Allergy And Yet I Love You (HBO War: Generation Kill, Ray)

[lillian]

I have not forgotten my promised BradNate epilogue, but BradRay was my first love in this fandom and I’ve found myself thrown right back into it. Warning for mess and Ray being a little bit nasty. Watched this a [redacted] amount of times while writing. Crying/allergies, same difference, right?

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!

_

Ray snorted for the up-teenth time, and Brad’s finger twitched where it lay flat above the trigger of his firearm. 

They were stopped in a dusty wadi, baking like potatoes in their MOPP suits in the stuffy oven of the humvee. Brad listened idly to the radio chatter. Command had issued an order to Bravo 3, Alpha was chasing after that missing marine, and Charlie Company was doing something entirely different from the original mission, but nothing was coming down from Encino Man to Nate except “halt the victors.” So Bravo 2 sat and waited.

Between the dust and the scattered blossoming vegetation lining the ancient walls of the dry canal, Ray’s entire respiratory system seemed to be in revolt. He couldn’t go two minutes without sniffling, snorting, coughing, or, at least for the last half-hour or so, sneezing. 

“hg’EHtshuu!” They were hoarse and rough, yet still somehow did nothing to alleviate any irritation. “hih… hih-ehh…. EH’xttshhew!” He sniffed loudly, not trying to hold back, and lifted his sunglasses to dig his dirty knuckles into the corner of his left eye. 

“Bless you!” Walt called down from the turret, sounding tired.

Brad remembered that he’d wanted him to trade places with Trombley at some point. He reached a hand out of the open window to bang on the roof. “Walt!”

“Yeah, Brad?”

“Come on down, I want you to switch out with Trombley for a bit. Get some shade.” 

“But Sergeant,” Trombley whined. “It’s hot up there!”

Brad sighed long-sufferingly and twisted to look over his shoulder. “Yes, Trombley, it is, but in polite society, we try to take turns being miserable.” He couldn’t help but glance at Ray. Trombley pouted.

“Id’s ndot like we cad stick Reporter up there,” Ray said hoarsely, pushing his ridiculous gold sunglasses up higher on his forehead to get at his eyes. 

Brad touched his arm lightly. 

“Hey, careful— you’re useless to me blind.”

That earned him a flash of dimples. The sunglasses came back down, allergic tears smearing the grime on Ray’s cheeks. 

Reporter’s pencil scratched rapidly across the paper, as if trying to remind them why he should not be put on the main gun of the lead vehicle – the most vulnerable position in the entire platoon.

“Well why can’t you take a turn, Ray?” 

“Because you’re buch better at killi’g thi’gs thad I ab, Jabes.” 

Trombley might’ve actually growled. 

“Uh, I’m fine up here…” Walt said, peacekeeper as always. “It’s not that bad.” The dizzy drift to his voice made Brad frown.

Ray dug around under the dash and produced a water bottle, which he handed up to Walt. 

“Here, hobes.” 

“Why can’t Ray do it?” Trombley asked again, clearly not satisfied with Ray’s not entirely off-base answer. 

Brad glanced at Ray out of the corner of his eye. He was sawing his gloved hand underneath his nose, which was a bright, smarting red. His huge sunglasses hid the worst of it (maybe that was their intended purpose?) but Brad had seen his puffy, irritated eyes earlier that morning. His already unsteady breath wavered, and Ray stopped scrubbing at his nose, pressing the back of his hand to it firmly.

“hh… hg’XTsch! gn… heh… heg’GSHhew!” He sniffled back the mess, and wiped his nose on his glove, breath still catching. 

Brad tried not to watch, feeling a confusing mix of disgust and sympathy. 

“Bless—“ Walt began. 

With a needy, raspy inhale, Ray brought his cupped hands to his face in time to catch a drenching “xx’TSCHk!” 

“...you...”

“Thags,” Ray muttered, voice muffled by his hands. He muttered a quiet curse under his breath and sniffled wetly. With a few more desperate sniffs, he swiped his hand up against his nose, rubbing harshly. When that didn’t seem to help, Ray switched to wiping his nose on his sleeve, still sniffling every few seconds with a congested little snk! sound. 

Reporter looked pointedly out the window, and Trombley made a very unsympathetic face, clearly upset by not receiving an answer that really should have been obvious. 

Brad pushed aside maps and cans of dip on the dash, searching for a napkin - something. Nada.

“Sorry,” he muttered so only Ray could hear. Ray shrugged, sleeve firmly shoved against the underside of his nose.

“Do biggie,” he croaked, voice spent. The harsh coughs that followed prompted Walt to hand the water bottle back down to him. He snorted and cleared his throat, trying to clear himself up enough to breathe, which only set off more coughing.

“Jesus, Ray.”

“I kd— snrk! I kdow. I thidk I bight be dyi’g.” He pinched his red, swollen nostrils, barely holding in a punishing “nkK’GSHH!” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Fucg be.”

—

Ray was still clearing his throat and sniffling, sounding increasingly congested, when the LT rapped gently on the side of the vehicle as he came around the passenger side. 

“Got orders,” he said briskly, barely concealing the irritation in his voice. “The Captain informed me that we were supposed to follow Bravo 3 along the alternate route we discussed earlier.” Brad raised his eyebrows, barely reigning in his own frustration. 

“But they left an hour ago.”

Nate’s mouth was a thin, angry line. “Yep. We’ll have to make up time and try to catch up. Maintain 45 kph."

“hp’kxzshhh!” 

Ray was turned away, staring out the window at the rutted, washed out dirt road beside them. 

“n’gxtchhh! Ugh, nng…”

Nate’s face softened, just for a moment. 

“God bless you.” 

Ray sniffed and cleared his throat, turning the ignition over. “Thadks, LT.” The scrubby, rocky land before them reflected in his sunglasses as he stared straight ahead, swallowing his misery.

Nate’s mouth tightened again, and he looked intently at Brad. Is he going to be alright?

Brad gave a slight nod. He’ll be fine. 

“Right.” Nate said, thumping the top of the humvee and turning to jog back to his own vehicle at the back of the convoy.

—

Ray’d hoped that once they were out of the wadi, driving away from whatever was setting him off, his nose would calm the fuck down. 

He squinted through the windshield, eyes itching and burning under his sunglasses. If the Sergeant Major saw him wearing them, there was a decent chance they’d be confiscated, but even that (plus the risk of a long-ass lecture) didn’t outweigh his desire to try to hide the worst of his allergies. He'd given up on trying not to sneeze his head off, because holding them in only made it worse. The sunglasses at least hid the fact that his eyes were red, swollen, and constantly watering. There was only so much pity Ray could take (contrary to popular belief) and if "Iceman" could look at him without the saddest mama-bear face Ray'd ever seen, that would be preferable. That and they sort of reminded him to not scratch his eyes out. Most of the time.

He sniffed, snorted, and promptly choked on his own snot. He tried to keep one eye open while he hacked into his sleeve, but gave up when the constant nagging itch that had lodged itself in his nose flared up, sending a zing of prickly irritation through his eyes, nose, and throat. His eyes snapped shut, and he gave in, letting his body do what it was going to do. 

“hyeeeehh-ASCHHH!”

Damn. Okay. He was starting to get why people said "bless you" after a sneeze. It felt like he was expelling his soul from his body.

“-ASCHHHiew!” 

Snot dripped onto his upper lip, and he barely had a chance to run his sleeve under his nose before he was sneezing again, this time into his sleeve. It wouldn’t do much for the noise but maybe it would keep him from spraying snot all over the windshield. He sort of heard Walt bless him again, the sweet boy.

“heh’gESHHhew!”

Brad was being suspiciously quiet. The past few days he’d been moaning and bitching about Ray being loud and gross and “inconsiderate of others.” Now he was silent. All broody and shit. Breathing still coming in jumpy, Ray glanced over at the passenger seat. 

Brad was staring at him, a little frown line of concern just barely visible under the rim of his kevlar. 

“Cad I help—“ Ray began, before a sneeze built and detonated with zero warning...

“—ETSCHhhh’kew!"

...all over Brad. 
 

TBC...

Edited May 30 by lillian

[secret19]

I have no words. Please continue. 

[lillian]

6 minutes ago, secret19 said:

I have no words. Please continue. 

Yay I’m so glad you liked it!! I will continue when I can figure out how Brad would react to being sneezed on by his (beloved) RTO. Any ideas?

[solitaire-au]

I think you hit the nail on the head before when you said he’d be simultaneously disgusted and sympathetic about the whole situation.

If they had any MREs with them in the Humvee, maybe he’d get Walt to crack one open to retrieve the napkin?

And like your other fic, I think he’d make Ray get out of the driver’s seat.

[secret19]

My question for you @lillian is how will Ray react?you mentioned he’s a habitual allergy sufferer, has this ever happened before? Will he not even care because he feels so terrible? Will he be so embarrassed that he starts to stifle again sending himself into a sinus infection?

I must know!

Edited May 28 by secret19

[lillian]

22 hours ago, solitaire-au said:

I think you hit the nail on the head before when you said he’d be simultaneously disgusted and sympathetic about the whole situation.

If they had any MREs with them in the Humvee, maybe he’d get Walt to crack one open to retrieve the napkin?

And like your other fic, I think he’d make Ray get out of the driver’s seat.

 

19 hours ago, secret19 said:

My question for you @lillian is how will Ray react?you mentioned he’s a habitual allergy sufferer, has this ever happened before? Will he not even care because he feels so terrible? Will he be so embarrassed that he starts to stifle again sending himself into a sinus infection?

I must know!

—
Thank you guys so much! I’ve never written mess like this before so I had no idea what to do with Brad (& Ray, by extension, even though he's usually easier for me to write). I tried to combine all of these, and now we've got a bit of a plot going!

I went with Vulcan-Brad because that’s my favorite interpretation of him. He does actually make a very distinct 0_0 face when he has to communicate about emotions. He has emotions, lots of them, and feels very deeply, he just can't... talk about them. Which is why he needs Ray.

Speaking of communication, the comms issue is that higher-ups keep changing the radio frequencies everyone uses to communicate. I don’t claim to know anything about the radios they use but apparently they are very complex. And they break a lot. And they never have comms with anyone they need to talk to. And all of that is Ray’s job to fix. "He's the best damn RTO in the business" - Brad Colbert, 2003.

__

The vehicle was silent, apart from the angry Vietnam-era engine and the crunch of sand and the faint but constant sound of artillery in the distance. Ray was not authorized to stop unless the order came explicitly through the handset clipped to his shoulder, or if something bizarre (and probably bad) happened and Brad had to make the call. 

Iceman wasn’t going to stop a convoy of war machines over being sneezed on, not even to get Reporter to dig around under the seats for an MRE to ratfuck for napkins. Ray had to respect it. He could imagine anyone else with any power in the company (minus the LT) stopping the whole invasion right there and demanding a ‘Devil Dogs Resort and Spa’ be built that very instant. Ray let himself get lost thinking about what kind of floaties they’d have in the pool.

“Ray…” 

Oh no. Big sad “I don’t know what to do” eyes. Like he’d started to express an emotion then got hit in the back of the head with a club, cartoon style, and his whole hard-drive just froze. He’d seen that look when Brad tried to talk to Reporter about what happened with the kid at the airfield, and when Brad got that fucking “Dear John” letter from that bitch (Ray was raised right so he didn't use that word lightly) who left him to marry his best friend. It was painful to look at, even more painful knowing that right now Brad was trying to be real polite while having to use his sleeve to wipe Ray’s snot off his face. 

If he was stuffy before, he was snotty as hell now. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he pressed his forearm to his face, sniffling as hard as he could without making himself cough. Tears welled in his eyes and slipped out from behind his sunglasses, burning as they went. Through some awful coalition between his sinuses and his tear ducts, this only made his nose run more, which edged on the near-constant prickly–

“h’ySHMMMmph!” A soupy sniffle set off more coughs, and Ray really hoped the road was still in front of him as he barrelled forward at 45 kph, maximum speed, by direct order of the only good officer in this whole fucking mess. And why? Because Encino Man, a goddamn captain, couldn’t coordinate the successful departure of forty vehicles. Forty! And none of them were even tanks!

He kept thinking about how much he hated that stupid bastard's stupid face, trying to distract himself from the emotional mess beside him and the damn itch in his nose– 

“nn’gxxt – ng’GXTshhhew!” Ow. 

“How are you not done already?” Trombley asked from the back. “If you have such bad allergies, why’d the Marine Corps let–”

Brad snapped to life in the passenger seat, putting away his “malfunctioning robot” face and cutting his cold blue eyes at Trombley like only the Iceman could. 

“Ray, halt the vehicle.”

Ray talked back to a lot of people he probably shouldn’t talk back to, his team leader included, but he usually had a good reason. Brad usually allowed it, from him at least. 

“Do it.” Okay, no backtalk this time. Brad activated his comms. “Hitman 2 Actual, this is Hitman 2-1, I’m halting my victor for an internal change of personnel, over.” 

The overheating, ungainly hunk of metal lurched to a halt, the back left tire sunk into a pothole. Espera’s humvee stopped precariously close to their bumper, pistons wheezing, close enough to scratch the camo pattern they’d had to spray-paint on themselves. 

The comms crackled.

<<This is Hitman 2 Actual, copy that. Report to command victor for sitrep when we halt, out>>

“Copy.” Brad released the button and adjusted his headset. “Walt!”

Walt dropped down from the turret, crouching between Reporter and Trombley. 

“You’re driving, switch with Ray. Trombley, turret duty. Don’t make me write your mother.” Trombley looked mortified at the empty threat. Ray hid a grin as he got out to take Trombley’s seat, passing the handset to Walt. Trombley accidentally-on-purpose kicked him on the way up into the turret. Ray booted him in the shin. 

__

Nate’s tone over the comms was professional and to the point, but Brad knew he had a lot of explaining to do.

My RTO sneezed on me and I impulsively decided he was unfit to drive and that Trombley should be banished to the turret because Walt’s about to die of sunstroke and also Ray shouldn’t have to put up with a bratty kid when he’s got such bad allergies… 

Why didn’t he report the allergies? 

“hh— heh…! –nxgt! hep’ngzt!" It sounded like Ray was trying to hold them back, with predictable results. "het... het’gschhew!” Brad winced. 

“Bless you!” 

“Tha’gs, Walt. Frequedcy codes are up od the dash. I did ‘eb this bordi’g so they should be… et’gshh! should be up to date.” Ray sniffled again, wiping his nose on his sleeve with a squelchy sound. 

Walt frowned at the sheet taped to the dash. “Bless you. I don’t see anything for Delta Company or … um… air support?”

Ray leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Dah,” he huffed. “We dod’t have co’bs with theb. That’d be too easy…” 

“...What’s TAD-6 again?”

How was he going to explain to Nate that no, Ray wasn’t well. No, he didn’t want him driving. No, he couldn’t take more antihistamines because they reacted with the dangerous amount of uppers he was taking, and yes, of course he’d ordered him to cool it with the Ripped Fuel! 

He heard Ray sneeze again, harsh and congested and winded-sounding, then tiredly walk Walt through the comms protocols from the backseat while Walt eased the humvee back onto the road.

No, Nate was not going to like this at all.

TBC...
 

Edited May 29 by lillian
ocd editing

[lillian]

I was trying to hold back on posting the next part so quickly but I'm so into writing this story that I couldn't help it, so here she is

Nate’s a bit of a dick here, but plot-wise it’s right after all the officers get yelled at about “back-channel grumbling” and Nate freezes everyone out trying to Do His Job (his bitch era, if you will (warning for hot nate)). If you know the show you can place it loosely between Combat Jack and A Burning Dog, after Brad pulls himself together and comes out from hiding under the humvee, but before the firefight on the bridge. 

Note on the names: Reporter, who wrote the book, doesn’t use the names of the officers they talk the most shit about, so I tried to do that too. 
__

They caught up with Bravo 3 at dusk and pulled off the road in a herringbone position. Their orders were to sit tight, and hopefully at 0200 hours, they’d get the greenlight to step off and scout out a bridge a few clicks up the road. 

It was almost a real Recon mission. Brad couldn’t help but feel a light bounce in his step as he made his way to the command vehicle.

“You’re really desperate, Brad!” Ray had croaked out the window after him. Walt shushed him and told him to save his voice. 

__

Nate was in his usual spot in the passenger seat of his truck, map-board in lap and red headlamp on. He tucked his pencil behind his ear and pulled out what looked like a real tissue to blow his nose. Where’d he gotten that?

Brad paused, giving the LT a moment to sort himself out. Now that he was actually taking antihistamines instead of pretending he wasn’t completely and utterly allergic to the A-O, he seemed to be doing a lot better. If only Ray could…

 Nate glanced up at the sound of Brad’s approaching boots and stuffed the tissue into his pocket.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Nate cleared his throat, nodding. “What happened earlier, with your team?” You should have gotten permission before you halted the entire convoy. 

Brad looked briefly at his boots, feeling the tips of his ears go red under his helmet. 

“Personnel change,” he said, voice clipped. “I put Trombley on the Mark-19 and Hasser at the wheel.”

Nate’s eyebrows shot up. “You put Trombley on the main gun? After what happened at the airfield?” You really should have asked me first, Brad.

“We talked to him…” Brad felt stupid. He didn’t like the feeling. There was a hardness in Nate’s eyes that was usually saved for pissants like Encino Man’s Gunny. Brad had never felt more like Nate’s inferior, and he didn’t like that either. “Ray needed a break.”

The zoetrope of expressions on Nate’s face finally landed on anger. Brad had seen too much of it on Nate’s face recently. 

“You should have said something.” You should have made a goddamn report. 

Nate’s officer-voice went a little breathy on something, and his nose wrinkled slightly as his nostrils flared. He swiped the side of his nose with a knuckle and sniffed. 

“You should have, too, sir.”

It was petty, and Nate didn’t deserve it, but with the way he’d been freezing everyone out since Godfather tore the officers a new one about insubordination, Brad thought he needed to hear it. You’re human. Ray’s human. Don’t take my RTO away from me.

Nate’s mouth tightened. “That will be all, Sergeant.” There. Another itchy flare of his nostrils. 

Brad nodded. Magnanimous. “Sir.”

As he crossed the small camp, he heard it.

“knxt-choo! heh… knt!...cheh… hih…! kgxt-choo!” 

“Bless you, sir!” one of Nate’s devil pups called out from the back of the truck. 

“Thah… kg’shhh! thadk you...”

Lofty and king-like. 

__

“Keep going.”

“Mgh…”

“I know, you’re almost done. Blow a little harder.”

“Cad’t– hrrshhhh’gxt! gn’MmPH!” 

“Oof, bless you.”

Walt and Ray were propped against the side of the humvee, sitting on a poncho under the darkening sky. An e-tool leaned against the vehicle next to Walt. 

“Why the fuck aren’t the cammie nets up? I see zero graves being dug!” Brad glanced around, confirming. “And where the hell are Trombley and Rolling Stone?”

“Ease ub, Icebad,” Ray said, wrinkling his nose with a congested attempt at a sniffle. “Trobley’s off to the ladies’ roob a’d Reporter’s baki’d sweet love to Espera’s teab.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Your tragic backstory aih ig’eshhh! aid’t idteresdi’g edough fuh ugk’shhht! ushhSHH! ugh… for the cobudists who read Rolli'g Stode.” 

Ray was doing it again; trying to override his body’s attempts to expel whatever irritant was setting him off in favor of talking complete nonsense.

“hg’ASHHhh!” 

Brad swallowed the little prickle of disgust that sparked up in his chest, and joined his team on the poncho, taking a knee by Ray, hopefully out of the line of fire. He was trying to contain his symptoms, but Brad could see that he was getting tired. 

“Sitrep?” Brad asked as Ray burbled into an MRE napkin. 

“He’s real congested.”

“Feels li’g Jessica Sibsod’s sitti’g od by chest a’d choki’g be out.”

“Shut up, Ray. Please save what little air you seem to have for important topics of discussion.” 

“Id’s sexier whed your mbob says id.”

The relief Brad felt at the resurrection of their old banter was short-lived when Ray started coughing, not irritated and itchy like before, but tight, chesty coughs that left him trying to catch his breath. Walt squeezed his shoulder. 

“Let’s get your flak vest off,” Brad said suddenly, realizing that the sixty-plus pounds of gear each of them had to wear 24/7 was probably not helping Ray at this moment. 

“Dude, you kdow we’re dot allowed–” 

Brad leaned forward and started unfastening the vest. “If anyone hears you coughing like that, you’ll be medevaced as soon as they can find a pen to write the report.” Brad pulled at the tangled straps, the velcro underneath crusty with sand. “Christ, Ray, how did you get your delta tourniquet wrapped around–”

Suddenly, Ray stiffened beneath him. Brad looked up, inches from Ray’s big, dark eyes that were slowly slipping shut… 

Brad didn’t have time to move before Ray was jerking forward into him, hand just barely clamped over his mouth and nose. 

“hh’rshhh!” 

He landed in Brad’s shoulder, the sneeze escaping from his hand and misting Brad’s neck. His body shuddered as he took in another urgent breath, and Brad instinctively put a hand on his back to steady him. 

“mp’PSHHH! hm’pxtschhh!” Ray sniffled wetly behind cupped hands, pulling away from Brad’s shoulder. “Mb, sorry,” he said, dazed. 

TBC...

Thank you for reading! 

Edited May 30 by lillian

[lillian]

**combined with above part**

Edited May 30 by lillian

[funbusej]

Awwww, Ray is my favorite!  Brad is such a mother-hen...SQUEE

[lillian]

5 hours ago, funbusej said:

Awwww, Ray is my favorite!  Brad is such a mother-hen...SQUEE

he’s my favorite too! he’s such an irreverent goof. and yes brad is actively reading the Care and Keeping of Your RTO… there’s a learning curve for everyone involved 

thank you for commenting! more soon!

Edited June 1 by lillian

[lillian]

In this chapter: Ray the consumptive heroine, snuggling, and Once Again Everyone Blames Brad 

cw for a lot of coughing

__

Brad wiped at his shoulder with his sleeve. “It’s– it’s okay… you didn’t…” Was that four times, now? He really should be recommended for a medal at this point. 

“Hey, Sergeant? LT said your team could use these?”

Brad looked up to see Christeson hovering awkwardly by the stack of not-set-up cammie nets. He held out a real-life, civilian-issue tissue box. 

“Guys keep giving ‘em to the LT from their snivel gear.” He glanced at Ray, who seemed to have recovered somewhat.

“Hell yeah, toss ‘eb here, hobes!” Ray caught the box effortlessly and started ripping tissues out. “I have dever beed bore excited to blow by dose.”

Christeson just looked relieved to not be implicated as a potential pussy for handling snivel gear, and quickly scurried back to the command vehicle. Brad was about to comment on Ray’s sudden spike in energy when Ray coughed, chesty with a bit of a bark to it, and seemed to deflate. He tried blowing, coughed again, and muffled another congested-sounding sneeze into his handful of tissues.

“hrSHHkkmph!... ughn…”

Walt glanced at Brad. What do we do?
__

Ray was trying not to cough. It was getting kind of old. He held his breath, counting down from five. Walt had dug their graves next to each other, but luckily Walt was was up on watch. Ray’s chest jerked and he held the fabric of his sleeping bag to his face to muffle several congested, crackly coughs. 

Logically, he knew it was just temporary inflammation. Everyone had been coughing after two back-to-back shamals, and Ray’s allergies just added another source of irritation. He'd live.

He sucked in a wheezy breath and coughed so hard that stars burst behind his closed eyes. He kept his mouth closed, forcing the coughs back down into his chest, which helped quiet them, but also kind of made him feel like he was drowning. 

Suddenly, a red light shined in his face. 

“You alright?”

Despite his apparent lack of situational awareness, he still had enough oxygen going to his brain to come up with three excellent responses to that. Unfortunately, his lungs were still trying out for the lead of Tombstone.

“Dod’ s-sick,” Ray forced out on a wheeze. “Allergies…” 

"I see."

Ray tried to do the silent coughing thing again, the feeling grating in his chest, but Doc smacked him on the back, forcing him to hack into his knees.

“Breathe, you asshole,” he said softly. After a second of what felt suspiciously like a gentle, comforting rub between his shoulder blades, Doc’s voice hardened again. “Where’s your flak vest?”

Just then, Brad appeared from around the humvee. 

“Walt said he saw Doc coming over here… are you…?” 

“I’b fide,” Ray wheezed. 

“Where the hell is his flak vest, Brad? Shrapnel in his chest is gonna be a lot worse than what we’re dealing with right now.”

“I’b–” Ray protested, then looked up to see a terrible expression on Brad’s face. Doc had basically insinuated that he was trying to get Ray killed, and that plus whatever the LT had kicked him with earlier was dangerously close to melting the Iceman.

Ray was not going to let them do that to Brad.

“It’s here, hobes,” Ray said, lifting it out from behind him where he’d been propping his head up on it. “I took id off.” He looked up at Brad coyly, “Bea culpa, Sergea’d.” 

Doc rolled his eyes, snatching it from him and holding it out for him to slip back into. He fastened it tight and then smacked Ray on the shoulder. “I do not envy you, Brad,” he said, getting to his feet. 

Once Doc was out of sight, Brad sat down heavily on a crate of ammo next to Ray’s grave. They sat in silence for a long while before Ray kinda ruined the moment.

“hehh… et’shhhk! hgk’SHH!” He sniffled, waiting to see if there’d be more. There usually were, when he tried to make them quiet(ish) like that. Another built, fluttery and urgent in his sinuses, and he clenched his jaw, pressing the tongue to the roof of his mouth. “hgkk’SHHH!” The bottleneck of pressure made his ears pop. He sniffled blearily with a congested sdnk! and coughed into his sleeve. 

“Are you going to be like this until we get home?” Brad asked, looking like he hated the question as soon as he’d asked it. His unraveling was unsettling. The worst kind of psychological horror movie. Like when the director of the insane asylum turns out to be the crazy one.

“So we’re dot the ludatics.”

“You said that out loud, Ray.”

Ray dragged up his “make-Brad-happy” smile and beamed at his team leader. “Godda be ligke what?”

In the dark, Brad’s raised eyebrow was only visible because Ray knew it would be there. Ray decided to continue to appease him. Happy Brad, Happy Life.

“Dah,” he shrugged. “It’s just ‘cause it’s damp.” He thumped his chest (gently). “Bakes be cough.”

Brad slid off the crate to sit beside him. “Do you think you’re getting sick?”

Ray shook his head, then winced at the dizziness. He had to remember not to do that again. 

Brad was suddenly folding his gigantor-self in close and a huge, calloused palm landed on his forehead. 

Ray had two options:

1. shove him off and cuss him and his mother and his biological mother out, also tying in insults to his love of early 80s soft rock and his stash of geeky-as-hell computer parts
or
2. lean forward

Brad’s MOPP suit was cool against his face. A little scratchy, and smelled like subkah dirt, cordite, and motor oil, but it felt good to take the weight off, to let his stuffy head rest against something for a moment. Brad shifted under him and Ray froze, ready to jump back and say something dumb to diffuse the tension. 

Then Brad wrapped his arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. “Cold?” he asked, voice rumbling against Ray’s ear. 

“Dah, all squared away, hobes.”

“Mhm. Good.”

—

“hnk’SCHhh! ett’KSHH! guhh… heh… h’EYSHHH!”

Dammit, he was almost asleep, too.

Brad made a noise that could very well be classified as “shh,” and rubbed his back. 

“I’b sorry—“ Ray buried his face in his sleeve and trembled with another three rapid-fire sneezes. He gasped for air and coughed. 

“Jesus… you okay?” Brad grabbed Ray’s chin and tilted his face up. 

Ray pulled away and hid his face in his arm, still coughing hard.

“Deed… a tissue…” he managed, staring pointedly at the sand. “Sorry… ‘b sdotty…”

“Here,” Brad grabbed what seemed like a gazillion tissues from the box and shoved them at Ray. “Blow your nose, Doc Holliday.”

Ray snorted a laugh (thankfully into the tissues), which just made him cough. Once he had his breath back, he blew hard, even though it hurt. Brad needed to know that he was going to be okay. Don’t panic, he chastised himself. It's just allergies. You’re okay. 

“rrrSHHHk! Hyehh… hngt’CHH!” Ohh, they were getting strong. He was still trying to muffle the sound, trying desperately not to summon any more wannabe Florence Nightingales. He definitely didn’t want to explain himself to Doc (again) or Espera or fucking Rudy— why did everyone in this platoon mother hen so much? They were at war! Everyone just needed to mind their own—

“Please breathe, Ray.” 

Fucking trying here, Brad! He gasped a breath, which only set him coughing again, listing into Brad’s chest. Dark spots edged into the corners of his vision, blurring out the stars and the faint red headlights appearing in the distance. Gravity washed out from under him as he slid towards the ground, feeling Brad’s arms wrap tight around him as Brad yelled, in a weird, frantic pitch—

“Corpsman!”
__

Doc Bryan was already jogging over when Brad called out, followed by Tony, Rudy, and Pappy. They huddled close, shielding the scene from the rest of the camp. 

Doc tried to ease Ray out of Brad’s lap and onto the ground, but Brad’s joints froze up and he held Ray’s sprawled-out wiry body tight enough to make his knuckles cramp. Doc sighed and smacked Ray lightly on his (not-burned) cheek. 

“Ray, wake the fuck up, you’re scaring Brad.”

Ray’s bloodshot eyes cracked open, sand in his long eyelashes.

Rudy squeezed Brad’s shoulder, a gentle reminder, and Brad ordered the tension to leave his body with a practiced exhale. 

Ray squirmed in Brad’s grip, trying to sit up, and with another nudge from Rudy ("I know, brother"), Brad released him. 

“You don’t get to just pass out whenever you feel like it,” Doc continued, helping Ray sit up on his own against an ammo crate. “When’s the last time you ate?” 

“Doc, your bedside manner needs some work,” Poke said, shaking his head. “You go around slapping motherfuckers to wake ‘em up, might get one that freaks out on you.” 

Brad felt cold without Ray’s weight against his chest. Poke gave him a long look, then dropped to a knee beside him. Rudy and Pappy stepped closer, almost in sync, Pappy glancing around behind them, scanning the perimeter. 

“Everythi’g tastes like fucki’g sa’d,” Ray croaked miserably. He sniffled, blinked, and unsuccessfully muffled two harsh sneezes into his sleeve “hrrRShh! rSChew!” then coughed, raspy and congested.

Four red headlamps turned on Brad.

““Iceman” don’t extend to your team, dog!” Poke snapped, face incredulous. “You report this shit!”

“Tony’s right, Brad, this is somethin’ that the rest of us oughta have known about.” Pappy rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Rudy. 

Rudy started to say something about dharma and responsibility, but Brad caught Nate’s eyes, big and green and shiny with emotion, as he came out of the darkness. 

He paused at the edge of their protective circle, cleared his throat with a sound like ripping fabric, and time stopped. 

__

TBC..,

up next: Nate's Bitch Era continues, Brad wallows, and Ray trips balls 

Edited June 3 by lillian