L'Homme Nate – A GK AU in 1057 words.
Aug. 5th, 2009 03:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archive1. Is anybody else so excited to see Bryce Larkin Matt Bomer in White Collar that they're about to pass out?
2. I'm cluttering up L's LJ with Southland filth. She is being very tolerant,
This is an off-the-cuff ficlet for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shoshannagold. I'd tried to write you fisting, per L's suggestion, but that just didn't work out at ALL. Some places I just can't go. This is also for Nate, who is having one hell of a rough patch. I still love you, baby, even if you are currently being used ill.
Generation Kill
Alternate Universe
Nate, Brad
Nathaniel Fick is not a happy man. He's had what could only be called "a bad week".
For a start, he's supposed to be dead by an assassin's hand.
And the day before somebody put a bullet three centimeters from his head and blew up his car, his boyfriend announced that he was tired of being a secret and leaving Nate for his best friend. Who happens to be a girl.
The day before that Nate got recalled into active duty in the USMC, but since Nate's now presumed dead he guesses that that last part doesn't really count anymore.
What does count is that Nate's been in the same clothes for two days, because the lease was in Scott's name and he doesn't want to go home until he figures out why people are trying to kill him.
He's tired, hungry and very angry. And now, instead of finding out who tried to kill him and getting his man back, he's sitting on a bench in Central Park being offered a career change and cigarettes by some GQ model in a suit that probably costs more than Nate made in the last six months combined.
Nate casts a glance out the corner of his eye at the Viking sitting next to him and takes one of the proffered cigarettes. He doesn't smoke, but he lights up and takes a deep inhale anyway.
Apparently smoking kills your appetite and that's exactly what Nate needs right now. No, actually, what Nate needs is a shower, a steak and to borrow a sniper rifle from his friend Pappy and off that bitch. But. First things first.
"You don't smoke," the man says his lips turning up at the left corner. "And yet you took that. I don’t tend to like surprises, but..."
"But what?" Nate prompts the way he knows he's supposed to. He's not the slightest bit interested in this conversation, but somebody tried to kill him and Scott left him for Jenna; he's not thinking very clearly.
"But I find you amusing," the man says simply.
Nate snorts, the smoke escaping his nose in little white wisps. "Obviously my goal in life is to amuse you."
"It could be."
Nate studies the man in profile. He's not unattractive, if you think Michelangelo's David is the idea of perfection.
Nate inhales and feels the burn in his lungs. "As far as I can tell I'm supposed to be dead, so I don’t think a few cigarettes matter now, do you?"
"I don't know about that," the man says thoughtfully. "Being dead isn't necessarily a bad career choice. Think of all the things you can do now that you couldn't do before."
Nate rubs at the stubble dotting his chin. "Like what?"
A smile crosses the man's face. His teeth are too white. He reminds Nate of a shark. "Well, you could fuck me for a start," he says.
Nate pauses with the cigarette halfway to his mouth. "I don't fuck anyone until they buy me dinner. Fast food doesn't count."
"Loose morals, Mr. Fick," the man says approvingly, "are the hallmark of a good assassin."
"What exactly makes you think I have any interest in what you're offering me, Mister –?"
"Colbert. But you can call me Brad."
Nate ashes the cigarette on the bench and looks around. There are kids playing, joggers bouncing by, people walking dogs and living their lives. "I'm not sure I want to be on a first name basis with somebody who wants me to kill people for a living."
Colbert -- Brad -- smirks. "What exactly do you think you've been doing for your country all along?"
"That's different," Nate says irritably.
Brad turns a little and rests his arm on the back of the bench, his fingers coming to a stop 1/3 of an inch from Nate' shoulder. "You're right," he says. "We pay better."
"I'm not interested in money." Nate takes another inhale of the cigarette, his head swimming from nicotine and rat poison and probably crack considering how relaxed he feels right now. "I'm interested in finding out who tried to kill me."
Brad's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You're looking at him," he says blithely.
The cigarette falls from Nate's hand, bouncing off the bench and rolling into the grass. "You? Why?"
When Brad shrugs it pulls his suit jacket tight across his shoulders and opens the 'V' of his unbuttoned Oxford. "I wanted your attention."
"And you didn't think a meeting in the park would've sufficed?" Nate can feel the anger curling his fingers into fists.
"I'm sorry I didn't have time to court you properly," Brad mocks, "but the Corps screwed up my time table. I wanted you and so did they. I had to make I sure won."
"By nearly blowing my head off and destroying my car," Nate grits out. Every fiber in his being is screaming to either choke Brad Colbert to death or run until he hits the Atlantic Ocean and never turn back.
Brad leans in a little bit, his eyes are blue like the sky in June and Nate has to force himself not to lean in as well. "I did that job personally to make sure you didn’t get hurt," Brad says softly. "I want you on my team -- not dead in the city morgue."
"What if I don't want to be on your team?" Nate persists.
"That is not an option I'm afraid," Brad says. "If you come with me willingly you get a shower, dinner, a roof over your head, the best training even the US government can't afford and enough money to retire in five years if you're still alive then. Which I plan to ensure personally. Plus, if you ask nicely, I might even suck your cock."
Nate swallows. He could swear he was leaning back and not close enough to see the faded scars on Brad's forehead. The lines at the corners of his eyes. "And if I say no?"
Brad's too close now. When Nate licks his lips his tongue almost brushes against Brad's mouth. When Brad blinks, Nate can count his eyelashes.
"You don’t want to say no to me, Nate," Brad says. "Do you?"
Nate swallows.
Brad reaches out, rubs Nate's mouth with his thumb. "Yeah, I didn't think so."
-end-
So. This is forshoshannagold, because, well it is.
It is also forsparky77, who has been begging me for assassin!Nate for months. Where the hell is my sex pollen fic?
2. I'm cluttering up L's LJ with Southland filth. She is being very tolerant,
This is an off-the-cuff ficlet for
shoshannagold. I'd tried to write you fisting, per L's suggestion, but that just didn't work out at ALL. Some places I just can't go. This is also for Nate, who is having one hell of a rough patch. I still love you, baby, even if you are currently being used ill.Generation Kill
Alternate Universe
Nate, Brad
Nathaniel Fick is not a happy man. He's had what could only be called "a bad week".
For a start, he's supposed to be dead by an assassin's hand.
And the day before somebody put a bullet three centimeters from his head and blew up his car, his boyfriend announced that he was tired of being a secret and leaving Nate for his best friend. Who happens to be a girl.
The day before that Nate got recalled into active duty in the USMC, but since Nate's now presumed dead he guesses that that last part doesn't really count anymore.
What does count is that Nate's been in the same clothes for two days, because the lease was in Scott's name and he doesn't want to go home until he figures out why people are trying to kill him.
He's tired, hungry and very angry. And now, instead of finding out who tried to kill him and getting his man back, he's sitting on a bench in Central Park being offered a career change and cigarettes by some GQ model in a suit that probably costs more than Nate made in the last six months combined.
Nate casts a glance out the corner of his eye at the Viking sitting next to him and takes one of the proffered cigarettes. He doesn't smoke, but he lights up and takes a deep inhale anyway.
Apparently smoking kills your appetite and that's exactly what Nate needs right now. No, actually, what Nate needs is a shower, a steak and to borrow a sniper rifle from his friend Pappy and off that bitch. But. First things first.
"You don't smoke," the man says his lips turning up at the left corner. "And yet you took that. I don’t tend to like surprises, but..."
"But what?" Nate prompts the way he knows he's supposed to. He's not the slightest bit interested in this conversation, but somebody tried to kill him and Scott left him for Jenna; he's not thinking very clearly.
"But I find you amusing," the man says simply.
Nate snorts, the smoke escaping his nose in little white wisps. "Obviously my goal in life is to amuse you."
"It could be."
Nate studies the man in profile. He's not unattractive, if you think Michelangelo's David is the idea of perfection.
Nate inhales and feels the burn in his lungs. "As far as I can tell I'm supposed to be dead, so I don’t think a few cigarettes matter now, do you?"
"I don't know about that," the man says thoughtfully. "Being dead isn't necessarily a bad career choice. Think of all the things you can do now that you couldn't do before."
Nate rubs at the stubble dotting his chin. "Like what?"
A smile crosses the man's face. His teeth are too white. He reminds Nate of a shark. "Well, you could fuck me for a start," he says.
Nate pauses with the cigarette halfway to his mouth. "I don't fuck anyone until they buy me dinner. Fast food doesn't count."
"Loose morals, Mr. Fick," the man says approvingly, "are the hallmark of a good assassin."
"What exactly makes you think I have any interest in what you're offering me, Mister –?"
"Colbert. But you can call me Brad."
Nate ashes the cigarette on the bench and looks around. There are kids playing, joggers bouncing by, people walking dogs and living their lives. "I'm not sure I want to be on a first name basis with somebody who wants me to kill people for a living."
Colbert -- Brad -- smirks. "What exactly do you think you've been doing for your country all along?"
"That's different," Nate says irritably.
Brad turns a little and rests his arm on the back of the bench, his fingers coming to a stop 1/3 of an inch from Nate' shoulder. "You're right," he says. "We pay better."
"I'm not interested in money." Nate takes another inhale of the cigarette, his head swimming from nicotine and rat poison and probably crack considering how relaxed he feels right now. "I'm interested in finding out who tried to kill me."
Brad's eyes crinkle at the corners. "You're looking at him," he says blithely.
The cigarette falls from Nate's hand, bouncing off the bench and rolling into the grass. "You? Why?"
When Brad shrugs it pulls his suit jacket tight across his shoulders and opens the 'V' of his unbuttoned Oxford. "I wanted your attention."
"And you didn't think a meeting in the park would've sufficed?" Nate can feel the anger curling his fingers into fists.
"I'm sorry I didn't have time to court you properly," Brad mocks, "but the Corps screwed up my time table. I wanted you and so did they. I had to make I sure won."
"By nearly blowing my head off and destroying my car," Nate grits out. Every fiber in his being is screaming to either choke Brad Colbert to death or run until he hits the Atlantic Ocean and never turn back.
Brad leans in a little bit, his eyes are blue like the sky in June and Nate has to force himself not to lean in as well. "I did that job personally to make sure you didn’t get hurt," Brad says softly. "I want you on my team -- not dead in the city morgue."
"What if I don't want to be on your team?" Nate persists.
"That is not an option I'm afraid," Brad says. "If you come with me willingly you get a shower, dinner, a roof over your head, the best training even the US government can't afford and enough money to retire in five years if you're still alive then. Which I plan to ensure personally. Plus, if you ask nicely, I might even suck your cock."
Nate swallows. He could swear he was leaning back and not close enough to see the faded scars on Brad's forehead. The lines at the corners of his eyes. "And if I say no?"
Brad's too close now. When Nate licks his lips his tongue almost brushes against Brad's mouth. When Brad blinks, Nate can count his eyelashes.
"You don’t want to say no to me, Nate," Brad says. "Do you?"
Nate swallows.
Brad reaches out, rubs Nate's mouth with his thumb. "Yeah, I didn't think so."
-end-
So. This is for
shoshannagold, because, well it is. It is also for
sparky77, who has been begging me for assassin!Nate for months. Where the hell is my sex pollen fic?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-05 10:57 pm (UTC)...will there be more? *puppy-dog eyes*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-06 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-07 01:15 pm (UTC)And pee ess, I just saw the promo for White Collar and BRYCE LARKIN!!!!!!!!!! AS A CON MAN!!!! GLEEEEEEEEE!