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If they gave out Good Cookies for not slobbering all over your commanding officer, Brad would’ve been a very decorated man.
As it is, his impeccable conduct is strictly need-to-know, and the only one who needs to know is him. The LT doesn’t need to know; however, bucking the tradition of officers being unable to find their own ass with a map, the LT obviously knows.
They don’t talk about it. They’ve never talked about it. There’s a not infinitesimal chance they won’t ever talk about it. But there’s an unspoken understanding that’s more substantial than much of the intel they get.
They don’t know what the next day is going to bring. The plans are constantly changing, and that’s if you go with the generous assumption that there is some plan worth calling that. The LT is assured of this; so damn assured that the rest of them find it reassuring. So assured that Brad only has to think of his pale, limpid eyes and his heart beats slower, more even.
But nonetheless. They’re rolling through the desert in tin-plated Humvees. The guys from Bravo Three are having to pull Captain America back every day. The Reporter is scribbling away, and keeping an eye on him is one more thing on Brad’s mile-long checklist. It won’t do if the man ends up dead, or too close to something confidential. Brad is under no illusions as to why Wright is in his vehicle, and he’s not going to let the men get in trouble over mishandling this Rolling Stone situation – his men, or the LT.
The LT’s lips are pink. They’re probably smooth and firm when they’re not chapped like this. Brad doesn’t even have to focus on them to know how they move, stretching over the LT’s white teeth just so in the rare moments when he smiles.
Sure, the LT’s lips are not enough to distract Brad from the fact that he has had combat jacks that were better planned than this whole operation. But do they help to make do in the circumstances? Absolutely.
Have they been featuring in Brad’s combat jacks since Camp Matilda? Also yes. The shamal may be reshaping the desert, the mission parameters may be crumbling and rearranging as they go along, but the LT’s mouth is a reliable, steadfast feature in Brad’s thoughts, whether he’s in his grave, on watch or Oscar Mike. It’s nice when a man can count on his CO’s support like that.
Brad wonders if the LT thinks of it that way, too; if Brad’s presence in his perimeter is an anchor, and if Brad’s – face, eyes, whatever, can give him a moment of ease. Brad’s a Recon Marine; he’s sure that the LT is thinking about him. He knows the way the LT is thinking about him. Maybe not as much or as often as Brad is thinking about him, but in between analyzing the data, mapping out progress, calculating the possible consequences? Definitely.
And Brad can only hope that these thoughts give the LT some brief relief. A moment of respite. Brad certainly doesn’t want to add to the LT’s burden. Not when the man says, “Glad you’re my Team Leader,” and clearly means it.
The LT’s solid. He’s a good commanding officer. The thing is, just because he isn’t making mistakes like McGraw doesn’t mean this war isn’t taking a heavy toll on him. For all that Brad has been memorizing the color of his eyes and the way his mouth turns into a thin stern line, he cannot actually tell how much this entire clusterfuck is breaking him inside. Maybe the LT is already broken.
Maybe the LT is going to get himself killed. So far, he has been damn good at leading the men, looking after them, protecting them; and of course, they’re going to protect their platoon commander.
The question is, who’s going to protect the LT from himself? Brad wants to say it’s going to be him. The honest answer is probably Mike Wynn.
It doesn’t matter. The LT isn’t kissing Mike.
The LT isn’t kissing Brad, either, unless you count that one time at oh two hundred when Brad got danger close, close enough to count the LT’s freckles, probably, had it been daytime. But it was a cold night in the desert, the stars puncturing the black sky and a heavy rumble in the distance. No way to forget where and when they were.
The LT’s lips were very hot. He kissed like he had things to say.
They haven’t talked about it since, and Brad wonders if they might, at some point in the future. There are too many variables; too many things between now and the hypothetical moment when Brad might find out what else is it that the LT is as ruthless at, as shameless at, as kissing.
Brad figures he would like to get to that moment. He’s taking it one step at a time. Get through the day. Get through the war.
So that’s the sitrep.
Brad wants to know what the LT is like in bed. The LT wants to know when the invasion will end.
Neither of them have their answers yet.