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wrennetteTitle: Eden Lost
Pairing: Lt. Nate Fick x Sgt. Brad Colbert
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: G
Disclaimer: This is fictional, and is in no way based on real events. No defamation, slander, or copyright infringement is intended. The author in no way profits from the writing of this fiction.
Summary: Their last night in Iraq. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
whtever2525 - sorry it took so long for not so much.
"It's hard to believe that this was Eden once," said a voice in the darkness, and Brad didn't have to glance over to know who it was. Even with the roughness of exhaustion and dry air disguising his voice, he had known it was the L-T. He had known it from the soft thud of gum soled combat boots against the concrete floor. He had known it from the distinct pace of Fick's rolling gait. Hell, he had known the lieutenant was coming even before he heard his footsteps whispering through the darkness, because he seemed to have developed some queer-ass sixth sense that could locate Nate Fick through the thickest meanest shamal known to mankind.
He didn't answer the comment about Eden, because they both knew that Fick was only talking to fill the oppressive silence that fell between explosions and gunfire. Fick leaned alongside him, and Brad stared persistently out into the inky darkness. They both knew he couldn't see shit, he hadn't even bothered to take the lens cover off his rifle scope. It wasn't laziness, or even foolhardiness. Mostly it was that he wasn't technically on watch, but he couldn't sleep, and so he was spending his last night in Iraq holding up a wall. Which, really, seemed to be a common problem. He had heard Ray shamble by about ten minutes before, heading for the shitter to get in a combat jack. Walt, he knew, would be with Garza, which meant that Walt was pulling an extra shift on watch. Not that it mattered much at this point. What was another few hours of sleeplessness when your exhaustion already ran bone deep.
"When I get back," Fick said, and his voice was small in the darkness, and Brad made a mental note that he said back, not home, "I think I'll sleep for a week. And take a long shower. So long my whole body prunes up. Before I sleep for a week". Brad made a soft noise that could be taken as agreement, but if Fick meant to say anything more, he was kept from it but a fairly intense, sustained burst of AK fire. They both waited, holding their breath. It was nothing. They relaxed slightly, from fifth gear down to fourth, and Brad felt so wound up he wasn't certain he would ever sleep again. In the distance they could hear cars careening along the narrow roads, other bursts of AK fire. Fick turned to him when the night stilled again. Brad could hear the shift of his uniform, the gentle clinking of his gear settling.
"What're you going home to?" Fick asked, and Brad tried to think of a polite way to say none of your fucking business, Sir. When, after a few moments, he couldn't think of anything better to say, he said:
"Not much". Fick made a soft little noise of disbelief, something like a snort of laughter, but much more refined. Ivy League boys like Fick didn't snort. "Racing bike," he finally allowed, and again Fick made a soft sound. It wasn't disbelief, and Brad couldn't quite classify it. So he glanced over, just out of the corner of his eye, and Fick was looking at him, that strange look in his pale eyes, one Brad was familiar with but still couldn't quite name. After a few moments, Fick turned away from him, a rueful little smile on his lips, shaking his head slightly.
"Racing bike?" Fick finally asked, and Brad was pretty sure he ought to be offended somehow, but he was so damnably tired. He didn't have the energy to be offended.
"Racing bike," he confirmed, and hoped it would be left at that. Fick seemed to understand, at least enough not to pursue that line of questioning. Brad knew the other guys thought he was a little off in the head. He didn't really care, but he knew.
"I've never ridden a motorcycle," Fick said when the night stilled again, and Brad had the sudden sense of phantom arms wrapped warm and strong around his waist, a man's solid bulk pressed against his back, where he knew he was leaning against a cinder wall.
"It's easy," he said flatly. "Just you and the sky, and nothing can touch you." Fick shifted again, and Brad could feel the weight of his eyes. For a long moment, he stared into the middle distance, trying to ignore Fick. He couldn't do it long, had to look down, and Fick had that same inscrutable look on his face again. "Maybe I'll take you out sometime," he heard himself saying distantly, and the phantom sensation of his CO pressed against his back, clinging to him, intensified.
"Up the coast," his voice continued, soft and distant. "Where you can see the straight drop into the ocean when you dip through the turns." Fick leaned in to hear him over the distant thud of mortars and shells, and he swore he could feel the lieutenant's breath against his jaw. Their eyes met again, and there was no way either of them would admit verbally what they both knew in that instant. Electricity arced between them, and Fick nodded solemnly.
"I'd like that," Fick said, soft and wistful, "like you to-" he pauses, gunfire close by cutting his sentence in half, and then Fick was sort of cocking his head to the side, eyes focusing away, and he's all business, talking into the comm.
The feeling of another body pressed warmly against his back faded from Brad's mind. Fick turned back, and there was no more talk of home, or after the war. The gunfire and explosions continued, but the black backdrop of night slowly pinked and lightened to a flat leaden color. By the time afternoon came, the sky had cleared, but it was still grey with smoke and haze, and the desert was flat and dull around them, the sand whipping into their faces as they walked into the hulking transport planes. Brad thought he caught Fick's eyes, a flash of colorless flame in the otherwise drab scenery, but the moment passed, one in a string of many, and then he was folding himself into a seat, gear stowed beneath his feet.
Pairing: Lt. Nate Fick x Sgt. Brad Colbert
Fandom: Generation Kill
Rating: G
Disclaimer: This is fictional, and is in no way based on real events. No defamation, slander, or copyright infringement is intended. The author in no way profits from the writing of this fiction.
Summary: Their last night in Iraq. Written for
whtever2525 - sorry it took so long for not so much."It's hard to believe that this was Eden once," said a voice in the darkness, and Brad didn't have to glance over to know who it was. Even with the roughness of exhaustion and dry air disguising his voice, he had known it was the L-T. He had known it from the soft thud of gum soled combat boots against the concrete floor. He had known it from the distinct pace of Fick's rolling gait. Hell, he had known the lieutenant was coming even before he heard his footsteps whispering through the darkness, because he seemed to have developed some queer-ass sixth sense that could locate Nate Fick through the thickest meanest shamal known to mankind.
He didn't answer the comment about Eden, because they both knew that Fick was only talking to fill the oppressive silence that fell between explosions and gunfire. Fick leaned alongside him, and Brad stared persistently out into the inky darkness. They both knew he couldn't see shit, he hadn't even bothered to take the lens cover off his rifle scope. It wasn't laziness, or even foolhardiness. Mostly it was that he wasn't technically on watch, but he couldn't sleep, and so he was spending his last night in Iraq holding up a wall. Which, really, seemed to be a common problem. He had heard Ray shamble by about ten minutes before, heading for the shitter to get in a combat jack. Walt, he knew, would be with Garza, which meant that Walt was pulling an extra shift on watch. Not that it mattered much at this point. What was another few hours of sleeplessness when your exhaustion already ran bone deep.
"When I get back," Fick said, and his voice was small in the darkness, and Brad made a mental note that he said back, not home, "I think I'll sleep for a week. And take a long shower. So long my whole body prunes up. Before I sleep for a week". Brad made a soft noise that could be taken as agreement, but if Fick meant to say anything more, he was kept from it but a fairly intense, sustained burst of AK fire. They both waited, holding their breath. It was nothing. They relaxed slightly, from fifth gear down to fourth, and Brad felt so wound up he wasn't certain he would ever sleep again. In the distance they could hear cars careening along the narrow roads, other bursts of AK fire. Fick turned to him when the night stilled again. Brad could hear the shift of his uniform, the gentle clinking of his gear settling.
"What're you going home to?" Fick asked, and Brad tried to think of a polite way to say none of your fucking business, Sir. When, after a few moments, he couldn't think of anything better to say, he said:
"Not much". Fick made a soft little noise of disbelief, something like a snort of laughter, but much more refined. Ivy League boys like Fick didn't snort. "Racing bike," he finally allowed, and again Fick made a soft sound. It wasn't disbelief, and Brad couldn't quite classify it. So he glanced over, just out of the corner of his eye, and Fick was looking at him, that strange look in his pale eyes, one Brad was familiar with but still couldn't quite name. After a few moments, Fick turned away from him, a rueful little smile on his lips, shaking his head slightly.
"Racing bike?" Fick finally asked, and Brad was pretty sure he ought to be offended somehow, but he was so damnably tired. He didn't have the energy to be offended.
"Racing bike," he confirmed, and hoped it would be left at that. Fick seemed to understand, at least enough not to pursue that line of questioning. Brad knew the other guys thought he was a little off in the head. He didn't really care, but he knew.
"I've never ridden a motorcycle," Fick said when the night stilled again, and Brad had the sudden sense of phantom arms wrapped warm and strong around his waist, a man's solid bulk pressed against his back, where he knew he was leaning against a cinder wall.
"It's easy," he said flatly. "Just you and the sky, and nothing can touch you." Fick shifted again, and Brad could feel the weight of his eyes. For a long moment, he stared into the middle distance, trying to ignore Fick. He couldn't do it long, had to look down, and Fick had that same inscrutable look on his face again. "Maybe I'll take you out sometime," he heard himself saying distantly, and the phantom sensation of his CO pressed against his back, clinging to him, intensified.
"Up the coast," his voice continued, soft and distant. "Where you can see the straight drop into the ocean when you dip through the turns." Fick leaned in to hear him over the distant thud of mortars and shells, and he swore he could feel the lieutenant's breath against his jaw. Their eyes met again, and there was no way either of them would admit verbally what they both knew in that instant. Electricity arced between them, and Fick nodded solemnly.
"I'd like that," Fick said, soft and wistful, "like you to-" he pauses, gunfire close by cutting his sentence in half, and then Fick was sort of cocking his head to the side, eyes focusing away, and he's all business, talking into the comm.
The feeling of another body pressed warmly against his back faded from Brad's mind. Fick turned back, and there was no more talk of home, or after the war. The gunfire and explosions continued, but the black backdrop of night slowly pinked and lightened to a flat leaden color. By the time afternoon came, the sky had cleared, but it was still grey with smoke and haze, and the desert was flat and dull around them, the sand whipping into their faces as they walked into the hulking transport planes. Brad thought he caught Fick's eyes, a flash of colorless flame in the otherwise drab scenery, but the moment passed, one in a string of many, and then he was folding himself into a seat, gear stowed beneath his feet.
