Fandom: Generation Kill
Summary: Nate temporarily loses his voice.
Disclaimer: based on fictionalised characters as portrayed on a tv show.
A/N: For hc_bingo, prompt: loss of voice. I fail at the 'hurt' part of hurt/comfort most of the time, and there's no actual comfort either. It's all teribly domestic, though.
It's quite entertaining at first.
Brad not only gets to say he told Nate so, he also gets the last word, as Nate is incapable of talking back. For once.
The flu has been making rounds for a while and Brad's nieces went down with it three days ago, bedridden and bored beyond anything, driving Kate absolutely insane. Dave once again proved he had imeccable timing and chose this week to have his one-in-ten-years business trip, and Brad was stuck in training exercises for the better part of the time... it all led to Nate offering to babysit. And that led, of course, to Nate catching the flu.
It might have blown over quickly, if Nate also hadn't disregarded Brad's sound advice to blow both of his meetings and the radio appearance on Friday, but when was the last time Nate listened to reason?
Brad points that out now, his tone pleasant and his smug smile well contained. Nate flips him off and then coughs up a storm again.
"You're lucky I've become quite proficient at handling pussy officers," Brad says and steals Nate's phone, calling Lindsay, Nate's assistant, and cancelling all of Nate's appointments for the next three days. Lindsay, to her credit, just sighs heavily at the thought of unraveling the complicated mess that is Nate's daily schedule, and advises Brad that he might need to invest in restraints if he actually wants to keep Nate out of the office.
On one hand, this is a sage advice. Brad would only like to know how she stumbled upon this piece of wisdom.
Nate crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. Enjoying yourself? he might as well be saying it out loud.
"Having the time of my life," Brad says wryly. "Eat some chicken soup," he adds.
Nate takes to the whole thing about as well as you can imagine. The first four hours aren't bad, he starts by dealing with overdue paperwork, but it's Nate, so his overdue paperwork consists of two forms and one e-mail. He goes on to review the notes for the lecture he has scheduled on Tuesday, and Brad is pretty fucking sure half of the furious typing is Nate pestering Lindsay in hopes of persuading her to fax him more shit to work on.
The cellphone rings twice and both times Nate reaches out to pick it up before realising it would be an idiotic thing to do while being unable to speak. Both times he huffs in frustration, his lips pursed in a near-pout. Brad doesn't even pretend he's not enjoying the view.
Fuck you, Brad, Nate communicates perfectly with a tilt of his head, chin thrust forward.
Brad turns off the cellphone and disconnects the landline as well. Anyone who matters has his cellphone as well, and watching Nate squirm is funny only to a certain point.
"I was under an impression that somewhere along the line the Corps taught you to be more patient than this. But that's what you get for going and getting yourself ruined by that whole wine-sipping, caviour-swallowing Ivy Ligue education. Ruined your constitution, too."
Pissy and annoyed was always a good look on Nate.
Nate reaches out for a post-it, and writes something with a flourish. He holds the note up. It reads 'Fuck you, Brad' in Nate's neat block letters. Brad appreciates the sentiment, really.
"Very mature," he says approvingly.
Nate rolls his eyes and shuffles his papers, closing the drawer with a bit too much force. It's still amusing, but the frustration seems to be growing, and, contrary to the popular opinion, Brad's not heartless.
Besides, the post-it note clearly was means as an invitation. If it wasn't, it shouldn't have been accompanied by that pout.
Nate makes a point of not looking up when Brad moves, not even when Brad stops by the desk, leaning against it. Nate keeps staring at the screen, but his fingers have stopped moving in the middle of a typed sentence, hovering above the keyboard.
"Give it up," Brad tells him. "You should be in bed anyway."
At that, Nate does look up, eyebrows rised incredulously. You must be joking..
The ability to read Nate's face he developed back during the OIF and honed during the past few years is finally seriously paying off. They should take this act on the road, make a fortune playing poker.
"Fine. Be difficult." Brad doesn't mind. He's learned how to deal with difficult, too.
He drops to his knees, pushing Nate's chair a little, so it rolls backwards, one of the wheels squeaking. Nate attempts a noise, of protest or surprise or whatever, but what comes out is a huff of air and nothing more, and he reaches out to hold on to the edge of the table.
Yeah, like that's gonna work.
"This is going to be something new," Brad says conversationally, undoing Nate's pants swiftly. "I'm going to do whatever I want, and you're not going to say a word, are you?"
Nate glares at him. It would carry much more weight if he wasn't also sliding down in his chair to grant Brad a better access.
"Yes, I think I like it. I'm going to invest in a gag for later," he continues.
Nate's hand tightens around his shoulder. It could be a warning, but when Brad glances up, at Nate's face, it's clear that he wouldn't be entirely opposed to the idea, as much as he tries to look annoyed.
Nate's half-hard, probably has been since Brad dropped to his knees. It doesn't take much to bring him to hardness, a few slow strokes, slower than he favors, Nate's hips rising up in frustration. His fingers dig into Brad's shoulder, clipped nails still felt through the thin cotton of Brad's shirt. Hurry the fuck up.
Now they're communicating.
"Tell me if I'm not doing this right," Brad offers pleasantly, just to see Nate roll his eyes at him, but there's gentleness that belies the look. His hand travels up, fingers resting comfortably on the back of Brad's neck, his thumb sliding across Brad's pulse point in a slow caress.
Brad licks along Nate's dick, slowly, and Nate shivers visibly, breathes out as if to calm himself down. Brad isn't aiming for calm.
Fuck knows he has had practice in this, in swallowing Nate's cock in one move. Nate throws his head back, as he always does, exposing the line of his throat, his hand digging into the armrest of his chair. But the one on Brad's neck remains gentle, following Brad's movement but not even attempting to force it.
As much as it has been entertaining to rile Nate up, Brad misses the noises he'd make, the low moan in his throat when Brad starts sucking his dick, the moment when he loses it and lets out the first 'Fuck, Brad', a curse and a prayer rolled into one.
Nate's fingers move to his hair, tighten and tug just slightly. Fuck, Brad. It resonates through Brad as if it was said out loud.
Brad doesn't much care for finesse now, he just works to make Nate come down his throat. It doesn't take all that long, and when he comes, Nate's shaking soundlessly, as if the sounds he can't make were finding another outlet, sending shivers all over his body. Brad feels his lips tingling, feels a shiver run down his spine, starting where Nate's fingers are resting.
His thumb presses slightly right behind Brad's ear. Come on. Brad moves up just as Nate leans forward, licking at the corner of Brad's mouth. The kiss is slow and a little lazy, Nate's skin flush under Brad's hands.
"What, no thank you? Officers these days, no manners," Brad mutters against Nate's lips.
Nate laughs soundlessly, mouthing civillian at Brad, and reaching towards the desk, picking up the fucking block of post-its. He writes something down and presses the note against Brad's forehead, letting it stick, before rolling backwards in his chair.
Brad rolls his eyes and checks the note. 'Love you' it says, neat letters in black ink. "You're such a fucking sap," he tells Nate fondly, standing up. "Would you now get in the fucking bed?"
Fingers around Brad's wrist, tugging gently but decisively. Sure. But you're going with me.
Brad isn't really going to argue. Unlike some people, he's not difficult.