![[personal profile]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
Work Text:
Nate steps out of the tent, breathes in, and relaxes his posture a little. The outside air doesn't smell of Dave's jar of pickles; how that man got a glass jar of pickles sent from home all the way to Kuwait, Nate doesn't care to know.
Nate struggles to resist the urge to cough up the dust irritating his throat. The camp is never asleep, even at 0200, but there's something about the dark that threatens to swallow the camp whole that stops him from coughing too loud.
As always, Nate checks to see that the watch towers are manned. As always, they are. It's a habit he started the night they arrived at Camp Mathilda. Nate takes a small measure of comfort that there are Marines constantly watching over the camp.
Adjusting his beanie so it's secure over his ears, Nate heads for the Humvees that his platoon had received the day before.
His mouth twitches in grim amusement. Even the cover of night can't do anything to hide their sorry states. Nate picks a Humvee without doors and sits with one leg inside the vehicle, making sure his rifle is close by and ready.
It's cold, but he doesn't yet feel like returning to his tent. He slumps down in his seat and leans his head back and closes his eyes. He doesn't have to worry about falling asleep; he knows from experience his brain is too keyed up. Instead, he lets his mind wander and wills his body to relax.
His internal clock tells him it's been fewer than ten minutes, but something urges him to open his eyes. Nate finds himself staring directly into an amused set of blue eyes.
"Officers' tent not good enough for you, sir?" Nate has no trouble hearing the grin despite Brad's whisper. Nate closes his eyes again as Brad leans against the Humvee.
"Pickles," Nate whispers in return. Despite the never ending noise of a camp filled with 5,000 Marines, their conversation seems oddly intimate.
"Person did state that he observed Captain McGraw with a suspicious looking jar today. Of course, he swore it contained frog brains." Brad's voice seems to contain a note of fondness.
"He's been consuming the pickles one after the other for the past two hours. I executed a tactical retreat before my fellow officers intervened."
Brad's quiet snort of amusement seems to be come from right next to Nate's face. He doesn't open his eyes to confirm.
"Wise choice, sir. Becoming an accessory to murder would tarnish your impeccable Ivy League resume."
It's his turn to make a small sound of amusement.
After a few moments of silence that shouldn't be this comfortable, Nate stands to leave, giving Brad a nod.
It's only when he's settling down to sleep that Nate wonders why Brad had sought him out.
And even later, Nate would wonder if this night, this conversation, was the start of the beginning.
--------------------
Nate's soft cover isn't doing much against the desert sun's onslaught. As a boy, he'd loved the local park, but hated the stickiness of the sunblock his mother had forced on his face and neck. He can too easily imagine the despair on his mother's face if she were to see him now and it makes Nate grin.
As he nears the Humvees, he can hear the curses his Marines are spouting as they struggle to make them road worthy, let alone invasion worthy.
He approaches the Humvee Brad is working on with Ray, Lilley and Stafford. Nate hands him a piece of paper when Brad unfolds himself from over the popped hood.
"Make sure Delta and RCT-1 give you exactly what's on this list," Nate instructs nodding to the paper now in Brad's hand.
Ray whistles in appreciation as he reads the list of parts. "Fuck, sir. How many dicks did you have to suck to score these?"
Ray's too busy making grabby hands at the list to even notice the glare Brad's directing at him.
Nate isn't offended. Less than an hour into meeting Corporal Person he'd realized he had two choices: discipline him every time he mouths off, which would quickly become impractical, or be entertained.
Brad delivers a head slap to the oblivious Ray and meets Nate's eyes. "Yes, sir."
"And Sergeant," Nate adds. "Have the TLs make lists of what's needed for each Humvee and bring it to me."
Nate watches Brad corral Ray and Garza for the pick up. He shucks his blouse and cover and takes Brad's place at the fender. He knows just enough about engines not to be a hindrance and Lilley is surprisingly good at teaching Humvee Repair 101.
Nate enjoys every minute he spends with his men, even under the unforgiving sun. He knows Mike will find him soon in order to deliver messages from Command but in the meantime, he follows Lilley's directions and enjoys the simplicity of physical labor.
Forty minutes later, Mike finds Nate, elbow deep in engine grease, and grinning.
--------------------
"Sir."
Nate looks up from the laptop to find Brad looking down at him with an amused grin. For some unknown reason, that seems to be his default expression around Nate.
Nate wonders what an experienced Recon Marine like Brad sees when he looks at him. Nate is fully aware that he looks younger than his twenty-five years. He hopes his men don't find him lacking; he can't protect them if they don't trust him.
He hopes Brad doesn't find him lacking.
Nate nods toward the unoccupied chair on the other side of the tent. "Grab a chair, Brad."
Brad gives him three sheets of paper; it's written in Lovell's neat handwriting and listed by individual Humvee.
Nate crosses off the additional items he's secured since that morning. Nate can sense, rather than see, Brad's twitch as the list shortens by at least a third.
Nate glances up to see Brad staring at the list with an unreadable expression. He works hard to keep his smile from leaking into his voice. "You can ask, Brad."
"How the hell did you manage to obtain all these parts, sir? I know for a fact Delta point blank refused to give up any of their shit when Captain Schwetje approached them yesterday afternoon."
"I traded the only thing I can trade in a Marine camp in the middle of a desert, Sergeant." Brad stares hard at him. "My foolhardiness regarding the endless paperwork our beloved Marine Corps is so fond of."
The sigh Nate heaves is not entirely for dramatic effect. He's been at this for fifty minutes already, and he's barely made a dent. There's a good reason his fellow officers were more than happy to make the deals with him.
He can't help but stare forlornly at the paperwork.
Nate gives the sheets of paper another once over and nods to Brad. "It seems the word has spread that I do office admin for a price. I'm sure I can get some more of these items ticked off before chow. But we'll have to purchase some of these and have them delivered."
"Ray and I were talking about that and we can scrape by with $900, maybe a little less, if your special skills are in more demand, sir."
Nate answers Brad's grin with one of his own. "I'm assured the other TLs and I can cover the rest of the Humvees." Nate has no intention of letting any more of NCOs pay for something the Corps should've already provided them. He hopes he can lessen the monetary burden on his men without being found out. They all make do but officers should be doing more than the NCOs.
Nate steers them to another topic. "Am I right in supposing Brunmeier is the most adept mechanic in our platoon?"
"Yes, sir," Brad nods his confirmation. "I'd say he and Lilley are the most proficient."
"Then I'd like you and Mike to coordinate training sessions. I want each Marine capable of repairing a broken down Humvee if need be. I'd like to borrow Carisalez from our sister platoon, but I believe he'll be busy with their own Humvees."
"Yes, sir."
It bothers Nate that he doesn't know why they were given Humvees.
Dave and Captain Schwetje believe they're mere transport vehicles for delivering them to new AOs for recon missions, but Nate has doubts. He's been hearing noises regarding Major General Mattis's new form of warfare; Nate suspects First Recon's Humvees are part of it, but he's not sure how. It frustrates Nate that so much of their part in this war is unclear. How he can prepare his Marines when he doesn't have a clear idea of what's expected of them, Nate doesn't have a clue.
Nate's attention shifts to the hands currently occupied with drafting a training schedule. He's seen those hands cradle deadly weapons, but somehow, the pencil doesn't look out of place. Dwarfed, sure, but not out of place.
"Sir?"
Brad's quiet prompt makes Nate realize he's been staring at his Sergeant's hands, now immobile, for God knows how long. When he looks up, Brad's amused smile has been replaced with a look of concern.
Even through his embarrassment, Nate manages to seize on, and articulate, an acceptable thought. "I believe Command issued us Humvees for more than mere transportation, but I'm still unclear as to the objective."
Brad appears to digest this and piece it together with information he already has. Slowly, Brad nods. "I think... I agree with your assessment, sir."
It's a relief to know his unease is shared. "I'm confident that Command will apprise us of the situation in due time. Meanwhile..."
Brad smirks and leans back in his chair. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Que sera, sera, sir?"
Nate blinks.
He really should be used to the sudden shifts in Brad's moods.
"Sergeant, did you just quote Doris Day to me?" Nate can't help the incredulous laugh.
Looking very much like the cat that ate a cream-covered canary, Brad stands up, forcing Nate to crane his neck to maintain the eye contact. "I'll find Gunny and get that training schedule squared away before the next PT, sir."
There's an enigmatic quality to Brad's smile as he looks down at Nate. It gives Nate a warm feeling deep down inside; he chooses not to examine that too closely, giving Brad a bland smile instead.
--------------------
Nate takes Brad's not so subtle advice to heart.
He can't get over the fact that it was delivered via Doris Day, but the logic behind it is sound. Rather than worrying about a situation he can't control, he focuses his attention on what he can realistically achieve. He has to trust that Command won't steer them wrong.
The Humvees progress faster than Nate had expected, especially after he and Mike return from Kuwait City with their much needed supplies. Nate watches, with no small amount of pride, as Bravo Two works together as a unit.
Briefings and paperwork, his colleagues' as well as his own, don't allow him as much time outside of his tent as he would like.
One of the consequences is that he has to spend even more time in the presence of Dave. More often than not, Dave is pecking at his laptop. Nate has a suspicion that Kocher comes up with various reasons for Dave to remain with other officers and away from the men.
"...insignia."
Sensing a response of some sort is expected, Nate looks up to see Dave staring at him with a broad, self-satisfied smile. Nate hurriedly reviews Dave's long monologue in his head; he's learned to be wary of that broad smile on that face.
"You plan to decorate the Humvees with 1st Recon insignia," Nate repeats.
"Think about it, Nate," Dave elaborates, still smiling. "Our insignia will fucking terrify those goddamn Iraqis so much that they'll turn tail at the sight of our Humvees."
Nate quickly dismisses words and phrases such as 'camouflage' and 'needs to appear inconspicuous' as a means of dissuasion. "You're assuming that your average Iraqi soldier would recognize it for what it is. I'm most concerned they would mistake us for pirates."
Nate returns to his paperwork, only half listening to Dave's diatribe on the Iraqi military's education level.
He's requisitioned a Blue Force Tracker, but all he's received so far are additional forms to complete. No one is sharing any intel regarding their step-off date, but he's worried the Tracker won't arrive in time. Nate considers the technology essential to his platoon's combat effectiveness, but Command seems reluctant to, or incapable of, equipping them properly.
--------------------
The pace picks up once the Humvees are ready for drills. Suddenly the invasion seems even more immediate and the effect is battalion-wide, evidenced by a heightened tension.
For Nate, the days never seem long enough and yet never-ending at the same time. His head is filled with maps of the AO, random phrases of Arabic, scenario after scenario where his own shortcomings result in casualties.
Nate finds solace sitting in a Humvee in the dark. More often than not, Brad finds and distracts him long enough for his brain to settle down so he can relax. They never 'talk shop'. It's not an agreement they arrived at verbally, and Nate isn't going to be the one to break the pattern. Instead, they talk about favorite vacation spots (Brad likes to go wherever the surf is good. Nate cares more about a relaxing atmosphere.), compare childhood injuries (Nate wins with his two-day coma after falling down the stairs.), Nate's apparent failure as a good American to appreciate baseball ("I don't like any sports where you can't score on defense."), which leads to Brad's futile attempts to educate him on that matter.
It's baffling how Brad always manages to find Nate when he's alone. His workload precludes selecting a regular time for his 'retreat', yet Brad always seems to divine just when Nate has sought out the seclusion of the vehicle. Their greeting is as silent as their agreement. Nate's afraid to ask anything aloud, for fear of causing an end to their unspoken arrangement.
It's been almost fifteen minutes that Nate's been in the Humvee and it looks to be one of the rare nights Brad won't join him. He doesn't know what keeps Brad away on those nights, any more than he knows why Brad chooses to join him in the first place.
He suppresses a pang of disappointment and looks up at the sky. The stars that looked so foreign the first time Nate looked up at the night sky have begun to look familiar.
--------------------
It's a testament to how anxiously they've been awaiting the arrival of the Blue Force Tracker, or perhaps Mike's mind-reading abilities, that Nate doesn't need to explain the reason for his good mood.
"Damn. I half thought we'd just get more forms," Mike says dryly as they examine the newly delivered box.
"Be assured, we did," Nate says sardonically and passes the folded sheets of paper.
Like anything that involves a microchip, the Tracker comes with a lot of accessories and excess packaging. They place the box next to the wheel of Brad's Humvee. It's the vehicle that will lead them all into war.
Nate's about to return to his duties, leaving Mike to share in Brad's restrained delight when his Gunny forestalls him.
"I'll leave you to tell Brad that Hanukah started early this year."
Nate can think of no legitimate reason to counter that and merely nods his agreement, watching Mike walk away, sporting a smirk that Nate can't decipher.
He heads toward the tent his men share with Bravo Three.
Brad is precisely where Nate expected he'd be, doing exactly what he thought he'd be doing, stretched out in his rack, eyes fixed on the screen of his laptop. Wordlessly, Nate indicates for Brad to follow him from the tent. He watches as Brad gathers his M4 and murmurs a brief order to Ray before joining him.
Brad doesn't ask about their destination but appears content to simply follow Nate. When they reach their objective, Brad eyes the box curiously. Brad quirks an eyebrow at Nate but doesn't move closer to the box.
"Aww. Sir, you shouldn't have. I didn't get you anything."
Brad's quiet teasing flusters Nate. Thankfully, before he has to reply, Brad cuts through the packing tape with his Ka-bar. Nate watches Brad's shifting expressions closely and knows the exact moment he recognizes the Tracker.
Brad's surprise freezes his movements only a moment and then he uncovers smaller boxes, presumably filled with rolls of wires, batteries and antennas. It's not unlike watching a little boy on his birthday, and Nate is awash with pleasure and contentment.
"I thought, since Captain Schwetje refused the opportunity to have the Blue Force Tracker installed in his command vehicle, we could perhaps make use of the tech." Nate explains, as if he were a nervous suitor awaiting approval of a gift.
Brad's smile stops Nate's breath in his chest. As well as being disturbing, seeing a genuinely happy Brad Colbert is rather distracting.
Nate nods at the mess at Brad's feet. "Pack it up, Sergeant. I'll help you move your toy to your tent where you can play with it to your heart's content."
They do their best trying to put all the items back in the box. Brad's eyeing the manual, the thickest Nate's ever seen, the same way his three year old niece looks at her pet dog.
Nate's reaching for the box when Brad stops him with a hand on his wrist. It's rough with calluses. It's also warm and steady on Nate's skin. Suddenly, Nate feels slightly dizzy - he really has to hydrate more often - and he finds he can't look at their joined hands. When he finally meets Brad's eyes, the effect is intense.
"Thank you," Brad says with great sincerity. It's several long moments before Brad lets go of his wrist.
The walk to Bravo Two's tent is made in silence and Nate can feel the residual heat of Brad's hand on his skin the entire way.
--------------------
For a few days after their return from the successful exercise with live fire, things are quiet; the only noteworthy occurrence is the arrival of Evan Wright.
Nate feels a twinge of guilt at leaving Wright, looking like a fish out of water, in a tent full of Recon Marines. But he trusts Brad not to let the hazing get out of hand and his trust is validated when Wright doesn't request to be moved to a different platoon.
The calm is broken when Brad enters his tent and stands rigidly, almost at attention, in front of him. Nate can see his unease and moves them outside, away from the other officers. Brad pauses only briefly before he begins.
"Sir. Forty minutes ago, Corporal Person sustained minor injuries on his face when a portable stove under an espresso maker exploded." Brad seems unable to meet Nate's eyes.
As bad as it already sounds, Nate can tell Brad is still hiding the worst of it. "And how's Corporal Person? Has he been properly treated yet?"
"Yes, sir. Corpsman Bryan determined mostly first degree burns and prescribed him an emollient cream and Codeine."
Nate is glad to hear Ray's injuries are mainly superficial. "Where was this stove when it malfunctioned?" Nate keeps his tone mild.
Brad lifts his head and meets Nate's eyes squarely. "It was being used inside the tent, sir."
Nate is aware that Brad is trusting him with this information. He's trusting Nate not to use it against their men.
Nate holds Brad's gaze and nods his reassurance. "Thank you, Sergeant. I'll write up the incident report and pass it to the CO."
When he's recounting the official version of the incident to Godfather, it isn't Ray's burnt face he sees in his mind, but Brad's trusting one.
--------------------
--------------------
Time seems to run together for Nate, until about three days into the invasion.
What remains clear in his mind are the armed Iraqis in white pickups, and the un-surrendered Iraqi soldiers. Each time he's obeyed orders he didn't agree with, it had been difficult. This time, it's different – the sting is sharper – and he can't pinpoint why.
They're on 25% watch and despite the commotion from the direction of Nasiryah, on the battalion side everything seems quiet. Nate senses someone on his seven o'clock and closing in. It's Brad; Nate knows without having to turn. They've already exchanged sit-reps regarding Nasiryah an hour ago so he doesn't know what Brad could want him for.
Brad doesn't say a word but stands with Nate, shoulder to shoulder.
Nate's relief is sudden and deep.
He hadn't realized he'd been waiting for this, wanting this, until Brad had sought him out. This is their first quiet moment, a moment that has nothing to do with the war, since Mathilda and Nate is grateful.
Nate tilts his head to catch Brad's eye and shares something he's just remembered. "I didn't even get to taste the pizza."
Brad doesn't bat an eye at Nate's non sequitur. "Next time, I'll allow you to abuse your position of authority and steal my slice."
--------------------
During the day, Nate breathes war and everything that entails.
At any given moment Nate is tracking the progress of his own platoon and battalion, changes in radio frequency assignments, changes in the ROE, and their ever-changing route to Baghdad.
It also turns out that his forced time in Dave's company works like a vaccine, immunizing him against the inanity. Mike is openly envious of his ability to filter out Dave's voice from the comm.
Of course, the war doesn't stop when the sun goes down and the temperature drops.
More often than not, the battalion commander holds a briefing when they stop for the night. Rarely are platoon commanders ordered to attend. It takes a special skill, stealth and luck to double check what Captain Schwetje relays to him from the battalion tent; it wouldn't do to be seen questioning his own CO's word.
The best source of information, and discretion, is Alpha's CO, Captain Patterson. Fortunately, he takes pity on Nate and sends Gunny Barrett with relevant intel. Gunny Barret doesn't come directly to Nate, for appearance's sake, but talks to Mike who passes the information along. Brad takes it upon himself to makes sure Kocher is in the loop.
They're playing one fucked-up version of Telephone and with what's at stake, they can't afford a weak link.
Nate tries not to worry about what will happen when Alpha breaks off from the battalion.
Nate finds it hard to carve out quiet, alone time now that they're in theatre. Perhaps that's why, when he does manage it, and when Brad stands beside him, it feels like their companionship is the only thing that's keeping him sane in the middle of the battleground.
--------------------
Unlike some things in his life, Nate recognizes the significance of these actions as he goes through with them.
Even as he tries to stop the Captain from sending orders that would almost surely kill all of them, Nate knows he's crossed the line. But despite Griego's threat that he would be relieved of his command, he doesn't move away from Captain Schwetje until he hears the order.
He'd laugh at the fact they were just saved by his CO's failure to learn correct protocols but he doesn't have the energy.
An investigation is an almost certainty.
If he and Captain Schwetje were alone, Nate doubts he'd have cause for concern. He might have been able to persuade the Captain to drop the mission altogether, but in front of Griego, he couldn't be seen as weak.
It doesn't take long before Brad comes to find him, not that he thought it'd take long. After all, he's surrounded by Recon Marines, the sneakiest and nosiest men known to mankind, and as gestures of rebellion go, his wasn't the most subtle. At Brad's nod they move to the last Humvee in line.
Brad doesn't hesitate to broach the topic. "Sir, the scuttlebutt I'm hearing says you may be relieved of command."
"There could be an investigation."
"For trying to unfuck Hitman when he is about to drop arty on his own fucking company? That's brilliant."
Nate is about to make a bland comment to calm him when Brad continues. "Sir, your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in."
Nate's stunned. He's both humbled and daunted by Brad's faith in him and he's unsure just how to respond.
Nate wraps up their conversation quickly and walks away.
--------------------
There's plenty of blame to go around. Nate blames himself for not refining the new ROE, Captain Schwetje for passing down the order without qualification, and even Godfather for issuing the changes in the first place. And Brad blames himself for giving the order.
Nate can't eat and gives his MRE to Christeson who shares it with Stafford; officers eat last and they're the ones who spend day and night bouncing on the crates in the back of their Humvee. Before Christeson and Stafford can finish the MRE and get rid of the evidence, Mike enters the Humvee and glares at Nate.
Despite everything, Nate can't help but compare Mike to his mother. It only ever took her a look to get him to eat the vegetables on his plate. If he survives this tour he'll have to be very careful not to let the two of them meet.
Mike gestures Nate to follow him outside the Humvee. He doesn't lecture about the importance of sustenance in combat, but only because he's there to teach Nate a more difficult lesson.
"Nate, you have to unfuck yourself. I get that you feel partly responsible for this latest clusterfuck, but you can't let this consume you. You're the platoon commander, the men look up to you. You have to..."
"Man up?" Nate offers.
"I was going to use something less polite, but that'll do." Mike smiles.
Nate knows Mike is absolutely right. They're his men and he has to get the fuck over himself and do his job.
He and Mike head toward Brad's Humvee and Nate does his best. But his best sounds weak and useless even to himself.
Nate breathes a small sigh of relief when Mike takes over and spends that time observing Brad. He looks withdrawn and doesn't meet Nate's eyes.
His best isn't enough. And Nate has no idea what to do.
--------------------
Something wakes him up. Nate checks his watch as he climbs out of his grave. It's 0435. He's slept for forty minutes. He shoulders his M16 and picks up his Kevlar but doesn't put it on.
The something that woke him up is a noise, a steady stream of metallic clanging noises, to be precise. It isn't particularly loud and Mike and Stafford are still fast asleep. Christeson is on watch, and Nate nods to him in acknowledgement.
Ray and Trombley are sleeping despite being right next to the noise. Reporter is nowhere to be seen but when he looks up, Walt points to the back of the airfield. Nate assumes he's there interviewing more people for his article.
Brad is hammering at the tar underneath the Humvee.
When Nate stops at the side of the Humvee the noise ceases, but Brad doesn't appear. Nate is sure Brad knows who's standing next to his head. If Nate were braver he'd kneel down, meet Brad's eyes and apologize for his fuckup. As it is, he can't face Brad and see condemnation. But Nate finds he can't walk away, either.
Nate sits down, leans against the wheel, puts down his Kevlar where Brad can see it. After a few seconds the hammering starts again, leaving Nate to watch the sky becoming lighter by the minute.
--------------------
Before Nate can climb the berm to assess the inbound armor, a familiar voice stops him. "Sir."
Nate turns and sees Brad heading toward him, not quite hidden in the dark. Nate notes Brad's posture is relaxed, too relaxed for someone expecting combat. A false alarm, Nate concludes and feels the tension leaking away from his body.
"So, what is it?" Nate asks.
"A town, sir. A fucking town that's 25 klicks further away than Alpha's report." The explosions begin behind them but they continue to their Humvees.
They arrive at Brad's victor, which is currently empty.
"Get some shut-eye, Brad. Wouldn't want to hurt those eagle eyes of yours."
Nate's about to walk away when Brad puts his arm out.
This time, Brad's hand is not on his wrist but just above his elbow. He's not gripping Nate's arm, but merely holding him with the lightest pressure. Nate stands there frozen, staring at Brad. He imagines he can feel Brad's warmth through his MOPP suit and BDU.
"Sir, what's this about you not allowing your concerned men to support your fight against a bullshit charge?" Brad sounds mildly curious but Nate's learned that Brad's at his most formidable when he's outwardly calm.
"It's my mess; I'll deal with it." Nate meets Brad's eyes without flinching. "Let it go." Nate means don't burden yourself with my mess but Brad takes it the wrong way; he drops his hand and Nate immediately misses it.
The bombing has stopped and Marines are returning to their victors and their graves.
Nate turns to go but apparently, Brad isn't finished and bridges the gap between them. They are not close enough to touch, but close enough that Nate has to tilt his head that small bit to maintain eye contact. Brad also puts his palm on the roof of the Humvee and leans in, crowding Nate against the door. If he didn't know better, Nate would think Brad was trying to intimidate him.
"Are you under the illusion you're invincible, sir?" Brad lowers his voice in deference to the Marines moving around them.
From the corner of his eye, Nate sees Ray distracting Reporter and preventing him from climbing into the Humvee. He doesn't see Walt or Trombley.
"No, Brad. I'm very much aware that I'm not invincible."
Brad appears to be frustrated by that answer and he lowers his head even closer to Nate. "Sir. You are not expendable." Brad's voice is strangely harsh and intense.
Nate can't look away and just nods once.
Brad lifts his arm off the Humvee and steps away. Nate realizes his breathing is slightly faster than normal and finds he has to force his legs to move.
Nate has a deep suspicion he's missing something important.
--------------------
When it finally dawns on Nate, the revelation doesn't hit him like a ton of bricks. In fact, he almost misses it.
Nate is surveying the platoon as they start another morning when something catches his attention. It's the tattoo on Brad's back. He's seen it before, of course, but something about it this time bothers him. He finds himself glancing at Brad at various times that morning.
It's the disappointment he feels when Brad puts on his t-shirt that gives him a clue. He's been admiring Brad's bare back and play of muscles and not the tattoos. His lack of situational awareness regarding his own emotions is rather embarrassing.
And a lot of things suddenly start making sense.
--------------------
Nate marvels at the grass under his boots. They're parked on a field and there're groups of Marines sitting on the grass. The atmosphere of the platoon is light with the news they aren't clearing the ambush ahead in their Humvees. It almost feels like a picnic in a park back home.
Nate briefly ponders the merits of taking off his boots and socks and walking along on the grass barefoot.
"You're a hard man to find, sir."
Nate greets Brad with a nod and notices he's wandered out almost to the edge of the AO. "I'm assured Gunny Wynn knows exactly where I am."
"Sir, I believe Gunny Wynn knows, at all times, exactly when you last ate a full meal." Brad counters and hands him a cup. It's coffee, still hot. Nate smiles and takes a sip; it's good.
"You got me coffee, Sergeant?" Nate can't help his smile.
"Well, I didn't want you griping about not even getting to taste coffee, sir." The angle of the sun makes Brad look as if he's blushing.
Nate tries to make the coffee last and appreciate it fully. All too soon, the cup is empty and Brad takes it from his hand.
They take their time walking back to their Humvees.
--------------------
Nate's good mood lasts until the LAVs return with the wounded, and he's called for the briefing at the battalion tent.
They now have a new destination: a town called Muwaffaqiyah. Nate knows Marines are calling them 'First Suicide Battalion' and, not for the first time, deems it apt.
He braces himself, listening to the details of the mission. He cannot brief his men with even a hint of doubt in his voice. His Marines are exhausted and if they aren't aggressive enough, if they feel even he isn't convinced of the mission, they're likely to get themselves killed.
Nate began this tour accepting that he would die in Iraq but he won't let that be the fate of any of his Marines.
--------------------
Afterwards, Nate sits on the grass, leaning against the wheel of his Humvee. From this side of the vehicle, he can't see the rest of the camp and the other men. If it weren't for the noise, he could pretend he was alone. He doesn't think he's ever felt this weary, utterly stripped of his defenses.
It's been less than 24 hours since he was last on a field but the grass under his palms feels alien. He takes off his Kevlar and drops it at his feet. Nate is leaning forward, legs drawn up with his elbows balanced on his knees, staring at a random point in the distance when Brad unceremoniously drops to the ground next to him.
Brad doesn't talk and Nate thinks they'll just sit there, in silence, until it's time to get back on the road.
When Brad touches the back of his head, Nate doesn't startle and he doesn't move away. His heart is beating rapidly and he's sure Brad must be able to hear it thump. Brad's thumb is stroking his head and Nate realizes he's tracing the thin scar there.
"The coma?" The stroking stops but the hand doesn't move away.
"No," Nate's voice doesn't shake. "That one didn't even leave a scar." The hand moves down until it touches the skin on the back of the neck. Nate continues. "I got that one when I fell from a tree. It wasn't even very high but a branch cut into my head."
Now Brad's hand is covering half of his head and moving steadily down toward the neck of his MOPP suit. Nate tilts his head down giving Brad better access and Brad shifts to get a better angle. His breathing is too fast and too loud but Nate doesn't care. He hears Brad's soft, "Fuck"; he sounds shaken.
A sudden noise interrupts them as somebody, presumably Mike, opens the Humvee door. They both freeze and Brad slowly begins to back off. Mike searches the vehicle for something, closes the door and walks off.
Nate lifts his head and stares at Brad. Brad's flushed and he looks wrecked. Nate's sure he doesn't look any better, and possibly looks worse.
His mouth is suddenly dry and Nate unconsciously smoothes his lips with his tongue. Brad's eyes follow the movement and abruptly Brad turns his face and puts more distance between them.
Nate leans back and tries to get his breathing back under control. He doesn't dare look at Brad but can hear him do the same.
Nate remembers he actually has something he should tell Brad.
"I believe we'll be ordered to go through Muwaffaqiyah before today's over," Nate can almost see Brad nodding his head in agreement.
"I thought the bridge was damaged."
"Apparently, there's an alternate route," Nate sighs.
Brad is quiet for a moment. "Fuck!"
"Yes. I'll brief the TLs when it's official." Brad remains seated as Nate stands up and gathers up his M16 and Kevlar.
Nate walks around the Humvee and back into the fold, feeling Brad's eyes on his back.
--------------------
Nate catches Mike glancing at him for the fifth time in two minutes. Evidently, he isn't doing a good enough job of pretending everything's normal. Or perhaps Mike is just concerned how he's dealing with the vague threat made to him by their CO.
Nate isn't worried about what they might do to him for 'not being a team player'. As it is, he's more worried about his Marines getting sick and he is more troubled by Walt's reaction to the shooting. At least, they're finally resupplied and food is no longer something he has to lose sleep over.
Nate ignores Mike staring at him again and leans back on the seat.
An interminable time later, Nate's eyes open; he must've drifted off. Mike is no longer sitting in the driver's seat but Nate doesn't remember hearing him leave.
For the first time in Iraq, Nate feels slightly disorientated; he sincerely hopes he isn't falling ill. Nate rubs at his eyes and rummages and finds a still wrapped pound cake. He doesn't feel hungry but can't remember when he last ate (Mike would know) and if he really is coming down with something then he'd better eat up.
He finds Christeson and Stafford exactly where he left them, in their ranger graves, and Mike sitting on a crate not too far away.
Leaving his team behind, Nate walks toward Team Three's Humvee. As he approaches, Nate notices a different quality to the quiet surrounding the Humvee and finds it, and the graves around it, empty.
When he finds Griego with Rudy, Nate's feeling of unease worsens. He hears the bullshit excuse of a mission (fuck, a tank in a swamp) and Nate has to fight back his temper and has a hard time controlling his voice. He wonders at the amount of unprofessionalism and vindictiveness it takes to send a team of sick Marines to investigate a blown-out tank in a fucking swamp.
"Get the fuck out of here. And do not ever again mess with my platoon." Nate notes with some satisfaction at the nervousness Gunny betrays.
Nate will not let any of his men be affected by what's happening between himself and Command. Nate makes sure Gunny gets the message.
"Fuck that. You can fuck with me all you want but do not, I repeat, do not fuck with my men. I'm putting it down, Gunny. You picking it up?"
--------------------
Just like the danger-close mission incident, Nate's encounter with Griego doesn't take long to makes the rounds of the company. When he returns from passing down the orders regarding the refugee escort duty, Mike greets him with a smile.
"No wonder Griego's so fucking jumpy whenever you even glance in his direction," Mike tells him. "Did you really threaten him with your Ka-bar?"
Nate shakes his head and checks his watch; it took less than four hours.
--------------------
They push hard for Baghdad and only get the opportunity to dig in when they arrive at the POG camp. According to the orders, they're to remain here for at least three or four days.
Nate takes off his Kevlar with a sigh of relief.
Usually, Nate would take this time to talk to each team and make sure they're all squared away. But he lingers, staring at the map board for no reason. When Mike volunteers to make the rounds instead, Nate only nods his thanks and lets him go. He can tell Mike gives him a strange look before leaving but Nate ignores that with ease; he's had a lot of practice during the last few days.
Nate lasts through one tasteless meal (he and Mike both pass their milkshakes to Christeson and Stafford), one pointless briefing by Captain Schwetje, two visits from an increasingly agitated Dave and at least a dozen glances from Mike before he folds and escapes from the Humvee.
Despite the late hour and the exhaustion, Marines are enjoying a break from the fast pace. Nate sees several men from Bravo Three and Alpha as well.
Nate realizes he was hoping Brad wouldn't be at his Humvee when he spots him leaning on the hood but he can't help return the smile Brad sends his way. The rest of Bravo One Alpha is nowhere to be seen.
"Apparently this POG camp has a legit slit trench latrine," Brad says, answering Nate's unasked question regarding the team's whereabouts. Brad watches Nate as he settles next to him; Nate rests his arm on his rifle.
"Godfather informs me he believes we need another mission," Brad tells him in a low voice.
"Thought as much." Nate presumes they'll be staying two days maximum. Still, Nate breathes easily for what seems like the first time in many days. Maybe they can just enjoy some quiet time.
Of course, Brad, being Brad, doesn't follow his strategic plan.
"You've been avoiding me, sir." Brad isn't even looking in his direction.
Nate would like to deny it, but he knows very well that that's exactly what he's been doing since that time behind the Humvee. He's made sure their working relationship stayed the same but he's also made damn sure their conversations, not directly related to their jobs, remain short, to the point and occur within at least one other person's visual field.
Nate tries to figure out the best course of action. Obviously ignoring the issue hasn't helped but he truly wishes he was strong enough to resist Brad's pull.
When Nate remains silent, Brad moves. With a quick push and a turn, Nate is no longer leaning on the hood but against the door and Brad's facing him with his arms propped on the roof. Brad's body is flush against his. Fuck. Nate can't breathe now, let alone move. Clearly, Brad discovered Nate's weakness to his close proximity and now he's using it to his advantage, just as a good Marine should.
Nate watches Brad lower his head.
"You've been avoiding me."
Nate should say something. But it's all he can do to regulate his breathing. He doesn't seem to be getting any oxygen, and he stops breathing altogether when Brad raises a hand to cup his face.
Nate's eyes close of their own volition and when he opens them again, Brad's face is much closer.
Nate puts his hand on Brad's chest and pushes. There is no strength behind the push but Brad stops instantly and steps away, his arms at his sides.
Nate doesn't know what he should say or do. What comes out of his mouth is a quiet, "No."
It is exactly the wrong thing to say because Brad's face shuts down and his whole body stiffens.
Nate tries to think of how to express this, how to make Brad understand. "We can't. I mean, I can't."
Brad's shuttered eyes bore into Nate's. Brad nods, once. "I understand, sir."
Brad turns his body away from Nate and starts to walk off. Nate can't leave it like this, can't leave Brad looking like he's broken, and instinctively grabs his arm. Brad stops moving but doesn't look at Nate.
"No, you don't." Nate has to convince him. Somehow. "I can't. Just... I mean... not now." Nate grips Brad's arm tighter. "Not here. We can't. Not here."
He wouldn't be able to understand what the fuck he's saying himself but Brad seems to get it. Nate can see and feel some of the tension leaving Brad and he finally looks at Nate. He can't read Brad's eyes but they are no longer so cold, hidden.
"Ok. Ok, then..." Nate lets his hand fall and watches Brad disappear into the night.
--------------------
Nate's sure he's doing a worse job of pretending but Mike eventually stops giving him those looks. Or perhaps Mike concluded that there is no normal way to behave in war. Whatever the reason for it, Nate's glad.
Standing next to his Humvee, Nate desperately hopes Dave isn't saying anything important on the comm; he isn't listening to a word. He's too busy mentally cursing Brad.
Brad, who is running around the field, arms stretched out and shirtless.
Nate has no idea what Brad's thinking right now but if he's trying to get Nate's attention, then he's got it. Brad runs past and has the audacity to wink at him.
Fucker.
--------------------
Nate's sitting on a box of water bottles making notes on his pad when something's shoved right under his face. Nate smiles in delight and takes the can from Brad. The can is warm and it even has a spoon in it.
"Coffee, Beefaroni... What's next? Steak? Flowers?"
Brad sits on the ground.
Nate can safely say this can of lukewarm Beefaroni is the best food he's ever had. Nate turns to Brad to tell him as much only to find Brad looking up at him with a soft smile.
"Sir, I believe I still owe you pizza," Brad looks uncharacteristically unsure. "I happen to know the best pizza place in Southern California."
Nate forgets about food and stares at Brad. Under his scrutiny Brad actually blushes but carries on meeting Nate's gaze. It's clear to Nate that it isn't just Brad's proximity that can paralyze him.
Only when doubts begin to show in Brad's eyes, Nate realizes he needs to answer. And soon.
If it were anyone else, Nate's certain he could form a witty reply that would earn him a smile. But it's Brad, so of course Nate is unable to string a few simple words together to make a proper sentence.
"Yes. Ok. Yes." Nate stops moving when he becomes aware he's nodding excessively.
Brad gives him the softest smile Nate's seen yet. Evidently that was the right answer. Brad nods and turns to look at the camp, giving Nate time to collect himself.
Nate grabs the spoon again. The Beefaroni is now cool but he's still willing to swear it's the best fucking tasting food.
They have at least one mission before they enter Baghdad and he doesn't even attempt to imagine what might be waiting for them there. At the end of each day, Nate feels less sure of his place in the Corps than he had the day before. And each day causes Nate to lose a little more confidence in Command.
But for the first time since Nate found out about his deployment, he can actually see himself surviving this tour. Alive, back home, and eating pizza.
He's no longer a dead man walking.