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hackthis_archive) wrote2010-04-07 10:43 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2010-04-07 10:43 am
Entry tags:
Generation Kill AU – You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You (Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, NC-17, 3/4
Part I
Part II
You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You
Somewhere between dinner and dessert, Nate finally makes eye contact and offers a tentative smile. Brad leans in and refills the glass of wine he's been plying Nate with for almost an hour. "Why did you go to work for Section?" he asks.
Nate seems to mull this over for a moment. "Because I wanted to be a Marine."
"So did I."
"I know. That's part of why I chose you."
Brad shouldn't be surprised at this point; Nate knows everything. He probably knows that Brad's cock curves slightly to the left. "And you got to Section how? Did you get lost on the way to enlist at the recruiting station?"
"No, not quite." Brad waits for Nate to continue. "I did OCS. I did TBS. When they asked us where we wanted to go I said I wanted to join the infantry, so they sent me to Afghanistan. When we got back I was sent to Washington."
"Trust the military to fuck up simple directions."
Nate looks at Brad for a long time; his gaze is disarming. "So, you're still a Marine?" Brad prompts.
"I'll always be a Marine," Nate says, "but they discharged me so they could rehire me as a civilian contractor. It's the same with everyone else in Section. Everyone is military, we're just not recognized as a part thereof."
"Plausible deniability."
Nate snorts.
Brad gets up from the table and retrieves the leftover chocolate cake. He grabs two forks and sets the cake down on the table between them. "And now you're here with me," he says, forking a huge chunk of cake.
"Pretty much."
"You must've really pissed somebody off to get me," Brad teases.
"Apparently I've been known to do that from time to time," Nate admits ruefully.
Brad can't help but look at Nate's bruised face. Nate sips at his wine.
"Section made me an offer. I could stay in the infantry and hope against hope that my commander wasn't a fucking idiot who would get my men killed, or I could make a team of my own where I got to pick everyone and know they were the best."
"But you'd still have to deal with Management."
"Yeah, I didn't think that one through as well as I could've. But the offer was amazing. Bravo Section was brand new. Shiny. Untested. Something I could make on my own."
"Which is why I'm your first asset."
"Exactly."
Brad licks a smear of frosting from his fork. "What if I decide I don't want to do this?"
"I'm not sure if you have much choice."
"You mean you'd kill me."
"No," Nate sets down his glass.
Brad pauses with his fork in the air. "Even if Management told you to?"
"I don't want to kill you."
Brad's expression is twisted. "I've wanted a lot of things, Nate; I didn't get most of them."
Nate licks a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. "Maybe you should."
Brad stares at Nate for long seconds, but Nate's not giving anything away anymore. Brad would probably be disappointed if he did. "We all have to make sacrifices," he says carefully.
Nate shrugs. "Maybe it's time we stopped making quite so many."
Brad shakes his head. This conversation is operating on too many levels. "Do you have a tattoo?" he asks after several moments.
Nate's smile is crooked, beautiful. "Yes."
Brad nods and goes back to the cake.
Things return to normal the following day. Or as normal as things ever seem to get for Brad these days. He spends the morning at the range, the afternoon studying and the evening training with Nate.
At the end of the week, Nate wakes him up in the middle of the night. Again. "I have a present for you," he says, flipping on the lights.
Brad grunts, rubbing at his eyes. Nate's fully dressed, but his hair is still mussed from sleep. There are lines on the side of his face and his mouth is puffy. "Does this present involve somebody sucking my cock?" Brad asks.
Nate laughs. "Not quite."
Brad rolls over and pulls the comforter over his head. "Then I'm not interested," he mumbles into his pillow.
A split second later, the comforter is yanked away and Brad's entire naked form is exposed for all and sundry. "You could've just asked nicely," he says, looking over his shoulder at Nate standing there comforter in hand.
"If you want nice, you came to the wrong man," Nate says. "Now meet me downstairs in five minutes."
Brad would bet his $438,581.03 in savings that Nate looked at his ass.
Nate's present is a rifle. Actually, Nate's present is two rifles.
"There are a couple thousand different types of rifles, but for your purposes there are military rifles and law-enforcement rifles," Nate says, pointing to each of the rifles lying on the counter. "Most of your work is going to be with LEO rifles. They're built for accuracy. Good for middle distance. They're heavier, but they're a better quality."
"Since when do the police go for quality?"
"Since they're not contracting with the lowest bidder."
"Ah."
"Military rifles like the M40 are great for durability. If you were at war it'd be fine, you can pack it, you can carry it, you can clean it. But here you have Walt for maintenance. And it helps that we're not expecting any shamals this week. Or ever."
"So the military rifles are shit?"
"Not shit. If your covering serious distance you want an M40. If you have to blow up a truck you'll need an anti-materiel rifle, but we'll deal with that later."
"Okay, back up. Walt's going to do maintenance? I thought he was a lab geek."
"He's that, too."
"So what does his shadow do?"
"Ray takes care of practical matters."
Brad loves that Nate knows exactly who he's referring to when he mentions Walt's shadow.
"Ray takes care of 'practical matters'?" Brad repeats. "Should that fill me with as much ball-shriveling fear as it does?"
Nate grins. "Yeah, it should."
The following days are some of the longest ones Brad can remember. He trains with both rifles and all three sidearms. He's still expected to study the nations of the world and keep up with his language skills. For two days running, he's only allowed to talk in French and he doesn't have the vocabulary to explain that the recoil in the M40 is killing his shoulder, but he can quote L'Étranger at length.
On Sunday Nate starts supplementing the rappelling, running and trampoline jumping with timing how long Brad can hold his breath underwater.
The next week, they start engaging in hand-to-hand combat, which really just seems to entail lots of wrestling, grunting and tackling on the back lawn as the sun sets and the mosquitoes attack.
Every day Brad finds new bruises on his body. He hasn't been this beat up since they left D.C.
According to the newspapers they've been in Linthicum about two months. Brad doesn't miss Section at all, but he sort of misses Ray's sense of humor and Poke's treatises on The Man. He wouldn't trade Nate for either of them, but he thinks about them all the same. More often than not when he's out running with Nate.
Sometimes he writes computer code in his head while panting for breath. Sometimes Brad thinks of nothing more than, "Jesus fuck, are we done yet?"
On the day that Brad's thinking of Nate's tattoo, the steak he wants for dinner and the beer waiting for him back at the house, the sky opens up when they're about five miles from the house and a torrential downpour begins.
"It's raining," he says, brushing the water out of his eyes as Nate picks up their pace.
"I hadn't noticed," Nate says blithely.
Brad elbows him in the ribs.
They're soaked when they get back to the house. Actually, no. Whatever they are is worse than soaked. On the verge of drowning perhaps. They ditch sopping sneakers and socks at the kitchen door. Brad drags a drenched shirt over his head, it drips all over his fingers and the floor.
Nate keeps his shirt on, but Brad can see the black smudge of his tattoo where the shirt is plastered to his chest. "Do you want me to make dinner?" Brad asks.
Nate blinks up at him, raindrops caught in his eyelashes. "I didn't know you could cook."
"I can also tie my own shoes and count to five," Brad says.
"You never said anything before," Nate protests. "Why the hell have I been doing all the cooking?"
Brad shrugs. "You were doing so well, I figured why bother."
"Fine. From now on you do all the cooking."
"Wait, I didn't agree to that."
"Too late," Nate says, turning in the puddle he's made on the floor and heading for the foyer. "And I want brownies for dessert," he calls.
"You'll be happy with what you get," Brad hollers back.
Brad walks over to the fridge, scratching idly at a mosquito bite on his forearm. He opens the refrigerator door to study the contents and then something occurs to him. He looks around the door at the kitchen table to make sure he saw what his subconscious tells him he saw.
There are keys resting by the pepper grinder. Several of them. One of them looks like a car key.
Wright must be around.
And he left his keys.
Brad could take them. He could leave right now.
Brad shuts the door, walks over to the table and studies the keys more intently. He sneezes and the keys are still there. And then he looks up because he can feel Nate's eyes on him. "Did you know those were there?"
Nate licks his lips. "Yeah. Yes."
"And you left them here with me."
"Yes."
"I could've left."
"I know."
"And you were going to let me leave."
"I hoped you wouldn't."
Brad tries to process all this information. It's complicated by Nate coming towards him. He stops right next to Brad and Brad turns to meet him.
Nate's watching him, and Brad's watching Nate watching him. This goes on for quite some time.
Brad can feel heat in his toes and his face and his groin. He knows he's cold and wet. It all seems superfluous. This is not what he thought was going to happen to him.
Nate's hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Brad reaches out and pushes some of it to the side. Nate's skin shouldn't feel this feverish; he exhales a little noise when Brad touches him.
Nate swallows; Brad waits.
"Chicken would be good." Nate breaks the silence. "For dinner."
Brad nods. "Okay."
And then Nate turns around and walks away.
Nate doesn't wake Brad up at four in the morning. Or at five. Or at six.
By seven, Brad's tired of pretending to sleep.
He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and goes down the hall to Nate's bedroom. He knocks on the door. There's no answer, so he looks inside, but the room is empty. The bed is made and everything is in its right place, which means apart from reading material on the nightstand, it looks uninhabited.
Brad scrubs his hand through his hair and takes the stairs to the first floor briskly.
Nate's sitting at the kitchen table reading a book, a protein shake in his hand and half a carrot-cake muffin on the plate in front of him.
Brad doesn't think twice about dropping down into the seat next to Nate and eating what's left of his muffin. "You didn't wake me up for our run this morning."
Nate glances up. "I thought you might like to sleep in for a change."
Brad pulls the protein shake out of Nate's hand, takes a liberal swallow and frowns. "It needs more bananas. And since when do you let me sleep in?"
"Since I like to keep you guessing."
Brad laughs softly. "It's working." Nate nods, his eyes focused on his book. "What?" Brad says. Nate keeps reading. Brad puts his hand down on the page. "Nate, what?"
When Nate looks up, Brad can see the circles under his eyes. He looks tired. Resigned. "You're going to take a test today."
"It's not a running test, is it?" Brad teases.
Nate's smile is small. "No."
"Is it my countries test, because I'm only up to the Spratly Islands."
Nate's smile grows a little. "No."
"Archery?"
"Definitely not."
"Okay, then I'll be fine."
"I hope so."
Nate's being vague; that hasn't happened in a long time. Brad can feel something like worry stirring in the back of his mind. "Is there anything else I'm supposed to do today besides this test?" he prods.
"No, go enjoy yourself. Swim, sleep, read. I'll let you know when it's time." Nate pries Brad's hand away from his book and goes back to reading.
Apparently Brad is dismissed.
Brad studies Nate for a long time before he gets up to make his own breakfast.
Around three in the afternoon, Nate comes and collects Brad from the pool. He's got an apple in one hand and a Heckler & Koch rifle in the other. "It's time for your test."
"Are you trying to make this sound ominous or is that just a bonus?" Brad says, pushing himself out of the pool. Water sluices down his body as he grabs a towel and dries himself perfunctorily.
Nate makes a noncommittal sound and hands Brad the rifle.
Brad takes it easily, tucking the butt into the crook of his arm and following Nate down the steps of the terrace and into the yard. He quickens his pace a little to catch up to Nate.
Nate's focusing on the horizon. "This is called the Newton Test."
Brad nods. "Catchy. What do I do?"
"Shoot the apple."
"Easy enough."
Nate glances over at Brad. "From the top of my head."
Brad stops walking. "What?"
Nate stops, too, and turns towards Brad. "I'll be one hundred yards away."
Brad not prone to getting unnerved. Or he wasn't before he met Nate. "No."
"I didn't ask your opinion."
Brad starts to feel agitated all the same. "I won't do it."
"Then Management will come out here tomorrow and kill us both for wasting their time."
Nate doesn't look happy. He looks miserable.
Brad can feel every muscle in his body tensing. "I want it noted in the record that I object strenuously to doing this."
"So noted," Nate agrees before turning away.
Nate takes a step and Brad grabs his elbow and spins him back around.
When Brad kisses Nate it's not graceful or perfect. He's a little off center and a little angry and a lot afraid, but it's the sentiment that counts. The press of two sets of chapped lips, and the way that Nate's fingers curl around Brad's neck, stroking the nape.
Brad licks at the seam of Nate's mouth, seeking entrance, but Nate refuses to give it.
He won't let Brad in.
It takes Nate a few moments to extract himself from Brad, since Brad's not really interested in letting him go. His teeth graze Nate's lower lip aggressively before Nate finally shoves him back and keeps walking away.
Nate walks like a soldier, upright and tall. Proud. And straight into the glare of the sun.
Brad counts the steps, waiting until Nate stops and turns around, and then he shoulders the rifle. Through the sights, Brad watches Nate hold the apple out so Brad can target it, and then he places it on top of his head.
For a moment, Brad's distracted from the red of the apple by the crimson on Nate's lip. There's just one drop of blood, which Nate swipes at with his tongue, smearing it. Brad's eyes cross briefly.
The rifle feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and Brad's fingers seem slippery and untrained as he focuses his sights and centers the cross-hairs on his target.
And then the wind starts blowing, ruining all of his adjustments. Brad lowers the rifle.
"Nate," he calls.
"Just fucking do it, Brad!" echoes sharply across the lawn.
Brad sets his rifle into the crook of his shoulder, this time his fingers are steady. If this is what he's going to do then he has to be able to do it under the most extreme circumstances imaginable. This is what Nate told him. These are those circumstances.
In his sights he sees Nate, green eyes shining, jaw set, and then Brad focuses on the apple sitting on top of messy hair that's sandy brown one minute and strawberry blond the next.
He pulls the trigger the moment after he exhales.
They have steak for dinner. It's so rare it's practically raw. Brad prepares russet potatoes and broccoli to go with it and sets two bottles of red wine on the table. After dinner, they set up the board for chess, but Nate ends up reading aloud from The Decameron instead.
Brad doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes up with his head in Nate's lap and Nate's fingers rubbing his scalp. It feels perfect, like this is how Brad's life should be all the time. Brad shifts around, curling his hand around Nate's neck and tugging him down to kiss, but Nate just pulls away and gives Brad a shake of his head.
"You should go to bed," he says.
Brad's sure he looks as irate as he feels. "Did I miss something in the last couple hours?" he says, sitting up. "I'm pretty sure I kissed you today and you were okay with it."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes." No.
Nate closes the book and studies Brad intently for several moments. Brad's completely clothed, but he feels horribly exposed. Nate's looking at him, through him.
He may find Brad lacking.
"We're going home tomorrow," Nate says eventually.
That doesn't answer Brad's question, but it explains a whole lot.
Brad wakes up at six in the morning under his own steam. He pulls on his running gear and opens the door to his room. Nate's sitting on the second floor stairs tying his shoelaces. He looks up at Brad and Brad feels an ache deep in his chest.
They take their run silently. The fog is low on the ground and it makes it hard to see the rocks and branches underfoot. When they get back Nate makes two protein shakes and gives one to Brad. "Be ready to leave in thirty minutes," he says.
Brad can feel his mouth thinning into a line, but he takes his glass upstairs to finish while he gets cleaned up and packs.
A good soldier does what he's told. Even when he doesn't want to.
The drive back to Section is everything and nothing like the drive to Linthicum. The sights are the same, the vast treeline along I-95, the tractor trailers and pedestrian cars. The drive through Maryland past the AFI Theater and Panera. And then they make a right onto East West Highway, which is new for Brad.
Suddenly they're driving through the suburban version of big money. Houses with land and Victorian faces. White picket fences that are six feet high. They make a left onto Connecticut Avenue and pass by a sign that says, "Welcome to Chevy Chase." There's a country club. There are boutique shops and designer brunch restaurants. The gas prices shoot up by 40 cents per gallon. Brad just shakes his head.
It doesn't matter where you are, yuppies are yuppies.
They drive past the University of the District of Columbia. It has a metro stop sign that says Van Ness–UDC. Across the street, on the corner, there's a gas station. On another corner there's an absolute behemoth of an office building. The building is entirely constructed of windows with silver polarization. On one side it says IntelSat. On the other the building claims to be for lease.
Brad turns around in his seat and watches as the building disappears into the distance. Beside him, Nate carries on driving, oblivious and singing along with Steve Winwood.
Brad's pretty sure that they just passed Section.
But they keep driving, passing a movie theater and a turn-off for the National Zoo.
Until Nate pulls the car onto a side street and parks the Volvo in a tree-lined residential area, Brad still thinks they're going back to Section. Wherever the hell they are now, it isn't Section.
Nate hands Brad his duffel bag and Brad follows him into 3100 Connecticut Avenue, Cathedral Park.
They take the elevator to the third floor where Nate produces a key and ushers Brad inside apartment #335.
Apartment #335 is enormous. The entryway, which is furnished with a glass table, dumps Brad out into a living room outfitted with a tasteful cloth sofa and two leather chairs. There's a large plasma television mounted on the wall and a glass coffee table that matches the table in the front hall.
Brad finds himself exploring the surroundings automatically. Learning his AO.
Through two sliding doors there's a small office with a drafting table and a brand new Mac Book Pro that still has its protective covering. The office has an entire wall of books and Brad studies their spines intently: travel guides to Istanbul, Egypt, Austria, Japan, Hong Kong, Afghanistan. Language dictionaries. There are a few biographies: Andrew Jackson, FDR, Gandhi, Lord Nelson. Copies of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, The Girl Who with Played with Fire, Crime and Punishment and Molière's Tartuffe.
Most of the books are paperbacks. There are a few hardbacks, but there's a brand new leather-bound copy of David Copperfield on its own shelf.
Brad doesn't even know what to do in a place like this.
The bathroom is so big he could put a full-sized mattress on the floor.
He finds Nate in a white-walled kitchen with glasses and plates on pinewood shelves and copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Nate's eating a banana and looking out the kitchen window.
Brad crosses the room and looks over Nate's shoulder. The building has a courtyard with flowers and trees. There's a grill for barbequing and patio furniture. "Is this your place?"
Nate swallows before he speaks. "No, this is where you're going to live."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "Alone?"
Nate's eyes crease at the corners. "That was the plan."
"And where are you going to be?"
Nate points at the kitchen wall. "Right next door."
Something like relief floods Brad's senses. "So far away?" he teases. "What if I need you?"
"Do you?" Nate's words are saying one thing, but the alertness of his gaze is saying something else. Brad stiffens. He's already gotten his hand slapped once for being too ambitious.
Nate clears his throat and steps away from Brad. "There are clothes in the closet," he says, dropping his banana peel in a silver-colored trashcan. "I think you'll like them. If not, let me know and we'll get you something else. I'm sure you've seen the computer in your office; do not do anything that will make me angry, like hacking the NSA. The kitchen is stocked." A pause. "I think that covers it."
"Did you leave me a protein shake?"
"There's a blender on the counter, make your own."
Brad glances out the window and then turns back to Nate. "Are you going to come by for dinner?"
Nate doesn't meet Brad's eyes. "I don't think that's a good idea, do you?" Something tightens in Brad's chest. "You need to report to Section."
"Which would be where?"
"Don't play stupid."
"Can I have twenty dollars for gas, at least?" Brad asks dryly. "I've heard that even kept men require cash from time to time."
Nate is not amused. "There's an envelope with a thousand dollars in the freezer. That should last you the next few weeks. Anything that costs more, you'll have to see me about."
Wow. Brad wasn't expecting that. He hates surprises.
Nate pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it to Brad. "I got you a motorcycle. I know you had one in L.A."
Brad turns over the silver key with the black fob. "A Ducati?" he says incredulously.
Maybe he doesn't hate all surprises.
"It's in the garage. It's got GPS. It'll take you wherever you need to go."
"Like Section."
"Like Section," Nate confirms, wiping his hands on his jeans and gesturing for Brad to follow him. "There's one more thing."
Nate walks into Brad's bedroom. It's a huge space with large windows, a king-sized bed, two art prints on the wall and a navy-blue leather arm chair. It's a lot like his bedroom at the house in Linthicum.
Nate crouches down and pulls something out from underneath the bed.
"This is yours," he says dropping a black plastic case the width of two briefcases on the bed before turning around and walking out.
Brad watches Nate leave and then he turns back towards the case. He runs his fingers over the words "Samsonite" embossed between the case latches. He snaps the case open and is presented with four sections that fold outward like a plus sign.
Three of the sections contain a hand gun and corresponding silencer. A Beretta, a Sig Sauer and a Glock. The fourth section holds a pair of aviator glasses and two ear pieces.
The case is deeper than it looks, though, and when Brad gives an additional pull, the handgun sections snap out and there she is: his sniper rifle and all of her accompanying parts.
He decides to call her Leah, after his sister.
Brad knocks on Nate's door on his way to Section but there's no answer. If that's the way Nate wants to play it, fine.
He takes the elevator to the garage. His bike is parked right by the door. Nate didn't just get him a Ducati, he got him a Sport 1000S. It's black and sleek and Brad's cock twitches in excitement as he runs his hands over her curves. Maybe this assassin thing isn't all bad.
There's a helmet locked to the handlebars, and when Brad straddles the bike and attempts to take it off, it holds firm. When Brad sticks the key in and turns the engine over, however, the helmet is unlocked and the GPS switches on.
He's totally unprepared for the message that appears on the screen
Brad laughs into his helmet for almost two minutes.
If he thought Ray's message was a little dramatic, it's nothing compared to the greeting he receives when he walks into lobby of the IntelSat building and finds Ray, Poke, Walt, Mike and Rudy waiting for him.
"Oh my god, homes!" Ray yells, attaching himself to Brad's waist. "I missed you like a prostitute misses her favorite cum-sucking john!"
Walt tugs on his earlobe, offering Brad a smile. Mike's in good humor. Rudy beatific. Poke just shakes his head in distaste. "White people," he says. "Y'all have some real problems."
Brad detaches himself from Ray. "I'd say I missed you, but it'd be like saying I missed my case of herpes."
"When did you get herpes?" Ray demands.
"When I was fucking your sister," Brad says dismissively. "What's all this?"
"I dunno," Poke says. "I heard there were going to be free green cards. I was tryin' to get a hook up for my family."
"Ta gueule, conard," Brad says.
Poke laughs in delight. "I see somebody's been working on his French."
"Je déteste le français."
"A white man who hates his own people? I'm shocked."
"I'm not white, I'm Jewish."
"You look white, therefore you are white."
"Please," Ray interrupts, "both you bitches wish you were as white as me."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad and Walt reply in unison.
Rudy ignores the conversation taking place. "You look good, brother," he says approvingly.
"Don't even talk to me, you Mexican Buddha."
"What did I do?"
"You expect me to believe Nate thought up the night runs in the rain, rappelling without a harness, holding my breath underwater and fucking archery practice all on his own?"
Rudy beams. "I knew you'd like the archery."
Brad narrows his eyes. "You and I are going to have a little talk later."
"Speaking of our Fearless Leader, where's Nate?" Poke says.
Brad can feel his features pulling into a frown. "You mean he's not here?"
"Any time you ladies want to stop gossiping and get to work," Mike interrupts.
Brad falls to the back of the group as they head for the doors, walking alongside Mike. "He's not here?"
"Don't worry about where Nate is. Worry about what I've got in store for you when we get to the range. Where's your rifle?"
"I left it at home."
"What the fuck did you do that for?" Mike bitches. "You think it's gonna fire itself? How the hell do you expect to get used to it if you don't use it?"
Brad opens and closes his mouth. Mike gives him a pleased grin. "I'm just fuckin' with you," he says, clapping Brad on the shoulder. "Walt built you a dozen of those, and they're all sitting around just waiting for Daddy to get home."
"Well, Daddy's home now," Brad says. "And he's ready to work."
Brad's not sure he'll ever grow re-accustomed to the freedom to come and go as he pleases. The fact that he arrives and leaves through different entrances and exits every day just reinforces the paranoia of Section. Sometimes that paranoia seeps into Brad's pores.
Maybe everyone is out to get him and this is just their attempt to lull him into a false sense of security.
They're doing a pretty good job.
In a lot of ways, though, it's like Brad never left Section at all. He wakes up in the morning, fixes himself breakfast and then he takes his bike down to the IntelSat building where he spends the next twelve hours training with Mike, Poke and Rudy.
The training is harder now. More arduous. Intensive in ways Brad didn't think were even possible.
Rudy has picked up where Nate left off and has him trying to scale walls bare-handed. He makes Brad run with weights on his ankles and his back now. And then, instead of letting Brad rest after, he puts Brad in the pool and makes him swim with those same weights on. The pads of Brad's fingers are gone and he's either going to die from exhaustion or drowning.
Poke's teaching him Farsi and Arabic in the same time, which is so fucking confusing Brad's taken to glowering every time he walks into the classroom. He can barely communicate in English anymore. Half his thoughts are in Spanish and French and the other half are full of words he can't even pronounce.
He's pretty sure that Mike's having more fun than anybody else. Now that Brad's been given weapons clearance, Mike has him training with country music blaring, wind flowing, projectiles coming from the walls and occasionally he sets up a tennis-ball machine and fires them over Brad's shoulders while he trying to get off his rounds.
Three days ago, Mike started training Brad to work impaired. Not only did Brad have to assemble, fire and dissemble his rifle blind-folded, but he then had to do it with one hand tied behind his back.
Despite all of Brad's new-found freedoms, Ray still goes with him everywhere, but now they're allowed to leave the building for lunch. Of course lunch times vary since Ray has apparently blackmailed Walt into eating lunch with them, but Brad finds Ray's crush on Walt to be pretty fucking hilarious so he doesn't mind.
At the end of the day, instead of going back to a concrete block, Brad gets to climb on his bike and go home. The first few weeks he has the bike, he drives around the city just because he can. DuPont Circle. The Lincoln Memorial. The Smithsonian. Georgetown. Howard University. The Waterfront. Any place and every place. At one point he gets on the beltway and takes it all the way around the city.
He has no idea what would happen if he just kept driving. Maybe he'd go north, maybe south. He could trade the bike in, get a cheap car. His government has been training him to be the best, he could put their money to the test.
He thinks about it.
But every night he comes back Cathedral Park and takes the elevator to the third floor. He knocks on #333 and there's no answer, so he goes down the hall to #335 and locks himself inside.
In the middle of the night, when the insomnia is at its worst point, Brad goes to his office and boots up the Mac that Nate bought him. It took him four nights to rebuild it into something he could use. Brad promised not to hack the NSA; he never said anything about Mossad. Or MI-6. Or the government of Oman. Or Guatemala. Or the North Korean missile system.
He checks in on Leah for the first time in months. According to the admissions office at Stanford, she's been accepted to their medical school program.
He doesn't understand what he did to drive Nate away, but he'll do whatever he has to to get him back.
It takes three weeks for Brad to crack.
He goes to Section, he does everything he's told to, and he does it well. He complains, but that's just how he is. There's no reason for Nate to avoid him. If their time together was positive reinforcement, what the hell is this? Sensory deprivation?
Whatever it is, it is not okay.
Nate's forcing his hand.
At least this is his justification for breaking into Nate's apartment. He shouldn't be surprised that Nate has a security alarm. Brad's place does as well, he just hasn't bothered to arm it because only a crazy person would break into an assassin's home. Brad stares at the key pad and starts counting in his head.
One retard, two retards... the code's not Molière... it's not Dickens or Marines or Bravo.
It's Prometheus. It has to be.
And so it is.
Nate is such a fucking geek. He's just begging Brad to break in.
With the alarm disarmed, Brad can look in peace. He flicks on his Maglite and begins his study.
Nate's place is Brad's apartment laid out in reverse. The table in the hall is black lacquer with sharp edges but Nate also has an umbrella stand and a Kandinsky print. The living room has one wall painted a deep royal blue. The sofa is cream. There are Japanese prints on the wall with slashes of red and black. There's no TV.
Nate's entire office is full of books. There are no computers. There's no drafting table. But there is a light table with negatives on it. And the only wall without shelves is covered with maps. Afghanistan. Morocco. Hong Kong. Iran. North Korea.
Brad doesn't touch anything. His job is to gather intel.
Brad pushes open the door of the bedroom and then stops. He can't believe his sense of privacy chooses now to kick in. He sweeps his Maglite around the room briefly though. There's a TV in here. Brad's flashlight stops on a messy painting in Nate's bedroom that Brad recognizes from his own bedroom. Pollock. Jackson Pollock.
Huh.
The kitchen is just what Brad would expect from Nate. Le Creuset bake ware. Copper pots like the ones Brad has. A high-powered blender and separate food processor. Breadmaker. Toaster oven. Brad opens the refrigerator and there's nothing in there.
There are lots of Nate's things in this apartment, but there's no Nate.
Where the hell is he?
Brad's a little surly the next day. For the first time ever, he gets the drop on Rudy in hand-to-hand combat. In Communications he curses Poke so thoroughly in Farsi that Ray actually stands up and applauds. In weapons training Brad manages to empty a Ruger 45, two magazines from a semi-automatic and five rounds from a Benelli shotgun into the same three inch circle in the same target in under four minutes.
When it's over, Mike just stares. "Had your Wheaties this morning, Brad?"
Brad offers Mike the butt end of the Benelli. "What's next?"
Brad takes an extra long ride after work. He directs the bike over to Rock Creek Parkway. The winding turns are just what he needs to focus on. He gets off at Military Road and cuts across to Nebraska Ave, eventually letting it dump him out on MacArthur Blvd.
A few twists and turns finally get him on Canal Road and he rides for as long as he can. Feeling the bike underneath him, looking at the lights of Arlington across the water.
He takes M Street to Connecticut Avenue and then he goes home. It's late. Well after one in the morning. He doesn't even bother knocking on Nate's door.
And this is obviously why Nate's sitting in his living room when he walks in the front door. He looks up from a newspaper he's reading when Brad drops his keys on the foyer table. Brad can't identify the language. It's possibly Russian. Maybe Bulgarian. Poke hasn't started on Eastern European languages and their bases yet.
Nate folds the paper. "Long day?"
"Where the hell have you been?" Brad demands, suddenly furious.
And that's the real problem. Brad's actually angry. He doesn't get angry. He's not that guy. He doesn't worry. Emotions make people messy. Brad just gets on with it, whatever "it" is, but Nate doesn't allow for that. He's always around, invading Brad's space, his thoughts. Making him feel.
Brad hates feeling. It's exhausting.
Nate's lips twitch. "Did you miss me?"
"Fuck you," Brad says, stalking into the kitchen.
He knows exactly what he's looking for. He grabs a juice glass, slamming it on the counter before cracking the seal on a bottle of Johnny Walker blue label he bought last week. He blew a good amount of his pocket change on the off chance that Nate might come home and share the whisky with him.
Brad fills the glass until he can see his hangover in the morning. His mouth is on the lip of the glass when fingers wrap around his wrist and pull it down.
"I was working," Nate says in a low tone.
Brad's eyes skate over Nate. He's in a black suit that has faint gray stripes. His shirt is pale gray. His tie pewter and loose at the knot. He's sporting stubble and tousled hair.
Brad wants to fuck him so badly it makes his teeth hurt.
He yanks his hand away and whisky sloshes over his fingers. "The hell you were." He takes a liberal swallow. "You haven't been home."
"I don't always work from here."
"Then why do you even have that apartment?"
"Because it's nice to have something to come home to."
Nate's fucking with him again. Brad can feel it. He takes another drink. He can see Nate sucking on his lower lip. Brad tightens his grip on his glass so he doesn't do something stupid like punch Nate. Or kiss him. It's a close race at the moment.
"That's a nice whisky," Nate says.
"It was the last of the money I set aside for hookers and blow."
"Hookers and blow, huh?"
"It was a good time," Brad waves his glass around the room. "I'm sure it made great surveillance camera footage."
Nate watches him, bewildered. "There aren't any cameras in here."
"Bullshit."
Nate grabs Brad's glass, forcibly pulls it away and sets it on the counter. "Brad, I'm not watching you. Nobody's watching you. I haven't had you under surveillance since we left Section."
"Yeah, but there were cameras at the training house."
"I fucking hope not," Nate says, taking a swig from Brad's glass.
"You mean you missed the shows I put on for you? That's too bad."
"What shows?"
Brad takes a step into Nate's space, deliberately leaning in too close. "You'll never know now, will you?"
Nate's cheeks turn vaguely pink. Brad needs another drink. He grabs the bottle and takes a swig. Nate polishes off the rest of Brad's glass. "So, you're back now," Brad says.
Nate rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to shake something off. "Yeah. Yes. I'm back now. I did my work; it's time for you to do yours."
And just like that Brad's entire thought-process changes direction. All emotions, or threats thereof, shut down in the face of business.
"What's the assignment?"
"The Consulate General of Brazil is located at 1030 15th Street," Nate begins.
Brad raises an eyebrow. "You want me to kill the Consulate General of Brazil?"
"No, we want you to kill one of his aides, Tomás Araujo."
"Why?"
Nate's mouth quirks upward. Brad licks his lips; they're talking about work and Nate's making him hard. He is so fucked up.
"I'm not allowed to ask why?" Brad guesses.
Nate gives him a wry grin. "Most handlers wouldn't allow this question, no."
"And you are?"
"I need you to be efficient."
"You think I won't be efficient if you don't tell me."
"I think you'll be angry with me."
"You give yourself a lot of credit," Brad says, turning away to retrieve a bottle of cranberry juice from the refrigerator. He needs a clearer head if Nate's going to be this close to him.
When he turns around, he collides with Nate and fumbles his juice. Nate grabs it and cracks open the lid before handing it back. "Araujo is selling secrets to the guerillas. We think he's responsible for some incidents that have happened recently in Rio de Janeiro."
Brad takes a large swig of his juice before handing the bottle over to Nate. "Is that where you were? In Brazil?"
Nate takes a swallow and sets the bottle down. He pulls several papers out of his jacket pocket and sets them down on the counter. "Every Friday at 3 p.m. Araujo meets his contact at the TD Bank on the corner of 15th and P," he explains, showing Brad various surveillance photos. "You're going to take him out en route to the meet."
Brad tries not to focus on Nate's stained mouth. "You want me to kill someone at a bank? Do you know how many cameras there are at a bank?"
"Since I'm the one who trained you in logistics, yes."
Brad looks out the kitchen window. The geraniums he planted in the window box are bright against the dark night. His mom would be proud. "You want me to walk up to an embassy aide and shoot him in broad daylight on 15th and P?"
"No, I want you to go for a walk to the Bank of America across the street. When Araujo arrives you're going to take him out. And then you're going to meet me at Cure for lunch."
Brad's laugh is harsh. "Targets and lunch on a first date? That's ambitious."
"Cure is a restaurant in the Grand Hyatt in Penn Quarter."
"Nate..."
"I've been training you for this, Brad. You can do it."
This is not the time for an argument. Brad can tell by the tenor of Nate's voice. The decision has been made. "Where are you going to be?"
Nate holds out a flesh-colored piece of plastic. "This is your comm -- I'll be right there with you."
"Is this is the part where I'm supposed to be happy I get to break in my Beretta?"
"Actually, no," Nate says, extracting something from his left jacket pocket. "This the part where you get to road test the Blackberry gun R&D created."
"Do you bring me these toys because you know they get me hot?" Brad asks.
Nate's smile is real and devastating. "No, that's just a bonus."
Brad can feel heat in his cheeks. This is new.
"Oh, and Brad?"
Brad blinks at Nate, slightly dazed. "Yeah?"
"Stop testing my patience with your computer."
This time Brad knows his face is going red, flushing.
Maybe Nate is always watching him.
Two days later, Brad approaches the intersection of 15th and P from the southeast corner of P Street. He's wearing a gray suit, a white oxford shirt and aviator sunglasses. He's just another self-important white male walking around Washington D.C., playing with his overpriced electronic gadget as though he owns the place.
There are thousands of guys just like him crawling the streets.
Well, maybe not just like him.
He doubts the Ivy League grad across the street is carrying a Blackberry with six 9mm bullets and has sunglasses with visual capabilities in the ear hinge. Everything Brad's seeing, Nate's watching, too.
"I hope that toupee ahead of you looks better in real life than it does on my video," Nate quips.
Nate can't see the smirk on Brad's lips, but it's there.
"Mark is approaching at your two o'clock and 150 feet."
Brad clears his throat to show that he's heard Nate. Up ahead the sidewalk sign counts down out loud in its electronic voice. "10... 9... 8...."
"Mark is now at your one o'clock and 100 feet."
Brad rolls back his shoulders. He angles his Blackberry as though he's typing out a message.
"5....4.... 3..." the crosswalk voice intones.
"Acquire your target at 50 feet."
"The walk sign is on now. The walk sign is on now," the electronic voice proclaims.
Between the electronic voice and the silencer masquerading as an antenna, nobody hears the gunshot.
Across the street, a handsome man with a goatee, a dark blue suit and yellow tie collapses on the sidewalk. Only the people around him notice.
The pink mist is a little hard to ignore.
Brad turns left at the corner and keeps walking down 15th Street. He should reach the Grand Hyatt in 20 minutes.
Cure has large white writing on the windows outside and is full of dark, shiny wood furniture and trendy yuppies on the inside. Brad hates these kinds of people. He ignores the maître d' and heads directly for an oversized chair in a corner marked by floor-to-ceiling windows.
A Blackberry and a Bluetooth ear-piece rest on a table by Nate's elbow. Nate slips a white laptop into a bag when he sees Brad. His expression is all approval as Brad approaches.
"They have a Maryland blue crab pie here that I think you might like," Nate says conversationally as he stands up and takes the Blackberry from Brad.
Nate's fingers are warm; their touch is like a brand against the back of Brad's hand. "Okay," Brad says, sitting down abruptly in the chair Nate just vacated.
Nate gives Brad a searching look and a crease forms between his eyebrows. "On second thought, why don't I make you a hamburger at home?"
Brad nods. "Okay."
Nate gives him a ticket stub. "Go get the car out of valet and I'll meet you outside in a minute."
Brad takes the piece of paper, gets up and turns sharply on his heel.
Out the corner of his eye he sees a familiar head of blond hair moving in Nate's direction. Walt must be taking care of Brad's leftovers.
Brad leaves a trail of clothes from his front door to the bathroom.
He turns on the water as hot as possible and stands underneath the spray until the steam constricts his lungs and he can barely breathe. He grabs a bottle of shampoo and upends it all over his body.
He scrubs his hair, behind his ears, his navel, behind his knees and between his toes. He's not upset. He's not anything. He thinks that's what's causing more issues than anything else.
This is his job now. This is his living.
And he's totally indifferent to anything in it unless Nate tells him to be otherwise.
His cock twitches in interest at the thought of Nate, and Brad wraps a hand around it and strokes himself far, far too hard. The suds from the shampoo guide his path. He thinks about Nate's eyelashes, about the curve of his mouth, his long fingers and flat abdominals.
Brad's fingers slip downward, sliding through soapy pubic hair to curl around his balls. They're heavy, growing tighter every second. He tugs on them sharply. There's an edge of pain to everything he's doing to himself. Nerves spark and flare with life; he feels every last sensation.
He spreads his legs, setting one foot on the edge of the tub and bracing himself against the tile with one hand and touching himself with the other. The angle is a little awkward, but he tugs his lower lip between his teeth, tensing and relaxing at the same time his finger breaches his entrance. His cock softens, but he'll deal with that in a minute.
He ignores the knock at the door. "Brad?"
Brad sighs as the door opens. He goes to remove his finger and then thinks better of it.
It's possible that the creak of the door opening covers his moan as he pushes his finger in to the second knuckle, it's also possible that it doesn't.
There's a long silence.
Brad slides his finger back out carefully.
"Brad, do you want to talk about today?" Nate's voice rises over the sound of the shower.
Brad thrusts back in. His groan is loud. Obscene. He revels in it.
"What – what's there to talk about?" he manages after a moment. "I did my job."
His cock is getting back into the game, too. Brad can feel it stiffening, and when he looks down between his legs he's half-hard. There's water running off the tip of his dick and onto the shower floor.
"Are you ready for this?" Nate probes. "Do you need more time?"
Brad swipes his tongue over his lips and pushes in further, stretching himself more. He curses softly under his breath. He needs lube of some sort.
He turns his head when the shower curtain is yanked back. Nate's eyes drift over Brad slowly. His face, his chest. The foot on the edge of the tub, his half-hard dick and his finger up his ass.
Brad's gotten used to Nate looking at him. Gotten used to Nate correcting the way he holds his weapons. The way Nate walks around him, adjusting his stance. The set of his shoulders.
In the beginning Brad would adopt bad technique just so Nate would be forced to touch him.
When Nate licks his lips, Brad begins to remove his finger, and Nate shakes his head.
"No," he says, stepping into the shower and using his body to press Brad against the tiling. "Don't stop on my account."
It is the single most awkward physical position Brad's ever been in. He's naked, wet, his arm is being pinned behind him, and Nate's plastered to his chest. All things considered, it could be much worse.
And then Nate steps back, just a little bit and pulls off his belt. It makes a loud clank as he drops it on the bathroom floor. The belt is followed by his cufflinks.
Brad watches as Nate rolls up his sleeves and gestures at him impatiently. "C'mon."
Brad scowls. "Fuck you," he says, removing his finger and trying to duck around Nate.
Nate shakes his head. "You keep saying that," he says, pushing Brad back against the tiles forcefully, "but then you don't do it." Nate is very close. There's water running down his face. His cheeks are flushed from the heat of the shower. "We need to work on your follow-through."
"My follow-through is just fine," Brad says, grabbing the front of Nate's shirt, his fingers tangling in Nate's tie as he hauls him into a kiss.
Nate makes an approving noise, his hands cupping Brad's face and holding him close. The kisses are long, searching, sensual in ways Brad doesn't have much experience with.
Nate's tongue sweeps through Brad's mouth and Brad catches it with his teeth. He slides his hands down Nate's back and palms his ass, groaning when Nate's thigh insinuates itself between his legs.
Brad's cock rubs against the wet wool. It's rough and slippery, the friction against the side of cock so close to brutal that it's perfect.
He grumbles in the back of his throat when Nate pries his fingers free from Nate's shirt. "Want to watch you," Nate says, extricating himself from Brad.
Brad blinks at him. He's hard, there's water in his face and Nate's moving away. Again.
"Don't fucking move," Brad orders, grabbing at Nate's tie at the same time Nate turns away to turn off the water.
It was only a matter of time before an accident happened. Bathrooms are terrible places to have sex.
Brad loses his footing and they both go tumbling over the side of the bathtub and onto the floor. They land on the bathmat, skidding across the floor until Brad's head collides with the wall. His vision blurs briefly, but he shakes that off because he has Nate sprawled on top of him.
It feels a lot like victory.
Nate pushes himself to his knees, straddling Brad's hips. His erection is straining against his pants. "Everything with you is so much fucking work," he bitches, unzipping his pants and trying to work the wet fabric down his thighs.
He's not wearing any underwear.
"You're not wearing any underwear," Brad supplies helpfully, running a finger along the side of Nate's cock. It's long and thick and Brad can taste it on his tongue. Feel it stretching him open. His mouth waters and his ass throbs in anticipation.
"Thank you for the obvious," Nate says, batting his hand away before twisting to the right and retrieving a bottle of lotion from the counter around the sink. He pumps the handle a few times squirting lotion all over his hand and all over Brad.
"All I wanted was to watch you fuck yourself," Nate complains, wrapping his hand around Brad's cock and jerking him off. "But no, you have to nearly kill us both."
Brad grunts as Nate thumbs the head of his cock. "Why can't you just do what I want you to do?" Nate says plaintively, giving Brad's dick a wicked turn of his wrist. "Why are you so hard-headed?"
Brad arches off the floor, gaping when he collapses back. "All I do is what you want me to do!" he explodes. "Go here! Do this! Learn these two-hundred fifty-seven countries. Be an expert in these thirty-seven weapons. Speak eight languages. Don't fall for me even though I'm crazy about you."
Nate pauses. "I never told you not to fall for me."
Brad takes this interlude to roll them over and pin Nate to the floor. Thank god for bathrooms the size of a studio apartment. "You want me to fuck you. You want to watch me fuck myself," he says, rising up on his knees. "Aren't you supposed to be more focused than this?"
Nate's about to say something, but Brad's over talking about it. Instead he grabs Nate's lotion-slicked hand and shoves it between his own legs. He pushes at Nate's fingers until one slips inside him and then he moans low, guttural.
Nate's mouth falls open and Brad rises on his knees before sinking back down. "Oh – oh, fuck," he groans, riding Nate's finger slowly.
Brad's head lolls back when Nate adds another finger. Nate's fingers are thick, long, he can just imagine what Nate's going to feel like inside him. The press of his cock against Brad's prostate. His hands on Brad's hips, his dick slamming into Brad, his balls slapping against Brad's ass. "Fuck yes," Nate says.
Brad didn't even realize he was talking out loud.
His own cock is heavy between his legs, thick and frustrated; it jerks when he wraps his hand around it. Brad grunts at the ceiling; he's barely gotten off half a stroke before he's coming. The heat spikes in his groin, radiating outwards as his muscles tremble. He looks down in time to see his spunk shoot all over his hand and all over Nate's shirt.
Apparently Nate's a little busy, too: the hand not fucking Brad's ass is stroking Nate's cock. Brad bats that hand out of the way and covers Nate's dick with his own spunk-and-lotion-covered fingers.
Nate writhes underneath him, fucking up into Brad's hand at the same time that he's fucking Brad. It's a lot going on at one time.
"Come for me," Brad demands. "It's time you took an order for a change."
Nate does exactly what he's told, his eyes screwed shut as he cries out and comes all over Brad's hand.
When Nate opens his eyes, Brad's licking his fingers.
The lotion doesn't taste like much, chemicals mostly. Their semen is bitter: a little sour, a little soapy. Nate lifts his head, his eyes wide before his head crashes back against the flooring.
"Fine," he says tiredly. "You killed me. You win."
Part IV
Part II
Somewhere between dinner and dessert, Nate finally makes eye contact and offers a tentative smile. Brad leans in and refills the glass of wine he's been plying Nate with for almost an hour. "Why did you go to work for Section?" he asks.
Nate seems to mull this over for a moment. "Because I wanted to be a Marine."
"So did I."
"I know. That's part of why I chose you."
Brad shouldn't be surprised at this point; Nate knows everything. He probably knows that Brad's cock curves slightly to the left. "And you got to Section how? Did you get lost on the way to enlist at the recruiting station?"
"No, not quite." Brad waits for Nate to continue. "I did OCS. I did TBS. When they asked us where we wanted to go I said I wanted to join the infantry, so they sent me to Afghanistan. When we got back I was sent to Washington."
"Trust the military to fuck up simple directions."
Nate looks at Brad for a long time; his gaze is disarming. "So, you're still a Marine?" Brad prompts.
"I'll always be a Marine," Nate says, "but they discharged me so they could rehire me as a civilian contractor. It's the same with everyone else in Section. Everyone is military, we're just not recognized as a part thereof."
"Plausible deniability."
Nate snorts.
Brad gets up from the table and retrieves the leftover chocolate cake. He grabs two forks and sets the cake down on the table between them. "And now you're here with me," he says, forking a huge chunk of cake.
"Pretty much."
"You must've really pissed somebody off to get me," Brad teases.
"Apparently I've been known to do that from time to time," Nate admits ruefully.
Brad can't help but look at Nate's bruised face. Nate sips at his wine.
"Section made me an offer. I could stay in the infantry and hope against hope that my commander wasn't a fucking idiot who would get my men killed, or I could make a team of my own where I got to pick everyone and know they were the best."
"But you'd still have to deal with Management."
"Yeah, I didn't think that one through as well as I could've. But the offer was amazing. Bravo Section was brand new. Shiny. Untested. Something I could make on my own."
"Which is why I'm your first asset."
"Exactly."
Brad licks a smear of frosting from his fork. "What if I decide I don't want to do this?"
"I'm not sure if you have much choice."
"You mean you'd kill me."
"No," Nate sets down his glass.
Brad pauses with his fork in the air. "Even if Management told you to?"
"I don't want to kill you."
Brad's expression is twisted. "I've wanted a lot of things, Nate; I didn't get most of them."
Nate licks a drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. "Maybe you should."
Brad stares at Nate for long seconds, but Nate's not giving anything away anymore. Brad would probably be disappointed if he did. "We all have to make sacrifices," he says carefully.
Nate shrugs. "Maybe it's time we stopped making quite so many."
Brad shakes his head. This conversation is operating on too many levels. "Do you have a tattoo?" he asks after several moments.
Nate's smile is crooked, beautiful. "Yes."
Brad nods and goes back to the cake.
Things return to normal the following day. Or as normal as things ever seem to get for Brad these days. He spends the morning at the range, the afternoon studying and the evening training with Nate.
At the end of the week, Nate wakes him up in the middle of the night. Again. "I have a present for you," he says, flipping on the lights.
Brad grunts, rubbing at his eyes. Nate's fully dressed, but his hair is still mussed from sleep. There are lines on the side of his face and his mouth is puffy. "Does this present involve somebody sucking my cock?" Brad asks.
Nate laughs. "Not quite."
Brad rolls over and pulls the comforter over his head. "Then I'm not interested," he mumbles into his pillow.
A split second later, the comforter is yanked away and Brad's entire naked form is exposed for all and sundry. "You could've just asked nicely," he says, looking over his shoulder at Nate standing there comforter in hand.
"If you want nice, you came to the wrong man," Nate says. "Now meet me downstairs in five minutes."
Brad would bet his $438,581.03 in savings that Nate looked at his ass.
Nate's present is a rifle. Actually, Nate's present is two rifles.
"There are a couple thousand different types of rifles, but for your purposes there are military rifles and law-enforcement rifles," Nate says, pointing to each of the rifles lying on the counter. "Most of your work is going to be with LEO rifles. They're built for accuracy. Good for middle distance. They're heavier, but they're a better quality."
"Since when do the police go for quality?"
"Since they're not contracting with the lowest bidder."
"Ah."
"Military rifles like the M40 are great for durability. If you were at war it'd be fine, you can pack it, you can carry it, you can clean it. But here you have Walt for maintenance. And it helps that we're not expecting any shamals this week. Or ever."
"So the military rifles are shit?"
"Not shit. If your covering serious distance you want an M40. If you have to blow up a truck you'll need an anti-materiel rifle, but we'll deal with that later."
"Okay, back up. Walt's going to do maintenance? I thought he was a lab geek."
"He's that, too."
"So what does his shadow do?"
"Ray takes care of practical matters."
Brad loves that Nate knows exactly who he's referring to when he mentions Walt's shadow.
"Ray takes care of 'practical matters'?" Brad repeats. "Should that fill me with as much ball-shriveling fear as it does?"
Nate grins. "Yeah, it should."
The following days are some of the longest ones Brad can remember. He trains with both rifles and all three sidearms. He's still expected to study the nations of the world and keep up with his language skills. For two days running, he's only allowed to talk in French and he doesn't have the vocabulary to explain that the recoil in the M40 is killing his shoulder, but he can quote L'Étranger at length.
On Sunday Nate starts supplementing the rappelling, running and trampoline jumping with timing how long Brad can hold his breath underwater.
The next week, they start engaging in hand-to-hand combat, which really just seems to entail lots of wrestling, grunting and tackling on the back lawn as the sun sets and the mosquitoes attack.
Every day Brad finds new bruises on his body. He hasn't been this beat up since they left D.C.
According to the newspapers they've been in Linthicum about two months. Brad doesn't miss Section at all, but he sort of misses Ray's sense of humor and Poke's treatises on The Man. He wouldn't trade Nate for either of them, but he thinks about them all the same. More often than not when he's out running with Nate.
Sometimes he writes computer code in his head while panting for breath. Sometimes Brad thinks of nothing more than, "Jesus fuck, are we done yet?"
On the day that Brad's thinking of Nate's tattoo, the steak he wants for dinner and the beer waiting for him back at the house, the sky opens up when they're about five miles from the house and a torrential downpour begins.
"It's raining," he says, brushing the water out of his eyes as Nate picks up their pace.
"I hadn't noticed," Nate says blithely.
Brad elbows him in the ribs.
They're soaked when they get back to the house. Actually, no. Whatever they are is worse than soaked. On the verge of drowning perhaps. They ditch sopping sneakers and socks at the kitchen door. Brad drags a drenched shirt over his head, it drips all over his fingers and the floor.
Nate keeps his shirt on, but Brad can see the black smudge of his tattoo where the shirt is plastered to his chest. "Do you want me to make dinner?" Brad asks.
Nate blinks up at him, raindrops caught in his eyelashes. "I didn't know you could cook."
"I can also tie my own shoes and count to five," Brad says.
"You never said anything before," Nate protests. "Why the hell have I been doing all the cooking?"
Brad shrugs. "You were doing so well, I figured why bother."
"Fine. From now on you do all the cooking."
"Wait, I didn't agree to that."
"Too late," Nate says, turning in the puddle he's made on the floor and heading for the foyer. "And I want brownies for dessert," he calls.
"You'll be happy with what you get," Brad hollers back.
Brad walks over to the fridge, scratching idly at a mosquito bite on his forearm. He opens the refrigerator door to study the contents and then something occurs to him. He looks around the door at the kitchen table to make sure he saw what his subconscious tells him he saw.
There are keys resting by the pepper grinder. Several of them. One of them looks like a car key.
Wright must be around.
And he left his keys.
Brad could take them. He could leave right now.
Brad shuts the door, walks over to the table and studies the keys more intently. He sneezes and the keys are still there. And then he looks up because he can feel Nate's eyes on him. "Did you know those were there?"
Nate licks his lips. "Yeah. Yes."
"And you left them here with me."
"Yes."
"I could've left."
"I know."
"And you were going to let me leave."
"I hoped you wouldn't."
Brad tries to process all this information. It's complicated by Nate coming towards him. He stops right next to Brad and Brad turns to meet him.
Nate's watching him, and Brad's watching Nate watching him. This goes on for quite some time.
Brad can feel heat in his toes and his face and his groin. He knows he's cold and wet. It all seems superfluous. This is not what he thought was going to happen to him.
Nate's hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes. Brad reaches out and pushes some of it to the side. Nate's skin shouldn't feel this feverish; he exhales a little noise when Brad touches him.
Nate swallows; Brad waits.
"Chicken would be good." Nate breaks the silence. "For dinner."
Brad nods. "Okay."
And then Nate turns around and walks away.
Nate doesn't wake Brad up at four in the morning. Or at five. Or at six.
By seven, Brad's tired of pretending to sleep.
He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and goes down the hall to Nate's bedroom. He knocks on the door. There's no answer, so he looks inside, but the room is empty. The bed is made and everything is in its right place, which means apart from reading material on the nightstand, it looks uninhabited.
Brad scrubs his hand through his hair and takes the stairs to the first floor briskly.
Nate's sitting at the kitchen table reading a book, a protein shake in his hand and half a carrot-cake muffin on the plate in front of him.
Brad doesn't think twice about dropping down into the seat next to Nate and eating what's left of his muffin. "You didn't wake me up for our run this morning."
Nate glances up. "I thought you might like to sleep in for a change."
Brad pulls the protein shake out of Nate's hand, takes a liberal swallow and frowns. "It needs more bananas. And since when do you let me sleep in?"
"Since I like to keep you guessing."
Brad laughs softly. "It's working." Nate nods, his eyes focused on his book. "What?" Brad says. Nate keeps reading. Brad puts his hand down on the page. "Nate, what?"
When Nate looks up, Brad can see the circles under his eyes. He looks tired. Resigned. "You're going to take a test today."
"It's not a running test, is it?" Brad teases.
Nate's smile is small. "No."
"Is it my countries test, because I'm only up to the Spratly Islands."
Nate's smile grows a little. "No."
"Archery?"
"Definitely not."
"Okay, then I'll be fine."
"I hope so."
Nate's being vague; that hasn't happened in a long time. Brad can feel something like worry stirring in the back of his mind. "Is there anything else I'm supposed to do today besides this test?" he prods.
"No, go enjoy yourself. Swim, sleep, read. I'll let you know when it's time." Nate pries Brad's hand away from his book and goes back to reading.
Apparently Brad is dismissed.
Brad studies Nate for a long time before he gets up to make his own breakfast.
Around three in the afternoon, Nate comes and collects Brad from the pool. He's got an apple in one hand and a Heckler & Koch rifle in the other. "It's time for your test."
"Are you trying to make this sound ominous or is that just a bonus?" Brad says, pushing himself out of the pool. Water sluices down his body as he grabs a towel and dries himself perfunctorily.
Nate makes a noncommittal sound and hands Brad the rifle.
Brad takes it easily, tucking the butt into the crook of his arm and following Nate down the steps of the terrace and into the yard. He quickens his pace a little to catch up to Nate.
Nate's focusing on the horizon. "This is called the Newton Test."
Brad nods. "Catchy. What do I do?"
"Shoot the apple."
"Easy enough."
Nate glances over at Brad. "From the top of my head."
Brad stops walking. "What?"
Nate stops, too, and turns towards Brad. "I'll be one hundred yards away."
Brad not prone to getting unnerved. Or he wasn't before he met Nate. "No."
"I didn't ask your opinion."
Brad starts to feel agitated all the same. "I won't do it."
"Then Management will come out here tomorrow and kill us both for wasting their time."
Nate doesn't look happy. He looks miserable.
Brad can feel every muscle in his body tensing. "I want it noted in the record that I object strenuously to doing this."
"So noted," Nate agrees before turning away.
Nate takes a step and Brad grabs his elbow and spins him back around.
When Brad kisses Nate it's not graceful or perfect. He's a little off center and a little angry and a lot afraid, but it's the sentiment that counts. The press of two sets of chapped lips, and the way that Nate's fingers curl around Brad's neck, stroking the nape.
Brad licks at the seam of Nate's mouth, seeking entrance, but Nate refuses to give it.
He won't let Brad in.
It takes Nate a few moments to extract himself from Brad, since Brad's not really interested in letting him go. His teeth graze Nate's lower lip aggressively before Nate finally shoves him back and keeps walking away.
Nate walks like a soldier, upright and tall. Proud. And straight into the glare of the sun.
Brad counts the steps, waiting until Nate stops and turns around, and then he shoulders the rifle. Through the sights, Brad watches Nate hold the apple out so Brad can target it, and then he places it on top of his head.
For a moment, Brad's distracted from the red of the apple by the crimson on Nate's lip. There's just one drop of blood, which Nate swipes at with his tongue, smearing it. Brad's eyes cross briefly.
The rifle feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and Brad's fingers seem slippery and untrained as he focuses his sights and centers the cross-hairs on his target.
And then the wind starts blowing, ruining all of his adjustments. Brad lowers the rifle.
"Nate," he calls.
"Just fucking do it, Brad!" echoes sharply across the lawn.
Brad sets his rifle into the crook of his shoulder, this time his fingers are steady. If this is what he's going to do then he has to be able to do it under the most extreme circumstances imaginable. This is what Nate told him. These are those circumstances.
In his sights he sees Nate, green eyes shining, jaw set, and then Brad focuses on the apple sitting on top of messy hair that's sandy brown one minute and strawberry blond the next.
He pulls the trigger the moment after he exhales.
They have steak for dinner. It's so rare it's practically raw. Brad prepares russet potatoes and broccoli to go with it and sets two bottles of red wine on the table. After dinner, they set up the board for chess, but Nate ends up reading aloud from The Decameron instead.
Brad doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep until he wakes up with his head in Nate's lap and Nate's fingers rubbing his scalp. It feels perfect, like this is how Brad's life should be all the time. Brad shifts around, curling his hand around Nate's neck and tugging him down to kiss, but Nate just pulls away and gives Brad a shake of his head.
"You should go to bed," he says.
Brad's sure he looks as irate as he feels. "Did I miss something in the last couple hours?" he says, sitting up. "I'm pretty sure I kissed you today and you were okay with it."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yes." No.
Nate closes the book and studies Brad intently for several moments. Brad's completely clothed, but he feels horribly exposed. Nate's looking at him, through him.
He may find Brad lacking.
"We're going home tomorrow," Nate says eventually.
That doesn't answer Brad's question, but it explains a whole lot.
Brad wakes up at six in the morning under his own steam. He pulls on his running gear and opens the door to his room. Nate's sitting on the second floor stairs tying his shoelaces. He looks up at Brad and Brad feels an ache deep in his chest.
They take their run silently. The fog is low on the ground and it makes it hard to see the rocks and branches underfoot. When they get back Nate makes two protein shakes and gives one to Brad. "Be ready to leave in thirty minutes," he says.
Brad can feel his mouth thinning into a line, but he takes his glass upstairs to finish while he gets cleaned up and packs.
A good soldier does what he's told. Even when he doesn't want to.
The drive back to Section is everything and nothing like the drive to Linthicum. The sights are the same, the vast treeline along I-95, the tractor trailers and pedestrian cars. The drive through Maryland past the AFI Theater and Panera. And then they make a right onto East West Highway, which is new for Brad.
Suddenly they're driving through the suburban version of big money. Houses with land and Victorian faces. White picket fences that are six feet high. They make a left onto Connecticut Avenue and pass by a sign that says, "Welcome to Chevy Chase." There's a country club. There are boutique shops and designer brunch restaurants. The gas prices shoot up by 40 cents per gallon. Brad just shakes his head.
It doesn't matter where you are, yuppies are yuppies.
They drive past the University of the District of Columbia. It has a metro stop sign that says Van Ness–UDC. Across the street, on the corner, there's a gas station. On another corner there's an absolute behemoth of an office building. The building is entirely constructed of windows with silver polarization. On one side it says IntelSat. On the other the building claims to be for lease.
Brad turns around in his seat and watches as the building disappears into the distance. Beside him, Nate carries on driving, oblivious and singing along with Steve Winwood.
Brad's pretty sure that they just passed Section.
But they keep driving, passing a movie theater and a turn-off for the National Zoo.
Until Nate pulls the car onto a side street and parks the Volvo in a tree-lined residential area, Brad still thinks they're going back to Section. Wherever the hell they are now, it isn't Section.
Nate hands Brad his duffel bag and Brad follows him into 3100 Connecticut Avenue, Cathedral Park.
They take the elevator to the third floor where Nate produces a key and ushers Brad inside apartment #335.
Apartment #335 is enormous. The entryway, which is furnished with a glass table, dumps Brad out into a living room outfitted with a tasteful cloth sofa and two leather chairs. There's a large plasma television mounted on the wall and a glass coffee table that matches the table in the front hall.
Brad finds himself exploring the surroundings automatically. Learning his AO.
Through two sliding doors there's a small office with a drafting table and a brand new Mac Book Pro that still has its protective covering. The office has an entire wall of books and Brad studies their spines intently: travel guides to Istanbul, Egypt, Austria, Japan, Hong Kong, Afghanistan. Language dictionaries. There are a few biographies: Andrew Jackson, FDR, Gandhi, Lord Nelson. Copies of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, The Girl Who with Played with Fire, Crime and Punishment and Molière's Tartuffe.
Most of the books are paperbacks. There are a few hardbacks, but there's a brand new leather-bound copy of David Copperfield on its own shelf.
Brad doesn't even know what to do in a place like this.
The bathroom is so big he could put a full-sized mattress on the floor.
He finds Nate in a white-walled kitchen with glasses and plates on pinewood shelves and copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Nate's eating a banana and looking out the kitchen window.
Brad crosses the room and looks over Nate's shoulder. The building has a courtyard with flowers and trees. There's a grill for barbequing and patio furniture. "Is this your place?"
Nate swallows before he speaks. "No, this is where you're going to live."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "Alone?"
Nate's eyes crease at the corners. "That was the plan."
"And where are you going to be?"
Nate points at the kitchen wall. "Right next door."
Something like relief floods Brad's senses. "So far away?" he teases. "What if I need you?"
"Do you?" Nate's words are saying one thing, but the alertness of his gaze is saying something else. Brad stiffens. He's already gotten his hand slapped once for being too ambitious.
Nate clears his throat and steps away from Brad. "There are clothes in the closet," he says, dropping his banana peel in a silver-colored trashcan. "I think you'll like them. If not, let me know and we'll get you something else. I'm sure you've seen the computer in your office; do not do anything that will make me angry, like hacking the NSA. The kitchen is stocked." A pause. "I think that covers it."
"Did you leave me a protein shake?"
"There's a blender on the counter, make your own."
Brad glances out the window and then turns back to Nate. "Are you going to come by for dinner?"
Nate doesn't meet Brad's eyes. "I don't think that's a good idea, do you?" Something tightens in Brad's chest. "You need to report to Section."
"Which would be where?"
"Don't play stupid."
"Can I have twenty dollars for gas, at least?" Brad asks dryly. "I've heard that even kept men require cash from time to time."
Nate is not amused. "There's an envelope with a thousand dollars in the freezer. That should last you the next few weeks. Anything that costs more, you'll have to see me about."
Wow. Brad wasn't expecting that. He hates surprises.
Nate pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it to Brad. "I got you a motorcycle. I know you had one in L.A."
Brad turns over the silver key with the black fob. "A Ducati?" he says incredulously.
Maybe he doesn't hate all surprises.
"It's in the garage. It's got GPS. It'll take you wherever you need to go."
"Like Section."
"Like Section," Nate confirms, wiping his hands on his jeans and gesturing for Brad to follow him. "There's one more thing."
Nate walks into Brad's bedroom. It's a huge space with large windows, a king-sized bed, two art prints on the wall and a navy-blue leather arm chair. It's a lot like his bedroom at the house in Linthicum.
Nate crouches down and pulls something out from underneath the bed.
"This is yours," he says dropping a black plastic case the width of two briefcases on the bed before turning around and walking out.
Brad watches Nate leave and then he turns back towards the case. He runs his fingers over the words "Samsonite" embossed between the case latches. He snaps the case open and is presented with four sections that fold outward like a plus sign.
Three of the sections contain a hand gun and corresponding silencer. A Beretta, a Sig Sauer and a Glock. The fourth section holds a pair of aviator glasses and two ear pieces.
The case is deeper than it looks, though, and when Brad gives an additional pull, the handgun sections snap out and there she is: his sniper rifle and all of her accompanying parts.
He decides to call her Leah, after his sister.
Brad knocks on Nate's door on his way to Section but there's no answer. If that's the way Nate wants to play it, fine.
He takes the elevator to the garage. His bike is parked right by the door. Nate didn't just get him a Ducati, he got him a Sport 1000S. It's black and sleek and Brad's cock twitches in excitement as he runs his hands over her curves. Maybe this assassin thing isn't all bad.
There's a helmet locked to the handlebars, and when Brad straddles the bike and attempts to take it off, it holds firm. When Brad sticks the key in and turns the engine over, however, the helmet is unlocked and the GPS switches on.
He's totally unprepared for the message that appears on the screen
BRAD,
THIS BIKE IS THE BOMB DOT COM. DON'T FUCK IT UP OR I WILL BEAT YOUR VIKING ASS WITH MY BUNNY SLIPPERS.
– YOUR PAL, RAY-RAY
Brad laughs into his helmet for almost two minutes.
If he thought Ray's message was a little dramatic, it's nothing compared to the greeting he receives when he walks into lobby of the IntelSat building and finds Ray, Poke, Walt, Mike and Rudy waiting for him.
"Oh my god, homes!" Ray yells, attaching himself to Brad's waist. "I missed you like a prostitute misses her favorite cum-sucking john!"
Walt tugs on his earlobe, offering Brad a smile. Mike's in good humor. Rudy beatific. Poke just shakes his head in distaste. "White people," he says. "Y'all have some real problems."
Brad detaches himself from Ray. "I'd say I missed you, but it'd be like saying I missed my case of herpes."
"When did you get herpes?" Ray demands.
"When I was fucking your sister," Brad says dismissively. "What's all this?"
"I dunno," Poke says. "I heard there were going to be free green cards. I was tryin' to get a hook up for my family."
"Ta gueule, conard," Brad says.
Poke laughs in delight. "I see somebody's been working on his French."
"Je déteste le français."
"A white man who hates his own people? I'm shocked."
"I'm not white, I'm Jewish."
"You look white, therefore you are white."
"Please," Ray interrupts, "both you bitches wish you were as white as me."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad and Walt reply in unison.
Rudy ignores the conversation taking place. "You look good, brother," he says approvingly.
"Don't even talk to me, you Mexican Buddha."
"What did I do?"
"You expect me to believe Nate thought up the night runs in the rain, rappelling without a harness, holding my breath underwater and fucking archery practice all on his own?"
Rudy beams. "I knew you'd like the archery."
Brad narrows his eyes. "You and I are going to have a little talk later."
"Speaking of our Fearless Leader, where's Nate?" Poke says.
Brad can feel his features pulling into a frown. "You mean he's not here?"
"Any time you ladies want to stop gossiping and get to work," Mike interrupts.
Brad falls to the back of the group as they head for the doors, walking alongside Mike. "He's not here?"
"Don't worry about where Nate is. Worry about what I've got in store for you when we get to the range. Where's your rifle?"
"I left it at home."
"What the fuck did you do that for?" Mike bitches. "You think it's gonna fire itself? How the hell do you expect to get used to it if you don't use it?"
Brad opens and closes his mouth. Mike gives him a pleased grin. "I'm just fuckin' with you," he says, clapping Brad on the shoulder. "Walt built you a dozen of those, and they're all sitting around just waiting for Daddy to get home."
"Well, Daddy's home now," Brad says. "And he's ready to work."
Brad's not sure he'll ever grow re-accustomed to the freedom to come and go as he pleases. The fact that he arrives and leaves through different entrances and exits every day just reinforces the paranoia of Section. Sometimes that paranoia seeps into Brad's pores.
Maybe everyone is out to get him and this is just their attempt to lull him into a false sense of security.
They're doing a pretty good job.
In a lot of ways, though, it's like Brad never left Section at all. He wakes up in the morning, fixes himself breakfast and then he takes his bike down to the IntelSat building where he spends the next twelve hours training with Mike, Poke and Rudy.
The training is harder now. More arduous. Intensive in ways Brad didn't think were even possible.
Rudy has picked up where Nate left off and has him trying to scale walls bare-handed. He makes Brad run with weights on his ankles and his back now. And then, instead of letting Brad rest after, he puts Brad in the pool and makes him swim with those same weights on. The pads of Brad's fingers are gone and he's either going to die from exhaustion or drowning.
Poke's teaching him Farsi and Arabic in the same time, which is so fucking confusing Brad's taken to glowering every time he walks into the classroom. He can barely communicate in English anymore. Half his thoughts are in Spanish and French and the other half are full of words he can't even pronounce.
He's pretty sure that Mike's having more fun than anybody else. Now that Brad's been given weapons clearance, Mike has him training with country music blaring, wind flowing, projectiles coming from the walls and occasionally he sets up a tennis-ball machine and fires them over Brad's shoulders while he trying to get off his rounds.
Three days ago, Mike started training Brad to work impaired. Not only did Brad have to assemble, fire and dissemble his rifle blind-folded, but he then had to do it with one hand tied behind his back.
Despite all of Brad's new-found freedoms, Ray still goes with him everywhere, but now they're allowed to leave the building for lunch. Of course lunch times vary since Ray has apparently blackmailed Walt into eating lunch with them, but Brad finds Ray's crush on Walt to be pretty fucking hilarious so he doesn't mind.
At the end of the day, instead of going back to a concrete block, Brad gets to climb on his bike and go home. The first few weeks he has the bike, he drives around the city just because he can. DuPont Circle. The Lincoln Memorial. The Smithsonian. Georgetown. Howard University. The Waterfront. Any place and every place. At one point he gets on the beltway and takes it all the way around the city.
He has no idea what would happen if he just kept driving. Maybe he'd go north, maybe south. He could trade the bike in, get a cheap car. His government has been training him to be the best, he could put their money to the test.
He thinks about it.
But every night he comes back Cathedral Park and takes the elevator to the third floor. He knocks on #333 and there's no answer, so he goes down the hall to #335 and locks himself inside.
In the middle of the night, when the insomnia is at its worst point, Brad goes to his office and boots up the Mac that Nate bought him. It took him four nights to rebuild it into something he could use. Brad promised not to hack the NSA; he never said anything about Mossad. Or MI-6. Or the government of Oman. Or Guatemala. Or the North Korean missile system.
He checks in on Leah for the first time in months. According to the admissions office at Stanford, she's been accepted to their medical school program.
He doesn't understand what he did to drive Nate away, but he'll do whatever he has to to get him back.
It takes three weeks for Brad to crack.
He goes to Section, he does everything he's told to, and he does it well. He complains, but that's just how he is. There's no reason for Nate to avoid him. If their time together was positive reinforcement, what the hell is this? Sensory deprivation?
Whatever it is, it is not okay.
Nate's forcing his hand.
At least this is his justification for breaking into Nate's apartment. He shouldn't be surprised that Nate has a security alarm. Brad's place does as well, he just hasn't bothered to arm it because only a crazy person would break into an assassin's home. Brad stares at the key pad and starts counting in his head.
One retard, two retards... the code's not Molière... it's not Dickens or Marines or Bravo.
It's Prometheus. It has to be.
And so it is.
Nate is such a fucking geek. He's just begging Brad to break in.
With the alarm disarmed, Brad can look in peace. He flicks on his Maglite and begins his study.
Nate's place is Brad's apartment laid out in reverse. The table in the hall is black lacquer with sharp edges but Nate also has an umbrella stand and a Kandinsky print. The living room has one wall painted a deep royal blue. The sofa is cream. There are Japanese prints on the wall with slashes of red and black. There's no TV.
Nate's entire office is full of books. There are no computers. There's no drafting table. But there is a light table with negatives on it. And the only wall without shelves is covered with maps. Afghanistan. Morocco. Hong Kong. Iran. North Korea.
Brad doesn't touch anything. His job is to gather intel.
Brad pushes open the door of the bedroom and then stops. He can't believe his sense of privacy chooses now to kick in. He sweeps his Maglite around the room briefly though. There's a TV in here. Brad's flashlight stops on a messy painting in Nate's bedroom that Brad recognizes from his own bedroom. Pollock. Jackson Pollock.
Huh.
The kitchen is just what Brad would expect from Nate. Le Creuset bake ware. Copper pots like the ones Brad has. A high-powered blender and separate food processor. Breadmaker. Toaster oven. Brad opens the refrigerator and there's nothing in there.
There are lots of Nate's things in this apartment, but there's no Nate.
Where the hell is he?
Brad's a little surly the next day. For the first time ever, he gets the drop on Rudy in hand-to-hand combat. In Communications he curses Poke so thoroughly in Farsi that Ray actually stands up and applauds. In weapons training Brad manages to empty a Ruger 45, two magazines from a semi-automatic and five rounds from a Benelli shotgun into the same three inch circle in the same target in under four minutes.
When it's over, Mike just stares. "Had your Wheaties this morning, Brad?"
Brad offers Mike the butt end of the Benelli. "What's next?"
Brad takes an extra long ride after work. He directs the bike over to Rock Creek Parkway. The winding turns are just what he needs to focus on. He gets off at Military Road and cuts across to Nebraska Ave, eventually letting it dump him out on MacArthur Blvd.
A few twists and turns finally get him on Canal Road and he rides for as long as he can. Feeling the bike underneath him, looking at the lights of Arlington across the water.
He takes M Street to Connecticut Avenue and then he goes home. It's late. Well after one in the morning. He doesn't even bother knocking on Nate's door.
And this is obviously why Nate's sitting in his living room when he walks in the front door. He looks up from a newspaper he's reading when Brad drops his keys on the foyer table. Brad can't identify the language. It's possibly Russian. Maybe Bulgarian. Poke hasn't started on Eastern European languages and their bases yet.
Nate folds the paper. "Long day?"
"Where the hell have you been?" Brad demands, suddenly furious.
And that's the real problem. Brad's actually angry. He doesn't get angry. He's not that guy. He doesn't worry. Emotions make people messy. Brad just gets on with it, whatever "it" is, but Nate doesn't allow for that. He's always around, invading Brad's space, his thoughts. Making him feel.
Brad hates feeling. It's exhausting.
Nate's lips twitch. "Did you miss me?"
"Fuck you," Brad says, stalking into the kitchen.
He knows exactly what he's looking for. He grabs a juice glass, slamming it on the counter before cracking the seal on a bottle of Johnny Walker blue label he bought last week. He blew a good amount of his pocket change on the off chance that Nate might come home and share the whisky with him.
Brad fills the glass until he can see his hangover in the morning. His mouth is on the lip of the glass when fingers wrap around his wrist and pull it down.
"I was working," Nate says in a low tone.
Brad's eyes skate over Nate. He's in a black suit that has faint gray stripes. His shirt is pale gray. His tie pewter and loose at the knot. He's sporting stubble and tousled hair.
Brad wants to fuck him so badly it makes his teeth hurt.
He yanks his hand away and whisky sloshes over his fingers. "The hell you were." He takes a liberal swallow. "You haven't been home."
"I don't always work from here."
"Then why do you even have that apartment?"
"Because it's nice to have something to come home to."
Nate's fucking with him again. Brad can feel it. He takes another drink. He can see Nate sucking on his lower lip. Brad tightens his grip on his glass so he doesn't do something stupid like punch Nate. Or kiss him. It's a close race at the moment.
"That's a nice whisky," Nate says.
"It was the last of the money I set aside for hookers and blow."
"Hookers and blow, huh?"
"It was a good time," Brad waves his glass around the room. "I'm sure it made great surveillance camera footage."
Nate watches him, bewildered. "There aren't any cameras in here."
"Bullshit."
Nate grabs Brad's glass, forcibly pulls it away and sets it on the counter. "Brad, I'm not watching you. Nobody's watching you. I haven't had you under surveillance since we left Section."
"Yeah, but there were cameras at the training house."
"I fucking hope not," Nate says, taking a swig from Brad's glass.
"You mean you missed the shows I put on for you? That's too bad."
"What shows?"
Brad takes a step into Nate's space, deliberately leaning in too close. "You'll never know now, will you?"
Nate's cheeks turn vaguely pink. Brad needs another drink. He grabs the bottle and takes a swig. Nate polishes off the rest of Brad's glass. "So, you're back now," Brad says.
Nate rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to shake something off. "Yeah. Yes. I'm back now. I did my work; it's time for you to do yours."
And just like that Brad's entire thought-process changes direction. All emotions, or threats thereof, shut down in the face of business.
"What's the assignment?"
"The Consulate General of Brazil is located at 1030 15th Street," Nate begins.
Brad raises an eyebrow. "You want me to kill the Consulate General of Brazil?"
"No, we want you to kill one of his aides, Tomás Araujo."
"Why?"
Nate's mouth quirks upward. Brad licks his lips; they're talking about work and Nate's making him hard. He is so fucked up.
"I'm not allowed to ask why?" Brad guesses.
Nate gives him a wry grin. "Most handlers wouldn't allow this question, no."
"And you are?"
"I need you to be efficient."
"You think I won't be efficient if you don't tell me."
"I think you'll be angry with me."
"You give yourself a lot of credit," Brad says, turning away to retrieve a bottle of cranberry juice from the refrigerator. He needs a clearer head if Nate's going to be this close to him.
When he turns around, he collides with Nate and fumbles his juice. Nate grabs it and cracks open the lid before handing it back. "Araujo is selling secrets to the guerillas. We think he's responsible for some incidents that have happened recently in Rio de Janeiro."
Brad takes a large swig of his juice before handing the bottle over to Nate. "Is that where you were? In Brazil?"
Nate takes a swallow and sets the bottle down. He pulls several papers out of his jacket pocket and sets them down on the counter. "Every Friday at 3 p.m. Araujo meets his contact at the TD Bank on the corner of 15th and P," he explains, showing Brad various surveillance photos. "You're going to take him out en route to the meet."
Brad tries not to focus on Nate's stained mouth. "You want me to kill someone at a bank? Do you know how many cameras there are at a bank?"
"Since I'm the one who trained you in logistics, yes."
Brad looks out the kitchen window. The geraniums he planted in the window box are bright against the dark night. His mom would be proud. "You want me to walk up to an embassy aide and shoot him in broad daylight on 15th and P?"
"No, I want you to go for a walk to the Bank of America across the street. When Araujo arrives you're going to take him out. And then you're going to meet me at Cure for lunch."
Brad's laugh is harsh. "Targets and lunch on a first date? That's ambitious."
"Cure is a restaurant in the Grand Hyatt in Penn Quarter."
"Nate..."
"I've been training you for this, Brad. You can do it."
This is not the time for an argument. Brad can tell by the tenor of Nate's voice. The decision has been made. "Where are you going to be?"
Nate holds out a flesh-colored piece of plastic. "This is your comm -- I'll be right there with you."
"Is this is the part where I'm supposed to be happy I get to break in my Beretta?"
"Actually, no," Nate says, extracting something from his left jacket pocket. "This the part where you get to road test the Blackberry gun R&D created."
"Do you bring me these toys because you know they get me hot?" Brad asks.
Nate's smile is real and devastating. "No, that's just a bonus."
Brad can feel heat in his cheeks. This is new.
"Oh, and Brad?"
Brad blinks at Nate, slightly dazed. "Yeah?"
"Stop testing my patience with your computer."
This time Brad knows his face is going red, flushing.
Maybe Nate is always watching him.
Two days later, Brad approaches the intersection of 15th and P from the southeast corner of P Street. He's wearing a gray suit, a white oxford shirt and aviator sunglasses. He's just another self-important white male walking around Washington D.C., playing with his overpriced electronic gadget as though he owns the place.
There are thousands of guys just like him crawling the streets.
Well, maybe not just like him.
He doubts the Ivy League grad across the street is carrying a Blackberry with six 9mm bullets and has sunglasses with visual capabilities in the ear hinge. Everything Brad's seeing, Nate's watching, too.
"I hope that toupee ahead of you looks better in real life than it does on my video," Nate quips.
Nate can't see the smirk on Brad's lips, but it's there.
"Mark is approaching at your two o'clock and 150 feet."
Brad clears his throat to show that he's heard Nate. Up ahead the sidewalk sign counts down out loud in its electronic voice. "10... 9... 8...."
"Mark is now at your one o'clock and 100 feet."
Brad rolls back his shoulders. He angles his Blackberry as though he's typing out a message.
"5....4.... 3..." the crosswalk voice intones.
"Acquire your target at 50 feet."
"The walk sign is on now. The walk sign is on now," the electronic voice proclaims.
Between the electronic voice and the silencer masquerading as an antenna, nobody hears the gunshot.
Across the street, a handsome man with a goatee, a dark blue suit and yellow tie collapses on the sidewalk. Only the people around him notice.
The pink mist is a little hard to ignore.
Brad turns left at the corner and keeps walking down 15th Street. He should reach the Grand Hyatt in 20 minutes.
Cure has large white writing on the windows outside and is full of dark, shiny wood furniture and trendy yuppies on the inside. Brad hates these kinds of people. He ignores the maître d' and heads directly for an oversized chair in a corner marked by floor-to-ceiling windows.
A Blackberry and a Bluetooth ear-piece rest on a table by Nate's elbow. Nate slips a white laptop into a bag when he sees Brad. His expression is all approval as Brad approaches.
"They have a Maryland blue crab pie here that I think you might like," Nate says conversationally as he stands up and takes the Blackberry from Brad.
Nate's fingers are warm; their touch is like a brand against the back of Brad's hand. "Okay," Brad says, sitting down abruptly in the chair Nate just vacated.
Nate gives Brad a searching look and a crease forms between his eyebrows. "On second thought, why don't I make you a hamburger at home?"
Brad nods. "Okay."
Nate gives him a ticket stub. "Go get the car out of valet and I'll meet you outside in a minute."
Brad takes the piece of paper, gets up and turns sharply on his heel.
Out the corner of his eye he sees a familiar head of blond hair moving in Nate's direction. Walt must be taking care of Brad's leftovers.
Brad leaves a trail of clothes from his front door to the bathroom.
He turns on the water as hot as possible and stands underneath the spray until the steam constricts his lungs and he can barely breathe. He grabs a bottle of shampoo and upends it all over his body.
He scrubs his hair, behind his ears, his navel, behind his knees and between his toes. He's not upset. He's not anything. He thinks that's what's causing more issues than anything else.
This is his job now. This is his living.
And he's totally indifferent to anything in it unless Nate tells him to be otherwise.
His cock twitches in interest at the thought of Nate, and Brad wraps a hand around it and strokes himself far, far too hard. The suds from the shampoo guide his path. He thinks about Nate's eyelashes, about the curve of his mouth, his long fingers and flat abdominals.
Brad's fingers slip downward, sliding through soapy pubic hair to curl around his balls. They're heavy, growing tighter every second. He tugs on them sharply. There's an edge of pain to everything he's doing to himself. Nerves spark and flare with life; he feels every last sensation.
He spreads his legs, setting one foot on the edge of the tub and bracing himself against the tile with one hand and touching himself with the other. The angle is a little awkward, but he tugs his lower lip between his teeth, tensing and relaxing at the same time his finger breaches his entrance. His cock softens, but he'll deal with that in a minute.
He ignores the knock at the door. "Brad?"
Brad sighs as the door opens. He goes to remove his finger and then thinks better of it.
It's possible that the creak of the door opening covers his moan as he pushes his finger in to the second knuckle, it's also possible that it doesn't.
There's a long silence.
Brad slides his finger back out carefully.
"Brad, do you want to talk about today?" Nate's voice rises over the sound of the shower.
Brad thrusts back in. His groan is loud. Obscene. He revels in it.
"What – what's there to talk about?" he manages after a moment. "I did my job."
His cock is getting back into the game, too. Brad can feel it stiffening, and when he looks down between his legs he's half-hard. There's water running off the tip of his dick and onto the shower floor.
"Are you ready for this?" Nate probes. "Do you need more time?"
Brad swipes his tongue over his lips and pushes in further, stretching himself more. He curses softly under his breath. He needs lube of some sort.
He turns his head when the shower curtain is yanked back. Nate's eyes drift over Brad slowly. His face, his chest. The foot on the edge of the tub, his half-hard dick and his finger up his ass.
Brad's gotten used to Nate looking at him. Gotten used to Nate correcting the way he holds his weapons. The way Nate walks around him, adjusting his stance. The set of his shoulders.
In the beginning Brad would adopt bad technique just so Nate would be forced to touch him.
When Nate licks his lips, Brad begins to remove his finger, and Nate shakes his head.
"No," he says, stepping into the shower and using his body to press Brad against the tiling. "Don't stop on my account."
It is the single most awkward physical position Brad's ever been in. He's naked, wet, his arm is being pinned behind him, and Nate's plastered to his chest. All things considered, it could be much worse.
And then Nate steps back, just a little bit and pulls off his belt. It makes a loud clank as he drops it on the bathroom floor. The belt is followed by his cufflinks.
Brad watches as Nate rolls up his sleeves and gestures at him impatiently. "C'mon."
Brad scowls. "Fuck you," he says, removing his finger and trying to duck around Nate.
Nate shakes his head. "You keep saying that," he says, pushing Brad back against the tiles forcefully, "but then you don't do it." Nate is very close. There's water running down his face. His cheeks are flushed from the heat of the shower. "We need to work on your follow-through."
"My follow-through is just fine," Brad says, grabbing the front of Nate's shirt, his fingers tangling in Nate's tie as he hauls him into a kiss.
Nate makes an approving noise, his hands cupping Brad's face and holding him close. The kisses are long, searching, sensual in ways Brad doesn't have much experience with.
Nate's tongue sweeps through Brad's mouth and Brad catches it with his teeth. He slides his hands down Nate's back and palms his ass, groaning when Nate's thigh insinuates itself between his legs.
Brad's cock rubs against the wet wool. It's rough and slippery, the friction against the side of cock so close to brutal that it's perfect.
He grumbles in the back of his throat when Nate pries his fingers free from Nate's shirt. "Want to watch you," Nate says, extricating himself from Brad.
Brad blinks at him. He's hard, there's water in his face and Nate's moving away. Again.
"Don't fucking move," Brad orders, grabbing at Nate's tie at the same time Nate turns away to turn off the water.
It was only a matter of time before an accident happened. Bathrooms are terrible places to have sex.
Brad loses his footing and they both go tumbling over the side of the bathtub and onto the floor. They land on the bathmat, skidding across the floor until Brad's head collides with the wall. His vision blurs briefly, but he shakes that off because he has Nate sprawled on top of him.
It feels a lot like victory.
Nate pushes himself to his knees, straddling Brad's hips. His erection is straining against his pants. "Everything with you is so much fucking work," he bitches, unzipping his pants and trying to work the wet fabric down his thighs.
He's not wearing any underwear.
"You're not wearing any underwear," Brad supplies helpfully, running a finger along the side of Nate's cock. It's long and thick and Brad can taste it on his tongue. Feel it stretching him open. His mouth waters and his ass throbs in anticipation.
"Thank you for the obvious," Nate says, batting his hand away before twisting to the right and retrieving a bottle of lotion from the counter around the sink. He pumps the handle a few times squirting lotion all over his hand and all over Brad.
"All I wanted was to watch you fuck yourself," Nate complains, wrapping his hand around Brad's cock and jerking him off. "But no, you have to nearly kill us both."
Brad grunts as Nate thumbs the head of his cock. "Why can't you just do what I want you to do?" Nate says plaintively, giving Brad's dick a wicked turn of his wrist. "Why are you so hard-headed?"
Brad arches off the floor, gaping when he collapses back. "All I do is what you want me to do!" he explodes. "Go here! Do this! Learn these two-hundred fifty-seven countries. Be an expert in these thirty-seven weapons. Speak eight languages. Don't fall for me even though I'm crazy about you."
Nate pauses. "I never told you not to fall for me."
Brad takes this interlude to roll them over and pin Nate to the floor. Thank god for bathrooms the size of a studio apartment. "You want me to fuck you. You want to watch me fuck myself," he says, rising up on his knees. "Aren't you supposed to be more focused than this?"
Nate's about to say something, but Brad's over talking about it. Instead he grabs Nate's lotion-slicked hand and shoves it between his own legs. He pushes at Nate's fingers until one slips inside him and then he moans low, guttural.
Nate's mouth falls open and Brad rises on his knees before sinking back down. "Oh – oh, fuck," he groans, riding Nate's finger slowly.
Brad's head lolls back when Nate adds another finger. Nate's fingers are thick, long, he can just imagine what Nate's going to feel like inside him. The press of his cock against Brad's prostate. His hands on Brad's hips, his dick slamming into Brad, his balls slapping against Brad's ass. "Fuck yes," Nate says.
Brad didn't even realize he was talking out loud.
His own cock is heavy between his legs, thick and frustrated; it jerks when he wraps his hand around it. Brad grunts at the ceiling; he's barely gotten off half a stroke before he's coming. The heat spikes in his groin, radiating outwards as his muscles tremble. He looks down in time to see his spunk shoot all over his hand and all over Nate's shirt.
Apparently Nate's a little busy, too: the hand not fucking Brad's ass is stroking Nate's cock. Brad bats that hand out of the way and covers Nate's dick with his own spunk-and-lotion-covered fingers.
Nate writhes underneath him, fucking up into Brad's hand at the same time that he's fucking Brad. It's a lot going on at one time.
"Come for me," Brad demands. "It's time you took an order for a change."
Nate does exactly what he's told, his eyes screwed shut as he cries out and comes all over Brad's hand.
When Nate opens his eyes, Brad's licking his fingers.
The lotion doesn't taste like much, chemicals mostly. Their semen is bitter: a little sour, a little soapy. Nate lifts his head, his eyes wide before his head crashes back against the flooring.
"Fine," he says tiredly. "You killed me. You win."