Chapter Text
When Brad saw the commercial with the dragon and the knight and the hideous graphics, he knew that the Marines had to be the toughest motherfuckers alive if they could have a commercial that homosexual and not have any other branch of the military fuck them up like that smelly kid at recess.
He signs the papers the next morning.
--
It's an honor, and Brad knows that Godfather isn't there to suck his cock for the valiance he showed in Afghanistan. Godfather wants something—wants Brad for something—and Brad knows that there's a good chance it's going to get him killed.
Hoorah.
Godfather tells him he's been selected to be a team leader in Bravo Company and that he can put together his own recon team. Godfather passes him folders with soldier names printed on the side. Poke's at the top of the pile.
Poke was a fellow warrior, one of the good Marines he'd served with. Brad remembers the way Poke kept his cool under fire, how he had his six in the most chaotic of situations. Brad'd seen a lot of Marines crack under less.
He asks about getting Poke in as a team leader. Godfather pauses. His eyes are hard like marbles; he conquered throat cancer and is still in the shit, lighting Hajis up like a Christmas tree.
"Godfather will consider your request, Sergeant."
Brad nods, thumbs through the files in his hand while Godfather tells him he'll be working under Captain Schwetje and Lieutenant Fick.
Brad'd never met either, only knows their reputations. Schwetji's supposed to be some inbred piece of I Am Sam shit with an IQ that'd make Forrest Gump look like Stephen Hawkings.
Fick, on the other hand…well, all that Brad'd gathered on him was Wynn was in charge of breaking him in, and the boys from H&S couldn't stop going on about a mouth that'd make a Taiwanese whore blush.
--
Ray was there in Afghanistan, has a commendation list as long as Brad's dick and has test scores that almost make Brad envious. He's a wiry little asshole with a quick mouth, a sharp tongue, and a stubborn clench to his jaw. He's a whisky tango hick, but he's a genius and Brad wants a brain like that at his nine.
Trombley's the baby Marine, fresh out of training and Brad recognizes the warrior spirit in his eyes, wide and cold and eager. He'd make one hell of a Marine the second his balls dropped and he figured out what to do with his dick.
"Yo, Iceman!" Brad lifts his head. It's Poke. "Isn't this shit unreal? Fucking team captains."
Brad smiles.
"You got your boys yet?"
Brad flashes him another smile. "Daddy's got himself a good little batch of miscreants to play with."
"I got me some of the lesser fuckups, too," Poke laughs.
"Glad to hear that, gents."
They both turn.
It takes a second for Brad to process the sight before him, but then his eyes zero in on the mouth and he knows he's in trouble already, and he hasn't even fired a single shot.
--
He's got this pretty mouth and these wide green eyes that read like a high school girl's diary. His eyes give everything away, too earnest and well-doing. He's got morals and ideals and reeks of optimism.
By all means, he should be some silver-spooned, frat boy POG, but Brad's seen him out in the field, sweating and grunting along with everyone else, seen him guide the gunners and instruct the RTOs and coach the team leaders. He's got a brain and his commands are firm and final. Brad throws his support behind him with pride.
He'd gladly walk into a gunfight with a knife, just as long as Nate Fick was there, leading him out.
Bravo Company feels the same way. They see Charlie Company get Captain America and laugh all the way to chow.
--
Brad stretches, cracks his knees and gets up. He's in no rush. He sees Poke and Rudy shake their heads, laugh as Marines scramble to bolt down the flaps.
All in all, it takes about seven minutes to secure the tent. Brad walks back inside, swipes his tongue over his teeth. He can feel the sand in his mouth, on the back of his tongue, in his nose.
"Excellent job, gents." Nate praises while he brushes the sand out of his hair. He's standing there before them standard issue black boxers, hardcover, and Brad'd be damned if everyone in the platoon wasn't staring at his ass like a pack of bloodhounds sniffing out a wounded animal.
Rudy whistles, soft and low, makes this little sound that's one-hundred percent pure jealousy, and when Fruity fucking Rudy's jealous of someone, you know you're got yourself one fine piece of ass.
--
"This is a joke, right? Command's gotta be screwing with us." Ray's looking at the junkyard reject hoopties like he'd been told they were supposed to be Porches.
Nate's face is wire tight. "Unfortunately, gentlemen, this is no joke. We're to carry out our orders in…these."
Poke's still laughing. "C'mon, LT. You're tellin' us we're supposed to invade and secure a hostile county in soup cans?"
Nate looks at Wynn. The fury in his eyes makes the green dark as clovers. Brad can see the way the arguments formed on Nate's lips, how his jaw must have worked when addressing Encino Man and Godfather, how the indignation and absurdity of it all must have felt when it left his tongue.
Everything about Nate's body right now tells Brad he fought against this as hard as he could. If Brad hadn't been believed in Nate Fick by now, this would have done it.
"We're Marines, Sergeant Espera," Nate sighs. "We make do."
--
He's got great legs, long and pale and his calves freckle when sunburned. He should have gone the Olympic route; brought home the gold, the pride, and a Wheeties endorsement that'd set him up for the rest of his life.
Instead, he's in the shit with a certified retard as his CO, and Brad'd feel a whole lot calmer if Nate was in his Humvee with his body and eight inches of steel between Haji bullets and Nate's freckled legs.
Brad's done enough recon on Nate's ass to tell you he's got a hundred and thirty six freckles all together.
--
Ray comes back, slams a crate of metal parts on the hood. Everything rattles around and the crate leaves dents that Brad can see from the front seat.
"I'm fucking serious, man. Even Wile E. Coyote got all his mallets and anvils and slingshots delivered to him on time for the Road Runner to fuck his shit up, and here we are still waiting on an Amazon purchase to invade a fucking country. Shit, if we only had an ACME hook up."
Poke whistles. "Man, how the fuck did your retard ass swing this shit?"
"I had to suck LT's dick. Made me cradle to balls and swallow the gravy."
The muscles in Brad's throat constrict.
"Like mother like son," Poke snaps, spits out the butt of his cigarette and pops open the hood. "But shit, dog. You musttah been real good."
"Can you get this plastic fuckin' excuse for a Tonka truck working, Poke?" Brad barks. Poke straightens out, nods once.
"Yes, sir."
"Then cut the chatter and get it done."
The hammering continues and Ray curses while Poke removes the engine and Brad nearly snaps his laptop in half thinking about Ray's mouth on Nate's cock.
--
Team leaders swap their men back and forth like they're playing Go Fish. The teams are solid, but every man has a different strength that doesn't match up with someone else. Brad's adamant he keeps Ray, but has a revolving door with everyone else.
When the shit finally settles, Brad ends up with Trombley and Garza and one seat empty when they find Jorgenson running around naked in the middle of the night, pissing on himself and crying like a freshly spanked toddler.
Jorgenson 's relieved of his duty and shipped back home on the next plane out. It's all for the best, Brad figures, but then Nate comes up to him after their first real training exercise and tells him there's going to be an embedded liberal dipshit reporter that's getting stuck with their platoon and that he'll be riding in Jorgenson's place.
Brad almost laughs. Here they are, the finest goddamn elite unit in all of the United States military, and they get stuck with a bullshit mission in tin can Humvees, and now he has to deal with a reporter in a seat that should have a trained US recon Marine.
"Sir—"
"I know, Brad. I wasn't thrilled either." Nate's lips are pulled tight, disapproving. "But this is an order straight from Godfather, and you're the only one I trust enough to keep this civilian alive."
Brad spits, closes his eyes.
He must be going soft already, because there's no feasible way he would ever agree to this under normal circumstances, but Nate asked him and he's quickly discovering that that's all it takes.
--
He's not exactly golden either, but the men like him well enough and he wrote Beaver Hunt which pretty much makes him a rockstar.
He spends most of the first day taking down names and ranks, asks how long they've been active, if they have wives or kids waiting for them back home. He writes down everything Ray says, which makes him talk more, and Brad tells them to shut the fuck up in a tone that has Ray's jaw snap shut and Rolling Stone's pen stop scratching.
--
Brad pushes his box to the side, gets up and starts to make a list of all the shit they're going to need. Nothing he order's come in yet and the Humvee's still not working to full capacity. He tries to figure out how the hell he's supposed to maintain a four week night recon with a pack of triple A's Rolling Stone tossed at him with the Wal-Mart sticker still on the back.
Go figure; the commie hypocrites at Wal-Mart, inadvertently powering today's military.
Nate walks by and Brad tells him they should get sponsored, little yellow smiley faces stitched onto their uniforms. They'd be the best-supplied military in the whole world, rolling back prices while knocking down civilizations.
Nate laughs, tipped his head back and opens his mouth.
He's got cocksucker lips.
Brad always noticed.
--
Ray burns off half his face, their MOPP suits might as well be flashing neon signs, they still don't have the batteries and supplies they need to last half a week, and they only have one translator for the whole battalion.
Then their escort gets 86'd and Encino Man in all his retard glory doesn't utter a goddamn word about it. Nate's so pissed that even Captain America's paranoid bitch ramblings are beginning to make sense.
"Personal feelings," he reminds Nate, hears the click in Nate's jaw.
--
He fucks them with his ineptitude and a roll of duct tape, has them missing the checkpoint and separated from the rest of their unit. They unfuck Encino Man's incompetence, but Brad's so irritated he comes close to crushing his NVGs in his fist. Rolling Stone's been scribbling away for the last fifteen klicks and Trombley's snoring from the backseat.
Captain America keeps up his insane ranting and his voice grates Brad's nerves raw. "Will somebody please shut him the fuck up?"
"I think Kochner's gonna slit his throat, VC style." Ray laughs.
Brad smirks. "We'd be so lucky."
--
Nate's requests become more and more frustrated, until Brad can see the thin veneer of his patience crack open like a glass egg. Encino Man makes them wave the Haji's off and Nate growls low in the back of his throat.
When they come across the refugees and find out the Haji's were Fedayeen loyalists that could have been taken out with clipped shots from every Marine in Bravo Company, Godfather orders them oscar mike and they end up breaking the Geneva Accord when they un-surrender the refugees and send them back to death squads.
Doc curses up a bloody storm, says shit that'd get him NJP'd and tried for treason had it been anyone other than Nate in command. Rudy and Pappy try to calm him down, and Brad knows that he's never gonna let this go.
But he can't be bothered with Doc, not when Nate looks like he was shot in the gut and is bleeding out slowly. His eyes are wide and shining.
Brad feels his gut lurch; jealousy so hot and deep it rips through him like fire and makes him ache to put a bullet in the back of Wynn's head when he puts his hands all over Nate's back.
When he puts his hand all over Brad's fucking property.