Brad Colbert is bored.
Nate knows this because he can feel Brad staring at him from his desk one aisle over and two chairs back. On the other side of the classroom, Ray Person’s making obscene hand signals in Nate’s general direction, ostensibly to get Brad’s attention. At least it better be to get Brad’s attention, or somebody’s going to have an accident in the weight room before practice.*
“He’s got to come out eventually,” Rolling Stone observes. *
On a Thursday afternoon in early February, Brad Colbert gets arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department.*
Generation Kill fusion fic with Marvel Comics (X-Men, Avengers, Defenders, Iron Man and others). Someone had to finally write Brad as Iceman.*
Nate works for a company in research and development. He doesn’t know how he sleeps at night. Better Off Ted AU.*
“So I was thinking. This isn’t exactly my usual game, homes. And, uh—shit, I can’t believe I’m using this stupid fucking phrase,” Ray still looks uncomfortable and flushed, but he laughs, not the fucking sardonic laugh that filled the Humvee daily during their road trip in Iraq, but a rarer, honest laugh—”I’m actually going to have to take it slow. Reel the fish in.”
It’s around when Ray wants to hold Walt’s hand like a goddamn teenage girl with stars in her eyes and wet panties that he starts to worry.* I LOVED this.
The ground vibrates like an earthquake as the shamal twists overhead. Nate digs deeper into his Ranger Grave. The sand storm has blocked out the coming dawn and the only sound he can hear is the occasional mortar round dropping close by.*
Sometimes (rarely, but sometimes), he lets himself think about just how much they’ve fucked things up by coming here.*
After the restaurant closes at 12am, Brad puts all the open bottles of wines-by-the-glass on the bar and says, “We’re not leaving until these are done.” He gives each of the busboys, the waiters, the sous chefs a stern look, then his gaze finds Nate. “Unless our superior officer has something to say about it.”*
Brad sits on the edge of the picnic table, sipping his first beer of the afternoon, content to hang back and let the younger guys attempt to impress their wives, girlfriends and/or children.*
Brad was tired. He wanted a decent burger, and a fucking shower that he didn’t have to share with ten other men. Mostly he wanted to get out of this god-damned fucking airfield and sleep in Nate’s–in their–bed.*