gk fic: something wicked - part 1/2
Fandom: Generation Kill
Title: Something Wicked
Pairing/Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 13 086
Summary (according to Ray the bard):
Gather round, my dear friends, and I’ll sing you a tale,
All I need is my lute, and a good pint of ale.
There lived once an annoying, though I grant you - strong - lad,
Who slayed monsters for living, and his name was Brad.
But though ruthless he was, he had heart in its place,
So his steel legs went weak at the sight of one face.
Young Nathaniel, who knew how to use his own brain
And one day, as a jape, a dozen chickens he’d slain.
Brave Brad took his sword, readied his horse to go,
And set off with Nathaniel and yours truly in tow,
On a quest to find Rudy, a wizard most wise,
Prepared to face on their way whatever surprise.
Here begins my tale, folks, of wisdom and magic,
And love, that - do not fear - will not end up tragic.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen in the HBO miniseries and not the real people.
Notes: This is an AU based on Andrzej Sapkowski's 'The Witcher', but you don't need to be familiar with the books or the game to understand it (actually, it's probably better if you're not, because I barely remember the details, so I just made most of it up). The only thing you need to know is that Brad slays monsters.
Thank you, jean_iris for putting up with my whining and telling me to shut up and write, and for writing me the best summary ever (IT'S AWESOME, Y/Y?). And sa_da_ko, for reminding me I was supposed to finish this fic ;)
Many thanks to schlicky and whizzy for beta reading and to oxoniensis for helping me when I was still writing and getting stuck.
___
In every town, in every village in the world, lives an old hag with a penchant for telling the stories of the past. Stories of love and loss, stories filled with noble swordsmen and beautiful ladies and grand heroics. If you ask, she’ll tell about the deeds of the honorable Sir Eric or the noble Sir William, pretending to read from a book though she knows all the words by heart.
But sometimes, when she’s in the right mood, she might tell a different tale. A tale, told from memory, passed down to her by her mother or her grandmother. Those stories are about the witchers, cold-blooded warriors, born to kill. Monsters in human skin.
Those stories, Brad thinks, are just full of shit.
-
The message was clear enough - there’s a monster. Find it, kill it and then leave the village. And preferably never come back (unless, of course, some other dreadful creature shows up, then we’ll welcome you back with open arms).
Which is exactly how Brad finds himself in the middle of a fucking swamp, freezing his balls off and waiting for something to show up, because he’d like to get the job done already. There are a myriad other places he’d rather spend the night and most of those places involve a bed. And possibly some pussy, although he wouldn’t be opposed to some cock either. Brad is a man of simple pleasures.
A splash of water sounds surprisingly loud in the still of the night and Brad turns toward the source. There, behind a pile of garbage, something is moving. Brad adjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword and creeps closer.
The thing with most monsters is that they may be strong, but most of the time they are also incredibly stupid. To kill them, wait for the right opportunity. Don’t rush headlong into danger. Observe. Find the weak points. Attack. To survive, you need to act by three simple rules: swift, silent, deadly. Kill them before they kill you.
The creature in question certainly doesn’t put much effort into hiding its position - with all the noise it’s making, a five year old wouldn’t have problems locating it. Hell, even Ray could manage.
Brad slowly rises from his crouching position and prepares to strike when the beast makes an odd choking noise. Only it’s not the beast, because apparently they have company. Well, shit. Saving damsels in distress wasn’t in the plan for today.
After a few moments of observation the damsel in distress turns out to be a young man. He doesn’t really meet all the requirements of being in distress, either - if you ignore the fact that the monster has a tentacle wrapped around his throat and seems to be crushing his windpipe - at least he seems to be aware which end of the sword has a pointy tip, judging from the blood-covered blade and another tentacle neatly cut off and writhing on the ground. He’s also still alive, so Brad can give him points for trying. However, his chances of staying alive diminish every second, so Brad quickly revises the course of action and strikes.
Step one: divert the enemy’s attention. Don’t cut too lightly, this will only irritate him. Make him realize there is a stronger opponent, so that he lets go of the previous victim. Step two: move. Don’t just stand there waving your weapon around, because the creature is bigger than you and sooner or later it will get you killed. Use the lay of the land to your advantage, find cover. Attack from behind if the opportunity arises. There are times appropriate for an honorable fight and this is not one of them. Step three: kill. It doesn’t have to be nice - it has to be effective.
He cuts with his sword, a long stroke that nearly cuts off another of the monster’s limbs. The creature lashes out attempting to break his neck. Brad is covered in mud, the thick muck pulling at his boots not making it easier to move quickly, but there’s not a patch of firm ground in sight. The movements are instinctive, ingrained in his muscle memory since childhood.
Duck. Jump back. Strike, jump back again.
Don’t think during a fight, there will be time for it later. First you have to survive.
The creature attacks again, wrapping a tentacle around his waist, pulling sharply. Brad goes with the movement. Sometimes resisting only makes the situation worse. He’s flung away, hitting the ground with a wet sound.
Don’t waste time. Get up.
He raises his sword for a final stroke and that’s when the hilt gets scorching hot, burning his hands immediately. He lets go with a hiss.
Fuck. That’s not something he was expecting. No ordinary monster should be able to do that.
He jumps away swiftly, but he’s weaponless and running will only get him so far.
“Catch!” It’s that kid from before, tossing him his own sword (fuck, no, you don’t do that, it only ever works in stories). It lands somewhere in the mud.
It’s enough to distract him for a moment. A mistake.
Don’t make mistakes. Mistakes will only get you killed. Don’t allow yourself to be distracted.
The monster hits him this time, hard. The air leaves his lungs for a moment. He gets up, tosses himself towards the nearest cover, panting.
That’s another rule of the combat: everything can be made into a weapon. Including steel poles six feet long, sticking out of a pile of garbage. Well, it seems Brad’s luck hasn’t left him completely. He grabs the pole, lunges towards the monster, hitting it just under its head, where the skin isn’t covered by hard shell.
Everybody has a weakness. Exploit it.
The creature tries to hit him again, but it’s losing strength quickly and its movements slow down. Brad dodges the attack easily and strikes with the pole again, plunging it into the monster for good measure. The tentacles twitch once more and then everything stills.
Brad drops his makeshift weapon and turns to pick up his own sword from where he dropped it before. He collects the kid’s sword on the way - it’s a good weapon, he notes absently, well balanced. His own blade lies a few feet to the left, smoke still rising slowly from the handle. It’s no longer burning to the touch, so he picks it up gingerly and slips it into the sheath on his back. He left his other sword with the horse.
Every witcher carries two swords - one made of silver and one made of steel. The nasties say one is for monsters and the other for humans.
(It’s a lie, like most of the stories are. Some monsters are susceptible only to silver. You can kill a human with everything.
Not that Brad does it frequently.)
“Can I have that back?” It’s the kid again - and he is a kid, now that Brad has the time to observe him better, he can’t be more than fifteen years of age - indicating his own weapon. Brad appraises him for a moment and then hands it to him, hilt first.
“Catch?” Brad mocks. “Were you trying to kill me?”
“I’m sorry! I was- I was just trying to help.”
“Trying to help?” Brad narrows his eyes and then shakes his head. “For the record: don’t ever try to help me again.”
“Sorry. And… thank you.” The kid looks up. “For saving my life.”
Brad shrugs. “Don’t think too much of it.” He starts toward the forest clearing where he left his horse. “You should get out of here before some other fuckers smell the carcass. It’s not safe after dusk,” he adds when the kid doesn’t move from his place.
They walk in silence until they reach the clearing. Atla, his horse, is standing in the same place he left her, tied to a tree. He reaches to undo the clasp on the saddlebag and swears under his breath when he touches the hard leather. The skin on his hands is red and blistering in a few places.
“I could dress it for you,” the kid offers, looking vaguely guilty for a reason Brad can’t quite fathom.
“Don’t bother,” he answers. “I can do it myself.”
The kid doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Brad swings himself into the saddle and reaches down to adjust the stirrup.
The kid lets out a soft gasp, his eyes widening for a fleeting moment, before he schools down his expression. Brad follows his gaze and notices his medallion has slipped out from under his shirt. He straightens up quickly.
“Oh, yes… I am one of those monsters your mommy warned you about,” he comments, regarding the kid coolly.
“I’m not afraid of you,” the kid answers. He meets Brad’s gaze evenly and Brad would almost believe him, if he didn’t already know what reaction he should expect from people. If they say they’re not afraid, they’re lying (or they’re retarded. Or they’re Ray, although the question whether Ray fits the second category remains open).
Brad tucks the medallion back under his shirt and turns the horse around.
“Don’t get yourself killed the moment I leave, kid. All my effort would go to waste.”
“My name is Nate!” the kid retorts, but Brad is already on his way.
-
There are rumors about witchers kidnapping young boys, taking them away from their families, to turn them into monsters. They may look human, but essentially that’s what they are. They are trained to kill. Emotions are an unnecessary inconvenience, so they don’t feel anything.
Load of bullshit.
Nobody abducts anyone, that’s not the way it’s done. The boys are usually orphans, living on the streets. They don’t have families to cry after them.
Sometimes the parents give their child up willingly, if the son is a burden.
The training part… well, in this instance people aren’t so far off.
Brad doesn’t remember much of it. You’re not supposed to remember after you undergo the changes. But there are some images that stay with you, vague impressions rather than memories.
Darkness. Hunger. Pain. Pain is the worst, pervading every cell in your body, and you’re screaming, until there’s no strength left even for that.
There are voices in his head, or maybe someone else is there.
He’s dying
He’s strong. He’ll make it.
The pain is gone.
After the Trials end you don’t remember your previous life. It’s like being born again.
Who are you?
I’m… nobody.
Witchers aren’t supposed to feel. The Trials help with that; during them they give you something that suppresses the emotions.
Maybe that’s the point where they fucked something up, fed him the wrong kind of mushrooms or something.
-
“Shit, Brad. I thought you just went there to get rid of another dumb swamp-occupying tentacled motherfucker. That shouldn’t require getting your hands fried in the process.”
Brad shrugs. He’s holding his hand out while Ray wraps a clean bandage around it. “Maybe they evolved in the last couple of years. It sure as hell was a good way to get me to drop my sword.”
“Yeah, but wasn’t the whole point of the swamp-occupying, coming out only after the sunset part that they don’t like heat? That really sounds retarded, even for a monster.”
“It didn’t set itself on fire, did it?” Brad replies, but doesn’t sound convinced at all. There was something definitely wrong about the whole situation. Mindfucking he’d get, every other semi-intelligent creature could do that to some extent, but heating up inanimate objects? That was a wizard’s department.
“So, you’re looking for another job now?” Ray asks.
Brad looks up at that. “You know something?”
“I went to the tavern today. People are talking,” Ray offers helpfully.
Brad sighs. “And do you mind saying what exactly they are talking about, Ray?”
“Sure, homes, do you want to hear that in hendecasyllable?”
“No, Ray.”
“Your loss, Brad. Okay, let me tell you a story of the most mysterious happenings. In the pale dawn, when only just the first rays of sunshine had appeared above the horizon…”
“Ray… Get to the point,” Brad interrupts, exasperated.
“You’re ruining the rhythm and flow, Brad! Yeah, yeah, homes, whatever. Something fried the chickens in the neighboring village.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it?” Ray repeats incredulously. “What more do you want? A fucking dragon and a princess locked in a tower? Something fried every chicken on a farm and boiled the water in a well. You think that’s normal?”
“Point. Well then, I suppose I’d better get moving.” Brad pauses to eye Ray speculatively. “And I suppose you’re just going to be a pain in the ass as usual and tag along, aren’t you?”
“Don’t even bother denying it, Brad, you’d be so lost without me. Who’d be there to patch you up after you do something incredibly stupid again?” Ray replies cheerfully. “You love your dearest pal Ray-Ray, homes.”
“Ray, whatever your inbred poor excuse for a brain makes you believe, you’re delusional,” he says, deadpan. Ray looks at him expectantly. Brad sighs. “Yes, you can come,” he allows magnanimously, at the same time wondering if he would get into much trouble for killing Ray. Surely every jury in the world would absolve him. It would be for the sake of humanity, after all.
“I knew you’d see reason, Brad!”
Brad doesn’t grace him with a reply.
-
There are moments when Brad is forced to admit that he kind of likes his job. Sure, it’s not as if he had much choice about doing it (none, in fact), but he gets to kill bad… things. He protects people. He could imagine his life being worse.
(There are also moments just like now, when a girl pulls her little brother away, looking at him in fear. Brad refuses to dwell on that.)
They arrive at the village just before noon. The streets are mostly empty, save for a few children playing outside, the people either still working in the fields or staying at their homes for a lunch break. Ray sneaks away soon after they cross the main gate - Brad suspects he’s going to find him in the evening knocking back another mug of ale in the local tavern. As long as he doesn’t get kicked out of a bawdy house - again - he’s going to be fine.
As far as obtaining information goes, the local tavern isn’t a bad idea for a start. By the unwritten rule of the universe, the innkeeper is always the best informed person in the village, so Brad directs his steps toward the shabby building. The crooked sign above the door proclaims that he’s entering Murky Dagger Inn. Sometimes Brad wonders if the people who name these things just choose the first two random words that come to their mind and sound ominous enough, without having to make any sense.
The bartender looks up at him and apparently decides Brad’s not worth his attention, because he returns to the task at hand - more specifically, wiping the counter with a dirty rag (it’s another unwritten rule of the universe, dirty rags are a must at every bar).
Brad comes closer, taking a seat at one of the stools. He shifts a bit and his sword makes a clanking noise. When he makes eye contact with the bartender again, the man looks at him warily.
“Drink?” he rasps out.
“Information,” Brad replies, his face impassive. He didn’t earn his nickname - the Iceman - for no reason. “I’ve heard you had some problems with domestic fowl here.”
The bartender shrugs, avoiding Brad’s gaze. “Who says so?”
Brad raises an eyebrow. “A little birdie told me.” He reaches for his pouch. The coins inside make a tinkling noise when he shakes it.
“I might know sommat.”
Brad drops a few coins on the counter. The bartender eyes them speculatively.
“People were talking, but my thinkin' gets a mite hazy sometimes. I'm an old man, y'know…”
Brad adds a few more coins to the pile.
“Will that be enough to clear your head?” he asks. The bartender leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter.
“Strange things were happening.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Rynt’s chickens are all dead - fried clean to the bone, every one of them - but there’s more. Windows would break out o' the blue sometimes. One time I had a couple o' mugs explode just like that,” he pauses to sniff disdainfully, “cost me a few customers, that did.”
“Any idea when it started?” Brad asks quietly.
The bartender ponders his question for a moment. “Will be a couple of months now. It’s been nothing big before, folk didn’t talk as much. The chickens were different, that was the first time as sommat got hurt.”
“Where did that happen? You said the man’s name - Rynt? Where’s his farm?”
“A couple o’ miles to the south. But he ain’t fond o’ strangers snooping around.”
“He’ll have to deal with me,” Brad states. His pleasant smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He stands up from the stool and turns to leave. At the entrance he nearly collides with another person entering, but before he has a chance to berate the moron for not watching where he’s going, he’s faced with a pair of incredibly green eyes staring at him from under a mop of sandy blond hair. It’s the kid from the night before. Nate. The kid’s name is Nate.
Nate’s lips part slightly when he takes Brad in. Fuck. Having a mouth like that should be illegal. Brad clears his throat and wills the thoughts away before he embarrasses himself with a completely inappropriate reaction.
“It’s you,” he says, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because it’s on the list of the most moronic lines as far as openings go (along with asking somebody “Are you there?” and “Can you hear me?”).
“It is me,” Nate replies. He even has the temerity to look amused. “I think you neglected to introduce yourself when we met.”
Brad looks at him silently for a moment. Nate returns his gaze levelly.
“My name is Brad,” he says eventually. Nate’s answering smile is brilliant. Brad won’t stoop so low as to think that it lights up the whole room, because there’s temporary retardation and then there’s that.
“It’s nice to meet you, Brad. So, are you here just in passing?”
Brad shrugs. “No, I’ve heard they might have a little problem here that would fall under my area of expertise.” Nate looks puzzled, so Brad elaborates. “Something about fried chickens on a farm.”
“Fried chickens?” Nate repeats and his eyes widen comically for a second. Right, dead chickens perhaps don’t sound as ominous as, say, man-eating dragons, but it’s not like Brad has any influence on the monsters’ behavior.
“Yes. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”
Nate ponders his question for a moment. “I… No. I don’t.” He pauses and then speaks up again, “Where did you say that happened?”
“I said no such thing,” Brad replies evenly. “How would you know the place anyway?”
“I live here,” says Nate. The vaguely amused look is back, like he has a piece of information Brad isn’t privy to.
Well, Brad supposes getting help from a local won’t hurt.
“The owner’s name is Rynt. You know him?”
Nate nods.
“Yes. The farm is called Kentucky. It’s not far from here, but the road is winding and it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know the area.” He looks at Brad hesitantly. “I could show you the way.”
“Lead on, then,” allows Brad. They exit the tavern together.
In the light of the day it’s clear to Brad that Nate’s older than he seems. He still looks extremely young, but he exudes the confidence of a grown man, not something Brad would expect from a mere teenager. There’s something about the way Nate moves that gives off the feel of authority.
Brad turns toward his horse, but Nate hesitates.
“I thought we would go on foot. I don’t have a horse,” he explains.
Brad shakes his head. “We’ll share a ride,” he says, the tone of his voice leaving no place for argument. “You’re just going to slow me down otherwise.”
He approaches Atla and unties the rope from the fence post. He strokes her mane absently and swings himself into the saddle. Nate is still standing near the tavern entrance, so he beckons him over and reaches down to help him sit behind him. Nate ignores the outstretched hand and pulls himself up effortlessly.
“Just because I don’t own a horse doesn’t mean I can’t mount one without help,” he laughs. “All right, you should turn right and go this way,” he explains, pointing to a narrow path leading south.
“I will, as soon as you hold on properly and don’t fall down the moment we speed up.”
Nate looks unsure about what to do with his hands and eventually decides resting them lightly against Brad’s sides would be the best idea.
“That’s not properly, Nate,” Brad chides him. Nate squirms a bit in the saddle and finally brings his arms around Brad’s waist. Right. So maybe sharing a ride wasn’t such a good idea, Brad thinks, and tries to ignore the way Nate’s thighs feel pressed against his own, or the way he exhales slowly against his neck.
It’s going to be a longer ride than he thought.
-
The farm doesn’t give off an ominous feeling. Brad isn’t sure what he was expecting, but a clean-swept courtyard with no signs of demonic activity probably wasn’t one of those things. There’s nothing that would suggest that anything out of ordinary happened here recently. There are even chickens near the henhouse. Alive.
Really, some evidence wouldn’t be amiss.
Somebody shuffles his feet behind him and Brad turns around. Nate is standing next to Atla, with one hand raised, trying to touch her long mane. The horse snorts and takes a step back.
“She doesn’t like people,” Brad comments. It’s not exactly true - she likes Ray, but Brad’s had suspicions for a long time that Ray bribes her with apples. “We’re going, there’s nothing here.”
“How can you be so sure?” asks Nate. “You didn’t even look around.”
“I’m confident in the birds.” Nate looks puzzled, so Brad elaborates. “Animals can sense danger. If there were anything strange here, the birds…”
“Wouldn’t sing,” Nate finishes. Brad confirms with a nod. “Clever.”
“I’m going to head back to the village, you need a ride?”
“No, I’m fine, my home’s not far from here. I assume you’re staying here for the next few days?”
Brad nods.
“Do you have a room for the night?” Nate inquires.
“I’ll ask around, there are probably a few vacant rooms in the tavern. Why do you ask?”
Nate hesitates before answering. “My house has a guest bedroom that’s not occupied at the moment.” He looks up, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I do owe you for saving my life, after all. You could think of it as paying off my debt.”
Brad considers it for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the invitation. Accepting it could prove beneficial in the long run. He’d be closer to the wretched farm and far from the prying eyes of the villagers.
“That would be acceptable,” he says eventually.
-
Nate’s house is comfortable, if small. There is indeed a guest bedroom, as well as a master bedroom and a bigger room that probably served as a drawing room in the past, but turned into a library in time, for lack of a better word. Books are everywhere. There’s not a spot on the walls not covered by bookcases and piles of manuscripts are scattered on a table that looks ready to collapse under their combined weight.
When Brad asks, Nate says they belonged to his parents, in a tone that doesn’t encourage a discussion. Brad doesn’t ask anymore.
Nate also proves to be a competent cook, something that Brad wasn’t expecting, and after some time he actually starts looking forward to their shared meals. He tries not to think much of his prolonged stay. After a few days spent patrolling the area - still no monsters in sight - he starts to get the niggling suspicion that he’s searching for something nonexistent, that there wasn’t anything to begin with.
Of course, that’s when Nate’s house almost gets blown up and all his suspicions go to hell.
All right, strictly speaking, it doesn’t get blown up, but there is a huge hole in the roof and the windows are broken, glass shards scattered all over the front yard.
Brad’s learned to be constantly vigilant. A slip of attention can cost him his life, there’s no place and time for losing his focus.
He creeps closer to the entrance, drawing the knife from its sheath in one quick motion. The door is cracked open and silence meets his ears on the other side. He’s slowly making his way inside when he hears soft footsteps behind him. He reacts instinctively, turning around and throwing himself at his opponent, tackling him to the floor.
“Brad! Brad, it’s me,” Nate exclaims, looking up from where Brad is pinning him to the floor. He looks frazzled, his hair messed up and sticking out in every direction.
“I… Fuck.” Brad gets up to his feet and runs a hand through his hair. “Nate. Fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that again.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Nate says, sitting up on the floor.
“What happened here?”
Nate hesitates before answering, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “The roof collapsed. It was a long time coming. I should’ve got to repairing it sooner. It’s nothing,” he insists.
Brad looks at him doubtfully. “The windows are broken, there’s glass everywhere.”
Nate shrugs. “It’s probably the local kids, I bet they were throwing stones again. It happens sometimes, they just do that when they’re bored. I don’t think I was ever that unruly as a kid, were you?”
Brad gives him a blank stare.
“Right, sorry. Anyway, I’ll deal with it tomorrow, all right? I’m sorry about the roof-”
“Nate,” Brad interrupts.
“What?”
“The glass from the windows is outside.”
“Is it?” Nate asks.
“And that means whatever caused it to break, it happened inside.”
“Oh. Right.” Nate averts his gaze, looking at something over Brad’s left shoulder. “You know, now that I think of it, I might have left the door open when I went out.”
“You weren’t here?” Brad repeats.
Nate looks him straight in the eye. “No,” he says.
“And you have no idea who - or what - did this?”
“I… Brad. Please. Just… let it go, all right? I assure you, it’s not what you think.”
Brad knows he should ignore Nate’s plea, it would be the sensible thing to do, but there’s a desperate note in Nate’s voice and Brad finds himself agreeing even before he thinks the matter through. There’s just something about Nate that he’s drawn to and it’s not only the obvious physical attraction - he has a leadership quality about him and even though Nate is only human, Brad knows he would probably follow him anywhere if he received a direct order.
“I should… I should go. Take a look around. Maybe something is still-”
“Brad,” Nate interrupts. “Come on. Even if something was here, it’s already gone now. Give it a rest.”
“No,” Brad protests. “I can’t, you know I-”
“Bullshit,” Nate snaps. “You know as well as I do that one evening isn’t going to make a difference. You’ve been at this for what, a week already?”
“This is what I do, Nate! Can’t you see that? I find monsters, I kill them, it’s simple!”
“Come have a drink with me tonight.”
“I… What?” For the first time in his life Brad is at loss for words. This is not a turn in the conversation he was expecting.
“Let’s go to the tavern. You can go back to your life of fighting monsters after that. Just give me this night, all right?”
Drinking, he’s talking about drinking. A night of drinking, not… doing other things. Certainly not that.
Brad should say no. He wants to say no. He’s going to say no.
“Yes,” he says, and if he hadn’t known it before, this is the moment Brad realizes he is well and truly fucked.
-
Ray is in the tavern. Of course Ray is in the tavern.
“Brad! Shit, homes, where’ve you been?” he shouts as soon as he notices Brad making his way to the bar.
“I’ve been busy. Unlike you, Ray, some of us have other things to do than drinking all day long and waxing poetic about pussy.”
“I do not- that was one time, Brad! One time and I wasn’t even that drunk. And it was a good song, too, just because you can’t appreciate real art…” Ray grumbles. A mug of ale lands on the table in front of Brad and then Nate sits down, another mug in his hand. Ray’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Brad, you sly motherfucker.” He looks from Nate to Brad suggestively. “And you’ve been doing that a lot?”
Nate speaks up before Brad has the chance to answer. “Well, Brad did spend the better part of today contemplating his bedroom’s ceiling.”
Ray chokes on his ale and Brad thumps him on the back. Hard.
“I like him,” Ray decides when he recovers from his coughing fit. “Where did you find him? He can stay if he wants to.”
“Because your approval always means the world to me, Ray,” Brad quips.
“So, you and Iceman, huh?” Ray asks, looking at Nate.
Nate laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry to disappoint you but no, that’s not happening. Brad is staying in my guest bedroom, although that might constitute a problem now, seeing that as of today there’s a hole in the roof the size of a small horse.”
Ray blinks and looks at Brad as if to confirm that Nate is joking. When it becomes apparent that he is in fact serious, Ray shakes his head and comments, “Damn, I've heard of people having enough chemistry to blow the roof off a place, but this is ridiculous.”
Brad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Shut up, Ray.”
“Oh, come on, Brad,” Ray says, evidently having too much fun to let the topic go, “you can’t fool your dearest pal Ray-Ray. Are you going to start picking out china patterns soon?” At that, Brad just shoots him a look and Ray adds hastily, “Okay, okay, I know the 'shut up before I skewer you with something sharp' look when I see it. So, have you already found that chicken-frying thing?”
“No,” Brad admits, scowling in frustration. “No sign of anything, it’s like nothing ever happened.”
“You know, Brad, I was thinking,” Ray announces and Brad thinks he should be worried, because Ray thinking too much usually means some kind of trouble. “You really should catch this thing and take it on the road, just think about it - a free frying machine, no fire required. All you need is a few chickens and we could make a fortune, homes. You think people wouldn’t go for it? Everybody loves a good, tasty chicken, we’d just need a catchy name, like - what was the farm’s name? Kentucky, right? Yeah, Kentucky fried chicken, that would be a hit.”
Brad glances at Nate, who’s been listening to Ray’s speech without batting an eyelid. He looks like he isn’t sure what would be a more appropriate reaction, bursting out laughing or banging his head on the table. Eventually he opts for none of the above, his mouth curling up in that half-smile again.
“Well, Ray, with your rhetorical prowess, I’m quite sure you’d manage to sell just about anything to anybody.”
Ray grins when he looks at Nate. Well, fuck. The two of them getting along, that’s the last fucking thing Brad needs in his life right now. He finishes his ale quickly and slams the empty mug on the table.
“I need another one.” There no way he’s going to survive this night without a substantial amount of alcohol to help him. “Ray, move your ass and bring more ale.”
Ray, surprisingly enough, listens.
They end up drinking more than just a few ales - after some time Ray challenges Nate to a drinking game and to Brad’s endless amusement ends up under the table first. But Nate does get more than a little drunk as well, at least if the way he’s leaning against Brad’s side is anything to judge by.
“Brad?”
“Yes?” Brad asks. Nate moves a bit in his seat, his thigh brushing against Brad’s. His tongue darts out and he wets his lips quickly. Brad’s gaze lingers on his mouth perhaps a bit longer than it should, but fuck, Nate is - Nate is gorgeous like this, with his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and looking at Brad from under half-lidded eyes.
Brad really needs to distract himself from that train of thought, so he grabs his mug and takes a long swig, but before he can put it back on the table, Nate takes it out from his hand and finishes the drink himself, tipping his head up, the line of his throat exposed.
“Mine was empty,” he explains, indicating his own mug. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Brad’s imagination helpfully supplies the image of Nate lying on his bed, arching his neck and making soft, pleased noises in the back of his throat. No, he doesn’t mind, not at all.
“You’re drunk,” he comments.
Nate laughs. “I am,” he answers cheerfully.
“And you shouldn’t drink more.”
“You’re right.” It seems that Nate is an agreeable drunk.
“We should go back home,” Brad suggests.
Nate reaches out and traces a line on Brad’s arm with his finger. “Will you take me home, Brad?” he asks, leaning against Brad’s side again. Brad gets up quickly, before he embarrasses himself with an inappropriate reaction. Nate is drunk, he probably won’t even remember anything in the morning. There’s no need to make their situation more complicated than it already is.
“Come on, get up.” Brad tosses a few coins on the table and grabs Nate’s arm, hauling him to his feet. Nate doesn’t resist and he seems steady on his feet, so Brad lets him go, staying behind him while they make their way to the exit. Once they’re outside, Nate makes a move towards Atla, but Brad grabs him by the elbow.
“Oh no, you don’t. I’m not letting you get on the horse and break your neck because you’re too drunk to stay upright. We’re going on foot, it’s not that far.”
“You’re just going to leave her here?”
“I’ll come back to get her later. Now don’t be stubborn and move,” Brad says, putting his hand on the small of Nate’s back and pushing him forward. The cool air seems to clear Nate’s head a little and they reach the house without further interruptions.
When they enter the house, Brad steers Nate in the direction of his bedroom. They pass Brad’s own room on the way and Nate glances inside, his gaze lingering on the gaping hole in the roof for a moment. Once they pass the threshold, Nate turns back suddenly and stumbles forward, colliding with Brad and pushing him into the wall next to the door.
It catches Brad off guard and he lets himself revel in the feel of Nate’s body pressing against his own, their chests touching. He can feel Nate’s breath on his neck and he tightens the grip on his arms.
Nate stares intently into his eyes and worries his lower lip between his teeth. Brad doesn’t think before raising his hand and touching Nate’s mouth, tugging his lip free. Nate lets out a quiet gasp and presses a soft kiss to Brad’s thumb.
Brad quickly snags his hand away, pushing Nate away.
“You can’t sleep in your room now,” says Nate, backing slowly towards the bed. He grips Brad’s shirt and tugs gently, as if to take Brad with him. Brad catches his hand and disentangles his fingers.
“I’ll be fine. Go to sleep, Nate.”
“Stay with me?” Nate asks and Brad almost says yes, because the ability to think seems to abandon him when Nate is looking at him like this. But he can’t agree to something that Nate is going to regret in the morning, when the alcohol leaves his body.
“Just lay down, Nate,” he says instead, pushing him onto the bed. Nate falls down with a small ‘oompf’. Brad kneels down and tugs on his boots, sliding them off his feet.
“Brad,” Nate whispers, twisting onto his side. “Brad, I need to tell you something.”
“You can tell me tomorrow. You should get some sleep now.”
Nate scoots backwards on the bed and tugs the covers down. He pats the mattress invitingly, looking at Brad.
“Fuck,” Brad curses. “Just, Nate, just go to sleep already, alright?”
“Mmm,” Nate says, closing his eyes. “You should lay down here.”
Brad doesn’t answer and eventually Nate’s breath evens out. He considers his options and finally lies down on the floor - he’s slept in worse conditions and he’s not going to leave Nate alone in the house during the night.
He wakes up in the morning and leaves just before the dawn.
-
Ray officially declares him an idiot. They have a long conversation - if you can call it a conversation, because really it’s more like one of Ray’s epic rants, only with less emphasis on pussy and more on Brad’s emotional retardation and self-sacrificing tendencies, and Brad’s learned that letting Ray talk is easier than interrupting him when he’s on a roll.
Brad might have been more bothered by his opinion if Ray weren’t too hung-over to sit up, let alone form a coherent thought. As it is, Brad couldn’t give a shit.
He can deal with that. It will probably be awkward for a while, but he’s perfectly capable of not letting Nate find him if the need arises. And then he’ll just go somewhere else, there’s no shortage of monsters waiting to be killed. Nate is going to be fine without him.
It’s probably better for him if Brad leaves.
-
The only problem with leaving Nate alone is that it seems Nate doesn’t want to be left alone.
Brad rents a room at the tavern. He probably overpays a ridiculous amount, but he’s not in the mood to haggle over the price and it’s not like he can’t really afford it.
It would probably be too much to hope that he doesn’t run into Nate at some point - it’s a small village, after all - but he doesn’t expect Nate to actively seek him out.
Which in hindsight was a really stupid thing to assume, because, well, it’s Nate. Avoiding Brad was probably the last thing on his mind after the way they left things off.
Brad’s in the stable, saddling his horse when Nate finds him. Atla senses him first, snorting and shaking her head violently.
“She doesn’t like me,” Nate observes, standing in the open doorway.
“I told you, she doesn’t like most people,” Brad tells him and turns back to the horse. “Did you want something?” he asks when Nate doesn’t move.
“You left,” Nate says. There’s no accusation in his tone, he’s just stating a fact.
“I wasn’t aware I was under an obligation to stay,” Brad tells him coldly. “You didn’t need my help anymore, so I left.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you somehow last night,” Nate says somewhat hesitantly.
“You didn’t,” Brad says, not looking at Nate. “Now, was there something else you wanted?”
Nate opens his mouth as if to say something, but then shakes his head and visibly stops himself. He doesn’t move from the doorway and looks up at Brad with a determined look on his face.
“Why are you being like that?” he asks after a moment.
Brad regards him indifferently. “Like what?”
“Like - like you don’t give a fucking damn about anything,” Nate says quietly and clenches his hand. “I thought you-”
“You thought I what?” Brad says and approaches Nate slowly.
“I thought you cared,” Nate tells him calmly and looks him in the eye.
And maybe that’s the problem, Brad thinks. It’s not supposed to be like that, he’s here to do his job and getting too involved with humans isn’t the right way to go. Nate should understand that.
Brad might not like it, but this is surely the right thing to do. He’s allowed his feelings to cloud his judgment long enough.
“You were wrong,” he says and turns his back to Nate.
“Don’t give me this bullshit, Brad,” Nate spits out angrily.
“You’re forgetting what I am,” Brad tells him quietly. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice.
“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are. Is this what it’s all about? That you’re a witcher, that you’re not fully human?” Nate raises his voice slightly. “Like I would care about that!”
“You’re a fool, Nate, if you really think that,” Brad interjects. “Don’t think that just because I saved your sorry ass once you have any fucking grounds to claim that you know anything about me, because you don’t.”
“I know enough,” Nate exclaims. His right hand is shaking slightly and he clenches his fist tighter.
Something cracks loudly behind Brad and he turns his head to look at the source of the noise. There’s a crack in the brick wall that wasn’t there before. Brad’s hand goes to the hilt of his sword instinctively, before he can fully register the movement.
Nate makes a surprised noise. He’s looking at the wall, too, and his hands are clenched so tight that his knuckles have turned white.
The air is heavy with pent up energy and Brad can feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. He ignores the voice in his head that is currently screaming at him get out, no, seriously, get the fuck out of here and takes a step forward.
“Nate,” he says cautiously. “You should calm down.”
Nate doesn’t reply, just squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. He’s breathing heavily and it seems like the air around him is pulsating.
“Nate,” Brad says again, speaking in a soft voice he’d use to calm down a frightened horse. “Come on, Nate, it’s all right, you’re fine.”
He reaches out to touch Nate’s shoulder lightly. The moment he lays his fingers on Nate, he feels a sudden jolt of energy go up his arm and he falls back, his back colliding with the wall. And then his world goes black.
part 2
Title: Something Wicked
Pairing/Characters: Brad/Nate, Ray
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 13 086
Summary (according to Ray the bard):
Gather round, my dear friends, and I’ll sing you a tale,
All I need is my lute, and a good pint of ale.
There lived once an annoying, though I grant you - strong - lad,
Who slayed monsters for living, and his name was Brad.
But though ruthless he was, he had heart in its place,
So his steel legs went weak at the sight of one face.
Young Nathaniel, who knew how to use his own brain
And one day, as a jape, a dozen chickens he’d slain.
Brave Brad took his sword, readied his horse to go,
And set off with Nathaniel and yours truly in tow,
On a quest to find Rudy, a wizard most wise,
Prepared to face on their way whatever surprise.
Here begins my tale, folks, of wisdom and magic,
And love, that - do not fear - will not end up tragic.
Disclaimer: Based on fictionalised portrayals as seen in the HBO miniseries and not the real people.
Notes: This is an AU based on Andrzej Sapkowski's 'The Witcher', but you don't need to be familiar with the books or the game to understand it (actually, it's probably better if you're not, because I barely remember the details, so I just made most of it up). The only thing you need to know is that Brad slays monsters.
Thank you, jean_iris for putting up with my whining and telling me to shut up and write, and for writing me the best summary ever (IT'S AWESOME, Y/Y?). And sa_da_ko, for reminding me I was supposed to finish this fic ;)
Many thanks to schlicky and whizzy for beta reading and to oxoniensis for helping me when I was still writing and getting stuck.
___
In every town, in every village in the world, lives an old hag with a penchant for telling the stories of the past. Stories of love and loss, stories filled with noble swordsmen and beautiful ladies and grand heroics. If you ask, she’ll tell about the deeds of the honorable Sir Eric or the noble Sir William, pretending to read from a book though she knows all the words by heart.
But sometimes, when she’s in the right mood, she might tell a different tale. A tale, told from memory, passed down to her by her mother or her grandmother. Those stories are about the witchers, cold-blooded warriors, born to kill. Monsters in human skin.
Those stories, Brad thinks, are just full of shit.
-
The message was clear enough - there’s a monster. Find it, kill it and then leave the village. And preferably never come back (unless, of course, some other dreadful creature shows up, then we’ll welcome you back with open arms).
Which is exactly how Brad finds himself in the middle of a fucking swamp, freezing his balls off and waiting for something to show up, because he’d like to get the job done already. There are a myriad other places he’d rather spend the night and most of those places involve a bed. And possibly some pussy, although he wouldn’t be opposed to some cock either. Brad is a man of simple pleasures.
A splash of water sounds surprisingly loud in the still of the night and Brad turns toward the source. There, behind a pile of garbage, something is moving. Brad adjusts his grip on the hilt of his sword and creeps closer.
The thing with most monsters is that they may be strong, but most of the time they are also incredibly stupid. To kill them, wait for the right opportunity. Don’t rush headlong into danger. Observe. Find the weak points. Attack. To survive, you need to act by three simple rules: swift, silent, deadly. Kill them before they kill you.
The creature in question certainly doesn’t put much effort into hiding its position - with all the noise it’s making, a five year old wouldn’t have problems locating it. Hell, even Ray could manage.
Brad slowly rises from his crouching position and prepares to strike when the beast makes an odd choking noise. Only it’s not the beast, because apparently they have company. Well, shit. Saving damsels in distress wasn’t in the plan for today.
After a few moments of observation the damsel in distress turns out to be a young man. He doesn’t really meet all the requirements of being in distress, either - if you ignore the fact that the monster has a tentacle wrapped around his throat and seems to be crushing his windpipe - at least he seems to be aware which end of the sword has a pointy tip, judging from the blood-covered blade and another tentacle neatly cut off and writhing on the ground. He’s also still alive, so Brad can give him points for trying. However, his chances of staying alive diminish every second, so Brad quickly revises the course of action and strikes.
Step one: divert the enemy’s attention. Don’t cut too lightly, this will only irritate him. Make him realize there is a stronger opponent, so that he lets go of the previous victim. Step two: move. Don’t just stand there waving your weapon around, because the creature is bigger than you and sooner or later it will get you killed. Use the lay of the land to your advantage, find cover. Attack from behind if the opportunity arises. There are times appropriate for an honorable fight and this is not one of them. Step three: kill. It doesn’t have to be nice - it has to be effective.
He cuts with his sword, a long stroke that nearly cuts off another of the monster’s limbs. The creature lashes out attempting to break his neck. Brad is covered in mud, the thick muck pulling at his boots not making it easier to move quickly, but there’s not a patch of firm ground in sight. The movements are instinctive, ingrained in his muscle memory since childhood.
Duck. Jump back. Strike, jump back again.
Don’t think during a fight, there will be time for it later. First you have to survive.
The creature attacks again, wrapping a tentacle around his waist, pulling sharply. Brad goes with the movement. Sometimes resisting only makes the situation worse. He’s flung away, hitting the ground with a wet sound.
Don’t waste time. Get up.
He raises his sword for a final stroke and that’s when the hilt gets scorching hot, burning his hands immediately. He lets go with a hiss.
Fuck. That’s not something he was expecting. No ordinary monster should be able to do that.
He jumps away swiftly, but he’s weaponless and running will only get him so far.
“Catch!” It’s that kid from before, tossing him his own sword (fuck, no, you don’t do that, it only ever works in stories). It lands somewhere in the mud.
It’s enough to distract him for a moment. A mistake.
Don’t make mistakes. Mistakes will only get you killed. Don’t allow yourself to be distracted.
The monster hits him this time, hard. The air leaves his lungs for a moment. He gets up, tosses himself towards the nearest cover, panting.
That’s another rule of the combat: everything can be made into a weapon. Including steel poles six feet long, sticking out of a pile of garbage. Well, it seems Brad’s luck hasn’t left him completely. He grabs the pole, lunges towards the monster, hitting it just under its head, where the skin isn’t covered by hard shell.
Everybody has a weakness. Exploit it.
The creature tries to hit him again, but it’s losing strength quickly and its movements slow down. Brad dodges the attack easily and strikes with the pole again, plunging it into the monster for good measure. The tentacles twitch once more and then everything stills.
Brad drops his makeshift weapon and turns to pick up his own sword from where he dropped it before. He collects the kid’s sword on the way - it’s a good weapon, he notes absently, well balanced. His own blade lies a few feet to the left, smoke still rising slowly from the handle. It’s no longer burning to the touch, so he picks it up gingerly and slips it into the sheath on his back. He left his other sword with the horse.
Every witcher carries two swords - one made of silver and one made of steel. The nasties say one is for monsters and the other for humans.
(It’s a lie, like most of the stories are. Some monsters are susceptible only to silver. You can kill a human with everything.
Not that Brad does it frequently.)
“Can I have that back?” It’s the kid again - and he is a kid, now that Brad has the time to observe him better, he can’t be more than fifteen years of age - indicating his own weapon. Brad appraises him for a moment and then hands it to him, hilt first.
“Catch?” Brad mocks. “Were you trying to kill me?”
“I’m sorry! I was- I was just trying to help.”
“Trying to help?” Brad narrows his eyes and then shakes his head. “For the record: don’t ever try to help me again.”
“Sorry. And… thank you.” The kid looks up. “For saving my life.”
Brad shrugs. “Don’t think too much of it.” He starts toward the forest clearing where he left his horse. “You should get out of here before some other fuckers smell the carcass. It’s not safe after dusk,” he adds when the kid doesn’t move from his place.
They walk in silence until they reach the clearing. Atla, his horse, is standing in the same place he left her, tied to a tree. He reaches to undo the clasp on the saddlebag and swears under his breath when he touches the hard leather. The skin on his hands is red and blistering in a few places.
“I could dress it for you,” the kid offers, looking vaguely guilty for a reason Brad can’t quite fathom.
“Don’t bother,” he answers. “I can do it myself.”
The kid doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Brad swings himself into the saddle and reaches down to adjust the stirrup.
The kid lets out a soft gasp, his eyes widening for a fleeting moment, before he schools down his expression. Brad follows his gaze and notices his medallion has slipped out from under his shirt. He straightens up quickly.
“Oh, yes… I am one of those monsters your mommy warned you about,” he comments, regarding the kid coolly.
“I’m not afraid of you,” the kid answers. He meets Brad’s gaze evenly and Brad would almost believe him, if he didn’t already know what reaction he should expect from people. If they say they’re not afraid, they’re lying (or they’re retarded. Or they’re Ray, although the question whether Ray fits the second category remains open).
Brad tucks the medallion back under his shirt and turns the horse around.
“Don’t get yourself killed the moment I leave, kid. All my effort would go to waste.”
“My name is Nate!” the kid retorts, but Brad is already on his way.
-
There are rumors about witchers kidnapping young boys, taking them away from their families, to turn them into monsters. They may look human, but essentially that’s what they are. They are trained to kill. Emotions are an unnecessary inconvenience, so they don’t feel anything.
Load of bullshit.
Nobody abducts anyone, that’s not the way it’s done. The boys are usually orphans, living on the streets. They don’t have families to cry after them.
Sometimes the parents give their child up willingly, if the son is a burden.
The training part… well, in this instance people aren’t so far off.
Brad doesn’t remember much of it. You’re not supposed to remember after you undergo the changes. But there are some images that stay with you, vague impressions rather than memories.
Darkness. Hunger. Pain. Pain is the worst, pervading every cell in your body, and you’re screaming, until there’s no strength left even for that.
There are voices in his head, or maybe someone else is there.
He’s dying
He’s strong. He’ll make it.
The pain is gone.
After the Trials end you don’t remember your previous life. It’s like being born again.
Who are you?
I’m… nobody.
Witchers aren’t supposed to feel. The Trials help with that; during them they give you something that suppresses the emotions.
Maybe that’s the point where they fucked something up, fed him the wrong kind of mushrooms or something.
-
“Shit, Brad. I thought you just went there to get rid of another dumb swamp-occupying tentacled motherfucker. That shouldn’t require getting your hands fried in the process.”
Brad shrugs. He’s holding his hand out while Ray wraps a clean bandage around it. “Maybe they evolved in the last couple of years. It sure as hell was a good way to get me to drop my sword.”
“Yeah, but wasn’t the whole point of the swamp-occupying, coming out only after the sunset part that they don’t like heat? That really sounds retarded, even for a monster.”
“It didn’t set itself on fire, did it?” Brad replies, but doesn’t sound convinced at all. There was something definitely wrong about the whole situation. Mindfucking he’d get, every other semi-intelligent creature could do that to some extent, but heating up inanimate objects? That was a wizard’s department.
“So, you’re looking for another job now?” Ray asks.
Brad looks up at that. “You know something?”
“I went to the tavern today. People are talking,” Ray offers helpfully.
Brad sighs. “And do you mind saying what exactly they are talking about, Ray?”
“Sure, homes, do you want to hear that in hendecasyllable?”
“No, Ray.”
“Your loss, Brad. Okay, let me tell you a story of the most mysterious happenings. In the pale dawn, when only just the first rays of sunshine had appeared above the horizon…”
“Ray… Get to the point,” Brad interrupts, exasperated.
“You’re ruining the rhythm and flow, Brad! Yeah, yeah, homes, whatever. Something fried the chickens in the neighboring village.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it?” Ray repeats incredulously. “What more do you want? A fucking dragon and a princess locked in a tower? Something fried every chicken on a farm and boiled the water in a well. You think that’s normal?”
“Point. Well then, I suppose I’d better get moving.” Brad pauses to eye Ray speculatively. “And I suppose you’re just going to be a pain in the ass as usual and tag along, aren’t you?”
“Don’t even bother denying it, Brad, you’d be so lost without me. Who’d be there to patch you up after you do something incredibly stupid again?” Ray replies cheerfully. “You love your dearest pal Ray-Ray, homes.”
“Ray, whatever your inbred poor excuse for a brain makes you believe, you’re delusional,” he says, deadpan. Ray looks at him expectantly. Brad sighs. “Yes, you can come,” he allows magnanimously, at the same time wondering if he would get into much trouble for killing Ray. Surely every jury in the world would absolve him. It would be for the sake of humanity, after all.
“I knew you’d see reason, Brad!”
Brad doesn’t grace him with a reply.
-
There are moments when Brad is forced to admit that he kind of likes his job. Sure, it’s not as if he had much choice about doing it (none, in fact), but he gets to kill bad… things. He protects people. He could imagine his life being worse.
(There are also moments just like now, when a girl pulls her little brother away, looking at him in fear. Brad refuses to dwell on that.)
They arrive at the village just before noon. The streets are mostly empty, save for a few children playing outside, the people either still working in the fields or staying at their homes for a lunch break. Ray sneaks away soon after they cross the main gate - Brad suspects he’s going to find him in the evening knocking back another mug of ale in the local tavern. As long as he doesn’t get kicked out of a bawdy house - again - he’s going to be fine.
As far as obtaining information goes, the local tavern isn’t a bad idea for a start. By the unwritten rule of the universe, the innkeeper is always the best informed person in the village, so Brad directs his steps toward the shabby building. The crooked sign above the door proclaims that he’s entering Murky Dagger Inn. Sometimes Brad wonders if the people who name these things just choose the first two random words that come to their mind and sound ominous enough, without having to make any sense.
The bartender looks up at him and apparently decides Brad’s not worth his attention, because he returns to the task at hand - more specifically, wiping the counter with a dirty rag (it’s another unwritten rule of the universe, dirty rags are a must at every bar).
Brad comes closer, taking a seat at one of the stools. He shifts a bit and his sword makes a clanking noise. When he makes eye contact with the bartender again, the man looks at him warily.
“Drink?” he rasps out.
“Information,” Brad replies, his face impassive. He didn’t earn his nickname - the Iceman - for no reason. “I’ve heard you had some problems with domestic fowl here.”
The bartender shrugs, avoiding Brad’s gaze. “Who says so?”
Brad raises an eyebrow. “A little birdie told me.” He reaches for his pouch. The coins inside make a tinkling noise when he shakes it.
“I might know sommat.”
Brad drops a few coins on the counter. The bartender eyes them speculatively.
“People were talking, but my thinkin' gets a mite hazy sometimes. I'm an old man, y'know…”
Brad adds a few more coins to the pile.
“Will that be enough to clear your head?” he asks. The bartender leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter.
“Strange things were happening.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Rynt’s chickens are all dead - fried clean to the bone, every one of them - but there’s more. Windows would break out o' the blue sometimes. One time I had a couple o' mugs explode just like that,” he pauses to sniff disdainfully, “cost me a few customers, that did.”
“Any idea when it started?” Brad asks quietly.
The bartender ponders his question for a moment. “Will be a couple of months now. It’s been nothing big before, folk didn’t talk as much. The chickens were different, that was the first time as sommat got hurt.”
“Where did that happen? You said the man’s name - Rynt? Where’s his farm?”
“A couple o’ miles to the south. But he ain’t fond o’ strangers snooping around.”
“He’ll have to deal with me,” Brad states. His pleasant smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He stands up from the stool and turns to leave. At the entrance he nearly collides with another person entering, but before he has a chance to berate the moron for not watching where he’s going, he’s faced with a pair of incredibly green eyes staring at him from under a mop of sandy blond hair. It’s the kid from the night before. Nate. The kid’s name is Nate.
Nate’s lips part slightly when he takes Brad in. Fuck. Having a mouth like that should be illegal. Brad clears his throat and wills the thoughts away before he embarrasses himself with a completely inappropriate reaction.
“It’s you,” he says, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because it’s on the list of the most moronic lines as far as openings go (along with asking somebody “Are you there?” and “Can you hear me?”).
“It is me,” Nate replies. He even has the temerity to look amused. “I think you neglected to introduce yourself when we met.”
Brad looks at him silently for a moment. Nate returns his gaze levelly.
“My name is Brad,” he says eventually. Nate’s answering smile is brilliant. Brad won’t stoop so low as to think that it lights up the whole room, because there’s temporary retardation and then there’s that.
“It’s nice to meet you, Brad. So, are you here just in passing?”
Brad shrugs. “No, I’ve heard they might have a little problem here that would fall under my area of expertise.” Nate looks puzzled, so Brad elaborates. “Something about fried chickens on a farm.”
“Fried chickens?” Nate repeats and his eyes widen comically for a second. Right, dead chickens perhaps don’t sound as ominous as, say, man-eating dragons, but it’s not like Brad has any influence on the monsters’ behavior.
“Yes. You wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?”
Nate ponders his question for a moment. “I… No. I don’t.” He pauses and then speaks up again, “Where did you say that happened?”
“I said no such thing,” Brad replies evenly. “How would you know the place anyway?”
“I live here,” says Nate. The vaguely amused look is back, like he has a piece of information Brad isn’t privy to.
Well, Brad supposes getting help from a local won’t hurt.
“The owner’s name is Rynt. You know him?”
Nate nods.
“Yes. The farm is called Kentucky. It’s not far from here, but the road is winding and it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know the area.” He looks at Brad hesitantly. “I could show you the way.”
“Lead on, then,” allows Brad. They exit the tavern together.
In the light of the day it’s clear to Brad that Nate’s older than he seems. He still looks extremely young, but he exudes the confidence of a grown man, not something Brad would expect from a mere teenager. There’s something about the way Nate moves that gives off the feel of authority.
Brad turns toward his horse, but Nate hesitates.
“I thought we would go on foot. I don’t have a horse,” he explains.
Brad shakes his head. “We’ll share a ride,” he says, the tone of his voice leaving no place for argument. “You’re just going to slow me down otherwise.”
He approaches Atla and unties the rope from the fence post. He strokes her mane absently and swings himself into the saddle. Nate is still standing near the tavern entrance, so he beckons him over and reaches down to help him sit behind him. Nate ignores the outstretched hand and pulls himself up effortlessly.
“Just because I don’t own a horse doesn’t mean I can’t mount one without help,” he laughs. “All right, you should turn right and go this way,” he explains, pointing to a narrow path leading south.
“I will, as soon as you hold on properly and don’t fall down the moment we speed up.”
Nate looks unsure about what to do with his hands and eventually decides resting them lightly against Brad’s sides would be the best idea.
“That’s not properly, Nate,” Brad chides him. Nate squirms a bit in the saddle and finally brings his arms around Brad’s waist. Right. So maybe sharing a ride wasn’t such a good idea, Brad thinks, and tries to ignore the way Nate’s thighs feel pressed against his own, or the way he exhales slowly against his neck.
It’s going to be a longer ride than he thought.
-
The farm doesn’t give off an ominous feeling. Brad isn’t sure what he was expecting, but a clean-swept courtyard with no signs of demonic activity probably wasn’t one of those things. There’s nothing that would suggest that anything out of ordinary happened here recently. There are even chickens near the henhouse. Alive.
Really, some evidence wouldn’t be amiss.
Somebody shuffles his feet behind him and Brad turns around. Nate is standing next to Atla, with one hand raised, trying to touch her long mane. The horse snorts and takes a step back.
“She doesn’t like people,” Brad comments. It’s not exactly true - she likes Ray, but Brad’s had suspicions for a long time that Ray bribes her with apples. “We’re going, there’s nothing here.”
“How can you be so sure?” asks Nate. “You didn’t even look around.”
“I’m confident in the birds.” Nate looks puzzled, so Brad elaborates. “Animals can sense danger. If there were anything strange here, the birds…”
“Wouldn’t sing,” Nate finishes. Brad confirms with a nod. “Clever.”
“I’m going to head back to the village, you need a ride?”
“No, I’m fine, my home’s not far from here. I assume you’re staying here for the next few days?”
Brad nods.
“Do you have a room for the night?” Nate inquires.
“I’ll ask around, there are probably a few vacant rooms in the tavern. Why do you ask?”
Nate hesitates before answering. “My house has a guest bedroom that’s not occupied at the moment.” He looks up, the corners of his mouth turning up in a wry smile. “I do owe you for saving my life, after all. You could think of it as paying off my debt.”
Brad considers it for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the invitation. Accepting it could prove beneficial in the long run. He’d be closer to the wretched farm and far from the prying eyes of the villagers.
“That would be acceptable,” he says eventually.
-
Nate’s house is comfortable, if small. There is indeed a guest bedroom, as well as a master bedroom and a bigger room that probably served as a drawing room in the past, but turned into a library in time, for lack of a better word. Books are everywhere. There’s not a spot on the walls not covered by bookcases and piles of manuscripts are scattered on a table that looks ready to collapse under their combined weight.
When Brad asks, Nate says they belonged to his parents, in a tone that doesn’t encourage a discussion. Brad doesn’t ask anymore.
Nate also proves to be a competent cook, something that Brad wasn’t expecting, and after some time he actually starts looking forward to their shared meals. He tries not to think much of his prolonged stay. After a few days spent patrolling the area - still no monsters in sight - he starts to get the niggling suspicion that he’s searching for something nonexistent, that there wasn’t anything to begin with.
Of course, that’s when Nate’s house almost gets blown up and all his suspicions go to hell.
All right, strictly speaking, it doesn’t get blown up, but there is a huge hole in the roof and the windows are broken, glass shards scattered all over the front yard.
Brad’s learned to be constantly vigilant. A slip of attention can cost him his life, there’s no place and time for losing his focus.
He creeps closer to the entrance, drawing the knife from its sheath in one quick motion. The door is cracked open and silence meets his ears on the other side. He’s slowly making his way inside when he hears soft footsteps behind him. He reacts instinctively, turning around and throwing himself at his opponent, tackling him to the floor.
“Brad! Brad, it’s me,” Nate exclaims, looking up from where Brad is pinning him to the floor. He looks frazzled, his hair messed up and sticking out in every direction.
“I… Fuck.” Brad gets up to his feet and runs a hand through his hair. “Nate. Fuck, don’t sneak up on me like that again.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Nate says, sitting up on the floor.
“What happened here?”
Nate hesitates before answering, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “The roof collapsed. It was a long time coming. I should’ve got to repairing it sooner. It’s nothing,” he insists.
Brad looks at him doubtfully. “The windows are broken, there’s glass everywhere.”
Nate shrugs. “It’s probably the local kids, I bet they were throwing stones again. It happens sometimes, they just do that when they’re bored. I don’t think I was ever that unruly as a kid, were you?”
Brad gives him a blank stare.
“Right, sorry. Anyway, I’ll deal with it tomorrow, all right? I’m sorry about the roof-”
“Nate,” Brad interrupts.
“What?”
“The glass from the windows is outside.”
“Is it?” Nate asks.
“And that means whatever caused it to break, it happened inside.”
“Oh. Right.” Nate averts his gaze, looking at something over Brad’s left shoulder. “You know, now that I think of it, I might have left the door open when I went out.”
“You weren’t here?” Brad repeats.
Nate looks him straight in the eye. “No,” he says.
“And you have no idea who - or what - did this?”
“I… Brad. Please. Just… let it go, all right? I assure you, it’s not what you think.”
Brad knows he should ignore Nate’s plea, it would be the sensible thing to do, but there’s a desperate note in Nate’s voice and Brad finds himself agreeing even before he thinks the matter through. There’s just something about Nate that he’s drawn to and it’s not only the obvious physical attraction - he has a leadership quality about him and even though Nate is only human, Brad knows he would probably follow him anywhere if he received a direct order.
“I should… I should go. Take a look around. Maybe something is still-”
“Brad,” Nate interrupts. “Come on. Even if something was here, it’s already gone now. Give it a rest.”
“No,” Brad protests. “I can’t, you know I-”
“Bullshit,” Nate snaps. “You know as well as I do that one evening isn’t going to make a difference. You’ve been at this for what, a week already?”
“This is what I do, Nate! Can’t you see that? I find monsters, I kill them, it’s simple!”
“Come have a drink with me tonight.”
“I… What?” For the first time in his life Brad is at loss for words. This is not a turn in the conversation he was expecting.
“Let’s go to the tavern. You can go back to your life of fighting monsters after that. Just give me this night, all right?”
Drinking, he’s talking about drinking. A night of drinking, not… doing other things. Certainly not that.
Brad should say no. He wants to say no. He’s going to say no.
“Yes,” he says, and if he hadn’t known it before, this is the moment Brad realizes he is well and truly fucked.
-
Ray is in the tavern. Of course Ray is in the tavern.
“Brad! Shit, homes, where’ve you been?” he shouts as soon as he notices Brad making his way to the bar.
“I’ve been busy. Unlike you, Ray, some of us have other things to do than drinking all day long and waxing poetic about pussy.”
“I do not- that was one time, Brad! One time and I wasn’t even that drunk. And it was a good song, too, just because you can’t appreciate real art…” Ray grumbles. A mug of ale lands on the table in front of Brad and then Nate sits down, another mug in his hand. Ray’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Brad, you sly motherfucker.” He looks from Nate to Brad suggestively. “And you’ve been doing that a lot?”
Nate speaks up before Brad has the chance to answer. “Well, Brad did spend the better part of today contemplating his bedroom’s ceiling.”
Ray chokes on his ale and Brad thumps him on the back. Hard.
“I like him,” Ray decides when he recovers from his coughing fit. “Where did you find him? He can stay if he wants to.”
“Because your approval always means the world to me, Ray,” Brad quips.
“So, you and Iceman, huh?” Ray asks, looking at Nate.
Nate laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry to disappoint you but no, that’s not happening. Brad is staying in my guest bedroom, although that might constitute a problem now, seeing that as of today there’s a hole in the roof the size of a small horse.”
Ray blinks and looks at Brad as if to confirm that Nate is joking. When it becomes apparent that he is in fact serious, Ray shakes his head and comments, “Damn, I've heard of people having enough chemistry to blow the roof off a place, but this is ridiculous.”
Brad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Shut up, Ray.”
“Oh, come on, Brad,” Ray says, evidently having too much fun to let the topic go, “you can’t fool your dearest pal Ray-Ray. Are you going to start picking out china patterns soon?” At that, Brad just shoots him a look and Ray adds hastily, “Okay, okay, I know the 'shut up before I skewer you with something sharp' look when I see it. So, have you already found that chicken-frying thing?”
“No,” Brad admits, scowling in frustration. “No sign of anything, it’s like nothing ever happened.”
“You know, Brad, I was thinking,” Ray announces and Brad thinks he should be worried, because Ray thinking too much usually means some kind of trouble. “You really should catch this thing and take it on the road, just think about it - a free frying machine, no fire required. All you need is a few chickens and we could make a fortune, homes. You think people wouldn’t go for it? Everybody loves a good, tasty chicken, we’d just need a catchy name, like - what was the farm’s name? Kentucky, right? Yeah, Kentucky fried chicken, that would be a hit.”
Brad glances at Nate, who’s been listening to Ray’s speech without batting an eyelid. He looks like he isn’t sure what would be a more appropriate reaction, bursting out laughing or banging his head on the table. Eventually he opts for none of the above, his mouth curling up in that half-smile again.
“Well, Ray, with your rhetorical prowess, I’m quite sure you’d manage to sell just about anything to anybody.”
Ray grins when he looks at Nate. Well, fuck. The two of them getting along, that’s the last fucking thing Brad needs in his life right now. He finishes his ale quickly and slams the empty mug on the table.
“I need another one.” There no way he’s going to survive this night without a substantial amount of alcohol to help him. “Ray, move your ass and bring more ale.”
Ray, surprisingly enough, listens.
They end up drinking more than just a few ales - after some time Ray challenges Nate to a drinking game and to Brad’s endless amusement ends up under the table first. But Nate does get more than a little drunk as well, at least if the way he’s leaning against Brad’s side is anything to judge by.
“Brad?”
“Yes?” Brad asks. Nate moves a bit in his seat, his thigh brushing against Brad’s. His tongue darts out and he wets his lips quickly. Brad’s gaze lingers on his mouth perhaps a bit longer than it should, but fuck, Nate is - Nate is gorgeous like this, with his cheeks flushed from the alcohol and looking at Brad from under half-lidded eyes.
Brad really needs to distract himself from that train of thought, so he grabs his mug and takes a long swig, but before he can put it back on the table, Nate takes it out from his hand and finishes the drink himself, tipping his head up, the line of his throat exposed.
“Mine was empty,” he explains, indicating his own mug. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Brad’s imagination helpfully supplies the image of Nate lying on his bed, arching his neck and making soft, pleased noises in the back of his throat. No, he doesn’t mind, not at all.
“You’re drunk,” he comments.
Nate laughs. “I am,” he answers cheerfully.
“And you shouldn’t drink more.”
“You’re right.” It seems that Nate is an agreeable drunk.
“We should go back home,” Brad suggests.
Nate reaches out and traces a line on Brad’s arm with his finger. “Will you take me home, Brad?” he asks, leaning against Brad’s side again. Brad gets up quickly, before he embarrasses himself with an inappropriate reaction. Nate is drunk, he probably won’t even remember anything in the morning. There’s no need to make their situation more complicated than it already is.
“Come on, get up.” Brad tosses a few coins on the table and grabs Nate’s arm, hauling him to his feet. Nate doesn’t resist and he seems steady on his feet, so Brad lets him go, staying behind him while they make their way to the exit. Once they’re outside, Nate makes a move towards Atla, but Brad grabs him by the elbow.
“Oh no, you don’t. I’m not letting you get on the horse and break your neck because you’re too drunk to stay upright. We’re going on foot, it’s not that far.”
“You’re just going to leave her here?”
“I’ll come back to get her later. Now don’t be stubborn and move,” Brad says, putting his hand on the small of Nate’s back and pushing him forward. The cool air seems to clear Nate’s head a little and they reach the house without further interruptions.
When they enter the house, Brad steers Nate in the direction of his bedroom. They pass Brad’s own room on the way and Nate glances inside, his gaze lingering on the gaping hole in the roof for a moment. Once they pass the threshold, Nate turns back suddenly and stumbles forward, colliding with Brad and pushing him into the wall next to the door.
It catches Brad off guard and he lets himself revel in the feel of Nate’s body pressing against his own, their chests touching. He can feel Nate’s breath on his neck and he tightens the grip on his arms.
Nate stares intently into his eyes and worries his lower lip between his teeth. Brad doesn’t think before raising his hand and touching Nate’s mouth, tugging his lip free. Nate lets out a quiet gasp and presses a soft kiss to Brad’s thumb.
Brad quickly snags his hand away, pushing Nate away.
“You can’t sleep in your room now,” says Nate, backing slowly towards the bed. He grips Brad’s shirt and tugs gently, as if to take Brad with him. Brad catches his hand and disentangles his fingers.
“I’ll be fine. Go to sleep, Nate.”
“Stay with me?” Nate asks and Brad almost says yes, because the ability to think seems to abandon him when Nate is looking at him like this. But he can’t agree to something that Nate is going to regret in the morning, when the alcohol leaves his body.
“Just lay down, Nate,” he says instead, pushing him onto the bed. Nate falls down with a small ‘oompf’. Brad kneels down and tugs on his boots, sliding them off his feet.
“Brad,” Nate whispers, twisting onto his side. “Brad, I need to tell you something.”
“You can tell me tomorrow. You should get some sleep now.”
Nate scoots backwards on the bed and tugs the covers down. He pats the mattress invitingly, looking at Brad.
“Fuck,” Brad curses. “Just, Nate, just go to sleep already, alright?”
“Mmm,” Nate says, closing his eyes. “You should lay down here.”
Brad doesn’t answer and eventually Nate’s breath evens out. He considers his options and finally lies down on the floor - he’s slept in worse conditions and he’s not going to leave Nate alone in the house during the night.
He wakes up in the morning and leaves just before the dawn.
-
Ray officially declares him an idiot. They have a long conversation - if you can call it a conversation, because really it’s more like one of Ray’s epic rants, only with less emphasis on pussy and more on Brad’s emotional retardation and self-sacrificing tendencies, and Brad’s learned that letting Ray talk is easier than interrupting him when he’s on a roll.
Brad might have been more bothered by his opinion if Ray weren’t too hung-over to sit up, let alone form a coherent thought. As it is, Brad couldn’t give a shit.
He can deal with that. It will probably be awkward for a while, but he’s perfectly capable of not letting Nate find him if the need arises. And then he’ll just go somewhere else, there’s no shortage of monsters waiting to be killed. Nate is going to be fine without him.
It’s probably better for him if Brad leaves.
-
The only problem with leaving Nate alone is that it seems Nate doesn’t want to be left alone.
Brad rents a room at the tavern. He probably overpays a ridiculous amount, but he’s not in the mood to haggle over the price and it’s not like he can’t really afford it.
It would probably be too much to hope that he doesn’t run into Nate at some point - it’s a small village, after all - but he doesn’t expect Nate to actively seek him out.
Which in hindsight was a really stupid thing to assume, because, well, it’s Nate. Avoiding Brad was probably the last thing on his mind after the way they left things off.
Brad’s in the stable, saddling his horse when Nate finds him. Atla senses him first, snorting and shaking her head violently.
“She doesn’t like me,” Nate observes, standing in the open doorway.
“I told you, she doesn’t like most people,” Brad tells him and turns back to the horse. “Did you want something?” he asks when Nate doesn’t move.
“You left,” Nate says. There’s no accusation in his tone, he’s just stating a fact.
“I wasn’t aware I was under an obligation to stay,” Brad tells him coldly. “You didn’t need my help anymore, so I left.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you somehow last night,” Nate says somewhat hesitantly.
“You didn’t,” Brad says, not looking at Nate. “Now, was there something else you wanted?”
Nate opens his mouth as if to say something, but then shakes his head and visibly stops himself. He doesn’t move from the doorway and looks up at Brad with a determined look on his face.
“Why are you being like that?” he asks after a moment.
Brad regards him indifferently. “Like what?”
“Like - like you don’t give a fucking damn about anything,” Nate says quietly and clenches his hand. “I thought you-”
“You thought I what?” Brad says and approaches Nate slowly.
“I thought you cared,” Nate tells him calmly and looks him in the eye.
And maybe that’s the problem, Brad thinks. It’s not supposed to be like that, he’s here to do his job and getting too involved with humans isn’t the right way to go. Nate should understand that.
Brad might not like it, but this is surely the right thing to do. He’s allowed his feelings to cloud his judgment long enough.
“You were wrong,” he says and turns his back to Nate.
“Don’t give me this bullshit, Brad,” Nate spits out angrily.
“You’re forgetting what I am,” Brad tells him quietly. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice.
“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are. Is this what it’s all about? That you’re a witcher, that you’re not fully human?” Nate raises his voice slightly. “Like I would care about that!”
“You’re a fool, Nate, if you really think that,” Brad interjects. “Don’t think that just because I saved your sorry ass once you have any fucking grounds to claim that you know anything about me, because you don’t.”
“I know enough,” Nate exclaims. His right hand is shaking slightly and he clenches his fist tighter.
Something cracks loudly behind Brad and he turns his head to look at the source of the noise. There’s a crack in the brick wall that wasn’t there before. Brad’s hand goes to the hilt of his sword instinctively, before he can fully register the movement.
Nate makes a surprised noise. He’s looking at the wall, too, and his hands are clenched so tight that his knuckles have turned white.
The air is heavy with pent up energy and Brad can feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. He ignores the voice in his head that is currently screaming at him get out, no, seriously, get the fuck out of here and takes a step forward.
“Nate,” he says cautiously. “You should calm down.”
Nate doesn’t reply, just squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. He’s breathing heavily and it seems like the air around him is pulsating.
“Nate,” Brad says again, speaking in a soft voice he’d use to calm down a frightened horse. “Come on, Nate, it’s all right, you’re fine.”
He reaches out to touch Nate’s shoulder lightly. The moment he lays his fingers on Nate, he feels a sudden jolt of energy go up his arm and he falls back, his back colliding with the wall. And then his world goes black.
part 2