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Nate knew he shouldn't fraternize with his men like this. Or, more accurately, one of his men.
War stories were riddled with tales of the Lieutenant and his trusty Sergeant. One problem: Brad wasn't his Sergeant, not really. Mike had that dubious honor.
Nate trusted Mike, counted on him, relied on him. But he didn't seek him out. No, he sought out Brad.
At first it had been for his expertise, engaging in shop talk about their mission, the war, the odds. Brad knew everything about Iraqi weapons capability and then some. But as the days in Mathilda stretched ever forward, with no new information to speak of, there really wasn't much more they could say. Nate expected that his visits with Brad would peter out, become more intermittent maybe.
That really didn't happen. Brad refused to let it happen. Or so it seemed.
***
"The pleasures of hunching over my Blue Force Tracker with you notwithstanding, sir, if they still haven't started the goddamn war, next time you should bring your chess set."
Nate straightened his spine, working out the ache in his shoulders. "How do you know I even have a chess set?"
Brad looked up at him; he didn't blink away the sun. "You mentioned it when you handed Chaffin his balls in a four-move scholar's mate."
"Such an accomplishment, Grandmaster that he is," Nate said, dry.
"Trash-talking your men? You've shocked me, sir."
"And thus, I avoid the tournament." The words were light, but they held truth. He could associate with his men, to a point, but he was not of his men. No, Nate stood forever apart. "The question is, if you want to play chess, why not join in?"
Brad dismissed that with a flick of his hand. "I don't socialize with those reprobates."
"A group from which you exclude me; I'm honored."
"As well you should be." Brad fell silent, waiting for an answer, something hopeful in his face.
Nate nodded slowly, want overpowering reluctance. "As you like, Sergeant. Unless Saddam gasses us first, we'll play chess."
The thin skin around Brad's eyes eased, sudden delight plain to see. Brad quickly suppressed it, but not soon enough.
Nate committed that look to memory. He tamped down on his instinctive response, the rush of good that made it seem like a really solid plan to give Brad everything he wanted from here to eternity.
Instead Nate tilted his head in question.
Brad leaned in, just a fraction, sly smile inviting Nate to join his mischief. "Don't look so worried, sir. I'll go slow." His tone was downright sinful.
Nate's mouth went dry. Jesus. He licked his lips, a familiar taste there—shamal brewing. "No need; I like a bit of a fight. Makes the win worth it."
Brad grinned like he'd just scored a package full of dip and porn mags. "Indeed, it does."
Nothing to say to that—nothing at all appropriate to say to that—Nate tipped his head in leave. He headed off, making the trudge to the division's intelligence tent, ignoring the confused heat churning in his belly.
***
Their time turned to other things. Chess. Philosophy. The philosophy of chess. Nate found something kindred in Brad—a keen mind, a no-bullshit dedication to reality, a scathing wit.
In a busy camp like Mathilda—thousands of Marines all gathered together on a sandy, flat plain—it was nearly impossible to find a place to be alone, somewhere they could concentrate without catcalls, raised eyebrows, or the cacophony of pissing contests.
During chow was best. Go figure. Given Mathilda's food shortage, the lower enlisted got a meal a day that they did not.
Officers ate last, but senior NCOs ate second-to-last.
They set up Nate's tiny travel chessboard on an MRE box down by the motor pool, usually. And they just...hung out. They didn't talk a lot. Nate appreciated Brad's quietude. If he wanted idle chatter, he could go to literally anyone else. Marines made society gossips look like paragons of brevity and discretion.
No, he didn't want to talk to Brad.
***
"You've been running a lot lately, sir." Brad's expression stayed carefully neutral; he studied the board, so Nate couldn't guess the real inquiry. Brad's eyes always gave him away. Clever to hide them.
Of course, that also put Nate on alert.
"Fifty minutes," Nate finally said, casual.
"Twice a day. Many of your fellow officers eschew even once."
Nate had noticed. But it was not for him to criticize his fellow officers' training regimens. Even if he did think they were fucking pussies.
"One must uphold Recon's unvarnished reputation, Brad. Not all of us can so easily wrap ourselves in cold, hard warrior."
A beat and Brad looked up, lips twitching.
Nate allowed a small smile, indulging in the shared adolescent humor. He shook his head. "Making off-color insinuations now?"
"I would never, sir. But I will call bullshit on the running."
"That's better?"
Brad smirked, but the humor quickly drained away. He watched Nate, penetrating. "'When you are lonely, when you feel yourself an alien in the world, play chess. This will raise your spirits and be your counselor in war,'" Brad intoned.
Nate's breath caught in his throat, surprised by the accuracy of Brad's appraisal. He thought he'd been better at hiding it. He swallowed around his error. "You wanted to play chess," Nate reminded weakly. "Besides, Aristotle didn't mean the chess we play."
"Point still stands. Are you an alien in the world, sir?" He looked at Nate with that devastating insight, seeing everything, too much. Nate supposed if you weren't ready for it, didn't know what to do with it, then yeah, you'd call him the Iceman and keep your distance.
Nate never shied away, though. Not from anything.
He smiled crookedly and shrugged it off. "Don't worry, Brad. I promise there'll be no anal probes from me."
Brad regarded him for another long moment. Finally his shoulders loosened. Minutely. "That is a shame."
Nate choked on his laugh.
"Person will be so disappointed," Brad continued.
"I'm sure you'll find a way to console him, Sergeant." Nate's watch beeped at him, respite from frustration over. "Unfortunately, I have a briefing to get to; continue this game later?"
"No need, sir. Mate in five, anyway," Brad said, dismissive.
"How—" Nate automatically looked to the board, running through plays in his mind. He couldn't see it, shouldn't linger anyway, but he didn't doubt its truth. This was Brad.
Nate returned his attention to Brad, who leaned back on his hands and openly studied Nate. He wore that superior little half-smile that made men and women alike want to drop to their knees.
Not that Nate knew anything about that.
"You couldn't have mentioned this earlier?"
"But you were trying so hard," Brad said, faux-earnest.
"Sometimes I really fucking hate you," Nate grumbled.
Brad's gaze went cutting. "No, sir. You really don't."
Nate pressed his lips together and shot Brad a warning glance. "Keep the board for me, Sergeant?"
"Anything for you, sir."
Christ. Fucking Brad. How easily he turned a bland statement into something pornographic enough to make Nate's dick twitch.
"That'll do." Nate turned on his heel and walked away.
He ignored the itch between his shoulder blades, the knowledge that Brad's eyes slid over him as he went.
That wasn't helping at all.
***
Brad was saying something important, something Nate couldn't fathom. It was, 'I'm watching you,' but the why of it remained opaque. Brad always watched everyone; it was in the job description. This meant something else. This felt purposeful. He pushed at Nate and observed, seemingly fascinated, like he enjoyed the pushback.
It puzzled Nate. What was the endgame?
***
"Brad! Kocher's being a fucking bitch about the Blue Force Tracker. How the fuck should I know that Captain America would read the text messages? Who knew that fucker could read? You really—" Ray cleared the corner of the Humvee and stopped short.
"Corporal Person, I do believe we discussed this."
Ray waved him off. "Yeah, but you weren't serious. You wouldn't ban your pal, Ray-Ray."
Brad looked up from the chessboard, an eyebrow raised demurely. "Wouldn't I?"
Ray analyzed Brad—and in that measured beat Nate was reminded that yes, Ray was Recon, too. Then Ray rolled his eyes. "Oh, quit it with the fuckin' Iceman bullshit. I'm sorry I interrupted Mom and Dad's date night, okay? No need to go all precious, pissy princess."
"I realize you're mourning the lack of food to smear all over your face, but if you're that desperate I'm sure Rudy will shoot all over it."
"The fuck he will! Rudy hoards that shit. You know his jizz's got restorative properties. Like the blood of virgins."
"So go indulge in that. And leave us the fuck alone."
"Fine," he said, a little petulance in his voice. "I don't want to be a part of your grown-up time anyway!" Ray called as he stomped away, kicking up dust like his presence needed embellishment.
It really didn't; Ray was unforgettable. Nate could say this with confidence.
Silence settled around them, oddly tense though Nate couldn't understand why. Brad moved a rook. Nate frowned at it, trying to find the angle. At times Nate swore Brad moved pieces just to fuck with him. Not like—
"I wasn't serious about Rudy," Brad said quietly. It was...hesitant. Like Brad wasn't sure he needed to state it, but wanted to hedge his bets.
"Gee, and here I was planning to alert all wayward virgins." Brad hedging his bets? With him?
Fuck that.
Brad half-smiled, wry, an acknowledgment that he should know better. "Touché, sir."
***
'Mom and Dad's date night'...Nate wanted to ask about it, but decided against. It strayed uncomfortably close to some of his unpoliced late-night musings, those times he wondered just what they were doing.
He never settled on an answer.
The men gave them a wide berth after Ray's little fit, surely reenacted for the others with much embellishment. Apparently Brad bitching out Ray—twice—convinced everyone it was advisable to keep their distance. After all, when Brad sent Ray packing, imagine the kind of welcome anyone else would get.
***
"I'm fucked no matter what I do."
"Can't speak to your sex life, sir, but no, the game is not looking good for you."
Nate felt his cheeks get hot, but he gritted his teeth and focused. Brad was just trying to distract him.
"Fuck it." Nate went ahead and moved his queen, mentally bidding it adieu.
"You're so self-sacrificial. No need to fall on your sword when a paper cut will do." Brad reached for the wrong piece.
"Wait, that's not—"
"Tell me, when we're in theater do you plan on informing the enemy that they're undermining themselves?" Brad asked mildly. He moved his knight, decisively making himself vulnerable without advancing his cause.
"You're not the enemy," Nate protested.
"Be that as it may," Brad said silkily, holding Nate's look.
Nate raised his chin. "I won't undermine my effort, nor will I let you undermine yours."
"Glad we're on the same team, then." Brad's eyes dropped to the board. He affected surprise. "Fuck me—was that a blunder?"
***
Nate always lost. Never too quickly, never by rote, but inevitably Brad would end up taking his king. Brad always made him play white.
Good thing Nate didn't think the outcome of the game measured his self-worth or anything.
To his credit, he did get in some good moves. Moves that made Brad sit up a tad straighter, the little furrow appearing between his eyebrows as he thought. Nate liked those moments.
He didn't think too hard on why.
***
Nate studied the board. He knew he was taking far longer than he should, than would be allowed in a timed game. Brad didn't seem to mind. Hell, Brad was downright serene, practically meditating. Rudy would be so proud.
Brad's attitude was the sticking point, really. He seemed so certain, like he had the endgame locked up, a foregone conclusion. The implication gave Nate a headache—that Brad thought so little of Nate's abilities he needn't even pay attention to the game.
And if Brad believed him that piss-poor a player, what were they even doing here?
"I hear General Conway gave you some sterling advice," Brad said apropos of nothing.
Nate squinted at Brad in the waning light. "The communication network here puts the CIA to shame."
"True, but then, that's not much of a bar to clear."
Nate snorted. "What's this advice that you find so notable?"
"Don't get yourself killed because it's bad for the grunts' morale," Brad said, like offering up the wisdom of the ages.
"Ah. That advice." Nate supposed he'd been foolish to think it wouldn't get out. Not that foolish was novel these days.
A muscle twitched in Brad's jaw. "Really, sir, if it took them this long to recommend not dying, the battery situation makes a lot more sense. It's amazing they don't tell us to keep breathing."
Nate frowned. "You missed that briefing?"
Brad smiled and slowly relaxed, shaking his head—at Command, the world, himself. Somebody.
"At least we have you, sir, to break up the monotony of the bullshit."
Nate lowered his eyes, ostensibly studying the board, but really because he wanted to latch onto that approval a little too much. Pathetically much. In ways that shouldn't matter.
And yet.
He wasn't even really looking, but a burst of clarity suddenly resolved the pieces into explicable formations.
Nate sucked in a hot, dusty breath. He looked up to find Brad watching him intently. "How long have you known it was a stalemate?"
Brad's slow smile glinted with pride. "Was waiting for you to figure it out."
"Waiting for the slow kid to catch up to the rest of the class," Nate accused.
"Everything in due time, sir."
Nate got the feeling he wasn't just talking about chess.
***
Somehow chess with Brad joined running on Nate's list of ways to lighten the load of mind-numbing preparations for war. Which was patently ridiculous since chess was itself a war game. But with Brad it transformed into something distinct—not war, but holding too much tension to be strictly play. Nate couldn't quite name the dynamic. Maybe he didn't want to.
Still, he was glad of the reprieve, for the chance to take his mind off the mission, the war, the prospect that it could get goatfucked six ways to Armageddon. Because of him.
The war hadn't even started and already Nate was exhausted. That boded well.
***
"I am frustrated," Nate declared.
"And good at communicating your feelings. Please share with the class, sir."
"There's no consistency to your game—one day you're a tactician, the next you're a positional player. One day it's a fucking king's hunt and then today you're throwing all these waiting moves at me."
"Yes, unpredictability. This is shocking in an opponent."
"'The way he plays chess demonstrates a man's whole nature.' You're not giving me a lot to work with here, Colbert."
Brad raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'm taking your measure."
That hit Nate somewhere low. He couldn't help the way he tensed and straightened, but he made sure his voice stayed measured: "I would hope that at this late stage you already have full faith and confidence in my abilities."
"I don't doubt your abilities, sir. I meant the measure of Nate Fick, the man."
Nate started at his name on Brad's lips. He...had no idea what to say to that. Had no idea what that even meant.
Brad's little smile betrayed his pleasure at rendering Nate speechless. "But I'd hate to keep you from experiencing my whole nature, so...check." He moved his knight accordingly.
Nate blinked. Well, fuck. So it was. He moved his king out of check.
Brad responded in kind. "Check."
"It'd be safe to say that aggression is in your true nature, then." Nate moved his king again.
"Would it? Check."
Nate clenched his jaw and tried to survey the board objectively. "I know you're forcing me into a smothered mate and I can't do anything about it." Talk about frustration. Nate moved his king yet again.
Brad moved in kind. "Still think they were waiting moves, sir? Check."
"I think, Sergeant, that you've made your fucking point." Nate moved his king again.
Brad grinned. "'I like the moment when I break a man's ego.' Since we're trading chess quotes and all. Also, check," he said cheekily.
"'It's just you and your opponent at the board and you're trying to prove something.' What would that be, Brad?"
"Now, sir, I don't make a habit of giving the game away."
"No, you'd never do that."
Brad's brilliant smile said too much and nothing at all.
***
Nate was...unsettled. The problems already piling up, the reporter, the Captain's lack of anything resembling common sense or good leadership—he could admit it in the privacy of his own head—and dammit, Brad wasn't helping.
Brad was pushing, needling, testing. Something. If it was an amusement for him, Nate was not amused.
As war neared, clarity should increase. That could happen any fucking day now. The war, the supplies, the heavy hand of Command, the use of planning their mission off his Barnes & Noble-bought Michelin map...and Brad. All of it remained as clear as shit.
Nate didn't need any more uncertainty.
***
"A prophylactic move? Sir, I'm honored."
"Please continue to taunt me. You'll never need prophylactics again."
Mike shuffled up, shaking his head at them. "You two still playing?"
"If you want to call it that," Brad said dryly, conveying just what he thought of Nate's skills.
Nate flipped him off.
Brad actually laughed. Making Nate pissy seemed to put him in a good mood. He regarded Mike. "Gunny, you'll be glad to know that our esteemed leader doesn't like to lose."
"Or to be toyed with, condescended to, or treated like he's not right here," Nate said. He knew he was being petulant...and yet he couldn't help himself, not with Brad pushing all his buttons.
Fuck. Person suddenly made sense.
Mike spit, unimpressed. "Christ, Nate, you sound like my wife."
"Your wife's plagued with sexual frustration?" Brad asked, innocent.
"Just like yours." Brad's grin flashed sharp and bright. Before Nate could protest, Mike was talking again: "But when you boys are done playing footsie, we got ourselves some new U-2 footage of the Chibayish bridge. You know, that recon thing we pretend to do sometimes? But take your time."
"Now who sounds like your wife?" Nate shot back.
"Did I say that was a bad thing? My wife's smarter than all of us," Mike said, already heading toward the intelligence tent.
"Hang on, Mike. We're coming." Nate turned back to the board and flicked over his king. "I concede with supreme malice."
Brad's eyes sparkled as he collected the pieces with deft fingers. "It's your sense of sportsmanship that I so admire, sir."
***
After hours hunched over U-2 film, black-and-white road intersections, a two-lane bridge, hell, even bushes all started to look like a chessboard under Brad's hands. It was probably a sign of exhaustion that Nate took comfort in it. If this were all some grand chess match, they'd be fine. They had Brad.
The map practically memorized, Nate pulled back from minute scrutiny to take in the wider view. The TLs were rapt, in the zone, consummate professionals. Brad held sway, in his element as he skillfully broke down and executed their task, no question that they would emerge victorious.
Nate studied him—watched as he dragged a finger across the images, saw the pure focus, listened to the reverence in his voice as he talked about 'the recon mission of a lifetime.' Throughout, Nate appreciated the mind at work on a gut-deep level that defied rational thought. It was a faith he'd long thought himself incapable of feeling.
And it was kind of terrifying.
***
Then they went to war.
There was no chess at war. Only rising frustrations, no relief in sight, and the specter of impending drowning. Nate thought he'd mastered that fear.
Apparently not.
***
Some kind of change in the air, a sense of calm Nate only associated with one person. He didn't stop moving his hand, defiant. "What is it, Brad?"
Brad's voice floated off the darkness, somehow close in all the open space. "That's the most pitiful thing I've ever seen."
That finally stilled him, despite his cock's traitorous pulse, the way it swelled to full hardness at Brad's voice. Nate swallowed and pushed the reaction to the back of his mind. "Yes, officers do need to get off."
"Not that," Brad said, voice lowering as he approached from behind. "The way you're going about getting off. No man in pursuit of an orgasm should look that defeated."
Brad stepped in, way too close for any kind of propriety, vest pressed up against Nate's back, arm moving around—
"Brad," Nate hissed, the exploratory touch on his cock making him start.
It didn't deter Brad in the slightest. Their hands collided in a confused, heated tangle. Then Brad wrapped his fingers around Nate's dick and squeezed, like making some kind of point.
Brad's hand on his cock wrecked Nate's ability to follow the point.
"A dry jack, sir? Suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find you're a closet masochist," he said conversationally, like he wasn't slowly jerking Nate off with one hand, the other tugging at his chin strap until Nate's Kevlar dropped to the ground. Brad teased the tip of his cock, smearing fluid around.
Jesus fucking Christ, Nate was leaking and Brad had barely even touched him.
The thought was jarring enough to snap him out of the haze of lust. Nate gripped Brad's forearm, stopping him.
"Bad plan, Brad." At least his voice sounded composed. That was something.
Brad nosed along his hairline, breath tickling there. "And I thought we'd established that I'm the better positional player." He flexed his fingers around Nate's cock.
Nate swallowed the noise that almost escaped, something tight and wanting in his throat.
Brad didn't miss it—he made a pleased sound and did it again.
"I fail to see any strategic value to this whatsoever," Nate said, weak and knowing it.
"You've got to take the long view," Brad said, one pull all along Nate's cock. He paused and seemed to consider. "I'll resist all the puns."
Nate choked out a laugh, giving up all pretense of resisting, of the moral authority of rank, of abiding by the dictates of a Corps he no longer recognized. Instead he slipped his fingers under Brad's sleeve to touch the skin of his forearm, just feeling the strength behind his movements. Brad grunted something satisfied and quickened his pace, emboldened, fist moving tight on him, just this side of painful and pretty much perfect.
Nate swallowed his groan and sagged back against Brad, sinking into the heat of this, letting go of all the simmering frustration.
Brad had him now.
It was like a weight lifted away...or maybe it was the relief of finally giving in and slipping underwater, he couldn't tell. Regardless, it cleared the jumble in Nate's mind, leaving only a pleasure that flared so hot it was cutting. Brad ran callused fingers over the ridge of his cock and Nate made some noise, cold night air hitching in his chest. "B-Brad—"
Brad's sharp exhalation tickled his ear and then his mouth was there—molten, sucking pressure and a sharp bite.
It threw Nate into his orgasm, cock jerking in Brad's hand as his nerves lit up and heat shuddered through him, fast and bright. Nate gripped Brad's arm again, but Brad didn't stop moving, mercifully stroking him through it until he was left trembling and wrung out.
Brad subsided with another bite to his ear. "Someday, we'll be somewhere I can enjoy the sounds you make," Brad said roughly.
It shivered up Nate's spine, that image, how easy it was to place himself there.
Only after came the realization of how very fucked he was.
Brad was digging through his gear. The incongruous, powdery scent of a baby wipe made Nate blink, but by then Brad was cleaning him up, soft swipes on his cock catching his breath.
Brad grunted. "Somewhere quiet. With a lock. And nothing but time," he murmured.
Christ, voicing hopes for a future Nate couldn't even contemplate, making plans... "Brad—"
Brad stepped away. Nate caught himself before he fell on his ass, not expecting the move, surprised at the chilled air that took Brad's place.
Nate turned and finally met his eyes, for the first time since this started. He saw want there, frustrated lust, all overlaid by rigid control. How Nate envied him that. "You don't want to—"
Brad's teeth glinted in the moonlight, his grin promising unholy delights. "Oh, I want. But I'll wait for the freedom of a lock. Right now I have to go tell Ray that Mom and Dad's date night finally ended the usual way."
***
Fin. Feedback is adored.