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It’s cold in the desert at night, and by the time they reach the wall on the north side of the city the sun's heat is long gone, breath visible, fingers stiff. They circle the target in wide rings, observing, but Brad doesn’t like all the foot traffic he’s seeing, realizes fast that their planned approach leaves them too vulnerable to detection. Doc spots a wall tall enough to make it onto the roof next door, Brad climbs the steep thatching and pulls himself up onto the ledge of the apartment block beside it. From there he can see the way to the target as the crow flies, and it’s smooth sailing after that.
From the roof of their objective all they can hear is silence, nothing to give the place away, but Brad’s stomach feels like it’s in a vise grip, the hairs on his neck are at attention, and this is the fucking place, he can feel it. They scope the surrounding rooftops and windows, looking for signs of life or the glint of a sniper’s barrel, but there’s nothing, just the distant and ever-present boom of artillery, and a million fucking stars in the sky.
They spend all of 30 seconds trying to isolate the right wires out of the tangled mess hanging from the side of the building, but fuck that, they end up cutting the whole damn thing down and the block goes dark. They wait to see if anything stirs as a result, but the way this fucked up country operates, electricity is something the locals live without as often as not. Turns out power going off unexpectedly doesn’t even raise a fucking eyebrow, no one even comes out to investigate. They finally drop down a ventilation shaft, swift and silent and minutes from deadly, sliding down deserted hallways in the pitch black. It’s stifling inside, like the place has been locked up tight, just hot dust hanging in the air and finally, the drone of voices from somewhere beneath them.
They follow the sounds down a flight of stairs and crouch in the shadows, melting into the darkness, perfectly motionless. It’s two big metal doors with no windows, no intel and no confirmation of what lies behind them. Except possibly (according to the sources they snatched and spent the afternoon pumping for info with methods maybe not fully in accordance with the Geneva Convention) the LT, and that’s all Brad needs to know.
He motions to the team, then pushes carefully at the door nearest him. It cracks open, no problem, three targets end of the hall with AKs, gathered around a single candle and glowing green and grey through Brad’s goggles, and they don’t even know they’ve got company until there are knives at their throats. Brad sees the spatter cut across the second one’s face as he slices the first one open, sees Poke’s knife rip a dripping black line across number two’s throat almost simultaneously. Feels the adrenaline rush when he smells the fresh blood, Ka Bar slippery but steady in his hand, and he’s never in his whole career felt such satisfaction in a kill.
They step over the pile of corpses, advancing fast, another set of double metal doors, another, shorter hallway with two more armed guards smoking a pipe at the end of it, it’s the same shit all over again. This time Brad sees Pappy’s knife glint, moving in the opposite direction of Brad’s but to the same purpose, and they leave two more corpses and move to the next set of doors.
A big warehouse, shelves with boxes and old machinery and lamplight from what must be a big fucking flash light glowing from somewhere toward the back. Hard to tell how many people in the cacophony of yelling, then there’s a loud groan and an echo of one familiar voice in a sea of gibberish, and Brad’s barely breathing, relief and horror hitting him at once. It takes all he has not to charge out into the open, guns blazing, but Poke’s hand clamps down on his arm, hard, like he knows what Brad’s thinking. Clearly, the sickening sound of skin on skin, the crack of knuckles hitting bone, and that groan from the LT again, and Brad feels his throat vibrate with a scream that wants to come out, with the rage of knowing he’s been bitching about wanting a real mission, one that matters, and this isn’t what he meant.
They creep closer to the light, the rise and fall of the hajji voices and the intermittent blows painfully amplified by the tin roof of the warehouse, and likewise the groaning and hissing of the prisoner. That voice, completely distinguishable even through the rough, groggy croak of what Brad can only assume is extreme pain, not answering the questions that are flying at him in loud, broken English, but answering different ones instead.
Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick, United States Marine Corps.
Then his serial number, just like they’re trained to do. Nothing more and nothing less, and then there’s more yelling, the sound of another blow landing and another grunt from the LT, and Poke’s hand tightens even more on his arm.
Be cool, dog. Almost there.
He hisses right into Brad’s ear, Brad feels more than hears it penetrate, and he knows Poke is right, but his fingers are itching get in there, to cut the owner of those knuckles wide open, to spill more of these goat-fucking bitches’ blood.
They slide as close as they can without detection, and it’s do or die time. NVG’s off, guns up, Brad gives the signal and they’re around the corner and advancing fast. Hajjis are screaming suddenly, Brad hears AK fire mixed with friendlies, takes out one guy who’s directly in his path but otherwise lets his team handle that. Brad’s objective is clear, and it’s tied naked to a chair, bloody and bruised.
Head barely lifts, eyes barely open when Brad hauls the chair back against the wall, into a better defensive posture, and starts sawing through the ropes with his gory knife. Nate manages to croak out one word:
Brad.
And Brad has to put the roadblock up in his brain, can’t let the relief and pain in that single word get all the way inside or he’ll come the fuck apart and this is not the fucking time, not even close to the fucking time.
Clear, Brad; move the fuck out!
Doc’s yelling, moving toward the door, and Brad’s hauling the LT up over and across his shoulders like a sack of flour when he hears the whiz and thud.
Incoming!
He turns, throws the limp body as far as he can and dives on top, feels the RPG explode, so loud he can’t even hear it, doesn’t even register as sound just as pressure and heat, and at first he wonders if his eardrums got blown. He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t breathe, mentally checking that all his limbs and extremities are present and accounted for before rolling off the body beneath and running hands over it, making sure everything’s still there. He presses ear to lips, listening, feeling for breath, and when it washes warm against his cheek he can fucking feel the relief shoot down through his guts, making him almost queasy.
Through the smoke he sees the side of the building is caved in, no fucking prayer of going out the way he came; as the dust settles he sees Pappy across the sea of rubble, and it might as well be wide as an ocean for all the hope there is of crossing that way. Pappy’s mouth is moving, Brad sees that before he can actually hear him, then finally the message gets through. They’re fine, everybody’s up and mobile, they’re coming around for Brad and the LT, but Brad knows that’s a no-go. Whoever fired that RPG is still around, probably just reloading, and they can’t stick around here, running around the perimeter of the building like they’re in a fucking parade. No fucking way, the hajjis will be on this place like flies on shit soon enough, and that’s a sure way to get themselves all killed. Not happening, not while Brad’s still running this show.
Rendezvous!
He screams as loud as he can, hoping Pappy can hear him better than he can hear Pappy.
Link up there!
Doesn’t wait for Pappy to argue or agree, just slings that body over his shoulder again and humps it out the gaping hole in the wall. Hears gunfire popping around and behind him, knows it means his boys are covering him, and he keeps his head down and doesn’t stop. Trusts his team to fight their way out, can’t worry about it now anyway, and his priority is getting Nate the fuck out of this shit.
He’s panting, disoriented, sweating like a fucking ox and fogging up his NVGs but still running, keeping up his pace, just trying to get outside the city walls. When he finally does, he realizes fast they’re at the fucking southern gate, and he’s got to make it all the way north and then some before they reach the rendezvous. Goddamn.
He scans the horizon for some kind of cover, and heads for a palm grove he can just barely identify over the top of a berm to the east. By the time they reach it, Brad’s barely got enough left to make it up and over the berm, then he deposits his cargo unceremoniously at the base of a tree, landing punctuated with a thud and a groan.
A quick scan around the grove, no movement, no noise detected, then Brad waits a few silent moments, just ensuring they weren’t tailed before he kneels beside the LT and pulls out his canteen.
Drink, Sir.
He’s careful to adjust his whisper to take into account his impaired hearing, important not to talk too loud just because he can’t hear his own voice. Seems to register, though, and there’s at least enough strength left in the LT to take the canteen from Brad’s hand, to hold it up to his own lips, and Brad can only take that as a good fucking sign. He actually smiles as he watches the Adam’s apple bob; proof that Nate’s really alive, really ingesting that water, really going to make it.
Brad unharnesses his gear, rips his jacket off and throws it over Nate. No ideas what to do about the lack of appropriate clothing, but at least the jacket will help corral a little body heat, offer some measure of protection against the night cold. Nate murmurs his thanks, then-
How’d you find me?
Reconnaissance, Sir. Novelty in this war, I know, but we’re actually pretty fucking good at it.
The LT manages a pathetic version of a grin, swollen eyes and maroon-smeared teeth against cracked, bloody lips in the dark, and Brad feels that same rage that’s been slicing into him for the last 36 hours filling him up until his hands shake, and this shouldn’t have happened, should never have fucking happened. Remembers looking through broken glass that used to be a window, watching the LT and his boys kicking in the front door of the apartment building on the corner while Brad and Ray tried to figure out how to handle the assload of weaponry in the fucking shit-hut they were clearing. They were still arguing about it when they heard the explosion; Brad remembers how the hair on his neck prickled to life, instinct telling him this wasn’t just run of the mill bullshit but something more serious, remembers how he threw the weapons down and ran. Remembers Stafford and Christeson in the back of a truck with IV’s dripping and Gunny with a rag held over one half of his bloodied face, Doc working on the bullet hole in his arm, and how when Gunny finally met Brad’s eyes there was an apology there Brad wasn’t up for accepting.
He shakes it off, pulls a rag out of his vest, douses it with water from his canteen, and takes Nate’s chin in his hand.
Let’s see what we’ve got here, Sir.
Nate closes his eyes, small nod and jaw clenched, and Brad starts to wipe the blood and filth from his face, revealing the cuts and bruises underneath. Split lip, gashed and broken nose, abraded check and both eyes bruised and swollen. Hands run over close-shorn hair, feeling across the cuts and bumps for anything particularly alarming. There’s nothing awful, no huge lump or gaping wound hiding in Nate’s hair that might mean a bad head injury, internal bleeding, something hidden and innocuous that could turn unexpectedly lethal, but Brad knows fuck-all about this shit and although Nate seems alert enough, considering, Brad knows that doesn’t always mean anything. All he can do is go on.
How about the rest? Anything giving you trouble?
Brad’s asking while he’s examining, hands running all along those long arms, manipulating hands and fingers, across the broad shoulders, one of which is obviously sore but doesn't seem dislocated, and down over the back, feeling his way, looking for something catastrophic. Goes as easy as he can on the ribs and kidneys, hears Nate suck air and hiss, but he has to check, and knows there’s at least a couple of broken ribs there but Nate’s breathing okay, not too wheezy or labored, so thinks the lungs must not be too bad off. He squeezes thighs and calves, rotates ankles and wiggles toes, and this time when he looks up to see Nate smiling, it’s a different kind of smile. No blood in this one, for starters, and those perfect white teeth are still the same as they always were.
I’m fine, Brad. A little worse for wear, but I’ll be fine.
The voice is coarse, ragged, like that one statement is expending all the energy he has left, and Brad knows it’s probably been 36 hours since he got food or water. He shoves the canteen back into Nate’s hands.
Keep drinking. And while you’re at it, eat.
He pulls a peanut butter pouch out of his vest and rips it open with his teeth, pushes it into the hand that isn’t already busy with the canteen.
Yes, Sir, Sergeant Colbert.
The LT quirks another try at a grin, and Brad thinks if he’s still got it in him to be a smart ass, all is not lost. Nate obeys the order without any grumbling, and Brad has to grin back. He makes another round of the perimeter, peering out into the darkness and listening, feeling his hearing come back slowly, and still no sign of movement outside the shuffle and slurp of Nate eating and drinking in the middle of the grove. He climbs up to the top of the berm and watches, but there’s no action behind the city walls, no sound and no movement.
It’s 0300 local, they’ve got 3 good hours before they lose the cover of dark, and Brad’s debating – rest up awhile longer, which they could both use, or move out now, get the LT to a medic asap. He heads back down to find the LT with his eyes closed, perfectly motionless. Considering his head wounds, Brad’s thinking that’s not such a great idea, so he whispers.
Sir.
Nothing.
Sir.
More nothing.
Sir!
He feels the iron spike of fear invade his chest, and Brad Colbert doesn’t panic but this is Nate, and Brad’s thinking internal bleeding, concussion, shock, fuck knows and yeah, watching Nate motionless and unresponsive definitely will do it even if nothing else does. He wants to scream, can’t, so he kneels down and puts lips to ear, hisses as loud as he dares,
Nate. Nate, wake up.
Then puts his cheek in front of Nate’s mouth to feel for breath. When Nate’s lips move, it’s almost a kiss on Brad’s cheek.
Did you just call me Nate?
Brad lets out a laugh that he thinks might be borderline hysterical.
Sorry Sir. You were -. Not responding.
I think…considering…I can…let it slide.
He’s shaking now, teeth chattering suddenly and voice slurred, and Brad’s not sure if it’s the cold or if it’s the injuries catching up with him, body finally reacting to the trauma. He slides down beside Nate, rubs his arms and then wraps him up, throws a leg over him too, getting as much body heat on him as he can, just trying to stop the shaking. Nate just hisses and burrows closer.
Sorry.
Not your fault, Sir.
I mean…all of this.
Could have been any of us, Sir. Gunny said you were out when they snatched you. We didn’t even know at first if you were -.
He stops there, tries not to think about those first hours, no one knowing anything yet, not sure if the LT was even alive, just that he was unconscious when they grabbed him. Tries not to remember the crippling relief that rolled through him when they got confirmation from a second source that the American was still alive, how he’d had to excuse himself from the room for a minute because of the very real fear that he might lose the meager contents of his stomach.
The LT is still shaking, words coming out between the clacking of his teeth.
Knew you…you’d find me.
That’s our job, Sir.
No…Brad…knew it would be you…was waiting for you.
He tucks his face against Brad’s chest, and Brad’s thinking there’s no way he should be undone this far by a half-dead man in the middle of hostile territory, still 7, maybe 8 kliks from safety, at least. Can’t keep himself from running his hand over the close-shorn hair, can’t keep himself from hoping the LT never finds out how he damn near got himself NJP’d mouthing off to Encino Man and even fucking Godfather himself, but he knew, he fucking knew they were gonna fuck this up, too. Only this wasn’t just some dumbass fuckin airstrike on a shithole village, not some wrong turn on a map or some bullshit officers’ pissing contest, this was the LT, his LT, and he couldn’t let it go down like that, couldn’t let the hours keep ticking by while his illustrious commanding officers tried to find a satisfactory way to extract their brainless, pea-sized skulls from up their own fucking assholes. Instead he put his team together, he briefed them on the operation he had planned, and charged into fucking command to present it to Godfather like someone had actually asked his fucking opinion, like it was his fucking call to make. And in the end, Godfather stared him down for a good 30 seconds, during which Brad saw his entire career flash before his eyes, then said,
Go get him, Sergeant.
Wisest fucking words ever spoken by that man, for Brad’s money. Now, with Nate breathing on his neck, clinging to him and shivering, Brad knows it was worth risking however long it would have earned him in the Brig. Worth being kicked right out of the goddamn Corps, if that’s what it took.
We’ve got to move soon, Sir.
I know…little longer. Okay?
Sure. A little longer.
Brad whispers it against the side of Nate’s face, squeezing him tighter. He just keeps holding on, until finally the shaking stops, but Nate’s still mumbling mostly-incoherent nonsense against his neck, and Brad is starting to think staying here much longer instead of getting Nate to a Corpsman is a really bad idea until he hears,
Waiting for you…always waiting for you.
Come again, Sir?
All I could think, while they were…y’know.
Brad feels his heart in his throat, feels like he can’t breathe, and he doesn’t want to know what they were doing, not sure he can stand knowing, but Nate stops there.
I was thinking, it's just waiting, just like always. Waiting for you, I know how to do that. Can do that with my eyes closed. Been doing it for months.
Nate doesn’t know what he’s saying, Brad shouldn’t even be listening, definitely shouldn’t be encouraging this, but he can’t help himself. He clears his throat.
Waiting for me, Sir?
Waiting all the time for you, Brad. Everyday. Waiting for this to all be over. Waiting for the right time; see if you're waiting too.
And Brad’s not sure, he doesn’t know, he can’t even believe. This is delirium, obviously, has to be; maybe Nate’s, maybe his own. Maybe both of them have goddamn brain damage.
But Nate lifts his head up, slowly. His voice is still rough as sandpaper, barely above a whisper and groggy as hell, but his bruised, swollen eyes are focused and he’s looking right at Brad, and suddenly he doesn’t seem very delirious.
I knew you were coming, Brad. Knew you’d go AWOL if you had to. I just had to be patient, wait it out, and I knew you’d find me.
His lip twitches, barely, like he doesn’t have the energy for the smirk that should go there.
At least that’s what I told myself. Maybe just desperation, nothing else to believe in. I’m not sure.
Nate’s cold fingers press against Brad’s face, and Brad can’t be sure if they’re just talking about this mission anymore, if Nate has any idea what he’s saying at all, but Brad just shakes his head, not able to bite back the words before they're out of his throat.
No way I was leaving you out there, no way I wasn’t going to come get you and bring you home. They would’ve had to kill me first, Sir.
And Brad’s not sure who “they” would be, exactly, could be the Hajjis or could be command, could be his own fucking men, and it would all be true, suddenly Brad is fucking sure of that, sure that he really would have gone AWOL if that’s what it had taken, and yeah, fuck, that’s not a small thing, that’s not standard Marine Corps never leave a man behind lip service, and that doesn’t’ make it any less true.
I’m just sorry it took so long. It was. It should have happened faster. You shouldn’t have had to -.
He stops before his voice breaks, stops before he shows too much, but the look on Nate’s face says maybe he’s too late. It’s suddenly alert and focused, like a switch flipped; like maybe Brad’s already shown all there is to show, because Nate says,
I could’ve held out longer, if I needed to. I can be one patient motherfucker, Brad, if the payoff’s big enough.
And there’s something Brad can’t name in his voice, in his eyes, fucked up as they both are; something so basic and undeniable that it’s suddenly fucking impossible for Brad not to lean forward, impossible not to press his mouth against Nate’s rough, cracked lips, impossible not to kiss his CO right there in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night in the middle of this mess they’re in the motherfucking middle of.
And Brad’s thought it plenty of times before, that he’s in too deep with this thing with the LT, that he’s letting it get out of hand and he needs to reign it in or its going to get the better of him, but now he fucking knows, like he hasn’t known before, or at least hasn’t admitted before, that it’s already too late, way too fucking late.
Those lips are dry and cold against his mouth, but they’re breathing warm moist air, and Nate’s pressing closer, Brad’s sure he’s not imagining it, and then Nate’s ice cold fingers spread over his cheek and his thumb slides under Brad’s chin to pull him in, and he knows he’s not fucking imagining that. His hand goes around the back of Nate’s neck like it belongs there, like it was made to fit in that exact spot, and he’s not sure how long it lasts, only that they’re both panting when it’s over. And Jesus, that busted up face looking at him, calm and stoic, masking fuck knows how many different kinds of pain and disappointment and fear, hand still freezing cold against Brad’s skin, and Brad’s pretty certain that whatever’s left of his fucking heart will break right open if he looks too long at Nate like this. So instead he pulls away, stands up, gets himself together.
We’ve got to move. The longer we sit still the more likely that trouble finds us.
Nate nods, lets Brad help him up with one arm, other arm still clutching Brad’s jacket around his shoulders. Brad tugs it off him and props him against the tree, the pulls the jacket snug around his waist and ties the arms into a knot. Nate lets out a quiet snort.
I think it’s a little late to worry about protecting my modesty, Brad.
Brad grins, but only for a second.
It’s probably gonna hurt like a bitch when I pick you up, Sir.
Nate just nods.
I remember the ride here, believe me.
Brad’s eyebrow shoots up.
You didn’t tell me I was hurting you-
You were dodging bullets with a 190 pound sack of bones on your back, Brad. I figured you had enough to worry about.
He shakes his head, resolved.
I’ll be fine. Let’s do this.
Brad gives a nod, leans down, grabs Nate around the waist, and hoists him up and over. He hears Nate hiss and groan, panting a little. Wants to ask if he’s okay, but knows the fucking answer to that, so instead he just grunts,
190, Sir? Maybe back home. Couldn’t be an ounce over 175 now.
Hears Nate huff from somewhere behind him,
Oh, well in that case. Guess this’ll be a fuckin cake walk, Sergeant.
And it’s weak and breathy and punctuated by a pathetic-sounding whimper, but it’s Nate being Nate, and Brad grins, and busts North out of that grove as fast as he can move.
+ + +
When they finally reach the rendezvous, dawn is breaking and when he hears Pappy call for the pass, he can feel himself start to unravel, adrenaline-numbed nerve-endings suddenly opening up to the searing pain, whatever had remained of the Iceman melting into a puddle of sweating, heaving, brain-dead relief. As soon as Brad answers he hears the clatter of them running, feels the weight of the LT lifted off his back, and everything goes foggy. He doesn’t remember much about the ride back to camp, nothing but darkness and exhaustion and his head leaned forward against the dash, hand out the window and snaked around, fingers against the LT’s neck where he’s stretched across the hood of the vehicle.
Doesn’t even remember much about arriving, just Ray jabbering and pats on the back, oo-fucking-rah and get some and Godfather shaking his hand while the boys carry Nate away from him, past him off to somewhere, and he can’t even wonder where, can’t keep tabs because it’s taking all he’s got not to fucking retch all over Godfather’s boots.
Eventually Doc sticks him with a needle about 5 goddamn times, that he fucking remembers.
Jesus Christ, Doc, I’m not a fucking pin cushion.
Your veins are fucking deflated, Brad. You gave LT all your water, didn’t you.
It’s not even a question.
He needed it more than me.
Yeah well, fucking lot of good it would have done him if you passed out in the middle of the fucking desert from dehydration. Fucking genius, Brad.
All Brad says is,
I made it, didn’t I?
Doc just looks at him, hangs the IV bag and hands it to him, manually raises Brad’s arm up and holds it there.
Yeah. Yeah, you fucking made it.
Two quick taps on the shoulder, and he walks away, and Brad watches the IV drip like an hourglass and wonders where they took Nate, and if he’ll even get to see him again before they casevac him out of this godforsaken place.
+ + +
Turns out, he doesn’t. Nate is transported directly to a rear medical unit and from there to Spain, all before Brad even gets the IV out of his fucking arm. Which he’s actually grateful for, in the end, because in the light of day, in the safety of camp and with will all his bodily fluids and mental faculties restored to their rightful levels, Brad feels the burning shame of that kiss in the palm grove rush in, pushing down on him like the weight of the world. It seems suddenly clear to him that he took advantage of the situation, of the LT saying and doing things Brad knows better than to think he would ever have said or done if he hadn’t been completely fucking wrecked, and Brad doesn’t know how he let that happen. He’s an opportunist in most senses of the word, a predator, too; takes pride in that, actually, wears them both like badges of honor, but this was something different, something that feels, with hindsight, sneaky and wrong and the opposite of honorable.
Even when part of him whispers that Nate wouldn’t have said those things, wouldn’t have kissed him back if there wasn’t something in him that wanted to, that doesn’t excuse it, Brad knows, because it’s not like he didn’t know already, really, not like anything was revealed that night that wasn’t already implicitly understood by both of them, assumed by those close to them, and none of that makes it okay. Whatever Nate keeps hidden under the surface stays under the surface for a reason, just like it does for Brad, and just because it came bubbling up for a few minutes in the dark middle of nowhere when Nate’d just spent hours impersonating a fucking Hajji punching bag, that didn’t give Brad the right. He should have done better, should’ve been better – for Nate – and that’s all there is to it.
He keeps on going, of course, no way out of this but through it; works even harder if that’s possible, makes sure his men sleep and eat and goes without himself, some kind of penance for losing his shit out there, for letting it get away from him, this thing he thought he had under wraps. Even though there’s no one there to know, even though the LT is thousands of miles away and, Brad can only hope, doesn’t remember a minute of any of it. Brad remembers, though, and he alternates between wishing to God he didn’t, and jerking off to the memory of Nate’s lips against his, Nate’s hand on his face tugging him closer, Nate’s broken voice rasping, waiting all the time for you, Brad.
Nothing’s different now, though, not really; the only thing that’s changed is his dreams, the one thing he can’t fucking control.
He sleeps even less than before, when he does sleep still wakes to caked on dirt, sand in his hair, and the oppressive smell of his own filth mixed with the stench of death in the desert. His eyes are still gritty with no sleep and the strain of constant concentration, his lips cracked, skin too tight for his body; it’s always the same, every day, or night, or whenever he manages to close his eyes for more than 30 seconds at a time. The first time he slept long enough to dream in Iraq, it didn’t even feel like a dream, it felt like real life, just with his eyes closed. It was more desert, death and destruction, and the same smothering heat, asleep or awake. It was Person next to him in the Humvee, running his fucking mouth so long Brad thinks his ears will bleed, it was Rolling Stone behind him, breathing loud and panicky every time he hears a shot, it was Poke’s voice in the distance, bitching about the white man, and it was the LT at his window bearing gifts, handing over a can of gun lube. But something’s changed, maybe Brad has changed, a shift in something down at his core, something fundamental and solid. By the time they roll into Baghdad, all he dreams of is Nate’s face, his hands, his breath on Brad’s neck. He dreams of clean white sheets and limbs tangled together in sleep and Nate’s mouth on his in the sunshine of the California morning, and he wakes up sweating, shaken. He knows that kind of thinking is dangerous on all kinds of levels, reminds himself that it’s never going to be like that, feels stupid and pathetic for even possessing a subconscious that would dream up such a weak-titty, impossible goddamn dream.
+ + +
The LT is there to greet them when they hit the deck back home, and he’s got an extra bar on his collar. Ray’s shaking his hand, smirking,
Have a good vacation, LT?
Before he notices, does a double-take.
Oh, whoa, dude. Captain, my bad. Guess you’re big time now, Sir.
That grin is the same as always, LT or Cap or whatever, but Brad tries not to notice, just loiters near the back and attempts to act normal, but he can’t seem to conjure up what normal used to look like, what he would have said or done, before. There’s an odd tension in his chest, something foreign and uncomfortable he’s sure he’s never felt before, and when Nate finally makes eye contact, whatever it is seizes up so he can hardly breathe. All Brad can do is hope it’s not visible on the outside, and shake Nate’s hand when it’s offered.
Brad.
His voice is softer now, the rest of the guys have moved on, started to disperse, and it’s just Brad and Nate standing here in the hot afternoon sun, with nowhere to hide.
Captain.
Brad manages a sardonic tone and a raised eyebrow; it’s the best impression of the Iceman he can do under the circumstances. Nate just grins, ducks his head and fucking blushes, and Brad’s scoping the fastest possible escape route, wants to just cut and run, say anything and get the fuck away, but Nate’s looking at him, and he’s filled back out, looks strong and healthy again, nothing like last time Brad saw him. And he’s still grinning, face still all bashful, and Brad’s thinking this is so un-fucking-fair.
Yeah. Turns out all I had to do to fast track that promotion was put in a couple days as a POW. Who knew?
Well, I guess if you want to take the pussy way up the ladder, that’s your business, Sir.
Nate laughs, short and deep, hands in his pockets, and his voice is suddenly lower.
I think I owe you a drink, Sergeant. Not sure that really gets you back for the whole life saving thing, but it’s a start, right?
And there’s this look on his face, a look Brad can’t read, and he used to be able to read Nate like a book but apparently a few weeks apart is all it takes to fuck up the mojo.
Well. A near-death experience, a suicidal rescue mission, an ill-advised and highly fucking inappropriately timed kiss, and a few weeks apart. And Christ, yeah, Brad figures that should be plenty to take whatever silent understanding, whatever unspoken communication and natural synchronicity they once shared and knock it right on its ass. He coughs, clears his throat.
I, uh. You know, there’s a lot of shit…
He jerks his thumb back over his shoulder, gestures vaguely toward the direction the others already headed, and Nate nods.
No, I know. You’re just back, and. Just, when you’re settled and everything.
Absolutely. Yes, Sir.
Nate nods, seems satisfied enough with that answer, so Brad clips a quick salute and turns on his heel, leaves Nate standing there, and Brad can feel the heat of his eyes all the way across the parking lot.
+ + +
It’s weeks later, early afternoon when Nate catches him at his desk. No one else is around, most of the guys still down at chow, and he’s right there when Brad looks up. Nowhere to fucking run.
You avoiding me, Sergeant Colbert?
Brad steels himself.
No, Sir.
Brad’s pretty sure it can’t be counted as actual avoidance, anyway. He was on leave for awhile, and Nate’s still on restricted duty, still not cleared to fly or dive or get out in the field much, mostly stuck at his desk and it’s been pretty easy, really, to just steer clear without needing to be too deliberate about it.
But now Nate’s right in front of him, arms crossed and jaw set, Lieutenant-Fick-in-the-desert-style, and Brad gets the distinct feeling that’s all coming to a swift end, right here and now.
Have you had lunch?
No, Sir, had a lot of paperwork to catch up on so I thought I’d just –
Everybody’s got to eat, Brad. Come with me.
Brad recognizes a direct order when he hears one, nothing to do but nod and follow. Tries to keep his demeanor impassive but it’s hard not to feel like Dead Man Walking, and he doesn’t know where they’re going but the further they walk the less Brad wants to go there.
They stop on the shady side of a warehouse; Nate leans back against the cinder block wall and pulls a bottle of water and a packet of cheese crackers out of his pocket, holds them out.
Here.
This is lunch, Sir?
You were expecting something more elaborate?
Nate raises an eyebrow like a dare, and Brad just rips the cellophane open with his teeth, shrugs.
I’ve had worse.
He stuffs a cracker in his mouth for lack of anything better to do, but Nate’s eyes on him make his mouth go dry, and he can barely manage to swallow. He gulps the water like he’s been parched for days. Like Nate, that night in the desert.
You’ve probably heard, there’s a lot I don’t remember. About the abduction, I mean. And the recovery mission.
Brad nods, bites his lip. Rumors floating around about a moderately severe concussion, a slow-healing Subdural Hematoma and short term memory loss have, indeed, reached him. He’s been holding onto them for dear life, not even managing to feel guilty for hoping the memory loss bit is true, for hoping Nate has sustained what amounts to minor brain damage, just to get himself off the hook on a technicality. Because Nate not remembering doesn’t erase the fact that it happened, and Brad still remembers even if he’s the only one. Brad can’t fucking forget.
But there are things I do remember. Pieces.
Nate uncaps his own bottle, takes a long drink and looks at the wall above Brad’s head.
I remember it was loud, confusing, lots of yelling and. Pain. A lot of pain.
Brad tries not to cringe visibly.
Remember thinking I just had to wait, and it seemed like forever I was waiting, then you there all of a sudden, cutting my ropes. Like a fucking dream or something.
He pauses; Brad waits.
And being carried, feeling like I couldn’t breathe, but knowing that I was safe.
He takes another sip from his bottle, and this time his eyes land on Brad’s face, and the intensity of it would knock Brad back if he wasn’t leaned up against a concrete wall. He swallows thickly, watches Nate’s mouth working around the words.
Remember being cold, so fucking cold, and tired, and you wouldn’t let me sleep. I think you called me Nate.
His lips slide into a careful smile, tongue licks at the side of his mouth, and Brad huffs a tiny, tight little laugh.
Desperate times, Sir.
Nate’s laugh is a low rumble in his chest, eyes close and his nostrils flare for a minute, then,
And I think. I think you kissed me.
His eyes open again, and suddenly there’s no air in Brad’s lungs.
I have this memory, it’s. Vivid, but everything around it is so fuzzy, and it’s maybe just some kind of, I don’t know. Fabrication of some kind.
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, no big deal, but his gaze has actual physical power in it, has Brad pinned to the wall like a magnet.
So. Did you?
His eyes are narrowed like if he squints hard enough he can read the answers inside Brad’s brain, and Brad’s not a liar, never has been and won’t be. Whatever the consequences, he won’t be a fucking coward. He pulls himself upright, looks Nate in the eye.
Sir, I was- I don’t know what I was. Out of line, and be assured that I would never, under normal circumstances, but I was just so -
Brad -
I realize that I took advantage of your condition, Sir, and –
Brad. It’s not an accusation.
He’s smiling again, stepping closer, then his hand is on Brad’s stomach, and oh, Christ.
You saved my life, Sergeant. I’m not about to question your means of getting the job done.
And a look that hits Brad low in the gut, hot and fast, uncurls and expands inside him like smoke, fills in all Brad's negative space just like that. He doesn’t speak, has no words, and now Nate’s hand is fisted in his t-shirt, mouth close, whispering.
I remember you wrapped around me, Brad. Remember what it felt like, how hot your mouth was; I was so fucking cold and you felt so goddamn good. Remember saying I could be patient, if the payoff was big enough. You remember that?
Brad just nods, still struck dumb and mute, and Nate’s still smiling.
I think I’ve been pretty fucking patient, Brad. Wouldn’t you agree?
Sir, I.
Brad’s at a loss, a complete and total fucking loss, and they’re standing in the middle of the base and the LT, the fucking Captain is so close, touching him and looking at him in a way that leaves no question this time, and Brad’s not sure yet what to make of this.
I think it’s time you let me buy you that drink, Brad. Tonight. Snooky’s, say 1900?
He raises an eyebrow, a question not an order this time, leaving Brad an out, but Brad just nods. Nate alone, no buffer and more questions, that’s a given, and Jesus Christ, this is not what he expected when he woke up this morning.
+ + +
1858 and Brad walks through the door, blinks to let his eyes adjust to the dark, and Nate’s already there, booth in the corner, beer on the table in front of him. Brad signals to the bartender as he walks past, slides in across from Nate.
Brad’s had some time to think, not like he was getting any fucking work done all afternoon, that’s for fucking sure, just stared at the forms in front of him and thought about Nate’s hand holding onto his t-shirt, thought about all the reasons he should have said no, and all the reasons he didn’t. And shit, there are so many fucking reasons he didn’t. He’s already decided that no matter what happens, the way Nate looked at him next to that warehouse, the way he smiled, Brad can’t just ignore that, can’t be the only one taking the high road, it can’t all be on him. And all the months they’ve danced around this, all this time they’ve ignored it and avoided it and pretended it wasn’t there, at least they were in it together, side by side in their mutual decision not to acknowledge or act on whatever it is. And if Nate’s jumping ship, if he’s going to stop holding his breath and come up for air, Brad thinks it’s only fair that he gets to breathe, too. So whatever fucking happens, however badly it might end, Brad’s made up his mind, got his footing back now, and he’s prepared. Funny how all it took was one decision, however ill-fated it may turn out to be, and he’s back to feeling like his old self. He smirks as Nate sips his beer.
Brad’s beer is delivered, he sips it slowly, watches Nate carefully, but they don’t speak at first. Not until Nate finally drains his bottle, signals for another one, and raises his eyebrow.
We’re both intelligent individuals, Brad. Well above average, wouldn’t you agree?
I would, yes Sir.
So let’s apply ourselves, Sergeant. There are some obvious logistical difficulties posed by this situation.
Obvious, yes.
Me being your commanding officer being the main one. Pretty much the textbook definition of fraternization, and all.
Agreed, Sir.
That, and the whole no sodomy thing.
Brad almost chokes at the word sodomy, but he manages to get the mouthful of beer down and speak without coughing.
I’d say that could also be problematic, yes.
I think I have a solution.
Is it to just stop giving a shit, Sir? Because that’s the best I’ve come up with.
Nate’s laugh is low in his throat, his eyes are bright green and Brad’s never had him all alone like this, really alone with no one they know around, and his fingers are already aching to learn the feel of Nate's skin, the shapes of his muscles and bones.
Actually I can do you one better.
Do tell, then.
I’m leaving the Corps, Brad.
And okay, he didn’t see that one coming. He’s pretty sure his face shows it, too, watches the smile fade from Nate’s face as he sees Brad’s reaction.
Hey.
Nate slips down in his seat, knocks his knee against Brad’s under the table.
You can’t. I can’t let you do that, Sir. You can’t throw away your career for.
For what, Brad wonders. What would it be, what could it be, if things were different?
Nate’s hand slides down, out of sight, Brad feels his palm skate along the outside of his thigh, closest to the wall. Felt, not seen.
I was never cut out to be a career Marine, Brad. That was never in the cards for me anyway, not like you.
His fingers tighten a little, curling around Brad’s thigh, his knee pushes further between Brad’s.
So despite what your fantastically large ego might be telling you, this decision isn’t actually all about you. And it’s already made, done deal, so save your noble protests for someone else.
Brad watches carefully, watches that face for traces of regret, of anything for Brad to feel guilty about, but Nate’s no liar, either, and if he’s made up his mind, he had his reasons, and Brad’s got no reason to doubt him. Finally he lets his lips curve upward.
Well then. If I can’t interest you in my noble protests and my fantastically large ego, Sir, what pray tell can I interest you in?
Nate smiles back, but his eyes are cloudy.
I want to know what happened, Brad. I hate not remembering. Even the shitty parts, I just. I need to know.
Then his thumb presses along the seam on the inside of Brad’s thigh. Jesus, the look on his face, and Brad’s protest, noble or otherwise, catches right at the top of his throat and dies, and all he says is,
Where do you want me to start?
From the very beginning.
Brad hesitates, just for a minute, but Nate’s thumb is still tracing the seam of Brad’s jeans, back and forth like pacing without standing up, and he sets his jaw.
Talk, Colbert.
Sir. Surely you’ve heard all this. You must’ve spoken to Gunny.
I did.
And what did he say?
That he woke up with a bullet in his arm and half his face bashed in, and you looking at him like you just watched your new puppy get run over by a truck, and he’s the one who left the gate open.
Nate smirks; he clearly enjoyed that.
Uh. Gunny said that, did he?
Direct quote.
Brad’s suddenly, humiliatingly aware of the fact that he is actually blushing, and Brad Colbert doesn’t fucking blush, but Nate’s fingers run higher up suddenly, hand moving up Brad’s thigh til he has to swallow the sound that rises up his throat in order to avoid further humiliation, and Nate just raises an eyebrow, still grinning, and asks,
Did you want to dispute Mike’s assessment of events?
Brad just blinks and breathes,
No, Sir, that sounds. Accurate enough.
And that motherfucker is still grinning, teeth flashing.
Mike also said you went toe-to-toe with Schwetje, went straight to Godfather and forced his hand into approving the recovery operation. That sound about right, too?
Something like that, yes Sir.
He didn’t know much about what happened after that. He got casevaced out.
Brad nods, shrugs, knowing he’s supposed to pick up where Gunny left off.
We went hunting, Sir, simple as that. Found who we needed to find, the ones who knew what we needed to know, and they confirmed you were alive. We couldn’t be certain, of course. For all we knew you were killed in the blast and they were just fucking with us, but we felt good about our intel.
Nate’s grin is gone, his face suddenly paler, and Brad’s free hand, the one not clutching his almost-empty beer, moves from where it’s been resting uselessly on the table and settles in a firm fist on top of Nate’s, anchoring it right there to Brad’s leg under the table.
We stood by til nightfall. I didn’t want to wait, but.
It was the right move, tactically. You know that, Brad. I know that.
He runs his thumb back and forth over Brad's knuckles under the table, nods for him to continue. Brad just shrugs again.
Then we moved in, came and got you.
How’d you know where I was?
We didn’t, just the building. Once we were in, we followed the voices. Then we heard you, knew you were alive at least. Couldn’t see you yet, we were coming in from the front and they had you in the back corner of this warehouse, but we could tell. You know, that you were. In bad shape.
Brad remembers the rage in that moment, remembers the blood already on his hands and the itch for more, and his fingers grip tighter at Nate’s.
Must’ve been tough. Hearing that, I mean.
Brad raises an eyebrow,
I think you got the worse end of that deal, Sir,
But Nate shakes his head.
I don’t know. I’d much rather get my own ass kicked than have to stand there and listen to someone abusing you, listen to you in pain.
And that’s when Brad feels it, immediate and scorching and fucking endless, realizes what this is, how deep it really goes, how wide it really reaches, and it’s not just him. Brad’s always been the warrior, the defender, the protector, but this is something new, Nate is something brand fucking new, someone who’d fight for him, risk life and limb for him, sacrifice for him, and Brad’s never had that before, not from anyone outside his brothers-in-arms, but that’s a whole different kind of love.
And Jesus fuck. Love.
Shit. He’s so screwed.
Brad tells the whole story in excruciating detail, right up to and including the part where he has to say,
And then I kissed you,
And Nate grins, 4 beers in and pretty loose by that point, and makes a noise Brad can’t identify, but that he feels like a shot directly to the groin.
Say that part again,
And Nate’s eyes are half closed. Brad can’t help it, a smile is starting at the edge of his lips, watching Nate like this.
I kissed you.
And what did I do?
You. Put your hand on my face, and. Held me there. And kissed me back.
Nate’s still grinning at him, a little sleepy eyed and really fucking proud of himself. Brad shakes his head.
I can’t believe what a fucking lightweight you are, Sir. Four beers and you’re already tipsy? Not to mention, you said you remember the story of our illustrious first kiss. Or have you forgotten you remembered?
I haven’t ingested a single sip of alcohol in over a year,
As if that explains everything,
And I’m not tipsy, I’m just relaxed.
Brad just raises an eyebrow.
Relaxed. Interesting.
Nate smirks, kicks at him under the table.
And I’m well aware that I remember our illustrious first kiss, trust me. First and only thus far, by my calculations.
Suddenly the grin is gone, Nate’s eyes are flashing dark, looking at Brad, speaking without words. Brad swallows the rest of his beer.
Seems like we should remedy that at our first opportunity, Sir.
Nate nods his head, tips his beer up as well, and the heavy, hollow thud of it against the table when he finishes might as well be a starting gun.