Happy fandom-birthday to me!

[dira]

A year ago today I posted my very first GK fic, and for various reasons I feel in need of having something to celebrate today, so I'm going to celebrate that! By posting teasers for the two GK epics I have in progress.

Each of these runs about a thousand words (1-2% of the expected length of the stories), and each of them ends on an unanswered question (although people who care already more or less know the answer to one of them), so, you know, putting the tease in teaser here. I hope to be posting the babyfic this summer and the wolf-verse story before the end of the year, but obviously I can't promise anything. Caveat lector etc. etc.


Brad wasn't anticipating anything, because no battle plan survived first contact with the enemy. Still, in the silent seconds after he knocked on the door, he remembered what Ray had said. There had been a few seconds of silence just like this after Brad explained that he had a long layover at BWI and asked if Ray had Nate's current address in DC, and then Ray had said, "You know what, fine. You should get this over with."

Brad hadn't asked what he meant by that; there was no need to give Ray more of an opening for mockery than he already had. Obviously Brad hadn't been as subtle as he thought he'd been. But the fact was, Nate hadn't been completely subtle, either.

About a week before they returned to the States, he and Nate had finally gotten to the point of having something like a conversation about what they meant to each other--more pauses and significantly omitted words than actual discussion, but they'd managed to communicate the salient points.

Yes, there was something important. It was mutual. Later, they'd agreed. They'd figure it out Stateside. Nate had a girlfriend waiting for him, and though they'd never been very serious--never lived on the same coast longer than a leave or a law school break--but he'd have to be a gentleman about it. Nate was on his way out of the Corps, to boot. They'd talk when he was free. It would be safer then.

But then nothing. Nate had gone to radio silence once they were Stateside, but Brad had gotten enough glimpses of his reunion with his girlfriend to realize he wasn't going to walk away from her on the spot. By the time Nate brought her to his paddle party two months later, Brad had figured out that Nate had made his choice, and he couldn't hold that against him. Nate hadn't promised him anything.

For months Brad had only heard from him through the same CC'd emails that bounced around the whole platoon. Recently there had been a few private messages about the book Nate was writing, fact-checking some things he remembered Brad saying. There had been exchanges of pleasantries, bare bones sitreps. Nate had passed up the opportunity to make a pointed reference to the girlfriend of seven months ago, and Brad found himself wondering if that meant that in the end Nate had regretted the choice he made when he was freshly back from Iraq.

A couple of weeks ago, staring at another blandly friendly email, it had occurred to Brad that there was one thing Nate had promised him: they had agreed to talk about this. Brad figured his first long leave from the Royal Marines was as good a time as any to call in that debt. One way or another, Brad would know what was going on by the time he got back on the plane. The loose end would be properly secured and Brad would be squared away.

Ray's voice was still echoing in his ears--get this over with--when Brad heard faint sounds of movement on the other side of the door. He made sure he was at a non-threatening and recognizable distance from the peephole in the door, smiling slightly, and waited.

There was a rattle of security chain, a thud of locks being opened, and the door swung inward.

Brad had come to do recon. He observed several things all in the same sweeping glance.

Nate looked exactly like Brad always pictured him: exhausted in the full life-in-a-combat-zone sense of the word, used up and without hope of resupply. He was red-eyed and underweight.

He'd let his hair grow out, though, and he was wearing a Dartmouth t-shirt. His appearance screamed civilian, but despite his departure from the grooming standard he looked basically neat and clean.

He didn't look at all surprised to see Brad. Curious, like he didn't know what Brad was going to say--which was fair, because Brad didn't either--but not surprised to see him standing there.

There was a baby tucked into Nate's left arm: dressed in blue so probably male, small enough to have his head at Nate's elbow and his butt in Nate's palm, young enough that his legs were still folded up in the fetal position. Most of Bravo Two's welcome-home-from-OIF babies had been born within the last two weeks--Brad's checked luggage contained four identical Paddington Bears for the ones he'd known about--so that made sense.

Nate's left hand, cupped around the baby's bottom, did not bear a wedding ring or any sign that Nate had ever regularly worn one.

Nate was wearing his combat boots under his ragged jeans, indoors, when neither he nor the baby were dressed to go out into the March chill anytime soon.

Ray had hesitated to give Brad this address and then said get it over with. Ray knew. Ray knew Brad didn't know. Ray had deliberately cooperated in keeping this a secret from Brad; Nate had also deliberately omitted it within the last two weeks. This wasn't casual secret-keeping; this was the real deal. But now Nate had answered the door with the baby and didn't even look surprised to see Brad.

He looked, in fact, exactly like Brad had just walked up to him from the wrong side of the Humvees and Nate couldn't figure out how he'd gotten over there unseen.

"Brad, what are you doing here?"





Nate was leaning over a desk, comparing a mission plan to the relevant map sheet, when he felt a ping through the pack-sense. It was like a tap on the shoulder or the sound of a radio clicking on in the instant before sound started coming through. Nate straightened up to something like attention immediately. His CO might be anywhere, but he was now also effectively in the room with Nate.

Nate? Captain Schwetje's voice, through the pack-sense, came laden with so much don't worry, not urgent that it was almost diffident.

Sir, Nate returned, projecting back alert focus both from himself and from Bo. She'd already taken her leave of the wolves of Bravo's Second Platoon and was homing in on Nate.

My location, when you have a minute, Schwetje directed, though again with so little force that it felt like an invitation. The words were accompanied by an impression of Schwetje's current position, about ten yards from where Nate sat in the headquarters building. I've got some personnel things to run by you.

Yes, sir, Nate affirmed, choking back the sense of urgent eagerness he put through the pack-sense to something merely dutiful. Bravo Two currently consisted of Nate and three junior enlisted men, and had for nearly a month now. With the Mountain Warfare course drawing to a close Nate was--to say the least--eager to find out when he might have his platoon at something resembling full strength.

Would now be convenient, sir?

Nate forced himself not to count seconds while Schwetje hesitated. He was starting to get used to the pause that ensued every time he asked a direct question of his commanding officer.

Sure, Nate. Now's fine.

Be right there, sir. Nate was already on his feet. He held himself to a leg-stretching walk as he covered the distance to the captain's temporary office. When he got there, Bo, who was constrained by entirely different standards of dignity, was already outside the door, almost dancing back and forth with bright-eyed anticipation. Keeping just three wolves in line had gotten boring for her about three and a half weeks ago.

Nate knocked on the door, sending a ping through the pack-sense at the same time, and Schwetje called out, "Come in!"

Nate entered with Bo on his heels and snapped off a salute, which Schwetje returned precisely.

Bo bowed to Yellowjacket, a pale tawny wolf who was, like most recon wolves, nearly Bo's height and about fifty pounds heavier. Yellowjacket accepted Bo's greeting with a rather amiable lick on the nose, and then returned to Schwetje's side of the desk to flop down on the ground.

Bo, despite her fizzing excitement, very properly followed suit, dropping to the ground by the chair Nate took in front of the desk. She lay with her legs gathered compactly under her, tail curled tightly around her rump, her ears pricked up and her eyes turned up to Nate. She was ready to spring at the least excuse.

Nate, as he often did lately, quietly pushed patience through their bond as he took his seat.

He then contradicted himself by speaking up before Schwetje could start an excruciating exchange of idle conversation on some other topic. "There was a personnel matter, sir?"

"Yeah," Schwetje frowned down at some files on the desk, tapping his fingers on them. "I'm working on assigning NCOs, and I wanted to tell you, first of all, we tracked down a gunnery sergeant for you with a sister. Mike Wynn, his sister's name is Ash. Saw combat way back in Mogadishu--they're real good. Probably DI material one day."

Nate nodded, allowing a little of his sense of relief to leak into the pack-sense.

Schwetje smiled at that. Officer-bitches like Bo were rare enough that finding a gender-matched platoon NCO was noticed as a special point of accommodation. Nate and Bo had gotten lucky with their first platoon; Keith and Silver had already been there waiting for them. It took a particular temperament for a bitch to be assertive enough to keep her platoon in line as Gunny's sister without challenging her lieutenant's sister for dominance, but Nate would trust Gunnery Sergeant Wynn and Ash, and whoever had chosen them for him and Bo.

"For your team leaders--you went out on that patrol with Sergeant Patrick's team, right? You worked with him and Reyes?"

Nate nodded, even though working with them had consisted solely of Nate and Bo shadowing them through the trees. They'd very politely used Nate's call sign when reporting in, but that was as much authority as he'd exerted over the team. He'd been there to observe, nothing more.

Bo certainly remembered the experience. She'd been a lot more frustrated than Nate had about not being in charge, though she'd shared his slightly awed respect for the smooth, silent expertise of the men and wolves. She leapt ahead from the question to the conclusion that she might get to have Patrick and Reyes's brothers--Hurricane and her old shipmate Sandy--in her platoon, and wriggled all over with delight. She didn't stir from her spot on the floor, though; Yellowjacket was still sprawling on his side of the desk.

"We'd be happy to work with them again, sir," Nate offered.

Schwetje nodded. "Shieldmates, so you can have Patrick as a team leader and Reyes as his ATL. They've earned a rotation together, after being apart in Afghanistan."

Nate nodded. Their relationship had been evident in the time he spent with them. They hadn't been visibly demonstrative, and he didn't think any of the handful of words he'd heard the team speak had been exchanged between Reyes and Patrick, but the extra bond between them had been tangible in the pack-sense, nearly as strong--and as private--as the bond between man and wolf. Their brothers obviously were in full accord with their choice.

That would give Nate a platoon NCO and leadership for a team, which with his three enlisted men would bring his platoon up to a single full team's strength.

Schwetje frowned, tapping his fingers against a file again. "This one's an actual question, Nate, and I want you to know that you can say no, okay? You can say no, and that's fine."

Nate took a step back in the pack-sense, closing himself and Bo off more than usual in preparation for whatever Schwetje was about to say.

Sensing Nate's retreat, the captain grimaced and nodded, then took a breath. "Brad Colbert and Frost."