hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2010-04-07 10:45 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2010-04-07 10:45 am
Entry tags:
Generation Kill AU – You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You (Brad Colbert/Nate Fick, NC-17, 4/4
Part I
Part II
Part III
You Will Be For Me and I Will Fight For You
Brad wakes up in the morning with Nate next to him. Nate's sleeping on his stomach, his face tucked into the crook of his arm in peaceful repose.
The sun shines through a gap in Brad's curtains, casting streaks of light on Nate's skin.
The birds are chirping happily, and the moment is so fucking picturesque Norman Rockwell would've choked. Brad rolls onto his side, his fingers ghosting down Nate's spine, drifting over the swell of his ass. His fingers are curious, exploratory, and eventually they migrate along Nate's ribs and a long black line of ink.
Nate's tattoo is so simple Brad has to smile. He runs a light touch along the words.
Nate mumbles in his sleep, wrinkling his nose. Thank god Brad doesn't acknowledge words like "adorable" because that would be a whole new level of whipped.
Brad crowds closer as Nate yawns and his eyelids flutter open.
"Nice ink," Brad says by way of greeting
Nate rubs at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "We can't all have a heavy metal Mona Lisa on our backs."
"I thought it would at least be in Latin or Greek."
"I'm not that much of a pretentious dick."
"I think that's debatable." Brad laughs when Nate shoves him away. He rolls back immediately. "It's kind of hard to see it where it is," he says.
"That's the point. It's not for anybody else. I did it for me."
Brad looks at Nate's ink again. It's very Nate.
He strokes it one more time, feeling Nate sharp's inhalation. "It suits you."
"I like it."
"Then that's all that matters."
Brad settles on Nate's pillow, closing his eyes briefly when Nate's fingers brush along his jaw. "Ik zou niet zoveel van je moeten houden."
Brad opens his eyes, his features creasing in confusion. "I don't know that language."
"I know."
"Asshole," he says good-naturedly. "What is it?"
"Dutch."
"Dutch? You couldn't learn something useful, like Swedish?" Brad demands.
Nate laughs so hard he wheezes. "It works pretty good in the Netherlands."
"When the hell are we going to the Netherlands?"
"It's good in Belgium, too."
"Are we going to a session of the E.U.?"
"We could."
"No, I think I've had enough of our government not to need anyone else's." Brad pauses. "So, what did you say?"
"I said I'm hungry and you should make me breakfast."
"Liar."
"Possibly."
"What did you say really?"
Nate looks somewhere near Brad's ear. "It's possible that I admitted that I'm crazy about you." Brad's mouth parts a little in surprise. Nate nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's definitely possible."
Brad kisses him just as slowly and thoughtfully. Nate's lips are warm, dry. They catch slightly along Brad's mouth, sending all sorts of wicked vibrations down to Brad's dick.
His tongue strokes along Nate's own, exploring, tasting. His fingers card through Nate's hair and eventually Brad rolls over on top of him. Nate shifts, spreading his legs so Brad can fit between them.
Nate's cock rubs against Brad's stomach, leaving smears along his skin. He arches up and Brad grinds down.
"When do I get a day off?" Brad asks, his thumb teasing Nate's right nipple. It's pink, hard and responsive to his touch. Nate groans when Brad tugs on it.
"What – what do you need with a day off?" he grits out.
Brad lowers his head and grazes Nate's other nipple with his teeth. "I can think of a few things."
Nate laughs, and Brad lifts his head, his smile wide and free. When Nate tugs him up by the back of his neck, he comes happily.
They get out of bed around ten, which is practically sleeping the whole day away. Brad makes blueberry pancakes and they watch The Sting on HBO. In the afternoon, Nate takes him to see the Terra Cotta Warriors at the National Geographic museum on 17th Street. They have dinner at Oya, where Brad insists they sit in the corner so he can keep an eye on the rest of the room.
The day after this, Brad goes back to work.
He trains with Rudy and Mike, bickers with Poke and trades insults with Ray.
That night he goes home to 3100 Connecticut Avenue, stopping off at the liquor store to buy an obscenely priced bottle of French wine he thinks Nate might like. He parks his bike in the garage and takes the elevator to the third floor.
The light is on underneath Nate's door, and when Brad knocks, Nate lets him in.
He smiles brilliantly when Brad presents his offering. "For me?"
"I thought it might go with dinner." Brad almost feels shy; it's mind-bogglingly weird.
"You don't even know what I'm cooking."
"I don't care," Brad says, taking in the unbuttoned collar of Nate's coffee-colored shirt, and then he sniffs the air.
Nate laughs. "Of course you care."
"Well, I do," Brad concedes, "but not about the food."
Nate's eyes soften and he tugs Brad into a kiss by his slate-blue sweater. The kiss is sweet, it tastes like chocolate and bananas. Brad only pulls away to remove the bottle from Nate's hand and set it on the foyer table. He then backs Nate into the wall and pins him there, holding Nate's wrists above his head and kissing him deeply, nipping at Nate's jaw and brushing his lips along the skin behind Nate's ear.
He leaves a trail of sucking kisses along the column of Nate's neck, reveling in the feel of Nate's body against him, the hardness of Nate's cock pressing against his hip.
And then he lets go of Nate's wrists and drops to his knees, making quick work of unfastening Nate's pants and pulling them down to his knees.
Again with the lack of underwear.
"You're going to spoil me," Brad says, his voice husky.
"I try," Nate rasps out as Brad nuzzles his cock, mouthing at the head and swiping his tongue over the precome he finds there.
"Brad," Nate's tone wavers, and when Brad opens his mouth and takes him in, Nate's hand lands heavily on top of his head, his fingers curling around Brad's left ear.
Brad sucks Nate's cock like he's starving for it. Fast and messy, his hands tugging on Nate's balls, reaching behind them with curious fingers as Nate pounds on the wall with his fist.
Brad's mouth waters, he can taste bitterness mixed in with something vaguely tangy, and when he pulls off, he can feel the saliva and come running down his chin. He's a little light-headed, but all the breath-holding practice is working wonders for his ability to suck cock.
"Oh, fuck." Nate's words crack, his hand brushing over Brad's mouth as Brad wraps his hand around Nate's cock and keeps up the pace.
Nate's fingers slip between Brad's lips and Brad sucks on them hungrily, his tongue flickering over short nails before he pulls his mouth away and goes back to sucking cock. Nate's dick fills his mouth, and Brad sucks hard, feeling the ache in his jaw and ignoring it until Nate's yanking on his hair and calling his name.
Nate pulses on Brad's tongue, coming with a shout. Brad swallows most of it, wiping a few drops away with the tips of his fingers.
Nate's chest is heaving, and he stares down at Brad like he's never seen him before. The next thing Brad knows he's being dragged down the hall and shoved onto Nate's bed.
Brad can hear strains of Kanye West coming from Nate's iPod in the kitchen.
After all the time they've spent dancing around each other, around this, it's kind of hysterical that they don't even bother to completely remove their clothes when they get down to it.
A lamp in the hallway casts light into the dark room and allows Brad to watch Nate kick off his pants. Brad gets his own trousers down around his ankles before Nate's straddling him and rolling a condom on Brad's cock. After that, clothing removal doesn't seem particularly pressing even though there's lube all over Brad's sweater and fingers and Nate's shirt.
It's a farcical and hot and perfect. When Brad presses one finger deep inside Nate, Nate lets out this animalistic howl. The noise is loud and primal, and Brad knows that this moment with Nate tight around him, breathing harshly through his nose, has finalized a deal they made a long time ago.
Brad will do everything Nate says, kill anybody he wants. He will go to the ends of the earth just to keep Nate this close to him.
He pushes himself upright and lets Nate ride his finger, gives him another and another.
Nate wraps an arm around Brad's neck and makes these keening noises in the back of his throat. He gasps against Brad's mouth, barely able to breathe at one moment and begging for Brad to fuck him the next.
Ignoring Nate's vehement protest, Brad slips his fingers free so that he can wrap a hand around his cock and get Nate positioned. He rubs the head against Nate's hole, coaxing him to move at the same time that Nate shifts of his own accord. And then Nate's down, his ass flush with Brad's lap and it's like somebody's fired a starting pistol.
Nate fucks himself on Brad's cock like he's been waiting to do it his entire life. His fingernails dig into the side of Brad's neck, and all Brad can do is grip Nate's hips and hold on as Nate rides him into oblivion.
He tries to kiss Nate, tries to keep up or slow him down just that little bit, but Nate knows what he wants and there's no reason he shouldn't get it. So Brad tightens his hold and tries to meet Nate's every thrust. There's no real leverage from his position, but he gets a sharp bite to his upper lip for his trouble and Nate's free hand scrambling between them to get himself off.
For the last seven months, blacking out for Brad has been associated with pain, but tonight when he comes it's the most euphoric sensation ever. He regains consciousness just in time to see Nate shooting all over his sweater.
Brad makes a noise that's half-amusement and half-victory. Nate climbs off of him slowly and collapses on the bed next to him. Brad reaches down to remove the condom and the smoke alarm goes off.
Nate turns towards him, his face flushed and sweaty. "I forgot about dinner."
The week after Brad's first job he gets sent to Seattle to deal with a drug trafficker. Nate flies with him to a private airstrip near Sea-Tac and waits in the plane until Brad returns three hours later. Ten days after that they go to Chicago to deal with the owner of an Italian business that's apparently been importing children. Both of these assignments are day trips, but the domestic terrorist in Juneau requires an overnighter.
It's supposed to rain in Alaska in the late summer; the snow makes it clear that climate change has other plans. They stay in a motel where Nate pays cash, sets up his laptop and sends Brad out dressed in a white snowsuit. Brad takes a hastily procured snowmobile up a mountain, his rifle strapped to his back along with enough MREs to last him two days and a canteen of water.
On his way up the mountain Nate briefs him on what he should be expecting when he arrives. This assignment should take Brad a little while. He needs to stake out the area, assess the target's movements.
Brad parks the snowmobile a half-a-mile away from the farm he's looking for. He hikes upward, climbing to the top of a ridge to get a better vantage point. He removes his rifle and makes a small support out of snow.
He doesn't notice Vince Zachary until the man is nearly on top of him. And if Brad's surprised, Zachary is in fucking shock. There's no time for Brad to set up his rifle. There's not even time for him to get his Beretta from his ankle holster.
Zachary is a big man and Brad goes for his throat automatically. He smashes into Zachary's windpipe with the side of his hand, and when Zachary's hands go up, Brad aims for his stomach. Zachary grunts loudly, and as he falls to his knees Brad can feel his own heart rate slowing down.
This is just work.
Brad goes for the kidneys with the toe of his boots. He can hear Mike's voice in his head, drumming the body's weak points into his brain.
Zachary goes into the snow face first, and Brad covers him with his body. He wraps an arm around Zachary's neck and squeezes. The man flails around like he's having a seizure, rolling Brad over and knocking the breath out of him, but Brad holds on.
There's yelling in Brad's ear, but he's not paying attention.
Zachary keeps flailing. Brad tightens his hold and then Vince Zachary goes limp, and Brad stops what he's doing. The last time he used the sleeper hold he was 16 and he held on too long. Today he's 27 and he lets go a little early.
He wriggles out from underneath his target and looks at a blue face. He checks for a pulse, it's thready. That won't do. Brad rolls Zachary back over onto his stomach, grabs Zachary's chin and the back of his head and wrenches it until he hears the snap of vertebrae.
Okay, now he's done.
"Brad!"
Brad's head goes up and he looks around. Ah, it's comms.
"Hey," he says, looking down at the corpse below him.
"Brad, what the hell is going on?" Nate's voice is strained. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Brad says, dropping to his knees and rolling Zachary to the edge of the ridge where he was going to set up his rifle. He looks down at the farm below, which belongs to Zachary and his cadre of Neo-Nazi brothers, and then Brad pushes Zachary's corpse down the hill.
Accidents happen all the time in the wilderness.
"What happened?"
"Assignment complete," Brad says, picking up his rifle and heading back to his snowmobile.
Nate's quiet for a minute. "Are you okay?" he repeats.
"That's what you pay me for," Brad says simply. "To be okay."
Now that Brad's in the field, he only trains at Section a couple of times a week. He spends more time getting briefed on where he's going, what he's doing. In some cases he spends days in a total immersion of a target's life just to get a better idea of what he'll be doing when he gets off the plane. For the most part he leaves the recon to Nate. Brad's job is to get in and out, not make friends.
He still sees Rudy, Mike, Poke and Ray, but it's not the same as it was before.
His trade-off is more time with Nate.
The day after they return from Juneau, Nate takes him to the movies at the Uptown Theatre to see the latest inane blockbuster. Brad loses interest eighteen minutes in when the hand-to-hand combat proves to be totally unrealistic. There's no way somebody could withstand that kind of assault without at least a little bloodshed. He spends the next X number of minutes eating Nate's popcorn and twining together fingers that are slick with fake butter. At one point, he finds himself actually sucking on Nate's ring finger with Nate squirming in the seat next to him.
They leave the theater shortly after that.
It's a nice day in September, all things considered. The sky is blue, the sun is bright and there's a slight breeze rustling the trees. It's probably in the low 60s and at least it's not raining. It rains so fucking much in the metro area, Brad keeps expecting to see Noah's ark sailing down 16th Street.
As they walk back to Cathedral Park, Nate points out a Greek deli called Byblos.
Brad shakes his head. "I hate Greek food."
Nate bats him gently with the back of his hand. "That's not the point."
"I didn't realize there was a point."
"It's a business on a busy street where there is always foot traffic," Nate explains patiently.
Brad shrugs. "And?"
"If anything ever goes wrong, come here and wait for me."
Brad stops in front of the Cleveland Public Library. "Wrong like what?"
Nate keeps walking; Brad catches up with him. "Wrong like what?" he persists, tugging on Nate's wrist to make him stop.
Nate shrugs. "Wrong like anything. Maybe if you get a hangnail."
Brad rolls his eyes. "Va te faire foutre."
"It shouldn't get me hot when you curse at me in French, should it?"
Brad ponders this. "Only if you don't plan to do something about it."
A week later, Management gives Brad his first assignment out of the country. It's practically a vacation for his team. Poke, Rudy and Mike get a few days off, while Ray, Walt and Nate all get to accompany him to Caracas, Venezuela.
Brad brings his gun case, but Walt's along in case Brad requires modifications for the target.
The minute they hit the tarmac, Ray starts talking about donkey shows, cocaine and doing tequila shots from nubile navels. Walt slaps him on the back of the head and Ray immediately shuts up.
Nate's wearing a linen shirt and jeans, and with his aviator sunglasses on he looks like an American spy. Brad chuckles at his own joke and Nate raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
Brad dismisses it with a wave of his hand and off they go to the hotel.
Nate's original recon calls for Brad to pull a Mozambique on Eduardo Jiménez Garrido, a drug trafficker who's taken on a sideline of human trafficking. Brad thinks two bullets to the head and one to the chest are pretty efficient, but it turns out that someone else has recently made an attempt on Mr. Garrido and Brad isn't going to get an opening like that.
The target, however, has a predilection for a certain bar in a certain part of town, and this bar happens to have a ceiling with an excellent crawl space. At least this is what Ray insists when he comes back at three in the morning, sweaty, filthy and smelling of marijuana and cigars.
That night Brad would swear that he hears Walt reading Ray the riot act in the room next door, but Nate's also fucking Brad's brains out with a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, so Brad's not really focusing on anybody else.
The next night Brad finds himself stuck in the promised crawl space wearing black cargo pants, a black turtleneck and a balaclava in 80 degree weather with 90 percent humidity. It's the wet season and Brad's going to drown in his own sweat.
Ray's voice is babbling in his ear in Spanish. He's been sent to pick up the mark and get him into the bathroom. Walt didn't approve of this plan; he was vetoed.
The door swings open, and through the vent, Brad can see Ray sweet talking a 50-something man with too many gold chains and too much grease in his hair. He's got his hands all over Ray, which is truly something Brad doesn't need to see, ever.
The minute Ray backs Garrido into the stall, Brad removes the wall grating and leans halfway out. The man is making grabbing hands at Ray as the same time Brad pulls the retractable wire out of his watch and wraps it around his neck.
Garrido is a fat bastard, though, and hanging out of the vent isn't giving Brad the leverage he needs. Especially with Garrido scratching at Brad's arms and trying to gouge out his eyes.
Brad takes a chance and reaches back for the knife he keeps strapped to his back.
A second later he slits Garrido's throat, the blood spilling onto his hands.
The struggle stops, and Brad lets Garrido's corpse collapse onto the toilet.
Ray's standing at the stall entrance staring in a mixture of horror and wonder, but Brad can't deal with him. "¡Vaya!" he orders.
Ray looks up at him, opens his mouth and then heads directly for the door.
Three hours later they're on the plane back home. Ray is eerily quiet, but when Brad gets up to talk to him, Nate pulls him back into his seat and shakes his head.
At least Walt's there to draw Ray out.
They're back in D.C. for two days and then they hit Tokyo, Adelaide, Mumbai and Munich in rapid succession. There are gun runners, terrorists, human traffickers and mini-dictators running amok. It almost seems like the more work Brad does, the more work there is to do. When they finally get home, all Brad wants to do is climb into bed and sleep for a week. With Nate. The Nate part is important.
The morning after they return, however, he gets summoned to Section. This has never happened before. After Brad gets the call, he rolls over to ask Nate about it and then he realizes that Nate's not there. He's probably already at the office writing up the after action report.
Brad climbs out of bed, takes a shower and gets dressed. There's a protein shake in the refrigerator with his name on it. Literally. Nate's actually put a Post-it on the glass. Brad doesn't know who the bigger dork is: Nate for making him breakfast or himself for the way his heart grows two sizes in his chest.
Brad walks into the IntelSat lobby in a dark blue suit. He even put on a tie since he's not just representing himself anymore. He's met by a man with dark hair in desert camouflage who shakes his hand. "Eckloff," the man says.
Brad just nods.
At this point he's pretty sure he doesn't have to introduce himself to anyone in Management.
He follows Eckloff to a bank of elevators he didn't even know existed. Eckloff presses a button for the seventh floor and the elevator begins moving. No voice recognition, no biometric scanners, no blood-tests. This is clearly where they bring the government civilians.
When Brad's ushered into an office that actually has walls made of plaster, he can feel himself tensing up. In a building made of glass, the only other room he's been in with plaster walls was the bathroom.
There's a man sitting behind a large oak desk with his back to Brad. There are two matching guest chairs with straight backs and dark-blue cloth seats. It's only when the door closes behind Brad that the man turns around.
Godfather.
The protein shake in Brad's stomach churns.
"Sir," he says by way of greeting.
He's totally unprepared for Godfather to stand up and come around the desk. Every muscle in Brad is primed for action; he's not being taken down by the old man ninja again.
Instead Godfather extends his hand. Brad stares at it for a moment before he shakes it.
"Brad, good to see you again. Have a seat."
Brad sits down, perching on the edge of his chair. There's something unsettling about Godfather. It may be the deceptive strength or the raspy voice or the piercing blue eyes, but it's probably all three. Plus, the man has a handshake like a vise.
"Godfather would like to start off by saying that he's very impressed with your work. In fact, Chaos himself has remarked on your performance."
Brad doesn't know who Chaos is, but he assumes this is a good thing. He nods once. "Thank you, sir."
Brad has no idea why he keeps addressing Godfather as "sir." It's been a long time since he's graced anybody with this honorific. Definitely not since he left military school, but there's something about Godfather that demands a certain respect.
"You're an asset to Bravo Section. Actually you are now the top asset of Bravo Section."
Brad didn't know there was even the possibility of other assets, but it makes sense. There's no way he's the only government-trained assassin running around the world. "Thank you."
"I had my doubts about you when Fick picked you out, but his instincts were on the money."
"Nate's good at what he does."
"You're not wrong, which is why it's so unfortunate that we're in this situation."
Brad sits up a little straighter. "Sir?"
Godfather's face is perfectly impassive. "We know what you're doing, son."
Brad can feel the blood draining from his face. His feet are nailed to the floor. He has done everything they've asked of him. There's only one thing in his life that could be of interest to Management at this point.
"You and Fick are a problem," Godfather says, confirming Brad's worst fears.
"Nate doesn't work for the military," Brad says between clenched teeth. "You can't discharge him for our relationship."
"I don't care where you stick your dick," Godfather says. "I care about the effectiveness of my assets. Your relationship with Fick makes you less reliable."
"I'm fine."
"You're compromised. So is he."
Brad's mouth thins into a line. "That's bullshit. Nate's the best handler you have."
"No, son, he's not the best one we have. He's just the one you have."
Brad says nothing.
"You're worth two million dollars," Godfather carries on. "We're not letting anyone get in the way of that."
"I won't work with somebody else," Brad says obstinately.
"You don't have any choice."
"I won't do it. I don't want another handler."
Godfather scoots to the end of his chair. His voice drops an octave. "I don't think you're hearing me, Brad. I'm not asking you to work with someone else, I'm telling you that I am terminating Nate Fick as your handler."
Brad can feel the despair bubbling up inside him. Only this isn't like when he was in the police station -- this is much worse. Before they could only take away his freedom; now they're trying to take his life.
"Nate won't work without me," Brad says obstinately.
"You're probably right," Godfather nods. "Which is why you're going to remove him from the equation."
Brad closes his eyes and counts to five. He's having a nightmare. A seriously fucked up nightmare. He's going to wake up in a minute and Nate'll be out cold next to him. Brad will wake him up for sex -- sweaty, hard, life-affirming sex -- because Nate is the only thing that makes Brad feel like he's not dying.
"No," Brad says quietly.
"If you don't do it, I'll find someone who will," Godfather says.
"No."
Godfather leans in further. Brad can count the lines across his forehead. "Let me put this in terms you understand: if you don't play ball, not only will I remove Fick, but you'll go to jail for murder."
"I didn't kill anybody," Brad protests.
Godfather's smile has too many teeth. "That was true before," he admits. "But it's not true now."
Brad swallows. "How long do I have?"
"Twenty-four hours."
Brad collapses back against the chair and covers his eyes with his left hand.
After a second the door snicks open, a moment later it closes.
When Brad uncovers his eyes, he's alone.
Brad doesn't go directly home that night. He drives around the city, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose himself in the stop-start of rush hour lights and retarded suburban drivers. He only stops to grab dinner at Ben's Chili Bowl.
He eats his chili sitting on his bike and then jogs across the street to the U Street Metro to use the pay phone.
He makes one phone call and hopes that'll be enough. He walks around the neighborhood three times to kill some time and keep on the move.
Thirty minutes later he's back at Ben's Chili Bowl, where he hops on his bike to drive the seven blocks to Ray's place.
Ray has an apartment off of Georgia and U Street, near Howard University. Apparently he likes the area because it has more character than living in Adams Morgan with all the snot-nosed hipsters and liberal cock-sucker government employees.
Brad raps on the door sharply once, pauses and then raps twice in succession. Ray opens the door in a black sleeveless shirt and boxers, his tattoos practically glowing next to his skim-milk complexion.
"You and your Rainbow Coalition are interrupting movie night," he says, rubbing a hand through messy black hair. "Your dick better be attached by a fucking thread," he adds, waving Brad inside.
Ray's hallway is painted an eye-searing red and Brad winces as Ray follows him down the hall.
Brad can hear voices lifted in the conversation of the testosterone-laden. Too many curse words and not enough verbs.
He stops in the entrance and takes in the scene before him.
Ray's living room walls are covered in black and white framed photos of The Clash and Johnny Cash. There are paintings from a few local artists, some mismatched furniture and a jumble of musical equipment.
Poke, Rudy and Mike are packed together on Ray's leather sofa like sardines in a can. They're still wearing their coats and jackets, while Walt's in sweatpants and a threadbare Cheap Trick T-shirt and lounging in a plaid armchair that's most definitely seen better days.
He's not wearing any shoes.
Brad's head processes the bare feet and Walt's swollen mouth and then he glances back at Ray's disheveled state. Now how the fuck did he not catch this one?
Well, he has been a little preoccupied.
Conversation dies off suddenly, and Brad realizes everyone is staring at him. "What?" he says.
"Brother, you're alive!" Rudy says, jumping up and hugging Brad hard enough to fracture at least three ribs.
Brad claps him on the back awkwardly. "I didn't know I was supposed to be dead," he says, extracting himself from Rudy.
What if Management made the same demand of Nate? To kill Brad? He's going to be ill.
"I thought you were dead, too," Poke says.
"That's the way Ray made it sound," Walt agrees.
Brad glares at Ray. "Reports of my demise are a little premature."
"I don't know about that," Mike says. "You ain't lookin' too hot."
Brad scratches the back of his head. Everyone's staring at him again. He takes a few steps and drops down on a red leather stool flanked by an electric guitar and a drum kit. Yeah, this is definitely Ray's place.
"Brad, you know whatever it is, we've got your back," Walt offers.
"I will totally fuck some shit up on your behalf." Ray's perched on the arm of Walt's chair, eyeballing Brad. "Just tell me when and where. And as long as it doesn't fuck with my NASCAR schedule, it's on. It's about time I bent the world over and fucked it up the ass."
"Like you could find anybody's ass with a map and two hands," Brad replies without heat.
Ray opens his mouth and Walt slaps a hand over it. "Do you want to tell us what's going on? Where's Nate?"
"Did something happen to Nate?" Mike says suspiciously.
"In a manner of speaking," Brad says. "I'm going to happen to Nate."
"Translate, dog," Poke insists. "I don't speak white boy."
"Management thinks our relationship compromises my effectiveness. They want me to assassinate Nate."
It's very hard for six people to share one look at the exact same time, but that happens now.
The entire apartment falls silent. The only noise in the entire room is the bubbling of the water filter in Ray's aquarium in the corner.
"Did you just say what I think you said?" Ray asks after several moments.
Brad rubs an eyebrow.
"Homes, that's fucked up."
Poke purses his lips. "You know we ain't gonna let this happen, right?"
"Why do you think you're all here?" Brad pauses. "I need your help."
Mike rubs his hands together. "So what are our options?"
By midnight they're deep in debate. They have a basic concept, but there are details, supplies that need to be procured that would take at least a few days under the best circumstances. They have hours.
Brad lets Poke and Ray work out the minutiae; he's otherwise occupied.
He's balancing Ray's laptop on his knees, doing things with it that would make Nate very, very unhappy, but for the first time in a long time Brad feels like he's in control.
This is his world, everyone else is just a tourist.
It's close to one in the morning when they finalize the plan.
To celebrate, Ray goes into the kitchen to get more coffee. Brad can hear what sounds like the rolling wheels of a cart long before Ray pushes a huge dry-erase board on wheels into the room. "That doesn't look like coffee," Poke says sardonically.
"And they say Mexicans aren't smart," Ray deadpans, rolling the board to the center of the room where everyone can see it.
In green ink there are Venn Diagrams and charts and arrows linking together everything from the Iraq war and NAMBLA to pussy and Avril Lavigne.
Ray flips the board over and starts drawing intricate blueprints that Brad recognizes as the floor plans for IntelSat. This is why Ray's such an asset to their team. He's a brain-addled, trailer park reject, but he's also really fucking smart.
"So," Ray says after drawing for five minute without talking. "Here's what we're going to do."
Brad gets home at two thirty-eight in the morning. He kicks off his shoes, drops a few items on his coffee table and brushes his teeth. And then he leaves his apartment and walks the twenty feet down the hall to the apartment next door. The security alarm buzzes at him in greeting when he picks the lock, and he disarms and resets it before padding down the hall, pulling off his clothes and climbing between body-warmed sheets.
Nate mumbles something as Brad curls up next to him and wraps a protective arm around his waist. "The guys say 'hi,'" he whispers, kissing Nate's right shoulder.
Nate makes a noise and falls back asleep.
Brad doesn't sleep at all. He spends the rest of the night holding Nate and running through the plan in the back of his mind.
He flips it over mentally, studying it forwards and backward, looking for the flaws, trying to determine how crippling those flaws are. How badly it will all go if it all goes wrong.
The worst thing would be a slow, painful demise... but if they take Nate away from him it'll be the same thing.
On the day of Nate's assassination, Brad wakes him up with a languid, wet blow job.
Nate doesn't wake up in stages, he goes from comatose to wide awake, and one minute Brad's swirling his tongue around the crown of Nate's cock and the next he's got fingers tangled in his hair and Nate pistoning into his mouth. He relaxes his throat, curls his hands under the swell of Nate's ass and urges him to move faster.
When Nate's in danger of yanking Brad's hair out at the roots, Brad pulls off and retrieves a condom from the bedside table. Nate's eyes are wide, his lips bitten red, and when Brad rolls the condom onto Nate's dick, he looses a soft groan.
Brad settles over Nate carefully, and very, very slowly begins the process of fucking himself on Nate's cock.
By the time Brad's all the way down, there's sweat beading on his forehead and Nate's chest is covered in a fine sheen. His fingernails are digging into Brad's hips and Brad is so uncomfortable he thinks about calling the whole thing off. And then he shifts his hips just that little bit and Nate's cock brushes against something deep inside.
Brad decides not to make any hasty decisions.
Two minutes later, he's in heaven: Nate's cock fucking into him and his own hand stripping his cock at an impressive rate. He's going to end up with friction burn.
Nate's thrashing around underneath him, and Brad has to plant one hand on his chest to hold him down. It's possible that Brad pushes a little bit harder than necessary.
There's going to be a bruise later, right over Nate's heart.
Nate makes sweet-potato waffles for breakfast, which they eat sitting on the kitchen floor in a square of sunlight streaming through the window.
At a little after eight o'clock Nate gets dressed and goes to the office. Brad sends him off to work with a kiss that's so intense that when it's over Nate stares at him for almost twenty full seconds. His lips are puffy, his pupils blown wide. Nate's hair and shirt are disheveled, messy.
Even after Nate leaves, when Brad looks out the peephole Nate's still staring at the door.
Once Nate's gone Brad collects his things and goes back to his apartment. He looks around at the home Nate made for him. It's nice. Perfect in a lot of ways. It has all the trappings, except for one.
Brad showers, pulls on a black suit that he hasn't worn in several months and checks his reflection in the mirror. His hair has gotten longer, but it's still him. He retrieves the black Samsonite case from underneath his bed and removes various pieces he'll need today.
He slips everything into a black messenger bag, and on his way out the front door he picks up the bullets that he dropped on the coffee table last night.
He leaves his bike in the garage and walks the mile to IntelSat where he preps his position across the street from 3400 International Drive.
There are thousands of possible positions he could choose. Every last one of them requires a certain amount of exposure and assumes certain facts about his target, but eventually he just has to trust in his instincts.
So Brad makes himself comfortable, and then he waits.
It is 61 degrees Fahrenheit at 12:36 p.m.
It's a gorgeous Wednesday afternoon in October in Northwest Washington, D.C. The president is out of town, traveling across the country selling his new education bill. The barometer is hovering near zero and there are wisps of cirrostratus clouds cutting across the blue sky.
At 12:42 p.m. Ray Person and Walt Hasser leave IntelSat for lunch. They'll decide to have sushi.
At 12:48 Mike Wynn, Tony "Poke" Espera and Rudy Reyes are videotaped leaving the garage in a blue GM SUV with tinted windows. They're car-pooling to a meeting in Pentagon City.
At 12:51 Engine Company 48 of the D.C. Fire Department gets a notification that a fire alarm has gone off at the IntelSat building. In accordance with city law, the occupants have begun evacuation of 3400 International Drive with almost one hundred people pouring out of the building and onto the circular driveway.
At 12:53 Nathaniel Fick, a white male 25 years of age, vacates his office on the third floor of the IntelSat building along with Bryan Patterson and Dave McGraw, two handlers for Alpha and Charlie Sections.
At 12:59 the IntelSat building blows up in a controlled explosion that manages to spew most of its fire and smoke upward instead of outwards. The radial blast still manages to blow out windows in the adjacent UDC buildings, and several people from the IntelSat building are injured. Most suffer minor cuts and bruises.
Sadly, however, there is one casualty.
An older man in a camouflage uniform with a raspy voice and a short military haircut is injured by flying shrapnel. He's killed, however, by an exploding bullet fired from the small Blackberry device in the hands of a young white man who emerges from the UDC Metro.
Once the firetrucks show up, Brad turns around and goes back into the subway system.
A young man in a flat cap, sunglasses, jeans and a faded Dartmouth T-shirt is sitting at a table outside a Greek deli. He's drinking a Perrier and flipping through The Washington Post when Brad plunks down in a chair and drops two cases at his feet. One is a heavy black Samsonite case, the other is a messenger bag with a silver Mac Book Pro tucked inside
"It's a gorgeous day," Brad says conversationally as he takes Nate's Perrier and downs most of it.
Nate folds up the Sports section and removes his sunglasses. "It's been... smoky," he says.
"And they say L.A. has smog problems."
Nate's mouth quirks at the corners. "Did you have a nice day at work?"
"It was productive."
"I'll bet." Nate says evenly. "Care to tell me about it?"
Brad shrugs and sets down the bottle of Perrier. "There were some management problems, but I think they're better now."
Nate swallows. "Management problems. Sounds serious."
Brad scoots his chair in a little bit. "Management thought I was getting too close to my boss."
Nate begins to pale. "And you begged to differ."
"I tried to be reasonable."
"Because you're such a reasonable guy."
"Exactly. But it turns out I just had to speak their language."
"I've heard you've got a knack with languages."
"It's true, I do. And now that I'm fluent I thought it might be time to travel for a while. See how my skills hold up in another country."
"Did you have someplace in particular in mind?"
"I've heard the Seychelles are great this time of year."
"And they have no extradition laws."
"That's just a happy coincidence."
"Oh, really?"
"Absolutely. And all we need are passports."
Nate produces a brown paper envelope and tosses it on the table between them. "Is that what Ray was dropping off when I went home to change?"
Brad rips open the envelope and dumps out the contents: eight sets of matching passports, three sets of keys, a sheaf of plane confirmations and two bank statements from the Grand Caymans scatter across the table. "My handler is very into preparation," he says solemnly as he inspects his own handiwork from last night.
"Your handler must be a smart man."
Brad smirks. "He's smart and he's got a nice ass."
"Sounds impressive."
"He's not bad."
"Not. Bad," Nate repeats.
"Yeah, not bad," Brad says. "I think I'll keep him."
Nate ducks his head, but Brad can see the happiness there. "I'm sure he's touched by your sentiment."
"He better be."
"Excuse me?"
"It's not as though he can leave me. After all my training, his dating life would have a mortality rate of one-hundred percent."
Nate laughs. "I hadn't thought of that."
"It's important to think ahead." Brad says, leaning across the table and lowering his voice. "But it does beg the question: if you're not thinking about leaving me, what are you thinking of?"
"This," Nate says, brushing a kiss across his mouth.
"You know we're in public," Brad says, his words spilling into Nate's mouth.
"If this is the worst thing we ever do in public, I think we'll be fine."
"Does that mean no fucking on the beach?"
Nate stands up, picking up Brad's gun case. "Why don't we get out of here and find out?"
Brad climbs out of his chair and slings the messenger bag with his laptop across his chest. He smiles at Nate as he steals Nate's hat and sets it on his own head. "I think that's the best assignment I've had in a long time."
-end-
I would like to thank my betas:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
maurheti, who babbles with me and whips me and has no problem with using her powers (and her friends' powers) for Team Epic. romanticalgirl, who never bothers to ask how high I want her to jump, but only wants to know if there will be cookies at the end. Thank you for being so damn awesome. And to anywherebeyond, who is up for anything anytime like reading fandoms she doesn't participate in to check for weapons accuracy. THANK YOU ALL ♥
Thanks tosparky77 for, as always, her support and encouragement and her belief that I can deliver a good story.
I didn't make up the idea of a Blackberry gun, I saw it while channel surfing. The Newton Test is all mine though.
I would also like to thankthe_grynne for posting about her La Femme Nikita devotion. Those postings reinvigorated the concept of this story, which was sparked a year ago by L'Homme Nate. This story draws from both the original French film, which I loved, and the TV show, of which I've seen parts of four episodes. This story was also inspired by stuff I can't quite think of now, probably some of Alias and Leon and whatever other assassin movies are out there.
Special shout out to BoB for the dog hunting line.
Part II
Part III
Brad wakes up in the morning with Nate next to him. Nate's sleeping on his stomach, his face tucked into the crook of his arm in peaceful repose.
The sun shines through a gap in Brad's curtains, casting streaks of light on Nate's skin.
The birds are chirping happily, and the moment is so fucking picturesque Norman Rockwell would've choked. Brad rolls onto his side, his fingers ghosting down Nate's spine, drifting over the swell of his ass. His fingers are curious, exploratory, and eventually they migrate along Nate's ribs and a long black line of ink.
Nate's tattoo is so simple Brad has to smile. He runs a light touch along the words.
Nate mumbles in his sleep, wrinkling his nose. Thank god Brad doesn't acknowledge words like "adorable" because that would be a whole new level of whipped.
Brad crowds closer as Nate yawns and his eyelids flutter open.
"Nice ink," Brad says by way of greeting
Nate rubs at his eyes with the tips of his fingers. "We can't all have a heavy metal Mona Lisa on our backs."
"I thought it would at least be in Latin or Greek."
"I'm not that much of a pretentious dick."
"I think that's debatable." Brad laughs when Nate shoves him away. He rolls back immediately. "It's kind of hard to see it where it is," he says.
"That's the point. It's not for anybody else. I did it for me."
Brad looks at Nate's ink again. It's very Nate.
He strokes it one more time, feeling Nate sharp's inhalation. "It suits you."
"I like it."
"Then that's all that matters."
Brad settles on Nate's pillow, closing his eyes briefly when Nate's fingers brush along his jaw. "Ik zou niet zoveel van je moeten houden."
Brad opens his eyes, his features creasing in confusion. "I don't know that language."
"I know."
"Asshole," he says good-naturedly. "What is it?"
"Dutch."
"Dutch? You couldn't learn something useful, like Swedish?" Brad demands.
Nate laughs so hard he wheezes. "It works pretty good in the Netherlands."
"When the hell are we going to the Netherlands?"
"It's good in Belgium, too."
"Are we going to a session of the E.U.?"
"We could."
"No, I think I've had enough of our government not to need anyone else's." Brad pauses. "So, what did you say?"
"I said I'm hungry and you should make me breakfast."
"Liar."
"Possibly."
"What did you say really?"
Nate looks somewhere near Brad's ear. "It's possible that I admitted that I'm crazy about you." Brad's mouth parts a little in surprise. Nate nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Yeah, it's definitely possible."
Brad kisses him just as slowly and thoughtfully. Nate's lips are warm, dry. They catch slightly along Brad's mouth, sending all sorts of wicked vibrations down to Brad's dick.
His tongue strokes along Nate's own, exploring, tasting. His fingers card through Nate's hair and eventually Brad rolls over on top of him. Nate shifts, spreading his legs so Brad can fit between them.
Nate's cock rubs against Brad's stomach, leaving smears along his skin. He arches up and Brad grinds down.
"When do I get a day off?" Brad asks, his thumb teasing Nate's right nipple. It's pink, hard and responsive to his touch. Nate groans when Brad tugs on it.
"What – what do you need with a day off?" he grits out.
Brad lowers his head and grazes Nate's other nipple with his teeth. "I can think of a few things."
Nate laughs, and Brad lifts his head, his smile wide and free. When Nate tugs him up by the back of his neck, he comes happily.
They get out of bed around ten, which is practically sleeping the whole day away. Brad makes blueberry pancakes and they watch The Sting on HBO. In the afternoon, Nate takes him to see the Terra Cotta Warriors at the National Geographic museum on 17th Street. They have dinner at Oya, where Brad insists they sit in the corner so he can keep an eye on the rest of the room.
The day after this, Brad goes back to work.
He trains with Rudy and Mike, bickers with Poke and trades insults with Ray.
That night he goes home to 3100 Connecticut Avenue, stopping off at the liquor store to buy an obscenely priced bottle of French wine he thinks Nate might like. He parks his bike in the garage and takes the elevator to the third floor.
The light is on underneath Nate's door, and when Brad knocks, Nate lets him in.
He smiles brilliantly when Brad presents his offering. "For me?"
"I thought it might go with dinner." Brad almost feels shy; it's mind-bogglingly weird.
"You don't even know what I'm cooking."
"I don't care," Brad says, taking in the unbuttoned collar of Nate's coffee-colored shirt, and then he sniffs the air.
Nate laughs. "Of course you care."
"Well, I do," Brad concedes, "but not about the food."
Nate's eyes soften and he tugs Brad into a kiss by his slate-blue sweater. The kiss is sweet, it tastes like chocolate and bananas. Brad only pulls away to remove the bottle from Nate's hand and set it on the foyer table. He then backs Nate into the wall and pins him there, holding Nate's wrists above his head and kissing him deeply, nipping at Nate's jaw and brushing his lips along the skin behind Nate's ear.
He leaves a trail of sucking kisses along the column of Nate's neck, reveling in the feel of Nate's body against him, the hardness of Nate's cock pressing against his hip.
And then he lets go of Nate's wrists and drops to his knees, making quick work of unfastening Nate's pants and pulling them down to his knees.
Again with the lack of underwear.
"You're going to spoil me," Brad says, his voice husky.
"I try," Nate rasps out as Brad nuzzles his cock, mouthing at the head and swiping his tongue over the precome he finds there.
"Brad," Nate's tone wavers, and when Brad opens his mouth and takes him in, Nate's hand lands heavily on top of his head, his fingers curling around Brad's left ear.
Brad sucks Nate's cock like he's starving for it. Fast and messy, his hands tugging on Nate's balls, reaching behind them with curious fingers as Nate pounds on the wall with his fist.
Brad's mouth waters, he can taste bitterness mixed in with something vaguely tangy, and when he pulls off, he can feel the saliva and come running down his chin. He's a little light-headed, but all the breath-holding practice is working wonders for his ability to suck cock.
"Oh, fuck." Nate's words crack, his hand brushing over Brad's mouth as Brad wraps his hand around Nate's cock and keeps up the pace.
Nate's fingers slip between Brad's lips and Brad sucks on them hungrily, his tongue flickering over short nails before he pulls his mouth away and goes back to sucking cock. Nate's dick fills his mouth, and Brad sucks hard, feeling the ache in his jaw and ignoring it until Nate's yanking on his hair and calling his name.
Nate pulses on Brad's tongue, coming with a shout. Brad swallows most of it, wiping a few drops away with the tips of his fingers.
Nate's chest is heaving, and he stares down at Brad like he's never seen him before. The next thing Brad knows he's being dragged down the hall and shoved onto Nate's bed.
Brad can hear strains of Kanye West coming from Nate's iPod in the kitchen.
After all the time they've spent dancing around each other, around this, it's kind of hysterical that they don't even bother to completely remove their clothes when they get down to it.
A lamp in the hallway casts light into the dark room and allows Brad to watch Nate kick off his pants. Brad gets his own trousers down around his ankles before Nate's straddling him and rolling a condom on Brad's cock. After that, clothing removal doesn't seem particularly pressing even though there's lube all over Brad's sweater and fingers and Nate's shirt.
It's a farcical and hot and perfect. When Brad presses one finger deep inside Nate, Nate lets out this animalistic howl. The noise is loud and primal, and Brad knows that this moment with Nate tight around him, breathing harshly through his nose, has finalized a deal they made a long time ago.
Brad will do everything Nate says, kill anybody he wants. He will go to the ends of the earth just to keep Nate this close to him.
He pushes himself upright and lets Nate ride his finger, gives him another and another.
Nate wraps an arm around Brad's neck and makes these keening noises in the back of his throat. He gasps against Brad's mouth, barely able to breathe at one moment and begging for Brad to fuck him the next.
Ignoring Nate's vehement protest, Brad slips his fingers free so that he can wrap a hand around his cock and get Nate positioned. He rubs the head against Nate's hole, coaxing him to move at the same time that Nate shifts of his own accord. And then Nate's down, his ass flush with Brad's lap and it's like somebody's fired a starting pistol.
Nate fucks himself on Brad's cock like he's been waiting to do it his entire life. His fingernails dig into the side of Brad's neck, and all Brad can do is grip Nate's hips and hold on as Nate rides him into oblivion.
He tries to kiss Nate, tries to keep up or slow him down just that little bit, but Nate knows what he wants and there's no reason he shouldn't get it. So Brad tightens his hold and tries to meet Nate's every thrust. There's no real leverage from his position, but he gets a sharp bite to his upper lip for his trouble and Nate's free hand scrambling between them to get himself off.
For the last seven months, blacking out for Brad has been associated with pain, but tonight when he comes it's the most euphoric sensation ever. He regains consciousness just in time to see Nate shooting all over his sweater.
Brad makes a noise that's half-amusement and half-victory. Nate climbs off of him slowly and collapses on the bed next to him. Brad reaches down to remove the condom and the smoke alarm goes off.
Nate turns towards him, his face flushed and sweaty. "I forgot about dinner."
The week after Brad's first job he gets sent to Seattle to deal with a drug trafficker. Nate flies with him to a private airstrip near Sea-Tac and waits in the plane until Brad returns three hours later. Ten days after that they go to Chicago to deal with the owner of an Italian business that's apparently been importing children. Both of these assignments are day trips, but the domestic terrorist in Juneau requires an overnighter.
It's supposed to rain in Alaska in the late summer; the snow makes it clear that climate change has other plans. They stay in a motel where Nate pays cash, sets up his laptop and sends Brad out dressed in a white snowsuit. Brad takes a hastily procured snowmobile up a mountain, his rifle strapped to his back along with enough MREs to last him two days and a canteen of water.
On his way up the mountain Nate briefs him on what he should be expecting when he arrives. This assignment should take Brad a little while. He needs to stake out the area, assess the target's movements.
Brad parks the snowmobile a half-a-mile away from the farm he's looking for. He hikes upward, climbing to the top of a ridge to get a better vantage point. He removes his rifle and makes a small support out of snow.
He doesn't notice Vince Zachary until the man is nearly on top of him. And if Brad's surprised, Zachary is in fucking shock. There's no time for Brad to set up his rifle. There's not even time for him to get his Beretta from his ankle holster.
Zachary is a big man and Brad goes for his throat automatically. He smashes into Zachary's windpipe with the side of his hand, and when Zachary's hands go up, Brad aims for his stomach. Zachary grunts loudly, and as he falls to his knees Brad can feel his own heart rate slowing down.
This is just work.
Brad goes for the kidneys with the toe of his boots. He can hear Mike's voice in his head, drumming the body's weak points into his brain.
Zachary goes into the snow face first, and Brad covers him with his body. He wraps an arm around Zachary's neck and squeezes. The man flails around like he's having a seizure, rolling Brad over and knocking the breath out of him, but Brad holds on.
There's yelling in Brad's ear, but he's not paying attention.
Zachary keeps flailing. Brad tightens his hold and then Vince Zachary goes limp, and Brad stops what he's doing. The last time he used the sleeper hold he was 16 and he held on too long. Today he's 27 and he lets go a little early.
He wriggles out from underneath his target and looks at a blue face. He checks for a pulse, it's thready. That won't do. Brad rolls Zachary back over onto his stomach, grabs Zachary's chin and the back of his head and wrenches it until he hears the snap of vertebrae.
Okay, now he's done.
"Brad!"
Brad's head goes up and he looks around. Ah, it's comms.
"Hey," he says, looking down at the corpse below him.
"Brad, what the hell is going on?" Nate's voice is strained. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Brad says, dropping to his knees and rolling Zachary to the edge of the ridge where he was going to set up his rifle. He looks down at the farm below, which belongs to Zachary and his cadre of Neo-Nazi brothers, and then Brad pushes Zachary's corpse down the hill.
Accidents happen all the time in the wilderness.
"What happened?"
"Assignment complete," Brad says, picking up his rifle and heading back to his snowmobile.
Nate's quiet for a minute. "Are you okay?" he repeats.
"That's what you pay me for," Brad says simply. "To be okay."
Now that Brad's in the field, he only trains at Section a couple of times a week. He spends more time getting briefed on where he's going, what he's doing. In some cases he spends days in a total immersion of a target's life just to get a better idea of what he'll be doing when he gets off the plane. For the most part he leaves the recon to Nate. Brad's job is to get in and out, not make friends.
He still sees Rudy, Mike, Poke and Ray, but it's not the same as it was before.
His trade-off is more time with Nate.
The day after they return from Juneau, Nate takes him to the movies at the Uptown Theatre to see the latest inane blockbuster. Brad loses interest eighteen minutes in when the hand-to-hand combat proves to be totally unrealistic. There's no way somebody could withstand that kind of assault without at least a little bloodshed. He spends the next X number of minutes eating Nate's popcorn and twining together fingers that are slick with fake butter. At one point, he finds himself actually sucking on Nate's ring finger with Nate squirming in the seat next to him.
They leave the theater shortly after that.
It's a nice day in September, all things considered. The sky is blue, the sun is bright and there's a slight breeze rustling the trees. It's probably in the low 60s and at least it's not raining. It rains so fucking much in the metro area, Brad keeps expecting to see Noah's ark sailing down 16th Street.
As they walk back to Cathedral Park, Nate points out a Greek deli called Byblos.
Brad shakes his head. "I hate Greek food."
Nate bats him gently with the back of his hand. "That's not the point."
"I didn't realize there was a point."
"It's a business on a busy street where there is always foot traffic," Nate explains patiently.
Brad shrugs. "And?"
"If anything ever goes wrong, come here and wait for me."
Brad stops in front of the Cleveland Public Library. "Wrong like what?"
Nate keeps walking; Brad catches up with him. "Wrong like what?" he persists, tugging on Nate's wrist to make him stop.
Nate shrugs. "Wrong like anything. Maybe if you get a hangnail."
Brad rolls his eyes. "Va te faire foutre."
"It shouldn't get me hot when you curse at me in French, should it?"
Brad ponders this. "Only if you don't plan to do something about it."
A week later, Management gives Brad his first assignment out of the country. It's practically a vacation for his team. Poke, Rudy and Mike get a few days off, while Ray, Walt and Nate all get to accompany him to Caracas, Venezuela.
Brad brings his gun case, but Walt's along in case Brad requires modifications for the target.
The minute they hit the tarmac, Ray starts talking about donkey shows, cocaine and doing tequila shots from nubile navels. Walt slaps him on the back of the head and Ray immediately shuts up.
Nate's wearing a linen shirt and jeans, and with his aviator sunglasses on he looks like an American spy. Brad chuckles at his own joke and Nate raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
Brad dismisses it with a wave of his hand and off they go to the hotel.
Nate's original recon calls for Brad to pull a Mozambique on Eduardo Jiménez Garrido, a drug trafficker who's taken on a sideline of human trafficking. Brad thinks two bullets to the head and one to the chest are pretty efficient, but it turns out that someone else has recently made an attempt on Mr. Garrido and Brad isn't going to get an opening like that.
The target, however, has a predilection for a certain bar in a certain part of town, and this bar happens to have a ceiling with an excellent crawl space. At least this is what Ray insists when he comes back at three in the morning, sweaty, filthy and smelling of marijuana and cigars.
That night Brad would swear that he hears Walt reading Ray the riot act in the room next door, but Nate's also fucking Brad's brains out with a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, so Brad's not really focusing on anybody else.
The next night Brad finds himself stuck in the promised crawl space wearing black cargo pants, a black turtleneck and a balaclava in 80 degree weather with 90 percent humidity. It's the wet season and Brad's going to drown in his own sweat.
Ray's voice is babbling in his ear in Spanish. He's been sent to pick up the mark and get him into the bathroom. Walt didn't approve of this plan; he was vetoed.
The door swings open, and through the vent, Brad can see Ray sweet talking a 50-something man with too many gold chains and too much grease in his hair. He's got his hands all over Ray, which is truly something Brad doesn't need to see, ever.
The minute Ray backs Garrido into the stall, Brad removes the wall grating and leans halfway out. The man is making grabbing hands at Ray as the same time Brad pulls the retractable wire out of his watch and wraps it around his neck.
Garrido is a fat bastard, though, and hanging out of the vent isn't giving Brad the leverage he needs. Especially with Garrido scratching at Brad's arms and trying to gouge out his eyes.
Brad takes a chance and reaches back for the knife he keeps strapped to his back.
A second later he slits Garrido's throat, the blood spilling onto his hands.
The struggle stops, and Brad lets Garrido's corpse collapse onto the toilet.
Ray's standing at the stall entrance staring in a mixture of horror and wonder, but Brad can't deal with him. "¡Vaya!" he orders.
Ray looks up at him, opens his mouth and then heads directly for the door.
Three hours later they're on the plane back home. Ray is eerily quiet, but when Brad gets up to talk to him, Nate pulls him back into his seat and shakes his head.
At least Walt's there to draw Ray out.
They're back in D.C. for two days and then they hit Tokyo, Adelaide, Mumbai and Munich in rapid succession. There are gun runners, terrorists, human traffickers and mini-dictators running amok. It almost seems like the more work Brad does, the more work there is to do. When they finally get home, all Brad wants to do is climb into bed and sleep for a week. With Nate. The Nate part is important.
The morning after they return, however, he gets summoned to Section. This has never happened before. After Brad gets the call, he rolls over to ask Nate about it and then he realizes that Nate's not there. He's probably already at the office writing up the after action report.
Brad climbs out of bed, takes a shower and gets dressed. There's a protein shake in the refrigerator with his name on it. Literally. Nate's actually put a Post-it on the glass. Brad doesn't know who the bigger dork is: Nate for making him breakfast or himself for the way his heart grows two sizes in his chest.
Brad walks into the IntelSat lobby in a dark blue suit. He even put on a tie since he's not just representing himself anymore. He's met by a man with dark hair in desert camouflage who shakes his hand. "Eckloff," the man says.
Brad just nods.
At this point he's pretty sure he doesn't have to introduce himself to anyone in Management.
He follows Eckloff to a bank of elevators he didn't even know existed. Eckloff presses a button for the seventh floor and the elevator begins moving. No voice recognition, no biometric scanners, no blood-tests. This is clearly where they bring the government civilians.
When Brad's ushered into an office that actually has walls made of plaster, he can feel himself tensing up. In a building made of glass, the only other room he's been in with plaster walls was the bathroom.
There's a man sitting behind a large oak desk with his back to Brad. There are two matching guest chairs with straight backs and dark-blue cloth seats. It's only when the door closes behind Brad that the man turns around.
Godfather.
The protein shake in Brad's stomach churns.
"Sir," he says by way of greeting.
He's totally unprepared for Godfather to stand up and come around the desk. Every muscle in Brad is primed for action; he's not being taken down by the old man ninja again.
Instead Godfather extends his hand. Brad stares at it for a moment before he shakes it.
"Brad, good to see you again. Have a seat."
Brad sits down, perching on the edge of his chair. There's something unsettling about Godfather. It may be the deceptive strength or the raspy voice or the piercing blue eyes, but it's probably all three. Plus, the man has a handshake like a vise.
"Godfather would like to start off by saying that he's very impressed with your work. In fact, Chaos himself has remarked on your performance."
Brad doesn't know who Chaos is, but he assumes this is a good thing. He nods once. "Thank you, sir."
Brad has no idea why he keeps addressing Godfather as "sir." It's been a long time since he's graced anybody with this honorific. Definitely not since he left military school, but there's something about Godfather that demands a certain respect.
"You're an asset to Bravo Section. Actually you are now the top asset of Bravo Section."
Brad didn't know there was even the possibility of other assets, but it makes sense. There's no way he's the only government-trained assassin running around the world. "Thank you."
"I had my doubts about you when Fick picked you out, but his instincts were on the money."
"Nate's good at what he does."
"You're not wrong, which is why it's so unfortunate that we're in this situation."
Brad sits up a little straighter. "Sir?"
Godfather's face is perfectly impassive. "We know what you're doing, son."
Brad can feel the blood draining from his face. His feet are nailed to the floor. He has done everything they've asked of him. There's only one thing in his life that could be of interest to Management at this point.
"You and Fick are a problem," Godfather says, confirming Brad's worst fears.
"Nate doesn't work for the military," Brad says between clenched teeth. "You can't discharge him for our relationship."
"I don't care where you stick your dick," Godfather says. "I care about the effectiveness of my assets. Your relationship with Fick makes you less reliable."
"I'm fine."
"You're compromised. So is he."
Brad's mouth thins into a line. "That's bullshit. Nate's the best handler you have."
"No, son, he's not the best one we have. He's just the one you have."
Brad says nothing.
"You're worth two million dollars," Godfather carries on. "We're not letting anyone get in the way of that."
"I won't work with somebody else," Brad says obstinately.
"You don't have any choice."
"I won't do it. I don't want another handler."
Godfather scoots to the end of his chair. His voice drops an octave. "I don't think you're hearing me, Brad. I'm not asking you to work with someone else, I'm telling you that I am terminating Nate Fick as your handler."
Brad can feel the despair bubbling up inside him. Only this isn't like when he was in the police station -- this is much worse. Before they could only take away his freedom; now they're trying to take his life.
"Nate won't work without me," Brad says obstinately.
"You're probably right," Godfather nods. "Which is why you're going to remove him from the equation."
Brad closes his eyes and counts to five. He's having a nightmare. A seriously fucked up nightmare. He's going to wake up in a minute and Nate'll be out cold next to him. Brad will wake him up for sex -- sweaty, hard, life-affirming sex -- because Nate is the only thing that makes Brad feel like he's not dying.
"No," Brad says quietly.
"If you don't do it, I'll find someone who will," Godfather says.
"No."
Godfather leans in further. Brad can count the lines across his forehead. "Let me put this in terms you understand: if you don't play ball, not only will I remove Fick, but you'll go to jail for murder."
"I didn't kill anybody," Brad protests.
Godfather's smile has too many teeth. "That was true before," he admits. "But it's not true now."
Brad swallows. "How long do I have?"
"Twenty-four hours."
Brad collapses back against the chair and covers his eyes with his left hand.
After a second the door snicks open, a moment later it closes.
When Brad uncovers his eyes, he's alone.
Brad doesn't go directly home that night. He drives around the city, weaving in and out of traffic, trying to lose himself in the stop-start of rush hour lights and retarded suburban drivers. He only stops to grab dinner at Ben's Chili Bowl.
He eats his chili sitting on his bike and then jogs across the street to the U Street Metro to use the pay phone.
He makes one phone call and hopes that'll be enough. He walks around the neighborhood three times to kill some time and keep on the move.
Thirty minutes later he's back at Ben's Chili Bowl, where he hops on his bike to drive the seven blocks to Ray's place.
Ray has an apartment off of Georgia and U Street, near Howard University. Apparently he likes the area because it has more character than living in Adams Morgan with all the snot-nosed hipsters and liberal cock-sucker government employees.
Brad raps on the door sharply once, pauses and then raps twice in succession. Ray opens the door in a black sleeveless shirt and boxers, his tattoos practically glowing next to his skim-milk complexion.
"You and your Rainbow Coalition are interrupting movie night," he says, rubbing a hand through messy black hair. "Your dick better be attached by a fucking thread," he adds, waving Brad inside.
Ray's hallway is painted an eye-searing red and Brad winces as Ray follows him down the hall.
Brad can hear voices lifted in the conversation of the testosterone-laden. Too many curse words and not enough verbs.
He stops in the entrance and takes in the scene before him.
Ray's living room walls are covered in black and white framed photos of The Clash and Johnny Cash. There are paintings from a few local artists, some mismatched furniture and a jumble of musical equipment.
Poke, Rudy and Mike are packed together on Ray's leather sofa like sardines in a can. They're still wearing their coats and jackets, while Walt's in sweatpants and a threadbare Cheap Trick T-shirt and lounging in a plaid armchair that's most definitely seen better days.
He's not wearing any shoes.
Brad's head processes the bare feet and Walt's swollen mouth and then he glances back at Ray's disheveled state. Now how the fuck did he not catch this one?
Well, he has been a little preoccupied.
Conversation dies off suddenly, and Brad realizes everyone is staring at him. "What?" he says.
"Brother, you're alive!" Rudy says, jumping up and hugging Brad hard enough to fracture at least three ribs.
Brad claps him on the back awkwardly. "I didn't know I was supposed to be dead," he says, extracting himself from Rudy.
What if Management made the same demand of Nate? To kill Brad? He's going to be ill.
"I thought you were dead, too," Poke says.
"That's the way Ray made it sound," Walt agrees.
Brad glares at Ray. "Reports of my demise are a little premature."
"I don't know about that," Mike says. "You ain't lookin' too hot."
Brad scratches the back of his head. Everyone's staring at him again. He takes a few steps and drops down on a red leather stool flanked by an electric guitar and a drum kit. Yeah, this is definitely Ray's place.
"Brad, you know whatever it is, we've got your back," Walt offers.
"I will totally fuck some shit up on your behalf." Ray's perched on the arm of Walt's chair, eyeballing Brad. "Just tell me when and where. And as long as it doesn't fuck with my NASCAR schedule, it's on. It's about time I bent the world over and fucked it up the ass."
"Like you could find anybody's ass with a map and two hands," Brad replies without heat.
Ray opens his mouth and Walt slaps a hand over it. "Do you want to tell us what's going on? Where's Nate?"
"Did something happen to Nate?" Mike says suspiciously.
"In a manner of speaking," Brad says. "I'm going to happen to Nate."
"Translate, dog," Poke insists. "I don't speak white boy."
"Management thinks our relationship compromises my effectiveness. They want me to assassinate Nate."
It's very hard for six people to share one look at the exact same time, but that happens now.
The entire apartment falls silent. The only noise in the entire room is the bubbling of the water filter in Ray's aquarium in the corner.
"Did you just say what I think you said?" Ray asks after several moments.
Brad rubs an eyebrow.
"Homes, that's fucked up."
Poke purses his lips. "You know we ain't gonna let this happen, right?"
"Why do you think you're all here?" Brad pauses. "I need your help."
Mike rubs his hands together. "So what are our options?"
By midnight they're deep in debate. They have a basic concept, but there are details, supplies that need to be procured that would take at least a few days under the best circumstances. They have hours.
Brad lets Poke and Ray work out the minutiae; he's otherwise occupied.
He's balancing Ray's laptop on his knees, doing things with it that would make Nate very, very unhappy, but for the first time in a long time Brad feels like he's in control.
This is his world, everyone else is just a tourist.
It's close to one in the morning when they finalize the plan.
To celebrate, Ray goes into the kitchen to get more coffee. Brad can hear what sounds like the rolling wheels of a cart long before Ray pushes a huge dry-erase board on wheels into the room. "That doesn't look like coffee," Poke says sardonically.
"And they say Mexicans aren't smart," Ray deadpans, rolling the board to the center of the room where everyone can see it.
In green ink there are Venn Diagrams and charts and arrows linking together everything from the Iraq war and NAMBLA to pussy and Avril Lavigne.
Ray flips the board over and starts drawing intricate blueprints that Brad recognizes as the floor plans for IntelSat. This is why Ray's such an asset to their team. He's a brain-addled, trailer park reject, but he's also really fucking smart.
"So," Ray says after drawing for five minute without talking. "Here's what we're going to do."
Brad gets home at two thirty-eight in the morning. He kicks off his shoes, drops a few items on his coffee table and brushes his teeth. And then he leaves his apartment and walks the twenty feet down the hall to the apartment next door. The security alarm buzzes at him in greeting when he picks the lock, and he disarms and resets it before padding down the hall, pulling off his clothes and climbing between body-warmed sheets.
Nate mumbles something as Brad curls up next to him and wraps a protective arm around his waist. "The guys say 'hi,'" he whispers, kissing Nate's right shoulder.
Nate makes a noise and falls back asleep.
Brad doesn't sleep at all. He spends the rest of the night holding Nate and running through the plan in the back of his mind.
He flips it over mentally, studying it forwards and backward, looking for the flaws, trying to determine how crippling those flaws are. How badly it will all go if it all goes wrong.
The worst thing would be a slow, painful demise... but if they take Nate away from him it'll be the same thing.
On the day of Nate's assassination, Brad wakes him up with a languid, wet blow job.
Nate doesn't wake up in stages, he goes from comatose to wide awake, and one minute Brad's swirling his tongue around the crown of Nate's cock and the next he's got fingers tangled in his hair and Nate pistoning into his mouth. He relaxes his throat, curls his hands under the swell of Nate's ass and urges him to move faster.
When Nate's in danger of yanking Brad's hair out at the roots, Brad pulls off and retrieves a condom from the bedside table. Nate's eyes are wide, his lips bitten red, and when Brad rolls the condom onto Nate's dick, he looses a soft groan.
Brad settles over Nate carefully, and very, very slowly begins the process of fucking himself on Nate's cock.
By the time Brad's all the way down, there's sweat beading on his forehead and Nate's chest is covered in a fine sheen. His fingernails are digging into Brad's hips and Brad is so uncomfortable he thinks about calling the whole thing off. And then he shifts his hips just that little bit and Nate's cock brushes against something deep inside.
Brad decides not to make any hasty decisions.
Two minutes later, he's in heaven: Nate's cock fucking into him and his own hand stripping his cock at an impressive rate. He's going to end up with friction burn.
Nate's thrashing around underneath him, and Brad has to plant one hand on his chest to hold him down. It's possible that Brad pushes a little bit harder than necessary.
There's going to be a bruise later, right over Nate's heart.
Nate makes sweet-potato waffles for breakfast, which they eat sitting on the kitchen floor in a square of sunlight streaming through the window.
At a little after eight o'clock Nate gets dressed and goes to the office. Brad sends him off to work with a kiss that's so intense that when it's over Nate stares at him for almost twenty full seconds. His lips are puffy, his pupils blown wide. Nate's hair and shirt are disheveled, messy.
Even after Nate leaves, when Brad looks out the peephole Nate's still staring at the door.
Once Nate's gone Brad collects his things and goes back to his apartment. He looks around at the home Nate made for him. It's nice. Perfect in a lot of ways. It has all the trappings, except for one.
Brad showers, pulls on a black suit that he hasn't worn in several months and checks his reflection in the mirror. His hair has gotten longer, but it's still him. He retrieves the black Samsonite case from underneath his bed and removes various pieces he'll need today.
He slips everything into a black messenger bag, and on his way out the front door he picks up the bullets that he dropped on the coffee table last night.
He leaves his bike in the garage and walks the mile to IntelSat where he preps his position across the street from 3400 International Drive.
There are thousands of possible positions he could choose. Every last one of them requires a certain amount of exposure and assumes certain facts about his target, but eventually he just has to trust in his instincts.
So Brad makes himself comfortable, and then he waits.
It is 61 degrees Fahrenheit at 12:36 p.m.
It's a gorgeous Wednesday afternoon in October in Northwest Washington, D.C. The president is out of town, traveling across the country selling his new education bill. The barometer is hovering near zero and there are wisps of cirrostratus clouds cutting across the blue sky.
At 12:42 p.m. Ray Person and Walt Hasser leave IntelSat for lunch. They'll decide to have sushi.
At 12:48 Mike Wynn, Tony "Poke" Espera and Rudy Reyes are videotaped leaving the garage in a blue GM SUV with tinted windows. They're car-pooling to a meeting in Pentagon City.
At 12:51 Engine Company 48 of the D.C. Fire Department gets a notification that a fire alarm has gone off at the IntelSat building. In accordance with city law, the occupants have begun evacuation of 3400 International Drive with almost one hundred people pouring out of the building and onto the circular driveway.
At 12:53 Nathaniel Fick, a white male 25 years of age, vacates his office on the third floor of the IntelSat building along with Bryan Patterson and Dave McGraw, two handlers for Alpha and Charlie Sections.
At 12:59 the IntelSat building blows up in a controlled explosion that manages to spew most of its fire and smoke upward instead of outwards. The radial blast still manages to blow out windows in the adjacent UDC buildings, and several people from the IntelSat building are injured. Most suffer minor cuts and bruises.
Sadly, however, there is one casualty.
An older man in a camouflage uniform with a raspy voice and a short military haircut is injured by flying shrapnel. He's killed, however, by an exploding bullet fired from the small Blackberry device in the hands of a young white man who emerges from the UDC Metro.
Once the firetrucks show up, Brad turns around and goes back into the subway system.
A young man in a flat cap, sunglasses, jeans and a faded Dartmouth T-shirt is sitting at a table outside a Greek deli. He's drinking a Perrier and flipping through The Washington Post when Brad plunks down in a chair and drops two cases at his feet. One is a heavy black Samsonite case, the other is a messenger bag with a silver Mac Book Pro tucked inside
"It's a gorgeous day," Brad says conversationally as he takes Nate's Perrier and downs most of it.
Nate folds up the Sports section and removes his sunglasses. "It's been... smoky," he says.
"And they say L.A. has smog problems."
Nate's mouth quirks at the corners. "Did you have a nice day at work?"
"It was productive."
"I'll bet." Nate says evenly. "Care to tell me about it?"
Brad shrugs and sets down the bottle of Perrier. "There were some management problems, but I think they're better now."
Nate swallows. "Management problems. Sounds serious."
Brad scoots his chair in a little bit. "Management thought I was getting too close to my boss."
Nate begins to pale. "And you begged to differ."
"I tried to be reasonable."
"Because you're such a reasonable guy."
"Exactly. But it turns out I just had to speak their language."
"I've heard you've got a knack with languages."
"It's true, I do. And now that I'm fluent I thought it might be time to travel for a while. See how my skills hold up in another country."
"Did you have someplace in particular in mind?"
"I've heard the Seychelles are great this time of year."
"And they have no extradition laws."
"That's just a happy coincidence."
"Oh, really?"
"Absolutely. And all we need are passports."
Nate produces a brown paper envelope and tosses it on the table between them. "Is that what Ray was dropping off when I went home to change?"
Brad rips open the envelope and dumps out the contents: eight sets of matching passports, three sets of keys, a sheaf of plane confirmations and two bank statements from the Grand Caymans scatter across the table. "My handler is very into preparation," he says solemnly as he inspects his own handiwork from last night.
"Your handler must be a smart man."
Brad smirks. "He's smart and he's got a nice ass."
"Sounds impressive."
"He's not bad."
"Not. Bad," Nate repeats.
"Yeah, not bad," Brad says. "I think I'll keep him."
Nate ducks his head, but Brad can see the happiness there. "I'm sure he's touched by your sentiment."
"He better be."
"Excuse me?"
"It's not as though he can leave me. After all my training, his dating life would have a mortality rate of one-hundred percent."
Nate laughs. "I hadn't thought of that."
"It's important to think ahead." Brad says, leaning across the table and lowering his voice. "But it does beg the question: if you're not thinking about leaving me, what are you thinking of?"
"This," Nate says, brushing a kiss across his mouth.
"You know we're in public," Brad says, his words spilling into Nate's mouth.
"If this is the worst thing we ever do in public, I think we'll be fine."
"Does that mean no fucking on the beach?"
Nate stands up, picking up Brad's gun case. "Why don't we get out of here and find out?"
Brad climbs out of his chair and slings the messenger bag with his laptop across his chest. He smiles at Nate as he steals Nate's hat and sets it on his own head. "I think that's the best assignment I've had in a long time."
-end-
I would like to thank my betas:
maurheti, who babbles with me and whips me and has no problem with using her powers (and her friends' powers) for Team Epic. romanticalgirl, who never bothers to ask how high I want her to jump, but only wants to know if there will be cookies at the end. Thank you for being so damn awesome. And to anywherebeyond, who is up for anything anytime like reading fandoms she doesn't participate in to check for weapons accuracy. THANK YOU ALL ♥Thanks to
sparky77 for, as always, her support and encouragement and her belief that I can deliver a good story.I didn't make up the idea of a Blackberry gun, I saw it while channel surfing. The Newton Test is all mine though.
I would also like to thank
the_grynne for posting about her La Femme Nikita devotion. Those postings reinvigorated the concept of this story, which was sparked a year ago by L'Homme Nate. This story draws from both the original French film, which I loved, and the TV show, of which I've seen parts of four episodes. This story was also inspired by stuff I can't quite think of now, probably some of Alias and Leon and whatever other assassin movies are out there.Special shout out to BoB for the dog hunting line.
no subject
Kudos on this gem of an AU series! Very spot on with everyone's characters despite the difference in universe. Enjoyed the training segments and excellent build-up in plot to conclusion. You really shouldn't expect the Iceman to just roll over after spending 2M training him to be a killing machine. Thanks for sharing this!
no subject