We Just Seized an Airfield

brad/nate - francesca

The whole thing was Ray’s idea, because of course it was. He’s having the time of his life caterwauling various Avril Lavigne hits to a surprisingly receptive audience. Brad would not have agreed to come if he’d known in advance that this was a karaoke bar.

Brad immediately decides that - much as he would like to, since there’s not enough alcohol in the world to make this experience tolerable - he cannot risk getting drunk, lest he be persuaded into some kind of performance which he will undoubtedly regret the next day and which there may end up being documented photographic and/or video evidence of, knowing Lilley.

Nate is there too, and that’s another reason Brad absolutely does not need his judgement impaired right now. The temptation’s always there, and never more so when Nate’s in civvies and seemingly at ease, laughing good-naturedly at the antics of his platoon.

Still, no reason why Nate shouldn’t have a good time - god knows he needs it - so Brad offers to buy him a drink and suggests, “Take the night off for once, sir. I’ll keep an eye on the kids.” And Nate looks at him consideringly for a second and then smiles that absolute gut-punch of a smile and says, “Alright, Sergeant, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Doc Bryan: “Can the adults in the room make the executive decision to move this party literally anywhere else?” (translation: I have too much self-respect to get into a fight at a karaoke bar). Poke meanwhile is having way too much fun watching these white boys make complete fools of themselves.

Rudy: “Do they have any Enya?”

Walt’s pretty shy, but after a few beers Ray manages to coax him onto the stage - and ends up kind of regretting it since his angelic voice and sweet country boy vibes instantly win the hearts of every girl in the place.

Q-tip and Christeson. They don’t even need a backing track, they have each other! You’d think that many shots would interfere with their beatboxing abilities, but they’ve had so much practise that it’s almost second nature at this point.

(Bizarrely, they also keep insisting the LT’s a really good singer, honest, we heard him a couple times in Iraq, he’s screwby yo. Brad’s not entirely sure he believes them, but the idea that they know something about Nate he doesn’t nearly causes him to crush a beer bottle in his bare hand.)

At the end of the night, with everyone else safely chaperoned out the door, Nate ruefully admits that he drove here since he hadn’t really intended on drinking all that much. Brad offers him a ride home before he can think better of it, which leads to Nate Fick in his passenger seat, loose-limbed and a little tipsy and perhaps the most relaxed Brad’s seen him, absent-mindedly singing along to a song on the radio as they pull up outside Nate’s house. And fuck if Q-tip and Christeson weren’t telling the truth: he can sing.

Brad’s staring. He knows he’s staring, he can’t help it, and when Nate catches him at it the singing trails off and he blushes, biting his lip in embarrassment. Jesus Christ, he’s so fucking beautiful it’s not even fair, and Brad’s damn near sober but all of a sudden it’s like he can’t police himself. Everything he’s been trying to hide must be showing on his face right now, he’s sure of it, and Nate’s staring at him with some kind of realisation dawning across his expression–