Fandom: Generation Kill
Word Count: 3,483
Summary: The boys dress up for Halloween. Nate's costume provokes Brad to deep thoughts. These deep thoughts lead to sex.
Notes: This is for the Get Some Porn Skirmish. It's for the prompt: Halloween is Nate's favorite time of year. What kind of antics do Brad and Nate get up to on All Hallow's Eve?
Somewhere Ray’s last shred of dignity was drifting in the wind. Brad couldn’t fathom how he’d struggled through Gunny’s front door in a giant pumpkin costume, but he’d managed. The minute Gunny lead Brad down the hall to the living room for his annual Halloween party he was assaulted by the sight of Ray’s legs in bright green tights as he popped peanuts and loudly discussed football with a ninja turtle Lilley.
He must’ve had a vaguely dismayed expression on his face, because Walt sidled up to him with two beers, grinning. “He lost a bet.”
He accepted the beer Walt offered him without ever taking his eyes off Ray. “To whom exactly? A four year old?” he asked, watching as Ray’s pumpkin girth nearly caused Stafford to drop his drinks. Stafford shoved hard at the pumpkin stuffing.
Stafford said. “Be careful, schwasted motherfucker.”
Walt and Brad traded looks.
Ray turned to flick him off and saw Brad. He stumbled over with aloud whoop. When he got close Brad saw his eyelids were darkened by eyeliner and glitter and he had a spike bracelet wrapped around one orange sleeve. “I’m a punkin,” Ray laughed, already slightly drunk. “Get it?”
Brad’s brows met his hairline.
“He was dressed as a punk rocker when he came,” Walt explained, “but then he lost the bet with Gunny and he had to put the pumpkin costume on.” Ray stumbled into Brad, clinging to his arm. Brad propped him upright, hoping to get his arm back. Walt politely hid a smile behind his palm, saying pointedly, “And then he did a lot of vodka shots.”
“Tequila!” Ray belligerently corrected, still hanging off Brad’s shoulder. Ray swayed and nearly upended a potted plant. Brad had to tug a big handful of the pumpkin material to drag him upright. Ray giggled a thanks and then swept his eyes out over the room. “Look, everybody’s here! Every last psycho marine fuckhead dressed up to frighten small kiddies!” he said. He stopped suddenly and turned back to them. “Oooh, Walt, don’t let Brad see the LT, he’ll sprain something when he does.”
Brad cut a quick glance at Walt, before turning back to Ray. “What?”
Ray giggled again. “Did you know Rudy made rainbow-layered jello shooters? They’re his masterpiece. Better than espresso,” he affirmed.
Walt grabbed Ray’s shoulder. “Ray, sit down,” he said firmly and shoved Ray onto a couch. He turned back to Brad and smiled brightly. “So, who are you supposed to be?”
“Omega man,” Brad said, distracted from Ray for a moment.
Walt ran his eyes over Brad’s all black outfit, obviously not recognizing the name. “Sure,” he said.
Walt was dressed up like a pirate. He’d even clipped a large hoop earring to one lobe. Walt caught him looking and fingered the hoop. “Rudy said he’d pierce it for me,” he said, laughing. “I figured better not.”
Brad nodded. “Extreme for one night.”
Ray struggled up from his sprawl on the couch, saying, “And everybody would think you were a fag, because that’s your right ear, douchewad.”
“Shut up, Ray!” Walt said, tapping Ray’s foot lightly with one pirate boot.
“I’m just looking out for you! You don’t get laid nearly enough!” Ray protested. They started arguing in earnest and Brad snorted, casting a glance around the party.
Stafford and Christeson were dressed up like Han and Luke from Star Wars. Poke was probably Robin Hood and busy expostulating in the corner. His wife was at his side in an outfit that looked to be Maid Marian’s.
Around the card table in the corner Manimal was dressed as a zombie, Chaffin as a biker—maybe Mad Max, and Rudy was possibly wearing Barbara Eden’s outfit from I Dream of Jeannie. Trombley straddled a chair and watched over Rudy’s shoulder in, predictably, a cop outfit. Brad shook his head and considered slumping back on the couch with Ray. He didn’t see the LT anywhere. There were quite a few women, single, Gunny had promised when he’d called Brad up to invite him.
“Claire’s told them all about you, Brad, and they’re apparently killing themselves to meet you,” Gunny had said. Brad had thanked him, but politely disclaimed any interest. Gunny had sighed affectionately. He should know by now though, Brad hated small-talk and he hated dating even more.
A few more people arrived after him. Nobody Brad knew, but clearly military. Still no LT, but Brad was not a pussy bitch who wasn’t happy until he had his LT holding his hand and telling him it was okay to take a shit. So if The LT was already here, he could damn well wait him out.
Ray jerked behind him, rolling himself around until he had enough purchase to get to his feet. The weight of the pumpkin costume bore him back to the couch. Brad watched the display and wished desperately for a camera. Ray’s mother could pin that up to wall at Wal-mart.
Walt shook his head pityingly. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said to Ray.
Ray stopped his exertions for a second and shot Walt a glare. “Can’t let Brad see the LT!”
“That again,” Brad says. “Has he been horribly transformed into a Marxist Proust-touting asshole by civilian life?”
Ray shot Walt a frantic look and then cupped his hand over his mouth, saying in a loud whisper. “He’s so naïve!”
Brad bent his head, but the crowds at the other side of the room parted. The LT had returned from the bathroom or the kitchen or wherever he’d been hiding, and his men moved almost unconsciously to let him through. Ray let out a weak moan of despair.
Walt smiled at Brad. “And now you see why Ray lost the bet.”
Brad was staring, frozen. To some men, the corps was a prison. And some men got out of prison so transformed they didn’t know how to live life on the outside. The LT clearly knew how to live life on the outside.
He’d come dressed as a Greaser with tight jeans and a beat up leather jacket over a t-shirt that fit like a second skin. His gelled hair curled perfectly over his forehead and when he smiled their LT, a man who’d had just a touch of darling about him, was subsumed by a dangerous stranger. He looked like everything a mama worried about her daughter falling in love with. The long lashes and the lush mouth they’d all joked about was merely icing on the cake.
Ray hoisted himself up using Brad’s nerveless arm. “I thought he wouldn’t,” he hiccuped and continued, “come in a costume.”
Walt’s mouth quirked at the corner. He mocked, “Boy, were you a dumbass.”
The LT caught Brad’s eye across the milling throng of guests. His smile resolved slowly on his face. Brad turned back to Walt and Ray who were staring at him intently. “I’m going to talk to the LT, don’t do anything stupid while I’m not here to watch you.”
Walt made a face, but happily waved him off. Ray called after him, voice almost lost under the music and chatter, “Stop, Brad, he’s going to run over your heart with his over-educated Ivy league two-speed bicycle.”
Brad threw a glance back at Walt who was shaking Ray and foisting a cup of water into his hand at the same time. Brad grinned. The LT couldn’t be so bad, and if he started mouthing off like a New England Elitist blowhard Brad would just walk away.
“Hey,” he said, softly when he reached the LT’s side.
The LT grinned up at him, holding a bottle of Anchor Steam in his hand. “I was wondering when you’d get here,” he said. His eyes skimmed down Brad’s body and it felt as hot and heavy as a caress. Brad cocked his head, but the LT’s eyes were at his shoulders. “Omega man, right?”
“‘It’s genuine 160-proof old Anglo-Saxon, baby,’” Brad quoted and took a long pull on his beer. “You like Charlton Heston, sir?”
The LT’s eyes seemed to get brighter. “Out of my cold dead hands!” he said and cackled.
Brad shot him a measuring glance. “Did you hear, now that Trombley’s become a cop, he’s advocating for gun control.”
The LT had been lifting his drink up to his lips, but he paused halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”
“No,” Brad replied, head tilted teasingly. “Sorry, sir.”
The LT’s eyes went far away. “Ah, wishful thinking.”
Something about his tone caught and grabbed at Brad. It felt uneasy. He had to change the subject. “I shouldn’t have been late,” Brad says, “I come here and find those idiots” he nods his head at Manimal and Chaffin, “playing cards with Rudy and likely to lose the shirts off their backs and Ray dressed up as a giant drunken pumpkin—”
“Punkin,” the LT corrected, he took another sip, eyebrows rising jokingly while he held Brad’s gaze. “And?”
“And,” Brad drew it out like he could taste the coordinating conjunction, “Ray decrying that you’ve become an intellectual yuppie bitch and that I should avoid you at risk of injury.”
The LT sank down to sit on a three-shelf Ikea bookcase, legs parting in a characteristic greaser sprawl. “I was always an intellectual yuppie bitch,” he grinned at this and waved a hand in some laissez-faire gesture that was supposed to be indicative of his class, “and I got the last laugh, because you fuckin’ loved me.”
Brad didn’t deny it. Perhaps, if anything they’d loved him too well. He watched how the LT’s eyelids fluttered, mouth pulling like he couldn’t shake off a smile. “Are you drunk, sir?” he said finally.
“Nothing to eat, no sleep, two beers and an Irish car bomb,” the LT leaned his head back against the wall and arched like he was trying to crack his back. Instead he looked like a razor-sharp rent boy you desperately wanted to take home but knew would slice you up the minute you got your money out. The real bitch of it was that the LT had no idea. He kept talking, green eyes crinkling at the corners, “Yeeeah, I’m a bit fucked up.”
And Brad knew, no sleep and an empty stomach aside, the LT was happy. He’d finally found his niche, enough so that he could come back to theirs and not feel any ill-effects. The LT’s eyes dropped and when he looked up again, he said, “You’re staring at me.”
“Appraising,” Brad replied. The LT’s cheeks lit up with pink as if holding someone’s gaze, being the object of their appreciation, was unfamiliar and unsolicited flattery. There were a number of things Brad wanted to say to that. He said finally, “You look...good.”
The LT beamed like he had a secret, blush fading. Seeing the LT with that furtive smile tore something inside Brad a little. He hadn’t been the best officer he’d served under. Maybe he’d been the smartest, but that had also been a problem. Smart meant envisioning down the line how everything was going to go deplorably wrong.
Nate was made of strong stuff, but he hadn’t been able to bear up under the weight of his shattered ethics. So Nate might not have been the best officer, could not have been. But he’d snuck up on Brad, burrowed a spot for himself in Brad’s chest that was tangled up in respect and duty and other heavy words.
“What are you thinking about?” the LT asked, shifting his hips unselfconsciously to get comfortable on the bookcase.
“I don’t know,” Brad said, clearing his throat. “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”
The LT didn’t reply. His face was fragile, open, but it was ruined when a young woman, dark haired and tanned, crashed into Brad. She bounced right off of him, ballet costume fluttering around her. She steadied herself against the LT and apologized cheerfully.
“Smooth,” she said, smoothing a lock of hair back. “I meant to introduce myself and I totally tripped over the rug.” She laughed, drunk and unselfconscious.
The LT smiled politely and held her upright when she started swaying against him. Brad noted that he put a few careful inches of distance between them. She was pretty, confident, and clearly interested in one or both of them. Brad wanted her to go away.
“I’m Sarah,” she said, holding out a manicured hand for Nate to shake. He gripped it perfunctorily.
“Nate,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”
She grinned like a cat on the trail of the canary. “So what do you do, Nate?”
The LT shot a quick glance at Brad. “I uh…just went back to grad school.”
“Oh cool, studying what?”
The LT opened his mouth to reply, but Brad got there first, “Not to tell you to take a hike, but we’re in the middle of something here.”
Brad could tell without looking that the LT was extremely amused. He pretended not to notice.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Ohhhh! Well it was nice to meet you Nate and you uh—”
“Brad,” the LT supplied, holding Brad’s gaze.
Her eyes darted between them a second longer and then she waved and found another knot of marines to hold court in. The LT sucked on his teeth and said subsequently, “Unless I’m mistaken, she thought we were—”
“E-popping Madonna-obsessed grade A homosexuals,” Brad interrupted.
The LT chuckled and he waved his beer at Brad. “I am a grade A homosexual. I meant she thought we were together.”
“Sorry?” Brad exclaimed. He’d never once thought the LT was partial to cock. Nothing about him had indicated such. Brad had looked for signs. “You’ve sucked dick, sir?”
“Oh yes,” the LT pouted out his lips. “I have sucked dick. And that,” he paused for emphasis, “is a testament to how drunk I am, because I never should have said that.” The LT patted the front of his jacket until he found a nearly empty pack of Parliament Kings. “I’m going for a smoke,” he said glancing at Brad with a shuttered expression. He pushed past him before he could say anything.
Brad stood there, frozen and alone. Poke sidled up while he watched the LT shove out sliding doors to the back patio. “We really don’t know the LT,” Brad said, considering the LT’s fading figure on the other side of the glass.
Poke snorted. “That’s because he doesn’t want us to know him, dog.” He slanted a look up at Brad. “Except maybe you.”
Brad looked back, impassive. Poke shrugged. Brad took a deep breath, sucked down the last dregs of his beer and shoved through the crowd after the LT. He heard Poke muttering behind him, “White boys. They need encouragement.”
The door slid on its track with a metallic screech, announcing his presence.
The LT had his hip against the porch railing, face tilted upward as he blew out a plume of smoke. He acknowledged Brad with an ironic tilt of his head. The night had cooled off quickly and Brad’s chest felt a little tight with it. He pondered for a moment. It was hard sometimes trying to figure out what was the right thing to say to the LT that wasn't going to make his eyes go flinty and his mouth tighten. He settled with: “It doesn’t bother me that you’re gay, sir.”
The LT tugged on his own jacket sleeve like he was suddenly feeling the chill and then ashed his cigarette on the railing. “No?” He seemed unconvinced and wouldn’t meet Brad’s eyes.
Brad asked, “Do you want me?”
The LT pulled his cigarette away from his mouth and stared at him. “Yes,” he said, swallowing. He looked like he wanted to lie.
Brad closed the distance between them until the LT had to look up to meet his eyes. “That’s good, Nate,” he said, carefully using his name. “That’s very, very good.”
Brad put his thumb right on his sinful lower lip, brushing over red flesh. It was as soft as it looked. Nate’s tongue flickered out, swirling over his thumb. Brad groaned and kissed him. He didn’t care if it was bright enough inside that the other guests could see him. He felt like his heart was beating in his head. Nate fisted a hand in the collar of his black shirt and tugged so that Brad was pinning him. He stumbled and braced his arms against the railing. Nate was hot against him, burning off heat as if the sun were inside him. He moaned and sucked on Brad’s tongue, sweeping into his mouth like he’d thought about this a million ways and he was planning to try at least half of them in the time Brad gave him.
When Brad pressed a resolute thigh against his dick, Nate hips hitched upwards and he nipped Brad’s lips in warning. When he pulled back, his breath showed white in the air, almost as heavy as cigarette smoke.
“I missed you,” he said, lips brushing over Brad’s jaw.
“It’s mutual,” Brad ducked and kissed him again and Nate chuckled and gently pushed Brad back with one long-fingered hand.
“Noted, however” Nate said, scraping even white teeth over his swollen lip, “I refuse to lose my shit on Mike’s porch with my former Platoon on the other side of a glass wall.”
“Would it be that easy?” Brad said, brushing his fingers down the outer seam of Nate’s jeans starting where his shirt was tucked in to his waistband.
“It’s been a long time,” he stubbed out the Parliament on the porch railing, his chest heaving a heavy breath like it cost him to admit it.
“How long?” Brad pressed.
Nate met his gaze, facial expression almost defiant. “Since I met you,” he said.
Brad stared at him, mouth open. “What? That’s outrageous. Were you intending to stay celibate the rest of your life if I wasn’t interested?”
Nate laughed. “No, I figured I’d probably get over it.”
“Guess you’re lucky,” Brad said, shaking his head. “Won’t have to pine over me for eternity.” Nate rolled his eyes at Brad’s half-smile. “Want out of here?”
Nate gave him a heated look and ran his thumb deliberately over his lower lip, mimicking Brad’s earlier action. “Yeah, I do.”
They realized the next morning they’d have to retrieve to retrieve Nate’s suitcase after Nate woke up in Brad’s California king and realized he didn’t have anything besides a wife beater and a pair jeans that made his credit card number legible in his back pocket.
Nate rolled in the bed, sheets shoved low on his waist. Brad enjoyed looking at him.
“Brad, this bed is amazing,” Nate said, luxuriating.
His skin was pale, almost untouched by sun and Brad could see the imprint of his fingers represented clearly in dark bruises on Nate’s hips. Nate brushed careful fingers over the marks. His chest and cheeks reddened. He lifted hips in provocation just as Brad could make out the swell of a morning erection.
“Mmm,” Nate said, tossed the sheets off and dumped himself out of bed. “I can’t believe I was so stupid as to leave my stuff behind.”
"I'm distracting," Brad said, stretching his arms above his head and reveling as the discs in his spine lined up just right. Nate flicked him the finger as an afterthought and stepped into a pair of heathered boxer-briefs. He tugged his jeans up over it, turning around to face Brad as he buttoned up the fly. Brad ran his eyes upward from the line of hair disappearing into Nate's waistband. “You’re a complete slut.”
“Only for you.” Nate shoved his pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. “Wanna go?”
When they arrived back at Gunny’s house, he was standing outside with Ray, who was still in his rumpled pumpkin costume. Ray was holding several bags of trash and recycling while Gunny dragged the bins to the corner.
“Morning, Ray,” Nate said, cheerfully. “Mike.”
Ray stopped, glaring at them with glitter crusted eyes. His head hung somewhat limply on his neck. He groaned loudly. “I told you to keep Brad away from him,” gesturing threateningly at Gunny with the trash. Brad was about to open his mouth and tell him that Nate was perfectly fine, not a single extravagant ideal in sight, but Ray continued with, “Now they’ve clearly had crazy homosexual sex! I knew Brad couldn’t withstand the leather jacket and jeans.”
Nate walked past Ray, hooking an arm around his neck. “Relax, I’ll take care of him for you.”
Ray shrugged him off and Nate laughed, continuing into the house. Ray looked at Brad and then back at Nate’s retreating back. “Who are you and what have you done with our mild-mannered platoon commander? I want him back. Brad was at least partly immune to his charms.”
Mike started laughing and raised his eyebrows at Brad. He shrugged in return. Had he been immune or had he been stoic as the LT slowly infected him? There was no easy way to point to where this had started.
Nate returned, a duffle thrown over his shoulder. His eyes looked fond in the early morning light. “Halloween’s my favorite time of the year.”
Basically this started out as boys in Halloween costumes and degenerated to an experiment with Nate's discipline. I sort of wondered what if he'd simply had such firm self-control they never had any idea he was kind of a wild man? I mean, within boundaries.
I finished it on the plane from LAX with an actual marine squinched into the middle seat next to me. It was pretty awkward.