#momecat

100.

Day 1, Oceanside. Nate was stiff from the flight. Deep purple bruises earned at jump school ached on his hip and shoulder.

He checked in with Command, dropped his duffel at his temporary bunk, and was out the door in his PTs. Under the 5 and down to the beach, he ran until his body was loose and hot.

Later, in the showers, a tall, blond man nodded approvingly toward the fresh, raw marks along Nate’s left clavicle, tapping his own faded scars. Nate’s jump school pinning hadn’t yet healed. A thin trickle of red washed away under the spray.

200.

“That's a low priority to pass on?”

The muscles of Nate's forehead and brows bunched into a scowl. His frustrated words about his CO’s ineptitude were out of line. He knew it, but saying them aloud was a pressure-relief valve that kept his sanity intact.

“Personal feelings, sir,” Brad said, echoing Nate's chastisement of him only minutes earlier. His smirk was audacious.

The commiseration and, indeed, Brad's sass were appreciated. Peak comedy, Nate thought, was an inside joke revisited at just the right moment. Brad grinned broadly at the eyeroll Nate failed to fully suppress.

Speaking of safety valves. Turns out Brad is an effective one.

Still, it took a while for Nate to realize how tense his fingers were on the butt of his M16. Bravo Two was tight, competent. They could handle the lack of armor crossing the breach point. They'd be alert. They were trained to adapt to the unexpected.

He flexed his hand, loosening his grip. Nothing good comes from perseverating.

“Hitman Two Actual, this is Two One Alpha. Interrogative.”

Brad's voice came over the radio. Nate blinked away the unproductive tension in his gut and picked up the handset.

“This is Two Actual. Send it.”

300.

It was not surprising in the least.

From behind Two-Three’s vehicle, Nate saw it clearly: Brad apologized to Baptista for overreacting on comms.

It was an olive branch extended to repair a relationship. It was for the morale of the platoon. It was to put things right between himself and a colleague. And it was obviously what Brad Colbert would do in this situation. Of course he would apologize.

He continued to both surprise and not surprise Nate. Absent in him was the typical Marine hypermasculinity that dictated the posturing of other men. Brad had elevated himself above all of that. Nate wondered if it was a conscious decision. Probably not. Calm efficiency fit him too well. The intensity of the emotions in his eyes, however, showed the respect he had for their men and the Corps.

Nate watched him walk away and he wondered what Brad’s internal voice sounded like. Was it a stream of excerpts from the Art of War? Maybe it was Kierkegaard stripped of the religious aspects. Or was it simply staccato bursts of necessary info on the ROE? It was fascinating to imagine the way Brad’s mind worked.

Nate would never truly know, of course. Just like Nate’s own inner voice was unknowable to anyone else. They held their thoughts too close to their flak vests here. An icy veneer was mission critical (as evidenced by Dave’s cracking front and crumbling command of his team). It was impossible to imagine either Nate or Brad releasing their tight hold on their thoughts and verbalizing them, even under the blanket of night, even in the safety of Oceanside.

Nate blinked. He realized with a jolt where his thoughts were taking him. He drank from his canteen and shook it off.

He was glad Brad was his TL.

400.

“We're 30 klicks west-northwest of Basra, and 30 klicks south of Al-Kurna.” Nate gazed north over the marshy lowlands.

Brad was at his shoulder on the low berm. Nate had no doubt Brad had their map coordinates committed to memory. He had a natural eye for that kind of thing. An admirable skill.

Nate continued with his voice hardly over a whisper. The history of this place deserved that gesture of respect.

“Al-Kurna sits at the confluence of the Tigris and the Euphrates. It's the cradle of civilization. Sumer, Assyria, Babylonia. All of them right here.”

The reeds moved in the low breeze. Christeson was tapping out a beat on a fuel can while Stafford and Garza took turns sing-rapping verses of hip-hop songs Nate didn't know the names of.

“How many wars has this place seen over the millennia?” Nate mused.

“And now we perpetrate one more,” Brad observed.

Nate felt Brad's eyes on him momentarily. Or perhaps he imagined it. He didn't look to verify.

“Has Poke been proselytizing within your earshot?” Brad asked. He sounded amused. “He was saying something similar back at Matilda.”

Nate grinned. He hadn’t heard anything from Espera on this topic, but it didn’t surprise him that he would have opinions on the matter.

“Did you know the wheel was likely invented in this area?” Nate asked.

“Humvee tires leaving tread marks in the wake of donkey carts. A noble legacy.”

“Noble.” Nate tried the word in his own mouth. A week ago it would have tasted better.

A few moments spent in the dusk’s dwindling light. The history here weighed heavily on him. They owed this place a debt of gratitude.

“Brad, we just waved them off,” Nate breathed. “Trucks of armed men and we waved them off because they weren't uniformed. The whole of our observations… the trucks, the weapons, their posture. They were irregulars, but they were combatants.”

Now Brad’s gaze was definitely on him. Nate hazarded a look and found Brad studying him.

“Clearly Command hasn't heard your history lesson, sir,” Brad said with a smirk in his voice. “Or they did and were distracted by the Whore of Babylon analysis I assume you included.”

Nate looked down at his feet to obscure his grin. “Al-Kurna has an old jujube tree that is purported to be the Tree of Knowledge from the Garden of Eden.”

“Like I said: whores.”

500 .

“Hey, LT,” Gunny said, rousing Nate from his sleep.

Nate had no idea how long he’d been asleep for. He was lucky to grab an hour of shut eye per day. It wasn’t sustainable, but it was what he got.

It was still dark. The moon was up. That was Nate’s only gauge of the current time. He’d sat down in his victor after the 2100 Zulu briefing with Trombley and the rest of Two One Alpha.

“Sorry to wake ya,” Gunny said softly.

Nate rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s fine.”

“That’s the thing. Not sure everything is fine.”

Nate jolted upright and started opening the door. Adrenaline took its accustomed place in Nate’s veins. “Did the boy not make it to shock-trauma?” Shit.

“Whoa, whoa,” Gunny soothed. “It’s not like that. We don’t have that word.” His face was soft, concerned.

Nate sat back in his seat. The tension hadn’t fully left his body. “What is it?”

Gunny clearly was parsing his words before speaking. He took a few moments to respond. “This is weighing on Brad. I haven’t seen him like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Less than mission ready.”

Nate’s eyebrows went high. “Thanks, Mike.” And he meant it.

Brad was on watch while the rest of his team slept under the cami net nearby. On the perimeter of the airfield tarmac, Nate walked over and stood next to him.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Brad eventually said.

“Your fairy godmother woke me up.”

“Hm.”

He left it at that for a long time. In the far distance, soundless flares of smoky explosions were a constant reminder of where they were. Above them, the night sky was cloudless. The platoon had gone to red lights at sunset for security, but it had the added benefit of making the stars vibrantly visible. The Milky Way angled from horizon to horizon. It was a momentary escape to take it in.

“Mars is up,” Nate said eventually, looking toward the faintly red planet twinkling up there.

“Hm?” Brad said. He appeared to try to follow Nate’s line of sight in the dark without success.

“Here,” Nate said. He moved to stand behind Brad, and he pointed over Brad’s right shoulder so he could sight off of Nate’s arm. “Do you see it?”

Brad’s body radiated warmth in the night air, a fraction of an inch from Nate’s. His cheek was close to Nate’s exposed wrist.

“I’ve got it now. Apt.”

“I thought so too,” Nate said, moving away to stand alongside Brad again.

“If we were living inside your history lecture, would Mars be a harbinger or a boon?” Brad asked.

Nate smiled. “I suppose that’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“Then I say it’s neither. Too superstitious. Can’t deny the poetry of it though.”

Silence surrounded them again. Nate thought it was less heavy than when he’d first joined Brad here.

“These are the moments I hope I remember from here,” Nate said quietly.

“Mm,” Brad concurred.

600.

“Sir,” Pappy asked, “has any thought been given to destroying the weapons and ordnance that are sitting over there?”

Nate nodded. “Actually, that did come up, but it seems the battalion's supply of C-4 is now unaccounted for. The battalion supply truck we left last night? It is a smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes in the trustworthiness of the Iraqis we are striving so hard to liberate.”

Patrick’s left eyebrow rose, and then he shook his head in exasperation.

As Nate and Gunny walked away, he thought he heard Pappy say something to Lovell like, “The LT is starting to talk like Brad.”

“Espera,” Nate called. “Have Two One Bravo start resupplying the platoon from that cache.”

“On it, sir,” was the response.

“Mike, would you enlist Two Three to help on that? I need to make a pit stop.”

On his way to the designated latrine area behind the dilapidated hangar, Nate replayed his words in his mind. A smoldering heap of twisted metal and failed hopes. He had zero trouble imagining them coming out of Brad’s mouth. Maybe Pappy was right and Nate was taking on Brad’s cadence. Or maybe they’d always had this in common.

Nate came to a stop in the shade of the building, his thoughts sapping the momentum of his body.

He wondered suddenly what it would have been like to meet Brad at Dartmouth. It’s strange to imagine Brad anywhere without the sun beating down on him, let alone in the misty north end of the Appalachian Trail. But the idea of him in a rugby shirt or coming in from the cold of the ski slope wasn’t too hard to conjure up. Maybe Nate would’ve passed freshman chemistry if Brad had been in it with him, challenging him and mocking him with puns that included both Arrhenius and Aeschylus.

Or perhaps Nate would have met Brad in California instead. Nate in his early ‘90s Saab and Brad on his motorcycle, both parked at the climbing gym.

It’s fortunate you’re about to ascend this wall, Brad would have said, because the only option your liberal ass has when showing up in that piece of shit, socialist welfare state, pile of scrap, so-called car is to go up and out of the miserable existence you’ve clearly fallen pitifully into. And then he would have complimented Nate’s climbing form and how the harness framed his glutes just right.

“Deep thoughts, sir?” Brad appeared next to him in the Iraqi shade.

Nate had been so deep in his fantasy he hadn’t seen or heard him approach. His cheeks burned like he’d been caught saying all of those things aloud. It was like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a combat jack, the thought of which made him cough awkwardly.

Brad handed him his canteen, and then leaned his shoulder against the wall. He waited until Nate had taken a drink and handed the water back.

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said.

“For what,” Nate asked, a rasp of embarrassment still in his throat.

“Joining me and Mars on watch last night.”

Brad’s blue eyes were intense when Nate met them. Pale brows and lashes. Sun-reddened skin along his nose and cheekbones. The five o’clock shadow that Sixta would ream him out about if it didn’t get taken care of. A flicker of a thought of how it would scratch against Nate’s palm was shoved away before it fully formed in Nate’s mind.

“Did it help?”

Brad held their gaze intently. Nate’s heart thundered in his ears.

Finally, Brad gave a nod. “Very much.”

700.

“Where’s the line between insubordination and trying to manage upward?”

Nate asked the question rhetorically. He knew how the regulations defined insubordination: Willful disregard of a superior officer’s lawful order . Every Marine knew that definition. It was taken out of their hides from day one of boot camp and reminders of it happened every single day. Particularly in theater like they were now, the pecking order was clear.

When Captain Schwetje had invited the enlisted men to share their opinions with him, the only one with the fortitude to say what he was thinking was Doc. He got away with it on the technicality of the Captain asking for candid feedback, and on the fact that every Marine protects and respects their Corpsman, especially one as competent as Tim Bryan. No one else was going to feel safe from being NJP’d for disrespect of a commanding officer. Especially not when Schwetje asked for feedback in front of Griego’s opportunistic eyes.

But no one had asked Nate’s opinion on anything. Nonetheless, he was exerting his will in contradiction to his Captain’s orders again and again. In his core, Nate felt like he was making the best and safest choices for their platoon in their constantly non-ideal situations. But the Corps’ system wasn’t set up for Lieutenants to defy their Commanders. Not even in Recon, with its need to be nimble, where decisions were made on the fly, was flagrant insubordination ignored. Not even when one’s superior was arguably incompetent and the lawfulness of their orders could be questioned. Not even then.

Brad leaned against the front bumper of Nate’s humvee, contemplating Nate’s question. He bumped his shoulder against Nate’s and left it there.

“Fretting is unproductive,” he said reasonably. His directness was what Nate needed. “You can’t unfuck Encino Man, and you’re doing what this company needs you to do.”

“Tell that to Godfather.”

“I will if I have to.”

“No,” Nate said sharply. “This is my situation. I’m not getting the rest of you… I’m not getting you, Brad, mixed up in this. Let me take care of it.” Even broaching this topic with an E-5 was inappropriate, but this was Brad.

Brad exhaled, annoyed. After a thoughtful pause, he told a story.

“When I was a teenager, I took a job with the grounds crew for the county. Mowing lawns, planting flowerbeds, painting municipal buildings. It was mindless, but it paid well in a seventeen year old’s opinion. There was a team of us that worked together. Me and a couple of guys who went to the other high school in town. Our manager was this blustering, self-important guy in his thirties, constantly on a weird power trip. Spent a lot of time reminiscing about being a star football player.”

Brad gave Nate a meaningful look that was readily interpretable as Schwetje.

“At one point, both of the mowers we usually used were down for maintenance at the shop across town. Some guy on the county board had a shitfit about the baseball field’s grass being too long, ruining his runny-nosed brat’s T-ball game. Instead of getting between us and that board member, our manager let all of that stupidity roll down on us. All of us got fired the next day.”

Brad’s body was a long line of support next to him. Nate could hear the moral of the story coming.

“You, sir, are not that guy. You are shielding us from the worst of Command’s inanity. Hitman Three doesn’t have an LT like you, and they’re the worse for it. Every one of us will have your back because we know you have ours.” Brad’s voice crescendoed to the end of his parable.

Nate turned to look at Brad. They were too close, and Nate’s eyes flicked down to Brad’s mouth. It was only for a fraction of a second, but Brad caught the motion. Of course he did. Nate leaned back, turning to look forward again. Safe. Appropriate.

Brad didn’t chase him. How could he here? It was impossible. Nate wouldn’t compound his issues with Command by engaging in conduct unbecoming with his Team Leader.

Brad pressed his knee against Nate’s and left it there.

800.

“New map sheets,” Gunny called out to the team leaders.

Nate was already waiting for them at the hood of his victor. His flashlight was trained on the paper spread across the flat surface, tracing out the route they’d take at dawn.

The men arrayed themselves at Nate’s sides for the briefing. Brad stood furthest from Nate’s position and met his eyes with an intense look. The tiny hairs at the back of Nate’s neck prickled. It was fear, yes, but not fear of Brad. Rather, it was fear of what the look meant for them here.

Nate looked to the map for respite.

“Later today we’re pushing forward to here.” Nate put his index finger on the location on the map. “Goal in the 24 hours after that is to assault through to here.” He extended his middle finger to the second location.

Brad shifted. Nate glanced up. Brad’s focus was entirely on Nate’s hand and the map. His expression was unreadable in the low light.

“Take your copy back to your teams. Make sure your drivers know the route inside and out.”

Pappy, Lovell, and Espera grabbed their copies and headed back to their teams. Gunny went with them, quietly discussing tactics with Pappy as they walked.

Brad, however, lingered.

“Sir, a few questions about the AO,” he said.

His words were cover. Nate knew it. Nate responded in kind.

“Yes, Brad? Your team will be on point, so now’s the time to get any concerns addressed.”

Brad moved around to the front of the humvee, standing close to Nate’s right side.

“Here,” Brad said, pointing at a position near the MSR. “Am I to understand we’re pushing past this town without stopping? There is a school marked on this map, and Fedayeen has been holing up in schools. Should we recon it, sir?”

Nate slowly moved his own hand back to the map, placing his finger a hair’s breadth from Brad’s.

He cleared his throat. “I like your idea, Brad. I’ll run it past Godfather.”

“I have other thoughts I’d like to ask you about.” Brad’s voice was barely above a whisper.

He closed the distance between Nate’s finger and his own. Nate knew the touch was coming. Brad had telegraphed his intent. Still, the electric jolt of it cascaded unexpectedly through Nate’s entire body. He exhaled sharply.

“I’m open to that line of questioning, sure.”

Nate gently squeezed Brad’s index finger between his first and second fingers, scissoring around the length of it. Brad pressed his hips firmly against the front grill of the humvee, body taut.

“Is it our wisest option, sir?”

“Reconning first is always the wisest option.”

Brad’s thumb and forefinger felt the perimeter of Nate’s fingertip. The side of his thumb ran over the smooth flat of Nate’s nail. Nate clicked his red light off, throwing them into full darkness.

“As you say, sir, it’s good to be thorough.”

They stopped short of entwining their hands fully. Even here in the dark, there were constraints. Nate didn’t want constraints. He wanted his hands on more than Brad’s fingers.

Then Brad’s mouth was near Nate’s ear. His breath tickled Nate’s cheek when he said, “I remember when we first met. The showers at Pendleton. That bruise on your hip.”

Nate inhaled. Brad smelled like shaving cream, like he’d just done his daily ablutions. Nate imagined the feel of Brad’s smooth skin against his own, how it would feel against his neck. He was so close to that target as it was.

“It’s gotten me through many a dark night,” Brad rasped.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “Brad. I don’t know how to do things by halves.”

Brad chuckled. “I’m counting on that particular trait.”

Frustration lanced through Nate. He couldn’t touch Brad how he wanted. He couldn’t run his platoon how he wanted. He couldn’t trust his commanders like he wanted.

Was this a combat stress response? Shit.

No.

No, it wasn’t just a stress response. There had been seeds of this in Nate’s psyche long before things had gone to shit here in the desert. Brad was right. Since that first meeting, Nate always kept Brad in his line of sight. His situational awareness always included Brad’s position.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed again. He yanked his Sharpie from his vest and uncapped it with his teeth. Shoving up the cuff of Brad’s blouse, he scrawled an N on Brad’s right forearm in the dim light. It was barely recognizable as a letter.

They both knew it was a mark to stake a claim.

“Now you have my marked skin in your mind’s eye, and I have yours,” Nate hissed. “My initial will be there every time you touch your cock from here until the end of this fubar-ed op.”

Brad swallowed thickly. “Aye aye, sir.”

900.

Time expanded to infinity.

Nate could see every tracer like it was taking a Sunday stroll. A bullet ricocheted off Two One Alpha’s victor a mere foot from Nate’s shoulder, and it felt like it crawled past him. Every rivet in the tan armor was visible to him. Every round from Hasser’s Mark-19 put out a tongue of fire that lingered in front of the muzzle, each like a miniature dragon dancing in the moonlight. Strangest of all, the long, slow moments were silent, like Nate was living in a space beyond the speed of sound.

Time compressed into a second.

Faster than Nate could comprehend, an RPG exploded into the berm at his 6, and then another up ahead almost at the humvee wheels. A blinding cloud of dust came up and Nate had no idea if microseconds or minutes had elapsed.

“Back up and over the berm, then hard right. Clear a path,” he had yelled to Two Three.

He had dodged around shrapnel in the road to Two Two and had yelled the same. He knew he must have done it, but the slinky of time expanding and contracting had wiped it from his short-term memory.

It was seconds ago, minutes ago, years ago that Brad’s voice had calmly come over comms: “There are men in the trees.” It had been followed by the snap of his M4 firing, and by the sharp drop of Nate’s stomach. Brad’s vehicle was on point in an ambush.

The comms had awoken with yelled commands. All of them overlapped and became garbled in the firefight. Nate’s rifle was in his hands, against his shoulder, looking down the sight, finger pulling the trigger. The cacophony was profound. Training took over for every single one of Bravo’s men.

Two Two had a man go down. Nate couldn’t wait longer. They had to retreat. He ran into fire and lost time to the adrenaline.

Breathing took too long. Running took too long. He had to get to the vehicles in front and get them turned.

Finally, pressed against the side of Brad’s victor, time normalized. He had no idea how long it would stay this way, so he called out.

“Brad!”

“LT?”

Brad’s M4 paused. Through Reporter’s window, their eyes met. The look was anything but silent, but no words were exchanged. It was beyond language. Simply a feeling that said “ I had to…” or perhaps “Not before we...” or perhaps simply “This is my duty.”

A bullet pinged off the doorframe. The casing spun into Reporter’s lap and he yelped.

Nate awoke from the momentary hypnosis of Brad’s gaze. It had only lasted a millisecond.

“Go! Go! Ray, back and hard right. Go now!”

Nate sprinted after them, chasing the pop pop of Brad’s M4.

Gunny’s face was ashen when Nate returned to his vehicle. “Sir, that was fucking stupid. Thanks for doing it, but don’t do it again.”

Mike was right. It was stupid to run out into live fire. Stupid, but fully and completely necessary. Nate regretted nothing. He knew, though, that he’d crash from this flood of adrenaline eventually. Perhaps an hour from now, maybe two, Nate would feel nauseated or like his muscles were all jelly. He hoped they were through with this push when it happened. He couldn’t afford to be less than 100%. There was no way he was letting these guys down.

With Bravo Three between them and the bridge, Two regrouped.

Brad stepped out of his humvee, back rigid and fingers still tight on his rifle. The muscle in Nate's jaw twitched involuntarily. Overuse. Too much clenching of his teeth. They'd just survived an ambush. Muscle spasms were a victory.

“Why are you bleeding?”

Nate shone his red light at Brad. He clicked it again to make the light white. It was too bright, like a muzzle flash at midnight. He tugged Brad next to the canvas side of the supply truck.

“I’m not–” Brad looked down at his arms and legs, trying to spot evidence of an injury.

Nate pushed him upright and swiped a dusty thumb over Brad’s cheekbone. It came away red.

Brad’s fingers shot up, touching the place and looking at his own reddened fingers in the flashlight beam.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Your eye is an inch from there, and I’m not planning on cas-evacing you today,” Nate said, annoyed.

“Doc,” Nate called, snagging the medic as he hurried by. “Hand me some gauze.”

“I’ll handle it, sir,” Doc replied, starting to divert to Brad’s aid.

Nate held out a hand to stop Doc’s change of direction. “Give me the gauze, Tim.”

Doc looked hard at Nate, and then at Brad. Brad’s eyebrows rose as Doc handed over the medical supplies.

“Clean it good, sir. It would be a shame if we had to amputate Colbert’s pretty face.”

“Copy that,” Nate said, setting to work cleaning the blood away from the scratch. He was making a mountain out of a molehill, yes, but this was his best TL.

For the second time tonight, time stood still. Brad let Nate tend to his wound. Nate used the time to forget about how fucked up the last seconds, minutes, hours had been. The feel of Brad’s cheekbone beneath his fingers was calming.

“Game face?” Brad asked when Nate smoothed an unnecessary butterfly bandage over Brad’s cut. “You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

1000.

“From an armchair in Iowa, assaulting that bridge would've seemed foolish. From where we stand on this roadside in Iraq, the lunacy of it will eat away at our confidence until we’re ineffective,” Nate said in a low voice.

Frustration oozed out of him. Saying these things aloud was necessary. He wished there were other lieutenants to vent with. His men shouldn’t have to bear the burden of Nate’s frustrations.

Gunny, Brad, and (surprisingly) Kocher stood in a tight cluster with him.

In his Texan twang, Gunny said simply, “It’s a goat fuck.”

Kocher spoke up. “You’re saying what we all think, sir. You’re just doing it in a measured way. Expressing legit concerns is a helluva lot different than…”

Clearly Kocher was reluctant to invoke Dave’s name in front of Nate. But Nate felt Dave’s unhinged panic hiding in himself too. The deeply buried urge to yell and break things to make it clear to someone, anyone how fucked up things have gotten.

“Look, I’m not here for you guys to blow smoke up my ass,” Nate said. “I’m not fishing for compliments.”

“In that case,” Brad grinned, “are you open to insults?”

Gunny pointed over his shoulder back toward their humvee. “I’ve got a whole list I’ve been making,” he said with a lopsided grin. “First on it is: Knows too goddamn many Dave Matthews songs.”

“Fuck all of you,” Nate chuckled. “And thanks. Have you guys eaten recently?”

“Have you?” Brad retorted. Brad’s righthand fingers tightened and released. Nate imagined his sharpied initial stretching and relaxing as Brad’s forearm muscles flexed.

“Good. Just what I need,” Nate replied with an eyeroll and a grin. “First Mike nags me about everything under the sun. Now you?”

“It’s because we both disrespect and despise you, sir,” Brad said with a wink.

The group broke, going to find their rations. Brad strolled back a few minutes later eating a makeshift peanut butter sandwich.

“What do you suppose Alexander the Great ate while he was conquering vast swaths of this fair country?”

“Figs. Flatbread. Fish,” Nate responded while he rummaged through his MRE. He pulled a bean and rice burrito out of nondescript brown packaging and ate it cold.

“Ah, yes, the Three F’s.”

“I’d be happy for anything fresh with a capital F,” Nate said. His MRE contained a fruit cup that reminded him of elementary school lunches. He hadn’t liked the texture of them then either. Still, the Vitamin C beckoned.

Brad chewed contemplatively. “Tabling the discussion of our presence here as a reflection of America’s imperialistic undertones, it’s interesting to think about how much territory Alexander the Great conquered in a matter of a few years.”

Nate wondered if Brad would be open to a discussion of American imperialism at another time, because Nate had thoughts on the matter.

“I read that priests told him not to enter Babylon that last time. Bad omens. He died there shortly thereafter,” Nate said.

“So, like ol’ Alex, we should’ve listened to our prognosticators? I prefer to think he disregarded their advice because it was superstitious bullshit.”

Nate nodded. “Agreed. Having Aristotle as one’s teacher effectively guarantees becoming a lover of logical thinking.”

Brad tipped some trial mix into Nate’s palm.

“I’ve always been more of a Plato fan,” Brad said. He popped a cashew into his mouth, followed by a raisin.

“What appealed about Plato?”

“ Logos , thymos , eros . Logic, spirit, desire.”

Nate raised his eyebrows in question.

Brad shrugged and ate another nut. “Feels like an Occam’s Razor explanation for the way humans work. Shit gets messy when the three get imbalanced.” He gestured around them to the barely armored humvees. “Case in point. This place is 99% thymos, and 0% logos.”

“And the other 1%?”

Brad looked intensely at Nate and didn’t answer. He tossed the remaining nuts in his mouth, smirked a little, and walked back to his team.

That was the most fulfilling meal Nate had eaten since California.

Later, after dark, Nate called Bravo Two together for a briefing. Schwetje’s message from Godfather had been received by Nate loud and clear: Both of them better get in line before they both got court-martialed. Nate cared more about his men's safety than his own, but he did have some level of self-preservation. And he still believed in the principles of the United States Marine Corps. He'd joined up because he wanted something transformative, something that might kill him, or leave him better and more capable. Nate was getting the message that this included humility.

Nate swallowed his misgivings and toed the line.

“What we did, running and gunning through those towns, was all part of the plan. Of all the Marines in the First Division, the General selected us to be the instrument of long range strategy. We led the feint to Al Kut. We tied down two Iraqi divisions, saved untold numbers of US soldiers. You should be proud.”

As the men parsed Nate's words, several skeptical looks were directed at him.

“Why didn't we go into Al Kut?” Garza asked. He wasn't the only one with the question. He was just the first to ask it

“The General's plan wasn't about taking the city. It was about making the Iraqis think we were going to take it. To be clear, the focus has always been Baghdad.”

“We did all this shit because we took a wrong turn?”

Grumbling was starting up

“Gabe, that's not what I'm saying.”

When he dismissed the meeting, he felt like he'd betrayed them. It was one thing telling Godfather a white lie about exploding espresso makers. It was another thing entirely feeding his platoon a bunch of psy ops.

Brad left with a scowl.

Later still, thymos won over logos when Griego usurped Nate's command and fucked with Two’s men. Nate had never thrown a punch out of anger, and here he was, on the precipice.

Brad's wolfish, hungry smile at Nate as he walked away was much more validating.

1100.

Baghdad was as much of a clusterfuck as anywhere else they’d been.

Entering the city, civilian life looked strangely normal. Produce sellers, tea drinkers, and cigarette smokers just watched as the company drove through their streets, like circus wagons had just rolled into town and Recon was the strange sideshow. A day earlier, Nate would've been apoplectic with so many people so close to their vehicles. Muwaffaqiyah was too fresh in his memory.

They were billetted at a cigarette factory formerly owned by Saddam’s sons. The concrete structure gave a sense of safety, like they’d entered the walls of a fort. Castle towers reached to the sky around them. But Navy sniper rifles cracked every few minutes, a car bomb sent smoke billowing up by the front gate, and One Five was shooting helicopter-deployed missiles into nearby highrises.

The city looked normal at first blush, but SNAFU was a better description. Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

When night soon fell, Brad circled around to Nate’s vehicle.

“Sir,” he said quietly, tapping Nate’s shoulder to rouse him from the early stages of sleep.

“Am I dreaming?” Nate asked groggily.

Brad huffed. “Of me? Not this time, sir. May I have a word?”

“Sure,” Nate said, opening the door and stepping out. He rolled his shoulders to stretch. “What is it?”

“In private, sir?”

Nate was immediately alert. He searched Brad’s face in the low light. All he could make out were the downturned corners of his mouth. This wasn’t a flirtatious housecall. Brad needed something serious.

“Of course,” Nate replied.

They walked inside the factory, away from where the humvees were parked and away from the sleeping Marines, away from the perimeter surveillance. Nate led Brad into the room he’d briefed the platoon in, up some stairs to what appeared to be a manager’s office. Blinds on the windows and a lock on the door were useful. Nate engaged both and then clicked his flashlight to red mode and put it on the desk.

Harsh shadows turned Brad’s furrowed eyebrows into deep black lines on his forehead.

“I am requesting mast on behalf of Eric Kocher and Daniel Redman,” Brad said formally. His shoulders drew back until his back was perfectly rigid.

“Fuck,” Nate breathed. “OK. Yes.” The ramifications started spooling through his mind.

“I’m sorry for bringing you into this, but I can’t let this go. What’s happening to them is not right.”

Nate rubbed his forehead, squeezing his temples. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out. We’ll read Gunny in, then take it up to Schwetje as a unified front. It’ll work.”

Nate looked back at him. Brad’s face bore too many expressions to fully interpret. Gratitude, anger, regret.

“Goddamn it,” Brad said, clearly frustrated. Not at Nate, but at the situation they found themselves in. “I did not sign up for the Marines to get wrapped up in politics. How did we get here? Two fucking incompetent COs and an Ops Chief who spends every waking minute stirring the pot. This is Recon. We’re 0321s. Nate,” he exhaled hard, getting himself under control. “Sir, if this will endanger your position, I’ll go directly to Schwetje for mast.”

The thought had indeed crossed Nate’s mind. Putting himself into the middle of this even as a nominally neutral party was a sticky situation. Schwetje would throw all of them under the bus at Griego’s urging just to keep his own head above water. Loyalty among officers felt… like it should be real, even though Nate felt more loyalty to the enlisted men he commanded than he did to the command structure.

“I honestly have no idea how this will play out. Every time I think I know which way the wind is blowing, it switches. It’s like pounding in tent stakes during a shamal.”

They locked eyes then, remembering the dust storm that ripped through Matilda. Their shared memory of Schwetje digging his rucksack and bedroll out of a foot of yellow sand was too amusing to ignore. Both of them snorted, and then laughed, and then were doubled over with guffaws. These were the laughs one has when there is nothing left to do but laugh.

Brad clapped Nate on his shoulder as they gasped for breath.

“I needed that,” Nate said.

Brad nodded. “Me too.” His hand remained on Nate’s shoulder.

Nate wished he could see Brad’s face this close without hiding in the dark. He put his hand on Brad’s arm.

“I don’t know if I can solve Kocher and Redman’s problem, but I’ll try.”

“I know,” Brad said quietly. “You’re the only thing here that I have complete faith in.”

Nate stepped closer. “That’s a tall order, Brad.”

“Not for you it isn’t.” Brad’s breath whispered along his skin.

Fractions of an inch separated their lips. Nate’s fingers curled into Brad’s sleeve. His other hand gripped at the webbing of Brad’s belt at his hip. One of Brad’s fingers had found the skin at Nate’s collar. The feel of his skin on Nate’s made him gasp and push into the touch.

This position was compromising, but it gave plausible deniability. They weren’t so entangled that discovery would mean credible evidence for a DADT discharge. Nate hated that regulations were front of mind now of all times. But he couldn’t deny that the added tension made this feel so much more intense.

Brad panted hot and damp across Nate’s lips. Nate pushed his thumb inside the waistband of Brad’s pants and rubbed circles into the firm flesh he found there.

Their noses bumped together, but never their mouths. The air gap between them heated from their proximity, but they didn’t let themselves advance. It was their Rubicon.

Nate slid his hands around Brad’s body, pressing against Brad’s lower back, feeling the curve descending to his ass. He imagined the flex and push of those muscles if they fucked. He imagined the long expanse of Brad’s pinked, sweat-glistening skin.

Their cheeks slid together. The faintest hint of stubble grabbed on stubble. In the crook of Brad’s neck, he smelled of baby wipes and dust and musk.

Below, in the warehouse, voices rose up. A patrol.

Still they didn’t push apart. They held onto each other more firmly for another heartbeat, and another, and another.

Finally, Brad stepped back. Even in the red light, his cheeks were clearly burning as intensely as his eyes were. He slowly and conspicuously adjusted himself in his pants and hungrily watched Nate do the same.

Nate didn’t know if he could have this – have Brad – but he was sure as hell going to try.

1200.

The human mind’s quest for equilibrium will smooth the edges off threats and thrills alike.

Nate wasn’t an adrenaline junkie. He knew people who skied backcountry trails, free climbed, dove with sharks. He simply joined the Marines, a wholly different type of thrill-seeking. By the time they had Baghdad in their rear views, Nate’s body and mind were strung out on too much adrenaline for far too long. The edges had been smoothed off everything. He felt thin and papery and beyond ready to be done with the frustrations of this place.

He was glad to have his feet back on Californian soil. The safety of home meant some of the excitement of living could outcompete OIF’s ever-present thrill of death via ambush.

He gave himself a week before he knocked on Brad’s apartment door.

Brad was barefoot and in board shorts. His left hand curled over the top of the door and he grinned broadly in welcome.

“I was wondering when you’d come to finish the job.”

Nate smiled. “Finish it? I’m here to get it properly underway.”

“Don’t let me interfere with a well-conceived plan.” He stood aside and gestured Nate inside.

Nate could feel Brad’s eyes on his ass as he toed off his sandals and walked into the kitchen, depositing a grocery bag on the counter.

“You did a supply run? Let me guess: no adult diapers or baby wipes this time.”

“Very astute assumption.” Nate began pulling every vet’s luxury – fresh fruit – out of the bag. “I brought the F’s.”

“Nutrition is of utmost importance for stamina.” Brad pulled two beers from the refrigerator and handed Nate one.

Talking would be required at some point. Nate wasn’t going to re-up (which he hadn’t revealed to anyone yet), but Brad was a career Marine and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell would be a part of his professional life for the foreseeable future. Nate didn’t know if Brad wanted a one-night stand or a quiet relationship. Either way, the conversation would happen later.

Nate took a long drink of beer. Brad watched him, and Nate watched him right back.

“Shower?” Nate asked, by way of starting the proceedings.

Brad reached out slowly for Nate’s hand. This was something they’d skirted. A touch like this would bind them to each other. Clearly he was giving Nate time to divert if it was still off the table. The opportunity for an out was appreciated, but Nate was here for a reason. No flinching at this point. Brad’s fingers hooked around Nate’s and tugged.

“This way,” Brad said.

In the last week, Nate had spent hours in his own bath. The dirt of war needed time to fully wash away. Perhaps that’s why he suggested this as their first encounter. It would feel like a luxury, and it might feel like a clean start, free of all the shit that made their time in Iraq hard.

Brad pulled his shirt over his head in a smooth motion, abandoning it on the bathroom counter. He reached into the shower to turn on the water, letting it warm. The glass of their beer bottles clinked when Brad took both and placed them on the high windowsill inside the shower.

As he did, Nate began unbuttoning his shirt. Some day, Nate hoped, he’d undress for Brad and it would be an intentionally slow tease. Now Nate’s pace was slow simply because it felt good to be unhurried.

Brad’s keen eyes drank in the motion of Nate’s fingers. As the collar spread wide and Nate’s clavicles were visible, Brad’s eyes traced their lines and the healed jump pin scar there. As the placket fell open, Brad’s pupils widened as he took in Nate’s chest and the hair that descended below his beltline. Nate continued downward to the button of his shorts, and to the zipper.

Brad cleared his throat when Nate thumbed his fly wide. “Commando. Very efficient and somewhat presumptuous.”

Nate pushed his clothes to the floor and stood before Brad in the steam. Both of them had dropped weight in Iraq. Their cheekbones stood out more sharply. The hint of ribs framed their chests.

He stepped closer to Brad. Like in Baghdad, their lips were a breath apart. Now, however, Nate could read every expression in Brad’s eyes in the daylight. The blue of his irises was a thin ring. His lashes fluttered when Nate slowly laid his hands on Brad’s hips. Without the bulk of Brad’s uniform in the way, Nate felt greedy. He took his time, moving his hands at an achingly slow pace just to feel Brad’s exhale stutter. When Nate found the drawstring of Brad’s shorts, they both had begun to harden.

The instant his shorts hit the tiles, Brad surged forward. He crossed their point of no return with enthusiasm and purpose. The kiss was crushing and desperate. Brad looped a strong arm around Nate’s waist and walked them backward into the shower spray. Heat and moisture surrounded them, drenched them in a way that couldn’t hold a candle to the way they kissed. Physical. Claiming. Seeking and finding.

Brad’s palms flattened against the wall beside Nate’s head, caging him in. Forehead to forehead they panted.

“I want…” Brad began and then paused. He changed his inflection and repeated himself with finality. “I want.”

Skin was slick beneath the running water. Nate used it to his advantage. He explored the curve of Brad’s biceps and the gentle roll of his abdominal muscles. The N he’d heatedly scrawled on Brad’s forearm was only a memory now. Nate nipped at the skin there, and followed it with his tongue. In return, Brad sucked the lobe of Nate’s ear between his teeth. He slid his thumb across Nate’s erect nipple. He found the round of Nate’s ass and groaned as he squeezed.

The sound of Brad undone was something Nate was sure he’d never tire of. He wanted to learn every iteration of it starting now.

He took handfuls of Brad’s hips and pushed their pelvises together. Their cocks slid and bumped and caught on each other as they thrust. Nate inhaled every one of Brad’s gasps. He bit and took and gave and gave and gave everything to this man in his hold.

Brad tensed in his arms and came with Nate’s name a whisper against his lips. Nate gasped and followed Brad into that ecstasy.

Later, in the bright daylight of the California evening, they lay together in the clean sheets of Brad’s overly soft bed and shared a very fresh, very juicy, very crisp apple. Nate studied the curl of pale hair on Brad’s chest. He made note of how the ink of Brad’s tattoo crept around the left side of his waist. He scratched his fingers through Brad’s short hair and watched Brad’s eyes drift closed at the sensation.

Eventually, Brad joked, “This is some Tree of Knowledge shit.”

Nate laughed, “Which of us is the Whore of Babylon in this relationship?”

“Hard to say, but you do have those very fuckable lips.”