the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist
fourfreedoms

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Fic: Stoppard Didn't Write This One

Title: Stoppard Didn't Write This One
Author: fourfreedoms
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Brad/Nate
Word Count: 1,476
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Stafford would like you to know, Ray is not the only person who can know somebody really well.
Notes: This is, hand to god, the crackiest piece of writing I've ever penned. If Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead were about matchmaking marines, I feel it would come out like this. Probably more social commentary.



So Ray has crazy encyclopedic knowledge of Colbert and claims to know him better than his mother or whatever. Stafford concedes this victory, because it’s honestly a little creepy. But he also would like it to be recognized that he and Christeson have a pretty firm understanding of the LT that should not be discounted. While Brad is a complicated badass motherfucker, the LT is actively trying to tamp down on any personality showing through. So if they’re handing out perceptiveness prizes, he and Christeson definitely win.

When the LT's eyes look more blue than green they know command has just yanked the rug out from under him. On the days when his lips are torn and bleeding from how much he’s been chewing on them, they know his conscience is weighing on him. And they know that the only thing that makes him feel better on either of these occasions is Colbert. And neither Colbert nor Ray know that.

Stafford also is aware that the LT would positively die if he realized they knew, or if Colbert and Ray suddenly bought a clue. Not that anybody could ever call Colbert dense, but he seems like a bottomless trashcan of awareness whenever Fick gets within spitting distance. In a sort of sickeningly endearing way.

What this means is that he and Christeson are constantly (and very skillfully) engineering situations for Colbert and the LT to meet. Then LT comforting can ensue and they can rap along to whatever songs they want when he isn’t feeling lower than dirt.

So obviously it’s very self-involved and they’re not at all invested in the LT like Gunny suggested. Because that’s crazy. Nobody wants the LT staring at them in that pretty-boy-actually-kind-of-terrifyingly-intense way that makes them worry that Fick’s soul is dying, simply because it sucks. Not that they ruminate too hard on that either, because that would be fucking gay. Well, Christeson said it first.

“Iraq is killing the LT’s soul,” he said. Stafford obviously told him to get the fuck out.

“Fuck this shit, it would be so much easier to give the LT a 40 and shove him at Colbert, rather than sit here, prancing about, trying to have them all stumble on each other and shit,” Christeson tells him, eyes darting between the LT standing with Gunny Wynn and Colbert peering at his Blueforce tracker like it holds the answers to the universe. Which hell, maybe it does, maybe Colbert is the messiah. They are all fucked. He can’t even figure his shit out with the LT.

Stafford looks back at Christeson and sighs. “Word.”

Stafford is ready to start diagramming out grand plots involving Colbert/LT alone time, and maybe even consult Ray for his help, which if anything says desperation…because then they’d be court marshaled for what they’d have to do to Ray to get him to actually give the LT and Colbert their alone time. At that juncture, it’s all a lesson in misery and you might as well just shoot yourself in the head.

Later at night when Colbert/LT alone time happens completely independent of them, they’re kind of put out. Or Stafford is. Christeson’s just glad the LT is smiling. Well, fine, Stafford isn’t a fucking fairy godmother so he at least wants something to show for his own efforts. When he catches Gunny staring at him, he loudly sings the first three verses of “Jesus Walks” and tries not to look like he’s plotting.

Christeson says he looks like Trombley shat on him.

The next day as they watch the LT fork over a tube of LSA that he probably bartered his ass for, Christeson says, “What is it about Colbert that makes the LT act like a cokehead with an 8 ball?”

“Does he act like a cokehead with an 8 ball?” Stafford asks. Christeson opens his mouth and Stafford holds up a hand, cutting him off. “You know what, G? I don’t wanna know.”

“The point is still salient,” Christeson says, he’d cross his arms if it weren’t already full of automated weaponry.

“The LT obviously wants Brad to suck his dick,” Stafford says. These kiddies, they need such help sometimes.

“The LT looks like he’d be much better at dick-sucking. You know, not as tall, has that mouth…”

Stafford stares at Christeson. He is obviously demoted from the ‘knowing LT very well’ category. “Why am I alive?” Stafford says, rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

“To kill people,” Trombley supplies as he walks past, rolled up porn mag in one hand.

Stafford blinks. “That is just…not helpful.”

Christeson cups a hand over his mouth like he cares if Trombley hears and says, “That one looks like he’s a full-on meth addict. Not just around Colbert, mind you, but fucking all the time.”

Stafford clears his throat and changes the subject, “Do you know, maybe we could get him to suck LT's cock…”

“Get who to suck the LT's cock?” a voice says from behind them. Stafford does not yelp. Do not listen to what Christeson says. Stafford made a manful gasp of surprise. Not even that, a manful grunt.

“Uh, what’s up, G?” Stafford coughs. Brad stares at him evenly. It’s the eventually-you’re-going-to-talk stare. Everybody understands that one. Not just Ray Fucking Person. “Oh, dog, you want to know what we we’re talking about!”

“We were thinking about getting the LT a hooker,” Christeson says, like that’s going to solve this mess.

“A not-hajji hooker, obviously, that just turned up in Iraq, yes,” Stafford says, faltering under that gaze.

“Willing too,” Christeson added. Stafford thumps him in the side and grins brightly.

“You said him,” Brad emphasizes. Ooh, bad time to undensify himself about the LT.

“Noooo,” Christeson says, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh.”

“Yes,” Brad replies, slowly, “you did.”

“Well, by him we obviously meant an FTM, so it would be rude to say she, because you know, he doesn’t self-identify that way anymore.” Christeson grins innocently.

It is so crazy that even Brad buys it. He blinks at them for a long second and then mutters, “You two tubs of whiskey tango suck have clearly had too much ripped fuel.”

He strides off into the darkness before they can say anything else. Christeson turns to him. “You almost fucked the goat right there.”

“Me?” Stafford shouts at him. “‘He doesn’t self-identify that way anymore?’” Stafford is demoting Christeson to an even lower level. The level just above Trombley.

Christeson sighs. “I still wish we had that 40.”

Stafford slumps back against their vehicle. “Word.”

After that they leave shit alone. Colbert is watching them too closely, as is Gunny. The LT is too busy wanting Brad to suck his dick and to get them all out of this war unfucked to notice. It’s all very sad. However, Stafford and Christeson aren’t miracle workers. They can’t make a cushy white bed appear in the desert and tie the LT to it and then have Brad conveniently fall onto his dick. Life is never that easy. If they involved Rudy they could maybe get the last two items, but then Pappy would know, and then Poke would know, and at that point everybody would fucking know. And then they wouldn’t even have to worry about the LT dying over his (not so) secret, because they’d all be running for their lives from Trombley.

But then bad shit happens. As it invariably does. The LT looks like he’s ready to start writing Fall Out Boy songs, which is seriously not on. They take matters into their own hands. Stafford distracts Ray and Christeson says some well-placed comments to Colbert about the LT pacing the camp, and bang boom voila, Brad grows some balls and goes out after him.

When the LT comes back his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are slightly glassy. It looks like there’s some bruising under his ear. Stafford raises his eyebrow at Christeson, who grins back. The LT misses it and asks them how they’re doing. They give him cheerful assurances. When he finally leaves, Stafford says, “This is great, dog. Maybe he’ll finally let us sing 'Purple Pills' now.”

Christeson looks at him. “Don’t front, you know it makes you feel good when he’s happy.”

“Shut up.”

So what does all that prove? It proves that Ray Fucking Person doesn’t know Brad as well as he claims. Hah. Because obviously if he did, Christeson and Stafford wouldn’t have to be going all deep recon and tricking Brad into sucking the LT's dick. If he knew Brad as well as he claimed, he’d know that Brad obviously wouldn’t mind getting down on his knees for the LT in front of God and country, and then everybody would be a whole lot better off. But it’s all good, because Christeson and Stafford have the LT's back.

*

I wrote most of it on the train back from New Haven. I cannot be held responsible for this craziness. Also, it just occured to me that "Jesus Walks" was released in 2004. Whoops!
Tags: brad/nate, fic, generation kill
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