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"Murderers! War crimes are your trophies!"
"Tell it, sister. Tell us all about how we all suck and The Man took away your freedoms before he snatched away your razor," Ray mocked quietly as they waited for Command to give the signal. "When in fact you probably lost it under your fucking cauldron."
The protester shook her fist and ranted on unaware of Ray's contribution. "The government doesn't care. Not about you. Not about us. Not about the Iraqi people. They just care about money and oil and power." She was yelling from the hood of a VW bus painted like Haight-Ashbury had taken a dump on it.
Their last training mission before boarding the C-130s tomorrow was to experience this crowd. An unwashed gaggle of picket-sign waving, kumbaya-singers whose clothes would stand up by themselves. They'd taken up residence outside the base's gates yesterday. Bravo and Alpha were lined up to listen to the yelled insults and to look for real threats inside the mob of bodies. Godfather was using the resources at hand to prepare the battalion for what they might see after they rolled into Baghdad. The improvisation was fairly fucking innovative. Brad enjoyed that these dirty, barefoot peace-magickers had no idea they were readying their enemy to get some in the tried and true USMC way.
"Blood of innocents will be on your hands. Can you feel nothing? Open your hearts and see what damage this does! You in your tanks--"
"Fucking tanks. I wish we had a fucking tank," Ray grumbled. "Speaking of which, what's the ETA on that turret? I'm about ready to make a run to Fat Larry's Junk-o-Rama and pick it over for scrap metal."
"--crushing the bodies and souls of the people you claim to be saving. It's propaganda! Lies! Heartless killers!"
"This is certainly melodramatic," Brad said, scoping the crowds through the chainlink fence.
"Focus on the task at hand, gentlemen," Fick said.
Their fresh-off-OCC, fresh-off-his-mommy's-tit LT inserted himself in Brad's victor. A few, quick words about "observing cohesiveness" and "learning from the best" had him planting his ass in the seat at Brad's six. So far so good with Fick, and Brad would cautiously give him the benefit of the doubt. He at least appeared to know the difference between the Marine Corps and an Eagle Scout merit badge, which was more than Brad would say for a few officers in this battalion.
Fick's calm, precise voice came from behind him. "Hitman, this is Hitman Two in Two-One Alpha point. Oscar Mike. How copy?"
"Hitman Two, Hitman Actual. Copy. All Hitman Victors maintain 25 meter dispersion at one-zero kilometers per hour."
"All Hitman Two victors. Maintain 25 meter dispersion at one-zero kilometers per hour," Fick echoed into comms.
A little thrill went through Brad even for this little training mission. It'd been too long for this Marine since Afghanistan, and he was itching to get back into the thick of it. Even in these shit-poor vehicles, Brad was ready. Dare he even say, he was optimistic.
They cleared the fence, tires rolling smoothly on the quality American blacktop. No way they'd have it this easy once they got over there, but the months-long adrenaline high would grease the way. He thumbed the side of his M4. Empty for now. The feel in his hand was the same loaded or not, and the touch of its grip in his palm always put him on alert. Brad scanned the crowd, half-aware of the specifics of the crowd's shouts as his eyes passed over faces, watching for eyes looking back at him with intent, watching for shapes concealed under clothing or abandoned bags.
Chanting had broken out from the vicinity of the VW, only a few yards to their four o'clock. At least they had the sense to stay away from the humvees before--
That's when it hit. It was like an unlit Molotov cocktail filled with a mixture of manure and women's perfume, and it went fucking everywhere. Brad was doused in it.
From the roof turret, Garza shouted, "Jesus Christ! What the fuck's wrong with you people?"
Brad spat hemp seed magic juice out of his mouth. "Button it, Corporal." He spat again. The side of his Humvee was now a shade worse than Person trying to chew tobacco.
"Game faces," Fick said from behind Brad. "Mission is to use this as a model for Iraq." He spit out the side too. "We're not going to let any Iraqi protesters under our skin, so don't let these civilians get to you either."
"Make love not war!" The protesters were chanting at the top of their lungs as the woman was cuffed by the MPs.
Brad met the woman's eyes and could just make out her words through the shouting. "Abandon the pain. Find love!"
Ray was almost doubled over the steering column, hacking up a wad of chaw that he'd aspirated when he started laughing.
"If you choke on tobacco juice and vomit in my vehicle, I will gut you and fly your intestines on the antenna as a warning to others," Brad growled.
"Oh God, I swallowed it," Ray sputtered. "You should see your goddamn face right now. I hope they put some good mojo in there and you, like, sprout some fairy wings or can only speak in tongues."
Fick's hand landed damp on the side of Brad's neck then. He was passing forward his tourniquet, wet with canteen water. A shiver blossomed from their contact, sliding across Brad's skin like it was alive. Time slowed to a crawl. Individual drops of water made their way beneath his collar, tracing his tendons. He reached up to grab the cloth with a hand that was simultaneously leaden and electrified. Jolts of warmth forced a grunt from him when Fick's fingers tangled with his in the wet fabric.
And then the moment was over. Fick's voice was on comms again -- thick with hippie juice and the concomitant magic idiocy -- this time saying, "Men down. Two-one taking fire."
*
"Yo, I gotta know. Can you still call hippie chicks trim if they don't?"
"Not the time, Ray," Doc warned. "Out."
He chucked a sponge at Brad and gestured for him to wipe off. Pink smoke swirled from the tube he cracked open over Fick's bare shoulder. He'd gotten as much of a hit of the stuff as Brad, and now he was naked above the waist with Doc tending to them. A reddening flush spread across Fick's upper chest. Splatters of dark residue dotted his neck and cheek.
"Look here," Doc mumbled, drawing Brad's attention back so he could shine a light in his eyes. "Pupils fine. Pink smoke is still pink. There's nothing here. That was just compost water. No magic in there."
"Thanks, Tim," Fick said softly.
"Don't thank me yet, Sir. You two need to get in the shower ASAP. Respectfully, I'm not gonna spend 20 hours in the air smelling this shit."
Brad swore the flush spread further down his LT's chest, but Brad kept his eyes off for the rest of the clean-up process.
He thought, Better safe than sorry.
Sorry about what, Brad wasn't sure.
*
This was Brad's last night in his own bed, and he spent a good piece of it rutting into a spare pillow.
*
"Yeah, that works, Brad. As long as you don't let emotions take over."
Nate's words hit Brad like a kick to the gut. He felt his face heat and he was grateful for the coating of dust to conceal it.
Brad scowled at himself. Even if it was just in his head, he had just called Fick by his first name.
*
Maybe it was intentional, the space Fick carefully kept between them. He leaned close and spoke words Brad knew he should register. Something about watch caps. The body heat creeping through Brad's blouse was imagined. The loss of it when Fick walked away was not a problem.
Brad took another bite of food and his shoulder cooled. He forced himself to not look.
Fried chicken might as well have been cardboard for the amount Brad tasted it. His brain was too preoccupied with this sudden… thing. Coincidences fucking pissed him off, so it was impossible not to put this thing into the same box as the hippie bomb.
*
"Shamal!" someone yelled.
Brad pulled his headlamp on and ran outside into the blowing sand. He couldn't help the grin that threatened his face. This shit was cool. Duty for country aside, seeing things like this was why he joined up. Swirling dirt threw everything into foggy distortion. The sensation of the sand hitting his bare arms was sharp and tight and reminded him of the burn of his tattoo. The pain was sweet though, like scratching an itch.
Then he realized he was searching the murky darkness for the LT.
"Brad! Good," Fick yelled over the wind. "I wanted to find you. Looks like you have it under control."
Brad's smile took over his face like a shamal of his very own.
"I know," Nate yelled, smiling back. "Fucking cool!"
It helped that Schwetje's tent was fubared.
*
"LT wants to see you, Brad."
The taste of teenage hormones was rank and it flooded Brad's mouth at Gunny's words.
"Aww shit, homes. I forgot to tell you he was on the radio for you," Ray said. He withered slightly under Brad's glare.
Eager was barely half of it. What the fuck had that shit done to him? Doc was full of crap if he found nothing.
Brad jogged, did not walk to a cadence that sounded a lot like Nate's name.
*
"Watch out, everyone. Brad's about to blow," Ray said. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed "aa-OOO-ga."
Brad leveled Ray with a quick, annoyed look and let out his rant.
"Civilians have their heads up their asses. It's like they think this is some kind of Libertarian utopia where this country prospers with no government, no taxes, and everyone leaving them the fuck alone to make charm bracelets. How do they think shit gets done in this world? Infrastructure matters. Leadership matters. A good offense and a good defense goddamn matter. It's like they live in a vacuum filled with fucking picket fences and sparkling water."
"Don't pretend your Hebrew brethren don't stock that shit in their pantries," Ray interjected.
Brad threw the rolled up copy of Juggs he had been squeezing the life out of at Ray's head. He had good aim.
"What the fuck, Bradley. You want a blind driver?"
"I sure as fuck want a mute driver."
"I'm your RTO too," Ray protested, rubbing his eye socket.
Brad wasn't done. "Protesters and their so-called ideals. Bunch of well-off white kids with dreadlocks and hash pipes that haven't had to work a fucking day of their lives. Mommy and Daddy give them allowances and cars for getting a C+ on their report card. This country has created a whole generation of coddled do-gooders who act like they live in a fucking black-and-white fantasy land. Meanwhile, the real world is a minefield of moral gray areas, and they have not got a motherfucking inkling about how things work."
He felt hot when the words stopped flowing. Everyone was looking at him with wide eyes like this was story time.
Everyone except Nate, who wore an intense look.
Brad exhaled hard through his nose. His whole rant had been a thinly veiled commentary on this inappropriately timed crush on Nate. Thinly veiling it from himself mostly, like he always did in matters like this. Ever since Kelly left; and then especially when she ended up waving burning sage all around him saying that it was supposed to cleanse him of his lingering sadness. Fuck that bullshit. Magic is cheating.
The corner of Nate's mouth twitched up. He was studying Brad in that way of his. A wave of confused pleasure ran down Brad's body.
That was the last straw, because Brad could never know if it was the spell or if it was really Nate. He grabbed his helmet and stalked off to find something to do with his hands.
*
"So, I have been meaning to ask you Bradley: What the actual fuck?"
Brad glanced away from the LT striding between vehicles long enough to level a look that effectively conveyed the mixture of thinning (but never fully sapped) tolerance for Ray's stream-of-consciousness commentary. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, what the actual fuck? I mean, I get that in some kind of gay-ass alternate universe I'd totally want to tap that, because he is prettier than the last girl I banged--"
"Ray."
"And, believe me, I know it's been a long fucking while since we've seen tail that wasn't wrinkled, come-stained pictures of Reporter's better half."
"Wait, what?" Reporter piped up from the backseat, his pen pausing over his notepad.
Ray waved him off.
Brad said again, "Ray. Thin ice."
"But are you absolutely sure that that hippie chick didn't patchouli love bomb you into sniffing after a certain Ivy Leaguer?"
Reporter's pen pointedly did not make any movement.
Brad glared until Ray broke eye contact. But Ray was just saying out loud exactly what had been gnawing at Brad. What if this was all just magic? It had to be magic. There was no other good explanation.
He grabbed his helmet (again) and his rifle (again) and walked away (again).
This time, however, he didn't go have a jack when he walked away from a conversation that had his blood pumping around a mind full of Nate Fick.
"Colbert," Doc grunted. "Trombley finally shoot his own foot off? Let me see if I can find a fucking Band-aid."
"Aim is not one of Pfc. Trombley's problems."
Doc snorted. "What can I do you for then?"
It took a second for Brad to form words around his dried out tongue. Nerves were not something Brad Colbert usually had. (Save for Person verging on Brad's last nerve, which happened with increasing frequency with each dose of Ripped Fuel.)
"What do you have in your kit to test for spells?"
"You think the Iraqis deployed something?"
"No."
Doc waited for Brad to elaborate. Brad didn't, because this was fucking idiotic. Half of him wanted his crush on Nate to be all due to magic so he could blame something. The other half of him wanted magic to take a fucking giant, flying leap off a short pier because maybe this was real.
"The LT?" Doc asked, perceptive motherfucker.
"You got anything to check?"
Doc stared at him with squinted eyes. "I'm not a witch doctor, Sergeant. And I already checked under your hood back at Pendleton. Both of your hoods, though seems like Fick conveniently forgot that too."
Blood rushed through Brad's ears. He nodded and then shrugged, looking away. He realized too late his eyes were trying to find Nate among the nearby victors.
"Plus," Doc said a little too loud, pulling Brad's attention back to the matter at hand. "They don't send corpsmen out into the field with shit to fix the effects of love potions. But, yeah, I can mix something up." He turned to his supplies, mumbling, "The goddamn crap y'all come to me with. Jesus Christ. I'm gonna get rich with a 1-900-magic-dick-doctor phone number after this bullshit."
*
"Dude. What the hell was that?"
"What was what?"
"Oh yeah, like you are completely unaware that you just looked like Sparkle Eyes McMuffinchuck when the LT shrugged at you. I swear to God, Brad, this shit is giving me a second-hand boner," Ray said.
"We are not having this conversation."
"But--"
"We're not having a conversation in the same hemisphere as this topic, Ray."
"Just saying."
"I will stick Manimal's trenchfoot-laden sock in your mouth."
"Now that's fucking impolite."
*
He could not leave it alone. That inbred fucker.
Brad considered whether a court-martial would be worth it. Ray was animatedly talking to Nate. Nate had that patient look on his face that he often wore around Ray. Lips pressed tight, one hand resting on the butt of his M16, long fingers squeezing it absently.
Nate looked over Ray's shoulder and caught Brad's gaze.
Which was when Ray illustrated his point with an obscene gesture. Brad was probably going to strangle him.
*
"Brad, a minute?"
Nate's question came from too close in the dark. Like happened every time Nate met his eyes, Brad felt like he might explode with the intractable mess of emotions he felt.
"Yep." Brad wished he'd cleared his throat first, because that just now was too close to showing his pathetic hand.
They walked together away from the cluster of vehicles and crouched knee-to-knee on a berm.
Then Nate's hand suddenly curled around the back of Brad's neck. Grit scratched between his fingers and Brad's sun-reddened skin. He pulled Brad closer, knocking their helmets together. One tilt of Brad's head and their noses would brush. Painful need thrummed through him. All of this was unreal. This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen to people like him.
Like them. Not here.
Brad watched as Nate's lips slipped open. He inhaled, tongue darting out to wet his chapped skin. Maybe this was real. Maybe it could be...
Brad pushed away. "No."
"Oh," Nate said. His eyes showed how wounded Brad's rejection left him. "I thought--"
"We can't. I can't. You… this is the magic," he said low. Their knees were still pressed together on the Iraqi dirt.
"Are you sure?"
Brad wasn't sure. Doc's little bit of cooked up hoodoo hadn't shown a goddamn thing affecting Brad. "It can't be real."
"Why?" Anger and frustration tinged Nate's voice. The spice of it ripped through Brad's heart. He hated the idea that he was hurting him. But he also really fucking hated the idea they they'd lost their free will somewhere because some campfire pagan was spouting unrealistic ideals about the way the world worked.
"Because I'm not the type of person someone falls in love with," Brad bit out.
Nate stared and then slowly shook his head. He looked on the verge of saying something, but then he turned and walked back to Command.
*
After Baghdad, after Ad Diwaniyah, Brad compartmentalized so hard it physically hurt. Nate seemed to be doing the same. Acting like nothing happened out there.
But every time the sun came up, Brad put on his big boy pants and shoved that shit down so he could function. This mission wasn't over until they were wheels down on the Californian tarmac. And that meant non-stop focus on what they were being paid to do. He couldn't risk his team because he was too distracted.
They worked well together still. But the decision to keep his distance was agony.
Eventually it'd fade.
*
Brad didn't think he'd ever cried. He had no memory of ever crying. Feeling empty, yes, but not crying.
Back stateside, he drove home, walked into his bathroom and looked in the mirror. Tired was all he saw. Tired and defeated. He fucking hated this feeling.
"Hello?" came from the other end of the phone line.
"Yeah," Brad said to his reflection in the mirror. "Hi."
"Hi," Nate said, and it sounded like relief.
"We should talk." Quietly Brad asked him to come over.
When Nate showed up at Brad's door fifteen minutes later, they didn't even say hello to each other. Brad just held the door open and Nate walked in. Nate toed his go fasters off. Brad got them each a beer in the kitchen, but no one was really drinking.
Finally Brad asked, "Did we accomplish anything over there, Sir?"
Nate looked at Brad for a long time. He'd abandoned his beer bottle on the counter. Brad felt that foreign sensation, the tightening in his throat that he knew analytically were tears trying to surface. He breathed deep a few times, hoping.
"Did the Marines accomplish anything? I don't know, Brad. All I know is that I am glad you were my TL. More than glad."
Tears rimmed in Nate's eyes suddenly and he turned to the sink.
"Nate..." Brad pulled gently at his shoulder to turn him.
Their long embrace was maybe the beginning. Neither of them cried.
Eventually Nate said, "I was running right before you called. I should go take a shower."
"You can here," Brad blurted. He let his arms drop, freeing Nate but hoping he'd stay.
Nate nodded. "I'll be quick."
"Either way."
Brad spent the whole time on the couch. He drank his beer and picked at the label.
Finally (probably no more than 180 seconds after it'd started) the water turned off. Nate emerged in the PTs he'd come over in… sans shirt. The glimpse of hair running beneath Nate's waistband was Brad's breaking point. Hip bones, rib bones, cheek bones stood in relief as evidence of the weeks they'd spent short on supplies, barely sleeping, and...
Brad knew it as he saw Nate's fragility. And his resilience, his strength. Brad wanted all of him. Those weeks of deprivation stripped everything away, leaving behind only raw emotion.
"I'm in love with you," Brad said suddenly.
Nate stopped in his quiet lope across the living room heading for his shoes and the door. One hand gripped the waistband of his too loose PTs. Green eyes swallowed Brad whole, gentle and intense in one package. Familiar. Weeks of deprivation except for this.
"Is it the magic?" Nate's voice was even.
"Possible. Probable. But I frankly could not give less of a fuck."
"You realize this may be allowing unwashed hippies have the upper hand." Nate's eyes flashed with amusement.
Brad attempted to rein in his grimace. "Yes, I realize it."
Nate changed his vector, closing in on Brad's chair until that trail of hair was within reach of Brad's hands. The pants slipped lower when Nate rested his hands on Brad's shoulders.
"I believe you. I feel the same. Look at me." Nate's voice was soft, teasing Brad for eying Nate's bare stomach. "It's the same for me, Brad. But what happens when it wears off?"
Pain at the idea shot through Brad. "I don't care. Maybe it won't. Maybe all we get is now--"
"Brad, fuck. Shut the fuck up," Nate said fond and breathless. He shoved at Brad's shoulders, pinning him hard against the leather of the chair. "If all we get is now..."
Nate was straddling him, caging Brad in with too wiry arms and legs. Retreat was the last thing on his mind. There was literally no where else that this one fucked up Marine wanted to be than cursed to love his liberal, WASPy, jailbait, bossy LT. He would do everything to stretch this second into forever.
"Let me memorize everything," Brad asked.
Flecks of golden sparked through the green. Taut muscles shifted beneath skin. A smattering of pale freckles dotted his shoulders. He smelled earthy and warm. Brad was fucked for how much he wanted to touch.
*
Epilogue:
Nate flipped through Evan's freshly pressed book. It fell open to a page, like Evan had specifically broken the spine at that spot. Nate immediately and loudly laughed.
"Brad, have a look at what Scribe wrote." Nate rolled over and laid the book between their pillows.
Despite the frictions, Fick believes in the men he commands. "I have the best platoon," he says repeatedly. Away from his men, Fick cannot talk about them without smiling.
Brad snorted. "Them," he said with a fingerquotes tone of voice that said he understood exactly who them was. "I'll have to buy him a beer for carefully editing out the specifics." Brad thumbed to the next page.
The magic in this platoon -- and in Bravo 2 in particular -- was what held the operation together. Despite the backdrop of war and the occasional frustration of Command's ineptitude, Fick and Colbert led their group of rag-tag Marines with an ease born of their comfortable bond. Marines under their command affectionately spoke of them having "freaky eye-borne conversations." If the U.S. government ever chose to secretly augment their warriors with magic, they'd do right to take that pair of men as a model for success.
"Great. So, it wasn't hippie magic. It's a government conspiracy," Brad said sardonically.
Nate laughed. It hadn't worn off yet.