In the end, he's pretty sure he gives that up too the night above the amusement park on the Tigris, arguing with Schwetje. The reporter and Brad listen to his side of the conversation while trying to appear impassive, even though Nate can't manage that. Too many contradictory, inexplicable, ill-advised and absurd orders have taken their toll and he's beginning to think the only possible reason for any of this is to deliberately get them all killed, and the fact that they've managed to get this far without an actual death has just been pure dumb luck and command underestimating the skill of his platoon.

Nate looks out at the city, the flames and tracers flying, the pitch black below. "More aggressive?" It's not really a question, but he doesn't know how else to phrase it. He's not even actually sure he's heard Schwetje correctly.

"Godfather says it's time for us to increase our presence."

"Sir, given the level of disorder in the city at this time, and given our lack of a cohesive mission, I'm going to have my men remain in a defensive position until dawn when we'll move on the park." He can feel Brad looking at him, but Nate keeps his gaze straight ahead. He's tired - physically, mentally, emotionally - and even more, he's tired of the completely fucked intent to send himself and his men into the face of death with shit night-optics and no fucking reconnaissance.

"Negative. Godfather…"

"Hitman, having assessed the situation from close observation, I'm going to keep my men in a defensive posture until dawn. How copy?"

"Hitman two, I say again…"

He hot mikes the radio without another word and exhales, emotions thick at the back of his throat. He still doesn't look at Brad. "They want me to be more aggressive." He finally turns, though he doesn't really see Brad. He can't see anything past the anger boiling under his skin. "Send the men into this. For what? So I can come home with twenty-one men instead of twenty-two? For what?"

Emotion threatens to overwhelm him and he turns away, back to the city. Brad's voice is soft in the darkness. "I trust your judgment, sir."

Nate looks at him for a long moment, pushing everything down. Brad's words remind him of why he said what he said, why he's taking his stand. His men deserve someone willing to fight for them while they're fighting for everyone else. Nate looks away. "Or I could be wrong. A platoon commander's situational awareness doesn't extend very far."

"Far enough, sir."

He looks back at Brad and Brad holds his gaze. He raises his eyebrows slightly and Nate nods. Whatever this is - this thing between them - it's not more than what they are right here and right now. Warriors doing the job they have to do. Brothers keeping each other alive in the darkness. Whatever is bad out there in the park below will be bad in the morning, he's learned that quickly out here, but at least in the morning, they'll be able to see it coming.

The last few days are spent with all of them trying to reconcile what they've seen and done and heard. News reports make their efforts seem even more futile and the escalations in fighting are almost like a mockery. Still, they all have to live with themselves, which means Doc Bryan and the rest of the platoon spend hours trying to treat the wounded without giving away that they're just as likely to die with the bandages the Marines give them as they are with the filthy rags and cotton they've stuffed into open wounds. They bring water that gets turned away and Brad tries to make it all right by blowing up unexploded ordinance like he has some experience in detonation.

Nate pulls Brad off his self-assigned mission, orders him off of it and faces the look Brad gives him. He knows the feeling. They're Marines, the elite among the Marines at that, and they're not used to feeling useless, helpless. They're not used to what feels like failure, and they're not used to feeling like the bad guys.

Nate finds Brad at the foot of the bleachers of the soccer stadium, staring out at the grass, the verdant green shredded by Humvee tracks. Brad doesn't look up, doesn't move at all, just sits there, his wrists draped over his knees. "This isn't what we're supposed to do, sir."

"Nothing we've done here is, Sergeant." Nate sits next to him, copying his posture, shoulder brushing Brad's. "I understand."

"But you still stopped me."

"Your safety is my priority, Brad. We can't clean up the mess we made."

"All due respect, sir, but then maybe we shouldn't have made the fucking mess."

"That's not ours to decide. We do our job, follow orders." Nate shifts slightly, his knee swaying toward Brad, their hands brushing. "We're warriors. They're bureaucrats and politicians." Nate doesn't say anything for a long moment, wondering if Brad would actually classify him as a warrior rather than the other. "You know fuck all about detonation."

"I did just fine the first time."

"First time lucky. I happen to like you with all your parts as they are, Sergeant." Brad gets to his feet and Nate shivers slightly at the change in the air. He looks up, squinting into the fading sun and his brow wrinkles as Brad smiles. "What?"

"I bet I can think of a few other places you'd like certain of my parts. Sir."

Nate nearly chokes as Brad walks away, unable to keep from smiling. It doesn't last long though, and once they reach Ad Diwaniyah, Nate can't feel anything at all. There are too many people needing things he can't deliver, orders that don't make sense and contradict. He remembers gunfire and mortars and the distant sound and the insistent smell of death. Everything else might be a dream or a nightmare, possibly both all at once.

Nate avoids the football game, not willing to give himself an opportunity to unleash any of the pent up aggression that's crawling like a caged tiger in his stomach. It would be far too easy to find himself up on charges, and he'd rather settle for getting out of here with something salvaged. Still, he watches from the sidelines, far enough away that no one can try to drag him into it, but close enough that the insults and the accusations are still too easily heard.

"DD40s in triplicate, sir." Brad taps Nate's arm with a clipboard, the thin onionskin papers rattling in the light breeze. "Trombley and Hasser are finishing up with the rest of them." He glances out at the field, watching as Patterson goes after Schwetje. His eyebrows shoot up and he looks over at Nate.

"I'm not getting involved," Nate informs him softly.

"Just out of curiosity, sir, if you did, would you pull them apart or help Captain Patterson?"

Nate looks at Brad, saying as much as he can without saying a word. Brad likes to push his buttons. He's learned that in more ways than one over the last two and a half months. "I have something for you."

"Yeah? More forms to fill out?"

"Not exactly." Nate reaches into his pocket and pulls out a MRE, handing it over to Brad. "Don't ask me how I got this."

"Is it classified?" Brad takes the silver pouch from Nate's hand and smiles. "Holy shit. This is jalapeño and cheese."

"That it is."

"This is like contraband, sir. Black market shit."

"It's not exactly pound cake, Brad."

"Fuck pound cake, sir." Brad's still smiling, his lip curved in a wry grin. "Pound cake is foreplay, sir. Jalapeño and cheese is the fucking come shot."

"I will…never eat jalapeño and cheese again."

"I don't know, sir." Brad's smile fades, something serious taking its place. "Don't knock it until you try it."

"Does that mean you'll be sharing that MRE with me, Sergeant?"

"No way in hell, sir." Brad tucks the MRE in his pocket as another shout goes up from the makeshift football field. They both look up and Brad sighs as Rudy traps Ray underneath him, his fists landing loud enough to resound across to them. "Fuck."

"Go on." Nate nods in Ray's direction. "You've got a man down."

"Yeah." Brad jogs over toward the field, falling in behind Ray as he walks away. They don't talk, but Brad doesn't come back either, and Nate watches him go. It's nearly impossible to lose Brad in the crowd; people seem to give him a wide berth. Nate can barely remember when he used to think it was Brad that put people off, but it's simply respect, he thinks. Or in some cases, fear. Brad doesn't suffer fools, which makes the Marines a dubious place for him. Nate laughs to himself and shakes his head. Maybe Brad's not the only one in the wrong line of work.

Nate moves into the structure they've appropriated for a dining hall and rec area, nodding to the members of Bravo Two as he goes. Whatever tensions were boiling earlier seem to have died down to a simmer, bubbling lightly under the surface where they can be ignored. Brad's at the far side of the room, slouched on the bench and leaning back against the table. Espera is beside him and Bennett, Doc Bryant glaring at the revelry going on around them.

He settles next to Doc and watches as Brad pulls the MRE out of his pocket, finally tearing into it and teasing small amounts of jalapeño and cheese spread onto the edges of his crackers. He's taking his time, just giving himself a taste, and Nate can't help but watch. Brad's movements are meticulous and suggestive, though Nate's not sure if that's really the case of it now that there's no one shooting at him, he can allow himself to think about Brad's body against his, the feel of Brad shuddering through an orgasm. Brad smiles up at him slightly, raising one eyebrow as he squeezes a small amount of the spread onto the cracker and then licks it off with the tip of his tongue.

Shaking his head, Nate turns his attention back to the conversation. He doesn't have any answers, and he doesn't think they actually look to him for them. They trust Brad, as they should, though he thinks he's earned something from them and Espera looks at him, not Brad, for whatever reassurance he can offer. Maybe that's worth everything.

When Lilley's movie starts, Nate knows that whatever story it tells, it's not going to be the truth. He lived it, and he doesn't know what the truth is. All he can do is look at Brad and wait for him to look back, nod as an answer to whatever questions linger between them. Brad swallows hard and Nate looks away. None of the answers seem real anyway, so maybe it doesn't matter what the questions were in the end. He pushes off the table and leaves the men behind, not sure where to go from here.

The tents are deserted and it feels like a ghost town. He can hear the shouts and calls and laughter of men, knows that cheap alcohol is going to cause problems before the morning, but he's been assured they're in the clear for the night. It's the first assurance he actually believes. The officers' tent is equally silent. Godfather has the command staff getting jacked up on the promises of medals and streamers and better hooch than the local Iraqis could provide, but Nate opted for his men and now solitude.

"Hey."

He glances over at the tent opening and smiles at Brad. "Hey."

"You want to do a little recon?"

"Our part of the war is over."

"Yeah." Brad nods. "But, you know, we should have at least one chance to do what we're trained to do while we're here." He holds the shoulder strap of his weapon and lets his lip curl in an impish smile. "The odds of something worse happening are pretty slim, sir."

"I don't believe that."

"I'm assured of it." Brad lets his mouth fall into a full fledged grin. "Come on, Nate. Don't you want to do something we're good at?"

"I think after this, we're going to have to expand the definition of what we're good at." Nate rubs his eyes with one hand and slings his weapon onto his shoulder. "You know what I want more than anything in the world?"

"A cold beer?"

"No."

"A room full of Playboy Playmates and a case full of condoms?"

Nate laughs. "No."

"A hot shower?"

Groaning a little, Nate shakes his head. "Close, but no."

"Come on, Nate." Brad ducks out of the tent and heads out, leaving Nate to follow. He does, falling in step with Brad as he leads the way toward the outskirts of the encampment. Pallets are stacked with ammunition and supplies, creating monstrous shadows in the moonlight that manages to make it through the fine layer of dust in the air. Brad moves behind a crumbling wall, and Nate can hear the distant rumble of the generators powering the thin lights and make-shift showers. The air smells like cordite and sulfur, death and excrement, sweat and heat. Brad slows his stride, bending over to stay below the wall-line and Nate mimics his posture. They round another corner and it's open air, something haunting and undeveloped in the wild grasses encroaching on the blown out earth.

"This is our recon?"

Brad holds his finger to his lips and eases past another wall toward a copse of trees nearby. They're scraggly and fragile-looking, though Nate knows they're anything but to survive the climate. They offer shade, which causes Nate to shiver, the discrepancy in the temperature from their shadows to the pathways noticeable.

"What are we doing, Brad?"

Brad sits in the grass and sets his gun down, looking up at Nate. "Talking."

"About?"

"No one blames you, sir." Brad nearly disappears in the grass, the swaying strands of it as tall as his shoulders, the same bleached blond as his hair. "For any of this. None of us blame you."

Nate swallows and glances back at the camp and then down at Brad. "Maybe you should."

"No, sir." There's no hesitation at all in Brad's voice.

"I should have done more. I should have done better. You may not blame me, Sergeant, but I do."

"Well then, no disrespect meant, sir," Brad smiles up at him, his head tilted back and his teeth bright, his face scrubbed free of all but the freshest dirt and his expression amused and promising in ways Nate shouldn't think about. "But you're an idiot."

Nate laughs. "Thanks."

Brad reaches out and snags Nate's belt, tugging him down to his knees between Brad's spread legs. "Don't mention it."

Nate braces himself on Brad's raised knees, stopping his forward momentum. "I'm beginning to suspect, Sergeant, that this is not actually a recon mission."

"Well, given that nearly all of the missions we were given failed to fall under the umbrella of reconnaissance, I think you're judging me way too harshly here, sir." Brad's fingers ghost over the back of Nate's hands, tracing Nate's knuckles. "Not only that, but you're wrong. I'm here studying the terrain."

"Brad…"

"Did you think about me, Nate?" He doesn't look up from his slow exploration of the back of Nate's hand, tracing veins and knuckles. "While we were out there? Did you think about me?"

"I thought about all my men. Your safety was my primary concern."

"No, Nate. Not your men. Not Sergeant Colbert." He gets to Nate's wrist, stealing under the cuff of his jacket. "Did you think about me? Did you think about the supply truck and the latrine? Did you think about that, Nate?"

Nate grits his teeth, a groan thick in the back of his throat. "Brad."

"Did you?" Brad moves one hand back to Nate's belt then slides it down over the bulge of Nate's erection. "Did you jack off thinking about me, Nate?"

Nate closes his eyes, swaying forward slightly. "I thought…I thought we weren't doing this."

"We weren't. We didn't. For twenty-one days of combat, we didn't do this at all." He undoes Nate's belt and then works at his fly. Nate can taste dust in his throat and realizes his mouth is open, breathing hard as Brad works his hand into Nate's pants. "I dreamed about it when I slept and I jacked off to the thought of it when I could, but this…we didn't do this at all, sir."

"Y-you are correct, Sergeant." Nate swallows in a futile attempt to wet his throat, watching as Brad tugs the desert camouflage away from Nate's skin. "We definitely didn't do this. I'd remember this."

"So, did you? Think about me?" Brad curls his hand around Nate's dick, stroking it slowly. His smile is just north of wicked. "Sir?"

"Fuck, Brad." Nate's hips jerk forward, pressing him harder against Brad's palm.

"Not an answer, sir. And, really, I'm beginning to think you didn't really make it through BRC if you're not able to stand just this little bit of torture." He tightens his grip and Nate does the same, nails digging into the knees of Brad's fatigues. "I'm barely touching you, Lieutenant."

"That would be the problem, Sergeant." Nate shifts closer, knees pressed against the underside of Brad's thighs. "What's the matter? Afraid to get your hands dirty?"

"I can think of a lot of ways to do that, sir." Brad laughs, low and rough as he sweeps his thumb over the head of Nate's cock.

Nate bites back a gasp and thrusts, sliding his hands down Brad's thighs. Leaning in, he growls his words in the raspy air the escapes Brad's parted lips. "I want to fuck you, Sergeant. In my dreams and in my combat jacks, that's what I did. I pressed you face down into my seat in the goddamned Humvee and I fucked you. I fucked you deep and hard and wet, not giving a shit about the fucking guns so long as I could lube up my dick and slide it inside you."

Brad's breath shudders and he grabs Nate's jacket with his free hand, jerking him closer still and kissing him. It's messy and hard, painful and desperate and Nate can feel the roughness of Brad's fatigues against his skin.

"Is that what you want, Sergeant? You want to get on your knees so I can fuck you right here, right now?" He can feel the aggression building inside him, just like it did for Patterson and Person in the afternoon. The driving need to pound out his anger in Brad's willing flesh is just as viable as a fist fight on the football field. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes." Brad groans the word, biting down on Nate's lower lip. Nate tastes blood and shoves Brad to the ground, pinning him there, his body braced above Brad's, boots against his ankles and hands wrestling for Brad's wrists alongside his head. Brad's breathing hard and there's nothing ice-like about him right now. "Yes, sir."

Nate releases Brad's wrist and works his hand down between them, struggling to get Brad's fatigues undone. Ambient noise filters in, shouting and cursing, laughter and singing and it has all the makings of some Boy Scout camping trip except for the lack of marshmallows and the fact that he's got his hands wrapped around Brad Colbert's dick. Or maybe that does make it like a camping trip. Either way, he's not sure who groans louder as he wraps his hand around Brad and guides him out, fitting his own cock against Brad's.

"Lieutenant."

Nate freezes. Brad stops breathing beneath him and for the first time in his life, Nate thinks he knows what fear looks like. He's not sure what's in his own eyes, but Brad's are practically black, wide and horrified. Whatever else can be said of this, and no matter how much homoerotic bullshit they all spew, this could very likely get them both killed.

"Lieutenant, I'm sorry to interrupt." Gunny's low Texas drawl sounds half amused. "I know it's been a long couple of weeks without any privacy, but the Captain's looking for you, sir."

"He thinks it's a jack," Nate whispers, almost to himself, before raising his voice. "I'll be right there." He doesn't move as Gunny's footsteps retreat, waiting until the sound dies before easing away from Brad. The initial surge of fear spiked his erection, but lying against Brad and the relief of not being caught out bring it right back. Nate gets to his feet and rearranges his fatigues, looking down at Brad who remains motionless on the ground. "Even if he knows, he's pretending it was a jack. Probably for his sake as well as ours."

Brad nods and arches his hips off the ground, refastening his fatigues. Nate watches, not quite able to look away, then holds out his hand for Brad to take. He helps Brad to his feet then stands there, still far too close, especially now that they're out in the open, easily seen between the tree branches. "The captain's waiting, sir."

Nate nods and reaches out, lightly touching Brad's wrist. There's a slight darkness to the skin, a hint of pressure on the pale flesh. "Goodnight, Sergeant."

"Not as good as it could have been." Brad offers another wry smile. "Sir."

Bullshit and minutia take up the rest of the month, and Nate keeps his distance from Brad as best he can. The natural separation of officers and enlisted takes over now that there's not a battle raging directly around them, no direct need for constant communications. In a lot of ways, it's a relief, even though Godfather still insists on the grooming standard. Nate watches from the defacto command center as the men begin their regimens again, running in matching black suits every morning, ten miles or more with gear, sweat and dust clinging to them so that, by the time they're done, they've faded to gray.

He's taken to jacking off in the latrines again, one hand against the wall and head against his hand, his other wrapped around his dick while he thinks about Brad beneath him, thinks about that tight, hard body closed over his dick as he slides inside. It doesn't ever take long, and his hard-on never completely goes away, but he can actually manage to hold a conversation without embarrassing himself so long as he can turn the lock to occupied three times a day.

The day before they're supposed to ship out, Person comes looking for him, looking completely out of place in the midst of the upper echelons of whatever society they've established here. "Lieutenant Fick, sir?"

"Yes, Corporal Person?"

"Do you have a moment, sir?" He glances at the rest of the gathered officers and Nate's indescribably glad that Ray ran out of Ripped Fuel a long time ago. "It's kind of important."

"Not right now, Corporal."

"It's about Sergeant Colbert, sir."

"Ah." Nate takes a quick look around and, for the most part, the rest of them seem to be concentrating on reports or whatever other busy work they've managed to make up for themselves. The men are almost at loose ends, and it's only been through sheer self-discipline and Sixta's backwoods southern twang reminding them of the grooming standard that Nate hasn't found himself at a Captain's Mast every morning.

"It's important, sir."

"Yes, Corporal. All right." Nate grabs his soft cover and shoves it on his head as they go outside, falling in step beside Ray. He still has a touch of his manic energy now that they're in motion, but Nate thinks it might be concern about Brad more than anything. Nate knows where Ray falls in Brad's hierarchy. The fact that Brad puts up with him at all without putting a bullet or three through Ray's constantly in-motion mouth speaks volumes about his ability and how much Brad relies on him. "Sergeant Colbert is all right, Corporal?"

"Brad? Fuck, yeah. You just need to see this." Ray smiles and then has the decency to blush. "Sir."

"You said it was urgent, Corporal."

"Yeah. Well, yeah. I mean, sort of." Ray shrugs. "Just come on, sir. Trust me."

Nate follows him, the low-level arousal he seems to be sporting all the time threatening to become more pronounced, not to mention embarrassing, at the thought of seeing Brad. There's a crowd gathered outside the tent and Nate frowns. "What's going on here, Corporal Person?"

"You'll see, sir." Ray nods to Dirty Earl who leads the group inside.

"Okay, mail call." Earl has the mail bag slung over his shoulder and he starts tossing mail around the room. Brad looks up, his gaze bypassing Earl and landing squarely on Nate. "Jacks. Stafford." He calls out names, flinging letters like he's in the middle of a grand Frisbee tournament. Brad doesn't look at the envelopes that land on his chest, his eyes still caught on Nate. "Espera." Earl sets the bag down. "Sorry, gents. That's all Santa Claus has for you."

"Not quite." Walt leans into the room, easing around Nate with his hands behind his back. "There's still one more thing left." Ray nudges Nate and Nate looks away from Brad to Walt, who pulls a FedEx package from behind his back. "Merry Christmas, Sergeant Colbert."

"Holy shit." Brad straightens up and scrambles off the floor, grabbing the package from Walt before he can even react. Everyone in the room is smiling as Brad slices open the box and sends packing peanuts scattering over the floor. "Holy shit."

Ray nudges Nate, grinning like he's back on Ripped Fuel. Nate has to smile back though; the sheer excitement on Brad's face is contagious. "Look at that."

Brad pulls out the turret shield and holds it up; the unmarred titanium seems bright even in the dim quarters. "Holy shit."

"Too bad we ship out tomorrow." Ray smirks in Brad's direction. "I figure we'll get a shitload of batteries, dip and porn mags tomorrow right as we take off."

"It'll give you something to do on the way home," Brad doesn't look away from the shield. "God, she's beautiful."

"Okay, Brad, now you're starting to sound like Trombley. Don't do that weird shit." Ray comes over and takes the shield from Brad. "Don't talk to the weaponry. It just makes you look psycho. We already have one, let's not push our luck."

Brad watches Ray carry the shield over to his bunk then turns and looks at Nate again. "Sir."

"I'd say better late than never, Sergeant, but I don't know if that's the case." Nate shakes his head, still smiling. "Still, better late than never."

Brad glances back into the room and then moves toward Nate, falling in as Nate turns around and leaves the tent. It's been nearly a month since he's been this close to Brad, and nothing's changed in how he reacts. Brad shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the motor pool. "I'm getting really fucking tired of running fifteen miles twice a day, sir."

"Have you tried jacking off?"

"I do that too." He gives Nate a sidelong glance. "We ship out tomorrow, sir, back to Pendleton."

"We do."

"You've been running too, sir."

"Yes." It seems stupid to even try to deny it. He knows Brad's been watching, and even if he hasn't, Nate's certain he's past hiding anything from Brad. He was past that before they even made it through Baghdad.

"The first thing I'm going to do is take a long, hot shower for as long as the water holds out. And then I'm going to take my bike out and ride as far and as fast as I can." Brad looks up at the sky, too bright even though it's impossible to pinpoint the sun. "I fully expect at least one speeding ticket, if someone can catch up to me. What about you, sir?"

"I'm going to find a hotel near the base or away from it, I don't care. Just someplace where I can shut and lock the door and be completely alone. Where I can shower and lie around naked, or put on clothes that don't smell like the desert. I want to eat food that doesn't come out of silver bags and I'm going to order something ice cold. Beer, soda, ice cream…I don't know what yet, but something cold."

"Ray says he's going to find the nearest pussy patch and eat his way through it." Brad laughs softly, cutting a sideways glance toward Nate.

"That…sounds very much like something Corporal Person would say." Nate bites his lower lip and sucks on it for a moment then turns to face Brad. "Monterey."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Is that far enough? To ride."

"I think it would be all right, sir." Brad shifts closer, the movement barely noticeable though Nate's body reacts instinctively. "I imagine they have hotels there. In Monterey."

"I would imagine that they do, Sergeant." Nate nods once and lets is eyes roam down the entire length of Brad's body. When he meets Brad's gaze again, he can't help but wonder if his eyes give away as much as Brad's. "Sergeant."

Brad steps back and nods as well before turning back to the tent. "Lieutenant."

Nate watches him go and then exhales, looking up at the stars. The horizon glows orange and cold from the ongoing battles and tracers dance at the edges of Nate's vision, but the sky is a light show all its own. He smiles to himself and glances back in the direction Brad had gone, counting the days until he gets what he really wants, somewhere in Monterey.

Nate stands outside on the balcony of his hotel, staring at the ocean. Every time he looks at it, it seems bluer than he remembers, and it smells a hell of a lot better than the desert. He's in shorts and a t-shirt and he feels almost naked, exposed without the weight of his uniform and his gun and sixty-odd pounds of gear. Of course, concentrating on those feelings makes it much easier to avoid the other ones that keep threatening to crowd his brain, the ones that remind him what he's doing here and what he's hoping for, what he wants.

It seems unreal back here in California with the internet and 24 hour news service and cell phones. Not just Brad, not just what happened and didn't between them, but the war, the reality of dead bodies and burning buildings and bullets at close range. Holding people's lives in his hands is like some sort of movie he saw a long time ago and only vaguely remembers the ending.

He hears the bike long before he sees it, and it's impossible to mistake it for anything but Brad's. The modified exhaust and engine cause heads to turn nearly as much as Brad does as he parks, his long legs straddling the machine. Nate looks down at him, watches the crowd as he climbs off the bike, peeling off his helmet and leather jacket. He's wearing jeans and his USMC t-shirt is so faded it's nearly colorless. Nate swallows hard as Brad looks up and smiles at the sky.

Letting loose a shuddering breath, Nate moves back into the hotel room, glancing around at the furnishings. It cost him more than he's willing to admit and it's probably a ridiculous expense, but the spa bathtub and multi-head shower make it worth it even if he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do with a chaise lounge or an executive desk. Brad's probably going to laugh his ass off. Nate glances at the mirror and winces, his hair longer than regulation and his clothes making him look about ten years younger than he really is. He's debating changing when there's a knock on the door and then the metallic beep of the key card.

Brad walks in and stops, taking in the surroundings like any good Recon Marine. He keeps his back to the door until it shuts and then surveys more casually. Nate stands there, uncertain of what to do, until Brad's made a circuit of the room with his eyes. "Wow. You Lieutenants must make a hell of a lot more than I ever though." He sets his helmet down and tosses his jacket over the back of a chair.

"I thought about offering to suck cock for it, but it seems that doesn't have the same currency in the real world."

"Don't do that."

"What?"

Brad finally looks at Nate, his eyes dark. "Suck anyone else's cock."

If Nate had any question as to what was going to happen, Brad's calm statement clears it away. "Is that what you want me to do?" He doesn't really recognize his own voice, the thick sound heavy in his chest. "You want me to suck your cock, Brad?" A shiver seems to run through Brad and Nate takes a step forward, pressing what little advantage he might have. Brad's eyes are locked on Nate's mouth, watching as Nate licks his lips. "I told you what I fantasized about during my combat jacks, Brad. What about you?"

"You know," Brad rasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "You fucking know."

Nate nods, surprised at how easy it is to close the distance between them, to reach for Brad's jeans and undo the leather belt, the button and zipper. "I want to hear you." Brad's dick is hard against the denim as Nate opens the fly, tugging at Brad's boxer-briefs until they're stripped away, leaving Brad's t-shirt hovering just below his navel and Brad's cock jutting out thickly, the slick head twitching as Nate sinks to his knees. "Tell me what you want, Brad."

"I want to fuck your mouth, Nate." His voice has the same deep timbre that Nate recalls from when things were the thickest in battle - a calm, measured tone that seems to come from deep inside him. His hand cups lightly against the back of Nate's head, palm sliding over the too-long hair. "I want to slide my dick between those fucking lips of yours and fuck your mouth until you swallow me down."

Nate licks his lips, still looking up at Brad as he leans in, his tongue flicking against the head of Brad's cock. Brad makes a strangled sound and Nate parts his lips, breathing against him. He can feel Brad's fingers tightening against the back of his head as he takes Brad in his mouth, his hands moving to Brad's hips to keep him from moving, allowing Nate time to adjust to the weight and feel of him on his tongue.

Brad's eyes are locked on Nate's, watching with an almost painful intensity as Nate begins to move, lips and teeth and tongue against Brad's skin. At first it's a concentrated effort not to gag and his fingers dig into Brad's hips in an effort to control it. Brad groans at the pressure and so Nate keeps it up, even after that first shocked moment when Brad's cock hits the back of his throat.

"Jesus, Nate." Brad's voice trembles and Nate remembers that he's human in those shaky syllables. "Y-you've never fucking done this before, have you?" Nate makes a low noise, of agreement or denial, let Brad take it as he will. Brad groans and loosens his grip on Nate's head, stroking his hair back instead. "Fuck, Nate. You're killing me."

Nate almost smiles as he moves, closing his eyes to concentrate on just the feel of Brad's skin. Nate's hasn't made a practice of looking at other men, but he's also been in the Marines long enough to have seen the variety it offers. Brad's cock is thick and moderately long, surprisingly unlike the rest of his lean body. The vein along the underside pulses against Nate's tongue as he presses against it, sucking hard as Brad slowly rolls his hips forward. Nate can feel the desperate restraint Brad's suddenly employing, trying to let Nate set the pace.

Pulling back causes Brad to groan unhappily until he looks down at Nate. Nate can feel his lips, swollen and wet, and Brad's eyes are hot on them. "Not supposed to stop, sir."

"Thought you were going to fuck my mouth, Sergeant." He slides his thumbs down to the sides of Brad's dick and rubs the silky rough blond hairs. "I'm beginning to think you're taking it easy on me."

"No, sir."

"You think I'm some kind of pussy, Sergeant?"

Brad laughs and shakes his head, fisting his hand in Nate's hair and pulling his head back. His bicep stands out in high relief, the muscles bunching with his grip. "I'm definitely not thinking pussy, sir."

"I want you to fuck my mouth, Sergeant." Nate leans in and teases his teeth along the head of Brad's cock. "That's a fucking order."

"Fuck." Brad groans roughly as Nate takes him in his mouth again, thrusting roughly. Nate still grips Brad's hips to control the depth of his thrusts, but they quickly establish a rhythm and soon Nate's taking him deeper. Brad's breath is shuddering above him and Nate's not sure he can breathe at all, too caught up in the feel of Brad's thrust, the slide of his cock.

His hand slides around to Brad's ass, tracing the taut muscle and squeezing, pulling Brad closer. Brad pounds his hand against his thigh and tightens his other hand in Nate's hair, holding him still and close as the pace of Brad's thrusts increases. He's gasping and murmuring under his breath, something between dirty words and an Air Supply song, pushing into Nate's mouth hard and fast.

Nate sucks and swallows, trying to control the speed and impact with the pressure of his mouth, but Brad's relentless. Nate moans around him, the sound reverberating against Brad's skin and Brad's head falls back, his cock jerking hard and suddenly Nate's bombarded by the thick rush of Brad's come. He struggles to open his throat, sliding his tongue along the underside of Brad's cock in an effort to swallow him down. Brad is making low, desperate noises and both hands are locked at the back of Nate's head, holding him tight against him as he shudders his way through it.

Pulling back as soon as Brad's grip slackens, Nate coughs and sputters before sucking in ocean-scented air. Brad stumbles back, sitting on the edge of the bed, his jeans and skivvies trapped around his ankles. Nate swallows, his throat burning, and looks at Brad. He doesn't think he's ever seen Brad look like this before - uncertain and shaky and mindblown - not even after being lit up on the bridge at Al Kut. Brad looks at him for a long time and Nate stays there, on his knees, unsure of what to do next.

"C'mere." Brad slurs the words, voice thick and punch-drunk. Nate isn't sure he can make it to his feet, given that all the blood in his body is concentrated in his cock, so he drops down onto his hands and crawls the few feet to the foot of the bed. Brad groans again and reaches for Nate, tugging him up against him and kissing him. Nate's lips feel swollen and slightly numb, but the pressure of Brad's hard kiss breaks through the fog in his brain and he kisses him back, tongue invading Brad's mouth hungrily.

Brad fumbles with Nate's shorts, managing to get them undone and pushed down his legs. Nate hisses as, in his haste, Brad tugs at Nate's boxer-briefs and snags his cock, putting further pressure on the swollen flesh.

"Sorry. Fuck. Sorry." Brad reaches down, freeing Nate from the fabric, only to wrap him up in the tight grip of Brad's fingers. "Jesus, Nate." He strokes him roughly and Nate has to grab his wrist, stilling Brad's movements with the tight band of his grip.

"I'm going to fuck you." Nate reminds him, pushing Brad's hand away and guiding him flat onto his back on the bed. "Slide my dick inside you, remember?"

"Fuck, yes." Brad jerks his arm, the sudden movement bringing Nate down on top of him. Brad's other hand grasps the nape of Nate's neck and he kisses him hard for a long moment before shoving Nate away and sitting up, unlacing his boots and kicking off his jeans before sliding his shirt off.

Brad naked is pretty fucking overwhelming and Nate sucks in a hot breath that burns his lungs. Brad just smiles that smile, the one that haunted Nate's jerk off sessions and twists, crawling up the bed and stretching out, elbows against the covers and knees spread. "Jesus-fucking-Christ." Nate rips off his t-shirt and kicks his shorts into a pile beside Brad's clothes and kneels on the bed, fingers shaking as they trace over Brad's calves. "B-Brad…"

"Don't turn into some sort of Army pussy on me now, sir." Brad's voice shakes slightly, and Nate can see his white knuckles where he's clenching the bedspread tight.

"Like you said, Brad." Nate traces his finger against the crack of Brad's ass, watching the shudder run through Brad's body like he's buzzing on an adrenaline high. "Not thinking about pussy right now." Brad glances back at Nate, his lips parted in rough, anticipatory breaths that keep him from smiling exactly, but Nate smiles back anyway. He leans in, breathing against Brad's hip where his skin is lightly bruised, the marks of Nate's fingers embedded there. "You want me to fuck you, Brad?"

"Y-yes. Yes, sir." Another shaky breath parts Brad's lips and he licks them, his tongue darting out quickly. He clears his throat roughly and nods once, his voice back to almost normal. "Yes, sir."

Nate slides off the bed and grabs his rucksack, setting it on the nightstand. Brad's hands release and regrip the bedspread as the zipper sounds loud in the silence. Nate's not sure if he's being methodical or torturous as he takes his time finding the box of condoms and the bottle of lube he bought on the outskirts of town, trying hard not to flush at the look the girl at the cash register had given him. He'd had to come back to the hotel and jack off as it was, just thinking about what he was buying them for and now…

"Nate."

His name on Brad's lips is like a fucking siren song and Nate moves back to the bed, kneeling easily between Brad's legs. His cock hurts, aching from the hard pulse of blood that doesn't seem to stop as his fingers graze over Brad's skin.

"Fuck, Nate." Brad's whole body is shaking from the tightness of his muscles, the restraint and discipline of holding himself still.

Nate slides the condom on, the metal foil reminding him far too much of MREs for a moment before he's too busy trying not to come from the feel of his fingers on his dick. Only the knowledge that doing so would mean he wouldn't be able to slide inside Brad keeps him from losing control.

"Could you maybe not take your sweet fucking time, sir?"

Nate laughs as he opens the lube, slicking up his fingers before pressing them lightly against Brad's skin. "Oh, no. I'm definitely going to take my sweet fucking time, Sergeant." He does just that, slowly working a finger inside Brad. He's painfully tight, his body clenching around Nate's first knuckle. "Jesus, Brad. So fucking tight."

Brad bows his head, his back arched upward so that his tattoo seems to undulate with every thrust of Nate's finger, slowly working deeper. Brad's breathing's gone shallow, the rapid rise and fall matching Nate's own. Nate thinks he's likely to come before he can even get Brad stretched enough to take a second finger, much less Nate's actual dick, but suddenly Brad shifts and moans, his knees spreading further and Nate pushes another finger in.

"F-fuck." The word hits an octave that Nate's never heard Brad hit and he realizes in an instant that Brad's never done this before. Nate sucks in a breath and rests his head against Brad's lower back, breathing against the Heavy Metal tattoo.

"Jesus."

"M-more." Brad's hips are rolling, thrusting back against Nate's hand. Nate's not sure whose breath is louder as he gasps against Brad's skin, working his fingers steadily into Brad's body. "J-Jesus, Na-Nate." Brad shifts, back bowing as he thrusts back. "Fuck me."

Nate eases his hand away and moves up behind Brad, holding his cock against Brad, sliding along the crack of his ass before pushing against him, one long, low groan parting his lips as Brad's body closes around him. It's tight and painful in all the right ways, and every slow, shallow stroke gets him deeper, until he's buried in Brad, flush against his ass and feeling like every ounce of considerable force in Brad Colbert's body is centered specifically around his dick. "Oh…God."

Brad's past speaking, his hands clutching reflexively at the bedspread which is a tangled mess around him. He's managed to work a pillow down and his teeth are sunk into it, his eyes squeezed shut tight. Nate's chest heaves with the effort of remaining still until he can't not move. The first shift earns him a shattered gasp from Brad, mostly swallowed by the pillow as Nate grasps Brad's hips again and holds him steady for his thrust.

Nate closes his eyes, forcing himself to control his breathing, to control himself. Even without looking though, he recognizes the sound and smell and feel of Brad, and that seems to override any and all discipline that the Corps has drilled into him. His fingers darken the bruises already on Brad's hips, and his thrusts get more erratic, desperate as he pushes faster, deeper. He doesn't try to talk, not sure he can make anything more than primal sounds, his nails digging into Brad's skin as the last threads of control he has snapping as he thrusts as deep as he can, coming hard.

Nate slumps forward and Brad's balance is blown, his knees sliding out from under him so they collapse on the bed together. Instinct kicks in and Brad tightens around him again and Nate feels a second jerk from his cock that leaves him shaking harder than the first. Nate breathes roughly against the base of Brad's neck, licking his lips and tasting the sweat on Brad's skin.

Brad shivers and Nate braces himself again, pulling back and easing out slowly. Brad makes another noise as they part, slumping back on the bed again as Nate uses the reserves of his strength to dispose of the condom before sinking down beside Brad on the bed.

"That was…" Nate stops as Brad turns his head, his eyes skeptical. Nate shakes his head and smiles. "Pretty fucking amazing."

"No pun intended." Brad yawns and stretches out. "I think I'm in love with this bed."

"You can stay in it." Nate shifts onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Brad. "Long as you want."

"Not going to wake me at reveille?" Brad stretches his arm out, looping it lightly over Nate's hip. "Bugle at dawn?"

"Might blow something at dawn," Nate laughs, leaning down and kissing the hollow behind Brad's ear, damp with sweat. "But probably much later than that."

Brad smiles, eyes closed. "Go to sleep, sir."

"Is that an order?"