Foxhole_Diva @foxholediva - Tumblr Blog

INTRÉPIDE — Nate Fick

Requested by: @bbysugarpink

hello, i would like to request something for nate from generation kill :) with the fluff prompts: “is there a reason you’re blushing like that” and “i’m not a damsel in distress. i’m a damsel doing damage” thank u so much! 🤍

To whatever sexist douchebag termed damsels — women — as always being in constant, unwarranted distress, Y/N Y/L/N could run laps around them with her intellect, physical build, and sharp tongue. She was a living illustration of an army disciplinary booklet, the words alive in calculated steps she’d approach a soldier with.

The men of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion of the Marine Corps vexed egos could attest to the goldenly shrewd behavior of their lieutenant. She was a great shot with her rifle, but her words walloped anyone with a more profound wound than any bullet could. Superiors would tease that if science could decipher the wonderstruck complexes of her mind and bottle it, they’d give it to every trooper to fortify some manhood in them that vanished with the diaphanous sand of the desert each dawn.

With the exception of First Lieutenant Nathaniel Fick.

The duo could forge a bickering storm within seconds of a misstep in strategy, a blazing crimson error of position that had a target pinned to their asses. The remainder of their platoon would settle in the beaten leather of their humvee’s, ears perked to open windows to listen to the rather amusing strings of hisses. They’d only interject if the woman was teetering on ripping the other lieutenant a new one, and it wasn’t for the paralyzed ego of their male superior, but for the sound discipline that should be happening.

Yet, as the cruel sun beat down on one afternoon, it's one malevolent eye unblinking, the sky it's co-conspirator with not even a wisp of cloud to obscure the unrelenting rays, there was no sound discipline to be enforced. Therefore, the feverish dispute erupting with a febrile existence as hot as the weather itself, was either eavesdropped by weary troopers or entirely disregarded by those who forced slumber.

Y/N stood in front of a glowering Nate Fick in a recognizable stance, arms folded sturdily across her chest and her jacket and pants littered with palpable burns from a imprudent stunt in the early morning. He was now ripping her a new one before a few other fellow lieutenants for the chaotic strategy that had her eluding a lethal shootout by her teeth.

“You were sent on a mission to collect intel, not engage in a fucking dogfight with Iraqi soldiers, Lieutenant Y/L/N. Lately, all you’ve been leaving is a trail of collateral damage wherever you go and I have to clean it up before any higher-up flames your ass,” Nate essentially snarled in her face, his gaze fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, whetting the edge of his cerulean eyes.

“If you’re going to chastise me for doing my job, I think you should be looking at yourself and everyone else in this damn platoon! We were ambushed and I merely retaliated to save the asses of my men like any lieutenant would do. I got the fucking intel for you and spared you from writing a few condolence letters,” she sneered in retort, beckoning an offending serpent of anger into their conversation with a spark of anger igniting in her chest, “And I would appreciate if you allowed me to do what I need to do to save my men—”

“And what if I had to write one for you?!” He interjected furiously, the rustle of the adjacent map indicating that his miffed outburst startled a few of the others. Their exasperation stood equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses. When it came to her — this brazen, shrewd female lieutenant — the stagnant, usually composed first lieutenant was easy to set off, almost like flicking the top off a grenade. Scrap the usually when it came to the woman before him now.

Y/N merely scoffed, a few sputters of laughter hissing from the rifts of her lips, “Besides a loss of a lieutenant, what is it to you if something happened out there? You could give less than two fucks about me, Fick.” She peered at him with frustration radiating, aghast that he would reprimand her recklessness.

Nearly everyday did he let Death almost beat the shit out of him, and it was always her that had to save his ass and dispel its clasp. The one day she didn’t duck for cover, demand them to fallback, had a momentary lapse of judgement was the day she was endlessly ridiculed. Her hand twitched at her side as she anticipated a reaction — an excuse — from the crimson-cheeked man, an identical grimace scattering out from beneath both of their helmets.

She sobered her tongue to her cheek for the sake of hearing this argument through and through, savor in levity the first thing the blonde could spare from his humiliated ass,

“Maybe if you pulled your head out your ass, you’d realize that there are some people in this platoon that give a shit about whether or not you live or die.”

“Like who?” she beckoned in challenge, true to her haughty dispotion, and her chest mere inches from seething against his own now.

She could taste the poignancy of his despair that fragilized in his light blues, the acidity of his wrath, and the blazing of his anguish, yet shook her head despite it all gradually soaking into her chest, “Like who, Lieutenant Fick?”

He was a man that knew no fear until he met this woman. He had met every dread of his in her heedless behavior. Certainly, she tends to sprint into danger on more instances than he could count, but managed to extinguish every flame of danger that lurked as a menace to her each damn time. Numerous wondered, even him in some moments, where Y/N’s tenacity emanated from, yet it could never really be pinpointed. Yet, that was just another aspect of the cumbersome girl he had spent his army career attempting to unravel.

And Nate Fick is a gritty man. He has strived for a while to not get his feelings for her entangled in the requisite of war. Love doesn’t belong in a war, where there’s a constant dance with Satan that would desecrate anything as vulnerable as love. Yet, there it was, keen as ever despite the uncertainty of the next few minutes. He loved her like there wasn’t a war occurring.

“Like me,” he admitted with his mouth abandoning all moisture for an arid wasteland of desert like his surroundings.

His whole mewl of a rant moments prior had fucked things up for sure. Even as he was blustering and calling into question her competence, he was aware how he was stirring an unspoken pot of exasperation between them. But she had scared him that morning. And Nate Fick thought himself a fool whenever he fussed in fright over something — someone. But, as he flanked position in the aforementioned dogfight with his own men, his peripheral — keen as always — had caught her dropping to the ground after a deluge of bullets mangled the metal of the humvee she had tucked herself behind. He had been certain that he had just bystanded her death and nearly got himself shot in the abyss of numbness that bittered his nerves.

“Well, of course, because who else would you bitch to about every damn problem you have?” she eclipsed his concern and amused the response, “Anyone else would simply kiss your ass and agree with your complaints — you’d never get your desired response and then the cycle repeats itself. I may as well be your therapist!”

“Would you just shut up?!” Nate let her have it, tearing into her steadfast role of a bitter disputer, eyes temporarily locking with her own.

Any other soldier at the brunt of his outburst would flinch, unravel in whatever mock confidence they tossed between them at the start of the quarrel. She was a pistol of a woman, and there is everything right with that as could be for regard to her character. You fired at her, you could be damn certain you’d get fired at in return.

“Are you issuing an order to me, lieutenant?” She ventured a step between their already existing close proximity, “Someone of your own rank that you’re belittling on account of your questioning of my sanity? Well, let me deal you back a taste of your own medicine — I question you on your clear defiency to keep a cool head whenever something, involving me, occurs and you lose your temper! The line between your professional life and whatever personal thing you have festering in your mind is blurring, lieutenant. And I question if you can execute your rank’s duties appropriately...”

“You make it rather difficult to when you stick your ass in every dangerous situation that comes wandering your way,” he ruefully sighed, abating his zealous tone and plucking her elbow to shift them into a quieter corner away from probing eyes. And, much to his surprise, she permitted the abrupt veering off and the linger of his hand on the bend of her elbow.

“And why is it so difficult?” she aligned her tone with his own, still a searing and acrimonious murmur in the shaded corner.

Nate’s frustration tensed with a clench of his jaw, eyes drowning with something deviating between anger and lust — the latter glimmer being one she regarded before he was even genuinely aware it had erupted to the surface. And her heart fluttered.

“You know why,” he indifferently stated, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air.

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest almost immediately as the words registered quicker than she would’ve preferred.

“Nate,” there was no agitation in her voice as if her heart beat so steadily now, the pistol-shot flare diminishing beneath a vulnerable facade. Certainly, she knew. She’d be daft to beat around the bush of his implications — the connotations of their intimate, clandestine relationship. “If the others — if our superiors — found out...”

“It’s been a year and they’re none the wiser,” Nate tread a few fingers through her messy, disheveled hair, her breathing almost instantaneously steadying with the slight yanks at the stray tufts of her ponytail brushing her neck. They rebounded to a silence with balanced inhales of arid desert air for a few moments, the din of adjacent soldiers in their makeshift tents curving around the flaps of the one they concealed behind. She glimpsed briefly through the heavy brush of her lashes, pressing a whisper of a kiss on his lips, lingering there with the ardor igniting her veins and no doubt his, defusing the ticking bomb of fury from minutes prior.

“Now, is there a reason why you’re blushing so profusely like that?” she mused with a curl of smirk in their departure from the kiss, her fingertips skimming the camoed cloth of the rear of his helmet while amused eyes adored the earnest crimson of his cheeks.

Nate chuckled with an eye roll spared for her radiating levity, his spur of mirth hindered by the dispute that anchored in the abyss of his stomach, “You could have died, you know.” He is vulnerable now, novel territory for Nate Fick to venture into, and he's found himself astray in the shallow waters of a defenseless position.

“You would’ve done the same,” she uttered through a throat she could’ve sworn was temporarily haboring jagged rock shards, “Besides, we both know that I’m not a damsel in distress needing you to swoop in as if you always need to do something to save me. I’m a damsel doing damage a majority of the time ‘round here.”

“Unfortunately,” Nate chuckled wryly, “And you leave it all to me to clean up.”

“It’s rather entertaining to watch — for everyone.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”