hackthis_archive | Generation Kill AU - Semper Fidelis Familia (Fick/Colbert, NC-17, 3/3)

Part I
Part II

Semper Fidelis Familia

Brad doesn't come back for the rest of the day. Or that night.

Nate doesn't eat. He doesn't leave the apartment either.

He watches a Futureweapons marathon on Discovery Channel in between sets on his pull-up bar, discarding his shirt when it rips during a particularly vicious set of chin-ups, and when the lactic acid build-up in his arms makes it hard to lift them, he gets down on his back and does sit-ups in his trousers and dress socks.

Futureweapons becomes Dirty Jobs becomes Mythbusters, and eventually he wears himself out.

A brief glance at the floor shows that the beer has soaked into the rug, there's a chip in the corner of the end table and a long crack running through the middle. The lamp is fine.

Nate leaves everything the way it is and goes to bed.

He doesn't expect to fall asleep, but he does.

When he wakes up, the sun is streaming through his windows and his belt has left an indentation in his stomach. The skin on his back is tight and itchy, and a glance in the mirror shows he's got friction burn along his spine from where the carpet rubbed his skin raw during his sit-ups.

It's a little after 10 a.m., and he can hear the TV still playing in the living room.

He's not expecting Brad to be there when he walks into the living room, but his stomach still sinks when there's no one sitting the sofa, fiddling with a laptop or oiling guns in ragged jeans.

And then Nate reminds himself that he was paying Brad to be there. Brad was his employee. Now, the contract has been terminated. End of story.

So, he turns on CNN, rights the overturned end table and pours out the flat beer in the sink. Then he throws his ruined shirt in the trash and gets in the shower. His spine protests the hot water, and his arms protest when he washes his hair. He keeps going though, because this is what he does, this is who he is. Nathaniel Ferrando Fick gets the job done. He follows orders; he toes the line. Nate is a soldier in his father's army and there's no room for dissent or vacillating or letting other people make sacrifices on his behalf.

He puts on his navy suit –- three-button -– a white shirt and no tie. When he's in charge there will be no more ties. And he will be in charge; this is his duty, and of this he is going to assure everyone.

He text messages Ray to pick him up in fifteen minutes, and then he stands in the kitchen, eating a Power Bar and drinking Gatorade, listening to the people on TV talking about how the world is ending. It's like being back in Afghanistan, but with better facilities.

He tucks the Beretta into his holster and it feels strange, as though he wasn't just carrying it two months ago. With Brad he didn't feel the need to carry, but never mind that.

His phone vibrates on the counter and Ray's name pops up. Nate puts the Gatorade back in the refrigerator, turns off the TV, grabs his keys and phone and leaves the apartment.

The Tahoe is idling on the curb, and in six steps Nate goes from his apartment to the SUV. He spots the Lincoln Town Car with blacked out windows on his third step, and then he remembers that Brad isn't at his side.

He climbs into the passenger seat in the front, and Ray eyes go wide. "Where's Brad?"

"Drive," Nate commands.

Ray streaks into traffic, cutting off several unhappy cars behind him. "Boss, what's going on?"

"Three cars back are people who would like to put you on the unemployment line, so keep driving until I say otherwise."

Ray gets paid very well to do this one thing, and true to form, he's worth every penny. Nate doesn't even have to tell him to head for the docks. Every now and then, Ray glances in the rearview mirror, but not once does he slow down, and soon enough, they're closing in on the industrial area. They're not trying to lose their tail, they're just trying to lead them some place they have the advantage. And for miles around the docks, they have the advantage.

"Here," Nate says, pointing towards an alley the Tahoe probably won't be able to fit in.

Ray takes the turn hard anyway, knocking off one of the side mirrors. Nate's already climbing into the back seat as Ray throws the car into park. Nate yanks a sawn-off shotgun from between two seats. They have thirty seconds, maybe less. Ray knocks him in the head with something hard. It's Lucy, of course. "Sorry, sir," he tosses back, dropping Lucy by Nate to climb into the furthest back row of seats.

Nate just grunts, but he dodges to the left when something long and olive green almost takes out his right eye. Unbefuckinglievable. "Ray, where the hell did you get a grenade launcher?"

Ray gives Nate his most winning smile, patting the heavy artillery gleefully. "Brad, Boss. I told you he's the man."

Nate can disapprove later, right now he'd just like to get out of this alive. "You can wax your dick with it later," he orders, holding out his hands for the inevitable RPG. Ray hands him three. The Marines wish they were this prepared.

"It's so pretty," Ray says, checking the launcher and settling it on his shoulder.

"As long as we're not so pretty dead," Nate says, carefully sliding in the RPG just as the hood of a black Town Car comes into view.

"Wait," Nate orders as Ray's finger settles on the trigger.

"Wait to be dead?!" Ray demands.

"Wait," Nate promises. The Town Car inches forward; Nate knows their line of sight is blocked by the corner of the alley. Just another few inches, Nate just needs to see the edge of the windshield. And there it is.

"FIRE!" Nate hollers, and the launcher goes off, shattering the back window of the Tahoe.

Oh well, can't remember everything.

Nate's cell starts vibrating in his inside pocket while Ray's tucking away the RPG launcher in the back. Nate's driving at the moment, and they're speeding away from a flaming fireball at a rather accelerated and guilty pace.

"Talk to me," he barks, hitting speakerphone.

"Nate?" It's Bryan.

"I was just thinking about you," Nate quips. In the rearview mirror he can see Ray eying him curiously. Nate scowls, and Ray goes back to covering the launcher. "Actually, I was going to call you," he corrects.

"That sounds ominous," Bryan says.

"Ominous is a good word," Nate agrees.

"We have a family meeting," Bryan offers.

In the rearview mirror, Ray's knocking the loose glass away and taping a plastic sheet over the missing back window. "Okay. We also have a clean up in aisle nine," Nate says evenly.

Bryan's quiet. "Nine? You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"I'll send Poke and Rudy right now."

"Tell Godfather I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Nate—"

Nate snaps the phone closed, glances once more at Ray's head of dark hair and presses the accelerator just that little bit harder.

Sixta and Pappy are waiting on the curb when Nate pulls up, although 'pull up' may be the wrong term for it. He slows down enough for Ray to jump out and Pappy to jump in. John trots alongside as Nate gives once last glance at the car's interior.

"Boy, this ain't a fucking military goodbye, get the hell out the car," Sixta demands. Nate opens the door when John drops back and then jumps out. He hits the ground running, it's a moving car after all. He doesn't look back as Sixta and Pappy take off to dispose of the car.

Ray's waiting on the sidewalk, and Garza and Bryan are standing on the porch. Nate claps Ray on the back. "Nice job, Ray."

"Thanks, sir," Ray says, tossing Nate a grin.

"Have Mike get you whatever you want to replace the Tahoe."

Ray stops in his tracks. "Whatever I want, sir?"

"No Hummers."

"Boss, I want a real car, not a piece of shit."

Nate laughs. "Understood."

Nate jogs up the stairs to where Bryan is waiting. "You don’t look like someone just tried to kill you," Bryan quips following Nate into the house.

"Reports of my demise are a little premature," Nate chuckles over his shoulder as they pass the living room. For a second he thinks he sees someone tall and blonde – Brad – studying some of his school pictures, but that's just the adrenaline talking. That's just wishful thinking.

The door to his father's study is open, and Nate and Bryan stop automatically in the doorway. Godfather is behind his desk, studying something before him. Leaning over his shoulder is the family attorney, Evan Wright.

Nate cuts a look towards Bryan. Wright only comes to the house twice a year: for Godfather's birthday and Thanksgiving. All other business is conducted on the telephone. Nate's father doesn't look up when he addresses them. "Boys, shut the door and have a seat."

And for the second time in as many days, Nate finds himself on the line for doing what he's been trained to do his entire life. Wright and his father are talking about something very quietly, and Nate isn't straining his ears to hear. Of course not.

"You can stop eavesdropping now," his father announces, and every vertebra in Nate's back creaks to attention, the raw skin along his spine pulling tightly in protest.

"Congratulations, gentlemen," Wright says, pointing to something that Godfather signs with a flourish. "I wish somebody would make me this rich."

"Mr. Wright," Godfather warns.

"Sorry, sir," Wright apologizes.

Once again, Nate gets the feeling that he's been left out of something important. A glance at Bryan shows that same impassivity that's served him so well for as long as Nate's known him.

Wright comes from around the desk with a set of blue papers. "If you could both just sign here," he says, setting the papers on the coffee table in front of them, flipping to the back of several pieces of paper and handing them an overpriced fountain pen.

Bryan doesn't even glance at what he's signing, and Nate, well, he's not in this for the money; it's never been about that.

Wright drops two business cards in front of them. "I'll be contacting you later in the week to go over the specifics, but if you have any questions in the meantime, please don't hesitate to contact me."

Wright slips the papers into a briefcase, closing it with a snap. "I know when it's time for me to go. Sir, gentlemen, it's a pleasure as always," he says, before letting himself out.

It's only after the door has shut that Nate turns back to his dad. "Okay, what did I just sign?"

His father snorts. "Don't you think you should've asked that before you signed it, Nate?"

"But you signed it," Nate protests.

"And do you do everything I tell you to?"

Nate doesn't think of Brad. Instead, he glances over at Bryan, whose mouth appears to be twitching at one corner. "Yes," Nate admits.

"Well, you should stop that," his dad says. "I raised you to be your own man, if I want a flunky I have plenty already."

Nate blinks. "Sir?"

His father is smirking at him. There's no other word for it. "Maybe it's because someone just tried to kill me," Nate counters, "but I feel like I missed a part of the conversation."

His father's smirk falls away for a moment. "I heard. Are you okay, son?"

"I'm fine," Nate brushes if off, "confused, but fine."

"Would you care to tell him, Bryan?" his father queries.

"Sir, I think you should tell him," Bryan replies, "because I'm not sure I quite understand it myself."

Godfather chuckles and gets up from his desk. "Gentlemen," he says, walking around the desk and dropping into the arm chair across from them. "I have just signed over 50% of everything Bravo owns to your joint partnership."

"Our joint partnership," Nate parrots slowly.

"Son, you keep telling me you think Bryan can run the business, so now you're going to prove it to me."

Nate balks. "I am?"

"All captains and soldiers will report to you, both of you, and in return you'll report to me. Bryan will take care of all of the transportation contracts, and you will continue to handle the docks; you seem to be quite adept at it. Bryan will oversee daily ops, but all decisions must be made by you as a team. Any fuckups and I'll hold you both responsible, are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." Bryan's face slides into a broad smile, Nate just blinks in shock.

He. They. What?

Nate rubs his forehead; his father's smirking at him again. "Bryan, would you give us a minute?"

"Of course, sir." Bryan stands up and Nate stands too. Bryan offers his hand and Nate shakes it before pulling Bryan into a hug and clapping him hard on the back.

"You're in it now," Nate mocks with a smile.

Bryan laughs. "If I'm going down, you're coming with me."

Nate claps Bryan once more on the back and then steps aside to let him pass. If Nate could've chosen his brother he would've chosen Bryan over Craig, but this is just as good.

After Bryan shuts the door behind him, Nate sits back down. "What made you do this?" he asks bluntly.

His father just raises an eyebrow. "You did."

"I did?"

"Nate, you don't want to be don, you never have." His father sounds like Brad. Or Brad sounds like his dad. He wants to know whose idea this really was, but he can't ask. He just –

"But you wanted me to be. I was coming here today – "

His father holds up his hand for silence. "Son, you may have kids one day, or maybe you won't, but one of great things about kids is watching them become their own people. And sometimes – most times -- they aren't going to do what you want them to do, but they're not you, and you can't change that, you can only help them become themselves."

Nate doesn't know what to say.

His father carries on. "I've talked it over with John and Evan, and decided that when I retire -- which isn't happening anytime soon, son, so don't get any ideas -- that if you still don't want to be in charge then Bryan will be the head of the family."

"Oh."

"That's all I get? Oh."

"Thank you?" Nate offers.

His dad laughs. "I can't even get a hug? Who taught you to be so stingy?"

Nate steps over the coffee table -– something his mom hated -– and hugs his dad hard. "You know Craig's going to lose his shit," Nate warns, pulling back to give his dad a dry look.

His father snorts. "You just make sure Brad's at my disposal when I need him; you leave your brother to me."

Nate can feel his entire body tense. "Was this your idea, dad?"

His dad claps him on the shoulder. "You think I couldn't think this up on my own?"

"No, I know you could've, I just –-"

"You think I might've needed some incentive."

"I wasn't implying that, sir."

His father smirks at him. Again. "Brad's a good man, son."

Nate bites his lip. "Yeah, I know."

A good man who was willing to sell himself to the family for Nate. Jesus Christ.

Lilley and Ray drive Nate home, and when Ray attempts to get out of the car behind him, Nate waves him off. "I think we've had enough attempts on my life for one day," Nate explains.

"Yeah, but, Boss," Ray protests, "what if they try again?"

Nate claps Ray on the shoulder. "Just think of all the shiny cars in your future if they do."

"Yeah, but Brad said—" Ray cuts himself off. "Nate, seriously, be careful. I mean if anything happens to you…"

And there Ray goes calling him 'Nate' again. It… works. "I'll be fine, Ray. Really."

Ray looks dubious. "Call me when you get in the apartment." Nate raises an eyebrow. "Or not," Ray offers.

Nate takes the stairs, chuckling to himself the whole time. You get shot at with people a few times and they suddenly become very protective. Maybe he never did leave the Corps after all.

Once he's in the apartment, it takes him a minute to realize that something's wrong. The TV's playing and he's pretty sure he turned it off before he left. And okay, maybe he's wrong and he didn't turn it off, because he didn't sleep well last night and he got shot at this morning and he's not going to have to be don if he doesn't want to be, but his parents didn't raise him to be stupid.

He pulls the Beretta out of his shoulder holster and flicks off the safety, slowly walking down the hall. He fires off the shot in surprise, putting a hole in the wall the size of an orange. Hopefully nobody heard that.

Brad eyes him warily from the sofa. "Hello to you, too."

Nate flicks the safety back on and sets the gun on the coffee table. "I feel like we've been here before."

"There was less shooting last time," Brad points out.

"I thought you'd gone."

Brad's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Why would I do that?"

"I gave you an order."

Brad licks his lips. "You ordered me to get out; you never said I couldn't come back."

Nate's watching Brad's mouth, so it takes him a minute to process Brad's words. He shakes his head. "God, you're an asshole."

Brad stretches, the tee shirt he's wearing showing a sinful expanse of stomach. "I'm sorry, are you talking to me or some religious phantom being? You know society's been fucked ever since the first sacrifice, right?"

When Nate says, "Shut up, Brad," Brad smirks even more.

Nate narrows his eyes and Brad just watches, a smug upturn to his mouth. The smile obligates Nate to jump him. It really does. One minute he's standing in the middle of his living room and the next he's all over Brad like a MOPP suit, licking his way inside Brad's mouth and pushing up Brad's shirt and stroking his chest.

Brad makes these pleased noises in the back of his throat as he yanks at Nate's jacket, and the buttons make little 'pop!' noises when Brad rips his shirt.

Nate pulls back to breathe and Brad wraps his hands around Nate's waist and holds him in, his fingers pressing bruises into Nate's skin. "I've been hired to protect you from everybody, and that if means including you, you can deal with it."

"I don't need you," Nate scoffs, "I blew up a car today."

Brad blinks. "You what?"

"Okay, Ray blew it up. Thanks for the RPGs in the car, by the way."

Brad scowls. "So, that's what Bryan wouldn't tell me about."

It's Nate's turn to look displeased. "You were at the house today, weren't you?"

Brad shrugs. "Do you really think you could get rid of me now?"

Nate continues to glower.

Brad sighs. "You're still upset with me I take it."

"Like you wouldn’t fucking believe," Nate pauses. "But thanks anyway."

Brad raises an eyebrow, Nate just rolls his eyes.

"Speaking of fucking," Brad says, letting go of Nate and pulling his own shirt over his head. "My bandage came off in the shower and then my stitches just magically disappeared."

Nate puts his head down on Brad's shoulder. Brad's skin is warm against Nate's forehead, and he smells like soap and deodorant. "You took out your own stitches?"

Nate can feel it when Brad shrugs. "They were itchy. And they were keeping me from having sex. Warriors don’t get stitches."

Nate lifts his head. "And that's what you are, a warrior?"

"I protect my tribe."

"Your tribe," Nate mocks.

Brad shrugs again. "Our tribe, happy now?"

"Uh huh. And how do warriors feel about fucking the boss?"

"We're all for it, sir."

"You kill me with the 'sir'" Nate complains. "That's supposed to be a sign of respect, not a porn invite."

"Maybe for other people," Brad says thoughtfully, even as he's pushing Nate back on the sofa. Nate rolls away deftly and gets up. Brad frowns as Nate tosses his jacket at Brad. And then his shoulder holster. And his ruined shirt.

Brad's face brightens when Nate unfastens his pants, pushes them down and kicks them off. "I thought strippers needed music."

Nate pauses in taking off his socks. "My knees are all fucked up from getting shot at, I have friction burn on my back from sit-ups, and Lucy nearly gave me a concussion; there is no fucking way I'm having sex on the sofa, so I can fall off and get killed by the coffee table."

"Who the hell is Lucy?" Brad demands, standing up and dropping all of Nate's clothes on the floor.

Nate smirks. "Ray's AK-47."

"I think about fucking you all the time. When we're running, when you're working; you are so fucking hot when you're ordering people around. I keep wanting to fuck you in the Tahoe, but I think it might upset Ray."

Brad's talking to Nate, but Nate's having some trouble paying attention, because his hands are tangled in the sheets and he can't figure out if he needs to move forward or move backward or if he's just going to come right now.

On one hand, Brad's got two slick, thick fingers up Nate's ass and he's fucking Nate's brains out with them. On the other hand, Brad's mouthing Nate's ear and telling him all kinds of shit that Nate probably doesn't need to know.

Okay, he needs to know it, but it's going to make leaving the apartment really difficult from now on.

And on the third hand, Nate might have teeth marks down his spine from Brad. And on the fourth hand there are the hickeys he probably has all over his neck and the scratches he's left on Brad's back.

Too many hands, unless he counts Brad’s too.

Nate makes a particularly undignified noise when Brad's fingers brush his prostate, and Brad licks his ear. "C'mon, Nate," he coaxes. "You are so fucking tight for me. I can feel it; you want me to fuck you."

Nate has to turn his head to kiss Brad just to shut him up, and when Brad growls in the back of his throat Nate can feel it all the way down to his dick. When he pulls back, Brad's mouth is wet and swollen and all Nate wants to do is lick it. He lunges at Brad because he can't support himself on his hands and knees anymore. Well, he can, he just doesn't want to.

Brad rolls on his back awkwardly, his fingers slipping out of Nate as Nate straddles his hips.

Brad's opens his mouth to complain, but Nate covers it with his left hand. "You have to fucking shut up," he orders, wrapping his right hand around his cock and jerking himself off rapidly. "You keep fucking talking and I can't fucking think."

Brad licks his palm and Nate grunts, pulling his hand away. His orgasm is way ahead of him on the curve, and then Brad's hand wraps around his and three strokes later Nate's coming all over Brad's chest and all over their hands.

It hits him like a blow to kidneys. He can't breathe and his brain shorts out. He curls over Brad's chest, panting harshly for air until Brad's mouth covers his and he can't breathe again. Brad's tongue flickers against his, and Nate moans softly.

He pulls back when spots appear behind his eyelids, and when he opens his eyes, Brad's fingers are brushing over the come on his stomach. He groans again when Brad licks at his own fingers.

"You're just doing that to kill me," Nate grumbles, collapsing on the bed next to Brad. "You've been sent by my brother. I know the truth now."

"That's right," Brad taunts, climbing over Nate. "I'm going to fuck you to death." Nate moans as Brad nudges him. "C'mon, up."

"Fuck," Nate sighs, getting back on his hands and knees.

"Exactly," Brad promises, nipping the side of Nate's neck briefly.

Nate rests his head on the bed as Brad moves above him, the sound of the night stand opening and closing and foil ripping making his intentions clear. And then Brad's mouth is on his neck and his shoulder blades and his spine, and Nate exhales hard when the head of Brad's cock pushes inside him.

Brad's fingers stroke his back. "Nate."

And that's it. No 'please', no 'c'mon', no dirty talk, just Brad saying his name makes Nate open up completely, and Brad curses loudly as his hips slap against Nate's ass.

Nate's entire body snaps to attention. "Brad, if you don't hurry up, I'm going to fucking fall asleep and you'll have to wait until tomorrow," Nate promises. It's only when Brad pulls out and then slams back in that Nate thinks he probably shouldn't have said that.

And then Nate's not thinking about much of anything, because Brad's fingers are digging into his hips, and Brad's yanking him back at the same time that Nate's pushing back and the bed starts quaking underneath them. Every thrust disorients Nate a little more until the only words he knows are 'fuck,' 'harder' and 'Brad.'

Nate's arms shake with the burn of holding him up once again, and the sheets rip under his fingers as he tries to get a decent grip. Every time Brad pulls out, Nate feels the loss, and every time he thrusts back in, Nate's entire body shudders.

All Nate can hear is the slick slap of skin meeting skin and the two of them breathing loudly, and then Brad curls around Nate's back, and he's panting in Nate's ear. Nate's vision goes a little blurry when Brad's hand wraps around his cock, because he's really not going to come again. Really. Except for when he does.

"Jesus fuck, Brad!" Nate doesn't know if he's complaining or dying and then Brad's coming, and Nate's arms totally give up. Nate wouldn't say he blacks out, but he definitely isn't coherent for some time.

Eventually, he crawls under the sheets because Brad's pushing at him and Brad is nothing if not persistent. Brad has indeed fucked him to death. Or at least exhaustion. He makes a noise when Brad curls an arm around his waist. "No more now. Later."

Brad snorts and Nate opens one eye. Brad's watching him with a huge grin on his face. Nate groans. "No. Later."

"Did you know there's a bet about us getting together?"

Nate's other eye opens. "There's a what?"

"Ray told me about it."

Nate narrows his eyes. "Ray put money on us hooking up? Ray's fired."

"No, Poke wouldn't let him; apparently he has an unfair advantage."

Nate rubs at his face. "Okay, I stand corrected, Poke's fired."

Brad's fingers tighten on Nate's waist. "Have I told you how hot you are when you're being bossy?"

Nate gives up. Really. "Brad?"

Brad shifts closer, his head almost migrating onto Nate's pillow. "Nate."

Nate sighs. "Shut up and go to sleep."

Brad promptly closes his eyes. "Anything you want, sir."

-End-

I would like to thank

sparky77 for throwing concepts at my head to see what would stick, and then holding me at gun point until this stuck. Happy Birthday, sweetie, I hope this was everything you were hoping for and a lot more.

I would also like to thank

serialkarma for beta duty, because anybody can beta a fandom they know, but it takes someone who really loves you to say, "Yeah, I'll beta a 60 page story in some fandom I don’t know. Be happy I like your ass." You are made of awesome, sweetie. Thank you.

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