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Generation Kill fic: All the Right Moves
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riverlight, who asked for Nate/Brad at a party. Title from the Josh Ritter song "Right Moves" which is possibly even more apt for this pairing than I thought, now that I actually look at the lyrics.
Nate/Brad. Not very explicit. 650 words.
Brad knows guys who would play chess like this.
All the Right Moves
Brad knows guys who would play chess like this, stuck on watch or rolling in a convoy. When they got tired of arguing about which airbrushed movie bimbo was hotter or who stank worse or who was having worse luck with MREs, guys who could hold a board in their heads might start trading chess moves. Maybe they'd go back and forth right then, maybe they'd take their time, dropping it into some other conversation. Knight's pawn to knight three, and then right back to bitching about the global conspiracy to deprive Marines of pop tarts.
Brad's never had the patience for chess, with a board or without it. This game he's playing with Nate, however, is undeniably arresting. Brad's not sure who's winning, but he doesn't see how he can lose.
Nate started it half an hour ago, an hour--and a couple of drinks apiece--after he and Brad arrived at this party full of Nate's friends. He turned to Brad as the other people he'd been talking to drifted away, leaned in close enough for Brad to gauge the alcohol on his breath (low enough to drive, though neither of them will need to). Nate said quietly, without particular inflection, "When we get back to my place I am going to blow you against the front door."
Brad was busy keeping a straight face, fighting down the sudden unexpected intensity of want that jolted through him like pain or anger; he missed the two-second window he had to respond before yet another of Nate's friends started yet another conversation that didn't quite completely exclude him. Brad wandered off for more drinks while he considered his response.
When he got back, Nate's friend was in mid-anecdote, and Nate was smiling warmly at the guy. Brad leaned over as he pressed a glass into Nate's hand and said quietly, "I don't know why you think your sweet civilian ass isn't going to be the one pushed up against the door while I have my way with you."
Nate's smile froze for a couple of seconds, and he took a gulp of his drink instead of a polite sip before he could laugh with everyone else at the end of the story. He might have turned back to Brad and made another move, but before the laughter had died down Brad was getting hit on--by one of Nate's female friends, this time, which was too reassuring to blow off.
Now they've gone another six rounds, and they're still verbally wrestling naked on the floor in Nate's front hall. Brad's so occupied with keeping a straight face, not getting hard, and figuring out his next move that he's being friendly to Nate's Harvard friends on autopilot, following the conversational path of least resistance.
He's just about to tell Nate he knows there's still a tube of lube in the drawer of the table by the door--Nate's far enough into his fourth drink that Brad's pretty sure he will actually blush this time--when he realizes he needs to be thinking strategically, not tactically. Nobody wins while they're standing here driving each other crazy.
"Sorry," Brad says, breaking into a discussion of the finals schedule with a bright smile. "Jet lag just hit me like a fucking brick. Nate...?"
"Yeah," Nate says immediately, and gets them out the door in a minute, all of which Brad spends trying to remember if there actually is still lube in the drawer of the table by the door.
"Jesus," Nate says, when they're out on the sidewalk and pointed toward Nate's place, three blocks away. "You couldn't take that hint the first time?"
Brad blinks and looks over at Nate, who's fighting a grin and losing badly. They both start to run at the same time, and when they stumble up against the inside of Nate's front door to finally, finally kiss, they're both still laughing almost too hard to do it.
riverlight, who asked for Nate/Brad at a party. Title from the Josh Ritter song "Right Moves" which is possibly even more apt for this pairing than I thought, now that I actually look at the lyrics.Nate/Brad. Not very explicit. 650 words.
Brad knows guys who would play chess like this.
All the Right Moves
Brad knows guys who would play chess like this, stuck on watch or rolling in a convoy. When they got tired of arguing about which airbrushed movie bimbo was hotter or who stank worse or who was having worse luck with MREs, guys who could hold a board in their heads might start trading chess moves. Maybe they'd go back and forth right then, maybe they'd take their time, dropping it into some other conversation. Knight's pawn to knight three, and then right back to bitching about the global conspiracy to deprive Marines of pop tarts.
Brad's never had the patience for chess, with a board or without it. This game he's playing with Nate, however, is undeniably arresting. Brad's not sure who's winning, but he doesn't see how he can lose.
Nate started it half an hour ago, an hour--and a couple of drinks apiece--after he and Brad arrived at this party full of Nate's friends. He turned to Brad as the other people he'd been talking to drifted away, leaned in close enough for Brad to gauge the alcohol on his breath (low enough to drive, though neither of them will need to). Nate said quietly, without particular inflection, "When we get back to my place I am going to blow you against the front door."
Brad was busy keeping a straight face, fighting down the sudden unexpected intensity of want that jolted through him like pain or anger; he missed the two-second window he had to respond before yet another of Nate's friends started yet another conversation that didn't quite completely exclude him. Brad wandered off for more drinks while he considered his response.
When he got back, Nate's friend was in mid-anecdote, and Nate was smiling warmly at the guy. Brad leaned over as he pressed a glass into Nate's hand and said quietly, "I don't know why you think your sweet civilian ass isn't going to be the one pushed up against the door while I have my way with you."
Nate's smile froze for a couple of seconds, and he took a gulp of his drink instead of a polite sip before he could laugh with everyone else at the end of the story. He might have turned back to Brad and made another move, but before the laughter had died down Brad was getting hit on--by one of Nate's female friends, this time, which was too reassuring to blow off.
Now they've gone another six rounds, and they're still verbally wrestling naked on the floor in Nate's front hall. Brad's so occupied with keeping a straight face, not getting hard, and figuring out his next move that he's being friendly to Nate's Harvard friends on autopilot, following the conversational path of least resistance.
He's just about to tell Nate he knows there's still a tube of lube in the drawer of the table by the door--Nate's far enough into his fourth drink that Brad's pretty sure he will actually blush this time--when he realizes he needs to be thinking strategically, not tactically. Nobody wins while they're standing here driving each other crazy.
"Sorry," Brad says, breaking into a discussion of the finals schedule with a bright smile. "Jet lag just hit me like a fucking brick. Nate...?"
"Yeah," Nate says immediately, and gets them out the door in a minute, all of which Brad spends trying to remember if there actually is still lube in the drawer of the table by the door.
"Jesus," Nate says, when they're out on the sidewalk and pointed toward Nate's place, three blocks away. "You couldn't take that hint the first time?"
Brad blinks and looks over at Nate, who's fighting a grin and losing badly. They both start to run at the same time, and when they stumble up against the inside of Nate's front door to finally, finally kiss, they're both still laughing almost too hard to do it.
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I love these little sparkles. I am getting fond of Brad/Nate too--I might even go back and learn the canon someday!--but the landscaping is just too brilliant.
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