Work Text:
This is what they’re not doing:
They’re not out here in the middle of the night in Fucking Nowhere, Iraq accidentally walking in on each other’s jacks. They’re not doing this because First Recon’s entire point of being is to observe and in this particular case, the signs are all fucking there.
Shoulders down and back, breath coming quick and shallow. A familiar rustling sound, a little slick; the blur of the LT’s hand moving at a steady pace, head tilted slightly up and to the side. Like that.
They’re not doing this in Iraq, but even if they were - and he is - Brad wouldn’t give a fuck. Doesn’t give a fuck. The fact that this is his platoon commander leaning up against an unmanned supply truck near the outer edge of the perimeter, eyes closed, that mouth parted, getting himself off with quick efficient strokes in a criminally rare moment of highly deserved privacy doesn’t suddenly make this anything more than your average garden variety combat jack. Nothing of interest, nothing of note, nothing to see.
Brad doesn’t consider whether or not the LT heard his approach, doesn't contemplate what Nate might be thinking about. Walks back to his grave without letting any of it register, footfalls no heavier than before. Doesn't feel the eyes set on his back.
Observe everything, admire nothing.