#nikkirecs

[warcorrespondence]

Static by Nightanddaze

https://nightanddaze.livejournal.com/196776.html

One last gk rec :)

First of all, sorry it's been a minute since our last review! But thank you, dear Anon, because I've been meaning to read this for forever and your (long ago) request made me sit down at my laptop and do it.

fandom: Generation Kill

pairing: bradnate

explicit, idk how many words, but it's a goodly length

Readers, do you enjoy zombies? I do. I love a zombie, because there are stakes and destruction, but also because the whole world shifts. It's the end of everything, it's an emotional, physical apocalypse.

Nate and Bravo II are alone in Iraq for the apocalypse, and they deal with it as well as they can. They shoot the remains of Encino Man that crawls after them, they take out some of their own (I won't tell you who because spoilers, but it's heartwrenching in every possible way).

If you like zombies because they're fun, this may not be the fic for you. It isn't remotely fun; it's brutal and honest and harsh. It is an unflinching look at what this would really be like, what its many flavors of apocalypse would do to you. Is it apocalyptic to love someone you brought into the desert to die? To love someone you know you have to kill?

(It's not that bad. But you know. It's bad.)

“Home, sweet home,” Ray says when he ducks into the hut Nate’s in. “At least until we all get eaten. Shit. Those bitches in Dawn of the Dead got to live the high life in a mall. We’re stuck in a fucking Haji hamlet, shit.” “Have a little faith, Ray.” Ray holds his hands up, palms exposed. “LT, I know what I know. And I know zombie movies. It hardly ever works out, at least not without massive casualties.” “Are you talking about movies or war, Ray? Because that sounds more like war.” Ray shrugs, grinning. “Isn’t this both?”

[warcorrespondence]

For Free Fandom Friday, I present to you: arthureames

The fault lies entirely with my fellow Correspondents, who sent me on this journey back to five minutes of screentime in 2010, and Toxic by witling pushed me all the way over the edge into a ship that I was only mildly interested in by the special trick of being exquisitely written and characterized.

fandom: Inception

pairing: arthureames

explicit, 22,141 words

When I say it's well characterized, I mean it goes Far Beyond what's onscreen which frankly isn't very much because the movie is so freaking obsessed with Cobb and Mal - as do most fics in this fandom, as I've grown aware since that's now pretty much all I read.

After the job, Eames gets an unexpected - and worrying - call from Arthur. Arthur would never call him. And yet, he did.

And so Eames tracks him down, finding Arthur holed up at the Wilshire absolutely brain-addled. He keeps fainting and waking up in a panic, losing time, losing memory, losing himself.

It's not Eames' problem...and yet he stays. He stays and learns that Arthur hasn't been losing himself at all, and they are more genuine with each other than they've ever been.

Orner’s still staring at him, looking exasperated. “Does he have a girlfriend? Or…a boyfriend, or whatever?” He sounds impatient with the idea. “Some kind of family?” Eames shakes his head. “Well that’s fucking pathetic,” Orner says, looking over at the car. Eames experiences a strange moment of doubled emotion. On the one hand, he feels a rueful recognition that it is sort of pathetic, to be so alone. At the same time, he feels an irritated indignation on Arthur’s behalf. Arthur is many things—precise, literal, obstinate, occasionally so unbelievably dull and pragmatic that teasing him feels obligatory—but he’s not pathetic. Also, Orner is a colossal prick. “You could hire someone, I guess,” Orner says. “He has money?” “And what if he gets violent again?” “Hire a ninja nursemaid, then. It’s L.A., for Christ’s sake, there are probably dozens of them out there. This is not my problem.” Orner’s phone buzzes again and he checks it with gritted teeth. “Just tell him to keep his phone turned on, so I can call him when I have the results.” He pulls out, leaving Eames standing under the hot sun, sweating into his collar and the armpits of his shirt. Arthur says nothing when Eames gets back into the car. The engine’s on, the air conditioning’s running full blast. It’s blessedly cool. “Just drop me at the hotel,” Arthur says after a minute. “I’ll take it from here.” “Not fucking likely,” says Eames, putting it in drive.

[warcorrespondence]

Review: sixteen days in september

There are some fics that you know will stay with you forever, that are as powerful as the best books you've ever read, that create a world so entirely full and real that you almost feel like you've lived in it. Sixteen Days in September by Tevere is one of those fics.

fandom: Generation Kill

pairing: bradnate

not rated (I'd call it Mature), 43,428 words

This is not an easy, fun read. It's violent and horrifying, in the same way GK is violent and horrifying, and to be honest, it isn't nearly as funny (though it does an excellent job of nailing everyone's voices). And it's so well-written I catch myself rereading sentences for their stark, matter-of-fact beauty.

It's an au in which Nate, through a combination of happenstance, basic competence, and moral courage, becomes UN Station Chief in East Timor in 1999. For those who don't know the history here (I didn't) Indonesia had been occupying that country and when the Timorese voted overwhelmingly for independence in September of 1999, Indonesia refused to honor the referendum, creating a humanitarian crisis that led to 1400 dead and 400,000 displaced persons.

Brad and Espera are the two Marines assigned to protect Bravo Base (and are ludicrously outnumbered), Ray is a technician, Encino Man is...it was unclear to me what Encino Man did, mainly because he was so appallingly bad at it. There's characteristic incompetence galore, but also so much fucking competence. Nate's pragmatism wars with his compassion, Brad's easy acceptance of the fuckedupedness of the world is put to the test, and yes, they do fall in love, and it is just as based in respect and mutual understanding.

It's early evening by the time they leave the police station. Brad looks at assessingly at the sky, then at Nate, and says, "Feel like working out some of that frustration, sir?" It's a habit they've fallen into: running in the evenings. Severe, mindless exercise that's somehow become something Nate needs, like breathing. It's a clean burn in his muscles that's pure enough to feel almost religious – a kind of benediction absolving him of the day's grubby frustrations: the statistics and sitreps, endless administration forms, the pointless bureaucratic arguments. Brad runs alongside Nate with the same quiet focus he applies to everything, whether it's cleaning his weapon or tearing open a packet of Cheez-Its. He wears regulation t-shirts, shorts, sneakers with white ankle socks. The socks always strike Nate as kind of unmilitary, more suited to a college student than a Marine grunt, and the blasphemy of the thought makes him grin. Apart from when they're showering, this is the only time he sees Brad in anything less than full uniform, which is apparently all to do with something called the 'grooming standard' rather than any kind of battle-related SOP. ("If units abandon the grooming standard, who knows what kind of moral laxity could happen?" Brad says, perfectly deadpan. "Cock-sucking, goat-fucking. Homosexual relations, sir.") Nate's never been much of a runner – he was on the cycling team in college – but he's fit and not used to losing. Even as he pushes himself, though, he knows that Brad's holding back. Brad can probably run twenty miles carrying fifty pounds and barely break a sweat, he thinks ruefully. His own lungs burn on the inhale; even though it's evening, it's like running on a treadmill set up in front of a pizza oven. They run through the town, dodging goats and chickens and bemused Timorese, then out to the rice paddy plain and the isolated crossroads where the main road meets the town bypass. It's maybe a ten mile loop, and as they near the office Brad just grins at Nate and picks up the pace until they're sprinting. He beats Nate to the compound by a good fifty yards, a distance that's just short of absolutely humiliating. "Not bad for a civilian, sir," Brad says magnanimously, when Nate finally arrives. The bastard isn't even winded. "Maybe even better than Espera, but then again, he's got those little Mexican legs holding him back." He grins, slaps Nate on the shoulder and saunters off.

[warcorrespondence]

Can you please review Knit us together by roaroftheninth/@almost-a-class-act

Delighted by this request!! Knit Us Together by roaroftheninth/ @almost-a-class-act

fandom: Band of Brothers

pairing: luztoye

explicit, 12704 words

I'm going to confess something: I've never really signed with luztoye. It's not because I don't see it - who couldn't, after that bar scene?! I just...I don't know, sometimes a ship just doesn't grab you, ya know? So when this request came in, I signed up for it because I wanted to understand the ship - and I knew Sam would do right by me (and them, too).

And she did.

I think somehow I thought it would be funny, because Joe and George are both funny guys, in their different ways. But I also knew what a hard time Joe had after the war, and I thought, "So not so funny, then."

Not so funny is right. Instead, it's gentle and kind. It's thoughtful and cautious, and achingly real.

George and Joe live together postwar, navigating their own varying wounds even as they navigate how to match up with another person, how to make their rough edges smooth - or better yet, how to allow their rough edges to align, fitting alongside each other, holding each other up.

Joe lowers his hand, but he’s looking back up at the ceiling again. “Come on, George. This can’t be what you wanted.” “If we’re talking about teenage fantasies, then I’m pretty sure you weren’t picturing me, either,” George says. “Don’t make this a joke.” “I’m not.” George turns most of the way around, one knee splayed on the bed and the other foot still on the floor so that he can face Joe. It’s awkward to sit like this - he kind of wishes they were having this argument sitting in chairs or something similarly more dignified - but this is where Joe picked a hill to die on, so this is where they’re doing it. “What I wanted was for you to be alive, you knucklehead. Every day we’re on the right side of the grass? It’s a pretty great fuckin’ day, Joe. Everything else is just details. You really think when I’m riding you I’m thinking, this is alright but it’s not up against a wall? Joe can’t blow me in the shower and that’s a real deal-breaker for me?” When Joe doesn’t immediately say anything, George rolls his eyes. “First of all, no one should be blowing anyone in the shower, okay? It’s real hard on the knees. Secondly, if we decide that’s something we’re that interested in pursuing, I’ll blow you in the shower and you can blow me wherever is most convenient. I promise I’m not picky. Happy?”

That conversation was about sex, but it also wasn't. It's about how Joe is trying to accept that he can be enough for George just as he is - and George needs to figure out that he's enough, too. That it doesn't have to be perfect to be good. And I guess that's what made it so real, for me - because accepting that might sound easy, but it isn't. Accepting your own rough edges, for the sake of someone else.

[warcorrespondence]

From our very own Correspondent, @ep6bastogne/ferretbueller, the fic that made me cry first thing in the morning: other people.

fandom: Band of Brothers

pairing: Webgott

teen, 2634 words

Bel and I have an ongoing discussion about sad!fics: she adores them, I run and hide from them. But every once in a while, a little heartbreak slips past my guard, and I am reminded of just how beautiful they can be.

I am eternally in awe of how some particularly talented writers can create a whole world with so few words. This dreamy fic. I use that word advisedly, not in the sense of floating clouds or a lovely, hazy filter, but to evoke the way dreams work, with small details carrying so much meaning, with the weight of years of connection and love and longing and frustration and loneliness, all told with the rhythms of a taxi completing the same circuit over and over, a train ride from Boston to San Francisco, a light on in an apartment window.

Webster goes to visit Liebgott every so often, never with a plan, never with an intention to stay. It could almost be impersonal, except for the peppermint tea Lieb keeps on hand to soothe Web's upset stomach after the long train ride. Except for the way they can hear each other, even in silence.

There is heartbreak, because you can see how maybe there could have been more - but there won't be, because of the time they live in, but more than that because of the men they are. But there is also something lovely in what little they have allowed themselves - because it's love.

He stands when Joe comes to the table and takes his vacated seat. “I’ll go into the other room. Just listen.” Joe rolls his eyes, but closes them obediently. Above his head, his upstairs neighbor clatters, stomps. A driver down the street wails impatiently on his horn. Web must have a much lighter step; Joe can’t make out a goddamn sound from him. The only way he’d know right now if Web left the apartment altogether is by the telltale squeak of the front door hinges. He feels it suddenly, a change in the silence. A shift in the air. Web moves noiselessly, maybe isn’t moving at all, but Joe can tell that he’s in the room. He was right, too—the air moves around his body, makes space for it. His presence alters the way the sound bends. The skin on the back of Joe’s neck prickles, a little heads-up before he feels Web’s mouth on his, just a soft kiss, a hello, I’m here, confirmation of what Joe already knows.

[warcorrespondence]

Art heists! Handcuffs! Bank robberies! Sexy grifting! It must be The Take by distractionpie

fandom: Band of Brothers

pairing: Webgott

Mature, 92,861 words

I'll be honest, it took me a hot sec to get going on this, and this read was actually my second try. The reason for this (that Liebgott is an unreliable narrator) ended up being my very favorite thing about the fic.

When I say unreliable narrator, I don't mean shocktwist nothing happened the way he said it did. I mean he says (and believes he means) one thing, but really he's full of shit. Lieb is just not the most self-aware person in the world, and he lies to himself constantly - and the author does an excellent job of letting the reader in on how he actually feels. So when Lieb irritatedly decides that he absolutely has to do this one con and the only way it can possibly work is if he calls ugh the last person he wants to call, fucking Webster, Jesus Christ - we get to cackle because Sure, Jan.

The cons are clever but not overly complicated - the fic remains believable, like okay, distracting that one guard and doing bleeepity blooop technical talk to the security system, aaaaaaand painting liberated! It works. And there are delightful turns of phrase, including x villainous character "toting Webster around every party, subjecting him to self-congratulatory speeches like Webster was a flesh light for his ego."

Joe slept late the next morning, late enough that as soon as he glanced at the alarm clock he decided to just wait to go out for lunch instead of worrying about breakfast, but first he turned the TV on, flipping through the channels. Whoever had been watching it last had been watching the weather, but like he gave a shit; next were some Spanish soap-opera reruns, but romance languages had never been his strength; the news, usually depressing, but- wait! He turned the volume up just in time to hear the newscaster announce: "Just days after the Los Angeles SeaWorld center won the court case against animal rights campaigners allowing them to continue keeping great white sharks in captivity, their complete collection of sharks, comprising of over a dozen specimens of five different subspecies, has vanished overnight. The criminals have also caused thousands of dollars’ worth of damage to the aquarium premises and now empty tanks-" For a split second, Joe thought, surely not? But then he remembered just who he was dealing with and pulled out his phone. Did I just help you with a SHARK heist????

[warcorrespondence]

But like, what if Nix was...a dragon?

From The Court of Gale and Iron by Muccamukk

fandom: band of brothers

pairing: winnix

teen, 43679 words

I am sorry to report that there is no dragon fucking. It is a giant pity, and we were all deprived.

However! This fic was so much fun. It's a crossover au with The Books of the Raksura by Martha Wells, which I have not read but now very much want to. I'm sure that if I had read them I'd have enjoyed the fic all the more, but Mucca did a great job with ensuring that I had everything I needed without that context.

Nix is a dragon, y'all. He's a dragon. And yet he remains completely, utterly, inescapably Nix, in all his never fired a weapon in combat, nothing but the best for Mrs. Nixon's baby boy greatness.

And the best part is he stays a dragon pretty much the whole time. He's captured by the Currahee forces in dragon form, and they don't know that he has the ability to take groundling (human-ish) form. He stays Dragon!Nix to protect himself, even as he gets to know a certain Captain Winters, with whom he gradually forms a kind of trust, then friendship, then something more.

In Nix's culture, sex is something you just do, with whoever, whenever. It's comforting and nice. This is not, as you might imagine, something our beloved Dick Winters could really wrap his head around with a fellow human, much less with a dragon that he is, somehow, feeling an inexplicable attraction for.

It's downright glorious. This scene, right here? I can't stop thinking about it, and every time I do I fall over cackling with glee:

It seemed to Nix that it would be a good idea if they were clear about what they were trying to do, before sorting out the details. "I think you're very pretty, and I want to have sex with you, Winters," Nix said. Winters slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. He made an inarticulate sound that Nix read as an indication of distress, and backed away a little. Attempting to clarify the situation, it seemed, had not been a good choice. Nix had to admit that stung. He'd thought he and Winters were getting along pretty well. Had Winters been Raksura, they'd have had sex the night before, and called that that. Nix had heard that other species spent much more time and effort agonising over who was allowed to have sex with whom, but he hadn't quite believed it until now. Why bother? What in the Three Worlds was the point? However much of a stick in the mud Winters was turning out to be, Nix was risking the only friend he had in Currahee by messing this up. "I'm sorry," he said slowly, trying to think what to say. "I didn't understand. I thought you were interested." Winters groaned, but dropped his hands so that he could look at Nix. His skin had become pale, and Nix really needed a guide for what these colour changing groundlings meant. "No." Winters was speaking just as deliberately as Nix. Was he scared too? "No. You, uh, you're right, Nix. I am interested. I guess I'm just not very good at this kind of thing." He tried to smile, but his face seemed frozen in embarrassment, and his lips only twitched up briefly before flattening into a thin, miserable line.

Rest assured, Dick's misery and Nix's confusion do not last, and this interspecies love affair is resolved in a way that feels thoughtful and sweet, as well as right and true.

[warcorrespondence]

It's been weeks since our last bradnate review! You must all be desperate, I know! Well, never fear, the brainrot has not yet ceased...

Leading the Way by nogoaway

fandom: generation kill

pairing: bradnate

explicit, 27581 words

The description reads: "In which Nate, being an officer at heart, takes approximately 25 years to find his own dick with a map." I had this fic in my "Marked For Later" for ages mainly because I knew, based on that sentence alone, that I was going to love everything about it, and I wanted to save it up. I was not wrong.

If, like me, you enjoy seeing your beloveds beat up and bloodied on the floor, but, like, emotionally, this is the fic for you.

It's entirely from Nate's POV, and such a tortured POV it is. Immediately after OIF, Brad makes his move, and Nate, wracked with trauma and self-abnegation, turns him down. It is a brutal scene, because the reader knows how difficult and meaningful this is for Brad - but Nate misreads it entirely.

“We're home.” Brad pressed harder against him. “You're out, or as good as. What, exactly, is your problem?” Nate couldn't believe him. “Are you out of your mind?” “Crazy about you,” Brad deadpanned. “Stark raving mad. What?” “Look,” Nate said, baffled and frustrated that he was being asked to articulate something that Brad was more than smart enough to know for himself at the age of twenty-seven with a career in the infantry, “sometimes this-- these things can happen, in combat. It's a consequence of the environment. And it's best to just move on, and forget about it.” He'd seen the expression on Brad's face exactly twice before-- once when they turned back three dozen Iraqi surrenders into the desert, and once when a civilian hamlet he was observing was hit by an air strike. It was Brad very intentionally relaxing all of his muscles, gathering up everything inside of himself that was not strictly professional, and packing it away. Nate was familiar with this method, and he liked to think that his own 'packing-it-up' expression was not so obvious. But, as had been established, he was full of shit when it came to hiding what he was feeling from Brad Colbert. He should just get up and leave, but it sat sour in his stomach to have this be the last he saw of Brad in a casual setting, the last honest conversation they would ever have. It was beneath both of them to leave all of Iraq like this, over something like this. “It happens, Brad.” He clenched his fists under the table. “It doesn't mean anything. We're still-- we're good.” Something flickered across Brad's face-- surprise, and something almost like curiosity, like Nate was an indistinct structure in the distance that he had first mistaken for a mirage. “You're fucked up about this,” he said, with what sounded like genuine awe. “I thought East-Coast Ivy-Leaguers were falling over themselves to outdo each other on tolerance. Did something happen to you?” Nate swallowed the 'it's none of your fucking business', because it would just sound like 'yes'. Brad clearly had some idea in his head of what Nate's reasoning was. “Nothing 'happened'. I'm just realistic.”

All right, I know that was a really long excerpt, but what you don't realize is how painful it was for me to make it that short. And I'm not even giving much away, because that is the second chapter. The remainder of the fic stays with Nate (and mostly stays away from Brad) as he figures out what he was hearing, and what he should have said in return.

It takes a while. And if I'm honest, Brad is a little too well-adjusted for me to fully believe (like, this is Brad...Colbert we're talking about?) But that's a quibble, and it's necessary, because it's Nate's story, and Brad's fucked-upedness just happens offscreen. But when they do work it out, it is earned, and they know exactly what it all has meant, and so it's all worth it.