Hi! I just reread Read You Lima Charlie for the millionth time. It's probably one of my favorite SEAL Buck fics, and I've combed through the whole tag multiple times. I know it's a bit of an older fic, but do you have any plans on continuing the AU somehow? I'd love to read more of that AU or hear your headcanons if you have any!
Hello hello! Thank you so much, you have no idea how excited I am to hear that! Please do feel free to ask any and all questions about the AU or my headcanons and I'd be more than happy to answer <3
I know it's been a hot minute (sorry heh work and life got a bit hectic) but I do have a draft of a fun little sequel sitting in my google docs which I've been writing on and off. Alas I am a perfectionist and also a slow writer so it's been in limbo.. BUT it is definitely there and almost done and will come out at some point! I hope!!
In the meantime thank you for reading and asking about it and being so patient and i love you so here's a little sneak peak action scene from the draft:
[tw graphic depictions of violence, blood/gore, death]
“Where’ve you been?” Steve’s eyes did a quick sweep over Buck’s body, analytical, checking for injuries. Noticed Buck’s empty hands. “Where’s your rifle?”
“I was doing the laundry!” Buck replied through gritted teeth, eyes wide with exasperation.
He looked back around the corner of the building as Steve spoke behind him; soldiers dragging off the wounded away from the blast site, his teammates spread around with the other troops and suppressing the flow of insurgents, a few enemy fighters slipping through the gaps in fire, spraying bullets into the base in wide sweeping arcs before being shot down.
“I don’t have a sidearm to give you. Head back to the armoury, grab your shit – give Command the sitrep on your way.”
Buck hummed in the affirmative, still scanning the combat zone, and was about to turn around and heed Steve’s instruction, but at the last moment caught sight of a combatant sneaking around behind a stack of crates. Slung over the man’s shoulder was a rocket launcher, and time seemed to slow as he swung the weapon around, gripped it tight, and levelled it at a cluster of infantrymen.
Buck saw red.
“Buckley!” Steve hissed, clawing at Buck’s sleeve in an attempt to stop him from sprinting towards the stray tango, but Buck slipped through his grip. He was too fast. Too focused. The last thing he heard was Steve muttering under his breath, “I swear that Kid is not right in the head.”
Planting a foot against a wall mid-run, Buck used his momentum to bound off and vault one-handed over the crates. He was airborne for half a second before colliding with his target in a spear tackle, bringing them both tumbling to the ground. The launcher clattered across the floor, and the two men engaged in a tangled mess of hand-to-hand combat.
Buck channelled his silent rage into the fight – got the large man into a grapple, caught an elbow to the mouth in the process, twisted the man’s arms as he yanked at Buck’s clothes. Buck had no gun. But he remembered, belatedly, that he did have a knife. Regrettably not one of his fixed-blades, but a folding knife that he had slipped into the pocket of his shorts a few days ago while rearranging his loadout. It would have to do.
The guy was a dirty fighter, strong, but he was sloppy. Poorly trained. More holes in his form than swiss cheese, and Buck fully intended to exploit them.
Buck ate a punch straight to his nose; didn’t let the sharp flash of pain or the momentary blur in his vision slow him down. He lunged straight for the opening in his opponent’s stance that he knew would be left undefended, torquing body mass and manipulating limbs to get the man into a one-armed chokehold against Buck’s chest. He quickly reached into his pocket with his free hand, flicked the lever to deploy the blade, and plunged it deep into the man’s neck right where Buck knew his jugular rested.
With a jerk of his arms, simultaneously pulling the knife towards himself and twisting the man’s head away, he was met with a spray of hot blood and a wet gurgle.
Steve rounded the crates with his weapon raised right as the body dropped to the ground with a dull thump. Buck hung his head, catching his breath from the exertion and letting the blood from the blows to his face drip from his nose and dribble out of his mouth. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip to cut off the string of bloody saliva, then spat out the viscous mess into the sand. Beside him, Steve strode forward, glanced down at the body, and exhaled sharply through his nose.
In his peripherals, Buck caught a flash of movement. He whirled around instinctively, and in the same motion whipped his arm and let the blood-slick knife fly out of his hand.
Two bullets from Steve’s rifle landed at the centre of the combatant's chest just a moment before Buck’s blade hit its mark, buried up to the hilt in the hollow of his throat. The man stumbled, eyes wide, and collapsed to the ground as his legs buckled beneath him. His weapon flew out of his hands in the fall, and his momentum carried his body a couple more feet before it finally slid to a twitching stop.
Buck straightened, scrunching his nose tentatively and sniffing. A deep buzzing sensation underscored the cacophony of battle around him, heartbeat steady and powerful in his core, fingertips thrumming with energy, vision crisp and vibrant. He blinked. Then, he turned to Steve, nonchalant.
“I had that.”
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The Remington 7188 fully-automatic 12ga. shotgun, seen here being held by a US Navy SEAL, during the Vietnam War.
An experimental weapon developed from the Remington 1100 series, the 7188 was often used with specially-developed N4 buckshot/flechette loads. It fired from an extended 8 round magazine, at a cyclic rate of 480 rounds per minute, and sported a bayonet mount.
It was highly susceptible to dirt and fouling, and had (predictably) very difficult to control recoil, even firing in short bursts.
Only a few dozen were built, and it was quickly withdrawn from service testing.
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U.S. Navy SEAL, Chris Kyle, takes a moment to pose for a photo with his sniper rifle during one of his four deployments to Iraq. He remains the deadliest sniper in American military history with 160 confirmed kills.
Kyle survived his 4 tours in Iraq, but would be killed at a Texas gun range on February 2, 2013, by a veteran he was trying to help overcome PTSD.
Fair winds and following seas, Legend. You will never be forgotten.
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