The moment in “A Burning Dog” with the smoke grenades when Brad says “I’m asking, sir.”
I simply can’t believe that, if it had been any other officer, Brad would have done anything other than present his arguments, like he does with Nate, and then wait, silently, as if to say “You can, of course, challenge me on this, but you shouldn’t because I’m better than you, and this is the right thing to do.”
But it isn’t any other officer, and Brad wants Nate to feel okay about it, to be okay, to trust Brad, to agree with Brad that this risk is worth it to save civilians, so instead Brad says “ I’m asking” and “
You do have power over this.”
“Sir, your leadership is the only thing I have absolute confidence in.”
“I’m asking, sir.”
“I trust your judgement, sir”
And, of course, Nate does trust Brad, and gives the okay, and if that look when Nate’s walking away means anything other than “I’m trusting you with my Marines, don’t let me down,” I’ll eat the ROUS that Stafford roasts at the end of the episode.
“This is not good,” Nate mumbled again, chewing the end of his pen, and Mike paused the DVR.
“What’s going on?”
“Hm?” Nate glanced up and blinked at Mike and the screen as if he was startled to find them in the room. “Oh, nothing. Go ahead, you can keep watching.”
“It’s nothing interesting anyway. What’s not good? Also, why the hell are you so far away?”
Despite his apparent distress, Nate managed a grin, and unfolded himself from his position in Mike’s favorite big comfy armchair. He stretched as he stood, cracking something in his back, and his dark blue Berkeley t-shirt rode up on his stomach. He was wearing pajama pants that hung low on his hips, and two days ago that probably would have been enough to interrupt their conversation entirely. But they had had plenty of time to reacquaint themselves since then, and Mike was able to not ravish Nate when he sat down again, this time on the couch, and curled up against Mike’s shoulder. He was clutching a sheaf of paper, and he smacked the front sheet for emphasis.
“I’ve got fifty-two quizzes and fifty-two essays to grade, I’m only two-thirds of the way through the quizzes and I’ve had to give ten grades under 70. And some of these are such stupid mistakes! Like mixing up countries–I don’t expect you to be mixing up any countries by Thanksgiving break, honestly, but I’ll grudgingly allow it for something like Yemen and Oman, or Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. But Turkey and Saudi Arabia? No!”
Mike Wynn tried not to judge all the behaviors of other people, but it did make him awfully curious about what kind of man got shitfaced and then started to recite The Aeneid from memory. In Latin. In all his years as a bartender, he had to admit this one was a first.
“Just don’t throw yourself on an pyres,” Mike said as he pushed a glass of water at the man before him.
“Oh, we won’t let Nate here get hurt,” Poke said.
“That kid is legal right?” Mike asked.
Poke nodded as Nate sighed. “I’m thirty. No one believes me. Nooooo one knows the trouble I’ve seen,” he started to sing.
Mike tried not to laugh. He didn’t succeed one bit. “I think it’s water on the rocks for you the rest of the night.”
“Do you know why it’s ‘on the rocks’?” Nate asked. “Pretty sure it has something to do with the glass. I think.”
Mike nodded. “I think so too.” He wave at Poke. “Go back to your party. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Poke said.
Nate was running a finger through the condensation on his glass. “Water’s funny,” he said.
Mike, in all his years, had never been so charmed by a drunk with such a dramatic pout. It made him want to know what the kid was like sober.
“Did you know salt used to be more valuable than gold?” Nate asked.
“You always a walking Wikipedia?” Mike asked.
Nate ducked his head. “Oh, sorry.”
“No,” Mike said, leaning against the bar. “I like it. Keep going.”
“I’ll drive you.” Brad says it like there is no argument. Nate doesn’t even try to make one. He just smiles and agrees.
“No country music,” Nate winks.
It weird. Not weird. It has that quality of a day dream. The high way turning into a kind of endless haze in front of them. The desert baking the sky around them. Brad takes all the scenic routes. Nate puts on music that has a quality like techno but also the voices of longing and future wants.
They see the world’s largest ball of string.
Nate takes a picture on his cellphone. It’s a shit picture. It’s blurry and out of focus but Brad’s smile is in the screen and Nate’s eyes glow.
They get American Gods on tape at a Cracker Barrel.
“It’s about a road trip across America.” Nate explains. It’s about more than that. It’s about faith and love and all that shit. It’s about finding yourself in a car. It’s about accepting something you thought couldn’t exist.
Brad takes a detour to The House on the Rock. Nate buys post cards. They stand next to one another in a room filled with nothing but weird lamps.
Of course it’s the midwest when it happens. The fucking not middle of the country where the mountains and the desert are gone and the hills wont return until you can taste the Atlantic. Of course they are dead center in the corn belt. Of course the miles have helped them shed all the things they were holding onto.
When Brad had thought about it he had imagined something rushed and hurried and frantic. It’s nothing like that. It feels the same way the desert did out the windows. It feels infinite and hot and magical. Nate is mostly naked on top of him and they are laughing. He’s never had laughter int he middle of sex before. It’s amazing.
“England almost sounds like New England.” Brad teases when they start to smell the Atlantic. Nate turns on Coldplay in retaliation for the joke. It’s perfect.
Who told Stark he was allowed to be so pretty in the night scenes? Why are all the dark screencaps of Nate so god damn pretty? Who was okaying this shit?
Look at this shit. Like, Stark, there’s barely any light, you don’t have to be serving us so many pretty faces.
I know your eyes apparently catch the fucking moonlight or something, but can you cool it?
lookashiny 