Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

May 24, 2003.

Despite the early morning the heat was already beating down on the platoon as they dismounted their vehicles in front of Ishtar Gate. Ever dependable Gunny Wynn immediately got to work corralling everyone. They looked not entirely unlike a group of sightseeing tourists; if tourists – instead of bringing cameras, fanny packs, and sunhats – carried weapons, flak jackets, and Kevlar.

Nate looked up at the ornate gate, painted a vibrant blue and covered in reliefs of real and mythical animals. Although smaller than the version at the Pergamon Museum in Berlin, it felt different looking up at it on the actual ancient site where its history had once been written. There was a different kind of gravity to it.

"A modern man might call this gaudy."

Nate smiled. Count on either Ray or Brad to dispel any moment that held a false sense of significance. It was Brad who had sidled up next to him, leaving a comfortable space between them. Despite this Nate imagined he could feel the heat emanating from the other man.

The two stood together, side by side in silence for a beat, before Brad continued,

"Don't tell me you went through both Ivy League and OCS dick sucking just so you could get here yourself and recite the Iliad... like Alexander the Great after conquering Mesopotamia or something."

"I'm not that full of myself," Nate let out a surprised laugh, before he continued, "but the classics can teach us a lot about –"

"– How to sodomize within the ranks, Sir?" Brad's deadpan delivery was betrayed by a slight smirk, his face otherwise placid as he continued to study the gate.

"– about ourselves," Nate pointedly concluded, not intent on rising to Brad's bait.

"Is that so, Sir?" Brad turned towards him with interest, not missing a beat.

"Back then it was called pederasty," Nate said, unable to stop himself from correcting Brad's previous mistake, watching his grin grow. So much for sidestepping the trap.

"Do you spend a lot of time thinking about that, Sir?"

Brad held Nate's gaze, as if daring him to look away.

Nate felt himself swallow, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach as Brad's gaze bore down on him.

"I don't want no fuckin' dirty hajji bananas!!" Chaffin's voice cut through the calm of the ancient ruins.

Nate was once again aware of their surroundings, jarringly wrenched back to reality.

"No more than you I'm assured," he closed off the conversation, breaking their gaze. Despite the open innuendo of his statement Nate's voice had a finality to it.

Brad was likely engaging in the typical homoerotic humor that permeated Marine culture, his was just generally more sophisticated in its typical styling. But in that moment, Nate had felt it like a danger close artillery strike; One that could have accidentally betrayed a truth that would result in consequences far beyond Brad's intentions.

Nate turned towards the rest of his marines, schooling his features so as to not reveal his temporary inner turbulence. He felt a wave of relief as an older gentleman approached, offering to take them on a guided tour. It was a welcome distraction.

The man turned out to be an archeologist going by the name Ishmael. As he made his introductions, Brad disappeared back into the throng of Bravo marines. Back to playing Dad to Team 1 Alpha.

Ishmael set off describing the story of Babylon, and despite his lilting English he quickly gained a captivated audience in the rest of the marines.

"In Mesopotamian times Ishtar was called Inanna the mistress of Heaven. She was a goddess of love and war. Fertility and destruction."

"That just sounds like most women to me!" Manimal complained out loud, echoes of jeers and assent could be heard as Ishmael continued,

"She was symbolized by a star and sacred lion, a protector of dynasties and their armies..."

Nate let himself focus on the story Ishmael was weaving, following along as he described the inscription by Nebuchadnezzar. They headed down the Processional Way and further into the ruins of Babylon, the story turning from mythology into one of ancient kings and empires, Hammurabi and Alexander the Great, drawn with modern parallels.

As they stood by the stage where Alexander was rumored to have died, Colbert once again slid up next to Nate.

"To think we've followed in the shadow of two of Alexander's most fabled campaigns, in about as much time," it felt like he was extending an olive branch, an appeal to Nate's love of the classics. This was safer territory, and more than anything didn't fill Nate with worry that he'd step on some invisible landmine.

"Whether we're half as successful remains to be seen," Nate mused, thinking of their failed attempts at quelling unrest in greater Baghdad.

"Somehow I doubt I'll be remembered as 'Brad the Great,'" Brad conceded.

"’Whatever possession we gain by our sword cannot be sure or lasting, but the love gained by kindness and moderation is certain and durable’," Nate offered, but Brad hardly looked convinced.

"With all due respect, Sir..." what followed was sure to lack any respect, "Is that the kind of liberal bullshit they teach you at Dartmouth?"

"No, Brad. That was Alexander the Great..." Nate couldn't help grinning at Brad's appalled expression.

"Looks like you got to recite your classical poetry then Sir." Brad walked off, leaving Nate where he stood.

As Ishmael's tour wound down everyone gathered in a stone courtyard. Espera was leaning against a wall in the shade, going off on one of his philosophical tirades – this time pontificating on the likelihood of everything being predetermined.

"Is this your goddamn lottery theory again?" Brad had apparently been subjected to this monologue before.

Espera ignored his friend's exasperation and leaned conspiratorially towards Nate. What followed was an in-depth theory of how cause-and-effect somehow proved a deterministic world – but how being able to calculate all the variables meant seeing the larger fabric of reality.

Nate considered himself too pragmatic to subscribe to a worldview where everything was predetermined. Being limited to his own narrow point of view meant he'd never be able to see the pattern. And wasn't being stuck in a machine basically like being in the military anyway?

"Don't know if I agree with you, brother, but well said. Amen," Rudy offered thoughtfully as he clapped Espera on the back. Brad was not as impressed, all but rolling his eyes before they locked with Nate's again, a nebulous smile on his face,

"Tony, you need to go home and get laid," Brad wandered off.

"Tell me something I don't know, white boy." Espera shot back after him, mercifully oblivious to whatever had just transpired between the LT and his TL.

Nate's face felt warm despite the shade. Did Brad see the minefield but damn the consequences?

He considered his position, the hierarchy imposed by the United States Marine Corp, and its 'Don't Ask Don't Tell' policy. Things would have been very different without them. In that sense Nate did see the machinations that Espera spoke of, the variables inevitably producing an outcome where Brad and Nate couldn't be together. Regardless of any unspoken conversations that hung between them.

Chapter Text

June 4, 2003.

Nate bolted upright in bed.

He was awake again, the cold dread left by the nightmare still lingered. Clashing images of suburban bliss and war atrocities tangled in his mind. He looked up at the ceiling of the dark hotel room, willing his breathing to slow and heart rate settle.

Just a few hours earlier Bravo Company had been welcomed back like returning heroes by their families at Camp Pendleton.

Being stateside again did nothing to help Nate shake his nervous energy. He lay restlessly listening for something, anything, in the silent room. He felt exposed and alone now, after months of sleeping to a backdrop of constant static from radios, hushed chatter from fellow marines, and the intermittent sound of mortar fire in the distance.

He had woken up for the second time in as many hours, sleep seemingly elusive at this point.

No point postponing the inevitable. He got up.

Heading into the bathroom he ran the water; having his second shower of the night felt simultaneously indulgent and like Nate was reclaiming a sense of autonomy. He toweled himself dry in front of the sink, a weary face staring back at him in the mirror.

The shrapnel that his grandfather had made into a horseshoe still hung on the parachute cord around his neck. For the first time since putting it on pre-deployment, he took it off. Holding it he looked down at the talisman. It had been a reassuring weight through the invasion – but in his hand it felt infinitely lighter.

A sudden rap at the door jolted him out of his reverie. His adrenaline once again spiking and nerves tense.

A quick threat assessment told him that if there was an assailant they would not announce their presence with such a firm knock. He ran through the list of usual suspects. Gunny Wynn knew better than to knock without first announcing his presence. His parents were at another hotel, and unlikely to be awake at this predawn hour. Nate felt the buzz of nervous energy grow stronger.

He hung up the towel and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before heading towards the door, shirtless and with the horseshoe still clutched in his hand.

His other hand ghosted subconsciously over the hip that usually carried his Beretta, the absence of the pistol suddenly palpable. Nate wondered if the person was still waiting outside the door. There hadn't been any follow up knocks.

He carefully inched the door ajar, peering out.

Standing outside in the hotel hallway was Brad.

He was wearing military issue shorts, his olive-drab USMC t-shirt, and had a pair of flip-flops on his feet. Nate was perplexed. Brad looked, for all intents and purposes, as if showing up at his superior officer's hotel room in the middle of the night was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sir," Brad offered as quiet greeting. He placed his hand on the door next to Nate's face, applying a gentle pressure – all but ready to step through the door.

"Can I help you Sergeant?" Nate hedged.

For the first time a look of uncertainty flashed across Brad's feature. Had he just realized that the two of them weren't necessarily on the same page?

"Mind if I come in, Sir?" He tried this time.

After a moment's hesitation, Nate nodded mutely and stepped back, letting Brad through the door into the dark room. He noticed that Brad carried a small bag in his left hand.

Shutting the door behind them, Nate hoped that no one else had seen them in the hallway. Regretting not confirming this himself, he took comfort in his trust that Brad would have.

"Worry not, the kids are fast asleep," Brad said, readily reading the concern on Nate's face despite the dark.

Like a man on a mission, Brad walked over to the balcony and slid the glass door open, "Enlisted men could only dream about fancy shit like this."

He stepped out onto the balcony, producing two bottles of beer that he gingerly placed on the small round table. Nate followed, still not sure what to make of this late night liaison. The weather was mild, and given that Nate wasn't wearing a shirt he was thankful they were no longer in a desert with drastically shifting temperatures.

Brad opened one of the bottles and proffered it to Nate.

He accepted and immediately took a swig. It was hardly strong enough to be considered liquid courage, but as he took another drink from the bottle Nate took a moment to regain his footing again. Claw back some semblance of control.

"This isn't a good idea, Brad," He didn't really know specifically what this was. It didn't yet have a name. But he knew that it lead bad places for both of them.

Brad took a long slow pull from his bottle before he replied,

"What isn't a good idea?"

Nate was about to put down the bottle and shake him, when Brad continued,

"–Fraternizing with superior officers? Rest assured, Sir, I won't make it a habit..." he gave Nate a guileless smile, "You could say we're exclusive."

"Brad..." Nate's warning tone was completely undercut by the smile on his face.

"I meant it. Don't worry, Sir," Brad's smile was still easy but his tone had turned more serious, "Not tonight."

They fell into an easy silence.

Nate found himself thankful for Brad's late night appearance. Brad had a funny way of showing it, but his care ran deep. And the man was observant in ways that surprised Nate. It was as if Brad had somehow sensed that Nate had been falling apart. He probably had.

Nate looked down at the hand holding the bottle, and then to the one still clutching the horseshoe.

When he looked over to Brad, he was struck by sharp features, backlit silhouette against a predawn sky, battle-worn and like every one of his men, changed.

"’Whatever possession we gain by our sword cannot be sure or lasting, the love gained by kindness and moderation is certain and durable’..." Nate again echoed Alexander's phrase.

He looked out over Oceanside.

"Brad..."

"Mm..."

"I'm leaving the corps."

Nate almost surprised himself that he'd said it.

There was a beat in which it felt like they both held their breath. And then finally,

"Nate..." Brad's smile softened, "I know..."

Of course he did.

Brad more than anyone had seen the ways in which Nate had chafed under the hierarchy. How he had barely contained his frustration at the incompetence of command and how the effects on his men almost broke him. How despite all that, Nate had carried the weight of it silently, alone. And somehow Brad knew that Nate wasn't willing to put his men in harm's way again, even when that was what being a Marine commander called for. And as Brad held Nate's gaze this time there was nothing but understanding.

"You're not disappointed?" Nate couldn't help but probe,

Brad just rolled his eyes.

"Why, should I be?" He feigned ignorance,

"Thought you might have some objections..." Nate tried.

"To you going civilian? Saves us at least half the worry over UCMJ," Brad continued undeterred.

"I meant to me leaving Bravo..."

"If you are fishing for some sort of compliment, you can forget it." Brad downed the rest of his bottle before putting it down on the table.

"Saving them for the paddle party, then?" Nate teased.

"Only because you're goddamn sentimental, Sir," Brad grumbled.

Nate looked down at the horseshoe again.

"More than you'd know," he agreed. Putting down his bottle on the table as well, Nate bridged the space between the two of them finally, overcome suddenly by a rush of affection. Gingerly he slipped the parachute cord over Brad's head and hung the horseshoe over his heart, "but I happen to think it's a virtue."

"And I happen to think you're a menace, Sir. Best keep you where you can't cause any grie–"

The rest of Brad's sentence was muffled, interrupted by Nate's lips covering his.