Generation Kill AU - Semper Fidelis Familia (Fick/Colbert, NC-17, 1/3)
It's been two years since I wrote a story this long, and now I remember why. If crack smoked crack, then this is what would result. My hope in writing this story was to create something that would appeal to Generation Kill fans, but that you could still read even if you'd never watched GK, and think, "Okay, this is fucking crazy, is this real or did she make it up? I have to see the source material." And thusly create more GK fans. Hey, I am nothing if not consistent about my pimping.
For sparky77, who was there at the beginning.
Generation Kill
Alternate Universe (and how)
Word Count: 21,975
Fick/Colbert, ensemble
NC-17
Semper Fidelis Familia
There is no temp agency for the Mob. You can't just call up an employment office and say, "Hi, I'm a captain in one of the four families, and I need a bodyguard because I blew up the competition's warehouse, and in return someone left a dozen gutted fish outside the front door of my apartment building this morning, which probably means my days are numbered. So, if you could send me a temp to take a bullet or six, that would be great."
Well, you can say that, but you don't say things like that to people who aren't in the family. At least not in Baltimore.
In fact, Nathaniel Fick doesn't even mention the fish to his older brother, Craig, because Nate's brother is an asshole -- a stupid asshole -- and those are dangerous.
Nate could be tactful about his relationship with his brother, but Craig spent the first seventeen years of Nate's life bullying him and the last thirteen being a bitter, undermining ass, so Nate's pretty much out of tolerance, tact or anything else. It doesn't help that Craig's advisor, Griego, is such an ass-licking prick that he would probably start a war between the families just to make Craig look good to their father and get everybody shot in the process.
This is the same reason that Nate doesn't mention it to his cousin Dave, because while Craig and Griego might get them all shot, Dave McGraw would get them all killed.
You can't choose your family; you can only avoid working with them as much as possible.
Besides, Nate's his father's son: he doesn't complain, he just gets shit done. So he calls Bryan, his other cousin, and happens to mention that his own days are probably numbered.
Bryan doesn't bother to feign surprise. "Nate, you blew up the Delta warehouse, did you really think that they were just going to let it go?"
Nate shrugs, but they're on the phone, so Bryan's can't see it. "It's Delta," he says, as though that should explain everything. If you collected every incompetent mobster on the eastern seaboard and gave them property well beyond their means, you would have the Delta family.
Bryan sighs loudly. "I think I know the guy you'll need, but it might take day or two. You want to borrow Rudy in the meantime?"
"And leave you exposed? Godfather would never forgive me." Nate perches on the edge of his sofa and looks around his apartment with a critical eye: black leather furniture, stainless steel kitchen, bookshelves heaving with military and historical books.
It's pretty stereotypically bachelor, except for the guns in the utensil drawer. And in the underwear drawer. And the freezer, and the coffee table drawer, the list goes on for several pages.
There are people who don't live like this, but Nate doesn't know them. Maybe what he needs is a dog.
Bryan snorts as though he can read Nate's thoughts. "If you died, Godfather would never forgive me. And I can live without Rudy for a few days."
"Yes," he concedes after a moment, "but will Pappy drive the car without Rudy in it?"
"I'm a hostage in my own family," Bryan complains.
Nate laughs. "Hey, at least you don't have Ray."
"Ray's a good driver," Bryan offers. "He's just got some pill issues. And some verbal diarrhea. And some anxiety issues."
"And some gossiping issues," Nate agrees, crossing the open-plan living room to snag an apple from the fruit basket.
There's a Glock in the bottom of the fruit basket too. A mobster's son can never be too careful. The ex-military son of a mob boss can never be too heavily armed.
Bryan laughs. "Yes, but even you were concerned when you heard J. Lo'd been shot."
"J. Lo wasn't shot!" Nate protests around a mouthful of apple.
"Exactly. And aren't you glad you had Ray to assure you of that." Nate snorts. "It could be worse," Bryan offers.
"You mean like Trombley."
"Let's not talk about Trombley anymore."
Nate blinks. Not speaking of someone can only mean one thing: that they were disposed of. Trombley wasn't the smartest soldier they had, and he was psychotic enough to actually make everyone else nervous, which is probably why he had to go. When you make experienced Marines nervous, that's a bad thing.
"Nate, you still there?"
Nate sighs. He hates asking for help. "Yeah, I am, just, you know --."
"I'm going to send Poke, Garza and Hasser down to the docks for a few shakedowns. You okay with that?"
"Shakedowns, huh?"
"You never know what sort of information you might shake out of someone."
"Right."
"Don't give me shit about it."
"Did I say anything?"
"And try to stay out of trouble. Don't make me give Ray extra hardware."
Nate sighs again. Ray already has the SUV tricked out with guns in the glove compartment, strapped to the sun visor, inside the arm rest and under every seat. The last thing a wiry, loose screw like Ray needs is another weapon. "Okay, okay," Nate concedes.
"I knew you'd see reason."
Yes, Nate's always the reasonable one.
Nate doesn't tell Ray about the fish, but unsurprisingly Ray finds out anyway because he's just that connected to everyone. Ray was a Radio Transceiver Operator in the Marines, and leaving the military hasn't disabused him of being in everyone's business.
Nate's just getting dressed when there's a loud knock on the front door and then it crashes open with a teeth-rattling thud.
"Freeze, motherfuckers, before I light you up like it was NASCAR at night!" Ray Person's voice echoes off the high ceilings.
Nate sighs and shuts his bedroom door. He's just straightening his tie when Ray calls from the other side of his door. "Boss! I heard about the fish! Don't worry, I got this!"
Nate sighs again and opens the door only to have the barrel of an AK-47 thrust into his face. What Ray Person lacks in height, he makes up for in aggressiveness. "Ray, what the fuck are you doing?"
Ray's smile is all teeth. "Boss, I heard some shit went down, but I got your back. Don't even worry," Ray taps the AK's muzzle, "Lucy's got this."
"Where did you get that?" Nate asks, using one finger to point Lucy's muzzle very far away from him.
"It fell off the back of a truck," Ray says matter-of-factly. He stole it. Right. "So, seriously, what's this about a fish?"
"There's nothing about a fish," Nate says dismissively. "Stop gossiping with Pappy."
"Yeah, but Poke said that Pappy said that--"
Nate gets in Ray's face. "Ray, shut up. And get the car."
"Okay, you ready to go? You got armor on? Cause you know, if there are fish out there, then there are people with guns, and you getting dead wasn't on my list this morning."
"Ray. Get. The. Car."
Ray blinks. "Okay, but I know this guy, boss. He can do these things that would make your ass turn white -- not that you're not white already -- I'm just saying. He's like Rambo and Dirty Harry -- like, this dude would cut off your balls and pin them to your chest and --"
"RAY!"
Ray's lower lip pokes out. "Getting the car, sir."
Nate rolls his eyes. "And have the locks changed."
By which Nate means, change the door itself. And every door in the building. And double check the bulletproof windows. And could Ray make sure that Nate's got enough artillery in his house to blow up a small nation. Among other things.
Owning the building you live in has some advantages.
Ray purses his lips but nods. "Okay."
Nate does his best to forget about the fish over the next day or so, because there's not much else he can do. He has docks to supervise, shipments to get out of the city, shipments to get into the city, he's not going to hide in his apartment with Dirty Earl and Kocher guarding him, like a pussy. Like his cousin Dave. Nate's not that kind of boss. He would never send his guys to do something he wouldn't do himself, and if shit happens, oh well.
There's an unfamiliar man sitting on Nate's sofa when he comes home from a breakfast meeting with Bryan and Craig. They've been arguing about possible dock expansion and some Department of Sanitation issues, like always.
Correction: Craig's been bitching that Nate has more territory, and Bryan and Nate have been trying not to put him in a fishing boat with Poke Espera. This isn't The Godfather, Part II, no matter how tempting the idea is. It's the same argument they have every time: Craig wants what Nate has, when Nate never asked for it in the first place.
Regardless, this doesn't explain the stranger in Nate's living room.
The man is dressed in a dark blue shirt, tie, and black pants, none of which say, "I am here to assess the structural integrity of your apartment with regards to an attack from a rival family and possibly build you your own panic room." Not that Nate is prone to panicking.
This person is sitting -- sprawled out, really-- reading the newspaper with a large black duffle bag at his feet.
This is a bad thing.
Nate told Ray to have the locks changed.
He may not live to yell at him about this.
The man looks up when Nate's reaching inside his jacket for his shoulder holster. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be on the floor right now with a hole in your head," he says breezily.
Nate pulls out his gun anyway.
"I see we're going to have to work on your trust issues," the man says, folding the paper and setting it on the sofa next to him.
Nate flicks off the safety. "Who are you?"
The man stands up. He's tall. Fuck. He's taller than Nate and Nate's 6'2. He looks like the bastard child of Thor and David Beckham. Nate has to stop listening to Ray's pop culture references. "Your cousin sent me."
Nate narrows his eyes. "Your cousin, Bryan," the man clarifies, holding up both of his hands. "Bryan Patterson. Retired Captain in the United States Marine Corps. First Battalion, Alpha Company."
Nate pulls out his mobile phone and hits Bryan's speed dial. It's ringing when Ray's voice chimes from right behind him. "Boss, you left your -- Brad! Dog! What's up?!"
Nate's knocked to the side as Ray pushes past him and rushes into the room.
To see Ray hugging someone almost a foot taller than him is a strange image.
"Seriously, what're you doing here?" Ray babbles. "I was gonna call your ass, because we got some shit, but the boss was all -- man, you know how bosses are. Boss, this is the guy I was telling you about! Brad Colbert, bad ass motherfucker and stone-cold killer. He will fuck shit up; you are gonna love his ass."
Nate flips the phone closed, puts the safety back on his Beretta, holsters the gun, and moves out of the front hall and into the living room.
Ray's glee is evident, but Nate just purses his lips as Brad gives him a wry smirk.
"Mr. Fick," Brad says, offering his hand. "Brad Colbert, stone-cold killer at your service."
Nate looks from Brad's hand to Brad's face. Brad's expression is totally impassive now, but his eyes are still smirking. TMA. Typical Marine Asshole.
Nate shakes Brad's hand anyway, their shared grip lasting just a second too long.
Huh.
One of the reasons Nate's never had a bodyguard is that he can take care of himself just fine. He was a Recon Marine, the NAVY Seals of the Marines. He's got a million dollars worth of government-funded training under his belt, and he served his country in Afghanistan before getting called home for family business.
Nate Fick isn't afraid of anything.
In fact, every last one of the guys who work for his family has worked for some sort of US government Special Ops team at some point. This is how they all know each other -- it's how they recruit -- so it bothers him that he doesn't remember hearing about a Brad Colbert. And yet, if Bryan hired him and Ray swears by him, there must be something there. Hopefully.
Nate shows Brad to the guest room, and then he goes off to visit Godfather -- without Brad -- because this is just weird.
Except that when Nate emerges from the Bravo offices after his two hour meeting, Brad's sitting in the Tahoe with Ray. When Nate approaches the vehicle, Brad gets out of the passenger seat and opens the door to the backseat for him. He's wearing a grey suit and white Oxford. He looks… anyway.
"If you're trying to ditch me, you're going to have to try harder," Brad says as Nate's getting in the car.
Nate pauses on his side of the door. "When I ditch you, you'll know it."
Brad's smile is all teeth. "You're going to be difficult, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I like difficult."
Nate just purses his lips and gets in the car.
There are hundreds of issues involved with running docks properly: cargo issues, shipping container issues, drug issues, keeping out the human traffickers, keeping out the police, keeping out the competition. Nate doesn't generally deal with paperwork; he's the face of the business, he leaves the administrative details to his lieutenant, Mike Wynn. But every now and then Nate has to see to something personally.
Today, he's supposed to pick up some papers from one of the importing/exporting companies, but when he gets down to Dock 23 he sends Brad to the office in his place. Anything to get rid of the way Brad makes Nate's skin itchy.
Waiting in the SUV feels strange, though, and Nate has to quell this incessant desire to call Brad every five seconds and ask where he is and what's he doing and what's taking so long. He interrogates Ray instead. "You know Brad from Iraq?"
"Hell, yeah," Ray says, turning around and leaning between the front seats. "I dunno how you two never ran into each other before this. I mean I know you got out before we started circle jerking Iraq, but the world ain't that big, and Brad's -- Boss, he's the man."
Nate frowns.
"I mean you're the man, too," Ray corrects, "but Brad could, like, snatch your clothes off your body in the middle of the night and you wouldn't know it."
Nate blinks. There’s an image. "I've never heard you talk about him."
"He's the Iceman," Ray explains. "And I know that you know that we all know about the Iceman. So, it's okay if you had a combat jack about him, everybody does. Did."
"Shut up, Ray."
"I was just sharing the intel."
"Ray."
"Shutting up, sir."
Nate doesn't even have to look to know Ray's sulking, but he can deal with that later, because Brad's the Iceman? Jesus fuck. Nate's heard the mythical stories of the man who did special ops missions without batteries for his NVGs and who could see what the hell you were doing before you did it. The Iceman broke Rudy's PT record by holding his breath for six minutes and supposedly climbed Mount Everest with a broken foot. The Iceman isn't real, he's Keyser Soze. Nate has no idea how --
The door to the Tahoe opens, and Brad slides into the backseat next to Nate. There are blood spatters on his collar and his face.
"What the… what the hell is on your face?" Nate demands. He cuts a look towards Ray, who's already shifted into drive and is now speeding towards the nearest exit.
"My face?" Brad wipes at his forehead and blood smears along his cheekbone.
Nate says a silent prayer to the god his mom believed in that he doesn't do anything stupid. "I just asked you to pick up some papers."
"I did," Brad says, reaching into his inside pocket and offering several white papers with red splatters and coffee stains on them to Nate.
Something flashy falls out among the papers and lands hard on Nate's thigh. "Brass knuckles?" he says, picking up the cool metal incredulously.
Brad shrugs and sets the papers on the seat between them. "They didn't seem very inclined to give the papers to someone who wasn't you."
"Why didn't you just call me to come in?" Nate demands.
"Well, there was the guy in the back office with a sawn-off shotgun who I thought might have some other reasons he wanted you there. It didn't seem prudent, sir."
Sir. Nate's dick twitches. Nobody calls him "sir". Well, they do, but when Brad says it, it sounds dirty.
And wait. Man with a sawn-off?
Shit.
Nate rubs his forehead. "Did anybody see you?"
"I'm not paid to be seen." Brad says, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. If he smiles, Nate will throw him from the moving car.
When Nate glances at the rearview mirror, Ray's focusing very hard on the traffic. Smart move.
Brad's fingers are warm when he carefully takes the brass knuckles out of Nate's grasp. "I believe these belong to me. Sir."
Again with the "sir". Nate's brain is starting to hurt. "Ray, take us to the apartment so Brad can change his shirt."
"Okay, Boss."
"It's not that bad," Brad complains, wiping at his face again.
"'Not that bad' isn't good enough for me," Nate snaps. "I expect you to live up to your legend, Mr. Colbert."
"My legend?"
"Ray speaks very highly of you, and if I die, some people are going to want their money back."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "Yes, sir."
Over the next few days, Nate grudgingly cedes some of his space to Brad, and in return Brad takes even more. Every meeting Nate goes to, Brad goes to as well. Brad keeps Nate company on his morning runs along the Inner Harbor without being invited. Chef Boyardee's Beefaroni and jalapeno cheese dip magically appear in the refrigerator. In the wee hours of the morning when Nate's doing push-ups and sit-ups because he can't sleep, he can hear the click-clack of well-oiled gun parts being assembled and reassembled on the other side of the door. It shouldn't be as reassuring as it is.
"What kind of third-world Haji nails-on-a-piece-of-tape is this?"
Nate glances up when a roll of toilet paper trails across the black granite kitchen island and over the steel unions article on page four of today's Baltimore Sun.
"Is this a trick question?" Nate asks, grabbing the toilet roll before it falls off the edge of the island. "It's toilet paper."
"That is not toilet paper, sir, that is an affront to the baby soft skin on my ass."
Nate glances at the roll of paper in his left hand. "You have a problem with my toilet paper, Brad?"
"Sir, if I wanted to wipe my ass with tumbleweeds and Iraqi sand, I would've stayed in the military."
"Is that why you left the Marines, Brad? You needed a roll of fucking Charmin?"
Brad puts both hands on the kitchen island and leans into Nate's space. "How can you take a shit knowing you're going to be abusing yourself with that? Did your ass do something to you to make you angry with it?"
Nate blinks; Brad is way too close. "Excuse me?"
"There are only four things every man needs," Brad intones, "water, a high-powered laptop, his weapon and to take a good dump every now and then. And when net porn isn't enough, the phone number of a good whore."
Nate thinks he's staring. No, he knows he's staring.
"Sir, if you want me continue to work for you, you're going to have to do something about this."
"I stand corrected," Nate says eventually, "you didn't leave the military, you got discharged for mental illness."
"At least the Corps provides baby wipes," Brad mocks.
"You want me to wipe your ass for you?" Nate doesn’t hide his disbelief. "Does Freud know about you?"
Brad's mouth twitches. "Sir, personal information isn't included in my daily rate. If you want that from me, it'll cost you extra."
Brad's throwing down something, which Nate is going to ignore. He winds up the trail of toilet paper and sets the roll down between them. "Brad, if you want different toilet paper, just fucking buy it."
The back of Nate's neck gets hot when Brad grins at him. "You spoil me, sir. Really."
Every Sunday the family gets together after church. Okay, the family gets together during that time that would be after church if anybody actually went to church anymore. And it's not really the whole family. The McGraws are pretty much on their own after that fight that one time, even though Dave's lieutenant, Eric Kocher, is always welcome. And since Craig got married, his wife really has made him go to church, so the get-togethers are mostly just Bryan and his boys, with Ray, Mike and Nate supplying the beer. Now that Brad's a part of Nate's team, they bring more.
The first time Nate brings Brad around to meet the family, he's expecting there to be introductions, because he didn't know Brad, but apparently everybody else does.
They're barely in the door with the cases of Heineken and vodka before Nate's being crushed by Poke, Garza and Hasser trying to rush past him and greet his new bodyguard.
"Dog! What's the good word?!" Poke hollers, crushing Brad in a hug.
"Brad, where the fuck you been?" Hasser shouts over Poke. "You promised me knife lessons the last time I saw you."
"So you can drop one in your foot?" Garza bitches.
"Stop fucking nagging," Walt retorts.
"Yeah, well then stop asking me to drive your ass over to see Doc."
"Fuck you, Gabe."
"Only if you ask nice."
"Children!" Brad's voice manages to rise above everyone's without increasing in volume. "I'm sure I've got gifts for all the good little boys who didn't blow off their nuts since I've been gone, now step the fuck back so you don't squash my boss and put me out of a job."
Nate's simultaneously grateful and irritated, because of course Brad knows everybody. There's no way Nate's jealous of all of Brad's adoration. Not even a little bit.
"I see you got your gift," someone calls from over the melee. Nate follows Bryan's voice to where he's lurking in the doorway, drinking a beer.
Nate shifts the weight of his case of Heineken to his waist and snatches Bryan’s beer from him with his free hand. "Yeah, I got my gift all right," he says, taking a long swallow of cool liquid. "You think you could've called and told me he was a professional burglar, too?"
Bryan snorts. "Did he steal anything?"
Only if Nate's sanity counts.
"No," Nate concedes.
"All right then," Bryan agrees, before standing upright and calling over Nate's shoulder. "You fucking monkeys stop climbing all over Brad like he's a two-dollar whore and get back to dinner. If my spaghetti sauce is burning I'm going to shoot somebody myself."
The guys dutifully troop back towards the kitchen, and Nate follows Bryan through the living room and into the backyard. It's a hazy Baltimore afternoon, the sun high and the humidity stifling, but perfectly acceptable when compared to the Middle East.
Across the yard, under the oak trees, Pappy and Rudy are standing around the grill looking very serious. Nate smirks. "What's it today?" he asks, gesturing towards the chefs.
"Veggie burgers." Bryan makes a face as he takes the case of beer from Nate and sets it down next to a large garbage can already full of ice and beer.
Nate wrinkles his nose. "Why does Rudy do that?"
Bryan shrugs, taking a cold beer from the trash can and popping off the top with a can opener that's been attached to one of the handles. "He wants us all to live forever."
"And be fucking miserable," Nate agrees.
"Why are we fucking miserable?" a voice queries from behind Nate, and all of the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Brad.
Bryan tosses a grin over Nate's shoulder. "Veggie burgers."
Nate can just imagine the look on Brad's face and when he turns around, there it is, wrinkled forehead and down-turned mouth. "If evolution had meant for us to eat grass there wouldn't be anything below us on the food chain," Brad says decisively.
"Exactly," Bryan agrees. "Beer?"
"Fuckin' a, yes. Patterson, you wouldn't believe the shit that passes for beer at my employer's house."
Nate coughs. "Excuse me?"
But Brad just carries on. "He's got this fucking imported Belgian shit. And wine. Like six different kinds. What real man drinks wine? I had to discharge him of his Château Lafite immediately."
Nate's fingers tighten around his beer. "You did what with my wine?"
"You didn't want that, '82 was a bad year," Brad says with a blinding smile.
"If you're not --
Nate's threat is cut off by the kitchen screen door slamming and Ray tearing into the backyard. He runs right up to Pappy and Rudy, says something rapidly, and they nod. Ray makes a face and says something else, waving his arms about animatedly.
Two seconds later Poke clatters out of the screen door, puts Ray in a headlock and drags him back towards the kitchen
"You break it, you buy it!" Ray hollers as Poke drags him up the stairs.
Nate doesn't even realize he's reached out until Brad looks at him, looks down at the hand Nate's put on his forearm and then back at Nate. "Sir?"
"You're fucking with me about the wine, right?"
Brad raises an eyebrow.
Nate's brain whimpers.
Bryan's laugh breaks up the tension. "Nate, you gotta let that bottle in your ass contract. You know he's fucking with you, I know he's fucking with you. I think you need to start on the shots; I'll get the vodka."
After Bryan walks off, Nate scowls at Brad. "You don't know me; don't fuck with me."
Brad cocks his head to side; Nate would think Brad was crowding him if Bryan's backyard wasn't 1/2 an acre wide. "You're still touching me," Brad pauses, "sir."
Nate yanks his hand away.
Damn Brad and his damn... everything.
Nate has an extraordinary alcohol tolerance. He's spent most of his formative years trying to keep up with his brother and his cousins and his extended cousins and his military buddies. You can't be a lightweight and do that. So, it's somewhat surprising to him that he gets kind of wasted at Sunday dinner. He's pretty sure it has something to do with Brad and that case of vodka they brought, but he doesn't really feel the effects until he finds himself singing 'Hot in Herre' with Poke and Lilley while standing on the table in the backyard, complete with simulated spanking motions. This is not something that Nate normally does.
In fact, in 30 years he can't remember ever singing drunkenly with the guys. There are lines that aren't supposed to be crossed; he knows that. Most of the performance is just drunken shouting and swearing - with some very special rapping by Ray.
At one point Nate catches Brad watching him intently with a beer in hand and smirk on his face, and Nate's entire body goes warm. Or maybe that's the alcohol talking.
On the ride home, Nate sits very still in the back, watching the city go by and trying to sober up before he throws up. Ray's murdering Jay-Z's '99 Problems' at the top of his lungs, and Nate glances over once to find Brad watching him through the front seats. Nate stares back. Eventually, he turns away, not because he can't keep eye contact, but because that much focus makes his head hurt.
"Ray, shut up," Brad orders.
Ray sniffs. "Nobody appreciates my talents."
"We appreciate the talent of your silence," Brad offers magnanimously.
Ray sniffs again, but he's quiet the rest of the trip home.
Nate's sufficiently coherent to get them into the apartment. He strips off his clothes between the front door and his bathroom, and turns on the shower as cold as possible. When he's sober enough to realize he can't feel his toes anymore, he gets out, pulls on some clothes and goes out to the living room.
Brad's sprawled on the sofa watching something technical on The Discovery Channel. He silently offers Nate a bottle of water as he drops down next to him.
"Ray didn't tell me you were a rapper," Brad says conversationally as Nate downs most of the bottle. Nate coughs when the water goes down the wrong way. "I was impressed by your elocution," Brad carries on. "I thought rap was about slurring your words."
Nate's not sure where to begin, with the idea that Brad's been talking to Ray about him, that Ray's been talking to Brad about him, or that with his tailored suits, pale skin and military PT gear anybody would think he was a rap anything.
"It was the vodka," Nate says, trying not to hack up a lung.
He feels it everywhere when Brad claps him on the back. "It would suck if you drowned from water in your lungs after surviving Afghanistan."
Nate glares, or he means to, but Brad's hand is still on him and he's kind of rubbing Nate's back. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Nate says decisively, pulling away from Brad's hand to stretch out on the sofa.
He doesn't even realize that he's fallen asleep until he wakes up drooling on Brad's thigh. The TV's still on even though there's no sound.
Nate shifts his weight to get up, but the alcohol he's consumed decides against it. He turns his head to relieve the crick in his neck, and when he looks up, Brad's fallen asleep with his head resting in the palm of his left hand.
Brad could've pushed him on the floor at any time, but he didn't.
Huh.
Nate wakes up first. He doesn't wake Brad, he just pulls on some clothes and goes out for his morning run. Brad catches up somewhere in the first mile, which is unsurprising as Nate feels like he's running with sand in his shoes. After the third mile, Nate's head starts to clear, and by the fifth he's fine. By the seventh mile, he's starting to hurt again though, and suddenly he stops. Brad's right there next to him.
"I don’t normally do that," Nate says. He doesn't like explaining himself.
Brad's shirt is drenched with sweat, but he doesn't seem fatigued at all. Of course. He's the Iceman; nothing fazes him. "I think you're allowed to lose your shit every once in a while," Brad teases.
"No," Nate says pointedly. "I'm not."
Brad frowns, his blue eyes narrowing. "Maybe it's time to reassess the situation then."
"This isn't a recon mission," Nate says. "There's no room for reassessment."
Brad's frown deepens. "Well, sir, that's just fucked."
Nate's laugh is dry and mirthless. "Pretty much."
Brad's mouth thins out and then turns up at one corner. "I know somebody who could take care of this problem for you, if you're interested."
The look Nate gives him is all disapprobation. "Brad."
"I was talking about getting you a whore, sir, and maybe a laxative to take a shit," Brad mocks. "Constipation isn't good for your system."
Nate narrows his eyes. "You're fired."
Brad's grin is all white teeth and crinkles at the corner of his eyes. "No, I'm not."
Nate hopes the look on his face is utter disdain and not 'fuck me now.'
The first week of Brad living in Nate's space was just strange and intrusive and irritating, but by the end of the first month, Nate's not really sure what he was doing before Brad came along. He had Ray and Bryan and Mike, but he was always uptight, always worrying, and with Brad everything just seems that little bit easier.
They run together and eat together and watch pointless movies that they turn off after fifteen minutes in favor of Futureweapons repeats on Discovery Channel. Brad does something to Nate's TV that suddenly gets him channels that aren't even in this country, and Nate has his tailor get Brad a new suit or six, since how his bodyguard looks reflects on Nate. Plus, with Brad at his side during business, Nate can let somebody else worry about who's carrying what kind of hardware for a change.
Nate doesn't even realize how much time has passed since Brad arrived until Craig calls in a huff. "So, when were you going to tell me that you hired the Iceman?"
Nate's at the office going through paperwork with Mike Wynn, he doesn’t have time for Craig's temper tantrums. "What are you talking about, Craig?"
"Ray said that you've got Brad Colbert working for you."
"Ray said?"
"Griego," Craig clarifies.
"Oh, yeah." Of course Craig's attack dog would be gossiping about Nate. Of course.
"So, why did you hire him?"
"The same reason we hire anybody," Nate says irritably. Mike raises an eyebrow and Nate makes a face. "To do a job."
"You can't hire the Iceman," Craig complains. "I've tried."
Ah, so, that's what this is about. "I don't know what to tell you," Nate says, "he's working for me now."
Nate's not enjoying this. Okay, maybe a little bit. The only thing Nate and Craig have in common is their father, everything else is a dog fight.
"Yeah, well, well - what are you getting dad for his birthday?"
The conversation changes so fast Nate can't keep up. "I don’t know, Craig. Look, I'm at work, I'll talk to you later."
Nate flips the phone closed and sets it on the table as though it might be radioactive. He exchanges a look with Mike, who just shrugs. They both look up when Brad comes through the door with lunch. "What?" Brad asks, glancing behind him.
Nate rubs his mouth. "Your reputation precedes you."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Uh huh. Could you be more cryptic, sir?"
Mike gestures for Nate to explain, Nate just shakes his head. "No, I'd rather not."
Nate forgets all about his conversation with his brother until Bryan calls after dinner. He's sitting at the kitchen island, eating an apple and flipping through today's Sun while Brad's utilizing the built-in pull-up bar in the corner. Nate refuses to admit that he’s read the same paragraph about the Ravens three times in a row while trying not to stare at the way the muscles in Brad’s shoulders move or the glimmer of a tattoo on Brad's lower back.
"Nate, what're you doing over there?" Bryan Patterson sounds tired. And amused.
"I didn't blow anything up today, if that's what you mean."
"Yeah, that's not what I heard."
Nate can see his cousin's smirk in his head. "This is the part where I tell you I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You can try it, but I don't think it'll work."
"Okay then, humor me, what the fuck did I do now?"
"Apparently you hired Brad Colbert to work for you."
"I hired Brad? Since when?" When Nate glances up, Brad's hanging from the bar one-handed and looking over his shoulder at Nate. Show off.
"Well, since that's what your brother called to bitch to me about. Are you sure we never checked him for pussy?"
Nate snorts. "And you didn't bother to tell him that you hired Brad for me?"
"Semantics," Bryan says dismissively. "I had Mike put him on your payroll weeks ago."
"Huh," Nate says as Brad drops down on the floor and wanders over. Not that Brad has probably ever 'wandered' anywhere in his life.
"Is that the 'huh' of 'fuck him' or the 'huh' of 'how the hell did he find out'?"
Brad rests his elbows on the kitchen island across from Nate. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt, and there's sweat around his hairline. His face is lightly flushed; he's been doing sets of pull-ups and chin-ups for at least twenty minutes. Not that Nate is counting.
"You know how he found out?" Nate says belatedly. "His psychic friend."
"Griego is like the clap," Bryan agrees. "He's always on somebody's dick."
Nate chuckles. "So, I'm in trouble, because I got something that Craig wanted. Again." Brad takes the apple Nate's been eating and bites out a huge hunk. Nate slaps him with the Classifieds section. Brad looks completely affronted but keeps on eating.
"I wouldn't call it trouble," Bryan hedges. "You know Godfather's going to want to meet him."
Nate sighs. "That was going to have to happen eventually, right?"
"Pretty much."
Brad finishes Nate's apple and then comes around the island and crowds Nate to read the sports section. "So, how're things going over there anyway?" Bryan asks.
Nate elbows Brad in the ribs "Fine."
"You sure? Because Rudy said -"
"Why the fuck is everybody gossiping about me?" Nate protests. Brad looks over at him curiously.
"I don't know," Bryan laughs, "maybe because you're giving us something to talk about."
"He's sleeping in the guest room," Nate says, ignoring Brad.
"Did I ask?"
"Fuck you. Fuck all of you."
Bryan ignores him. "You might want to get Brad over there sooner rather than later."
"Uh huh," Nate says.
"I recommend dinner. Tonight."
"Tonight?"
"I probably already told Godfather you were coming."
Nate looks at the phone for several seconds after Bryan hangs up. Eventually, he sets it on the counter and rubs his face.
He knows Brad's still standing next to him, and when he looks up Brad's watching him intently. "How would you like to meet my dad?" Nate asks flatly.
Brad just raises an eyebrow. "This isn't a rhetorical question, is it?"
Nate sighs. "No."
Nate would try and prepare Brad to meet his father, but you can't prepare to meet Godfather, you just have to pray a lot. Like right now. Nate glances up at Brad in his sharp grey suit, and then back at Ray, who's still sitting in the car. Ray gives him a thumb's up.
They're fucked.
Nate doesn’t even remember pushing the buzzer, but then the front door is flung open and he's assaulted by 5'4 of frizzy-haired woman. "Nate!" his cousin shrieks, flinging herself in Nate's arms. Nate pats Rosie on the back awkwardly. Nobody told him that Dave's sister was going to be there, and if Rosie's there, then Dave can't be far behind. Jesus.
"Rosie, this is Brad Colbert," Nate says, trying to extract himself from his cousin's grip. "Brad, my cousin, Rosie McGraw."
Rosie glances up at Brad and her jaw visibly falls open. "Hi, Brad," she says in what can only be termed 'an indecent tone.'
Nate narrows his eyes, but before he can do something about this, a scratchy "It's good to see you, son," comes from beyond the doorway. When Nate looks up, there's his father, all white-haired, six foot plus of him.
Stephen Ferrando Fick is a retired Lieutenant Colonel in the USMC, and is commonly referred to as Godfather (even by his sons). He is not a warm and cuddly man. Of course, men in their line business don't tend to be warm and affable. Or if they do they reserve it for family, which is why when Nate steps inside he's given a bone crushing hug. For a cancer survivor, Stephen Fick is remarkably stocky and solid.
"Dad, it's good to see you," Nate says, clapping his father on the back.
"Nate, it's been too long," he father says reproachfully.
"Working, dad," Nate grins. "Just working."
"I've heard. You did well last month, son, I'm impressed."
Nate can feel it when he smiles. His father's approval means a lot to him. He turns back when someone coughs. Oh shit. Brad.
To his credit, Brad is still standing in the doorway with Rosie eying him like he's been stripped naked and covered in dollar bills. "Sir," he says, saluting Nate's father sharply.
Nate blinks. He never told Brad his father was in the military. He can only -
Nate's father nods in acknowledgement; Rosie looks like she's pondering ways to kidnap Brad and chain him in her closet. "Sergeant Colbert, come in, please."
"It's good to see you again, sir," Brad says, stepping inside and shaking his father's hand.
Nate hopes his staring isn't too obvious, but then he's being steered into the living room by his dad and it doesn't matter.
"When I heard Nate had hired you long-term, I was shocked," Godfather says, releasing Nate's arm and heading for the liquor cabinet. "I was always told - I believe by you -- that you weren't for permanent hire."
So, Brad's worked for his dad before. Great.
The living room hasn't changed at all since Nate's mom passed away, the tasteful gold leaf wallpaper and the dark wood furniture are timeless, and everywhere he looks are reminders of her and baby pictures of him and - oh, god, baby pictures.
It's too late though, because Brad's already scoped the layout. "Well, sir, I hadn't planned on settling down, but your son made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
Nate raises an eyebrow while his father's back is turned, and in reply, Brad points to a picture where Nate is completely naked. Of course he's also six months old.
They both snap to attention when his father turns around. "Nate's very good at giving people what they want," Godfather says, holding out two tumblers of brown liquid.
Brad's grin is all teeth as he passes Nate his drink. "So, I'm learning, sir."
"He gets that from his mother," his dad says, gesturing to a photo on the wall of a six-year old Nate and his mom. Nate has her green eyes and sandy hair; Craig favors his mother - their father's first wife -- with his dark hair and olive complexion, too.
"Boy, you look like you ain't had nothing to eat since your balls dropped." Nate pauses with his drink mid-way to his mouth. His father's #2, John Sixta, is standing in the doorway with an apron over his clothes and a cooking spoon in his hand.
Nate takes a deep breath. "John, good to see you, too."
"What whiskey tango screwby did you drag home, now? This ain't the fuckin' Army, son."
Nate opens his mouth to make introductions, and Sixta cuts him off. "Son of a bitch, you done brought Brad Colbert home. Did you have to hog-tie him, boy?"
Nate sighs. Of course, Sixta knows Brad.
Everybody fucking knows Brad.
Dinner's not bad apart from Sixta's prattling and Rosie's bleating. Every now and then, Nate will glance up from his lasagna and find his father watching him. He smiles dutifully and goes back to his food or his wine or whatever's before him at the time.
At one point, Sixta's interrogating Brad about some job the legendary Iceman's done, and Nate gets kicked in the shin. He jumps, banging his knee on the table and everybody stares.
"You okay there, boy?" Sixta asks.
"Nate?" his father queries.
"I'm fine," Nate says, pointedly not looking at Brad, because he knows if he does, he's going to climb across the table and throttle him. "Muscle spasm."
His father raises an eyebrow, and Nate shrugs apologetically. He's not expecting it when his father pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. "Nate, I need to water the grass," he says, picking up his glass of wine.
Ever since Nate's mother died, his father has been obsessive about maintaining her garden and making sure the grass is watered. He's not telling Nate he's going to the garden, he's telling Nate we are going to the garden.
There are no reminders of Craig's mother in the house at all, apart from photos of Craig, maybe that's part of why he's always so uptight about everything.
Nate gets up from the table and follows his father down the hall, out the screen door and into the backyard. The sky is a miasma of pink and purple and navy. There are fireflies flickering here and there and Nate thinks about how he used to collect them when he was little and give them to his mom. His father is a very rich man now, he could have a huge place out in the suburbs, but he favors the house that Nate grew up in and so he stays.
Nate's grateful for that.
"Hand me the hose, son," his father says, bending down briefly to examine some flowers.
Nate turns on the spigot and hands over the hose. His father trades him his wine glass and begins his evening ministrations to the shrubbery; Nate waits.
"Brad Colbert is a good man," Godfather says moving on from the marigolds and daffodils. Nate makes a noise of agreement. "If you can get him to stay, he could make a good counselor."
Counselor? That's years off. Hopefully. "I hadn't thought that far ahead," Nate says.
"Well, these are the thoughts you need to be having, son."
"I know." Nate takes a sip of wine.
"You talked to your brother recently?"
"Yes." Unfortunately.
"You talked to Bryan recently?"
"Earlier today."
"Bryan's a good man."
"Bryan's good at everything, Dad," Nate corrects lightly.
His dad releases the spray handle, and the water cuts off. When he turns towards Nate, his face is unreadable in the twilight. "I understand that you're proud of your cousin, Nate, but we expect things of you."
"I know."
His dad steps forward, and Nate lets his face go slack. "Son, sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do," he says, clapping Nate on the shoulder.
Nate can feel more than the weight of his father's hand on his shoulders. "I know."
His dad nods and takes the wine glass from Nate's hand before picking up the hose again. "I like Brad," he says before turning back to his flowers.
Nate looks at his dad's back for while. He knows something important just happened, but he doesn't want to ask for it to be spelled out. "I think we're going to go, now," he says eventually.
"Don't be a stranger," his dad calls over his shoulder.
"I won't."
Nate makes sure not to let the screen door slam behind him.
In the kitchen, Rosie is flirting outrageously with Brad, at least she is if all the cleavage she's suddenly showing is any indication. Nate watches Brad watching her for exactly three seconds and then clears his throat sharply, Brad's eyes immediately snap up.
"It's time to go," he orders.
Brad nods. "Thanks for the leftovers," he says, hefting several containers of Tupperware into his arms.
"But you didn't even get to see Dave!" Rosie protests, hurrying behind Nate as he strides towards the front door. "He's coming by later to pick me up. He wants to talk to you about stuff."
Nate stops in the front hall. "Stuff."
"I don't know what about," Rosie backtracks, almost running into Brad.
Nate's mouth thins into a line. "Rosie, if there's something I need to know and you don’t tell me what it is, right now, it'll be on your conscience." There's no faster way to guilt trip a Catholic than by implying that they'll need to confess later
Rosie's face crumples. "Dave heard about the fish; he thinks if he brings down Delta that you and Bryan'll respect him."
Nate catches Brad's eyes over Rosie's head. "Okay, Rosie," Nate says, "don't worry about it. We'll take care of it."
"You won't tell him I told you, will you?"
Brad nods back at Nate. "Don't worry; it'll be fine."
Nate doesn't like telling people things will be fine, because inevitably they aren't fine. Inevitably, your WASP girlfriend will find out that your father is a crime boss, or your college friends will find out who your family is, or you'll join the military and find out that you can't have that career you were hoping for because your brother is a fucking retard, and your father has throat cancer and your mother got killed in a car accident so there’s nobody to take care of things except you. If you're thinking everything is fine, chances are most of your family will realize you're gay before you do, and it'll just be this unspoken thing… as long as you do everything you're supposed to.
Everything will be fine as long as you don't fall in love with the hired help.
Part II
For sparky77, who was there at the beginning.
Generation Kill
Alternate Universe (and how)
Word Count: 21,975
Fick/Colbert, ensemble
NC-17
Semper Fidelis Familia
There is no temp agency for the Mob. You can't just call up an employment office and say, "Hi, I'm a captain in one of the four families, and I need a bodyguard because I blew up the competition's warehouse, and in return someone left a dozen gutted fish outside the front door of my apartment building this morning, which probably means my days are numbered. So, if you could send me a temp to take a bullet or six, that would be great."
Well, you can say that, but you don't say things like that to people who aren't in the family. At least not in Baltimore.
In fact, Nathaniel Fick doesn't even mention the fish to his older brother, Craig, because Nate's brother is an asshole -- a stupid asshole -- and those are dangerous.
Nate could be tactful about his relationship with his brother, but Craig spent the first seventeen years of Nate's life bullying him and the last thirteen being a bitter, undermining ass, so Nate's pretty much out of tolerance, tact or anything else. It doesn't help that Craig's advisor, Griego, is such an ass-licking prick that he would probably start a war between the families just to make Craig look good to their father and get everybody shot in the process.
This is the same reason that Nate doesn't mention it to his cousin Dave, because while Craig and Griego might get them all shot, Dave McGraw would get them all killed.
You can't choose your family; you can only avoid working with them as much as possible.
Besides, Nate's his father's son: he doesn't complain, he just gets shit done. So he calls Bryan, his other cousin, and happens to mention that his own days are probably numbered.
Bryan doesn't bother to feign surprise. "Nate, you blew up the Delta warehouse, did you really think that they were just going to let it go?"
Nate shrugs, but they're on the phone, so Bryan's can't see it. "It's Delta," he says, as though that should explain everything. If you collected every incompetent mobster on the eastern seaboard and gave them property well beyond their means, you would have the Delta family.
Bryan sighs loudly. "I think I know the guy you'll need, but it might take day or two. You want to borrow Rudy in the meantime?"
"And leave you exposed? Godfather would never forgive me." Nate perches on the edge of his sofa and looks around his apartment with a critical eye: black leather furniture, stainless steel kitchen, bookshelves heaving with military and historical books.
It's pretty stereotypically bachelor, except for the guns in the utensil drawer. And in the underwear drawer. And the freezer, and the coffee table drawer, the list goes on for several pages.
There are people who don't live like this, but Nate doesn't know them. Maybe what he needs is a dog.
Bryan snorts as though he can read Nate's thoughts. "If you died, Godfather would never forgive me. And I can live without Rudy for a few days."
"Yes," he concedes after a moment, "but will Pappy drive the car without Rudy in it?"
"I'm a hostage in my own family," Bryan complains.
Nate laughs. "Hey, at least you don't have Ray."
"Ray's a good driver," Bryan offers. "He's just got some pill issues. And some verbal diarrhea. And some anxiety issues."
"And some gossiping issues," Nate agrees, crossing the open-plan living room to snag an apple from the fruit basket.
There's a Glock in the bottom of the fruit basket too. A mobster's son can never be too careful. The ex-military son of a mob boss can never be too heavily armed.
Bryan laughs. "Yes, but even you were concerned when you heard J. Lo'd been shot."
"J. Lo wasn't shot!" Nate protests around a mouthful of apple.
"Exactly. And aren't you glad you had Ray to assure you of that." Nate snorts. "It could be worse," Bryan offers.
"You mean like Trombley."
"Let's not talk about Trombley anymore."
Nate blinks. Not speaking of someone can only mean one thing: that they were disposed of. Trombley wasn't the smartest soldier they had, and he was psychotic enough to actually make everyone else nervous, which is probably why he had to go. When you make experienced Marines nervous, that's a bad thing.
"Nate, you still there?"
Nate sighs. He hates asking for help. "Yeah, I am, just, you know --."
"I'm going to send Poke, Garza and Hasser down to the docks for a few shakedowns. You okay with that?"
"Shakedowns, huh?"
"You never know what sort of information you might shake out of someone."
"Right."
"Don't give me shit about it."
"Did I say anything?"
"And try to stay out of trouble. Don't make me give Ray extra hardware."
Nate sighs again. Ray already has the SUV tricked out with guns in the glove compartment, strapped to the sun visor, inside the arm rest and under every seat. The last thing a wiry, loose screw like Ray needs is another weapon. "Okay, okay," Nate concedes.
"I knew you'd see reason."
Yes, Nate's always the reasonable one.
Nate doesn't tell Ray about the fish, but unsurprisingly Ray finds out anyway because he's just that connected to everyone. Ray was a Radio Transceiver Operator in the Marines, and leaving the military hasn't disabused him of being in everyone's business.
Nate's just getting dressed when there's a loud knock on the front door and then it crashes open with a teeth-rattling thud.
"Freeze, motherfuckers, before I light you up like it was NASCAR at night!" Ray Person's voice echoes off the high ceilings.
Nate sighs and shuts his bedroom door. He's just straightening his tie when Ray calls from the other side of his door. "Boss! I heard about the fish! Don't worry, I got this!"
Nate sighs again and opens the door only to have the barrel of an AK-47 thrust into his face. What Ray Person lacks in height, he makes up for in aggressiveness. "Ray, what the fuck are you doing?"
Ray's smile is all teeth. "Boss, I heard some shit went down, but I got your back. Don't even worry," Ray taps the AK's muzzle, "Lucy's got this."
"Where did you get that?" Nate asks, using one finger to point Lucy's muzzle very far away from him.
"It fell off the back of a truck," Ray says matter-of-factly. He stole it. Right. "So, seriously, what's this about a fish?"
"There's nothing about a fish," Nate says dismissively. "Stop gossiping with Pappy."
"Yeah, but Poke said that Pappy said that--"
Nate gets in Ray's face. "Ray, shut up. And get the car."
"Okay, you ready to go? You got armor on? Cause you know, if there are fish out there, then there are people with guns, and you getting dead wasn't on my list this morning."
"Ray. Get. The. Car."
Ray blinks. "Okay, but I know this guy, boss. He can do these things that would make your ass turn white -- not that you're not white already -- I'm just saying. He's like Rambo and Dirty Harry -- like, this dude would cut off your balls and pin them to your chest and --"
"RAY!"
Ray's lower lip pokes out. "Getting the car, sir."
Nate rolls his eyes. "And have the locks changed."
By which Nate means, change the door itself. And every door in the building. And double check the bulletproof windows. And could Ray make sure that Nate's got enough artillery in his house to blow up a small nation. Among other things.
Owning the building you live in has some advantages.
Ray purses his lips but nods. "Okay."
Nate does his best to forget about the fish over the next day or so, because there's not much else he can do. He has docks to supervise, shipments to get out of the city, shipments to get into the city, he's not going to hide in his apartment with Dirty Earl and Kocher guarding him, like a pussy. Like his cousin Dave. Nate's not that kind of boss. He would never send his guys to do something he wouldn't do himself, and if shit happens, oh well.
There's an unfamiliar man sitting on Nate's sofa when he comes home from a breakfast meeting with Bryan and Craig. They've been arguing about possible dock expansion and some Department of Sanitation issues, like always.
Correction: Craig's been bitching that Nate has more territory, and Bryan and Nate have been trying not to put him in a fishing boat with Poke Espera. This isn't The Godfather, Part II, no matter how tempting the idea is. It's the same argument they have every time: Craig wants what Nate has, when Nate never asked for it in the first place.
Regardless, this doesn't explain the stranger in Nate's living room.
The man is dressed in a dark blue shirt, tie, and black pants, none of which say, "I am here to assess the structural integrity of your apartment with regards to an attack from a rival family and possibly build you your own panic room." Not that Nate is prone to panicking.
This person is sitting -- sprawled out, really-- reading the newspaper with a large black duffle bag at his feet.
This is a bad thing.
Nate told Ray to have the locks changed.
He may not live to yell at him about this.
The man looks up when Nate's reaching inside his jacket for his shoulder holster. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be on the floor right now with a hole in your head," he says breezily.
Nate pulls out his gun anyway.
"I see we're going to have to work on your trust issues," the man says, folding the paper and setting it on the sofa next to him.
Nate flicks off the safety. "Who are you?"
The man stands up. He's tall. Fuck. He's taller than Nate and Nate's 6'2. He looks like the bastard child of Thor and David Beckham. Nate has to stop listening to Ray's pop culture references. "Your cousin sent me."
Nate narrows his eyes. "Your cousin, Bryan," the man clarifies, holding up both of his hands. "Bryan Patterson. Retired Captain in the United States Marine Corps. First Battalion, Alpha Company."
Nate pulls out his mobile phone and hits Bryan's speed dial. It's ringing when Ray's voice chimes from right behind him. "Boss, you left your -- Brad! Dog! What's up?!"
Nate's knocked to the side as Ray pushes past him and rushes into the room.
To see Ray hugging someone almost a foot taller than him is a strange image.
"Seriously, what're you doing here?" Ray babbles. "I was gonna call your ass, because we got some shit, but the boss was all -- man, you know how bosses are. Boss, this is the guy I was telling you about! Brad Colbert, bad ass motherfucker and stone-cold killer. He will fuck shit up; you are gonna love his ass."
Nate flips the phone closed, puts the safety back on his Beretta, holsters the gun, and moves out of the front hall and into the living room.
Ray's glee is evident, but Nate just purses his lips as Brad gives him a wry smirk.
"Mr. Fick," Brad says, offering his hand. "Brad Colbert, stone-cold killer at your service."
Nate looks from Brad's hand to Brad's face. Brad's expression is totally impassive now, but his eyes are still smirking. TMA. Typical Marine Asshole.
Nate shakes Brad's hand anyway, their shared grip lasting just a second too long.
Huh.
One of the reasons Nate's never had a bodyguard is that he can take care of himself just fine. He was a Recon Marine, the NAVY Seals of the Marines. He's got a million dollars worth of government-funded training under his belt, and he served his country in Afghanistan before getting called home for family business.
Nate Fick isn't afraid of anything.
In fact, every last one of the guys who work for his family has worked for some sort of US government Special Ops team at some point. This is how they all know each other -- it's how they recruit -- so it bothers him that he doesn't remember hearing about a Brad Colbert. And yet, if Bryan hired him and Ray swears by him, there must be something there. Hopefully.
Nate shows Brad to the guest room, and then he goes off to visit Godfather -- without Brad -- because this is just weird.
Except that when Nate emerges from the Bravo offices after his two hour meeting, Brad's sitting in the Tahoe with Ray. When Nate approaches the vehicle, Brad gets out of the passenger seat and opens the door to the backseat for him. He's wearing a grey suit and white Oxford. He looks… anyway.
"If you're trying to ditch me, you're going to have to try harder," Brad says as Nate's getting in the car.
Nate pauses on his side of the door. "When I ditch you, you'll know it."
Brad's smile is all teeth. "You're going to be difficult, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I like difficult."
Nate just purses his lips and gets in the car.
There are hundreds of issues involved with running docks properly: cargo issues, shipping container issues, drug issues, keeping out the human traffickers, keeping out the police, keeping out the competition. Nate doesn't generally deal with paperwork; he's the face of the business, he leaves the administrative details to his lieutenant, Mike Wynn. But every now and then Nate has to see to something personally.
Today, he's supposed to pick up some papers from one of the importing/exporting companies, but when he gets down to Dock 23 he sends Brad to the office in his place. Anything to get rid of the way Brad makes Nate's skin itchy.
Waiting in the SUV feels strange, though, and Nate has to quell this incessant desire to call Brad every five seconds and ask where he is and what's he doing and what's taking so long. He interrogates Ray instead. "You know Brad from Iraq?"
"Hell, yeah," Ray says, turning around and leaning between the front seats. "I dunno how you two never ran into each other before this. I mean I know you got out before we started circle jerking Iraq, but the world ain't that big, and Brad's -- Boss, he's the man."
Nate frowns.
"I mean you're the man, too," Ray corrects, "but Brad could, like, snatch your clothes off your body in the middle of the night and you wouldn't know it."
Nate blinks. There’s an image. "I've never heard you talk about him."
"He's the Iceman," Ray explains. "And I know that you know that we all know about the Iceman. So, it's okay if you had a combat jack about him, everybody does. Did."
"Shut up, Ray."
"I was just sharing the intel."
"Ray."
"Shutting up, sir."
Nate doesn't even have to look to know Ray's sulking, but he can deal with that later, because Brad's the Iceman? Jesus fuck. Nate's heard the mythical stories of the man who did special ops missions without batteries for his NVGs and who could see what the hell you were doing before you did it. The Iceman broke Rudy's PT record by holding his breath for six minutes and supposedly climbed Mount Everest with a broken foot. The Iceman isn't real, he's Keyser Soze. Nate has no idea how --
The door to the Tahoe opens, and Brad slides into the backseat next to Nate. There are blood spatters on his collar and his face.
"What the… what the hell is on your face?" Nate demands. He cuts a look towards Ray, who's already shifted into drive and is now speeding towards the nearest exit.
"My face?" Brad wipes at his forehead and blood smears along his cheekbone.
Nate says a silent prayer to the god his mom believed in that he doesn't do anything stupid. "I just asked you to pick up some papers."
"I did," Brad says, reaching into his inside pocket and offering several white papers with red splatters and coffee stains on them to Nate.
Something flashy falls out among the papers and lands hard on Nate's thigh. "Brass knuckles?" he says, picking up the cool metal incredulously.
Brad shrugs and sets the papers on the seat between them. "They didn't seem very inclined to give the papers to someone who wasn't you."
"Why didn't you just call me to come in?" Nate demands.
"Well, there was the guy in the back office with a sawn-off shotgun who I thought might have some other reasons he wanted you there. It didn't seem prudent, sir."
Sir. Nate's dick twitches. Nobody calls him "sir". Well, they do, but when Brad says it, it sounds dirty.
And wait. Man with a sawn-off?
Shit.
Nate rubs his forehead. "Did anybody see you?"
"I'm not paid to be seen." Brad says, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. If he smiles, Nate will throw him from the moving car.
When Nate glances at the rearview mirror, Ray's focusing very hard on the traffic. Smart move.
Brad's fingers are warm when he carefully takes the brass knuckles out of Nate's grasp. "I believe these belong to me. Sir."
Again with the "sir". Nate's brain is starting to hurt. "Ray, take us to the apartment so Brad can change his shirt."
"Okay, Boss."
"It's not that bad," Brad complains, wiping at his face again.
"'Not that bad' isn't good enough for me," Nate snaps. "I expect you to live up to your legend, Mr. Colbert."
"My legend?"
"Ray speaks very highly of you, and if I die, some people are going to want their money back."
Brad raises an eyebrow. "Yes, sir."
Over the next few days, Nate grudgingly cedes some of his space to Brad, and in return Brad takes even more. Every meeting Nate goes to, Brad goes to as well. Brad keeps Nate company on his morning runs along the Inner Harbor without being invited. Chef Boyardee's Beefaroni and jalapeno cheese dip magically appear in the refrigerator. In the wee hours of the morning when Nate's doing push-ups and sit-ups because he can't sleep, he can hear the click-clack of well-oiled gun parts being assembled and reassembled on the other side of the door. It shouldn't be as reassuring as it is.
"What kind of third-world Haji nails-on-a-piece-of-tape is this?"
Nate glances up when a roll of toilet paper trails across the black granite kitchen island and over the steel unions article on page four of today's Baltimore Sun.
"Is this a trick question?" Nate asks, grabbing the toilet roll before it falls off the edge of the island. "It's toilet paper."
"That is not toilet paper, sir, that is an affront to the baby soft skin on my ass."
Nate glances at the roll of paper in his left hand. "You have a problem with my toilet paper, Brad?"
"Sir, if I wanted to wipe my ass with tumbleweeds and Iraqi sand, I would've stayed in the military."
"Is that why you left the Marines, Brad? You needed a roll of fucking Charmin?"
Brad puts both hands on the kitchen island and leans into Nate's space. "How can you take a shit knowing you're going to be abusing yourself with that? Did your ass do something to you to make you angry with it?"
Nate blinks; Brad is way too close. "Excuse me?"
"There are only four things every man needs," Brad intones, "water, a high-powered laptop, his weapon and to take a good dump every now and then. And when net porn isn't enough, the phone number of a good whore."
Nate thinks he's staring. No, he knows he's staring.
"Sir, if you want me continue to work for you, you're going to have to do something about this."
"I stand corrected," Nate says eventually, "you didn't leave the military, you got discharged for mental illness."
"At least the Corps provides baby wipes," Brad mocks.
"You want me to wipe your ass for you?" Nate doesn’t hide his disbelief. "Does Freud know about you?"
Brad's mouth twitches. "Sir, personal information isn't included in my daily rate. If you want that from me, it'll cost you extra."
Brad's throwing down something, which Nate is going to ignore. He winds up the trail of toilet paper and sets the roll down between them. "Brad, if you want different toilet paper, just fucking buy it."
The back of Nate's neck gets hot when Brad grins at him. "You spoil me, sir. Really."
Every Sunday the family gets together after church. Okay, the family gets together during that time that would be after church if anybody actually went to church anymore. And it's not really the whole family. The McGraws are pretty much on their own after that fight that one time, even though Dave's lieutenant, Eric Kocher, is always welcome. And since Craig got married, his wife really has made him go to church, so the get-togethers are mostly just Bryan and his boys, with Ray, Mike and Nate supplying the beer. Now that Brad's a part of Nate's team, they bring more.
The first time Nate brings Brad around to meet the family, he's expecting there to be introductions, because he didn't know Brad, but apparently everybody else does.
They're barely in the door with the cases of Heineken and vodka before Nate's being crushed by Poke, Garza and Hasser trying to rush past him and greet his new bodyguard.
"Dog! What's the good word?!" Poke hollers, crushing Brad in a hug.
"Brad, where the fuck you been?" Hasser shouts over Poke. "You promised me knife lessons the last time I saw you."
"So you can drop one in your foot?" Garza bitches.
"Stop fucking nagging," Walt retorts.
"Yeah, well then stop asking me to drive your ass over to see Doc."
"Fuck you, Gabe."
"Only if you ask nice."
"Children!" Brad's voice manages to rise above everyone's without increasing in volume. "I'm sure I've got gifts for all the good little boys who didn't blow off their nuts since I've been gone, now step the fuck back so you don't squash my boss and put me out of a job."
Nate's simultaneously grateful and irritated, because of course Brad knows everybody. There's no way Nate's jealous of all of Brad's adoration. Not even a little bit.
"I see you got your gift," someone calls from over the melee. Nate follows Bryan's voice to where he's lurking in the doorway, drinking a beer.
Nate shifts the weight of his case of Heineken to his waist and snatches Bryan’s beer from him with his free hand. "Yeah, I got my gift all right," he says, taking a long swallow of cool liquid. "You think you could've called and told me he was a professional burglar, too?"
Bryan snorts. "Did he steal anything?"
Only if Nate's sanity counts.
"No," Nate concedes.
"All right then," Bryan agrees, before standing upright and calling over Nate's shoulder. "You fucking monkeys stop climbing all over Brad like he's a two-dollar whore and get back to dinner. If my spaghetti sauce is burning I'm going to shoot somebody myself."
The guys dutifully troop back towards the kitchen, and Nate follows Bryan through the living room and into the backyard. It's a hazy Baltimore afternoon, the sun high and the humidity stifling, but perfectly acceptable when compared to the Middle East.
Across the yard, under the oak trees, Pappy and Rudy are standing around the grill looking very serious. Nate smirks. "What's it today?" he asks, gesturing towards the chefs.
"Veggie burgers." Bryan makes a face as he takes the case of beer from Nate and sets it down next to a large garbage can already full of ice and beer.
Nate wrinkles his nose. "Why does Rudy do that?"
Bryan shrugs, taking a cold beer from the trash can and popping off the top with a can opener that's been attached to one of the handles. "He wants us all to live forever."
"And be fucking miserable," Nate agrees.
"Why are we fucking miserable?" a voice queries from behind Nate, and all of the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Brad.
Bryan tosses a grin over Nate's shoulder. "Veggie burgers."
Nate can just imagine the look on Brad's face and when he turns around, there it is, wrinkled forehead and down-turned mouth. "If evolution had meant for us to eat grass there wouldn't be anything below us on the food chain," Brad says decisively.
"Exactly," Bryan agrees. "Beer?"
"Fuckin' a, yes. Patterson, you wouldn't believe the shit that passes for beer at my employer's house."
Nate coughs. "Excuse me?"
But Brad just carries on. "He's got this fucking imported Belgian shit. And wine. Like six different kinds. What real man drinks wine? I had to discharge him of his Château Lafite immediately."
Nate's fingers tighten around his beer. "You did what with my wine?"
"You didn't want that, '82 was a bad year," Brad says with a blinding smile.
"If you're not --
Nate's threat is cut off by the kitchen screen door slamming and Ray tearing into the backyard. He runs right up to Pappy and Rudy, says something rapidly, and they nod. Ray makes a face and says something else, waving his arms about animatedly.
Two seconds later Poke clatters out of the screen door, puts Ray in a headlock and drags him back towards the kitchen
"You break it, you buy it!" Ray hollers as Poke drags him up the stairs.
Nate doesn't even realize he's reached out until Brad looks at him, looks down at the hand Nate's put on his forearm and then back at Nate. "Sir?"
"You're fucking with me about the wine, right?"
Brad raises an eyebrow.
Nate's brain whimpers.
Bryan's laugh breaks up the tension. "Nate, you gotta let that bottle in your ass contract. You know he's fucking with you, I know he's fucking with you. I think you need to start on the shots; I'll get the vodka."
After Bryan walks off, Nate scowls at Brad. "You don't know me; don't fuck with me."
Brad cocks his head to side; Nate would think Brad was crowding him if Bryan's backyard wasn't 1/2 an acre wide. "You're still touching me," Brad pauses, "sir."
Nate yanks his hand away.
Damn Brad and his damn... everything.
Nate has an extraordinary alcohol tolerance. He's spent most of his formative years trying to keep up with his brother and his cousins and his extended cousins and his military buddies. You can't be a lightweight and do that. So, it's somewhat surprising to him that he gets kind of wasted at Sunday dinner. He's pretty sure it has something to do with Brad and that case of vodka they brought, but he doesn't really feel the effects until he finds himself singing 'Hot in Herre' with Poke and Lilley while standing on the table in the backyard, complete with simulated spanking motions. This is not something that Nate normally does.
In fact, in 30 years he can't remember ever singing drunkenly with the guys. There are lines that aren't supposed to be crossed; he knows that. Most of the performance is just drunken shouting and swearing - with some very special rapping by Ray.
At one point Nate catches Brad watching him intently with a beer in hand and smirk on his face, and Nate's entire body goes warm. Or maybe that's the alcohol talking.
On the ride home, Nate sits very still in the back, watching the city go by and trying to sober up before he throws up. Ray's murdering Jay-Z's '99 Problems' at the top of his lungs, and Nate glances over once to find Brad watching him through the front seats. Nate stares back. Eventually, he turns away, not because he can't keep eye contact, but because that much focus makes his head hurt.
"Ray, shut up," Brad orders.
Ray sniffs. "Nobody appreciates my talents."
"We appreciate the talent of your silence," Brad offers magnanimously.
Ray sniffs again, but he's quiet the rest of the trip home.
Nate's sufficiently coherent to get them into the apartment. He strips off his clothes between the front door and his bathroom, and turns on the shower as cold as possible. When he's sober enough to realize he can't feel his toes anymore, he gets out, pulls on some clothes and goes out to the living room.
Brad's sprawled on the sofa watching something technical on The Discovery Channel. He silently offers Nate a bottle of water as he drops down next to him.
"Ray didn't tell me you were a rapper," Brad says conversationally as Nate downs most of the bottle. Nate coughs when the water goes down the wrong way. "I was impressed by your elocution," Brad carries on. "I thought rap was about slurring your words."
Nate's not sure where to begin, with the idea that Brad's been talking to Ray about him, that Ray's been talking to Brad about him, or that with his tailored suits, pale skin and military PT gear anybody would think he was a rap anything.
"It was the vodka," Nate says, trying not to hack up a lung.
He feels it everywhere when Brad claps him on the back. "It would suck if you drowned from water in your lungs after surviving Afghanistan."
Nate glares, or he means to, but Brad's hand is still on him and he's kind of rubbing Nate's back. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," Nate says decisively, pulling away from Brad's hand to stretch out on the sofa.
He doesn't even realize that he's fallen asleep until he wakes up drooling on Brad's thigh. The TV's still on even though there's no sound.
Nate shifts his weight to get up, but the alcohol he's consumed decides against it. He turns his head to relieve the crick in his neck, and when he looks up, Brad's fallen asleep with his head resting in the palm of his left hand.
Brad could've pushed him on the floor at any time, but he didn't.
Huh.
Nate wakes up first. He doesn't wake Brad, he just pulls on some clothes and goes out for his morning run. Brad catches up somewhere in the first mile, which is unsurprising as Nate feels like he's running with sand in his shoes. After the third mile, Nate's head starts to clear, and by the fifth he's fine. By the seventh mile, he's starting to hurt again though, and suddenly he stops. Brad's right there next to him.
"I don’t normally do that," Nate says. He doesn't like explaining himself.
Brad's shirt is drenched with sweat, but he doesn't seem fatigued at all. Of course. He's the Iceman; nothing fazes him. "I think you're allowed to lose your shit every once in a while," Brad teases.
"No," Nate says pointedly. "I'm not."
Brad frowns, his blue eyes narrowing. "Maybe it's time to reassess the situation then."
"This isn't a recon mission," Nate says. "There's no room for reassessment."
Brad's frown deepens. "Well, sir, that's just fucked."
Nate's laugh is dry and mirthless. "Pretty much."
Brad's mouth thins out and then turns up at one corner. "I know somebody who could take care of this problem for you, if you're interested."
The look Nate gives him is all disapprobation. "Brad."
"I was talking about getting you a whore, sir, and maybe a laxative to take a shit," Brad mocks. "Constipation isn't good for your system."
Nate narrows his eyes. "You're fired."
Brad's grin is all white teeth and crinkles at the corner of his eyes. "No, I'm not."
Nate hopes the look on his face is utter disdain and not 'fuck me now.'
The first week of Brad living in Nate's space was just strange and intrusive and irritating, but by the end of the first month, Nate's not really sure what he was doing before Brad came along. He had Ray and Bryan and Mike, but he was always uptight, always worrying, and with Brad everything just seems that little bit easier.
They run together and eat together and watch pointless movies that they turn off after fifteen minutes in favor of Futureweapons repeats on Discovery Channel. Brad does something to Nate's TV that suddenly gets him channels that aren't even in this country, and Nate has his tailor get Brad a new suit or six, since how his bodyguard looks reflects on Nate. Plus, with Brad at his side during business, Nate can let somebody else worry about who's carrying what kind of hardware for a change.
Nate doesn't even realize how much time has passed since Brad arrived until Craig calls in a huff. "So, when were you going to tell me that you hired the Iceman?"
Nate's at the office going through paperwork with Mike Wynn, he doesn’t have time for Craig's temper tantrums. "What are you talking about, Craig?"
"Ray said that you've got Brad Colbert working for you."
"Ray said?"
"Griego," Craig clarifies.
"Oh, yeah." Of course Craig's attack dog would be gossiping about Nate. Of course.
"So, why did you hire him?"
"The same reason we hire anybody," Nate says irritably. Mike raises an eyebrow and Nate makes a face. "To do a job."
"You can't hire the Iceman," Craig complains. "I've tried."
Ah, so, that's what this is about. "I don't know what to tell you," Nate says, "he's working for me now."
Nate's not enjoying this. Okay, maybe a little bit. The only thing Nate and Craig have in common is their father, everything else is a dog fight.
"Yeah, well, well - what are you getting dad for his birthday?"
The conversation changes so fast Nate can't keep up. "I don’t know, Craig. Look, I'm at work, I'll talk to you later."
Nate flips the phone closed and sets it on the table as though it might be radioactive. He exchanges a look with Mike, who just shrugs. They both look up when Brad comes through the door with lunch. "What?" Brad asks, glancing behind him.
Nate rubs his mouth. "Your reputation precedes you."
Brad narrows his eyes. "Uh huh. Could you be more cryptic, sir?"
Mike gestures for Nate to explain, Nate just shakes his head. "No, I'd rather not."
Nate forgets all about his conversation with his brother until Bryan calls after dinner. He's sitting at the kitchen island, eating an apple and flipping through today's Sun while Brad's utilizing the built-in pull-up bar in the corner. Nate refuses to admit that he’s read the same paragraph about the Ravens three times in a row while trying not to stare at the way the muscles in Brad’s shoulders move or the glimmer of a tattoo on Brad's lower back.
"Nate, what're you doing over there?" Bryan Patterson sounds tired. And amused.
"I didn't blow anything up today, if that's what you mean."
"Yeah, that's not what I heard."
Nate can see his cousin's smirk in his head. "This is the part where I tell you I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You can try it, but I don't think it'll work."
"Okay then, humor me, what the fuck did I do now?"
"Apparently you hired Brad Colbert to work for you."
"I hired Brad? Since when?" When Nate glances up, Brad's hanging from the bar one-handed and looking over his shoulder at Nate. Show off.
"Well, since that's what your brother called to bitch to me about. Are you sure we never checked him for pussy?"
Nate snorts. "And you didn't bother to tell him that you hired Brad for me?"
"Semantics," Bryan says dismissively. "I had Mike put him on your payroll weeks ago."
"Huh," Nate says as Brad drops down on the floor and wanders over. Not that Brad has probably ever 'wandered' anywhere in his life.
"Is that the 'huh' of 'fuck him' or the 'huh' of 'how the hell did he find out'?"
Brad rests his elbows on the kitchen island across from Nate. He's wearing a sleeveless shirt, and there's sweat around his hairline. His face is lightly flushed; he's been doing sets of pull-ups and chin-ups for at least twenty minutes. Not that Nate is counting.
"You know how he found out?" Nate says belatedly. "His psychic friend."
"Griego is like the clap," Bryan agrees. "He's always on somebody's dick."
Nate chuckles. "So, I'm in trouble, because I got something that Craig wanted. Again." Brad takes the apple Nate's been eating and bites out a huge hunk. Nate slaps him with the Classifieds section. Brad looks completely affronted but keeps on eating.
"I wouldn't call it trouble," Bryan hedges. "You know Godfather's going to want to meet him."
Nate sighs. "That was going to have to happen eventually, right?"
"Pretty much."
Brad finishes Nate's apple and then comes around the island and crowds Nate to read the sports section. "So, how're things going over there anyway?" Bryan asks.
Nate elbows Brad in the ribs "Fine."
"You sure? Because Rudy said -"
"Why the fuck is everybody gossiping about me?" Nate protests. Brad looks over at him curiously.
"I don't know," Bryan laughs, "maybe because you're giving us something to talk about."
"He's sleeping in the guest room," Nate says, ignoring Brad.
"Did I ask?"
"Fuck you. Fuck all of you."
Bryan ignores him. "You might want to get Brad over there sooner rather than later."
"Uh huh," Nate says.
"I recommend dinner. Tonight."
"Tonight?"
"I probably already told Godfather you were coming."
Nate looks at the phone for several seconds after Bryan hangs up. Eventually, he sets it on the counter and rubs his face.
He knows Brad's still standing next to him, and when he looks up Brad's watching him intently. "How would you like to meet my dad?" Nate asks flatly.
Brad just raises an eyebrow. "This isn't a rhetorical question, is it?"
Nate sighs. "No."
Nate would try and prepare Brad to meet his father, but you can't prepare to meet Godfather, you just have to pray a lot. Like right now. Nate glances up at Brad in his sharp grey suit, and then back at Ray, who's still sitting in the car. Ray gives him a thumb's up.
They're fucked.
Nate doesn’t even remember pushing the buzzer, but then the front door is flung open and he's assaulted by 5'4 of frizzy-haired woman. "Nate!" his cousin shrieks, flinging herself in Nate's arms. Nate pats Rosie on the back awkwardly. Nobody told him that Dave's sister was going to be there, and if Rosie's there, then Dave can't be far behind. Jesus.
"Rosie, this is Brad Colbert," Nate says, trying to extract himself from his cousin's grip. "Brad, my cousin, Rosie McGraw."
Rosie glances up at Brad and her jaw visibly falls open. "Hi, Brad," she says in what can only be termed 'an indecent tone.'
Nate narrows his eyes, but before he can do something about this, a scratchy "It's good to see you, son," comes from beyond the doorway. When Nate looks up, there's his father, all white-haired, six foot plus of him.
Stephen Ferrando Fick is a retired Lieutenant Colonel in the USMC, and is commonly referred to as Godfather (even by his sons). He is not a warm and cuddly man. Of course, men in their line business don't tend to be warm and affable. Or if they do they reserve it for family, which is why when Nate steps inside he's given a bone crushing hug. For a cancer survivor, Stephen Fick is remarkably stocky and solid.
"Dad, it's good to see you," Nate says, clapping his father on the back.
"Nate, it's been too long," he father says reproachfully.
"Working, dad," Nate grins. "Just working."
"I've heard. You did well last month, son, I'm impressed."
Nate can feel it when he smiles. His father's approval means a lot to him. He turns back when someone coughs. Oh shit. Brad.
To his credit, Brad is still standing in the doorway with Rosie eying him like he's been stripped naked and covered in dollar bills. "Sir," he says, saluting Nate's father sharply.
Nate blinks. He never told Brad his father was in the military. He can only -
Nate's father nods in acknowledgement; Rosie looks like she's pondering ways to kidnap Brad and chain him in her closet. "Sergeant Colbert, come in, please."
"It's good to see you again, sir," Brad says, stepping inside and shaking his father's hand.
Nate hopes his staring isn't too obvious, but then he's being steered into the living room by his dad and it doesn't matter.
"When I heard Nate had hired you long-term, I was shocked," Godfather says, releasing Nate's arm and heading for the liquor cabinet. "I was always told - I believe by you -- that you weren't for permanent hire."
So, Brad's worked for his dad before. Great.
The living room hasn't changed at all since Nate's mom passed away, the tasteful gold leaf wallpaper and the dark wood furniture are timeless, and everywhere he looks are reminders of her and baby pictures of him and - oh, god, baby pictures.
It's too late though, because Brad's already scoped the layout. "Well, sir, I hadn't planned on settling down, but your son made me an offer I couldn't refuse."
Nate raises an eyebrow while his father's back is turned, and in reply, Brad points to a picture where Nate is completely naked. Of course he's also six months old.
They both snap to attention when his father turns around. "Nate's very good at giving people what they want," Godfather says, holding out two tumblers of brown liquid.
Brad's grin is all teeth as he passes Nate his drink. "So, I'm learning, sir."
"He gets that from his mother," his dad says, gesturing to a photo on the wall of a six-year old Nate and his mom. Nate has her green eyes and sandy hair; Craig favors his mother - their father's first wife -- with his dark hair and olive complexion, too.
"Boy, you look like you ain't had nothing to eat since your balls dropped." Nate pauses with his drink mid-way to his mouth. His father's #2, John Sixta, is standing in the doorway with an apron over his clothes and a cooking spoon in his hand.
Nate takes a deep breath. "John, good to see you, too."
"What whiskey tango screwby did you drag home, now? This ain't the fuckin' Army, son."
Nate opens his mouth to make introductions, and Sixta cuts him off. "Son of a bitch, you done brought Brad Colbert home. Did you have to hog-tie him, boy?"
Nate sighs. Of course, Sixta knows Brad.
Everybody fucking knows Brad.
Dinner's not bad apart from Sixta's prattling and Rosie's bleating. Every now and then, Nate will glance up from his lasagna and find his father watching him. He smiles dutifully and goes back to his food or his wine or whatever's before him at the time.
At one point, Sixta's interrogating Brad about some job the legendary Iceman's done, and Nate gets kicked in the shin. He jumps, banging his knee on the table and everybody stares.
"You okay there, boy?" Sixta asks.
"Nate?" his father queries.
"I'm fine," Nate says, pointedly not looking at Brad, because he knows if he does, he's going to climb across the table and throttle him. "Muscle spasm."
His father raises an eyebrow, and Nate shrugs apologetically. He's not expecting it when his father pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. "Nate, I need to water the grass," he says, picking up his glass of wine.
Ever since Nate's mother died, his father has been obsessive about maintaining her garden and making sure the grass is watered. He's not telling Nate he's going to the garden, he's telling Nate we are going to the garden.
There are no reminders of Craig's mother in the house at all, apart from photos of Craig, maybe that's part of why he's always so uptight about everything.
Nate gets up from the table and follows his father down the hall, out the screen door and into the backyard. The sky is a miasma of pink and purple and navy. There are fireflies flickering here and there and Nate thinks about how he used to collect them when he was little and give them to his mom. His father is a very rich man now, he could have a huge place out in the suburbs, but he favors the house that Nate grew up in and so he stays.
Nate's grateful for that.
"Hand me the hose, son," his father says, bending down briefly to examine some flowers.
Nate turns on the spigot and hands over the hose. His father trades him his wine glass and begins his evening ministrations to the shrubbery; Nate waits.
"Brad Colbert is a good man," Godfather says moving on from the marigolds and daffodils. Nate makes a noise of agreement. "If you can get him to stay, he could make a good counselor."
Counselor? That's years off. Hopefully. "I hadn't thought that far ahead," Nate says.
"Well, these are the thoughts you need to be having, son."
"I know." Nate takes a sip of wine.
"You talked to your brother recently?"
"Yes." Unfortunately.
"You talked to Bryan recently?"
"Earlier today."
"Bryan's a good man."
"Bryan's good at everything, Dad," Nate corrects lightly.
His dad releases the spray handle, and the water cuts off. When he turns towards Nate, his face is unreadable in the twilight. "I understand that you're proud of your cousin, Nate, but we expect things of you."
"I know."
His dad steps forward, and Nate lets his face go slack. "Son, sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do," he says, clapping Nate on the shoulder.
Nate can feel more than the weight of his father's hand on his shoulders. "I know."
His dad nods and takes the wine glass from Nate's hand before picking up the hose again. "I like Brad," he says before turning back to his flowers.
Nate looks at his dad's back for while. He knows something important just happened, but he doesn't want to ask for it to be spelled out. "I think we're going to go, now," he says eventually.
"Don't be a stranger," his dad calls over his shoulder.
"I won't."
Nate makes sure not to let the screen door slam behind him.
In the kitchen, Rosie is flirting outrageously with Brad, at least she is if all the cleavage she's suddenly showing is any indication. Nate watches Brad watching her for exactly three seconds and then clears his throat sharply, Brad's eyes immediately snap up.
"It's time to go," he orders.
Brad nods. "Thanks for the leftovers," he says, hefting several containers of Tupperware into his arms.
"But you didn't even get to see Dave!" Rosie protests, hurrying behind Nate as he strides towards the front door. "He's coming by later to pick me up. He wants to talk to you about stuff."
Nate stops in the front hall. "Stuff."
"I don't know what about," Rosie backtracks, almost running into Brad.
Nate's mouth thins into a line. "Rosie, if there's something I need to know and you don’t tell me what it is, right now, it'll be on your conscience." There's no faster way to guilt trip a Catholic than by implying that they'll need to confess later
Rosie's face crumples. "Dave heard about the fish; he thinks if he brings down Delta that you and Bryan'll respect him."
Nate catches Brad's eyes over Rosie's head. "Okay, Rosie," Nate says, "don't worry about it. We'll take care of it."
"You won't tell him I told you, will you?"
Brad nods back at Nate. "Don't worry; it'll be fine."
Nate doesn't like telling people things will be fine, because inevitably they aren't fine. Inevitably, your WASP girlfriend will find out that your father is a crime boss, or your college friends will find out who your family is, or you'll join the military and find out that you can't have that career you were hoping for because your brother is a fucking retard, and your father has throat cancer and your mother got killed in a car accident so there’s nobody to take care of things except you. If you're thinking everything is fine, chances are most of your family will realize you're gay before you do, and it'll just be this unspoken thing… as long as you do everything you're supposed to.
Everything will be fine as long as you don't fall in love with the hired help.
Part II