than usual. Even in the dim light, he can see Brad's eyes glinting. For once, the thought excites more than scares him. Usually he's uncomfortable with Brad's scrutiny—worried he'll come up short or be found guilty as another officer liability in the field. But this time, there's something warmer in his eyes—almost like they're just two friends, chatting. It makes Nate more honest than he normally is. Nate looks over at the HQ tent that's been set up not too far from their position and then glances over at Dave who's waving at what is likely a herd of sheep along the side of the road. "To be honest, it's lonely down there as well."
March 27—Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools because they have to say something. "All Hitman victors, we are two klicks from objective. We're stopping here." Nate's sighs as Wynn slows down the truck and makes a guess at what the rest of Hitman's orders would be so he can pass them down to his men. He takes the most logical approach and gives Hitman the benefit of the doubt. "Hitman-two-one, this is Hitman-two. Maneuver to the north east corner behind the berm, and orient your vehicle thirty degrees." "Roger, two-one," Ray responds. "All Hitman-two victors, align off two-one." For some reason, Victor-three hasn't been responding for the last ten mikes and Nate watches as Reyes has to slam on his breaks so he doesn't pile into victor-two. When the truck pulls to a stop, Nate jumps out to go check on vehicle three. Hitman is on the radio for him, but Nate pulls off his headset. There are a million things running through his mind, not the least of which is noticing how exhausted he is. He's got enough shit to deal with without nursing Craig's ego, but Craig's still pissed about the Danger Close mission from this morning, and has been handing down a mish-mash of orders since. Nate knows he probably just pissed Craig off more by handing down a clarification of his orders so soon after he got off the radio, but his men needed to know what they were supposed to do now that they've reached the edge of the airfield. Wynn takes over the radio for him, quickly sidetracking any further shit from that direction, at least for now. The cold air slaps against his face as he steps out and Brad corners him against his truck. He's not swearing or punching things, but there's a hard set to his eyes telling Nate that he's pissed and now Brad's one more thing Nate has to deal with. It's not something Nate sees often so he takes it seriously when he does. Reprioritizing what he needs to do, he throws his map inside the window, asks Wynn to sort out victor-three's comms and maneuvers Brad toward the front of the vehicle, away from Christeson who's also just gotten out. Something tells him it's best to get Brad away from prying ears. "Sir, you have to do something," Brad starts before they've gone a few feet. Nate pulls him closer into the shadows. "The retardedness is killing me. We just drove forty klicks off road, got lit up by friendlies busting our asses to get here—" "I know, Brad. I was right behind you." Brad's tirade hardly stops and Nate can see that the ninety-six some odd hours of alertness are starting to catch up to him as well. Brad seems a little more brittle than usual. "But when the supply truck got shot up, it took them an hour—an hour, to decide to leave it there. You do realize it would have taken them half that time to change the fucking tire." "I know," Nate says with a sigh. He has a feeling he knows what Brad's going to say next because the same thought was going through his own head just moments ago. "There's no way Alpha has time to make it to the airfield now," Brad says finally stopping to take a breath. As he does, his anger seems to dissipate a little. "I know," Nate repeats. Because there's really nothing he can add. This whole night has been one fuck up after another. At least Brad seems content with the one-sided conversation and leans against the hood of the truck, relaxing his posture with his final sentence that is actually the root of the whole problem for him. "I hate inefficiency of action." "I know," Nate repeats, again, and pats him on the arm. At least being Brad's bitch-buddy doesn't actually require anything from him, which is good. It's been a fucking long day and glancing at his watch, it's not over yet. With a roll of his eyes, Brad stands up straight. "Thanks for the pep talk, sir. Your wisdom and support continue to ground me when all else fails." "Not at all, Brad. I think part of being a good leader is knowing when to shut up," Nate says. Then, looking at his watch again, decides that maybe he does have some wisdom to pass on after all. "It's 0300 hrs. We're on seventy-five percent watch for now. Godfather's assigned Alpha the task of reconning the airfield. Get some sleep while you can." "I'm too tired for sleep; I'll let Person have a go." Nate notices the deep circles under Brad's eyes and remembers hearing Person over the comms. If the quantity of words Ray can spout per minute is indicative of anything, he doubts Ray is in any shape to sleep. "At least try and relax. I need you working at a hundred percent soon. Try counting sheep or something." That seems to snap Brad out of his funk because a corner of his mouth turns up. "Sheep, sir?" Nate runs with it. It's true; he needs Brad firing on all cylinders, but it also feels like he needs to restore the balance. Brad's always the calm one; they don't call him Iceman for nothing and Nate's just realized he relies on it. He needs something to ground him right now. So if he has to play the mother hen, so be it. "Or something. Camels, weeds, grains of sand, stupid shit we have to deal with. There's no shortage of monotonous things to count. I'm sure you can find something." Brad laughs and shakes his head. "Wisdom and support. That's why they put you in charge, sir. Thanks." Nate gives him a smile as Brad wanders back to his vehicle in lighter spirits. Turning back to his own set of problems, Nate manages to feel marginally better himself despite the fact that he doesn't think anything's been solved. He shrugs and takes the good feeling with him as he goes to deal with Craig.
March 28—Sometimes, I think it's a sin Nate lies in his hole, staring up at the P-3 observation planes buzzing overhead. The sky is full of activity tonight; jets, artillery, missiles, tracers, flares. Dogs are barking and bombs are falling. The whole world is shaking. He discovers that he's so tired, it actually hurts when he closes his eyes. "I need to see the LT," Nate hears Brad's disembodied voice call out amongst the cacophony of noise. "He just turned in. Can it wait?" Mike answers and Nate's tempted to let Brad go, but the truth is he's too keyed up to sleep right now. He'd just end up lying here, wondering what Brad needed him for. "It's okay, Mike," Nate calls out, sitting up and waving Brad over. It belatedly hits him that he's glad Brad's here, and has no idea whatever the fuck that means except that it brings the guilt along with it. Nate's been carrying around a lot of guilt these last few days; dead kids, his own dying idealism, the near constant worry that something's gotta give soon and he doesn't think there's a damn thing he can do to stop it. But for some reason, whenever he's around Brad, the guilt seems to ratchet up a few more notches. Brad looks down at him from above. "Sorry, sir. I can come back." "Fuck it," Nate says waving him into the hole and sacrificing whatever peace of mind he's been clinging to. He can worry about his fucked up psyche some other day. Brad actually has to jump into the grave since they were ordered to make them extra deep tonight. First Recon's by themselves tonight and artillery's been pretargeted for danger-close range to their camp in case they get overrun by RPG teams or tanks. Nate moves his legs, giving Brad room to sit down next to him. "What's up, Brad?" Brad doesn't meet his eyes. "I was just wondering if you'd heard any news from RCT-1 about the Bedouin boy." Nate was worried about this. It's not that the situation hasn't affected him as well, but Nate's getting the sense that Brad might be losing himself. Brad's face is dirtier than ever after spending the day under his Humvee, chipping away tar from the sabka field. When Brad doesn't back away from the question, Nate is forced to come up with an answer. "Last I heard from Doc Bryan, he was in serious but stable condition and they'd removed the bullet fragments." The ever-present guilt weighs him down further but Nate decides to embellish a little. He has no idea if the kid will make it, but Brad doesn't need to know that. Then he wonders when he began to believe that the ends justify the means. "He'll be fine, Brad. But you, however, need to find a way to move on from this." "I'm fine," Brad says, the circles under his eyes not entirely convincing. He must see the expression on Nate's face because he looks away. "Trombley's right. I gave the order for him to fire—" "Oh, don't even fucking go there," Nate says, holding his hand up to stop Brad from speaking. He's had enough bullshit and he's not letting it continue any further. "You know what? There's more than enough guilt to go around, trust me. It's swallowing me whole. But I passed on the order to you from Godfather about the change in ROE. Everyone was declared hostile. And yes, common sense might dictate that you're still supposed to evaluate the situation within that context, but you were watching your own sector which was a hundred and eighty degrees from Trombley's. "Shit happens. If this airfield had actually been full of tanks, and by some miracle we still managed to get out alive, we'd probably be pinning a medal on him. Don't go second-guessing yourself now, simply because we had the good fortune not to get our asses kicked today." Brad stares at him blankly for a minute and then shuts down. Nate barely has time to react before Brad makes a move to get up and leave. "Yes, sir. Sorry to have bothered you." "Sit the fuck down, Brad," Nate says, grabbing the edge of Brad's MOPP suit and dragging him back down to the ground. "You came here to talk, so talk." Brad lands with a thud. The minutes stretch on, punctuated by artillery blasts until Brad finally says, "Regardless of who's to blame, it will be something I take home with me." "That's okay," Nate concedes. They will all have demons to deal with when this war is through, the trick will be making it out alive. "Just lock it up for now, and we'll deal with it when we get home. Right now, I need you here." Brad stares up into the sky for a few more minutes before looking at him again. For the first time all day, Brad's face is a little clearer and suddenly, Nate gets worried about what he just told Brad to do. It's obvious that there will be consequences to the Bedouin boy shooting; he just hopes that whatever short-term gain he gets by asking Brad to deal with it later won't be outweighed by long-term effects. Brad doesn't let Nate second-guess himself though. "You're getting better at this wisdom and support thing," he says finally, raising an eyebrow. "Last time you told me to count sheep, this time you're swearing at me." Sensing that he's almost got his Brad back, Nate pulls out his MRE and digs through the bag until he finds what he's looking for. He waves the jalapeno cheese package under Brad's nose and speaks a little softer. "I just hope my mollycoddling won't make you soft." With a Pavlovian response, Brad finally grins. And even if the smile doesn't reach his eyes, Nate's willing to take what he can get. Brad takes the package and holds it against his face. And just when Nate thinks Brad's going to spend the night fondling it, he finally opens up the package and sucks it back. "You are far too nice to me, sir," Brad says smacking his lips. "Just taking care of my men," Nate replies. For some reason, Brad leans forward until he's practically in Nate's face. Nate jerks back at the sudden movement, blood flooding his cheeks. He didn't expect Brad to move, and he certainly didn't expect Brad's face to suddenly be less than a foot from his own. The grave they're sitting in suddenly seems far too small to hold them both. The corners of Brad's mouth curl up in what Nate is beginning to recognize as Brad's version of a wartime smile. "You look like shit, sir," Brad says finally. Nate's still reeling from the odd reaction he's had to Brad's closeness. Thankfully it's dark and he's filthy—it's unlikely Brad noticed anything. "I was trying to sleep," Nate says, gesturing around them. Brad gradually sits back. "Trying being the operative word. You look more wired than Ray on a pound of Ripped Fuel, sir. If you don't mind me saying, I think you need a little help relaxing. Want me to get you a magazine? I have access to a few good ones. I doubt you pansy-ass officers carry around your own moto-material." There's a sudden bubble of hysterical laughter sitting in Nate's throat, waiting to come out. He's not sure when they went from talking about Brad's obsessive guilt about the shepherd to finding porn for him to jerk off to. "Excuse me?" Nate can barely get the words out. "Not to discount the effectiveness of counting sheep, sir, but I think you need something a little more effective to help you relax. Especially if you're so wired, that you'd rather listen to my psycho-babble than get some shut eye. I've got the May issue of Hustler that's not bad. Erika on page forty-five is fucking hot and so is Nina on sixty-three. If you'd rather something different, there's Tony on page hundred and five—" Nate chokes on his own spit and starts hacking up a lung. Brad gives him a few hard whacks on the back before Nate can assure him that he's fine, in all respects. Brad shrugs and eventually goes back to his truck, leaving Nate alone in his grave, contemplating the finer points of the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. His guilt is all but forgotten. He doesn't notice it until the next morning that he actually managed to fall asleep without an hour of tossing and turning.
April 1—April Fool's Nate's not in a good place. He should have listened to his men. He should have fucking paid attention to his own fucking common sense instead of the harebrained noble idea of trying to make amends with his CO. Just because Craig's stupid rather than mean-spirited is not an excuse, and Nate should have fucking known better. As for Griego, when did Nate really start to care what he thinks? Aside from the usual grumblings, his men have done everything they've been asked of. They driven through ambushes, acted as bait, put their lives on the line for reasons that Nate's no longer sure of and all they asked of their platoon commander tonight was to conduct a fucking foot patrol. Nate almost lost his whole fucking platoon because he fucking denied them that in order to show support for his fucking idiot of a CO. Beside him, Wynn turns off their truck with a shuddering bang. It looks like they're still not crossing the bridge anytime soon. In the background, Craig and Dave are yelling on the radio, freaking out because one of Bravo-three's victors is stuck in a hole on the bridge that just got shot to hell by their own tanks and LAVs. Of course, the tanks and LAVs only bombed the shit out of it after Nate drove his men into an ambush because the way was supposed to have been cleared earlier by artillery. Which Nate would have known if he'd allowed that damn foot patrol. Full circle and stop. Nate climbs out of the truck and looks down the line of his platoon's Humvees that are parked at the side of the road in a herringbone, waiting for Bravo-three to unfuck themselves. The clear skies are accompanied by a fierce wind, and Nate starts to shiver from the sweat on his face. Adrenaline is stale in his blood and the single-minded focus he had during battle to get his men out alive is gone, leaving him floundering desperately for something to concentrate on. His mind wants to settle on guilt and self-admonishment. For obvious reasons, Nate can't concentrate on those. If he breaks down now, he'll just be a liability to his men. So he pushes them aside. There will be plenty of time to worry about it later. Just like he asked Brad to deal with his guilt for the shepherd shooting, later. One day, they'll have to pay the Pied Piper. Instead, Nate busies himself by looking over the vehicles, making sure with his own eyes that by some miracle, everything and everyone are mostly in one piece. Even with Pappy and Stafford being hit, they've come out damn lucky. The men are quiet now. Aside from the yelling over the radio, there's a general feeling of calm amongst the trucks. A few marines are singing—fucked up, angry songs—but singing nonetheless. Chaffin yells moto out the window as Cobra's go by overhead while Reyes taps his hand on the doorframe of the truck. Farther ahead, the slide of an Mk19 is repeatedly being hit, curse words are being uttered, but the hysteria of battle is gone. Nate remembers the panic in Brad's voice when he told him their Mk 19 was jammed. A disconnect in his memory makes him shake his head—he can't remember if it jammed in this battle, the last or both. Not enough LSA. Not enough batteries. Not enough food. Not enough common sense. Fuck ups after fuck ups, in a long line of fuck ups but nobody seems worried about that anymore. It's like the men have just accepted the facts, while for the first time, the facts are staring Nate straight in the fucking eyes. The men are just waiting, bracing themselves for the insanity to begin again. Nate on the other hand, is waiting for the next order—the next situation, that will finally make him snap. Nate has always been careful to balance the actions that needed to be taken to protect and ensure the freedom and wellbeing of the general populace against the actions that need to be taken to ensure the wellbeing of his men. Because anyone who was willing to sacrifice their freedom to protect others should be protected as well. It was a balancing act Nate had never seen as a hardship: do your best to protect all people, including the ones that are trying to do the protecting. It's not that he doesn't understand the priorities of the Marines. Mission first, men second. He gets that. He also gets that generals have to worry about the big picture, but it's his job, being on the front lines, to do what he can to take care of his men's welfare. Supporting his superiors while taking care of his subordinates. The job of a Marine officer. He just never imagined that he would be put in the position where to do the latter half of his job, he would have to go against the former. The sound of a door slamming shakes Nate out of his reverie and he realizes he's standing a few feet from the foot of the bridge. He doesn't remember walking along the line of Humvees, but Bravo-three's victors are directly ahead. Brad comes to stand beside him. "Lovely evening for a walk, sir." Nate barely acknowledges him. The fierce wind drowns out the chatter from the vehicles beside them and once again, it feels like they're the only two people left on the earth. "It won't happen again," Nate says after a few minutes, finally coming to the conclusion that's been staring at him for an hour. "Doubt that, sir," Brad says, casually spitting dip at the side of the road. "Judging by the frequency of these events, we'll probably be driving into another ambush before breakfast." Nate smiles ruefully at the casual acceptance in Brad's words and then shakes his head. "Not that. I mean me. I was trying to do too much. It won't happen again. If it's in my power to do something for you guys, I will. I won't be saying no to anymore foot patrols." "What about the CO?" "What about him?" Brad pauses like he's trying to choose his words. "I talked to Gunny Wynn. I know you were trying to make things better with him. It's a tough line for you to walk but you have your own back to watch as well—" "That's my problem, Brad. My job is to make sure as many of you get home as possible while completing the objectives of my superiors. It's not my job to be well-liked." "You're assuming that our superiors have actual objectives." That statement catches Nate off guard and makes him shiver again. "I have to believe that, Brad. Otherwise, what we're doing out here is total anarchy." The sound of footsteps makes Nate glance behind them. Major Eckloff gives him a brief nod as he passes and Nate watches him make a beeline for the clusterfuck on the bridge. Brad spits again, and Nate feels a chill run down his spine that doesn't have anything at all to do with the wind. He can't consider the idea, however remote it may be, that someone doesn't have a fucking plan for what they're all doing out here in the desert. Cheering erupts from the bridge along with the sound of squealing tires, and the men from Bravo-three start hopping back into their Humvees. Nate nods at Brad. "Looks like we're oscar-mike." "Thank fucking God," Brad responds, shouldering his weapon and reaching for the door of his truck. Nate turns around and starts hightailing it back to his own, when something finally occurs to him. Today is April Fool's day.
April 2—The road to Al Kut is paved with good intentions Brad strolls up to Nate and leans against the hood of the Humvee Nate happens to be standing beside. "At the risk of sounding like a fucking prepubescent girl, sir, I have to ask. Seriously?" Nate smiles. The sun is starting to set, but already the F18s are lighting up the sky of Al Kut, five kilometers north of their position. RCT-1 is also blasting the city. All Bravo company has to do tonight is a few patrols—all in all, a pretty light night for them. Since Bravo-three is currently on watch, Nate's platoon is settling in. "It's true. We're pulling out tomorrow and heading toward Baghdad." "So what the fuck was the point of us driving all the way up here?" Nate can hardly contain himself. "It was all a feint. We tied up two Republican Guard divisions by pushing forward this way. That's something to be proud of. And you thought they didn't have a plan," Nate jokingly admonishes him. He can't help but be in lighter spirits today. He made his peace last night with his decision to quit worrying about his career and what a proper Marine officer should do and his life has become a lot less complicated since. Brad raises an eyebrow while giving him an upraising look and Nate grins. One of the perks from his decision last night, just occurred to him. He's closed off a part of himself for too long, and though fraternization is completely against the regs, Nate's decided that what only happens in his mind is his own business. The truth is he enjoys Brad's company in a way that goes beyond simply professional respect. Talking to Brad makes him feel human and even if it can never be anything more, he'd like to call Brad his friend. So Nate decides to take Brad up on his offer of a few nights ago. Because that's what friends do. "So do you still have that magazine?" Nate says, attempting for casual, but the sudden blush that takes over his face makes him stammer. "Magazine?" At first, Brad looks confused but then it dawns on him and he gives Nate a sly grin. "Oh, the Hustler. No, sorry. Ray absconded with it this morning and I'm frightened to ask for it back. But if you tell me which section you were interested in..." The blush spreads all the way to his ears and all Nate can do is hope that Brad can't make out his discomfort in the setting sun. He shakes his head, suddenly losing what little courage he had about the matter and tries to shrug it all off. "It's okay, never mind." But Brad doesn't let it go. He leans more on the Humvee, bringing his body a little closer to Nate's and drops his voice. "I was going to say, if you tell me which section you wanted to look at, I could probably describe it to you instead. I'm well familiar with it. Let's see, there's Erika. She's blonde with these big fucking tits. She's dressed up like a school girl, with the kilt and white blouse and knee-high stockings. Her snatch is bare and she's holding herself open with two fingers." "Brad—" Nate glances around in a hurry to see if anyone is within earshot, but it seems they're alone for the moment. Still, having Brad describe porn, in detail, while leaning against the hood of a truck in open sight, is not something Nate planned on, even if he decided to hell with his career. Brad casually reaches into a pocket on his vest and pulls out a map. He spreads it out between them and randomly points to a spot. "Then there's Nina. Long, dark hair, and tanned. Looks Latino. On page sixty-four, she's fucking herself with this dildo this big," Brad hold up his hands about a foot wide, and then goes back tapping the map. "The next page, she's sucking it dry. Now there's a woman who must love to suck dick if she's happily gorging herself on a piece of silicon. "Now, Tony, on page hundred and five...he's a rare one. Most magazines don't go in that direction, but every once in a while Hustler throws one in so us testosterone-driven males can enjoy a bit of variety while still maintaining the illusion of our strict heterosexuality. Anyway, he's a looker. He's standing in front of this naked chick, but she's so ugly, Tony's the only one that matters. He's got a decent built, no steroid-induced veins popping out over his bulging muscles, but no paunch either. The impressive thing is he's holding his cock, and it must be at least an inch and a half thick." Again, Brad illustrates the size, this time keeping his hand low and close to the map, and curling his fingers around an imaginary dick and gesturing like he's jerking it off. Neurons misfire in Nate's brain as he watches Brad's hand going back and forth, unable to take his eyes off of it. Liquid fire pools in Nate's stomach and suddenly it feels like someone's opened up the floor beneath him. Nate's imagination takes over, filling in the void around Brad's fingers with images he's sure he'll never see. Brad jerking himself off or even better, Brad's fingers curled around Nate's own cock. The thoughts are vertigo-inducing. Without thinking, Nate reaches forward and touches the heal of Brad's hand with his fingertips. Brad stills, staring at Nate face, his eyes dark with something Nate instinctively knows they can never, ever talk about. Suddenly Brad moves his hand away from Nate's and places it higher up on the map. His face is back to its usual calm detachedness. "So we're going to be driving down this MSR then, sir?" he says tracing a road from Al Kut down to Baghdad. Nate doesn't dare turn around to see who's come up on their position, so instead he just shakes his head. "No, we're going back down Route 7, I think, but I should know more tomorrow." Wynn comes up on Nate's left with a sigh. "Brad, you'd better go collect your RTO. He's waxing poetic about the character flaws of Bravo-three's platoon commander and he's starting to get rather loud about it. No need to further antagonize the man." Straightening, Brad collects his map, folds it and places it back in his pocket. Before leaving though, he give Nate one last look. Nate's breath catches at the intensity in Brad's eyes. The rest of his face is schooled into a calm expression, but his eyes are finishing their conversation. "Thanks for the clarification, sir. I think I get it now," he says before walking away.
April 4—Bleeding The emotional rollercoaster he's been on for the last few weeks is just as exhausting as the lack of decent sleep. Nate sits in the truck, leg bouncing, drumming his fingers against the keyboard of his laptop. He's been oscillating between the adrenaline high of battle, the gut-wrenching low of seeing the effects the war is having on the civilian population and all the mind-numbing boredom in between. Beside him, Wynn raises an eyebrow. "Everything okay, Nate? Your leg is vibratin' so hard you're interfering with the radios." "I'm okay," Nate says, forcibly stopping his leg. They're parked in a wadi this time and the message from HQ indicates they'll be here awhile. In fact, the men have already dismounted from their vehicles, and started digging holes and unfurling the cammie nets. Christeson and Stafford have hopped out and started preparing camp. Again. They've been at this all night and Nate can't quite believe they've finally reached a place they'll stay at for more than an hour. Nate fidgets again in his seat, earning another look from Mike who's trying to listen in to battalion-wide comms. Suddenly, the inside of the truck feels too small, so Nate decides to make himself less annoying and go for a walk. Mike just nods when Nate tells him where he's going and goes back to taking down the encryption protocols they'll use when they start up again. Which, judging by the pattern of the night, will probably be sooner rather than later. The night is actually not that cold for once, even without the MOPP suits. Orders came down earlier today that they could take them off. Apparently, the chances of a WMD attack are slim. With the feint to Al Kut over, First Recon is now backtracking down route seven, trying to make it to Baghdad for the final assault. Nate bounces on the heel of his boots. He knows exactly where he wants to go and it's the last place he should. He should leave Brad the fuck alone. They both have enough problems as it is. It's bad enough that last night was the first time he jacked off since the war officially started and the only thing he could think about was the memory of Brad's fingers wrapped around an imaginary dick. It didn't take him long to come, but instead of calming him down and giving him some relief, it just left him floundering for more. Because Nate can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, Brad is feeling the same fucking thing. As if it matters out here. But either way, Nate wants to know, needs more evidence to come to a conclusion so he can sort out his head, get on with his life, this war and trying to get everyone home in one piece. And maybe tonight is just as good a night as any. When he gets up to Victor-one, Brad is busy digging a hole, Ray and Walt are cleaning their rifles and Trombley is drooling against the door of the Humvee, asleep in his seat. "Stupid fucking shitty sand. Just for once, I'd like to dig through something different. Maybe some rocks—that'd be a nice change. Bang my shovel against some fucking rocks just for something different—" Brad is cursing under his breath. "At least it's not mud. I fucking hate mud. Rain washes away the sand. Mud on the other hand just gets muddier until you're floating in a fucking sea of shit." Ray adds in his two cents. He only stops when he sees Nate approaching. "Evening, sir." Brad pauses mid-dig and looks up at him. It's too dark to see his face but the glance is enough to make Nate's heart pound. "Good evening, gents. How's it going?" Nate asks. Brad stops digging and leans against his shovel. "I don't suppose you know how long we're going to be camped here, do you sir?" "Wish I could tell you, Brad. They said we'd be here for the night, again. Does that help?" "Not really, sir. We've moved three times in the last hour, for no other reason that any of us can see except that we'd just finished digging our holes. And every time, we've pulled into a new location, they've told us we were digging in for the night. This time, we moved four hundred meters. I'm pretty sure Baptista is using the Ranger Grave I dug forty minutes ago." "Well, then don't worry. If tonight's pattern holds up, he probably won't be using it that much longer." With the bantering drawing to a close, Nate suddenly feels awkward standing there. Everyone is actually doing something, productive or not, and Ray is looking up at him, obviously wondering why his platoon commander is hanging around. Brad drops his shovel against the side of the truck and opens up the passenger side door. "Did you want to check out the Tracker, sir?" Nate nods, grateful to Brad for thinking up something. Brad rolls his shoulders to ease his muscles, then slides into his seat and brings the monitor for the Blue Force Tracker system toward them. Brad has kept the Humvee door open, so for Nate to get a closer look, he has to slide between the door and Brad. Bringing the Tracker online, the blue glow from the screen fills the inside of the Humvee. Behind them, Trombley snores away undisturbed. "You okay?" Nate asks quietly, studying Brad's face. Nate's still not entirely convinced he didn't make a mistake coming on over here and the weariness in Brad's shoulders makes him think he should just leave. Brad sighs. "Sure. We're all fine, aren't we?" Nate says nothing and waits for Brad to continue. Instead, Brad fiddles with the GPS receiver. When it doesn't pick up the satellite information, Brad spends several minutes rebooting the entire system. Nate continues to wait. "At the roadblock this morning, I held this baby who was bleeding out his mouth," Brad says eventually as the map finally comes up on the screen. "And he wasn't even crying." Nate nods. What happened this morning won't be something he soon forgets—the hundreds upon hundreds of refugees pouring out of Baghdad, the marines shuttling them through the lines on their Humvees, carrying sacks of food and belongings for them, giving them food and water. The babies and children were by far the worst part—with little to no food and water, they suffered the worst. Brad stares at the monitor. "It looked like he had just given up. I thought a regime change would bring hope to the populace. Give these people back their freedom. Instead, all we've seen these last two days is people destroyed. Desperate people intent on walking two hundred and fifty kilometers with no fucking water and food. It's insanity." Nate can offer no comfort except for the small one he clings to himself. "You have to believe that in the long run, these people will be better off." Brad shakes his head. "You're such an optimist." Nate shifts his weight. He's already up close by Brad's side and in the darkness it feels almost intimate. Except for Ray in the background who has moved on from discussing the pros and cons of sand and mud to discussing his newest business idea. "Think about it, a laminated porn magazine. How has no one ever thought of this before? We'd just have to unbind whatever magazine we bought off the rack, run each page through a sheet laminator, rebind it together and viola! Even if we sell the magazine for fifty bucks a pop to schmucks like us, it would totally work. I mean, I'd buy a porn mag for fifty bucks if I could hose it off after one of these wankers was done with it." Brad finally looks at him. "I'm fine. Really. I'm just looking forward to doing something we were trained for." Without consciously meaning to, Nate lets his hand drop to Brad's leg, giving him a soft squeeze to convey his support. The physical contact sends a shock through his hand right up to his chest. Just as he's about to pull away to try to restore order to things, Brad picks up his hand and moves it to the crotch of his pants. Nate's eyes snap to Brad face, and Brad is looking at him with the same look as two nights ago. "Brad..." Nate says unable to finish the sentence. This is wrong on a fundamental level. Forget Don't Ask, Don't Tell; he's an officer, Brad is enlisted and in his direct chain of command. But Nate can't say anything to stop it. Maybe this insanity fits right in with this miserable war. He wants to melt against Brad, wants to grab his face in his hands and kiss him and fuck him until his brain explodes, war and chain of command be damned. He wants to feel normal, and maybe touching Brad like this can cauterize the hole inside his chest. Instantly, Brad lets go of his hand, his face a stone-like mask. "Sorry, sir. My mistake. It won't happen again—" "No!" Nate almost yells before regaining control over his voice again. Trombley stirs but then turns so his shoulders are leaning against the door instead of his face and goes on snoring. Ray and Walt eventually start talking again and Nate takes a deep breath. Brad eyes him skeptically. Nate responds by putting his hand back on Brad's cock. Feeling Brad's half-hard dick under his cammies makes him shake. "This is just between us. If it can help, if it can make us feel human again, then why not? It hurts no one." "Unless someone finds out," Brad points out. "I won't let anything happen to you," Nate says firmly, pretty sure he could arrange to take all the blame if anything came out. He rubs his thumb along the length of Brad's cock to show him he's serious. Brad shifts his hips, grinding himself against Nate's hand. "You're very convincing." "You started it." Nate keeps his hand where it is, allowing Brad to do most of the movements, merely gripping a little tighter when he feels Brad get a little harder. It's the only thing he can do, the only thing he dares to do besides push his own dick against the side of Brad's leg. Just because he's willing to risk everything doesn't mean they need to take out a billboard. There are people all around them, and the pretense of looking at a map, again, is very thin. Brad closes his eyes and grips the edge of the seat while Nate strains his sense to keep them safe. For a minute, all he hears is their breathing; shallow, short breaths that echo inside the truck. Then there's a quiet shuffling of boots coming toward them, and Nate lifts his hand off of Brad and taps the screen in front of them. "We'll be heading west along here," he says quietly, pointing to a completely random place on the road. His hand is aching to return to Brad's dick and it takes every ounce of self control to stop himself. He wishes the ground would swallow them up just so they could have some fucking privacy. It's so frustrating, he wants to scream. Instead, he removes his hand from the screen in case the person coming up on them actually knows how to read a map when Nate realizes he's pointing at a river. It's just the reporter though, who opens up his door to the Humvee and starts rooting around for something. Brad opens his eyes and subtly adjusts himself with a reluctant sigh. "Will we be getting air support?" "No. They say we don't need it," Nate replies, putting his hand on the butt of his rifle which is still slung by his side. He needs to adjust his own erection before he leaves and tries to mask his movements in the darkness. Touching himself just makes the frustration worse. "We've already cleared out these towns on the way north." Brad rolls his eyes. "These villagers are going to think we're just a bunch of cock-teases; coming and going, coming and going." Nate almost laughs. "Don't worry, Brad. Eventually we're going to get the chance to do it right," he says, hoping that on some level, he's telling the truth.
April 13—Liar, Liar It's only their third night in Baghdad, their first in the power plant and already the air is stale with the smell of too many men cooped up in too small of a space. The stench of sweat and MREs mixed in with oil, dust and sewage permeates the air. Nate sits in the small, dark office he commandeered on the second floor. It's in the center of the building, overlooking the reactors below—must have been a supervisor's office once; the chair is leather and Nate's relatively sure that the wood this desk is made of is not native to Iraq. The supervisor couldn't have been too high up though, because the gin Nate found hidden in the bottom desk is cheap, homemade shit. The men are camped out below, in open spaces between the non-functioning reactors. Someone set up a propane powered floodlight, and some of its glow reaches its way up to Nate. Sitting in the chair, Nate leans forward and snags the metal garbage can from under the desk. More rooting around produces a cigarette lighter in the top drawer and pencil shavings inside an old-fashion pencil sharpener. Laying down the pencils, the shavings and bits of paper in the middle of the garbage can, Nate lights them, fanning the flames until they catch. With the fire going, Nate takes out his notebook and starts flipping through the pages. There's not a lot of light to read by, but that's okay. The words are almost all memorized. Neighborhood: Juliet Papa Not enough jobs Unexploded ammunition: Starting at the beginning, Nate rips out a page and holding the corner, feeds it to the flames. The paper doesn't catch fire as much as the edge closest to the flames starts to dissolve until the grey line of ashes starts eating it up. A shuffling of combat boot toward his position makes Nate glance up. Brad is leaning against the door frame. "Trying to start a bonfire, sir?" Brad says, inviting himself in. "And I forgot the marshmallows." Nate goes back to ripping out the pages, one by one. He gets through five or six more before he comes across one with ink blotches in between the letters. It was from yesterday afternoon. Nate looks at it. The ink blotches occurred when he pressed down on the pages too hard and sure enough, the imprints are visible on the pages underneath. Total chaos at night. Residents requesting help. Request was denied. "You okay?" Brad asks, sitting down on the edge of the desk. "I'm fine," Nate replies. The lie isn't intentional. He's remembering the look on the old man's face who had begged him for help this morning. The face fades to another and another until they're just a blur of memories. Except for the children's faces. They always stick out. "You're fine. I'm fine. We're all fine," Brad says conversationally. "We're going to be the finest group of people ever to get back from a war with the way things are going." The words don't make any sense to Nate so he finally looks up. The extent of the darkness in the building catches him off guard. When he'd first come up here, the sun was still setting through the windows out front. "Is everything okay? Am I needed downstairs?" Nate asks. But Brad shakes his head. "I just noticed you were missing and came to see if you wanted company." Company. Nate almost snorts at the idea. He's never been around people he values so much and yet been so completely and utterly alone. He looks at his ruined notebook. He's surrounded by people; they're everywhere. And he can't help a goddamn one. "You shouldn't be here," Nate says finally, giving up and throwing the whole notebook into the fire. Smoke starts coming up as the plastic cover deforms and melts until the fire finally reaches the paper inside. Eventually, the flames die down and Brad gets up. With quick and sure motions, he drops himself to his knees in front of Nate and reaches for his belt. Nate stares at him in shock. "What are you doing?" Brad raises an eyebrow. "What I can to help you keep your sanity." The words and Brad's actions finally come together and Nate pushes the chair back and shoots up, stepping as far back as he can. He's suddenly shaking with anger—at himself, at Brad, at this war. "Get out," Nate says, pointing at the door. Brad quickly gets back onto his feet, his hands raised in surrender. "Whoa. Sorry. I just thought—" "I don't need your pity," Nate lashes out. "I wasn't pitying you. But if I'd known this was what it was going to take to snap you out of your head, I would have done it sooner. You've been in a downward spiral all day." Nate feels like he's been sucker-punched. The hope he'd been clinging to that maybe he was still alright on the outside is gone. His anger refocuses until it's centered on himself and it knocks him back down into the chair. "You're going to get me court-marshaled if I have to keep assaulting you for you to speak to me," Brad says. Nate stares at the remnant of the fire. "Please don't push this, Brad. It's the last thing I've got." But Brad doesn't move from his spot, just crosses his hands in front of his chest and stands there. "Talk to me, Nate." It's the sound of his name that finally breaks a hole in the dam. He leans his head in his hands. "It's just that I'm turning into a liar. Everything I say is a lie and how can anyone trust a liar? And if I don't have trust, then what the fuck good am I?" "I trust you," Brad says, turning back to face him. "So do the men." Nate shakes his head. "It's happened so many times. I get told things, I pass them on to you guys and then they get pulled out from under us. That briefing I gave everyone when we got here about restoring order. It's all bullshit. Everything is fucking bullshit." Brad takes a cautions step towards him. "That's not you. We all know how these fucking things work. You're not a liar because command has their heads up their asses." "Oh yes, I am," Nate says with a laugh bordering on hysterics. He clenches his fist to try and regain some measure of control but the thread is weak and already pulled tight. "I'm hiding out here because I needed to get away. I know that. My confidence in my superiors is crumbling and yet I have no choice but to nod and carry on. There's nothing I can do. We go from neighborhood to neighborhood talking to people, and we try to help, but again, there's nothing I can do. I can't get them running water, I can't get them jobs, I can't even protect them from the people we liberated them from. And that's fine. That's my burden to bear. And I have to bear it." "Not alone, you don't. That's why I came up here," Brad says, his face mired in confusion. Nate gets up and starts pacing. "You don't get it, do you? You were right. Command has no plan. This is all for nothing. They've made me a liar, and now the only thing I can do is not make myself a liar, too." "I don't understand." Nate looks toward the windows of the building. Outside in the distance, he can see explosions as reflections in the clouds. "I have to do this alone, Brad, otherwise I have nothing. Either I abide by the code of conduct expected of me, or I'm just as bad as them." Brad crosses his arms in front of his chest. "That's pretty fucking stupid." "Maybe," Nate whispers but doesn't make eye contact. Beggars can't be choosers though and he needs this—this last thin shred of self-respect. He keeps staring at the windows at the far end of the building until he hears Brad shuffling past him. When he finally looks around, he's all alone. ——— September 15—You, Me, We Pulling out his GPS, Nate rechecks his location against the coordinates in his pocket. He's close. Eyeing the setting sun, he figures there's still another thirty minutes of light. Hopefully. He really doesn't want to wander around Green Mountain National Park by himself, at night. Though a bear is nothing compared to an armed Iraqi, Nate still doesn't want to make friends with one in the dark. Now that he thinks about it, he feels oddly naked wandering around the bush without a rifle. The folded postcard feels like it's burning a hole in his pocket, but there's no need to waste time checking it. The folds are well worn from opening and closing. You said we would deal with it later. The message is unsigned but only Brad would send a message like this on the back of a completely black postcard with the words Oceanside at night. A million different scenarios have been playing out in Nate's head since he got the mail two days ago. Why would Brad pick now? What happened to finally make a crack in his exterior? Nate had spent a lot of time watching Brad after they'd come back from Iraq—he never saw any indication that Brad had any further difficulty dealing with the war. He pushes his thoughts aside, trying to concentrate on where he's going. The path ended two hundred yards back and the undergrowth's getting thicker. Nate pulls out his machete, and again, briefly misses his old equipment. His KA-BAR used to sit comfortably in his hands, unlike this machete, which feels oddly cumbersome as he hacks through the thick brush. A squirrel shoots out from underfoot and jumps up a tree. Eventually, the smell of a campfire gives Nate some clue that he's not actually on a wild goose chase. A few more feet and he reaches a small clearing. The actual scene that greets him is not one he was expecting. Unlike the tortured Brad living in his head, the real one looks relatively well put together, as usual. Brad glances up from where he's crouched in front the campfire. Kindling is already burning and he's adding some larger logs in a crisscross pattern. Brad smiles when he sees him and then goes back to tending the flames. "Now that's how you build a fire. No pansy-ass, officer-made fire here." Nate walks into the camp, dropping his pack next to a larger pile of gear. A tent is already set up to the side, a few yards from the fire pit. A folding table is close by, and on it is a chopping board with cut up vegetables and a bowl of scrambled eggs. Aside from the rustic nature, everything looks downright domestic. Nate sits down on a nearby log, exhausted. "You're telling me I just drove four hours to share an omelet with you?" A hurt expression flashes across Brad's face. It doesn't last long, however, and soon, Brad is back to preparing dinner and whistling under his breath. Nate just stares. He can't help it. He doesn't think he's ever seen Brad quite like this; there's obviously an effort being made to appear carefree, even if there's tension in his shoulders. But if that weren't jarring enough, Brad is in a forest wearing civilian clothes. The whole thing feels like it belongs in an alternate universe. A few minutes later, Brad hands him a warm plate and the smell of freshly cooked eggs reminds Nate that he hasn't eaten since breakfast. He didn't want to risk stopping for lunch in case he didn't make it here in time, and the last few days of stress are finally catching up with him. He gives in and attacks the food. He's suddenly famished. "You know, for someone who didn't even bother to say hello and just went right to complaining about the food, you seem to be enjoying it." Nate looks down at his empty plate and the empty cast iron frying pan sitting on the rocks. It's been over a month since he last saw Brad and they're picking up right where they left off. It's such an easy routine to fall back into. Maybe that's why he didn't seek Brad out after the guys took him for his farewell dinner. He couldn't stomach the goodbye. But, if he didn't say goodbye then, there's no point in saying hello now. "If you'd told me you wanted dinner, we could have gone to a restaurant. At least we could order seconds." "Doubt it. Knowing you, you would have come up with an excuse to bail, and I don't have that kind of time," Brad replies, putting his empty plate on the table. He goes over to his open backpack and starts rooting through it. Something horrible occurs to Nate. "Leaving soon?" he asks, watching Brad's back. Before he left, Brad had been waiting for his travel orders to come in so he could join up with 3 Commando Brigade in the UK. Brad heading overseas seems so much worse than Nate moving to Boston. At least they were still in the same country when he left. Brad nods, replying with his head still buried in the bag. "Four weeks. Can you believe that fucking cheerfulness and humor are part of their corps values? Unfucking-believable. I'm going from being a killing machine to a stand up comedian. Guess I have to practice some knock knock jokes to fit in." Eventually he finds what he's looking for and comes back with a large bag of marshmallows. Brad sits down on the ground next to Nate and pats the floor, inviting Nate to join him. "I came prepared this time." Nate slides off the log, less than gracefully, and joins Brad on the grass. Four weeks. It doesn't matter that it's been six weeks since he left Camp Pendleton and has gone out of his way not to think about everyone he left behind. Brad leaving drives the point home. He missed his chance. They're going their separate ways and as fucked up as their time together was, Nate's realizes he's going to miss it. Brad opens the bag of marshmallows and offers him one. Nate declines, finally figuring out what's hurting him even worse. He'd been expecting to see Brad finally hurting, like pieces were missing from his insides—like Nate's been feeling since he left, but he's not. Brad is still the same old Brad; calm, cool and collect. "Well, you seem to be managing okay. Why did you need to see me?" Nate asks, harsher than he meant to. It's unfair that Brad seems so much stronger than he is. Brad raises an eyebrow and then looks him up and down. "Maybe I thought you needed to see me. You left things pretty unfinished between us." Heat and embarrassment rise to Nate's face as he hears the double meaning behind the words. Of course that would be what Brad wanted. "I'm sorry I led you on, but you should have just found yourself a whore and be done with it. I don't think I can give you what you want." "Oh, please," Brad says, and just when Nate's about to argue, Brad pops a marshmallow into his mouth. Nate tries not to choke on it. "As I was saying," Brad continues. "You left the only people who might understand what you're going through to come here and be surrounded by a bunch of limp-wristed, mother-fucking commies whose probably worst nightmare is being cutoff from their mother's titty for the first time in their pathetic lives. I thought you might need to let off steam after being here a few weeks, so I reconned an appropriately secluded place for you to do so." By the time Brad's finished speaking, Nate has sufficiently chewed through most of the marshmallow. It leaves a sickeningly sweet taste in his mouth. "Don't. You don't have to take care of your officer anymore; I'm a big boy—" Brad interrupts him by shoving two more marshmallows into his mouth. Nate tries to sputter but his mouth is too full. "Done yet? Cause if you're not, I got a whole bag here. We can play chubby bunny all night," Brad says with a grin. It takes Nate a few more minutes before he can respond. By this time, his mouth feels like it's coated in sugar. He hates marshmallows. "What do you want from me, Brad?" "You said we'd have the chance to work through everything together, and we didn't. You've been avoiding me since we got back and then suddenly, you upped and announced you were leaving and when you did, you didn't even say goodbye. Did I do something?" The sun is almost completely set now, only a faint glow is left on the horizon. "I didn't leave because of you. As for us—I got the impression you didn't need my help anymore," Nate says, honestly. "And I want to know how you did it. How did you come to terms with all the shit we went through?" Brad finds a stick on the ground, shakes off the dirt and puts a marshmallow on the end. Eventually, he answers. "I'm less complicated than you. At the end of the day, I think we did more good than harm. I can live with that." "Thanks," Nate says dryly. That was exactly what he needed—further proof that Brad thought he was weak. Brad narrows his eyes. "I meant it as a compliment, you know. I've always envied your ability to be so sure of yourself, even against what the people higher up are telling you." "I've seen you question the intelligence of a lot of orders, mine included." Brad shrugs. "Maybe. But I always carried them out. You're the one who had the courage to say no to Encino Man. You're the one who had the courage to leave the Corps when it got to be too retarded for you. I'm not like that. They tell me I did good. Ultimately, that's got to be enough for me." "That's bullshit," Nate says grabbing Brad's arm as he's about to put his marshmallow over the fire and forces Brad to look at him. Surprisingly, Brad's eyes are not as untroubled as he would like Nate to believe. "I saw you after the shepherd boy got shot. You were in bad shape. Me telling you to suck it up couldn't make that go away. So how did you do it? How do you still not see their faces when you go to sleep at night?" Brad takes his arm back and goes back to roasting his marshmallow, his face impassive. Only when it turns into a charred mess does he flick it off and put his stick to the side. "When it's really bad, I don't go to sleep until I'm exhausted. You can't think if you're asleep before your head hits the bed." "And how many times have you not made it to bed?" Nate asks, already knowing part of the answer. It explains why Brad kept falling asleep a few weeks after they got back. It didn't matter where; in the chow line, leaned up against the wall, during briefings, at his desk. Nate had to step in a few times to keep him from getting in shit. Nate's not really surprised that it doesn't make him feel better to realize Brad's suffering as well; it just makes him feel like less of a freak. It does give him a reason to touch Brad's arm though. Brad's wearing a faded blue t-shirt despite the fact that it's getting chilly without the sun. Nate rests his fingers on Brad's upper arm, touching his skin where his bicep comes down to meet his elbow. Brad shudders and then slowly angles his body towards Nate. Brad's not the type to wax poetic about his feelings but Nate goes back to his assumption that just maybe, Brad feels the same thing he does. Broken, lost, miserable, lonely, mixed in with a little bit of pride for the fact that against all odds, they pulled off some crazy shit. It's the warring emotions Nate has the hardest time reconciling. He wants to grieve, but part of him also wants to bask. Looking up, Nate sees Brad's eyes; the pupils are so big they make his eyes look black, and he amends the list of things Brad might be feeling. Maybe it's not just loneliness that keeps driving them together. Nate's heart pounds in his chest as Brad pushes him down into the grass. "If you're done with all the talking, I'd like to get to the working it out part. I've got a couple of ideas I'd like to try." Brad's hands are warm as they slide under his shirt, raking down his side until they settle on his hips. Nate has to concentrate to remember any number of reasons why they should stop. "Brad...we shouldn't. It would still look bad. If anyone found out—this is your career—" "Please stop," Brad says, using his finger to trace Nate's lips. "Otherwise I'm going to have to pull out the marshmallows again." "Torture will get you nowhere," Nate says, his lips tingling. He can't help but be caught in Brad's mood. It's infectious and too hard to keep fighting, especially since ultimately, he wants what Brad's offering. When Brad scoots closer, trapping Nate against the log he'd been sitting on for dinner, Nate finishes closing the distance between their hips and snakes an arm around Brad's back, locking them together. "So if torture's out, what can I do to get you to give in to me?" Brad asks, leaning his face into Nate's neck and breathing him in. Nate works his hands under Brad's shirt, caressing his chest, feeling Brad's muscles move under his fingers. "Stop talking." Brad gives him a wicked grin before literally pouncing. He pauses only long enough to take off his t-shirt before attacking Nate's clothes. The night air doesn't feel cold, even where Brad's mouth is tracing a path along Nate's neck. Neck, collarbone, pecs, nipples. Following the path down, Brad undoes Nate's belt and jeans and is about to the push them down when Nate decides he's done being a spectator. He pulls Brad back up so they're face to face and he can reach for the button to Brad's pants. Not even attempting to get them off of him, Nate goes with just getting his hand on Brad's cock. When he does, Brad does the same to him and it's so much better than their abbreviated jerk-off in the truck a million years ago. Nate's left hand curls around Brad's neck, holding him close so he can taste Brad's skin. Brad smells like campfire and feels solid and real. And then they're not touching so much as taking. Brad's erection is hot and hard in Nate's hand and it makes him harder in return. Nate just grabs it, wanting him now, wanting him to come now. So much so that it takes a second to realize when Brad stops touching him. "Wait—wait," Brad says, rolling his hips until he one-handedly gets his jeans down a little further and then returns his attention back to Nate. Opening Nate's pants more, Brad slides his body until their cocks line up. The feeling of skin on skin, of Brad's dick sliding against his own unravels the remaining thoughts that had still been clinging to the inside of Nate's brain. Because whatever he'd imagined it being like is nothing compared to the real thing. And he wants to see Brad lose control as well, so Nate reaches down and grabs both their dicks in his hand and jerks them off together. Brad shivers, grabbing his arm. "Nate..." The sound of his own name shouldn't get him even hotter, but it sounds dirty and sexy on Brad's lips, like he's breaking the last taboo between them. Nate's pretty sure he could come just from hearing Brad say it. "Say it again, Brad," Nate begs, his voice barely above a whisper. He wants to hear it again, wants to hear everything Brad's thinking, wants to hear words spilling from Brad's mouth, wants to break through Brad's calm, cool and collect until he shatters beside him. "Nate, Nate, Nate—"Brad complies, gripping him harder. Nate closes his eyes, moving his hand faster until Brad cries out. Feels the warmth spilling across his stomach, the tension inside Nate suddenly uncoils like a spring releasing from a rigid hold. His back arches and he's coming, and colors are exploding behind his eyes. He's still gripping Brad's neck with the hand that's not between them, and they're panting against each other. After a minute, Brad rolls onto his back, and then staggers to his feet. He returns a second later with a box of baby wipes and collapses spinelessly back onto the ground. "Who needs a tent anyways?" Nate smiles. Eventually he finds the energy to prop himself up on an elbow and tries to clean up. Afterward, they sit with their backs against the log, staring at the fire. It's a beautiful night out. A clear sky, with no sand or rain in sight. "As good a night as any for goodbyes, I suppose," Nate says quietly, buttoning up his shirt again. Because as far as endings go, this one is pretty good. Brad looks at him with a peculiar expression. "I hope you're not implying us." "Brad, you're leaving for the UK in a month and your deployment is probably going to be for a year or two. I'm not stupid enough to push my luck." Brad twists around to look at him. He's still half-naked. "Luck has nothing to do with it. We've always made our own. As for us, I've finally got this and I'm willing to do what I have to, to keep it." "Keep what, Brad? A hand job in the grass?" Nate tries not to sound ungrateful because he's actually happy. It's more than he ever thought he would get. "The weekend's still young. I actually do plan on using that tent with you. And you're still in school. I think it works out good. Not that I don't expect you to come visit. But I know you'll be busy. The time will fly." Brad continues as if Nate never said anything. "Unless, you don't want this." Nate weighs Brad's words. Him and Brad and not just a desperate fuck in the grass. The idea of something more tugs deep inside him. He never even considered the idea before because the ramifications were always completely incongruous with their lives and careers. Even now, Nate doubts Brad knows what he's really asking. "This?" Nate asks, wanting to be sure. Because if he's wrong, it's better to find out now. "This," Brad replies as he slowly rests his hand on the side of Nate's face. Running his thumb over Nate's jaw bone, Brad leans over and kisses him for the first time. Their lips sit softly together, tentatively moving until slowly their mouths open and their tongues touch as well. It's slow and drawn out, completely purposeful until it breaks through the last of Nate's defenses and he finds himself falling, like he jumped out of a plane without a static line. Falling. Falling. The world is off kilter when he finally opens his eyes. Brad is sitting next to him and the mask he usually wears is completely gone. When Nate looks at him, he sees the depth of everything they've been through but also the strength of Brad's core. It makes Nate feel stronger as well; whole and complete and not alone. "How could I not want this," Nate stammers out. Brad smiles, leaning in for another kiss and whispering against his face, "Good." Nate pushes Brad back into the grass with Brad murmuring something about a tent and an air mattress. Nate grins wickedly and shakes his head. They have all weekend after all. Besides, he thinks as he crawls to Brad's side, casually picking up the bag of marshmallows, he's got some revenge to take as well. Brad sees him, however, and tries to make a break for it, but Nate tackles him to the ground. Brad may have height on his side, but Nate's got scrappiness. They laugh as they tumble their way through the campsite, not making it to the tent at all. Lying awake afterwards, Nate smiles as he looks up into the nighttime sky. Beside him, Brad is snoring lightly. The fire has reduced to coals, but is still providing them with warmth. The stars are even shining brightly tonight. Looking back towards Brad, Nate reaches out and traces the outline of his face with his eyes. Brad is sleeping soundly, and for the first time in years, Nate feels like he's standing on solid ground. Maybe he is rather lucky, after all. ~end~ A/N: 1. The title of the last chapter, You Me We is based on a gorgeous icon by le_mort_art.
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