Log in

No account? Create an account
Combat Jack
Good Cookies: Prompt and Fill Post, Round Two 
2nd-Nov-2012 08:44 pm
Good Cookie, definition: 1. Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal; 2. Generation Kill fanworks created for YAGKYAS. Can include short (under 1000 words) ficlets, drabbles, drawables, mixtapes, fanart, whatever!

This round of Good Cookies is dedicated to the creation of fanworks that explore the theme, “Marine Corps Birthday:” how the Marines’ (and Reporter!) celebrate the big day. How do they feel about the shindig? Who do they bring along? How long does it take them to strap into their full dress blues? How do they respond to their non-straight brothers and sisters bringing their dates? Who loses their hat in a drunken poker game at a bar three blocks over from the big bash?

Make a prompt, pick a prompt, make a fanwork, and post it in the comments! Prompts can be used multiple times, and by anyone--whether you're planning to participate in yagkyas or not. We'll collect the prompts and responses as we go along.

And not only are we celebrating the big birthday, we’re celebrating YAGKYAS as well, so feel free to get your squee on in the comments.

To prompt a ficlet/drabble/drawble/fanart, give a character, pairing, and a short phrase or quote:
Colbert/Fick: Prep for the Big Night
Colbert/Person: “Happy Birthday to You/You Live in a Zoo”
Patterson, “So, we’re getting tanked after this, right?”
Reyes, trying to hug every new partner/spouse he gets introduced to

To request icons/fanart/something else, put:
ICON: Ray in his dress blues
FANMIX: Birthday Blowout Mix
FANMIX: “It’s another year older and another year gone”

To fill a prompt, please reply to that prompt with the word FILL (just like that, in bold caps), in either the subject line or as the VERY FIRST WORD of the comment.

Go forth and get some cookies!

And don’t forget about the other threads. All prompt fills are welcome!
Good Cookies: Then and Now (2012)
Good Cookies 2011
Good Cookies 2010
Good Cookies 2009

And collected prompts and fills behind the cut! We'll keep adding to these as new comments come in. Thanks everyone for contributing!

Round 1: Then and Now:

Reporter, Any: Interviewing the guys again for a follow-up article. (Gen ok, but pairings ok too; humor encouraged!)

Nate/Brad/Ray: "Shh, spoilers."

Ray; Reflecting on what he actually learned from OIF that applies to real life

Walt & Ray (or Walt/Ray); Ray finds him in a bar, alone. It's been nearly ten years.Here

Round 2: Happy Birthday, Devil Dogs:

Colbert and Fick prep for the big night (aka please oh please put them both in dress blues). But they've been uber stealth, and no one actually knew they were more than just "Colbert and Fick". Part One Part Two Part Three

Trombley, He surprises everyone when he shows up with a cake Here

Doc or DocxAny, drinking game

BradxNate, they hate being late, but some things can't be avoided. Here

Rudy/Pappy, going to their first MC Ball together! Part One Part Two

Ray/Walt, celebrating the birthday while Walt's still abroad.

Ray/Nate, how they celebrate after they're both out of the Marines. Here

Brad/Nate; Surprise parties don't always go as planned. Part One Part Two

I'd really love some good old school Brad/Nate in-theater UST. Revisit the classics, so to speak. Here

Any character(s), although I feel Ray should definitely be involved; "Ummmm... sitting here and Marines in the area celebrating their "birthday". I have witnessed one police car hailed down like a taxi and couple guys hop into it ...like a cab. AND our ever notorious state troopers also hailed down .... Yes, like a cab and yes, he stopped to let them in." Here

I really want Cinderella incorporated into the birthday festivities. Could be two of the guys being able to go to the ball together, an actual Cinderella AU, or Hasser and Person's unofficial Cinderella-themed party, whatever strikes your fancy. Just include some of the elements of Cinderella, please! Here
Sixta is the best mod
3rd-Nov-2012 04:44 am (UTC)
Yes, yes, Colbert and Fick prep for the big night (aka please oh please put them both in dress blues). But they've been uber stealth, and no one actually knew they were more than just "Colbert and Fick".

Until this year.
6th-Nov-2012 05:38 am (UTC) - FILL: Yielding Center 1/3
In the mirror they look startlingly similar, despite age and time. The uniform is designed to bring all soldiers to act together as one, and in this instance it works all too well. Nate is just a hair shorter than Brad, their white-top hats nearly even in the reflected light. Nate got a haircut for this, making him look impossibly younger even to Brad's knowing eyes.

This isn't the first time they've gone to the same Ball. It's not even the first time they've gone to a Ball together. But it is definitely the first time they've gone with matching silver bands on their fingers, even hidden beneath gloves.

"You ready?" Brad asks, a quite rumble in the silence. They've been quiet tonight, the solemnity of their decision weighing on them both.

"Yeah," Nate says on an exhale, the bright shine of his bars catching in the light when his chest expands and contracts. "Yeah, let's do this." He smiles, and Brad catches a breath of his own.

Brad makes it to the door first, carefully turns the knob and looks stoic in the face of the knowing grin Nate gives him for his chivalry. They're going to the party by themselves, not picking anyone up on the way, and the low hum of the AM country music station rattles from the rear speakers of the truck. The road is shiny from afternoon rain, and Nate's hands are resting firm and unshaking on his knees.

Brad puts his gloved hand over Nate's, clasping tight enough to feel the metal band beneath the glove.

It's tough finding parking, but they expected that. They're a little late, still in time for the speech but after so many of their fellow Marines have arrived. They walk to the door of the building together, close but not touching, silent even as the bass from the party's sound system penetrates into the night. Brad waves at a couple of drunk-ass Marines whooping out their joy into the crisp November night.

Just before they go inside, Brad looks at Nate sidelong. Nate looks resolute, unafraid, but Brad knows that look. He made his home in that look. Darting his gaze from side to side, he takes a firm hold of Nate's elbow and prays the broom closet won't be locked.

It isn't.

"Brad, what--" Nate huffs out, not-quite-irritated, but he can't finish his sentence because Brad leans down those pesky few inches and kisses the breath from him.
(Deleted comment)
3rd-Nov-2012 07:04 am (UTC)
Just so you know, there's something funky going on in those links to previous years. I'm getting page not founds.
3rd-Nov-2012 07:31 am (UTC)
Thanks for the heads up! Looks like I double-quoted everything, but it's all fixed now. Good catch!
3rd-Nov-2012 01:46 pm (UTC)
Trombley, He surprises everyone when he shows up with a cake
6th-Nov-2012 03:56 am (UTC)

Ray spots him first, coming in the side door with his wife on his arm and holding a small, white box about seven inches square. “Dude,” he says to Brad, smacking Brad on the arm to get his attention. “What the shit’s Trombley packing?”

Brad looks over and cocks his head when he spots the small, white box. “Dog’s head,” he guesses.

“Gun,” Ray replies.

“What’s up, my white brothers?” Poke asks as he walks over.

“Trombley’s carrying a little white box,” Ray tells him. “Think he’s gonna go full psycho and blow up the place?”

Poke follows their line of sight and shakes his head. “Nah. Probably just food.”

“We got food,” Ray replies, glancing at the buffet to their right, “and we’ve got booze,” he adds, glancing to the bar to his left. “What’s he got to bring that’s so damn important?”

“We could ask him,” Brad says, and Ray makes a disgusted noise.

“Ask him,” he mutters. “The fuck kind of answer is that, Bradley?”

“For fuck’s sake, you dumbshit,” Brad says. He thrusts his beer into Poke’s hand and walks across the ballroom to where Trombley and his wife are talking to another couple.

“I still cannot believe that crazy bastard got someone to marry him,” Ray says.

Poke shrugs and takes a long drink of Brad’s beer. “Don’t even get me into that conversation, dawg. I’m still not sure how I got my wife to marry me.”

“You gave her your balls in a giftbag.”

“Goddamn right, and I’m a better man for it.”

Before Ray can retort, Brad’s back at them, giving Poke an annoyed look when he grabs his beer and realizes it is noticeably lighter. “Dick.”

“You left it in my hand,” Poke replies. “You knew what that meant.”

“Well?” Ray asks.

“Wife’s got an allergy, and she likes cake, so they brought one with them so she could actually have some this year.”

Ray blinks. He shakes his head. He blinks again. “What?”

“Yup.” Brad says. “Our little psycho is apparently a pretty decent husband.”

“I’m gonna go drink myself into a coma,” Poke says, turning towards the bar.

“Make your people proud,” Brad says.

“Suck my delicious Mexican dick,” Poke replies.

Ray is still alternating between blinking and shaking his head. “I still think it’s a gun,” he says.
3rd-Nov-2012 01:47 pm (UTC)
Doc or DocxAny, drinking game
13th-Dec-2012 10:39 am (UTC)

If he were watching this on tv, Doc thinks, he'd be dead right now. The drinking game he's invented to keep himself from going completely fucking crazy while listening to the shit that comes out of Encino Man and Captain America's mouths would be downright suicidal if he had booze instead of the over-warm water from his canteen.

Encino Man reads the map wrong? Drink.

Captain America goes off on a tirade about how the enemy is firing on them when there's no goddamn gunshots to be heard? Drink.

Another higher up says something so moto it makes Doc want to jab his k-bar in his eye? Drink.

Brad fucking Colbert acts all fucking ninja? Drink. (Not that Doc can't appreciate the man's cool, but come on. Clint Eastwood doesn't have that kind of goddamn swagger, and that's just not right.)

Ray Person doesn't shut the hell up? Drink.

Godfather refers to himself in the third person? Double-drink. (Because if Doc were a civilian, he'd be downing all the goddamn booze to block that particular tic from his brain as quickly as possible.)

Eye-fucking all around the goddamn platoon. Drink. (Double if it's Fick and Colbert. For two guys with "kill-on-three" poker faces, they are transparent as shit sometimes.)

Reporter looks scared? Drink. (This one stops working after day four, and Doc gains a measure of respect for the man. Even offers to look at a few blisters on the man's hands a few days later and removes him completely from the game when he refuses politely.)

Doc considers his life choices and wonders what the shit made him sign up for this camel-fucking bullshit? Drain the goddamn canteen. (Only works when they have a legit water ration. Which they currently do not. Because fuck forbid they act like they're in a goddamn war.)

"You look like you'd prefer something stronger in your canteen, brother," Rudy says one afternoon, and Doc drinks because Rudy calling anyone 'brother' is definitely on his list.

"Don't we all?" Doc replies.

Rudy considers it and takes a drink from his own canteen. Doc wonders what the drinking game for himself is. Every time Doc is bitter. Every time Doc tapes someone up. Every time Doc sighs just quietly enough it doesn't carry towards the officer it's aimed at. "Be strong," Rudy says, and Doc can't drink to that. It's too sincere, too honest, too hopeful, and fuck Rudy anyways.

Drink for any combination of "fuck" and "Rudy" in the same sentence. It makes Doc smile as he takes a drink, and he claps Rudy on the shoulder as Rudy walks away. He drinks one more for brotherhood because it's the only thing keeping him standing some days.
3rd-Nov-2012 01:48 pm (UTC)
BradxNate, they hate being late, but some things can't be avoided.
12th-Nov-2012 03:26 am (UTC) - FILL: Detour
Brad is seriously like five seconds from getting out the door when he makes the mistake of stopping in the bathroom to retrieve his watch.

As he scans the room looking for the fucking thing, Nate pokes his head out of the shower. He looks about fifteen years younger, hair plastered to the side of his face and color staining his cheeks. "Are you planning on having a night, or a night?" he asks, and for a second Brad forgets how to reply. He wants to brush the water from Nate's eyes and simultaneously wants to roll his own at the sap.

He grunts a little, tearing his eyes from Nate to look around the room for the third time. "Not sure yet," he says, sticking his hands in the pockets of his cargoes to see if the watch is in there. "Manimal is in town, so the night could go either way."

Nate laughs. "Come the fuck on," he protests. "We both know this night is going to end with vomit, blood, jail, or a heady cocktail of all three. I'll pull out the bail money."

Brad put his hands out in front of himself in protest. "It could just be blood and vomit," he says. "You never know."

Nate arches an eyebrow at him, and Brad is overcome by the sincere desire to lick the crease away. More than once Brad has considered having Nate's skin tested for addictive substances.

Brad blows out a breath. "Seriously, though, I am definitely going to be late and the late motherfucker always buys the round. Have you seen my watch?"

Nate's smile dips a little more into the devil than the angel, and he reaches back behind him. His hand comes over the shower rod, holding Brad's thoroughly soaked diver's watch. "You mean this watch?" he says, faux-innocently. "Now I can't imagine how it got in here. Very weird."

Brad takes a step forward, and the watch disappears back behind the shower curtain. "Nate," he says, hearing the thread of a whine in his voice and manfully choosing to ignore it.

"It needs to be tested, Brad," Nate admonishes. "How can you really know it's waterproof until you've tested it out?"

Brad looks at him with displeasure. "I'm pretty sure that time I had that 200 meter training mission off Catalina was a sufficient test point, Nate."

Nate mock-frowns. "You have to be sure," he said. "Why don't you come in here and we'll test it together?" He smiles again, and Brad groans.

He smiles wider when Brad started to unbuckle his belt.

"I don't know what it is with you and making me late," Brad grumbles, "but it has seriously got to stop. This is the third time I've been late for a function this month."

Nate's wet hand comes out to grasp his undershirt and reel him in. "Now why on earth would I stop?" he murmurs into Brad's mouth, and Brad ducks under the spray and into the kiss.
5th-Nov-2012 05:54 am (UTC)
Rudy/Pappy, going to their first MC Ball together!
16th-Nov-2012 03:49 am (UTC)
FILL (1/2):

They put on their dress blues in the bedroom, checking each other over before they even go as far as the bedroom doorway. Pappy’s always liked Rudy in his dress blues, even before what they have now, when they were just two men who understood each other. Rudy looks like the Marine pretty girls sighed over in old movies, and Pappy’s always appreciated that.

“You ready?” Rudy asks as he finishes straightening Pappy’s buttons.

“Born ready,” Pappy replies. He reaches for Rudy’s hand and pauses when he realizes it’s shaking.

Rudy’s hand. Shaking.

Pappy’s not sure what to do with that. They’re neither of them nervy men, not even a little, but Pappy generally feels that Rudy is the steadier of the two of them. He can hold himself together just fine, but there’s a well of strength in Rudy that lives at the forefront because it has to, because it’s what made him the man he is today.

And then, Pappy knows what to do. He curls his fingers around Rudy’s trembling hand, and he raises that hand to his mouth, and he kisses Rudy right on his middle knuckle. “Come on,” he says. “Can’t be any worse than any other shindig we’ve been to.”

The thing about Rudy most people don’t know, the thing about Rudy that Pappy saw right away, is that Rudy, while honest and kind and helpful and hopeful, sometimes can’t handle direct questions. They throw off his groove in the wrong situation. Sometimes you have to coax his concern out of him from an angle he’s not looking for, and he’s always looking for an angle, sweet as he is, because that’s the skill that’s kept him alive his whole, knotted up life.

Pappy hates to think about it, what Rudy went through to become Rudy, what he lost. Pappy’s family is the damn Appalachian mountains, a little worn around the edges and definitely a bit rough to the touch, but they’re good and true and unwavering, always at your back even when you’re far away from them. Rudy’s family…well, Rudy’s family is Pappy and the Corps, and Pappy knows he’s not going anywhere, and he knows the Corps’ not going anywhere, but this is the first time they’re going to the Ball together, the first time they can, the first time it’s been allowed.

And Rudy, the biggest big brother in all of the goddamn Marine Corps (and they’re all big brothers to the world, really, even the weasely little shits), the one who allows his fabulousity be teased to soothe his brothers’ weary souls, the one who brews the espresso to give everyone an excuse to gather and talk, the one who walks around camp to double-check everyone’s cammie net stakes, makes sure his brothers are tucked in under their nets and watching for sunburn, he’s standing here, his hand is fucking shaking, and Pappy knows his fear without even asking.
5th-Nov-2012 05:55 am (UTC)
Ray/Walt, celebrating the birthday while Walt's still abroad.
19th-Dec-2012 06:48 am (UTC)

Walt manages to get a call out on the birthday. The connection is staticky; the pre-paid cell phone feels small and unreliable in his hand, but it rings four times, and then Ray picks up.

"Hey," Ray says. He sounds sleepy but not surprised.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Fuck all in the morning on the birthday. Who else is it gonna be? Everyone stateside is sleeping in for the pre-gaming at Brad's before we hit the main show."

"You want to go back to sleep?" Walt asks because he knows all about the pre-gaming for the ball. They pound coffee and eat carbs and prep themselves for an entire night of questionable decisions. Walt wishes he could be there, manning the coffee pot because Rudy gets too particular and everyone else burns the shit out of it. He knows without asking Ray's made a giant bowl of his mom's mashed potatoes and damn near a bucket of gravy. He can practically smell it.

"I wanna talk to you," Ray says because Ray first thing after he wakes up is almost unbearably sweet.

"I've been thinking about last year," Walt says. "Last birthday, I mean."

"You mean when I backed you into that coat closet by Brad's front door and made out with you?"

"Yeah, that," Walt says.

"Year before that," Ray says, "when we ended up at that gay bar, remember?"

Walt chuckles quietly because of course he does. They'd been just sober enough to change out of dress blues and into civvies before hitting up the place. The ball had been their third date, though neither of them would have admitted it at the time, and they'd ended up making out in a men's room stall to finish the night.

"I remember how you asked me to the ball," Walt says. Ray had done it with an e-mail that Walt still had saved in a special folder in his inbox.

Whore Eyes:

Fuck finding dates. Be my drinking wingman and keep me away from vodka.


"Not gonna be the same without you this year," Ray says.

"Not like anyone can know I'm your date," Walt points out.

"Yeah, but I'd know, and Brad knows, and I'm gonna get that bullshit look from him all night that he doesn't know he does where he looks like he wants to comfort me, and I want to throw up on his shoes."

"Do it in his shoes," Walt says. "But don't tell him."

"God, I miss you."

Walt doesn't say anything for a moment. It always feels like he's gotten elbowed in the soft spot between the ribs when Ray says that. "22 days," he says. "Be back just in time for Christmas."

"I'm hanging mistletoe every two feet in the apartment," Ray says.

"You'd better," Walt replies.

22 days later, Walt walks in the front door, drops his bag, and smiles into the kiss Ray gives him. Ray's wearing a headband with a piece of mistletoe attached. "What happened to every two feet?"

"Like I'm gonna be two feet away from you any time soon," Ray replies, and he kisses Walt again.
6th-Nov-2012 03:47 am (UTC)
Ray/Nate, how they celebrate after they're both out of the Marines.
7th-Nov-2012 05:00 am (UTC)
FILL: Are You 1? Are You 2? Are you 228?

College students can suck Ray’s ever-ready dick.

Sure, he’s one of them, but that’s a GI Bill technicality. Most of those little baby tree-fuckers are nothing but whining and blind idealism, and holy mother of Dale Earnhardt, most of the time the world—and of more immediate concern, Ray’s life—would be better off if they’d just shut the fuck up.

This is very much the usual mindset for poor, put-upon Ray Person when he comes home from his Tuesday study group evenings. He actually kind of looks forward to it all week, because it’s when some of his most creative ranting gets done, and he’s got this audience of one at home, see, who’s better than a whole room full of anyone else on Earth.

He’s already worked up some choice bits for said audience on his drive home, and as he walks in the door, he lets the first one fly.

“Garrett and Di should seriously consider fucking– Holy frozen shit on a stick dipped in chocolate!”

OK, Ray knows this doesn’t make sense in any way, shape, or form, but you try holding onto your train of thought when you walk in on the sight Ray’s greeted with in his living room.

Said sight is one very present and correct United States Marine Captain standing at attention in full dress blues.

Ray whistles so long that he runs out of breath.

“See something you like, Person?” asks the perfectly turned-out Marine who shares Ray’s bed.

“Sir, yes fucking sir,” Ray says.

One corner of Nate’s mouth twitches oh-so-minutely up.

Ray reels his tongue back up into his mouth—that’s not a metaphor, by the way... he’s literally drooling over Nate here—and adds, “Not that you don’t make the ole Class A’s look sexier than a hot-tub of Hustler centerfolds, but what’s the occasion?”

Nate gasps in exaggerated dismay. “Look at this disgrace of a Devil Dog! Forgetting what illustrious day this is! My, how civilian living does make a man soft.”

“Ah yes, of course,” Ray says, smacking his own forehead before singing, quick and off-key, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear entire-fucked-up-but-we-love-you-anyway-institution-of-the-United-States-Marine-Coooooorps, happy birthday to you!”

A thought occurs to him.

“As a former Marine, it’s my big day, too. Are you here to give me my birthday spanking?” Such eagerness is probably conduct unbecoming. Whatever. Ray’s out. He can conduct himself unbecomingly whenever the hell he likes.

Nate’s out, too, of course. But right now, buttoned and polished to within an inch of his life, he looks like something straight out of a USMC recruiting campaign’s wet dream.

“A birthday spanking could certainly be arranged,” Nate says, his smirk still contained to the twitching edges of his mouth.

Ray pumps a fist in the air and says, “I think I saw a porno like this once.”

Now Nate smiles openly and steps out to a posture Ray immediately dubs Sexass Parade Rest. It’s regular parade rest but with Nate’s crotch shoved forward, his cover tilted rakishly to one side, and one eyebrow raised suggestively. Yeah... this is a porn scenario to which Ray can give his full- and deep-throated support.

“And what happened in that porno, Corporal?” Nate asks.

Ray starts slowly walking toward Nate as he says, “Hmm... if I remember right, the big strapping officer guy made the scrawny enlisted dude suck his dick, like, forever, and then stripped the grunt’s clothes off and fucked him ‘til he didn’t even remember the names of his useless college classmates anymore.”

“And did the officer guy keep his blues on the whole time?” Nate asks devilishly.

“Oh fuck, Nate, yeah,” Ray breathes. “Yeah, now that you mention it, he did.” That is one pretty goddamn mental picture right there.

“Then I suggest you get over here,” Nate says in that Command voice of his that still, to this day, is one of the few things in Ray’s life that makes him want to follow orders.

“Yes, sir,” Ray says, settling himself nice and quick on his knees before Nate. “Sir! Commencing blowjob, sir,” he unbuckles and unzips, and if the evening’s second rendition of Happy Birthday is hummed, it’s only because Ray is finally learning not to talk with his mouth full.

Edited at 2012-11-07 05:03 am (UTC)
6th-Nov-2012 06:31 am (UTC)
Brad/Nate; Surprise parties don't always go as planned.
12th-Nov-2012 12:03 am (UTC)
FILL: Surprise Parties Don't Always Go As Planned, 1/2

It’s a sign of just how badly compromised his situational awareness is that Brad is, in fact, taken entirely unawares by the Ray-Person-led glut of Marines bursting through his front door yelling a blast of noise that basically amounts to, “SURPRISE! Happy birthday, Marine Corps– oh SHIT!”

No, that’s not strictly true.

Brad is entirely aware of his situation vis-a-vis many sensory inputs currently being triggered.

He is aware of how gorgeously debauched a shirtless Nate looks under him on the couch. He is aware of the delicious heat and pressure of Nate’s hand inside his pants. He is aware of the salty, tantalizing taste of the side of Nate’s neck. He is aware of how Nate’s collection of gasping, whining moans is making his whole body buzz with arousal.

But that seems to be the limit of what his brain has been processing, because he has been thoroughly ambushed by the mess of whiskey-tango social rejects flooding into his home to find him in an extremely compromising position with their collective former platoon commander.

Brad needs to eliminate some extraneous stimuli right now. He turns his head away from the stunned faces in his entry. He closes his eyes, focuses on his breath. He appreciates—fleetingly—that everyone is quiet in their shock. He is aware that Nate has not moved his hand from the delicate location which, a moment ago, Brad was finding exceedingly pleasant. He tries very hard not to think further than that about the tableau he and Nate are currently offering the men in the doorway.

The Iceman is nowhere to be found.

Brad finds himself in the unaccustomed position of being entirely lost for words.

Any second now, someone is going to break this stretching silence, and Brad is going to have to deal with some epic fallout, and he doesn’t know what he is going to say.

Nate’s voice cuts through the silence first. He always has been there to pull Brad out of the shit.

“Evening, gents,” he says, sounding for all the world like he and Brad have been talking timetables and supply chains. “Brad and I were in the middle of something.”

The weight of a dozen Marines’ silence presses in for a few more seconds, and then Ray laughs. He guffaws. He chokes, wheezes, snorts, and makes other, less dignified noises, and the contagious hilarity of the situation catches until the whole gang in the entry is laughing until they cry.

Brad looks at Nate, whose cherry-red mouth is twisted up in a wry smile. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, he seems to be saying.

What would he ever do without Nate Fick?

“Devil dogs!” Nate barks. The men fall silent, wiping eyes teary with laughter. “I take it you’re all here to celebrate the traditional birthday of our dear United States Marine Corps.”

“Sir, yes sir!” comes Q-Tip’s voice from the back of the crowd.

“As you can see, in honor of the occasion, Brad and I were also observing one of the Corps’ most beloved traditions,” Nate says in that flat voice that Brad knows is barely keeping amusement in check.

“What’s that, sir?” asks... yes, it’s Christeson.

“You numb-nuts, dick-for-brains moron,” Ray jumps in before Nate can respond. “They’re gettin’ some.”

“Got it in one,” Nate agrees. He brazenly removes his hand from Brad’s pants and angles both arms to rest beneath his head, grinning like a cat with a vat of cream at its disposal.

The men at the door laugh uproariously again, and Brad catches Nate’s eyes with a silent Thank you for taking this serious SNAFU so easily in stride.

Always got your six says Nate’s look in return, a mix of fierce and soft and devoted that Brad is proudly certain only he can decipher completely.
(Deleted comment)
7th-Nov-2012 01:23 pm (UTC)
Nate stares at the object in Brad's hand before lifting his eyes to Brad's face.

"It's an early celebration," Brad says, with only a tiny smile in his voice. "Seeing as we won't be here on November 10th."

Nate looks down at the foil packet in Brad's hand. "We'll be stateside, Brad. The parties are bigger and better, and the cake is baked the day before, not a decade prior and frozen in a bag."

"Casting aspersions on the illustrious provisioning of the United States Marine Corps, sir?"

"You know what they say. An army marches on its stomach–" Nate begins with a grin.

"Which is why those pussy fuckers are still bringing up the rear," Brad finishes. "Cake, sir?"

The pound cake is far from Nate's favourite, but he breaks off a piece anyway. The vanilla taste is stronger than he remembers, and he closes his eyes briefly. When he gets home, real cake is waiting for him. When he opens his eyes again, Brad is watching with the same off-hand intensity from firefights and strategy meetings.

Brad's eyes drop to Nate's right cheekbone as he says, "It seems right to celebrate here, where it's real."

That's a tell. Brad does it when he's unsure. Looks away from your eyes just a little; never enough to show he's backed down, but just enough to give himself some breathing space.

Nate's hands are the cleanest part of him. He can see the contrast between the dusty white of his fingers and the grime on Brad's wrist when he takes hold. "It feels like nothing will ever be more real," he says and lifts the packet to his mouth, watches Brad watch him take a bite and swallow it dry.

The lump in his throat is undoubtedly cake, but it feels different, feels heavier than food, almost like grief. He wants to drop his head again and eat it out of Brad's fingers, wants to follow Brad's pulse to his wrist, the crook of his elbow, up the muscle of his shoulder and his neck, to his mouth. He licks his lips instead, chasing the last crumbs, and feels Brad's wrist tremble under his hand. Cake crumbs fall between them.

There is no noise, but they each step back as the moment stretches. Brad tips the last of the cake into his mouth and brushes at his lips.

"Thank you, Brad," Nate says quietly.

Brad's half-smile is sweet when he says, "Hoorah, sir."
(Deleted comment)
12th-Nov-2012 02:29 pm (UTC)
Any character(s), although I feel Ray should definitely be involved :D

This prompt is comes directly from a family member in Boston:

"Ummmm... sitting here and Marines in the area celebrating their "birthday". I have witnessed one police car hailed down like a taxi and couple guys hop into it ...like a cab. AND our ever notorious state troopers also hailed down .... Yes, like a cab and yes, he stopped to let them in."

Do with that what you will :D
26th-Nov-2012 09:00 am (UTC)
I stole this for a throwaway line in the ficlet I wrote for the next prompt, which maybe counts as a fraction of a fill, haha: http://combat-jack.livejournal.com/43565.html?thread=1263917#t1263917
19th-Nov-2012 01:45 pm (UTC)
I know it's late and everyone's probably gone home already, but if there is</> anybody out there willing to write this, I am pledging my second-born to you!

I really want Cinderella incorporated into the birthday festivities. Could be two of the guys being able to go to the ball together, an actual Cinderella AU, or Hasser and Person's unofficial Cinderella-themed party, whatever strikes your fancy. Just include some of the elements of Cinderella, please!
26th-Nov-2012 08:59 am (UTC)
Late but present!

Mid-afternoon on November 11th, Brad was roused from his coma by what turned out to be someone leaning on the doorbell. He was only halfway on his bed, so he slid the rest of the way out, noted with some triumph that he was wearing pants, and staggered to the front door with a heart full of hatred.

It was Nate, his expression pleasantly blank. He at least was wearing sunglasses even though it was overcast. Even the mighty had fallen.

"Afternoon, Brad."

Brad managed a 'hi' and maybe even muttered out the 'sir' afterward.

"Sorry to interrupt your hangover," Nate went on, his voice oddly low and soothing to Brad's ears, "but I had an inquiry to make." And he held up a scuffed, black dress shoe.

Brad stared at it.

"Is this yours?" Nate prompted.

"Is that my shoe?" Brad echoed, squinting.

"It got left at my house last night after the after-party broke up," said Nate. "I found it at three o'clock this morning halfway under my sofa and I've been trying to find its owner ever since."

Brad would have thought, before this moment, that if he ever lost a shoe from his dress uniform, he'd remember. "I have no idea," he said after a moment, honestly. Then the rest of his wits arrived on the scene. "Let me check," he added, leaving the door open for Nate and wandering back to his bedroom.

"I've asked like five guys already today, but it doesn't belong to any of them. I tried to call you before I came over but you weren't answering your phone," Nate called after him, apparently coming inside but not actually following past the front hallway.

Brad spotted his phone lying in front of the hamper in his closet, apparently thrown there in disgust earlier. "Yeah, I didn't get your call," Brad said over his shoulder. He found his dress uniform pieces draped over the back of a chair, where he'd apparently slung them all with some vague evidence of care before falling into bed last night (practice pays off), and looked through the pile of trappings. Sure enough, he could only find one of his shoes. He picked it up and carried it out into the hallway.

Nate smirked at it and handed over its mate. "Ray said last night that it was probably yours."

"How the fuck would Ray know that?" Brad looked down at his battle-worn dress shoes and then set them on the floor out of the way, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Nate shoved his hands amiably in the pockets of his jeans.

"He said something about how I should have been able to guess how big your feet are by now," said Nate, looking politely puzzled. Brad had the exposure to Ray to realize right away exactly what he'd been trying to imply, and tried not to choke on his own tongue. Nate went on, apparently oblivious to his embarassment: "But then he and Hasser hailed a cop car like they thought it was a cab when they left my house, so it's safe to say he was past making sense by then." He shrugged. "How the fuck did you get yourself home with only one shoe on without noticing something was wrong?"

At a loss for any excuse, Brad said, "I wish I knew, sir."

"How much do you remember?" Nate grinned knowingly.

Brad thought. "Past leaving the Ball, not a lot."

"So you don't remember the part where we slow-danced in my living room?"

Brad sputtered. "Together?" So much for the hope that he'd at least made it through the night without groping his CO, in the face of all the other indignities.

But Nate was laughing. "I'm just fucking with you, Colbert."

"That's hilarious, sir." Brad breathed in through his nose, trying to will his heart rate back down.

Nate was still cackling as he turned to leave. "Maybe next year," he called over his shoulder, but the front door was shutting behind him before Brad could respond.
This page was loaded Jul 22nd 2018, 2:10 pm GMT.